Nightside 10 - The Good the Bad and the Uncanny

Walker and me, and swept us away.

TEN
    And He Took Him Up to a High Place
    When I could see again, I could see everything, laid out before me like a corrupt banquet.
    The whole of the Nightside lay sprawled out below me, its fierce lights blazing against the dark. But this was no vision born of my Sight, no mental soaring in search of answers. This was real; this was here and now. I was standing on top of a mountain, looking down on my world, a cold wind hitting me hard. I knew where I was immediately; I’d been here before. I was on top of Griffin Hill, or at least, what was left of the top of Griffin Hill.
    Once upon a time, and not so very long ago at that, this whole mountain and everything on it had been owned by one man: Jeremiah Griffin. He owned a lot of the Nightside, too, and far too many of the people who lived there. Back then, Griffin Hall had stood at the very top of Griffin Hill, a huge and magnificent mansion, home to the immortal Griffin family. But everything that man had he owed to a deal he made long ago with the Ancient Enemy; and I was there when the Devil rose up out of Hell to claim the Griffin’s soul, and his family, and even his magnificent mansion. The Devil dragged them all down to Hell, and now nothing was left at the top of Griffin Hill but a great hole in the ground, a huge pit full of darkness, falling away further than the human eye could follow.
    I turned my back on the Nightside view and stared thoughtfully down into the pit. The cold wind blew handfuls of dust into my face, from the narrow circle of dead earth that surrounded the huge crater. Nothing else remained. It seemed to me that the whole place was spiritually cold, as though the very essence of life itself had been taken away, torn away, leaving nothing behind.
    The pit itself seemed as though it might fall away forever, nothing but darkness all the way down. Light from the full Moon directly overhead bathed the top of Griffin Hill in a stark blue-white light, but it only penetrated a few feet into the pit, as though the moonlight itself was repulsed by what it found there. The pit’s ragged edge and interior were scorched and blackened, as though exposed to incredible, impossible heat. Someone wanted everyone to remember exactly what had happened to the Griffin.
    I shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the cold wind.
    I looked away, and there was Walker, maintaining a polite distance, smiling easily. The gusting wind barely touched him at all, and I knew that although what was left of Griffin Hill was creeping me out big-time, none of it bothered him in the least. He’d seen far worse in his time, and right now he only had eyes for me. His chosen son, his successor.
    So I deliberately looked away, staring down the long slopes of Griffin Hill, where once a huge and magnificent garden had sprawled, full of amazing and incredible plants and blossoms and trees, some so rare they were the last of their kind, others brought in specially from other worlds and dimensions. The flowers had sung and the bushes walked, and the trees swayed even when no wind blew.
    Now ... it was a dark and corrupt place, touched and changed by the awful thing that had happened so close to it. Tall, distorted growths lashed at the air with curling branches, while things like bunches of twigs lurched up and down narrow trails. There were blossoms the size of houses, thick and pulpy, their diseased colours fluorescent in the night. Great slow waves moved through long green seas, as underneath the surface hidden species went to war. It wasn’t a garden any more.
    “It’s a jungle,” said Walker, following my thoughts. “No-one dares go in any more. The Authorities are talking about sending in armoured squads with flame-throwers, and burning it all down. Before something comes crawling down the mountain ... I’ve always had a fondness for the scorched-earth policy. A shame, though, I suppose ... There are species in there unknown to history or botanical gardens. The Collector would have loved them.”
    “Mark,” I said. “His name was Mark.”
    “Oh no,” said Walker. “He hadn’t been Mark for a long time. Have you been up here since ... ?”
    “No,” I said. “When a case is over, it’s over. I’ve never felt the need to revisit old battle-fields. Besides, I’ve heard stories of strange manifestations. Visions stark and frightful enough to scare off even the Nightside tourists. They might come here to indulge in a little hell,