Reanimatrix

by Pete Rawlik

  I put my hand on the gate and took a step forward, but then thought better of it. I closed the gate, turned, and strolled down Saltonstall without ever looking back. As I walked, I recalled reports of similar events. There was, of course, the disappearance of Ambrose Bierce, and the temporary loss of Agatha Christie, who to this day still refused to comment on where she had been, and of course the strange events that befell the girls of Appleyard College in Australia. There were other events as well, but these seemed the most poignant, and perhaps the ones that came to mind most readily.

  As I entered the house I glanced at the clock and discovered that it was nearly five. Lunch, a trip to the store, and the walk back had somehow or other taken nearly four hours. I fumbled in my pocket for my pocket watch and found that it reported that it was only three in the afternoon. I checked another clock in the house and found that it supported the one in the hall. I had lost two hours while I wandered about in the garden behind Griffith House; the world had spun on, but within the garden things seemed to have slowed down. It was another weird occurrence that would have frightened other men, but for me had become more or less par for the course.

  That night over a late supper I let my mind wander about what was happening in Griffith House. The events of the last few days percolated through my little gray cells and rattled around inside the box that held them. I was missing something, there had to be an explanation, but my way of thinking, my reasoning wasn’t bringing me any closer to finding it. I needed a new perspective, a new way of thinking, and a new and radical view of the world. As I sat there in the dusk, fumbling with my thoughts and my failures, I hit on a way forward, a way I hadn’t thought of before, one that might just help me resolve the issue and discover the truth.

  I went to the library, to the box that contained the few books that I had brought with me. There was my copy of Justine, and inside its hollowed-out interior was the small bottle of narcotic brandy that Frederic Belot had given me. I tumbled the amber body with the rich murky fluid about in my hands, warming the fluid up to body temperature. I carried it with me to Megan’s bedroom and sat down on the bed. I cracked the bottle open and let the heady aroma wash over me. I hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. Then in a swift and sure motion I brought the small bottle to my lips and drank it dry, letting the liquid drain down my throat and warm my stomach.

  I lay back in the bed and let the warmth of the brandy wash over me. I could feel the alcohol working its way through my blood, and with it that strange mélange of narcotic and hallucinogen wound its way into my mind. I could feel the drug go to work on my eyes and ears. My nostrils flared and suddenly I could smell the various distinct scents that permeated the room. They filled my senses, a hint of vanilla from some bit of perfume, some dried cocoa, the intoxicating aroma of moldering books, and even the varnish that had been used to polish the wood. I could smell it all, almost taste it, but not as a single mix but rather as separate streams, as if I could trace each back to its source. The sounds of the house were much the same. I could hear the beating of my own heart, the blood moving through my veins, my breath moving in and out of my lungs. Downstairs, the fire crackled, a log burned, and smoke wafted through the chimney. In the kitchen, the metal of the stove groaned as it cooled and contracted. Somewhere a mouse was searching for a way into the house.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on the events of the last few days, on Griffith House, on the lamp, on the mice and the papers, and the strange garden paths that folded back and then disappeared. I thought of these things and let the idea that perhaps they were connected bubble up out of the deep recesses of my mind. As those bubbles rose they carried me with them, lifting me up out of my body, out of Megan’s bedroom, out even of Griffith House. I floated up into the sky, above the property, above the elms and the oak, above the whole town. I saw how the Miskatonic River divided the city in two, and how the bridges connected the two halves of Arkham back together like stitches across a wound. I saw the checkerboard pattern of streets and avenues, and how they had been cut into the hills. I saw all of this and more.

  With an extreme force of will I turned my focus back to Griffith House and the secrets that it held. I saw how it had sat in that spot for nearly a hundred years, how the gardens and walls had long ago ceased to be distinct structures, and instead had become a single organic structure. I saw how the roots of that great oak had wound their way through the soil and permeated everything, binding it all together. I saw this, saw how it had grown together and I finally began to understand. Griffith House was a thing in its own right, not entirely alive, but not inanimate either. It breathed and moved in its own manner. It took care of itself, tended to its own needs, and even cleaned up after things. Oh, certainly dust accumulated, as did grime and the other miscellaneous detritus of existence, but in Griffith House books had their place, as did papers and dead mice. There was some force that dwelt there, residing within those walls, making sure everything was nice and tidy.

  And this is when I realized that Griffith House was haunted. There was something amiss, something wrong, something alien residing within those walls. It was something that didn’t belong. But it wasn’t some specter of the dark past, or the revenant of Megan Halsey, or the ghost of Amanda Griffith, or her tragically lost brother.

  Griffith House was haunted, haunted by the one thing that didn’t belong, the thing that had intruded and disturbed the proper order of things that had existed for years. The disturbing force that I would have to learn to accept, to tolerate, to make peace with if I were to stay in Griffith House, was a phantom of truth and of life.

  The thing that had so haunted the ancient edifice was none other than my own self.

  It seems that I was the specter that disturbed Griffith House.

  And only time would tell if the place would ever come to accept me.

  PART THREE

  The Documents in the Case of Megan Halsey

  CHAPTER 11

  “Pickman’s Marble”

  From the Diary of Megan Halsey September 9 1920

  I had taken the warm day to wander about the streets of Boston. It really is the most beautiful of cities, much more cosmopolitan than dreary old Arkham, and I must again thank my mother for arranging for me to summer here. The area which I chose to explore was a genteel district comprised of ladies’ shops, boutiques, salons, and the occasional antique merchant. Also scattered about were several art galleries, which given my adolescent interests I was immediately drawn to. Finally the caliber of work being produced by American artists has begun to match that done by our European cousins. Beginning to emerge, at least in these Boston galleries, is an overwhelming sense of place and people that I think has been lacking up until now. Particularly notable is the work of Henry Wilcox, whose use of vibrant color in both landscapes and portraits seems unsurpassed in its ability to convey a sense of emotion. I also found the portrait work of Cecilia Beaux to my liking, but to be completely honest I cannot tell you why. Sadly, there are works that I find less than fulfilling. The dark primitivism of Sironi contains no redeeming value that I can see. The free-formed expressions and riots of color produced by MacDonald-Wright, though moving, reveal no real skill. Sime’s work shows definite skill, but his content is juvenile and caters to the most puerile of tastes. Angarola seems to handle a similar subject matter but with a wholly more cultured manner. Most stunning were sculptures by Alexander Stirling Calder; I will study the catalog to decide which my favorite piece is.

  It was the work of another artist, both a sculptor and painter, that drew me into a strange little shop off the main thoroughfare on a dark little side street, almost an alley. Unlike the other galleries, which took to displaying pieces in front windows to entice potential patrons to enter, the Gallery Giallo seemed to be trying to hide its displays, for the curtains were heavy, moth-eaten, and an utterly distasteful shade of pale yellow. Why would I enter such a place, you might ask? I almost did not, I only stepped down the side street to a
void a rather large crowd coming in the opposite direction, but in that brief moment, in the gap between the curtains, I saw something that intrigued me. A glimpse of gray marble streaked with pink, carved with such mastery that I had to see the entire form.

  Stepping inside, I found myself surrounded by the most wild and outré paintings, statues, and crafts I had ever seen. Paintings of otherworldly landscapes crowded the walls, there was an entire case of miniatures depicting charnel rites, pedestals bore strange figurines of clay, metal, stone, and bone, while a low glass case contained strange rings, necklaces, earrings, and tiaras of gold and silver, but proportioned entirely incorrectly for any normal woman to wear. An entire wall was devoted to a single artist, and a small plaque announced that this was Richard Upton Pickman’s first exhibition. This young artist’s work was both weirdly compelling and disturbing. There were a whole series of paintings set in graveyards, and Pickman’s ability to capture the somber dread of such places was uncanny. Yet even more intriguing were the subtle, and in some cases overt, representations of figures that occupied these dreadful landscapes, for their limbs were too long, their heads too sloped, their joints seemed to bend in the wrong direction. Equally frightening was a scene of a surgery in which two physicians were attempting to administer to dozens of patients. One of the surgeons cradled one of the patients, while the other was preparing a syringe of vibrant green fluid. While artistically stunning, The Waiting Room, for that is what Pickman had titled it, suffered from some flaws in execution. The dozen or so patients that awaited the doctors were rendered in such a manner that they appeared too still, too inanimate, too lifeless. I understood that the scene was supposed to convey a sense of hopelessness, but perhaps the artist could have added more color to bring a sense of life or animation to the subject.

  Turning, I was suddenly confronted by that which had drawn me into the gallery in the first place. It was a statue carved from marble veined in gray and pink, life-sized, or so I assumed, for the subject was a chimera, something ripped from ancient mythology. The head and torso were that of a young woman about my age, with small features and full breasts. Her hair was comprised of dozens of writhing tentacles each about a foot long and covered with rasping suckers. The arms tapered down from the shoulders, and about the wrist suddenly transformed into a pair of large anemones with waving polyps. Below the waist the marine theme continued, for where there should have been some suggestion of downy hair, there was instead a plethora of rough, thorny skin. The lower limbs were fused and the resemblance to the tail of a great gray shark was overwhelming. It was both macabre and beautiful and the artist’s achievement was simply magnificent, and magnified by the subtle title Pickman had provided: The Siren Calls.

  My fascination with the piece must have overwhelmed my senses, for I never heard the man who came up behind me until he whispered in my ear. “Beautiful.”

  I turned and found myself face to face with an intelligent-looking man, well dressed, wearing glasses beneath a shock of blond hair. “I beg your pardon?” I stammered out.

  He gestured toward the statue. “The statue represents one of my greatest achievements.” He stepped forward and touched the marble shoulder. “This girl was from Dean’s Corners, she was barely sixteen. One of the local boys had become infatuated and took her against her will. When her father found out he called her a whore and threw her out. She was living in the woods when I found her, too ashamed to ask for help. Now look at her, look at what I have made of her.”

  He tenderly ran his hand through the tentacles of her hair. “I bought these from a fishmonger in Kingsport; the beast they came from was large, easily four to five feet long, and of a species the man did not recognize. It was still alive when he sold it to me, still struggling to survive, teeth rasping, mantle pulsating, tentacles grasping. I was able to sustain it for days, so that I could study it, take notes concerning its movements, understand its anatomy and its beauty.” He paused and looked at me for understanding, or perhaps even approval; I smiled and nodded.

  His hand drifted down the arms and lingered at the pulpy masses that writhed there. “I found these in the bay on the docks downstream of the pipe where the slaughterhouses discharge their waste. There were hundreds of these anemones covering the rocks. They had grown fat on the blood, bone, and foul entrails that had filtered down the pipe and into the estuary. They had thrived in those waters, propagated themselves amongst those macabre wastes.” He wrapped his hand around one of the things and stroked it. “I took that monstrous reality and made it beautiful.”

  He closed his eyes and lowered his head, resting it on the marble girl’s shoulder. “I found the shark on the beach at Falcon Point. It had washed up with the storm the night before and lay gasping on the sand. Even as it lay dying, there was nothing but hate in its eyes. No fear, no pity, no sadness, simply hate. And I took that and transformed it into something else, something entirely different. Something you find beautiful.”

  I was moved by these words, and by his obvious passion for the work. Never had I met a man who was so moving and moved by the beauty that he saw in life, in all its forms. There was something magnificently powerful about this man and I felt myself compelled to reach out and touch his cheek. As I did so his hand came up and touched mine. There was such a current between us, and my breath suddenly became shallow and rapid. A heat started in my chest and moved up my neck, instantly flushing my face.

  He looked me deep in the eyes, and I lost myself as he asked, “What is your name?”

  I responded in a whisper, “Megan. Megan Halsey-Griffith.”

  Suddenly my paramour pulled back. He stared at me as if I had insulted him, and this lasted for almost half a minute before the silence was finally broken. “You are Allan Halsey’s daughter,” he said, and I nodded to affirm this.

  He let go of my hand, and backed away. Another man appeared and handed him his coat and hat. He moved confidently toward the door, paused as he stepped through. “I knew your father.” There was a moment of introspection, and then the door closed behind him.

  I went to follow him, but the other man stepped in front of me. “Mademoiselle, I could not help but notice your fascination with the statue, would you care to meet the artist, Mr. Pickman?”

  A wave of confusion washed over me and I felt my legs go weak. I lost my composure but quickly regained it. “Excuse me, wasn’t that the artist I was talking to?” The man politely shook his head. “Then who was he?”

  The man ushered me toward the back of the gallery. “He is a friend of the artist. On occasion he supplies models for Mr. Pickman, though this is only, how do you say, a hobby. He is a doctor, a surgeon, I think.”

  My heart and mind raced. This man, this doctor, what he spoke of frightened me, but he was also magnificently attractive. I had to see him again, feel his hand on my flesh, his breath on my cheek. I had to find him. “Please,” I begged, “what is his name?”

  The man paused and rubbed his forehead, trying to bring a memory to the surface. Then his eyes went bright and he told me what I needed to know. “His name is West, Doctor Herbert West.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “The Inheritance of Megan Halsey”

  From the Diary of Megan Halsey May 8 1924

  Finally home! Today has been the most frustrating of days. Amanda and I left the house this morning and were in the offices of the family lawyers, Saltonstall and Co., just after they opened. Nice enough people, I suppose, but not ones I particularly want to associate with, very stuffy and officious. I must have signed more than two dozen documents today—the price, I suppose, for being of old money—but I am told that now that I have reached my majority I hold responsibility for the family estate. That estate is both larger and smaller than I was led to believe. That may sound like a contradiction, but it is true, and a source of much friction between me, Aunt Amanda, and a few men who have apparently been drawing funds from the estate without much oversight for years.

  I say estate, but the truth
is much more complicated than that, now that I am of age and there is not simply a single monolithic fund administered by my aunt anymore. The first part of the morning was spent disentangling me from my aunt. As of today, we each own 40 percent of Griffith and Son, the company that owns a substantial amount of the Arkham waterfront and several cargo vessels. By the terms of my mother’s will I own my father’s house on Derby Street, the property upon which the Halsey Elementary School rests, Crowninshield Manor, and the Griffith House, albeit with the stipulation that Amanda be allowed to reside there for as long as she so wishes. Besides the real property and corporate holdings, there were also family monies to divide, of which the vast majority was bequeathed to me, and a smaller amount, enough for a handsome monthly allowance, was set aside for Amanda. This, of course, was in addition to whatever funds she held in her own accounts and the monies she would earn from Griffith and Son.

  Once my finances and I were distinct from Amanda’s she was apparently no longer needed and was politely dismissed. I protested, but it was suggested that what was to come was best first kept in confidence; if I chose to reveal it to Amanda later that would be my decision. Reluctantly I watched my aunt stride out of the office full of pride, but also aware that she was no longer the queen; she had been deposed by the little girl she had watched grow up. For years I had been her responsibility, and suddenly that was at an end; more so, I now owned the house she herself had grown up in. How topsy-turvy things had suddenly become.