David posed the next question, which had been on his mind since the interview commenced. “It’s a wild theory. And I can see why it’s been...suppressed for so long. It certainly goes against much modern Christian and Jewish myth. The question is why have they been suppressed?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. It’s been hypothesized that our present civilization is not the first time that man has risen through the ranks to become the most dominant animal species,” Calvin said, speaking slowly and carefully. “In fact, there is now ample proof that the earth is far older than scientists have originally thought. Modern science pegs the earth at 6 billion years old. But new theories estimate earth at being twice that age, with a prior civilization of man occupying much of the world seventy thousand years ago, a full fifty thousand years before most anthropologists believed the first Homo Sapiens appeared. This civilization had a completely different language and custom, their own mathematical system, their own government, their own science. And they all spoke of beings that came from beyond the spheres, beings who gave them wisdom, beings who ruled over them and were later banished to the outlying cosmos.” He grew quiet. “And they’re waiting for the right moment, when the stars are right, for the appropriate vessel—a man—to throw open the gates and allow them entry back into this world. Where they will once again rule the earth.”
David eyed Calvin curiously. “You’ve researched this?”
Calvin nodded. “A little. Besides the Aztec and Mayan civilizations, which show ample proof to have been erected well before the Aztecs even showed up, there were the lost civilizations of Mesopotamia, Easter Island, and Atlantis. One thing I forgot to mention is that the original Arab translation of the Necronomicon comprised of seven volumes and that the Latin translation ran to nine hundred pages. Much of the history contained in its pages was of this older world. It discussed the legend of the Old Ones, as well as the history and times of the people who existed before the great flood, which some archeologists have now attributed to a cataclysmic event that happened due to the lunar alignment of the planets. It was this havoc which destroyed those older civilizations. According to the Necronomicon, the world was destroyed by the force of the Old Ones being banished to the outer cosmos. It suggests that upon their return, the world will once again be laid to waste as they swoop in for their rule. Of course Genesis and other books in the Bible paint the picture of an angry God destroying the world due to his anger at man or the Nephilim.”
“So why should I believe this?” David asked, still struggling with his thoughts. He was under the impression that Calvin believed every word of it, but he’d never known Justin Grave to believe anything as wacky as this. The man had always come across as being a very normal elderly man. A voice whispered in the back of his mind: but normalcy is a great front for concealing secrets. “There’s no hard, solid proof of any of this. Everything you’ve presented to me is all speculation. You say yourself that by all accounts the real Necronomicon is lost. But even if it is truly lost, and has been lost since the 1930’s, surely there are survivors who have seen it, or been involved with a cult that may have used it. Are there any diaries or statements from former cult members? The only thing anybody who investigates this angle has to go on is pure speculation based on the writings of two or three men who are now not only dead, but who wrote horror fiction for a living.”
Calvin nodded. “You’re quite right. But then, people believed Whitley Streiber’s account of his alien abduction. And he was known as a writer of the fantastic before that supposedly happened to him.”
Calvin continued after draining the rest of his coffee. “If it’s bizarre and out of the ordinary and steeped in some kind of historical fact, people will believe it. Pure speculation presented with facts or evidence to support that speculation often results in bona fide belief. Take the common myths and superstitions of the world; the Loch Ness Monster, witchcraft rituals, hauntings. People will want to believe that Jack the Ripper was Queen Victoria’s grandson. Or that Amelia Earhart is still alive somewhere on the Fiji Islands.”
“Or that Elvis is still alive.” What a joke.
“Exactly! Elvis Presley was already larger than life before he passed on. Keeping him alive by reputed sightings only adds to the intrigue to the point where we want to believe he’s still alive.”
David’s eyes narrowed at the older man sitting across from him. “Okay, granted weird things happen, and I don’t doubt that they do. But even if a cult like the one you’re talking about did exist, and James Smith Long dug up some facts and fictionalized it, only to influence Lovecraft and a slew of others, why...” He grasped at the question. “Why would any of it matter now?”
“Suppose the work of James Smith Long wasn’t entirely fiction?” Calvin posed. “Suppose he was trying to...warn us of what was to come?”
“Which would be what?”
“Long’s fiction describes portions of the Necronomicon that Justin’s work barely scratches the surface on. Primarily the pre-history of earth, but also history of the outlying cosmos. Like Lovecraft’s fiction, it suggests that when the stars are right, when everything is in balance in the universe, that the lone Watcher and its followers will be able to summon up the occult power to throw open the gates. And that in order for this to happen, there must be a sacrifice from a willing victim, a victim who goes to the cult of their own free will. In Justin’s novel the protagonist does exactly that. When he begins uncovering the truth he is led into his own basement by his lover who, unbeknown to him, is a cult member. He is taken in sacrifice by the cult members and the Watcher at the appropriate date and time. And what follows is wide-spread chaos as the Nephilim return.”
“And if Justin’s novel resembles Long’s fiction, there are cult members somewhere in this world devoted to the emergence of what you call the Watchers?”
Calvin shrugged. “Something like that.”
Dave was silent for a moment, taking it all in. He finally put forth the second question that had been nagging at him, the one that, if the answer to his first question was true, was even scarier. “Do you think Justin Grave may have discovered something like this?”
Calvin sighed. He set his empty coffee cup down. “I’ve asked myself that question for the past fifty years or more. Justin never wanted me to see the inside of that house he lived in. And when I did visit him he was very skittish. Squeamish, almost. He steered me away from certain rooms and he just seemed jumpy. Watcher had already been published and I thought that its writing had terrified him in some way. After the chain of events that led to Justin’s downfall, I began to speculate more and more about his behavior during that afternoon visit. Maybe he had discovered something and Watcher held the key to all of it.” He broke off and chuckled slightly, his eyes lighting with some new memory. “He surely downgraded Lovecraft and others after that. Said that their stuff was too watered down, and that they were afraid to face the truth, that they devised all these stupid monsters to bury what he described as the truth. He surely appeared to be always on the run from his pulp past, especially The Watcher From the Grave. When Cloak of Darkness was in production, the publisher wanted to include the novel in the book, but Justin refused. He never wanted that novel in print ever again, and he never mentioned it in bibliographies after that. It was almost as if he were trying to distance himself from that work, as if he were trying to escape its influence. I sometimes got the impression that...he was worried there really was a cult out there, and that they were on to him. That by keeping a low profile, moving around a lot, would keep them off his trail.” Calvin shook his head. “If I’d only known.”
David let this sink in. He was very intrigued by what Calvin had just told him, but a part of him was still skeptical. David didn’t believe in speculation and rumor; he needed the pure, hard facts to lean toward the angle Calvin was edging at.
Calvin shook his head. “I know it sounds hard to believe. But it’s what Justin told me the whole genesis of his story was based o
n. I only came up with what I’ve told you through investigation and my own theories.”
“Still it is an interesting theory, even for entertainment purposes. It’s still kind of wild though. The only thing different about it is that the Old Ones, or whatever, lack an organized following today.”
“Oh, but according to Long’s work there is a cult.” Calvin said. “They’re not as obvious as Lovecraft’s Mythos cult; they’re not some half-breed mulattos speaking broken English and chanting in weird tongues around a fire in some swamp. Far from it. Why, you remember what happens in Justin’s story at the end, don’t you?”
David nodded. It had slipped his mind and now it all came back to him. The protagonist’s love interest seduces him one night in his basement where he found evidence of the cult, and the place is suddenly swarming with strange shapes which later materialize as people...and strange beings. His lover holds him down and he knows now that he is in the hands of the cult. His death guarantees the gate to the other side will be thrown open, allowing the Watchers entry into this world.
Calvin rose and took David’s empty coffee cup, prompting David to start making his exit. He gathered his belongings, turned off the recorder and followed Calvin to the kitchen. “Do you think you could tell me where the house was that Justin lived in here in Lancaster County?”
Calvin looked at him with a mystifying expression. “I wish I could, but you’re about forty years too late. The place burned down one night and is nothing but an empty field now.”
Thus eliminating any chance for David to dig deeper into Justin’s life for the book, or the answers to the questions that were now gnawing at his mind.
VIII
Lancaster, Pennsylvania didn’t provide the clues David wanted now that his curiosity was piqued regarding the Watcher theory. He had drained all the information he could get out of Calvin Smyth and opted to make his next move: Seattle, Washington, home of rainy weather, stout beers, Ted Bundy, alternative-grunge music, and one deceased writer and a mystery that gnawed at David’s brain.
He touched down at Sea-Tac airport five days later and checked into a hotel. Most of his material on Grave was on one large legal pad and five micro-cassettes of interviews with whatever former colleagues and friends in Lancaster he could find that were still alive; one tape was of his afternoon with Smyth.
Once checked into his room he put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and crashed. He slept for twelve hours.
The following afternoon he drove a rental car to the house that was in the Nightshades business rolodex. Justin Grave’s former residence before he bit-the-big-one was situated in a quiet tree-lined street at the foothills of green, rolling hills. Low clouds hung over the trees, shrouding them in fogs of intrigue. David parked in front of the ranch-style house and noted the FOR SALE sign erected on the lawn. The executor of Justin’s estate wasn’t wasting time in carrying things out.
A pleasant looking middle-aged woman met him at the door. Her smile downplayed the age lines on her face. She was dressed immaculately and professionally in a snug, gray burgundy suit and knee length skirt with a white blouse and tan pumps. Her legs were shapely. Her once blonde hair was turning a rapid gray, yet her eyes still sparkled with a youthful boisterousness. She had a full hourglass figure that was attractive. The sign outside stated that the sale of the house was being handled by Geri Sheller Realtors. David smiled as he approached the door. “Hi. You must be Ms. Sheller?”
“At your service.” She held out a hand in greeting and David took it. “Coming to take a look, or— ”
“Actually, I’m a friend and associate of the former owner of the house,” David said. “I’ve just been named his literary executor and I came by in the hopes of extracting whatever manuscripts or private papers he might have left behind.”
Geri nodded. She motioned for David to come inside. David followed her into the house, noting her figure. The woman looked almost old enough to be his mother but she hadn’t lost her attractiveness, or her sex appeal. She reminded David of an Ann Margaret or a Raquel Welch.
“The moving crew took everything out last week,” she said as she led him to the kitchen. The interior was stripped of furniture and knick-knacks. “Mr. Grave’s attorney arranged for his personal belongings to be stored at A-1 Storage. I’ll give you the address.” She reached a table in the kitchen where she was headquartered and jotted down a number on a piece of stationary. She handed it to David, who made a mental note of it before putting it into his shirt pocket.
David was just about to ask if he could have a look around the house, but was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and a hollow, “hello”. Geri whirled. “Duty calls,” she said, moving to the living room to greet a potential buyer. David checked his watch; it was two o’clock, which gave him time to swing by Justin’s physician, as well as pay a visit to the storage area. He let himself out of the house, making a mental note to come back and try to get a feel for the place at a later time. Right now he had other matters to attend to.
IX
He exited Dr. William Johnson’s clinic an hour later, more puzzled and frightened than when he’d talked to Calvin Smyth five days ago. Johnson was very adamant about Calvin’s health up to the time of his death. At eight-nine years old, Justin was in better physical shape and health than most men half his age. His cholesterol level was normal, his blood pressure controlled by medication, his heart strong and fine. He had no respiratory problems, no back or joint ailments, and normal bowel movements. Well then, what had been the cause of his death? David asked.
A massive heart attack, was Dr. Johnson’s reply. It was as if a hand reached into his ribcage and squeezed the muscle until it burst. The news was shocking, but what bounced off David’s mind even more were Johnson’s final words. You should have seen the look on his face when the coroner brought him in. He had such a horrified look on him that you would have swore he’d just seen something...that defines fear as we know it, before he passed on.
X
The clerk at the storage area unlocked the rental space for David and then let him get down to business. The rental space was the size of a one car garage. It was crammed to the hilt with furniture, framed pictures, boxes, and two large spring mattresses. David maneuvered around the stuff until he came upon some boxes. Then he set to work in locating some of Justin Grave’s manuscripts, memorabilia, and anything else that he could use for the biography.
And he was also keeping his eye peeled for anything that looked out of the ordinary.
His search yielded two boxes of manuscripts consisting of Justin Grave’s published work from 1975 onward. Short stories, essays, and novels. All forty-one of them. Justin had proven to be extremely prolific in the eighties, at one point twelve of his novels seeing print as paperback originals in a two-year period alone. Most of them bore stupid cover art that were foil embossed, with evil skeletons or children; in short, the covers usually had nothing to do with the contents of the book. Once the books started selling on the basis of their actual content than the stupid covers his publishers chose to adorn them in, the cover artwork actually improved.
He put those findings aside. They would be dealt with later.
Rummaging further, he turned up five of Justin’s notebooks with story ideas. He flipped through them eagerly and scanned the pages. Story ideas, dream synopsis, and general observations and notes. Nothing about Watcher, or the horrors the story was said to allege.
Two hours later he stumbled on something in a crumpled, dusty box in the rear of the storage space. He sneezed as dust swirled around. He pulled the box to the center of the room where the light was better. He opened it and gasped down at the contents.
The big leather-bound book was old. Musty and cracked, it looked as old as God. It was bound in a pinkish gray leather that resembled skin. The spine was bound by two large steel clasps bolted into the leather. David opened the cover and glanced at the title page: Necronomicon.
The idea that it
was a fake flashed through his mind. But how does one fake a disheveled, musty, old appearance? The Necronomicon looked ready to fall apart.
Beneath the book was another notebook, this one more frayed and weathered. He opened it. The spidery handwriting was unfamiliar, but the contents were shocking. David drew a sharp intake of breath as he read a few paragraphs.
Five minutes later he was racing out of the storage area grounds with the Necronomicon and the notebook under his arm.
XI
He decided to spin by Justin Grave’s former residence on a whim. The daylight was fading fast, and in another thirty minutes it would be dark. The house was on his way to the hotel in downtown Seattle. David hit interstate 5 and zoomed toward the house.
The notebook and the ancient book were the proof he wanted but never thought he would get. David’s heart raced with excitement as the realization of what he had just discovered thumped through his head. Occult scholars had long debated the existence of an accursed book as described by Lovecraft and others, but now David had the proof.
David hadn’t read much of the notebook, but what he’d perused was enough to convince him that something weird had been happening for decades, perhaps even centuries. The notebook was most likely written by a deranged cult follower. The author describes the unholy power the book has over him, and his own weakness to the pleasures that the Watcher showers upon him. My very will has evaporated since the discovery of that cursed book. I no longer have control over myself. Every time the Watcher visits me, I am compelled to commit unspeakable acts all in the name of my pleasure, and his demand that I bow down to him upon my relief. Another line further down: With each victim he grows stronger, more physical in his strength. His thirst for blood is unstoppable! And further down: Oh God, why did I even research this? My curiosity to the writings of James Long have proven to be disastrous! The man had discovered what had been sleeping for centuries: the demon of the undead himself!
When the Darkness Falls Page 14