Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy)

by Graham McNeill

  “I don’t think you’re crazy, Mr. Edwards,” said Kate, sounding intrigued. “Flux stability and magnetic resonance integrity are my fields of research, so I assure you, I will treat this matter with all seriousness.”

  She bent down to take another look at the sphere, and Finn backed away from her.

  “I didn’t get a word of that, did you, Prof?” said Finn.

  “Not really, no,” said Oliver, turning to Kate. “Are you saying there might be something to what this man is saying?”

  “Absolutely,” said Kate, a measure of her original quietness coming to the fore. “I mean, it’s all experimental, but we’ve been having problems keeping a charge in the new batteries, and I’ve uncovered something that might explain it. At least, I think I have.”

  She led them toward a machine on a far desk, which looked like a cross between a candlestick telephone and a mangled trumpet. Copper wires were wrapped tightly around a central hub, while glass rods capped with brass ran the length of the device.

  “Our detection equipment here is quite advanced, but still woefully inadequate to capture the full spectra of information I need to make my equations accurate enough. Put simply, the electromagnetic fields in this town are shot to hell, which means there are hot spots of dimensional instability that bear a striking resemblance to what you just described to me, Mr. Edwards.”

  “Jeez, girl, where’d you learn all them big words?” said Finn.

  “Here at Miskatonic,” said Kate, choosing not to take offense at Finn’s words. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

  Her device was connected to a wall socket. When Kate turned the switch, the transparent rods hummed with a static buzz, and a flickering white light danced along the inner faces of the glass.

  Oliver felt a curious metallic taste in his mouth and the hairs on his arms stood on end as an actinic charge hazed the air with static. The light in the room suddenly felt…thin, as though the skin of the world had been pulled tight over its face. Oliver lifted a hand to his forehead as a vertiginous dizziness threatened to overcome him.

  Kate turned a brass dial on the device and the thinness was replaced by a heavy solidity; the lines of the bench, the floor, and the walls seemed to etch themselves indelibly onto the surface of his retina. Though he knew it was nonsense, it felt as though the mass of reality in the room had become infinitely greater.

  It was a dreadfully uncomfortable feeling, and Oliver’s eyes watered as he felt the surrounding air exerting an inexorable pressure on his body. Though he had never been in a decompression chamber, Oliver had read of its unpleasant side effects if used incorrectly, and this felt a lot like the dangerous symptoms described in the medical journals.

  “Good God,” said Oliver, feeling his stomach lurch and threaten to expel its contents.

  “It’s…it’s…too real!” said Finn, gripping the edge of a nearby bench. “I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

  “It takes a bit of getting used to,” said Kate. “Breathing shallow helps.”

  She reached over and switched the device off. Instantaneously, the world returned to normal and the alternating thinness and sickening solidity that had swelled around them vanished.

  “What the hell was that?” demanded Finn.

  “I call it the flux stabilizer,” said Kate, checking the device as though disappointed with the effects it had produced. “It can weaken or strengthen the electromagnetic field in a localized area, but I can’t get the resonance to a high enough level to fully counteract the anomalies we’ve been seeing.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t follow any of this,” said Oliver. “Nor do I see what this has to do with the sphere Mr. Edwards has brought you.”

  Kate gave him a look that suggested he was being willfully dense and moved over to a machine that looked similar to the cylinder recorder his Cambridge friend Hillshore used. It was apparent, however, that this device did not record sound. A thin pen on a slender wire described a sinuous waveform across a long sheet of graph paper mounted on a slowly revolving drum.

  Kate lifted the long length of paper that had already been drawn by the machine and held it out to Finn and Oliver. The inked line went up and down in a smooth curve at regular intervals, but Kate pointed to a sharp dip on one of the wave crests, which was immediately followed by a sudden spike.

  “This is a modified Hospitalier Ondograph,” explained Kate. “It records a waveform image built up over time, using a synchronous motor drive mechanism and a permanent magnet galvanometer. It’s not the most accurate method of measurement, but it’s the best we have. Right now it’s recording the density of the electromagnetic flux within a two mile radius. Normally it’s pretty steady, but see these changes? That’s where I turned on my device. I weakened the field first, then strengthened it a moment later. You see? The ondograph captured the flux in black and white.”

  Seeing Finn and Oliver’s confusion, Kate gave an exasperated sigh.

  “For goodness sake, freshmen taking Physics 101 know more than you two. Electromagnetism is a fundamental interaction of nature; it’s like the glue that holds the world together. If you can measure it, you can learn where the weak spots are. My device is designed to strengthen the electromagnetic field for a short time. To shore up the walls between worlds so to speak.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Oliver. “The walls between worlds?”

  “Yes,” said Kate. “Now who sounds crazy?”

  * * *

  Rex led the way as they traveled down a dirty hallway and entered a ripe-smelling cavern of a room, its glossy floor wet with mopping, and the air bitter with an ammoniac reek of bleach. Tables and chairs were stacked up in front of what was presumably a dance floor, and the place was depressingly empty.

  “Sheesh, this is where college kids come to get their kicks?” asked Minnie.

  “Folk’ll do anything for a drink these days,” pointed out Rex.

  This place was like a dozen other speakeasies Rex had seen, but bereft of drinkers, dancers, and music, it was a thoroughly miserable-looking place. A bulky man with dark skin wearing a heavy topcoat sat at the bar, drinking from a tall glass and smoking a cigarette, while a bartender cleaned glasses and tried to look disinterested.

  “Are you Rufus?” asked Rex.

  The man looked over at them, and Rex saw he wore thick, dark glasses beneath the wide brim of his hat.

  “Ain’t no other,” said the man, blowing a mouthful of smoke. “So you’re reporters?”

  “Yeah, Rex Murphy at your service.”

  “And who’d you be, pretty lady?”

  “Minnie Klein, photographer at large,” said Minnie. “How about a picture?”

  Rufus shook his head and wagged an admonishing finger. “Uh-uh, you don’t wanna be taking my picture. Burn your film right out of that camera. Plenty more pretty things to be snapping, you get me?”

  “Not really, but that’s okay,” said Minnie.

  Rufus snapped his fingers and two drinks appeared on the bar, courtesy of the barman.

  “On the house,” said Rufus, slipping his hand inside his coat pocket to remove a silver cigarette case. He snapped it open one-handed and held the case toward them.

  Rex took one, and the bartender leaned over to light it. He inhaled deeply, almost choking on the unexpectedly bitter flavor. The cigarette reeked of strange ingredients and spicy, smoky flavors he couldn’t identify. He felt the hit between the eyes, like a regular Chesterfield always did when he inevitably quit trying to quit.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Yeah,” smiled Rufus. “These’ll do that to ya. Miss Klein?”

  Minnie shook her head. “No, thanks,” she said.

  Rex snapped up his drink and sipped it carefully. “Martini,” he said. “Pretty good, too.”

  “Martini, or something like it,” agreed Rufus. When Minnie didn’t take a drink, Rufus said, “You not partaking of my hospitality, Minnie Klein? A man could get offended.”

  “No offense intended, Mr. R
ufus,” said Minnie, looking at Rex as he polished off his drink and made a start on hers. “One of us has to keep a clear head.”

  “You’re no dumb Dora,” said Rufus. “Okay, so what you want to know?”

  Rex took out his notebook and sat next to Rufus, his mouth tingling with the alcohol and his head buzzing from the cigarette. Tucked between the pages was the picture of Lydia that Stone had given them. The young girl was pretty and posed in a black dress that looked like the one she had died in. Rex slid the picture across the bar toward Rufus and said, “This girl, Lydia Stone. Have you seen her?”

  The barman chuckled and Rufus grinned, exposing brilliant white teeth. Another drink was poured for Rex and he took another draw of the cigarette. He blinked away flickers of shadow and light at the corners of his eyes as Rufus laughed. The big man took off his black glasses to reveal the puckered flesh where his eyes should have been.

  Though his eyes were completely gone, Rex thought he saw a glimmer of something beneath the skin, like a shimmering awareness of the world around him. No sooner had he thought such a strange notion then it was gone and he shook his head.

  “Ah, sorry,” said Rex, struggling to form the words in a mouth that suddenly seemed full of cotton wool. “I didn’t know. Sorry.”

  “It don’t matter,” said Rufus, taking the picture and running his hands across the surface, as though the image had been rendered in Braille and he could identify her by touch. “Yeah, I seen her. She used to come here all the time.”

  “With respect,” said Minnie. “How could you possibly know that? Rex, honey, show the picture to the barman.”

  “Listen up, pretty girl,” said Rufus. “You may see things through that lens that no one else can see, but Blind Rufus sees things you don’t. Blind Rufus knows things you don’t. You think you know this world, think again. So, like I said, I knew her. I know lots of people in here. All kinds of people. I don’t make no judgments; this place is open to everyone, no matter who they are. I’m like America: I don’t turn nobody away, you get me?”

  “That sounds great,” said Rex, with a dreamy smile on his lips. “Minnie, we could all learn something from that, you know? It’s like poetry or something.”

  “Damn it, Rex, you’ve only had two drinks,” snapped Minnie.

  “Yeah, but they were good…,” said Rex, surprised at himself for letting the booze get to him. He looked at the half-smoked cigarette, wondering if it had anything to do with the fog wrapping his mind in wet towels.

  “Listen,” said Rufus. “It ain’t right what happened to that girl, so I’ll give you one more freebie on the house. She came here, yeah, a week ago maybe. Danced a lot, drank too much, and smoked too much. Girl liked to live it up, you know? Her and another gal, from Bolton I recall, hooked up with a couple of beaus and left before closing.”

  “You remember what these guys looked like?” asked Minnie. “Jeez, I can’t believe I’m asking a blind man that question.”

  “Ain’t the weirdest thing you’ll ask me, baby,” said Rufus. “Not by a long shot. But, yeah, they was a pair of good-looking white boys with money to spare. Jazz wasn’t their thing, but they weren’t here for the jazz, if you take my meaning…”

  “I don’t,” slurred Rex, draining yet another glass of martini.

  “They came to pick up girls,” said Minnie, and even in his strangely intoxicated state, Rex didn’t miss her annoyance. “For sex.”

  “Right,” said Rex, finally catching on.

  “Snapper girl’s right,” said Rufus. “That’s what your first time visit gets you. Now you best be getting gone, folks, but you can thank me next time you come.”

  “We won’t be back,” said Minnie, helping Rex from his stool and walking him toward the door. Rex felt Minnie’s arm around him, but his flickering vision and unsteady legs seemed like they belonged to someone else.

  “Christ, what’s wrong with me?” he asked.

  “You want a list?” warned Minnie. “Because I’ll damn well give you one.”

  “See you around,” said Rufus as they reached the exit to the club.

  “We won’t be back,” said Minnie.

  “Yeah, you will,” promised Rufus. “Everyone comes back to speak to Rufus sooner or later.”

  * * *

  Amanda opened her eyes, feeling a clawing sense of sickness in her gut. She was cold and felt wetness beneath her. Awareness returned, and the ground beneath her was cold and hard, like lying on a rock on the shores of Lake Champlain to catch the sun.

  But there was no sun beating down on her, turning her pale skin a warm shade of nutmeg, there was only the cold and the dark. She tried to sit up, but a painful, cramping sensation surged in her stomach. She cried out, turning her head around to try and work out where in heaven’s name she was.

  She heard dripping water, the echoes of which made her think she was in a cave of some kind. Where was she? How had she gotten here? The darkness pressed in on her, and she fought a rising panic as she saw dim walls of rock that glistened with moisture. She thought she saw a set of steps hacked into one wall, but couldn’t see where they led.

  Amanda was still wearing the dress she’d had on at the Commercial, though it was torn at the shoulder and the hem hung from the last few pins that had lifted it above her knees. Her wrists were bound in thick manacles that were in turn linked to a chain bolted to the wall. Amanda screamed and hauled at the chains, but the iron dug into the meat of her arms. She pulled anyway, again and again, only stopping when she felt sticky blood running over her fingertips.

  “Hello!” shouted Amanda, sinking to her knees. “Can anyone hear me?”

  Her words echoed in the cave’s blackness and Amanda bit her lip to stop herself from crying.

  This was like some bad dream—chained in a dungeon and waiting for the torturer to arrive. Except this was no dream. This was horribly real. She couldn’t see farther than a few feet, and the fear of what lay beyond in the smothering darkness was almost too much for her.

  She slumped to the ground, burying her head in her hands and weeping in terror.

  How had she come to be here?

  The last thing she remembered was leaving the Commercial with Rita and…

  “Lord help me!” she cried. “Rita!”

  They’d made their way from the club and toward the Garrison Street Bridge to head home. The streets had been dark, but the electric lights had glowed like little moons drifting in the night sky. They hadn’t seen many others on the streets and had been about to reach the bridge when…

  When what?

  She remembered a misty cloud passing over the end of the bridge, a sort of wispy haze that smelled faintly of spoiled fruit and week-old milk. Rita had turned to her, holding her nose in pantomime disgust when something pale and thin had risen out of the mist behind her friend. Before she could shout a warning, she’d seen a similar look of shock and surprise on Rita’s face…

  Amanda had been dragged to the ground by something with spindly, yet powerful limbs. She couldn’t recall what it was; her first thought was that it was some kind of animal. Then she had caught a fleeting glimpse of her attacker.

  Long yellowed teeth and a stench of rotten meat.

  Flesh that was filthy and scabbed with sores.

  Scraps of hair that hung in lank rat’s tails from a grotesquely distended skull.

  Eyes that burned with dreadful appetite.

  She tried to shut out the monstrous hunger she’d seen in those eyes, but it was no good. She’d seen how much it had wanted to bury those fangs into her neck and tear out the soft meat, to chew the gristle of her throat and drink her hot, spurting blood...

  Amanda screamed as she felt something brush her shoulder, the soft touch of an uncertain hand.

  She scrambled away, howling in stark terror as a shape came toward her, swaying and unsteady on its feet. She heard the clink of metal on metal and flailed her legs, hearing a voice calling her name, but unable to think past the animal pa
nic holding her in its grip.

  “Amanda!” cried the voice. “Mandy, it’s me! Stop fighting!”

  It was a trick! Amanda struggled even harder, but a pair of strong hands took her shoulders and held her fast. She couldn’t see who was holding her and pictured those chisel-like fangs descending to rip out her throat.

  “Mandy! For heaven’s sake, it’s me! It’s Rita!”

  Amanda’s eyes snapped into focus, and she saw Rita’s face hovering in the darkness in front of her. She saw her terror reflected in Rita’s eyes, and the fight went out of her in an instant. She threw herself at Rita and the two of them held each other tight, crying in relief at finding each other in the dark.

  “Oh, Rita, is that really you?” she wept.

  “Yeah, it’s me. You okay?”

  Amanda wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the question, but simply nodded.

  “I think so,” she said. “I hurt my wrists trying to get these chains off.”

  “You and me both,” said Rita.

  “What happened? Do you know where we are?”

  “I have no idea,” said Rita. “Last thing I remember is us just about to cross the river.”

  “Me, too. What’s happened to us? I’m so scared, Rita; what are we going to do?”

  Rita held her tightly by the shoulders. “Relax, Mandy. We are getting out of here. I promise you that. Ain’t a place built that can keep me in, and ain’t nobody gonna keep this girl in chains. No way, no how.”

  Amanda took heart from Rita’s defiance, even though she knew it was borrowed courage.

  Both of them jumped as they heard a rattle of iron, like a jailer’s key in a lock. Metal scraped on stone and rusted hinges squealed. They heard the splash of something moving through water—was there a pool nearby?—something that lurched toward them with wretched horror in every tortured step.

  “What in the hell?” said Rita as a shape materialized out of the darkness.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” cried Amanda. “What in heaven’s name is that?”

  It was a hunched thing with ashen skin and a fish-belly white underside. Its thin, wasted arms dragged on the rocky floor as it regarded them with hungry eyes, deep-set and red within a snarling, vaguely canine face bisected by a long scar. A heavy iron collar was fastened around its skinny neck, from which hung a long leash-like chain. Thick ropes of blood-flecked saliva drooled from its hanging jaws.