Gathered Dust and Others (4 page)

I moved through mauve fog until the monstrous tree stood before me.  The fog contained a kind of brightness that illuminated every awful aspect of the fiendish thing on which my uncle had found extinction – the sickly hue of its pallid bark, the softness of that bark and the anomalous symbols carved thereon.  Seeing those symbols inspired me to shudder, for they were too similar to something I seemed to half-remember from a recent dream.  I did not like them, nor did I like the unnatural vines that issued out of the tree’s sinister branches – those creepy vines that, in this fog, resembled alien veins of something that might exist beneath the ocean’s depths.  Utterly repulsed, I opened the can of gasoline and splashed its contents all over the monstrous tree, and then I removed my gloves and lit a long wooden match, which I tossed to the bleached thing which burst into flame.  Billowing smoke was concealed by the thickness of fog, but the stench that issued from the burning thing was so vile and pungent that I was glad that I lived alone on that dead end street.  Laughing like a lunatic, I spat at the flaming horror and fled. 

I stayed away from the cemetery for some time, slightly unnerved by my actions and not desirous to witness their effect.  I had acted on impulse, and it now seemed a mad and careless performance.  To take my mind off the matter, I plunged into the writing of a new book of short stories.  A friend in New York who operated a small press devoted to weird fiction had expressed an interest in a collection of my tales, which he wanted to bring out as a limited edition hardcover.  His books were beautifully produced and designed, and so the idea thrilled me and I began to write the first of five new stories that would see their first publication in this new collection.  It was natural, I suppose, that the first tale on which I worked was set in Old Dethshill Cemetery, which I renamed.  Writing about the place seemed to weave a kind of enchantment over me and made me want to visit the place again.  Perhaps now that the devil tree had been destroyed I could enjoy the place without qualms.  Taking a break from writing one day, I rose and went out the front door so as to stand on the porch and observe the neighboring graveyard, and I saw a familiar figure traipsing among the high grass.  I watched him for a little while, and he suddenly turned to me and waved.  I returned his salute but was grateful that he did not venture toward the house, for I was not in a social mood.  But as I watched him I had decided to use Randolph H. Carter as a character in my tale, turning him into a delirious fop whom I would call “Samuel,” a creature of curious heritage.  This inspired a new direction for my story, in which I conjured forth some of Arkham’s whispered legends and history, and my imagination was so stimulated that this became the book’s lengthiest work.  The writing of the book was pure joy, and I was amazed at how quickly the work poured from me.  In no time at all, the book was a published reality, in a limited edition of three hundred illustrated copies, fifty of which were bought by a shop in Arkham that specialized in horror and fantasy, histories of witchcraft and so on.  Invited to the shop to sit and sign my book for the students who seemed to be its chief audience, I went first to Elmer Harrod’s bedroom and found the vampire cloak that he had often donned before the television camera, and I used some of my inheritance left by my uncle to purchase a handsome tuxedo.  On my way to the signing I stopped at a floral shop and bought a beautiful white rose to slip into my buttonhole, and it pleased me when the florist recognized me from a short article that had been written about my book in the local paper.  The evening proved quite successful, many books were sold and signed, and I was happy.  The event was reaching its conclusion when young Carter entered the shop and purchased a copy of my book.  I smiled at him as I signed.

“Inscribe, please – but not to me; sign it to Julia Warren.  Are you done here?  Let me take you out for a small meal, you must be famished.”  I signed my signature and rose to take my leave, thanking the shop owner and congratulating her on the night’s success.  Carter slipped the book into a shoulder bag and motioned me to follow him.  I was surprised when we stepped outside to find a cab waiting for us in front of the store, and I followed Carter as he stepped inside the vehicle.  How strangely he smiled at me as he removed a length of black cloth from his bag.  “Indulge me, Hayward,” he sighed as he smoothed the cloth over his knee, “but I have a little adventure planned.  No, don’t frown – you’ll enjoy this and be amused, I promise.  I’m going to tie this cloth around your eyes, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised when my mystery is revealed.  It’s all linked to your book, you see, and to your outlandish use of my persona in that one story, which flattered as much as it insulted – do you really find me so frivolous?  You barely know me!  There, the cloth is secure.  No peeking.  You mentioned in that newspaper interview that you’ve not seen much of Arkham town – which is your own fault, since you insist on burying yourself in your outlandish house, glued to your keyboard.  Tonight you will be acquainted with a lovely witch-town haunt.  Lovely, I knew you’d be a sport.”

“How do you know my name?  I never told you.”

“Oh, we know many secrets, dear boy.”

“We?”  I heard him snigger as he touched his shoulder to mine, and the peculiar odor of his tubes of hair wafted to me.  I frowned and asked, “Is that your real hair, or is it a wig?”

“Don’t be stupid.  If it were a wig it would look more natural.  Sit still, Hayward.  Okay, cabbie, proceed.”  The car began to move, and thus I sat blindfolded and just a bit bemused.  My life
had
reached a point of rather tedious routine.  I was a bookish introvert who relished silence and solitude.  I had written my book because of my keen fondness for the weird fiction genre; that the possible popularity of my book would debauch my privacy was not something I had anticipated.  A part of me welcomed this sudden misadventure with this perverse stranger who seemed to want to be my friend.  I assured myself that I would be cautious in handling any threads of popularity that came my way – but then I laughed quietly at the idea of caution, for here I was in a taxi cab, blindfolded and off to some secret rendezvous!

Carter, as we rode, was more talkative than usual, and I sensed that he was trying to distract my attention and thus disrupt any attempt to determine our direction.  Smiling and silent, I listened to his babble, until at last the car stopped and I was guided (still blindfolded) onto a path of gravel.  The cloth was loosened and I reached for it and removed it from before my eyes as the cab rushed from us; and although I had once more obtained sight, darkness was still my domain – for we stood in a slim alley between what looked like two antiquated warehouses, one of which had a steep and tilting flight of weathered wooden steps, to which I was led.

“It can’t be safe, climbing those.”

“As long as it’s not raining there is little danger.  Hang on to the railing if you’re feeling cautious.  I’ve climbed them often and they are perfectly secure despite their great age – but then the past is far more solid than this present plastic age, my dear.”  We climbed the many steps to a small platform and Carter pushed open the door before us, allowing a variety of smells, among which was the odor of turpentine, to assail our nostrils.  Entering a spacious candlelit chamber, I soon realized that I was in an artist’s studio, although one that looked as if it belonged to a distant era.  Antique furnishings stood here and there, as did a number of ancient brass candelabras, on some few of which a number of candles furnished moving amber light.  One entire wall was made of mirrors, and a curious concealed electric light effect made this wall appear to be composed of shimmering liquid, like some perpendicular pool in which one could watch wavering reflections.  The strange young man tilted near to me and whispered, “This is one of my very special haunts.”

I looked around at the various large canvases that leaned against walls or were propped on easels, and then I experienced a freezing of the blood as my eyes fell upon a life-size reproduction of the awful tree that had once stood in the neglected necropolis and on which my uncle had ended his life.  I could not resist the compulsion to go to the enormous canvas and touch it, to study the structure of the outré tree, so perfectly replicated; and I felt a kind of sickness as I studied its sinister pale vines that seemed like the writhing veins of some unfathomable chimera.  “It’s no longer there,” spoke a husky voice from one corner of the studio.  “Someone has destroyed it, there’s just a pile of white ashes where it used to stand.”  Turning to face the speaker, I confronted the small middle-aged woman who advanced through the flickering candlelight.  Her gray hair was worn short, and her black clothes spotted with paint and other stains.  “It was your relative who hanged himself from it, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“And you who destroyed it?”

I turned to gaze at the painting again.  “Yes.” 

Carter joined us, his expression dark.  “This is Julia Morgan Warren, grandniece of Harley Warren, the friend of my ancestor.  And this, dear Julia, is Hayward Phelps, author, haunter of graveyards – and avenger.”  He reached into his shoulder bag and brought forth my book.  “This is the collection of fantastic fiction that he has penned under the curious name of Deth Carter Hill – you really are obsessed with that place, aren’t you, old thing?  I suppose I should be honored that my fabulous persona inspired the creation of your lead story’s main character.  Of course, your fictive portrayal is an exaggeration although not quite a parody.”  I could not help but laugh, for the absurdity of my being there and listening to such talk came to me.  It was like having entered one of my own weird tales, and I liked it very much. 

The painter nodded her thanks for the book, wiping her hands on an old rag before taking it from her friend.  “You wrote this in Elmer Harrod’s haunted house?”

“Yes, which I inhabited eighteen months ago.  It was bequeathed to me by my uncle, may he rest in peace.  It’s really a remarkable place, containing as it does all of the belongings of the horror host.  I’ve been visiting it since my teenage years, and it has never lost its allure.  It never occurred to me that I would someday be able to live within its walls.”

“Your uncle purchased it – from whom?”

“I never knew.   He never said.  I tried to discover the circumstances, but apparently my uncle destroyed all papers concerning the transaction.  All very mysterious.  I’ve been unable to find any of Harrod’s relations, who might want to claim some of his library – some few of the books are quite rare and valuable.  From all I’ve learned about Harrod, he never made any mention of family, and none of his kindred ever came to call.  He lived in a world of his making, alone mostly, although he did enjoy entertaining stay-over guests.  Vincent Price stayed there one weekend.  I think he and Harrod shared an interest in art.”  As I spoke, I studied some of Miss Warren’s artistic tools which lay on a table near us.  One item was especially attractive, and so I took it up to examine it.

“Isn’t that lethal tool amazing,” Carter opined.  “The handle is ivory, as you can see, with elegant decorative work in silver.  Be cautious opening it, for the blade is very sharp.  It was part of a Victorian mortuary kit that Julia purchased, and must have helped numberless corpses with their last shave.” 

“This may interest you,” spoke the painter, motioning that I should follow her to a large canvas on which she had painted the house I had inherited, catching to perfection the Gothic aura of the place.  Yet she had enhanced its curious quality with clever touches, such as the way in which the trees she had painted contained a kind of sentience, or the way in which shadows seemed to peer from places in the stormy sky.  “I was able to enter it just once, when I was young.  Harrod held a party for budding young artists of the area – he did indeed have an interest in art.  I confess I became obsessed with the house and its neighboring graveyard, both of which have become the repeated topics of my work.  There is a strange appetite for works of the house among locals – strange because we find the place compelling and yet something about it disturbs us.  Perhaps it’s that dead-end street and the fact that the other houses have been vacated, adding to the idea that the area is some kind of shunned locality.  Haven’t you noticed it, how everything seems subtly
tainted
in the area, touched and twisted by some mysterious force?  A force that attracts as much as it repulses?”

“What I feel – it’s a force from the past.  Everything there seems rooted to some bygone era, the houses, that bewitching graveyard and those who have been planted in it.  The grave for your distant ancestor, Carter, really affected me, to the point where his persona has invaded my dreaming.  I find it all so strangely attractive.  I hate this unimaginative modern age.  Gawd, the life I was ‘living’ before I came into my inheritance, living in a small yet expensive apartment, slaving away as prep cook and dishwasher at a job that so exhausted me that I had no energy for anything once I got home from work.  It was a non-life.”

Carter moved away from us as I spoke and went to gaze at another work of art.  “He was a dynamic force, old Obediah – and your conjuring of him is magnificent, dear Julia.”  Miss Warren and I went to join him, and I was indeed impressed and mesmerized.  The painting was a huge life-size representation of the ancient warlock, and the light from the nearest candelabra revealed that the paint was still fresh and wet.  The face was nearly identical to that of the miniature on the tomb, with the one exception of the queer distortion of the right eye.  I thought perhaps the paint there had somehow melted or run amok, but as I stepped closer to the canvas I saw that the disfigurement was deliberate.  “Ah, yes,” Carter sighed, “
the blemished eye
.  There have been some few Arkham families that have suffered individuals born with such an eye, linking them to whispers of witchcraft.  Family legend has it that Obediah owned such an orb, although he had the fault corrected in all portraits painted of him.”  I turned and studied Carter’s pale face, the painted lips, the dark spectacles.  Laughing, he removed the eyewear and revealed two normal eyes of pale gray.  “Not a hereditary ailment, I’m happy to report.”  Frowning at the candlelight, he returned his spectacles to his face.  “Anyway, Julia has restored nature and portrayed him with his imperfection.  She’s good, isn’t she?  You should have her paint you, Hayward, a lovely portrait to be used in place of author’s photograph for some future book.”