by Pete Rawlik
I closed my eyes and composed myself. “Hadrian, get her out of here.” My friend nodded and carried the delirious child down the hall to his own quarters, leaving me alone with my sister, Hannah.
“Are you all right?” she casually asked, knowing the answer. I nodded, and she nodded back. “You have Father’s temper.”
I was silent for a moment, contemplating the implications. “I suppose that is true. I had forgotten his rages, forgotten most everything about him before he . . . changed.”
“Mother calls it ‘The Episode,’ and he’s better since he came back. He’s more humble, less demanding. I think whatever happened to him changed him, gave him some perspective, made him less of a monster, more vulnerable.” She wiped some blood out of my eyes. “You’re a lot like him.”
“You think so?” I looked at the blood-soaked room and the still-twitching corpse of the twice-dead thing that I had beaten to a final death. “I hope not; that would be terrifying.”
I spent Christmas Eve day in bed, sleeping. It was a fitful sleep, full of nightmares and awakening in cold sweats. As I tossed and turned I still on occasion caught the scent of Geiger where he had rested his head on a pillow or blanket. I ached a little inside at the thought of him, but I yearned for Valentine more, and tried desperately to remember the days we spent visiting the quaint little towns of Midsomer. Yet each time I closed my eyes and tried to force the memory I failed. Something else intruded—I would have thought it was Geiger, or Hannah, or Hadrian, perhaps Sternwood, or even my father, but surprisingly it was Megan Halsey-Griffith. Each time I drifted off to sleep she was there in her gossamer nightclothes, looking radiant and angelic, dominating the scene. She was standing there staring at me, reaching out with her hand to caress my cheek. She was smiling at me in a childlike way, one that expressed nothing but love and innocence, but each time she spoke I awoke screaming.
I emerged in time for dinner, a sumptuous feast hosted by Max Kellerman with performances between courses by King Leopardi. General Sternwood was not present; he was confined to his room, attended by Darrow, who reported that he was lucid, that everything below the waist was not entirely paralyzed, but extremely weak. He had also developed an extreme sensitivity to cold, and was only comfortable if the temperature was above eighty degrees or so. Vargr had informed his family of the change in his condition and they were making the necessary preparations for his arrival in California.
Vargr had also developed somewhat of a friendship with the young Miss Lefferts, who had, as promised, taken good care of the orchids and produced stunning sketches of the strange-looking plants. Vargr was quite pleased with her compositions and Miss Lefferts was absolutely beaming with pride. The two exchanged addresses; Vargr had some strange reason he wanted to stay in contact with the girl, nothing lascivious, but rather for some future project he had in mind. He said that one day he might write his memoirs, and Miss Lefferts’s work might do as a cover art.
From the book appraisers there were few words, although I did overhear a short conversation between Geiger and Megan. He was an amateur photographer and wanted to know if she would pose for him. Hannah nipped that idea in the bud, reminding her that she was a lady of standing. The rest of Geiger’s team, Toht, Copperpot, and Cairo, seemed content to chat amongst themselves. They had come to a formal agreement with Kellerman concerning the final price for the library, and were going to spend the first few days of the New Year scouting books in New York so as to replace and update the selection for guests. They seemed pleased with the outcome of their venture, as did Kellerman.
The other guests, including Doctor Houseman and his son, Jacob, seemed to enjoy the celebration, but it was clear that the subject of Kalley and what I had done to him was off limits. I did catch a few stares coming my way, but nobody lingered too long and I was even asked to dance once I had shown some competency with my sister, Hannah. It shocked me somewhat when my waltz with Mrs. Houseman ended and I was suddenly faced with young Megan demanding a turn.
As we spun and twirled our way to Leopardi’s trumpet she made it clear that she had no memory of what had occurred the night before. “They tell me you saved my life.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose so.”
She stared at me in the most curious fashion. “I am not the easiest woman for men to get along with, Mr. Peaslee. It comes from my upbringing. My father died before I was born. My stepfather, a truly horrid man, most pedestrian in his thinking, was rarely around anyway, and died when I was nine. My mother and my spinster aunt, my father’s sister, are withdrawn from public life. I would not call them reclusive, but they are the only adults I’ve had in my life for many years. Consequently, I’ve not developed any level of social etiquette; this coupled with my precociousness has made meeting members of the opposite sex difficult.”
“Surely you’ve attracted some suitors? Not all men are put off by an educated woman.”
“There was one man, a doctor whom I met in Boston at an art gallery. I found him fascinating. I thought perhaps he felt the same way. He said he knew my father.” She looked wistful. “He disappeared and I never saw him again.”
“Megan, you are only fourteen.”
“Mr. Poe married Virginia when she was thirteen and he was twenty-six.”
“And it was considered something of a scandal,” I retorted. “You are a brilliant young woman with a great potential. You should be thinking of things other than meeting boys.”
In the middle of the dance floor, she stopped and took a step back. “You confuse me, Mr. Peaslee. I saw you that night in the cabin, I saw you wearing the green carnation. I know what it means. Yet I see the way that you look at me. How your eyes follow my movements. Did you notice that as we danced, your hand drifted downward across the small of my back? You didn’t, did you?” She saw the look of bewilderment in my eyes. “I think perhaps you are more confused than I am.”
With that our conversation ended and we ended the evening opening presents and wishing each other a happy Christmas. We then retired for the evening. In the morning, at breakfast, Kellerman announced that the road down the mountain had been cleared and that a special train had been scheduled to help evacuate the area. By midmorning I was back in Lefferts’ Corners and by noon we were all in Kingston. Vargr and General Sternwood, accompanied by Doctor Darrow, were heading south to New York City, while Hannah and Megan were headed north to Albany and then east to Arkham. Senator Lowe was traveling that way as well and although he promised to keep an eye on the girls, his oath left me with no sense of comfort.
As for me, I was in no rush to go anywhere. I was discharged, a free man, able to wander the country at will for the first time in years. Still, the events of the last few days had left me shaken and whatever plans I had for the rest of my life were still undecided. What I did need to do was think about what had happened. I found a quiet hotel with a decent café and pondered over the details of my time at Kellerman’s. Had it been a plot to bring all of us together? If so, who was pulling our strings? Sternwood and Lowe seemed the most likely of candidates, and it was clear they had some business interest. I suspected that interest was somehow linked to Darrow and a version of Herbert West’s reagent, but I had little proof to substantiate that, and even less to take to the authorities. Besides, what authorities would I go to? Who would believe me? The whole situation made my head spin, and I eventually collapsed in the hotel room bed and succumbed to the nightmares that waited in my sleep.
Megan was there, wearing her nightgown. In the background King Leopardi blew his trumpet in a sad, lonesome tune. A small dwarf in a burgundy suit danced while an old man sat in a red velvet chair watching him. I could place neither of these weird images, and when Megan asked me to dance, I forgot all about them.
Megan felt good in my arms; she was warm and smelled like roses. Her hair tickled my chin. I loved the way she moved as I caressed the small of her back. I could feel her heartbeat, and found that its rhythm matched mine, a
nd provided a fine counterpoint to the wail of the trumpets and the black-dressed ingénue that had joined the King on stage. Her song was sad and haunting, about love found, and lost and remembered. The old man in the chair was crying and the dwarf was trying to comfort him.
Megan spun out of our embrace and twirled across the dance floor. The song became a moan, and then a cry. As she glided across the marble, the trumpets and vocals were gone, and only a screaming remained. She fell into my arms and looked up at me with those glassy, empty, soulless eyes. She wrapped her arms around me and put her cheek next to mine. As she whispered in my ear, I strained to hear what she was saying. As her words became clear, I woke screaming, the sheets covered in sweat, my legs cramped. I fell to the floor and curled into a ball, trying desperately to protect myself from what that beautiful and charming and horrific avatar of Megan Halsey-Griffith had asked of me.
It was only one question, asked over and over again, but it drove me mad and shook me to the core.
“What happened to the baby?” she asked.
But that’s not true, if she had asked that it wouldn’t have been so terrible.
“What happened to the baby?” That’s what I wanted to hear, what she actually said chilled me to the bone, though why I cannot say.
“What happened to our baby?” she pleaded.
“What happened to our baby?”
“What Happened To Our Baby?”
“WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR BABY?”
Where her whispers began, where the screaming trumpet ended, where the crying vocals echoed, and where my own sobs started, I couldn’t tell.
CHAPTER 5
“The Tillinghast Inquiry”
From the Files of Joint Action Committee-K September–October 1923
CENSORED ACCORDING TO JAC-K PROTOCOL Six
3rd September 1923
“Well, what d’ya think?” Agent Flynn McGarrigle demanded in his thick Irish accent.
I was in no mood to talk, let alone answer McGarrigle’s questions. I had been in the room for an hour, and had possession of the file for less than that, and he wanted to know what I thought about a case that was more than three years old. What I thought was that somewhere along the line I had made a terrible mistake. I was back in New England, a region I had hoped never to return to. Arkham, the place of my birth and where my brother and father still lived, was less than a hundred miles away. I had done my best to avoid family obligations for the last decade or so, and being in Providence was too damn close for my comfort. Somewhere part of me wished that the war were still on and I and my unit were still in Europe.
The unit, however, was no more. We always talked about what we would do after the war. The plan was to stay together, and form our own security agency. It just didn’t turn out that way. As soon as we were released, my friends and I scattered across the country. Charlie went home to Hawaii, Nick got his position with Continental back, and Hadrian took a high-level job with the Bureau. I kicked around for two years, living off my savings and the family trust fund. I thought about college, looked at Barden and Faber, and even Horlicks, but in the end I called Hadrian and asked if he could find me a position. Not because I needed money, but because I needed something to do. The memories of what had happened in Paris and Averoigne were still eating away at me. My need was to be occupied, not have an occupation. Hadrian and the Bureau set me up in Palm Beach; lots of millionaires who needed to believe that they were being protected. I spent most of my time enforcing the Mann Act, chasing gigolos from lonely wives, and drinking gin.
My little stint came to an end in late August with the arrival of orders and tickets for the train. I was to make my way to Providence where my assistance was needed on a suspicious death. Normally the Bureau didn’t get involved with anything of that sort, leaving such things to the local authorities, but the victim had been the son of real estate tycoon Alfred Tillinghast, and he had raised a stink. Apparently the elder Tillinghast had not been satisfied by the work of the Providence cops and, being a man of wealth, had asked the Bureau to investigate. How I fit in wasn’t clear, and as reluctant as I was to head anywhere near my home state, I packed my bag and headed north.
I looked at the file and then back at McGarrigle. “Are we sure that this man REDACTED just didn’t kill Crawford Tillinghast?”
“Leave him out of it,” McGarrigle barked. “He’s a dead end. His bullet only hit the machine, causing it to shatter into several pieces. Alfred Tillinghast isn’t interested in pursuing murder charges. He wants to know if this statement about the machine is true. Did Crawford Tillinghast’s machine allow him to see and interact with creatures from another dimension, or was REDACTED just bonkers?”
“There are other possibilities,” I offered. McGarrigle motioned for me to explain. “REDACTED could be lying about the whole thing; there is nobody who can confirm or deny any of this. Alternatively, both REDACTED and Tillinghast could have been delusional, folie à deux as the alienists term it. Tillinghast could even have invented a machine that made him and others think that they were in contact and interacting with things from another world.”
“What about the servants? How do you explain their disappearance?”
I shrugged. “Murdered, either by Tillinghast or REDACTED, or by both, either because they undermined the delusion, or their deaths served to support it.” I flipped through a few pages. “I do have one question, though.”
McGarrigle chuckled. “Just one?”
I tossed the file across the table. “Why am I here? There’s nothing in this to suggest I needed to be part of this investigation. Why bring me up from Florida?”
McGarrigle pawed through the file. “Sorry, the father’s statement is missing, we’ll get that for you. You don’t recognize the name Crawford Tillinghast? He worked for your father doing odd jobs about the house. His father, Alfred, insisted that he work his way through college. Anyway, according to the father, Crawford got the idea for the resonator from something he saw in your father’s house back in 1913.”
I sat there for a moment trying to gather my thoughts. Finally, with nothing else to do, I reluctantly told the truth. “When I was a kid, my father had some sort of breakdown. He lost his memory, and his personality. He became someone, something . . . else.” I let loose a heavy sigh. “My mother couldn’t take it. She took us to live with relatives. Years later, his memories and old personality came back. He had lost five years, woke up right in the middle of giving the lecture that he had collapsed in. I tried to reconnect, the man was my father after all, but my memories of him weren’t of the man he was, but of the emotionless stranger he had become. Five years may not seem like a long time, but to a child, to a son, it’s a lifetime.”
I paused again, but McGarrigle wanted more. “During his episode my father was capable of things that I still don’t understand. If Crawford saw something in my father’s house that inspired the resonator, I’m inclined to believe it. Though I’m not sure that matters. My father is still around, still teaching at Miskatonic University, but I doubt he’ll be able to help us; not that he wouldn’t, he just can’t. His memories of that time are simply gone. Besides, I haven’t seen or spoken to my father since before the war, but I would advise leaving him out of this. According to letters from my brother and sister he can be somewhat maniacal about what he did during that time. You tell him this and he’ll drag you down a rabbit hole and have you working for him instead of the other way round.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Dragging my father into this is a dead end.” I paused in frustration. “Is that why I was asked up here, because of my father?”
McGarrigle stared at the table. “Partly, mostly it was because Vargr said you were familiar with these kinds of cases, that you could handle this kind of work, and yourself. Said you were wasting your talents in Palm Beach. Said he didn’t want to see you going soft, that left to your own devices you would end up marrying some debutante and become Robert and Erica Peaslee of New Y
ork, Palm Beach, and Beverly Hills. He didn’t want that for you, that you should apply yourself to the greater good, and not end up solving crime as a hobby with your wife and dog in tow. He also thinks that you should speak to your father.”
I pushed my chair back, my anger held just in check. “Hadrian Vargr doesn’t want me wasting my talents! Did it never occur to him that I might have been happy in Palm Beach, or that being married to a debutante might be exactly what I need? Don’t I get a say in the way my life goes?”
“Did you ask him for anything?”
I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. “I asked him for a job.”
“And how long have you known Vargr?”
“We worked together for three years.”
“So you know how he is?” I nodded. “Then you’re in his debt. As far as he’s concerned, you owe him, and he won’t stop manipulating you until he feels that debt is paid.”
I sat back down and looked at McGarrigle. “He’s got you, too, doesn’t he?”
The red-haired detective snorted. “You and I are just the tip of the iceberg.”
I threw my hands up on the table in a gesture of futility. “So what does he want us to do?”
McGarrigle gathered the papers from the table. “Solve the case. Prove that Crawford Tillinghast wasn’t mad, or conversely that he was.”
“How do we do that?” The frustration in my voice was thick.
“You’re the one who is supposed to know about this stuff.”
I sat there mulling it over in my mind, turning the case over and over again. There was a way to do what Alfred Tillinghast wanted, a very obvious and simple way, a way that was possibly very, very dangerous. “We need to rebuild the Tillinghast Resonator.”
McGarrigle used words I never heard before; some of them weren’t in English.
We called Alfred Tillinghast and made arrangements.
17th September 1923
Tillinghast and Company sat at the end of a private spur on a rail line in Vermont not far from Red Bud and Townshend. It was a massive, rambling facility of utilitarian warehouses, dour, brick office buildings, and large machine shops from which the sound of timbers being cut, metal being bent, and rock being chiseled rung out incessantly. Part of the compound functioned as a lumber yard and was filled with local trucks and horse-drawn carts from the nearby towns including Townshend. There was a kind of hierarchy to the backwoods folks who had come to buy from the mill. Those with trucks clustered together and cast looks of scorn at their less-sophisticated cousins with horse-drawn carts. In turn, these cast their own foul glances on a single ramshackle wagon with a lone downtrodden horse and its two queer occupants. The older man, who was easily beyond his sixtieth year, wore strange robes and carried an odd walking stick, both decorated with queer symbols that echoed designs found amongst the Mennonites. His bald pate and gray beard set off his deep-sunken eyes that seemed filled with suspicion and animosity. His companion was a giant, a man easily over seven feet tall, with thick, wiry hair and a fat, goatish face. He moved slowly, carefully, and leaned on the cart for support. It was obvious to me that the man was wary of his surroundings, and that while he was able and strong, it served his purpose to appear anything but capable. By seeming to be physically inept, he appeared to be weak and therefore not a threat to those who seemed to despise his presence. I had seen similar behaviors elsewhere, and I knew that no matter what time these two men had arrived, their social standing meant that they would be the last to be served, and then only after everyone else was gone.