Camp Arcanum

by Josef Matulich

  “I’ve seen your coming for some time now,” the man continued. “You’ll never get what you want here. It would be easier for you all if you simply hitched your trailers and left right now.”

  Instinctively, Marc fell into old tactics for dealing with paranoid schizophrenics. With a polite smile on his face, he stepped back to give the stranger his space.

  “Maybe you have me mistaken for somebody else . . .” Marc started.

  “You are just a pretty distraction, now that Brenwyn’s gotten to you first,” the stranger snapped. “Not some sort of special commodity. Definitely not as rock-solid and dependable as you would have others believe. Though you do have quite a bit of—” He looked Marc up and down appreciatively. “Muscle.”

  Marc chose to deal with the remark as courteously as possible.

  “Why, thank you. And that’s a very nice—velvet jacket you have on.” Marc extended his hand. “My name’s Marc. And you are?”

  “You’ll know me soon enough,” he said, ignoring Marc’s gesture. “Too bad, but you’re the kind most women like. I’ll have to work on that.”

  The man let go of the door and brushed past Marc. He was headed north, toward the five-point intersection. Marc wheeled around to always face him, unwilling to expose his back to the stranger. They circled each other like tomcats preparing to fight.

  Marc heard the door behind him shut, and then there was a loud bang, sounding like something hitting the plate glass window of the storefront. In spite of himself, Marc snapped his head around to see what had happened.

  There was a small bird lying motionless on the sidewalk. It must have just then flown headfirst into the window. There was no doubt it was dead: its beak had cracked with the impact and a drop of blood welled up in its mouth.

  Marc turned back quickly to the stranger. The other man in black was silently gloating, as if trying to convince Marc he had been responsible.

  “We cannot defy augury a whit,” the man in black velvet quoted. “There is a certain providence in the fall of a sparrow.” Marc saw venom in the stranger’s brown eyes.

  The stranger closed his eyes and nodded, either acknowledgement or farewell. His expression changed, then, into something like a wolf baring its teeth.

  “Enjoy your stay in Arcanum, Marc Sindri,” he said. “Blessed be.”

  With no further ceremony, the stranger turned and walked away. He waved airily over his shoulder, and there was just a bit of a prance in his step.

  “By the way, say hello to ‘Auntie’ for me,” the stranger called.

  Marc watched for a few seconds to be sure the man in black velvet didn’t return. After he disappeared into another shop, Marc exhaled and looked around to get his bearings. He was surrounded by real things: brick walls, oak tree in iron grate, dead bird on a cracked concrete sidewalk. Something had happened just now, but the only thing that Marc would accept was that someone here in Arcanum was working very hard to out-prank the prankster.

  * * * * *

  Marc stepped inside the shop, still distracted by his bizarre encounter. He was prodded from his reverie by the pitter-patter of little feet as a fluffy gray cat approached at a trot. It had a face that looked like the result of a life-long habit of running headlong into walls. Marc pressed the door shut behind him to thwart its escape. The brachycephalic beast fixed him with one flat, ill-tempered glare and then leapt onto the windowsill to stare down at the dead bird.

  “Sorry, cat,” Marc murmured, “but—”

  Marc frowned as he noticed there was a pentacle painted on the window just above the cat’s perch. Other occult symbols covered the glass. He was able to make out the store’s name, “Arcanum Arcana,” in reverse.

  “Anything I can help you with today, Mr. Sindri?” a woman behind him asked.

  He spun in place at the sound.

  A small woman with curly, steel-gray hair approached him from the cluttered store’s backroom. She wore a rumpled black and orange “Arcanum University” sweatshirt and baggy jeans. She looked to be somewhere in her sixties, but still alert and friendly. Her dark-rimmed glasses made her pale blue eyes seem enormous. Marc had a feeling that under her grandmotherly façade she could be as tough as the steel wool her hair resembled.

  “What? Wait . . .” he said. “Am I wearing a name badge or something? Everyone in town seems to know me.”

  “Just the grapevine says the first three men from the renaissance faire were here today: a rennie, a preppie, and the Punisher from the comic books.”

  “The Punisher?” Marc was flattered. As Allen’s protector, he found it necessary to be the dark and dangerous type, and the Punisher had been one of his first role models.

  “My girlfriend Stella owns the comic book store across the way,” the proprietor said. “She showed me the graphic novels, striking resemblance really. The strong features, the haunted look around the eyes . . .”

  “Why, thank you . . .” Marc said.

  “Of course, the resemblance wouldn’t be so strong if you shaved once in a while,” she added disapprovingly.

  “Uh . . . Okay.” Marc, feeling put in his place, turned his attention to his surroundings. The dark wood shelves held hundreds of old leather books and bright glossy paperbacks. Crystal spheres, bronze trinkets, pentacles, and ankhs were tucked in small spaces everywhere. His late brother Allen had spent thousands of dollars on useless crap to thwart the invisible conspiracy that had hounded him to his dying day. Surely, he would have shopped here if he could.

  Marc normally avoided these places like the plague, but he was still a little rattled by the Goth and the suicidal sparrow. He perused the empty store as the woman smiled and watched, just as the cat had watched the dead bird. To his left were trays filled with polished stones. Against the wall behind them were shelves filled with figurines of goddesses, wizards, and fantastic animals. The cutesy cat with feathered wings and a wizard’s hat was a bit much, though. Marc spoke up then, feeling that he had a firm enough grip on his thoughts.

  “That person,” Marc said tentatively, “the one coming out while I was coming in . . . what, I mean, who is he?”

  The woman smiled cryptically.

  “That’s Jeremiah Stone,” she said, “best and brightest of the Arcanum University occult studies department. Associate professor who just completed his doctorate: metaphysics, demonology, eventual world domination. He’s very popular with the freshman.”

  “Uh-huh.” Marc strolled casually towards the counter, putting some distance between them. “So, he’s not, like . . .” Marc tried to come up with a way of putting the question without being offensive. “Special?”

  “Oh my, how politically correct.” The woman sounded amused by his attempt, and not entirely approving. “We’re all special in our own way.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Marc.

  “Of course,” she responded. “You mean ‘short-bus special.’ Jeremiah is perfectly capable and no immediate danger to himself.” Something chilled in her voice just a degree. “But he should in no way be mistaken for safe.”

  “And he’s your nephew,” Marc added.

  Her smile was part sad, part frustrated. “His mother and I are . . . old friends. He likes to call me ‘Auntie’ when he’s being difficult.”

  “Which is often, I guess?”

  The woman nodded.

  “By the way, I’m Musetta,” she said as she extended her hand. “And I can be difficult myself.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Marc said as he clasped her hand. “I’m—You already know who I am.” He suddenly realized that he still had half a ream of paper in his free hand and only a little time left to disperse it.

  “I was just going to ask . . .” he started.

  “No problem at all,” said Musetta. “You can post your fliers. Just don't cover the glass over my ‘Open’ sign.”

  * * * * *

  Michael had read the local folklore of how Arcanum was originally plotted. Two surveyors for a potential railroad
had been lost for three days in an unnatural fog, thus the name “Arcanum,” meaning “hidden,” the same as the word “occult.” The founding father had given the surveyors shelter and set them to the task of creating a new town along Paint Creek where he owned land. It was a nice story for the little old ladies at the Historical Society to share over tea and cucumber sandwiches, but Michael wasn’t buying it.

  He did like the campus, though. It was laid out in a quadrangle plan, the buildings set out one opposite the other across the central green. The buildings were all brick in the Romanesque revival style, verging on Collegiate Gothic. The striking main building loomed over the green with its twin brick towers and patinaed copper roof.

  The last building in his sweep of the campus was St. Germaine Hall, another brick building with a dense covering of ancient ivy. Michael noticed with some irritation the date on its cornerstone, which read as “1770.” That would have had the building sitting alone in the forest for a century until the city was founded. Either that or it was torn down stone by stone from an older location on the east coast and reassembled here.

  Maybe from Miskatonic University, Michael thought with a chuckle.

  Michael climbed the marble stairs, tracking the students’ traffic patterns and lines of sight as he went so he could post fliers in the most effective spots on his way out.

  The lobby of St Germaine Hall was a vaulted cylindrical chamber of white marble with a double circular staircase which led to the upper and lower floors. The walls were lined with nineteenth century wood and glass display cases crammed haphazardly with exotic and bizarre items. It looked like a garage sale for the Addams family.

  Michael ambled into the center of the circular stone floor as he gazed up at the painted dome above. It was a Hieronymus Bosch landscape depicting a war in Heaven and fallen angels cast into the burning pit of Hell. Bizarre and anguished animals twisted in the ring of flames that was the smoky periphery.

  Michael shuddered. He hated the surrealists.

  Michael walked over to the bulletin board and read the postings for Psychic Self Defense classes and occult items for sale. Michael methodically made space for one of his fliers and pinned it up, being careful to have it square with the top and sides of the board.

  With no further attention to the hall, Michael took the stairs that led down to the lower level.

  * * * * *

  The bottom of the stairwell was an island of light in the subterranean gloom. This hallway, too, was lined with display cases, though their contents were hidden in the darkness. Flickering light like cats’ eyes shined from some of the cases, and Michael imagined he saw dim light reflecting off of sharp teeth. The basement’s bulletin board was another island of light on the far end.

  Might as well be thorough.

  Michael walked carefully down the shadowy hallway, picking around items that seem to have been just dropped. He imagined that someone had run away screaming or had been snatched into one of the shadowy doorways on either side.

  Sometimes, an active imagination was a blessing. This was not one of those times.

  As he approached the first door, the sound of chanting in an unknown language drifted into the hall. A minor explosion flashed bluish light through the window and silhouetted the gold leaf lettering which read “Summonings & Bindings.”

  With nothing more coming through the window, Michael swallowed hard and moved on. There was a second explosion, and inhuman screeching came from the room. The noise raised the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck and ran a shudder from his clenched jaws down to his kidneys. He suddenly regretted all his childhood hours spent watching reruns of Jonny Quest, X-Files, and The Night Stalker.

  Michael picked up his pace. The masks and pickled specimens in the display cases seemed to be following him with their eyes, where they had them.

  Michael slipped past the double doors marked “Alchemy” into the island of light around the bulletin board. He stood very still and took in a deep breath. Over the sound of his pulse in his ears, he listened carefully for the sounds of some unnamable horror flopping up behind him.

  Nothing wet and disgusting, no sound of sharp claws on linoleum. He let go of that breath, a disappointed noise at how easily he surrendered his rational mind.

  After an embarrassed look over his shoulder, Michael went about precisely posting a flier as before, though he did work just a bit more quickly this time.

  Michael froze as he heard the sound of squeaking hinges of the double doors behind him. There was a rasping sound like a cough or a chuckle; a rapid series of wet, flopping footsteps; a thump and another rasp; then the flushing of a toilet. His attitude of rational superiority went right down the drain with it.

  Michael turned around, ever so slowly.

  He saw a series of oily, black footprints leading from the Alchemy Lab to the still-open door of the ladies room across the hall. The prints were about two inches wide and show the marks of three toes on each foot. There was no way he was going where those footprints led. Instead, Michael cautiously crossed the hall and slowly opened one of the double doors to the Alchemy Lab to peer inside.

  All the worktables in the lab were filled with beakers, retorts, and glass tubing. Fire, smoke, and steam vented everywhere. A Rasputin-like man in a lab coat sat behind one of the tables and peered back at Michael through thick glasses. The distorted homunculus inside the jar beside him slowly swiveled its head to stare at Michael, too.

  “Can I help you?” the hairy man asked.

  “N-n-no,” Michael stuttered. “No . . . Never.”

  Michael backed out of the lab to the bulletin board. He ripped down his flier in one swift motion and rushed back up the hall past “Summonings and Bindings” where something scratched on the inside of the glass.

  * * * * *

  The shop’s name, with floral decoration, was painted on the front window: “Proserpina’s Bower.” Peering through the glass, Marc could see a store filled with jars, bags, and bottles. The color scheme was forcibly cheerful, emerald greens and yellow-ochres that went with the blonde oak displays. Dark green leafy vines with deep purple flowers, probably silks, climbed the walls and hung near the ceilings. Obviously, not an auto parts store.

  Marc pressed open the door and was struck by the mélange of flowers and spices. A brass bell mounted on a wrought iron stanchion announced his arrival. The store, like the whole town, was as contrived a fantasy as a display at Epcot.

  “Hello?” he called into the empty store. “Excuse me, is Proserpina in?”

  A dark-haired woman in rustling gold and red emerged from the curtained back room.

  “Proserpina is the goddess of spring flowers and vegetation,” she said. “I only run the store.”

  This was the woman that had descended upon Camp Arcanum at dawn.

  “It’s you.”

  “Brenwyn,” she prompted helpfully.

  “I remember.”

  “You seem so surprised to see me working.” Her voice was quietly playful. “Witches have to eat, too.”

  “Of course you do,” Marc said. “I guess that explains my invisible nametag.”

  “And what is that?” she asked. Her eyes seemed incredibly large and luminous, set off by dark lashes and tan skin, their color a unique gray-violet.

  This is not why Steve sent you to Arcanum, a voice scolded in his head.

  “Your incredible grapevine,” he said as he tried to get back on task. “The entire town seems to have my dossier. Do you use phone, fax, or is there some supernatural explanation?”

  “How would you respond to such a question?” Her eyes flashed for just a moment there.

  “In the way that best obfuscates the truth.”

  Brenwyn nodded agreeably.

  A tiny pain in the back of his head reminded him about what happened when pretty girls smiled at him, what he called Phantom Bludgeon Pain. He sobered instantly and got back to work, holding up one of his fliers.

  “I suppose you know why I’
m here,” he said. “Can I post one of these in your window?”

  “Certainly,” she said.

  Marc immediately went to tape the flier in the front door.

  “But it will not do you any good,” she concluded.

  Marc paused mid-posting.

  “You are looking for ‘strong backs and weak minds,’” she said. “Most of the citizens of Arcanum are either students or instructors, possessed of strong minds, strong wills, and no real muscle. And we do not have a football team.”

  “Not the kind of people I need for lumberjacking and grunt labor,” Marc grumbled.

  “Though the mental image is appealing if you know any of the well-developed egos in the Metaphysics Department.”

  Marc got the mental image of a band of little Jeremiah Stones dragging a sledge like the slaves erecting the Pyramids.

  “It sounds like you have history with metaphysics,” he said.

  “I have studied all the liberal arts,” she said with a false breeziness, “that is why I am only fit to work retail.”

  “I see,” Marc said. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  Brenwyn looked at him, one dark brow raised, as if considering a different problem.

  “The countryside surrounding Arcanum is all farms and fields,” she said. “If you were to give me a handful of your fliers, I could make sure the corn-fed local youth saw them. That should get you all the compliant, muscular young men you need.”

  “Michael will be thrilled.” Though it made a great punchline, Marc realized immediately it was unfair. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Michael with a boyfriend.

  “Pardon me?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I appreciate your help.” Marc turned to leisurely examining the store. Plastic bags of forest detritus labeled Ague Root, Asafoetida, and Black Cohosh were stacked high in the nearest display.

  “So, do you do a brisk business in magic spells here?” he asked.

  Brenwyn shook her head. “This is a botanica, an herbal store. I do sell some magickal herbs, but mostly I deal in teas, salves, incense,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Love philters I do on special commission.”