Sept. 29, 1987
I just finished smashing my grand piano to pieces.
As I sit here and write this narrative, I watch all of a lifetime of musical study and notes and remnants of my piano burn in the fireplace.
You should note that parts of this narrative have been deliberately left out or obscured. Facts regarding certain places, names, and locations I simply refuse to release. It's terrible enough that I sought out and stumbled across this horror, let along give directions to those foolish enough to attempt my act of arrogant stupidity.
But before I continue, allow me tell you about myself: I live in Montreal, I am a pressman by trade, and my name is Lorne S. Gibbons. My wife's name is Marie and we've been married for a little over five years now. Music is… or was… my passion. I am a very accomplished pianist. My knowledge and theory is contendable with some of the best professional musicians. It was always the fear of ridicule and failure that dissuaded me from entering that line of work. Thus I became a musician by hobby.
I could read any musical score at a glance. I learned to play virtually any piece on piano by ear or score. The mechanics of the instrument became second nature, it became inbred. I began to study more complex and ingenious composer's work: Haydn, Wagner, Schonberg, Palestrina, Stravinsky, Monteverdi, Brahms, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart… I learned and mastered their styles and techniques. I broke down their patterns, rhythms, and scales. Do not be mislead however. I could never create nor compose any semblance of even their simplest pieces. But I could understand them and play them forwards and back!
As horrible as it is to say, I became bored with the Masters. Their compositions are pure genius in their own rights but they all shared one simple, frustratingly common kinship: The eight-note octave. The three clefs. The rhythmic subdivisions of equal halves and halves of halves and quarters of halves and so forth. Tones and semi-tones, whole and half steps, black and white keys. The system was always the same.
I did experiment with the "Great Stave" of eleven, not five, lines. However, this is still not foreign to contemporary musical theory. It is alien and bizarre in appearance due to its redundancy. In short, the "Great Stave" is all three clefs - treble, alto, and bass - combined to display pitch zones and clef integration diagrammatically. It is not used due to the confusion is creates in combining all three clefs (Seven clefs is you count soprano, mezzo-soprano, tenor, and baritone.)
I transcribed certain pieces onto the "Great Stave" for its visual appearance but this could only impress my most musically ignorant associates. Eventually I studied certain Arabic musics. Generally it was the same with the exception of a further division of tones and semi-tones. While our system holds two semi-tones to a whole tone - black and white keys - certain Arabic theory hold four 'quad-tones' to one whole tone. These 'quad-tones' do not appear on pianos. If they did they'd be a key between the black and white keys.
Search and research as I might, I could find nothing new. I spent years frustrated and bitter that I could not learn more. I could find no one that could show me knowledge beyond our current spectrum of musical theory. I refused to believe that out of all the millennia of our race's existence that not one single individual hadn't explored and discovered revolutionary theory beyond contemporary understanding! It was simply impossible! I refused to believe it.
Why are the 'visual sciences' preferable over the 'audio sciences'? When man first shone light through a prism he discovered the visual spectrum. But he didn't stop there did he? No. He looked further, beyond the seven colours and their infinite shades in between. He searched and discovered gamma rays, X-rays, ultraviolet rays, infrared rays, and even radio waves. What if man was simply content with the visual spectrum? Where would we be now? Imagine a world without radio waves. Man would have been an idiot to have called it quits at the visual light spectrum.
But enough said about the 'visual sciences'. What about the 'audio sciences'? Mankind discovers rhythm and pitch and calls it music. He analyses it. D0-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do; He calls this an octave and says it repeats itself attaining one octave higher that the last. He learns to write sounds and music and rhythm on paper and… what? Calls it quits! He says that's it. That's all there is! Although I freely admit that I cannot imagine exactly what could be beyond our current knowledge in music, nor where or how it could fit within our structure, I do however believe it exists. Someone must look further and discover it. It was this that I was longing for. It was someone with a truly incomprehensible genius that I sought after.
Eventually I heard of Erich Zann. I had hoped to research his work but found very little trace of him. I began a painstakingly long (indeed, years!) search and study into what little information there was available on Erich Zann. For all my troubles I was not well rewarded. I found out this of the man:
He was German, played the viol and was mute. 'Great!' I thought 'Not only does he speak a language that I don't but he doesn't speak at all!' I decided that during my further studies in hopes of finding Mr. Zann's current residence that I would learn to speak the German language. I purchased a cheep and cheesy copy of "You Too Can Speak German" handbook. I got as far as Ich heisse…, and ja, nein, wo ist, wo sind, and my crowning achievement Warten sie auf mich bei der shranke. ("Wait for me at the gate.") Ya, right. Like I'd ever use it.
It was at that time that I received my first correspondence from the German Embassy… much to my disappointment. Not only did Erich Zann speak a foreign language and was mute but he was also quite dead. Although his body was never found and he was listed as missing, I believe him to be dead. He would be past his one-hundred-and-twenties if he were still alive. But, however to my good fortune (so I thought) he had a son, Otto, who was a violinist and a granddaughter, Nadia. Otto Zann, his son, was now an old man of ninety-one years living in an old age home ('asylum' was what the letter said but I attributed it to a mistaken translation) in Heidelburg, Germany. His daughter, Erich Zann's granddaughter, Nadia de LaFountaine (apparently she adopted her mother's maiden name for unknown reasons) was alive and residing in Oxford, England. Her address was 301 Apt. N, Mackenzie Street. The fifty-six years old was still an active member of the Oxford Philharmonic Orchestra.
I wrote letters to her explaining my love of music and of my disenchantment and lack of inspiration in the Western World. I eventually asked for her tutorage.
When I received her letters she was enthusiastic and more than happy to share her knowledge and experience and not at all suspicious. She never asked "why me?" But the again, all musicians have their egos.
When I asked her what instrument she played, wouldn't you know it, she played the viola. But music is music, or so I thought. This was when my plans suffered august termination. With bills to be paid and a mortgage to boot, I could not raise enough money for an extended trip to England, let alone getting any reasonable length of time off from work. A printer's job is never done.
Time went by and I gave up on going to visit Nadia de LaFountaine in England until the advent of Marie and my fifth wedding anniversary. Apparently, Marie had mentioned to her parents of my desire to go the England (bless her loving little soul - where ever it may now be).
Her parents had offered, for our anniversary present, for the four of us, Marie, myself, Henri, and Veronica, to go to England for a full month. Arrangements had already been made for a temporary replacement for me at work as well. (Her parents are quite well off.)
Well, you can imagine my surprise and joy. My wife and I accepted and I immediately wrote to Nadia of our arrival. My goals and ambitions were finally within arms reach. Now hopefully Nadia had some knowledge of her grandfather's theories and could teach me in the style and technique of what I've grown to call Zannianism. Now I call it madness.
I had asked her about Erich Zann's music and my desire to learn it. Between receiving my final letter and my actual arrival she had found some old weathered moth-eaten notebooks of Erich Zann's in the German language and did a good deal of reading. When I arrived in Oxford she was more than ready to explore this new and undiscovered universe of musical theory with me.
* * *
When we arrived, Nadia met us at the airport. For a woman of fifty-six she appeared quite younger. Her eyes were green and sharp and crisp as a winter breeze. They reflected great intelligence and enormous understanding. The wrinkles at their corners and the slightly drooping bags under them told of endless nights of study and of a patience of an artist. Her expression was that of passion incarnate. Her mouth, once full lipped in youth, was now pursed and dignified. Her lips had a gentle and sensuous curve to them, yet with the distinct solidity of a disciplinarian when needed. There was a slight twist on the ends of her mouth that, if one looked hard enough, gave her the look of a wanton.
She was old, it was obvious, but her youth, her love of life, her passion if you wish, shone through and made her radiantly beautiful. Her hair was auburn streaked through with gray. She wore it in a long French braid down her back. It had the appearance of silk and shimmered with red hi-lights in the sun. When she turned her head her hair would be tossed playfully to and fro across her back. I could imagine the braid falling loose and cascading over her face and shoulders.
But most of all I remember her scent. Haunting it was, especially for a woman her age. She smelled of rose-petals, which isn't particularly odd, but there was an omnipresent scent of something else. It was never overpowering and barely perceptible. It was the faint scent of warm moist sexuality. It was inviting, yet darkly sensual - seductive. It gave Nadia an air of duality. Outwardly she appeared prim and proper yet beneath this phantasm lurked an exotic and sultry woman.
I couldn't help but notice the movements of her hips and legs beneath the ankle-length gown she wore. The smooth curves of her hips swaying sensually as she walked, but more noticeable was the way her inner thighs seemed to grind. All of these points coped with her age, and my age, made me feel decadent and shameful. I had envisioned her as a teacher, a Master, my tutor. We had nothing in common other than music and we weren't on any sort of equal levels. But there was always a silent unspoken understanding of a sexual desire between us, making us equal on one level only. This was greatly arousing and disturbing to me at the same time.
* * *
After the airport we took a taxi to our hotel, registered, and settled in. Nadia invited us to her flat for dinner.
Nadia's flat was on the fourth, and upper-most floor of the building. She had apartment N which was the corner unit, which provided windowed views down both intersecting streets. The flat was more of a small warehouse or studio apartment. It was one spacious, hi-ceiling room with wood-finished concrete support columns every ten feet or so. The flat has its own plumbing and its own crude electrical wiring. Her stove was gas-powered and of such an old model as to need matches to ignite the flame.
In the studio apartment's southwest corner, the corner facing the intersection and flanked by the two windowed walls stood an antique upright piano. This area of the apartment had a small area rug, a pair of stools, shelves with various books and staved musical sheets, and old couch, a papasan, and a viola case on the piano's top.
The southeast end of the flat was rugged with a large redwood dining table, which could accommodate up to eight people with ease.
Just a little off center of the eastern wall the floor became tiled and there her kitchen and pantry stood.
To the northwestern corner was Nadia's 'bedroom', if you could call it that. A large hinged multifaceted partition hid most of it from view. However the foot of her bed and an open-doored shrank made of oak (teak, my father-in-law corrected) revealed a wardrobe of silks and satins; white lace lingerie with an assortment of silk stockings, lace teddies and charmeuses.
In the center of the flat was yet another area rug and what would have been the common, or living room if it were an actual room. It had a chesterfield, a loveseat, and a chair surrounding a coffee table of an oriental, glass-topped basso-rilievo design.
Nadia de LaFountaine was a philharmonic but obviously made good her passions. It showed in her furnishings.
My mother-in-law, Veronica, being some ten odd years Nadia's junior offered to help prepare the meal and was on once occasion scolded by Nadia with "Don't let the gas run dear, light it quickly!" when she started the stove-burners.
We ate, sat in the living 'room' and conversed over tea. Nadia told me she had translated her grandfather's German musical-theory notes and wanted to set a date for us to begin.
Tomorrow would do fine. I would be dropped off here while the rest of my family toured England's pubs, taverns and nightlife.
* * *
The sky was perfectly clear and every star conceivable shone! Nadia and I sat side by side at the piano in the dark watching the night sky. It was summer and particularly hot and humid. Although her apartment had air conditioning, it was off and the windows open for a better view of the constellations. She pointed out Aldebaran, Betegeuse, Gemini, Perseus, and many other names I cannot now recall. All the while I was constantly aware of her subtle, sultry scent beneath the perfumed mask of rose-petals. The hot, sweet and sticky humidity enhanced it and made it cogent. It was palatable. It made my bowels and loins crawl and my jaw muscle tingle and my mouth salivate. It was difficult to concentrate. I felt her hot voluptuous hip brush mine and thought of her groin-grinding strut.
I broke the tortuous ecstasy by saying, "It's hot. Shall we tackle the music of Erich Zann?"
She gave me a long carnal look of acknowledgement and agreed with an ever so slight nod. I allowed Nadia to remain seated as I shut the windows and engaged the air conditioner. My legs felt feeble and my knees were wobbly. By the time I returned to the piano bench I had regained my composure and calmed my agitated nerves.
As I took my seat beside Nadia she lit one single candle and presented the translated notes of Erich Zann. On this first night of study we had accomplished one fact. Erich Zann's music was not intended for the piano. It required an instrument capable of sustaining a note nearly indefinitely. It was written in Arco, for the violin. Therefore I handed the honor of the performance to Nadia and her viola. I resigned to simply listening, helping when I could and learning Zann's theory.
The second night: We had accurately transcribed the music of Erich Zann but Nadia found great difficulty in properly performing it. The style and technique required extremely dexterous and articulate movements of precise and exacting rhythm. It was like nothing I've ever seen or heard before. There were alien scales undreamed of which demanded nearly all of Nadia's free fingers active. It was as if the music was not intended for the human-form to reproduce. But Nadia was extraordinary and relentless. She tore through strange scales and ranges always missing this or that nameless note or stumbling over some obscure bridge or missing a vital sforzando.
The technique demanded gusto and prestissimo unheard of. There were secondary melodies and even tertiary darkly subterfuge rhythms. I dared not think of the demented and warped mind needed to compose such pieces. Nadia was beyond any doubt a Master Violinist. She had Zann's style and technique down but just could not perfect it…. It was only two days later that Nadia achieved perfection;
On this night my wife, Marie, and her parents dropped me off again. Throughout the night Nadia struggled with the music. She almost had it. Marie, Henri, and Veronica showed up near 1:00 am to pick me up. Nadia was so close we convinced them to stay for tea. I turned the stove-burner on, making note to light it quickly with a match, and put the kettle on to boil.
Marie, Henri, and Veronica sat and listened to Nadia play. Then she began the strange alien piece, but didn't falter! She was playing it! The tempo increased. Nadia's fingers flew with precision! The volume increased, became uncomfortably loud. Multiple melodies and rhythms began overlapping. And then it began.
Nadia's eyes had a far off, distant look to them. She seemed unaware of her audience. She played faster and faster. She appeared desperately trying to keep in time with some accelerating, unheard metronome. We all sat frozen in indecisiveness. Then we heard the whistling. Faint at first but growing louder every second. It was the kettle. It had boiled, but no one moved. We were riveted to our seats by the spectacle before us. The whistling kettle seemed to strangely accent her furiously screeching viola. I noticed her fingers bleeding. It was now hard to discern whether Nadia played the music or the music played Nadia. The four of us sat in horror as we witnessed Nadia's symbiosis between human, instrument and music.
I suddenly became faintly aware of the monotonous drone of the air conditioner. Its not that it just began to make noise but rather I just began to notice it. Was it getting louder and more bass? No, that's impossible. It became a symphony with the whistling kettle, the alien music, and that demonic bass drone. It was sheer horror but still the tempo increased. Nadia's fingers freely bled. The air conditioner became a screaming whine and then mellowed out into a sound akin to a flute.
A frustrating tune it played. Just as you'd expect to catch it it would change into something else. The whole cacophony no longer had form or structure. There was no longer any similar melodies or harmonies. It kept mutating into something new, never to repeat itself. The music seemed to be hurtling towards some macabre climax beyond our comprehension! The music was inexorable and deafening.
The lights in the apartment flickered; Bright. Dim. Bright. Dim, and then out completely. It was only then that I noticed that no light shone through the windows. No street lights, no moonlight, not even starlight! Nothing! Then a new sound began to stir, to rise. It came from the inky blankness outside the windows; a babbling, cackling laughing. The wind picked up suddenly and began to scream along with this insane melody. The air conditioner became reminiscent of idiot flute players. The howling demon-wind screamed its madness and the windows blew out! But still Nadia played on.
My ears felt like some one boxed them. They were ringing from the blasting noises and music. The room was pitch black and I could see nothing. I felt deprived of all my senses. I jumped to my feet. The hell-wind whistled and howled through the flat and nearly pushed me back to my seat. The whistling kettle died down as the wind blew the stove-burner's flame out. I stumbled towards the kitchen area, blind and covering my ears. I fumbled through dishes and cups along the counter top and found the box of matches. I had to see what was happening. I held the match in my hand about to strike it against the box when I smelled the gas. My God, the gas stove was still on! I dropped and kicked the matchbox away in horror.
I pulled at the utensil drawers and furiously rummaged through blindly. I knew Nadia kept a flashlight there. I split my fingers on a steak knife before finding it. I dashed towards the living room area as I shone the light to where I heard Nadia playing.
There she was, still playing in the dark. Blood ran down her viola strings and sprayed off as she monstrously struck and strummed them. The whites of her eyes were a feral yellow now. Much like the white keys on an aged piano. Her eyes had lost their glimmer, their radiance, their life. They stared forward blankly, mindlessly. Her once dignified and pursed lips hung in large welts of damp glistening flesh. Drool dribbled off her lower lip and was flung about her chin with her insane playing and the wind. Her skin had a pale cadaverous hue and her beautiful hair had fallen out of its French braid but now lacked its shimmering luster. It hung limp and scraggily in clumps about her face. There was a sickening odor of pennies and salt and her body scent of rose-petals had long subsided to that of an animal musk. I stared at the sight dumbfounded and stupidly, not knowing how to react.
Then, all at once her eyes regained a semblance of intelligence and she snapped her attention on me. The whipping about of her head caused a long string of drool to lash out around and across her cheek and in her ear. The suddenness of it made me jump and nearly drop the flashlight. Her lips peeled back over pink teeth and bleeding gums in a terrifying grimace. Her viola's strings stopped and her fingers and bow froze. But still the symphony of horror screamed its blasphemies!
Her fingertips were shredded down to the bone. A single drop of blood seeped from a finger and slowly ran down the viola's string. I watched in frozen horror as it slowly ran down the viola's string to reach towards the instrument's bridge. Dark black obscenities not meant for a sane man's eyes danced and howled in the surrounding blackness. I was too terrified to turn the flashlight; I didn't want to see what these things were. And as the drop of blood neared the viola's bridge I became aware of the arrival of something not of this earth.
Although I could not see it in the Stygian blackness around me and I dared not turn the light. I simply sensed it. A vile shadow darker than the surrounding gloom. There it was; amorphous, churning, gurgling in its infective madness.
It had come.
Just like the non-visible waves beyond the visual range of light called radio waves, this musical extension that I looked for functioned the same; it transferred a message, a summoning to something outside. Just like the discovery of X-rays beyond the visual spectrum of light, this range of music allowed one to see the underlying structures, the hidden truths of reality.
Then Nadia screamed out "Mwl'fgah pywfg fhtagn Gh'tyaf nglyf lghyal!"
I dropped the flashlight and let it smash on the floor, half out of fear, half out of reluctance to see those things.
The air conditioner wailed far beyond what modern machinery could or should. It sputtered, coughed and sparked. It was shorting out. It all began to have a dreamlike quality to it. I was becoming dizzy from the fumes of the gas stove.
Then it dawned on me; the air conditioner was short-circuiting! Sparking! I reached behind me and grabbed Veronica's wrist. There wasn't enough time to find the other three in this chaotic cacophony of hell and darkness. I ran for all I was worth. How I found the door in this ebony nightmare I do not recall but I knocked it to wooden splinters breaking my shoulder as I did so.
I ran like a bat out of hell towards the stairwell, my good arm still clenching my mother-in-law's wrist. I don't remember if she ran behinds me or if I dragged her. At this point my mind was quite unhinged and I fled like a blubbering lunatic.
I felt the bone fragments in my smashed shoulder grinding and cutting into my muscle but I could not register it as pain.
I was nearly six feet away from the stairwell banister when I heard the unmistakable sound of gas igniting;
Whoof.
The explosion sent me plunging down the center of the stairwell crashing onto the marble tiled lobby floor, four stories below. It was at this point that I mercifully lost consciousness.
* * *
Through this ordeal I had suffered a few broken ribs, a minor concussion, and a sprained ankle, not to mention my broken shoulder. Veronica was hurtled down the flight of stairs. She suffered minor cuts and bruises and second degree burns to her back.
As for Henri, Nadia and my wife, Marie… I don’t know.
The explosion took the top two floors off the entire building. After the investigations were complete there was no trace of the three to be found. The police report states that the three bodies were incinerated in the blast. But they didn't even find charred bones… nothing!
I believe that whatever this thing was, it took them with it as it fled the explosion. Dear God, I hope the police are correct!
As for the actual police investigation, I did not tell them everything. I told them of the smell of gas and Veronica and myself barely escaping with our lives.
I realized that when the German Embassy had said that Nadia's father, Otto Zann, was living in an asylum was not a misunderstanding or mistranslation. I believe that he is in an asylum and I believe that Otto knows something of this horror, if not having actually witnessing the like of which himself. It was this reason why I lied to the police officers; I didn't want to be locked up as a lunatic.
After the police investigations were finished and I had healed enough to return with Veronica to Montreal we left Oxford, England. Upon returning Veronica moved in with me.
...I just finished smashing my grand piano to pieces and am watching it with my musical notes burn in the fireplace...
Lorne S. Gibbons
September 29, 1987
...next: Chapter II: The Music of Lorne S. Gibbons: The Testimony of Veronica L. Francois.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Chapter II: The Music of Lorne S. Gibbons: The Testimony of Veronica L. Francois
(Translated to English from Mrs. Francois' native French.)
Feb. 16, 1992
My name is Veronica Louise Francois. I survived the Horror of Mackenzie Street. Of the explosion that occurred nearly four and a half years ago in Oxford, England little new has happened. The police investigation has been closed. The investigation of the incident at Nadia de LaFountaine's flat revealed little.
The investigators themselves were puzzled as to the location of the remains of the bodies of Marie Gibbons, Nadia and Henri Francois, my husband. Although the official report states that their bodies were incinerated, I believe this was only due to a lack of a better explanation. To conclude, the investigators could not - unofficially - solve the bodies' disappearances.
My son-in-law, Lorne, was in the hospital during most of it and slipped between worlds of consciousness and coma. The police had attempted to talk to Lorne on a number of occasions, but were not overly successful. During one of his interviews he mumbled something about 'the black horror from outside' and fell into a frightened seizure. Luckily, the police took this statement as being the ramblings of a man still in shock and nightmaring.
I had the opportunity to talk with Lorne when he first became conscious - that is, functionally conscious - before the police could. Both Lorne and I agreed not to tell them what really happened. Heaven only knows what truly occurred at Nadia's flat that night. We knew they wouldn't believe us and Lorne showed a profound fear of being locked-up in an asylum. Once investigations were over, and the police concluded the incident was accidental, we returned to Montreal and moved in together.
It was extremely difficult without Henri. I had never imagined life without him, but he was gone. Even my daughter was taken away from me. It's a terrible feeling to outlive your children. It should have been me to die first, not Marie.
But I did gain a son, or so the saying goes, and Lorne was all that I had left. We talked and tried to help one-another, but I found myself doing most of the talking and crying and Lorne quietly listening. Where I released my pain and sorrow, Lorne would not. His battle over the loss of his wife was fought within. I knew he believed I'd think less of him to see him cry, but he couldn't have been farther from the truth. I believe we lived together for the company, for I cannot even contemplate what living alone would be like. We were not financially wanting nor needing. The life insurance policies on both our spouses left us very well off. Neither of us needed to work. Lorne however chose to keep his job. I believe to fill up his spare time and keep his mind off Marie's death. Too much time with not enough to occupy it is not a good thing, especially in Lorne's case.
Lorne needed his job to forget the horror. Myself on the other hand, cannot explain what happened and am more than happy to leave it forgotten. Sometimes the most merciful thing in the world is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. I am content with simply remaining ignorant of what truly happened on the night of the horror of Mackenzie Street. Lorne, however, eventually chose not to.
He did return to his job as a printer, as I have said. He needed something mundane and common to get his mind off of what actually happened. His peace of mind however was to be short-lived. He seemed quite recuperated and worked hard. He was offered two promotions but declined both. His wife’s death had utterly crushed his ambition. Other than that, everything was as good as could be expected.
I thought he had recovered until he came home one evening in a panic. “Veronica, Veronica!” he said, “Things are coming for me!”
“What things?” I replied.
“M-my boss, decided to get central air conditioning last month!” He was actually sweating with fear. “I couldn’t talk him out of it. Now - every day - it hums to me! It hums that same piece!”
It was at this point that I believe the insanity began. Lorne complained about being distracted constantly by the air conditioner. He tried on a number of circumstances to persuade his employer to get rid of it but to no avail. He eventually attempted to sabotage it and was caught. This was when he lost his job.
After being fired, Lorne spend much of his time indoors. Whenever we went out he simply refused to enter buildings or common areas that were air-conditioned. He had an irrational fear of these devised. His excursions out became farther and farther apart until he simply would not leave the house.
During those following two weeks I found Lorne opening up to me. He would talk about how he missed Marie. He had never before talked about her since her death. It was always I who talked and wept. But Lorne never cried. He would say how much he missed her and at times contemplate on how to get her back! He wouldn’t accept her death, poor lad.
It was then that he started talking about how Marie and Henri weren’t dead. As time went by he became more and more convinced that they were still alive. He also became more and more convinced that It was coming after him. It being whatever that thing was in Nadia’s flat.
Shortly afterwards he purchased a pistol. During this one exceptional trip out of the house, he was accosted, he said, by a vagrant who asked for any spare change Lorne might offer. When Lorne said no the beggar thanked him anyway and walked away, whistling a strange tune, a tune of Erich Zann!
He kept the pistol loaded at all times much to my fear. He said he needed it just in case It was to come after him. Although Lorne and myself both know that if that thing from Nadia’s flat on the night of the horror were to come, a pistol would be of very little use. I felt that Lorne carried it for the same reasons a frightened man whistled in that dark. It was a security blanket, nothing more. He carried it on his person at all times, even when he slept.
It was at this time that I sought out professional help for him. The psychologist said that we should go on an extensive vacation, or a tour. I decided to go to Europe with Lorne. It took a great deal to convince him to come. I had first to overcome his fear of leaving the house and then to leave behind his pistol. But eventually he submitted and agreed.
The tour did wonders for him. He quickly got over his fear of air conditioners and even allowed himself to become wrapped up in the beauty of ancient Europe. There were only two incidents that were somewhat disturbing on the whole trip. The first being when traveled from Austria to Switzerland to do some skiing. Lorne loved it. It was when I suggested going to see the ancient University of Heidelberg Germany that all of his paranoia returned. He was almost in tears in his conviction that Heidelberg Germany held unknown dangers for him. He spoke of the asylum and of some Otto Zann. Although I had great hopes of seeing the Heidelberg University I agreed not to go simply due to the utter horror it caused Lorne.
The second incident was when we were in Paris, France. Lorne and I had stopped at the Bibliotheque Nationale. He became entranced in some readings. He seemed incredibly excited about it, almost desperate. I thought it was healthy to see him so interested in something since his mysterious disinterest with music that was at one time his passion.
He spent two full days at the Bibliotheque. Apparently the authorities would not allow him to see some exhibit or other. A book it was. He called it the – now what was it? Necro-, necro-something. I think it meant “Book of the Dead”. When we left he was extremely withdrawn into himself. He wanted to return home immediately.
After our tour ended and we arrived home Lorne regressed back into his old routine of never leaving the house, except this time he had reasons. He ordered many books regarding languages. Ancient Greek, Latin, and even Arabic. He became a recluse. For three years he would never leave the house. All he did was read and study, eat and sleep, nothing more.
And then, all of a sudden, his taste for travel was rekindled! He wanted to travel again. He said he was researching something of great importance to both of us and that now he needed to see certain ancient tome and volumes which were located at various libraries around the world.
We traveled to Paris again, Buenos Aires, and various universities with a particularly long stay at the Miskatonic University in Arkham, Mass. Lorne seemed interested in certain libraries: the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, the Widener Library at Harvard, the Miskatonic University’s library and the University of Buenos Aires. Apparently his new interest was ancient books. He told me of many titles, such as the Livre d’Eibon, the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt, the Celæno Fragments, the Cultes des Goules by d’Erette, de Vermis Mysteriis, the Dhor Chants, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Dr. Dee Manuscripts, and – now I remember the name after hearing it – the dreaded Necronomicon!
When we returned to Montréal he began to receive letters from the Miskatonic University. The correspondences were long and often packages were sent. Lorne was extremely private about these going-ons. I started to believe him to be involved in some cult.
Please do not misunderstand he. My son-in-law is no fool and does not possess such a character as to accept cults, but you must realize that he was under great strains and could not accept his wife’s death. I thought a cult was using him. He was sending large sums of money to the university and receiving articles he wouldn’t allow me to see. He was looking for any way to get his wife back and if some cult or other were to tell him there was a way, Lorne would have tried it.
When I asked him who the letters were from he would answer the Miskatonic University. When I pressured him further he said they were from a Professor H. Neilson, who was assisting him in his research, but never more.
It had gone too far. I believed this university professor - if indeed this H. Neilson was truly a professor - was brainwashing my poor son-in-law, using his grief for his lost wife. It was at this point that Lorne did something quite confusing. He purchased a viola and began to teach himself. Why the sudden interest in music again was baffling. I must admit that I wasn’t sure what exactly to do. We both shared the house. It was as much his as my own and I couldn’t barge into his room and read the letters, so I went to my sister Karen’s to talk. I told her all that she hadn’t known. Karen wanted to call the police but knew well enough that there were no charges to be laid. I had expected such callousness from her. She had blamed Marie and Henri’s deaths both on Lorne. If it hadn’t been for his selfishness and greediness we would have never gone to England and this whole affair would have never taken place. She had never liked Lorne since the deaths of the Marie and Henri. She on more than one occasion attempted to talk me out of staying with Lorne. She would have had him arrested that very moment if she could have.
But when she found out about his occult dealings – she insisted that we immediately return to my house barge in his room and either confront him should he be there or go through his belongings if he should prove to be out. She said that she’d accompany me if I so desired, but I knew that she wanted to more for herself than for me.
When we returned Lorne was home at the time, much to Karen’s liking.
Karen began, “Lorne, we know that you’re involved with some cult from Boston.” She sneered.
Lorne seemed quite surprised, almost shocked. “Cult? What are you talking about?” His tone was not pleasant. Karen’s dislike of Lorne was a shared feeling between the two. I felt that if I did not intervene these two would fight. “Yes, cult.” I added softly. “You have been writing to a Professor H. Neilson in Arkham.”
“That’s part of my research, I told you ‘bout that before.” He answered stressing the final word. “I’m almost done.”
“You’re damned right you’re almost done!” my sister blurted, “This is ending right now!”
At this point I knew Lorne would not react hospitably. He did not like Karen and was very touchy on this topic. For a moment his mouth hung open. “Now listen here!” he bellowed out, “You have no Goddamned business in my affairs!” his face turned purple. “You, neither of you, know what I’m up to, how vitally important it is, nor how close to completing it I am.”
“I want to see those letters and what you’ve received from you Professor H. Neilson.” Karen mocked the name. “Veronica told me your keeping it in your room. I’m going to see for myself!” And with that she began to walk towards Lorne’s bedroom.
As for Lorne, he gave me a hard look for an instant and hastily rushed after Karen. My sister however beat Lorne to the door. He caught her by her arm after the fact. She had already flung open his bedroom door. I couldn’t believe what I saw. His room was covered with ancient scripts and moldy-crusted diagrams of things I’m not too sure of. There were pentagrams carved in strange greenish-gray soapstone and many old moldering books, many of foreign languages; all occult items.
Lorne was defeated. His eyes took on a glassy appearance and his hand slowly slipped down Karen’s arm. She roughly pulled her arm away from Lorne’s faltering grip and with a nod of her head stated that she had seen all she needed to see and that she would call the police if he hadn’t removed and discarded all of this occult trash by the next day. Although I knew she wouldn’t call the police, as there was no crime committed, Lorne took it quite hard.
My sister left. Lorne entered his room listlessly and locked the door. Although I attempted to talk with him through the door he would not even answer me. I do love my son-in-law. He is – or was – a good man, but at this point I was quite frightened. He did possess, as I saw with my own eyes and would never had believed if I hadn’t, pentagrams and other odd fetishes. He wouldn’t talk to me or answer me at all. I called back my sister and asked if I could spend the night.
Oh, how I regret it now. I can’t but help thinking that I could have helped or even saved Lorne if I had only believed in him and stayed with him on that terrible night.
When I returned the next morning with Karen, we found the house abandoned and Lorne's bedroom door still locked. We knocked and tried to convince him to unlock the door to no avail. It wasn’t long that we noticed a breeze from beneath his door. Karen went outside and around the house and saw that the bedroom window was smashed! She immediately called the police to report a burglary.
I had tried to open the door with my spare key before the police arrived only to find that Lorne must have had the lock changed for my key would not work.
When the police arrived and opened the door we found his room in a torn mess. Wallpaper was torn off the walls, furniture was scattered and smashed to pieces, paper and books were thrown everywhere and torn to fragments. All the light bulbs were mysteriously burn out. The window was smashed but all the glass lay on the torn carpeted floor, as though blown into the room from outside. After a thorough search all that was found was Lorne's pistol, empty of bullets, and a tape recorder with a tape inside.
That was the last I saw of my son-in-law Lorne S. Gibbons.
Feb. 16, 1992
Veronica L. François
[What follows is a transcript of the tape recorder’s message]
L.S. Gibbons’ voice: Mom, I’m doing this for both of us. I know you don’t believe that Marie and Henri are still alive…but I do believe it, and I think I’ve found a way to find them. Nadia opened some sort of gateway to the… I don’t know… to the outside. She must have made a mistake somewhere, somehow. I think I can repeat what she played that night but correctly. I think I can open that same gateway but this time go through it, not let Nyarlathotep out, for I believe that it was Nyarlathotep that we encountered in Nadia’s flat on the night of the horror.
I’m going to repeat that melody she played. I was so nearly finished my research when your sister came last night… I can’t allow her to stop me, not now. I haven’t completed my research but am sure I can perform the piece correctly. I hope nothing goes wrong. If I’m right and I’m not insane, I should return with both Marie and Henri…
I love you…
Transcriptor’s Notes: At this point it was audible Lorne clearing his throat and sitting. The tuning of his viola followed this. Then he began to play. Slow at first and then picking up tempo. Faster and faster the viola screamed. Then the volume rose. It sounded like a bad recording of a radio station that was not properly tuned in. I attribute this to the actual volume of the piece. The sound was so loud as to distort the recording. It crackled and hissed, but you could still recognize that cacophony of nightmares. There joined in another instrument. I can not say what. I have had other professors of music listen to this recording but they couldn’t identify the instrument.
The recording began to have blank spots in it where I believe the volume grew too loud. There was a sound of some minor explosion and falling glass. I presume this to be the window breaking. The cacophony of screaming viola and the other unidentified instrument was joined by a howling wind. This I found to be somewhat of an oddity as there was no wind in Montréal on the evening of the incident.
Lorne screamed horribly and the viola stopped playing, but the music still continued.
Lorne can be heard mumbling something I couldn’t make out and crying. There followed six gunshots and a new voice. Mrs. François insists that it was Nadia de LaFountaine’s voice but could not have been hers. She had died in the explosion of her apartment in 1987. What this new voice said was disturbing. It was loud enough to clearly hear but was very inarticulate and disjointed. I will attempt to write down phonetically what was said for I do not believe it to be any known language.
“Mwl’fgah pywfg Gh’tyaf nglyf lghyal!”
After this was ululated Lorne burst out with the formless sound of ultimate terror and then all fell into a tense silence. All the sound at one single moment stopped.
Slowly the tape recorder began to pick up the more subtle outside sounds. The traffic of early morning, the sound of the street lamps buzzing, a cat caterwauling… eventually the click as the tape ended.
next... Chapter III: Acquisitions, out Jan. 30th, '08
Feb. 16, 1992
My name is Veronica Louise Francois. I survived the Horror of Mackenzie Street. Of the explosion that occurred nearly four and a half years ago in Oxford, England little new has happened. The police investigation has been closed. The investigation of the incident at Nadia de LaFountaine's flat revealed little.
The investigators themselves were puzzled as to the location of the remains of the bodies of Marie Gibbons, Nadia and Henri Francois, my husband. Although the official report states that their bodies were incinerated, I believe this was only due to a lack of a better explanation. To conclude, the investigators could not - unofficially - solve the bodies' disappearances.
My son-in-law, Lorne, was in the hospital during most of it and slipped between worlds of consciousness and coma. The police had attempted to talk to Lorne on a number of occasions, but were not overly successful. During one of his interviews he mumbled something about 'the black horror from outside' and fell into a frightened seizure. Luckily, the police took this statement as being the ramblings of a man still in shock and nightmaring.
I had the opportunity to talk with Lorne when he first became conscious - that is, functionally conscious - before the police could. Both Lorne and I agreed not to tell them what really happened. Heaven only knows what truly occurred at Nadia's flat that night. We knew they wouldn't believe us and Lorne showed a profound fear of being locked-up in an asylum. Once investigations were over, and the police concluded the incident was accidental, we returned to Montreal and moved in together.
It was extremely difficult without Henri. I had never imagined life without him, but he was gone. Even my daughter was taken away from me. It's a terrible feeling to outlive your children. It should have been me to die first, not Marie.
But I did gain a son, or so the saying goes, and Lorne was all that I had left. We talked and tried to help one-another, but I found myself doing most of the talking and crying and Lorne quietly listening. Where I released my pain and sorrow, Lorne would not. His battle over the loss of his wife was fought within. I knew he believed I'd think less of him to see him cry, but he couldn't have been farther from the truth. I believe we lived together for the company, for I cannot even contemplate what living alone would be like. We were not financially wanting nor needing. The life insurance policies on both our spouses left us very well off. Neither of us needed to work. Lorne however chose to keep his job. I believe to fill up his spare time and keep his mind off Marie's death. Too much time with not enough to occupy it is not a good thing, especially in Lorne's case.
Lorne needed his job to forget the horror. Myself on the other hand, cannot explain what happened and am more than happy to leave it forgotten. Sometimes the most merciful thing in the world is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. I am content with simply remaining ignorant of what truly happened on the night of the horror of Mackenzie Street. Lorne, however, eventually chose not to.
He did return to his job as a printer, as I have said. He needed something mundane and common to get his mind off of what actually happened. His peace of mind however was to be short-lived. He seemed quite recuperated and worked hard. He was offered two promotions but declined both. His wife’s death had utterly crushed his ambition. Other than that, everything was as good as could be expected.
I thought he had recovered until he came home one evening in a panic. “Veronica, Veronica!” he said, “Things are coming for me!”
“What things?” I replied.
“M-my boss, decided to get central air conditioning last month!” He was actually sweating with fear. “I couldn’t talk him out of it. Now - every day - it hums to me! It hums that same piece!”
It was at this point that I believe the insanity began. Lorne complained about being distracted constantly by the air conditioner. He tried on a number of circumstances to persuade his employer to get rid of it but to no avail. He eventually attempted to sabotage it and was caught. This was when he lost his job.
After being fired, Lorne spend much of his time indoors. Whenever we went out he simply refused to enter buildings or common areas that were air-conditioned. He had an irrational fear of these devised. His excursions out became farther and farther apart until he simply would not leave the house.
During those following two weeks I found Lorne opening up to me. He would talk about how he missed Marie. He had never before talked about her since her death. It was always I who talked and wept. But Lorne never cried. He would say how much he missed her and at times contemplate on how to get her back! He wouldn’t accept her death, poor lad.
It was then that he started talking about how Marie and Henri weren’t dead. As time went by he became more and more convinced that they were still alive. He also became more and more convinced that It was coming after him. It being whatever that thing was in Nadia’s flat.
Shortly afterwards he purchased a pistol. During this one exceptional trip out of the house, he was accosted, he said, by a vagrant who asked for any spare change Lorne might offer. When Lorne said no the beggar thanked him anyway and walked away, whistling a strange tune, a tune of Erich Zann!
He kept the pistol loaded at all times much to my fear. He said he needed it just in case It was to come after him. Although Lorne and myself both know that if that thing from Nadia’s flat on the night of the horror were to come, a pistol would be of very little use. I felt that Lorne carried it for the same reasons a frightened man whistled in that dark. It was a security blanket, nothing more. He carried it on his person at all times, even when he slept.
It was at this time that I sought out professional help for him. The psychologist said that we should go on an extensive vacation, or a tour. I decided to go to Europe with Lorne. It took a great deal to convince him to come. I had first to overcome his fear of leaving the house and then to leave behind his pistol. But eventually he submitted and agreed.
The tour did wonders for him. He quickly got over his fear of air conditioners and even allowed himself to become wrapped up in the beauty of ancient Europe. There were only two incidents that were somewhat disturbing on the whole trip. The first being when traveled from Austria to Switzerland to do some skiing. Lorne loved it. It was when I suggested going to see the ancient University of Heidelberg Germany that all of his paranoia returned. He was almost in tears in his conviction that Heidelberg Germany held unknown dangers for him. He spoke of the asylum and of some Otto Zann. Although I had great hopes of seeing the Heidelberg University I agreed not to go simply due to the utter horror it caused Lorne.
The second incident was when we were in Paris, France. Lorne and I had stopped at the Bibliotheque Nationale. He became entranced in some readings. He seemed incredibly excited about it, almost desperate. I thought it was healthy to see him so interested in something since his mysterious disinterest with music that was at one time his passion.
He spent two full days at the Bibliotheque. Apparently the authorities would not allow him to see some exhibit or other. A book it was. He called it the – now what was it? Necro-, necro-something. I think it meant “Book of the Dead”. When we left he was extremely withdrawn into himself. He wanted to return home immediately.
After our tour ended and we arrived home Lorne regressed back into his old routine of never leaving the house, except this time he had reasons. He ordered many books regarding languages. Ancient Greek, Latin, and even Arabic. He became a recluse. For three years he would never leave the house. All he did was read and study, eat and sleep, nothing more.
And then, all of a sudden, his taste for travel was rekindled! He wanted to travel again. He said he was researching something of great importance to both of us and that now he needed to see certain ancient tome and volumes which were located at various libraries around the world.
We traveled to Paris again, Buenos Aires, and various universities with a particularly long stay at the Miskatonic University in Arkham, Mass. Lorne seemed interested in certain libraries: the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, the Widener Library at Harvard, the Miskatonic University’s library and the University of Buenos Aires. Apparently his new interest was ancient books. He told me of many titles, such as the Livre d’Eibon, the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt, the Celæno Fragments, the Cultes des Goules by d’Erette, de Vermis Mysteriis, the Dhor Chants, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Dr. Dee Manuscripts, and – now I remember the name after hearing it – the dreaded Necronomicon!
When we returned to Montréal he began to receive letters from the Miskatonic University. The correspondences were long and often packages were sent. Lorne was extremely private about these going-ons. I started to believe him to be involved in some cult.
Please do not misunderstand he. My son-in-law is no fool and does not possess such a character as to accept cults, but you must realize that he was under great strains and could not accept his wife’s death. I thought a cult was using him. He was sending large sums of money to the university and receiving articles he wouldn’t allow me to see. He was looking for any way to get his wife back and if some cult or other were to tell him there was a way, Lorne would have tried it.
When I asked him who the letters were from he would answer the Miskatonic University. When I pressured him further he said they were from a Professor H. Neilson, who was assisting him in his research, but never more.
It had gone too far. I believed this university professor - if indeed this H. Neilson was truly a professor - was brainwashing my poor son-in-law, using his grief for his lost wife. It was at this point that Lorne did something quite confusing. He purchased a viola and began to teach himself. Why the sudden interest in music again was baffling. I must admit that I wasn’t sure what exactly to do. We both shared the house. It was as much his as my own and I couldn’t barge into his room and read the letters, so I went to my sister Karen’s to talk. I told her all that she hadn’t known. Karen wanted to call the police but knew well enough that there were no charges to be laid. I had expected such callousness from her. She had blamed Marie and Henri’s deaths both on Lorne. If it hadn’t been for his selfishness and greediness we would have never gone to England and this whole affair would have never taken place. She had never liked Lorne since the deaths of the Marie and Henri. She on more than one occasion attempted to talk me out of staying with Lorne. She would have had him arrested that very moment if she could have.
But when she found out about his occult dealings – she insisted that we immediately return to my house barge in his room and either confront him should he be there or go through his belongings if he should prove to be out. She said that she’d accompany me if I so desired, but I knew that she wanted to more for herself than for me.
When we returned Lorne was home at the time, much to Karen’s liking.
Karen began, “Lorne, we know that you’re involved with some cult from Boston.” She sneered.
Lorne seemed quite surprised, almost shocked. “Cult? What are you talking about?” His tone was not pleasant. Karen’s dislike of Lorne was a shared feeling between the two. I felt that if I did not intervene these two would fight. “Yes, cult.” I added softly. “You have been writing to a Professor H. Neilson in Arkham.”
“That’s part of my research, I told you ‘bout that before.” He answered stressing the final word. “I’m almost done.”
“You’re damned right you’re almost done!” my sister blurted, “This is ending right now!”
At this point I knew Lorne would not react hospitably. He did not like Karen and was very touchy on this topic. For a moment his mouth hung open. “Now listen here!” he bellowed out, “You have no Goddamned business in my affairs!” his face turned purple. “You, neither of you, know what I’m up to, how vitally important it is, nor how close to completing it I am.”
“I want to see those letters and what you’ve received from you Professor H. Neilson.” Karen mocked the name. “Veronica told me your keeping it in your room. I’m going to see for myself!” And with that she began to walk towards Lorne’s bedroom.
As for Lorne, he gave me a hard look for an instant and hastily rushed after Karen. My sister however beat Lorne to the door. He caught her by her arm after the fact. She had already flung open his bedroom door. I couldn’t believe what I saw. His room was covered with ancient scripts and moldy-crusted diagrams of things I’m not too sure of. There were pentagrams carved in strange greenish-gray soapstone and many old moldering books, many of foreign languages; all occult items.
Lorne was defeated. His eyes took on a glassy appearance and his hand slowly slipped down Karen’s arm. She roughly pulled her arm away from Lorne’s faltering grip and with a nod of her head stated that she had seen all she needed to see and that she would call the police if he hadn’t removed and discarded all of this occult trash by the next day. Although I knew she wouldn’t call the police, as there was no crime committed, Lorne took it quite hard.
My sister left. Lorne entered his room listlessly and locked the door. Although I attempted to talk with him through the door he would not even answer me. I do love my son-in-law. He is – or was – a good man, but at this point I was quite frightened. He did possess, as I saw with my own eyes and would never had believed if I hadn’t, pentagrams and other odd fetishes. He wouldn’t talk to me or answer me at all. I called back my sister and asked if I could spend the night.
Oh, how I regret it now. I can’t but help thinking that I could have helped or even saved Lorne if I had only believed in him and stayed with him on that terrible night.
When I returned the next morning with Karen, we found the house abandoned and Lorne's bedroom door still locked. We knocked and tried to convince him to unlock the door to no avail. It wasn’t long that we noticed a breeze from beneath his door. Karen went outside and around the house and saw that the bedroom window was smashed! She immediately called the police to report a burglary.
I had tried to open the door with my spare key before the police arrived only to find that Lorne must have had the lock changed for my key would not work.
When the police arrived and opened the door we found his room in a torn mess. Wallpaper was torn off the walls, furniture was scattered and smashed to pieces, paper and books were thrown everywhere and torn to fragments. All the light bulbs were mysteriously burn out. The window was smashed but all the glass lay on the torn carpeted floor, as though blown into the room from outside. After a thorough search all that was found was Lorne's pistol, empty of bullets, and a tape recorder with a tape inside.
That was the last I saw of my son-in-law Lorne S. Gibbons.
Feb. 16, 1992
Veronica L. François
[What follows is a transcript of the tape recorder’s message]
L.S. Gibbons’ voice: Mom, I’m doing this for both of us. I know you don’t believe that Marie and Henri are still alive…but I do believe it, and I think I’ve found a way to find them. Nadia opened some sort of gateway to the… I don’t know… to the outside. She must have made a mistake somewhere, somehow. I think I can repeat what she played that night but correctly. I think I can open that same gateway but this time go through it, not let Nyarlathotep out, for I believe that it was Nyarlathotep that we encountered in Nadia’s flat on the night of the horror.
I’m going to repeat that melody she played. I was so nearly finished my research when your sister came last night… I can’t allow her to stop me, not now. I haven’t completed my research but am sure I can perform the piece correctly. I hope nothing goes wrong. If I’m right and I’m not insane, I should return with both Marie and Henri…
I love you…
Transcriptor’s Notes: At this point it was audible Lorne clearing his throat and sitting. The tuning of his viola followed this. Then he began to play. Slow at first and then picking up tempo. Faster and faster the viola screamed. Then the volume rose. It sounded like a bad recording of a radio station that was not properly tuned in. I attribute this to the actual volume of the piece. The sound was so loud as to distort the recording. It crackled and hissed, but you could still recognize that cacophony of nightmares. There joined in another instrument. I can not say what. I have had other professors of music listen to this recording but they couldn’t identify the instrument.
The recording began to have blank spots in it where I believe the volume grew too loud. There was a sound of some minor explosion and falling glass. I presume this to be the window breaking. The cacophony of screaming viola and the other unidentified instrument was joined by a howling wind. This I found to be somewhat of an oddity as there was no wind in Montréal on the evening of the incident.
Lorne screamed horribly and the viola stopped playing, but the music still continued.
Lorne can be heard mumbling something I couldn’t make out and crying. There followed six gunshots and a new voice. Mrs. François insists that it was Nadia de LaFountaine’s voice but could not have been hers. She had died in the explosion of her apartment in 1987. What this new voice said was disturbing. It was loud enough to clearly hear but was very inarticulate and disjointed. I will attempt to write down phonetically what was said for I do not believe it to be any known language.
“Mwl’fgah pywfg Gh’tyaf nglyf lghyal!”
After this was ululated Lorne burst out with the formless sound of ultimate terror and then all fell into a tense silence. All the sound at one single moment stopped.
Slowly the tape recorder began to pick up the more subtle outside sounds. The traffic of early morning, the sound of the street lamps buzzing, a cat caterwauling… eventually the click as the tape ended.
next... Chapter III: Acquisitions, out Jan. 30th, '08
Friday, April 11, 2008
Chapter III: Acquisitions
A month had passed since Lorne S. Gibbons had gone missing. His mother-in-law knew the truth – that he would never be found. Veronica lived in the Hell of solitude.
How many times had she watched a television program or listened to the radio to forget when something minute reminded her of her daughter or her husband, or her son-in-law? How many nights had she spent lying in the darkness crying? Weeping tears that no one knew of, wishing she could just wake up out of this living nightmare. All she wanted was Henri to come home and hold her, to tell her everything was alright… not to cry, that things would get better.
Today had been different. She had toured old Montréal, ate at a street vendor’s hotdog stand and did some minor shopping. The day had been sunny. Oh, how she loved eating on the streets of old Montréal in the springtime! It made her forget about all her problems. She stopped feeling so alone.
She returned home, getting her mail as she did so. She placed the envelopes on the glass cocktail table in the living room and went to the kitchen to put on the kettle for some tea.
She returned to the living room and sat down to look through her mail. Hydro, Bell, Cable, Visa. Bills mostly, but what was this? A letter postmarked Arkham, Mass., from a Professor H. Neilson, addressed to Lorne S. Gibbons. This brought tears to her eyes. Oh, how she missed her son, Lorne – for that was how she saw him, as her son, not just her son-in-law.
She placed the letter down like it was made of glass.
Silence… motionlessness.
She watched through her own tears the sun set through her great bay windows. A single tear streamed down her cheek. She began sobbing. She knew she would have to write this correspondence to inform him of her son-in-law’s death. It would be so difficult. She knew she could always write the word ‘deceased’ on the letter and have it returned, but she felt it cold and stoic to do so. Yes, she would write to this Prof. Neilson and officially inform him. It was the only proper thing to do.
The sun slipped beneath the horizon. The kettle began to whistle. Veronica thought of the night of the horror in ’87. Nadia’s flat. The kettle whistling. Oh God, it had been horrible! It reminded her of Lorne again. How the two of them would sit by this very same bay window watching the sun set together over a pot of tea. Oh, how she missed him.
The kettle whistled. Veronica began openly weeping into her palms.
* * *
She lay in bed in pitch-blackness crying. Her day had been fairly good until she returned home. Lorne’s letter from Arkham, Mass. had done it. She knew she would have to eventually write him. She didn’t know where she would ever find the strength to continue, but she knew that continue she must.
She sluggishly crawled out of bed and turned on the night lamp. Her eyes felt crusty from her dried tears and the light was too bright.
She decided to write the letter to the Professor. How could she say it? Should she cover up the truth like with the horror on Mackenzie Street? No, not this time. It didn’t matter anymore to her what people thought. If Professor H. Neilson thought her crazy, then so be it! She would tell him the complete story, from beginning to end, even the horror of Mackenzie Street.
She spent the entire night writing the correspondence for her late son-in-law. The letter was not overly long; it wasn’t the actual writing that took so much time – all evening. It was her sobbing fits that delayed the actual writing that took all night. But by the first rays of another empty gray day she had finished it.
Her plans for this day were to mail the letter. Nothing else. What else was there to do? She had no job, nothing. There was no longer purpose in her life. Her world had turned a hazy shade of gray. The world went on around her but did not include her.
So it was for another month. She spent many nights with her sister Karen, but she felt her welcome lessening. Karen’s husband seemed irritated at her constant presence, so she returned to her gloomy life alone.
It was around this time that she received a letter from Professor H. Neilson addressed to her. It was typed on a University’s letterhead.
The letter read as follows:
Veronica was intrigued by this letter. It seemed obvious that this Professor knew something about what actually happened – even though Veronica had explained the occurrence of the Mackenzie Street. What did he know? Why would he want to listen to the tape? Or for that matter, even buy it?
Well, her mind was long ago made up. She would grant him a hearing of it but would not part with it. It was all that she had left. It was Lorne's final message to her. She would never part with it.
Although she was given Prof. Neilson's telephone number she much rather have written. Talking about Marie, Lorne, and Henri was so difficult for her. The last thing she wanted now was to break down before a total stranger. She had decided to write.
The epistolatory conversation ran as follows:
* * *
April 4th, '92. Philippines, Luzon Island:
The Tarlac peak. The highest point of the range rising a mighty 6,683 feet above sea level. It stood majestically over the South China Sea. A great silent stone sentinel.
The sea was placid and tranquil. The quiet before the storm. The emerald green water spread out to the western horizon, disappearing into darkness. The darkness of the incoming storm.
A blood red sun slowly slipped down behind the mighty Tarlac. The landscape taking on the orangy hew of dusk. A waning moon hung in the darkening sapphire sky. Waiting like a cowardly thief to steal the reign of the soon-to-be nighted heavens.
The water lapped against the mangrove trees' skeletal finger-like roots. The emerald sea quietly sang its sermon to the bloody defeated sun.
The waning moon rose higher and darkened the sapphire sky to pitch and cast a blanket of silvery-blue light over the quiet tropical coastline. The waters turned a murky black and the mangrove trees were bathed in a haunting blue moon-light, the ghastly roots appearing ever more like bones.
The oncoming storm's vanguard of clouds occasionally passed over the moon, momentarily plunging the skeletal mangroves trees into a shadowy darkness. Then they would pass, relinquishing the starry sky to the ruling moon, bathing the swampy lowland in its spectral azure light.
Beneath the bony stilt-like roots of a mangrove tree something stirred. Something twisted in the sandy silt beneath the waves of the shallow swamp. It was caught beneath the roots, pinned beneath, struggling to free itself.
Its struggles were frantic! Time was of the essence.
The quiet tranquility of the swamp was broken as a human hand burst from the murky black waters. The hand desperately clung to the mangrove tree's upper roots. It dragged its water-logged, decomposed body out of the swamp.
It opened its mouth with intension of howling out its anguish, but only lungs full of mud, silt and water issued forth. It vomited up the muddy earth and gagged.
Its memory was foggy. It remembered being mugged and then murdered; a knife between the ribs. It remembered being disposed on into the swamps... but it all seemed like something he had watched rather than experienced.
His heart beat. Pumping rotten blood throughout. It was painful. He could feel his very cells rejuvenating, reorganizing, healing. He leaned against the mangrove tree, exhausted. Where was he? Luzon Island... the Philippines? Yes, he was remembering.
A warm gentle tropical rain began to fall. The rain felt like acid against his slate-gray flesh. It burned. His body temperature hadn't risen yet. The rain would help warm him.
He breathed, still spitting up the occasional clump of mud. His vision was extremely poor; blind in one eye. It would take time for their regeneration.
He looked at his hands. He couldn't focus his vision, but even through the blurry image he could make out the flesh dangling from the bone. He let out a pitiful moan and slipped down. It would take take time, he told himself.
The Filipino wasn't yet capable of walking but he knew that he must begin as soon as he could. It would be a long trip to Montreal, Canada. He had to get to Veronica Francois'.
Once he recuperated enough, he would have to travel to Manila City first. He should be able to get Senor Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez's AMEX card there.
* * *
June 23rd, '92, Argentina, Rio Gallegos, the Patagonia:
Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez was a handsome Hispanic. He had charmed many women with his deep soulful brown eyes. His 53 years of age were well hidden with only a peppering of gray throughout his thick black hair. He was clean shaved – he always was, a business man should not wear any facial hair – or so was Juan Emilio's ethics. He had never trusted men with facial hair.
Most of the people in the Patagonia were naturally dark-skinned, being Hispanic, and so was Juan Emilio. But Senor Sanchez-Vasquez was quite darker than his fellow Hispanic for he spend much time in the sun. He owned three sheep farms off the Santa Cruz. He spend much of his free time on these farms working. This constituted his big-boned frame and heavily muscled body.
He had inherited these three farms and a wool-manufacturing company in Rio Cruz from his mother's family – the Sanchez family. These sheep farms and wool factory were in the Sanchez family for over eighty years. This was the reason why the Sanchez family was rich... it was also the reason why he had been forced to keep his mother's maiden name.
Juan Emilio's father's side – the Vasquez family – owned much of a large Patagonian oil company, in which Juan Emilio was given a share for his twenty-first birthday. Within the following 32 years he made millions. But, once again, he was forced to keep his father's name – thus came his surname of Sanchez-Vasquez.
He had picked up a prostitute last Friday in Rio Gallegos.. Isabella. Oh, she was something! She gave good love. Much better than his wife could. Isabella could not have been over twenty, if that.
Juan Emilio had spent a long weekend with Isabella in his estancia. They had made love the whole weekend. He had taken his private jet back to Rio Gallegos and dropped her off at the airport. He had paid her much money for her superior skills and to keep her mouth shut. God, she was one hot bitch! he thought to himself as his chauffeur drove him home from the airport.
His legs were still flimsy from his weekend festivities. He still felt exhausted. He had a sharp pain in his left arm since he left the plane.
It was 6:50 am. Nobody was yet up as he passed through the city. The sun had only recently risen. The sky was leaden in colour. It diffused the sunlight. The chauffeur turned a corner two blocks from Senor Sanchez-Vasquez's home when it began to snow. Fluffy, big snow flakes. The kind that fall on the year's first snowing. There was just an ever so slight breeze present. It made the Brobdingnagian flakes dance through the skies. It was so pretty, so placid.
“Stop!” Senor Sanchez-Vasquez said in Spanish, “Stop the car, now!”
The chauffeur pulled over to the curb.
“Its such a beautiful morning I think I'll walk the rest of the way.”
The chauffeur nodded and exited to get the door for Senor Sanchez-Vasquez. Juan Emilio got out, thanked his employee, and said, “That's enough for today. Take the rest of it off.”
The chauffeur smiled graciously. Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez stood and waited for his chauffeur to drive out of sight.
He stood and stared straight up into the gray sky. He picked out a single snow flake and watched it dance down over so slowly and eventually land on the green lawns and melt. Ah, this was Heaven, he thought. He took a deep breath through his nostrils. The air was fidget, crisp and fresh. Not cold enough to cause a chill, only to be clean and pure.
The air carried an aroma. Oh, an exquisite aroma! It was difficult to describe. It was indeed an aroma of its own right. It was an aroma to be used to compare other aromas to. But how best to describe it? It was ever so gently carried on the breeze. It had the scent of cooking bacon mixed with the smell of fresh damp pine wood. Like a newly constructed wooden house after a rainfall. There was nothing like it. Some people must have their fireplaces going.
A sudden and intense pain shot through Juan Emilio's left arm. Painful enough to cause him to hold it with his other hand. Painful enough to cause his eyes to water. He grimaced in agony. He dropped his briefcase and newspaper. He began to wheeze. His chest began to tighten, constricting his lungs.
Juan Emilio dropped to his knees. His mouth fell open. He had intended to yell in pain. To scream for help. But only a gurgling whisper came out. His chest felt as it it would explode.
Juan Emilio's cringing watering eyes suddenly went blank. His heart had stopped.
He hovered in his upright position on his knees for a moment, then toppled over onto his face, dead.
* * *
June 25th, '92: Montreal, Canada:
It was 4:00 pm. Where was Prof. Neilson? His flight was due at 3:15 and considering him and getting his rental and driving here. Shouldn't he be here by now? No, that's not enough time.
Veronica argued to herself. This waiting was excruciating! She paced the house.
To the kitchen; yes, the kettle was on and the coffee was brewing. First impressions are lasting impressions.
To the living room; everything dusted, the cocktail glass table Windexed.
To the entrance foyer... what was there to do?
Where's Prof. Neilson? she demanded again to herself. She paced the house again, checked everything again. Should she call the airport? Was it too early? Nonsense. Prof. Neilson would never know she called. Why was she feeling so self-conscious?
That was it, she would call the airport, check if his flight was delayed or not. She picked up the telephone receiver. She called airport. The phone rang once... twice... thrice...
Then the door bell rang. It must be Prof. Neilson, Veronica thought. She began to hang up the phone when a voice answered, ”Bonjour, l'airport internationale du Montreal... Hello, Montreal International Airport... Tout notre linge son occupe...” said the recording.
The doorbell rang again.
”..All our lines are busy...”
“Entre” she called out to the visitor. There started a fierce knocking. She was again about to hang up when the airport operator answered.
“Yes”, Veronica began hastily, “Has the 3:15 flight from Boston been delayed?”
”One moment please” stated the operator.
The pounding on the door continued even more impatiently.
“Come in!” she shouted, but still the visitor banged on the door.
The operator returned, ”The 3:15 flight from Boston arrived early. It arrived at 2:55...”
“Merci” Veronica cut her off and slammed down the phone, while dashing to the door.
She opened the door and there stood a man. Her first impressions were that he was a vile man. He was short and skinny. His eyes shone with the dark anger of impatience. It frightened her. Then, as if he saw the fear he installed, the look waned.
He appeared to be in his early thirties. He had very high cheek bones and a low flat nose. His hair was a thick mass of greasy blackness – unkempt and unwashed. But most striking was his skin. Although he was Filipino, he had a dull sickly gray and waxy complexion, unlike a Filipino's light brown colour. His face was severely scarred and pitted from what could only have been acne... or worse.
His eyes took on a mesmerizing look. They became large pools of chocolate. He smiled, showing a row of decayed brown and yellow teeth.
“Mme. Francois?” His breath stank of coffee and rotten vegetables. But more overwhelming was his body odor. There was a damp musty, putrid smell about him: unclean and infestive.
“...yes...” she answered in a little voice. Oh, how this man repulsed her. “Prof. Neilson?” she asked, hoping he would say no.
“Yes” he answered as he pushed past her into the house, his sleeve brushing across her arm – making her feel contaminated. “Do you have the tape made for me?” his accent wasn't Philippian.
How positively rude, she thought. The Filipino pushed a tangled mass of black hair out of his face.
“I've made some coffee, or tea if you'd like - “ she began, trying to be polite.
“-No!” he interrupted. “I want only the tape”. Veronica stood for a moment staring at the professor. Neilson stared back. The silence was tangible.
Neilson broke the silence. “Well...?” he whispered.
“I th-thought we discussed the terms of your - “ again she was cut off.
“I only want the tape.” he stated through clenched rotten teeth. His flat nose convulsed into a snarling knot. “Will you give it to me or not?”
She wanted him out of her house but she was frightened. “We agreed that you'd explain about Lorne Gibbons' research in exchange for a copy of the tape.” She refused to be bullied in her own house as frightened as she was.
The Filipino's eyes took on the look of a wild animal. Mindless. Thoughtlessly violent. But again the look passed. They resumed their chocolate colour and placidness.
The kettle began to whistle. A whistling kettle. Oh, how it reminded Veronica of Lorne. She felt her tears welling up. No, she told herself, not in front of a stranger.
“Please wait here.” she managed to say in a thin whisper, her voice cracking. As she left she notice the Filipino seemed lost in his thoughts. The whistling kettle seemed to have some sort of emotional affect upon him.
She returned to the front door with the tape's copy. Quietly, almost submissively, she handed over the tape. She had no intension any longer of pushing for the explanation she had wanted. The Filipino's eyes lit up. He seemed flabbergasted. He stood for a full moment before the thought occurred to him to accept the tape, he was so shocked.
This Veronica found curious, but she put the thought aside; she wanted him out, at any cost. She glared at him, her courage returning. He appeared deeply hurt by her look.
The silence became cogent. Only the whistling kettle dared to interrupt.
“I am very grateful for-” began Neilson. This time it was Veronica who cut him off.
“Get out.” she stated flatly, her voice as cold as ice. It seemed the room temperature dropped. Neilson looked at her for a moment of indecision. He seemed to want to say something, but then decided against it. He nodded and left.
She gently closed the door and beg to cry.
“Oh Henri...” she mumbled out loud, “please... please come back.” She slid down the wall onto the floor and openly wept. She sobbed into her hands. The kettle whistled still. Nothing really mattered anymore. She sat in the entrance foyer, on the floor, her cheeks stained with tears. She stared at the clock in the kitchen. It said 4:15. She didn't move. It didn't matter.
* * *
4:30. still she sat on the floor. The kettle's whistling died down. The kettle must have evaporated all its water; boiled dry. She didn't notice. Her eyes were blank – mindless. She thought of nothing. It felt so good. Just to sit and think of nothing. This was the only real happiness left to her. It was all she really wanted anymore... nothingness – oblivion. Oh, if only-
The doorbell rang, breaking her thoughts. Loud it was, being right beneath it. It startled her, made her jump. Made her snap back to her gray reality. Her mind again began to function, to think.
Good God! Could it be Prof. Neilson again? She stood up and straightened her dress. She peeked through the curtains so as not be seen. No, it wasn't the Filipino. It was a short stocky man dressed in a gray suit. It didn't wear well on him. The man placed his briefcase down and straightened his tie. She studied him. He was balding had short cut brown hair, slightly graying at the sides. He wore spectacles. He rubbed a meaty hand around his chin. She could almost hear the scratching sound of his five-thirty shadow. He grimaced. He had meant to shave, she was sure of it. His small dark beady eyes nervously scanned back and forth.
She answered the door. The man immediately began talking in a quick British accent. “Mrs. Francois? Yes, I must apologize be being,” he paused to check his wrist watch, “Good Heaven, it's four-thrity! I'm so sorry for being late, I'm never late but always punctual, you see,” again he paused to catch his breath, “you see, my flight arrived early and after getting my rental I was involved in an auto accident. A Filipino taxi hit me. Quite a mess really-”
Veronica interrupted, “-You're not Prof. Neilson are you?”
He immediately stopped his monologue. “Yes. Why?” he asked wearily.
“But... you were – are you sure you're Prof. Neilson? Prof. Howard Neilson?”
In the short moment of silence that followed, the light of realization passed though Neilson's eyes. ”...sweet Jesus...” he whispered, “An impostor.” He fumbled his wallet out. He searched through it briefly and produced a driver's license. Veronica took it. Howard Neilson, it said.
“A Filipino was here named Neilson. He said he was Prof. Neilson; he said he was you.” Veronica state rather blankly.
Neilson began talking quickly again. “A Filipino! I was hit by a Filipino taxi! A hit and run it was! What, did...” he commenced tripping over his tongue with questions.
“He said his name was Prof. Neilson and asked for the tape's copy”. Veronica said. The professor stopped stumbling over words and fell dead silent. “I gave it to him” she finished.
Neilson's face went pale. He mouth dropped open. A sweat broke out on his forehead. He did an unconscious impersonation of a fish out of water.
“Are you alright?” she asked. She could feel something was wrong, not directly with Neilson, but with what had happened. “Professor?”
“...oh my god...” Neilson leaned against the door frame. He ran his hand across his forehead, then over the top of his balding head.
“Professor?”
“Ah... Mrs. Francois, I do not have time to explain. You must trust me. Quickly, pack some clothes and get the tape; Lorne Gibbons' tape. We have to leave. We have to leave now.”
“Leave? Where do we-”
“Back to the University. I can't explain. Please, I beg of you, just pack and get the tape.”
Veronica went to her bedroom and packed a suitcase.
* * *
8:00 pm found Mrs. Francois and Prof. Neilson on a flight back to Boston. Veronica slept through most of the flight. She was simply exhausted from her emotional encounter with the Filipino impostor and from crying. Prof. Neilson thought about how best to explain things to Mrs. Francois.
* * *
June 25th, '92: Montreal Canada, 6:25 pm:
A rental car pulled up to La Bellefeuille Maison's driveway. A large muscular Hispanic man in a suit stepped out. His suit was disheveled and his eyes were bloodshot. He'd been up for the past 60 hours.
Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez's private jet was grounded in Buenos Aires and he was forced to take a passenger flight from there to Montreal. His jet would take far too long to repair.
He walked up to the front door. How would he ever explain this? He knocked. After a few seconds he knocked again. Still no answer. Damn it all, he thought. Where the hell could Veronica be? Where could she have went? In his frustration he pounded on the door. All in vain. She wasn't home.
Juan Emilio spun around and marched back to his car. He had to think this through.
He took a cassette out of his jacket pocket. Schronberg. He had purchased it at the Montreal International Airport's souvenir shop. Imagine that, Schronberg. He had half expected to find Mozart possibly, last year being the composure's 200th anniversary of his death – oh, how they monopolized on that occasion. All year long it was Mozart-this and Mozart-that and T-shirts even! It sickened Juan Emilio. The man's music was genius the day it was written and still was genius 200 years later! Why not celebrate and promote it throughout this time? Because they were greedy bastards, he answered himself. It had nothing to do with the music behind the man – only money.
He placed the tape in the car's cassette player. He was still surprised to have found a Schronberg tape in a souvenir shop. He would have bought almost any classical piece though. The filth they played on the radio these days... He sat in the car listening to the music.
God, it was hot! And him wearing his wool suit. It was winter in Rio Gallegos now. Summer in Montreal. He hadn't anticipated the seasonal reversal on this hemisphere when he left. He was in such a rush.
He thought of turning the air conditioner on. His meaty fingers pinched the switch. He paused, contemplating this action.
It was stifling, this heat. But he despised the air conditioner. He hated the sound it made. The kind of sound that rubbed your nerves the wrong way. He let go of the switch and decided to open the window instead. ...ahh, that was better... He removed his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Much better
He ran his fingers through his thick matte of graying chest hair. This was all too new for him. He listened to Schronberg. He had done a lot of thinking in the last 60 hours. If Veronica Francois wasn't here at La Bellefeuille Maison, she must be in Arkham, Mass. At the Miskatonic University and more than likely with Prof. Howard Neilson.
Senor Sanchez-Vasquez had hoped to intercept he before she left. He wasn't looking forward to another flight. But what choice did he have now? He had obviously missed her.
He started the car and began driving back to the airport. Another flight, he thought. At least this time he could get some sleep. He was exhausted.
He would take a flight to Boston and from there would travel to Arkham. How best to travel the second leg of the trip? Another rental? Maybe he should just get a taxi to do the trip. He could make it more than worth the driver's while. He was a very rich man.
Ah, but Juan Emilio was much too tired to think about these things now. Just get yourself on the Boston flight, he told himself.
...next: Chapter IV: Dreams and Explanations
How many times had she watched a television program or listened to the radio to forget when something minute reminded her of her daughter or her husband, or her son-in-law? How many nights had she spent lying in the darkness crying? Weeping tears that no one knew of, wishing she could just wake up out of this living nightmare. All she wanted was Henri to come home and hold her, to tell her everything was alright… not to cry, that things would get better.
Today had been different. She had toured old Montréal, ate at a street vendor’s hotdog stand and did some minor shopping. The day had been sunny. Oh, how she loved eating on the streets of old Montréal in the springtime! It made her forget about all her problems. She stopped feeling so alone.
She returned home, getting her mail as she did so. She placed the envelopes on the glass cocktail table in the living room and went to the kitchen to put on the kettle for some tea.
She returned to the living room and sat down to look through her mail. Hydro, Bell, Cable, Visa. Bills mostly, but what was this? A letter postmarked Arkham, Mass., from a Professor H. Neilson, addressed to Lorne S. Gibbons. This brought tears to her eyes. Oh, how she missed her son, Lorne – for that was how she saw him, as her son, not just her son-in-law.
She placed the letter down like it was made of glass.
Silence… motionlessness.
She watched through her own tears the sun set through her great bay windows. A single tear streamed down her cheek. She began sobbing. She knew she would have to write this correspondence to inform him of her son-in-law’s death. It would be so difficult. She knew she could always write the word ‘deceased’ on the letter and have it returned, but she felt it cold and stoic to do so. Yes, she would write to this Prof. Neilson and officially inform him. It was the only proper thing to do.
The sun slipped beneath the horizon. The kettle began to whistle. Veronica thought of the night of the horror in ’87. Nadia’s flat. The kettle whistling. Oh God, it had been horrible! It reminded her of Lorne again. How the two of them would sit by this very same bay window watching the sun set together over a pot of tea. Oh, how she missed him.
The kettle whistled. Veronica began openly weeping into her palms.
* * *
She lay in bed in pitch-blackness crying. Her day had been fairly good until she returned home. Lorne’s letter from Arkham, Mass. had done it. She knew she would have to eventually write him. She didn’t know where she would ever find the strength to continue, but she knew that continue she must.
She sluggishly crawled out of bed and turned on the night lamp. Her eyes felt crusty from her dried tears and the light was too bright.
She decided to write the letter to the Professor. How could she say it? Should she cover up the truth like with the horror on Mackenzie Street? No, not this time. It didn’t matter anymore to her what people thought. If Professor H. Neilson thought her crazy, then so be it! She would tell him the complete story, from beginning to end, even the horror of Mackenzie Street.
She spent the entire night writing the correspondence for her late son-in-law. The letter was not overly long; it wasn’t the actual writing that took so much time – all evening. It was her sobbing fits that delayed the actual writing that took all night. But by the first rays of another empty gray day she had finished it.
Her plans for this day were to mail the letter. Nothing else. What else was there to do? She had no job, nothing. There was no longer purpose in her life. Her world had turned a hazy shade of gray. The world went on around her but did not include her.
So it was for another month. She spent many nights with her sister Karen, but she felt her welcome lessening. Karen’s husband seemed irritated at her constant presence, so she returned to her gloomy life alone.
It was around this time that she received a letter from Professor H. Neilson addressed to her. It was typed on a University’s letterhead.
The letter read as follows:
Mrs. V.L. Francois,
La Bellefeuille Maison,
Montreal, P.Q.,
Canada
Dear Mrs. Francois,
My most sincere apologies. Had I known of Mr. Gibbons' demise I would have ceased our communications immediately. You have my and the University's deepest sympathies.
I would however like to inform you of Mr. Gibbons' activities. You seemed to think him involved in a cult. He was not.
He was researching something of which I am not at liberty to discuss through a written letter.
You had mentioned that a tape recording was found in Mr. Gibbons' bedroom. I would greatly wish to hear it. I am very much interested.
I would even be interested in purchasing it from you, with your approval and permission of course.
Please do not sent the tape through the mail. It is of utmost importance that you do not.
If you will grant me a hearing of the tape, please write me. We can work out a meeting. I would be more than happy to visit Montreal city this summer.
You may also reach me at the University's phone number listed on this letterhead during any schooling hours.
Your's Truly,
Professor Howard Neilson.
April 19, 1992
Veronica was intrigued by this letter. It seemed obvious that this Professor knew something about what actually happened – even though Veronica had explained the occurrence of the Mackenzie Street. What did he know? Why would he want to listen to the tape? Or for that matter, even buy it?
Well, her mind was long ago made up. She would grant him a hearing of it but would not part with it. It was all that she had left. It was Lorne's final message to her. She would never part with it.
Although she was given Prof. Neilson's telephone number she much rather have written. Talking about Marie, Lorne, and Henri was so difficult for her. The last thing she wanted now was to break down before a total stranger. She had decided to write.
The epistolatory conversation ran as follows:
Prof. Neilson,
Miskatonic University,
Arkham, Mass.,
USA
Dear Prof. Neilson,
I would be more than happy to grant you a hearing of Lorne Gibbons tape recording. I would not, however, desire to sell or in any way part with the tape. It hold great sentimental value to me. I do hope you can understand.
I would however be willing to make a copy of this recording should your need for it be desired. As to the sale price, it would be free. There is one thing that I would wish to exchange. I want to know more about Lorne Gibbons' research that you had previously mentioned.
Please write to inform me as to your arrival.
Your's Truly,
Veronica L. Francois
May 9, '92
* * *
Mrs. V.L. Francois,
La Bellefeuille Maison,
Montreal, P.Q.,
Canada
Dear Mrs. Francois,
I am very thankful for you generous offer. I am more than happy to hear the recording. I do understand how you may be attached to your son-in-law's final recording. Also, I am interested in a copy of the tape.
As for an explanation to our research... I am hesitant. I should desire to discuss this upon my arrival.
I have purchased a plane ticket and can arrive in Montreal on Thursday, June 25th. I will proceed with this schedule unless you write to me otherwise. I should be arriving on the 3:15 pm from Boston. I have already arranged for my own transportation from the airport to your home. Please do not inconvenience yourself.
Your's Truly,
Professor H. Neilson
May 27, 1992
* * *
April 4th, '92. Philippines, Luzon Island:
The Tarlac peak. The highest point of the range rising a mighty 6,683 feet above sea level. It stood majestically over the South China Sea. A great silent stone sentinel.
The sea was placid and tranquil. The quiet before the storm. The emerald green water spread out to the western horizon, disappearing into darkness. The darkness of the incoming storm.
A blood red sun slowly slipped down behind the mighty Tarlac. The landscape taking on the orangy hew of dusk. A waning moon hung in the darkening sapphire sky. Waiting like a cowardly thief to steal the reign of the soon-to-be nighted heavens.
The water lapped against the mangrove trees' skeletal finger-like roots. The emerald sea quietly sang its sermon to the bloody defeated sun.
The waning moon rose higher and darkened the sapphire sky to pitch and cast a blanket of silvery-blue light over the quiet tropical coastline. The waters turned a murky black and the mangrove trees were bathed in a haunting blue moon-light, the ghastly roots appearing ever more like bones.
The oncoming storm's vanguard of clouds occasionally passed over the moon, momentarily plunging the skeletal mangroves trees into a shadowy darkness. Then they would pass, relinquishing the starry sky to the ruling moon, bathing the swampy lowland in its spectral azure light.
Beneath the bony stilt-like roots of a mangrove tree something stirred. Something twisted in the sandy silt beneath the waves of the shallow swamp. It was caught beneath the roots, pinned beneath, struggling to free itself.
Its struggles were frantic! Time was of the essence.
The quiet tranquility of the swamp was broken as a human hand burst from the murky black waters. The hand desperately clung to the mangrove tree's upper roots. It dragged its water-logged, decomposed body out of the swamp.
It opened its mouth with intension of howling out its anguish, but only lungs full of mud, silt and water issued forth. It vomited up the muddy earth and gagged.
Its memory was foggy. It remembered being mugged and then murdered; a knife between the ribs. It remembered being disposed on into the swamps... but it all seemed like something he had watched rather than experienced.
His heart beat. Pumping rotten blood throughout. It was painful. He could feel his very cells rejuvenating, reorganizing, healing. He leaned against the mangrove tree, exhausted. Where was he? Luzon Island... the Philippines? Yes, he was remembering.
A warm gentle tropical rain began to fall. The rain felt like acid against his slate-gray flesh. It burned. His body temperature hadn't risen yet. The rain would help warm him.
He breathed, still spitting up the occasional clump of mud. His vision was extremely poor; blind in one eye. It would take time for their regeneration.
He looked at his hands. He couldn't focus his vision, but even through the blurry image he could make out the flesh dangling from the bone. He let out a pitiful moan and slipped down. It would take take time, he told himself.
The Filipino wasn't yet capable of walking but he knew that he must begin as soon as he could. It would be a long trip to Montreal, Canada. He had to get to Veronica Francois'.
Once he recuperated enough, he would have to travel to Manila City first. He should be able to get Senor Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez's AMEX card there.
* * *
June 23rd, '92, Argentina, Rio Gallegos, the Patagonia:
Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez was a handsome Hispanic. He had charmed many women with his deep soulful brown eyes. His 53 years of age were well hidden with only a peppering of gray throughout his thick black hair. He was clean shaved – he always was, a business man should not wear any facial hair – or so was Juan Emilio's ethics. He had never trusted men with facial hair.
Most of the people in the Patagonia were naturally dark-skinned, being Hispanic, and so was Juan Emilio. But Senor Sanchez-Vasquez was quite darker than his fellow Hispanic for he spend much time in the sun. He owned three sheep farms off the Santa Cruz. He spend much of his free time on these farms working. This constituted his big-boned frame and heavily muscled body.
He had inherited these three farms and a wool-manufacturing company in Rio Cruz from his mother's family – the Sanchez family. These sheep farms and wool factory were in the Sanchez family for over eighty years. This was the reason why the Sanchez family was rich... it was also the reason why he had been forced to keep his mother's maiden name.
Juan Emilio's father's side – the Vasquez family – owned much of a large Patagonian oil company, in which Juan Emilio was given a share for his twenty-first birthday. Within the following 32 years he made millions. But, once again, he was forced to keep his father's name – thus came his surname of Sanchez-Vasquez.
He had picked up a prostitute last Friday in Rio Gallegos.. Isabella. Oh, she was something! She gave good love. Much better than his wife could. Isabella could not have been over twenty, if that.
Juan Emilio had spent a long weekend with Isabella in his estancia. They had made love the whole weekend. He had taken his private jet back to Rio Gallegos and dropped her off at the airport. He had paid her much money for her superior skills and to keep her mouth shut. God, she was one hot bitch! he thought to himself as his chauffeur drove him home from the airport.
His legs were still flimsy from his weekend festivities. He still felt exhausted. He had a sharp pain in his left arm since he left the plane.
It was 6:50 am. Nobody was yet up as he passed through the city. The sun had only recently risen. The sky was leaden in colour. It diffused the sunlight. The chauffeur turned a corner two blocks from Senor Sanchez-Vasquez's home when it began to snow. Fluffy, big snow flakes. The kind that fall on the year's first snowing. There was just an ever so slight breeze present. It made the Brobdingnagian flakes dance through the skies. It was so pretty, so placid.
“Stop!” Senor Sanchez-Vasquez said in Spanish, “Stop the car, now!”
The chauffeur pulled over to the curb.
“Its such a beautiful morning I think I'll walk the rest of the way.”
The chauffeur nodded and exited to get the door for Senor Sanchez-Vasquez. Juan Emilio got out, thanked his employee, and said, “That's enough for today. Take the rest of it off.”
The chauffeur smiled graciously. Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez stood and waited for his chauffeur to drive out of sight.
He stood and stared straight up into the gray sky. He picked out a single snow flake and watched it dance down over so slowly and eventually land on the green lawns and melt. Ah, this was Heaven, he thought. He took a deep breath through his nostrils. The air was fidget, crisp and fresh. Not cold enough to cause a chill, only to be clean and pure.
The air carried an aroma. Oh, an exquisite aroma! It was difficult to describe. It was indeed an aroma of its own right. It was an aroma to be used to compare other aromas to. But how best to describe it? It was ever so gently carried on the breeze. It had the scent of cooking bacon mixed with the smell of fresh damp pine wood. Like a newly constructed wooden house after a rainfall. There was nothing like it. Some people must have their fireplaces going.
A sudden and intense pain shot through Juan Emilio's left arm. Painful enough to cause him to hold it with his other hand. Painful enough to cause his eyes to water. He grimaced in agony. He dropped his briefcase and newspaper. He began to wheeze. His chest began to tighten, constricting his lungs.
Juan Emilio dropped to his knees. His mouth fell open. He had intended to yell in pain. To scream for help. But only a gurgling whisper came out. His chest felt as it it would explode.
Juan Emilio's cringing watering eyes suddenly went blank. His heart had stopped.
He hovered in his upright position on his knees for a moment, then toppled over onto his face, dead.
* * *
June 25th, '92: Montreal, Canada:
It was 4:00 pm. Where was Prof. Neilson? His flight was due at 3:15 and considering him and getting his rental and driving here. Shouldn't he be here by now? No, that's not enough time.
Veronica argued to herself. This waiting was excruciating! She paced the house.
To the kitchen; yes, the kettle was on and the coffee was brewing. First impressions are lasting impressions.
To the living room; everything dusted, the cocktail glass table Windexed.
To the entrance foyer... what was there to do?
Where's Prof. Neilson? she demanded again to herself. She paced the house again, checked everything again. Should she call the airport? Was it too early? Nonsense. Prof. Neilson would never know she called. Why was she feeling so self-conscious?
That was it, she would call the airport, check if his flight was delayed or not. She picked up the telephone receiver. She called airport. The phone rang once... twice... thrice...
Then the door bell rang. It must be Prof. Neilson, Veronica thought. She began to hang up the phone when a voice answered, ”Bonjour, l'airport internationale du Montreal... Hello, Montreal International Airport... Tout notre linge son occupe...” said the recording.
The doorbell rang again.
”..All our lines are busy...”
“Entre” she called out to the visitor. There started a fierce knocking. She was again about to hang up when the airport operator answered.
“Yes”, Veronica began hastily, “Has the 3:15 flight from Boston been delayed?”
”One moment please” stated the operator.
The pounding on the door continued even more impatiently.
“Come in!” she shouted, but still the visitor banged on the door.
The operator returned, ”The 3:15 flight from Boston arrived early. It arrived at 2:55...”
“Merci” Veronica cut her off and slammed down the phone, while dashing to the door.
She opened the door and there stood a man. Her first impressions were that he was a vile man. He was short and skinny. His eyes shone with the dark anger of impatience. It frightened her. Then, as if he saw the fear he installed, the look waned.
He appeared to be in his early thirties. He had very high cheek bones and a low flat nose. His hair was a thick mass of greasy blackness – unkempt and unwashed. But most striking was his skin. Although he was Filipino, he had a dull sickly gray and waxy complexion, unlike a Filipino's light brown colour. His face was severely scarred and pitted from what could only have been acne... or worse.
His eyes took on a mesmerizing look. They became large pools of chocolate. He smiled, showing a row of decayed brown and yellow teeth.
“Mme. Francois?” His breath stank of coffee and rotten vegetables. But more overwhelming was his body odor. There was a damp musty, putrid smell about him: unclean and infestive.
“...yes...” she answered in a little voice. Oh, how this man repulsed her. “Prof. Neilson?” she asked, hoping he would say no.
“Yes” he answered as he pushed past her into the house, his sleeve brushing across her arm – making her feel contaminated. “Do you have the tape made for me?” his accent wasn't Philippian.
How positively rude, she thought. The Filipino pushed a tangled mass of black hair out of his face.
“I've made some coffee, or tea if you'd like - “ she began, trying to be polite.
“-No!” he interrupted. “I want only the tape”. Veronica stood for a moment staring at the professor. Neilson stared back. The silence was tangible.
Neilson broke the silence. “Well...?” he whispered.
“I th-thought we discussed the terms of your - “ again she was cut off.
“I only want the tape.” he stated through clenched rotten teeth. His flat nose convulsed into a snarling knot. “Will you give it to me or not?”
She wanted him out of her house but she was frightened. “We agreed that you'd explain about Lorne Gibbons' research in exchange for a copy of the tape.” She refused to be bullied in her own house as frightened as she was.
The Filipino's eyes took on the look of a wild animal. Mindless. Thoughtlessly violent. But again the look passed. They resumed their chocolate colour and placidness.
The kettle began to whistle. A whistling kettle. Oh, how it reminded Veronica of Lorne. She felt her tears welling up. No, she told herself, not in front of a stranger.
“Please wait here.” she managed to say in a thin whisper, her voice cracking. As she left she notice the Filipino seemed lost in his thoughts. The whistling kettle seemed to have some sort of emotional affect upon him.
She returned to the front door with the tape's copy. Quietly, almost submissively, she handed over the tape. She had no intension any longer of pushing for the explanation she had wanted. The Filipino's eyes lit up. He seemed flabbergasted. He stood for a full moment before the thought occurred to him to accept the tape, he was so shocked.
This Veronica found curious, but she put the thought aside; she wanted him out, at any cost. She glared at him, her courage returning. He appeared deeply hurt by her look.
The silence became cogent. Only the whistling kettle dared to interrupt.
“I am very grateful for-” began Neilson. This time it was Veronica who cut him off.
“Get out.” she stated flatly, her voice as cold as ice. It seemed the room temperature dropped. Neilson looked at her for a moment of indecision. He seemed to want to say something, but then decided against it. He nodded and left.
She gently closed the door and beg to cry.
“Oh Henri...” she mumbled out loud, “please... please come back.” She slid down the wall onto the floor and openly wept. She sobbed into her hands. The kettle whistled still. Nothing really mattered anymore. She sat in the entrance foyer, on the floor, her cheeks stained with tears. She stared at the clock in the kitchen. It said 4:15. She didn't move. It didn't matter.
* * *
4:30. still she sat on the floor. The kettle's whistling died down. The kettle must have evaporated all its water; boiled dry. She didn't notice. Her eyes were blank – mindless. She thought of nothing. It felt so good. Just to sit and think of nothing. This was the only real happiness left to her. It was all she really wanted anymore... nothingness – oblivion. Oh, if only-
The doorbell rang, breaking her thoughts. Loud it was, being right beneath it. It startled her, made her jump. Made her snap back to her gray reality. Her mind again began to function, to think.
Good God! Could it be Prof. Neilson again? She stood up and straightened her dress. She peeked through the curtains so as not be seen. No, it wasn't the Filipino. It was a short stocky man dressed in a gray suit. It didn't wear well on him. The man placed his briefcase down and straightened his tie. She studied him. He was balding had short cut brown hair, slightly graying at the sides. He wore spectacles. He rubbed a meaty hand around his chin. She could almost hear the scratching sound of his five-thirty shadow. He grimaced. He had meant to shave, she was sure of it. His small dark beady eyes nervously scanned back and forth.
She answered the door. The man immediately began talking in a quick British accent. “Mrs. Francois? Yes, I must apologize be being,” he paused to check his wrist watch, “Good Heaven, it's four-thrity! I'm so sorry for being late, I'm never late but always punctual, you see,” again he paused to catch his breath, “you see, my flight arrived early and after getting my rental I was involved in an auto accident. A Filipino taxi hit me. Quite a mess really-”
Veronica interrupted, “-You're not Prof. Neilson are you?”
He immediately stopped his monologue. “Yes. Why?” he asked wearily.
“But... you were – are you sure you're Prof. Neilson? Prof. Howard Neilson?”
In the short moment of silence that followed, the light of realization passed though Neilson's eyes. ”...sweet Jesus...” he whispered, “An impostor.” He fumbled his wallet out. He searched through it briefly and produced a driver's license. Veronica took it. Howard Neilson, it said.
“A Filipino was here named Neilson. He said he was Prof. Neilson; he said he was you.” Veronica state rather blankly.
Neilson began talking quickly again. “A Filipino! I was hit by a Filipino taxi! A hit and run it was! What, did...” he commenced tripping over his tongue with questions.
“He said his name was Prof. Neilson and asked for the tape's copy”. Veronica said. The professor stopped stumbling over words and fell dead silent. “I gave it to him” she finished.
Neilson's face went pale. He mouth dropped open. A sweat broke out on his forehead. He did an unconscious impersonation of a fish out of water.
“Are you alright?” she asked. She could feel something was wrong, not directly with Neilson, but with what had happened. “Professor?”
“...oh my god...” Neilson leaned against the door frame. He ran his hand across his forehead, then over the top of his balding head.
“Professor?”
“Ah... Mrs. Francois, I do not have time to explain. You must trust me. Quickly, pack some clothes and get the tape; Lorne Gibbons' tape. We have to leave. We have to leave now.”
“Leave? Where do we-”
“Back to the University. I can't explain. Please, I beg of you, just pack and get the tape.”
Veronica went to her bedroom and packed a suitcase.
* * *
8:00 pm found Mrs. Francois and Prof. Neilson on a flight back to Boston. Veronica slept through most of the flight. She was simply exhausted from her emotional encounter with the Filipino impostor and from crying. Prof. Neilson thought about how best to explain things to Mrs. Francois.
* * *
June 25th, '92: Montreal Canada, 6:25 pm:
A rental car pulled up to La Bellefeuille Maison's driveway. A large muscular Hispanic man in a suit stepped out. His suit was disheveled and his eyes were bloodshot. He'd been up for the past 60 hours.
Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez's private jet was grounded in Buenos Aires and he was forced to take a passenger flight from there to Montreal. His jet would take far too long to repair.
He walked up to the front door. How would he ever explain this? He knocked. After a few seconds he knocked again. Still no answer. Damn it all, he thought. Where the hell could Veronica be? Where could she have went? In his frustration he pounded on the door. All in vain. She wasn't home.
Juan Emilio spun around and marched back to his car. He had to think this through.
He took a cassette out of his jacket pocket. Schronberg. He had purchased it at the Montreal International Airport's souvenir shop. Imagine that, Schronberg. He had half expected to find Mozart possibly, last year being the composure's 200th anniversary of his death – oh, how they monopolized on that occasion. All year long it was Mozart-this and Mozart-that and T-shirts even! It sickened Juan Emilio. The man's music was genius the day it was written and still was genius 200 years later! Why not celebrate and promote it throughout this time? Because they were greedy bastards, he answered himself. It had nothing to do with the music behind the man – only money.
He placed the tape in the car's cassette player. He was still surprised to have found a Schronberg tape in a souvenir shop. He would have bought almost any classical piece though. The filth they played on the radio these days... He sat in the car listening to the music.
God, it was hot! And him wearing his wool suit. It was winter in Rio Gallegos now. Summer in Montreal. He hadn't anticipated the seasonal reversal on this hemisphere when he left. He was in such a rush.
He thought of turning the air conditioner on. His meaty fingers pinched the switch. He paused, contemplating this action.
It was stifling, this heat. But he despised the air conditioner. He hated the sound it made. The kind of sound that rubbed your nerves the wrong way. He let go of the switch and decided to open the window instead. ...ahh, that was better... He removed his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Much better
He ran his fingers through his thick matte of graying chest hair. This was all too new for him. He listened to Schronberg. He had done a lot of thinking in the last 60 hours. If Veronica Francois wasn't here at La Bellefeuille Maison, she must be in Arkham, Mass. At the Miskatonic University and more than likely with Prof. Howard Neilson.
Senor Sanchez-Vasquez had hoped to intercept he before she left. He wasn't looking forward to another flight. But what choice did he have now? He had obviously missed her.
He started the car and began driving back to the airport. Another flight, he thought. At least this time he could get some sleep. He was exhausted.
He would take a flight to Boston and from there would travel to Arkham. How best to travel the second leg of the trip? Another rental? Maybe he should just get a taxi to do the trip. He could make it more than worth the driver's while. He was a very rich man.
Ah, but Juan Emilio was much too tired to think about these things now. Just get yourself on the Boston flight, he told himself.
...next: Chapter IV: Dreams and Explanations
Monday, March 31, 2008
Chapter IV: Dreams and Explanations
June 25th, '92. Massachusetts, U.S.A., 10:50 pm:
When Veronica and Prof. Neilson had landed in Boston and got their rental car for the trip to Arkham the sun had already set. As they drove well beyond the city limits the car filled with an oppressive silence. Little was visible outside the car windows – just dark shadowy blurs.
“We began learning of monstrous beings predating man a number of decades ago.” Neilson began, his voice shattering the still silence. “The Miskatonic University's exploration to the Antarctic in 1930, our own Dr. H. West's mysterious disappearance in 1922 and the horrific suggestions implied. The Federal Government's cover-up of the dept-charging off the coast of Innsmouth in 1928. the Norwegian ship's Second Mate Johandsen's testimony of 1925... All these suggest presences among us.
“Through study of many ancient tomes and volumes and years of research some terrifying information was discovered. At a very distant and remote time in the past – before mankind and possibly even the birth of our solar system – there was a civilization of being which inhabited the known galaxy, and perhaps further. It is unknown how far or whether they ruled it or simply inhabited it...” Neilson's voice trailed off. He hated how his voice sounded so small and weak in the confines of this car.
“A small group rebelled - they are only referred to as the Great Old Ones – against some powerful being called the Elder Gods. As to what the Elder Gods truly were are are... there is no hint.” A passing car's headlights cleaved through the darkness, lighting up both Neilson's and Veronica's faces in a stark, ghostly, and colourless contrast.
“This rebel group – the Great Old Ones – were powerful beyond the realm of simply killing off. Or that is what I've come to believe. Another theory is that the Elder God's only wanted to punish them – but I think not. These alien beings are immortal – as far as our concept of mortality is concerned. I think they cannot die.
“The Great Old Ones were put down to eternal slumber,and their physical bodies imprisoned in various locales; Great Cthulhu in the sunken city of R'lyeh somewhere in the South Pacific; Hastur the Unspeakable near the Lake of Hali on Carcosa; the mindless Azothoth in the centre of the universe outside time and space; Yog-Sothoth in an outer imprisonal sphere or dimension; and many others. Nyarlathotep however - “
“Near-quoi?” Veronica cut in.
“Nyarlathotep was the only one not put down to unconsciousness. Why? I don't know. It was however, imprisoned in another universe, separate and distinct from our own – outside of our time-space continuum – but very conscious. Maybe to visit the other Great Old Ones in their dreams, to relate their loneliness and isolation to one another – maybe to act as an unknowing spy for the Elder Gods – to keep an eye on the Great Old Ones sleeping – who can say? But the only known fact is that Nyarlathotep is not asleep! Although imprisoned in another universe it had very limited egress – but never on a permanent basis.
“The translated manuscripts that allegedly predate mankind and the Mad Arab Abdul Alzared's dreaded Necronomicon, all state that at some future point in time the Great Old Ones will awake and return from their aeons of slumber and repossess, or more correctly, reclaim the world. Mankind is doomed and there is no stopping them. Mankind simply does not fit into the scheme. It is the end of all once they're freed.
“As to when this time is... well, your guess is a good as mine. Different sources suggest various times. 'When the stars are right', 'When the planets are in a certain alignment', and numerous non-specific suggestions. There is only one point that all sources do agree upon and all have in common; Nyarlathotep will be the first.
“Some sources refer to this Nyarlathotep as 'the Messenger of the Gods' and foreshadows the Great Old Ones' reformation of the universe. It will be Nyarlathotep who will first walk the Earth and prepare it for the advent of these cosmic monsters.
“Your son-in-law discovered more. It is unknown as to actually when, but at sometime prior to 1928, a mute German viol-player – and Erich Zann – invented or discovered a radically new technique or range of music, when, when played properly, opened a door, a gateway from Nyarlathotep's Prison-Universe to ours.
“Lorne theorized that this Prison-Universe existed purely in the metaphysical state. Being pure thought if you'd like – the inhabitants being only – I detest using the term – spirits, or bodiless souls-”
Veronica cut in, “Do you mean like Heaven and Hell, with disembodied spirits?” she asked.
“No. Not disembodied souls. Bodiless souls. The inhabitants never, as far as Lorne guessed, had bodies. But to continue, this could explain, to some degree, why Nyarlathotep could not enter our universe of both the physical and the metaphysical – being only metaphysical itself.
“However, the music of Erich Zann opened a gateway – or more correctly – created a 'pocket' between the two universes – a meeting point. Lorne believed that for Nyarlathotep to successfully escape its Prison-Universe it wold have to have possession of a physical form or body. It would have to form a symbiotic union or relationship between itself and a member of our universe. A symbiosis would have to occur.
“I believe that the dumb German viol-player, Erich Zann, succeeded in summoning Nyarlathotep but died, either from fright or old age, before the symbiosis was complete. Erich Zann had a son – Otto Zann – who we believed also perfected the musical theory and technique of his father. Otto is still alive today but resides in the Heidelberg Asylum in Germany. It would seem that Otto also performed the musical piece but the experience drove him mad. Why Nyarlathotep did not, or could not, form the symbiosis with Otto is unknown. This is the mystery, the one unexplained factor in Lorne's theory – the only flaw. Why wasn't a symbiotic relationship formed between Otto Zann and Nyarlathotep? Lorne could not explain this point and I myself cannot fathom an answer either.
“But to continue, overlooking this flaw for the time being, we come across the incident at Nadia de LaFountain's flat that night in 1987. Lorne had told me about it before you had.
“With Lorne's help, Nadia had transcribed her grandfather's – and for that matter – her father's musical work. On the night of the horror at Mackenzie Street, your son-in-law and Nadia opened the gateway to Nyarlathotep's Prison-Universe and the symbiosis was complete. Nadia and Nyarlathotep became one. Nyarlathotep was free, yet was still, for the third time, thwarted. Nadia's flat exploded. The Nadia/Nyarlathotep Symbiot was forced to flee – flee back to its Prison-Universe. This is the interesting point however. The fact that Henri, Marie, and Nadia's bodies were not found – indeed, not even a trace or remnant was found – suggests that the Symbiot was successful and complete. The Nadia/Nyarlathotep Symbiot knew that to remain would mean to lose the physical host – or Nadia – it's one chance at freedom, so it chose to flee and save it. Otherwise, if the symbiosis was not a success, why would Nyarlathotep save the three? It wouldn't. Therefore Lorne's theory of the Symbiot was quite accurate. It still doesn't explain Otto Zann though. Why was the symbiosis a failure with him? That mystery is yet unsolved and I fear may never be known.”
“But if Nadia and Nyarlathotep became one, why would this Symbiot take Marie and Henri with it when it fled the explosion? Why not simply leave them behind?” asked Veronica.
“The Great Old Ones”, continued Neilson, “are not gods but an alien species. As I've said, they are immortal as we understand it. The older the being, the more powerful it is. Nyarlathotep is the oldest and most potent of its species. The other beings at Nadia's flat the night of the horror in '87 were its lesser brethren. They probably followed through the gateway.”
“So Lorne wasn't mad,” Veronica said half to herself, “when he insisted that Marie and Henri weren't dead?”
“They weren't killed by the explosion.” state Neilson solemnly. “It doesn't mean they're alive still.”
Silence. Neilson realized he made this statement rather matter-of-factly. He could have bit his own tongue off. There were Veronica's husband and daughter.
“As to why the Symbiot took Marie and Henri, I can only speculate. Maybe it had no choice – maybe it needed them for some purpose – or maybe, as Lorne believed, some of its lesser brethren symbiotically join with them also.” There. He said it. Neilson knew there was no easy way of saying it.
“Mon dieu!” Veronica gasped, pale faced in horror. Another passing car's headlight gave her an even more ghastly appearance, “Do you mean that my husband and daughter are... not human anymore?” The last words were little more than a whisper.
“As I've said”, Neilson started quietly, “they survived the explosion of Nadia's flat – it doesn't mean they're alive... Lorne believed they were and look where it got him”.
The two fell into silence. Veronica contemplating this monstrous revelation, Neilson staring ahead into the nighted highway, lost deep in his own thoughts. He absently bit his lower lip. His eyes were hidden at times as passing cars' headlights reflected off his glasses. Veronica startled him by speaking, again breaking the silence:
“How does Lorne's tape fit into all this?”
“There are ancient cult still in existence and certain backwater folk who believe the Great Old Ones are gods and worship these demons in blasphemous rituals. They believe that when the Great Old Ones do inevitably return, they will be spared and elevated to higher powers and social levels. They will not be. The Great Old Ones are indifferent to the human race as a whole. We all will be extinguished like some annoying bug”. They professor resumed his lip chewing.
“You mean to say that your Filipino impostor wants to free the Symbiot?” she questioned.
“Yes!” Neilson snapped out of his thoughts. “That's exactly what he plans to do.”
“But the tape, the recording quality was extremely poor. You could barely hear it in parts due to the static hiss and other background noises. I've played the tape myself, on a number of occasions. It never opened this gateway. You said the musical piece had to be performed correctly, if not perfectly to succeed. These two tapes are hardly perfect recordings”. She finished with a hopeful air.
“That's all very true”, Neilson continued patiently, “but we have the technology and equipment in this day and age to filter out unwanted static and background noises. Once this is done there will be left the whole musical piece – complete.”
Silence ensued again.
A large green highway sign read, 'Arkham, 1 mile, next exit' and as Neilson steered the car into the exiting lane he mumbled to himself, “Damn that Gibbons, if only he hadn't left that bloody tape...”
They arrived at the Miskatonic Uyniversity Faculty's residences at 2:30 am.
Neilson offered Veronica the spare bedroom where she quickly subsided into a nightmare plagued sleep.
***
Veronica shot straight uprigh in her bed, screaming with terror!
"Warten sie auf mich bei der shranke!" she shouted out. She was in a cold sweat. She screamed it again. The meaing was so close.
Professor Neilson came running into the room, half stumbling while trying to put on his glasses.
She howled it again in a panic. She felt it's urgentcy but could not quite grasp its meaning.
"What? Mrs. Francois!" Neilson grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her. "It's only a dream! It's alright, love. It's only a dream!"
She calmed down, realizing where she was – that it was indeed only a dream, that she was safe, safe from... safe from what? The storm in her dream had formed into something... but what? She couldn't remember. A face? Yes, it was a face, a woman's face. A vary familiar woman's face, but she couldn't remember why it had scared her so much. She couldn't remember that face.
"Warten sie auf mich bei der shranke" she whispered to herself. Even the feeling of urgentcy had vanished from her. It wasn't important anymore. The dream had completely escaped her.
"What? Neilson asked. "That's German. Where'd you hear that, love?"
"My, my dream." She answered. "I don't... I don't remember it..."
"It means 'Wait for me at the gate'" Neilson stated. "You heard this in your dream?"
"I think so, but.... I don't speak German?"
Silence. Professor Neilson looked at the digital clock. 3:16 am it said in glowing red numbers. He turned his attention back to Veronica. Her breasts were heaving up over the top of her nightgown. He stared. He found her attractive, but she was a widow, wasn't she? It would not be right, he told himself.
He realized he was staring at her breasts only after the fact. Did she notice? Or was it a reaction?
Veronica, realizing she was half naked, pulled up the blanket around her neck. It was an instictive reaction. Professor Neilson dropped his gaze and stood up unfomfortably. She had not meant to make him feel bad. She hadn't even thought about it. She would have never noticed that he was watching her had he not reacted as he did.
Actually, she found it felt good. She hadn't been with a man in nearly 5 years. But what about Henri? Was he still alive? Professor Neislon didn't think so.
She looked up at him. It was the first time she seen him out of a suit. He still hadn't shaven. It was attractive she thought. She noticed that he must be a hairy man. Just under the stubble of his neck, but above the collar was a mass of graying chest hair. She had never noticed this before since he worn a shirt and tie. She like her men hairy. Henri was hairy.
"I'll make some tea." Neilson said ackwardly. "Please," he continued while walking into the kitchen, "tell me about what you can remember of your dream".
Veronica smiled to herself. He was embarassed. He probably was blushing and knew it. That's why he offered to make tea. To go into the kitchen, wait for his colour to return to normal. She had wished the lights were on in the room. She could have noticed then if he had indeed blushed or not. She made a bet with herself. Neilson would stay in the kitchen longer than it took to put on a kettle, then return and then turn on the lights. She thought he was cute, like a little boy.
Five minutes had passed. Professor Neilson returned, turned on the bedroom light, just as Veronica had predicted.
She had put on her robe. "Let's sit in the kitchen and talk." she said.
"That sounds like a good idea, Mrs. Francois" he answered.
"Veronica."
"Pardon?"
"Veronica. That's my name. Please call me Veronica".
Neilson's face blushed again. He seemed at a loss for words. He put his hands into his robe's pockets and looked at his feet.
"Alright", he finally answered. "Please call me Howard".
The was an ackward silence as the two sat and waited for the kettle to whistle.
"Why did we have to come here?" Veronica asked. "You semmed in a rush to leave Montreal. What's here? Or were you just trying to get me into your appartment?" She smiled.
Howard's eyes opened wide. He stumbled over words. "Ah, no...." he finally managed to say. "No, its that, well - "
Veronica put her hand on his. "Shh, its okay" she said soothingly, "it was just a joke".
Howard laughed uncomfortably.
His hand was very hairy, she thought, and strong. How could a teacher have such muscled hands?
Neilson's face seemed to gain its composure, to become a visage of confidence.
"One doesn't have to teach to be a professor." he answered. Veronica immediately withdrew her hand. "I only give lectures here."
He had answered her question, but she never asked it, did she? At lest not out loud.
He smiled. "Tit for tat". He said. "Play with me and I'll play with you".
Veronica sat staring. She didn't know what to think.
"I'm just joking" he said softly. "And yes, I can read you mind. Well, sometimes. And as for why we came here: Well, now that the Filipian impostor had the tape copy. There's very little that we can do until..."
"Until what? Veronica still hadn't overcome her shock.
"Until the Symbiot is freed. We can't track this Filipian. We don't even know his real name. You've seen him but what good is that? We can't take any legal action, he hasn't broken any laws that we can prove."
"But what good is being here?" she asked.
"Well, we can wait for something to happen. Here at the University we receive every daily newspaper around the world. We wait for a sign that the Symbiot's free."
"How do you know the papers will tell what you need to know?"
"Take my word for it. Once Nyarlathotep is freed, if indeed this symbiot is Nyarlathotep, it will make itself known in a big way."
Silence again. Howard poured himself another cup of tea. He held the pot over Veronica's cup and looked at her questionally.
She nodded her head. "But why here? This is a school. A university."
"Yes," he answered, "but its also more than that. We have a foundation established here, subsidised by a number of governments around the world. Our responsibility is to watch for the Great Old Ones."
"And these governments believe it when you tell them about god-like alien beings sleeping on Earth and that your foundation needs money to watch them?" she asked incrediously. "What do you take me for, and idiot?"
"No." Neilson said coldly. "I don't take for an idiot. I would never have explained things as I had to you if you hadn't experienced an encounter with one of them firsthand. And no, we don't tell these subsidising governments exactly what we're doing. You know as well as I that they'd never believe.
"Most of them don't know. We mask most of our work under various fronts. Geological research, Nuclear testing and what-not.
"We do work with other agencies throughout the world. The British Secret Service has its own E-Branch. The Russians have its equiliant. These, however, are not important.
"We recuit people who have knowledge of the Great Old Ones' goings on and those with ESP who can be trusted. Myself, for example, have limited mind reading abililties, as you've seen for yourself."
"You can just pluck thoughts from people's minds?" Veronica asked.
"No. I'm not a very accomplished mind reader, unfortunately. Only surface thoughts, and strong ones at that. Occasionally I can pick up others, but I can't control this."
Veronica fell silent. She poured herself another cup of tea. She didn't know whether to ask her next question of just think it.
"So, what do you think about the dream?" she changed subjects.
"Do you remember any of it?"
"Not much." she answered wearily. "Someone, or something was trying to tell me something. I know this isn't overly helpful – more questions than answers. The meaning of the message wasn't clear, but it was extremely important, that much I can remember."
"Yes, that was the German you said when you woke up. 'Wait for me at the gate'" He thought for a moment. "Who said it?"
"I can't remember, but I do remember a face, a woman's face. It scared me awake."
"Who was it?"
"I... I don't... I knew who it was, but... it's left me now." She slowly sipped her tea in thought. "It wasn't ugly or anything like that. That's not what scared me. I recognized her."
"Was it the woman's face who told you to wait for her at the gate?"
"No!" Veronica immediately answered, "No, it wasn't. If anything it was the woman who tried to stop whomever was trying to say it to me."
Howard removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Well," he bagan, "let's go back to bed and get at least some sleep tonight. We'll pick it up tomorrow.
"And Veronica," he added, "don't worry about the dream. It was nothing but a nightmare."
Veronica smiled and said goodnight. They both knew it was a lie. Upon returning to her bed she thought about Howard, about how she was finding him more attractive by the moment, and how five years was a long time. She fell asleep with thoughts of Professor Neilson.
Howard returned to his bedroom but didn't sleep. He couldn't. He knew something was up, something monstrously huge. For he knew the dream Veronica had better than she knew it - for he himself had the very same dream!
He must have picked it up from her, for he remembered it through her eyes. That was the reason why she had forgotten it and he hadn't. The woman in the dream had forced the dream from Veronica's memory – but she couldn't have known about Howard.
He abhorred himself for lying to Veronica. It was only a nightmare, he chuckled to himself in disgust. But she wouldn't have handled the truth, now would she?
He had witnessed the whole nightmare. The woman's face that materialized out of the storm, that had stopped the two shadowy figure's message, was also familiar to Neilson. All too familiar, except he could remember where he had seen her before. He remembered that face from the Oxford Police files of '87. He knew who she was, and the fact that if things were right, she should be long since dead. But this dream confirmed his worst fears.
It was the two shadowy figures – the pair that became one – that tried to communicate to Veronica that disturbed him. But what disturbed him more was the fact that he knew these two incorporal figures were trying to send a message and that the woman had stopped their attempt. He also realized that for the woman to reach into someone dreams, as she had done, she would have to had been free... from of her prision-universe. The implications were catastrophic.
He picked up his notepad and wrote down the time when Veronica had the nightmare. 3:16 am.
All he could do now was to sit and wait. How could one simply sit and wait for something like this?
He began to churn the thought over and over in his head. Even when he said the words he could not truly grasp their meaning:
Nyarlathotep was free
...next: Chapter V: Memories of Tomorrow
When Veronica and Prof. Neilson had landed in Boston and got their rental car for the trip to Arkham the sun had already set. As they drove well beyond the city limits the car filled with an oppressive silence. Little was visible outside the car windows – just dark shadowy blurs.
“We began learning of monstrous beings predating man a number of decades ago.” Neilson began, his voice shattering the still silence. “The Miskatonic University's exploration to the Antarctic in 1930, our own Dr. H. West's mysterious disappearance in 1922 and the horrific suggestions implied. The Federal Government's cover-up of the dept-charging off the coast of Innsmouth in 1928. the Norwegian ship's Second Mate Johandsen's testimony of 1925... All these suggest presences among us.
“Through study of many ancient tomes and volumes and years of research some terrifying information was discovered. At a very distant and remote time in the past – before mankind and possibly even the birth of our solar system – there was a civilization of being which inhabited the known galaxy, and perhaps further. It is unknown how far or whether they ruled it or simply inhabited it...” Neilson's voice trailed off. He hated how his voice sounded so small and weak in the confines of this car.
“A small group rebelled - they are only referred to as the Great Old Ones – against some powerful being called the Elder Gods. As to what the Elder Gods truly were are are... there is no hint.” A passing car's headlights cleaved through the darkness, lighting up both Neilson's and Veronica's faces in a stark, ghostly, and colourless contrast.
“This rebel group – the Great Old Ones – were powerful beyond the realm of simply killing off. Or that is what I've come to believe. Another theory is that the Elder God's only wanted to punish them – but I think not. These alien beings are immortal – as far as our concept of mortality is concerned. I think they cannot die.
“The Great Old Ones were put down to eternal slumber,and their physical bodies imprisoned in various locales; Great Cthulhu in the sunken city of R'lyeh somewhere in the South Pacific; Hastur the Unspeakable near the Lake of Hali on Carcosa; the mindless Azothoth in the centre of the universe outside time and space; Yog-Sothoth in an outer imprisonal sphere or dimension; and many others. Nyarlathotep however - “
“Near-quoi?” Veronica cut in.
“Nyarlathotep was the only one not put down to unconsciousness. Why? I don't know. It was however, imprisoned in another universe, separate and distinct from our own – outside of our time-space continuum – but very conscious. Maybe to visit the other Great Old Ones in their dreams, to relate their loneliness and isolation to one another – maybe to act as an unknowing spy for the Elder Gods – to keep an eye on the Great Old Ones sleeping – who can say? But the only known fact is that Nyarlathotep is not asleep! Although imprisoned in another universe it had very limited egress – but never on a permanent basis.
“The translated manuscripts that allegedly predate mankind and the Mad Arab Abdul Alzared's dreaded Necronomicon, all state that at some future point in time the Great Old Ones will awake and return from their aeons of slumber and repossess, or more correctly, reclaim the world. Mankind is doomed and there is no stopping them. Mankind simply does not fit into the scheme. It is the end of all once they're freed.
“As to when this time is... well, your guess is a good as mine. Different sources suggest various times. 'When the stars are right', 'When the planets are in a certain alignment', and numerous non-specific suggestions. There is only one point that all sources do agree upon and all have in common; Nyarlathotep will be the first.
“Some sources refer to this Nyarlathotep as 'the Messenger of the Gods' and foreshadows the Great Old Ones' reformation of the universe. It will be Nyarlathotep who will first walk the Earth and prepare it for the advent of these cosmic monsters.
“Your son-in-law discovered more. It is unknown as to actually when, but at sometime prior to 1928, a mute German viol-player – and Erich Zann – invented or discovered a radically new technique or range of music, when, when played properly, opened a door, a gateway from Nyarlathotep's Prison-Universe to ours.
“Lorne theorized that this Prison-Universe existed purely in the metaphysical state. Being pure thought if you'd like – the inhabitants being only – I detest using the term – spirits, or bodiless souls-”
Veronica cut in, “Do you mean like Heaven and Hell, with disembodied spirits?” she asked.
“No. Not disembodied souls. Bodiless souls. The inhabitants never, as far as Lorne guessed, had bodies. But to continue, this could explain, to some degree, why Nyarlathotep could not enter our universe of both the physical and the metaphysical – being only metaphysical itself.
“However, the music of Erich Zann opened a gateway – or more correctly – created a 'pocket' between the two universes – a meeting point. Lorne believed that for Nyarlathotep to successfully escape its Prison-Universe it wold have to have possession of a physical form or body. It would have to form a symbiotic union or relationship between itself and a member of our universe. A symbiosis would have to occur.
“I believe that the dumb German viol-player, Erich Zann, succeeded in summoning Nyarlathotep but died, either from fright or old age, before the symbiosis was complete. Erich Zann had a son – Otto Zann – who we believed also perfected the musical theory and technique of his father. Otto is still alive today but resides in the Heidelberg Asylum in Germany. It would seem that Otto also performed the musical piece but the experience drove him mad. Why Nyarlathotep did not, or could not, form the symbiosis with Otto is unknown. This is the mystery, the one unexplained factor in Lorne's theory – the only flaw. Why wasn't a symbiotic relationship formed between Otto Zann and Nyarlathotep? Lorne could not explain this point and I myself cannot fathom an answer either.
“But to continue, overlooking this flaw for the time being, we come across the incident at Nadia de LaFountain's flat that night in 1987. Lorne had told me about it before you had.
“With Lorne's help, Nadia had transcribed her grandfather's – and for that matter – her father's musical work. On the night of the horror at Mackenzie Street, your son-in-law and Nadia opened the gateway to Nyarlathotep's Prison-Universe and the symbiosis was complete. Nadia and Nyarlathotep became one. Nyarlathotep was free, yet was still, for the third time, thwarted. Nadia's flat exploded. The Nadia/Nyarlathotep Symbiot was forced to flee – flee back to its Prison-Universe. This is the interesting point however. The fact that Henri, Marie, and Nadia's bodies were not found – indeed, not even a trace or remnant was found – suggests that the Symbiot was successful and complete. The Nadia/Nyarlathotep Symbiot knew that to remain would mean to lose the physical host – or Nadia – it's one chance at freedom, so it chose to flee and save it. Otherwise, if the symbiosis was not a success, why would Nyarlathotep save the three? It wouldn't. Therefore Lorne's theory of the Symbiot was quite accurate. It still doesn't explain Otto Zann though. Why was the symbiosis a failure with him? That mystery is yet unsolved and I fear may never be known.”
“But if Nadia and Nyarlathotep became one, why would this Symbiot take Marie and Henri with it when it fled the explosion? Why not simply leave them behind?” asked Veronica.
“The Great Old Ones”, continued Neilson, “are not gods but an alien species. As I've said, they are immortal as we understand it. The older the being, the more powerful it is. Nyarlathotep is the oldest and most potent of its species. The other beings at Nadia's flat the night of the horror in '87 were its lesser brethren. They probably followed through the gateway.”
“So Lorne wasn't mad,” Veronica said half to herself, “when he insisted that Marie and Henri weren't dead?”
“They weren't killed by the explosion.” state Neilson solemnly. “It doesn't mean they're alive still.”
Silence. Neilson realized he made this statement rather matter-of-factly. He could have bit his own tongue off. There were Veronica's husband and daughter.
“As to why the Symbiot took Marie and Henri, I can only speculate. Maybe it had no choice – maybe it needed them for some purpose – or maybe, as Lorne believed, some of its lesser brethren symbiotically join with them also.” There. He said it. Neilson knew there was no easy way of saying it.
“Mon dieu!” Veronica gasped, pale faced in horror. Another passing car's headlight gave her an even more ghastly appearance, “Do you mean that my husband and daughter are... not human anymore?” The last words were little more than a whisper.
“As I've said”, Neilson started quietly, “they survived the explosion of Nadia's flat – it doesn't mean they're alive... Lorne believed they were and look where it got him”.
The two fell into silence. Veronica contemplating this monstrous revelation, Neilson staring ahead into the nighted highway, lost deep in his own thoughts. He absently bit his lower lip. His eyes were hidden at times as passing cars' headlights reflected off his glasses. Veronica startled him by speaking, again breaking the silence:
“How does Lorne's tape fit into all this?”
“There are ancient cult still in existence and certain backwater folk who believe the Great Old Ones are gods and worship these demons in blasphemous rituals. They believe that when the Great Old Ones do inevitably return, they will be spared and elevated to higher powers and social levels. They will not be. The Great Old Ones are indifferent to the human race as a whole. We all will be extinguished like some annoying bug”. They professor resumed his lip chewing.
“You mean to say that your Filipino impostor wants to free the Symbiot?” she questioned.
“Yes!” Neilson snapped out of his thoughts. “That's exactly what he plans to do.”
“But the tape, the recording quality was extremely poor. You could barely hear it in parts due to the static hiss and other background noises. I've played the tape myself, on a number of occasions. It never opened this gateway. You said the musical piece had to be performed correctly, if not perfectly to succeed. These two tapes are hardly perfect recordings”. She finished with a hopeful air.
“That's all very true”, Neilson continued patiently, “but we have the technology and equipment in this day and age to filter out unwanted static and background noises. Once this is done there will be left the whole musical piece – complete.”
Silence ensued again.
A large green highway sign read, 'Arkham, 1 mile, next exit' and as Neilson steered the car into the exiting lane he mumbled to himself, “Damn that Gibbons, if only he hadn't left that bloody tape...”
They arrived at the Miskatonic Uyniversity Faculty's residences at 2:30 am.
Neilson offered Veronica the spare bedroom where she quickly subsided into a nightmare plagued sleep.
***
She was flying through black abysses, through dreadful voids of nothingness – not space, for even space is something. There were no stars, no planets, nothing. She could not feel the restraints of gravity, for she had no body. (And did she actually fly? Could one fly or move through a medium which had nothing?) No space, no movement, nowhere to go. No space, no time. Where was she?
Endlessness – it was terrifying yet peaceful, but at once. It was everything she ever wanted. Nothingness. Oblivion. She knew that if she were to stop thinking she would simply be absorbed into this great nothingness... ( or could it be everything – the whole sum?) Was she always part of it, which had in some point in the past escaped, only to be reabsorbed again? Or was she the alien presence invading it's oneness? Either way, she knew that she could allow herself to become part of it. Completely oblivious to the fact that she ever existed... (and did she ever exist if there was no space here and thus no time?)... She had to stop thinking. Thinking was the only thing arresting her assimilation. She had to stop. Just close her eyes... (did she have eyes?)... and relax.
... just... slip... into... oblivion...
She felt a warm breeze across her cheek. The weight of gravity pulling; cool grass beneath her. Was she laying on the ground... outside?
She opened her eyes. Her vision focused. It was dark, but not night. There was a storm overhead. A raging storm. Churning, grinding, and surging. A rolling chaos. All around her was blackness... no, towards one direction there was a horizontal sliver of light. It was the horizon – it had to be the horizon – and the edge of the storm. And as she stared at the distant gray line of light she saw something stood there. It was so far. No, there were two objects... moving?... running?
Yes, running! They were people... or at lease distant silhouettes of people. Shadows. Incorporal. She heard a sound. Was it voices? Singing? It was so faint.
It was whispering. The two shadow-things on the horizon of light were whispering to her. (How could she hear them from that distance?) What were they saying?
They seemed to be thinking out loud – trying to remember something. Each shadow had part of the knowledge to remember but not all. Each shadow had something, some piece of information the other needed to remember. They continued running and whispering, running and whispering.
They began to run in circles (were they laughing?) Their circles became smaller, tighter. They were slowly approaching one another.
The storm overhead bellowed out a thunderous roar! It was deafening. The two shadows stopped for a moment... they demurred. They seemed fearful and hesitant. Then they ran again, but this time faster, with more purpose. The storm began producing a sound akin to that of idiot flute players.
Then the two shadows collided – became one. It was a figure. Corporal and humanoid. It stood threre. Their whispering had stopped. It didn't move or make a sound. The storm was screaming its cacophony!
She began to hear it. Not with her ears, for nothing but the raging storm could be heard now, but with her mind. Like she was reading it's very thoughts. She was reading its confusion.
It was trying to remember something – something so simple but just beyond it's memory. It was frustrating.
And then suddenly, it spoke in her mind:
"Warten sie auf mich bei der shranke" it said. She knew she heard it before. She could sense its importance, but could not remember; could not understand it.
It repeated it again. Still she didn't understand. It was so familiar. She said it to herself. She repeated it. She said it again, and again, and again, again, again...
"Warten sie auf mich bei der shranke". Both said it together. She sensed that it was losing it corporalness. It was regressing back to its two shadowy forms. It was forgetting. The strain had been too great.
"Please!" she shouted in her mind, "Please, tell me what it means!"
She could see the two forms dividing. The figure became blurred, semi-corporal. It was trying to hold itself together. It was fighting some unknown force to remain whole... but to no avail. It split. The two incorporal shadows danced off whispering to one another. It was gone. It had forgotten its own message. It had forgotten the importance of what it had wanted to communicate to her.
"Warten sie auf mich bei der shranke!" The message echoed like thunder through her mind. She could still sense the utter direness of the message... (but what did it mean!?)
The storm exploded with sound. A sound more felt in your bones than heard. Thunder? Voices? Singing? Laughing? She could not say, but the meaning was clearly understood by her. It was furious. The storm had played part in the shadowy symbiot's disipation. It was pleased with itself, yet angry for allowing it to say as much as it did... (why did the storm not want the shadowy symbiot to communicate with her?)
Suddened, the storm instantly condensed into a form; a figure... a face.
Veronica shot straight uprigh in her bed, screaming with terror!
"Warten sie auf mich bei der shranke!" she shouted out. She was in a cold sweat. She screamed it again. The meaing was so close.
Professor Neilson came running into the room, half stumbling while trying to put on his glasses.
She howled it again in a panic. She felt it's urgentcy but could not quite grasp its meaning.
"What? Mrs. Francois!" Neilson grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her. "It's only a dream! It's alright, love. It's only a dream!"
She calmed down, realizing where she was – that it was indeed only a dream, that she was safe, safe from... safe from what? The storm in her dream had formed into something... but what? She couldn't remember. A face? Yes, it was a face, a woman's face. A vary familiar woman's face, but she couldn't remember why it had scared her so much. She couldn't remember that face.
"Warten sie auf mich bei der shranke" she whispered to herself. Even the feeling of urgentcy had vanished from her. It wasn't important anymore. The dream had completely escaped her.
"What? Neilson asked. "That's German. Where'd you hear that, love?"
"My, my dream." She answered. "I don't... I don't remember it..."
"It means 'Wait for me at the gate'" Neilson stated. "You heard this in your dream?"
"I think so, but.... I don't speak German?"
Silence. Professor Neilson looked at the digital clock. 3:16 am it said in glowing red numbers. He turned his attention back to Veronica. Her breasts were heaving up over the top of her nightgown. He stared. He found her attractive, but she was a widow, wasn't she? It would not be right, he told himself.
He realized he was staring at her breasts only after the fact. Did she notice? Or was it a reaction?
Veronica, realizing she was half naked, pulled up the blanket around her neck. It was an instictive reaction. Professor Neilson dropped his gaze and stood up unfomfortably. She had not meant to make him feel bad. She hadn't even thought about it. She would have never noticed that he was watching her had he not reacted as he did.
Actually, she found it felt good. She hadn't been with a man in nearly 5 years. But what about Henri? Was he still alive? Professor Neislon didn't think so.
She looked up at him. It was the first time she seen him out of a suit. He still hadn't shaven. It was attractive she thought. She noticed that he must be a hairy man. Just under the stubble of his neck, but above the collar was a mass of graying chest hair. She had never noticed this before since he worn a shirt and tie. She like her men hairy. Henri was hairy.
"I'll make some tea." Neilson said ackwardly. "Please," he continued while walking into the kitchen, "tell me about what you can remember of your dream".
Veronica smiled to herself. He was embarassed. He probably was blushing and knew it. That's why he offered to make tea. To go into the kitchen, wait for his colour to return to normal. She had wished the lights were on in the room. She could have noticed then if he had indeed blushed or not. She made a bet with herself. Neilson would stay in the kitchen longer than it took to put on a kettle, then return and then turn on the lights. She thought he was cute, like a little boy.
Five minutes had passed. Professor Neilson returned, turned on the bedroom light, just as Veronica had predicted.
She had put on her robe. "Let's sit in the kitchen and talk." she said.
"That sounds like a good idea, Mrs. Francois" he answered.
"Veronica."
"Pardon?"
"Veronica. That's my name. Please call me Veronica".
Neilson's face blushed again. He seemed at a loss for words. He put his hands into his robe's pockets and looked at his feet.
"Alright", he finally answered. "Please call me Howard".
The was an ackward silence as the two sat and waited for the kettle to whistle.
"Why did we have to come here?" Veronica asked. "You semmed in a rush to leave Montreal. What's here? Or were you just trying to get me into your appartment?" She smiled.
Howard's eyes opened wide. He stumbled over words. "Ah, no...." he finally managed to say. "No, its that, well - "
Veronica put her hand on his. "Shh, its okay" she said soothingly, "it was just a joke".
Howard laughed uncomfortably.
His hand was very hairy, she thought, and strong. How could a teacher have such muscled hands?
Neilson's face seemed to gain its composure, to become a visage of confidence.
"One doesn't have to teach to be a professor." he answered. Veronica immediately withdrew her hand. "I only give lectures here."
He had answered her question, but she never asked it, did she? At lest not out loud.
He smiled. "Tit for tat". He said. "Play with me and I'll play with you".
Veronica sat staring. She didn't know what to think.
"I'm just joking" he said softly. "And yes, I can read you mind. Well, sometimes. And as for why we came here: Well, now that the Filipian impostor had the tape copy. There's very little that we can do until..."
"Until what? Veronica still hadn't overcome her shock.
"Until the Symbiot is freed. We can't track this Filipian. We don't even know his real name. You've seen him but what good is that? We can't take any legal action, he hasn't broken any laws that we can prove."
"But what good is being here?" she asked.
"Well, we can wait for something to happen. Here at the University we receive every daily newspaper around the world. We wait for a sign that the Symbiot's free."
"How do you know the papers will tell what you need to know?"
"Take my word for it. Once Nyarlathotep is freed, if indeed this symbiot is Nyarlathotep, it will make itself known in a big way."
Silence again. Howard poured himself another cup of tea. He held the pot over Veronica's cup and looked at her questionally.
She nodded her head. "But why here? This is a school. A university."
"Yes," he answered, "but its also more than that. We have a foundation established here, subsidised by a number of governments around the world. Our responsibility is to watch for the Great Old Ones."
"And these governments believe it when you tell them about god-like alien beings sleeping on Earth and that your foundation needs money to watch them?" she asked incrediously. "What do you take me for, and idiot?"
"No." Neilson said coldly. "I don't take for an idiot. I would never have explained things as I had to you if you hadn't experienced an encounter with one of them firsthand. And no, we don't tell these subsidising governments exactly what we're doing. You know as well as I that they'd never believe.
"Most of them don't know. We mask most of our work under various fronts. Geological research, Nuclear testing and what-not.
"We do work with other agencies throughout the world. The British Secret Service has its own E-Branch. The Russians have its equiliant. These, however, are not important.
"We recuit people who have knowledge of the Great Old Ones' goings on and those with ESP who can be trusted. Myself, for example, have limited mind reading abililties, as you've seen for yourself."
"You can just pluck thoughts from people's minds?" Veronica asked.
"No. I'm not a very accomplished mind reader, unfortunately. Only surface thoughts, and strong ones at that. Occasionally I can pick up others, but I can't control this."
Veronica fell silent. She poured herself another cup of tea. She didn't know whether to ask her next question of just think it.
"So, what do you think about the dream?" she changed subjects.
"Do you remember any of it?"
"Not much." she answered wearily. "Someone, or something was trying to tell me something. I know this isn't overly helpful – more questions than answers. The meaning of the message wasn't clear, but it was extremely important, that much I can remember."
"Yes, that was the German you said when you woke up. 'Wait for me at the gate'" He thought for a moment. "Who said it?"
"I can't remember, but I do remember a face, a woman's face. It scared me awake."
"Who was it?"
"I... I don't... I knew who it was, but... it's left me now." She slowly sipped her tea in thought. "It wasn't ugly or anything like that. That's not what scared me. I recognized her."
"Was it the woman's face who told you to wait for her at the gate?"
"No!" Veronica immediately answered, "No, it wasn't. If anything it was the woman who tried to stop whomever was trying to say it to me."
Howard removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Well," he bagan, "let's go back to bed and get at least some sleep tonight. We'll pick it up tomorrow.
"And Veronica," he added, "don't worry about the dream. It was nothing but a nightmare."
Veronica smiled and said goodnight. They both knew it was a lie. Upon returning to her bed she thought about Howard, about how she was finding him more attractive by the moment, and how five years was a long time. She fell asleep with thoughts of Professor Neilson.
Howard returned to his bedroom but didn't sleep. He couldn't. He knew something was up, something monstrously huge. For he knew the dream Veronica had better than she knew it - for he himself had the very same dream!
He must have picked it up from her, for he remembered it through her eyes. That was the reason why she had forgotten it and he hadn't. The woman in the dream had forced the dream from Veronica's memory – but she couldn't have known about Howard.
He abhorred himself for lying to Veronica. It was only a nightmare, he chuckled to himself in disgust. But she wouldn't have handled the truth, now would she?
He had witnessed the whole nightmare. The woman's face that materialized out of the storm, that had stopped the two shadowy figure's message, was also familiar to Neilson. All too familiar, except he could remember where he had seen her before. He remembered that face from the Oxford Police files of '87. He knew who she was, and the fact that if things were right, she should be long since dead. But this dream confirmed his worst fears.
It was the two shadowy figures – the pair that became one – that tried to communicate to Veronica that disturbed him. But what disturbed him more was the fact that he knew these two incorporal figures were trying to send a message and that the woman had stopped their attempt. He also realized that for the woman to reach into someone dreams, as she had done, she would have to had been free... from of her prision-universe. The implications were catastrophic.
He picked up his notepad and wrote down the time when Veronica had the nightmare. 3:16 am.
All he could do now was to sit and wait. How could one simply sit and wait for something like this?
He began to churn the thought over and over in his head. Even when he said the words he could not truly grasp their meaning:
Nyarlathotep was free
...next: Chapter V: Memories of Tomorrow
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