That Which Should Not Be

by Talley, Brett J.

  “Imagine it, telling those without sight what you witness every day of your life? Could they come to any other conclusion than you have lost your mind? No, better to say in the kingdom of the mad, it is the sane man that is condemned, for he sees what the others cannot.

  “That was Robert, Dr. Hamilton. It was not madness that gave him the third eye, the burning vision that sees them. Their minds so strong that even in their dreams, they walk the Earth. A blessing, a curse. Better to see than to be seen. For while seeing them may bring true madness, being seen will bring only death. The petrifying gaze of Medusa, the death-darting eye of the Cockatrice, the dreadful sight of the Basilisk, the stone-cold stare of the Regulus. There is truth in myth, my friend. Around you they walk even now, floating before your blind eyes. They are the flash in the corner of your vision, the shadow moving where no one walks, the feeling of a presence when you are completely alone, the whisperer in the darkness. That which is, and was, and will be again.”

  I stood like a statue, listening as Dr. Seward spoke, as he wove his tale of Robert’s horror. I shuddered to think what it must have been like, to live in a place such as this, to see with your own eyes such horrors but to have none believe you. I suppose such is the life of every man we call insane. Everyone’s world makes sense to themselves, even if outsiders cannot see the creatures that float and dance in the darkness. But Dr. Seward had fallen silent now, and I knew that to not engage him would be to lose him.

  “Despite the awfulness of the things you describe, you sought to raise them nonetheless?”

  “It is useless to resist,” he answered. “They are coming. As surely as you and I live, they will return. The ancient cities will rise from beneath the waves, and he that has slept these long ages of men will awaken. You will be destroyed, Dr. Hamilton. We merely sought the same thing as the Christian and the Jew and the Mohammedan — eternal life. But not some mere promise of it, a lie wrapped in swaddling clothes. No, immortality on Earth and rule over those that remain.”

  “And for that you killed Thacker?”

  Dr. Seward sighed, and when he did it was like a wind blowing through the tunnel.

  “I told you, I didn’t kill Thacker. The same thing that took your young friend killed him. We weren’t ready for the ceremony.”

  “Weren’t ready?” I asked. I didn’t care about his babbling, not really, but I still couldn’t place his voice, and I feared with each passing moment he might leave.

  “You wouldn’t understand. There are books of wisdom far more ancient than your Bible, written by hands that aren’t always human. We had one in our possession, an ancient tome, the name of which would mean nothing to you, but would stop the hearts of those who fear it. The Necronomicon, its blood-inked pages filled with arcane knowledge beyond the understanding of even the wisest men. We believed it was enough, that with it alone we could wake the sleeper. As Thacker was ripped limb from limb by the same one who killed your Robert, I knew we were wrong.” Dr. Seward paused. Before I could ask another question, he said, “But I have tarried too long. I must depart, for I still have much to accomplish. Farewell, my old friend.”

  “Seward!” I yelled. “Show yourself!”

  My voice echoed down the corridor, but only silence answered. My heart started to race within me as hope fled and despair filled the void. But then I saw a glow in the darkness. At first, I knew my mind had broken, that such was not possible. But it was there nonetheless, floating in the dust, calling me. I took a step towards it, and it floated away. Another cautious step, and then another. Each time it fled ever so slightly, though never increasing the distance. I began running, following the glow through corridor after corridor, turn after turn, until finally the glow no longer moved away. Instead it had become the literal light at the end of the tunnel — I had found the exit.

  I rushed out into the swirling night, the falling dust replaced by torrents of snow. Despite the snow, the light of the full moon seemed to illuminate the whole field. Not more than a hundred feet away, I saw Dr. Seward running towards the cover of the forest.

  “Seward!” I yelled, my voice echoing off the ice like the roar of some wild beast. Dr. Seward stopped dead in his tracks, hesitating for a long moment in mid-stride. Then he straightened himself, pausing at his full height, finally turning on his heel.

  “Surprising,” he said simply, with an evil grin I had never before seen on that face.

  I leveled my gun at his chest.

  “We go back now. Inspector Davenport will be here shortly to take you to Boston. You can lead him to that poor girl’s body.”

  The grin turned to a smirk.

  “You’ve read this book before, I think. I’m not going back.”

  I pulled back the hammer on the revolver. I didn’t say a word. There was no need. The gun said enough.

  “You can’t kill me, Dr. Hamilton.”

  I pulled the trigger. The explosion echoed off of the ice and snow. The bullet caught Dr. Seward in his right shoulder, just as I had intended. Dr. Seward grabbed his arm, the smile gone, and looked at me with shock. But it was a feigned surprise. Soon, the smile returned, followed by a cackling laugh. He raised his hand to me. There was no blood. No blood on his shoulder either.

  I let the gun fall to my side as I stared at the impossibility. Dr. Seward laughed on, his voice growing higher, his howl more deranged. But then the laugh caught somewhere deep within his throat. The smile remained locked on his face, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. I had seen this look before, seen eyes locked just over my shoulder, seen the face fall into shock.

  But this time was different. This time I could feel the presence behind me, see its breath crystallize in the cold air around me. But it was the sound that chilled me more than the winter’s wind, the guttural growl and the swish of whip-like tentacles that seemed to strike the air beside me. I didn’t look behind, but I could see them in my peripheral vision, impossible extensions of that which should not be.

  I watched Seward change before my eyes, as his mouth began to quiver, his body to shake. Then the amazing, the impossible, the unfathomable. Dr. Seward’s hair, black as ravens’ feathers despite his age, turned white before my very eyes. The color seemed to drain away, starting from the tips and traveling to the scalp. His mouth fell open, twisting, stretching, breaking in a silent scream.

  I don’t know what happened after that. The mind can only take so much. My last memory is falling into a dark and welcome void.

  They found me like that, Dr. Winthrop and Inspector Davenport, Braddock and Dr. Harker. I was lying in the snow, Dr. Seward’s body not ten feet from mine. I told them what I saw. They didn’t believe me. And how could they when a bullet hole was all that remained where the back of Dr. Seward’s skull should have been?

  I left the asylum then, left and came here to Anchorhead. I took up an apprenticeship with the local doctor and replaced him when he died. I’m fairly happy now, and I do not often regret leaving my chosen profession behind. But I never forget some truths. That what we see is not all there is, and that just beyond my vision float beings as unbelievably powerful as they are filled with a burning hatred of mankind. And sometimes, when the light is right — or should I say the darkness — if I turn quickly enough, I catch a glimpse of a thing that cannot be . . . that should not be . . . but that is, nevertheless.

  Part V

  Chapter

  29

  Carter Weston:

  The tavern was quiet now, save for the clatter of the bartender as he gathered abandoned plates and beer steins. The wind no longer howled, the snow having stopped about the time it started in William’s story.

  “Gentlemen,” Captain Gray said, “I believe we may have worn out our welcome.”

  The other three nodded. Indeed, we were the tavern’s only remaining denizens. Gray rose from his chair and walked over to the bar. He spoke with the burly man behind it for a moment, and to my great surprise the man bellowed a raucous laugh. Gray handed him something �
�� a large bill or two no doubt — and walked back to where we still sat. The other three rose to meet him. Since it looked as though the night was ended, I stood as well.

  Gray shook the men’s hands, whispering a few words to each. One by one, they turned to go. Jack simply nodded, while Daniel took my hand briefly. Only William spoke.

  “Good luck, my friend,” he said. “But never forget what lurks in the shadows.”

  Then he, too, was gone, leaving only myself and Gray behind.

  “Well, Mr. Weston, it appears we are alone.”

  Gray had that twinkle in his eye, that half smile that told me the night was not quite over.

  “I would like you to stay at my estate tonight, Mr. Weston. What do you say?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I replied, surprised at his suggestion, “I’ve already been to the Inn, and I . . .”

  Gray raised his hand. “I sent my man to gather your things two hours ago. They are already in the guest room in my home. I also paid your bill at the Inn, with a little extra for any trouble the lady of the house may have endured.”

  I chuckled. “I see you are a man who gets what he wants.”

  “Eh, I may have retired, but the captain of a ship never truly leaves the helm,” he said, slapping me on the back as we walked towards the door. “And a ship at sea is one of the last truly despotic places on Earth. The captain is king. One gets used to command.”

  He opened the door and I stepped outside. The night was still, dead. People speak of the calm before the storm, but more truly remarkable is the calm after a blizzard. No birds sang, no dogs barked. Silence has a sound, and I heard it that night. A low constant murmur, a hum, like the rolling of the sea, but without the breakers.

  There was the glow, too, the subtle phosphorescence of freshly fallen snow, as it seems to collect every ray of light, every flicker of a candle, every twinkling of a star. Collect it, intensify it, and release it back into the darkness.

  That was the world I walked into, one of perpetual silence and light. It looked as if a great white blanket had fallen across that little town. A white sheet, the imperfect shape of the buildings and trees it covered, broken only by the footsteps of those who had gone before. We walked in silence, a silence shattered when a large, black carriage rolled out from a side street, stopping in front of us. The driver climbed down from his perch and pulled the door open. He gestured inside without a word. I looked at the Captain.

  “Please,” he said with a sweep of his hand, “you first.”

  I climbed into the black cavern beyond and found a very well-apportioned cabin inside. It was clear to me the Captain had prospered during his travels. He climbed in behind me, sitting with his back to the driver. The clouds had thinned somewhat, and the light from the full moon beamed in through the carriage window and onto my face. But the Captain sat in shadow and darkness.

  Suddenly there was a burst of light as he struck a match, dropping the flaming end into the bowl of a pipe he held. As he drew quick, short breaths, the pipe flamed until finally it smoldered on its own. The captain shook out the match with a quick flick of his hand. Now, he was in darkness again, his face revealed only for the briefest of moments when he drew the smoke into his lungs. I felt the jerk of the horses, and we began our difficult journey through the snow-bound streets.

  “So, my young friend,” he said after we had traveled only a short distance, “what really brings you to our little town?”

  I hesitated. Though I did my best to sell the story of a journey related to my academic pursuits, I had always sensed, despite his seeming acceptance, the Captain had never fully believed that lie.

  “What do you mean?” I replied, though I felt foolish as soon as the words left my mouth.

  “I’ve heard of a lot of things, but heading out in the midst of a blizzard to collect old wives’ tales, that’s a new one.”

  I considered whether to simply tell the Captain my mission at that moment. I felt a trust in him, though I wasn’t sure why, and rationally I could give no objective reason to support that view. It was my rational mind that won out in the end. He sat shrouded in darkness, and I gave him no reply.

  “But,” he said finally and to my relief, “it is really not my concern why you are here, though I do consider it my good fortune that I found you. And yours too, I suppose. Given the purpose of your visit.”

  There was the sting of sarcasm in that last sentence.

  “The four of us rarely meet, lest it be in thunder, lightning , or in rain. And tonight, snow.” The captain laughed lightly, but he wasn’t silent for long. “Fate, I suppose, we were there as you arrived. And our good luck that I read you immediately as a man seeking company, even if you were not aware of that quest at the time. No doubt you were worried on your train down from Arkham, that you would spend many days, even weeks, searching for the thing you seek. Yet you found it quite by accident on your very first night here.”

  It was eerie, the way he spoke, and more unnerving how accurate his words were, though he knew nothing of my real purpose and that in fact, the object of that quest was no closer than when I’d arrived. Though I hoped to enlist the Captain in my mission at some point, I did not know how many days would pass before that moment would come.

  “I wonder, now you have heard all three, what did you think of my old friends’ stories? I am interested only because it is those stories that tie us, four different men, together. And for your academic analysis, of course,” he threw in casually at the end. The captain was clearly enjoying my failed ruse.

  As the carriage rocked along, now traveling higher, I thought carefully about the Captain’s question. Other than during the telling of each tale, I had not considered their content in much depth. The stories had come quickly, one after another, each different, each unique, and each compelling enough that my mind did not wander to the tales already told.

  “Well,” I began, “obviously each man suffered greatly in his story, and I would wager each was deeply affected by the events he witnessed.”

  “Some would call them broken men,” the Captain interjected. “But I would not be so cold, so cruel, or so quick to judge. Those slanderers would be wrong, too. What one can say for sure is each man lost his innocence, his youth, in those days that passed so long ago. One can never truly know when he steps outside his door whether today will be a day that passes without consequence, or if it will be one that changes everything.

  “Each man made a choice: Jack to take his first expedition outside the care of his father; Daniel to travel to Europe and then seek adventure in the East; William to launch his career at Danvers. Each of those choices was as innocuous as it was justified. Jack had traveled the western woods his entire life. He knew them, if not as well as his father, well enough. If he was to be his own man, he would need to leave his father’s sheltering arms and step out on his own. Daniel sought adventure and an experience to warm the cold nights of boredom that no doubt would have followed as a lawyer in Boston or any other town. William was simply grabbing hold of an opportunity that could not be refused.

  “Each of them suffered for those choices, but each also overcame. How many men, if they had seen what Jack saw, endured what he endured, would have dedicated the remainder of their lives to traveling those mysterious and uncharted woods? How many would have simply rested in the comforting bosom of their wealthy father for the remainder of their lives if they saw the things Daniel saw in that hellish monastery? And William, my God, most men would have been inmates in the very asylum in which he worked. But no, he went on and has done quite well for himself. Each made a choice, and each has lived with that choice. I wonder, what choice did you make today?”

  I felt a chill, and not from the cold air, when the Captain turned the conversation to me. That I could not see his face made it all the worse. So I chose the easiest path, the path most would choose in such a moment. I avoided the question.

  “It makes me wonder, too, how did you end up with these men? You sp
oke of their stories, but I have yet to hear your tale. And from what I have seen, it seems as though whatever befell them, you have managed to avoid?”

  There was a chuckle in the darkness. “Ah yes, it is true, you do not know my story. All in good time. If you are to understand and appreciate mine, you must first truly know theirs. Tell me what else struck you of what you heard tonight.”

  “The most obvious thing,” I said after another moment’s thought, “was the uncanny consistency in each. Though I found some aspects to be truly remarkable, to the point of obvious hallucination, the underlying core, this notion of a creeping fear just beyond the boundaries of our civilization, one as ancient as it is malicious, was constant.”

  “But you, of course, do not believe in such a faith, or such a fear?”

  “You are beginning to sound like Dr. Seward now,” I answered with a chuckle. Captain Gray did not laugh. And if I could have penetrated that darkness, I was sure I would have seen he didn’t smile either. But when he inhaled sharply on his pipe, the glow from the flaming embers revealed a sly smirk.

  “Yes,” he said, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, “Seward saw enough that faith was not required. Faith comes by hearing, and you have heard. But you do not believe?”

  “Do I believe your three friends spoke the truth tonight? Absolutely. But what underlies it, I have a more difficult time believing.”

  “And yet did you not come here this night, driven by something akin to what they have claimed?”

  “Perhaps,” I said simply.

  “Ah, yes. Perhaps.”

  The captain fell silent then, puffing slowly on his pipe, watching me from behind the veil of darkness. Though his eyes were cloaked, I could feel them studying me. I looked away, out the window into the night beyond. We were climbing a hill now. I could see, built on its crest, a mansion. It sat perched on a cliff. The roaring sea was below, like something out of a dream. Yes, the Captain had prospered indeed. The carriage pulled around a fountain, silent and frozen now, to a large entrance of thick double doors. With a jerk, the carriage door was open. The captain exited first, and I followed. We strode together into the ornate foyer.