“And now? Are you ready to kill again?”
There was a flash, then a blast of thunder boomed loudly, shaking the house.
“It is a shame, but I am.” He continued to point the gun at me, but seemed to be distracted by an itch in his left arm. He rubbed the stump of it against the chair. “I need to dispose of an enemy.”
“I am not an enemy,” I said calmly. “We have known each other all of our lives. In Mount Haverton, you were my best friend.”
Another thunderbolt struck nearby, its flash brightening the room. At the same time, the intensity of Vincent’s itch seemed to increase, and he rubbed his arm more deliberately.
“Yes,” he said, with a grin I no longer interpreted as friendly. “That is why I extended the offer to you in the first place. A formality, really. I had a feeling that you would reject it. But human weakness forced me to ask you anyway. It does get lonely, at times. I was hoping to find an equal who could appreciate my point of view—a compatriot. Elizabeth wouldn’t have been an equal, but I was willing to spare her in the hope that, in time, I could have swayed her. Time and fate removed that choice, though.”
He barked out a laugh that was strangely out of place.
“You. Then you came along, and I had hope again, for a short while.”
“So, if I do not agree with you, that automatically makes me your enemy?”
The sky let loose with another ferocious bolt. The windows rattled with the force of the blast. No longer able to quell the itching in his arm merely by rubbing it, he held the gun loosely, and used his fingernails to scratch at what was apparently becoming a maddening sensation.
“Damn this—” I heard him mutter under his breath. Then he stopped scratching altogether, and looked up at the ceiling, around the room, searching for something, perhaps listening as well. All of a sudden, he stood up. Dropping the gun onto the chair, he grabbed at the stump of his arm, and doubled over.
“He is coming!” he cried, the fear in his voice palpable.
Before I could pose any question or react at all, there was another immense flash. The titanic explosion of sound that followed seemed to shake the very air. Vincent let loose a howl, the likes of which I had never heard before in my life. It was soul-wrenching, overflowing with both despair and rage. He fell to his knees, repeating no no no endlessly.
With him looking at the floor, I took the opportunity to stand up and start inching toward him. I had only taken two or three small steps when he noticed me.
“Stop right there!”
He shot up from the floor, and snatched the gun from the chair. Face still twisted in pain, he held his left arm straight out and away from his body, a diseased thing he wanted no part of. He motioned with the gun.
“Sit down!”
I backed up, and complied.
“Are you going to shoot me in cold blood, Vincent? That’s a cowardly act, indeed.”
“I am going to…”
We both heard, then saw, the doors swing inward. Yet there was no one there. The only other living soul in the house, Albert, was nowhere to be seen. The doors simply opened by themselves.
“He is here,” Vincent whispered with a deadly finality.
I cannot say for certain from where the tall, dark man came. I did not see him approach. But in the blink of an eye, he was standing there, in the opening between the doors. He may have stepped out of the shadows from either side of the doorway; he may also have appeared out of thin air. He stood silently, robed in darkness, an aura of menace surrounding him. He took a few steps into the room.
And all at once, I knew Him.
I knew this was whom Vincent feared, to whom he referred when he spoke of Satan. This was no man, but an entity in the guise of a man. Most incredible of all, however, I knew that I had seen him before. Three times in fact: Once as a boy in the ruins of the Fenster mansion; once in the dark streets of Arkham; and last, just a few hours previous, in the basement laboratory, peering out through Vincent’s eyes. As I looked at Him more fully, I sensed chaos lying just beneath the surface. Madness seemed to radiate from him so intensely that I grew dizzy. When I forced myself to look away, the unsteadiness lessened.
For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Even the thunder had stopped. Then Vincent knelt down, and uttered a stream of nonsensical R’lyehian syllables. Despite the alien nature of the language, I felt a sense of adoration in his outburst. A supplication. But the tall man did not respond. Again, Vincent tried, and this time, he received a reply.
“Ngalth’rh!”
It was otherworldly, the sound of a thousand tortured souls. No human being was ever meant to hear such a thing. Its effect upon me was an instant, crushing despair that hit me as a hammer blow. If I had been standing, I surely would have collapsed.
Vincent was defiant. Enraged, he let loose with another burst of indecipherable words. I tensed myself for another alien reply and waited. Thankfully, none came. Instead, the dark man acted, pointing at Vincent with his right hand. Vincent responded with a scream, his entire body shaking. As he continued to hold his left arm out from his body, I saw the arm of his coat begin to slowly collapse, as if the limb was no longer within, or was being somehow drawn inside.
“No!” shouted Vincent. “It’s not yet time!”
There was no response from the dark man, which seemed to enrage Vincent even further. Out of what was left of his soul came a cry of pure frustration.
Then, before my horrified eyes, I watched as he placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The report was deafening. The top of his skull exploded outward in a spray of blood and gore. He crumpled like a doll. Unable to look away, I saw him strike the floor, landing on his back.
Death came swiftly. Only a heartbeat before, he had been kneeling on the floor, anguished, but alive. And the next—nothing. It may have been my imagination, but to this day, I believe that I sensed his soul slip away, off to whatever fate awaited it.
As his body ceased its horrible shuddering, the nameless man began to move my way. I had been preparing myself for death since Vincent first pointed his gun at me, but my stomach knotted up even more tightly. There was simply no possibility of escape. My route to the doors was blocked. The window glass, I could tell, was too thick to easily burst through. The gun was my only other option, but as I wondered if I had the determination to follow Vincent’s example, I knew that the hesitation had cost me. He had come near, too near. My only hope was that death would be quick. I sat there, closed my eyes, and waited for the end.
But it did not come.
I looked. It seemed that he had not been coming for me, but for Vincent’s now-still form. Being careful to not look directly at him, I watched as he bent down, and grabbed at the air in front of the stump of Vincent’s left arm. I was perplexed, until I noticed that, even though he grabbed at empty space, Vincent’s left arm moved as if the man had actually got hold of some part of him. With the dim lighting only occasionally enhanced by flashes of lightning from the retreating storm, I must state here that I am not absolutely certain of what I next witnessed. Nevertheless, I truly believe that when the being again stood erect, it held in its hand a shadow shaped like a glove. More astounding, however, was the sight I witnessed on the floor at his feet, where the body of my childhood friend lay. Vincent’s left hand was no longer missing! It was a pale, thin, sickly thing that extended from the left arm of his jacket, but it was undoubtedly there.
A glance back at the dark man proved to be a mistake. I tried to look away, but could not. My gaze was locked onto him, magnet-like. Once again, his overpowering presence caused a hurricane of chaos to tear through my mind. Even recalling those moments now is difficult, as if my mind has been permanently scarred. Memories of my entire life swept through in no particular order at all. Images of my time at Miskatonic University were interleaved with the earliest ones of my parents. Andrew and Elizabeth occupied my thoughts simultaneously, even though the two had never met. Profes
sor Josephson and Mrs. Bettings were thrown together, as well. The malodorous Old Mac and the reviled Higgins also made appearances, though I intensely disliked thinking of either. The roaring whirlpool churned and mixed them all together.
Then it stopped.
I was again in control of my mind, but with one particular picture set squarely in the foreground of my consciousness. It was the fateful day that young Vincent and I had explored the ruins of the Fenster mansion. On that occasion, the dark man had looked directly at me and smiled. As I continued to stare at him this time, still unable to look away, he repeated that awful grin. A flash of lightning lit the room, allowing me to see the ghastly remnants of past meals still lodged within his teeth. I wondered what a creature such as that would feast upon—men? Or the nightmares of men? Or their sins?
A shriek had been building within me, and I was unable to restrain it any longer. As it burst out, the being simply disappeared. Panting and shaking, I looked around the room and tried to calm myself. There was nothing to see. Nothing to hear.
I located the switch for the overhead light, and turned it on. Another look around reassured me. Aside from myself, the room held only the body of Vincent Fenster. Blood had poured out of the broken remains of his head, pooled all around, and flowed into the cracks between the floorboards. Averting my eyes from that mess, I walked over and examined the body. It was not yet cool. But his pale, shriveled, left hand was ice cold. It was noticeably smaller than his right, and covered with hundreds—perhaps thousands—of tiny welts. I once saw a fisherman whose face had been latched onto by the suckers of an octopus. The effect was not altogether different.
An unfamiliar, guttural voice startled me.
“You are not permitted to live,” said someone from behind me.
I turned around, and was shocked to see Albert standing perhaps ten feet away. In his hand was a knife. In all of the time I had been in that house, I had never heard him utter a single word, and had simply assumed that he could not speak. That was clearly not the case. His voice was thick and phlegmy, but understandable. The knife he held in his right hand was more than just a little familiar looking. It had a short blade, and a dark handle, appearing more like a surgical blade than a knife or dagger.
Terrified, my first thought was of the gun. Vincent’s right hand still cradled it, the index finger inserted through the trigger guard. I judged there would be no chance to dislodge it before Albert was upon me. But one other weapon, though small, was near. With it, we would at least be evenly matched. I stood and slowly backed up. Albert advanced, holding his knife before him. From the loveseat, I grabbed my coat and kept retreating. Soon, I had backed myself into a corner.
“Very good,” growled Albert, apparently pleased with the situation. “Now, submit.”
“Come and get me.”
Carefully reaching into the pocket of my jacket, I gripped the handle of my own knife without removing it. Using both hands, I held my coat out in front of me, hoping to make him think I would just be defending myself. My advantage would not last long.
Albert made the first move, lunging forward and stabbing at my left arm. My reaction was fast enough, and I blocked his blow with my coat. But as I prepared to attack him, I discovered that my own knife was lodged in the pocket. Narrowly dodging another thrust from the nimble old man, I pushed the knife partially through the jacket material, exposing the blade. For that brief span, I relaxed my vigilance, and it cost me. He caught me with a knee to the midsection. The air was knocked from my lungs, and I fell to the floor. My only thought at that point was to at least wound him in order to have some time to recover. I managed to grab his ankle with my left hand, then stab at his leg with my right as hard as I could, catching him just above the knee.
His scream seemed to be more of surprise than pain. He jumped backward, and though I had been gripping the knife tightly, I lost hold of it when he moved. Somehow, my knife was embedded in his leg, the jacket still entangled around it. Weaponless and defenseless, I rolled away, fearing another attack.
But, instead of advancing on me and finishing me off, Albert instead wailed and collapsed. As I knelt on the floor, still trying to catch my breath, I saw him try—and fail—to remove the knife from his leg. At last, he tore my jacket away, and I was astonished to see it sunk very deeply into the flesh. Only two inches of the handle remained exposed! I knew I had not struck him nearly that hard. Before my incredulous eyes, however, it sank further and further into his thigh, until it was completely gone. I could watch no longer, and turned away, plugging my ears to mute his cries.
His anguish went on for minutes until, finally, there was silence. I uncovered my ears, stood up, and surveyed the nightmarish scene. Two men lay dead at my feet. Spotting the knife with which Albert had attacked me, I picked it up. The thing was identical to the one I had used. Aside from a bloodstained hole in his dark pants, there was no sign of it in his leg, though.
On the floor, Albert’s hands were clutched over his heart. I moved his hands apart. There was a stain of blood on his chest, and a lump beneath the wetness of his shirt. Slowly, I forced my trembling fingers to undo the buttons. There, in his chest, outlined in his sallow flesh, was the knife. Like a broken bone, it pressed against the inside of his skin. I looked at the thing in my own hand and shuddered, dropping it to the floor. All those months, I had been carrying around a cursed object in my coat pocket. If I had so much as nicked myself with it…would I have suffered the same fate?
The horrors of that room were too much to bear. I fled it, and ran the length of the house, through the kitchen, down the stairs, stopping in the wine cellar. Grabbing a couple of bottles at random, I retreated to a corner. The first shattered completely when I tried to open it by breaking the neck off, but my second attempt worked well enough to leave most of the bottle intact. The alcohol helped to ease my pangs of hunger as I gulped it. On an empty stomach, it hit hard. I passed out cold.
I awoke in the dark, my stomach making loud demands. Stumbling upstairs to the kitchen, the alcohol still affecting my brain, I filled my belly with whatever I could find. Bread and butter were an easy meal, but even buttering the bread slowed me down too much, so I left it plain as I stuffed it in my mouth. And the caviar. How many hundreds of dollars of caviar did I practically inhale, barely tasting the bursts of salt? When I started into a supply of smoked salmon, the gnawing hunger that gripped me began to ease. I forced myself to pause, and wait for the feeling of satiety that I knew would come. And it did.
Back in the den, all was the same as I had left it. The events swirled, incomprehensible, in my mind. For some of my questions, I knew the answers; for others, I had only guesses. There was a way to be certain, though. There was a way to fill in all of the holes.
I went down to the laboratory. The furniture was still moved against the walls, everything yet covered with sheets. After setting the furniture aright and restoring some order, I located a beaker with the strange liquid I would need. Next, I searched through Vincent’s notebooks, and found the instructions for the ceremony. From that same notebook, I tore out several unneeded pages. Twisted together, the papers became a wick, which would last quite a while. At the table, I took some time to study and concentrate, then began. I knew I had succeeded when the frigid wind of his spirit visited me.
“Vincent Fenster,” I spoke, my voice shaking. “It is I, Robert Adderly. I require answers.”
Twenty-Five
Our conversation began with silence.
For some reason, I expected Vincent to simply start speaking. But as I watched the flame burn, I came to realize that my opening statement was too ambiguous to warrant a response.
“Vincent, when did you first get involved in all of this?” I asked, but knew right away that I needed to phrase it even more clearly. “When did you first learn of magic and the Ancient Ones?”
The day we made that hole in the ground on the Fenster property, when your father stopped us. Something called to me. I didn’t kn
ow where it was, but felt that it was nearby.
“It was that stone—the shard—calling to you?”
Yes.
“The morning after the storm, when you saw the secret room and took me along. You found it then?”
I did, while you were looking at the books above the desk.
“And you hid it from me?”
Yes.
“Why?”
As I held it in my hand, it told me to. He told me to.
I knew to whom he referred, but needed confirmation of the name.
“What is his name, Vincent?”
Nyarlathotep.
I nodded to myself and swallowed. That had been my guess.
“That same night, you were the one who killed your parents?”
Yes.
“Why?”
He told me to. I did not want to kill my mother, but it was necessary. For her, it was quick. For my father, it was not. I paralyzed him deliberately, then watched him slowly bleed to death. It was the first time I enjoyed murder.
The first time I enjoyed murder, said my childhood friend. Did I ever know him at all?
“Did you kill Elizabeth’s sisters?”
There was a pause before he replied.
Not explicitly. The illness was natural. I was also sick with it. I only took steps to prevent them from recovering.
I sighed inwardly, not wishing to know those details. I pressed on.
“Did you kill Elizabeth’s brother, William?”
Yes.
“You did? While he was in Europe? How?”
After Elizabeth wrote him a letter, I placed a curse on it.
“And you obviously killed her parents.”
There was no response. It needed to be a question.
“Did you also kill her parents?”
I did.
“But why? They took you in after…after you left Mount Haverton.”
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