Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu E-Book

Lois H. Gresh

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The second novel in Lois H. Gresh's Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu series.Amelia Scarcliffe's monstrous brood, harbingers of Cthulhu, will soon spawn. Her songs spell insanity, death… and illimitable wealth. And Moriarty will do anything to get his hands on gold, even if it means tearing down the walls between this world and a realm of horrors.Meanwhile, after Sherlock Holmes's last tangle with the Order of Dagon, horrifying monsters haunt the Thames, and madness stalks the streets of Whitechapel. Gang war between Moriarty's thugs and the powerful cult can only bring more terror—unless Holmes and Dr. Watson can prevent it. But can they find the cause of the neural psychoses before Watson himself succumbs?

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Available Now from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One: The Eshockers of Whitechapel

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Part Two: Murder in the Asylum

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

Part Three: Battle on the Thames

46

47

48

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu from Titan Books and Lois H. Gresh

The Adventure of the Deadly Dimensions

The Adventure of the Neural Psychoses

The Adventure of the Innsmouth Mutations (2019)

TITAN BOOKS

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NEURAL PSYCHOSES

Print edition ISBN: 9781785652103

Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785652110

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: August 2018

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Lois H. Gresh. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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DEDICATED WITH LOVE TO ARIE, RENA, AND GABBY

WITH GRATITUDE TO ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND H.P. LOVECRAFT

PART ONE

THE ESHOCKERS OF WHITECHAPEL

1

DR. JOHN WATSON

December 1890, London

For two shillings apiece, Sherlock Holmes and I enjoyed a choppy yet pleasant ride down the Thames. My friend is not given to excursions for pleasure’s sake alone, so when he suggested a trip to Woolwich upon the new paddle steamer, the Belle Crown, I had at first thought to refuse the invitation. I’d recently reunited with my wife and child after the terrifying events of the deadly dimensions, and was still beset by the dizzy spells and strange, kaleidoscopic visions that had first begun to trouble me at that time—I was in no mood for more adventures. But Mary, thinking to lift my spirits, urged me to go. Not wanting to displease my wife or my friend, I relented. So it was that Holmes and I stood contemplating the docks of Wapping from the deck of the Belle Crown as it completed its return voyage through the Pool of London.

“You will no doubt remember, Watson,” said Holmes, “that the warehouse in which we witnessed the Order of Dagon’s meeting is upon that very shore. That is the place where Professor Fitzgerald released the snake-like monsters that attacked him and killed many of his congregation.”

I’d been glad to see some color vanquish the death-like pallor that had gripped my friend since our battle with the inexplicable deadly dimensions, but now I wondered if it had been a mistake to venture onto the river so soon after our adventure.

“I remember—of course, Holmes. I’m glad that Fitzgerald is behind bars where he can do no more harm.”

Holmes smiled at me. “I understand you, Doctor. You think I am being morbid to dwell on these things. But I have brought us here for a purpose. Those creatures didn’t simply slither off to die, I am certain of it. I have not been able to see them from the banks, but here, out in the middle of the river, surely we will see something.”

“Holmes,” I reminded him gently, “we have twice seen the creatures vanish into thin air. Into another realm, a different dimension.”

“That is one theory we must entertain, certainly—that the rational explanation is simply too advanced for us to fully understand. But we must eliminate the probable before we contemplate the improbable, Watson. And I am not altogether convinced they vanished. A trick of the eye, perhaps…”

The Thames surged past as we leaned on the rail of the Belle Crown. The craft was sleek as a bullet, pushing against the flow of the river.

Nothing seemed amiss.

Around us, families chattered and laughed, babies cried and gurgled, and everyone’s cheeks were as flushed as Holmes’s. My eye fell upon a baby not much older than my own Samuel, and I watched with pleasure as he giggled at the sensation of the fast-moving boat.

Despite the 1878 crash of the Princess Alice, which had transported Londoners to and from beautiful gardens and parks, we had no reason to think the Belle Crown would meet a similar fate. What were the odds that another 900-ton iron-built ship would barrel down the river and kill us? The Bywell Castle, the giant craft that had split the Princess Alice in half and killed more than 650 passengers, had been an anomaly, representing a once-in-a-generation tragedy.

Holmes interrupted my thoughts.

“The river is gaining momentum. Look at those waves, Watson.”

I looked where he was pointing. Black water slammed the side of the Belle Crown, then thundered into the downstream current. Froth rode the crests of waves that would have been more at home in the ocean than on the Thames.

“It is choppy,” I agreed, “but the weather is unpredictable at this time of year.”

“This is more than choppy, and it’s more than bad weather,” Holmes argued. “The level of the water has risen.”

“Well, that means the tide must be rising, surely,” I declared.

Holmes shook his head. “The tide should not be coming in yet, Watson. Did you not look at the tide tables when we boarded? And have you ever seen waves like this on the Thames?” He turned his gaze toward the granite clouds, through which weak light trickled down to the water. “It has been overcast all day, but there has not been a drop of rain. I cannot think what could cause the river to swell this forcefully.”

I could not continue the argument—he was quite right. The other passengers had noticed the sudden change in the waves, too. The woman holding the baby I had been looking at gasped as the boat jolted us all, water surging in a cold spray onto the deck. She clasped her child to her chest and covered the infant’s head with her hand. The man accompanying her took her arm, helping her away from the rail.

Unlike the rest of us, Holmes didn’t move from his position. He shielded his eyes from the sky and peered into the water.

“Watson, look!” he cried.

“What is it?” I wiped my face on my sleeve. It did no good, for my coat was drenched.

“Something. I don’t know what, Watson.” Holmes also wiped water from his face, but with the back of his hand, then he leaned further over the rail and squinted. “A large shape, moving through the water like a giant squid or an octopus.”

Holmes wasn’t the type to joke about danger or novel oddities. Alarmed now, I grabbed his arm and tried to pull him from the rail, but he wouldn’t budge.

“No. I must see it,” he insisted.

A shout from behind attracted my attention. Moving with the flow of water, a small ship sped toward the Belle Crown. Men in uniform—police—waved frantically, trying to get our attention.

Holmes pointed into the water again.

“Over there,” he cried, “look!”

I stared in the direction of his finger. A bulbous shape broke the surface, then disappeared into the black depths.

I’d seen enough. I wrenched Holmes back from the rail as the shape came closer and swirled beneath the water slapping against the ship.

Then—whatever it was—it ripped up from the river and curled into a spiral, which then unfurled against the sky. I’d never seen the like of it. It both fascinated and terrified me.

As quickly as it had risen, it slammed back down into the water.

The Belle Crown jolted high and teetered. The deck lurched. It cocked at a thirty-degree angle and rode the crest of a wave, but held steady.

I grabbed for the rail, but along with Holmes and everyone else, I lost my footing and fell.

I slid in a pile of humanity toward the other side of the boat, and then my head slammed against wood. Colors whirled. Sharp pain sliced through my skull and radiated through my shoulders.

The boat lurched again—it felt as if something had actually lifted it out of the water—and smashed down. My head cracked against wood, and the whirling colors blackened around the edges as I fought to remain conscious. Hot blood slicked my face. I was on my stomach.

Around me, people screamed.

It happened so quickly and I was so dizzy that it was hard for me to get a clear image. I saw but a tangle of limbs and clothes and a swathe of screaming faces.

Blinking and trying to shake off the dizziness, I strained my neck and looked for Holmes. He sat on the deck, propped against a stout man.

I rolled over and sat up.

Holmes struggled to his feet, and with his back against the side of the ship, he grasped the rail with both hands. Blood streaked down his face, and the wind flicked it off, leaving feathers of red spray on his forehead and cheeks. His hat was gone.

I got on my knees and tried to stand, but the boat lurched, tossing me onto my back. I tried repeatedly, but could not get my footing. People were strewn all over the floor in various states of injury. Some wobbled to their feet, trying to help others, only to be knocked to the floor like me. A few, like Holmes, reached for the rails, anxious to see what had hit the boat.

Someone clawed at me. I turned to see an old man’s face inches from mine. His eyes widened. His mouth opened. I’d seen that look many times in the heat of battle. I reached for him.

But the Belle Crown tilted in the other direction, and we all went crashing across the deck and against the other side of the boat. The man slammed up next to me, and his eyes glazed into the unwavering stare of the dead.

People tumbled over him, screaming.

Across from me, the boat jutted high at a dangerous angle, and etched against the sky, both hands clutching the rail behind his back, was a tall, lean figure: Holmes. His arms were straight, his legs spread. He leaned precariously toward the rest of us, all heaped upon the deck.

I feared his arms would snap from the strain, but he held fast, his face red, lips pressed tightly together. Should he let go of the rail, his body would crash hard against wood and steel, or possibly, he’d go overboard and be at the mercy of whatever churned beneath the black water.

The boat—still sharply angled—lurched yet higher.

Something had indeed lifted us.

A huge tentacle—wider than Holmes’s body, arrayed with suckers, and of a blotched brownish-white color—snapped into the air behind him, and then, much to my horror, it curled and the tip pointed daggerlike over Holmes’s head.

“Holmes!” I screamed. “Holmes, let go of the rail!”

The police boat cruised dangerously close to us. A man’s voice bellowed, “Duck, sir! Get out of the way! Move, sir, move!”

A harpoon sailed behind Holmes and disappeared with the wind. Another harpoon followed.

Harpoons on a London police boat! I thought. Lestrade must have been busy after the disaster at the warehouse. He must have anticipated more trouble. And then: Holmes must get away from that rail. If the harpoons don’t kill him, the tentacle will plunge through his head and drill him to bits!

“Holmes, get out of the way!” I screamed.

The Belle Crown jolted yet higher, pushed up from beneath by the giant creature. While we were suspended precariously aloft—over the surface of the water yet not on any wave I could see—the deck suddenly leveled. Everyone bounced up, then down onto the hard floor. Wincing, I lifted myself, and on shaking legs, stood. The deck was covered with the dead, the dying, the wounded; women, children, men.

Then I saw the thing behind Holmes.

I’d seen such creatures before: in the Thames warehouse when Professor Henry Fitzgerald had cracked open the ceiling, releasing bizarre creatures from the skies, from… God only knew where. As quickly as they’d appeared in the warehouse, they’d vanished. I had wondered where the creatures had gone.

Now, I knew. Holmes was correct. The creatures had slithered into the Thames.

And now, one was behind Holmes, ready to dash his powerful brain to pieces and kill him.

2

It happened in a flash.

Holmes’s side of the boat slammed down, and he whirled to face the creature. It rose, its lumpy head covered in mottled hide. He staggered, either from the shock of seeing such a thing at all or perhaps from the dazzling array of eyes scored into the hide: dozens of eyes, each fractured into countless glittering surfaces. A scaly appendage, like a bat’s wing, unhooked from a fold over one of those eyes. The giant tentacle quivered over Holmes, still poised for attack.

Holmes reached into his pocket and whipped out a pistol.

He fired, then immediately threw himself down upon the deck. The shot hit an exposed eye beneath the bat’s wing. The creature screeched: high and ill-pitched and skittering across bizarre scales. The tentacle crashed into the Thames.

Water soared over the rail and flooded the boat. Holmes toppled and careened across the deck to join the rest of us on the opposite side.

Beside me, a woman huddled with two small children. Her hair was as pale as Mary’s, and her eyes were lighter, a blue streaked with lime. Her dress was wet and ripped down one side. The boy, perhaps a year old, cried continually, his face hidden in the folds of her bodice. The other child, a girl, lay unconscious beside them. A gash on her forehead exposed bone. My own head ached, and my mind seemed unfocused and blurred; yet I forced myself to my knees and moved closer to take her pulse. I felt the beat of her tiny heart. I ripped open my coat and pulled my shirt off. Shivering from cold, I tore the cloth into strips as best as I could and wrapped one around the girl’s head.

Then I saw another child, and yet another, suffering and in need of my services.

The wind withered. Overhead, the granite clouds thickened, and the light fizzled. The river still shook, but the mighty waves were gone.

The small police boat retrieved several women and children, then sped toward shore.

Holmes wiped blood from a woman’s arm. Following my lead, he removed his own shirt and ripped it into strips. He slid the woman’s arm into a makeshift sling. Other men were removing their shirts and following suit, trying to help those with broken arms and wrists, gashed heads, and bleeding torsos.

Of perhaps fifty passengers, I had seen at least ten dead.

Three men, five women, one child, and one baby.

Of them all, I think it hurt me the most to see the baby. It wasn’t long ago that I’d seen the tram crash in Whitechapel, and had thought my own wife and baby killed. The pain remained real and raw. I’d almost lost my little family to the dangers of living in London—specifically, living with me in London due to my association with Sherlock Holmes.

It was a dangerous time to be with my old friend. It meant casting my family into harm’s way—from evil men such as Professor Moriarty, nemesis of Holmes, from Professor Henry Fitzgerald of the Order of Dagon; and also from horrors that Holmes and I didn’t yet understand, horrors such as the one unleashed upon the Belle Crown.

A voice broke into my thoughts.

“We need to get off the boat, Watson.”

Holmes had found me. His gray eyes, intelligent and focused, were trained upon me, as if gauging my mental awareness and competence. I didn’t want to appear in any way befuddled, for I was not befuddled. Sad and worried, yes, and a bit off, yes… in a way I couldn’t quite determine… but, or so I told myself, not befuddled.

Holmes stared at me, worried.

“Are you feeling yourself, my dear fellow?” he asked gently.

For a moment, I didn’t answer, then I nodded. Before we could say more, we were interrupted by an excited babble of voices. The police had returned, and we lent our efforts to helping the officers load more victims of the river beast onto their boat.

Another boat sped from a dock. More police, coming to get us all to shore.

“I do hope they quicken their progress and send an additional boat or two,” Holmes said. “We’re going to need more boats, and I mean—”

The deck boards cracked.

I looked down, aware that I was standing in water up to my ankles.

“I mean now!” Holmes yelled.

I grabbed his arm.

“Holmes!” I cried.

Water blasted up through the deck boards, and beneath our feet, the boat split in half.

3

A violent cold, as cruel as any knife, sliced through me. The deck stabbed the sky, jutting up at acute angles on either side of me, as the two halves of the Belle Crown sank into the Thames. Instinctively, I grabbed a broken board, kicking hard to stay afloat.

In front of me, Holmes also trod water. People flailed and screamed, all trapped inside the double death walls of jutting deck.

Holmes’s head slipped under the water, and he disappeared. Had he drowned? Or was he swimming beneath the jumble of kicking legs and feet?

At any moment, the whole ship would smash into the Thames and sink. Whatever I did, it had to be fast. I didn’t want to die this way.

Releasing the board to which I’d been clinging, I filled my lungs with air and then thrust my arms down, letting my body spring up as far as possible out of the water. As my body came back down, I thrust both arms out to my sides and up, up over my head, hence shoving my body as far below the surface as possible.

With my eyes shut, I plunged into the icy blackness.

I could feel the agitation of the water from the flailing arms and legs above me, and swam as fast as I could. If I didn’t get to the edge of the sinking boat quickly enough, if I didn’t get past all these people, then I would surely drown.

A few bubbles of air escaped my mouth.

Despite my best efforts, my body began to rise. My head knocked against a leg, and I grabbed it with both hands and shoved myself past it. I floated yet higher toward the surface.

Expelling the last of my air, I wondered how long I could hold onto life.

With death near, images of my beloved wife, Mary, and our son, Samuel, flashed through my mind. I love you, I thought, both of you, more than anything… and then my mind shifted to other things, perhaps my last thoughts on this Earth: Sherlock Holmes, Professor Fitzgerald’s warehouse on the edge of the Thames, and the eerie keening of the Order of Dagon. In my mind, I saw spherical bones etched with esoteric symbols, a ratcheted bone snake with gold prongs, and the creatures as they fell into the crowd from the warehouse ceiling. I saw the furniture of deadly dimensions. I saw Willie Jacobs shoveling lead into his deadly, gold-producing tram machine. I saw Swallowhead Spring, where Holmes and I had witnessed the deadly production of Bellini’s Norma. Finally, one image stayed with me, that of Mary and Samuel.

My body begged for release from the freezing water. My lungs ached.

I needed air, needed it badly.

It was then that I realized that nobody’s feet and legs brushed against my body, that I was free of the Belle Crown.

My head popped above the surface of the water.

I gasped, deeply sucked the cold air into my lungs, and opened my eyes to a wash of prickly color.

Flapping my arms, I trod water with my legs. Still gasping, I rotated, blinking rapidly to clear my vision.

The ship was directly behind me. Dead bodies floated past. A hand clawed at the sky, then sank beneath the water. Blood, clothing, ladies’ hats, dolls, and ripped human limbs churned up and down on the black waves. As on the battlefield, I heard the wailing of death, the cries for help, the prayers to God. The wind reeked of blood.

Desperation filled me.

I twisted again into a swimming position, and this time on the surface, I swam away from the Belle Crown. It was tough going, as the current was fierce and I was exhausted; but as I finally stroked past the crash site, I let the current pick me up and sweep me downstream: past the ship and past the death scene.

I, too, would die in the River Thames.

Did I pray? I think I did, yes.

Did I ask for forgiveness for the wrongs of my life? I think I did, yes.

Did I have regrets?

Absolutely, I did, yes.

Yet I was at peace.

I could no longer struggle against the power of the water.

Nature rules everything. If you doubt for a second that man’s place in this world is negligible, put yourself in the middle of a freezing river, and you will immediately understand how weak we are, how dependent on the whims of nature for our very existence.

I stopped trying to swim. The cold clenched me in its death grip.

I peered at the dark water and the distant shore with its lopsided clutch of buildings. These would be my final visions.

A fog bell sounded. As I raised my head so that my ears were above water, a man’s voice called, “Hold steady! Help is on its way!”

A police boat was bouncing over the waves toward me.

I could barely believe my good fortune. Somehow, I found my last thread of energy. My legs trod water more furiously as I fought to remain aloft with my head above the river. I lifted my right arm and waved.

The small craft pulled alongside me, and two men threw a coiled rope into the water. I slipped it over my head and under my arms. The men dragged me through the waves to the boat. They hauled up the rope, and my hands found iron rings on the side of the boat. I hadn’t the strength to hoist myself up. The men did it for me. Strong arms and hands lifted me from that merciless black pit of water and over the side of the police boat. They deposited me on the deck. Stretched on my back, shivering, my eyes closing to the world, I whispered one word:

“Holmes…”

“What did you say?” A man’s voice was close to my ear. I felt his breath upon me.

“Holmes,” I whispered again, this time more strongly.

“Did you say, Holmes?”

Weakly, I nodded.

A second man stooped beside me, and through slit eyes, I saw the uniform of a London policeman.

“Another man swam clear of the Belle Crown, as you did, sir. We picked him up, as well, and he rests yonder. We’ll take you both to shore and to medical care. You rest now, sir. You rest.” He touched my shoulder, then my eyes shut and I saw no more.

The boat careened across the waves. My stomach filled with acid. I swallowed, trying not to be sick. I felt confident that the other man picked up by the police boat was Sherlock Holmes, for I’d followed him beneath the water—or so I assumed. On the other hand, he might have drowned along with the others. I preferred to believe that my thinking had evolved over time to parallel his, and vice-versa. I preferred to believe that, if I’d known that our only safe course was swimming beneath the other passengers, then Holmes would have reached the same conclusion.

Of course, somebody else might have concluded the same.

I managed to open my mouth and croak a few words.

“Holmes. Other man. Holmes?”

I opened an eye. The policeman still stooped beside me.

“If your friend is tall and thin with gray eyes and a sharp tongue, then we have your man, yes.”

At this, I let myself fall asleep, relief washing over me. Gray eyes and a sharp tongue. Who else but Holmes?

4

Two policemen helped me to my feet. I staggered between them down the wooden planks of the pier. In front of me, between two policemen of his own, stood Holmes, his legs shaking, his tall frame bowed, shoulders stooped. But whatever shape we were in, both Holmes and I were alive, and for this, I was deeply grateful.

He looked over his shoulder at me. His face was bruised, and gashes split his forehead and left cheek. The gray eyes bored into mine. His mouth twitched into a smile.

Then the police prodded him forward, and he turned back to the task at hand, that of stumbling down the pier and onto the London streets, where I assumed, a police cart waited.

My teeth chattered. My body shook from the cold. I smelled terrible. My legs ached, as did my arms. I could barely move the leg that I’d injured in the war. Since my marriage and the rekindling of my friendship with Holmes, I’d grown weary of limping and preferred to suffer pain than show my weakness. This time, however, I had no choice. I limped.

It was hard to move my facial muscles; most likely, I was as bruised and gashed as Holmes. In particular, my forehead and nose hurt, and I winced, thinking of the stitches a doctor would use to sew me back together.

My ears rang, the noise punctuated by screeching and chanting in a language I didn’t know.

“Q’ulsi pertaggen fh’thagn daghon da’agon f’hthul’rahi roa. Aauhaoaoa demoni aauhaoaoa demoni aauhaoaoa demoni.”

I clamped my hands over my ears, shook my head, swallowed hard, yet still, the noise persisted. I’d been hearing things and having the most horrid nightmares since working on the tram machine case with Holmes. Any moment, the visions would return: the color filaments floating through the air, the throbbing of items I knew to be stationary, such as buildings and walkways.

“Come on, then, let’s get you cleaned up and off you go.”

I clasped the man’s arm, thankful for his voice, for it broke through the dreadful noise assailing my ears. The chanting withered, the screeching abated. My ears still rang... though faintly.

My rescuers supported me to a standpipe and pumped clean water over me, washing off as much of the river muck as they could. I suffered the force of the water, glad that I had not swallowed any of the foul stuff. They did the same with Holmes, then eased us onto crates, where we waited for the police cart that I’d hoped would be there already. We waited for blankets or warm, dry coats.

“You look as if you’ve just returned from the war,” Holmes said.

“As do you,” I said, “and you did not even serve in the war.”

He chuckled through blue lips. Blood stained his face. The gash on his cheek puffed along the edges, indicating possible infection; though the swelling might cease, I thought, given appropriate medical care: ointment, bandages, periodic ice.

As if either one of us wanted ice applied to our bodies any time soon…

Holmes stared at the hard dirt of the street.

“That officer told me that most of the passengers died,” he said. “Those who were not rescued before the boat broke up. A few men survived the wreckage, though, as well as one or two young women. All the others—infants, mothers, the elderly—everyone else drowned, Watson. The police will be dredging the river for weeks.”

“As they did with the Princess Alice,” I said, “when more than 650 perished in the Thames.”

People sauntered past: couples chatting, children laughing as they had aboard the Belle Crown right before the crash. Any of these people might have chosen to take a pleasure cruise on the river instead of strolling along its edge. Any of them might now be dead. I wondered, Has news of the wreck not yet traveled this far downstream?

Carriages and horses clattered along the cobblestones and dirt. Men with carts called to each other, bargaining over prices and goods. A boy pointed at Holmes and me with our police escorts. His father whispered something in his ear, and the boy looked quickly away.

Holmes chuckled again.

“They probably think we’re criminals,” he said.

“Or drunken idiots who jumped into the Thames and had to be rescued by police,” I said.

“I have my chemical habits, Watson, but drink is not one of them.”

“And for that, I’m thankful,” I said, thinking of my friend’s cocaine habit. My ears had ceased ringing, but I wondered, as I had for this past month, if I were going mad. I wasn’t the type to overly indulge with drink, nor did I seek what Holmes referred to as his chemical habits. Something was affecting me, of that I was sure: an infection of the mind, a disease.

A group of men staggered past, clutching at one another to maintain their balance, their faces haggard, their laughter gruff. An old woman stumbled from a crumbling ruin of a building, the siding unpainted and splintering, the windows boarded up with rusty nails.

The Eshocker dens, I thought. They’re everywhere by the docks and even on the side streets where people live. It was becoming commonplace to see electrotherapy addicts mingling with ordinary citizens.

I glanced at Holmes. He had also noticed the addicts. His eyes sparked with desire. With a start, I realized that Holmes was no stranger to the Eshocker dens. A man who sank into the haze of drugs to fight boredom could just as easily seek out electrotherapy devices.

“There’s nothing wrong with electrical stimulation,” Holmes had told me many times. “Those of the medical profession, doctors such as yourself, use these devices all the time to cure a vast majority of modern ailments.” And it was true, I knew, that doctors were applying mild electrical voltage to treat everything from constipation to blindness and paralysis. Holmes owned an electrical-stimulation hairbrush as well as a belt, and had been enthusiastically testing their efficacy upon his own person, without, I thought, much effect.

But electrotherapy treatment was one thing and Eshocker den addiction was quite another. Pay a price, and you could zap your brain into oblivion.

A boy with a dirt-streaked face darted between two addicts and ran into the crumbling building. He reminded me of Timmy Dorsey, Jr., the boy who lived with his father, a butcher turned murderer, in an Osborn Street building adorned with an unedifying sign that proclaimed MEAT. The building was a short walk from where Willie Jacobs had operated the now-simmering tram machine. I shuddered to remember that monstrous beast, with its steel limbs clattering against the walls and ceiling, its coiled tubes and phosphorus pit, its abilities to attack and even kill.

A police carriage clanked around the corner. The officers helped us up and called for the driver to take us to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel.

“The Eshocker dens are vile places,” I told Holmes as we settled onto the carriage seats. “You should avoid them. They could kill you. All this electricity, we don’t know what it really does. Other doctors may have their ideas—the electric aura, the sparks, and vibratory motions, thinking of electricity as some sort of magic fluid that cleanses the body of toxins—but I have my doubts. I see no real proof.”

“I will use my belt, and I will use my brush,” Holmes said, “as they do me no harm whatsoever, and indeed, they provide mild and enjoyable stimulation.”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t in the mood for an argument about anything, much less any of Holmes’s less-than-desirable addictions. If I were going to break him of one, it wouldn’t be his hairbrush. Rather, it would be the cocaine.

“That creature I shot,” Holmes said, abruptly switching topics, “it was not alone, Watson. There are others of its kind in the Thames. The police must keep all boats off the river and must keep all citizens away from the banks. Perhaps the creatures prefer the water—that is why I was looking for them in the river today, though I admit I did not expect them to have grown so large in such a short space of time. Perhaps the Order of Dagon has been careful to release them near water—at Swallowhead Spring and at the warehouse on this very bank not so long ago.”

Holmes still sought rational explanations for the creatures’ existence, something other than my theory about different realms or dimensions beyond our own. And yet, I feared that his conjectures were only that: conjectures that we would never prove to be fact.

“But why would they prefer water, and on what grounds do you think the Dagonites have released the creatures?” I asked.

“I have no grounds, Watson.” He frowned. “I am but trying to draw parallels among the events.”

“I agree,” I said, “that the families here, enjoying a day by the river, are at risk. Those things in the river… what if they slither up to the shore and enter the heart of London, the streets themselves?”

“Anything is possible,” my friend said, and then he shut his eyes. His body trembled with cold, as did mine. We would confront the nightmare of the creatures and their assault upon London in the morning. For now, it would suffice to rest and regain our strength.

But first, I had something more important to consider, and I was not looking forward to considering it, much less taking the necessary action.

I could wait no longer.

I had to send Mary and Samuel out of London and to safety. They’d only returned to me last week, and this time, when Mary left me, she might never come back.

5

DR. REGINALD SINCLAIR

Whitechapel Lunatic Asylum

“Close your right eye. Now tell me, what do you see, Mr. Norris?”

I crouched by the patient, carefully watched his movements, and gauged his reaction to my instructions. He was insane, as were all of my patients, but Mr. Norris’s hallucinations—unlike most people’s—seemed one-sided. That is, he saw specters with only his left eye and heard demons only with his left ear. I believed him to be an excellent candidate for my Eshocker machine, possibly in extreme treatment mode.

Excitement surged through me, spreading a tingling sensation down my arms and into my fingers. Was this not an electricity of sorts? Excitement galvanized people, did it not? Excitement was the spark of life, whether its cause was natural or induced by electrotherapy.

Ah, the marvels of the modern world. How wonderful to be a medical doctor, a scientist of the brain, in this modern age. How wonderful to control the treatment of patients, to be the director of the Whitechapel Lunatic Asylum.

Mr. Norris squeezed his right eye shut and squinted from his left. Both hands quivered on the arms of the chair. He smelled like decay. His teeth, what was left of them, were chipped and brown. A few strands of gray hair hung over his eyes, and I reached one gloved hand up and swept the strands from his line of vision.

His arm lifted, still quivering, and batted at the air, then dropped again.

“What do you see?” I pressed.

“Th-the heads, they float past me, and such evil lewd grins, sir, such as I see! Th-the hands, they float past, pointing at me, judging me, condemning me. Th-the voices—” At this, the poor man slapped his hand over his left ear. “They threaten me, want to kill me, tell me I’m evil, tell me I am bound for hell, though truth be told, sir, I am already in hell!”

Mr. Norris slammed his fists against both sides of his head. I grabbed his hands and pulled them away from his face. The poor man would beat his head to a pulp if I allowed it.

His right eye popped open as he struggled weakly against me. I guided his hands gently down to the armrests again. He slouched in the chair.

“What do you see, Mr. Norris, what do you see now?” I asked.

He blinked. Across the day room, Miss Klune, my nurse, smoothed a vinegar-water lotion across the forehead of Mr. Jacobs, who prattled in a daze from his usual position upon the floor. Several other patients sat, propped so as not to fall from their chairs, and stared into oblivion. Mrs. van der Kolk traced the air with a finger, giggled, and babbled about her undergarments. Mr. Robertson’s head lolled to one side, drool coursing down his chin and saturating his night shirt.

I had few women in the asylum and preferred to keep them in the same wing as the men. Had separate wings been a requirement, I would have been forced to toss all of my female patients back onto the streets.

Mr. Norris’s body went limp. His head slumped forward.

I lifted his chin and stared into his eyes: pupils dilated, large black circles displaying no intellect, just the emptiness of those whose minds had fizzled. He tilted his head and gazed upward. His lips muttered a short prayer, then:

“My oppressors,” he whispered, looking at me again, “they are gone.”

“Any floating heads?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“No, sir.”

“Any floating hands, pointing incriminating fingers at you?” I asked.

“No, sir.”

“And the voices?”

His head bowed, and a few tears trickled down his cheeks.

“They never stop. Never.” He began to cry. “The voices are always there. They never leave me alone.”

I called to my nurse. I was fortunate to have Clara Klune here at the Whitechapel Lunatic Asylum. Stout, with strong legs and arms, and steady nerves, she was perhaps thirty-five years old to my forty-five; and she believed firmly in my pursuit of electrotherapeutic remedies for neural psychoses. I’d rather have one Miss Klune than tenmale nurses, I thought with satisfaction.

She tried to comfort Mr. Norris with soothing words and by stroking his arms and hands.

“Dr. Sinclair will help you,” she said in a monotone flattened from years of issuing the same promise over and over again, “I’m sure of it. He’s the best doctor in the world, Mr. Norris, and you know we only want to help you.”

“Yes, yes,” my patient blubbered, “but can Dr. Sinclair fight the devil?”

“I can,” I replied, straightening myself up and snapping off my gloves, “and I will. Miss Klune, we must give him relief. Is the Eshocker machine ready?”

“I fear we must delay Mr. Norris’s treatment for some moments more. We have a new patient. And that pesky man is here again, the one who always upsets you so.”

I stared into her ice-blue eyes. Strong and efficient, that was Miss Klune. Ice-blonde hair in a bun, hidden by her white nurse’s hat, ice-thin lips emitting soothing words in the same tone they emitted words about my schedule.

“I will see the new patient shortly. In the meantime, restrain Mr. Norris and then send in my visitor, so I can dispose of him as quickly as possible.”

She nodded, strapped Mr. Norris into his chair, and hurried away. Truly, she was irreplaceable. She handled various attendants’ tasks and never complained, and the money I saved on labor, I plowed into research. Issuing some bland words of comfort to Mr. Norris, I left the patients’ day room and returned to my small office.

I rarely used the office, only when shuffling papers and talking business, never for treating patients. Although I was the director of the asylum, I despised administrative duties and much preferred research into the treatment of the insane.

On the wall behind my battered desk were a dozen diplomas, awards, and testimonies. A stack of papers, held in place with a fossil from the Dorset coast, awaited my attention. I had barely settled into my cushioned chair before there was a knock and my office door swung open.

I did not rise as Miss Klune showed the procurement agent into the room. I did not greet him.

He gave me a jagged smile, displaying crooked teeth, and squeezed his massive body into one of the chairs on the other side of the desk.

Miss Klune’s lips tightened, and she cast her eyes down and bustled back out of the office. She knew how much I despised this man. He was always squeezing me for more machines and higher profit margins.

My mind was on the new, unknown patient. Who was he? What was wrong with him? Could I help him? Most important, could my Eshocker cure him?

My visitor didn’t waste time with niceties.

“The Professor requires a massive shipment of den devices. A fortune’s to be made, but only if we can equip our dens with more of your machines. How much longer do you intend to make us wait? When will we receive the new shipment?” His voice was soft and low. It always surprised me how calmly this man addressed me. His appearance conveyed an immediate impression of force and violence, of raw brutality. The procurement agent, whose name I didn’t know, even after all this time, was well over six feet tall and packed with at least 220 pounds of rock-hard muscle. His hands were thick, the skin tough: a working man’s hands. He dressed like a dock worker: cap, jacket, heavy shirt, dirty trousers.

Always, he wanted the same thing: more and yet more electrotherapy devices for Professor Moriarty’s Eshocker dens. I was all for the use of electrotherapy. The list of treatments was seemingly endless. However, I wasn’t particularly interested in administering jolts of electricity to ordinary fellows seeking thrills.

“You know,” my visitor continued, repositioning his bulk in the small chair, “you aren’t the only supplier. We can get these devices elsewhere. We can even build them, if we want. There’s nothing magical about what you supply, Dr. Sinclair.”

“You’re threatening me?” I bristled. “I don’t like your tone, Mr.—?”

“My name is not important. I’ve told you that before. What is important is giving my employer what he asks of you. Refusals are discouraged. Strongly discouraged. We will have these devices, with or without your cooperation.”

How dare this man address me in such an insolent manner?

“They’re much too dangerous to fool with!” I snapped, jumping up and pounding my fist on the desk. “I own the patent on these devices! You wouldn’t dare—”

My visitor also stood, flinging his chair aside. It clattered across the floor and hit the wall by the door to my treatment room.

He advanced two steps toward me. Then he paused, cast me a nasty grin, and reached into his pocket.

My heart lurched. What was he going to do? Shoot me right here in my office? I was a medical doctor, not a criminal. Who would kill a man who had devoted his life to helping others?

He slid brass knuckles over the fingers of his right hand.

I pushed back my chair and stepped back, as if this would do any good. Taking several deep breaths and waiting for my heart to stop racing, I reminded myself that Professor Moriarty and his procurement agent were not ordinary businessmen. They were criminals. They had no respect for decency. When I spoke again, my words were calm and measured—the same way I addressed my patients.

“I’ll build the devices for you. Very soon, I promise. Tell your employer that I appreciate his business.”

“When will they be ready, and how many?” the other demanded, his right hand balled into a fist, the brass knuckles gleaming dully. They looked worn and scratched as if from overuse.

“Give me a week,” I said, “and I’ll have my men make five machines. Will that suffice?”

Now it was his fist—the one with brass knuckles—that pounded my desk, making me jump. His jagged smile widened, and yet his voice remained soft and low.

“Ten a week, every week, until I say, no more,” he said.

That was a high rate of production for me. I employed the services of two lunatics to build each device. I didn’t want any one man to build an entire machine. I didn’t want to give away all of my secrets, not even to lunatics. I would have to train more of my patients and set them to work at night. I didn’t like the idea. The two who worked for me now were well suited to the task; they’d been machinists and builders before being committed to the asylum.

The money I earned from selling these devices to Professor Moriarty’s Eshocker dens enabled me to pay Miss Klune and my other nurse, Miss Switzer. It enabled me to pay for the necessary medicines and foods, whose bills lay upon my desk as we spoke. Without the income, the Whitechapel Lunatic Asylum would be a filthy, cramped, horror house filled with patients I wouldn’t be able to help. No bedding. No clothing. No treatment. Just shrieking lunatics in strait-waistcoats.

No. I would not live with that option. My asylum was modern, if small. It was humane. It was a research institution, where I was making major breakthroughs with my Eshockers and on the cusp of filing patents for both hospital mode and extreme treatment mode. The devices I supplied to this man were incapable of giving more than mild shocks. They couldn’t hurt anyone; they were used only for pleasure and simple treatments. Certainly, people were addicted, but this was no different from other addictions such as morphine, cocaine, alcohol, and so forth.

Anything good could be used for bad, but the fact remained that my machines existed to do good.