there can tell me that might lead me to him.”
Then ask away , said the other. And when we’re done the rest o’ us can speak tae ye, usin’ me as their instryment.
Knowing that Wee Angus would sense it, Harry nodded. “Let’s start with the number of lives he’s taken, or at least those we know of. Tell me, how many of you are there down there, Angus?”
There’s five o’ us , the dead man at once replied. But then: No, wait, there’s six—for Ah wasnae the last.
“What?” Still seated in his easy chair, Harry started as if he’d touched live electric wires. “But Angus…you were taken only two days ago!”
Two days? Ah wouldnae ken. Time’s a bit strange the noo. Ah feel it’s only minutes sometimes, and others it’s been forever.
“And what of the first four?” Harry inquired. “Have you any idea how long they’ve been there?”
No idea at all , his informant answered. Excep’ they’ve been here longer, and some much longer, than me. But still they made me their spokesman.
The Necroscope was intrigued. “And why was that?”
Because those first yins, they were slippin’ fast, slippin’ intae sleep, their thoughts fast fadin’. If yere mother and the Great Majority hadnae shouted so loud, shouted them awake again, then by now for sure they’d be gone intae the dark. Ah, but now they’re awake, and thirsty for revenge! Ah’m their single voice because Ah’m still the brightest spark.
“Yes you are,” said Harry. “But what of number six, the one who came after you?”
Ah! Well, that yin’s no in the best o’ shape. No gettin’ it taegether too well. He’ll be needin’ a wee while yet tae settle doon. As for me: despite mah previous, er, infirmities, Ah’m no doin’ so badly. Bein’ dead, Ah dinnae feel so much pain! Ironic, is it no?
Harry was silent for a moment, then said: “I’d better speak to the others, the first four, for I need to know who they are, or who they were.”
With the amplified deadspeak of the first four reaching him through Angus, the Necroscope was able to speak to them, one at a time, lodging their names and their stories in his metaphysical mind.
First of all he spoke—
—To Alf Samuels, a poor soul who had gone to pieces after losing his wife and daughter in a car accident; he had been the driver and blamed himself. He’d been taken when drunk and staggering home to a cold, empty house.
Then to Patrick Kelley, an out of work shipbuilder who came from Belfast, seeking work in Newcastle—and found only death while begging one night outside a bookmaker’s shop in Falkirk.
And to Donald McMannus, a mentally challenged youth murdered in the cemetery where he’d habitually kept a five year watch over his father’s grave. Talking to that one was difficult…
Finally to Mary Anne McNiven, sixteen years old and already walking the streets, driven from home and eventually into prostitution by a lecherous stepfather whose advances she’d spurned, considering it an improvement to be with men willing to pay her rather than someone like him!
As for Wee Angus: Harry already knew what happened to him, for he had seen it with his own eyes.
And all of them told more or less the same story: of a fat, red-haired, devilish man whose pale putty face turned red as he gripped them and drew off their life essence, then sent them to their fate down what they sensed as a dark and deadly tunnel—the alternate route through the Möbius Continuum, of course.
As for why anyone would do such a thing:
I think he was feeding , said Mary Anne McNiven, wise beyond her years. He was satisfying a lust different from anything I’d ever known. He was like a vampire, if I believed in such—and perhaps I do now—but it wasn’t my blood that turned him red. It was something from deep inside me, something that powered me and made me what I am, or what I was.
“You’re right,” Harry agreed. “It was your soul, Mary Anne, most of which has been drawn off. And
Then ask away , said the other. And when we’re done the rest o’ us can speak tae ye, usin’ me as their instryment.
Knowing that Wee Angus would sense it, Harry nodded. “Let’s start with the number of lives he’s taken, or at least those we know of. Tell me, how many of you are there down there, Angus?”
There’s five o’ us , the dead man at once replied. But then: No, wait, there’s six—for Ah wasnae the last.
“What?” Still seated in his easy chair, Harry started as if he’d touched live electric wires. “But Angus…you were taken only two days ago!”
Two days? Ah wouldnae ken. Time’s a bit strange the noo. Ah feel it’s only minutes sometimes, and others it’s been forever.
“And what of the first four?” Harry inquired. “Have you any idea how long they’ve been there?”
No idea at all , his informant answered. Excep’ they’ve been here longer, and some much longer, than me. But still they made me their spokesman.
The Necroscope was intrigued. “And why was that?”
Because those first yins, they were slippin’ fast, slippin’ intae sleep, their thoughts fast fadin’. If yere mother and the Great Majority hadnae shouted so loud, shouted them awake again, then by now for sure they’d be gone intae the dark. Ah, but now they’re awake, and thirsty for revenge! Ah’m their single voice because Ah’m still the brightest spark.
“Yes you are,” said Harry. “But what of number six, the one who came after you?”
Ah! Well, that yin’s no in the best o’ shape. No gettin’ it taegether too well. He’ll be needin’ a wee while yet tae settle doon. As for me: despite mah previous, er, infirmities, Ah’m no doin’ so badly. Bein’ dead, Ah dinnae feel so much pain! Ironic, is it no?
Harry was silent for a moment, then said: “I’d better speak to the others, the first four, for I need to know who they are, or who they were.”
With the amplified deadspeak of the first four reaching him through Angus, the Necroscope was able to speak to them, one at a time, lodging their names and their stories in his metaphysical mind.
First of all he spoke—
—To Alf Samuels, a poor soul who had gone to pieces after losing his wife and daughter in a car accident; he had been the driver and blamed himself. He’d been taken when drunk and staggering home to a cold, empty house.
Then to Patrick Kelley, an out of work shipbuilder who came from Belfast, seeking work in Newcastle—and found only death while begging one night outside a bookmaker’s shop in Falkirk.
And to Donald McMannus, a mentally challenged youth murdered in the cemetery where he’d habitually kept a five year watch over his father’s grave. Talking to that one was difficult…
Finally to Mary Anne McNiven, sixteen years old and already walking the streets, driven from home and eventually into prostitution by a lecherous stepfather whose advances she’d spurned, considering it an improvement to be with men willing to pay her rather than someone like him!
As for Wee Angus: Harry already knew what happened to him, for he had seen it with his own eyes.
And all of them told more or less the same story: of a fat, red-haired, devilish man whose pale putty face turned red as he gripped them and drew off their life essence, then sent them to their fate down what they sensed as a dark and deadly tunnel—the alternate route through the Möbius Continuum, of course.
As for why anyone would do such a thing:
I think he was feeding , said Mary Anne McNiven, wise beyond her years. He was satisfying a lust different from anything I’d ever known. He was like a vampire, if I believed in such—and perhaps I do now—but it wasn’t my blood that turned him red. It was something from deep inside me, something that powered me and made me what I am, or what I was.
“You’re right,” Harry agreed. “It was your soul, Mary Anne, most of which has been drawn off. And
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