by Gafford, Sam
“Of course not! That’s because this place had made such an impact on him.”
“Didn’t seem to make that much of an impact on him when he was here.”
I tried to make Daily understand the importance of “The Dreamer in Fire” to Winslow’s canon, but he refused to listen. Only the early stories, Daily said, were important. Everything that came after was as if it had been written by someone else.
By the time the interview was over, I had (perhaps) one or two significant anecdotes but little else. The sun was beginning to set as I walked back out to my car. Daily stood at the doorway, waving goodbye, and, for some strange reason, I took out my instant camera and snapped a picture of him. I dropped the undeveloped photo into my coat pocket and drove away. Daily had been a pleasant host but hadn’t answered any of my questions. He had encouraged me to come back and talk anytime I liked, but I had no doubt there would be nothing more to learn from him. He was deliberately hiding something from me and I couldn’t picture Winslow, chronically underconfident, bragging about a future “Winslow Collection.” Nor was he even in the habit of talking about writing, preferring not to discuss something that he didn’t even feel he was particularly good at.
When I arrived back at the hotel, Miss Bradshaw was working at the front desk and I returned the register to her. She replied that she hadn’t had the time to find some of the past records from 1960 onward but felt that she would turn them up sometime soon. I didn’t think that the register would tell me much more, but it might confirm if the mystery guest had been at the hotel recently. To my surprise, she invited me to dinner in the practically deserted restaurant. During the meal, as tasteless as it was the day before, I detailed my findings for the day and she listened attentively. I told her it was unlikely that I would be able to find much more information and would probably be leaving in the morning. She seemed genuinely sad to hear this, and I began to contemplate prolonging my stay a little longer. I had noticed that she was a particularly attractive woman and was feeling some decidedly unscholarly feelings for her.
After dinner, she excused herself to finish some paperwork and I walked upstairs to find myself suddenly alone. Entering my room, I discovered that the musty smell had become overwhelming, so I opened one of the windows. Taking off my coat, I remembered the photo of Daily and took it out of my pocket. The picture was startlingly similar to the one Daily had sent Winslow so many years ago. There he stood in front of his house with the mountains oppressively in the background. The house looked even older and more worn than it had in person, and Daily himself seemed vague and blurry. Perhaps he had moved when I snapped the picture, but the house and mountains were in sharp detail.
I threw the photo on the desk and piled my other materials next to it. For the next few hours, I was engrossed in the kind of satisfaction that only a scholar can know as I updated my records and made additions based on my new information. I had now conclusively proved that the town of Sutter’s Corners did exist and, more importantly, that the townhouse that was the setting for the horrific climax was a real building. I regretted, however, not taking the opportunity to view the basement that Winslow had portrayed so hideously. Perhaps I would swing by on my way home tomorrow and ask Daily for permission to take a few pictures of the infamous basement for my article.
I cleaned up and packed my few clothes and belongings away so I would be ready to leave in the morning. There really seemed little left to be done. Perhaps if I had been a professional detective, I might have found more clues to pursue; but, as an amateur critic, I had little experience in such matters. Satisfied, I drifted off to sleep, thinking about Miss Bradshaw.
Sometime during the night, I was awoken from a deep sleep. At first, I dreamed that Miss Bradshaw had come to me, naked and pale in the moonlight; but such things do not happen to a dull, overweight English teacher. I switched on the light and, when my eyes adjusted, found that there was nothing wrong. Everything was where it should be, and the door was securely locked. The musty odor, however, had returned with a vengeance.
Throwing my robe on, I walked around the room, trying to discover the reason for the smell. It was strongest near the desk, but there was nothing there to cause such a stink. I looked at my files, neatly stacked and ready to be packed into the car, and noticed something I hadn’t seen before. There was a slim, red book nestled between the files.
Taking it out, I examined it thoroughly. It was a small book of antique vintage. Opening the cover, I read the flyleaf and discovered that it was the diary of Eziah Small, Jr., the son of one of the town’s founding fathers. Amazed, I flipped through the volume and found what I was expecting to see. There was a section where several pages had been torn out. This was the diary that Winslow had found more than forty years ago! I did not know how, or why, it had appeared here but gave it little thought. The door was locked, so presumably only Miss Bradshaw had access to the room. Perhaps my dream had more to it than I thought.
I sat down and began to read.
It is difficult to remember what happened after this.
The diary began in broken, old English and detailed the founding of Northport through the eyes of young Eziah, Jr., who did not like the place. There are a few pages missing from the beginning.
There has been much talk lately among the men who have spent most of their time in the woods. Father and the others are intent upon staying here despite the protestations of Mother and myself. I do not like these woods and wish we had stayed in Albany with the others. At night, Father leaves the camp and goes into the forest. I have stayed awake waiting for him, but he doesn’t return until early morning, well after the dawn. He has been very tired lately and has lost so much weight that his clothes are becoming loose. He says that he is bargaining with the natives for our right to stay. Some question whether we should have to bargain with such heathens, but Father silences them quickly. Despite the many mountain tribes about, I have never seen an Indian in these woods.
A few pages later . . .
The men returned this morning with their bargain. We can start clearing land and building now. Father has locked a large parchment away in his strongbox but has told me that it is the legal document that the natives have signed granting their permission for the settlement. I have never heard of such a thing being done before, but Father assures me that this is not anything unusual. Still, I have picked the lock and looked at the paper. It is not written in any language I have ever seen before. Father’s signature is plain, as are the others, but I cannot read anything else and I am reminded of the Albany maid’s tales of the Devil riding through these trees. I must pray for Father.
The woods were partially cleared for the settlement but, according to the diary, there was one place that was already cleared.
Father was proud of the spot, lording it above the rest of the settlement, but I saw Mother go white at the sight of it. There is a strange stone building here which Father says was made by the natives. I’ve never seen any Indian dwelling like this. Don’t they all live in tents? I moved to touch the stone, but Father pulled me back. “It’s sacred,” he said; “the natives will come and move it themselves.” At night, in my bedroll, I heard the sounds of work being done, but no voices. Father seldom sleeps now.
The new farmhouse was built on the site and, apparently, once contained a barn as well. There was also a basement.
I’ve refused to sleep in the house and Father has beaten me for it, but I will not set foot in there again. I am convinced that the stone for the foundation and chimney came from that cursed native building. It is cold and slimy to the touch. Mother does not talk much anymore but has become more and more withdrawn. But that was all nothing compared to what has happened today. Three days earlier, Father had gone into the basement and locked the door behind him. Mother would not listen, but I could hear him murmuring down there like a madman. His voice would become harsh and shrill but would suddenly drop back to his normal tone. At night, a sickly light came from beneath the door. Su
ddenly, this morning, Father stumbled back upstairs. He was covered with blood and there was a large gash along the side of his face which travelled the length of his body. Mother put him to bed and stitched the wound shut. Neither said a word. Father never screamed or whimpered. He just looked at me with a stern face. Once he murmured, “The Mark,” but that was all. Since then, he has never stopped watching me. On one occasion he grabbed my arm and feebly tried to pull me towards the basement. I pulled away and ran to the barn. With any luck, I will be able to grab a wagon out of town or else I will walk out. I cannot stay any longer.
The boy tried to run away but was captured by the village elders. They seemed to have an unusual interest in the young boy and returned him to the less than tender graces of his father.
I cannot escape. They will not allow it. I feel their eyes upon me at all times. The door is locked and Father has bolted all the shutters. He sits in his chair, staring at me and fingering his scar. It is clear that I am abandoned to my fate. Still, they will not find me unprepared. I have hidden a large kitchen knife and will wait for the right time. There is a light coming from beneath the basement door all the time now and, on several occasions, I have heard something behind the door breathing heavily.
There was a noise behind me.
I am cursed. Father means to take me downstairs. I am to be “marked,” he preaches. It is my destiny to follow him in his service. The stones sing to me at night. There cannot be much time left! He has told me much these past few days and would destroy this diary if he ever found it. Or would he? He seems far more interested in attracting more people to the settlement. The town has been growing greatly recently, as he reaches out to others to join him. Several others have already been “marked.”
Unfeeling fingers wrapped themselves around my head. Turning, I saw that Elizabeth was there, pale and naked in the moonlight as in my dream. She pulled me close to her. Her body was cold and did not respond to my touch. She kissed me harshly and I felt myself drain into her.
I felt, rather than saw, the room change around me. Suddenly it was no longer the hotel room but a strange building with stones that moved and breathed and sang. I felt Elizabeth pull me downwards, and it seemed to me that I was in a strange, alien version of Daily’s home. My legs felt weak and insubstantial as I moved further and further down through the floor of the building into the basement. There was a strange light that pulsated and glared sickly. It followed a weird rhythm that, I realized, echoed the breathing of the now transparent stones around me. In the center of the room, Northport waited for me.
The mass throbbed and breathed with a life of its own—a vast, amorphous thing that, I knew, was only partly exposed. Elizabeth pulled me closer, and I began to see features of people that I had spoken to over the past few days. Arms, legs, thighs, breasts, all poked out intermittently only to be swallowed by the common whole. Taking my hand, she pulled me inside. What little remained of me could only offer weak resistance. But there was little desire to resist left in me.
We plunged inside and I lost myself within the creature that was Northport.
My mind exploded with thoughts and images. People who had lived centuries before flashed through me, and I saw the beginnings of the town unfold around me. I could see the strange, unnatural building that Eziah had taken for his own and, going further back, the unwholesome creatures who had made it and brought it to life. I saw the town grow and shrink, the perpetual replenishment of the well that was Northport, this unholy creature encased below the breastplate of earth that covered it.
Ideas and concepts passed like lighting through my mind. Hopes, dreams, fancies, daydreams, and fantasies of hundreds of years pummeled my brain. I felt the passage of people I had spoken to travel through me while some lingered longer. Winslow avoided my thoughts, ashamed at his inability to resist and keep others away. Daily passed by, triumphant with his victory and reveling in his acquiring another dreamer. Lastly, I felt Elizabeth again as she entered my mind and thoughts and consumed what remained of myself. My thoughts melted into hers, into the community, and I suddenly found myself thinking the thoughts of hundreds of people simultaneously. They pushed me further, beyond where I had existed, into an area I had never seen before. Passing through the veil, I felt their pleasure at the sense that surrounded me. The thoughts, ideas, stories, and concepts floated by and through me while they were consumed by the town. Moving forward, ever forward, beyond all caution, pushing harder and harder for more and more. I felt myself shattering, breaking into smaller pieces of myself and felt no more.
When I awoke, it was already morning. I moved stiffly through the room, packing my belongings and fingering the mark on my still tender face. I moved my things into Elizabeth’s room, where she had already made a space for them. I slipped into the mainstream of the town as if I had always lived there. To visitors, we are husband and wife, running the local inn. At night, in the shelter of the woods, we are Northport, glowing and exultant. To Winslow’s horror, I have brought more and more scholars here, adding to the community. I have been careful to instruct the others in the need for politeness and, above all else, smiles. We mustn’t let anyone think that life in Northport is anything less than what dreams, and fancies, are made of.
He Whose Feet
Trod the Lost Aeons
For the first millennium, I sought knowledge purely for knowledge’s sake. Nothing was outside my purview: literature, history, medicine, philosophy, science. I studied at the feet of the learned creatures and heard what they considered wisdom until I had heard it all. But knowledge is mutable: what is known today is forgotten tomorrow. So I moved on.
The next millennium I consumed religion—a damnable thing that remade itself into the vengeful hand of God. I walked through lands with a sword of righteousness in one hand and pious salvation in the other. I found that I was better at dispensing one than the other, so I moved on.
Sin was next. I excelled in debauchery for another millennium. I knew the touch of women and men as well as of avatars of darkness. I embraced the essence of the Asian flower and unspeakable harbingers of joy and doom. I gave pain and received it. I knew great love and fiery hate and, at last, when all was spent, I knew ennui and I did not move on.
I drank from the cup of time and know not where or whence I was. My thoughts roamed wild and unfettered through interior and exterior realms of madness. I was of this world and outside it. I was Alpha and Omega. I trod among the atoms and the galaxies and left and came back again but could not move on.
When the veil finally fell from my mind, my eyes beheld a different world. Contagion had spread to all points and cracked open the world, and I ached for an ending that would not come. But I had remembered all that I had learned, even though most of it had fallen into archaic mists, and I knew what had to be done and I had the patience to see it through.
I would create the end of everything.
But true anarchy takes planning.
Anyone can create chaos. All it takes is a careful word in the right place or a sword thrust where it is least expected. But if one desires to create anarchy, true anarchy, the kind that can topple a civilization or remake a world, it takes meticulous planning.
I learned how to plan when I walked in the dust with ancient pharaohs who both revered and feared me with good reason. Their minds were filled with superstitions but their skills were many. I turned my skin dark as the space between the stars and they bowed before me. They were efficient tools.
They erected the first of the secret temples, places where the fabric between worlds had become thin. Among the religions of animal-headed gods grew the silent sect infected with a particular madness that would, like flowers, sprout into a worldwide insanity.
The minds of men are easily manipulated, unlike those of the earlier civilizations which I was forced to eliminate. The stubbornness of lizards was particularly legendary. Of creatures that had descended from the stars or oozed through from various dreamlands, the less said the bett
er. Those that were useful I kept and bent to my own needs. The others were eliminated. The nameless cults spread where I desired and corrupted those who were useful. The Egyptian dynasties begat the Romans who begat the Europeans who begat the Asians who begat the Americans and so on and so forth. Humans spread across the globe like a virulent disease that ran rampant through its host. And in every place, in every culture, in every forgotten realm of antiquity, I had trodden and left madness in my wake.
In the distant past, I had taught the sorcerer kings of ancient Valusia of the things that had once called the earth their home but now slept, waiting to be reborn. All that was needed for their return was for certain conditions to be achieved, for a state of anarchy to rule and for ancient obstacles to be removed. In essence, what appears to men to be untold years of planning but which would be, for me, merely a blink of my eye.
The movement grew quickly; for men, especially those with blackness in their souls, are ever ready to destroy their neighbors and their worlds. A sect near the top of the world sought to impress me with their bloodlust, but they were like children playing with toys compared to other races whose barbarity had leeched down from the stars centuries earlier. At the bottom of the world, I walked through forgotten corridors made by creatures long since extinct and talked with those that had affected that extinction. They would have a part to play in the events to come and the world that was yet to be. Their eagerness was both appealing and pitiable.
Block by block, I laid my foundation.
Blood was spilt in the right places at the right time. Men will commit more atrocities in the name of religion than of any king. In time, the spaces between the sleeping and the awakened grew less and less. Puritans discovered the practices of certain forgotten tribes in what would be called America; and many, cut off from their home nations, would embrace in secret the customs that their forbears would have deemed worthy of fiery death. I spread the word personally to many as the colonies slowly grew and indulged in their feverish delusions of my origins and designs with books containing bloody signatures and rites of nameless portents. The art of revenation was taught and essential salts given so that each time they would reverberate on the wall between the worlds. Creatures were brought forward from the depths of the sea to meld with men and women to produce constructs that would, in time, provide the ballast needed to crack open the gates.