Suddenly fascinated, I set the photos down and began going through the other material in the folders. I soon found some old receipts indicating that the jungle photos were copies made by the University of Pennsylvania and forwarded to Sanders’ home address. An invoice showed that Sanders had purchased the Mnar stone from a dealer in Boston a few months before his commitment to Pickerton.
A letter signed by the head of the antiquities department at the University noted that photos of the ruins arrived there by separate post while the Hughbanks Expedition was still in Belize, in fact, before the expedition had even left on its ill fated trip into the El Cacao region. As per Sanders’ request, copies were made of the photos and sent along to his home address.
Finally, I picked up pages filled with what I was sure was Sanders’ neat penmanship (looking about I noticed for the first time the lack of a computer anywhere about the room) and began to read.
They turned out to be an informal diary of sorts in which Sanders detailed the return of his memory…or his increasing paranoia, depending on whether or not I was to believe his hospital rantings. Nevertheless, I began to read and discovered that the photos had duly arrived at his home and placed in the desk cabinet by family members when they arrived. There they remained undisturbed for many years due to Sanders’ memory loss.
If I was to believe the story of his loss of memory, it apparently began to return to him a few years before. Not all at once, but gradually, as details of his participation in the Hughbanks Expedition grew more clear and the horror of it started to prey on his mind.
March 12: I woke up from a short nap this afternoon with recollections of Belize. I must have had a particularly vivid dream because I remembered walking with the rest of the expedition members along a narrow jungle trail that was overhung by low hanging branches and lianas. This was not the coastal region where we’d spent much of our time excavating ancient Mayan farmlands but inland, where the temperatures were a good deal higher.
March 20: Thoughts of the jungle trek keep nagging at me and I can’t help feeling that they weren’t the figment of a dream but recollections of a real excursion into the interior of Belize…
April 9: I came across an envelope in my desk today and was surprised it contained some photos I’d never seen before…or at least at first I thought I hadn’t. But almost immediately, I changed my mind. I had seen them before. They were given to Hughbanks by local Indians as proof that there were undiscovered ruins deeper inland. I remembered then how we gathered around them by the lamp light in Hughbanks’ tent, and how none of us were able to identify which era of Mayan history the structures belonged. The next day, we questioned the Indians more closely and were convinced that we had an opportunity to make history ourselves. It took little after that for Hughbanks to decide to form a secondary expedition to explore the El Cacao region to confirm the new findings and we began to make preparations.
April 10: Like a fog breaking up, my memory continues to clear, amazing me with events that I’d completely forgotten about. I remember it all now: how the expedition marched into the El Cacao country, how we met local tribesmen whom we were shocked to learn were descendants of white men who had migrated there a century before, how they guided us to the ruins, and how stunned I was to discover that the ruins represented a totally different architectural style than any ever seen in that country, with angles that didn’t seem quite right, that appeared to bend in different directions depending on your angle of view. I remembered how our guides seemed to grow more nervous until one day, they suddenly disappeared. After that, items began to disappear from camp until we figured out it must have been the natives. We were definitely beginning to feel unwanted in the valley. I struggled to remember more, but for some reason, my memory again began to fail me so I gave it up for the day.
May 1: After a series of inexplicable nightmares, I’ve finally been able to piece together what happened to us after the natives disappeared but even as I write these lines, I can hardly bring myself to believe it. After a day spent scrambling among the ruins taking measurements, making drawings, and doing some preliminary digging, we were all exhausted and fell into camp looking forward to a good night’s sleep. But before we even reached our tents, we found ourselves attacked. My memory is still hazy on the details, but what we at first took to be an attack by the natives who had guided us was nothing of the sort. Instead, we found ourselves being overwhelmed by hideous, crab-like things that at first we took for some kind of new species of jungle life, but that we soon learned to our dismay were intelligent, alien life forms whom the natives merely served. Thankfully, details of the creatures themselves and the attack have been clouded in my mind I think by the sound they made, a kind of buzzing that had the effect of numbing the human brain and interfering with basic motor functions. In any case, we were all quickly captured…except for a few whom the buzzing sound had less effect upon and who were able to give a better account of themselves. Would that the same had happened to me so that I might have been simply killed with them. But that was not to be. Instead, I joined Hughbanks and the others as we were herded away and into one of the larger ruins. I’m still not sure what happened after that but it must have been some kind of conditioning that erased our minds because up until a few months ago, I had completely different recollections of the expedition, ones that included an attack by drug dealers rather than the Mi-Go…the insect like creatures who captured us.
June 20: The story of what happened to myself and the Hughbanks Expedition is now clear to me but it’s so fantastic I’m afraid no one will believe it. When I tried to explain it all to administrators at the university, I was mocked. They thought I was just trying to make excuses for the shambles Hughbanks had made of his expedition. I was warned never to step foot on the campus again or I would be prosecuted for trespass and libel and anything else the administration could come up with. The rage I encountered was truly vehement convincing me that the wounds resulting from the legal battles fought over the expedition were still open with the school’s archeology department deathly afraid of having what little reputation still remaining to it destroyed.
July 1: Failing with the university but still hoping to convince anyone of the veracity of my story, I tried to broach the subject with my family members but, there too, I was rebuffed. I’m afraid I may have put my case too strongly, because some of them clearly think I’ve gone crazy. And maybe I have, I don’t know.
Sept. 2: I had a real scare yesterday. When I went out back today I noticed the ground had been disturbed somewhat. Thinking it was only squirrels digging for nuts, I looked a little closer and discovered that the ground was covered in strange prints similar to those of deer. But they weren’t. I’m afraid I panicked and ran into the house and locked myself in. For the rest of the day, I couldn’t make myself leave. That night was endless. Finally, this morning, I ventured back outside and confirmed my worst fears. The tracks I found yesterday were the same as those left by the Mi-Go. My only conclusion is that somehow, they’ve discovered that my memory has returned…they have humans who serve them like the natives of El Cacao…maybe word came to them after I visited the university…it’s perfectly logical that they’d have spies there as it would be the first place that any news of expedition members’ returning memories would likely be reported.
Sept. 14: I’ve made a plaster cast of one of the prints outside, but it’s failed to convince my family that I’m telling them the truth about the Mi-Go. I’ve tried to stop talking about them but I can’t help it. My fear gets the better of me. I’m afraid that my family thinks me mad.
Sept. 15: Sent off for a Mnar stone today. Hope it gets here in time to be of use.
Sept. 16: Today I overheard my youngest daughter talking with a cousin about placing me in a “home.” They didn’t know that the window was open and that I could hear everything they said. The irony was that even as they spoke about my madness and placing me somewhere for my own good, they were standing amid a crowd of footp
rints belonging to the Mi-Go.
Finishing, I put the papers down, not sure what to think. Except for the photos of the jungle ruins, which were real enough, there was little direct evidence to corroborate Sanders’ outlandish story of alien beings in the jungles of Belize! Still, there was a shuddery logic to the events described although I had no idea how I’d put it into words for my report to Walker.
Gathering up Sanders’ papers and stuffing them back into the folders, I inadvertently jostled the desk phone, striking the replay button for messages left on its answering machine. Suddenly, the quiet of the room was filled with the whisper of the rewind mechanism that stopped and automatically began replaying the last messages left on the tape.
There were a couple unremarkable reminders from the electric and gas companies about unpaid bills before a low, susurrant buzzing sound came from the recorder. Immediately, my attention was riveted and as those weird notes rose and fell, so did the shivers up my spine. My blood froze and as I continued to listen, it seemed to me that words were being formed through the rhythm of the buzzing. But if there were, they were just below the threshold of understanding…or at least so they seemed to my muddled senses. I must have been more affected than I realized at the time because when I finally was able to stir myself, I noticed that the late season night had fallen outside shrouding the rest of the house in impenetrable gloom.
Still shaken by recollection of that infernal buzzing sound, I went to the kitchen and turned on the lights. The familiar surroundings of chrome appliances, formica counter tops, and humming refrigerator calmed my nerves until I realized how hungry I’d become. Recalling Sanders’ invitation to make myself at home, I checked the refrigerator and cabinets for something to eat and fixed myself a sandwich.
Feeling too sleepy to make the long drive back to Arkham, I decided to throw myself on the living room couch for a few hours and leave in the morning, confident that none of the family would arrive to surprise me.
That night, I had the most vivid dream, triggered I think, by the events described in Sanders’ notes.
I dreamed I was in Belmopan, the bustling capitol city of Belize. Next, in the strange way dreams have, I found myself working on a dig outside the city. I was left with the impression that I did some exploring around the ruins there before a pair of Indians were shown to my tent. They handed me photographs showing jungle covered ruins they said were located in the interior, beyond the mountains in the El Cacao valley. They would lead me there in return for payment. After that, I was walking along a dim trail over the coastal Maya Mountains that debouched into the El Cacao valley. The heat was oppressive and the insects voracious and aside from myself, there were only my Indian guides and a handful of bearers. Descending from the mountains, we entered a maze of jungle and had to hack our way along until we reached a small clearing indicated by our guides. We pitched camp but by the next morning, the two Indians were gone. I’m not sure, but somewhere along the way, the bearers vanished as well. It might have been hours or days after that when some natives of the valley appeared and I was as amazed as those in the Hughbanks Expedition had been to discover their origins in Mexico and the US before that. They recalled with fondness the Hughbanks’ Expedition that had preceded my own visit and happily volunteered to guide me through the valley. I don’t know how much time had passed after that when I found myself standing at the foot of a cyclopean pyramidal structure whose dimensions appeared to shift with every step I took. In walking toward it I wasn’t sure if it was receding or getting closer until the native guides showed me to a doorway canted into the base of the structure. It was already open and I found myself drawn inside by a cool draft that drifted out from the darkened interior. I don’t recall if the natives used torches or not, but the deeper recesses of the pyramid turned out to be well lit from sources I couldn’t identify. As we emerged into a large room whose dimensions I couldn’t ascertain due to a complete lack of angles and corners, the natives around me retreated and were replaced by strange beings whom I later identified as Mi-Go, the fungoid-based life forms that Sanders spoke about, who were visitors from Pluto, a planet identified in their own language as Yuggoth. But even Yuggoth wasn’t their home, any more than Earth was. It was simply a way station, a stepping stone used on their measureless journeys from the depths of time and space where their true home lay. Those visiting Earth were merely workers seeking a mineral not found on other worlds and worthless to men in our primitive age. Somehow, all that information was imparted to me by way of the creatures’ speech which sounded in my ignorance as hardly more than the buzzings of insects. Other knowledge imparted to me by the creatures was the strange method by which they rewarded their loyal terran servitors. I was led to a series of tables upon which lay a number of elderly natives of the valley, each displaying different stages of an arcane medical procedure that resulted in the removal of the brain for storage in metal cylinders which were vacuum-sealed against the intrusion of any kind of atmosphere. Inside the canisters the brains floated in a murky fluid with nerve endings and spinal column connected to sensitive electronic nodes within the base of the cylinders. I should have registered revulsion at the procedure, but in my dream it all had a sense of normalcy about it. I continued to watch the procedure as one of the fungoid creatures took a freshly sealed cylinder to a work table and connected a series of jacks into its base. Instantly, other nearby devices that I soon recognized as remote audio/visual equipment came to life and a trebly voice emerged from a speaker using the local dialect belonging to the natives. Unsure at first, as if the entity doing the speaking was orienting itself, the voice steadied and began to respond to questions put to it by the fungoid creatures. Apparently satisfied with the connections, the creatures detached the cylinder from the jacks, labeled it, and placed it in a storage area filled with scores of similar containers. The bodies, with their vacant skulls, were dismembered with key parts such as hands and the skin of the head including face and scalp, preserved for some future use. The rest was disposed of and the empty tables prepared for new subjects. I was then guided to one of the empty tables and it was indicated that I should lie down. With dawning comprehension that the hellish procedure undergone by the native elders was intended for me as well, I drew back. At first, the creatures tried to explain to me the wonders of space and time that would become available to me once I submitted to the procedure. I would be immortal and would be carried between the stars by the Mi-Go themselves and become privy to age old secrets not given for ordinary humans to know. I would visit the Mi-Go’s own black-litten planet and experience life within its sprawling fungoid cities and finally, I would roam where the hideous Shantaks flew, and witness the cosmic maelstrom where great Cthulhu and his brethren were born. And with my sanity thus strengthened by these experiences, I might even have the honor of being taken to the ultimate center of time and creation where the mindless Azathoth whorled and tittered for all eternity. All that would be mine if only I agreed simply to having my brain parted from mortal body. But by then, I was struggling to free myself from the hold the crab-shaped Mi-Go had upon me. Dream or no, I sensed the horror and madness that lay behind the creatures’ empty promises and screamed my protests. Perhaps realizing the futility of working on such an unwilling subject, the creatures yielded and instead, placed me beneath a device that they said would simply rob me of short term memory…but even then, as the plastic thing, punctuated with numerous needles and other unidentifiable instruments, was descending toward my unprotected head, I renewed my struggling and shouted my protests, promising that I would never tell, would never reveal what I’d found in the valley…
I was still screaming when I fell off the couch and bumped onto the floor.
It was a dream! Only a dream, I suddenly realized with vast relief. Nevertheless, my body was soaked in sweat and I shook all over in fear and desperation. Getting to my feet, I found that my legs were still wobbly and bracing myself against walls and furniture, I made my way to the bathroom to dash
my face in cold water.
Anxious to leave the scene that had inspired my nightmare, I chose not to wait until full light but locked up the house and drove back to Arkham, arriving at my own apartment by mid-morning. Reluctantly, I turned my attention back to what I’d learned from Sanders and, after organizing my thoughts, began to write up a draft of the report I wanted to submit to Walker later that afternoon. My conclusion of course, was that Sanders was mad as a hatter and that the University of Pennsylvania would have nothing to worry about in the way of further scandal from him, if that was what really concerned them.
Ironically, that evening, I turned on the TV to a local news station while preparing supper and heard the news of Sanders’ disappearance. Hurrying from the kitchen into the living room, I stood and watched a reporter standing in front of the familiar red brick hospital building as he filled viewers in on Sanders’ background and suspicions aroused by a still unidentified prowler who’d been nosing about the grounds. A brief interview with Dr. Bross revealed that upon making bed check the night before, Sanders was found not to be in his room. When he failed to turn up after a search of the building, the Police Department was called in to take over. Since then, there had been no sign of the patient’s whereabouts, but the audience was informed that although Sanders was considered of little risk to others, citizens were cautioned to contact the police immediately if he was sighted and not to approach him themselves.
Coming as it did only a few hours after I’d seen Sanders myself, the news of his disappearance upset me and began to draw my mind along avenues that ended only in blind alleys. I felt a mounting anxiety that I really couldn’t account for until finally, I had to take a couple of pills to calm my nerves. They did little good however, as that night my dreams were again filled with visions of the jungle, of massive, unnatural ruins, of alien creatures, and buzzing, buzzing, buzzing…
Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois Page 42