Mask of Silver

by Rosemary Jones

  Arkham Horror

  It is the height of the Roaring Twenties – a fresh enthusiasm for the arts, science, and exploration of the past have opened doors to a wider world, and beyond…

  And yet, a dark shadow grows over the town of Arkham. Alien entities known as Ancient Ones lurk in the emptiness beyond space and time, writhing at the thresholds between worlds.

  Occult rituals must be stopped and alien creatures destroyed before the Ancient Ones make our world their ruined dominion.

  Only a handful of brave souls with inquisitive minds and the will to act stand against the horrors threatening to tear this world apart.

  Will they prevail?

  First published by Aconyte Books in 2021

  ISBN 978 1 83908 015 9

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 83908 016 6

  Copyright © 2021 Fantasy Flight Games

  All rights reserved. Aconyte and the Aconyte icon are registered trademarks of Asmodee Group SA. Arkham Horror and the FFG logo are trademarks or registered trademarks of Fantasy Flight Games.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover art by Daniel Strange

  Distributed in North America by Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, USA

  ACONYTE BOOKS

  An imprint of Asmodee Entertainment Ltd

  Mercury House, Shipstones Business Centre

  North Gate, Nottingham NG7 7FN, UK

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  Prologue

  Fitzmaurice House, 1823, Arkham, Massachusetts

  Smoke filled the air and confused the senses. He was raging somewhere in the rooms above her head, waving his silly sword about and shouting words that she didn’t understand.

  “Never mind,” she whispered to the children clutching her skirts. “Never mind.”

  The corridor seemed to go on forever. It was the mirrors. She hated those mirrors, having to dust them daily and clean them with soap and water every two weeks. Useless things, mirrors, just showing reflections of a plain New England house and her own plain face. Except when they didn’t. Sometimes, she saw things in the mirrors. Shadows of things that weren’t there. But she never told anyone that. The women in her family had learned to hold their tongues a long time ago. Speaking of shadows brought them closer.

  The children were coughing and crying, wanting their mother. “Never mind,” she said to them. “Never mind. Just follow me.”

  He had brought the long narrow mirrors and all the other fancy furniture to Arkham, wagonloads of the most silly stuff, chairs gilded and sitting on lion’s feet, little useless tables topped with even more useless vases. Just things to dust and no more practical than those endless rows of mirrors.

  The mistress was a sweet gentle lady, soft spoken and shy, often overshadowed by her big shouting husband. But she adored her children. She tried to keep them safe.

  Not like him. Typical of the master of the house to thrust his enormous portrait in her arms and tell her to save it, along with the chest of papers that he shoved into the grasp of the bewildered little boy now clutching her skirts with one hand and his father’s papers under his other arm. His sister toddled beside her, weeping openly now, frightened by all her blustering father’s curses, the smell of fire, the smoke, and, if one dared to admit, the shadowed figure watching them from every mirror as they passed.

  “Never mind,” she said, as much to herself as to the children, “never mind.”

  They ran, burdened by fear as much as the items they carried, to the back of the house, to the kitchen where she had blessedly left the door propped open for a little breeze on a warm midsummer day.

  Out the door they went, the strange trio of weeping children and grim maid, down the steps and into the vegetable garden. With a sigh or perhaps a sob of relief, she dropped the wicked portrait in the radish patch and pulled both the children close to her. The boy still carried his father’s wooden chest of papers. The girl clutched a mirror, almost as large as herself, that her father had foisted on her. How the child had held onto it and still clutched her skirts, Rebecca Baker would never know.

  She turned back to look at the house. The flames were sprouting through the roof now. Smoke poured from every window. Such heat, such fury. She listened for the shattering of glass, the destruction of the other mirrors, but heard nothing. Later when they shifted the ashes and found those six mirrors still intact, she would suggest burying the wicked things. But nobody listened to her. She was, after all, only the maid.

  But she had gotten the children out. As she sat, suddenly exhausted, on the ruins of her radish plants, she gathered both children into her arms and gave them the same awkward comfort that her own mother gave for bruises and scrapes.

  “Never mind,” she said. “Never mind.”

  In the upstairs window, a silver cloaked coldness was outlined by the flames. The shape of a hooded man, a faceless man, who watched her nevertheless without eyes. She pretended that she did not see it. She was good at that. All Baker women were good at ignoring such shadows. It was looking straight at such silvery, shadowy figures that entrapped the soul.

  The crows in the wood were cawing with dissatisfaction. Crows liked dead spirits. They knew that their job was to guide them. The dead that escaped to other starless places glimpsed in the depths of mirrors. Such an unnatural occurrence would confuse and alarm the crows. She knew that, but there wasn’t a single thing that she could do about it. She had no bell, no book, no candle powerful enough to ward off such evil. Still, strange incidents were not uncommon in Arkham. There were others to come that could deal with such events. That much she knew from her dreams.

  “Never mind,” she said to the crows as much to the children. “Never mind.”

  The day was done, the sun was setting, red behind the flames flickering now in every window. Shouts and cries drowned out the fussing of the crows as the neighbors finally roused themselves to come up the long drive and begin the battle to save the house. They would fail. The place would be ash by dawn. Rebecca Baker knew that too from her dreams.

  She waited there, both children now leaning against her, too stunned and exhausted to cry any more, as the flames ate the house and all left within it, all except that which could not burn. Rebecca Baker mourned the mistress, small and kind, who had thrust the children into her arms and told her to run.

  As for the master, she cursed him a little, but under her breath so as not to disturb the children.

  The house collapsed completely by midnight. Smoke and sparks swirled up in the air, obscuring the stars and the rare blue-tailed comet that streaked across the solstice night sky.

  The neighbors carried away the children along with the bits and pieces that had been saved from the house. She tried to keep them from taking the mirrors, but failed. They even carried off the master’s fire-blackened sword, after they detached the remains of his hand from the
hilt. Why anyone would want that nasty blade, she could not imagine.

  Rebecca Baker sat and waited for the ones who took charge to leave, one hand trailing in the cool green leaves of her garden, threading them back and forth through her fingers. Then the others came up the long drive. The widowed women of the town, the servant girls, the cooks, the laundry ladies, and all the others who worked behind the scenes to keep things orderly. All towns had them, all towns needed them, even a town like Arkham.

  Someone thrust a cup of cool water into her hands. Another draped a shawl around her shoulders. The murmuring of women rose around her as they watched the final sparks of fire to fade and waited for the house to die.

  When the dawn finally came, cool but with the promise of summer heat, she rose very stiffly and walked down to Arkham town proper with that huddle of women. She didn’t look back. She had done what she could.

  “Never mind,” she told herself. “Never mind.” But Rebecca Baker felt a deep sorrow for those who would come to Arkham later. She wished there was a warning that she could leave them.

  Chapter One

  The dreams still come at night. Not as many. Not as fierce. But the shadows are there, tinged with silver and fire. Dreams of a mask that I wish I had never made. I wake far too early in the morning, throw open the windows, and breath the salt air from the Pacific. But in my dreams I smell smoke and something else, something not altogether of this world. The scent of a shadow, a perfume of death, that clings to me even awake. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I even see a shadow on the wall or glimpse a hooded face. But then I turn and face it directly, and there is nothing there.

  Eleanor said that writing our story would make the dreams fade. But in her last letter she spoke of waking still to the visions of Lulu in the coffin. So I am not sure if writing this down will make it better. But I will try. I will always try, for the sake of those who could not escape the mask that I made.

  It started at a party. Most of Sydney’s worst ideas did. Perhaps because we were tired, and I must admit, a little drunk, it sounded like a good idea. Sydney’s proposals often seemed like good ideas until they weren’t. Until people got hurt. Until, in Arkham, people died.

  But, in the beginning, that late May night in California, we were enjoying a “reviews are in” party, the type of party we always held in Renee’s pretty garden apartment. The French doors stood wide open to the courtyard so couples could wander in and out. The open windows also kept the worst of the cigar smoke and whiskey fumes from overpowering the fresh flowers that filled the McCoy vases lining the mantle. For this particular Saturday night, we mingled late orange blossoms with jasmine. People always expected red roses, but Renee hated them. She said red roses were a cliché if you were a dark-haired beauty. She allowed white roses in the winter when we couldn’t get anything else. Later, after Arkham, hothouse flowers smelled too much like funerals and the vases sat empty.

  As usual, Sydney made us wait days before giving the party. He wanted all the reviews to read out loud, even those sent express from New York, Boston, and Chicago. Which meant Max, Sydney’s assistant, had driven down to the train station and bribed a porter or two to turn over the studio’s mail to him. Once Max had collected every possible clipping, and Sydney had read them in secret in his apartment, then the party was allowed to properly begin at Renee’s.

  As I recall, it was well past midnight when Sydney began talking about the next film. Max leaned against the oak bookcase behind me. Renee concealed his beloved imported whiskey there. She kept his bottles stashed inside the hollowed-out works of Walter Scott. I was in my leather chair in that corner, neatly tucked in with a sketchpad and an idea for dress that would resemble a shooting star.

  Renee and Sydney had their usual place in the center of the room. Renee reclined across her chaise lounge, the one that we called Marie Antoinette’s fainting couch. We’d found the frame in a sweet little secondhand shop in Pasadena. I’d covered it all in material left over from some French Revolution costumes. Renee hadn’t played the queen, of course, but she received great reviews as the Parisian fortuneteller who cursed Marie and all her court after a royal carriage ran down her only child. Sydney adored Renee in that role. It led to her starring in his first nightmare picture. Renee liked to say that the Queen died for her career. We certainly sacrificed a dress or two for the upholstery.

  While Renee reclined with one shoulder slipping out of the simple little silk dress that I made for her flapper girl appearance in an earlier comedy, Sydney sat straight upright on the other end of the chaise lounge. He had his usual unlit cigarette in an ivory holder clenched in the corner of his mouth. His hair was perfectly pomaded and the shine made the lamplight seem to shimmer around his head. There was always a sense that all lights shone directly on Sydney, even when he was outside of the spotlight and yelling at all of us to “get that scene right.”

  The rest of the actors were busy drinking everything we had, and a few stray bottles that somebody had brought from another party, while the crew wandered in and out of the dining room in search of something substantial to eat. But everyone kept an ear tilted toward Sydney to catch his every remark.

  “Listen to this,” he roared, pulling the cigarette holder out of his mouth and gesturing at the page spread flat on Renee’s coffee table. “‘The Showman’s latest nightmare picture is simply wonderful and probably unfit for public exhibition.’”

  “Is that the Times?” asked Max.

  “No, Variety.” Sydney was obviously pleased. He adored his nickname, “The Showman to Know”, and added to the legend by always wearing his top hat, tails, and crimson-lined cape to openings. Renee often teased him that it made him look like a ringmaster from a seedy circus. To which Sydney retorted, “I wore a red coat in the circus, never black, so they’d follow my every move.”

  Sydney grabbed another newspaper and spread it open. “This is even better,” he said. “Quite the most terrifying thing to be seen on screen so far in 1923.”

  “Isn’t that the one when they mention Chaney’s new picture?” said Max, which earned him a terrible frown from Sydney.

  “There might be something at the end. Nobody reads to the end,” Sydney said.

  Max bent over to me and said softly, “It says that Chaney will deliver his most spectacular film yet. Universal is spending nearly a million dollars on the sets, costumes, and hundreds of extras.”

  Sydney, who had the hearing of a bat when someone was talking about the movies, chimed in: “Anyone can make a movie for a million dollars. It’s making quality with far less that shows talent. Why, give me a thousand dollars and I can outshine Wallace Worsley any day.”

  Max smiled a bit and asked: “Should I tell the studio that you’re cutting your fees?”

  “Never!” cried Sydney with an exaggerated shudder. “After all, I need to pay all of you.” He waved his hand at the actors and crew laughing at the exchange. Sydney’s spending on sets, costumes, and extras could be, and often was, far more extravagant than the studio liked. Max was sent to us by the studio a couple of years ago “to keep an eye on Sydney.” He did his best to hold the expenses in check, but in the end Sydney nearly always won. The studio paid because, whether they liked his terror pictures or not, his films certainly sold tickets. By 1923, Max was clearly one of us, rather than a studio flunky, and had even taken to dressing and talking a bit like Sydney. He certainly shared his more expensive tastes for good whiskey, among other things.

  Fred wandered in from the garden, smelling faintly of pipe smoke and engine oil. He dropped onto the floor, leaning back against the arm of my chair to peer at my sketch. “Nice dress,” he said. “Which role?”

  “Sydney is talking about casting Renee as a mesmerist who lures men to their doom. The dream maker, he calls it,” I said. I rolled my knees out of the way so Fred could get a better look. For comfort, I wore my black pajama pants, made out of silk,
and an embroidered tunic top to all of Renee’s parties. I hated fussing with garters and stockings. And rolling your stockings down and rouging your knees was even worse. Besides everyone knew I was half Chinese and figured that the outfit was inherited. It wasn’t. I got the tunic from Anna Wong, who had it from some director or other who was trying to impress her. She wasn’t impressed. Rather like being told that you had to like chop suey just because you had black hair and dark eyes. I never did like chop suey. Mostly because it tasted all wrong, a mix of American ingredients trying to look like Chinese food. But I loved the tunic. Not for where the tunic came from or what it represented. But for the gorgeous flower embroidery that started at the shoulder and spiraled down my back. When I wore it, I felt glamorous but not Hollywood. Someone both inside and outside the crowd of flappers in their beaded dresses and the men in their suits. Fred teased me about wearing the same outfit to every party to avoid having to think about clothes. Except I thought about clothes all the time.

  Anna traded the tunic in return for my making her a tailored velvet coat with a fur collar. She wanted to impress a director and prove that she could look like a flapper, and didn’t have to play a girl named Lotus Blossom. Didn’t work. They cast her as Lotus Flower in her next film. That’s the trouble with being Chinese-American in Hollywood. They only see you as one type of character if you’re in front of the camera. It’s a bit better behind the camera, even if you do have to work twice as hard to prove yourself. So I worked hard, sketching ideas constantly for movies that we made and movies that we might make.

  “What material will you use?” said Fred as he looked at my sketchbook that night. As our cameraman, he always wanted to know ahead how something might translate to black-and-white film.

  “I’ve got a few bolts of a silver lamé. It will shine in the lights.”

  “As long as it doesn’t reflect Sydney waving his arms.”