Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) (22 page)

The monster chained to the wall had come from one of those alcoves, the floor of which was littered with straw and gnawed bones. The terror in Amanda’s heart began to rise once more. They were going to be eaten by this monster and its pack!

The glow from above grew stronger, and the monster looked away from the light, shielding its eyes with one clawed hand and mewling like a whipped beast. It slunk away from the edge of the water and climbed back into its wretched abode. Despite her terror, Amanda couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for the thing. The others withdrew from the light, backing into their damnable cells as the light descended into the cave.

Two figures marched downward, each robed in flowing greenish robes and bearing an oil-burning lantern. No trace of their features could be discerned, for both wore deep hoods that veiled their faces in the blackest shadows. Amanda took Rita’s hand and felt the clammy wetness of her friend’s palm.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Rita. “Hoods? I might have known! You damn cowards always cover your faces. You’re just like the damn Klan, always too scared to let people see who you are, because you know you’re bad men doing bad things. You think just because I can’t see your face means it’s all right to do this?”

Neither of the two figures answered her, descending each step in perfect unison as a pervasive smell, like the docks at low tide in summer, filled the cavern.

“You can’t even speak, can you?” shouted Rita, her belligerence giving her strength. “Answer me, damn you!”

The figures reached the bottom of the stairs and still their faces were shrouded in blackness. The soft light from their lanterns seemed unable to penetrate the gloom beneath their hoods, as they began to chant a meaningless doggerel.

“
Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!
”

Amanda couldn’t tell what language it was, or even if it
was
a language. The hideous syllables seemed to run together with liquid evil, like a curse of the blackest nature, or a threat of the most unimaginable peril. Again they said it, more insistent this time, as though they expected a response from the two girls.

“What the hell are you talking about?” cried Rita. “Speak English, you bastards!”

“In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming,” said the first figure, in a voice that was pure Midwest corn country. She didn’t know the voice, but its homespun American roots were at odds with the fear it engendered.

“You know what, go back to what you was saying before, cause I reckon it made more sense than that.”

“Who are you?” asked Amanda. “What do you want with us?”

“Just you,” said the second figure with an identical accent. “We don’t care about her.”

“Oh, you’re gonna care about me, you bastard!” shouted Rita, struggling at her chains and drawing more blood from her torn skin. “You’ll care about me when I tear that hood off and jam my thumbs in your eyes!”

“You have seen the face of the Great Old One,” said the first voice, and Amanda caught a hint of jealousy and fear. “You dreamed of his sunken city. You profaned his temple by speaking of it to others. You will tell us everything you saw in your dreams.”

“My dreams? What are you talking about?”

“We know you have dreamed of the lightless place beneath the sea, where the Great Old One slumbers. The dreamer stirs once again, called to the surface by his faithful believers, and you will tell us what you saw.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” pleaded Amanda. “So I had a few bad dreams, but that’s normal. I wish I hadn’t, but they were just dreams. They don’t mean anything!”

“They mean everything,” said a voice on the stairs above the two figures. Amanda squinted through the dim light to see a hooded figure dressed in crimson robes, like a high priest of some bloody religion from ancient history. He came down into the cave with measured slowness, his every step regimented and precise. Though he was just a man, Amanda couldn’t look at him. She felt her entire body tremble at his presence, and tears spilled down her cheeks at the sound of his voice.

The monster in the cell issued fearsome barking grunts, dragging its bloodied fingernails down the rock of its cell. Even monsters could know fear, it seemed.

“Only a rare few are permitted glimpses of the Great Old One’s entombed flesh,” said the man, “lost forever beneath the waves in an age before the vermin of mankind spread across the earth like an infection. You, Amanda, have seen the city, and you are going to tell me every last detail of what you saw.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know everything about you, Amanda Sharpe,” said the man. “Now begin by telling me when it was that you first dreamed of the Great Old One.”

“And if I don’t?” said Amanda, with bravado she didn’t feel.

“Then I will feed Rita to Latimer,” said the priest, waving an elegantly manicured hand at the sniveling, grunting creature taking refuge in its cell. As if summoned, the beast emerged from the bloody alcove and crawled on its belly toward the man. It feared him, but its hunger was an equally strong pressure on its thoughts.

“Latimer is one of our oldest residents in the house, and he has developed quite a taste for human flesh, as well as a remarkable penchant for cruelty. Most of the girls Latimer has killed over the years didn’t die until a good amount of their bodies was devoured before their very eyes, so I can assure you, Rita’s death will be extremely painful. But tell me what I wish to know and this will be over soon.”

“And then you’ll let us go?” snapped Rita. “Call me crazy, but I don’t believe you.”

“Let you go?” said the priest. “Oh no, neither of you can be allowed to live, but if you cooperate, I promise I will simply have you shot in the head.”

“And that’s supposed to make me help you?” cried Amanda.

“It should. Defy me and once Rita is dead, I will cut you up slowly and feed you to Latimer piece by piece. Now, shall we begin?”

* * *

Oliver squinted against the sunlight, shielding his eyes as he made his way toward the Liberal Arts building. His mind was awhirl with terrible thoughts and the unreasonable fear that he had stepped into a world he hadn’t known existed. Sleep had eluded him again last night, more due to the insistent telephone calls from Dr. Hardstrom at Arkham Asylum informing him of Henry’s deteriorating condition.

His old friend had taken a turn for the worse. Night terrors, delusional visions, and violent acting out were now a daily occurrence. Hardstrom was inclined to believe that hospitalization at the more secure Sefton Asylum would be more in keeping with Henry’s current prognosis.

Oliver had promised to come and speak to Hardstrom personally, but that would have to wait. He had other matters to attend to. Behind him, the Administration building held only bad news for him. Neither Amanda nor her roommate had shown up for classes, and a swift trip to Dorothy Upman Hall had revealed that none of the girls there had seen either of them since the day before yesterday. The last any of the girls he spoke to had heard, Amanda and Rita were talking of going to the Commercial Club to see some singer from New Orleans. Oliver didn’t know the place, but guessed it was a jazz club speakeasy.

He had hoped to find some clue as to their whereabouts in the room they shared, but no matter how much he pressed, the dormitory monitor would not allow him within the building. Oliver had left with his fear for the girls’ lives growing with each passing minute.

Though he told himself that the two matters were unrelated, he wondered what manner of madness he might be opening himself up to by associating with Finn Edwards and his mysterious sphere. Beyond the walls of Miskatonic, Kate Winthrop’s talk of other dimensions and gateways between worlds would be ridiculed as patently absurd, and on any other day, Oliver would have denounced her and Finn Edwards as frauds.

But this was not any other day.

The lingering oddness, of which he had always known permeated every corner of Arkham, had now swelled to impossible proportions. Each evening as he walked to his car or turned a corner, he suspected a shadowy form would emerge from the shadows, knife in hand to end Oliver’s intrusion into matters he was not meant to plumb. What had once seemed quaint and charming to his city-born eyes, now seemed distorted and threatening, as though Arkham had withdrawn whatever transient welcome it had extended him.

His eyes had been opened to a new reality: one where the everyday curtain of ignorance was pulled away and the horrors lurking in the cosmos were starkly revealed. No wonder Shrewsbury had gone missing! The man had likely taken his own life in terror of the things he had dared to put down on paper. Could such things really be believed? In the light of day, with the normal mundane bustle of students and everyday folk passing him by, it was easier to dismiss such things as lunatic fancies. But as night closed in and his mind conjured terrors from the depths of memory, they became stubborn in the face of his denial.

A sudden recollection of the story that had appeared in the
Advertiser
, telling of a young girl’s body found on the athletics ground, filled Oliver with fear. His higher consciousness tried to stem the tide of dark imaginings pouring from the older, primal part of his brain, but against such horrors there was no refuge.

Could this girl have shared similar dreams to Amanda? Might the same forces that had presumably abducted Amanda and her roommate have murdered her? Was there a link between Finn’s strange device (a device he had not yet elaborated upon as to how it had come into his possession) and the disappearances of young girls over the years? It was all too much to take in, too much to believe, but if Laban Shrewsbury’s book had convinced him of anything, it was that there was no such thing as coincidence where such monstrous, ancient evils were concerned.

Oliver stopped beside the Copley Tower and rested for a moment. His body was drained after nights of troubled sleep and terrified wakefulness. He hadn’t shaved in two days and his clothes were in need of a good airing and pressing. He had to know the truth. He had to know whether he had unwittingly placed Amanda in danger. But where to begin and who to trust?

He needed help, but the police had been singularly disobliging. A detective named Harden had written down Amanda and Rita’s details, but Oliver held out little hope that the man would take any action until it was too late.

No, there was only one man in Arkham to whom Oliver could turn.

The clock at the top of the tower struck the hour and Oliver looked up its immense length as it tolled midday. The sun was directly overhead, and the carven finials of the tower seemed misproportioned and out of balance, as though twisted into dimensions unknown to the five senses of man. Stone gargoyles leered down at him, fangs bared and jaws spread wide. He blinked and the moment passed, the clock tower resuming its earthly dimensions and architecture, but it was yet another fragment of the ever-growing catalogue of dark wonders plaguing him.

“Oliver?” said a concerned voice, and he sighed in relief as he recognized it as belonging to Alexander Templeton. “Are you all right? You look dreadful. Is something the matter?”

Oliver turned to see Alexander staring at him with genuine concern, his hat pulled low against the uncharacteristically bright September sun. His appearance stood in stark contrast to Oliver’s, his suit immaculately pressed, his shirt carefully starched, and the Windsor knot of his tie perfectly centered at his collar.

“Alexander!” cried Oliver. “Good God, man, it does my heart glad to see you.”

“Good to see you too, old man, but why the fervor of the greeting? Not that I’m not glad of it, you understand.”

“I need to talk to you,” said Oliver, clutching his briefcase up to his chest. “About that book you loaned me. And some other things…”

Alexander looked around to ensure they were not being observed and there were no eavesdroppers within range. He took Oliver by the arm and walked him away from the tower. His step was sure and his grip powerful as he steered Oliver down streets away from the main thoroughfares of the campus.

“I urge you not to speak of that book so freely,” said Alexander as the brightness of the sun appeared to diminish fractionally. “Its contents are, as I am sure you now know, not for the easily shocked.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Oliver. “The things Shrewsbury talks about, they’re too fantastical to be real, too…”

Alexander shook his head. “I agree, it’s a lot to take in at once, but you need to get over any residual hysteria if you’re to help me, Oliver.”

“Help you?”

“Of course,” said Alexander. “Why do you think I loaned you the book in the first place?”

Oliver was at a loss for words. “I thought because you wanted to help with Amanda Sharpe’s dreams? You had another purpose?”

“I did, but your interests were also served by that purpose,” said Alexander.

Oliver’s mind raced. He looked around him, trying to identify where they were, but the buildings on either side of the street were unknown to him. He was sure he and Alexander had walked less than a block, but he had absolutely no idea on which street he now found himself. The noon day sun seemed somehow dimmed, as though a pall of ash now blotted out the heavens, and the roofs of the brownstones seemed to lean in like teetering cliffs, dark, looming, and massive with crushing weight.

“Where are we?” asked Oliver. “I don’t recognize this street.”

“We are in Arkham still, but there are other books than Shrewsbury’s to which I have access, books with formulas to cloud the perceptions of those who might seek to hear what I must say to you now.”

Oliver looked at Alexander with new eyes, suddenly fearful of this man who owned ancient tomes of forgotten gods and to whom the arts of mystical misdirection appeared second nature.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Oliver,” Alexander assured him. “I gave you Shrewsbury’s book because I adjudged you a man of determined character and stout consciousness. I know things in the book are shocking, sacrilegious even, but you must be made aware of the nature of the enemy if you are to help me fight it.”