With this crushing news, all the hope and enthusiasm I may have had for combating Marsh and his followers evaporated. I paid for the man’s drink and left the inn. There was no coach scheduled to go southward until the next morning, but I could not bring myself to remain in such close proximity to the scene of such a depressing turn of events. It was a long and lonely walk back to Pepperell.
Although I have not had the opportunity since then to keep abreast of events in the larger world, or even of those closer to home, I have still heard news from time to time from the vicinity of Innsmouth, including its rise in prosperity even as it shuns outsiders. I have heard it said that Captain Marsh made many subsequent voyages to the Kanakys, always returning laden with strange worked gold and sometimes even in the company of certain of its natives.
For myself, I have resided here on my family’s farm in Pepperell since the day I returned after hearing of the fate of poor Eliot. In that time, my loathing of open water has only increased, further circumscribing my movements. From time to time, I seek to test those fears but whenever I approach a body of water I balk and begin to tremble violently, I begin to perspire and an urge to turn and run overcomes me. The nearby Nashua River is a terror to me and the smallest brook takes all my fortitude to cross. Consequently, I mostly stay on the farm. I am safe here, and land-bound. Here, far from the sea, I am well out of the reach, the long reach, of Dagon or the Deep Ones or Clooloo or whatever it was I saw emerge from the waters that damned night in the Kanakys. I also have my charms, the Old Ones’ Signs; my Bible I read less frequently now. Why should I? The Old Ones have proven their power. The sign will ward off Dagon. I have them close at hand, here in my room. But Dagon’s reach is not so long as that, is it? I cannot say, for the one thing I do know for certain is that the thing I saw that night drag the screaming native into the water, and again in the colder southern climes, was not a giant slug or enormous jellyfish nor even a serpent, but merely the tip of an appendage belonging to an infinitely larger creature that had been trapped beneath the sea for uncounted ages and now is not only free, but aware of our larger, more populated world here in America…
Addendum: Freedom of Information Act
Request #900049
Subject: Government Document #9745632
Stone, one (1) “Old Ones’ Sign”
Status: Request Denied
of relief.
The Deep Cellars
1. The Tale Begins
t sat there like a crouching gargoyle, all gothic corners and spires made of dark stone and slate. It was called simply the Towers but New Yorkers universally knew it as the Castle. It had the look of having been built in the Middle Ages but could not have been constructed before 1850; no one knew for sure since all records of its having been built had long since vanished…by fire, theft, or neglect, no one seemed to care enough to discover. So the years passed, and the Towers continued to stand serene in its small piece of real estate in the heart of the greatest city on earth. Soon other buildings began to cluster about it, but none too close, and in time Mr. Olmstead’s Central Park joined them in 1876. The Towers found itself brooding amid growing walls of glass and steel, the soothing greens of the Park that faced it across Central Park West doing little to lighten its austere aspect.
What the Towers had been expected to be was also a mystery. It stood a full twenty stories high so it could conceivably have been intended as a hotel, but it also had those ornate spires, curving turrets, and crenellated projections that defied architectural common sense. Was it simply a relic of the gilded age? A monument to some forgotten tycoon’s ego? These were questions most New Yorkers also ignored; they mattered little as the Towers was now indubitably a conglomeration of private residences. Highly exclusive and affordable only to the most well to do, but still a residential building.
Most New Yorkers, like the rest of their countrymen, had no idea of exactly who lived in the Towers and perhaps cared less. Certainly, dark colored limousines were seen infrequently outside and paparazzi even less. However, it was assumed people did live in the Towers whoever they were, and Dr. Evan Scopes was one man who was sure of it because he had sent one of its residents a note and received in reply an invitation to drop by.
At the moment, Scopes was moving slowly up Eighth Avenue in a rented cab, having only arrived in the city a few minutes before at Grand Central Station. It was the first time he had been there since attending a conference on the changed understanding of the nature of the bicameral mind two years before, and he marveled at the continuing change in the face of the city. The taxi’s slow progress through the usual heavy traffic gave Scopes ample time to think as he recalled the peculiar case that had forced him to seek the help of a fellow professional in the field of psychiatry. Dr. Anton Zarnak had a certain reputation among his peers that yielded a grudging respect tempered by disdain for his unorthodox interests and sometimes questionable methods, but Scopes felt little concern for such fears as he had long acquaintance with the Doctor ever since befriending him when both were students at Heidelberg University. Since that time, both had kept in touch by mail and of course, through each other’s papers in the scholarly journals. No physician was happy when he had to turn to another for help, but Scopes felt no compunction in seeking aid wherever he could find it in the interests of his patients’ welfare.
At last, the taxi managed to pull up to the empty curb before the imposing facade of the Towers. “Here it is mac, the Castle. That’ll be $8.50.” Scopes gave him a ten, told him to keep the change, and stepped out into the cool shadow of the Towers. He looked up, searching out Zarnak’s penthouse suite. He ought to have a good view from that perch. Grasping his briefcase, Scopes marched up the wide stone steps and pushed past the heavy glass doors into the building’s foyer. A uniformed doorman tipped his hat to him and asked for his card. Scopes produced the personal invitation card sent by the Towers’ residents to those they wished to enter the building. The doorman scanned it quickly and showed him in. He did not return the card.
Scopes found the elevator and rode it silently the twenty floors to the top. When the doors opened, he stepped out into an empty corridor devoid of ornamentation. A single door broke the bland surface of the opposite wall and a small bronze plaque on the door met a visitor at eye level. “Zarnak” was all it read. Scopes knocked. A moment later, the door opened and his friend stood before him. “Evan! Punctual as ever. Come in.”
Scopes did so and was immediately engulfed in the light scent of myrrh. Around him, from what he could see of the other rooms, he saw that the suite was lightly appointed in a tasteful modern style, plenty of light and space. Here and there, never clashing with the apartment’s open feel, antiques and objets d’arte indicated their owner’s eclectic tastes.
“Let me take your coat, Evan,” said Zarnak helping him off with it and storing it easily in a nearby closet. His friend had changed little in the years since they first met. Dressed just now in slacks and open shirt, he still sported that odd zig-zag of silver in his hair that stretched from just before his right ear to the back of his head. “Let’s go onto the veranda, I’ve set out some refreshments.”
His friend led him through a number of large rooms, all fairly nondescript until they passed through a pair of glass doors onto the veranda that allowed a spectacular view of Central Park and the city beyond.
“Magnificent isn’t it?” said Zarnak motioning to a wrought iron table and chairs where a genuine Revere silver tea service stood.
As his host poured some coffee, Scopes remarked: “Frankly I’m kind of surprised Anton. These digs are quite a change from your old ones in China Alley.”
Zarnak only smiled. “I’ll admit it is quite a change, but one has to change with the times. The reasons I once had for locating in old Chinatown have melted away. In this age of the computer and increasing crime, I find it more convenient to live a more conventional lifestyle.”
“You call this conventional?” said Scopes, sipping at his coffee.
&n
bsp; “It serves my needs.”
“And what about that Indian you used to employ?”
“Ram Singh…died…some years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Anton.”
Zarnak smiled fleetingly. “And what is it that brings you to New York, Evan? Your note said something about a problem with one of your patients at Resthaven.”_
Scopes put his cup down and said, “Yes, but first I must remind you that this must all remain absolutely confidential.”
“Of course,” said Zarnak.
“Well, as I mentioned in my note, I would not have asked you to step in on this case but for the unique nature of the patient’s phobia,” began Scopes.
“And what is that?”
“He tried to kill his six year old son!”
Zarnak was usually able to keep his feelings to himself, but this revelation was enough to elicit from him a startled grunt.
“This is serious Evan,” he said at last. “Has he had a history of such behavior in the pa
“That’s one of the problems I have had with this case, Anton. A complete lack of such a history makes it all the more difficult to assess his phobia beyond the mere fact of its existence.”
“Are there ancillary effects to the patient’s phobia?”
“Allow me to start at the beginning, Anton.” Scopes laid his briefcase on the table, opened it and removed a few thick manila folders, each bound with a red ribbon. “These are the patient’s files. You may keep them for review should you decide to involve yourself with the case.”
Zarnak merely nodded.
“The patient’s name is Geddes, Henry Geddes,” Scopes began. “And so far as I can discover and that I am informed by his wife, he had lived a completely ordinary life up until about a year ago when he came upon an inheritance. It was at that time that he was notified through the law offices of Kierny and Taylor of Tarreytown that he was the legal heir of property outside Lefferts Corners, a small town near the Taconic Mountains. It seems that Henry was the descendent of an old Dutch family named Martense that had lived in the area years ago. Anyway, the inheritance was a house that had once belonged to a family named Meir, relatives of the Martense’ and for which attorneys have been seeking heirs for as far back as the early ‘20s. A small trust fund had almost given out and the property about to revert to the community when Henry was found.
“Of course, he accepted the windfall and moved in with his wife and son about a year ago, as I have said. It was very soon after that that his strange delusions began.”
“And what are those delusions?” asked Zarnak.
“He claims his son is not what he appears to be,” said Scopes, almost shrugging. “That he had to destroy him in order to save him.”
“Is this delusion limited only to his son? I mean, does he feel the same way toward his wife?”
“No, he claims to still love her the same as always.”
“I suppose you have exercised the usual battery of approaches to such cases?” Zarnak had begun taking notes.
“Yes. I began with mild psychoanalysis and when the sessions yielded nothing of importance, I moved on to physical, visual and aural exercises. It was quite frustrating as they mostly indicated that Henry was perfectly sane. I even attempted discussions with him in logic and deductive reasoning, but to no avail. I won’t hesitate to say that he’s perfectly harmless to himself or anyone else, except to his own son, whom I’m certain he would destroy the moment I ever released him from Resthaven.”
“Have you checked for a family history of such behavior?”
“His family background is impeccable,” replied Scopes.
“And his new-found family background?”
“Why…I didn’t check…I didn’t think it had any bearing…”
“Hm.” Zarnak tapped his pencil once on the pad where he had been keeping his notes. “Yes, Evan,” he said at last. “I think I will look into this case. Please make an appointment for me to come down and visit Mr. Geddes…say next week?”
“Certainly. First thing Monday then?”
“Fine, I’ll see you then.”
A few minutes later, Scopes was whisking downward to the lobby, relieved at having Zarnak on the case, but also unaccountably uneasy over not having checked Geddes’ other family background.
2. Zarnak Investigates
Early the next day, Zarnak left his perch on top of the Towers and descended to the street. The late October sunshine was warm but there was a crisp breeze that found its way down to Central Park and blew up litter along the street. Zarnak waited as the Towers’ doorman stepped to the curb and raised his hand for a taxi. In seconds, one of New York’s ubiquitous yellow cabs rolled to a stop in front of the building and the doorman pulled open the rear door. Zarnak held his hat and ducked inside. The door slammed and the cabbie said, “Where to mister?”
“94th and Second,” said Zarnak settling back.
Some minutes later, the taxi stood double parked along busy 94th Street. Zarnak handed the driver a bill and exited to the sidewalk. A long row of old townhouses stretched along either side of the street. Small trees captured within wrought iron cages stood at the curb. Glancing at the number of the brownstone building directly in front of him, Zarnak began walking down the street. With his hat, he wore a long coat over his suit and a white scarf was tucked neatly around his collar. In his hand he carried a black briefcase. Presently, he came to the address he was looking for. Just to the left of the double oak doors that stood at the top of a short flight of stone steps was a large metal plaque: New York Genealogical Society it read.
Inside, Zarnak doffed his coat and hat and placed them in a closet in the foyer. A thin, middle-aged woman, still very handsome, met him there and asked, “Dr. Zarnak, a pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure is mine Mrs. Johns,” Zarnak replied.
Mrs. Johns led him to the reception desk where he entered his name into a visitor’s ledger. Flipping back through some of the pages, he noticed the name Gerald Kierney. He smiled. It had taken a while for Mr. Kierney to come to New York.
“We have a number of tables free in the reference room,” said Mrs. Johns motioning for Zarnak to precede her into the nearby library.
Zarnak was shown to a heavy wooden table well apart from the only other person working in the room. He placed his briefcase on it and turned to Mrs. Johns, “I think we can begin with the National Ledger…volumes 8 through 10.”
“I’ll have them brought in for you in a jiffy, Doctor,” said Mrs. Johns.
While waiting, Zarnak opened his briefcase and arranged his things. Presently, a young man came into the room wheeling a well oiled cart laden with the thick volumes Zarnak had asked for. In the course of the morning, he was able to trace Henry Geddes’ parentage back far enough to find where it connected with that of the Meir line. From there, it was a simple thing to find where the Meir’s intersected with the Martense’. It appeared that the two lines separated sometime early in the 1800s and though some of the Meir descendents ventured into the wider world most, like their Martense cousins, remained insular and provincial. The line eventually disappearing in a blur of Meirs, all inter-marrying and never straying far from the family home near Lefferts Corners. Those things went on in the days before modern transportation.
It was while looking through the Martense line however, that Zarnak found something interesting. Like the Meir’s, it too petered out amid incestuous pairings but, in the old volume where the last recorded entry was, Zarnak found a yellowed newspaper article pressed between the pages. Unfolding it carefully, he read a short piece about a vague disturbance outside Lefferts Corners involving the old Martense homestead. The date line at the top of the article showed that the story appeared in the New York Times of the early 1920s.
His research completed, Zarnak replaced his things, signed out, and went to find a taxi.
His next stop was the New York Public Library where he visited the microfilm department. It took a few hours b
efore he found what he was looking for, but Zarnak judged the time spent to have been worth it. A series of news articles and features had been filed throughout the summer of 1921 of strange doings surrounding the tiny community of Lefferts Corners, New York. Much of the continuing story seemed vague to Zarnak, but he was able to gather that a series of frightful deaths had taken place in the area and a wild beast, perhaps a mountain lion or even a bear, was suspected. Incongruously, it seemed that the entire region had been honeycombed with subterranean tunnels that were prone to collapse from time to time from the effects of erosion. The whole thing apparently climaxed in a series of explosions that not only destroyed the old Martense mansion but also, if the accounts were to be believed, the entire top of a nearby mountain.
Now Zarnak was not in the habit of dismissing the strange and the odd having had experience in both for many years, but even his credulity would have been taxed to the utmost if it were not for the coincidence of the events described in the news accounts and the presence in the area of the Martense and Meir homesteads.
Some minutes later, Zarnak was in a public telephone booth in the lobby of the Library and dialing a number. In moments a voice answered.
“Resthaven hospital, may I help you?”
“Yes, could you connect me with Dr. Evan Scopes please?”
“Who may say is calling sir?”
“Dr. Anton Zarnak.”
“One moment doctor.”
“Hello, Dr. Scopes speaking.”
“Evan, this is Anton.”
“So soon?”
“I’m finished work on this end and was wondering if I was still clear for Monday?”
“Of course, the staff has been notified to expect you.”
“Good. I was also wondering if you could call Mrs. Geddes and ask her if I could come up to see her for a couple of days.”
“Is that necessary?”
“I think so, but I can’t say just how yet. Will you do that for me?”
Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois Page 13
