The Shadow Beyond

by Daniel Reiner

I grew to like the comfort of wealth, and wanted to ensure that I would always have it. The requirements of employment would have taken away from my magical studies. I thought their deaths would give me the estate because I was older than Elizabeth, but the will had not been updated after William’s death, and so she was left in control.

  “You had nothing to do with the death of Elizabeth?”

  That is correct. I was not responsible for her death.

  This method of communication was strange, I had to admit. After speaking aloud my questions, the answer would appear in my mind, always in a monotone. It seemed as if nuances and emotions were difficult for the dead to convey. But that reply seemed to be different from the others: a stress upon the I. Ignoring the aberration as my own imagination, I continued.

  “You were surprised by her death?”

  I was. I did not wish her to die.

  That time, there was no detectable stress.

  “Did you kill Andrew?”

  I was not responsible for his death.

  “But you used the mirror to spy on us?”

  I observed the two of you a few times after he wrote the first letter. I also questioned his dream-self. His inflated self-confidence led him to reveal more secrets than most people would.

  “And you truly did not know it was I whom you watched?”

  As I told you before, I thought you were merely another Robert Adderly.

  My mind gathered in the answers, began to fit them together.

  “The girl with the knife and flowers. She mentioned a crippled street vendor. Was that you?”

  It was. I was instructed by my master to take advantage of Andrew Cooke’s personality, and push him along the desired path. The knife was not meant to kill him. And if it did, you would still have likely followed the path to my door.

  The path, yes. Andrew led, I followed. With Andrew’s death, Vincent led, and I still followed, with never a question on my part. I had originally wanted to ask about Doctor Trautmann as well, but in light of recent events, the answer seemed to be glaringly obvious. No, all thoughts of Trautmann went out of my head when Vincent repeated the word path. My path, my goal, had been the banishment of Sothoth Pnath from the Earth. Up until then, it had been Vincent’s as well. Or had it? I began to grow anxious as a new theory formed in my mind. Pieces clicked together. Anxiety became pure fear, then denial.

  Ignorance is bliss, I reminded myself. The wick burned lower and lower, and the spirit of Vincent waited patiently for me to say something.

  Finally, I forced my mouth to function. It asked a question that was nearly inconceivable.

  I was only semi-conscious of the wick burning out, and the accompanying departure of Vincent’s spirit. Somehow, I managed to properly conclude the ceremony. Afterward, I put my head down on the table. Sleep came, my dreams haunted by an unbearable guilt.

  I do not know for how long I slept. When awake, still weary, I stumbled my way to the wine cellar. The desire to benumb myself was my only thought. I glanced at bottles, searching for the dustiest—and, I assumed, oldest—wine available. An eighty-four Bordeaux seemed to be extra dusty. I grabbed it, and started up the stairs to the kitchen.

  I was only halfway up when a faint sound impressed itself upon my consciousness. There was someone moving around upstairs! I paused, and listened more closely. As I froze there, doing my best to quiet my breathing, a faint voice penetrated the layers of wood and plaster.

  “Has anyone searched downstairs yet?”

  Without waiting to hear a response, I slunk down the stairs and crossed to the hidden door. The footsteps were now in the kitchen, right above. Whoever it was had surely seen the carnage in the den. Keeping the door propped open with my body, I gripped onto the release mechanism in the rafters. It seemed to be possible to break off the wooden lever without much noise. I had little time, and decided to chance it.

  A hard yank straight down caused the handle to snap off fairly silently. I ran my fingers along the broken end in the rafters. There were splinters, but nothing obvious sticking out. I grabbed the matches and candles that were hidden there, then stepped back through the door, and closed it just in time. With my ear flat against the wood, I listened as well as I was able. There was only the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, then a few minutes later, those same footsteps returning to the kitchen. I breathed a sigh of relief: Cornered, but not yet caught.

  It seemed I had slept through the night. Jebediah Higgins and Thomas Wentworth had returned, and even if they had initially arrived without police, the authorities would have been summoned after the bodies were found. If I were discovered in the vicinity of two more corpses, there would be no explanations possible to which any jury would listen. My fingerprints were on both of the knives, so at the very least, I would be convicted for the death of Albert. I would have to run, but that posed even more problems. There were no windows in any part of the cellar, so I would be forced to sneak upstairs into the kitchen and out one of the windows there. However, even if I managed to elude capture, how could I undo what I had done? I would somehow have to gain access to all of the forbidden knowledge Vincent had accumulated. It would take decades of study, all the while in hiding, always on the run. It simply was not possible. In order to properly make things right, I needed both time and freedom—luxuries I knew I would never have again.

  Hours passed. I fought against despair, discarding ideas as fast as I found them. All but one. One idea seemed to be workable. When the calculations indicated that the stars were not against me, I resigned myself to it. Most definitely not the best possible solution, it depended upon one unknowable assumption. But the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself it would work. In the event that it failed…I tried to not think about that. In either case—success or failure—the punishment would be appropriate. Harsh, but appropriate. I did not need a trial and a jury of my peers to judge me. I was plainly guilty. And I had enough honor within me to carry out my own sentence.

  One of the final acts of my human life was to barricade the hidden door in the wine cellar with some of the laboratory furniture. I disposed of the ring of candles, save one, which I placed on the floor near the bizarrely shaped shard. This time, there would be no need to use that particular item. All else was close by. I lit the single candle on the floor, then extinguished all other sources of light. There were no other preparations necessary. Without any hesitation, I began the process of my redemption: I began to perform the ceremony once again.

  The ritual proceeded the same as before: The retracing of the circle of protection; the creation of the gateway; the shouted R’lyehian commands. My throat wasn’t completely recovered from the first time, and thus, the process was torturous. But regardless, step-by-step, the same effects occurred. The circle became charged. The hoop glowed. That hellish wind blew. There was one important difference, however, between this performance and the previous. Near the finale, I extinguished the one candle, leaving me in absolute darkness. My eyes attempted to find some speck of light, but there was nothing. Surrounded by complete blackness, I completed the ceremony. With an aching throat, I spoke the words to call Sothoth Pnath to me.

  “Mbulg’r Sothoth Pnath d’nalbr urh’ctha rgho!”

  This time, there was no shock wave from the gateway. The wind did not become that ear-splitting whistle. Instead, there was an immediate and profound silence. I was so startled by the lack of sound, that I did not realize at first what had happened. Eventually, though, I felt it—the infinite darkness of Sothoth Pnath covering me completely. But unlike last time, the darkness did not lift away. The sensation of being covered by the creature made it feel as if I was suffocating. It was just illusion, though. In reality, I had no trouble at all breathing.

  I sensed a presence, but one without mind, without thought. The raw simplicity of it was akin to animal impulse. When I concentrated, trying to communicate with it, the reply was always the same: I hear. Perhaps a different mind, an insane mind, would interpr
et the reply differently. And yes—even now, I generously classify myself as sane.

  There was nothing left to do but seal my fate.

  I struck a match, and bent down to light the candle. As the single flame cast its light, I held my breath. Slowly I turned, then opened my eyes and gazed deeply into my own shadow.

  The air roared from my lungs in a scream of agony. I knew then exactly what Elizabeth had felt. With most varieties of human suffering, it is easy to point to a cut or a bruise and say, “It hurts there.” With this, there was no there. The pain was everywhere at once, every single nerve ending on my body afire. Sothoth Pnath began to melt and twist me, devour my soul. With all of the willpower I could muster, I fell backwards onto the lone candle and extinguished its flame, praying that my assumption would be correct.

  It was. All pain stopped instantly.

  Without a source of light to cast a shadow, Sothoth Pnath had been forced to cease its consumption of my body. I had guessed correctly. I was alive…though no longer human. Only minutes before, I had felt my empty stomach crying out to be fed. But the knot was gone, as was the burning ache in my throat. There was no more suffering at all, no requirement for any sort of sustenance. I held my breath, counted off a hundred seconds easily, and still felt no need to breathe.

  Although my death had been forestalled, my plan was not without consequences. My left hand was gone entirely. Using my good right hand, I explored my body, taking stock of just how badly I had been ravaged by the flames. Yes, I was permanently crippled, disfigured. My utter demise—indisputable, but indefinite—would forever be just moments away, should a stray beam of light penetrate this hidden room. But I yet…existed.

  What of Sothoth Pnath? That was the key. Was it still with me? I quieted myself once more, probing inward to try to sense that other presence.

  I hear.

  It was still with me.

  I had won.

  Yes, I know it sounds absurd, to consider this a victory: Sitting here in the dark, trapped with the entity known as Sothoth Pnath, the shadow of Yog Sothoth. Why, then, do I feel, even now, a smile pull across what is left of my face?

  Because I know—

  No, I need to correct that. I know nothing. There is no certainty involved. It is a guess, my best guess, plain and simple. My imagination and mathematical expertise were pushed to their limits when I tried to calculate how a god-like entity might perceive time. The only thing I know for sure is that the past cannot be changed. Those who have already died will remain dead. But the future—has it been written yet? Can those in the future be saved, those unlucky ones who accidentally look upon their own shadows at the wrong moment? I think so. I hope so. As long as I remain here, it remains with me, trapped. I believe that, as long as I can maintain this existence, I will prevent anyone else in the future from suffering that fate of incineration. Perhaps, this final act of mine—one of evil, but with good intentions—can serve a purpose after all. I will have atoned—at least partially—for my sin.

  Sin.

  I hate the word, but is there one more apt? Transgression, perhaps? No, I say. Adding more syllables only softens the concept, makes it more palatable. The brutal abruptness of sin is the word needed here. It adds an emphasis devoid of the least bit of linguistic pleasantry. I would like to blame Vincent for that sin, for he was the one who had guided me. But it was I who had trusted him. I was the one who believed that the Shadow of the Ancient Ones could not darken my life. It was my responsibility, as I had told Vincent not long ago. It was my responsibility to know, and to not do the evil.

  And Vincent? In all, he had hardly done anything. In fact, the totality of his malicious deception had amounted to no more than one word—one missing word in the translation of the pages that he had copied from the Necronomicon and shown to me. “The ways of calling and sending,” he had written. In reality, the translation would have been more accurately rendered as, “The ways of calling and sending forth.”

  Sending forth into the world.

  The ceremony he had transcribed was not one of banishment at all; it was one of summoning. Performed in darkness, the ceremony is intended to be a form of ritual suicide. Performed in light, it was a way of calling Sothoth Pnath to our world and sending it forth.

  I was the one who had summoned it.

  How is that even possible? It had consumed the souls of innocent victims long before I was even born. But just as Yog Sothoth is not limited by time, neither is its shadow. It was less than a day between the two ceremonies. Can it have moved backward through all the long centuries before Anno Domini 1925 in less than a day? A day, a minute. To a god, is there a difference? The human comprehension of time does not apply. Just as the salamander had slipped through the narrowest of cracks to kill the rats in Andrew’s bookstore, even a fraction of a second would have been enough for Sothoth Pnath to terrorize all of human history to that point.

  I am responsible for all those deaths. More than that, I am the one responsible for the death of my beloved Elizabeth! As the words transcribed by Vincent had noted, when the stars are correct, the gift need not be offered, for it shall be taken.

  And she was taken.

  My only remaining hope is that I can hold it here with me until the end of time itself, in order to prevent anyone else from suffering her fate.

  If I succeed, no one will ever know.

  If I fail…I’m sorry.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my wife Karen, she who is blessed with patience; my brother Steve, my biggest fan; my friend Adam, who helped me polish the rough cut into a gem; the gang at Carnegie Mellon and Chatham, who provided early encouragement; and ole H.P.L. himself, whose darkly entertaining visions provided me with a universe to explore.

  About the Author

  Born and raised in Pittsburgh, PA, Daniel Reiner was formed not of clay, but of peanut butter. And it wasn’t the Holy Spirit that gave him life, but an unhealthy does of Warner Brothers cartoons. Spending his formative years at Carnegie Mellon University, it was there he discovered the world of H.P. Lovecraft in the old Del Rey paperbacks. Later, with a burst of creativity, he eventually became comfortable enough in that world to carve out his own niche, and populate it with memorable characters.

  A lover of dogs of all shapes and sizes, his readers can be assured that any dog appearing in his writings will never be killed by a monster, human, or otherwise.