The Symbiot

by Michel Weatherall

  Yours Truly,

  Professor Howard Neilson.

  April 19, 1992

  Veronica was intrigued by this letter. It seemed obvious that this Professor knew something about what actually happened – even though Veronica had explained the occurrence of Mackenzie Street. What did he know? Why would he want to listen to the tape? Or for that matter, even buy it?

  Well, her mind was long ago made up. She would grant him a hearing of it but would not part with it. It was all that she had left. It was Lorne's final message to her. She would never part with it.

  Although she was given Prof. Neilson's telephone number she much rather have written. Talking about Marie, Lorne, and Henri was so difficult for her. The last thing she wanted now was to break down before a total stranger. She had decided to write.

  The epistolary conversation ran as follows:

  Prof. Neilson,

  Miskatonic University,

  Arkham, Mass.,

  USA

  Dear Prof. Neilson,

  I would be more than happy to grant you a hearing of Lorne Gibbons' tape recording. I would not, however, desire to sell or in any way part with the tape. It holds great sentimental value to me. I do hope you can understand.

  I would however be willing to make a copy of this recording should your need for it be desired. As to the sale price, it would be free. There is one thing that I would wish to exchange. I want to know more about Lorne Gibbons' research that you had previously mentioned.

  Please write to inform me as to your arrival.

  Yours Truly,

  Veronica L. Francois

  May 9, '92

  * * *

  Mrs. V.L. Francois,

  La Bellefeuille Maison,

  Montreal, P.Q.,

  Canada

  Dear Mrs. Francois,

  I am very thankful for you generous offer. I am more than happy to hear the recording. I do understand how you may be attached to your son-in-law's final recording. Also, I am interested in a copy of the tape.

  As for an explanation to our research... I am hesitant. I should desire to discuss this upon my arrival.

  I have purchased a plane ticket and can arrive in Montreal on Thursday, June 25th. I will proceed with this schedule unless you write to inform me otherwise. I should be arriving on the 3:15 pm from Boston. I have already arranged for my own transportation from the airport to your home. Please do not inconvenience yourself.

  Yours Truly,

  Professor H. Neilson

  May 27, 1992

  * * *

  April 4th, '92

  Philippines, Luzon Island

  The Tarlac peak. The highest point of the range rising a mighty 1,683 feet above sea level. It stood majestically over the South China Sea. A great silent stone sentinel.

  The sea was placid and tranquil. The quiet before the storm. The emerald green water spread out to the western horizon, disappearing into darkness. The darkness of the incoming storm.

  A blood red sun slowly slipped down behind the mighty Tarlac. The landscape taking on the orange hue of dusk. A waning moon hung in the darkening sapphire sky, waiting like a cowardly thief to steal the reign of the soon-to-be nighted heavens.

  The water lapped against the mangrove trees' skeletal finger-like roots. The emerald sea quietly sang its sermon to the bloody defeated sun.

  The waning moon rose higher and darkened the sapphire sky to pitch and cast a blanket of silvery-blue light over the quiet tropical coastline. The waters turned a murky black and the mangrove trees were bathed in a haunting blue moon-light, the ghastly roots appearing ever more like bones.

  The oncoming storm's vanguard of clouds occasionally passed over the moon, momentarily plunging the skeletal mangroves trees into a shadowy darkness. Then they would pass, relinquishing the starry sky to the ruling moon, bathing the swampy lowland in its spectral azure light.

  Beneath the bony stilt-like roots of a mangrove tree something stirred. Something twisted in the sandy silt beneath the waves of the shallow swamp. It was caught beneath the roots, pinned beneath, struggling to free itself.

  Its struggles were frantic! Time was of the essence.

  The quiet tranquility of the swamp was broken as a human hand burst from the murky black waters. The hand desperately clung to the mangrove tree's upper roots. It dragged its water-logged, decomposed body out of the swamp. It opened its mouth with intention of howling out its anguish, but only lungs full of mud, silt and water issued forth. It vomited up the muddy earth and gagged.

  Its memory was foggy. It remembered being mugged and then murdered; a knife between the ribs. It remembered being disposed on into the swamps... but it all seemed like something he had watched rather than experienced.

  His heart beat. Pumping rotten blood throughout. It was painful. He could feel his very cells rejuvenating, reorganizing, healing. He leaned against the mangrove tree, exhausted. Where was he? Luzon Island... the Philippines? Yes, he was remembering.

  A warm gentle tropical rain began to fall. The rain felt like acid against his slate-gray flesh. It burned. His body temperature hadn't risen yet. The rain would help warm him.

  He breathed, still spitting up the occasional clump of mud. His vision was extremely poor, blind in one eye. It would take time for their regeneration.

  He looked at his hands. He couldn't focus his vision, but even through the blurry image he could make out the flesh dangling from the bone. He let out a pitiful moan and slipped down. It would take take time, he told himself.

  The Filipino wasn't yet capable of walking but he knew that he must begin as soon as he could. It would be a long trip to Montreal, Canada. He had to get to Veronica Francois'.

  Once he recuperated enough, he would have to travel to Manila City first. He should be able to get Senor Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez's AMEX card there.

  * * *

  June 23rd, '92,

  Argentina, Rio Gallegos,

  the Patagonia:

  Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez was a handsome Hispanic. He had charmed many women with his deep soulful brown eyes. His 53 years of age were well hidden with only a peppering of gray throughout his thick black hair. He was clean shaven – he always was, a businessman should not wear any facial hair – or so was Juan Emilio's ethics. He had never trusted men with facial hair.

  Most of the people in the Patagonia were naturally dark-skinned, being Hispanic, and so was Juan Emilio. But Senor Sanchez-Vasquez was quite darker than his fellow Hispanic for he spend much time in the sun. He owned three sheep farms off the Santa Cruz. He spend much of his free time on these farms working. This constituted his big-boned frame and heavily muscled body.

  He had inherited these three farms and a wool-manufacturing company in Rio Cruz from his mother's family – the Sanchez family. These sheep farms and wool factory were in the Sanchez family for over eighty years. This was the reason why the Sanchez family was rich... it was also the reason why he had been forced to keep his mother's maiden name.

  Juan Emilio's father's side – the Vasquez family – owned much of a large Patagonian oil company, in which Juan Emilio was given a share for his twenty-first birthday. Within the following 32 years he made millions. But, once again, he was forced to keep his father's name – thus came his surname of Sanchez-Vasquez.

  He had picked up a prostitute last Friday in Rio Gallegos. Rosalina. Oh, she was something! She gave good love. Much better than his wife could. Rosalina could not have been over twenty, if that.

  Juan Emilio had spent a long weekend with Rosalina in his estancia. They had made love the whole weekend. He had taken his private jet back to Rio Gallegos and dropped her off at the airport. He had paid her much money for her superior skills and to keep her mouth shut. “God, she was one hot bitch!” he thought to himself as his chauffeur drove him home from the airport.

  His legs were still flimsy from his weekend festivities. He still felt exhausted. He had a sharp pain in his left arm since he left the plane.


  It was 6:50 am. Nobody was yet up as he passed through the city. The sun had only recently risen. The sky was leaden in colour. It diffused the sunlight. The chauffeur turned a corner two blocks from Senor Sanchez-Vasquez's home when it began to snow. Fluffy, big snow flakes. The kind that fall on the year's first snowing. There was just an ever so slight breeze present. It made the Brobdingnagian flakes dance through the skies. It was so pretty, so placid.

  “Stop!” Senor Sanchez-Vasquez said in Spanish, “Stop the car, now!”

  The chauffeur pulled over to the curb.

  “It's such a beautiful morning I think I'll walk the rest of the way.”

  The chauffeur nodded and exited to get the door for Senor Sanchez-Vasquez. Juan Emilio got out, thanked his employee, and said, “That's enough for today. Take the rest of it off.”

  The chauffeur smiled graciously. Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez stood and waited for his chauffeur to drive out of sight.

  He stood and stared straight up into the gray sky. He picked out a single snow flake and watched it dance down ever so slowly and eventually land on the green lawns and melt. Ah, this was Heaven, he thought. He took a deep breath through his nostrils. The air was fidget, crisp and fresh. Not cold enough to cause a chill, only to be clean and pure.

  The air carried an aroma. Oh, an exquisite aroma! It was difficult to describe. It was indeed an aroma of its own right. It was an aroma to be used to compare other aromas to. But how best to describe it? It was ever so gently carried on the breeze. It had the scent of cooking bacon mixed with the smell of fresh damp pine wood. Like a newly constructed wooden house after a rainfall. There was nothing like it. Some people must have their fireplaces going.

  A sudden and intense pain shot through Juan Emilio's left arm. Painful enough to cause him to hold it with his other hand. Painful enough to cause his eyes to water. He grimaced in agony. He dropped his briefcase and newspaper. He began to wheeze. His chest began to tighten, constricting his lungs.

  Juan Emilio dropped to his knees. His mouth fell open. He had intended to yell in pain. To scream for help. But only a gurgling whisper came out. His chest felt as if it would explode.

  Juan Emilio's cringing watering eyes suddenly went blank. His heart had stopped. He hovered in his upright position on his knees for a moment, then toppled over onto his face, dead.

  * * *

  June 25th, '92:

  Montreal, Canada:

  It was 4:00 pm. Where was Prof. Neilson? His flight was due at 3:15 and considering getting his rental and driving here, shouldn't he be here by now? No, that's not enough time. Veronica argued with herself. This waiting was excruciating! She paced the house. To the kitchen; yes, the kettle was on and the coffee was brewing. First impressions are lasting impressions. To the living room; everything dusted, the cocktail glass table Windexed. To the entrance foyer... what was there to do?

  Where's Prof. Neilson? she demanded again to herself. She paced the house again, checked everything again. Should she call the airport? Was it too early? Nonsense. Prof. Neilson would never know she called. Why was she feeling so self-conscious?

  That was it, she would call the airport, check if his flight was delayed or not. She picked up the telephone receiver. She called airport. The phone rang once... twice... thrice...

  Then the doorbell rang. It must be Prof. Neilson, Veronica thought. She began to hang up the phone when a voice answered, ”Bonjour, l'airport internationale du Montreal... Hello, Montreal International Airport... Tout notre linge son occupe...” said the recording.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “..All our lines are busy...”

  “Entre,” she called out to the visitor. There started a fierce knocking. She was again about to hang up when the airport operator answered.

  “Yes,” Veronica began hastily, “Has the 3:15 flight from Boston been delayed?”

  “One moment please” stated the operator.

  The pounding on the door continued even more impatiently.

  “Come in!” she shouted, but still the visitor banged on the door.

  The operator returned, ”The 3:15 flight from Boston arrived early. It arrived at 2:55...”

  “Merci,” Veronica cut her off and slammed down the phone while dashing to the door.

  She opened the door and there stood a man. Her first impressions were that he was a vile man. He was short and skinny. His eyes shone with the dark anger of impatience. It frightened her. Then, as if he saw the fear he installed, the look waned.

  He appeared to be in his early thirties. He had very high cheek bones and a low flat nose. His hair was a thick mass of greasy blackness – unkempt and unwashed. But most striking was his skin. Although he was Filipino, he had a dull sickly gray and waxy complexion, unlike a Filipino's light brown colour. His face was severely scarred and pitted from what could only have been acne... or worse.

  His eyes took on a mesmerizing look. They became large pools of chocolate. He smiled, showing a row of decayed brown and yellow teeth.

  “Mme. Francois?” His breath stank of coffee and rotten vegetables. But more overwhelming was his body odour. There was a damp musty, putrid smell about him: unclean and infective.

  “...yes...” she answered in a little voice. Oh, how this man repulsed her. “Prof. Neilson?” she asked, hoping he would say no.

  “Yes,” he answered as he pushed past her into the house, his sleeve brushing across her arm – making her feel contaminated. “Do you have the tape made for me?” His accent wasn't Filipino.

  How positively rude, she thought. The Filipino pushed a tangled mass of black hair out of his face.

  “I've made some coffee, or tea if you'd like - “she began, trying to be polite.

  “-No!” he interrupted. “I want only the tape.” Veronica stood for a moment staring at the professor. Neilson stared back. The silence was tangible.

  Neilson broke the silence. “Well...?” he whispered.

  “I th-thought we discussed the terms of your -” again she was cut off.

  “I only want the tape,” he stated through clenched rotten teeth. His flat nose convulsed into a snarling knot. “Will you give it to me or not?”

  She wanted him out of her house but she was frightened. “We agreed that you'd explain about Lorne Gibbons' research in exchange for a copy of the tape.” She refused to be bullied in her own house as frightened as she was.

  The Filipino's eyes took on the look of a wild animal. Mindless. Thoughtlessly violent. But again the look passed. They resumed their chocolate colour and placidness.

  The kettle began to whistle. A whistling kettle. Oh, how it reminded Veronica of Lorne. She felt her tears welling up. No, she told herself, not in front of a stranger.

  “Please wait here,” she managed to say in a thin whisper, her voice cracking. As she left she notice the Filipino seemed lost in his thoughts. The whistling kettle seemed to have some sort of effect upon him.

  She returned to the front door with the tape's copy. Quietly, almost submissively, she handed over the tape. She had no intention any longer of pushing for the explanation she had wanted. The Filipino's eyes lit up. He seemed flabbergasted. He stood for a full moment before the thought occurred to him to accept the tape, he was so shocked.

  This Veronica found curious, but she put the thought aside. She wanted him out, at any cost. She glared at him, her courage returning. He appeared deeply hurt by her look.

  The silence became cogent. Only the whistling kettle dared to interrupt.

  “I am very grateful for-” began Neilson. This time it was Veronica who cut him off.