The Last Ritual

by S. A. Sidor

  I did catch it. The chestnuts were popping open, turning black from the fire.

  “You ever see a tall woman with dark hair and eyes? High class and knows it?”

  “Can’t say I have. Must be a remarkable lady.”

  “Her name is Nina.”

  “I don’t know their names. I only sell chestnuts to them.”

  “It was a longshot. Thanks anyway. Somebody’s bound to know her if I knock on enough doors. She lived across the hall from this sculptor, Dunphy–”

  “Maybe Calvin knows her. Hey, Calvin!”

  The chestnut seller was motioning to a light-skinned black man walking on the other side of the street. He had short hair and no hat. His canvas jacket was too light for the weather, and his hands were stuffed deeply into the pockets of his faded dungarees. He hesitated to cross the street at first. It was obvious that the reason for his hesitation wasn’t Christophe. It was me.

  But he came across.

  “I thought you don’t know names,” I said to the street vendor as the man approached.

  “I know Calvin. You don’t need to worry about him.”

  “Who said I was worrying?”

  Christophe cackled.

  “Boy, you been worrying ever since you walked into Rivertown.”

  Calvin ambled up, and Christophe passed him a bag of chestnuts, free of charge. I watched as Calvin scanned up and down the street. The rumble of a large engine and the grinding of gears resonated behind us. He tensed as if he was preparing to bolt. Around the corner, out of the dark between streetlights, a boxy, dirty white seafood truck emerged. He watched until it passed. His feet were never still, and his eyes moved constantly, but the rest of him stayed poised like a middleweight boxer, ready to duck or throw a punch. I wondered what had him so jumpy.

  “Calvin, right?”

  I held out for a handshake. But the man just looked at me, terrified.

  “How do you know my name?” He flexed his shoulders.

  “Easy, Calvin. He heard me calling you. That’s all,” Christophe said.

  “You never said my last name,” Calvin said. “How do you know me, stranger?”

  His free hand went into his pocket. He had a knife or gun hiding in there, and I had no interest in finding out which, or in seeing if he knew how to use them.

  “Last name? I never said anything about a last name.” Then I put it together. “Oh, your last name is Wright. Like the flying brothers? That was a coincidence. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll tell you my name. I’m Alden Oakes. I live up on French Hill. I’m looking for somebody. A woman who lives around here, I think. Now, her name’s Nina Tarrington.”

  I opened my coat and found my cigarette case. Calvin’s hand stayed hidden. I put a smoke between my lips and lit it, no real hurry, hoping my fingers didn’t twitch too much. Then I offered the case to Christophe and Calvin. They decided to join me. We stood there smoking. The tension ran off like juice out of a steak when you cut it. I didn’t want to think about cutting meat and oozing blood, so I kept on talking. Calvin didn’t trust me, and I wasn’t sure if I could trust him. But I asked anyway. “You ever heard of this Nina?”

  “No.”

  “How about Courtland Dunphy? He was a sculptor who was working on the new gargoyle at South Church. Is this the address for that building over there?” I showed him the scrap of notebook paper where Father Mike had written Dunphy’s street number.

  I didn’t have to wait for an answer, because I could tell by the way Calvin tucked his chin and shifted that he did know Dunphy. He knew he was dead, too. Because Calvin’s face turned as gray as the ash on the end of the coffin nail drooping over his lower lip.

  “Yes, I knew Court.” His gaze broke away quickly, not wanting to lock eyes.

  “That’s swell. The lady I’m looking for lives across the hall from him.”

  He pointed at the Georgian mansion. “Third floor.”

  “The Colony, see?” Christophe said. “Your lady must be an artist too.”

  “She’s a writer,” I said. “So, maybe.”

  “Calvin here is an artist’s model. Aren’t you, Cal? That handsome mug of yours.” The vendor laughed and struck a pose. “He’s always finding one job or another to keep the wolf from the door.”

  “Is that right? And you live in the Colony?” I asked.

  Calvin shook his head. “I stay there sometimes. But I work down on the docks. I load the Burdon’s Fishery trucks with the daily catch. Started there this summer.”

  “That’s why you smell like a mermaid!” Christophe pinched his nose. “Whee-ew!”

  “There are mermen swimming in the sea too,” Calvin retorted, cracking a smile and tossing a hot chestnut at the street vendor. “What do you smell like, Chris? A hobo’s campfire?”

  I said a quick goodbye and left them standing there, two men joking with each other.

  But as I opened the front door to New Colony, I glanced back. Calvin Wright was staring at me, hard. His sunken, dead eyes holding their connection with mine longer than they had during our conversation, and I felt the full weight of his fear. I wasn’t sure what had him scared. But whatever it was must’ve been awfully close.

  Because I felt the fear crawl inside me until it became my own.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My first impression of the Colony was that it needed better lighting. The hallways were gloomy. The carpeting suggested a dusty aubergine. Ornate wallpaper intimated a floral trellis. But a second glimpse told me no, there were no flowers here, only the serpentine motif of a writhing, tubular organism that threatened to squirm off the wall if I glanced away for an eye-blink. Outside, one saw three symmetrical stories of red brick and a slate roof. Each floor had seven windows, except the first which traded its middle window for a door crowned by a triangular pediment. Two chimneys topped the roof at either end like rooks on a chessboard. Inside, I expected to see a well-lit space, but partitioning of the apartments had created a maze of cramped passages instead, chopping up the common areas into smaller morsels. It was twilight. But indoors, night had already fallen. The windows appeared thicker than normal. Light seemed to have difficulty passing through. Luminous pendant globes dangled from the ceiling, emitting auras the color of cod liver oil. Come to think of it, an unctuous fishy essence permeated the old mansion. Stationed on the banks of the Miskatonic, perhaps it had an earlier life as a fish house. I went up to the third floor, looking for Nina’s door.

  She lived at the end of the hallway. Before knocking, I turned to inspect Courtland Dunphy’s door. Paneled golden oak. In every way it mirrored Nina’s. I tried the doorknob.

  Unsurprisingly, it was locked.

  From behind me came a loud click and a whoosh of fresh air.

  “Oooh!” a voice cried, startled.

  I spun on my heels.

  “Alden!” Nina said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Finding you. How’s that for amateur sleuthing?”

  She leaned out in the hall checking to see if we were alone.

  “Come inside.” She ushered me into her apartment. Shut the door, locked it. Beneath a Mackinaw coat, she was dressed in men’s tweed knickers, thick argyle socks, and a pair of dark oxfords. She’d tucked her hair under a newsboy cap, a cashmere scarf draped around her neck. From a distance, I’d have taken her for a college man. Up close, she was Nina.

  “Heading out for a stroll?”

  She ignored my question. “How do you know where I live?”

  “I told you, I was sleuthing. I needed to see you. A lot has happened since we parted.”

  “Did the police make an arrest for the murder?”

  “No. There were no police, because there was no body. And I know whose body it was. An old college friend of mine named Clark. Clark’s body disappeared.”

  Nina looked astonished. “
Disappeared? That’s impossible.”

  I wandered deeper into her apartment. In one corner she’d arranged a comfy reading nook: Chesterfield club chair, torchiere lamp, and a carved mahogany belly dancer balancing a pebbled amber glass ashtray on her head. I sat in the armchair. “I thought so too. But when Preston, Minnie, and I returned to the scene, we observed no signs of a homicide.”

  “This is a most strange development, Alden.” She began to pace about the room.

  She unbuttoned her Mackinaw coat. I thumped the chair for her to sit next to me.

  “What’s also strange is that Preston told me you weren’t even at the party.”

  She squeezed in snugly beside me.

  “Oh, did he?”

  “He swore to it. Hadn’t seen you in ages, or so he claimed.”

  A bitter smile crossed her face. “Preston would say that. Let me guess. Minnie was there when you said this to him?”

  “She was,” I confirmed.

  “Preston’s no fool. He wasn’t about to start an argument with his fiancée over me.”

  “Minnie said she didn’t recognize you, even though we talked to her at the bonfire.”

  Nina pursed her lips. “Minnie and I have never met. I only know what she looks like because I observed her once, leaving Preston’s house at a late hour. She was the one leaving.”

  “You were doing what…? Loitering outside?”

  She ground her hip against mine. “I happened to be in the neighborhood. Walking.”

  “Hmm. You did say Arkham’s a small town. Are you going for a walk now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Out.” She left it at that.

  “Acting cagey, are we?” I tried to make it sound light, yet I was terribly curious. When I’d taken my last walk, it hadn’t exactly turned out well. I was worried about Nina.

  Her spine grew rigid as she sat up. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Now you sound like you’re talking to a policeman.” Did she not trust me?

  “Well, you’re being nosy like one. If you must know, I was heading over to the observatory to investigate. I left in a hurry last night. Remember? Daylight feels safer.”

  So that’s why she was dressed up like a Miskatonic U student. I had a fresher location in mind. “It happens that real monsters were out roaming after hours. I found one lumbering down at the docks. Not too far from here, in fact.” I waited for her reaction.

  She twisted, staring at me. Intrigued. “You are being too mysterious. Spill the beans.”

  “I was followed last night. Stalked. The thing that stalked me has invaded my brain. I can think of little else. I’m not sure if it was an elaborate collegiate prank or if I dreamed it up in a drunken haze. But I’ve spent all day painting the impossible thing I saw.”

  “What do you mean ‘impossible thing’?”

  I told her about what had stumbled toward me on that overpass in the dark. The rats and the net blob. Sentient fog rolling off the river. I left out none of the weird aspects. To my relief, she didn’t laugh at me or question my grip on sanity.

  She simply listened.

  Her face provided no hint at what she was thinking. Nina is a modern woman, I told myself. A Bostonian. Educated and independent. That means she believes in reason. But I wasn’t sounding very reasonable right now, was I? At the party, I’d been worried for a moment that she was too eccentric for me. Now I was concerned that I might be the overly imaginative one. A painter who sees visions of fishing gear dancing in the moonlight! When I finished relating my fantastic tale, would she ask me to leave and never return? With some trepidation, I reached into the pocket of my overcoat, removing a folded sheet of newsprint. “This is a sketch of the thing I confronted last night. I have a painting of it at home I’d love to show you, but this is the… the substance of it… its hideousness… Words fail me, but here’s what I saw.”

  She took the paper carefully by the edges as if it were an ancient scroll she needed to decipher. Her mouth falling open in astonishment as she studied the portrait. Quietly, she handed the drawing back to me, walked to the door and opened it wide.

  I stood. “Look, I know how crazy this sounds. But you were with me at the observatory. You told me about the bizarre events occurring in Arkham. Those unexplained disappearances and deaths… then we found evidence of a ritualistic murder! I hoped if anyone would believe me about the bridge, it would be you. I guess I was wrong.”

  Her head tilted as she watched me, a look of puzzlement, but she said nothing.

  I stepped toward the open doorway. “I’ll be going now.”

  “You mean we will be going.” She sounded rather firm on the topic.

  “We?” It was frustrating enough to feel scoffed at. I didn’t need to be flummoxed too.

  Now Nina did laugh. She touched my arm. “Oh Alden, I’m not asking you to go. I believe you. Don’t you see? There might be a connection between the chimera you met on the bridge, Clark’s missing body, and the crimes I’m researching. At least, I’m eager to find out if there is. I trust you feel the same way?” She raised her eyebrows, awaiting my answer.

  “I do,” I said.

  I don’t know which was greater, my relief or my determination to forge ahead.

  “To the river!” she cried.

  “The river!” I rejoined. How could any two people be so invigorated by strange and dark occurrences? Yet here we were, and out the door we went.

  But we didn’t get very far.

  Before we’d reached the stairs at the end of the hall, Nina stopped, glancing over her shoulder. Something was tugging at her curiosity. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I was thinking about Court’s apartment,” she said.

  “What about it?”

  “Do you want to look inside?” She raised her eyebrows and plucked at a loose thread on her Mackinaw’s belt. “Maybe there’s a clue that will help us.”

  “You haven’t explored the premises already?”

  “Until now I lacked the nerve.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “We aren’t always as bold as we intend to be,” she said.

  “Fair enough. But the door’s locked. I tried it when I came up.”

  “Locked doesn’t mean impossible.” Nina reached into her right argyle sock and pulled out what looked like a handle made of animal horn. She touched a brass button and a very long slender blade shot forth. “It’s a Frosolone stiletto I purchased in Rome. Useful for a lady who walks alone and goes places others say she shouldn’t. I can open doors with it.” Nina dashed back down the hall to the Court’s door. “Keep watch. I’ll be inside in a jiffy.”

  I blocked the line of vision for anyone coming up the stairs.

  “Are you sure you’re not a criminal?” I asked.

  Nina inserted the point of the stiletto between the door and the frame. She slid it down until she found the bolt. The tip of her tongue poked out of her mouth while she deftly worked the blade around. “Think I’ve got it.”

  I heard the bolt spring back into the doorjamb. “You’re secretly a cat burglar, aren’t you? Stealing precious diamonds around the globe while the good citizens sleep.”

  Nina smiled as she twisted the doorknob. “Beginner’s luck.” She retracted her switchblade and slipped it back into her sock without looking. “Shall we?”

  I made one last check of the hall for witnesses. Nothing. All was quiet. “This part I know is against the law.”

  “We are working for a higher purpose,” she insisted. “Do you think the Arkham police really care about Court’s death? Will they do anything to solve it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “There, you see! We’re better suited for the job. And we care.”

  I followed her into Dunphy’s vac
ant rooms. Instinctively, I reached for the lights.

  “Leave them off.” She covered the switch. Her hand was hot and as soft as a velvet glove. “What if someone sees the glow under the door? Or a cop walking by notices the window and remembers this unit isn’t occupied any more. Pull the curtains, let the moon in.”

  I did as she said. I tugged the curtains aside. It was a clear night. The moon was a jack o’ lantern starting to rot. Stars, like seeds, sprayed in the sky. New Colony’s backyard had a nice view of the Miskatonic. Across the water, I saw the railroad tracks. The headlamp of an oncoming train swelling, irradiating the ditch weeds and mud, the sluggish river. The train whistle shrieked.

  Even though I saw no one, I backed away, trying to stay out of sight.

  “Alden, take a look at this.”

  I followed Nina’s hushed voice behind a lacquered Chinese screen covered with dragons. I jumped. Nerves jolted and tingling. We weren’t alone. Hairs raised on my arms. My temples were pounding like a headache.

  Nina kneeled on the floor of what was clearly Courtland Dunphy’s studio space.

  I smelled clay and saw newspapers covering the hardwood boards. Two crates filled with rags and sculpting tools set against the wall.

  What had me frightened was a short naked man crouched on a pedestal behind Nina.

  He had wings.

  Moonlight sliced the studio in half. Nina and the man occupied the center, in and out of the shadows. Neither of them moved. Two cone-shaped horns curved up out of the man’s forehead. His skin was pale gray-green.

  “I know him,” I said.

  Nina swiveled toward me. The edge of her cap masked her eyes.

  The naked man stared blankly ahead.

  “I met him outside of Schoffner’s. His name is Calvin Wright. He told me where Court lived.” I walked over to the clay statue to inspect it closely.