Miskatonic Nightmares Read online

  Late afternoon and evenings were spent in the chapel, removing debris and continuing the light repairs. Occasionally Tobias worked alone on the pulpit repair. Henry was not fond of the idea, but Tobias was awkward and often preferred solitude. He was somewhat feminine in the way he moved and talked and the other young men made jokes at his expense. There was a rumor he had a sweetheart in the boarding school on the other side of town, but some thought he'd started the rumor himself to keep the others from talking about him. Either way, Henry was not bothered by it. Tobias was a good student and a hard worker. Several of Henry's fellow drama majors at Oxford were ‘funny’ in the same way.

  Henry never scheduled extracurricular work for the weekends. Students whose families lived close by often went home, and others found things to do socially, at the university hospital, or volunteering locally. Tobias spent a few Saturdays in the chapel theater. Henry at first tried to talk him out of it, but Tobias had a peculiar determination, as well as an aptitude for the work.

  During one early instance, Henry made note of a violet discoloration on Tobias's hands. It appeared from a distance to be bruising, but for the same discoloration on the young man's trousers. When asked, Tobias told the new professor his hands and clothing had been stained by a powdery substance under the wet corner of the pulpit when he removed the softened floor boards. He said he'd scraped it away as best he could before laying the old desk top in place of the flooring. Henry chose to investigate and found the desk top had not yet been nailed down.

  He took it up, prying one end with a flat bar. In doing so, he admired Tobias's craftsmanship. It was perfectly sized and would be virtually undetectable unless one knew to look for it. Under the construction, there was a residue of the powder; it existed mostly in the crumbling mortar between the stones of the sub-floor. It was thicker closer to the wall and had obviously been scraped at. But Tobias had missed a spot in the corner, and the powder there was thicker, culminating in a fungus.

  Henry pulled up what appeared to be a very small mushroom of sorts. He used the flat bar, as he'd decided not to touch it with his bare hands. He placed the spore on a discarded paper that had once housed Tobias's lunch and wrapped it up. He then replaced Tobias's work and left with the small parcel.

  Henry considered his options. The hospital, of course, was open on Saturday evenings as it would remain on the Sabbath, but the laboratory and study areas connecting it to the university might not be. Henry was becoming familiar with most of the literature department, but had not yet had much contact with anyone from the sciences. He decided to bring it to the lab after classes the following Monday and it sat, still wrapped, on the desk in his small bedroom until then.

  During each of the two nights leading to Monday afternoon, the spore grew. It bonded to the first layer of its paper containment, but the change remained unnoticed as it was wrapped in several layers. The rest of the weekend gave Henry more time to think about his options. Bringing the sample to the lab might have consequences. If there was a possibility of it being harmful, he might not be able to use the chapel space. It was his hope to begin teaching classes in the space in less than a month and soon after be performing. Obviously the chapel had been there for quite a long time, as had the violet organism, and it hadn't caused any harm as yet. So Henry chose to ask Tobias to keep quiet about it and he would 'rediscover' it at the end of the school year, so it could be dealt with over the summer. Henry deposited the package in a waste basket outside of the teacher's toilet without ever opening it again.

  Tobias agreed to keep still, as the substance seemed to be nearly washed away from his body. Only a little remained in the fingernail beds of his right hand. Henry's throat didn't start to tickle until about a week later. He took no notice of it at first, as he'd always been prone to whatever sicknesses were going around. By that time Henry had moved most of his classes into the new theater space.

  His already engaging lectures became even more energetic as he used the entirety of the stage when he spoke. He encouraged and even occasionally demanded his students take advantage of the stage as well when speaking or reading out loud. He told them reading any play was never enough, especially when it came to Shakespeare. “The Bard needs to be performed, or it is all for naught.” The students took it to heart, did as instructed, and excelled.

  After reading, nay, performing, several of the Greek classics as well as works of Shakespeare, it was decided that there was no better play to open their new performance theater with than the Bard's first. A Midsummer Night's Dream had everything they were looking for and the agreement was almost unanimous, though there were a few holdouts for Julius Caesar. Democracy was not a necessary part of the play-choosing process, but Henry believed it important the soon-to-be performers felt strongly about the choice. Henry enjoyed Julius Caesar and planned to execute that show at a later date. He thought it too gory for an opener.

  As this was Miskatonic's very first production, Henry Turcotte chose to take on all the directing duties. Those students who were averse to public speaking or performing were given duties with stage management and other technical aspects of the show, but each still had lines to learn, as they would be understudies for the main cast. Tobias was cast as Thesius, the Duke, a role he gladly accepted.

  It was decided that sets and costumes be kept to a minimum, focusing more on the language and performance. Simple masks and body language were to represent whimsical creatures of the Fae kingdom. One student took it upon himself to create a mask to give the character called Bottom, the head of an ass. A horse skull borrowed from the biology department and some wire mesh created an armature that was gruesome, but effective. The ghoulish qualities would later be hidden away by fabrics attached with a simple paste.

  Rehearsals for Professor Turcotte's first production began that winter, shortly after the holiday break. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, six weeks of rehearsal would lead to five nights of performances in the early spring. With so much work to be done, Henry did not notice when the discomfort started in the back of his throat, especially when it was so easy to clear with a light cough. He didn't even find it odd when many of the students began audibly clearing their own throats more and more often. He also attributed the lethargy everyone was experiencing to the amount of work spent rehearsing. After all, sometimes they went late into the night, losing track of the time.

  Henry noticed that Tobias started to look even more pale than usual. His lips and the corners of his eyelids were turning a light shade of violet. Deep down, Henry felt he should be taken aback by the boy's appearance, but he felt strangely at ease with it. The color reminded him of the soft moss-like plant growing from the back corner of the stage and making its way up the wall. The more he looked at the color on the young man's face, the more comfortable he felt—the same comfort he felt looking at the fungus.

  The flora in the corner matured over the first couple of weeks of rehearsals, as did Tobias. All of the other students seemed to look up to him more and more as time went on. When Henry directed them to say their lines in a certain way, or move to different parts of the stage, they looked to Tobias. He would nod, and they would do as instructed. Most professors would not take well to such insubordination, but Henry couldn't help but look up to Tobias as well. He had a certain unspoken quality that appeared heroic, almost divine. No one knew why, but this young man was meant to be followed.

  Then he was gone. Tobias's cough got worse, and he was missing classes. Professor Turcotte didn't know that he'd missed classes because Tobias always attended his class and the rehearsals. In fact, the young man always showed up early for both and stayed late. Most of the students did—they wanted to be at the theater. Henry himself would have slept there each night if he could. The Dean informed Professor Turcotte that Tobias had developed sores around his mouth and he'd a history of respiratory ailments. The Dean felt it best to send the boy back home to convalesce. He also told Henry that Tobias adamantly refused to go. Law enforcement nearly h
ad to be involved.

  The night Professor Turcotte broke the news to the rest of the cast and crew was a solemn one. He offered to give them the evening off from rehearsal, but they would hear none of it. They wanted to move forward. This far into production, Henry felt he had no choice but to take on Tobias's role himself. Maybe it was the role, but the other students looked up to him more and respected him the same as they had Tobias; with an esteem that almost seemed like worship.

  The production improved as did the fungus, each growing in its own unique way, with a kind of brilliant energy that felt like the essence of life. Some rehearsals were spent lying in a circle with their backs on the stage and their heads pointed toward the center. It was like no rehearsal Henry had ever been involved in, and though he knew not from where the inspiration came, it worked. They felt the knowledge and understanding of Shakespeare's work flow through them as they spoke the lines, all together in a whispered chant. No one needed their book or script, no one needed to call for a line read. They fed off the energy of the material and the fungus, as it became more astonishing.

  Henry instructed his students to keep to themselves as much as possible, interacting with others only when necessary. He didn't want anyone else sent away when he noticed them becoming pale, with their lips and the corners of their eyes showing the elegant violet hue of the mushrooms now sprouting in the moss-like mold. Henry knew what the rest of the faculty wouldn't understand. Nothing was as important as the show and the theater. He would not let anything stand in his way, nor would any of the students.

  Nine days before the show was scheduled to open, Henry gave in to his desire to spend his nights sleeping in the theater. Neither the backless church pews still to be used for audience seating nor the hard wooden stage were particularly comfortable—but it didn't matter anymore. After a few nights, he allowed some of the students to do the same, until eventually all of them were spending their nights in the space. At first they all found individual areas to lie, but as time went on, they huddled together, entangled in each other like a pack of dogs.

  With less than a week left to go before the show, Henry chose not to leave the theater at all. The organism that now crept nearly twelve feet up the wall and several feet out onto the stage, grew new and more beautiful mushrooms each day. Henry and the others found just one bite from one of the mushrooms gave them enough energy to get through the day—as long as they stayed there. Leaving the theater building and stepping into the sunlight made them weary. It was so much better when they stayed.

  Henry also didn't want the other faculty to see the sores starting to become apparent on the faces of his student actors. He understood something that they did not; he knew the illness, if one could even call it that, was not an impairment. It seemed to be bringing them all closer together. They were bonding in a way that usually took years for a professional touring acting troupe. Besides, the violet boils and sores on his own face were much worse. If he could deal with it and feel as good as he did, so could they.

  When Henry slept, he occasionally dreamed of life before. Every day was filled with trivial things like cooking and eating meals, speaking with other members of the faculty, and walking from one building to another. All things not necessary to living, not like the theater, but lately they started to feel important. On a few occasions, Henry woke with the belief something was wrong and he should somehow go back to the way his life once was. He quickly perished such thoughts when he saw how wonderful life was in the theater. The fungus was not only the most exquisite part of life, it felt as though it was life itself. It had grown onto half of the stage and was even festooning itself with vine-like appendages between the rafters above. It had no flowers, but the violet color and the mushrooms were an otherworldly sight. It was as if the organism knew how to create a perfect set for the Fae Kingdom that the show needed.

  Directing the performers had become so much easier, which was undeniably needed as Henry was now playing a part himself. He didn't really even need to speak to the actors anymore. He knew them well enough that they understood each other. When he wanted a line said differently or at another part of the stage, the actor obliged him. Henry just had to think it. Working with these students was so much easier than the other actors he’d worked with from Oxford. Perhaps the students hadn't developed an ego about it yet, and thus he was able to mold them completely into what he needed them to be.

  When neither Henry nor his students had been seen for a couple of days, Charleston Berquist, the head of Miskatonic's English department, visited the theater. He rapped loudly on the door and hollered Henry's name. Two students went to the door, lifted the bolt, and opened it before Henry even opened his mouth to ask for it. Berquist seemed surprised by what he saw when he entered. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped open as the students closed the door behind him and lowered the bolt.

  The department head raised his voice, questioning at first, but then yelling. He demanded to know what was going on. It was as if he didn't understand, as if the intruder couldn't see the art and astonishment for himself. Henry was at least sure Berquist noticed the organism in the corner, with all of his senses, just as Henry and the students could. The violet color seemed to draw attention away from everything else; the thick musty scent leading to the bittersweet taste filled the air, as well as the faint hum, barely audible but definitely there. It was the hum that made the language of the play so perfect. It kept each of the actors in consummate vocal rhythm.

  Henry could think of only one way to make his superior understand the way he did: a closer inspection. Henry tilted his head, about to instruct his students, but it wasn't necessary. Four of them grabbed hold of the old man and dragged him to the corner, where the fungus was thickest. Berquist cried out, but it was only because people tend to fear what they do not fathom. The screams were about trivial matters like missing classes, kidnapping students, and Tobias succumbing to fever before making it home. Henry knew soon Charleston would perceive life just as the others had, and then the cries would stop, which of course, they soon did.

  The fungus was beyond what it once was when Henry and his students first started living with it. It no longer needed to slowly make someone understand it. It was now able to do so all at once, and it did, pulling Charleston Berquist into its throbbing, humming mass. It took him to its center and just like that, he was covered in the violet flora—silent and as motionless as death. The cries were gone. Berquist now knew what the rest of them knew, but he was enlightened much more quickly. Henry couldn't help but be a little jealous. But he was not willing to let resentment get the better of him. After all, he had a show to open.

  *

  On opening night, when the masks came off, Henry suddenly felt sheer terror, as well as the realization he hadn't really felt anything at all for the past few weeks. At that moment, all of his senses and thoughts turned to one thing and one alone—arrant panic. What had once been his beautiful violet organism, his life itself, now appeared as a hideous purple mold covering the faces of the players and audience alike, emanating from their eyes and mouths.

  He lifted his hands up to touch his face and saw the mold on his palms and fingers. He felt the soft mossy spores and mushrooms growing on his cheeks and brow with what he could still barely call his hands. The players approached him, one with a mask in hand. It was Bottom, the ass head. The horse skull had not been covered as planned, and it looked even more alarming the closer it came. The students placed it on his head. He felt the organism now as much a part of him as his own arms, legs, or heart, latch onto the wire framework and pull it in close. Words escaped him as the last shred of his humanity tried one final time to scare him back to the existence intended by the God of Jacob he once held faith in.

  The last few months raced through Henry's mind. People he knew, his students, as well as himself had given control of their lives up to an outside force. A force using them to further its own agenda, a force that would continue to use them until their inevitable dea
ths. In the last few months though, something happened, control was taken. His mind filled. Greatness can be achieved if people work together toward a common goal. The organism had shown him that, it had pulled him from the clutches of the people who want him to further their agenda. Together they had done something great and could continue to.

  Humanity pulled against the violet mold for Henry's mind and his very soul. He embraced his purpose, and did the only thing he could possibly do, to survive and do right by the world. He turned downstage toward the audience, now standing before him, and took a bow. They cheered silently before him, as he called them forth. Their applause, though noiseless, filled him with everything he wanted in life.

  Shakespeare had many other plays they, as a troupe, had not yet begun to explore. This new world, as well as the rest of the planet, held many stages for them to perform on. It was time for Henry Turcotte and the Miskatonic Players to take their act on the road.

  The Vitruvian Man

  Brenna Nordeng

  A jar crashed to the ground as a rat, blind from decades spent in complete darkness, tried to navigate the shelves. The contents of the old, glossed-over jar spilled onto the cracked concrete floor as the Doctor tied a knot tight against the flesh of his latest project. The heart from the jar instantly turned to rot as the formaldehyde containing it flowed away and soaked into the floor. The Doctor quickly glanced over his shoulder to see what organ he would have to find a replacement for later. It was his last fresh heart, harvested several months back from the graveyard only a few steps away from Miskatonic University where the rotting, decrepit bodies of other professors and staff members went to enjoy their long dirt nap.

  The Doctor wasted no time in snatching up the blind rat and crushing its bones in his grip. The rat let out a fierce scream that echoed in the corners of the lab before it finally dissolved away, allowed to leave the hell it had been previously condemned to roam. The Doctor wiped the rat's blood onto his laboratory coat, adding a dark brown-red stain to the already dingy and bloodied garment he had been forced to wear for nearly a century—stuck in the purgatory he had created during his lifetime.