Reanimators (26 page)

I isolated the odd tissue type from several samples and concentrated it in an incubator tube where it seemed to remain stable. After several hours the tube exhibited a strange separation, with the cells settling to the bottom and a layer of pale green fluid floating above them. I extracted samples of this strange excretion, somewhat familiar in color and viscosity, and analyzed its content. As I expected, the cells were secreting a fluid that was in many ways extremely similar to my reagent; indeed, by studying the content and behavior of this organically produced version, I was able to envision ways to modify and even improve my own. Unfortunately, as with many components of blood the cells, despite being nucleated, were not self-replicating, and by the end of July my samples of the unusual cellular component had all ceased to be viable. About the same time Dexter relocated the last of the patients and the facility was shut down. I returned to my quiet and private practice, emboldened by what I had learned in Innsmouth.

I intended to initiate use of the revised formula almost immediately, but my attention was drawn away by a single event, one that would in its complexity lead to a cascading horror which would result in what is now commonly referred to as the Dunwich Horror, and although such events would serve to absolve me of a certain guilt, they would, in the end, precipitate my own personal disgrace.

In his pseudonymous account of those events, rushed to publication following his disappearance in October, Randolph Carter suggests that the Dunwich Horror began in earnest in September, but I tend to agree with Armitage, that the impetus for those later events can be tied to what occurred in the small hours of August the third in the halls of the University library. It was in these unwelcome hours that a great scream had reverberated throughout Arkham, and those closest to the campus had found themselves inextricably drawn to bear witness to whatever had occurred.

I was one of many who gathered outside the vestibule doors to the library, drawn by the whimpering howls of the watchdog that Armitage was known to nightly let roam those hallowed halls. An open window testified that someone had entered in an unorthodox manner, and from the sounds that still emanated, whomever it was had suffered from a vicious and frightful attack. Not long after the crowd gathered, Armitage was there as well, and in the company of his colleagues Rice and Morgan he unlocked the door and ordered the crowd to remain outside.

A few moments after they entered there came an unearthly and unintelligible voice that carried throughout the library and bellowed out of the open window. The sound died out quickly, and with it came a slow but pervasive stench of frightful magnitude. As it leaked out into the campus, the birds roosting amongst the buildings took wing and filled the air with the sound of whippoorwills. A pair of deputies arrived soon after, but Armitage ordered them to stay out for their own good until the medical examiner arrived.

The next day rumors spread like wildfire, and the older residents of Arkham invoked comparisons to certain events that had occurred in June of 1882 following the collection of a meteorite that had fallen on the Gardner farm. Out of curiosity I called the medical examiner and inquired concerning the events of the night before, intimating that perhaps it was one of my patients. My colleague related that Armitage had identified the so-called victim as a resident of Dunwich, though he chuckled at such a suggestion. The coroner was of the opinion that he had been the victim of an elaborate prank, for upon entering the library he had seen no body, but only a large white mass of collagen-like material not unlike the so-called globs of tissue that had been documented in various inlets and beaches, particularly in Florida. That such a mass could once have been a man was ludicrous, and to give it a name, even one as ridiculous as Wilbur Whateley, was simply flummery.

The mention of that name filled me with both dread and relief, for it seemed that the creature for which I had held myself accountable was no more. Still, I felt a measure of sympathy for the life of suffering he must have endured. I was at the same time elated that his passing finally ended any chance that his deformities could be traced back to me. That the end of Wilbur Whateley also closed the book on one of my few errors seemed fortuitous and final.

But it was not to be so simple. On the morning of September fifth I was paid a personal visit by Armitage’s wife, Helena, a with as many years as her husband, but as vibrant as a woman much younger, thanks to the effects of my treatments. She came not for herself but rather for her husband. Henry Armitage had become suddenly obsessed with the contents of a ragged journal that had been found amongst the personal effects of Wilbur Whateley, written in some fantastic code. Armitage had finally hit on the basis of the cipher on Sunday, and had since been entirely immersed in its translation, barely stopping for food, drink or sleep. Such a pace was unhealthy for a man of his age, but he refused any overtures made by his wife or friends.

Persuaded, I assured her that I would discuss the matter with Henry that very morning, and before noon I found myself in his office. That my presence was unwelcome was to say the least, but his appearance validated his wife’s concerns. His eyes were bloodshot and his speech slow, the pallor to his skin suggested dehydration, while the tremors in his hands were indicative of improper nutrition. I insisted that he cease whatever he was doing, and take some time to rest and properly care for himself. He waved me off, insisting that time was of the essence and promising me an explanation as soon as he was able.

Within hours I was back in his presence, summoned by his wife to their residence not far from my own. The old man had managed to return home and consume a meager amount of sustenance, but he was wild-eyed and almost hysterical. He insisted on returning to the campus, and both his wife and I agreed that some chicanery and a little force were warranted. Using a mild sedative, injected while his wife distracted him, I was finally able to calm him down enough for him to be deposited in his quarters. I spent the night by his side, while his wife retired to a spare room. There was a sense of familiarity as I recalled the time I spent a similar night with the Peaslees so many years ago.

Armitage’s sleep was fitful; he moaned and on occasion thrashed about, searching for something that seemed to be eluding him. As the night progressed he began to talk in his sleep, though much of this was unintelligible. What little I could make out hinted at things that I wish I did not know of. Armitage regularly repeated the name Whateley, and the foreign phrases yog sothoth and bug shogog, though what these meant and in what context they were used I was unable to discern. My patient also seemed overly concerned with what was apparently a metaphorical concept of “The Gate and the Key” and in his fits seemed troubled by the lack or loss of the key. “Without the key,” he would whine, “the union is incomplete, the gate shall remain closed. But what of the gate…grow unabated?”

The next morning Armitage awoke delirious, but whether this was because of exhaustion, the medication, the esoteric and eldritch things he had been subjecting himself to, or perhaps some combination is unknowable. I pressed him for an explanation for his actions, but he refused and demanded to return to his office. Denied, he become morose, and at times spoke of apocalyptic scriptures and myths from a variety of traditions. Fearing that he could be a danger to himself or others, I kept him on a mild sedative for the rest of the day, which kept him lethargic and allowed me to return home to bathe and change.

I also used my time away from the Armitage household to summon Rice and Morgan to my office and demand an explanation. The two men were reticent at first, for Armitage had sworn them to secrecy, and they were still unclear of certain details that remained shrouded in innuendo. I reminded the two of them that I was Armitage’s physician and that he had over the last few days taken actions that endangered his own welfare. If they would not talk to me, perhaps they would care to testify concerning his mental health before a judge. This dramatic overture seemed to place the situation in perspective for the two professors and they revealed what Armitage both knew and suspected.

In light of what came later, the details of what Rice and Morgan told me need not be revealed. Let it be said that Armitage had gathered enough evidence to convince not only himself, but Rice and Morgan as well, that something of cosmic significance was brewing in the backwoods hills of Dunwich, and had been for some time. The Whateleys had done something obscene, bent the laws of space and time and let something leak into our world. Whatever it was had left its taint on Wilbur Whateley, that was obvious, for Rice and Morgan told me what they had seen as Wilbur had died that night in the library. Whatever that thing was, it had never been human or even remotely related to any species known. Armitage, informed by what he had gleaned from Wilbur’s diary, suspected much more, that the worst of it had yet to begin, and he was desperately trying to find a way to disarm what could be a volatile situation. Suddenly the two professors were no longer confessing to me but pleading, desperately begging me to allow Armitage to return to work at any cost. Convinced of the truth of things, for I recalled that fateful night that Lavinia and her father climbed Sentinel Hill, and the strange and disastrous things that had followed, I conceded to the two learned men and agreed that he should return to work as soon as possible.

That night, without informing his wife of my meeting with Rice and Morgan, I administered the first dosage ever of my newly reformulated reagent and once more confined Armitage to bed. He awoke Friday morning clear of mind but in sober spirits. I spoke to him at length, and he agreed to remain calm and avoid stress for the next twenty-four hours. Over the course of the day I checked in with his wife and was informed that the old man was indeed following orders. It was not until Saturday afternoon that he finally left his home and summoned Rice and Morgan to the University.

As has been reported, the three men spent six days formulating plans, gathering supplies and mixing chemical compounds. What has not been mentioned are the frequent visits that I myself made to the three frantic men. They were loath to involve anyone else, and thus it was up to me to make sure that these valiant men were supplied with sufficient food, drink and care. That such preparations included, at their request, periodic injections of a solution of cocaine and other stimulants, I will not deny. Nor will I deny that I used the opportunity to inject Rice and Morgan with the reformulated reagent. It seemed the prudent thing to do, though I had no idea how quickly it would take effect, but I hoped that it would grant them some advantage over whatever forces opposed them.

The three departed Arkham Friday morning and at Mrs. Armitage’s request I was once more present to evaluate her husband’s condition. Truthfully, I could find nothing wrong with the man, but under the guise of supplying them with an immunization against smallpox, I injected them once more with a solution of stimulants.

That late morning and the rest of the day, I rested, lolling about the house in a drowsy half-awake state that I found extremely restful to both my body and my mind. By evening no word had come from the three, and Mrs. Armitage was in a frightful state. I did my best to calm her down, but by midnight she had worked herself up into a fervor and I found it necessary to administer a sedative. As with the day before, no word from the three adventurers was had on Saturday morning. There was, however, a small article in The Arkham Advertiser concerning the inability to locate several state policemen sent earlier in the week to investigate reports of a monster in the hills around Dunwich. This tidbit I kept from Helena in fear that it would incite her even more. Late in the morning, a light rain began to fall, and by the evening it had turned into a downpour. Still we had no word from Armitage or his team, and by evening when the papers detailed the destruction of a Dunwich farmhouse by some powerful force, I too began to fear the worst.

Sunday morning the first definitive report on the actions of Armitage and his compatriots came in the morning paper, which described a terrifying event in the Dunwich hills as being witnessed by many of the locals and three university men. Though the article failed to name these men, both Helena and I took heart that they could be none other than Armitage, Rice and Morgan. At noon a special edition described the devastating effects of what had quickly become known as the Dunwich Horror. The report described how a tidal wave of force had careened through the Dunwich area knocking men and livestock from their feet, and stunning birds dead in the sky. The vegetation, grasses, shrubs and trees had been blanched, turned a sickly yellow by whatever force had ripped through the area. Ancient trees and many buildings had been toppled, and dozens were known to be dead, while dozens more were unaccounted for. A county official out of Aylesbury suggested that the number of casualties might grow as searchers found ways to cross the now damaged bridges and debris-strewn roads.

This news sent Helena Armitage into yet another tizzy, which I forcefully ended by once more administering a powerful sedative. No sooner had I done so when there came a loud and rapid knocking at the door. The messenger came bearing news from Dunwich: Armitage and all his party were well, tired and a little bruised but for the most part uninjured. Overjoyed, I ran to Helena’s side to show her the telegram, but try as I might she would not open her eyes. Her breathing was suddenly shallow, and her pulse was wild and irregular. My joy suddenly turned to panic and I ordered the housekeeper to send for an ambulance.

Chapter 23.

THE DUNWICH HORROR

The events of September 15th, 1928, the disastrous cataclysm that came to be known sensationally as the Dunwich Horror, galvanized the population of Massachusetts and particularly Arkham into action. Food and clothing drives were organized, and transportation services were arranged by local companies whose drivers volunteered their time. The Miskatonic University Rural Program, still under the leadership of Dr. John Ramsey, organized teams of doctors and nurses to tend to the injured, but their sojourns to the hastily erected camps and crowded hamlets came back with the most sordid of reports. Conditions in and around Dunwich were deplorable, with families and children living in the most unsanitary of conditions, with limited access to clean water, proper food, electricity, gas or education. What’s more, the situation seemed unlikely to change. Many homes would require extensive repairs before they could be deemed habitable, wells and bridges had collapsed, roads were blocked and many public buildings were in disrepair. Local public servants were so busy trying to maintain basic services that any attempt to try and rebuild was simply impossible.

By mid-October the Dunwich issue had become untenable and public outcry reached a fever pitch. Dr. Ramsey met with the University president, and then with officials from the state police. A monumental arrangement had been made, one that would serve to relieve some of the difficulties faced by the people of Dunwich and those attempting to help them. Echoing the charitable efforts that had so characterized the University during the outbreak of typhoid at the turn of the century, and more recently the efforts to control the Spanish influenza, under the auspices of the Rural Program, Miskatonic was suspending classes for thirty days, and organizing all staff, faculty and students into a relief army with the mission of aiding the stricken Dunwich community. The Engineering and Architectural departments would be deployed to repair what buildings that could be readily salvaged, while at the same time cannibalizing those structures that simply were beyond hope. Geologists and surveyors were to reestablish drinking water supplies and lay lines for new infrastructure, while the veterinary school worked with specialists in animal husbandry to gain control of the herds of cattle and other livestock that now roamed the hills freely. Chemists and biologists would examine the soil, vegetation and indigenous wildlife to determine if the strange event had had any permanent impact on the area. Students of the law, the humanities, economics and other such studies would be required to help the locals by providing teachers, and accountants, and by helping local officials navigate the vagaries of law, business and custom. It was a monumental undertaking and one that would earn all students who undertook the challenge a satisfactory grade in all course work. The University president and indeed all the staff agreed that this was an opportunity for real-world application that none could afford to pass up.

The University itself would be left with a skeleton staff of just a few maintenance men, security guards, and only the most aged of faculty. St. Mary’s, the University Hospital, would discharge as many of its patients as it could and operate with just a few doctors and nurses in an emergency-only mode.

Fortunately for me, my private practice placed on me no obligation to join in such a project, for if asked I could not say that I would have volunteered. My experiences in the wilds of Dunwich and the nearby village of Quirk made my return to the area unlikely, and thankfully Dr. Ramsey knew this. Instead of being asked to travel to Dunwich, I was one of the few selected to stay in Arkham and provide support to the hospital. I made it plain that such an arrangement suited me, for it also provided me with the opportunity to continue my care of Helena Armitage, who, after suffering a minor stroke, was recovering nicely. Her husband, Henry Armitage, one of the heroes of the events in Dunwich, was also recovering, though in his case it was from exhaustion and some bruised ribs, which given his advanced age were nothing to ignore.

The Armitages were not the only patients I had to be concerned about. The author Randolph Carter, one of my long-term patients, and like Henry Armitage a subject of my attempts to immunize against death, had recently vanished under mysterious circumstances, and although I could do little to help find him, the situation weighed heavy on my mind. Likewise, I was also bothered by the behavior of a new patient, one thrust upon me by Dr. Waldron, who served the student body and was like most others deployed to Dunwich. The young man was named Frank Elwood, and had apparently been peripherally involved in some scandal or another in which his friend and fellow graduate student had been killed in one of the less reputable parts of town. Elwood, who had officially completed his thesis, had suffered some sort of nervous shock bought on by witnessing the gruesome death of his friend, which by all accounts had involved an attack by a rat of unusual size and aggression. The details had been the subject of a particularly shocking exposé in The Arkham Advertiser that had run early in May. Unfortunately, this had been the time during which I had been in service to the Federal government in Innsmouth, and if I had seen the article I could not recall it. Still, the article in question and the documents it had been based on were readily available in Elwood’s medical file, which as his physician I had full rights to review at my leisure. Whatever Elwood had seen, it had left him in a state of nervous shock from which he was only just recovering, and therefore unfit to travel to Dunwich in any capacity.

As he had officially completed his work, it seemed unusual to me that he should remain at the University for a few more quarters, but Waldron assured me that it was best he remain under observation, and several senior staff had agreed that he should continue at Miskatonic until his condition improved. Thus young Elwood was left in my care, and I found myself quickly disagreeing with Waldron’s assessment, for I felt that Elwood’s nervous condition was severe and I certainly would not have authorized his return to classes. Feeling that some level of candor was required, I explained my position to the young man and was pleasantly surprised when he agreed that his condition was perilous at best. Concerned that it might not be best for him to be on his own, but limited in my ability to find a hospital bed, or nurse to look after him, I did the only thing I could think of to resolve the issue, and with his consent I made the boy my personal, albeit temporary, live-in assistant.

Elwood moved in during the last week in October, and took to shadowing me as I traveled about the city tending to my patients as if he had been doing it for years. Meals for the two of us were at a variety of cafes and diners, and Elwood relished this for it was a delightful change from the meager fare he was supplied at the University dining hall. Each day after visiting patients we would spend our evenings at the hospital tending to whatever maladies presented themselves, whether they originated amongst the few patients still in residence, or presented themselves as emergencies from the greater Arkham populace.

My new assistant showed a skill and empathy that I often felt was lacking amongst those who entered the medical profession, and I suspected that whatever it was that had bought about his fragile nervous condition might also have acted to make him a more sympathetic individual. I felt truly sorry for the young man, and vowed to do my best to aid him as I could. Thus, one particularly lonesome and uneventful night while he slept, I opened his file and read the sensational article and notes that had been written about him.

I found the story scandalous, full of impossible detail and obvious omissions. That such a piece could be published made me question the quality and standards of journalism in our fair nation. Still, if poor Elwood had actually been witness to the horrid circumstances that resulted in Walter Gilman’s death, it was no wonder that he was a nervous wreck. Despite my growing sympathy for the poor student, I could see no solution to his condition, at least not a medical one. In my opinion, only the slow passage of time would serve to heal the young man’s spirit. In this I believed he was making progress. Over the few days he had been my assistant, he had shown as I have noted an enviable degree of empathy, and had developed a particularly strong bond with Helena Armitage, often sitting with the woman for hours while I saw other patients throughout the hospital.

It was on the last Tuesday of October that the first note of the terror that would come to Arkham was played. That the relief efforts in Dunwich would serve as an impetus to the nightmares to come, and my own professional demise, I would never have suspected. That I blame the events in Dunwich for what occurred in Arkham, and not my own experiments in reanimation, is not entirely fair, for most certainly my use of the population of Arkham as test subjects was a factor. For if I had not done so, if I had not infected the residents of Arkham with my reagent, the horrid events of that night would never have come to pass.

It began innocently enough. The day had been filled with a dreary rain that had, as evening fell, intensified and turned bone-chilling. The streets of Arkham itself had slowly flooded, which made driving in the city treacherous. Whatever challenges the residents of Arkham faced on that night must have been magnified along the pikes and roads that crisscrossed the rural countryside, for as the evening progressed the hospital’s radio, tuned to the channel reserved for the state police, reported a steady barrage of vehicles and travelers requiring assistance as a result of complications from the weather. Thankfully, as the clock struck midnight and the thirtieth of October crept over into the thirty-first, none of these accidents had been serious enough to require that the victims be brought in for medical attention.

That all changed rapidly in the wee hours of the morning, when the radio brought word of a car traveling along the Aylesbury Pike that had skidded and struck a tree near Billington’s Wood. The three occupants had been thrown from the vehicle and all suffered serious head trauma. The victims had been loaded into a sheriff’s car and were being driven with all possible speed to St. Mary’s. Sadly, all possible speed meant that it would still be nearly half an hour before these poor souls would reach the hospital. Knowing that once they arrived I might be unavailable for hours, I wandered through the wards to check on Elwood, who was as was his habit sitting with Mrs. Armitage. I found the boy asleep in a wing-backed chair while Helena was busy crocheting. I laughed when she told me that the sweater she was making was for Elwood, for it seemed that even in her convalescence she was more than capable of trying to help even this relative stranger.

As I had predicted, the vehicle bearing the three victims arrived more than a half-hour after we had been notified. As the two nurses and I helped the deputy transfer his passengers, it became obvious that the description of their wounds had been severely understated. Indeed, all three had traumatic head injuries, but one of those had a broken neck, another had been pierced through the eye and brain with a small shaft of metal that had essentially lobotomized the man, and the third was leaking cerebral-spinal fluid from his ears. Though their hearts were still beating, it was clear that their prognosis was poor, and I doubted they would last another hour. Indeed, I was in the process of gathering the paperwork to file death certificates when the deputy called out the names of the three poor souls to the admitting nurse and identified them as my own patients and subjects of my clandestine experiments.

The Fisher brothers were not my favorite people. They lived to the northwest of town and had some years ago taken over the family business of fish mongering from their grandfather Gavin, who himself had come from Innsmouth as a boy back in 1850. Gavin’s son Seth had been lost at sea, leaving his young wife alone in the crumbling old house on the cliff overlooking Boynton Beach. Ten months after her husband had died, Rebecca Fisher gave birth to triplets, homely looking boys that she named Edward, Frederick and Godrick. The three men made a modest living selling fish to the people of Arkham, though they also found it necessary to supplement their income by offering their boat for service to any who would pay their modest fee. At one point many years ago they signed a contract with the University to aid in the collection of marine specimens in Kingsport Harbor. The contract required that they obtain medical physicals, and the department chair recommended that they take advantage of my services. Thus they had come to my attention, and knowing that I needed subjects that were of less than perfect health and behavior, I chose to include them as members of my experiment, injecting each with a mild dosage of the prophylactic reagent. It was this exposure that I suspected was keeping them from succumbing to their clearly fatal wounds.

I was not the only one who recognized that the wounds they had received were fatal, and after we had rolled them into an exam room the charge nurse dismissed her junior and, after she was out of earshot, approached me concerning the possibility of euthanasia. She had experience in such matters as these, and was of the opinion that no good would come from allowing these three to linger too long. I thanked her for her comments, and trying desperately not to offend her, falsely suggested that she allow me some time with the men I had known for many years. In a huff she left me alone with the three barely living bodies.

The treatment room that we had placed the bodies in was not without supplies and equipment, and indeed contained all that I needed to carry out the collection of tissue samples and blood that I would need for evaluation. In fact, I was so intrigued by their condition that after collecting samples and storing them in my bag, I found the microscope on the table irresistible. After properly preparing a slide, I examined blood samples from each of them under the light microscope, and in doing so made a startling discovery. Operation of the light microscope requires a modicum of darkness, and as I turned off the lights in the room, I found that the slides I had prepared exhibited a slight but detectable luminescence, not unlike that which was associated with my reagent. Examining the tissues, I found that the blood from each of the men did indeed show traces of the reagent, and more startling, each sample contained a number of the strange, nucleated, spindle-shaped cells that I had first seen earlier in the year in blood samples from the residents of Innsmouth.