The
claws that catch
New
Shadow Over Arkham?
The following manuscript was
recovered from the computer of the freelance writer Jonathan Carter.
As far as is known, this is the only piece of weird fiction he ever
wrote. Carter is survived by distant cousins, but had no other
living relatives. The Darius Jones mentioned in the manuscript, a
licensed but unemployed real estate agent, did indeed vanish under
mysterious circumstances a few days before Carter's own
disappearance. It is also true that the two men had grandfathers who
knew each other and who themselves disappeared more than a generation
ago. The coin mentioned in the manuscript has not been found. The
book of stories edited by Carter's grandfather lay on his desk, but
the last page had been torn out. None of the supernatural events
described can be verified.
My
grandmother died in the spring of my 32nd
year. Everybody said it was a blessing. These last couple of years
she had really been gone already, and I had said farewell long ago.
When I was small, I spent a lot of time with her, especially during
the summers. Her old house, with its crumbling towers and unexpected
dark spaces, might have frightened some children. The house had been
built by her great grandfather in about 1850, and I found it
glorious. I liked nothing better than exploring, and always seemed
to find something new. Tightly coiled spiral staircases, peaked
windows with worm-gnawed frames, nooks from which grotesque statues
peep, portraits of solemn folk, their faces subtly alike, all kin,
collectively made the house a collage of idiosyncratic memorabilia.
The creaks and other noises made by old wooden houses, the things
that don't quite fit, the places you can never seem to get to, or get
back to, they were like old friends to me. Grandma listened to all my
stories as if everything I told her was a revelation. How I envied
my mother, having had a mother like that! But all that was history.
Grandma had faded, leaving an automaton that bore her likeness. The
house and property had been sold to pay medical bills, and I had
finished grieving before her untenanted body died.
--
The
executor was a thin man, and very tall. Had he been of an athletic
bent he would've made a good basketball player or pole vaulter. As
it was, he reminded me of the character from "The Legend of
Sleepy Hollow" or perhaps even Lurch, from the Addams family. He
cleared his throat.
"You
realize," he said, "that your grandmother's estate was
exhausted by the cost of her care over the past few years. Nearly
all that remains is this book, which she particularly wanted you to
have." He pushed it towards me. It was a yellowed mass-market
paperback with a lurid 1970s cover painting featuring fanciful
monsters with multiple limbs. Grandma Lillian had loved classic dark
fantasy. It wasn't my thing, but it was about all I had to remember
her by, other than the thick dark eyebrows I saw in every mirror, and
an adverse reaction to milk products. I signed my name in the
appropriate places, shook hands with the executor, whose name I had
already forgotten, and excused myself.
--
"Mr.
Carter." It was the executor. I stopped on the courthouse
steps, turned, and raised my eyebrow. He was a little out of breath.
"There was also this." He held out his hand, and when I
reciprocated, dropped a coin onto my palm.
"Thank
you," I said, and turned to let the sunlight fall on it. The
coin was large and heavy; it seemed too heavy even for its size. The
blurred image in the center was a crude representation of the Hydra
or some such monster. The letters around the edge were in no script
I recognized. I picked the thing up and turned it over. The reverse
was so worn I could make nothing out. I slipped the coin into my
pocket and forgot about it.
It
was a nice day. I sat down in the park across from the courthouse to
take a look at the other part of my inheritance. It was an anthology
entitled Inhabitants
of the Abyss,
edited by J. L. Carter. The book was inscribed: "My dearest
Lillian, as you can see, the book is done. Please consider this a
proposal. Eternally your servant, Jules." Holy crap! My
grandfather had given this book to my grandmother when he proposed
marriage. I remembered the story now. How could I have forgotten?
I had heard it many times from one elderly relative or another during
my childhood, when I still had elderly relatives. Other than
Lillian. She had outlasted them all. I had never met my
grandfather. I'd been told that he ran off with one of the servants
while my grandmother was carrying my mother. At the time I had no
idea what this meant. My grandfather had published one of his own
stories in the book. It had the same title as the book itself. I
read the first sentence, and discovered that he was the protagonist
of the story. What a colossal ego the man must have had! I flipped
forward a few pages and read some more.
--
"Clever,
Carter" Jones acknowledged, "somehow you got the floor to
soften beneath me, then re-solidify when I was halfway through. How'd
you do it?" He was embedded in what should have been solid
Italian marble. A pregnant silence echoed through the museum, which
was deserted at this time of night. Yes, I had him right where I
wanted him. The problem was, I had had nothing to do with trapping
him. If we were depending on the tricks up my
sleeve, he would have gotten clean away.
"Never
mind how I did it. Now tell me where you have hidden Ruth."
Jones started violently, squirming like a man with an itch he
couldn't scratch.
"Something
bumped my leg." He twitched. "There it is again. What do
you have flying around downstairs?"
I
had no idea what he was talking about. There was nothing below him
but air. "Ruth! Where is she? And hurry. Those things bite."
Whatever he was hallucinating about. Playing along with his delusion
or tactile hallucination might make him tell me what he had done with
my fiancee.
"I
don't..." his sneer vanished and he turned pale. "Carter,
get me out of here. There's something, I don't know, flexible, like
tentacles, I don't feel suckers... Carter, they're wrapping around
me, only a, for God's sake, help me."
He
was trying to pry himself out of the floor by pulling on the marble
tiles with his fingers. Suddenly he screamed, was swiftly dragged
backward, and vanished from sight. I went over to the hole and looked
down. Below I didn't see the Hall of Mammals, which occupied this
part of the first floor. Filling the hole was a churning opacity
that somehow conveyed the impression of great depth. Things were
moving down there, things I wish I had never glimpsed. Yet I thank
all the gods there be that I did not see more clearly before the hole
closed up. I saw nothing of Jones within the hole, nor heard his
voice again, and I never have since that day.
--
Pretty
standard fare, and that is where I thought the matter would end.
Until I got an E-mail message from Darius Jones, who said he was the
grandson of the Jones character in the story.
At
first I thought it was a hoax. After all, anything else would be
some crazy coincidence. It was easier to believe that my
grandmother's executor suddenly grew a sense of humor. But eventually
Jones convinced me he was who he said he was. He lived down in
Boston, but would be in Arkham for a meeting in a few days. He
suggested we meet for coffee.
The
Starbucks in the new mall was easy to find, so that's where I
suggested we rendezvous. I brought the book with me, and, arriving
early, started one of the other stories while I waited. I was
engrossed in the "abominable" practices of the absurd Mi-Go
when I realized that someone was standing in front of me.
Darius
Jones appeared to be half Asian, was only a bit shorter than my 6
feet, and was built like a wrestler.
I
introduced myself, we shook hands, and chatted about inconsequentials
until Jones was ready to tell me why he had contacted me.
"The
thing is, Carter," Jones said, setting down his latte so he
could gesture for emphasis, "our grandfathers did
meet at the Museum of Antiquities here in Arkham. My grandfather was
never seen after that night. Your grandfather failed to provide an
adequate explanation, though he was not charged. He disappeared
without a trace a year and a half later. Ah. I can see you didn't
know that. He must've written that story after my grandfather
disappeared."
I
took a sip of coffee to give myself time to formulate my response.
"I'm
sorry about what happened to your grandfather. It is very distressing
to not know. Believe me, I understand that. I hope that my
grandfather wasn't responsible. But I didn't know any of this,
except that my grandfather disappeared." I didn't tell him
about the family story of infidelity. "I do have a question. Who
was Ruth?"
Jones
shook his head. "Obviously the story isn't literal truth.
However, I've been thinking about these things for a long time."
Jones seemed reluctant to go on. "You may think me credulous,
but the disappearances of our grandfathers could have something to do
with the coin." I must have made some reaction, because he went
on. "Have you seen it? Do you know its history?" With
some reluctance, for I did not want to even appear to give credence
to any supernatural explanation of events, I took it out of my pocket
and set it on the table between us.
"Never
heard of it or saw it until the day my grandmother's estate was
settled."
Jones
reached for it, then drew his hand back.
"It
won't bite," I said, "I've handled it myself."
He
picked it up and looked at both sides, then set it back down. "You
don't know about this artifact, apparently, but I do," he said.
"It's not really a coin, it's a magical focus. It was made to
store energy of a kind, energy that is used in performing magical
operations."
"You
mean like summoning demons?" I joked.
"And
other things," he said, without cracking a smile. "Now you
see why I didn't want to bring this up," he said. "You
think I'm crazy."
I
was trying to keep an open mind.
"I'm
trying to keep an open mind," I said. "But it sounds like
you really believe this stuff. Do you have evidence for any of this?
I need more than just faith, if I'm going to provisionally accept the
possibility of black magic, alien gods, magic coins, and so on."
"All
I have is what your grandfather found before my grandfather
disappeared. The legend says that the coin is a link to another
world. One that is not habitable by humans. Or rather, the
inhabitants are inimical to our kind of life. Human blood opens the
portal." He stopped to take a drink.
"Easy
to test, then," I said. I took out my pocket knife, pricked my
finger, and smeared the resultant drop of blood on the coin. Jones
hastily set his cup down and snatched the coin from me, but I had
already rubbed my blood onto it. He tossed the coin back on the table
and sighed.
.
"You
didn't read the whole story, did you?"
"Only
the end."
"In
the story my grandfather did exactly what you have just done. A few
days later he was sucked through the hole in the museum floor."
"I'll
just have to stay away from the Museum then, won't I," I said.
He handed me his card.
"If
you are still alive in a week, give me a call." He stood up,
dropped a dollar on the table, and left.
--
That
was a Saturday. The following Saturday I was standing at my front
window, staring at the Victorians across the street, phone to my ear,
listening to it ring and ring, but Jones never answered. The call
went to voicemail; I didn't leave a message. I called a friend in
Boston. Jim was persuaded to check on Darius Jones, but he called me
back in a few hours. Jones had not shown up for work or been seen by
his neighbors in three days. His car was parked and no one answered
the door of his apartment. A dead-end of sorts.
Filled
with an excess of nervous energy, I pulled out my grandfather's book
and riffled the pages. I was not really in the mood to read another
fantasy story. I riffled the pages again, and as I did so I noticed
that the last page had some writing on it. I opened the book. The
last sheet of paper, which had originally been blank, bore a note,
written in what appeared to be my grandfather's hand. It read
thusly.
Long time have I held the coin,
but lacked the means to use it safely. After the disastrous events
in the museum I determined to never employ it again. However, I have
discovered through blind luck an incantation that permits control of
the polycephalic creatures called by the coin. Because there is some
slight possibility that Jones remains alive, I plan to use the coin
again in an attempt to free him, or put him out of his misery, if
that be the better course. Here is the incantation, which I copied
from the queer leather scroll I lately received from Tibet. If I am
destroyed tonight then know that the incantation is flawed, and that
it must not be used. Still, I cannot bring myself to let it perish,
and the scroll is in a state of virtual disintegration.
There
followed what appeared to be a phonetic transcription, but I will not
duplicate it here. If my attempt is unsuccessful, I do not want to
leave the instrument of my destruction where it can harm anyone else.
I don't know what happened to my grandfather. Maybe after all these
years I can find out. And what of Jones? Perhaps it is not too late
for him. You may say that only a fool would try this, under the
circumstances. Well, then I am a fool.
--
If
there are typos here, forgive me, for my hand is trembling. At
midnight I cut my hand, dripped my blood onto the coin, and recited
the incantation. Nothing happened, and I began to believe that the
transcription was not phonetic. For some reason I had become
convinced that all of the supernatural... stuff... was real. It was
a letdown to learn otherwise.
After
a time I came to my senses and was just beginning to relax when, I
can only describe this as a tear in space, opened in front of me. In
the irregular lensoid gap thus formed I saw darkness. The darkness
seemed at once impenetrable and vast. Things moved within it. They
seemed monstrously large and almost inconceivably remote. I could
not describe them, but I was somehow reminded of a spider, its body
still, except for its constantly moving jaws, waiting for its prey.
Then, I felt them become aware of me, felt their regard focus on me.
The resultant mental pressure was intolerable. I must have screamed.
I threw the coin into the gap, reeled back against the wall, and
collapsed on the floor with my eyes shut tightly. After some time I
forced myself to look. The gap was gone, the coin was gone, the
paper I had torn from the book was crumpled in my hand. I struggled
to my feet, shoved the paper into my pocket, and staggered to the
kitchen. If I had ever needed a drink, this was the time. All I had
was a Tecate left over from a Mexican dinner I'd made a few days
before. I opened the beer, took a long pull, and felt the hairs rise
up on the back of my neck. I had always thought this phrase to be
hyperbole, but I could feel my follicles quivering in terror.
Slowly, I put the bottle on the counter. Slowly, I turned around.
The gap had reopened. A creature loomed on the other side. It was
close, so terribly close. A sack-like body was ringed with arms,
each of which terminated with an impossibly wide mouth full of long
straight teeth. I ran in here with the idea of documenting my
--
Here ends the document,
autosaved by the wordprocessing program at 12:23 a.m. last Saturday.
My informant in the police
department added only that no trace of any dimensional rift was
found, and there was no evidence of any multiheaded monster, with the
possible exception of several deep parallel grooves freshly gouged in
the hardwood floor.
I continue to monitor
unexplained disappearances and other inexplicable phenomena around
the city, but so far, all is quiet.
The
end
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