Necroscope: The Mobius Murders

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Authors: Brian Lumley
Tags: Horror, Lovecraft, dark fiction, Brian Lumley, Necroscope
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the shelter.
    The man seated on the bench, where he was eating a sandwich and feeding his dog with dry crusts and scraps from a paper bag on his knees, was exactly the sort of fellow Hemmings had hoped to find: a knight of the road. Short and heavy-set, bearded and weathered to a light mahogany, he was dressed in ancient, badly patched jeans and what looked like a homemade hessian jacket or shirt under an open plastic raincoat. Even more appropriate, he appeared ruddy with health and just the opposite of yesterday’s victim.
    Looking up as something of the great leech’s shadow fell on him, the tramp seemed momentarily surprised—not everyone felt inclined to approach him this closely. And: “A very good day to you, sir!” he said in a guttural yet oddly cultured voice as he brushed crumbs from his knees, crumpled the paper bag and stuffed it into a pocket.
    “Indeed it is,” Hemmings replied. “But the nights will soon be drawing in. Still, I can see that you’re a man of all weathers.”
    The other nodded. “I am, though some weathers are less kind than others. But the dog will keep me warm, as I shall keep him warm, though soon I’ll have to do something about his small inhabitants.”
    “Ah!” said Hemmings, reaching in his pocket. “Would a pound buy you some of the required pills or powders, perhaps?”
    “Oh, indeed!” The tramp quickly, eagerly stood up.
    “In which case a fiver would probably feed you for a day or two, as well?” And Hemmings proffered a five-pound note.
    “Why, bless you!” The other’s hand started to tremble where it reached for the money. “You are my benefactor, sir!”
    No , thought Hemmings, but you will certainly be mine!
    Before the tramp’s shaky hand could take hold of the note, Hemmings said, “Ah!”—and as if by accident let it slip from his fingers. The other at once stooped to recover it.
    Instantly the ex-Professor pictured an explosion of hugely intricate symbols—numbers, equations, and cabbalistic calculi—letting this seeming chaos warp momentarily on the screen of his mind, then freezing it at the required evolution: the junction between physical and metaphysical universes. And behind the stooping tramp the air rippled where a door formed in otherwise empty space.
    Except for a faint shimmer the door was invisible, yet the mutant Hemmings sensed it there and leaned his bulk forward until his fat hands could grip the bowed man’s shoulders and hold him down; and as the other shrank down more yet under the great leech’s weight and magnetic influence, so the transfer ran its course.
    The tramp cried out; he grew suddenly weak and flailed useless arms; his dog yelped and, perhaps sensing the unknown with its animal instinct, sat back on its haunches and hauled on the leash that was wrapped about its master’s right hand and wrist. Which was when the murderer pushed with all his and the other’s stolen strength, causing the tramp to topple over backwards and disappear through the door. The Alsatian yelped again, skidding on a leash as taut as a bowstring; until Hemmings put a foot on its backside, cursing as he gave it a vicious shove. And as the frantic animal jerked forward and passed only halfway from view…then the monster collapsed his door!
    Slopping blood and guts from a middle sliced through as if by the keenest guillotine blade, the rear half of the dog fell over on its side, kicking its hind legs spastically just twice. Its escaping fluids slimed the concrete paved floor in an uneven, darkly expanding circle; which caused ex-Professor Hemmings to step lively to avoid fouling his shoes.
    And without further pause, his hideous hunger satisfied, it was time he was on his way to the railway station; and glancing up and down the esplanade and beach as he went, reassuring himself that his actions and even his presence had gone unobserved the great leech set off back the way he had come.
    Pleased with the way things had gone, he knew that his fat

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