“Wait,” he said. “Let me dismiss this thing first.”
“Are you ready to do that?”
“Oh, yes. I’m fine,” he said. “This will just take a second.”
I was still holding the sheet of commands. Andrew pointed out the last one on the list, read it over a few times, mouthing it silently. Then he stepped back, took a deep breath, and began to speak it aloud.
For everyone who experiences a catastrophe, their world becomes divided into two distinct parts: Before and After. The Before world is orderly; the After is chaos. The smooth unfolding of reality—something we often take for granted—is suddenly transformed to a choppy series of nightmarish images, forever burned into the memory. With Elizabeth’s death, I had already experienced such an event. I was about to experience another.
At the precise instant at which Andrew began to enunciate the command, a spectacular bolt of lightning struck a tree outside, causing the building around us to shake. The flash, combined with the deafening blast, caused me to jump—and of the two of us, I was the one who was less fearful of the storm. He must have been truly terrified.
“My Lord, that was close!” I exclaimed, my heart thudding. Oddly, there was no reaction from Andrew. He stood unmoving, seemingly frozen in place.
“Andrew? Are you all right?”
As I took a step toward him, he started to fall backwards. I caught him, and lowered him to the floor, but quickly withdrew my hands in shock, as his jaws flew open, and dozens of thin, ropy tentacles shot forth in a stream. Within seconds, he was covered in a writhing, mass of snake-like things, each shiny black appendage terminated by a small mouth filled with teeth. They began to devour him, blood oozing from uncountable wounds. He undoubtedly would have screamed, had he been able.
He resisted for a while, writhing back and forth on the floor in front of me, but it was futile. There were far too many of the hungry appendages to fight with only two hands. Completely paralyzed with fright, I could not move. I did not help him. I simply watched in agonizing horror, as the tentacles, piranha-like, cleaned the flesh from his bones. But the peak of my nightmare was when the squirming appendages momentarily cleared a space to reveal his eyes. For a brief instant, those eyes—still clearly conscious and wracked with pain—met mine. Seeing that, I thought that I would truly go mad. I could only force my own shut, and pray for forgiveness, waiting for my own, similar fate, which was certainly inevitable. But the end never came. Despite the fact that I stood only a few feet away, the carnivorous appendages did not touch me. They did not even try.
After an indeterminate amount of time, the nauseating noises of the unholy feast finally ended. I forced myself to look at the scene. Before me lay, in a pool of blood, a skeleton stripped of muscle and flesh. The glistening bones, now devoid of connective tissue, rested on the floor in the vague outline of a man. The hair and teeth also remained, as well as remnants of clothing. The tentacles, however, were nowhere to be seen.
With a savage, heart-stopping attack of terror, the full impact of the tragedy hit me. The ghastly scene I had witnessed was tenfold more macabre than the worst nightmare of any sane man’s mind. Somehow, I did not pass out. For uncounted minutes, I could only stand and stare at the bare, white skeleton upon the floor.
Slowly, intellect returned. Muted thunder from the storm outside reached me through my dazedness. The worst of it had passed. But as I became aware of the rain that continued to fall outside, another sound registered upon my consciousness.
The ominous throbbing of the Servitor. It was still there with me.
Fear threatened to paralyze me again, but the need to do something was too great. But what? I had been rooted in the same spot throughout Andrew’s terrible ordeal, and still had not changed position, not even an inch. Was it only that spot that kept me safe? Dare I move at all? Becoming conscious of the need to be still, the effort to maintain it became very great. My limbs began to tremble. I knew that the shaking was too minuscule to be detected by humans, but an alien creature with indefinable senses? Shifting only my eyes, I looked as far as I dared. To either side, there was nothing to see. I could only assume that the tentacles had withdrawn to the extra-dimensional space from which they had come. The harder I tried to not move, the more my muscles quivered. I closed my eyes, and listened carefully to the hellish throbs of the Servitor, trying to pinpoint its location. The sound—if it was even something that could be heard with the ears—was of too low a frequency to sense its source. It was everywhere at once, surrounding me.
Great knots grew in my muscles, and I knew that I could not be still any longer. Holding my breath, I slowly relaxed my arms and hands. Nothing happened. I listened carefully for any noises, then turned my head to look left and right. Still nothing. I took one small step backwards, away from the remains of my friend, then two more. There was still no reaction; the Servitor apparently did not notice me.
It seemed as if I was safe, but for how long? I had no idea what to do. My first thought was of flight, but what of the consequences? Would I make it out of the building, or even out of the room, only to have that writhing death descend upon me? Assuming that I made it home safely, the Servitor would still be in this world. I did not know how long the spell would last, but it seemed safe to assume that it would not last forever. When the time elapsed, would the thing go back from whence it came, or would it be loosed upon this world, free to devour whomever it chose? Would it eventually come for me? Or would I be haunted by the unearthly heartbeat until I went mad?
Professor Josephson was right. He feared the path I had chosen would lead to madness. Or death. Of the two, I desired death. First Elizabeth, now Andrew—both had died before me. And I had been powerless to help either of them.
My hand yet clutched the sheet with the commands. Andrew had said it himself—I could command it, just as he could. This, I had the power to do—or die trying. I tore my eyes from the gleaming bones, focused on the paper in my hand. Gathering my courage, I forced myself to speak the alien command.
Once again, I waited for death, and again it did not come. As I stood and listened, the throbbing slowly faded, as if the Servitor was moving away from me through some invisible barrier. At last, only the sounds of the dying storm outside remained. Wind and rain. It was over. Overcome, I collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Sixteen
The dense fog of sleep was slow to dissipate. Through closed eyelids, I could tell that the sun had risen. For a while, I was oblivious to all but the shrill songs of nearby birds, and the hardness of the wooden floor beneath me. The question of how I came to be there nagged at my half-conscious brain. But it didn’t take long for a memory of the previous evening to surface, that of an abominable sound, and the alien creature that had produced it. My heart pounded in my chest, as I listened nervously for the creature’s throbbing. There was nothing to hear but the birds.
Still on the floor, I became aware of something else: a smell that was not at all pleasant. Trips to the butcher shop with my mother came to mind. On extremely hot days there had been a charnel odor of drying blood and bones. But that was long ago. Now…the remaining grogginess dissolved, as the most abhorrent details of the past evening flooded in. I found them difficult to accept. But as my father was fond of saying, Seeing is believing. Never was the aphorism truer. I finally opened my eyes and searched the room in the dim light, the curtains still drawn.
The insects had already begun to dine upon the tiny morsels of flesh left on Andrew’s naked bones. The odor of death grew stronger in my nostrils. I inched hurriedly backward, until I could go no further. The guilt hit me like a blow to the gut: I was to blame for his death. He would never have been put at risk if not for me. I should never have involved him in my quest. At the very least, I should not have allowed him to perform the ceremony. With enough time to practice, I could have done it myself. If I had but taken the time…
As I tallied my mistakes, a sickening realization numbed me. I had already developed a re
putation with the police after Elizabeth’s death, and would assuredly be a suspect in this one as well. Though I had stayed out of view, there had never been an attempt to keep secret my presence at the bookstore. Numerous witnesses would likely be able to attest to that fact. There was no way to explain all of this in a believable manner. The circumstances would find me guilty. Could I be executed? There was no murder weapon to be found. A long jail sentence, then? If not jail, then surely an asylum—especially if I attempted to tell the truth. I could confide in Professor Josephson, but he had no power to protect me from the law…and he could certainly testify to my erratic behavior of late. Despite the fact of my innocence, I determined that I had no choice but to run.
On the floor before me was the paper that had saved my life. Despite that, the sight of the otherworldly jumble of letters brought a crawling chill to my skin. I flipped it over. On the other side were the instructions for the ceremony, written in a scrawling hand by Andrew’s contact in Boston. Victor Fenster, read the heading of his stationary. It registered as an oddity that I had known both names from my youth: Victor my friend, and the Fensters the long-dead residents of that accursed house. There was some overlap in my mind between the two, of course, but they were still distinct subjects.
Regardless of the name, this man in Boston had to be my destination. He would likely know what had gone wrong. I hoped he could explain why the creature had killed Andrew, but had listened to me. And if Andrew’s death had been deliberate to any degree, I would find it within me to play the part of a proper apprentice and take revenge. As for what to do after simply discovering as many answers as possible, I did not know.
As helpful as the notebooks had been, I felt that I had to leave them. Taking them along could be considered theft, and so getting caught with them could be another—admittedly small—piece of evidence against me with respect to the death. The only item I felt I needed to take was the letter from Mr. Fenster. Andrew had left the envelope with his address under the pages of the letter. My coat, the letter…the key. I would need to lock the door behind me when I left. I found it on his dresser.
There was just one thing left to do. There needed to be a final farewell, but ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ just did not seem appropriate for the situation. Those were normal words for normal deaths. I tried to picture Andrew as a vibrant, living person, but the white bones influenced the direction of my thoughts.
“And he said to me, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’,” was all I could mutter before I was forced to turn away.
That would have to do. After whispering a closing “Amen,” I went downstairs and crept close to the window. One man must have just passed by the storefront; he was moving further away. No one else was around. After going out, I locked the door, and left the key under the mat.
My exit from the store had gone undetected, and I made it two blocks before seeing another living soul. Trying to avoid all churches and their throngs of Sunday morning worshipers, my route back to the boarding house was much longer than normal. How the last few weeks had changed me. Before, I would have been one of them, another comfortable sheep moving with the herd, filing inside, looking forward to that feeling of companionship. Now, my guilt and paranoia made me shun all contact.
When I arrived at the boarding house it was obvious from the noises in the dining room that the majority of the tenants were eating breakfast. I was able to reach my room without an encounter, but realized that the odds of also exiting without being seen were small indeed. That being the case, I decided to wash up, stuff as much as I could into my lone suitcase, and have breakfast before leaving. It took some doing, but as I packed, I was able to banish those awful, lingering images into a corner of my mind, and induce an appetite. After also preparing a believable excuse for my trip, I grabbed my suitcase and went downstairs.
Most of the table had cleared by the time I got there. I took a seat near Mr. Pfenniger, who looked at me and smiled oddly. I was about to ask him what his reaction might mean, when Mrs. Bettings entered with a plate piled high with flapjacks. Instead of setting it near the center of the table, as per custom, she put the plate down next to me, but it clattered from none too gentle a placement.
“There you are, Robert,” she greeted me. “Are you hungry? This morning?”
There was an edge to her voice, as she also looked at me oddly—troubled, perhaps. And the remaining men seemed to be waiting for my answer as well. Paranoia began to inspire fear, as my thoughts darted around, trying to determine what might be going on. I had washed and changed clothes, so there was no possibility of them knowing—that was it! My room was directly above Mr. Pfenniger’s. He knew that I had never come home.
“I am,” I said carefully. “Very much so.”
I removed two flapjacks from the stack and pointed at the remainder.
“Plenty to go around, still,” I offered, but each of the men declined.
“Fill up,” said Mr. Pfenniger, and winked at me. “Young men need strength.”
Relief and embarrassment both hit me at the same time, as I understood the assumption they had made. As my face turned red, the men drained their coffee cups, and took their dishes into the kitchen. In a minute, it was just Mrs. Bettings and me.
“I must admit, I have a hard time coming to terms with this, Robert,” she said. “I am fully aware of the urges of young men, and I certainly know of the tragedy you endured. I was hoping you’d move on with your life, and I’m grateful that you did not try to sneak anyone into the house, but—”
“Mrs. Bettings, wait,” I interrupted her. “Please.”
She seemed to be relieved that I had spoken up.
“Yes,” I said. “I did meet a young woman yesterday. In the park.” I paused to remember which name belonged to which woman. “Donna. We talked for a little while, and agreed to meet again next Saturday.”
That much was all perfectly true, at least.
“But last night was just work. Late in the evening, I had an inspiration that I thought would get me through a sticking point in my thesis. I went over to the university to get access to the resources I needed. Some naps at the desk got me through the night. Today, I am heading down to Providence for the week, so please let everyone know to not wait up for me.”
I smiled, and she returned it.
“A retired colleague of Professor Josephson who could provide me with some special insights lives there, and the Brown University Library has some materials that ours does not.”
It was her turn to be embarrassed.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Mr. Pfenniger said that he saw you at the lake with…” She raised her voice and looked at the kitchen door. “And he obviously jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
I raised my right hand.
“I can honestly say that I was not with a woman last night.”
And again, that was true.
She left me alone to eat my fill of flapjacks and bacon. When finished, I gave her a hug, wondering when I would see her next. Would I really be back in a week? I doubted it.
To my chagrin, I had to wait until nearly noon for the train. The delay was excruciating. At any moment, I expected to be arrested. I had to remind myself that Andrew’s bookstore was never open on Sundays, and so the remains could not possibly be found until the following day at the earliest. I passed the time trying to remain calm and act normally. It worked for the first hour.
After that, the depot began to fill with others waiting for the same train south. A man sat down next to me, smelling of dead fish and old sweat. I myself had never been able to settle on any particular eau de toilette, not even considering the cost, but wished for anything of the sort to spray on either of us. Too late, I made the decision to push aside politeness and move to another seat. Looking around, it was plain that no others were available.
Adding to my irritation, the stranger began to hum. On and on, he repeated several stanzas with the same rhythm. Just as I thought I would need to ask him to stop, he di
d. There was only a short pause before he began again.
“What,” I bit off my first word, “is that? What song are you humming?”
Seated on my right, he turned to me, and I to him. A scraggly brown beard, shot through with grey, covered a pockmarked face. His right eye was missing.
“An old sea ditty,” he wheezed. Adding to his odorous emanations was the unpleasant smell of alcohol on his breath. “It tells of some messy work. I was warned by genteel folk to not sing the words in public.”
He smiled, exposing teeth—the ones remaining, anyway—which were eroded in such a way as to match the rest of his features.
“Not loud, anyhows.”
There was no time to protest before he started crooning to me, voice low. The first words froze me.
“No skin, no flesh, them bones shine through.
Hackin’, scrapin’, the best we do.
The best we can, though pretty rough.
Others though, they polishes off.
Beaks and teeth, they eat their fill.
All blood, all gore, a devil’s meal.
So clean, so clean, that skel’ton gleams.
With flesh stripped clean, that skel’ton gleams.
It’s white, so white. It’s oh so—”
“Stop!” I finally shouted, an inner fury having grown large enough to burst out. “How dare you—”
I managed to hold my tongue, but not in time. My reaction had been far too strong. It was plain to all nearby that he had unnerved me. No one knew about Andrew but me! Why could I not remember that?
The man’s eyes narrowed.
“Dare what?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
It took a tremendous effort, but I sat back and looked straight ahead, knowing that I must not do anything to attract further attention. I could feel the gazes of the crowd upon both of us. He studied me for a while longer, then sat back.
“Oft’ I hear guilty men say, ‘Nothin’,’” he offered.
The Shadow Beyond Page 18
