Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy)

by Graham McNeill

  “Of course,” said Oliver, entering a good-sized room of gleaming ceramic tiles of antiseptic white. Banks of machinery stood against one wall, while a number of beds lined the other. A single nurse stood by the only occupied bed, and Oliver did a double-take as he recognized her as the one he’d seen at the reception desk, but surely it could not be her. She hadn’t accompanied them...but perhaps there was another way to this part of the asylum.

  Henry Cartwright was secured to the bed by heavy leather straps, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he drooled a steady stream of saliva onto the sheets. Oliver felt monstrously guilty for having left his old friend to the none-too-tender mercies of the asylum staff.

  “Good God,” said Oliver. “Is all this really necessary?”

  “I am afraid it is,” said Hardstrom, moving past Oliver to stand beside Henry’s bed. “Your friend has become rather more agitated of late. He has become violent to himself and others, and raves of things I shall not repeat in the presence of a lady.”

  Oliver looked into Henry’s eyes, and recoiled from the ghastly horror of their depths. Knowing now a measure of Henry’s past, he saw the anguish of too much knowledge and the fear of what lay beyond the common understanding of men. Oliver’s fear that he too might end up in the care of this institution was doubled at the sight of Henry. Secrets to which his friend had become privy during the war were now Oliver’s to bear. His sanity was already cracking under the strain. How much longer would it take before he was strapped to a bed and drooling into his pillow?

  “I thought you didn’t use restraints here,” said Oliver.

  “Normally we don’t,” agreed Hardstrom, “but I am afraid Henry’s physical outbursts became too violent and sustained to be adequately controlled by pharmaceutical means. This was the only way to prevent him from hurting himself.”

  “Hurting himself?”

  “Indeed. There have been several suicide attempts,” Hardstrom informed him.

  “God above,” said Oliver, sitting beside the bed and taking Henry’s hand. “I’m so sorry…”

  “I have taken the liberty of recording the sessions where I tried to reason with Henry, but I was able to glean little from his words.”

  “Why not?” said Oliver bitterly. “Aren’t you supposed to be an expert?”

  “I am a leader in my field,” said Hardstrom. “But that is neither here nor there. The reason I could make little headway was due to Henry speaking in languages I could not understand.”

  “Languages? What manner of languages?”

  “I wish I could tell you,” said Hardstrom. “Some of it was English, and I believe some was French, but much of it was simply gibberish.”

  “And you say you recorded this?”

  “Of course.”

  “I want to hear those recordings,” said Oliver. “All of them. Now.”

  “As I said, Professor Grayson,” said Hardstrom, glancing over at the nurse. “Some dreadful things were said, things of a perverse and bloody nature that I would rather keep between us men. You understand, of course.”

  Oliver took a deep breath and said, “I don’t give a damn for your sensibilities. I want to hear those recordings, and I want to hear them now.”

  * * *

  Darkness closed in on Arkham, and though people told themselves that this night was no different than any other, they knew, via forgotten and atrophied senses, that it was not. It began in mid-evening, when a wave of nausea spread through the town, surging outward from the grounds of the university to encompass the entire town and locales as far away as Dunwich to the west and Innsmouth to the east. Men and women complained of sudden headaches as dogs barked furiously at the moon and choirs of cats took to the roofs of Arkham to mewl through the night. Stray animals banded together, taking refuge in the dark corners of the town, and the streets emptied as the air became charged with a loathsome, stomach-churning static.

  Children woke from horror-filled dreams, shrieking in terror as the last slimy vestiges of watery nightmares drained from their memories. Mothers held their children tight, soothing their terrors with soft platitudes they could not quite believe.

  Arkham’s lights winked on throughout the night as restless sleepers stirred and wakeful families huddled together in fear of some boundless dread they could not articulate. Among the common folk of Arkham, none could place a name to this fear, but within the communities of poets, artists, and sculptors, there broke out a feverish night of creativity. Grotesque clay figurines, unsightly canvases, and diabolical verses were conjured into being by this frightful muse.

  Few of these nightmarish creations survived past morning, when their creators, disgusted by the foulness they had wrought, smashed them to pieces or hurled them into fireplaces. Four young artists committed suicide at daybreak, while others sought to erase the memory of that night with alcohol or drugs.

  When at last Apollo spread his light over Arkham, it was greeted with the kind of relief that might be expected upon the return of the sun in benighted places such as Alaska, where night held sway for weeks at a time.

  That relief was to be short-lived, as Arkham residents tried to immerse themselves in the mundane reality of the world by reading their newspapers. Here, they hoped to forget the night’s disturbing madness by reading of local events, county elections, and upcoming sporting events.

  The front page of the Gazette shattered any such hope, and the town drew a collective gasp of horror as the bubble of ignorance and denial that protected its veneer of normality began to crack. On the trolleys to work, on street corners, and in chill offices all over Arkham, the talk was of the dead bodies found beneath the Garrison Street Bridge.

  Panic and terror combined in a psychological alchemist’s brew, producing fear and suspicion. By mid-morning, immigrant houses in Lower Southside had been vandalized and accusing fingers were already being pointed at those suspected of involvement.

  Fearful citizens besieged the Arkham police station, demanding to know what was being done to find this deranged killer. The Chief of Police stood before the station and reassured the public that they had a number of promising leads and an arrest would be made soon. His assurances were delivered in a wavering monotone, and few in the crowd were convinced by his words. Throughout the day, police rousted drifters, loiterers, and men unlucky enough to catch the eye of a heavy-handed patrolman. The jail soon filled with the usual suspects, and additional facilities within the courthouse were called into service.

  Arkham had not known terror like this since the cannibal murderer’s rampage in 1905.

  And things were only going to get worse.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rubbing his bleary eyes with his fingers, Oliver almost didn’t see the commotion around the Tyner Annex. It had been a long and painful night, listening to Henry’s monstrous ravings on the wax cylinders Dr. Hardstrom had eventually been persuaded to give him. To hear so erudite a man reduced to lunatic screams of such bloodcurdling horror was no easy task, but too many significant convergences were occurring for him to dismiss what Henry was saying. Learning that the root of Henry’s madness lay in damnable books and hideous knowledge found in a sealed library made it all the more vital.

  Oliver bumped into a gawping student and turned to admonish him for his clumsiness, when he saw the sorry state of the building to his right.

  The Tyner Annex looked like it had suffered the effects of a recent earthquake. Oliver had seen photographs of the dreadful quake that had hit San Francisco in 1906, and the deep cracks crazing the building’s frontage were strikingly similar. Every window was shattered, and broken glass lay strewn on the grass and paths surrounding the building like glittering knife blades.

  “Good God,” said Oliver, surveying the damage done to the building and the surrounding structures. The Liberal Arts building had lost a few windows and the trees to either side of the pathway had been stripped of leaves. Bright yellow blossoms carpeted the grass and hundreds of roof tiles lay in shattered p
iles throughout the parkland surrounding the Copley Tower.

  Construction workers nailed boards over the windows and members of the School of Applied Science gathered in concerned knots before the building, shaking their heads and pointing to various areas of structural damage. Oliver grabbed the student he had bumped into and said, “What happened here? Was anyone hurt?”

  The student shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. Everyone’s saying a bomb went off inside.”

  “A bomb?”

  “That’s what they’re saying, sir.”

  “Christ! A bomb? Kate…,” said Oliver, setting off toward the entrance to the building where the science faculty gathered like crows in their dark suits. His fear rose up and threatened to overcome him. Had he put Kate Winthrop in danger by passing that device of Finn’s to her? Oliver’s pulse boomed in his ears and he tried not to believe that this incident was yet another link in the chain that led back to Amanda’s dreams of a sunken city.

  “Dr. Abbott!” cried Oliver, spying the dean of the science faculty. “What in heaven’s name happened here? Is everyone all right?”

  Abbott turned to regard Oliver with mild disdain. Lawrence Abbott was an engineer by training, a serious-minded man whose level-headed ambition had seen his faculty rise to become one of the preeminent departments of the university. Gray-haired and severe, his critical mindset was at once imposing and inspiring.

  “Professor Grayson,” said Abbott. “We are still in the process of determining what happened, but thankfully no one was seriously hurt. The building was largely empty when the accident occurred.”

  “Accident? I heard it was a bomb.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, man,” said Abbott. “I have been inside and can say without fear of contradiction that this was no explosive device.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “That is yet to be ascertained, though we will reach the bottom of the matter, I assure you. This building cost a great deal to construct and houses some extremely valuable research. It won’t do to have spurious rumors spreading of experiments gone wrong. This is a faculty grounded in empirical research and safe practice, and I would thank you not to voice such demented notions again.”

  “Of course,” said Oliver. “I apologize for speaking out of turn.”

  Before Abbott could respond, a man stalked toward Oliver with his face colored a vivid red. Oliver recognized Dr. William Dyer, one of Miskatonic’s rising stars in the field of geology. Fifty years old and immaculately dressed, Dyer seethed with anger. His fists were bunched and for a moment Oliver thought the man was going to punch him then and there.

  “Damn you, Grayson!” shouted Dyer. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  Oliver struggled to form a reply. His first thought was to profess ignorance of what had happened here, but the lie would not form on his lips.

  “You’ve cost us years! All the work we’ve done to prepare for the Antarctic expedition is lost. Up in smoke!” raged Dyer. “Priceless research blasted to atoms and machinery that took years to design and build pulverized. And it’s all your damn fault. I ought to knock your block off. Don’t think I won’t be reporting you to President Wainscott!”

  Oliver was shocked by Dyer’s outrage, but then the man had just seen his life’s work set back by years, a situation of which Oliver was not unaware. The Antarctic expedition was to be the jewel in the university’s crown, and to have that delayed, even slightly, might allow others to explore the land first.

  “You must be mistaken, Dr. Dyer,” said Oliver. “I haven’t set foot on the university grounds since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Oh, I know that,” snapped Dyer. “You gave an unstable item to a graduate student, and rather than consulting with the heads of faculty, you had her conduct experiments using equipment she was untrained to use. You see the results of that folly here before you.”

  “Kate Winthrop, yes, I spoke to her and asked her to look into a matter of a scientific nature, it’s true. What happened to her, is she hurt?”

  “She’s unhurt, no thanks to you. Thank God she managed to get herself out of the lab before the energy surge,” growled Dyer. “Whatever the hell that thing you gave her was, it caused all this damage and wrecked one of our most important laboratories.”

  “An energy surge, is that what caused this?”

  “Of course it was. A massive, low-frequency sound wave pulse.”

  “Where is Miss Winthrop now?” asked Oliver. “I should really speak to her.”

  Dyer threw up his hands. “Hundreds of thousands of dollars of equipment and facilities ruined and he wants to know about a damn graduate student! Just because your own expedition failed doesn’t give you the right to try and sabotage mine, Grayson.”

  “What? You think that I…”

  Before Oliver could complete his rebuttal, Dr. Abbott said, “Perhaps you should take your leave for now, Professor Grayson. I suspect the engineering professors will be in extremis for quite some time, and the last thing anyone needs is a scene. You understand?”

  “If you think it wise,” said Oliver, swallowing his anger at Dyer’s accusation, “then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Good man,” said Abbott. “It’s for the best just now.”

  Oliver nodded. “I’ll say good day then, Dr. Abbott.”

  “I will be in touch as matters progress.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” said Oliver as Abbott turned Dyer away to consult with the faculty professors and structural engineers on the damaged building’s stability.

  As Oliver made his way back to his office, his mind raced over the possible causes of this accident. Sabotage? A genuine accident? Or some hidden property of the device? He was grateful that Kate had come through this disastrous incident unscathed, but he had to know what had become of the device he and Finn had brought her.

  He entered the Liberal Arts building and climbed the stairs to his office, slumping in his chair to look out the window. Though the day looked clear and crisp, he couldn’t help but feel that something sullen had settled over the town, like a shroud placed over a body in a mortuary. Oliver tried to shake off the eerie sensation without much success and turned back to his desk. His briefcase contained the wax cylinders he had taken from Arkham Asylum and he spread them over the surface of his desk.

  “Just like Hillshore,” mused Oliver, ordering them in chronological order. There were two dozen cylinders, which meant around a hundred minutes of material. Oliver knew it would take at least three listens to each cylinder to truthfully transcribe its contents, with the quality degrading each time. This would be a long day, but fortunately Alexander had agreed to cover his classes.

  He would need a phonograph machine to play these cylinders, but as he was about to leave his office and speak to the staff in charge of such devices, he spotted a folded piece of paper wedged between The Mysterious Island and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

  Intrigued, Oliver pulled it out and read the hurried handwriting. It read:

  Still have the sphere. Didn’t want to leave it with faculty heads.

  Too much work still to do. Will be in contact later.

  K.W.

  * * *

  The talk at Lucy’s was all about the bodies. It seemed the prospect of ten or more corpses turning up in various states of decomposition did not dent the hunger of your average citizen, and the diner was nearly full to lunchtime capacity. Gabriel Stone was already waiting for them, seated in the same booth in which they had first compared notes. He sipped a coffee and flicked through the pages of his notebook as he waited for them to join him. As Rex and Minnie made their way through the crowded diner, Rex sensed a dark undercurrent to the place, like everyone was on edge.

  They’re deathly afraid, he thought. And I’m not sure I blame them.

  He’d noticed the tension in the air on the way over to Lucy’s. The town’s streets were awfully quiet. This time of day, Rex would have expected lots of folk to be out and about—wor
king, shopping, or just out for a stroll—but everyone was keeping indoors. For all the talk on the wireless of the bodies being those of transients and hobos, the good citizens of Arkham were, for once, not buying it.

  People knew something terrible was going on, they just didn’t know what to do about it.

  They reached Stone, and the Pinkerton agent looked up. He didn’t smile or welcome them, just went back to his notes like he didn’t even know them.

  “Stone,” said Rex, letting Minnie slide into the booth first.

  “Murphy. Klein,” said Stone, and Rex thought the man looked dreadful. Like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Perhaps his lawman persona was cracking under the weight of what he was investigating? Rex took no pleasure in seeing the man’s deterioration. His daughter was dead, and Rex couldn’t imagine what Stone must be feeling.

  “So, looks like you were right,” said Rex, gesturing to the counter for some coffee.

  “About what?” asked Stone.

  “About there being more bodies.”

  “Kind of wish I wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean, but it is what it is, right?” said Rex. “You figured the missing girls were dead.”

  “I know, but like I said, I hoped I’d be wrong,” said Stone. Rex saw the smoldering anger in his eyes. The grief was still there, but time had distilled it to the essence of a father’s need for justice. “But since I’m not wrong, we best get on, right?”

  “Sure,” said Minnie pulling out a brown envelope of photographs and laying them down, one by one, in front of Stone. “I’ll show you these first.”

  Stone leafed through the pictures, stopping at the one with Oliver Grayson and Finn Edwards. Quickly Minnie outlined who Finn Edwards was, and Stone nodded, adding another note to his growing compendium of information.

  “So I gotta wonder what the good professor is doing hanging around with a known criminal,” said Stone. “Man keeps strange company, but this Finn Edwards better watch out. People Grayson associates with often wind up crazy.”