by Pete Rawlik
The power was still out when I wandered down from my quarters. The wind was still howling, and the rain still battered down on the roof and windows. My lamp did little to cut the darkness that had enshrouded the hospital, but it was enough for me to make my way down the stairs and through the halls to where Barrass had set himself up with a comfortable chair and a good book. Not unexpectedly, things were not as they should have been. The lamps that Barrass had surrounded himself with had long since faltered, and by their nearly non-existent flickering glow I could see that Barrass was slumped over in the chair, fast asleep, or so I thought. My attempts to rouse the orderly were futile. He was alive, for I did detect a pulse and other life signs, though these were so faint as to make me think him dead. As I lit more of the lamps my suspicion that Davis’ slumber was unnatural was confirmed, for there on the side table was a syringe that upon examination revealed traces of morphine. Barrass had been drugged, but by whom I could not tell.
The answer to that question was quickly supplied. The light from the lamps revealed an open door, one that, despite actively avoiding, I knew the owner of. Pulver was free, from his room and from his straightjacket. He was free, and he had attacked poor Davis, though he had not done any real or permanent harm, at least not yet. That is what puzzled me most. For if Pulver was free, and as dangerous as I thought, why had he not harmed Davis? That unspoken question echoed in my mind as something large and shadowy moved to my side. It was Pulver, and with the skill of a seasoned physician a second syringe found its mark, and the warm flush of morphine washed over my mind and I fell to the floor, overcome by chemical sleep.
How long I was asleep I cannot say, but it could not have been for more than a few hours. I awoke bound and gagged in a small room in the basement illuminated by but a single bare bulb. It was not long after waking that Pulver was there. He was gloating, and there was the most horrid of looks in his eyes. When he spoke, it was without a trace of weakness or fear. He was in truth truly magnificent, and his words filled me with dread.
“Did I ask so much of ye Dr. Wilson? I asked only for that which I needed to live. Was it too much for ye to give me that which meant so little to thee, but for mine own self was the gift of life? Instead ye scorned me and forced my hand against thee and thine. What happens now is but the work of your own pride.”
He withdrew a knife, one I recognized as belonging to those being used by Mrs. Davis in the kitchen. “For what I must do now, I am truly regretful, but your acts have left me but a sole means of survival and freedom. If I am to be free, I must convince your Dr. Willett that I am merely a man that has suffered from some extraordinary nervous shock, and then while here at this place found my way back to a semblance of reason. Unfortunately my dear doctor, while my plan for freedom involves deceiving Dr. Willet, my plan for survival involves you. There are no more cats Dr. Wilson, and while I could have used that fool Barrass for my purposes, you possess certain talents that make you more appropriate for my needs.”
He used the knife, slowly, and with skill. He came back day after day, taking only what he needed. I understood what he meant when he said that I had certain talents, for a lesser man, a living man would have succumbed after but a single day. As it was I lasted more than a week, and then without explanation, Pulver ceased his visits and tortures. Despite this, I was in no position to free myself, and could do little but moan in agony beneath my gag.
Davis, fearing that he might be blamed for my disappearance, told Sammons that I had become drunk and wandered out into the night where I was washed away into the frozen sea, and there was nothing to prove him a liar. Pulver played at being a prisoner, and feigned any knowledge of my whereabouts to Davis, Sammons and Dr. Lynn, whom Sammons had called when I was found to be absent. Neither Sammons or Lynn suspected that Pulver had anything to do with my being missing, and he continued to play at being confined and controlled, all the while secretly visiting me to satisfy his inhuman hungers.
That is until the 8th of April when Willet and another man came to visit Pulver and talk to him at length. The visit had been as clandestine as it could be, for it was not recorded in the log book, and Dr. Lynn was not informed. Only Sammons, who had assisted Willet, knew that the two had come and gone, and only Sammons saw the rage and loathing that Pulver tried so hard to conceal. That night, Sammons made sure that Pulver was properly restrained, and his doors securely locked. Even during the day Pulver was properly monitored and confined to just two rooms. This almost obsessive supervision was why the monster’s daily predations on me had ceased. Had only Sammons acted on my instructions earlier, perhaps I would not have suffered so.
Dr. Willet returned to Whitmarsh on the morning of April 13th. He was alone, and after some conversation with Dr. Lynn went to see Pulver. Sammons was dismissed, and what occurred in that room has never been revealed, but within the hour the alarm was raised. According to Willett, Pulver had overpowered the physician and escaped. A search was made of the grounds and the island, and the ferryman and bay men were questioned, but to no avail. No trace of the man was ever found. Indeed the only evidence that the room he had been confined to had ever been occupied was a fine blue-tinged powder or sand that was strewn about like ash. But whatever this material was, it too was soon forgotten. The staff, following Willet’s directions, swept the room clean. The orderly Barrass then took the dusty material and cast it into the bay.
Sammons found me on the 16th of April, and the poor man nearly died of terror. I cannot blame him. Doctor Lynn was a practical man, and after the initial shock of finding me had worn off, he hid me here. It was not difficult to keep my presence or condition hidden; only Lynn and Sammons know of my presence. After all, the Whitmarsh Institute was expert at keeping secrets, what was one more thing to be hidden, even if it was something monstrous, something that had once been human, and now clung to a mere parody of life, something that had once gone by the name of Doctor Francis Paul Wilson.
III. Dr. Wilson’s Solution
I finished reading Wilson’s account and in a panic rose up and demanded that he show me what had been done to him. The wounded doctor begged me not to look at him yet, not until I had promised to help him, to somehow save him. In madness or fear, or some combination of both, I refused and in my emotional state threw on the lamp, and tore away the blankets that enshrouded my fallen colleague. If only I had done as he said. If only I had steeled myself to the possibilities, girded myself against the terrible thing that lay there beside me, perhaps then I would not have reacted the way I did, and undertaken the terrible course which ended the matter once and for all.
I left the room visibly disturbed and almost immediately encountered Dr. Lynn. In a tone that was in no way calm or rational I asked the aging administrator if he wanted me to provide a solution to his Dr. Wilson problem. Flustered he agreed, and I asked, no, demanded that he show me to his hydrotherapy facilities. He escorted me forthwith, and I confirmed that the porcelain tub he showed me was adequate to my needs. I then asked for the key to the pool maintenance shed, which he readily handed over, though he did stress that the pool had been drained for the winter. This made no difference to my plan, and after confirming the presence of certain materials, I made Lynn promise to keep both himself and his staff out of my way. Given that I was proposing to eliminate his responsibility for an embarrassing secret, he readily agreed.
Alone, and empowered by my emotional state, I returned to Wilson’s cell and using the blankets wrapped him up in a veritable cocoon of cloth. He struggled a bit, but at my direction ceased his protestations, for after all he had little choice in the matter. No one else was in a position or willing to help the poor feeble creature. I carried him from that dismal place, down the halls and corridors of the Whitmarsh Institute, until at last I came to the hydrotherapy room. There I carefully placed him into the porcelain tub, removed the bloody and stained blankets, and slowly began to fill the bath with warm water. Wilson protested and screeched in pain, but I silenced him by explaining that I needed t
o clean the wounds and remove any infected tissue. After this he acquiesced and his shrieks were swallowed into painful grimaces that contorted his face into the most explicit exhibits of agony I had ever been witness to.
After a half hour of this torturous treatment Wilson slipped into a semi-conscious state that allowed me to leave him for a bit and bring in the supplies I needed. Wilson barely stirred as I winched the barrel up into the air and then swung it over the bath, nor did he do much but whine when I opened the drain and the water began to flow outward, leaving him dry and exposed. I went to my friend then and cradled his head. I apologized for the rough treatment, and then implored him to bear with me, for I had to apply an antiseptic to the wounds, and despite his constitution I was quite sure that the process was going to be agonizing. He nodded, and indicated that I should proceed.
I made sure that he was fully contained within the bath and then quickly but carefully struck the plug on the barrel and let its contents flow out over the thing beneath it. There was a pause of silence, broken only by the gurgling sound of the liquid splashing over Wilson and filling the tub. Then there was a sudden agonized gasp, a sinister hiss, and the rush of chemical smoke that began to pour out of the basin and fill the room. I retreated, donning rubber gloves and an apron, and a mask not unlike the one I had used during my service in the war. I had hoped that this part of the procedure would go quietly, but as soon as my mask came down I knew that Wilson would fight it with whatever life he had left.
Through the stream and fumes of muriatic acid the thing that was Wilson exploded up and flailed desperately trying to find a grip and lift himself out of the now caustic bath. The flesh of his face and hand was melting, burning off in great gouts of waxy material that no longer bore any resemblance to skin or muscle. His mouth was open and his screams, filled with fumes and terror and agony echoed through the room. Dismayed, and fearful that despite my orders, his cries would bring others, I gripped his head in my left hand, and plunged it back beneath the acid, careful not to dip my glove in as well. With my right hand I grabbed his and forced it down. In his desperation Wilson worked his hand free reversed the grip and grabbed my wrist, attempting to pull himself up and out using my own strength against me. But the ploy failed, for something deep within the bath gave out, and Wilson’s upper body slipped and went deeper into the tub. I released the grip that I had had on his head just as I felt his eyes explode, and whipped it out to safety. But my right hand, held tightly in a death grip, fell in, and the glove that I had hoped would protect me instead filled up with the burning fluid, and began to eat away at my own arm. I stifled a scream and plunged my free hand back into the bath and pried Wilson’s fingers off of my wrist. Free, I collapsed backwards, and let the acid bath dissolve what was left of the thing that was once my friend.
That was how I burned my arm, and it is why my fingers are broken and my hand trembles. I have done what I can to repair the damage, but I fear there is a component I may have overlooked, one that may influence the long-term ability of those treated with the reagent to repair physical damage. There is I suspect a psychological component, one that may be mediated by strong emotions, particularly negative emotions. I think perhaps given a significant psychological shock, such as guilt or despair, the body may choose not to undergo the processes that allow it to repair itself. This is why my arm has not healed properly and why it twitches and fumbles like a dying fish. It may also explain why poor Wilson had suffered the way he did with no sign of recovery, or repair. He must have succumbed, psychologically that is, to what was done to him, and given in to despair. I cannot blame him, what man, even one who had been reanimated, could go through such an ordeal and remain unchanged by it? I understand too why Pulver, that thing that was imprisoned here, chose Wilson as his victim, no normal man would have survived as long as Wilson, and no man would have remained fresh as long either.
Pulver had eaten a cat a day, and based on what he had done to Wilson, he must have moderated his intake, controlled himself as much as he could, and eaten just the barest of what he needed. Even so, it was too much, the damage whether physical or psychological was beyond comprehension. I suppose it must have driven Wilson mad. For even bearing witness to his condition drove me to desperate measures. For it was only his arm, shoulder and face that my friend would willingly show to me, the rest was hidden by the darkness and blankets. That is until I threw them back and revealed the secrets beneath. Oh how I wish I hadn’t, for that sight still burns inside my brain. There in the fullness of the light and no longer secreted beneath the blankets was what Pulver had left of my friend. The head, the right shoulder and arm were all that was left intact. The left arm, the torso, the pelvis and legs, all of these had been eaten away, with only bones tethered to each other by tough, nearly inedible ligaments. Even the organs, the liver, the kidneys and intestines, were gone. Only Wilson’s heart, still beating, but pumping but a fraction of its capacity, and a single lung remained intact. That he had survived at all was a testament to the man’s determination, but I could not allow him to suffer so, and so did what had to be done. That it cost me the use of my right arm seems a small price to pay.
CHAPTER 7
From the Account of Robert Martin Olmstead
“At the Threshold”
In time Moses Sargent returned with a small plate of hearty New England fare and a clean set of clothes. He gave me a brief period to eat and clean up before escorting me down the hall. I had a suspicion that I was underground, perhaps deep underground, for there were no windows or intruding sounds from the street, and as we walked this suspicion grew. The hallway led to stairs and we followed the spiraling and worn stone steps deeper into the earth. Down we went and as we did the walls became first damp, and then moist. Another flight and rivulets of water seemed to run out of the walls themselves and formed veritable streams and torrents. We must have been below the Miskatonic or have intruded into the flow of some underground tributary. Eventually the stairs ended and we found ourselves in a great subterranean cavern through which an artificial channel had been cut to gather the flowing groundwater and feed it into a large circular pool. Around this pool were dozens of Deep Ones, ragged and thin, once proud creatures now in the most deplorable of states. They looked at me as we marched past. I felt their eyes on me and couldn’t help but wonder if they were passing judgment on me.
Eventually we passed through a great archway, down another hall and into a well-appointed room hung with deep burgundy curtains and oriental rugs covering the floor. There was a fireplace, and a fire to warm the room. Above the mantle I recognized the stern countenance of Captain Obed Marsh in an aging sepia print. On each side of the captain hung painted portraits from the 1700s which showed two obviously learned men in fine period dress. Each was identified by a small brass plaque, on the right was Edmund Carter and on the left was Joseph Curwen, two names I was wholly unfamiliar with.
In the center of the room was a grand table carved from a slab of coral rock and polished so as to highlight the imbedded and fossilized remains of a myriad of sea creatures. At the table sat the man who had tended my wounds, Doctor Stuart Hartwell, and the tall Indian who had helped rescue me the other evening. At the head of the table sat a woman smartly dressed in a man’s pinstripe suit with a tie and handkerchief that matched her dark black, almost blue hair cut fashionably short. She had a Mediterranean complexion, with large eyes, full lips and a small nose. It had been suppressed, possibly she was like me with only one parent carrying the trait, but there was no denying that she had the Innsmouth look.
I found a chair and as I sat, the young woman rose and began to speak. “Gentlemen,’ she said in a smoky and seductive voice, “As you know our operative in Innsmouth, Aaron Sargent, has been lost to us.” There came a sad murmur from Moses, which she quickly stifled with a simple gesture. “Mr. Sargent was critical to my plan, and I am left with no choice but to recruit someone else.” Her hand gestured in my direction. “Robert Olmstead may not be the
most experienced of individuals, but given his past and his desire for penitence, I believe him to be more than adequate for our needs. One could say he is highly motivated to make amends for his betrayal of Innsmouth. If he is ever to go into the sea and down to Y’ha-nthlei he will have to have done something to repair his reputation.”
Confused, I protested and rose to the occasion. “My apologies, to all of you, but I don’t understand what is going on here, and I am not sure that I want to. All I want to do is to make it to the coast, to go into the sea, to be with my family. They are waiting for me, they’ve prepared a place. Y’ha-nthlei will forever be my home.”
The woman stared down into my eyes with a look that chilled my very soul. “Indeed Mr. Olmstead, we all want to go home, one way or the other, but thanks to your earlier actions we must bide our time and each suffer our own tormented delays. If we move too quickly our plans may become apparent, and our hopes of turning this manor into a safe house for refugees will be compromised.” She paused allowing me to settle back into my chair. “You did this Mr. Olmstead. Your panicked dash from Innsmouth, your report to the federal authorities, you destroyed decades of planning, undermined our operations, and dashed our best hopes. Our forces have been devastated and scattered across the country. You’ve forced me to assume control, a role I do not relish, as I suspect you know. Now I play whatever pieces I have left. I marshal our resources, and recruit champions where I can. This is your fault Mr. Olmstead, so you will forgive me if I don’t make your wants and needs my priority. There are more important things. Far more important things, and we will need you to help us.”
Suddenly Doctor Hartwell spoke up, “Help us with what Asenath?” The young lady shot him a disapproving look. “I don’t mean to be rude Miss Waite, and I do appreciate all you’ve done, and I am happy to help with the poor souls that move through here, but what exactly is it you’ve gathered us for?”
