Weirdbook #35. Adrian Cole

      We entered an old building that looked like one good sneeze would bring the whole place down on our heads. It must have housed every pest known to man—woodworm, dry rot, wood beetle, concrete cancer, you name it, this was their heaven. We threaded our way through the piled dust and debris, our way barely lit by one flickering street light outside.

      Henry unzipped his case and slid out the guitar. It had a weird blue glow to it, faint as moonlight in fog, so we were able to see our way into the heart of the collapsing masonry. This would not be a good place to get buried. My bangles and baubles were proof against sorcery, not a ton of falling bricks.

      Unfazed, Henry slipped the guitar strap over his shoulders, paused to take in a deep breath, and then gently stroked the strings. The sounds he made were like whispers, susurrating around us, echoing back like ripples on a pond as they touched the walls. We waited in sudden silence after the sounds faded.

      Ahead of us was a solid wall. It groaned and we both ducked instinctively. Dust belched from abrupt cracks in the surface and before we knew it, the whole goddam shebang was toppling forward, with us under it, like mice about to be pinned in a trap. However, as the bricks reached us, they parted like a miniature Red Sea, and thundered down on both sides of us. What we were left with was a thick cloud of dust and a tall, black gash, empty as space.

      Coughing fit to bust our lungs, Henry and I went into that darkness. It was a vacuum, soundless, but at last, we could breathe. Behind us, the dust and rumble of settling masonry died away and it was like someone had slammed shut a mighty door.

      Henry, his face smeared in muck, grinned. “We’re through,” he said.

      I didn’t know whether to be relieved or unnerved. I settled for glad to be alive and we moved on, the light slowly changing from inky black to dark grey. Henry put the guitar away and it fused with his back, making him look like some kind of malformed troll. One disguise was as good as another.

      Henry had earlier told me as much about this realm as he knew. It was, he said, like a bubble between worlds, limited in dimensions, held together by ancient spells and sorcery created eons in the past by creatures—demigods, he said—who generally shunned the light and occasionally needed someplace to hole up while the powers of light went on the rampage, looking to exterminate them.

      By the septic glow of the light somewhere ahead I could see we were in some kind of tall, rocky maze, the sheer walls rising up into total darkness. This was either one big, monolithic building, or a subterranean catacomb of dubious dimensions. I just hoped that Henry had some inkling of where we were headed. I’d have been lost within a dozen paces. All we had was the dim light and there was no clue to its source. What I did figure out was that we were not alone.

      Something or more likely somethings were plodding about, probably down more than one of those narrow runs in the stone. High up in the darkness, something else flapped and scraped along, a big bunch of bats maybe, or creatures with similar wings. And claws. They always had claws.

      As we wove our way deeper into the maze, I got the distinct impression that the shifting, scraping things beyond us were moving in a certain pattern. My guess was, we were being herded.

      “I think you’re going to need your guitar,” I whispered to Henry.

      He grinned back at me. Jeeze, he was enjoying this. It must be his youth. Barely gone twenty and he was up for anything. I ached for my twin Berettas, although I had a feeling that in this place they would be less effective than water pistols.

      Something emerged from the murk ahead of us. It looked like a pile of rags on small stilts, with one arm as twisted as the branch of a warped tree, flapping at us. The other arm gripped a crutch, another distorted branch which just about supported the thing. Light gleamed briefly under a long confusion of hair and beard in what I took to be a couple of eyes. They were the only features in an unrecognisable face.

      Henry did unstrap the guitar, slipping it out of the case slowly. I was relieved to see the faint blue glow, which suggested to me that the thing was primed. “We’re in luck,” he said. “It’s the Raggedy Man.”

      Luck? This mobile heap of garbage was a sign of luck?

      “The legends say if you find him, he can help you.”

      “This way,” hissed the Raggedy Man. “You gotta ignore those who clutch.”

      Now there was an expression to fill you up with confidence. Those who clutch? What in hell had we gotten into here?

      Henry didn’t seem to have the same reservations that wriggled coldly through me and we followed the Raggedy Man as he swiveled and hobbled through a corridor leading off the main one. I went after them cautiously, my hands spread like fans, ready to simulate Bruce Lee at his lightning best. If anything had a mind to clutch me, I was about to repel all boarders.

      I was glad of the dark as we squeezed through several corridors because things did try and make a grab for Henry and me. Soft, pulpy things, like big fat worms, slippery and smelling like rancid meat. I swept them aside, my hands slick with their juices, sticky and gelatinous. The Raggedy Man got us through and we came out into a wider chamber, the light barely fit to pick out its minimal details. At least there were none of the clutching horrors here.

      “Where the hell is this place?” I growled, towering over our bizarre guide.

      “It’s where the broken things come to be mended,” he whispered, almost whistling the words through the last of his crumbling teeth. Seemed like the place hadn’t worked for him.

      “What broken things?”

      “Evil things. Dark powers that have been crippled by their betters. Things that serve the lords of the night, damaged things. Some can be healed through twisted magic. Others, like me, can only wander, searching for freedom.”

      “Who are you?” I asked.

      “Can’t remember my name. I had powers once, bestowed on me by servants of Satan. In conflict, I was bettered. I crawled here. Thought I was going to die, but a life of sorts still flickers within me. If I help you, will you take me back when you go?”

      I would have weighed up my answer before entering any kind of bargain, but Henry’s youth burned brightly again. “Sure,” he said. “It’s a deal.”

      “Why are you here?” said the Raggedy Man.

      “Two young women were brought here recently,” Henry said, evidently having tossed circumspection aside. “Singers. With great voices.”

      “There have been many such singers. The Cold Lady has them. She is grooming them. She had powers lately, but lost them. Now she uses the singers to act for her. She imbues them with dark gifts from the ones she serves. The Angels of Malice.”

      The air got much colder. I’d met one of these things before. In fact, with a little help from a bunch of very talented Hungarians, I’d trapped one of them and seen to its imprisonment. If the Angels of Malice got wind of me, they’d be out for a whole lot more than my blood. Blood which, right now, was running about as cold as it could get without actually coagulating in my veins.

      “Where are the singers?” said Henry.

      The Raggedy Man pointed up into the darkness. “In the upper halls of this edifice. They are well protected and besides, they would not welcome you.”

      “Two of them would,” insisted Henry.

      “I think not. They are changed. They are her creatures now.”

      Henry’s expression soured, a mark of the grim determination that burned within him, a powerful drive that those who didn’t know him would have been surprised at. He was erratic and more than a shade gung-ho, but he was no fool.

      “I guess we’ll just have to put that to the test.” He looked at me and I nodded. We’d paid for the ticket, so we may as well see the show.

      Somewhere in that endless maze, there were steps, a narrow, winding set that corkscrewed up into the shadows