“FREDDY”

If it was real, then surely it was something that should never have existed.

Colonel James Mortimer Stanthorpe was wheeled into the large reception room of his sprawling country mansion by his twenty-two-year-old grandson, David, in order to meet and greet the thirty or so invited guests. Wheelchair-bound, white-haired, and in his mid-eighties, he still looked like a man who could handle himself in a tight spot. Like his father, who had served under Lord Kitchener, his had been a long, distinguished, and highly-decorated career. Some of those gathered were distant family members, military friends, and colleagues he had spent time with out in India. Others were appropriate dignitaries, and there were also one or two from the local press.

Kyle Thorndyke was one of the latter, getting to rub shoulders with the great and the good of British society. He was in his early thirties, tall and lanky, with blue eyes and prematurely greying hair. Taking a glass of champagne from a tray carried by a passing waiter, he tried to blend in, become inconspicuous. It was something he was particularly skilled at: the ability to fade into the background when the need arose and yet become noticed by those that mattered when he desired.

The champagne was excellent and, taking a sip, Thorndyke sauntered over to where the retired colonel was now holding court, a small group gathered around him.

“Can I just say how pleased I am to see you all here today? I never expected there to be quite so many. Maybe I didn’t think that my father’s collection would prove to be of such interest. We can begin the tour as soon as everyone’s ready,” announced Stanthorpe in his plummy voice—a dyed-in-the-wool, authoritative military voice. He talked in a way that commanded respect.

Chatting animatedly amongst themselves, the guests began to congregate near the large double doors that led from the room.

“I would like to say a few words before we go in.” Stanthorpe cleared his voice. “The collection that you’re about to see represents some forty years of my father’s life, with curios and artefacts gathered from his many travels abroad. And whilst the majority of the collection originates from India, where both he and I were stationed for what seems like an eternity now that I look back on it, there are bits and pieces from all over the world. Some he bought from traders. Some he actually found in the long-lost temples scattered all over the Near and Far East. I could go on, but I think I’ve gone on long enough, as no doubt some of you would agree. So, please, let us go in. Feel free to take photographs. If you’ve any questions about any of the curios, do ask. If I can’t answer your question—then, I can’t answer your question.”

This got some chuckles from the expectant crowd. Some, particularly the academics, were chomping at the bit to view the collection of the weird and the wonderful. Others were there solely for the champagne and the delicious canapés.

Thorndyke was there to take a general look and, if lucky, have a one-to-one with Stanthorpe, get some juicy material for the column he would write for his paper. Maybe get something with a bit of derring-do from the old man, something with a hint of adventure and mystery—things he could later embellish and romanticise to garner interest and boost readership. His editor had informed him that a dry account of whatever old relics the retired colonel might have assembled would not be good enough. It wouldn’t sell. Consequently, he had to get something a bit meatier and, a bit like the stuffed tiger he was now passing, he liked to consider himself a bit of a predator, stalking down stories.

It was a museum of sorts that they entered: a repository of the mundane, the weird and the wonderful, lit solely by authentic, tallow-dripping, flaming torches, giving it a slightly menacing atmosphere. The main entrance was flanked by leering, fanged, tongue-protruding statues of grotesque beings that stood sentinel by the doorway. Inside, there were numerous glass cabinets in which a wide-range of mysterious items of exotica were on display: tribal dresses, jewellery, weapons, and other odds and ends. One side room had been devoted purely to works of a religious nature, with several marble statues of various Hindu deities and lavish wall coverings. Incense burned in censers attached to the walls to provide a bit of extra ambience.

The guests spread out. Champagne glasses in hand, they strolled around. There was some banter, small talk, and a few photographs taken. Some remained chatting to Stanthorpe.

Thorndyke had to admit none of the material on display particularly interested him. Yes, some of the things were odd, such as the neatly ordered assemblage of tiny man-like statues that seemed almost too lifelike, or the strange collection of carved, skull-painted death masks which hung on one wall. There was even a huge, stuffed saltwater crocodile suspended from wires, its jaws spread wide. It was a true monster, perhaps thirty feet or so in length. In the main, though, at least as far as he was concerned, it was just one man’s amassed junk.

He spent another quarter of an hour or so walking around, pretending to look interested.

A sign on the stairs that lead down indicated that there was more to the exhibition in the room below, so Thorndyke hastily went in that direction, hoping to be the first to get there. There was a door before him, which he opened, finding himself in a smaller room. Unlike upstairs, this room was lit by electric lights and, whereas above, the spacing of the exhibits had been more open, down here, it was much more constrained, the rows of cabinets separated by narrow walkways. It was the kind of place where one accidental trip could bring down everything.

With that thought in mind, Thorndyke gingerly stepped inside. To his untrained eye, the displays in here were much the same as those above. There were more collections of antiquated forms of weaponry, as well as some pieces of strange, Oriental-looking clothing. The shelves of one cabinet were strewn with hundreds of old coins. Below that were some ancient pieces of pottery.

Carefully walking between the display cabinets, Thorndyke panned his eyesight up and down, side-to-side, taking in the plethora of the weird and the unusual. In essence it was just more of the same; antiques and trophies, oddities, and—

Thorndyke stopped. What on earth was this? He stooped low in order to better examine the stuffed thing—dare he call it an animal?—that stood upright in the glass cabinet before him. It was about the size of a large monkey, but there all real comparison ended. For a start, it had two heads, the larger one positioned atop the neck like that of most bipedal creatures whilst the second protruded from high up on its right flank. Both heads were repulsive in appearance, bearing such ghastly features as two-inch long fangs, bulging, unsightly eyes, and bat-like ears. The nose on the larger head was flattened, that on the smaller, beak-like. The larger head also looked warped, half-melted, the left side reduced to a sagging flap of drooping flesh. Its torso was shallow-chested, its ribs clearly visible beneath the taut skin. Short, coarse brown hair covered most of it in mangy patches. A pair of half-formed, membranous wings lay flat against its knobbly-spined back. Both arms were extended, vicious clawed hands spread wide. Its legs were spindly, the three toes of one foot splayed like that of a chicken, the other more man-like. A sinuous tail sprouted from its rear end. There was something both reptilian and mammalian about it: an unnatural hybridisation. One could even go so far as to say an incompleteness—almost as though it had been killed midway through some kind of horrible transformation. For killed it had been—a slender bolt of brass sticking from its abdomen.

A tattered display sign, yellowed with age and written in bold letters, merely said: ‘Freddy’.

Thorndyke was aware that he had been joined by a plump woman and her tall husband, an ex-military man if ever there was one, clean-shaven, dignified, his back ramrod straight. Two Indian men came down after them. They were looking about curiously and talking to one another in a language he didn’t understand.

“I see you’re admiring my great-grandfather’s little pet.”

Thorndyke turned. He had not heard the other approach but he recognised David Stanthorpe. He turned his gaze back on the thing in the cabinet. “What is it? And why call it ‘Freddy’?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Ugly little blighter though, isn’t it?”

“I don’ think I’ve ever seen anything like it in all my life. It’ not like any animal I’ve ever seen or read about. Obviously, it’s a hoax. I mean, surely the two heads is a bit of a giveaway? It looks more like a kind of patchwork animal. Monkey, rooster, vampire bat. A stitched-together monstrosity. A bit like what they did with that Piltdown man-thing, where some idiot stuck an orangutan’s jaw onto a human skull in order to try and baffle the experts.”

“My grandfather might know more about it. What I can tell you is that it’s been in the family a long time. I think it must have been my great-grandfather who found it and called it ‘Freddy’. Used to give me nightmares as a boy.”

“I can see why.”

“Anyway, I’m afraid to have to inform you all that my grandfather’s not feeling too well, and that unfortunately he’s decided to retire for the day.”

“Oh, nothing serious, I trust?” asked the tall man.

“No, I think it’s just the sense of occasion that’s finally got to him. He’s eighty-three, you know. Doesn’t look it and he certainly doesn’t act it. I believe he’s planning to reopen the exhibition next week sometime when hopefully he’s feeling better, so I do hope you can all make it. There’s a full room of stuff upstairs that I’ve still to go through.” David smiled. “I’m sorry about this, but obviously I’ve got to consider my grandfather’s health first and foremost.”

“But, can’t we stay and have a look around?” asked the woman. “We’ve come all the way from Oxford.”

“Come dear, let Colonel Stanthorpe have his rest. We can always come back next week. It’s not as though these things are going anywhere, now is it?” replied her husband.

Thorndyke was annoyed. It looked like he wasn’t going to get the chance to ask the old man about anything, at least not today. Resignedly, he followed David and the others back up the stairs. Well, that had been an almighty waste of time, he thought, as he was guided out of the mansion.

* * * * * * *

That night, Thorndyke tossed and turned in the throes of a terrible nightmare. One moment everything was black and empty, a nebulous void, and then a speck appeared, growing larger. He tried to look away, to scream, for as the image became clearer he realised it was that horror in the cabinet, that unidentifiable creature, ‘Freddy’. It was motionless, suspended almost in a whirling vortex and then, the thin brass bolt slipped from its side as though pulled by an invisible hand. Suddenly all four of its eyes opened, revealing vertical, violet pupils. It arms jerked as though controlled by a diabolical puppeteer. It began jigging a crazy dance, leaping and hopping from one foot to the other. Dark red blood bubbled and slavered from its twin mouths.

And then there was a sound in Thorndyke’s ears, in his mind. An unearthly, high-pitched piping that sawed through his brain: a truly fiendish noise. Voices accompanied the soul-burning music, male voices chanting, humming, crying. It rose in crescendo to a demonical cacophony, like the wailing of a thousand tortured souls crying out for an end to their suffering.

And then ‘Freddy’ came closer, filling his entire inner vision. The hideous eyes in those twin heads glared at him, fixing him with a malignancy not born of this earth. Its mouths opened, and some form of foreign, alien speech that he had never heard spoken before poured out, shaping words that meant nothing to him. A clawed hand came up, reaching out for him, ready to grasp and tear, to scratch and rend, to pull him to pieces.…

It was almost as if it was trying to get inside him, to become him.

* * * * * * *

It was his phone ringing just a few short hours later that finally woke him up. Throwing on a dressing gown, he rushed downstairs to answer it. It was still dark outside, so he wondered who on earth it could be. He picked up the receiver.

“Thorndyke.” It was his editor, he recognised the voice immediately.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I want you to get yourself over to the Stanthorpe place pronto. You were there yesterday, weren’t you? Well, I’ve just had a tip off from a friend in the police that something big’s going on over there. I think there’s been a break-in. Unconfirmed reports are that there has been at least one fatality.”

“Good God!”

“Get yourself over there and find out what’s going on. If there’s a story, I want you to be the first to it.”

“On my way.” Hastily, Thorndyke rushed upstairs and got dressed. Without stopping for any kind of breakfast, he threw on his jacket and left the house. He got in his car and sped towards the colonel’s country mansion. Thankfully, there was hardly any traffic, and twenty-five minutes later he pulled into the wide driveway, tyres crunching on the gravel of the large car park where an ambulance and three police cars were parked.

There were five policemen, and a plainclothes detective stood near the doorway.

Getting out of his car, Thorndyke grimaced somewhat as he saw two male ambulance staff emerge from the house carrying a stretcher, a white sheet covering the man-shaped lump underneath.

“Can I help you?” asked the plainclothes detective.

“My name’s Thorndyke. I work for The Gazette.”

“Is that so? Well, clear off, can’t you see we’re conducting an investigation here? The last thing we need is someone from the press sticking their—”

Thorndyke saw David Stanthorpe come out of the house. He looked withdrawn and shaken, but at least he was alive. Ignoring the policeman he walked over.

David stared at him. It was abundantly clear he was suffering from shock. “You? What are you doing here?” he asked.

“What happened?”

The detective stepped between the two. He was facing Stanthorpe when he spoke. “I’m sorry, sir. This man’s from the press. I’ll get rid of him if you want me to.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. News of this will get out sooner or later. Perhaps the sooner, the better. We have to find whoever did this and why.”

Thorndyke already had his notebook out. So far he had seen no sign of the colonel, and he was now beginning to suspect the worst. After all, he had witnessed one body being taken out. Could be there were more in the ambulance. He would have to be tactful in his questioning. “I understand completely if you don’t want to tell me—” he began.

“My grandfather was murdered in the early hours of this morning. Strangled. Killed in cold blood.”

“I am truly sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences.” Thorndyke felt sorry for the other. What a tragic occurrence. “If there’s any way I can be of assistance, I will.”

“There must be a connection between the opening of the exhibition and what happened.”

“Sir,” said the detective, “we will obviously get round to an intensive search of the property to see if anything has been stolen, but in the meantime can I once more urge you not to tell this reporter anything regarding the details of your grandfather’s death?”

“Why’s that?” asked Thorndyke impudently.

David paused for a moment, clearly considering the detective’s warning. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, uncertain. It was clear he was contemplating just how much he could confide in this man whom admittedly he had only met yesterday. He had always considered himself to be a good judge of character, so in the end, he spoke up, much to the policeman’s displeasure: “It’s just that certain things were found near my grandfather’s…body. Certain things to suggest that he was ritualistically murdered. Then there was also the positioning of his body. You see, I found him this morning lying dead in his museum, sprawled out before one of those infernal statues.”

“The goddess Kali, to be exact,” said the detective. “The Hindu Death Mother. The Queen of the Night.” When the other two looked at him in surprise, he went on: “I haven’t been a policeman all my life. I studied anthropology and theology at Cambridge before joining the force.” He offered his hand to Thorndyke. “Well, now that Mr. Stanthorpe has filled you in, I might as well introduce myself. Detective Inspector Carson, Jim Carson. I think I know who or rather what’s behind Colonel Stanthorpe’s murder. The method, the crushed larynx, no traces of blood, the positioning of the body. All the signs suggest to me a Thuggee assassination.”

“A what?” enquired Thorndyke.

“Thuggee? I’ve heard of them,” said David. “It’s a religious organisation or something, isn’t it? An Indian sect?”

“Yes and no,” said Carson. He reached into an inner jacket pocket and removed a packet of cigarettes. Opening it, he offered one to the others, but both declined with shakes of their heads. He then lit up and took a deep drag before exhaling a cloud of eye-watering cigarette smoke. “Thuggee was a religion based on homicide, ritual murder, and robbery, all carried out in the name of Kali. Although long-thought to have been wiped out by the British in the mid-Nineteenth Century, it’s unlikely that it was completely eradicated. The Thugs’—the practitioners of Thuggee—favourite weapon was the garrotte with which they would sneak up on their victim and strangle them, a stealthy and silent means of murder. Sometimes they improvised, using a scarf with a knot tied in the middle to add extra pressure and crush the larynx. Their religious taboos prohibited them from spilling blood.”

“But even assuming this perverse cult is still active today in Britain, why target an old man in a wheelchair? Why go after Colonel Stanthorpe?” asked Thorndyke. His journalistic mind was working overtime, convinced that there was a juicy story here.

“Perhaps I could answer that question.” David had regained some of his composure, and the shocked, vacant look in his eyes had faded. “My grandfather and my great-grandfather were actively involved in stamping out this Thuggee cult, ensuring that it was no longer a threat. It seems that they weren’t entirely successful.”

“You’re going to have to make sure that no one enters the main museum until we’ve conducted a full forensic examination,” said Carson, addressing David.

“Of course. I’ll also—”

“Freddy!” Thorndyke spluttered.

“What about Freddy?” David looked confused.

“I had a nightmare. That thing was in it.”

“Who the hell’s Freddy?” enquired the detective, looking at David.

“Freddy’s not a person. It’s a…a specimen, an exhibit, one of those rare, inexplicable finds that my great-grandfather brought back from India. A stuffed monkey-thing.”

A terrible, irrational thought began to develop in Thorndyke’s mind. For some uncanny reason he—no doubt as a result of his nightmare—had this strange feeling that the horror in the display cabinet was in some way linked to the Colonel Stanthorpe’s murder. In what way, he didn’t know: after all, it was nothing more than a long-dead, deformed monkey, tinkered about with by some warped taxidermist. And yet there remained that little kernel of nagging suspicion.

“I see,” said Carson. “Well—”

“Have you checked to see if it’s still there?” Thorndyke asked David.

“Come now. Surely if robbery had been the main incentive, a thief would have gone for something far more valuable?” David replied. “I mean, there are genuine treasures contained in the museum. Some of the items of jewellery are worth hundreds if not thousands of pounds. And they would be far easier to carry. I can’t see anyone wanting to steal that tatty old piece of junk. Except perhaps one of those experts who try to prove the existence of strange creatures, such as the Yeti.”

“A cryptozoologist,” commented Carson.

“Yes,” David nodded.

“Can we just check?”

“I don’t see what harm it’ll do. We can skirt the main museum and go in through the stairs at the back. Follow me.” David led the way to the house and into the ground floor museum, the smaller one with the densely-gathered glass cabinets.

It came as little surprise to Thorndyke when they found that the glass cabinet in question had been smashed to pieces, reduced to a mass of scattered shards, its ghastly occupant missing.

“What’s this?” queried Carson, bending down to pick up the slender brass spike that lay amidst the glass. It was the thing that had been pierced into the hideous, two-headed abomination that had been named ‘Freddy’.

* * * * * * *

It was some two weeks later that Thorndyke got the telephone call from David Stanthorpe asking him to meet him at the house. He had only seen him once during that time—when he had attended the colonel’s funeral—and had largely and intentionally kept a low profile, permitting the bereaved time to grieve and become accustomed to his solitude in the mansion.

Thorndyke had done some research of his own, finding out that both of the younger Stanthorpe’s parents had been killed in an air crash and that he had no siblings. Hence, his devotion to his crippled grandfather. And now even he was gone, brutally slain by a member of a dark fraternity long thought defunct—or so Detective Inspector Carson believed.

Upon arrival at the house, Thorndyke was warmly greeted by David, who welcomed him inside, guiding him into the study where a roaring fire blazed in the wide hearth.

“Would you care for a drink? Wine? Whisky?”

“Whisky.” Thorndyke sat back in his seat, looking about him at the crammed bookshelves and the various stuffed animal heads: tiger, moose, gorilla, and sundry other creatures of which he was unsure. One looked like the head of a zebra, but it could have been that of an okapi or something similar. At least these looked like real creatures, the kind of things one could see in a zoo, unlike ‘Freddy’.

David returned, a glass of whisky in hand. “There.” He sat down and reached for a rather tattered leather book that lay on the table before him.

“How have you been?” Thorndyke asked.

“Not too bad. I do miss my grandfather not being around, but I guess I’ve got no option but to persevere. It’s what he would’ve wanted. Stiff upper lip and all that.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but has there been any developments in the police investigation? I told them all that I could remember about the day of the exhibition. I’m sorry I was unable to give a better descriptions of the other people I saw down in the room that day.”

“Carson’s been able to interview Lord and Lady Morris, the couple who were there, but they’ve been unable to trace those two Indian men.”

“Do you think they may have something to do with this?” Thorndyke took a sip from his glass. It was strong stuff.

“It’s possible. Carson took details, but alas, he’s been unable to make much progress. To tell you the truth, I think he and his team are floundering in the dark. I’ve no doubt he’s a very intelligent man, but I think he’s a bit out of his depth here. It’s my belief, call it a theory if you like, that those men came specifically for ‘Freddy’, and that my grandfather heard their break-in and came downstairs to investigate. Anyway, the reason I asked you to come out here is because of what I found in this.” David opened the book he held to a marked page. “It’s written by my great-grandfather, and some of it doesn’t make for easy listening.”

Thorndyke sat back as the other began reading a strange and enthralling handwritten account about the time when his distant relative had been in India serving in the British Army. He told of his ancestor’s missions to eradicate the Thuggee operatives, and of how he and his men tracked one such gang back to their hidden temple stronghold in the Samdari Valley. The Thugs had been terrorising the inhabitants of a local village, murdering the villagers in the night, and causing no end of mischief, assuming different guises, appearing to be friendly merchants, honest travellers, and the like before revealing their true, murderous nature. Apparently this had been the standard Thuggee practice. Anyhow, once Colonel Henry Stanthorpe and his men entered the ancient temple, there was carnage as they opened fire and gunned down many of the cultists. The surviving members of the Dark Brotherhood of merciless killers withdrew from this onslaught, retreating deeper into the bowels of the temple.

“Fascinating stuff, but—”

“Wait, it gets better.” David continued, reading from the battered book. He related how his great-grandfather’s men fought their way out of a Thug ambush before they came to a truly horrendous place filled with dead and imprisoned villagers. They had then entered an inner sanctum wherein the most diabolical and murderous rites were performed before a large graven image of their infernal, four-armed goddess, Kali. It was in this hellish chamber, filled with stomach-wrenching horror and the stench of the dead and the dying, that the brave colonel was to come face-to-face with dozens of Thuggee cultists. Much blood was spilled. Fighting their way through, shooting many dead, they targeted the leader. With a desperate cry to the Death Mother, knowing he was doomed, the high priest of the Thuggee cult threw down a curse on the British defilers, sacrificing himself by plunging a knife deep into his own heart.

“Good Lord!” Thorndyke was intrigued, but unsure as to where any of this fitted in with tracking down the old man’s murderer or murderers.

The remainder of the account told how Colonel Stanthorpe gave the order not to take prisoners, such was the barbarity of the crimes levelled at the Thuggee members. All were executed, not that many surrendered, preferring to die in the name of their cruel, bloodthirsty deity. Later that evening, after the army man had returned to his garrison headquarters, he was beset by evil visions and he came down with a terrible fever. The doctor could do nothing, and it was as a last resort that he sought out the grateful village elder and shaman who informed him that he was cursed.

“This is where it gets weird, and although I’ve no reason to dispute anything that my great-grandfather records it gets, well, judge for yourself.” David went on, telling of how Colonel Stanthorpe became feverish, delirious, unable to discern reality, his own words telling of his sorry state clearly written at a date not contemporaneous with his suffering. He became filled with the terrible desire to eat human flesh. The village elder said that an evil spirit, a demon, a rakshasa, had stolen his soul, and that the only way he could regain it was by killing the demon. And so, arming the colonel with a crossbow and a brass bolt inscribed with tiny sigils, the elder performed a ritual, exorcising the demon, drawing it out of its host. The description of that event and what happened next was perhaps intentionally vague; in addition, many of the pages were missing, half-burnt and yellowed with age, making further reading difficult. It appeared however that the demon had been expelled from Colonel Stanthorpe, whereupon he had shot it even as it had turned to flee.

“Freddy?!”

“Freddy.” David nodded. “As trophies go, I’d say that’s got to be the ultimate. A demon. I’ve done some research on these things, these rakshasas. They were malign entities that lived on human flesh. They were shape-changers and magicians, masters of lies, trickery, deceit, and illusion. Their favourite tactic was to assume the appearance of someone known to their chosen victim; a friend or accomplice. Then, when they’d gained their trust, they’d strike at the most opportune moment.”

“That can’t be right. Surely, that’s not what that thing is. It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.”

“None of this makes sense.”

“Yes, but, come on—a demon?”

“Well, whatever it is, someone was prepared to kill in order to get it.” David opened a drawer in the desk and removed the thin, brass bolt. “Could be that they thought they could restore it to life by removing this. In which case, if they have brought it back, this is the only weapon that will destroy it once more. I’ve already bought a crossbow that I got specifically made in order to shoot it. I’ve been practicing, improving my accuracy, should the need ever arise.”

Thorndyke looked at the other, incredulity all over his face. “You don’t believe this, do you?”

“I no longer know what to believe. Perhaps my great-grandfather was merely delirious and dreamt up the whole thing. However, if this account is true, then it could be that there’s an evil cult out there, an evil cult that is now in possession of a demon.”

* * * * * * *

It was the trail of murder and the spate of disappearances that finally led the police to the massive abandoned RAF hangars deep within the Surrey countryside, some thirty miles from David Stanthorpe’s mansion. Having got the tipoff from his editor that something significant was going down, something that might be related to the murder of Colonel James Mortimer Stanthorpe, Thorndyke had swung round to pick up David before making his way there.

The reporter had never been to this part of England before, and the details he had been given had been vague at best. Luck was obviously smiling on the pair of them, however, for they quickly found the place, the immediate wooded surroundings cordoned off and manned by policemen, some of whom were armed.

Detective Inspector Carson noticed them immediately. He strode over. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you two. The situation’s a bit delicate. Seems that there are some thirty people in there. All foreigners.”

“Thugs?” asked David.

“I think so, but don’t let on to any of the others. Far as they’re concerned, it’s just a mad gathering of illegal immigrants who’ve decided to hole themselves up in some of these old hangars. Last thing anyone else needs to know right know is that we may be dealing with a suicidal cult of death-worshippers. Wouldn’t exactly boost morale, if you get what I’m saying.”

“Of course,” Thorndyke agreed. “We understand.”

“We’ve been carrying out surveillance on them for a day or two now. We were fortunate to track them down, for they’re sneaky customers who know how to cover their tracks. We think they may have been responsible for over twenty, maybe as many as thirty killings, in the surrounding area.”

“So what’s your plan?” asked David.

“Well they know we’re here, so they’re just lying low for the moment. We’re doing the same. As you can no doubt imagine, it’s a tricky situation. One that could blow up into something really nasty. We’ve got an interpreter at hand. As soon as I give the order, we’ll march on in there and apprehend the whole bloody lot. If they don’t come quietly, then they’ll be sorry.”

Knowingly, Carson patted his inside coat pocket.

“David thinks they may have a—” Thorndyke had forgotten the name so he looked to his companion.

“A rakshasa,” finished David. “I think they’re possibly harbouring a rakshasa. I think that’s what Freddy was.”

“A rakshasa? Now let me think,” Carson mused this one over as he lit a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He had prepared himself for a hundred possible scenarios but not this. It was ludicrous, bordering on the insane. “You’re talking about a monster out of myth and folklore, right? What the hell gave you that idea? I know these Thuggee fanatics are real, but they’re just deluded crazies. The idea that there’s some kind of monster behind this is utter stupidity!”

“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Whatever the case, I’ve come prepared for it,” David replied.

“I want you two to stay well out of this. You hear me? This is police work, first and foremost. If things turn nasty, then leave it up to me and my men. We’ve got these beggars surrounded and the last thing I need is for you two to mess things up thinking you’re going in there. You stay well back, behind the line. At all times!”

“That’s alright by me, Inspector.” Thorndyke smiled. The last thing he wanted was to play the hero and go in there and take on a small army of homicidal maniacs unarmed. More so if David was right and they had something demonical with them, although this was something he couldn’t bring himself to believe. Yes, there were no doubt some very dangerous and wicked men holed up in there, but the rational, logical part of his brain clung to the belief that that was all. Hell, that was enough, wasn’t it? Why complicate and exacerbate what was already a highly volatile situation by bringing in the unholy and the supernatural?

A young Indian-looking man walked over, a loud-hailer in one hand. “Should I try again?”

Carson nodded and blew cigarette smoke from his nostrils. “Once more. Tell them to surrender and come out with their hands up. Failure to comply will result in a siege. Tell them we’re all armed and that we have the necessary authorisation to shoot to kill. Tell them that resistance is futile and that they have nowhere to go.”

The interpreter headed off. Words were shouted in an Indian dialect, words that made no sense whatsoever to Thorndyke.

Twenty minutes passed and there had been no reply.

Several armed policemen milled around, expectantly. Thorndyke saw another policeman concealed in the bushes, staring through a pair of binoculars at the large, grey, warehouse-type building some three hundred yards away.

Carson checked his watch. He knew that this siege could not go on indefinitely, and that sooner, rather than later, he was going to receive the orders from his superiors to launch an attack. This was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, yet he felt a tremor of exhilaration course through him at the prospect of leading his men into battle—for that’s what it would undoubtedly be like, similar in many ways to frontline warfare, with the notable difference that he hoped that these cultists weren’t armed with guns. It was a chance he had to take. For if they were, then this had the potential of turning into a true bloodbath.

And so commenced the waiting game.

* * * * * * *

“Do you think it’s wise waiting this long?” asked David. “It’s already getting dark. In another half hour or so it’ll be completely dark.”

“I think that’s when Carson plans to launch his raid on the hangars.”

Thorndyke was getting uncomfortable, having sat in the car for several hours, his back muscles cramping somewhat. But he was feeling more than physically uncomfortable. His mind was a turmoil of dark thoughts, cogitating unwelcomingly over a multitude of unpleasant scenarios. And then there was the ‘Freddy’ thing again. Just what the hell was that? And was it, as David certainly believed, even now lurking nearby? He dreaded the prospect of seeing that thing animate, sentient. It was only the thought of the scoop he might achieve by covering this story that kept him from leaving.

“I can’t help but think that waiting till dusk is a bad idea. But I suppose he knows best. This is the kind of thing he trains for, wouldn’t you think?”

“Personally, I don’t think they rehearse for this kind of thing at Hendon. But you never know.” Thorndyke was about to step outside, to stretch his legs, when he heard a gunshot. He almost jumped out of his skin. “What the hell?”

“Who’s firing?” asked David, nervously.

Two more shots rang out.

Now that his initial surprise had gone, Thorndyke felt certain that the loud bangs had come from the other side of the hangars. Was the siege underway? Then there were shouts and cries from the policemen to his front and sides, and more gunshots in the distance. Far off he heard police dogs barking. He walked forward a few yards.

And then, without warning, a shadow loomed up behind him and fastened a garrotte around his neck, pulling it tight, cutting off his air supply, crushing his larynx. Frantic, he struggled, fingers clawing at his own throat. It was no good. The cord bit deeper and his eyes were streaming. He was forced to his knees. This was the end, his mind screamed at him. He was going to be asphyxiated. His world darkened.

And then David was there, grappling the would-be assassin, pummelling him to the ground, making him release his stranglehold on Thorndyke. All three of them collapsed. Shouting for help, David smacked in several hard punches.

Gasping for breath, Thorndyke crawled away from the melee. Through pain-wracked eyes, he saw Carson rush over, gun in hand. There was a single shot, and then David clambered to his feet.

“These devils are on the attack!” Carson shouted. “They’ve obviously crept out under the cover of darkness and now they’re on the offensive. If I were you, I’d get in your car and get the hell away from this place. There’s no telling where they’ll pop up next. I’ve called for reinforcements, but God knows when they’ll get here.”

More sporadic gunshots rang out.

Voices called out in the twilight.

And then Carson was firing at a shadow that had sneaked around the side of the car. With a cry, the ‘shadow’ slumped to the ground.

Thorndyke rubbed his badly-bruised neck. He looked like someone who had just survived a hanging. Tears streamed from his eyes.

“I’m telling you to get out of here. Get in your car and go. Now! While there’s still time.” Carson peered all around, ready and more than willing to shoot at anything hostile that might emerge from the gathering darkness. He had to restrain his impulse when one of his officers came over at a sprint, his face flushed with fear and exertion.

“Sir, we’ve lost some good men over on the far side. That said, we’ve regrouped over by the copse of trees and awaiting your commands.”

“Right. It’s time to go in. We’ll give these murdering dogs what for. Make sure every man carries his torch and that their guns are at the ready. Tell them to shoot to kill. We can’t—”

“Where’s David?” Thorndyke asked, his voice tinged with concern.

“What?” Carson turned.

Thorndyke rushed over to the car and looked inside before turning to the detective. “He’s gone. He’s taken his crossbow. That can only mean that he’s gone after that thing he was on about. I think he’s headed for the hangar.”

“The bloody fool!” Carson cursed savagely. “That’s all we need. All right, we’ve got to go after him.” He looked at the reporter. “Change of plan. Maybe you’d better come with us in case we need to talk any sense into him. I figure he’ll trust you more than he will me. Come on!”

Thorndyke wasn’t ready for this one bit, but he didn’t know what the alternative, short of abandoning the young deluded man, was. Without their intervention, their combined strength, David would certainly be killed—his sole reward for his recklessness and his rashness would be an early death, followed perhaps by being offered as a sacrifice, as had his grandfather, to a demonic goddess.

Crouching low, using whatever cover there was, Thorndyke went in pursuit of Carson and the police officer, heading for the closest hangar. From every direction came the sound of gunshots, cries, and screams. There was no denying it—the place was now a battlefield, the death toll on each side slowly mounting. For what the Thuggee devotees lacked in firepower, they made up for in stealth and subterfuge, cunning and tenacity of spirit; their creed, their very ideology, based on the tenet, the belief, that killing was their sacred duty, their divinely allocated task. For them, murder was a way of life, a laudable pursuit.

Still, faith was to prove useless against a .38 special round bullet or a hefty thwack on the skull from a police truncheon, and the cultists soon found themselves on the losing side. More so when the vans filled with police in full riot gear appeared on the scene.

Thorndyke overheard some of Carson’s conversation over his police radio, informing him that the situation was now, thankfully, by and large under control.

All that remained was finding David.

Carson edged to the perimeter of the huge hangar. From behind cover, he glanced inside before signalling the others over. “Do you still think he’s here?”

“I don’t know,” answered Thorndyke. “But surely we’d have seen him if he’d doubled back?”

They all sneaked inside, ready for anything, or so they thought. The hangar had been transformed from a huge area for housing aircraft into a ghoulish temple dedicated to Kali. To that end, the Thugs had erected a large, rather crude-looking, and terrible idol of their four-armed deity. Around the statue’s neck had been draped a necklace of severed human heads! There was worse to come; dead, decaying bodies secured to the walls, dismembered limbs and heads in urns, rotting corpses heaped in one corner. The stench was unbearable.

“Heaven’s above,” muttered Thorndyke, gulping at the monstrous, gruesome sights before his eyes.

There was nobody here though. Nobody living, at least. They were just about to head out, thankful to be leaving this blood-drenched slaughter house when, to their relief, David staggered into the vast doorway, his crossbow in hand. He looked tired and weary. Blood smeared the left side of his face.

“I—I got it,” he stammered, crumpling to his knees.

Thorndyke and Carson rushed over, helping the young man up.

“Steady, man. Steady,” said Carson, helping David to his feet. Supporting him, he and the reporter carried him back to the car, where many policemen were milling around, some nursing their own injuries.

Three ambulances were waiting on standby, and after leaving David in the capable hands of the crew from one, Thorndyke went and sat in his car. He would have nightmares for many days, if not weeks, possibly months to come after what he had seen. The sights in that hangar, that modified temple, had been horrendous, and no matter how he tried he just couldn’t blight them from memory. Somehow, he managed to switch his thoughts to David, wondering just what he had seen. To even contemplate that that horror had assumed some semblance of life— He shuddered and then jumped when there came a tap on the car window.

It was David.

“The docs say I’m okay to go home. They say I’ve probably pulled some muscles in my right leg, and this scratch down my face shouldn’t be anything permanent.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Right now I just want to get home. Rest and try and forget all I’ve seen.”

“Well, I too have seen enough. I’m going to have to write a piece for my paper regarding this. Though I doubt whether anyone’ll believe a word of it.” Thorndyke started up the car engine as David got in and sat in the back seat. Had he been paying closer attention he might have noticed the evil grin and the violet glint in his passenger’s eyes.

For the thing in the back seat wasn’t David—it was ‘Freddy’!