by Scott Jäeger
I felt the hollow moan reverberate up the cavern and into my bones. It soon changed into a shriek of rage. Thompson didn’t look much different from Mulligan, but for the screaming black hole like a cave in his pearl white face, and two eyes that, for all the reason they held, might as well have been knucklebones.
Thompson stumbled in time with an earsplitting crack. Pardee had fired on him –he had kept a little purse gun concealed from me this whole time– but it hardly slowed Thompson. I steadied my hand while Pardee lined up a second shot that would come too late.
With the force of every one of my years spent hauling coal in Beury, West Virginia, I buried the point of that pickaxe three inches into the ghost miner’s skull. To my amazement, he lurched about and came at me again, arms spread wide for a bear hug. I softshoe’d out of his path. I must’ve dislodged something important in that thick head, for the bugger was obviously stone blind.
“Told ya he weren’t right in the head,” Mulligan chuckled as we all stepped back. Like a dog gone rabid, Thompson gibbered and howled, staggering in ragged circles, hands pawing at the empty darkness. “Let’s make tracks, boys.”
Pardee pocketed his pistol and we dropped everything but my light. Mulligan led us a scramble up the black hill. The rock shifted and crumbled constantly beneath us and it got very steep, but the cool air pulled me on. Where the floor met the roof I spied a few vagrant stars flirting with the treetops: freedom!
I was at the exit, sucking down breaths like a half-drowned man, when Mulligan stopped Pardee with one hand.
“Listen Mr. Pardee, maybe I work with my hands, but I ain’t stupid. There’s somethin’ not right about this whole thing and I ain’t goin’ out there till I hear what it is.”
“Yes, Eddie, you’re right.” Pardee scanned the void behind us but there was no sign of Thompson. Even his baying cries had died off. “A lot of time has passed since the cave-in, a lot of time.”
Mulligan nodded as if he had suspected just this thing.
“There was something in that pool that kept you a young man when by all rights you should have died long ago. It’s the twentieth century now, but don’t worry my friend. You’re about to become one of its stars.”
Mulligan was silent, contemplating, then without a word he came up and the three of us were standing on a hillside beneath the scudding clouds of a warm autumn night. He looked about him, as if to survey the new century.
“The people from the future –from the present day, I mean– they won’t think I’m ignorant, will they?”
“Everything will be just fine, son.” Pardee rested a friendly hand on the miner’s shoulder, the greed in his eyes like twin headlamps. “I’ll take care of you, I promise. I’ll take care of everything.”
Edward Mulligan stepped from the shadow of the pine trees at the same moment as the restless clouds revealed the moon, and when its beams fell upon him his coveralls slumped empty to the earth. The man himself dissolved at once into ash or dust, an infinity of swirling white atoms.
At this final horror, Pardee leapt backwards like a cat lighting on a woodstove, and fell clattering and sliding down that grim hole we had just quit. I was still on my knees retching when I heard from below five echoing pistol shots in quick succession.
I stayed there on the ground, wiped my chin, and squatted staring at the grass between my knees and nothing else. I listened to a full minute of deathly silence.
“I got him, Wilson!” Pardee’s words wafted up to me, still broken up with belaboured panting. “Don’t worry, I got him. He wasn’t so immortal after all. Your light… do you still have your–”
It may have been the gun’s retorts or maybe Pardee had knocked something loose on his way down, but his question was lost in a massive rumble that sent me flying. A huge section of earth rushed down into the aperture, and filled it utterly. In seconds nothing was to be seen of Pardee or Mulligan but a choking cloud of dust.
I don’t know that anyone will ever read this account, but I have to say Sadie was right. She usually is. I feel much better for having put it all down on paper.
But what of Mr. Pardee? you may ask. Well, I’m sad to say there’s no question of mounting a rescue. Rescues cost money and I figure the four hundred dollars I found in his leather valise is enough to compensate me for our little adventure, but no more.
Besides, I have a feeling Mr. Pardee got just what he desired down there in the dark.
Professor Lombardy’s Journal
I am- I was a Professor of Mathematics. But soon, I will be so much more.
During the years I toiled on my graduate thesis, my diligent consumption of the works of Newton and Euler left me wanting. I felt the great minds of Mathematics were somehow hinting –perhaps without realizing it themselves– at a world beyond their power of explanation.
Dissatisfied with what my mentors could provide, I found my research drifting ever farther into the occult. Perusal of a variety of bizarre and forbidden tomes, such as the fragmentary Book of Eibon, and Remigius’s Daemonolatreia, led me to a highly unorthodox conclusion: that the subjects of any number of queer tales of witchcraft and demon summoning, were in fact mathematicians forced by the ignorance and barbarity of society into the role of outré occultist or sorcerer.
From careful study of the scraps and fragments, –poor translations most– which passed through my hands, I discovered that the authors of these suppressed works had somehow acquired a profound understanding of an outrageous, non-Euclidean geometry, a mathematical language unknown to formal academies anywhere in the world, even today. To hide this knowledge from the eyes of the puritanical new world inquisition, they obfuscated it with mystical mumbo jumbo. Symbols and formulae which would convey unimaginable power were mixed with nonsense scribbles and fragments of Latin and Old English, rendering all an incomprehensible mish-mash. Fear of these tomes led to them being hidden away first by the church, later by misguided authorities. But the very act of their banishment ensured not only that these writings would survive in jealously guarded libraries and private collections, but that they would be painstakingly copied by those few who understood their true value.
Fevered pursuit of my theory led me to the verge of deciphering what to myself I termed an absolute mathematics. I am convinced that knowledge of this absolute mathematics would grant me an understanding not just of the physical laws and mechanics of this universe, but of others beyond our comprehension, as well as the means to open a gate to those other, Outside, places at will.
Even with only partial understanding, I knew the things I could reveal in my doctorate thesis would have turned the staid world of academia fully on its head. By the jumping light of a candle in my poor garret room, I entreated my advisor –one Professor Gimbal– to support me. I swore that I would always properly credit his contribution to my work (though in truth it was nonexistent), no matter to what exalted heights I would be lifted by my fame.
Even though I dared reveal to his weak and timid mind only a small portion of my work, his hands shook as he gazed upon it. He refused to support me, the imbecile. He insisted at that late date that I write my thesis on another topic entirely, and threatened my entire career if I continued to pursue my vision. As if this weren’t impudence enough for one night, he more than half accused me of being addicted to laudanum! It is true I had become a regular user of that medicine, not because I was an addlepated weakling, but because of the severe mental stresses which my research engendered.
To satisfy the feebleminded old goat, I agreed to generate the typical mediocre drivel expected of a graduate student of mathematics. Mentally, it was a task far beneath me, but nevertheless consumed precious time. I agreed to this sacrifice trusting that once I had earned my degree at Miskatonic, I would finally have access to the library’s closely guarded Occult Room, which hosts one of the world’s most comprehensive collections of the illicit and misunderstood. Imagine my horror when I was denied –indefinitely– access to that coveted collection of the
arcane, precisely because that snake Gimbal advised against it!
Though passionate in my pursuit of knowledge, I have never been a violent man by disposition. Nevertheless, my fury at that point may well have been homicidal had it not been for the one person who stood by me at this difficult juncture, as she had at all my tribulations before and since, my dear, dear wife Annabel. That poor creature. If I had known how it would turn out– In truth, I have to admit I would have done nothing different.
I pushed on after the university’s crushing rejection, denying my despair by focusing every iota of my will on continued research. With shaking hands and mumbled incantations, I had hesitantly tried to work my first portal, but my understanding of the angles and their concomitant equations, which described in chalk seem an impossible contradiction, was grossly deficient. My first attempt revealed nothing of any other plane, no haunting voice from the void, nothing.
From various inferences gleaned from my studies, as well as months of correspondence with like-minded scholars around the world, I came to the conclusion that the black book Unaussprechlichen Kulten, by Friedrich von Junzt, must have the final answers I needed.
I met the sailor along the fetid, gloom shrouded wharf of Innsmouth Harbour. He was a feral and ill-favoured fellow possessed in my opinion of teeth both too numerous and too sharp. The parcel under his arm frighted him so badly he daren’t expose it in public, even by the guttering light of the Hook and Anchor, the most disreputable public house in New England. What else but the horrid tome I sought could shake the nerve of a pox-scarred sailor of that most cursed port? In an alleyway scarcely broad enough for one to pass, I reviewed the weighty package by the light of a gibbous moon. Confirming it to be the iron-hasped volume I sought, I paid him for it, both dearly and gladly. The seaman cackled brokenly when he passed it to me, not I thought, with joy at his rich reward, but as if he had played me a most cruel trick. I had for an instant an image of some wicked troll in a children’s tale, croaking gleefully that I had taken a terrible burden from its shoulders and on to my own. I shook off these misgivings at once and returned to Arkham.
My first serious study of the book increased my understanding three-fold! If only I had known its power in the beginning, years could have been saved… In any case, I learned that the quickest road to the knowledge I sought was to speak to an agent from Outside. Such a mentor could reveal more in an instant than would be learned in a lifetime of studying mere human scribbling. There were still obstacles to overcome, but by precisely following von Junzt’s words, I overcame the first: finding a proper location for the gate.
****
Having relocated my wife and myself to a modest camp without the cave, I was faced with the next dilemma, that damnable stone door! I feel a fool that it took me many months of trial and error, but I did find the formula to open it. The sacrifice of a small, living animal is required. A cat or a chicken will suffice. First intone the words:
phlagn-ngwahr-ngg
Ia! Ia! Magnus portal!
Then, cut the throat of the animal and with its blood draw this symbol on the smooth blank square in the center of the door.
Ỳ
Then speak the Latin word for ‘open’: aperio
There were some unwanted –I shall call them vermin– in the tunnel beyond, but I dispatched these with the practical application of a half-dozen shotgun shells. The chamber below represented the fulfillment of my desires! All was intact. The fine masonry, worked by what long dead artisans I know not, may well have been finished that very morning.
My faithful wife, like a rock to whom my agonized mind was ever tethered, seconded me during the ritual. Something arose from the pit, something unexpected. I failed that day. I failed and Annabel paid the ultimate price. Her death in that ancient ritual chamber was my first indication that my version of von Junzt’s masterwork was incomplete!
My wife’s death left me deranged. A manic despair swept over me, and by the time I came to myself my bed was a pile of leaf mulch on the forest floor. A full week had passed and by the gnawing in my gut I sensed I had not eaten in all that time, but roamed the woods like a mindless idiot, until finally a glimmer of hope shone on my brain and brought me back, –more than temporarily, I prayed– to my senses.
Of course! Fulfilling the ritual would mean unlimited power, even beyond the boundary separating life and death. The transformation engendered by my success would allow me to restore her completely. Looking now for gaps in the book, I found that a single leaf was missing. Out of hundreds of pages, this one oversight had almost cost me everything! I must at all costs get a transcription of page 172 of Unaussprechlichen Kulten. But I cannot stray far from the cave, no farther than I have gone this last long while for my meager sustenance. Someone will come to assist me though, I feel it.
****
It seems long now since I have taken up my task. I have paid no heed to time, but I feel slower of body and mind than I did. No matter. Just as Annabel will be restored, so will my time be restored, for I shall be master of all!
History is bound to ask: Why should such a visionary, a man ridiculed and scorned by his so-called peers, share his genius with a benighted world? Why, if he is so sure of his future success, does he commit his discoveries to meager words at all?
I do so because I suspect that I may not return from the journey I will soon make. No, not because my life is in danger. Far from it. But because having traveled beyond our mundane sphere, it is likely I may never wish to return.
Found On a Tombstone
Arkham Police Department
Missing Persons Report: Addendum / 20th June, 1922
The following message was found on a crumbling tombstone in the disused burying ground outside town.
****
Dear Johnny,
I know what your first question will be: Why am I sitting in the middle of an abandoned cemetery writing in the dark? Well, I’m sitting here waiting for you, you jerk! And I’m writing by the light of the candle I brought –it was supposed to be for our special night– because you’re late. Again! Did you know what I saw on the way here? A fox, a big one, and it was dead. In fact, it was torn to shreds. Do you think I want to look at things like that on the way to meet my boyfriend?
And what am I writing, pray tell? I’m writing to say that I can’t stand it anymore! We are through, mister! Whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing together, it is over with a capital O. You know what I
~
I heard something moving around, like an elephant sneaking in the briers and it sounded like breathing too. I thought it might be you. It would be just like you to forget your electric torch on a night like this! In fact, I bet that’s exactly what you’ve gone and done, you idiot!
Yes, I think you’re an idiot. You know what else I think? I think you’re dull. D-U-L-L DULL! Do you think sneaking out to be groped in the dark is a respectable girl’s idea of a good time? I got news for you: it ain’t.
You know what a snoop my little sister is? Last time I snuck in the bedroom window, she was already roaming the house looking for me. I slipped off my shoes and pulled my night gown on over my clothes, and convinced her she had missed me in the dark, that I had been in bed the whole time. Another five minutes and the whole house would have been up looking for me. What if my father found out about us? What then?!!! Wh
~
That was me out looking around the tombstones again with my candle. What on earth is that snarling noise? It’s like an angry dog, low and mean but also–watery or something. Every time I lift the light up high, it stops, then when I put the candle down it starts up again. If I find out it’s you sneaking around trying to scare me, I swear I will tear a strip out of your hide. See if I don’t!
But I don’t even think it IS you. I think you forgot about our special night altogether! That’s just what a creep like you would do too. Now my candle’s burning out and I have to walk home alone in the dark.
You are a creep and I hope
you ROT!
Creep!
Love not any more, Buster!
Beverly
P.S. I hope you get hit by a truck!
P.P.S. Creep!
****
Notes:
First of all, the author of the letter is presumed to be Miss Beverly Wimble of Arkham, reported missing these past three days. The “Johnny” to whom it’s addressed is undoubtedly Jonathon Turcotte, also of Arkham, also reported missing for three days. The two were known acquaintances and attended the same class at Arkham Secondary School.
Second, the inscription on the grave in question is illegible, worn smooth with time, as many of them are since that bit of ground hasn’t been used in almost 200 years. You’ll soon see why I don’t think the grave itself has any bearing on our evidence.
The tall grass immediately in front of the grave marker was pressed flat, for about the area which two struggling people would cover. As well, there were two items dropped in the immediate vicinity: a candle stub burned low, as mentioned in the letter, and a woman’s rouge, coral pink. Just the colour you’d expect a young woman to wear.
You can probably see where I’m going with this: the boyfriend showed up, they made up their differences in good time –you know how kids are these days!– they had a little tousle in the grass, and they decided to elope. We’ll probably hear from Mr. Turcotte and Miss Wimble –or Mr. and Mrs. Turcotte as the case may be– in a couple of weeks. If Miss Wimble wasn’t on good terms with her parents, and it sounds like she wasn’t, maybe longer.
Final recommendation: close file. Let’s not waste any more time on this.
--Sgt Travers
The Curious Manuxet Medicine Man
17 September, 1720 – Deerfield, Massachusetts
