“You’re dangerous,” snapped the security man, gasping for breath. Past his prime, with too many beers under his belt for such exertion, he panted as the adrenaline evaporated from his system. Staring at the stranger, he added,
“And curious, I think. But the truly strong aren’t cruel. They don’t need to be.” The intruder nodded thoughtfully, as if placated. As it considered its next move, Nardi asked,
“Tony … can you, like, bring him back?”
“I could,” answered the stranger. “But with all he has … ah, experienced, shall we say … he will not be he that you knew.”
The security man nodded sadly. Putting his back against the marble wall close to his friend, he slid down the stone until he was seated on the floor. Wiping at the sweat running down the sides of his head, panting heavily, he growled;
“Well, you’re one goat-sucking son’va bitch, aren’t ya?”
“Hummmmmmmm,” the intruder mused, his smile growing wider. “Goat-sucking son of a bitch. Now I suppose I have a thousand and one names.”
Stepping close to Nardi, the stranger bent down until their eyes could meet. His head slightly tilted, he said softly,
“You were correct, Franklin. I am not cruel. I am too indifferent to be cruel. But I keep visiting this world of yours, hoping to learn. I would have liked to have seen what that herd outside would have done with the proper encouragement.”
Standing once more, the thing in human form shrugged its pretend shoulders, then made a gesture which caused the remains of Tony Balnco to reform into a lifeless, but recognizably human mass. After that it simply evaporated into a swirl of darkness, and then ceased to be. Franklin Nardi stayed where he was, tired and alone and filled with a horror he could not explain.
Under the glass-topped table, the hacker continued to whimper, a sound which in no way indicated he would be returning to rationality any time soon. In the hallway beyond, Clemmens and his assistant both sensed that their immediate crisis had passed. They had no idea why such a notion had come to them; they simply enjoyed the temporary moment of relief it brought them.
And outside, unknowing and uncaring, the ever-growing crowd trampling the flowers of Miskatonic University festered and growled in cruel indignation, complaining bitterly amongst themselves over the injustice of being forced to remain human.
THE NEST OF PAIN
C.J. Henderson
Forty years on, growing older and older,
Shorter in wind as in memory long,
Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder
What will it help you that once you were strong?
—E.E. Bowen
“You heard me—”
It was not that those present within earshot had not heard what the man had said.
“I want a refund.”
It was simply that they could not believe their ears. A refund? For a house de-ghosting? While the confrontation escalated in the front room, back in his office Franklin Nardi closed his eyes—briefly. At least, that had been his intention, to cut himself off from the world for no more than, say, an extended blink. Really. He simply needed a second of darkness, had to remove himself from the world of light and reality for at least a moment.
Although, ultimately he had to admit, to do so was dangerous. The cool and comforting black was seductive in its feeling of relative safety. Some days, it seemed that every time he closed his eyes he felt a boiling apprehension he might never open them again. It was not a fear of dying, but rather of simply retreating from the world—of finding the appeal of separation from all mankind was too seductive, and that he had finally decided to give in because enough was enough.
“It seems to me, Mr. Douglas, sir,” the voice of Mark Berkenwald, one of Nardi’s partners in the Arkham Detective Agency, the sound of his words accompanied by the rustling of papers, “we have your signature here, signing off as an indication of your satisfaction with the job in question.”
Nardi chuckled within his head at his partner’s voice—Mark, always so calm, always able to put off an aggressor with little more than an excess of words. He also remembered the Douglas couple, remembered the job. He remembered losing his cool just a bit on the night he had spent in the old house. Arkham, like any town with an abundance of top-drawer types, had money to burn. Recently, among the well-to-do in that corner of New England, it had become fashionable for new home purchases to not be considered finished—or at least dignified—until said structure and its lands had been inspected for aberrations, both physical and other-worldly.
“On top of that, Mr. Douglas, sir, the date of your signature here is over a year old. So, even if you hadn’t approved the work, there are limits—”
For some reason he could not explain at the time of that inspection, Nardi had opened himself to the house—or more correctly, to whatever might have been lurking within it—to a risky degree. Madame Renee, formerly Ms. Brenda Goff, his associate for that evening’s examination, had assured him the next morning that if there had been any kind of dangerous presence on site it would have come after him.
It should have, he thought, told himself, hiding behind his closed eyes, behind his mostly closed door.
Should have?
What the hell did he mean by that … should have?
“I don’t care about any of that,” came Douglas’ voice, quieter, less assured. “You just don’t understand …”
“Should have?”
Nardi heard himself say the words aloud, a part of him shuddering at what he knew that meant. It had been almost seven years since he had retired from the NYPD, he and his fellows. Each having put in their twenty years on the force, moving to New England and opening a security firm had seemed like such a bright idea. Low risks, simple work, and what they had called, back in the day, clean-air-lives. Each of them had been able to purchase a far more spacious private home than they had enjoyed in New York, one with land on both sides. Shoveling snow, raking leaves, planting a garden, joining the Knights of Columbus—
Their uncomplicated suburban dreams had materialized for the most part, but as in so many things, there had been unforeseen … complications.
“Mark,” Nardi heard himself calling out, a part of his mind cursing him for doing so, “bring Mr. Douglas in here, if you would, please.”
The head of the Arkham Detective Agency forced his eyes open. Forced himself to straighten his body in his chair. Forced himself to pretend the normal rules of the world still worked in the ways he used to believe. The ways he knew things worked before he had left the safety of Manhattan and its blessedly sterile concrete. Before he had discovered that there were things that lived in the darkness beyond any understanding. Before he had apologized to his mother for making sport of her for hanging garlic above the front door during his years living at home.
“Mr. Douglas,” said Nardi in his most welcoming tone, pointing toward one of the chairs before his desk, “good to see you again. What seems to be the problem?”
Edward Douglas did not look good. Oh, physically he still appeared much the same as when Nardi had seen him last—a year, year and a half earlier—just before his wedding. Now he seemed gaunt. Worn. But mainly, what did not look so good to the security man were his former client’s eyes. Nardi could see it without any trouble—the confusion. The fear, nesting there in the corners, attempting to overwhelm the entire iris in its effort to manifest, to envelope all of its host.
“Mr. N— Nardi, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. How can we help you?”
Douglas slipped into the offered chair, holding onto the armrests as he did so. His movements were weak, his motions jerky. If he were still a cop, Nardi thought, he would have pegged the man as one intimidated by neighborhood thugs. His instincts assured him there was something terribly wrong going on—at least in his visitor’s mind, if nothing else. When he sat quietly, twitching slightly—nervously—seemingly unable to organize his thoughts, Nardi offered:
“You were askin’ f
or a refund—”
“No, God—no.” Douglas sat forward quickly as he spoke, clamping his lips shut after his brief explosion of words. Shaking his head slightly, more of a trembling than anything else, his eyes avoiding Nardi’s, he continued, saying:
“I, I did say that. But, I didn’t mean it. I mean … that’s not what I want. I mean, I mean—”
“Mr. Douglas, please,” offered Nardi, his tone as consoling as possible, “relax. Take your time. There’s no rush.”
“It’s Julie,” he said, too quickly. The fear in his voice forcing its way through the knot in Nardi’s stomach. “Something … I don’t know what, how to describe …”
Nardi’s breath froze in his throat. It was partly his two decades as a police officer, dealing with people, listening to them, knowing when they were lying, knowing when they were trying to fool themselves—knowing. Then also, it was partly his years in Arkham. The things he had seen. The horrors witnessed, and those only felt. He knew something was wrong at the Douglas home, something beyond Douglas’ poor ability to put any of it into words. Most likely beyond his ability to even comprehend it.
“She’s … she’s like, I don’t know …”
The detective had no legal responsibility to do anything for the man on the other side of his desk. He could choose to send him to this or that organization, or offer to charge him for the company’s services once more. He could also turn him out, ignore him completely. It was a thought that was certainly present within his mind—within the part of his brain chiefly concerned with self-preservation.
Get him out of here, that segment of his mind hissed. What’re you thinkin’, you stupid wop? Forget this. Goddamnit, you remember what almost happened last time.
Last time?
While he offered Douglas various non-committal lumps of comfort, Nardi wondered at his thought. Last time … nothing had happened the last time. It had been open-and-shut. He and the witch went in, did all the tests, checked the place out, it was clean. It was.
You went the extra mile, ten of them. You opened yourself up to that place, dared it to bite your ass. What more were you supposed to do?
Should have.
Again, the same words, half-terror, half-accusation, echoed in his mind. Yes, he had tried, had done everything he could—he had. But still, his brain chose to remember the night not as a time when something could have happened, but should have.
Nardi stared across his desk at the man sitting there, softly crying. Edward Douglas was so distraught, so filled with frustrated self-loathing over his inability to articulate his situation, that his pathetic showing was almost comical. Except Nardi was not laughing. Inside, his bowels were churning, threatening to embarrass him. His fingers curling into involuntary fists, he tilted his head sideways, grinding his teeth, forcing himself under control.
He wanted to say the right words to Douglas, but had no idea what they might be. He wanted to comfort the man, but … how? What did he know about haunted houses, he asked himself, about creatures that could turn human beings inside out? That could break inter-dimensional barriers? All the things he had seen, all the horrors that had tried to kill him, how could he expose himself to any of it once more? And moreover … why would he do so?
“Perhaps,” he said softly, his tone a thing of concern, his brain screaming at him to not release the words forming within his mind, “I should come over and check things out myself …”
“Oh, oh my God … could you, would you?”
Every part of him slipping into frenzy, Franklin Nardi used all of his control to assure his former client that nothing could be easier. Laughing with embarrassment, Douglas dried his eyes, agreeing that eight o’clock that evening would be perfect. Stumbling on his way out the door, the younger man said some five different “thank yous” before he was out of earshot. Nardi was only able to offer him one “you’re welcome” before he began to shed his own tears.
- - -
Nardi sat outside the Douglas residence for some twenty minutes before finally leaving his car. He had not arrived early through any kind of accident or miscalculation. He had wanted some time to simply observe the house, to be within its presence. To see if anything felt different to him than it had a year earlier.
And, detective, the cynical side of his brain asked him, feel anything out of line? Got your cosmic mojo workin’ yet?
Using his anger to propel himself, when another vehicle pulled up on the opposite side of the suburban street, Nardi finally exited his own car and ascended the stairs to the Douglas’ front door. He chose the knocker over the door bell, giving it three politely sharp raps, then waited for a reaction. Within a handful of seconds Douglas responded, welcoming the detective into his home. The two exchanged the usual greetings and then, before anything more could be said, she entered.
“Mr. Nardi … how good it is to see you again.”
Julie Douglas’ voice crept into the security man’s ear, blurring his memories of the woman, transfixing him.
“Ummm, yeah, Ms. Douglas. Ah … you, too. Been a long time.” Taking his arm, the young woman—her hair dark, long, and radiant, her smile entrancing, her touch warm and lingering—guided Nardi forward into the Douglas home. Her husband trailed behind them, offering commentary which was ignored by the others. Seated in the living room, the woman asked, “So, are you here because of Eddie’s little obsession?”
“Ah … ma’am …”
“Oh, don’t pretend. It’s all right. The quicker we all get this out in the open, over and done with … why … the better for everyone—no?”
Nardi gulped. It was a small, barely noticeable action, but there was no doubt in his mind that the woman had seen it. Her grin was too perfectly timed to have been in reaction to anything else. Making certain his voice was calm, that it would not crack, he answered, “I would say so. In fact, I must admit, I’m not certain why I’m really here. Mr. Douglas didn’t actually explain what he thought the problem was.”
“He thinks I’m different. That I’ve changed. That I’m not his blushing bride anymore.” Leaning closer, leaning far too revealingly forward out of her chair, reaching toward Nardi, she asked:
“What do you think, Frank?”
The security man lowered his head slightly, closing his eyes to slits. Not looking directly at the woman, merely checking her position with his peripheral vision, he said, “Well, we all change in time. Marriage makes us all a little different.”
“Diplomatic, isn’t he, sweetheart?”
Her husband did not answer. Nardi did not waste any effort in even glancing to catch the man’s reaction. He had to concentrate on the woman. There was no doubt in the detective’s mind that Julie Douglas had changed. She had been a sweet girl. Not naive, but not jaded, either. Now, Nardi did not know what to make of her. She was aggressive, acting as if she could barely contain herself. But, he wondered, what was it she was trying to contain?
Nardi shook his head, working to clear the fog he could feel working its way into his brain. He could not identify the sensation within his mind. It was something like the beginning of a headache, the kind one felt in the morning, tiny stabs of pain just noticeable enough to force one awake. He tried to concentrate on the feeling, but no matter where, within his skull, he focused his efforts, the small slivers of agony would somehow dissipate, reassembling elsewhere.
“Got to make this stop,” he told himself.
“Darling,” the woman pretended to call to her husband, obviously using her words to taunt the security man, “our guest seems to be having some sort of difficulty. Whatever should we do?”
Whether Edward was about to respond to his wife’s words or not, all attention within the room was suddenly redirected by the jarring sound of Nardi’s cell phone going off. Fumbling it out of his pocket, the security man listened for a moment, then blurted back at the voice coming through it, “I, I understand. On my way.” Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Nardi forced himself erect, staggering
for the doorway, shouting, “Sorry … emergency … have to go. I’ll, I’ll come back. I’ll … I have to go—have to, have …”
The sound of Julie Douglas’ laughter followed the security man to the door.
- - -
Nardi sat in the passenger seat of the car which had pulled up across the street earlier, trembling—unable to focus. His shoulders were hunched, his body drawing in upon itself, a fright he could not name or comprehend shriveling him. Reducing him. Forcing him to question his very sense of reality.
“I’m thinking I called you just in time.”
“Y— Yes … yes … yes …”
“Jesus, Frank,” replied Madame Renee, her eyes going slightly wide at her realization, “I know things were sounding weird in there, but just what the hell—Jesus, Frank.”
Nardi had brooded over going to the Douglas house throughout the day. Finally he had called in the agency’s resident witch, asking her to go along in the role of psychic back-up. The security man had gone in wearing a double wire which had allowed Renee to hear everything clearly, and to get a bit of a visual as well. Sitting in her car with a company’s laptop, she had observed the scene and, when she had felt Nardi might actually be in some sort of trouble, had called his cell to give him an excuse to leave. Looking at him cowering next to her, she shook herself all over, then said, “Frank, we have to get you out of here. Can you drive? What do you want to do about your car?”
Nardi heard the woman’s words, knew she was correct. He could not go back inside the Douglas home. Not that night. Not in the condition he was in at that moment. He also did not want to leave his car behind. The things he had seen since moving to Arkham—had learned—no, he did not want a possession of his near the house, out of his sight.
Arkham Detective Agency: A Lovecraftian-Noir Tribute to C. J. Henderson Page 4