Sentinels

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Sentinels

by

Maonaigh

Sentinels is a long story set within H P Lovecraft's imaginative world of monstrous gods and the hapless humans who fall prey to them. Acknowledgments are due to Lovecraft and the numerous other writers who have expanded on his original themes over the past century. With the named exception of Aleister Crowley, all characters and most places are imaginary---any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Sentinels was originally intended for another outlet. It was commissioned by a professional editor and anthologist who was hoping to put together a collection of new Lovecraftian tales. Although I had mostly given up writing weird stories years ago, the editor was an old friend and I agreed to produce something for him. Sentinels is the result. Then sadly, the editor died several months ago following a relapse into a long-time illness. The whole anthology project died with him. Nobody else seemed to want the story at this time and I didn't want to waste all that work so after some heavy editing to comply with requirements, here it is. I hope those of you who like such tales enjoy it. Perhaps the story will even attract a few new readers to the genre.

Copyright © 2023 to the author

* * * * *

That is not dead which can eternal lie,

And with strange aeons even death may die...

H P Lovecraft

* * * * *

"...scattered across the globe in unfathomable depths are the Deep Ones' submarine fastnesses and there are Sentinels that must be appeased...

Godfrey Quayle's The Water Gods

1. Mill Grange: May 1927

"I warned him, I warned him," muttered the squarely-built man in the tight-fitting grey suit. Nobody paid him any attention. In fact, most of the small crowd of idlers gathered on the roadway outside of Mill Grange had moved away from his vicinity. Something about the man--- perhaps his exotic, musky perfume, or possibly his incessantly clenching pallid hands with their long, sharpened fingernails, or even his shaven head and malevolent face with its deep-set, glaring eyes---had repelled those around him.

"'Ere they come!" shouted a docker wearing a threadbare cap and an old muffler which may once have been white. A filthy forefinger pointed aggressively towards the gates. There was a brief and angry rumble of noise from those about him.

Two men, garbed in the white coats and kepi-style caps worn by staff of nearby Forton high security mental hospital, and carrying between them a stretcher, were coming down the gravelled pathway from the old mansion house. The strait-jacketed figure strapped to the stretcher screamed incessantly, a hoarse and chilling sound. With each shriek, flecks of foam spattered from his gaping mouth.

A number of men surged forward, yelling imprecations and making threatening gestures. Several burly constables shoved them back, clearing a path to the waiting ambulance.              

"I did warn him!" repeated the perfumed man as he watched the ambulance move off, its bell clanging. "They will not be controlled by humans!" Shaking his head, Aleister Crowley turned to where his chauffeur waited with the highly-polished Daimler.

So now ill-reputed Mill Grange would be deserted and silent, left alone to brood in its dust and filth, its sole habitants the rodents and the varied multitude of insects which crawled from the walls to claim their own.

In the depths beneath the house, something stirred as if disturbed in its state of near-permanent hibernation.

2. A reconstruction from the official notebooks of Hampshire County Constabulary officers

"Take a look at these." Sheppard thrust his great head forward, scowling as he passed a batch of papers across the battered desk to his subordinate. His weathered face was choleric, as if his collar and tie were too tight. If you don't let off steam soon, boss, you'll blow a gasket, was Bob Fane's thought as he reached for the sheets which were badly creased by Sheppard's grip.

Memorandum

From: The desk of the Chief Constable

To: Detective-Superintendent Sheppard, 14 Regional Crime Squad

Date: 11 November 1968

Subject: Missing person: Peter John McAllister

We discussed. During our meeting I made it clear that I am taking a great personal interest in this case. I expect you to treat the matter with all due diligence. Regular reports directly to me.

J A Latimer

Bob Fane's thin lips twitched. "Sir says 'Jump!' and we don't ask how high until we're in the air, eh?" A glance at Sheppard's face told him the boss wasn't amused. The sparely-built Detective-Inspector shrugged and turned to the second sheet.

Memorandum

From: Superintendent Warner

To: Detective Superintendent Sheppard

Date: 13 November 1968

Shep,

Sorry you've been dragged into this but, wheels within wheels. His High & Mightiness doesn't know I'm writing to you, so eat this or torch it or something when you've read it.

I've already done a bit of checking into our missing Mr McAllister and I have made some notes which are attached. His family is wealthy and my impression is that his father has always bought him out of trouble. McAllister is supposed to be a student at Southdown University but I don't think he spends all that much time there (at least not studying). I strongly suspect---with good reason as you'll see from my notes---that he's had to do a runner somewhere and has forgotten to tell Mummy and Daddy.

Anyway, good luck with your enquiries.

Yours,

Max

Fane studied Warner's notes with interest. They read:

Subject: Peter John McAllister

1. The above-named is 29 years old and is a fee-paying mature student at Southdown University. After several weeks of his apparently not attending lectures and tutorials, and not having been seen at his lodgings for some time, the college authorities notified his parents. McAllister's father, in turn, contacted the Chief Constable.
2. McAllister has a room at 16 Fosters Mews, Godbury (this address is within The Shoals district of the town). His landlady is a Mrs Agnes Thorpe. A cursory inspection of his room was made by uniformed branch but in view of the Chief Constable's instructions, it was decided to leave in-depth examination to yourselves. McAllister is described as being about five feet ten inches tall, of slim build, with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes. When last seen he was wearing a full beard and moustache. He was believed to have been dressed in light blue jeans, dark sweat shirt and navy-blue donkey jacket.
3. McAllister is described as being very well-spoken (educated at a famous public school but apparently left under a cloud having been in serious breach of rules---unable to find out exactly what his offence was). At 18 he was conscripted into the RAF. As he was neither an apprentice nor a student he was not granted deferment and this was something his father could not get him out of.
4. McAllister served his time in Hong Kong. At the end of his two years he took local discharge and worked out there for a number of years in business before returning to the UK and opting to attend university. I understand that his parents wanted him to go to Cambridge (family tradition) but he chose Southdown (probably just being bloody-minded). I contacted an old friend in the Hong Kong police who told me that McAllister was asked to resign his job and leave Hong Kong after his father had made good some embarrassing shortages in the firm's accounts.
5. All in all, McAllister is a black sheep and a waste of space. We have some evidence that he's a drug user (mostly LSD with the occasional bit of cannabis) and we've had him in several times on suspicion of theft, fraud and similar related offences although we've never been able to pin anything on him. The Chief Constable has been made aware of this. We've checked local hospitals and mortuaries already but no joy.

Fane snorted, understanding now why, on this particular morning, Sheppard was not a happy man. "Since when has it been our job to search for missing acid heads? Why can't uniformed handle this?"

Sheppard lifted a paper cup to his lips, slurping at his tea. "It's been our job ever since McAllister's father called the Chief Constable. It seems that they were at school and Cambridge together. And McAllister Senior is a barrister, a Queen's Counsel no less, and a Member of Parliament---one of the Prime Minister's up-and-coming favourites. Our beloved leader sees a golden opportunity to get himself in good with people who really matter. That's why uniformed can't handle it. Not only that, I've been ordered to actively participate, not just act as overall supervisor as would normally be the case. Only the very best for the Old School Tie. So I suggest that you go to the motor pool and obtain a car. Then we can go find our missing student and please our beloved leader."

* * * * *

A fastidious man, Fane wrinkled his nose and tried to breathe through his mouth. The gloomy hallway of Mrs Thorpe's lodging house smelled strongly of damp and boiled cabbage and urine (cat or student the detective was unable to decide). An unshaded forty-watt bulb, dangling from the ceiling by a frayed cable, showed the lightweight linoleum beneath their feet to be badly worn, while ancient and faded paper was peeling from the walls. Even Sheppard, usually indifferent to his surroundings, looked as if he would rather be outside in the fresh air, drizzling heavily though it was.

Agnes Thorpe was as unprepossessing as her house. Short and squat of build, the woman had a vaguely fishy smell about her, something Fane had noticed before of many Shoals inhabitants; indeed, it was an odour which seemed to permeate the whole of the run-down area. Her flowered, cross-over apron was greasy, and grubby toes protruded from worn holes in her slippers. Fane saw with distaste that the deep grooves in her pallid, flabby face were ingrained with dirt while the area around her jawline and neck seemed to be scaly with some sort of skin disease. Her hands were similarly afflicted and the stubby fingers ended in curved, claw-like nails. Mrs Thorpe peered suspiciously at the policemen through thick, pebble-lensed spectacles, the arms of which were thickly bound with Scotch tape.

"I said to them other coppers, what right you got to go poking round the rooms in my house?" She wiped a flat nose with the back of her hand. "Where's yer warrant?"

"We only want to look at Mr McAllister's room. It might give us some clue as to where he's gone." Sheppard's tone was mild but his eyes were hard. "Yes, we could go to the trouble of getting a warrant. Then when we come back we could bring some other people with us---say, an officer from the Fire Brigade and perhaps someone from the Local Health Authority. Then there are the gas and electricity boards. Now they don't need warrants to look around boarding houses..."

"All right, all right..." Grumbling and muttering, the woman disappeared into a side room and returned with a key which Fane took carefully, not wanting to make contact with her scabrous hand. "Top of the stairs, second one along. Don't make it untidy. His rent's still paid to the end of the year."

The door looked flimsy but it took Fane several minutes of struggling with a stiff, rusting lock before it gave and the two were able to enter McAllister's room. "Now why would someone with wealthy and indulgent parents want to live in a shithole like this?" he asked.

Sheppard snapped the light on. "If he's on drugs, his money will go fast. What he saves on rent goes on instant happiness. Or maybe he just likes life on the rough side. But Christ Almighty, I've been in public lavatories lovelier than this place."

They looked around them. The room contained an old iron bedstead with a grubby striped pillow and worn blankets---"Army surplus!" Sheppard grunted---together with a flimsy wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a cheap bedside cabinet. A huge ashtray on the cabinet was filled with a mess of black ash. In one corner was a wash basin, a broad band of its inner surface stained dark green where the solitary cold tap had dripped without let, probably for many years.

Bob Fane prodded at the contents of the ashtray. "Looks like he's burned some paper herethis isn't tobacco ash. There are several charred fragments but nothing we could recover information from."

The top of the chest was covered with cigarette burns and assorted stains, evidence of long years of neglect. Stacked on it were a number of paperback books, classical literature in the main with a sprinkling of works on history and mythology, together with a small radio/cassette player. The two men flipped through the pages of the books but found nothing of interest.

Sheppard opened the wardrobe and peered inside. It contained only several t-shirts and a pair of jeans. Meanwhile, Fane began to pull out the drawers in the chest. "Clean underwear, socks... nothing else," he said, and then: "Hang on, though... might be something here."

One of the drawers was sticking. Fane manoeuvred it back and forth until, with difficulty, it came loose. Taped to the bottom of the drawer he found a sealed envelope. Peeling the tape away, Fane could feel a small hard rectangle. The front of the envelope bore a message. Fane glanced at it, then passed it to his senior officer. "The plot thickens," he commented.

It read:

"To be opened in the event of my disappearance or death.

P McAllister"

Using a small pocket-knife, Sheppard eased open the flap of the envelope and an audio tape fell into his hand. "Right, there's nothing else here for us so we'll get back to the office and listen to this."

Mrs Thorpe was waiting at the front door for them. She held out one leprous hand and Fane gingerly laid the room key on her palm. As she was about to open the front door to usher them out, Sheppard said: "Just a minute." He pulled out his notebook and read aloud the description he had of McAllister. "Would you agree with that?" he asked the woman.

She just stared at him and then turned again to unlatch the door.

Sheppard shrugged. "How much do you reckon it would cost to rewire this place, Inspector?"

"Dunno, sir. It's big. A huge amount, I'd guess, maybe several thousand. Then there'd be all the extra money needed to install proper fire doors, and then there's---

"That's him!" snarled the woman. "That's McAllister all right."

"Any extra helpful information we haven't got here? Any scars, blemishes, whatever?" Instead of meeting the woman's sullen gaze, Sheppard stared pointedly at the worn flex of the hall light.

"Tattoos!" she blurted. "He's tattooed all over his chest and back, from shoulders to waist. Saw him one day last summer when he had his shirt off. And they weren't silly tattoos neither."

"What do you mean by that?"

The slatternly woman shrugged. "You've seen some of these sailors and the like, mister. They have things like 'Mum & Dad' tattooed on them, and cartoon characters and bleeding hearts, things like that. Pete McAllister's tattoos were different. They were all sorts of fancy curling shapes, bit like a paisley design. There's some posh word for it..."

"Arabesques? Curlicues?" Bob Fane suggested.

"That's it, mister. Like them. All brilliant colours they werereds and yellows, greens and blues, even some colours I ain't seen afore. Must have cost him a fair bob or two..."

* * * * *

Over cups of disgusting canteen tea, the two detectives listened to the audio tape. The voice, which they assumed to be McAllister's, was cultured and in normal circumstances would have been pleasant to listen to. But there was little that was pleasant to hear, and the tone of the speaker's voice ranged from a quiet, cold matter-of-factness to utter horror and desperation. The policemen became first absorbed with what they were hearing, and then, as the tale progressed, chilled.

Both men jumped a little as the first side of the tape ran to its end and the player clicked off loudly. Without a word, Fane reached out to turn the cassette. At last the narrative reached a conclusion, and for a moment the two just sat, listening to the hiss of the tape.

At last Bob Fane broke the silence, gesturing towards the cassette player. "Christ, that was some acid trip. Do you reckon the stuff has blown his mind, sir? He's probably away with the fairies somewhere―and not very likely to return to the real world from the sound of that. I hope I'm not the one to have to tell his father."

Sheppard lit a Woodbine and blew a long stream of smoke at the ceiling. "You know, Bob, I'm not so sure." He pulled the tape from the machine and turned it over and over in thick fingers, as if the twisting could tell him more. "Yup, it sounds as if our young friend is barking mad. And yet, and yet... there was just something in his voice that makes me wonder. Whatever, we're going to have to go a bit further into this. Get this tape transcribed will you, then we'll go over it again. And hope that maybe we can find some sort of answer..."

3. Transcript of a tape-recorded statement made by Peter John McAllister

The date is 14 October 1968, the time 2.30 pm or thereabouts.

Am I mad? Or suffering from an LSD flashback? Or was it just the malaria? Or was it real? [Speaker almost screams this last sentence.]

Let's consider the options. What I witnessed on that night of horror could well be the result of a diseased imagination. So perhaps I am mad. But there's no history of madness in my family and I've never displayed any symptoms of mental illness: no angelic or demonic voices speaking to me, taunting me and telling me to do dreadful things; no long periods of manic or depressive phases; no delusions that I'm Julius Caesar or Napoleon. I'm fairly certain that I'm not crazy. On the other hand, they say the real madman thinks he's perfectly sane, don't they?

So we've got the possibility of a late LSD reaction. I haven't touched the acid for months now, but I must admit that when I was on it I gave it a fair hammering---had some bloody weird trips, too, although mainly good ones. And I've heard about flashbacks, been warned about them in fact. Thanks, Dr Leary! Tuned in, turned on and dropped out---that was me all right. But all those trips I had before, they were surreal. Swimming in lakes of bright colour, flying through wonderful extra-terrestrial atmospheres, communing with the gods. Real Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds stuff: tangerine trees and marmalade skies. This... other thing... it was just so damned... logical. Not the best word, that, but the only one when I compare it with the acid trips I've had.

So, malaria? I've suffered bouts of malaria for years. Spent some months in Hong Kong's New Territories, was a bit lax about taking paludrine tablets regularly. The medics and the old hands warned me that the Territories were malarial, but being young and stupid I thought I knew best. I didn't. I've had malarial deliriums and some! You want to try a bad trip, forget the acid and collect a few mosquitoes. But a delirium is like an acid trip---it's illogical. This thing was lucid.