After making our way onto the ledge, we could see that the room had been hewn from the solid rock that made up the living heart of the hill. The walls and floor had been smoothed over with mortar, leaving a clean finish. It was a small space, but the sparse furnishings made it look larger. Only a delicate writing desk and matching chair were set against the back wall. Above, perched on the wall, were two shelves lined with dampened books. The find was overall disappointing, but we decided to explore what little there was.
I jumped up on the desk to examine the tomes on the shelves while Vincent searched the drawers. Of all the books, there was only one whose title I saw clearly: De Vermis Mysteriis. At the time I was just learning Latin in school, and was only barely able to translate. The Mysteries of the Worm. As I moved down the line of ancient volumes, I heard Vincent move away, toward the entrance of the room. Only after finishing with the contents of the shelf did I turn to look at him. What I saw made my heart skip.
He stood with his back to me on the slippery ledge—but he was not alone. Behind, towering over him, stood an improbably tall, dark-skinned man, looking over his shoulder. If Vincent was aware of his presence, his posture did not let on. The man’s size and appearance were as foreign and exotic as his clothing, which consisted of a plain, dark robe and sandals. He was there, looming over Vincent, his presence both menacing and eerily quiet. And then he wasn’t.
I blinked and rubbed my eyes. The man was gone. Fear clutched me as my parents’ warnings, and the stories that were told of that place, became very relevant. Vincent still faced away from me, looking down at his hands. He was holding something. Then, just as I climbed off the desk, the phantom man suddenly reappeared in the same spot. He looked at me and smiled. Even as I screamed, he vanished again.
Vincent jumped at the sound. Already dangerously close to the edge, his balance faltered and he began to slip. With both hands I grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. His weight pulled me forward and I went down onto my knees. But I held on. He landed squarely on his bottom on the filthy ledge, but managed to maintain his purchase. I quickly glanced over my left shoulder, afraid of who—or what—I might see standing there. But there was nothing.
“Why did you scream like that?” He was nearly in tears. “I almost fell.”
“Ghost,” I gasped. “I saw...a ghost.”
His eyes widened. I neglected to mention that the apparition had appeared directly behind him—and seemed to be watching him.
“We should go,” he said. “I’m going to get in trouble for even coming here. And these trousers are rather new.” As he stood up, I thought I saw him slip something into the pocket of his jacket, though at the time I couldn’t be sure.
We made our way back down the pile of debris the same way we had come up. Once at the bottom, we tried to wipe the muck from our clothes. It was useless. Proof of our wrongdoing clung to us despite our best attempts. We went our separate ways, each knowing a reprimand with the belt or the switch was in our future—in Vincent’s for sure. I cringed at the thought of the beating he would likely endure.
That was the last I saw of Vincent Marsh for over a decade.
Upon returning home I received the only thrashing from my father I can remember. I knew that he didn’t want to sink to the same level as Vincent’s father, but he felt the need for emphasis, and there was no excuse for my blatant disobedience. On Sunday, I was forbidden to leave the house except to go to church and ask God for forgiveness.
Then, on Monday, the town was shocked to learn the news of the gruesome deaths of Vincent’s parents: slaughtered in the dark of the night by an unknown assailant. Vincent, luckily, had been passed over, unharmed. The authorities labeled the crime as a robbery/murder, but according to my parents’ hushed discussion, nothing was vandalized or missing. Apparently, nobody was willing to classify the ghastly deed as a crime of passion because the Marshes had no real enemies, despite the poor reputation of Vincent’s father. Robbery simply had to be the motive. The young boy was promptly shipped out to relatives in Boston in order to spare him the horror of the situation.
After he left, unanswered questions still nagged at my mind. I had to go back.
Just a week after our previous excursion, I again found myself in front of the pile of debris. The area had been roped off, the town planning to haul away the rubble and possibly remove some of the hill so as to avoid any mudslides in the future. From street level, there was no way to see what I needed. To get caught this time would ensure another painful disciplining from my father, but I had to get a closer look.
When I was sure that no one was watching me, I scampered up the same path over the rocks as before. It hadn’t rained during the intervening days, and with the August sun working to dry the ubiquitous mud, I made it to the top of the ledge unsullied and with little effort. I could see right away that the shelves above the desk were empty. On the floor, our overlapping footprints were almost non-existent. The mud along the path we’d walked had been too thin to hold a print from our small feet.
But, off to the right, what I saw nearly froze my innards.
For better or worse, I at least was able to confirm the theory for which I’d risked my father’s ire: The ghost had left footprints. The tall man, when visible, had stood off to the side of our path through the small room and hadn’t moved. The prints of his sandals weren’t deep, but the outlines were very obviously there, and of a size befitting a man seven feet tall.
Mesmerized by the strangeness, I reached out to touch the imprint, but stopped myself. It seemed wrong to do so. My fingertips hovered an inch above the ground as repeated warnings of evil from Sunday sermons flashed through my mind. But even if Satan had stood there momentarily, would the very earth in that spot have been cursed? I thought it possible.
The call of a bird carried over the trees and roused me. There was nothing left to see. I scurried back down the path and took off for home, not once stopping to look back.
Nothing there, I told myself. The Fensters are all dead.
If only I had known.
Two
My marks in later years were high enough to allow acceptance into Miskatonic University in Arkham, and I moved on to college with enthusiasm. I had grown into an average-sized, if somewhat thin, young man. I had never had much interest in physical pastimes, but I did have a gift for theoretical mathematics, and in time came under the tutelage of Professor Samuel Josephson, one of the more respected professors at the university. Josephson was an incredibly intelligent and fastidious man who tolerated few mistakes. He was by nature very quiet, but when he spoke, his deep voice carried a commanding quality one would not expect to emerge from such a tall, lanky frame. His memory was immense, and his ability to recall details almost legendary.
I believe that he sincerely expected everyone else to be equally as gifted, or at least those people with whom he chose to associate. He helped me rise to the top of my class, and encouraged me to pursue my doctorate in mathematics. Those years were somewhat difficult. My parents were of course proud of my scholastic achievements, but the tuition weighed upon their finances. I helped pay the expenses as best I could with some part-time jobs, but really only contributed enough to cover my rent at the boarding house where I stayed in Arkham.
To that end, it was during this period that I began my short career as a tutor. I had taken on several students already, and had just enough time available for one more. It was the professor who helped fill that gap.
I was standing in his office, giving him an update on my thesis, but it turned into a protracted discussion over a point I knew we had covered two weeks before. As we spoke, I became more and more flustered over his uncharacteristic inability—or unwillingness—to remember my proof. He seemed to be trying to drag the discussion out unnecessarily. Seeing no alternative, I cleared his largest slate, took up the chalk, and began to retrace the path through my thought processes. I knew it would take at least thirty minutes, a seeming waste of time, but he settled i
n and patiently observed.
Just as I was writing the last of the formulae, there was a knock at the door. When I glanced at the professor, there was an odd look on his face—a brightness in his eyes I had learned to associate with his seldom-exposed sense of humor.
“Very good, Robert,” he commented. “I shouldn’t have doubted you. Come in.”
Through the door walked one of the loveliest young ladies I had ever seen: a slender wick of a woman, average height, with shoulder-length auburn hair and delicate features.
“Professor, I’m sorry to intrude.”
I was entranced as she glided over to us.
“Doctor Gardiner asked me to deliver this to you.” She handed over an envelope. “He was interrupted with an urgent matter, and your office was on my way.”
“Thank you. I believe I know what this is.” He turned to me. “Robert, this is Elizabeth Wentworth. Elizabeth, Robert Adderly.”
We shook hands.
“Pleased to meet you,” I managed to croak out.
“Likewise.”
She turned to go, but Professor Josephson spoke up before she reached the door.
“Elizabeth, how are your studies coming?”
She struggled to find the right words.
“Fine, Professor,” she said, not convincing even me. “I’m getting back on track.”
“Robert can help you with mathematics. If you’d like. Can’t you, Robert?”
“Oh, yes,” I said with a genuine grin, those simple syllables dripping with desperate eagerness.
She considered the offer, looked at me, and nodded with a smile.
I’ll always remember that first smile.
Elizabeth was in her junior year, and not of the type to typically require tutoring. Her intellect was on its own captivating. However, her parents had recently died very tragically while traveling in Europe and the shock had caused her to drop behind in her studies. That little bit I learned from Professor Josephson; she offered nothing in the way of an explanation.
During our first session, I could only stare at her as she worked, enthralled by her beauty. She rarely needed guidance, and I believe the questions she did ask were purely to make me feel as if I was actually doing some tutoring. She needed so little help in fact, that almost right from the start, I suspected Professor Josephson of playing the matchmaker. He presented a mathematically precise exterior, but there must have been a bit of a romantic deep within him.
Our sessions grew to twice, then thrice weekly. I stopped taking her money, and we started seeing each other as often as possible. We talked unendingly, and I learned much about nearly every aspect of her: She had interests in archaeology and poetry, loved seafood in all forms, rarely ate sweets except for apple pie, enjoyed crunching through fallen autumn leaves, and on and on. I learned about everything, in fact, except for her family. She always sidestepped any questions about her relatives, I assumed, because she was still mourning. I respected her wishes and did not pry. I was content to think that I would eventually know all that there was to know about her. It would just take time.
At the conclusion of her junior year, all exams successfully passed, we relaxed together into a truly memorable summer. She also enjoyed riding horses, so we spent some time every week at the university stable. I knew the man in charge, and he allowed us to help exercise the horses and brush them down. He was grateful for the help, and Elizabeth so enjoyed the activity. Her joy brought warmth to my heart. We also frequently found ourselves in a rowboat on the lake. While I rowed us around, she would take off her shoes and trail her feet in the cool water, occasionally splashing me when I least expected it. In the evenings we would take to the park, to sit on our bench and read in the dimming light. There we would be together—she with her Dickinson, I with my Poe—until the sun went down. That summer was unique in all of my life: a zenith.
With autumn came classes and studying once again. I helped Elizabeth when needed, but without the tragedy of the year before, it was easy for her to keep up with her studies. It was also about that time when I found myself working more often with Professor Josephson than for him. He found my work to be ‘satisfactory,’ which from him was high praise indeed. Between my work with the professor and our busy class schedules, it was difficult to find the time to see each other, but we managed. We grew very close and our love blossomed. To me, it seemed inevitable that we would spend our lives together.
As that autumn turned to winter, I learned that she also wrote poetry aside from reading it. One cold, wet day we met in the common room of her dormitory, and sat in front of the fire. She held a notebook in her hand. She was very pleased with her most recent effort, and wanted me to read it. It was honestly very good; I told her so. She showed me another, and another. Everything that I read that day had a bittersweet thread—sorrow for the past intertwined with hope for the future. I remember making that comment to her about one poem in particular. In that one, a repeated line stood out to me.
Afraid to be recalled, afraid to be forgotten
“Yes, it refers to my—” She stopped for several heartbeats before finishing. “My brother.”
“You have a brother?”
“Had.”
“He died? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“The War.” She sighed and whispered, “We’re cursed.”
Accidental or not, I felt bad about broaching a sensitive subject, and tried to continue on past it. It was a poor attempt.
“You speak so little of your family…your father…I’d actually hoped to meet him in particular, one day.”
Despite knowing that he had died, I smiled, trying to imply that I’d like to ask him for permission to marry her.
Her face fell. She closed her eyes.
My stomach did flips. Minutes before, things had been going so well. Right then, I thought I may never see her again. Unable to trust myself with the simple task of speaking, further apologies didn’t seem to be prudent, so I excused myself and left her alone.
The following day I had flowers delivered. I gave her time away from me, but sent carefully-worded notes. After spending a week apart, we met again. I don’t know which one of us was more uncomfortable at first. But after catching each other up on the news, we relaxed, had a laugh. In a few more days, everything was very much back to normal. I’ve wondered from time to time if I should have been more forceful, or sly, or used some other method to learn more about her family. Had I known certain details, could subsequent events have been avoided? Possibly, but after that misstep I vowed to myself never again to ask her another question on the subject. Ironically, the fear of losing her was too great.
After knowing Elizabeth just over a year, I was certain she was the one with whom I wished to spend the rest of my life. With the help of my parents, I secured an engagement ring. Admittedly, it was not as spectacular as I would have liked, but given the circumstances, it would have to be enough. In the middle of May 1925, the day of her last exam before graduation, I ironed my finest suit, put the ring in my pocket, and set out for the building where she was sitting for her exam.
On my way there, I noticed Professor Josephson walking toward me, deep in thought. On occasions such as that, I had learned that it was usually best to let him be, but as he drew nearer, his deeply furrowed brow alarmed me slightly.
He spoke up as our paths crossed, as if he had intended to meet me there all along.
“Robert, I may need your help.”
“Certainly, Professor. What is it?”
“Over the last decade I have been loosely involved with a group of…intellectuals. They have asked me for help from time to time when their research has required my abilities as a mathematician.”
He paused, searching for words. I had the distinct feeling that he did not wish to reveal many details.
“Recently, I was asked to render in three-dimensions a non-Euclidian curve intersecting a set of points representing certain stars in the heavens.”
He stopped again. Th
e furrows in his brow deepened.
“Robert, as odd as it may sound, I would like you to check over my work. The stars are aligning. If I am correct, heaven help us if…” He looked away from me and gazed off into the distance.
“Professor? Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes.” His usual, stern expression reappeared. “I’m sorry, my boy. For being an alarmist. It has become difficult, knowing what I do. No need for any worry, though. Can you please just come by my home tomorrow afternoon? I need to spend some time verifying my information for accuracy.”
“Yes. I can do that,” I reassured him despite being confused by the request. “Also, Professor, I thought you might like to know. To you this might seem…I’m proposing to Elizabeth today. When she’s finished with her examinations.”
It took him a moment to digest the information.
“Yes, of course. I had the feeling that that would come to pass eventually.” His rare, brief smile was tantamount to a confession of his involvement in our relationship.
“Until tomorrow then,” he said as he walked away. “Good day, Robert.”
In the years I had known him, he had never asked for help from anyone. When the subject at hand was mathematics, Professor Samuel Josephson was the undisputed authority. Putting aside my bewilderment, I continued on to meet Elizabeth.
I had timed it well. She emerged from the building just as I arrived, the relief on her face turning into a large, welcoming smile when she saw me.
“I didn’t expect you here,” she said as she rushed down the steps and embraced me. We were an island in the current of students, flowing by.
The Shadow Beyond Page 2