That Ain't Right: Historical Accounts of the Miskatonic Valley (Mad Scientist Journal Presents Book 1)

by Emily C. Skaftun

  Working my last shred of optimism, we crossed into an intersection somewhere near what I guessed to be the south side of town and I pulled Nelly to a stop. Down a side street, little more than an alley, I saw a light brighter than any I'd seen since the sun set, beckoning me like a siren does a hapless sailor. I rejoiced for a moment--a glimmer of life, at last!--but paused in consideration. I didn't know this part of town--up to that point, our wanderings in Arkham had been just that and more or less random as I searched the place--and had no idea what to expect. A church, welcoming all and sundry on a dreary night? A den of thieves, waiting in the darkness to cut throats and purses? With the choices limited to investigating, and perhaps finding a spot in which to dry my sodden bones and shelter Nelly, or continuing to wander the rain-drenched night, I did the obvious and climbed off the wagon, unhitched Nelly--for the "street" was far too narrow to continue on otherwise--and headed through the too-close confines leading towards the light.

  We emerged into a wider avenue and saw the light was coming from an old colonial house--run-down but still solid-looking--with a wide set of double doors, raised a few steps above the cobbled street, and hung with a pair of large, brightly burning lanterns. A sign, painted in script far too ornate for its purpose, read "Arkham Men's Hostel." I couldn't believe my luck! This place was buried in a section of the city I'd never visited and didn't know existed, and yet every turn we'd made through those darkened streets had somehow lead us exactly there.

  We approached quickly--I, for my part, feeling better than I had since we entered town--but halfway to the beckoning shelter, Nelly dug in her heels and tried to turn back. I tugged at her reins, murmured soothing words into her ear, but she wasn't having it. Something had spooked her, but for the life of me I couldn't figure what--we were entirely alone so far as I could tell--and I was growing irritable, so I fell upon the last resort of all males stymied by females.

  "Come on now, girl," I whined. "This was your idea, comin' into town. I'm sure it ain't half so bad as it looks." She snickered derisively in response and tried once more to turn around, but I gave the reins a harder-than-usual tug and she finally relented, following me slowly and reluctantly onwards.

  On arrival, I noted that off to one side of the building was a little canvas-covered alcove with a bench and bulletin board, currently unadorned, and just enough space for my poor, drenched Nelly to turn sideways and stand comfortably out of the rain. I tied her reins to one of the support posts and whispered more words of comfort to her, promising to return as soon as possible. To her inestimable credit, despite whatever had unnerved her before, my gal settled in as well as she could and made the best of things, silently acknowledging my efforts on both our behalves.

  Nelly secure, I trudged up the steps into the building, pausing in the doorway to wring out my coat a bit, and approached the small check-in desk, at which dozed a shapeless creature so disheveled and aged that I am still unsure as to its gender. I rang the desk bell, jolting the clerk awake with a start, and inquired about a room for the night. In response, it gave a sort of croaking grunt, pointed at a sign on the counter indicating the cost of a quarter per night, and shoved the guest registry towards me. I suppose I couldn't expect much hospitality for the price and, though a bit insulted, I plunked down my two bits and signed my name, receiving in exchange a key and a candle for my room, set in a little brass holder.

  I made my way through a short hallway, off to the left of the reception area, and up a narrow flight of stairs that creaked its protest of my every step, searching for the guest rooms. My key was engraved with the numbers "3-2," which I took to mean the second room of the third floor. At the top of the stairs, I found the room easily enough down a dismal, dusty corridor lit by a single wall sconce midway down the hall.

  Lighting my candle from the one in the hall, I entered the room and saw it was as dreary as the rest of the building, and that it showed no signs of having recently hosted any life of a higher order than dust mites. It was good sized, but irregularly shaped, the ceiling sloping downward on both the north and south sides, owing to being directly underneath the roof, I supposed. Its furnishings consisted of an iron bedframe supporting a bare, sagging mattress beneath a single, grimy window. Dust and cobwebs were the main decorations, although I imagined that the peeling, flower-print wallpaper must have been lovely at some point, and I appreciated the unknown decorator's attempt at brightening the place.

  The only other object in the room seemed as out of place as myself. On the floor, in the corner opposite the bed, hunched a tiny grotesquerie which I noticed only when it briefly caught the candle's light. A hunk of black stone, a foot or so in height, carved roughly in the outline of a man, and wrapped about the middle with a bit of dark argyle cloth, like might be torn from a piece of clothing. I turned the thing over in my hands, wondering at who would leave such a thing here. Cold fingers ran up my spine as I held it, and I got the strangest feeling that I'd seen it before, though that was clearly impossible. In fact, something about this entire room seemed eerily familiar--something from one of grandmother's tales come to life, a frightful thought I immediately wished I hadn't had. I was glad to be out of the cold and rain, but even so, wondered if perhaps I wouldn't be better off outside with Nelly in that little vestibule. I'd been cold and tired before, and this place seemed less like a better option by the minute.

  I rubbed my tired eyes with my free hand, trying to dislodge such thoughts, then stooped to replace the weird little statue, turning it around so that it faced the wall rather than the bed. In so doing, I noticed that it had been placed directly in front of what I guessed to be a rat hole, making for a mighty strange way to plug the gap in the baseboard, rather than just patching it with a bit of spare wood. It was larger than any rat hole I'd seen and, despite my love of animals, I hoped not to meet the beasty that had made it.

  One final time, I considered leaving. As I removed my still-wet clothes, I suddenly realized that I was completely, bone-deep exhausted--perhaps by the atmosphere as much as by my strange evening--and so flopped myself down onto the sad old bed, and fell almost immediately to sleep.

  #

  Not long after, however--at least I believe little time had passed--I awoke to a skittering noise as something moved about the wooden floor. Rat, I thought, jumping to the logical conclusion. Irritated at the interruption to my sleep, I reached down to the floor, grabbed one of my shoes, and hurled it in the general direction the sound was coming from. My efforts were rewarded with a little shriek--of surprise, more than pain I hoped; I didn't truly want to hurt it--followed by the "thunk" of the shoe hitting the floor and then blessed silence.

  I fell asleep again, feeling rather satisfied with myself for having resolved that little dilemma so handily. Perhaps that sin of pride is why I dreamt what I did.

  Within my dream, I awoke slowly as if fighting my way through a dark mist that tried to keep me within its embrace. When I finally broke free, I found that the understandable shapes of the things around me and the very walls of that miserable place itself were vanishing--melting away like wax left too close to a flame--to be replaced by lines and angles that approximated the forms of both space and objects. Heart pounding, I leapt to my feet as the bed disappeared, but realized there was nothing to do but watch as, after seconds or hours, those new shapes, too, disappeared to fall away like leaves shed by an oak in autumn, leaving nothing but a return of the deep, impenetrable blackness I'd fought my way to consciousness through. It was reality itself, I knew instinctively--sane, wholesome, known New England--that I'd left behind.

  Into this new world came the sound of a voice, jabbering madly in something I hesitate to even call a language, carried to my ears by a sharply cold wind that came up out of nowhere to rip through my body like some black zephyr straight out of an icy hell. I wrapped my arms around myself, for what little good it could do, and fought against the tug that I'd swear was pulling at my very soul.

  Distracted by my discomfort, I
was surprised to realize how loud that crazily chittering voice had become, and that I was no longer alone. Standing before me at knee height was a sight such as I'd never before seen, whether waking or dreaming. It had the shape and fur of a rat but, monstrously, the tiny, bearded face of a man! Had I seen it running on all four limbs, I would have been hard pressed to tell it from any other rat--save for its immense size--but as it perched on its hindquarters, looking me straight in the eye as might one man to another, the thing had an unmistakably human countenance. Even its paws looked like tiny human hands!

  For a moment, neither of us moved--I, frozen in shock and it, studying me keenly, its head tilted and its naked, pink tail twitching like a true animal's. Then I shuddered and began to back away, lifting my own hands up--perhaps to defend myself or perhaps in prayer, I don't know. In response, the sharp-toothed little face let out a high-pitched titter, then split into the cruelest sneer you can imagine. Whether the cackling or the evil grin, something jogged my memory and I realized that I knew this creature--this house--from grandmother's stories. This was Keziah Mason's sorcerous consort and I was in the Witch-House of Arkham itself! Before I knew it, the words escaped in a whisper: "Brown Jenkin."

  At the sound of its name, Keziah Mason's devil rat dropped to all fours and lunged at me. I tried to break away, to dodge the attack, but I was not fast enough and its jagged teeth sank into the meat of my thigh. I screamed in pain and thrashed violently, trying to dislodge the beast from my leg, only to open my eyes and find myself back in reality, back in the room, but still engaged in battle with the little brown-furred demon!

  Light struggled to find its way through the grime-caked window of the room, and I knew it must be nearly sunrise. Despite the filthy glass, there was just enough light to definitely make out the form atop me as that from my dream. With effort born of fear and pain, I wrenched the creature from my leg, tearing out a chunk of flesh and ripping a scream from my lungs, then rolled over and hurled the wriggling, biting mass across the room, where it struck solidly against the door. In an instant, Brown Jenkin righted himself and, sides heaving, growled something frighteningly similar to words, glaring at me with black, hate-filled eyes.

  Ignoring the agony in my leg and the sickly sweet, iron-laced tang of blood in the air, I jumped from the bed and dove in the opposite direction I'd thrown my opponent, grasping desperately for the statue, the best possible weapon in the room. The creature was faster than I, however, and leapt onto my back--heavy enough to knock me to the floor on my belly--scratching and tearing at my flesh with strength those tiny hands shouldn't rightly have possessed. I screamed wordlessly, but the pain couldn't divert me from my goal as my fingers closed around the little sculpture. At its touch, I suddenly knew that it had somehow kept Brown Jenkin at bay and that I'd released this terror upon myself by my ignorance.

  I flopped onto my side and rammed my back against the wall, trying to crush my enemy, but the creature was too cagey for that and released his grip just before impact, dancing away with the agility of the animal it pretended to be. I twisted into a half-kneeling position and brandished my makeshift weapon before me, its heft somehow comforting in my hand. For his part, Brown Jenkin squatted a few feet away, head cocked slightly with a look that spoke of surprise. Perhaps he was used to victims who couldn't--or didn't care to--defend themselves in this run-down hole that passed itself off as lodgings, but I was not such a one.

  Gritting my teeth, swinging the statue awkwardly before me, I taunted him. "Well, come on then."

  The creature's whiskers twitched, his eyes flashed, and his paws worked the air, knotting and unknotting as if they ached to rend and tear me.

  "Come on!" I shouted, long past caring if I disturbed anyone else's slumber, and perhaps hopeful someone would be awakened and come investigate.

  Brown Jenkin hissed through jagged, yellow fangs, making a sound like a flame suddenly drowned, and launched himself into the air directly into the path of my swinging stone cudgel. It was a solid blow, and under the weight of my weapon, I felt a satisfying crunch as something in the little monster broke. It was the creature's turn to howl as he crumpled into a heap on the floor, panting and making disturbingly-human sounds of pain. A part of me winced at the violence I'd done; the greater part of me wasn't as foolish--this was no animal, but hell spawn. I pressed the attack, swinging downward with all the strength I possessed, but narrowly missed as Brown Jenkin twirled away at the last instant, apparently less injured than he wanted me to believe.

  Seemingly deciding on the better part of valor, the rat-thing made a run for its hole and I let him go. I was bleeding from a dozen small wounds, as well as the large one on my leg, and more exhausted than when I had fallen asleep the night before. As the long, pink tail disappeared into the wall, I stooped and rammed the head of the statue I held after it.

  After that, I grabbed up my clothes--not even bothering to dress in my haste--ran down the stairs and from the building. As I left, I noted the absence of the ancient clerk, and decided they wouldn't care that I'd not bothered to check out as I hopped onto my girl Nelly's back and blazed a short trail back to the wagon, where we hitched up lickety-split--despite the strange looks and jeers from a couple early-rising passersby--and made like the devil himself was on our tail as we left Arkham behind.

  When we were a goodly distance away, heading east on the road towards Essex--through what promised to be a lovely, clear day--and I'd taken the time to bind my wounds and dress in fresh clothing, I got to thinking and it finally, truly settled in that I'd met the realization of one of grandmother's stories. More than that, I felt a sense of shame at having thought my grandmother just a crazy old woman spreading myth and fear. Those stories spanned the length and breadth of my beautiful New England, the only home I'd ever known. Still, if one story was true ...

  "Nelly girl," I called out, tugging on the reins to bring us to a stop. "Weren't you saying just the other day how you've always wanted to see the wonders of the west? There's surely opportunities out California way for those who aren't afraid to work."

  My girl just snorted as I turned us away from the still-rising sun and we headed off to find some place about which I'd heard no tales.

  * * *

  James Calloway is a traveling salesman of fine household goods, last seen in the San Fernando Valley, accompanied by his "best gal," Nelly the horse. Born in Peabody, Massachusetts, in the year 1864, he was raised in the tradition of level-headed, hard-working New Englanders after a fashion older than even his Granny Rebecca. Before his last visit to Arkham, he would have told you there is no such thing as boogiemen or monsters.

  * * *

  Brandon Barrows lives in the shadow-haunted hills of Vermont, the last bastion of Lovecraft's New England, with his wife and a pair of elder-spawn cats.

  Best known for his detective comic book series Jack Hammer (Action Lab Comics), he's also written several graphic novels and, as part of a team, won the Ghastly Award for horror comics.

  His prose has appeared in such venues as Fantasy Scroll, Voluted Tales, and the anthology Whispers from the Abyss. Over thirty of his poems have been published, including being chosen featured poet of the February 2014 issue of Scifaikuest.

  * * *

  The Pull of the Sea

  An account by May Elsbeth Wind, as provided by Sean Frost

  * * *

  I lived in Jeffrey's Creek all my life, but in death it turned out to have really been Manchester-by-the-Sea. A few years after my burial, the town name officially changed. It had been a formality, really. Everybody had called it Manchester-by-the-Sea since the trains came over a hundred years ago. Sometimes it just takes a while to make the past understand it's done.

  My final day as a breathing person had been unpleasantly cold. A wind had come in from the sea, bringing the scent of diesel engines and burned fish filet. The summer residents are little more than tourists, taking over the town and shore for a few months each year before retreating to their real
homes and earning the livings that allowed them to return every summer.

  It was one of them who killed me. Clouds rode in atop the wind, dark clouds that promised a long and heavy rain. From the headphones that lay beside me, Cyndi Lauper told her daddy dear that she wanted to have fun. The air whipped past so quickly now that I could barely breathe. Coffee cups bounced and skated across the road. Bursts of sirens broke through the wind gusts. Above it all, there was the smell of my blood. I didn't realize what it was at first. I thought it might have been from the minivan, that somehow a piece of it had stuck to my face as it had rolled over my body.

  I thought that ghosts were supposed to be angry. I'm not, really. Everyone always said that school was the best part of life, and I really hadn't been enjoying it. The classes hadn't been all that bad, although I'd wished the English teacher had better taste. I'd just never had the unforgettable times promised by the movies. I'd gone to class and come home. There'd been no Judd Nelson to see the real me, no madcap parties that focused my life, and certainly no surprising romantic declarations on my bland sixteen.

  All I'd had were books, and they weren't even mine. My mom had earned a BA in English from Misk U. She'd been the first woman in her family to go to college, and she'd leveraged the degree to work in the bank where she'd met my dad. She kept her old books on a shelf in the parlor to let our guests know we were literate. When she'd found out I was reading Middlemarch, she'd gotten really excited about explaining it all to me. It was nice to see that she could be so passionate about something, but I really didn't want to think that much about reading. I just wanted to sink into the world that the author created and lose myself in the flow of words.