The Shadow Beyond

by Daniel Reiner

  Vincent led me to the far end of the room. He reached up toward the ceiling and pulled on a piece of wood that had appeared to be an integral part of the floor joist. It only moved about two inches, then a section of the wall shuddered almost imperceptibly, as if a pressure had been released. From the space near the hidden lever, he removed two candles and handed them to me. Retrieving a match from the same space, he lit both candles, took one for himself, and pushed on the section of wall that had moved. It swung open to the right, revealing a passage. The doorway was free of cobwebs, but still I cowered nervously as I followed Vincent into the darkness. We walked about fifteen feet before the corridor ended. On our left was a door. He set his candle within a nearby niche, turned the knob and swung the door open. The atmosphere in the room we entered was noticeably dank and musty, with a faint, almost familiar, sulfurous smell. A definite dripping was audible somewhere to my right, as were the faint noises of rats scampering away from the approaching light of our candles.

  One by one, he lit three lamps already scattered about the room. The illumination from the ancient lanterns revealed a large, mostly empty space. The floor consisted of irregular stones mortared together. Because the unfinished ceiling was lined with floor joists, as in the wine cellar, I assumed we were still beneath the house—the foyer and the den, by my reckoning. An old stand near the door had been fitted with several shelves, each lined with books. I examined several of the spines and realized, to my satisfaction, that this was indeed the collection I had been looking for upstairs—Vincent’s own magical library. One wall was lined with tables, which held various chemical apparatus, jars, and beakers of differing sizes. With the room now fully lit, I could see the source of the dripping: A section of the south wall bowed inward, and a few of the stones near the ceiling were pushed in several inches, hanging downward at a slight angle. Water seeped in along the stones, dripping to the floor. Aside from that one section of wall, and the deteriorated floor beneath it, the rest of the room seemed to be dry and in good shape.

  “I have not been able to discern its original purpose,” explained Vincent, “but as you can see, the room makes an excellent laboratory. Being underground, it is well insulated from outside noise and influence. With the lights extinguished and the door closed, it is not unlike a tomb.”

  He walked around silently for a while, then continued.

  “I found it just six months after coming to live here. I believe I was the first to set foot in it since the original owner. Every surface was covered in a layer of dust. As a child, it was a perfect place to hide when I didn’t want to be found—though the other members of the household didn’t seem to put much effort into finding me. For years, it was my secret, and mine alone. Eventually, I showed it to Elizabeth. She and I would come here occasionally to hide from everyone else, sit in the dark, and…talk. Just talk. She was the only one who understood me.”

  With the available light, I could not see his face very well, but his voice betrayed a definite sorrow. I walked around the perimeter of the room, pretending to examine its few contents, trying to distract myself from memories.

  “Robert, I have an offer for you. I hope that you will think it over very carefully.”

  I ran my finger along the cracked leather spine of one book, then another, feeling their age beneath my touch.

  “I would like for you to move into this house,” he said. “Before you say anything: No, you would not be intruding. I am inviting you. We need each other, you see. If we are to pursue this goal—the expulsion of this monster—we have to do it together. You need my experience and guidance. In turn, I need your hands. I could, of course, go it alone, but I cannot believe that my handicap”—he pointed at his left arm—“would not get in the way. Needless to say, assuming that we learn all that we need to know, you will be the one performing the ceremony.”

  After his openness regarding the crystal in his possession and the detailed tour of the house, I suspected such a proposal might be forthcoming. If we were to work together, why not just stay under the same roof? But the idea did make me uncomfortable. I had no income, and no way of generating any. If I were to say yes, I would likely be dependent on Vincent’s support for months, possibly years, and would probably never be able to repay him. The opportunity to be the one to perform the actual banishment, however, was too powerful an incentive to ignore. And besides, had Elizabeth not died, I would have come into this money about which I was so concerned.

  “Once again, I accept.”

  “Excellent!”

  “But where do we start?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” he said with a grin. “We can begin right now.”

  Though I asked him once more, Vincent refused to share any details. He led the way back upstairs, to the den on the first floor. After I took a seat at the writing desk, he began pacing back and forth and dictated a short, formal letter. It was for Doctor Trautmann, requesting access to the Necronomicon. Even as he spoke, I assured him that such communication was a useless effort, but he merely smiled.

  “All will become evident in good time,” he said.

  I quickly grew to enjoy my stay in Boston, and the many benefits of such a luxurious home. Albert, for instance, was the perfect servant, handling all the duties of butler, cook, and gardener. Though he nearly always remained out of sight, it seemed as if he was never more than a few steps away. He performed his duties commendably, being especially skilled at preparing excellent, albeit heavily seafood-based cuisine. But Albert’s service was not the only thing to which I was previously unaccustomed: The fine wines, antique furniture, the artwork, the space. My God, the space! My old room at the boarding house would have fit neatly into the anteroom, with a few feet to spare. The house was beautiful, extravagant. I could not help but love it.

  But only a few days after beginning my wonderful new life, my problem-plagued old one caught up with me. One morning while I sat at the kitchen table, perusing the Boston newspaper, I came across a short article, detailing the inexplicable death of a man in Arkham. The story was hidden away in a corner of the newspaper, as if the publisher had been embarrassed to print it:

  (ARKHAM) After missing for several days, Mr. Andrew Cooke of Arkham was found dead by authorities yesterday in the apartment above his business. Local police have declined to give details about the condition of the body or speculate a motive. However, an eyewitness to the scene claimed that the victim had been butchered in such a way as to leave behind only bones. The witness, a neighbor identified as Mrs. Jean Blakewood, claimed it was the work of a madman.

  Mr. Cooke was the proprietor of Hunt’s Fine Books, the small bookshop he inherited after the death of his grandfather, Mr. Bertram Hunt. Following two consecutive days of unexpected absences, during which time the store remained closed, Mr. Cooke’s neighbors contacted the authorities. According to the victim’s father, the business neither generated any great income, nor incurred any outstanding debts.

  “There was simply no reason for this,” stated Mr. Arthur Cooke.

  Andrew Cooke, only twenty-seven years old at the time of his death, never married. He is survived by his father, mother, and one sister, Ida.

  No mention was made of a suspect, or a mysterious friend who may have recently disappeared. Ironically, the article was just the sort of thing that would have attracted the attention of Mr. Hunt. Had he been alive, it surely would have made its way into one of his scrapbooks.

  From that morning on, Vincent kept me constantly busy. He had two short-term goals in mind: convert the hidden room into a proper laboratory; and continue my training in the magical arts. To that end, we spent several hours each day cleaning the room in the cellar, and moving in furniture and other necessary items. Additional gas lamps were set around the room, and traps for the rats. We attempted to repair the damaged, dripping south wall of the room, but neither of us were skilled in masonry, and our best efforts were for naught. The leak returned after only a single day.

  At the end
of three weeks of hard work, the transformation was remarkable.

  Everything had been scrubbed clean, and the musty atmosphere of before was largely gone. A sizeable bucket caught the drips from the leaking wall. The center of the room was occupied by a circular table, which had just barely fit through the passage. I was amazed we had been able to move it into the room without damaging it. With a spacious desk for each of us, and a wide variety of chemical supplies that Vincent was able to obtain, we felt well prepared to take on the task that lay before us.

  In the evenings, following dinner, I would take some time to meditate and review. After that, Vincent would teach me as Professor Josephson once had: Lecturing endlessly, quizzing occasionally, and always looking for perfection. In those weeks that followed, I found myself thriving under Vincent’s tutelage. I had to admit, it was much more enjoyable than the tedious hours of self-study spent in the back room of Andrew’s bookstore. The first week was dedicated purely to theory. But by the second, he already had me practicing simple spells and cantrips, and repeated successes drove my confidence skyward. Vincent seemed both surprised and pleased that I was making so much progress in such a short period of time. By the end of our third week together, he stated that I was ready to move on to something more difficult. The perfect opportunity was delivered to us the following day.

  Just before noon, a letter arrived from Miskatonic University—specifically, from Doctor Trautmann. Vincent opened the letter, and read it to himself, a large grin plastered on his face. From his reaction, I could only assume that the unexpected had occurred, and we had actually been granted access to the hidden books. When he was finished, he handed the letter to me, which I read in earnest. My enthusiasm was replaced with confusion after just the first sentence.

  “This is a rejection,” I said.

  “Indeed,” he said, still smiling. “But…”

  And he said no more.

  “Then what else is it?” I asked, handing the paper back. “Besides being a letter from Doctor Trautmann?”

  “That’s all that it is, but it’s enough. The content does not matter. What does matter is that it is written in his own hand. And having a sample of his writing allows us to use…certain spells to our advantage.”

  I recalled the parchment that I had stolen from Professor Josephson. Guilt over that episode rose up within me, but I pushed it back down.

  “All we have to do is find a skeleton in his closet,” he said. “And use it to blackmail him into allowing us access to the information that we want.”

  The suggestion did not sit well with me, and I paused to consider alternatives. Vincent had told me that copies of the Necronomicon existed in London and Buenos Aires, but an ocean trip to either location seemed extraordinarily excessive considering that one was sitting a train ride away. And the thought of waiting for several more months, then begging Doctor Trautmann for access, did not sit well with me at all. In the end, he would simply wield the power that he held and deny us again. And again, ad infinitum. Jebediah Higgins had defeated my plans the first time, and I used him as a justification to ignore my gut reaction. If Higgins had not interfered, this underhanded scheme would not be necessary.

  “All right,” I said. “How do we do that?”

  “Based on what you told me, you are familiar with the ceremony for speaking with the dead?”

  An alarm went off in my head. Was he serious?

  “I am…but would strongly prefer to not kill Doctor Trautmann.”

  “Hmmm? Who said anything about killing?” asked Vincent innocently. “Killing the good doctor will not get us anywhere. Besides, his death would draw too much attention.”

  “Then how will we…I mean, the spell is for speaking with the dead.”

  He shook his head and smiled.

  “It is, but few magicians realize—it can be used to speak with the living as well.”

  My expression must have been comical, because Vincent laughed aloud before continuing.

  “It’s true,” he said. “While in deep sleep, a dreamer’s mind is not unlike the dead. The spell is not as effective, of course, as when the body is dead. The dreaming mind retains a sense of self-preservation. It won’t do anything it fears may bring itself harm. However, the spell can still be used to learn certain things.”

  He walked over to me, and put a hand on my shoulder. It was an intimate gesture, one that reminded me of our time together as children.

  “I believe,” he said, “that the level of difficulty of that ceremony is appropriate for you. It will be a good learning experience.”

  “But you just said that Trautmann will not put himself at risk. How do we get him to tell us any sort of secret that we can use against him?”

  “That’s correct,” he said. He seemed somewhat proud. “We will need to dig up a scandalous bit of information by other means. Go in with the gun already loaded, so to speak.”

  “How can we do that?”

  “By scrying on him.”

  “Spying?” I asked, uncertain about the word I had just heard.

  “In a way, yes. But, no: scrying. Clairvoyance—using a spell or device. We will spy on him remotely. When we have a piece of incriminating information, we will use the ceremony for speaking with the dead to contact his dreaming mind and confirm our suspicion as well as we are able.”

  “Then we visit him and challenge him with the evidence?”

  “Yes. And sift through those volumes as quickly as possible. It’s been my experience that blackmail is not a useful strategy in the long run. The initial shock usually forces compliance with one’s demands, but never for long.”

  I wondered only briefly how much experience Vincent had with blackmail. I was impatient to proceed with his plan.

  “When can we start this scrying?” I asked.

  “Right now,” he said eagerly.

  I smiled to myself. Victor was such a conundrum. He had a strong tendency to be secretive to the point of annoyance, but still had child-like compulsions, where it seemed as if he wanted to share those secrets with a friend. And I felt honored by that. That combination of contradictions reminded me of Andrew, who had often espoused caution to me, but still allowed his ego to drive him onward—and at the end, too far. Elizabeth’s death was never far from my consciousness, but Andrew’s more recent demise overshadowed even hers at times. When those disturbing recollections of his final moments did come to mind, as they had right then, I had to work to suppress them.

  Putting the letter in his pocket, Vincent led the way downstairs to our hidden laboratory. We walked over to a large, ornate mirror we had hung on the north wall between our desks. The thick oval glass was framed in dark, intricately carved cherry. I had initially wondered why Vincent insisted on including the mirror among our sparse decorations in the first place. It appeared it had not been for his vanity.

  “Help me move this over there,” he said, indicating the table in the center of the room. We lifted it off the hooks upon which it rested, and carefully laid it down flat on the table, mirror side up.

  “This mirror is the most valuable object that I discovered on my travels through Europe,” he said. “It actually has a variety of uses, some quite complex and obscure. But scrying is the simplest and most straightforward.”

  He retrieved a beaker of a pale, greenish solution from a shelf filled with chemicals, set it on the table next to the mirror and removed its stopper. The liquid sparkled somewhat, as if tiny diamonds were suspended in the solution.

  “This oil,” he explained, “will activate the mirror’s scrying ability. It will last until it evaporates—approximately four to five hours. All that I truly need to do is pour it on; there is no real spell involved in activating the mirror. Controlling the view is simple, even for a novice such as yourself. One needs only the proper mindset. You will of course have to practice with the mirror so we may both observe Doctor Trautmann’s comings and goings. But not today.

  “Even when activated, the mirror only r
eflects its surroundings, as any mirror does. The oil allows us to move the view, but only at the speed a man can walk. In other words, in order to see Doctor Trautmann, we would have to essentially walk the reflection from Boston to Arkham at a pace of three to four miles an hour. But thankfully, we can focus directly on the good doctor, thanks to this.”

  He indicated the letter in his pocket.

  “The other complicating factor is that, although we cannot be seen while using the mirror, we can still be detected. If you’ve ever had the feeling you were being watched—only to turn around and see no one there—you know roughly what I mean.”

  “Yes, I think I do,” I said, a chill going up my spine. “In fact, I had that very feeling on the night of Andrew’s death.”

  “Then it’s quite possible you were being scryed upon,” replied Vincent. “Even without a device like this, anyone with the proper knowledge can cast a clairvoyance spell with the same effects and limitations. Someone very well could have been tracking your actions.”

  “And what about right now?”

  “There is nothing to worry about,” said Vincent calmly. “At least, right here. I have proofed this room against scrying. No one can see into this underground lair. I have come to learn that you can never be too rich, or too paranoid,”

  He flashed me a wry smile. In that way, he and Andrew were very much alike.

  He placed the letter on the table beside the mirror. After a moment of silence, he spoke a few phrases in Latin, picked up the letter, and spoke a few more. He extended both arms above his head, and the sleeve of his jacket pulled back to fully reveal to me the stump of his left forearm. I could see that the hand, wrist, and an inch or two of arm were cut off cleanly, almost surgically. The very end of the stump was coal black. Additionally, a tattoo of some strange design snaked along his arm, terminating just before the stump.