by Pete Rawlik
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said as I crossed the threshold.
I let my desperation become apparent. “My deanimation agent works, as long as I inject it into the brain, but it does nothing if I deliver it elsewhere.”
We sat down in his parlor. “Lewandowsky’s hematoencephalic barrier. Have you read about the dye experiments of Ehrlich and his student, Goldmann?” I shook my head no. “Ehrlich was injecting dye into the bloodstream in an attempt to make fine structures of organs visible. It worked, but failed to stain the brain and central nervous system. His student, Goldmann, injected dyes into the brain, but this failed to spread into the surrounding blood vessels and tissues. This suggests that there is some kind of barrier between the two that keeps some materials, likely including your reagent, from moving from the blood into the brain,” Hartwell explained. “If you want your reagent to work you need to find a way to penetrate that barrier.”
“Of course I want my reagent to work, why wouldn’t I?”
Hartwell stood up, took his glasses off, produced a small handkerchief, and then began to slowly clean the lenses. “We can find a way to penetrate the barrier, to make your deanimation reagent work. I’m thinking about shotgun shells with some of the shot replaced with ampules of your concoction. Headshots that penetrate the skull and allow the reagent to seep into the brain should be sufficient, if rather inefficient.”
I stood up in offense. “My reagent is nearly perfect, it’s more than 90 percent effective, and I’ve gotten the response time down to mere seconds. How much more efficient do you want it to be?”
The man had an introspective look as he stared at me. “My father, and his father before him, were butchers. When I was a boy, maybe ten, they took me out to a farm down by Witches’ Hollow. We spent the morning hunting for deer so that we could have venison for the shop, and I watched my father shoot a buck, and then I helped him clean and dress the carcass. In the process we took care to remove all the pellets and pieces of broken bone, making sure none of the meat was contaminated.”
“Later, after lunch at the farmhouse, we bought a hog from the farmer and my father had it slaughtered. This was the first time I had actually seen this. The farmer took the hog and tied its back feet together, and then strung it up over the branch of a tree. It was screaming, calling, kicking, and bucking, but to no avail. After about ten minutes the pig relaxed, and the farmer walked slowly up behind the whimpering animal and drew a knife across its throat, cutting deep into the flesh. The animal immediately began screaming and kicking, again as its blood drained out like water from a spigot. Almost as an afterthought, one of the farmer’s sons brought a basin and set it beneath the animal to collect the blood. It took more than five minutes for the animal to stop squirming, but it seemed longer. Afterward, the farmer and my father gutted and cleaned the animal. We took the carcass, and the farmer kept the organs, head, and feet. It was an additional form of payment, for the work the farmer had done in slaughtering and butchering the animal.”
“On the way home I had a question for my father, but it took me almost half the drive to work up the courage. I wanted to know why the hog had been killed with a knife, why it had to suffer, why couldn’t it have been shot instead, like we had the buck. He told me something I should have already known. The buck was shot, but it took us longer to clean the meat, and we lost some of it. The hog took longer to die, but the end result was a more complete use of all the parts. Each method was efficient in its own way, but the end results were different.”
I stood there, trying to understand his point. “You want me to use a knife to kill the reanimated?”
He laughed a little as he shook his head. “No, Miss Halsey-Griffith. I want you to think about what your end goal is. Despite not being formally trained as a scientist, you’ve accomplished a great deal. You’ve come up with a very elegant and scientific solution, but is that what we—you—need here?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Let me put it another way. Before you perfected your deanimation reagent, how did you put down experimental failures?”
“I used an icepick through the skull.”
“So, before we sit down and try to create a weapon that penetrates the skull and delivers your reagent, can we maybe consider that there might be another way, a more brutal and less scientific method?”
“Gunshots directly to the head?”
Doctor Hartwell put his glasses back on. “It has been my experience that the simpler the solution, the better.”
“I would need a gun with a significant capacity.”
“Well, my dear Miss Halsey-Griffith, there are two things that I have to say about that. The first is that I believe Colonel Thompson and his Auto-Ordinance Company have made great improvements in their weaponry since the war.” He smiled and showed me to the front door.
“What was the second thing?”
He opened the door and ushered me out. “Guns and their usefulness in pursuit of your goal are beyond my expertise. Meaning I am of little use to you. Good night, Miss Halsey-Griffith.” The door didn’t slam in my face, but it might as well have.
CHAPTER 29
“The Last Testament of Megan Halsey”
From the Letters of Megan Halsey September 12 1928
Hannah,
I suppose you must be surprised to once more see my cramped handwriting; after all, I am supposed to be dead, drowned in the Miskatonic back in April. How I survived and where I have been hiding is a tale unto itself, but it is too long and I have limited time before I must once again leave. I thought I would have more time, but this morning’s paper brings tales of strange happenings in Dunwich attributed to hallucinations brought on by bootleg whiskey, but I suspect something else. Again, these are details you are better off not knowing, but I suspect these disturbances are associated with my missing mother, and I am determined to once again brave that weird backwoods wilderness in search of her. In spite of the fact that the last attempt I made nearly cost me my life.
That may be incorrect—I am determined to return to Dunwich and confront the things that dwell there because they nearly cost me my life. You know as well as I that I was never satisfied with losing. Nor could I ever let well enough alone. Was it you or Asenath that nicknamed me Princess Vendetta? I had forgotten about that until just now, isn’t it strange how things claw their way back out of the mausoleum of memory. That which is not dead . . .
I must ask you to keep the contents of this letter a secret; if my whereabouts for the last few months were to come to light, people who were dear and helpful to me might come under scrutiny, and that would do them a disservice. For much of this time I have taken refuge in the home of my father, hiding there, tended by the caretakers, spending my time formulating a solution to a most perplexing problem, a problem you would be better off not knowing about. But for the last few weeks, things have been much different.
Two weeks ago, in the middle of the night, the caretaker and I left Arkham for a point south of Innsmouth, a rather disreputable place known as Porgy’s Fish Club. On seeing the place Mr. Kreitner was loath leaving me there, but I assured him that I would be quite safe in the establishment, despite the unsavory appearances of the clientele. When he still balked at leaving me alone in such a place, I pulled back my jacket and revealed the gun holsters that lay hidden beneath and suggested that these were much better chaperones than he could ever be. It was a position he couldn’t argue with, but he still drove off in a huff, the truck leaving a spray of dust and crushed oyster shell in its wake.
Porgy’s is advertised as a private club for aficionados of hunting and fishing, but in truth it is a speakeasy and brothel for men with exotic tastes in partners. If I ask you to recall some of the unmentionable skills that Asenath demonstrated for us on more than one occasion you might gain a hint at what decadent delights are available at the place. It is a place outside the law, and as with all such places it has its own methods for enforcing the rule of order, and those
methods include not only brutal men but the tools they need as well. This is why I had returned there, to see if I could borrow a few of those tools. The truth is I could use a few of these men as well. For the most part they are lumbering hulks, but there are a few with the brains and I suspect the fortitude to aid me in my task, but as much as I wanted or needed their help I wasn’t going to ask. This was a private matter, a family matter, and one that I didn’t want anyone else getting hurt or killed over on my behalf. So the tools and nothing else would have to do.
I spent that first night sitting at the bar, nursing a drink and fending off proposals from both directions. Not that I wasn’t flattered or interested, but I simply wasn’t in the mood. I had come to talk business with the proprietor and until that was done I could think of nothing else. Unfortunately, the proprietor was busy and it was clear that I was going to have to wait until after closing to speak with her. Thankfully, the bartender, knowing who I was, kept me entertained and even made sure I had a small plate of cheese and fruit to keep me satisfied through to the wee hours.
It is an odd thing to watch a bar empty out, and watch the men and women who are charged with operating and caring for both it and its customers go through the process of closing it down. I had seen the practice before, and in this very establishment, but watching it again made me remember the wonder of it all. There is to start an obligatory dimming of the lights, a gentle reminder to patrons that it is time to leave, and a sign for staff to point out to those stragglers who simply won’t take a subtle hint and must be physically shown the door. After these issues are dealt with, the lights come back on, and men and women who had seemed so focused on serving customers turn their attentions to the tables and floors, wiping them down and sweeping the debris and refuse from the floors. To the untrained eye it may look as if the cleaning is random and haphazard, but nothing could be further from the truth. Tablecloths are gathered in a very specific order, and as the person tasked with that job works through the room, a second person follows, wiping each table down and scattering various bits to the floor. A third person follows the second with a broom and a dustpan to capture the larger bits. In turn, a fourth person with a push broom follows all of them in order to capture the finer dust and dirt. Only after almost everyone is off the floor does the man with the mop come through and polish everything up. It seems an odd way to divide the workload, but when done right it makes things move in a fast and orderly fashion.
When the time came I was shown back to the office, and sat down to talk business. I explained to the proprietor, a woman whom I considered something of a friend—well, perhaps less than a friend and more than a simple business associate—my situation. I was in trouble with the law, and planning for more. I had little to no cash, but I needed a car and some very special guns. I needed credit and hoped that she would allow me to trade off my reputation and that of my family. She knew I had access to significant funds, or would have at some future point in time. In the end we negotiated and agreed on a price that included lodging, meals, a car, two Tommy guns, and a half dozen drum magazines, as well as a man to teach me how to use them without doing myself an injury. The price was steep, partially because she was the only supplier I could turn to, and also because there was no guarantee that I would be coming back to make good anytime soon.
That is where I must ask you to help me, Hannah.
Attached, you will find documents that in the case of my death function to disperse my holdings. These are, as you know, extensive, and I’m sure that there will be some who will scrutinize them, but I assure you that I have written them such that my lawyers will know they are genuine. I am naming you my executor. You are the only person I trust to carry out my wishes, the vast majority of which are relatively simple. They are detailed in the attached document, but I will summarize them here.
First, as soon as possible, convey to the owner and operator of Porgy’s Fish Club the sum of one thousand two hundred dollars, for services rendered.
Second, a trust in the amount of fifteen thousand dollars must be set up to handle claims made under either my name or that of my mother. This is to support either of us in the event that we are alive, but unable to be part of public life. The lawyers will know how to couch the language so as to admit the proper benefactors and deter the unscrupulous.
The remaining balance, including all my monies, houses, and business ventures, are yours to do with as you may. I am the last of the Halseys and Amanda is the last of the Griffiths; our small merchant empire has served us well and is manned by some loyal and savvy people. I urge you to listen to them concerning operations and disposition of our commercial endeavors. If it comes to it I hope that you will see fit to reside in either Halsey or Griffith House, and I urge you to have children. For too long have these homes lacked the pleasurable sounds of children playing in them; I think either place would welcome the return of such noises.
A note on the libraries, which are extensive; Griffith House contains exactly what you would expect, mostly books on history, shipping, and exploration of remote lands and islands, a holdover from when we were more tightly bonded to our shipping interests. The books in the Halsey house are something else entirely, and many can be traced back to the time some ancient Waldman spent in Ingolstadt teaching medicine there. These may have some value and you might consider turning them over to the university.
You have often spoken of your brother Robert’s work with the government and the strange goings on he sometimes detailed. I recall him fondly, as a level-headed man whose actions were critical during those strange events in the Catskills. In the basement laboratory of the Halsey house you will find my private notebook detailing my own experiments and studies in the fringes of medical science. This is a small volume bound in green leather with bronze clasps and a lock. It might serve Robert well to have the book and the details of what I have learned.
I trust you with this, Hannah, because I have little choice. Only you and Asenath were ever really friends to me, and Asenath has become so distant of late, ever since the federal government sent men into Innsmouth. I hope you will never have to act on the contents of these pages, but if you have not heard from me by the first day of 1929 then you must assume me dead, or perhaps worse. Either way, I leave the disposition of my and my family’s wealth to you. It is perhaps the greatest gift I can give you. Use it wisely and try to forget the darkness and madness that has so haunted my life, since before I was born, really.
Live, Hannah, enjoy life and live.
Perhaps you could do what I could never find the strength to.
PART SIX
Robert Peaslee and Megan Halsey-Griffith
September 1928
CHAPTER 30
“In the Shadow of Sentinel Hill”
As Related by Robert Peaslee September 14–15 1928
Megan was alive!
I knew that as soon as I saw the first scrap of paper with her handwriting on it. It took me less than an hour to speed through the notes she left behind; I even tore open the letter addressed to my sister, Hannah, and read that. I must admit that my emotions at the time were mixed. I had, over the last few months, dedicated my life to investigating her death, and in the process had suffered detriments to my career. I had seen her body myself, touched it as it lay cold and still on the dock in Arkham—to learn that she was alive was almost too much to believe.
But it was the truth, and the evidence was incontrovertible. I was sitting in her car, reading her words, some of which she had written just days ago. And there in the woods was her trail—at least, I assumed it was hers. The boot prints were small, and whoever had pushed their way from the road into the woods had been small of stature, so it was at least a woman. I may have let my emotional state overwhelm my logic, but it was a leap I was willing to make at the time. Megan was alive and she had driven into the Dunwich area on a mission of vengeance, and if her notes were to be believed then she was armed for bear, ready to go to war.
I was
still unclear over exactly what she was involved in, but I had a pretty good idea that it involved a small army of the undead, men who had died and been subjected to the reanimation reagent developed by the mad doctor Herbert West. One of West’s subjects had been Eric Clapham-Lee, a doctor himself, who had fallen in combat and been decapitated. West experimented on his fallen colleague, producing a terrifying result, one that I had encountered myself in Ylourgne. Clapham-Lee had for some reason gathered his fellow victims and organized them into a kind of monstrous nomadic tribe, one that had secreted itself in the hills of Dunwich. Megan had encountered them before, a ravening horde of monstrous subhumans that shambled after her and her companion, Lavinia Whateley. Megan and her friend had been saved by something equally as monstrous, something that Megan couldn’t describe, something I had glimpsed walking in the rain with Wilbur Whateley. Whatever it had been, it had seemingly vanished after Wilbur had been killed. That Wilbur’s own grotesque and inhuman body had vanished as well, dissolving into the very air, added a layer of cosmic terror to the drama I had not only been witness to, but had somehow become part of.
And I had become part of it, an integral part of it. My life was entwined with Megan Halsey’s, and hers was entwined with mine. The only problem was that she didn’t know it. That needed to change. It was time that Megan and I became reacquainted with each other. I grabbed a few road flares, my gun, and some extra ammunition; after all, I wanted to make a good impression. Armed as best I could be, I set out to follow the trail Megan had left me.
That trail, from the road into the woods, merged with a path not far from the road, one that in general followed Prescott Creek. It was darker in the woods; the trees blocked the moon and stars, making it harder to follow the boot prints that had been left in the soft earth. It was well after midnight and there was an odd wind blowing through the trees, bringing with it a foul scent. It came in wafts and only when the wind came from a specific direction. It was the smell of the river at low tide, of the dump on a hot summer day, of the streets of Paris when the sewers backed up. It was the smell of death and decay and disease and it drifted across the hills of Dunwich in great drafts that made me gag and nearly retch. It was almost palpable. When it moved through the trees I could almost see it, a kind of fog or miasma that seeped and crawled through the undergrowth like a black cat in a dark room, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for.