by S. T. Joshi
The Gaunt
TOM LYNCH
Tom is thrilled to be in the table of contents of Black Wings 6, having been a fan of the lauded series since it was first announced. His fiction appears in a number of magazines, including three different issues of the Lovecraft eZine, and numerous anthologies including Golden Goblin Press’s Heroes of Red Hook and Children of Gla’aki: A Tribute to Ramsey Campbell’s Great Old One from Dark Regions Press.
ARTHUR BISHOP STEPPED DOWN OFF THE COACH AND waited to one side while the luggage was taken down from the roof. He had not been back in just over seven years, and he could see the changes. He could smell the river from where he stood, but he could no longer see it. When he’d left, it had been visible from where he now stood, but new shipbuilders’ and fisheries had been built, with more under construction, blocking it from view.
With an audible thud, his trunk was deposited at his feet, and the mud from the road splattered his trousers. The coachman stood there with his hand out, clearly waiting to be rewarded for soiling Bishop’s clothing. Bishop made a show of looking for some coinage to bestow, but shrugged at the portly ruffian and reached down to take up his case. The coachman spat some expletive and stomped back through the mud to the waiting coach. Bishop lifted one end of the wooden box and turned away.
Gone were the days when he would use his own horse and carriage for this task. As it was, he was reduced to straining his slight frame against the considerable weight of his trunk north along Peabody Avenue toward his house. That slight frame of his had gotten him a nickname in primary school that had stayed with him. People called him “The Gaunt” because he was so terribly thin. He hadn’t liked the moniker in the past, but now he felt it suited him as he came back to haunt his old town and stir up painful memories.
The further he got from the center of Arkham, the fewer the changes were. Seven years was plenty of time to make significant updates, he supposed, but other things were never likely to change. The town itself still felt as if it were watching him. He’d heard, of course, of the troubles while he’d been away. The papers had covered how the last witch had been found and disposed of. He hoped, at least, that she had been guilty, since so many others were not. So many others. Two, in particular.
Despite himself, his vision blurred with tears. He coughed, cleared his throat, and strained to pull his trunk toward his old home. He wiped at his face with his worn wool coat sleeve and walked on. It was just as well that there was no one on the streets to see or recognize him. There was a chill in the air, and he scowled as an early snowflake landed on his cheek. Some would revel in the colors of the New England foliage, but Bishop was back for a reason, and only for a short time, so the scenery was merely a distraction for him. The drop in temperature, however, was sure to be a stumbling block to his comfort. His house had been empty while he was away, and he was certain that making it livable would be a challenge.
Bishop tugged on his chest and trudged through the gray day. In more time than it should have taken, he arrived. He leaned his case against the stone wall surrounding his property and examined his house. It looked to be sagging under the weight of years of neglect. Windows stared out at him from behind the shaggy brows of overgrown trees, and the closed doorway frowned at his extended absence.
He reached out to the iron gate and pulled at the lock. After some struggling, it groaned and gave way. He gave it a push, and the entire assembly promptly fell off its hinges with a death squeal and landed in the wet, waist-high grass beyond. Bishop gazed down at rust-eaten metal as it lay there, and hoped the inside of the house was not as dilapidated.
Bishop stepped back through the gateway to fetch his trunk and hauled it up to the front door. Pulling out his keys, he set to work on getting into his house. Happily, the lock did not stick. The door, however, did. Bishop was not a large man by any stretch, so it took him rather a while to force the door open. But succeed he did, and eventually, with a sore and swollen shoulder, he stood inside the house he had fled seven years before.
Overcome with a flood of images, Bishop stumbled into a nearby dust-caked chair and sat as his mind’s eye was filled with memories: his wife Charity holding baby Faith as he came home from a day at court, young Faith running to greet him as he came in, the two of them sitting and reading by the fire in the parlor. Arthur Bishop wept. Again. He cried long and hard, his body shaking. He howled until his throat was sore. This was why he could not have stayed. This was why he’d left. This is why he hadn’t come back.
Until now.
His body quivered where he lay on the floor. He didn’t remember falling. The sobbing eventually retreated, however. Cold seeped in. It was the cold from outside. Drafts found their way through the neglected walls of the house and drove Bishop to rise.
He remembered that his wife, Charity, acting as her name indicated, had made extract-of-willow tea for the town’s first selectman’s maid, who had been complaining of head pain. The maid’s recovery was seen as proof of witchcraft, and Bishop was allowed to live because he’d been told he was under their spell.
He knew.
He knew where the real evil was.
It had taken some time, and some work, and many sacrifices. Weeping sadness and desolation had turned to cold, hard fury, and now it was time for him to take his revenge. Revenge for taking life. Innocent life. Lives. The lives of his beautiful, wonderful, witty wife, and his charming young woman of a daughter. The Gaunt would exact that vengeance.
He did not know how many others had been innocent, but he presumed that most of them had been. Once hysteria had taken hold, no one was safe. And of all things, helping a prominent figure’s servant proved a family’s undoing.
Another tear slid down his cheek. Not the last. Of that he was quite sure.
He rose, walked over to his trunk, and dragged it upstairs. The furniture in the house still seemed to be intact and usable, and for that he was grateful. He rested the box next to his desk and turned around, searching for something to use for a fire. Seven years of standing in the elements would have done his wood pile no good. He’d need something he could burn.
He clenched his jaw. Burn. They would all burn. Burn for those they murdered in the name of what was “right and good.” Based purely on irrational fear, those self-serving bastards had killed his family, and for that they would burn. And Bishop would help them on their way. He shook his head free of such thoughts. That would not help his fireplace. For that, he needed something more mundane and immediate.
He went downstairs, and outside to the cellar door. He hoped not everything down there would be completely rotted through. He thought he had stacked some wood downstairs to keep dry, and was rewarded to find the woodpile still there. Clearly field mice had lived there for a time, but they too had moved on.
Thinking about it, Bishop marveled at the state of his home: left alone for seven years, and just a few cracked windows and warped doors. Only weeks after the “authorities” had executed (murdered) his family, he had left. He had packed his necessities, told the neighbors he was leaving, and then done just that. Rumors and fear must have kept the children and thieving hooligans away. Anticipated retribution from a witch’s ghost would keep most at bay, he supposed. He smiled. The townspeople’s simpering superstition was good for something.
Yes, their hysteria is what helped him to form his plan. He had told people he simply had to get away, to start afresh, and perhaps return one day in the future. But he’d known from the outset why it was he was leaving. He was leaving to plot a way to exact vengeance. Even then, in this midst of his wracking grief, he knew that the small-minded residents of this backwater would pay for hurting him, but he did not know how. He was no warrior or soldier. He was a lawyer and scholar, so he needed something from past wisdom.
And he’d found it. In his lengthy travels around the colonies and back to Europe, he had found just what it was he needed. It wasn’t any one answer, and it wasn’t from any one book. It was from several differen
t sources, including some writings that were quite old indeed. The prize among the collection he had acquired was a Latin text from Spain printed earlier in the century, which had allegedly been translated from eighth-century Arabic. They were loath to part with it, but Bishop’s offer of substantially more money than the book was worth earned him his reward. That transaction, however, had all but paupered him. Acquisition of that ultimate piece left him with just enough funds to travel back to Arkham, via a ship to the Massachusetts Bay Colony’s capital of Boston.
Time had conspired against him, now and again, by distancing him from the memory of his loss. Whenever he realized this was happening, he would pluck at the wound. He would remember their cries as they were pulled from his grasp. He would remember their tears. He would remember the screams of agony as the local people of Arkham burned his wife and daughter alive at the behest of the board of selectmen.
Bishop clenched his jaw and hefted his armload of logs back upstairs, and lit himself a fire. He also lit some candles from his trunk in an attempt to stave off the impending gloom. He then set about unpacking the rest of his belongings. There was precious little, but then he didn’t plan on spending much time here. Bishop had packed supplies, almost exclusively. True, he’d packed some oatmeal, and some blankets in case those that he’d left behind were too moth-eaten. They were, of course, and it was cold, so he was glad he’d brought what he had.
Finally he was set to begin. On his desk were his books, several clean sheets of paper, a few quills, some jars of ink, and fresh candles. He’d set his blankets on the bed in the corner. He was using the third bedroom—a room he’d used in the past as a study. He simply could not bring himself to stay in either his old bedroom, which he’d shared with Charity, or his daughter Faith’s room. He found himself alternating between weeping and raging when in these two rooms. No, he needed to focus his energy as much as he could and this room suited his needs. It also gave him a view of the road and the walk up to his house, so if anyone happened to drop by, he had a chance at seeing them from here as they arrived.
The wind picked up as the sky darkened. Leaves flew across the window as Bishop glanced outside and remembered again. Faith had always looked forward to winter. Frolicking in the snow had filled Faith with joy all her short life. Bishop knit his eyebrows and smiled a sad smile. She’d always loved making snowmen with her mother. She would decorate the snowmen with leaves she’d pressed in the autumn only months before.
He sighed and sat down. He dipped his quill and started copying the first pattern from one of his books. This was going to take some time. The Gaunt set to work.
* * *
Bishop was rattled out of sleep by a pounding at his door. It took a moment, and two more rounds of door-knocking, for him to wake and remember where he was. He’d worked well into the night on his preparations, and the neat stack of papers on his desk was a testament to that.
Sudden fear poured in. If it were the town officials downstairs, then he would need to hide all this from view, because they would be the same intellectual insects who thought tea was evidence of witchcraft. He hurriedly stuffed everything into the drawers of the desk and pulled the top closed. He straightened his clothing and went downstairs to greet the insistent visitors.
With some difficulty, Bishop pulled open the door and squinted into the morning light to see the first selectman, ready to knock yet again. Bile surged to the back of his throat, but Bishop smiled through it. “Ah,” he said, splitting his face with a grin he did not feel. “It’s good to see you again, Dalton. I’d wondered when you’d drop by.”
Jeremiah Dalton stood staring at Bishop, his mouth agape. “I—” he started.
“Come now, old friend. I’m sure you can do better than that.”
“You’ve returned!” Dalton eventually managed.
“Very good! Yes, I have. Your concern is most touching.” Bishop winked and peered around Dalton. “That’s not young Peter is it? And how is Mary?”
“I, uh . . .” Dalton started again. “Yes! It is. My son. Peter. Mary is well, thank you.”
“And you’re still first selectman, are you not?”
“I am,” Dalton replied, puffing up. The insufferable lout was so terribly self-important that it made Bishop’s soul dance to think that Dalton would soon reap the rewards of his sentence on Bishop’s innocent family.
“Then, my friend, Arkham is still in good hands. I only arrived last night and have yet to resupply anything, or I would invite you in. As it stands, I have a good deal of cleaning and fixing to do.”
“So. You’re back, then?”
“Really, Dalton, I thought we’d covered that. Yes, I am back. I have returned. I am resuming my life in Arkham. Is that quite all right?”
“Oh. Of course! I just—”
“Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you must have better things to do than get your shoes wet in my overgrown garden, and I need to get back to my chores inside. I’m certain we’ll see each other again soon.” Bishop turned and walked back into his house, closing the door on the politician. He always marveled at small men given small amounts of power. Clearly incapable, they always made a hash of things. Naturally, the townspeople were too feeble-minded to do anything about it, and had left the dullard in charge.
The Gaunt shook his head and flashed a toothy grin back at the door. It would all change soon enough.
* * *
The concluding preparations were underway. Extensive, strenuous hours of work were behind him, and the space itself was ready. The attic had been emptied, swept, and cleaned. He had marked due north on the wall with some charcoal. There was barely enough room for even Bishop to stand straight, but he wouldn’t be standing for terribly long, and it would all be over soon anyway.
Tired, he glanced down at his hands, covered in bruises, the knuckles scraped bare. There had been a bad moment during the cleaning out of the attic. He had found a doll of Faith’s. It had been hers when she’d been small. So small. So blameless. So sweet. He’d howled his anguish then and beaten the wooden floor with his fists until the pain he’d inflicted upon himself had quieted his tortured memories. A cold filled him when he’d finally calmed. A terrible calm determination.
He climbed back down the ladder to the second floor of his house and gathered the supplies from his traveling case. He plucked the ceremonial dagger, cup, and candle holders, all of which he’d had specially made for this event, from their nesting place, and carried them up the ladder with reverence.
One more ingredient was needed, and it was now time for The Gaunt to enter the last stages of his plan. He dressed and set out to Dalton’s house to ask a favor.
Irony of ironies, the same maid cured by Charity’s tea opened the door to the town leader’s house. She gasped and almost fainted at the sight of Bishop, but happily he had prepared himself. His heart still lurched in his chest at seeing her reaction and knowing all that she was likely to be thinking, but he managed to remain outwardly calm.
She showed him in to the parlor, where he sat and regarded the opulence around him, complete with glass cabinet filled with the latest porcelains from the Far East. This family wanted for little, so Bishop found it odd that they could be so ethically wanting. He regarded the crucifix on the wall and twisted his lip. Surely they had missed the mark completely reading the Bible and acting as they did.
“Mr. Bishop,” Peter’s adolescent voice came from the doorway, “I do apologize, but my parents are not in.”
Bishop had to struggle to contain his glee. It would be even easier this way. “Frankly, son, it was you I needed, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh?” Peter smiled, standing taller. “How may I be of help to you, sir?” He stepped into the room. The young man was on the very cusp of manhood—tall, but not yet broad. Brown eyes remained soft and clear in his open expression, and his smooth face was only just turning angular with the onset of maturity. Peter adjusted his waistcoat and did his best to look casually elegant, only p
artly succeeding.
“As you know, I’ve just moved back into my house,” Bishop said. “And as you can imagine, there is much work to be done. Well, I’ve found that my cellar is in dire need of clearing out, and I simply cannot lift most of the crates blocking my way. With your strong back to aid me, we could make quick work of it, if you’re willing.”
Peter bowed and smiled again. “I would be happy to, sir. I’ll just fetch my coat and tell Margaret where I’m bound.”
“Please assure her that she can tell your parents you’ll be done in time for dinner.”
Mere minutes later, the two were climbing down the steps to the cellar of Bishop’s house. At the bottom, Peter paused. He was only a boy. Perhaps fourteen. There was a moment of guilt, but then that was the age Faith had been when Peter’s father set oil-soaked logs at her feet. Bishop remembered Dalton crying that he would not be seen by St. Peter as weak, like those in Salem who refused to burn their witches and took the easy road by hanging them.
Peter knit his eyebrows and started to ask Bishop a question, seeing the wicked blade in his host’s hand. The young man looked down at the dagger and up at Bishop’s face. And Bishop’s stomach quailed. Could he truly do this? Could he shed the blood of an innocent? Would that not debase him and sacrifice his own soul? Bishop’s hand shook, his conscience making war with his quest for revenge. He started to lower his hand, when again the image of his beautiful wife and child screaming in panicked agony flashed before his eyes. The Gaunt stepped forward with his ceremonial dagger and buried it to the hilt in young Peter’s abdomen.