This then was the beginning of the horror that would come to eclipse that of the typhoid plague. For while neither the police or the newsmen had drawn the connection, it was obvious to me that the stranger that had so brutally assaulted my colleagues was the same person that had so mercilessly slaughtered the cemetery night watchman. That night the streets of Arkham were filled with a preternatural howling, and something monstrous leapt from rooftop to rooftop shattering windows and breaking down doors. That night the beast invaded eight houses, butchering fourteen, and gnawing at the already deceased bodies of three plague victims. Those who had seen the killer, those who had lived, swore that while the thing stood on two legs it was not a man but some sort of hairless and malformed simian with sickly pale flesh and blazing red eyes.
The human mind can tolerate only so many traumas, and the creature that actively hunted through the streets of our fair city had overshadowed the massive but equally passive horrors of the typhoid plague. And so they were pushed aside, ignored, forgotten to make way for this new terror. In the light of day the able-bodied men of the city made plans. A net of volunteer telephone stations were established throughout the city and search parties were organized, armed, and in the evening deployed. Each search party was comprised of a single police officer and four men from the neighborhood in which they were stationed. Thus the searchers were not unfamiliar with the streets that they were patrolling, and I as one of those searchers was not far from my family home.
I remember that night. I remember the hot dry breeze rolling down the streets carrying with it the stench of humanity, and the stink of death. It was low tide and even in the college district I could smell the river. Insects, mostly mosquitoes, gnats and moths with the occasional beetle, were thick that night. They swarmed about the street lights, at windows, and around our heads like clouds of dust, drifting purposefully into our ears, our noses and our eyes. The howling that had filled the night before was gone, replaced by a thin drone that worked its way into my teeth, through my jaw and finally drilling down to the deep recesses of my brain. As time progressed the denizens of the night revealed themselves: a pack of thin feral dogs marched down the street as if it belonged to them; cats, black cats, fat cats, thin cats, calico and tortoiseshells that stalked unseen prey in front yards and along the sidewalks; and then came the rats, lean grey things that skittered and skulked along the curbs and sewers, seemingly unapologetic as they rummaged through the refuse that had accumulated there. Watching these creatures go through their nightly routines, wandering amongst our streets, our yards, and between our homes, made me wonder how much more went unseen in the streets at night, and how much of it impacted our lives during the day. Given time and effort, how much of the plague could be traced to the actions of these unseen and ignored residents of Arkham?
The alarm was raised just before midnight. Something large had scratched incessantly at the second-story windows of a house just a block from our patrol, methodically testing each of the windows, sending the residents of the home to seek shelter in the fruit cellar. The windows had been shuttered and so the beast had not only been deterred but had remained unseen as well, but it had whined in frustration, and slate had tumbled to the street below as the thing dashed across the roof.
By the time I and my fellow hunters arrived, the thing had moved on, but it had not traveled far, for we could hear the faint distant sound of wood splintering and a woman screaming. We ran down the street in the general direction of the disturbance. While my companions paused to gain a sense of direction, I sped on, fully cognizant of where we should be going. The screaming, which I recognized, and which drove me to new heights of frenzy, grew pitched and then suddenly ceased. Reaching the house which was the source of such terrified vocalizations, I cleared the front porch in a single leap and dashed through what remained of the shattered door and frame. Those brave men who followed me stumbled in the dark, tripped up by the furniture and lost in the dark inner rooms of the house. I had no such problems and weaved my way through with practiced grace.
It was in the kitchen that the final tableau was to play out. The gaslight sputtered, giving me only brief glimpses of the scene. On the floor, an older man, the owner of the house, lay in a bloody pulp. His head lolled horribly to one side, and though any semblance of life had long left that body, arterial blood still sprayed rhythmically from the place in which his left arm, the hand of which still held a large cleaver, had been ripped from its socket.
I screamed in outraged denial and was greeted by the sudden movement of another shape in the room, which as the lamp flickered back on was revealed as two figures, one clasped by the other. That the woman was dead was not in doubt, for she was held so tightly about her neck that if she had not died from asphyxiation, she surely had died from trauma to her spine or those fragile arteries that supply blood to the brain. The claws that clamped about her tender throat were pale monstrous things with broken nails caked with blood and filth. As I watched, the face of the beast rose up from behind the dead woman. There was a horrid ripping sound and the woman’s head fell forward as the monster’s own head jerked backwards, tendrils of bloody flesh and chunks of bone clenched between its teeth. It saw me then and I saw it for what it truly was. It dropped that poor woman, casting her aside as one would casually dispose of an apple core, and crouched back. It leapt through the air and I fired my revolver, hitting it squarely in the chest, all the time screaming and cursing the name of the man who had so obviously unleashed this monstrosity.
Though it took a bullet to the chest, the beast, the Arkham Terror, did not die that night. In truth I think it may not be capable of death, nor can it ever be truly alive, not as we know it. It was not until the next day, when nurses and guards at the asylum hosed the thing down, that they learned what I already knew, though they have tried to keep it a secret. Some, the bolder of our city officials, have called for an investigation; have gone so far to suggest a disinterment, to prove the matter once and for all. Most however are content to confine the Terror to the asylum and let the events of that summer become just another part of Arkham’s strange witch-haunted past. But I know the truth, for even in the flickering lamplight I recognized the face of the Arkham Terror; after spending so much time with its owner, how could I not? I do not blame the Terror itself; I curse Herbert West for what he did that summer, for regardless of his intentions, the results were a brutal uncontrollable beast that killed without need or mercy. It was a bestial thing that was once human which broke into my family home and killed my parents. A monster which, as it chewed hungrily on my mother’s cracked skull, I recognized as the late great Dr. Allan Halsey, reanimated by the mad and inept experiments of the deranged Dr. Herbert West!
Editor's note: While it works wonderfully as a stand-alone story, The Arkham Terror is actually the first chapter in Pete Rawlik's new Lovecraftian novel Reanimators.
Pete Rawlik has been collecting Lovecraftian fiction for forty years. In 2011 he decided to take his hobby of writing more seriously. He has since published more than twenty stories. Reanimators, a labor of love about life, death and the undead in Arkham during the early twentieth century, is his first novel. He lives in Royal Palm Beach, Florida, with his wife and three children. Despite the rumors he is not and never has been wanted by maritime authorities for crimes on the high seas.
Story illustration by Nick Gucker
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The Pariah
by Bruce Durham
A warm breeze stirred the brittle limbs of a dying tree. A branch split and cracked, tumbling end over end to bounce with a hollow sound off the sun-baked pavement.
Alejo Medina watched it settle with undisguised boredom. He waited on his wife Lina and sons Eusebio and Pedro while leaning against his wagon outside a general store in the heart of San Jose de Las Lajas. The family was on their weekly excursion from Old Havana, an obligatory trip to barter for supplies unavailable in the city.
Once a thriving town,
San Jose de Las Lajas now lingered near death, a burnt shell of ruined buildings, baked ground and overgrown roads. Few people remained, a couple hundred elderly souls, the last vestiges of generational families squeezing existence from land ruined by unrelenting drought and living in perpetual fear of the Pariah.
But that was the way of things after the Great Blight had tumbled the world into barbarous chaos.
Whistling tunelessly, Alejo peered through a broken window into the general store, silently urging his family to move along. Necessity or not, the shorter their stay the better. But with each passing minute he grew increasingly impatient. Snatching a stone from the cracked ground, Alejo sent it skipping along the deserted road before deciding enough was enough.
Starting for the store, his attention shifted to a crowd of townspeople gathering in the central square. Peering beyond them, he saw a plume of black smoke rising in the distance. Curious, he crossed the street just as a second plume appeared near the first. "Fire,” he mumbled, joining the crowd, ignoring a woman who glared, her wizened features showing disdain for someone voicing the obvious.
“Look there,” a man said, pointing to a column of figures approaching from the east along a stone road. Their fatigued footfalls stirred dust as they shuffled into town.
Alejo watched briefly, a sinking feeling twisting his stomach. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his family gathering by the wagon, and jogged over.
"What is it?" Lina asked.
His wife was attractive, late thirties, short, with a round face and prematurely graying hair gathered in twin braids tumbling down her back.
Alejo took her hand and whispered, "It’s time we left.” He shifted his attention to the boys and forced a smile.
Pedro and Eusebio were in their early teens. Aged a year apart, their youthful faces were dark and handsome; features Alejo attributed to Lina rather than himself. Tousling Pedro’s mop of dark hair he said, “Would you like to visit Uncle Leandro and Aunt Lourdes?"
The boys yelped with joy, their curiosity over the twin pillars of smoke clearly forgotten. Uncle Leandro and Aunt Lourdes meant abundant food, sugared drinks, tasty sweets and relief from the squalid conditions of Old Havana.
Lina smiled warmly at their delight before taking her husband aside. "Tell me,” she said.
“I think the Line has fallen,” Alejo said, directing her attention toward the approaching figures. “Those are soldiers.” He motioned for her to remain with the children while he rejoined the crowd.
The soldiers moved slowly in the heat, a defeated, broken outfit. Uniforms bloodied, faces lined with exhaustion, many supported injured comrades while others hauled supplies on crudely fashioned a-frames.
The townsfolk hurled questions as they passed. An elderly woman grabbed one by the sleeve. He reacted by violently pushing her to the ground.
Helping the woman to her feet, Alejo shouted, “The Line. What happened at the Line?”
They ignored him.
Alejo stepped before a weary soldier. The man’s insignia denoted him as a ranking officer. The soldier stopped. His face was blackened with grime. His AK47 dangled across one bandaged arm. Alejo repeated the question.
In a parched whisper the man said, “Fallen. It’s fallen.” Pushing past, he shuffled on.
Alejo stepped back and looked to the east.
The Line was a mere four miles from town, a series of defensive works erected years ago and manned by militia and veterans of the Revolutionary Guard, men in the pay of the last of the great landowners who had assumed power when Communism fell and contact with the outside world ceased. A potent bulwark, the Line had barred those of the lawless and desolate east from overrunning the last vestiges of civilization in the west.
Ever a threat, though clearly unorganized, these lawless souls were at some point christened the Pariah, the name resulting from disturbing reports of strange cannibalistic rites and mysterious cults demanding human sacrifice. It was rumored they worshipped bizarre creatures that had crawled from the ocean depths to infest the port town of Baracoa on the eastern edge of Cuba.
Alejo hastened back to Lina. "The Pariah have overrun the defenses. We must leave before someone thinks to steal our wagon."
Lina nodded and quickly ushered Pedro and Eusebio into the cart before climbing aboard the wooden bench. She turned to offer the boys a reassuring smile.
Alejo joined her, took up the reins and flicked his wrists. The two horse team snorted and the vehicle lurched forward.
They started south, away from the retreating Guard. The soldiers would have no reservations against taking the wagon. As both town and soldiers faded in the distance, he directed the team back onto the road west, toward Old Havana and what safety it provided.
Uncle Leandro commanded respect.
Before the Great Blight ruined the world he had been a prominent shipping magnate. The loss of that livelihood proved a temporary setback, and in the ensuing political and economic chaos Leandro took residence in the ancient fort of Castillo de la Real Fuerza where he consolidated power by recruiting starving soldiers and jobless policemen. With this small, loyal army, he re-established order and hope among the dwindling survivors of Old Havana’s once substantial population. The city was his in all but name.
Aside from this success, and the ruthless methods used to attain it, Uncle Leandro remained a loyal family man, and when Alejo, Lina and the boys arrived with their tale, they were greeted with warm hugs, a kiss on the cheek and a place to stay.
Once settled, Leandro led Alejo to a point overlooking the rust-colored waters of the canal. He produced two home-rolled cigars.
Alejo accepted the luxury, nodding thanks. Leaning forward, he allowed Leandro to light it, and then leaned back against the parapet, inhaling slowly with eyes closed, holding the smoke deep in his lungs before exhaling and savoring its sweet aroma.
Turning to face the old fortress of San Carlos de la Cabana across the canal, Leandro said, “So the Line has fallen.”
“It has.” Alejo searched his uncle’s deeply lined face for reaction, but saw little. “The Guard retreated through San Jose de Las Lajas this morning, and an officer I spoke to confirmed it.”
Leandro shook his head. “No surprise, really. Over the past week my ships have found what few coastal towns and villages remained deserted. One gunboat never returned. Another was attacked. Strange creatures, the survivors said. Human-like, but not human.” He took a drag on his cigar before stepping away from the parapet to stroll along the allure--the wall-walk. “For some time I’ve suspected someone, or some thing, directs these Pariah. Has organized them. I dispatched spies, but they discovered very little. And one by one they failed to return.” He stopped, his features finally betraying a hint of worry. “They are coming for us.”
Alejo shivered involuntarily. “We can fight.”
The older man shrugged. “We have little choice but to. There are thirty thousand men, women and children in Old Havana to protect.” He stabbed his cigar toward the city. “We must trust in the fortifications along the Avenue del Misiones to keep the Pariah out. But, they are hundreds of thousands strong. They could overwhelm us through sheer numbers.”
“We have weapons, Uncle. Bows, spears, guns. And tanks. Don’t we have tanks?”
“Oh yes, we have tanks. Russian T-72s. But we have little petrol and no munitions. Those were exhausted during the revolt of 2019. No, I fear we must defend Old Havana with the limited resources available.” Leandro sighed, then allowed a thin, humorless smile. “But don’t worry. If the worst happens and they break through, I have a plan.”
They were interrupted as dinner was announced. Leaving the walls, a rare sliver of sunlight broke through the heavy grey clouds to blaze across their retreating backs.
Uncle Leandro introduced Alejo to General Rafael Torres, commander of Old Havana’s defenses. In reality, the general was a retired sergeant, a grizzled veteran of the ‘19 revolt and best man available for the job. The general took Al
ejo to the barricades erected along the Avenue del Misiones. After a brief tour, he departed to organize Old Havana’s militia.
Left to himself, Alejo wandered the wall that marked the limits of the old city. Each street leading into Old Havana had been blockaded with abandoned cars, buses, vans and trucks to create a steel barrier. Bricks, rocks and lumber fashioned an uneven parapet while wooden planks formed the wall-walk, accessible by a series of worn and frayed fiberglass ladders. Abandoned buildings between each street had their windows and doors boarded shut, and blocked or braced with discarded appliances and old furniture.
After deciding he had seen enough, Alejo found a spot to rest. Leaning on the rusted hood of a seventy-five year old Oldsmobile, he peered down a desolate, debris-strewn street. In the distance lay the crumbled remains of the old capital building. Beside its age-worn facade an old man scoured the ground for scraps of food. Near him a bone thin dog sniffed at a desiccated corpse.
A dark smudge caught his attention, a column of smoke. Leaving the barricade, he searched out General Torres.
The man cursed and mumbled. “Too soon. Too soon.” Leading Alejo to a heavily fortified building, a former bank, Torres passed over an AK47. “Ever use one of these?”
Alejo awkwardly held the weapon. “No.” He had been a farmer before the world had descended into hell.
Torres took it back. “There is only a handful in workable condition, so count yourself lucky. Now pay attention.” The general gave brief instructions and a quick demonstration. He tossed it back to Alejo and produced several clips. “That’s all the ammo I can afford, so don’t waste it shooting stray dogs.”
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