by Byron Craft
I called Janet on the lobby phone to tell her to throw a few things in a couple of bags so we could leave immediately. She was hysterical when answering, mostly incoherent. I pleaded with her to relax, slow down and explain but she stammered and went on so I could barely understand her. Janet screamed something about the old knife moving about. I couldn’t make any sense out of it. It was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears. Her hysteria tore into me. I struggled to get a few words in trying to console her but it was useless not knowing what actually troubled her. I hung up after telling her I would get a taxi cab home right away. “I love you,” I said before putting down the receiver.
After phoning for a cab I tried reaching VonTassell but he didn’t answer. We were suppose to have dinner that evening at his home. I left a note for Jim taped to the front door, asking him to pick up the Doctor and follow. Then I went back to the lab for my coat and the photograph.
It had been quiet all along and there was still no sign of the night crew. I had my coat in hand and was removing the eight by ten from the dryer in the other lab when I heard muffled voices. Down the hall I could see the closed door to my lab and further down on the same side, the door to the restricted room stood open. I crept cautiously across the polished floor conscious of the sounds my rubber soles made on the tiles. The door stood halfway ajar. The room was empty and a light hung by a cord from the ceiling had been left on. The ceiling was much higher than in the rest of the building and as I had suspected the room was a great deal longer than the other rooms on that side combined. Besides a large flat work table in the center it lacked any other furnishings.
There was no one in the room as I said, a fact that lent an additional haunting quality to the setting. The walls were plastered with black and white blowups pasted together by the geology crew stretching a good thirty feet, covering the concrete blocks and reaching nine or ten feet high. The effect was breathtaking, almost panoramic, like being suddenly thrust in front of a super wide screen movie without warning. Except these were all aerial photographs taken from the belly of an aircraft shooting straight down. I was gripped by a sensation of falling and stumbled forward across the threshold into the room. I regained my balance clutching the edge of the work table. I had to look away from the map for a bit to shake free of the trick that played on my equilibrium.
Getting close to the photo mural, steeling short glances at first then longer stares, I was taken back by the lack of any markings that might designate future missile sites. The region was definitely the Black Forest, an area according to Pryne and Falbridge just begging to conceal the silos.
I presently became attracted by something singular in the arrangement of a certain topographical element. It was a conic projection or upheaval of earth that had been charted by the cutting crew and circled in red grease pencil. It was a characteristic common to maps of the most varied kinds. The plotted section of terrain had been based on observations made by hundreds of individual photographers. It appeared almost dead center in the thirty foot mural and it took six blowups stuck together to encompass the area. The surface of the work table was blanketed by three other sets of six all displaying the same area spanning a period of four weeks. The photos had been inscribed with the date and time in the bottom left corner with the same red grease pencil.
There isn’t a way of representing curved surfaces of the ground on a flat plane without some distortion of its useful features desired on maps. Yet on large scale maps, such as this one, covering areas of only a few square miles, the distortion is negligible. The map projections were an orderly system of parallels and meridians on which new maps could be drawn. Thus the detail needed by NATO required the use of a larger scale. There was, however, still a distortion covering the relatively small area, not caused by global curves, but an uplift in terrain.
Each set of photographs across the table were arranged in chronological order from left to right with the most recent taped to the center of the wall. Each one in succession revealing increased distortion of the spatial relationships. I remembered the excited words of the one cutter that afternoon when he said, “there has been a definite uplift in the terrain since last week.” I didn’t know what he meant then but now I had a good idea.
I grew accustomed to the wide screen effect of the map and was able to back up taking in the full view of it once again.
The raised terrain was a mountainous wooded region. To the left, only inches away on the map was a heavy thicket surrounding a small glade. No sooner had I interpreted it as such than the realization of it fell in on me.
I scanned the bottom of the huge mural where it met the floor. There was a regular outcropping of rocks, two foot paths, a large shed and a small house. If there were any other structures below they were cut off where the photos pasted to the wall met the floor.
I grabbed a magnifying glass off the table and examined the clearing in the center of the thicket. Several small mounds and hills swelled up into the glass. Some fifty or sixty blemished the earth. At the edge of the glade, alone in its placement, was a larger mound and at one end a black speck. I knew what that speck was. It was the headstone of my great uncle’s grave. The rocks to the bottom of the mural were the remains of an old patio wall, the shed, the garage and the small house, the summer house bordering the edge of our property!
Somehow I wasn’t too surprised to find this out. What really puzzled me then was if there ever was any intention on the part of the military to install NATO controlled nuclear missiles in the hills. Was the air force involved in this conspiracy or was Pryne and God knows who else, just playing them along in order to use their facilities.
The urgency to leave was stronger than ever. I knew that the taxi would be at the front gate any minute. I remembered the rear exit that lead out of that room. Opening it I stepped out on to the gravel parking lot. The evening sky was partially visible through the clouds. The moon was full and it lit the area well.
From this point, unobstructed by any other buildings, I had a plain view of the main gate and the road. The cab hadn’t arrived yet. Turning to go back inside I saw a black limousine parked alongside the building. It was empty. I remembered the muffled voices again and that both doors which earlier had been latched now stood unlocked. I quickly retraced my steps in my head and realized that I had been through every room except my own lab. Someone could have easily come in through the rear entrance without me knowing it and entered my processing lab through the adjoining door.
Off in the corner, concealed before by the opened door was a broad open topped metal vessel with handles on the side. About the size of a bath tub and constructed in the same way as an old fashion laundry basin. The broad, clumsy container was filled with water about a foot from the rim. The floor around it was wet and slippery while the edge of the tub was encrusted with a white powder. Wetting a finger I tasted it. It was salty. Some of it had been spilled on the edge and puddled up in the cracks of the tiles. Smaller puddles had been tracked across the room in the direction of the processing lab and stopped in front of the adjoining doorway, the door that would have opened into my lab if it had not been barred shut and minus a knob on my side.
I found it unlocked as well. The latch had been drawn back and secured to permit re-entry to the cutter’s room. I turned off the light in the map room. The door swung in noiselessly.
The sole illumination in my lab was the small red work light over my bench. It took a moment or two for my eyes to get accustomed to the red gloom. I gradually became aware of the presence of two other forms. The first and foremost in the light was Falbridge. With back turned toward me I quietly observed him cementing a loose wall tile in place. To his right, strewn across the white Formica counter were a few hand tools and a small light projector. A basically simple device comprised of a mirrored cube with alternating sides blacked out. It was mounted on a thin shaft, connected to a small electric motor then supported in front of a cheep bulb housing and lens, it would, when activated, produce
very brief flashes of light. Controlled I thought from probably the cutter’s map room using a rheostat to gradually increase the strobe light effect.
My presence had not been detected and though I was determined to confront him I felt it wise to wait, letting Falbridge continue the concealment, not to let him know I was on to their hypnosis trick. Instead my eyes traced the wet tracks, which under the prevailing darkroom light, resembled pools of blood. They continued into the room veering off from where Falbridge stood and made for a darkened corner where a second form crouched.
It was too dark to make out anything clearly. A concrete block pilaster constructed in the wall to increase structural strength jutted out casting a greater blackness into the corner making it difficult to see. Whoever it was, was stoop shouldered and must have worn dark clothing because no characteristics stood out amongst the shadows.
I should have gotten out of there, but I was caught up in the intrigue of confronting Falbridge, eager to see him surprised, caught off guard, and I was curious about the stranger. Besides, I didn’t see that any danger was eminent. He was a frail man by comparison and didn’t pose any real threat to me. I shouldn’t have been that foolish. It would have been much better for me if I would have just receded quietly back into the map room then run like hell. Because, while I was straining against the dark, trying to make out the other man in the corner, I was struck by the odor of fish. It was the same fishy odor I smelled in New York while the intruder was at my keyhole.
I was certain that it came from the corner where the dark man stood.
Then he spoke. It was not at all what he said, it was simple and innocent enough by itself but it was the sound that the voice made when he said, “hurry up” to Falbridge. The deep guttural sounds had a watery quality to them this time. I recognized the voice all the same and its laboriously formed words only too well!
I gasped. Falbridge turned with a start. I never got to witness the look of surprise that must have crossed his features because I was still staring into the corner. I heard Falbridge with a start yell at me. His voice seemed far away. “Faren,” he shouted.
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the corner. “What is this? Who are you?”
The man in the corner answered. “We are the remnants of what was left behind.”
The sound of that voice again gave me chills. Falbridge took a step toward me but came no closer when I turned and met his gaze head on. He was nervous, excited, and he said, “We are being driven from our home. Your population keeps growing and our habitat grows smaller. We were content to live as we were but your kind made that impossible.”
“So you resort to drugs and cheep tricks to persuade me to help you with your crackpot cause.”
He was lost for a reply and looked for support from the man in the shadows. The voice whispered in the darkness. “Right now my son, there is an eminent dissolution of your civilization. The fabric of mankind’s existence is already irreparably torn to a point that in the near future this earth, depleted of its resources, torn by civil disorder and dense with population to the verge of madness, will be laid to waste anyway. It is only a matter of time.”
“And you two lunatics are only trying to rush it along,” I said.
“Oh, no,” Falbridge said. “The process is already under way.”
“You’re crazy!” I yelled.
The Emmerson-Pryne executive assistant swallowed hard. He tried to remain convincing as he spoke, his voice almost cracking. “Cthulhu is the destiny of the world. His history is the poetry of our destiny. He can be your destiny too. We would rather have you voluntarily than as a puppet. There are some of your kind that think the same as we do! Your great uncle was one of them.”
“Go to Hell,” I roared.
I don’t know why I did it. I guess I didn’t believe my own senses and had to see for myself. In the confusion I leaped to the other side of the room and turned on the overhead lights. Falbridge threw his body in front of me but was too late. He pressed close to me when the lights burst on. He was thoroughly agitated. The drool that normally welled disgustingly in the corners of his mouth ran down both sides of his chin. He blocked my view of the corner and with an outstretched arm I shoved his frail body against the processor.
A crouched form stood blinded by the bright light. It was a green slimy thing. The skin was smooth and blotchy in color. A narrow dorsal fin ran the length of its curved spine. Its back and shoulders connected to the head with no neck apparent. A low hairless brow slanted back and away from a pair of bulging eyes. Two small holes in the face where a nose should be dribbled moisture and a wide lipless mouth hung open. While narrow gill slits just below the drooping chin flexed open and closed rhythmically. My eyes ran down the length of the thing. Its unclothed body dripping water on the floor. Arms and legs that although massive at the shoulders and hips trailed out thinly and, attached to where normally hands and feet ought to have been, were webbed flippers.
Bear in mind closely now that it wasn’t the actual sight of the thing that caused me to run. To say that a mental shock was the cause alone of what I deduced...the last straw which sent me racing out of that gray concrete building, through the parking lot to the main gate and the waiting cab, is to ignore the last few plain facts of my experience.
The ride that followed was spent in partial delirium, leaving the base, out through the surrounding countryside, through Valsbach and only after frantically coaxing the driver, finally reaching Todesfall’s house.
The drive and scenery were ignored by me. My mind was totally consumed by what I saw resting on the vacant wheelchair. I have no physical proof even now whether I am right or wrong in my crazy deductions. At any rate before I ran from the room, while my eyes were still running down the length of that frog-like thing, I became attracted to some things in the chair. It was to the right of the creature and propped alongside the wall. The wheelchair had been folded up and collapsed against itself. I noticed then for the first time the presence of certain objects draped across the loose folds in the seat. The objects were four in number and although there was nothing of actual visual horror about them; they did lead me to conclude other things.
For the things in the wheelchair were a green wool blanket, a pair of yellow mittens, and a large red wig and beard...the disguise that I had come to know as Ephraim Pryne.
***
It is incredible to me now that everyone else on earth spent that evening as if it was any other. It all seemed so safe and tranquil.
Around me the daily routine of life, working, eating, sleeping was continuing serenely as always. While beneath the thick glade in my own backyard festered an evil so great and powerful as to interrupt that serenity and change the face of our planet as we know it.
From this point forward my statements will be found to include incidents entirely out of the range of probability. Up until this point all that has happened can be logically explained away and some incidents by way of coincidence, others interpreting it as the misreporting of information and some diagnosing an inability on my part to distinguish between reality and dreams.
I know it’s hopeless to obtain any credibility for the rest of my story but I’ll go on trusting in time and the progress of scientific curiosity to verify some of the most important and more improbable facts of my statements.
When I reached home a storm front had rolled in and the temperature had dropped considerably. There was fog everywhere. Around the schloss it was more than a fog, a thick green moldy smelling mist had swelled up.
The cab driver was nervous and in a hurry to leave almost drove off without being paid.
Through the fog I could see the windows a blaze with light from the inside. It was reassuring and I was comforted by the peaceful homey atmosphere it projected.
Off to the east a dense blanket of clouds glowed with the soft radiance where the moon was trying to break through and the lack of any southerly breeze gave no promise of clearing skies.
&nb
sp; As I approached the drive I could see that the square paned windows alongside the house were coated with a thick dewy moisture; the air had become heavy and unbelievably cold.
A blue-green cold swam across the tiles of the roof running down the walls to where the mist churned below the window sills. I couldn’t help wondering if centuries of dark brooding had given the crumbling structure a peculiar vulnerability to such a phenomenon.
We had always been in the habit of using the rear entrance and making no exception then I headed around the back. For an instant I thought I detected a movement on the front porch but shrugged it off as an action of the fog.
The rear door had been locked and after trying my key in the latch it still would not open. The bolt had been drawn from the inside. A loud crashing of glass followed by a heavy thud broke the evening quiet. I pounded on the door yelling for Janet and a few seconds later heard the breaking of glass again. It wasn’t as loud, sounding further away, upstairs perhaps. It was as if someone was hammering plate glass with a soft blunt instrument. Then I heard Janet scream. It didn’t sound like her at first. Not until I heard it repeated did I recognize her voice.
The door broke in on the third kick. The living room was a shambles. The fog had reached there too. The mist was so thick that it leaked in through every crack around the front door and billowed in through a gaping hole in the wall where the east bay used to be. The large cement urn that used to sit on the front porch was lodged against the fireplace and the marble hearth was cracked in several places. My strides brought sounds of crunching glass under foot and caused small tight swirls and eddies to churn in the mist that clung about a foot off the floor.
I called for Janet several times but there was no answer. I stopped calling when looking, up I saw her body at the top of the stairs.
I was in tears when I reached her and you can imagine my relief when I found her breathing steadily.
