He Who Walks in Shadow (2 page)

Were it not for a chance encounter on a storm-wracked shore with four men who had faced the darkest of evils in their past, Thayerson might have accomplished his goal and opened the gate to the crawling chaos that waits in the vast emptiness of the cosmos. He might have seen it through even then, were brave men not ready to do all that was necessary as the future balanced on a knife’s edge. For it was sacrifice that was required to send the dead city of R'lyeh back to the depths from whence it came. And it was only sacrifice that could silence what was awoken in the great citadel of that place, on that day when the stars came right and words were spoken that could have brought an end to all things.

Carter and I stood against the darkness that day. He recorded the history of our struggle many years later, on the very eve of his disappearance. The authorities called the words he wrote evidence of his madness. Perhaps there is no man alive but I who knows the bitter truth of those pages. The manuscript was to have been destroyed, but Carter was too wise to allow that to happen. I found it, just as he intended. And while much of the story was known to me, in its final pages I found a clue to the disappearance of Carter Weston.

From that clue I came to the strong conviction that Carter was alive. Weakened perhaps. In grave and deadly danger, certainly. But alive. For it was that accursed tome,
Incendium Maleficarum
,
that his enemies sought, and no man knows better its workings than Carter. Now the book is seeking again, seeking a way to bring forth the Old Ones from their exile and their slumber. I would pursue it in any event, but I know that where I find the book, I will find Carter also.

I will keep a record of my efforts, as Carter would undoubtedly want. And when my journey is completed, no matter what the outcome, I will share that story with the world. But as a story is seldom told well when presented from only one perspective, I shall include whatever documents I deem relevant—edited, of course, to eliminate the redundant or the mundane—including my own commentary and the journal of Carter Weston himself, for his words were always strangely prescient and his foreknowledge uncanny. I hope that my readers will forgive an old man the clumsiness of his pen.

For now, perhaps it is best to begin at the beginning, on that horrible day when my greatest friend simply vanished.

--Henry Armitage

Journal of Henry Armitage

December 15, 1932

For the first time in my life, words fail me. It has been a terrible day, one that will remain etched in my memory for as long as breath fills my lungs. Yet it is important to write it all down, lest time forget events that history witnessed. In any event, whatever is begun today, it will not end soon, and I fear it will not end well.

I visited Professor Carter Weston’s office early this morning. Last week, we had planned to meet and discuss a class we are to teach together during the Spring term—a critical examination of Cotton Mather’s
Wonders of the Invisible World.
I thought it strange that I had not seen Carter in the intervening time. It was rare that we went even a day without speaking to each other in some capacity. But I brushed it off, prepared to explain it away as work getting the better of him. I know more than most how terribly busy he has been.

It was rather early when I arrived at Dexter-Ward Hall, the sun having only just peeked over the trees that bordered Miskatonic Yard. It was a bitterly cold day; a week of unseasonably warm weather had given way to a howling blizzard the day and night before, and great mounds of snow made walking treacherous. But my preoccupation with my own difficulties was rather short-lived. They vanished when I realized Dexter-Ward sat quite empty.

The front doors were locked, and I opened them with my key, astonished that Carter had not preceded me. He had always been an early-riser, and I fully expected to find him waiting for me inside. And yet, as I entered, the only sound I heard in the darkened corridors of DW was the slamming of the door behind me.

I felt it then, as many who have stumbled upon a crime scene often claim. An energy in the air, a foreboding. A sense that something was off, that something was terribly wrong. I did not run to Carter’s office. There seemed no reason to hurry, and I needed every ounce of resolve just to put one foot in front of the other.

Carter’s office was at the end of the second-floor corridor. In the state I was in, it seemed like the longest hallway I had ever seen. Carter’s door danced in front of me, swaying from side to side in my vision, but never really getting any closer. Yet long before I was ready, I found myself standing there, hand on the doorknob. All I had to do was turn. I did so. The lock was not engaged.

The door opened.

The office was empty.

I actually laughed out loud, standing there on the threshold, feeling foolish for my irrational concerns. Of course, Carter was just late. Nothing more than that. Nothing more sinister, nothing more unusual. And were it not for the envelope sitting on Carter’s desk, the one that bore my name written in the angular pen of my good friend, perhaps I would have continued in my ignorance for hours more.

I picked it up, studied it, wondered why it would be waiting for me, here of all places. Everything in my being rebelled against opening it, even though I knew I had no choice. Inside was a letter, written in the same hand as my name on the envelope. I have recorded the contents below.

14 December 1932

My dearest Henry,

If you are reading this—and quite honestly, I have no reason to imagine you are not—then you have discovered that I am missing. My time is short. A week ago, I received a visitation from one who would have the book. The
Incendium Maleficarum
seeks its owner, Henry. It seeks the one through which it can do the most harm, the one through which the gates can be opened and the Old Ones restored.

And its true owner hears its song.

I have heard that song for the last forty years. I never knew the reason, and I tried not to question why the book chose me. But when that man, when Erich Zann entered my office, the song of the book ceased. I must believe it sang for another. I must believe he heard it in his own ears.

That was seven days ago. Over the last week I have committed our story—and the story of the finding of the book—to the written page. You will find two copies in my wall safe, the combination which you know. Leave one. It is my hope that my executors will see fit to publish the truth to the world. If they should fail, I hope that you will do what they will not.

But whatever the case may be, you must follow this Zann and stop him from using the book. The fate of the world may depend on your efforts. I’m sorry I could not tell you sooner, but you know the price one pays for denying the book what it seeks. Zann will take possession of the
Incendium Maleficarum
. He will likely kill me in the process, or the book and the dark forces it serves will punish me for my impudence. But whatever the case, Zann’s plans will only have begun.

I need not tell you about the signs we have witnessed these past few decades. I need not remind you of what we have faced, what we have lost. The portents are all come to pass. The harbinger will return. There’s no one left but you to stand in his way. I only wish I could be there to stand with you.

Godspeed, my friend.

Carter Weston

The last few words I read with trembling hands. Could it be so? Could he be gone? And worst of all, could someone else have the
Incendium Maleficarum
? I opened the wall safe, and just as Carter had written, there were two manuscripts within. I took one, leaving the other behind. I put the letter in my pocket and called the police.

That was this morning. I left the police to their investigation, though I am certain that they will find nothing. No, I am the only one fit to undertake this task. I am no fool, however. I know that the difficulties I face will be arduous, and I fear that my age may prevent me from accomplishing that which must be done. This is a journey that I cannot make alone. Fortunately, there is one other in this world who cares for Carter as much as I—his daughter, Rachel. I only pray God that she can be made to forget and forgive the past.

For while Carter gave her life and love, it was also he who took them both away from her.

* * *

Arkham Advertiser
, July 23, 1933, Page A-3

A ceremony conducted at Christchurch Cemetery on Saturday evening brought to a close a story that we at the
Arkham Advertiser
have been following with great interest these past six months. In a service conducted by the Rev. Alfred Pickman, the late Prof. Carter Weston of Miskatonic University was eulogized in a memorial that was among the more unusual we have witnessed here in Arkham. For while the family and friends of Prof. Weston were well in attendance, the Professor himself was notably absent.

As regular readers and Arkham familiars will well remember, Prof. Weston vanished mysteriously some six months ago. A search of his office and his home revealed no signs of break-in or other foul play, and police reports indicate that the Professor left no clue as to his whereabouts.

Intrepid reporting by this paper’s crack staff revealed, however, that Prof. Weston did leave behind a rambling manuscript, written in haste and locked within the wall safe of his office. While the
Advertiser
has been stymied in our attempts to obtain a copy of that manuscript, our sources indicate that it included fantastic tales, stories that strained credulity, even by the standards of the hardened veterans of the Arkham police department. Despite our best efforts, the
Advertiser
has been unable to ascertain further the contents of this cryptic document, and it is our understanding that it was destroyed at the behest of the Weston estate.

With no evidence of Weston’s whereabouts, certain distant family members and creditors of the professor moved for a declaration of death. As his only surviving daughter, Mrs. Rachel Jones (née Weston), did not object, a certificate of death was entered. This action was taken despite the protestations of Prof. Henry Armitage—also of Miskatonic—who has been adamant in his contention that Prof. Weston is, indeed, still alive.

While Saturday’s memorial brings the matter to an official close, we at the
Arkham Advertiser
will be ever vigilant in discovering and reporting any new information to our faithful subscribers.

Journal of Henry Armitage

July 21, 1933

This morning, after the service at Christchurch ended, I found Rachel where I expected her, at her high-gabled home on Lich Street, not a stone’s throw from the Miskatonic campus. Knowing Rachel as I did, I prepared myself for a battle.

Six months had passed since Carter’s disappearance, and despite my eagerness to begin the mission he had left behind for me, I’d been unable to discuss it with Rachel. There was always an excuse, always a reason not to talk to me. With her father’s disappearance and the ongoing investigation into his whereabouts—and the court fight that followed—I couldn’t rightly blame her, nor could I force her to hear me out. Now that the so-called “memorial service” was over I had to press the issue. Striking out on my own would be as foolhardy as it would be impotent. No, I had to have Rachel’s help. Everything depended on it.

I had barely knocked before she answered the door with a smile, and somehow that worried me all the more. But even dressed in black with her chestnut brown hair pulled back in a bun, there was something enchanting about her, a gift from her mother’s side of the family. I felt my guard slip. Perhaps she would be more willing to help than I had hoped.

“Henry. Somehow I knew I’d see you today. Come in.” I followed her into the kitchen where she was making a late lunch, or perhaps an early dinner. “Care for a brandy?” she asked. “I know that was always your favorite…and my father’s.”

“That’ll be all right, Rachel.”

“Speaking of my father,” she said, “we missed you at the funeral.” As she spoke she removed a knife from a block and returned to slicing a pile of vegetables, a project that, given the pile of half-cut carrots, potatoes, and other sundries, I had apparently interrupted.

I smiled, without mirth. “I seriously doubt that anyone, present company excluded, missed me today.”

“Well, Henry, you have been making quite a bit of trouble for my wretched family. And among the few of them who didn’t just want their cut of his money, jealousy can be expected. After all, my father loved you more than most.” She gathered up a handful of vegetables and dropped them in a simmering broth.

“But not more than you, of course.”

Rachel looked at me and grinned. “You’re up to something, Henry. I can tell. You were never good at flattery.”

“And you are as perceptive as ever. Actually, Rachel, I was hoping that you could help me with something very important. I understand that you have some time, now that you’ve quit your job at the
Advertiser
.”