So, as a New Years Eve treat to you, my loyal readers, I present the twelth installment in that most stunning of serial enterprises, The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright.
Have yourselves a severly inebriated, and whatever other substances you choose to imbibe, good time. And remember, nothing really changes just cause the calendar shifts...
Twelve
Slow drifts of liquid silver coil and writhe above the ground. They move with a languid ease, roiling in variegated billows to the whim of wind and of temperature and perhaps to some other hidden force. Light dances within this cloaking fog, refracted by the tiniest particles of water, to shimmer white, silver, grey with the reflected glow of lamp and moon.
The barest sliver of moon hangs high in the night sky, seeming to strive to shine all the brighter against the occluding dark of Earths shadow. A shadow that will in a few days swallow it whole and hide it from the night. Racing clouds sport around it, moving much too quickly to ever really hide the wan light it casts, but still throwing strange shadows which mingle and merge with the random shades within the fogs mutable depths.
Before us, rising out of the shifting sea of quicksilver light and shadow, is a monument to the same mutability, the same incomprehensible forces that suffuse the night.
Blackwood Asylum towers in all its decrepit glory. A brooding thing of crumbling stone, dying ivy, and random architecture. The original structure is nearly as old as Arkham itself, quarried and carved from the raw stone of the cliffside upon which it sits. Over the years, as Arkham grew, so too did Blackwood. But where Arkham grew with planned precision and care, Blackwood grew like some malignant tumor, sprouting random wings and twisting towers with no more logic or thought then can be found in the minds of its raving inhabitants.
As an engineering student at Miskatonic University, I have never had occasion to visit the asylum, but some of my colleagues in the biological sciences have spent time in its wandering, noisome halls, and they returned whispering stories of madness and horror to chill the blood. Some few of those have never returned, becoming the newest residents; victims of the dark things kept within its decaying walls.
And now, here I stand before this great hold of psychological terror.
No lights burn behind the barred windows. Windows that come in all shapes and sizes, scattered across the various surfaces with no thought to floor or dimension. The central building, cut into the cliffside and built from the chiseled stone that had been quarried to form rooms and halls, gleams a dirty white in the soft glow of blanketing fog and splinter moon, veined here and there with the dark black of the ancient ivy that climbs its walls. Rearing above this great stone bulk are two crenelated towers, capped with peaking, slate-shingled roofs, and seeming as if on the point of falling forward to bury us beneath not just stone, but the weight of time and madness also.
The newer wings burst forth from this central bulk of collapsing lines and failing angles like some lunatic explosion of stone and mortar, brick and wood. Here, a Gothic steeple rises over a Victorian gable. There, a modern wing of foreign angles and eldritch carvings collides with a traditional New England structure. Every where I look, I am confronted by a thousand years of architectural design thrown without plan or concern into one massive form: madness given physical dimension upon the Massachusetts coast line.
Hunter strolls up the wide, fog hidden steps to the central doors, gigantic things of some dark wood, so large that they could easily accommodate the passage of several repulsor carriages side by side. Stacia glibly removes the riding goggles from her forehead, tossing them casually into the front compartment of our carriage, as she idly brushes at the lustrous strands of her dark hair with a pale, delicate hand. She flashes a quick smile my way and follows Hunter into the deep shadows beneath Blackwoods grand door frame. After a moments hesitation, I place my own goggles in my jacket pocket and follow glumly behind.
Tonight is a night fraught with disquieting doors.
The two doors before me look like they should be found on a cathedral, not as the main entrance to an asylum. For a fleeting moment I recall some of the less repeated tales of Blackwood; the ones that hint at a past when it was not an asylum, but the towering place of worship for some half whispered of religious order. An order which supposedly survived on blood sacrifice to blasphemous entities from beyond this plane.
I shake such musings off and move further up the stairs and into the entryway.
Set just to the left of the massive double doors is a smaller entrance, one more accommodating for the daily business of men. Set within the wall beside the door are two old gas lamps, only one of which is lit. Thanks to the depth of the great doorway and the deep shadows that cloak it, this light is invisible from the bottom of the stairs, breaking upon me slowly like the sun at dawn.
The comparison seems only to heighten my sense of dread, plaguing me with thoughts of whether or not I will ever see that dawn from anything but the barred windows of this establishment.
Stacia lounges idly beside the door, watching as Hunter speaks to a severely agitated gentleman. Standing across the small doorway from Stacia is a smaller figure, one whom I cannot really make out in the dim light cast by the gas lamp.
The speaker is a thin, rodentine man, features pinched and pointed, a pair of round spectacles balanced on his long nose. As I get closer I can hear a high, reedy voice. He gestures wildly as he speaks, his face convulsing every now and again in some sort of facial tic.
At my approach, Hunter cuts the man off to introduce me.
Warren, I would like you to meet Dr. Alister Blackwood, current director of the Blackwood Asylum.
The rat like gentleman nods tersely in my direction, then resumes speaking in a hurried, breathless tone.
Quite nice to meet you, Im sure. Now Prof. Cartwright you must under...
And this, says Hunter, paying no attention to the furtive madhouse director, is Miskatonic Universitys most distinguished visitor from the orient. I am honored to present Kao Li.
The small figure steps forward, light playing upon the pale skin of face and bare skull. Clothing of simple cut and composition: baggy trousers, buttoned coat, high collar. Upon his feet, soft slippers of the oriental design that is so in vogue now. All of it is unadorned. Around his right hand a fresh bandage is wrapped, the right cuff and sleeve of the coat into which it runs showing signs of recent fire damage.
All of this is peripherally noted though, as for the second time tonight I find myself caught by a hypnotic pair of eyes.
Small slanted eyes, black as midnight. Cold intelligence dances behind them, an intelligence that is busily weighing, measuring and cataloguing me.
I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. It is I who am honored by your presence. he says in soft, flawless English. He smiles, a smile that never touches those hard, black eyes, and bows shallowly.
I clumsily bow back, trying hard to tear my gaze from his.
Excellent, says Hunter, Now that's out of the way, why dont you tell us what occurred here this evening.
A harsh spasm tears across the Blackwood directors face, one that pulls back thin lips to reveal the large, slightly pointed teeth beneath. He remains silent however, as Kao Li bows to Hunter and begins to speak.
You honor me, Professor. At your suggestion from our earlier conversations, I came to the Blackwood Asylum to study your Western medical practices. I was most politely received by Dr. Blackwood, who graciously agreed to take me on a tour of his families impressive facilities.
Dr. Blackwood smiles at the compliment, the scowl that had marred his lips quickly forgotten.
We had just entered the Psychoactive Ward when a commotion was heard from the corridor behind us. The doctor excused himself to go investigate, leaving me with the warning not to go near any of the cells. As I stood awaiting his return, an explosion tore open one of the doors down the hall from me. Turning, I observed a man in a charred, I believe the word is... straight jacket, yes?
Both Hunter and Dr. Blackwood nod to the small Asian man.
Yes, a straight jacket. And wound in dirty strips of cloth, much like one of those Egyptian kings you took me to see at the Anthropology Department.
He stepped over the wreckage of the door, and began to laugh. I felt a curious heat in my right arm, and then it caught alight. I dropped to the floor to smother the flames, and by the time I returned to my feet, he was gone.
Hunter considers the little monks words for a moment, then turns to Dr. Blackwood.
And what exactly was the cause of the commotion that you went to investigate?
Blackwood begins to speak, but is interrupted as his face is ravaged by yet another contortion of the muscles beneath the flesh.
I can hardly say, Cartwright. he finally manages. Some great metal beast. It tore its way through the inside of the asylum, then leapt through a hole it had smashed in one of the outer walls. Its why we met you out here. My office, along with the whole wing it was located in, is completely destroyed.
A smile tugs briefly at the corners of Hunters mouth, replaced quickly by a look of serious consideration.
Curiouser and curiouser... I hear him whisper beneath his breath.
Any of the others make it out?
Blackwood turns sharply to regard Stacia, stifling a look of disgust as he does so. It does not go unnoticed by Stacia, who simply smiles widely as she pulls her cigarette case from inside her coat.
We are unsure as of yet. he finally answers, the tic in his face seeming to grow worse with every word. Many of our, ahh, guests, as well as a large portion of my staff have been injured. Weve been terribly busy trying to see to the wounded and dying to perform a thourough search of who might be missing.
Not very smart considering the nature of some of your guests. says Stacia through teeth clenched around the end of a cigarette.
Dr. Blackwood turns away from her as she lights her cigarette. Distorted rage and strange facial spasms reflect oddly in the silver case of her lighter. For a strange moment, I believe that the reflection shows the truth about the edgy doctor: some primordial creature far removed from the modern man, rage barely contained beneath the veneer of polite society hiding it. I prepare to hurl myself between Stacia and this apparent fiend, so sure am I of the murderous intent of our host.
She does have a point Dr. Blackwood. While sorry for your loss, many of your patients are reknowned for their ability to wreak havoc. Brand alone can cause considerable more carnage then you have suffered this night. The question I should like answered is why hasnt he?
When Blackwood turns back to face Hunter he is once again the slightly foolish looking medical man. A slightly foolish looking medical man with a look of puzzlement stamped across his face.
Pardon me Prof. Cartwright, but what do you mean?
I fear that the stresses of this night and our current surroundings are starting to catch up with me. How could I have imagined this supercilious creature as any kind of threat?
I mean, answers Hunter, that our escapee is known for his severe temper and his unique ability to affect his physical surroundings. We also know that he has no love for either you or your work. So why is it he did not feel the need to take what was left of your establishment, as well as yourself, apart piece by piece?
Why... why I hadnt thought of that..., stammers the flustered doctor.
Quite the alienist you are. mutters Stacia in a low tone. Both Kao Li and I make quick looks at her, but Dr. Blackwood seems oblivious to the slight.
Of course you havent. says Hunter, Youve been much to preoccupied with the care of your patients and staff as any good administrator would be. It is, however, the reason you called me here. So if you would not mind, I should like to get a look at Brands apartments. Perhaps learn a little about what went on here this evening.
Yes, yes. Of course. Right away. says Blackwood, a dazed somewhat distant look in his eyes. He fumbles out a set of keys, and shakily unlocks the small door.
As Stacia and Kao Li pass inside the now open portal, Hunter pulls me quickly aside. Thrusting something cool and metallic into my hands he whispers, Meant to give this to you sooner. Try not to get too close to any of the cells, and use this only if you have to.
With that, he is past me, and taking the trembling Dr. Blackwood by the shoulder, calmly heads into the asylum.
I am left alone in the shadow of the great cathedral doors, hands tightly gripping the cold steel barrel of a revolver.
Have yourselves a severly inebriated, and whatever other substances you choose to imbibe, good time. And remember, nothing really changes just cause the calendar shifts...
Twelve
Slow drifts of liquid silver coil and writhe above the ground. They move with a languid ease, roiling in variegated billows to the whim of wind and of temperature and perhaps to some other hidden force. Light dances within this cloaking fog, refracted by the tiniest particles of water, to shimmer white, silver, grey with the reflected glow of lamp and moon.
The barest sliver of moon hangs high in the night sky, seeming to strive to shine all the brighter against the occluding dark of Earths shadow. A shadow that will in a few days swallow it whole and hide it from the night. Racing clouds sport around it, moving much too quickly to ever really hide the wan light it casts, but still throwing strange shadows which mingle and merge with the random shades within the fogs mutable depths.
Before us, rising out of the shifting sea of quicksilver light and shadow, is a monument to the same mutability, the same incomprehensible forces that suffuse the night.
Blackwood Asylum towers in all its decrepit glory. A brooding thing of crumbling stone, dying ivy, and random architecture. The original structure is nearly as old as Arkham itself, quarried and carved from the raw stone of the cliffside upon which it sits. Over the years, as Arkham grew, so too did Blackwood. But where Arkham grew with planned precision and care, Blackwood grew like some malignant tumor, sprouting random wings and twisting towers with no more logic or thought then can be found in the minds of its raving inhabitants.
As an engineering student at Miskatonic University, I have never had occasion to visit the asylum, but some of my colleagues in the biological sciences have spent time in its wandering, noisome halls, and they returned whispering stories of madness and horror to chill the blood. Some few of those have never returned, becoming the newest residents; victims of the dark things kept within its decaying walls.
And now, here I stand before this great hold of psychological terror.
No lights burn behind the barred windows. Windows that come in all shapes and sizes, scattered across the various surfaces with no thought to floor or dimension. The central building, cut into the cliffside and built from the chiseled stone that had been quarried to form rooms and halls, gleams a dirty white in the soft glow of blanketing fog and splinter moon, veined here and there with the dark black of the ancient ivy that climbs its walls. Rearing above this great stone bulk are two crenelated towers, capped with peaking, slate-shingled roofs, and seeming as if on the point of falling forward to bury us beneath not just stone, but the weight of time and madness also.
The newer wings burst forth from this central bulk of collapsing lines and failing angles like some lunatic explosion of stone and mortar, brick and wood. Here, a Gothic steeple rises over a Victorian gable. There, a modern wing of foreign angles and eldritch carvings collides with a traditional New England structure. Every where I look, I am confronted by a thousand years of architectural design thrown without plan or concern into one massive form: madness given physical dimension upon the Massachusetts coast line.
Hunter strolls up the wide, fog hidden steps to the central doors, gigantic things of some dark wood, so large that they could easily accommodate the passage of several repulsor carriages side by side. Stacia glibly removes the riding goggles from her forehead, tossing them casually into the front compartment of our carriage, as she idly brushes at the lustrous strands of her dark hair with a pale, delicate hand. She flashes a quick smile my way and follows Hunter into the deep shadows beneath Blackwoods grand door frame. After a moments hesitation, I place my own goggles in my jacket pocket and follow glumly behind.
Tonight is a night fraught with disquieting doors.
The two doors before me look like they should be found on a cathedral, not as the main entrance to an asylum. For a fleeting moment I recall some of the less repeated tales of Blackwood; the ones that hint at a past when it was not an asylum, but the towering place of worship for some half whispered of religious order. An order which supposedly survived on blood sacrifice to blasphemous entities from beyond this plane.
I shake such musings off and move further up the stairs and into the entryway.
Set just to the left of the massive double doors is a smaller entrance, one more accommodating for the daily business of men. Set within the wall beside the door are two old gas lamps, only one of which is lit. Thanks to the depth of the great doorway and the deep shadows that cloak it, this light is invisible from the bottom of the stairs, breaking upon me slowly like the sun at dawn.
The comparison seems only to heighten my sense of dread, plaguing me with thoughts of whether or not I will ever see that dawn from anything but the barred windows of this establishment.
Stacia lounges idly beside the door, watching as Hunter speaks to a severely agitated gentleman. Standing across the small doorway from Stacia is a smaller figure, one whom I cannot really make out in the dim light cast by the gas lamp.
The speaker is a thin, rodentine man, features pinched and pointed, a pair of round spectacles balanced on his long nose. As I get closer I can hear a high, reedy voice. He gestures wildly as he speaks, his face convulsing every now and again in some sort of facial tic.
At my approach, Hunter cuts the man off to introduce me.
Warren, I would like you to meet Dr. Alister Blackwood, current director of the Blackwood Asylum.
The rat like gentleman nods tersely in my direction, then resumes speaking in a hurried, breathless tone.
Quite nice to meet you, Im sure. Now Prof. Cartwright you must under...
And this, says Hunter, paying no attention to the furtive madhouse director, is Miskatonic Universitys most distinguished visitor from the orient. I am honored to present Kao Li.
The small figure steps forward, light playing upon the pale skin of face and bare skull. Clothing of simple cut and composition: baggy trousers, buttoned coat, high collar. Upon his feet, soft slippers of the oriental design that is so in vogue now. All of it is unadorned. Around his right hand a fresh bandage is wrapped, the right cuff and sleeve of the coat into which it runs showing signs of recent fire damage.
All of this is peripherally noted though, as for the second time tonight I find myself caught by a hypnotic pair of eyes.
Small slanted eyes, black as midnight. Cold intelligence dances behind them, an intelligence that is busily weighing, measuring and cataloguing me.
I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. It is I who am honored by your presence. he says in soft, flawless English. He smiles, a smile that never touches those hard, black eyes, and bows shallowly.
I clumsily bow back, trying hard to tear my gaze from his.
Excellent, says Hunter, Now that's out of the way, why dont you tell us what occurred here this evening.
A harsh spasm tears across the Blackwood directors face, one that pulls back thin lips to reveal the large, slightly pointed teeth beneath. He remains silent however, as Kao Li bows to Hunter and begins to speak.
You honor me, Professor. At your suggestion from our earlier conversations, I came to the Blackwood Asylum to study your Western medical practices. I was most politely received by Dr. Blackwood, who graciously agreed to take me on a tour of his families impressive facilities.
Dr. Blackwood smiles at the compliment, the scowl that had marred his lips quickly forgotten.
We had just entered the Psychoactive Ward when a commotion was heard from the corridor behind us. The doctor excused himself to go investigate, leaving me with the warning not to go near any of the cells. As I stood awaiting his return, an explosion tore open one of the doors down the hall from me. Turning, I observed a man in a charred, I believe the word is... straight jacket, yes?
Both Hunter and Dr. Blackwood nod to the small Asian man.
Yes, a straight jacket. And wound in dirty strips of cloth, much like one of those Egyptian kings you took me to see at the Anthropology Department.
He stepped over the wreckage of the door, and began to laugh. I felt a curious heat in my right arm, and then it caught alight. I dropped to the floor to smother the flames, and by the time I returned to my feet, he was gone.
Hunter considers the little monks words for a moment, then turns to Dr. Blackwood.
And what exactly was the cause of the commotion that you went to investigate?
Blackwood begins to speak, but is interrupted as his face is ravaged by yet another contortion of the muscles beneath the flesh.
I can hardly say, Cartwright. he finally manages. Some great metal beast. It tore its way through the inside of the asylum, then leapt through a hole it had smashed in one of the outer walls. Its why we met you out here. My office, along with the whole wing it was located in, is completely destroyed.
A smile tugs briefly at the corners of Hunters mouth, replaced quickly by a look of serious consideration.
Curiouser and curiouser... I hear him whisper beneath his breath.
Any of the others make it out?
Blackwood turns sharply to regard Stacia, stifling a look of disgust as he does so. It does not go unnoticed by Stacia, who simply smiles widely as she pulls her cigarette case from inside her coat.
We are unsure as of yet. he finally answers, the tic in his face seeming to grow worse with every word. Many of our, ahh, guests, as well as a large portion of my staff have been injured. Weve been terribly busy trying to see to the wounded and dying to perform a thourough search of who might be missing.
Not very smart considering the nature of some of your guests. says Stacia through teeth clenched around the end of a cigarette.
Dr. Blackwood turns away from her as she lights her cigarette. Distorted rage and strange facial spasms reflect oddly in the silver case of her lighter. For a strange moment, I believe that the reflection shows the truth about the edgy doctor: some primordial creature far removed from the modern man, rage barely contained beneath the veneer of polite society hiding it. I prepare to hurl myself between Stacia and this apparent fiend, so sure am I of the murderous intent of our host.
She does have a point Dr. Blackwood. While sorry for your loss, many of your patients are reknowned for their ability to wreak havoc. Brand alone can cause considerable more carnage then you have suffered this night. The question I should like answered is why hasnt he?
When Blackwood turns back to face Hunter he is once again the slightly foolish looking medical man. A slightly foolish looking medical man with a look of puzzlement stamped across his face.
Pardon me Prof. Cartwright, but what do you mean?
I fear that the stresses of this night and our current surroundings are starting to catch up with me. How could I have imagined this supercilious creature as any kind of threat?
I mean, answers Hunter, that our escapee is known for his severe temper and his unique ability to affect his physical surroundings. We also know that he has no love for either you or your work. So why is it he did not feel the need to take what was left of your establishment, as well as yourself, apart piece by piece?
Why... why I hadnt thought of that..., stammers the flustered doctor.
Quite the alienist you are. mutters Stacia in a low tone. Both Kao Li and I make quick looks at her, but Dr. Blackwood seems oblivious to the slight.
Of course you havent. says Hunter, Youve been much to preoccupied with the care of your patients and staff as any good administrator would be. It is, however, the reason you called me here. So if you would not mind, I should like to get a look at Brands apartments. Perhaps learn a little about what went on here this evening.
Yes, yes. Of course. Right away. says Blackwood, a dazed somewhat distant look in his eyes. He fumbles out a set of keys, and shakily unlocks the small door.
As Stacia and Kao Li pass inside the now open portal, Hunter pulls me quickly aside. Thrusting something cool and metallic into my hands he whispers, Meant to give this to you sooner. Try not to get too close to any of the cells, and use this only if you have to.
With that, he is past me, and taking the trembling Dr. Blackwood by the shoulder, calmly heads into the asylum.
I am left alone in the shadow of the great cathedral doors, hands tightly gripping the cold steel barrel of a revolver.
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To Bill Brasky!