by Pete Rawlik
So this was Asenath Waite. The woman whose name was so prominently mentioned in the manuscript I had smuggled out of Innsmouth, the woman whose own writings revealed her to be more than she appeared, much more. If those pages I had read were to be believed she was not the beautiful young woman she appeared to be, but rather was a wizard, an ancient warlock who had kept himself alive for hundreds of years by leaping from body to body, until he was forced to exact vengeance on those who had wronged him and his daughter. He occupied her body now, and it seemed he had grown comfortable in it. Asenath Waite’s voice and mannerisms made it clear that she was the dominant force in the room, and I wondered if anyone else knew her secret.
“There are threats, dire threats that all of Innsmouth had been preparing to move against. Now thanks to Mr. Olmstead, only a few of us remain, and while other forces have acted, our enemies have not been entirely vanquished. In the shadowy, forgotten parts of the world they still fester and grow. Man has intruded on places that should have been inaccessible and awoken things that we had hoped would remain asleep a little longer. If we don’t act, the world as we know it may have only days before it is exposed to forces beyond its comprehension.”
The resplendent Indian leaned back in his chair. “You propose an adventure then Miss Waite, tkrt, a quest, a mission to save the world. What strange players you have chosen, tkrt and what strange parts you have given us in this drama. A witch, a changeling, a mad scientist, even a poet imprisoned in a form that is not his own. What would you have us be Waite, heroes? I see no heroes here, only monsters.”
Asenath stared at the massive Indian, and I swear I saw venom in her eyes, but only for an instant. “Find me heroes then Chandraputra. Who should we recruit? Armitage is too old and Wilmarth flees at the first hint of something outré. This age, what Mr. Hoover calls the Great Depression, is sorely lacking. I look to recruit heroes and I find only monsters. I admit it is a weird company I am forced to draft into service, but it seems to be my only choice.”
The Indian rose to his full height which was easily seven feet, perhaps even eight, and towered over the table. “I have been to war once before Waite, tkrt I went willingly and for a cause I believed in. I will not be drafted to blindly serve in your so-called Weird Company.”
Doctor Hartwell stood to speak his peace as well. “I agree. I have helped you out of respect Waite, out of appreciation for what you have done for me, but you cannot think of us as your soldiers. Unlike Olmstead, we need not perform any acts of contrition, there is a limit to what we owe you and yours.”
Asenath leaned forward. “When I make the threat plain Doctor, you will change your minds.” She paused. “Regardless, your reluctance is not unexpected. If you are unwilling to assist me out of duty, I am prepared to compensate each of you handsomely. You Doctor, I assume that you have overcome Muñoz's dissolution constant, but have you resolved what Charriere referred to as cerebral degeneration?”
Hartwell was suddenly flustered. “No. From what I can tell, my oldest test subjects are already experiencing the early symptoms of synaptic failure.”
Asenath smiled but I found no comfort in it. “I can tell you that this problem has been solved, at least in a manner. Count Ferenzcy has agreed to collaborate with you on human trials. As for you Swami Chandraputra, we offer you an essentially unlimited supply of the elixir you need to suppress the more, shall we say antisocial, components of your persona. Additionally, I can tell you the location of the Orinoco Clock.” The Swami Chandraputra sat back down and Asenath seemed once more to be in control of the situation. “I’m glad these terms are agreeable.” There followed a general murmur of reluctant acceptance from my two compatriots.
Yet while Hartwell and Chandraputra seemed satisfied, I was not. I looked around the room in frustration. “You speak of an impending doom, one that threatens all mankind. There are only four of us Miss Waite, what would you have us do?”
Waite smiled. “First we are going to rescue one of our allies, one who has been lost to us for a short time. He wandered away and was caught by a most cunning spider. Then we are going to do what the Deep Ones have done every time cosmic horrors have seeped down and clawed at this fragile sphere Mr. Olmstead.”
I was feeling arrogant, emboldened even. Do not ask me why. “What pray tell is that?”
For a moment I thought I saw the mask slip, I thought I saw old Ephraim peek out behind the guise of Asenath that he wore so well. “We are going to save the world Mr. Olmstead. We are going to save the world, and with some luck most of the lives that dwell upon it!”
CHAPTER 8
From the Account of Robert Martin Olmstead
“The Prisoner of the Witch House”
It was after midnight when I and my three compatriots made the trek from Crowninshield Manor through the streets of Arkham. We took mostly back streets and alleyways, careful to avoid being seen by any insomniac townspeople or the few policemen who roamed about at these hours. Arkham in the early hours of March 13th, 1931, was a desolate, lonely place. It is not without good cause that they call the town witch-haunted. Even those such as myself cannot help but shudder at what rumors suggest lurked in the walls and attics of our destination. Dr. Hartwell confessed that he had met at least one of those involved, and that the young man told a horrific tale of centuries-old madness and creeping terror that ended in the gruesome death of one, and the terror of the other. Hartwell had treated the boy, that is until events played out and Hartwell himself was confined. It had been two and a half years since Hartwell had last seen Frank Elwood, and the Doctor admitted he owed the young man a debt of gratitude, and when Asenath had revealed his condition, the Doctor was the first to agree to attempt a rescue. Thus the four of us, myself, Dr. Hartwell, Asenath Waite, and the Swami Chandraputra marched under cover of darkness to the derelict and ill-rumored Witch House.
One would have thought, given Elwood’s accounts of Walter Gilman’s encounter, and eventual defeat of the witch Keziah Mason, that the rumors and stories concerning the old place would have abated. Sadly such hopes would be unfounded, for although it seemed that Mason had been banished, the death of Gilman at the hands of an obscene and voracious rat had added new facets to the lore about the place. The fact that the city fathers ordered the place shuttered did not help its reputation either. And then there were the strange sounds, the wailing moans and the fumbling steps that seemed to emanate from somewhere within the boarded up structure, but where exactly none could say. Few doubted that Keziah Mason was gone, but it seemed clear something else had taken up residence.
Standing outside the ancient, moldering edifice I felt a pang of fear, and wondered not for the first time how it was that I was most qualified for the task that was before us? Hartwell knew Elwood, was he not a better candidate? It seemed not, for the man’s beliefs regarding the location of consciousness in the body, and the ability to separate the two, disqualified him. Chandraputra, who claimed to be a mystic, acknowledged the ability of the mind to leave the body, and claimed to have done just so many times, but declined the opportunity to demonstrate it here and now. There was, he said, a consciousness that was waiting for him to do just that, and if he were to let down his defenses he would be lost to us, and as great an ally as he was, he could also become an implacable foe. As for Asenath, she too claimed that there were risks, terrible risks involved with her mind leaving her body. I, she was quick to point out, had become an adept dreamer, able to control not only my own psyche, but the psychic landscape about me. This I could not deny, for the years of nightmares and maddening dreams that I had suffered through had forced me to develop certain skills, powers of the psyche that normal men did not possess. It is, I suppose, the nature of the minds of the Deep Ones to be strange, why should that of Robert Martin Olmstead, a hybrid, be any different?
We made our way to the back of the house, and after prying off several boards, we broke the cheap lock that secured the door and forced our way into the kitchen. The place reeked o
f decay, and assaulted my heightened senses making me gag. Wood rot had set in, and the air was thick with the spores of mold and fungi. There was also an insect smell, termites perhaps? But above it all there was the undeniable musky stench of rat piss. As we moved from the kitchen into the dining room, I would have thought that the room would have been stripped, that looters would have stolen anything of value or use. Surprisingly, that was not the case for a large table with a dozen mismatched chairs that still occupied the space. True they were shoddy, and had been shoddy to begin with, but they would serve our purpose, or at least mine. Hartwell produced a small towel from his medical bag and used it to wipe the table clear, while Chandraputra set about lighting a few candles to provide a least a modicum of illumination. Asenath then proceeded to prepare a tincture by crushing some leaves and forcing them into a small flask which she then covered with water. A pair of tongs was used to suspend the mixture over a candle and bring it to a low boil. I relaxed as much as I could, and lay out on the table. I wanted to close my eyes, but sadly my slow metamorphosis had removed my eyelids, thus I was forced to stare at the weird, inky shadows cast by the flickering candlelight.
Asenath transferred a measure of her tincture to a small glass dropper, which glowed almost golden as the candlelight passed through it. “Don’t worry,” she told me, “it’s only a mild dosage. It should help you reach the dreaming faster, and give you more control over things once you get there. Remember, everything you will see is a dream; it’s all in your mind, or in the minds of the things that have taken up residence here. Don’t engage in any physical conflict, you’re not prepared for that, besides whoever is in control here has a distinct advantage. The world you are about to enter, they created it; you are just an intruder, and probably an unwelcome one. Find Elwood and get him out as fast as you can. The exit might not be obvious, it might be wholly symbolic, a door, a gate, a ladder. When you come back, your mind will be returning to your body, but for Elwood, his physical form has been translated into dream entirely, bringing him back will be shocking, transformative, and probably painful. He won’t want to do it; you might have to force him.”
I nodded, opened my mouth and lifted my tongue. I felt the three drops of fluid trickle in, and the bitterness caused my throat to close, and my gills to flex open with an audible wet hiss. This must have startled Asenath and the others, because I heard them all take a few steps back. I laid there for a few minutes waiting for the elixir to take effect, all the while continuing to watch the shadow play swirling about on the ceiling. In the distance I could hear the rats scurrying through the walls and climbing through the rafters. A small flock of pigeons shifted about as wind whistled in through a broken window. Somewhere below me, perhaps in a cellar or crawlspace, something larger than a rat stalked across a gravel floor. On the ceiling above the table the shadows faded and then dissolved into an inky darkness. The candlelight grew dim and was replaced by a multitude of tiny flickering pinpricks that faded in and out of sight as strange massive shapes slid across the ceiling.
I turned my head and called out to Asenath but she wasn’t there. Hartwell and Chandraputra were gone as well. Indeed the entire room was suddenly missing, and as I rose from the table even that dissolved away. The ceiling where once candlelight and shadows had played out was now a nightmare sky of roiling clouds and pale, dead stars; around me stood an ersatz Arkham, but one only seen in nightmares. Great dead trees bent and piles of fallen leaves rustled in response to an absent wind which howled and whined, but could not be felt. Long shadows were cast by squat, angry houses that sat on lots of sparse, shaggy weeds. Decayed gambrel roofs loomed above broken windows and tattered curtains framed by grey walls of peeling paint. From within, strange voices whispered in a low foreign cacophony like insects crying in the night.
It was a nightmare landscape, and I pitied the mind that produced it. Is this how Elwood saw Arkham? The same monstrous houses everywhere you turned? No choices but the inevitable descent into squalor amongst a cacophony of chattering foreign voices? No wonder you lost yourself. Elwood had studied mathematics and theoretical physics, but these are lonely pursuits, and provide little refuge from the horrors engendered by modern city life. Indeed, looking at the strange angles and geometries that loomed throughout the ersatz Arkham, it seemed that Elwood’s studies had in fact contaminated his world view, and added new facets to his anxiety. All these thoughts assumed that it was Elwood’s mind that was generating this eldritch milieu, and of course, I had no proof that he was indeed the source.
Steeling my resolve, I moved from the sidewalk and made my way across the small yard that separated the Witch House from the dream street. The door opened of its own accord, creaking slowly and ominously into the house as if inviting me in. As I stepped through the door I took one last look behind me, and I knew that I had no choice but to go inside, for the dream world behind me had simply ceased to be. The interior of the house reeked of death, not of decay like the real house, but of death, fresh, wet and red. Shadows and patches of light careened at random around the foyer. The droning insectile voices grew louder. Something, things really small and brown, moved along the walls, but every time I tried to focus on them they would dart out of sight or vanish into the walls themselves. Doors lined the hallway but they were all shut, the knobs significantly, symbolically absent. The only path to follow was up a wooden staircase ravaged by time and neglect.
Mounting the stairs, I had to catch my balance as the nightmare illusion shifted, the foyer fell away and the hallway and rooms below vanished. I found myself on a surreal staircase suspended in darkness that seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions. The stink that filled the air grew in strength and I gagged as it wormed its way into my senses. With each successive step the runners warped and creaked and as I shifted my weight from step to step the entire staircase shuddered. I climbed faster, moving smoothly and swiftly up the stairs, ignoring the creaks and bone-jarring snaps of wooden supports that Frank Elwood’s mind had manufactured. Soon I was running, pounding up the stairs with only my heartbeat and the sound of my own breath to fill my ears and my mind. But no matter how fast or with how much purpose I ran, the view never changed. Though I climbed hundreds, perhaps thousands of stairs, no landing, no door, no end ever came within sight.
I paused. I knew the stairwell was nothing more than a symbol, a representation of the isolation of Elwood’s mind from the world. It could be overcome, but how? The stairs were endless, climbing seemed fruitless and was getting me nowhere. I drew a deep if imaginary breath, and firmed my resolve to reach the top of the stairs. That was all it took to change the scene. I recognized the rules and then was suddenly no longer bound by them. The stairs were gone and I was standing on a wooden landing facing a single closed door. Thankfully, this one had a knob. The door itself was old, and covered in flaking chips of paint that once were white but were now a dirty grey. The wood itself was pocked, riddled with holes where worms and other things had crawled and burrowed through it. The knob and the plate behind it were green with verdigris. I reached for the decaying metal; it was cold and felt wrong in my hand, as if touching it was a forbidden thing.
I gave the knob a firm twist, to no avail; the door was locked, and my attempts to gain entry merely rattled in futility. The sound of the lock was replaced by the sound of movement from within the room. Papers rustled and something skittered across the floor. With no other recourse, I knocked gently and called, “Is someone in there?” I heard more rustling, followed by a low mewling sound, then strong distinct footsteps that drew close. I stepped back as the door unlocked and swung wide open.
Framed in the doorway was a haggard young man that bore little resemblance to how I had thought Frank Elwood would appear. His eyes were sunken and his hair greasy and unkempt. His face was unshaven. He wore a wrinkled shirt that showed several large stains and obvious frays around the collar and cuffs. His hands were covered with scabbed-over scratches and his nails were long, broken and dirty. The
fingers were covered with fine white chalk. His pants were overly large and his belt was pulled tight. He wore no shoes or socks and his yellowed toe nails were overgrown.
The sad sickly man opened his mouth in obvious frustration and shouted. “I told the landlady I would have her rent on the morrow!” Spittle flew as he spoke. “Now leave me alone!”
I spoke back calmly. “I’m not here about the rent. I’m here to offer you a job.”
The figure peered back at me suspiciously. “I can’t. I haven’t finished!” His voice became a sing-song of nonsense and he rushed back into the room. With a clear view of the interior I was shocked to discover the extent of the madness that had consumed this wretch. Beyond the door every surface of the room was covered, inscribed, imbedded with arcane mathematical formulae. To make matters worse, the writings were two or three layers thick with pencil being covered by ink, which in turn was covered by chalk. Though I recognized some of the esoteric mathematical symbols, the vast majority of the writings had smeared into an undecipherable mess.
“Dr. Hartwell sent me to find you. We need your help young sir,” I pleaded as chalk was once more taken to the wall. “The world is in danger.”
“Hee Hee,” a manic whispered reply. “The world is always in danger. What makes today something special?”
Something rustled in the corner as I approached. There was a weak chattering noise from beneath a pile of papers. “Mr. Elwood please pay attention.”
The writing never stopped. “I’m not . . .” More rustling drowned out the man’s whisper.
I shook my head quickly, “What did you say?”
Chalk and spit flew as the man turned to me enraged. “I AM NOT ELWOOD YOU TOAD! IF YOU WANT ELWOOD GO LOOK IN THE CORNER! NOW LEAVE ME ALONE!”
I fell backwards into the pile of newspapers and something squealed and then squirmed out from beneath. I cautiously pushed the papers away, only to recoil at the horror hidden beneath. It was the size of a cat, or a small dog, and was entirely devoid of clothes. Its pale skin was sickly and covered with bites and bleeding sores. It looked up at me with huge green eyes from a horrid parody of a human face, a face that I recognized as belonging to none other than Frank Elwood.
