Sanctum Arcanum

by Alexander Kautz

  “The story gets more interesting now--,” Raising a finger in pause, he continued, “The house remained empty until April 1950, when the resident physician, Dr. Henry Charles Thorne assumed the title and position and purchased the property. Although a confirmed bachelor, his sister Agatha, a spiritualist and practitioner of the occult, was known to give readings and perform séances in the home.”

  “So far none of this explains that old cemetery on the property?”

  “I’m getting to that part--,” He anxiously tapped a finger upon the notepad, “It was during the summer of 1951 when Mrs. Thorne ordered the exhumation of a family crypt, the contents of which were brought overseas and interred in a hamlet on the property.”

  “Alright, do we know from where they came—and exactly who or what they buried on the property?”

  “I tried everywhere, everything and anything that I could think of--,” He closed and slipped the notepad back into the pocket, “We have no clue as to what country or cemetery those remains came from.”

  “And there was no way of tracing a family genealogy—maybe find out where their parents had been buried?”

  “Heck--,” He scoffed, “I couldn’t even locate the names of their parents, much less anything else. I’m guessing that they must have been first generation immigrants, possibly even changed their names in the process. I’m at a complete and utter loss at this point.”

  “The man was a physician--,” The concept of his anonymity seeming preposterous, I gasped, “He must have had some record of previous education, degrees and doctorates—a University.”

  “He graduated from the Imperial College School of Medicine, London, England in 1940. It was founded in 1821 and has an established history. So, at least that much we do know.”

  “What about his sister, this Agatha person?”

  “No previous, documented education in respect to College or University, and aside from a residence in London where she stayed with her brother, I couldn’t find any previous information.”

  “What did Raymond think of this?”

  “He said that there were a lot of immigrants flooding into Northern America in those years--,” Rich seemed strangely bothered by the prospect, saying, “And, that it’s very likely that their parents may have been deceased at a young age, and previous records had been misplaced or lost. It would explain why they lived together for so long, and the mystery concerning their background.”

  “And, you don’t buy a single word of that!”

  “No, not one single syllable--,” His expressions changed from concern to sincere dread as he thought aloud, “What if this supposed physician and his sister actually came from another country and assumed the identities of other people?”

  “At this point we have no actual way of finding out--,” I sank back into my seat, pondering the entire affair, “So, how do you feel in respect to investigating Mr. Lumberton’s claims?”

  There hadn’t even been a second thought, Rich had just looked me straight in the eye, “There’s definitely something very wrong about that whole picture. But one thing stands out clear in my mind: That family needs us—and we should do this….”

  “I know that you’ve had some serious concerns about our last excursion.” Having not wanted to bring it up again, I still felt it significant enough to mention, “Are you feeling confident enough to undertake another investigation so soon?”

  Breathing in deeply and exhaling very slowly, he looked around my office. There was an obvious anxiety revealed in the way he grabbed at the armrests and frivolously looked about, but the moment had passed quickly. Nodding, he had looked back and said quite sternly, “Yes—I do have my concerns, and if I said different, I would be lying, but I honestly feel that we should try to help this family, regardless of anything else.”

  “When Tim had called me the other night--,” I moved from my chair and paused before the window in thought, “He told me that they had to follow a snow-plow just to make it home through the pass.”

  “I realize how you feel about going through there in the winter--,” His hands shook visibly, but whether it was due to excitement or fear I could not distinguish, “Especially so close to the holidays and leaving our families alone. But I’m willing to take the risks if you are.” His expression became desperate as though acting upon some inner instinct, urgent impulse, “Like I said when you asked me before—I believe that they need us. And regardless of what may come of it—feel in my gut that this is the right thing to do….”

  “Alright—I’ll explain it to Caitlin in not so many words.” I turned from the window. Facing my friend, I felt a deep apprehension, but nodded in agreement anyway, “Make the necessary telephone calls to the family and let’s get on this one before the weather gets any worse….”

  “I’ll call Scott, Raymond and Red Cloud.” He began to move from his seat, but halting him with a hand, I had quietly said, “Not this time.” There was something from deep within my soul, a sense of foreboding that now forced the decision beyond my own control, “If we’re going to take this risk—we have to do it alone….”

  “Alright, I understand--,” He slowly moved from his seat and fearfully peered back at me while moving toward the door, “I know that this is going to sound absolutely crazy, even coming from me.” He stopped in the doorway, “I’m scared to death about this one—but something stronger than my own fear keeps telling me to go.”

  “I know, my friend--,” I dropped back into my chair, turning toward where he stood in the doorway, and quietly said, “And that is why we will be going alone….”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday, November 3, 1974.

  As much as I had preferred never to travel through the Fraser Canyon or into the Rogers Pass by winter, there had been little choice. Although Caitlin had been concerned and the others argued, I had decided to make this journey alone with Rich. We had contacted Mr. Lumberton and after making arrangements to stay in their home for the duration of our investigation, had soon set out. It had been our good fortune to have not encountered any snow as we traveled the Trans Canada East, but that luck had ran out as we ascended into the Fraser Canyon just outside of Hope and travelled into Princeton.

  The small single-lane highway trekked closely against the jagged cliffs. Within steady ascent, it twisted and turned while bordering a sheer drop. As the snow came in steady flurries and we navigated that treacherous pass, there was little comfort even while knowing that the truck could manage almost anything….

  Our journey would eventually take us to the little community of Midvale, which although remaining within B.C. on maps, existed directly upon the borders between British Columbia and Alberta. It was a town dwelling in the shadow of the distant Rocky Mountains and consisted mainly of rolling hills, wheat, barley, and cattle farms. Unfortunately, the road would carry us through some of the most dangerous terrain and directly through the mountains in the snow. The silent prayers had begun on my part as we had slid in ascent several times, and I counted the minutes and miles.

  “Scott seemed pretty disappointed that we didn’t bring him along on this trip.” Rich sipped at his coffee, appearing increasingly nervous as we approached the peak at Rogers Pass.

  “We needed him at the warehouse with Red Cloud.” I sighed deeply, feeling equally dismayed, “Things have been getting busier with the holiday season coming, as you already know.”

  “I was doing a little reading over the past few days--,” He nervously made conversation. Between the sleet and steep ascent, he glanced between the highways and to where I sat staring, “On the subjects of the undead.”

  “Now, there’s an interesting subject.” I swallowed hard as the darkness fell and the snow continued, “I’ve read everything that I could find on the topic. Haitian Voodoo, the Wicca rituals of old Europe and Talmudic traditions of the Far East. It seems that throughout the history of the world, we have all shared similar fears….”

  “If there isn’t any truth to these legends
and myths--,” He pondered, handing me a thermos of tea, “Then why does it exist in every culture over time and world-wide?”

  “Maybe, regardless of time or distance, man as an animal relates to the same emotions and fears.”

  “In Germany they have stories of Nosferatu, the undead--,” He recounted and shared the material of his previous reading, “In the West Indies they have the dreaded Duppy, and even the North American Chippewa Indians tell stories of the Baykok, the walking dead….”

  “Well, as you already know, there are just as many types as there are rituals involving these things. They vary from one tribe to another and are just as different from one country to the next. Some even use hallucinogens during the rituals, or toxins that can make a man mindless and follow the bidding of a single master.”

  “Now we’re talking zombies--,” Rich spoke analytically, “But in my thoughts, they don’t really count among the undead. They’re just people poisoned with toxins, and made to seem undead.”

  “I seem to remember reading that the powder they used contained dried plants and animal matter,” The thought seemed so distant, and yet returned quite suddenly, and I snapped my fingers, “That’s right, it contained a neurotoxin from the puffer fish, a poison from a variety of marine toad, an irritating secretion from a Hyla tree frog. And of course, assorted lizards, spiders and human remains…”

  At this point, Rich had just looked at me as though I had committed some ghastly crime. The moment passing quickly, he continued, saying, “Witch-doctors and Zombies have their place in the annals of the occult, but aren’t the same subject. I’m talking about the truly risen dead.”

  “As in the resurrected--,” I sipped at my tea, slowly nodding, as I said, “A far more complicated and frightening concept. The practitioner has to accept a completely different reality, a place where mind and matter join. It’s an altered state of consciousness where the sheer desire forces transference of ethereal energy to manifest and become earth-bound matter.”

  “And the conjurer calls upon the spirits from beyond--,” Rich completed the thought, “And summons them to return from limbo, return to their corpses and rise from the grave. I know—it kept me awake for almost a week after I read that. I wonder if that’s even possible.”

  “Let’s hope that we never have to find out--,” I swallowed back a mouthful of tea and looked to my friend, “In all truth—the thought of a demonic influence using a corpse as a host vessel is nasty enough. Can you imagine something like that actually crawling out of its own grave?”

  “What if it’s possible? What if there’s something evil and powerful enough to actually re-animate a corpse?”

  “Then I’m certain that the demon that was Amelia would have succeeded.”

  “What makes you so sure that she didn’t? You admitted that she tried to possess your body in the tub that night and almost managed to take over Caitlin as she slept. Maybe it was just a matter of time—and opportunity.”

  “If she had been able to accomplish such a thing--,” I thought for a moment, “Then she would not have needed to attempt possessing our bodies.”

  “What if--,” He raised a finger in thought, his eyes dark in the dim light of the cab, “She already had the form, and like a car being full of gas, just required the charge, a spark to bring it all together? What if she didn’t actually need either one of your bodies—but your life energy to manifest on this physical plane?”

  “If that had been the case, then she would have had that opportunity when she took Sir Reginald’s friend’s life.”

  “Think about it, Michael. Sir Reginald never once referred to Amelia as a spirit or ghost--,” He reminded me, saying, “He calls her the demon or the fiend—suggesting something of a physical, more tangible nature. What if she had been a living thing at that time, and what they actually did destroy was the monster? At which point, the essence or evil of the thing had remained and was attempting to return right around the time that you showed up at the Duff Glenn.”

  Although I had considered many possibilities, I was at a loss for words. We had all seen the corpse which, although rotting, had rejuvenated to a great degree. There was more evidence to substantiate his claim than fuel my argument….

  “If Amelia had the power to sustain that corpse over so many years--,” He became vividly ecstatic, both excited and terrified with the thought, “That would imply that she was actually regenerating cells, which, although decaying at a very slow rate, were viable. Then what’s to say that, with a little more energy or life force, she couldn’t re-animate dead tissue?”

  “I really don’t even know what to say--,” Horrified with the concept and possibilities, I shrugged, “At the time, I had assumed that a lot of what happened there had occurred in our minds, that the evil in that place was forcing us to believe it was all real, and using our own imaginations and fear against us.”

  “Well—I read your book, several times.” His features were ashen and somber, “And when you describe that final scene with Amelia and Caitlin at the mausoleum, I would have guessed that it was all in your minds as well. But when I went out back with the men to move some of the statues that I delivered to your house, I noticed that a very large urn had been smashed and lay broken in the very same place that you had described in the book.”

  At this point I had just stared at him, having never previously been informed of this fact or considered it.

  “In retrospect, even if everything else has been played out in your minds--,” He tapped a finger to his brow, “That final scene with Amelia where Caitlin had thrown that vase at the demon and cast it into the void—truly did happen.”

  “She might have thrown the vase during a panicked moment, and while hallucinating?” I was grasping at straws as the doubt and fear now gnawed at my nerves.

  “There was something on that vase—and it wasn’t mold.” He swallowed hard, his knuckles white upon the steering wheel, “I had it checked out by a chemist friend of mine.”

  “And what were the results?”

  “He told me that it was a mixture of materials--,” He explained, licking at dry lips, “There was a high content of mercury and sulfur and the ashen residue of what was very old willow roots, and long dead, human tissue. Michael—I’m sorry that I never told you this before, but you and Caitlin didn’t just dream that last scene at the mausoleum. Even if everything else was just a manifestation of your imaginations—that final moment really did happen….”

  “So, then Amelia had really--,” I struggled with the thought.

  “Was beginning to materialize and actually manifest on the physical plane.” Rich slowly nodded, his eyes moving between the highway and mine, “If you hadn’t stopped her when you did, you might’ve both died there—and that thing would’ve been loose in this world….”

  “We already knew that many things were possible--,” I coughed while attempting to finish my tea, and putting a sleeve to my lip, stared, “But this brings an entirely new perspective to things.”

  “Now do you understand my interest in the possibility of the living dead?”

  “Yes—among many other things.” Shuddering with the memory of Amelia, I leaned back in the seat, “It might shed a little light on the sacred and holy weapons forged throughout history.”

  “No offence to you or the powers that be--,” He formed the symbol of the cross over his breast, “But all things considered? I wouldn’t want to walk into the proverbial lion’s den with nothing but a crucifix. The thing would just use it to pick its teeth when it got done with me….”

  “Remind me when we get back—,” I remembered how Marlowe’s minion had wielded the sword against the demon, “To look into the myths and legends of sacred Norse and Celtic holy weapons.”

  “Already ahead of you there, I’ve been doing some private research.”

  “And what have you concluded in that respect?”

  “Nothing that we both didn’t already know--,” He shrugged, “Mankind has been using
magical weapons to vanquish demons and monsters all through known history. It wasn’t until the church came into power, that they supposedly assumed that responsibility. But before that, tribes and clans had chosen ones, heroes with blessed weapons. From the Greek myths of Heracles to the legends of Beowulf, the Celts and beyond, we hear of these weapons of the Gods.”

  “I doubt very much that we will ever have the opportunity to stumble over anything like that again.” Envisioning the pale emerald glow of the Celtic sword in my mind, I shuddered with the thought of its loss, “But, you’re absolutely right.”

  “Michael--,” His features revealed a terror beyond words, “Monsters really do exist….”

  “And, so do those who continue to fight and destroy them.” Finishing my tea and screwing the little cap back onto the thermos, I looked back to him, saying, “History and legends are full of them. And there are doubtless many others like ourselves who continue to do so, even now.”

  “Always the eternal optimist, bless your spirit--,” He turned his attention back onto the road, “I wish that I had even half the guts and faith that you did.”

  “I just talk a lot--,” I shrugged and attempted a smile, “But I’m just as scared as you are, maybe even more?”

  Rich had just burst into laughter, heartily slapping my shoulder.

  The conversation had kept us occupied long enough to reach the peak of Rogers Pass, and during the descent, take notice of lights in the distance. It was little more than a glow in the clouds that hung above the rocky crags and pines, but a relief all the same!

  “The service station and diner are less than a mile away now--,” I pointed into the distant glow in the clouds, “We should be there in about thirty minutes, if we’re lucky.”

  “I’m taking things really slow--,” He announced, “These may be big tires—but it’s still just rubber on snow and ice.”

  “Slow and easy is the only way to travel through these mountains at this time of year. I’ve seen a little too much and don’t want to see or become part of anything more.”