by S. A. Sidor
Up the hill on West Street I ran.
I did not look back until I reached the Miskatonic University campus grounds.
There I paused, bent forward, resting my hands on my thighs and gulping fresh air. The fog thickened. My view toward the river lay in obscurity. In fact, it appeared as if the fog were advancing out of the river channel and into the city above. The swirls moved too quickly for my comfort and gave me new apprehension. If a pile of old fishing nets could become enlivened through the ingestion of rats, might the fog be vitalized and inspirited? Was this no ordinary weather event but some previously unknown manifestation of a sentient, uncanny phenomenon?
“It’s only fog,” I said. Only fog…
I made a point to turn my back on it, resuming my journey homeward, this time walking, not running. I tried to talk down my fear. I had to regain some control. Steadfastly, I refused to turn around and acknowledge the heavy dampness in the air. To occupy my mind, I attempted to explain my weird encounter with the net blob. How could I explain it?
It’s Halloween! I tried telling myself. You saw a ghost! Wasn’t it quaint to think that?
There are no limits to what the mind will do to cast doubt on its own experience of the bizarre, but only after the physical threat is removed. How quickly we reverse our opinions in order to count ourselves among those who are labeled as sane. The inner conversation hammers away at firsthand observations in favor of mundane solutions. Alden, you merely saw someone in a very clever disguise. More University students playing pranks on a lonely drunk stumbling by the river. Students can be awfully clever. What did you really see, Alden? What did you hear? You aren’t ready for the asylum yet, are you?
I saw a net blob monster, and it knew my name.
Oh, ho ho… who’s going to believe you? It was foggy, you admitted that. You’d been drinking quite a lot. You thought you saw a dead man tonight. I think maybe you’d better get yourself home in bed and under the blankets. Take another look at things in the clean light of morning. See if they don’t look quite so ominous and dreadful. You got yourself spooked. Good and spooked. Well, one thing led to another and, in the end, this is a classic case of the carried-aways. You panicked, plain and simple. You’re a creative type, right? Now see, your excellent and fruitful brain started feeding you the most outlandish ideas. You know what you should do? You should go home and paint. You haven’t painted in a while, have you? Anything since you got to Arkham? No? This is your brain giving you inspiration. It’s breaking through that wall you put up without knowing you were doing it. Isn’t this exactly what you asked for, Alden, old chum? A bolt right out of the blue of good, old-fashioned inspiration. Sure, it was fantastical and well, frankly, weird. But who’s to say that’s not what the doctor ordered. The Surrealists you admire so much are weird. Maybe you’re like them. They have crazy dreams and visions. That’s what you had tonight. You weren’t asleep. But maybe you were just a little, and you had yourself a waking dream. Don’t question it. Or fear it. Paint it, my boy. Go on! Paint it!
Chapter Twelve
I awoke in my bed the next morning and took a hot bath to wash off the greasepaint and any remnants of the night. Steam filled the bathroom. I sank to the bottom of the claw-footed tub, my eyes and nose above the waterline. I soaked for a long time, thinking about all that had transpired at last night’s party, and after. When I climbed out, I dried off with a soft, gold towel, digging my toes into a gold velvet rug. All things considered, I felt remarkably well-rested. I was hungry for breakfast. I wiped off the mirror. Shaved. Then I dressed in my painting clothes – a pair of frayed, color-spattered canvas pants and a tan chamois shirt. I put on a pair of moccasins and went downstairs to my art studio. The studio was brick-walled and drafty. I built a fire in the fireplace, tossing in a few birch logs. Roland must have seen me, because he soon visited, delivering a pot of coffee, my favorite chipped mug, and a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered rye toast. I thanked him. Now I was ready to work.
I started the way I usually do: a rough sketch. I broke out my charcoals and a pad of newsprint, whipping through a dozen quick compositions, getting a feel for the best perspective – how much, or how little, to show of my encounter on the bridge. Choosing angles, I settled on a view across the Miskatonic toward the docks. I avoided oils and grabbed my watercolor box. I fixed a board, stretching a sheet of handmade paper, wetting the paper with a sea sponge, securing it to the board using butcher’s tape. I leaned the finished board against a wall near the fireplace so it would dry faster. Meanwhile, I planned out my palette, the tubes of cool, earthy colors I’d be using, and a couple of my favorite sable brushes. I kept it simple. When the paper was dry and ready for painting, I picked up a sharp pencil and sketched in the river, the low arc of the bridge, the crooked fingers of the docks. I omitted myself from the picture. I also left a pyramidal blank space halfway up the bridge’s span.
I closed my eyes.
Transporting myself backward in time to the night before.
When I saw it again, I took the whole thing in at once, the way you swallow medicine.
I opened my eyes and drew what I had seen there lurking in the fog-draped dark.
Then I put down my pencil, picked up my brushes and paints, and got to work.
By late afternoon I had something that almost satisfied me. I stepped back, walking away for a break. I munched the cold eggs and toast. But I wasn’t hungry any more. I’d drunk all the coffee. Loyal Roland had brought me a second pot. I poured a cup, trying to keep my mind quiet and empty from outside thoughts. I only wanted one thing in my head: my ill-formed counterpart on the bridge. I opened the French doors that led out to a pea gravel turnaround and our garages. I smoked three, four, cigarettes. Feeling rejuvenated, I went back inside and looked at the painting I had made.
It wasn’t perfect. No painting is.
But I didn’t hate it.
It was… close… very close to what I had witnessed last night.
The nighttime docks, pools of curdled light, the river like a sheet of corrugated tin.
Shambling up the bridge: a hideous creature fashioned of nets and fish parts and multiple eyes; the lights shone through it, rats wheeling around inside.
A tangled arm lifted, beckoning to me.
Yes, this would do for now.
I cleaned my brushes, shut the French doors, and left.
•••
Once I’d made the first foray into processing my strange experience on the span over the Miskatonic, I felt I had to find Nina again. I needed to see her. To talk. I wanted to tell her everything that happened after we parted, and to ask her a few questions. Had she crashed the party? Where did she go after she left? Did anything peculiar happen on her walk home? It took me under two hours to locate Courtland Dunphy’s building. I’d started down at the South Church rectory, where I went searching for Dunphy’s address. The pastor was friendly and no dummy. I spotted him outside the church, smoking his pipe and admiring a pair of crows bathing in the rectory’s stone birdbath. I still had my painting clothes on, but I wore a black wool overcoat on top of them, so they weren’t obvious. I had exchanged my moccasins for boots. A flat cap kept my head warm. I walked up to the priest.
“They say crows are bad omens. Don’t they, Father?”
“God made crows. Just like he made you and me.” He removed his pipe, smiled, and asked if I might help him carry a trio of flower baskets inside the sanctuary.
“Sure thing, Father Cryans. You keep up this place by yourself?”
He handed me the heaviest basket. After opening the side door, he wedged it with his foot and took up the other arrangements. “Call me Father Mike. I manage what I can and pay for what I can’t. The Lord sends me helpers. Forgive me, but have we met before, Mr…?”
“Rose,” I said, caught off guard. I didn’t want to use my real name. “Sonny Rose.”
“W
elcome to All Saints, Mr Rose.”
I cringed at my improvised alias.
After the door closed, the hush of the building settled over us. We walked along the communion rail. The priest genuflected. I did the same, not wanting to give offense or rouse any suspicions about my visit. The thickly sweet perfume of roses surrounded us.
I never liked the fragrance of roses. It made me feel vaguely sick.
“Please set those in front of the altar. Now, what can I do for you, Mr Rose?”
“I’m a friend of Courtland Dunphy’s, a fellow artist. I wonder if you have Court’s address on file. A problem’s come up. Having his address would help me solve it.”
“You don’t know where your friend lived?” The priest poked at the roses, drawing out a bruised bud before stepping back to recheck their appearance. The nave of the church was dim and shadowy behind us. To our right, votive candles burned in a cast iron stand holding tiers of red glasses below a radiant gold crucifix. Scents of damp stone, lemon-oil wood polish, and frankincense lingered. I stepped aside to give the priest a little more room, and my heel stuck in a puddle of wax drippings that had dried on the marble floor. I lifted my shoe while I deposited a few coins into the votive stand offering box. I took a taper and touched it to one of the votives and then moved my flame to one of the unlit candles.
Bowing my head, I offered a silent prayer. Let this man give me what I want.
The good father waited for me to finish.
“We’d meet up for coffee and pie,” I said. “At a diner. I never visited his apartment.”
“But you knew he lived in an apartment?”
“He talked about it. Complained it was small, you know? Artistic commiseration.” I was about to blow out the taper, when I noticed the wax drippings on the floor had been spilled in a definite pattern.
A three-pronged fork.
Beside it was another drawing. This one showed a spiked crown, formed by a cluster of wavy-bladed bayonets. A star symbol hung over them both. The star was flying through space, trailing a row of diminishing dots behind the tip of its long, daggered tail.
The pictographs were not the accidental result of spillage, but an intricately fashioned tableau. In the devotional area, the church marble tiles were rusty reddish-hued. So the drawings seemed to boil out of them like hallucinogenic mirages spawned in a scorched desert wasteland. It required an extraordinary amount of self-control for me not to gasp aloud.
My head was spinning. My vision zeroed down to a small, claustrophobic aperture.
“Courtland never struck me as much of a complainer. He told me his place was rather roomy for one person, as I recall.”
His unexpected recollection jolted me. I tried to remain outwardly impassive.
The priest blinked at me like a storybook owl over his reading glasses. Plenty of patience this priest had. I suppose it came with the job.
“Ahh… well… you caught me, Father. Maybe I was the one complaining to him.”
“Are you feeling unwell, Mr Rose?” he asked.
I shook my head to clear it. But that only made the sudden dizziness worse. The church seemed to be resting on a giant gimbal, where it commenced rotating and tilting like a stomach-flipping carnival ride. I wiped nervous sweat from my forehead and hoped the priest wouldn’t notice my unease. Lowering the taper once more, I confirmed the shape of the wax design. “A bit dizzy maybe. The smell of flowers gets to me sometimes. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Father Mike asked.
I gave a small affirmative nod.
He walked away and found a watering can in a closet behind the altar. He started watering the plants, in no hurry.
“You were the one who found him. Is that right, Father?”
I dropped my head and chipped my heel at the wax, hoping I was being subtle enough not to draw the priest’s attention to what I was doing. My leg tingled, all pins and needles.
“I was. Unfortunately, his soul was gone. By the time I got to him he was ice cold.” He picked a few brown leaves off the altar cloth and put them in his pocket. “Feeling better?”
“What do you think happened? Up there.” I pointed to the rafters above us.
My head was clearing; the room steadied. I’m fine if I don’t look down, I thought.
The priest stared at me.
It was my turn to be patient.
He rubbed his chin. “Rainy that day. But the roof is flat where Court was. The rain had stopped, too. He shouldn’t have fallen. I was in the church when it happened. All those windows were open. Yet I never heard him scream. Can you believe it? You’d think a falling man seeing the ground coming up at him would cry out. His scream would be involuntary. Court broke his neck when he hit. Died instantly, they told me. I can’t explain it.”
“Me neither.” But what if seeing a strange sign made Dunphy as dizzy as I was a moment ago? What if an invisible force drove him out onto the ledge? Red light streamed through the stained-glass windows. The ruddy beams flooded down into the church pews. “The landlord is selling off Court’s things to pay the missed rent. He didn’t have any family.”
“An orphan,” the priest said. “Court shared the tale of his lonely childhood with me.”
Orphan? That was news I hadn’t read. The inside of my mouth tasted sour. It was difficult to swallow. Poor Dunphy. Even more tragic than I thought. What exactly had he gotten when he won that contest and came to Arkham? His luck changed from bad to worse.
“As a fellow artist, I want to make sure he isn’t forgotten. Maybe we can exhibit his works. Give him one last show.” I had told white lies. I’m sure lying to a priest carries extra penalties if anyone upstairs is keeping score. But what I said was partially true. I didn’t want Dunphy forgotten. Maybe he’d never get a final gallery show. But if his death was a crime, he deserved justice. My body started quaking. What was going on with me? My throat jerked like I was about to cry. But these spasms weren’t from emotion. I checked my boots. My heel was caked with that damned white wax. I couldn’t wait to get it off me.
“Nobody deserves what Court got,” I said. My lips were twitching.
Smiling kindly, the priest stepped toward me, grasping my shoulder. The man felt sorry for me. Maybe he thought I needed saving. Maybe he was right.
“Sonny, I’m glad to hear that. Let’s go to my office. I’ll look up the address.”
•••
At Schoffner’s General Store, I bought a bottle of ginger beer to quench my thirst. I was on the correct street, but it was hard to find any numbers marking the shabby houses and empty storefronts. The evening sky dimmed to plums and oranges, and as the sun set, the wind promised to turn knifing cold.
Rivertown.
Dirty red bricks and the cold, oily shimmer of the water flowing below.
I blew on my hands to warm them.
There was a man on the sidewalk tending a small charcoal grill, roasting chestnuts. I bought a bag. Too hot to eat. I peeled their skins and watch the steam. The man wore fingerless gloves, and three of his fingers were missing. He had an eyepatch and a pucker of scar tissue high on his cheek. He bent to retrieve more chestnuts from a bag he stored inside a child’s red wagon. His movements were stiff, as if his joints needed lubricant. He wasn’t old. Maybe he’d have been a class or two ahead of me had we gone to the same school.
“Sell many chestnuts?”
“I do better at the holidays. Around Merchant is always hoppin’. It pays to start early.” He scored the chestnuts with a paring knife, testing the heat of the coals against his knuckles before adding the nuts to the fire. Using a long spoon, he stirred them on the grill.
I didn’t see anybody else on the street. Where did his customers come from?
“How’s business by the river?”
“This place is as decent as any, except for where the nicer shops a
re. But the cops chase away street peddlers like me. I can get into the Merchant District closer to Christmas. Some of them blue boys are all right. Couple of those fellas know me. We fought the Huns at the Marne.”
That explained his old injuries. He’d been to the war and lost years and blood there. I was lucky I hadn’t joined the navy with Preston. Our bodies were still young and whole.
“I’m Alden,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Christophe,” he said.
And we shook.
“You move to the neighborhood recently?” Christophe asked.
“What makes you think that?”
“On account of you’re a painter by the looks of those splotches on your pantlegs. But you got money for a nice wool coat and polished boots, so you’re not a housepainter. You’re an artist. Other artists live around here. Never seen you before, so you must be new. How am I doing?”
“Right on target.”
He nodded. “I thought so. Just ’cause I got one eye don’t make me blind.”
I guessed my coverup wasn’t enough to fool the observant chestnut man. That had me wondering what else the vendor might be noticing while no one paid attention to him.
“Anything strange ever happen here?”
He eyed me cautiously, as if he thought I might be attempting a joke and failing miserably. “Depends what you mean by strange. Arkham’s no stranger to strangeness, is it?”
“Can’t argue with you there. I grew up on French Hill.”
“Ah, French Hill hides her oddities better than the rest,” Christophe said. “The Colony wears her peculiars like a badge of honor. She’s proud home to an assortment of human curiosities. All shapes and sizes. They grow wild on the riverbanks. Boy, they sure do.”
I frowned. “What’s the Colony?”
“You’re standing in front of it. The big building behind you, that old Georgian mansion. It was abandoned for a decade. A real rathole. About a year ago, they converted it to apartments. Must be fifty people living there. Those fixed-up houses next door? They’re part of it too. The whole block got a fresh coat of paint. It’s an art commune they call New Colony. Or just ‘the Colony’ for short. They’re inspiring each another, I hear. Hell, some nights they sound like they’re inspiring themselves pretty good. They live together, eat together. Do everything together, if you catch my drift.” He shook his head wistfully.