“I don’t mean to disturb you, sir,” I began. “I just wanted—”
“Robert, please join me.”
I sat down in a leather chair across from him.
“Would you like a nightcap?”
“Thank you, but no.”
He collected his thoughts, and I gave him time to do so.
“I must apologize for my foul mood. I had to bury my brother and his wife not long ago. I still feel the sting of that.”
“I can sympathize. Three deaths…”
“Three!” He spat the word out bitterly.
“Oh…Elizabeth did mention her brother once, also.”
“Michael. Yes, he died in France. But the total is up to six now. Twin sisters, Mary and Catherine, succumbed to influenza. They were the first.”
“My Lord. Is anyone left?”
His jaw clenched visibly then relaxed only enough for a curt, “No.”
He took a drink of his brandy. It seemed as if he had still more to say, so I waited.
“I was going to speak tomorrow,” he finally said. “I can say a few words, but I would prefer if you handled the bulk of it. Can you please?”
“Yes, of course.”
He nodded thanks, apparently done speaking. The ‘foul mood’ he had mentioned swooping in to engulf him again.
The funeral service was exceedingly formal, held in a well-respected parlor in downtown Boston. A large, painted portrait of Elizabeth in an ornate golden frame stood atop an empty coffin in the front of the room. Of almost two hundred friends and relatives who attended, I recognized none except for my host and hostess. The three of us received everyone who came in. I did my best to accept handshakes and sympathy, but it became wearisome to manufacture meaningless small talk, especially when it was so forced. I was obviously a stranger, an outsider. All of the visitors tried to disguise it, but I felt it from everyone. Even the Wentworths, as nice as they’d been, seemed to hold me at arm’s length with the family around.
When the flow stopped, I took the opportunity to step away for a drink of water. It was an odd feeling, maneuvering through that crowd. Only a scant few made eye contact with me, seemingly wanting to speak with me, but not doing so. Even the children seemed to have been taught to steer clear. Was association with me some kind of social taboo? Or was I being blamed for Elizabeth’s death? Or perhaps I had a stigma associated with me: The bizarre death curse of her family had transferred over, and I would be next to die. Or maybe it was simply the fact that my best suit was nothing that any of the men there would want to be caught dead in.
One nameless woman who did acknowledge my existence seemed braver than the rest. About as old as my mother, she wore a subtle smirk as she moved in my direction and began talking to another woman not far to my left. She spoke more loudly than needed, confirming my first impression of her: She enjoyed flaunting the rules.
“Oh, this is terrible, so soon after the parents,” I heard her say. “Did you know the girl?”
“No, not well at all,” came the reply from the other woman.
“Neither did I. But it seems that most everyone is here today. Only a few absentees.”
“Yes. My son Edward and his new wife are still on their honeymoon. Mr. Rafferty begged off, with the excuse of a business meeting that could not be missed. He never comes to any of these anyway. He won’t even go to his own funeral, I’ll wager. And Jonathan Donaldson is doing so poorly these days that he can’t be moved. I fully expected him to be the next to go, not this poor girl.”
“And there’s that cousin.”
“Oh. Yes. He’s still overseas.”
“What was his name? I can’t quite—”
At that moment the crowd was asked to quiet down and take seats.
The minister led a wonderful service. When it came time, Thomas Wentworth said only a very few words before introducing me. To me, it seemed as if he was tactfully biting his tongue, successfully holding in…something. The crowd was silent and distant when I stood and went to the front, but I accepted the challenge of winning them over. I praised Elizabeth from the very core of my being, trying my best to evoke emotion from those gathered. It took some doing, but one woman, then another began to sob. In turn, my grief surfaced, and washed over me during that speech, causing more tears. Round and round it went. I got through to them, and—I think—managed to connect with some, though the few names I learned weren’t retained, and I never saw any of them again.
The rest of that day was lost in sorrow, but in retrospect, I found the experience to be very cathartic. The bulk of my grief had been purged from me, and afterward, I found myself much more focused and able to concentrate.
The following day, I spent a good deal of time with Emily, riding her around the entire estate. I thought of nothing for those hours except grass, trees, and the horse. That small amount of relaxation was just what I needed to restore my energies, and I found myself growing eager to return home and begin looking for answers. When I informed the Wentworths that I was ready to leave, they invited me to stay longer, but I declined. The return trip by train for the next day was arranged, and I found myself back in Arkham four days after having left.
Seven
The first words I heard upon walking through the door of my boarding house were spoken by the shaking voice of Mrs. Bettings. Mr. Hunt, it seemed, was dead. He had died in his sleep the day I’d left. His funeral had been just hours before, while I’d been traveling back.
“Threes,” she told me nervously. “Death always comes in threes.”
Less than a week, he had said to me. Less than a week. He was right.
Since Professor Josephson’s suggestion to speak with Mr. Hunt was no longer an option, I had but one avenue left to me. I would have to visit the bookstore and talk to his son, whom I hoped would be less hostile. The store was located at the edge of the small commercial district downtown, where the familiar gambrel-roofed houses of the surrounding residential areas met the islet of business. I arrived early the next morning, just in time to see a young man, who appeared to be approximately my age, unlocking the door from the inside.
“Good morning, sir,” he welcomed me with a deep voice, holding the door open. He was clean-shaven with dark brown hair, a bit taller than me, and somewhat sturdier.
“Good morning,” I replied, stepping in.
“You are my first customer,” he said almost jovially, closing the door. “How may I help you?”
“The previous owner, Mr. Bertram Hunt, had occasion to do business with my mentor, Professor Samuel Josephson of Miskatonic University. I am aware that Mr. Hunt—God rest his soul—has recently died. He actually lived in the same boarding house as I, though I admit I barely knew him. But I was wondering if I might talk to the current owner of this store, who I understand to be his son.”
“Sir, you are mostly correct. Mr. Hunt was my grandfather. His son-in-law—my father—and I had been jointly operating this store for the past few years, but with my grandfather’s death, ownership has been relinquished to me. This is my first day at the helm. You see, you really are my first customer. As such, I shall do my best to help you.”
The last was spoken very sincerely, filled with pride. He extended his hand.
“Andrew Cooke.”
“Robert Adderly. Very nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand, and trying to hide my disappointment.
“How may I be of service?”
I paused to collect my thoughts. Presumably, Professor Josephson had referred me to Mr. Hunt because his decades of experience had resulted in a large store of knowledge upon which to draw. His grandson could hardly be expected to have the knowledge I needed to further my quest. Complicating matters, I wasn’t sure of what to ask for, or how to phrase it.
“I’m looking for some more…uncommon information, and I was told that this might be the right place to find it.”
He waited patiently for me to continue, grinning slightly.
“I’m working on my th
esis, you see—mathematics. And I’ve come up against a problem that requires some more specialized volumes. Related to astronomy. The alignment of stars. A particular set of stars, actually.” I swallowed. “Known as Ancient Ones?”
His grin faltered briefly. When restored, it had a forced appearance, as if taking every ounce of his strength to maintain.
“The field is rather obscure. It’s perfectly fine if you cannot offer any help. I may have to search quite a long time before I find what I need.”
It was my turn to wait. In the silence that followed, I saw his eyes dart around the store, as if following a bird in flight. When he finally did speak, his tone was very business-like.
“This place is usually slow for the first hour. How about we sit down and you can explain a bit more about what you’re looking for. Coffee?”
I didn’t expect the offer, but welcomed a cup. He walked into a back room, giving me a moment alone. The exchange had been awkward for the both of us. I found myself wishing for the first time to not go any further down the rabbit hole of this unfathomable nightmare. I considered leaving quickly, before he returned, but made the mistake of looking around. That sealed my fate. The store was filled with beautiful, solidly bound volumes of all shapes and sizes. The subject matter ranged wildly—fiction, reference, history, biology, religion. There were several first editions of Poe displayed nearby over which I stopped to marvel.
A minute later he returned, carrying a tray with milk, sugar and two filled cups. He set it on the counter and we sat down on a pair of stools.
“Now,” he said. “This problem of yours.”
I spoke carefully, determined not to trip on my words.
“It is not so much a problem, as it is…an academic curiosity. During the course of my research, a number of questions have come across my desk whose answers require knowledge that neither I, nor my advisers in the department possess. Purely theoretical, of course. Nothing practical. But my thesis depends on such answers.”
He nodded and sipped his coffee, lowering the mug slowly to the tabletop before speaking.
“No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I can assure you,” he said, “your problem is more practical than you know.”
The hair on the back of my neck bristled.
“I think maybe you’re confused. I only meant—”
“I learned a lot from my grandfather over the years. He was an extremely aloof man, forming only the barest of relationships with anyone. I can’t mourn him, but I can say that I’ll miss being able to rely on his knowledge.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly.
“Though the Ancient Ones may seem only theoretical, they are in fact quite real. And whatever it is that they are—they are not stars.”
Despite the ominous implications, his words cut through my skeptical defense. This man knew something. I was sure of it. Just how much, I would find out soon enough.
“So then,” he said. “Your real problem, if you please.”
As I conquered my embarrassment, he grabbed his mug and took another sip.
“A few days ago, I proposed marriage to the love of my life,” I began. “Her name was Elizabeth Wentworth. She accepted my proposal. Then, only hours later, I watched helplessly as she burned to death in front of a hearth in the boarding house in which I live.”
A mist had begun to form in my eyes and I blinked it back, the mention of Elizabeth still too much for me to handle. My host nodded his head, concern written into his features.
“I tried to extinguish the flames, but in the space of a minute, she was completely consumed.”
With that statement Mr. Cooke put down his coffee.
“Only a small pile of ash remained. But even that eventually disappeared—evaporated. I, however, was completely unharmed by the fire. My mentor suggested that it may not have been mere happenstance. He made mention of things heretofore unknown to me which may be connected to her death, but in lieu of providing further help, he directed me here.”
“I am truly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. This week has been beyond difficult.”
He stood then, and checked the contents of a few shelves.
“I’ve heard of the phenomenon you describe,” he said as he sat back down. “It is known as spontaneous human combustion. Unfortunately, I currently have no books here that even mention the topic. It might take some time, but I could search around. My grandfather constructed quite a large network of contacts over the years to which I have access.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Whatever you can find would be greatly appreciated.”
“But,” he said, then stopped himself. “I’m sorry, I probably should not ask. But I am curious—too curious for my own good, perhaps. It will be the death of me.”
“I’m beginning to understand the feeling.”
He smiled briefly at this, as did I. It felt good, after all that had happened, to smile. Especially in the presence of another.
“What is it that made your mentor connect your fiancée’s…unfortunate demise with the Ancient Ones?”
“I don’t really know how much I can tell you. Much of the information that he related to me was in confidence.”
“Just tell me as much as you’re comfortable with.”
I managed to summarize it into something coherent.
“The professor was asked by a colleague to mathematically analyze some information from a few ancient sources,” I began. “After doing so, he came to the conclusion that the data predicted that a certain occurrence was coming to pass. An event. An alignment of stars, somehow associated with these Ancient Ones. The timing of Elizabeth’s death coincided eerily with that event.”
We sipped at our coffee. For several minutes, he appeared to be lost in thought.
“Mr. Adderly.”
“Please, call me Robert.”
“Robert,” he said. “As I mentioned, finding information on spontaneous human combustion will be difficult, but not impossible. The Ancient Ones, however, are a different story. Books of that nature are sprinkled sparingly around the globe. Were we anywhere else in the world, I would suggest you give up your search before it drives you mad. Are you aware, however, that your very own Miskatonic University is home to an extensive collection of such volumes?”
“I recently learned that.”
“You should plan on taking advantage of it. During the course of his life, my grandfather had access to some of them. He took copious notes when he could, sometimes transcribing several consecutive pages. But the sum of it all is nothing compared to an entire text. You may examine those pages if you wish. I keep them in the back. I haven’t had much time to look deeply into them yet. But between the two of us, we may be able to learn something.”
It was the first piece of heartening news I had received since the loss of my Elizabeth, and I momentarily allowed myself to feel relief. But it was short lived, as Andrew abruptly stood and walked to the front door, turning the lock on the knob and securing the chain. When he turned back toward me, his face was furtive. I honestly could not imagine the reason for locking the door, and I grew a little concerned. He returned to his seat at the table, leaning close and gesturing for me to do the same.
“I do not intend for this to be made public knowledge,” he said. “But my grandfather, Bertram Hunt, was for all intents and purposes…a magician. As am I.”
He seemed to need my reaction before continuing. But after the things that Professor Josephson had revealed to me, his admission didn’t have the effect he seemed to expect.
“You needn’t be concerned,” I said. “Recently my eyes have been opened to…the possibility of…a great many things. I am still trying to come to terms with it all, though.”
He seemed to relax.
“Of course,” he said. “I must say I was a trifle reticent to admit what I just did. There are few people willing to think beyond the teachings of traditional science—or those of the
Bible, for that matter.”
“But what is science if not the search for answers?”
“Precisely,” he said. “Now, I hope you will continue in your open-mindedness when I say that the other thing that I can offer you is the chance to communicate with your dead fiancée.”
Mentally, mine was a reflexive reaction, the years of teachings putting me on the defensive: Do not turn to mediums or seek out spiritists, for you will be defiled by them. I must have started as well though, betraying my thoughts, as he swiftly tried to reassure me.
“I have done it before,” he said. “In fact, the more recent the death, the easier the ceremony is to perform. All you need is an item that belonged to her. Ideally, it would contain some sweat or blood, but that is not absolutely necessary. Might you have a letter from her? It would have to be burned, I’m afraid. And of course, it would have to be after business hours, some evening.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am quite serious.”
I felt myself starting to get upset.
“I sincerely appreciate you allowing me to examine your private notes,” I said, then cleared my throat. “But please, Mr. Cooke, do not insult my intelligence.”
He was genuinely surprised.
“What do you mean?” he said. “You just admitted to accepting the existence of magic. Why—?”
“She is dead,” I said, my voice lowering to a near whisper. “She is dead, and I wish it were not so, but it is. It is.”
He sighed, lowering his own voice to match mine.
“Mr. Adderly, I am sorry,” he said. “Obviously I have offended you. I did not mean to.”
“Perhaps I should be going,” I said, standing up. “I shall be in touch if I have need of your services.”
My abrupt pronouncement seemed to have caught him off guard. But he regained his composure, and also stood.
“Of course,” he said. “I shall be right here if you need…if you would like to speak about this further.”
He then escorted me to the door.
I walked home in a daze. A hundred thoughts raced through my mind. Was what he proposed possible? If I believed the professor’s story of a man cheating death and transforming into a gruesome, not-dead thing, could not a soul be reached from beyond? Did not the Lord God gather the souls of the saved in heaven? Could He not allow for such communication? Supposing it was even possible, there remained the question of Andrew Cooke. It was perfectly conceivable he was a fake, who would demand payment up front before staging some sort of charlatan act. Alternately—and more likely, based upon my initial impressions of him—he could just be deceiving himself into believing that he is a powerful wizard of the highest order, able to conjure fantastic spells, when in fact he would be completely impotent. The very idea of being able to speak with Elizabeth filled me with an incredible anticipation. And yet even then, I also felt myself gnawed by a subtle fear.
The Shadow Beyond Page 7
