Carnacki: The Edinburgh Townhouse and Other Stories
"There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Meikle is one of the premier storytellers of our time." – Famous Monsters of Filmland
"Meikle can grace the page with words of beauty whilst twisting a nightmare into grotesque shapes before your eyes." – Len Maynard and Mick Sims, author of The Secret Geography of Nightmare and Incantations
"William Meikle's short stories and novels are shining examples of what is missing in horror fiction today: atmospheric in style, old-school in character, with an intriguing story to be told. Utmost use is made of the author's native Scotland in many of his tales, and his forays into the Cthulhu Mythos stories are original in concept, building on Lovecraft's works." – David Wynn, Mythos Books
"The best purveyor of out and out genre fiction currently plying their trade." – Dark Musings
"Part Sherlock Holmes, part Lovecraft, and all Meikle, these tales are perfect for curling up on a foggy night with a bottle and a fire." – Scott Nicholson
by
William Meikle
Table of Contents
The Photographer's Friend
Fins in the Fog
The Cheyne Walk Infestation
An Unexpected Delivery
A Sticky Wicket
The King's Treasure
Mr. Churchill's Surprise
The Edinburgh Townhouse
A Night in the Storeroom
Into the Light
The Photographer’s Friend
I arrived on Carnacki's doorstep prompt at seven as requested. A thin layer of early frost covered the cobbled street outside 472 Cheyne Walk and I could see from the footprints leading to the door that some, if not all, of our dining club were already present.
When our host showed me in and took my overcoat I saw that I was indeed the last to arrive, and after warming my hands at the roaring fire, I joined the others in a quick snifter of brandy. Carnacki called us through to the dining room where he had taken the weather into account and provided us with thick potato soup and a most welcome hearty mutton stew that stuck to the ribs nicely and left a warm glow inside.
When we retired to the parlor it was to find that Carnacki already had another fire going in the grate and we were quite replete, warm and toasty as we filled our drinks, got smokes lit and settled down to hear the latest of our friend's adventures. He did not keep us waiting, and started as soon as we all fell quiet.
*
"This tale starts, like many others have in recent years, with a knock on my door here in Cheyne Walk. It was only this past Saturday, so the story is still fresh in my mind, although I will admit to having some qualms about relating it tonight, as it is of a somewhat upsetting nature and not one for the faint-hearted. But you chaps have followed me into some dark places while sitting around the fire here, so I will ask your indulgence in following me into another. But I must warn you, where I will lead you tonight is possibly darker than any other place I have ever taken you.
"And with that caution out of the way, let us proceed, or rather, regress, to the knock on my door last Saturday.
"It was late morning, not quite noon, and I had been spending the last several hours in the library perusing a pamphlet I had procured that purported to be a summoning spell for a minor demon. It was nothing of the kind of course, although it did give me some insight into a possible new way to access the outer Macrocosm. But more of that later. It is time I stopped this rambling and got this story properly underway.
"I answered the door to find a short, portly gentleman on the step. Well, I say gentleman, but his clothes were rather shabby. He wore a baggy dark wool suit that was frayed at cuffs and ankles, and his hat had seen its best days back before the old Queen died. His forlorn-looking state might have had something to do with the rain that had left drops hanging from the brim of the aforesaid hat. More moisture hung from the poor chap's nose and wispy, ginger and spice beard. He looked up at me and for a second I wondered if he might not be about to burst into tears. He was about as miserable as any chap I have ever seen.
"Of course, I could not leave him there on the doorstep like that, so I invited him into the hallway even before asking after his business with me. At least he did not look like an itinerant salesman, and I was somewhat relieved when he turned out to be someone in rather dire need of the peculiar kind of help that I can offer."
*
"'I got your name from my doctor in Kingston, Mr. Carnacki, sir,' he said. His accent was local, with a touch of the East End to it rather than the more refined tones one might expect of a Kingstonian. But I remembered the doctor well enough when he told me the name, having helped him out a few years past with some unwanted guests in his cellar.
"I showed the portly newcomer to the library, where I got some hot tea in him. He turned down my offer of liquor, pleading a dodgy constitution and an intolerance to alcohol, and that being so I was already feeling sorry for the poor chap even before I heard his story.
"'I'm at my wit's end,' he continued once we were settled by the fire. 'If this goes on much longer I shall have to close the studio, and then where will I be? Out on the streets cap in hand I should think.'
"Once again I got the impression that he was on the verge of tears; either that or bally close to some kind of nervous breakdown.
"'Studio?' I asked, hoping to tease information from the chap without asking too many direct questions that might exacerbate what was clearly a fragile mental state.
"He nodded, and handed me a card. 'Mr. James Stenson, Photographer to the gentry' it said, and gave an address on Kingston High Street that I guessed from my knowledge of the area must be on the riverside.
"'It's my portraits, Mr. Carnacki. They're what keep the business going. Folks will pay good money these days for well taken photographs of their family, or even of their pets. That's what keeps the cash coming in and keeps the wolves from the door. But for the past two weeks I haven't been able to get a single one to develop without the blasted thing appearing in them.'
"I did not even have to ask after the manner of said 'blasted thing', for Stenson had brought something that is considerably rare in my line of work; he had brought tangible evidence. What it was evidence of, I had no idea, but he took a set of twelve portrait photographs from his wallet and handed them to me, one by one, without comment.
A variety of people and social classes were on display, some in fine expensive clothes, others in more workmanlike garb, and there was even a man with a huge bull mastiff that I took to be one of the aforesaid pets.
"But there was one common factor in every one, a bloated, gray form, almost the size of a soccer ball and hunched like a squat curmudgeonly toad, which was there in every photograph, perched on a sitters' left shoulder. It had a rudimentary face that was little more than button eyes, a slit for a mouth and two tiny holes for nostrils, but the expression was obvious. It grinned, or rather, it leered, into the camera. It looked exactly as one would imagine it would if it were taunting the photographer."
*
"'They're all like that, sir' Stenson said when I handed the photographs back to him. 'Not only in this lot either. Everybody that has sat for me these past two weeks has that thing on their shoulder. At first I thought it was perhaps a bad spot on my lens, but I've swapped them around several times and I still get the same result. Besides, what manner of bally flaw on a lens would sit there and smile like that? I've been in this business for some years now, and I know my onions, so to speak. Despite that, I haven't a single clue what is going on here.'
"'And it's not a problem in the development?' I asked. 'Some fault with the comp
osition of the chemicals, or your enlargement process perhaps?'
"He shook his head, then, with a pained expression, rubbed at his stomach as if trying to calm a possible eruption.
"'Sorry, sir,' he said when he saw I had taken note. 'It's this blasted nuisance. It's got my nerves in a mess and my internals all at sixes and sevens so I don't know which way I'm going. And I have indeed ruled out anything untoward in the process. I've changed every single piece of equipment in the studio out for new kit. I've even slung out a whole batch of the chemicals that cost me a pretty penny I won't see again. The results are always the same. The blasted thing keeps appearing, and keeps staring straight at me.'
"He tapped at the top photograph. It showed a severe, bewhiskered, military gent in full uniform that was rather too tight for him. The toad-like thing was there, leering, almost a grin. It was semi-translucent, but the chap was right, there was no way it could be mistaken for a problem with the lens or processing. It was too real, and obviously present for that to be the case.
"I filled a pipe and passed the tobacco pouch over to Stenson, taking the time it took him to get a pipe lit to ponder the situation. Of course, my first thought was that it must be some kind of prank, or perhaps even Stenson's own doing, looking to make some money from lurid exploitation of so-called 'spirit photography'. But, dash it if the fellow did not look so forlorn, so bally lost and needy. If he was acting, he was making a bloody good show of it.
"By the time he had got his pipe lit to his satisfaction I had made my decision. I went with my gut feeling and decided to trust him. That still did not, of course, rule out the possibility that it was a prank, possibly one being undertaken by a business competitor of Stenson's or someone with an axe to grind. But Stenson pleaded ignorance when I asked if he had made any enemies in the recent past.
"'I don't know who would take that kind of umbrage,' he said. 'Would I hurt a fly? I only want to take my pictures. That's all I've ever wanted.'
"'And there was nothing untoward in the days before the first appearance of your nuisance?'
"He shook his head.
"'I've been wracking my brains these past weeks trying to think on it, Mr. Carnacki. I keep coming up blank.'
"'Well, I suggest that you wrack them a little harder, old chap,' I replied. 'But in the meantime, we had better get down to your studio and see what's what.'"
*
"We took a carriage down the north side of the river to Kingston. In other circumstances I might have taken the train, but given the nature of the thing that perched in all the photographs, I thought it prudent to travel with my box of defenses, just in case. It was far simpler just to call for a carriage than to lug the box around from pillar to post.
I paid for the journey, and Stenson was most relieved that I had done so, although he put up a token resistance at first as we left Chelsea behind heading west. I insisted, and then, after thanking me for my generosity, he explained his circumstances.
"'I am afraid that you find me in rather dire straits. I am properly strapped, Mr. Carnacki,' he said. 'I can generally live from fortnight to fortnight, so two weeks without cash will about do me in. The rent's due next week, and there's no money to pay for it if you can't help me out here with the nuisance. Even then, I shall have to get all the sitters from the last two weeks back in for another shoot. That's another headache I am not looking forward to, I'll tell you that for nothing.'
"Yet again, I thought the poor chap looked to be on the verge of tears, and he rubbed at his belly, kneading it like a baker working dough, before grimacing as if in pain.
"'Let's take things one problem at a time, shall we?' I said. 'Pass me those photographs again.'
"He did as I asked, and I took the photographs from him. I shuffled though them, proceeding more slowly on this occasion, looking to see if I had missed anything of import on my first perusal. Now that I took a closer look, I saw that the toad-thing wasn't quite identical in all the portraits. It appeared to be more substantial in some than in others, and I could not see a pattern in it, until a thought struck me.
"I checked the back of the photographs, and found that my hunch had been right. Stenson had put a name and a date stamp on each in black ink. I quickly rearranged them into chronological order and had another look at the images. Now that I knew what I was looking for it was obvious; the bally thing was becoming more and more real, more solid, in each successive image.
"'When was the last one of these taken?' I asked, although I already knew, having read the date stamp mere seconds before.
"'Yesterday morning,' the man replied. 'I closed the studio for the day today and have not taken any since that one in your hand.'
"I knew then what my first action would be on reaching Kingston. I was going to sit for a photograph for him. Then we would see what we would see."
*
"I had been correct in my surmise about his address being on the river, but after he helped me unload my box from the carriage and carry it to his premises, I quickly discovered that Stenson may have somewhat overstated the commercial nature of his business. His studio was rather less grand than the word suggests, being little more than a large room above a tailor's premises in the High Street. It did have the advantage of facing south over the river, and it had two large bay windows that let in plenty of light.
"His development room was likewise rather rudimentary, being merely a modified closet to the rear. But everything was clean and tidy and I could tell he took no little pride in his work, given the manner in which he gave me the tour of his domain. I did notice, however, that he took pains to skirt around the large wing backed chair he obviously used for his sitters. It was the same chair I had seen in all the photographs that he had shown me so far.
"As I have said, the premises were rather rudimentary. The tour took no more than three or four minutes before it brought us back to the entrance where we came in. We had left my box of defenses by the main door and as yet I could see no need for them, for this manifestation, whatever it was, showed no sign of being any danger beyond its habit of messing up perfectly good photographs. And at least I knew that my materials would be available at short notice should the circles, or even the pentacle, be required.
"Stenson had relaxed somewhat, now that he was back in familiar, if not exactly comfortable, surroundings, but it was clear he was now waiting for me to fulfil my end of our little bargain
"At first, when I told him of my plan to sit for a photograph and see what came out in the development, he would not hear of it. He spluttered and pleaded a fear for my safety, but I could tell it was fear of what he might see in the final photograph that gave him pause. I insisted that he proceed, and that I took full responsibility for my own wellbeing and, after some gentle persuasion on my part in which I played to his professional pride, he finally relented.
"He had me sit in the high backed chair in front of a dark velvet curtain that was draped across the wall opposite the windows. Of course I checked behind the drapes first before I sat down; I was still not completely persuaded that this was all not some manner of hoax. But there was only bare wall behind the cloth. I rapped on the plaster but all I did was dislodge some loose patches. There were no obvious hollows, and if it was a trick, it was one beyond my comprehension.
"After he got me seated, Stenson hummed and hawed over the light, the angle of the shot and the overall composition with such a fuss that finally I had to raise my voice and tell him to get on with it. Even then it took an interminable time for him to be satisfied enough to take a shot of me.
"But finally, thankfully, it was done. He took the bally picture, the flash momentarily blinded me and left me with dancing yellow patches in my eyes for long seconds afterward. Then Stenson locked himself away in the developing room for what seemed like hours.
"I left the chair and stood by the larger of the two bay windows. I smoked several cigarettes, watching the world go by in Kingston High Street below me as
the afternoon wore on and the light went from the sky. At one point I thought I heard an exclamation from within the small room, then a noise that sounded like Stenson might be retching, but when I shouted through the door, he assured me that everything was fine. His voice sounded weak and tired, but I did not breach the darkness of the developing room, for I knew I would ruin the work in progress should I do so.
"Finally Stenson returned. His face was pale, his eyes wide, and I knew, even before he showed me, what I would see on the photograph. I took the still glistening sheet from his trembling hand as he went back to kneading his ample belly.
"He took a dashed good picture, I will give him that, for I looked quite handsome, even if I do say so myself. Or rather, I would have looked handsome, had it not been for the squat, gray, toad-like thing that sat, smirking, on my left shoulder."
*
"Now, I know you chaps will believe me when I say that I had felt nothing on that shoulder while sitting for the photograph, and you know from my tales that I have developed a certain sensitivity to such things. There had been no cold spot, no sense of any contact with the beyond, no weight or smell or touch. There had been nothing whatsoever to suggest I was not the only object in the frame.
"And yet, that toad-thing had been there. It was in the blasted photograph, larger than life, and it was even more solid seeming now than in any of the images I had perused in the carriage. I was at a complete loss to explain it, and Stenson was working up into quite a state over the matter again.
"We retired to a local hostelry down the street where a pint of ale for me, a large mug of sweet tea for him, and some pie and mash did much to calm him down, although he left more than half of the meal on his plate, pleading intestinal discomfort. For my own part, I polished mine off in short order to fortify me for what I knew needed doing that same night.