9.
The Benefactor
July 29th, 1929
Arkham, Massachusetts
Herbert entered the small house he rented near the university. He carried textbooks and dirty scrubs from his rounds. He was anxious to go to his basement and resume his experiment, but he would have to eat first.
He dropped everything he was carrying near the door. Herbert passed the sitting room on his way to the kitchen. He glanced vaguely at the man in the chair as he walked by. Then he froze, his mind pushing work and the chore of fixing a meal aside, and he rushed back to the front room.
The man was polished and sitting patiently. The stranger was in his fifties. He looked like a man of resources and influence. "Good evening, Mr. West."
"Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?" Herbert said angrily.
"I am Edmund Wraight," he said, unbothered by Herbert's outburst. "Your associate let me in as he departed for Miskatonic. I didn't catch his name. He said I could wait for you here."
"What do you want?" Herbert said, his apprehension pulled back only slightly.
"I wish to sponsor your research, my boy," Edmund said. "Your theories have spread quite a bit beyond even the academic circles. I am always on the lookout for scientific advances such as the one you propose. I wish to hitch my horse to it. I wish to assist you financially and in even deeper ways."
"Most of my work is only theory at this point," Herbert lied. "I haven't had the chance to test my formula yet. But I would appreciate any help you can offer. I will certainly keep you abreast of any developments."
Edmund sighed, disappointedly. "Now, you see, this won't do at all. I understand the stigma of the work you do. People don't understand that changing the world requires a great deal of blood, sacrifice and pain. Your research can be mistaken as the devil's errand. But I am quite… open minded, you understand. I know the bloody mess progress makes."
"Mr. Wraight, I am just not there yet," Herbert insisted, sticking to the lie.
"In your basement, there is a Nigerian immigrant, chained in a corner. He has no pulse and yet wails and pulls on his shackle."
"You went down there?" Herbert was outraged. He started to move toward the basement door.
"No, Mr. West," Edmund said, halting Herbert's panicked exit. "Check your locks. They haven't been compromised. I have not seen this pitiful creature with the eyes in my head. I have a certain awareness of your children. And there have been many. I can hear their thoughts. It is a gift. A special sense I possess that few would comprehend. It drove me quite mad at first, but I adjusted to it over the years."
"Telepathy?" Herbert said. "You can communicate with them?"
"No," Edmund said, clarifying things. "I only hear them. They are not aware of me or my intrusion into their dark, chaotic minds. There is no conversation. I am merely an eavesdropper."
Herbert, still distrustful but calm, took a seat. There was a dearth of financial backers, since the stock market had gotten so shaky. If there were funds to secure here, he had to push beyond his suspicion and hear the man out. And the thought of Edmund Wraight psychically listening to his test subjects was fascinating. As preposterous as it would have sounded to thick men, Herbert believed that such abilities were possible.
"I am not usually approached with such an offer," Herbert said. "Funding is vital, but I must often cloak the true intention of my work to receive it. I don't know anything about you. While I am intrigued, I am also very cautious."
"I have traveled the globe, gathering knowledge on the very subject of your work that could help you greatly. I am willing to sink my substantial fortune, every penny of it, into your experiments. There is nothing more important than what you seek to give humanity. I offer you a blank check and my life story. I firmly believe that I am the missing key that will allow a breakthrough."
"What do you propose exactly?" Herbert asked.
"That we defeat death, Mr. West," Edmund said.
10.
Herbert West: The 100-Year-Old Man
The Night Things dream. This was something I discovered when I started counseling them. They often saw their previous life as they slept. As my body recuperated from the trauma of returning, I dreamt of my mother. We were Siamese twins, connected at the hip. She pulled me through her mundane life, chastising me along the way, and there was nowhere to go to get away from her.
I awoke in a bed. Not my own. It took a moment to ascertain where I was and what was happening. It all came back in a flood. I noticed a pair of jeans, bra, and a blouse neatly presented on a night stand chair. The furnishings of the small bedroom were older and merely serviceable. There wasn't a spot of taste or warmth in the area. It looked like a college dorm room.
I stood and dressed. The clothes fit perfectly. I walked to the door, half-expecting it to be locked. But it wasn't. It opened easily and I stepped into the hallway. It appeared to be some kind of industrial building. It was missing sheetrock and insulation in many spots. I moved slowly down the hallway, noticing a fleet of doors that must have been offices at one time.
I took the first one I saw. It was a room, similar to mine. I stepped inside. I noticed books and a picture frame on the nightstand. I approached it. I picked the picture frame up for a closer view. The photo was sepia-colored and looked like an antique. It was obviously taken at one of those places that dressed you to fit into a certain time period, because it was Herbert, standing next to a man who looked vaguely familiar. They were positioned in front of a cheesy Coney Island photo backdrop. Herbert wore clothes that spoke the roaring twenties and the man next to him had on an expensive suit and hat. They both half-grinned at the camera.
"What are you doing in here?" Herbert spoke from the door. He wasn't rude, but I could tell he didn't like people nosing around his space.
I turned to him, still clutching the picture. "I'm sorry. I didn't know where to go."
He softened. "It's okay. This isn't an easy place to figure out," he said.
"Where are we?"
"Jersey City. This building was an old tooling plant I acquired years ago."
I looked back down to the picture. "When was this taken?"
"Coney Island. In 1925. The man standing next to me is Harry Houdini. Sadly, this was taken less than a year before his death. He was quite a superstar, but very friendly. He let me punch him in the stomach."
I looked up from the photo and back at Herbert. "1925?"
"Carol, I am over one hundred years old," he said. "But I rarely feel a day over thirty. And you no doubt are curious to how that is possible."
"Uh, yeah," I said. "Who wouldn't be?"
"Your first assumption is that I am a Night Thing. But that isn't the case. A few years after this photo was taken, I developed a vaccine against death. It was meant to make the reanimation process unnecessary. It would allow our cells and organs to constantly renew themselves. There was a lab accident, and my skin absorbed the formula. I didn't realize it had worked until nearly twenty-five years later when the gray didn't come."
"What happened with the vaccine?"
"It was impractical and very expensive. The main ingredient came from an animal that was near extinction then and is long gone now. I have tried to use my own blood to recreate it, but every attempt has failed."
Herbert slapped his hands together, a cue to change the subject. "So, are you hungry? I made you breakfast."
***
The kitchen was just as bland as the rest of the place, but clean. So clean. Herbert worked a blender, his back to me. As the prospect of breakfast hit my brain, I realized I was starving. I sat at a steel island on a cold, metal stool.
Herbert filled a tall glass and put it in front of me. It was pink, thick and looked like a smoothie of some sort.
"A milkshake?" I said, putting my hand on the glass and expecting cold. But it wasn't. The contents were room temperature.
"A meat shake," Herbert corrected me. "My experiments love them."
"He
rbert, I am a vegetarian," I said, frowning.
"Not anymore. You'll have to bend your convictions a bit. If you don't have raw meat on a regular basis, you'll become dangerous. You won't be able to saunter down the sidewalk without eating a passerby."
I picked the glass up and reluctantly put it to my lips. I anticipated nausea to come, but when that warm liquid hit my tongue, it tasted like ambrosia from the Gods. Sweet and salty and more delicious than anything I had ever tasted. I was a carnivore now. I finished it quickly and put it back to the island. I was about to ask for more, but Herbert had already filled another glass for me. It disappeared without hesitation.
"Did it hit the spot?" he asked.
"That was sex and cuddles," I admitted. "I guess I shouldn't renew with Peta. Any left?"
Herbert smirked and poured the rest into my glass form the pitcher. "I can make more," he offered.
I shook my head as I finished. "No. That was perfect. Thank you."
I thought suddenly about the attack at the shelter. "Do you have Wi-Fi? I want to read the news."
Herbert scoffed. "No. I do not get my news from blogs or posts. If it is news worth knowing, it is news worth committing to paper. You want to know about your death?"
I nodded. "Yes."
Herbert opened a drawer and pulled three newspapers out. "It was front page this morning. I saved these for you."
He plopped them in front of me. I grabbed the first paper and scanned through the article.
"They all say the same thing," Herbert advised, as he cleaned dishes. "A pack of murderous, religious rednecks stormed your building and killed everyone save one person."
"Erin Maher," I said, reaching it in the article before Herbert divulged it. "I stopped one of the gunmen before he shot her."
"They claim they are part of the RIP organization. Of course, that group is condemning the act," Herbert said, drying his hands with a kitchen towel. "The police have no suspects."
I pushed the papers away. "Do you have a pad and pen?"
Herbert dug into the draw and pulled a notepad and pen. He put them in front of me. I immediately began to sketch the face of the man I had unmasked. Hebert watched over my shoulder.
"Who is that?" he asked, as Vic's face quickly formed on the blank sheet.
"This was one of the attackers. Vic. I got his ski mask off and saw his face before I was shot."
"What are you planning to do with this?"
"I am going to take it to the police. Hopefully they can catch the bastard and we can get his partners."
Herbert snatched the pen from my hand as I added the last bit of shade to Vic's right eye. "Carol, you cannot go to the authorities. You'll be sent to Staten Island. Z Station. Many zombies perish during the internment period and you are far too valuable to the future to risk."
"I have to do something. I need closure on this," I insisted.
"You were attacked by domestic terrorists. That is the short and long of it. You have to let it go. The work we can do together is at peril."
I sighed in frustration. "Listen, I know what you want to do. And I want to help. I really do. But I need a little time to adjust. I just want to go home for a few days."
"That is impossible. You can never go home again. You have worked with zombies, and you know that you no longer possess anything. You are starting again with nothing," Herbert reminded me.
"I have some personal items at my office," I said. "Take me there. Let me grab what little I can."
"That place is still buried in police tape. It's too great a risk," Herbert said. "You will have to stay here, with me. We'll figure out a way to protect you."
"If you want my help, I need to go to the shelter. After that, I will devote as much time as you like to your research. Please, Herbert. It's all I have left."
He looked at me. I could see that reservations plagued him. "Okay," he gave in. "I'll call for a cab."
"Give me the pen," I said. "Vic needs eyebrows."
11.
Hands on Experience
September 5th, 1929
Arkham, Massachusetts
Herbert West and Edmund Wraight stood in Herbert's basement laboratory. They stared at a cold corpse awaiting life on an examination table.
Edmund took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and put on the leather apron that Herbert had provided. "So, your assistant moved out?"
"Yes," Herbert said, prepping a syringe as Edmund prepared himself. "He left a note. Didn't even have the courtesy to tell me face to face."
"Well, he struck me as a bit too apprehensive for this work of yours. You are better off," Edmund said, tying the apron strings.
"This could get physical," Herbert warned. "Are you sure you can handle this?"
"I am very fit," Edmund said, slapping his chest like a posturing gorilla. "I can withstand what may come."
Herbert looked to the iron cell cut under the stairway that Edmund had financed. "We will put him in there as soon as he returns to life. It will be safer to study the subjects now, thanks to your generosity."
"Your straps and shackles won't hold them for the duration and we can't have these creatures terrorizing the countryside. It was a sound investment."
Edmund regarded the nude cadaver. It was a white man in his forties. "Who was he?"
"I don't have his name. He was a vagrant who died outside of Miskatonic. It appears to be of natural causes."
"Drank himself to darkness?"
"He has broken capillaries on the nose and face. Yellow eyes and skin. So yes, it would appear so."
Herbert stepped to the dead man. He regarded Edmund. "Are you ready for this?"
"Yes," Edmund said excitedly.
Herbert administered the shot to the subject's arm. He then stood and dug out his pocket watch.
"How long does this usually take?" Edmund asked.
"It could be minutes or hours. It depends upon the newness of the corpse. This man has been dead a day, at least. I would have preferred a fresher specimen. But we work with what is provided."
They watched in silence. Herbert announced fifteen minutes when the creature opened its eyes.
It looked around in confusion, as if seeing the world for the first time.
"I am Herbert West," Herbert said softly. "Welcome back to the land of the living."
The bewildered face of the dead man constricted in anger. He bellowed, his voice hoarse and unholy.
"Be calm, my friend," Edmund said, stepping next to Herbert. "You have been born again. There has to be some rationality left in there."
At the sight of Edmund Wraight, the creature's screaming protests became murderous. Its thin arms wormed out of the restraints and it bolted up, knocking Herbert and Edmund back. It recognized the mechanics of the ankle restraints and unlatched them.
The thing lunged past Herbert, its dead arms and hateful anger targeting Edmund.
Herbert feared his patron would perish quickly under this assault. But to Herbert's supreme surprise, Edmund easily evaded the death grip. He spun the creature around and put an arm around its throat.
"Be still, you daft bastard!" he commanded. "We have brought you back from the void! Where is your gratitude?"
The thing hissed and wailed and reached its dirty hands over its head. Edmund twisted and broke the creature's neck. The wailing shrank to a last breath squeezing from the thing's throat. He released it and let it plummet to the ground. He then smoothed his hair and shirt.
"I have never seen one of them react quite so violently," Herbert said, staring at Edmund curiously. "It was as if it had a vendetta."
"You've told me before these things can be vicious."
"Viscous, yes. But I have never seen one so quickly possessed by such hate. Edmund, it despised you. I wonder why."
"Who knows," Edmund said, fully composed. "Perhaps it was my cologne. Or maybe I reminded it of an enemy."
"Did you hear its thoughts?" Herbert asked.
"Oh, yes," Edmund said, his eyebro
ws arching up. "They were those of a feral Hellhound released from the gates. It was no doubt already baying when you plucked it from the netherworld."
Edmund stared thoughtfully at the dead experiment. "Herbert, we must find a way to make these creatures more compliant. Even a caged animal can be reached after a period."
Herbert shook his head. "I usually have to sedate them to get a good look. It is difficult to test proper responses with they way they carry on."
"What if there were a way to reach them at the time of reanimation?" Edmund wondered. "What if we could plant the seed of reason in their dim brains at the start?"
Night Things: The Monster Collection Page 20