We spent the rest of the day interviewing the two Macario boys after receiving permission from their guardians in Baltimore. But the two children knew nothing other than dreaming about a strange man with burning eyes.
As I drove Augustine back to my parent's mansion, we began to formulate what we would do the following day.
"You may meet me in the library tomorrow afternoon." Augustine answered.
"The library? What will you find there?"
"Any historical items on the Corbitt house."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Use your computer to find any archived newspaper articles for any previous incidents at the Corbitt house."
"So you actually want me to use the Internet eh? I guess technology does have some uses in our investigations after all." I chided.
"To a certain degree, yes. That's why I need you for that."
I adjusted the dials on the car radio. "So what kind of music do you like?"
"I'm afraid my kind of music wouldn't be found on the airwaves." Augustine smiled.
"Come on. Arkham County has got many varied radio stations for every taste."
"Not for my tastes. I prefer Gregorian chants. In Latin."
"Gregorian chants? Monk music?" I was surprised.
"Yes. It soothes the soul."
The next morning, I had returned to my office and fired up the computer. Having gotten on the Internet, I quickly located the website for the Boston Tattler, the venerable newspaper that had been providing information for the people of Arkham for over one hundred years. After logging in, I quickly searched the archives section for any information on the Corbitt house. What I found did not disappoint me.
Other than the Macario incident that happened several months before, there were other tragedies that had happened to the previous tenants of that accursed house. As far back as 1880 a family of French immigrants had moved into the house but fled not soon after because of a series of violent accidents that left the parents dead and three children crippled. The house then stood vacant for almost thirty years after that.
In 1909 another family moved in, and immediately fell prey to illnesses. In 1914, the oldest brother went mad and killed himself with a kitchen knife, and the heartbroken family moved out. In 1953, a third family rented the house, but they left almost immediately, after they all became ill at the same time. But what was truly frightening was that the Tattler's archival records go back no further because of a fire that destroyed a number of records in 1878. Did the Corbitt house exist earlier than that?
My suspicions were further reinforced when I met Augustine for lunch. He had spent the entire morning looking for any records in the library and he came up with some startling revelations after I had disclosed my own findings to him.
"Have you found out anything about the Corbitt house?" I asked as we were having our coffee.
"Yes. I found quite a bit of information."
"Such as?"
"Well, first of all, I know why it's called the Corbitt house."
He had my full attention now. "Go on."
"It was built in 1835 by an unnamed, prosperous merchant but he fell ill almost immediately and sold it to a certain Mr. Walter Corbitt, esquire."
"Walter Corbitt. We may need to go to the City Hall to see if we can find something on him."
"Yes, but there is more. In 1852 Walter Corbitt is sued by his neighbors."
"Sued? For what?"
Augustine closed his eyes as he recalled the exact words. "Apparently his neighbors made a petition to force him to leave the area in consequence of his sickening habits and inauspicious demeanor."
"So what happened?" I asked.
"Corbitt apparently won the lawsuit. His obituary in 1866 states that he still lived in the same place. Library records also stated that there was a second lawsuit being waged."
"Another one after he died? What for?"
"To prevent Corbitt from being buried in his basement, as provided by his will."
"Who won this lawsuit?"
"No further records were found." Augustine answered.
"So we don't know whether he was buried there or not. Wonderful. What should we do now?"
"The Hall of Records."
The City Hall of Arkham County was only a short distance away from the restaurant so we decided that a quick walk should be sufficient. As we spent the afternoon combing through the records, other strange facts appeared. It seemed that the executor of Walter Corbitt's will was a certain Reverend Michael Thomas, pastor of the Chapel of Contemplation & Church of Our Lord Granter of Secrets. The register of churches notes the closure of the Chapel of contemplation as well as the excommunication of Reverend Thomas in 1912.
As the afternoon sun waned, Augustine was able to find an obscure constabulary record that dealt with a secret police raid on the Chapel of Contemplation. Apparently the police raid was occasioned by affidavits from townsfolk swearing that members of the church were responsible for the disappearances of neighborhood children. During the raid three policemen and seventeen cult members were killed by either gunplay or fire. Although 54 members of the church were ultimately arrested, all but eight were released. It seemed from the records that there was a massive cover-up and that this story never saw print in the newspapers at the time. Did this mean that the church had some very influential members of the community among them? The records seemed to tell us no more.
Pastor Michael Thomas was apparently arrested and sentenced to forty years in prison on five counts of second-degree murder. He escaped from prison in 1917 and was never heard from again.
Dusk had finally arrived as we stood in front of a burnt-out lot in the east side of the town. Apparently these ruins are what were left of the Chapel of Contemplation. The former walls and foundation seemed more like natural stone cliffs due to their age. As we began to poke around I had a strange sensation that I could not quite place, as if the spirit within me was crying out a warning for me not to linger on too long in this accursed place. As I shook my head, Augustine called out to me that he had found a half buried trap door. With my help we both uncovered it and it had seemed to lead into a basement.
As we gingerly stepped down into the musty cellar with our flashlights leading the way, I could still smell the soot from the fire that happened nearly a century ago. We also found two skeletons dressed in fragments of black silk robes, these corpses were apparently cultist who hid here during the raid and had died in the fire. Augustine had taken something from the altar in the center of the room and went over to me.
He beckoned to me. "Look at this."
It looked like a book bound in black leather. Augustine sifted through its moldy pages as if he was possessed.
"It looks like a book of some kind." I said.
"It's a journal of a certain Mr. Walter Corbitt."
"What does it say?" I asked.
"The last entry is quite interesting. If I am not mistaken, it was written by Pastor Thomas himself." Augustine explained.
"And?"
"It states that Walter Corbitt was indeed buried in the basement of his own house in accordance with his wishes and with the wishes of that One Who Waits in the Dark."
Night had finally fallen as we made our way to the Corbitt house. I had a flashlight with me but I had also decided to bring along my pistol just in case. Augustine was dressed entirely in black and was carrying a wrapped bundle in addition to his flashlight.
Augustine's voice was nearly a whisper. "Whatever happens, it ends tonight."
I merely nodded. There wasn't anything else that needed to be said.
As we came through the front door and began to make our way towards the stairwell to the basement, we began to hear loud crashing noises from the upstairs bedrooms. As the noises seemed to reverberate louder, I pulled out my pistol for it seemed that the noises had began to come our way, as if something was daring us to venture upstairs. As I began to go upstairs, Augustine placed his hand on my shoulder.
"No, leave it. The basement is the key." He shouted.
As we made our way down the stairs to the basement, the floorboards seemed to creak and sway and I almost fell down the long flight of stairs had it not been for Augustine's timely intervention. It seemed that Mr. Corbitt was trying his best not to let us go any further as even our flashlights began to dim despite the fact that we had fresh batteries installed on them.
We had finally made it into the basement but it seemed to be a dead end. The floor was solid concrete; it would take days for us to smash through the foundation. But it was then that I had noticed something, the horrid smell that had plagued me the first night I had spent in this house assaulted my nostrils and made me want to vomit. Augustine made me sit for a while as he began poking around the smallish room while the crashing noise upstairs continued to reverberate as if to distract us from our hellish task. Finding a metal spade, Augustine began to smash the concrete flooring but he was making little head way as the flooring was thick. Soon however, his persistence paid off as he slowly began to chip the rock solid floor as the noise from above continued to assault our eardrums.
It was then that I had noticed a small rat crawl out of the east wall that was made out of wood. It had apparently made a little crawl space. All of a sudden my thoughts had coalesced into one terrifying conclusion. Corbitt was not underneath the room; he was beside it.
The next few moments I can hardly recall, as the noise upstairs was deafening yet I began tearing at the wooden planks that characterized the east wall until I at last made a crawl space that I was able to edge through and was now into a smaller room that had adjoined the basement. My flashlight's rays had dimmed to that of a small candle and as I scanned the room I noticed that it had ghostly faces painted on its walls. My body seemed to swoon as my senses began to slow, almost as if a spell had been cast at me. As I turned my head slowly I noticed that there was a narrow wooden pallet on the other side of the chamber.
Lying on the pallet was a shrunken corpse. It was naked and shriveled, with a skin like parched leather. My body seemed to move in slow motion that I had thought I was dreaming when the figure suddenly got up and shuffled towards me. I can see that it had wide-flaring, saucer like eyes. It had lost all its hair and the shrunken gums made its teeth look quite long. A sweet, rotting smell came from it as it cackled and growled as it came ever closer. I could barely move my hand to reach for my gun as it locked its hideous claws around my neck.
The next thing I remember was that I was lying on the chamber floor; surrounded by tiny skeletons of dead rats as Augustine stood over me and helped me up. I asked him what had happened and he mentioned that I fell unconscious as he decapitated the walking corpse with his blessed sword.
A grateful Mr. Valdemar sold the Corbitt house at a profit several weeks later. I was paid in full and given a bonus for my successful investigation in proving that the house wasn't haunted. Augustine and I kept the incident in the basement as our secret. Within a few months it will be torn down to make way for a strip mall. The City Council wanted to revitalize the area in order to bring new business into it.
Since that time, I have had recurring nightmares as well as spending some time in Arkham Asylum. Alcohol and drugs has done much to make me forget about that terrifying night but there are times that I wake up in the dark of the night in a cold sweat thinking that Corbitt was making his way to my bedside.
I will never forget the words of Augustine as he explained what Corbitt was up to. "In his quest for immortality, Corbitt was a sorcerer in the process of transforming himself into something entirely inhuman."
So you don't believe me?
But you must. Here. Look at my throat. Notice the long scars there? Don't listen to the doctors who say that I did that myself. It was none other than Corbitt you know. You must believe me.
So you have to go now? Very well. But just do me a favor, okay?
Don't turn off the lights please. I beg of you.
I can't stand the dark. He waits for me in the dark.