“Mona didn’t tell me much, something to do with uncontrollable tremors,” Althea sighed as she stroked her odd-looking cat. “They had to lock him up in a padded cell. The doctors say they’ve never seen a case like it.”
“Poor Mona,” Lydia said, holding a gloved hand to her mouth.
“That’s a beautiful cat,” Daphne commented to Althea as she passed them by.
“Thanks, her name is Grimalkin. She’s a Sphynx,” Althea said with a hieratic smile.
Wow, I had no idea that the Clinic was still operational, Daphne thought as she exited the drugstore, stepping back out into the sweltering July heat. As she walked back towards her car, she ran into her therapist, Dr. Roxy, a thin middle-aged woman with short red hair and heterochromatic eyes. As always, Dr. Roxy was wearing some sort of Native American necklace along with Navajo sterling-silver and turquoise dream catcher dangle-earrings. Dr. Roxy’s office was located in an office building right next door to old St. Durtal’s Cathedral, only a minute’s walk away from Duncan’s Drugs.
“Good afternoon, Daphne,” Dr. Roxy said in a pleasant voice.
“Hi Dr. Roxy,” Daphne smiled. “Long time no see.”
“Indeed,” Dr. Roxy said. “I’m kind of curious as to why you cancelled your appointment with me a few weeks ago.”
“To be honest with you, Dr. Roxy, I’ve been feeling fine.”
“I’m so happy to hear that, Daphne,” Dr. Roxy said with a smile. “I take it you’re still taking those pills I put you on?”
“I sure am,” Daphne assured her.
“I only ask because I know you can be forgetful,” Dr. Roxy sighed. “And you’ve been having no visions as of late?”
“It’s been awhile since the last one,” Daphne said. “Though I still don’t understand why so many people instantly equate visions with insanity. My friend Timothy told me that St. Teresa of Avila had visions, and she was eventually declared a saint.”
“Yes, but St. Teresa had a vision in which her heart was pierced by a lance held by an angel of God,” Dr. Roxy pointed out. “What did your last vision consist of, Daphne?”
“I was serenaded by an angel that looked exactly like Harry Styles,” Daphne admitted sheepishly.
Dr. Roxy smiled kindly. “I don’t think the Vatican will be canonizing you anytime soon, dear,” she said. “Look, I have some errands to run, so I won’t keep you. Should you ever need anything from me, or if you wish to make another appointment, you have my number.”
“Okay. Nice seeing you again, Dr. Roxy.”
“You too, Daphne.”
Daphne watched Dr. Roxy disappear into Duncan’s Drugs. She then climbed into her own car and cranked on the air conditioning. She decided to go home and have lunch. But then she spotted a building across the street, one she had never really noticed before. It was a small and seedy-looking two-story building, with dusty windows and a sinister character. Above the front door was a sign with the following words on it: KIRKBRIDE’S CURIOS.
Must be some kind of antique store, Daphne mused to herself. She wondered why she’d never noticed it before. She decided to go into the store and have a look around. So she got out of her car again, crossed the street and opened the door, stepping into the murky gloom of the shop. She looked around the emporium. The small room was very humid and filled with large glass showcases, many of which were covered in dust, the interiors of which housed baubles and relics resting on velvet cushions. On the walls were shelves holding a number of plaster cast objets d’art, antique sculptures and waxen effigies, mainly Oriental images, though there were a few Egyptian specimens also. Daphne peered into a few of the showcases, but their outer surfaces were so filthy she could only make out dim outlines of the objects contained within. So she decided to check the shelves on the walls instead. Daphne walked past row upon row of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, hawk-headed gods and crystal Baphomets and diamond dogs. There were even a few books for sale: Daphne spotted, among other titles, the 9-volume edition of The Revelations of Gla’aki that had been edited by Percy Smallbeam and published by the Matterhorn Press in 1865.
Finally, she found a curio that caught her interest. It was a snow globe of medium size, with a small flat wooden base. Daphne carefully picked up the snow globe and inspected it. Within the globe was a miniature wintry landscape, and embedded within this landscape were five enlarged Scrabble tiles, bearing the letters L, H, O, O, and Q. Standing within the shadow cast by these letters were two tiny figurines. The first figurine was that of a young woman, who was wearing a black fedora tilted atop her head and, on her body, a dark green robe that was slit open in the back, revealing her shapely buttocks. The second figurine was that of a centaur with the head of a pigeon, and in one hand it held a long spear. Daphne gave the snow globe a gentle shake and watched the artificial “snow” inside swirl around the Scrabble tiles and the two figurines. Staring inside the globe, she marveled at how intricately detailed the figurines were, despite their small size. It was then that she noticed the words carved into the square wooden base of the snow globe: In the Shadow of the Calcified Dominion. Beneath those words were the letters “O.T.” She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the snow globe seemed to intrigue her, and she desired to learn more about the mysteriarch who had crafted it. With that goal in mind, she sought out the proprietor of the emporium.
Daphne headed to the counter at the back of the shop, said counter being situated next to a green baize door. The only object on this counter was an old-fashioned cash register. Standing behind the register was a curious-looking fellow who Daphne decided had to the shop’s proprietor. He was a pale man of indeterminate age, his face being caked with theatrical make-up, his moustache waxed with the right tip pointing upwards and the left tip pointing downwards, as if it were a tiny hairy magician miming the Hermetic maxim “As Above, So Below.” Strings were tied to his arms and legs, strings that rose upwards to the ceiling. Daphne raised her eyes and saw that these strings were attached to wheels that were in turn embedded into an extensive network of grooves that had been cut into the emporium’s ceiling. This Aschenbachian proprietor, who Daphne assumed must be named Kirkbride, saw her staring at the strings and commented, in an insinuating voice, “You must pardon my outré appearance, Madame. An obscure neurological condition that robs me of my hue and hampers my movement forces me to make use of these strings to get about. It’s not as if I wish to take on the achromous appearance of a desiccated marionette.”
“Uh, okay,” Daphne said. “I was wondering if you could tell me anything about this snow globe?”
“The snow globe you hold in your hands is the work of Patient O.T., my dear,” the proprietor said.
“Who is Patient O.T.?” Daphne asked, confused.
“He’s a patient at the Saddleworth Clinic,” the proprietor explained. “His real name is Orlando Triffid, but he prefers to go by the alias of Patient O.T. You see, the Clinic features a number of workshops, overseen by a Dr. Nolgate, that allows the patients there to exercise their, ah, creative muscles. My humble shop ends up receiving a lot of artwork designed in those workshops. Some of our more popular items are the snow globes of Patient O.T.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Daphne said. “I’d like to buy this. How much does it cost? I don’t see a price on it.”
“I made a deal with Dr. Nolgate that the patients are allowed to set their own prices for the goods they create,” the proprietor said. He reached underneath the counter and pulled out a dusty sheet of paper, the front of which was covered in neatly typed words. He blew the dust off the paper, scanned the list until he found what he was looking for. “The cost of that particular snow globe is: a few drops of the buyer’s blood.”
“Excuse me?” Daphne asked, just to make sure she hadn’t misheard him.
“Remember, Madame, when it comes to the objets d’art issued from Saddleworth, I don’t decide the prices,” the proprietor said in an apologetic voice.
“Well, I guess
I could spare some blood,” Daphne sighed.
The proprietor reached under the counter again and pulled out a small vial. “All you need to do is prick your finger and get a few drops in this vial,” he said. “Do you have a pin?”
“I think I can find something in my purse,” Daphne said. She reached into her purse and fished around until she found a safety pin. She pressed the sharp end against her left index finger until a bead of blood appeared, wincing slightly in pain as she did so. The proprietor held the vial out and she let a few drops of blood drip into the vial. When he had taken enough he corked up the vial and returned it under the counter, while Daphne reached into her purse again and found a Disney Little Mermaid Band-Aid that she proceeded to wrap around her finger.
“Okay, you’ve got your blood money, will that be all?” Daphne asked with a smirk.
“Let me just go wrap this,” the proprietor said. He gripped the snow globe in his hands and headed for the green baize door, the strings connecting his limbs to the wheels in the ceiling above keeping his frail body upright. He opened the door and disappeared from sight. A few moments later he came shambling back into the room, now holding a neatly wrapped parcel in his hands. Daphne took the wrapped snow globe from him, thanked him, and left the store. She drove back home, to her tiny house located near Vernon Park, and once inside she unwrapped the snow globe and set it on the mantle of her living room fireplace.
II
The following day, Daphne drove back downtown, this time with the intention of visiting the public library. Her reasons for visiting the library were twofold: first, she wanted to say hi to her friend Timothy; and second, to see if she could find out any information on both Orlando Triffid and also Kirkbride’s Curios. She pulled into the parking lot in front of the library and looked the building over: it was a fairly small and modern-looking building, with a large clock built into the brick wall above the main entrance. Daphne had fond memories of visiting the library during her childhood, where she would often take part in their summer reading programs, reading such classics as The Plant That Ate Dirty Socks and Bunnicula.
Daphne stepped into the air-conditioned library, headed over to the information desk, where she saw her friend Timothy Childermass reading the Tartarus Press edition of Powers of Darkness, a collection of strange stories by Robert Aickman. Timothy was her age, an attractive young gay man with an emo hairstyle reminiscent of the one sported by Adam Lambert during his American Idol days. When he noticed her walking towards the desk, he put his book down on the counter and smiled at her.
“Hey Daphne,” he said.
“Hi Timothy,” Daphne smiled back. She knew he liked being called Timothy, not Tim. “How’s work going today?”
“Very slow,” Timothy sighed. “But it beats being out there in the heat. What are you doing here?”
“Just dropping in to say hi,” Daphne said. “I was also wondering if maybe you could do a little bit of detective work for me when you get off of work today. I think it would be right up your alley, you loving mysteries and all.”
“What kind of research?” Timothy asked, his interest obviously piqued.
“I’m trying to find any information I can about a patient being held at the Saddleworth Clinic, over near Lamb’s Blood Cemetery,” Daphne explained. “The patient’s name is Orlando Triffid.”
“I can check the microfilm in our archives later on,” Timothy said as he jotted down the name ‘Orlando Triffid’ on a nearby notepad. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, see if you can dig up any dirt at all on a business named Kirkbride’s Curios,” Daphne said, and she gave him the shop’s address.
“Okay, I’ll look into it and see if I can dig anything up,” Timothy said. “You want I drop by your place tomorrow night?”
“Sure, that would be cool,” Daphne said. She made a show of checking her watch, then said, “I’d better be off then, I don’t want to keep you from your book.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Timothy assured her. “You working tonight?”
“Yeah, it sucks,” Daphne sighed. She worked at a local cricket farm.
“Tell me about it,” Timothy said. “Anyway, it was nice seeing you.”
“You too, Timothy,” Daphne said as she patted his hand. “Bye.”
***
Timothy stopped by Daphne’s house the following evening. She invited him in and had him take a seat in her living room. In his hands he was holding a manila folder that held a few sheets of paper. The two engaged in some idle chatter, though during the conversation Timothy kept gazing nervously out of the corner of his eye at the odd snow globe located on the mantle above Daphne’s fireplace. Finally, they got down to business.
“So, I did that research you wanted me to do,” Timothy said. “Not that I was able to find out a whole lot. But I did learn some things that might interest you.”
“Cool, like what?” Daphne asked eagerly.
“Let’s start with this Orlando Triffid character. I wasn’t able to find out all that much about his early years, other than the fact that he was born on the island of Phraxos, which is located in the Aegean Sea. His parents, who were emigrants from the country of Zembla, died when he was very young, and he ended up being raised by a friend of the family, a local millionaire who was rumored to be a wizard. Orlando moved to the city of Los Diablos when he was a teenager. During his high school years he worked parttime at some chemical factory that turned out to be a front for the local mob. He had to find a new job after the place got shut down. Have you ever heard of the Axxon N. scandal?”
“Can’t say I have, no,” Daphne said, shaking her head.
“Don’t worry, it’s all in my notes. Moving on, after graduating from high school Orlando moved to England, where he got involved with Frater Aossic’s New Isis Lodge. This was sometime in the mid-1950’s,” Timothy went on.
“What is this New Isis Lodge?” Daphne asked.
“An occult lodge of the O.T.O. founded by the occultist Kenneth Grant in 1955. They believed they had discovered a ‘transplutonic’ planet, New Isis, and they were interested in channeling transmissions from it,” Timothy said. “Following the lodge’s termination in 1962, Orlando moved back here, to Thundermist. He started up his own business, designing and then selling snow globes of his own creation. You’ll never believe where this business was located: at the exact same location where Kirkbride’s Curios resides today.”
“You don’t say,” Daphne said, a little taken aback. “But how did Orlando end up as a patient at Saddleworth?”
“He ran afoul of the law in 1977,” Timothy said, while consulting his notes. “Locals were starting to vanish and the Thundermist Police Department traced these disappearances to Orlando’s shop, which, in case you’re curious, had been named Orlando’s Ornamentals. The police got a warrant to search the place, and in the basement they discovered an enormous aquarium containing the skeleton of a gigantic alligator-like creature. And as if all that wasn’t bizarre enough, they also found heaps of human bones scattered around the tank, mostly belonging to women. Forensic science eventually revealed that these bones belonged to the locals who had gone missing. Although it was never proven that Orlando Triffid had killed the people in question, police still had enough evidence to put him on trial, where he was found clinically insane and locked up at Saddleworth, where he’s been ever since: that was back in 1978.”
“He must be a pretty old guy, then,” Daphne said.
“No kidding. When the cops arrested him they also searched his house and found a very strange library, consisting of lots of books on occultism, thaumaturgy and space voodoo. At first, the police wondered if maybe they had finally caught the Freckle Slayer, but none of the bones discovered matched the bodies of those victims.” Timothy sighed and put down his notes. “If you don’t mind my asking, Daphne, what’s your interest in this guy?”
“You know me, Timothy, I dig the freaky stuff,” Daphne said. “See that snow globe I have on the mantle ov
er there? I got it a few days ago at Kirkbride’s Curios. The owner of the place told me that it was the work of Orlando Triffid.”
“Kinda weird that the building where he ran his business years ago is still selling his wares,” Timothy said. “I wasn’t able to find out all that much information about Kirkbride’s Curios, though, aside from the fact that the building it’s in used to be the property of Orlando Triffid. It was empty for a number of years until 1984, when it became Kirkbride’s Curios.”
“Thank you, Timothy, this helps me out a lot,” Daphne said. “Is that all?”
“Oh, wait, I almost forgot, here’s a picture I managed to find of Orlando Triffid, from an old back issue of the Thundermist Times,” Timothy said as he reached into his folder. He pulled out a photocopied image of Orlando Triffid. Daphne took the photocopy from him and gazed at the picture. It was a mug shot of Orlando Triffid at the time of his arrest, in 1977, when he had been around the age of 40. Daphne was kind of disappointed: she was hoping he would look like Joseph Merrick or that mutant baby from Eraserhead, but all she saw was a bland-looking, balding white guy, whose most distinctive feature were his oddly colored eyes.
“His eyes look weird,” was all Daphne could think of to say.
“They’re glasz,” Timothy said.
“You mean he had fake eyes?”
“No, glasz is a type of eye color that consists of a blue backdrop, a thin layer of green, and small flecks of scattered gray. You know Chris Colfer from Glee? That’s his type of eye color also.”
“That’s why I love being your friend, Timothy, I learn something new from you every day,” Daphne smiled. “Thanks for going through all of this trouble for me.”
“Ah, don’t mention it, you know I love it,” Timothy said. “You can keep the folder and all of the notes in it.”
The two talked casually for another twenty minutes, then Timothy got up to leave, mentioning how he had to be at the library bright and early the next day. Daphne walked him to the door and bade him good night. After he had left, she walked back to her fireplace mantle and stared at the snow globe. It seemed weird to look at it now, knowing that it had been crafted by a madman who had most likely fed a number of hapless citizens to a reptilian monstrosity. On the other hand, it would make an interesting conversation piece for a party in the future.
Autopsy of an Eldritch City: Ten Tales of Strange and Unproductive Thinking Page 9
