by Pete Rawlik
It was on the morning of April 5th that we found ourselves on the docks of Kingsport just after dawn. It was Easter morning, though that meant little to any of us. We stood there in the post-storm wind trying to find something to say. Asenath still clung to the idea that we might work together, but Carter and Hartwell would not speak of it. I opened my mouth to say something, but instead a low rumble came across the water and took our eyes eastward. There was a plume of smoke on the horizon, something was burning, a ship maybe. Asenath pressed the matter, but Hartwell had already wandered away, and the Swami Chandraputra was bidding us adieu.
I offered to stay, to go with her and investigate the smoke, but she shook her head and dismissed me. “I know what you want Robert, but I can’t, I simply can’t. I’m sorry.” I reached out for her but she pushed me away and stalked off. I called her name as she walked down the street that led to the trolley that would take her to Arkham. I was still calling when she turned the corner and walked out of my sight.
Alone, I returned to our quarters and over the course of the last few days finished this account of our adventures. When I am done I shall seal it in an envelope and mail it postage due to the Federal agents in Boston that I had spoken to so many months ago. It is a rash act, and it imperils many of us. But I think the world has a right to know what has happened. It has a right to know how close it came to being destroyed, and that save for the acts of a handful of monsters, the world would be a very different place.
EPILOGUE
From the Notebook of Phillip Sherman
“The Last Communion of Allyn Hill”
Wednesday, April 1, 1931
It is a fine feeling to put pen to paper once more. I found a blank field book in one of the station’s supply cabinets, so I can finally get back to routinely making entries. It has been weeks since we passed through the Panama Canal and I filled up the back cover of the last journal. I am grateful, a new journal helps bring closure to what has gone before, and I would rather forget what I can of those days.
It took fifty-eight days for The Miskatonic and her sister ship The Arkham to bring us back from the frozen wastes of Antarctica. We had set sail from Boston, but it was always our intent to return directly to Arkham. Circumstances being what they were, Pabodie felt it “prudent” to divert the bulk of our specimens to a more remote location rather than bringing them directly into Arkham. So we, the crew of The Miskatonic and I, came here ten miles off the coast of Kingsport, to Miskatonic University’s Orne Marine Research Station situated amongst the islands known as the Shallows. There are few people here, thirty or so villagers who live on the big island of Allyn, and who not coincidentally supply crew for The Miskatonic, and a lone graduate student named Shane Atkins. Atkins is a wiry little biologist with blue eyes, a wild mane of blonde hair and a quick wit. He’s been here at the station for a year studying the behavior of seals and several species of shorebirds, and is nominally in charge of the lighthouse. He tells me that visitors to the Shallows are rare. Perhaps here, on this tiny cluster of scrub islands, I can work on the samples in peace, away from prying eyes. The failure of the expedition will surely be the subject of much speculation, not only amongst the faculty but also the ravenous and insipid individuals that pass for newsmen.
We docked in rough seas early this morning, and it took most of the day for us to unload The Miskatonic’s holds. Atkins and several of the men from the village helped us maintain a break-neck speed. Weather reports from the south spoke of a storm that had formed in our wake and the captain was eager to be on his way to a more sheltering harbor. It was near dark when the ship finally sailed, leaving the windswept docks strewn with the crates, trunks and equipment of the expedition. I stood on the jetty with Christian Larsen, a crewman, who has been my friend and assistant since we first began our expedition, and together we watched as the majestic vessel receded into the sunset.
Over the next several hours we moved the cargo into the station’s warehouse. Larsen is actually from Allyn so he left to spend time with friends and family. Atkins is a decent cook, but not much of a conversationalist. After a small meal of shellfish and winter vegetables I spent an hour exploring the station buildings and the small island of Orne on which it sets. There is little here to write about.
Thursday April 2, 1931
1015
Up early, and Atkins and I have spent the morning going through the smaller crates, and dealing with their contents. We’re finding small errors and discrepancies, but nothing major. We found a box with a packing slip listing nine of Lake’s star-shaped stones, but actually containing only eight, all bearing handwritten, sequentially numbered inventory tags. The number sequence was complete, so I think this was just a documentation error. Lake had described them as being comprised of soapstone, but they aren’t common steatite, a kind of talc, but rather pyrophillite, a mineral that forms radiating fan-like clusters of metallic crystals. They were all about six inches across and a half an inch thick, and although you could see the patterns of cleaving, the whole thing was curiously smooth.
Packed in with the samples were some of Lake’s notes, which being written by a biologist I understood only a little. Thankfully, Atkins was able to decipher Lake’s cramped handwriting and explain some of the thoughts contained within those hastily scribbled paragraphs. Much of the content referred to the pervasive foolishness that influenced poor Pr. Lake to name the frozen specimens “Elder Things” and helped drive my fellow expedition member, Danforth, to the brink of madness. This in itself has its roots in the teachings of a member of the Miskatonic University faculty, a man named Wilmarth. I knew that several members of our expedition had met with Wilmarth prior to our departure, and one or two had taken some course work with him, but I was not privy to the nature of those conversations, nor of the teachings expounded on in his classes.
According to Atkins, who has taken several of Wilmarth’s courses, the core of the man’s scholarly work is cobbled together from several volumes in the university’s restricted section. Atkins was a bit vague on the details, but Wilmarth’s teachings, drawing from occult sources and myth patterns from around the world, suggest that for millions of years the primal Earth was visited and ruled by a succession of creatures that had seeped down from the stars. Amongst the more successful of these alien species were, according to the Al Azif, the “Elder Things,” also known in the Pnakotic Manuscripts as the Q’Hrell or “Progenitors” which dominated the Earth and waged war against a variety of enemies for millennia.
Lake does not explain why he drew the link between the specimens and the Elder Things, I assume there must be some physical resemblance, but cannot confirm this. Once I return to the university I’ll look into the matter. Lake’s notes make the link a fait accompli, and further suggest that the star stones that had been discovered with the bodies were the pentateuchos, or five-fold tools mentioned by Theodoras Philetas. Such things were supposed to be used as wards by the Elder Things to drive back or imprison their enemies. It seems so ridiculously melodramatic, and I keep having this vision of one of the alien things wielding one of the stones menacingly, holding off an unearthly and undead ghoul.
1145
The weather has turned, and the wind is becoming quite fierce. Atkins is going to show me how to operate the lighthouse, including pumping fuel from the main tank to the holding tank at the top. Apparently if done incorrectly the fuel can mix with the air and be ignited by static electricity, much like the dust found in corn silos or coal mines. Something I need to learn how to avoid.
1300
Larsen has returned with an invitation to the evening festivities. At first I thought it was simply a celebration in honor of Larsen’s return but as the conversation continued I realized that my sojourn to Antarctica had caused me to lose all track of time. Sunday will be Easter, which makes tomorrow Good Friday, and today Holy Thursday, marking the events of the Last Supper. Tonight, the residents of the Shallows will hold a mass, followed by a community feast to
which both Atkins and I are invited as honored guests. It is good to be back amongst people again.
2330
Have just returned from Allyn, and must say I had quite an enjoyable time.
The entirety of the main island of Allyn is little more than a hundred acres, all sparsely covered with low shrubs and a few thin trees through which a small herd of goats roams freely. The village itself is wholly unremarkable, consisting of homes built in the salt box style, along narrow avenues of crushed oyster shells. The village, properly Allyn Hill, is built on a low rise around a single large building, which had once been an inn back when the entire island served as a resort and spa. The Great Hall, as the locals call it, now serves as a communal center, and this evening it had been laid out for a great feast with long rough wooden tables and benches well supplied with fruits, vegetables and breads. Several casks of wine and water, an important provision on the island, were also available and I was relieved that the community was not one that prohibited the consumption of alcohol. Off to the side a fire roared within a massive granite hearth, taking the chill out of the air, and warming a variety of stews and chowders. A few birds were slowly roasting on a spit, as were a pair of rabbits, an obvious delicacy for these people who seemed to draw most of their sustenance from the sea. The smells that wafted from these dishes mingled with those coming from the kitchen proper and I am not ashamed to write that my mouth watered at the thought of fresh food prepared by skilled cooks.
Not unexpectedly, the evening began with a religious service, initiated by the ringing of dozens of small handheld bells scattered throughout the congregation. The bell ringing ushered in an ornately dressed priest and a procession of altar boys. It wasn’t until the clergyman had reached the center of the room that I recognized that it was Larsen. All that time together and he never told me he was a man of the cloth. Atkins noted my surprise and whispered to me something about Larsen being a church deacon, the actual priest had fallen ill.
From my makeshift pew I listened politely as Larsen embarked on a traditional sermon full of holy fire and celebrating the life and sacrifice of the Son of God. Surprisingly, the sermon was in English with a smattering of Latin, though for the life of me I cannot remember the subject or any of the actual content. I do remember how the altar boys brought forth the wafers and the wine, and how the townsfolk, Atkins included, lined up. I, however, remained seated, routed in my own status as an agnostic and in my disdain for such ceremonial pomp. One by one they went and knelt before the priest. One by one Larsen offered up a thin wafer, which they accepted as he blessed them saying time after time, “I am the resurrection and the life, through me the dead shall live again. This is my body, which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”
I will not dwell on the details of the last few hours. The feast lasted well into the night, and when the bell tolled eleven I urged Atkins to return with me back to the station. He declined, choosing instead to remain and revel in the night’s festivities. As I stepped outside and made my way across the breakwater a wicked wind rose up off the sea, soaking me with a blast of cold wet air. By the time I made it to the station proper the storm that Captain Thorfinnssen had so feared had finally arrived. I am exhausted and slightly inebriated, and after writing this I shall collapse into the warm embrace of my bed and deep peaceful slumber.
Friday April 3, 1931
0830
The storm has grown in intensity, the wind now continuously roars through the rafters and driving rain lashes the windows. Atkins’ bed has not been slept in and I assume that he is still over at the village and now trapped by the storm. I have climbed the tower and watched the storm from a height. I am fascinated by the way the wind moves across the island scrub like ocean waves. The frequent lightning competes with the lighthouse for dominance, and both cast weird shadows across the island and the village.
I have spent the last few minutes watching the village and I am growing increasingly concerned that something is terribly wrong. Even in the dim light of the storm-wracked sky I can clearly see into the heart of the village, and there are no lights visible on the street or in any of the windows. The only sign of life in Allyn Hill is the small herd of goats wandering the streets, seeking shelter in the shadow of buildings. Unfortunately, I can also see that the breakwater is being violently lashed by wave after brutal wave, making it all but impassable. I shall attempt to make contact using the wireless.
0915
I have been unable to contact anyone in Allyn Hill or on the mainland; the only sound from the wireless is a steady drone of meaningless static. I am a qualified operator, and following my training I have checked all of the components in both the transmitter and the receiver. I found nothing that was in disrepair. The only explanation I have is that the storm has somehow interfered with transmission and reception. I am extremely frustrated, and it seems the only option available to me is to brave the storm and breakwater. There is a suitable set of foul weather gear in the storeroom.
1030
The villagers of Allyn Hill seem to be suffering some sort of reaction either to a toxin or an infection. They are strewn about the room in chairs or on the floor, unconscious and unresponsive. They are feverish, with clammy grey skin from which an odor, a sweetness, exudes. Thankfully the fire in the great central hearth was still burning, providing a modicum of warmth. It bothers me that amidst the ashes and embers there are what appear to be fresh logs, but I have no time for such things. I need to get warm and attended to the afflicted.
1200
It took me more than an hour to arrange the bodies in an orderly manner on the floor around the hearth. I am sorry to say that two have died, not from their strange affliction, but rather from associated circumstances. One man seems to have fallen backwards out of his chair and broken his neck against the stone floor. The other was a woman who apparently went face first into a large bowl of chowder and asphyxiated. That no one had attempted any sort of aid to either of these poor souls suggests that whatever happened occurred quickly. There were more than twenty men, women and children laid out about the room, including my colleague Atkins. However, oddly absent is my friend Larsen.
I am in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating some bread leftover from the night before. I have tried the wireless set that is down the hall. My efforts were wasted; whatever has affected the station’s set is also interfering with this one. I need to rest, am exhausted both physically and mentally. The wall calendar reminds me that today is Good Friday, and I can’t help but chuckle morbidly over the irony.
1545
I was awoken by a chorus of screaming and I started from the chair in a panic and dashed out of the kitchen. My charges were awake and from the sound of their moans and anguished cries they were in agonizing pain. I found Atkins who had curled up into a tight little misshapen ball and tried to comfort him. His breathing was shallow and fast, between gasps he told me that he was cold, and that he couldn’t feel his arms or legs. To the touch his forehead was hot, and he was sweating profusely. I took his right arm and tried to exercise it and then dropped it in revulsion. The flesh had a strange color and consistency and as I moved it back and forth, it did not bend at the joint. As a child I had watched my grandmother make sausage by filling long greasy tubes of intestines which would then flop and twist on the table like massive grey worms. Atkins’ arm was like that, it curled like a long thick sausage. As I looked I could see that the appendages of all those around me had suffered the same shocking metamorphosis.
As I pulled away something more caught my eye, and my curiosity overwhelmed my revulsion. The back of Atkins’ shirt was soaked not just with sweat, but also with streaks of crimson. Carefully I rolled the fabric up and by the light of the fire examined the source of the fluid. Three great wounds had opened up on his back, one vertical along the spine, and the other two parallel to the first but almost to either side. A watery and bloody discharge seeped slowly from these lesions and for the life of me I thought perhaps that som
eone had assaulted my friend. I know from my courses in folklore and comparative religions that some extreme sects re-enacted the more horrid events of Christ’s life, going so far as to flog and then crucify a volunteer. Looking at the wounds on Atkins’ back it seemed a plausible explanation, but as I scanned about the room I noted that many others were showing the same crimson stains. I quickly realized that this was not the result of a physical attack, but yet another symptom of whatever the villagers had been exposed to.
As I sit here, I am completely incapable of rendering any further sort of aid. I can hear the low distant sound of other victims who were not in the hall but rather are scattered about the village. Like their fellows they too are screaming and moaning in agony. At a loss for what to do I once more shall don my foul weather gear and brave the storm. It is better I think, that all those who are suffering be brought together in one place.
1630
I followed the screams, breaking down doors where I had to and gathered up what stricken villagers I could find. It was not an easy task. Two I found could walk or limp, and together we hobbled down the shell-strewn streets. Another, a large woman, suffered more severely from that strange softness of the limb bones, and I had to load her into a wheelbarrow. I found one woman in the street outside of her home, her legs and arms like rubber, but she had found a way to move about by crudely lashing out her limbs and then pulling herself forward. I gagged as I watched her do this, for her appearance reminded me of octopi that the crew of The Miskatonic had brought up in a net one afternoon off the coast of Cuba. The ship’s cook would cut off most of the creatures’ limbs for use in the kitchen, and then toss what was left of the wounded animals on to the deck where they would flail about in a desperate attempt to return to the sea.
