The Last Revelation Of Gla'aki by Ramsey Campbell Page A

on at least one more light. The large soft footfalls receded into silence, and then a muffled noise might have denoted the opening of a door. Fairman had grown far too used to the moist stagnant Gulshaw smell, but it seemed more apparent in this house, and he felt oppressed by the dimness that resembled an emanation of old paper. He wasn't sure if the smell was intensifying as slow footsteps advanced towards the room, sounding furtive and yet heavier than he would have expected or invited. Apparently all of this signified the care Headon was taking with the book, which rested on his outstretched hands as he paced into the room like a priest approaching an altar. He watched Fairman lay it in its excelsior nest, having ascertained that it was the seventh volume, Of the Symbols the Universe Shows. Headon's throat bulged with swallow after nervous swallow, which made Fairman blurt "You aren't a believer, are you?"
    "We're of the same mind, Leonard."
    "Speak for yourself," Fairman almost retorted. He wasn't sure what daunted him—surely not the distant gaze that seemed bent on including him. "Well," he said awkwardly, "I'd best be off to keep it safe."
    "Nobody would dream of taking any of them away from you." Headon paused to let this gain more weight before he said "And you're going to see the little ones."
    "The little ones," Fairman said and felt as though he'd been overtaken by a local tendency to repeat other people's words.
    "Our youngsters. The ones at the nursery."
    "Why should I need to see them?"
    "I expect they'd like to see you." As more of an explanation Headon added "Phyllida Barnes runs the Sprightly Sprouts, and she's got the next book."
    "I'd better find out when she can accommodate me."
    "I wouldn't trouble yourself, Leonard. Just go over in the morning. Nobody's going to give you any more problems."
    Could Headon really undertake this on behalf of the rest of the town? Certainly he didn't seem to be giving voice just to himself. As Fairman emerged into the hall he avoided glancing into the dark that felt unpleasantly like a lair, but sensed it massing at his back all the way to the front door, an impression far too reminiscent of being spied upon. Outside the house he thanked Headon and peered along the deserted street. "Don't worry," Headon told him. "Nobody can be safer than you are."
    The children were still hopping or dancing about the schoolyard. The surrounding silence magnified their footfalls, which sounded oddly loose, insufficiently defined. Fairman didn't look towards the yard as he turned downhill to the promenade, beyond which the fog hung like a vast curtain the colour of a dusty cobweb. He was put in mind of a stage with the streetlamps for footlights, and couldn't help recalling the restless anticipatory sounds he'd heard behind the curtains at the Shaw. Of course any presence behind the fog could only be the moon.
    The arcades were dark and silent now. The lunar glare of the streetlamps seemed to lend more substance to the fog, which blotted out a good deal of the beach. The visible stretch was deserted apart from a scattering of plastic cushions. Could people have left them to keep their places on the beach? He remembered seeing a woman leave one near the hotel—and then, with a not especially mirthful laugh at his mistake, he saw that the objects were jellyfish.
    They didn't belong to any species he recognised. Perhaps it was rare enough to be represented in the Bywood aquarium, if such creatures ever were. They glistened in the pallid light as if they'd just crawled up from the veiled sea. Obviously they were being moistened by the fog, which appeared to trail over them as Fairman advanced along the promenade. It revealed dozens of them, every one as broad as his midriff. They put him in mind of exposed flattened greyish brains, which wasn't their only unappealing aspect; each of them had stretched out gelatinous tendrils as if to help them crawl, tendrils that resembled spines gone