Reanimatrix

by Pete Rawlik

  Officer Sams was a veteran of the war; he had seen death before, this was nothing new, but something had made the officer run from the cabin and slam the door behind him. He was methodical in what he did next. He blocked the entrance and then soaked the porch and perimeter of the house with a store of gasoline he kept in his car. He lit the fire and then retreated to a safe distance. He stood outside for two hours, making sure that the entire cabin and its contents were reduced to ash before radioing for assistance in preventing the fire from spreading to the surrounding forest.

  When pressed by the investigating officers and the coroner as to the cause of his actions, the young veteran was at first reticent to speak. Eventually, however, under threat of criminal prosecution he revealed the impetus for his pyromania. There in the dark of the cabin, the fire burning and casting long shadows over the dead, he had made to leave and call in the murders, for surely this could not have been an accident or suicide. Decapitated men don’t shoot people, thus the scene had been clearly staged.

  It was then that the body of Miss O’Meara began to twitch and moan. It rose up off the floor and from its mouth issued a wailing scream. The scream slowly faded and was replaced with a wet, gasping cough. Blood and gore dripped from the open wound and the once-lovely Miss O’Meara seemed to survey the damage with a sense of disbelief. “I can’t believe you shot me!”

  This was followed by a deep, gurgling response from the head on the table. It was plain to Sams that words were being mouthed, but because there were no lungs to drive air through the vocal cords nothing more than a sick, bubbling whisper was possible.

  There was something ghoulishly funny about the situation, and Sams admitted to letting loose a guffaw at the whole thing. This sound apparently enraged the headless senator’s body, which once more pulled the trigger on the shotgun, narrowly missing the officer’s own head. As Sams retreated out the door his last vision was of O’Meara leaping like some deranged hell beast toward the head and body of her former employer.

  The preliminary report recommended that Sams be placed on medical leave and be evaluated for a psychiatric condition. The fact that the coroner’s report found the two badly charred skeletons, one headless, locked in what appeared to be mortal combat, does provide certain mitigating circumstances that will likely prevent the dismissal of Officer Sams. Hell, they might even give him a medal.

  The report also notes that the head of Senator Lowe was not found amongst the remains. Today’s service was followed by a cremation of what little remained of Senator Henry Paget Lowe. His ashes were entombed in the family crypt in Arkham. The funerary urn was larger than it needed to be. A precaution on the part of the mortuary in case the head is ever found.

  I hope that is Senator Lowe’s final reservation.

  PART TWO

  Robert Peaslee

  April 1928

  CHAPTER 7

  “The Man on the Train”

  From the Journal of Robert Peaslee April 9 1928

  Coming back on the train from a long weekend in Manhattan, as usual I can’t sleep. Writing this at least keeps my mind busy, keeps me from woolgathering. The weekend with Philo was simply horrible. He had ditched Van and we spent our time in his aunt’s brownstone, vacant while she is in London. We wandered through Central Park and then made our way down to Red Hook to buy shellfish from that market he likes. We brought some wine and cheese up from the cellar and had an entirely decadent Friday night. Saturday we dressed, put on our green carnations and went out on the town with Cranston and that rather entertaining Rowan woman. The food at Rusterman’s was exquisite, and we ended up at Dundee’s club until well after two in the morning.

  There is something simply magical about New York. The buildings, the lights, the people, it is almost in a way a fictional place. It is as if some writer decided to create the quintessential metropolis, filled with everything you could conceive of, and therefore ripe with possibility. Boston pales in comparison, and Arkham is little more than a quaint little hamlet, full of mostly small-minded people. If it weren’t for these weekend getaways I would simply go mad. I suppose that the time I spent in London and Paris has corrupted me, that I will from now on be lost in the romance of the big city, as opposed to the small towns that dot both the American and European countryside. Where else can you find the mélange of people and things that produce such a rich canvas to paint your own landscape?

  Philo himself lends support to my argument. Where else could a man of his background and temperament not only find tasks worthy of his highly refined, albeit esoteric skills, but such that he might become something of a minor celebrity? His ability at the art of deduction is staggering, with only my friend Nick being any real rival, not that either would notice. It’s a big pond and there are plenty of murders, kidnappings, and thefts to keep a dozen master detectives employed. Indeed, Philo spent a good portion of Saturday night regaling us with a case of his from the previous fall, the murder of a nightclub singer, and a most curious alibi. Though I will admit that while Rowan and I were fascinated, Cranston looked downright bored.

  Yet as the night progressed into early Sunday I became annoyed and then eventually peeved by the whole situation. The entire evening was spent talking about Philo, and while that might be fun for some time, it soon became apparent that the man was simply relishing in his notoriety and that Van was an integral part of this. I, on the other hand, was little more than an appendage to be rolled out on weekends. In many ways I have come to think of Philo and Van as simply two sides of the same coin. One without the other is simply a shadow of the whole. They belong together, though they might not realize it.

  Sunday was a lazy day spent around the fire, reading a slim volume of poetry by Edward Derby. Philo had wanted to go see a play, a piece featuring the Yiddish comic Boris Thomashefsky, but we both decided that we were too drowsy to even leave the house during the day. We finally ventured out after the evening had wrapped the city in her dark skirts, strutting through the streets like two cocks on a fence. We finally wandered into Montagnino’s for dinner before making a dash to get me on the midnight train back to Arkham. By this time Philo had deduced that there was some tension between us and he made an attempt to probe for details, but I rebuffed his advances. I think it is time to pursue new directions. I can’t live in Philo’s shadow, and I shouldn’t have to. If Van wants that job, he is more than welcome to it. There is enough darkness in my life, in Arkham.

  When I joined the Massachusetts State Police I had expected to be assigned to Troop B, in the western part of the state. Instead, after reviewing my record the Colonel assigned me to Troop X, which wasn’t even a cohesive unit. The members of Troop X were scattered across the state, embedded into the police forces of smaller metropolitan areas where they could supplement the locals. Against my very vocal objections I had been assigned to Arkham, reporting to Chief Nichols. Ostensibly, Nichols was my direct supervisor: I was his to order about as he seemed fit. At the same time, on paper I wasn’t part of his payroll, so he had no incentive to keep me happy. Inevitably, I got the cases Nichols didn’t want his own staff to handle, dirty jobs with questionable outcomes. Police work isn’t always black and white; there are gray areas. Sometimes, to obtain justice cops need to bend the law. I was Chief Nichols’s crowbar, and if I fouled up he had almost complete deniability. It was a shit job, but for one reason or another I couldn’t find a way to quit it. I belonged in Arkham. Somehow or another the situation made sense, a sad man in a bad job.

  At the train station I saw a rather sad-faced man, dressed for traveling, by which I mean he was adorned in comfortable clothes and shoes. They were still finely made, and I recognized some of the fabrics and styling as originating in some upper-end shops to be found in Manhattan and Chicago. He did not carry himself as a local, and seemed utterly confused by the station itself, asking on at least three occasions for directions. During one of these queries I came to understand that he too was bound for Arkham. Being concerned for his welf
are, mostly because I didn’t want to see the man suffer some misfortune at the hands of a ruffian, either here or on the train—either of which situations would have involved me professionally—I flashed him my badge and offered to guide him to the train and stay with him until we reached Arkham.

  To this arrangement the stranger wholeheartedly agreed, and introduced himself as Edwin Dennis of Chicago, in New York to see his sister, Mame, on family business, before moving on to Arkham for more of the same. He was an older man, fit and muscular but not overly so. In a way he reminded me of Philo, whose weekend trips to the Athletic Club were balanced with afternoons of drinks and canapés. The effect was a strong frame with a layer of softness around it. Yet, there was also something delicate about the man. He walked carefully, slowly, with a cane draped over one arm in case he needed it. There was a gray cast to his face and his eyes seemed to hold some secret sadness that yearned to be spoken and explored. I said nothing, having learned long ago that such men will speak of things when they need to, if they need to. My patience was not tested for long.

  We were in the same car, sitting across a table from each other. The waiter had brought us coffee, and hinted at the possibility of something stronger, which we both declined. As the amicable server walked away my companion lowered his eyes and whispered, “Keep it down, kid, the old man’s hung.” There was a tinge of regret in his voice, a soupçon of sadness, a spoonful of longing, and a healthy dash of melancholy. I let him wallow in it for a moment and then, as our cups arrived, the moment was past. His composure quickly returned; it was one thing to slip in front of a stranger, but entirely another thing to do so before the help.

  After a few minutes I finally broke the silence, making small talk more than anything else. “Do you have family in Arkham, Mr. Dennis?”

  The look I received in return was one I could not categorize, for it was equal parts hope and despair. “Apparently I do, though I didn’t know it until last week.” He took a sip of his coffee; his hands were shaking, and the motion of the train added to his unsteadiness. “Tell me, Mr. Peaslee, have you ever been in love? I mean, have you ever loved a woman so much that you ache for her; not just a dame who you spent a weekend with, but an honest-to-goodness woman who you cherished, and can’t ever forget?”

  I looked him square in the eye, careful not to look down or up, my interrogation training kicking in, a reflex really. I looked him square in the eye and lied just a little. “I’ve had my share. In Paris there was a nurse, we thought we were in love, but in the end it was only the war, and the aftermath of war. There was a blonde in Palm Beach, an heiress; she bought me a coat with a fur collar. Can you imagine? Ninety degrees in the shade and she buys me a winter coat. True love, the kind you’re talking about? No, not even in the Catskills.”

  I had slipped and he had caught it. He smiled and let me slide. “I’ve loved the same woman for the last fifteen years, and for ten of those she’s been dead.” He fumbled with his coffee cup. “Tell me, Mr. Peaslee, is it wrong to love a dead woman more than the living son she gave you?”

  I went to speak but he waved me off, and with a gentle shake of his head withdrew the question. “Her name was Laura, Laura Horne, a daughter of a fine old Boston family. I met her while I was on business; I was working with her father, an hotelier who wanted to expand his family business to the west coast, a fool of a man who had married a woman eight years his senior to gain in both standing and wealth. Laura had joined us for lunch; she was everything her parents weren’t. She was young, vivacious, outgoing, and oddly attractive in an exotic kind of way. Her features reflected neither of her parents’. Her face was round, with a slightly flattened nose, and wide-set, sloe eyes of an enchanting color that was not green, hazel, brown, or black, but almost of a violet hue, though even this was not right. Her hair was black and straight and fashionably styled. Her figure was lithe, almost tiny, for at times her head seemed much larger than it should be. Her arms were thin but muscular with delicate hands and deft fingers that danced across piano keys with accomplished skill. To hear her speak, and her voice was melodic, she had been offered a spot at two prestigious music academies, but her parents refused the notion of training her talent beyond that of simply a skilled amateur. Her deftness was suitable for entertaining friends and family; it would be unseemly to pursue it any further, or so her parents told her.”

  He paused and sipped his coffee. “We would go for long walks. She loved the waterfront and the ocean. She had learned to sail. She knew the tides and winds, knew the shells that washed up to decorate the Cape. Somewhere along the way she had learned to filet fish, a task that was certainly beneath her status, but one I found endearing. The fishmongers all knew her name, and she knew their names as well, and wasn’t afraid to call them out when the offerings weren’t fresh. She knew what foggy eyes and pale gills on a fish meant, and why clams might gape. She could spot a bad oyster or sour crab without even picking it up. When I held her she smelled of the sea, and the beach, and the wharf. Her kisses tasted of salt. Her hands caressed mine and danced in my hair like the breeze coming off the bay. It took me two years, but I eventually won her heart, and she agreed to be my bride.”

  “We married in June, 1915, a seaside service, everything as Laura wanted it. We had wanted to honeymoon in Fenwick, but the war made those plans untenable. Instead, we spent two weeks on a boat cruising the Caribbean. When we finally flew home from Sulaco it was with much regret, both of us having fallen in love with that port and the wonders she provided access to.” He sighed, a long, happy sigh. “My business kept us in Bangor during the week, in a little three-room apartment above a bakery, but on weekends we drove down to a small cottage we had bought on the road overlooking the ocean between Cabot and Crabapple Coves. We were happy together, and nothing seemed destined to interfere with that state of affairs.”

  “Funny how things change.” The light had left his eyes. “In the spring Laura had a miscarriage. I hadn’t even known she was pregnant. I came home to find her collapsed on the floor, her hands and legs covered in blood. She didn’t take the loss well. We went to the cottage to recover, two weeks alone. I pushed work aside and took care of my wife. I eventually returned to Bangor, she never did. She could never find the courage to return to our apartment; it reminded her of death, and of failure. She stayed in the cottage while I worked, which may have not been the best of ideas. She began suffering horrific nightmares, about unborn children rising out of the sea to ravage the coasts. The doctors called it a kind of hysteria, where once the ocean had given us so much comfort, now it generated fear and despair. By the fall things had progressed to such a state that my hands seemed tied. I sold my business in Bangor, sold the cottage on the road overlooking two coves, and moved Laura and myself to Chicago; as far from the sea as I could reasonably get and still find suitable employment. My partner, John Gilbert, and I had an office near the offices of the Independent News Service, which was of no small benefit to our firm. Most importantly I got to spend each night and morning with Laura, and slowly nursed her back to her old self. It took time, but eventually it was she who suggested that we take a stroll along the lakefront. On that day with the wind in her hair, I knew that my Laura had finally come home to me.”

  He took a long sip of coffee, and motioned for a second cup. He noticed that I had barely touched mine. “Laura liked her coffee cold as well. But late in August of 1918 she stopped drinking it. She said she had developed a sudden distaste for the stuff. She began getting sick after breakfast. A few days later the doctor confirmed what we had suspected: Laura was pregnant once more. It was a joyous occasion, but we both knew that there were risks. Laura was confined to her bed, her diet was controlled, and all excitement and stimulation beyond that of the radio, a good book, and an occasional visitor were forbidden. Laura’s nanny, Norah, still employed by the Hornes as a housekeeper, was sent for to once more tend to Laura’s needs, and to those of the baby when it came. Strangely, though it didn’t even cross my
mind, neither Laura’s father nor her mother offered to come and visit with her. They had grown distant after our marriage, and their letters to their daughter became fewer and farther between. This second pregnancy seemed to be a final impetus. They sent Norah, gave up a good domestic servant, wasn’t that enough? At least that was how it seemed. There was an explanation, of course, but I had no time to investigate it then. With each passing day Laura’s health seem to deteriorate. The dreams, those awful nightmares concerning the ocean and ravenous hordes of the unborn, had returned. At first they were isolated, perhaps once a week, but by the time Christmas came around, they were nightly occurrences. They took their toll. Laura ate little, and her skin seemed to sag and fade to a pale green. A rash had broken out on her neck, and on the back of her arms. She lost her hair in clumps. There were daily shots of vitamins and tonics of all sorts, but they did nothing to ease her burden, or slow her consumption. There were whispers amongst the nurses, they said cancer, but the doctors said no such thing. The results of every test they came up with simply left them more confused. In January she was moved to County General, and three days later went into labor. It was not an easy delivery. There were screams and moans, and not just from Laura. Three nurses had to be replaced owing to exhaustion, and perhaps overactive imaginations, but after eighteen hours she finally pushed out the child. It was a boy, strong and healthy with a mop of sandy hair. As we had agreed I named him Patrick. He’s nine years old now. He never knew his mother; I’m the only parent he’s ever had. Of course, Norah helped, but she wasn’t his mother, was she?”