Chapter 1: Silent Raindrops

Arkham, Massachusetts. September 12, 1975. Friday morning.

Neal Carter had another dream last night.

This one was more vivid than any of the others. He awoke after having been catapulted out of an abyss of unspeakable horror. The experience had left him shaken and exhausted. Unearthly shapes loathsome beyond man's ability to comprehend. . . . No, he dared not describe what he'd seen, what he'd smelled, what he'd heard. But the thin sound of insane piping echoed still in his mind and the pervasive stench lingered in his nostrils.

Rubbing his eyes, he muttered, "Just a dream."

He got out of bed and wrapped himself in a robe, for the air in the loft was cold. Autumn was settling in early in Arkham. It was only mid-September, but the morning chill penetrated his bones. He retreated to his small bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His bloodshot eyes and the chalk-white pallor to his face forced him to realize he should start calling his dreams by their real name, nightmarish visions of a world man was not meant to see.

Were the long hours he'd spent in the university library, absorbed in the old tomes of ancient legends, the cause? His advisor, Thaddeus Shrewsbury, had warned him to tread carefully in his research. But his specialty was ancient languages. How could he have pursued his dissertation without immersing himself in the beliefs of early cultures?

The dreams had started last May when he moved back to Arkham from England. His year at Oxford he'd been fine. Well, until January when he couldn't sleep at all, but that wasn't because of the dreams. When he returned to Arkham, he was determined to finish his doctoral dissertation. He longed to bury himself in his research and shut everything and everyone else out. Late at night when he was too weary to work, he caught up on reruns of TV programs he'd missed when he was abroad. Back then, an occasional dream was easy to blame on the pressure of defending his dissertation.

He'd obtained his doctorate but the dreams persisted. Now they'd grown more frequent and terrifyingly intense.

Wearily he splashed water on his face. "Stop torturing yourself. You just survived your first week as Assistant Professor of Linguistics at Miskatonic, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. You're young. You're of reasonable appearance. You have your whole life ahead of you. You're not going to let a few bad dreams get the better of you, are you?"

Ablution and stern lecture completed, he felt much more like himself. He moved into the kitchenette to make coffee and caught himself humming. What was that tune? Of course, the Bob Dylan classic—"The Times They Are a-Changin'." He shrugged. An improvement over last night.

He suspected his recent insomnia had been caused by his subconscious mind refusing to revisit the dreams. Finally, with a desperation born out of bone-weary exhaustion, he'd put on a Simon and Garfunkel record. What a mistake that had been. Between "I am a Rock" and "Sounds of Silence," was it any wonder that he felt depressed? He was no rock and recently he'd come to the conclusion he'd had enough silence around him to last a lifetime.

When he finally crashed onto his bed, sleep had come immediately, but it brought no rest.

Neal retrieved a bag of Italian roast coffee beans from the kitchen cabinet and ground enough for his coffee press. When the coffee was ready, he lifted the steaming mug to breathe in the aroma. Walking over to the window, he gazed out at the clapboard houses across the street. The buildings might not have the history of Oxford, but there was something reassuring about the simple wood-frame houses, each painted a different color. They were sturdy and unpretentious like the New England town they were set in. He needed their solidity now.

He'd been fortunate that June had held on to his apartment during his time in Oxford. The location, only a ten-minute walk from the university, made it a prime property. She could have easily rented it to someone else while he was away, but she refused, insisting it wouldn't be right to have anyone else living upstairs. When her husband passed away, she claimed she would have been lost without Neal. He suspected she'd only said that to make him feel less alone, but he appreciated the sentiment. Now he was the one who would be lost without her.

By the time he left for his classes, Neal felt ready to face the challenges of the day. He entered the campus of Miskatonic University through the elaborate wrought iron gate and strolled through the quad. The maple trees were already beginning to turn with a few dappled rust and umber leaves scattered on the brick walk. The leaves were slippery with the heavy mist of the early morning. Although clouds hung low in the sky, it hadn't begun to rain. The brisk cool air would bring color to his cheeks. No need to worry the students that he'd come down with the plague.

As he headed for his office in the Wingate Hall of Humanities, he debated the wisdom of his plan for what he hoped was the last time. He would have asked Mozzie for advice, but he wasn't due back for another week. After a six-month sojourn in India, his friend shouldn't be welcomed home by Neal dumping his issues on him.

Two nights ago, Neal had carefully crafted his strategy. Realizing that insomnia was preventing him from thinking clearly, he'd gotten out the Monopoly board Mozzie was so fond of using. He'd justified his moves aloud as if Mozzie could hear him. And when he imagined his friend nodding in approval, he knew he'd correctly formulated his plan. In preparation, Neal had already completed his notes for today's classes. He had no excuse not to sit in on Professor Gilman's morning lecture.

Neal first stopped off at his tiny office on the fourth floor. As the newest faculty member of the Department of Linguistics he supposed he was lucky not to be relegated to the broom closet, although when he first saw it, he felt that was what it must have been in an earlier incarnation. He had barely enough space to cram his desk in among all the bookshelves. But at least he had a window. Granted, porthole might be a more accurate description, but the small leaded glass window provided a bird's eye view of the quad below.

Today's schedule was not heavy: a seminar on Anglo-Saxon language and literature at eleven and a lecture on the science of language in the afternoon. The lecture was the introductory course in the linguistics department. As the newest faculty member, Neal had drawn the short straw.

Neal picked up the faculty directory from his desk and read Gilman's bio once more. Peter Gilman, full professor of archaeology. His field trips were legendary. Hell, the man was legendary. He came back with the most spectacular finds, many of which were currently displayed in the university museum. Jewelry from the Old Kingdom in ancient Egypt, Incan statues, gold figures from Mesopotamia, Shang Dynasty bronzes in China. His knowledge of ancient civilizations was without parallel.

Gilman had been away on a field trip when the introductory coffee for new faculty was held. Neal regretted the absence—he'd hoped to meet him. Today would be less stressful if they were already acquainted, but the timing of Gilman's courses had never meshed with Neal's own demanding schedule. Gilman mainly taught small advanced seminars that were restricted to archaeology majors and grad students. Kate had often mentioned what a dynamic speaker he was. She'd been so excited to accompany him on an expedition . . .

Neal opened a desk drawer and pulled out her photo. A friend had taken it on her last trip. He ran his finger over her image next to the Sanjaya temple ruins on Java. He lost himself in her face for a long moment and then slipped it back in the drawer.

What was he going to say to Gilman? That he was counting on him being able to identify the mysterious object in his dreams? Neal winced. Not the sort of subject to bother a stranger with. Most likely Gilman would laugh in his face or think he was high on LSD. Perhaps he'd report him to the provost as someone who was too unstable to teach.

His resolve crumbling like the ruin in Kate's photo, Neal debated the wisdom of approaching Gilman yet again. He went to the window. Raindrops trickled down the glass in tiny rivulets, obscuring his view, but the ivy-covered brick walls of the buildings around the quad were a reassuring solid presence. No more procrastinating. He'd promised himself the evening before that if he had one more recurrence of his dream, he'd discuss the subject with Gilman.

The archaeologist was scheduled to give a lecture this morning on the results of his recent fieldwork in Egypt. Neal had decided to attend to gain a better sense of the man. The lecture hall was the largest one in Wingate Hall and it was almost filled to capacity by the time Neal arrived. He finally found a seat about two-thirds of the way up the steep gallery and waited impatiently for the lecture to start.

Gilman arrived promptly at nine. The man had a commanding presence on the stage. He wasn't that old—early to mid-thirties—but he had a natural assurance in front of a large audience that Neal envied. His most recent fieldwork had been at the Umm el-Qa'ab necropolis at Abydos, a location of predynastic tombs and one of the oldest sites ever explored in Egypt. Gilman had been in charge of an excavation of the tomb of Iry-Hor, a pharaoh from the thirty-second century BC. As Gilman flashed slides of his discoveries—potsherds, ivory artifacts—Neal scanned them all with fascination.

Toward the end of his lecture, Gilman discussed a slide of a small green soapstone. "I found this artifact behind a loose mudbrick in the tomb. Its location indicates it may have been an object of veneration. Note the unusual incisions . . ."

"Hey, man, you okay?'' Neal felt his shoulder being shaken. He'd slumped forward in his seat. His head swimming, for a moment he couldn't remember where he was. He nodded shakily to the student next to him, not trusting his voice. He must have blacked out. The students were standing to leave. Neal sank back into his seat while they exited and tried to regain his equilibrium. A few of the students were going down to talk with Gilman. He closed his eyes till the hall stopped spinning.

When he opened them again, the hall was nearly empty. If he didn't go now, he'd miss his chance. Gilman was packing up his notes and would soon leave.

Neal descended the steps, relieved to find the dizziness had left him. His speed increased as he began to panic Gilman would leave before he arrived and he'd miss his chance. But what nonsense that was. Neal slowed down, appalled at the irrationality of his thought processes. If this didn't work, forget the cost of an international call—he was calling Mozzie.

Despite his fears, Gilman hadn't left by the time Neal approached the lectern. At the last minute, he hesitated once more. Running a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath. "Professor Gilman, could I speak with you today?"

Gilman looked up from his notes, his eyes sweeping over him. "I've set aside an hour for meeting with students at two on Thursdays. You're welcome to come then and stand in line." He paused, studying him, and added, "Don't be so stressed. The first week of classes can seem overwhelming. Apply yourself to your studies and you'll catch on."

Neal felt his face redden. "I'm not a student," and proceeded to introduce himself.

"My apologies. You look so young." Gilman shook his hand and smiled. "I'd heard you joined the faculty. Please call me Peter." He looked at his watch. "I have an appointment shortly and then a seminar to teach, but are you free at four o'clock?"

Neal agreed eagerly. He was due to leave for his own seminar in any case. He left the lecture hall in markedly higher spirits. Finally, he might get some answers.

#

Peter glanced at his watch. He still had a few minutes before Carter would show up. He rocked slowly in his leather chair as he thought about their brief encounter. No wonder he'd mistaken Carter for a student. He looked about twenty, far too young to be a member of the faculty. Just how old was he?

Peter pulled out a desk drawer and rummaged through his papers. There it was. The bulletin they'd sent around on Carter's appointment. The kid was only twenty-two. No wonder Peter had been confused. How had he managed to obtain a doctorate so quickly? Peter read through the profile. Full scholarship. Skipped two years of grade school, sailed through his courses at Miskatonic, completing them in record time. Carter must be genius-level. His grasp of languages, both ancient and modern, was remarkable.

Rather surprising their paths hadn't crossed earlier, but it was understandable. Carter had spent the past year at Oxford on the Miskatonic Oxford exchange program researching his dissertation on a comparison of Vedic Sanskrit to Archaic Chinese. His master's thesis had been on early Germanic languages. Peter had spent much of the past two years away on expeditions, and as a result his teaching load had been light.

Carter's profile was intriguing. Peter had often wished for a linguistics expert to call on. This was exactly the sort of person he'd welcome as a colleague if only Carter weren't too unstable. What had gotten him so upset? When he'd approached the lectern, he was as white as the chalk Peter had been writing with. He looked like he wasn't sleeping well, and that slight tremor in his hands was troubling.

If the stress of the first week of classes was getting to him, it would be folly to subject him to the rigors of Peter's own research. Too bad. Peter had seen that happen before. Young faculty members not knowing how to pace themselves, becoming overwhelmed by the workload, and burning out. Maybe Carter just needed a good dose of advice to get himself back on track. If so, he'd come to the right person.

Fortunately when Carter showed up at his door, he looked fine. Perhaps that had simply been an aberration. Peter welcomed him in and offered him a chair, but he was too fascinated by the objects displayed in his bookcases to sit down.

"Did you collect all these?" he asked.

Peter nodded. "That statue you're looking at is from an Incan tomb I excavated near Machu Picchu. The Peruvian authorities allowed me to keep it because of my continuing work there." As he showed Carter artifacts from Mongolia, Egypt, and the Himalayas, Carter wasn't satisfied with a superficial discussion but asked detailed questions, revealing a keen knowledge of ancient peoples. Peter warmed up to the topic and soon the two of them were calling each other by their first names, talking like colleagues who'd known each other for years.

But it was disconcerting that Neal showed no inclination to bring up why he requested the appointment. Finally Peter said, "I've enjoyed this but don't want to keep you." A subtle reminder he had work to do. "You mentioned you had something you wanted to talk to me about."

Neal nodded. An awkward hesitancy replaced his former articulateness. Peter motioned him to take a seat and prodded him to continue. "About my work?"

"Yes, that's one of the reasons I attended your lecture." He paused as if conducting an internal debate before proceeding, which only served to heighten Peter's curiosity. "I'd intended to ask you about an artifact—a green soapstone in the shape of a starfish, inscribed with a distinctive pattern of marks. You can imagine my surprise when you talked about a similar object in your lecture."

Peter grew excited. The object he'd found at Abydos was unique to his knowledge. "But mine wasn't starfish shaped."

Neal opened his briefcase and pulled out a drawing. It had been made with colored pencils and was meticulous in its detail. "What do you think of this? Although not identical, the marks are of similar appearance and the groupings bear a striking resemblance."

"Did you draw this?" Peter asked as he studied the drawing. It showed him that his artifact might have been the central part of what had been a starfish. The object he'd found possessed only one arm. Clearly other parts had been broken off, but it was impossible to know what shapes they might have been. Could this be the same object?

Neal nodded confirmation.

"Where did you see it?" Peter asked eagerly

He hesitated for a moment before responding. "I've been having dreams about this object for the past four months."

Peter's look of disbelief must have been evident from the way Neal's face reddened. "How is that possible? Did you read about the discovery?"

Neal shook his head with frustration. "No. I had no idea you had something similar. In my dream, I see a land that has the same cliff escarpments as Abydos. The wadi slices through it at precisely the same position as at Abydos. I'd intended to ask you if you'd seen anything resembling the object, then when I saw your slide at the lecture . . ." His voice trailed off as he spread his hands in an embarrassed gesture.

Peter went over to the safe where he kept his most valuable artifacts. He reached inside for the specimen tray containing the soapstone he'd discussed in the lecture and pulled it out. When he turned to face Neal, he discovered him in considerable distress. His face had been bleached of color and sweat had broken out on his face despite the chill of his office. He was gasping for breath, his eyes glazing over.

Peter quickly set the artifact down and strode over to assist. He shook him by the shoulder. "Are you all right? What is it?"

Neal appeared incapable of answering and was breathing in short, painful gasps. Peter loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar but his condition was growing worse.

#

The wind howls. The onslaught of sand scorches his face till it's raw. He clings to the altar but the wind laughs at him. It rips his hands away and tosses him as if he's a blade of grass. Buffeted by a gale against which there is no resistance, he's hurled down the staircase. He's falling, falling down the malodorous granite steps . . . down into the abyss. The loathsome gibbers grow louder, gnawing his brain as they draw ever closer. . .

"Neal? You with me?"

The stairs vanished. Neal pried his eyes open, gasping for breath. When he opened his eyes, he wished he hadn't. Swirling iridescent colors spun dizzily in front of him. His ears were still ringing from the wind. It was almost impossible to make out any words. The voice was faint as if coming from a great distance. He struggled to focus, but everything was blurred—a chaotic sea of colors too vivid to be real. Frantic, he turned his head to find something solid to hold onto. There. In the midst of chaos, the soapstone. It glowed from within with an intensity of a blazing star.

Neal tried to speak, but no words came out. His throat ached from the effort. "Soapstone," he gasped then dropped back into blackness.

Cool and wet. Someone was wiping his forehead. The wind had ceased. No more sand in his face. He sat for a moment, his eyes closed, trying to calm his breathing. "Neal?" That voice again. Only this time he recognized it. It was Peter's voice.

Neal opened his eyes warily. The maelstrom of disorienting colors had vanished and was replaced by the warm earthiness of Peter's office. He'd pulled over a chair and was sitting in front of him, eyeing him with concern. "Feeling a little better?"

Neal nodded, not trusting his voice. His mind was still processing the turbulent sensations he'd experienced. Overriding all other impressions was his mortification at Peter having witnessed it. Neal longed to sneak away and pretend it had never happened.

Peter gave him a few moments to recover before attempting to get him to speak. "Care to explain what just happened?" he asked mildly, as if witnessing someone being assaulted by a psychedelic vision was a routine occurrence.

Neal had a sudden urge to respond with a hysterical burst of laughter, but clamped down on it. "The soapstone … you took it out of your safe?"

Peter nodded. "I turned around to find you'd passed out." He was speaking slowly, in measured tones, as if to give Neal time to process the meaning. "You were out for only a minute or two. You muttered something about the soapstone, so I put it back in the safe."

That didn't sound right. He could have sworn he'd been out for at least a half-hour.

"You aren't an epileptic, are you?"

Neal shook his head.

"Then what was it?"

Neal considered for a moment before answering that loaded question. "I wish I had an answer. When you took the soapstone out of the safe, it threw me back into the dream I was telling you about."

Peter stood up and walked over to a side cabinet where he kept a carafe of water. "Think you can manage a glass of water?" Embarrassed, Neal nodded and held with both hands the glass Peter extended to him. He was relieved to see the tremors in his hands were quickly subsiding.

Peter went over to the phone on his desk. He darted a sharp glance at Neal, probably to see if he'd passed out again. "I'm just calling the medical department to send someone over."

"No," Neal said, more forcefully than he'd intended. While Peter hesitated, his hand still on the phone receiver, Neal added in a tone meant to convey confidence and robust health, "I'm feeling fine now. There's no need." He sat up straighter in his chair and tried to look relaxed and at ease.

Peter studied him dubiously and then appeared to acquiesce, at least for the moment. He returned to his chair and sat opposite him. "Then tell me what you saw," with a calmness that Neal found oddly reassuring.

"I'm at the necropolis at Abydos. It's late at night." Neal's voice was husky as he began. He took another sip of water and, clearing his throat, continued, relieved that his voice grew stronger as he spoke. "I can see the stars high overhead. A howling wind whips sand on my face. I see a group of columns in front of me. I walk toward them. In the center on a massive altar of granite lies the soapstone." He paused to give Peter a chance to laugh in his face.

But Peter didn't laugh. "Is the dream always the same?"

"I believe so. When I first started getting them, all I remembered was a swirling void with the vague outline of the soapstone. Now with every dream, the details come more into focus." Neal hesitated. Should he go into every detail? The staircase beyond? No, that was too incredible and Peter would write him off as another crazed eccentric scholar. He'd explained enough. "They've become more frequent. The past couple of weeks they've been nightly occurrences." Neal set the glass down and assessed Peter's reaction to what he'd heard so far. When he looked into Peter's eyes, he didn't read ridicule or contempt or even simply disbelief but rather the curiosity of a scientist.

"When did you first start experiencing the dreams?"

"About four months ago, in May. I'd arrived back from Oxford and was preparing to defend my dissertation. The first couple of times I thought the dream was simply caused by stress."

Peter nodded. "A reasonable assumption. It may also be a coincidence that I returned from Egypt with the soapstone in April."

Was it? Or was Peter sending him a signal his mind was open to other possibilities? Emboldened, Neal asked, "Would you mind if I tried it again?"

"You feel strong enough?"

"I need to know."

Peter studied him for a moment then nodded and went back to the safe. As soon as he opened the door, Neal could feel the disorientation happen again, but he forced himself to relax and try to ride it out. He pictured himself riding an ocean wave like a surfer. He kept his eyes fixed on the object as Peter slowly walked toward him. When he was about six feet away, the dizziness couldn't be denied any longer. He felt his heart pounding out of his chest as he gasped for air. His vision blurring, he flailed out with a hand.

"Hold on." Peter spun around and quickly returned the object to the safe.

Once more the effect slowly dissipated, leaving Neal as exhausted as if he'd climbed Mount Everest. This was ridiculous. He swam. He ran. Neal was no hundred-pound weakling. This shouldn't be happening to him. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a shaky hand. "What is that? Kryptonite?"

Peter chuckled and shook his head. "I gotta tell you. You're not exactly my image of Superman." He glanced at his watch and considered for a moment. Neal took a sip of water. Could he simply slip out of the office? It would be the best solution. This had been an unmitigated disaster. Peter was probably regretting he hadn't called the medics and was trying to figure out how to get rid of him. Peter broke into his musings when he asked, "Have you eaten anything today?"

Neal looked at him in surprise. "Breakfast." With everything else going on, food had been the last thing on Neal's mind. He'd been surviving on coffee for the past several hours.

"Well, it's way past lunchtime, but not too early to grab a quick supper. My wife's working this evening and I don't like eating alone. Besides, I'd like to hear more about that soapstone you drew."

Notes: Neal's presented Peter with quite a puzzle. The mystery deepens in the next chapter when a friend is murdered. This story was originally published in 2016. In 2021, I revisited it and expanded the content. As a result, some of the reviews no longer match the chapter references.

In Arkham Files, White Collar characters are fused into the world of the Cthulhu Mythos as envisioned by H.P. Lovecraft and others. No prior knowledge of either White Collar or Lovecraft is required. Although Lovecraft is a master of the horror genre, in Arkham Files the emphasis is on science fiction and fantasy with a generous sprinkling of romance.

The series is part of the Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen. FBI Agent Diana Berrigan began writing Arkham Files as part of a strategy to capture a cybercriminal nicknamed Azathoth. Most of her characters are drawn from the world of White Collar and retain their same given names. The series is a meta work. Events and characters in Arkham Files are sometimes referenced in the Caffrey Conversation stories and are a factor in plot development. The cybercriminal Azathoth made his first appearance in the story The Woman in Blue. Diana's stories are mentioned for the first time in The Dreamer.

You can read more about Caffrey Conversation and Arkham Files on our blog, Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation. A link to the blog is in my profile. The Arkham Files board at our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site has visuals, music, and cast photos.