Ch.137Act 1: Ch.9 – The King Sleeps in Carcosa (6)

“Hey there. Who’s that?”

The gruff voice snapped me back to reality.

I was standing on the edge of the reservoir. Just one step more and the lapping water would lick my shoes.

Turning around, I saw a man in a security guard’s uniform looking at me. His hand rested on his hip, where a holstered pistol gleamed.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. I felt entranced. No…

I look back at the reservoir. The water’s surface, which until just moments ago had resembled a city’s night view, now perfectly mirrored the night sky.

I heard the guard unbutton his holster with a click. A clear warning.

“First, that’s not a path, it’s a reservoir. Swimming and fishing are prohibited, and suicide is obviously not permitted. Second, this isn’t a place where just anyone can wander around. It’s a restricted area.”

“…I’m a private detective.”

I spread my palms to show I was unarmed. I approached carefully so as not to startle him. Under his cowboy hat was the face of a sturdy white man with a cleanly shaved beard. His name tag read E. Derby.

But earlier he had definitely been Black, with a goatee. The guard, Derby’s stern expression remained unchanged.

“I was hired by Dean Eckerman of Miskatonic University. I’m looking for Henry Armitage, the library director, and two professors who disappeared—their trail ends here.”

The guard’s eyes were full of suspicion. I remembered the conversation we’d had just moments ago.

“I don’t intend to cause any trouble. I didn’t particularly want to come here either. But if I find those three people, you would be very…”

A small noise made me stop mid-sentence. With a buzzing sound of wings, something landed between us with a thud.

The moon, emerging from behind clouds, illuminated it clearly. It was a cockroach about the size of my index finger. Before I could say anything, Derby’s hiking boot crushed it.

“…very grateful. Their families too, of course.”

“Do you have any evidence they came here?”

“The entry log. There should be a record of them coming here three days ago.”

Derby looked at me with strange eyes. “Which part of what I said didn’t you understand? This is a ‘restricted area.’ What fucking entry log would a restricted area have?”

“Wait a moment. Is there perhaps a Black security guard here? With a goatee…”

“What the fuck are you playing at?”

He drew his gun. With a click, he pulled the hammer all the way back. Startled by his sudden reaction, I stepped aside.

There was a rustling sound. Glancing down, I saw a brown paper bag. The same paper bag I had used to carry the Necronomicon.

“I don’t know what kind of crazy shit brought you here, but get out. Now. If I see you again, you won’t get away with just scraped knees.”

“Alright. I understand, just calm down…”

“To hell with calm.” I could see E. Derby’s hand trembling.

It was my chance. I crouched and lunged forward, throwing myself at him. The guard toppled over, dropping his gun. I quickly drew my revolver.

“You crazy bastard,” he gasped. “And you call yourself a private detective?”

“I would if you were a real security guard.” I pulled back the hammer.

“I made it clear I was unarmed and had no intention to resist, yet you tried to use your weapon. That’s not acceptable under Massachusetts law. Want to know something else? I might just ‘mistake’ you for someone who ‘killed’ a security guard and ‘stole’ his uniform. Whether that misunderstanding clears up depends on how thoroughly you answer my questions.”

“You fucking lunatic…”

“Mr. Derby, I’d watch my mouth if I were you. You have two options: answer my questions, or lie there until tomorrow’s shift change when someone calls for a hearse. I hope you make a reasonable choice.”

Derby spat. I picked up his revolver and the brown bag containing the Necronomicon. As I did so, I examined the back of my left hand. There was a clear mark where something sharp had cut me.

“…That reservoir is haunted ground.” E. Derby spat again from where he lay.

Still on the ground, occasionally coughing, sighing, squirming, and sometimes terrified, he continued his story.

The overall framework was similar to what the taxi driver had told me. This wasteland was once orchards and fields where a farmer named Nahum Gardner and his family lived.

Misfortune came to the fertile land because of “an unidentified meteorite that fell from the sky.”

The composition of the meteorite was unknown. It emitted heat, had extremely high radiation levels, and sparkled with various colors. That was all. But terrible things happened afterward.

It started with the children. After lingering illnesses, they eventually became bedridden. Rumors spread that once bleeding started, it couldn’t be stopped.

It wasn’t just the children. Animal offspring suffered the same fate. Bruising from minor wounds was common, and broken limbs became ordinary. Frequent nosebleeds soon turned into bleeding from every orifice.

“Children and adults, people and livestock—with every step they took, their skin would slough off. Like meat that’s been boiled too long, you know? When the flesh clinging to bone gets so tender it wobbles… But that wasn’t all, they said.”

“What else happened?”

“You wouldn’t understand what it was like.” Derby sobbed quietly.

“In autumn, leaves fall and when you step on them, they make that crisp sound as they break and become fertilizer. But neither leaves nor grass rotted. They weren’t alive, but they weren’t dead either. They just… stopped. You know what I mean? Everything around just died, as if frozen in a photograph. Not even an ant could be seen, let alone maggots. It… it took everything. Life. And then… it put them back out.”

Derby’s sobbing had turned into unintelligible muttering.

“Yes, it put them back out. It started regurgitating the people it had devoured. The animals it had consumed, one by one. It eats them. It swallows them. And then it puts them out as bait. Until something else comes along. Ha. Ha. Hee. Like a poacher setting traps and waiting for prey! That man you saw… that Black man with the goatee. That’s Nahum Gardner himself. If you don’t believe me, look up the Boston Globe from June 1882.”

The moon disappeared behind clouds. A cockroach crawled out from Derby’s arm. I studied his face carefully.

No matter how I looked at him… he didn’t appear old enough to know what happened in 1882.

If this year is 1929, then 1882 was at least…

“You,” a cracking sound like stepping on a branch came from my throat. “How do you know that?”

There was no answer.

The moon rose again.

Where the guard had been lying, there was only a cockroach.

It soon disappeared in the other direction.

I searched my pockets. E. Derby’s revolver was nowhere to be found.

I opened the paper bag. The Necronomicon was neatly inside. I turned the pages in the moonlight. I found a page with blood stains on the corner. Reddish-brown and red, a page soaked with my own blood.

I put the book back in the bag. I ran to the security office set up at one edge of the clearing. The doorknob turned before I could touch it. Inside was nothing but dust. I opened a cabinet and took out a lantern. There was a little oil left. I found matches and lit it.

On a chalkboard mounted on the wall were things like “construction schedule” and “planned progress,” with words like “Massachusetts” and “Arkham City Hall” easily recognizable.

I examined the desk. It was full of booklets like “Government Construction Manual.” This must be a project carried out by Arkham City or some higher authority. Searching further, I found an old notebook. It was a notebook with its cover falling off.

1904. Ephraim Derby & Edward Derby Civil Engineering Company.

Thud… creak…

The door flapped like a tongue. The sound of teasing wind rang in my ears. I pinched the back of my hand. A tingling pain traveled up my arm.

“Armitage.”

I burst through the door and ran out. Running along the path by the reservoir, I shouted. Armitage! Professor Armitage! The distorted moon in the reservoir seemed to be laughing. It scattered light through the trees as if to say, over here.

Armitage! Professor Armitage! Eerie echoes reverberated. Night birds with strangely twisted necks took flight. They flew above me, opening their mouths. Armitage! Armitage!

They were whip-poor-wills. Whip-poor-wills boasting huge mouths that opened like lidless jars. But I didn’t know whip-poor-wills could mimic human speech like parrots. Armitage! Armitage! They flew up in all directions like messengers! As if hunting for echoes!

“Here.”

I saw it. A well in the middle of the forest path. A demure farmer’s wife sitting by the well. My eyes whispered that she was Nahum Gardner’s charming wife. Like a siren sitting on the sea, waiting for someone’s touch…

I ignored it. It’s an illusion. Everything I’ve seen since setting foot on this land is an illusion. I clawed at the back of my hand. Pain. Only pain is clear. I must follow reality, not illusion. I must not see what my eyes whisper or what my ears show…!

“Armitage!”

I shouted. My throat, the cracked metallic voice, proves that I am here. It’s pain. Pain keeps me here!

“Armitage! Professor Armitage!”

Splash. I heard water. From the reservoir.

“This is a restricted area.” It was E. Derby with his goatee. His gaze was gentle, his smile warm. But I saw it.

That no ripples formed in the reservoir he had emerged from. That for someone who had just come out of water, his clothes weren’t wet at all.

An illusion. That too is a phantom. I ran.

As I ran, I realized I had passed through a tree. But when I turned back and touched it, it had the musty smell and rough, damp texture characteristic of dead wood. When I pushed it with my shoulder, it only swayed slightly.

On a hunch, I kicked at a nearby tree. My leg passed through the tree. Like a ghost. Like an illusion. I stopped walking. Meaningless steps. This place… this place is all fake. Truth and falsehood ingeniously mixed…

I broke the lantern. The branch I picked up from the ground was “real.” I set it on fire. After waiting patiently, the branch finally caught fire.

Careful not to let the fire go out, I touched it to everything that might burn. Crack, pop! Trees caught fire. The heat was so intense I had to step back.

They were trees that had died long ago, withered and twisted. Yet leaves swayed at their tips. The fire gradually spread with the wind. What burned was real. What didn’t burn was fake.

I recalled medieval witch hunt stories. The trial by water—throw them in a well, if they float they’re a witch, if they sink they’re not. Even that had a shred of rationality.

Those who had already fallen into the clutches of falsehood and confusion, those who had lost the spirit of discernment, could not tell truth from falsehood until everything was burned.

Minerva’s owl spreads its wings at dusk.

Dusk has passed. Night has come. The whip-poor-wills take flight.

To drive away the eternal night, I set fire to mimic the sun. The reservoir writhes. It bubbles up like static radio waves. I ran through the forest of falsehoods burning alongside truth.

At last, my eyes fell upon three people collapsed on the ground. Leaning against rocks, they looked peaceful, as if taking a brief nap.

Professor Henry Armitage. One person I didn’t recognize. And the other was Professor Annie Hartwell from MIT, whom I had seen during the Innsmouth incident.

In the distance, I heard police and fire engine sirens. I fired my gun. The siren sounds grew louder. I shouted. With a loud noise, a police motorcycle with a sidecar came to a stop.