The Last Ritual

by S. A. Sidor

  “Oops… I’ll have to see what’s available for rooms.” He sounded like a desk clerk. “The Colony might be full up at the moment. I wouldn’t know.”

  “It isn’t. There’s an apartment right across the hall from Nina. Rooms previously occupied by a sculptor named Dunphy. He died recently.”

  Preston didn’t blink at the mention of Dunphy’s name, though he upended his glass, draining it. “We all die eventually, Oakesy. Oh, that reminds me. Guess who’s missing. Clark Abernathy. Isn’t that a funny coincidence? You thought he was murdered. Now nobody can find him. His father told me Clark probably ran off with a dancer he’d made acquaintances with at the Clover Club, named Diamond something. But I don’t think he really knows. He seemed distraught. It’s not like Clark to up and vanish. I hope he isn’t in serious trouble.”

  Clark was well past his troubles. “Where’s the Clover Club?”

  “Oakesy, we need to reacquaint you with Arkham’s nightlife.” Preston drained the last drops of champagne into his flute. “It’s the only thing stimulating about this place.” How quickly had he killed off the bottle? He looked greener about the gills than the glass did.

  “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.” I raised an eyebrow. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Me? I’m fine, just dandy. It’s the least I can do for a friend.” He hiccupped.

  Preston shifted his gaze to the restaurant windows. A wave of sadness and regret passed over him. Where it originated, I could not say, but a hallucinatory alteration took place. I watched Preston age rapidly in front of my eyes. His brow wrinkled, cheeks sucked in; the patch of hair on his head thinned and grayed, before settling on cottony white wisps. He looked like the spitting image of his father. Was this a psychic vision of my friend’s future? Appalled and astonished, I held my breath. The immense pressures of eventually taking up the mantle of the Fairmont clan weighed heavily on Preston. His father constantly measured him up, trying to groom him. One day soon he’d have to live up to the task or be ground to paste by it. Or so his old man said. Preston bent forward as if he were about to be sick. His eyes clouded. The rapid transformation continued until all that sat across from me was a jumble of bones inside a withered, yellow skin sack. Before I could fully comprehend his evolution, the process reversed itself; Preston quickly returned to the youthful – if exhausted – man I recognized. I rubbed my own eyes, wondering if something was wrong with me, or with the champagne. Had we been drugged? Was the alcohol contaminated with a toxin? The illusion passed like a slow-waking dream.

  Preston coughed.

  “Are you sure you’re in decent shape, Preston?” I was checking myself too.

  “Right as rain,” he answered with a tired half-smile.

  I offered him a cigarette from my gold case. We smoked in silence, then he snapped his fingers at me and said, “There’s someone you should meet. I fetched him at the train station this morning. He arrived after a long, arduous journey.”

  “Do you pick up strangers at the train station often?” I said in jest.

  “Colony business, to be precise. My father suggested I play the part of welcoming committee.”

  “Who’s the visitor in town?”

  Preston pushed back his chair. “He’s coming toward us right now.” Preston stood and smiled, beamingly. A golden boy displaying all his breeding and charm despite his inebriation. He was motioning emphatically to someone. Join us, come join us…

  The visitor entered the room behind me.

  I turned in my chair.

  Preston stepped around our table to receive his guest. Etiquette required me to stand and greet the man. He must have passed behind one of the restaurant’s pillars, because I saw no one. Preston appeared dazzled; I might’ve been a mustachioed hussar on horseback, still he wouldn’t have noticed me.

  “Pres-TONE! My new friend!” An accented, unmistakably masculine voice impacted us. I felt it as much as heard it. His chic figure arrived. A gust of brisk air accompanied him.

  First, I saw his outstretched hand. Long fingers, lean, a network of thick veins visible under the skin. A craftsman’s hands, strong and knowledgeable. Preston’s pale digits vanished inside the other’s grip. He pulled Preston in close and embraced him, thumping him on the back. He was taller than us. Dressed like a raven. Hatless, brunet. He used a chrome ornamental cane. When they parted, the visitor pivoted to face me. It was like opening a high window, the danger.

  “Juan Hugo, this is my old friend, Alden Oakes. Alden, meet Juan Hugo Balthazarr.”

  “Good to meet you, Alden.” The artist bowed. His forked beard was luxuriant.

  “I am honored.” I could hardly breathe. Here was the living artist I most admired in the world. Standing right before me and offering his hand!

  Like a blacksmith’s vise, he crushed my fingers. It was all I could do not to wince.

  “Alden’s a painter too. Just back from Europe. He couldn’t keep away from home.”

  “Ah, you are an Arkhamite. I am finding your city most enticing. A dark confection.”

  Only then did he release me from his dominating clutch.

  “I hope you enjoy your visit,” I said, rather pathetically. My hand was hurting. The vision of Balthazarr hurt too. He overtaxed the senses. Too vivid, too loud, too aromatic. None of these were unpleasant, but in combination the effect was an intensity unleashed upon the hapless experiencer. I’d never been awestruck until that meeting at the Harvest. If Balthazarr was excessive, he induced the countereffect of making you feel lacking. My flaws suddenly became my very essence. I wanted to run and hide. But his power of attraction prevented me from that.

  “Already, my trip has proved fruitful,” he said.

  Everyone in the Harvest watched him. They tried and failed to look away. He demanded attention; and when you were around him, you surrendered to him gladly, paying your respects. You knew you were going to tell your grandchildren about the time you saw Balthazarr, what he did and said. The encounter scorched itself into your memory with a psychic branding iron.

  “Juan Hugo is our first ever artist-in-residence at New Colony. Some Lodge members thought bringing in a master would inspire others to reach for the stars. Does it inspire you?”

  “I’m speechless.”

  “Oh, we must loosen that tongue. I don’t want silence. I want exchange.” Balthazarr draped his arm across my shoulders. He smelled of saddlery and cigar boxes. Opium incense.

  Now that I was seeing him up close and in person, I was sure it wasn’t for the first time. “You know, I think we’ve met before. In October. The Houdini performance at the Ward Theatre? You were backstage visiting Harry Houdini’s room. Preston, you remember.”

  Balthazarr showed confusion. “Impossible. I arrived in town a few hours ago. Before that I was in New York, but only for a short stay. I crossed the Atlantic on the RMS Aquitania last week. You see, we could not have met. A Houdini trick would be the only way,” he quipped.

  “You’re thinking of someone else.” Preston was irked by my apparent error.

  I wasn’t convinced I was wrong. Balthazarr’s resemblance to the man in Houdini’s audience, the one who accosted the escapist at his dressing room door, was uncanny. I tried to recover from my faux pas. “But I did see you in Spain, near Barcelona. At a festival.”

  “Yes, yesss… now you are talking about my homeland. I was born in Catalonia and have a house by the sea. The festivals are as old as they are exquisite. When were you there?”

  I told him, and his expression changed to a frown.

  “No, I am afraid you are amiss again. I have been living in London for most of the last year. I haven’t visited home, this breaks my heart, in two years. You remind me to return as soon as I have the opportunity. Tell me, how did you like the festival? Was it exciting for you?”

  “Very,” I replied. “Unlike anything I ever witn
essed before.”

  “You see.” He swiveled to Preston. “I told you. No one can resist Spain.”

  Preston grinned and nodded. “I will have to take Minnie there.”

  “Maybe for your honeymoon,” Balthazarr suggested.

  “Maybe,” Preston said, noncommittally. “We’ve finished eating. But would you join us for coffee?” He looked at the dreary weather. “It’s nasty out there.”

  The Spaniard politely declined the offer. “I have an appointment. And I am not afraid of the elements. I brought a cape. Back home I climb the mountains in rain or sun. My mother says I am like a wild beast who always wants to be outside. Sleeping under the stars.”

  We parted company.

  After Balthazarr left the room, several guests concluded their meals. The atmosphere of the dining room deflated. Nothing tasted as delicious as it had previously. Preston and I asked for our coffees, but it was like sipping bitter brown water. I felt run down, vaguely feverish, as if I were catching a cold. We smoked and watched the room depopulate.

  Sleet ticked at the windows.

  “What do you make of him?” Preston asked. “Our friend with the forked beard.”

  “Balthazarr’s a genius. He knows it. The world knows it.”

  “He doesn’t intimidate you?”

  “He intimidates the hell out of me. I don’t feel competitive with him because it’s no contest. I’ll never be a Juan Hugo Balthazarr. But, coincidentally, my work has taken a Surrealist direction as of late. It started with a watercolor I did a few weeks ago, right after your observatory party. I’ve switched back to oils. Feels like I’m stumbling in the dark. But it’s worthy exploration. I’m going places I never dreamed of. Or all I did was dream of them. Now they’re happening on canvas. The work’s good. I’m going somewhere… I don’t know where yet…”

  “Perfect timing, then. You take advantage of this opportunity with Balthazarr, and it can only boost your career.” Preston ground out his cigarette in a saucer. “I’ll be inviting him to my bachelor party. You’re coming too. It’s after the New Year. Minnie’s got us booked through the holidays. We’re visiting every damned mansion in Arkham for one social function or other. I’ve always loathed Christmas.”

  “Old humbug.” Smoke leaked past my teeth. I reached into my jacket for my pocket journal. I leafed through the pages. “Do I have the date of your bachelor party? I can’t remember.” I unscrewed my pen. “Did you say you’re moving the wedding date?”

  “Minnie and I are impatient. Why wait until summer? Decisions will be finalized soon. As far as a bachelor party goes, I’ll pin it down. My life is so planned out right now. Allow me a little spontaneity, will you?” He slumped back in his chair and shut his eyes.

  “You can improvise like a jazzman. Kid Fairmont hammering at the ivory keys.”

  He stared at me from two sunken pits. “We’ll have an old-fashioned boys’ night on the town. A real bash. You and me… and all the rest…”

  By the time the events of that ill-conceived boys’ night ended, neither Preston nor I wished we had been there to see it. But by then it was too late. The die was cast, the play made. The cigarette girl wearing that sparkly red and gold skirt, catching everyone’s eye….

  What occurred on that ghastly night, lurking the back alleys and secret rooms of Arkham’s underbelly? What did Balthazarr really do? A parlor trick, an illusion, or something much worse? Once we realized the level of horror, we couldn’t stop it from happening. The blood… everything came bursting through the wall… guns barking, bullets flying… the screams of men and women running for the exits… fleeing an earsplitting roar from beyond.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the time I arrived at Oakwood after breakfast, the sleet had turned to snow. Whiteness sugared the evergreens, the walk, the hip roof. Barren trees framed the house. I’d pick up a few things, then be out again. A quick turnaround. I hadn’t been spending much time at the family hearth lately. Mother was tense because I hadn’t moved out yet. That would be changing now. When I entered, Thorn greeted me. Mother was less sanguine. She passed specter-like, silently gliding at the back of the hall, her head turned to note my arrival. I didn’t call to her with the good news. I’d tell my parents once I had official word from the Colony that Dunphy’s apartment was mine. A few days at the most, I figured, after Preston made his calls. Father wasn’t home; he’d absconded to New York to meet with his brokers.

  I wiped my shoes and went upstairs. Thorn weaved in front of me. He loved to romp in the snow, the sight of snowflakes made him giddy. Inside my rooms, he dashed to the window and stood up with his paws on the sill, checking if the snow was still swirling. It was. He looked over his shoulder at me, his sad gray eyes pleading.

  “All right, I’ll take you for a walk. Let me change my clothes.”

  Thorn’s tail wagged.

  Roland had my walking clothes ready, hanging on the closet door. The man scared me sometimes with his prescience. He’d looped Thorn’s leash on the door handle. I grabbed a satchel stuffed with toiletries, clothes for the weekend, and my sketchbook.

  “Come on, boy. I’ll show you our new digs.”

  We descended French Hill, taking a circuitous route. Thorn and I needed our exercise. We cut through the Miskatonic campus. Thorn loved it when the college girls would stop to rub his ears and praise his handsomeness. The quad was empty, and I couldn’t guess why until I remembered it was the week before final exams. Everyone was inside, studying. I always loved taking tests. I performed at my best under pressure. Lack of urgency is what plagued me. Sloth and procrastination were my nemeses. If the net blob and the gargoyle did anything positive, they spurred me to get to work. I had painted a life-size canvas of the winged creature riding the train, and, frankly, the sight of it disgusted me, not because the demon was hideous but because it made me realize how I’d wasted years of my life painting anything else. I was born to midwife monsters! As much as they lit my creative fires, I was happy not to have met up with them again. Except in my dreams.

  Nina and I were both suffering from frequent nightmares. I was perpetually back in Spain, having the tall, masked man toss me on the pyre or goblins fork out my guts. Nina dreamt she was Dr Silva swinging under a streetlamp. Another night she’d be roasted at the stake side-by-side with the Galinka sisters. Following our run-in with the watchman, I steered clear of the docks. Brave Nina ventured down there on her own in the daytime, inquiring as to the whereabouts of Calvin Wright. Calvin seemed a key to things. He knew Dunphy and had a familiarity with the Colonists. And there was the matter of a living gargoyle flying around town with his body and face. Maybe he could help us. But he’d disappeared. People at the Burdon’s Fishery icehouse claimed he quit working there. No one at New Colony had seen him for days.

  I spotted Christophe selling chestnuts outside the shops in the Merchant District, but he claimed he hadn’t talked to Calvin since introducing us. In the meantime, he added a string of sparkly silver garland to his red wagon, and a fake white beard and elf’s cap to his head.

  “You’re looking festive,” I said, handing over coins.

  “God bless us, everyone!” He winked at me.

  “What’s the scuttlebutt?”

  “It’s cold on the corners and hot behind locked doors.”

  “What’s that mean?” I picked at my bag of chestnuts, trying not to burn my fingers.

  “Means I’m freezing my caboose.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “There’s trouble brewing in whiskey town. I hear a war’s about to break out between rival crews.”

  “Gangs?”

  Christophe’s face screwed up. “Ya think I’m talking about knitting circles?”

  “I don’t often mingle with the criminal element.”

  “Who you kiddin’, pal? Arkham’s built on dirty money. Dig unde
r French Hill if you don’t believe me.”

  I thought of all my father’s friends and how they’d “made” their fortunes. His point was well-founded. “Do the bootleg wars have to do with Calvin lying low?”

  “I never said Calvin was lying low. Only I haven’t seen his strong jaw lately. A man could make a pile of dough with those rum-running river boys. Dangerous dough, though.”

  The Merchant District looked safe and golden on a crystalline wintry night. Customers expressing holiday cheer. Children frolicked around a faux manger. A string quartet played “Silent Night” outside Lunt’s music store. Rosy cheeks and red noses were a symptom of the temperature, not illicit drink. It was hard to imagine a gang war in the offing.

  “What’s the reason for the war?” I asked.

  “You don’t listen. I said, ‘I hear a war’s about to break out’ and that’s not the same thing as predicting that one will. Here’s what I can testify to. Everybody’s nervous. It’s like they caught some bug and they’re passing it around so the whole city’s infected. The atmosphere is heavy. Could be a real thing. Or it might be something floating around like smoke. All I know is I smell it. Rotten things are coming. Maybe Calvin tasted it on the wind and left. Who can say?”

  Who, indeed?

  That conversation had taken place a few nights ago. If the Colony was connected to gangsters, I didn’t see how. Art and violence are two different things. One’s fantasy and the other is real. Artists like Balthazarr depict scenes of horror. But they were colorful fantasies.

  Violence in a painting isn’t real.

  No one ever died at the wrong end of a paintbrush.

  Thorn menaced a couple of Miskatonic squirrels, and I tugged him away. We left tracks in the fresh snow leading to the Colony. He didn’t growl at the old mansion. Maybe I expected he would sense evil in the air. I was superstitious that way. Instead, he made friends with Portia and Delilah who lived together in a corner unit on the first floor. They were sculptors like Dunphy, but they’d arrived after his fatal fall. Portia replaced him on the South Church gargoyle project. Delilah was her apprentice. Nina knew them better than I did.