(no subject)
To Live Until the Dawn
Night had come for Charles Sinclair, bringing sleep- and with it, nightmares. The War. The Somme. Legions of dead men, clawing their way from the bowels of the earth, demanding with stiffened jaws that he account for himself, for the weapons of war he had brought into being. Then, in the corner of his vision, he saw her. Agnes. Agnes, looking at him in horror, asking if the things they said about him could be true... Now, he was walking toward the shed, preparing to set off the explosion intended to end his miserable life, but which had instead reduced him to this ruined, twisted mockery... He tried to turn, to speak to Agnes, to take one last look at her face, but his feet kept walking forward, carrying him toward this horrible destiny... He struggled, but he was helpless to turn aside... helpless...
The hospital- the blazing, unending agony of his ruined face. Boot steps on planked flooring; the stench of fresh blood. A rough woolen blanket. Soft mutter of German; he could hear them discussing his chances of survival, and whether or not it would be worth transporting him to Berlin for interrogation. Footsteps, and a needle’s pinprick that made the pain recede. Darkness, warm and welcome.
Slowly, he became aware of the sounds of other men in this room. His one good eye flickered open; he struggled to bring the room around him into focus. Bare concrete walls; bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Twenty other beds, perhaps more. The horrible moment when his vision cleared enough for him to see... Sanderson. Decker. Waugh. Face after face, achingly familiar to him; body after body, broken and bandaged. The explosives, he thought. The weapons of war they took from me-I did this. Men he had spent months with, using their shared camaraderie as a shield against the rigors of prison life, now... legs missing. Arms. Quiet moans of agony. All my fault, he thought. Their blood is upon my hands. He saw all the men sitting up to regard him silently with their bandaged faces, and could not tell if it was reality or dream.
Sinclair lurched awake in the cheap hotel room, bathed in sweat. Looking up, he discovered that he had twisted the iron frame of his bed like putty in his struggles with the phantoms of his dreams. A tinny-sounding radio program came from down the hall, as he caught a nightmarish glimpse of his face in the dirty mirror across the room: one side pale, eye wide and staring, the other side covered by a smooth black leather mask. Always, the same question: how long before he accidentally killed someone with his accursed might? How long before he slipped for just one second, and heard again the crack of bone-the screams-just as he had on the battlefields? As he had a thousand times before, he shook his head, and forced these thoughts from him through strength of will. He was an outcast-a scarred, crippled freak-but there had to be some good, some slender thread of hope in this cruel joke the fates had played on him. Had to be. “Merely too many people around,” he told himself, as he prepared the daily morphine injection that kept the agony of his ruined face at bay. “Still getting over Germany-the prison-only natural I need some time to adjust. Get out of here, get away; that’s the thing to do.”
Despite the drug, he nearly flung himself away from the room, and the dreams; with rapid, almost hunted strides, he hurried to the train station, bought a ticket to the farthest destination possible, and gratefully allowed the earth to swallow him whole.
*
And now, this curious fog, all around him. Sinclair could not remember the name of the town-only that it had been dark, and quiet, and blessedly remote from the madhouse he had left. He had allowed himself to wander aimlessly for hours, ignoring the thick blanket of mist that had settled over the landscape-after all, what terrors could the night hold for him?
Strange, sibilant whispers from the mists seemed to answer him, to dance on the edge of meaning, of message... his one eye attempted to pierce the vapors, but to no avail; he could barely see the edge of the road from where he stood. He listened for the sounds of traffic, of people, but he had subconsciously steered himself away from such; the road was empty, and desolate. Or was it...? Suddenly feeling that there was something looming up behind him in the fog, he whirled-but could see nothing, merely featureless white vapors. Unnerved, he forced himself to continue walking. Then, he squinted; there was an indistinct black shape ahead. Cautiously, he approached; the object was revealed as a car that had run off the road into a ditch, and now had one door hanging open.
“Hello?” cried Sinclair. “Is anyone there? Are you hurt?” The fog swallowed his words, rendering them flat and muffled; he slowly stepped closer to the vehicle, until at last he stood in front of the windshield. He bent, and looked into the car, but could see nothing. Frowning, he gently picked up the car, and replaced it on the road, that he might give it a more thorough examination. He looked it over carefully-a new 1920 model Daimler-Benz, with no sign of major damage. The car had not impacted any solid object, apparently; simply dented one fender upon rolling into the ditch. Sinclair then attempted to examine the surface of the road for skid marks, but the swirling mists made this impossible; he could barely ascertain the tires’ tracks at the edge of the ditch itself.
Sinclair was standing motionless, contemplating further investigative possibilities, when he heard a faint moan, from several yards up the road. He ran toward the source of the noise, crying out as he did so: “Hello? Are you all right?” The voice, a woman’s, moaned something; it was not until he was almost upon her that he could discern the one word she was moaning over and over: “Father...”
Frowning, Sinclair knelt, gently examining her. She was wearing an ill-fitting man’s coat over her outfit, obviously pulled on in haste; there were sprinkles of an odd, silvery powder randomly flung about, and some of it had stuck to the coat. No sign of any gross physical trauma; no obvious broken bones; she must have been in the car, and dragged herself this far... concussion?
“Miss, can you hear me?” asked Sinclair. “My name is Charles Sinclair- I’m here to help you, but...” “ghost... ghouls...” she moaned, so softly that Sinclair could barely discern the words. “...drove them off... the powder... but... drained too much... finished... you must help him...”
“Help?” asked Sinclair, puzzlement vying with concern in his tone. His gaze seemed to be deceiving him; for a moment, she looked like... “What has happened to you? Whom do you wish for me to help?”
“Father!” gasped the woman suddenly, as she seized his hand is a grip as cold as ice; she barely seemed to know that he was there. “He looked too deeply... they saw... they came... he told me to run... house... back that way... then I saw him in the road... but...” She broke off, as shudders wracked her frail form. “Oh, God, save his soul! Help him!” she cried- then was suddenly, terribly still.
Sinclair knelt motionless by her body for a long moment, staring down at her pale, still beauty; hands that could crumple steel like paper delicately brushed a strand of hair from her face. When he stood, it was to wrap her body gently in the coat, pick it up, and return it to the car, the better for authorities to locate it. Her. He paused for a moment to ascertain his bearings, and then headed back the way she had indicated, deeper into the fog.
*
At first, he paid no attention to the impressions of darting sound and movement that would come to him through the fog; his thoughts were filled with the woman’s terror, and her dying words. Gradually, however, as he pressed on, he became increasingly aware that there was a strange pattern to these not-quite encounters, as if something was taking his measure... waiting... The fog was playing strange games with sound; one moment, he could scarcely hear his own footsteps, his own breath; the next, it was as though he were within the panting mouth of some enormous beast, some...
His thoughts broke off, as he spotted a huge building through the fog, looming atop a hill; this must be the home she had spoken of. Was that a light flickering in one window? His footsteps quickened on the gravel of the path...
Slash, and he staggered back, on legs suddenly weak. There was no blood; it was as though a knife of ice had cut his very soul. He looked frantically through the fog, but could see no attacker, no sign of... slash, and he was on his hands and knees, gasping, gravel digging into his palms. He pushed himself to his feet; for the first time in months, he allowed his hands to ball into fists. Whatever had struck at him would not find him easy prey... slash, and he had to fight to keep from falling again. He spun, trying to get a glimpse of his adversary, of something he could... run, some ancient instinct told him; he turned, and bolted for the house.
Slash slash slash and he was on his side, curled into a ball, fighting to breathe, unable to see anything but the mists that closed over his head like an ocean, drowning him... there! He lashed out one hand, and grabbed... what? It was colder than the fog, but no more substantial; his fingers groped blindly in the mist. Another slashing attack, and he was lying on the ground, gravel digging into his cheek. For the first time, he realized that he might die at this lonely place. A part of him welcomed the thought, he realized-but even as he fell back, he heard another voice, a woman’s... Agnes... “If you die, Charles, what will become of me?”
The thought gave him new strength; he forced his numbed fingers into a fist, and closed his eye. Strange chemicals surged through his bloodstream; even as his spectral attackers closed in for the kill, he felt the full, explosive force of his power surge through him- a beautiful, terrifying feeling. He raised his fist, and then smashed it to the ground; a detonation like a howitzer shell tore through the mist even as Sinclair slumped to the ground, unconscious.
*
A soft pillow beneath his cheek; metallic taste in his mouth; numbing cold, receding now. Sinclair forced his one eye open; although his eyesight was still blurry, he could see he was in a starkly appointed living room, lying on a sofa. A sound: footsteps, approaching lightly from the next room. He tried to push himself to his feet, but succeeded merely in rolling over onto his stomach as the footsteps approached, coming to a stop next to his head. “Try to hold still,” said a youthful male voice. “If you’ve been attacked by the ghost-ghouls, you’ll need some time to regain your strength. What the devil did you drive them off with-dynamite?” Craning his neck, Sinclair was able to catch a glimpse of black dress shoes, and what seemed to be the pants of... a tuxedo? “Who... are you?” he asked.
“Ah, forgive me, my friend,” murmured the voice, which had now assumed the tone and cadence of an actor’s. Gentle hands rolled him over, revealing a slim, handsome man dressed in a tuxedo, complete with top hat and cloak. “My name is Raphael De Angelo, but men know me best as... Doctor Mystery.”
“The magician...?”
“Oh, you’ve heard of me?” asked Raphael, brightening. “That’s good; I... anyway, you should be safe for now; the ghost-ghouls are still prowling around outside, but I’ve managed to mystically seal this house against them.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he added, as Sinclair got to his feet.
“Yes, well-we British are a tough lot,” replied Sinclair; he swayed on his feet as strength returned to his limbs, and his vision began to clear.
“So I see,” Raphael replied dryly. “You certainly left quite a crater in the Iverson’s front yard, at any rate. Do you mind telling me how you managed that?”
“I’ll be happy to answer your questions-and I also have a few of my own.” As he recovered, Charles took a moment to look as his rescuer more closely: smooth, graceful hands with an excellent manicure; expensive pomade; his tuxedo was of the finest cut. Clearly, Raphael was wealthy, and also young; he had an anxious look on his face, as he watched Sinclair steady himself. “First, though, might I trouble you for a cup of tea?”
*
“...so then,” continued the magician, as he poured steaming water into Charles’ cup, “no sooner had the train come to a stop because of the fog, than I began feeling mystic emanations-incredibly powerful and chaotic ones-coming from this house. I know the Iversons, and I was greatly worried about their safety; I headed here at once, only to discover that Monteo was missing, and the ghost-ghouls were roaming the yard. I thought of telephoning the police, but they’d be helpless... At any rate, I was trying to protect Sarah, but she and I became separated; I hope she’s all right.”
“Sarah, you say? Would that be his daughter?”
“Yes-why?”
As he sipped his tea, Charles explained in as gentle a fashion as possible the events that had led him here. When he got to Sarah’s fate, Raphael stared at him in shock. “She’s... dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied Charles softly; Raphael cleared his throat repeatedly, and stared out the window for several minutes before speaking.
“When... when I was studying with Monteo, I used to talk to Sarah afterwards. She used to tell me that... that she was afraid for him; that he tended to overreach himself, and perform spells that were too powerful for him to truly control. He and I had a huge argument about it, and I wound up leaving-I always felt that something like this might...”
He broke off, and rested his head against the window; finally, Charles moved next to him, and put a hand on Raphael’s shoulder with exquisite care. “There was no way you could have known,” he said softly, after an awkward pause. “Whatever happened, then or now... you simply have to forgive yourself.”
Raphael looked at him for a long moment through tearing eyes, and finally nodded. “Thank you,” he murmured, in an almost inaudible voice. Then, clearing his throat again, he collected his hat, wand, and other paraphernalia, and walked toward the front door.
“What do you intend to do?” Charles asked.
“I plan to find some way of locating the place where Iverson cast the spell; there should be an altar of some kind there. If I can find the altar and destroy it, things should return to normal.”
“Perhaps I could be of some assistance?” asked Charles. “As you may have noticed, I’m quite capable of handling myself physically.”
At his words, relief flooded the magician’s face. “You know, I didn’t know how to bring it up, but I was hoping you’d say something like that. Follow me; the mystic energies I’ve been tracking seem to emanate from the swamp behind the house.”
They paused at the doorway; Charles noticed that more of the silvery powder had been smeared along the jamb. Raphael stretched out his hands, and closed his eyes. “It’s all right,” he finally said, “the ghost-ghouls seem to have departed for the moment.” With that they stepped out of the house, and walked down a sloping path until they found themselves at the edge of the swamp.
“So,” Charles finally asked, “what precisely do we do, when we find this... nexus of activity?”
“Ah...” Doctor Mystery finally replied, “Actually, I’m... not quite sure. I’ve... never really done this before.”
“Pardon me...?”
“I usually use magic only as part of my stage act, although I am fully trained in the mystic arts,” replied Raphael, in a rather defensive tone. “At any rate-from what I’ve read, there’s usually an altar of some sort, where the conjuring takes place. I can track mystic emanations; I’ve found a spell in Iverson’s library which should break the enchantments on the altar itself, and with any luck, that should return things to normal... although obviously, I’ve never tested that theory.”
There was a brief pause, as Sinclair took this in. “I’m not going to lie to you,” Raphael finally said. “I have no idea if it will work. We could die... or worse. I have to go-for Sarah, and for Monteo-but if you want to turn back, no one would blame you.”
Charles paused for a moment in thought. The cold, implacable attack of the ghost-ghouls; Raphael’s face, the face of a man desperate to put things right; Sarah’s cold hand, desperately clenching his. Agnes... “No,” he finally said. “I’m with you all the way.” Raphael silently gripped his shoulder for a moment, then turned, and carefully lowered the toe of one polished shoe into the muck of the swamp.
*
The two men strode silently through the ooze of the swamp, shadowy figures in the mists; Sinclair lightly kept a grip on De Angelo's arm, to help keep track of him. Every few minutes, Doctor Mystery would repeat his ritual of checking the mystical emanations; he did so now.
“Are we getting closer, do you think?” Charles finally asked.
“I believe so,” replied the magician. “In fact, it’s getting stron- look out!”
Suddenly, Sinclair felt the slashing cold of a ghost-ghoul’s attack; he lost his grip on De Angelo’s arm. In the confusion, he fell backwards into the waters of the swamp itself-as he struggled to keep afloat, he could see De Angelo uttering mystic phrases as he attempted to drive off their attackers. Even as Charles swam awkwardly toward solid ground, he could see De Angelo’s form vanish, swallowed up by the mists.
*
Charles looked around; he was utterly lost, in the midst of the swirling fog. He called Raphael’s name again-no answer. He’d searched the area where he’d last seen the other man, to no avail. Now, all he could hear was the sound of his own voice, muffled by the fog; he looked around, worriedly, but could only see the swirling mists. There seemed to be no sign of the ghost-ghouls, but that meant nothing: they could attack without warning. He reached out blindly, and could feel only his own drenched clothing... and a faint tingling, on his fingertips.
Charles looked at his fingers carefully; flecks of the silvery powder from Sarah’s coat were still stuck to them. He drew his hand closer to himself, experimentally; the tingling faded. He reached out in the opposite direction-nothing. He reached out in the same direction as before, and felt the same persistent tingling sensation. Was the powder somehow responding to Iverson’s sorcery? In the absence of other information, he would have to assume so; he began walking forward blindly, one hand stretched out before him. He had no idea how long he walked; the trail was tenuous, and several times seemed to be on the verge of vanishing entirely-until suddenly, he felt a numbing wave of cold wash over his entire body.
Charles tensed, clenching his fists- but it didn’t seem to be the ghost-ghouls this time. He paused, then stepped forward- he found himself in some sort of natural clearing. The fog stopped at the clearing’s boundary; Charles could see, about forty feet in front of him, a huge stone slab of some kind. This must be the altar De Angelo had mentioned. Sinclair stepped forward, fists clenched... and suddenly came to a stop, as though he had walked into a wall. He stretched out his hand; when he reached more than a few inches ahead of himself, his hand was simply halted by some invisible force. He pushed harder; no effect, save that the tingling of his fingertips became more pronounced. He pushed harder still-nothing. Then, he braced his back against the invisible wall, and pushed with all his unearthly might; although his feet gouged furrows into the muck of the swamp, he advanced not an inch. Very well; he would have to use his full explosive force again. He clenched his fist, and closed his eye- only to have it snap open as a faint voice came to him: “Charles...?”
His head snapped around; his eye widened in disbelief, as Sarah Iverson stepped out of the mists. Reflexively, he backed away a step. “Charles, are you all right?” She asked. “I’m scared...”
“I saw you die...” Charles murmured; even as his rational mind rejected what he saw, he felt himself being drawn to the figure before him. She was alive... all would be well...
“No, Charles-they drained me to the brink of death, but I recovered after you left. Will you hold me, Charles? I’m still so dreadfully cold, and frightened... protect me, Charles...”
Almost against his will, Charles stepped away from the altar, and reached out to her. A portion of his mind noted abstractly that the tingling of his hand, as he reached out to her, was almost painful now. He walked closer, reaching out to her; as he was about to take her hand, he heard Raphael’s voice cry, “Sinclair-look out!”
The magician suddenly appeared next to him, in a puff of smoke, and reached out to grab him. For a mere instant, Charles saw an image out of nightmare: the form of Sarah Iverson stretched and distorted and her arms elongated out to reach for him as her jaw dropped, revealing a gaping, cavernous maw. Then, there was another puff of smoke; when it cleared, he and De Angelo were across the clearing from the thing that had been Sarah Iverson.
“Sinclair, get hold of yourself!” cried the magician, shaking him. “That creature ensorcelled you! We need to destroy this altar, and unmake it!”
“How?” asked Sinclair, even as they walked rapidly around the altar, keeping its mass between them and the shadow creature; apparently, it was no more capable of traversing the clearing than were they.
“Iverson must have put a glyph on the altar, to prevent anyone from doing what we’re attempting; I think the spell from his library will counteract it. When I read it, be ready to use your full force on that altar; if you don’t, we’re doomed!”
“But what about you? If you stop to read the spell, won’t that creature...”
“Just be ready!” said the magician, eyes wide with fear. Then, he pulled a scroll from his cloak, and began to read in an unearthly language. At the sound of his voice, the creature hissed, then started moving around the altar toward them with fearsome speed. With a worried glance back at his companion, Sinclair stepped away; he clenched his fist, then closed his eye. Even as the chemicals which gave him his unearthly power coursed through his veins, he heard De Angelo complete the incantation, then cry, “Now, Charles, now!” Then there was a single, terrified scream.
Sinclair did not allow himself to look back; he lunged forward, and felt the unnatural barrier give way before him. Then, he leaped atop the altar, raised his fist high, then smashed it down-and there was an explosion, as loud as the end of the world.
*
“Raphael, are you all right...?”
The magician’s eyes finally cracked open, taking a moment to focus on Sinclair. Charles heaved a sigh of relief; he had been patting the magician’s face carefully, fearful of inadvertently harming the other man. He extended a hand, and gently helped De Angelo to his feet; he had carried De Angelo back to the Iverson house. Then, he looked down the hill-the sun had risen, and the fog had vanished completely-at Sarah’s car, where several policemen had gathered in response to his anonymous phone call. Sarah’s body had reverted to normal upon the destruction of the altar; now, it-she-was being loaded onto an ambulance gurney. There was an uncomfortable silence. “You seem to have recovered,” Charles finally said, not taking his gaze from Sarah’s car. “Those policemen should be able to offer you a ride back to town.”
“And you...?”
“I’ll probably just continue my walking,” said Sinclair, finally. “I have... a great deal to think about.”
There was a pause. “You know,” Raphael finally said, “I couldn’t have managed any of this without...”
“Quite all right; glad to be of service,” replied Charles. “Things are well in hand now, though; time I was on my way.”
“Are you sure? We really seemed to work well together...”
The Englishman stood silent for a moment before responding. From his angle, Raphael could see only the unblemished side of Charles’ face; his scholarly, delicate features looked troubled in the early morning light. “Perhaps we did at that,” murmured Sinclair finally. “However, I fear I’m... not really suited to this sort of thing. At any rate,” he continued, suddenly turning and striding away, “we accomplished what we set out to do-pity about the girl and her father, though.”
Raphael stared after him for a moment, and then strode briskly after him. Catching up to him at the end of the woods, he put a hand on Charles’ shoulder; Sinclair allowed the other man to bring him to a halt.
“Charles-think about this; we could really...”
“I’m afraid this isn’t really my line,” said Sinclair curtly. “I’m glad that we were able to stop that creature, but I fear I’m not really intended for helping people.”
“Like Sarah, you mean?” Raphael tried to meet the other man’s gaze, but Charles merely turned his head. “Charles, there was nothing we could do! Once the ghost-ghouls got her, she was simply...”
“I wish it were so simple,” said Sinclair, with a bitter tone. “Believe me, there are far too many people out there who would be better off had they never come across me; you simply have no idea...” He broke off, images from the camp flooding his mind. Suddenly, he felt a hand gripping his arm.
“Charles- sometimes, you simply have to forgive yourself...”
Suddenly, the Englishman snapped. Shrugging himself free from De Angelo’s grip, he turned and agitatedly paced to the edge of the clearing. “Forgive myself? Forgive myself? You have no idea what you’re speaking of! Do you know who I am, or what I did in the war? I’m Charles Chester Putman Sinclair Drake, of Drake Industries-I invented the explosives the used at The Somme, when Germans and Frenchmen alike were butchered by the thousands! I sat and watched as my ideas were perverted into weapons of war, and I helped them do it-why, when the Germans captured me, it was because I wanted to see those weapons in action! I spent months lying as a helpless, self-pitying cripple next to the ruins of men who had befriended me-all because of my monstrous need to prove myself!” He paced back and forth, barely aware of where he was; De Angelo had to step out of his way repeatedly.
“When I set off the explosion that was supposed to release me from that accursed prison, and I woke up to find myself like this” -he indicated the ruin of his face- “and still alive, and when I discovered these accursed abilities of mine-all I could think of was to run-to hide somewhere where I could curl up to die, and Father would never have to know what have become of his son and heir.” He shuddered, as he met the other man’s gaze. “I remember I had broken the restraints, and was heading for the fence, when I ran straight into a guard-he merely stood there, and stared at me in shock...”
Sinclair came to a halt. “I simply stared back at him for a moment, then took a step toward him; he brought up his rifle. Without thinking, I reached out to grab at him...” He held his hands before himself; they suddenly spasmed into claws.
“No... I tell you truthfully, Raphael- there is no real difference between myself, and that creature we encountered. I should have let it do away with me.” Charles’ face was sick with pain, as he looked away, into the past. “They all had families, you know,” he finally said. “Jerry, I mean. Children wondering if their father would be home for Christmas dinner, not knowing what kind of a monster had...”
He broke off, burying his face in his arms; his hands clenched at his forearms. Raphael stared at him helplessly, wondering what to do; he tentatively reached out a hand to touch the other man’s shoulder. If Charles noticed, he gave no sign.
“Charles... I can’t speak to what you did in the war, and maybe... maybe it isn’t my place to. Everyone there did horrible things; that’s what a war is-and if your explosives helped it end sooner, then maybe they would up saving lives, on both sides; I don’t know. But... there are still other people out there. People who do need help, and whom you can save. If that’s true, then don’t you owe it to them to try...?”
After a moment, Charles lifted his head, his face working to hold back tears. “And how would you suggest I do that?”
“I don’t know, but-you still have your mind. If you can invent explosives, perhaps you could invent other things-better things?”
“And what sort of a laboratory would allow a misshapen freak such as myself access to its facilities? It’s impossible, I tell you-impossible!” Before De Angelo could say another word, Sinclair had turned, and fled into the woods.
*
When he regained his senses, he realized that he now stood at the edge of a quiet, sunlit pool in the midst of the wood. His face was scratched from his headlong flight; he took a handkerchief, and dipped it into the burbling water. For a moment, he saw his face reflected in the water, unblemished and whole; then, as he turned his head, there was only the blackness of the mask. He slowly sat upon a rock at the water’s edge, and dabbed at the scratches on his face, as a bird’s chirping filled the morning air. Slowly, almost idly, he picked up a branch, and whittled at it with his penknife until it had reached a sharp point.
Sinclair sat by the pool for an endless moment, motionless. The stick hung loosely in his hand, its point aimed in the general direction of his heart. A deer walked into the clearing, then bounded away; a fish leaped out of the pond. Sinclair turned his head, and silently watched the ripples spread across the pond’s surface. He dipped his fingertips into the waters, as the night’s events replayed themselves endlessly in his mind. The bird sang, heedlessly cheery. Sometimes, you simply have to forgive yourself... Finally, as the sun dappled a pattern on the rock on which he sat, he made his decision.
*
I don’t know where I am going from here, or what I am meant to do, the note read when the magician received it, weeks later. Perhaps, my friend, you can help me find out.