This Time of Night

by Jon F. Merz

  Well, I did kill her. She was too good to let go. Her blood was spicy and I drank from her like I’d just crossed the desert. I was greedy, it’s true. Sue me for having some human instincts left.

  Outside this apartment, the city waits for me. Black night, pierced by the myriad neon calls to me. And I obey. I walk from my apartment, the one Louie tracked me down to, never looking back. My business here is finished.

  But with Jennings it’s only just begun.

  Visitor In The Night

  I’m guessing this was an attempt at something atmospheric a la Poe. I’m not sure if it succeeds as such, but I included here to show how important I think it is to try and stretch as much as possible as a writer.

  Shifting weight. A floorboard creaked.

  Closer.

  Across the nighttime canvas of shadow and darkness, one drew nearer than the rest. And as he sat there, transfixed by the apparent ease of its passage, the only sound came from the groaning floorboards marking the progression.

  And his beating heart.

  So loud was the latter that he imagined it would draw the owner of the shadow to his location under the mahogany desk, safe for the moment. But only just.

  Another creaking floorboard, this time ever so much closer than before. A stride like that would mark the size of the impostor well over six feet in height. A fact which did little to comfort him. If anything, it made him cower even more back into the darkness.

  He considered his options. This home was his. An expansive estate willed to him by his deceased uncle whom he'd had only minor contact with during the thirty years of his own life. The man was, after all, a few sandwiches shy of a picnic. Spent all of his time studying the occult and other bizarre matters while running a ruthless business that provided him with as much money as he could have ever wanted. The inheritance of this home was a surprise, really, for he'd certainly expected nothing from the old codger. But then, what was life without a surprise or two?

  Although, presently, he figured a life without would have been far more appealing than his current predicament.

  Whoever would have figured his solitude upon moving into the mansion would be so risked by drawing a fire in the sizable hearth, by tending to the burning logs with the steel poker, and even by leaning back in the great chestnut brown leather wing chair used by his uncle as he drank the snifter of fine brandy? Certainly not him.

  Yet here it was, nonetheless.

  His palpitations increased as the creaking drew even nearer.

  They must have been close to the desk by now. He imagined them examining the papers above his head, rustling through the pens and pencils and assorted other desktop tools. Searching no doubt. But for what?

  His uncle had not had many friends. But he'd never had a problem obtaining enemies. Was this one of them, coming to search for a debt owed, a treasure hoarded, or even some state secrets to sell to the highest bidder on an open market?

  He frowned. The old fool was going to get him killed!

  The thin line of sweat that had appeared across his receding hairline now blossomed into a great river with many tributaries, cascading down his face like a scene out of the cheap B horror films he'd grown up on in his younger years.

  What would make someone break into this mansion? What?

  His solitude had been penetrated. Violated. And as he chanced to lean back into the heavy wood desk to relieve the cramping in his tucked legs, he heard a sound unlike any other he'd heard before.

  More of a low growl than anything else. And certainly it was not human.

  Yet it was apparent nonetheless. The sound waves echoed off of the shelves of books lining the walls, and found their way under the desk to his flailing ears.

  Abruptly, the creaking withdrew across the room. Moving away from the desk. Away from him. Until at last he could hear nothing. Only the faint popping sounds of dying embers in the fireplace.

  He flexed his legs again, desperate to relieve the pressure. They sprawled out from under the desk suddenly, out into the lighter darkness of the room.

  He froze.

  But heard nothing.

  Was it safe to move?

  He slithered out from under the desk, keeping his head low. Then taking a deep breath, he poked his head around the corner, peering out into the study.

  Two eyes stared back at him.

  Eight inches off the floor.

  Surrounded by a mass of fur and whiskers.

  He collapsed then, laughing at himself. At his fear, at his insecurities of being in this great old house alone with no one to share in its secrets but himself.

  And his cat.

  He reached out, stroked the soft gray fur and scratched its forehead. The cat cocked its head sideways to permit a more vigorous patting, then moved off across the study.

  He got to his feet and watched the cat stalk away. He marveled at the way it stole through the room. Nothing was disturbed in its wake. No sound escaped its paws. No-

  -sound.

  His heart leapt. The floorboards creaking. But the cat didn't weigh that much. Couldn't have made the floor groan.

  He looked up then. And in that faint firelight, at the entrance to the room, bathed in shadow, stood the purveyor of his fear.

  Beckoning him with a solitary upraised hand.

  He felt the force of its will, drawing him to the doorway. It pulled him like a vacuum, sucking his protests from his grasp before he could internalize them and bring his body to a stop. His feet moved on their own volition, drawn inexorably toward the door. Toward the visitor.

  His mind raced. Who was this? What did they want? Why did they want him? Why? He'd never hurt anyone before in his life. He couldn't even bear the thought of stepping on an ant without first trying to walk around it. Why was this happening?

  Powerless to stop himself, he clutched at the chair, fell, but then kept moving toward the doorway. He tried to scream now, but his cries were choked back in his throat. His eyes bulged and blinked as the sweat coursing down his face stung them. His heart pounded in reckless abandon, flooding his system with adrenaline, trying to galvanize his strength for one last desperate bid for freedom.

  It was in vain.

  And in the fading firelight, the dying embers casting a vague reddish tint to the darkness, in the delicate perfumery of wood smoke not channeled away by the flue, he looked with wide eyes upon the gaping maw of terror that sought him with relentless obsession.

  His heart thundered against the confines of his ribs and skin, stretched taut by the sudden realization that his uncle, while dead, hadn't really ever left.

  Indeed, the spectral image of the man now smiled at him, and in that one smile, he comprehended his fate. His body, his corporal essence was needed.

  But his soul was not.

  And then, for the last time, he screamed. One final gut-wrenching screech that echoed across the planes of eternity.

  Then fell silent.

  Forever more.

  The Trunk of Aristhius

  This may be the closest I ever came to writing something with a Cthulhu or Lovecraftian slant to it. I played the “Call of Cthulhu” RPG a few times when I was much younger and I read Lovecraft as well, but never gave much thought to writing something possibly connected to it. Then this popped out one day and, well,,,see for yourself.

  It was only after much coercion that I finally relented when my friend called me down to his small store in Boston. Despite the three hour drive south from Jackson, New Hampshire, I arrived in reasonably rested spirits at the gate to Newbury Street in Boston's Back Bay District.

  Arthur Loring, my friend and confidant for several years, ran an antique store. Though small, its reputation for acquiring fine articles was undisputed among the wealthier collectors throughout much of the Northeast.

  As for my friend himself, Arthur was ten years my senior and muchly devoted to items of antiquity. With rapidly receding hair, cut short by the ears and back, Arthur's nose immediately sprang to prominen
ce whenever he was introduced to someone new. He would usually preface the normal pleasantries of conversation by drawing attention to his Roman nose and insisting he could confidently verify whether everyone in the nearby vicinity was wearing washed socks. Such was the humor with which my friend gifted himself and others.

  He was a large man, perhaps over six feet two and weighing nearly 240 pounds. He struck an oxymoronic chord what with most dealers being small, bookish men with spectacled countenances and soft voices. Arthur had piercing eyes which hadn't yet succumbed to the onslaught of age and a voice that could roust an entire air squadron were it necessary.

  He greeted me at the door to his shop and ushered me inside with great haste. I was inclined to shrug off my coat, but Arthur bade me to stand fast for we would shortly be leaving his store.

  "I could scarcely believe it when I heard," he said dashing into the great overcoat he wore . The houndstooth design made him look something like a twentieth century Sherlock Holmes, although I doubt he would have taken that as a compliment. I certainly kept it to myself.

  "What is all the rush?" I asked.

  "A friend of mine, quite a fellow actually, always on the lookout for things I might find interesting, called me late last night and told me the most amazing news. An item I have long been searching for, something I never dreamed I would find, he believes now that he has located it."

  "What item?"

  "A trunk, my dear boy, a trunk."

  "What kind of trunk?"

  "One almost as old as time itself. Long since forgotten and yet here again in our time."

  "Arthur, as usual, you're speaking in riddles." I grinned. "Where-?

  "Are we going? Over to the Hill. Our man lives there."

  Beacon Hill was a stone's throw away from Arthur's shop so he insisted we walk through the brisk November air. I was happy to stroll through the Public Gardens once again as I had so frequently in my youth when I first fell in love with my wife.

  Arthur talked incessantly as we walked. "The trunk in particular, promises to be something special. I called you down here because you are a writer and also because you are a man who knows a great many things, not all of which fall into the realm of orthodoxy."

  True enough, I supposed. I had been a writer for many years, earning an excellent living at it and enjoying the fruits of my labors. I had been able to study about some of the more bizarre topics one can find in our modern society and endeavored to make myself something of an expert on each item encountered. After all, I found information could only enhance my literary works once interwoven with plot lines and characters.

  I thanked Arthur for the compliment but he shooed it away. "It's useless to thank me for pointing out common fact. I require your expertise because if this item is what I believe it is, then most certainly you shall be thanking me for my callous insistence on having you present."

  "But what is so special about this trunk?" I asked again.

  "If it is what I believe," said Arthur, "it may well be the most amazing piece I have ever collected."

  "And would presumably bring a hefty price when sold," I remarked.

  Arthur stopped me. "Not so. If the trunk is genuine, then it will reside with me. There is no one else who would appreciate it as would I."

  "Again," I asked. "What is so special about it?"

  We reached Charles Street and proceeded up towards the River. Arthur drew his coat about him with a large gesture of a man in a hurry. "Does the name Aristhius mean anything to you?"

  "Sounds Greek," I said. "But that's merely a guess."

  "I would have been disappointed had you said anything else, my friend. But in truth the name is not. It is instead a precursor of Greek, that some would call Phoenician, others would label it as Sumerian."

  "Arthur, since when did you take up history with such fervor?"

  "My very career hinges upon a knowledge of history."

  "True enough, but that knowledge has usually only extended back a few hundred years. You are talking about things which are thousands of years old. I have never known you to have such works for sale in your store."

  "A fair assumption, but incorrect. I have for several years now acted as intermediary for exclusive buyers who sought older antiques than what I could supply. I would make the inquiries and arrange sales."

  "Arthur, did that ever border on the illegal?"

  He shrugged. "I may have skirted the boundaries from time to time, but that is hardly the issue now. Instead I am talking about a trunk which has, if I may be permitted to mention the unorthodox, certain mystical qualities about it."

  "Mystical? What exactly do you mean?"

  "Perhaps an understanding of the history would be in order," said Arthur. "Now, there are several different views that scholars follow and my research has introduced me to all of them. However, I hold true to one that suits my esoterically-inclined mindset."

  "Is the theory itself, esoteric?"

  "Not at all, but when viewed in relation to the item that I hope to acquire shortly, it does make sense."

  "So, then, what is the history?"

  "According to the research of the historian I concur with, prior to the rise of Greek civilization, even before the Phoenicians ruled the seas, there was the Sumerian and Babylonian age of prosper. During this time, a great many items were revolutionized including the use of legal systems, alphabet, technical innovations and the like. On the opposite side of the spectrum, the mystical arts were also practiced with great enthusiasm, so much so that several texts of supernatural skills have been handed down even to this day."

  "I'm aware of some of them," I said.

  "During the reign of one of their rulers, the name escapes me now, a violent war engulfed the kingdom. The advances of technology could do nothing to repel the invaders so the king turned instead to his trusted mystics and wizards. From them, he sought a means to dispel the attackers."

  "Were they successful?"

  "Indeed," said Arthur. "They devised a method that would be used years later by the Greeks invading Troy. The mystics used a trunk or chest to do their dirty work. They had the king offer the trunk to the invaders as a first payment of tax to the kingdom's new rulers. The king agreed."

  "You don't mean to say there was an army hidden within the trunk do you?"

  "Indeed there was, but not the army you are thinking of. Rather, an army of the most heinous demons that could be summoned forth from the planes of hell. The mystics trapped them within the trunk and when the invaders opened it, they unleashed a horde of evil upon themselves. The demons destroyed the attackers and scattered the remains to the four winds. Nothing remained. Nothing at all."

  "And what of the demons?"

  "The mystics, according to legend, had decreed that when the last invader was destroyed, the demons would depart back to their place of origin. After a time, the king sent his men to recover the trunk and seal it up for all time. The trunk was then placed on display and attributed to the continued success of the Sumerian kingdom. Then after the eventual downfall, the trunk was lost. And there it stayed, wherever it was, for the ages, until at last, now, it has surfaced again."

  "The king was named Aristhius?"

  "Actually, the trunk was named after the head mystic who originated the idea. The king also bestowed many favors upon him, such was his gratitude."

  "Amazing story."

  "But if this inspection bears out my theory then it will not be a story at all, but rather fact."

  "And how would you ascertain the authenticity of this trunk."

  Arthur pulled a worn booklet from his coat pocket. "Not all was lost when the kingdom declined. The memoirs of Aristhius are contained within this text. Hopefully, I will be able to make a positive identification using the criteria he set forth within this tome."

  We turned the corner and headed up a small cobblestoned street. The gas lamps we passed under were hollowed out reminders of times long since gone. The shells remained but halogen bulbs burned
in them at night instead of oil.

  In retrospect, our conversation seemed more suited to the time when the gas lamps were in use and not in the modern twentieth-century. Arthur suggested the ominous shape and size of some frazzled inspector out hunting down a mysterious killer, while I, being somewhat smaller in stature deemed myself the lone dabbler out to explore the strange and bizarre.

  Again we turned a corner, walking ever uphill and stopped beside a brownstone dwelling surrounded by a small wrought iron fence. Arthur lifted the latch and we stepped inside. He strode up the steps confidently and rang the buzzer. I looked up and caught the first tendrils of dusk beginning to seep across the autumn sky, staining the fringes with inky darkness.

  The door opened and a man stood before Arthur. He bowed and I realized it was a butler. He ushered us both in, I following my comrade, and then the door shut behind us.

  It was not much warmer inside, but I could sense that somewhere off, perhaps in the further reaches of the house there was a blaze burning in a fireplace. The butler seemed to be conveying us in that direction and as we walked, it grew steadily warmer.

  At last we stopped beside a doorway and there the butler rapped against the heavy Mahogany door once. A voice called out from within and we were led inside.

  The man before us was older than Arthur and I, perhaps put together. Arthur moved ahead to grasp the man's hand and showered him with greetings. When they had finished, Arthur turned halfway to me and introduced us.

  "My colleague, and friend for a long time, Mister Caleb Kilmarnock. Caleb, allow me to introduce you to the venerable Mister Jeremiah Moore."

  I stepped forward and shook Moore's hand, surprised his excessive age did not prevent him from branding me with a hearty handshake. He smiled and welcomed me to his home. Thereupon releasing his grip, he turned and bid us sit down.