by Pete Rawlik
It was then, my mind wandering, that I noticed the faint phosphorescence that seemed to be providing a dim illumination. With my bare hand I reached out toward what my eyes perceived as a patch brighter than the rest and wiped the surface of a side table. My hand suddenly tingled, and holding it palm up I saw a fine layer of oily liquid radiating a vibrant green light. It was a fluid I had seen before, and read about in detail. There was no doubt in my mind that this was a sample of material considered classified and dangerous by the men who ran the mission in Paris. This was Herbert West’s reagent, or a variant of it, a fluid capable of reanimating the dead.
I had first encountered the victims of this dread compound in Paris at the estate known as Locus Solus, which Herbert West had turned into a kind of macabre diorama. Later I had traveled to Ylourgne, where the Great Powers attempted to find some diplomatic solution to the new science of reanimation, one that would forbid the use of it during war time. It was here that I encountered the mad genius Sir Eric Moreland Clapham-Lee, himself a decapitated member of the reanimated. It was my encounter with Clapham-Lee that had driven me over the edge and forced me to retreat with Arthur to a sleepy little seaside village in Cornwall by the name of Portwenn. It was there, after much soul-searching amongst the green fields and rolling waves, that I decided to request reassignment from the mission.
Officially, I worked for the American Commission to Negotiate Peace, but no one ever called it that: it was always the mission, or The Mission. Occasionally, and with some trepidation, we who had been part of the organization for years referred to it by its original designation, The Inquiry, and those of us who went back that far still thought of ourselves as Inquisitors, though that designation came with baggage, as pointed out by Head of Research Walter Lippman, and was formally removed from use. Now both the Mission and the Inquiry were defunct, General Sternwood was retiring, and Vargr and I were assigned to make sure he had whatever he needed during his last few weeks of service. When the General completed his service, so did we.
Now, as the General groaned beneath my hands, it looked like that service might be coming to an end a little bit sooner than expected.
I heard Vargr and Houseman before I saw them, their boots crunching through the snow and their breath ragged from running. I heard others as well, and as the four of them came through the door, the fact that Kellerman and Darrow had accompanied Houseman and Vargr not only did not surprise me, but seemed almost inevitable. As the two doctors knelt down beside Sternwood’s body I took a moment to confer with Vargr and Kellerman.
“Someone has attacked the General, he’s wounded quite seriously.” I gestured toward the scene of carnage. “Whoever did this also took Kalley’s body. There are tracks leading off into the woods.” I was being deliberately vague so as to keep Kellerman in the dark. He didn’t need to know the truth, at least not right now; there was still a possibility that this could be contained.
Kellerman looked stunned. “We’ve had problems with bears getting into the garbage and breaking into some of the remoter cabins.”
I nodded at his serendipitous suggestion. “This bear seems to have a taste for more than just garbage. We need to secure the lodge, reinforce the doors, and make sure that this thing can’t get to anyone else.” I paused as Houseman and Darrow seemed to be arguing. “We’ll also need to bring the General back to his room and make provisions for his condition. He’ll need a lot of clean linen, towels and sterile dressings, and boiled water.”
Kellerman seemed shaken but more lucid than Megan had been. He dashed from the room at a brisk pace, following orders given from a voice of authority. Later, when he had time, he might question that authority, but now in the heat of the moment he was happy just to be given something to do, even if it was just an illusion. It was what most people wanted, not the truth that they could do actually very little that was useful, but the lie that what little they did was extremely helpful.
The argument between Houseman and Darrow grew louder, and it instantly became plain what the issue was. They had managed to stem the blood loss, but were now focused on the injury to Sternwood’s back. Houseman was resigned to the fact that the General was going to die, while Darrow was urging the use of an experimental treatment derived from the transplant studies of Carrell and Guthrie, which Darrow had in his medical bag. Houseman opposed using the drug on the grounds that it was still experimental, and that results were likely to be poor.
“What choice do we have, Houseman,” sneered Darrow. “Would you see this man die? How will that impact your reputation? You’re already considered a nut, an outcast from the medical community. When they find out what has happened here, you’ll likely never practice again.”
“Just exactly what are you implying?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Kalley was in some kind of catatonic state, maybe even in a coma, but he wasn’t dead. You misdiagnosed that. When he came out of it he must have been in a state of mania, a kind of psychosis. Sternwood must have come along and become a victim of that rage. What’s happened here is a direct result of your incompetence.” Darrow paused. “But this wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
Houseman was flabbergasted, stunned for a moment to the point of speechlessness, but not to a point of inaction. He gathered his tools, closed his bag, and stood up to leave. “Mr. Peaslee, it is my professional opinion that this man is going to die. There is nothing I can do for him but make him more comfortable. Doctor Darrow, on the other hand, has access to some unproven drug that he claims might heal the man. I’m not going to try and stop him, but I’m not going to be party to it either.” With that he left Vargr and me alone with Doctor Darrow.
The little physician didn’t wait for either of us to approve of his actions. As Houseman left, Darrow plunged a syringe into Sternwood’s spinal column, and then wrenched the poor man’s body back into a more normal position. Sternwood screamed and then fell into a kind of rhythmic panting that could not have been in any way natural or healthy. Darrow took out his watch and a small notebook and began to record what I assumed to be his observations.
Five seconds and I saw no identifiable change to his breathing or status.
Ten seconds and Sternwood’s breathing remained erratic, almost bestial.
Fifteen seconds and I could tell Darrow was becoming nervous.
Twenty seconds and Sternwood’s breathing had suddenly become shallower. Darrow checked his pulse.
Twenty-five seconds and Sternwood stopped breathing; Darrow tore the man’s shirt open and tried to find a heartbeat. The look on his face was one of panic.
Thirty seconds and Sternwood reared up off the floor, screaming and flailing about. His erratic movements threw Darrow into the wall and the little man curled up into a ball to protect himself. Spittle and foam poured out of Sternwood’s mouth, and his eyes glowed with mania. For all the thrashing about, it was only Sternwood’s arms and torso that were moving. Everything below the waist was still motionless. Sternwood had become something monstrous, and even without his legs he was extremely dangerous.
I grabbed a sheet and wrapped it around itself into a crude rope. In a swift motion I looped it over Sternwood’s head and then cinched it behind his back. I did it so quickly he didn’t have time to respond. Then I twisted it clockwise, tightening it down and pinning his arms against his body. Any struggles toward freedom were to no avail. I tied a crude knot behind his neck and sat him upright on the floor. He snarled at me, snapping his teeth at my face like a dog.
“General!” I yelled, as I slapped him across the face. He responded to that. He shook off the blow and I saw some sense of recognition in his eyes. He ceased to be an animal and suddenly his whole body relaxed. His breathing became regular, controlled even. Darrow came out of his shell and carefully checked the General. Darrow found a pulse, and a heartbeat, then looked into his eyes. The General remained calm for the whole process, even while Darrow checked the man’s wound, which seemed to have ceased bleeding altogether.
“Cold,” mumbled the wounded old man. “So cold.”
Vargr and I grabbed some blankets and sheets, slid the man onto them, and while Darrow steadied him, we carried Sternwood back to the main house. Kellerman had prepared a new room for receiving the General, a large spacious suite on the first floor. We slid him into the bed, wrapped the blankets around him, and made sure the fire was stoked. Then Vargr and I departed, leaving our commanding officer in the hands of Doctor Darrow, a man I suspected of having access to Herbert West’s reagent, a reagent I also thought may have turned Kalley into a horrific undead thing, but at the same time may have saved General Sternwood’s life.
Vargr went to check on the progress made on securing the building, while I went upstairs to change out of my blood-stained clothes. As soon as I had reached my floor, I was accosted by the presence of Arthur Geiger, who had apparently just been knocking on my door. As he saw me, the look on his face was one of frustration, and he opened his mouth to say something, but then he saw the blood that soaked my shirt and sleeves. His look changed almost instantly, converting to one of concern that reminded me of my mother.
“They’ve shut down the party; I suppose you have something to do with that?”
I nodded. “General Sternwood has been attacked. There may be a madman on the loose.” I turned the key in my door and went inside.
Without permission he followed me in. “Are you injured?”
“No, this is all Sternwood’s blood.” I took my left arm out of my coat—the dried blood had welded the sleeve of my shirt to that of the coat and I had to slowly pull them apart.
“Here, let me help with that,” said Geiger as he came up behind me. With two hands he separated the two sleeves and then helped me off with my coat. With care he laid it on the overstuffed chair by the door. “We’ll have to get that cleaned, this shirt, too.” With a deft hand he turned me around and began undoing my tie.
“Mr. Geiger . . .” I began to protest.
“I told you to call me Arthur. Now let’s get this tie and shirt off.” The tie slid off my neck and fell to the ground. His fingers went to work on my buttons, gently popping them out of their holes one after another. I felt his breath on my neck and chest as he worked his way down. I slid one arm out of my suspenders, and then another. He pulled the shirttail out of my waistband to finish what he had started. I kicked off my shoes. As he unfastened the last button, the shirt, and my pants, fell to the floor.
I took my hand and gently raised his chin, staring into those big beautiful eyes. I kissed him, gently, and then as I pulled back I stroked his hair. “Arthur,” I whispered, not knowing whether I was referring to him, or to my lost love Valentine. As he led me to the bath, I wasn’t exactly sure that it even mattered.
It was close to midnight when I once more left my room. I’ll admit to some discomfort with leaving Geiger sleeping in my bed, with access to all my personal items, but the truth is I had little in the way of possessions, having over the last few years lived a rather Spartan lifestyle. If he wanted to steal what little I had, so be it. Besides, we were all snowed in, where would he go? I let the man sleep and went about with a task I had meant to do earlier, before I was distracted, namely checking on my Hannah and Megan.
As I made my way down the hall I became aware of a sudden drop in temperature. A creeping cold was working its way across the floor and with every step toward my sister’s room it grew more noticeable. By the time I reached my destination it felt as if I was already outside, and if it weren’t for my night clothes and robe, I would surely have been subjected to a significant chill. Indeed, I could see my breath fogging up and small patches of condensation forming on the metal fixtures.
I had thought to force the lock, but found that course of action was unnecessary: the door to the room occupied by my sister and her charge was unlocked, and swung open with barely a sound to disturb the occupants. Little light was streaming in from the hall, and the curtains were mostly closed, but the glow from the wood still burning in the fireplace was enough for me to take note of the slumbering form nearest to the door, and identify it as my sister, Hannah. I will admit that I felt a little sigh of relief at the realization that my sister was safe, but that feeling was short-lived.
As my eyes adjusted to the weak light, I saw the face and form of Megan Halsey-Griffith sitting upright in bed, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight, her eyes full of that vacant faraway stare that I had seen earlier. At the foot of her bed stood another form, that of a man, or at least a semblance of one. It was naked and bent like an animal, its tongue lolling out of its mouth in an odd bestial manner. Its skin was covered with dirt and debris, and in places dried blood, most of which I suspected was not its own. Small twigs and leaves were embedded in the thing’s hair and its eyes were glassy and pale. I recognized it, of course, even as a parody of a living thing. I recognized it as what had once been the resort’s coachman, Christopher Kalley. Now he was barely human, more simian than man, and driven by base desires to feed and propagate, desires that were, given his lack of clothing, plain for anyone to see.
The thing was muttering, not any words I could understand, but the rhythm was such that I knew what was being implied. The undead thing was praying to her, offering up homage to the girl; she was, as I have said before, angelic in appearance and nature, and this sad, twisted monster had chosen her as his own personal divinity. It was sickening to watch it drool and worship her—not that I couldn’t understand how that had come to be, but I still found it revolting.
That feeling of revulsion grew and festered inside me, speeding from one emotion to another at lightning pace. One minute it was revulsion, and the next it was compulsion and I was driven to act. I burst into the room, grabbed the poker from beside the fireplace, and lunged at the creature, fully intent on smashing in its skull with the iron rod. It dodged and hissed in anger and pain as the hooked end came down on its shoulder and dug into its flesh. There was a crack as something broke inside of it, but the thing took no notice, grabbed the poker, and tried to wrench it from my grasp. As we struggled, the hook tore out of its shoulder, leaving a gaping wound that oozed a black viscous fluid that was more oil than blood. With all my might, I pulled and pushed against the creature and with a single Herculean tug, ripped the end of my makeshift weapon out of its hands.
Instead of fighting to redirect the poker, I used the momentum and directed it in a wide arc that brought the weapon back into play and crashing down on the unprotected head of my foe. It was a glancing blow, but one that was enough to knock the thing off of its feet and send it whimpering to the floor, clutching its face with both hands while small geysers of foul blood erupted, spraying the room with a thick and noxious mist.
The battle woke Hannah, who began screaming, and from the corner of my eye I saw her rush to Megan’s side. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t whisk them out of the room, but Hannah was doing her best to drag the child from her bed and away from danger. Megan, on the other hand, was still entranced, almost catatonic. Her eyes glazed over and her mouth was slack-jawed. She was in no condition to help Hannah in her own rescue, but she was in no condition to resist either.
The pause to check on the girls was all the inhuman creature needed to go from being a prone victim to an attacker. It tried to spring up from the floor, snapping with powerful jaws full of bloody fangs. I swung the poker and smashed it across the face. Spittle and broken teeth flew across the room as the inhuman thing spun and hit the floor. Something in my mind snapped and I came up behind the wounded thing, my weapon held high, and with a mighty blow I plunged it into the back of the thing’s skull. It whimpered and gasped what was likely its last breath, but I didn’t care. I wrenched the poker out of the oozing gray matter and in a swift motion brought it crashing down once more. I did it again and again and again. I brought my makeshift weapon down upon that creature’s head so many times I lost count.
I could hear Hannah crying behind me, but it was a distant thing
, like a dog howling in the night. I could see nothing but the monstrous thing that was beneath me, could feel only the soft thud of the poker in flesh, could hear only the delightful crack of bone. Everything else was just noise to be ignored. At least until the light came on. Whether it was Hannah or Vargr that finally flipped the switch I don’t know, I only know that it was done and it brought the entire room into view, and I caught sight of myself in the mirror that hung on the wall.
I was a monstrous thing to behold, covered in blood and bone and brain, a gore-soaked weapon in my hand with bits of scalp and hair dangling from the tip and hook. My eyes were wide and held a wild, almost crazed look. My face was locked into a kind of grin, a risus sar-donicus that completed my transformation. Somewhere in the last few seconds I had gone from champion to maniac, from hero to madman, from righteous to monstrous. In the mirror I caught the faces of Vargr, Hannah, and Geiger, and could see the terror in their eyes. Vargr had his gun out, but whether he planned to use it on the thing at my feet or on me I wasn’t sure. I dropped the poker; let it fall haphazardly to the floor. It had served its purpose, but now it was a haunting reminder that I had lost control and instilled in my friend, family, and lover the knowledge of what a monster I could become.
I fell to the floor, and watched as Hannah handed over Megan to Vargr and then rushed to my side. As she used a sheet to wipe my face, Geiger slipped away. There had been a look of shock on his face, one that I felt assured was a betrayal of a state of disgust. In Vargr’s arms Megan began to rouse; she awakened slowly, mumbling something about dreams that made no sense.
“I had the oddest dream,” she casually announced, clueless as to what had just occurred. “There was a child, a newborn who came to me mewling and crying, such a beautiful child.”