Reanimatrix

by Pete Rawlik

  It was nearly dawn when I returned to Cliff Manor, and I was careful to slip around the side and join the other members of the household and the guests as they watched the fire brigade attempt to quell the blaze that filled the sky with smoke and ash. West was nowhere to be found. A note in his handwriting apologized for his sudden departure, but urgent matters called him back to the city. He did not expect to return.

  I stayed two more weeks, and found amongst the scientists gathered a man whom I could trust. I shared the notebooks with Doctor Preston Wells, whose knowledge of biochemistry was just as boundless as was his patience in educating me in everything from basic chemistry to the complexities of cellular replication and the methods needed to accelerate such processes, and if need be alter them in other ways. He educated me in the basic principles of what I had found in the basement laboratory, and at the same time I provided Wells with an invaluable direction to take with his own research.

  Wells made a pass at me, of course, but I kept things purely professional. I had had enough of medical men for one summer. I had seen in Herbert West the genius that such men harbor, and the madness. I had borne witness to their quest for vengeance, and I suppose the lust that they try to keep hidden and controlled.

  I had been a willing participant, a victim and beneficiary of the desires of one such man, a monster who went by the name of Doctor Herbert West.

  One such disastrous affair was enough for one summer.

  CHAPTER 17

  “The Monsters of Dunwich”

  From the Diary of Megan Halsey November 2 1926

  Progress at last! I have seen them, or at least I think I have. It was the last place I would have thought to look, but it should have been the first, if only I had been more diligent earlier on. If only Aunt Amanda weren’t so damned frustrating. If only . . . but I get ahead of myself.

  It was in the middle part of October and I was still reeling from the events of that summer, and growing increasingly frustrated with my lack of progress in the search for my mother. I say search, but the truth is I had done little more than skirt the periphery of the subject. I had, in the last two and a half years, done little more than entertain myself. It was true that I had acquired certain skills in the sport of driving, in the use of firearms, and in the erotic arts—I even had a working knowledge of the science of reanimation, though I had not yet found a reason to apply that knowledge—but I had done little in the way of actually looking for my mother. So it was with a sense of outrage at my own failures that I eventually picked up a small statuette from my desk and with all of my might threw it against the wall.

  The racket brought the household staff, who peered through the door cautiously as I scattered the contents of my desk about, decorating the room in pens and papers and documents. This went on for longer than it should have, and my tantrum was halted by my aunt, who was able to calm me down with a slap to the face. After a good and needed cry we set about cleaning up the mess I had made, and it was then that Aunt Amanda made the comment, the casual offhand remark that gave me my first potential clue to Mother’s whereabouts.

  We were picking up the papers I had scattered, putting them back in order, and suddenly Amanda was in possession of the letter that my mother had written, the one that told me the truth about herself, my father, and Amanda, and what they had done to my stepfather. I had never let her see it before, never even mentioned it, never even discussed its contents, and now she held it in her hand. Yet as she looked at those pages, it wasn’t the words that she commented on. “Well, they don’t make paper like that anymore.”

  I nodded and took the pages from her and went to file them away, out of her sight, when the realization of what she had said dawned on me. “What do you mean?”

  She took one of the pages from me and held it up to the light. “These pages have to be older than you are.”

  I looked at the page she was holding up; there was a small watermark that I could barely make out. “Something Dunwich something and something.”

  Amanda handed the page back to me. “The Dunwich Paper and Bag Company—hasn’t existed in years, not since they closed up the mill. I think your father bought an entire ream of it decades ago, just before he died. Elizabeth used to write her letters on it, whenever she took you to the cabin in Dunwich.” For the first time in a decade I embraced my aunt. I thought she was going to scream.

  Two days later I was in Dunwich. My mother always called it a cabin, but by any real measure it was just another home, modest by the standards of our family, but in comparison to the houses that were scattered throughout the hills it was a luxurious residence. There were three bedrooms, one of which I had supposedly been born in, a kitchen, a dining room, and a single large room that served as a common room. A porch wrapped around the entire property and connected to three storage sheds and an outhouse. The real joy of the place was the lower level. My grandfather had built the place over the top of a cave, from which a fresh breeze constantly issued. It kept the whole place cool, and provided a dry space in which to store perishables. There was a thick layer of dust, and something had long ago eaten a small hole through the door, but the structure was still intact, and the linens, sealed inside hardwood chests, may have been musty, but they had not fell victim to rodents or bugs. It took a day of cleaning, but the well still had clear water and by nightfall I had made enough progress to call the place tidy.

  After a quick and simple meal, I sat on the porch, looking at the stars and listening to the voices of the insects and frogs as they began their evening chorus. The cabin was rather remote, even by Dunwich standards. The nearest neighbor was miles away, and that was merely another hunting cabin, this one owned by a physician by the name of Houghton—who, like so many of the medical men who resided in the Miskatonic Valley, had once been a student of my father—or at least it had been. The night sky led my mind in strange directions, and I wondered how many of his students had known about his predilections, and of those who didn’t, what they would say if they learned the truth of what he had been. I wonder what they would say about me if they knew my secret. It was with dark thoughts such as these that I finally let the whip-poor-wills lull me to sleep with their haunting songs.

  The next day I took the Heron down to Osborn’s General Store in order to stock up on supplies and a few pots, utensils, and tools that needed replacing. While waiting for my order to be filled—it was, after all, rather extensive, for I planned to spend more than just a few days here—I spotted a familiar though unexpected face coming through the door. It had been years since I had seen the hawkish and pale visage of Doctor Roman Lydecker, and never would I have expected to find him so far from the hallowed classrooms of The Hall School.

  It seems that he had similarly not expected to see one of his students in this locale either. “Miss Halsey-Griffith, how unexpected, what brings you to Dunwich Village?”

  “I could ask them same of you, Doctor. My family has a cabin not far from here.” I lied about the rest. “I’ve come to make some repairs and take in the scenery. Arkham can be so stifling sometimes. Don’t you agree?”

  He seemed agitated, and his throaty voice cracked as he spoke. “Indeed, I find the wilds of the Dunwich hills invigorating.” He adjusted his ever-present cravat. “My friends and I come up here for the sport, hunting and fishing mostly.”

  “Oh, you like game? I’ve never acquired the taste myself.”

  “Yes.” He was fidgeting. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve an urgent issue I need to attend to.” I thought he would be placing an order, but instead he dashed out of the store and left me standing there alone, wondering what had just happened.

  Though that didn’t last long, for as the Doctor left another man came in, one who quickly introduced himself as the local school teacher, Nathan Vreeland, rather dashing in a backwoods kind of way. He had seen the Heron outside, and being something of an automobile enthusiast wanted to meet the owner. He helped me load the supplies into the trunk and, as was to be ex
pected, asked what such an obvious city girl was doing out in the wilds of Dunwich. This time I explained that I was spending time at the family cabin in an attempt to commune with nature and perhaps find myself.

  Vreeland chuckled and suggested that perhaps I had read too much Thoreau, but then became suddenly serious. He asked if I had been wandering about the woods, and when I said that I hadn’t, but planned to, he become quite concerned. “The woods can be a dangerous place. There are bears and bobcats, even a panther about. It would be best not to be out by yourself.”

  I thought he was fishing for a way to join me, but when I suggested so he shook his head. “I’ve got work to do, Miss Halsey, but I know of someone who I think would make a fine guide for you, someone who tends to wanders these hills and knows them better than any hunter.” I thanked him for his suggestion, gave him directions to the cabin, and offered what I thought was a fair price for the services of the young man.

  Imagine my surprise when the person who showed up early the next morning was neither young nor a man. She came out of the woods, on a path I hadn’t even noticed before, and she was a sight to behold. First off she was an albino, pale from head to toe with pink eyes and a mass of unkempt and crinkly hair. She wore a cotton dress that was faded, stained, and torn, and a pair of heavy boots that had seen better days. She carried herself like a little girl, but she was anything but, and I placed her age at around fifty years. As she approached, I saw that her arms and legs were exceedingly thin, though muscular, almost wiry, but her belly seemed disproportionately large, not unlike some men I knew who lounged around an office all day.

  She introduced herself as Lavinia Whateley and made it clear that Mr. Vreeland had sent her, and that she understood the task and what she was to be paid. There was something inherently sad about the woman, and in some ways she reminded me of my Aunt Amanda. She lived, she said, with her son, to the south, beyond the swamp, on the far side of Sentinel Hill. In speaking with her I came to realize that she had likely been poorly educated, a victim of her condition and the place where she lived, but given the manner in which she often corrected her grammar and speech I suspected that her situation was in the process of being rectified. I thought perhaps Mr. Vreeland was attempting to reproduce Professor Higgin’s famous or infamous Pygmalion Experiment. I explained to Miss Whateley that I would like to explore the environs of Dunwich, and that I would be doing this on a daily basis, even on Sunday. She nodded and indicated that, “Me and me boy ain’t . . . my son and I do not attend services. I have no compulsion against working on the Sabbath.”

  That first day we stayed in the area surrounding the cabin, which Lavinia told me was known as Sulphur Springs, so called for the waters that bubbled up out of the side of Sulphur Mountain and fed the aptly named Sulphur Swamp, the headwaters of the North Fork of the Miskatonic. We could see all of these things from the top of Cromlech Mountain, where a crude stone circle also provided a way of looking down on the meager farms and homes that dotted the area. Lavinia was a wealth of information concerning the various residents, who included the Hutchins, Bishops, Wilsons, and Dunstables. When I noted a small patch with what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a home, Lavinia told me that Toby Dunstable, his wife, and his sister had set fire to it, after the man had complained about Toby poaching on his land.

  When I casually asked what Toby’s wife’s name was, Lavinia said “Mehitabel.” When I asked what his sister’s name was, she looked at me oddly and said rather slowly the same odd name, “Mehitabel.”

  I screwed up my face. “Same name?”

  “Uh,” she muttered, “same person.”

  It was then that I took a moment to check how much ammunition I was carrying, and if the Colts were in working order.

  The next day we headed west over the Divide Ridge and into the Copper Hills. The day after that we went east to the valley that the North Fork had carved through the craggy mountains. We followed the roiling river past the Farr farm and then headed west again along the brook that ran on the south end of the Farr pastures. We cut between a marshy area that Lavinia called Snakes Pond and an oddly shaped mountain that my guide suggested was too steep for us to climb. Such were my days, and I came to greatly enjoy the brisk walks that Lavinia and I took together. She was not much of a conversationalist, but she was knowledgeable about the land and the legends that surrounded it. She was also well versed in what plants, roots, and berries were edible, and on many days we supplemented my rations with rabbit, squirrel, and raccoon stews garnished with wild vegetables and spices. On more than one occasion we were forced to flee, not from bears or panthers, but from folk who didn’t appreciate strangers, or who held some grudge against Lavinia or her family. There had been a rash of youthful disappearances, only girls over the age of fourteen. A few of these girls had returned with no memory of where they had been, but with strange marks upon their thighs and buttocks. Despite the lack of proof, such events were laid at the Whateley doorstep and Lavinia’s son had been forced to pay out from the family fortune to make such accusations go away. When I asked after the boy’s father she became taciturn and had a dour look on her face. After that I was careful never to bring up the issue again.

  It was on the last Sunday of the month, the thirty-first of October, that Lavinia surprised me by showing up. She had told me the day before that she was not going with me, for she had intentions to celebrate Hallowmass with her son. When she had told me that she and her son did not attend church services I had assumed that they were simply irreligious; it had not occurred to me that they might maintain a faith different from that of the folk around them. Not that the celebrations of Allhallowtide were so outlandish, it was simply something that the local protestants did not observe. Such differences in faith might be minor, but they were enough to drive wedges between families and result in the kind of animosity I had seen inflicted on Lavinia. At least, that is what I believed then.

  As for why she was at my doorstep on this day, the answer was quite confusing: she had been forbidden from going with her son to the Hallowmass. He had apparently become increasingly contemptuous of her to the point where she was almost afraid of him. “There’s more about him than I can tell you, Miss Halsey.” I could tell she was genuinely upset, and suggested that we treat this as any other day and begin our hike. She smiled and together we set out for one of the few areas that I had yet to explore, the region to the southwest that Lavinia called Harris Glen.

  The trek to the small vale that was set between Hale and Wheeler Mountains took most of the day, possibly because this was an area so remote and so sparsely populated that there were few trails in, and even Lavinia had not been down some of them. But that did not mean that they had not been visited recently, for there were signs, trampled brush, broken limbs, and trails of footprints of various sizes, some shod, some not, and some showing a most curious gait as if they were lame or twisted in some manner.

  It was following these tracks that led us to the necropolis that lay hidden there. It was a cemetery, as large as I had ever seen, encompassed it seemed by a low rock wall that helped contain the innumerable headstones and monuments and tombs that stood inside. It was to this place, and the wrought iron gate that led inside, that our travels had taken us, and I knew at once that we were about to face a terrible culmination of events. I drew my guns and took a step forward, but then a lone hand fell on my shoulder and stopped me where I stood.

  In all our hikes and expeditions over the last few weeks I don’t think Lavinia Whateley had touched me once, and now she had felt compelled to reach out and keep me from entering the vast graveyard that stood before me. “Dawn’t,” she said. “This is auwn evil place. Sumthin’ bawd is here.” All pretenses of her attempts to better herself were lost to fear. “We shudn’t be here.”

  I heard something move behind the wall, and a shadow fell along the path beyond the gate. I cocked my guns. Something grunted and growled. “A bear,” I said, as if I knew about such things.

&
nbsp; Lavinia shook her head. “Too noisy for a bear.”

  “A wild hog, then.” I took a step backward. There was another shadow, and a shuffling sound.

  “Too big for a hawg.” She was pulling my arm. Something unseen creaked open and there was suddenly a scrambling sound, like rats crawling in the walls.

  We turned and ran back the way we came, splashing through the creek bed. As we did I heard those ancient gates swing open and a thunderous din filled the air, like the hooves of a dozen horses pounding on the street. Lavinia screamed and ran as fast as her thin legs would carry her, not daring to cast a glance back to what had emerged from that crumbling necropolis.

  I, however, could not resist. Like Lot’s wife I cast a brief glance over my shoulder and in the rays of the dying sun glimpsed the silhouetted things that boiled and gibbered in our wake. They were only shadows, and those bore some semblance to the anthropomorphic form of man, but were at the same time totally indistinguishable from the terrifying shapes of long-extinct primates that we are taught once dwelt on this planet. They were only remotely men, and it made some perverse sense that they had chosen to reside in that lost boneyard, for I am sure it was the only place that they could feel truly comfortable.

  We ran, my partner and I, we careened down that small brook, our hearts pounding, our breath ragged, the fear plain on our faces. We ran until we reached the shallows where the rivulet joined the main body of the Miskatonic River, and we cursed the fact that the only bridge across that dark water was more than five miles downstream. We paused to assess our options and then, after realizing that there was nothing but abandoned farmhouses and ramshackle shacks in either direction, we plunged into the cool waters of the river in a desperate hope that our pursuers would balk at doing the same.

  The water was warmer than I expected, but it had a queer thickness to it that made each stroke a battle. The current was present but not too swift and although it seemed as if it took hours to cross that stretch of dark water, it was only minutes later that we were standing on the other shore, shivering and staring back across the way. There were dark figures there, railing and screaming against the injustice that we were on one side and they were on the other. We took a moment to catch our breath and gain our bearings. Then, as we slowly turned to walk down the bank, we heard the first ominous splash. Our heads whipped around just as a second object broke the water, and then there was a third, followed by gargling cries as they moved toward us. They weren’t very good swimmers, but that didn’t matter—if we didn’t get moving they would soon be upon us.