Ch.134Act 1: Ch.9 – The King Sleeps in Carcosa (3)

1929. 7. 11. PM 5:32

Miskatonic University North Gate

Arkham

Getting past the entrance of Miskatonic University was a challenge, perhaps due to the incident from a few months ago. While students with IDs could pass through easily, outsiders were thoroughly questioned about their purpose and whether they had appointments. The private security guards wore blue vests and, though unarmed, carried batons and wore gaiters. It was quite unpleasant how they eyed everyone like potential criminals.

Eventually, a guard approached after finishing a call. “I’m sorry, but entry is difficult.”

“This is important.” I needed to stay calm. Getting into an argument with the guard wouldn’t help. “I’ve worked with Professor Armitage before. If you ask him directly…”

“That’s not the issue, sir.” The guard looked at me with annoyance. “Library Director Armitage left on an external trip two days ago, and even the librarians don’t know when he’ll return.”

“Is there no way to find out where he went?”

The guard glanced at me briefly, then gestured to the college students behind me. “Next.” A group of male and female students rushed past with paper bags containing sandwiches.

I decided to step aside and gather my thoughts. The scenery around the north gate hadn’t changed much since my last visit. The restaurant on the corner was still there.

On a whim, I checked the lodging where Crayfield and I had stayed, but only a fluttering ‘For Rent’ sign greeted me, with the door firmly shut. The diligent but unlucky owner had finally left.

The thought ‘Should I go back?’ briefly crossed my mind, but I shook my head. The drugstore had given us a week. During that time, Crayfield and I needed to do everything we could. And the starting point was meeting Professor Armitage to see the complete Necronomicon.

At minimum, I needed to know where he had gone. I approached the north gate again. Before the guard could look at me like a returning peddler, I mentioned Dean Eckerman’s name.

“Who did you say?”

“Please tell Dean Eckerman that someone is here who wishes to discuss Professor Gordon Whateley and Professor Mark Bravery.”

The guard misspelled the names twice, so I had to write them down myself. After a rather serious conversation, he finally let me in.

“The central staircase in the largest building.” The guard’s attitude had noticeably improved. Kindness for kindness—I nodded gently in return.

* * * * *

PM 6:14

Miskatonic University Dean’s Office

Dean Eckerman didn’t remember me well. He clearly remembered Agent Scully but seemed to have trouble recalling Crayfield. Then again, the dean had met with Scully and Major Winston more frequently than with us.

The mention of Major Winston excited the dean. He went as far as calling him “that rude monkey” and “a disgrace to the U.S. military.” He claimed that entrusting national security to such a person was a waste of tax money and bordered on treason. I appropriately played along.

After venting thoroughly, he slumped like a discharged machine. He wiped his wrinkled eyes with his wrinkled hands.

“Gordon and Mark. The dead students… I can’t forget them. It won’t fade away. After hearing about the Innsmouth disaster, I visited Gordon Whateley’s grave again, wondering what it would have been like if he were still here.”

“Professor Whateley is a star,” I wanted to comfort him somehow. “Some stars in the night sky disappeared long ago, but their light remains, twinkling. To the Innsmouth people who lost their homeland, he is such an existence.”

“The Federal Security Bureau and the military don’t seem to think so.” The dean grew more indignant. “To label such a noble person as a communist! That man was the spirit of America, its hope, and an exemplar of human triumph. How could they denounce such a person as a Soviet spy?”

Sadly, everything the dean said was true. Despite having the typical Innsmouth appearance, Whateley had risen to become a professor. He had stood firm against persecution from racists and, despairing at America’s uncertain future and lack of solutions, had cooperated with the Soviets.

And he had become a hero in the typical American narrative—a noble sacrifice to save others. The dean said that after this semester, he planned to establish the Whateley Scholarship Fund for those with outstanding academic achievements but disadvantaged family circumstances. Only after sharing this did the old scholar seem to regain his senses.

“Anyway. What brings you here again?”

Eckerman rambled somewhat incoherently. Clearly, he had forgotten the purpose of our meeting while discussing his bitter past grievances. This was fortunate for me.

“I had an appointment with Library Director Henry Armitage, but I came in such a hurry that I committed the rudeness of visiting without notice. I was told he’s gone on a trip somewhere else. Do you happen to know where?”

“Of course. He’s at ‘the reservoir’ now.” The dean shook his head and grumbled.

“It’s west of Arkham. There used to be a farm there, but for some reason, the family was massacred and the farm turned to ruins. Arkham City purchased the land for a pittance, though it took quite a while to complete the payment because the land rights were in limbo. Anyway, it now serves its purpose well as a reservoir.”

I couldn’t understand at all. What reason could the library director have for going to such a reservoir? And staying away for days?

“Well… if you’ve met Armitage, you’d know he’s quite the eloquent one. He’s conducting a folklore research project there with other professors, but I know nothing about it. He simply left a notice saying he had official business and would be away on a trip.”

“You couldn’t refuse, I suppose.”

“Whateley.” Dean Eckerman leaned back on the sofa. “True to being a folklore professor, Whateley conducted extensive research, including strange occurrences in Arkham. Many were worthless stories fit only for tabloids, but occasionally he uncovered things connected to indigenous beliefs. The reservoir case was one of the last research projects Whateley was devoted to, and Armitage, having seen his notes, thought it worth exploring.”

A smile appeared on the old scholar’s face. “He’s old now, but when Armitage was young, rumors circulated that he frequented illegal fighting rings at night. Not as a gambler, but as a fighter. A man overflowing with adrenaline, you see? Don’t you agree? If I had exercised more in my youth, I’d be much more vigorous now.”

We engaged in simple conversation until the secretary knocked on the door. Most of it was the old scholar sharing stories from the past.

Dean Eckerman was a typical old man who forgot the present while talking about the past. To him, what happened in the past seemed more important than what was happening now.

True aging isn’t about the physical age of the body, but rather which timeline—past, present, or future—the mind dwells in. Children race ahead of their time into the future, youth move forward in step with their era, and the elderly lag behind.

Already, Eckerman’s past had caught up with about half of his present. If the past overtook his present and captured his future, he would live buried in an eternally circling past.

In that sense, Armitage was still young. He sought out what he could do, followed what needed to be done, and set out to complete what his students couldn’t finish.

Right on cue, the secretary knocked on the door again. The dean said he would tell the guards to grant me free access.

I left through the north gate and hailed a taxi. “Where did you say?” The driver, who appeared to be of German descent, looked quite bewildered.

“You’re going to that distant, empty place at this hour?”

I told him I would pay an additional fee. Only then did the driver step on the accelerator.

“If I’d known you were going to the western reservoir, I wouldn’t have picked you up,” the driver grumbled considerably.

“I said I’d pay extra. If that’s so disagreeable, let me out here.”

“Fine, fine. It’s only because it’s me that I’m taking a passenger there. Other people won’t go anywhere near it. No passengers want to go there, and there’s no one to pick up from there either. It’s an unlucky place, I tell you.”

This was news to me.

“The reservoir is an unlucky place?”

“Are you an outsider?” It was quite comical hearing the driver with his strong German accent asking if I was an “outsider,” but I confirmed that I was. Then he grumbled again about why an outsider would deliberately go to such a place.

Though I could have been annoyed, I followed Crayfield’s method. In a subtle tone, I asked, “What exactly is there that makes it so?” while placing some loose change in the small basket. The driver’s tone immediately became polite.

“You’re willing to pay to hear such stories?”

“It’s for work.” This too was a method Crayfield had taught me. “I work for a tourism guide company. I’m planning an Arkham tour course, so I’m trying to visit as many places as possible.”

“Arkham must have much more valuable places.”

“What matters is the story. Whether it’s a historical landmark or a beautiful tourist spot, people are ultimately interested if there’s a story attached to it. Like, ‘This ordinary-looking stone bridge was not abandoned by a hunting dog for four years. It was waiting for its master who never returned from the Great War.’ That sort of thing.”

The driver snorted as if to say “don’t talk nonsense,” but soon shared the story of the wasteland that became a reservoir.

Originally, he said, it was the land of a farmer named Nahum Gardner. But something happened, and his fields died day by day. Plants and trees withered, and even animals disappeared somewhere. Nahum’s children and wife either disappeared or went mad, and eventually Nahum himself vanished.

Eventually, the place became known as a cursed wasteland, and now a reservoir stands there, erasing all traces of what was.

“Would people really like these kinds of stories?”

“Of course. Places with ghost stories or hauntings are just as interesting as meaningful resorts. The human mind is peculiar—if you bind something up saying it’s terrible and shouldn’t be seen, people succumb to curiosity.”

Though I was making excuses, I too was gripped by an ominous feeling. The taxi driver’s testimony was almost identical to the story Dean Eckerman had shared. Either everyone seriously believed the same rumors, or everyone vaguely knew the truth.

It was deeply unsettling that a witness and scholar of fearsome myths was conducting independent research in such a place.

Eventually, the taxi stopped at the reservoir. I paid the fare. The taxi circled once in the open space before rushing back to the road. The reservoir was quite large and quiet, but strangely, not a single crow hovered. As the evening sun set and the moon slowly rose, the reservoir sparkled with an odd color.

I stopped walking.

This is the outskirts of a wasteland, far from the city center. The only colors should be the deep blue and black of the sky, the silvery gray of the pale moon, and the deep green of the trees that seem unable to steady themselves in their unease.

But the reservoir shone with a kaleidoscope of colors, as if it had swallowed a chaotically mixed rainbow. The spectrum was wide, from red to indigo, and like spilled oil paint cans, the colors writhed and twisted, devouring each other.

What the reservoir’s water reflected was not the night sky. Nor was it the surrounding landscape. Rather, it was…!