Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois

by Pierre V. Comtois

  Although Dyer himself returned to his professorial duties at Miskatonic University, Danforth seemed never to have fully recovered from his experience in Antarctica. Reports at the time suggested that he was high strung and prone to neuroticism. He became close-mouthed and refused to speak to anyone except Dyer with whom he insisted on talking to only behind closed doors. Eventually, his nervous condition had evolved such that he suffered a complete nervous breakdown that ended in catalepsy and coma.

  Zarnak emerged from the library with his interest piqued. He made arrangements to visit the patient and consult with Dr. Stillnor. With other business taken care of, he drove out of New York that morning and took the usual route to Massachusetts along I-95. His Ford Mustang made good time and soon he was speeding up 128 and spotted the brown highway sign indicating he should take the next exit for Arkham. If he recalled correctly from previous visits, not much further up would be the off ramp for Dean’s Corners and the Dunwich country and beyond that, up around Newburyport, Innsmouth.

  Checking the dashboard clock, Zarnak ascertained that he’d have some time to spare before his appointment with Dr. Stillnor so decided to check in at a bed and breakfast he knew of along Washington Street in Arkham’s historic district. Passing through a few suburban neighborhoods, he soon found himself in an area where big, Victorian-era homes still stood, preserved by the efforts of the city’s Historic District Commission. In many respects, Arkham was still a college town, and a small one at that. Miskatonic University itself had not grown much since the heyday of ivy league schools in the early part of the century. Its reputation then was much respected in the area of archeology and anthropology but in the 1960s the tide of such subjects had moved out and the school was better known today for being somewhat old fashioned and behind the times. Newer departments dedicated to xenobiology and cryptoarcheology, however, did little to enhance the institution’s standing in the academic community.

  Zarnak had little trouble finding the bed and breakfast and after bringing in his things, took his briefcase back to the car and headed across town to the hospital. He found the Pickerton Rehabilitation Hospital located behind a stone wall on well-manicured acreage that in better weather, no doubt, had a calming effect on its patients. He identified himself to a speaker at the entrance and had the satisfaction of seeing the iron gates swing slowly open. A short drive beneath bare branched trees led him to the visitor parking lot where he left the Mustang. An unassuming side entrance brought him to the reception area where he asked for Dr. Stillnor. Soon, he was met by a middle aged man in white lab coat who offered his hand in greeting.

  “Dr. Zarnak?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Zarnak, taking the man’s hand. “And you are Dr. Stillnor?”

  “I am. Shall we go to my office?”

  Stillnor led Zarnak beyond a pair of doors that cut off the reception desk from the administration area and up a corridor to a door labeled “Dr. Aaron Stillnor.” Stepping inside, Stillnor motioned Zarnak to a chair and took the one behind the room’s desk.

  “I saw from your note that you’ve familiarized yourself somewhat with Mr. Danforth’s case?” asked Stillnor without preamble.

  “I did,” replied Zarnak. “I found it most interesting.”

  “That’s good,” admitted Stillnor. “Because I’ve been somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed.”

  “Suppose you fill me in on the details.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” began Stillnor. “The patient, Charles Danforth, has been here at the hospital for eight years. His family asked that he be transferred from Danvers hoping that a private institution could provide more personalized treatment for the patient. It seems to have worked, though I hesitate to take credit for Danforth’s sudden emergence from his comatose state.”

  “Did your treatment vary in any way from that provided at Danvers?”

  “Very little,” said Stillnor. “An increased use of mineral baths and more frequent muscular massage to loosen the limbs. As you know, this case has been somewhat unusual in that it seemed to involve a combination of both catalepsy and coma, so treatment was necessarily bifurcated in its application. Maybe it was the combination of the two that triggered something in Danforth’s mind bringing him to full wakefulne

  “Hmm. So it seems to me that the patient is on the road to recovery. A happy situation for his family, I’m sure.”

  “It would seem so except for the fact that the patient has been delusional ever since coming to his senses. He thrashes about with such violence that we’ve had to have him restrained and even sedated for his own protection. Those precautions may calm him down physically, but I’ve not been able reach him where it counts, his reasoning mind.”

  “But you say the drugs have calmed him down. He hasn’t been receptive to the usual methods of verbal communication?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Have you tried hypnotherapy?”

  “As a last measure of desperation but it hasn’t succeeded. The patient lacks the ability to concentrate long enough for such methods to work.”

  “And what are you looking for from me?”

  “To be frank, doctor,” said Stillnor, “you’ve had some success in other cases that have seemed intractable. As with any other professional, it was difficult for me to admit that there was nothing else I could do for the patient and that I needed to consult with a specialist. I hope you can help me doctor.”

  “Well, I can’t promise anything, of course, but I’m certainly willing to give you all the assistance I can.”

  “Fine,” said Stillnor, rising. “Would you like to look at the patient then?”

  “Certainly, doctor. Do you mind if I leave my things here?”

  After Zarnak had deposited his briefcase and coat in Stillnor’s office, the two made their way from the administrative wing to the wards. Emerging from the elevator on the third floor, they encountered patients sitting quietly in wheelchairs or shuffling down corridors. Others remained in their rooms as a nurse held down a station midway along the corridor and an orderly and some nurse’s aids worked directly with patients.

  “How is the patient in Room 12?” asked Stillnor of the duty nurse.

  “He’s been quiet for about an hour now,” said the nurse in low tones. “But that happens occasionally. I don’t expect it to last.”

  “Has there been any change in his behavior otherwise?”

  “I’m afraid not, doctor,” said the nurse. “When he’s active, he still raves about the snow and such.”

  “Thank you. This is Dr. Zarnak; he’ll be consulting with me on Danforth’s case.”

  “How do you do, doctor?” asked the nurse who could not help noticing the slash of silver that zig-zagged like a bolt of lightning through Zarnak’s otherwise dark hair.

  “Very well, nurse…Popworth?” said Zarnak, looking at the name pin on the woman’s uniform. “What’s this about snow?”

  “A mania the patient has,” said Stillnor before the nurse could reply. “Ever since coming out of the coma, Danforth has expressed an extreme phobia of snow. Possibly connected to his experience in Antarctica many years ago. I’ve considered the possibility that his current state is some kind of throwback to those days…he may be imagining that he’s still there in those cold, isolated wastes.

  “Such cases have been known to drive men to insanity but, from what I understand, he was somewhat well adjusted after he first returned from Antarctica,” said Zarnak. “Something else may be at work here.”

  “Only one way to find out,” said Stillnor leading the way to room 12.

  There, he opened the plain wooden door…it was unlocked…and motioned Zarnak inside.

  According to the chart that Zarnak took from the end of the bed, Charles Danforth was 60 years old but looked older due mainly to a thin frame which had been nourished almost entirely intravenously since his hospitalization in 1935. His hair was entirely white and the padded cuffs that held his arms and legs to the bed frame see
med hardly necessary to restrain such a wisp of a figure.

  At the moment, the patient was awake but resting quietly. His dark eyes were alert however as they focused on Zarnak and tracked him as he moved around the bed. Taking a penlight from his breast pocket, Zarnak examined Danforth’s reaction to light. Satisfied, he straightened and put away the instrument.

  With Danforth’s eyes still looking into his, Zarnak saw the patient try to speak.

  “What is it, Mr. Danforth?” asked Zarnak, bending forward.

  “Snow…” whispered Danforth. “Is it…snowing?”

  Encouraged by the seeming rationality in the patient’s voice, Zarnak was careful in making his reply. “Why no. It’s not snowing outside. Why does that matter, Mr. Danforth?”

  “The snow was white,” said Danforth, struggling for breath. “The mist was white…those mountains…higher than the clouds…higher than anything… They were so big, even 300 miles away…so high they touched the stars…but there was something bigger still! I saw it! It moved and was standing behind the mountains! Behind the mountains!”

  Suddenly, Danforth lost control of himself and began to laugh hysterically, then to thrash about, pulling at his restraints. Froth began to foam on his lips and his eyes grew big and round with the veins standing plain on the whites of his eyeballs.

  “The snow! The damned snow! It covered it all over so that I couldn’t see! The thing! The thing that towered over the mountains! Oh, God! The snow! Thank God for the snow! It hides everything, even the truth!”

  So violent became his struggling that Stillnor feared for the patient’s safety. Quickly, he called for a sedative and when it was finally delivered, stabbed the needle into Danforth’s arm and threw the plunger.

  It was a powerful dose and soon took effect…or at least it seemed to.

  Danforth had certainly calmed down but the action came too swiftly to be the result of the sedative. His eyes still open, they no longer made contact with those of his visitors. Instead, they stared unblinkingly at the ceiling.

  “The shape must be altered,” he was saying, almost under his breath. “The bounds disfigured. The Elder Sign of Mnar must be broken. Must find the stones. But the snow, the snow will make it hard to find them. Must find them before it snows…”

  The words trailed off at last as the full effects of the sedative took hold.

  “Is there anything else you need to see, doctor?” asked Stillnor after a few moments when the room was filled only with the sound of Danforth’s steady breathing.

  Zarnak shook his head from where he had moved to the foot of the bed. “No. I think I’ve seen all I need to see.”

  Later, back in Stillnor’s office, the two physicians consulted.

  “So what has been your own diagnosis, doctor?” asked Zarnak by way of opening the discussion.

  “Well on the face of it, the patient’s ravings make little sense aside from an obvious phobia related to mountains…a fear of heights perhaps? On the other hand, he also seems unusually apprehensive about snow; you noticed how the first thing he said when he saw you was to ask whether it was snowing?”

  Zarnak nodded.

  “The solution to the patient’s problem then is to find some way to relieve him of these unfounded fears,” continued Stillnor. “Unfortunately, his nervous attitude seems to preclude, at least for the time being, analysis of any kind. A leading dialogue with the patient is out of the question so long as he isn’t rational.”

  “Dialogue does seem out of the question….”

  “Do you have any suggestions, doctor?”

  Zarnak was quiet a moment before suddenly getting to his feet. Hands in his pockets, he paced briefly before pausing by the window and looking out over the spreading lawn leading down to the street.

  “Tell me, doctor,” he began. “What do you know of Danforth’s personal history?”

  “Well…aside from the years spent at Danvers…he seems to have been a promising student at Miskatonic University when he was a young man. I’ve been told that professors at the time had high hopes for him — one even recruited him for an expedition to the Antarctic I believe. In fact, I’d given brief consideration that his phobia regarding snow might have been connected to that trip.”

  “In a way, I think it does,” conceded Zarnak turning to face Stillnor. “Does the name of the Dyer Expedition mean anything to you doctor?”

  “I believe that was the name of the expedition that Danforth accompanied to the Antarctic.”

  “Correct. It took place in 1930 and was quite well equipped at the time,” said Zarnak.

  “I’m afraid that I’m not familiar with the details of…”

  “The expedition’s major claim to fame was the discovery of a megalithic city nestled between a pair of mountain ranges off the Ross Ice Shelf,” explained Zarnak. “When communications failed between the base camp and an advance camp located at the foot of the first range of mountains, Danforth accompanied Prof. Dyer to investigate. Although the two said little about exactly what they found there upon their immediate return to civilization, a later plea written by Dyer intended to discourage further exploration beyond the mountains was more explicit describing a scene of horror in which all the bodies of their comrades had been torn apart. You can imagine how such a scene might impress a young mind…”

  Stillnor nodded. “I hadn’t realized…”

  “But that was not all,” continued Zarnak. “Dyer also described a series of strange burial sites in the snow where portions of biological specimens discovered by his colleagues had been interred…”

  “I seem to recall something about that but thought it mere fancy…”

  “Not hardly, doctor, as portions of those specimens were rescued from the camp site and returned to Miskatonic University where, I believe, they have been stored ever since.”

  “Be that as it may, what does it all have to do with Danforth?”

  “Suffice to say that if we are to believe Dyer’s words, the condition of the advance camp site was only a prologue of other horrors to come when he and Danforth went on to discover the stone city. There, amid the ruins, they came upon evidence that whoever killed their colleagues at the advance camp had escaped in that direction taking along the body of Felix Gedney, a close friend of Danforth’s.”

  “I still fail to see…”

  “From what I have read in newspaper accounts of the time, it appears that Dyer and Danforth agreed to say as little as possible about the expedition beyond their discovery of the advance camp site,” said Zarnak. “Later, Dyer described Danforth as having been the more shaken of the two, and sometimes barely able to keep his composure. I believe that Danforth struggled against having a complete nervous breakdown and even sought psychiatric help. Unfortunately, nothing helped and to protect himself from whatever it was that disturbed him, he forced a self-induced catalepsy.”

  “It sounds plausible,” conceded Stillnor. “But how does it explain his coming round now? Or his phobia about snow…?”

  “His ravings about something that was behind the mountains…that is, the second, more distant range of mountains beyond the stone city…I think is the key. In short, where Danforth may have prompted self-induced catalepsy, something else may have brought him out of it.”

  Momentarily at a loss for words, Stillnor simply stared at Zarnak.

  “Something else?”

  “The thing he mentioned just now,” said Zarnak. “The thing that stood behind the mountains.”

  “An imaginary…thing…of course?”

  Zarnak shrugged. “Not necessarily.”

  “You mean based on the ravings of a deranged mind, you’re suggesting to me that some kind of…of monster is influencing Danforth’s mind across time and space or whatever?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “You might think so, but it sounds ridiculous to me.”

  “Be that as it may, a simple phobia of snow is not Danforth’s problem.”

  “I�
��m sorry, doctor, but I cannot accept your explanation,” said Stillnor, rising. “I appreciate your taking the time to see the patient but as a consultant on the case I can only take your opinion and keep it in mind in my considerations. I’m sorry I cannot be more specific in my conclusions than that.”

  By way of reply, Zarnak took his briefcase and resting it on the desk, opened it and removed some folders.

  “I understand doctor,” he said, placing the folders on the desk. “These are copies of the material relating to the Dyer Expedition and Danforth’s return to Arkham in 1931. I’ll leave them with you.”

  Snapping shut the briefcase, Zarnak shrugged into his coat.

  “If you change your mind and would like to talk further on this case, doctor, call my office anytime.”

  In another moment, Stillnor was alone in his office.

  Later that afternoon, while making his final rounds of the day, Stillnor was still thinking about the things Zarnak had said. On the third floor, he checked with nurse Popworth asking in particular about Danforth.

  “He’s been quiet since you and Dr. Zarnak left,” reported Popworth. “But I’m afraid we’re going to have to put him on an IV again if he refuses to eat.”

  Nodding, Stillnor went to room 12 and, not wishing to disturb the patient, merely peeked in through the small one way window set in the door. Danforth was still secured but resting quietly. His eyes stared at the ceiling and his lips moved silently.

  Satisfied, Stillnor checked in again with the nurse and returned to his office. Gathering his things, he hesitated only slightly before including the folder given him by Zarnak in his briefcase. The drive home was uneventful and he went through his routine of preparing dinner and catching up with the news on television. Refilling his cup with coffee, he retired to his study where began going over the day’s reports.