by Daniel Mills
*
Stars. A billion pupils—constricting, expanding—like holes cut through the dome of the sky. Every star provided me a glimpse of a greater illumination beyond, of the light that was always there, though sometimes hidden, cloaked in darkness in the same way Camilla wore a mask, and for the same reason: to hide the face of God.
Years passed like ghosts at broad noon, unremembered, unseen. The Earth groaned and shifted underfoot, releasing a cry of agony that stretched over eons and millennia, dulled by time to a gentle hum. It gave little warning of what came next.
The sun exploded, bursting like a fever-mark. Heat poured out to cover all things. The stones liquefied, the air evaporated. The sky fell away, and I hurtled into the stars.
Surrounded now, I observed that they were not pupils as I had first imagined but flaming suns, ringed with planets like half-lit moons. These new suns arranged themselves in strange patterns around me, forming bands of color, spirals that recalled the coils of Camilla’s hair.
But even these were left behind when I passed beyond the farthest star and entered a darkness more alien—and yet more fundamental—than the womb that gave me birth. I was right to have thought that Creation wore a mask, but it was one of light, not dark. The stars served only to conceal the silent tempest that lay beyond, the storm in which I now found myself, shivering and cold. But I was no longer among the heavens. Instead, I had descended inward, to the very center of my being, and discovered there the same boiling chaos where my soul should have been.
Despairing, I crawled forward, unable to rise, while the cosmos cracked and fell to pieces around me. This was the storm that lived inside of me, inside of all men: a thousand cities scorched and shattered, reduced to spinning fragments. Providence. New York. Chicago. Black snow on ceaseless wind.
Footsteps. From somewhere far off, I heard a child’s steps: stumbling, uncertain. The night parted and re-formed, the storm taking shape as the wind snapped back against itself, smashing those broken cities together, until they coalesced into the silhouette of a young boy, no more than three years old. He tottered toward me with his mouth open—screaming, I thought, though I heard nothing.
How can I describe this?
It was you. You, my boy. The reason I’m writing this. Years before I met your mother, before you were born, I knew that we would share this place, would always. There was comfort in that thought, and there was sadness, the latter cutting deep when you offered me your hand. You were frail and sickly, exactly like the child I would watch you become, but still you took my hand, and raised me to my feet, and lifted me out of that silent storm.
*
In Camilla’s bedroom, the candle had burned down. It guttered into insignificance, spreading a shadow over the stained bed sheets, the cracked and peeling wallpaper. Around me, the room had fallen into disrepair, all elegance stripped away. The air was dank with the stench of mildew and perfume, a sweetness like high fever.
Camilla stood at the window. She was dressed in imitation silks, her face turned to the slit in the drapes. She had removed the mask, which now sat on the nightstand, but the darkness hid her features, and for this, I was glad. She sighed, faintly, and it occurred to me that she was waiting for something, or someone. I gathered my things and slipped from the room.
In the hallway, I encountered my young companion, his valise tucked under one arm. Evidently, he had just let himself out from another bedroom.
His eyes widened upon seeing me. His face went pale.
But—that's Camilla's room!
Yes. I was told to ask for her—
Who told you that?
The night clerk. At my hotel.
My God! You must get out of here. If he finds you…
He? What are you talking about?
She’s King’s girl. Camilla. Cassie is too, though he doesn’t mind me sketching her.
Sketching?
Realization dawned at last. The man from the wallpaper—the figure who stood watching—was none other than my young companion. Though drawn with the vaguest of lines, the face was unquestionably Robert’s. Moreover, I realized that it must be a self-portrait. The valise, no doubt, contained his pencils and sketchbooks.
He took me firmly by the arm.
We have to go, he said. He’ll be back soon, but we can take the fire escape. With luck, we might manage to avoid him.
My mouth fell open, but I could not find the words to protest. Robert didn’t wait for me to speak. He spirited me down the corridor, which I now saw to be every bit as dilapidated as Camilla's bedroom, and through a doorway at the end of the hall that led out to the fire escape.
I don’t understand, I managed at last. Who is this King?
Silas King. A former ship captain and smuggler. Originally from England, I understand, though he now styles himself The King of the Bowery.
A gang leader, then?
Yes. You might say that. Camilla has been his since she was a little girl. Don’t you see? She belongs to him. All of the Bowery knows better than to ask for her.
All at once, I understood the night clerk’s deception, the thin woman’s surprise when I mentioned Camilla. With a thrill of fear, I followed Robert down the fire escape, moving slowly so as to mute my clattering steps. By now, it was nearly midnight, but the air had not cooled. The breeze from the East River brought only heat and soot, the mingled smells of smoke and sewage.
Careful, Robert warned as we reached the ground. The alley before us teemed with faint movement, the scurrying of hundreds of rats. They parted before us like a sparkling sea, fleeing into rubbish bins, piles of twisted metal.
Moments later, I saw what had brought them into the alley to feed. Opposite the fire escape were buckets of slop and grease, which half-concealed two sheeted forms that may have once been human. Children, I thought, dead on the street. Or the bodies of King’s victims.
The alley led back to the Bowery, but there was no sign of the wealthy theater-goers or their gleaming carriages. Outside a barroom, two foreigners fought with knives while a crowd looked on. A young family huddled together in a doorway. The mother called to us, begging for coin. For the babe, she said, but we paid her no heed.
Halfway down the block, we passed beneath the yellow sign once more. Formerly grand and imposing, the establishment now bore the marks of neglect: bricks crumbling, windows cracked or broken. I glanced up to the third floor, where Camilla was still visible: a faceless shadow, an outline glimpsed through tattered curtains.
We hurried past.
*
Robert froze. Cursing, he took me roughly by the arm and shoved me into the mouth of an alley. I cried out in surprise, prompting him to drop his case and grab me by the collar.
That’s him, he hissed. King.
Whatever I had expected, I was unprepared for the size of the man who came into view. King was tall, nearly seven-foot, and grossly corpulent. The flesh of his neck was soft, doughy. It gathered in folds above his collar and swung free like a turkey-wattle, rippling with every labored footfall, his entire body vibrating, a drawn string. His hair was black and thickly-greased. His complexion was sallow, shockingly pale, and his face was pitted with disease. An open sore marred his upper lip, red and glistening beneath the thin mustache.
And yet, for all this, his clothing was exceedingly fine. His top hat and frock were of the best workmanship, and a gold chain stretched across his quivering gut. He had lost his left ear but wore a porcelain substitute in its place, and he walked with the aid of a cane, a wrist-thick shaft terminating in a shard of yellow quartz: uncut, its jagged edges showing between his flabby fingers.
King glanced down the alley as he passed. His eyes met mine, briefly, and I saw that they were black: the same non-color as the shadow inside me or the places beyond the stars. He must not have seen me, though, for he kept walking, his cane striking the pavement like a pistol’s report. The sound dwindled and disappeared.
Robert released a breath. He turned to me, brow s
hining with perspiration.
We have a few minutes. Where will you go?
Back to my hotel, I suppose.
He shook his head. I wouldn’t do that. The clerk thought he was sending you to your death. He will be ill-pleased to see you again.
The police, then.
And you think they would listen? They might turn you over to King themselves if they heard he was looking.
Then what?
Make for Grand Central. I’ll pay for a hansom—it’s the fastest way. From there you can catch the first train home.
And then…?
He shrugged. Stay away from New York. And if you have to come back, then for God’s sake, don’t come near the Bowery. He really is a king there—and not the forgiving kind. However, you should be safe outside of the city.
Should be, I repeated.
He’s pursued some men as far as San Francisco and for less cause. You gave a pseudonym? Good. Then he doesn’t know your name or what you look like. He might never find you. Nevertheless he won’t stop searching. You can be sure of that.
I recalled the moment in which our eyes had met—black on black, mirrors turned to reflect one another—and realized that it didn’t matter what he knew, or what I looked like, for we carried the same tempest inside us.
My companion collected his valise from the ground and proceeded to the end of the alley. He hailed a cab, which drew to a shuddering halt, its lanterns casting us into sharp relief. The horses snorted, slick and steaming in that heat.
Robert helped me into the carriage.
Remember what I said. Avoid the Bowery.
And you?
You needn’t worry about me. King and I have an understanding. In any case, it hardly matters. I’m leaving soon, maybe for good.
Where are you going?
Paris. The School of Fine Arts. He hefted his valise. I’m going to be a proper artist.
With that, he grinned broadly and wished me goodnight. The driver cracked his whip, snapping the horses into motion. I glanced back over my shoulder, hoping for a final glimpse of my friend, but he was already gone, lost somewhere in that hell of smoke and night.
I never saw him again.
*
For years, there were nightmares. In sleep, I plunged once more into seething chaos and surfaced in a place of solitude, cast up in the midst of the silent storm Camilla had showed me. Again, I forced myself forward, crawling hand over elbow, unable to stand, and again, the darkness whirled and took shape ahead of me.
Silas King. He towered over me like the looming specter of ultimate horror, and though I tried to crawl away, I was never fast enough. He found me, always, and I woke up gasping, panting after breath that would not come.
Around this time, I met your mother. When I proposed, she squealed with delight and threw her arms around me. She kissed my neck and whispered love-words in my ear. In those days, you see, she was not yet your mother, the woman you would know. That came later.
But the nightmares persisted, worse than before. Every night, I came awake screaming, choking on sweetness and fever. In the morning, the taste of King’s breath lingered in my mouth, recalling the stench of dried blood or the dust Camilla had burned, the smoke with which she had filled me.
Then you were born, as slight and sickly as I had dreamed you. The nightmares ceased soon after, another miracle. At night, I descended into darkness, our darkness, and there found you waiting, not King. Only then did I begin to understand the nature of the blessing and the curse that Camilla had bestowed on me.
It couldn’t last, of course. In late ‘92, I traveled to New York on business. I stayed far from the Bowery. I was careful. All the same, King must have learned of my visit, for I soon became aware of someone following me.
One afternoon, in Boston, on a crowded street, I happened to look behind me and spotted him twenty yards back. He was attired in his customary hat and frock, the gold chain glittering on his belly. He smiled, perhaps in recognition, and hastened toward me, as though advancing to meet an old friend. He moved quickly for his size, loping like an animal, and I took to my heels, thinking only of escape.
I ran. My flight brought me here: to this city, this hotel. Ten after two. There isn’t much time. I can hear him in the hallway, pacing beyond the door. His cane taps and taps on the boards, doubling the sound of my heartbeat. Soon he’ll knock. He’ll rap on the door with that shard of quartz. He’ll say my name, my real name, and then I’ll have to let him in.
WS Lovecraft, 1893
DUST FROM A DARK FLOWER
Being a true account of the recent happenings
at the burying ground in Falmouth Village
as related by the murderer Hosea Edwards
on the night before his death
I
I am Hosea Edwards, physician to the Village of Falmouth in the New Hampshire Grants and Deacon to the congregation thereof. Sentenced to hang for the murders of the Verger Samuel Crabb and the Reverend Judah Stone, and the subsequent destruction, by fire, of the Falmouth meetinghouse, I leave behind these pages, that they might be found by my jailers after my death.
Tomorrow evening, I will be ashes, my body burned on my instructions; and though I die a criminal, my conscience is clear. At my trial, I offered no plea or protest of innocence, for I hoped yet to spare you the knowledge of these events. But the time is short: The White child is dead and buried these two days, and the long night nearly spent.
There can be no more hesitation. A full accounting must be made.
II
Last winter, the Reverend Ambrose Cooper, who first ordained me to the Deaconate, and with whom I had traveled from the town of Marshfield in Massachusetts to Falmouth on the west bank of the Connecticut River in the year 1767, returned to the Lord at the age of one-and-sixty. The ground being well-frozen, his body was transferred to the vault following the funeral to be buried in the spring.
The season soon passed; the grave was prepared; and, on the second of April, we lowered him into the ground. Our church’s request for a minister had not yet been fulfilled and, so, the Reverend Crane from neighbouring Putney presided over the burial and erection of the slate headstone, upon which Samuel Crabb, the Church Verger, had laboured all winter.
‘Twas a thing of singular elegance and beauty: fully four feet high and so heavy it required the village’s five stoutest men to lower it into the sod. The stone was further distinguished by some of Crabb’s finest work, including an inset likeness of the minister in his vestments, followed by some words of tribute that I had myself prepared. At the base of the stone was an epitaph that the minister had chosen when he sensed his time was upon him:
And he carried me away in the spirit to a great and a high mountain, and he shewed me the great city, Holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from God (Rev. 21:10).
They were sanguine words, perfectly befitting a man of his character, but on that dim April morning, with a soft rain falling and the wet earth yielding before us, I found I could not share in their hope; and afterward, when I returned home to my cottage, I fell to my knees before the fire and wept.
While the Reverend Cooper was in all respects irreplaceable, the Church soon dispatched a new minister to Falmouth. The Reverend Judah Stone, formerly of Norfolk in the British Isles, arrived in town on the 22nd of April and immediately assumed residence in the parsonage, which was sited outside the village proper at the base of Meetinghouse Hill.
A man of thirty, Reverend Stone seemed possessed of an imperturbable mildness and good humour. Many was the morning I saw him pass before the windows of my cottage with his hat tugged down to his brow, waving to all he encountered and greeting them with his usual cheer. His fondness of children was well-known, as was the patience he exercised in all aspects of his ministry, from the pulpit to the sickbed.
That is not to say that he was without eccentricity: His abhorrence of human contact quickly became apparent to us (and to me, personally, when he refused to take my hand
on the occasion of our first meeting) and he was regularly attended by the aroma of the rose-water in which he washed. Furthermore, he was said to suffer from some obscure ailment of the joints, which pained him constantly, though he never consented to be examined.
But these were minor matters and inconsequential to us, given the depth of his knowledge and the strength of his faith; indeed, there were times that he seemed to us more spirit than flesh. In short, we soon came to believe that the Reverend Stone had been delivered unto us in answer to our oft-repeated prayers—but that was before the strange events at Meetinghouse Hill.
III
The Verger Crabb was the first to take notice. He raised the matter with the Reverend Stone, who dismissed the Verger’s concerns with his customary solicitude and urged him to think no more of it. But Crabb could not push the matter from his mind and passed an uneasy night in his one-room cottage by the burying ground. The next morning, he yoked his ox, and readied his cart, and traveled to the village to seek my advice. When I learned of his discovery, I wasted no time in insisting that I accompany him to the churchyard that very day.
The sun was nearing the meridian when we arrived at the hill. We chained the ox at the base of the drumlin and completed the climb on foot. Crabb led me to one corner of the graveyard, northwest of the meetinghouse, to the grave of the Mead child, a girl stillborn three years before. The low slate had sunk halfway into the ground and now listed to one side at a sharp angle, as though to indicate the nearby grave of her unmarried mother, who had followed the infant in death, despite the Reverend Cooper’s tender ministrations.
“You must watch me,” quoth Crabb, “and closely.”
Kneeling beside the infant’s grave, he ran his index finger along the stone. ‘Twas a gentle gesture, of exceeding delicateness, and yet, the slate itself seemed to crumble upon contact with his skin. The stone flaked away in a cloud of black dust, finer in consistency than gunpowder, but of much the same colour. The Verger shewed me his finger, the tip of which was beaded with granules of the strange material. I noticed then, for the first time, that the man himself appeared pallid and gaunt, as in the throes of illness.
