Sentinels

A hideous stench began to pervade the room, a smell of rotten fish and ordure. As the vile stink strengthened, I saw that Ronan and the thing were staring intently towards the two strange doorways and I turned my gaze in that direction. Something was bubbling out of each entrance.

Something... I don't really know what it was but it manifested itself as black, globular masses of... protoplasm? The skin or covering of each... creature? shifted and blistered, forming and reforming into brief, fearsome appendages and slobbering maws. And there were eyes, a multitude of eyes, constantly emerging from and sinking back into each mass, as if restlessly seeking.

An edge of one mass touched a grubby foot. Immediately it shot out a long strand of itself, feeling and rippling its way up his body of the man. The whole blasphemous being, or at least that of it which had bubbled from the depths, seemed to quiver with excitement. The shining blackness spread, slowly at first and then faster and faster until, becoming translucent, it coated the whole body. The second seething obscenity had, meanwhile, treated the women in like fashion.

The trance binding the pair must have been a light one, for their faces contorted with terror and their mouths stretched in unheard shrieks.

Then, just before the final absorption, came the greatest, most loathsome, insanity. I watched those blasphemies somehow turn their victims inside out, so that they clutched at two impossible, living horrors, two squirming, glistening bundles of musculature and viscera which were then slowly dissolved...

...I don't know how I evaded detection but I reeled from that dreadful house and down the gravelled path, whimpering, cursing, retching, fighting the malarial symptoms, battling with the horror which threatened to unhinge me, resisting with difficulty the urge to dash my brains out against the huge blocks of masonry which formed the gateposts. I can remember fleeing down the road like a madman to escape that accursed spot, screaming out for help...

There's little more to tell. I woke up three days later in hospital. An enthusiastic young doctor told me that I was his first ever case of malaria and he was grateful for the good show I'd put on for him.

When I was discharged, the medics advised me to take it easy, to rest. Rest! I can't rest properly with those dreadful images in mind nor can I tell anyone of that night, of what I saw when peering into that strange room at Mill Grange. Anyway, who would I tell? Fellow students? Academics at the university? My GP? I can imagine the embarrassed looks, the pats on the shoulder, the admonitions to relax more, the suggestions that perhaps a psychiatrist...?

Even I am not completely certain... I have tried to examine the evidence, if you can call mostly wild guesses evidence.

As an argument that I did not imagine the horror, I'd suggest that if Father Ronan and the squinting man are responsible for the abduction of Shoals people, the attack on them would be explained. Maybe I'm clutching at straws...

Why, if Ronan is perpetrating such abominations, did he bother to try to befriend me? Can he be mad, undergoing genuine changes of personality? Is the Patrick Ronan who showed me friendship unaware of the Patrick Ronan who conducted that hideous rite?

If those bubbling black masses do exist, if they are not just the product of my sick or acid-blasted mind, they must be the shoggoths referred to in those puzzling letters. And if they are just the servants or sentinels, how abominable are their masters?

And is this whole affair the result of Ronan's studies for his thesis or did his involvement start before? Is this what Professor Calloway tried to warn him against? Or is the thesis spurious anyway, just a blind? Who is Chen Liang...?

So many questions...

There's something else. Unless I'm paranoid, I'm being followed each time I leave the lodging house. God knows I can't stay in all of the time, so I've taken to going out in the evenings after dark. I haven't actually seen anyone but the sensation of being watched is overwhelming. And then there are the dreams I've been having.

The dreams involve my evening walks and are the clearest that I have ever known, totally lacking the touch of unreality common in normal dreams. In these realistic dreams, I leave my room and walk the gloomy streets of The Shoals. And in the midst of these dreams I catch odd glimpses of my stalkers from the corner of my eye, glimpses of things not natural. I get fleeting impressions of stocky, hunched shadows that don't walk like men but hop... like some amphibian creatures... And then I wake, exhausted and aching, as if I have tramped the streets the whole night through. Sometimes I even find mud and filth on my shoes that I swear had not been there the previous evening---perhaps many of my dreams were not dreams at all but strange memories of sleep-walking those grim thoroughfares.

I've decided what I must do. I must confront Father Ronan with my knowledge. So certain am I that I did not suffer an hallucination that I'm going to take something with me---an axe perhaps---to destroy those unholy artefacts and I'm quite prepared to kill Father Ronan if he gets in my way. But he is a powerful man and I'm still weak from my illness. But I must take the risk... I must...

End of statement.

4. A reconstruction from the official notebooks of Hampshire County Constabulary officers: Interview with Professor Reuben Calloway

Professor Calloway towered over the two policemen, and he must have outweighed the solidly-built Sheppard by at least eighty pounds. He reminded Sheppard of some fat actor but who, the detective was not quite sure.

While Calloway read through the transcribed statement, Bob Fane gazed around at the apparent chaos of the scholar's study. Bookcases were buckling under the weight of their contents while other volumes and countless stacks of papers littered the floor. Only by adding to the clutter had Calloway been able to make room for the two detectives to sit down. The professor's desk, too, was hidden beneath sheets of typewritten paper, many of them heavily annotated in red pen. To one side an old typewriter, evidently well-used, sat atop an even older table. Soft early-winter light pouring in through high-mullioned windows showed up the dust in the room, which was stuffy and stank of exotic tobacco. The fug was now being added to by a combination of Sheppard's Woodbine and Calloway's flat Turkish cigarette. Fane coughed loudly but neither took any notice of him.

Finished at last, Calloway jabbed the papers with a sausage-like finger. "Is this accurate?"

"Oh yes. Except, perhaps, you don't get a sense of the terror in McAllister's voice." Sheppard answered. "Well, sir, what do you think?"

Calloway stared back, face impassive. At last he sighed. "I don't think that you will find McAllister alive. No, correct that---I don't think that you will find him at all." He waved the sheaf of papers at Sheppard. "The bloody fool came up against something he didn't understand, he went to confront it with no knowledge of how to look after himself, and now I'm telling you that he'll never be seen again."

Fane bit at his thumbnail. "Are you trying to say, sir, that you take McAllister's statement seriously."

"Oh yes." The big man lit another cigarette. "I have no doubt that every word of it is true. And you'll never be able to prove anything or get anybody, either for McAllister or The Shoals disappearances."

He laughed, a short, harsh sound. "You're going to leave here thinking that I'm a crackpot, aren't you Inspector? Well, think what you like, I'm used to it. Revel in it, in fact."

Sheppard leaned forward. "McAllister suggests that you know this Father Ronan. Is that correct?"

"I met him, just once, several years ago. We drank beer together in a Wanchai bar."

"And what did you think of him?"

Calloway considered. "Then? I thought him misguided. Now? Given the opportunity, I'd put him down like a rabid dog."

Inspector Fane started to protest but Sheppard waved him to silence. "And how about this Chen Liang character, sir?"

"If I tell you what I know of Chen Liang, you'll think I'm totally off my head."

"Try me."

Calloway shrugged. "For want of a better expression, he's what you'd call a black magician. He's probably several centuries old and he is totally evil."

Sheppard sniffed. He stood and gathered up the written statement. "I see. Well, thank you for your help, Professor. I don't think we need bother you any more..."

* * * * *

"My God, boss, he's certifiable," said Bob Fane as they drove from the University grounds.

"Eccentric," admonished his superior. "People like him are called eccentric. It's we mortals who are mad. Now I suppose that we'd better go and see this Father Ronan. Head for Mill Grange, Bob. I've arranged for one of the locals, a Sergeant Brice, to meet us there."

5. A reconstruction from the official notebooks of Hampshire County Constabulary officers: Interview with Father Patrick Ronan

"Do you know a man called Peter McAllister, sir?" Fane asked.

Father Ronan looked puzzled. "McAllister... McAllister... Ah, yes, I briefly met a young man of that name some time ago, several months perhaps. I inadvertently got caught up in a street scuffle in The Shoals and this young chap came to my aid. Looked like a... hippy, I think they call them, long hair, beard, flowery shirt. Could be the person you're asking about. He escorted me back here that evening but was rather stand-offish when I tried to converse with him. I did offer him a drink which he refused and I'm afraid I haven't seen him since then. Is he in some sort of trouble?"

"He seems to have disappeared, sir. And his parents are most anxious about him."

Superintendent Sheppard, who seemed to have been closely studying the wainscoting in the hallway, turned suddenly. "Do you believe in magic, sir?" The detective's face moulded itself into an expression of surprised apology as he asked Father Ronan the question.

"What a very odd question, Mr Sheppard," said the priest. "Do I believe in magic? I believe very much in the power of a man's will to perform deeds of good or evil, and I believe in the power of faith to perform the improbable. Such events appear at first to have the nature of miracles which could be considered a kind of magic. I believe in the power of the will, and the power of determination to bring about such 'miracles'."

The policeman shrugged uncomfortably and glanced at his companions. "Not exactly what I meant, sir, although no doubt you've made a valid point. No, I meant do you believe in the use of spells to summon up... demons and suchlike...?" He coughed and huddled his raincoat a little closer to his body. Fane wanted to snigger. Sheppard rarely acted as if he was embarrassed.

"No, I don't believe in that kind of magic. To be honest, I don't even subscribe in a belief in the Devil." Father Ronan laughed. "That might seem an odd thing for a priest to say, but I do find the concept of a tangible antithesis to God so very medieval.

"My own opinion is that God has placed within each man the capacity for great good or great evileach man creates within himself, by his actions, angels or demons. As for the occult aspect of it, the summoning of ghosties and ghoulies, sheer superstition, no more! Now what's this all about, man? You come to my house, ask if I can spare you a few minutes, then begin to solicit my opinion of fairy tale nonsense. Surely high-ranking police officers don't often call on people to see how they feel about Old Nick?"

Sheppard nodded, mouth pulled down at the corners. "Information received, sir. It's been suggested that you knew McAllister better than one brief meeting. And that you... conduct magic rituals..."

Ronan grinned. "Now don't the strangest stories get around? I suppose it's a hangover from a previous owner of this house. You may have heard of him---Joseph Whately, supposedly a practitioner of the black arts, some forty years ago, I believe. His reputation ensured that Mill Grange remained unoccupied for many years before I took the lease. Local people, in their ignorance, won't come near the place. It suits me, I can carry out my work with little or no interruption. I take it you're not at liberty to say where this information came from?"

Instead of replying, Sheppard took out his notebook and consulted it. "Can you tell us, sir, what were your movements on the evening of 27^th September?"

"Hmm, I'll have to check my diary. Let's see... 27^th September... ah yes, a Wednesday.

"As a matter of fact, I was not at home that evening. I went to see a man call Smith, Reg Smith. He lives at number three, Fossett Mews, near to the waterfront. Just a single room. Poor fellow's down on his luck. As he did me a favour oncealong with McAllister, he helped save me from the assault I mentionedI try to help him out a little. I take him some food, talk to him for a while.

"And no, before you ask, I had no witnesses other than Smith himself."

"I see. Well, would you mind if we had a look around the house while we're here?"

"Not at all." Ronan smiled at the police officers. "I'm only too happy to co-operate. But I warn you, it's a big placeattics, cellars and so on, most of it in a severely dilapidated condition, exactly as Joseph Whately left it. Perhaps you'd like to start in here, my modest library."

He led them into the room and gestured towards the solid bookcases which lined the walls. "As you can see, gentlemen, this is a stultifying collection. Few of the books are minemost were probably here before Whately's time. Mainly sets of sermons, badly written local histories and suchlike, the kind of thing accumulated by the duller Victorian scholars. There is also an inner chamber here, but there's little to see. Come."

Father Ronan opened the inner door and stood back. Sheppard and Fane peered into an empty room, only to see that the tiled floor had been broken up until it was nothing more than dust and rubble. "I'm sorry about the mess," Ronan smiled. "This is how I found the room when I took occupancy. Possibly some project of Whately's which was never completed."

Having shown the police officers the ground floor, Father Ronan took them to the upper floors and attics of Mill Grange, where the rooms were all empty and the dust and cobwebs of years clung silent and eerie. The place smelt of damp and disuse and there were signs of rot throughout. "I wouldn't be surprised if the place collapsed about my ears before my work here's finished," the priest laughed.

Finally, the party made their way to the dank cellars. In one vast storeroom, Father Ronan stopped and said, "Look here, I'll show you something."

He knelt and pushed on a great flagstone. The slab creaked open on some hidden pivot and the officers saw a black hole, narrow and apparently deep. "I once heard the legend of an old pit in the house," Ronan explained. "One day, when I was having a break from my work, I investigated and found this. Watch!"

He took some coins from his pocket, selected a halfpenny and lobbed it into the hole. The men listened for a long minute but heard no sound. "It must be exceptionally deep," Ronan declared, "Do you think that perhaps we should look down there for this... McAllister?"

At the end of the tour, Sheppard thanked the priest. "Well, sir, if you can't shed any light on our mystery, we'll take our leave. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time." He seemed to think for a moment and then said: "There was something else. Tell me, if it's no known extant language, how come you happen to know it?"

Momentarily, the light seemed to die from Ronan's eyes and he stared at nothing for about two or three seconds. Then: "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

"Oh, nothing important, sir," Sheppard assured the priest.

Father Ronan saw the policemen from the house. As they were about to leave he said, "I wish you well with your search. Don't hesitate to contact me if I can be of further help." At that point, Inspector Fane could have sworn that the priest smirked at them.

* * * * *

When they were back in their car, Sheppard turned to his companions. "Comments?" he asked.

"I dunno, sir," mused Sergeant Brice who was sitting in the driver's seat. "On the face of it, he was straightforward but I got the impression he was having a laugh at our expense. Do you think we could get a search warrant, give the place a real going over."

"Come on, Sergeant," sighed Bob Fane, "he's just shown us the house voluntarily. I agree that he was taking the piss, but on the evidence we've got, no magistrate in the country would issue a warrant.

"What about this bloke Smith? You're a local---know him?"

"Reg Smith? Nasty little rat, sell his own grandma he would. And with his squint, he'd find her hiding round a corner. Couldn't see him saving Ronan, though. Other way round is far more likely. Smith's got form---mostly petty stuff---and we check him out from time to time. What you might call one of the usual suspects."

"Any record of a street brawl such as McAllister described?"

"No, sir. Incidents like that should be reported but most beat officers don't bother if they're not going to bring charges. The paperwork takes up too much time. I'll ask the beat men concerned but I tell you now, they'll deny it. Nobody's going to put his hand up to neglect of duty."

"All right, Sergeant," said Sheppard, "forget that. We'll go and interview Smith, although if he corroborates Ronan's story we're done."

Brice, who was looking puzzled, made no move to switch the engine on. "Sir, what was that business about some unknown language? His reaction reminded me of things I've read about brain-washing---you know, as if he's had some kind of mental barrier implanted."

"Ah, you noticed that too. Unfortunately that's pure conjecture, Brice, no solid evidence we can use. But it was an indication that perhaps McAllister and Professor Calloway may not be as barmy as we've believed them to be. Anyway, let's get going."

Sergeant Brice reached to the ignition key. "Just thought of another thing, sir, maybe relevant, maybe just coincidence. My wife's a member of the local historical society. She told me once that Joseph Whately had a load of distant relatives in the States, east coast I think. Seems quite a few of them were hanged as witches during the late seventeenth century witch trials.

"Hmm, coincidence I suppose," Sheppard said, "Let's not complicate things. God knows what I'll say to the Chief Constable, I'll have to think up some plausible lies to keep him happy. Go to him with what we've learned and we'll all find ourselves being retired on mental health grounds. However, I think that Calloway is definitely right about one thing. The McAllisters won't be seeing their bonny lad again."

6. A package from England

The white-jacketed servant bowed low as he proffered a silver tray to the wizened Chinese sitting propped against a bank of silken cushions. The parcel on the tray had been opened but the contents remained undisturbed. Impatiently, the old man gestured to the low table beside him and then dismissed the servant with a flick of his fingers.

When the highly-polished double doors had closed, Chen Liang reached out a claw-like hand and took up the letter which lay on the parcel's contents. It read:

Revered One:

I have erred and I regret that we are having to move away from this place. At times the original personality is hard to control and it acts in a way which causes serious problems. There was another party involved but I guarantee that he will cause no further trouble.