The Source by Brian Lumley

In a moment of carelessness, fascinated and simply forgetting what he was dealing with here, he reached into the container and gently nudged the thing with the digit finger of his right hand. In the moment of contact he realized the folly of his action, but it was already too late.

The spheroid turned blood red in a moment – and ran up his hand under the cuff of his white laboratory smock. Agursky gave a gurgling cry, rearing up and back, away from the trolley. He could feel the spheroid wetly mobile on his forearm, moving swiftly to his upper arm, his shoulder. In a moment it was on his neck, coming out from under his collar. Dancing like a maniac, he cursed and slapped at the thing, felt it damp against his palm and for a single instant of time believed he’d crushed it. But then it was on the back of his neck.

Which was exactly where it wanted to be! The vampire egg soaked like quicksilver through Agursky’s skin and settled on his spinal column.

Incredible pain at once filled his body, his limbs, his brain. Out of sheer reaction, like a man grasping a live cable, he bounded, bounded again and again. He crashed into a wall, lurched dizzily away from it, crumpled to his knees. Somehow he forced himself upright again, waded across the room through an ocean of pain. He must do something; but this hideous . . . this unbearable . . .

Red rockets were bursting, burning in his brain. Someone – something – was dripping acid on nerve-endings which were as raw as if recently severed. Agursky screamed, and as the entire world began to turn crimson saw his only possible salvation: the black alarm button in its red-framed glass box on the wall.

Even as he passed out he summoned sufficient strength to throw a punch at the glass box . . .

6

Harry Keogh: Necroscope

Harry sat on the rim of the river and talked to his mother. He believed he was alone and unobserved, but it would make no difference anyway: no one would object to a crazy hermit sitting on a riverbank talking to himself. He suspected that a handful of locals thought of him that way, as an eccentric recluse: someone to be regarded warily, but mainly harmless. He suspected it and didn’t much care one way or the other. In their position he’d probably feel the same way about it.

Indeed he sometimes wished he was in their position: normal, common-or-garden, everyday people. Homo sapiens, with normal lives to lead. But he wasn’t in their position, he was in his, and it could hardly be described as normal. He was a Necroscope and as far as he knew he was the only Necroscope in the world. There should be at least one other like him, his son, but Harry Jnr was no longer in the world. Or if he was, Harry didn’t know where.

Harry looked down between his knees and dangling legs at his own face mirrored on the surface of the water. He watched its blank expression turn to a cynical scowl. ‘His own face’, indeed! For to complicate matters, it wasn’t his face at all! Or it was – now. But it had been the face of Alec Kyle, one-time head of British E-Branch. And yet Harry also seemed to see himself – the Harry Keogh he’d once been – superimposed over the stranger’s face, making up a composite mask which wasn’t really strange at all. Not any longer. But it had taken him eight long years to get used to it. Eight years of waking up in the mornings, of looking in the mirror and thinking: Jesus! Who’s this? Until in the end the question had been merely academic. He’d known who it was: himself, in mind if not in body.

‘Harry?’ his mother’s suddenly anxious voice broke in on his mental paradox. ‘You know you really shouldn’t worry any more about things like that. That side of your life is over, done with. You were called to do a job and you did it. You did more than any other man could possibly have done. And for all that there have been . . . well, changes, you know that you’re still you.’