Reanimators (16 page)

It was after five when I crept back to my own home. I showered, shaved and made myself coffee and breakfast before wandering out to the veranda around 6:15, just in time to find my partner Dr. Wilson scrambling down the sidewalk. Seeing me, he called out, telling me to grab my bag and the key to Peaslee’s home. I did so and soon joined him as he trekked over to my neighbor’s door. He had received a phone call just around 6:00 that had urged him to go and check on Peaslee. The voice, oddly foreign but of indeterminate origin, suggested that Peaslee had suffered a seizure of some kind and was in mortal danger. Police would later trace that call to a phone in Boston’s North Station. That it was the Akkadian that had placed the call, I have no doubt, but inquiries by the police revealed that no one at the station could recall seeing anything out of the ordinary that morning.

Peaslee was where I left him on the divan, and yes, I have realized that I have confessed to the crime of breaking and entering as well as an assault, and possibly attempted murder, but I do not care, the truth must be revealed. Wilson checked Peaslee’s vital signs and found his breathing shallow and peculiar. We discussed a course of action and Wilson and I agreed that a hypo-injection of stimulants would be called for. I returned to our offices and prepared the syringe, and only contemplated contaminating the mixture with a toxin briefly, before returning to the house and handing the needle to Wilson. The treatment seemed to work, for Peaslee’s breathing became more regular almost immediately.

Briefly, I returned to the house, and with the help of our receptionist, proceeded to cancel all of our appointments for the day, and then quickly returned to Wilson’s side. We moved Peaslee’s unconscious body from the study to one of the bedrooms and made him as comfortable as possible. Fearing that the worst might occur, we agreed that others must be notified of Peaslee’s condition and therefore called both the police and Alice, Peaslee’s ex-wife. While the police said they would send over a representative, Alice simply thanked us and asked to be kept informed for the sake of the children. Given the last few years, I couldn’t fault her for her position.

The rest of the story is well known. At a little after eleven in the morning Peaslee began to thrash about, though not violently, and the strange emotionless mask that had for so long adorned his face for these many years seemed to melt away and relax, and in that moment the humanity that had once graced his form returned. A little after this, at approximately 11:30, he opened his mouth and there issued forth a curious conglomeration of syllables that none present could make heads or tails of, and at that moment no one thought to write them down. It was noon when the maid and housekeeper joined us, and soon after they let in Detective Sergeant Kohler. No sooner had we finished bringing the officer up to date than we were suddenly interrupted by a voice I had not heard in quite some time. Peaslee was speaking, and more than that, he was speaking words I myself had heard when I took one of his classes, for it was a passage from one of his many lectures that he was reciting. Kohler had the sense to write it down, and we later compared it to his notes. Without a doubt the old personality of Professor Peaslee had returned to us and picked up in his life exactly where he had left off those many years past, lecturing to his students on economic theory.

It took many months for Nathaniel Peaslee to come to terms with what had happened to him. I did what I could to help, but kept my distance as well, allowing Wilson to be his primary physician in concert with a psychoanalyst. Soon after this event I ceased to be his executor, and turned over control to one of his bankers. I could no longer stand to be in the room with Peaslee. He was pleasant enough, but his mere presence reminded me too much of the ease in which some monstrous thing had displaced him and usurped his being for so many years, for if it could happen to him why not anyone else, including me?

Of the things that had been written and left behind, of those strange files that were to be sent around the world, I shall make only this confession. I still have the copy I did not burn that day, and on occasion I still read them, and I must admit I have yet to comprehend them in their entirety. They are excerpts; key excerpts, of what Angell purported to be a translation of the Summa Ysgl, or as my friend had translated it, “The Future History of the Monsters of the Earth.” In keeping with its title the text prophesieskey events that are to occur, though they have nothing to do with the appearance of monsters, at least not as we know them. Many are completely incomprehensible, except in retrospect, and others are seemingly minor developments that I cannot understand the significance of. Why these things were to be shared with a select group of obscure savants I cannot know, but I have learned one thing. The monsters that are referred to in the title, the monsters of the earth, have nothing to do with any chthonic deities or infernal demons; no, I think the term monster would be better translated as “oddities” at least in the eyes of the author. It is a book about the future written by those that consider the earth their rightful dominion, and the monsters of the earth are its current inhabitants, the species I myself belong to, humans.

Chapter 15.

DOCTOR GOGOL’S EXAMINATION

The year that followed Peaslee’s recovery was, for me, a time of re-evaluation. For the first time in many years, I was able to focus solely on my medical practice and my experiments in death, without fear of interference or pressure from outside forces. I was no longer Peaslee’s servant, and neither my colony of rats nor Muñoz were hiding in my basement. Oddly, the years had softened my resolve and the anger and desire for revenge against Herbert West and Daniel Cain were naught but cooling embers. I was free, and except for the responsibilities to my patients and my partner Dr. Wilson, I had no other concerns or projects beyond those I set for myself.

After much deliberation, I decided that I would stay focused on what I had come to think of as the great experiment, and I expanded my experimental design to include nearly all my patients. The components for my reagent had recently become readily available, and I assumed that the previous primary consumer, Dr. C, was no longer in need of them. Excluded from the inoculations was a small control group, and infants and children under the age of 16, primarily because I had no understanding of my reagent’s impact on the developmental process, nor did I want to explore the possibilities of such results. Strangely, in late February of 1914, I received a letter that suggested that the effects of my reagent on human development might be profound.

It had been more than twenty months since I went to visit my friend and colleague Dr. William Houghton, at whose cabin in the Round Mountains around Dunwich we spent a strange and harrowing weekend, and in that time a most curious thing had developed. The news conveyed by William in a letter concerned Lavinia Whateley, the albino girl who had stolen and imbibed a vial of my reagent, and then was the victim of some strange and wholly unrelated events on Sentinel Hill. Apparently not long after, the girl showed signs of having become pregnant out of wedlock—sometime around our encounter with her—and in February of 1913 had given birth to a son whom she named Wilbur. Neither Lavinia nor her father would name her paramour, and there was some discussion of an incestuous relationship between the two. Other theories abounded, and William related how both he and I were occasionally mentioned as possible fathers to Lavinia’s black brat, though no one ever took such talk seriously.

Such backwoods gossip served only to lay the basis for the real gist of Houghton’s letter, for Wilbur Whateley was a precocious child, exhibiting developmental and behavioral traits well in advance of his peers. At a mere seven months old he was found to be walking unaided, and by eight months all traces of unsteadiness had vanished. Reliable witnesses reported seeing him on All Hallows’ Eve, running after his mother up Sentinel Hill. Most recently, at the age of just eleven months, young Wilbur began to talk and showed no signs of the lisping habits so often associated with toddlers. Moreover, those who heard him speak swore on two matters: First, that the child, who had not yet turned a year of age, used complete and understandable sentences, simple sentences, local idioms really, most likely bantered about by his mother and grandfather, and no doubt parroted back, but the young child seemed gifted with some spark of genius, and seemed to understand the meaning of what he said completely.

The other thing that the villagers of Dunwich were willing to take an oath to was the child’s precocious vocalizations, for while all agreed that Wilbur was a remarkably ugly child, his voice was hauntingly beautiful, and seemed to be produced by a process unassociated with his vocal cords. One local, who had once served aboard a trader that had plied the waters around Australia, suggested that the sound was not unlike that produced by an aboriginal wooden wind instrument called a dijibolou. This primitive instrument produced a kind of tedious droning, and could, like many wind instruments, be made to talk, or imitate the sounds of various words, though this took some skill. There were also comparisons to the throaty, cooing sounds produced by pigeons and other birds.

To my mind this sounded as if the reagent that Lavinia had ingested had had some impact on the neonatal development of the child, perhaps accelerating his post-partum growth and development to abnormal rates. Also given his strange vocalizations, I considered the possibility that there may have been teratological impacts to his organs as well. Fascinated, I wrote to Houghton and asked if he could arrange for me to examine the boy, and perhaps bring him into Arkham for an examination using the newly acquired fluoroscope at the hospital. Houghton wrote back in March with relatively bad news. Noah Whateley, Wilbur’s grandfather, had scoffed at the idea of bringing the boy into Arkham for medical tests, going so far as to draw comparisons to the treatment of John Merrick, the Elephant Man, and accounts of the Frankenstein monsters.

Disappointed but undeterred, I chose to write to the Whateleys myself asking if I could come to Dunwich and examine the boy there. I posted my request in late March, and in April received a note back from Noah Whateley scrawled on what appeared to be a sheet of vellum torn out of an old black letter book. He apologized, but he could see no purpose in letting me examine Wilbur, for another doctor had already done that, and he saw no reason to subject either the boy or his family to a repeat of that experience, which had been somewhat traumatic for all involved.

I quickly wrote to Houghton, keen to find out who had seen the boy, and what conclusions he had drawn, and was surprised, in fact somewhat perturbed, when I received no response until June. Given the circumstances, the delay was understandable, and in a letter written later I apologized to Houghton for any ill thoughts I may have had toward him. Houghton had discovered the name of the man quite readily, Dr. Valentin Gogol, a native of Russia who had immigrated several years ago, and a recent graduate of the University medical school. Despite significant surgical skills, his aptitude with spoken English was rather poor and he had difficulty in finding a position. He had finally settled for a position as a state physician traveling amongst the backwoods of Massachussetts, seeing patients who didn’t have access to regular medical care, people exactly like the Whateleys.

My interest in Wilbur’s condition continued to grow, and within days I sent a letter to the state inquiring on how to reach Dr. Gogol. I did not have to wait long for a response. A brief note informed me that my quarry was no longer serving with the state, but had recently been sent to a hospital with which I had some familiarity. The Sefton Asylum was the location in which the Arkham Horror had been committed after being caught after the brutal murder of my own parents and others. At the mention of the asylum, there was a flood of emotion, and I must admit that I loathed the idea of visiting the place. Still, my desire to discuss Wilbur Whateley with Dr. Gogol and go over his notes and conclusions was foremost in my mind, and key to gaining a clue to the effect of my reagent on embryo development and maturation. Resolved, I decided to travel to the institution forthwith, and did not even take the time to check on Dr. Gogol’s availability.

The trip to the asylum was short but pleasant, the weather being unseasonably mild, and I soon found myself in front of a robust receptionist who greeted me cheerfully as I came in to the notorious facility. I introduced myself and explained that I would like to consult with one of the hospital’s physicians, Dr. Valentin Gogol. At this request, the smile that had graced the woman’s face suddenly dimmed, and she solemnly asked me to repeat myself. Doing so generated no change in her demeanor, but she asked me to wait while she made inquiries. From my seat on a small couch I could do naught but observe that I had caused something of a furor. The receptionist made three separate phone calls, each time relaying my request to whomever was on the other end, but in a most unprofessional way that consisted of anxious whispers and furtive glances in my direction. Finally after several minutes of this she hung up the phone and announced that someone would be with me shortly.

The man who came to meet me was an aged fellow, balding and slightly heavyset, with a deep Boston Brahmin accent. He greeted me with a hearty handshake and introduced himself as C. E. Winchester, a psychiatrist who was working with Gogol. There was an air of superiority about him that reminded me of Muñoz, but while some might have taken it for aloofness, I recognized it as simply supreme self-confidence. In a rather direct manner he asked me why I wanted to see Gogol. Unprepared for such a question, I quickly fabricated a story as close to the truth as I could. I explained that I had for the last several years been studying Progeria and Werner’s Syndrome, diseases that seemed to accelerate aging. Gogol had examined a young boy with an unusually rapid developmental process, and I had hoped to speak to him about his observations.

Winchester nodded. “We have all heard Gogol’s stories about Wilbur Whateley, Dr. Hartwell. I am not sure that he will be much help to you, but I’ll be glad to take you to him.” With that enigmatic comment we were suddenly on our way into the wards of the hospital. Our walk was something of a tour of the facility, and although I cannot be certain, it would seem that we somehow or another made a circuitous path through the entire building, passing through every possible ward. Winchester gave a concise description of each section, and highlighted some of the more extreme cases of paranoia, amnesia, and dementia. I suspect that the brief visit that we paid to the Ward for the Criminally Insane was solely for the purpose of showing me the unnamed and unkempt thing that was kept there, for Winchester made it clear that he knew of my relationship to the thing that wandered aimlessly within that cell bound within a straightjacket, moaning and mouthing obscenely.

After a good twenty minutes of walking, we two finally came to the ward in which the least violent of patients were housed, a space that looked not unlike the common room in a private club; there were overstuffed chairs, a small library and even a phonograph. Were you to meet these patients on the street, you might not notice that they were disturbed, for they appeared quite normal in both dress and personal habits. Dr. Winchester pointed out a pair of men sitting at a table. “Gogol is playing cards with the Colonel; he’s the one on the left.”

I thanked Winchester and strode across the room to introduce myself. Gogol was a small dark man with dark wispy hair cut neatly and combed across the top of his round head. His eyes were deeply set but bulged out of their sockets. His lips were thin and pale. There was overall some queer resemblance to a frog, and I had to force myself to take the man seriously, particularly after he opened his mouth to speak, for his voice was raspy, almost gravelly, as if it was hissing out of a badly maintained phonograph.

“Dr. Gogol, I was wondering if I could speak with you about one of your patients?”

Gogol stood. “Excuse me, would you, Colonel?” He gestured towards a pair of chairs in the nearest corner that would provide a modicum of privacy, although I noticed that Winchester was discreetly watching us the whole time.

After we settled in he asked me what he could do for me. Building on the half-truth I had told Winchester, I made my request to Gogol. “I have been carrying out research on conditions associated with accelerated aging and degeneration, Progeria and Werner’s Syndrome in particular. It has come to my attention that you recently examined a child who may be exhibiting some similar symptoms. I would like to discuss his condition with you and perhaps go over your notes.”

A most puzzled look came over his face, and with great and deliberate care he lifted his left hand up and spread his fingers wide, flexing them open and closed. His eyes left mine and instead seemed to focus on the workings of his own hand. “I am sorry, Dr. Hartwell, but I am not sure of what child you are speaking.”

I thought for a moment that the man was being deliberately obtuse. “In Dunwich, you examined the Whateley boy, Wilbur.”

Gogol continued to flex his hand and fingers. “I am perpetually fascinated by the structure of the human hand, doctor. It is an amazing construct of bones, muscle tendons and flesh, and has not been reproduced amongst the invertebrates. One can think of the hand as the crowning achievement of mammalian evolution, far superior to the mollusk’s tentacle or the crustacean’s claw.” His voice was distant, almost dream-like.

My frustration was growing. “Dr. Gogol, did you or did you not examine the boy Wilbur Whateley?”

Gogol’s hand dropped limply to his lap and his gaze fixed mine in a most malicious manner. “You want to know about Wilbur Whateley, Dr. Hartwell. I’ll tell you about Wilbur. The first thing you notice about Wilbur is that he has no chin, and that his eyes are an incredibly dark shade of violet. He smells like carrion, and when he speaks his voice bellows in a way that reminds me of whales singing. If you are a doctor, and you take the time to watch him, you will notice that he never blinks, ever. Nor does he breathe, though there is an odd rhythmic fluttering of his shirt tail. If you have the opportunity to actually examine him you will notice other things, things that should not be. His fingers bend backwards. He can roll his whole arm up like a length of rope. There are I suspect no bones in that hand, no bones in that arm. Perhaps no bones at all in his body.”

I went to speak, but he interrupted me. “How is that possible? How is it that Wilbur Whateley can roll his arm up like a piece of rope or chain of sausages?” There was spittle leaking out of his lips as he spoke and his eyes grew wild. “What kind of man is he to have hands that look like ours, but aren’t ours?” He rose up out of his chair shaking.

Dr. Winchester was suddenly there. “It’s all right, Valentin, calm down. Dr. Hartwell, would you wait by the door for me?”

It was as I walked away that I realized my mistake, for Dr. Valentin Gogol was not employed by the Sefton Asylum; he was a patient. He had been driven mad by his examination of the child Wilbur Whateley, a child that was likely the product of my own reanimation reagent being ingested by his mother, and having a horrifying teratological effect on her fetus, a child that now only appeared human, but was more akin to the boneless creatures of the sea. A creature, no a monster that I had created. Wilbur Whateley’s condition was my fault, as was Gogol’s nervous condition.