Chapter 6: A Zoog on His Shoulder

Chad leaned against the side of the parked van. On a Sunday evening, Birch Street was deserted. No light inside the boarded-up house. It was eight o'clock. Keller must already be inside.

No cars on the street. No one walking his dog. No one to see him. He crossed the street and strolled up to the front door. As expected, Keller had left the front door unlocked.

He climbed the three flights of stairs to the back room. Dust was thick on the steps. Mixed in with the footprints were the same claw marks he'd noticed earlier. When he'd asked Keller about them, his only comment had been a snarky laugh. Probably rats, but by the size of the prints they must be huge. He thought back on the large one he'd spotted a few nights ago at Sharkey's. Was Arkham being overrun by a new breed of supersized vermin?

Chad paused before opening the door. Something about the room always gave him the creeps. The glow coming from under the door alerted him Keller was already there. Shaking off his nerves, he walked in.

Keller was standing by the table. What was that on his shoulder? A rat? All Chad could see was its back and long naked tail. It was about the size of a monkey. When he first met Keller, he'd wanted to nickname him Ratso. He hadn't known how appropriate that was. He knew Keller liked to hide in the sewers, but a rat for a pet?

It looked like it was whispering in Keller's ear, but upon Chad's arrival, it turned to stare at him. Chad jumped back, letting out a curse. Yellow eyes locked on him, but they weren't what made his stomach turn. Were those worms? Tentacles? Whatever they were, they covered its snout.

"What's the matter?" Keller rasped. "You don't like my friend?"

"What is that thing?"

"This is a zoog. You should like him. He's the one who supplies us with the moon-tree wine you're so fond of." The zoog fluttered in his ear. "He wants you to approach."

Chad swallowed and stepped closer. The zoog jumped on his shoulder. Chad prided himself on being scared of nothing, but this? He tried not to flinch as the zoog nibbled his ear.

"Ow!" He tossed the zoog off and felt his ear. It was slick with blood. "That piece of vermin chomped on my ear!"

The zoog scurried back up his leg and onto his shoulder.

"Stop your bellyaching and don't insult him. So what if zoogs want a little something in return for their moon-tree wine? It's a small price to pay. Listen up. We got new instructions. We're not to hit the Nautical Shop again. The cops may be watching it. We're to focus on increasing the ranks for the next crime spree. We'll meet back here on Wednesday evening, at nine o'clock."

"Recruiting's gone well. I have several novitiates ready to join." The zoog was breathing in his ear. Its fur felt coarse and harsh on Chad's skin. Its breath reeked of fish. Was that what it lived on when there were no ears to mutilate?

"You're doing well, acolyte. Keep that up and you'll be ready for the next step."

"And more moon-tree wine?"

"We can't leave it alone, can we?" Keller smirked. "We'll drink to our new members after the ceremony."

#

Neal stopped off at the police station on Monday morning to retrieve a photo of the starfish. He wasn't surprised that Diana didn't refer to ghasts in her report. It was enough to know she believed him.

But that didn't mean she eased off with the pressure. Every time she saw him, she demanded to know if he'd able been able to decipher the script. Neal wondered what Diana had been like in college. Had she driven her professors crazy too? Luckily, he didn't have any Dianas in his classes.

Not that his students weren't demanding. Neal had set aside Tuesday afternoon to meet with them but he might have to extend that to a second day. He'd asked Peter how to handle the pressure of overwrought students, and Peter had lectured him about being too soft on them. Coddling was the word he'd used. Peter warned him to establish limits or he could be overwhelmed.

When Tuesday afternoon arrived, Neal was braced for the onslaught. He'd announced a strict five-minute limit for each student. Last week had been a disaster. He'd wound up staying into the evening simply to see everyone in line. In preparation for today, he'd bought a sand timer for his desk. That seemed friendlier than having to constantly glance at his watch. His tiny office barely had the room for an additional chair. Already he could hear the footsteps and chatter outside his door. The students formed a blur of colorful shapes through the frosted glass panel.

Time to release the hounds. He opened the door and welcomed the first student, trying not to be dismayed at the long line waiting to see him. Did they all have to be women?

#

In retrospect, the timer might not have been a good idea. Each student insisted on staying till the last grain of sand had fallen. Neal wound up putting it away after the first thirty minutes. Neal brushed the hair off his forehead, letting out his frustration in a long, satisfyingly noisy exhale. The last woman he'd had to dismiss early. Never again would he assign Anglo-Saxon love poetry to a group of female students.

He stood up to stretch his legs and glanced at his porthole of a window, suppressing the impulse to bolt through it. Realistically, he'd never fit. If only he could poof his way free . . . Why couldn't algolnium have given him something useful like the ability to disappear at will rather than simply being able to go on polar expeditions with Peter?

He heard the door open and hurriedly composed his features into a welcoming smile.

"I didn't know if I was going to be able to see you or not," a familiar voice said. "What a horde!"

Neal spun around, his smile turning into a grin. "Good to see you, Sara! You mean you've been waiting outside all this time?"

She nodded. "I suspect you'll be relieved to hear I was the last one in line. Your ordeal is almost over." She took a seat, looking amused. She was wearing a turquoise turtleneck and plaid skirt, looking very much like one of the students. "Waiting in line was quite an education."

Neal sat down at his desk. "I imagine it was. You never studied Anglo-Saxon, did you?"

She dissolved into laughter. "You think that's what they were talking about?"

"Sure. That's why they were coming to see me—to discuss their coursework."

Sara rolled her eyes at him. "They were far more interested in making poetry with you. You really are clueless, aren't you?"

"You mean they weren't picturing Beowulf in front of them?"

"Hmmm. 'His blue eyes, an ocean of love, set my heart on fire' seemed to be a common line." She snickered. "I see that grin on your face. You're pulling my leg."

"I'm not quite as naive as you seem to believe. Any tips on how to get them to focus on their assignments instead of on me?"

"Find a girlfriend," she said promptly. "Then they'll know you're already spoken for and they'll lay off."

"That's not happening. I'll just pile on their assignments so they won't have time for anything else."

"Good luck with that." She studied him for a moment. Neal recognized that look. Something devious was coming. "You know you don't have to acquire a real girlfriend. You could fake it."

"Con them? I'm not sure that's the proper way for a teacher to treat his students."

She gave a sly smile. "Could be fun. I bet you'd make a great con man if you'd just loosen up a bit. You had me going for a minute. Let me know if you decide to try."

"Are you offering to be my fake girlfriend?"

Sara paused to consider. "I don't have any prospects at the moment. Why not?"

"You're not pining after any jocks?"

"I'm in between. We could always break up if one came along. Why don't we take the idea on a test drive? We could go to the coffeehouse on Friday night."

Peter had said he should fake it. Sara was willing to go along. Neal hesitated for only a second before making up his mind. "I have something even better. Peter has a couple of extra tickets for the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young concert this Saturday. If you don't have anything better to do, would you like to come?"

Her eyes danced at the prospect. "Are you kidding? I'd love it."

"This is just friends going to a concert. Nothing else," he reminded her.

She made a face. "Jeez, you really know how to take the fun out of fake dates. How are we going to convince your students? Would a little hand-holding kill you?"

He laughed. "I suppose I could manage that. Was this why you came to see me? To ask me out to the coffeehouse?"

"Not quite. I want to interview you. I figured if I called to set up an appointment, you'd probably make an excuse like you always do and duck out."

He winced. "Sorry. I didn't—"

"Forget it," she said, dismissing his lame excuse before he could make it. "I realize you were simply too bashful to ask me out on a fake date."

He glared at her. "Before you start casting aspersions, I'd like to—"

"Give it up as a lost cause," Sara said, rolling her eyes. "No wonder I always rejected your advances."

"And what advances would those be?" Neal demanded. Was she deliberately trying to be annoying?

She grinned. "Our first fight and we haven't even had our first fake date. I'm going to enjoy this." She pulled out her notebook. "If you don't want me to bring up the reprehensible state of your dating skills, you'll need to fill me in on what happened at The Nautical Shop."

He crossed his arms. "You undoubtedly read the police report. I don't have anything to add."

"I read it all right. How's your head? The report said you suffered a concussion."

"You probably think I plan to use it as an excuse for not asking you out."

Sara frowned. "Believe it or not, I'd like to make sure my fake date doesn't keel over before we ever have that date."

"I'm fine, thanks. As for what happened at the shop, I don't have anything to add. The police believe it was an attempted burglary. Peter and I happened to walk by and got mixed up in it. End of story."

"That seems to happen to you two a lot. This is, what, the second incident in two weeks? Or are there even more that I don't know about?" Sara tapped with her pen impatiently on her notepad. "Perhaps I should start following you around and see who attacks you next. At least that way, I won't be shut out."

"Even if I knew more about the case, I couldn't tell you. You've met Detective Diana Briscoe. I'm not getting on her wrong side."

She sighed. "She may read you the riot act, but she doesn't intimidate me."

"Tough girl, huh?"

"Oh yeah. I'm going undercover next week. I should get some tats I suppose."

Neal frowned in disapproval. "No tats, please. My fake dates don't have tats. What are you investigating?"

"So now you're the one with questions?" She grinned. "I'll be generous and answer you. Then you'll see how it's done. There are rumors of gang activity on the waterfront. I plan to write an exposé—my first. I'm going to work as a bartender at Sharkey's."

"Tell me you're joking! It's in one of the worst sections of town. Your paper is constantly carrying stories about criminal activity in the wharf district."

"That's why I want to work there. Have you forgotten all the courses on martial arts I took at Miskatonic? I can take care of myself." She stood up. "But I'm touched, honestly."

Neal rose too. "I thought you took all those classes to protect yourself from the jocks you were dating."

"Ha, ha. See ya around, Carter. Let me know what time and where we'll meet for that fake date." Sara opened the door a crack and peered around the frame. "The coast is clear. You better scram while you can."

After she left, Neal sat down to put away his papers. Was this what it was like to have a sister? An annoyance and a worry. Why did she have to pick the waterfront district for her exposé?

He reached for the phone to call Peter. They better not have given away that fourth ticket.

#

Luckily, Peter and El hadn't given away the ticket, and Neal appreciated that Peter restrained himself to a minimal amount of teasing. He gave himself high marks for handling the change in plans so well, passing it off as simply friends going to a concert together, which of course it was. When he and Peter walked to lunch the next day, Peter didn't even bring it up.

Meeting Mozzie for a late lunch on Wednesday afternoons was becoming a weekly tradition. Cyrus joined them when he was free.

On this Wednesday it was just the three of them. As usual, Mozzie insisted on the Sentinel Alehouse. The booths were comfortable and provided a measure of privacy, but Mozzie had another motive. Neal had been eating meatloaf at the establishment when he had a vision of Seth Whateley being murdered at the bookstore. Mozzie hypothesized a connection to meatloaf despite all of Neal's objections that his visions didn't work that way.

"Just this once, let me pick the halibut instead," Neal pleaded. "You could call it a control experiment."

Mozzie considered his suggestion for a moment. "An intriguing concept that the wormhole which manifested itself in your meatloaf has moved on to another dish. Quantum theory points out the difficulty of assigning any precise location on the quantum level. What if a singularity was affecting the meatloaf wormhole?"

"Does that mean I can order the halibut?" Mozzie paused just long enough for him to add, "I'm taking that as a yes, and please don't stare at me the whole time I'm eating it. It's creepy."

After Joanie took their orders, Mozzie said, "Cyrus and I went by the Nautical Shop yesterday evening and conducted readings designed to detect any unusual radiation or other anomalies. The results were all negative."

"You're keeping that armillary sphere safe, I hope," Peter said. "Diana mentioned that if you'd like to keep it in the police vault—"

"Oh sure, so it could disappear with a poof along with the starfish." Mozzie shook his head emphatically. "It will be much more secure with me. I count it as one of the most profound disappointments of my life that I missed out on seeing the ghast on Friday. I shall not rest—nor shall Starman—until I see a ghast with my own eyes."

Neal sighed. "Please don't call me that," he objected even though he knew it was a futile effort.

Mozzie stared at him. "Why not? That's a badge of honor. Have you even read the Starman comics?"

"I've been a little busy. Not much time for comic books."

"Well, you should have taken time. I'll correct that. Starman was a brilliant astronomer and inventor. You would do well to emulate him."

Peter snorted. "You realize that description sounds much more appropriate for you? Are you secretly Arkham's astronomer crime fighter?"

"You mock me, but I'm not the one supercharged with algolnium. Neal is and it's time for him to assume his destiny."

Neal dropped his face in his hands, hoping that no one had overheard.

Mozzie didn't let up. He tapped him on the shoulder. "Embrace your heritage. I'm envious."

"What does this new appearance of a ghast signify to you?" Peter asked, providing a welcome diversion.

"It adds additional weight to my theory that ghasts are making use of a wormhole to travel between parallel universes. Their molecular structure is sufficiently unstable to prevent them from manifesting themselves for very long. I suspect the algolnium in their body chemistry is affected by Neal's." Mozzie slapped the table with excitement. "What if ghasts are composed not of the algolnium in Neal, but a heavier version with extra protons? Yes, that could cause spontaneous . . ." Mozzie whipped out a pen and scribbled onto his napkin.

They continued to debate wormholes and parallel universes during lunch. Mozzie preferred to order spaghetti and meatballs because he liked to construct 5-D objects out of his spaghetti noodles. He claimed that Calabi-Yau manifolds were best illustrated by noodles dipped in marinara sauce. Mozzie was currently working on something he called M-theory which would unify all versions of superstring theory. M-Theory, as Mozzie reminded him, was not to be confused with their A-Theory speculations in Cyrus's lab over the weekend. The science behind M-Theory was beyond Neal's level to comprehend, but he enjoyed hearing Mozzie expound on it. It made Neal's own goal to decipher the starfish language seem more achievable.

Peter had uncovered more information about the Plateau of Leng in an obscure nineteenth-century text, Unaussprechliche Kulte by von Junzt. The eccentric German philosopher had made a study of secret societies throughout the world. "Von Junzt wrote about a Mongolian sect who mentioned a monastery of ice on top of the plateau," Peter said. "According to the account, the monastery was guarded by immense birds called shantaks."

"Perhaps that was what Neal saw flying around the church steeple," Mozzie mused.

Neal turned to Peter. "Did von Junzt describe them?"

"Supposedly shantaks are dull-red in color with short stubby tails."

"That doesn't sound like what I saw," Neal said, disappointed. "The creature at the church was gray and possessed a long whip-like tail."

"Keep an eye to the sky," Mozzie admonished. "You may have another sighting."

Neal decided not to mention that lately he was paying more attention to what might be lurking behind bushes than anything circling overhead. "Have you discovered anything about the armillary sphere?"

"I'm glad you asked. Caleb told me he'd found it in an antique store in Providence but didn't know anything about its history. When I researched it in the vault, I found a copy of the same treatise which had been stolen from Hiram Whateley's bookstore. It has a detailed illustration of a device that is identical to our sphere. The author claims it was once owned by Heinrich Agrippa. Agrippa was an occult philosopher and astrologer in the fifteenth century. He was rumored to be an alchemist. I don't agree with everything he wrote, of course. He argued for the theological and moral superiority of women over men—something I find highly suspect—but his works on the occult were seminal in our understanding of magic and demons."

Peter looked at him, startled. "Do you believe in magic?"

Mozzie shrugged. "Much of what we take for granted today would have been called magic in early eras. El probably would have been burnt as a witch for her skills as a doctor." He pointed his pasta-laden fork at Peter. "In the Middle Ages, those ghasts would have been called demons or minions of Satan."

Peter scowled. "I see no reason to bring witches and demons into the discussion."

"Would you prefer extraterrestrials?" Mozzie challenged. "How about Gods from Outer Space? You can't deny the linkage." He moved his plate aside and reached for a cocktail napkin. "You interrupted before I could tell you the most interesting part. I discovered a small symbol on the armillary sphere. It was engraved on the underneath side of the band depicting the celestial longitude." He pulled out his fountain pen and carefully drew a design on the napkin which he then passed to Peter.

Peter stared at it, swallowing his bite of meatloaf in an audible gulp. Neal reached for the napkin to see what he'd drawn. "It's a starfish!"

He beamed. "Precisely, and not just any starfish but one with tadpole tails like the artifact from Abydos."

"As well as the starfish left at crime scenes and drawn on Neolithic potsherds from the Mediterranean," Peter said, still staring at Mozzie's napkin with amazement.

"How large was it?" Neal asked.

"A half-inch. I used a magnifying glass to make sure I was viewing it accurately. That the starfish is on an object owned by Agrippa has far-reaching consequences. This symbol could be the origin of the pentagram. Agrippa was one of those who pointed out its significance."

Their lunches always proceeded in a similar manner. They started on one topic that then led to widely divergent areas of speculation. As they walked back to the university from the alehouse, they continued to discuss the significance of the starfish symbol on the armillary sphere.

The starfish symbol didn't exist in cuneiform or hieroglyphics. Neal suspected it was meant not to convey a sound but a meaning. On one of the pottery fragments Peter had shown him, it could be taken as a seal, perhaps to establish ownership. But that was as far as Neal had gotten. He was beginning to see starfish wherever he looked.

"Neal, you're not paying attention," Mozzie complained. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"Sorry." Mozzie was right. He'd been distracted, unsettled. Neal stopped to scan the people on the street.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked in an undertone.

About twenty feet away behind him, Neal spotted his quarry. The man was tall and lean to the point of being cadaverous—a fitting attribute. He wore a lumberjack flannel shirt in a faded red-plaid over a turtleneck, making him easy to identify. He'd passed them a few minutes ago. Neal jerked his head in the man's direction and whispered, "The guy in the red flannel shirt? He's a ghast."

"How can you tell?" Mozzie whispered back.

"It's as if a light flickers on every few seconds to reveal his true form."

"He looks normal," Peter said. "Perhaps because it's daylight? The Necronomicon mentioned that ghasts can't tolerate bright light. He may have to keep his ghast identity hidden within his host."

They reversed direction to follow the ghast. Trinity Avenue was crowded with pedestrians. Their quarry showed no sign of being aware of them.

"Notice that book he's carrying," Mozzie muttered. "What's a workman doing with that?"

Mozzie was right. The book appeared ancient—a large thick volume bound in black leather and embossed with gold. It looked like it belonged in the library vault, not being carried carelessly under someone's arm.

The ghast was heading down Trinity Avenue away from the university campus. Neal had never tailed anyone, human or ghast. Should he be reading a newspaper while he walked? Plainly, there'd been some deficiencies in his education. "Have you ever tailed someone?" he asked Peter.

"Never, and why are we following him? Shouldn't we be calling Diana instead?"

"Oh, sure," Mozzie jeered. "Tell her what? That Neal just saw a ghast? She'd hang up on you. We have no proof. Besides, if you stop to call, we'll lose him. I don't see any phone booths around here. You'd have to go into a store, wasting precious minutes. But go ahead if you want to. Neal and I will continue our pursuit."

"You're not going without me," Peter retorted. "You wouldn't think twice about leading Neal straight into danger. Someone needs to be a voice of reason."

"Hey, I can take care of myself," Neal objected. "Besides, we'll lose him for sure if we just stand here arguing." The ghast had turned the corner to go up Birch Street, a road leading uphill and out of town.

"Follow me," Mozzie ordered. He proceeded to chart a zigzag course, darting between storefronts and parked vehicles. Occasionally he stopped to read a display only to dash off once more.

Neal and Peter did their best to keep up with him, but Neal was feeling more foolish by the minute. Calling Diana was beginning to sound like a terrific idea.

"Where'd he learn this stuff?" Peter muttered to Neal when they'd paused behind a VW bus.

"I'm not sure. From watching TV?"

The ghast continued striding briskly up the hill. The houses lining the street were old rambling Victorian structures, many in need of repair. A few near Trinity Avenue had been taken over by fraternities.

After several blocks, the ghast stopped at a large 3-story house and turned onto the front walk. Neal stood behind a delivery truck with Peter and Mozzie as they waited to see what he'd do next.

The house was in a dilapidated condition with many of the windows boarded up. What windows could be seen had broken panes or were missing glass altogether. Unkempt shrubbery surrounded the place. Long ago it must have been an elegant residence. Wrought-iron finials were on the dormer windows adorning the mansard roof. A small belvedere was perched on the roof like a top hat. The few sickly trees in front had already shed most of their leaves.

The ghast paused at the front door and fished into his pocket. Pulling out a key, he inserted it into the lock and went inside.

"What do we do now, Kojak?" Peter asked.

"Case the joint," Mozzie promptly replied. "Did either of you bring a pair of binoculars?"

"Gosh, no. I didn't realize I'd be conducting surveillance on a lumberjack-ghast," Neal said. "Next time I'll remember."

"Don't beat yourself up," Mozzie said, completely missing his sarcasm. "It's a common rookie mistake. You'll do better next time. And from now on, just so you know, you're welcome to order halibut in addition to meatloaf."

"Guys, we need to focus," Peter said.

"I agree," Mozzie said unexpectedly. "There's not much we can do now. We should come back tonight. If there are no lights on, we'll know no one is inside. Once we've searched it for clues, you can call the fuzz if you like."

Mozzie's penchant for outdated slang had taken on a new robustness over the past few weeks.

"We're not in a Keystone Cops movie," Peter scolded. "You haven't seen a ghast, but I have and we don't have any business confronting one by ourselves in the dark."

"What will happen if you call the coppers? The ghast looks like a regular person. You'll lose all your credibility."

"Quiet!" Neal hissed. "He's leaving." Their quarry had exited the house with another man who was shorter and wore a pea-jacket. They approached an old Plymouth sedan parked in front of the house and drove off. As the car passed them, Neal tried to read the license plate, but the numbers were covered in mud.

"I don't think the other man was a ghast," Neal said. "I wasn't able to study him for very long but I didn't sense anything unusual."

"What time should we meet tonight?" Mozzie asked.

Peter glared at him. "We shouldn't attempt anything on our own. We have to inform Diana."

"Since you're such an expert on the law, answer me this," Mozzie demanded. "How will the lady cop be able to obtain a warrant? What evidence can she provide? I've researched the legality of searches, and I know coppers can't enter one's home—pawing through one's treasures—without strong evidence."

"Something you no doubt have plenty of experience with from your years with the antiwar movement. How many times were you arrested?"

"I wear those arrests as a badge of honor," Mozzie retorted hotly.

"Can we stop fighting the Vietnam War a moment to decide what to do?" Neal pleaded. "Folks will wonder why we're standing behind this truck."

"I'll be here at eight o'clock tonight," Mozzie declared. "Who wants to join me?"

Notes: The book Peter mentioned, Unassprechliche Kulte, appeared in several Lovecraft stories. Its author, Friedrich Wilhelm von Junzt, met a gruesome fate in a locked room. The account is in "The Black Stone," a short story by Robert Howard. The secrets of the locked room in the house on Birch Street are about to be revealed.

M-Theory was first announced by Edward Witten in 1995. Witten was vague as to the meaning of "M," saying it could refer to magic, mystery, or membrane. He didn't deny that it could also refer to Mozzie.

Kojak was a popular TV crime series in 1975. The star was a colorful police lieutenant named Theo Kojak.