The jewel was egg-shaped, black with red striations and numerous flat surfaces. I’d never seen a gem like it before. It almost hung in the box, suspended by seven supports. The goon held my head tight, and Phil moved the box closer.
I couldn’t avoid looking into it. The blackness was almost thick enough to touch. I thought, for a moment, that it was transparent and that I could see through it to other places and times. I saw a procession of different worlds with great stone towers, titan mountains that were empty of any life, then robed and hooded figures whose outlines were not human, that looked upon endless vistas of deserts lined with carved monoliths that reached for the skies. There were towers and walls not made by man under the sea, and pockets of space where wisps of black mist floated before thin shimmerings of a cold but aware purple haze. Beyond that was an infinite gulf of darkness where something that was hungry was waiting.
I screamed and tried to pull my eyes away, but I was forced to look into the gem longer than any man had dared risk before, and I could hear Anna laughing in the background at my torment.
“What is it?” Phil gasped. “What do you see?”
“I— I can see beyond Yuggoth! It sees me! It is coming. That three-lobed burning eye!”
Suddenly I felt the creature enter me. Its thoughts became my thoughts. My body became its body. I could feel its memories and saw unending vistas of space around me and inside me. I experienced eons of forgotten history and lost races spread across the cosmos. The Haunter had come.
Anna was screaming. I could hear her voice coming from a long way away.
“I’ve got you now!” Phil yelled as he stepped forward with some sort of odd amulet in his hand. Somewhere in the back of my mind I recognized it as the amulet I had stolen off of Nardi during the Gault case years ago. I burst free of the chair.
Phil began chanting in a strange, guttural language that I had never heard before but which, through the Haunter’s mind, I could understand perfectly. He was trying to bind the Haunter to him like a common demon.
The laughter from the Haunter filled the room, making my blood run cold. My hand reached out (but it wasn’t my hand any longer) and grabbed Phil’s hand holding the amulet and twisted. The bones cracked, and Phil’s hand came away with the rest of his arm.
There was something stinging me. The goons were firing their guns wildly, but I couldn’t feel a thing. With a glance from the Haunter, they burst apart like meat balloons.
I moved closer to Phil, who sat whimpering on the floor, cradling his shoulder which would not stop spurting blood. Anna was trying to help him get up, but he was too heavy for her to move. “It’s supposed to work,” he murmured, “I know it is!”
Anna looked up into my eyes, and the Haunter looked back. He showed her things. Horrible, terrible things that lurk just beyond the cosmic rim and hunger unceasingly. That’s when her mind broke.
I turned back to Phil. I felt big, powerful, more potent than I’d ever felt before. The Haunter wanted to play with this one, and I was content to allow it, when several doors of the warehouse burst open and Nardi charged in with a small army of men. They were holding large floodlights, and they all trained them on me. I could feel the Haunter scream in anguish and its hold on me weaken.
“Quick! Shoot the gem!” Nardi yelled, and another man fired his gun and the Shining Trapezohedron shattered into a million pieces. The Haunter screamed, and I screamed as it fled back into the blackness, and I slumped down on the floor next to Anna.
I woke up about a month later, and Nardi came to see me. He told me the whole tale of how’d they’d been shadowing me since I left the bar. They saw me get snatched outside the old man’s house, and Nardi had an idea what McGurk was up to, so he brought in the troops with the bright lights because that was the only thing that could really hurt the Haunter.
“What did Phil want with it anyway?” I asked.
“Who knows? A supernatural hit man, maybe? Or maybe he just wanted to break the world in half. But we’ll never know. He lost too much blood, and the ambulance couldn’t get there in time. Can’t say I’ll miss him. I figured you’d lead me to whoever you were swiping stuff for before, and I was right. We found everything you ever took in his place … plus a whole lot more. So, you’re clean with the Arkham Detective Agency … for now.”
“And Anna?”
Nardi looked away. “She’s up at the nuthouse in Danvers. All she does is scream.”
I nodded. I’d felt her mind shatter. “So I guess you owe me another, right?”
Nardi looked at me with wary eyes. “What do you have in mind?”
I smiled. “I kinda need a job.”
That’s how I ended up working for Nardi again and, to his surprise, I became a pretty good agent, because now I had an edge. I never told him or anyone else, but when the Haunter was chased off, he left a little bit behind. My ‘Dark Companion,’ I call him. I can see things now that no one else can. Who knows? I might even open my own agency eventually. “Mike Dolan Investigations.” It’s got a nice ring to it.
I visited Anna a few times, but the sight of me sent her into violent screaming fits so the last time I just watched her through an observation window. Every once in a while, she’d make a movement that reminded me of the old Anna, and I’d hope that she’s still in there somewhere. She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Sometimes I have dreams of finding and rescuing her. There are things chasing her. Sometimes they look like me. Once I jumped up awake from one of those dreams and was sure that she was sitting in my room watching me. But she wasn’t there. At least, I don’t think she was. Like I said, my mind gets fuzzy sometimes.
REELING BACK
Tom Lynch
Sam Branson liked this town from the moment he saw it through the window of his bargain rental car. He felt something here he hadn’t felt since his time on the Western Frontier. There was a history and a sadness to this town, as if it was clinging with aching claws to its storied past. And if Sam’s reading material had been any indication, Arkham had quite a past indeed.
He was glad to get to see more of the country. He’d read plenty and seen pictures, along with documentaries and such, but Sam was old-fashioned. Really old-fashioned. It came with being born over 150 years ago and thrown forward in time to the present day, after a brief trip through some mysterious fog and a disappearing valley … but that’s another story.
Sam eyed the Arkham skyline, seeing the older houses refusing to give way to the invading office buildings beyond. The gambrels clearly felt, since they’d gotten there first, that the others would have to wait in the sidelines. The end result was a small New England town that seemed to have considered joining the twenty-first century, then decided against it.
Glancing up at the buildings as he drove into town toward his hotel, Sam was struck by something else: a feeling of foreboding. The shadows between the buildings were deep and dark, and seemed to hide much. Sam was okay with that. He’d seen a lot of weird and dark.
Now, why had he been called here from his home in Las Vegas? Why had the Arkham Detective Agency brought a cowboy to the Northeast? Well, someone here needed his help, and he had a reputation of being able to help in situations where the police wouldn’t even believe you, let alone be able to assist.
Sam breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled up in front of the Independence Arms Hotel. He enjoyed exploring around town, but was happy to hang his hat for a spell. He stood up and stretched his legs after the 45-minute drive up from Boston’s Logan Airport. His car was whisked away by the valet, and he had to chase his suitcase into the lobby. The desk checked him right into a junior suite, and, before he knew it, Sam was gazing out the windows over Independence Square Park and south toward the Miskatonic River. The famed Miskatonic University was on the south side of town, and he’d surely have to stop in there at some point before his business was done.
Speaking of that business, Sam opened his briefcase and pulled out his laptop
and paper files containing the details of the case thus far: disappearances. Foster Chase, Boyd Farnsworth, and Edwin Farr. Three of them. Teenagers. Friends. Good kids, supposedly, but Sam knew he’d have to dig further on that. So many parents were convinced their kids were angels that it stumped him how they were all so shocked to learn their “little darlings” were involved with the drug du jour, sex with the neighbor’s daughter, or selling answers to school tests.
These three certainly fit the profile: well-off, busy parents, unremarkable school records. Anything goes with this crowd, Sam knew. The file indicated that the group of classmates had hung out together over the summer, working at the local country club, caddying and assisting the tennis coach. Summer ended, school started, and one by one, over the past month, the three of them had disappeared. Arkham was no Vegas or New York, where kids disappeared and were duped or sold into prostitution, only to turn up years later damaged but alive, if they were lucky. And Arkham was still a small town: the folks working the train and bus stations wouldn’t sell the local kids tickets out of town. No, Sam had a bad feeling about this one.
With a chill, Sam stepped away from his files for a moment to pace. He looked out the window at Arkham again, and was aware of a sinister aspect. The vague deterioration leered back at him, mocking him. “Well now,” Sam Branson said. “We’ll just see about that.”
- - -
Sam stepped through the doorway of the Arkham Detective Agency. The receptionist peered over her horn-rimmed reading glasses at him. “Mr. Branson?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam smiled.
The older woman scowled, and pursed her lips like she’d been fed a lemon. “Mr. Nardi is expecting you. Head on in.”
Sam kept smiling, nodded, and walked to the back office indicated by the receptionist’s head-toss. Sam recognized a fellow lawman as soon as he stepped into Frank Nardi’s office.
“That you, Sam?” the rumpled man behind the paper-laden desk asked.
“It is. Good to finally meet you, Mr. Nardi.” Sam shot back.
“Oh cut the shit, Sam. Call me Frank.” Frank stopped and sighed. “Sorry about that. Given your history, you’re not used to such language. But I don’t have time for niceties. You’re here ’cause I simply can’t handle the load any more. President Clemmons at Miskatonic University has me working on yet another something-or-other down there. And besides, this case seemed right up your alley.”
Sam nodded. “Sure does, Frank. You’re sure busy, so why don’t I just move myself along. I’ve got all I need, and I’ll ring ya up, if I feel the need.”
“Sounds peachy, Sam. Good hunting.”
- - -
Sam rang the doorbell and tucked his hat under his arm. A middle-aged woman opened the door enough for Sam to see half her face, the door chain still in place. “Leila Eliot?” he asked.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, Ma’am, I expect you can,” Sam said smiling. “My name is Sam Branson, and I’m a private investigator. I’m investigating the disappearances of several high-schoolers in the area.”
“I’ve already spoken to the police.”
“I’m sure you have, ma’am. I promise I won’t keep you long. Here’s my identification.”
The woman looked down at Sam’s ID card, and back at his face. Sam could tell she wanted to close the door, wanted all this to go away.
“Ma’am, my main objective here is to keep the rest of the kids safe. If you might have some information, I’d surely like to have it.”
“Okay …” she said, unchaining the door.
Sam stepped in. “Thank you kindly, Mrs. Eliot. Now, I’ll cut right to it. You have a son who is a classmate of the missing boys, don’t you? Louis, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And didn’t Louis work with the three boys over the summer at the club?”
Mrs. Eliot winced, and recovered. “No, he … No.”
“What is it, Mrs. Eliot? Anything could help.”
Sam saw her jaw tighten briefly. She turned to the side. “We didn’t have the money to spare. There was an application fee.”
“You didn’t want him working there, did you?”
Her eyes widened. “How…?” She sighed. “No. We didn’t.”
“He’s still mad at you about it?”
“He … Yes.”
“Ma’am, did he mention a girl by any chance? This may be important.”
Mrs. Eliot fidgeted, and glanced out the window for a moment. “… yes.”
“And her name?”
“Shirley Manning.”
“And is she somewhere around these days?”
“N—no. Well yes, but no. She’s in the hospital.”
“The hospital?”
“Yes. In a coma, the doctors say, but no one seems to know why.”
Sam nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Eliot. That’s all I’ve got. And if it’s any consolation, I think you did the right thing.”
Mrs. Eliot gave Sam a tight, sad-eyed smile, and let him out.
Sam walked out to the sidewalk and started to stroll. He had confirmation of the evidence he’d been given. The boys had all made mention of Miss Manning. Something was clearly going on with this girl, but she was unresponsive and in the hospital. And her family wasn’t talking.
- - -
Sam stood at the edge of the empty lot of 863 Halsey Street. There was something about this place. It was more than the fact that this was one of the wealthier sections of Arkham, and this lot had been vacant for … he checked his notes. Almost ninety years. He squinted and looked again. He shivered. Weird.
He placed one foot on the grass …
And stopped cold.
Chills raced up over his flesh, and made his scalp tingle.
His knee started to quiver, and his foot twitched.
He pulled his foot back onto the pavement, and sighed relief. He crouched down in the afternoon light and eyed the overgrown rectangle of miscellaneous green.
Sam had spoken to Louis Eliot after speaking to his mother, having caught up with him on his walk home. He figured if he caught up with him away from his mother, he’d be more comfortable, and he was almost right. Louis had explained that Shirley was the hottest girl in school and had worked as a hostess at the club over the summer. She’d been asking various boys to work at the club with her to keep her “occupied” when she got bored. A few weeks ago, however, she stopped coming to school. She’d gotten sick, Louis had said. Then he heard she had gone into the hospital. And yes, this happened before the other boys disappeared.
There was clearly a connection to this place, though. Perhaps the girl had come here, and her young mind had been assaulted and taken over by another presence, just as had happened so long ago, when young Ariadne Madden’s persona had been subsumed by some arachnid presence.
History had a way of repeating itself, and Sam had a pretty good hunch that’s what was happening here.
- - -
Sam sat at the desk in his hotel room with the old file on 863 Halsey Street spread out in front of him. According to eyewitness accounts, there had been two ill-fated parties. At the first, a young man had committed suicide by placing his own derringer in his mouth. The second, a week later, had included several casualties, monster sightings, and a house fire.
Sam focused on the information “dismissed by authorities,” since he had found so often in his work that the true clues lay there. He didn’t find much from the police reports from the first event, but there were a number of interesting tidbits to be found from the second. One witness said there were monsters, another said there were people dressed up in spider costumes, but the most disturbing was a medical report quoting a patient raving about baby-headed spiders in the attic. Police reports claimed sounds of children screaming as fire ripped through the upper levels of the house.
- - -
Again, Sam stood on the sidewalk looking at the empty lot, this time through dense mist. Chilling flames ran
down his spine. Sam recognized this mist: it was the same as the stuff on the other side of the hill out west, a lifetime ago.
On reflex he drew his weapon. Holding it two-handed, he spun 360 degrees, but he was alone. And there was no sound. The last time he was in a place like this he saw strange plants and animals out of a child’s dream. This time, however, the silence thundered in his ears, and loneliness pressed in around him.
He lowered his gun and stared at the plot of overgrown weeds. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t place it.
There! He heard it again. Those were cries for help. Sam spun again, trying to figure out where the calls were coming from, trying to get some idea.
The tunnel opened in the ground before him. It had been there all along, hadn’t it? Sam loosened his grip on his gun, shifting it to only his right hand. He pulled out a pocket flashlight, and shined it down into the gloom. These tiny flashlights had been a great invention. He remembered using lanterns and torches not all that long ago. Batteries and LEDs made things so much easier.
As his foot hit the dirt of the tunnel floor, a massive spider with a girl’s face but spider’s fangs launched at him out of nowhere. The creature shrieked so loud, it felt like someone boxing his ears. With a yelp, Sam stumbled backward and raised his arms over his face …
- - -
… and sat up in bed, sweating, gasping, clinging to the covers with white-knuckled terror. Sam didn’t cuss often, but what in all fuck had that been? Sure he’d had nightmares in his life, but never like that. Never so clear, realistic, intense.
With his heart still hammering so hard he could see his chest moving, Sam ambled out of bed and into the hotel room bathroom. He turned on the cold water and splashed it all over his face and onto the back of his neck. As his breathing returned to normal, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
And saw the face of a giant spider staring back at him!
- - -
Sam sat up in bed, again. Gasping, again. His heart was hammering, again. Sam’s vision started to close in on itself. His left arm spasmed in sudden agony. This is it, Sam thought to himself. I’m having a heart attack, and dying alone in an anonymous hotel room almost three thousand miles from home.
Arkham Detective Agency: A Lovecraftian-Noir Tribute to C. J. Henderson Page 20