The Devil Came to Arkham

by Byron Craft

  “Over there,” he gestured towards the dresser again with an arthritic hand. “My brief. There are important files in there.”

  Leaning against the wall behind the bottle of Cutty Sark and the ejected ammo was a battered leather portfolio. Some of the pigskin had peeled off due to scuffing and continual use. It was tied shut with a strip of rawhide. “Bring it here,” he ordered.

  I handed it to him, but the knuckles of his hands were so knobby from arthritis that he became aggravated after several failed attempts to undo the knot in the rawhide and dropped it onto his lap. “I’m falling apart Detective,” he said growing frustrated. “My entire body is going to hell. You open it.”

  I undid the knot. “Your letter said you are a cop.”

  “Was, actually, a small white lie to lure you here. I was a detective like you once, on the force in Boston. They retired me five years ago, the bastards!”

  Inside the leather brief were several file folders. Photos of a fella that looked familiar to me. Crazy looking drawings of geometric symbols, a journal, and numerous surveillance reports dating back several years.

  “That’s twenty years of my life you are looking at Detective. I’ve been following him all that time. Never getting close enough to catch him in the act.”

  “Who were you following?” Bell asked.

  He looked over at the boy in blue with a critical eye then back to me. “Oh, he has gone by many names; Edgar Hobs, Abraham Crowley, Alva Bifrons and dozens more.”

  “Why were you tracking him?” I coughed that time; the foul odor had become overpowering.

  “He’s the Devil . . . or a Nightgaunt, I never could be quite sure . . . maybe they’re the same,” he started to ramble on, blathering about shape changing, and that the guy he was after never looked the same each time he acquired a new identity.

  “Hey! Old-timer, you’re not making sense,” he was digressing, and I tried to snap him back.

  “You’ll see, you’ll see,” shaking a finger at me, “just read my reports. He has been all over this God forsaken country. Everywhere he goes he leaves doom and destruction. I believe his plan is to eventually leave America in total ruin, probably the entire planet. I think the Great Depression was his doing.”

  I looked over at Bell, and he looked at me rolling his eyes as if to say, “this guy is wacky.”

  “I know, you think I’m nuts, a screwball. Well, you’ll find out soon enough. Remember that fire a few years back in Dunwich? The whole town got wise to him then. They had a town meeting about it in the tavern at the Sentinel Inn. All of them attended; all the sane ones that is. No sooner had the meeting started when the entire place burned down around them. It was a fireball from hell that instantly consumed the building. No one survived. Everyone was dead except for some of the inbred and uneducated. And then they became very superstitious. I got there on that one too late. He is always one step ahead of me. But not now! I know what hole he is hiding in.”

  “So why are you here in Arkham,” I posed in an attempt to humor him.

  “He’s here you fool,” now he was getting personal. I would’ve slugged him if he wasn’t so damn old and for that blasted bird. Maybe Maggot, the vulture, would break free of his bonds and come after me. I didn’t want to risk it even if beating up old men wasn’t part of my job description.

  “I lost him for a good long time after Dunwich. Until I found out that he bought an old car, he paid cash, but he slipped up and used one of his old aliases.”

  “And what was the name he used?” By now with his abrasive attitude and the ever growing bad smell my patience had worn thin.

  “Corvus Astaroth.”

  I stared hard at him for a long minute. Corvus Astaroth? My Corvus Astaroth? Was this coincidence or the ramblings of a deranged mind that just happened to grab a name out of the phone book?

  “I see that got your attention,” he announced triumphantly, leaning forward he coughed for the umpteenth time. “Take your time, but not too long, and read my case files. Then maybe you’ll figure out why it is so hot here in mid-April.”

  He got me on that one. Things were screwy here in Arkham ever since Astaroth arrived. More screwy than normal for Arkham. Then the old guy motioned with a weak hand, “I need a drink.”

  “Glass of water?” I replied.

  “No scotch, damn it!” getting feisty once more.

  I went over to the dresser again and removed the paper covering that maid service had put over the hotel water glasses for sanitary reasons. Keeping the flies out would be a good start. “Not that!” he hollered. “Use the shot glass.”

  I gave him the evil eye and pretended that I was going to throw the bottle of Cutty Sark at him. He just laughed and snorted. “I want you to do a favor for me, Detective.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said while pouring.

  “My time on this earth has run out. Upon my death, please release Maggot.”

  “I wouldn’t get close to that filthy bird,” I protested.

  “Don’t worry; he’s harmless. Just open the window here and undo his chain. Maggot will know what to do.”

  “You don’t plan on dying on me this minute do you, old timer?”

  He smiled at me, and I gave him his drink. Sipping the booze in the glass, he announced, “Whiskey is a man’s drink.” Downing the remaining contents with one swill he leaned forward, pointed the empty shot glass at Maggot and yelled, “And don’t you get any bright ideas!” He froze in that position for several seconds, then the shot glass fell to the blankets covering his legs, and Harry Crowcroft collapsed against the pillows.

  I put a hand to his neck. There was no pulse. The guy sure made a dramatic exit.

  “Is he dead?” squealed Bell, fear swelling up in his vocal cords.

  “I ain’t no doctor, but when a guy has no pulse that usually means he’s a goner.”

  “I’ve never seen a dead person before,” he managed to spit out.

  “You get used to it,” I lied. I looked over at Maggot. He was careening back and forth along the bed’s footboard within the limits of his bondage. I went over to the window and lifted the sash. There was a window screen secured to its outer part. I pulled out the stiletto I keep in my pocket, for just such emergencies, pushed the button and ejected its razor sharp blade. After four slashing moves, the screen material fell away from its frame.

  I looked over at Maggot, and I could swear that the look he gave me was one of full recognition of what was about to come. I cautiously approached him, and he appeared far more relaxed than I was. There was a clip on the end of the thin chain that was attached to an ankle bracelet. It easily came free. I stood back. The big black ugly bird took one last look at his dead master, hopped onto the windowsill and was gone in an instant.

  I rushed to the window in time to see Maggot fly toward the banks of the Miskatonic River and then he veered to the left heading uptown.

  ***

  Granny Bertram had a joint that served up hot coffee, fried cakes and if her chickens were laying, an egg or two. "A cup of black coffee, made today," I said, tossing a dime onto the counter, "and keep it filled." Granny's donuts were so big that you had to tear them into quarters so you could fit em' in your mug for dunking. I was famished; I ordered three.

  I had told Bell to either go home and take it easy or back to Station House 13 to fill out a report on what happened at the Arkham Arms Hotel, and I’d review it later. I hoped he’d accept the offer to go home. Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Besides Officer Bell looked peaked from inhaling the rotting opossum fumes on top of observing his first stiff. I guess I was lucky to experience our little investigation on an empty stomach. I doubted that Bell went home. He probably puked his guts out in some back alley and then hurried on to work. The kid was dedicated.

  I thumbed through Harry Crowcroft’s files. I had taken a corner booth and spread the contents of the leather brief across the checkered tablecloth. Granny Bertram walked up and plopped down my plate of frie
d cakes. “Where did you get that old photo of Ash, copper?”

  It was part of a running joke between us. She called me “copper, ” and I called her Granny. Her name is really Ethel. I gave her one of my hard cop-like stares and then focused my attention on the photo of the guy that earlier had looked familiar to me. It was probably a surveillance photograph taken from a concealed location. The guy in the picture was walking along a business district, most of the shops were boarded up. He had dark hair and wore a pinstriped suit. He did look like Corvus Astaroth, but a lot younger and thinner, definitely thinner. “How do you know it’s him,” I asked.

  “I know’d that mug anywhere. Course he’s older now. He used to come in here a lot when he first moved into town. I don’t see him anymore. Now that he’s in the bucks he just hobnobs with the hoity-toity.”

  I stared at the photo again, “Yeah, you could be right Granny.”

  ***

  I was at my desk with an ice cold bottle of Coca-Cola. It became too damn hot to drink coffee anymore. I had settled in to read Harry Crowcroft’s journal. I lit up a Lucky and took a swig of the Coke. The carbonation soothed the heartburn that had been welling up in my throat. Granny Bertram’s donuts always gave me indigestion. The bubbles made me burp, “just great,” I whispered to myself, “hot on the outside, hotter still on the inside.” I turned the page. The handwriting was the same as that cryptic note Station House 13 had received earlier:

  There are places where the true world is more transparent, and when you find them, he will always be there. I relate these things, as substantiated in the tabloids and police reports I have enclosed, more for proof that what I write is not pure conjecture or done out of insanity.

  You see, if you’re of a certain sort of mind, if you have that early sense of being, a searcher after hidden truths, more than just a byproduct of imagination, you will eventually find him. It has guided me for twenty years, giving me instincts that I have honed through the consequence of my many failures.

  Wherever this entity travels to, it implants an addicting thrill into the sad lives of urban shamans and menopausal women. The aftereffect does not leave them with a hangover or a craving; rather it implants an emptiness that can only be filled by being in his presence. I call him Hobs, although he goes by many names.

  Our world is becoming a mere breeding ground for the ultimate predator. Hobs developed into a burr, one that stuck deep in me, even at times, when his dangerous hucksterism was exposed to the people around him, he always managed to escape, changing his identity and leaving me to go back to the drawing board.

  I feel that I will lose my foothold on this world very soon. It seems to tremble beneath my old tired legs, and I imagine that the ground will crack open shortly, releasing hell upon earth.

  Hobs murdered my wife and daughter as surely as if he had plunged a dagger into their hearts. It was another of his house fire tricks. Only this time it took out an entire block of residential housing. He had moved to our neighborhood under the guise of Doctor Edgar Hobs. Whether there ever was a real Edgar Hobs, that he might have stolen his identity, or had he just made the name up out of whole cloth, I never knew then nor do I know now. It has been my experience that when a doctor goes bad, he is a fouler and darker creature than the worst cut-throat.

  Hobs was tall, over six feet, couldn’t have been more than thirty years of age and very handsome. He had set up his clinic in a three-bedroom Cape Cod. The place used to belong to James and Winnie Jenkins. An elderly couple, nice people, and none of us in the neighborhood knew that their house was up for sale. They just moved out one day, never saying “goodbye,” and Hobs moved in the next.

  Everything seemed to go well at first. The ladies in the area really liked Hobs. Especially the middle-aged ones. They were so attracted to him for his medical advice that they would have to make an appointment to see him weeks in advance. His calendar had become full of eager women starting to advance in years.

  Then there was a peculiar turn of events. Many of the ladies that attended his clinic were overweight due partially to their dotage plus too many extravagant luncheons. Gradually they all started to become thinner until they assumed an unhealthy pallor. Some became careworn, tired and unhappy because of the prolonged time between their appointments with the doctor. They could not get enough of Edgar Hobs as if their lives were solely dependent upon his consultations.

  Hank Allerby, one of my neighbors, outraged by his wife’s deteriorating condition, confronted Dr. Hobs one evening. We all heard about it because Allerby was very vocal about what he was going to do to the doctor if he “didn’t get some straight answers.” Hank Allerby was a big man, he worked down at the Port of Boston unloading cargo ships, and was very muscular. Hank was known to be a heavy drinker and if riled could fly off the handle. If an ugly situation had presented itself, I would have had to recruit at least a half-dozen uniformed officers to take him down. Thankfully that state of affairs never occurred, and the Boston Police Force and I were spared a bruising.

  What happened that evening between Hank Allerby and Edgar Hobs we never found out. Or If anyone did know they were too scared to speak up because at dawn the next day Allerby was dead. His body was discovered along the shoulder of Beacon Street. His torso had been unnaturally twisted, and many of his bones had been broken and crushed.

  The police from the neighboring precinct speculated that Allerby had been run over by a large truck. Hank had been drinking excessively that night, and many assumed that in a high state of inebriation he could have staggered into the oncoming traffic. I was working homicide by then, and one of the things that struck me as puzzling was that there were no tire tracks on the body. Could Hank have been killed elsewhere and his body disposed of on Beacon Street to make it appear as a traffic fatality? I proposed my theory to my superiors but was told to “forget it.” It was an open and shut case of drunken negligence. “There were far more important and immediate violations to investigate." Hank Allerby’s unfortunate demise was relegated to one of many drawers in a file room.

  It was about then that a warming trend occurred. It was early May, and a lot of our neighbors were preparing their backyard garden beds for planting. For Boston and the surrounding areas, at that time of the year, it was normal to experience cool daytime temperatures with the mercury dropping to forty and frequently thirty degrees in the evenings. We missed spring that year. Many, on the block, referred to the phenomena as, “the year without spring.” We went straight from the winter season right into a continual searing heatwave.

  The strange happenings did not cease on our block with the death of Hank Allerby. Stephen Wills was the next to fall under the spell of Edgar Hobs. He was stunted, mentally. We all knew him as “Stevie.” Stevie thought about the same things that other people do, things that worry them, what they want to be doing, or how they are feeling. He would think about these things perhaps more slowly than others, maybe at a lower level. Stevie was a forty-year-old man with moderate mental retardation of an eight-year-old, and he referred to most things as a normal eight-year-old would.

  Stephen (Stevie) Wills, although sometimes annoying, was harmless. He would ride his bicycle up and down our residential block talking inoffensively to everyone he would have the pleasure to come across. His actions were always very animated telling anyone he’d meet about the latest discovery he had just made. This delightful innocent mood brought him to the doorstep of Edgar Hobs clinic, wherein he would revel in telling the doctor about a butterfly he had come across or the garden snake he’d caught and kept in a jar. It was well known that Dr. Edgar Hobs was not pleased with Stevie and was very irritated by his intrusions. Stevie, of course, did not comprehend his dissatisfaction. Nor were we cognizant of the severity of it.

  Stevie turned up missing. A week later his body was found floating in the Charles River. It was assumed that he rode his bike off of the Charlestown Bridge. Another unfathomable occurrence, since Stevie never left the block, he grew up on. Our str
eet was his entire world. It was hard for all of us to believe that he would have braved the downtown traffic and peddle all the way to the Charlestown Bridge, a trip of several miles.

  Then there were the sidewalk shamans. Two pastors from the nearby Methodist church decided to make a friendly albeit spiritual visit to “the good doctor.” Shortly thereafter we witnessed them defrocked and carrying placards decrying the sins of the world and the coming Armageddon. In the wake of numerous complaint calls it took two squad cars filled with Boston’s finest and a police wagon to haul them off to the pokey. Later we learned that they would not cease their rants, even into the late hours of the night, and consequently, a riot broke out in the jailhouse. Both men were strangled to death by the inmates.

  The addiction that our wives had for the handsome doctor never wavered. It was now growing to epidemic proportions. Women from other parts of the town began to line up to see him. Edgar Hobs kept his clinic open to all hours of the evening. When we asked our wives what occurred during their consultations every single one had the same answer, “The windows are shuttered, and the lights are turned down low. He just talks. I don’t remember what he says but his voice is soothing, and I feel a tickle inside.” All the women grew weaker as time went on. Karl Davis and Robert Grimes wives had gotten so thin and undernourished that they had to be taken by ambulance to the hospital.

  At some point, I don’t remember precisely now; the dark thing began prowling our neighborhood. Furtive at first, it was observed perched in an apple tree belonging to Bob Grimes. He said that it was the color of coal and looked rubbery. When he turned on his porch light, in hopes of a getting a better look, he heard a fluttering, and it was gone.

  Karl Davis was the next to observe the mystery prowler. He insisted that it wasn’t human. “The devil,” he said. According to him, it was peering through his bedroom window. When he ran outside to confront it, he believed that it sprang skyward. “Momentarily there was this dark barbed tail that was rising upwards, and the end of the damn thing smacked against the bedroom window cracking the pane.” The next morning, we all inspected the window, and sure enough, the glass was broken.