Bohemians of Sesqua Valley

by W. H. Pugmire

  The Strange Dark One

  I

  I have looked through black trees to a dry and dead moon,

  There in a darkened sky, a place of ultimate omission,

  Which expands overhead like some cauldron of nightmare,

  An abyss of evening.

  Overhead, a yawning universe seethes,

  As if to devour this world and we

  Who creep insignificantly on it,

  We who stumble and find no hold of sanity.

  A chill madness seeps down from darkness;

  It touches the hoary stones

  Of this unholy house in this valley

  Where chaos and lunacy dance,

  Where they move in an atmosphere haunted

  By the mockery there on His mask,

  His façade of Imperial Midnight.

  He offers His hand to our tongue.

  (rough draft of a poem by William Davis Manly, left unfinished at the time of his disappearance)

  II

  There is a place of phantasy and fear, and of sublimity, where things are found in darkness, and sometimes found in dream. April Dorgan found such things within a haunted valley that was surrounded by hills and mountains—a place that beguiled, and mocked, and poisoned. It was an uncanny place, and perhaps that was a portion of its allure; for the young woman had a bohemian nature that perplexed her stolid family, who could not understand the way she dressed, the books she read, the language she uttered. When, in early adulthood, she inherited her grandfather’s bookshop, she turned the place into a gathering of like souls, replacing the majority of the shop’s books for those titles that especially pleased her decadent clientele. There was, however, one room where no one was allowed, and this was the large back room that her grandfather had furnished as his personal living quarters and library. And it was that library that perplexed her just as much as she confounded others in the staid Wisconsin town. The room had a special aura, for it was there, as a teenager, that she would sit with her ailing grandsire and listen to his wild eccentric talk. It was there that he would show her certain books kept behind a locked cabinet; and sometimes he would mumble of the time he spent in the darkest part of Rick’s Lake and of what he imagined he had experienced there. April had resented the way that her mother and uncles had tried to shield her from the old man’s strange tales, as if to listen to such talk would taint one with some kind of mental contagion. Thus she formed a secret bond with her grandfather, and thus he left the bookshop to her in his will; which was just as well, for no one else in the family had shown any interest in the future of the place and would probably have sold it. She loved it. She loved the old house wherein it was located on the first floor, she loved delving into the life of being a bookseller and connecting with other like souls, who, once discovering her especial literary interests, often sent her gifts of the most provocative titles, often in French.

  But most of all she loved her grandfather’s study, into which she moved a bed so that she could sleep and dream there, often with one of the old man’s strange books on the bed beside her. She could not remember when she had located the old man’s private journal, in which she had first learned of Sesqua Valley and its weird inhabitants. It was odd: reading that journal brought back memories from her childhood that she had imagined were bad dreams, of sitting on the floor of her grandfather’s shop as a very young girl and looking over large picture books when certain people came to visit her grandfather, persons who were the rare individuals allowed into his private chamber. April remembered the furtive nature of these folk, and something about their appearance that beguiled and unsettled her. One very tall fellow who always wore a wide-brimmed hat especially captivated her, for he would always stop to kneel next to her and ask, “What are you reading today, Miss April?” She had a faint recollection of something strange about his eyes and the smell of his clothing. She also remembered the emotional state her grandfather was often in after having conferenced with these curious visitors. Once, just before the end of his days, when he began to allow her to sit with him in his study and discuss the future of the bookshop, she casually mentioned these customers.

  “Ah,” the old man had replied, “Simon Gregory Williams and his brood. Yes, he may show his snout once he learns that you’ve taken over the business. They have an interest in some of the titles I have locked away. You’ll want to have nothing to do with them. They’re some kind of occultists, I think.”

  It wasn’t until after her Grandfather’s death that she found, in a desk drawer, one of his private journals in which she found more information, but of a disturbing kind. “I’ve taken some books to Williams in his home of Sesqua Valley. They weren’t the worst kind and he paid a good price. He asked me some perplexing questions concerning Rick’s Lake and Professor Gardner, which I didn’t answer. I had heard, of late, of recent activity at Rick’s Lake; someone has removed the curious small stone totem that stood near the lodge, with its topmost image of the Faceless God. I have my suspicions, but I said nothing to Williams at the time. He asked his usual questions concerning the Professor and I explained again that we did not have actual copies of De Vermis Mysteriis and the Pnakotic Manuscripts but rather photostat copies of manuscript and printed pages taken from those texts. He doesn’t believe me, of course, because he’s glanced at some of the titles that I’ve collected since then, books that I keep under lock and key. He questioned me about my dreams, damn him. How he could know about such things I cannot fathom. There is almost a sensual quality in his voice when he speaks of the ancient texts and their addictive lore. He left me another list of titles in which he had interest, and I wonder if he guesses it is from some of his previous lists that I have found the secret books that I have sequestered in my personal occult library. Some of the titles have proved disturbing, and having them near me has been most unpleasant. Thus I gathered some in a box and drove to Adam Webster’s bookshop in Sesqua Valley. The memory of that place—well, I have no recollection of it! I cannot now remember any detail of my visit there, or of the valley itself. I am left with some vague unpleasant impression—that is all.”

  In another journal April had found a list of titles in which Simon Gregory Williams had expressed especial interest, followed by the extravagant prices for which Williams was ready to pay for such volumes; and it distressed the young woman to find some of those volumes behind the glass doors of the locked cabinet. There was also a map of the Northwest region where the valley was located, with notes of his journey to the place in her grandfather’s hand. Her curiosity piqued, April placed some of the titles in a box, added the journal which listed titles of interest to this Simon Gregory Williams, and drove to Sesqua Valley. She drove for an entire day, slept for a while in a forlorn motel, and then completed her drive after seven hours, when at last she began to descend into a valley surrounded by mountains and forested hills. A swerving road took her into a small town, and she was instantly charmed by the feel of the place, by its aura of quietude, by the wooden sidewalks and surrounding woodland. A titanic twin-peaked mountain of white stone captivated her with its stunning beauty as it shimmered in the pale sunlight of late morning. Parking the car, she stepped out and breathed in the sweet air as she admired the old structures that made up what must have been the downtown area of the town. She looked around but saw nothing that looked like a bookstore, and when she heard footfalls on the planks that made up the sidewalk, she turned to smile at two young men who walked toward her.

  “Hi,” she hailed. “I’m looking for the Adam Webster bookshop.”

  The smaller of the lads spoke. “That will be up the Place of Hawks hill road. I was on my way there, actually.”

  She held out her hand to him. “I’m April Dorgan, from Wisconsin. My grandfather used to sell rare books to Mr. Simon Williams. I’ve brought some titles that I thought would especially interest him, or Mr. Webster. May I give you a lift to the shop? Then you could guide me.”

  The two young men exchanged looks, and A
pril studied their curious facial features, which reminded her of something she could not place. “I’m Cyrus. Yes, let me show you the way, it’s not far.” He patted the other lad on the back and then joined April in entering the car, directing her away from the place and along a rutted road that began to rise as hillside. “There’s the house, just behind those trees. You can park at the steps leading up to it. Let me get that box of books for you, Miss Dorgan, it looks heavy.” She parked near a flight of stone steps that led to one of the strangest houses she had ever seen, one that looked sinister and solitary and very old. Quietly, she followed Cyrus up the steps, which had been usurped by weed and yellow grass, and noticed him studying the books in the box he carried. Reaching the top of the steps, they walked along a gravel path to the three wooden steps that led up to an enormous canopied porch, on which she saw a porch swing and a bin of discarded books. The door of the dwelling had been propped open, and from within the house there came a sound of someone playing a pipe. They crossed the threshold, and April studied the tall man whose back was to them as he looked out an eastern window, toward the white mountain. The music emitted from him, and when at last he stopped his playing and turned around April saw that he held a flute made of shining red wood. He did not smile at her, nor did he speak; and something in the stern gaze of his silver eyes bewildered her with subtle fear and memory. The face seemed very familiar in an uncanny way, and she was repulsed by its ugly combination of features that reminded her of frog and wolf. The unfriendly eyes turned to watch as Cyrus placed the box onto a low table.

  “What have we here?” the gentleman asked.

  “Some years ago Simon Gregory Williams used to visit my grandfather’s bookshop in Wisconsin, and he expressed interest in the books that are in that box. For some reason my grandfather was unwilling to part with them. I was hoping you could show them to Mr. Williams and perhaps he and I can come to some agreement regarding price.”

  “Simon is in Europe, but I know his tastes. I’ll be occupied until tomorrow. Are you able to stay overnight? I have a room upstairs that you are welcome to use while you stay in Sesqua Valley. Was your grandfather Laird Dorgan? Yes, I met him once, when I accompanied Simon to your town. Cyrus will show you to your room. I’ll be dining late tonight, and perhaps you’ll join me and we can talk, hmm? Excellent. The Eastern Room, Cyrus, with its magnificent view of Mount Selta and the woodland. Is your luggage in your car? Why not loan Cyrus your keys and he’ll carry it to you room. You’re very tired, after such a lengthy drive, and a little rest will do you a world of good. You’ll find the bed comfortable.”

  She followed the younger man out of the room and up a flight of carpeted stairs. The room into which she was led was small and beautifully furnished with sturdy antique pieces. The bed did indeed look inviting, and after she thanked Cyrus for his help and gave him the keys to her car, she reclined on the bed and shut her eyes. From somewhere below came the sound of someone playing a haunting melody on a flute.

  III

  The universe was a black and silent sea in which her eyes floated, seeing nothing. It reminded her of the sonnet by Sri Aurobindo, “The Unseen Infinite,” and its line about “the inconscient dreadful dumb Abyss.” Her eyes floated, peering, their whiteness the only stars. Then, from the sea of infinity, one shape arose, blacker than oblivion. It rose and watched her with a semblance of an obscure face, a face that was almost featureless. The figure’s hands, gloved with pitch, rose to its dark almost-face, and pulled, until the face was free. It reached that face to those spools, her eyes, which rolled to it and fastened into tight sockets. As she looked again into nothingness, she saw the whorls of shadow that wheeled around like some vision of Ezekiel, orbits of blackness spinning within each other, tugging at her essence. The mask into which her eyes were set spun like some web of gloom in cosmic nothingness, and with great effort she closed the flaps of mask that were her eyelids.

  Her eyes opened to darkness, focused, noticed the dim rectangle of light that contained a silhouette that watched her. She raised herself onto her elbows and peered at the figure whose face she could not see. “Why is it so dark?”

  “You’ve slept—and darkness falls early in the valley at this time of year. Do you hunger? I have set a table for our repast. Come.”

  She sat up and moved her feet into her sandals, stood up and moved to the figure in the doorway. Adam Webster backed away to allow her exit from the room, and the soft hallway light illuminated his weird face. “I am a little hungry,” she confessed.

  “Excellent. The meal that I’ve prepared will please you.” Webster offered her his arm, which she took, and together they walked down the stairs and into a dining room. He pulled out a chair for her to sit into, then went to a side table where he opened covered dishes and plated her some food. She took hold of the glass of wine before her and breathed in the liquor’s sweet aroma, which reminded her of the smells of the valley that had wafted to her when she had first entered its confines. He sat and began to eat in silence, not regarding her in any way. The food was delicious, as was the wine, and after she had dined she lost some of the foreboding that the place and its inhabitant had inspired. The Sesquan looked up and caught her staring at his face, and this made him smile a secret smile. He rose and went to a small side table from which he took an object, and then he pulled one of the dining table chairs nearer to her and sat. She saw that the book was her grandfather’s journal in which he had listed books desired by the mysterious Simon Williams. Webster set the small journal near her and tapped it. “Do you know what happened to the items mentioned in the back of this journal, the Pnakotic Manuscripts and Book of Eibon? I cannot ascertain if they were actual editions of the book or mere photostatic copies as was their Necronomicon.”

  April frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Ah—perhaps you didn’t notice the writing in the back of the journal, after many pages had been left blank.” He opened the book and showed her some back pages on which her grandfather had, long ago, scribbled some odd notes.

  “Dreaming about the dweller in darkness—perhaps a result of the

  memories roused by study of the photographic copy of Necronomicon, or

  Book of Eibon and P. Manuscripts. I see that damn totem that was beside the lodge in the woods, with its reptilian faces and wings. I’m tempted to trek to Rick’s Lake again so as to copy the markings on that totem—yet I am reluctant to return. I don’t care to hear again those buzzing voices or the howling Thing. And yet it tugs me to it, that haunted place.”

  “I never noticed those passages,” April lied as she flipped over other pages of equally cryptic notations in her grandfather’s hand. “The Book of Eibon and De Vermis Mysteriis in the box I brought were purchased by Grandfather after the incident at Rick’s Lake and his quitting his position at the university so as to establish his bookshop. He told me the tale of Rick’s Lake near the end of his life, many times, and I know that the photostatic copies of occult books that they had in the lodge mysteriously vanished. I went with him once to the lodge, during a period when he was driving himself frantic with bad dreams, and he seemed unnerved that this stone totem had been removed as he especially wanted to examine it. He opened up to me, you see, when I became interest in the Bohemian lifestyle and began to bring friends to the bookshop, and he seemed to delight in joining us during our séances and such.”

  “Have you an interest in the occult, Miss Dorgan?”

  She closed her grandfather’s journal and pushed it from her. “No. I saw the way such things affected Grandfather, and that rather turned me off. He got very bad near the end, writing symbols on walls and floor with chalk, sneaking out and running naked through a nearby woods. It was in those woods that we found him one last time, with a strange book in his lifeless hand.”

  “And what book was that?”

  “I don’t know. I burned it after the funeral, as I was tempted to burn all of the weird books he had locked in his cabin
et. Then I found that journal with those extraordinary prices offered him by Mr. Williams, and that kept the books from flame. The shop does well enough, and my needs are modest; but it would be pleasant to have a nice sum in the bank for special occasions. When do you expect Mr. Williams to return from Europe?”

  “One cannot say. No matter. I’m prepared to pay you the sums he offered your grandsire. The books are rare indeed, and in excellent condition. Simon will be pleased.”

  He took up the small journal and smiled at her. “Are you happy with your room?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s enchanting. Those beautiful antiques...”

  “Excellent. Stay as long as you wish. It’s often good to ‘get away,’ as people say.”

  Webster rose, took up their plates and vacated the room. April stood and stretched, and then she found her way to the front door and sat on the porch swing gazing at the nighted valley, the enormous sky. The sky looked unfamiliar to her, as it had never appeared before, not that she had ever shown much interest in the heavens. She caught a hazy remnant of her dream and thought again of the line of poetry, “the inconscient dreadful dumb Abyss,” and felt that image as never before; for the blackness above her did seem like some abyss into which she might fall should she release her tight hold on the arm of the swing. She thought about the sonnet’s closing lines, wherein is conveyed the human soul’s relationship with the Unseen, with whom humanity is kindred. This was the pathological obsession of her grandfather, and she had never given the matter serious thought, dismissing it as the mental wanderings of an elderly mind. Yet coming to Sesqua Valley had triggered something that she didn’t understand—a sensation that filled her disquiet that was not altogether unpleasant. It was unsettling, certainly, to meet people who seemed as serious about these obsessions of her grandfather as he had been. There was something about Adam Webster’s interest in her grandfather’s books and history that seemed too keen, too interested. Perhaps the rare old books were far more fabulous than she realized; perhaps they were worth more than her grandfather had suspected, more than the generous offering made by Simon Gregory Williams.