“My shot must be wearing off. The shot was supposed to protect me. I’m Sergeant . . . Sergeant . . .”
The other man said, “Very few of us are protected by shots, Sergeant Chapman. Shots usually kill people, particularly soldiers.”
Randolph Carter looked at her shirt. The name chapman was engraved on a stiff plastic plate there, the plate held out like a little shelf by the thrust of her left breast.
“Sergeant Anne Chapman of the United States Army. We think it’s the plants, sir. All the psychoactive drugs we know about come from plants—opium, cocaine, heroin.”
“You’re the heroine,” he told her gently. “Coming here like this to get us out.”
“All of them chemicals the plants have stumbled across to protect us from insects, really. And now they’ve found something to protect the insects from us.” She paused, staring at him. “That isn’t right, is it?”
Again he asked, “Don’t you want to sit down?”
“Gases from the comet. The comet’s tail has wrapped all Earth in poisonous gases.”
The blonde murmured, “ ‘What is the meaning of this name given Satan:
A tiny voice from the ceiling answered.
“You, sir,” the black knight said, “won’t you come with me? We’ve got to get out of here.”
“You can’t get out of here,” the other man told them.
Randolph Carter nodded to the knight. “I’ll come with you, if you’ll love me.” He rose, pushing the sword up his coat sleeve, point first.
“Then come on.” She took him by the arm and pulled him through the door.
A hansom cab rattled past.
“What is this place?” She put both hands to her forehead. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I? This is a nightmare.” There was a fly on her shoulder, a blowfly gorged with carrion. She brushed it off; it settled again, unwilling to fly through the night and the yellow fog. “No, I’m hallucinating.”
He said, “I’d better take you to your room.” The bricks were wet and slippery underfoot. As they turned a corner, and another, he told her what she could do for him when they reached her room. A dead bitch lay in the gutter. Despite the night and the chill of autumn, the corpse was crawling with flies.
Sickly yellow gaslight escaped from under a door. She tore herself from him and pushed it open. He came after her, his arms outstretched. “Is this where you live?”
The three players still sat at their table. They had been joined by a fourth, a new Randolph Carter. As the door flew wide the fourth player turned to look, but he had no face.
She whispered, “This is Hell, isn’t it? I’m in Hell, for what I did. Because of what we did. We’re all in Hell. I always thought it was just something the Church made up, something to keep you in line, you know what I mean, sir?”
She was not talking to him, but he nodded sympathetically.
“Just a game in the pope’s head. But it’s real, it’s here, and here we are.”
“I’d better take you to your room,” he said again.
She shuddered. “In Hell you can’t pray, isn’t that right? But I can—Listen! I can pray!
He had wanted to wait, wanted to let her finish, but the sword, Sacnoth, would not wait. It entered her throat, more eager even than he, and emerged spent and swimming in scarlet blood.
The faceless Randolph Carter rose from the table. “Your seat, young man,” he said through no mouth. “I’m merely the marker whom you have followed.”
There is a daydream, I believe, common to all of us who read mysteries. We are in a small group that is somehow isolated. A member of our group is murdered, and it is we who determine the identity of the killer.
In the course of a life that has now grown lengthy, I have known three people who have actually been murdered. In one case, an old schoolmate was shot by her third husband. In another, a wealthy young woman who often came into my father’s cafe was murdered. Her husband was tried, acquitted, and subsequently murdered himself. The third was so fantastic that were I to describe it you would feel sure I was lying. There is a book about it:
You see that I have excuses for my interest in murder, but if I had none I would be just as interested. At one time, I considered designing a board game based on serial murders; that game never really took shape, but this story came out of the idea.
And When They Appear
