VIII THE LONG VERSION
Thursday 14th February 1923
Not so cocky now: “We’re facked!” proclaimed god-like Banks as we settled nervously into the back of the truck. He looked at his shattered companions, appallingly wounded and weak from loss of blood. How can we persist in face of the abominable forces pitted against us? Mika was tending to Ludwig’s facial wound, a flap of his bitten cheek hanging loose. Pierre sat with his head in his hands, holding a bloody gauze to his neck. Cartwright looked lost, his head pounded mercilessly. “Absolutely facked!” Banks continued.
Hussy: Letty and Major Christova were seated in front. As Christova turned the ignition to start the engine, he was taken by surprise at Letty’s passionate advance. Letty launched herself brazenly at the rugged officer. She kissed him hard. He had no choice in the matter. “You’re my hero” she whispered. Christova, lost for words and more than a little worried, simply shifted the gearstick and drove the truck away.
Fenalik: As the truck bumped along the rugged lanes we contemplated our degrading hopes of reaching Constantinople alive, let alone the chances of fulfilling our quest. Fenalik was undoubtedly getting stronger; the level of egregious violence increasing. The crusaders had stripped Sedefkar of his armour seven centuries ago but then carelessly lost it to Fenalik disguised as Merovic the leper. Fenalik possessed the Simulacrum for almost four hundred years until his arrest in France in 1789, at which time it was broken up and scattered across Europe. The vile creature must have been significantly weakened following this, as his story becomes pathetic by the time we hear of him as a wretched inmate in the bowels of Charenton Asylum. The Simulacrum is an item of power, and as we re-gather the pieces its influence is returning and we are in no doubt that Fenalik is drawn to it. At least we know for certain that the cult, The Brotherhood of the Skin, is not in alliance with the vampire. They have actively denied him the headpiece.
The return of Baba Yaga: A little over halfway back to Sofia, still travelling rural roads, the weather deteriorates abruptly. The breeze picks up significantly and grey clouds roll over the sky. The truck stops. The Major cannot restart it. He gets out and pops the hood to inspect the seized engine. Away to our right, close to the tree line of a small wood, we spy a moving figure. The wind continues to strengthen, howling like the Bora. The trees bend and sway. The figure is an old crone dressed in black robes. She moves toward us, across the fields, her hands gesturing as if weaving a spell. And now we recognise her, but how can this be? “Grandmother!” we gasp in unison. We see her lips moving and in our ears, above the din of the wind, we hear an eerie whisper —“Johan. Johaaaaan”. Ludwig contorted his face, “Johan? Winckleman?” he suggested with a shrug. Behind the old woman, above the woods, a thin wisp of smoke rose in defiance of the wind. Fear gripped us. Ludwig reached for the bolt-action rifle he requisitioned from Christova’s arsenal and took careful aim. He squeezed the trigger, and in defiance of distance and wind, the bullet struck true—Grandmother dropped.
Bump! Squish! Pierre forced Christova aside and stared at the lifeless engine. He smashed the starter motor and the engine sputtered back to life. “Get in! Get in! Mes amis!” Quickly, everyone clambered back into the truck. The vehicle lurched forward as Christova accelerated through the gears. We looked desperately behind us but thankfully the old crone could not be seen. Before we could sigh with relief however, all the passengers were thrown forward as the truck suddenly braked hard. An old woman dressed in black stood in the road ahead of us. Letty forced the Major’s foot onto the accelerator pedal and with a dull thud the old witch is knocked down. The truck rocks from side to side as Grandmother is crushed under wheels. Her inert body is spat out from beneath the truck and left lying in the road behind us, shrinking into the distance as we speed away. A trail of smoke reaches out from the canopy of the woods and envelops the body—and then she is gone.
Farewell Major: It is a little after five o’clock when we reach Sofia. The sky is dark and the weather damp and cold. Christova stops at the station so we can consult the timetable for the Orient Express. The next train departs Sofia at 7 pm. Despite the need to rest, we decide not to stay another night in Sofia. We ask Christova to take us to Jordanov’s place so we can clean up and collect our luggage. Outside Jordanov’s, we part ways with Christova with smiles and thanks. Letty kisses her hero again. This time Christova seems less taken aback—indeed there was a definite trouser twitch. We wave as he drives away.
Farewell Doctor: We find Jordanov just as we left him yesterday—struggling to comprehend the disturbing details surrounding the Dzhudzheta Idol. He barely has chance to register our apology about not being able to return his motorcar, when Letty presses £400 sterling in cash into his hand as compensation. Ludwig needs to clean up and takes the opportunity to do so, but when face-to-face with the bathtub he becomes suddenly averse to the idea of submerging himself in soapy water. A stand-up wash at the sink with one of Jordanov’s best flannels will have to suffice. Refreshed and with sparkling clean underpants, he is soon ready to leave. We pick up our luggage, adding several bulbs of garlic to the biggest trunk along with the newly acquired headpiece, express our gratitude to Jordanov and rush along to the station. At 7.0 pm sharp, the Express pulls out of Sofia Central. Next stop, Constantinople.
The seven foot suit: We meet in Letty’s cabin. We cannot resist but to assemble the Sedefkar Simulacrum. Complete for the first time in more than two hundred years. It is large, imposing, 7ft tall. It exudes power and beauty, though its presence is malevolent. Our ailments intensify in its aura. We see the fleeting dance of our reflections in its translucent patterns. Banks smoothes his hair and admires himself in it. Letty is the first to touch it and the pain in her leg immediately dissipates. She feels invigorated. Pierre, Mika and Banks all caress the armour and are relieved of their debilitations too. Only Cartwright and Ludwig recoil from the Simulacrum, too suspicious to touch it.
Suffering the debilitating effects of the Sedefkar Simulacrum: Pierre (left arm), Letty (right leg), Mika (torso), Ludwig (left leg), Banks (right arm) and Cartwright (head).
Ancient artefacts: Ludwig draws the Mims Sahis from beneath his jacket and removes its leather wrappings. The knife glows with a soft purple hue and to the dismay of his companions he draws the blade lightly over the armour. The energy is palpable; like an invisible force sparking between the two ancient artefacts. Ludwig re-wraps the blade and returns it to his bosom. Father Mika, sensing a growing unhealthy bond between Ludwig and his knife asks to see it, and puts his hand out expectantly to receive it. Ludwig casts the old man a stern look and replies with a resounding “nein,” and adds a few choice German swear words for good measure. The tense atmosphere is cut by a rapping at the door; “dinner in thirty minutes”, calls a voice from the other side. Before putting it away, Letty finds herself fighting the overwhelming urge to wear the armour. Pierre, the smooth-talking voice of reason, persuades her not to, “let’s dress for dinner and have a cognac instead”.
Evening meal: Choosing from the menu, we deny ourselves no luxury, and order a 1914 Bollinger and Quality Carling from the bar. Cartwright produces a camera and insists we take a group photograph for prosperity. A fine evening passes, before we realise it, we are the only diners remaining in the carriage. Our waiter asks us if there is anything else we would like before he closes the bar. For a nightcap, we order a bottle of Scotch whisky, a bottle of cognac and big fat cigars for everyone. As the waiter retreats to fetch our order, Ludwig feels the ruby pendant beneath his shirt start to warm, a little at first and then to an uncomfortable magnitude. He says nothing and continues with the round-table conversations. No sooner had our waiter returned with our bottles and cigars but Cartwright’s face filled with a look of dread. He had casually glanced toward the window, despite the absolute darkness outside, and was startled to see two red piercing eyes looking right back at him. He heard a persuasive voice in his head, “It must be warm in there. Why not open the window?” Cartwright struggles to deny the urge to comply, then snapping to his senses cries out, “It’s him. He’s outside the window!”
The monster in the carriage: We scramble to our feet and scatter. The door at the end of the carriage is jammed shut. Banks, believing it locked, kneels to pick at the keyhole but realises there is no lock. The door is stuck fast, we cannot force it, "We're facked!" We look back to see a mist pouring into the dining car. The mist takes form. A grotesque humanoid creature coalesces, seven feet tall, matted black hair over a pockmarked and elongated face with a mouth filled with an insane conglomeration of jagged teeth. Loathsome to behold, the feral creature is an emaciated horror with a pallid skin of scars and knotted veins stretched over bone and sinew. Here stands Tillius Corvus, the Leper King, le Comte de Fenalik……the Unclean. Its voice is a commanding force of unnatural power—“Give me the Simulacrum!!”
MORE TO FOLLOW
