Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) (13 page)

Kelsey smirked. “Christmas time. Bummer.”

The psychiatrist’s tone changed from unsure to angry. “This is serious. He had it all lined up. The delusion-fantasy-continually backed up by facts. That family in Georgia: they were into this stuff too. And to hear Rudy present this stuff, it was pretty believable. He convinced me. It got to the point I couldn’t refute it or blame it on mental illness.”

“So you mean to tell me,” the detective leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “That this guy comes to you. You run through a litany of possible diagnoses, and he eventually convinces you that this…Mayan…some obscure Cthulhu Cult is true? Please, Doctor. Really?”

The psychiatrist shuddered a bit, laid his pencil down on the desk and just stared at the circles. “I believe it, too. I didn’t at first, but now. These things are real.”

Kelsey closed the notebook, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and then sighed. “I don’t wanna tell you your business, Doc, but people come to you for help. You can’t become enmeshed…”

“I’m not enmeshed,” Dreyfus snapped.

“Enmeshed: believing what a patient spins to you, this elaborate yarn. Does every patient who is a 911 Truther, anally probed by some little gray man in a UFO, sees Elvis, Bigfoot, and knows who killed JFK. Maybe worse, Elvis shoots Bigfoot, and you buy into it? You’re enmeshed, Doctor.” Kelsey stood. “I appreciate you calling me, but I’ve got all I want from you. Thanks for your time.”

“I’m a professional. Eleven years of college to have you come here and tell me I’m enmeshed,” Dreyfus snapped and stood, angrily. “Tell me Detective, with your…associate’s degree, maybe? Your professional opinion.”

Kelsey glared. “I think you are too close to this. Your anger proves that.”

The Psychiatrist’s hands shook, and then he breathed deep and sat.

“That family in Georgia, from a couple weeks ago. They believed it, I found out. If you keep looking into this,” Dreyfus said, and then glowered sadly at the detective. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “You will, too. The end of everything is coming, and Samuels stumbled onto it. ”

“Next year, let’s get together and have a cup of coffee. Talk about losing our perspective. Maybe even chat about all of your education. I’m done here, Doctor. Thanks.” Kelsey laid his business card on the desk while the psychiatrist watched, then walked out.

“You will, too,” Dreyfus whispered behind him. “It’s all coming together, just like he said.”

A cold and dreary Tuesday arrived as the constant winter inversion in the Lewiston Valley clouded out the sun. A miserable hazy gray, the frosted illumination, depressed Kelsey more than usual. His night was a swirl of dark stone, twisted cyclopean blocks moist from mist. He could almost smell the acrid scent of rotting kelp. It burned into his senses but the alarm clock rescued him from it.

The coffee pot gurgled and he poured a cup, and then sat at his computer at a desk stacked with piles of papers. He checked his Facebook and email. The detective hoped for some word from his brother, Rob. But nothing.

Kelsey then turned on the television. He hoped for some update on naval maneuvers, but the only thing on television was two faced politicians, poor economic news and the aftermath of the tsunami. After his usual morning routine, he drank another cup of coffee and headed to the station.

The early briefing was typical. A few property crimes, DUI’s and domestic incidents were the high points of the night shift. The conversations eventually strayed to talk of the weekend shootings. Kelsey glanced at Gibbs, who sat quietly during the briefing. The Patrolman finished three donuts and two cookies before he spilled coffee on his notes. The Detective just shook his head and sighed as the young officer wiped up the coffee with his sleeve.

Kelsey retired to his cubicle where he shuffled through some reports untouched from the weekend’s events. He made a list of small vehicle prowls that could be related. Papers passed from one side of his desk to the other, signatures scribbled, calls made to probation officers. The best call of the day was to the local Thai restaurant. After a quick drive, he picked up lunch and ate it at his desk while he looked through some of Samuels’ photo albums.

The Pad Thai finished, he threw the Styrofoam carton in the trash, and then returned to paperwork. He wanted a drink stronger than just coffee brewed in the office, so he snuck out the back door and drove to the espresso stand. He ordered his usual Grande Double Mocha. Kelsey savored the hot sweet taste, then detoured to the Catholic Church for a quick check-in with Father Caren. It felt odd to call someone Father who was younger than himself.

The old church had stood for decades, the stone weathered and darkened by the hand of nature. Moss grew on the tile roof. Clingy vines of ivy that had turned brown from the winter snaked up the sides of the edifice. Beside the sacred structure was an office building, constructed in the early fifties to house the more worldly functions of the Lewiston Parish.

Kelsey ambled up the steps and through the double doors of the office to a reception area dominated by a desk. No secretary worked, so he took the familiar path up the stairs to the Father’s office. Quiet voices echoed down the second floor hallway from the suite, and he walked down the wood floor and knocked on the door.

“Father Caren, it’s Detective Andrews, Lewiston Police Department.” He waited for a few seconds. Hearing a muffled invitation to enter, he slowly opened the door.

Inside the small office was a man, tall and slender, dressed in black with a white priest’s collar. He set the phone on its cradle as Kelsey entered.

“Detective Andrews,” the priest said slowly, his voice deep and smooth. “Come in and sit down.”

Kelsey looked around the room, and noticed the desk was cleared off. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I was trying to find Father Caren. If you’d just let him know I was here…”

“Father Caren is no longer assigned to this Parish,” the priest interrupted. “That’s why I’m here.”

“And you are?” Kelsey asked. “Caren gave no indication to me he was leaving.”

“Bishop Oakes, of the Ordo Umbra. Caren left this morning.” The Priest’s dark eyes stared through the Detective. “He is on a plane to the Vatican as we speak. Because of you, if you must know.”

“What is the Ordo Umbra?” Slowly Kelsey scanned the modest office. No sign of Father Caren’s stewardship of the Lewiston flock was left. The detective sat in a solid metal chair. “Is there some problem I should be aware of?”

“The Shadow Order.” The tall man sat, and then produced a folder from a briefcase beside the desk. He sat the manila colored sheaf onto the desk, and opened it. The Detective recognized the papers it contained as the ones he had left with Father Caren. “Yes, there is a problem. That’s why I am here. These copies you gave to Caren to translate are from a Latin translation of a very old book, the
Necronomicon
. Does that sound familiar?”

“Not in the least,” Kelsey said skeptically. “Should it? And I’ve never heard of the Shadow Order, either.”

“That’s all right, most Catholics haven’t heard of us. It’s no surprise you’ve never heard of the
Necronomicon
, either. All the more danger in what you’re doing,” the Priest declared. “Are you a spiritual man? Are you familiar with the book of Revelation, Detective?”

“I don’t go to church, so no offense Bishop,” he said slyly. “I am a bit familiar with churches and such. Grew up in the Church of Christ. If you play piano while singing in church you go to hell. Pretty tight bunch. I do know about the Mark of the Beast and all that jazz, from when I was a kid.”

The Priest glared. “There are several schools of thought about the meaning of Revelation. The Council of Carthage accepted the Book as canon in 397 A.D. It has always been the subject of much conjecture and debate. The Millennialism view of the work is that the final battle between good and evil will take place on the Earth, the forces of the Antichrist against God. Amillennialism theorizes that Revelation is very figurative, the battle between good and evil happens every day, and that the thousand-year-reign is figurative. The Preterist says that the Book describes Imperial Rome, and Nero. Seventh-Day Adventists say the Beast is the Papacy, us Catholics. That makes me laugh. How naïve. They need a good steak: maybe that would clear their thought processes. Being a vegetarian can’t be that healthy, can’t be good for the blood. There is another view, however…”

“This oughtta be good,” Kelsey interrupted. “I don’t believe any of this, but continue.”

“That the Antichrist is here already, and in the end of times he will awaken to end the world. Armageddon. The first beast in Revelation comes from the sea, from the abyss. The world will be changed forever. We believe that Revelation does describe the end of the world, that these Cthulhu cultists and their God are coming. Actually, his cultists are already here. He’s asleep, dead, waiting, it depends on the translation.”

“There are so many gods in this conversation. It’s like fast food restaurants. So many choices, so little time,” Kelsey laughed. “Have you really listened to yourself? Crazy talk.”

“So little time. That may be a very accurate statement, Detective. More accurate than you know.”

Kelsey smiled crookedly. “I thought that in the Book of Revelation, the good guys win in the end. That God and Jesus defeat Satan and the Antichrist. Down for the ten count. He taps out. All over. The big guy wins.”

The Bishop sat, expressionless. “One would hope that. The problem is that Revelation is written by the agents of the good guys. If humanity was destined to lose, why put that in the plan for the layperson to read? I would think writing the end of the world where the good guys lose would seriously discourage church attendance, piety, decent behavior…”

“And tithing,” Kelsey interrupted.

The Bishop ignored the detective and continued. “Religion could hardly be used to influence the masses if they knew ultimately they were on the losing side. It wouldn’t encourage people to live good lives if they knew that it was just a matter of time before this world became a hell itself. Imagine the chaos.”

The detective shrugged in disbelief, and then laughed. “I have a hard time believing that the Church knows in the end they lose. That just does not square in my brain.”

“Believe what you want. The Ordo Umbra has a different perspective on the world, even on scripture. We are privy to information that most people don’t need to know. Spiritual matters. Supernatural matters. The world is not always what it seems.”

“The Ordo Umbra, the Shadow Order. Very mysterious,” Kelsey said sarcastically. “So secret that you lay it all out to me. I’m not even a Catholic. It makes it more unbelievable.”

“You already have uncovered more than you know. This document you had copies of, the
Necronomicon
. Originally titled the
Al-Azif
, written by the mad poet Abdul Alhazred in Yemen, 700 A.D. After years of visiting ruins and years alone in the deep southern desert of Arabia, he penned the book while in Damascus. He met his end, torn to pieces by an unseen force in broad daylight and devoured in front of a crowd of witnesses. He was a Cthulhu cultist. It’s well documented.”

“Maybe the first,” Kelsey said.

“Hardly,” Bishop Oakes admonished. “Later the
Al-Azif
was translated into Greek and given the title
Necronomicon
by Theodorus Philetas of Constantinople in 950. The readers often suffered horrible fates: driven to madness, suicide, even worse. In 1228, it was translated into Latin. Pope Gregory IX banned the book in 1232, not long after its translation. The Greek and Arabic versions are long since lost to history. All the better for mankind, actually, but the Latin was reprinted in the 17th century. That is the copy of the one you had. One of the few original ones left held in the library of Miskatonic University at Arkham Most countries actively suppress the document: virtually all organized churches shun the writing. It is the heartbeat of evil in this world, a roadmap of things so alien they drive men to madness. To call them daemons is an understatement.”

“I find all of this hard to believe. I respect your position, Bishop, but secret societies, hidden knowledge, the end of the world. It’s too much, honestly.” Kelsey checked his watch. “I’ve been here too long, I think. I don’t really understand all of this Catholic stuff. People are not great at keeping secrets.”

Oakes shook his head, disgusted. “Denial is always the easiest course of action, especially staring one’s mortality in the face. Satan is almost comical. Red suit, pitchfork, tiny horns, little goatee. He seems so human, prancing about comically on cloven hooves. That makes it easier for the masses to digest. These things we talk about, massive blobs of gibbering corpulent flesh, a thousand mouths of rotting teeth crying in unison, hungering for human meat, tentacles groping in the night for victims. Pray that your path will not cross with one of the creatures that inhabit the space between darkness and nightmare. ”

“Has yours?”

“I was a Parish Priest in a little town not far from New Orleans many years ago. My first posting out of the seminary was as a Parochial Priest, under the guidance of a senior. I was a member of the Black Brotherhood, the Frater Niger: local priests who are trained to deal with hauntings, evil spirits, and demonic possession. As a member of the Brotherhood, I answered directly to my superiors in the Vatican. Very few members of the church even know we existed.”