The Cry of Cthulhu: Formerly: The Alchemist's Notebook

by Byron Craft

  ***

  That was Sunday and Faren and I spent the day at home together. We spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in one another’s arms. I’d close my eyes and imagine that we were back once again in our cozy little brownstone and Faren seemed willing to play along lavishing me with long slow caresses suspended by intervals of passionate love-making.

  Our day together was more in accord with our life in America than it had been since our arrival. Our bliss remained undisturbed until around three in the afternoon when Jim Ruttick showed up to join us in a late lunch.

  Jim was all right, I guess, but I thought he was a little crude. A real character, but he was an American and it was very refreshing to meet a native countryman. Sergeant James Ruttick was about six feet two inches tall and must have tipped the scales at the least, two hundred and twenty pounds. He was about thirty years of age; he had blue eyes, thin sandy brown hair and was in the habit of carrying around a baseball cap in his back pocket. His stature claimed a definite fondness for beer, clearly displayed by a bulge that hung over his belt buckle.

  To my delight, I learned that he was a New Yorker, from Brooklyn no less, and although he spent most of his life there it had been a good while since he’d been to the Empire State and we were still able to exchange several pieces of related big city info.

  My husband’s friend was a compulsive gum chewer and talked out of the side of his mouth in the delightful nasal tones of Brooklyn. Sergeant Ruttick was very comical and he lent a light heartedness to a day that so badly needed uplifting.

  The afternoon passed quickly. Jim ate and drank like six commandos just returning from a long survival mission. Faren and I enjoyed every minute of his company. Jim on the other hand acted like he was back in the states, feeling obligated to return the favor of a free home cooked meal. Faren had mentioned in passing that he had to take Vesta to the veterinarian for her shots. The sergeant, after becoming very attached to our black Lab, insisted upon taking her there himself and bringing her back as well the following evening, in time for dinner, of course.

  It even went smoothly when Faren presented Jim with that vulgar looking knife that he had found. The Sergeant had prided himself in being a weapons expert of sorts and was said (as told to us by the Sergeant) to have a formidable collection of both modern and antique weapons. Whether he was truthful in his claim or it was an over exaggeration due to all the beer, I can’t say, but he was definitely dumbfounded by the knife to the point of nearly becoming embarrassed when he couldn’t identify it; only speculating with wild theories as to its origin. Faren didn’t venture further with any inquiries of his own. I think he was concerned with troubling me so he let the matter drop.

  What did seem a bit unsettling was later, after the lunch dishes were cleared and we were having coffee in the parlor. Jim had recently bought one of those new Polaroid cameras and brought it with him in hopes of acquiring a few pointers from Faren on photography.

  No sooner did he announce his new purchase than Faren and I found ourselves hustled together at one end of the parlor so Jim could take our picture. I protested that my hair was a mess and to please give me a chance to change out of the old house dress I was wearing but the sergeant from Brooklyn wanted to remember us just the way we were and no pleading on my part would change his mind.

  The bulb flashed, the picture was taken, and I headed straight for the kitchen before he decided to take a second one.

  A couple of minutes later, while I was putting the dishes into soapy water, I detected disappointment in Jim’s voice. There was something wrong with the photograph. I heard him ask Faren if any outside light could have gotten into the camera to spoil the shot. Faren didn’t think so.

  I came up behind Jim and peered around his shoulder. The picture was in focus, the color was good and you could see Faren and I clearly, however off to the right, appearing to hover in space over one of our end tables were two faint spheres of light that were blurred indicating movement. The spheres, or balls of light, were situated one atop the other with the bottom one about twice the size as the top. With the stretch of the imagination, I thought I saw a face on the smaller, uppermost sphere. Three darkened areas were located where a mouth and eyes might be. Studying it closer I imagined two faint streaks of translucence, shaped like arms, reaching down. It was legless and supported itself on two spindly limbs. It looked up at the camera. At once, I thought of the baby hand print that had been tracked onto the dusty window seat and across my pillow. I shuddered and returned the photo to Jim.

  The rest of the day was pretty much uneventful. Jim and Faren attributed the image to a spot on the film. To eliminate all doubts, Faren set up his Nikon on his tripod and took several time exposures, promising to develop them the next day at his lab. Whatever happened to those pictures I don’t know? To this day Faren has never mentioned them.

  Jim on the other hand, managed to get us to pose for another photo in the same spot as before. That one developed without a blemish.

  Our new found friend left before dark with Vesta in tow. Faren and I retired early that evening. It had been a good day. The two of us had gotten a lot of our problems out in the open, we had a tender afternoon together and Jim Ruttick had brought a little sunshine into our lives.

  I slept soundly most of the evening. Not even the thunder in the hills kept me from my slumber. Even though it was so loud that on one occasion just before I dropped off, the thunderous crack sounded like the earth splitting open. I was undaunted. It was the first time in a long while that I felt happy and I fell quickly to sleep.

  I probably would have remained that way until well past daybreak if it hadn’t been for Faren. I awoke a little before sunrise to the sound of his screams. I arose with a start and fumbled with the lamp on the bed table, illuminating the room. The splinters of light played havoc on my eyes for a few seconds. Squinting, I saw Faren recovering, no doubt, from a bad dream. He had broken out in a cold sweat and was shivering from head to toe. He recovered momentarily, however, and regained his composure. I hadn’t known him to have nightmares; still I have heard that war can play a cruel trick on a person that may not manifest until years later. I don’t know what frightened him and Faren refused to discuss it telling me to go back to sleep.

  Before turning out the lamp, I noticed something odd though. The bottoms of his feet were filthy as if he had been walking in the mud without shoes and socks. Even the sheets on his side of the bed had been heavily soiled with the same dirt.

  ***

  I made what will probably be my last trip into town today. Jim gave Faren a lift into work leaving me the car to go do some shopping.

  Faren looked tired. He looked older. A bit grey around the temples and his eyes were filled with pain. I don’t believe he wanted to leave this morning. There was a pleading expression on his face as he went to the door, he kept hesitating looking for one excuse after another not to leave and get in Jim’s car until the very last minute. As he walked out, he mumbled something about us maybe not having to stay in Germany as long as we had intended.

  I made the short trip into town arriving there at ten only to be slighted by some people on the street. I have always been greeted with a lukewarm reception, however, this time I was unable to communicate with any of the shopkeepers. Everyone I encountered evaded me, or simply refused to speak to me.

  I noticed an abnormally large crowd of people mingling about the local newsstand and went up to investigate. My fluency in German is still weak, perhaps a little better than the typical tourist, but I was able to glean enough from their conversation and the bold printed headlines splashed across the daily paper. It appeared that a murder had been committed during the night and the victim was a young girl. The child had been slain in a gruesome fashion. Something about the girl’s head and arms. The only other word I could make out was “vicious.” On the same stand, to the left was the American serviceman’s edition printed in English. That paper’s byline mentioned the murder wa
s similar to a series of killings that had occurred just a year before.

  I was shocked when I picked out the name “Kritchner.” The same last name as that of the young girl I met in the woods two days ago. I attempted to buy a copy of the newspaper but the peddler just ignored me. I was mad, tired of being overlooked. Shouting at the man to sell me a paper, I shoved a handful of coins in his face. Tears of anger rolled down my cheeks. In spite of my emotional display, they all just stared at me, the peddler refusing to sell. All I had managed to do was draw more attention to myself. I thought the crowd was going to turn on me. One man shook his copy of the local gazette at me screaming unintelligibly. Another shouted “bosheit” and “zauberer”, while the others just glared. I threw a handful of pfennigs and Deutsche Marks at the rack of papers, one of the bronze coins narrowly missing the head of the stubborn man behind the counter. I snatched a copy and fled.

  I ran back to the car and sat there for a while with the doors locked and the engine running. When I unfolded the newspaper I realized that in the excitement I had grabbed the German edition. Disgusted with myself I threw it on the back seat. If I hadn’t known any better, I could have sworn that I was being persecuted for the poor child’s death.

  For some reason I couldn’t find it in my heart to cry. I suspect that anger had taken hold of me and I wasn’t about to give in to their abuse. I had come into town to buy groceries and other supplies for our home like any citizen would, yet the body politic of the village had elected to ignore me. The reasons for which, I was not quite sure. The only other locality within the region was Stuttgart and that was an hour’s drive one way. I hated this borough of ignorance and alienation. I hated Germany and most of all; I despised our way of life.

  While wrapped up in remorse and self pity I spotted Ilsedore Hulse behind me in the rear view mirror rummaging through one of the cobble stoned back alleys.

  Ilsedore was the only one who had talked with me in the past. I approached her with money and a shopping list in hopes that she would pick-up the few things that I needed. Ilsedore did my bidding while I waited in the alley trying to be inconspicuous. The old woman after surprisingly little coaxing, but still with her usual unsavory gusto, hurried off and returned, after what seemed to be an ungodly length of time, carrying two sacks of groceries and my list completely filled. Although she only gave back half of the change that was due me, I found it very easy to overlook when the groceries were neatly packed into the back seat and I was driving home.

  ***

  Logic blossoms in the light of day, but when night comes, it withers quickly at the shadow’s touch.

  Holy Jesus, how could I have been so blind? Was this the real answer? All that has happened to me was not a product of my own paranoia. How much of what I remember of the past few days has actually taken place? All of it? Not that I can actually fault myself. Most of us try to avoid any reality that is unpleasant. I know now that what I saw and experienced in the glade, in the tower, even in my bedroom and quite possibly my own dreams, was real. All the same, I don’t want to face it.

  Moreover, the implications of the past week linked with what I now have read are nothing less than the book of revelations. It weighed heavily on my mind. Could it all be? The proof or at least some written verification of it now lay in my hands!

  I had found the notebook of Faren’s great uncle, the old manuscript that mysteriously disappeared shortly after its discovery. Faren had it all the time! He kept the knowledge of it from me all these weeks. He knew the history of the old house. He even knew what had gone on here before his uncles’ death. Good God! There never was a garden. It was a garden of the dead. A graveyard unmarked for those who fought so long ago and died with no family left to claim their remains.

  I came upon the manuscript after returning home. While parking the car I noticed the corner of one of the rolled up yellow pages protruding from beneath the front seat. I brought it into the house along with my packages and spent the rest of the afternoon wrestling through pages of stylized script written in a crabbed hand.

  PART II

  THE ALCHEMIST’S NOTEBOOK

  The journal of Heinrich Todesfall

  If I am successful, I shall survive while my home will be reduced to a pile of rubble. I say if, lest I grow overconfident, for while the forces I aid are truly formidable, blind circumstances and the ill health that accompanies old age may yet work my undoing. There are other forces as well, obscure and invisible, implacable in their opposition to those I serve, who may not look upon my activities with disinterest. Should they become aroused or alert, I may not survive to complete my task.

  Thus I set this down on paper so that what I have learned will not be lost should the worst come to pass. They may still be freed, and even after death those servants...such as me...who have been faithful and unswerving in their loyalty to them may be resurrected from the earth to reign as princes to the kings over this world.

  As much as I would like to leave this for my only friend, Peter, who from time to time has successfully come to my aid, I am afraid the effort would be useless. He is not a relation and cannot be part of the Todesfall destiny.

  I have come to suspect over the years that there is a special quality in the blood of the Todesfall’s. Given more time as an adolescent, before the proposed Thousand Year Reich had begun its journey, I feel with an intuitive certainty that my solitary studies would have eventually confirmed it. There are no living relatives of mine in the fatherland but some were rumored to have traveled to America after a bitter separation that severed all ties and left our family numbers in Deutschland severely crippled, dwindling now to one.

  I have contracted a group of solicitors in America that will locate any surviving heirs in the event of my death. That is why I have chosen to write this in English. If after reading this brief account of my life and the examination of the volumes of material I have amassed in the years, then maybe my work will continue, by the hand of a relative I never knew.

  And so, cousin, nephew, relative...let me begin by saying that like our fathers before us, and except for a few intervening periods, of which I shall speak later, I have lived here at the schloss all my life, watching through the years this once proud estate dwindle, degenerate, to a group of tottering buildings and plots of weed-choked ground.

  I came here shortly after my birth. I never knew my parents. My mother died giving birth to me and my father died mysteriously just three days after I was born. The exact cause and particulars leading up to his death to this day remain a mystery to me. When I asked my uncle (my guardian) about those events, he answered in a quiet voice that there were some things that I was not meant to know.

  A solemn, even melancholy environment, you may say; and indeed this is so, but an environment well suited to my disposition which was to be a sedate scholar and a visionary. My childhood was spent pouring over the ancient tomes that filled the schloss’ grand library. In that beloved place, separated from the mainstream of society and its distractions, I learned to develop a keen eye for the truth; a clear perception which would allow me to accept what I knew must be in the years to come.

  But I had another place, a special place like that which every boy has to retreat from companions and the world, a dark, wooded hollow, a short distance from Schloss Todesfall. This hollow was unlike any in the Schwarzwald, where my estate stands, calm and quiet, isolated, so devoid of life that even the chatter of squirrels and birds were unknown. It was an ideal place for me to read and meditate, shielded from the harsher sunlight by brooding pines. It was not surprising, then, that it was this place, more than anything else, the schloss or my other non-significant holdings on this estate, that would years later draw me back home.

  I knew little of the outside world, let alone the social and political conventions of my time and consequently I was bewildered when I first heard my uncle, with whom I lived, mention the word “depression”. I didn’t take much notice when the supply of oil for our lamps and stoves
became scarce, eventually dwindling to nothing, nor did I take particular heed when my uncle finally relieved the servants of their duties. In retrospect, with the carelessness of childhood, I took little heed of anything until one afternoon when my uncle’s voice echoed out, rousing me from the hollow.

  I ran to the schloss, a thick book in hand, and met my uncle at the entrance in a somewhat agitated state, for it was rare for my uncle to call me at that time of day. Although he hid it well, I could sense that he was disturbed. I was about to ask if something was wrong, when I heard voices from inside our home. With a brusque gesture, my uncle motioned me to follow him into the study.

  Two men, almost invisible in their black uniforms save for their pale hands and grim faces in the dark study, stood solemnly. One of them quickly moved to me and shook my hand, smiling with a rictus that even one as young and naive as I instantly recognized as a pretense.

  “Young master, greetings,” said the uniformed man as he continued to enthusiastically pump my hand in camaraderie. “I am Lieutenant Erich Clausen and this is Sergeant Kessler.” He released my hand and looked at my uncle expectantly.

  “You must tell him,” said my uncle. “I cannot.”

  “Your attitude will be remembered, Herr Todesfall,” said the second man, stepping forward. He was about to continue when Clausen motioned him back.

  “Well, then, Master Todesfall.” He paused, looking down on me.

  “We have spoken to your uncle at some length about your future, and he has decided...”

  My uncle then broke his stoic silence, a wave of rage engulfing his face. “You would have him believe...”

  Sergeant Kessler growled, “I would suggest silence, Herr Todesfall.” My uncle stopped and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Heinrich, my son,” he had never addressed me as such before, “remember and know in the years to come, that I did all I could.” He stepped back and left the room, turning at the door once to stare at the two intruders with a gaze of withering hate. The door was closed, leaving me alone with the two men.