Reanimators (14 page)

Chapter 13.

THE SHADOW WANES

While I lamented the loss of my colleague and friend, the truth of the matter is that his departure marked the beginning of what can safely be said to be my own story. What I have told you up to now has merely been prelude. By the summer of 1912 my preliminary research was complete, my formula had been finalized, and I was ready to begin long-term clinical trials on human beings. Let me be clear, I consciously chose to use my patients as unwitting subjects of my experiments in reanimation using a reagent designed to be administered much as a vaccine would be, through a series of regular inoculations over the course of many years. My partner, fellow doctor Francis Wilson, had no knowledge of my intentions or of what I did over the next fifteen years. I alone am to blame for these macabre experiments, and for the events that they would lead to, the deaths of three men for which I am accused of murder.

It was June when I began treatments in earnest. As patients came in for regular appointments and treatments, I randomly exposed them to three different levels of treatment, and a fourth option, which was no treatment at all and provided a control group. As the vast majority of my patients were employees of Miskatonic University, the resulting study groups were primarily comprised of University faculty and staff. As much as I would like to protect my patients and maintain their privacy, the truth of the matter is that my files have already been riffled and those who were exposed have already been identified, and I will admit that my long-term patients, including Professors Henry Armitage and Laban Shrewsbury, were treated with the reagent. Additionally, Randolph Carter, and both Professor Henry Jones and his son, were exposed to the reagent, but as these three, amongst others, left my care, they did not receive a full regiment. To fully document who was treated and to what extent, I would have to consult my notes, which are currently held by the police. It may also be scientifically, and perhaps legally, relevant to discuss which individuals were members of my control group and therefore not treated. As with those exposed to the reagent, I would have to consult my notes to provide an accounting for this group, but as best memory serves me these individuals included Edward Derby, Zorad Hoag, and Franklin Scudder. All in all nearly one hundred and fifty people were in one way or another treated with my formula that summer, and I have no doubt, for my data leaves no room for doubt, that these treatments have had significant impacts on resistance to injury and disease, as well as longevity. I challenge anyone to review the collected data and dispute these conclusions.

Strangely, or perhaps unexpectedly, as I undertook my great experiment I found that it had been some time since I had dealt with the enmity that I had once felt for Herbert West and his aide. Indeed, while I still blamed the two for the death of my parents eight years earlier, the rage that had initially fueled my researches had waned, and for the first time in a long period of my life I seemed at peace. I dismantled Muñoz’s refrigeration unit, and disposed of my extensive colony of experimental rats. I had no need for this equipment anymore. All of Arkham was my laboratory, and I reveled in the knowledge that if the formula worked as I hoped, the residents of Arkham would enjoy long lives free from the debilitations of disease and serious injury. It could lead to a golden age, a utopia of peace and serenity undreamed of save by the most idealistic of poets and philosophers.

What a fool I was, for somehow I had forgotten the lessons taught to me by my own experiments as well as those of Herbert West. I should have realized that one day, my lack of forethought would rise up, like forgotten Titans, and threaten everything I held dear.

Still, I was happy at the time, Wilson and I were enjoying our work, and without Muñoz, and the pressures of my rats, I became more open and outgoing, enjoying life as I had not since before I had become a doctor. It was inevitable that a creeping doom should cast its long-forgotten shadow over my life. In September I received a note from Peaslee, who was in Oslo of all places, recently returned from a disappointing trip to Spitzbergen. It was his intention to return to the United States as soon as possible. There were disturbing undercurrents in the politics of Europe and he had no desire to spend much more time there. His travels would bring him back in October to New York from where he would travel to some caverns in West Virginia. He was to spend several weeks in the area and then head west to visit with a man named Kirowan in Texas. Although not made explicit, there seemed to be a growing sense of ennui in Peaslee’s writing. That his global travels had taken a physical toll I had no doubt, but the price seemed to be psychological, and there was some suggestion that he would be returning to Arkham within the next year.

The thought of Peaslee, or more precisely the thing that was pretending to be Peaslee, returning to Arkham made me sick. Yes, it was true that he had been responsible for helping me perfect my formula, and he had introduced me to Muñoz, but his presence, the thought of his presence, created in me such an anxiety that as the end of that lazy summer approached, something untoward happened. It was little more than a notion at first, but it then grew into a thought, and then an idea. Before long it was a plot and then a plan. Somehow or another, the hate that I had once felt for Herbert West had been transplanted to the Peaslee thing, and as the summer turned into the fall I sat down with pen and paper and carefully figured out how to kill the thing that called itself Professor Peaslee.

Chapter 14.

THE LAST TRANSLATION
OF PR. PEASLEE

Once he returned to the United States, Peaslee’s correspondence increased dramatically, and except for the two weeks that he was incommunicado in western Virginia, I was subjected to at least three letters per week detailing his travels around the country. These letters did not find their way to the newspapers, for I felt them to have no redeeming value beyond titillating the public. His travels, which crisscrossed the nation, were primarily by train or hired car, and were now focused on reading the most esoteric of volumes and communicating with the oddest of people. His focus had over the years moved steadily from the mainstream of culture to the branches of mysticism, and now finally to the fringes where the most disturbing and repudiated proponents of human thought were to be found.

He spent much time at the Sanbourne Institute in California, and even more at a settlement of Indians in the desert of Nevada. Funds were expended in the form of donations to gain access to various university libraries, but for little more than a day or so. A colleague of mine wrote to me concerning his visit, an event that had greatly disturbed the library curator. It seemed that Peaslee had met with a dean of New York’s Hudson University and had some way or another persuaded him to allow him access to the University’s collection of rare medieval manuscripts. What disturbed my friend the most was the manner in which the dean, normally a most strong-willed individual, seemed to be completely under Peaslee’s influence. Indeed, following the visit the poor man remained in a kind of haze for days afterwards, and only recovered after the administration of several powerful stimulants. Curiously, and perhaps most disturbing, was that the dean had no recollection of the events of the week, or even of meeting with Peaslee at all.

Once word of the Hudson University incident began circulating, Peaslee found it more and more difficult to gain access to facilities, and by June of 1913 it was clear from his letters that he would soon be returning home to Arkham. In the middle of July I was asked to retain a pair of servants and a workman, and to make the house ready for his return. It was a relatively simple task and one that I took some delight in, for as I set about having the house made ready, I took time to formulate a plan for what can only be thought of as the murder of Professor Peaslee. I walked through the house and explored all the rooms. With the housekeeper and the maid I set schedules, routines and menus. With the handyman, a young engineering student by the name of Crawford Tillinghast, I created and prioritized a list of repairs and projects needed about the house and garden. Although I hadn’t done it for quite some time, I made a trip to the bank and reviewed the investments and available funds. I was quite surprised at the balances and realized that Peaslee’s investments had earned far more than he could possibly spend, and had accumulated a substantial savings. In the end I was in a magnificent position to plot, arrange and bring to fruition the death of Peaslee, and for that very reason, as his return became more imminent, I realized that it would be foolish to carry such an act out. For there was no more likely a suspect than I, and I had no desire to have my practice investigated by the authorities. So, as much as I would have liked, I had to put aside my desire to kill Peaslee.

The man himself sent word that he would be returning to Arkham in early August, and I arranged it so that I was personally available to meet him at the train station and transport him home. The years of travel had not been kind to Peaslee. He was thin, gauntly thin, and his eyes were sunken and heavy. His skin hung loosely in places like a second set of clothes. Despite this, he seemed rather energetic, though I was reminded that he had been subjected to a dose of the reagent that allowed for increased metabolic health. His demeanor was positive, and he greeted me with as much enthusiasm as he ever had. He had little baggage, and after loading it into the cab we drove home. He spoke at length about recent dreams that he had been having, strange dreams that brought back memories of his former life. He had visions of his classroom, and his students, as well as of the frustration he dealt with in writing his paper on seasonal patterns in economic trends. There were also discussions of his wife and family and memories of birthdays and holiday events.

I took these revelations with some skepticism, for although he spoke at length of these personal matters, they lacked any specific details, and were so generalized that they could have been memories of nearly anyone’s life. He persisted in relating the existence of such memories to whomever would listen, and over the course of several weeks the story had expanded to include some details, but only of the most superficial kind. For example, he suddenly had memories of the names of former students, but could not describe any of them. Likewise he knew that one of his sons collected insects, but couldn’t tell you which child that was. To me it took on the appearance that he was laying the groundwork for something, much as a writer will provide foreshadowing of major plot twists. The whole thing grated on me, and in late August I asked that he refer any future medical needs to Dr. Wilson. As for our so-called business relationship, I asked to be removed of my responsibilities. I fully expected him to threaten me with extortion over my experiments, but Peaslee simply slumped back in his chair. He seemed resigned to the thought that the days in which he could bully me into submission were long past.

The next month or so was quite difficult for me, as I did my best to ignore the man who had so greatly influenced my life over the last few years, and with whom I had finally broken, despite the fact that he lived just a few yards away. I kept tabs on the staff, and from them I learned of an odd device or machine that was being constructed. Peaslee had, over the course of several days, placed orders with craftsmen and manufacturers all over the world, and it was toward the middle of September that these orders were coming to fruition. What the device was, no one could say, and Peaslee had barred the housekeeper and maid from the room in which it had been assembled. The workman, whose knowledge of tools and parts was apparently needed at some point, described the mechanism as a confusion of metal rods and mirrors, some concave, some convex, assembled in a complex manner reminiscent of a weathervane or a whirligig. Peaslee was obsessed with the thing, apparently spending hours tinkering with its parts and perfecting the motions of its components. What it actually was, the workman would not hazard.

Peaslee redoubled his efforts to convince people that he was regaining some of his old memories, often suggesting that he was drifting in and out of different states of being in which he was at one point his new persona, and then once more his old self. I listened to these secondhand discourses with some amusement, as it was becoming more and more apparent, at least to me, that Peaslee was planning something untoward, and I shuddered at the things that I believed he had already done, and the loss of life that had resulted. Just a few days later, all of my suspicions were validated when the first chapter of the strange case of the man who forgot himself came to a crashing end.

For me, the events that led to the final closure began on Monday, September 22, 1913, for that was the day that I first saw the swarthy man that seemed to play such a crucial part in those final days. The high days of summer had passed, and now that the temperature was more tolerable I would spend my mornings between breakfast and my first patient lounging on the front veranda with my coffee and the morning edition of The Arkham Advertiser. I found such morning repasts to be invigorating. The sound of the city waking up, birds singing, bees buzzing, car engines humming in a mechanical drone, the soft regular step of the milkman, and the wind meandering through the streets and the trees brought a sense of much-desired normalcy to my day. But it was on that particular Monday that I noticed the dark sedan roll cautiously onto the street and crawl down the row like a cat, until it found a found a convenient place to park. Truth be said, that car to me was like an entity unto itself; with its dark windows and sleek look I did not think of it as a machine or as a possession of someone else that was operating it. No, for me that sedan was its own creature with its own will and motivations. It was only when the door opened and the swarthy man stepped out did it even dawn on me to think that there was an actual driver.

As I have said, he was a swarthy man, olive-skinned, lean with a foreign manner to his stance and walk. He was clean-shaven with round glasses perched below bushy eyebrows. Oddly, he wore no hat, nor did he even carry one. His hair was jet-black and neatly cut. As he walked he took out a pack of cigarettes, even from a distance I could tell they were Morleys, and he casually lit one before shaking the match out and letting it fall into the street. His steps, as I said, had a foreign manner to them, but he walked with purpose and determination to a rhythm that was in my mind not entirely benign. He walked as if he planned to hurt someone, as if there would soon be blood on his hands.

I leaned back into the shadows, hoping that my presence would remain unnoticed, but the movement revealed me and as those eyes turned to look at me a shudder traveled down my spine. His stride never broke as he looked me up and down with those deep black eyes that peered out from behind the curls of smoke rising from his cigarette. He took a long smooth drag before palming the smoke and reaching the curb. I stared back, mesmerized by his graceful movements and penetrating gaze. It was only after he reached the steps to Peaslee’s home that he turned away, and in that moment I knew without a doubt that all the things that I had ever suspected Peaslee of doing, all those horrible things, all those dead people, I knew then that they were true, and I knew that Peaslee had brought that horror home with him to Arkham.

The swarthy man was ushered inside by Peaslee himself, and I saw no more of him that first day, though I knew that he was gone by noon, which was when the housekeeper and maid always began their days. Peaslee had long ago adjusted the schedule of the house to one of his own liking, and that included privacy in the morning hours, after which he would often consume a massive midday meal followed by a similar evening meal. Both the housekeeper and the maid would normally stay at least until eight in the evening. Not bound to this schedule was the workman who would begin his day much earlier, but had strict instructions not to enter the house in the morning or to create any significant disturbances prior to that. Thus the gardening and any of the light outdoor work was carried out in the early part of the day while other noisier work was delayed to the afternoon.

The pattern repeated itself on Tuesday and Wednesday, though on these days the visitor carried with him several large iron-clasped books with tattered covers and thick rough-cut pages. Large metallic characters that I did not recognize were inscribed on their covers, and consisted mainly of groupings of triangular shapes linked by lines. Intrigued, and knowing that whatever was going on between the two men was likely of a devious nature, I took some time Thursday morning, and when the strange swarthy man made his way from the car to the house I endeavored to copy the characters as best I could. I then met with a friend at the University who specialized in the study of Middle Eastern language and literature. I explained to him about the strange visitor and how I was concerned for the safety of my client. He was intrigued by the design of the characters and suggested that they were reminiscent of cuneiform writing that was amongst the earliest of known languages. While he couldn’t promise me anything, he said he would try and figure out what the characters meant. I thanked him and hurried home. I had not expected to hear from my friend for several days or perhaps even weeks, but to my surprise it was on the morning of the next day that he surprised me by meeting me on the veranda while I was having coffee.

Dr. Angell was very excited over what he had found, but the details escaped me. As I tried to calm the young academician my gaze was drawn to the sleek black sedan as it crawled down the road and coasted to a stop in the location it had occupied every morning of this week. I must have been staring, because Angell turned to look at what had distracted me and saw for himself the swarthy man as he stalked across the road with his armful of books, the strange and intriguing symbol glinting in the morning sun. Angell stepped away from me, and even though I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, he twisted away and with a leap down the stairs and a brisk pace he was soon on a course to intercept the man. Angell called out, asking the man if he could ask him a question. When the man did not respond, did not even break his queer stride, Angell tried again, this time in Latin. As the man reached the curb he turned and allowed Angell to approach him. Angell spoke to the man at length in Latin, though my own grasp of the language being poor I cannot tell you exactly what he said. After nearly a minute of this Angell paused in his monologue, obviously expecting an answer. He waited in silence for a response. The stranger looked the young teacher up and down and in silence turned to leave. Forgetting himself, Angell reached out and gently tried to persuade the man to stay. As soon as his hand touched the man there was a flurry of motion, and suddenly Angell was on the ground. I moved off the porch, but the man’s violent stare and a single raised finger made it clear that I was not to interfere. As I raised both my hands in a gesture of peace, the angry dark man opened his mouth and in a clear and booming voice uttered a strange and violent phrase, “WARD AM NA TAK!” Then as if we weren’t there at all he turned and went up the walkway to Peaslee’s house where, as ever, he was ushered in by Peaslee himself.

I rushed to my friend’s side and helped him up and onto the veranda. I brought him a drink and allowed Angell to compose himself before questioning him. The young man related how after I had left him with my copy of the glyphs he had almost immediately recognized them for what they were, and was quick to consult the works of master linguist Harley Warren. The figures seemed to be Nacaal, a kind of proto-Akkadian, the language of the ancient Sumerians. Nacaal had been the language of the gods, and was used in only the most sacred of institutions, religious texts, laws, ceremonies and the like. The symbols that I had provided seemed at first to be a Nacaalian version of the Sumerian Summa Izbu, literally the law books for the prophecy of monsters, an ancient codex which suggested that the appearance of certain human oddities and mythological creatures could be used to predict the future. This in itself, the discovery of a text purporting to be the Summa Izbu, as opposed to clay tablets, would have been a significant anthropological discovery, as would have been the sect that had maintained it. However, the more Angell delved the more he realized that the subtle differences between the Akkadian glyphs and the Nacaal were not merely the result of a drift in the style of form, but rather represented a true difference in words, phrase and meaning. The symbols on the book were not Summa Izbu, but rather Summa Ysgl, a phrase that Angell translated as a course in the prophecy of monsters, though this was not a literal translation. More literally, the Summa Ysgl would mean “A Future History of the Monsters of the Earth,” although even this was difficult because the term Monsters of the Earth was never defined.