“I would greatly appreciate it if you accompanied me to that location,” Swinburne responded. “Your cooperation in this matter would go a long way towards helping ensure that no suspicions are aroused which indicate any wrong doing on your part.”
Planter looked as if he was about to protest, but his face softened again into a wide, unnatural looking grin.
“Of course I’ll help you,” he said with what Swinburne thought was a little too much warmth. “Allow me to get my coat and boots, then can be on our way.”
Swinburne was thankful that the short ride out to the pond had been made in complete silence. Something about the old farmer made him uneasy in a way that he could barely comprehend. It wasn’t a fear born of being attacked; Swinburne was certain that he could defend himself against a man as tiny and old as Mr. Planter. The chill that went down his spine every time he glanced over at his passenger was something more primal, as if evil itself sat in the car beside him.
When they reached Peasants Pond, a light rain had begun to fall. The two men got out of the car and walked towards the water, their boots sloshing in the wet earth as they reached the edge.
“Do you see anything, officer?” Planter asked as they peered down into the surprisingly deep water below.
Swinburne turned on his flashlight and ran it over the pond’s surface. The water was a little muddy, but still clear enough that he could see very far down. Unfortunately, all that his light managed to catch where glimpses of turtles and an occasional fish.
“Perhaps we could catch some dinner before heading back,” Planter said with high pitched chuckle.
Swinburne ignored him, moving the flashlight closer to the bank and looking for anything that didn’t belong. Just when he was about to give up, a glint of metal in the light caught his eye.
“Look!” Swinburne yelled.
The metal caught by his flashlight was from a bracelet, which itself was attached to woman’s hand which was sticking out from a hole in the side of the pond. After moving his flashlight over the area to see if there was anything else, Swinburne turned it off and began heading back towards his vehicle.
“C’mon,” he said with a brusque motion in Planter’s direction. “I’ve heard rumors of an opening in the Tanorian Hills that will lead us underground. I’m assuming you know where that is, correct?”
“Well…yes…” Planter replied hesitantly. “But no one ever goes down there for fear of being eaten by The Beast.”
“I thought you weren’t like all the other ‘backwards folk’ who used to be your neighbors,” Swinburne said with a wry smile.
“I…I guess I could lead you there,” Planter stammered back to him. “But why would you want to go down to such a dark place, anyway?”
“Because if there is an underground tunnel,” Swinburne replied as he opened the car door, “then it might lead us right up to the edge of this pond…and the rest of the bodies.”
Planter led Swinburne to the cave’s entrance as promised, but tried to remain inside the car after they stopped.
“Oh no,” the detective barked as he marched around to Planter’s door and flung it open. “You’re coming in with me.”
He grabbed the old man by the arm and led him to the cave’s entrance. After putting a flashlight in Planter’s hand, the two men gingerly stepped inside. Rock and dirt crunched underneath their boots as they swung their narrow beams of light back and forth, watching for any large rocks or puddles that would could cause them to fall over. As they continued inside, a gentle descent could be felt along their path, leading them underground and back towards the south from which they’d traveled.
“We keep heading this way,” Swinburne said as he briefly shined a light on his compass. “That should lead us directly to Peasants Pond.”
“And what then?” Planter asked with a slight tremble in his voice. “What will you do if you find the rest of the townsfolk?”
Swinburne didn’t answer, turning his light so that it was in front of them again. The two men cautiously walked in silence for the next hour, the sound of their footsteps the only noise that accompanied the occasional drip of water onto the rocks that surrounded them. When they got within five hundred meters of Pleasant Pond’s location, the sound of the Miskatonic River could be heard rushing by in the distance.
“Up ahead,” Swinburne said as his light settled on something wooden and broken. “Do you see that?”
“It looks like…a barrel,” Planter replied, his voice filled with fear.
“Well what the hell is a barrel doing down here?” Swinburne asked as they moved closer.
The top of the wooden container looked as if it had been punched through. Jagged shards of oak jutted out from all sides of it, each of them stained with blood that had long since dried upon its surface.
“Let’s keep moving,” Swinburne said as he swung his flashlight forward again.
The two men walked closer towards the sound of rushing water. As they neared the location of Peasants Pond, the stream went from a hollow, distant noise to one seemed to be very near to them. Sure enough, they soon came upon a small underground river. It appeared to be flowing in from the Miskatonic River, through the Pond, and back out towards the cove that ran up against Salem and Kingsport.
“Now we know how the fish get into the pond,” Planter said with a nervous chuckle. “…and why Pleasants Pond is so deep. You’d think those dimwits would have known not to all get so close to a body of water with such depth.”
Swinburne heard Planter speaking, but he paid no mind to the old man’s words. His attention was focused completely on the underground river running before him, where his light was catching dismembered arms and legs as they slowly drifted by. Before he could properly gather himself to react, a low, mournful howl echoed up from the cavern.
“It’s the Beast!” Planter screamed as he dropped his flashlight and ran.
Swinburne spun around, cracking the lens of his light against a sharp rock and putting it out. He cursed and searched the ground for Planter’s flashlight, which had also gone out after it fell onto the ground.
“Stupid old man,” he muttered while feeling the ground all around him. “Thinks he’s better than everyone, but ends up being just as stupid as the rest of that inbred town!”
Swinburne was still futily searching for the flashlight when the low howl came up through the caverns again. He stopped, realizing for the first time just how dark and alien the world around him was without the benefit of light. He was completely blind, unable to see a thing except for a vast expanse of blackness in front of him. The only sounds he heard were that of his own breathing, the running of the underground stream, and the howl, which seemed to be getting closer each time it echoed through the cave.
“Planter!” Swinburne shouted, surprised at the uncharacteristically high pitch of his voice.
He was scared, but of what, he did not know. The howl was now a constant noise with no break or release, invading his ears and crawling into his brain like a worm, determined to mine for his greatest fears. A bead of sweat dropped from Swinburne’s forehead and onto his nose as his breaths quickened along with the beating of his heart.
The howling now seemed to be echoing all around him, giving no hint as to its origin or intended direction as it grew louder and louder. Swinburne spun around, desperately seeking some form of a landmark that his ears could use where his now useless eyes were now failing him. To his shock and horror, another sound finally did emerge: Shuffling footsteps from the north, heading with frantic purpose to where he was standing.
“Planter! Is that you?!” Swinburne shouted as the footsteps continued.
When no answer came, he drew his gun, desperately attempting to point in the direction from which the footsteps continued towards him.
“Planter…or whoever you are…don’t come any closer! I am an armed officer of the law and I will be forced to fire upon your person if you do not halt and identify yourself immediately!”
The footsteps stopped only to be following by a low, guttural grunt that Swinburne thought sounded like a single word. After the grunt was repeated again, he was able to make it out: “Mayor.”
“Are you Mayor Machen of Dunwich?” Swinburne asked as the figure continued to grunt the single word again and again. “If you are Mayor Machen, can you please tell me what happened to the rest of your town?”
In response to Swinburne’s question, the grunting stopped briefly before giving way to maniacal laughter.
“Mayor!” the voice screamed between fits of giggles and screams. “Planter said I would be mayor! Planter said I would be mayor!”
The voice continued to repeat the same phrase, each iteration of it sounding less bemused and more enraged. Swinburne tried to speak over it, but the voice never stopped, eventually turning into an inhuman, unintelligible howl.
Without warning, the shuffling started again. This time, it was even faster, kicking up rocks and dirt as it scuttled directly towards where Swinburne stood. He fired his gun once, causing the source of the howling to scream in agony. It then roared and charged again, which resulted in two more shots from Swinburne’s revolver. The howling and footsteps stopped as something fell with a violent thud onto the cave floor. As source of the howl hit the ground, a cylindrical object rolled out from underneath it and tapped against Swinburne’s boot.
“Flashlight!” he exclaimed while picking it up and turning it on.
As soon as he did, the image of Planter holding a rock over his head caught the corner of his eye. Swinburne pointed his gun at him and shouted.
“Don’t shoot!” the old man yelped. “I was simply trying to save you from the Beast!”
Swinburne swung the flashlight back over towards where he’d fired his gun. In front of them laid an emaciated, long haired man. Blood poured out of two bullets wounds in his chest, but he somehow had the strength to raise a trembling finger in Planter’s direction.
“Planer…Mayor!” he hissed with a final breath as his finger dropped limply back to the floor.
Both men stood in stunned silence before Swinburne finally turned and asked “Is this someone with whom you are acquainted?”
“That is…or was…the town shepherd,” Planter replied. “Always a bit of a loon…even more than the rest of Dunwich, anyway. You can tell on account of him thinking I’m the mayor.”
“From the looks of it, the man was trapped down here and went mad,” Swinburne replied. “And I suppose you decided it would be the neighborly thing to do to take care of his sheep after he went missing.”
“Yes, well, can’t let the poor animals starve to death,” Planter replied with a laugh.
Swinburne felt badly about shooting the man, but he’d been given no choice. He decided it would be best to come back the next day with a team and proper lighting equipment to recover the rest of the bodies. There was still something about Planter that made him seem guilty, but Swinburne had no proof or reason to detain him.
After sweeping his flashlight over the ground a few more times, he led the old man by the arm out of the cave and drove him back home. After dropping him off at his door, Swinburne asked Planter to make sure he was available if the Arkham Police Department required his assistance again.
“Of course, officer,” the old man replied with a wide, toothless grin. “Anything I can do to help.”
The next day, Swinburne filed a report on the shooting and brought a team with him to the cave. Full or partial remains of all 103 missing bodies were found, with the shepherd making it the complete 104.
Forensic analysis on the corpses showed no signs of struggle or forced drowning. It was as if the entire town had all decided to jump into the lake at the same time, plunging down so deep that they couldn’t swim back up.
Weeks later, a mass suicide was the only explanation that the department was able to offer until a seemingly unrelated case broke the Dunwich Mystery wide open. A priest from the nearby town of Aylesbury had killed himself in his office after mass that day. An officer called over to Swinburne to say that the priest had written a suicide letter that he may be interested in reading.
After arriving at the church, Swinburne put on his gloves and examined the note, which read:
To Any Who Read This and My Lord and Savior Above,
Please forgive me for the terrible crimes which I have committed. During the last three years, I have had an affair with Audrey Clarendon of Dunwich, who is the wife of George Clarendon.
While the miller was away at his job, I had begun visiting their home in what began as a truly innocent gesture. The church was doing outreach work in Dunwich, which was what lead me to that lovely woman’s door. From there, I allowed my sinful nature to take hold over the course of many months, eventually leading to me forsaking my vows as a man of God.
One night, I was nearly caught by the husband in their home. A town farmer by the name of Mr. Planter, who had stopped there for shelter during a storm, was able to help me escape. He promised not to tell my secret, but in return, I had to help him deceive the town into thinking that he‘d escaped a death sentence.
Before all this, the farmer had somehow deceived the town into thinking that they could sell their calf skins in Arkham for $3,000 apiece. When this was found to be untrue, those backwards townsfolk sentenced him to death by being shoved into a barrel and dumped into Peasants Pond.
I believed that I would be rescuing a man from death. I thought that in the act of deceit, I would still be saving a soul. Instead, he managed to trick a shepherd into getting into the barrel himself on the promise that it would result in him becoming the mayor of Dunwich!
I couldn’t believe how easily these simple minded people could be tricked, but it was me who was the real fool. In fear of my own transgressions being brought to light, I agreed to tell the townspeople that Mr. Planter was inside the barrel. The shepherd was pushed into the water, never to be seen again.
The guilt from this terrible act was already unbearable, but what happened next broke my heart in soul in ways I did not think were possible. Mr. Planter, who was not satisfied with simply escaping death, told the entire town that he had escaped the barrel and found a flock sheep under Peasants Pond. Not one of those inbred dullards even considered the possibility that he may have just simply stolen the sheep from the shepherd…not even my dear, sweet, Aubrey, who drowned in the pond along with everyone else, diving down to find more sheep.
I wish that all of my guilt was over being such an unrighteous man, but I must confess that my heart breaks for the loss of my forbidden love. It is yet another sign that a man as wicked and evil as me does not deserve to remain upon this earth.
May God have mercy upon my soul,
William Powell
It wasn’t hard evidence, but the letter provided enough proof to detain Mr. Planter for questioning. Swinburne hurried over to the still deserted town of Dunwich, warrant in hand, only to find that the Planter residence had been burned to the ground.
As he got out and examined the ruins of the small home, he came upon the carcasses of slaughtered sheep, their wool and skin completely stripped from their bodies. Swinburne called together a team and searched everywhere, but they were unable to find any sign of Mr. Planter or his wife.
The last residents of Dunwich had fled, leaving only a cruel tale of death and deception against the easily fooled behind.
Father’s hands shook as he delivered the news.
“Children, you must know how loathe I am to do this, but I have withdrawn you both from school. Your mother and I…”
“She’s not our mother.” My brother spoke softly, but with a steely undercurrent belying his tender years. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
It was as if Father had not heard him, His gaze rambling wildly, skimming over the spreading mildew stains on the ceiling, the peeling wallpaper, the broken window covered with sheets of yellowing newsprint, before settling on a point somewhere over my left shoulder. “�
��your mother and I are too unwell to keep steady employment, so you must both work in our stead. Fortunately, I have secured you positions in my uncle’s factory.”
Father only had one factory-owning relative, our Great Uncle Gerhard. Gerhard visited us once a year at Christmas, bearing gifts befitting much younger children and hampers of exotic and overly rich foodstuffs that gave us stomach aches. I did not know what goods he produced, only that along with unwanted gifts, he brought the odour of soot, paint and chemicals, inadequately disguised with cologne and cigar smoke. Times had been hard across the city, and we had watched many classmates depart to work in the factories; the ones that returned alive were usually missing digits or eyes or entire limbs, or disfigured by fire or acid.
“You start tomorrow at 6am,” Father continued. “It is some distance to the factory, and I don’t want you to get lost, so I’ll take you there.”
“Tell them they have to stay there for the week!” came the strident yet quavering voice of our stepmother, Valda, from the bedroom. I almost pitied her then; when Father first brought her home to meet us, her voice had been the prettiest thing about her, sweet and rich and enticing like an artisan-crafted torte, but whatever “medicines” she and my father had fallen prey to had degraded it. “Tell them they can come home on the weekend, but only if they bring all their wages.”
“Ah yes, I almost forgot…Gerhard has a dormitory on site for his young workers. Like Valda says – work hard, be good, and save all your wages, and I will fetch you home later.”
Hansel and I exchanged glances. Had it been just Father and us, we could have easily persuaded him to abandon this plan, if indeed he would have formulated it at all without Valda’s incessant needling. But to argue further would only put Father under more stress and would ultimately be futile.
“Of course, Father.” I tiptoed to kiss him on the cheek. “Whatever you think best.”
___
We dined, if such a word could be applied to our paltry repast, on a watery and flavourless vegetable soup, of which Valda ate the lion’s share, and copious cups of black tea. I forbore to eat it, pushing limp vegetables around in the gray broth. Father and Valda shook so much from their affliction that they could barely negotiate their spoons along the path from bowl to mouth. They retired early, and we went to our shared single bed soon after.
A Mythos Grimmly Page 14
