Sense of Duty

Sense of Duty
The following was awarded a Certificate of Merit Award for Fiction by the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) (2011).
It has also been accepted into the National Gallery of Writing as a winner of this contest: http://galleryofwriting.org/galleries/gallery_pieces.php?galleryid=2383742.

to H. P. L.

Part I – Prologue

         It was upon my return from a conference in Dover that I heard of the massive, inexplicable gust of wind that shocked the citizens of Arkham. As the city's head coroner, this was of importance to me because of the apparent, mysterious connection between that gust of wind and the sudden disappearance of a corpse of interest. My staff told wild reports of that wind lifting the bones into the air and carrying them away to parts unknown. Devoted as I was to my position, I made it my goal to locate the remains. To that end, I contacted the Deputy of Police, who made an announcement imploring anyone with any knowledge come forward.

         Arriving at my office the next morning, I was met by a strange man who had been waiting outside, apparently for some time. He did not introduce himself at first, but claimed to have some knowledge of the missing remains. Despite my better judgment, I showed him into the office. I say “better judgment” because he was not a wholesome sort of man. His complexion was dark, of some far-off land, but that is not what put me off. Despite his lack of manners, ragged attire, and obviously homeless status, he seemed distinctly learned, a sense which stemmed from he mystery behind his eyes. Indeed, all in all, he seemed powerful with dark and sinister knowledge, of that kind no wholesome man would study. As we entered the building, I noticed his odd, robe-like garment, tattered and torn, trailed the ground, and his footfalls were strangely muted. Furthermore, his posture while walking was exceedingly unusual – it was bent, and it seemed his feet must never have left the floor.

         He shuffled into my office – I say “shuffled,” though the sound was largely absent – and slowly lowered himself into a chair. I sat behind my desk and extracted a small notebook to record my strange guest's information. The dark man began to spin a tale, one in which I vested no truth, but took notes of to be polite.

         He had met Nathan Phillips, whose remains were disappeared, in 19–, when the former was working in a small bookstore near the Miskatonic University. Phillips was a student there at the time, and often spent time at the store. It was a March day that same year that Phillips discovered a book at the back of the store. Despite the dark man's warnings against it, Phillips purchased the book and departed.

          Try as I might, I could not extract the title of that book from the dark man who so unsettled me, except that something he discovered within it was likely related to his death and the disappearance of his remains. My education, extensive though it was, including no knowledge death being cause by a book (except, perhaps, being hit by one), I silently dismissed the theory. I thanked my guest, however, because his lengthy tale had given me some information on Phillips' habits and residence. I tried to hide how glad I was to be free of that strange man's influence as he left the office.

Part II – Sound

         Shortly thereafter, I informed my assistant and departed the coroner's office. I hoped to find some evidence of foul play in Phillips' apartment; having been in Delaware at the time of his death, I had no knowledge of the event except a brief police report specifying that he was found dead at home, and I suspected that his killer (if he had, in fact, been murdered) might have sought further revenge or harm by tampering with his body.

         Arriving at the complex, I explained my situation to someone of vague importance who was, at least, able to unlock some doors. Once inside Phillips' flat, I noticed two things immediately: first, that the room was shockingly dark, except for a single desk lamp on an expensive writing desk in a far corner; and, secondly, that a faucet in the adjacent kitchen was dripping with shocking intensity.

         I began my search at the lit desk. Though the desktop was cleanly organized, there was nothing of interest besides the expected. The faucet still dripped as I opened the main drawer. Nothing interesting appeared there, either, and still, the faucet dripped. The top side drawer contained a curious envelope. As the faucet dripped, I read the return address: a small, dilapidated house on the outskirts of town, if memory served. I pocketed the envelope, still hearing the faucet's rhythmic drip, though I didn't know for sure why I found it important. I turned back to open the final drawer – and could stand it no longer! I raced into the kitchen to turn off the incessant dripping.

         Even now, I am not sure of the details of that moment. Perhaps I turned off the faucet first, or after, or perhaps at the same time...whenever the instant was, the radio snapped on, as if of it's own will. Then, there was a knock at the door, but I scarcely heard it. The radio, which seemed to be running a random sequence of frequencies, was loud: raucously, cacophonically, painfully LOUD! I clutched at my ears to block out the noise, and forced myself to move toward the radio. I grabbed the knob to turn it off, but found it ineffective. In desperation to end the noise, I blindly grabbed a statuette on a nearby table and smashed it into the hateful devise, finally ending the noise. But at the destruction of the radio, a shock wave like a deadly shot from it, knocking me to the floor and unconscious.

         In oblivion on the floor, I dreamt. Dreams of agonizing noise, and of the small statuette with which I had smashed the radio. I had scarcely seen it, but knew it to have been terrible. My dream showed it in the hands of that terrible man who had told the tale which lead me to that cursed apartment.

         When finally I awoke, only fifteen minutes later by a nearby clock, the sole light over the writing desk had gone out, but the room was lit by light from the hallway. The door had apparently been blown open by the strange wind. The radio was fully shattered. When I stood up, I saw into its broken shell. Therein, amongst the rubble, were the bones of a set of arms.

         Turning away from the radio towards the now open door, I saw the man who had unlocked the apartment for me, lying dead outside the room. Why he knocked at the door, I can't be sure, but it seems he chose the wrong moment.

         I knocked on the door of the next apartment and asked to use the phone. When I apologized for the noise next
door, citing a strange mechanical failure, the young man who lived there told me he had head nothing.

         I dialed for the police to deal with the dead man and my assistant to pick up the bones.

Part III – Smell

         The envelope I had taken out of the deck at Phillips' apartment contained a brief letter which appeared to indicate that Phillips had rented the small, broken-down cabin from whence it had been sent, for convenience during some kind of research or experimentation.

         Now intrigued as what research a college student like Phillips might have been involved in, I rallied my strength once again and headed down the winding streets of Arkham to the a dilapidated alleyway that ran parallel to the old cemetery. The door to the building in question had no lock, so I knocked once (not expecting an answer) and entered. At first, nothing about the house seemed to indicate any kind of occupancy. In fact, had I not had proof otherwise on my person at that point, I would have believed that it had stood empty for some years. The prevailing presence of spiders was undeniable, as every step put one square at the center of a web.

         A brief exploration of the shack revealed a large, beautifully carven wooden door that must have lead to a basement. Finding its quality too great to be coincidental, I tested the handle. It was unlocked, and extremely, if not surprisingly, heavy. At the opening, a gentle breeze was expelled, like the unsealing of a vacuum.

         Descending the stairs, I found a very bizarre sort of study, if it could be called that. A large table dominated the room, which was covered in all manner of books and papers. On the far wall from the stairwell there was another door, even more oddly carved than the first. That wall also contained a long, low cabinet, the top of which was covered by candles and incense, all burning. There were enough to light the entire chamber, no small feat for candle flame.

         As soon as I entered that basement, I was assaulted by the horrible scents of those candles and incense. The confused jumble of odors was overwhelming, and I felt lightheaded. Struggling to compose myself, I walked over to examine the desk.

         The unwholesome man had been correct in one sense: Phillips had certainly invested himself in some dark and vile studies. The books on the table were terrible ones, forbidden. I devoted myself to locating perhaps some information of a cult or similar organization which may have had a purpose for a corpse. The scents of the candles and incense continued their mind-numbing effects, and I could taste their weight on the air. Though the books and notes were great enough in number of obscure the vast tabletop, they contained nothing to the effect I had sought.

         The only other piece of furniture in the room being the long, low cabinet, I fought back the deep sense of loathing and approached the dreaded scents. The light was blinding as I drew close, and the smell made me dizzy and nauseous. The heat, also, was incredible. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I found the number of candles even greater than I had originally thought. In fact, they must have numbered in the thousands – each one, it seemed, with a different scent.

         When I had approached close enough, I saw that, behind the candles, at the center of the counter top, was an identical statuette to the one which I had used in desperation at the apartment. Fighting still the overwhelming scent and the oppressive heat of the many small flames, I picked it up and examined it. The image was of a Grecian-style pillar covered in bizarre symbols which, though I had never encountered there like before, held the vague impression of sinister meaning. Atop the pillar was a horrible creature, horribly man-like but distinctly not so. It crouched on the pillar on all fours, and was intently gazing upward. Its eyes were too high on its human-like forehead, and too close together. Its feet showed vague impressions of webbing, and its hands were clawed like those of a wolf. Its whole posture, in fact, was distinctly wolf-like, as were the fangs that protruded vilely over its bottom lip.

         Greatly disturbed by the statuette's image, and still addled by the ever-present odors, I replaced it and examined the cabinet. Though the doors were distinct – they appeared to slide out from the center – they had no handles, and would not budge when I attempted to open them.

         As I scoured the panels for a keyhole, on my hands and knees, my hand found an odd formation in the floor. It was pentagonal, and distinctly artificial. Surprised, I looked to the bottom of the cabinets. Examining them closely, I was that the cabinet was not sitting on the same floor I was – it was sunken in!

         Realizing this, I slowly rose to my feet – the nauseating scents making the action dangerous – and took up once again the strange statuette and placed it into the slot on the floor, its pentagonal base fitting perfectly.

         A quarter turn of the statuette unlocked and slid open the doors of the long cabinet. They let free a powerful gust of wind, this time not enough to knock me down, but strong enough to snuff out the candles and leave me in horrible, nauseating, incense-choked darkness.

         Searching my pockets, I found a book of matches and lit one of the more harmless-looking candles for light. Looking into the opening of the cabinet, I discovered, despite its great size, that the cabinet was nearly empty. I immediately saw a large, rather old book. After a moment more, I discovered a pile of bones, probably of the legs.

         By this point, it occurred to me that I was slowly assembling the remains of Nathan Phillips, which I had been seeking. As to where the remainder of the skeleton was, I wasn't sure.

         I removed the large book from the cabinet, at which point my candle went out.

Part IV – Sight

         Reemerging from the vault and the oppressing odors, I gave my eyes a moment to adjust to the half-light of the dilapidated old house. Before returning to the Arkham streets, I took a moment to examine the book I had found. To my surprise, it matched the description of the book Phillips had bought from the despicable man I had spoken to that morning. I found it to be the dreaded Necronomicon of the Mad Arab Abdul Al-hasred.

         Holding the book as much as possible to conceal its nature, I hurried back to the office. Asking my assistant to return to the dilapidated house and retrieve the bones, and advising he take a pocket torch with him, I locked myself in my office ans set to see what clues I could glean from the book.

         I would not have dared open that evil and esoteric tome, expect that I knew I could not read the ancient Latin within it. The marked page was largely dominated by an incantation of some kind, and the margins were filled with notes and annotations in a more modern form of Latin that I was more familiar with. They told of Phillips' plan to visit some “sight of power” on a date which could have been the day he died.

         The notes indicated a cave system north of Kingsport. Before departing for the caves, I walked around City Hall to the Police Department and spoke again to the deputy. Citing the possibility of a cult or other group in the caves, I told the Deputy of my plans and he agreed to accompany me for protection and support. We set out in a police wagon.

         Upon reaching Kingsport, I stopped to ask an acquaintance of mine if he knew of the caves. He shut his eyes, shook his head, and sighed long, but, in the end, told us how to get to them.

         The cave system was supremely dark, and our electric torches seemed as intimidated by the darkness as we were. The route underground was winding and treacherous, but there was only one passage.

         At length, I began to perceive things...not as they should be. It started small: a rat, unnaturally large, the impression of bones on the ground where there were none, puddles of water reflecting blood red. But my ears would support none of these, so I knew them to be false. Upon the turning of a particularly sharp corner, though, that certainty – and our sanity – was called greatly into question.

         Turning the corner, both the Deputy and I started and cried out. There was a creature, like an enormous porcupine, dragging itself across the path. The creature was covered in blood and gore, and where it walked was left a wound, as if the stone were flesh. About this long wound, blood pooled, as if the stone bled, and from it crawled a menagerie of worms and insects, all bloody and coated with gore. A simple blink of my eyes destroyed this image, restoring the pitch-black tunnel to its own, sufficient horror. But the image of that monstrous creature will never leave me.

         After passing the place where the creature had been, we emerged into a larger chamber – where another unexpected sight awaited.

Part V – Taste

         The chamber was dominated by a large, richly adorned banquet table. At the head of the table sat the despicable, vile, dark man who had started me on this ridiculous quest in the first place – the book vendor who had sold Phillips the Necronomicon.

         He bid us sit and enjoy. The table was richly adorned, with a fine tablecloth, many candels on gold sticks, and a floral centerpiece the likes of which I had never seen, so beautiful and strong were the flowers. Though I would eat none of the food, I took a small sip of the wine. It was shockingly delicious – so much so, in fact, that I couldn't resist a second small sip, and barely had the willpower to not take a third. Meanwhile, the dark man spoke. He told us of Asathoth, his master, and the many Other Gods in the sky. He spoke of Phillips' debt, and how it would be repaid. As he spoke, the Deputy ate and drank unconsciously, and I began to doze.

Part VI – Touch

         I awoke some time later to a darker cavern and rotting food. My attempts to rouse the Deputy were unsuccessful; his body seemed shriveled and his skin was coarse, as if he had been badly burned. I stood and stretched. It felt like I had been unconscious for some time; mercifully, I remembered none of my dreams.

         As I tried to get my bearings and discover how to escape, I noticed that the centerpiece of the table had been removed. In its place now sat a rib cage; I wondered if the flowers had been real, or if the sinister magic that had made wine taste like heaven and rotten food look and seem and taste wonderful had instead disguised the ribs and fooled my eyes into thinking them beautiful. I carefully placed the bones in my bag and left the Necronomicon in their place, since I had no desire to carry it any longer and the cavern seemed as good a place as any to hide its evil away.

         I soon found a passage leading out, and followed it for a brief stretch before emerging into an even bigger chamber. It was lit by an enormous brazer at its center, and there were strange relics and banners throughout. Suddenly, a massive wind filled the chamber. It swept me off my feet and pinned me to a wall, blew out the brazer and left me in total darkness.

         After what felt like an eternity, that terrible wind ended, and I fell sorely to the ground. Standing, I had the sensation – I call it “sensation” because it had no actual substance – of snakes winding up my legs and around my arms. They coiled about me, and a voice spoke within my head. It told me everything the dark man had, and more. Dark evil secrets about Azathoth and his minions; about Nylarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, and how he had taken the form of a poor bookseller to lure Phillips into purchasing the Necronomicon.

         Then, it spoke about itself, the debt I was owed by Nylarlathotep, and the servant it had been offered. It spoke of the dislocation of the servant's skeleton, abducted and cleaned of flesh by the demon that spoke to me from within myself. And it spoke of the days to come, when the reformed skeleton would rise and serve.

         In a moment, when the speech had ceased, all the trials of that day returned to me: I heard the painful sounds of that terrible radio, smelt the nauseating incense, saw the terrible, gory beast in the cave, tasted the sweet wine, felt the nonexistent serpents. The culminated in a painfully overwhelming onslaught, then abruptly ended. I slumped to the ground, falling mercifully unconscious.

         My dream was of the things the demon voice had said: of Azathoth, the Idiot Demon Sultan and his followers, of Nylarlathotep, their Soul and Messenger, the Crawling Chaos who dwells in the inconceivable caves on the dark side of the moon and visits earth as a man, and of the statue, the statue of the horrible man-thing who looked into the terrible abyss above.

         When I awoke, the giant brazer was once again alight, even brighter than before. Behind it I could not perceive the form of a huge, Grecian pillar topped by the massive form of a crouched man with claws and fangs, and eyes too high and too close together.

         At this sight, I ran. Through miles and miles of pitch-black cave I ran, with no sense of direction, haunted at every turn by phantom snakes and gory insects, by strange noises and awful scents.

Part VII – Knowledge

         I recall very little of my flight, but my fall I remember quite well. Clearly I fell, face-first into the hard stone at the mouth of the cave. Blinded by the early morning light, shaken back to my senses by the impact after hours of senseless flight, I lay for a moment to collect myself.

         Then, getting up and turning to see what I had tripped on, I found a skull lying at the mouth of the cave. Horribly certain that it was Phillips', I placed it into my bag and hurried into town, and the acquaintance I had spoken to the evening before drove me back to the office.

         The arms and legs had been lain out on the examination table, reconstructed by my assistant. I added the ribcage and skull, completing the skeleton. As I stood gazing at the remains I had sacrificed much – perhaps even my sanity – to recover, I had the haunting sensation that the fanged skull, with its eyes too high and too close together, was watching me, even mocking me, intent on me, alive.

         I went home and spent the remainder of that day in bed.

Part VIII – Conclusion

         All of this, sir, is why I have submitted this letter of resignation. My sense of duty has been eclipsed by my now all-too-powerful senses of hearing, sight, scent, taste, and touch. Walking in broad sunlight is painful, as are the footsteps of visitors on the wooden floors of my home.

         But the final, main reason I have no choice but to resign lies with what I discovered the morning after my day of rest.

         The skeleton, the one I had risked everything to retrieve, the one with the horribly wrong skull, was, once again, gone!

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