The Last Ritual

by S. A. Sidor

  Arkham Horror

  It is the height of the Roaring Twenties – a fresh enthusiasm for the arts, science, and exploration of the past have opened doors to a wider world, and beyond…

  And yet, a dark shadow grows in the city of Arkham. Alien entities known as Ancient Ones lurk in the emptiness beyond space and time, writhing at the thresholds between worlds.

  Occult rituals must be stopped and alien creatures destroyed; before the Ancient Ones make our world their ruined dominion. Only a handful of investigators stand against the horrors threatening to tear this world apart.

  Will they prevail?

  First published by Aconyte Books in 2020

  ISBN 978 1 83908 013 5

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 83908 014 2

  Copyright © 2020 Fantasy Flight Games

  All rights reserved. Aconyte and the Aconyte icon are registered trademarks of Asmodee Group SA. Arkham Horror and the FFG logo are trademarks or registered trademarks of Fantasy Flight Games.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover art by John Coulthart

  Distributed globally by Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, USA

  ACONYTE BOOKS

  An imprint of Asmodee Entertainment Ltd

  Mercury House, Shipstones Business Centre

  North Gate, Nottingham NG7 7FN, UK

  aconytebooks.com // twitter.com/aconytebooks

  “The smoke banked like fog, and the opening of the

  door filled the room with blown swirls of ectoplasm.”

  F Scott Fitzgerald, “The Rich Boy”

  Chapter One

  “The last time…?”

  Alden Oakes turned away from the window, staring coolly at the cub reporter who had paused with his pencil raised above the pad. Oakes had avoided his questions deftly so far, employing a defensive combination of small talk and awkward silences.

  “I thought we might start there,” the reporter said, prodding. He had a deadline.

  Alden nodded and resumed pacing inside the hotel suite. “Strange weather we’re having. First a dense fog, then blowing mists like gigantic gauzy veils. Now here comes the rain. I didn’t need to open this contraption all the way here from the train station this morning.” He tapped the window with the umbrella he was using like a cane. The reporter had noticed the famous painter suffered from a slight limp. “The air is strangely mild for midsummer. Don’t you agree?”

  “It beats the heat,” the reporter said. He wasn’t interested in talking about the weather, but whatever got his subject to relax and open up to him was worth a try.

  Alden gazed out at the gloom as if he were trying to decipher shapes in the clouds.

  “How does it feel being back at the hotel again?” the younger man asked, poking again softly, wondering if this afternoon was going to end up being a big waste of time. Usually, there were two ways to handle it. Either you pushed the subject harder and risked losing them, or you went all quiet and let the pressure of no one talking do the trick. He hadn’t made up his mind which way to go yet.

  “The doorman tipped his cap like we were old acquaintances,” Alden said.

  Rain hissed and slithered down the glass.

  The reporter decided. He had spent hours trying to pry stories out of tight-lipped people in places far less pleasant than the luxurious Silver Gate Hotel. He could afford to kill a little time here in the comfort of a pricey room. So he dropped his pencil on his notepad and pushed back from the hotel room desk, letting out a gentle sigh. Though compact, the desk setup was more comfortable than his cluttered cubby at the Arkham Advertiser, where he was forced to share space with a sports reporter, a habitual snacker who left coffee rings and doughnut crumbs on everything. If the artist wanted to play coy, he’d wait him out, saying nothing. He gazed past the painter at the dim, graying view of downtown Arkham.

  Alden pushed off from the window and smiled. He sat stiff-backed on the loveseat, his hands resting on the crook of the umbrella gripped between his knees. Leaning over, he switched on a lamp, casting light into the room which was growing noticeably darker despite the noon hour. “Ready?”

  “Yes, Mr Oakes, whenever you want to get started.” Victory! He snatched his pencil.

  Resigned, Alden sank into the pale green velvet sofa cushions, closing his eyes. “The last time I saw the Silver Gate Hotel it was burning. I was burning too, or my jacket was, before an Arkham fireman tackled me to the ground, rolling me in the grass to smother the little fires climbing my back. I escaped with my life, as they say.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” the reporter said. Now that the ball was rolling, he just had to keep it going. He might get a decent story out of this yet. After all, the tragic and suspicious fire at the Silver Gate had been the biggest news story in Arkham last year. But Alden Oakes was considered only a minor part of it, a local celebrity footnote. A celebrity painter, no less.

  “I’m sure some people might consider me lucky,” Alden looked at him slyly.

  The young man frowned, confused. Would he have rather had his bacon fried?

  Alden went on.

  “This suite we’re sitting in, the one I’ve booked for this homecoming of mine, survived the catastrophe intact. It suffered serious smoke damage. The whole place did. But you’d never guess that judging from the building’s current appearance. The bricks scrubbed clean, fresh from the rain, the lobby’s glossy marble floor shining like a giant chessboard, and those vases full of maroon heirloom roses and white calla lilies. Such a transformation! Yes, they worked a real miracle bringing this hotel back into operation in a little over a year.”

  The reporter began scribbling notes. “The grand reopening gala is scheduled for tomorrow. Are you surprised the hotel owners invited you?”

  “Why? Because of the rumors? My confinement?” Alden’s voice rose. “Nothing was ever substantiated. Innuendos and idle speculation. The press planted theories to sell more papers. People like you.” He checked his anger, pushing it back under the surface. “Others influenced them, of course. The doctors said I needed rest. I suffered from physical and mental exhaustion. No, I don’t feel guilty about what happened to the hotel. But I’ll admit it was a surprise to receive the invitation. Who are the owners, by the way? Do you know?”

  The reporter shook his head. “It’s a damned secret. The management company runs day-to-day business. But the legal paperwork is vague, a pyramid of companies, mostly European. Taxes are paid by an anonymous land trust. That’s all I could dig up–”

  “Don’t bother digging. You won’t find anything.” Alden waved. “It’s not important.”

  “But they wanted you here.”

  “My presence was demanded.” Alden sat forward. “I just finished a gallery showing in New York. I have no real home any more, not in America. I was debating returning to France, or spending a few months in South America painting frogs
and orchids along the Amazon. I’d gone as far as hiring a paddleboat with a small crew to ferry me into the jungle.”

  “Yet here you are,” the young man said, shaking his head, incredulous. A trip into the Amazon jungle! Now there was a place where stories were ripe for the picking. They must be hanging from the trees like banana bunches. A journalist could write a big, fat book about it. “Why would you skip a trip like that, if you don’t mind me asking? I’d jump at the chance.”

  “Adventure doesn’t require an exotic locale. Only the proper spirit is needed…”

  What the heck did that mean? Well, the young reporter wasn’t here to argue about foreign travel plans. “Keep talking, Mr Oakes, I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he said.

  “Not to worry. What’s your name again?”

  “Andy. Andy Van Nortwick.”

  “Well, Andy, let me ask you a question. How old do you think I am?”

  Glad that the artist’s mood had improved, Andy screwed one eye shut and appraised his subject. Oakes was slender, his pale coloring bordering on consumptive, except for a penny-sized, raised scar dotting his left cheek. He wore a pencil mustache. His hair receded in a sandy blond wave curling back from a high aristocratic forehead. And he dressed strictly top drawer, a tailored London suit. But his eyes gave it away. They looked watery and old, crowded by lines of worry, sleepless nights, and regret. “I’ve never worked at the carnival or anything, but I’ll guess you’re right about fifty. That’s a nice round number. Fifty it is.”

  “I’m twenty-nine. My birthday was two weeks ago.”

  The reporter’s face reddened. “I’m sorry, Mr Oakes. I didn’t mean any insult to you.”

  Alden brought out a gold cigarette case and a banjo pocket lighter. He offered a smoke to the reporter. Then he lit both their cigarettes.

  “That’s what adventures do to a person, Andy.”

  Alden winked and settled back on the sofa. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the suite. Andy felt embarrassed. The Arkham Advertiser reporter kept his eyes glued to his notepad. He’d been writing for the newspaper for less than a year. Before that he had been delivering them on his bicycle. He was eager to be writing any story more momentous than Mrs O’Reilly’s dog gone missing after chasing the milkman off her porch. He silently cursed himself for being so raw. A real dope. He wasn’t like the cynical veteran ink slingers, with their grimy fingers stuck in every political pie. They wrote stories as favors or payback. He had no secret agenda. No one was pulling his strings. Not yet anyway. He only wanted to tell the truth. When he looked up again, Alden’s expression had softened toward him.

  “It wasn’t easy walking in this place after what happened to me here the last time,” the painter said. “My heart was thumping when I checked in at the front desk and got my key. They’ve got the elevator operator dressed up like a phony palace guard. So strange. I almost pitied the poor old guy sitting there on his stool.”

  “I saw him too,” Andy said, smiling. “I’ll bet it gets boring sitting in that box all day, riding up and down.”

  “Agreed,” Alden said. “Is it me or do the hotel staff seem terribly cheerful to you? I wonder how many of them worked here before the fire. I arrived early to avoid the rush. Most of the invitation-only gala guests aren’t getting in until this evening or tonight. As the elevator car rose, I fiddled with my room key, caressing the brass fob. It’s shaped like the Silver Gate façade but in miniature. Here, take a look.” Alden slipped his room key from his pocket, tossing it to Andy.

  “It’s heavy,” Andy said, before giving it back.

  “The fire stopped on twelve. The firehoses never reached this far.” Alden tapped the number on the key. “1481. My room for tonight. I entered and hooked the chain behind me. Only smoke invaded 1481 the night of the inferno. Plenty of it. Sniff about I did, once I locked myself inside. Like a basset hound following a scent trail I got down on all fours, but detected nothing more than laundered bed linens and a whiff of lemon oil wood polish. The new carpet feels different, spongier than I recall. They’ve repainted. The replacement color is horribly bland, less rich and creamy than the original. Your average person wouldn’t notice the difference. But I do. Demolition might have been a better option. Start over from scratch. I suppose it all came down to cost. They’ve chosen to try and cover things up, but the residue is still here, lingering beneath the surface. Hints and echoes. Before you knocked on my door, I smelled smoke in the bathroom. I was sure I smelled it. Fleeting, but distinct, not the scent of cigarettes but acrid, choking fumes… I investigated but failed to discover any lasting trace of it, only a bleachy residue rising from the bathtub. Funny.”

  The reporter couldn’t help but take a deep breath.

  “You don’t smell anything now, do you, Andy?”

  “Not a thing, Mr Oakes.”

  “Maybe it’s playing tricks on me,” Alden said. “The hotel, I mean. Or, maybe, something else….” The painter seemed lost for a moment, unfocused; his head tilted as if listening for a muffled, distant sound. But then he returned. “The furniture appears solid, elegant yet standard: a bed, dresser, and nightstand. The cozy sofa and chairs, that neat little desk where you’re sitting writing out my story. My version of the events as they transpired… what happened to me…”

  “What did happen to you? It was more than a bad fire, wasn’t it?” Andy’s eyes sparked.

  “You’ll make a good reporter someday, Andy. You have the nose for it, as they say. I wonder if you’ll believe me if I tell you everything I saw, everything I know is true.”

  “Give me a try.” Andy tapped the ash off his cigarette and licked his dry lips.

  “I’ve got a bottle of gin in my bag,” Alden said. He stood up quickly and moved to the closet. Taking down a red crocodile suitcase and setting it on the luggage rack, he pulled a small key from a necklace he wore under his shirt and unlocked the catches. From the case he unpacked a bottle of bootleg gin, a shaker, and a pair of glasses. He left the case open. “Hand me that ice bucket, would you? Thirsty?”

  Andy found a full ice bucket sweating on the nightstand. He brought it to the painter.

  “I don’t drink on the job,” he said. “My boss wouldn’t like me breaking the law.”

  “Admirable,” Alden said. “But the martini is for me. Ginger ales for you are in the desk drawer.” Alden tossed him a bottle opener. When both men had their cold drinks, they settled back in their seats. Alden raised his martini for a toast. “What shall we drink to?”

  “Truth?”

  Alden shook his head. “Too much responsibility. How about, my side of things?”

  “To your side of things,” Andy said. He sipped his ginger ale.

  Alden took a long swallow of gin. “That’s all I can tell you, really. All any of us ever can tell, in the end. Nina would agree. She’d like you.”

  “Who’s Nina?” Andy asked.

  “She’s my best friend,” Alden said. “I’ll get to her eventually. She’s a big part of what this puzzling business is all about. A writer, too, my Nina, ‘Alden, if you and I don’t tell people what’s going on, who will?’ she’d say.”

  “She sounds like somebody I’d like to meet.”

  Alden smiled wistfully. “Nina isn’t here to help us right now. Words are her strength, mine being colors… pencils and brushes, paints, canvas. She would’ve been much better suited to be your source. But you’ve got me instead. Let me know if you get hungry. We’ll order up room service. Oysters Rockefeller and shrimp cocktails. Put it on the hotel tab.”

  “Swell. I’ve never eaten like a rich man before.”

  Alden set his martini down to light another cigarette. He clicked the lighter dramatically and said, “My curious reporter friend, I’ll do everything in my power to set things out right. The dreadful truth of the events as they really occurred, even the unbelievably scandalous details and most
gruesome, loathsome facts. But you must know that it all started for me well before that frightful night at the Silver Gate Hotel.”

  Andy’s pencil moved mechanically across the blank page, filling in the lines.

  So, Alden began his tale.

  Chapter Two

  The summer before… well, around two years ago now, I was watching a hot sun set into a cold glittery sea when I heard someone calling my name across the beach at Cannes.

  “Oakesy!”

  Now, my proper name is Wilfred Alden Oakes. But my father will always be the only Wilfred Oakes, renowned industrialist and philanthropist, et cetera. Everyone else calls me Alden. Except for one person. So I knew, before I saw him stepping through the long shadows stretched out on the sand, that it was Preston Fairmont walking toward me with a martini glass gripped in one hand and the other waving as if he were trying to hail a cab.

  “Oakesy! Over here! I can’t believe it’s you. What are you doing in France?”

  I was sitting in a wicker chair beside a small slatted wood table at a beach café, resting my legs after a day of climbing the winding cobbled lanes of the old quarter, Le Suquet, in search of untapped inspiration. Preston grasped the chair across from me and pulled it free from the beach. A bag containing my brushes and paints popped out of the seat but did not spill. Preston removed it from sight. Jubilant and tan, he sat down, beaming.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “A rose cocktail,” I said.

  “Splendid.”

  Preston caught the eye of the waitress. He had a manner about him that service people always noticed. He exuded money. The waitress slid another coaster onto my table.

  “Voulez-vous quelque chose à boire?”

  “I’ll have one of these,” Preston said, pointing to my drink.

  The waitress nodded, smiling, but Preston was already looking away from her at the deep blue waves, the people lounging on the sand, and lastly, as she departed our company, at me. Despite my surprise at seeing him, I was instantly reacquainted with his aloof charm.