Ch.56Ch.5 – The Dead City Dreams and Waits (11)

Crayfield moved away from the desk. Scully dialed the phone.

After waiting for the signal to connect, she hung up without saying a word.

A moment later, she approached the window, removed the X-shaped paper, and replaced it with an O.

About 20 minutes passed before a car horn sounded with a honk.

“Let’s go down. Arm yourselves well. We might get shot as soon as we step outside.”

Agent Scully gathered her clothes and documents. Crayfield, James Chiddle, and I all checked our guns.

When we went downstairs, three dark-colored Fords were lined up.

Scully pulled out a black hood from the passenger seat. It was the kind they put on death row inmates.

“I don’t want to force you, so put this on. You can breathe fine in it.

If by some chance we go down, throw it off immediately and shoot.”

“Where exactly are we going that requires all this?”

James muttered, sounding frightened.

“Trust me. Or you can hold hands and walk together like kindergarteners.”

Seemingly provoked by her words, James put on the hood. There were three cars, and we were split up, one in each.

“You’re riding with me.”

Agent Scully grabbed my arm. Of course, that didn’t mean she would be driving. There was a separate driver.

With a roar, the car started moving.

“You seem to be popular with women.”

It was hard to tell if her comment was a joke or serious.

I thought it might be serious since Scully wasn’t the type to make jokes.

“Not just with women, right? Crisis and disaster seem to like you and Crayfield too.

It’s strange. We’re not in wartime, yet you two are always at dangerous scenes.

Fine. Let’s say Arkham was a coincidence. Getting entangled with a woman like Aurora Savio was a coincidence of coincidences.

And now you’re heading into the abyss. I don’t mind. This is my job. But what about you?”

She’s suspicious of *you*.

“How can you go through all that and still stick by Crayfield’s side?

And what about Crayfield? He talked about cause.

In other words, cause is the force that makes people commit to something enormous, something unimaginable.

What’s your cause, yours and Crayfield’s? Simply protecting a client?”

I asked her what she wanted to know.

“Everything. Crayfield has no past. I don’t mean he’s clean.

He appeared suddenly on Pollard Island one day and settled in. We don’t even know when he first appeared.

You? You’re the same. You definitely got your private detective license, but…”

I asked why she was telling me all this. Scully answered.

“I believe in the skills of you two. I saw them last time.

But now I want to see your determination. You two are still variables to me, not constants.

And the person we’re about to meet will tell a story that could shake even the most steadfast mind.

Once you hear that story, you’ll never see the world the same way again. Still want to go?”

I said I would go.

“No hesitation, I see.”

With my face covered, I couldn’t see Scully’s expression. It suddenly occurred to me that she never smoked.

“The others got the same question. We’re set up to observe not just the answers but the reactions to them.

Not being able to see faces is quite a penalty, but there’s definitely something to be read from body movements.

In your case, you’ve already made up your mind. As if you somehow know what’s waiting ahead.”

I heard Scully laugh.

“I’m curious. What drives you? What force moves you?”

The car stopped. Scully warned us not to remove our hoods yet as she got out.

The door on the opposite side opened, and someone gently took hold of my arm. I couldn’t see clearly, but it seemed like some kind of warehouse.

Passwords were exchanged, and a door opened.

“You can take them off now.”

PM 9:40

■■■■■

Pollard City

Crayfield and James Chiddle were there too. As I removed my hood, the sudden flood of light forced me to close my eyes again.

Once adjusted to the light, I could clearly see the inside of the warehouse.

On one wall hung a map of Pollard Island, and next to it was a cork board with faces of people, a Cthulhu statue, notes, and connecting lines.

In one corner, men in suspenders were monitoring radio transmissions, and automatic weapons were displayed near the entrance.

“This is the FBI’s temporary safe house. Don’t bother trying to figure out where we are. We’ll be moving soon. This way.”

The warehouse had no separate partitions. Just chairs and tables. The windows were tightly sealed with black curtains and wooden panels.

In the middle of this open warehouse, incongruously, sat an armchair.

Soft music played from a phonograph placed on a wooden box.

The chair’s occupant was an old man wearing thick pajamas and holding a steaming cup of tea. He looked like Santa Claus dragged from his sleep, but his deeply set eyes still revealed the demeanor of a scholar.

“Welcome.”

The old man smiled. Crayfield and James Chiddle pulled up empty chairs.

“I’ve only heard about you, but now I see you in person.”

“Do you know us?”

Crayfield asked. The old man nodded, then shook his head.

“I don’t know that strapping young man.”

The old man pointed at Chiddle.

“But I’ve heard about you two. Gordon Waitely was one of my friends.

His intellect reached the heavens, and his wisdom was as fragrant as a spring brook.

So when I heard he died a hero for unclear reasons, it made me sick.

Someone must have been playing tricks. And you two were there at the scene.”

“About that incident, Agent Catherine Scully…”

“That woman tells lies with such a pretty face and such naturalness that I’d sooner trust the snake tongue of Yig.

I need to know why my student died. And in return, I’ll tell you what I know.

Still, something that lying woman said resonated with me.

Dunwich was the beginning, the tragedy at Miskatonic was the acceleration of the beginning, and what will happen here is the beginning of the end.”

Crayfield narrowed his eyes.

“I know you. I saw you in the newspaper. I thought you were on sabbatical, but that wasn’t it. You were investigating. Am I right?”

“We all were.”

The old man agreed.

“Dr. Rice. Dr. Morgan. All doing something in their respective positions.

All three of us were in Dunwich and saw the child of Yog-Sothoth.

After that day, we could never go back to how we were before.

So, think carefully. No matter what you see, it will be something terrible.”

“Who is this person?”

James Chiddle asked cautiously. Crayfield and the old man seemed to have a brief staring contest before the old man smiled gently.

“Henry Armitage. I received my doctorate in art from Miskatonic, philosophy from Princeton, and literature from Johns Hopkins University, and I worked as the librarian at Miskatonic University.

I stopped Wilbur Whateley and his brother in Dunwich. No. Perhaps I should say I postponed the predetermined doom.”

“You’re currently interpreting the Necronomicon, aren’t you? You secretly took a copy when you left Miskatonic University. That’s why there’s a lock on the folklore department’s bookshelf.”

Scully, leaning against a warehouse pillar, chimed in.

“The Necronomicon is a strange book. It’s hardly worth calling a book of secrets.

There are countless versions, yet not a single proper one.

Logically, if everyone here, including you and me, has heard of it, then it’s no longer a secret, is it?”

The old man stroked his bushy beard.

“So one must approach the Necronomicon differently. Doesn’t the Bible say, ‘He who has ears, let him hear’?

‘Reading’ the book isn’t difficult at all. But understanding ‘what it means’ is very difficult.

There are books in the world that you can read but not immediately understand, like specialized textbooks in fields you know nothing about.

For example, I know nothing about that clockwork preservation engineering that’s popular in England.

I don’t understand what it means. But I don’t call it evil sorcery.

Because those who deal with it are perfectly normal, and understanding that book requires knowledge of engineering and mathematics.

But not this book.”

Professor Armitage looked at us. His eyes still held strong determination.

“This book wasn’t written to enlighten the ignorant. It’s a malevolent textbook for those who already ‘know.’

Its teachings were too terrible to be passed down in writing, so they were transmitted orally, through experience, through body and bloodline.

Abdul Alhazred, of course there’s no such Arabic name, anyway, he wrote a book called Al Azif, which was the beginning.

Theodorus Philetas of Constantinople translated it, and Al Azif became known as the Necronomicon.

Many tried to destroy the book, but it stubbornly survived. Do you know why?”

“Was it because of the strong power of secret organizations?”

The old man laughed, slapping his knee at James Chiddle’s words.

“No. It became famous because riffraff copied it everywhere.

In this world, there are things famous for being famous rather than for their intrinsic value, and the Necronomicon was such a thing.

It’s like poisonous plants. Poisonous plants abound in the world, but they only function as poison in the hands of those who know how to use them.

The knowledge of the Necronomicon is the same. Wilbur Whateley had John Dee’s translation. It’s in my hands now.

But since John Dee’s translation wasn’t complete, he wanted another version from Miskatonic.

There’s an Olaus Wormius Latin translation there.

In the end, he failed to see the Miskatonic version, but even with incomplete knowledge, he brought forth destruction.

And now the Black family of Pollard Island is trying to do the same thing.”

“The Black family? The mayor’s family?”

Crayfield asked. The old professor nodded.

“Do you know why whaling was particularly prosperous on Pollard Island? Many countries have engaged in whaling.

Whaling ships weren’t limited to just one or two places. Even in America, many cities tried to engage in whaling.

But Pollard is still considered the holy land of whaling.

Have you never found that strange? This evil family has been offering whales as sacrifices.

They extracted the oil and valuable parts, then ‘offered’ the useless flesh.

When they couldn’t maintain it with their own power, they brought in outsiders.

Those who sympathized with their cause were accepted through rituals, and their descendants continue the lineage even now.

But now there are no whales to sacrifice. So they’ve switched to more easily found sacrifices.

As they did elsewhere, human sacrifices.

The reason the last whaling ship never returned is because they were destined to be sacrificed.”

“That information wouldn’t be in the Necronomicon.”

Crayfield pointed out.

“Where did you hear about the inner workings of the Black family?”

“Investigation. Testimony. Confession.”

Professor Henry Armitage muttered.

“The FBI is gathering excellent people. I agreed to share my limited knowledge.

And it seems inappropriate to reveal that now.

Anyway, human sacrifices are currently taking place on Pollard Island.

But they’re not offering them to Dagon and Hydra. They’re praying to another god, hoping to block their wrath.

That couple is very angry. You know who they’re praying to, don’t you?”

The same answer occurred to all of us.

Cthulhu.

Click.

The clock struck three.