Coming into the center of town, Darlene slowed, trying to recall the way to her uncle’s house. It hadn’t been one of those big, Victorian places that one would expect a well-to-do small town resident would live in, but it was a respectfully-sized former 18th century farmhouse. In any other town in Massachusetts, it would long since have been designated for historic preservation and a sign with its construction date fixed outside the front door. But this being Dunwich, nobody ever gave such things serious thought. About a half mile past the center, she recognized a big oak tree and then saw the unpaved road almost hidden by undergrowth just alongside it. Turning, she entered a tunnel formed by arching tree branches overhead that threw the late afternoon light into gloomy shadow. She crawled along the road for a few minutes until she came across a big mailbox secured in the crook of an oak tree: 124 Old Arkham Road it read. The driveway to her uncle’s house opened just alongside it, and in seconds she was rounding the curve of the driveway that led up to the front of the house and pulled up behind a Celica that was already parked there.
The hot sunshine of a late summer day beat down on her as she stepped out of the car and looked up at the old house. Freshly painted in an off-yellow color, the old building had two floors with the back side of the roof sloping steeply toward the ground. Later additions to the 300-year-old house were obvious with outcroppings in the rear that expanded the size of the kitchen, dining, and living rooms on the first floor and added a bedroom on the second. Indoor plumbing had been a feature of the house for quite a while with a good, deep well located in the side-yard a few hundred feet away. Darlene could still see the old, disused outhouse standing in the forest, all covered in creepers and obscured with saplings and bunches of big-leafed poison ivy. The old path leading through the woods to Sabbat Hill that loomed behind the house was still there too. A garage extended from the kitchen addition with stalls for three vehicles, no doubt still holding her uncle’s pickup truck and little-used Buick. Her reverie was broken when someone from inside the house came out, holding the storm door open for her.
“Miss Cobb?” said the man, obviously not her uncle.
“That’s right,” replied Darlene, shading her eyes.
“Can I help you with your bags?” the man said, letting the storm door go and stepping outside.
“Sure.”
“I’m Oscar Whitney,”
Darlene shook his hand.
“Your uncle hired me to look after the house and things about a year ago,” Whitney explained. “That’s my car, there. I don’t stay at the property.”
“What happened to his other man?”
“The groundskeeper you mean?” Whitney shrugged. “I don’t know, but…”
Impatient with the man’s hesitation, which she regarded as a bit theatrical, Darlene pressed, “What?”
“Well, I don’t think your uncle mentioned it in his letter to you, but he has been ill. Moreso than he’s been over the last few years,” Whitney began. “Unfortunately, things took a serious turn yesterday and he died last night. I’m sorry.”
“What!” Darlene was genuinely shocked. She had called to tell her uncle that she was coming up only a few days before. “How did it happen?”
“The doctor said it was a heart attack, that your uncle died in his sleep,” said Whitney. “You can ask him more about it at the wake tomorrow.”
Oh, crap, thought Darlene. She’d forgotten about that. There would have to be a wake…and a funeral. She was rapidly beginning to regret not throwing her uncle’s letter in the trash as she’d first intended. Just the thought of going to a wake, and having to mingle with her relatives, was enough to make her want to get in the car and head right back to New York. But she was here now, and it was too late to turn back in any case.
“Oh, and there’s something else too,” said Whitney. “Your uncle was expecting an important guest to arrive any day. He was coming from really far away as I understand, maybe Asia or something.”
“Great. Is there any way to contact him? Does he have a cell phone?”
“I’m afraid not, or at least, none that I know of. Your uncle seemed quite anxious about his coming. I think he had it in mind that part of the reason for his inviting you was to add a touch of domesticity to the visit and to help him keep his guest company. Your uncle was confined to a wheelchair, as you’ll recall.”
Rolling her eyes, Darlene had to admit that it made sense.
“When is this person supposed to get here?”
“Any time now,” said Whitney. “Your uncle received a notice of his impending departure from London only a few days ago.”
Sighing deeply, Darlene began lifting her things from the trunk. She’d think what to do about the situation after she settled in.
That night, after Whitney had left for the evening, Darlene sat in the living room, sipping at a cup of coffee. She’d forgotten how cosy the old place was with its darkened rooms, old knickknacks, bookshelves and big, paned windows. A fireplace dominated the living room, now cold for the summer. Nowhere was there a “woman’s touch,” there not having been a Mrs. Cobb in years; but if Whitney’s guess was correct, it had been her uncle’s intention that she fill the role of woman of the house. She smiled to herself. Well, so what? What was an old widower to do?
Getting up, she went to the kitchen and set her cup in the sink. Deciding on a breath of air before bedtime, Darlene stepped out the back door. Outside, the heavens were filled with stars (she’d forgotten how crowded the sky was with them since moving to the city) and on the air, her nose picked up the scents of the surrounding woodland, now heavy and very noticeable as the atmosphere cooled from the day’s heat. Something fluttered across the stretch of open sky between the close-crowding trees: a bat! She hadn’t seen one of those in a long time either.
Stepping off the big, flat stone set beneath the threshold of the door, she let the storm door spring shut and wandered into the rutted driveway that came up before the garage. Wary of mosquitoes, she decided to stroll down to the road as far as the mailbox. She’d almost reached it when she noticed something peculiar in the hills behind the house. Was it her imagination, or was there a glow at the top of one them? She couldn’t be sure. It might have been light pollution cast from the more populated eastern portion of the state… Just then, a firefly caught her eye and she followed it as it made its erratic path across the yard, it’s light winking on, then off, then on again. By the time it disappeared from view, the mosquitoes were really getting to be a pain, forcing her back inside the house at a pace that was a good deal faster than the one she used upon first coming out.
The next morning, Whitney prepared breakfast and Darlene had had time during the night to decide what she was going to do next. Her better nature had triumphed, and she’d decided to stay long enough to at least greet her uncle’s expected guest. Hopefully with his host out of the picture, the visitor might be convinced to turn around and leave.
In the meantime, she had some time to kill in the morning and decided to take a closer look around the property, which had been a working farm at one time judging by the stone fences that zig-zagged through the surrounding woods. But outside, her plans melted away when her eyes fell on Sabbat Hill and she remembered the strange glow she’d seen from its summit the night before. I wonder if the old path still leads up the hill? she wondered, heading to the rear of the house.
Ducking her head, she entered the path and began walking. Surprisingly, the trail had remained clear over the years with only the occasional overhanging branch needing to be swept aside. She passed by the old swamp and through a glade of birch trees that she remembered being impressed with years before. Shortly, the ground began to rise as she reached the base of the hill, growing steeper as she continued along the path. Presently, the surrounding forest began to thin out, the trees grew shorter with rough scrub beginning to dominate. The soil became more rocky and more sun made things hotter.
As she neared the crest, the old standing stones peeked ov
er the brow of the hill and in another moment, she was standing among them. Looking back, she could plainly see the roof of her uncle’s house amid the trees below, and the clearing a few miles away where the town center ought to have been. Nothing else was in sight. Some pasturage could be seen farther in the distance and fields of ripening corn lapped up the sides of other, nearby hills, giving evidence that the hand of man had, after all, been at work in the area.
Turning, she walked amid the old stones, once again remembering all the stories she’d heard about them when she was growing up in Dean’s Corners: that they’d been there even before the time of the Indians, that they’d been erected by castaway Vikings in honor of their cruel Norse gods, that covens of witches used them for unholy rites during the time of the Salem troubles. Darlene’s favorite was the story about the Whateleys, a family of inbreds who worshipped the devil…no, what was it?…something from “outside.” For some reason, from the way people around town said it, she’d always imagined the word having quotation marks around it. She’d always been inclined to dismiss such stories, but with evidence of a freshly-doused fire amid the stones seeming to suggest otherwise…or maybe it was just some local kids sneaking a few beers away from their elders. She kicked at the blackened spot where the fire had been and looked around for the expected shards of shattered glass or crushed cans. She didn’t find any, but did notice a peculiar smell. Then, looking at her watch, she realized she needed to be heading back. The wake was scheduled for early afternoon and she needed to freshen up.
A few hours later, Darlene found herself standing in the gloom of the funeral parlor in Dean’s Corners. At one end of the room stood her uncle’s coffin. The lid was open and when she’d looked inside, decided that her uncle didn’t look much different in death than he had in life. Folding chairs had been arranged around the periphery of the room and a thick, maroon rug helped to deaden the sound of any conversation. Not that there was much talk; there were few family members in town, and those that were around refused to have anything to do with Silas Cobb. Partly because he was Silas Cobb, but mostly because he lived in Dunwich. Most residents in Dean’s Corners didn’t have much to do with Dunwich folk, resenting the fact that they were forced to spend their taxes offering services to a town that refused to provide them for itself.
With the afternoon sun getting low on the horizon, Darlene was about to quit her vigil when someone actually walked into the room. Was there a mistake?
“Miss Cobb?” said the man whose graying hair indicated that he was nearing fiftyish, an age that Darlene still considered attractive in a man.
“Yes,” she said, turning to face him more fully.
“I’m Dr. Sayers,” said the man, extending a hand. “I treated your uncle.”
“Oh, right. How are you? It was good of you to come.”
“Well, actually, I came to see you more than to pay my respects,” Sayers said with some embarrassment.
“Don’t worry about it,” soothed Darlene. “So, Mr. Whitney said that my uncle died peacefully?”
“That’s a relative term,” Sayers hedged. “There was no pain or discomfort at the end…it was a heart attack suffered in his sleep…but your uncle was not without a share of agitation and anxiety over the years, which I think reached acute levels in the last few weeks of his convalescence. I dare say they were a major factor in weakening his heart.”
“Anxiety over what? He had no money problems, I’m sure…and he wasn’t married,” Darlene added with a short laugh.
Sayers chuckled at her little joke.
“No, you’re right, nevertheless something bothered him.”
“He was expecting a guest from overseas…in fact, he’s supposed to arrive any time now,” offered Darlene.
“That could have something to do with it,” mused Sayers. “People who lead reclusive lives often exaggerate the importance of anything that threatens to upset their quiet routine. Your uncle could very well have worried about this visit more than it deserved.”
“In any case, he doesn’t have to worry about it any more,” Darlene said, looking over at the coffin.
“You’re staying out at the house?”
“For now; I figure I should stay at least until my uncle’s guest arrives, it’s the polite thing to do.”
Sayers nodded. “Funny thing about the night your uncle died. Whippoorwills had been gathering around the house all that day and it seemed the moment your uncle passed away…whoosh!…they all took flight at the same time, all screeching like the dickens. Whitney mention anything about that?”
“No.”
“Well, I guess for Dunwich folk, those things are normal,” Sayers laughed.
After the doctor left, Darlene decided that she’d fulfilled whatever duty she had to her uncle, and said goodbye to the funeral director who reminded her that there would be no service for the deceased and that the interment would take place the next day in Dunwich.
Leaving the funeral home, Darlene drove over to Main Street for her appointment with her uncle’s attorney, a Mr. Roland Humberton.
“It seems that your uncle was quite fond of you, Miss Cobb,” Humberton said after reading her the will. “Leaving you his house and all its possessions. Unfortunately, there is very little in his bank account.”
Darlene was a little stunned about the revelation (money or no money)…she hadn’t come to see Humberton about any will, just to find out what would happen to the house. But as she considered it, who else was there that her uncle could have left it to? Which presented her with another problem: what to do with it. She had no intention of moving back to the area, let alone Dunwich! So selling was her only option. Unfortunately, however, that would have to wait until she could get rid of her uncle’s expected guest.
“Mr. Humberton,” she said. “I want to put the house up for sale as soon as possible.”
“That can be arranged.”
“The only thing is, I have to stick around long enough to welcome a guest my uncle was expecting from overseas. Can a sale be delayed until after he leaves?”
“Not a problem, it’ll take some time to transfer ownership of your uncle’s property to you and arrange paperwork for the sale,” said Humberton. “And besides, it being Dunwich, well…don’t expect a quick sale, that’s all.”
“I didn’t,” laughed Darlene. “But will it be necessary for me to stay in Dunwich until the paperwork is taken care of?”
“No, it can be done without your presence.”
That was a relief!
Humberton cleared his throat.
“Yes?” she said.
“You’ll excuse me for asking, Miss Cobb, but in all the time I’ve known your uncle, he has been a solitary and reclusive fellow. When, he offered to underwrite your college expenses years ago, many people in town were taken aback. And now, after many more years, comes his sudden invitation for you to visit. Doesn’t all that strike you as strange?”
“How so?”
“That he might have had some reason for what he did.”
“He was a good man, anxious to help a niece he could see wanted desperately to make something of her life,” explained Darlene, herself suddenly not quite convinced.
“Hmmm, maybe.”
“What other reason could there be?”
“Well, you must be aware of the talk around town about your uncle…”
“Oh sure, heard it from my own family…but he’s just eccentric, that’s no crime is it?”
“Of course not but, well, he’s from Dunwich you know, moved there deliberately before he was married. No one moves to Dunwich, only out of it.”
“So now you’re going to remind me of the strange doings up there?”
“I’m sure I don’t need to do that…but…well, he’s dead now, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Despite her challenge to the attorney’s hints, Darlene left Humberton’s office with new doubts about her uncle’s reasons for inviting her to visit. Helping to entertaining his gu
est suddenly seemed like an inadequate excuse…and what about paying for her college tuition? Even that seemed a bit implausible in hindsight. Maybe some clue could be found among her uncle’s papers at the farmhouse.
But whatever idea Darlene had of going through her uncle’s desk drawers was dismissed when she arrived back at the house and was informed by Whitney that her uncle’s guest had arrived.
“He’s waiting in the living room,” said Whitney, inclining his chin.
“Okay, I’ll go in and see him,” said Darlene. “Does he know about Uncle Silas?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I had to tell him when he inquired about him.”
“Good,” Darlene was glad she didn’t have to be the one to explain the bad news. “By the way, I’ve decided not to keep the house, but selling it might take some time and I can’t afford to remain in town as long as it might take. Are you available to stay until it can be sold?”
“I can do that.”
“Thanks.” That was another concern off her mind. Then she thought of something else.
“Whitney, do you have any idea what my uncle had been spending his money on? Attorney Humberton told me his bank account was almost empty.”
Whitney shrugged. “He liked to collect things,” he gestured around the room, indicating the various knickknacks that filled up corners and furniture surfaces. “I gathered some were expensive and he’d sometimes trade what he had for things he didn’t. At least it seemed to me that items around here were constantly disappearing and being replaced by others. Most of his transactions were conducted by mail.”
Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois Page 5