The Weird Company (11 page)

It was with some trepidation that I moved into the dimly lit room. It had been years since I had last seen him. He had once been my partner, Hartwell and Wilson had been one of the finest medical practices in Arkham. That all changed when his wife succumbed to the outbreak of Spanish Influenza, and in his grief he demanded that I bring her back. While I had been serving in the Great War, Wilson had discovered that I had been experimenting with a formula, a reagent that could work on the tissues of the recently departed and restore them to life. Under duress, I prepared this reagent and administered it to Mary. It took time, but Mary finally returned, but when she came back, she wasn’t right; she was violent, enraged. As she tore through the house she snapped Wilson’s neck, killing him instantly. I of course brought him back. What had brought back Mary wrong, worked almost perfectly on Wilson. The only noticeable effects had been a slight crook in his neck, and a limp. What would have been unnoticeable would have been something common to all those who had benefitted from my reagent: Wilson would have been extremely resistant to infection, and any physical wounds would have had little effect on the man. His constitution and recuperative powers would have been beyond measure. In my experience, only the wholesale destruction of Wilson’s body, through fire or dissolution in acid, would create a wound beyond his ability to heal. With this knowledge I knew that whatever had happened to Wilson must have been traumatic indeed.

In the poor light there was little to see. The room was little more than a cell with a single weak lamp providing a minimum of illumination, and a radio playing some static-laced music, both of which rested on a low side table. Against the wall was a simple wooden chair, and there in the far corner, barely illuminated by the dim bulb, I could make out the face of my one-time friend Francis Wilson. As I moved the chair to sit by his side, it was obvious to me that my suspicions had been correct. Something traumatic had happened to Wilson. Most of his body lay hidden by blankets or in the darkness, but his face, shoulder and arm were pale and wasted. As I sat, his hand reached out and I took it. He was cold, barely warmer than the room. His sunken eyes filled with tears as his cracked lips opened and he weakly said my name and apologized in the same breath. I held his hand tightly and told him he had nothing to apologize for.

We sat there for some time in silence, for I knew that whatever had happened there were few people in the world who could understand it, and fewer still that might be able to offer help. That is, if there was any help to be offered. Eventually, I broke the silence. “If I am going to help you, I have to know what happened.” At this he attempted to withdraw his hand, but I held it tight, insistently, demanding that he not break the physical link between us.

“I’ve written it down.” His voice was strange, hollow, like the wind blowing through a log. He spoke, softly, slowly, deliberately, as if it was a strain to form even a single word, and gestured toward the side table. I nodded, trying to be patient with the man, and then retrieved the stack of pages from the table. It was a handwritten manuscript, on white stationary, but unusually stained in places with a brown ochre that hinted at something dreadful. The dim light made reading slightly difficult, but for the sake of my friend I undertook the task. I still remember the contents as if the paper were in front of me now.

II. The Account of Dr. Wilson

It is in desperation that I write this, for I know that my current condition, a result of a regrettable incident, as Doctor Lynn prefers to refer to it, requires some explanation. Although to be honest there are few in this world who would not consider these words, this statement, anything but the ravings of a lunatic. But if you couple these pages with what has happened to me, to what I have become, what then? Who can deny my account of what happened? Who would dare suggest anything else?

I had been living in northern New Jersey, in a small coastal community, a horrid barren place of sandy soils and sparse thin grass. Few people lived there, and those who did preferred to keep to themselves. It was the perfect place to lose one’s self, to wallow in self pity and try to forget the past. I stayed there for years, isolated, alone and content in my own way. Had I not ventured out for supplies, had I not taken the coastal road, I would never have met the young Miss Nora Forrest, never have examined her twisted ankle, never been asked to accompany her to Manhattan, and never have been recommended for a position at the Whitmarsh Institute. It is a banal place, encompassing everything I always hated about the practice of medicine. A summer place, where nervous men and women with a touch of hypochondria come to fritter away their days and allow doctors to preen over them. During the season, they come in droves to take in the island, to walk its gardens and lanes, to stroll on the beaches, and eat the fresh oysters. This place swarms with such people in the summer. After September though, the institute is nearly empty. Only a few residents, those whose families have paid to not see them, like the Mad Mrs. Tanzer and the infirm Mr. Meikle, and a minimum of staff, stay behind. The island in winter is not kind. The wind turns bitter and biting, and sets the bay churning. The ferry runs just one day a week, and even the bay men don’t dare venture too far from home, by sea or land. In a word, the place in winter can be considered quite isolated. It is a perfect place to hide, or even lose someone. For me, it seemed an improvement. I could remain isolated and nearly anonymous, and still be paid a decent wage.

I had spent two summers and the winter between them, and was working on a second when Senior Physician Dr. Willett brought in a new client. It was late in the evening of March 8 that the car arrived. It was quite unexpected, for the bay was in a treacherous state. That the ferryman had risked it suggested that Willett had paid him well, and that this was no ordinary patient. He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, tall, slim, and fair. His clothing was well-tailored, but disheveled, and his hair was wild and unkempt. It seemed that the man had been sickly for quite some time, for his skin had a sallow pallor about it and hung thinly on his frame. As part of his admission process I and Willett examined the man, while the others, Peck, Lyman and Waite, looked on. All of us were astonished by what we found. The man’s skin was dry, and abnormally cool. His breathing and cardiac rhythms were curiously out of synchronization, and his physical response to nervous stimuli bore no relation to anything thought normal. Willett, who was apparently the man’s family physician, made note of the absence of an olive birthmark on the man’s hip, and the presence of a great black scar on his chest. Additionally, the old doctor made much of a small pit in the flesh above the man’s right eye.

Willett refused to reveal the man’s name, and instead insisted he be addressed as Mr. Pulver. At this the man sniggered softly, and Willett chastised him, suggesting that he keep honor in mind and prevent any scandal from besmirching the family name. To this idea the sickly man reluctantly nodded. The head orderly Sammons led Pulver to his room while Willett and I discussed the case over coffee. The senior physician made it clear that when Pulver was in his room, the door was to be locked. He could have the run of the common rooms and gardens, during normal hours, but only under supervision by Sammons or one of the other orderlies. Under no circumstances was he to be left alone. Such talk made me question whether the man should be confined to a straightjacket, but Willett rejected the idea, and suggested that in his opinion, Mr. Pulver was not a danger to himself or others, but, I could take appropriate action if anything suggested otherwise.

There was no way for me to tell Dr. Willett that I had already seen something that suggested otherwise, that is without revealing any of my own sordid past. My physical examination of Pulver revealed highly abnormal physical and neurological conditions, but these while beyond those thought normal, were not beyond my own experience. I had read about such abnormalities in the notes of Dr. Stuart Hartwell, for they were common amongst some of his experimental subjects, experiments that explored the reanimation of dead animals and humans. Of course I had also observed them directly in a subject that I had direct access to, an example of a reanimated individual that I examined on a daily basis. Abnormal breathing, strange heart rates, cold skin, poor nervous reactions, they were all things I saw every day. These symptoms, they were frighteningly similar to the result of Hartwell’s reanimation reagent, or something like it, for I knew those symptoms all too well. For the individual I had observed on a daily basis for these long years, the one who had died and then been brought back by Hartwell’s experiments, was myself!

The next morning Willett and the other senior staff had breakfast in the staff dining room before bidding farewell, and leaving me in charge of the orderlies, the old cook Mrs. Davis, and the dozen or so cats that served to keep the grounds free of vermin. The oldest and largest of these was a great calico which the staff referred to as Doc, for his claws were as sharp and as swift as any surgeon’s scalpel. This title was well-earned, for guests who crossed the beast would be quick to learn to steer clear of him in the future. Only the physicians on the staff, and of course Mrs. Davis, who provided his meals, knew any kindness from him. With the senior staff gone, I was left alone to make my rounds, with Doc trailing behind me. With just a few patients, all of which were minor cases, the majority of my regular work was completed in just a few hours. The only patient I had not seen was the enigmatic Mr. Pulver. Sammons was with him in the library, where he was perusing a small book. Dismissing Sammons, I sat down across from Pulver and introduced myself.

The young man closed his book, which was revealed to be Castaigne’s translation of The King in Yellow. “I know who ye are Dr. Wilson, and I know what ye are.” He waved the book in front of me. “Have ye read this? ‘Tis quite an amusing tale.”

I was taken aback by the man’s archaic speech, but confessed that I hadn’t read the book, then paused and asked, “It seems we have something in common Mr. Pulver. I trust I can count on your discretion, as you can count on mine?”

The younger man smiled at me, “I am sure that ye and I can come to some arrangement while my father and Dr. Willett deem it necessary to detain me in this place.” Pulver it seems had developed several curious habits as a result of his mania, the most noticeable of which was his affectation of an archaic accent, vocabulary and mode of speech. More distressing was his desire, or as he put it, “craving” for fresh raw meat. He needed a significant portion on a daily basis, for it supplied a vital energy without which he would surely wither away to naught but dust. At these suggestions I laughed, thinking the man was playing the clown. However, that laughter turned to morbid shock once I realized that the man was genuine in his desires.

Normally such a request would have been ignored, but I was faced with a horrible dilemma, and risked exposure of my own secret. Thus, I with some amount of secrecy set about determining how to meet the odd demand. My investigation of the pantry was disappointing. In summer the kitchen would be stocked with fresh fruits, vegetables, fish, shellfish, poultry, beef, ham, mutton, and even a selection of wild game. However, in the winter, with all but a few guests and staff, supplies were limited, and while some meat was available, it consisted mostly of dried beef, smoked sausages, and salted fish, none of which could remotely be considered to meet Pulver’s expressed desires. Inquiries at the nearby farms were rejected, for none of the local poultry men were in a position to supply me with the daily regimen that Pulver had suggested. However, while making my way back to the hospital, I through happenstance encountered young Simon Grau, who during the summer often provided us with small game. I explained my need, though not the motivation behind it, and he suggested that he likely could provide each morning a rabbit or two. Though, he warned, that given the season, the beasts might be rather lean. We negotiated a price that was acceptable to both of us and Grau assured me that he would deliver no later than eight each morning.

True to his word, the next day Grau was at the kitchen door just after seven and delivered two carcasses, skinned, with the heads and paws removed. At these, Mrs. Davis scowled and examined them roughly. She glared at the boy and warned him not to be bringing any “dachahse” roof rabbits into her kitchen. The boy swore that he would do no such thing, and bid us farewell till tomorrow. Confused, I pressed Mrs. Davis for an explanation. She was reluctant at first, but then using the bodies, explained that when properly prepared the carcasses of rabbits and cats were nearly indistinguishable, and in lean times the unscrupulous hunter would often substitute one for the other. She assured me that the meat supplied by Grau was indeed rabbit. I thanked Mrs. Davis and asked her to make the one rabbit for my dinner, while I took the other one as it was. This left the old cook quite perplexed, but I just took the rabbit and waved her away.

Despite the cold, Pulver was in the garden on a hill overlooking the bay. As I approached, Sammons saw the covered serving tray and intercepted me. “He’s already had his breakfast.” I nodded and dismissed the man. Marching up the hill against the wind I barely felt the cold. As I reached the crest Pulver turned to greet me. There was a strange look in his eyes, a desire that I knew to be a perverse kind of hunger. He greedily snatched the tray and tossed the cover to the side. I had thought the animal rather large, indeed I expected to share the one Mrs. Davis was to prepare. However, in the hands of Mr. Pulver it suddenly seemed small, for it vanished quickly in the most rapacious of manners. In mere moments the bones had been sucked clean, nary a morsel of muscle, ligament or cartilage remained. I found his whole process of feeding almost obscene, and despite this I could not look away when he cracked open the bones and proceeded to suck out the marrow. I gagged a little when he finally turned to look at me with those strangely intense eyes and said in a voice that was not asking, but rather ordering “MORE!”