When we arrived at the house, Missus Butterfield was already out the front, excitedly exercising her God-given talent.
“... and then just like that the whole door burst out! Of course, I was out the back, minding my own business, but I heard it alright, for how loud it all was, and you can see for yourselves the damage. I had a look inside, just in case anyone was hurt, you know. Aye, and such a mess that you've never – Sergeant! Constable! You've arrived!”
The Sergeant cleared a path through the throng, nudging gently with his truncheon. While it took me a few seconds to surmise the situation, the Sergeant clued on in an instant.
“Great. You put it in the paper that an address is unoccupied and this is what you get,” he muttered, taking out his notebook, “May as well send out invitations to the local ferrets and pop the bloody key under the mat. Constable, take a statement from Missus Butterfield, and any other witnesses.”
“Aye, Guv. Right, you lot. Clear a space! Clear a space! Let's start with you, Ma'am.”
“Only those who actually heard or saw something, mind,” he called after, adding, “Otherwise we'll be here all day. Well, Professor, what have you got to say for yourself?”
The Professor had lost interest in the excitement out the front and was inspecting the door. It had been fairly torn off its hinges, hanging sadly on the porch.
“There was no break-in. Observe. This has been pushed from the inside, out,” the Professor said. “See? This was a break-out.”
“I'll be the policeman, if you don't mind, sir.”
The Professor ignored him, “See the hinges? Notice the jam? They would have to be pushed outward to be torn away so. Such enormous strength – and look! Look at these marks!”
There were distinct gouges scraped along the inside, similar to those I found on the cellar door only much deeper. Ribbons and splinters of wood were scattered upon the floor.
“Sergeant, this is the work of a very dark force, a force that, as you can see, has grown strong. Very strong indeed!”
The policeman whistled as he stared at the door, “What am I to tell my Captain, eh? That some brutish imp summoned up from the depths of Hades is at large?”
“Precisely.”
“Aw, come on, Professor. What are we really talking about here? Did a lion escape from the zoo? You don't expect me to believe all of this.”
“I expect nothing. Instead I will let the evidence speak.”
“And what's to say you didn't do this yourselves?”
“Not what,” he said, gesturing at the loquacious onlookers. “Who. Interview your witnesses as thoroughly as you may. I was at my laboratory. Miss Fitzgerald, my maid, can attest. As can Mister Cumberland, and Madame Gosling.”
“Alright, alright,” the Sergeant said, wheeling on me, “And where were you?”
I was aghast, “You – you don't think I could possibly...”
“Just answer the question!”
“I was in the library, sir. Mister Blake will tell you.”
He scribbled the name down, “Blake, eh? Well, we'll see.”
The Professor, agitated, made to move inside. The Sergeant shook his truncheon at him and pushed past.
“Wait, let me,” he said. “If there's a wild animal or burglar in there, I'll sort it.”
An eager hush fell upon the crowd as the Sergeant bravely nudged the door pieces out of his way and stepped inside. Even Missus Butterfield slowed her yammering to watch his progress.
“See anything, Guv?” Constable Waverley called.
“No! Just a ruddy mess is all. Here! Mind no one follows in after me until I call it clear.”
We could hear him rummaging about inside, stepping over the wreckage strewn about.
He said, coming out, “It's bedlam in there, alright. Things are smashed up. Strange, there are valuables left lying around, so it wasn't a burglar. Or if it was, it's a bloody stupid one.”
The Professor poked his nose in from the door. “And see how the trail leads from the cellar to the door?”
“Yes, yes. I'll get one of the boys to look after this, now that it's a crime scene, and we'll need to get statements from you both. Now, you said there would be a cloth of some sort. You've got five minutes to find it, then we're going down to the station to sort this whole matter out. I'm going to get to the bottom of this, come Hell or high water!”
“I strongly recommend the latter over the former,” I heard the Professor mumble.
Following the Professor, my first thought when I entered the door was of how Mister French would react when he came back to find his house in such a state. Vases were smashed. Paintings were bent and torn. The carpet was ripped up and bunched to one side.
The cellar door was a pile of splinters.
We searched through the carnage, both within the cellar and without, even making a quick dash upstairs – which was pristine, mind – but we could not find that cloth anywhere!
Resigned, the Professor yielded to the Sergeant's call and we went with the police to the station, a long house with holding cells along the side, offices on the other and a smattering of desks, chairs and bookshelves. We were locked into one of the cells while the Sergeant went over the notes.
Aside from the ticking of a mantel clock, the only other sound was a drunkard snoring loudly from a cell further down and the rattling of the windows as rain and wind foretold the approaching storm.
The Sergeant sat at his desk, writing on his pad, checking statements. Constable Peters offered us some tea while we were waiting.
“Hmm. It's a lot like science, it would seem,” the Professor said.
“Sorry? What is, Professor?”
“Police work. It's a lot like science. See how they observed first, took notes without any assumptions. They asked questions and wrote down statements. Now, back at the station here, as we would in our laboratory, he has a chance to go over the observations and piece everything together,” he almost chuckled, “And here we are, exhibits for examination.”
The mind is a resilient wonderful thing. Even in such a gloomy state, he was still able to draw parallels.
“Professor, I am concerned. What happens if we cannot find the cloth?”
“I don't know, laddie.”
“And what happens if we do find the cloth?”
“I don't know! I'm a scientist, not a sorcerer. My suspicion is that the cloth is what binds the beast, and that if it is destroyed then the beast has been unbound,” he said. “Say, do you remember in the cellar, how the room was in chaos yet the cloth was untouched? Hmm. Can you hand me that book of yours?”
I produced it from my satchel and let him read. His eyebrows danced again, wiggling excitedly as he found what he sought.
“The Binding is strong, and will continue to be so, if the Utility is maintained. The summoned Beast cannot directly break the Binding, nor the Utility. Be mindful, you, that the Being will seek other means to destroy his Yoke.”
“It cannot harm the cloth, so must do so through an agent.”
I started. “Like the lantern! It was pushed toward the cloth, to, what, set it on fire?”
“Yes. If we look at the pattern of behaviour, it appears to be growing in strength – first confined to the cellar, now breaking out of doors.”
“How strong can it get?”
“Hmm. I'm not an expert in ritualistic devices, since I mainly focus on the practical world over the esoteric, although I have a colleague,” he began, but was cut short by a thumping at the door.
“Peters! Peters!” the Sergeant yelled, his mutton-chops bristling. “Confound it! What is it now? Peters!”
“He certainly sounds like a scientist,” I said.
Constable Peters did not show. The thumping continued. He dropped his paper in a huff and marched over, throwing the door open.
“State your name and business!”
We peered through the bars to see an excited man, sweating heavily. He gibbered something unintelligible and sank to his knees.
“Another bloody drunkard. Must be a full Moon tonight. Constable! Put this one in with the other. Where in the blazes are you?”
“That's not drink talking. That's fear!” the Professor said. “Look, he's as white as a sheet.”
The Sergeant took out his truncheon and held it underneath the man's chin. “So you say. Well, if he's not drunk then he can jolly well talk, or he's going straight into the cell. Hear me? Calm yourself down and talk properly!”
The man stammered, “Th-th-there's a g-ghost! I seen a ghost!”
“Professor, if this is one of your tricks...”
“He got hurt. Please, Guv!” he howled, clutching at the Policeman's pants.
“Pull yourself together, man! Who hurt who?”
“The ghost!”
“Enough! If there's a crime, then tell me what and where.”
The man calmed down enough to explain, “Chester. He's at the office. There was this ghost, big as a – a horse, only bigger! Black. It had red eyes and claws and teeth!”
“Did you say Chester?” the Professor asked. “From the paper?”
“Aye! He's bleedin'!”
“I think I know where the cloth went. Sergeant, we should go at once!”
Sergeant Hart growled, “We aren't going anywhere.”
“A man's soul is in peril!”
“I'll go myself.”
“We have cooperated in full, Sergeant.”
“Good. Continue to do so until I get back!”
“You don't know what you're going up against!” the Professor tried one last time. “Your cudgel may work well against a thief's skull, but, I ask you, how will it work against a minion of Hell?”
The man squealed, “Hurry, Guv! He's getting bashed 'bout ev'rywhere.”
The Sergeant swore, stomped on the floor, took his keys out and unlocked the cell door.
“Bah! Out with you! Come on. Any monkey business and I'll crown you myself! Constable! Oi, Waverley, where the devil is Peters?”
“Er, on the John, guv –”
“Bah! You'll do! You're coming too. Double time, all of you!”
The storm was rumbling along steadily now. The Sergeant and the Constable put on their heavy jackets, so they were alright, but the rest of us had to trail along, squinting against the heavy drops of rain that soaked through our clothes.
We followed after the whimpering fellow as he led us to the Herald Press, thankfully only a few blocks away, any more and we would have been waterlogged. Lightning flashed ominously, silhouetting the tall stacks of the printing press against the rolling black clouds as thunder clapped in time with our steps.
While Sergeant Hart marched forward, undeterred, Constable Waverley appeared hesitant, lagging behind the rest of us.
Our guide grew more and more agitated, urging us to hurry, bringing us through the wrought iron gates and around the side, past the outhouses and the furnace, over to where the offices were.
I pushed up against the cantilevered entrance, grateful to be out of the weather, which by now was roaring with wind and rain, yet with the cessation of those pins hitting my face my mind turned to face our baleful purpose.
Inside the red-bricked building, adorned with portraits of editors past and present, we hustled up a corridor to the back offices.
Our guide hung back. Eventually he stopped altogether.
“He's over there, Guv, you'll find him right enough,” he said.
“Whereabouts, man?” the Sergeant cried.
“Over yon, you'll see. I'm not taking another step.”
“Oh, for the love of Saint Peter! Constable, stay with this one and – and take a statement!”
“Right you are, Guv,” the Constable said, relieved.
Even as we approached, we could see a trail of scratches and broken fixings, getting progressively more violent as we reached a distressing scene. The office was in ruin, with every cabinet destroyed, a mighty oak desk split down the centre, and wooden splinters sprayed all about.
“Chester?” called the Sergeant.
The windows were smashed, letting the raging storm have its way with the room, blowing the blinds about and wetting everything inside.
“Help me!” croaked a feeble voice, barely audible above the din.
We poked about, listening to the cry.
“Sergeant, over here,” the Professor called. “Help me with this.”
The pair heaved an upturned chair to find Chester, beaten and bloody, cowering underneath. His eyes were wild. His hair was clumped. Bruises adorned his face. A streak of blood ran from three cuts made across his chest.
And in his white-knuckled fists was the cloth.
It had been fairly ripped to pieces, held together by the merest of threads.
“Quickly, give me the cloth,” the Professor commanded.
Chester shook his head, crying, “No! He can't get at me while I've got it!”
We could not very well pull it from him or we would risk destroying it altogether. The Professor tried coaxing him, I cajoled, and the Sergeant threatened criminal charges pertaining to theft.
“It's not your property. You know it. As an officer of the Law I insist that you hand it over immediately.”
Chester only cackled like a maniac and clutched it harder, twisting it in his misery and breaking a few more threads.
“This won't do. Listen, man, if there's any sense left in you. You need to go to the doctor and get patched up. This room has been destroyed. That property needs to be returned. And I need you to make a statement!”
“No! No, I won't! It's the only thing that stops it.”
“It's not you it wants. It seeks to destroy the cloth!” the Professor urged.
A low, thundering growl rippled from the corridor. Chester's face turned a whiter shade of pale.
“Shh! Do you hear that?” Chester said suddenly, wide eyed.
“That's just a thunderclap. Grow up,” the Sergeant said.
“No. You don't understand. Oh, no! He's coming back!”
The Sergeant took out his pencil and pad, “Now we're getting somewhere. Who is coming back?”
“The Devil!”
He wrung the cloth tighter, squeezing it until it was about to pop. The growling got louder, closer. It was not thunder, for the lightning that might have produced it was out of sequence and, besides, the thunder that was crashing about came from outside.
The roaring came from within the room, loud enough to drown out the thunder.
In a flash of comprehension, I took the Professor's needle and thread and crouched next to the prone figure.
“Excuse me. Chester, is it? If I may?”
“May what?” he said, looking at my needle and covered his chest. “You're not stitching me up!”
“Not you. This!”
“No, don't.”
“Trust me.”
My ordinarily clumsy fingers worked like magic as I threaded the needle and plunged it into a frayed edge. The growling changed to a howl, then began again in earnest.
“Stop it! You're making him angry!” Chester bawled, ripping the cloth away. “Don't make him angry!”
“You blithering idiot!” the Professor yelled. “Sergeant, restrain this buffoon before he does any more damage!”
“Don't think to tell me what to do!”
“If he destroys that cloth then everything is lost!”
“That does it! This lunacy has gone on far enough. You! Let go of that bloody cloth,” he roared, pointing with his truncheon. “You! Stitch it up! You! Stop telling me what to do! And whoever is making that horrible din, you'd better stop it or I'll clock you royal!”
There came a burbling grunt.
“Who's here, then? Enough of these games. Come out where I can see you! Show yourself!”
The grumble turned into a bellowing roar. Outside the lightning flashed, revealing a shadow on the opposing wall, reaching to the ceiling.
After the lightning went, it remained.
Chester cried, pointing at the shadow. “Here he is! Don't make him angry!”
All eyes turned to watch the shadow thicken, darken, until we could hardly see the wall at all.
The Professor nudged me. “Hurry, laddie!”
With Chester still gripping one end, I held on carefully to the other and pulled the needle through. The cloth was so old and thin, so soaked with rain and blood, that I might as well have been handling a wet tissue.
The beast howled with every plunge of the needle, yet, as I stole a peek over my shoulder, I could see that its presence was still forming.
The shadow was now opaque, growing into a distinct, dark form, reminiscent of the nightmarish fiend that pursued me in my dream: a torso broad across the top, supporting two long, muscular arms, each capped with terrible clawed hands.
Its head was indistinct, with any features obscured being black upon black.
Whether it had hair or horns, I cannot say, but the silhouette of its crown was as jagged as the rocks I had clamboured over.
What was most fearsome were the two glowing red points where one might imagine eyes to be, and they searched about the room, looking at each of us in turn, until they settled on me.
Fear gripped me. I collapsed next to Chester, my legs refusing to support me. My fingers lost all sensation and my vision blurred.
I could hear the Sergeant blaspheme and cry all manner of curses.
“An illusion. A magician's trick! Why I'll soon put a stop to this!”
“Sergeant, no!” the Professor cried.
But it was too late. He strode forth, swinging his heavy stick high and fast.
“Cease and desist! Cease and desist! Cease –”
I did not see the blow, but I heard it right enough. There was a crunch, a scream and a monstrous utterance in a language I had never heard, and have never heard since.
Sensation came back to me. I shook my head to clear my vision and saw that the Sergeant was slumped up against the opposite wall, head on his chest, out cold.
The beast was nowhere to be seen. Chester, seizing his chance, dropped the cloth, jumped over me and ran from the room.
“What just happened?” I asked. “Where did it go?”
“There's no telling,” the Professor replied, bending to the Sergeant's aid. “I think it has exhausted its strength. You've got the cloth, now get to work.”
With my needle poised once more, I pushed it through the linen. An unholy, sickening howl rippled through the room. My heart marched about my chest. My lungs forgot how to breathe.
I gasped, “It is still here, Professor!”
“It cannot yet manifest. It used its energy on Hart.”
“It's not gone! I can feel it, Professor!” I said, breathing quickly. “It's coming back!”
“Never mind, just sew! Sew, laddie!” the Professor shouted.
My fingers were trembling. More than once I stabbed myself with the tip and bled in dark dots onto the already saturated cloth. I pushed the point, I pulled, yet each thrust was more arduous until I was barely able to hold onto the needle, succeeding only in bunching the rag together into a messy ball.
“Sew!”
I was overwhelmed with a sensation of dark melancholy, a depression the likes of which I cannot describe with any accuracy. Strange thoughts, evil thoughts, rushed through my mind, distracting me further.
I resented the Professor's encouragement; I wished him ill, I wished him violence. Such was the beast's effect on me!
My veins felt like they held burning oil, not blood, searing me from my insides. I thought I could smell my flesh broiling. The walls and floors fell away, and I saw merciless shades dancing and swooping about, laughing cruelly, gnashing their wicked teeth.
Again came that cacophony from my dream, that godless choir of sighs and groans, howls and jeers, competing with the rumble of the beast.
The wound on my leg and the bruise on my back back throbbed intensely, and my hands curled and seized with the pain of it all.
“Prof – Professor,” I gasped.
I heard a roar, and then a heavy chair flew through the air and knocked against my head. Dazed, confused and in utter pain and misery, I collapsed to the ground. The throbbing in my scalp barely registered against the confusing maelstrom of agony I was in.
“Sew!”
I cried, “No. You do it!”
“I cannot, you must!”
The next thing I knew, I saw, through the haze over my eyes, the Professor thrown like a rag-doll agai