by JG Faherty
At some point, the sound of hammering interrupted my dreams and roused me enough to sit up. The pounding continued, resolved itself as someone knocking on my front door. I went to the window, my ribs barking in protest. In the murky light of dusk – or perhaps dawn, I’d lost all sense of time – I spied a familiar figure on my stoop. Callie Olmstead. Fearful that she bore bad news about Flora, I was about to open the window and call out to her when she slipped something into the mail slot and walked away.
My concern eased. Had it been anything serious, she would have continued knocking. Remembering her attempts at engaging me in private conversation, I guessed her note would be more of the same. Most likely something to do with her feelings for me.
Certainly nothing urgent.
I fell back into bed and closed my eyes.
* * *
When next I woke, bright sun shone and my pains had subsided to mere throbbing. I took another wash and doused myself liberally with cologne to hide any remaining traces of demon stink. Then I dressed, attended to my hair, and headed downstairs, where I finally remembered to check the time. Half past eleven; I’d spent a good thirty-something hours practically in a coma. My stomach growled for attention and as much as I’d have preferred to numb my aches with some willow extract and brandy, I knew that I’d have to eat something first or suffer a repeat of my previous purging. Also, I needed to keep a clear head, as at some point I’d need to visit Flannery at the stationhouse to discuss my due reward.
A stack of mail blocked the door but I pushed it aside with my foot as I left. Bills and solicitations were all I ever received; both could wait until I had some food in my belly. After that I’d check on Flora, when I had enough strength to be sure I wouldn’t pass out right on top of her.
Sunshine greeted me, so bright it hurt the eyes and prickled the skin. I paused and tilted my face up to it, delighting in the warmth and the clean, fresh air that accompanied it. So unusual for Innsmouth at this time of year. At any time of year, really. A part of me felt like it could be my own doing. Perhaps the permanent miasma of fog and despair that blanketed the city was due as much to the demon that had resided below our streets all these ages as it was to our geographic placement. By disposing of the creature had we also freed Innsmouth from its aura of contamination? I no longer considered anything impossible.
A fresh start, not only for Flora and me, but for the whole town. It served to reinforce my recent decision that I should stay and enjoy the benefits of my heroic deeds rather than begin anew somewhere else.
An hour later, with a meat pie and two cups of coffee – with cream and sugar, even though it cost an extra cent– filling the empty space inside me, I made my way to Ben’s place. I still walked like an old man in the winter but my legs no longer threatened to collapse under me. It took me much longer than normal to cover the five blocks to Ben’s, but I put the time to good use, going over in my head what I’d say to my old friend. A lot depended on Flora’s condition. If she showed signs of being on the mend, I’d push to have her taken back to her own home, where Ben and I would share the duties of ministering to her. If she was no better, or, God forbid, worse, I’d insist on moving her to a private care facility. Cost no longer worried me. There’d be a reward coming my way, and Flannery owed me a huge debt. I had no qualms about calling in a favor if it came to that.
My only real worry was that Flora might still be averse to seeing me. I’d of course explain to her and Ben that the danger was over, that I – the hero of Innsmouth – had put an end to the Fish Street Strangler, the demon of the waterfront. I had obtained vengeance for Scott’s death and Flora’s own injuries, had brought about justice for us all.
But in her fragile state, would that be enough? Or had Ben already thoroughly corrupted her thoughts, using subtle means to turn her against me?
If that was the case, Ben Olmstead had a fearful reckoning of his own coming. I’d changed over the past few days. I wasn’t the same man who’d walked away from his door, tail between my legs. Since then, I’d faced off against a demon from the depths of hell, a monster from beyond our very plane of existence.
And defeated it.
After you go through something like that, the idea of taking a punch or two from a mortal man doesn’t hold much power to frighten.
Let him try and stop me, I thought. I’ll fix his wagon. I fingered my father’s gun, which I’d slipped into my coat pocket out of habit. If my fists couldn’t do the trick, I was prepared for anything.
When the door opened in response to my knocking, a red-eyed Callie Olmstead stood there, a black shawl draped over a black dress.
“Henry. You came. We…we weren’t sure….” Callie’s voice faded off and she dabbed away tears with a handkerchief. “Come in. I’ll let Ben know.”
Fear gripped my innards and rooted my feet in place. “What happened? Is it Flora? Tell me.”
She shook her head and put her arms around me, her head nestled against my shoulder. Pushing roughly past her, I stormed into the sitting room, shouting Ben’s name. If he’d let Flora’s condition decline to the point where Callie feared for her life, I’d kill him with my bare hands.
The parlor was empty and dark, the drapes partially closed and no lamps lit. A bottle of brandy and two glasses sat on the server. The air had a musty smell, as if no one had occupied the room for several days.
Wood creaked and shuffling footsteps caused me to turn just in time to see Ben coming down the hall. In the dim light, he appeared as a ghostly figure and my heart leaped in my chest when for a moment I could have sworn one of my father’s minions had come for me.
Dark hollows sat beneath his eyes and his hair was tousled and wild, as if he’d spent all night at the pub. His white shirt lay untucked over black pants and an undone tie hung around his neck.
“Now you come.” His voice held none of its usual authority and his breath reeked of alcohol. Shaking his head, he went to the bottle and poured himself a glass.
“What’s happened?” I practically shouted, my fear getting the best of me. Something awful, for sure. Had the infection on her arm grown so bad they’d had to take the limb?
“We tried to find you,” Callie said from the doorway. “We left messages at your house. Even went to the police.”
“Messages?” I glanced at Callie, recalling her appearance at my door, and then returned my attention to Ben. “Dammit, man, tell me.”
“She’s dead.” Ben downed his brandy and poured another. “In the early hours of the morning. She died in that awful place and you were nowhere to be found.”
She’s dead. Ben’s words echoed in my brain, drowning out all other sounds. Dead. I tried to grasp the reality of it. My beloved Flora, no longer alive? Her vibrant smile, her exuberant charm, gone forever?
No, it wasn’t possible. They were lying. It was all part of an elaborate plan on Ben’s part to steal her from me. She couldn’t be dead. Not Flora.
“You lie.” I stepped forward, anger rising up inside me. “It’s only been two days. She was just feverish. If you think you can keep me from her—”
Ben shook his head and raised his glass to his lips. I slapped it away and liquor sprayed us both. He stared at his hand with vacant eyes and then took the other glass and filled it. Tears ran down his cheeks as he spoke.
“It’s no lie. God, if only it was. I held her hand as she passed. Whispered for her not to leave me. But she did. And do you know what the worst part was?” He gulped his drink and then pointed the empty glass at me.
“Her last words. Her last goddamned words. She asked for you. For you!” Ben’s voice grew loud. Droplets of brandy sprayed from his lips and burned my face. Before I could respond, he jabbed my chest with the glass.
“Henry? Where’s my Henry?” He mimicked a woman’s tones, the glass striking my chest with every syllable. “I want to speak to Henry.”
“It’s true,” Callie said. “She called for you. She wasn’t angry anymore.”
“Henry damned Gilman.” Now Ben was drinking straight from the bottle. Tears ran down his cheeks. “While you gallivanted around, I fought to save her life. But all she cared about was you, Mr. Nowhere-to-be-Found.”
“Shut yer damn saucebox.” I pushed him away.
“Ironic, ain’t it.” He waved his hands, spilling more brandy. “You all besotted with her, and she goes and dies wondering why you weren’t with her.”
“Shut up.” My fist lashed out of its own accord, fueled by fury and shame. The blow struck Ben in the nose and he stumbled back. His feet caught on a chair leg and he fell over, landing hard on his bottom. The bottle rolled away, trailing brandy across the carpet.
“Stop it!” Callie shouted. I caught myself as I was about to kick him, my foot already poised. He looked up at me, blood running from his nose and staining his ginger mustache dark red. The sight of it brought back unwanted memories of the ghastly fluids leaking from my father’s corpse soldiers.
All at once, my anger faded, leaving only guilt and sorrow in its wake.
Flora was dead, and I hadn’t been there to comfort her.
I turned away and found Callie blocking my exit.
“Where are you going now? There are important things I need to discuss with you.”
“Where is she?” I asked, sidestepping her and her damned selfish attitude. How could she even think of discussing her feelings at a time like this?
“The icehouse.” She reached out with a hand that I brusquely batted away. I didn’t want her comfort. I needed to see Flora one last time.
Ben’s voice followed me down the hall.
“It was always you, Henry. Damn your black soul to hell, it was always you she wanted and you killed her. You killed her!”
I slammed the door on his cries but his words clung to me all the way across town.
“You killed her!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Flora lay on a slab of ice, her flesh badly mottled and her body so withered that I nearly passed her by in my desperate attempt to locate her among the maze of blocks within the murky confines of the building.
Even when I recognized her, I had trouble believing the misshapen, discolored body was hers.
She lay on a slab of ice, between a young boy with a dented skull and an elderly woman dressed in the rags of a beggar. Her face was twisted, as if she’d died in terrible pain. The wound on her arm looked dreadful, black lines snaking up and down the withered limb from a ragged gaping hole where swollen skin had split away from the stitches. Had I not known better, I’d have taken her for the victim of a beating.
Upon seeing her, I fell to my knees and bawled like a new widower.
In a way, that’s just what I was.
The love of my life had been taken from me forever. I held her cold, clammy hand and cried unashamedly for all that I’d lost. My guilt became a living thing inside me, a crazed beast twisting and kicking to escape its cage.
We should have been preparing to live our lives together. I would have asked her to wed, and she’d have said yes. Perhaps not right away, but eventually she’d have come around. Ben Olmstead was nothing but a pretentious cad, a womanizer. I was the man who’d not only always held her in my heart, I’d risked my life for her and the town, descended into hell to fight a demon.
And with my newfound status as a hero, I’d practically have the keys to the city. What better husband material could there be?
She’d have seen the logic in that and gladly accepted my proposal, and together we’d have lived long and happy lives, me a doctor and she my lady of the house.
Only now she was dead and the blame lay squarely on my shoulders.
Had I only taken a different route on that cursed night instead of walking down that alley, I’d have never come into possession of the damned book. If I’d only been faster with my gun in the bar, Scott would be alive and Flora never placed in harm’s way. If I’d remained at her side instead of going off to play the hero, perhaps I might have provided the proper care she needed.
If, if, if!
If wishes were fishes, no man would go hungry.
One of my father’s sayings. Even now, in the throes of my heartache, he haunted me.
“Damn your black soul to hell, you bastard. This is as much your fault as mine,” I whispered to the empty room, but it was my own mind that answered.
It’s not your fault at all. He was the one who set all this in motion. His was the plan to bring hell to Innsmouth. He was the one who aligned himself with evil for the sake of immortal—
I lifted my head, which I’d unknowingly rested against Flora’s frozen deathbed.
Immortality.
My father had achieved it, or at least a semblance of it. He’d brought the dead to life. Had himself been brought back from the edge of death and made whole.
I looked at Flora’s contorted face.
Was it possible?
A desperate excitement rushed through me and I forced it aside, focused my concentration on piecing together the few facts I had.
The beast had brought my father back to life, yes. But it had also turned him into a demon. And his injections had allowed the dead to rise, but as creatures made in his own image.
None of that would be acceptable. I wanted to bring back Flora as a human, not a tentacled monster.
There had to be a way!
The book of spells was no doubt gone, reduced to ashes or at the bottom of the river. Even if I found it, by the time I located someone capable of translating the proper incantation Flora’s body would have decomposed beyond saving.
Your father didn’t have any spells when the beast saved him.
Truth. He’d said as much. I struggled to remember that conversation. I’d been in a state of shock at the time, my attention more on remaining alive than his tale of survival. The memories were there but confused, like the contents of a puzzle emptied onto a table.
Something about the creature passing her essence to him, and then placing her egg inside him….
I have become such a thing, Henry. No longer mortal. Her blood gave me life and her seed made me what you saw tonight.
Yes! That was it!
Her blood, her fluids, had healed him. And only then had she stolen his humanity by making him the host to her parasitic fetus. And he, in turn, had passed both life-giving elixir and foul space-seed on to the corpses he revived, the innocents he killed. No doubt the blood acted as a medium that allowed the egg to grow, and the brainless state of those creatures was due to him being only partly demon. The secret lay in obtaining fluids directly from the source.
If I could do that….
I’d have to hurry. Flora’s body was only a few hours dead, and still well preserved by the ice it rested on. If I had any chance at all to revive her, it had to be now.
The distance between the icehouse and my own residence was a good eight blocks. I ran the whole way, desperation lending new strength to my exhausted muscles. I gathered everything I thought I might need: syringes, tubing, a collection bottle, and a scalpel. Then I hurried to the morgue, praying that Fudge still resided in her small stable next to the building and the transport cart hadn’t suffered any damage from the fire.
For once, luck was with me. Neither horse nor cart had been moved to another location or nicked by some thief. I hitched Fudge and headed back to the icehouse, promising myself I’d never complain about the quality of my transportation again.
I wrapped Flora in some old burlap I found. When I hefted her onto my shoulder, she weighed next to nothing, her illness having wasted her away in alarming fashion.
Lady Luck continued to favor me, as I encountered no one when I left the building and loaded Flora into the cart. The trip to the other side of town
worried me only slightly. My status with the morgue imbued me with a kind of immunity; no one would think twice about seeing me driving a corpse in my trusty cart. As long as I didn’t encounter Flannery or any of his men, who might wonder at seeing me about so soon, I would be fine.
Making my way through alleys and side streets with as much haste as possible, it only took me at most twenty minutes to reach the sewer entrance we’d used less than two days prior.
Now came the most dangerous part. If anyone happened along while I was entering the drain with a corpse across my shoulders, they’d certainly call out the alarm.
After checking to make sure no one was in sight, I slid Flora from the cart and set her down just long enough to heave the metal plate to the side. There was nothing I could do about leaving horse and cart on the street. In time, Fudge would get tired of waiting and find her way home, hopefully before someone reported her presence. If Flannery or any of the officers who’d participated in our demon hunt heard about the morgue cart being near the sewer entrance, they’d double-time it there to investigate. Another reason to hurry.
Climbing down the metal rungs with a body over my shoulder was a precarious business, one that had me moaning in pain with every step, thanks to my abused muscles. Even her diminished weight threatened to overbalance me and send us both tumbling down. But aside from barking my elbows and knees a few times I made it to the bottom relatively unscathed.
It only took a few steps for me to leave the cone of light from the drain opening and enter a world of pure dark. I cursed myself for not thinking to take a lantern along with my other supplies. Although I’d recently passed through the very same tunnel not once but twice, I quickly grew disoriented by my blindness. Moving in a straight line became an impossible task and I bumped into one wall or the other with increasing frequency, like a drunk in a narrow alley. In the end, I had to walk with one arm outstretched and my hand against the tunnel wall at all times in order to keep my vertigo at bay.
