Catacombs of Terror! by Stanley Donwood

predate the Circus by centuries.
Centuries
. Possibly thousands of years. It was natural, deliberate, to build the temple here. Like your—er—contact, we haven’t been able to find out much about the KHS dig there. But it’s my guess that They’re linking up lost parts of the subterranean system. Finding older, forgotten parts, and linking them. From what Barry has been able to find out from Karen, They’re very close to completing the work.”
    I went over and picked up the bottle. I poured myself another, and took both the glass and the bottle back to my chair. I lit another cigarette, unsurprisingly.
    “Mmm. How about that, then. Just how about that. This is about as weird as it gets, right? Anyway, I hope it doesn’t get any weirder. Tunnels. I’d laugh in your face if I hadn’t seen them—or sensed them—myself. Let’s say I accept what you’re telling me. Okay. Two things. What’s the score with Barry and Karen? And I asked you before, who are KHS?”
    “Could I have a glass of that whiskey?”
    “Sure.” I poured.
    “Karen Eliot is, as I said, one of Them. Barry didn’t know this when he married her. He soon found out. Karen used him to, er, to supply sperm. Into specimen jars that were refrigerated and used, somehow, by Them. That is what Barry was for. That’s what he had to do. In exchange, his property development firm became spectacularly powerful. He gained contacts, influential friends. He gained power. For a long time he was quite happy about the arrangement. But as he grew closer to Them, and was drawn into their circle of influence—well, then he began to feel scared. And he began to sense that he was witnessing the build-up—the rapid build-up—to something terrible. That was when he contacted me. My own studies include this, well, this sort of thing . . . he came across a paper of mine and thought that I might be able to help him find out what was going on and—if necessary—to stop it. Or try to.”
    “Sperm? For fuck’s sake. This is ludicrous. And KHS? What’s your explanation for them?”
    “Kelley Historical Services is one of the organisations AFFA use to get things done in an apparently legitimate manner. KHS are named after Edward Kelley, who was alive in the sixteenth century. He was a medium. He could see, or at least talk to, spirits. Or angels. Whatever you like to call them. I would say that now the consensus is that they were—are—demons. He came here with his master, John Dee, Doctor John Dee. They travelled in great secrecy. There are virtually no records of their ever having visited, but it’s more or less down to that pair that we are now facing the problems we are. They discovered, or were led by these demons to some alchemical materials that the prior of the Abbey had carefully hidden during the Dissolution of the Monasteries. These were very, very powerful materials. Very dangerous materials. I mean, a modern equivalent would be the
precisely labelled ingredients for a biological weapon
. That’s how dangerous. And we think that these same materials are being used now. Today. By AFFA.”
    “Fucking hell. Okay. Right, I got to thinking that ScryTech were effectively the same outfit as KHS and, from what you say—Them. Would I have been right? Or would I have been right?”
    Stonehenge nodded.
    “Yes. John Dee referred to Kelley as his
scryer
. Therefore
ScryTech
. Kelley communicated with the spirits—he ‘read’ or ‘scried’ a crystal. It was an eye between the worlds. I assume that AFFA find this sort of obscure wordplay amusing.”
    “Amusing? My fucking sides are splitting.”
    I walked over to the window and looked out at the rain. I had a hopeless sort of feeling about this. It seemed ludicrous. Ridiculous. Hilarious. Stuff like that. Amusing? Oh, for sure. I reached inside my pocket and got my wrap of cocaine. I racked up a line and dealt with it quickly and efficiently. Stonehenge watched me, his eyebrows maybe raised a little. Well, I