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

by Byron Craft

  My thin thread of trust for the Doctor was being stretched. The man, who the evening before couldn’t wait to get rid of me, was now becoming a pest at that late hour. Janet was very healthy, he had assured me earlier, and was sleeping soundly after he gave her a sedative. I hadn’t had my dinner yet. My head was pounding and my patience wore thin. I finally had to usher him outdoors and to his car refusing him another visit until the first of the week. More than his new found enthusiasm disturbed me. I knew that he was keeping something from me and his reluctance to divulge the truth heightened my suspicions.

  ***

  Morning, and I found all was not well. My head was still aching, my hands trembled and I felt nauseous. I went to bed without supper the night before and I suffered from it by rising before dawn. I had scarcely slept. The rest of the night had passed without incident but I had tossed and turned most of the evening with thoughts of dark faces and unlocked doors.

  Janet was still sleeping soundly when I crept downstairs and put on a pot of coffee. Watching the sun rise over the glade I remembered the school books, and after fetching them to the kitchen, I looked to the inside covers for the owner’s name.

  It wasn’t difficult to locate the little girl’s parents. Her name and address appeared on the cover of each book and a quick look through the local directory produced their number. When the sun was high enough I telephoned and made arrangements to return them that morning.

  The Kritchners lived in a small off the road scattering of cabins about three miles from the schloss. I maneuvered the car slowly along the rough road. Though few lifestyles are shabbier in the other regions I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the inhabitants. If the two governments decided on the area for their Pershing Twos, these people would probably be uprooted and moved somewhere else.

  The houses were small wood frames and most in need of repair and painting. The population was not large and I occasionally saw solitary figures on crumbling doorsteps or on the sloping rock strewn meadows.

  After a few inquiries I located the Kritchners home. Our meeting was short and I never saw the child. Able Kritchner, the little girl’s father, was a tall lanky man aged beyond his years. It was probably from years of hard physical labor and improper diet. His face was boney, unshaved and his eyes deep in their sockets. His head supported thin wisps of sandy colored hair mixed with gray.

  My German is limited and so was Kritchner’s English but we managed to communicate.

  “I am Able Kritchner. You telephoned me?” With several pauses of concentrated effort in his speech.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “I have your daughter’s school books here.”

  He stepped out from behind the screen door and came over the wood porch peering cautiously down both ends of the dirt road before taking the books from me.

  “It’s a good thing, Herr Kritchner, that she put her name and address in them or she’d have lost them for good.”

  The girl’s father looked confused and just stared at the armload of books.

  “What was your daughter doing out there anyway?” I spoke slower. “Was she coming home from school?”

  “Yes, I will not let her do it again.”

  “Oh, no!” I said, “It doesn’t bother me if she walks there.”

  “She will not do it again!” This time more emphasized.

  Confused I asked if his daughter was sick.

  “She is not sick,” almost echoing me.

  “But she was ...,” I said.

  “No,” he snapped and before I had a chance to tell my wife’s story he looked at me defiantly and stomped towards the front door stopping with his hand on the knob. He glanced again at both directions of the road then in a harsh, but lowered voice and as quickly as his limit of the language would allow said, “Herr Kirch...I have heard things, some people believe them. Since the war, people that walk there.” He nodded in the direction of my estate. “Feel wrong.”

  I stood there watching the screen door slam behind him, dazed by his comment and his lack of appreciation for the return of the books. Some of the neighbors had come out and stood along the gravel paths in front of their homes looking at me. The sound of my car’s engine running in the drive called to me.

  The course of events took less than thirty minutes and within ten I was back in the kitchen brooding over a cup of coffee, Janet still asleep upstairs.

  ***

  Chemicals wash across the surface of the paper, slowly bringing the details to life. The only source of illumination during the process is a colored light turning the white of the paper crimson and all blacks even richer. Everything else in the room is stained with graduations of red while the master of this operation, as quietly as he chose his art, selects the proper moment to halt the formation.

  A developing bath can contain both pleasant and gratifying results. I waited eagerly while the eight by ten developed in the tray. The negative had been too small to see any detail but there was a spot on the film in the same area where it had affected Jim’s Polaroid photo. I snuck into the enlarging lab next to mine after hours but didn’t encounter any of the night crew. I was probably still between shifts. I was afraid to attempt it during the day when the Cutters might be around. I wasn’t sure what might happen if I was caught.

  Jim had come by for the first time on the afternoon following the return of the school books and stayed most of the day.

  I was a little self-conscious about our friendship in front of Janet. No sooner had he set foot in our house than he burst into a nervous horse laugh for no apparent reason. He was his usual self. Janet surprisingly enough found him a barrel of laughs and welcomed the company much in the same way as I did.

  Later I got him aside and filled him in on some of the stranger goings on, leaving out the dream related parts. I am not sure what I thought I’d accomplish by bringing him into it. Probably felt comfortable with reinforcements. I held back very little and even produced the dagger hoping his knowledge of antique weaponry might help.

  Jim Ruttick, however, was the type of person that was sure that almost everything is done by mirrors. Consequently, he was unable to shed any light on the mystery. In fact, he did very little to disguise his disbelief, although he did offer his services, out of friendship, reassuring me that there can be safety in numbers.

  It was about then that he took the picture. He flashed a photo of Janet and me together in the parlor. The results were disappointing, and as you know if you have read my wife’s account of the whole thing, a ghostly shape appeared just to the right side of the snapshot. The shape was familiar to me.

  I set my Nikon up on the tripod and shot a series of time exposures of the area bracketing each exposure while at the same time trying to remain nonchalant about the entire business. Jim was concerned that there was something wrong with his Polaroid but my concerns were on a different line of thought.

  Now, looking into the developing tray waiting for the images to rise to the surface of the paper I secretly wished that I had taken up smoking as a vice or that there was a good stiff drink handy.

  Jim had taken Vesta with him that evening. It was a nice gesture and a way to get a return invite to dinner on Monday. Vesta didn’t mind. She would have if she had known the trip was going to end up at the veterinarian. Jim and she had become pals during his visit and the big black lab liked the idea of a ride in the car.

  The living room window slowly took form on the Kodak paper. First the wood muntin bars crisscrossed the glass then the afternoon sky came into view.

  I had the remainder of the weekend to think over the events of the last few days before returning to work on Monday. More and more I realized as I went on that there were other forces at work leading me along. I didn’t know where I was heading but wondered if it had anything to do with my ancestral bloodline. Encountering increasing clues and increasing bafflement I found it difficult to draw any conclusions. There had been too much that I accepted as coincidence and I felt sure that it involved some sort of cons
piracy. A conspiracy I was certain that had its roots in the Emmerson-Pryne Corporation and a good chance it could be uncovered in my own lab.

  Gripped with the enthusiasm of a plan I burst into the lab Monday morning tossing the work order left in the overnight box aside and set about developing the negatives from my Nikon.

  It was a black and white enlargement but the textures in the fabric of the living room sofa gradually stood out just the same along with the furnishings, wallpaper, and floor coverings.

  At ten, as was usual, coffee was brought in setting everything in motion. I watched unobserved from down the hall. A young private brought the tray in and left. Not once until I was summoned by Jim did anyone touch my thermos. The coffee always had a bitter quality about it and if someone was tampering with it, it was being done outside of the building. I felt a little relieved, I hoped that Jim wasn’t involved. Maybe, just maybe, I thought Ephraim Pryne had not been able to successfully infiltrate all of the air force’s security and Jim Ruttick as a result, was not one of them.

  I talked with Jim a few minutes pretending to take occasional sips from the cup. Then when I was sure that no one was looking, and no Cutters were about, I dumped it down the drinking fountain.

  I went back to the lab and fiddled with the processor waiting to see what would happen next. Minutes crept by like hours.

  The quiet was broken by a click. The sound of a latch being drawn back. I turned and looked at the door to the hall. It remained undisturbed. Then I remembered the other door. The one behind me that barred entrance to the room on the other side. It was at my back and I twirled around with an invisible intruder creeping up behind me. The intruder was indeed invisible, only in my mind.

  Even though there was no knob on my side, I checked to see if it was secure and saw that the dead bolt had been drawn by peering through the crack between the jam and the door. I returned to my stool and removed several aluminum canisters of undeveloped film from the mornings work pouch. I was checking the sequence numbers on the rolls when I detected a movement. One of the wall tiles over my bench slid to one side revealing a hollow recess and the glint of glass. I froze. All movement left me.

  Before I could react in any way the strings of a violin filled the room. They were strains of music I had never heard before but the style of the composition was familiar. It was some of the wildest playing I ever heard yet unquestionably that of the composer Erich Zann. I was haunted by the weird, familiar quality of the music. The sounds filled me with the dread of vague wonders and mystery. The vibrations held suggestions of nothing from this earth and at certain intervals they assumed a symphonic quality which could have hardly been produced by one player. I wanted to cup my hands over my ears and block out the sounds but for some reason the music of Erich Zann held me paralyzed...almost hypnotic.

  The music subsided and the light in the room slowly dimmed. The light gradually diminished leaving me in the dark. I could have jumped up and turned on the darkroom bulb but my muscles had involuntarily relaxed and I found myself staring at the recess in the wall...it had taken on an irresistible quality. The glint of glass or crystal that I had seen spun out a flicker of white light. It twinkled gradually picking up speed and brilliance until it created a strobe effect. My eyes became accustomed to the brightness and my lids grew heavy. I remember mixed thoughts racing through my head. One was to just give in, succumb to the dazzling effect and sleep. The other was a feeling of déjà vu...I had been through this before. It felt perfectly natural. Then out of a corner of my consciousness sprang the terrifying answer. “My God!” I cried within the privacy of my thoughts, “I’m being hypnotized!”

  This snap back to reality kept me awake and later alive. My composure remained outwardly tranquil and even lacking the effect of the drugged coffee I am sure that I was partially mesmerized. Then there was my plan that demanded an answer...an answer to a question I wasn’t even quite sure of. I had to stay there and assume a relaxed position to find the solution.

  If it had not been for the voice I might have eventually succumbed to sleep and tremble even now at what the outcome would have been if I had.

  It was a low voice, almost guttural. It plainly said, “Sleep...sleep.” Over and over again. I closed my eyes but I still remained in control. Thank God because I was able to shut out the light and remain awake. Shades of flickering light endured as an after image. The retinal image quickly faded leaving me alert and aware.

  The voice discontinued its “sleep” chant and began calling my name. I wasn’t sure what to do but felt it deserved an answer. “Yes,” I said.

  “Are you asleep?” inquired the deep voice.

  The question was almost comical, under the circumstances. I didn’t laugh but replied “yes.”

  He began slowly, in conciliatory tones to lay down a set of instructions. He stopped calling me by name and referred to me as, “my son.”

  “Now listen carefully, my son” said the voice. “This is the last time we shall talk. The time has come. The words that have been carefully taught to you must be spoken this evening. The windlass will be in place and the time is one minute past midnight.” He paused and I heard the rustling of papers.

  “At fifteen minutes before the hour you will forget everything. Forget what you are doing, stop whatever you are in the middle of and go to your great Uncle’s grave. Wait there and precisely at twelve the windlass will be made available to you.”

  The command caught me momentarily off guard and I almost slid off the stool. I gripped the edge of the work counter tightly. If my eyes had been opened I am sure I would have seen the knuckles on my hands turn white. I had no idea what the windlass was but was well acquainted with the eerie grave site. He paused again and I waited in the intervening silence for him to resume. I hoped that my slip had gone unnoticed and wondered if my actions were being observed. My fears subsided when I heard the rustling of papers signaling his return.

  “Take the knife of Alhazred with you. The dagger you found three nights ago in the cellar is the one. When the clock in Heinrich Todesfall head stone begins to strike, insert the knife blade in the base of the windlass and say the words:

  Ya-R’lyeh...g’wah Cthulhu

  fhgthagn...N’ggah...

  ggll...Ia! Ia! Yath-Notep”

  I was told to repeat the instructions and what seemed like gibberish and I surprised myself by reciting them word for word.

  He echoed the set of words three times then followed again with the instructions. Over and over again the hidden voice spoke my intended lesson each time pausing at the end of those meaningless phrases I was expected to recite and each time I recited them from within a deep hidden memory. The voice became steady, a uniform succession of words almost unvaried in inflections, no doubt he was reading the commands and his sameness or lack of variety of expression was the results of repeated readings.

  I kept my seat and played the frustrating game until a few minutes before noon the whole thing stopped and I was instructed to forget everything and follow the given instructions before midnight.

  I decided when the ordeal was completed to go about my daily chores as if nothing had happened. This gave the appearance of success to my controllers and me time to think. My nerves were on edge and it required a tremendous amount of self control not to become high strung and do something foolish that would give me away. The episode was enough to unhinge anyone but it was that voice that really shook me. The tone and quality were familiar and I recognized it right off. It was unmistakably the voice of Ephraim Pryne.

  The living room in the photo became very clear. On the end table by the couch the last thing to come into plain view was a little translucent blob that resembled vaguely an embryonic head and torso. The thing solidified some cutting in darker lines of resolution revealing a legless gnome supporting itself on pipe-thin arms above the table. It was the same little creature I saw that night clinging to my bed sheets. It wasn’t a trick played upon the eyes anymore. I was wide awake with
tangible proof in hand. Could there be such a being. One that could take ghostly or invisible shape while at other times become solid. A growing horror swelled in my throat. I found it difficult to swallow. Not wanting to look at the photograph anymore I inserted it in the dryer and stood in the hall trying to clear my thoughts and piece together what had happened.

  If I was to make any sense out of this I would have to begin by believing in the supernatural and accept what my uncle had set down in his journal as fact. Uncle Heinrich had mentioned several times the Esoteric Order of Dagon and its leaders, the council of the unknown nine. Even VonTassell verified their existence. If there was such an order than they must be people equally deranged as my great uncle and possibly equally as dangerous.

  I was certain that Pryne, and probably the entire corporation, were behind this. Could they all be a group of lunatics bent on a demented plot for world domination. And this job I held, a red Herring to lure me and my family here to further their plans. I wasn’t about to wait around for the outcome. I had ended up in the corner of a lunatic asylum. I wanted out. Get the hell out of there, away from that house, Fort Blish and VonTassell. I wanted to go where there were people, lots of people...where I could surround myself with the crowd from a large city.

  I had to wait though. Janet had the car and Jim had gone to pick up Vesta. He said he would swing by the base after stopping at the vets and it was at least an hour before he would arrive.