Just for Halloween - My Latest Short Story! A Little Sherlock Holmes/H.P. Lovecraft Mashup!

     I normally try to write one or two horror stories every year for Halloween, but the story I started the first week of October came to me slowly.  Then, when the muse finally started singing, it turned into a full operatic production!   But I finally finished it yesterday morning, and here it is!  Hope you enjoy:

                 SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE

                      UNNAMEABLE HORROR

                         (From the Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson, MD)

                                                   As Edited by Lewis Smith

 

          During the long years of my friendship with the late Sherlock Holmes, it was my privilege to watch the world’s first consulting detective tackle many strange and sometimes horrific cases, solving heinous crimes that had baffled Scotland Yard and bedeviled the lives of his clients.  Throughout those years, I observed on several occasions his skepticism, bordering on hostility, towards the idea that supernatural forces might be at work in a criminal case.  On several occasions – as noted in the adventures I titled “The Sussex Vampire” and “The Hound of the Baskervilles” – crimes attributed to various demons, boogums, and things that go bump in the night were found to be the product of sheer human malevolence masquerading as dark forces.

          “There’s more than enough human devilry in the world, Watson,” he observed on one occasion, “to leave the Lord of Darkness, if he exists, with very little to do!”

          This is not to say that Holmes was an atheist – something I have often been asked about – for he did believe that nature abounded in evidences of a Grand Designer.  But on the whole, he was skeptical of the claims of all religious extremists, while enjoying conversation with believers who took a more intellectual approach to their faith.

          Curiosity about my friend has grown exponentially since he passed away ten years ago, and last week a young journalist, interviewing me on that sad anniversary, asked me if I could recall any case in which Holmes concluded that there was indeed a supernatural entity involved.   I hesitated before answering in the negative, for Holmes insisted that the events I am about to chronicle were best left unknown to the public.   For there were elements in this case which defied natural explanation, and the final horror Holmes’ investigation revealed left him deeply shaken.

          Upon refection, if there is one thing the twentieth century has shown us in thirty-five years, it is that man’s capacity for evil transcends anything the unseen world can offer.  A generation that survived the horrors of the Great War and now seems hell-bent on repeating them – at least if a certain German demagogue has his way – is now, I think, prepared to hear about my friend’s single encounter with a terror so unspeakably vile that a gentler, more innocent generation would have been unable to bear knowing of it.  Therefore I have decided to set pen to paper (yes, I still prefer ink and foolscap to those noisy mechanical typing contraptions!) and finally record this unusual case while I remain in the land of the living, for I am eighty-two and I know that my time among mortals is drawing to a close.

          It was in the spring of 1891, and the skies had opened up for three days in a row, washing London’s streets and gutters clean of the filth and debris that normally cluttered then and assaulted the nostrils of pedestrians.  This April morning was decidedly cool, and Holmes was reading through the Times, puffing on his pipe, and surrounded by a cloud of tobacco smoke.  A fire was crackling in our hearth, and I was enjoying a novel by Walter Scott.  The remnants of the excellent breakfast Mrs. Hudson had prepared for us were still on the table.  I had moved back in with Holmes after the tragic death of my wife Mary, but my medical practice had not yet picked up after my long, grief-filled sabbatical.  I was debating whether or not to have one last scone dipped in marmalade before our landlady came in to take the plates away, when Holmes snorted in disgust and tossed the paper aside.

          “The appalling lack of talent and intelligence among the city’s criminal element seems to have no bottom, Watson!” he snapped.  “Cat burglars, jewelry snatchers, crimes of passion that leave a trail of evidence so wide and garish that even Lestrade and Gregson have no trouble apprehending their authors!  There are times I almost miss Professor Moriarty and his minions.”

          “I do believe that Lestrade has encountered a case which is beyond his talents this morning, Holmes,” I said.

          “What makes you say that?” my friend asked.

          “Because he is about to knock on our door!” I replied, and sure enough, I had hardly finished the sentence before the door shook with the force of the Scotland Yard inspector’s fist drumming on it.

          Holmes had astonished me so many times with his deductions that I relished the momentary look of surprise on his face.  The truth was, I had seen Lestrade dismounting from his cab as I stood to walk to the table, but Holmes’ outburst against the criminal classes had prevented me from telling him.

          “Well done, Watson!” he said, glancing at the window as he rose. He strode to the door and opened it wide, admitting the portly form of the Scotland Yard detective.

“Come in, Lestrade!” he said.  “It’s a beastly day out, and I believe there is still a bit of tea in the pot.  There may even be a scone or two, if Watson hasn’t nipped the last of them.”

Lestrade removed his hat, and I was taken aback by his countenance. The Scotland Yard inspector was normally a rather arrogant man, condescending in his attitude towards Holmes until he needed something.  On this damp morning he was pale, harried, with dark shadows under his eyes and a grim, haunted expression I had never seen him wear before.  He shook his head at the mention of food and slumped into the guest chair across from Holmes’ usual seat.

“I wouldn’t refuse a glass of brandy, Doctor,” he said, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach food again anytime soon.  Good God, if you gents had seen what I just saw!” he exclaimed, burying his face in his hands.

I went to the sideboard and poured some brandy from the decanter and brought it to him.  The Inspector raised his head as the aroma reached him and drank the entire glass in three quick gulps.

“I’m sorry, Mister Holmes,” he said.  “No doubt you think I’m daft, raving on like this.  But if ever we could use your methods, now is the time!”

Holmes leaned forward, his keen eyes glinting with anticipation.  The ennui that had enveloped him in the previous week dropped away, and he looked like nothing so much as a greyhound straining at its lead, waiting for the chase to begin.

“So tell me, Inspector, what has transpired on Westchester Street to unnerve you so?” he asked.

“By the devil, sir, I won’t be distracted by your so-called deductions this time!” Lestrade snapped.  “If you know the street, then you must know what I’m here about!”

“I beg your pardon, Lestrade,” Holmes said.  “I just noticed the red clay on your heel, which matched the layer recently exposed by the building of the new gas lines up and down Westchester.  But I have no idea what might have transpired there since this deluge swept the city two days ago.”

“Sorry, Holmes,” Lestrade replied.  “This morning’s horrors have rattled me worse than anything I’ve seen in recent years.  There is no explanation that I can see for how a man could have been slain as Daemon Pittsinger just was!”

“Pittsinger, the noted mystic?” I said.

“Pittsinger the noted crank?” Holmes said with a chuckle.

“The same,” said Lestrade.  “But when you see what I have seen, you’ll have no trouble believing the man was in league with dark forces!”

“I have always been skeptical of such allegations,” Holmes said.  “However, the true analytical mind is always open to new evidence.  Please, sir, tell me everything that has transpired.  Omit no detail, however small.”

“More brandy, if you please, doctor,” Lestrade said.  “I need to settle my nerves just a bit more before I relate it.”

I refilled his glass, and he sipped slowly this time, rolling the drink around in his mouth before swallowing.  He set the drink down and sighed.

“As you know, Pittsinger – or Peittzinger, to give him his birth name – is a controversial figure,” Lestrade began.  “He started out as a mediocre parlor magician, but in recent years he has become increasingly fascinated with dark powers.  Recently, his performances became very disturbing.  Women fainted at some of his stage acts last week, and rumors flew around that some audience volunteers simply disappeared, or returned from wherever he transported them to with their mental faculties damaged and their personalities altered . . . never for the better, either.”

“I’ve seen the newspaper articles,” I said, “but I figured that those stories were publicity stunts to draw more people to his performances.”

“If that was the case, it backfired spectacularly,” Lestrade said.  “After his last performance, five days ago, the Millennial Emporium, where he has performed his act for a decade, canceled his contract – and no other theater will have him!”

“Wait – was that the performance which caused a gentleman named Fitzsimmons to go home and -” I began.

“And cut the heads off of his wife and three children two days later?” Lestrade finished for me. “Yes, that was it!  The man wrote a bizarre poem on the wall in their blood before driving the same carving knife he used on them through each of his eyes, and then his heart.  We didn’t call you on that one, Mister Holmes, because his guilt was so plainly evident.”

“I read of the case, and found it bore some points of interest,” Holmes replied, “but I was in the midst of recovering a set of valuable jewels for a certain duchess and chose not to intrude into your investigation without an invitation.”

“If I had known what was going to follow, I would have called on you sooner,” Lestrade said.  “We knew he had visited Pittsinger’s magical show two days earlier, and those who saw him afterward said he seemed powerfully affected by the act.  Pittsinger had little to say when we interviewed him, and none of us thought a magic act, no matter how disturbing, could have inspired such a horrific act from a man of sound mind.”

“Tell me what happened to Pittsinger, then,” Holmes said.

“His wife, or mistress – I’m not quite sure which she is – called Scotland Yard this morning, shrieking and hysterical.   All we could get out of her was ‘they came for him!’ and ‘he paid the price!’ over and over.  Gregson is on holiday, so I took two detectives to his house to see what the devil had happened.  I had no idea how appropriate that turn of phrase would be!”

“Go on,” Holmes said quietly.

“She explained that Pittsinger had locked himself in his third-floor study the night before, saying he needed to protect himself from those who sought what he had taken.  I tried to find out what she meant, but she was too hysterical to make much sense.  She had the key, and unlocked the door this morning to bring him food breakfast.  When she came in, she found him as we saw him, and called us right away.”

“And what was it you saw?” Holmes asked.

“Something impossible,” Lestrade said.  “One of my men literally fled the house when he saw it; the other left the station when we got back and said he was quitting the force.  I . . . Mister Holmes, I cannot describe it.  You simply must come – and you, too, Doctor.  But be warned – it is not a sight for the faint of heart.”

“Watson can tell you that I have been complaining about the lack of imagination among London’s criminal classes of late,” Holmes said.  “Frankly, there is little that could persuade me to leave our comfortable digs on a day like this except the promise of a case that would nullify my lament!”

“You may wish you had stayed home when you see what I saw,” Lestrade said.  “But I am still grateful for your help.”

We donned cloaks, hats, and boots before descending the stairs, for the rain had picked up during our conversation.  I saw that Lestrade had paid the cab driver to wait, and as soon as we ascended into the carriage, the hansom took off through the streets of London.  Traffic was minimal, as the streets were still running with water and only the busiest and most dedicated Londoners were venturing outdoors. We covered the length of the town in a half hour, and as we pulled up in front of the sturdy Tudor manor overlooking Westchester Street, the clouds began to part, and the steady fall of rain faded to scattered drops.

Pittsinger’s house was set on a large lot – doubtless it had stood on a small estate outside the city of London when it was built four centuries before – with towering oak trees in the front yard and a stone wall separating it from the busy street, where clumps of the red clay Holmes had recognized on Lestrade’s boots were scattered, half melted away by the rains.  Two uniformed bobbies stood outside the door, calmly surveying the grounds.

“Any changes?” Lestrade asked.

“The lady of the house came down and asked when you would be returning.  She seems to have composed herself considerably,” the older policeman said.  “And just now, the coroner sent word that he would be by to pick up the body within the next hour or two.”

“How many people have trampled the scene of the crime?” Holmes asked.

“Just myself and the two detectives who accompanied me,” Lestrade said. “And neither of them ventured close to the body.  I had to force myself to do so.”

“That is good news,” Holmes replied. “The fewer the feet to trample the scene, the easier it is for me to determine what happened.”

“If you can find any reasonable explanation for what transpired, then I shall retract every negative thing I’ve ever said about your unorthodox methods!” Lestrade replied.

“First let me interview our sole witness,” Holmes said.

“Very well – I don’t blame you for deferring the sight of the crime for as long as possible!” Lestrade said, opening the door for us.

Madame Tatiana von Kurtz – for that was the name of Pittsinger’s live-in mistress – was a striking woman, tall and slender, with skin as pale as ivory, hair black as a raven’s wing, and wide, almond-shaped eyes that were the color of the sky on a bright winter day.  She had obviously been weeping but seemed calm and composed as she greeted us.

“Herr Holmes,” she said, “and Doctor Watson – my beloved was quite fascinated by the published accounts of your cases.  I was glad when the Inspector said he was bringing you in to investigate his death, although I fear that this killer may lurk beyond the reach of any mortal power.”

“Please, madam,” Holmes said.  “I have yet to encounter a murderer who could not be dealt with by human agency.  If you would, tell me exactly what transpired last night – and anything you can think of that might have led up to the tragedy.”

“Daemon desired more power than any mortal man should possess,” she said.  “When I met him a decade ago, he was a dedicated student of mesmerism and a rather amateurish stage performer.  At the time, I was nineteen and not at all interested in marrying the industrial baron my parents had chosen to be my husband.  In Daemon I saw a man destined to rise; a deeply curious soul burning to understand the secrets of the ancient world and apply them to modern times. He immediately saw the benefits of having an attractive stage assistant, and we became business partners and lovers from that day forward.  He had nothing but scorn for the Cristian church, regardless of what label it bore, and insisted that us living together out of wedlock would add to the mystique and appeal of our act. Over time, he became a master illusionist and a gifted practitioner of mesmerism.  But he always longed for something more, something that would give him the power of compulsion over mankind.  Two years ago, he found reference to an ancient letter from Doctor John Dee describing a loathsome book of ancient spells, so awful it had been suppressed since the latter days of Queen Elizabeth.  He began devoting all his attention to finding this letter, spending hours among the ancient, crumbling texts of the royal library. Three weeks ago, he found it.  I wanted to come along and help him look for a standing stone bearing the carved sigil Dee had sketched in his letter.  But he forbade me to come, saying that the search had become too dangerous.”

She sighed, and a single tear rolled down her fair cheek.

“Two weeks ago, he came through the door shortly after dawn, filthy, disheveled, and reeking of wet earth and rot.  He would not show me what was in the bundle he carried, wrapped up tightly in his greatcoat, but he crowed that now he would now show the sheep of London what true power was all about!  He carried the parcel upstairs to his library and locked the door behind him.  After that, he became increasingly withdrawn from me, spending hours at a time in the library, chanting incantations in languages I could not understand. He came out to eat, or when he – when he ‘needed to draw energy from me,’ was how he put it – and on performance nights.”

“His performances changed, did they not, after this discovery?” Holmes asked.

“Yes!” she said sharply.  “My love was a talented performer, but before he brought home that accursed book, he was just a performer!  He pretended to summon spirits and dark powers, and he was very good at convincing his audiences that he had done so.  But it was all smoke and mirrors, Mister Holmes – I know because I helped him provide the distractions that made his sleight of hand so convincing!  But after bringing that book into our house, he said I was no longer needed to pull strings and release smoke.  ‘No need for deception anymore, my dear!’ he exclaimed.  ‘No need to pretend!  Now I can show the people the things I only pretended to have knowledge of!’  He told me I could sit in the audience during his act, or even stay home.  I saw things, Herr Holmes, things that I do not understand and have no wish to understand!  The things he summoned to the stage in front of those people were not tricks, or costumed actors – they were real, Mister Holmes.  What they were, I have no idea – but they terrified me!”

“I am sure they were very convincing,” Holmes said, “but that does not mean they were supernatural!”

“You have not seen what I have seen,” she said, her voice suddenly flat, “so I will forgive your presumption.  But after that performance which drove poor Herr Fitzsimmons to kill his family, Daemon began to act differently.  He had been swaggering with confidence and projecting an aura of power, but suddenly he became afraid.  He planted odd talismans around our windows and doors, and his chanting took on a different tone – wheedling and pleading, rather than commanding.  He commented over supper two days ago: ‘I thought the guardian was slumbering, but it is awake, and seeking what I took!’  That evening we were having drinks in front of the fire when I heard a strange sound at our window, and Daemon turned deathly pale when he glanced at it. I turned quickly, but all I caught was a fading green glow as something moved away from us.   After we went to bed, he woke up screaming that someone had removed the talismans from our window, even though we were on the second floor.  He left our chambers and barricaded himself in his library.  Last night, after midnight, I heard horrible screams coming from the library.  When I ran up to see what the matter was, there was a flickering green light coming from under the door and I heard sounds – sounds I cannot describe, Mister Holmes, though I can never forget them!  The door was locked, so I ran downstairs to fetch the key. When I came back up, the light under the door had faded, and the house was silent.  I unlocked the room and stepped in, but all was black.  I turned on the gas lights, and when I saw what was left of him – well, I fainted dead away, even though I have never swooned before in my life!  It was daylight when I woke, and what I had seen. . .” she broke down in sobs at this point, her feminine form shaking with the force of her grief.  I saw a brandy decanter nearby and poured her a glass, which she took gratefully.

“What I saw was unchanged, only rendered even more awful by the light coming in the window,” she said.  “I withdrew from the library, locking that horrible sight behind the door.  You may go up and see for yourself, Mister Holmes, but I will never set foot in that room again.  My Daemon – he meddled with powers that no man should possess, and those who control such powers have exacted a terrible price for his pride and ambition.  Now, I bet you, leave a broken-hearted woman to her grief!  The man I loved was changed by whatever was in that book, but I loved him still.  When I think that the thing that I found in there was once him, I cannot bear it!  Please leave me, sirs!”

“By all means, madam, and my condolences on your loss,” Holmes said, rising. “Let us inspect the scene of the crime now, gentlemen.”

“I may wait outside the door this time, Mister Holmes,” said Lestrade.  “I’ve seen the remains of poor Pittsinger once and have no desire to view them a second time.”

This comment caught me off guard, for despite his bluster Lestrade was an experienced, hardened detective who had seen death in its most awful forms, including the savage butchery of Mary Kelly by the fiend known as the Ripper, one of Holmes’ most difficult cases, regarding which I am still bound by an oath of silence.

If Holmes was put off by Lestrade’s reaction, he gave no sign. Indeed, he ascended the stairs as quickly as if he took the steps two at a time in his eagerness to confront this ghastly crime.  We caught up with him at the door; he was on his hands and knees carefully studying the hardwood floor in the hallway. After going over the boards carefully with his magnifying glass, he rose and held his hand out to Lestrade for the key.  The inspector handed it to him, and Holmes opened the door and let it swing ajar.

The sun had come out from the clouds while we were interviewing Frau von Kurtz, and enough light was streaming in through the windows to illuminate the room.  I was baffled at first, for there was no sign of a body on the floor or in the large chair behind the massive wooden desk.  There were some drops of green, viscous fluid scattered here and there, and a standing marble lectern was generously coated with the stuff.  But where was the body?  Holmes was also surveying the scene curiously, and when he looked upward, I heard an unconscious gasp come from his lips – a strong reaction from this most taciturn of men.  I followed his gaze upward and found my gorge rising at the sight that met my eyes.

The body of Daemon Pittsinger was lashed to the ceiling by some strange cords of a deep purplish color; how they were affixed to the beams I could not see. The German mystic was fully clothed, but his garments were soaked with greenish ooze, some of which had dripped to the floor beneath him.  The corpse looked strangely flattened, almost deflated, and the head was missing altogether. Sinews and veins dangled from the stump of his neck, but there was no neat line marking the passage of a blade – it looked for all the world as if his head had been ripped from his body by sheer brute force.

Holmes stood stock-still and stared at the corpse for a long time, and then he flung himself down on all fours and whipped out his magnifying glass.  The floor under the body was covered by a deep-piled, expensive Oriental rug woven with arcane symbols, and Holmes studied every square inch of it, glancing up from time to time at the horrific sight directly over his head.  After a half hour had passed, he left the carpet and crawled across the floorboards towards the window facing out into the garden.  He studied the floor below the windowsill and then examined the sill inside and out, opening the window and leaning outwards to stare at the flower bet some twenty-five feet below.  Then he searched the fireplace on the far side of the room, giving a small grunt of satisfaction as he extracted a small, unburned fragment of paper.  Finally, he pulled one of the guest chairs over and stood on it to study the corpse itself, surveying the sad relict of the German mystic from the shredded stump of its neck all the way down to its feet.

Hopping down from the chair, Holmes then studied the top of the marble lectern, coated with the same green slime that had drenched Pittsinger’s corpse. Finally, he went to the man’s desk, carefully studying the few papers lying on top of it, and then gingerly trying its drawers. When he saw that they were locked, he finally rose and confronted Lestrade and me.  Despite his determination not to view Pittsinger’s remains a second time, the inspector had eventually crossed the threshold into the library and watched Holmes’ investigation with rapt interest – although from time to time he looked up at the awful corpse, strapped to the ceiling with those strange crimson bands, and shuddered.

“What do you make of this, Holmes?” Lestrade finally asked.

“Daemon Pittsinger has been brutally killed,” my friend replied brusquely.

“I could have told you that!  But how?  And who could have done it?  Can you not hazard a guess?” the inspector demanded.

“I never guess, Lestrade, as you well know,” Holmes said.  “It is an appalling habit, destructive to sound reason.  I have not yet gathered enough information to formulate a hypothesis.  I need to view the outside of the house now.  Lock the door behind me, and ask the coroner, if he arrives before I return, to not disturb the scene just yet.  Come, Watson!”

With that he tossed the key to Lestrade and bounded down the steps, leaving me to follow as fast as my game leg would allow – the nasty weather had stirred my old wound throbbing again.  Outside, I found Holmes studying the window nearest the front door.  There was a strange ceramic object placed on the sill; it was made of fired green clay in the shape of an eight-pointed star, with some strange glyphs or runes carved into its center.

“Have you ever seen such an artifact?” Holmes asked.

“I can’t say that I have,” I replied.  “It looks like some sort of occult emblem, but I cannot recognize the language on it. It does not look very old, though.”

“You’re right there. It looks freshly cast, but the characters are the ancient cuneiform writing from Mesopotamia, I believe.  If you look at down this wall, you will see one of these placed in every window on every floor.  Now let us round the corner and see what lies below the window of the library where poor Pittsinger met his demise,” he explained.

We rounded the corner, and even lacking Holmes’ eye for detail, the fragments of green ceramic littering the flower bed were evident.  One clay talisman remained on a ground floor window, the rest appeared to have been shattered and dropped into the garden.

Holmes dropped to his knees, muddy turf notwithstanding, and carefully examined the flower bed from one end to the other, paying special attention to the ground directly below the library window, far overhead. After about twenty minutes he slowly stood and brushed the mud and wet grass from his sodden knees.

“This was no accident,” he said.  “Someone deliberately smashed every single talisman above the ground floor, and most that were on it.  But they did so without setting foot in the flower bed – there is not a single fresh footprint or any indication of a ladder or scaffolding here.

“Then how the devil - ?” I pondered.

“Projectiles,” Holmes said, holding up a small lead ball about the size of a marble.  “My theory would be a slingshot.”

He handed me the ball, and then swiveled his head abruptly.  A street urchin, about twelve years of age, was watching us intently over the low stone curb that separated the side yard from the street.

“I’ll warrant that boy knows something,” my friend whispered softly, and then took off at a sprint, calling “You there, lad!  I need to talk to you!”

The startled urchin took off, but Holmes’ long legs propelled him like a greyhound, and he cleared the stone curb in a single, graceful leap.  The boy ran straight down towards Westchester, but as luck would have it, the coroner’s cart was clattering down the street towards the house at that moment. A patrolman who was riding in the passenger seat had seen the chase and leaped out to intercept the lad even as Holmes was catching up to him.

“Here now, boy-o, why are you running from Mister Holmes here?” the policeman said, and the urchin wailed and struggled mightily at the sound of that name.

“It’s all right, Constable,” Holmes said, coming up behind.  “Let me have a quick talk with the lad.”

“Well, if you are sure, Mister Holmes,” the bobby replied, “you may have him!”

“Thank you, Jamison,” Holmes replied. “Now, lad, come up here and have a chat with Doctor Watson and me.  You’re in no trouble, and there is a guinea in it for you if you can help us!”

“I meant no harm,” the lad said plaintively.  “I don’t know why you and the coppers are here, but I swear I didn’t hurt no one! I just did what I was paid to do!”

“Did someone pay you to smash the little green sculptures on the windowsills?” Holmes asked him.

“Yes!  This funny man, all red-faced and bald on top with a scar on his nose and big muttonchop whiskers, saw me practicing with my slingshot and told me he’d give me twelve pence if I could break as many of those funny green things as possible from a distance, especially the ones on the upper floors.  He told me to do my best not to break any windows.  I didn’t like the sound of him at all, to be honest, sir – it was all thick and snotty and it seemed like his voice didn’t belong to him, somehow.  So anyway - last night, while it was raining, I climbed over the curb and took out as many as I could – but then someone came to the window, and I ran away before they could come after me.”

“That is very helpful, young man,” Holmes said.  “Now, if you are so much in need of money that you are willing to break peoples’ property for a few farthings, perhaps I can set you to earning a more honest living.”

“I don’t want to go to no workhouse!” the boy wailed.  “My brother went to one of those places and wound up getting his arm smashed in some gears at the factory they sent him to!”
          “I would not dream of sending you to one of those ghastly establishments,” Holmes said.  “But tomorrow, I want you to make your way on over to Baker Street.  There is a locksmith’s shop called Wiggins’ Watches and Gears, run by a young man of my acquaintance.  You just tell him that Mister Holmes has recommended you join the Baker Street Irregulars.”

“You’re that Mister Holmes?” the boy said.  “I’ve heard all about you.  They say you’re a real swell to work for.  I’ll trot over there tomorrow, I promise!”

“Good lad!” said Holmes, dropping a couple of coins in his palm.  “Now off with you, and don’t come nosing around here anymore.  Dark things happened in this house last night, lad, and I’m not sure the threat is entirely gone.”

Lestrade and the coroner were waiting for us at the door, and Holmes gave the inspector a long, quiet look before speaking.

“Lestrade,” he asked; “Fitzsimmons - The man who killed his family after attending Pittsinger’s magic show – what did he look like?”

“Stout fellow, red in the face, mostly bald but generous whiskers,” Lestrade said.

“Did he have a scar on the side of his nose?” Holmes asked.

“Yes, he did!” Lestrade said.  “Did you see him at some point and not tell me?”

“No,” said Holmes.  “But someone else did. Curiouser and curiouser!”

“Well, I have come to collect Herr Pittsinger’s body,” the coroner said.  “May I remove it yet?”

“Give me just a moment,” Holmes replied.  “I need to speak to Frau von Kurtz again.”

We found Pittsinger’s paramour in the study where we had left her, warming her hands before the fireplace and sipping another glass of brandy.’

“I am sorry to intrude, madame,” Holmes said, “but Herr Pittsinger’s desk was locked.  Do you know where he kept the key?”
          “He always had it on his person,” she replied. “Usually in his vest pocket.  He kept all his private papers in that desk.”

“Thank you.  I am hoping that his writings may shed some light on the strange fate that overtook him,” Holmes said.  “I bid you adieu for now, but I may call on you again for further information.”

“I have told you all that I know,” she said. “Please find out what did this!”

With that, Holmes trudged upstairs to find the coroner staring up at Pittsinger’s corpse, still affixed to the ceiling with those mysterious bonds.

“How on earth am I supposed to get him down?” the man wondered.

“I shall try and cut the bonds for you,” Holmes said.  “Watson, bring me that stoutest chair.”

I scooted a tall, sturdy wooden chair across the rug until it was directly under Pittsinger’s feet, and Holmes leapt up on it and pulled a sharp, gleaming penknife from within his waistcoat.  He hacked and sawed at the strange crimson bonds which tied Pittsinger’s feet to the overhead beam, with no result.

“I’ve never encountered this substance before,” he said, “but my knife makes no impression on it at all!”

“Something is bothering me about this whole situation, Holmes,” I said.

“A man is dead, his head ripped off, and his body is affixed to the ceiling with bonds of a seemingly impervious substance,” Holmes said.  “I find the whole situation vexatious in the extreme.  But pray tell, my dear friend, what is bothering you about this crime scene?”

“Where is his blood?” I said, “Pittsinger was alive when he came into this room, he died in this room, his head was torn off in this room, and his body was left in this room.  There should be a small lake of blood underneath his corpse, or on the spot where he was butchered.  But I haven’t seen a drop!”

“I have,” Holmes said.  “One drop only, and it’s on the windowsill over there.  But you are right; there should be a gallon or more of the stuff spattered all over!”

He turned his attention back to the cords that bound Pittsinger’s body to the beams of the ceiling, sawing at them in frustration.

“They shouldn’t be so tough,” he finally said.  “My blade sinks in a bit, but then it just doesn’t cut anything!  Watson, I need better light. If you would, open the curtains there, and take that hanging mirror on the far wall and use it to reflect some sunlight up here. These cords defy all logical explanation!”

I pulled back the curtains. The sun was now beginning to sink into the west, so I removed the heavy mirror and set it in the middle of puddle of sunlight on the floor.  I slowly angled the mirror until the reflected beams struck Pittsinger’s corpse and its bizarre bonds – and then the unthinkable happened!

The minute the sun’s reflected rays touched those purplish cords, they simply melted into crimson liquid.  In a matter of a second or two, the tough bonds ceased to exist, and huge gouts of bright red blood fell to the floor, followed by the mangled, drained corpse of Daemon Pittsinger!  The body’s sudden fall knocked Holmes off his chair, and he tumbled to the floor, managing to keep his feet under him.  The crimson puddle was splashed all over his face and clothes.

Sherlock Holmes slowly stood, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped his face clean, then blotted all the blood he could from his clothes before it soaked in.

“I think we have found Herr Pittsinger’s missing blood,” he said.

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade exclaimed.

“Quite literally,” Holmes replied, regaining his composure.  “Now, Doctor Sloan, before you take his body away, I want to quickly check Pittsinger’s pockets. Gads!  This green ichor burns!”

Despite the discomfort, he fished into the pocket of the dead mystic’s waistcoat and produced a ring of brass keys.  He quickly withdrew his hand and stepped over to the sideboard. There was no water, so he poured some brandy from the decanter over his fingers and wiped them clean with a small dishtowel that was folded there.

“Be careful of that green slime,” Holmes warned the coroner, Sloan. “It is quite caustic!  Now, let us see what our German mystic kept locked in his desk drawers.”

The third key that Holmes tried opened the two main drawers, and he withdrew a leather-bound journal and a sheaf of letters.

“Inspector Lestrade,” he said, “with your permission, I should like to take these back to Baker Street and peruse them.  If you could come by about nine in the morning, I may have something to share with you then.  Doctor Sloan, if you would be so kind, please send a copy of your autopsy notes to me as soon as you have completed them.”

“If the Inspector allows, I should be glad to,” the coroner replied.

“Mister Holmes has my full confidence,” the Scotland Yard agent told him.  “If he cannot solve this case, I am not sure who could!”

“Well, gentlemen, I shall leave the removal of the body to you,” Holmes said. “I need to go to Baker Street and change clothes!  But I must thank you, Lestrade, for calling me in on this case.  It presents more points of interest than anything I have encountered in years!  Watson, if you are ready?”

“Absolutely so, Holmes,” I said. “I shall be glad to be away from this horrid scene!”

As we left the house, Holmes looked in on Miss Tatiana one last time.

“Madam,” he said, “forgive this last intrusion, and please forgive my soiled attire, but I would like to ask you one question.  This forbidden book that Daemon Pittsinger sought – was it called, by chance, the Antioch Grimoire?”

She nodded slowly, and when she spoke, her voice trembled.

“Some called it that,” she said.  “But I also heard Daemon refer to it as the Index Pandaemonium.”

“Thank you, madam,” he said.  “I feared as much.”

He did not speak a word until we had hailed a cab and were clattering back towards Baker Street.

“You know, Watson, it has long been an aphorism of mine that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbably, must be the truth,” he commented.

“I have heard you say that many times, my friend,” I replied.

“In this case, I am having a devil of a time doing it!” he said.

“Doing what, Holmes?” I queried.

“Eliminating the impossible,” he replied.

 

Holmes did not say another word all the way to Baker Street, and once we got there, he turned to me with an apologetic air.

“Watson,” he said, “I find this case is going to require some intense concentration on my part.  Would it be presuming too much to ask for you to find occupation elsewhere this evening?  I fear I may not be fit company.”

“Shaw has a new play out this week,” I said.  “I shall go and catch tonight’s performance, and perhaps go to the club afterward for some brandy and a cigar or two.  I’ve been needing to get out anyway, and the beastly weather has kept me cooped up for days!”

It was long after midnight when I returned, and I could hear the plaintive wailing of Holmes’ violin from the window above as I dismounted my cab.  Our flat was filled with a dense cloud of tobacco smoke, and in the center of it my friend was seated, his Stradivarius tucked under his chin, filling the air with the strains of Mozart.  He lowered the violin as I entered the room.

“Watson!” he exclaimed.  “I thought you planned to stay out late.”
          “It is half past twelve, Holmes,” I said.  “I have been gone for eight hours!”

“Remarkable!” he said.  “I would have said two at the most.  This is a most baffling case, Watson!”

“Have you arrived at any conclusions?” I asked.

“If there was another human being in that room, besides Pittsinger, his mistress, and the police, then he somehow managed to enter, perform a most gruesome murder, and depart without leaving a single trace of his passage on the carpet or floorboards,” Holmes said.  “That is what I was referring to when I mentioned being unable to eliminate the impossible.  Human beings cannot float, Watson!  Yet that is seemingly what this killer did.”

“Could it have been an animal of some sort?” I asked.

“I found no claw marks, no fur, no feathers, no droppings,” Holmes said. “I have seldom been so baffled!”

“Did Pittsinger’s journal hold any clues?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” Holmes said.  “The entries primarily centered around his search for the Antioch Grimoire and the occult powers that he believed it would unlock.  He did include a transcript of the John Dee letter that started his search, however.”

“You did not find the original letter in his papers?” I asked.

“I retrieved a tiny fragment of very old paper from the fireplace,” Holmes said.  “Only a single word survived the fire, but the script is Elizabethan.  I believe it was all that remained of Dee’s letter.”

“Is there anything of interest in the letter?” I asked.

“The entire letter is a fascinating study in sixteenth century occultism,” Holmes said, “and in conjunction with Pittsinger’s journal, I believe it can lead us to the place from which he retrieved the grimoire. The journal is written in a cypher, so decoding it has been slow work.  But this quote from Dee’s letter may shed some light on the case.”

He handed me a sheet of foolscap on which he had transcribed the following:

“The Bloodweaver, He who floats upon the Darkness, hath a particular interest in this text, and none who possess it are safe from his grasp. Although the powers that canst be commanded by mastery of the Antioch Grimoire are great indeed, they are not sufficient to ward off this ancient evil.  Only the token of Belshazaar, lost in Mesopotamia a score of centuries past, may ward off the power of Gizalkagath, the Bloodweaver, devourer of souls.  Therefore I have taken it upon myself to hide this accursed text from all mortal eyes, until such time as the talisman be found again.”

I set the paper aside with a shudder.

“This being Dee describes here does sound capable of killing a man in the way we saw,” I said.

“I have no doubt that is what we are meant to think,” Holmes said.  “A diabolically clever killer left Pittsinger as we found him, intending to create the idea that this ancient demon, the Bloodweaver, was behind the murder.  But how he was able to do it – that is beyond me!  Now, if I may, I need to concentrate again.”

          He retrieved his still-lit pipe, took a good pull on it, emitted a long puff of cheap tobacco smoke, and then picked up his violin.  I fled to my bedchamber, buried my head under the pillows, and knew nothing more till dawn’s rays climbed through my window and woke me.

Donning my dressing gown, I emerged from my quarters to find Holmes seated at the table, Pittsinger’s papers and journal spread out before him, and Mrs. Hudson’s breakfast tray sitting, most woefully neglected, on the sideboard.  I poured myself a cup of coffee, filled my plate, and sat down at the opposite end of the table.

“Have you reached any breakthrough?” I asked when Holmes did not speak for several minutes.

He gave a wistful sigh, and then pushed the journal aside.

“Nothing that makes any sense, Watson,” he said.  “I think that, after Lestrade drops by this morning, a pilgrimage to the moors might be in order.  I need to see where Pittsinger found the grimoire, and hope that the site may hold some further clues as to the identity of his killer.”

“Well, then, some nourishment is in order, if we’re to spend the day tramping about in the mud,” I told him.  “Do join me before our breakfast becomes completely cold.”

Holmes grunted, and then got up and filled his plate.  My friend was notoriously indifferent to food when enthralled by a difficult case; he was equally likely devour a gourmand’s portion or to skip three meals in a row.  Since Holmes had eaten nothing since breakfast the previous day, instinct took over, and he quickly put away a rasher of bacon, three eggs, and two of Mrs. Hudson’s delightful scones.  We had barely finished the meal when a knock on the door announced the arrival of Inspector Lestrade.

“Well, Mister Holmes,” he said, removing his hat, “I don’t know as we’re any closer to determining the killer’s identity, but I have discovered an important clue!”

“By all means, Inspector, take the stone talisman out of your pocket and let’s have a look,” Holmes said, and smiled slightly as Lestrade’s jaw dropped.

“How the devil . . . ?” the Scotland Yard man gasped.

“Well, in fairness, Lestrade, I spent most of last night reading through Pittsinger’s journal, and his discovery – or, to be honest, his theft – of the talisman is described there in some detail.  You are carrying something in your right pocket that is of the proper dimensions and seems to be heavy for its size.  I imagine it is the template for the soapstone copies we found placed along the outside windowsills.” Holmes explained.

“Exactly so,” Lestrade said.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a polished, ancient basalt sculpture.  “Pittsinger kept this in a safe in his bedroom, which Miss von Kurtz was kind enough to open for us.”

Holmes took the artifact and examined it closely, then handed it to me.  It was heavy, and polished smooth from centuries of wear. The overall shape was identical to but slightly larger than the copies I’d seen placed in the windows of Pittsinger’s home, and the ancient runes marking its surface seemed identical.

“What do these say, I wonder?” I mused, tracing the characters with my fingertip.

“Pittsinger did not record the translation into his journal,” Holmes said, “and I only know a few characters of cuneiform.  However, I believe our next guest should be able to translate.  Here he is now, I believe!”

As Holmes spoke, another knock sounded on the door of our flat.

“Come in, Professor Peabody,” my friend said, and a scrawny, balding gentleman in a tweed hat stepped in.

“Mister Holmes,” the man said.  “I see it is true!  You have recovered the Token of Belshazaar!”

“It has been recovered,” Holmes said, “but not by me.  Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard retrieved it from the home of Daemon Pittsinger late last night.”

“The British Museum thanks you heartily, sir,” the professor said, wringing Lestrade’s hand.  “This is one of the prizes of our Mesopotamian collection.  I knew that Pittsinger was up to no good, but I had no idea he’d nicked the thing from under our very noses!”

“Perhaps he meant to return it as soon as he determined the accuracy of his copies,” Holmes told him.  “But I am interested in why he stole it to begin with.  What can you tell me about the history of this piece?  What is it, exactly, and why would an occultist like Pittsinger be interested in it?”

“It is referred to as the Token of Belshazaar,” Peabody said, “because he was its last known owner, and it was recovered near his palace in the ruins of Babylon twenty years ago.  But it is far older than that Babylonian king of the sixth century BC.  The style of the cuneiform inscription is from the earliest civilizations of ancient Sumeria, almost two thousand years before the time of Belshazaar.”

“Can you read it?” I asked.

“I am one of the few that can,” Peabody said.  “This inscription is written in the earliest version of the cuneiform alphabet, and it resembles classical Sumerian to the same degree that Chaucer’s Middle English resembles a story from today's London Times.”

“I had read of your expertise in ancient languages,” Holmes said, “and indeed that is why I summoned you.  I would like you to render the most exact translation you can give us of the cuneiform on this stone.”

“That would be my pleasure, Mister Holmes,” said the curator.  “I have not forgotten the tremendous favor you did us in recovering the Dagger of Rameses a few years back.”

I handed the smooth basalt artifact to Peabody, who stared intently at the runes on its surface for a few minutes, silently mouthing words in a tongue I had never heard before.  After running through it a couple of times, he turned to Holmes.

“Going from ancient Sumerian to modern English is a challenge,” he said, “But this is my best possible rendering of what is written on the talisman.  It’s an incantation to ward off some ancient demon or other.  It goes like this:

“Begone, Gizalkagath!  Lest daybreak overtake you and bring your dark life to naught!  Bloodweaver, beware the light that must soon dawn, and weave your cursed bonds elsewhere.  For as you cross this threshold, the sun will take you as surely as Marduk embraces the Deep. Beware, He Who Floats in Darkness, and abandon this place for your home in the deeps of the earth, where sunlight cannot touch you, nor melt away all your works.” 

Holmes scribbled down Peabody’s words as he spoke them, and after the museum curator finished reading the curse, he put down the pencil and walked to his desk. He retrieved one of the soapstone copies that had been placed in the windows of Pittsinger’s home and handed it to Peabody.

“Does this copy have the same phrase written on it?  Can you see any visible differences in the inscription?” he asked.

The curator studied the two pieces, his gaze shifting from one to the other, and then he shook his head.

“They appear to be identical,” he said.  “Where did this come from?”

“Pittsinger had made a couple dozen of them,” Lestrade said, “and he placed one in every window of his home.”

“That is strange,” said Peabody, “and not a little disturbing.  According to the ancient texts, the only reason to place the talisman in a window or door was to forbid entry to malignant spirits.  Why would any modern Englishman feel the need to fortify his home against some ancient Mesopotamian demon?”

“Why indeed,” Holmes said.  “Thank you, Doctor Peabody.  I’m sure Lestrade will be happy to return the talisman to the Museum once our investigation into Pittsinger’s death is complete.”

“How did he die?” asked the curator.  “He was a frightening chap, very intense, and when I saw his obituary in the paper today, I found myself wondering how he met his end.”

“It was a dark and bloody fate, sir,” said Lestrade.  “I don’t know that you’d want to know the details.”

Peabody swallowed nervously and gave a tense smile.

“Indulge me,” he said.

“Well, we never found his head,” said Lestrade.  “And his body was affixed to the rafters with bonds of solidified blood!”

The curator blanched at that bit of information, and quickly buttoned up his coat.

“That’s horrifying,” he said.  “How could anyone do such a thing!”

“That’s the question,” Lestrade said.  “How?  It seems impossible!”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” Peabody said.  “Now, if you will please excuse me!”

With that he rushed out the door – in such a hurry that it shut on his coattails, and he had to open it again to make his exit.

“I think that man knows something,” Lestrade said.

“Or at the least, he suspects something,” Holmes said. “Inspector, I need to finish translating Pittsinger’s journal before I can proceed any further.  Please, when the coroner’s report is ready, I’d appreciate it if you could bring it by.”

“I believe we are being dismissed, Doctor Watson,” said Lestrade.

“I am terribly sorry, Watson,” Holmes said, “and were it not lovely outside today, I would certainly not ask it.  But I cannot remember a case that has taxed my powers of concentration so greatly!”

Holmes was never good company when he was in the throes of reasoning out a case, so I cheerfully bade him farewell and strolled down the street, walking several blocks just to enjoy the sunshine.  It was still cool out, but the streets were drying and the whole city smelled better than normal after three straight days of being rinsed clean by the torrential rains.  I walked aimlessly for an hour or more, and then found myself nearing the British Museum.  I decided to go look at the vast collection of artifacts from the ancient world, and after staring at Egyptian mummies and the Elgin marbles, I found myself in the wing housing Middle Eastern relics, including those excavated in Mesopotamia.

As I viewed an impressive stele covered with cuneiform writing and images of winged gryphons, I saw Dr. Peabody emerge from a door behind one of the exhibits.  He seemed calmer than he had been when he left Baker Street, and spying me, he walked over with a sheepish smile.

“Doctor Watson,” he said.  “Is Mister Holmes with you?”

“No,” I replied.  “He wanted to be free to concentrate on the journal of Daemon Pittsinger, and he asked me to leave him alone for a few hours.”

“I see,” the curator said.  “Was Pittsinger really murdered in the manner that Inspector Lestrade described, Doctor?”

I shuddered at the memory of that crushed, drained body lashed to the rafters with cords made of human blood.

“Yes, he was,” I said.  “I am a veteran of combat in India and Afghanistan, and I have seen my share of human savagery.   But what was done to that hapless mystic surpasses all the horrors of war that I witnessed!  But why did Lestrade’s inscription unnerve you so, if I may ask?”

“I have been reading some of the cuneiform tablets recovered from the ruins of Babylon,” he said.  “And what Lestrade described echoed a very disturbing passage I translated last night.  Come with me, and I shall share it with you.”

He led me through the small door he had emerged from and down a dim, gas-lit corridor into the bowels of the museum.  Soon the hallway widened, and office doors with frosted glass panes ran down both walls.  He stopped before one of them and fiddled with his key for a moment.

“Bothersome having to lock up every time we leave, but with the rash of recent thefts, the Director has been very insistent about it,” he said.  The door opened and I found myself in a fair-sized room dominated by a large table running down its center, with shelves on either side.   Everywhere there were ancient, fired clay tablets covered in the wedge-shaped runes that the ancient Sumerians used to record their civilization.  Peabody went down the table and stopped in front of one of them.

“Here it is,” he said.  “There are millions of these blocks buried in the desert sands, and they are a fascinating cross section of the ancient world.  Everything from religious texts, court chronicles, schoolboy scribblings, and crop reports!  The cities have been burned and plundered so often that everything is all jumbled up. You don’t know what you hold in your hands until you begin translating.”

He traced his fingers over the lines of script and referred to a notebook sitting on the table beside it.  After a moment, he nodded and turned to me.

“I wanted to be sure I remembered the name correctly,” he said.  “It’s the same entity mentioned on the Belshazaar Talisman. When I read this, you will understand why Inspector Lestrade’s words gave me a fright.”

He adjusted his spectacles, and when he began reading, the timbre of his voice changed, becoming deeper and hoarser. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed as if the lights in the room dimmed as he read.

“Of the dark spirits chained in the abyss below the abyss, the most powerful is the Bloodweaver, Gizalkagath, He Who Walks in Darkness; for he serves as both guardian and jailer to those imprisoned there.  Any mortal man who dares try to release or enslave any of the dark ones he guards shall dare his wrath.  While he may not walk in the sunlight, by night he shall seek them out.  Their heads he will take, their souls devour, and he shall bind the husk that remains with cords woven of their own blood before taking their souls, and the imprisoned one they sought to control, back to the realm of darkness where he reigns supreme. . .”

I shuddered.  What had Pittsinger, that poor, ambitious fool, summoned from the deep places of the earth?  For the more I considered his fate, the less possible any human agency seemed.  All the technology and progress of the modern age seemed to fade, and I felt the same fear of the unknown dark that our ancestors must have felt when they peered out of their caves into the night, scores of centuries ago.

“May I copy your translation?” I asked him after a moment.  He nodded, and I began to transcribe his words, telling him: “I believe this inscription may have some bearing on the case.”

“Do you really think some ancient horror may have claimed the man’s life?” Peabody asked.

“It sounds preposterous when you say it out loud, doesn’t it?” I replied.  “Yet I certainly believe that is what we are meant to think.”

“Well, I would just as soon have nothing more to do with it,” he said. “I find the whole idea unnerving.  I’ve seen many odd things working in this museum for the last twenty years, but this is the first time I’ve seen an ancient curse claim a human life!”

I could tell he was anxious to return to his work, so I thanked him for the information he’d provided and went on my way.  I had dinner at the club, and then returned to Baker Street later that evening.  I found Holmes slumped at his desk, a stack of papers covered with his small, neat handwriting lying next to Pittsinger’s journal.

“Well, Holmes, have you learned anything new?” I asked.

“Pittsinger was deathly afraid those last few days before his death,” he said.  ‘His last entries are almost impossible to read, his hands were trembling so badly. He truly believed that he was being stalked by some unearthly horror.  I have no doubt that the grimoire he discovered would be a great prize for any fellow occultist, but there is no indication in his journal that anyone else knew about it.  My working theory has been that a rival mystic stole the grimoire, murdered him, and tried to make it look as if this Gizalkagath was responsible for the deed.  But I have found no evidence of human agency – whoever it was that murdered Pittsinger, he is a criminal genius on the level of Moriarty!”

I showed Holmes the notes I had taken at the museum, and he studied the translated inscription with some interest.

“This is most fascinating, Watson,” Holmes said.  “The way this ancient evil takes its victims certainly does resemble the crime scene we examined.”

“It’s the bonds made of blood that unnerve me the most,” I said.  “How can human blood be made into cords too tough for steel to cut, and then turn to liquid again in a moment?”

“I took the liberty of capturing some of Pittsinger’s blood in a vial before we left his house,” Holmes said.  “I’ve had it under my microscope quite a bit this afternoon, and it appears to be normal human blood.”

“And that foul green ichor that was covering Pittsinger’s body?” I asked.

“It is a highly acidic compound,” Holmes said, “that appears to be biological in origin.  I’ve never encountered anything like it before.”

“What do you propose to do next, Holmes?” I asked.

“I am waiting for a copy of the coroner’s report,” he said.  “It should have been here hours ago. I don’t know that it can tell me much, but I want some confirmation of things I noticed in my own examination.  There are several possibilities and at least one impossibility in play here, Watson.  I need to gather some things this evening, and tomorrow I want to try and find the cave the grimoire was retrieved from.  Your company, as always, would be appreciated.”

“I should be disappointed if you did not invite me,” I said.

“You may wish I hadn’t before this is all over,” he said.  “There are devilish things afoot in this case, I fear.  At any rate, I shall be back later this evening.  In the meantime, you might peruse my transcription of Pittsinger’s journal.  I think the man was delusional, especially near the end, but if nothing else, you will understand what it was he was so afraid of in the days before his demise.”

With that he donned his hounds-tooth cloak and deerstalker cap and ventured out into the cool of the evening. I gathered the sheets of foolscap, poured myself a brandy, and dove into the twisted mind of Daemon Pittsinger for the rest of the evening.

Most of the early passages were irrelevant to the case, but they did paint a picture of a relentlessly ambitious occultist who truly believed that dark, malign powers still stalked the earth, and that they could be manipulated into obedience by men of strong will.  He seemed to have a deep-seated contempt for traditional religion and moral values, and delighted in ridiculing those who held them.  In one passage I read:

          Today I passed a street preacher railing about Jesus casting out demons nearly two thousand years ago.  Fool!  If he only knew that there are beings imprisoned in the earth beneath our feet who were already ancient when Lucifer was cast from the heavens!  I believe these spirits can be commanded by those who know the ancient rituals and possess the will to use them.  When I find the Antioch Grimoire, I will bind one of them to my service and use him to flay the minds of fools like that man. . .

 

The search for the grimoire dominated his entries, but Pittsinger’s accidental discovery of the Belshazaar Talisman drove him to a near frenzy.  He described it thus:

As I was on my way to the Museum’s archives to look for the lost letter of John Dee, who foolishly buried the Antioch Grimoire three centuries ago, I paused to view the most recent exhibits from Mesopotamia.  There to my astonishment I saw an artifact so ancient, so powerful, that even medieval alchemists considered it legendary: the Talisman of Belshazaar!  All the legends say that the words inscribed on it can banish the most powerful of the Imprisoned Ones – they can even drive off Gizalkagath the Bloodweaver! I realized immediately that I must somehow possess this precious artifact.  Fortunately, the security at the museum is very lax; I waited till near closing and edged closer to the exhibit, then reached across the rope barrier and slipped it from its pedestal into the pocket of my cloak.  I was sweating nervously as I neared the exit, but the imbecile guarding the door barely looked up from his copy of The Times!  It is mine now!  I must immediately teach myself to reproduce the characters on it, because according to the secret epistle of Apollodorus of Athens, it is the inscription, not the artifact itself, that holds the power to bind or deter spirits. . .

 

It was a few days after this that he found the John Dee letter in the archives of the Royal Library.  Once more, he managed to purloin a priceless bit of history without being detected, and once he got the letter home, he devoted a week or more to cracking the Elizabethan era cypher Dee had used while writing it.  Once he made the breakthrough, his writing assumed a more sober tone:

 

At last my goal is in reach!  The Antioch Grimoire, the last surviving unaltered copy of the Index Pandaemonium, lies scarcely twenty miles north of London!  My search has been centered in the wrong area entirely, but once I translated Dee’s letter, all the other clues fell into place perfectly!  A mile north of the Davenport Causeway, and nearly two miles east of the Hempstead Road bridge.  If the standing stone that Dee carved his sigil in is still standing, it should be unmistakable!  Tatiana, dear girl, wants to go along for the adventure, but I value her highly enough that I have no desire to put her in peril. I will know soon enough if the treasure I seek remains in this world!

 

The next date was blank, but the day after he recounted his discovery in an entry that exuded breathless excitement:

 

It is in my hands!  I left London early yesterday and made my way as close as the rail lines ran to the Etley Moors. At the town of Davenport, I rented a horse and rode the rest of the way. It took a bit of combing through the marshes and grass-covered tussocks of the moor, but within a few hours I found a solid earthen mound that stood nearly ten feet above the surrounding marsh.  At its peak, weathered but still standing, was the rough granite monolith that Dee described in his letter.  Crudely cut into the north face of it was the same sigil he had sketched in his letter, and when I placed my hands upon it and repeated the incantation from the Black Book of Souls, I felt the massive stone slowly shift on some hidden access and fall to one side, revealing a square shaft extending downward.  Every foot or two, iron spikes had been driven into the wall to provide handholds, but they were so rusted I did not trust them with my weight.  Instead, I tied the rope I had brought with me around the toppled granite pillar, and then slowly I lowered myself down, using the spikes for occasional leverage. I descended for nearly thirty feet before I found myself standing at the head of an ancient limestone staircase.  I used matches to light the torch I had brought and began my second descent.

The steps were slick with age and moss, but after the fiftieth step, I found myself in a chamber about twenty feet across.  It was in the shape of a half circle, but the back wall was made of a bizarre stone unlike the limestone floor and steps. It was a glossy black, reflecting the light of my torch back at me in a thousand shifting colors.  But the glistening wall, as beautiful as it was, only held my gaze for a moment. For there, on a crude pedestal of stone, rested the ancient book I have sought for the last decade!  It was covered with a grimy black mold, but the foul substance dusted off with a few strokes of my handkerchief.  It set me coughing so hard I nearly dropped my torch, but after a moment I could breathe again.  I turned the pages, my eyes feasting on the neat Greek script, which listed the names, abilities, and weaknesses of every resident of the Great Abyss!

I closed the grimoire and wrapped it in an old tablecloth I had brought with me, and then dropped the whole bundle into my knapsack.  As I exited the chamber, I paused a moment to stare at the iridescent back wall of the chamber, and suddenly I felt myself rooted to the spot.  For within that gleaming blackness there were shapes moving – shapes of living entities so unnatural in their contours that they would have seemed blasphemous to any who yet held to the foolish conventions of modern morality!  I stared at them in fascination, but then one of them seemed to draw nearer to the other side of the – glass? Barrier? Wall between worlds? – I know not, nor did I wish to linger and find out.  Bearing my prize, I spun and took the ancient steps two at a time, then grabbed the dangling rope and hauled myself out of the pit as fast as my arms could take me. The granite pillar would not return to its resting place, so I pried up a flat stone nearby and pushed it over the hole in the earth – an imperfect cover, but the best I could do.

 

Again, the journal bore no entries for a couple of days, but when Pittsinger renewed his account, I could detect a difference in his tone.  The arrogance and lust for power were still there, but there was also an undercurrent of fear that grew stronger with each consecutive entry.

 

The Index contains the names of many more entities than I expected, and I have had a hard time narrowing down my choice.  I am not so foolish as to attempt to summon and command two of these demons at once, so I must choose wisely.   If I desired wealth alone, then my choice would be Azul-bignaz, the Hoarder, who can locate any hidden treasure in the world if commanded to do so.  But wealth is only a tool; it is the ability to command men that opens the door to all other forms of power and wealth.  So I have chosen Zudakarg, the Mind-Worm, as my servant.  He is among the weakest of the Imprisoned Ones, yet his power will enable me to bend men to my will!  Even now I am preparing the ritual of summoning . . .

 

Two days later, the next entry:

 

I’ve done it.  I will not lie in these pages; the summoning taxed my strength greatly, and when it was complete and Zudakarg materialized in the circle I had drawn, I was so repulsed by his form I almost sent him back to the abyss!  The demon – for I know of no other name that fits these entities – was so vile, so loathsome and alien to my eyes that all I wanted to do was cast him from my presence.  Fortunately, he possesses the ability to cloak his form from mortal eyes, although I can feel his groveling presence in my mind at all times.

There was something else as well.  When I spoke the incantation and opened the door in the air to draw Zudakarg to our world, there was something else there – something lurking in the darkness behind him, something watching, something implacably hostile.  I closed the portal as soon as my victim was pulled through, slamming it shut with every ounce of will I had.  Could it be that I had felt the presence of the Bloodweaver, Gizalkagath the Jailer, the guardian of the abyss? I do not know, but I have made dozens of casts of the Talisman of Belshazaar and placed them in every window of my house.  If He Who Walks in Darkness seeks entry here, they should keep him at bay – if the old legends speak true.  But that word has me lying awake at night . . . IF.  What have I done?

 

The next entry, dated a day later, took on a different tone:

 

It is working!  The ancient spells gave me binding authority over the Mind-worm, and today as I moved among the people of London I compelled a dozen men to do whatever I wished, from giving me the contents of their wallets, to striking a total stranger in the face for no reason, to stepping off the curb into the path of a rushing carriage.  My fears from last night seem so small now!  What fun I shall have on the stage at my next performance, when I shall no longer have to depend on the crude techniques of Dr. Mesmer!  I can compel any member of the audience to do anything I desire.  What wealth shall I accumulate, what beauties I shall carnally possess, what wars shall I start, with this great gift?  Zudakarg Mind-worm, you are a treasure beyond compare!

 

Two days later, the downward trajectory returned:

 

He is here!  Ever since the summoning I have felt a presence in the back of my mind, a hostile will regarding me with malevolent intent.  It is Gizalkagath!  The Bloodweaver knows that I have released one of his prisoners, and it wants him back.  Never!  My house is surrounded with copies of the Talisman, and I shall carry the original in my pocket whenever I leave.  Zudakarg, pathetic demon troll that he is, still lurks in my consciousness, ready to obey my commands with obsequious enthusiasm, yet behind the slavering voice of obedience I sense a lurking dread of something that is not me.

 

After this, the entries became more panicked, and in places Holmes had to give up on his transcription because Pittsinger’s writing had become so illegible. Two were of particular interest:

 

Something went dreadfully wrong in the performance this week.  The audience volunteer, whom I had commanded to perform a series of harmless but humiliating tasks, murdered his family a day or two afterward.  Scotland Yard was here to question me, but of course there was no way for them to prove I was at fault.  But I remember now - after I finished with him on stage that day, I ordered Zudakarg to release him. At that moment I FELT another presence sweeping by, invisibly, rushing to climb into the poor man’s mind.  Something unspeakably malevolent looked at me through his eyes before he left the stage.  Then two days later, he killed his family and himself.  I begin to wonder what else I have allowed into our world (two illegible lines follow) gets past my defenses, what price will I pay?

 

And finally, this entry, the night before the murder:

 

I HAVE SEEN HIM!  Gizalkagath, how properly named He Who Walks in Darkness!  Hovering outside my window, perhaps thirty yards away, ten feet off the ground, borne aloft by a cloud so black an inkblot would glow beside it!  Thank the God I no longer believe in that I have placed a copy of the talisman in every window; I could sense the frustration emanating from him that he was unable to reach me.  But that sickly green glow which surrounded him, his stubby batlike wings which should never have been able to lift such bulk, that glowing, three-lobed, burning eye!  Will this creature haunt me for the rest of my days, until my defenses fail?  Will he take my blood, my head, my very soul?  How long can vigilance protect me from such a foe?

 

As I waited anxiously for Holmes to return, I paced our flat and tried to make some sense of what I had read.  We stood on the threshold of the twentieth century, living in an age of reason and science.  Men had mastered steam power, circled the globe, driven back the frontiers of savagery, and come to a greater understanding of the natural world than any generation before us.  Antediluvian demons and monsters were things of myth and legend, not real menaces lurking about.  But . . . my mind kept straying back to the mutilated form of Daemon Pittsinger.  What human agency could have performed such an atrocity without leaving a trace?

Holmes returned to our flat around eight that evening, bearing a military knapsack and a thick stack of papers.  I have seldom seen him look so grim.  He reached into the knapsack and pulled out a strange-looking pistol with a remarkably wide barrel.

“What is that?” I asked.

“I am surprised you didn’t see them during your Army days, Watson,” he said.  “It is a flare pistol.”

“I heard tell of them,” I replied, “but they were never issued to us in Afghanistan.  We still used the old-style rocket flares.”

“Major Milligan – you remember when we rescued his young daughter from kidnappers a few years back – works at the Royal Arsenal down by the waterfront,” Holmes said.  “He was happy to provide me with two flare guns and several cartridges.  We will be treading in some dark places tomorrow, Watson, and we may have need of some very bright light before it is done.”

“Holmes,” I said, “I must admit Pittsinger’s journal disturbed me deeply.  What the devil are we going to face?”

“What the devil indeed, Watson!” he said with a grim chuckle.  “I have been trying to figure that out since Lestrade’s initial visit. This coroner’s report doesn’t help much.”

“What does it say?” I asked.

“The poor doctor was as puzzled as we were.  His examination of the corpse cost him some chemical burns on his hands from that green sludge that covered the body.  You can read his full report here -” he handed me the papers he was carrying “but the essence of it is that Pittsinger was completely enveloped in that green substance, his head was torn from his body by sheer brute force, and the blood drained from him so forcefully that most of his smaller blood vessels simply collapsed. The larger arteries and veins were filled with the same ichor that covered his body, and his heart was compressed into a solid lump of flesh just over an inch in diameter.  The last line of the report is stuck in my mind – ‘I know of no force, human or animal, capable of duplicating such ravages on the human body.  In short, current medical science is incapable of explaining what killed Daemon Pittsinger. Signed Richard Sloan, Medical Examiner.’ I’ve read many coroners’ reports over the years, Watson, but none that ended with such a plain declaration of helplessness!”

“Do you have any theories?” I asked him.

“I try not to theorize in advance of the evidence,” Holmes said, “as you well know.  But in this case the evidence is so bizarre and frustrating I’ve had little choice.  I only hope that exploring the site where the grimoire was found will give us some better insights.”

He lit his pipe and began pacing around the room, his arms folded behind his back.

“The most logical, rational theory is that a rival occultist, or perhaps a group of adherents to some ancient demonic cult, were angry at Pittsinger for taking their sacred book and resolved to do away with him in such a way as to discourage anyone else from ever seeking the grimoire.  So they somehow arranged to kill him in a way that mimicked the manner that this mythological monster slew its victims, and left him there for us to find,” he explained.  “I would definitely like for this theory to be proven true, but if it is, then these cultists have access to some diabolical technology that I’ve never heard so much of a rumor of, or else -” he hesitated for a moment and took a draw on his pipe.

“Or else what?” I asked.

“Or else they themselves are possessed of supernatural powers,” he finished. “I feel like a childish simpleton for even acknowledging such a possibility!”

“Then there is the other possibility,” I said.

Holmes groaned and shook his head.

“I know,” he replied.  “But I want to hold that one at bay for as long as I can! Such entities as he described cannot exist in the modern world!”

“I agree,” I said.  “So what next?”

“Supper,” he replied.  “I’ve had no time to eat, and tomorrow will be a long day.  We board the train to Davenport at seven, and with any luck, we should find the site that Pittsinger described before noon.”

“Well, it is a bit late, but the tavern down the street usually serves a good roast beef pie about this time,” I said.

“I can always count on you to know where the best meals are served, Watson!” Holmes said, and we headed out the door together.

 

That night I slept fitfully, dreaming of madmen murdering their families, glowing green entities floating above the ground on pillars of darkness, and bloody tendrils binding me to my bed in the dark.  When Holmes knocked on my door at five-thirty I fairly sprang out of bed in my haste to be rid of such nightmares.

We each gulped down a cup of hot, strong coffee that Holmes had brewed, and then caught a hansom cab to the train station.  As we made our way north, neither of us spoke much.  I tried to read, but not even the storytelling skills of Rider Haggard could hold the dark thoughts at bay.  Holmes grimly chewed on the stem of an unlit pipe as he stared out the window, watching the countryside go by.

At Davenport we made our way to the local stable and rented a pair of sorrel mares. The horse-keeper, a cheery Irishman named Dooley, asked which way we were headed.

“Out on the Etley Moors,” Holmes said.

The Irishman’s smile vanished.

“You’re not friends with that German bastard – Pittsinger, I think his name was?” he asked.

“No,” Holmes said.  “We are actually investigating his murder.  He was killed three days ago.”

“Good riddance!” our once-genial host snapped.  “I don’t know what he did out there, or what evil he stirred up, but this little town hasn’t been the same since he came riding back from the moors two weeks ago!  No one can sleep because of the nightmares, and two folks have killed themselves – one lad hung himself in his father’s barn, and Tom Dooley, my cousin, took his old service revolver and blew his brains out.  This town hadn’t had a suicide in twenty years until that cursed German showed up!”

“How dreadful!” Holmes said.  “Well, if Doctor Watson and I can find a way to undo whatever it was that Pittsinger did, I give you my word we will give it our best effort!”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes?” Dooley said.  “I’ve read about you and the good doctor here!  Seems you have a knack for helping people.  Go with my blessing, sir, and sorry for getting so snappy with you.  I thought you might be allies of that Pittsinger fellow.  Godspeed, good sir.”

“We may need all the goodwill we can get,” Holmes said, and we spurred our horses along the Davenport Causeway.  Several miles out of town, he slowed his horse to a trot and moved to the edge of the road, studying the banks that led down into the moors.  After a half hour, he gave an exclamation of triumph.

“Here!” he said.  “I was hoping the rains hadn’t washed away all traces of Pittsinger’s passage.  We are about two miles east of the Hempstead bridge, and here are the tracks of a horse leaving the road and heading into the moors.  It’s going to be tough going, and I don’t know if our horses can bear us all the way, but we’ll take them as far as we can.”

The moor was a muddy mess, but the water holes were generally shallow, and the numerous tussocks of marsh grass and willow trees gave our mounts a chance to rest and snatch a mouthful of nourishment whenever Holmes paused to study the ground.  A slimy mist hung in the air, and the mournful cries of distant birds sounded almost like human voices wailing.

After an hour or so, Holmes led us to a tall island that rose high above the swamps around it.  Several trees stood around its shores, and we were able to tether our mounts to two of them.  We climbed to the tallest point on the island, and Holmes pointed out the rough granite pillar tumbled on its side.  The square hole in the ground was fully exposed, and the flagstone that Pittsinger described covering it with was flung several feet away.

“Someone has been here,” I said.

“Indeed they have,” Holmes replied.  “But the rain has obliterated any trace of their passage.  Well, we must prepare for our descent.  Please take one of these flare guns while I secure the rope.”

In a few moments, he had fixed the rope to the granite column and fed the long end down the shaft.  We adjusted our gear and prepared to descend.

I was glad Pittsinger’s journal had revealed that the drop was not that great, for despite the sun being high in the sky, I could not see the bottom and the blackness grew thicker as we descended.  When we reached the staircase described in the journal, Holmes drew two torches from his rucksack and lit them.

“Watson, if you would be so kind as to let me go first, I want to examine the steps on our way down,” he said.

Our descent was slow, for he was keenly studying each step.  The whole place was damp, for the removal of the flagstone had allowed the rain to fall straight down the shaft.  But, judging by Holmes’ occasional grunts and nods, they had not effaced all traces of human passage.

Soon we found ourselves in the chamber that Pittsinger had entered, and as I held up my torch, I saw the crude pedestal that he described once more was topped by an ancient book.  The Antioch Grimoire had been returned to its resting place!

Beyond the grimoire, the bizarre wall that the occultist described gleamed in the light of our torches.  It was jet black, smooth as polished marble, and highly reflective.  I saw no sign of the lights or moving forms that Pittsinger had described.

Holmes had placed his torch in an ancient sconce on the wall next to the staircase and was crawling on the ground, studying the scuff marks and bits of mud on the stone floor between the steps and the pedestal.  I remained standing on the last step until he rose with a sigh of frustration.

“One set of tracks, Watson,” he said.  “That is all I see any evidence of.  One set of muddy footprints leading in and back out, by all appearances about two or three weeks old.”

“So there is no sign that anyone other than Pittsinger was here?” I said.

“None whatsoever,” he said.  “And yet the grimoire has been placed back on its pedestal.”

“What do you make of that bizarre wall?” I asked.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Holmes said.  “It resembles obsidian, but I don’t think – hullo, what’s this? Bring your torch, Watson!”

I strode across the chamber and lifted my brand above my head to provide the best possible light, and right away I saw what Holmes had observed.

At the base of the glistening black wall, directly in front of the pedestal that held the Antioch Grimoire, was a small puddle of the same greenish ichor that had covered Pittsinger’s body and dripped on the floor of the room where he died. Holmes knelt and sniffed, although I noticed he did not touch the acidic slime.

“Whatever killed Pittsinger, it was here,” he said.

“But what could it have been?” I mused, and then reached out my hand to touch the black wall before us.

I recoiled immediately in disgust, because whatever that barrier was made out of, it was not stone!  It was slick and taut, but not completely hard.  A few years later a recently deceased whale washed ashore at Brighton while I was there on holiday, and when I stroked its flank, the sensation immediately brought me back to that moment in the Etley Moors. For the back wall of that chamber felt as if it were made of cold but still-living flesh!

I barely had time to register the bizarre touch when suddenly an unearthly glow began shining from the entire wall, as if I had somehow triggered it. Holmes and I both stepped back as colors began to flicker through the translucent layer – blues, reds, and violet, mostly.  When they reached their brightest, it seemed I could see moving shapes in the distance, shapes that seemed alive but had contours that were not like any living creature I had ever seen.

“What have you done, Watson?” Holmes gasped.

“All I did was touch it!” I replied.

Two of the shapes seemed to draw closer in the flickering lights of whatever abyss lay on the other side of the wall – one was round, with tentacles or arms flailing from around its circumference; the other was more serpentine, but possessed of an impossible number of jointed legs.  Their outlines were repulsive, but mercifully we could make out no details through the opaque membrane we had thought to be a stone wall.

But then another color began pulsating in the distance – a flickering green of the same sickly shade as the ichor that had covered Pittsinger’s body.  The other shapes fled away, and as the green light grew closer, I could see a shape at the center of it, larger and more bizarre than any of the others I glimpsed.  Holmes gasped and drew the flare pistol from his cloak.

“Watson,” he said grimly, “get out of here.  Now!  I’ll be right behind you. But I need to know you are on your way to safety.  Just go, man, quickly!”

His tone brooked no questions, so I fled back up the stairs, dropped my torch onto the damp limestone, grabbed the rope, and began to climb.  As I reached the first of the old iron spikes, I looked down and saw that the flickering green lights had grown so bright I could see them reflecting on the stairs.  Then I heard the sharp retort of a flare gun, and the shaft was illuminated by the light of burning phosphorous and magnesium.

I then heard a sound which haunts my nightmares to this day – a gibbering shriek of pain and surprise that came from the throat of no being that should exist in a sane world.  Old wound or no, I fairly flew up the rope at that sound, and moments later found myself gasping on the grass outside the shaft.  I could see the rope twitching as Holmes quickly ascended after me.  He emerged from the pit pale and – the only time I have ever seen this expression on his face – frightened.

“Hand me your flare pistol, Watson,” he said.  I gave him the gun and he aimed it down the shaft and fired straight down.

“One thing Pittsinger got right,” he muttered quietly.  “It hates the bright light.”

He rummaged through his rucksack and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in burlap.

“Go wait with the horses, Watson, and be ready to ride,” he said.

“What is that, Holmes?” I said, staring at the bundle.

“Dynamite,” he replied.  “I need to be sure no one else ever finds this accursed pit again!”

I nodded, and grabbing the gear I had brought, I quickly walked down to where the horses were tied.  Holmes came rushing behind me a moment later, and just as he caught up an enormous blast shook the whole island, and a gout of flame and smoke shot out of the shaft we’d just emerged from.  Then, with a rumble of stone, the top of the island slowly collapsed inward as the chamber we had found was buried under several tons of rock and topsoil. My friend heaved a deep sigh and leaned against his horse’s flank.

“What was it, Holmes?” I asked.  “What did you see?”

The great detective took my hand in both of his and looked at me with eyes that reflected a sense of shock, fear, and loathing such as I have never seen in them before or since.

“Watson, you are the best and bravest man I have ever known. But, for the good of your soul, my dear friend, and the protection of your sanity, you must never ask me that,” he said.  “I will carry the burden of what I witnessed to my grave alone.  We will tell Lestrade that Pittsinger’s killer is no more, and I will inform him that any further inquiries into the matter are unwelcome.  He won’t like it, but he owes me enough from past favors that he will reluctantly comply. Now let us leave this godforsaken place and return to London!”

With that he climbed onto his horse and laid on the spurs with such enthusiasm it was all I could do to keep up.  We returned our mounts to the stables, and Holmes informed Mr. Dooley that the people of Davenport were safe again. Late that afternoon, we boarded the train for London, and by nightfall we were back at Baker Street.

Holmes was never a heavy drinker, but since I had weaned him off the hellish habit of cocaine several years before, that night he sought oblivion in the bottle.  Even as his physician, I could hardly blame him – the memory of what I’d seen before fleeing would deprive me of sound sleep for the next few weeks. But when I finally helped him to bed, long after midnight, Holmes grasped my sleeve and looked at me with a pleading expression.

“Don’t write about this case, Watson!” he begged me.  “The world cannot know that such things exist.  I can scarcely credit it myself, but it drew very near to the barrier before I fired my pistol and set that accursed book ablaze.  I saw it, Watson, in that moment – ‘He That Walks in Darkness’ indeed!  It looked at me, Watson, and I will see it in my dreams until I die.  That three-lobed, burning eye!”

 

We never spoke of that day again.