by Pete Rawlik
“Mother.” My voice cracked as I spoke to the woman who had borne me for the first time in years. “Mother, I’ve come for you, I’ve come to rescue you.”
There was that look, the one she would give me when she realized that I had done something wrong, that I had disappointed her. I suppose all mothers have that look, or another one just like it. I hadn’t seen it for years, but there it was, like something that had crawled across her face and taken up residence there. “Megan, Megan my darling daughter, you have to stop this.” She swept her hand across the landscape. “All this madness, this death, you have to stop it, you’re destroying everything.”
“Destroying—destroying everything? I didn’t start this, Mother. I came looking for you and they wouldn’t let me see you. These monsters attacked me, threw me in the river. They tried to murder me, Mother.”
“And yet here you are. Safe and sound, perhaps a little worse for wear, perhaps a little better.” That look suddenly adopted a cruel smile. “You’ve never been tested before, have you, Megan? Never been hurt or sick or in danger? You could no more be killed by drowning than any of my other children.”
The three pale things swirled around her and a horrible realization dawned on me. “Those things—they’re my siblings?”
“Your brothers, Megan, your brothers. Magnificent, aren’t they? The product of the union between your father and myself, with just a touch of reanimation reagent during the third trimester. That’s the key, Megan, the reagent injected directly into the womb during gestation. It alters the development, makes the child stronger, faster, more intelligent, more resistant to damage and disease. They have all the same attributes that you do, Megan, just to a greater degree.”
“Clapham-Lee experimented on you while you were pregnant?”
There was that look again, that look of disappointment. “Clapham-Lee? Eric? No, he didn’t experiment on me, not at all. You’ve misunderstood completely. The new reagent, the use of it on fetal development, those weren’t Clapham-Lee’s ideas. He’s more interested in reanimation, building his hollow Empire of the Undead. No, this experiment, this leap in human evolution, this was my idea.”
All around me, the reanimated, those that were still left, stumbled forward. There couldn’t be more than a dozen of them, but Robert and I were trapped, and I knew I was nearly out of bullets. My cache of ammunition, the spare Tommy gun, and the other drum were somewhere in the debris of the cabin.
“Mother, this is wrong,” I said.
“No, my child, it isn’t. Search inside yourself, you have strengths and abilities that set you above normal human beings, and even above the reanimated. If you try, if you reach in and focus your powers you’ll find this to be true. You have the power to control them, to draw them to you, to make them do your bidding. And you were just the first step. Your brothers are the next generation, and they are even stronger. I can only dream of what powers will manifest in those born from the union of my children.”
I stood there, wide-eyed, letting her words slowly sink into my brain, and then slowly began to shake my head. There were words on my lips that slowly, ever so slowly became sounds of denial. “No, NO, NO!” I raised my gun, and with control and precision fired three times.
The bullets sped through the air toward their targets. The first hit home and exploded the head of the smallest of my ersatz siblings. The eyes careened out and away like baseballs that had been hit too hard and lost their covers. The body fell to the ground without a sound. The second bullet hit its target as well, this time leaving a gaping hole in the chest of the largest of the pale-skinned ghouls, through which a torrent of blood flowed. The creature turned and opened its mouth to scream, but only a gurgling whimper came out.
My last shot didn’t connect—the middle child grabbed my father and spun his massive and lumbering form around, letting him take the shot in the thigh. My father roared in pain and anger. He took a step toward me, but my mother put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. All around me, the undead took a step back and I realized that while I knew that I was out of ammo, my mother didn’t.
I waved the gun menacingly. “Mother, please, come with me.” There was a touch of sadness and futility in my voice. “Leave this place. Leave the dead behind and come home. We can be a family again, just you and me.” A tear traced its way down my cheek.
She raised her pistol and fired. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to move, but I wasn’t her target. Behind me, the bullet blew a hole in the chest of the towering body of Clapham-Lee and took his heart out of his back. The body shuddered and slowly crumpled to the ground. His head rolled off, moaning as it came to rest mere inches from where I stood.
“A gift, Megan. But the last one I shall ever give you. I asked you once, in my letter, to not try and find me. Now I am telling you. Leave us be.” She reached out a hand to her last remaining child-thing. “Come, Lazarus.” The demonic monstrosity took her hand and pulled her back.
She and all the others drifted backward into the shadows of the forest, but as I stood there, surrounded by the bodies and ashes, the devastation of our battle and the moaning head of Sir Eric Moreland Clapham-Lee, the only thing I could think of were her last words, which were ringing in my head.
“You belong with us, Megan. Someday you’ll realize that. We, you, me, and your brother, belong with your father and his kind. We belong with the dead.”
CHAPTER 34
“Escape from Sentinel Hill”
As Related by Robert Peaslee September 15 1928
It was late afternoon and the rain was still coming down in torrents, and Megan was carrying me down toward Talbot Road. She was letting me lean on her as we clumsily made our way down the muddy track. My breathing was labored, and with every breath waves of pain shot through my chest. Each step was infinitesimally more difficult than the last, but those minute increases were, over time, adding up. It wasn’t just the pain. There was a creeping chill, a cold that was clawing its way through my body. It was more than just the wet and the fall temperature; this was a chill that came from the inside and was working its way into my extremities, at least it felt that way. It felt like I was dying.
Instead of heading west on the Talbot Road we took it south, stumbling along about a half mile around the base of Sentinel Hill, until the road finally petered out and became a trail, and then little more than a footpath. The trail ended at a small stream that took us only seconds to cross. On the far side we picked up another footpath, which grew into a trail and then a road, which given where we were could only have been the Whateley Road, which skirted the southwest quarter of Sentinel Hill.
As we crossed one of the tributaries to Bishop’s Brook I heard Megan speaking, arguing with someone. It was someone whom I couldn’t see, but whose voice seemed strangely, horribly familiar. “He’s dying, you know that, don’t you?”
Megan seemed to take the opposite position. “He’s not dying. He’s going to be just fine.” There was doubt in her voice. “We’ll get down to Dunwich and then over to Aylesbury. They’ll have a doctor there.”
“Miss Halsey, I am a doctor, and based on how you packed his wound, I suspect that you’ve had a significant amount of medical training yourself. He’s lost too much blood. It’s inevitable.”
“Shut up.”
Suddenly I was looking up the hill, at the sky. There was something there, something forming in the clouds. A kind of congeries of bubbles, like the foam formed where the ocean meets the shore. It was like that, at least in some ways. In other ways it reminded me of the churning that occurs in the vicinity of a ship’s propeller.
“Miss Halsey, you can save him. We can save him. That is, if we work together.”
I was on the ground, staring up at the peak of Sentinel Hill and the weird atmospheric phenomenon beyond. The bubbles were growing, expanding and stretching, reaching down toward the earth, like tentacles, like streamers of fluidity desperate to reach the earth. The membrane around the vacuole was growing t
hinner, stretching itself like the skin of a balloon. It had almost reached the peak, where something else was waiting, something massive, something that was screaming in rhythm with the thunder and lightning.
I couldn’t make out the words, wasn’t even sure if they were words at all, and then I heard those three syllables that I myself had spoken so many times. They were alien words, ancient from time immemorial, and yet they were being screamed. Something, someone, on Sentinel Hill, was calling out that hideous name.
yog-sothoth
Yog-Sothoth
YOG-SOTHOTH!
And then there was darkness. It was an emptiness, a void of sound and light and feeling. One moment I was there, surrounded by the world, and then I was gone and so was the world. There was simply nothing, and I was simply nothing.
The world flooded back into my brain like a torrent from a broken dam. There was light and sound and sensation, and of course there was pain. There was screaming, but it only took me a moment to realize that it was me that was screaming. It was me that was tearing at my own throat as my vocal cords began to rip apart.
I heard Megan speaking, panic in her voice. “He’s come back wrong!”
“No,” came that other voice, “he’s just coming back to life. There is always pain. With birth, there is always pain.”
Megan was suddenly by my side, holding me at the shoulders, holding me down. “We have to help him,” she implored.
“Let me see him,” that voice demanded. Megan’s right hand left my shoulder and reached out and picked something up. Something blotted out the light. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust, to see what was in front of my eyes. It was a face, that of Sir Eric Moreland Clapham-Lee. Megan was holding his head by its hair, dangling it in front of me. “He’s going to be fine, my dear Megan,” said Clapham-Lee. “He’s going to be just fine.”
On the hill above us the storm was screaming. It wasn’t a voice—it was as if the world itself was speaking.
“Eh-ya-ya-ya-yahaah-e’yayayayaaaa . . . ff-ff-ff-FATHER! FATHER! YOG-SOTHOTH!”
A great crack then seemed to shatter the world, a deafening, apocalyptic report that rolled down across the Dunwich hills, though whether it was from the sky or the earth I could not say. That titanic peal was followed by a single bolt of lightning, which struck the very apex of the hill and reduced whatever stood there to rubble. This was followed by a wave of invisible force that swept across the landscape and carried with it a horrific miasma. The forest itself fell before that queer unseen wave, the trees shattered, the underbrush ripped free by its roots, and the grass fell in a frenzy of unknown and unknowable powers. That mephitic power blew Megan off her feet and down into my arms. Clapham-Lee’s head was screaming; Megan tucked it between us and let the monstrous wave roll over us.
Afterward, we stood there looking at the devastation that surrounded us. It was as if a great hand had come down and tried to wipe the forest away. The trees had shattered like toothpicks, and the road had been filled with debris; not just trees, but boulders and under growth as well. A half mile into our walk there was a truck tire sticking up out of the road. The axle was buried beneath it, and below that was the truck itself.
It took us hours, but we finally made it back to where I had parked my patrol car, next to hers. The papers, Megan’s papers, were gone. I set Clapham-Lee’s head inside a tool bag that was in Megan’s trunk. He objected, of course, but I made it clear that the situation was only temporary, and the alternative was more permanent. I put Megan in the passenger seat and then started the car.
As we drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror and watched as we pulled farther and farther away from my patrol car. As the vehicle grew small and distant I realized my days as a member of the Massachusetts State Police were over. As we turned onto the Aylesbury Pike, Megan put her head on my shoulder. Behind us, the sun was setting, being swallowed up by the Dunwich Hills. The last rays cut into the sky, setting fire to the dark clouds. When Megan’s hand found mine I stopped looking back, and started thinking about what Megan and I were going to do tomorrow.
And the day after that, and the day after that.
PART SEVEN
Aftermath
From the Case Files of Halsey, Peaslee, & Lydecker Consulting Detectives
CHAPTER 35
“The Foundlings of Dunwich”
From the Case File of HP&L November 8 1928
As the car approached Aylesbury, the occupant of the passenger seat turned to the driver, opened her mouth, and then closed it again without saying a word. Megan Peaslee, whose maiden name was Megan Halsey-Griffith, but who preferred Megan Halsey, was annoyed. She opened her mouth again, and this time spoke. “So that was your first time.”
The driver, Robert Peaslee, formerly of the State Police, shrugged. “Technically, yes.”
Megan chuckled a little. “You do know you were very good.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice, just not with women.” He smiled and reached out his hand for hers. “You weren’t bad yourself, very exuberant, energetic.”
“You’ve read my file. You should have known what you were getting yourself into.”
“I did—do you find that odd?”
A thoughtful look crossed her eyes. “I’ll admit I was unnerved that a complete stranger had read my diary, learned my innermost secrets, and had essentially studied me as if you were passing judgment on my life.”
“But?”
“But I did the same to you while you lay in bed recovering. Your notes and files, they tell your story. You think you’re writing about other people, about the things you’ve seen, the things you’ve fought against, but you’re really writing about yourself. In Paris you were almost a bystander, and then you became a victim, a survivor, and then a pawn to be used for other people’s purposes. Now you’re something else. Some people might call you a dark knight, or a cowboy, maybe even an adventurer. In Japan they have these warriors, masterless samurai, called ronin. They’ve lost everything, family, home, purpose. They are hopelessly doomed, trapped in a situation that they didn’t make, but for which they feel responsible. In the end these ronin are left with nothing but choosing between two immoral outcomes. I think you’re like them, a good man in a corrupt world, trying to do what he can.”
“And you find this attractive?”
“I think you’re like an old gun. You’ve been used, and there’s a touch of rust; you need to be cleaned and serviced, but with a little care you’ll probably still keep firing for years to come.”
Robert grinned. “That probably depends on who’s pulling the trigger. Think you can hit the target?”
Megan made a fist and shook it defiantly. “Like a rock. Clear eyes, steady hands, loaded guns.”
“Let us hope that it doesn’t come to that,” chided Robert.
Meghan thought for a moment. “You said that the last time, and you ended up shooting that kid, what was his name—something Potter?”
“I don’t remember, and I didn’t shoot him. He died in the explosion that destroyed the Miskatonic University Extension building in Bolton.”
“Right, the explosion, of the dynamite, which you drove into the courtyard, and then set off with a shot from your gun, when you realized that you didn’t have a fuse.”
“You just like to talk about guns.”
“No, darling, I just like pulling your trigger.”
He took her hand in his. He caressed it lightly and smiled. He wanted to say something, but then thought better of it and let the conversation drift away into silence.
As they sped through Aylesbury, the sun began to settle behind the not-so-distant mountains, and it was early evening by the time they pulled up in front of the neoclassical mansion that had come to dominate the Spool family farm. In the dim light the place looked odious and uninviting. Megan checked underneath her coat and made sure both holsters were unclipped, just in case. Robert threw her hat, letting the wide-brimmed thing float in the air toward her. Together the
y mounted the stairs. They didn’t have to knock. The door opened and the venerable Ada Spool greeted them with a worried look upon her face.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Peaslee. When the police said you had resigned I was afraid that there was no one who could help us. Thankfully they gave me the number to your office. I’m sorry to bother you, but I just didn’t have anyone else to call.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Spool. This is what we do.” He unbuttoned his coat, but didn’t take it off. “May I introduce my associate, Doctor Megan Halsey-Griffith.”
Megan took Mrs. Spool’s hand. “A woman doctor?” asked the old woman.
“I studied in Britain, at Shrewsbury College. They teach women to be doctors there.”
“I see.” There was some dissent in her tone. “If you’ll follow me.”
As the old woman led the way, Robert whispered into Megan’s ear, “You’re more qualified than half the physicians at St. Mary’s.”
Megan smiled slyly. “I know that, you know that; she is never going to believe it, even if I had the diploma in my hand.”
“This way, please,” Mrs. Spool called back to them. The couple rushed to catch up. “We’ve had some changes since you were last here, Mr. Peaslee.” As they walked down the hall, they passed a tricycle and a rather large play doll. “That awful business in Dunwich left so many people dead, or hurt, or homeless. We’ve taken in many of the older orphans. We’ve tried to figure out who they are and then find relatives willing to take them in. It hasn’t been easy.” She stopped at a door and inserted a key. “The children are unruly, uneducated, and obstinate. Some of them can barely read and write. Their enunciation of our language is atrocious. We’ve had Doctor Henry Willis up to look at them. He may have specialized in surgery, but he’s still a fine doctor, particularly when it comes to children.”
Megan knew Willis by reputation, a good man who only resorted to surgery as a last resort. “What did Willis say about the children?”