Necroscope: The Mobius Murders by Brian Lumley

to us. And to you too, son, for I can put you in touch with them.
    “But do they know of me? Do they know who, or what, I am?”
    Oh yes, for we’ve told them everything. Only speak to them, Harry, and they’ll feel your warmth as all of the dead feel it when you’re close. And then they’ll know it’s you.
    “When may I speak to them?” The Necroscope was eager now.
    Whenever you like, but sooner rather than later. Who knows how long they’ll be able to keep it together? For a long time, perhaps, now that they can communicate—or maybe not. As I’ve said before, the sea has a way of moving things, breaking them down. All of this has to be very hard for them.
    “Then maybe I should go back to the house right now and do it from there. I can take their coordinates straight from your mind, right?”
    Of course! Just as you wish, son.
    And a moment later, as Harry sank down into his easy chair and relaxed, he told her, “I’m ready, Ma.” So was she, and the necessary coordinates were at once available to him…
     

     
    Harry is it ye? Or shall Ah call ye Necroscope? The deadspeak voice was faint even now, despite the concerted efforts of its lifeless, sunken colleagues. Not only faint but distant, almost sidereal, as if from millions of miles away: the very “ghost of a ghostly voice,” as Harry’s Ma would most likely put it. Faint and distant, and oh-so-very cold, so very lost.
    “Call me Harry,” Harry answered. “To most of my friends I’m just Harry.”
    Aye , the other replied, and ye’ve a Great Majority o’ them! In death we ken and accept that, as we never would have dreamed o’ acceptin’ it in the lives that have been stolen frae us. But Ah can sense yere warmth like a wee candle’s flame in the nicht—except Ah’m far beyond warmin’ the noo.
    “But not beyond righting a great wrong,” said Harry. “Which is why I’ve come to speak to you, to learn who did this to you. We’ll get to that soon, I hope, but first tell me: who are you? For I’ve a feeling I may already know you.”
    Who Ah am is a dead yin! the other replied at once, harshly and bitterly. So what can it matter who Ah was? Anyhow, such as ye could never have known such as me. What, a crippled, drugged-up addict like me? A penniless, degenerate bum frae the streets o’ Edinburgh? Oh, aye? And can ye no just see me mixin’ wi’ the likes o’ society such as ye have known? No, Ah dinnae think so!
    “So then,” said Harry soberly. “It appears the teeming dead haven’t told you very much about me after all. You see, I’m not much for that sort of society. In fact, if society was aware of me at all, Angus—er, it is Wee Angus, isn’t it?—the odds are it would want nothing to do with me! In short, your society is the only one I know.”
    Eh? Ah cannae believe that it’s true and ye really do ken me! But when, ah mean how , can we possibly have met?
    “I didn’t say we’d met,” said Harry. “Only that I thought I might already know you.” And then, not wanting to tell the poor man how he’d seen him murdered, he chose the easy way out. “You see, Angus, you’re what’s called a ‘missing person.’ And that’s how I’ve come to know you.”
    Ah! Frae the polis! Ah understand! But man, there’s a bunch o’ us doon here, and by now we’re all o’ us missin’ persons! Am Ah no right?
    “Yes, but you’re not all lame, and you’re not all—in your own words—addicts and degenerate bums. And personally I don’t think you’re that either…I prefer to believe you’re just an unfortunate man who lost his way, and then lost everything to a merciless killer!”
    Aye, someone—some fat evil slug—who promised much but took it all away. And ye’re goin’ tae put it right, are ye?
    Harry liked Wee Angus’ description of the murderer. “That’s my intention,” he said. “But your fat evil slug is proving hard to locate. I need to know more about him, anything you and your dead friends down