Voodoo Holmes Stories

bridge-like structure right into the swamp. It was hard to distinguish anything out there because of the fog, but there must be some kind of body of water close-by, making licking noises like waves lapping a shore. Apart from that, there was dead silence. "You don't know what this is, do you?" Baker asked.
    I looked at her. There was something about the way she looked at me that made me think that I had known her a long time ago. Maybe even that black dress which one was associating with death and mourning but which mere utensils like lipstick and a fan alone would turn into a Spanish-style romantic fantasy.
    "I am thinking", was everything I could utter. 
    "Well, you should. Or all will be lost. As you well know."
    There was drumming in my ears and no thoughts, not a scrap of an idea what this all could mean. I felt the stress of something, however. Like there being a riddle and the necessity of solving it."You are a detective, Mr. Holmes?"
    She said that stressing the 'are', the way women do when they want to shame you into action.
"Are we getting off?" I asked bluntly.
    She smiled. The answer satisfied her, apparently.
    "If you like. But how? And where?"
    "You lead."
    "Good. You're better than he was."
    "Who?"
"Mr. Baker."
    "Who threw you off the train."
    "Ejecting me was the word, I believe."
    "Right."
"Yes. Bade me to leave. And I left. Look where it got him."
    "Well, he's free, isn't he? Handed over the reins so to speak."
    "Is that what you think."
    "And merrily went his way."
    "No."
"No?"
"I would call it his delusion. I am still Baker, aren't I?"
    "So you say."
     
    We talked standing by the compartment door, me waiting for her to lead the way, and her half-turned, looking up at me. Now, she reached up, touching my neck as if to kiss me, and her face was near when she said: "When you fail and there is another time, then I will call myself Holmes.""But when you do, you would be talking to another person."
    "Right. I would be your widow."
    "An idea that popps into my head when you say that is arachnidae, Baker. Arachnide they are, I believe. Spindly female creatures from the spider family mainly known for two things: praying and devouring their sex partners."
    "A praying mantis. Wrong anology, Mr. Holmes. Try again. You haven't much time."
    "No, we the living don't, do we? Whereas you dead must be able to relax thousands of years whenever fatigue strikes you."
    "We never fatigue, Mr. Holmes. Because we never do anything. But as I was saying: You are wasting your time. What shall I do?"
    "Lead the way."
    "And?"
"And what?"
    "I don't know."
    "Well, you should. And if you don't, you should find out."
    She turned, pulled open the door to the compartment, pulled down the next window and crawled through the opening, quick-limbed. 
     
    I followed her. There was a smell outside of something bad. Weakening the forces. Rotting flesh does that to us. We ran alongside the train until the last car, reached the end of the bridge and then continued on on the dam up to a spot where trees loomed up with branches, close enough to reach, and sturdy enough to climb them. We went down into the forest and stood amongst the trees in twilight. I noticed that even though morning had been breaking a half hour ago, the light conditions had not improved since. It was dark, but bright enough to see a few yards, especially now that my eyes were adapting to it all. It was wet, very wet, and the mud sloshy where we went. I followed Baker into the depth of the forest, losing all sence of direction, giving myself up to her lead.
    We had been walking for a long while when I noticed that we weren't alone. Pale bodies, almost naked and cold, haggard faces, shadowy from whatever life-diminishing force had reduced them. Bodies like you see them when you come to a spot where a murder has taken place. It is what corpses look like, but also the people looking at them. The emotions you have when you see a corpse makes you look like one. And that was what had happened here, apparently, because the people we met in the forest were moving and even looking at us, but the overall impression was of a kind of despair, as if they had their inner organs removed, had been gutted out and remained mere shells observing our progress through the forest.
    There was no path to speak of, but still a clear and easy progress through what otherwise would have been inpassable. Baker was four or five yards ahead, and I followed her steps diligently after noticing that