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October 3, 2025

White Zombie (1932)

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Published on October 03, 2025 03:00

September 30, 2025

Boy, the world looks like it’s falling to pieces at the moment, hunh? I don’t blame you if you feel that way. There’s a lot going on and a lot of it is stupid. I try to focus on other things; little things, mostly. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

At the moment, I’m digging into various research books I’ve had sitting on my shelf for the last few years, including Nicholas Barton’s The Lost Rivers of London. This serves two purposes: the first is to find some nuggets of interest for a few new short stories; the second is to find things to cull from my shelves. I’ve got too many books and I’ve carted half of them around for nearly twenty years. From Eastover to Brighton, from Brighton to London, then to a different part of London, on to Sheffield and then to Northampton and then back to Sheffield. That’s a lot of mileage.

Still, culling books is never easy, especially for me. Especially research books. They each represent a possibility – a novel or a short story that might get written and sold, that might make me a bestselling author. Of course, the down side is my bookshelves are bowed in the middle, and I’m pretty sure one day they’re going to topple over on top of me and that’ll be that.

So, in an effort to avoid that sad fate, I’ve resolved to trim things down. But that means I have to read them all, which is a challenge in its own right. I’ve got a wide selection…lost rivers, sunken towns, myth, legends and the Vegas mob. It’s a lot to get through.

But it keeps the mind occupied. And that’s not nothing, these days.

Reading:

The Shildam Hall Tapes, by Stephen Prince. A Year in the Country: Wandering Through Spectral Fields, by Various. The Unlikely Affair of the Crawling Razor, by Joe R. Lansdale. Tories: The End of an Error, by Russell Jones.

Watching:

Bob’s Burgers, Season Fifteen. The Blacklist, Season Eight. SWAT, Season 8. Dark Intruder (1965). The Giant Claw (1957). Reptilicus (1963). Tombs of the Blind Dead (1972). Haunted Hotel, Season One. Poker Face, Season Two.

Listening:

Old Gods of Appalachia, Season Five. The Holmwood Foundation, Season One. Production (2023), The Troubleshooters. Ronin (2013), Zack Hemsey.

News

This month work continued apace on the new book for Aconyte. While doing that, I also completed edits on Return of the Monster Men and Stand at Callenspire, respectively. Both mark new territory for me, though the terrain is somewhat familiar. It took some doing to get to grips with the background material for both, but I think I managed it okay. Reviews will tell, I suppose.

I haven’t done much else, frankly. We’re entering the home stretch of 2025, and while I’ve submitted a few more stories, I’m mostly finished on that front until next year. I might try and finish up a few drafts before the holidays, but then again, I might not. I’m trying to take it easy this year, after all.

Anyway, onto some new stuff.

New Essay – Nightmare Men

I posted a new Nightmare Men essay for you to enjoy this month. This time, I’m taking a look at Terry Nation’s Victorian adventurer, Robert Baldick. Subscribers can read it here.

New Essay – Silver Screams

I posted a new Silver Screams essay for you to enjoy this month. This time, I’m taking a look at 1965’s The Dark Intruder, starring Leslie Nielsen. Subscribers can read it here.

New Review – Monstrous Reviews

I posted some new Monstrous Reviews for you to enjoy this month, including a look at Tremors (1990) and The Legend of Boggy Creek (1972). Subscribers can read all of the reviews here.

New Review – Dramas From the Aether

This months sees the first instalment of my new film column for Occult Detective Magazine, Dramas From the Aether: Crime Scream Investigations. I review Dark Intruder (1965), a film that was meant to be a television series. Read it in issue 11 of Occult Detective Magazine.

New Serial – Shadow of the Drowned City

Earlier this year I wrote a multi-part Arkham Horror serial, Arkham International: Shadows of the Drowned City, which followed on from events in the most recent game expansion, The Drowned City. The available instalments are listed below. Read them for free, or listen to the audio versions, narrated by Todd Menesses.

Chapter One: Paris Chapter Two: New York Chapter Three: Boston Chapter Four: Arkham Chapter Five: Mexico City Chapter Six: Alexandria Chapter Seven: OxfordNew Short Story – “Beating the Bounds”

I have a new Artemis Whitlock story in the latest issue of Ghosts & Scholars. In “Beating the Bounds”, Artemis looks into a curious tradition surrounding an eerie spinney in Lincolnshire. Rosemary Pardoe liked it, so maybe check it out, eh? Ghost and Scholars 49 is available for £6 (UK), $15 (overseas), or as part of a one year, two-issue subscription for £12 (UK), ($30) (overseas), including postage. Orders and enquiries may be sent to Mark Valentine at: lostclub[at]btopenworld[dot]com

Reminder – Return of the Monster-Men

Last year, I was given the opportunity to write the novelisation of Mike Wolfer’s comic book miniseries, Return of the Monster-Men, and give it an ending worthy of both the work Wolfer had done, and Burroughs himself. My efforts are now up for preorder, if you’re interested. Hopefully I’ll get to write further adventures for Number 13 – or Otto, as he likes to be called – but only time (and sales) will tell. Preorder a copy today.

Reminder – Stand at Callenspire

Stand at Callenspire is my first foray into Mantic’s Kings of War setting, and it’s a doozy: elves, halflings and seagoing Neriticans versus a mysterious new foe that threatens all of Mantica. If you enjoyed my Space Marine Conquests novel, Apocalypse, I think you’ll enjoy this one. It’s got a similar vibe to it. Preorder a copy today.

Monthly SpotlightLast Resort (Aconyte Books)

My first zombie novel! You’d think I’d have written more zombie stuff (and I almost did, once upon a time – anybody remember Permuted Press? No? Just me?) but no. I’ve written things with zombies in, certainly, but never a full zombie novel until 2021 and the release of Zombicide: Last Resort.

This was a lot of fun to write. It’s a bit of a kitchen sink book – there’s some crime/thriller shenanigans, a bit of science-fiction, and a luchador who fistfights a giant zombie. If you’d like to check it out, you can grab a copy from the publisher.

Monthly Story“The River’s Brink”

Another Royal Occultist story, this time from 2020. It appeared in the inaugural issue of Wyrd Science, a gaming magazine, and I wrote it especially for the issue in question. I think it’s one of the better Royal Occultist stories, dealing as it does with increased industrialisation of England’s waterways and the folkloric consequences thereof. I recommend picking up an issue or three of Wyrd Science, if you have some spare cash. It’s a fantastic magazine, chock full of interviews, reviews and the like.

Go not nigh the river’s brink, for there the mermaids lie.
James Bird, 1837

“I know what I heard, whatever the police say,” George Richards said, softly. “It were a woman Jack and I heard, I’d stake my life on it.” Richards was a narrow man, dressed down and in dull colours. He took off his cap and scraped his hand through his thinning hair.

“I have no doubt you heard something,” Charles St. Cyprian said, his voice mild, “As to whether it was a woman, well…there’s the rub, as they say.” In contrast to Richards, he might have been a Leyendecker canvas come to life. He was dressed to the nines, a creature of cocktails and clubs – a bright young thing, as the dailies termed them. The only sign of seriousness was the battered army greatcoat he wore against the autumn chill.

The two of them stood side by side along the bank of the River Tees, some distance west of Darlington. Nearby, a willow leaned precariously over the turbulent waters. The willow was in its autumn colours, its boughs like wisps of flame against the dark surface of the river. Behind them, the sturdy presence of the pumping station stood sentinel against the setting sun. The station drew from the Tees, to provide potable water for the surrounding area. Richards and Jack Fielding were both employed by the station. Or had been, in the case of the unfortunate Fielding.

Fielding had gone missing in the Tees some nights previous. A foggy night, he’d floundered into the river for reasons unknown and been swept away. That was the official story, at least. Richards, the only witness, told a different tale.

For the moment, however, he’d fallen silent. “Cigarette?” St. Cyprian asked, fetching a silver case from his waistcoat. He opened it and proffered it to Richards. After a moment’s hesitation, Richards selected one. St. Cyprian lit it for him. “There’re stories about the River Tees – you’ve heard them, no doubt.”

Richards didn’t look at him. “Few of us haven’t.” He knotted his hands together.

“There’s a name associated with those tales…”

“Don’t say it,” Richards said, softly. “Never know as who might be listening.” His hand trembled as he lifted his cigarette to his lips.

St. Cyprian paused, listening to the water and the birds circling overhead. “I don’t have to ask what – or who – you’re afraid of, do I?” he said, finally.

Richards didn’t reply. He clearly had his own suspicions on the matter. “Sun was almost set, when we heard it,” he said, finally. “Her, I mean.”

“Her?”

“A woman. Singing, like. Out on the river.”

“Didn’t you find that odd?”

Richards laughed sourly. “Oh yeah, right strange. Made me uneasy, but Jack – well, Jack, he called out. Thought she needed help.”

“Did you call out?”

He shook his head firmly. “No. My mother used to warn me about such things.”

“Reminds me of a bit of doggerel I once heard…go not nigh the river’s brink, for there the mermaids lie,” St. Cyprian quoted.

Richards nodded. “Or something, at least.” He looked back at the water, and swallowed convulsively. “I never saw her. Jack did, or so he claimed. I only heard her. That was enough for me.” He paused again. “I think she was calling to us.”

St. Cyprian lit a cigarette for himself. “And what happened then?”

Richards looked away. “You know what happened.”

“Pretend I do not. Tell me, in your own words.”

“She took him. Pulled him right down, like a fish taking a lure.” He coughed, expelling smoke into the air. “Snatched him right off the bank, into the fog. I remember him saying something, and then he was gone. Nary a ripple to be seen.”

“They haven’t found the body, have they?”

“They never have before. Don’t expect them to now.” He looked at St. Cyprian. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise. It is rather my area, after all.” St. Cyprian gave a reassuring smile. “More formally, it is the responsibility of my office to investigate such matters when they arise.”

“Never heard of you, before management sent word,” Richards said, somewhat apologetically.

St. Cyprian sighed. “Sadly, the reputation of the Royal Occultist ain’t what it was in Good Queen Bess’ day. Still, one does one’s best. Onward and upward, and all that.” He checked his pocket watch. “Getting along about that hour, Mr. Richards. You’ve been most helpful, but…”

Richards sighed and flicked his cigarette into the water. “As you say. Sun’s setting, and I’m for indoors.” He looked at St. Cyprian. “I’d wish you luck, but I’m not sure it’d help.” He extended his hand and St. Cyprian took it.

“I’ll take any help I can get,” St. Cyprian said, agreeably. “Leave it with me, Mr. Richards. This is my bailiwick, as I said.”

St. Cyprian watched him go. He heard a splash from the river, and turned back to the water, but saw nothing save a peculiar froth on the surface – a common occurrence on the Tees. Even so, he stepped back from the edge. Out of reach.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice at his elbow said, “See something?”

“Ah, Miss Gallowglass,” he said quickly, to hide the fact he’d been startled. “And where have you been? Not at the pub, I hope.”

Ebe Gallowglass was small and wiry, and dressed like an East End rough or a sailor between berths. She took his jibe with a shrug. “No. Wanted to look at the pump station.”

“The pumping station? Why?”

“Wanted to see how it worked.” Seeing his expression, she added, pugnaciously, “Heard they got some of those new electric pumps, is all.” She jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “I like knowing how things work. Want to make something of it?”

“No, no, it’s just – well. Never mind. Richards was very forthcoming.”

“Good.” She thumbed back the brim of her flat cap and scratched her head. “He tell you what happened?”

“He told me enough.” He began to rummage in the pockets of his greatcoat. “Ever hear the name Peg Powler in your meanderings?”

“No. Who’s she?”

“Not a who, so much as a what. Ah, here we are.” He pulled an amulet from his pocket. It was a small thing, beaten bronze on a rawhide thong. An image had been crudely cut into the surface of the bronze. The image was faintly piscine, though only if one stared at it long enough. “The Eye of Athirat.”

Gallowglass snorted. “Don’t look like an eye to me.”

“You say that every time I bring it out.”

“And it still don’t look like an eye no matter how many times you call it one.”

St. Cyprian shook his head and carefully made his way towards the water’s edge. “Sometimes I despair of you, Miss Gallowglass. Has any of what I taught you sunk in to that skull of yours?”

She shrugged. “The useful bits.” She followed him down to the water’s edge. “So is this Peg Pooler a mermaid then?”

“Powler,” St. Cyprian corrected, moving aside reeds, clumps of which cluttered the riverbank. “And that’s as good a word as any, I suppose, though a number of writings refer to her as an evil goddess.” He let the amulet dangle above the surface of the water. Inscribed with the sigil of Athirat, a Sumerian deity of some prominence, it could detect the presence of waterborne spirits of all descriptions.

“So which is she, then?”

“Both, perhaps. There have always been stories about mermaids in this country.” He paused. “Not that they’re particularly maidenly, it must be said.”

“No?” Gallowglass said, already bored by the conversation.

“No. Antisocial man-eaters the lot of them.” He glanced at her. “Rather like you.”

Gallowglass blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” He rose, shaking water from the amulet. It shimmered slightly in the light of the setting sun, and the bronze hummed. The resonance faded even as it left the water.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Gallowglass asked, softly.

“Ideally, no.”

“So that means…”

“Yes.” He slipped the amulet back into his coat and studied the river. He pointed. “Look there – that froth on the surface? A sure sign she’s near.”

“Looks like pond scum to me.”

“Peg Powler’s cream, they call it.”

“Who?”

“Them.” He waved his hands, as if to indicate the whole of County Durham.

“Oh, them,” Gallowglass said, nodding. She took off her flat cap and ran a hand through her shaggy bob of hair. “Why didn’t you say?”

St. Cyprian turned, eyebrow raised. “Are you finished?” He gestured curtly. “Never mind. Get me a branch off of that tree.” He pointed to the willow tree. “A green one, for preference, but any will do.”

Gallowglass fished a clasp-knife out of her pocket and started towards the tree. “Think a stick is going to be of much use?”

“More so than that cannon you’re carrying under your arm.” Gallowglass habitually carried a Webley-Fosbery revolver holstered beneath her arm. The weapon was her constant companion, even when he’d rather that she left it behind.

“Didn’t hear you complaining about it last time,” she said, as she began to hack away at one of the lower branches. When she’d succeeded in cutting it free, she brought it to him.

“Thank you. I’ll need the knife as well, if you please.”

Scowling, she handed it over. “Don’t lose it like you did the last one.”

“I shall guard it with my life, never fear.” Willow branch under one arm, he slid the knife across his palm and squeezed several drops of crimson into the fast moving current. “There on the willow trees, we hung up our harps,” he said, as he tossed the knife back to Gallowglass. “Psalm 137, what?”

“That supposed to mean something?” Gallowglass asked, cleaning the knife on her trousers. “Or you just showing off again?”

“Bit of both, really.” St. Cyprian pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it about his hand. “There’s an old ritual associated with certain water spirits – blood on the current is a calling card, of sorts.”

“Like ringing the dinner bell, you mean.”

St. Cyprian glanced at her. “If you want to be crude about it.”

Gallowglass smirked. “Truth, innit?” She paused. “Mist is rising.”

“So it is.” St. Cyprian rubbed his injured hand, eyes fixed on the water. “The police said Fielding fell into the river when he lost his way in the fog. And Richards insists that he went in to save someone.”

“Why not both?” Gallowglass said.

“My thoughts exactly, apprentice-mine.”

“Assistant,” she corrected.

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“So why the willow branch?”

“Who knows the reasons for these things?” He raised the branch and swept it out over the water. “A protective measure, possibly. Willows are often associated with magic. On occasion, they were even planted near the entrances to temples and shrines. A number of which once dotted these rivers, or so I’m given to understand.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Gallowglass asked.

“Nothing as such. Did you know that human remains dating back to the Iron Age have been found in these waters?”

“People drown in rivers.”

“So they do. These people, however, did not die of accidental drowning – rather, they were offered up to the river. Sacrificed, you might say. Animals, as well. Rivers are contentious beasts, in need of placation. Or so our ancestors believed. Why, even the lost rivers of London have their share of grisly offerings – the Walbrook, for instance, and its ghastly deposit of skulls.”

“Interesting as this history lesson is, what’s the plan?”

He flexed his injured hand and winced. “The standard play. We confront the spirit in question, and convince it to move along. Failing that…well. We’ll see.”

Gallowglass sucked on her teeth and said, “I bet we can get some dynamite in Darlington.”

“No dynamite,” St. Cyprian said firmly. “Not after last time.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

“For a given value of the word. Though the owners of the property in question were less than pleased with your solution to their haunted house.”

“No house, no ghosts. Simple, innit?”

“That’s one word for it.” He gave her a stern look. “And no, we will not be blowing her up. Not every problem is a nail in search of a hammer.”

“Hammer might look pretty good when she’s gnawing on your leg, like that thing we fought in Leicestershire.”

St. Cyprian frowned, thinking of empty basinets and iron claws reaching out of the dark of a sandstone cave – of the dark and the cold beneath the Dane Hills. He closed his eyes, banishing the memory before it could overwhelm him. “Let us pray it doesn’t come to that, what?”

“Still time to get the dynamite,” Gallowglass said.

St. Cyprian heard a splash and turned towards the water. “No, I daresay there’s not.” The froth had gathered in mountainous clumps that shifted and roiled, as if something stirred beneath them. Gallowglass cursed softly as the foamy waters parted, and a long arm rose from the depths.

The rest of her followed, beautiful and monstrous in equal measure. A giantess of delicate proportion, with tresses of green weed and a face like that of an angel. Long fingers grasped the weedy bank, as she slowly – languidly – drew herself partially up onto the water’s edge. She smiled up at them and gave a soft trill.

Peg Powler of the Tees.

“You called, and I am come,” she said, in a voice like the murmuration of the river, and St. Cyprian felt a chill run through him. “It has been so long since someone has called to me in the old ways, with blood and branch.” She smiled. “Are you a witch, then? One of the old blood, to know such things?”

“Neither witch nor old. Just a passing dilettante.”

Peg’s watery green gaze fixed on him. “Ah. I know your sort.” She slid towards shore, skirting the drooping boughs of the willow. “I have talked to your sort before. Scramblers in the mud, digging for wisdom.”

“Not today, I’m afraid. Left my bucket and spade at the seaside.” He waved Gallowglass back, out of reach of the creature before them. Peg didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she simply didn’t care. She had ruled the Tees since before man had learned how to work the waters.

Peg stooped, slinking through the tall reeds like an animal. “I thought your kind had forgotten me. None come now to Peg’s bower, save that I call them.”

“Times change,” St. Cyprian said.

“But not me. Not the river. These waters will be here when the last of you fade from the world.” She bent with abnormal elasticity, her head almost parallel to the water’s edge as she observed them, her green tresses dangling. “While the waters remain, so do I.” She touched the water with a finger and then placed it to her lips. “Why did you call me?”

“To speak. To parley.”

“Parley?” Long fingers grasped the tops of the reeds as she pulled herself through them in unsightly fashion. Her nacreous flesh shimmered in the deepening dusk like the scales of a great serpent. “And what is there for us to discuss?”

“A man named Jack Fielding.”

“And who is he to me?” She was getting closer, winding her way up the riverbank.

“You took him three nights ago.”

Peg didn’t pause. She was close enough now that he could smell the stink of the river’s bottom, wafting from her. “He was mine to take.”

St. Cyprian stabbed the willow branch into the muddy ground between them. She stopped, eyes narrowing. He noted the hesitation. The willow was protective after all, then. That was useful to know. “Once, they offered me up such pretty things…horses and dogs and slaves, bound and sunk into the water.”

“No horses or dogs to hand unfortunately,” St. Cyprian said. He made a show of patting at his pockets. “Bit of lint, some matches – a few bob, if you’re of a mind?”

Peg twisted, bending and contorting until she was nearly eye level with him. “Those who came later gave me their little ones, so tender and sweet, cast adrift in baskets of reeds.”

St. Cyprian stiffened. “That’s not on the menu, I’m afraid.” He heard Gallowglass stifle an obscenity and glanced at her. Her eyes were fixed on Peg with an all-too familiar intensity. Her fingers twitched towards the pistol holstered under her arm.

Peg’s head made another boneless rotation. “Soon there were no tender ones, no slaves, not even a dog. Not even a token.” Her voice roughened. “Why then should I not take what I am owed?”

“Because times have changed, my lady. And you must change with them.”

“No.” Her smile slid into a sharp-toothed frown, and her face stretched into a new shape. Not beautiful now, no. Nothing of the human there, save a vague outline, superimposed over something ancient and awful. “No, I am the river, and rivers do not change.”

“But they do. Men change the course of rivers all the time. They dam them and drain them. You must have felt it.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her lips peeled back from razor teeth. She sighed, expelling a stink like that of the river on a hot day. “I am tired of talking. I think I will sing now. And I will take you, as I took him.” She unfolded, rising to her full, impossible height – like some immense wave, preparing to crash over them.

St. Cyprian made to speak, but all thought was blasted from his mind as Peg began to sing. The smell of the river engulfed him, and for a moment, he felt as if he were drowning. She sang then, her voice sounded like cascading water.

Whatever language the song was in, it wasn’t one St. Cyprian was familiar with. It was something old, perhaps from when men first dared to approach the riverbanks. He was almost lost to it, when he heard the tell-tale click of a Webley-Fosbery revolver.

A staccato salvo erupted from over his shoulder, partially deafening him. Peg twitched back as the shots punched into her chest. She wavered, fingers probing the wound. She looked at them in evident consternation.

“Hunh,” Gallowglass muttered. “Thought that would work.”

St. Cyprian spun and tackled her to the ground as Peg lunged for them with a shrill, gurgling cry. Her long arms looped out over them. Gallowglass shoved St. Cyprian aside and fired again, emptying the revolver in a chattering fusillade. Peg reared, venting an ear-splitting wail. St. Cyprian glanced at his assistant. “Church bells, innit?” Gallowglass said with a fierce grin, as she ejected the spent shells from the cylinder and hastily reloaded. “Melted them down myself. Just like you taught me.”

“Good thinking, but that won’t stop her.” He scrambled to his feet, trying to think. Fragments of rituals ancient and new swirled about his head, caught on the tides of Peg’s song. His pockets were full of amulets and charms but none of them seemed immediately useful. “How do you fight a river?”

“Should have let me get some dynamite,” Gallowglass said, snapping the revolver closed. Peg hissed like water on hot iron. She was circling them, wary now of Gallowglass’ pistol. It had hurt her as evidenced by the black blood trickling down her green limbs, though not badly. Perhaps she simply wasn’t used to being shot.

Then, his eyes fell upon the willow branch, still jutting from the muddy bank. The beginnings of an idea formed. A desperate gamble, but better than nothing. “I need to get that branch. Cover me.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Gallowglass took aim. “Oi, Peg – have another taste!” She fired, taking a chunk out of Peg’s thigh. Steam spurted from the wound and Peg crouched with a rumbling snarl. While her attentions were thus diverted, St. Cyprian darted for the branch. The moment his hands fastened on it, he felt a wave of dampness envelop him. He tore the branch loose and whirled – then ducked as Gallowglass hurtled past him, cursing loudly. She hit the water with a splash and a yelp.

He had no time to spare for her, however, as Peg surged towards him. She leaned close, the smell of her rolling over him, nearly knocking him to his knees. He swung the willow branch up like a spear, and braced for impact. But it never came.

Instead, as he’d hoped, Peg had stopped. She prowled around him, and he turned with her, the willow branch extended – keeping her at bay. Somehow, in some way. “Gallowglass?” he called out, not taking his eyes from Peg.

“Here,” she coughed, clawing at the reeds on the bank. “Knocked me for bleedin’ six.” Before she could say anything else, Peg lunged past him and caught her by the back of the head. She gently forced Gallowglass’ head under the water.

“Let her go,” St. Cyprian shouted.

“Drop the branch, and I shall,” Peg hissed. She hauled Gallowglass up, and the young woman spluttered and gasped. She clawed at Peg’s hand, spitting curses. Peg thrust her back under the water. “Put it down, or I will drown her.”

“If you drown her, I will see to it that this river is drained and dammed.”

“You cannot do this.” Peg wrenched Gallowglass up, allowing her to suck air into her lungs. “The river is eternal.” She slammed his assistant back down, hard enough that St. Cyprian winced.

“Nothing is eternal. Especially these days.” He stepped down into the shallows, holding the branch low. “The price of progress is steep. Can you taste the ash and the iron in your waters, Peg? Have you seen the steelworks?”

Peg stared at him. She dragged Gallowglass up, and held her above the water. The young woman was no longer struggling. She hung dangerously limp in Peg’s grip. St. Cyprian swiftly quashed a sudden spurt of panic. “Yes,” Peg said, finally. “Yes. I have seen them, spitting smoke into the clean air. I saw them when they were but narrow pittances of wood and stone.”

“And now they are fortresses of industry.” He gestured towards the pumping house. “Much like that there. A sign of the changing times.” If he could get close enough – a quick blow might be enough to make her release Gallowglass.

Peg glanced at the pumping station. “No.” She looked back at Gallowglass, as if suddenly recalling her presence. “The river does not change.”

“But people do.”

“Yes. They forgot me,” she said, shaking her green tresses. “Why did they forget? Was I not kind to them?”

St. Cyprian, thinking of infants in wicker baskets, said, “All good things come to an end, my lady,” he said, harshly. “Even things such as you.”

She turned back to him, teeth flashing. Her fingers tightened about Gallowglass’ head. “No. I am eternal.” She made to thrust his assistant under the water again, and he lunged.

The branch caught Peg across the skull with a spongy sound. Her head snapped to the side and her jaws opened too wide, loosing a gurgling wail. She dropped Gallowglass and fell away from him, clutching her head.

“Makes a good cricket bat, your weeping willow,” he said as he raised the broken branch, ready to hit her again. “Springy, able to take a hit!” He swung, but her hand – her talon – intercepted the blow and suddenly he was flying backwards, into the river. Peg followed him down and under, an eel-like shape that encompassed him in green folds. She screamed and the sound struck him like a blow.

But then she stopped. Eyes wide, bulbous, she drifted back, scrabbling at the branch that he’d managed to thrust into her chest – mostly by accident. She thrashed away from him, and he followed, fighting the river’s current. He knew, somehow, that if she managed to get the branch out, it was all over. The river convulsed around him, clawing at him, but he persisted until his flailing hand was caught in a strong grip.

Gallowglass dragged him the rest of the way into the shallows, her face pale, her body shivering with cold and fatigue. “You get her?” she spat.

“For the moment. Your gun?”

“Lost it in the mud.”

“Find it and help me.” He clambered towards Peg’s writhing form. “We don’t have much time.” Behind them, the river was growing overwrought. It was Peg’s doing, somehow. She was the river, and the river was her.

Her form swelled and shrank in some monstrous fashion as St. Cyprian splashed awkwardly towards her. Her green fingers clawed strips from the willow branch as she tried to tear it from her chest. She screamed, and the noise smashed at him, nearly knocking him from his feet. He staggered and threw himself towards the branch.

She wailed as he twisted it, forcing it down, pinning her to the riverbank. It was only temporary – just long enough to bargain. She clawed at him and he twisted away, narrowly avoiding her fingers. Then Gallowglass was there, the dripping barrel of her revolver pressed to the side of Peg’s head. He wasn’t sure it would fire, wet as it was, but Peg didn’t know that and he saw no reason to inform her.

“Surrender,” St. Cyprian said.

Peg went still, panting. “You…can’t…” she croaked.

“I can,” St. Cyprian said with more certainty than he felt. He took a tighter grip on the branch. “We will bind you in a prison of willow branches and drag you far from the river.”

“Be a pleasure,” Gallowglass interjected, harshly.

“There will be no rest for you, and no more songs,” St. Cyprian continued. “No more offerings.”

“No,” she said. But there was doubt in her voice now.

“Yes. Times change, as I said. They have left you behind.”

She closed her eyes. “What do you want?”

“A bargain, my lady, between thee and me.”

She bared teeth, now dull with blood. “Speak, then.”

“Return to the river. Take no lives. Return to the deep places and the roots of the willows, and forget.” He tensed. “Sleep, oh lady, and dream of tender offerings past, and I will spare your life.”

Peg gave a sound that might have been a hiss, or a sigh. A shudder ran through her and she said, “Done. I accept the bargain.”

St. Cyprian waved Gallowglass back, and carefully drew the willow branch free of her chest. She gulped like a drowning fish and expelled a gout of black blood, before rolling onto her stomach and slithering into the water. Free of the reeds, she rose once more to her full height, staring down at them.

For a moment, he feared she might attack again, but instead she turned away without another word and waded into the river, sinking down with every step. In moments, she was gone, sinking back into the waters of the Tee. Soon the only sign that she had ever been was a scum of froth floating on the current.

Gallowglass fished her flat cap out of the water and wrung it out. “Think she believed you?” she asked.

“We can but hope,” he said. He shook out his trouser leg, wincing slightly as he realised the state of his shoes. He looked at the branch, and the brackish stains that marked its length. “We made a good argument, I think.”

He stabbed the branch into the riverbank.

“We’ll make sure to keep some willow branches to hand, though. Just in case.”

In Closing

That’s it for this month. If you made it this far, thanks for giving it a read and possibly even subscribing. I hope you enjoyed this back-to-basics newsletter. Check back next time for more new releases (hopefully) and a new (old) monthly story.

Editorial

I’ve been rereading some old favourites this month, specifically the Belisarius series by David Drake and Eric Flint. I come back to the series every few years, and every few years I enjoy it as much as I did the first time around. It’s a bittersweet return, in some ways – both Drake and Flint have passed on now, and there will be no more new works by either man. But we still have this one and it’s a banger. Hammer’s Slammers is excellent. The Philosophical Strangler is one of my favourite fantasy novels not featuring Gerin the Fox (Werenight, look it up – it’s the good shit). But the Belisarius books are something else again. They taught me a lot about how to plot. How to craft characters.

How to write.

It’s an odd series – one part science fiction, one part military history, with a dash of competence porn. The history is a bit wibbly-wobbly at points – which the authors themselves admitted – but the tapestry is otherwise a well-woven one. But really, the characters are what make it; big or small, their interactions and antagonisms carry a plot that would otherwise be a string of fairly repetitive battle sequences, many of which, objectively, are foregone conclusions. Said characters live and breathe in ways that any budding author should analyse.

It’s for them that I come back to the series again and again. I know the plot by heart; there are no surprises left. But the characters – ah. They’re like old friends by this point. Narses, Maurice, Aide…others. Dozens. The series is stuffed to the gills with characters. I look forward to spending the time with them. I figure everyone has a book or two like that. Something you read over and over, until you know it backwards and forwards.

There’s worse ways to spend one’s time than to go back to a well-thumbed favourite and enjoy it all over again. Reading new stuff is essential, especially for a writer. Read widely and well, but don’t deny yourself a dip in familiar waters.

Sometimes it’s the best thing for you.

Reading:

Castle Waiting Vol. One, by Linda Medley. Soliloquy for Pan, by Various. Belisarius I: Thunder at Dawn, by David Drake and Eric Flint. Japanese Ghost Stories, by Lafcadio Hearn. Supernatural Tales, issue 59, by Various.

Watching:

Bob’s Burgers, Season Fifteen. The Blacklist, Season Eight. King of the Hill, Season Fourteen. Doctor Mordrid (1992). Cat People (1942).

Listening:

Old Gods of Appalachia, Season Five. The Holmwood Foundation, Season One. Wrackline (2020), Fay Hield. Unicorn (2023), GUNSHIP.

News

I started working on a new novel this month. It’s for Aconyte Books, but I can’t say anything more about it until it’s announced. Well, I could, but I probably shouldn’t. Suffice it to say, it’s in a setting I’ve written about before, but unconnected to my previous work in said setting. And that’s largely been in it. Oh, I completed a new short story (“I Am the Room”) but as I haven’t edited it yet, I don’t really consider it properly finished as yet.

This month I also decided that my next long-term project is the completion or deletion of every as-yet uncompleted story in my In-Progress file. There’s about ten of them in there, with the oldest being around six years old and the newest being a nearly a year. Most of them are nearly complete, which you’d think would make it easier but – ha! – no.

There’s no real reason for me to do this. Some might even say it’s a waste of time – sunk cost fallacy, you could call it. But I see it as something akin to cleaning out a garden shed or reorganising the cellar. It’s not strictly essential, but it lends itself to a certain peace of mind. A box ticked, if you will. I suspect that half of them will wind up deleted, or – at best – dropped into my Cannibal File to be stripped for parts during some other project.

But the rest will likely end up on Ko-Fi in some form or another, which is better than lurking in my files, waiting to spring on me at some unwary moment.

New Essay – Phantom Fighter – Jules de Grandin

I posted a new(ish) Nightmare Men essay on the OG occult investigator, Jules de Grandin. Not the first, but probably the best to ever appear in print – at least if you’re counting sheer number of appearances. The essay originally appeared in 2011 or so at the Black Gate Magazine site, but I’ve tidied it up some and updated it. Subscribe and read it for free.

New Essay – Cat People (1942)

I posted a new Silver Screams essay on the 1942 Val Lewton picture, Cat People. It’s the archetypal Lewton film, and has haunted film students for years, for good reason. Subscribe and read it for free.

New Serial – Shadow of the Drowned City

Earlier this year I wrote a multi-part Arkham Horror serial, Shadows of the Drowned City, which followed on from events in the most recent game expansion, The Drowned City. The third instalment, “Boston”, just dropped over at the new Arkham Horror website. Read it for free, or listen to the audio versions, narrated by Todd Menesses.

New Short Story – “St Ulfhaugh”

A new Artemis Whitlock short story, “St Ulfhaugh” has appeared in the newest issue of Schlock! Magazine. Artemis and paranormal investigator, Harry Grieve, investigate a church reportedly haunted by the last wolf in England, or perhaps something worse. Read it here for free.

New Short Story – “On Toad Hill”

I posted up a new Lady Dee short story to my Ko-Fi shop. “On Toad Hill” finds Lady Dee and her aide, Dodgson, investigating strange goings-on on the eponymous hill. You can grab it for a buck, and if you enjoy it, why not check out the Lady Dee novella, “Blacker Than Night”, which sees Dee and Dodgson tangling with a murderous Mythos-powered mummy. Both are available in my Ko-Fi shop.

Reminder – Return of the monster-Men

Reminder – Stand at Callenspire

Monthly Spotlight“Prodigal”

This was a peculiar one. I wrote it thinking it’d have to be massively rewritten, due to the obvious weirdness – Fabius Bile? Daughter? – but, no. It got through the editing process relatively unscathed and with no major changes.

It’s also proven to be one of the most popular Fabius Bile short stories, earning steady royalties year to year. I suspect folks like the weirdness.

Anyway, if you’d like to grab a copy, you can get it as part of the Fabius Bile Omnibus, or as an ebook.

Monthly Story“Bruno J. Lampini & the Claw of Satan”

I first made the acquaintance of Bruno J. Lampini a few years back when he tried to sell me the tears of a harpy, or so he claimed the smelly concoction to be. Since then, I have had the dubious privilege of chronicling several of Lampini’s escapades, of which “Bruno J. Lampini and the Claw of Satan” is the second. Loosely inspired by The Blood on Satan’s Claw, it’s not quite folk horror, though if you squint – maybe? It first appeared in issue 8 of The Audient Void: A Journal of Weird Fiction and Fantasy. Enjoy!

There are few places more dangerous than the English countryside.

A hard lesson, learned almost too late by yours truly. Bruno J. Lampini at your service, sirs, and madams. A fine old clan, the Lampini – Roman, I believe. I came by the name honestly however, I assure you. Only one owner, barely used, as they say.

I expect that you’re on your holidays. Walking tour of Buckinghamshire, is it? A word of advice – go back to the city. I see by your faces that you think I’m having a bit of fun at your expense. I assure you that I am not. The countryside is full of horrors, especially for fine gentlefolk such as yourselves.

Why, I recently saw the Devil, not fifteen hedgerows hence.

Ah, I see I have your attention. Might I sit? A most profuse thanks, you may be sure. My nerves are quite done in, I must confess. The events of the past few days would try the iron of any man. Even a man as rough and tumble as myself.

Indeed, madam. It was Old Scratch himself – or a close cousin, at the very least. When it comes to the natives of the infernal country, I’m sadly no stranger. I have braved the ramparts of Tartarus on more than one occasion. But only when the price was right.

And it was price I was thinking of the day a puffed up swell named Tobias Tiggon decided to hire himself an experience acquisitions agent. By which, of course, I mean me.

I’m what you might call a purveyor of second-hand valuables, mostly of the esoteric sort. Your standard ‘eye of the lost idol of wherever’ sort of foolishness. What? Oh yes, my dear lady – extremely lucrative, if I might be so uncouth as to answer honestly. It has been my experience that Englishmen, as a group, seem to feel the pull of the ineffable rather more strongly than their cousins across the Channel.

Ah, I can see that you know of what I speak, friends. As soon as I saw you from across the room, I said to myself, here’s some fine folk who’s have a whiff of the old brimstone about them and no mistake. Bruno J. Lampini is a connoisseur of connoisseurs, you might say. I wager it’ll come as no surprise to you what your average well-heeled Londoner will pay for a bit of powdered lycanthrope saliva. Frankly obscene, if you ask me. Then, what’s the good of money if it ain’t getting spent?

Of course, what they do with such oddments is none of my concern. Caveat emptor, as the saying goes. My own tastes in entertainment run to the decidedly mundane, I’m afraid. No less troublesome for being terrestrial, sadly.

That was one of the reasons I was willing to meet with Tiggon, in fact. I had fallen afoul of a rum lot and found myself in a spot of bother. I won’t go into it in any detail, save to say that I do not recall explicitly pledging my troth, and that a man can’t be held responsible for what he says on a rainy Saturday in Blackpool, no matter how many brothers the ingénue in question has. Three, in this case. If you were so crass as to wonder.

In any event, I was looking for an excuse to scarper. And if I could make a bit of dosh in the bargain, well – so much the better. Tiggon was promising both.

Now, Tiggon is one of those funny little fellows who looks like a banker but talks like a swindler. We met at a certain establishment in the East End where I often conduct business. It’s a quiet hole, only a few punters at any given time. The sort of place where a man can do some serious thinking, or drinking, depending on his mood.

Tiggon, being the sort of chap who sets a clean handkerchief down before he plants his posterior, was not at all appreciative of its charms. But that was all to the good. I often find that an uncomfortable client is willing to agree to terms without much argument.

I could see that he was nervous. Frightened, even. While I admit that I can be quite intimidating when I muster the will, I could tell that it wasn’t me that had his hackles up. Nor was it my choice of meeting ground. And that set my own hackles to bristling. I am not a man often at home to surprises. In my line they can be most unwelcome. Why, I recall one time, a certain curio box and the horrors within – but I digress. Back to the tale in the telling.

When Tiggon finally started to speak, nothing he said dispelled my initial assumptions as to the general state of his character. “There’s a certain object the organisation I represent wishes you to acquire,” he began.

I held up a hand to forestall him. “We both know why we’re here, so why not cut to the chase, my friend? Only three pieces of information are pertinent to my interests – what, where and how much?”

His face took on a puckered sort of expression. “Fine.” He proceeded to relate to me, somewhat grudgingly, the odds and sods of the matter. It was the usual nonsense one might imagine – a remote village, hidden away in the wilds of darkest Buckinghamshire, a farmer named Padfoot, and a certain antediluvian fossil, recently unearthed from a fallow field. Sinister, if routine.

But as I said, I was a man in need of a pilgrimage. Too, the proposed remuneration was of satisfactory size to tempt me. So I agreed to take on the commission, despite the unease steadily growing within me. But as I shook Tiggon’s damp little paw, I happened to take note of a fellow paying what I considered an undue amount of attention to our conversation. Just out of the corner of my eye, you understand. That and an itch between the shoulders provoked me into immediate action.

I was on my feet in moments, hand thrust into my coat. Armed? Why yes, my dear lady. Competition in the trade is fierce, and better a bullet spent than a pound lost, as my dear mother often opined, God grant she lie still.

On her advice, I habitually carry a Webley Bulldog on my outings. It is a sturdy pistol, and mine has served me well in many a tricky situation. There was that incident in Nepal, for instance…but that’s neither here nor there.

Our eavesdropper was a chap of passing familiarity to yourself sir, if I might be so bold. I didn’t see him clearly for he was up and rabbiting away on the instant, but I caught a firm glimpse. I was after him moments later, hound and hare. I’m normally quite fleet of foot, but the common room was crowded and I was soon distracted.

You see, as I was dashing out the door, someone was coming the opposite way. Several someones. Three, in fact. Big lads. Strapping, you might say, and with a distinct air of familial obligation about them.

Yes, you have it, sir, the very fellows. The Brothers Blackpool. Upon sighting me, they gave tongue to a hunting cry such as Herne himself might have voiced. I backpedalled swiftly, pistol forgotten in my haste. The trio pounced, but I was already heading for the gents, and a window I had used for speedy egress a time or two.

Surprisingly, Tiggon had anticipated me. As I entered the jakes, I saw his posterior wriggling through the window. I followed swiftly, and, I like to think, somewhat more gracefully. I nearly landed atop him in the alleyway, and he scrambled away, yelping like a kicked dog. I caught up with him in a single stride, clamped a hand about his mouth, and spoke harshly. Rather more harshly than I can bear to repeat, I fear.

I queried him as to his reasons for such an abrupt departure, and he babbled some nonsense about the enemies of his masters, and the wrath of Satan. I steadied him with a quick rabbit-punch, and as he crouched gasping, asked him again who he was running from.

Tiggon, as it turns out, was acting as a procurement agent for an honest to goodness Satanic cult. Of course, a man can’t toss a stone in London without hitting a member of one secret society or another. Head to Soho on a Saturday evening and you’ll be practically tripping over the blighters. Tiggon’ lot was engaged in a clandestine war with another bunch and he feared that the fellow I’d spooked had been one of their number. Did I mention his resemblance to you, sir? My apologies. Uncanny, sir, uncanny.

Now, I’m a man of no small gumption, and while the idea of dodging lunatic diabolists was not one I was fond of, it was infinitely preferable to being dragged back to Blackpool and a waiting marriage bed. I swiftly reassured Tiggon that I’d retrieve his heart’s desire, sure as sure. Much relieved, he handed over a flat wallet full of notes. He swore blind and blue to meet me at a certain rural pub in Buckinghamshire, the rest of my money in hand. I am ashamed to say I was in just the mood to take his effusive promises at face value.

I know, I know. Folly, thy name is Lampini!

Still, life is a feast, and one must take the sour with the sweet. Having shaken upon the deal, Tiggon went his way, and I, mine. Soon enough, I was snugly ensconced aboard a train bound for stately Bucks. I will not bore you with the particulars of that journey. Suffice it to say, hard angles of grey gave way to rolling curves of green, and I soon found myself in that most exotic of locales – the English countryside.

I am not inclined to the wilds. Give me pea soup and brick dust. The fresh air makes me tired, and the scent of new mown hay agitates my virgin sinuses. Indeed, not two minutes after I had stepped onto the platform of that lonely railway station, snuffling and scratchy-eyed, I was ready to surrender the field and give myself over to an eternity of seaside matrimony. But Bruno J. Lampini is the very picture of perseverance.

I duly traversed lonely rural lanes between vast swathes of ploughed field, inhabited by a veritable army of squawking black crows. The birds followed me. I thought it merely a fancy at first, but as I am not given to such imaginings I quickly deduced that it was anything but. Of course, knowing what it wasn’t, and knowing what it was, are two entirely different things. I had the one, but not the other.

So, the birds watched me and I watched them, and we both watched the occasional passers-by, who returned the gesture with interest. I did not see many friendly faces on my walk, sad to say. And those I did, always at a distance. I am used to it, of course. A man like me in a place like that – well. I would have given a wide berth as well, I’m sure.

The village – its name is of no importance – was a picturesque little hamlet, right out of Wodehouse. Time did not just stand still in those dusty streets but marched backwards with a determined stride. The birds followed me, flocking across rooftops and a memorial on the village green. I endeavoured to ignore them as I sought out the local pilgrim’s rest – a pub, as is traditional. It was called Gowers Devil, and the sign displayed a suitably fiendish face. Rather like a bat that had been stepped on by a horse.

In all honesty, I have stayed in nicer flop houses. The pub was a ramshackle sort of place – fine for the locals, but outright hostile to passing trade. The sort of place where the laughter stops when the door opens. If I’d had any other options, I’d have taken them then and there. But, alas, geography, my old nemesis, had betrayed me.

Of my room, the less said the better. The bed was sturdy, at least. And there was a window, through which the various miasmas of the country seeped unchecked. Animal dung, mostly. I paid it little mind, already intent on my Saturday Half-Holiday Guide to Buckinghamshire. It was out of date by two decades, but then, so was the village. I quickly found a route through the depressing sprawl of country lanes to the house of the seller, one Mister Padfoot. I made my way there as the sun fell behind the horizon.

Padfoot, yes. Curious name, I agree. And a curious sort of gentleman he was at that. One of those twisted old hobgoblins who often inhabit the works of overwrought loam and lovechild authors. A farmer by trade, though at first glance his farm seemed to grow nothing but goose grass and mud. His house was a dilapidated wreck, shaggy and hunched among equally scabrous trees like a half-starved wolf.

The crows had followed me. Or perhaps these were different birds. They sat in the trees, croaking like a chorus of the damned. I considered shooting one, just on principle, but discarded the idea almost immediately. Best not to rile the natives, in these situations.

I was expected, so I knocked on the door and was greeted by none other than Padfoot’s daughter, the aptly named Angel. I have an eye for beauty, as you might have guessed, and I am not ashamed to say that I took a second look, and possibly a third. Angel was flaxen haired, and from the higher end of the breeding pool, I judged.

“Yes?” Her voice wasn’t soft, but it was warm. Like a twist of silk about the wrist. By the look in your eye, madam, I can see that you know of which I speak. No, no, forgive me. A bit of rough humour. My apologies.

At any rate, I doffed my hat and took a stately bow. “Bruno J. Lampini at your service, my lady. I believe I am expected?”

She looked startled. At the time, I wondered whether it had anything to do with the fact I was wearing clean clothes and didn’t smell of horse dung. Angel swept me inside, after a lingering glance at the raucous birds.

The house was as ugly inside as it was outside, and barely furnished. It was no wonder that Padfoot was willing to sell whatever it was I’d come for. The man himself was waiting for me at a table by the fireplace. He was as ugly as his daughter was beautiful. A stout little man, twisted by a life of labour, with thin lips and widely spaced eyes. “You’re him?” he asked, without preamble.

“If by him you mean Bruno J. Lampini, then yes.” I took a seat without waiting for an invitation. He smiled, exposing blackened teeth.

“Angel – tea.” He sniffed and leaned forward. “You look a right hard bastard. Good.”

“Is it?” I didn’t care for the way he looked at me. One of his eyes was larger than the other, and seemed to glow like the moon.

“I’m not supposed to be selling this, you understand? There are them as say it’ll bring a terrible doom upon me.”

I nodded sympathetically. I’d heard similar sentiments before from sellers. It was always the same. We were haggling on the price, though money had not yet been mentioned. “I understand. You’ve changed your mind. Well, my clients will be disappointed, but…” I trailed off as I made to stand. Padfoot caught me by the wrist. I looked down at him and he jerked his hand back as if he’d been stung.

“Sit down, blast you. No one has changed their mind.”

Outside, the birds had set up quite the symphony. I remember it, because of the look on Padfoot’s face at the sound. He was afraid, you see. The sort of fear you only see once or twice in a lifetime, if you’re lucky. He stood abruptly and went to the mantle above the fireplace. He took down a plain, unadorned wooden box, about the right size to fit into the Gladstone bag I’d had the foresight to bring.

Why yes madam, what a keen eye you have! This is the very bag here, by my chair. Never let it out of my sight, if I can help it. A fool and his bag are soon parted, as my dearest mother, God keep her silent, often said.

Oh, forgive me, my friend. Of course, of course. Back to the box. A simple thing, as I said. And yet, not so simple as all that. As Padfoot set it down on the table, the fire in the fireplace rushed up with an animal growl. A wave of oppressive heat billowed, bringing with it the stink of burning feathers. I coughed politely, as Padfoot cursed.

Angel smiled sweetly as she deposited the tea and went to tend the fire. “It’s the birds,” she said. “They try to get in, sometimes. They never make it. Father keeps the fire stoked.” She prodded the logs with a poker, as her father cast a baleful glare in her direction. I knocked on the table to catch his attention.

“Hang the birds. What’s in the box?”

Padfoot turned his querulous gaze on me. “You don’t know?” he asked, incredulous. I assured him that I did not. It is a point of pride that I know little to nothing about the items I procure. What you do not know cannot hurt you, as they say. Ignorance is bliss.

Angel looked at the box like a child looking at a sweet. “We’ve always known it was there,” she said, softly. “Buried – waiting – in the soil.”

“Quiet,” Padfoot snapped. “Look at this.” Before I could stop him, he opened the blasted thing. As far as sinister artefacts go, it was singularly unimpressive.

The talon was a withered thing, picked into stiff, grey shreds by what had likely been the beaks of scavenging birds, no doubt. Like a man’s forearm, or perhaps that of the Sumatran orang-utan, and covered in a wispy down that resembled mould or cobwebs. The gnarled fingers ended in barbed talons that put me in mind of meat-hooks.

I am not an uneducated man, and I know a fossil when I see one. I’d seen more frightful talons on display at Pitt Rivers Museum. More disturbing was the sudden raucous caterwauling of the birds, louder than before. As if a cat had gotten among them.

“You see?” Padfoot murmured. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Well, no. Not really.”

Padfoot scowled as Angel tittered in a most engaging fashion. He slammed the box shut. “Found it in the field. There was more, but the birds got it.”

“How unfortunate.”

As a rule, I left the item’s pedigree for others to determine. I am merely a mechanism of transaction, retrieving and delivering. Too, there is a certain repetitiveness to such matters, I find. Collect one mummy’s hand, you’ve collected them all.

I named a price due south of Tiggon’s offer. It was never wise to show your hand early. Padfoot made a face, like a child tasting something sour. “Fine,” he muttered. Startled by his unexpected acquiescence, I said nothing for a moment. Padfoot made an impatient gesture. “I said fine. I’ll take it. It’s yours.” He shoved the box towards me.

Being an old hand at these sort of shenanigans, I didn’t take it. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“I fancy myself a keen judge of character, Mr. Padfoot. I didn’t have you down as a man to take the first offer.”

“He’s right, Father,” Angel said, as she poured us both a cup of lukewarm tea. “Can’t wait to get rid of it?” She looked at me with what, at the time, I took to be doe-like wistfulness. “More tea, Mr. Lampini?”

“Bruno, please.”

Padfoot’s glare could have killed. “Hush up girl. Keep that fire stoked.”

“Cold, Mr. Padfoot?” I sipped the tea. Unpleasant, but palatable. I decided the sip was enough to keep up appearances and set it aside.

“The birds,” he said, without further explanation.

“Still, your daughter posed an excellent query – why are you so eager to be shed of this item?” I indicated the box, even as I extricated my pocket watch and took the time. Outside, the last glimmerings of crimson were fading to purple. The birds were still making a racket, despite the cool of the evening.

Padfoot watched the windows. Occasionally his gaze would wander to his daughter, and the look in his eyes plucked the threads of my suspicion. Here was a man deathly afraid of something. The thing in the box was only part of it. “Need the money.”

“Planning a trip?”

Padfoot’s attentions swivelled back. “Do you want it or not? There are others who’ll pay twice what you offer for it.”

“And yet here you are, trying desperately to sell it to me. I am not a man to be trifled with, Mr. Padfoot. I am quite a rough cove, as the saying goes.” I bestowed my special smile upon him – the smile I reserved for detective-inspectors, debtors and demons. Some deviltry was afoot, and I wanted to know its nature.

He did not reply. And at that moment, the box gave a thump.

Oh, my apologies. I merely struck the table for a bit of narrative emphasis. Did I startle you? Do forgive me. We Lampinis have theatre in the blood, I’m afraid. A curse, as well as a blessing. More tea, anyone? Or stronger libations, perhaps? My round, I think.

What? Oh yes, the box.

It gave a thump. Quite a thump, in fact. The sort of thrashing one might compare to that of an angry cat in a wet sack. Padfoot and I stared at it, the way men stare at adders in the tulips. I am not, as a rule, unfamiliar with the vagaries of sudden motive force in immotile objects. That is to say, things what shouldn’t, deciding to move. And yet, I admit that I was fair startled by the suddenness of it.

Outside it sounded as if the birds had begun to peck at the lead of the window frames. Ash fell from the chimney, causing the fire to bow low. Angel laughed. “I think it heard you, Father. It seems angry.”

Padfoot lurched from his seat, reaching for his belt as he did so. He had it off in a trice and it snapped through the air. Angel yelped in either shock or pain. I am not inclined to chivalry, nor am I a student of that particular school of inept masculinity that says a woman is inviolate. I have thumped my share of doxies. Pray madam, do not look so shocked. I assure you it was only in self-defence, not out of pleasure.

Even so, I was not of a mind to watch the man whip his daughter in front of me. Especially when I could think of so many more pleasurable activities to engage in. But as I stood to put a stop to it, Angel flew at her father like a banshee, all bared teeth and bent fingers. Padfoot stumbled back into the table, cursing, and a moment later several things happened suddenly, and all at once.

The table, none too steady went over on its side with a sound of spilling tea and breaking crockery. The box hit the floor and popped open and there was a scorpion-quick sound that sent a shiver through me. As of something scuttling very quickly. But before I could spot what it was, the fire went out and the room went dark. Angel screamed then, a piteous sound that set my heart to shivering.

Then there followed a great, frenzied fluttering as of many wings, and Padfoot gave a wild yell. I heard thumping and crashing, as of a struggle. All around me was a veritable typhoon of feathery bodies spinning and flapping, and in the dim light seeping through the windows, I thought I saw many black shapes merging into one.

I must pause here. I cannot quite recall the nature of what I saw. Its shape slips from my memory even now. But I do recall thinking in that moment that there was a certain familial resemblance to the creature depicted upon the sign of the pub. Perhaps that is merely down to my fanciful imaginings. Perhaps I was simply caught up in the moment.

A lesser man would have frozen in shock or fright. But Bruno J. Lampini is formed of sterner stuff than most. I’ve got the minerals, as the natives of East London say. I fired my pistol, emptying it into the apparition even as it congealed. My efforts were rewarded by a sudden dispersal of the croaking flock. Fighting through the press of fluttering bodies, I flung open the door, letting in the last dribble of light and letting out the birds.

They flew past me, filling the air with loose feathers and splattering the floor with their shit. Forgive my plain speech, ladies. Such is the weight of that moment that I forget myself. I turned, coughing on the smell.

Padfoot was dead, obviously. But the birds were not to blame. The old man had clearly been throttled, to judge by the red marks about his throat. What was that, sir? The claw? Why it lay on the floor, among the scattered bodies of Bulldog-bit birds. I managed to nudge it back into its box with the toe of my shoe. Thankfully, it didn’t resist.

As for Angel…well. It should come as no surprise that the toothsome ingénue had utterly vanished. Skedaddled, I imagine. Her welfare was not uppermost in my mind at that particular moment, I admit. I had worries of my own.

Outside the farmhouse, every branch of every tree played host to the birds. But now they were silent. Eerily so, to borrow a cliché. Hundreds of beady black eyes fastened on the pair of us. The night was still and cool. There was no wind, but the branches were rustling regardless and I had a sudden urge to be elsewhere and quickly.

I will not bore you with the frankly ridiculous details of my flight from that cursed place. Suffice to say I was forced to trek across the wilds of Buckinghamshire, pursued by the cries of birds. And not just the birds. The night was alive with noise. Perhaps it’s simply the imagination of an innocent Londoner lost in the wilds of Buckinghamshire, but I fancied I was pursued from that house. Behind me, frightful fiends did tread, to borrow a phrase.

Worse was the box. It seemed to twitch and twist in my Gladstone like an angry cat, and I couldn’t help but think of Padfoot’s bulging features and the red marks on his wattle throat. As I said, I’m no stranger to cursed artefacts, so I gave it a shake every so often, just to remind it who was in charge.

Nonetheless, I made my way here. Why? Oh, didn’t I mention that? That pub where I was supposed to meet Tiggon? It’s this very one. Then, I have a suspicion that you already knew that.

Tiggon was dead, unfortunately. As I said earlier, there are few places more dangerous than the English countryside, and poor old Tiggon was the latest casualty. Is, I should say, seeing as I found him slumped in the jakes not an hour hence.

My theory is thus – the foes he so feared followed the poor blighter from London. Perhaps he lost them along the way, or maybe they were simply slow off the mark. Regardless, they did not catch up to him until this very day. And then, having prematurely dispatched him, they resolved to wait and intercept the desired parcel, and its custodian.

Have I got that right? Oh come now, my friends. Don’t play coy. As I said, I have a nose for your sort, and really, who goes on a walking tour of Buckinghamshire in this day and age? And, well, forgive my curiosity, but I simply must know – how many pubs did you go to, before you found the right one? Which of you gentlemen was it who followed Tiggon into the lavatory and knifed him while he did his business? Or perhaps it was one of the ladies, hmm? I should have liked to have seen his face if that was the case.

No. No, stay your hand, old salt. That sound you heard just now from beneath the table was the warning growl of my Bulldog. As you might imagine, my finger sits astride the trigger. Either of you fine gentlemen so much as twitch, why I’d be forced to defend myself. And yes, madam, I’d certainly plug you through, should either you or your sister in sin give me cause. As the goose, so the gander, as the bluestockings say.

Now, let us talk terms. You made the mistake of jumping poor old Tiggon somewhat hastily, as I said. But not too hastily. I’m here, after all. And the claw is here, in this box. Listen – hear it scratching? A persistent devil, this one.

Or maybe that’s the tapping of beaks at the windows. Quite a few birds in these parts. I’m sure you noticed them on the way in. No, don’t look. They’ve been my stalwart companions for some time now. They followed me, you see. Flitting from one tree to the next in great, black clouds that obscured the moon. Always watching and waiting, though for what I cannot say. Perhaps for this moment.

Perhaps simply to see what I do with the thing in this box.

What do I want? Simply put, I’m tired of the country. I long for the narrow streets and close air of London. With Tiggon dead, I have no recourse to the funds owed me. But I refuse to leave this detestable wilderness empty-handed. As I said, when I spy opportunity, I grasp it in both hands. And what I spied, my friends, was you.

Thus my tale has come to its foreseeable conclusion, with a Webley aimed at your vitals and a devil’s bargain before you. Now, now, no need for such hard looks. You’ll recall that I did warn you.

Now…what’s your best offer?

In Closing

But for now, to paraphrase the estimable Carnacki – out you go!

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Published on August 31, 2025 01:00