Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu

  Contents

  Cover

  Available Now from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: The Eshockers of Whitechapel

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Part Two: Murder in the Asylum

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  Part Three: Battle on the Thames

  46

  47

  48

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Sherlock Holmes vs. Cthulhu

  from Titan Books and Lois H. Gresh

  The Adventure of the Deadly Dimensions

  The Adventure of the Neural Psychoses

  The Adventure of the Innsmouth Mutations (2019)

  TITAN BOOKS

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE NEURAL PSYCHOSES

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785652103

  Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785652110

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: August 2018

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 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, RENA, AND GABBY

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

  PART ONE

  THE ESHOCKERS OF WHITECHAPEL

  1

  DR. JOHN WATSON

  December 1890, London

  For two shillings apiece, Sherlock Holmes and I enjoyed a choppy yet pleasant ride down the Thames. My friend is not given to excursions for pleasure’s sake alone, so when he suggested a trip to Woolwich upon the new paddle steamer, the Belle Crown, I had at first thought to refuse the invitation. I’d recently reunited with my wife and child after the terrifying events of the deadly dimensions, and was still beset by the dizzy spells and strange, kaleidoscopic visions that had first begun to trouble me at that time—I was in no mood for more adventures. But Mary, thinking to lift my spirits, urged me to go. Not wanting to displease my wife or my friend, I relented. So it was that Holmes and I stood contemplating the docks of Wapping from the deck of the Belle Crown as it completed its return voyage through the Pool of London.

  “You will no doubt remember, Watson,” said Holmes, “that the warehouse in which we witnessed the Order of Dagon’s meeting is upon that very shore. That is the place where Professor Fitzgerald released the snake-like monsters that attacked him and killed many of his congregation.”

  I’d been glad to see some color vanquish the death-like pallor that had gripped my friend since our battle with the inexplicable deadly dimensions, but now I wondered if it had been a mistake to venture onto the river so soon after our adventure.

  “I remember—of course, Holmes. I’m glad that Fitzgerald is behind bars where he can do no more harm.”

  Holmes smiled at me. “I understand you, Doctor. You think I am being morbid to dwell on these things. But I have brought us here for a purpose. Those creatures didn’t simply slither off to die, I am certain of it. I have not been able to see them from the banks, but here, out in the middle of the river, surely we will see something.”

  “Holmes,” I reminded him gently, “we have twice seen the creatures vanish into thin air. Into another realm, a different dimension.”

  “That is one theory we must entertain, certainly—that the rational explanation is simply too advanced for us to fully understand. But we must eliminate the probable before we contemplate the improbable, Watson. And I am not altogether convinced they vanished. A trick of the eye, perhaps…”

  The Thames surged past as we leaned on the rail of the Belle Crown. The craft was sleek as a bullet, pushing against the flow of the river.

  Nothing seemed amiss.

  Around us, families chattered and laughed, babies cried and gurgled, and everyone’s cheeks were as flushed as Holmes’s. My eye fell upon a baby not much older than my own Samuel, and I watched with pleasure as he giggled at the sensation of the fast-moving boat.

  Despite the 1878 crash of the Princess Alice, which had transported Londoners to and from beautiful gardens and parks, we had no reason to think the Belle Crown would meet a similar fate. What were the odds that another 900-ton iron-built ship would barrel down the river and kill us? The Bywell Castle, the giant craft that had split the Princess Alice in half and killed more than 650 passengers, had been an anomaly, representing a once-in-a-generation tragedy.

  Holmes interrupted my thoughts.

  “The river is gaining momentum. Look at those waves, Watson.”

  I looked where he was pointing. Black water slammed the side of the Belle Crown, then thundered into the downstream current. Froth rode the crests of waves that would have been more at home in the ocean than on the Thames.

  “It is choppy,” I agreed, “but the weather is unpredictable at this time of year.”

  “This is more than choppy, and it’s more than bad weather,” Holmes argued. “The level of the water has risen.”

  “Well, that means the tide must be rising, surely,” I declared.

  Holmes shook his head. “The tide should not be coming in yet, Watson. Did you not look at the tide tables when we boarded? And have you ever seen waves like this on the Thames?” He turned his gaze toward the granite clouds, through which weak light trickled down to the water. “It has been overcast all day, but there has not been a drop of rain. I cannot think what could cause the river to swell this forcefully.”

  I could not continue the argument—he was quite right. The other passengers had noticed the sudden change in the waves, too. The woman holding the baby I had been looking at gasped as the boat jolted us all, water surging in a cold spray onto the deck. She clasped her child to her chest and covered the infant’s head with her hand. The man accompanying her took her arm, helping her away from the rail.

  Unlike the
rest of us, Holmes didn’t move from his position. He shielded his eyes from the sky and peered into the water.

  “Watson, look!” he cried.

  “What is it?” I wiped my face on my sleeve. It did no good, for my coat was drenched.

  “Something. I don’t know what, Watson.” Holmes also wiped water from his face, but with the back of his hand, then he leaned further over the rail and squinted. “A large shape, moving through the water like a giant squid or an octopus.”

  Holmes wasn’t the type to joke about danger or novel oddities. Alarmed now, I grabbed his arm and tried to pull him from the rail, but he wouldn’t budge.

  “No. I must see it,” he insisted.

  A shout from behind attracted my attention. Moving with the flow of water, a small ship sped toward the Belle Crown. Men in uniform—police—waved frantically, trying to get our attention.

  Holmes pointed into the water again.

  “Over there,” he cried, “look!”

  I stared in the direction of his finger. A bulbous shape broke the surface, then disappeared into the black depths.

  I’d seen enough. I wrenched Holmes back from the rail as the shape came closer and swirled beneath the water slapping against the ship.

  Then—whatever it was—it ripped up from the river and curled into a spiral, which then unfurled against the sky. I’d never seen the like of it. It both fascinated and terrified me.

  As quickly as it had risen, it slammed back down into the water.

  The Belle Crown jolted high and teetered. The deck lurched. It cocked at a thirty-degree angle and rode the crest of a wave, but held steady.

  I grabbed for the rail, but along with Holmes and everyone else, I lost my footing and fell.

  I slid in a pile of humanity toward the other side of the boat, and then my head slammed against wood. Colors whirled. Sharp pain sliced through my skull and radiated through my shoulders.

  The boat lurched again—it felt as if something had actually lifted it out of the water—and smashed down. My head cracked against wood, and the whirling colors blackened around the edges as I fought to remain conscious. Hot blood slicked my face. I was on my stomach.

  Around me, people screamed.

  It happened so quickly and I was so dizzy that it was hard for me to get a clear image. I saw but a tangle of limbs and clothes and a swathe of screaming faces.

  Blinking and trying to shake off the dizziness, I strained my neck and looked for Holmes. He sat on the deck, propped against a stout man.

  I rolled over and sat up.

  Holmes struggled to his feet, and with his back against the side of the ship, he grasped the rail with both hands. Blood streaked down his face, and the wind flicked it off, leaving feathers of red spray on his forehead and cheeks. His hat was gone.

  I got on my knees and tried to stand, but the boat lurched, tossing me onto my back. I tried repeatedly, but could not get my footing. People were strewn all over the floor in various states of injury. Some wobbled to their feet, trying to help others, only to be knocked to the floor like me. A few, like Holmes, reached for the rails, anxious to see what had hit the boat.

  Someone clawed at me. I turned to see an old man’s face inches from mine. His eyes widened. His mouth opened. I’d seen that look many times in the heat of battle. I reached for him.

  But the Belle Crown tilted in the other direction, and we all went crashing across the deck and against the other side of the boat. The man slammed up next to me, and his eyes glazed into the unwavering stare of the dead.

  People tumbled over him, screaming.

  Across from me, the boat jutted high at a dangerous angle, and etched against the sky, both hands clutching the rail behind his back, was a tall, lean figure: Holmes. His arms were straight, his legs spread. He leaned precariously toward the rest of us, all heaped upon the deck.

  I feared his arms would snap from the strain, but he held fast, his face red, lips pressed tightly together. Should he let go of the rail, his body would crash hard against wood and steel, or possibly, he’d go overboard and be at the mercy of whatever churned beneath the black water.

  The boat—still sharply angled—lurched yet higher.

  Something had indeed lifted us.

  A huge tentacle—wider than Holmes’s body, arrayed with suckers, and of a blotched brownish-white color—snapped into the air behind him, and then, much to my horror, it curled and the tip pointed daggerlike over Holmes’s head.

  “Holmes!” I screamed. “Holmes, let go of the rail!”

  The police boat cruised dangerously close to us. A man’s voice bellowed, “Duck, sir! Get out of the way! Move, sir, move!”

  A harpoon sailed behind Holmes and disappeared with the wind. Another harpoon followed.

  Harpoons on a London police boat! I thought. Lestrade must have been busy after the disaster at the warehouse. He must have anticipated more trouble. And then: Holmes must get away from that rail. If the harpoons don’t kill him, the tentacle will plunge through his head and drill him to bits!

  “Holmes, get out of the way!” I screamed.

  The Belle Crown jolted yet higher, pushed up from beneath by the giant creature. While we were suspended precariously aloft—over the surface of the water yet not on any wave I could see—the deck suddenly leveled. Everyone bounced up, then down onto the hard floor. Wincing, I lifted myself, and on shaking legs, stood. The deck was covered with the dead, the dying, the wounded; women, children, men.

  Then I saw the thing behind Holmes.

  I’d seen such creatures before: in the Thames warehouse when Professor Henry Fitzgerald had cracked open the ceiling, releasing bizarre creatures from the skies, from… God only knew where. As quickly as they’d appeared in the warehouse, they’d vanished. I had wondered where the creatures had gone.

  Now, I knew. Holmes was correct. The creatures had slithered into the Thames.

  And now, one was behind Holmes, ready to dash his powerful brain to pieces and kill him.

  2

  It happened in a flash.

  Holmes’s side of the boat slammed down, and he whirled to face the creature. It rose, its lumpy head covered in mottled hide. He staggered, either from the shock of seeing such a thing at all or perhaps from the dazzling array of eyes scored into the hide: dozens of eyes, each fractured into countless glittering surfaces. A scaly appendage, like a bat’s wing, unhooked from a fold over one of those eyes. The giant tentacle quivered over Holmes, still poised for attack.

  Holmes reached into his pocket and whipped out a pistol.

  He fired, then immediately threw himself down upon the deck. The shot hit an exposed eye beneath the bat’s wing. The creature screeched: high and ill-pitched and skittering across bizarre scales. The tentacle crashed into the Thames.

  Water soared over the rail and flooded the boat. Holmes toppled and careened across the deck to join the rest of us on the opposite side.

  Beside me, a woman huddled with two small children. Her hair was as pale as Mary’s, and her eyes were lighter, a blue streaked with lime. Her dress was wet and ripped down one side. The boy, perhaps a year old, cried continually, his face hidden in the folds of her bodice. The other child, a girl, lay unconscious beside them. A gash on her forehead exposed bone. My own head ached, and my mind seemed unfocused and blurred; yet I forced myself to my knees and moved closer to take her pulse. I felt the beat of her tiny heart. I ripped open my coat and pulled my shirt off. Shivering from cold, I tore the cloth into strips as best as I could and wrapped one around the girl’s head.

  Then I saw another child, and yet another, suffering and in need of my services.

  The wind withered. Overhead, the granite clouds thickened, and the light fizzled. The river still shook, but the mighty waves were gone.

  The small police boat retrieved several women and children, then sped toward shore.

  Holmes wiped blood from a woman’s arm. Following my lead, he removed his own shirt and ripped it into strips. He sl
id the woman’s arm into a makeshift sling. Other men were removing their shirts and following suit, trying to help those with broken arms and wrists, gashed heads, and bleeding torsos.

  Of perhaps fifty passengers, I had seen at least ten dead.

  Three men, five women, one child, and one baby.

  Of them all, I think it hurt me the most to see the baby. It wasn’t long ago that I’d seen the tram crash in Whitechapel, and had thought my own wife and baby killed. The pain remained real and raw. I’d almost lost my little family to the dangers of living in London—specifically, living with me in London due to my association with Sherlock Holmes.

  It was a dangerous time to be with my old friend. It meant casting my family into harm’s way—from evil men such as Professor Moriarty, nemesis of Holmes, from Professor Henry Fitzgerald of the Order of Dagon; and also from horrors that Holmes and I didn’t yet understand, horrors such as the one unleashed upon the Belle Crown.

  A voice broke into my thoughts.

  “We need to get off the boat, Watson.”

  Holmes had found me. His gray eyes, intelligent and focused, were trained upon me, as if gauging my mental awareness and competence. I didn’t want to appear in any way befuddled, for I was not befuddled. Sad and worried, yes, and a bit off, yes… in a way I couldn’t quite determine… but, or so I told myself, not befuddled.

  Holmes stared at me, worried.

  “Are you feeling yourself, my dear fellow?” he asked gently.

  For a moment, I didn’t answer, then I nodded. Before we could say more, we were interrupted by an excited babble of voices. The police had returned, and we lent our efforts to helping the officers load more victims of the river beast onto their boat.

  Another boat sped from a dock. More police, coming to get us all to shore.

  “I do hope they quicken their progress and send an additional boat or two,” Holmes said. “We’re going to need more boats, and I mean—”