Reanimators (13 page)

As my eyes adjusted to the weird light, I became aware of yet other lights. These were fires, huge bonfires that dotted the crown of Sentinel Hill, and by their flickering light I could see a dozen or so figures moving about on the crest. What they were doing I cannot rightly say, but their movements were animated, and seemed timed with the pulsating lights. Nor could I discern the presence of the Whateleys, but something in my gut told me that they were central to the chaos that was unfolding up on the small mountain. There were other lights too, balls of white light that seemed to circle the larger cloud like moths to a flame. There was a sound that came with them as they zoomed around, a high-pitched buzzing or whistling, perhaps one might have even called it a maniacal piping.

Entranced by the light show on the hill, and above it, I failed to notice the strange activity that was occurring around me, and only became aware of it when Will nudged me on the shoulder and gestured towards the edge of the forest. Even with such prompting it took me a moment to understand what I was supposed to see, but then my eyes beheld such strangeness, such an unnatural occurrence, that the experiments that had been performed in my own lab seemed tame by comparison. Above the woods, moving away from the hill were birds, great flocks of birds, so much so that for brief instances they blotted out the sky. They moved in silence, and I could make out owls, hawks, whippoorwills, doves, and even the occasional bat as they passed overhead, all in eerie silence. But it wasn’t birds and bats alone. From the direction of the hill small game suddenly began traipsing out of the forest, squirrels, raccoons, opossums, porcupines, rabbits all paid us no heed as they scrambled past. Something large broke cover and startled both of us; a four-point buck bounded through the clearing. Will raised the rifle and tried to find a shot, but something stopped him from pulling the trigger, and he lowered the gun with tears coming from his eyes. There were larger things moving through the forest outside of our sight, boar, bear, maybe even wolves, but for all the novelty of this strange migration it paled in comparison to what was happening in the sky above Sentinel Hill.

There was a sudden explosion and the strange light turned a sickly green. My eyes hurt to look at it, but at the same time I found that I could not turn away. The cloud shrank, condensed, folded in on itself; it ceased being amorphous, and the swirling lights plunged inside. Where once had been a cloud, now was a near-perfect sphere, pulsing with sickly green radiation. Without sound or warning, the strange sphere suddenly split, and where there was one, there were now two. Then again, and again, splitting into a congeries of bubbles that seethed and crawled across the sky toward the figures that still pranced about on that loathsome hill. As the thing moved forward, some of the revelers noticed and began to run, and from the distant sound of their screams, they were in abject terror. Others fell to the ground and lay still, while one, who even from this distance was identifiable as Noah Whateley based on the stylized robes he wore, seemed to raise his arms up chanting a strange indecipherable hymn.

The bubble thing swarmed over the hill, engulfing its precipice, and laying waste to it like a great hand reaching down and clearing the earth. Rocks and trees were uprooted and flew through the air like a child’s playthings, and in their path, those who had earlier fled were suddenly mowed down by the airborne debris. Even around our camp, Will and I ran for shelter as pebbles and dirt rained into our midst. When we turned back, the green glowing mass was suddenly a single sphere again, and shrinking fast, but as it grew smaller it grew brighter, and the brighter it grew, the worse it hurt to look at it. It shrank so fast, in seconds it was the size of a small house, then a man, then in the blink of an eye it was a street light, a lantern, a pinprick, and then in an instant it was gone. But only for an instant, for as it winked out, a massive amount of illumination seemed to explode, radiate out from the point it had once occupied, bathing the surrounding area in a brilliant if eerie light. As the explosive radiation struck me, there arose from my skin an intense amount of pain, and I quickly realized that in a matter of seconds I had received the equivalent of a severe case of sunburn. As William and I retreated into the house for cover I saw the plants around the cabin suddenly stiffen and their leaves wither as if in a state of extreme desiccation.

The radiating light faded quickly, and although our skin was tender we were not severely injured. We had been fortunate in that we had been able to retreat to a shelter, but I knew that there were others, those who had fled from the hill, and those still on it, who must have suffered more severe burns or even injuries from the flying debris. Houghton and I had a quick discussion and within moments we were loaded down with supplies and headed up the hill in search of the wounded.

About halfway up the hill we found our first victim. He was lodged under a large tree that had apparently come down on his legs, which were obviously broken. He wasn’t moving, and I thought that either the impact had killed him, or he was unconscious. I was wrong on both suppositions. The man was dead, but it hadn’t been the tree. His throat showed a clear straight cut; the trapped man had been murdered. And in our trek up the hill we learned he wasn’t the only one. Of the eight additional bodies we found, six had died from either debris or exposure to the intense sickening radiation. The other two had been killed like the first, throats slit, death by exsanguination. With each discovery William became more nervous, and as we made our way up to the top of Sentinel Hill he clung to his rifle like a child to a comforting blanket.

I cannot fully describe the extreme devastation that I bore witness to on the hill, but I will say that never before or since have I seen such a thing. I have not been out to see for myself what they are calling the Dunwich Horror, but I can’t imagine that it is in any manner worse than what I saw that day. The world had been destroyed on that low peak, the vegetation, all life was gone. The soil had turned to ash which the wind was rapidly stripping away, leaving nothing but barren rock behind. There remained the great megalithic erections that had stood for countless ages, still grey, somber and menacing but now covered here and there with ashen shadows that made me shiver, for the shape of some of those shadows was undeniably human, and hinted that those who had remained on the hill during the explosion had been incinerated, leaving only this eerie trace. Yet it was those other ashen shadows that bothered me even more. I know William saw them, for he too went strangely silent, and we trudged down back to the cabin and into town in silence.

We only spoke when we used the phone to call the sheriff in from Aylesbury. We spent the next day telling our tale to various officials, who cast doubt on our version, for by the time they reached the site, there were no bodies to be found, and Noah Whateley and his daughter Lavinia had been found safely ensconced in their farm home. The authorities admitted something had happened on the hill, a freak tornado perhaps, but I don’t think they saw the ashen shadows on the standing stones, and neither of us ever mentioned them again. I speak of them now, only because it offers up some clue as to what happened then, and perhaps what has happened more recently.

There were, as I have said, the shadows of men, but some were undeniably the shadows of women, and there should be no reason for one to think that women would not have been present on the hill. But it was the other shadows that disturbed us, the ones that seemed to be grasping the images of men and women, embracing them in wanton ways that I chose not to describe. No man could cast such a shadow. I will admit that the six sets of appendages may have been the result of some sort of odd effect, like a double image on a photograph from a long exposure in which the subject moves. But the limbs that were captured in those negative images on the great rocks, they were thin, like pipes or rods, and the bodies were rounded ovals that seemed more like some kind of titanic beetle or crab than that of a human. But worst of all were the strange singular appendages that jutted out oddly from the shadowed things, appendages that linked the monstrous shadows to those of the more human shades, seemingly penetrating not only the bodies of the women but the men as well.

Chapter 12.

THE MYSTERIOUS DOCTOR C.

The State Police were kind enough to drive me back to Arkham, which I appreciated mostly because of the sudden cold that had unexpectedly seeped down from the north. By the time we arrived at my Crane Street home the chilly winds had dipped below forty degrees. Moreover, the weather forecast which I heard over the officer’s radio suggested that such weather would be impacting the whole of New England for a week or so. Thus, I was not surprised when I saw my colleague Muñoz walking down Crane Street, enjoying the night air. As I exited the cruiser, Muñoz helped me with my bags, and soon we were inside the house, each of us relating events that had occurred over the last few days.

I was by all accounts still on vacation, and because of what we thought was going to be the beginning of a warming trend, Muñoz had no patients either. All appointments were in Wilson’s capable hands. This created an interesting opportunity which Muñoz related to me and suggested we take advantage of. Over the months, Muñoz had isolated several ingredients which were crucial to the tests we were carrying out. One of these, a specially treated royal bee jelly, was difficult to come by, but we had secured a steady supply to meet our needs. The other ingredient, an enzyme isolated from the nervous tissue of crocodilians and other large reptiles, was more difficult to obtain, not because it was rarer, but rather because it was apparently in higher demand. We had located a supplier in the vicinity of El Mirada, Florida, but his entire production was spoken for by a researcher in a nearby city. Muñoz had contacted the man, and after exchanging letters and a telephone call, we had been invited down to meet with him, examine his research, and if we could resolve his particular problem, he should free up the supply of saurian enzyme.

It amazed me that I had not heard of this man before, particularly given that I knew most of those who had given themselves over to researches into reanimation or life extension, but Muñoz assured me that the man was genuine, and that his lack of notoriety was not the result of incompetence or quackery, but rather of self-imposed isolation. Apparently he had had some success with his studies, but as a result had suffered a condition that made it difficult, if not dangerous, to meet with the public. He was, however, the holder of several intellectual and physical properties which provided him significant income in lieu of actually seeing patients. If we were to see him, and successfully carry out the procedures he desired, not only would the saurian enzyme become more available, he would also transfer over the rights to one of his properties as a form of payment. After some discussion Muñoz and I both agreed that it was an opportunity neither of us could resist. There was, however, some concern over Muñoz’s own medical requirements, for if the cold snap were to suddenly end, Muñoz would need immediate access to the cool air that helped to keep him in a semblance of life. Not surprisingly, Muñoz had come up with a solution to the problem. He had recently purchased an arctic survival suit several sizes too big, and modified the well-insulated outfit with pockets for ice. Thus, while such an outfit might appear strange, it would at least keep the man safe while he returned to Arkham.

The journey we undertook was comfortable and enjoyable. Muñoz genuinely seemed to love the open air and landscape that we passed through, and even the city streets, a change from the sleepy little village of Arkham, seemed to engage him. The house at which we arrived was a classic antiquarian structure, with architecture uncommon in the New England repertoire, and complemented with an attention to detail and design that was both subtle and enthralling. Situated on a large lot, the three-story house seemed too large for one man to occupy, and indeed around the edges, there was evidence that the upkeep of the property had become somewhat lax, with bushes overgrown, weeds invading the flower beds and paint peeling from the porch handrails. The stairs creaked as we ascended them, as did the doorknocker, indicating that it had not been used in some time. Still, mere moments after we sounded our presence the great door creaked open and our host was revealed to us.

To this point, I have not yet revealed the name of our mysterious colleague, his residence, or any other personal information, and it is my full intention not to do so, for reasons that will become apparent. So for the purpose of this document I will refer to him under the pseudonym of Dr. C. Dr. C was a small man, light of frame with long gangly limbs and fingers. His neck was fat and short and topped with an oval-shaped bald head that twitched back and forth. On either side of his head were small, nearly undeveloped ears. His eyes were large and spaced far apart above a broad flat nose, which itself was set above a nearly lipless slash of a mouth. When he spoke, he revealed two rows of tiny teeth, like neat little intermeshing nubs and a large active bright pink tongue. His English, although excellent and well mannered, was tinted with a French accent.

As the good doctor ushered us into his home we were immediately struck by an extreme change in climate. While the external clime had remained chilly, although comfortable for Muñoz, the interior of Dr. C’s home was maintained in what I can only describe as tropical conditions, with high temperatures and equally high humidity. I immediately began to sweat profusely, but Muñoz’s response was more violent, and a look of abject terror overtook his countenance. We had been there for less than a minute and Rafael, in fear for his life, was already retreating back outside, to the relative safety and comfort of the cold.

Oddly, he was stopped by Dr. C, who apologized and, throwing open a hallway door, ushered the two of us down into the darkness. After we traversed a short flight of stairs and passed through another door we found ourselves in a large rough-hewn stone chamber. The air was noticeably cooler; indeed the temperature was easily well below that outside, and I could tell Muñoz was relaxing. As the lights came on we soon came to understand how this had been accomplished, for there in one corner of the cellar, linked to a complex of pipes and ducts, was an immense mechanical apparatus that looked quite a bit like the heat engine that resided in my own basement. What Dr. C had done was to apply the same concept on a grander scale. Where our engine gathered heat from a single room and then shunted it away to other areas, this engine gathered small amounts of heat from a number of sources, and then warmed the entire house. The cellar, which was apparently built with access to a well, was frigidly cold because the well water was a primary source for this heat engine, and indeed while the water flowing up out of the well was cool, the water leaving the heat engine was frigid, nearly frozen, and this small amount of energy, harvested in vast quantities, was the source of the heat. So, ironically, the engine that maintained the threatening temperatures throughout the house also maintained a cool enough condition in the cellar for Muñoz to be comfortable. Indeed, the engine even produced ice that could be used to line Muñoz’s coat and allow him freedom to move about the steamy home above. Once Muñoz had acquired sufficient amounts of ice for his suit, the two of us were soon touring Dr. C’s home in relative comfort.

The first floor of the sprawling house was comprised of two main sections: the front rooms, including the parlor, library, dining room and conservatory, and those beyond the kitchen, which included three distinct vivariums. In these he raised a variety of exotic plants and animals, including pitcher plants, exotic lichens, weird deep sea clams and jellyfish, caimans, and a selection of freshwater eels, amongst others. These all radiated out from a single central laboratory comprised of gleaming steel cabinets, porcelain fixtures, dissection tables and an assortment of glass apparatus that in all truth reminded me a great deal of the facility that was located in my own household. It was in this setting that Dr. C explained that he had in recent years come to believe that the secret to extending the human life span was to be found in the anatomy and endocrine systems of the crocodilian species. He had over the years learned that these animals, although primitive in appearance, had in fact a highly developed immune system that was capable of not only fighting off disease and toxins, but of repairing damaged tissues at an accelerated rate, and even replacing entire organs as they approached their eventual senescence. In many ways what Dr. C spoke of reflected that we had heard from Alexis Carrel, albeit at a more advanced stage. As Dr. C lectured, Muñoz and I exchanged knowing glances and I knew that we agreed that we had found a kindred spirit who was perhaps, if not on the same path, then at least traveling nearby.

We spoke for about an hour or so, and then in a most agreeable mood Dr. C handed us both folders containing copies of his experiments, conclusions, theories and proposals, and left us alone to study them at our leisure. Muñoz retreated to the artificially cool cellar while I was shown to a room on the second floor. Even on the upper story the heat was tremendous, but Dr. C suggested that I adjust the temperature by plugging the duct work and partially opening the window and letting some of the cooler outside air in. It only took minutes for me to find a balance between the two and obtain a state that was neither too hot nor too cold.

It took several hours for me to digest all of Dr. C’s research and theories, and by the end of it my brain was fairly swimming with possibilities. So full of ideas was I that on more than a single occasion I had to be reminded that it was improper to speak of work during dinner. Dr. C served lobster bisque followed by a tasty baked vegetable dish which he called Ratatouille de Ego, a recipe he learned from a woman named Antoinette who had been his mistress when he lived in France. Dessert was a banana pudding topped with nutmeg and a dash of cinnamon. After clearing the table, Dr. C joined us in the study for brandy and cigars. It was then that the three of us finally sat down and discussed Dr. C’s research and proposal.

I will not bore the reader with the finer details of the theories and methods proposed by our host, but to understand what happened next some exposition must be made. Dr. C had long ago isolated certain hormones, compounds and specialty cells from the glands of various reptiles and other animals and had then concocted an elixir that had served to keep him preserved for an extended period of time. How long he had lived he would not say, but he implied that he was well over a century in age. As with all things, particularly living things, a new problem had developed. The rejuvenation elixir, which was remarkably similar to my own reagent, seemed to preferentially target organs that were most in need of repair, while other, seemingly less vital organs were not renewed at all. So while Dr. C’s heart was in excellent condition, he had in the last year broken three ribs.

Not surprisingly, Dr. C had developed a possible treatment, including a procedure that would likely resolve the issue. His proposal required exposure to the elixir during an extended period of quiescence, most likely years, during which the elixir would completely rebuild him. He likened this to the metamorphosis of caterpillars into butterflies, or the estivation of some fish species during periods of extreme drought. Unfortunately, the human body was not designed for such prolonged periods of hibernation. Nor could Dr. C imagine the machinery necessary to administer the elixir over that extended period of time. What he could imagine is what he had seen in his own laboratory, individual crocodilians of such resilience that the impacts of drought and famine, even extending for years, could be tolerated. Likewise the glands of these animals seemed reasonably sturdy and open to transplant and manipulation, and indeed that is what he had done. In the laboratory facility in his home Dr. C had selectively merged the glands and tissues of a dozen creatures to create a single artificial construct that would function as an organic generator of his elixir. Similarly, he had created another such organ that would serve to aid in the storage and release of nutrients during the extended period of quiescence. Like some animals, he might emerge from his artificial hibernation on occasion to replenish food and water, only to return to a state of torpor once his needs were satisfied.

It was a magnificent, beautiful, terrifying and horrifying plan, and I was as much for it as I was opposed to it. In the end, after much deliberation, I had no choice but to reject any possibility of my being involved with such a procedure. It was simply too risky, and I was not willing to take such risks with a patient that seemed in no imminent danger. I suggested that we delay the procedure until animal experiments were complete and successful. Not surprisingly, Dr. C refused to follow this more conservative path of treatment, as he was dead set on beginning the process as quickly as possible, with the understanding that it might take years to accumulate sufficient nutrient reserves to initiate the torpor he wanted to enter. What was surprising was Muñoz’s reaction, for instead of siding with me, he sided with Dr. C, suggesting that whatever risk existed was best understood and borne fully by the very man who had developed the procedure. It was an impasse and we argued late into the night. In the end, we left the study in total disagreement.

The next morning nothing had changed, and reluctantly I found myself traveling back to Arkham alone. Over the next few days I packed up Dr. Rafael Muñoz’s personal belongings and I crated up his strange coffin-like transportation. Workmen removed them to a truck which I hired to take them to Dr. C’s residence. I sent several letters, at first merely professional, covering my progress on the reagent and making several suggestions for both Dr. C’s and his own treatments, but neither they nor the later more personal letters were ever answered. That chilly May of 1912 was the last I ever saw of my friend Dr. Rafael Muñoz.