Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1)

by Al Halsey

  “Time for a refill,” Gibbs announced as he came down the stairs and into the chamber with a cup in his hand. He poured a cup of coffee with his right hand while he shoved two cookies in his mouth at once with his left hand. “Dang, we’re out of claws,” he said while he chewed loudly. Crumbs flew as he talked.

  “Really? You really came down here for that,” Kelsey grumbled. “Your shift should be over. Go home, get some sleep.”

  “Oh, it is,” Gibbs shot back before he lifted the cup to his lips. “Just a little pick-me-up for the drive home.”

  “That must be quite a drive,” Kelsey said.

  Gibbs shoved two more cookies in his mouth, slurped some coffee and then surveyed the table. “Thought this case was cut and dry.”

  “It is,” Kelsey said. “But this end of the world mythos is pretty involved. What I understand is that this cult has been around for a long time. It’s small, not a huge money-maker like Scientology or anything. The stuff I’m reading says maybe thousands of years. If you believe the writings, pre-human.”

  Gibbs refilled his cup, and then picked at a donut. “How is that even possible? Pre-human? If they existed before humans, who was here to tell us about it? That’s stupid.”

  “Old races, dead races, these weird gods that hover around in space somewhere. It’s all crazy. Then there’s this,” Kelsey said. He rolled out the map from the wall of the dead man’s study. “He had marked these archeological sites, supposedly evidence of what went on before humans. It’s quite involved, really, and old man Samuels had a bunch of these photographs of a lot of places. I would guess there is a network of loons looking at all this stuff. The internet is ruining this country. Loons in their skid-marked undies, little pink footy pajamas in their parents’ basements as they churn out this tripe.”

  “Could be worse. They could’ve been writers.” Gibbs turned: his fingers traced the holes in the map, then tapped on the paper. “All over the world. This one here; even one near us. Well, I know one thing for sure. That little statue bugs the crap out of me.”

  “That spot on the map, that’s on the Nez Perce Indian Reservation. It’s real close to us. That damn statue, it’s creepy for sure.” Kelsey looked askance at the demon figure. “Something is unsettling about it. I don’t know, it just bothers me and I can’t quite understand why.”

  “Well, it’s not our problem much longer,” the familiar voice of the Chief of Police, Ray Rogers echoed down the stairs. His shoes tapped on the linoleum covered stairs. They fell silent on the carpet. Kelsey looked at the old cop who had worked his way up from the streets in Seattle before he took this job. His hair was almost gray, his solid body a little less solid from too many days at a desk. He still looked sharp in his uniform. “Feds are on their way here. They want to have a chat with you. They’re taking over this case.”

  “Based on what?” Kelsey snarled. “They have never just taken over a case here. Local shooting, local business. Did you call them in, Chief?”

  “Hell, no. They called me out of the blue,” Rogers grumped. “I hate those Fed bastards. Have yet to meet an ATF or FBI guy who has the social skills of a kindergartener. They just called me.”

  “God dammit,” the detective mumbled. “It’s a local matter. They should mind their own business. You can hardly swing a stick without hitting a meth lab out towards the reservation. That’s what they should be working on, not trying to throw their jurisdictional weight around.”

  “They don’t think so. They are driving in from the airport now. That’s the way it is, Andrews. You don’t hafta like it, just gotta do what they say. Too much grant money at stake to piss ‘em off.”

  “It’s a bunch of…” the detective stared, and was interrupted by his phone. The ringer was the song ‘Lowlife’ by the band ‘Theory of a Deadman’. He looked at the screen, the letters ‘Dickhead Rob’ on the tiny screen. “It’s my brother. He’s over in Japan. I gotta take this call. Sorry, Chief.”

  “Make it quick. Federals are on their way.” The Chief snatched a cookie and left with Gibbs.

  “What’s up, you prick?” Kelsey laughed into the phone. “Didn’t expect to hear from you for a while. How’s the weather over there? Tired of Sushi yet?”

  The phone was silent for a few seconds, and then he heard his brother’s voice. It sounded so near, yet so far. “I can’t talk for very long. I’m on my cell. We’re close enough to Japan I can get a signal off of working towers. We are on a communications blackout.”

  “What’s wrong, man?” Kelsey said, suddenly concerned. “I figured you would be on rescue duty somewhere, that’s what I gathered, watching the news the last couple days. Did you see the tsunami wave?”

  “Just listen for a minute, forget about that. We got the earthquake warning, pulled out of Yokosuka Harbor to avoid the waves. Waves are always higher closer to land. Anyway, no big deal. Standard protocol for tsunami. Late Sunday morning, we were put on alert. Then some Russians were helicoptered in. Nothing to do with the waves or the earthquake. Something’s up.”

  “Russians on an American carrier? On the George Washington?” Kelsey asked, incredulous.

  “Just let me talk,” his brother scolded quietly. “We then were told to get ready for live-fire exercises. Orders from the President. With the Russians. A joint exercise. Not rescue, not assist Japan with surveying the tsunami damage, no search-and-rescue, but live fire. And we’re doing it in conjunction with the Russian Pacific fleet out of Vladivostok and Vilyuchinsk. Some island north of New Zealand is the target: we’re going to pound it. I can’t even find the damn thing on a map. Something’s really wrong. It’s not like it’s planned. There are no operational guidelines, nothing we are trying to learn. Just shoot.”

  “Maybe it was planned,” Kelsey said confidently. “You just didn’t know. Military drills are some weird things sometimes. Operational security. These things are planned way in advance.”

  “No. We would have been drilling this for weeks, would have known, and would have been briefed. The officers didn’t even know about this. It was spur of the moment, no notice, no training. Something else is very odd. One of my friends, a petty officer who works in Communications says this was all brought on by some sub lost by the Chinese. Then we lost a sub with some Seal Team in the same spot as they looked for the commies’ missing sub. It’s this island, and they’re asking for our help. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but it’s almost like we are just trying to wipe this island off the face of the map.”

  “Dude, chill,” the detective said calmly. “It’s Obama. Of course the Chinese and the Russians are telling us what to do. It’s going to be fine. They own too much of our debt, so they boss us around. Way of the world now.”

  “No, seriously. That has nothing to do with any of this: it’s not political. Something is wrong and we’re not being told what. Kelsey…man, I’m scared. And I gotta go. I can’t get caught talking on the phone.”

  “Just remember your training, little brother. You’re in the middle of the fleet, on one of the most powerful warships ever built. Nothing’s gonna happen, ok? Chain of command, all that stuff. People above you know what they’re doing. Be cool.” The detective smiled, and held his phone tight. “I miss ya, man. I got this case I’m working on you wouldn’t believe. It’s crazy.”

  “I gotta go,” Rob whispered. “I love you, bro.”

  “I miss you too, man,” Kelsey whispered. “Stay safe.”

  The line went dead. Slowly he laid the phone on the map, and sat down at the table with his head in his hands, thinking about his brother. For several quiet minutes he closed his eyes, remembered Rob’s graduation from high school, then his enlistment. He breathed deep. The detective listened to the distant humming of the heat system, carried through the ducts.

  “Detective?” an unfamiliar male voice startled him. He opened his eyes to a slightly built man in front of him. He wore a pressed black suit, a thin dark red tie over a smart white shirt. Behind him was the Chief,
arms crossed with a dour expression on his face.

  “Yes?” Kelsey demanded.

  The man stuck out his hand. “Johnson, FBI. Out of the Seattle office. The Chief has told me you are aware we are taking over this case. Federal jurisdiction.” The agent eyed the statue and stared.

  The detective stood and shook his hand, the FBI agent’s grip clammy and limp. It gave Kelsey the creeps. “Why? This is a local matter. In all my years, never…”

  “Out of professional courtesy I will explain it,” the agent interrupted and stepped close. “That statue is one missing, stolen from storage at the Smithsonian several decades ago. That makes this a federal crime, trafficking in antiquities. Your dead man was a dealer in stolen relics. Even possessing it is a crime.”

  Kelsey stared for a second. “Other than this statue, we found no evidence…”

  “What you found is irrelevant,” the agent interrupted again. “Our jurisdiction rules and I’m telling you how it is. The Chief assures me your full cooperation. You have maps, photos, and writings. I need all of the evidence from the house boxed up and sent to the Seattle office.”

  The FBI agent reached into a breast pocket of his suit, pulled out a card, and placed it on the table. Then he slowly wrapped his fishy hand around the green statue. For a few seconds he squinted and stared into the speckled eyes of the figure, lost in thought.

  “What can you tell me about the Cthulhu cult?” the detective asked.

  The Chief sighed.

  “These people seem to be knee deep in it,” Kelsey added

  The FBI agent’s eyes shifted to the detective.

  “You need to forget about it. Your investigation into this matter is over. If your fishing around in our waters becomes a distraction,” he murmured. “Obstruction charges are not resume enhancers, Detective. Neither would an IRS audit. This is a Federal case. Federal matter. Federal jurisdiction. Stay out of it.”

  “Ok, we get the message,” the Chief intervened as he stepped between the two. “We’ve always worked well with the Feds. We don’t want any jurisdictional toe-stepping here. We will get this stuff to the Seattle office.”

  The agent turned and meandered to the stairs. He carefully cradled the statue like a baby. “See that you do. I don’t want to have this conversation again,” Agent Johnson said.

  The Chief and Kelsey listened to him head up the stairs. The looked inquisitively at each other.

  “What an asshole,” the Chief griped. “Well then, have one of the dispatchers help box this crap up, let the FBI clean up this mess. It’s out of our hands now.”

  “Sure it is,” Kelsey murmured.

  The detective looked at the papers in his hand, and then handed them to Francine, one of the dispatchers. She was an attractive woman. Her long blond hair tumbled down onto her shoulders and her makeup was always perfect.

  “I can’t believe I got drafted into helping you with this,” Francine pouted as hint of her teeth showed behind dark red lips. She pawed at several files with perfectly manicured nails that matched her crimson lipstick. “There is probably going to be at least fifteen shipping boxes of this stuff.”

  Kelsey turned with several folders and walked away from her. “At least.”

  “You’re not leaving me to do all of this by myself?” she grouched. “This isn’t my job.”

  “It ain’t cop work, either. And while you pack, I’m making some copies,” Kelsey grinned impishly. “He said send the stuff, didn’t say I couldn’t make duplicates for myself.”

  Father Martin Caren stood behind an old, dark wood desk and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Detective.” His office was small. A large wood crucifix hung over a dirt-streaked window. Bookshelves filled with books lined the walls. His desk was tidy with a small, clay cup that held pens. The brightly painted cup was rough, with small words in red on the side: “We love our Priest, 5th Grade Class, St. Michael’s Parish.”

  Kelsey sized up the Priest, a young man with dark brown hair. He was average height and had a pleasant smile. The detective held out his business card. “I appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice, Father.”

  The Priest came around, and pushed back an office chair on squeaky wheels. “Anything I can do to help. You say you have something you need translated from Latin?”

  “Yes.” Kelsey shuffled through a sheaf of papers in a manila folder, then laid them on the desk. “I would appreciate it if this stayed between us, Father.”

  “You said on the phone that this has to do with the family that was killed by the father. I read about it in the paper. Can you tell me more?” He reached down and finger his traced the photocopied letters on a page. “This might take a while. Some of this looks a bit obscure, and this is not the best copy.”

  Kelsey watched the Priest’s finger as it slid across the words. “The dead man was into the end-of-the-world. I think this has something to do with it. I just wanna understand more. There is something written on the corner of one of those pages: Miskatonic U. I would guess that’s the name of the University that has the original. Nothing I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Well, we’ve made it so far,” the Priest laughed. “People have been predicting the end of the world since time began.”

  “Yeah, but the year’s just about over,” the detective smirked. “If something is going to happen, it should be before the end of the year. The end of the world is running out of time.”

  Caren concentrated on the words. “This photocopy is of an older text, obviously. This word is vox. Vox ulalatus. Daemonum…sicut insect. This passage is talking about the voices of the demons that sound like insects. And this…Maledicta terra nova, ubi mortui…vivunt cogitations. The ground…cursed is the ground…where dead…thoughts live new.” The Priest looked at Kelsey, his lips taut. “Some pretty sick stuff, Detective, but I will do my best.”

  Kelsey sighed, then ran his fingers through his hair. “I have no doubt. I really appreciate this.”

  “I’m always happy to help the police, any way I can. Come by tomorrow. I should have this translated and typed up. Obscure Latin manuscripts: sounds like quite a mystery.” The detective and the priest shook hands again, and Kelsey walked out. His heels echoed eerily on the linoleum floor and it sounded like someone followed unseen.

  The detective put his cell phone on vibrate. Then he entered the thick, dark wood door of the psychiatrist’s office. The small agency was in the middle of a minor strip mall of professionals on a busy road called Bryden. Kelsey glanced at the sign, 4320, to find suite 16, the one he was looking for.

  He entered and a pleasant red-headed secretary in a tad-too-tight black dress greeted him. She sat at a neat desk, smiled and waved. Kelsey introduced himself and she prompted him to go through another door in the office. Kelsey thanked her, and then entered.

  Dr. Phillip Dreyfus was a short man, light brown hair that had thinned. The psychiatrist had combed it over in a poor attempt to cover a bald spot. His khaki pants and dark brown coat were slightly disheveled, and he seemed nervous. Kelsey shook his hand and held out a card. He sat across from the psychiatrist’s desk. The shaky shrink licked his lips, shuffled papers into a folder and the detective took a note pad out of his pocket.

  “Thanks for calling me, Doctor. I appreciate any insight into Mr. Samuels and his mindset that led to this tragedy.”

  “Death is a predicament.” Dreyfus took a pen in his hand, and then absentmindedly began to scribble small circles nervously on a calendar. “I did some marriage counseling with Rudy and Diana a few times…”

  “Anything that would have led you to believe he would have killed her?” Kelsey interrupted. “Why did they come to you in the first place?”

  The shrink shifted nervously: his chair protested. “Marital problems. Some arguing, frustration with the kids. Normal stuff, really.”

  “You diagnose either one of them? Were they on any medications you know of? Maybe prescribed by you, or someone else?”

  “I started
seeing Rudy individually. Those two really loved each other, loved those kids. This situation is sure a shame.”

  Kelsey stared, and then tapped the pad with his pen. “Any meds, Doctor?”

  “No meds. Nothing prescribed by me, anyway. You could check with his GP, but he never indicated he was on meds. Originally, I thought maybe he had some type of Delusional Disorder, Grandiose. I explored the idea of a substance-induced psychotic disorder, but he swore continually he never even used alcohol, much less drugs. The more he talked, the more I lost faith in what my diagnosis could have been. Now I don’t know.”

  The detective felt his eyebrow arch as the doctor’s scribbles sped up. “What do you mean you don’t know? Did you misdiagnose?”

  “When the Samuels’ first came to me, it was pretty routine. Mediation, conflict resolution. Then I began the individual work with Rudy. He had all these crazy theories, internet stuff, end of the world. Kind of like a Ron Paul supporter on uppers. I bet there is not an Armageddon story, end-of-the-world book he hadn’t read. He could practically recite the Book of Revelation to me, word for word. All of these crazy books from all over the world. Taught himself to translate Latin, was working on Hebrew last time I talked to him.”

  “Smart guy,” Kelsey said emotionlessly.

  “Then he started to bring stuff in to show me. Books. Photos. All these old documents from around the world; photocopies of newspaper clippings from the last century. Some were that old. There is an underground network of people who are into the end-of-the-world thing. The Mayans, prophecies in the Bible. And this obscure cult, worshiping some dead god called Cthulhu. Dead, but sleeping, some kind of water deity, older than humanity.” The psychiatrist shifted in his chair, and then whispered. “It started to disturb me. I had bad dreams. Maybe it’s catching.”