That Which Should Not Be (3 page)

“And thus you have hit upon the most compelling evidence for Ashcroft's story.  It is impossible, whether his men fell by natural causes or were hunted down by some fell beast.  Ashcroft should be dead.  Yet, he is not.  Something must have saved him.”

“So, the very force you believe killed Ashcroft's men and stole his sanity delivered him safe and sound to be rescued?  Why?  For what purpose?”

“No purpose but its own, I assure you.  Why did it bring him to that dead city?  Why did it lead him to the steps of an ancient necropolis, only to deliver him from its clutches?  I cannot say.  All I know is that it did, and that is enough for me.”

At that point I simply sat back in my chair.  There was nothing more to be said.  Soon our friends had departed, and I was left alone with Henry.

“That was quite a story you told tonight,” I said.  “Do you believe a word of it?”

Henry laughed as he poured two glasses of brandy. 

“Some of it. Do I believe that Ashcroft saw something fantastic? Certainly. Is every word he spoke the truth? Unlikely. That is where we differ, Carter.”

“Where? That I do not give credence to insanity?”

“No,” he said, “that you do not recognize that in all things there is at least a grain of truth.  And that makes Ashcroft's story truly remarkable.”

“You are from another age, Henry.  Another age altogether.”

“Yes, that may be true,” he said, handing me my glass. “But the ancients knew certain things, Carter.  Yes, I see what you are thinking.  They were superstitious.  Fearful.  Hateful and destructive at times.  But they knew man is not meant to understand all things.  They knew man is not capable of understanding all things.  And there is wisdom there, wisdom that we would do well to heed.”

In truth, I did see much wisdom in his words.  But I simply could not believe.  I was, and remain, a man of faith.  But that faith was the limit of my belief in the supernatural.  I was, as Thomas of old, condemned not to believe, lest I see.  Alas, a time would come when mine eyes would see and mourn because of it. 

Why did that story come to mind in those lonely moments on the north bound train from Arkham?  Why did it leap to my mind, unbidden and uncalled?  Fate’s foreshadowing perhaps, as fate’s hand was constantly upon me that night.  Fate, or perhaps the power of the Book.

The train chugged north, through the darkened countryside, over the Miskatonic River and into the river valley itself.  It passed sturdy rock walls and ancient gabled barns; thick, untouched forests and domed hills.  Then the dark, churning wilderness gave way to what looked in the shadow to be an endless flat plane — we had reached the sea.  The combination of the black night and thick snow made it impossible to see the tempest no doubt rocking its surface.  I saw the lighthouse of Anchorhead before the dimly lit houses came in view.  Its powerful beam swept across land and sea like a single, great eye casting its gaze upon all within its sight. 

The train jerked and spasmed as it pulled slowly into Anchorhead station, a desolate edifice consisting of no more than a platform and a darkened shack.  I was the only person to alight from the train, and there was, to my eye, no living soul in the vicinity.  This might have bothered me at another time, but the north winds were now roaring fiercely from the sea with such violence that none with a sound mind would have ventured into their midst.  There were, of course, no stagecoaches to be had either, and so I began what I hoped was a short walk to the nearest inn. 

I found it not fifty feet from the station.  I entered quickly, pressing the door forcefully closed against the now raging wind outside.  I turned to see an elderly woman glaring at me from behind a solid oak desk. 

“Good evening,” I lied. 

“You need a room, I suspect?” she snarled. 

I told her that I did, and she begrudgingly obliged me.  I paid her for two nights with the promise I would likely stay for more.  She spoke little, using the minimum amount of words necessary to show me the location of my room and its arrangements.  I realized as I placed my bag upon a bedside table that I was quite famished.  I hesitated to venture back into the howling maelstrom rocking the panes of my windows, but it was evident that either I must or go to bed hungry.  The innkeeper brusquely indicated there was a tavern only a short walk away, a quaint place located on the shores of the sea.  I took her up on this suggestion and stepped out once again into the swirling darkness. 

I was immediately buffeted by the wind.  I would call it a gale, but it was too constant in its fierceness for that appellation.  As I turned down the road, it seemed as though the direction of the storm shifted.  It was now blowing in my face, every fleck of snow stinging like the sharp prick of so many needles.  The road curved sharply right and after passing between two rows of wooden and brick houses, the pungent aroma of the ocean surrounded me.  Even with the blinding snow and darkened skies, some unknown glow illuminated the oily sea as it roiled and undulated under the ever gathering barrage. 

The tavern sat on a ledge at the ocean’s edge.  The sign hung lower on one corner than the other, and its violent swinging on the metal chain holding it indicated it was not long for this world.  I could barely make out the name etched into the ancient wood:  The Kracken.  I took a moment, despite the howling gale buffeting me, to smile. 

I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, letting it slam behind me.  The room was lit by oil lamps hung haphazardly from the ceiling. The gust of wind pursuing me had rocked them to and fro, and now their pale light cast grotesque shadows that seemed to gibber and dance on the tavern walls. 

I looked around the room.  It was built like the bow of a ship, the center portion lower than its sides.  There were several denizens, regulars of this establishment I would have wagered, spread here and there about the place.  But it was a particular table, the only one in the center depression that was occupied, that stood out to me the most. 

At it sat four men, incongruous for their diversity of dress and the mien with which they held themselves.  They sat quietly, each man seemingly more interested in his ale than those around him.  One was an ancient man, dressed in a thick, but grizzled, fur coat and an unkempt beard obscuring his face. His warm dress was the most appropriate for the evening.  Next to him was a man who had the look of a scholar or professional, as if perhaps he were the town magistrate.  There was yet another man, who while attired in a similar manner to the previous fellow, I took immediately for a doctor of some sort.  And finally, another bearded gentleman, though he was more thoughtfully trimmed and kept.  He wore a dark blue coat and pants with black boots.  And he was the only one staring directly at me.  There was a light in his eye, not of welcome, but of knowledge and recognition.

I walked down the three steps into the central depression and past the table.  The three men never looked up; the fourth never looked away.  I stepped up three more steps and found myself at the bar.  The man behind it, a heavyset older gentlemen who, in his day, would probably have been considered a ruffian, stared at me without word or welcome, and so I felt compelled to lead the conversation. 

“Excuse me, good man.  I wondered if you might have some food available.”

“Fish stew’s all we got,” he said with a deep New England accent.  “But I reckon a fella’ from Boston-way would frown on that.”

“Why, certainly not,” I said, trying to save a first impression.  “A bowl of soup and some bread, please.  And a pint to wash it down.”

For a moment he only glared.  But then eventually he turned and walked to a large pot sitting over a fire, raging hot and wild, in the hearth.  As I waited uncomfortably for him to return, I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

Chapter

4

Turning was only the work of a moment, but in that moment several thoughts ran through my head.  I realized this could be an aggressive move by the unknown possessor of the hand now on my person, and a fight might prove imminent.  I also knew I was in a place where such a fight could very well turn deadly.  I considered the possibility I was already undone, that some stranger had recognized me as Thayerson’s emissary, in which case this journey might be all for naught.  Before I could ponder the consequences of such a disaster, I was looking into the green eyes of the blue coated, bearded fellow I noticed only a few moments before. 

“You sir,” he said, “have the look of a man who doesn’t belong.”

It was a phrase that, were it not for his general demeanor, could have been taken as a threat.  But there was a smile on his face and, more importantly, in his eyes, and I was immediately aware he meant me no harm.  I tried and failed to place his voice as he spoke.  It lacked a defining accent, but deep within it rolled the salt sea. 

“And by that,” he continued, “I mean you must be a visitor in these parts.  I’ve always been a man to welcome those who wander, as I’ve done quite a bit of wandering myself.” 

The barkeep had returned by this point, loudly dropping the bowl of soup, bread, and ale in front of me.  “Ah, now that Tom has got you your food, please, join us at our table. We have much to say, but I fear the years have tired us of the listening. Perhaps a fresh set of ears would bring some of that old joy back.”

On the surface the offer was a friendly one, and, in fact, I had judged the man to be sincere from the moment he began to speak to me. But there was something else there, an ulterior motive that lay beneath. It wasn’t that he was lying, or even that he was concealing. Just, there was something beyond that I couldn’t quite place. But in any event, I never considered rejecting his offer.  This was an unexpected chance to ingratiate myself with some of the locals, and I had vague hopes this man might be just the sort of person who could direct me to the location of the book. And so, at his behest I gathered up my food and drink while he pulled a fifth chair to his table. I sat down, and my new host began to introduce me to his companions.  He started with the heavily furred man to my left. 

“This is Jack,” he said.  “Jack, in his day, was a master trapper.  Isn’t that right, Jack?”

The man smiled weakly at me and said, “I guess that’s so.”

“Daniel, here,” he said, already moving to the man I had pegged as a magistrate, “is a solicitor of some renown in these parts.”

“In better days,” the man said with more than a modicum of sadness and regret.

“William, here, is a doctor. Before he joined us in our little town, he spent his early years with those poor souls whose minds have been lost.  The insane, the demented.  The truly damned of this world.”

The doctor took a long drink of his beer.  He did not speak.  It struck me, then, as I looked at them, their worn faces, and their dark shrouded eyes.  These were broken men.  All except the one who spoke first and last. 

“And I am but a simple fisherman.”  I saw Daniel smile and cough out a laugh.  “Spent damn near all of my life on the sea,” the man continued.  “But now I’m retired,” he said, grinning.  “Jonathan Gray,” he offered.  “Captain Jonathan Gray.”

“It is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of you all,” I said.   “My name is Carter Weston.”

“And what, if we may ask,” spoke the Captain, “is a fellow like yourself doing here, especially on such a night.  Not that we would mind, of course.  We consider ourselves a hospitable people,” he said, politely but inquiringly.  “But the wind has blown up a storm tonight the likes of which we have seldom seen, even here.” 

As if on cue, a particularly powerful gust shook the brittle panes of the tavern with such ferocity I feared they might shatter.  But then the wind calmed, and the Captain turned his gaze to me again.

“Well,” I replied, somewhat withered beneath his eyes, “I am a student at Miskatonic.” 

The captain’s countenance did not change, but I noted the man I now knew as William, the doctor, shuddered at that name.  It was not a reaction I was altogether unfamiliar with.  “I am a folklorist,” I continued.  “I have been traveling about these parts collecting the stories of its people.”

“And what drives a man to do that?” Captain Gray asked.

“Well, to preserve them,” I answered.  “And to better understand from whence they came.  I, of course, did not know of the coming storm, not being a man versed in reading the weather, that is.  But I’m here now, and here is where I suppose I will ride it out.”

“Ah,” the Captain offered.  “So you say you want to understand where these stories come from.  Do you ever suppose perhaps they are true?”

I smiled back at the Captain, and a little bit of the old skeptic took hold. 

“Why, of course not. Things such as I have heard exist only in the mind of the teller.” 

Then, unexpectedly, the three men who sat around me chuckled.  Captain Gray only smiled.  But there was no joy in it, neither in the smile or the laughs.  

“Ah, my dear boy,” Captain Gray said with a solemnity that betrayed the smile he wore, “there are, indeed, more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.  Let me ask you this,” he continued, “the people with whom you spoke, were they personal witnesses to the substance of the stories they told?”

“Why, no,” I replied. “First-hand stories are most welcome, but people in my profession rarely receive such a treat.”

I saw the Captain glance quickly to his companions.  Then, there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes as if they had communicated something to him without words. 

“Well, my friend.  The night is young, and we are all very thirsty.  So perhaps there is time to share with you some stories of our own.  And then, upon the hearing of them, you can judge for yourself their worth to your studies.”

I smiled politely.  An opportunity to relieve myself of the burden of the task I faced was welcome. 

“I think I would enjoy that,” I said. 

“Then, I will begin,” said the man I had come to know as Jack.  I turned to him, and behind his grizzled beard and beneath his thick, fur-lined hat, his eyes burned with a new intensity that had been absent from them only a few minutes before. 

“It’s been now on 50 years ago,” he began, growing wistful.  “And yet when I see it in my dreams, it’s as if he were upon me again.”

“It was,” he said in a deep, sonorous bass not uncommon to the western woods of Massachusetts, “as these things always are, I suppose, long ago.  So long ago now.” 

He looked down at his glass, and for a long moment I wondered if he had the strength to continue.  A life, no doubt, flashed before his eyes.  But then he spoke again, and I felt myself carried back to those days so long past.