Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) (27 page)

Too many things vied for his attention.

Amanda and Rita’s disappearance, and the gruesome discovery of the devoured bodies beneath the Garrison Street Bridge—it seemed impossible they were not connected.

The device Finn had brought to him that Kate believed to be some kind of key to unlocking the gates to other dimensions.

His alliance with Alexander to stand against the return of the Great Old Ones.

Yet for all that, nothing would ever be the same. Normal life had been snatched away from him, and there was no going back. He knew that without those to stand against these dreadful, alien creatures from beyond time and space, the race of Mankind was utterly doomed. To think that he might be part of that opposition was absurd, but what general ever went into battle with everything he needed?

Oliver turned off the phonograph, and the sudden silence that filled his office was unwelcome and unnerving. The silence of a deserted building was a strange thing. Once bereft of humanity, the structure took it upon itself to stretch its hidden girders, flex its skin of brick, and exhale from the heart of its boiler room. Sounds that were obscured by the bustle of students and the chatter of classrooms now came to the fore, little dry echoes and soft zephyrs blowing through half-opened windows.

He closed his eyes, letting the night sounds of the building wash over him. He listened to the rattle and gurgle of pipes within the walls, the gentle hum of dormant electrics, and the silent echoes of empty hallways and corridors.

Then, a sound out of place.

A sound that had nothing to do with absence.

A sound that spoke of activity and presence.
 

Glass breaking. Falling to the floor and scattering like shards of ice.

Irregular footsteps, like football cleats scraping on concrete.

Oliver rose from behind the desk and unlocked the door of his office. He opened it and listened again. The sounds were faint, coming from below. He eased cautiously out of his office and into a wide hallway carpeted along its length in plush red, gold, and green. Portraits hung on the walls, and diffuse light from outside spilled through the arched windows at both ends of the corridor where stairs to the ground floor were located.

Below the window, light from the atrium entrance to the building filtered up, casting strange, elongated shadows that moved like waving undersea fronds. Oliver couldn’t recall anything in the atrium that might cause such shadows, but he had never been in the building at this time of night...

He edged along the hallway to the stairs and leaned over the polished wooden banister.

 
Bracing himself for what he might see, Oliver looked down through the open stairwell to the black and white checkerboard patterned floor of the atrium. Pale shapes, hunched over and uncertain, lingered in the shadows, barking and gibbering to one another in some vulgar parody of language. There were four shapes moving onto the lower reaches of the stairs. With each uncertain step they took, Oliver heard the scraping
tap-tap
he’d heard from his office.

Oliver’s eyes widened at the sight of these hideous monstrosities, unholy mockeries of the hominid form with their wretchedly wiry arms, skulls vaguely suggestive of canine morphology, and claws and teeth more in keeping with the African big cats. These were natural weapons designed to tear a victim’s flesh from his bones. As he struggled to comprehend the horror of the creatures, Oliver was put in mind of the dead girl on the athletics field and the bodies under the bridge.

“Dear God have mercy…,” he said.

Though he had spoken in the softest whisper, one of the beasts snapped its head in his direction. Oliver jerked back, but an excited jabber of exchanged whoops and brays told him he was too slow.

The creatures had seen him.

And they were coming to kill him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Oliver turned and ran back along the hallway, horrified at the sight of such disgusting creatures within the university. He heard them bounding up the marbled stairs, the scratching sound of their hooked claws and taloned feet a dreadful cacophony of animal hunger as they pursued him. Their gibbering barks and howls echoed from the walls as he ran, the solemn-faced portraits watching his desperate flight with dispassionate eyes.

He looked back over his shoulder and saw the first of the beasts vault over the balustrade, landing with an ease that spoke of years on the hunt. Oliver’s terror got the better of him. The sight of so abominable a face shocked him to the core, and his body was suddenly no longer his to control. He stumbled and fell to the carpet in a tangle of his own limbs. He rolled and scrambled away on his backside.

The creature smiled, and Oliver cried out in horror at the sight of so human an expression on so monstrous a beast. Its face was all teeth and malevolence, ears ragged and bitten, its scarred features curiously canine, yet retaining an impression of humanity beneath the degeneration. It was naked, but a layer of encrusted filth covered its leprous flesh as it loped down the hallway toward him.
 

Its pack mates clustered behind the monster, hooting and snarling as they smelled his fear and sweat. Bloody nails as long as talons clicked as the light behind the beasts wavered. Oliver felt his numbing shock dissipate at the thought of being eaten alive, and volition returned to his body. He pushed himself to his feet and ran back toward his office as though all the demons of the pit were chasing him.

He realized this wasn’t too far from the truth.

The hallway seemed to stretch out before him, like some nightmare vision where the object of desire continually moves out of reach. His office couldn’t be so far away! He walked this route every day, and it had never felt so impossibly distant. At every moment, he winced in expectation of razor claws slashing through his jacket and shirt to tear the flesh from his back. He let loose incoherent cries of panic and fear, arms pumping as the shadows of the monsters’ clawed arms stretched out on the walls on either side of him, ready to envelop him and drag him into their lethal embrace.

Though he knew it was foolish, he risked a glance over his shoulder to see that the hideous beasts were keeping pace with him, loping and bounding after him like predators toying with a wounded prey they knew couldn’t escape. They were stalking him. Oliver wept with relief as he saw the open doorway of his office ahead of him. He threw himself through and spun on his heel to slam the door shut behind him.

Oliver fumbled with the key, but his idiot hands were unable to grasp the brass key sitting in the lock. His trembling fingers finally gained purchase and he twisted the key, crying in relief as he heard the heavy click of the lock turning. He backed away from the door, his mind racing as he realized he’d just trapped himself in a small room three stories up.

Furtive grunts and sniffing noises sounded beyond the door, and the patterns of light on the floor were disrupted as the creatures stopped outside. Remembering the breaking glass sound he had heard, Oliver wondered if such animalistic monsters could grasp the mechanical complexity of a door and handle.

A heavy crashing weight striking the door told Oliver the point was moot anyway. The timber bowed inward as the monsters threw themselves at the door once more. Oliver frantically scanned his office for a weapon. He had always eschewed firearms, believing that men of character should be able to resolve their differences without resorting to violence, but right now he would have sold his soul for a .45 automatic. His eyes alighted on a letter opener sitting on the corner of his desk, and he snatched it up.

It was a pitiful weapon, with a moderately sharp tip and two dull edges along the length of the blade, but was better than nothing. Oliver already felt better having something, no matter how pathetic, to defend himself with.

The timber panels of the door cracked, and splinters flew from the broken wood.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…,” hissed Oliver, clutching the tiny weapon to his chest.

A clawed hand punched through the door, tearing out the inner panel as it was withdrawn. A face appeared at the hole, red-eyed and hungry. A scar bisected its features and thick saliva drooled between its irregular teeth. It loosed a freakish bark, that Oliver thought for a mad second might have been the word
meat
.

Oliver lunged forward and stabbed the letter opener at the snapping face. The tip plunged into the beast’s face, and it bellowed in pain. The screeching face withdrew, wrenching the letter opener from his grip. From the split second glance he’d had, Oliver thought he’d managed to put out one of its eyes.

A petty act of defiance, but defiance nonetheless.

Oliver backed away from the door, weaponless and bereft of stratagems to deny the beasts their prize. He turned to his window, frantic in his desire to escape. It offered no chance of survival, only a forty-foot drop to hard concrete. There was no way out.

Oliver turned back to the door and sank to his haunches with his head buried in his hands.

A booming report echoed from beyond the door, immediately followed by a scream of pain. Another deafening bang filled the hallway, surely a gunshot. Four more shots were fired in quick succession, each one drawing a cry of pain from the beasts.

The assault on Oliver’s door ceased and he heard the rapid scraping
tap-tap
of their bare feet as they fled from the shooter. Moments later came the sound of shattering glass, followed by a blessed silence, punctuated only by his rapid breathing. Oliver raised his head, waiting to see what would happen next. He hardly dared to hope he had been rescued, but what other explanation could there be?

Another face appeared at the shattered panel of his door, but this face was wonderfully human and unremarkable in its appearance. It was a man, his countenance deeply lined and stoic in the face of what he had just done. Oliver almost wept with relief to see a face as normal as the one now at his door.

“Professor Grayson?” said the man. “Oliver Grayson?”

“Yes,” gasped Oliver. “Yes, that’s me… Good Heavens, you saved my life!”

“You can thank me later,” said the man. “Now open the door!”

Oliver climbed to his feet, but hesitated before heading to comply. Having survived one attempt on his life, he didn’t want to take any chances.

“How do I know you’re not going to shoot me?”

“Shoot you? Jesus Christ, I just emptied my Colt saving your sorry ass. Now open the damn door, professor!”

“Who are you?” asked Oliver. “At least tell me your name.”

“For heaven’s sake,” said the man. “Open this door before I break it down. I need to reload, and I’d rather do it in there if that’s all the same to you. I don’t think those freaks will be back in a hurry, but I could just leave and let you find out for yourself.”

“I take your point,” said Oliver, crossing his office and unlocking the door. His rational mind was taking over, compartmentalizing the horror he had just experienced and moving his body like an automaton. Shock and trauma would come later, he knew, but for now he was content to function on adrenaline.

The man entered the office and broke open a matte black revolver, swiftly snapping home a speed loader to fill the chambers. The cylinder snapped back, and the man swung the pistol around to cover the door.

“You okay?” asked the man. “You hurt?”

“No, I’m not hurt,” said Oliver, unable to believe that fact. “Who are you? And not that I’m not grateful, but how did you know I’d need help?”

“My name’s Gabriel Stone,” said the man. “And I didn’t know you’d need help. This just happens to be your luckiest damn night on Earth.”

* * *

They went to a late night speakeasy Stone knew and Oliver let him lead the way, too numb and horrified by what had just happened to take any active part in the proceedings. His hands were shaking by the time Stone placed a tumbler of whiskey in his hands. He’d begun to feel quite sick. Whiskey was the last thing he wanted.

“Drink it,” commanded Stone. “It’ll help.”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” said Oliver.

“You won’t,” said Stone. “It’s just shock. You had a rough time there, professor. I’ve seen my share of gunplay and trouble. I know how it affects you, so drink the whiskey and then have another. Trust me.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“But I know a lot about you,” said Stone, knocking back his own shot and giving the bartender a wave. The man went to pour, but Stone tapped the bar. “Leave the bottle,” he said.

“How do you know a lot about me?” said Oliver, drinking the whiskey in one go. It was cheap stuff and burned like flaming gasoline, but its kick doused the queasiness in his gut. He realized the man had neatly deflected the opportunity to be more forthcoming with his identity and purpose. He studied Stone as another shot was poured.

Tall and broadly built beneath his brown duster and battered fedora, Stone was clearly a man to whom violence was no stranger. That would normally have made him threatening to Oliver, but since he owed this man his life, the least he could do was hear him out.