My mind warned me to be silent. I should have listened to it, but emotion took control.
“Is that so?” I asked with as much disdain as I could muster. “And how would you know that?”
“’Cause I says it meself!”
And he began roaring with laughter in a manner only suitable for a barroom.
That was enough. There was no need for me to feign politeness any longer when his true personality was on display for everyone. I grabbed my suitcase, and moved as far across the waiting area as I could. There were no seats, of course. I settled on a spot next to another man who was also standing, reading a book. My eyes were down as I approached him, and I labored to calm myself. From glances around, it seemed as if everyone had returned to their own business. It seemed so.
“He’s not getting on the train,” said the man quietly. “If that’s any consolation.”
“Oh?”
“Old Mac.” He pointed at the repulsive man. “When he’s not at sea, he sometimes comes down here. He takes delight in making people uncomfortable.”
“He does it well. The stench alone is enough.”
“Yes. He never acts up enough for us to run him in, though.”
As the words echoed in my ears, a full-on panic threatened. My heart rate, which had begun to slow somewhat, tripled. My breath had disappeared, and I had to pretend a tickle in my throat to force a cough and inhale some air. He sensed my distress; I knew it. But distress of what? As a policeman, he surely had to wonder. I had to divert attention, and ease his suspicions. There was no blood on my hands, but yet they nervously gripped and rubbed each other. Becoming conscious of the movement, I forced them to be still.
“Going to Boston?” I asked as innocently as I could.
When he hesitated, I second-guessed my attempt at conversation. Surely it was appropriate. If not travel, then the weather. Maybe there was still too much nervousness evident. But he would probably chalk that up to my encounter with Old Mac. I held my breath, waiting for a response.
“No, just down to Salem,” he finally said. “The department down there needs…well, that’s business I shouldn’t speak of. And yourself?”
I berated myself for not picking weather as a topic, and wondered how well I could lie to a policeman under the best of conditions. My state just then was clearly not the best.
“Boston,” I said. “For a day. Then on to Providence.”
“I see. Well, enjoy your trip.”
“And you, as well.”
And that was the end of the conversation.
I stood there next to the policeman, and waited for the train. In an impossible situation, I feared my head might burst. He left once for a short time, asking me to keep an eye on his suitcase. He moved in the general direction of the public toilets, but was he relieving himself, or did he continue out through the exit to find a patrolman? As the minutes passed, his continued absence ratcheted up the tension. But eventually he returned, and thanked me for watching his luggage.
The last hour ticked by at an unbearably slow pace, and was uncomfortable in more ways than one. I often shifted weight from foot to foot, and sometimes sat down on my suitcase for a while. The policeman remained focused on his book. Even if I had brought something to read, I was fairly sure that I would have just stared at the pages, seeing perhaps not even words, but only letters.
Old Mac would look at me occasionally, or tap his head with a finger then point at me. Yes, I had made the mistake of letting him get into my head. I pondered how he could have possibly found the exact words to disturb me. I decided that I was fretting needlessly—about that, anyway. If he had gone on long enough with that song, he would have disturbed anyone. After a time, he must have grown bored. No one else would speak to him or even look at him. He stood and began to shuffle away, but on his way out, he took the time to veer toward me. I refused to look at him. When he judged he was close enough, he said, “Nothin’!” and guffawed. My anger rose again, but I waited patiently for him to leave, and he did.
Eventually, I found myself on the train. The tenseness stayed with me, as I sat and waited for patrolmen to rush aboard and haul me off before it could pull away. None showed. Only when it departed the station did I begin to feel some relief. But only when the policeman departed at the Salem station did I truly relax. After that, there was only numbness, as I let myself be mesmerized by the lush greenery of the New England countryside passing by my window.
In Boston, I hired a taxi driver to take me to the address on the envelope. It was late afternoon when I arrived at the home of Mr. Fenster, a sprawling estate on the west side of the city. The grounds were immaculate, with many grand, ancient trees surrounding the mansion, and a variety of flowering shrubs decorating the yard. Although the architectural style of the building bespoke its age, it was in excellent repair. The gate at the entrance was open, so the driver delivered me right to the front door. After paying my fare and watching the motorcar depart, I nervously approached the door. It bore a large, ornate knocker in the shape of a lion. This was it. I had traveled all this way, fled my home in fear, perhaps never to return. I could only hope I would find answers. I could only pray it would be worth it. Hand shaking, I reached out, grasped the ornate handle, and knocked.
Before long, the door cracked open just enough to reveal a man with a markedly disturbing face. The skin was very rough and scabby, suggesting a disease of some sort. His scalp held only remnants of hair, a few tufts scattered about. I waited for a response, not looking away, but the man did not speak even a word of greeting. He only stared at me with large, unblinking eyes.
“My…my name is Robert Adderly,” I said. “I have just arrived from Arkham. I would like to speak with Mr. Fenster. It is a matter of some importance.”
His only reaction was to continue to stare, as if trying to make sense of what I had just said. Then, there was a sign of comprehension: He opened the door further, and looked behind me, both left and right. The door was opened wider. I entered. He scanned the area once again before slamming the large door shut. The thoom produced was deafening, and echoed strangely. Again wordlessly, he signaled for me to wait, and moved off with a bowlegged, shuffling gait.
I set down my suitcase, and looked around. The house’s interior was in stark contrast to its exterior. Outside, all was well kept and perfectly in order. Inside, it was nearly empty. In the anteroom in which I stood, there were no furnishings or decorations of any kind—not even a coat rack. Through an archway, I could see a large foyer with a similar dearth of embellishment. The beautiful white marble floors were all bare. It was bewilderingly incongruous.
Before long, I heard a single pair of footsteps approaching. From the direction in which the servant had gone, a man was walking towards me, hands held behind his back. Somewhat slighter of build than even I, he seemed to be approximately my age, with the same sort of dark hair. Everything about him was neat and proper: His clothing was very clean, his shoes were shined, and the beard and mustache he wore were meticulously trimmed. Upon his arrival, I thought that I detected a faint odor of sulfur clinging to him.
“I am Vincent Fenster,” he said, coming to a stop in front of me. “I am somewhat busy right now. What can I do for you?”
I stifled my nervousness.
“Mr. Fenster, my name is Robert Adderly. I have just arrived today from Arkham. You have been in contact with Andrew Cooke recently.”
“A few letters have been exchanged,” he said, eying me suspiciously.
There was no need to delay the news.
“He died last night,” I said. In the event the servant might overhear, I lowered my voice. “He summoned a Servitor using the instructions included in your most recent correspondence. It was under his control. I witnessed it. But a storm was raging in Arkham last night. Just as he spoke the command for its dismissal, a titanic blast of lightning struck very close. Something went wrong. Suffice it to say that he was eaten by the creature. Only bones remain.”
; He was visibly shaken by the information.
“That is terrible! Were you there through that?”
“Yes.”
“How did you survive?”
I shook my head.
“I have no idea,” I said. “That is one of the questions I was hoping you would answer. Why did it not attack me? I was able to dismiss the creature by speaking the command specified in your letter, just as Andrew had tried. Why did it kill him, but listen to me?”
He gave me the impression of being as perplexed about the event as I was. There was a long pause before he spoke again.
“May I assume that Andrew Cooke did not command the creature to obey only his commands?”
“Yes. He told me so.”
“Then that is precisely why it obeyed you.”
He paused and thought again for quite a while, muttering wordlessly to himself at times.
“However,” he continued, “I can’t say why the Servitor killed him. Those creatures are certainly horrendous, but they are also servile. There is no reason for the man to have been killed if he conducted the ceremony properly, and if he spoke the commands correctly. One of those conditions must have been violated.”
I nodded, again recalling the events of the previous evening. The actual invocation, as horrifying as the dream had been for Andrew, had gone off cleanly.
“It had to have been the command,” I said. “I never heard what he said, though.”
“Because of the thunder?”
“Could that have been it?”
“Possibly. Not the thunder or lightning itself, mind you. Such a thing occurring in our world would have no impact in the world Outside. But a stutter while speaking a command…yes, that could do it.” He sighed. “I feel awful. I’m at least partly to blame. I supplied him with the instructions.”
I shook my head.
“Andrew was fully aware of the risks involved,” I said. “He admitted some anxiety with respect to the storm. There was no need for him to have gone through with the ceremony yesterday. He could have waited for another day with better weather. I could have spoken up when he exhibited less than full confidence. Several mistakes were made. I had only known him a short time, but had the impression that he was ordinarily a very competent magician. The circumstances last night were unique—one in a million, perhaps.”
He nodded and relaxed his stance, arms swinging down to the sides of his body. His left hand was missing at the wrist. I tried to look away, but he read my glance immediately.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was insensitive of me.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said. “It’s been long enough. I must learn to get comfortable with…this.”
He moved his left arm, flapping the material of his empty shirt sleeve.
“I had an unfortunate accident while traveling through Eastern Europe. There are many parts of the world that are yet savage. I wandered into one of them, alone. A wolf attacked me. I was lucky to stanch the flow of blood and save my life. It was memorable.”
“Undoubtedly,” I replied.
There followed a moment of silence, one of those moments that are meant to be taken as a social signal. I could tell we were done. He had already told me that I had interrupted him.
“Well, thank you for your time. I felt an obligation to tell you what had happened—”
“And get answers, you said. Do you have more questions?”
“I do, but…”
“No but. Your friend is dead. At the very least, I owe you information. Let’s get a little more comfortable first, though.”
My stomach chose that point in time to rumble.
“You haven’t eaten?” he asked.
“No, not since breakfast.”
“Join me for dinner, then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fenster,” I said with a large grin. “I cannot refuse.”
“It’s Vincent. Please call me Vincent.”
“Vincent. I am Robert.”
We finally shook hands.
“Robert, please come with me,” he said.
As he led me through the bare rooms, our footfalls made ugly, hollow noises. On the far side of the foyer was a small dining room, this one furnished. Indeed, the room was beautifully decorated, with paintings upon the wall and various bric-a-brac perched upon display tables and shelves. An oak dining table with six chairs occupied the center. He took my coat, and motioned for me to sit, then pulled on a rope. In a heartbeat, the same repulsive man appeared through another doorway at the opposite end of the room. My coat was handed off, along with a request for a bottle of wine. The servant left, and returned shortly with an open bottle and two glasses on a tray, which was placed on the table. Vincent filled the glasses after he left.
“To Andrew,” he offered as a toast, raising his glass. “May he rest in peace.”
“To Andrew.”
We both took a sip of wine.
“Albert will have dinner ready before too long. But we should have plenty of time to talk. Where do you want to start?”
I began to think, going back farther and farther, until I finally laughed.
He smiled and looked at me curiously.
“I was just thinking how this is all so strange. As little as two months ago, I did not believe at all in neither magic nor extra-dimensional creatures. I would have rolled my eyes, turned away from any mention of such things. I was solidly grounded in the rational world of theoretical mathematics. But during the past few months, my world, my reality, has increased in size an order of magnitude. I learned much from Andrew. In fact, I recently cast my first spell—that simple fire manipulation spell which you supplied.”
He blinked.
“Starting with nothing, you learned enough in a matter of months to be able to do that?”
“Yes.”
“I’m impressed. You must have a natural inclination for it.”
“Andrew also said as much.”
“Please continue,” he prompted me.
“Well, the reason I came here specifically was because of Andrew’s death. And again, I must stress that you should not feel guilty. If anyone is to blame, it is I. He would never have met that gruesome fate if I had not involved him with my problem.”
“Oh? What problem is that?”
“Trying to solve the mystery surrounding the death of my fiancée, Elizabeth Wentworth.”
Vincent reacted as if shot.
“Elizabeth Wentworth?” he shouted.
“Yes,” I said uneasily, alarmed by his extreme response.
“Good God! You were to wed Elizabeth?”
“You speak as if you knew her.”
He paused, biting at his lip.
“Robert, you may find this difficult to believe—I am having a hard time believing all this myself. But Elizabeth Wentworth was my cousin.”
I had no response for that, and looked at him incredulously. It simply was not possible, was it? Both of us were silent. My head was spinning; it was likely his was, too. When the turbulence in my own mind calmed, a memory surfaced.
“At the funeral, there was mention made of a cousin being overseas,” I said. “That was you?”
“Yes,” he mumbled.
He drained his wine in a large gulp. When he refilled his own glass, he topped off mine with more than I wanted or needed. On an empty stomach, the few sips I took were already having an effect, and I thought meaningful conversation might get be difficult if I were to have much more. A look in his eyes, though, revealed that there would be no need for either of us to speak. He was visibly saddened.
We drank quietly until dinner was served. It was delicious: a thick clam chowder, prepared and served by Albert. The heavy meal combined with the wine left me stuffed, and my eyelids grew heavy.
“I can see you’re getting tired,” said Vincent, voice heavy and words slightly slurred. “Please, stay the night. We didn’t finish speaking, and I, for one, need to know more. Just…not now.”
“Your offer is gracio
usly accepted,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“We can resume in the morning, over breakfast.”
He stood up, but paused to ask one final question.
“But just out of curiosity,” he began, “are you from Arkham?”
“I do live there now, and will at least until I finish my doctorate at the university. But I was born and raised in Mount Haverton.”
“I see,” he said, nodding his head slightly. “Well, good night.”
And he walked off. It was a curious question with which to end the evening, but I thought nothing of it.
Shortly thereafter, Albert entered, grabbed my suitcase, and motioned for me to follow. He still repulsed me somehow, and so I gave him another look to try to determine why. A man of medium height and build, he walked with a slight stoop. His skin, aside from being very rough, also had a greyish cast, but that could have been attributable to his age, which I guessed to be anywhere between fifty and seventy. And he still had not spoken a word to me. I gave up trying to pin down a particular reason for my unease. It must have just been the combination of it all, or even the events of the previous evening still haunting me.
Upstairs, he showed me into a bedroom. Too tired to unpack, I collapsed on the bed and slept through the night.
I was up shortly after dawn, and followed my nose downstairs to the same dining room. A large platter was filled with breakfast potatoes and smoked salmon. Warm muffins and a variety of marmalades were also available. Albert helped me with my chair and poured me a cup of coffee, then waved his hand at the food.
“Thank you very much,” I said, “but I would prefer to wait for the host before starting.”
“Your mother did raise you right, didn’t she?” said Vincent, entering the room just then. A grin was very evident, despite the full beard.
“My father, actually,” I said. “He was more of a stickler when it came to etiquette.”
“Oh, yes. William, was it?”
That left me slightly dazed.
“Was, and still is,” I said slowly, staring at him.
“You still don’t know who I am, do you?”
He obviously knew me, and I worked hard to mentally subtract the beard and mustache. It came to me then. It should have come sooner.
The Shadow Beyond Page 19
