IN THE BLEAK MID-WINTER by Kaspar Hauser 
Published in Double Danger Tales #49 

The Freedom Alliance dissolved in 1951. But one member still had a mission to perform. . . 
Dr. Bartholomew Clymer looked up in some irritation when he heard the knock at the office door. 
“Yes?” he snapped. 
His receptionist, Miss Hollings, pushed the door open tentatively. 
“I’m very sorry, Doctor. But there’s—there’s someone to see you—” 
“Miss Holllings, I told you that I was not to be disturbed.” 
“I know, sir, but—but I really think you need to speak with this—this gentleman.” 
“Does he have an appointment?” 
The question was rhetorical. Clymer knew his own schedule. He had set aside this evening specifically to work on his latest article for the New England Journal of Forensic Medicine. 
“No—n, sir. He doesn’t.” 
“Well, take his name, and I will try to call him back later, whoever he is.” 
Miss Hollings started to turn—and then shrank back as a remarkable figure stepped forward to stand at the threshold of the doctor’s office. 
The stranger was a tall, strongly built man, with jet-black hair and cold grey eyes. He was clad in ordinary civilian attire—a business suit, trench-coat, and hat. 
But the man’s appearance was anything but ordinary. 
Across his face, around his neck, over his hands, were inscribed hundreds of small purple marks—a seemingly endless repetition of the ancient rune known to the Teutonic and Norse and Anglo-Saxon peoples as Thurs, Thurisaz—and Thorn. The man held a blackthorn staff in his left hand, and a long dagger hung from a sheath at his belt. 
“I am Thorn,” he announced, his voice grave. 
For a moment, Dr. Clymer was unable to speak. 
He had recognized his visitor the moment he saw the man.. 
Thorn was something of a legend in New England. Operating from a base in Beacon City, Thorn investigated—and when necessary, combated—unusual threats to the peace and safety of the region. At times, he also served with the formidable organization known as the Freedom Alliance. 
Dr. Clymer had never met Thorn before. He had no slightest idea why the rune-marked figure had come to Westland Hospital. 
Dr. Clymer glanced at his receptionist. “Ah—that will be all, Miss Hollings.” 
The young woman returned to her station in the outer lobby. Thorn shut the door behind her. 
“Mr., ah, Thorn,” spoke Dr. Clymer. “What—what can I do for you?” 
“I wish to speak with you, Doctor.” 
“Well. Please, sit down.” 

Thorn took a chair across the desk from Dr. Clymer. 
“I wish to speak with you about one of your patients, Doctor,” elaborated Thorn. 
Dr. Clymer stiffened. “Mr. Thorn—as you may know, this is a private hospital. I am obliged to respect the confidentiality of my patients. Unless you have come with some legal authority—” 
The hospital administrator was aware that the Freedom Alliance had a close working relationship with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, although recent news reports suggested that the Freedom Alliance had disbanded. 
But Thorn shook his head. “I am here on a personal matter, Doctor Clymer. Still—I feel certain you will agree to speak with me.” 
“And why is that?” the physician countered. 
Casually, the man called Thorn drew the long-bladed dagger from its sheath. He smiled slightly. 
“Because the alternative is unthinkable—for you, Doctor.” 
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Thorn?” Clymer bristled. 
For answer, Clymer’s visitor drew back his right arm—and then hurled the dagger! The blade spun, end over end, passing the doctor’s left ear by a matter of inches. The hilt struck the wall behind Clymer’s desk, and the knife rebounded, arcing high into the air—and then fell, hilt-foremost, into Thorn’s waiting hand. 
Dr. Clymer was too shocked to speak. 
“Consider yourself fortunate, Dr. Clymer,” Thorn said quietly, as he returned his weapon to its sheath, “that some of my colleagues—Archon or the Doll-Maker, for example—did not come here in my stead. They are far less forgiving of—intransigence.” 
Thorn waited for Dr. Clymer to find his voice again. 
“Well, what—what do you want?” the medical man asked finally. 
“I told you already,” Thorn stated. “I wish to speak with you about one of your patients.” 
Which patient?” 
“A woman called Louise Banner.” 
“Oh.” 
“I see you are familiar with the name, Dr. Clymer.” 
“Yes, of course. A peculiar case, to be sure, but I don’t see—” 
Thorn laughed harshly. “Exactly, Dr. Clymer. You do not see. Fortunately—others do. Now, tell me about Miss Banner.” 
For a moment, it appeared that Dr. Clymer was going to raise another objection—and then Thorn’s hand dropped to the hilt of his knife once more. 
“Don’t,” the psychiatrist implored. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.” 
Thorn nodded. “I expected no less.” 
“In 1943, a young woman named Louise Banner disappeared from her home in the Beacon City area. Mrs. Banner had no children—her husband, Norman Banner, was serving with the Army in North Africa. No one else lived at the house with her. When her sister discovered that Mrs. Banner was missing, the police were alerted, but Louise Banner was never found. 
“Then—early last month, Louise Banner suddenly returned to her husband. He was still living in the same house. She appeared at the door one night, seemingly exhausted from some profound ordeal, delirious, nearly incoherent. Mr. Banner placed her under medical care—and, eventually, he had to bring her here for treatment.” 
“And what is the nature of her—disorder?” Thorn wanted to know. 
“She suffers from hallucinations—paranoid fantasies—self-destructive tendencies. She has to be watched constantly, to keep her from injuring herself, or the other patients.” 
“Can she be cured?” 
“It is too early to tell,” the doctor admitted. “I am still attempting to determine if her derangement derives from physiological causes, or is the result of psychological imbalances.” 
“And have you been able to determine where she was—what she was doing—during all the years she was missing?” 
“No.” 
Thorn stood. “Take me to Mrs. Banner, Dr. Clymer.” 
Reluctantly, the hospital chief rose. He led Thorn through the building, to a special wing on the upper floor. 
A husky orderly stood at attention in front of a heavy door. 
“We’re going in, Robert,” spoke Dr. Clymer. 
Robert looked at Thorn in some apprehension. “Do you—do you want me to come with you, Dr. Clymer?” 
“No, Robert. Pleae remain here.” 
Clymer inserted a key into the lock. “We keep our most dangerous cases here,” he commented to Thorn. 
They passed down the hallway on the far side, till they came to the last room on the left. 
A small panel of glass in the door permitted observation of the patient within. 
Thorn leaned forward. 
A woman of striking appearance lay sprawled upon the bed inside the room. Despite her prone position, Thorn knew that she was tall, six feet in height, with a provocative figure. Her long, tangled hair was jet black. 
And her eyes, which turned toward the door even as he regarded her, were a glittering green. 
“Open,” Thorn commanded. 
Dr. Clymer appeared to hesitate—and then quailed beneath the severity of Thorn’s gaze. 
The doctor inserted another key, pushed the door open. 
“Wait here,” instructed Thorn. 
The rune-lord stepped across the threshold, and closed the door behind him. 
The tall, green-eyed woman rose from her bed. 
“You can dispense with the charade of madness,” said Thorn. “I know who you are.” 
“Of course,” she agreed. “But I did not think you would find me—so readily.” 
In actuality, it had been nearly two months since Thorn’s last encounter with the woman, on the ill-reputed Hill of Cairns in New Hampshire. 
“The Freedom Alliance was obliged to complete new arrangements for Bloodmask first,” he stated. “Then the Scarlet Sigil and I pooled our powers. It was difficult at first—difficult, but ultimately, not impossible—to follow your psychic imprint.” 
“And now?” she asked. 
“You already know the answer,” he told her, as he drew the dagger from its sheath once more. 
Long eons before, the blade had been bathed in the venom of Midgardsormr, the ancient serpent of destruction. Even gods could suffer at its touch. And the tall, green-eyed woman was no god, although she represented a force that was far more than human. 
“You cannot destroy me,” she declared calmly, as Thorn drew back his hand. 
“No. But at the very least—I can inconvenience you for a time.” 
“Ten years—twenty years—even thirty years—what are these to me?” she asked him. “I will return.” 
“And when you do, I will find you once more,” Thorn promised grimly. 
He took another step forward— 
And she sprang at him with sudden fury, her hands extended to rake at his face. But he side-stepped her attack with deceptive ease, and then struck her a blow to the head with his staff that threw her back against the wall. 
“Have you forgotten what day this is?” Thorn taunted her, as she wiped blood from her mouth. The winter solstice—the supreme hour of darkness and cold, when my power is greatest!” 
She sought to speak then, in a language that was old before the Earth was formed, but before she could complete two words, Thorn leapt forward, and he plunged his occult weapon deep beneath her breasts, wrenching it violently. 
The woman gasped once, then slowly collapsed to the floor. 
Thorn pulled the dagger free, wiped it clean on the dead woman’s hospital gown. 
He turned to stare at the door. He could see Dr. Clymer’s horrified countenance at the small window. 
Thorn walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the corridor. 
Clymer backed away from him. 
“One of your staff members was inexpressibly careless,” Thorn stated. “Mrs. Banner gained access to a sharp object and committed suicide. Your report will reflect these facts.” 
Clymer was unable to speak. 
“Do you understand?” Thorn persisted. “Mrs. Banner committed suicide. You will certify the finding yourself.” 
“But—you murdered her!” Clymer finally managed to gasp out. 
“No. Mrs. Banner died eight years ago, when her body was possessed by a spirit-being called Uthva. Mrs. Banner’s soul was expelled from her body—and Uthva has impersonated her since then. She abandoned her nominal husband to pursue her own—goals. 
“Last October, Uthva came into conflict with the members of the Freedom Alliance. In the aftermath of her failure, she returned to Norman Banner, and allowed herself to be placed under psychiatric care. Thus she hoped to hide from us. 
“In time, when she was certain we could not find her, she would have escaped from Westland Hospital. But she underestimated our abilities.” 
Thorn strode past the physician, then paused and turned his head. 
“Remember, Dr. Clymer—Louise Banner committed suicide. If your report makes any assertion to the contrary—I will return, and deal with you as I did with her.” 
Thorn reached the end of the corridor. He gestured with his staff, and the heavy door opened before him. He passed by the astonished attendant, and departed from the building. 
Outside, a colorfully garbed figure swept down from the sky. The Scarlet Sigil, a tall, spare man clad in a black tunic and leggings, with a red cape and hood, had stationed himself outside the hospital, to intercept Uthva if she managed to elude or overcome Thorn. 
“Well?” the Scarlet Sigil asked. 
Thorn’s hand drifted to the handle of his dagger. 
“Uthva will not trouble us again for some time,” he said. 
“You are certain?” 
“As certain as one can be, Spencer, when dealing with such arcane matters. Still, I think Uthva will have to spend many years of our time in the outer spheres before she can return to the Earth-plane and attempt another possession.” 
“And then she will try to liberate Bloodmask once more,” suggested the magus. 
Involuntarily, his eyes turned toward the eastern horizon, where the moon had begun to rise. 
“Perhaps. But that is a problem for another day.” 
“It’s cold,” Spencer Adams remarked, with seeming inconsequence. But he was accustomed to the near-tropical weather of Palmetto City, not the rigors of a New England winter. 
The man called Thorn smiled. “Then let us return to my house in Beacon City, Spencer. You can warm yourself beside the fire. And I would like to show you something I discovered recently in the Necropolitan Scrolls. . . .” 
THE END 
Copyright 2001 by Kaspar Hauser