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THE HOUSE, (part 2 of 3), a tale of Flocking Bay

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THE HOUSE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

7357 words

Written 1990

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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All sorts of Fan activity, Fiction, Art, Cosplay, Music, or any other thing is actively encouraged!

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Next, I began to check the walls for hidden panels or the like. The walls of the parlor, sitting room, and kitchen were smooth with elaborate flocked paper. The wainscots were all of solid, if elaborate, woodwork. That left the study, dining room, and library. I set eagerly to work. The paneled walls of the study proved depressingly solid.

I was delighted when I finally found the basement stair in the library. A bookcase camouflaged a hidden door with the spring catch concealed as one of the few knots visible anywhere in the wood of the house.

Flashlight in hand, I ventured down the short flight of stairs. The basement proved to be small and bare. It had mortared stone walls and a cement floor. There were no hiding places, even the space under the stairs was empty, no rats, no dust, and no cobwebs … Slowly I went back up the stairs to the library.

I put away my flashlight and went to the study to look at the land records again. The papers revealed that the house’s first buyer was George Oates. His brother and sole heir sold the house seven years later. His name was Harold.

As I am something of a bibliophile, I decided to give the house’s library a detailed look. I was more than pleasantly surprised. Not one book was published later than 1866. Many were far older. Some of the books went back to the 1400’s. Mr. Wickes was apparently somewhat dishonest, intellectually. He had signed and dated the flyleaf of each book, for example, “Hiram Wickes, acquir’d 1565.” Some of the dates went back to 1540 in books published from 1483 to 1497. He would have to have been over 300 years old, if the inscriptions were true.

Hiram was heavily into the occult. There was little that did not pertain to the various occult ‘sciences.’ Even the books in foreign tongues, and there were many, had illustrations that indicated that they belonged to this awesome collection of lore. The impression was that Hiram had read all or most of this collection. His marginal notes were in a wide range of languages, often not the language of the book in question. From scanning the shelves, I deduced that there were over twenty five hundred books in the library.

My near drenching of the day before had taught me that it was wise to take my car into town. Mrs. Alderman greeted me at the slightly shabby old counter that served the library for a check-out desk. “My goodness, young man, how did you get on when the power went out? I have a gas range, ‘cause you never can tell when, hereabouts, the power might go.”

“I’ve got gas where I’m staying, too,” I told her, “I made out okay.”

“Well,” she said knowingly, “the radio says it’ll be another two-three hours before we got power again. Why don’t you go sit by that window? It’ll give you light all morning.”

I thanked her and turned at once to the death certificates. Bingo! George Oates, his wife Wilfreda, daughters - Caroline and Charity, and son Harold (named for George’s brother in Boston), had all been declared legally dead, seven years having passed since their disappearance, and all reasonable attempts at contact having failed. Now, the reason for that malevolent plaque came into focus.

Turning to the letters, I started with the earliest. The Post Office had saved Hiram’s mail in the hope that it would yield some clue to his whereabouts. This practice was followed in the disappearance of all subsequent owners of the house. Hiram’s mail was of considerable interest to any who might know a bit of the occult and something of rare books, as I did. The first letter follows:

My Dear Hiram:

It is with the utmost concern that I read your last communication. You were always my most talented pupil and are a valued associate. I pray you, please, reconsider the rash course that you are now contemplating.

Remember, your copy of Alhazarad is not a good one. The edition of 1784 contains many minor lacunae. Before you attempt anything, consult also the Pnakotic Manuscripts and collate what you learn there with Von Junst.

I know that reading the Pnakotic Manuscripts is a difficult and time-consuming task. Never forget that the source of your present wealth and mine lies in those ancient pages. There is much wisdom there for those with the courage to seek. Everything must be checked against other knowledge.

To call upon Him Whose Name Must NOT be Uttered for so trivial a task is a sure way to serious mishap. Remember, your Alhazarad is incomplete!

In concern for your welfare,

I remain, Richten

At Darkhouse, Arkham, Mass.

Unfortunately, the authorities were unable to trace the mysterious Richten or his address. Arkham, Mass. is, of course well known to all scholars and bibliophiles as the home of Miskatonic University, with its astounding collection of rare books of occult lore.

I had never heard of the Pnakotic Manuscripts but the other items mentioned in the letter were familiar to me. Alhazarad could be none other than the author of the infamous Necronomicon. The 1784 edition survives only as a fragmentary copy in the vaults of Miskatonic University. Von Junst could only be the almost as infamous Black Book. This book also survives in only a few priceless copies. Two of the best ones lurked in the vaults of the rare book collection at Miskatonic. They were separate editions, published a century apart.

Another letter, about a week later than the first, was a bit more specific. Richten started in much the same vein as before but went on:

Calling so mighty a being for so trivial a task is absolutely insane. I know that you enjoy tidiness. Who does not? Yet He Whose Name Must NOT be Uttered is not a mere servant and can be disastrously literal, even when all else is done perfectly.

Binding Him, as you have, cannot please Him. What you have learned from the Necronomicon and the Pnakotic Manuscripts has enabled you to compel Him to bring you gold. The first time that He did was almost fatal. Remember, being able to compel is not the same as being master.

For your own safety, Do Not Do This!!!

Wishing you the best,

Your friend and former Master,

Richten

At Darkhouse, Arkham, Mass.

There were also, unfortunately, not translated, letters from Korea, China, India, the 0ttoman Empire, Germany, France, Morocco, and several places in South America. Apparently our Mr. Wickes had been something of a polyglot and did in fact read all of the languages of the books in his library.

It appeared that a careful search of the house, attic to basement, was in order. If there were any chance that I might find a copy of either the Necronomicon or the Black Book, I could turn a fine profit. Either book in almost any condition, was worth in far in excess of mere $45,000.00 that I had paid for the house.

Turning to the newspaper clippings, I found mostly stories of the disappearances of people who had bought the Wickes place. The George Oates family was only the first. They were not alone. The clippings gave some flesh to the legal death declarations. There was another detail to add to my list. No trace was ever found of the possessions of any person who vanished.

Electric wiring had been installed. Several times. It too had vanished without a trace. After each disappearance, the house was exactly as it had been when Hiram Wickes vanished. Even if the furniture and books were sold or even burned, everything always came back.

The Reverend Orville Olson piled all of Hiram’s books and furniture on the lawn and burned it all. He then exorcised the whole place of the “evil ghost of Hiram Wickes.” To prove that the evil was gone, he spent the night in the house. The burn scar on the lawn and the Reverend Olson both vanished. The furniture and books returned.

I made careful tracings of the strange gold coin in the file and made longhand copies of such of the letters as I could and included all of the oddments that I knew of Hiram Wickes and the Wickes house, and prepared the lot for mailing. I addressed it to Professor Gordon Wetherbee at Miskatonic University.

He was a sort ‘uncle’ to me. He and my father had been close friends since long before my birth. That friendship had been extended to me as I grew and was largely responsible for my love of books and learning. I did not know all or even a fraction of what ‘uncle’ Gordon knew or did but I trusted him absolutely.

I did know that his research had taken him all over the world. He knew more of the occult than any other man of my acquaintance.

One set of clippings caught my eye. “BOY GOES MAD!!” Curiosity piqued, I read on. In essence, the story was this:

It was a fine day in April, 1896. Willie Asphel, age 10, was in the mood to get into trouble. He sneaked off to the Wickes place to break windows. Apparently he missed the house with the first stone, as there was no crash of glass or thump of stone on board. He took precise aim and watched carefully where the stone went. Ever after, his hair was stark white, his eyes crossed, and even after he stopped raving, his mind was never fully normal. He demonstrated a talent for seeing into closed containers and the like.

He died of a brain hemorrhage at the age of fifteen.

The power which had failed last night, came back at 3:30 p.m. I felt a need to digest the tale of Reverend Olson and young Willie Asphel, so I left the library. I walked up the street in the sunlight. Cobbles could be seen here and there through old cracks and holes in the paving. Stepping around the occasional weed, I followed the sidewalk to the Post Office. There I mailed my letter to uncle Gordon.

Thoughtfully, I retraced my steps. My car awaited me. No sooner had I got into it than a gust of wind slammed the door. The impact caused the glove box door to fall open. Inside were five gold coins exactly like the one in the file

To say that I was stunned by this occurrence would have been an understatement. A breeze plucked at my right hand, almost as if it were guiding me to the gold. The moment that I took the gold in my hand, the breeze died away. Only then did I notice that my car windows were closed.

My first response was to say, “Thank you, whoever or whatever you may be.” I drove home slowly, mulling over the day’s events. The clouds roiled overhead like fighting dogs.

Once home, I got my flashlight and went straight to the attic. At the stairs, my light would not shine. Somehow, I must have left it on when I last put it away. Irritating.

I had lots of candles down in the kitchen. For a prize like the Necronomicon or the Black Book, I could search by candlelight. An obsession to find those books seized my spirit.

I hurried down to the kitchen and set up a candlestick, which I took back to the attic. The soft glow of the candlelight revealed the same boxes and trunks that I had seen before. There were still no dust or spider webs to be seen. I heard what sounded like a hundred rats on the floor below. A glance out an attic window showed that night had fallen. The ‘spectral brigade’ never started before dark.

The boxes and trunks contained the curios, mementos and journals of travels on six of the seven continents (only Antarctica was not represented.) Glancing through the journals revealed that although Hiram was meticulous at recording detail and observations, he was also quite secretive about the object of his searches and research. It was both fascinating and frustrating.

Some of the boxes contained disturbingly carved stones and other artifacts. Many of these were only disquieting to look at but a few were truly mind twisting. A number of the journals contained finely drawn sketches in ink of architecture that Escher would have loved, had it not caused actual nausea when studied too closely. Many of the drawings were of ruins but they still retained their otherworldly power. Their geometry was subtly skewed from any earthly construction. There was little else, aside from literally thousands of the above mentioned journals. Valuable to the right collector perhaps but not the precious books that I was seeking.

I tried the second floor next. Both bedrooms, the bath, and the large room that I had dubbed ‘the work room’ all proved to have no secret hiding places. If there were any hidden doors or concealed panels they defied me.

The ground floor was next. I started with the kitchen. The parlor got a once-over walls and ceiling. (I had done the floor when I searched for the basement.) The same was done with the dining room, sitting room, and study. Then it was the library’s turn.

Looking at the wall to wall, knee to ceiling, cases of books with their sliding ladders, I despaired of finishing my search that night. There were over twenty five hundred volumes on those shelves.

I stared at the sea of brown leather backs, some stamped with gold, and decided to start at the right of the door and work my way around the room. Each book had to be inspected to be sure that it was not concealing another book in innocent appearing binding. Many of them were valuable in their own right but none could compare with the Necronomicon or the Black Book.

I did not get far before I was too tired to continue. The books that I was seeking had waited for century and a third. They could wait until morning.

The next day, my inspection of the library resumed. Here, at least, Hiram had achieved order. The books were shelved by subject and author, regardless of language. There was precious little of outright fiction though many were obvious foolishness in the light of modern knowledge. At ten in the morning, I stopped, arms aching and eyes swimming. I was less than a quarter of the way through the herculean task.

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#THE HOUSE #part 2 of 3 #Flocking Bay #Written by De Writer

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

Text

THE HOUSE, (part 3 of 3), a tale of Flocking Bay

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

THE HOUSE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

7357 words

Written 1990

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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All sorts of Fan activity, Fiction, Art, Cosplay, Music, or any other thing is actively encouraged!

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I was still curious about the rest of the file in the town library, so I decided to take a break and go into town. As I stepped out the front door, I felt the wind. The trees along the road were still, yet I was buffeted from all sides at once by a wind that did not swirl but pressed my clothes tight to me from all sides at once. I felt more like I was being held comfortably than pushed like a wind usually would. It was warm, where the day and been chill. When I got into the car I left the door open to see what would happen. The wind closed it. This time there was a perceptible pause before the glove box opened.

When it did, a rush of wind gusted out and raced about inside the car. Once again, there were five of the odd gold coins within it. As before, I thanked whatever Power had put them there. Though brisk, the day seemed clear enough to risk the walk into town after all, so I got out of the car strolled down the road to town. Having everything that I needed within walking distance was one of the reasons that I liked the small town of Flocking Bay so much.

The Flocking Bay Bank of Maine was my next stop. I had some difficulty getting them to accept the coins for credit to my account. They insisted on a slate test by a local jeweler to ascertain the purity of the coins. They were twenty four carat. Then they wanted to take the coins at current spot price less ten percent, which was fine with me. They also wanted to count the coins at three to the troy ounce, as Hiram Wickes had counted them in the 1850’s and 60’s, which was not. I insisted that the same jeweler weigh the nine coins that I was depositing. With gold at nearly four hundred dollars to the ounce, the six tenths of an ounce per coin seemed worth the effort. The business was finally done to the satisfaction of all.

My steps now lead me down aged, tree lined streets to the library. Mrs. Alderman had set out the file in readiness for me. I added the tenth coin and a notarized account of its origin and the number of coins to date.

“You have been so helpful, she said brightly, “setting things in order the way you have. Do you know, I’ve been studying some, after hours. I hope that you will have a great book.”

“Mrs. Alderman,” I said in a confidential tone, “I’ve allowed you to deceive yourself. See, I too, put something in your file. I’m not a writer. I’m John Peaslee. I live in the old Wickes place, and I wanted to find out about its history.

My uncle, Gordon Wetherbee, is a scholar at Miskatonic University and he may indeed wish to publish a book or monograph on the subject of my house.”

She looked like a person seeing a ghost. In a faint voice, she replied, “Oh, my! I had hoped it was not you. You were such a nice young man, too.”

Noticing the past tense, I chided gently, “I still am, Mrs. Alderman. I live yet and I have not changed from the person that you first met. The nice young man who set your file in order is not dead.”

“Yet,” she said firmly. “Nobody as lives in that house does so for long. None has ever escaped it.”

“Yet,” I completed with a smile, and crossed the room to the battered pine table by the old mullioned window.

I had put the botanical report off until last, not knowing anything about plants. The report described in dry detail what were called “some of the most unusual genetic monsters that I have ever seen.” The report was issued by Miskatonic University. It described roses that were nothing of the sort. The “rose” plants were carnivorous. There were low pansy and violet-like plants that were some strange form of thallophyte. The mycelium of these fungi was linked in some fashion to the roots of the “roses.” Both forms died instantly upon being plucked and began rotting with almost supernatural speed. No pressings were possible due to the rapidity of decomposition, so only photos and rapidly drawn pictures of what was seen by microscope were included. The grass was as unusual as the “pansies” and “roses.” The leaves all rose from rhizomes, which spread from a central node, like some ferns. This “grass” was no fern, however. None of the plants could be cultivated away from the Wickes house. “The plants fit no known classification and must be regarded as unique to science,” the report concluded.

That evening the wind came again, and blew at my back all the way to the house, like a great friendly beast hurrying its master home. I had forgotten to buy batteries for my flashlight, but I did not turn back.

I resumed my search of the library. The evening passed uneventfully, I did not finish with the library that night. I was feeling restless.

So were the rats of the spectral brigade. I could hear a few upstairs but most were in the basement. Taking a candlestick, I worked the hidden spring of the concealed door to the basement. I could hear the rats below.

The stair was longer than I remembered it. The basement was larger than I recalled it being. The corners were dim in the candlelight. The spectral brigade was upstairs, of course. Still no dust or spider webs. I nearly dropped the candle in shock when I saw it. There was a table in the corner. I knew that the basement had been empty. Bare stone.

My curiosity led me cautiously to the table. It had on it a candlestick with a burned-out stub of candle, a box of papers, and six largish portfolios of leather, each labeled with the name of a continent. They also were filled with papers. A cursory examination revealed that I had found Hiram’s correspondence. There was a lot of it. It was clear that he had the habit of making copies of his missives and attaching the replies to the letters for easy reference. He may have been messy but his mind had been well organized. Taking the folder marked Australia because it was the smallest, I went back up the stairs. I placed the folio on the desk in the study to read by tomorrow̓s daylight. In checking my calendar, I noticed that tomorrow was the day of the new moon.

Bed was welcome, after the tension and labors of the day, but not a relief. My night passed in troubled dreams. It was a place of incomprehensible, invisible obstacles and wind. The wind blew at me from all directions at once, forcing me away in a direction that was not a direction. Resisting the wind caused it to go away. It came back with gold for me. As I refused the gold, my frustration mounted. It was not what I wanted. My tears spilt forth in a flood. I wanted something else - and I could not remember what.

The morning light awakened me on sweat-drenched sheets. Slowly, as dreams will, the terrors faded. I got up and began my day.

As I had begun to expect, the books did not materialize. None of the books in the library was a rebound Necronomicon or Black Book. I reshelved the last book with a sigh. The precious books appeared have eluded me.

I turned my attention to the Australia folder. Its pages yielding information for the first time in about a hundred and twenty years. Apparently, Hiram had a number of correspondents in Australia. His questions ranged from searches for rumored ‘houses of stone’ in the outback to tracing the aboriginal folk carvings and paintings and asking about the most secret rituals and ceremonies of the aboriginal Australians. His questions, piercing and analytical, illuminated every subject with stark clarity, like flashes of lightning. He had known exactly what he was looking for and was not at all afraid of finding it.

Now, with the day beginning to close, there came a knock at my door. Opening the door revealed a postman with a bulky Next Day Letter envelope. Signing for it, I noticed that it was from Miskatonic University. Uncle Gordon had responded almost the instant that he had received my letter, and by the fastest possible post. Impressed, I opened the flap of the letter. A single sheet was all that the large envelope held. Uncle Gordon̓s hasty scrawl read:

Dear John:

It is with simple horror that I have read that you have purchased the house of Hiram Wickes. Delay not an instant! Get out of that house! Leave before the new moon! I pray that this reaches you in time!

Come to me in Arkham! There, I will tell you all that I know of this matter. I hope that you are still alive and well and will come to hear my reasons for so urgent a request.

You are involved with Powers beyond imagination. Things there are that are worse than even what is in the Necronomicon. Hastur, Whose Name Must Not be Uttered, is involved, and Cuthulu, as well, whose coin you sent a tracing of.

This must sound mad to you. A very hodgepodge of fear. And it is. Fear for you. Come to me at once! Upon your life it is necessary!

In regard and fear for your life,

I remain,

Gordon Wetherbee

It was remarkable. I had never seen evidence of such agitation from uncle Gordon before. This, along with all that I had learned, made up my mind. I would take his advice. Packing my few clothes took almost no time. Seeing the Australia folder, I realized how important Hiram’s letters could be to uncle Gordon. I placed it with my bag, by the front door.

I raced to the library, took up a candlestick and plunged down the long flight of stairs to that huge gloomy vault of a basement. As I gathered the box and folders into my arms, I saw them at last! Among others, the Necronomicon and Black Book had been hidden behind the letter portfolios. Putting down the letters in the face of a far greater treasure, I examined the precious books. There was what had to be the only complete 1784 edition of the Necronomicon. Priceless. Also, there was the almost as rare 1635 edition of the Black Book. There was an apparently genuine medieval Latin Philippus Faber. Last was a hand-bound copy of a manuscript, written on a fine supple parchment of a type that I could not identify, labeled in Hiram’s now familiar script, Pnakotic Manuscripts, subtitled, “Being a Collection of Ante-human Lore.” The writing in this last volume was of a sort that I had never seen before. It was disturbing just to look at. The very notion of actually reading it made me shudder.

Knowing that I should not tarry, I placed the books with my other burdens and gathered them up. There was a sudden rushing of wind from all sides at once, forcing me away in a direction that was not a direction. The candle in my hand burned bright and unwavering, despite the wind. It did not blow out.

In a blind panic, I ran up the long, crumbling, dusty, spider-bedecked stair. I found myself back in the basement. I no longer had my load of letters and books. Two more attempts to go up the stairs left me still in the vast, dusty crypt of a basement… Raising the candle high, I looked intently up the stair, trying to see why I could not get to the top. After a few minutes, or perhaps hours, I got my eyes to work properly and the nausea stopped. The stairs offered no escape.

In searching for a way out of this vast stone lined vault of a basement, I found all of the fifty nine other people who had vanished. They are all dead. They have dried to sere brown mummies. Many still show signs of bleeding from eyes, nose or ears, as if their brains had burst within their skulls. It seems that transport to wherever this is, killed the others outright. Some were in bed, others at table, some at other tasks. Each family or person seems to have their own area. The next group is in a different spot. It helps me to sort them out. All of my goods are by the stair.

Examining the bodies so closely may seem to be a ghoulish exercise but it gives me something to do.

I do not need the candle. There is a pale sourceless illumination everywhere. Dust is thick on the floor and everything else. Cobwebs shroud everything.

There, in the corner lies what was Hiram Wickes. The notes and papers with him tell the story. Unable to stand his own mess, he had the house cleaned attic to basement. The yard was manicured to perfection. He then made the simple blunder that has cost so many lives and so much misery.

He bound Hastur of the Winds, Whose Name Must Not be Uttered, to keep his house and grounds exactly as it was on that day in 1866. Every new moon, everything that does not fit goes to the basement but that too gets cleaned. Hastur has no choice but to sweep the excess to someplace else…

I am lucky. I have the opportunity to starve. I was in the basement when the cleaning came. I was pushed through a distance too short to kill. The unvarying light seems to erase time, except that I am getting hungry.

Uncle Gordon has solved many occult mysteries and seems to know something of this one. I know that he will come soon. I wonder if he can do anything.

I found a pen among my things and paper from the possessions of the many dead. I have determined to make this account.

I leave my curse on Flocking Bay Realty. They knew that this would happen. They have sold the house many times, without warning. They have been battening on this evil since 1908.

I have found the rats. They are everywhere here. They do not touch the bodies or Hiram’s books and papers. They are disgusting. If I get hungry enough, I shall eat them.

-THE END-

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#THE HOUSE #Part 3 of 3 #flocking bay #Written by De Writer

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