“Get out,” she stated flatly, her voice as cold as ice. It seemed the room temperature dropped. Neilson looked at her for a moment of indecision. He seemed to want to say something, but then decided against it. He nodded and left.
She gently closed the door and beg to cry. “Oh Henri...” she mumbled out loud, “please... please come back.” She slid down the wall onto the floor and openly wept. She sobbed into her hands. The kettle whistled still. Nothing really mattered anymore. She sat in the entrance foyer, on the floor, her cheeks stained with tears. She stared at the clock in the kitchen. It said 4:15. She didn't move. It didn't matter.
* * *
4:30. Still she sat on the floor. The kettle's whistling died down. The kettle must have evaporated all its water; boiled dry. She didn't notice. Her eyes were blank – mindless. She thought of nothing. It felt so good. Just to sit and think of nothing. This was the only real happiness left to her. It was all she really wanted anymore... nothingness – oblivion. Oh, if only-
The doorbell rang, breaking her thoughts. Loud it was, being right beneath it. It startled her, made her jump. Made her snap back to her gray reality. Her mind again began to function, to think.
Good God! Could it be Prof. Neilson again? She stood up and straightened her dress. She peeked through the curtains so as not to be seen. No, it wasn't the Filipino. It was a short stocky man dressed in a gray suit. It didn't wear well on him. The man placed his briefcase down and straightened his tie. She studied him. He was balding and had short cut brown hair, slightly graying at the sides. He wore spectacles. He rubbed a meaty hand around his chin. She could almost hear the scratching sound of his five-thirty shadow. He grimaced. He had meant to shave, she was sure of it. His small dark beady eyes nervously scanned back and forth.
She answered the door. The man immediately began talking in a quick British accent. “Mrs. Francois? Yes, I must apologize my being,” he paused to check his wrist watch, “Good Heavens, it's four-thirty! I'm so sorry for being late, I'm never late but always punctual, you see,” again he paused to catch his breath, “You see, my flight arrived early and after getting my rental I was involved in an auto accident. A Filipino taxi hit me. Quite a mess really-”
Veronica interrupted, “-You're not Prof. Neilson are you?”
He immediately stopped his monologue. “Yes. Why?” he asked wearily.
“But... you were – are you sure you're Prof. Neilson? Prof. Howard Neilson?”
In the short moment of silence that followed, the light of realization passed though Neilson's eyes. ”...Sweet Jesus...” he whispered, “An imposter.” He fumbled his wallet out. He searched through it briefly and produced a driver's license. Veronica took it. Howard Neilson, it said.
“A Filipino was here named Neilson. He said he was Prof. Neilson; he said he was you.” Veronica stated rather blankly.
Neilson began talking quickly again. “A Filipino! I was hit by a Filipino taxi! A hit and run it was! What, did...” he commenced tripping over his tongue with questions.
“He said his name was Prof. Neilson and asked for the tape's copy,” Veronica said. The professor stopped stumbling over words and fell dead silent. “I gave it to him,” she finished.
Neilson's face went pale. His mouth dropped open. A sweat broke out on his forehead. He did an unconscious impersonation of a fish out of water.
“Are you alright?” she asked. She could feel something was wrong, not directly with Neilson, but with what had happened. “Professor?”
“...oh my god...” Neilson leaned against the door frame. He ran his hand across his forehead, then over the top of his balding head.
“Professor?”
“Ah... Mrs. Francois, I do not have time to explain. You must trust me. Quickly, pack some clothes and get the tape; Lorne Gibbons' tape. We have to leave. We have to leave now.”
“Leave? Where do we-”
“Back to the University. I can't explain. Please, I beg of you, just pack and get the tape.”
Veronica went to her bedroom and packed a suitcase.
* * *
8:00 pm found Mrs. Francois and Prof. Neilson on a flight back to Boston. Veronica slept through most of the flight. She was simply exhausted from her emotional encounter with the Filipino impostor and from crying. Prof. Neilson thought about how best to explain things to Mrs. Francois.
* * *
June 25th, '92:
Montreal Canada, 6:25 pm:
A rental car pulled up to La Bellefeuille Maison's driveway. A large muscular Hispanic man in a suit stepped out. His suit was disheveled and his eyes were bloodshot. He'd been up for the past 60 hours.
Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez's private jet was grounded in Buenos Aires and he was forced to take a passenger flight from there to Montreal. His jet would take far too long to repair.
He walked up to the front door. How would he ever explain this? He knocked. After a few seconds he knocked again. Still no answer. Damn it all, he thought. Where the hell could Veronica be? Where could she have went? In his frustration he pounded on the door. All in vain. She wasn't home.
Juan Emilio spun around and marched back to his car. He had to think this through.
He took a cassette out of his jacket pocket. Schronberg. He had purchased it at the Montreal International Airport's souvenir shop. Imagine that, Schronberg. He had half expected to find Mozart possibly, last year being the composure's 200th anniversary of his death – oh, how they monopolized on that occasion. All year long it was Mozart-this and Mozart-that and T-shirts even! It sickened Juan Emilio. The man's music was genius the day it was written and still was genius 200 years later! Why not celebrate and promote it throughout this time? Because they were greedy bastards, he answered himself. It had nothing to do with the music behind the man – only money.
He placed the tape in the car's cassette player. He was still surprised to have found a Schronberg tape in a souvenir shop. He would have bought almost any classical piece though. The filth they played on the radio these days... He sat in the car listening to the music.
God, it was hot! And him wearing his wool suit. It was winter in Rio Gallegos now. Summer in Montreal. He hadn't anticipated the seasonal reversal on this hemisphere when he left. He was in such a rush.
He thought of turning the air conditioner on. His meaty fingers pinched the switch. He paused, contemplating this action.
It was stifling, this heat. But he despised the air conditioner. He hated the sound it made. The kind of sound that rubbed your nerves the wrong way. He let go of the switch and decided to open the window instead. ...ahh, that was better... He removed his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Much better
He ran his fingers through his thick matte of graying chest hair. This was all too new for him. He listened to Schronberg. He had done a lot of thinking in the last 60 hours. If Veronica Francois wasn't here at La Bellefeuille Maison, she must be in Arkham, Mass. At the Miskatonic University and more than likely with Prof. Howard Neilson.
Senor Sanchez-Vasquez had hoped to intercept her before she left. He wasn't looking forward to another flight. But what choice did he have now? He had obviously missed her.
He started the car and began driving back to the airport. Another flight, he thought. At least this time he could get some sleep. He was exhausted.
He would take a flight to Boston and from there would travel to Arkham. How best to travel the second leg of the trip? Another rental? Maybe he should just get a taxi to do the trip. He could make it more than worth the driver's while. He was a very rich man.
Ah, but Juan Emilio was much too tired to think about these things now. Just get yourself on the Boston flight, he told himself.
Chapter IV: Dreams and Explanations
June 25th, '92
Massachusetts, U.S.A., 10:50 pm:
When Veronica and Prof. Neilson had landed in Boston and got their rental car for the trip to Arkham the sun had already set. As they drove well beyond the city limits the ca
r filled with an oppressive silence. Little was visible outside the car windows – just dark shadowy blurs.
“We began learning of monstrous beings predating man a number of decades ago.” Neilson began, his voice shattering the still silence. “The Miskatonic University's exploration to the Antarctic in 1930, our own Dr. H. West's mysterious disappearance in 1922 and the horrific suggestions implied. The Federal Government's cover-up of the depth-charging off the coast of Innsmouth in 1928. the Norwegian ship's Second Mate Johansen's testimony of 1925... All these suggest presences among us.
“Through study of many ancient tomes and volumes and years of research some terrifying information was discovered. At a very distant and remote time in the past – before mankind and possibly even the birth of our solar system – there was a civilization of beings which inhabited the known galaxy, and perhaps further. It is unknown how far or whether they ruled it or simply inhabited it...” Neilson's voice trailed off. He hated how his voice sounded so small and weak in the confines of this car.
“A small group rebelled - they are only referred to as the Great Old Ones – against some powerful being called the Elder Gods. As to what the Elder Gods truly were... there is no hint.” A passing car's headlights cleaved through the darkness, lighting up both Neilson's and Veronica's faces in a stark, ghostly, and colourless contrast.
“This rebel group – the Great Old Ones – were powerful beyond the realm of simply killing off. Or that is what I've come to believe. Another theory is that the Elder God's only wanted to punish them – but I think not. These alien beings are immortal – as far as our concept of mortality is concerned. I think they cannot die.
“The Great Old Ones were put down to eternal slumber, and their physical bodies imprisoned in various locales; Great Cthulhu in the sunken city of R'lyeh somewhere in the South Pacific; Hastur the Unspeakable near the Lake of Hali on Carcosa; the mindless Azothoth in the centre of the universe outside time and space; Yog-Sothoth in an outer imprison sphere or dimension; and many others. Nyarlathotep however -”
“Near-quoi?” Veronica cut in.
“Nyarlathotep was the only one not put down to unconsciousness. Why? I don't know. It was however, imprisoned in another universe, separate and distinct from our own – outside of our time-space continuum – but very conscious. Maybe to visit the other Great Old Ones in their dreams, to relate their loneliness and isolation to one another – maybe to act as an unknowing spy for the Elder Gods – to keep an eye on the Great Old Ones sleeping – who can say? But the only known fact is that Nyarlathotep is not asleep! Although imprisoned in another universe it had very limited egress – but never on a permanent basis.
“The translated manuscripts that allegedly predate mankind and the Mad Arab Abdul Alzared's dreaded Necronomicon, all state that at some future point in time the Great Old Ones will awake and return from their aeons of slumber and repossess, or more correctly, reclaim the world. Mankind is doomed and there is no stopping them. Mankind simply does not fit into the scheme. It is the end of all once they're freed.
“As to when this time is... well, your guess is as good as mine. Different sources suggest various times. 'When the stars are right', 'When the planets are in a certain alignment', and numerous non-specific suggestions. There is only one point that all sources do agree upon and all have in common; Nyarlathotep will be the first.
“Some sources refer to this Nyarlathotep as 'the Messenger of the Gods' and foreshadows the Great Old Ones' reformation of the universe. It will be Nyarlathotep who will first walk the Earth and prepare it for the advent of these cosmic monsters.
“Your son-in-law discovered more. It is unknown as to actually when, but at some time prior to 1928, a mute German viol-player – an Erich Zann – invented or discovered a radically new technique or range of music. When played properly, opened a door, a gateway from Nyarlathotep's Prison-Universe to ours.
“Lorne theorized that this Prison-Universe existed purely in the metaphysical state. Being pure thought if you'd like – the inhabitants being only – I detest using the term – spirits, or bodiless souls-”
Veronica cut in, “Do you mean like Heaven and Hell, with disembodied spirits?” she asked.
“No. Not disembodied souls. Bodiless souls. The inhabitants never, as far as Lorne guessed, had bodies. But to continue, this could explain, to some degree, why Nyarlathotep could not enter our universe of both the physical and the metaphysical – being only metaphysical itself.
“However, the music of Erich Zann opened a gateway – or more correctly – created a 'pocket' between the two universes – a meeting point. Lorne believed that for Nyarlathotep to successfully escape its Prison-Universe it would have to have possession of a physical form or body. It would have to form a symbiotic union or relationship between itself and a member of our universe. A symbiosis would have to occur.
“I believe that the dumb German viol-player, Erich Zann, succeeded in summoning Nyarlathotep but died, either from fright or old age, before the symbiosis was complete. Erich Zann had a son – Otto Zann – who we believed also perfected the musical theory and technique of his father. Otto is still alive today but resides in the Heidelberg Asylum in Germany. It would seem that Otto also performed the musical piece but the experience drove him mad. Why Nyarlathotep did not, or could not, form the symbiosis with Otto is unknown. This is the mystery, the one unexplained factor in Lorne's theory – the only flaw. Why wasn't a symbiotic relationship formed between Otto Zann and Nyarlathotep? Lorne could not explain this point and I myself cannot fathom an answer either.
“But to continue, overlooking this flaw for the time being, we come across the incident at Nadia de LaFountain's flat that night in 1987. Lorne had told me about it before you had.
“With Lorne's help, Nadia had transcribed her grandfather's – and for that matter – her father's musical work. On the night of the horror at Mackenzie Street, your son-in-law and Nadia opened the gateway to Nyarlathotep's Prison-Universe and the symbiosis was complete. Nadia and Nyarlathotep became one. Nyarlathotep was free, yet was still, for the third time, thwarted. Nadia's flat exploded. The Nadia/Nyarlathotep Symbiot was forced to flee – flee back to its Prison-Universe. This is the interesting point however. The fact that Henri, Marie, and Nadia's bodies were not found – indeed, not even a trace or remnant was found – suggests that the Symbiot was successful and complete. The Nadia/Nyarlathotep Symbiot knew that to remain would mean to lose the physical host – or Nadia – its one chance at freedom, so it chose to flee and save it. Otherwise, if the symbiosis was not a success, why would Nyarlathotep save the three? It wouldn't. Therefore Lorne's theory of the Symbiot was quite accurate. It still doesn't explain Otto Zann though. Why was the symbiosis a failure with him? That mystery is yet unsolved and I fear may never be known.”
“But if Nadia and Nyarlathotep became one, why would this Symbiot take Marie and Henri with it when it fled the explosion? Why not simply leave them behind?” asked Veronica.
“The Great Old Ones,” continued Neilson, “are not gods but an alien species. As I've said, they are immortal as we understand it. The older the being, the more powerful it is. Nyarlathotep is the oldest and most potent of its species. The other beings at Nadia's flat the night of the horror in '87 were its lesser brethren. They probably followed through the gateway.”
“So Lorne wasn't mad,” Veronica said half to herself, “when he insisted that Marie and Henri weren't dead?”
“They weren't killed by the explosion,” stated Neilson solemnly. “It doesn't mean they're alive still.”
Silence. Neilson realized he made this statement rather matter-of-factly. He could have bit his own tongue off. They were Veronica's husband and daughter.
“As to why the Symbiot took Marie and Henri, I can only speculate. Maybe it had no choice – maybe it needed them for some purpose – or maybe, as Lorne believed, some of its lesser brethren symbiotically join with them also.” There. He said it. Neilson knew there was n
o easy way of saying it.
“Mon dieu!” Veronica gasped, pale faced in horror. Another passing car's headlight gave her an even more ghastly appearance. “Do you mean that my husband and daughter are... not human anymore?” The last words were little more than a whisper.
The Symbiot Page 5