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Halloween was on a Friday that year. That always made that evil day worse. Those more sensitive to atmosphere made sure they kept in good company that day – and especially during the evening and night. The saloons and beer-cellars did a roaring trade as men drowned their fears. The poorer people, mostly Italian and Polish immigrants, kept their children close and whispered about the unholy rites taking place on that unhallowed witch-island on the Miskatonic.
All the same, they couldn't keep an eye on all their numerous children and two small boys, on their way back from school took a short-cut through the wooded cemetery on Hangman's Hill and were never heard of again. Three Polish labourers out late at night delivering things they were reluctant about declaring to the Revenue reported that a light, a hideous greenish-purple light, shone like a wartime searchlight from the hills to the north.
The men had been drinking and many people, especially ignorant newcomers, put it down to the amount of moonshine slivovitz plum brandy they had consumed. Especially when they tried to replicate the deep, booming chant they heard as soon as the greenish-purple light hit the clouds. "Fhunglooi maglaw'naf Cthuloo Rllyh wga'nagel fhtagt," was the closest the two men got with the inhuman syllables.
However, those who had lived in Arkham all their lives, especially those from old families living in the area for generations, understood the significance of that misheard chant and crossed themselves.
Tarleton sauntered along College Street to the University. It was a fresh, crisp autumn morning bringing the tang of wood smoke with it. Tarleton enjoyed the walk and, although he noticed the hurrying footsteps and furtive looks of people around him, that didn't spoil his stroll.
Looking up, Tarleton appreciated the beauty of the ivy covering the clock tower. The leaves were a deep rich red, shading towards purple. He walked under the archway, checked his mail at the lodge and then around the quadrangle and up to Professor Bamford's rooms. The door was ajar and so Tarleton let himself in. There was no sign of Bamford himself but an untimed note left on his desk said he would be back in half an hour.
Tarleton moved a stack of papers covering the seat and sat in a well-worn armchair. He placed the papers on top of a book about eastern Anatolia and the Armenian dispersal. The mound was unsteady and the papers slipped off onto the carpet. Leaning over, Tarleton picked them up, leafing through the papers out of curiosity as he did so.
The young man gasped in shock. The University was planning another expedition to Baffin Island next summer. Tarleton collapsed back in the chair, his breath catching in his throat. The papers fell from his nerveless hands, fluttering to the floor. It was as if the last three years had vanished. In an instant, Tarleton was back on Baffin Island.
The Horror From The Blizzard Page 6