Sherlock Holmes: The Shadow From Beyond (11 page)

Members of the Great Old Ones that are of most import within the mythos canon are listed as: Cthulhu himself, leader of the revolt. Nyarlotothep; the messenger. Cthuga; the cleanser and Azathoth; the soldier. Other minions are mentioned with less urgency but great malignancy: the Mi-go; a crustacean like fungous, Shoggoths; a monstrous slave race created to originally serve the Elder Gods, Dagon; the dweller in the sea, and Ithaqua; he of the wind and ice.

It was with this information that Watson slowly began to formulate the gravity of the situation at hand, the difficulty of the task set before them, and the powers of the forces opposing them. He sat in silence contemplating all these details for many minutes, unfortunately each bit of data lead to more questions and more confusion.

Eventually, overwhelmed by the prior night’s events and the information now pressed upon his strained mind, Watson closed Harper’s journal and stared out the window at the passing shadows in the night. In time fatigue overwhelmed him and he was lulled to sleep by the hypnotic thumping of the train as it passed over the miles of cold track.

Nightmare

Watson stood on the grass within a large field. Children laughed aloud as they played in the grass nearby, chasing butterflies or kicking brightly colored balls. In the distance he could see a town of some kind and recognizes that it was not a typical British town but more one of continental European design. Overall the scene was pleasant and he felt comfortable and relaxed, serene.

The sun was high and there was a cool breeze wafting about, the scent of flowers tickled his nose. He took in a long breath as his eyes gazed over the view spread out before him. He smiled.

Soon there came to him a low shuddering of the earth beneath his feet, a disturbance began to stir in the atmosphere around him. The wind increased in speed, it became agitated, numbing. He looked over his shoulder and saw large mass of black clouds forming on the distant horizon. They twisted and turned, curled upon themselves and quickly moved towards him. It was almost as if they are alive these clouds, a churning mass of roiling organic shapes and forms.

Within moments the sun was blotted out by this misty mass and all became dark, cold. He noticed a cliff face behind him, upon this face a massive cave entrance gaped like a dark maw ready to swallow him whole. He was overcome by fear and began to run across the field, towards the town, but no matter how much he ran, the town did not draw closer.

He heard a great explosion from behind, and was thrown to the ground by a powerful force that encompassed him, through him and then continued onward past him. The sensation he experienced was like that of a warm mass of air travelling at great velocity. He looked up to see the field afire. Great flames of orange and red surrounded him. The grass and trees were burning, all was an inferno, yet he was unaffected; the heat did not reduce his breath, the flames did not blister his skin. It was then that he heard the shrieking of children, and recognized the blackening forms of youngsters that ran about. Their bodies were enveloped by flame and sickly black plumes of greasy smoke flowed off their flailing limbs. Eventually they stopped, collapsed upon the scorched ground and in time the breeze scattered their ashen bodies to be lost to the winds.

He pulled himself from the ground and stood in shock as all around him had been destroyed. All proof of life reduced to grey ash and dust. He stared in silent awe and tears streaked down his soot covered cheeks.

A smell assaulted him then. Strong, sharp and overpowering. Brine, salt, sea. It originated from the maw of the cave. It flowed over him from behind. Like a moist blanket it smothered him. He tried to cover his nose with his hand, but the smell permeated and he gagged violently. The ground shook once more, accompanied by a high pitched piping of flutes that resounded in a cacophony of rhythmic madness. He watched, waited, he stared intently at the gaping maw as the audible effect increased. Then something emerged, it spilled out of the cave like thick rubbery petrol, all tentacles, eyes and mouths. It coiled toward him, increasing in size as it poured from the hole. The smell of decay it emitted was beyond human description. He crouched low and extended his hands in hopes to stop it, to protect himself, but there was no need as the entity passed through him as if he were a ghost, immaterial.

He looked back over his shoulder, toward the town in the distance, yet untouched by the destruction around him, and sighed. The creature was heading right for it, and all the people within.

Watson watched as the mass of churning darkness sped on, and within moments hovered menacingly above the town. It hesitated only seconds before it plunged down upon the hapless people below.

A thousand voices assailed him then, voices filled with fear and suffering. The cries grew in volume, they became louder, agonized, tortured. He covered his ears to shut them out, but to no avail. No matter how hard he tried he could not avoid the horrific screams of those helpless tormented souls that resounded within his mind!

Watson awoke to the screeching of train brakes and Holmes eyeing him curiously from over the afternoon paper. “Bad dreams old boy?” he enquired. “I have had them too. Very odd imagery in mine, stuff that could easily turn one toward the needle, if you understand my meaning. At some point, when I get a moment, I will have to try and deduce their exact context. Meanwhile, a spot of tea should calm your nerves, enjoy while it’s still hot.”

The doctor pulled himself upright and poured himself a steaming cup of Earl Grey from the breakfast tray delivered earlier, its aroma seemed to sooth him and the horrible images of his imagination quickly faded.

The remark concerning Holmes’ cocaine addiction did not go unnoticed by the good doctor and considering these recent events he could easily understand how a dose of that seven percent solution may help calm one’s nerves. So far though, he had yet to see the detective remove that certain small black case from his travel bag, so far.

Watson sipped the flavorful drink slowly while Holmes quoted from the newspaper he held in hand, also delivered with their breakfast tray. “It mentions here in the harbor news section of La Gazette that the Aurora had still not docked at port this morn, over six hours late from its original posted arrival time. It was confirmed to have left Dover, England on schedule and was due to be at the port of Le Havre at 3 a.m., but neither sign nor word had been heard since just after 11 p.m. when a slight course update had been received by wireless. The article states that a French navy ship will be sent to look into the matter if the Aurora does not arrive or communicate with port authorities within the next four hours.” Holmes closed the newspaper, “Unfortunately, I doubt much more will ever be heard from that ship or its crew again.”

“Should we not inform the port of what happened?” replied Watson as he rubbed the remaining sleep from his eyes.

“I think not old friend. I am sure the authorities would classify our tale as pure insanity, and for us time is not something we can waste in filling out fantastical tales in police paperwork,” noted Holmes as he removed his travel bag from the upper berth. “We should arrive at our destination of Metz in a few more stops. As per the return address on the envelope sent to Harper, this is the town in which Count Lebda’s residence is most probably located. At the moment we have collected much information, yet I lack an exact motive for Harper’s murder or what Count Lebda’s plans are, although I am certain they involve a greater evil purpose. Surely we can gather the facts we require by calling upon him at his home, let us hope he does not mind a couple of unexpected guests.”

Metz

The two companions descended to the platform at the train station in Metz, the steam from the train engine bellowed about them like dragons breath. The place was a bustle of activity, with many travelers and their luggage crowded about jostling for space on the small landing.

Holmes examined his pocket watch. “It is now getting late into the afternoon and we should secure lodgings and a meal before it gets too dark. Come, Watson, let us check the local inns for a room and hearty lunch. If my French is not too rusty we should also be able to pry some information from the locals concerning this Count Lebda fellow. Let us also pick up a good vintage to accompany our meal, we are now in France after all and should enjoy the excellent wine this great country has to offer, n’est-ce pas?”

Metz is a picturesque little French town near the German border that featured cozy ornamented cottages and narrow cobblestone lanes that intertwined about charming small parks and public areas. The busy residents seemed friendly and were clad in the colorful costumes of the area, a cultured a mix of both French and German traditions. The sun, shining brightly in an almost cloudless sky above, lent a quaint atmosphere to the entire scene.

The directions previously garnered from the smiling ticket master back at the train station led the duo easily to a local inn and tavern whose wooden sign above translated to

‘The Wild Boar’. After checking into their simple sparsely furnished room and taking a moment to wash up, Holmes and Watson settled into the soft cushioned chairs of the tavern below, eager for a quality local meal. Within a few minutes two heaping plates of steaming food sat before them alongside glasses of the fine vintage they had brought along, a beautiful fruity red from the Saint-Émilion region near Bordeaux. Watson’s eyes widened at the sight of the meal and could feel the saliva that pooled inside his watering mouth.

The lamb and vegetable stew was absolutely fabulous, and Holmes made sure the landlady knew it. “C’est magnifique votre repas mademoiselle! Vous avez le touché d’une ange.” Holmes directed the remark her way in a voice loud enough that the other patrons heard. “Merci beacoup pour votre excellente service, nous avons choisier le bon tavern pour certain.” He added in rather fluent French as he gestured toward the generous plate of food in front of him.

The innkeeper and his wife smiled broadly at the compliment and both seemed to speak at once when they replied their thanks. “Merci monsieu, merci.”

This simple exchange had a definite impression on the atmosphere of those seated around the pair as the duo went from being strangers to welcomed guests within minutes. Many curious locals eventually came over to say hello and enquire where they were from and about their business in the area. With the ice now broken and the awkwardness removed, Holmes was easily able strike up conversations with some of these locals about their town, its history and of course any information on Count Lebda they may be willing to offer. He noticed that when the name Lebda was mentioned, that many become quiet and reserved, a few even excused themselves from the conversation. All that save the town drunk, who, eager to keep the attention on himself, spewed freely all he knew on the subject. The pair joined him at his table, making sure to bring another bottle of wine along to ply his already lose tongue.

The haggard middle aged man was named Francois and he slurred slightly as he spoke his tale, but Holmes was able to follow his peasant French and translated the details to Watson as he went. Francois explained that the Count lives in a large mansion south of the town, on a high hill that overlooked the valley below. The estate has many acres of prime land and a separate residence for his servants, who live in a small house concealed near the far end of the estate. Count Lebda has rarely been seen by locals; in fact some consider him a ghost, a myth. He remained mostly in his mansion and was sometimes seen strolling about its grounds, yet he has never made an appearance in town. He has lived there for only a few years, perhaps five and no more, purchasing the estate from a widower after her husband, a local businessman, had died. The estate itself was vacant for many years before that couple had bought it from the town proper. Some spoke of the place as being haunted and none wanted anything to do with it, but in time that businessman was able to acquire the property for a very affordable sum.

The businessman’s money built the lavish house that stands on the grounds today, where was once a crumbling ruin that was rumored to be an ancient pagan temple, lay decomposing. He had torn away any rotting structures that had remained of this archaic place of worship and built his new sprawling home on the ancient stones of the old temple’s floor. Further away on the property he built the much smaller guest house used by Lebda’s servants today.

But after only two years of occupation the man died, some say mauled by a wild animal or savage beast. His headless corpse was found in the bushes nearby, his torso a tattered mess of ripped flesh. None the less, the wife, who had always hated the place, sold it off to a foreign interest at a reduced sum and quickly vacated it. That investor happened to be Count Lebda, and he has resided there ever since.

A few months after the sale of the property a large convoy of carriages arrived with all the Count’s personal items as well as his own group of servants. Those servants were brought in from Eastern Europe, or beyond, the origin of the Lebda family line and ancestral home. So is rumored. Those few locals who attempted to gain employment at the mansion had been turned away and told to spread the news that none in the town need apply as there were no positions available.