Chapter #23Eldibria Comes to Oswego by: Seuzz   You pick your way across the carpet of the forest, trying not to make any noise as you brush over dry twigs and leaves. It's not really a forest, of course, just an incursion made by the surrounding woodland into the outskirts of the town. But it's better to approach from this angle than the road, even though it is already quite dark. You glance over your shoulder as you top a small crest, and through a gap in the trees you see the surface of Lake Ontario twinkling under the moonlight. You follow the bend of the hill, and soon your destination looms over the trees.
The long-abandoned State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It's a gaunt shadow, and even less inviting in the dark than it is in the daytime. Even under the noon-time sun the dark stonework—unbroken even by windows—grimly deflects the gaze. At night, the walls are an obsidian nightmare.
And in the darkness, the livid ochre moss that covers every surface glows even more brightly. From high up on the wall, a dangling tentacle drops almost to the ground. It twitches and flexes, grasping at something in the shadows at the base of the walls.
You hurry across the open space between the woods and the walls of the asylum, and it's so dark that you're nearly on top of him before you see him. "Shackelford?" you whisper.
The shadow jumps. "Jesus, Medoff," he hisses. "About fucking time. What are you—?"
"I snuck through the woods. Those guys haven't got here yet, have they?"
"No," he says. "You were cutting it close, though. Come on."
You let him take the lead, ignoring the strong, grasping tentacle that has wound itself about his head and face. Of course you ignore it: it is invisible to anyone who doesn't swim in the oceans of Eldibria, and though it grips the man tightly, you can see him clearly beneath its horny, eldritch suckers. And you can see both of his faces: the physical face, which looks entirely normal, and the drowned, bloated face of the dead man he now is.
It's a change from when you met him earlier, and you wonder at it, but of course you don't say anything.
He leads you along the wall, crouching and feeling at the tall weeds, until he finds what he's looking for. He kneels and pushes the grass away, exposing a dark basement window. It squeals as he pushes it open, and he is about to squeeze through when you restrain him. "Hang on, lemme have a look," you say.
You kneel, brushing your hand along the old wooden frame, as though testing for glass and splinters. In fact, you are pushing away the slimy, feverish things that grip its edges, and they plop softly onto the dark basement floor below. They would probably be surprised at finding themselves so rudely thrust away, if such as they were capable of surprise. But in your experience, malevolence is their only emotion. Rick Bredon, poor man, has to dodge them, but they leave you serene. To them, you've no more substance than the moonlight on lapping water, and even when they see you they can no more seize or gnaw or swallow you than they can grasp any other insubstantial reflection.
It's the Keyserling legacy that's brought you here. Aubrey Blackwell had not slept long, much to everyone's surprise; even Charles had seemed slightly taken aback at his early stirring. But peace and contentment had shown in his eyes, and he glowed with a fresh cleanliness as he took your hand. "My dear boy," he'd said, and his eyes had glistened. "How delightful it to see you again." And you'd clasped his hand with an entirely sincere warmth of your own.
There'd been a very long talk afterward, about the Keyserlings and the Shabblemans and two cities in upstate New York, and the two old women who had died the same day. At Charles's suggestion, you'd gone out to look around. Your attention had quickly settled on the old abandoned asylum, where a woman named Emily Lavoisier had lived and died in obscurity for more than seventy years.
You'd been looking over her files at the old diner on Bridge Street when you felt someone looking over your shoulder. "Interested in the old asylum?" the man had asked. You nodded, and told him you were a magazine writer looking for a story to write up and sell. "Those are spooky places," he'd said, and moved around to sit across from you. "Especially when there's cults operating inside them," he added in a whisper. "Ben Shackelford," he'd introduced himself, and held out a hand. "You want a story? I've got one I'd like to see get out."
You'd let your eyes light up with interest, and ignored the slimy thing that crawled along the booth behind him. The things can't see you, but you do attract them.
He told you the story, and then he gave you some of the merchandise as evidence. You agreed to meet him tonight at the asylum, so the two of you could watch from the shadows. "Be careful, squirt," Rick told you. "Send me a note if you need me." But you told him you thought this would only be a recon.
Now you step back and let Shackelford through, then follow him in. He uses the beam of a flashlight to pick his way along a dusty, airless hallway. But you can see by the crepuscular glow of the slimes and lichens that coat the walls and hang like stalactites. You've never seen such rot in a hospital before.
"There's an operating theater that way," Shackelford says when you come out into wide atrium.
"How do you know?"
"I broke in earlier this afternoon." The floor creaks as he walks toward the pair of heavy doors. But you catch him from behind before he can push them open, and lower his unconscious body to the floor. You briefly consider putting on his imago, but it is so disgusting that you leave it off and push into the theater under your own face.
The doors open into an immense, circular room, circular, like the inside of an enormous kettle drum. There are no lights, but the foul slimes that hang on its walls glow like neon. By their light you can easily make out the five men, three of them in state trooper uniforms, standing nearby. You throw your cloak over them before they can switch on the lights.
The doors are still swinging behind you, and the men murmur in surprise to find themselves without a victim. Quickly you get behind them, and with a light touch to their cheeks and necks you send them slumping. The throbbing vines wrapped about their shoulders do nothing to soften their falls.
You suck out a copy of the mind and memories of the lead trooper, Bradley, and when you've digested what you've learned you edge over to the coffee urn that rests on a table on the stage. Bradley's memories forewarn you what is inside it. But even then, and even with all your experience with others of its kind, you're not prepared for the way it shifts to stare up balefully at you when you look inside the urn. Stars. It can see me! You drop the lid, and shiver hard.
Your cell phone vibrates a moment later: Rick calling. "You okay, squirt? I felt something."
"A brown note, right? You have to come out and see this for yourself, Rick. Oh, I got everything wrapped up, but—"
"I don't know why we partner anymore," he grumbles. "I hate being redundant."
* * * * *
"Is that more like what you wanted, son?" Charles asks as he gets some potato chips from the pantry. Reilly brushes the bag away, and asks for protein, while you think about Charles's question.
"You mean that I didn't get surprised," you say. "I liked that." But you can't suppress a small shudder. "I guess I'd get used to seeing those things."
"Maybe," Charles says. "You should ask Rick if he ever gets used to them."
"No, I know the answer to that." You've been inside Rick's head before. "But in the vision, it seemed like I was handling them well."
"Be careful," says Reilly. "I can't guarantee there's no wishful thinking in these visions."
Naturally that gives you pause. "I shouldn't be frightened," you say. "Or at least," you hastily add, "I will have to learn to control my fear." You lapse into a silence that neither of the others fills.
To wake from this reverie: "The Boy from Before Everything, Part 2"  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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