Lord Ainsley was a man bored with his humdrum life. A loveless marriage, overbearing parents who still chose to interfere with his choices… No wonder he sought distractions wherever he could find them.
Nothing as improper as possessing a mistress—though his friends certainly dallied in that, trying to inject some spice into their own uninteresting lives—he sought excitement elsewhere. Chemistry was a passion of his. And also, the many mysterious vagaries of the occult.
And on this windswept autumn night, he sat in one of the Kraken Club’s parlors, observing a séance.
The lights were down, all but a candelabra on the circular table he and the other club members faced.
Low mutterings, the occasional whiff of tobacco. The atmosphere was a genial one, everyone in good spirits as they anticipated this occult display.
A door opened to his right.
Ainsley turned, watched a trio of shadowy figures heading towards the table.
A tall gray-haired woman wearing a high-collared scarlet dress led the three. She was followed by a harried-looking, black-haired man in a green coat. He carried a large wooden box. A plump young woman in a plaid dress, a straw bonnet upon her red locks, took up the rear. She also held a box.
The eldest of the three reached the table and turned to face the audience. Someone in front of Ainsley stood and approached her.
Lord Harrenhal. Large, florid-faced and bearded. Impeccable in his dinner suit.
He bowed to the woman and shook her proffered hand.
Her companions stepped behind the table, placed their boxes to the floor and began unpacking them.
“Good gentlemen,” Harrenhal addressed the crowd. “We have for you this evening a display from the most talented Spirit Medium of the age, Madame d’Esperance.”
Those around Ainsley began clapping. He joined them.
The woman smiled, placed her hands in a praying gesture, and bowed.
The pair waited till the applause ceased, and Harrenhal continued.
“Most experienced, the madame is. Tonight, she promises to reveal secrets from beyond the grave, exhibitions that prove beyond a shadow of a doubt the souls of the deceased may be contacted, even manifest themselves upon this earthly plane.”
More clapping, Ainsley included. He felt truly intrigued.
Harrenhal returned to his seat, and all attention was on the woman.
“Thank you,” she said, a beaming smile upon her face. “As the good sir says, I shall prove to you that souls continue to exist after death. That it is possible to speak to them. I have many tools to facilitate this, including ones that shall prove no fraud is possible.”
“Now.” She walked past her helpers, paused near the fireplace on the rear wall.
“The magnetism is best here,” she said. “Miss Dorris, bring the chair and my robe.”
The girl stopped unpacking, went to the table, and dragged a chair towards d’Esperance. As she passed her male companion, he handed her a black bundle.
“Tonight,” Madame d’Esperance continued, “You may witness automatic writing, ectoplasm, dematerialization, premonitions, and table-turning. This depending on what the spirits gift us with.”
Miss Dorris placed the chair beside d’Esperance and shook the black bundle out. It appeared to be a robe of some sort.
“Place it on me,” d’Esperance ordered, and raised her arms.
“This costume will ensure I can commit no fraud,” she explained.
Someone near Ainsley chuckled. Another voice shushed the man.
Miss Dorris placed the robe on Madame d’Esperance, arms first. She stepped behind her and started to button it up.
The young man began placing objects on the table. Musical instruments, Ainsley could see a bass drum, a fiddle, a trumpet, a tambourine, and more.
“As you bear witness, there is no way to use my hands here.” Madame d’Esperance raised her arms. The cuffs of the robe were tied.
The young woman helped move her shuffling form towards the chair, sitting her down.
“Miss Dorris.”
Producing a strip of black fabric, she proceeded to cover d’Esperance’s eyes.
The man had finished laying the instruments out. He retrieved the boxes and took them to the side of the room.
“Now…” d’Esperance paused for some seconds before she continued. “I need my girl beside me to help utilize my speaking trumpet. The spirits, on occasion, use a medium’s vocal cords, manipulating our voices to send messages. The trumpet will magnify these words for you to hear.”
Miss Dorris hurried to the table, retrieved a long brass horn from amongst the instruments.
She returned to Madame d’Esperance and whispered in her ear.
“We are ready.” d’Esperance said. “Clarence. Extinguish the candles. All but one”
The man returned to the table, licked his fingers, and began snuffing the candles out. A short hiss accompanied each extinguishing.
The room became darker. Ainsley’s anticipation swelled.
“I shall now attempt to contact my control.” d’Esperance said. “He is a departed Red Indian Brave who acts as my spokesperson when I am in trance. Squanto, are you there? I need your assistance.”
Silence. One of Ainsley’s companions coughed lightly. Someone sucked on a freshly lit pipe. The room remained quiet a short while longer, until a loud “rap” issued from somewhere to the left.
“Is that the door?” someone whispered.
“No, the wall,” an anonymous voice replied.
A rap issued from their right this time, followed by two more from the ceiling.
A chill of fear filled Ainsley’s chest.
“Ah, Squanto, my spirit friend. Are you well?”
Ainsley leaned forward, squinted. The young woman beside d’Esperance remained still. He looked for the man but couldn’t find him in the gloom.
d’Esperance continued. “I kindly ask the Spirit Realm, you my Spirit Guide, to bring forth a soul so I may prove the existence of the afterworld. Oh. You wish to speak through me? Miss Dorris? The speaking trumpet, please.”
Some shadowy movements, then:
“I am here, Mistress,” said a drawn out, echoing voice.
Ainsley experienced another chill.
“There is a spirit close by,” the voice continued, “by the name of Billy Swift. Billy Swift, come forth. Reveal yourself.”
The man beside Ainsley snickered, said, “Billy Swift indeed.”
He turned to see who it was in the darkness. Some other fellow’s exclamation returned his attention to d’Esperance.
One of the instruments, the tambourine, had elevated from the table.
An invisible hand slapped the tambourine, making it jingle. A moment later, a fiddle rose, the strings plucked by unseen hands.
Ainsley was entranced. One instrument could be the work of the unseen Clarence, but two?
The tambourine shook. The fiddle issued a discordant noise.
Beyond the floating instruments, Madame d’Esperance and her assistant were vague but visible.
A trumpet rose from the table. It joined the racket with a loud wail.
Butterflies filling his chest, Ainsley felt fascinated by the miraculous display.
The instruments cavorted in the air, producing a cacophony of noise. A tea bell rose and joined the ghostly orchestra.
This continued for some minutes. Abruptly, the instruments dropped to the table with a clatter.
Ainsley wasn’t the only one to jump. The silence that followed felt palpable.
Madame d’Esperance issued a low moan.
“She is in trance,” Miss Dorris said. “Billy Swift has done with the musical instruments. He shall now perform another feat. Would you please approach the table.”
Interesting, Ainsley thought, and stood with the others as they made their way forward.
Ainsley felt unnerved being in such close proximity to the instruments. He feared they might jump up, begin playing through unseen hands.
But they remained static. His attention was drawn to Madame d’Esperance as she issued another moan.
He could see her more clearly. Miss Dorris stood beside the Medium’s slowly lurching body.
Someone exclaimed, said, “Look at her face.”
My word! Something was wriggling from d’Esperance’s mouth. White, glowing matter, it traveled snake-like down her chin.
d’Esperance groaned, her chest heaved.
The men around him spoke in surprised voices.
The stuff worked its way down her chest, the tip twisting like a serpent’s head.
“Gentlemen. Billy Swift brings ectoplasm from Madame d’Esperance’s very body,” Miss Dorris said, and the table-bound tambourine rattled.
***
The demonstration over, Ainsley stood alone, drinking scotch and water. The lights were up now, other members chatting and drinking in small groups.
He felt numb, his mind a flurry with thoughts and conjectures.
That stuff, the ectoplasm. If only he could get a sample, examine it in his laboratory.
Madame d’Esperance sat with a glass of port in one hand, a flickering fan in the other. Miss Dorris, having removed the robe, was placing it in one of the boxes. Clarence stood at the table, putting the instruments away.
He took a sip of scotch, felt the warmth trickle down his throat.
The other members didn’t appear especially phased. He was the newest one, however, and perhaps this was a common occurrence to them.
Two men nodded to him as they left the chamber. Across from him, two senior members stood in tight conversation with a third.
Lord Harrenhal. Lord Smyth-Jones, thin, elderly, and clean shaven. The third man he didn’t recognize. The fellow was tall, had a somewhat vulture-like visage. He had a white mustache, black hair with a distinctive white streak above each ear.
It appeared the trio were talking about him.
Ainsley blushed, turned his attention elsewhere.
“Ainsley my boy! Quite the show, eh?”
Lord Harrenhal approached, leaving his companions in deep conversation.
“Ah, Lord Harrenhal. All is well?”
Harrenhal nodded, his thick jowls wobbling.
“Yes, yes m’boy. Exciting stuff. We had Madame d’Esperance here twice before, you know. Before your time. How long have you been here? She is a hopeless fraud, however.”
Ainsley felt shocked. “A fraud? Oh dear, no. Really?”
“Hush, hush.” Lord Harrenhal stepped closer, whispered in a conspiratorial voice: “Oh, those assistants of hers. Up to all kinds of tricks.”
Ainsley smelled alcohol on Harrenhal’s breath, noted his eyes were a little bloodshot.
“We have something…” Harrenhal took a quick look around, and, “Well, we usually only involve established members. We have something a mite more serious than tonight’s hogwash. Would you be—”
“Lord Harrenhal. Apsley, is it?”
Lord Smyth-Jones appeared behind Harrenhal. Harrenhal stepped aside.
The older man’s face held few wrinkles, the skin taut and almost translucent.
“Ainsley, sir, Lord Ainsley,” Ainsley corrected him.
Smyth-Jones nodded. “Ah yes, the chemist?”
His gaze was steely, intense.
“I dabble, sir,” Ainsley replied somewhat sheepishly.
“Before your interruption, I was about to inform young Ainsley here of the other business. The Shalka meteorite.” Harrenhal nodded.
Lord Smyth-Jones stepped closer, their little group as thick as thieves now.
He grinned, baring his teeth.
“Just the thing for a young man interested in the Spirit World,” Smyth-Jones said.
Both sets of eyes upon him, Ainsley felt a little trapped.
“I am fascinated, sirs,” he said, and took a nervous sip of scotch.
Smyth-Jones and Harrenhal shared a glance, the latter saying enthusiastically, “No time like the present!”
“Seriously?” Ainsley asked in surprise.
“In earnest,” Harrenhal replied. “Now, come along.”
Harrenhal headed towards a nearby exit.
“I shall be down shortly,” Smyth-Jones said to his back.
Ainsley gulped down the contents of his glass and placed it on a sideboard.
Soon after, he was in pursuit of Harrenhal, through the club’s expansive lobby.
Catching up, he asked, “Who was the man you were conversing with? You and Lord Smyth-Jones? I do not recall seeing him before.”
Harrenhal scratched his chin. “Oh. He is the club’s founder, m’boy. Introductions shall come later.”
The founder? My word. I am in deep.
His companion headed right, paused at a door within the wood-paneled wall. He patted the pockets of his dinner jacket, delved inside one and produced a key.
He waved it at Ainsley.
“There are only two of these in the entire club. Be folly to lose it, yes?”
Harrenhal unlocked the door, held it open for Ainsley after stepping inside.
“Close this behind you. Good chap.”
Beyond the door, a blue carpeted staircase descended to a lower level. Harrenhal waited for him at the top.
He closed the door and followed the man down.
“You will enjoy this,” Harrenhal said.
An open door awaited them at the foot of the stairs.
Reaching the bottom, Harrenhal paused.
“Our chamber of curiosities. Our collected research.”
He raised his arms, bowed in a theatrical flourish. “Please, make yourself at home and examine our collection.”
Filled with intrigue, Ainsley entered the room.
It had similar décor to the rest of the club. Wood-paneled walls, floor and ceiling. The rugs, scarlet and threaded with gold geometric patterns, lined the floor between row upon row of glass cabinets.
Ainsley looked to the other man, then back to the room. He stepped towards the nearest cabinet.
It held a milk-pale human arm.
Taken aback, he quickly realized what he was looking at. The arm lay upon a blue velvet base, beneath which a small, script-filled card proved his supposition.
Spirit Wax Mold
Teofil Modrzejewski Sitting
“Oh my,” he said. The hand’s balled fist appeared perfect in every detail. The arm itself terminated below the elbow. Spirit presences, proven by phantom limbs dipped in hot wax. He knew of the phenomenon, had never witnessed the evidence until now.
He looked to Harrenhal, who had remained at the door. He nodded encouragingly.
The next cabinet held a pair of hands, the digits touching as if in prayer. He leaned closer, saw delicate lines on the fingers, the fingernails, all perfectly simulated in wax.
As he stepped to another cabinet, Ainsley noted a door against the rear wall. He wondered what mysteries lay beyond.
The following cabinet held a human face. A roughly circular, membranous sheet, it was fringed and curled at the corners. It didn’t appear particularly organic, more like paper. The face was quite flat; the features looking more painted than shaped.
The card beneath read:
Ectoplasm
Victoria McCrae Medium
Ainsley recalled the ectoplasm at the séance.
“Sir,” he asked, turning to Lord Harrenhal. “Do you think I could possibly obtain a sample of this ectoplasm stuff? I would so like to examine it in my laboratory.”
Harrenhal strode across the room towards him.
“You may not be impressed by your results, m’boy,” he said. “But it is something I can arrange.
“Now,” he continued. “What I brought you here to see is in the next room.” He nodded, indicating the other door.
“Before you enter. You must make me a solemn promise. You will not speak of what you see to anyone in the club. Anyone without. Even your wife.”
The usual joviality was gone from Harrenhal’s face. Ainsley could see the seriousness in his expression.
No danger of my telling the wife. We are barely speaking, he thought, and, “Of course, sir, my lips are tightly shut.”
Harrenhal, appearing satisfied, smiled genially.
“After you, Ainsley.”
Before leaving the room, Ainsley glanced at the other cabinets. He saw ectoplasmic shapes in some, wooden objects of unknown function in others.
All this mystery. Ainsley felt flattered he’d been brought into the senior members’ inner circle, yet perturbed at what he’d encounter beyond the door.
The next room was larger than the previous one and shaped like an octagon. The red-papered walls led to a high, domed ceiling. Divided into eight partitions, the ceiling’s apex was centered by a candelabra.
Alternating black and white tiles formed the floor. Two dozen glass cabinets, arranged in rows of threes, faced each wall. At the room’s center stood something concealed beneath a large black cloth.
The nearest cabinet appeared to hold something large, molded from wax.
Harrenhal entered the room behind him, closing the door.
Ainsley examined the room as he walked forward. He noted an open door to his left. Sounds of sawing issued from within.
Something else. The wall beside the door appeared dedicated to science. There were tools on a worktop, glass jars mounted on shelves.
He went to query Harrenhal over this when he saw what the cabinet he was nearing held.
No wax limb this time. Rather, a naked torso, with arms and a head. The legs, everything below the protruding ribcage, missing.
He sent Harrenhal a shocked look. “This…thing. Where did you find it?”
“All in good time, m’boy.”
Ainsley returned his attention to the cabinet.
Thin blue veins stood visible beneath the torso’s transparent skin. The arms were slim, but well-muscled. The hands My God. They terminated in long, metallic claws. They appeared to have burst from the fingertips: the flesh there puckered and split.
The chest was sunken, and like the arms, hairless.
The head had thick black hair, sideburns leading to a prominent jawline.
Ainsley examined the face with some hesitance.
It was not the visage of a man. Perhaps a travesty of one.
The expression was malignant, even in death, as if the monstrous rage of this being had survived the grave.
Sharp features, a furrowed brow. Mouth set in a snarl. The eyes, devoid of pupil and iris, were black orbs.
He took a closer look at the teeth. Beneath a coating of dried blood, they appeared metallic.
Ainsley looked to Harrenhal again, then back to the cabinet.
A card, sat upon the blue velvet cushioning the torso, read:
First Integration
Peripheral: Frederick John Basford
First Integration? What does it mean? He dwelled on this only briefly, for there were other cabinets to see.
Ainsley stepped around the cabinet to the next.
At first, he thought it was dog. But no. No dog from this world, but perhaps one from a fevered nightmare.
He examined the creature from head to tail.
At least, what answered for a head. It resembled a mass of thick green feelers, laid slack upon the blue velvet. There were no eyes, no mouth, nothing that resembled sensory organs in the normal sense.
How could this have even lived? But live it had. The head led to a stocky, reddish brown body, devoid of fur apart from a thick shock of green lining its back. The fur appeared metallic in the chandelier’s light.
The legs, of which there were six, ended in metal-taloned paws.
The tail was a fleshy red stub.
Ainsley crouched to examine the underbody.
An array of dark pink nipples lined the flesh, between which a long, deep gash had been stitched up with thread.
Ainsley stood, turned to Harrenhal.
“You have been inside this thing? What was it like?”
Harrenhal nodded and headed right, towards another cabinet.
“Here. Come see.”
“Be right along,” Ainsley replied.
First, he checked the dog-thing’s display card.
Unknown Organism
Peripheral: Frederick John Basford
He approached the case Harrenhal stood before. The man had a hand to his mouth, staring at the contents in apparent consternation.
What Ainsley saw behind the glass made his gorge rise. He gulped it down and paused beside Harrenhal.
“Ghastly object, yes? An absolute abomination.”
He first thought it was a diseased organ, ripped from an equally diseased body. Around four feet long, varying in width from one foot to two, the large, tumorous lump was pale green in color.
Puckered sphincters and thick tubes dotted its surface, the latter neatly sliced off after a few inches.
And is that?
Ainsley couldn’t believe his eyes. Crouched in one of the tubes sat a diminutive humanoid form. Slender yellow limbs, a somewhat bulbous head, it had three obsidian eyes, a small slit of a mouth. Its hands gripped a nodule protruding from the tube’s inner wall.
He sent Lord Harrenhal an incredulous look and returned his attention to the mystery. An examination of other arteries revealed more tiny men, passengers in the ungodly cancerous hulk.
Ainsley backed away from the cabinet.
This was beyond his reasoning. He felt a little light-headed.
“Lord Harrenhal, I—”
Footsteps interrupted him as two figures stepped into the room.
It was Smyth-Jones, accompanied by the man they’d been talking to upstairs.
Their eyes were on Ainsley. Neither paid attention to the monstrosities they passed.
Ainsley felt glad of the interruption.
“Harrenhal, Apsley!” Smyth-Jones appeared in good spirits. He shook their hands.
“My word, young man, you look a little peaky. What do you think, Bolingbroke?”
The other nodded curtly. He had a predatory air about him.
Harrenhal cut in. “Oh, you have not been introduced, have you? Shameful. My apologies. Sir Bolingbroke, please may I introduce Lord Ainsley. Ainsley, this is Sir Roger Bolingbroke, the founder of our club.”
Ainsley shook the man’s proffered hand, a firm yet cold grip.
“Oh, ah… A pleasure to meet you, sir. May I say, this is quite the museum.”
Bolingbroke grinned, revealing small, perfectly white teeth.
“My pleasure, young man. We are always eager to bring new minds into the fold.” He looked to Lord Harrenhal. “Have you shown him the device?”
Device? Ainsley thought.
“Just about to. We were examining this.” He indicated the nearby cabinet.
“Ah well, follow us, Ainsley,” Bolingbroke said. “You are privileged to be seeing this.”
Before moving, he looked at the cabinet again. Not the tumor—he’d seen enough of that, but the card beneath it.
Contents of Unknown Organism
Peripheral: Frederick John Basford
They took this from inside the dog? My god. The revelation brought a heaviness to his chest. Ainsley composed himself, stepped around the cabinet towards the other men.
Smyth-Jones was removing the cloth from the object at the room’s center. Bolingbroke, stood at the opposite side of it, watched him lift the cloth away.
The removal revealed a half-moon shaped table, carved from darkly varnished wood. A large glass globe stood upon the crescent’s thicker center. Mounted upon a circular brass base, inky fluid shifted within its confines.
“You may approach it, but do not touch,” Sir Bolingbroke said, his expression serious.
Before the table stood a well-padded wooden chair. Iron cuffs were attached to the arms and front legs. To the globe’s left was a wooden box, topped by a life-sized plaster head. A metal skullcap, surrounded by an array of delicate bands, crowned the head. Wires led from the cap to a row of sockets at the box’s front.
Ainsley stepped towards the globe, curious and hesitant.
He tried moving the chair away, found it bolted to the floor.
The fluid in the glass swirled like a tempest. He discerned a sound, some sort of hiss, wavering in volume.
Nonplussed, he looked to the other men.
“Would you believe this provides one glimpses of another world?” Bolingbroke said. “More than that. It allows us to draw things from that other world.”
“What? But how—”
“Came from the Shalka Meteorite,” Lord Harrenhal interrupted. “West Bengal, India.”
“There were other globes inside it.” Smyth-Jones. “Blasted things all broken. But this one…”
Harrenhal walked forward, took Ainsley by the arm.
“Everything in this room came from that orb.”
Such intensity in his gaze. These men were zealots.
And the very concept of their explanation proved difficult to process.
“Is there any danger? From what comes through?”
Bolingbroke shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. Everything we draw arrives dead.”
“You draw them out?” Ainsley turned his attention to the globe.
“More than that, m’boy.” Lord Harrenhal said. “The effect is two ways. We have entered the world within the globe. A sort of scrying.”
Sir Bolingbroke stepped around the table and placed his hand on Ainsley’s arm.
He smiled wryly. “Now. To the reason we brought you here. Would you care to visit this new world?”
***
Ainsley remained quiet during supper. Nothing new: he and his wife barely spoke during mealtimes, and this time, he had much on his mind.
Ainsley House, his mansion on Hyde Park Corner, was a home accustomed to silence. With no children forthcoming from their union, he and Lady Ainsley had long ago settled into separate bedrooms. When home and not at meals, he preferred the solitude of his basement laboratory, where experiments and books livened his dull days.
Tonight, he took to bed early, not to sleep, but to consider the evening’s events, process them into something that made logical sense.
As wind battered his window, whistled down the chimney, Ainsley’s thoughts had never been so troubled.
Another world, viewed and reached by some arcane object from the heavens. A church-going man but a man of science, he hardly believed in the Hell depicted in the scriptures. Just as he doubted Heaven. Those dead things, stored in the club’s most inner sanctum; it wouldn’t be difficult to mark them as devils. Monstrous, fantastic aberrations…
Astronomy told the learned man of other worlds. And what forms would their life take? The concept of an anthropomorphic universe was the abode of the unimaginative.
Science created miracles, visible miracles. Unlike the God preached of in church.
And did science answer for Spiritualism? It would eventually, he felt sure.
Could science explain a globe purportedly linking his world to another? It would if he had anything to do with it.
Tomorrow he’d give Bolingbroke his answer. Tomorrow he would venture into the unseen.
