Reanimators (12 page)

Will thanked the man, shaking his hand in a gregarious country manner, and assuring him that we would stay well clear of the Whateleys. It was another hour to the cabin, and as we traveled the woods grew wilder, thicker, and the road slowly devolved into little more than an overgrown path. As we unloaded the car, the last rays of the sun winked out behind the hills and mountains. Will lit three kerosene lamps, and built a fire in the modest fireplace. Dinner was a simple stew of salted meat and fresh vegetables. Exhausted from my journey, I retired early, looking forward to the peace that a few days in the country would bring.

The next morning, I spent a few minutes unpacking my bags and organizing the closet and dresser. For a brief moment I was unsure what to do with the bottle of moonshine, but after mulling it over, it joined my medical bag in a small trunk at the foot of the bed. Over coffee and cheese omelets Will and I discussed plans for the day, eventually agreeing to hike down to the nearby brook and spend the day fishing, and hoping for enough of a catch to make a meal or two.

The trip down to the stream, one of the many that formed the headwaters of the Miskatonic, sounded easier than it actually was. Like the road to the cabin, the path to the brook had not been in regular use, and was overgrown with limbs, saplings and brambles. More than once we had to detour around an overgrown bush or fallen tree, only to have severe difficulty in once more finding the trail. Not to say that I did not enjoy the walk; songbirds provided fine accompaniment, and both Will and I thrilled when a large buck snorted and bounded away from us. Tracks were plentiful on the trail, and after examining a particular large set Will checked his pistol and ominously said, “Wild dog.” As we came closer to the brook, made obvious by the sound of rapids, the trail grew steeper, and we were forced to use the occasional bush or sapling as tethers to keep from sliding down the slope. Inevitably, we reached the point where the slope took a drastic incline, and we had no choice but to slide down the four-foot bank on to the pebbled plain below.

As we sat there on the hard, cold, wet carpet of stones, our backsides painted with mud, we were greeted by twittering laughter which although I could not see it, I knew belonged to a young woman. Looking around, I was stunned to find a figure wrapped in an oilskin cloak standing on the ledge of a stone bridge that spanned the brook, not more than fifty yards away. On the far side of the bridge a rough-hewn stairway led down past the bank. Under other circumstances I might have been upset, but observing the state that Will and I were both in, we slowly began to chuckle, and then both of us let out a raucous guffaw. Our watcher on the bridge joined in, and soon the little stream-worn valley was echoing with our combined laughter.

Wandering slowly toward the bridge, Will called out “Do you happen to know a good spot for fishing this brook?”

The figure was suddenly quiet and still. With her cloak on her features were invisible to us, and it seemed odd that she waited so long to respond. “My pa and I always have the best luck about a mile downstream from here. Where the river turns and forms a still pond underneath a stand of birch.”

Will paused and strained to see to whom he was speaking. “You said that’s a mile downstream?”

The figure climbed backwards off the ledge. “Maybe a mile and a half. It’s a large pool underneath a stand of birch. You can’t miss it. I caught myself a four-pound catfish there just yesterday.” And then without another word the featureless young woman was gone. We could hear her as she tramped down the bridge and into the woods, and realized that the worn footpath she was traveling on was mere feet from the rugged route we had come through.

The wide shallow brook was easier to walk along than the path from the cabin, and side by side we two set off for the deep pool under the birch stand, all the while jabbering to each other about the things we had done since college. It was a refreshing change of pace, to not have to talk about Peaslee or reanimation, and soon both of us were so engrossed in our conversation that we were oblivious to the passage of time or distance. It was only when my stomach began sending out waves of hunger pangs that I glanced at my pocket watch and discovered we had been walking for nearly an hour.

Realizing we had been made the butt of a joke, we turned round and plodded our way back. Driven perhaps by hunger, frustration or embarrassment, our return pace was quicker and we soon were back at the stone bridge. This time we ascended those rough-hewn stairs, though covered as they were with moss and detritus the climb was only marginally easier than our previous slide down the bank. On the path our pace, unhindered by river rock and other debris, quickened further, and soon we were within sight of Will’s cabin.

It was plain to both of us that things were not as we left them, and upon entering the edifice our worst fears were confirmed. The rooms had been ransacked, and anything of perceivable value had been taken. The kitchen was in shambles, with the vast majority of dry goods left behind, but the meats, cheeses and the like missing, as was the cooking oil. After the initial shock wore off, Will and I began trying to make a list of things that were missing, and soon we had both wandered into our separate bedrooms to examine what remained of our personal belongings. My good winter coat was gone, as was a pair of long underwear, and my extra thick socks. My toiletry kit had been rifled, but apparently nothing in it was of any interest. With great reluctance I opened the trunk at the foot of the bed where I had deposited my medical kit. With a sigh of relief I found my kit intact with everything present. It was only after a brief moment that I furtively began searching through the case and then the trunk itself. For while my kit was intact, two things were missing. Of the missing jar of moonshine that I had been given as a gift for my act of medical kindness, I could not care less; but it was that other item that was missing, the thing that Muñoz had surreptitiously added to my supplies, that made me quake with worry and fear. Whoever had been in the cabin had taken something I had to get back, something more powerful, more dangerous than the missing shotgun Will was complaining about. Missing was that glowing green vial of reanimation fluid that Muñoz had so thoughtfully added to my medical bag.

We spent the afternoon cleaning up the mess that was left us and restoring a sense of order to the cabin that was our temporary abode. Thankfully, there were enough foodstuffs left to us to create a few meager meals, though we both agreed that another trip to Osborne’s Store was going to be needed. So after a brief discussion of needed supplies it was agreed that we would set out on foot the next morning, hiking down to the town and then back. Although perhaps not the easiest way—we could have driven down—Will assured me that there was a footpath that led to town, and I hoped that the walk would serve to further clear my head of the madness that seemed to have crept in over the years.

Sadly, such simple delights were not to be had. Long after the sun went down, and an hour or so after Will and I had moved into the cabin, we heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the path leading to the cabin, accompanied by the heavy labored breathing and lumbering gait of some sort of beast of burden. We exchanged confused glances as the sounds came closer, changing in tone as they reached the stone walkway, and then again as someone mounted the wooden porch. When the door was quickly rapped twice we were both already on our way to answer it.

The man standing outside in the dark was a stranger to us, but the figure in the cloak standing behind him with the calf was the same one we saw on the bridge earlier in the day. Even more recognizable were the contents of the crates that were being laid out on the ground, for they were none other than the missing supplies that had been burgled earlier in the day.

Reluctantly, the stranger stepped forward into the light, revealing an older man with a round head surmounted with a grizzled grey beard and fringe with wild eyes. Around his shoulders he was wearing an old Indian blanket decorated with odd geometric designs and strange angular figures that I could not place as man, beast, or fowl. When he spoke his voice was a throaty whine. “I have come to apologize for my daughter,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the figure with the calf. “She ain’t accustomed to strangers in these parts, and with all the excitement of late she seems to have forgotten that she shouldn’t take what doesn’t belong to her.” Suddenly the young woman was standing beside her father with an armful of our supplies. The firelight revealed what we had not seen earlier in the day: alabaster skin, chalk hair and eyes with cherry-colored pupils, she was a textbook case of albinism. That was all that was needed to reveal the identities of the pair before us, Noah Whateley and his simple daughter Lavinia, the two individuals we had been warned to steer clear of.

Without a word of invitation the two moved through the door and began unloading a crate on the rough wooden table that occupied the majority of the front room. Like me, Will was flabbergasted, and as the pair walked back and forth bringing in crate after crate of dry goods and gear, we two stood in stunned silence. Not that we had much choice, for the two strangers were constantly jabbering to themselves in a strange patois of which I could only comprehend a few words, most of which were apologies and supplications of one form or another. After a half dozen trips the calf was unburdened and the table was cluttered with what appeared to be the vast majority of our missing materials, though one or two things were noticeably missing. I was about to say something when the old man reached beneath his blanket and pulled out an empty bottle.

“Lavinia, like her mother, has a taste for spirits. I’ll see if I can obtain you another bottle.” The young girl hung her head in shame.

I shook my head. “There’s no need, but there was another bottle, much smaller, that I would like back.”

The old man turned to his daughter who seemed to crawl deep inside her cloak. “Sorry, Pa,” she said. “I drank that one as well. It had such an awful taste. I fell into such a terrible fit, and when I was done, the bottle was broken.”

I dipped my head and rubbed the space between my now closed eyes. “How do you feel now?’

“Just as right as rain, mister, I sure am sorry that I did what I did. I was just excited about going to the congregation, and lost my wits for a moment. Pa says I shouldn’t steal no matter what, I hope I ain’t done no harm.”

I paused, trying to think of something to say, for unwittingly this young lady had become a participant in my study of the effects of the reagent on the living. At least now I knew that the solution taken in extreme doses was not a poison. “No, Lavinia, you’ve done no harm, none at all.”

The old man shuffled back into the darkness. “Come on, girl, time we got on up to the hill. Folks there’ll be awaiting for us before the sacred rites begin.”

Will and I exchanged puzzled glances. “You’ll be up on Sentinel Hill tonight then, praying?”

Noah Whateley whipped around and fervor filled his eyes. “Me and mine will be doing more than praying up there. There’s too much praying in this world, people asking for things and not offering anything in return. Most folks have forgotten the old ways, what obeisance and sacrifice truly meant.” His voice was strained. “But we haven’t, not us Whateleys, we still remember the real reason the Christ was born in a manger, and we will gladly give forth the same sacrifice. You would be wise to find your way back to the old ways, young sirs.”

With that the old man and his albino daughter with the calf in tow wandered into the darkness and were swallowed up by the forest, leaving Will and me to stare in silence as their footsteps faded into the depths of the night.

Will turned to me and with a half-mocking tone suggested that we might follow them on up to Sentinel Hill and spy on their sacred rites. I shook my head. “That, I think, would be an extremely bad idea.” Will chuckled and we went inside to put the newly returned supplies back in order.

That night we two retired at a little past eight in the evening. Having been up early and busy all day, I had no problem falling into a deep and restful slumber, that I wished I had never been awoken from, but that was not the case. It was well after midnight when I was roused from bed in a most unusual manner. At first I had thought it was a thunderclap of immense proportions that jolted me awake and onto the floor, but it soon became apparent that was not the case. The sound and accompanying vibration rolled through the house making picture frames shift, pottery clink and the glass in the windows shudder. Throwing on my pants and a shirt, I rushed into the main room to find Will doing the same thing.

“Earthquake?” I asked buttoning my pants.

My friend gave me a puzzled look. “They did say they’ve been having tremors.”

It was then that we noticed the light seeping through the window. Not moonlight but an inky violet, unnatural pulsing radiance that seemed too weak to cast shadows, but seeped into corners and places where it had no right to go. Will casually picked up his rifle and we cautiously opened the door.

The eerie pulsating radiance that had been seeping through the window filled the clearing and cast queer shadows amongst the trees and underbrush. Its origin was apparently a cluster of roiling storm clouds that had gathered in the distance above Sentinel Hill. The pulsing light was something akin to heat lightning, but for the life of me I would have sworn that something was inside those clouds, something massive, titanic even, something that coiled and pulsated with unnatural life, and with each beat gave off a burst of that cold colored light, illuminating the clouds and casting the valley in a shade not known to men. Each wave of radiation, whether slight or intense, was accompanied by a proportional tremor, like a wave, that rolled down from the hill and into the valley, rattling not only our residence, but even the trees and shrubs themselves. I could not fathom how an atmospheric phenomenon, even one as abnormal as this, could generate such a response in the very Earth itself. Will recited a short prayer, and for a moment I wished that I had faith so that I could seek some comfort in it.