Arkham Nights

by Glynn Owen Barrass

  It went on like that for a good ten minutes.

  Then another man appeared on screen. Dressed in long monk’s robes, his face was concealed by a round mask shaped like the moon but with a leering face at its center. He stood beside the bed and gestured at the woman in mockery, before again disappearing off camera.

  The woman wailed and suffered silently, which in some ways made the film even more horrifying. I took a look at Barnes and saw a face pale and drawn with disgust.

  My eyes drew me back to the film. Despite the fact I knew what was happening, I still found it difficult to watch, and who wouldn’t? Certainly not Barnes, who sat cringing as the monstrous rapist sucked the life and soul right out of his victim. Monster? Yeah, because now its skin looked thick and mottled, darker than normal flesh. Muscles on its body bulged in all the wrong places, as if up until now it was only faking the human form, and had just given up on it.

  Barnes began swearing but his words soon trailed off into silence. The man-thing on the screen, pressed down against the woman’s quickly shriveling form, appeared to be sucking her essence right down his throat, his neck now bulbous and bloated as he gulped her down. His belly swelled against her now unmoving form.

  There was nothing left inside her to move, nothing but a bare and empty woman-shaped sack to replace what had once been a living, thinking person.

  I turned from the screen and darted towards the waste-bin. By the time I’d finished hurling, the film had ended.

  As I used my handkerchief to wipe my dripping mouth I felt Barnes’s hand on my shoulder. It seemed he had a stronger stomach than me, for as I stood back up I saw he was looking sick but not too worse for wear.

  He must have known what I was thinking, for he said: “You should’ve seen how I was when I found what was left of her.”

  Barnes helped me up even though I didn’t need his assistance; the man was just showing concern. Then, reaching over towards the desk, he retrieved the office bottle and passed it to me after taking a healthy swig himself.

  The whiskey burned the insides of my throat and I felt better for it. As I dropped my soiled handkerchief into the fouled up waste-bin he said, “Trev, I think you need to fill me in on who brought us that damned film.”

  Barnes switched off the still-rolling projector while I went about disassembling the screen.

  “The man that came,” I said, “seemed pretty shaken up, but he had just watched that.” I nodded towards the reel in Barnes’s hands.

  Barnes seemed as subdued as I’d ever seen him. I watched him replace the film gingerly back in its can.

  I kneeled down to take the screen stand apart and continued. “This fella, Dafoe he called himself, said the film was made by some Hollywood director. He said that was him in the film, wearing that crazy mask.”

  I walked back towards Barnes with the equipment tucked under each arm and added the final bombshell. “The woman the beast had its way with was Dafoe’s wife.”

  Barnes stared at me as I dropped the stuff down onto the desk.

  “And he thinks he’s gonna be next.”

  Barnes swore under his breath before nodding at the film can.

  He said, “Then it seems we have a new client to deal with.”

  I agreed and reached for the bottle. My nerves needed steadying like never before.

  We headed out early the next morning to Byron Dafoe’s home, several miles west of Arkham. Much of the previous evening had been spent getting our things together for the job of protecting our client. If his suspicions were correct, he was going to need a lot of protection. Me and Trevor had seen some pretty terrible things during our short partnership but nothing that could compare to what we saw in that film. Sure, Herbert West’s sick shenanigans ran a close second but we’d made pretty sure that he was now out of the running.

  As the scenery rolled by, I asked, “Do you really think a professional filmmaker would be involved in this crap?”

  Towers looked at me and shrugged. “Hard to say. They’re plenty flaky out there from what I hear.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, “but what was on that film goes way beyond flaky.”

  “Hellish,” he said. “Beyond the pale.”

  I nodded in agreement and lit a smoke.

  “Did you ever imagine we’d be going up against the kind of evil we’ve butted heads with in the past few months?”

  “Imagine it?” He asked. “Shit, I didn’t even know it existed. I’ve always had a pretty low opinion of the human race in general but never in my wildest dreams did...”

  “Hey, is that the turn-off up ahead?”

  Trevor peered through the thinning fog and nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure this is the place.”

  I turned off the main highway and headed north through a thickly wooded area. After about half a mile, the woods thinned substantially and we moved uphill across an overgrown but woodless expanse until the road ended at an ominous iron gate. The gate was the only passage through a tall stone fence about seven feet in height.

  “Well, now. This is a welcoming sight,” Trevor commented.

  “Yeah, just like returning home to Sing Sing.”

  A thick chain and lock held the gate shut.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Let me take a peep,” Trevor said, opening the car door.

  He passed in front of the car and inspected the lock. His broad back obscured my view but I could tell that his hands were busy. After about a minute, he turned, held up the open lock and grinned. I gave him the thumbs up to show my approval and waited as he swung the gate sections open. Once the entrance was clear, I eased the car through and waited for him to get back inside.

  Trevor opened the door, eased onto the seat and grinned. “We’ll need to bug our client about security issues.”

  “I sort of expected someone to be manning that gate.”

  “Me too,” Trevor answered. “I guess we can find out what’s shaking once we find Dafoe.”

  Dafoe’s House sat atop the hill and seemed to look down at us. It was now light enough to get a good look at it. It was three stories in height and one of the most oppressive looking places I could imagine.

  “It’s even money whether Karloff or Lugosi greets us at the door,” I said, trying to strike a humorous note and failing.

  “What do they know of horror?” Trevor growled. “Their films are kid stuff compared to what we’ve seen.”

  “So true,” I commented as we steadily approached the house. “What makes Dafoe think we can keep the boogie man away from the door?”

  “Apparently we’ve got quite a reputation among the more eccentric set.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  I pulled the car to a stop on the circular driveway and turned off the engine. Trevor frowned and said, “This is a lot of territory for two guys to cover.”

  “I thought it might be,” I answered. “I spoke to Fred Massey and Willie Haynes about the possibility of lending a hand if needed.”

  “Good,” Trevor said. “They’re both pretty competent. I wish Geoffrey were still in the country. His angle on this might’ve been helpful.”

  “God, what a fruitcake!” I moaned. “Still, I have to admit that he’s a regular encyclopedia where this screwy stuff is concerned.”

  “Well, we’ll make the best of it.”

  “Maybe we don’t need him anyway,” I said. “Didn’t you say Dafoe is supposed to be some kind of occult expert?”

  “So he says,” Trevor answered, “but who knows?”

  “Yeah, there are lots of scam artists who claim to be.”

  Trevor looked at the building and grunted.

  “Let’s get started.”

  As we headed up towards the house, something came back to me that had been niggling the edge of my mind ever since I’d mentioned Justin Geoffrey.

  It was relevant to our case, sort of.

  I said, “You know, Geoffrey once told me about a movie made in Germany in the 1920’s. It was some Drac
ula rip-off that had a real vampire in the lead role.”

  Barnes gave me an odd look and asked, “You know which one?”

  “Can’t remember the name,” I replied, “but Geoffrey seemed pretty convinced. He said while he was abroad he even met some of the witnesses.”

  Barnes laughed, I thought because of the stupidity of my tale, but he quickly proved me wrong.

  We were almost upon the house when he said, “Dealing with a vampire would be a piece of cake compared to what we saw in that skin flick.”

  He was right of course. He always is.

  Dafoe was a tall fellow, cadaverously thin, and wore his white hair exceedingly short. It was about the length of Curly Howard’s after six weeks between barbers. He sported dark circles beneath pale blue eyes and his skin had a jaundiced cast to it that made me hope he didn’t have anything catchy.

  We sat in a large room, adequately furnished with old but comfortable chairs. A small fire tried in vain to warm the chill that had descended upon us since entering the house. The walls were decorated with a garish assortment of masks and other objects, many of which left me clueless.

  Dafoe caught me staring at an especially hideous mask and smiled.

  “A rather meager example of my vast collection,” he said. “It was once worn by an African shaman of reputedly fabulous power.”

  “To each his own,” I answered. “My taste in art runs more toward the dogs playing poker type of thing.”

  He smiled sardonically and pointed across the large room to where Trevor stood. My partner was engrossed in the contents of a glass display case.

  “Your associate seems to have found something of interest,” Dafoe said.

  Trevor turned to me saying, “Hey, Barnes, get a load of this.”

  I walked to where he stood and tried to see over his shoulder. “Am I supposed to guess or do you want to move so I can see?”

  “Sorry,” he said, nodding toward the contents with a grin. “You got any missing relations?” he asked. “That one sort of looks like you.”

  I stared at the collection of shrunken heads and smirked. “You’re a real riot, Trev.”

  Dafoe excused himself and left the room with assurances that he would return shortly.

  Looking at Trevor, I said, “I thought you said this guy was real broken up over his wife’s death. It doesn’t seem like it to me.”

  “You must be getting slow,” Trevor answered. “Didn’t you spot those needle marks on his arms? He’s hopped up to the gills right now. Probably his way of coping.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Great, just what we need.”

  “Hey, even we needed something after watching that film.”

  “Okay,” I said, “But you’re in charge of dealing with him. I don’t have the patience. You know how I feel about that shit.”

  “No problem,” Trevor said. He started to say something else but Dafoe entered the room.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “Is it too early for refreshments? I’m sure there’s much you want to ask and talking is so much easier with lubrication of one’s vocal chords.”

  “Never too early for us,” Trevor responded.

  We took seats and tasted our drinks. Trevor took up most of a small sofa and stared at the flickering fire through his scotch. “This is good stuff,” he said. “But, if you’re in danger we need to know all the facts.”

  Dafoe nodded. “Ask your questions,” he said. “It’s assuredly in my best interest to answer them truthfully.”

  “Why do you believe your wife was murdered?” I asked.

  “I’m almost certain that it was motivated by the desire for revenge,” he answered.

  “You must have really pissed someone off.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that I did,” Dafoe answered, “though I never expected things to culminate in this horrible tragedy.”

  I noted that the bird had yet to refer to his wife by name. I found this curious.

  “I was on the West Coast,” he continued, “working as a technical consultant for a rather odious little film about black magic.”

  “What studio?” Trevor asked, sipping his drink.

  “Starmont Pictures,” he answered. “Frankly they were best known for producing a series of poverty-row stinkers, so wretched that even Lugosi declined to work for them.”

  “So how did you get hooked up with these guys?” Trevor asked.

  “Money, what else?” he answered. “Abe Steinwitz, the studio owner, came into some big money and had aspirations of moving his studio into the big time. The problem was that he still thought small time. At least that’s the only explanation I have for why he chose to hire a discredited, alcoholic director like Roger Bunning.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” I said. “Wasn’t he responsible for The Ghastly Corpse Eaters?”

  “Yes, that’s him,” Dafoe answered, frowning.

  “Never heard of it,” Trevor said.

  “It was quite the scandal,” I replied. “Turns out they were using real corpses on the set. Bunning denied knowledge of it but it played hell with his career.”

  Trevor grinned. “Good to see you’re reading something other than those pulp magazines.”

  I turned to Dafoe. “What led to you and Roger Bunning crossing swords?”

  “The man was a willfully ignorant fool,” Dafoe said. “Steinwitz insisted on authenticity for this particular film and Bunning was making up occult rituals on the fly. The man didn’t know a black cat from a black mass.”

  “But you were there to provide the knowhow,” Trevor said.

  “Yes, and Bunning refused to listen to me. He was abusive, arrogant, and had me physically removed from the set on at least two occasions.”

  “And you went to Steinwitz?” Trevor asked.

  “Yes, but only as a last resort.”

  “Well, what finally happened?” I asked.

  “Steinwitz sacked Bunning and decided to scrap the entire picture. After that fiasco, Bunning was pretty much finished.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I can see why he might want payback against you but what makes you so sure that he’s responsible for your wife’s death? And do you know what the hell that monster in the film is?”

  “That mask in the film is an obvious taunt. It is one of a kind and came from my personal collection. I gave it to Bunning as a goodwill gesture before things completely soured on the film. As for the monster, that will take a bit of explaining.”

  Trevor finished his drink and set the glass down. He looked at Dafoe and said, “We’re all ears. Lay it on us.”

  Instead of staying put, Dafoe decided to take our conversation elsewhere. After taking us back the way we’d come, he escorted us through a little museum of odd objects.

  The ceiling and walls were painted a crisp white, the latter lined with glass-fronted cabinets filled with bizarre bric-a-brac. Between these stood even stranger things, with a long table at the room’s center bearing more of the same.

  Following Dafoe across the room we passed a tall, rusty Iron Maiden followed by a huge, wooden, man-shaped statue. Carved with big hair and medieval style dress, it had a five-pointed star upon its broad chest.

  I said under my breath, “What is all this kooky crap?”

  Barnes must have heard me for he made a quick, snorting laugh.

  A door stood at the center of each of the room’s four walls. Dafoe led us to the one to our right, which made us step around the table at its center.

  It held a fake-looking brain accompanied by three swords and a very sharp-looking sickle. All had paper tags attached to them I didn’t have the chance to read because Dafoe had already opened the door for us.

  A silver-furred monkey suit and a gaudy gold sarcophagus flanked the door. Barnes stepped between them first, looked the monkey up and down and said, “Nice fangs, pal.”

  The room we followed Dafoe into was unlit, so his voice came invisibly from the darkness.

  He said, “The suit is from the film, The White Ape, the
sarcophagus a prop from The Tomb of the Black Pharaoh. Both one-of-a-kind rarities.”

  This at least explained the source of all of the weird junk, proof that as well as being a student of the arcane, our latest client was a film nut.

  We remained in shadow for a few moments before a light appeared at the far end of what proved to be a library. The walls stood lined with bookshelves and tables stacked full with books.

  Dafoe, obviously familiar with the darkness, had walked to the end of the room to switch on a lamp sat atop a wide wooden desk. There were two chairs before it, us heading for these as Dafoe stepped around the desk to his own.

  The seat he took looked more like a throne, and an evil-looking one at that. The arms he rested his upon were carved in the shape of evil-faced lions, the backrest high, ornate and oval-shaped. It was painted red and gold and covered in weird shapes and symbols.

  “Let me guess,” I grinned. “Another prop?”

  Dafoe stroked the lion beneath his left hand. “My most favorite prop at that,” he said. “Excepting perhaps the golem in the main hall. This is the throne from The Mask of Fu Manchu.”

  With the only illumination coming from the desk lamp, the room wasn’t exactly bright, and the chair looked creepier for it. The shadows also made our host appear a bit more sinister. An odd-looking statue, a hunched thing with wings, stood on the desk between Dafoe and us, completing the dark atmosphere.

  Dafoe looked right at home, like an evil sorcerer from one of his films.

  He said, “Sorry about the move, but this, my inner sanctum, is far more conducive for what I need to tell you both.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw Barnes nod. I steepled my fingers and became all ears.

  Dafoe began with, “The universe is actually far older than you, or I can possibly imagine. This realm, and the universes beyond, bear life in abundance, although to look upon it would instill utter insanity.”