by Mark DuCharme

-VIII-

“You’re late,” Waycross blurted, testily. He was the Interim Assistant Deputy Director of Transportation— that is, of transporters like me. I never met anyone higher up than Waycross. He felt it, too. He was like a petulant king.

I looked at my watch. I was about a quarter-hour late or so, I was surprised to learn.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I had a carrier incident while off-duty in the middle of the night, and I thought I should try to get the cargo to the facility directly, and thought I could do that and still make it back here on time, but I misjudged the time terribly. I’m so horribly sorry, sir.”

“Well,” he paused, “don’t let it happen again.”  Then he huffed away, just as testily as before, but perhaps a bit incensed at his own uncharacteristic show of relative mercy.

I noticed the New Man several feet away, looking stealthily toward me and observing— observing the whole time, with a most curious and furtive glee.

The New Man was sinister. I felt uneasy in his presence, and so tried to avoid him. There was something odd about him, the way he’d so suddenly replaced Hank, and the silence about it, the whispers, as if nothing had happened at all, as if Hank had never been. And the New Man always seemed to be turning up suddenly at the wrong time, looking about stealthily, behind one’s back, over one’s shoulder, as if he were studying you, as if he wanted to learn your private business, as if he wanted to learn to be you. I half suspected him of being a spy for management. Maybe, it now occurred to me, he was a spy for this Thorne.

I didn’t intend to let myself be late again, but neither could I make much sense of all that had recently occurred. Then I remembered the packet Gruber had left me. I reached into my coat and felt that it was still in my breast pocket. I suddenly became more curious about it. I mean, here was I, who had been fearing that old man— or rather, his remains— and I’d been carrying his final testament, of sorts, the whole time. And why me? I was just a neighbor. Sure, I’d drunk his brandy and listened to his ravings on occasion, but we weren’t close, or so I judged. Why would he have made a point of leaving this for my eyes alone? Why would he have told Ana about it, and why did she feel it was important (if she felt anything at all) that I should get it— especially in that very strange moment when we’d just burst in upon her old daddy’s death scene? What strange jumble of thoughts rambled through her mind at that time, out of which she determined that this was the one thing she wanted to be sure not to forget? It’s not like she remembered it a week later and slipped it under my apartment door; no, she made a point of giving it to me then. Something was mysterious about it, alright. Yet I had no time to look into it now; a full day’s work lay ahead of me.

Must I confess how my curiosity began to grow and fester over the course of that day’s labors, and how my lack of a full night’s sleep only seemed to compound my general state of confusion?

Finally, after endless hours, the sun began its slow descent, and I, after having deposited my cargo, began to make my way home also. I knew as soon as I got there that I would want to read Gruber’s packet. And so I hurried.

When I finally entered my apartment, the night now having fully descended upon the city, I tossed Gruber’s envelope upon the table and removed my coat. I was hungry, but even more so was I curious, so I grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, stuck a frozen dinner in the microwave, and sat down with the packet that had captivated my thoughts for the better part of that strange day.

I ripped open the yellowed envelope and removed the sheets of folded paper and another sealed packet that had been inside the first. When I read the contents, it became clear to me that Gruber had thought more highly of our “friendship” than I myself.

Dear Johnny,
By the time you read this, I may be dead. That’s how things go in times like these. I’ll try to explain more about that later. Forgive me if I can’t explain it all. There are some things I am about to tell you that defy reason or virtue.
On the last night you came to visit, Johnny, I could sense your skepticism, so I didn’t want to go on about all this.  But nevertheless, I feel it’s important to tell you, because if I’m right, my life is in real danger, and yours is too.
I mentioned one Artemas Thorne that night. It didn’t seem like you’d heard of him. Nevertheless, he’s a very important man in this town. Some say, the most important. But I told you, or I tried to tell, that he is very, very dangerous. You must be on your guard!
Why he’s so dangerous will take some explaining. You probably already think me a little crazy, Johnny, but if you don’t, you surely will after you have finished reading what follows. I can assure you, though, that I am in full possession of my mental faculties, despite my age, even as I imagine that my assurance will not matter much to you, my dear friend. Nevertheless, because your own soul is at stake, as well as mine, I must try at least to convince you, however quixotic that labor may prove.
Johnny, strange things are going on in this city— strange and wicked things. Why do you think that all those bodies have to be brought to the abandoned warehouse before dusk?  What is it your employers are afraid of? Have you ever thought about that?
Johnny— you’re smarter than you pretend to be, but if I can speak frankly, my friend, your problem is that you’re incurious.
Johnny, have you ever heard about the dead returning to life? I don’t mean to life exactly, but to some pale semblance of it. When this happens, some call those returned— those whom I believe you call “carriers”— the undead.
Johnny, please bear with me. I am not as feeble-minded as I think you think I am. I am not feeble-minded at all, in fact. But when I say this, I know you will not believe me.
Nevertheless, I persist, because you are my last hope. My daughter is lost to me. I know few people young enough, strong enough, to carry on this fight. You are both young and strong, Johnny, and if you will but believe, I know that you can see this through— and do what must be done.
You have received the calling card, by now, of Artemas Thorne, I trust. No, it’s not I who put it there! I understand your skeptical nature, Johnny— in many ways, I am a skeptic myself, as I’ve tried to stress to you, though it seems to have fallen on deaf ears.  In any case, perhaps by the time you read this, you might be a bit more curious about him than when we last spoke.
I am a historian by training, if not by profession, as you well know. I have done a fair amount of historical research in my time. I have looked into this Artemas Thorne— for reasons that may become clear to you, but which for now it is difficult to fully explain. In any event, there is no record of a person of that name, man or woman (for in fact, it could be either) ever being born on this continent. And I’ve scoured all the data. I find that rather curious.
The other curious thing is that the only record— again, on this continent— of a person by that name, in any variant spelling, is of a colonist who arrived here on one of the early ships. A birth record has been found for that Artemas Thorne near London, but no death record for that person, born in 1596, has been located. Very strange.
Johnny, I am convinced that the Artemas Thorne who lives here and now and the Artemas Thorne born in 1596 are one and the same! He is one of the undead, Johnny— in fact, he is their leader, of sorts. If I am right about this— and I am almost certain that I am— then it is he who brought this plague upon our city. He is a very wicked man— or should I say, creature?
You’ll want proof. I can offer none, at least until catastrophe strikes. But if you ever wake up in the middle of the night, full of restless dreams, do not look out your south-facing window if you lack courage.
My hope and purpose in writing posthumously (should my guess prove correct, and my daughter, in that event, keep her word) is that you be awakened to this danger and act swiftly, as one should.

Most sincerely,
Augustus Aloysius Gustave “Jim” Gruber

PS: I am enclosing a second sealed letter in this first. I ask that you not read it unless and until you become convinced that I am right. This second letter will instruct you on what to do to rid this city of its plague and of the demon who brought it upon us.
PPS: One more thing, Johnny. My daughter Analeise may call upon you some evening, if she already hasn’t. Don’t let her see this letter or the enclosed one! If I’m right about all of these things, Johnny, she is dangerous too.

I was most perplexed by this strange missive. On the one hand, Gruber here sounds madder than ever before; on the other, he makes a strange sort of sense.

I grew upset. The events of the last few days had cast an unmistakable pall over things. It seemed as if I’d been drawn into some chain of circumstance that led I knew not where, and over which I had no control. I didn’t know what to do or think. I began to wish that I’d told Ana to go the hell away and gone back to sleep. I began to wish that I hadn’t knocked on Gruber’s door that night. O, what to believe?

I finished my meal, then drank another beer, then another. I went to bed at the usual time, but slept fitfully. I would have gladly settled for troubled dreams.

-IV-

I couldn’t very easily get to sleep, and when I did it was only a feeble approximation of rejuvenating repose. I did wake fully, though, around midnight. Old Gruber’s letter had haunted me, chasing back innocence’s rest. But when I glanced up at the clock and saw that it was only 11:58 P.M., I felt despair. And then, those words of Gruber’s came back to me: if you ever wake up in the middle of the night, full of restless dreams, do not look out your south-facing window if you lack courage. Gruber had been crazy, but he could be right about some things. My apartment does have a south-facing window, for example. But what could I see from there, and why would it require courage? The main thing visible from there is that old tower.

I have remarked earlier in my tale upon the unusual construction of the building in which my quarters are located— how the edifice is essentially an old Victorian house that has been added on to over the many decades hence. This is so, and the newer appendages are sometimes odd and ill-suited to the original components of the structure.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the tower. It is probably at least five or six stories in height— easily the tallest edifice for blocks around. It is constructed of mortared stones. It looks rather more like a European structure than one erected on this continent. In truth, it resembles a medieval tower more than anything post-Victorian, and so it fits right in with the odd hodgepodge of architectural styles that is the hallmark of the assemblage I call home. There are windows in that tower (fairly narrow), but there is no door at all outside its circular structure. It is said that an old door that no one ever uses— one that, coincidentally, is to be found just to the left as I exit my quarters and approach the main stairwell— actually leads to a hallway which, in turn, leads into that tower. But as I’ve said, that doorway is never used. It doesn’t seem that anyone has the key. And I have never seen lights in the tower’s somewhat narrow rectangular windows. In truth, I think that no one lives there, nor has anyone for at least as long as I have occupied my quarters.

The more I thought about it, the less sense Gruber’s statement made. You see, if I look out that window at night— or in day, for that matter— just about the only thing I can see is that tower. Now why should that be so frightening?

Here, I suddenly thought to myself, here was a chance to prove Old Gruber the benign lunatic I always took him to be. I got out of bed at once and went to that window. Surely, I would need no courage, because surely all that would be visible would be that old, abandoned tower, the darkness that engulfed it, and perhaps some faint lights down the street. This was brilliant, I thought. Surely all this vague, uneasy feeling would be resolved at once, and I would turn and go right back to bed, and sleep there like a babe in comfort.

I should not need to tell you with what chagrin I had to admit to myself that Old Gruber knew exactly what he had been talking about. For there it was, out my window facing south, that stone phallic structure. And out of one of its narrow, rectangular windows, I saw emerge to my growing horror the figure of a man. Yes, it was unmistakable. But this man did not leap to his doom, nor make some plea to the unheeding night; no. This man, instead, emerged from that window and crawled— yes, that is the right word— he crawled down the side of that building, quite like a spider. He had dark hair and was slender, but not slight, of build. He was clad all in black or dark gray— I could not tell the difference by cloudy moonlight— and his long overcoat paid no more respect to the law of gravity than his body did. When this downward-crawling human arachnid arrived at the narrow window directly below the one he had emerged from, he entered abruptly, and with an insect-like and most inhuman agility. Then— and this is the strangest part— I could see him stand up in the lower chamber he had so unnaturally entered, and turn and face me suddenly— yes, me! He was clearly aware that I had been watching him, and even in the dim moonlight, I could yet detect a malevolent smile curl his lips.

I rushed from my window in horror. Had this all been a dream? No, it couldn’t have been! I was nowhere near a state of sleep conducive to dreams, much less any state of sleep. I was wide awake, yet what I saw struck mortal terror in me in a way no nightmare ever had, even as a little boy. No, this was all too real! And this thing— this spider-creature— was now aware of me, if he hadn’t been before. My blood chilled as I reflected on this new and dreadful development.

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Next Time: The Letter Inside The Letter