Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois (65 page)

t happened in 1999, what the locals later called the year of the three nines.

That year began as every other New England winter did, with stiff winds out of the north and an early snowfall that left the frozen ground covered in white for the balance of the season. Grey, overcast skies predominated and the normal activity of daily life seemed to slow to a crawl. Most folks stayed indoors if they could help it, with the need to drive into the city being the only thing that compelled commuters in Dean’s Corners to leave home at all. Over in next-door Dunwich, where employment was still largely in agriculture, farmers left the warm confines of their kitchens only to milk the cows and feed the livestock.

But as winter progressed and the snow stopped flying so frequently, the first of the odd occurrences took place. At the time, no one recognized it as being anything out of the ordinary; after all, things like that did happen from time to time. But as old Lydia Walker said, it was coincidental that when Mrs. Sarah Norris had her triplets, she had them on the third day of March. The next thing that happened was equally unexceptional, at least for a farming community; Jonas James’ jersey cow calved turning out an offspring with two heads. Those things also happened now and then, with the unlucky farmer at least making a little profit selling the unfortunate creature to any traveling carnival that passed through town later in the spring. After that, something happened to Mrs. Anna Arnold that really set tongues to wagging. Like Sarah Norris, Anna Arnold also birthed a set of triplets, this time in May, also on the third day of the month. Immediately, the gossips in town began to talk, wasting little time bringing up the stories of curses and warlocks, and old wives’ tales about the Whateley family. And truth to tell, there was enough in the coincidental births to give pause even to those who dismissed such talk. After all, Dunwich had its share of strange history, much of it never having been satisfactorily explained either by local officials or scholars in attendance at nearby Miskatonic University.

Speculation about the possible meaning behind the births of the triplets had hardly died down when an unseasonable blast of cold air dropped 10 inches of snow on the ground in mid-May. In a farming town like Dunwich, such an event was more than curious, it was pretty much near-disastrous when farmers depended on good weather to plow their fields and prepare crops for the summer’s growing season. Next, the snow had barely melted away when a big wind blasted through the area, felling trees everywhere and even taking the roof off Silas Gentry’s house. After that, people in town began to get nervous and were in no way hesitant to let others know how they felt. Then it happened, the last straw, the thing that settled in everyone’s mind that 1999 was not going to be like other years, the thing that caused folks to remember it forever after as the year of the three nines. It happened on July 3, when ‘Becca Smith had her triplets, the third set of triplets born on the third day of the month. Quickly after that it seemed, there was a plague of frogs that filled the summer nights with an unholy racket, mosquitoes carrying the threat of West Nile Disease swarmed thicker than anyone could remember, and finally, the woods around about became infested with ticks, a problem the Miskatonic Valley had never had before. It was all enough to lend credence to beliefs about curses and evil tidings, with some even saying they had seen witch fires burning for the first time in years atop Sentinel Hill, a story dismissed by Sheriff Hilger after he took the better part of a day to hike up there to find out. Overall, though, after the late start, the summer progressed as it always had with farmers planting their crops and turning the livestock out to graze. By the end of the season, the year of the three nines promised to be one of the more successful for local farmers, with even the apple growers expressing satisfaction with the way things had turned out. So it was hardly even remarked upon when the weed harvester being used out on Novard’s Pond ran into some thick growth and began dredging up weird plants no one had ever seen before: long, discolored strands that tended to clog outboard props, and that sported ugly-looking bladders filled with some kind of gooey substance the Novard’s Pond Advisory Committee had to send to Boston to identify. Still, some people had not forgotten the strange things that had taken place earlier in the year and as the summer months trailed into autumn, they held their collective breaths as if waiting for another shoe to drop.

That happened on Oct. 29 when Ebnezer Fitch came into the Grange Hall one day with a funny looking stone he said he had plowed up in his south pasture. At least that was what most folks called it, a stone. Others insisted it was not just a stone but a carven figure. Different people saw different things depending on what angle the thing was viewed from or under what kind of light. Anyway, the way Ebnezer told it, he had taken his tractor up the cart path past Petawag Brook and down Lawton’s Slope to his south pasture, where he grows his turnips and carrots, and began turning over the soil there and teasing out the old plants when his grader hit something hard, chipping one of the blades. That took Ebnezer by surprise, certain as he was that there could be no rocks left in the field, one that had been plowed for over 70 years, at least as far back as when he had worked it with his father when just a boy. Curious, he looked around in the moist soil, kicking over clods of dirt until the toe of his work boot struck something. Stooping, he dug his fingers into the ground and pulled up the stone. He was on the point of chucking it away when something stopped him. The morning sunlight caught it in such a way that he thought he recognized an unnatural pattern in the stone. Like it had been carved at some point. Brushing off dirt, he grew more positive that he was right. He knew that some people were interested in Indian artifacts or trinkets left over from the region’s pioneering past, so he decided to hold onto the stone until he had a chance to take it into town. Maybe someone there might be interested in it.

Ebnezer returned to his home late that night. There had been a full moon that allowed him to stretch out the work day, and he was done in. As he put his key into the back door his dog, Corky, came around the corner of the house from wherever it was he spent his days, tongue lagging and eager for a bowl of dog chow. After feeding the dog, Ebnezer, too tired to cook, nibbled at something cold from the refrigerator and decided to hit the sack early. Before he did though, he took some time to wash the stone he had found under some running water and verified that its shape was definitely not natural. It had been carved at some point and, to his eye, appeared to suggest nothing so much as a house with eyes…not just two eyes set side by side, but a whole bunch of them all around with no sense or order. Without understanding why, the thing disturbed him somewhere deep down. Putting the stone aside, he retired to his bedroom for the night.

Ebnezer never noticed when it was that he had fallen asleep but it must have been pretty quick as when he woke later on, the moon was still high in the night sky and its glare placed everything in the room in sharp relief. It was only after he heard the sound of Corky scratching at the back door that he realized what it was that had wok

Stepping into some clothes, he entered the kitchen where the dog was still worrying at the door.

“What is it, boy? Something out there?”

Corky had always been a reliable dog, rarely getting excited over nothing, so Ebnezer never even considered not heeding the animal’s obvious interest in going outdoors.

Passing through the mud room, Ebnezer shrugged into his coat and stepped outside. There, he paused and breathed in a deep draft of night air, held it, and released it all at once bringing him to full wakefulness. Meanwhile, Corky had dashed up the cart path leading to Lawton’s Slope. Deciding to follow the dog, Ebnezer retrieved his rifle from the mud room and entered the tunnel-like opening into the surrounding woodland. Hearing Corky’s scrambling from up ahead, Ebnezer confirmed to himself that the dog was heading toward the south pasture. Beneath the overhanging branches of century-old maples and beeches that were almost denuded of their leaves, Ebnezer passed among the shadows cast by the still-bright moon. Around him, the forest was quiet in the mid-autumn cold, a silence broken only by Corky as the dog suddenly came dashing down the path, passing Ebnezer without so much as a yip of acknowledgment. Surprised, Ebnezer watched the dog disappear back in the direction of the house and as the silence returned, he noticed that things were not so quiet as he supposed.

At first, he thought the sounds were made by the scurrying of chipmunks among the dry leaves that had piled up beneath the trees, but soon dismissed the notion when it became apparent that their origin lay farther up the trail. Slowly, with gun raised, Ebnezer made his way upwards to the crest of Lawton’s Slope. At the top, he stopped to listen more carefully and sure enough, the sounds were still there, now more like the flapping of bats’ wings in an attic than the rustle of dry leaves. Crouching, he moved slowly to the tree line that edged the south field. Keeping to the shadows, he looked out upon the field he had worked earlier in the day. In the moonlight, the newly turned furrows showed sharply in the silver glare and against the dark silhouette of trees on the opposite side of the pasture, Ebnezer could make out the kind of erratic movements that did indeed suggest bats.

Getting down on his belly, Ebnezer crawled past the trees to a stone fence that bordered the field, a good 20 to 30 feet closer to the activity. There, peeking over the top of the wall, he was startled to find that the creatures were no bats, but men of a sort. Unbelievingly, he stared, frozen, while the things fluttered up and down, scrabbling here and there at the clods of fresh soil that Ebnezer had turned over that day. They seemed to be searching for something, but what it might be was lost on the farmer as he studied the unearthly shape of the things which, though with appendages like those of men, were nevertheless radically different in detail. Arms and legs there were, but the limbs seemed to bend in unnatural directions while the skin covering their naked bodies was black as the shadows beneath the trees. From their backs sprouted leathery-looking bats’ wings that fluttered and snapped in the cold night air. There were three of the things so far as Ebnezer could tell and in trying to get a better look, one of them, perhaps caught in a sudden updraft, was thrown sidewise in the direction of the stone fence. For an instant, its figure was fully illuminated in the moonlight, and it was then that the full horror of the scene descended upon Ebnezer’s mind. The next thing he knew he was running for all he was worth. Crashing through the underbrush, his gun forgotten at the base of the wall, he plunged into the woods even as he sensed the things rushing after him. Smashing his nose against a tree he did not see, he bounced away from it and plunged on down the cart path, the things screeching and howling in a mad cacophony as they rose above the intertwining branches. As he ran, Ebnezer cast fearful glances over his shoulder and saw dark shapes fluttering overhead. They were following, crazy to get at him, but the thick forest that bordered the cart path prevented them from swooping down after their prey. Suddenly, Ebnezer’s foot caught on a tree root and he tumbled to the ground. Rolling onto his back, his arms up before his face to ward off the expected attack, he could barely see the things against the twinkle of stars between the trees. Now that they could see he was down they approached more deliberately, weaving their way among the branches, getting closer, closer…and then old Woodchip crowed his first call of the morning and suddenly, the things halted in their progress. Again the rooster crowed, warning off potential rivals but also it seemed, the things overhead. Then, with vast relief, Ebnezer saw the things fly up above the trees again and move off in the direction of the south pasture. Soon, their screechings died away with distance and he knew they were gone. Dawn was not far off but no light of day could erase the memory of the thing Ebnezer had seen that had ended his self control and sent him dashing into the woods and toward the sanity of his own hearth: that the black, leathery things,
had no faces
!

Shaken, exhausted both physically and mentally after an evening of unrelenting horror and nightmare, Ebnezer barred his doors and sat stiffly in his darkened parlor, afraid to move until the reassuring rays of the sun were comfortably over the eastern horizon. Aware that he was defenseless with his gun lying in the underbrush back at the south field…and not at all sure if it would do him any good against the forces that he had encountered during the night…Ebnezer had time to think. Eventually, he concluded that the only object the bat things could have been seeking in the south field was the stone he himself had uncovered the day before. Angry at the things that had invaded his property, but more disgusted with himself for the way he had acted, he decided that instead of doing the obvious…returning the stone to the field where the things could take it back…he would take it to town and hand it over to the Grange. The fellows there would know what to do with it. In any case, it was likely that the bat things would leave his property as a result and search for the object elsewhere.