Arkham Detective Agency: A Lovecraftian-Noir Tribute to C. J. Henderson

by C. J. Henderson

  His breath came in halting gurgles, and stars spun in his vision. Everything hurt. He passed out.

  - - -

  The awful bleating of the no-name-brand clock-radio woke Sam with a jolt. He peeled his eyes open, quickly closing them again to block out the stabbing sunlight. Sam hefted a leaden arm to the nightstand, and dropped his limp hand onto the snooze button. He felt as if he’d been pushed from a moving locomotive into a stony canyon full of prickly pear cactus. He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, too tired and sore to move. He dreaded the alarm going off again, but more than that, he was afraid he was still dreaming.

  Sam didn’t remember going to sleep last night. He thought very carefully about it, but only remembered sitting at the desk studying that old case file. And then he was having this series of terrible nightmares. These were the kind some didn’t wake up from … he was sure of that.

  Again the alarm started its yammering. Feeling like he was loaded with bags of sand, Sam sat up and turned off the alarm. He glanced down at his exhausted body as he sat there, and gasped. He was covered in bruises running up and down his body, like he’d been pelted all over with small rocks.

  He stumbled into the bathroom, remembering the dream where he saw the spider face, but this time, he only saw his own face, haggard and swollen. He did not look good.

  As he examined his battered face, he realized the bruises were fading. The swelling was going down. Sam shook his head and wiped his face with his wet hands, and looked again. It was time for a long shower, that was for sure.

  - - -

  Sam sat in the local diner, reading the Arkham Gazette. He kept the waitress busy refilling his coffee cup. The stuff here was pretty good, but nothing compared to the coffee he used to make over an open fire while out on the range.

  Suddenly he coughed out a mouthful of coffee. “Local Teen Disappearance?” Not again! His gut hit the floor as he scanned the article and his fears were realized: Louis Eliot had never made it home last night. Now Sam felt responsible. He tossed some bills on the table, making sure to leave a nice tip for the waitress, and left.

  He needed more information on what happened. There just had to be more in that file.

  - - -

  Sam knew he’d be able to find something. There’d been a psychic involved at the first party, and he’d fallen ill as a result of contact he’d made during a séance. Now Sam knew he needed someone with psychic sensitivity. The problem, of course, was separating the genuine article from the coachloads of pretenders out there. Charlatans had existed back in his day, and were even worse today. He pulled out the Yellow Pages by the phone. He knew he could use various websites for the same task, but he still preferred the old school methods for most.

  He ran down the (blessedly) short list of psychics in the phone book, and stopped. There was one who claimed to be descended from a line of psychics. Sure enough, the last name was the same, and with a name like “Wvinch,” that’s not something easy to fake. The name here was “Suzanna Wvinch,” and if this was all true, she was likely the granddaughter or great granddaughter of Gerrhardt Wvinch from the earlier case file.

  - - -

  It had to be the same family. The address was even the same as it was back then. Sam leaned on the buzzer at 611 Gedney Street. He was thrilled that it was only a few blocks from his hotel, allowing him to work off the gallons of coffee he’d consumed to counter his horrid nightmares from the night before.

  “Yes?” squawked a voice through the building’s antiquated intercom.

  “Ms. Wvinch? My name is Sam Branson. We spoke on the phone a few minutes ago?”

  “Of course.” And the buzzer sounded, unlocking the door.

  Sam took the steps two at a time, and got to the third floor somewhat winded. He arrived in time to hear the door unlock. An attractive woman with iron-gray hair pulled the door open. “Mr. Branson?”

  “Please,” Sam smiled. “Call me Sam.”

  “Only if you agree to call me Suzanna. Please. Come in.” She ushered Sam into her modest apartment, and offered him a seat in the small living room. “I don’t do the usual trappings of crystals and gypsy regalia. I’m not a gypsy, and I’m not trying to convince people I’m for real. You sought me out, though, so what’s on your mind?” She sat opposite him and curled her feet under her legs.

  “I need help with a case,” Sam said. “And I need the real thing, which is why I’m here.” Sam went on to explain the history of what happened on Halsey Street, bringing up the man who turned out to be Suzanna’s grandfather. He then brought her up to date on the current case, complete with his beliefs about ties to the location of the original case. Finally, he brought up his dreams from last night.

  “That’s quite something, Sam,” Suzanna said.

  “And that’s why I’m here. I’m hoping you can tell me something about what your grandfather allegedly experienced—”

  “Oh, there was nothing ‘allegedly’ about it, Sam. It was real, and it happened.”

  “How—”

  “Because I’ve read what my grandfather wrote about the experience, and what he wrote about in subsequent studies. He even used to talk to me about some of it when I was younger and showed an interest. It was those conversations that guided me into this line of work.”

  “This is great n—”

  “There’s nothing great about this, Sam. Let me be perfectly clear. This is going to be terrifying. Perhaps even more terrifying than your nightmares last night. Now you’re going to know they’re real. Yes, they’re dreams—but there are dreams, and then there are Dreams with a capital ‘D.’ You have had a Dream.”

  “With a capital ‘D’?”

  “Yes, Sam. Have you had experiences like this before?”

  “Uh, not exactly like this. I mean, I wasn’t asleep. And I wasn’t alone.”

  “Really!” Suzanna exclaimed. “That is unusual.”

  “That’s uh … not the word I’d use.”

  “Sorry, Sam. That’s not what I meant.” Suzanna shook her head. “Let’s get back to the case. We can discuss your history another time.”

  “Well, you were saying that your grandfather wrote an account of what he saw?”

  “Yes!” Suzanna said, hopping up. “I’ll be right back.”

  Sam took the opportunity to look around the room. It was a small but comfortable living room. The door to the apartment opened into it, and there were two other doors: one to the kitchen, and one to a hallway. Sam figured the hallway led to the bedrooms. He didn’t notice a ring on Suzanna’s finger, so Sam figured she lived alone.

  “Okay, Sam,” Suzanna said coming back into the room. “These should have what we need.” She was carrying a stack of several old books. Some were hardcovers, while others were yellowed writing journals.

  “Hoo boy,” Sam said. “Good thing I had my coffee!”

  Suzanna smirked at him. “Now, you said you saw a spider face? That’s important. It was a spider when my grandfather was involved, too.” She started paging through one of the hardcovers.

  “I believe it,” Sam muttered. “Eyewitness accounts mention a ‘kook in a spider costume.’”

  Suzanna’s eyebrow ticked up. “It was no costume, Sam.” She turned the text toward him.

  Sam leaned in to read the entry. “Alaa … Atlaa …? Atlock?”

  “Atlach-Nacha,” Suzanna said. “She’s a spider goddess who lives in a place known as the Dreamlands. Sometimes, she crosses over into our plane of existence, the waking world, over a bridge made of her webs, as she did almost 100 years ago. Now, she’s doing it again, I suspect. Last time, though, she took over a young woman who left desiccated corpses in her wake. This time, she’s leaving nothing behind. So that means …”

  “It means either she’s gotten smart, and isn’t leaving evidence anymore, or she’s kidnapping her victims and there’s still a chance. Now,” Sam said, steel entering his voice. “How do I fight this bitch?”

  - - -

  Sam s
at on the edge of his bed in his hotel room. “Are you sure about this, Suzanna?” he asked the woman standing by the bedside. “I feel awkward just going to sleep.”

  “Sam,” Suzanna said, explaining it again. “Atlach-Nacha lives beyond the wall of sleep. If those boys are alive, then that’s where they’ve been taken, and that’s where you’ll have to go to rescue them.”

  The expression on Sam’s face turned wistful.

  “What is it?”

  “I wish I had a friend with me,” Sam said, looking up at Suzanna. His face suddenly reddened. “No! I didn’t mean you. Well, that’s not to say I wouldn’t want you with me … I just … I’m going to start again.”

  Suzanna tried to smother a smile. “Okay …”

  “Last time something like this happened, I had my horse with me. He, uh … didn’t survive the trip. There were creatures … well, ahem. Anyway, I’d love if he were with me again.”

  “Sam, the image of this horse is still with you. Bring him!”

  “What?”

  “Focus on his memory before you go to sleep, and you’ll create a copy of him from memory. He’ll be with you there. In fact, you can do that with your whole image, and what you bring. You will appear there at your most comfortable.”

  “Well now,” Sam said. “This may turn out well for the good guys after all.” His smile was a vicious one. “Yes, it may.”

  Suzanna’s smile mirrored Sam’s. “Now drink this,” she said.

  He glanced up at her questioningly.

  “It’s a mixture my grandfather devised that I’ve perfected over the years. It is a mixture of various herbs in a tea that will help you get into a deep sleep, and make it easier to enter the Dreamlands and stay there until you wish to wake up.”

  “And when I want to wake up?”

  “You will!”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Trust me.”

  Sam took the cup and downed the tea quickly. It tasted like honey, fire, and wet shoes. “Yyuuu—” he started …

  - - -

  … and Sam stood at the edge of the empty lot of 863 Halsey Street. He looked down at himself, and found that he was wearing his old Marshal outfit: heavy brown trousers covered in worn chaps, his .45 slung on his hip, a white shirt, and a leather vest with his badge pinned to it. He wore his favorite hat on his head, and carried a Henry rifle over his shoulder.

  He felt a familiar nudge at his shoulder, and his eyes filled with tears. He turned and threw his arms around his horse. “Two-Gun, old boy! Aw, I missed you.” He was elated and devastated at the same time, remembering how his faithful friend had carried him for hundreds of miles, gotten him out of more bad situations than he could count, and how he’d repaid all that by putting a bullet in his brain. Sure, he’d been in agony, suffering from a wound from that nightmare creature. But still, Sam had sent the men home. He should have sent Two-Gun, too. Sam heaved a big sigh. It was done now, and too late. But for the moment at least, he had his horse, his friend, his loyal companion back with him. And Sam was going to make sure it was all worth it.

  He turned and examined the overgrown patch of green again, and this time, there was a tunnel down into the earth. The floor of the tunnel was covered with silvery white threads. Sam realized they were spider webs.

  “That’s our cue, Two-Gun, old pal,” Sam said. “Let’s not keep the lady waiting.”

  They stepped forward, but Sam felt no chill this time. Perhaps it was because this was the second time he’d stepped on it, or perhaps it was because this was a Dream. He did not know, but his resolve grew with every step.

  Before long, the liquid twilight sky died away behind them, but the tunnel did not darken: eerie light glowed from all around, allowing Sam to see perfectly. He and his horse walked along the tunnel that was suddenly no longer a tunnel. Sam and Two-Gun now walked along a bridge of sorts. The planks were actually woven spider silk about four or five feet across, and handrails sprouted up and along, allowing Sam to hold on if he felt the need. The similarity to a familiar footbridge ended there. Webbing stretched up, over, and away from them in all directions. In fact, looking at it straight on, and squinting a little, the pattern was not unlike … well … a spider web. The part that made Sam start to sweat was the now-familiar mist, which kept well back from his position in all directions, but did not allow him to see what the far ends of the web attached to. What was the bridge hanging from?

  And there was no noise. Sure, he heard their footfalls, sounding like shoes stepping on stiffened rope, and of course he could hear his own breathing and so on, but that was all. There was no other sound in this place between places: no birds, insects, nothing.

  It dawned on Sam where he was with that observation. He was between places. This was Atlach-Nacha’s web, stretching across the chasm between the waking world and her realm of sleep.

  “Well, Two-Gun, now that I think I’ve finally figured this out,” he smirked at himself. “I say we charge in, guns blazing. Let’s go save those boys!”

  In response, Two-Gun huffed out a breath of air, and tossed his head.

  Sam mounted up, cocked the Henry rifle, loosened his .45 in its holster, and spurred his horse. Two-Gun leapt forward, and they galloped full out, into battle …

  - - -

  … and were there. Two-Gun leaped off the bridge onto solid ground. Sam pulled back on the reins with his left hand, shouldered his rifle, sighted, and thundered off one round into an enormous purple spider that was charging them.

  “Lordy!” Sam cried as the thing collapsed. “That’s gotta be six feet across! Glad I’m still pretty good with this rifle.” Two-Gun blew out more air, and turned to one side. More were coming, and Sam saw them. He dropped the reins and focused on steadying his gun. He cocked, took aim, and fired. Cocked, took aim, fired. Two more lay dead.

  Sam nudged Two-Gun with his heels, and they moved forward. Sam kept his eyes on the trail in front of them, scanning for more creatures. Whenever they showed up, he dropped them with a .44 rifle round.

  As they continued, Sam realized something. He’d been riding and shooting for a while now, but hadn’t had to reload. Sure, the rifle held sixteen rounds, but he was sure he’d fired more than that by this time. He also realized he hadn’t been keeping count. As a professional with a gun, he made it his business to know how many shots he’d fired, and how many he had left, no matter what weapon he’d been using.

  “Must be ’cause I’m dreaming, eh Two-Gun?” he mumbled to his horse, patting him affectionately on the neck. He took that moment to check his gun, though. He pulled down the lever, and there was a bullet in the chamber, and another still in the magazine. He had at least two shots left.

  Two-Gun nickered and stopped quickly enough that Sam swayed forward. Sam looked up and shouldered his rifle in the same fluid motion. And he lowered it again.

  There in front of him was the most ornate web he’d ever seen, like silver filigree crafted by the best silversmiths in the world. It was shaped into both a pedestal and a throne, clearly intended for the queen of all spiders, and there on that pedestal sat Atlach-Nacha. Sam winced. He’d gotten used to the giant purple spiders, but this critter was something different entirely.

  As Sam looked at her, he had difficulty focusing. Her face was both beautiful and horrifying: the facial structure was unearthly in its beauty, but within that face burned six glowing red eyes. As she smiled at Sam, two massive spider fangs unfolded from within her mouth. Then her face was just a giant spider face. Then it shifted again, and it was a giant spider face with two human eyes. That last image, for some reason, unsettled him most—much to her delight, clearly. That face solidified, and Sam no longer saw the others, and found he could not tear his eyes away.

  “Fine,” declared Sam. “We’ll do it this way.”

  The spider face smiled, and the human eyes glittered with mirth.

  “You know why I’m here. I’ve come for the boys.”

  “Are you quit
e sure?” hissed the creature in front of him.

  Sam pointed the barrel of his rifle at her. “Pretty sure.”

  “Ah, such determination.”

  “Yup.”

  “But are you sure it is the boys you wish to rescue, and not your lady love?”

  “Hunh?”

  “Such a command of language!” She gestured with one of her eight legs, and two of the purple spiders ambled from behind the web throne carrying a cocooned person between them. Only the head was free of webbing. There was Suzanna’s gentle face, slack in unconsciousness. Sam lowered his head, but kept his eyes on Atlach-Nacha. Fury burned through him. He hadn’t realized his growing feelings for the psychic until now, and she had somehow fallen prey to this demon. “Well, Marshal? Which is it to be? I will release the boys or the woman.”

  Sam clenched his jaw and fired. Twice. The report from the shots thundered through the air. Both purple spiders dropped. Sam dug his heels into Two-Gun’s sides and the horse leapt forward and galloped toward the form on the ground. Sam kicked his feet out of the stirrups and thrust his right heel into Two-Gun’s flank, and the horse pivoted just as Sam tossed his left leg over Two-Gun’s rump. The momentum threw Sam out of the saddle and he sailed through the air landing in a crouch over Suzanna’s prone form with his rifle pointing at Atlach-Nacha’s head.

  Atlach-Nacha threw back her head and laughed. “Truly this must be a dream!” she cried. “When were you last spry enough to move like that, Marshal?”

  Sam refused to be goaded. “I’ll take the boys now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, but I do, I’m afraid.”

  Sam pulled the trigger.

  But nothing happened.

  Recovering quickly, Sam dropped the rifle and reached for his .45.

  But it was gone.

  Sam spun back to the left where Two-Gun stood, only to see him disappear in a puff of smoke. Sam’s breath caught in his throat. He turned back to face the Queen of the Dreamlands.