The Shadow Beyond

by Daniel Reiner

  It seemed to take forever, but at last, Vincent signaled that he was done. After placing the notebook in his coat, he flipped forward about a hundred pages in the ancient tome. He skimmed through the text, turning a page or two at a time, sometimes murmuring to himself. It did not take long for him to find what he was searching for. He left the book open and knelt down next to the doctor.

  “Help me lift him into the chair,” he said.

  I looked down at the body, not wanting to touch it.

  “Robert, I can’t do it alone.”

  This corpse at least had flesh on it. Unlike the last one. I convinced myself that he was merely sleeping, and reached down. He was still warm. Working together, we managed to seat the body in the chair, slumped over the desk. Vincent slid the gun along the desktop so that it was under the dead man’s right hand.

  “Why bother with the pretense?” I asked. “The gun never even discharged.”

  Vincent pointed to the book.

  “That page describes a blackly terrible ceremony for killing an enemy while he sleeps. It calls forth a creature that is difficult to control. Only a lunatic would even consider using it. With any luck, the doctor may be blamed for his own untimely death.”

  I was still puzzled by the rationale, but Vincent seemed confident, enough so that he turned and walked out of the room. I hovered over the posed body, looking for anything amiss, then thought of one detail. The need to be holding a loaded weapon implied that the safety lock should be off. I bent down to examine the gun in his hand. Somehow, it was already off. I had no time to wonder about that before dashing out of the room to catch up with Vincent.

  Exiting the library was relatively simple: We walked right out the front door.

  Getting to the train station, however, proved to be more complicated. With Vincent following my lead, we took the shortest possible route to the depot, avoiding certain blocks I knew might have people who could recognize me. When we were only a few streets from our goal, a well-dressed man some twenty yards ahead caught my attention. After following him for about a block, it occurred to me that I knew his gait. I could not positively identify him—not at first, anyway. The muddled, anxious state of my mind prevented me from thinking clearly. But I was certain I sensed danger.

  The man stopped abruptly, as if he had remembered some forgotten task. Even as he began to turn around, my heart nearly leapt into my throat.

  “Higgins!” I whispered as loud as I dared, and pulled Vincent sideways into a doorway. I grabbed the knob, and prayed that it would be open. My prayers were answered. We entered hastily, composed ourselves, and looked around. We were surrounded by racks of dresses, purses, and shoes. The air was thick with the scent of roses.

  We moved deeper into the store to escape the expansive and revealing front window. Those few seconds waiting for Higgins to move past the glass were torturous. Had he seen us? I sincerely doubted that he would have known me at that distance for such a brief instant, but we may have appeared suspicious to him by darting into the store so rapidly. Perhaps he would decide to follow us in to see what was so interesting. Or even worse, he might decide to wait outside until we emerged. I held my breath. With my attention trained on the door, the salesclerk was almost on top of us before I noticed her.

  Just as she began to speak, I saw Higgins walk by outside. With a sigh of immense relief, I nodded to Vincent that we were safe.

  “Gentlemen, how may I—”

  But before she could finish her sentence, Vincent glared angrily at me, and began to berate me with a perfect German accent.

  “Wir können Seitengewehre nicht hier kaufen, Wilhelm! Komm!”

  And he stomped out angrily. At first, I was just as confused as the salesclerk. But when I caught on, I was once again grateful for his quick thinking. I played along, acting embarrassed in front of the silent woman, before following him to the door. We checked as unobtrusively as possible to make sure that the coast was clear, then exited the store, easily covering the final blocks to the train station.

  Twenty

  At the depot, Vincent and I both received a shock when we checked the train schedule for the return trip. Neither of us had given it a thought beforehand. In the morning, we were half-asleep and preoccupied with reaching Doctor Trautmann before he left for lunch. Now, we wanted to escape Arkham as soon as possible, but the next train to Boston would not depart for over two hours. Rather than wait, we decided to take one that was leaving shortly. It was headed north, but that was of no concern to us.

  We got off at the Ipswich station, satisfied that there was enough distance between us and the dead man. With a lengthy wait before being able to take a train south, we found a restaurant. I welcomed it as both a distraction, and a chance to fill my empty stomach. We ate in silence. Worried over too many things, I chewed mechanically, tasting nothing. Every now and then I looked up at Vincent, sitting across from me, slicing through his plate of eggs with a butter knife, and carefully scooping each bite into his mouth. I had been mulling over his explanation of events since we had departed Arkham. Clearly, I could not blame him for the sudden failure of an old man’s heart, and yet the coincidence was astounding. It was only after Vincent got right up next to him that the doctor had collapsed.

  But weighing more heavily on me was the fact that the young attendant could certainly identify us both. We had made no attempt to disguise ourselves. Also, the doctor may have informed someone—his secretary, perhaps—of my identity before revisiting us in the library basement. It was certainly only a matter of time before someone tracked my movements from Arkham to Boston, perhaps with the help of Mrs. Bettings innocently supplying some necessary bit of information? Then again, Doctor Trautmann’s plans for the Elder Sign had remained unknown to us, and it seemed that whatever they were, he had hoped to keep them a secret from everyone. Perhaps his paranoia would turn out to be our saving grace.

  What knotted my stomach most of all, though, was Doctor Trautmann’s belief that we could never hope to find a copy of the Pnakotic Manuscripts. Assuming that Vincent transcribed all of the necessary information for the banishing ceremony from the Necronomicon, we were still missing that final piece of knowledge: How to manipulate the Crystal of Dha’al. We were so close! Hopefully Vincent had an idea of where to look for such forgotten knowledge. Since leaving the library, he had spoken very little. Yet despite his outward calm, his mannerisms had an uncharacteristic nervousness. I assumed that his mind was preoccupied with the same problems as mine.

  After finishing our dinner, we boarded the train once again, and arrived in Boston after ten o’clock. Vincent telephoned Albert from the station, and he met us shortly afterward with a motorcar to take us home. I was more grateful than ever before in my life to be able to just fall into bed. Sleep came swiftly.

  My dreams from that night, while not nightmarish, could also not be described as pleasant. The deadly confrontation with Doctor Trautmann echoed over and over in my head, changing slightly each time with the near-obsessive retelling. In one version, Vincent’s insane laughter echoed louder and louder, until it transformed itself into the heartbeat-like thudding of a Servitor of Q’yoth. Distracted by the noise, I looked around the tiny room. When I turned my attention back to Vincent and the doctor, they were both gone. I was alone, a small pile of green dust at my feet, holding in my right hand that small knife which I continued to carry with me in my coat pocket. But in the next, Vincent was not present at all. It was Andrew who stood in his place, laughing. In another, a tall figure cloaked in shadows stood over the dead doctor. In yet another, I appeared twice—both in my usual role as observer, and also replacing Vincent as the one who faced the doctor. I took his life with just the touch of my palm.

  I slept late. When finally I went downstairs, it was nearly noon. I discovered I had the dining room to myself, though I could hear Albert moving around in the kitchen. He was very good at his job, anticipating my needs before I even voiced them. Even after all those weeks, though, I ha
d still not become comfortable with his appearance. I preferred to not make eye contact with him, and so rarely spoke to him.

  While waiting for my breakfast, I skimmed through the newspaper looking for any mention of Doctor Trautmann. I was curious as to how his death would be interpreted, what kind of investigation would be conducted. There was nothing. It was too soon for the news to have traveled from Arkham.

  A moment later, I heard the cellar door in the kitchen open, and Vincent stepped into the dining room holding a few loose sheets in his hand.

  “Good morning,” he greeted me. “I just finished translating the shorthand I copied yesterday into something more legible.”

  He gave no indication that anything abnormal had happened the day before. Somehow, this made it easier for me: As long as that fatal encounter went unacknowledged, I could delude myself into thinking that things could continue on the way they had been.

  He sorted through the papers and handed me a sheet. As I began to read, I heard Alfred put a plate down on the table beside me, and I was grateful for an excuse this time to ignore him.

  The Shadow of the Gate should also not be forgotten. Though only an echo of the infinite, the echo itself is infinite. Has an echo but one note? Can the All be divided into less than All? Knowing the answer, know then that the Shadow is distinct from the Gate. It has its own place in the Heavens. It has its own manifestations. Its own colors. Its own ceremonies. Its own sacrifices. Shall we live in fear of the Shadow? There is no need. Rejoice when thou art chosen. Know that the Gate and the Shadow have honored thee. Ia!

  Perform not the ceremony when the stars are against thee. When the stars are neutral, a sacrifice is necessary. But when the stars are correct, the gift need not be offered, for it shall be taken! From where, from when, only the chosen shall know. Honored are those embraced by the darkness. Live not in fear of the Shadow! Rejoice! Thou art honored! Ia!

  The Shadow stays with the darkness and is sent with the light.

  If calling with darkness, the Shadow shall stay. Fear not! Embrace the Shadow! Commune with the starless dark! Revel in the oneness, the joining of self and shadow! But when the time arrives, dispel the darkness. Accept the fire. Thou shalt not be rejected. Thy soul shall be cleansed with the holiest of flames. There shall never be fear again! Thou art accepted! Rejoice! Ia!

  Call with light, and the Shadow shall depart. Look as you will, but it shall not be there. It shall depart through thee. Where is it? Who can know? It can be anywhere in darkness; it can be nowhere in light. Without darkness, there can be no Shadow. By using the light, thou hast deprived thyself of the oneness! Despair not! It is not too late. Wait. When the stars are right, it can never be too late. Wait for the Shadow. Ia!

  “The answer!” exclaimed Vincent. “This page is the answer! Our answer!”

  He seemed to be waiting for me to match my enthusiasm to his. I read it over again, more slowly this time, and tried to interpret the cryptic paragraphs. Try as I might, the meaning eluded me.

  “Sorry. How are you interpreting this?”

  He smiled and pointed at the last paragraph.

  “Look at this first sentence,” he said, leaning toward me. “‘Call with light, and the Shadow shall depart.’ That’s it. A shadow disappears when confronted with light. If the ceremony is performed in light—and I mean literally a room full of light, with no shadows or blind spots—then the creature will disappear. It will be banished!”

  I read the page a third time. It was true that through this new lens of Vincent’s, the hodgepodge of phrases became much easier to understand.

  “Which ceremony?” I asked with mounting excitement. “Where is it?”

  He handed me three more sheets filled with complicated and lengthy instructions. Vincent watched me closely as I looked them over.

  “You were right about one thing,” I said when finished. “Two hands are definitely required.”

  “Do you think you can do it?” he asked.

  Considered as a whole, the task was daunting. Broken into distinct pieces, however, it was definitely within my capabilities, even with my small amount of experience. Yet, I was hesitant. Magicians much more experienced than I had come to far greater harm attempting things simpler than this. Andrew, for instance. He had believed wholeheartedly in his abilities. He had thought himself capable of performing any spell laid out before him. His hubris had not only gotten him killed, but the flesh eaten from his bones.

  “Yes. I can do it.”

  “Good,” Vincent said, clapping me on the shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it. Confidence is ninety percent of magic. Memorization and physical ability make up the other ten percent. A successful magician needs one hundred percent.”

  He motioned toward his missing left hand.

  “At this time, I can only manage ninety-nine.”

  I handed him back the pages, and pointed at the original sheet he showed me.

  “Can you explain this?” I asked. “The paragraph that begins, ‘If calling with darkness’.”

  “That stuck out to me as well. It seems to describe a form of ritual suicide. When the ceremony is conducted in complete darkness, Sothoth Pnath visits the magician and dwells with him. The magician becomes one with the entity, sharing thoughts. The text describes it as an exceptionally sacred moment, but I suspect it would not be as special as the author claims.”

  The chilling implications of his statement were not lost on me.

  “In any case,” he continued, “it seems that when the magician has had enough communing, he uses some light to create a shadow. This ends the ritual, as well as the life of the magician.”

  I shook my head, trying to imagine what sequence of events, what particular form of insanity, was required for someone to do such a thing.

  We had only one remaining problem—that of the rotation of the shard. After finishing my breakfast, I went into the den and found Vincent at the telephone. He did not mind my presence. I stayed as he made one call after another, fluidly speaking German, French, and some sort of Slavic language, as well as English. But no matter what language he used, the result was the same.

  “I find it hard to believe,” he said with a sigh, “that the existence of the Pnakotic Manuscripts is taken as a fact, and yet no one in living memory has ever seen a copy, or known of anyone who has. But we still have a few places to check that a telephone won’t reach. I have Albert copying some letters for me. He should be done before long, and we’ll get them in the post right away. However, responses will likely be weeks away. Patience will be needed.”

  A heavy frown indicated his opinion on the matter.

  “While I’m gone,” said Vincent, standing up, “there is something you can do. It’s worth having a second set of eyes search through these.” He went a few steps over to a cabinet tucked between the bookcases. The upper portion had glass doors behind which were displayed various curios. The doors on the lower half were wooden, and he opened them and pointed inside.

  “That box contains correspondence I received while I was in Europe. I haven’t sorted it yet, and I’m very nearly sure that it won’t contain anything that will help us, but there is a small chance it may. If I were to look through everything, I may read a sentence or two, recognize it, then incorrectly assume that I remember the contents. Your unfamiliarity may help find something that I could miss.”

  “What do you want me to do exactly?”

  “For each one, note the date and the author. Then read through them as best you can. In particular, check for any reference to Pnakotic Manuscripts. You will at least be able to see the word Pnakotic or just a single letter P regardless of the language. A consolidated list like that may provide something we can use. Mainly, I’m interested to see the list of names. I may have forgotten a few.”

  I shrugged an agreement, went over to the cabinet and pulled out the box. It was made of a light-colored wood, unadorned, with simple brass hinges and clasp. Heavier than I expected, I saw the reason for it when I
opened it up: four stacks of folded letters, each tied with string and jammed tightly together, filling every bit of available space.

  “Good lord,” I said, simply amused by the sheer quantity. “Did you spend all your time in Europe writing letters?”

  “Oh, hardly.” He chuckled. “Mine could have fit on a postcard. ‘Comment allez-vous?’ I might have written while enjoying a nice Chablis and watching the world go by. But the responses were novels detailing the area politics, finances, health issues, the latest exploits of the children—and, oh by the way, my oldest daughter is fourteen and still single. Feel free to drop by and marry her.”

  That got a laugh out of me.

  “It wasn’t worded precisely that way, but the sentiment was there.” He smiled and shook his head. “I’ll help you with these, but I want to send off this first batch of inquiries right away.”

  Vincent left then, and I sat down, and pulled the first stack out of the box. I knew it would take a while, but set my mind to it, and began the process of recording authors and dates, scanning through the text for anything noteworthy. As he had said, each letter was voluminous. About a third were from a pair of men in England, one in London and one in Birmingham, and so I spent the greater portion of my time going through those. They rambled over many subjects, and made only the barest reference to Vincent’s “studies.” Because my French was fair, I was also able to do an adequate job of wading through the monotonous expositions of a man in Paris who was preoccupied with a graveyard in the south of France. Language-wise, that was as far as I could go. My knowledge of German was minimal, and the one letter written in Cyrillic was just as alien as the language of the Servitor. Those ones I marked on the list in case Vincent wanted to look them over more closely.

  I was halfway through the first stack before I even heard the motorcar pull away.

  When I finished the first set and reached into the box for the second, my fingers touched a letter sitting at the bottom, unbound by the string. I had been going through them in order, top to bottom, as they had at least been organized chronologically, but decided to glance over the loose one first. It was written in English, and so that gave me an incentive to read it. The longhand, graceful and flowing, was eerily familiar.