Chapter 9: The Church on Prospect Hill
When Neal reported to the Medical Center on Monday morning, Peter was already present, along with the artifact. Neal brought along his warring emotions—a desire to know the truth dueling with apprehension over what he might learn. As he filled out the initial forms, he reminded himself not to build up expectations about either one. The tests would most likely be inconclusive. The results probably wouldn't be available for weeks.
True to her word, Elizabeth supervised the proceedings personally. The starfish was concealed under a protective cover so that its appearance wasn't visible to other medical personnel. The tests ranged from simple reflex and cognitive evaluations to a CT scan and other imaging evaluations. At eleven o'clock she called a halt, asking Neal to join her in her office when he'd dressed.
Neal took his time changing back into his suit. Up to today, he'd only been exposed for a brief minute or two to the starfish. Now he estimated he'd spent well over an hour in its presence. Although he could never see it, he could sense it. The disorientation, the sweats—they all blared out their warnings. After each session, Elizabeth had given him time to recover, but he still felt drained.
Neal rested on the bench in the changing cubicle before going out. Leaning his back to the wall, his eyes closed, he willed himself to empty his thoughts. After five minutes or it could have been an hour, he finally roused himself. He had classes to teach in the afternoon.
When he exited the cubicle, he found Elizabeth standing outside, looking concerned. "How are you feeling? Do you need to lie down for a while?"
He shook his head. "Have you formed any preliminary conclusions?"
"A few. Would you mind if Peter is present?"
"No, but I'm surprised he's still here." Neal hadn't seen him during the last hour of testing.
Elizabeth escorted him to her office where Peter was waiting. She had glasses of orange juice and a plate of sugar cookies available for them. Peter's glass was already half-empty. Handing Neal a glass, she said, "I put you both through the wringer. I don't want anyone collapsing around here." She was kind to include Peter, but Neal knew she meant him.
Neal took a seat in an upholstered chair beside her desk and composed himself for whatever was to come.
"The good news is that when you're not being exposed to the starfish, all your readings fall within normal parameters. There appears to be no physiological consequence to the exposure. If I'd detected any lingering effect, I would have called off the tests, so you should feel pleased."
Neal nodded, waiting for the "but" that would inevitably follow.
"But during the exposure, the physiological effects are what we would expect from someone who displays your symptoms—increase in heart rate, sudden drop in blood pressure accompanied by disequilibrium. The cause for these symptoms appears to be tied to an area within your brain that displays anomalous neural wave patterns or oscillations as we call them. As the tests continued, the oscillations were a constant, but the other symptoms diminished in severity."
He nodded. "I no longer feel as dizzy when I'm exposed to the artifact. By the end of the morning, I was tolerating it fairly well."
"That's also the way it appeared to me. Aside from a slight loss of color, you were not showing any external effects, but the abnormal neural activity persisted throughout the period of exposure. Did you experience any visions?"
Neal hesitated. Had he seen anything? He'd read that imaging chambers could be claustrophobic. That's probably what caused it. Besides, it wasn't a vision. How could he explain properly what he'd felt? A presence? Someone observing him? There was no denying he didn't feel alone in that chamber, but it must have been his mind playing tricks on him. For a second, Neal relived the icy breath, the sensation of a malevolence lying beside him.
"Neal? You needn't be concerned about anything you say. This is all going to be kept in strict confidence."
"After yesterday afternoon when we discussed the possibility of ghasts existing on earth, nothing you say now will be that much a shock," Peter added. "If we're ever going to get to the bottom of this, you need to be open about what you're seeing."
Neal looked at the two of them. In the short time he'd known them, he'd sensed a normalcy to their lives that seemed so different to his own. What right did he have to mess that up with the weirdness going on inside of him? "No visions." He gave them a reassuring smile. "No artifacts or jackal-headed monsters."
"I'm glad to hear it," she said. "Please let me know if you experience any." She picked up a sheet of paper on her desk. "I had a chance to go through the forms you'd filled out and noticed you'd forgotten to fill out one page—the section about your relatives."
He'd hoped he could avoid going into it, but recognized that was wishful thinking. Elizabeth was too thorough not to ask about it. "Sorry, but I can't fill out that part. It asks for medical information about members of my family. I don't know who my parents are, and as far as I know, I don't have any siblings."
"You were adopted?" Peter asked.
"No such luck. Foster care," he said briefly, hoping that'd be an end to the questions.
"Abandoned as an infant? That has to be difficult," she said, looking at him with sympathy. "I'm surprised no one adopted you."
"It wasn't like that." He'd rather not discuss it, but Elizabeth could discover the truth from the police report and she'd probably find it relevant to whatever was going on with him. "When I was eight, I was found wandering the streets of Arkham."
"That was in 1962, correct?" Elizabeth asked.
"That's right," he said, watching her make a note of it. "I was wearing a name tag which gave my name and date of birth, but my earliest memory is of that street." He looked over at Peter. "And before you get started, I wasn't found on a farm. No rocket ship was involved."
"I'm reserving judgment," Peter said, his smile removing any sting. "Since you don't remember, you have no way of knowing whether a rocket ship or a crashing meteorite brought you on earth, do you?"
Neal made a huff of protest. "You realize you sound just like Mozzie."
"Ouch," he said with a laugh, raising his hands in a sign of surrender. "You'll hear no more about it from me."
"I assume they tried to trace your parents," Elizabeth said, cutting short any more jokes. "Did you have any belongings that could help?"
"Only a pendant on a chain, but it led nowhere. They never unearthed any reports of missing children that matched my description and eventually gave up. I became a ward of the system. Except for the amnesia, the doctors couldn't find anything wrong with me, and there were no bumps or bruises to indicate an injury."
"Did they test you when you went to school?"
He nodded. "Based on the results, I was placed in the fifth grade."
"That's young to be at that level," she commented. "Did you have any adjustment difficulties?"
"Not with the curriculum." His issues were all the homegrown variety. If he'd been held back to the correct level for his age, would he have been less a target at the foster home? Realistically they would have just found another excuse. "If you're done here, I'd like to get back to my office."
She lay down the pen she'd been using to take notes. "Would you mind returning for a few more tests?"
Neal's pitiful groan was what he hoped was a sufficient answer.
But she was resistant to his appeal. "We still haven't answered the question of why you're experiencing this effect. The preliminary tests show anomalous neural activity occurring within your brain. Don't you want to have a better understanding of its nature?"
Did he? So he had unusual brain waves. If she tested Mozzie, what would she find? "What do the tests entail?"
"There are some new techniques in brain imaging I'd like to utilize. You really should have a spinal tap too. Any anomaly in your cerebrospinal fluid could cause a wide variety of dysfunctions."
Neal was silent as he contemplated her recommendations. Was this the beginning of his new life as a lab rat?
"I can suit your schedule," she added persuasively. "The tests will remain completely confidential."
They eventually agreed to a compromise where Neal would submit to two additional mornings of reduced duration, then they'd reevaluate. He could play along for a couple more weeks, but then if nothing conclusive was found, Neal planned to call a halt to any further tests.
Afterward, Peter accompanied him to Wingate Hall. They both had classes to prepare for. During the walk, they discussed their next steps. Peter was sending out inquiries in an attempt to discover if any similar artifacts had been discovered.
What was the connection of the crimes to the starfish? Why was Neal seeing monsters previously only described by a half-crazed scholar from the eighth century? Could the script on the starfish be translated? Neal felt certain that none of the answers to those questions would be found in Elizabeth's tests. Was he simply wasting time by submitting to them? If she found nothing but abnormal brain waves, would she be more likely to recommend he seek psychiatric help? Would she be right?
#
Neal's afternoon lecture ran later than he'd anticipated. It was after five o'clock by the time he was able to stop by the police station to pick up the starfish photos. Fortunately, Diana hadn't left yet. When she saw him enter, she waved him over.
"Go ahead and take a seat," she said, gesturing to the chair next to her desk. "You should know—there's been another murder."
Neal was shocked at her words. He hadn't seen any reports in the newspaper. "When did it happen?"
"Sometime early on Sunday morning. The coroner believes the victim was probably killed between two and four a.m. White male in his fifties. He was discovered on the waterfront in a back alley."
"Was a starfish found on the scene?"
She nodded. "It was lying under his body. The stone disappeared from the evidence vault five hours after we'd cataloged it. I've included the photo with the others." She reached into her top desk drawer and pulled out a large manila folder to hand to him. "We're counting on you being able to decipher those marks. These photos are all we have to go on."
Faced with an additional serial death, Diana looked more troubled than Neal had ever seen her. Should he tell her about the ghast he'd chased on Saturday? That had been the same night as the murder and there might be a connection. But how could she possibly believe him? If he'd already told her what he witnessed the first night, she might be more receptive. But to what? Creatures from another world like Mozzie espoused? Diana had already said she didn't care for science fiction. She'd hardly go along with a theory as wild as that unless he could obtain clear evidence.
He mulled over the best course of action during the walk home. Storm clouds made the time seem later than it was. The air had grown oppressive, and Neal set a brisk pace. He resolved to hold off mentioning anything until he could obtain concrete documentation. What he needed was not a sketch but a photo.
He'd left the commercial section of town for a residential side street when a faint skittering made him pause. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He spun around and caught a glimpse of yellow eyes low to the ground under a shrub. The animal scampered away before he got a better look. Probably just a cat.
Neal took a slow breath, giving himself a mental shake for being so edgy. Ghasts weren't on every street corner.
When he returned home, he pulled out his camera from the drawer where it had lain unused for the past several months. It was a good model—a Nikon Mozzie had given him when Neal left for Oxford. It was still loaded with film but for daytime use. The ghast sightings had been at night, and Neal made a mental note to pick up faster film the next day. He placed it on the table next to the door as a reminder to carry it with him.
He changed into jeans, spread the photos on his dinette table, and settled down for what promised to be a long night. The first step was to catalog all the various marks found on the stones. That at least was achievable. But deciphering their meaning without any other source material? The best clue he had was that Peter's starfish had been found in Abydos. But that didn't indicate it had been carved there. Did the ancient craftsman speak Egyptian, Sumerian, or something else?
After working a couple of hours, Neal lay down his pen and stretched his back. He'd stared at those photos so much, he was seeing the glyphs in his mind even when he wasn't looking at them. He walked over to his window with his coffee mug. Storm clouds were gathering. An occasional flash of lightning lit up the sky to the west, casting the steeple of St. Jude's church in sharp relief. Neal had often been tempted to paint the view at sunset. Even more dramatic would be a storm scene at night.
Located at the top of Prospect Hill, the old church dominated the landscape. It was unfortunate the structure had been declared unsound. Neal had visited it years ago and remembered with fondness the magnificent stained glass windows. The parish was mounting a fundraising drive to collect funds to restore it, but until then it was doomed to decay, a relic from a bygone age.
Neal watched the light show for a few more minutes. The low rumble of thunder was increasing in volume. Soon rain would start in his neighborhood. A bird flew toward the church. It looked much larger than the birds normally seen in Arkham. Perhaps a heron from the coast had lost its way in the storm.
A bolt of lightning illuminated both the steeple and the bird. Neal blinked and rubbed his eyes. The long neck was right for a heron, but no heron has a long whip for a tail . . . or enormous bat-like wings. It looked more like the pterodactyl on display at the Arkham Natural History Museum, but that couldn't be right. A dragon? A dragon in Arkham?
Neal dropped his mug and grabbed his camera. This was no ghast but whatever it was, he vowed to get a photo of it. Pausing just long enough to fetch his rain jacket from the closet, he dashed out of the house.
For a brief moment, the rational half of his brain recoiled at his actions. What possessed him to chase a dragon that couldn't exist? But now the creature was circling the steeple in lazy spirals with slow flaps of its powerful wings. He had to get closer to record what he was seeing. He wasn't crazy. This was real.
At that hour of the night and with the first raindrops already pelting down, no one was on the streets. Neal raced toward the hill. The wind had increased but it was at his back, driving him forward. He kept his eyes fixed on the dragon as he ran. It circled ever higher above the steeple. Would he lose it? Panicked, Neal whipped out his camera. He focused on it just in time to watch it disappear into the clouds.
So much for documenting his sighting. He consoled himself that the dragon would have been unrecognizable—a mere speck against the clouds. If there were a creature. If it weren't a hallucination. No way to know now. He might as well give up and go back. Unless . . .what goes up must come down, eventually.
The creature had been attracted once to the steeple. Perhaps it would return. He was so close now, he might as well continue to the church. There was a porch where he could wait for the rain to stop. Perhaps he could sneak in and view the stained glass windows. They must be spectacular when lit by lightning. He'd come this far. He could afford to hang around a few minutes before heading back.
When Neal reached the church five minutes later, his resolve faltered for a moment. The dark edifice was lit only by a few low-wattage security lights. Not exactly appropriate behavior for an assistant professor of linguistics to be prowling around a boarded-up church in the middle of the night. Could he justify it on the grounds of scientific curiosity?
While he hesitated, the rain made the decision for him. It was now a downpour. The porch overhang was useless against the raging squall, and he'd ruin his camera if he stayed outside. Neal tested the front door, expecting to find it locked, but it wasn't. He exhaled in relief. Churches were supposed to provide sanctuary. St. Jude's would be a shelter from the storm.
Neal opened the door and froze. Someone was playing what sounded like a flute. It had an eerie tonal quality as if it were made from an unusual material like wood or bamboo. Had someone else sought refuge?
He listened for a moment at the doorway. The tune was nothing he recognized—a forlorn, haunting melody. The tonality sounded vaguely oriental.
When he walked inside, the music stopped. The cavernous interior of the church was dark with only the occasional flash of lightning providing illumination. The music he'd heard was probably just caused by the wind whistling through belfry and his overactive imagination.
The church was in worse shape than he'd expected. The wood pews were covered in a thick layer of dust. The shadowy columns rising high to the carved wood ceiling were draped with cobwebs. The windows, though, appeared undamaged. As Neal walked down the nave, lightning strikes transformed the windows into scintillating jewel-tone images.
When he reached the front of the church, a particularly brilliant bolt of lightning illuminated the stone altar. A reliquary of curious construction, its lid open, was resting on the center of the altar. Neal walked up the broad steps to examine it.
The dark metal glinted faintly even when not lit by lightning. Neal stood next to the altar and peered inside. Nestled on a cloth of black velvet was an immense ruby. It was about three inches high and had been cut into an irregular polyhedron. The intricate faceting made it appear to be lit by an internal fire. What else would cause it to shine with such brilliance in the obscurity of the church?
If it were genuine, its value would be enormous, but surely it was man-made. Neal removed the camera from around his neck and laid it beside the chest. He hadn't brought a flash attachment. If he tried to snap a photo, he'd probably only capture a red glow.
Neal stared deep into the heart of the crystal. The luminosity appeared to increase the longer he gazed upon it. Gradually ghost-like figures emerged within the crystal and began to pulsate. They had to be an optical illusion, but the dance was mesmerizing. Were those flutes they carried? He leaned closer to study them.
Whoosh!
Startled, he let out a cry. What happened? He was no longer looking at the crystal. He'd been sucked inside!
Instead of standing beside the altar, he was now on a rough stone landing some three feet square. When he looked up, he could discern through the lens of the ruby crystal the shape of the brass lantern hanging over the altar. On all four sides, slime-covered stone walls nearly twenty feet high pressed near him. Stairs stretched down into blackness beneath him.
Neal rubbed his eyes. This was impossible. He must be dreaming. But how could that be? He'd been awake only a minute ago. Had something in the dust caused him to pass out? But if that were the case why was he having such a vivid vision?
Still, even the slimmest of hopes that he was merely dreaming provided a measure of comfort. For the moment he could play along. He'd soon wake up and laugh about it. Neal probed the stone walls. Could he scale them and escape through the roof? He'd rather attempt a climb than chance the stairs. They evoked too many horrific memories of the stairwell at Abydos. When he sniffed the air, he could even detect a whiff of that fetid stench.
The walls were made of uneven stone blocks and in theory could be scaled, but the thick slime made them treacherous. After several failed attempts, he finally succeeded in climbing six feet up. He was now drenched in sweat which was making it even harder to cling to the surface. Neal set his jaw and reached up with his hand to find the next cranny when he felt a sharp bite on his wrist.
With a yell, he shook his hand frantically. Was that a rat or something worse? He was holding on by one hand but that couldn't last. Neal swung his other arm to find something—anything—to grasp, but his nails encountered only muck that oozed between his fingers and coated his arms. Losing his grip, he tumbled down hard onto the slippery steps. He must have slid another ten feet before he was able to stop his descent.
A clap of thunder sounded overhead and the darkness was pierced by a bolt of lightning. Neal took advantage of the light to look down. What he saw filled him with a fear that robbed him of his breath and made his senses reel. The pit at Abydos. It lapped at his feet, threatening to consume him. Those same loathsome shapes that had haunted his dreams were now reaching up for him, their gibbers and howls piercing his skull. Neal clung to the step. At Abydos he'd been able to climb out before descending into the pit. Here, what escape was there? The steps themselves slanted downward into the abyss. The only direction was down.
With renewed strength born out of sheer terror, he attempted to reverse course, but the steps were drenched in viscous sludge making traction impossible. On his hands and knees, his fingers scraped and bleeding, he hoisted himself up two steps when something lashed onto his ankle and wrapped itself around his leg. He looked back to see a dark tentacle as thick as his forearm squeezing his leg. A second tentacle whipped around his other leg and wrenched him down the steps, closer and closer to the pit.
The atmosphere had become a miasma reeking of decay that seared his lungs. The gibbering below was deafening.
He was being dragged into the abyss, and he was powerless to stop it.
Notes: Dark forces are at work in a church that didn't prove to be the sanctuary Neal was counting on. Diana dipped into H.P. Lovecraft's story "The Haunter of the Dark" for inspiration when she wrote the scenes in the church on Prospect Hill.