Necroscope: Harry and the Pirates: and Other Tales from the Lost Years by Brian Lumley Page B
Authors: Brian Lumley
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harmless and empty, a certain greater darkness
out there
was something else, and it harboured something darker still.
Having twice sensed this thing in the near-distant forest, Harry knew where to “look”; the only difference this third time would be that he now knew it—whatever “it” was—could also sense him! Following his most recent effort, and aware now that the thing wasn’t about to offer itself up for any lengthy examination,he reasoned that if he intended to fix its latitude in his metaphysical mind he would have to be quick about it. Find the thing, retreat from it, erect his mental shields: the Necroscope’s plan was that simple. And tomorrow morning, in full daylight but from a different base, a spot to be chosen from farmlands to the north of the forest, he would employ the same plan to finally triangulate and so discover the thing’s co-ordinates, the source of those deceased but yet desperate deadspeak whisperers.
It should have been no more difficult than that, but as he prepared himself for what was to have been a quite small effort of will, so Harry became aware of a faint but peculiar musk, an odour not unlike honeysuckle or certain night-blooming flowers, which he nevertheless found oddly . . . offensive? Or if not offensive, unsettling? It reminded him—but he didn’t know why—of rain, damp earth, and mould, and conjured to his unique mind vague but very disturbing half memories from earlier times that he couldn’t quite place, like those terrifying nightmares which go completely unremembered on waking. And such was the instantaneous effect of this depressing taint that suddenly Harry felt that what he was doing was of no consequence in comparison with the misery he was feeling. Why, was anything of consequence anymore? He very much doubted it. What an utter waste of time life really was, and—
“Harry?” Jimmy Collins touched his arm, then jerked back a pace as the Necroscope gave a massive start. And: “
Damn!
” Jimmy cried aloud, arching his body away from the coffee that slopped from one of the mugs he was carrying. And angrily, “Now what in the name of . . . ?” But in the next moment he was conciliatory. “I mean, did I startle you or something?”
“Yes,” said Harry. And: “No, my fault—sorry! I must have been daydreaming. And anyway, this has been a hell of a day for small, damp accidents! Did you get some on you? Hey, I’m sorry, Jimmy!”
But he wasn’t sorry that Jimmy had come from the house and disturbed him, interrupting whatever had been happening to him. And while as quickly as that he no longer remembered why he had felt so down, he remembered only too well something JackForester had told him: how sometimes, when he was in the fields near Hazeldene keeping an eye on Greg Miller, he would start to feel so very low that he really didn’t know why he was alive, or why he would want to be!
And with that memory, almost as a reflex action—or maybe an instinctive, even a retaliatory one—Harry opened his mind to scan afar and to the west. The evening was cool but far from cold, so that the icy chill he felt as his probe touched momentarily upon . . . upon something
other,
something monstrous, which had even seemed to be waiting for him, was a chill of the soul rather than a physical thing.
Repulsed, the Necroscope’s automatic, defensive retreat was even more immediate than his previous planning had called for! Even so there was time enough between the moments of recognition and withdrawal for Harry to feel the utter
evil
of an alien presence in the psychic aether, time enough to sense the vile satisfaction that the presence was unable to conceal: as if the darkness itself had smiled and licked its lips—
—Perhaps in anticipation?
Jimmy had already gone back into the house and so failed to see Harry’s involuntary shudder, the way he drew his elbows into his sides, hugging himself and trembling however briefly. In another moment the chill
out there
was something else, and it harboured something darker still.
Having twice sensed this thing in the near-distant forest, Harry knew where to “look”; the only difference this third time would be that he now knew it—whatever “it” was—could also sense him! Following his most recent effort, and aware now that the thing wasn’t about to offer itself up for any lengthy examination,he reasoned that if he intended to fix its latitude in his metaphysical mind he would have to be quick about it. Find the thing, retreat from it, erect his mental shields: the Necroscope’s plan was that simple. And tomorrow morning, in full daylight but from a different base, a spot to be chosen from farmlands to the north of the forest, he would employ the same plan to finally triangulate and so discover the thing’s co-ordinates, the source of those deceased but yet desperate deadspeak whisperers.
It should have been no more difficult than that, but as he prepared himself for what was to have been a quite small effort of will, so Harry became aware of a faint but peculiar musk, an odour not unlike honeysuckle or certain night-blooming flowers, which he nevertheless found oddly . . . offensive? Or if not offensive, unsettling? It reminded him—but he didn’t know why—of rain, damp earth, and mould, and conjured to his unique mind vague but very disturbing half memories from earlier times that he couldn’t quite place, like those terrifying nightmares which go completely unremembered on waking. And such was the instantaneous effect of this depressing taint that suddenly Harry felt that what he was doing was of no consequence in comparison with the misery he was feeling. Why, was anything of consequence anymore? He very much doubted it. What an utter waste of time life really was, and—
“Harry?” Jimmy Collins touched his arm, then jerked back a pace as the Necroscope gave a massive start. And: “
Damn!
” Jimmy cried aloud, arching his body away from the coffee that slopped from one of the mugs he was carrying. And angrily, “Now what in the name of . . . ?” But in the next moment he was conciliatory. “I mean, did I startle you or something?”
“Yes,” said Harry. And: “No, my fault—sorry! I must have been daydreaming. And anyway, this has been a hell of a day for small, damp accidents! Did you get some on you? Hey, I’m sorry, Jimmy!”
But he wasn’t sorry that Jimmy had come from the house and disturbed him, interrupting whatever had been happening to him. And while as quickly as that he no longer remembered why he had felt so down, he remembered only too well something JackForester had told him: how sometimes, when he was in the fields near Hazeldene keeping an eye on Greg Miller, he would start to feel so very low that he really didn’t know why he was alive, or why he would want to be!
And with that memory, almost as a reflex action—or maybe an instinctive, even a retaliatory one—Harry opened his mind to scan afar and to the west. The evening was cool but far from cold, so that the icy chill he felt as his probe touched momentarily upon . . . upon something
other,
something monstrous, which had even seemed to be waiting for him, was a chill of the soul rather than a physical thing.
Repulsed, the Necroscope’s automatic, defensive retreat was even more immediate than his previous planning had called for! Even so there was time enough between the moments of recognition and withdrawal for Harry to feel the utter
evil
of an alien presence in the psychic aether, time enough to sense the vile satisfaction that the presence was unable to conceal: as if the darkness itself had smiled and licked its lips—
—Perhaps in anticipation?
Jimmy had already gone back into the house and so failed to see Harry’s involuntary shudder, the way he drew his elbows into his sides, hugging himself and trembling however briefly. In another moment the chill
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