"Evil Dead: The Series" Episode 7.5
"The Sound Out Of Space"
By: Cathbad
FROM: yankeeskipper@shore.net
TO: EldStone@houhnym.com
SUBJECT: Want to work from home?!
IF YOU DON'T WANT TO EARN HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS A WEEK,
THEN SKIP THIS MESSAGE!
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
There. That should throw off any snoopers. I followed up on the Ash Williams tip.
He had been in Innsmouth, but he was gone by the time I got there. He had cut out early and went to Boston. I missed him there, too, but finally got a lead that he had journeyed on to Salem. I also missed him in Salem! (I'd be a good player on the Red Sox *lol*) But I did learn that Williams had spent time with Carter Phillips while in Salem. Phillips is (or was .. I'll get to that) a professor of history at Salem State College. I went to "interview" Phillips, and discovered that Phillips is no longer teaching at Salem. In fact, he's not teaching anywhere. He's locked up at Arkham Asylum - stark raving mad.
This development is tied into the time of Williams' appearance, and it is not a coincidence. Knowing that the professor wouldn't be home for a very long time, I took the liberty of "exploring" his home. I found material I'm sure you're interested in. Phillips wasn't just a professor of history - he was an amateur expert in antiquities. I am transcribing his journal, and will send the complete unabridged document when I am finished.
For now, I am sending you the pages relevant to Williams.
****
Carter's Journal - Volume 80
Let these last pages of my journal stand as a last testament to my sanity. This is the last statement of Professor Carter Phillips. I suppose the best place to start is the beginning. Refer to my journal, Vol 3 June 1949. Those events set the stage for the final events that culminated last evening.
Carter's Journal - Volume 3 (excerpts from his June 1949 entries - he would have been twelve years old at the time)
All the able-bodied men of Swiftbank are gathered in our living room and kitchen. The rest have spilled onto the front lawn. Mother sent me to bed, her eyes glazed in terror. I can hear the mutterings, and the fear is so thick I can almost smell it. Mr. Johnson says they are out in the Shunned Woods. Most people might think the men fear the woods, but they really fear that crazy wizard Slater (well, I call him a wizard, when no one is listening, of course) and his degenerate clan. Or the combination of both. Everyone just fell silent. Yes. The wind has shifted. We can almost hear the sounds now. Blasphemous chattering in the night skies. A cry has broken through the paralysis of fear! The men march! Mother won't be happy - neither will father, but I'll stick to the shadows and hang behind them - they won't even know I'm gone.
I got my first taste of war tonight. I imagine war must look something like what I saw - thirteen cultists shot dead. Well, almost thirteen. A few got away. That wouldn't be a concern, but Slater was one of them. We found them at the Stone Altar, deep in the woods. It was like going to church - only it was a diseased church of hell, concealed in the darkness of the Massachusetts night. There was wailing, crying, flagellation, cursing, and other things I've heard the older boys talk about. The village men rushed in and made mayhem with a tremendous noise. The cultists were armed with daggers, and some managed to strike before they were shot down.
Unfortunately, the vigilantes of Swiftbank struck too fast. There is a mystery now, and the men are willing to ignore it, but, for some undetermined reason, it disturbs me deeply. The radio. There was a radio set, perched as pretty as you please, on top of the mound, just behind the Stone Altar. The men smashed it to pieces in their frenzy. No one bothered to interrogate any of the cultists, nor did they bother to note the frequencies being broadcast. A foolhardy action!
I have suspicions that perhaps it was a short wave unit, for communications around the globe with other cults, but we'll never know. The radio was smashed beyond recognition.
I believe the men would have knocked down the stone altar, and tore down the small underground chamber (which creates the slight knoll under the altar where the radio was seated) as well, but their own superstitious fear kept them from touching those black rocks. Oh, outsiders, so-called men-of-science, will tell you that the altar was a "colonial cider press", and the chamber a "colonial root cellar". But any citizen of Swiftbank knows those rock formations are from the dawn of time. Even the Indians who lived here before the whites were unsure of the origin of the structures - their tribe never used stonework, and it was the Indians who named the place "The Shunned Woods".
Carter's Journal - Volume 80
Ash Williams was certainly not the first, and probably not the last, to be swallowed up by the winding streets of Salem. I found him wandering in the warren of streets behind Derby Street, where unwise tourists all too often stray from the painted red line that marks the walking tour route. He tried to put on an unconcerned facade, but he was definitely lost.
"Say, pal. Weren't the witches burned somewhere around here?" he asked me, immediately deflecting the conversation from the subject of his navigation, while at the same time gaining some perspective on his position.
A most clever man. I was fascinated at once.
"Actually," I smiled, "the witches of Salem weren't burned at all. They were hanged, and one was pressed. In fact, everything, except the hangings, didn't even take place in Salem."
I thought I made things quite clear, but Williams seemed more confused than before.
"Wait a minute, I thought Salem … all the witch stuff. You mean it's all a lark?"
"Not at all," I began to walk, surreptitiously leading the lost man back to the tourist trail. He quietly appreciated my discretion and followed. "The hangings took place in Salem proper, but Salem Village is where the trials were held. Salem Village today is the town of Danvers."
Williams nodded his head, though he was obviously perplexed.
"We have quite a lot of that," I laughed lightly. "If you haven't been to Boston yet, then be sure to see the Battle of Bunker Hill monument. They fought the battle on Breed's Hill, not Bunker Hill at all."
"I won't see Michigan soon enough." Williams commented wryly. After a moment, he asked, "What was that about 'one was pressed'?"
"Giles Cory. He wouldn't enter a plea." I explained. "In Puritan times, if you didn't enter a plea, they couldn't put you on trial. The method of getting a plea was to press the prisoner. They placed him between planks, and kept piling boulders on top, until they entered a plea, or died."
Williams seemed quietly horrified.
As was I, when I spotted Wizard Slater a few blocks away. He had scarcely aged since 1949, and should, by all rights, have been long dead.
Williams must have heard my gasp of surprise. "Someone you know?" he asked.
"A man of unspeakable evil." I replied.
"You haven't met my landlord." Williams quipped. I believe the man has a phrasebook of such retorts.
"Mister .. ?" I began.
"Williams. Ash Williams." Ash answered. "Just call me Ash."
"And you may call me 'Professor'. Professor Carter Phillips." I elucidated. "I'm sorry, Ash. I would very much like to lead you back to the center of town, but I must follow that man. I cannot let him escape."
"Who said I needed leading?" Ash wondered aloud. After a pause, he added; "Lead on, Professor," and we plunged headlong into the maze of Salem's darkest streets, in pursuit of the most dangerous being I had ever encountered.
Our meandering through the streets didn't come to halt until sunset. We had to be exceptionally cautious lest Slater realize he was being tailed. He finally entered a dilapidated triple-decker house that must have stood boarded up for twenty years.
Trying the handle we found the front door locked, Slater had no wish for intruders.
Despite the structure's decrepit appearance, the front door, covered with a curious shade of green peeled paint, proved robust enough not to yield to my physical entreaties.
"Allow me, Professor." Ash reached out, and for the first time I noticed that curious steel gauntlet, a true museum piece I'm sure, and grasped the knob. He gave a terrific torque, which did not succeed in opening the door, but did crush the knob and tear it off into his hand. The setback was only momentary. "Guess I'll just knock." Ash said, and punched a hole right where the doorknob had been. The door slammed out with a loud bang.
"No element of surprise any more," I sighed. Ash seemed unconcerned and sauntered through the doorway as if he owned the place.
There were no sounds at all. It was then that I noticed that even the street had been quiet. This was a long forgotten part of Salem. Even I was unsure of its history. The light-switches all failed to work. Electricity had been cut off long since. I did find an evil looking candelabrum, with a box of matches placed conveniently beside it. Candlelight shed no hint as to Slater's whereabouts, but all the windows and doors, save the one we had entered, were boarded. He had not left the house.
"Guess we check the second floor." Ash said and mounted the stairs. I was surprised at his natural leadership and his non-hesitancy. A reluctant hero, but when finally faced with a situation, he was fearless. It was just as well we had found each other. I was no longer a boy. If I had faced Slater alone, I would have been slaughtered. Not that I faired very well, but I am alive, aren't I?
The stairs creaked, rodents rustled in the walls. Slater might hear our approach, but we would certainly hear him. But there was no sign. No trail of footprints had been left in the layers of dust, yet the occasional dripped wax lead us to the third floor. And there we found the closet. A curious red glow emanating from the cracks of the closet door.
"Step back," Ash cautioned. He yanked open the door and quickly leaped backwards.
The closet was a simple closet, but it housed a swirling whirlpool of red and orange energy.
"Do you know what that is?" I asked my companion.
"A portal to someplace else." Ash replied flatly.
"You seem strangely versed in matters of darkness." I observed.
"Professor," Ash gave me a sideways glance, "You have no idea how much I hate these things." And with that, we both stepped into the portal.
I can't say that I was surprised to find myself standing in front of the Stone Altar in the Shunned Woods, some sixty miles away from Salem in sleepy hamlet of Swiftbank. Ash's expression did not show surprise either, even when I related our location, and its historical, evil significance. A semi-large satellite dish had been grafted onto its surface with the use of steel beams. Wiring could clearly be seen running from the dish, along the support scaffolding, and into the ground. I extinguished the candelabrum, which amazingly had not been blown out by the voyage through the portal. Allowing our eyes to adjust to the moonlight, I cautioned Ash, and we made our way around the backside of the knoll, where the entrance to the underground chamber was to be found.
"A radio in 1949, and a satellite dish in 1999. This Slater guy keeps up with technology." Ash commented.
"Yes, but what is he using the technology for, that's what we must know!" I said.
The underground chamber had indeed been rebuilt, stone by stone. But this time there was more, much more. The rocks had been smeared with a glowing mucous substance, which was horribly fetid. The chamber was only an antechamber. Beyond that hollow, a wide tunnel made its way underground, also aglow with the phosphorous substance, which made our task easier, though much more disturbing. The tunnel was thankfully direct, tough winding, and lead to one destination. Some seventy feet directly under the knoll and the Stone Altar, the tunnel opened into a wide cavern. One side of the cavern there stood an electrical generator, which ran with a quiet efficiency that was unfathomable. The other side of the chamber was lined with viewing monitors, stereo speakers, and computer equipment. Wires ran into the dirt ceiling to control the satellite dish above.
Slater sat in a chair, his gaunt face bathed in the pulsating glow of the screen. His dirty white hair sat in a tangled mess atop his head. He was thin and sickly, not as healthy as I had first taken him to be, but he basically had not changed since 1949. He should have been bones and ashes decades before. But above it all, his eyes shone with a wicked fire.
"Slater!" I hissed at the wizened old man. He slowly swiveled his chair around and took a measure of us.
"Phillips, isn't ye?" He inquired with an archaic Yankee accent. "Aye, that was the name. Your father led the group that night. Yes, that night!" Slater burst into maniacal laughter. His laugh sounded like a man whose sanity was on the verge of becoming unhinged.
Before I could reply, Ash cut in. "Look, Pops. I'm far from my motel, it's late, and I've got tourist things to do. If I want a crappy Pilgrim accent, I'll go to Plimouth (sic)
Plantation tomorrow."
"Who are ye?" Slater wondered. "I know you not."
"Williams, Ash Williams." Ash responded.
"Williams? A descendant of the heretic fool Roger Williams, no doubt." Slater's mouth curled in a cruel grin. "But we all know who the real heretics were, don't we? Those who worshipped Nyarlathotep, Cthulhu, Fy'marOnimhe! We were protected while those Salem fools turned their worship to their weakly Christian Satan!" Slater slipped into a giggling fit, laced with malice.
Even Ash raised an eyebrow as we both understood just how old Slater really was. I was a fool! To think Slater had only lived in the twentieth century! What forces kept him alive and protected him? What hellish blasphemies lurked just beyond our senses and our dimensions, waiting to pounce and rend us at his command? I soon beheld the answer as Ash pointed to a large tome that sat on a makeshift table. There was no mistaking the covering on the book. A hideous design, in a strange parchment rumored to be made from human skin, and its pages written in blood. The Necronomicon.
"Ah, shit." Ash stated. "Not again."
The speakers in the wall suddenly emitted a loud beep, and the cursor on the video monitors passed across the screen and left a message.
INCOMING SIGNAL.
"Yes, again, Williams!" Slater cried, and leaped out of his chair. Despite his fragility, he began to dance, if it could be called dancing. His flung his arms and legs wildly in the air. "At last! At last! But this will be the last time, Williams! This time, the transference into our world will be complete! They come! They come!" "We'll stop you!" I cried in a pathetic reply.
"Too late, Phillips! Too late!" He laughed and continued his prancing. "Kill me if you want. You can't kill _them_!" Slater now locked eyes with Ash while the rest of his body tossed about like a rag doll. "They're here! They're here! They're here!"
"So am I," Ash noted with a grimace. He curled his gruesomely powerful right hand into a fist and caved in Slater's face, sending the wizard sprawling across the room, smashing into the far wall, and dropping dead.
A broken hiss of static broke the sudden silence. The video monitors displays were scrambled. The speakers rattled. And then it happened. They were coming. The sounds were unearthly, unspeakable and indescribable. I realized that I could smell the sounds that were floating in the air. I could taste parts of the static lines on the display monitors. I saw the sounds, and they were more hideous than the creatures that broadcast the sounds. My mind became unraveled, but for a brief moment it was all so clear. The radio in 1949. A signal. A homing beacon. Slater didn't read spells from the Necronomicon, he used the tome as a guide to program his computer! Somehow, They had followed the radio beam from Outside. Such a signal should take an eternity to travel through space, but the signal had found a passageway. Perhaps a blackhole or a wormhole. No incantations. No sacrifices. Just an ethereal guide wire for the Old Ones to follow.
The terror I felt must surely have shown on my face. Ash took one look at me, and moved into action. He clutched the computer keyboard and smashed it into the main monitor in a show of sparks and smoke. He used his steel fist repeatedly to destroy the speaker cones. The chair he hurled against the electrical generator, and a bank of monitors went blank. All the while the fabric of our Universe was warped and violated as _They_ struggled to come through. Ash finally yanked the wires from the ceiling, deadening the satellite dish, breaking the tether and leaving Them blind again. The cries from the crawling Chaos mercifully stopped. But my mind will never be the same again.
We sat exhausted crumpled on the ground aside one another. One or two of the monitors still flickered, and one speaker still spat static. "That was close." I breathed.
Ash gave me a stare as if I was an ignorant child. "Professor," he said methodically, "It ain't over 'til the fat corpse sings."
There was a rustle of cloth behind us and then an ungodly screech as Slater's body rose to the ceiling. The corpse faced us from its lofty perch, and a bony finger stabbed out towards us.
"We'll suck your souls!" the broken face croaked hoarsely. The hair tossed about as if it were in a windstorm. Other sounds issued from the area, and the corpse was surround by an evil blue aura.
"What?" I gasped. "Slater?"
"Not Slater, animated corpse." Ash informed me calmly.
"One got through?" I cried in horror.
"One always gets through." Ash stated as he lifted himself from the dirt floor with a grunt. "Don't worry, Professor. It's just a foot soldier, not one of the big guys."
The corpse swooped down like a bird of prey. Ash crouched while at the same time allowing his fist to drive upwards, catching the corpse in the chest. It rolled over in its flight, and smashed into the wall. It quickly composed itself, and approached Ash on foot.
Ash circled away slowly, sizing up his supernatural opponent.
"We are Legion!" the corpse screamed.
"And I'm the French foreign legion - we always win in the good movies." Ash said. He followed with a roundhouse punch from his metal fist that sent the corpse spinning. It was a curious thing to see a dizzy, possessed corpse. Ash grabbed the disoriented creature by the back, and ran its head through one of the remaining live monitors. There was yet another explosion of sparks, and the smell of charred flesh. The corpse slipped to the ground and twitched.
"You might have to dismember it." I told Ash.
"Nervous system overload." He said, pointing at the twitching, but otherwise docile corpse. "Even the demon can't use the body now." There was another night rending screech from the corpse as some form of energy burst forth from its mouth and dispersed in the air. "Besides, I left my good chainsaw in my motel room." Ash noted, and I think he was serious.
Ash made to leave. I snatched up the Necronomicon.
"Be careful with that thing." Ash admonished me.
"We don't have a car. I'll have to open a portal back to Salem." I informed him.
"Don't forget the 'Niktu' part. Please don't forget the 'Niktu' part." Ash muttered as we made our way out from the cavern.
This is the last tale I have to tell. The portal was easily opened and returned us to the abandoned building in Salem. I kept a hold of my sanity and my façade for as long as possible and bid Ash goodnight at his motel. I would like to correspond with the gentleman, I feel I can teach him a lot, and he can do the physical work, but it is not to be. Ash Williams saved my mind from utter obliteration, but he could not save me from the ravages of partial insanity. My mind becomes crazed at random times, and soon I must be put away for the safety of all. So concludes the final statement of Carter Phillips.
****
There you have it. This is the real mccoy. I visited Phillips at the asylum, and his psyche is shattered. He must have written his "statement" while clutching the very last thread of his sanity and concentration. You should see his eyes .. then again, you probably shouldn't. He definitely saw something no man should see. It's a wonder to me that
Williams' sanity remains intact.
A couple of curious sidenotes before I close out; first - there is no mention of Williams' companion at all. I know she was with him in Innsmouth, and by all descriptions, she left with him on the train back to Michigan. I wonder what she was up to?
Second - I found and explored the megalithic site at the reservation. It is just as Phillips described, but there was no electronic equipment to be found. Phillips didn't have time to go back (and his barmy mind couldn't have handled seeing that place again, anyway), and Williams sure doesn't seem like the kind of guy who bothers to clean up his own messes (he was on the train back to Michigan the next day, anyway). So, who cleaned up after them? The Shunned Woods are just that, nobody goes there. I might have a clue. I did find one tiny piece of plastic. It was labeled with the GlobeCo symbol. I looked them up, and besides owning S-Mart they have many varied interests - including electronics and lasers. -But-, they don't sell their electronics to the public. In other words, you can't walk into RadioShanty and buy a GlobeCo transistor. I believe this bears investigation (what can I say? I'm a conspiracy theorist with a capital 'P' for 'paranoid'! *lol*)
'til the Truth be known,
YankeeSkipper
==============
FROM: EldStone@houhnym.com
TO: yankeeskipper@shore.net
SUBJECT: Re: Want to work from home?!
Dear YS,
Thanks for the information. Yes, Williams is quite the character, and these pages are a welcome addition to our portfolio concerning the man (I look forward to the rest of Phillips' journal as well). His mental constitution is as unflagging as his physical constitution. It doesn't surprise me that what cracked Phillips' mind didn't even faze Williams.
Not sure about his companion - maybe she was just ill and stayed in that day.
As to GlobeCo, what you present isn't much to go on. I'm afraid I can't even call it evidence. For all we know, those remains are from a wastebasket bought at S-Mart. Even us conspiracy theorists must remember what Freud said -
"Sometimes a big corporation is just a big corporation." g
Thanks again - keep your reports coming.
Cordially,
Eldridge Stone, esq.
"The Sound Out Of Space"
By: Cathbad
FROM: yankeeskipper@shore.net
TO: EldStone@houhnym.com
SUBJECT: Want to work from home?!
IF YOU DON'T WANT TO EARN HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS A WEEK,
THEN SKIP THIS MESSAGE!
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
There. That should throw off any snoopers. I followed up on the Ash Williams tip.
He had been in Innsmouth, but he was gone by the time I got there. He had cut out early and went to Boston. I missed him there, too, but finally got a lead that he had journeyed on to Salem. I also missed him in Salem! (I'd be a good player on the Red Sox *lol*) But I did learn that Williams had spent time with Carter Phillips while in Salem. Phillips is (or was .. I'll get to that) a professor of history at Salem State College. I went to "interview" Phillips, and discovered that Phillips is no longer teaching at Salem. In fact, he's not teaching anywhere. He's locked up at Arkham Asylum - stark raving mad.
This development is tied into the time of Williams' appearance, and it is not a coincidence. Knowing that the professor wouldn't be home for a very long time, I took the liberty of "exploring" his home. I found material I'm sure you're interested in. Phillips wasn't just a professor of history - he was an amateur expert in antiquities. I am transcribing his journal, and will send the complete unabridged document when I am finished.
For now, I am sending you the pages relevant to Williams.
****
Carter's Journal - Volume 80
Let these last pages of my journal stand as a last testament to my sanity. This is the last statement of Professor Carter Phillips. I suppose the best place to start is the beginning. Refer to my journal, Vol 3 June 1949. Those events set the stage for the final events that culminated last evening.
Carter's Journal - Volume 3 (excerpts from his June 1949 entries - he would have been twelve years old at the time)
All the able-bodied men of Swiftbank are gathered in our living room and kitchen. The rest have spilled onto the front lawn. Mother sent me to bed, her eyes glazed in terror. I can hear the mutterings, and the fear is so thick I can almost smell it. Mr. Johnson says they are out in the Shunned Woods. Most people might think the men fear the woods, but they really fear that crazy wizard Slater (well, I call him a wizard, when no one is listening, of course) and his degenerate clan. Or the combination of both. Everyone just fell silent. Yes. The wind has shifted. We can almost hear the sounds now. Blasphemous chattering in the night skies. A cry has broken through the paralysis of fear! The men march! Mother won't be happy - neither will father, but I'll stick to the shadows and hang behind them - they won't even know I'm gone.
I got my first taste of war tonight. I imagine war must look something like what I saw - thirteen cultists shot dead. Well, almost thirteen. A few got away. That wouldn't be a concern, but Slater was one of them. We found them at the Stone Altar, deep in the woods. It was like going to church - only it was a diseased church of hell, concealed in the darkness of the Massachusetts night. There was wailing, crying, flagellation, cursing, and other things I've heard the older boys talk about. The village men rushed in and made mayhem with a tremendous noise. The cultists were armed with daggers, and some managed to strike before they were shot down.
Unfortunately, the vigilantes of Swiftbank struck too fast. There is a mystery now, and the men are willing to ignore it, but, for some undetermined reason, it disturbs me deeply. The radio. There was a radio set, perched as pretty as you please, on top of the mound, just behind the Stone Altar. The men smashed it to pieces in their frenzy. No one bothered to interrogate any of the cultists, nor did they bother to note the frequencies being broadcast. A foolhardy action!
I have suspicions that perhaps it was a short wave unit, for communications around the globe with other cults, but we'll never know. The radio was smashed beyond recognition.
I believe the men would have knocked down the stone altar, and tore down the small underground chamber (which creates the slight knoll under the altar where the radio was seated) as well, but their own superstitious fear kept them from touching those black rocks. Oh, outsiders, so-called men-of-science, will tell you that the altar was a "colonial cider press", and the chamber a "colonial root cellar". But any citizen of Swiftbank knows those rock formations are from the dawn of time. Even the Indians who lived here before the whites were unsure of the origin of the structures - their tribe never used stonework, and it was the Indians who named the place "The Shunned Woods".
Carter's Journal - Volume 80
Ash Williams was certainly not the first, and probably not the last, to be swallowed up by the winding streets of Salem. I found him wandering in the warren of streets behind Derby Street, where unwise tourists all too often stray from the painted red line that marks the walking tour route. He tried to put on an unconcerned facade, but he was definitely lost.
"Say, pal. Weren't the witches burned somewhere around here?" he asked me, immediately deflecting the conversation from the subject of his navigation, while at the same time gaining some perspective on his position.
A most clever man. I was fascinated at once.
"Actually," I smiled, "the witches of Salem weren't burned at all. They were hanged, and one was pressed. In fact, everything, except the hangings, didn't even take place in Salem."
I thought I made things quite clear, but Williams seemed more confused than before.
"Wait a minute, I thought Salem … all the witch stuff. You mean it's all a lark?"
"Not at all," I began to walk, surreptitiously leading the lost man back to the tourist trail. He quietly appreciated my discretion and followed. "The hangings took place in Salem proper, but Salem Village is where the trials were held. Salem Village today is the town of Danvers."
Williams nodded his head, though he was obviously perplexed.
"We have quite a lot of that," I laughed lightly. "If you haven't been to Boston yet, then be sure to see the Battle of Bunker Hill monument. They fought the battle on Breed's Hill, not Bunker Hill at all."
"I won't see Michigan soon enough." Williams commented wryly. After a moment, he asked, "What was that about 'one was pressed'?"
"Giles Cory. He wouldn't enter a plea." I explained. "In Puritan times, if you didn't enter a plea, they couldn't put you on trial. The method of getting a plea was to press the prisoner. They placed him between planks, and kept piling boulders on top, until they entered a plea, or died."
Williams seemed quietly horrified.
As was I, when I spotted Wizard Slater a few blocks away. He had scarcely aged since 1949, and should, by all rights, have been long dead.
Williams must have heard my gasp of surprise. "Someone you know?" he asked.
"A man of unspeakable evil." I replied.
"You haven't met my landlord." Williams quipped. I believe the man has a phrasebook of such retorts.
"Mister .. ?" I began.
"Williams. Ash Williams." Ash answered. "Just call me Ash."
"And you may call me 'Professor'. Professor Carter Phillips." I elucidated. "I'm sorry, Ash. I would very much like to lead you back to the center of town, but I must follow that man. I cannot let him escape."
"Who said I needed leading?" Ash wondered aloud. After a pause, he added; "Lead on, Professor," and we plunged headlong into the maze of Salem's darkest streets, in pursuit of the most dangerous being I had ever encountered.
Our meandering through the streets didn't come to halt until sunset. We had to be exceptionally cautious lest Slater realize he was being tailed. He finally entered a dilapidated triple-decker house that must have stood boarded up for twenty years.
Trying the handle we found the front door locked, Slater had no wish for intruders.
Despite the structure's decrepit appearance, the front door, covered with a curious shade of green peeled paint, proved robust enough not to yield to my physical entreaties.
"Allow me, Professor." Ash reached out, and for the first time I noticed that curious steel gauntlet, a true museum piece I'm sure, and grasped the knob. He gave a terrific torque, which did not succeed in opening the door, but did crush the knob and tear it off into his hand. The setback was only momentary. "Guess I'll just knock." Ash said, and punched a hole right where the doorknob had been. The door slammed out with a loud bang.
"No element of surprise any more," I sighed. Ash seemed unconcerned and sauntered through the doorway as if he owned the place.
There were no sounds at all. It was then that I noticed that even the street had been quiet. This was a long forgotten part of Salem. Even I was unsure of its history. The light-switches all failed to work. Electricity had been cut off long since. I did find an evil looking candelabrum, with a box of matches placed conveniently beside it. Candlelight shed no hint as to Slater's whereabouts, but all the windows and doors, save the one we had entered, were boarded. He had not left the house.
"Guess we check the second floor." Ash said and mounted the stairs. I was surprised at his natural leadership and his non-hesitancy. A reluctant hero, but when finally faced with a situation, he was fearless. It was just as well we had found each other. I was no longer a boy. If I had faced Slater alone, I would have been slaughtered. Not that I faired very well, but I am alive, aren't I?
The stairs creaked, rodents rustled in the walls. Slater might hear our approach, but we would certainly hear him. But there was no sign. No trail of footprints had been left in the layers of dust, yet the occasional dripped wax lead us to the third floor. And there we found the closet. A curious red glow emanating from the cracks of the closet door.
"Step back," Ash cautioned. He yanked open the door and quickly leaped backwards.
The closet was a simple closet, but it housed a swirling whirlpool of red and orange energy.
"Do you know what that is?" I asked my companion.
"A portal to someplace else." Ash replied flatly.
"You seem strangely versed in matters of darkness." I observed.
"Professor," Ash gave me a sideways glance, "You have no idea how much I hate these things." And with that, we both stepped into the portal.
I can't say that I was surprised to find myself standing in front of the Stone Altar in the Shunned Woods, some sixty miles away from Salem in sleepy hamlet of Swiftbank. Ash's expression did not show surprise either, even when I related our location, and its historical, evil significance. A semi-large satellite dish had been grafted onto its surface with the use of steel beams. Wiring could clearly be seen running from the dish, along the support scaffolding, and into the ground. I extinguished the candelabrum, which amazingly had not been blown out by the voyage through the portal. Allowing our eyes to adjust to the moonlight, I cautioned Ash, and we made our way around the backside of the knoll, where the entrance to the underground chamber was to be found.
"A radio in 1949, and a satellite dish in 1999. This Slater guy keeps up with technology." Ash commented.
"Yes, but what is he using the technology for, that's what we must know!" I said.
The underground chamber had indeed been rebuilt, stone by stone. But this time there was more, much more. The rocks had been smeared with a glowing mucous substance, which was horribly fetid. The chamber was only an antechamber. Beyond that hollow, a wide tunnel made its way underground, also aglow with the phosphorous substance, which made our task easier, though much more disturbing. The tunnel was thankfully direct, tough winding, and lead to one destination. Some seventy feet directly under the knoll and the Stone Altar, the tunnel opened into a wide cavern. One side of the cavern there stood an electrical generator, which ran with a quiet efficiency that was unfathomable. The other side of the chamber was lined with viewing monitors, stereo speakers, and computer equipment. Wires ran into the dirt ceiling to control the satellite dish above.
Slater sat in a chair, his gaunt face bathed in the pulsating glow of the screen. His dirty white hair sat in a tangled mess atop his head. He was thin and sickly, not as healthy as I had first taken him to be, but he basically had not changed since 1949. He should have been bones and ashes decades before. But above it all, his eyes shone with a wicked fire.
"Slater!" I hissed at the wizened old man. He slowly swiveled his chair around and took a measure of us.
"Phillips, isn't ye?" He inquired with an archaic Yankee accent. "Aye, that was the name. Your father led the group that night. Yes, that night!" Slater burst into maniacal laughter. His laugh sounded like a man whose sanity was on the verge of becoming unhinged.
Before I could reply, Ash cut in. "Look, Pops. I'm far from my motel, it's late, and I've got tourist things to do. If I want a crappy Pilgrim accent, I'll go to Plimouth (sic)
Plantation tomorrow."
"Who are ye?" Slater wondered. "I know you not."
"Williams, Ash Williams." Ash responded.
"Williams? A descendant of the heretic fool Roger Williams, no doubt." Slater's mouth curled in a cruel grin. "But we all know who the real heretics were, don't we? Those who worshipped Nyarlathotep, Cthulhu, Fy'marOnimhe! We were protected while those Salem fools turned their worship to their weakly Christian Satan!" Slater slipped into a giggling fit, laced with malice.
Even Ash raised an eyebrow as we both understood just how old Slater really was. I was a fool! To think Slater had only lived in the twentieth century! What forces kept him alive and protected him? What hellish blasphemies lurked just beyond our senses and our dimensions, waiting to pounce and rend us at his command? I soon beheld the answer as Ash pointed to a large tome that sat on a makeshift table. There was no mistaking the covering on the book. A hideous design, in a strange parchment rumored to be made from human skin, and its pages written in blood. The Necronomicon.
"Ah, shit." Ash stated. "Not again."
The speakers in the wall suddenly emitted a loud beep, and the cursor on the video monitors passed across the screen and left a message.
INCOMING SIGNAL.
"Yes, again, Williams!" Slater cried, and leaped out of his chair. Despite his fragility, he began to dance, if it could be called dancing. His flung his arms and legs wildly in the air. "At last! At last! But this will be the last time, Williams! This time, the transference into our world will be complete! They come! They come!" "We'll stop you!" I cried in a pathetic reply.
"Too late, Phillips! Too late!" He laughed and continued his prancing. "Kill me if you want. You can't kill _them_!" Slater now locked eyes with Ash while the rest of his body tossed about like a rag doll. "They're here! They're here! They're here!"
"So am I," Ash noted with a grimace. He curled his gruesomely powerful right hand into a fist and caved in Slater's face, sending the wizard sprawling across the room, smashing into the far wall, and dropping dead.
A broken hiss of static broke the sudden silence. The video monitors displays were scrambled. The speakers rattled. And then it happened. They were coming. The sounds were unearthly, unspeakable and indescribable. I realized that I could smell the sounds that were floating in the air. I could taste parts of the static lines on the display monitors. I saw the sounds, and they were more hideous than the creatures that broadcast the sounds. My mind became unraveled, but for a brief moment it was all so clear. The radio in 1949. A signal. A homing beacon. Slater didn't read spells from the Necronomicon, he used the tome as a guide to program his computer! Somehow, They had followed the radio beam from Outside. Such a signal should take an eternity to travel through space, but the signal had found a passageway. Perhaps a blackhole or a wormhole. No incantations. No sacrifices. Just an ethereal guide wire for the Old Ones to follow.
The terror I felt must surely have shown on my face. Ash took one look at me, and moved into action. He clutched the computer keyboard and smashed it into the main monitor in a show of sparks and smoke. He used his steel fist repeatedly to destroy the speaker cones. The chair he hurled against the electrical generator, and a bank of monitors went blank. All the while the fabric of our Universe was warped and violated as _They_ struggled to come through. Ash finally yanked the wires from the ceiling, deadening the satellite dish, breaking the tether and leaving Them blind again. The cries from the crawling Chaos mercifully stopped. But my mind will never be the same again.
We sat exhausted crumpled on the ground aside one another. One or two of the monitors still flickered, and one speaker still spat static. "That was close." I breathed.
Ash gave me a stare as if I was an ignorant child. "Professor," he said methodically, "It ain't over 'til the fat corpse sings."
There was a rustle of cloth behind us and then an ungodly screech as Slater's body rose to the ceiling. The corpse faced us from its lofty perch, and a bony finger stabbed out towards us.
"We'll suck your souls!" the broken face croaked hoarsely. The hair tossed about as if it were in a windstorm. Other sounds issued from the area, and the corpse was surround by an evil blue aura.
"What?" I gasped. "Slater?"
"Not Slater, animated corpse." Ash informed me calmly.
"One got through?" I cried in horror.
"One always gets through." Ash stated as he lifted himself from the dirt floor with a grunt. "Don't worry, Professor. It's just a foot soldier, not one of the big guys."
The corpse swooped down like a bird of prey. Ash crouched while at the same time allowing his fist to drive upwards, catching the corpse in the chest. It rolled over in its flight, and smashed into the wall. It quickly composed itself, and approached Ash on foot.
Ash circled away slowly, sizing up his supernatural opponent.
"We are Legion!" the corpse screamed.
"And I'm the French foreign legion - we always win in the good movies." Ash said. He followed with a roundhouse punch from his metal fist that sent the corpse spinning. It was a curious thing to see a dizzy, possessed corpse. Ash grabbed the disoriented creature by the back, and ran its head through one of the remaining live monitors. There was yet another explosion of sparks, and the smell of charred flesh. The corpse slipped to the ground and twitched.
"You might have to dismember it." I told Ash.
"Nervous system overload." He said, pointing at the twitching, but otherwise docile corpse. "Even the demon can't use the body now." There was another night rending screech from the corpse as some form of energy burst forth from its mouth and dispersed in the air. "Besides, I left my good chainsaw in my motel room." Ash noted, and I think he was serious.
Ash made to leave. I snatched up the Necronomicon.
"Be careful with that thing." Ash admonished me.
"We don't have a car. I'll have to open a portal back to Salem." I informed him.
"Don't forget the 'Niktu' part. Please don't forget the 'Niktu' part." Ash muttered as we made our way out from the cavern.
This is the last tale I have to tell. The portal was easily opened and returned us to the abandoned building in Salem. I kept a hold of my sanity and my façade for as long as possible and bid Ash goodnight at his motel. I would like to correspond with the gentleman, I feel I can teach him a lot, and he can do the physical work, but it is not to be. Ash Williams saved my mind from utter obliteration, but he could not save me from the ravages of partial insanity. My mind becomes crazed at random times, and soon I must be put away for the safety of all. So concludes the final statement of Carter Phillips.
****
There you have it. This is the real mccoy. I visited Phillips at the asylum, and his psyche is shattered. He must have written his "statement" while clutching the very last thread of his sanity and concentration. You should see his eyes .. then again, you probably shouldn't. He definitely saw something no man should see. It's a wonder to me that
Williams' sanity remains intact.
A couple of curious sidenotes before I close out; first - there is no mention of Williams' companion at all. I know she was with him in Innsmouth, and by all descriptions, she left with him on the train back to Michigan. I wonder what she was up to?
Second - I found and explored the megalithic site at the reservation. It is just as Phillips described, but there was no electronic equipment to be found. Phillips didn't have time to go back (and his barmy mind couldn't have handled seeing that place again, anyway), and Williams sure doesn't seem like the kind of guy who bothers to clean up his own messes (he was on the train back to Michigan the next day, anyway). So, who cleaned up after them? The Shunned Woods are just that, nobody goes there. I might have a clue. I did find one tiny piece of plastic. It was labeled with the GlobeCo symbol. I looked them up, and besides owning S-Mart they have many varied interests - including electronics and lasers. -But-, they don't sell their electronics to the public. In other words, you can't walk into RadioShanty and buy a GlobeCo transistor. I believe this bears investigation (what can I say? I'm a conspiracy theorist with a capital 'P' for 'paranoid'! *lol*)
'til the Truth be known,
YankeeSkipper
==============
FROM: EldStone@houhnym.com
TO: yankeeskipper@shore.net
SUBJECT: Re: Want to work from home?!
Dear YS,
Thanks for the information. Yes, Williams is quite the character, and these pages are a welcome addition to our portfolio concerning the man (I look forward to the rest of Phillips' journal as well). His mental constitution is as unflagging as his physical constitution. It doesn't surprise me that what cracked Phillips' mind didn't even faze Williams.
Not sure about his companion - maybe she was just ill and stayed in that day.
As to GlobeCo, what you present isn't much to go on. I'm afraid I can't even call it evidence. For all we know, those remains are from a wastebasket bought at S-Mart. Even us conspiracy theorists must remember what Freud said -
"Sometimes a big corporation is just a big corporation." g
Thanks again - keep your reports coming.
Cordially,
Eldridge Stone, esq.