Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois (58 page)

“Well, it’s not for me to decide on pursuing it,” I hedged. “It’s up to my superior. But I’ll run it by him and if he approves, I’ll drive over and take a look at it.”

“I just want to clear my brother’s reputation,” said the man. “He died a few years ago but, like Sanders, his career was destroyed by the scandal and even his sanity had begun to be questioned.”

“I can understand that,” I soothed.

“In any case, here’s the address,” he said, handing me a card. The address listed on it was outside Townshend, Vermont. Not a long drive from Arkham but not a short one either.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Porter. Chris Porter. If you decide to come, call me at that number and leave a message. I’ll get it and wait for you at my house.”

With that, he walked off.

Pocketing the card, I continued on my way to the Archeology Department. When I arrived at Walker’s office, his secretary was out but the man himself was sitting behind his desk. Presenting him with the draft of my report, I dutifully filled him in on what Porter had told me. As I guessed, Walker said he preferred that the report be as thorough as possible and instructed me to take a drive to Vermont to find out what more information Porter had. He would see to it that a graduate student covered my classes for me while I was gone.

With no good argument against going, I left instructions for the grad student and made my way back home for the balance of the day. That evening, I called the number given me by Porter but instead of an answering machine as I’d expected, someone picked up at the other end. I was startled for a moment at the soft, whispery sound of the voice, definitely not that of Porter, but when I identified myself, was told that I was speaking to his housekeeper and that my message would be brought to his attention. I was assured that Porter would be home the next day to receive me.

Nagged by the familiar sound of the housekeeper’s voice, I took a double dose of pills before going to bed, and managed to get through the night with only a feeling that I’d dreamed but recalling nothing.

Relieved, I backed the car out of the garage and soon was headed west along Route 2. Just past Greenfield, I veered north on I-91 before taking the turnoff at Vermont Route 30 toward Newfane and Townshend just beyond. It was a cold but brilliantly sunny day which nevertheless had little effect among the steep, rounded hills of south-central Vermont. Gloom covered the two lane blacktop roadway leading into Townshend, as the sun found it difficult to penetrate between the forested peaks that crowded close to one another. Here and there, some early snow dusted the conifers that grew so thick right up to the edge of the road that it was impossible to see more than a few yards among them.

In Townshend, I stopped briefly to make sure I had my directions right before pushing on to Porter’s house, which I learned lay about 10 miles north of town. There, local homes seemed to thin out rapidly until the ones I saw were few and far between. Here and there, the thick forest was broken by open fields waiting for spring to be seeded again. The occasional farmhouse, with its sloping roof covered in the area’s distinctive metal sheathing, nestled against the edge of the woods as if about to be overwhelmed. My odometer indicated that I’d gone a good deal more than 10 miles before I spotted the sign I was told to look-out for indicating a covered bridge over a rushing stream. Turning, I was plunged into the near darkness of the tunnel before emerging on the other side where the paved road ended. Following this for another few hundred yards I came to the top of a rise and into sight of an old two-story farmhouse that was almost completely overcome by second growth forest. Behind it, I knew, rose the thickly wooded flanks of what the locals called Dark Mountain, a local landmark.

With its sagging roof and peeling paint, the farmhouse itself had all the appearance of having been abandoned for years. A path leading up to the front door had long since been overgrown and part of the house was completely hidden in ivy and other creepers.

Could this be the proper address, I wondered? Certainly, it didn’t have the look of having been lived in for years. I still had my doubts when I left the car and began looking around for a way to the front door. I found the head of the old walk after spotting a rusty mail box almost hidden among shaggy brown grass at the edge of the road. Bending down for a better look, I saw block letters spelling the name “Porter” painted on its surface, letters that seemed scrawled over another name beneath. Looking more carefully, it seemed the older name may have been “Ashley” or “Akeley.” In any case, with the house confirmed as that belonging to Porter, I forced my way between overgrown shrubs to the main entrance. Along the way however, I couldn’t help noticing imprints all around, imprints that looked exactly like those of the deer that had poked around Sanders’ home at Dean’s Corner and the Pickerton Hospital. But then, what else would I expect in such bucolic surroundings?

Still somewhat doubtful, I made my way to the front door and knocked. At first, I thought my initial impressions had been correct: no one lived there. But after trying again, there were sounds from within and I heard a muffled voice bid me come in. Pushing the door in on creaky hinges, I found myself in a darkened vestibule. Before me, a short staircase led to the gloomy second floor and to my left, an opening in a pair of curtains indicated a parlor. On the musty atmosphere itself was the same odor I detected on Porter himself the day before.

“Is anyone here?” I ventured, leaning toward the parlor.

“In here, Prof. Withins,” beckoned a voice, the same whispery voice I’d heard on the phone the night before. Only this time, it seemed rougher, more like a rumbling buzz. It was something I allowed myself little time to consider as I stepped impulsively through the curtains into the dusty parlor.

By that time the short, late-autumn day was winding down and the sun already fallen behind Dark Mountain. The room was darker than it likely was only a few minutes before, so that I could hardly make out Porter from where he was standing away from the windows.

I had the immediate sensation that he was not alone in the room, and I was right.

No sooner had I stepped through the curtains than I sensed movement behind me. Turning, I was confronted by a thing that up to that moment, I’d only seen in nightmares. It stood on the hindmost of its many segmented legs, and the suggestion of membranous wings lay folded on its back forming a hardened carapace. Where its head should’ve been was just a collection of fleshy protuberances from which extended a nest of ropy feelers that moved and swayed in constant motion. I was left with the overall impression that it was some kind of giant, impossible crab.

What it was, was a member of the Mi-Go, the alien race that had been appearing in my dreams of Belize and for that reason, I supposed, I didn’t feel as frightened as I ought to have been.

The ends of its legs made slight clicking sounds on the wooden floor as it moved further into the room, its fleshy feelers waving in the air.

But despite my puzzling lack of fear, I felt nevertheless compelled to take a few steps backward until I felt the edge of an end table against my legs. Regaining my balance, I glanced around the rest of the room and noticed the suggestion of movement elsewhere in the deepening shadows. Porter himself hadn’t moved from where he stood near one of the windows. He spoke then, at first with the voice I recognized from the university campus and then, as it grew more indistinct, like the whispery words spoken over the phone the day before.

“It was good of you to come, Withins,” he was saying as he fumbled around the collar of his hunting coat.

Then, with an action that
did
alarm me, he removed his face.

Horrified, I watched as he tossed the thing on the end table. It was stiff enough to remain somewhat propped up, enough-so that Porter’s features were still recognizable. Before I could drag my eyes from the horrid mask, it was joined by a pair of severed hands affixed with complicated clip mechanisms. It was then that the familiar odor became overpowering. Holding a handkerchief over my nose, I recognized it as the scent of rotting flesh.

Fearfully, I raised my eyes and saw that the Porter figure had removed its clothes and what was revealed was another Mi-Go that was in the process of unfolding its limbs and shedding the general shape of a bent and stooped human being.

“We are happy to see you, Withins,” the thing whispered. “We have been waiting for quite some time for you to join us.”

“Wha…what do you mean?” I stammered, but dreaded the answer, having an inkling of what it would be.

“Why don’t you remember, Withins? We have been friends for quite some time,” said the thing. “We met in Belize two years ago.”

“Belize? But I’ve never been there before…”

“Ah?”

“I mean aside from my dreams…”

“All a dream was it?” questioned the thing as it shifted its legs. “What would you say, Withins, if I told you it actually happened? That you went to Belize, journeyed to our valley, visited us in our stronghold?”

“No. That’s impossible…”

“Not at all,” insisted the thing, whose waving feelers I could imagine simulating the movement of muscles beneath the Porter mask. “Here is the truth: you traveled to Belize two years ago and like the Hughbanks Expedition, was lured into the El Cacao region by unscrupulous Indians. You were met there by our servitors and taken to our stronghold where you were made to forget your trip to Belize…”

“It wasn’t a dream…?”

“None of it. Unfortunately for us and you, however, your treatment was imperfect. Your memory of those events began to return to you after you overheard our message on Sanders’ machine — a post-hypnotic signal intended for Sanders, instructing him to return here to us. That intercepted signal triggered your own buried memories and forced us to take a hand. We were forced to physically recapture Sanders when he failed to receive the post-hypnotic signal, but with you, it was easier to lure you here with the promise of information desired by your superior.”

“And now,” said the thing’s companion in a voice much closer to a buzzing sound than a whisper, “We shall correct our error with a more permanent solution to the problem of your memory.”

But there is no problem. Can’t you see that? I can falsify the information I was to get from Porter, and Walker need not be the wiser. In fact, I could fix it so that when Walker submits the report to the University of Pennsylvania, it would eliminate any remaining suspicions the administrators might have that anything more than a confrontation with drug dealers happened with the Hughbanks Expedition. Other than that, it’s only me you have to worry about and if I promise never to tell anything to anyone about my trip to Belize…well, where’s the harm?

So, you see, there’s no need to make a fuss. No need to use up one of those valuable cylinders on me, someone who’s not even interested in making the journey to Yuggoth. You can save it for a more deserving person, maybe Sanders or one of your servitors in Belize?

I can see I’m no longer in the farmhouse. Are we under Dark Mountain? We must be since I can see the same kind of tables that I saw in my dream…or in Belize if, as you say, it wasn’t a dream at all but reality. Is that somebody’s body you’re taking apart? Not that I object! You do what you think is best. Believe me, I have no problem with that. On the other hand, I still have much to do at home. I have classes to teach and I can’t really trust those grad students to cover the material properly. So, as much as I’m honored to be considered for an operation, I really think you should let me go back…

“Stop prattling, you fool!
We’ve already taken your brain!
”

ow did I arrive at this point
, asked Samuel Bowditch of himself.

At first, it had appeared to be a simple assignment, if somewhat unusual: he was to look into the disappearance of a colleague and if possible, find out where he had absconded with valuable museum property. He’d check the man’s office, his home, his computer records for possible clues that the police might have missed but that a fellow anthropologist might pick up and hopefully get some answers for Prof. Paxton, who had given him the assignment.

All very straightforward, yes, until his fax machine spat out that final damning photograph from Japan!

Now, he sat in an overstuffed chair outside of Paxton’s office waiting to enter the office of Miskatonic University’s Director of Asian Antiquities to give him the final report on his findings. But how do you summarize in a few words facts that by themselves seem to mean nothing, while strung together suggest a conclusion so fantastic as to call his sanity into question?

Rubbing his damp palms against his trousers, Bowditch looked at Paxton’s secretary where she busied herself transcribing some steno notes or something. Had she been doing the same thing that day when he’d come to this same office and received the assignment to find out what happened to George Pondwaithe? Maybe it would help his presentation if he cast his thoughts back and reviewed the events of the past few months as they happened…