The Weird Company (8 page)

Ephraim shook my head, “Why me Obed? I’m an outsider. I know nothing. I’m not part of this thing you’ve done.”

The dying man hissed and wheezed. “That’s why ye’ve been chosen. Ye’ve no allegiance to anyone. That makes ye perfect for the job.” His claw patted Ephraim’s hand again. “Ye have talents of yer own, that much is clear. Ye’ll learn more, they will teach ye, but be careful, they know more than they’re willing to teach. Ye do the same.”

He coughed and gasped. His hand withdrew and clawed at his neck. One of the women leaned in to comfort him and in Obed’s frenzied struggle for air his claw-like hand tore away the veil of his attendant and for the first time Ephraim Waite saw what lay beneath that cloaked visage. As he had suspected, the Innsmouth look had been inherited from these women, though it pained him to call them that. They were hairless ichthyic things with huge, lidless eyes, lipless mouths and pulsating membranes where ear should have been. There were slits in the throat that flexed in and out exposing the crimson gills beneath. Like their children their skin was scaly, but also covered with a thin layer of slime that shimmered in the light. Panicked, Ephraim turned, scrambled to his feet and, overcome with fear, could do little but gasp in terror and run. Those who had gathered to witness his passage tittered in amusement as Ephraim fled from Obed’s deathbed and into the night, seeking refuge in the sanctuary hidden beneath his home.

For more decades than he had cared to imagine Ephraim had avoided complicity in the shadows over Innsmouth. Now he had no choice, the time had come to understand the truth, and if a man such as Obed could not only accept such arrangements, but embrace them, who was he to deny his own part in that plan? What was happening in Innsmouth was clearly important. There was a threat, a vague one to be sure, but through his communal with the things that dwelt off of the reef, he soon learned it was something that threatened not only men, but all life on the planet, and even beyond. Obed Marsh had made a pact, but while it may have seemed wholly demonic in nature, the truth was far more terrifying. He pressed for details but was denied. The threat was real, they promised, but to intervene too soon was to risk a completely different kind of catastrophe. The future was fraught with peril, and there were few paths that led to a favorable outcome for all involved. If the allied forces were to move to early the result would be just as catastrophic as not acting at all. There was the plan, and that was all Ephraim needed to know. He did what he was told, not because he believed, but because he had no reason not to. He surrendered himself completely to the task at hand, and when in 1905 the Daughters came and told him that it was time to take a wife and have a child, he did so without protest. The plan was everything, and though he could not see what was being built or why, he knew that it had to be done.

Ostensibly, her name was Zulieka Marsh, and she was supposedly amongst the third generation born in Innsmouth. She was not unpleasant to look at, though Ephraim would be hard pressed to say she was attractive. She was a plain girl, thin but not overly so, she had the look, and the strength that went with it, but bore none of the traits that would cause people to question her parentage, or humanity. Despite this, she still wore the veil that had become common amongst women of Innsmouth, and outside of the home none saw her without it. That their marriage was arranged was not lost on her, and together they agreed upon the division of certain responsibilities and duties. They both handled the arrangement with a perfunctory sense of duty, and though they quickly grew to accept each other’s company, there was no love between them.

Indeed, even after she gave birth, the relationship was purely one of routine. Zulieka’s care of, and for, the girl that her father named Asenath (Me!) was minimal at best, and the bulk of meeting my needs was left almost entirely to my father. My father describes me lovingly, but also as so very small and so strange, almost alien. He had seen so much in his years, so many wondrous and terrifying things, and he could do things that normal men could not, and yet when he held me in his arms, none of that mattered. I became his life; everything else, including his studies, seemed unimportant. Instead of spending time with the dead, and returning them to a semblance of life, he was drawn to me and the true life, the normal life that I represented. And thus, he abandoned his studies and his secret laboratory and spent his days and nights caring for me, while Zulieka roamed the house aimlessly. Or so he thought.

He had been warned. Obed had said something, told Ephraim not to trust them, any of them. The first time he found Zulieka in the basement, she was in the library; she had just shelved some books, which ones exactly he couldn’t say, but he should have realized then that she was searching for something, something she didn’t want him to know about. It went like that for some time. Zulieka would wait until he was distracted and then secretly access his private laboratory and library. This disturbed him, but besides locking the door and securing a few volumes, there was little he could do, his entire focus was on his daughter Asenath, me. That is until the letter came and offered to explain things.

He went to Arkham and spoke to a man called Peaslee who claimed to be Mr. Steve Mentzel’s colleague. Peaslee had the same emotionless face that Mentzel had had, and though what Peaslee had said would have driven some mad, Ephraim believed it with absolute certainty. Something was going to intrude into our world, to be brought here by people who didn’t truly understand it. Once it arrived, the world, the very universe, would change irrevocably, and life as we know it would cease. There was a moment, at least according to Peaslee, that everything could be changed, when intervention was possible. Ephraim had to prepare, said Peaslee, for this and other threats that were waiting, as well as for the possibility of failure, and of discovery. When Ephraim told him that he understood, that he knew what needed to be done, that doing all this would be easy, he lied. Ephraim returned to Innsmouth cloaked in fear, unable to comprehend what was going to happen or how to prepare for it.

Yet upon his homecoming his concerns about the future were smothered in tragedy. While he had been in Arkham something terrible had happened. Zulieka had suffered some sort of seizure and had collapsed in her bed. The doctor had been called and had rapidly concluded that whatever had happened was beyond his skills. Zulieka could neither stand nor talk, she could crawl, and utter a few words, but whatever had happened to her had turned her into little more than an infant. Yet for all her diminished faculties she was possessed of immense strength, and in time it was clear that her condition wasn’t going to improve. Desperate, Ephraim renovated the attic, padded the walls and installed chains. In the spring of 1909 he took Zulieka up the stairs and though he could see that somehow this creature loved him, he left her in that room, and never let her out again.

Not that this mattered much. Zulieka had ignored me, and as a result I had apparently failed to develop any real affection for the woman. Her separation from the family seemed to have no negative results; in fact the opposite was true. It was as if some great switch had been thrown, and I was suddenly free, and more brilliant than any child Ephraim had ever seen. I and my father were only ever happy when we were together, and although I tired easily, I did my best to stay by his side. By the time I was five I was Ephraim’s constant companion, and he returned to his studies and laboratory with me as an assistant. I proved more capable than he would have ever thought. We travelled to Arkham and Kingsport and even distant and secret locations in Maine, and never could a parent have been prouder of a child.

The only activities for which I had no taste were the regular visits to the imprisoned Zulieka. Her madness had abated somewhat, for she had gained some sense of control, but her mind was little more than that of a child, and she would fly into tantrums at the strangest of things, particularly when Ephraim mentioned my well-being. Despite my apparent reluctance to visit my mother, I volunteered to help prepare her meals. Even when in November of 1912 she fell ill, I did my best to keep food and tea supplied to the poor woman, going so far as to order our own cook out of the kitchen. It was a relief when she succumbed to some strange malady that left her body cramped and convulsing while her hair fell out. Yet I, who had not seen the woman in years, still shed a tear for her loss.

It had not occurred to Ephraim that those tears could have been generated for some other reason, at least not until months later. As the spring rains caused the Manuxet to swell, there came another unwelcome flood, one of vermin. The house was suddenly infested with mice that were fleeing the drowned fields and making homes where they could. Frustrated, Ephraim took it upon himself to go down to the local store for some rat poison. The shopkeeper, Davis Phillips, was surprised that he would place such an order, for surely he had not yet exhausted the supply that had been bought the previous October. My father was startled, but quickly explained that he had broken the bottle and was in need of more. At home, it did not take him long to discover the jar of rat poison hidden in the cabinet of the pantry, and he stared perplexed, trying to determine the meaning behind the jar being halfway empty.

Despite his fears and suspicions, he still loved me and continued my apprenticeship in the arts and secret sciences. He could not have known that our skills in chemistry and pharmacology would be put to the test when in the summer of 1914 the last pharmacy in Innsmouth closed, and he and I were left to concoct the various elixirs and powders prescribed by the few doctors who had remained. Things went from bad to worse when both bus companies that served Innsmouth ceased operation just a year later. Thankfully, Joe Sargent with a little funding from the Marsh family began operating his own, albeit limited, bus service in and out of Innsmouth.

It was shortly after that a review of the pantry left Ephraim disappointed and in a somber mood, causing him one day to board Sargent’s bus and travel to Kingsport. There he met with the administrator of the Hall School and made certain arrangements concerning my education and care. When he returned home, he found me waiting for him, angry beyond belief. He would not have thought a girl of my age capable of such language, or vehement. He laughed and said that when I was angry, screaming and shouting that it reminded him of the arguments and bouts that he had had with Zulieka. That is when I apparently threw up my hands and called Ephraim senile, for I recalled no such arguments. After this, according to Ephraim, I suddenly blanched and skulked away. Ephraim said nothing, but secretly monitored the jar in the pantry, and took appropriate precautions.

It took a year, much longer than it had taken with Zulieka, but by the winter of 1917–1918 Ephraim was sick. His insides burned and his muscles cramped. His hair slowly fell out, and his fingernails changed color. He knew what was happening, and secretly began eating garlic, though obtaining it was difficult. He thought of running, of once more changing his identity, and leaving Innsmouth behind. He certainly did not owe the town anything; he had given it more than eighty years. No rational person would have blamed him if he had run, certainly there was no better time to move on, and yet he felt betrayed, vindictive, and vengeful. He had been wronged and he would have retribution, even if he had to suffer through agonizing pain to obtain it.

Through the spring and early summer Ephraim’s suffering increased. He mediated it by eating even more garlic, and by chewing on coca leaves, but these did little but alleviate the immediate symptoms and pain. He was still dying, his organs were being poisoned, and he knew time was short. He made plans. The essential portions of his library were packed up and placed in a warehouse in Kingsport, as were certain artifacts and mementos. Money, always the bane of existence, he secreted in various accounts throughout Massachusetts and Maine under the name Dufresne, an alias for which he created various documents and forms of identification. By the middle of July 1918 he was more than ready to do what had to be done.

Where I had been slow and subtle, he was swift and bold. He told the cook and maid that they could have the week off, with pay, thus ensuring that we would not be interrupted. He drugged me with a preparation of morphine and then chained me to the bed. The key was nearby, but out of reach. He then gathered the tinctures and tools that he needed for the Rendition. That we shared blood supposedly made things easier, but that he was a man and I was a woman was a concern. There is, it seems, a difference between men and women; whether that difference is located in the brain or some other part of the anatomy is not known, but the fundamental difference causes a weakness in the ability to invoke and handle those from outside. It is not that the ability is lacking, but rather simply a matter of degree. In the last entry of his journal, he lamented that he should have to suffer such a change and marked my birth as a girl instead of a boy as highly regrettable.

And as I come to the end of the page I remember who I am and what I have done, and why. Tomorrow I shall volunteer to once again cook meals for the thing in the attic. I am sure there is enough arsenic left to finish the job that has been started. Soon, the body of Ephraim Waite will succumb to the poison it has been fed for so many months; either that or it shall starve. I do not care which. When he finally does pass, I will have the body burned and the ashes scattered into the sea. From this I know there is no return. But while I will shed a tear, I shall not mourn, for the thing in the attic deserves no pity. Some will say it is Ephraim Waite who died in that attic, and some will whisper poison and cast stares in my direction. If Von Junzt were alive, he might have guessed that Ephraim Waite has once more performed the Rendition of Souls and exchanged minds with his daughter Asenath. In this he would be only half right. He would have called Ephraim Waite a vile, corrupted thing that carried out unspeakable rites, and subjected his daughter to the most horrific of sacrifices. He would have forgotten how Zulieka Marsh went mad and became a thing that had to be confined in the attic. He would have forgotten how she wasted away from some strange wasting, the same condition that afflicted Ephraim before he too was locked away in the attic. He might have drawn a parallel between the madness of Zulieka and that of Ephraim, but I doubt he could have discerned its true meaning. Only I and the thing upstairs know the truth, and soon only I shall remain.