The Monstrumologist Read Free

but one man who’ll know what to do,’ I said to myself. Forgive me, but you must know what they say about you and the curious goings-on in this house. Only the deaf would not know about Pellinore Warthrop and the house on Harrington Lane!”

    “Then I am fortunate,” said the doctor dryly, “that you are not deaf.”

    He went to the old man’s side and placed both hands on his shoulders.

    “You have my confidence, Erasmus Gray. As I’m certain I have yours. I will speak to no one of your involvement in this‘crime,’ as you call it, as I’m sure you will keep mum regarding mine. Now, for your trouble …”

    He produced a wad of bills from his pocket and stuffed them into the old man’s hands. “I don’t mean to rush you off, but each moment you stay endangers both you and my work, both of which matter a great deal to me, though one perhaps a bit more than the other,” he added with a tight smile. He turned to me. “Will Henry, show our caller to the door.” Then he turned back to Erasmus Gray. “You have done an invaluable service to the advancement of science, sir.”

    The old man seemed more interested in the advancement of his fortunes, for he was staring openmouthed at the cash in his still-quivering hands. Dr. Warthrop urged him to his feet and toward the stairs, instructing me not to forget to lock the back door and find my shoes.

    “And don’t lollygag, Will Henry. We’ve work to last us the rest of the night. Snap to!”

    Old Erasmus hesitated at the back door, a dirty paw upon my shoulder, the other clutching his tattered straw hat, his rheumy eyes straining against the fog, which had now completely engulfed his horse and cart. Its snorts and stamping against the stones were the only evidence of the beast’s existence.

    “Why are you here, boy?” he asked suddenly, giving my shoulder a hard squeeze. “This is no business for children.”

    “My parents died in a fire, sir,” I answered. “The doctor took me in.”

    “The doctor,” Erasmus echoed. “They call him that—but what exactly is he a doctor
of
?”

    The grotesque,
I might have answered.
The bizarre. The unspeakable.
Instead I gave the same answer the doctor had given me when I’d asked him not long after my arrival at the house on Harrington Lane. “Philosophy,” I said with little conviction.

    “Philosophy!” Erasmus cried softly. “Not what I would call it, that be certain!”

    He jammed the hat upon his head and plunged into the fog, shuffling forward until it engulfed him.

    A few minutes later I was descending the stairs to the basement laboratory, having thrown the bolt to the door and having found my shoes, after a moment or two of frantic searching, exactly where I had left them the night before. The doctor was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, impatiently drumming his fingers upon the rail. Apparently he did not think there was enough “snap” in my “to.” As for myself, I was not looking forward to the rest of the evening. This was not the first time someone had called at our back door in the middle of the night bearing macabre packages, though this certainly was the largest since I had come to live with the doctor.

    “Did you lock the door?” the doctor asked. I noticed again the color high in his cheeks, the slight shortness of breath, the excited quaver in his voice. I answered that I had. He nodded. “If what he says is true, Will Henry, if I have notbeen taken for a fool—which would not be the first time— then this is an extraordinary find. Come!”

    We took our positions, he by the table where lay the bundle of muddy burlap, I behind him and to his right, manning the tall rolling tray of instruments, with pencil and notebook at the ready. My hand was shaking slightly as I wrote the date across the top of the page,
April 15, 1888.

    He donned his gloves with a loud
pop!
against his wrists and stamped his boots on the cold stone floor. He pulled on his mask, leaving just