Beneath the Fog of London - An Eldritch Horror Quest

22nd January 1887

Even though it was midday when you arrived at the shop, there was barely any light reaching through the thick soup hanging over the city. You could barely make out the sign of 'Castrich & Sax – Books & Antiquities' and if you hadn't known the name, you would have been hard pressed to decipher it. The inside though was inviting as always.

The large display window was filled with the yellow shin of the gas lamps, the warm glow framing some lavishly decorated books and tomes laid out on velvet cloth. Besides them stood a few canopic jars and a partially unwrapped mummified cat with a small set of surgical tools gleaming beneath. On the opposite end of the window were more recent artwork. Wood carvings from the dark continent and painted porcelain from China.

It was a nice display for the passers-by's and you certainly didn't begrudge the old Mr. Castrich his sense for business, but it always felt slightly odd to walk past such overpriced junk when entering the shop. Luckily, as the bell chimed, it was not Castrich greeting you.

"What a surprise to see you, Mr. Barnham," the younger of the two owners called from behind the counter. "What could possibly be the reason for you to visit us on this fine day?"

You walked over without bothering to remove your coat. Even the musky smell of parchment and the pleasant warmth couldn't move you to savour the moment. "Oh, I just passed by and decided to come in for a chit-chat," you joked back. "Why, is there something special about today that you are so surprised by my presence, Mr. Sax?"

"Well, I thought you would at least need till the evening to come. Good thing I did not bet on it." As he spoke, he turned away from you and took out a set of keys for the sturdy cupboard behind the counter.

"I was lucky to have nothing scheduled today, so I did not need to cancel anything."

"Not willing to wait a second longer for your price, Mr. Barnham?" He chuckled lightly as he placed the oil cloth wrapped parcel down before you. "To be honest, I am quite glad to have this out of the shop."

"Please don't tell me you have begun to believe that hokum about a curse," you cut back with an edge of annoyance while rummaging for your purse from beneath your coat.

"That Mr. Greene certainly believed in it. He sent another letter with the package. Told me to warn you once again." Mr. Sax paused, glancing down at the large, but unassuming package. "You are going to read it, right? What if that Greene fellow is on to something?"

"I believe," you replied evenly while counting out the pounds, including a generous tip. "That our friend from Boston is either in possessions of a most active imagination or a brother in spirit to Mr. Castrich. Plenty of superstitious people who would pay a premium for a cursed book that drives you mad."

"No offense, Mr. Barnham, but many would call you the strange one for wanting this book so badly. If you don't believe in curses, what is in there but the heatstroke induced hallucinations of some long dead Moor?"

"Oh, I am expecting to read about plenty of those, Mr. Sax. And yet, among the drivel, you will often find the odd bit of gold. The work of Abd-Shadar comes highly recommended in that regard by some rather accomplished naturalist across the centuries."

Gently you let your hand glide over the package, the feeling of finally grasping what you had searched so long sending a warm shiver up your spine. "Just imagine. A journey of 600 years, spanning four continents. Such a long path coming to an end on your counter. Aren't you the least bit curious to see what secrets it brought along from its travels?"

"No," came the immediate reply, followed by a small chuckle. "But I sure hope you will get your moneys worth out of it. Not that you want a refund if the book is not driving you mad as advertised."

"You will receive a most through tongue lashing if my mental faculties do not sharply decline by next week," you told him a stern tone while picking up the large codex. "Good day to you, Mr. Sax."

"And to you, Mr. Barnham."

---

The trip back home was almost unbearable and this time it was not the weathers' fault. It felt pointless to take the coach for the short distance between your home and the shop, but trudging back through the sludge seemed to take forever. You wanted nothing more than hunker down in your study, perhaps with a good cup of tea, and forget about the rest of the world for a while.

So, when you came through the front door, you did not even wait for your butler to show himself. "Andrich," you called into the entrance hall while shutting the door and shrugging off your coat in the same motion. "A pot of tea for my study, if you will. If someone inquires about me, tell them I am indisposed for the foreseeable future."

True to form, the old manservant appeared silently beside you a moment later, taking your coat and scarf. "I will tell Ms. Corpton to set up some water immediately, sir. I must inform you though that there is a guest waiting in the drawing room. Mr. Gladwell arrived a short while ago and requested an urgent meeting. Shall I tell him you are indisposed and prepare the guest room for him?"

You were already halfway to the stairs when the words registered and smothered your enthusiasm. "No," you ground out. "Prepare a room for him, but I guess this is indeed urgent if he came all the way from the mines without announcement." Reluctantly, you handed Andrich the still wrapped package. "Bring it to the study with the tea."

There were no words for your disappointment at the interruption and it was probably quite noticeable as you almost stormed over to the drawing room with hurried steps. Not that the occupant was noticing. You knew Thomas Gladwell as a neat and tidy man that took pride in his even temperament and composure. For him, that was the outward sign of a professional and capable accountant.

What you saw sitting in the plush chair of your drawing room with an untouched cup of tea before him had only a passing resemblance with the Gladwell you knew. He almost jumped from his seat when you entered and yet he barely made eye contact with you. Instead, he kept glancing at a small package that rested on the table before him as if a live cobra was just about to slither out of it.

It took him a moment to snap out of it and rise to greet you. "Mr. Barnham. Sir. Good day to you. I'm dreadfully sorry to bother you out of the blue."

"Good day to you too, Mr. Gladwell," you replied carefully before sitting down. This seemed like it would take longer than expected. "I doubt that you would have come from Sheffield without good reason. Though I am surprised you had no letter sent ahead."

"I…" He trailed off before sitting back down and staring at his tea, gulping down half the cup a moment later. "I thought a letter would not quite be able to convey the situation."

"Was there an accident?" Of course, there was. There always were accidents. It was a coal mine after all. But he wouldn't have come over a small cave-in or similar trifle.

"So to speak," he ground out before sighing and downing the rest of the cup. "It started about two months ago. The workers in shaft twelve had started complaining about seeing things. Eyes watching them from the coal seams. Movement in the shadows. That kind of thing."

"Of course," he continued. "We thought it was just some mining gas making everyone woozy. Had someone check that they weren't drinking or smoking laudanum down in the shafts when nobody was looking. But nothing. Instead, they even started saying the shaft was haunted."

You tried to keep your voice even, but you were not sure how well you succeeded. "You came here to tell me that one of the mineshafts is haunted."

"Not at all, sir! You see why I did not write this in a letter? A haunted mineshaft!" He laughed nervously and you could not tell if it was because he believed the story or because he thought you did not. "Unfortunately, sir, the workers did believe it. After a while, they said they even saw something in the coal grasping for them. One miner claimed he saw a friend of his getting dragged in."

"Sounds to me as if part of a shaft collapsed and buried someone," you pointed out. "You said it yourself. Maybe it is just gas and they see what they expect to see."

"Yes," he nodded urgently while staring forlornly at the empty tea cup. "I said the same. But the next time someone got dragged in, a boy in one of the smaller shafts, another worker got his hand and tried to drag him back out. But…"

As he spoke, he finally unwrapped the small package. In it was the severed hand of a young man, about 16 years old or so. It was still covered in coal dust, though there had been an effort to clean it up a bit, but at the wrist, it still was pitch black. And it did not seem to have been torn off as the story implied. There was a ragged edge as if the flesh had been shattered.

While Mr. Gladwell was still putting it down, his hands trembling all the way, you quickly grabbed the teaspoon from his cup. When tapping the fingers, they were soft, like flesh was supposed to be. So was the palm. Yet, when you reached the wrist, it was solid and took on an ever so slight dent.

"I swear to you, Mr. Barnham," the nervous accountant spoke while you still marvelled at what was before you. "I swear to the almighty above. The hand is flesh, but the wrist is coal. When they tried to drag him out, his skin got black as pitch and his wrist just broke. Shattered. There wasn't even a speck of blood."

"I have never seen anything like this. And nobody else has either!" His voice jumped as his explanation became frantic. "I had a physician in Sheffield look at this and he thought I was playing him for a fool. I just closed shaft twelve and came here was fast as I could."

"Please, sir," he began to almost plead with you. "You are an educated man. Please tell me there is a good explanation for this."


What do you tell him?

[] You need to investigate this yourself. Travel to your mine in Willerton, near Sheffield, and see what you can learn there.

[] Learned or not, you are just as baffled by this as Mr. Gladwell. Send him ahead to calm the workers while you try to find some books or other sources in London that might have an explanation for the hand.

[] While you have no explanation either, you have some favours you could call in from the Royal London Hospital. Maybe the surgeons can tell you more about the hand while Mr. Gladwell tries to keep order at the mine.

[] This is indeed a strange thing, but if it has been ongoing for two months, you can spare a few days to read your codex. Send Mr. Gladwell to calm the workers and keep the shaft closed until you have time for this. Maybe you will find something relevant in the old compendium.

[] There are a lot of unknown dangers in mines and you will not become hysteric over this. Send Mr. Gladwell back to Willerton and let him re-open the shaft. The miners just need to be more careful.

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AN: Being a Victorian coal baron comes with it's perks. Like a lot of money, a big house, servants and a casual disregard for the life of the poor.