By the Light of a Gibbous Moon

by Scott Jäeger

That girl got who got put down, she got to me, I admit it. She had probably been pretty before the change took her. But whatever treatment Holm lays on them, they get that staring, yellow-eyed look, and their skin goes gray, the surface rough, pebbly even. I only ever spied one of them from afar, before he spotted us. Even when they’re not hell bent on tearing out your throat, it’s plain they’re not at peace. This one was moving bricks by hand. He was strong, but moved in quick jerks and had impaired coordination, like a nervous disorder. It must be some kind of drug Holm gives them, one with nasty side effects.

  Holm’s people are all kinds: housewives, firemen, bricklayers, students, you name it. These people disappear, with no warning, and some time later, weeks or months, they show up on his roster. How does he recruit them? And what does he do to them to make them so strong, almost bullet-proof? The only thing they seem to have in common is their crazed devotion to their master.

  ‘Cult’ is a word that I hear getting bandied about a lot by my superiors. The behaviour I’ve seen goes a little beyond cultish. I don’t think a rabid chimpanzee has any less inhibition that Holm’s acolytes. Re-reading my own stuff I see it comes off a little outlandish, but the body count on both sides bears it up. I just hope HQ sees it the same way.

  10 December, 1922

  What happened to Bueller? Just gone. Called in at 20:05 last night. Come midnight he was gone. We’re getting sold out by someone on the inside. It’s the only answer, but I can’t make it fit. Everyone in D-C knows what we’re dealing with, knows that any one of us could be next. I don’t have any illusions about human nature, but I still can’t get it straight in my mind.

  I can’t watch my own back, watch my partner’s back, and watch my partner all at once. I work solo from now on.

  26 December, 1922

  Got to see my sister and her family yesterday. Nobody killed in two whole weeks. Merry Christmas.

  18 January, 1923

  Working alone is taking its toll. Sleeping, eating, thinking, nothing is coming easy.

  For a long time I thought I was getting twitchy. I was hearing footsteps, padding footsteps, always about a block back. I’d ease out my .45, never changing my pace, never moving my head or giving it away, and BAM! Nothing there.

  But there is something there. Caught a glimpse of my shadow today.

  Thing is, I didn’t surprise it. I think it stayed a fraction of a second longer so I could catch a glimpse. Just a glimpse, mind. Not enough to clear up my doubts, not enough to assuage the gnawing fear in my guts. I had my .45 of course, clutched in one shaking fist, which at that range would punch a hole in a dog big enough to set your hat in. If it was a dog.

  22 January, 1923

  New leads, none of which I’m going to put in writing. It’s not protocol and I’m telling you fuck protocol. Too much at stake now.

  As I get nearer to Holm, my strange pursuer closes with me. It is dog shaped, like a hound of some kind, but huge. Could it be a mastiff, like the Hound of the Baskervilles? I don’t suffer from any family curses, unless you count the Bureau as a family, in which case you could say I’m cursed with a short lifespan, exciting but unhappy. I read up a little on my British folklore at the Miskatonic Library. The whole situation is reminiscent of the Black Dog of British folklore, a ghost animal foretelling the victim’s imminent demise. A ghost I could deal with, but I

  31 January, 1923

  Closing in on Holm, I can feel it, just like I feel that thing breathing down my goddamned neck. I took a pot shot at it last night. If you got a report of a shot fired out on Beckinham Road around 2:00am that was me. Might as well have tried to kill a puff of smoke.

  I’m worried now, really worried for the first time. Does this thing belong to our man? I better commit a few details to paper after all. And my last will and testament while I’m at it.

  Here’s the lowdown on Holm: Word is, his base of operations is in the vicinity of the Arkham railyard. Never would’ve dreamed he had the guts to hide right under our noses, clever bastard. One problem remains: how am I going to question him when by all accounts he’s unconscionably strong and immune to pain and physical punishment of all kinds? If he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll be forced to kill him and we’ll never know how he did it, how he turned all those good, clean, law abiding folks into deranged killers. What a time to be without backup.

  There’s one more errand to take care of before Holm: I got a line on a guy named Stokes, supposed to be an ex-confederate of the man himself. He’s hiding out by the abandoned docks. If Stokes is willing to talk, he’ll be the first. This could be the break which means my living and somebody else dying.

  There’s still a chance to turn this around. Have to believe that or I’ll lose my nerve, and at this point that means //scribbled out and illegible//

  In ten minutes I’m dropping this report at the place prescribed by FS Smedley. If you don’t hear from me by dawn– you know.

  End Report

  ****

  Appended

  Three months of legwork and four of our own dead, and what have we got on Holm? Description of suspect: none. Motive: none. Associates: unknown. M.O.: unknown. Probable location: doubtful. A big fat pile of nada. I’m damned tired of losing trained agents on this case. We simply can’t keep hemorrhaging people at this rate or the Deep Cover unit is going to go bust.

  Can’t we find some patsy to take the fall for once? For the type of information we’re getting, I want a stand-in, some nobody to bite it for a change! All he’s got to do is put a few bullets between himself and Holm’s goons. Or even act as a decoy and make some noise dying while someone competent gets to our target. I realize that patriots are scarce since the War, but if we can’t find a fool, I’ll take a mercenary.

  This is my recommendation and I’m taking it all the way to the top.

  – Field Supervisor Jackson Smedley

  Report to Chief Magistrate Ledwidge

  4 January, 1693

  Report to Chief Magistrate Ledwidge, Boston

  On the Tryal of the Sorcerer, Warlock and Pracktition’r of the Black Arts, Silas Zork, convict’d Witchcraft 27 November, 1692 ~

  On the 3rd December of last Year I did my Utmost to carrie out the Sentence passed down by Dunwich Township’s Council of Inquirie, to-wit: that the Accus’d be Hang’d by the Neck for Crimes against God, the Church and Humanitie. The Punishmnt was to take place at Twelv Noon as is our Custom. The Prisoner was Quiet and Calm as he was led to the Gallows and I anticipated no Problem from him. Upon his Sentence being Pronounced and the Trapp being open’d, the Criminal did hang by his neck, but did not die nor choke nor swing. The Scoundrel did verily Grinn at us and suffer’d no ill effect from his righteous Punishmnt. Womenfolk were sore Afraid and some fainted Dead away, but the Congregation, Goode and Virtuous Protestants All, were of strong Faithe and did take Mr. Zork into Custodie again and return him to the Gaol to awaite our further Deliberations.

  After long Deliberations, our Council decided the Accus’d must be Burnt to the Stake, this sentence to be carried out on 5th December, 1692. After the Shocking Events of the prev. Wednesday, the Entire Township came to see the Villin’s Punishmnt, his Words and Face being Much Loathed by good folk Every Where. On this Occasion, methinks because of the Power of Fire to Cleanse the Divill, the Warlock Zork made a fierce Struggle in his Final Hour and had been beaten sore about the face. Be-Cause of his sense-less gibbering in his Last Hours, we had gagged him to Protect Ourselfs should the Divill speak thru him and try to Tempt us from our most Virtuous Course.

  Just as the Tinder began to take Fire, Goodwife Wainwright cried out in an Hysteria ‘twas not Zork on the Stake of Judgment at All but Magister Hathorne. The Hon. Magistrate was head of the Council of Inquirie which pass’d the Sentence on Zork, and was the only Man in the Settlement who did not attend, having been call’d out Verry Late on the Night Prev. on some Un-known Errand.

  Before Goodie Wainwright could kick apart the Pyre, a second Goodwife knock’d h
er back, shouting that the Divill had Shadowed our Eyes and that truely it was Zork tied to the Stake. For an Instant Only did I too think I saw Magister Hathorne about to Burn, but when the first great Plume of Smoke cleared, I saw for Certain it was Zork indeed. After those few moments of Doubt, it was of no profitt to Question the man’s Identitie, for the Heat lept up Hard and Fierce, as if the jumping Flames Hunger’d for Zork in particklar, and No Man could approach. The Prisoner’s gag howsoever had worked loose and the man call’d out to the Lord God for Mercy from his Torment. Only then did we all agree it was in truth the Hon. Magister Hathorne, and that Fate had done him a most unjust Turn.

  Looking both High and Low we soon Discover’d that the Most Hideous Villin Zork has escaped clean away, no doubt on the Wings of the Divill Himsel.

  Afterwards I bethought Myself hard to recall who belong’d to the 2nd Voice which stop’d Goodie Wainwright from Saving the Magistrate. I decid’d it to be to be that of Goodwife Cooper. She Denied this Allegation and claimed the Woman in Question to be Goodwife Carter. I could not be Definite in my Own Mind and so Examined Goodwife Carter. Goodie Carter in turn sayeth she believ’d the Voice’s Owner to be Goodwife Wainwright, which of course maketh no Sense What-so-ever.

  I Beg Forgiveness for this Terrible Mistake, and Promise to Pursue the Sorcerer Zork with all Haste and Zeal.

  Ever your Servant in Christ,

  Reverend Benjamin Bott

  ****

  Appended notes: Silas Zork was not seen again in Dunwich for decades. Rumour had him traveling the world to several unholy places -Tibet, Hispaniola, France- to complete his education in dark works. His family maintained that Zork was innocent. They further claimed his original conviction of witchcraft was Magistrate Hathorne’s retribution over a land deal gone sour, and the accused’s escape a miracle sent by God.

  In failing health, Zork returned to Dunwich and his family some time in the first half of the 18th century. By this time, the hysteria over witches had subsided and he lived out his last days unmolested. In July of 1734, after a humble Protestant ceremony, Silas Zork was interred in the family mausoleum in Dunwich.

  Contrary to the dire predictions of Magistrate Hathorne’s descendants, the earth did not reject Zork’s body, nor did the corpse spontaneously burst into flame.

  Clockwork

  My friend Sigmund and I had for many weeks on our way to school taken a lengthy detour on Hauptstrasse to stop outside the old shop. The ancient fieldstone building gave an impression of sagging everywhere, as if in despair of its smart redbrick neighbours and the newly cobbled street, but despite this some merchant had decided to move in. We would press our faces against the tiny panes of leaded glass, but had so far observed nothing more than the back of a cracked leather curtain.

  Today however, there was a change: the barest crack between the rotted leather hangings. Shifting my head every which way to take advantage of the still feeble light, I was able to discern a few obscure shapes within: tables, shelves, a doorway, and a single antique mantel clock, displayed in such a way that I was certain I had the answer.

  I had been hoping for a confectioner, or better, a gunsmith. A disappointment equal to over a month –an eternity!– of expectation settled on my shoulders and forced the air from my lungs. “He is a watchmaker,” I sighed.

  “A what?” Sigmund’s mouth, which was given to hanging open anyway, gaped a little wider. I gestured that he should look for himself, but he just stood and continued to gape.

  “He makes timepieces,” I said bitterly. “Just what our town needs, a man who sells clocks to lawyers and money-lenders. Listening to that ticktock ticktock all day must drive a man mad.”

  The first I knew of the watchmaker was his fingers biting into my arm like four separate awls.

  After turning me about, he scrutinized my person with a rheumy gaze, like a farmer examining a suspect pig for wasting disease. My mouth opened as if it would protest, but faced with the uncommonly hideous, I closed it again without a word. Each of his features was swollen and crowded together on his face, as if having been filched from the head of a much larger man, they would never properly fit. He wore a tattered and colourless greatcoat, and what was visible of the body beneath it was wizened and bent as a rotted branch. He stank as well, as you will likely have guessed.

  Yellowed eyes flicked suddenly to Sig who, though not manhandled as I, appeared equally helpless. My captor gave a jerk of his head. The sound of my friend’s shoes beating the cobbles was the tale of his courage.

  “I am Oppol, yes?” the man said in a creaking whine, “and you are Jorg Hayner, the carpenter’s son. Come in, please.” He turned, and without relaxing that grip, walked inside.

  Within the dim cave of the shop he released my arm. My first instinct was to bolt for the door, already soughing shut on the last bar of light, but thinking of Sigmund, I stayed. It would be less satisfying to denounce him as a coward if I turned up my heels now.

  Oppol shuffled to the front window and pulled the hangings down from their hooks. Beams of light, made solid by swirling dust, pushed reluctantly into the room. “My humble shop. I open today, and you are the first in Weiz to see it.”

  Careful to keep him in my field of view, I turned. The shop was indeed humble. The morning sun revealed a dilapidated hodgepodge of tables, crates and shelves, every available surface of which was piled with gears, springs, musty old manuals, and detritus of less obvious portent. Here and there the indistinguishable junk was relieved by the profile of a worm-scarred clock. And over everything, from the bare stone walls to the shade of the single, unlit lamp, lay a patina of rust and grit. I had supposed the watchmaker to be an Austrian like myself, but we care deeply for order and cleanliness. I didn’t think this shop would meet with any success, even somewhere like France, much less in our respectable little town.

  Oppol’s bulging eyes tracked me as he wandered about, with one finger absently adjusting the bits and pieces, as if perfecting a pattern visible only to him. I thought, ridiculously, that he should sweep up the trash on the floor first.

  “You do not like clocks for some reason?” he asked, halting his circuit. “I heard you talking to your gawping friend outside.”

  At home, I was schooled most strictly against insolence, but I could think of nothing less rude than to shrug.

  “Come, look at this.”

  I followed his beckoning claw to a corner of the room where the exhausted light had all but given up. He lifted a greasy cloth from an object as out of place in that shop as a candle flame at the bottom of a stagnant pond. It was a bird, or rather an exquisite facsimile, modeled on some exotic species I had never seen. The statuette was posed with its beak nestled under one wing like a sleeping mallard. Studying it closely, I saw the jeweled plumage had been reproduced with impossibly thin, overlapping segments. It did not appear to be painted, but how had he produced such an array of colours in raw metal?

  Not wanting to show my admiration for this stunning craftsmanship, I remained silent.

  “All the world, and every moving thing within it, is a machine,” he said, as if lecturing to a room full of people, “and one who understands the inner workings of a thing, how the gears fit together, controls it. That is the watchmaker’s joy, to know that once you set something in motion, you can predict its every action and reaction. It is at your command.”

  The bent old man had been stroking the head of his figurine as he talked. Now he tickled it somewhere in its iridescent plumage. The creature gave a sound like a spring suddenly uncoiling and I stumbled back in shock. As if waking from a nap in the sun, the metal bird stretched its neck and spread its wings. While I watched in awe, it snapped its beak twice and proceeded to fidget about on the perch.

  I struggled, with poor results, to conceal my wonder as it began to groom itself. “It is a fine toy, Mein Heir, but I am too old for such things.”

  “Hm.” The watchmaker’s brow furrowed, against all reason making him yet uglier. �
�You are too old for toys you say, but you are not apprenticed yet. I will need someone young, with clear eyes, to help me here.”

  Even the priest would forgive me for laughing at this offer. “My father is a Master Carpenter, Heir Oppol. Perhaps you would like to discuss my apprenticeship with him.”

  “Does tree sap run in your veins then, Master Hayner? None of this” –gesturing with one crooked arm as if we stood in a bank vault bursting with gold instead of a room full of junk– “interests you? If you worked with me you would see that my work goes beyond clocks and pocket watches, the simple gadgets you hold in such contempt, to the greatest machine of all: Man.”

  “Man is no machine,” I sullenly replied. The man’s rambling recalled snippets I had heard about the atheist, a strange sort of heretic rumoured to frequent Vienna.

  “He is, young man. He is a machine, and not so much more difficult to understand than any fragile mechanism. And then, some men are easier to understand than others.”

  He paused and there was nothing to fill the silence between us but his bird, which now emitted a metallic cooing sound.

  “But your heart is set on woodwork. Then there is one more thing for us to discuss, Master Hayner, and you may go on your way. Your sister, er– Madchen is her name? I would like an introduction.”

  My lips contorted and sputtered nothing at all before my brain could work out a sensible reply. My initial fear of this scarecrow had dwindled to nothing, but now anger rose up in me instead. How did this foul creature know of my sister? Or of myself or my father, come to that?

  At last I came out with, “My sister is eleven years old.”

  “Yes, yes, my boy. I am no longer a young buck, it is true.” He wheezed once in a poor imitation of gaiety. “Doubtless to you I seem ancient, but that is all the more reason to seek out young flesh. Any roads, it will be for your father to decide.” Turning his back to me, he covered his bird once more. “Now you’ve seen something to tell your friends. Be off.”