Many and multiform are the dim horrors of Earth, infesting her ways from the prime. They sleep beneath the unturned stone; they rise with the tree from its roots; they move beneath the sea and in subterranean places.
- The Necronomicon
All stories told, the assembled fell into an uneasy chatter that swept around the room like a chill autumn breeze. The ambience was broken by the chinking of a fork on a glass. It was Pickman who now stood, hand raised for quiet. As I mentioned before, he appeared to have lost weight and his expression, usually one of avuncular warmth, jocularity and verve, was drawn and haggard. The word haunted came to mind, though I know not why. You see, Pickman was an avowed materialist, a follower of the latest theories of galvanism and evolution. Despite his enjoyment of "strange tales" he professed no belief in the supernatural or the ultra mundane, a fact that had been the prompt for many a lively discussion at club meetings in the past.
Odd, then, that I should ascribe that particular word to his appearance. Odd but accurate, as his subsequent story confirmed. A hush settled across the group. I imagine all of us thought he was about to thank everyone, give his usual speech about the past year, the future of the Club and so on. None of us expected Pickman to actually relate his own story, something that, to the best of my knowledge, had never occurred before.
I have described Pickman as a collector, and that he was, content to listen, as a man may be happy collecting butterflies without ever once going out into he field himself. So you can imagine our surprise when Pickman informed the assembled that he had his own tale to tell, and more than once I saw him glance nervously at the windows as he did so. Here is what he said.
"Dear friends, let me first thank you all sincerely for you contributions tonight. As always, none has disappointed and I am grateful to have spent another evening - another year - in such fine company. Might I also reassure those of you who have expressed concern over my appearance, that I remain in good health. Physical health, at least. Sleep comes fitfully. The slightest sound awakens me. I dare no longer sleep in the dark, and yes, I do have a loaded revolver beside me at all times. Even then, when I close my eyes I see him again… But I ramble. Let me start at the beginning. Let me start with the summons."
I
It was a quiet day at Tweedie & Prideaux, the solicitors at which I had been employed for not a few years. My primary role was in an investigative capacity, mostly covering insurance claims. These ranged from the relatively mundane, through to rather more serious cases, such as the potential poisoning of a well-insured spouse. Still, what I was to be drawn into was neither of those, in fact it was something quite different. Very different. A liveried footman appeared in the office one morning, asking for me by name, handing me an envelope. Within, on extremely fine paper, was a letter requesting my attendance on none other than the Duke Of Wellington. You can imagine my surprise! Naturally, I immediately conferred with Mr Tweedie, who nodded vigorously and said, "Ah yes, it quite slipped my mind to mention it! It seems you have been recommended to his Lordship by a past client. Well then, don't dally, off you go!"
I subsequently followed the footman into a waiting coach, and within half an hour, we came to a halt outside Apsley house, where I was ushered into the presence of the great man himself. He rose from his desk as I entered his office, bidding me good morning, and motioning for me to take a seat. As another footman wheeled in a tea trolley, the Duke, with characteristic directness, explained immediately the purpose for my summons.
"Tunnels, Pickman. This is all about tunnels. You've doubtless heard of the Thames Tunnel project? It's the brainchild of Brunel. The man is a genius. French, but we won't hold that against him. In fact, it was at my instigation that he was released from jail and his debts cleared. No sense in us losing such a good man, what?"
"Indeed, your Lordship," I nodded, accepting the china cup and saucer proffered by the manservant. "I believe I read
something of the project in the newspapers."
"Good. " The Duke remained standing, hands behind his back. I could easily picture him standing so, resolute and proud, amidst the cannon smoke at Waterloo. "But there is a problem," he continued. "And I'm told you're the man to solve it. Is that right?"
"I am sure I can do my best to investigate any issues that may have arisen," I stammered, somewhat on the back foot.
"Capital! That's that settled, then! Wyndham here will give you all the details and see you out. I look forward to reading your report."
"I - ah - oh, thank you, yes, indeed," I once again stammered as the footman took back the un-drunk tea and pressed a large, manilla folder into my hand. Scant seconds later, I was back in the carriage, wondering, as you might imagine, what had just occurred!
That particular mystery was solved on my return to the office. Mr Prideaux popped his head around my door to assure me, in his usual cheery way, that I was to focus the totality of my professional intent on the Wellington Case, as it had now been named, and that I would receive no other work until its conclusion. "This is a great opportunity for the firm!" he beamed before leaving. Still in something of a daze, I opened the file and began to read.
The outlines of the situation were as follows. The Duke had invested a far from negligible sum of money in the formation of the Thames Tunnel Company. The scheme involved digging a tunnel under the Thames, from Rotherhithe to Wapping, in order to create a crossing point. Obviously, with the sheer volume of ships, not to mention their size, the creation of a bridge was entirely impractical - unless someone could invent one that lifted like a drawbridge! Still, to create such a tunnel was no mean feat, and Monsieur Marc Brunel had been brought in to apply his considerable intellect to the problem. He had come up with an ingenious idea, essentially a reinforced shield of cast iron, with small compartments at its front, in which miners would dig. Periodically, the shield would be driven forward by large jacks, and the tunnel surface behind lined with brick. Some claimed Brunel's inspiration for this unique device had been the humble ship-worm, Teredo navalis, which has its head protected by a hard shell as it bores through ships' timbers.
So far, so good. A huge, brick shaft had been sunk on the bank at Rotherhithe, its centre excavated, and the shield constructed some fifty feet below the surface. For some months now it had been in operation, and was running on schedule. Brunel's son, Isambard, was over-seeing the project and, expected issues aside, all was going well. Then, according to the file before me, the problems began. Small things, at first. Tools going missing, items of machinery sustaining damage overnight. These may have been put down to casual pilfering or vandalism from local ne'er-do-wells, but the site was strictly guarded. Sabotage by rivals was mooted but, again, even with an increase in the number of watchmen, the events continued. Then came the deaths.
It is a sad fact that, in any such endeavour, there will be casualties. It may sound callous, but such tragic losses will be built into the fabric of the project, with funds already put aside to compensate the families of the lost. There had been one major incident early on, when the river had broken through the thin crust above, and poured into the workings. Fortunately, all escaped in time and no lives were lost.
The deaths came rather as a result of the intense miasma within the excavation. According to the report, not only was there the stench from the river itself, but digging often uncovered large pockets of decaying vegetable matter, with the subsequent release of toxic gasses into the work area. In one such case, two unfortunates were overcome by fumes, to the point of suffocation. Now, you might say, such a thing would surely be expected. Indeed, I would whole-heartedly agree. What was totally unexpected, however, was that their corpses, laid out overnight for removal in the morning, would vanish without a trace.
The second, and, to the Duke, more disturbing incident concerned the young Isambard Brunel. Apparently, he had stayed in the tunnel late one evening, no doubt engrossed in some engineering problem or refinement of the apparatus. The watchman, on his rounds, had seen him tapping away at one of the pumps and continued on his way. It was on the watchman's return that he'd found the young man in a virtual catatonic state on the ground, his face a mask of fear according to the report. With some difficulty, he'd helped the lad back up to the surface. However, the state did not wear off, and Brunel junior was taken to a sanatorium, suffering from what was described as acute shock.
The combined effect of both these events was to bring work on the Thames Tunnel to a halt. As you can imagine, with such vast sums of money involved, pressure to complete the project on schedule is immense. And so my brief was revealed; to investigate the circumstances surrounding these events, to advise the Duke of my findings and, dependent on those, to push the project once more into life. To my mind, at that time, this all seemed straightforward enough. A simple accident, unfortunate but not entirely unforeseen, and a young man who, overcome by the demands of the immense task fallen upon his shoulders, succumbed to a nervous episode. Ah, as the old adage goes… ignorance truly is bliss.
It seemed entirely proper to begin my investigations at the site itself. The file included a letter of authority from the Duke, and explained that the overseers of the project had been informed of my likely appearance and subsequent nosing around. I began with the watchman who had discovered Brunel junior, a local by the name of Michael Geggus. Following enquiries, I found him that evening in the nearby Three Compasses and stood him a pint as he told me what had happened.
"Well, I seen the young gent there, bid him Good Evenin' as you do, then went on with me rounds. As you know, sir, what with all the bother what's been going in, we were told by the guvnor to keep a sharp eye out. So, I done me full round and was working back to the pumps again. That's when I seen him, slumped on the ground. All pale and quiverin' he was, like he was havin' a fit or sunnink. So, course, I went over, got him sat up, made sure he was alright. Then I blew me whistle - we all has one, like the Runners," he laughed and showed me the whistle on a chain around his neck. "Couple of the lads came down and we carried the young gentleman back up top. That was it, really."
"Did you see or hear anything unusual?" I asked.
He supped his pint and thought for a moment. "Comes to think of it, there was sunnink odd. A shadow of sorts, cast up on the side of the pump, like someone was moving through the gap between 'em."
"A person? Tall? Short?"
He shrugged. "Hard to say. Looked sort of hunched over. I took a quick butchers, but there was no-one there. Trick of the lamplight, I reckon."
I thanked Geggus for his time and decided next to visit the tunnel itself. The watchman on the gate was well informed and expecting me, calling up one of the foremen from below to escort me down into the bowels of the earth. Although digging work had stopped, he informed me that a skeleton crew was still in place, maintaining the tunnel, keeping an eye on things and carrying out some of the fixings and finishings on the work already done. The spiral staircase down seemed endless, and the air grew more dank, rank and chill as we descended. At the foot of the shaft, the excavation opened out into a large cavern, dimly lit by gas lamps. There, I was greeted by the Chief Engineer, one John Armstrong, a pale looking man afflicted with a racking cough.
"This damn air," he spluttered after one particularly violent spasm. "It'll be the death of me if I stay here much longer."
I could only concur. Even my thick muffler and the application of a perfumed handkerchief did little to mitigate the effluvia that assaulted the senses; the sharp tang of human ordure combined with that of damp earth, rot, soot and sweat
to create a truly eye-watering experience. Nonetheless, I followed Armstrong into what he termed his "office," an alcove carved into the side of the wall. Drawings and charts covered
the desk, Armstrong bid me sit and poured a welcome livener.
"I'm told I must give you all due assistance, Mr Pickman. So please ask me anything, and I will do my best to answer."
Truth be told, he could tell me little more than what was
contained in the report. The two dead men, Collins and Ball, had been laid out in an adjoining chamber, to be taken back to the surface on the morrow. Yet, both corpses had mysteriously vanished at some time during the night. It was as we were discussing this matter that another figure loomed in the doorway. Balding, quietly-spoken, of slight build and possessed of the most piercing blue eyes, he introduced himself as Inspector Calhoun of the Thames River Police. We both rose to greet him, as he explained his purpose for being here.
"Two cadavers gone missing, so I've been told?"
"Indeed," Armstrong responded. "Though, if you'll forgive me, Inspector, isn't your jurisdiction above, on the water?"
Calhoun raised an eyebrow. "On the Thames or below it, that's my patch." He withdrew a pipe and a strike-a-light from his coat pocket, eliciting a panicked response from Armstrong.
"Hells teeth man, don't strike that light, this place is full of gases!"
Calhoun grunted and returned the items. "Thing is, we've had a spate of these reports. Bodies going missing. Not that we have any shortage of 'em , what with all the badgers operating round here." He spoke of the local gangs of ruffians who were not averse to robbing a chap, murdering him, and disposing of the body in the river. "The victims eventually turn up to us, if you get my drift." He gave a somewhat macabre smile at his own pun, and I shuddered at the thought of a job that entailed fishing bloated corpses from the reeking waters above our heads. "We take them to one of our cold rooms prior to investigation, and there they stay. Unless someone steals them it seems, because, as we all know," the Inspector smiled again, "Corpses don't just get up and walk off by themselves, do they now?"
There was no arguing with that, and following my next request, Armstrong took us to the makeshift alcove morgue. The place was certainly chill enough, and I pulled my muffler tighter around my neck. Armstrong explained the pair had been laid out on the bench before us and covered with a sheet. An Irish brogue sounded as we stood examining the scene.
"Tis surely strange what happened to those two chaps, there." We turned to face an older man in rough, working clothes, stained with mud.
"This is O'Brien, one of the gang leaders," Armstrong informed us.
I made a perfunctory examination of the space, and could find nothing out of place. The earth was soft, and may have shown footprints, but any such had long been combined with those of the workmen.
"Can you take us to where the men were found?" I asked the workman, and the Inspector and I were led to the huge workings at the far end of the cavern. There, the large tunnel had been lined with brickwork, and things were a little less damp. Holding a lantern aloft, O'Brien led us to a spot further in, closer to the digging face and the great shield that stood against it.
"There she is," O'Brien patted the device with obvious pride. "Ninety tons, and over twenty feet high. Like a big pastry cutter she is. Allows thirty six fellers do dig at once, so it does. It's a marvel, of that there's no doubt."
Calhoun rolled his eyes. "All well and good, but where were the bodies found?"
O'Brien moved us to a smaller side tunnel running parallel to the main one. As we went I slipped, almost putting my foot into a roughly dug drainage gully half filled with foul smelling water. But for the steadying grasp of Armstrong, I would have stood knee-deep in the filth.
“Mind the gap,” Calhoun smirked.
The side tunnel contained a series of bricked archways used for tool storage, men to rest and the like. Indeed, a few fellows were sat round as we approached, munching on bread and cheese. O'Brien kept up his monologue.
"Found just over there, they were. Overcome with fumes, it looks like, they must have staggered back to this spot and keeled over. Poor fellers, working down here late at night. Shouldn't really be happening, but time is money and all. There, that's where they got to before collapsing."
Armstrong stood back as Calhoun and I made an inspection of the area. Nothing obvious presented itself, at least not until Calhoun pointed out something a short distance away.
"This earth, here. It's a different colour from the rest. Looks fresher." The earth in question was piled in a low mound around the base of a heavy bench.
O'Brien shrugged. "Lots of rats round here, digging their own tunnels. Some say the place is riddled with them, sir. Rats, or worse."
"Worse? "I ventured.
O'Brien fell uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. "Just
some of the lads talking sir, you know how they will. Pookas and the like!"
"Alright O'Brien, that's enough. Get back to your duties," Armstrong rebuked, and the old man left us, mumbling under his breath.
"Superstitious lot these Barks," muttered the Inspector. It did enter my head that Calhoun might well be a name of Irish origin, but I kept the thought to myself.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir?" One of the men sat eating knuckled his forehead and stood. I noted the empty sleeve pinned to the front of his jacket. He obviously caught my glance.
"Lost it at Waterloo, sir. Aye, I were there with the Duke." He stood proud, chest out. "That's how I came to be workin' here, see. It were his Dukeship who got me the job."
"How heart-warming," was Calhoun's response and I must admit I was beginning to form a dislike of the man. In my view, one should not disrespect those who gave service to King and country. The old soldier, oblivious to any sarcasm, continued.
"I know as how some might speak against the Duke, but he looked after his old troopers, I'll give him that."
I nodded. "Yes, indeed. But you were going to tell us something pertaining to the current situation, mister, erm…"
"Sam." He replied. "Sam Small, sir. Private Sam Small, 30th Foot. Well, yes, you see I heard what the gentleman here said about our Irish friends and, with respect mind, I'd say there's more in heaven and earth, as the Great Bard wrote. It were after the battle, y'see, a group of us wounded were lying there, waiting for stretchers. An eerie silence had fallen over the battlefield. The only sound were the faint whispering of the wind and the moans of the afflicted. Heaps of dead lay around us, Frenchies for the most part. Oh yes, we made 'em pay alright. Certainly, we had dead of our own, but the square held against those devils on horses."
I coughed, not entirely voluntarily in the heavy miasma, to spur Small on a little. He took the hint.
"Anyway, as I lay there, my arm shattered by a cannon ball, I seen them. Furtive figures, shadowy, crouched low. I thought 'em locals at first, here to plunder the dead of watches and coin, or the like. But then I saw that they were lifting the fallen and draggin' them off. Orderlies, I thought, though they didn't seem to be wearing uniform, or even clothing come to that. It weren't until some actual orderlies came up, with lanterns shining and guns at the ready, that they all scarpered. I got a quick glimpse of one in the light. Big bugger he were, all hairy. There were summat queer about his face, but about that time I passed out. From the pain, like."
He paused for a moment, as if reliving the moment. On a whim, I handed him my flask for a snifter. He took an appreciative swig and handed it back. "When I come round I were in th‘ospital, minus an arm. Ran a fever for a few days. While I were there I got chatting to the sawbones, he'd been around, let me tell you. I asked him about what I'd seen. You know what he replied?" Sam leaned forward, drawing us in, then whispered. "The eaters of the dead!" He sat back, staring around the dank tunnel.
Inspector Calhoun was not impressed. "That's it? While in a wounded, feverish state, you think you saw a large, hairy man, a looter, no doubt, and that explains our missing corpses?"
Sam straightened, bristling. "You may scoff, sir, but none of us here goes round in less than threes on night shift. And I allus carry this." He produced a large bayonet from inside his jacket. "It saw off old Bony, it'll see off whatever's down here!"
II
I arose later than usual the next morning. I must admit, my sleep had been disturbed not only by an irritating cough - an effect of spending time in that odious tunnel, no doubt - but also by disturbing dreams of vague and threatening shapes. Still, a hearty breakfast dispelled my collywobbles, and I resolved to spend that morning visiting Brunel and son. By the time the Sedan chair deposited me outside Brunel's residence, I was feeling much more myself. Brunel was a much smaller man than I expected. I suppose I‘d had a vision of the mastermind of such a grand scheme being something of a grand fellow. Still, petite he may have been, but he greeted me warmly, with the hint of a French accent, and welcomed me into his study.
As with Armstrong, he had no real further information to impart other than that contained in the Duke’s files. And so, I asked if I may see his son, now being nursed at home. Brunel led me to an upstairs bedroom. Inside, reposing on the bed, lay Brunel the Younger, his youthful face peaceful in sleep. I wondered at the curtains being opened, but was informed by the father that his son would become extremely distressed at being left in the dark. Brunel motioned to the grim-faced nurse in attendance, who glared at me on leaving, and I sat on the bedside, shaking the young sleeper gently by the shoulder.
Presently, he came around, his eyes somewhat cloudy, his expression confused. "Father?" he croaked.
"I am here, mon gars," Brunel leaned forward. I took the glass of water from the bedside table and held it to the young man's lips as he drank. "This is Mr Pickman," the father explained. "He'd like to ask you a few questions." To me he then whispered, "The doctor has administered laudanum tablets, so he may be a little unfocussed."
I nodded and turned back to the son, now sitting up, looking a little more bright-eyed. I began with some general chat, talking about the weather, asking him some light, personal questions. Then I asked about the tunnel. The change was instantaneous. From a bright, pleasant, if somewhat hazy young man, his face immediately contorted into a mask of terror. His hands grasped the bedsheets like claws, a tremor afflicted his whole body. I felt Brunel Snr stiffen beside me, but pressed, gently but firmly, on with my line of questioning.
"What did you see that night, Isambard? What was it that shocked you so?"
The trembling continued, and the sobbing began. At the prompt of Brunel senior’s hand on my shoulder I stood and made to leave. It was obvious the young man was in the grip of a fear that paralysed his mind.
I sighed and comforted his father as best I could with a few words. Yet, as I moved to the door, a single phrase burst from the young Brunel's lips. A phrase that he repeated as the now even more scowling nurse, pushed past me to administer to her ward. Four words, over and over.
"The Hounds of Hell! The Hounds of Hell!"
I must admit to having been at something of a dead end, the irony of which, given the tunnel below did not escape me. On the previous night, Armstrong the engineer had admitted himself stumped when it came to an explanation. Inspector Calhoun had put the corpse disappearances down to resurrectionists, though how they had affected entry and escaped unseen while carrying two bodies, he had no account for.
In normal circumstances, had it just been about the bodies, life would, I imagine, have largely carried on as normal. People go missing in London every day, the bodies of two labourers were small beans in the scheme of things. But the fact of the scale of this, currently suspended, project, and the involvement of the Duke, cast a different light on matters, and so I resolved to deepen my investigation. The remains of the two unfortunates had vanished from the tunnel. Brunel junior had experienced something queer in the tunnel. To the tunnel I must return.
I had established that, while the watchmen were on duty all night, the maintenance crew below were finished long before midnight. My plan of action, then, was to sit it out in the tunnel, to see if some person or other may make an appearance, perhaps for sabotage, or some other nefarious purpose, in which case I might apprehend them, or at least discover the cause of recent events. If only I had known, my friends. Life was never to be the same again.
On the last check of my my watch it was fifteen minutes past one. I had sat here in the cold and damp for close on two hours, now. The watchman had supplied me with a lamp and, judging from his expression, clearly thought me mad.
"Wouldn't catch me staying down there overnight," was his parting comment as I trod down those interminable steps once more. I must admit to feeling somewhat more nervy on this occasion. Last time, I had the company of fellows, the cavern below had been lit. Now, all lay shrouded in darkness, which, if anything, lent the foul air an even more oppressive nature. I walked around a little, then sat for a time. At times, I covered the lamp, steeling myself against the total blackness that resulted. It's only the dark, I repeated to myself.
Nothing happened. There were the usual strange sounds one hears in any place or building at night. Creaks, drips… the brief scurry of rats gave me a start. But upon uncovering the lamp, I saw the few scattering forms were nothing but the normal rodents one encounters along the shores of the Thames. No, it wasn't until after a quarter past one that I heard the other sound.
It was distant. A sort of scraping, as of something on wood. Then, a dragging noise and a dull thud. My heart was in my mouth. This was no river rat. The silence that followed was almost overwhelming in its tension. I had the distinct sense of a presence somewhere out there in the dark. Did I uncover my lamp? No, I'm somewhat ashamed to say that I did not. Rather, I pressed myself back into the corner behind me, crouching down beside one of the pumps. There I waited, scarce daring to breathe, as that presence lurked somewhere unseen in the darkness beyond.
Can you imagine my fear, my friends? Can you imagine the primal terrors that flooded my brain, sat in absolute darkness, seventy five feet below the surface of the Thames, at the heart of the greatest city in the world yet, at that moment, so totally alone.
Next, a scuffle of feet. Again, too loud for rats. The clatter of a shovel falling to the floor gave me such a start that I feared my heart would stop. I jammed my fist into my mouth in dread that my ragged breathing would be audible to…. to whatever it was out there. A rank stench came to my nostrils, bestial, foul, rotten. A stronger sense of the presence came with it, lingered, then mercifully receded.
More scufflings, then a repeat of the dragging sound, and that final dull thump again. I'm not sure how long I crouched there in the stygian darkness, drenched in a cold sweat, the blood pounding in my temples. Yet, after hearing nothing more, I eventually stood. Now it was that I raised the lamp, to reveal, in my little of circle of light, only that which I had seen before.
Upbraiding myself for my cowardice, I moved to where I thought the dragging sounds had come from. That brought me to the arch we had examined the night before, where Calhoun had spotted that odd, small earth mound at the side of the workbench. Lowering the lamp, I could now make out drag marks, and signs of the earth having been very recently disturbed. A sudden thought took me and, placing the lamp on the bench, I grasped its corner in two hands and attempted to straighten my back. Nothing resulted, other than a very slight lifting, followed by an immediate dropping as my strength gave out.
A new determination gripped me. By God, there was a mystery here, and I'd be dashed if I was going to give up at the first hurdle! I gripped the bench again and, rather than lift, instead pushed it to the side. It moved a little, then a little more. I stopped to regain breath, then applied myself once more, to the task. My efforts were rewarded with a shifting of the bench a few feet to one side. As I retrieved the lantern, a thought struck me. Granted, I am no longer a young man, and though relatively inactive am far from unfirm. However, it took all my efforts to move this bench even a scant distance. Someone had, it seemed, lifted it with ease, and from what position? They must be endowed with positively Herculean strength!
My question on position was answered with the lifting of my lamp for, revealed by the moving of the covering bench, there came into view a hole, a large hole in the heavy clay beneath my feet. A tunnel within a tunnel, that led down and away to who knew where? Would that I had stopped there, would that I had done the merest of my duty and reported my findings to the Duke. But, no.
The old curiosity, I suppose, got the better of me, and I leaned forward, lamp poised, to peer into the pit below, to see if I could ascertain anything of its construction or origin. And that is where the soft clay at the lip of the hole crumbled and gave way, and that is where I fell, tumbling, into the yawning blackness below. Tumbled, span, cannoned from wall to wall, or perhaps floor, in a flurry of arms and legs, lantern falling, the stench of the earth overwhelming me, until at last I crashed into something solid and passed into oblivion.
III
I came to. My hat was gone, the lamp smashed, my body battered and bruised. Once again, I found myself in pitch black. But not now the blackness of the cavern, of a large, open space. No. This was the absolute darkness of the tomb. I felt as one interred before his time, with dank earth clogging my nose and mouth, with no sense of up or down, of time or place. I admit, panic overtook me then, and I thrashed mindlessly, bellowing hoarsely like a beast at the slaughter, frantically grasping around me, my clawing fingers finding only unyielding earth. I wriggled and crawled, like some vast grave worm, somehow making my way along that passageway.
It was the glow that saved me, and restored me to some semblance of sanity. It was the faintest luminescence, sickly green in hue, yet, at that moment, it was as beautiful to me as the most glorious of sunrises. Like a moth to the flame, I continued my scrabbling, half falling, half sliding into the cavern that was the source of the glow. I must have passed out again.
When I awoke I found myself slumped in the centre of what appeared to be a natural chamber, some twenty feet across. The source of the glow were the numerous fungal growths that dotted walls and floor. By their light I performed a quick self examination. Despite numerous aches and pains, I had escaped serious injury. My clothes were in somewhat of a state, being torn and smeared with dirt. My watch had been broken in the fall.
Glancing around, I saw a number of tunnel openings in the walls of the chamber, all similar to that by which I had entered. But here came my dilemma. Which tunnel had been the one I entered in by? In the faint light, it was difficult to find any sign of my ingress, and my sense of direction had been totally annulled by the manner of my arrival. I patted down my pockets, finding my pipe, also broken, and, thankfully, my striker. My muffler was wool, and so, useless for burning. My cravat, however, was of fine lace, which should go up nicely. With a few, tremulous strikes, I was able to get a flickering flame at one end of the cravat, and lifted it to swiftly examine each tunnel in turn.
Even with the extra light, I could find no trace of my scramblings. However, the flame flickered a little at one entrance, and I fancied I could feel the merest touch of a breeze on my face. Wishful thinking perhaps, yet I was certain that the flame had flickered, as it rapidly approaching my fingers. Without delay, I made my way to the tunnel mouth. Before my makeshift torch was dropped by my burnt fingers, I made out some detail of the passageway. It was circular, the floor slightly flattened. I am no expert, but the place did not look natural. I cannot say that it had the man-made smoothness of a secret passageway, such as we meet read about in The Castle of Otranto or similar melodramas, but, at the same time, it appeared far too even to be natural - unless perhaps it had been carved out by water. That thought brought with it the unwelcome prospect of an impending flood, yet the floor and walls appeared to be bone dry.
Bones. Hah! For that is what I found in my fumblings. With no light, and the fungal glow far behind, I found myself once again in total darkness, though at least this time I was walking, for the tunnel was just high enough to accommodate me, with a slight stoop. And so it was that, stumbling on an object underfoot, I crouched to place a hand down, feeling the touch of something smooth and round. Curious, I lifted it, running my hands along its smooth length. The object bulged out at each end, and I suddenly realised I was holding a bone of some description, a long bone. With a gasp, I dropped it to clatter amongst its fellows.
Gingerly, I stepped around the pile and continued on my way, hands outstretched like a blind tinker. Just past that point, the tunnel widened beyond my outstretched arms, forcing me to stay close to one wall. It was here that the foetid animal odour from before assailed my nostrils again. I confess, I wavered, and considered going back, reversing my course. Yet no danger emerged from inky darkness and, gripping the stem of my broken pipe firmly between my teeth, I pressed on.
I found myself once more in that timeless state. The further I went, the more I felt the press of the dirt and rock above me. Was I still below the river? I felt that I had been walking for hours, yet it may have been mere minutes. Was I ascending, or descending further into the bowels of the Earth? The faint breeze had not grown any stronger, was it even still there? Yet, the memory of it brought the merest smidgen of hope. It was to this smidgen that I clung on my Hadean sojourn, this and the thought of finding again even the merest speck of light. And so I was rewarded, by another glow ahead, and, I admit that I gave a sob of relief as I quickened my pace towards that light, striving for it as the thirst-ridden desert traveller hastens to a sweet oasis.
Once again, I burst out into a cavern. Larger, this one, and with no doubt that it had been constructed, for large flagstones covered the floor. The source of the ruddy glow was a burning sconce set in the carved rock wall. The chamber was hexagonal in shape and at its centre sat a large object. While the floor was worked stone, that object was a natural boulder, black in colour and standing some five feet high. I felt a natural aversion to it, though was immediately distracted by the strengthening of that faint breeze..
Its source was one of the five tunnel openings in the room. The dimensions of each was the same as that I had entered in by, but only the dark opening before me emitted the breeze which, I fancied, carried with it the scent of the river. I moved hastily towards it, only to be brought up short by two things - the sudden, reoccurrence of the beastly odour that assailed my nostrils, and the appearance of a pair of baleful, yellow eyes in the depths of the tunnel ahead. I came to a faltering halt, unsure whether to stand or flee, as a low, guttural voice issued forth from the pitch black.
"Master Pickman? Welcome. I have been expecting you."
IV
Before I could make any decision, a figure born of nightmare emerged from the opening, like a spider from its lair. Long, sinewy arms and legs presaged the arrival of tall, man-like creature. I estimated the height as well over six feet, perhaps approaching seven. Wisps of red hair covered a mottled and misshapen cranium that showed pale white. The face was of a similar complexion, thought the features could scarcely be imagined in even the most deranged opium delirium. They called to mind the features of a great hound or jackal. Black lips writhed over large canines. The snout bristled with short, wiry hairs. The dark nostrils twitched as if scenting. But, if you can believe such a thing, the greatest horror were the eyes, for they appeared to be fully human.
The gangrel body was semi-clothed in a ragged slip which did little to hide the bony frame beneath. The long arms ended in claw-like hands, and the legs, God help me, the legs terminated in queerly-cloven hooves. To say I was rendered speechless would be an understatement. Never in my life have I known such crushing terror. Now I knew what the faun must feel when faced by the wolf. I do believe I shut my eyes and prayed for this all to be some fever from which I would soon awaken. An unexpected noise forced my eyes to re- open. The creature was laughing, a low, rumbling sound that, to me, had little humour in it.
"I understand." It spoke again. The voice was deep, harsh, yet unmistakably English. "You find my appearance disturbing. Fear not, sirrah, for you are in no danger. At least while you are in my company."
The creature moved to stand by the boulder, beckoning me forward with a gesture. My limbs moved of their own volition and I stood before it, as it inspected me with those cognisant eyes, sniffing the air as it did so. Eventually, I found my voice.
"Where am I? Who are you? Wh-what are you?"
"You are in what we call the Crawls. These warrens run beneath the whole of London. And beyond, in some places. My name?" Those yellowed fangs were bared again. "In another time I had another name. But now, you can call me King of Tides."
"Tides? A strange title." Then realisation dawned. "The river!"
"Indeed. Yes, and even your somewhat lacking human
faculties can no doubt scent it. For that tunnel leads to the river, to a certain spot we term Dead Man's Hole. For it is there that Mother Thames is most generous with her provision."
I felt cold beads of sweat break out on my brow. I reached to mop it with my handkerchief, noting the tremor in my hand. "You mean… you mean you feast on…" I could not bring myself to speak the unspeakable. The monster raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"Dead flesh? Do not we all? And yet, Master Pickman, unlike your kind we do not slaughter to feed. The tides provide… for the most part. Ah yes, but nature should bring forth, of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, to feed my innocent people."
Somewhere in the back of mind I recognised those words, yet my faculties, under such stress were, as you might imagine, most severely compromised. The creature continued.
"As to what I am… that is a long story and not so easily explained. You are familiar with Beowulf, that most epic of English poems?"
I nodded mutely, somewhat confused at the direction this conversation was taking.
"Well, there are those who speculate," the thing continued," that Grendel was one of our kind. For we have been here for quite some time. There are hints in folklore, of course. But I believe the current term, derived from the Arabic, is ghul. Yes, what you see before you, Mister Pickman, is a ghoul."
My brain continued its feeble attempts to assimilate this information. "But this is madness," I stammered, "Such things are the stuff of myth and fanciful stories."
"Ah, fanciful stories." Those canines flashed again. "And
are not men's lives built on fanciful stories? Is not London still full of theatres?" The creature struck a dramatic pose. "Do not the descendants of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men still strut the boards, proclaiming the words of the Great Bard?"
"I - that is, yes I suppose they do." My mind was reeling now, I felt as though reality were slipping slowly from my grasp. "You know of what happens above?"
The thing turned to regard me with tilted head. "I do. And I see all that has changed in my city."
“Your city?"
"Well, perhaps not of my birth. But of my re-birth. And of my fortune when I was as you."
"You are… were, human?"
A cloud passed briefly over the creature's visage. "No use to speak of the past. It is to the future we must look. And that is why you are here, Master Pickman. But first, I must show you something. This way, if you would?"
He gestured to an archway on the far side of the chamber. Having found the light, I felt extremely reluctant to leave it, particularly in the company of such a being. My hesitation must have been clearly apparent.
"I assure you again, you are safe. My subjects have instructions not to harm or hinder you. In fact, you passed one of my kin in the passageway on your way here. He could have reached out and…" a large hand was raised, the taloned fingers clasped suddenly shut. "Ended your life with no more thought or effort than snuffing out a candle."
My expression of alarm instigated another barking laugh. "Fear not. Besides, we generally prefer our meat… less fresh.
Now, after you, sirrah."
I am honestly unable to say which was the most terrifying of my peregrinations in that underworld: my first involuntary tumble into the abyss and the subsequent panic; my walk alone in total darkness; or that third journey, once again in deepest night, with that monster at my shoulder. The carrion stench of it was reminder enough of its presence, but every now and then a large paw would rest on my shoulder, guiding me gently towards one or other unseen branch in that network of tunnels. No word was exchanged until, having followed a distinctly downward slope, we entered another chamber, the largest yet and, I somehow sensed, the deepest and oldest.
V
I thought that my mind had reached the limit of its ability to absorb and manage shock, yet those limits were tested to the extreme by what occurred next. I found myself seated on a cold stone bench in what I can only describe as an auditorium. A small brazier had been lit, for my benefit I imagine, atop what I surmised was a large altar stone, of similar material to the boulder I had seen earlier. This rock, though had been shaped, and contained many carvings along it sides. Of what they depicted, I shall not speak. I had a sense of a large space, though very little was visible beyond the brazier’s ruddy glow. The King was a lurking presence somewhere in its outer fringes. He had already bid me to "stay within the light," and I had no intention of disobeying. My wonder at this subterranean structure must have been obvious.
"Roman," the King muttered. "At least parts of it. But the
chamber and altar itself are much older. My people have observed ritual here for many, many generations."
I could vaguely make out movement in the shadows, and glimpsed the white of many bones. Strewn across the floor they were, including a rib cage, virtually intact, though almost wholly detached from its previous owner. A small thing moved within and around it. With a choke I realised it was a baby, a pup, a cub, playing with… things… as my own children had played in their cribs. I swiftly averted my gaze and was about to ask another question when there sounded the dolorous toll of a bell. Three times it rang, the deep peals reverberating around the chamber and out into the passageways beyond.
"The Summoning," explained the King.
In a moment of near-hysteria I chuckled at the fact that his answers only provoked more questions. He turned to look, in that tilt-headed way again, at my outburst of jocularity.
"We summon the tribe. My people, the Tides Clan. To the north, the Hill Clan, to the south, the Downs. But we have little to do with either. Matters of import are put before the clan." He turned away as scufflings sounded in the dark.
Yet again, my conscious mind reeled at this knowledge. Not just one or two of these creatures made their hellish abode in this subterranean realm, oh no, of course not! There were whole clans! And they were organised! My laughter continued, to be cut short by a growl.
"Silence, if you value your life!"
I became aware of more shufflings, the click of hoof on stone, and of movement beyond the light. How many forms emerged, I could not say, though those I had glimpses of bore the same lineaments as the King. Eyes flashed in the dark, I felt the hatred and oppression of their glare.
The King began to speak, as though he were some some great stage orator, and not the leader of a pack of cave- dwelling cannibals. I understood little of what followed, though that may have been due to my somewhat parlous mental state. The creatures conversed in a curious mixture of gutter English, guttural barks, growls and meeps. For a time I drifted into a dream state, where I was sat in the audience of a plush theatre, enjoying the drama, hearing the gentle ripple of laughter from the assorted gentlefolk around me.
It was drama that brought me crashing back to reality. Not that of a powdered actor, however, but the marrow-freezing spectacle of a ghoul at least the size of the King hovering at the edge of the nimbus. The tone of language was distinctly hostile, and while the words were difficult to make out, the sentiment was all too apparent. Given that my continued existence here relied entirely on the protection of my host, I sat up and paid close attention to the exchange. A few words became clear amongst the growls.
"Work with humes? Mad!" the newcomer snarled, thin lips curling back.
"Times change, no choice!" responded the King.
The answer was a sinister bark of laughter. "Of course." The rebellious ghoul, naked I noticed, his rough fur bristling along his spine, swept hands the size of dinner plates aside and made a mocking bow. "Course Your Majesty. We all knows, don't we." He raised a taloned finger to point at the King. "Raised by 'em, he was. Why, he's no more than a half-breed!"
There was an audible intake of breath from the assembled, followed by a tense silence. The King bowed his head. I thought he was going to turn away, to submit to the challenge of this upstart. Instead, with a speed that defied expectation, the King leapt, claws extended, canines bared.
The resulting affray was like nothing I have seen before. The most brutal of dockyard fights paled into insignificance compared to the sheer bestial fury before me. This was naked savagery, a primal battle for survival that brooked no mercy and offered no quarter. The pair locked and writhed, their movements too fast for my eyes to follow. I shrank back in terror at the ferocity on display, sickened as there came to my ears a terrible crunch and a ripping. The challenger emitted a howl of agony, one elbow bent at an impossible angle.
The King did not relent. He surged forward, misshapen jaws clamping around his opponent's neck. With a feral wrench, he tore out the creature's throat, spitting away a bloody gobbet to the flagstones. The challenger fell back, eyes wide with fear of impending death, dark blood spurting, glistening in the brazier's glow. He had barely hit the ground when the pack descended. Emerging howling, from the gloom came a pack of the things, to fall upon their fallen kin, rending, biting, tearing.
My gorge rose in revulsion as the previously terrifying beast was transformed into a collection of broken limbs, gobbets of flesh and greenish - yellow innards that slithered obscenely to the stone. Crunching, snapping, gulping, I covered my ears as the King stood above it all and let vent his howl of triumph, the scratches and wheals showing on his pale body, his white maw bloody and red. The previous humanity in his eyes had vanished completely, replaced by the abysmally vacant, impersonal stare of the true predator.
My brain at last surrendered. I slipped from the stone bench into merciful unconsciousness.
Of the following events I have but the vaguest recollection. I came round to a whimpering sound, which I ashamedly realised was mine. I was in a small room, curled in a corner on a foul smelling blanket. The chamber was lit by soft candlelight, I could make out a shelf filled with leather-bound books, and a small desk. Was I back on the surface, perhaps in some office or library? I gave a sob of relief. It was cut short by the figure of the King coming through the archway. He squatted by the desk and observed me closely.
"Can you hear me? Can you understand me?"
I nodded mutely. The spark of intelligence had returned to his eyes. This close, in the better light, I noticed a jagged scar above the right one, not fresh, not from his recent fight.
He returned my nod. "Then all's well."
"Your foe… you killed him!"
"Indeed. For their must always be a Reckoning." He grinned again, then turned to the desk. Next to a quill and inkpot rested a parchment. He quickly glanced over it, rolled it up, fixed it with a ribbon and handed it to me. Yet more amazement, though by this time I think I would not have blinked had the Emperor of China ridden past on the back of an elephant! I meekly accepted the proffered scroll, though another question escaped my lips.
"You called my name. In the tunnel. You called my name. How did you know who I am?"
The King shrugged. "We know much of what goes on in the Above. London is riddled with our burrows, our hiding places, our hidey-holes. We are ever at your shoulder. So it was that I marked you out, on hearing of your appointment by the Iron Duke. This is a man, I thought, who may prove of use to me."
"Of use? As what?"
"As a messenger. I would speak to the Duke personally but my appearance may cause some alarm." Another grin. “As it was, the attempt by one of my kin to speak with your Mr Brunel proved… unfruitful.”
"Speak? About what?"
"About progress." He sighed. "For over two hundred years I have dwelt here, yet have never witnessed such a pace of change as in the last score of years. Progress, Master Pickman. Others of my kind resent it, would ignore or fight it. Your burial places are being transformed, modernised, meaning that our old feeding grounds are disappearing. Your engineerings and delvings have brought your people into our world, giving us a stark choice. Accept, or die. But if we are to accept, there must be an… understanding. Hence the message," he motioned to the scroll, "which you are to deliver personally to the Duke."
"You can write?" I ejaculated, immediately following up with, "I meant no offence!"
A low rumble of laughter. "Yes, I can write. Some said I was…" He gazed upwards as if lost in memory. His eyes snapped back onto mine. "Yes, and that was but one of the skills that propelled me into becoming an agent for certain powers. But that was another life. And so. You will deliver the message?"
I glanced down at the scroll. "I -I shall. But will the Duke believe me?"
"He will. There are certain secrets mentioned within that scroll that will confirm its authenticity. As I said, little of what occurs in London passes us by. He will believe."
"What if he sends troops down here? What if he determines to exterminate your kind?"
The King sneered. "A thousand troops could not drive us from the Crawl. And we can strike from the shadows at any time. Should we so choose, none would be safe. But I have heard that the Duke is a practical man. He will see the sense of my offer. After all, he is also a man of progress."
"Your clan? There seemed to be some disagreement."
"Yes. Much disagreement. And already some have attempted to impede work on your tunnel.”
“Ah, it was they who stole the bodies.”
The King shook his large head. “No. I am somewhat abashed to say that was due to the actions of my aforementioned ‘ambassador’. I fear the temptation proved irresistible. But still, the malcontents are for me to deal with. Your job is to hasten to the Duke, for the quicker an agreement can be brokered, the sooner the more vociferous of my people can be placated. Come, tempus fugit, we have tarried long enough. You should leave."
We rose and I followed the stooped figure out of the room, back into that warren, where I recognised little and would have been hopelessly lost without my guide. To my horror, after we had been walking for some time, a clamour arose behind us, a chorus of howls as if from some infernal pack. The King urged me on.
"Hurry," he growled. "Up that way, to the Chamber of the Stone."
We began a trot, my breath ragged in that confined space, fear lending wings to my heels. The clamour grew, howling, barking, the undoubted sounds of pursuit.
"Go!" urged the King, pushing me forward, then turning to disappear into the dark. I faltered, curiously concerned at the fate of my host. "Go!" he barked again, then vanished.
I stumbled on, closing my eyes to the terrible sounds of strife behind me. Thankfully, the glow appeared ahead and I hurried to it, bursting into the boulder chamber like a shot out of a cannon. Scarcely pausing for breath, I plunged into the upward tunnel, the fresh breeze on my face filling me with hope, as the clamour behind faded into obscurity.
Onward I pressed, regretting my somewhat sedentary and epicurean lifestyle, sweat stinging my eyes, pulse pounding in my temples. Light, blessed light! With a final, vigorous effort, I surged towards the light, towards life, towards sanity. As the breeze grew stronger, as my eyes were dazzled by even that soft glow, I slipped in the damp mud underfoot, tripped, fell, and knew no more.
VI
They tell me I was found unconscious on the banks of the Thames by a pair of toshers. I will be eternally grateful to those good people, for there are those riverside dwellers who would have robbed and stripped me, and rolled me into the waters. And I now know full well the fate that would have befallen me there. I came to on a couch in the parlour of a local doctor. My clothes, despite their rips and unmentionable smears, were clearly that of a gentleman, hence my delivery to the good doctor. Though I did wonder afterwards, whether all of these people were not somehow connected to, or agents of the Duke, such is my state of paranoia these days. To my great relief the scroll, if slightly flattened, was still in my inside jacket pocket. I pressed on the doctor my urgent need to visit the Duke, and he was kind enough to have his carriage take me there without delay.
Despite the early hour, for dawn's rosy glow had but barely touched the roofs of London, the Duke was already at his desk. I was shown in with some urgency, the Duke arose, obviously shocked at my bedraggled appearance. He waved away my apologies, no doubt he had seen worse on the battlefield. I presented him with the scroll and he bade me sit, a footman rushing in with welcome tea and buttered pikelets which, I'm not ashamed to say, I demolished with some gusto.
As I ate I watched the Duke’s face with interest. He began with a frown, but any fears I had of my being laughed out of the office were allayed when I saw his expression blanch and his fingers tighten. He sat back for a moment, as if gathering his wits.
My word. I could scarce guess the manner of revelation or secret that could rattle the Iron Duke so. Of subsequent events, there is little to tell. I was taken to a room to wash and change, following which I feel into a deep sleep for many hours. I never saw the Duke again, his people transported me back to my dwelling. By all accounts, he was pleased with my work, at least according to Messrs Tweedie & Prideaux. Certainly they were most appreciative of the pecuniary reward which followed shortly after. I gather the young Brunel recovered, and the excavation of the Thames tunnel has recommenced. My part in this endeavour was done.
"And so, dear friends, here ends my tale." Pickman motioned Hodgson for another brandy, drained it and sat heavily. If anything, he look more pallid and unwell than before. A low murmur rippled around the company.
"Good God, man!" Le Blanc eventually exclaimed. "You mean these dreadful cannibal things are scurrying around beneath our very feet, and the Duke knows about it? Why have we not heard of this?"
Pickman waved a weary hand and mopped his brow with a kerchief. "You have not heard of this because of the arrangement. And, I would ask you all, as friends, to share not a word that I have spoken to you tonight with anyone. Not even your closest family."
"Arrangement? With these foul creatures? Why, that’s unbelievable!" Treadwell muttered.
"If only it were," Pickman continued. "For, as has been relayed to me since, what is the life of the odd urchin or beggar or tavern wench compared to the marvellous engineering achievements which will transform our fair capital city?"
"They plan to feed the things?" Weems, as many of us, stood aghast.
`"Only with the dead, I am told. At least, for now. Who knows what the future may bring.? Which is why, my friends, I have an announcement to make."
A hubbub immediately arose, silenced only by Hodgson clinking loudly on a glass. Pickman stood, faltering and spoke with some emotion.
"I fear this shall be our last meeting, my friends. Truth be told my mind had already been made up, but hearing your tales tonight has only confirmed my decision and strengthened my resolve. I shall be leaving London. The Pickman Club shall be no more."
A clamour broke out once more, this time old Hodgson was forced to resort to the dinner gong to restore order. Pickman continued.
"You see, I once thought our metropolis the greatest place on earth. Our jewel in the crown of Empire. Of course it has its dens, its rookeries and the like. Yet it also has wonderful parks, magnificent architecture, museums, galleries and the most civilised society in the world. Yet, as has now been revealed, London is nothing more than the hollow shell of a resting body, rendered presentable, even beautiful, by the art of the undertaker. Beneath the powder and rouge lies foulness and rot. Our city is as riddled with vermin as the most rank and putrescent corpse. Hidden from our eyes, the mortal remains of our beloved are taken, despoiled, devoured."
"They shall lie down alike in the dust, and the worms shall cover them." Reverend Dyer quoted, and all turned to stare at him. He gave a small cough. "Well, that would be the natural order of things."
"But this is profoundly unnatural, and with the full cooperation of the authorities," Pickman continued. "And I have my family to think of. The thought of my loved ones suffering such a fate. My wife… my dear departed wife." His voice caught, and not a heart there failed to soften at our host's obvious distress. Still, he mastered himself to go on.
"No, my friends. I'll subject neither myself, nor my children, or their children to such monstrousness. To that end we are leaving London. We sail for the Americas on the morrow."
"But where will you go?" I asked.
“New England," came the reply. "I have family there, cousins who left these shores many years back. Indeed, he for whom I am named was among the first of our family to settle there. We shall create a new home in Boston. As you all know, my late, dear wife was of an artistic nature, and our children have inherited her tendencies. I hear Boston is a thriving centre of the arts, with many new opportunities, unrestricted by the social conventions that tend to stifle the creative mind in England. There, we shall be far away from this city, away from this charnel house, this perfumed cesspit, this city of ghouls with its ancient secrets. And so, with a heavy heart, I bid you all farewell."
There were nods and hearty responses from around the room, though I fancied many of us were still in shock, both from the implications of the night's revelations, and at this unexpected end to both the evening and the Club.
What more can I say? Following Pickman’s announcement, the meeting slowly drifted apart, as the incoming tide softly dissolves the stoutest sandcastle. I fancy that more than a few of us might have well been considering a similar move, given the evening's tales. I myself certainly avoid dark passageways and graveyards after dark, and wonder if the pitter-patters of the small hours are merely rats, or something worse.
As for Pickman, he and I were the last to leave the club that night. He shook my hand at the door, gave me a brief smile and departed. The last I saw of him was a lonely figure walking slowly away along the moonlit cobbles.