Reanimators

by Peter Rawlik

  Stuart,

  Hopefully you will not need this, but it never hurts to be prepared

  M

  I sighed and replaced the small offensive thing in my medical bag. I had no desire to even contemplate such things over my holiday.

  It was after three o’clock, a quarter hour behind schedule, when we rolled into Aylesbury, and I could see my friend Houghton waiting for me in his car. I quickly gathered up my things and was hurrying through the door when the driver reached over and grabbed me by my sleeve. He thanked me for what I had done for his daughter, in his own way; his language revealed him to be uneducated, but his thanks was sincere. I proffered that I was only doing what any doctor would have done, but he was having none of it. He reached beneath the seat and brought forth another one of those odd wrapped packages and handed it to me. It was hard and heavy, and the weight shifted as I tucked it into my coat pocket; a bottle of liquid of some sort. I thanked him and went to join Houghton.

  William Houghton had aged little since I had seen him at Miskatonic, and as we drove back on to the road that I had just come in on, it was as if the years since University had never happened. As we trundled past the last outpost of Aylesbury Houghton turned the conversation to the furtive exchange at the bus. “What did young Corey give you?”

  “Not a clue,” I responded, digging into my coat and extracting the cloth-wrapped package. It was a clear glass pint bottle containing a clear liquid, which for all I knew could have been water. I unscrewed the top and took a whiff; my senses reacted violently as the aroma burned through my sinuses and into my throat. My eyes were watering and soon I was coughing almost uncontrollably.

  Houghton laughed. “Dunwich Wood Goat, Corey’s specialty. His family has been brewing that since before the Revolution. Seems you’ve made a friend; he doesn’t hand that stuff out to just anyone.”

  I twisted the cap back on and tucked it away. “I would hate to see what he gives out to people he doesn’t like.”

  “More often than not, that would be a back full of bird shot. Dunwich is a wild area, Stuart, filled with wild characters and no real law. Nearest sheriff is in Aylesbury, only real authority is Squire Whateley, but he’s not much when it comes to keeping folks in line. More than one man has been the victim of a country mob out this way.”

  I stared at him with a sense of incredulity. “Hell of a place for a cabin, Will. If I wanted to mingle with a town full of ignorant hicks, I could have gone to Innsmouth.”

  “Careful, Stuart,” he shot back. “The people of Dunwich aren’t ignorant, far from it. There’s some in these parts that could teach our professors back at MU a thing or two, if they were so inclined. Problem is they simply aren’t that inclined. They’re a self-reliant bunch that prefers to keep to themselves. They have their own ways, and they aren’t particularly fond of outsiders, especially those from Arkham.”

  “I’ve always wondered about that.”

  “The early history of Dunwich, or New Dunnich, is pretty poorly documented. Everything I’ve ever read suggests that the founders were an early group of freethinkers living amongst the rest of the more traditional Arkhamites. As the fires of the witch hunt were getting started, the group realized that such things didn’t bode well for them, and a slow exodus from Arkham began, some of which ended up settling in what would become Dunwich. There are a whole slew of variations on that theme, some of which talk about a divine vision, others mention a supply of lost gold. There’s even a rumor that the notorious witch Goody Watkins was the leader of the exodus. All of this is humorous when you consider that not long after, when John and Prudence Doten of Duxbury produced a significantly disfigured child, the High Sheriff was so repulsed he charged them with witchcraft and burned them alive.”

  “What happened to the child?”

  “No one knows. There’s no record of it ever being killed or dying or anything like that. There’s a sermon given by a Reverend Hoadley at their execution, condemning the demon offspring of the Dotens to the dark of the wood, but beyond that nothing else is ever mentioned.”

  The countryside crawled past; ramshackle farmhouses and barns surrounded by overgrown fields with a few sickly-looking cattle dominated my view. There were people, drab women and children mostly, an occasional man. Someone in Dunwich must have cornered the market on grey cloth, for that was the dominant color for pants, shirts and dresses. Even overalls, normally universally blue, were nothing more than faded gray. As we pulled into what passed as the village center of Dunwich, I was not surprised to discover that the buildings all suffered from the same affliction. Some of the structures still bore remnants of paint, peeling and flaking off, but underneath was that same monotonous sickly grey.

  We stopped at Osborne’s General Store for some supplies, and inside I was confronted by more of the same drab grayness that permeated the exterior. Two men were playing checkers on the head of an old barrel, while another sat rocking in an old chair. The proprietor, distinguishable by his apron, greeted Will and acknowledged my presence with a nod. Will rambled through some pleasantries and then started listing off the things he needed, which the shopkeeper began gathering from the dusty shelves around the shop.

  While our order was put together Will paid his regards to the men playing checkers, two septuagenarians who were apparently relatives, brothers or maybe cousins. Given what I knew about the habits of Dunwich families, they could have been both.

  “Yer otta be carfuwl ouat thar in them wuds, Doc,” said one of them, flashing a mouthful of missing teeth and a tongue missing a good chunk out of it. “Ol Whateley, he’s all rild up, and his albinny darwter too. She’s inna right awfool state.”

  Osborne stepped into the conversation. “Don’t you be minding them two, Doc Houghton. The mountains have been trembling somewhat for the last week, and its nothing we ain’t use to out here. Noah’s just a little bit more excitable than most folks; sees the rumblings as evidence of spiritual forces. That’s what the folks in 1663 and 1755 thought, and that branch of the Whateleys ain’t progressed much since them times.”

  “Progressed!” scoffed one of the brothers. “Iffin you awsk me they dun gone in te opposite direction. Noah’s crazier than his father Ezekiel ever was. Sure the man had some right odd notions abaout things. But he kept em to himself. Noah goes around talkin abaout spirits, things invisible in the air and the earth. It ain’t normal. And its only gotten worse since his wife Vesta died, what 12 years gone by now. That girl Lavinia ain’t right in the head neither, she got no proper schooling ta boot. Spends her days wandering the hills and fields chasin after things that only she and her darn fool father can see.”

  The other one nodded. “Been ouat te Sentnal Hill evry night fer a week. Settin fires biggun enuff to see fer a good ways. Burnin sumthin gawd awful by the smell offit.”

  “That there is the smell of goat burning,” the old man in the rocking chair croaked. “Noah’s been making sacrifices like the Philistines done in the old days. Says that the end days is near and we should all be making ourselves ready for the return of angels and spirits to the earth.”

  Osborne finished packing our boxes and hustled us out the door. “Fellers, Old Whateley ain’t nothing to worry yourselves about. He stays mostly on his own farm down there in the glen, and up on Sentinel Hill, and in the fields between. You stay out of there, ye ain’t gonna run into him. Iffin ye do, and you’ll recognize him cause of that crazy old Indian blanket he wears, just walk away fast as you can. He ain’t one to go looking fer trouble. Same goes for Lavinia, you’ll know her cause she’s an albino, all white skin and hair with pink eyes. She’s tetched in the head, but she don’t mean no harm. But you both take my advice and be leavin them Whateleys and their lands well alone.”

  Will thanked the man, shaking his hand in a gregarious country manner, and assuring him that we would stay well clear of the Whateleys. It was another hour to the cabin, and as we traveled the woods grew wilder, thicker, and the road slowly devolved into little m
ore than an overgrown path. As we unloaded the car, the last rays of the sun winked out behind the hills and mountains. Will lit three kerosene lamps, and built a fire in the modest fireplace. Dinner was a simple stew of salted meat and fresh vegetables. Exhausted from my journey, I retired early, looking forward to the peace that a few days in the country would bring.

  The next morning, I spent a few minutes unpacking my bags and organizing the closet and dresser. For a brief moment I was unsure what to do with the bottle of moonshine, but after mulling it over, it joined my medical bag in a small trunk at the foot of the bed. Over coffee and cheese omelets Will and I discussed plans for the day, eventually agreeing to hike down to the nearby brook and spend the day fishing, and hoping for enough of a catch to make a meal or two.

  The trip down to the stream, one of the many that formed the headwaters of the Miskatonic, sounded easier than it actually was. Like the road to the cabin, the path to the brook had not been in regular use, and was overgrown with limbs, saplings and brambles. More than once we had to detour around an overgrown bush or fallen tree, only to have severe difficulty in once more finding the trail. Not to say that I did not enjoy the walk; songbirds provided fine accompaniment, and both Will and I thrilled when a large buck snorted and bounded away from us. Tracks were plentiful on the trail, and after examining a particular large set Will checked his pistol and ominously said, “Wild dog.” As we came closer to the brook, made obvious by the sound of rapids, the trail grew steeper, and we were forced to use the occasional bush or sapling as tethers to keep from sliding down the slope. Inevitably, we reached the point where the slope took a drastic incline, and we had no choice but to slide down the four-foot bank on to the pebbled plain below.

  As we sat there on the hard, cold, wet carpet of stones, our backsides painted with mud, we were greeted by twittering laughter which although I could not see it, I knew belonged to a young woman. Looking around, I was stunned to find a figure wrapped in an oilskin cloak standing on the ledge of a stone bridge that spanned the brook, not more than fifty yards away. On the far side of the bridge a rough-hewn stairway led down past the bank. Under other circumstances I might have been upset, but observing the state that Will and I were both in, we slowly began to chuckle, and then both of us let out a raucous guffaw. Our watcher on the bridge joined in, and soon the little stream-worn valley was echoing with our combined laughter.

  Wandering slowly toward the bridge, Will called out “Do you happen to know a good spot for fishing this brook?”

  The figure was suddenly quiet and still. With her cloak on her features were invisible to us, and it seemed odd that she waited so long to respond. “My pa and I always have the best luck about a mile downstream from here. Where the river turns and forms a still pond underneath a stand of birch.”

  Will paused and strained to see to whom he was speaking. “You said that’s a mile downstream?”

  The figure climbed backwards off the ledge. “Maybe a mile and a half. It’s a large pool underneath a stand of birch. You can’t miss it. I caught myself a four-pound catfish there just yesterday.” And then without another word the featureless young woman was gone. We could hear her as she tramped down the bridge and into the woods, and realized that the worn footpath she was traveling on was mere feet from the rugged route we had come through.

  The wide shallow brook was easier to walk along than the path from the cabin, and side by side we two set off for the deep pool under the birch stand, all the while jabbering to each other about the things we had done since college. It was a refreshing change of pace, to not have to talk about Peaslee or reanimation, and soon both of us were so engrossed in our conversation that we were oblivious to the passage of time or distance. It was only when my stomach began sending out waves of hunger pangs that I glanced at my pocket watch and discovered we had been walking for nearly an hour.

  Realizing we had been made the butt of a joke, we turned round and plodded our way back. Driven perhaps by hunger, frustration or embarrassment, our return pace was quicker and we soon were back at the stone bridge. This time we ascended those rough-hewn stairs, though covered as they were with moss and detritus the climb was only marginally easier than our previous slide down the bank. On the path our pace, unhindered by river rock and other debris, quickened further, and soon we were within sight of Will’s cabin.

  It was plain to both of us that things were not as we left them, and upon entering the edifice our worst fears were confirmed. The rooms had been ransacked, and anything of perceivable value had been taken. The kitchen was in shambles, with the vast majority of dry goods left behind, but the meats, cheeses and the like missing, as was the cooking oil. After the initial shock wore off, Will and I began trying to make a list of things that were missing, and soon we had both wandered into our separate bedrooms to examine what remained of our personal belongings. My good winter coat was gone, as was a pair of long underwear, and my extra thick socks. My toiletry kit had been rifled, but apparently nothing in it was of any interest. With great reluctance I opened the trunk at the foot of the bed where I had deposited my medical kit. With a sigh of relief I found my kit intact with everything present. It was only after a brief moment that I furtively began searching through the case and then the trunk itself. For while my kit was intact, two things were missing. Of the missing jar of moonshine that I had been given as a gift for my act of medical kindness, I could not care less; but it was that other item that was missing, the thing that Muñoz had surreptitiously added to my supplies, that made me quake with worry and fear. Whoever had been in the cabin had taken something I had to get back, something more powerful, more dangerous than the missing shotgun Will was complaining about. Missing was that glowing green vial of reanimation fluid that Muñoz had so thoughtfully added to my medical bag.

  We spent the afternoon cleaning up the mess that was left us and restoring a sense of order to the cabin that was our temporary abode. Thankfully, there were enough foodstuffs left to us to create a few meager meals, though we both agreed that another trip to Osborne’s Store was going to be needed. So after a brief discussion of needed supplies it was agreed that we would set out on foot the next morning, hiking down to the town and then back. Although perhaps not the easiest way—we could have driven down—Will assured me that there was a footpath that led to town, and I hoped that the walk would serve to further clear my head of the madness that seemed to have crept in over the years.

  Sadly, such simple delights were not to be had. Long after the sun went down, and an hour or so after Will and I had moved into the cabin, we heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the path leading to the cabin, accompanied by the heavy labored breathing and lumbering gait of some sort of beast of burden. We exchanged confused glances as the sounds came closer, changing in tone as they reached the stone walkway, and then again as someone mounted the wooden porch. When the door was quickly rapped twice we were both already on our way to answer it.

  The man standing outside in the dark was a stranger to us, but the figure in the cloak standing behind him with the calf was the same one we saw on the bridge earlier in the day. Even more recognizable were the contents of the crates that were being laid out on the ground, for they were none other than the missing supplies that had been burgled earlier in the day.

  Reluctantly, the stranger stepped forward into the light, revealing an older man with a round head surmounted with a grizzled grey beard and fringe with wild eyes. Around his shoulders he was wearing an old Indian blanket decorated with odd geometric designs and strange angular figures that I could not place as man, beast, or fowl. When he spoke his voice was a throaty whine. “I have come to apologize for my daughter,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the figure with the calf. “She ain’t accustomed to strangers in these parts, and with all the excitement of late she seems to have forgotten that she shouldn’t take what doesn’t belong to her.” Suddenly the young woman was standing beside her father with an armful of our supplies. The firelig
ht revealed what we had not seen earlier in the day: alabaster skin, chalk hair and eyes with cherry-colored pupils, she was a textbook case of albinism. That was all that was needed to reveal the identities of the pair before us, Noah Whateley and his simple daughter Lavinia, the two individuals we had been warned to steer clear of.

  Without a word of invitation the two moved through the door and began unloading a crate on the rough wooden table that occupied the majority of the front room. Like me, Will was flabbergasted, and as the pair walked back and forth bringing in crate after crate of dry goods and gear, we two stood in stunned silence. Not that we had much choice, for the two strangers were constantly jabbering to themselves in a strange patois of which I could only comprehend a few words, most of which were apologies and supplications of one form or another. After a half dozen trips the calf was unburdened and the table was cluttered with what appeared to be the vast majority of our missing materials, though one or two things were noticeably missing. I was about to say something when the old man reached beneath his blanket and pulled out an empty bottle.

  “Lavinia, like her mother, has a taste for spirits. I’ll see if I can obtain you another bottle.” The young girl hung her head in shame.

  I shook my head. “There’s no need, but there was another bottle, much smaller, that I would like back.”

  The old man turned to his daughter who seemed to crawl deep inside her cloak. “Sorry, Pa,” she said. “I drank that one as well. It had such an awful taste. I fell into such a terrible fit, and when I was done, the bottle was broken.”