Miskatonic Dreams Read online

  All the things left dormant through the past centuries held sway this evening and they came in droves, crawling and grasping at the night air, for now they could find refuge. The air was no longer still, filled with the light flapping of leathery wings, red eyes glaring down seeking for any remnants of warm humanity. A howling in the distance suggested another sign of animal life but could it be something else entirely? Could this be the howl of one tormented by a curse found in one of the very tomes locked away in that ancient basement?

  The creatures in the archives flipped pages and looked through the books and folders. They arranged and marked what was important. It wouldn't be long before some errant scholar would read and discover what was there. These creatures had existed much longer than man and perhaps would survive longer still. They would have their day soon.

  The Great Beast roared beneath the pulsating floorboards of the basement and ordered its followers to hasten their activities. The night was drawing short and soon would give way to day, when the powers would recede into the light once again.

  The language spoken was not discernible to man but the things understood one another quite well and made certain everything was in its proper order. A hint of something was placed on certain words, a subtle incantation of sorts, something to draw the unwary.

  Just then, in the distance on the horizon, the sun made its way toward the sky, reclaiming the world once more for the living and the creatures and monstrosities made haste.

  The pond and lakes began to return to stillness and the grounds were depleted of the crawling chaos that had previously occupied them. The beating of wings and the distant howls ceased and retreated back toward where they had once been and no longer permeated the night air, now a bluish haze and no longer black.

  The floating specters that roamed the halls, the faces long forgotten, the names lost to the ages, the damned souls of those once possessed with the thirst for knowledge, for greater power, and for immortality, now shackled and piteous things, hurried away from the approaching daylight they never could face again. No warmth would ever touch them and no human voice could ever comfort these long dead.

  The things in the basement voiced their fury and anger. The night land, the small hours, were never quite enough for them and they too were forced back into the loneliness of their own existence beneath the world of man. The ghoulish light departed from the archives and a stillness arrived that was as calming as it was eerie.

  The orb mounted above the horizon and the rays of the sun broke through the thick growth of trees and foliage that dominated the surrounding forest. It cut through the overgrowth and pierced the windows of the university. The rays widened and expanded until they blanketed the halls and rooms with such brilliance that it was as if no darkness had ever permeated this building. Soon all was covered with the brilliant rays of light and that is when the living returned, first in the form of insects and then birds and other wildlife followed. Eventually, the distant sounds of motors could also be heard. Perhaps they were the maintenance crew or maybe they were some of the professors not quite ready for the summer break to end. There was an anticipation felt by the denizens of the underworld of what may follow and they waited patiently, for after all, they had all the time in the world. Only the shadows remained and they could not speak of what they saw in the nighttime.

  For the moment, the world belonged once more to the living and to a humanity living on borrowed time.

  The night would surely return again.

  Dear Mother and Father

  Dave Schroeder

  October 31, 1929

  Arkham, Massachusetts

  Dear Mother and Father,

  My sophomore year at Miskatonic is going well. I hope you are both in good health and enjoying plenty of warm weather in St. Augustine. Back here in Arkham we have gray skies that always threaten storms. Of course, the two of you know that is not unusual for this part of Massachusetts in late October.

  It hasn’t been the same here since you moved south, fleeing the cold and the nameless deep sea horrors coming inland from Innsmouth. How is Father’s leg doing? Is he past the worst of the infections from the Dagonites’ bites?

  I miss Mother’s homemade meals. The cooks at my dormitory’s refectory can transform choice cuts of beef into something that tastes more like cardboard—or cat. I’m sure I’m better off not knowing—or even thinking about—what’s in Wednesday night’s mystery meat.

  I also miss having you see to my laundry, dear Mother. Four of us on my hall have gone together to hire a dull-witted girl from town to clean our rooms and handle our washing. She’s from a local family named Whateley and seems grateful anyone is willing to employ her. For all that her mind is like a child’s, she has a certain low cunning. Last week, after my chum Richard attempted inappropriate liberties with her person, she starched his collars so stiff they nearly sliced his windpipe. To my mind, it only serves him right if he can’t behave like a gentleman. The nurse at the infirmary could barely contain her laughter when she wrapped Richard’s neck up like King Tut’s mummy. I’m glad the two of you raised me properly.

  I attended a lecture designated for non-believers by mistake last week. It focused on evolution and claimed that human beings evolved from apes through natural selection without making any acknowledgment of the role of the Great Old Ones to form us in accordance with their will. I’m pleased the administration usually does a good job of segregating students from outside the Miskatonic Valley from the rest of us, but wished the lecture room had been labeled more clearly. Could you imagine the problems if one of our lectures had been mislabeled? It wouldn’t do for outsiders to learn too much about our ways—and too many mind-wipes can be bad for their developing brains.

  Otherwise, my classes are going well. Professor Dyer’s geology lectures, in particular, are fascinating. He’s demonstrated how the Great Old Ones have moved the continents, pushing them into their current positions over millions of years. Next time you look at a world map, notice how South America looks like it fits precisely into Africa and you’ll see what I mean. The prof said the Great Old Ones were fighting amongst themselves too often, so they separated the continents to give themselves individual spheres of influence and more room for autonomous action. It’s sobering to realize even the solid ground beneath our feet is moving.

  I’m also learning interesting things in my psychology class, taught by Professor Wingate Peaslee, or Old Windy, as the students call him, even though he’s not that old. They call him that because he likes the sound of his own voice.

  Prof. Peaslee is studying rats in mazes, trying to figure out if their diet affects how fast they can get from one end of the path to the other. I helped him process several hundred new rats shipped to Miskatonic from Exham Priory in the north of England. Apparently, the place has so many rats the estate administrator is shipping them to American universities and scientific laboratories for use as experimental animals. Old Windy said Exham Priory was using the money earned from selling the rodents to fund major renovations to the property. If I take a year to study abroad, perhaps I’ll visit Exham and see what they’ve done with the place.

  These rats are not like the ones I see sticking their noses out of the sewers on the back streets of Arkham. They’re larger—as big as small dogs, some of them—and fiercely intelligent. I worried that some of the rats might escape. I often worked with the professor late into the night, when the rest of the psychology building was empty, and frightened myself by thinking I’d heard rats scrabbling inside its thick walls.

  Once I saw an Exham rat scramble up out of its maze and attack Professor Peaslee when the piece of cheese it expected as its reward was missing. We didn’t have psychology class for three days while the prof. took time for the bites to heal. He eventually had to consult someone at the theology school to cure the infection. After that, we bought fine-link chainmail gloves at a butchers’ supply store and use them whenever we have to handle the noxious creatures.


  Don’t worry, Mother, though I’m sure you will. Please take comfort in knowing I’ll be careful. I have more respect for the rats’ capabilities than Professor Peaslee. He still doesn’t fully appreciate that these are not the docile white lab rats he’s worked with previously.

  You know I tended to be squeamish, so you’ll be pleased to hear I no longer have that flaw in my character—and the rats are the reason for my transformation. Professor Peaslee taught me how to dissect them and identify their stomach contents as part of his experiments. I can now anesthetize a rodent, slice into its belly, locate its stomach, cut it open, determine its last meal, and stitch the beast back up without turning the slightest bit green. It helps that the rats are so ill-tempered that I don’t have the least qualm about opening them up. My sewing skills have also improved—I’m mending my own clothes with ease now.

  One of my fraternity brothers—a senior—had some fun at our recent home football game against Harvard, our hated rival. He imprisoned a minor demon, an imp really, in one of the game balls. Every time the quarterback for the Crimson got the football it would snarl at him and try to remove his hand from the end of his arm, which didn’t help his passing efficiency.

  The prank might backfire, however. Rumor has it that the rest of the league is planning to stop scheduling games with Miskatonic unless the administration can guarantee a necromancy-free playing field. Navy has already dropped us after some misguided upperclassman made the head of their goat mascot spin like a top last season. Then again, after that incident with a training schooner off the shore near Falcon’s Point south of Innsmouth, I can understand why the Naval Academy might not want to having anything to do with us. Losing an entire crew of midshipmen to Deep Ones is quite an embarrassment, to say nothing of the instructors and officers.

  We don’t need to use tricks to win football games, since we’ve got a very strong team this year. We have seven seniors on our line—all big men from shore towns, descendants of Obed Marsh. I’ve watched them push the other team’s players back five yards using their powerful legs alone. One of them even managed to hop over opposing linemen to tackle their quarterback in the backfield. I’ve heard that opponents also complain about our players smelling fishy, but I think that’s a red herring, if you’ll pardon the pun. From what I’ve seen, they’re just sore losers.

  I want to share some important personal news, too. I met a charming young lady at Homecoming a few weeks ago. Her name is Margaret Trevor and I was introduced to her by one of my roommates. She’s his sister’s best friend and a sophomore at Arkham Academy, studying Classical Languages and Epigraphy. Her pater went to Miskatonic just like you did, Father. Did you ever run into a student named Godfrey Trevor? He was in the Class of ’01 and would have been a freshman when you were a senior.

  Meg is delightful—I’m sure you’ll both love her. Her complexion is as smooth and white as the finest ivory and her hair is so dark and black you can almost fall into it if you gaze at it too long. Can you tell I’m smitten? She’s smart—smarter than I am. Haven’t you always told me to marry a woman wiser than myself, Father? Look how well that turned out for you! I give you fair warning that I could see Meg becoming my wife someday, if she’d have me as a husband. It’s still early in our friendship, but the potential is there.

  My brilliant girl is currently analyzing inscriptions on obscure stone tablets she found in the basement of the Archeology building at Miskatonic. Her faculty advisor at Arkham Academy connected her with Professor Morgan, the chair of our Archeology department, and he’s helping her translate them. My geology professor, Dr. Dyer, the one who told me about the moving continents, thinks the stone the tablets were carved from is very rare and only found in Antarctica. Rumor has it he’s trying to put together an expedition to go there next winter when it will be summer at the South Pole. I’d consider going, but the trip will take at least a semester and I want to graduate with my class. Besides, I’d rather spend time with Meg than with penguins and polar bears.

  It was disconcerting to hear about the troubles at the New York Stock Exchange last week. I sincerely hope our family’s trusts and investments are secure and did not lose much value. I know you’ve always been conservative in managing our funds, Father, which gives me confidence that we haven’t been adversely affected by the market’s recent unpleasantness.

  Speaking of matters fiscal, I would greatly appreciate additional funds to tide me over until I come down to visit you in Florida for the Thanksgiving holiday. I’m making some pocket change by helping Professor Peaslee with his imported rats, but courting Meg properly takes more money than I expected. If you could wire me fifty dollars by this coming Friday I would literally be forever in your debt.

  Your loving son – Arthur

  ***

  November 7, 1929

  St. Augustine, Florida

  Dear Arthur,

  It was a pleasure to receive your recent letter, especially the welcome news about your young lady. Mrs. Jermyn, originally from Dunwich, has rooms a few doors down from us at Mr. Flagler’s Ponce de León Hotel. She told me that she knows Miss Trevor’s people and says they are an upstanding old New England family with an impeccable reputation. I know I can count on you to exercise good judgment and treat “your Meg” with all the respect a girl of her intellect and breeding deserves. Please observe her closely during your courtship to ensure there are no signs of potential insanity, since entirely too much mental instability runs in our blood already.

  Your father and I are both in good health, in large part due to the warm weather and sunshine here in Florida. Thank you for asking. Father’s leg healed shortly after we arrived, following an intensive regimen of salt water baths. It’s wonderful to be able to swim in the ocean here without having to worry about what sorts of horrors might grab you and pull you down to unspeakable undersea cities. So far, the only things we’ve had to worry about while swimming are occasional shark sightings and a Portuguese Man o’ War.

  Please be careful in your dealings with the Whateley girl. Father says when he was at Miskatonic he knew a man by that name who had an unwholesome interest in black sorcery. He believes all the members of the Whateley clan carry some sort of curse connected to a horrid book written by a mad Mohammedan and bound in human skin. To my mind, it’s just one more proof that too much reading is bad for you—not that I’d ever have to worry about that with you, dear boy.

  I’m very glad you’ve learned to sew. It’s a talent that will be useful for you in many contexts. If you’ve been enjoying dissecting rats, you might want to consider taking more classes that would prepare you for medical school and train to become a surgeon. Goodness knows, enough members of our family have experience in that field—sanctioned or unsanctioned.

  I’m glad you’re being careful when handling those English priory rats. It wouldn’t do if one of them had rabies or some other incurable disease. Do keep a close eye on Professor Peaslee when the moon is full to ensure he doesn’t transform into a were-rodent of unusual size. Remember to keep your silver knife close at hand, just in case.

  Your father and I are pleased you will not be joining next year’s Antarctic expedition. I can’t say why, exactly, but my motherly intuition fears the project will not end well and I don’t want you to put yourself in harm’s way. I generally have great respect for the wisdom and scholarship of the learned faculty at Miskatonic University, but if the man to be in charge of the Antarctic endeavor is Professor Dyer, the same person who told you the continents are in motion, I don’t want you anywhere near him. The very idea of moving continents is so absurd it seems like madness piled up into mountains. Ever since you mentioned the expedition my dreams have been haunted by visions of albino penguins the size of men and iridescent black slimy creatures with hundreds of eyes. I would much rather be dreaming of attending your wedding to Miss Trevor, I assure you.

  Make us proud—sincerely—Mother

  P.S.Polar bears are at the North Pole, not the South Pole, my d
arling boy. You should know better than that. Look it up in the Encyclopedia Britannica if you don’t believe me.

  P.P.S. Your father may not have been quite as conservative in his investments as we might have hoped. He has been in a foul mood since the stock market crash, muttering to himself about the evils of speculators and bankers. Our broker, Mr. Rice, recently had an unfortunate accident—a voluntary defenestration, I believe—so it’s difficult to learn details about our positions. However, when I asked your father for fifty dollars to send you, he just grunted, which doesn’t bode well. I will let you know if I learn more about our family finances. For now, I’m content that my own allowance hasn’t been cut.

  P.P.P.S. I have enclosed a sapphire ring that belonged to my great aunt. Please sell it and use the money to court Miss Trevor. I can’t wait forever for grandchildren. It would be a delight if you could bring her with you as your fiancé when you come to St. Augustine for the holidays.

  ***

  November 14, 1929

  Arkham, Massachusetts

  Dear Mother and Father,

  It’s good to hear that you’re both thriving in sunny Florida. As November progresses, the weather here in Arkham has become even more gloomy than usual. The sky seems to be perpetually full of storm clouds when it’s not actually raining. Temperatures have been hovering just above and below freezing in a way that’s sure to induce even the heartiest New Englander to catch a cold, and I’m no exception. Miss Trevor has been my Florence Nightingale, feeding me chicken soup to sustain me and supplying handkerchiefs for my nose, which seems to think it is in a marathon with all its running.