by Byron Craft
THE DUNWICH DUNGEON
Book 4 in The Arkham Detective Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Copyright © 2016, United States Library of Congress; The Dunwich Dungeon
www.ByronCraftBooks.com
Artwork by Eric Lofgren; www.ericlofgren.net
ISBN 10: 1976209528
ISBN 13: 9781976209529
DEDICATION
A homage to my dogs Buddy and Sherlock who wait
for me in Heaven.
THE
DUNWICH
DUNGEON
Ian Woodhead was a dreamer. Dreamers, especially those of prodigious talents, do not require the darkness to sleep or dream. Rarely were great dreamers insomniacs. And Ian was just such a person since he could fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
Ian Woodhead could make his mind as blank as a fresh leaf of paper. No places of wonder were glimpsed from the mind’s eye to distract his resting, no marvelous secrets unfurled; his sleep was a temporary death. It didn’t frighten him, though, because Ian was certain that there was no death from the perspective of infinity. Once in deepest slumber, he could escape the darkness between his ears within that collection of wet matter and electricity. He was so adept at crisscrossing dreamland that he would blithely circumnavigate around the World-Eater who sat and waited, sharpening its black claws, tearing at inexperienced travelers.
Escaping his earthly bonds was normally an enjoyable and exciting experience for Ian that he sometimes used for pure adventure and, at others, became helpful during an investigation. Most of his dreams were that way, but now he truly needed to escape a physical prison. For his body lay captive in a stone dungeon of indestructible confinement. He had been lured into a trap, and his keeper had left him to rot. That door, that impregnable barrier of iron and steel, could only be undone from the outside. He was lost for all-natural means of release. No amount of shouting or pounding could bring about help because he had been incarcerated far away from civilization in the countryside of Dunwich. His only hope was to travel deeper into dreamland than he had ever journeyed before, through unknown realms, and find his old friend, the policeman.
***
Her hair was in tangles, and her makeup had been wiped clean off. There were wrinkles on the left side of her face left by the pillow. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I gently stroked her cheek, bent over, and kissed her. “I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you too,” she replied, half sleep. I had awoken in darkness for a reason I couldn't remember. I had a hazy recollection of a knocking and clawing upon my skull as if something was trying to get inside my head. Any memory of my dream disappeared in the time it took me to turn on the lamp. There was, however, the faint after image of a face rattling around in my noggin that was vaguely familiar, but when turning to look at my Angel beside me, all recollection of the vision vanished.
I got dressed and put on my glasses. I wear bifocals. In half a shake, I could see Nora clearly, sitting up in bed staring at me with an enticing smile. I tried to be quiet while going about my business, getting ready for work so that I wouldn’t disturb her, but she says that my portrayal of subtle is akin to a Clydesdale traipsing through a junkyard. “You be careful now, you here. Come back to me tonight in one piece,” her smile changed to a firm resolve.
“I’ll do my best Angel.” Her name was Nora Bishop, except we got hitched last month, and I gave her my last name.
“I want more than your best Copper, I want you one-hundred-percent,” her sultry smile returned on that one.
I work at Station House 13. I am the head of the Mythos Division for the Arkham Police. I guess Angel has plenty to worry about because I investigate any and all things that go bump in the night while at the same time trying to discover their secret intent. In everyday lingo, I hunt down things that now and then are misshapen, vague or unseen, and on other occurrences, material horrors, all of which usually leave bloody trails wherever they go.
I used to be a single hard-boiled chump that put in long hours on the job because I had nothing better to do, besides hanging out at a speakeasy. That ended about a year and a half ago when I became a family man. First, there was Allison; she’s nine-years-old now, I adopted the kid after I snatched her from a fiend in the decaying town of Innsmouth. She and I have bonded as close as any parent and child can. She’s my sweetheart. So, I had to get a bigger apartment and our landlady, Mrs. Trumble, assumed the role of grandma. Then along came Nora and I fell for her hook, line, and sinker. Allison is happier than a clam because she now has both a mom and a dad. Before long Nora says we must get a house, “You never know Copper when the stork might pay a visit and Mrs. Trumble isn’t getting any younger, she’ll need looking after.”
I get chump change working as a cop, and the thought of buying a house was scary. At that moment, it became scarier than those things I chase after. I kept tormenting myself about real-estate acquisition until the ringing of the telephone recalled me to the known world.
***
I got called to the station house, as you would expect. No time for a sit-down morning meal with my family. On my way, I grabbed a hamburger and coffee at Granny Bertram’s joint. I used to be a regular at her greasy spoon until I got married, home life does have its advantages. Granny still remembered how I like my java though, black, no sugar. Her take-out service is quick, and she would put the coffee in those little glass containers that looked like a miniature milk bottle with a cardboard stopper.
It was chilly out, and I was wearing my trench coat and fedora. I was munching on my burger, as I hastily dashed through Station House 13 to the back of the building and my department. Officer Matthew Bell was at his desk, his blue uniform newly pressed, not a button out of place. Originally, I was a division of one at the Arkham Police headquarters. After the two of us effectively snuffed out the demon, Corvus Astaroth, and returned normalcy back to the town, as normal as Arkham, Massachusetts is as capable of being; Bell became my assistant within the Mythos Division.
“Morning Detective,” he announced, without getting up. “Breakfast on the run I see.”
“Yeah, the honeymoon is over, I guess. I let the wife sleep in.” I had set a time to close out some old case files with Bell, and he had called reminding me that I was an hour late. I dragged my chair from my desk over to the front of his and sat down. I hate paperwork. I had been putting it off for weeks, and now the task had escalated into a full day of work. I set my half-eaten burger on a file folder, some of Granny’s grease had dripped onto my hand, and I wiped it off on a stack of police reports. “Ok, let’s get started.”
That was when Robber entered the room. My back was to the door, and I should have noticed the pitter patter of his claws on the linoleum. The big yellow Labrador was swift, and in an instant, my sandwich was his. Running into the adjoining hallway, he stopped, turned with a triumphant look in my direction, and swallowed my half-a-burger with one gulp.
“Oh, I’m sorry Detective, I didn’t see him coming,” apologized officer Bell. “He did the same to me last week; only he absconded with my entire ham sandwich, my lunch! I chased him for a block, but he kept chomping and swallowing as he ran. When I finally caught up with the damn dog, he had eaten the whole thing. I could swear that he smiled at me.”
Robber looked disappointed that I didn’t run after him. He was a part-time station house mutt and a full-time troublemaker. He looked healthy except for a spot of mange on the top of his skull. To my knowledge, he didn’t belong to anyone, but he did love to hang around Station H
ouse 13, where a meal was easy pickings. He also seemed to like the chase.
“Look at him!” shouted Bell pointing. “It's as if the beast is trying to decide if he should eat us or save our mortal souls.”
Robber’s black eyes suddenly grew hard. “If dogs could speak as we do,” I answered, “mankind would have a lot to learn.”
The dog barked, peered up at us, then turned and started to walk away. After a few steps, Robber paused and swung his mangy head around as though beckoning to Bell and me. “I think he wants us to follow him,” I declared, sensing an opportunity to skirt my responsibilities. “Let’s see where he leads us.”
“But what about these files,” objected Bell while grabbing his policeman's brimmed hat.
“Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?” I replied with a grin.
***
At every corner, Robber ceased his loping pace, turned back briefly to make sure we were following, and then continued. Approaching an intersection busy with streetcar and automobile traffic the Lab turned and led us down an alley. The alleyway opened onto a very old section of Arkham. Here and there we spied crumbling timeworn mansions that rose behind rusty iron fences and gates. They were remnants of a lost age of wealth and privilege. Whatever grandeur the neighborhood once had had been put asunder by the Great Depression.
"I read about this place last month in the paper Sir," exclaimed Bell appearing a bit nervous. "The reporter of the piece said that this area, known as Noden’s Quarter, was once haunted and that was why it’s abandoned."
"I wouldn't pay it any attention. It’s just phony journalism."
"Whatever do you mean Detective?"
"A fella in our neighborhood, Chester Conklin, woke up in the middle of the night with searing chest pains, screamed bloody murder for a full five-minutes and fell back upon his pillow stone dead. The next day the Arkham Advertiser printed, ‘Chester Conklin died in his sleep.’ An understatement; I think their reporting wasn't entirely accurate, same probably goes here."
Robber grew impatient with us and stood on all fours barking next to one of the rusty iron gates. “It appears that he wants us to go inside,” reasoned Bell.
The gate obstructed access to a cobblestone walk that led to the largest house in the section. Half the shingles on the mansard roof and Italianate towers were missing and so was any trace of paint on the crumbling stucco. A narrow wooden placard that had once been wired, on all four-corners, to the corroded bars of the gate, now hung lopsided by one thin metal strand. Taking hold of it, I closely examined the thing. What I took to be a sign that displayed the house number of the establishment turned out to be nothing of the sort. Carved into the weathered wood were the words, “I am Arkham.” I let go, the wire snapped, the placard fell to the stone walkway, bounced once then the rotting wood shattered into half-a-dozen pieces. I looked at the dog, and he stared up at me as if to say, “why did you do that.” Turning to Matthew Bell, he just shrugged. “Shall we proceed?” I asked, not waiting for an answer.
I undid the latch, the rusted iron hinges protested with a loud screech, but the gate swung open easily. The massive front porch was littered with disintegrating stucco that had come loose from the ceiling over the covered entryway. Piles of brown leaves, from a nearby maple tree, had drifted up on both sides of the door. It became obvious, at that point, that Robber had brought us along to open the gate for him, because he swiftly moved ahead, pushed the front door open with a seemingly practiced body movement and went inside. “I get the feeling that he has been here before,” announced Officer Bell.
“An astute deduction Sergeant,” I answered, not trying to hide my sarcasm. When Officer Matthew Bell was sent to my division, they also promoted him to sergeant. The kid thought he was a detective. Oh well, I guessed it was probably better than working alone, especially when I didn’t know what lay on the other side of that door!
Following Robber, the mutt, I cautiously entered. The door was opened by a dog’s width, and I slipped inside while slipping my .45 automatic from my shoulder holster, maintaining a defensive posture. Bell stayed close behind. Like the crumbling stucco, the plaster had separated from the high ceiling in several places, and it crunched under foot. Large gaping holes exposed wood lathe above us. Due to the loss of so many shingles, the rain, over the years, must have leaked down through both levels of the two-story mansion dislodging portions of the ceiling. My assumption was proven correct when I noticed that the frayed carpet smelled of mildew and the moisture had buckled some of the exposed parquet flooring.
An enormous staircase loomed straight ahead. It too had been shrouded in broken plaster as well as donkey's years of dust and cobwebs. Robber was not interested in exploring the second story though and took off into another part of the house. Bell had also un-holstered his Roscoe. He was now carrying a 1911 Colt .45 automatic pistol. When the transfer and promotion came his way, he sold his .38 and purchased the Colt. His carry was now the same as mine. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. He may have also decided that it was better to have an eight-round Roscoe than a six. I never asked.
Feeling both uneasy and stupid I chased after the hound, through a vacant dining room, past a substantially sized kitchen and into what I believed once served as a ballroom. Like all the rooms we had observed so far, the lot was void of any furnishings and wall hangings. Either the once great wealth within the house had been sold to pay the debtors, or the stuff had been carried off by looters. The ballroom was, more than likely, the largest single area in the house. It was easily a-hundred-feet in length and around fifty-in-width. The parquet in the room, although soiled by years of neglect, had not been ravaged by a leaky roof. Moving some of the dust and dirt aside with the sole of my shoe I could see that the varnished flooring still reflected the morning sun that streamed through the many clerestory windows.
There was only one interesting feature within that dancing place of old. It was the south wall. There were no adornments, no wallpaper, only a plain white wall. Somehow the wall, like the parquet, had escaped the devastation. There was no evidence that any paintings or wall hangings were ever attached to the painted plaster. It was whitewashed the purest and brightest shade of snowy white I had ever seen. Coupled with the morning sun, it made me squint. Its colorless surface had but one blemish. Black lines had been drawn to form a five-sided image. A pentagon. Or was it a pentacle. I always get the two mixed up. At all the five-connecting corners an X had been drawn. The entire drawing was crude, uneven in some places as if hastily made. It was a good fifteen-feet wide and the same in height. On the floor, a few feet from the black outline was a piece of coal. To my right, on the adjacent wall, was a stone fireplace with at least an eight-foot hearth opening. A small amount of coal lay within the cavity, evidently the source of the vandal’s artist supplies.
“I wonder what that’s supposed to be?” I questioned out loud.
“Good question, Sir,” replied Bell standing beside me. “It almost looks like the X’s were drawn first with the lines intersecting afterward. Like those ‘connect the dots’ drawings, I did as a kid.”
Bell had the makings of a good observer. “Who would have drawn the thing?” he added.
“Kids, Sergeant, kids,” came a voice from behind us. A uniformed police officer stood at the entrance to the ballroom, a Billy club in one hand. A beat cop. I frowned at Robber as if to challenge his watchdog ability. The mutt just whined.
“I hope I didn’t startle you, gentlemen,” he had a bit of an Irish inflection in his speech. “I was just investigating who’d be rummaging around one of these old houses.”
“Arkham constabulary, Station House 13,” I reached for my lapel and was going to flash him my badge then I realized that Bell was in full uniform and Beat Cop just addressed him as “Sergeant.” He was considerably older than Bell but was only sporting a two-stripe shoulder patch on his right arm, a corporal. Some guys just get stuck in a rut, I deduced. “This is your beat, O’Malley?”
his name tag was below his badge.
“Yes sir, fifteen-years, come last Saint Paddy’s Day,” he answered proudly with a grin.
Turning back to the crude artwork on plaster I pointed to multiple abrasions in the center of the drawing. They were about four-feet above floor level. “What are those?” I asked.
“They look like scratches, claw marks,” volunteered Bell.
“Kids Sir, just kids made ‘em,” the Irish beat cop countered.
“You know a lot about this place O’Malley?” I enquired.
“Yes Sir; lived near here when I was just a nipper.”
“I heard that these houses are haunted,” Bell piped in.
“Naw!” he responded a little too quickly. “Oh, there were them stories back then. They made a big fuss about nothin’. Some moved out. The houses here were abandoned years ago."
"What on earth for?" I asked.
"People just wouldn't live there, some kinda scare."
"Scare?"
"Superstition, a lot of rubbish I dare say, Sir. Noises, ya know.”
Moisture was beading up on O'Malley's forehead. He produced a handkerchief and wiped his brow. The temperature in the house couldn’t have been above sixty, and he was sweating. “What kind of noises,” I probed.
His hand holding the hankie started to shake. “Voices, Gov’nor, bumps and such nonsense.”
There was a loud ‘bang,’ and we all jumped. O’Malley leaped the highest. Opposite the white wall, the north end of the ballroom, was a set of decaying French doors. There were six of them in a row. One of them had swung freely in the morning breeze and slammed against its frame. After wiping his brow one more time with the hankie, Officer O’Malley pocketed it and left us red-faced announcing, “I have to go now gents.” Shakily he added, “Must get back to my beat. Duty calls, don’t ya know.”