LITMIR.BIZ

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his torch beam.

      A grotesque, corpse-like face grinned back at him!

      It was almost as though the torchlight had struck a mirror, reflecting back his own hideous, made-up image. However this was a wall painting, daubed onto the coarse brick in garish reds and yellows. The painting was both surreal and unnerving and was clearly the product of an insane mind. The mouth hung wide and stretched; the eyes huge and staring. And as the group moved in they saw that there were many such murals—some mere caricature-like sketches others full-blown works of devilish artistry. All depicted that grinning, triumphant, ugly visage. No matter which stretch of wall one looked at there was a face, the eyes glaring out with a malevolent intensity. Within the confines of the room it gave the viewer the impression that they were caged; and that it was they who were the subject of diabolical scrutiny.

      Thankfully, at least as far as Richardson was concerned, the room was empty. There was no vagrant lying huddled in newspapers and with a bottle of cheap rotgut close at hand. Such an encounter could have proven awkward and extremely embarrassing. Tourists eager to learn of the city’s dangerous and squalid past were seldom as keen to confront these elements of its squalid present.

      “Good God!” exclaimed Lester. “Those faces! I take it that’s Butterworth?”

      “None other. Hence ‘The Laughing Ghoul.’ It was in this room that he was said to have practised his unholy ceremonies. One rumour has it that it was within this very room that he summoned forth the Devil and that it was this experience which drove him completely insane, making him paint all of these warped self-portraits. Another rumour says that when he called forth Satan, the Devil forced him into painting one face for each person he had murdered. Ah, but I notice your confusion—Butterworth only killed three times, you say. Alas no, you see when the police conducted a search of the house they discovered more bodies—or rather parts thereof. Where? I hear you ask.” Richardson pointed the torch beam to the floor. “Why under the very floorboards upon which you now stand. Over twenty-five individuals, or so it is claimed, lay underneath.” He grinned upon noticing the shock and revulsion that flickered over some of the other’s faces. In a perverse way he loved this little revelation. It never ceased to get a reaction.

      Some looked down as though half-expecting putrefying, clawed hands to burst through the floor or to see withered, rotten faces gazing up through gaps in the boards.

      “You’re kidding, right?” asked Lester, his arm around his wife’s shoulder, providing comfort for it was clear that she was feeling uneasy.

      Richardson shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It was here, in this diabolical shrine that many unspeakable atrocities were carried out. It is now well-accepted that Butterworth was a leading Satanist and I’m sure he was not working alone. A cabal of devil-worshippers operated from this house, preying on the poor and the vulnerable, obtaining many of their recruits and their sacrificial victims from the surrounding slums and the Undercity, where we shall be going next. There used to be—” he was interrupted by the unsavoury sound of the American woman vomiting.

      “Are you okay, honey? I think it’s time we got out and got some fresh air,” said Lester.

      “I agree.” With hasty strides, Richardson led them back along the corridor, down the stairs and outside. Here they all gathered, the two women looking pale and sickly in the poor light, their respective spouses trying to comfort them.

      “Hey, Mister tour leader.”

      Richardson turned to face one of the young men, an acne-faced youth in his late teens. “Yes?”

      “Well I’ve just noticed that the old geezer, you know, the guy with the glasses…well, he’s missing.”

      * * * *

      A quarter of an hour later, after having re-entered Charles Butterworth’s house and conducted a thorough search within, Richardson found himself perplexed and at a loss for answers regarding the man’s disappearance. The appropriate thing to do was to call the tour off and inform the police but when he had raised that as a course of action, both Americans and Stanley’s wife had volubly stated that they wanted it to continue; a decision given some strength when one of the young men revealed that he had overheard the old man mentioning that he had seen enough. It could be, therefore, that he had just decided to make off without announcing his intent, in which case, assuming that he could find his way back in the dark safely there was no cause for alarm. Such things had happened on the other tours—indeed, now he came to think about it, it was rare that he finished a tour with the same number he had started out with.

      “Well, are we going to see this Undercity or whatever it’s called?” ventured Lester. “Or are we going to get a full refund?”

      “Yes, I, or rather we, came along specifically to see the Undercity, didn’t we Stanley?” Stanley’s wife pulled her expensive coat tight over her pendulous bulk. “We’ve heard it’s a must see. A once in a lifetime experience.”

      Richardson was still mentally debating what he should do. It went without saying that the Undercity was the highlight of the tour and it would reflect badly on him if he were to cancel things now. He reached a decision, hoping that he was right about the old man having just opted to abandon the tour and make his own way back. “Very well,” he said. “On with the tour. We shall leave the maleficent Charles Butterworth behind and set out for the Undercity—a vast, sprawling underground labyrinth of tunnels and vaults wherein whole generations lived and died.” He felt somewhat better now that he had reached a firm decision, assured that he had at least gone back into the house, where the old man had last been seen, in an attempt to locate him. Case and cane in one hand, torch in the other, he marched off, confident in the knowledge that the others would follow.

      They soon entered a further maze of narrow, deserted streets. The age-old houses crammed in around them oppressively and with each step that horrendous stench grew.

      “In times past, this part of the Old City was often referred to as the ‘Necropolis,’ which if we have any Classical scholars amongst us will know means ‘city of the dead.’ Although this area was never used as an actual burial site, at least not to my knowledge, there’s little doubt that hundreds, maybe thousands, died in these dismal hovels. Many perished due to malnutrition and disease. Others fell victim to the likes of Butterworth and his cronies. There were also many fires in this area, although none as severe as the blaze of 1826 when almost a third of the Old City was affected. Many of the buildings we can see around us bear traces of that terrible conflagration. However, it was in the Undercity itself where one of the most calamitous fires erupted, killing scores of unfortunates. It must’ve been a truly terrifying experience; trapped underground, the flames and the smoke, the screams as entire families were burnt to death, unable to escape.”

      Far away could be heard the faint sound of a police car siren—an incongruous sound considering their surroundings and a small, yet welcome reminder that they hadn’t completely stepped outside the modern world. It was difficult to perceive the fact that they were in a city within a city; a frightening, ghastly enclave that lurked within the boundaries of an otherwise relatively sane conurbation filled with schools, hospitals and libraries.

      Down a twisting street Richardson led them. On their right loomed a wall some thirty feet in height, its surface cracked and covered in obscene scrawls of graffiti suggesting that local street gangs had at one time frequented this area. Amidst the doodles and the gibberish, one slogan proclaimed ‘Charles Butterworth will rise again!’; the message painted onto the wall in thick, red, sloppy brushstrokes.

      “There are a few entrances to the Undercity,” announced Richardson, opening his case and removing his set of keys. It was only now that the others realised that there was a cunningly concealed door in front of him. “With several more being found each year. Most are but tunnels, little more than sewer entrances. This one, however, was perhaps the most commonly used by those who either chose or were forced to dwell therein.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

      The stench that assaulted their nostrils was foul; an age-old smell mixed with the hint of sewage, as though a long-closed manhole lid had just been raised. Beyond the door

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