The Doom That Came to Dunwich Page 8

  By quitting time I was tired, nervous, and eager to find a warm meal and a soft mattress, if such amenities even existed in this accursed Severn Valley.

  To my astonishment, Karolina Parker offered me a ride home in her automobile, and even offered me room and lodging in her house. I insisted that such hospitality, while appreciated, was excessive, but she replied that everything should be done to make my visit pleasant. We were, after all, family!

  Karolina Parker’s home was a pleasant house set in the center of a modest but beautifully tended park-like estate. The house itself was of late Tudor style, with half-timbered beams and diamond-pane windows. There was a great fireplace in the living room, and through the front windows I could see the peculiar topiary shrubs that stood outside like unfamiliar beasts grazing an alien landscape.

  My hostess explained to me that she lived alone, and showed me to a comfortable bedroom which she said would be mine during my stay in Old Severnford. She suggested that I refresh myself while she prepared dinner for us both.

  An hour later I was summoned to dine in a charming informal room. Karolina apologized for her impromptu mode of entertaining, but I found both her manner and the meal which she served me the high points of my, until now, dismal journey. She had decked herself out in a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans and a tee shirt with a portrait of Klaus Fuchs himself blazoned on it. Over this amazing outfit she wore a frilly apron.

  She served me a delicious ratatouille accompanied by an excellent white wine (imported from northern California, I noted with some pride) and a crisp green salad. How this attractive young woman could work all day at the Institute and still entertain in such delightful fashion afterwards, was quite beyond my power of comprehension.

  After the meal we repaired to the living room and shared coffee (hot, fresh and strong!) and brandy before a roaring fire. Oddly portentous selections of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Georg Philipp Telemann came from the speakers of a superb sound system. Karolina and I spoke of computers, of her work at the Fuchs Institute and mine at Myshkin Associates. We tried to trace our common ancestry but ran into a blank wall somewhere around the year 1665. At no time did we speak of our personal lives. I did not know whether she had ever been married, for instance, or seriously involved with a man, nor did she query me with regard to such sensitive (and for me, painful) matters.

  The sound system must have been preprogrammed, for after a while I found myself drawn into a complex composition by Charles Ives, and then into one of the stranger sound pieces of Edgar Varese. Our conversation had turned to the history of the Severn Valley, its peculiar isolation from the rest of England, and the odd whispered hints that were sometimes heard regarding the dark countryside and its inhabitants.

  I fear that my stressful journey and my lack of sleep the previous night caught up with me, for I caught myself yawning at one point, and Karolina Parker, gracious hostess that she was, suggested that I retire.

  “I’ll stay downstairs to clean up a little,” she volunteered. “You can find your room again, of course?”

  I thought to offer a familial hug before retiring, but instead I found Karolina returning my gesture with a fierce embrace and another of her incredible kisses. I broke away in confusion and made my way to my room without speaking another word. I locked the door and placed a chair beneath the doorknob before disrobing, then climbed gratefully into bed and fell asleep almost at once.

  I do not know how much later it was that I was awakened by — by what, I asked myself. Was it a careful rattling of the doorknob of my room? Was it a voice calling to me? And in words of what language — the familiar tongue which Americans and Britons have shared for centuries, or that other, stranger language that I had heard in the streets of Severnford and had myself spoken, almost involuntarily, as I struggled to decipher the peculiar printouts of the Zeta/Zed system at the Fuchs Institute?

  Whatever it was — whoever it was — quickly departed from my ken, and I sought to return to sleep, but, alas, I was now too thoroughly wakened to do so easily. I did not wish to leave my room; I cannot tell you why, I simply felt that there were things, or might be things, in that pleasant, comfortable house that I would rather not encounter.

  So instead I seated myself in a comfortable chair near the window of my room and gazed over the Severn landscape. I could see but little of the village of Old Severnford, for this was a community where the residents retired early and stayed in their homes, the doors securely locked and the lights turned low, perhaps for fear that they attract visitors not welcome.

  Raising my eyes to the hills above, I saw their rounded forms as those of ancient, sleeping beings, silhouetted in absolute blackness against the midnight blue sky. The clouds that had obscured the moon and stars earlier had dissipated and the heavens were punctuated by a magnificent scattering of stars and galaxies such as the city lights that blazed all night in the Silicon Valley could never reveal.

  I permitted my gaze to drift lower, to the Severn Hills, when I was startled to perceive what appeared to be an artificial construct. This structure was in the form of a tower surmounted by a peculiarly made battlement or turret. I had thought the Severn Hills uninhabited save for a few examples of sparse and ill-nourished wildlife, hunted on occasion by locals seeking to add to their meager larders.

  Even more surprising, the turret appeared to be illuminated from within. I strained my eyes to see clearly that which was before me. Yes, there were lights blazing from within the turret — if blazing is a word which may be applied to these dim, flickering, tantalizing lights. If I permitted my fancy to roam, the lights would almost form themselves into a face. Two great, hollow eyes staring blindly into the darkness, a central light like a nasal orifice, and beneath that a wide, narrow mouth grinning wickedly with teeth — surely they must be vertical dividers or braces — eager to invite… or to devour.

  I stared at the turret for a long time. How long, I do not know, but eventually the night sky began to lighten, the moon and stars to fade. Were the lights in the turret extinguished, or was it the brightness of morning that made them fade?

  A chill wracked my body, and I realized that I had sat for hours before the open window, clad only in thin pajamas. I climbed hastily back into bed and managed to catch a few winks before the voice of Karolina penetrated the door, summoning me to a lavish breakfast of bacon and eggs, freshly squeezed orange juice and a rich, hot mocha concoction that offered both the satisfying flavor of chocolate and the stimulation of freshly-brewed coffee.

  In Karolina’s car, on the way to the Klaus Fuchs Memorial Institute, I sought to gain information about my peculiar experience of the night before. I realized that my suspicion of my dear, multiply-distant cousin (for as such I had chosen to identify her, for my own satisfaction) had been the unjustified product of my own fatigue and depression, and the strangeness and newness of my surroundings.

  Almost as if the turret had been the figment of a dream, I grappled mentally in hopes of regaining my impression of it. To a large degree it eluded me, but I was able at length to blurt some question about a turreted tower in the hills.

  Karolina’s answer was vague and evasive. She admitted that there were some very old structures in the region, dangerous and long-abandoned. In response to my mention of the flickering lights and the face-like arrangement in the turret, Karolina became peculiarly agitated, insisting that this was utterly impossible.

  I averred that I would like to visit the tower and see for myself if it were inhabited, even if only by squatters.

  To this, Karolina replied that there had been an earthquake in the Severn Valley some years before. A fissure had opened in the earth, and the row of hills in which the tower was located was now totally unreachable from Old Severnford. I would have to abandon my plan and give up my hopes of learning about the turret and its lights.

  I spent the day at the Fuchs Institute working diligently on the Zeta/Zed system. Since my attempts of the day before had led me only to frustrat
ion, on this day I determined to tackle the problem on a smaller, more intensive basis. I powered down the entire system, disconnected all of its components from one another, and began running the most exhaustive diagnostic programs on the circuitry of the central processor.

  During a luncheon break I thought to ask another employee of the Institute — not Karolina Parker — about my experience of the previous night. But strangely, I was unable to recall just what I had experienced, that I wished to inquire about.

  This was by far the most peculiar phenomenon I had ever encountered. I knew that something odd had happened to me, I knew that I wanted to seek an explanation for it, but I was absolutely and maddeningly unable to remember just what it was that I wanted to ask about.

  Humiliated, I terminated the conversation and returned to my assigned cubicle to study manuals and circuit diagrams associated with Zeta/Zed.

  That night Karolina furnished another delicious repast, and we shared another delightful evening of conversation, coffee-and-brandy, and music. Karolina had attired herself in a shimmering hostess gown tonight, and I could barely draw my eyes from her own flowing, raven hair, her deep blue orbs, her pale English skin and her red, generous lips.

  When the time came for us to part to our rooms and retire for the night, I no longer recoiled from my cousin’s ardent kiss, but luxuriated in it. As I held her, our faces close together, I saw that she, too, carried the familiar Parker mark on her chin. I placed my lips against the mark, and she sighed as if I had touched her deeply and erotically. Images and fantasies raced through my mind, but I banished them and bade her good-night, and climbed the flagstone staircase to my quarters.

  I wondered whether I really wanted to lock my door tonight, whether I really wanted to place a chair against it, but I finally did so, and climbed into bed, but this time I was not able to sleep, so I attired myself more warmly than I had the previous night, and placed myself in the comfortable chair before the window.

  In the darkness of the Severn Valley my eyes soon adjusted themselves, and the utterly murky vista that greeted me at first once more resolved itself into rows of hills, clearly old hills smoothed and rounded by the passage of millennia, silhouetted against the star-dotted heavens. And as I simultaneously relaxed my body and my concentration, yet focused my eyes on the area where I had seen the turret rising the night before, once again I beheld its shape, and once again I perceived what appeared to be faint, flickering lights in its windows, making the suggestion of a face that seemed to speak to me in the peculiar tongue of the night-prowlers of Severnford and of the enigmatic computer printout.

  I did not fall asleep. I wish to make this very clear. What next transpired may have been a vision, a case of astral travel, a supernatural or at least supernormal experience of the most unusual and remarkable sort, but it was absolutely not a dream.

  Some force drew me from my chair in my room in my distant cousin Karolina Parker’s home. That which was drawn was my soul.

  Now you may think this is a very peculiar statement for me to make. I, Parker Lorentzen, am a thoroughly modern man. I hold degrees in mathematics, linguistics, philosophy, psychology, and computer science. I could, if I chose to do so, insist upon being addressed as Dr. Lorentzen, but I prefer not to flaunt my education before others.

  I opt philosophically for the kind of scientific materialism that seeks explanations for all phenomena in the world of physical reality. I know that there are great mysteries in the universe, but I think of them as the unknown rather than the unknowable. Research, careful observation and precise measurement, computation and rigorous logic will eventually deliver to inquisitive intelligence, the final secrets of the universe.

  Such is my philosophy. Or such it was until I visited the turret which my cousin Karolina claimed was unreachable.

  At first I was frightened. I thought that I was being summoned to hurl myself from an upper-story window, from whence I would fall to the garden below and injure myself. I looked down and the weird topiary beasts seemed to be gesturing, urging me to fly from the house. I knew that this was impossible — in my physical being — but by relaxing ever more fully into my chair, while concentrating my vision, my mind, my whole psychic being on the distant turret in the Severn Hills, I felt my soul gradually separating from my body.

  Why do I use the word, “soul,” you may ask. Did I not mean my mind, my consciousness? Was I not having an out-of-body experience, a controversial but nevertheless real and not necessarily supernatural phenomenon?

  But no, it was more than my mind, more than my consciousness that was leaving my body. It was my whole self, which I choose to refer to as my soul. For all my scientific skepticism, I have been forced to the conclusion that there is some part of us that is neither material nor mortal. Just what it is, just how it came into being, I do not pretend to know. I have heard every argument, faced every scoffing comment — have made them myself, or did so when I was a younger man — but I cannot now deny the reality of this thing that I call the soul.

  For a moment I was able to look back at my own body, comfortably ensconced in the chair. Then I was off, drifting at first languorously through the open window, hovering briefly above the topiary figures in my cousin’s garden, then rising as if on wings of my own, high above the town of Old Severnford, and then speeding into the black night, soaring toward the hills to the west of town.

  I did see the fissure that Karolina had described, a horrid rent that seemed to penetrate deep into the earth. Its walls were strewn with boulders, and brushy vegetation had made its way down the sides of the fissure, attracted, perhaps, by the heat that seemed to radiate from its depths, or from the water that I surmised would gather in its depths.

  As I approached the turret I had seen from my window, I could again perceive the flickering lights within, and the face-like formation of the illumination. From the distance of my cousin’s house, and against the blackness of the Severn Hills, the tower had been of uncertain shape. Seen from a lesser distance, it assumed a clear shape and a surprisingly modern architectural aspect. It seemed to rise almost organically from its surroundings, a concept which I had come across more than once while browsing architectural journals.

  Entering the largest and most brightly illuminated window, I found myself in a large room. It was unlike any I had ever seen before. As familiar as I am with every sort of modern device and scientific equipment, still I could not comprehend, or even describe, the titanic machinery that I beheld.

  Figures utterly dwarfed by the machines tended them, tapping at control panels, reading indicators, adjusting conduits. Lights flashed on the machinery, and occasionally parts moved. Just as the building itself had exhibited an almost organic quality of architecture, so the machines within it seemed, in addition to their other characteristics, to be, in some subtle and incomprehensible way, alive.

  Strangest of all was a gigantic, rectangular plane that filled an entire section of the monstrous room. Its surface was of a matte gray finish and had a peculiar look to it as if it were somehow tacky, as sticky as if a thin coating of honey had been spread on it, and let to stand in the sunlight until it was mostly but not entirely dry.

  I approached the gray rectangle by that peculiar sort of disembodied flight that I had used since leaving my body in my cousin’s house in Old Severnford, and hovered effortlessly above the gray plane. From my first vantage point at the window of the turret room, the plane had looked large, but was still contained within the single, large chamber. If I had been forced to make an estimate of its dimensions, I would have described it as three to four yards in width, and as much as forty yards in length.

  But as I hovered above it, I realized that it was incredibly larger than I had first estimated. That, or perhaps it was merely my change of perspective that gave it the appearance of great size.

  Have you ever played with one of those optical illusions, in which you are asked to look at two curved rectangles, or sections of arc cut from the perimeter of a ci
rcle or torus? One may appear far larger than the other, yet the instructions that come with such games always urge you to measure the rectangles and see that they are exactly the same size.

  Maybe something like that is what happened to me. I cannot testify with any degree of certainty.

  But I can tell you that, as I hovered above the gray plane (perhaps I should refer to it, now, as a gray plain) it was gigantic. It was miles in width and hundreds of miles in length — or perhaps it was thousands or even millions of miles in each dimension. I felt myself being drawn down toward it, and feared that if I approached too close to it I would be caught in its gravity — or in the tackiness of its surface — and be unable to escape.

  With a huge effort I managed to halt my descent, but already I was so close to the plain that I had lost sight of its termini. Grayness stretched to infinity in all directions. I could turn, and above me I saw only star-studded blackness. Was the turret room open to the Severn sky, I wondered.

  Beneath me I thought I saw stirrings in the gray. At this range it was not a smooth and stationary surface, but seemed textured, as if it were of wet concrete, and tiny specks that at first seemed to be merely part of this texture, could be seen to move. They reminded me of insects caught in the sweet, tacky covering of a roll of old-fashioned fly-paper.

  I descended farther, and realized that the moving specks were alive, and in some inexplicable way I realized just what they were: they were the souls of human beings, trapped in the hold of the gray plain, struggling futilely for their release.

  How could such a thing be, I wondered. Whose souls were these? Were they the immortal parts of residents of the Severn Valley, the souls perhaps of local residents who had died, and been trapped here in this bizarre limbo, neither attaining heaven nor being consigned to hell? Had they been summoned by the shapes tending the titanic machines? And if such was the case, what mad motive had moved these weird scientists to set such a trap?