Lois H. Gresh - Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu: The Adventure of the Deadly Dimensions

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Also available from Titan Books and Lois H. Gresh

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THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEADLY DIMENSIONS
Print edition ISBN: 9781785652080
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785652097

Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: July 2017
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2017 by Lois H. Gresh. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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DEDICATED WITH LOVE TO ARIE BODEK
AND BIG DADDY SAM

WITH GRATITUDE TO ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
AND H.P. LOVECRAFT

PROLOGUE

AMOS BEILER

October 1890, Avebury, Wiltshire

The chair was a masterpiece of dimensions. I wanted to wake Kristoffer, my son, so he could see it, but he was fast asleep in the house.

Someday he would create a Beiler masterpiece of his own, and then he would stand here instead of me, chant the words, and unleash all that is wondrous and beautiful in the world. But not now.

This was my time.

One more tweak, and it would be ready.

My hands shook from excitement. I rubbed them together, warming them. Then I removed my spectacles, brushing the blood from my forehead, and placed them carefully on the work bench next to the ancient instructions. How would my brethren react when they learned what Id done? Would they rejoice, would they worship me?

Would the Old Ones finally return?

Would I be the one to open the gate?

I snapped my braces once against my work shirt. Dear Amelia had embroidered the yellow leopards at the tops of the straps, and it had become tradition to snap them as I finished a particularly important piece of furniture. Perhaps the sting against my chest jarred me into the moment.

Poor Amelia was long gone, had died terribly fifteen years ago. It was right after Id finished the cherry divan for Lord Wiltshram. Id not built a divan since.

Grasping the corner of the chair, I fitted a bracket to it. The screw turned easily, securing the seat to the front leg. On my braces the leopards growled, the sound coming from low in their throats. I stroked them.

Soon , I thought. Soon all will be revealed .

Outside, the wind slammed the barn from all sides. It was a particularly harsh night. The walls quaked. The door clattered against its frame. Rain pounded, and the storm howled. No doubt the leaves would be stripped from the trees by morning. Given the nature of what was to come, it would be a miracle if the trees still stood at all.

The rafters groaned as if in pain.

The time is now! I said, my voice rising to a scream. Come, I release you. Come!

Even more than before, the ceiling creaked and the lantern flickered wildly. A wooden beam broke and smashed to the floor, maimed and severed from above. It writhed upon the floor writhed and then it shuddered a final time and died. Shards of wood rained down and stabbed me, then bullets of water. One hit the middle of my forehead. I cringed, shook my head, blinked

And then I looked up. The black hole of night yawned over me. Its lips stretched, wider and wider. From its maw came the water, a powerful rush streaming through the hole in the ceiling. It ricocheted off the walls and splashed against my face, mixing with my blood and soaking into my shirt.

Struck by a powerful gust of wind, I fell against a wall. The chair clattered to the floor. A spasm of pain tore at my chest. I clutched it, fearing the worst.

Not now!

Over on the work bench, the oil lamp sputtered and almost went out, then crackled back to life. Abruptly the hole above me withered. The rain petered to a drip.

Quickly I regained my senses. I dove for the chair, grasped it, and dragged it to a corner of the room. It was such fine ash, the angles carved with perfect precision. There was no other chair like it, not anywhere in the world. Stepping over to the battered table by the door, I snatched up a rag then scooted back to the chair and wiped the water off its limbs.

Then I returned to my work bench to consult the diagrams that had passed down countless generations to me. We were the Beilers, the finest woodworkers and craftsmen in all of England. Our pieces had dovetail joints, smooth finishes, and intricate etchings that no other man had ever been able to duplicate.

The drawings and symbols were so ancient they were written on yellowed animal hide and inked in the maroon of old blood. In the top left corner of the hide was the image of a table adorned with elaborate symbols.

Twenty years ago, I made that table and gave it to Lord and Lady Ashberton of Avebury. Ten years ago, I made the cedar chest, hinged it just so, and carved the symbols in ordained arrangements on the inner surfaces.

Id left the chair for last. It was the most difficult of the three items described on the hide. The symbols were so complex that it had taken me months to create them, often using tools of my own making.

Now I stared at my creation. It was perfect. The etchings rose in bas relief, they curled and whirled, they overlapped. The symbols reached through my eyes into my brain. They tapped into that place where my soul fluttered.

I scooped a metal plate from my work bench, then crouched in front of the chair. My fingers caressed the symbols Id burned into the plate. Heat flowed from the symbols down my arm and crackled into my brain. I let the warmth rise over and through me, let it crash down like waves.

Now was the time .

Steadying myself as best I could, I nailed the plate to the chair exactly at the midpoint between the two ends of the brace. With shaking hands, I lifted the ancient instructions, uttered the syllables inked at the bottom of the animal hide. I had no idea if my pronunciation was correct, for the letters were alien to me. I just did my best, based on what my father and grandfather had taught me.

As I chanted the words, I imagined the faces of my brethren, gazing at me with wonder, mesmerized by my mastery.

Qulsi pertaggen fhthagn daghon daagon fhthulrahi roa , I intoned.

The oil lamp sputtered.

Qulsi fhthagn perhagen ncreechilckcklon .

The light flashed a bright yellow. I cringed and squeezed my eyes shut, but still I continued from memory.

Qulsi cantatrofbfwllllllccckkkkk!

A bright light burned through my right eyelid. Pain exploded in my brain and careened around my skull. My eye sizzled. Clutching my face, I sank to my knees, suppressing a scream. My right eye felt as if it had boiled over. Liquid oozed down my cheek.