Lovecraft and James Investigate - Chapter 7

NaNoWriMo 2006 novel. Writing 50,000 words in 30 days. Quality may suffer.

Chapter 7 ' A Fellow Traveller

Howard Lovecraft watched Montague James turn away from him and slip down into the dark hole in the ground that they had uncovered, some ancient unnatural passageway, a conduit down beneath the salt flats to he knew not where. The place had already claimed the life of his friend Harley Warren and now he was forced to watch as the Englishman who had become his friend ventured alone toward what must surely be the same fate, alone because he had refused to brave those depths, alone because he, Howard Lovecraft, remained above in the bright wholesome New England sun.

As the loom of James' lantern waned on the walls of the descending staircase Howard ran over to the entrance and peered down, listening intently.

'Montague,' he called, 'can you hear me?'

'Howard,' came the reply, echoing a little off the stonework, 'it's treacherously damp and just keeps going down, no sign of anything yet.'

Howard remained, on his knees, face pressed in close to that aperture to the earth's depths watching, listening, waiting.

Gulls called overhead, the trees whispered in the breeze, the gentle shift and crack of the drying salt marshes, insects crawled over the newly uncovered granite slabs. Still Howard waited.

'Howard,' came the call, the voice was distant and he had to strain to make it out, 'Howard you won't believe this, I've never seen anything like it.'

Dread filled the young man's heart, 'what is it?' he shouted down the hole but there was no answer.

'I've found him,' came the voice, distant and almost silent, like an antediluvian memory echoing up from forgotten depths. 'I've found him.'

'Is he alive,? Howard shouted, knowing that his friend could not be so. Again there was no answer, again he pulled himself further in to the hole, trying to block out the outside world, focussing only on the gaping maw of that passageway and the hope of his friend's return. He waited on, anxious, not daring to shout again less he obscure some call from below, hardly daring to breath so intent was his concentration.

Then the call came, it was stronger than before, and shriller, the scraping top note of terror cutting into the Englishman's unmistakable voice. 'Howard,' he called. 'Help! Dear God! Help me!'

Howard jumped up, turning in panic, clutching his head between his hands trying to squeeze the moment away.

'Curse my cowardice,' he shouted at the world, 'for what use is there in self preservation if the self can serve no purpose.' And with an almighty howl of anguish he ran down into the blackness after his friend.

A few American sparrows, disturbed by the noise, lifted into the air from the surrounding trees and flew off westwards, inland. A pair of gulls wheeled overhead in a sudden random formation, for a moment simultaneously describing two arks of the same circle. A field mouse appeared at the far corner of the great granite slab, ran its length, skirting the edge, and disappeared back into the undergrowth again. A zephyr of breeze shivered the long grasses that wrapped the slimy hollows of the salt flats, at the ebbing edge of the water a tiny white crab scuttled sideways across the mud leaving a repeating pattern of dots where it trod. The sun shone overhead, far past its zenith now, accelerating downhill towards dusk.

Howard stuck an arm out of the hole and pulled himself out into the bright pastoral scene, in his other arm he carried the pale shivering figure of Montague James. He laid the older man down on the ground and fished about in his jacket pockets, looking for the hip flask.

'No,' said James, breathing fitfully and with a look of panic in his eyes, 'close it up.'

Howard went back to the granite slab and, straining against it, dragged it back over the hole where it dropped back into place with a sucking hiss of air. He went back to his friend and poured a healthy slug from the hip flask into the Englishman's mouth and held his head up so he could swallow. Gripped tightly in the scholars hand was a small book marked with strange symbols, Harley Warren's book.

'Thank you,' said James, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

'You're okay now,' said Howard, 'look at the sun and breath the air, you're okay now.'

'Listen,' hissed James urgently, 'you were right, it was all true, everything I wrote, every word. The things I've seen, the horrors, the hauntings, the evil ... but never ... never ...' He gripped the young man by the shoulders. 'I am sorry I lied to you. I should not have done it. Forgive me.'

'Don't worry about it,' said Howard, 'rest a moment and gather your strength, then we can leave this place.'

'Thank you for coming for me,' said James, 'how did you manage it?'

'I kept my eyes shut,' said Howard.

The pair of them staggered back into town just about dusk, Howard still supporting his friend who, though uninjured, was still shaking something awful.

'Is he okay?' asked the landlady of their boarding house as Howard helped James up the stairs.

'He'll be fine,' said Howard, 'we went for a walk in the marshes and he fell, it's more the shock than anything else.'

'Poor fellow, those marshes are treacherous. Is there anything I can do?'

'Could you send up some supper, soup perhaps, and two bottles of beer.'

Howard made sure James ate something and watched him drink half a bottle of beer before the older man professed himself exhausted by his ordeal and climbed slowly and weakly into bed. Howard opened the window so he could hear if he was called for and took his own supper out onto the porch of the boarding house where he could watch the moon rise over the rolling Atlantic and enjoy the warm peaceful night. Still he shivered, the shock of his own ordeal catching up on him, and there he sat till late, staring out to sea, motionless except to wring his hands together and to silently move his lips, talking to himself just comforting words. Eventually he was roused by the landlady who was going to bed herself and wanted to lock up for the night.

James slept fitfully, tossing and turning so much he kept Howard awake. In his sleep he talked, sometimes just muttering under his breath, sometimes calling out loud. Eventually Howard got up and sat at the desk by the open window, and in his notebook recorded a little of what James said.

My God! I've never seen anything like it. Such sights!

Howard! I'm done for if he doesn't come. Howard!

At the last cry, loud enough to wake the whole house, Howard woke the older man up and calmed him down.

'Just a bad dream,' said James, 'go back to your bed.'

In the morning James managed to get up and have some breakfast but soon announced he was needed to rest again and retired to his room. Howard waited a while in the room, unwilling to leave the older man on his own. He took out Harley Warren's book and laid it flat and unopened on the table. He read through his jottings from the previous night. He felt empty and weak and wholly without curiosity regarding the contents of the accursed book. James' disjointed words from the previous nights had hinted at horrors that the young man's imagination found it all too easy to fill out. He shoved both books back in to his case and, checking briefly that James was sleeping soundly, went out.

When he returned to see if the Englishman was up to a little late lunch he found James sitting comfortably in the shade of the patio smoking his pipe, the colour entirely returned to his cheeks.

'My dear friend,' said James, rising once he saw Howard approaching, 'how are you?'

'Not as well as you it seems,' said Howard, allowing his hand to be warmly and vigorously shook.

'A little rest, a smoke, we're made of tough stuff where I come from and we bounce back quickly. Sit down and join me. There. I must thank you again, I thought I was done for down there. I owe you my life.'

'It was nothing.'

'I was right about you, wasn't I? you are stronger nerved than you seem.'

'I don't know about that. Eventually the thought of being left alone was more terrifying than the thought of going into that hole.'

'You kept your eyes shut?'

'Yes.'

'That was wise.'

'Do you want to talk about what you saw?' asked Howard.

'No.'

They sat together for a moment. James relit his pipe which had gone out.

'I visited a family friend,' said Howard, 'I have a letter of introduction for the historical society. We can go tomorrow.'

'Oh yes, the strange tiara. It will be good to get to the bottom of that,' said James, clearly distracted. He sucked on his pipe and said 'I owe you an explanation I think, about my writings.'

'If you want to give it.'

'You guessed correctly, you are the first person to do so, everything I have written about is true, the shades, the devil worship, the things that crawl from crypts. It is a hobby I rather stumbled on, in the course of my research I came across several fantastic accounts in amongst what were otherwise perfectly rational and verifiable texts, I looked into them, sometimes the facts would bear them out. It opened my mind enough that I began to see similar contemporary accounts. I began looking into these and again often found the facts bore them out. I have become something of an investigator into the unknown, I have some contacts in the church who put me onto them, I get to the bottom of things. I seek out the truth. I have a drive you see, a compulsion to discover the limits of existence, to poke into the dark corners of the world. I think you have it too.'

'I think I do.'

'I thought I knew ... I have seen such things I thought I knew the limits but now I see it goes further, far deeper than I ever imagined. It is overwhelming.' He stared out to sea for a moment, not talking, not smoking, just lost in thought. Finally he said 'I never really thought what I'd say if anyone guessed the truth. I should not have lied to you. Will you accept my apologies.'

'Of course,' said Howard, 'but why the lie at all?'

James turned to face the younger man and said 'you told me when we first met you were a fellow traveller, do you intend to publish?'

'I do, people deserve to know the truth.'

'I beg you, if you proclaim these things as truth you will be ruined, nobody will believe you and you risk ending up in an asylum, I do not exaggerate. Obscure the facts and publish as fiction.'

'But the world must be warned.'

'Precisely,' said James, 'and publishing as fiction is the only way to warn it. If you call these things fiction you will not be believed, but if you call them fact you will not even be read. It is better you are at least read. We live in an industrial age, people are losing the old superstitions that kept them safe, they must be taught again what to fear, they do not have to believe in it, they only have to fear it to preserve themselves. Hide the facts of the matter, change the names, move the dates, and for the sake of all that is holy, never reveal the location of that hole in the ground.'