no more dreaming of the dead

by minaharkersjournal

Summary:

(as if death itself was undone.)

Chapter 1: PART ONE - the hounds of love are hunting

"It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another."

- Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

 

1 - you can't choose what stays and what fades away

November 1986

A strangled shout echoes out from beneath your feet, making you jump and drop your Walkman to the floor with a clatter. There's a heavy thud. Then another. You pause, sitting up on your bed. You'd been lounging there, listening to last year's Kate Bush album and staring at your books angrily, not so much studying for your next test as hoping to inhale information passively through your eyes.

Now you cock your head, feeling the icy thrill of fear creep through your veins, adrenaline pulsing in your blood. Dan is out with Francesca, you know, and you're all alone in the house with Herbert. Alone, that is, not counting anything Herbert might be working on down there in the dark.

He's always in the basement, these days. You can hear him clearly from your bedroom on the first floor, a converted storeroom where the embalming fluids and associated tools had been kept in the days when the house had still been a mortuary.

You've been living with Dan for almost two years; had moved into the house on Darkmore Road with Dan before Herbert had, long before the Miskatonic Massacre, and had waited anxiously for the two of them to come home on that bloody night, more than a year ago now. You had rushed to the door to greet them when they finally did return, then collapsed in babbling horror at the look on Dan's face, the blood on Herbert's clothes, and the missing space between them where Meg should have been.

After that night you were forced to wait a further eight months in Arkham, alone, whilst the two of them worked together in Peru. Those months were the loneliest of your life. Your parents had begged you to come home to Ogunquit, to transfer to the University of Maine as soon as possible - where your brother Michael just happened to be a researcher - and never set foot in Arkham again. You refused, much to their despair and bemusement. They couldn't understand what bound you so closely to your friend of only a few years and his strange, intense partner.

You'd been asked politely but firmly by the landlord, who had read the newspapers, to leave 666 Darkmore soon after the Massacre took place. But that turned out to be for the best, as you had found the old mortuary on the edge of town at a bargain price.

It would be a bit weird living in the middle of Christchurch Cemetery, you thought, but the place was huge and would be private. Privacy was something all three of you valued. You paid six months rent up front with crumpled checks which Herbert mailed to you, bloody thumb prints on some of them, and had settled in to wait. For them. For him.

And now they were back and you'd thought the three of you would have the chance to be a family again, even if it wasn't a happy one. But Meg's absence loomed large over you all, like a flitting shadow which touched every room of the house, draining all the light from the place.

It had helped when Francesca had come to Arkham and distracted Dan from his grief, but now Dan was spending more and more time out with Francesca and less and less time with you or with Herbert's experiments. Herbert, for his part, was spending almost every moment alone in the basement, doing God knows what. He'd even taken to sleeping down there, you thought, as he sure enough never seemed to use his bedroom. 

It wasn't that he was loud when he was working, exactly. You had never needed to stamp on the floor to get him to shut up, as you had needed to do sometimes at home when your brother played music long into the night. There were no shrieks, cries or screams. Probably, you suppose, because he was no longer working on whole people, after what had happened  

(Dean Halsey Dr. Hill Meg oh God)

the last time he'd attempted that, and was limiting himself to messing around with parts. But little scratching and scuttering sounds sometimes alerted you to the presence beneath your feet of his workroom, and to the things that reside there.

You'd brought your friend - a girl in your class called Annie Pataky, who had thick-rimmed glasses and a waspish demeanor - over to the house once and she'd scrunched up her face in disgust, asking if there were rats in the walls. You'd passed it off as a joke, but privately you had wondered what was lurking in the dark places of the house. 

You know what 'the work' entails, of course. The boys try their best to protect you from the worst aspects of it; you're just an English Literature student, after all, not accustomed to blood and gore as they are. You have only actually seen two of Herbert's 'creations', not counting the late Dean Halsey, who you still sometimes see in your dreams.

The second time was the easiest; you had walked in on Herbert playing with the finger-creature he had made soon after they arrived back from Peru. That had given you the creeps, at first, but you'd almost grown to like the little thing after an afternoon spent with Herbert, watching it run around the kitchen floor. 

The first time was much worse. That had been when Herbert had brought Rufus back to screaming life, back-broken and pitiful, shortly after he'd moved into 666 Darkmore. Dan had held you tight to his chest as you sobbed and watched Herbert put the cat down, again, with the flat of a spade. You'd almost packed your bags there and then, sickened and distraught, but you hadn't. You'd stayed.

You might justify it to yourself by saying the rent was so cheap, the rooms so spacious, the location so convenient, but those would be lies. Even though you'd cursed them both that night, had screamed at Herbert and retreated to your room despite Dan's pleadings, the truth was that you'd stayed for them. For him.

And now, these sounds. 

If you had any real survival instinct you would run out of that house as fast as you could, damning Herbert to whatever hell of his own design he had fallen foul of already. But you can't do that; it's a foregone conclusion. Wherever he goes, you will go, with a heavy heart and a guilty conscience. So you jump to your feet and hurry down the basement steps, two at a time, knowing what you find there might be worse than death itself.

'Herbert?' 

You call out to him, hands pressed against the immobile wood of his workroom door. There's a silence. Then the door opens, just a few inches, and he is standing in the gap; you breathe a sigh of relief you didn't even know you'd been holding onto. He doesn't look injured.

His hazel eyes are chilly as they take you in, his dark hair mussed like he's been running his hands through it. He arches his eyebrows as if you'd rudely interrupted him telling an anecdote at a dinner party, rather than come across him in a dank basement with blood all over his sleeves.

'Yes, Jean? Is everything alright?' he asks, his voice low.

If anybody else had disturbed his work - apart from Dan, perhaps, and even he was on thin ice these days - Herbert would have been irritable, even angry. But his voice always seems to soften when he speaks to you.

'Yeah, fine. I just - I thought I heard something. Like… Maybe you needed help?'

His lip quirks a little. You see he looks very tired; the bags under his eyes are more pronounced even than usual, and you notice that his hands are shaking slightly. He speaks again, more curtly this time.

'I assure you, all's well down here. You needn't have…' His mouth spasms briefly in something between a smile and a grimace. 'Needn't have concerned yourself,' he finishes, voice hoarse.

You shrug and look restlessly back the way you came, feeling embarrassed, exposed.

'Okay… Sorry. I must have been wrong. I'll just go back to bed, I guess.'

You turn away and begin to scurry back up the stairs, feeling hot and flustered under his cool gaze. Then he calls out your name. His voice has an odd edge to it; needy. Desperate, even. You stop, whip around, and he takes a few steps towards you. 

'Yeah?'

'Will you…' Herbert squirms, clearly struggling with whatever he is about to ask. 'Will you stay awhile?'

You walk back down the steps towards him, slowly, watching his eyes. They flicker with something - embarrassment? defiance? - but don't break your gaze. You nod.

'Of course, I will. What - what do you need?'

He shakes his head, as if shaking off a negative thought, and braces his still-trembling hand against the door frame. He seems to notice the tremor only a moment after you do and slaps his other hand down, quickly, to hold his limb steady. You blanch and rush to his side, but don't know what to do when you get there. 

'Herbert, please. You aren't okay. I can tell. Will you just - will you come upstairs and tell me what's wrong?' You hear the pleading in your own voice, hear it and don't care. 'I'll - I'll make us something to drink, we can… We can talk.' 

But he's shaking his head again and laughing, now, as if you've said something terribly droll. The bitter sound hurts your heart.

'No, no. I don't need to talk. I don't need anything to drink. I just need - I just - ' 

Words seem to fail him. With one last quick look at you he sweeps back into his workroom, slamming the door. The force rebounds it impotently, makes it swing open again with an ominous creak. You stare after him, into the gloom perforated by grotesquely glowing green light. You don't want to go in. You know there are dead people in there, and worse; parts which had formerly been dead people. You sigh, knowing that you're going to step over that threshold in any case. Herbert's in there, and Herbert needs you. 

The room smells acrid; of chemicals, of viscera. Herbert is at the sink in the corner, scrubbing his hands. You hadn't noticed that they'd been dirty. Perhaps they were only dirty to his eyes. He glances over his shoulder as you enter, does a double-take which is almost comical.

'What are you doing in here?'

You blink.

'You… asked me to stay?' 

You step further into the room, close the door behind you with a gentle click. Herbert scowls. As he turns away from the sink you see the flash of a glowing green bottle and the glint of a syringe, both of which he slips into his pocket. His hands are no longer shaking. Ah. 

'Forgive me, that was a momentary lapse in judgement. I wasn't feeling myself. I'm better, now. And I'm very busy. I'm on the edge of a breakthrough, so I'd be grateful if you could just… go away.'

'I don't know, Herbert, you look a little - '

And that's when you see it. And you can tell that Herbert has seen you see it. 

A body is laying on the narrow metal table in the middle of the room, covered by a white sheet. You'd already noticed that when you'd come in, obviously. A full corpse is hard to miss. But this one just tried to sit up.

'Her - Herbert…' you breathe, watching it with eyes wide and wild. 'It's - it's alive - quickly, get Dan's baseball bat, I'll - '

You turn to Herbert. His eyes have shifted sideways, guiltily, and he makes no attempt to move. You glare at him, realization dawning.

'You did this? On purpose? Herbert, have you gone mad?' 

Shaking with anger rather than fear, now, you step towards him, carefully giving the table and its occupant a wide berth. It's laying still again but the image of it struggling to get into a sitting position, the sheet warping and twisting as the thing beneath moved, had struck the old fear into you. The fear you had felt the night of the Massacre when Dan had come bursting into Meg's house, yelling that she was in danger. 

You'd been there as her friend, holding her hand as she cried about her father and her breakup with Dan, and so you'd seen Dean Halsey when he came to claim her. Sometimes, in your dreams, you relive Dan being thrust against the wall, sliding down it with blood pouring from the back of his head. Yourself being pushed violently aside by a bloody hand which catches in your white blouse, hitting your head on the hall table, watching Meg being carried away screaming by her father as you sink into unconsciousness. 

You don't see Herbert's face swimming into view above you as you wake up, checking your vitals, and telling you firmly to go home and lock the door. That had been what happened in reality on that terrible night and, although you'd never tell him, your strange new housemate's face had been so welcome a sight that you'd almost cried.

But in the dreams you just see that trail of blood down the wall, that shockingly scarlet hand print on your blouse, and Meg's terrified face looking back over her father's shoulder as he takes her away from you for the last time. These are the memories of Herbert's dead that you hold in your mind. 

And so, you're furious. 

After everything that had happened - after Meg - he was doing it again. You knew he'd been experimenting with his serum on parts, of course, and could forgive that. But to attempt to reanimate a whole person, without Dan nearby to help if things went south… You almost can't conceive of it.

You see his eyes narrow, the guilt which had momentarily flickered in them vanishing, and he moves towards you, too, closing the gap between you so he's right up in your face. He's only an inch or so taller but in that moment it feels like he towers over you, all bombast and righteous indignation. You hold your ground.

'I don't need to explain myself to you,' he sneers, and you've so rarely seen this spiteful side of him - at least in the last year - that it hits you like a slap. 'You wouldn't understand. You have no part in what Dan and I do, precisely because of your - your ignorance. Your lack of vision.'

'I understand this just fine, Herbert. I mean, for God's sake - this isn't like the little... eye-finger thing. This is - this is a person, a whole person! I thought you didn't do this anymore.' You're almost wailing, your fear and anger combining in one shrill voice. 'Look! It just moved again - who is this, Herbert? Do you even know? Do you even care?'

A sudden, manic urge sends you lunging across the room towards the table. Herbert realizes what you're about to do a moment too late and he's slow, his clutching fingers don't reach you in time. You twitch the sheet away, and you freeze. Then you begin to scream.

'Stop it!' 

Herbert grabs you around the waist and yanks you away, ignoring your shrieks of primal terror and shock. He holds you struggling against his body, holds you back from the thing laying on the table. And it is a thing, you know, not a person, not anymore.

'Just stop it!' Herbert snaps again, close to your ear, a hint of desperation in his voice now. 'Please! Please, I can explain, just - just stop screaming!'

'Let go of me, you - you fucking monster,' you sob, wrenching yourself out of his grip. He lets you go, arms dropping to his sides, a discordant note of hurt in his eyes as your words strike home. There's a silence, broken only by your labored breathing, as you curl in on yourself, backing up against the wall. 

'A monster? Is that what you think?' 

Herbert moves slowly over to the table and puts out a hand to gently caress the thing laying there. You watch him, feeling sick. It's a woman - or, parts of it were. Had been. Her face is chalk-white, drained completely of blood, her purple lips the only splash of color and almost gaudy in the dim fluorescent light. Her hair is blonde and tangled, but must once have been beautiful. That is where any resemblance to beauty ends. A livid scar rings her neck like a ruby-beaded necklace, the skin warped and bunched there, sewn efficiently but with little regard for aesthetics. The flesh below this scar  

(surgical incision, cut from a butcher's blade)  

is several shades darker than that of her face, you notice, and yet one of the hands is even paler. So then you realize what you're actually looking at, and you think you really are going to throw up.

Herbert pointedly ignores you as you dry-heave into the sink. You glance over your shoulder when the room has stopped spinning, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He's trailing his fingers down the side of her face, lightly ghosting them like she might stir again, bat his hand away. When he sees that you're done he grabs a rag from a bench and holds it out to you, politely. You eye it, not trusting yourself to speak yet. As if he read your mind he says:

'It's quite clean, I assure you.'

You snatch it out of his hand, rub it across your face, taking care not to get too close to the thing (woman? women?) as you edge past it, trying to put the table between you and Herbert. He watches you as you sit down heavily on the bench, a flicker of concern in his eyes, but makes no move to follow. You glare back at him and make a strange, hiccuping sound.

'What,' you begin, emphasizing your words carefully, 'the fuck, Herbert?'

'I told you, I can explain.'

'Well, please do!' You laugh, a hysterical bark, and gesture wildly around the room to an imaginary audience. 'Please explain why the fuck you have Frankenstein's monster laying on a slab in our basement!'

Herbert flinches at your words, his eyebrows knitting in irritation.

'She is not a monster. And neither am I, for that matter, although visionaries are often given that label in their own time. This is…' He looks around at the body again and you see pride glowing in his every movement, in the gleam of his eyes. 'This is Meg.'

You'd thought you couldn't be any more shocked by the turn of events in that basement, but Herbert just kept raising the bar. He smiles at you in the wake of his words, smiling as if expecting you to leap up and clap for joy.

'Meg?' you repeat, dully.

'Yes. It's Meg. I'm making her, for Dan, to - to bring him back to himself.'

'Dan… What… What are you talking about? Dan hasn't gone anywhere, he's with Francesca, they're out at the movies right now...' You're babbling, you realize, and you stop yourself, staring open-mouthed at the corpse-doll on the table. That isn't Meg. It's not her face, it's not her body. Meg's gone.

Herbert rolls his eyes.

'Really, I had hoped that you might understand. I feared you wouldn't, of course - so few do, and you have no medical background - but I have sometimes thought that you're capable of seeing things from my point of view. Perhaps even more so than Dan. I'm disappointed, truly.'

'Disappointed?' The word leaves your mouth in a whisper. 'How is that Meg, Herbert? What have you done? What have you done?'

'She's not all Meg, obviously. Her head is a woman who died with complications arising from lung cancer, just this morning. A favorite patient of Dan's. I thought that might help with the bonding process. And most of her body is that of a Jane Doe they brought in cold, last week - apart from a hand and one of her legs. They're from the victim of a car accident.'

Herbert frowns, runs a hand over the body's arm. You shudder to see his warm flesh glide over the mottled remains. He continues, perhaps mistaking your horrified stare for rapt attention.

'The heart, though, is Meg's. I took it from Dr. Graves's collection. He wasn't doing anything with it; it was just gathering dust on a shelf. A criminal waste. So I thought, well…' He smiles gently at you again, as if willing you to see this from his perspective. 'When she was alive she was so proud of having Dan's heart, in its entirety. So now she's gone, why can't he have hers?'

'Her… heart?'

'Yes, her heart,' he repeats, impatiently. He makes a move towards you and you draw back, flickering your eyes between the corpse and him. He blinks, and if the situation wasn't so bizarre you'd think you'd hurt his feelings. As it is, every thought you have is busy struggling with the information he is trying to get through your skull. He continues, looking at you warily and keeping a respectful distance.

'I really thought I'd achieved a breakthrough, earlier - intracardiac injection accompanied by a dose to each limb. But that method requires two people to be successful. When I've attempted it alone the results haven't been… optimal.'

He sighs. You just stare at him, breathing shallowly, but he goes on as if you'd asked him thoughtfully to elaborate on his conclusions.

'When the subject has been dead for longer than - say, five minutes? - the limbs and heart must be dosed with reagent simultaneously. You need two pairs of hands for that.' He snickers a little, eyes on your face. 'It's ironic, really. I need Dan, to help me get her right. I need Dan, to help Dan.'

'Is she going to try to get up again? Is she still... 

(alive?)  

… awake?'

Your voice is shaky and you grab your forearm to try to steady it, stab your nails into the soft flesh. You wince, feel the warm leak of blood. It helps.

'No, no. I don't think so. The movement you saw was just an… aftershock, as it were. I dosed her just before you arrived but... she merely spasmed. I found it frustrating, so I kicked the bench.'

Herbert looks abashed, as if losing control in that way was the most embarrassing element of this whole scene. 'That was probably the noise you heard.'

You nod, wordlessly, replaying the last few minutes in your head. Something incongruous he just said has slowly risen to the surface of your thoughts, like an old Coke can bobbing in a clear mountain stream.

'When you say that you've attempted this alone… You do mean just with her, right?' You jerk your thumb towards 'Meg,' although it gives you a cold shiver to dub her with your old friend's name. Herbert opens his mouth for a moment then closes it, soundlessly, his eyes cutting away from you. You know him too well, and you know what that look means.

'Herbert…'

'Well, no, as it happens!' He's riled up, flustered, and begins to pace around his half of the room. 'I was able to try it out on someone else, a few days ago.'

'Herbert! Goddamn it! Who? Where? What happened?'

'Calm down. You're being hysterical.'

You feel like throwing a chair at him. 

'Herbert West, tell me right now or I'm going straight to the cops.'

'You wouldn't do that.'

'Oh, you think so? You think I care about you too much to see you in jail? Because you're - '

'No,' he cuts across you, his voice infuriatingly even. 'Because you're an accomplice. You know that Dan and I have been stealing remains from the hospital. If I go down, you'll go down too. And besides…' Herbert fixes you with a cool look. 'You could never do that to Dan.'

'God damn you,' you mutter, looking away. He's right and you know it. 

'God has no part in this.'

You hear the hint of a smirk in his voice and you turn towards him again, sharply. But he's not smiling. He's staring at you intently, as if mentally recording your reactions for some other infernal experiment. When you reply your voice has deadened out, like a slab of meat. 

'Who else did you bring back, West?' 

'That detective who's been sniffing around, trying to build a case against us.'

You frown. A memory from a few days earlier stirs in your mind.

---

It's late when you get home from the library. It's raining, you didn't bring an umbrella, and you just want to run from your car to the front door as fast as you can. Puddles are already forming on the path through the gravestones as you scurry towards the house up ahead. Its lighted windows are a beacon of warmth in the damp darkness.

As you scramble for your keys you hear a noise. A dull thud. You pause, eyes streaming with rainwater, hand going up to cover them as if you were staring into the sun. You glance around, warily, every shadow lengthening and morphing into the silhouette of the late Dr. Hill. Then you see someone moving between the gravestones, on the other side of the cemetery. It looks like that policeman who had bothered you on your way out of class that day, the one who had asked questions about your housemates. And he's cradling one of his arms oddly, as if it's broken.

He's gone within seconds, disappearing into the shadows. When you get into the house Herbert is in the kitchen, fixing himself some soup. You mention what you think you saw outside and he doesn't even blink. 

---

'Lt. Chapham? He's… dead?'

Herbert winces, lifts his hand and waggles it in a comme ci, comme ça motion.

'He was.'

'You brought him back? And you didn't tell us?'

'I suspected you might not understand,' he scowls. 'And it seems I was correct.'

'You're damn right I don't understand!'

'I had to kill him,' he counters, defensively. 'It was him or me.'

'You… You killed him, too?' You laugh. At this point, it's all you can do. 'Terrific. Great. So we can also add murder to the list of your social faux pas - '

'I've killed before,' Herbert reminds you, quietly. You falter. He's looking at you defiantly but there's something sad in his gaze, like he's waiting for you to call him a monster again.

'That was different,' you mutter, looking away. 'Dr. Hill… he said he'd make Dan and I disappear. Didn't he?'

'Yes.' His voice is steady. You believe him.

'Right, that's what you said. So that was different. But this… Killing a cop, Herbert,' you splutter, throwing up your hands. 'Jesus Christ.'

'He threatened you and Dan too, you know. I was protecting all of us. And if you're concerned about possible police interest, then don't be. I last saw him heading back into town. He's rather conspicuous. He'll be noticed. And if he's out there, wandering around, then…'

Herbert flashes a twitchy little grin. He's fiddling with the bottle of serum in his pocket and you wonder if he knows he's doing it. 'Then he must have been alive when he left this house, mustn't he? Quod erat demonstrandum.'

You nod, numbly. That makes as much sense as anything else has. You just have one question, so big and all-encompassing that you almost cannot give mouth to it.

'Why, Herb? Why?'

You use the pet name for him that you'd only used once before, when he and Dan had come back from the hospital on the night of the Massacre. That night you had thrown yourself at them both, dragging them into a staggering hug, sobbing their names and questions about Meg's whereabouts in an alternating jumble. You'd called him Herb between your tears, because in those dark moments it had felt like you'd known him all your life.

He frowns when you use it again, now, and when he comes towards you this time you don't pull away. You stand, step towards him, allow him to catch your arms in his firm grip.

'Because she's what Dan needs. Don't you see that? Jean... If I give him back Meg - not just Meg as she was, but Meg improved - then he… Then…' He falters, his lower lip trembling. It shocks you to see a man so usually composed begin to break down like this, fray at the edges.

'Then he'll stay,' you finish for him, fully understanding his thought process for the first time. Herbert keeps your gaze, not denying it. His eyes - which seem by turns dark and light, seawater green and deepest black - are large and shiny. 'You think he'll stop drawing away from us… From you… If you give him this.'

'Exactly,' he smiles hesitantly, mouth turning down a little at the edges. 'I knew you'd understand, when I really made you see.' You shake your head and his smile vanishes.

'Don't you see, Herbert? Whatever you could build here, down in the dark, it couldn't be Meg. Just a crude facsimile of her. Meg doesn't live on in her heart, in that… hunk of dead flesh. That's not what she was.'

'So…' Herbert starts, uncertainly. 'Do you suggest I should try to locate her brain, instead? Because it wasn't for want of trying, it's just that Dr. Graves - '

'No, Herbert! No, I'm not saying that at all.' The image of Meg's long-dead brain being scooped up in a plastic bag and dumped into the cranial cavity of the body on the table makes you feel like dry-heaving again.

'Jesus, no. My point is... she's gone. Whatever made her, y'know, her, is gone. And besides, this wouldn't make Dan stay. Nothing can. He's moving on. Not leaving us, not for good, but… He's out there, living his life. And you should, too.'

'But…' Herbert's mouth twists again and he drops your arms, spins away from you to brace himself against the metal table. The corpse jiggles horribly. 'But I need him. For my work. Our work.'

'I'm sure he'll still be here for the work.'

'He hasn't been here of late. Ever since we got back from Peru he's been distant from me.'

'He has a new girlfriend. For the first time in a year, he's happy. He'll come round, I'm sure. You just have to give him time.'

You run a hand across Herbert's shoulder, feel the muscles bunching beneath his shirt. He looks around at you and there's something in his gaze which makes your stomach swoop. Something on the edge of madness, mournful and so very hungry.

'I know you meant well, Herb. In your own way. But you can't do this. Dan wouldn't want you to. He loved Meg, loved her so much, and when you love someone… You can't do this to them. They don't come back the same.'

'You realize you're disparaging my life's work?' he counters, his voice rising.

'I'm not! What you're doing, the potential of it - the ways it could help people - it's mind blowing. But you should only do this on people who consent. You can't just… make a person, out of parts of people who didn't agree to it.'

'We seldom agree to being born. I know I didn't.' He laughs but it's a humorless laugh, weak and bitter. Your hand is still on his shoulder and you both notice at the same time; you move to drop it but before you can he's reached up, quickly, and put his hand over yours. 

'You're wrong, you know.'

'Herbert - '

'No, I mean… perhaps you're right about Dan and Meg. I think - I think I can see the logic in your argument.' He sniffs and runs the back of his other hand over his mouth.

'But you're wrong about them not coming back the same. My improved serum seems to preserve more of the subject's memories. When that man woke up I'm sure he knew me. Just like Dean Halsey knew Meg, at the last. Chapham wasn't a complete success - I hesitated too long, you see, before injecting him. But if I'd been but a few moments sooner…'

The potential in that trailing sentence makes you shudder. You can't imagine anything worse than that fate.

'Come on. Let's… let's go upstairs. I'll make us some cocoa. With a shot of something stronger.'

Herbert shakes his head.

'No, you go ahead. I have one or two things to handle down here.'

You hesitate. Herbert's hand is still covering yours and you don't want that to stop. But he breaks the spell first; he shifts, drops your hand, and turns to look at you with a tired smile.

'What are you going to do?'

'Clean up,' he answers, and you understand what he's saying. You speak to him softly.

'Do you need any help?'

'No, no,' he murmurs, taking a shuddering breath. 'You'd better go up.'

'Will you come upstairs when you're done?'

'Yes.'

You leave him like that, in a strange heavy silence. You go back to your room, trailing your feet as if in a daze, and pick your Walkman off the floor; Hounds of Love has come bouncing out and the film has unspooled, like a coil of slick black intestines. You wind them back in with a pencil, sitting cross-legged on your bed.

You're restless; you pick up the book laying on your bedside table, the one Michael had sent you for your last birthday, and flip through a few pages before closing it with a snap. It's one of the latest Stephen Kings, Pet Sematary, and the half-wild eyes of a dead cat glare out at you from the cover. You stare at the illustration for a long time before putting the book aside.

What you're really doing is processing all that's happened, and waiting to hear Herbert's tread on the stair. The latter comes about an hour later, and then there's a soft knock at your door.

'Come in.'

Herbert puts his head around and you see he's changed his shirt. His tie is off and he looks like he's been exerting himself.

'I just wanted to let you know... she's gone. Meg, I mean. She's gone.'

You breathe out. 

'Oh, Herbert. That was the right thing to do. Dan would say the same.'

He flinches, takes a few steps further into the room.

'He must never know of this,' he says, an urgent tone in his voice.

'No, you're probably right.'

You stare at each other for a few moments, the significance of your words hitting home. A secret now binds you together. You think about asking him to come in, to shut the door and sit beside you on your bed. Part of you has wanted that for a long time, you think, and still does want that, despite what you'd learned that night.

But your feelings for your housemate are too muddled, your affection for him all jumbled up with flashes of bloody handprints and dead mottled flesh, and you don't know how to put it all into words. 

He nods, slowly, like an accord has been reached between you, and moves to leave. You watch him, wavering on the edge of calling him back, then relent.

'Herbert?'

'Yes?' Herbert turns to you, his face flickering with something like expectation. You shift off the bed, close the gap between you both. You could swear that his breathing gets faster and his eyes shift momentarily down to your lips.

'Thank you. I know how hard it must have been for you to do that, to… let your creation go. But you did the right thing.' You reach out to him, touch his arm lightly, and he watches you do it, like he's fascinated. 'And… Herb? You should be proud of what you've achieved. I'm sorry if I didn't make that clear, back there.'

'Does this flattery mean that you've forgiven me?'

He's trying to sound arch, you think, detached, but there's a quaver in his voice. It takes you several long moments to reply.

'I don't know,' you say, and it's the truth.

He just nods again. His lips quirk a little in what could be a wince or could be the edge of a smile; either way, he leaves without a word.

Chapter 2: you want a revelation / some kind of resolution

2 - you want a revelation / some kind of resolution

January 1987

I.

Christmas comes and goes. Herbert doesn't leave for the holiday like you and Dan do; he seems to have no family or, at least, he's never acknowledged any. Dan leaves for Italy with Francesca two days before Christmas, choosing to spend his time off with her family rather than with his parents in Illinois, and soon after that you make the short drive up the coast to stay with your parents in Ogunquit.

You feel guilty as you say your goodbyes to Herbert on Christmas Eve, picturing him alone in that old mortuary, with no one but the finger-creature - which is still scuttling around in the shadows, unseen but not unheard - for company. Not that he seems to mind. He barely glances up from his notes when you call out to him from the hall, and only acknowledges you with a curt:

'Right. Yes. Be seeing you.'

You linger a moment, wondering if you should say something more. Perhaps invite him home with you for Christmas, with awkward but unintentionally hilarious results, like you’re the leads in some ridiculous rom-com starring Molly Ringwald. Then you turn around and carry your bags out to the car, pretending not to see how his eyes furtively trail after you before the front door closes with a final thud.

In the weeks after that night in the basement you and Herbert have been dancing around each other, in each other's orbits through the necessity of your living situation but barely speaking. You only exchange words when Dan is within earshot, as you don't want him to notice there's anything wrong and upset the budding green shoots of his recovery.

It's not that you don't want to speak to Herbert. In fact, you're beginning to realize just how much you desperately do want to talk to him, to unscrew the top of your skull and let all the words you’ve stifled inside come pouring out of you. 

Before that night you had a relationship which was, if not exactly a friendship, then something approaching it. In the rare moments that Herbert was out of the basement you could sometimes sit together in silence for hours, with him scribbling page after page of notes, piled behind numerous text books and occasionally muttering to himself about topics which mystified you, like brainstem death and, once, the extraordinary regenerative properties of the common crustacean.

Herbert would frequently express his opinion that English Literature was not a real subject, but he would, in turn, listen patiently enough to you talk about whatever book you were currently studying, often with a slight smile on his lips. Most recently this had been Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the basis of your final thesis, which Herbert claimed to have read but not enjoyed. You had suggested he read Frankenstein, instead, and he'd glared at you without dignifying that with a response.

But then Herbert had showed you what he’d been building in the basement, and things had changed seemingly irreparably. You think that neither of you wants to admit that evening happened, to remember your horrified reaction to his latest creation or his desperate, shuddering justifications, which had seemed on the edge of madness.

So, instead, you don’t speak, and barely look at each other when you find yourself suddenly alone together in the kitchen or the hallway.

Christmas 1986 is a big improvement on the previous year, when you had only just said your tearful goodbyes to Dan and Herbert at the airport and were still waking up screaming almost every night, bloody handprints on your mind.

Your mom comments on how much happier you seem, how relieved she is to see the dark circles under your eyes have lessened, and your brother Michael teases you about where this newfound happiness might have come from.

‘Have you got a fancy-man, Gremlin?’ he asks you over dinner, using his most recent pet name for you, which you will never admit that you secretly love. You shove him good-naturedly and he laughs, helps himself to another hearty dollop of cranberry sauce.

When you get back on January 1st you find Herbert much the same. Perhaps a little less tired, a little more inclined to make small talk. Small talk which is, admittedly, mostly themed around the upcoming term, which will be the last for all three of you. Dan and Herbert are both planning to remain at Miskatonic for their residencies after completing their fourth and final year of medical school.

You don't know what you want to do when you graduate but, as in all things, you're sure that there will be something good in your future.

Dan doesn't get back until January 6th and so, for a time, it's just you and Herbert at home. For the first few days you still circle around each other, meeting only in the kitchen when preparing meals or in the hallway on your way to the bathroom.

One time you sit together to eat dinner; it's a companionable but quiet affair. The rhythm of gentle, teasing conversation you had struck up over a year living together has faltered, with nothing yet streaming in to replace it. 

So you're sitting alone on the couch, watching Black Christmas with one eye and skimming your notes for class with the other, when Herbert steps lightly into the room. You look up at him in surprise, an uncertain smile on your lips. Unusually he smiles back, although his face is pale and tensed, his eyes raving over you as if looking for the answer to an unknown question.

Outside the wind is howling amongst the gravestones, whistling mournfully through the gaps and hairline cracks of the old house, and rain is thundering like a drum overhead. It puts you in mind of the desolate and wind-blasted heaths of Wuthering Heights, the moorland where the ghost of dearest, dead Cathy will roam for eternity. 

You shudder at the lonely sound and see that Herbert is looking at you curiously; you watch as he sits beside you, nearby but not so close that he might risk accidentally making contact. He’s frowning at the screen, where a woman is currently being smothered to death with a plastic bag.

'This doesn't seem very appropriate for the season,’ he comments, archly. You look away before his eyes can meet yours.

'What do you mean?'

'It's quite gruesome. Do you usually watch movies like this at Christmas?'

You snort, glance over at him with raised eyebrows.

'I mean, I guess. It's a change from all the fake snow and glowy-cheeked kids and twinkly families. Miracle on 34th Street and all that. Anyway, this movie is Christmassy. Don't you see the snow?'

He turns his face from the TV and fixes you with a quizzical look.

'You don't like children?'

'No… I like kids just fine. I meant that - you know - Christmas can be very fake. Why do you ask, anyway? Are you gonna join me tonight?’

'No, of course not. I'm far too busy to watch television.' 

His expression is close to a sneer and he shakes his head, but he makes no move to get up. Minutes pass. You sit together in comfortable silence, hip-to-hip. You're relaxed, lounging against the arm of the couch; Herbert is sitting bolt-upright at first but, as the minutes pass, you see him start to sink back in his seat and draw closer to you, surely unconsciously. His black tie had been tucked into his starchy white shirt but he pulls it out, indicating his work is finished for the night.

On the screen another woman is being killed by a large hook swung at her head and Herbert scrunches up his face in distaste. You chuckle at his expression.

'What's the matter, too gross for you? I wouldn’t have thought I’d be the squeamish one here, without a medical background and all…'

That was how he had described you that night in the basement. From the quick, appraising glance he shoots at you, you can tell he's thinking of that too. He shifts, fiddles with his tie.

'It's not that,’ he huffs. ‘I just don't see what's so entertaining about some lunatic keeping a tableau of dead bodies in his attic.'

'Because obviously if they were in his basement, that would be fine?' You suck in a quick, shallow breath. It was just a joke, but for a moment you wonder if he’ll go cold again, stalk right out of the room. Then he cracks a small smile and you relax. The words come pouring out of you in a rush.

'My brother saw this in theaters when it came out. I remember he got home late and came straight upstairs to tell me the whole plot. I was terrified, I didn't sleep for a week.' 

'How old were you?' he asks, his curiosity seeming genuine.

You shrug, and lean across him to grab the remote and turn the volume down a little, almost - but not quite - missing his panicky little frown as your hand brushes over his thigh.

'Twelve, I think.'

'That doesn't sound responsible.'

'That's Michael,' you laugh, fondly. 'He's five years older than me. When they finally ran it on TV he missed a hot date so we could watch it together. We ate popcorn, I got so scared I cried - it was great.'

'So that's a happy memory for you, is it?' Herbert asks, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. 'Your brother terrorizing you with horror movies?'

'Yeah, it is,' you smile and nudge him gently with your elbow. 'And if that confuses you, I’m assuming you don't have any brothers and sisters.'

'No, I don't. I don't have any family.' Herbert says this briskly, without a hint of melancholy. 'Dr. Gruber was the closest thing to a real family member I ever had.'

'Oh,' you answer, not sure how else to respond. You know the story of Dr. Gruber's death - and short second life  - but you know it must be a painful memory for Herbert. 'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Don't be. I've always had all that I need.'

'Did your parents… pass away?'

He turns his eyes to you, clear green in the warm light, and smiles dryly.

'They died, if that's what you mean. I’d rather not waste time with euphemisms. The real world is usually vexing enough.' 

'How old were you?'

You feel awkward not offering him sympathy but he doesn't appear to want it. He looks up at the ceiling, thoughtful, as if he hasn't done this mental arithmetic in quite some time. You get the feeling this is mummery, though; the Herbert West you know can perform calculations so fast it gives you whiplash.

'When my mother died I was three months old. And my father died in '65, so I was six. Yes, that sounds right.'

'How did they…?'

You allow the words to hang in the air, a horrible fascination gripping you. Herbert has never shared this much about his past, as far as you are aware, even with Dan. He looks down at his hands for a moment before responding in a slow, deliberate voice.

'My mother died in a fire. She worked at a chemical plant. There was an explosion - an accident -  and the whole place burned down. No one survived.’

His gaze shifts away from you and back towards the TV, signaling that he's said all there is to say on that topic, and his tone is even and conversational as he adds: 

'And my father shot himself through the heart.'

You both sit in silence for a very long time. 

The movie's almost over and you find yourself wondering what will happen when the credits roll. You find that you don't want it to be over, because then Herbert will certainly leave and you don't want him to, not yet. Then:

'I've been wanting to thank you.' Herbert clears his throat as he speaks and you look over at him, startled not so much by the sudden sound as what he's said. You don't think Herbert has ever thanked you, for anything.

'Why?' you reply, honestly mystified. He turns his head towards you and you realize just how close to you he's sitting, now. If he swayed forwards just a little, his nose would brush yours, his lips only a breath away.

'For correcting my course. You were right. My judgement was compromised for a while and you helped me see that.' He looks pained as he says this, like the effort of getting it out is twice that of a usual man admitting he has been wrong.

'Oh, Herbert, I mean - that's okay, I'm just glad you agreed with me.'

'I did, and I do,’ he nods, a deep crease appearing between his furrowed brows. ‘Bringing Lt. Chapham back was a mistake, as were my attempts to reunite Dan with Meg. I'm thankful that we seem to have escaped the worst, this time.'

'So you think we've got away with it?'

You wonder if you should bite back the word 'we' as soon as it has escaped your mouth, but you don't. It's true, after all. You and Herbert are in this together, bound by the secret you're keeping, even from Dan. Wherever he has gone, you have gone. He nods again, curt this time.

'Yes, I do. It's been weeks and Chapham hasn't shown himself. He most likely blundered into the road and was struck by a car, or some other petty fate. There's no need to be concerned.'

You shiver. Herbert's voice is dismissive as he says that last, like whatever happened to Chapham is inconsequential. Something in his tone reminds you of another night, so long ago now, when he'd sat you down in his bedroom to tell you about what happened at the hospital.

---

What few hours remain of the night of the Massacre are spent on the couch. That’s as far as you all make it after Dan and Herbert get through the front door, long after midnight.

You sit with Dan, hold him close, no longer asking for explanations. All your questions have gone unanswered in any case. Dan curls into you, his tank top still covered in blood and his eyes skittish, vacant.

Herbert slips away for a little while and comes back with the worst of the gore wiped from his face, his clothes changed and fresh. He finds you and Dan still in the same position and, instead of turning away, he sits beside you both, his eyes never straying from a fixed point on the floor.

The three of you sit there until long after the dawn breaks, not speaking, Dan’s gentle breathing the only sounds to break the silence. Dan sleeps a while; you and Herbert do not. 

You don’t ask any more questions about what happened to Meg, understanding on an instinctive level that neither man can talk about it in those moments. But the next day you go to Herbert’s bedroom - which he is using, for once, although you suspect he is awake - and knock, gently. You’re right; he’s sitting at his desk. You ask him to tell you everything that happened at the hospital, expecting him to wave you away. 

But he doesn’t; he tells you to come in, invites you to sit on his bed. And he tells you. How Hill had assaulted Meg, how he had somehow controlled the other corpses to attack Herbert and Dan, how Meg had been killed and the hospital thrown into bloodied chaos.

Herbert hints at some kind of power Hill possessed, some kind of ability to reach into the minds of others, but you sense that this idea is too much for his rational mind to alight upon for too long. You learn everything, and it’s too much, but you’re grateful he tells you with a steady voice.

There is just one area where you feel Herbert is holding something back. You ask about a small wound on his forehead, close above his brow bone, and he waves the question away with an uncomfortable frown. That wound leaves a small but deep scar and you frequently wonder about it, after, but never ask about it again. 

---

You remember, now, the tone in Herbert's voice as he told you the whole story of that night. It had been flat, strained, devoid of care, like he was recounting something that had happened in someone else's life. He'd called you 'Miss Marsten' throughout, as if you weren't yet on a first-name. As if the heightened formality would make what he had to say somehow easier.

That is how Herbert sounds when he talks about Lt. Chapham, and you wonder just how many bricks make up the mental wall he’s built to separate himself from his own actions. And how many similar events in his life have loaned their building blocks to it.

'Jean? Are you alright?' 

You realize that Herbert is talking to you as you lose yourself in memory, staring at you with his oddly unblinking gaze. You can feel the warmth from his body, so close beside you as to be stifling. The sharp expression on his pale face is hard to read; it's either concern or trembling on the edge of irritation.

'Yeah, I'm fine,' you answer, although your heart is beating fit to burst in your chest and you feel something gripping your stomach, wrapping around it with a vice-like grip.

Suddenly you feel like running, overwhelmed with it all. You're thinking again about bloody hands, this time reaching for your neck from behind a headstone in the cemetery that is your backyard. You feel you can hear, close and desperate, the sound of Herbert’s heartbeat, pulsing and slamming inside your head. 

Herbert is frowning at you, now, his mouth pursed together as if holding something back. The TV screen has gone black. The movie is over; no one survives.

'You don't look well.'

'I'm fine,' you say again, jumping to your feet, and then you stumble as the blood drains out of your head. Herbert is on his feet and by your side in half a moment. 

'No, you are not fine, any idiot could see that. And thankfully for you, I’m no idiot.’ He takes hold of your wrist and for one breath-stopping second you think he’s going to lace his fingers through yours, but he's just guiding you back down to sit on the couch; you move, numbly, and allow him to look into your eyes, put his cool hand on your forehead. 

‘Have you eaten today?' Herbert asks you briskly, not your housemate now but an accomplished medical student. You mumble something affirmative. 'How long ago?'

'I don't know… Breakfast? When was breakfast? I’m okay, I’m just a little… faint.’

Before you have the chance to finish your answer he's up, pulling open cupboards in the kitchen, coming back with a Hershey's candy bar in his hand. 

'Eat this. It’s Dan’s but if he misses it I’ll vouch for you.'

His words are businesslike, clipped, but there is more than a flicker of concern in his eyes. You realize with an unwelcome creeping sense that you sort of enjoy this side of Herbert, ordering you around, and try to stamp on that thought as quickly as you can. It’s probably the low blood sugar talking, you think as you take the bar from him and eat a square under his watchful gaze. He crouches down next to you and puts his hand on your bare arm once more.

As his neck tilts his hair falls away from his forehead and you see that small scar again, like a deep cigarette burn. In that instant, as his fingertips brush your skin and your eyes land on that scar, you hear the wails of a young woman, screaming and pleading for her life. It sounds like she’s in the room. You freeze, the Hershey’s bar dropping to the floor, forgotten. Herbert frowns and tightens his grip on your arm, opens his mouth to ask you what’s wrong.

Time seems to stretch. In your mind the screaming gets louder, only now it's Herbert's voice screaming. There's a sound behind his voice, a kind of shrill whirring, and you can just about make out his words. He's crying

(oh God God no not my brain please leave me my brain)

and you jerk backwards as if his touch has electrocuted you. You have just enough time to register the way his eyebrows come down heavy on his too-bright eyes, the look of shuddering hurt on his face, as you push his hand aside and run out of the room.

II.

Herbert watched her leave, eyes trailing after her as she turned the corner and headed towards her bedroom. He was frowning, still kneeling beside the couch, his hand outstretched and hanging in the air where she had shoved him away.

He understood that he had upset Jean, somehow. He didn't have much experience with women - with anyone, for that matter, apart perhaps from Dan - but he knew he'd hurt her, at the very moment he had been trying to comfort her. 

She had certainly seemed ill, suddenly growing much too pale for his liking. Not that he had a preference when it came to her looks, he thought, fastidiously. And when they'd touched, the moment before she'd fled the room, he had felt… something. A flash of clarity, perhaps.

Not quite a revelation, as Saul had on the road to Damascus, so earth-shattering that he'd dropped to his knees and rebranded immediately. But something alarmingly intimate had happened, nevertheless, as if for a moment he had been able to feel her every breath, to hear the blood pulsing in her veins. And she had given him such a startled look that he wondered if she had felt the same thing, too. 

He got slowly to his feet, feeling suddenly more tired than he had ever felt, perhaps because he had gone three days without using the stimulant he really craved. Herbert had been trying to lessen his reliance on the reagent ever since that night in the basement, feeling uncomfortably aware of the way her eyes had dropped to his arm when he’d attempted to hide the bottle. 

He wasn’t ignorant of the fact that his two housemates were well aware of his habit - hell, he had even begged Dan to help him inject once, he was in such desperate need - but the reminder had been painful. It had thrown up all sorts of complicated, unpleasant ideas, like a trail of dominoes in his mind; chief amongst them the realization that he truly cared what his housemates thought of him. What Jean thought of him. Better, safer, to just quit using his reagent altogether. But perhaps easier said than done.

Looking down towards the stairs that led to his basement, down into that dark underbelly of the house, he could muster no enthusiasm. A night drizzling his reagent onto severed limbs didn’t feel as exciting, as necessary as it most certainly should.

Usually he would have been down there already, not spending all night watching distasteful television. A wasted evening, he knew. And yet… It had been the most enjoyable he’d spent in years. 

Herbert couldn’t remember the last time he had been comfortable with someone in that way, before he’d met Jean. It felt natural to simply sit beside her, close to her, not feeling any pressure to speak but speaking nevertheless. And what he’d told her should have made his blood chill; the window into his life he had opened and left gaping wide. But he didn’t feel frightened, either.

Instead of heading down to the basement he decided to take a walk. He hadn’t been out of the house all day and he didn’t care a jot for rain or wind. He only paused to scoop up his overcoat and pull it on, turning up the collar to protect the back of his neck from the cold, before he swept out of the house and was amongst the gravestones. 

It was peaceful in the dark. The breeze was refreshing and the full moon rode high in the sky, as bright as any streetlamp. An owl hooted gently nearby and, as if in terrified answer, something small and scurrying rustled in the high grass around his ankles.

It was raining lightly, a gentle moisture on the air, but Herbert paid that no mind. He was full of dark thoughts about what had just happened in the house, and was certainly too preoccupied to notice the heavy, ambling steps which approached in the distance.

Why had she fled from him?  Had she, too, felt that disquieting moment of clarity, of… intimacy between them? Or was it for some much more mundane reason, some interpersonal issue he hadn’t picked up on until it had sent her running from the room?

The possibility of the latter quickened his heart, and was certainly worse. Not because it meant she was displeased with him, although that was undoubtedly true, but because it implied that he had grown to care if she was pleased or not. God damn it, he cursed to himself, kicking a loose stone in his frustration.

Herbert wandered aimlessly amongst the stones, picking his way along the well-trod paths of old, peering down at some of the markers which hadn’t yet been worn bare with the passage of time. Here lies Nathanial Parker, here rests Edith Maycombe, here sleeps Jeffrey Lipton, here here here here here… 

The word took on a desperate sound in his mind, as if all the dead were crying out as he passed, crying out to him to remember them. He didn’t, of course, and he’d wager neither did anyone else. And where would he, Herbert West, lay when his life was done?

Would he even have a resting place? Would he be remembered? Only a year ago he would have said yes, would never have even hesitated in his answer to the question, but so many of his certainties had been shaken during his time in Arkham.

He thought, suddenly, of Dr. Gruber. He had never visited Gruber’s grave; he hadn’t even been allowed to attend his funeral, having been sternly warned off by Dr. Willett, Dean of Zurich University.

Willett had both eyes on the negative publicity surrounding the Professor’s death at all times and had been terrified that West’s presence at the graveside would have incited a riot amongst the academic staff in attendance. All of them hated the strange, intense young man Gruber had taken under his wing with a passion, and fully blamed him for Gruber’s grisly demise.

Herbert had tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. Gruber, of all people, would have understood that your devotion to the mortal remains of another person didn’t count for anything and certainly didn’t measure how much you cared for them. Neither did not your ability to stand in the rain and wind, listening to some holy man mutter nonsense over a wooden box before lowering it into the protesting ground.

Dead bodies were only potential, pure potential, to be exploited or wasted. They were no house for the soul, if you even believed in such a thing, which Herbert categorically did not. 

Walking through Christchurch cemetery, however, thousands of miles from where his former mentor lay moldering in a Swiss boneyard, Herbert felt an unfamiliar and unwelcome pang of regret.

He recalled some of the last words he had shared with Gruber, just before he ingested the mixture of cocaine, cyanide and Acidulin which had killed him; how the old man had told him he loved him like a son, and how Herbert had not said a word in response. 

He had longed to tell Gruber that he was like a father to him, much more so than the man who had killed himself when Herbert was a boy and who had condemned him to a lonely childhood in foster care. That a life without the Professor was a daunting prospect, because without him Herbert would feel truly alone in the world.

But those words, those sentiments felt impossibly intimate to a man like Herbert, a man who struggled to give or take anything which was not intellectual and could not be measured using hashmarks on a beaker. 

And, after all, he had expected Gruber’s reanimation to be successful. He had felt no rush to say all that had gone unsaid, because Gruber’s death was intended to be a purely temporary state. Like many of Herbert’s intentions, this had not been realized.

He wanted to see where Gruber was buried, he suddenly understood. He wanted to kneel, to press his hand against the cold headstone, and remember. He wanted - 

- his thoughts were interrupted when a hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and chill as the grave.

Chapter 3: you are the night-time fear / you are the morning when it's clear

3 - you are the night-time fear / you are the morning when it's clear

January 1987 continued

III.

You're about to get into bed when you hear the yell.

It’s raining outside, the gentle patter of it building up to a crescendo as the droplets bounce off the low roof, and so for a moment you aren’t sure what you’ve heard.

You wait, listening out for a further sound which would add context to the first. When you don’t hear anything for several moments you start to relax, to pull your robe tighter about your shoulders and clamber under the heavy quilt.

You’re feeling a lot better than you had been earlier. That sickly, blood-tingling moment of terror you’d experienced when you were with Herbert is starting to ebb away, and you can just about convince yourself that the sounds you heard when Herbert touched you were only in your imagination. Almost.

‘Get your hands off me, you - you subpar brute!’

You sit up in bed, suddenly wide awake. That was no trick of the rain. That was Herbert’s voice, carried tinnily on the wind, as if he were a ghost among the graves outside. And, behind his voice, a bellowing yell which was more animal than human.

Grabbing up the only thing resembling a weapon which is close to hand, you run out of your room, down the hall and slam out through the back door, out into the dark.

For the second time in recent memory you are running to Herbert’s side, straight into uncertain danger.

When you come across them, deep amongst the gravestones, you scream. The sound comes out involuntarily, almost as if it’s coming from someone else’s throat. The rain is thundering down harder now, blurring your view of the two struggling figures in the gloom, but the moon is bright and you can see enough. 

Herbert is on the ground, sliding around in the mud, grappling with a much larger man who is pinning him down and clearly winning the fight. At the sound of your scream the hulking man whips his head around and you see the bruised and bloodied face of the late Lt. Chapham. 

A pained growl escapes from his throat and he drops Herbert, beginning to lurch towards you with an obscene staggering gait. His skin is bluish, you see, and stretched too thin; he’s bloating, you think, he's swollen with death-gas like a balloon and soon he'll burst oh God -

You fall back, your bare feet skidding in the slick grass, your eyes flashing between Herbert on the ground - struggling to his feet, now - and Chapham bearing down on you.

‘What are you doing here? Get back to the house, you stupid girl!’ 

Herbert is yelling at you and you fill your lungs to yell back at him but then Chapham is upon you, his stinking hands reaching for your neck.

You throw the only weapon you have at him and it rebounds off his head, gently, only making him blink. You fall backwards over a gravestone, try to stand up, and skid over again in the churning mud. 

Chapham’s fingers caress your face and they are cold, so cold, and you try to push them away but they only press harder into the soft flesh of your cheeks. Foul breath billows in your face, thick with grave dust. His expression is gleeful, gloating, and with a voice full of dirt he whispers:

‘You’re that pretty girl he lives with, aren’t you? Sweet Miss Marsten... Pretty, pretty girl…’

‘No, no!’ you half-scream and half-cry, trying to bat him away. He’s bending over you now, his eyes scanning over your body greedily.

The rain courses down his cheeks and mixes with the blood and pus caked to his rotted flesh, streams down in a rust-colored river into your upturned face. You try to scream again and the foul liquid runs into your mouth, makes you gag.

Then there is a loud thud! and Chapham's eyes glaze over. He turns away from you, looking back over his shoulder at something, and you follow his gaze.

It’s Herbert, his glasses lost somewhere in the sea of mud, his dark hair plastered slickly to his face, his black overcoat ripped and torn off one shoulder, the white shirt underneath soaked through with rain and painted with brown and scarlet stains -

(red handprints on a white blouse, oh yes)

- and his arms raised above his head, preparing to strike Chapham once again with the urn in his hands.

‘Run!’ he screams at you, his eyes wide as black marbles. Chapham lurches towards him, his attention captured. Herbert edges back, drawing the dead man away from where you’re scrambling to your feet. 

You tear back to the house faster than you’ve ever run in your life. It’s the work of moments to go to the kitchen, grab a bread knife out of the drawer, and race back out into the howling night. You pray you aren’t too late.

When you reach them once again Herbert is backed up against the stone wall of a tomb, the urn a cracked mess of shards at his feet, and Chapham is leaning in to rip him apart with his hands. 

Herbert isn’t resisting him or even uttering a sound. In the seconds before he notices your approach, you think it looks very much like he's just waiting for death with a stoic defiance.

When his eyes meet yours you see a sudden alarm rising in them, his mouth opening to form a cry - and then you drive the knife into Chapham’s head.

Chapham howls, a noise filled with as much confusion as pain, and tries to crane his neck around to see what’s hit him. You are tugged along with him, still clinging to the handle of the knife, and are only able to yank it out of his skull by bracing your foot against his shuddering back. 

The sound it makes is like a blade driving through the flesh of a thick, juicy watermelon. You take no time to dwell on that sound, knowing that if you do you will go mad. So, instead, you bring the knife down again and this time it slices his face in half.

‘Herbert!’ you scream as Chapham - blinded, now, but still somehow aware - reaches out for you.

Herbert is at your side in an instant and shoves the dead man away from you, wrenches out the knife in the same movement, and then slashes it across Chapham’s throat. 

Once, twice, three times, and then the former detective’s head falls to the ground. His body remains standing for a few moments, his arms still waving as if trying to work out where you’ve gone, and then it too crumbles to the floor. 

You and Herbert stand there, panting, whilst the rain keeps streaming down onto you, mixing the blood and mud and tears on your face into a steady trickle. You both stare down at Chapham’s body, as if waiting for him to make another move. He doesn’t. 

The only noise for a long time is the hammering of the rain on the gravestones and the sounds of two sets of lungs, breathing hard. Then Herbert looks at you and says, as if seeing you for the first time:

‘You’re bleeding.’

You blink at him and raise your hand to your face. It comes away red, but you feel no pain. 

‘He must have scratched my cheeks,’ you say in a dull voice, staring at the severed head on the grass to your left. Mercifully it has fallen with the face directed away from you, so you can only see his clump of greying hair. Herbert nods, quickly, and speaks again in a discordantly businesslike tone.

‘Come along. We need to get you inside. You’re not well and it’s freezing out here.’ He glares at your soaking wet pajamas, your ruined robe, and his voice cracks harshly. ‘You aren’t even wearing a coat, for God’s sake! What’s the matter with you? Are you a total imbecile?’

You stare at him, dumbfounded. 

‘Excuse me?’ you ask, sure that you’ve misunderstood him. You must have done, because even Herbert West wouldn’t berate you for saving his life improperly dressed.

He’s bending down, his face turned away from you, feeling around in the dark for his glasses.

‘I’m sure you heard me,’ he shoots over his shoulder, his voice more under control now. ‘I have no desire to treat you for pneumonia come the weekend. You should be inside, in bed. It was extremely foolish of you to come out here at all and to do so wearing next to nothing was suicidal.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you begin, feeling the numbness of shock begin to ebb away. In its place is rage, rising hot and fast. ‘I’m sorry, what? I just saved your fucking life, West!’

He plucks his glasses from a muddy puddle and tries to clean them with his shirt, failing badly. He keeps his eyes down as he responds to you but his stance is tense, as if about to fight or flee.

‘I was perfectly alright before you got in my way,’ he mutters, his voice clipped and strained. ‘Your interruption forced me to destroy him, when I would have preferred to keep him intact for further study. I had to step in to stop that animal tearing you to pieces. Really, it would have been better if you’d kept out of it.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about? You could have died without me!’

You are shaking so badly you almost don’t get your words out, both from the freezing rain and from the adrenaline coursing through your system. Herbert seems to notice this and eyes you sullenly, still fiddling with his dirty glasses, his mouth a grim white line.

‘Perhaps that’s true,’ he hisses, shoving the mud-streaked glasses onto his face. ‘But you certainly would have died if I hadn’t saved you at the last moment. And then to come running back from the house, armed with only a kitchen knife - ‘

‘- it worked, didn’t it? - ’

‘- was idiotic in the extreme! And what other weapon did you think to bring into this melee ?’ 

He gestures, theatrically, towards the thing you had grabbed on your way out of your bedroom and thrown unsuccessfully at Chapham’s head. It’s a small plastic flashlight, weighing about the same as a newborn kitten.

Herbert smirks, a fussy little twist of his lips, and you scowl at him, so furious now you almost wish you’d left him to die.

‘It was all I had to hand,' you growl. 'I heard you screaming and I thought - I wanted to help you, you bastard. I wish I hadn’t! I wish I’d left you!’

‘Then that makes two of us!’ 

He’s breathing hard, forcing air out through his nostrils, and it clouds in the chilly air like a creeping fog. You splutter and throw your hands up, nonplussed.

‘Why are you being like this? What's your problem? Why - ‘

‘Because if you had died it would have been my fault!’ 

Herbert is yelling, suddenly, and you stagger backwards, almost crashing to the ground again in your surprise. He jumps too, as if shocked at the strength of his own outburst, and his face spasms momentarily in a grimace of distress. You stare at him, his words sinking in. 

You take a half-step towards him, your hand out, unsure what you’ll do when you reach him. What you’re reaching to touch. Then your foot crunches on something and a stab of pain lances through you. You raise your bare foot and see, under the mud and the muck, a sliver of glass sticking out of your heel.

‘Shit! Shit shit fucking shit!’

Cursing, you hop on the spot, the pain of the cut dulled by the sheer fury boiling in your blood. You try to pull the glass out but then Herbert is there, kneeling in front of you, taking your foot gently in one hand and steadying you with his other hand on your thigh.

With a single deft movement he has plucked the shard out of your flesh and is peering closely at the wound, angling your heel towards the moonlight.

‘This isn’t too deep,’ he murmurs, his voice soothing and so far away from the hoarse shouts of only moments previously that you almost think you imagined it, that you've gone mad. ‘But you’ll need stitches, and I’ll have to clean it out. Can you walk?

‘I - I think so, if I can hang onto your arm.’

‘If not, I’ll happily carry you.’ He says this gruffly, glaring down at the cut. You think he’s just trying to avoid your gaze. Quickly, too quickly, you say:

‘No! No… I can walk.’

Herbert nods, curtly, and scoops something off the ground. You peer over to look at it. It’s a small picture frame, barely the size of a watch face, and in it is a photograph of a smiling, middle-aged woman.

The glass is broken; evidently this is what you stepped on. Herbert is frowning at it and his mouth opens to say something but before he can, you let out a miserable whimper.

‘What is it?’ Herbert asks you, his eyes darting back down to your injured foot. You shake your head and point at the photo.

‘I know who that is. It’s Chapham’s wife. He showed me that photo when he came to speak to me after class that time - when he was trying to get dirt on you, remember? He told me all about her. Her name is - was - Elizabeth. It must have fallen out his pocket, when I - when he…’ 

You sniffle, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. Herbert looks from the photo to you and back, his forehead creased. 

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks you, his voice low. 

‘I just…’ you begin, then falter, unsure how to end that sentence. 

You feel a sudden weight on your shoulders: the weight of having cleaved Chapham’s face in two, even if it was in self-defense; the weight of knowing it was your friend who had put him in that state to begin with; the weight of remembering the sorrow in Chapham’s voice as he’d told you about his poor wife, locked up in the Sefton Ward, never to get out. 

The guilt of these actions is so oppressive that you find you can’t speak. So you just shrug, and shake your head, and Herbert - for once - has nothing to say. He only slips an arm around your waist and helps you back to the house, leaving the broken photo-frame laying on top of its owner’s passive remains.

IV.

‘Do you think this will scar?’ Jean asked him, running her fingers over her scratched cheeks. There was a plaintive note in her voice which Herbert thought she was trying to hide, but he heard it just the same.

‘I should think not,’ he replied, in as soft a voice as he could muster. He shoved the back door open with his shoulder and maneuvered his housemate through to the kitchen, supporting her as she hopped along with an arm slung about her middle. 'But I’m afraid your foot will be a different story.’

‘I don’t care about that,’ she muttered, jumping onto a stool at the counter with a wince. ‘I’m not vain. I just don’t want to be asked any awkward questions about how I got them, you know?’

Herbert only grunted in response. He was busy at the sink, running a small bowl of warm water, and when he came back to her his face was set grim and pale, as if he were the one in pain.

He knelt down in front of her with the bowl and motioned for her to hold out her injured foot; his touch was gentle as he moved a wet rag over her skin, turning the water in the bowl a sickly shade of pink. That done, he disappeared for a few moments and came back clutching his little black medical bag. 

‘I don’t keep lidocaine at home,’ he murmured, crouching down next to her once more. It was a statement but he was looking up at her with a question in his eyes; she nodded, her face strained but composed.

‘Do it,’ she whispered. ‘I’m ready.’

Herbert was swift and silent as he sutured the wound, pausing only occasionally to murmur brief reassurances as he manipulated her foot one way or another.

He kept his eyes on his work, careful not to look up at her body, which was still wrapped in her soaking and almost transparent pajamas, or at her face. He was afraid to see her pain, he supposed, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to continue if he did.

He felt her eyes on him, though, as he sewed her flesh, her gaze roving over him as he bent over her outstretched foot. Over his intense expression of singular focus, his wet clothes, his slowly drying hair, plastered across his head in a way which he was sure made him look like a madman.

He felt the gnawing ache of shame at his behavior towards her earlier - shame at the outburst that his terror had provoked in him - and wanted to tell her so. 

But he would not, could not, and so tried to communicate his regret totally through his actions; in his gentle touch, his determination to do a good job with minimal scarring. He felt that was the least he could do for her, perhaps the only thing.

Once the stitches were in and a bandage applied, Herbert insisted she go off to change out of her wet clothes, waiting in the lounge until she got back.

He wouldn’t have admitted to himself that he was waiting. He thought to himself that he was merely sitting there on the couch, which he had a perfect right to do at any hour in his own home, and if Jean came back then all well and good. If she didn’t come back, then fine. 

She did come back.

'I thought you might’ve gone to bed already,' she said, sitting gingerly next to him.

She was toweling her damp hair and had changed into a pair of jogging pants and an overlarge black T-shirt, which had a faded picture of some awful creature with rolling eyes and a lolling tongue emblazoned on it. ‘Or at least changed your clothes. You’re soaking wet, Herbert.’

Herbert glanced down to read the legend The Return of the Living Dead printed across her chest - a phrase he didn't recognize in the slightest, unsurprisingly - and tightened his jaw when he noticed that she clearly wasn't wearing anything underneath. He looked away quickly, trying to force the blood from rushing to his cheeks - and anywhere else - through sheer strength of will.

‘I’m alright,’ he replied, more gruffly than he’d intended. ‘I’ll have to go out there again shortly to bury it - I mean, to bury Chapham’s body. There’s no sense in getting dry when it’s still raining. How are you, now?’

‘I’m okay,’ she shrugged, laying back with her arms crossed across her chest. ‘My foot hurts like hell but I’ll live.’

‘You took the stitches masterfully.’

‘Is that praise?’ she smirked.

Herbert cast his eyes to the side, not wanting to admit that he had felt proud of her as she sat, unflinching, whilst he tended to her wound. Instead he deflected, his voice steady and conversational:

‘I’m surprised that Chapham could rear his head again after so long. He must have been sheltering somewhere. He was marvelously intact. I may preserve some of his remains, in fact, for further study - ‘

‘- No!’ 

Her exclamation was so sudden and shrill that Herbert jumped back, alarmed. She looked down at the ground, seemingly gathering herself, and then slowly back up at him. He saw tears glistening in her eyes and wanted suddenly, wildly, to pull her into an embrace. His hands twitched and he forced them to remain still.

‘No,’ she continued, her voice under control. ‘Please, don’t keep any of him. Bury him, burn him, put him to rest, but don’t… Don’t bring him back to the house.’

‘I won’t,’ Herbert found himself nodding rapidly, like a fool. ‘I’ll go out and I'll - I'll bury him,' he finished lamely, awkwardly.

‘Thank you.’ She turned drying eyes on him and he was wracked by a shiver. ‘I don’t think we should tell Dan about this, either.’

‘No, indeed,’ he agreed, partially just to get her off the topic which was so distressing her. It seemed to work, much to his relief; she leaned her head back against the couch, looking across at him with a small smile. After a time she whispered:

‘I’m sorry I ran out on you like that. You know, earlier. I just felt so… strange.’

Herbert snorted. She frowned at him, questioningly, and he lay back beside her, regarding her with a crazed, lopsided smirk. Somewhere close by there was a scuttling sound, low to the ground, and he knew it was the finger-creature moving in the shadows.

‘What’s funny?’ she demanded.

‘I’m sorry,’ he began, making an effort to force his face into a serious expression. He felt quite light-headed and he wondered dimly if it was delayed shock from his encounter with the late Chapham. ‘It’s just that… Strange doesn’t even begin to cover this evening’s events, to my mind.’

To his relief she laughed at that, a little weakly, and nodded. He felt her hand on his shoulder, clumsily patting and stroking, and he eyed it carefully, unsure what she meant by the touch.

‘True. The weirdest thing tonight was you sitting down to watch a movie with me, to be honest. Almost like a normal person.’ 

Herbert laughed despite himself, a breathy, surprised sound. 

‘Almost?’ 

‘Almost. Not quite.’

They were both quiet for a while. She turned her head to look up at the ceiling, contemplative; he kept his eyes on her, tracing her features. He hadn’t noticed before how her cheek dimpled when she smiled, but he suddenly found he couldn’t focus on anything else. 

'You were very brave. Out there,' she said after a time, not looking at him. Herbert waited, sure she was going to continue, and she did. 'When you - you know - distracted him so I could run away. It was brave. You didn't have to be such a prick about it afterwards, but still... Thanks.'

'Yes, well...' Herbert began, uncomfortably. 'I couldn't let you get hurt on my account. And I apologize for - uh - being - '

'A prick?'

'As you say.'

More silence.

'That was the first time I've seen one properly, you know.' Her voice was distant, somehow thin. Her hand was still on his shoulder, clutching at him, but she didn’t show any signs of moving it. Almost like she'd forgotten it was a part of her body.

'One what?' he asked, more to buy time than anything else. He knew what she meant and dreaded what she might say next.

'One of your... reanimated bodies. Dean Halsey didn't count. I knew him, he was Meg's dad, so when I saw him it was like... he was just sick, you know? Like he would get better. But seeing Chapham like that, it - it really... messed me up.'

Herbert saw tears had sprung up again in her eyes, rapidly blinked away but threatening to spill over her cheeks in any case, and felt a glancing-blow of panic. He wanted to say something to comfort her but what was there to say, in the face of such horrors? In the end he said the only thing that occurred to him, which felt incredibly small and insufficient as soon as it passed his lips:

'I know. And it won't... happen again.'

And when he said it, he thought that would be true. 

Somehow, impossibly, it seemed to be the right thing to say. He saw her nod, wipe the tears away, and glance over at him with a little wincing smile. The matter appeared to be closed.

The wind slung hard rain against the windows, howled down the ancient chimney breast, and he saw her shiver and draw closer to him, perhaps without noticing herself do it. They sat listening to it moan and shake the old house around them, both lost in their own thoughts.

After a time Herbert murmured: 

‘When you said you felt strange, earlier - what did you mean?’

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, avoiding his gaze.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I think I was overtired. I just…’

‘You just… what?’ he pressed her, eyebrows raised.

‘I heard voices,’ she continued, eyes downcast. ‘And - I just felt really odd.’

‘You heard voices?’

He frowned at that and moved closer to her on the couch, so their faces were only inches apart. Her hand slid down his shoulder to his arm and stayed there, clinging as if for dear life. She looked away, seemingly embarrassed, and her tone turned defensive.

‘I know it sounds crazy, okay? So just… Don’t even say anything. But I heard… screams. And a voice.’

‘What was the voice saying?’

‘Oh, Herb, I really don’t want to - ‘

‘Tell me, please.’

His tone was quiet, gentle. He laid his hand tentatively on top of hers and squeezed it; to his surprise she linked their fingers together, held his hand tightly like he was the only thing holding her back from falling into a deep, dark pit. He felt that his heart leapt and beat a little faster at her touch, although he knew that was a ridiculous medical impossibility. When she spoke again her voice was low, unhappy.

‘It was your voice. When you touched me, I heard you. And you were begging someone to leave your brain alone. You were saying… “Oh God, please leave me my brain.”  It made me so sick, I had to get out of the room. I’m sorry.’

Herbert sat back, stunned. Had Dan told her about what he’d cried out, as the laser drill had bored through his flesh? The memory was a painful one and he was fairly certain that Dan, too, would hesitate to recount the details of it to a person who hadn’t been there, who didn’t have to have those images seared into their mind. 

‘How do you know that?’ he asked, urgently, his fingers clenching into hers.

Her expression was blank as she stared back at him, her eyes wide and unknowing. She leaned forwards and he did too, grasping for her like she held the answers to every unasked question. ‘How do you know that’s what I said?’

‘What you said?’ she repeated, obviously nonplussed. ‘What do you mean? What you said… when?’’

‘When Dr. Hill was attempting to lobotomize me. How do you know?’

Her face dissolved into a look of pure horror and she gripped his hand so hard it almost hurt.

‘I didn’t know that, not at all. Oh, my God.’

He just shook his head, wordlessly, and fell back against the couch with a small, disbelieving sigh.

‘I heard you, inside my head,’ she continued, slowly. ‘How is that possible, Herbert?’

‘I don’t know,’ was his dull answer. He wavered on the edge of confessing what he had experienced when their skin had touched earlier that evening, that moment of revelation, but he held himself back. Its implications disturbed him too much to admit.

‘It shouldn’t be possible, not at all,' he continued, still in that dead voice. 'But I saw Hill do things which were not possible. He controlled Dean Halsey with his mind. The other corpses, too. It almost worked on me. Maybe this is similar. I don’t know.’

Jean shuddered. Her hands went to her temples and Herbert glanced at her, wanting to reach out to her and put his arm around her to comfort her but resisting the temptation. 

‘Don’t say that. Don’t say I’m like Hill.’

‘I’m not saying that at all,’ he responded, seriously. ‘Hill was an antiscientist with delusions of grandeur. He was a sexual sadist, an attempted murderer and a plagiarist. If the word evil corresponds to anything in reality, then it applies to him. You’re nothing like Hill.’ 

She stared at him for some time, the expression in her eyes unreadable to Herbert. Then she reached out a hand and lightly touched the scar on his forehead. He let her, his eyes tired and sad. She was so close he could smell the rainwater still in her hair, the whisper of her soap, the earthy scent of grave-dirt under her nails. 

‘Is that how you got this scar? Hill tried to - to drill into your head? To take your brain from you?’

Herbert nodded, slowly, his wide eyes locked on hers, and she shuddered. 

‘Oh, Herbert. I’m so sorry. That bastard. That bastard. I wish I could kill him for you, all over again.’

The venom in her voice when she said those words stirred something in Herbert. There was a savage light in her eyes, a little like devotion - or madness. It sent an unexpected pulse of desire through his body and he scrambled to cover his reaction, feeling a keen sense that he had failed.

‘Thank you for your defense of me,’ he said, shifting in his seat. ‘But that’s really not necessary. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.’

‘I’m glad he’s gone. And I’m glad you killed him. And…’

‘Yes?’

‘And I’m glad I didn’t let Chapham kill you,’ she finished, drawing closer still to him, so she was almost flush against his hip.

‘So am I,’ Herbert replied, his pinched face breaking into a thin smile. ‘I’m sorry that I... didn’t show it, at first. I really do appreciate what you did, out there.’

Beats of silence, broken only by the whistling of the wind.

‘Herbert?’

‘Yes?’ 

She touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw with a finger, cupping his cheek in her palm. His eyes drifted shut before he could stop them and he leaned into her touch, greedily. It had been so long since he had last been touched by anyone, for any reason, and it felt so good he almost whined.

‘I like spending time with you.'

‘I like spending time with you, too,’ Herbert replied, his voice a hoarse whisper, and found to his surprise that he meant it.

Looking into her eyes, still shining bright with that strange fierceness, he felt himself leaning closer to her, as if pulled by the inexorable weight of gravity. He reached up and covered the hand which was still cupping his face with his own; her gaze followed his movement, then flickered down to his lips, and he saw uncertainty there for the first time.

Herbert opened his mouth to say anything - anything - which would keep her from drawing away from him again. He needed... something, he realized. Something he couldn't name, something he had never needed before. But, mostly, he just wanted her to stay.

In that instant he felt a little like he had just before Gruber died, when the old man had told him he loved him and Herbert had just stared blankly back into his wrinkled face; like the moment was vibrating with significance, and yet passing through his fingers like water. Like blood-tinged rain.

A rumble of thunder cracked the silence of the room. They both leapt away from each other, as if the sound had been an angry reprimand, then simultaneously burst into peals of nervous laughter. It felt good to laugh. To be alive.

Herbert shifted down to the other end of the couch and tried to get his composure back. He glanced over at his housemate, whose giggles had taken on an almost hysterical edge, and felt a small smile twist his mouth despite himself. When her laughter had mostly died away she sighed, wearily, and stood up, grabbing her fallen towel from the floor.

‘I should be getting to bed,' she said, stifling a hiccup. 'It must be almost dawn, now.’

‘Yes, you need to get some rest,’ Herbert agreed, not moving from his spot.

‘Herb?’

‘Hm?’ 

‘Will you be around tomorrow? I thought… maybe… we could spend the evening together,' she said, an uncertain tone in her voice, then added hurriedly: 'Only if you want to.‘

‘I… suppose so,’ he answered, eyeing her with surprise, and her face lit up with a grin. That seemed to be a good enough answer for her.

She left, not bidding him a good night, and Herbert sat staring after her for a long time. When he finally went out into the twilight, gravedigger’s tools in hand, he was smiling.

V.

Dan and Francesca got home late the next night, jet-lagged and exhausted from their journey. To their surprise they found Dan’s two housemates asleep together under a blanket on the couch, Silent Night, Deadly Night still playing on the TV.

'Should we wake them, Daniel?' Francesca asked in an uncertain whisper. 

Dan paused for the briefest moment. He saw that Jean’s head was resting on Herbert's chest, whilst Herbert’s arm was flung protectively around her shoulders.

Dan wondered if they had been sitting like that whilst they watched the movie or if they had drifted off to sleep apart and then shifted closer together, drawn to each other in their dreams. He thought probably the latter, although that didn’t make it any less real. 

The image of the two of them together reminded Dan of another couple who had slept wrapped around each other on that same couch, only a short time before. He remembered how Meg had looked as she dozed, on the few nights she had stayed late; how her fair hair had looked fanned out on his arm, how she had mumbled as she dreamed, and how he had always woken her with a kiss.

But that had been another house, another life. He felt tears rise close behind his eyes and brushed them away, hurriedly. Then he felt Francesca’s hand on his shoulder.

‘Daniel?’ she asked again, her voice soft and somehow understanding.

'No, leave them to sleep,' Dan murmured, moving to switch off the TV. It whined as the picture vanished into blackness.

He looked up at his girlfriend and smiled; she smiled back, and he felt suddenly lighter. Taking Francesca's hand and leading her to the bedroom, he added:

'They probably earned it.'

Chapter 4: we'll build our altar here

4 - we'll build our altar here

March 1987

I.

‘Let’s go see a movie.’

Herbert looks up from his papers and his forehead creases, a deep line forming between his dark brows. He stares at you, alarmed, like you’d suggested committing a little casual human sacrifice on the weekend.

‘A what?’ 

‘A movie. The Evil Dead sequel is released this week and Dan won’t go with me. He says he never wants to see a scary movie ever again and, besides, he’d bring Francesca and then I’d be a third wheel.’

‘And this concerns me because…?’

You roll your eyes and plonk yourself down on the seat next to Herbert. He’s at his desk in his room, rather than in the basement, writing up some notes where the lighting is better. You’d been sitting on his bed, flipping through the pages of your heavily-annotated copy of The Turn of the Screw; you’d spent a lot of time like that with him, recently, either studying together for your looming exams or writing your thesis whilst he works.

Herbert sometimes huffs at you for making too much noise but, secretly, you think he enjoys the company. Enjoys just having another living person in the room with him.

‘It concerns you because you’re my friend, Herbert, and I want you to come with me. Don’t make me go alone. It might not be safe.’

‘Arkham is hardly the crime epicenter of the country, Jean. You’d be perfectly fine at a movie theater alone. In fact, I’d be more concerned for the mugger, if one were to accost you.’

You fake-punch him, lightly, on the arm. Herbert smirks and reaches up to touch the spot your hand touched, as if unconsciously.

‘What do you mean by that? I’m not exactly the Terminator.’

‘No, you wouldn’t match them in physical strength, but if you just started telling them all about your thesis you’d probably lull them nicely into a state of unconsciousness.’

‘Hey! Shut up, before I make you,’ you snort, crawling over his bed to pick up his pillow, swinging it around and throwing it at his face. He catches it out of the air, deftly, and sends it spinning back at you. ‘And tell me straight. Will you come to the movies with me on Friday?’

‘Alright,’ he says, as if the decision is a heavy one. ‘I'll go. But I can’t be out late. I have lots of work still to do and even less time to do it in, with final assessments coming up.’

Herbert moves over to join you on the bed, sitting beside you with his back against the wall. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye and you notice his hand is very close to your own, resting on top of the pillow stuffed between you.

You lean towards his shoulder and feel the whisper of his white shirt on the side of your cheek. You want to rest your face against it, to feel for the beat of his heart with your questing hands, but you stay still.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll have you back at a decent time. Your honor will not be besmirched on my watch,’ you shoot back at him, with a smile. He makes a face at you, as if in deepest irritation, but you know he’s just kidding.

Impulsively you lunge forwards and kiss him on the cheek - he’s warmer, his skin smoother than you’d thought it would be - before rushing out of the room without another word, face burning and heart thudding in your chest. As you leave you see him putting his hand to his face, with a surprised but not displeased expression passing over his features.

Friday night comes around quickly and, before you know it, you're getting yourself ready, putting on makeup for the first time in weeks. You have the latest issue of Vogue propped up on your chest of drawers and you’re attempting to emulate the cover model’s look, although you fear your hair is looking more like Beetlejuice.

Not that it matters how you look, obviously. Not that this is a date.

‘There's a room where the light won't find you

Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down

When they do, I'll be right behind you…’

You stand in front of your mirror, turning around and around to peer at your dress from all angles - it's your best; white, corseted and form-fitting, coming to a halt in a frilled skirt just above your knees. That's when Dan ambles past your open door, sipping from a beer, and whistles.

'Looking hot, J,' he says approvingly, voice loud to be heard over Tears for Fears blasting from your stereo. 'What's this for?'

'Thanks,’ you throw him a faux saucy wink, sauntering over to turn the volume down. ‘Me and Herbert are going to the movies.'

Dan is always terrible at hiding his feelings and this is no exception. His look of rueful curiosity is obvious.

'So... What's going on between you two?' Dan asks, taking a swig from the beer bottle in his hand and lounging against the door frame. 

'Honestly, Dan, I'd tell you if I knew.'

'It's not that I have a problem with it - you know, the two of you being a Thing now. I actually always thought that if he ended up with anyone, it'd probably be you.' Dan rubs his chin, thoughtfully. 'But... I guess I never expected it to happen for him. Not really, deep down. I can't imagine him looking lovingly at anything that isn't in a specimen jar.'

You scowl at him, trying to stifle a laugh.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but we aren’t… a Thing.’

‘Really? Because I saw you cuddled up together on the couch that time, and you two looked more like a Thing than that John Carpenter flick.’

‘That was just… Oh, I don’t know, Dan. I need to be more drunk to answer these kinds of questions,’ you roll your eyes, trying to shoo him out the room. ‘Now get out of here, I’ve got to get my pantyhose on and I refuse to give you an eye-full with Francesca under this roof.’

Dan groans in mock disappointment and throws up his hands, almost dribbling beer on the carpet in the process. 

‘Hey, now, no need to get my hopes up.’ He starts to walk away then pauses, and looks back at you, a serious expression clouding his handsome features. ‘If the movie’s a bust you’re welcome to join me and Francesca for dinner, okay? Don’t even worry about it. Just come straight back here and we’ll have a great time, the three of us.’

‘Thanks, Dan,’ you nod, confused, and he smiles back, a little uneasily. 

‘I just mean… Don’t go along with anything you don’t feel like doing, just because you’re out on a date with him. Okay?’

You stare at Dan, incredulous.

‘Dan,’ you laugh, a mixture of affection and exasperation filling your heart. ‘Are you giving me a Dad-Talk?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, like… Don’t let him get in your pants just because he bought you dinner? Because I really don’t think Herbert is the type to - ’

‘No! No, that’s not what I’m saying,’ Dan scrambles to explain, waving his empty beer expressively. ‘I just mean that Herbert is… Well. He is what we both know he is. I… like the guy, I’m very fond of him, but... I don’t think he has a lot of love for other people, or - or consideration, I guess. So just be careful.’

You don’t know how to respond to that. Dan hovers in your doorway nervously, like he thinks he’s said too much and is expecting you to chew him out. You don’t. You walk across the room and pull him into a long hug, before patting him kindly on the shoulder.

‘I love you, you know that, right?’ you ask him, feeling a powerful emotion you would struggle to describe. 

‘I know, dummy,’ he replies, confusedly. ‘I love you too. You’re like… like my sister, if I had a sister.’

‘And you’re like my brother. Like the one I do have, but less of an asshole,’ you add and he laughs, and turns to leave. As he starts to walk away again you call him back, a splinter of the conversation still sticking in your mind. 

‘Dan?’

‘Yeah?’ Dan says, spinning on his heel.

‘He does care about other people, you know. I think he’s just… never had much opportunity to show it, before. But I know he cares about you. A lot, actually.’

Dan frowns and shifts on his feet.

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I just mean… Be a little easier on him, okay? He misses you.’

Dan blinks, then nods, slowly, and leaves without another word. You reflect that, despite what many people think, Dan is actually extremely perceptive. And the subtext to your words is obvious. Forgive our friend for what he has done. For his fault, for his fault, for his most grievous fault, forever and ever, Amen. 

When you emerge from your room Herbert is waiting for you by the front door. He’s wearing the same as always, undertaker-chic; a white shirt, a black suit, a pencil-thin tie and an irritable expression on his face. He sees you and his eyes widen a little, dropping down your bare legs and back up, seemingly on instinct. 

‘We - uh - we’re late,’ he says by way of greeting, and his voice comes out higher than usual, a strained little crack in it. ‘The movie starts at eight. It’s already seven thirty.’

‘Calm down, West. The way I drive we’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘Why do I not find that reassuring?’ he asks, with a smirk. You stick your tongue out at him in reply and scoop up your jacket and purse, then take his arm. He looks surprised at that but doesn’t stiffen or pull away from you as you guide him out the front door.

You love the movie; Herbert, less so. You steal little glances over to him as it plays, thankful for the darkness of the theater as a cover. He sits mostly impassive throughout, apart from the odd grimace of confusion or distaste. Towards the end he leans over the bucket of popcorn between you and hisses:

‘Is that supposed to be 13th century England? Why are they in a desert?’

‘A guy just got flipped off by his own severed hand, Herb. Don’t overthink this.’

He grunts tersely, eyes on the screen, and grabs a handful of popcorn.

On the drive home you bicker gently about the movie, the conversation growing more heated and your hand gestures more and more animated by the minute. You persist in your defense of the flick, describing the hero, Ash, as the hottest and yet most chaotic horror icon of all time. Herbert glances over at you when you say that, eyes narrowed.

'You find him attractive?'

You look at him like he's an idiot.

'Well, yeah. Don't you?

He flushes and tells you to keep your eyes on the road, and you smirk. 

‘But you did enjoy it, right?’ you press him later, as you pass through the darkened outer-suburb streets, the road ahead stretching a ghostly mile in the glare of your headlights. Herbert sighs audibly.

‘I really don’t know. I have little to compare it to. I don’t have much time for cinema - '

‘- well that’s a lie, because we’ve watched four movies in the last month - '

‘Not by choice,’ he scoffs, taking off his glasses and fidgeting with them. ‘It scarcely counts if I just happen to be in the same room when you put one on and then you whine at me until I finish it with you.’

‘Well excuse me, West,’ you drawl out in mock offense, ‘I thought you liked Psycho ?’

‘Was that the one where the small businessmen with poor dental hygiene made furniture out of human remains?’

‘No, that was Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2. The one with the awesome chainsaw sword fight. Remember?'

'Ah yes, how could I forget. I'm sure that's what the Lumière brothers had in mind when they invented the medium, in fact.'

'Yeah, yeah. But no, Psycho ’s the one where he’s the killer because he thinks he’s his mom.’

‘I see,’ he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even though you aren’t looking at him. You hear it, and feel a corresponding smile rise on your own face, despite yourself. ‘Dr. Freud would have had a patient for life, in that one.'

‘Okay, sure. But seriously, West- '

‘Why do you only ever call me West when you want something?’

‘That’s not true. I also call you that when you’ve pissed me off. But anyway - listen...'

You glance over at him, a little more soberly. He’s sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat, hands fussily crossed on his lap, like he’s back in class.

‘Are you glad you came along with me? Because I’d hate to think I dragged you and you would've rather stayed at home.’

He blinks and opens his mouth to retort something insulting, you’re sure, but then he seems to check himself. He turns to look at you, seriously, and says:

‘Yes. I had a… good time. And you didn’t drag me. I came of my own volition.’ There’s a softness in his eyes as he speaks and in the gloom of the car they look very black, like deep wells of darkness. Then he twitches his head and they’re light again, seawater green and warm, and he’s tutting. ‘Now will you please keep your eyes forward? I don’t want to end this night wrapped around a tree.’

You grin, ignoring his tetchy tone of voice, and the conversation moves on. 

Some time later, your car - a mustard ‘73 Oldsmobile Delta 88, always on the verge of collapse - pulls through the cemetery gates and you stop on the drive, engine idling. Herbert had been staring out the window, watching the lighted windows of the city pass by, and when the car judders to a halt he shoots you a questioning look. 

‘You’re planning to sleep out here tonight, are you?’ he asks, snippily.

‘No,’ you answer, gazing up at the old house ahead. You can see a single light blazing on the second floor, and you remember Dan’s comment about coming home to be with him and Francesca if the movie was a bust. But it hadn’t been; not at all. You’d had a really great time with Herbert. Even the post-cinema argument had seemed part of the fun, almost… affectionate. Domestic. The idea is a little alien to you, a little alarming.

In line to buy the tickets, you had looked around at the other patrons flocking towards the theater on Wengler Street. All were couples, their cheeks flushed and pawing at each other before they even got into the forgiving dark of the back rows.

You’d turned to regard the man beside you, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his black overcoat, slight and grim as a cemetery mink. You had caught his gaze and he’d given you a terse little nod, his cheeks turning a slightly darker shade of pink, and you’d smiled to yourself. He was there, with you. For you. 

And you’d thought: we could be just like these other couples. We could be normal lovers out on a Friday-night date. I could take his hand, bold as you like, and we could stroll into that theater, staring into each other’s eyes. People will say we’re in love, and maybe they’d be right. We could be just like them.

Only you aren’t like them. None of those couples had grappled to the death with dead men, covered in blood and pus. None of them had stood in a rainy graveyard, staring down at a severed head which they themselves had sliced in two. And none of them, you were prepared to bet, had dead parts stored in a padlocked freezer in their basement. None of them, in short, were friends with Herbert West.

‘Do you want to go someplace else?’ you ask him, suddenly. 

‘Someplace like… where?’ He sounds cautious and you sigh, not quite sure yourself.

‘I don’t know, Herbert. It’s a Friday night. We’re in our early twenties - '

‘- I’m twenty eight, as you well know - '

‘ - we’re in our mid-to-late twenties. Why don’t we - we could…’ You cast your mind around wildly. All you know is that you don’t want to go in yet, don’t want to face Dan and his questions about this Thing you have going on with Herbert. Perhaps you just don’t want the evening to end, to have to stop pretending - if only for a few precious hours - that you’re just the same as other young people.

‘I really don't know - '

‘- We could go to a nightclub!’ You slam your hand down on the steering wheel, triumphantly. ‘We could go to a bar, have a few drinks, maybe go dancing - '

Herbert blanches at that, his eyes widening, and if you didn’t feel so embarrassed you would burst out laughing at the look of pure alarm he’s fixing on you. Like you just told him that bungee jumping without a cord is going to be the activity of summer 1987. 

‘Certainly not. No. No - I don’t... ‘ Herbert seems to struggle for words and you suddenly feel small, ridiculous.

‘Right. Uh. Sure. Okay,’ you mutter, hurriedly. ‘Sorry I brought it up.’ 

You put your foot down and the car jerks forward suddenly; you want to get up the drive to your parking space as fast as possible, to leave this moment - when you’d asked Herbert on a date, make no bones about it, and he’d flat-out rejected you - in the dust forever.

‘Don’t misunderstand me - ‘ he begins but you cut across him.

‘Herbert, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Forget I said anything.’

He closes his mouth but looks unhappy about it, and you die a little inside. Rejected by Herbert West. Meg would never have believed it.

When you get in the house there’s an awkward moment in the hall where you both hover, unsure what’s going to happen next. It’s late and you can hear Dan and Francesca upstairs in Dan’s room; sometimes they forget to close the door and the stifled giggles and rhythmic thumping sounds are hard to misinterpret. Herbert makes himself very busy hanging up his overcoat in the closet, avoiding meeting your eye as the noises above you seem to reach a crescendo, but the tips of his ears have turned pink. 

You had thought he would scuttle immediately off down to the basement to catch up on the work he’s lost that evening, especially after the awkward moment in the car outside, but he doesn’t. 

Eventually, when it can be put off no longer, he turns to look at you and clears his throat, a dry little sound in the awkward silence. His Adam’s apple moves and you catch yourself staring at the curve of his jaw, the faint lines beside his mouth, his curiously rosy and delicate lips, which look so out of place on his pale face.

‘They seem to have quietened down, now. You should be afforded a decent night’s sleep.’

‘What?’ you ask, distracted. You still haven’t got over the mortification of asking Herbert West to go dancing - Jesus, what can you have been thinking? - and you almost don’t hear him when he speaks. 

‘Dan and his paramour. They seem to have tired themselves out. His bedroom is almost directly above yours, is it not? I’m surprised you get any rest, when she stays over.’

You wonder if this is his idea of small talk, or if he’s extending an olive branch to you after that moment outside. Either way, your pride and embarrassment prevent you from taking it.

‘She has a name, Herbert,’ you roll your eyes, pulling off your jacket and throwing it on the couch. ‘And it makes no difference to me when Francesca stays over. I’m just glad Dan’s happy.’

He does an odd, jerky shrug, like it’s of no concern to him if Francesca has a name or not. He’s still staring at you and he's partly in shadow, so you can't read his eyes, but you think you see something there. Something which makes you feel hot and flustered.

‘Perhaps you have a point,’ he replies softly, shifting towards you, and for some reason that riles you up even more.

‘Honestly, it almost sounds like you’re jealous you're not getting any,’ you bite out, then instantly regret it. Not that Herbert looks hurt - he doesn’t, at least not yet - but because you know how small and petty you sound in that moment. You lean into it, feeling almost like you're in the grip of some cruel spasm. 'Oh wait, I forgot - you aren’t like the rest of us. You’re above the common, base things that we need, like human companionship and warmth and love and - and - ‘

You stumble and force yourself to stop, afraid to look up at Herbert’s face. Then you do. You see him blink. He doesn’t reply immediately; his eyes just narrow, his mouth opening a little as if to respond then shutting again, tight. Somehow that’s worse. You wish he’d insulted you straight back, given as good as he got. As it is he just looks at you and you see - yes, you see hurt in his eyes, there-and-gone like a quick fish flashing beneath the surface of a river. 

You shake your head, turning away from him, and hurry down the hall towards your room. Trying to outrun your feelings of shame and embarrassment, you don’t hear if he calls out to you before you slam your bedroom door.

Chapter 5: make the most of freedom and of pleasure (nothing ever lasts forever)

5 - make the most of freedom and of pleasure (nothing ever lasts forever)

March 1987 continued

II.

Herbert stood beside the stainless steel table, looking down at the rapidly-degenerating flesh laying upon it. It was the arm of a male, aged 30s to 40s, the skin stripped away and the muscle exposed, juicy and bright pink against the reflective surface. It didn’t interest him. The usual excitement which would fill him when he had his hands on a new specimen had deserted him and would not return, although he grasped for it with desperate fingers.

That electric curiosity had first come to him as a young boy, walking past the butcher shop on his route to school and staring up at the hanging carcasses in the window. In those days of his youth he had made the connection between the dead meat turning gently on hooks and his father’s body, which he had discovered one morning slumped at the kitchen table, his hand dangling at his side, swinging slightly and still warm. Warm, but not living. 

As he had trotted on to his first grade class, his brain tingling with his first illicit compulsion to take something apart, Herbert had made the somber decision that he would one day find out the secrets of death. That he would even, perhaps, learn to reverse the process which had caused the carcasses to hang in a butcher shop window and the father to slowly leak dark blood onto a tiled kitchen floor. 

Although at the age of seven he already understood that time cannot reverse itself, that what is broken cannot truly reassemble, he had hoped - perhaps childishly, but in the event totally correctly - that a person could be returned to life. That the meat hooks would not always be full, that the kitchen floor would not always be stained.

That boy had grown, moved to New York to attend university, had even gone overseas to study. He had met the man who should have been his father, an elderly German professor, and had experiences which his parents would never have believed possible, in their narrow view of the world.

And then he had come to Arkham, sure of himself and of the world in which he moved, and had met Dan - who had changed him, made him feel the keen lack of companionship in his life for the first time.

As if that weren’t bad enough, he had also met her and she had made him experience that lack as if it were a physical wound, a sucking void in his chest, a crater he could surely never hope to fill with anything but bile. 

He’d almost got Jean killed more times than he could count, and he’d realized that he cared for her more than any other person he had harmed or come close to harming, and that fact alone had shaken him to his core. And then she’d asked him to go out with her and he’d accepted and he had allowed himself to think, just for a moment, that she might... But no. 

Their evening had ended in recriminations and harsh words, just as that other occasion had, when he had been in the first year of his undergraduate degree, and although he only barely understood why that had been the case, he felt it was deserved for allowing himself to be so deluded as to -

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Why did every conversation with Jean have to up-end him so, to set him adrift on unfamiliar waters with only one paddle and unfriendly-looking fins cutting through the waves around him?

Much to his deep disturbance, Herbert had actually found their evening out together very enjoyable. Despite it being spent downtown, where he had never strayed before in all his time in Arkham, a place of honking horns and blaring sound systems and shouts and yells of anger and pleasure. Ever since he was a child at the foster home he hadn’t been able to stand noise, any noise, and so the fact that he was able to put this aside was no small miracle.

Loud, brutish and brutal, that home had been located on a busy street in the pounding heart of a city completely foreign to him. He'd gone there when he was orphaned at the age of six, after being offered up to his scant remaining relatives - an elderly aunt and uncle in Providence, Rhode Island - and rejected sight unseen. His roommates had been agony to him, his peers inane and the city deafening. He’d left the day he turned eighteen, not bothering to leave a forwarding address.

Herbert’s distaste for intrusive sounds had followed him throughout his life, however, and the bustle of traffic or the shouts and hoots of children at play were all anathema to him. That had been why he had loved Zurich so much. Save for the week in July when the Montreux Jazz Festival brought scores of visitors to the city, the Universität had always been peaceful and quiet in his experience. More like a sanctuary than a place of learning.

That night spent with his housemate in downtown Arkham was the only occasion in the eighteen months he had spent in the town when he had ever ventured further afield than the university, the grocery store or the potter’s field, for precisely that reason. Well, for a number of reasons, truthfully, but his dislike of crowds was among them. 

But, with her, he had scarcely even noticed the hustle of the streets or the chatter of conversation among their fellow patrons at the movie theater. It had felt good to be out in the refreshing evening air and, although he would rather die than voice the thought out loud, it had felt good to be mistaken for an ordinary person. 

Mistaken because he wasn’t ordinary, he knew that, but for once it was pleasant to be seen that way. Just an ordinary young man, with a young woman beside him, sharing popcorn and watching a movie. He’d not even minded the movie too much, if it really came down to it, although he had made a show of disliking it for reasons he would find hard to explain.

But then - Damn. Damn.

He had been looking at her in the line to get into the theater, stealing sidelong glances when he was sure she was distracted by the sights and sounds of the crowd. He wouldn’t usually take note of her clothes, or anybody’s clothes in general, but for some reason his eyes kept being drawn to her décolleté white dress, to the intriguing jacket she had slung around her tightly-bodiced waist - a jacket which was black but seemed to have intricate gold lacing and tassels at the shoulders, almost in a military style  - and to her bare legs which bounced on the spot, no doubt feeling the chill of the spring night air. 

For some reason. Herbert glared grimly down again at the severed limb on the table before him, picked up a scalpel from his kit beside it and began to strip out the vascular system, his eyes hard and his mouth set in a harsh line. He knew the reason, knew it deep down, and the knowledge only served to enrage him further. He gratefully grasped onto that concept: rage.  

Yes, it was anger he was feeling; anger towards his housemate, for awakening in him urges which he had successfully buried ever since the hideous maw of puberty had spat him out as a teenager. Anger towards himself, for his own weakness, for letting himself become distracted - even for a single evening - from the vital business of the work. 

Anger that he should be reduced to peeking at a woman’s décolletage, anger that he should be so captivated by her smile, the turn of her head towards him as she laughed, the bounce of her hair off her shoulders.

That he should spend so many nights laying awake, replaying their moments together and regularly taking himself in hand for the first time since he was too young to understand the supreme importance of self-control.

Anger. It was definitely anger. Fear had no part in his life, and surely never would. Surely - 

Damn.

Herbert rubbed his eyes, harshly. The hour was growing late, but he would ensure the night wasn’t a total waste. He would get some work done, and good work, too; he just needed to give himself his edge back. He reached a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle. The luminescent green glow of it reflected in his glasses, lighting his face in a sickly hue. 

He smiled a tight, bitter smile and ran his fingers over it, as if stroking the liquid inside. Why not? Why shouldn’t he?  He had cut down to once or twice a week but even his sobriety had a limit. And besides, he needed it. Needed it for the work. In only a few quick moments he could be feeling better - more than better. Euphoric. More awake than he’d feel even after a full night’s rest. 

And yet… 

Herbert put the glowing bottle away, unopened, with an angry shove. Not tonight. He set to work.

Time passed in a blur, as it always did for him when he was concentrating, becoming a vague dance which he moved through with a singular focus. He was interrupted after what might have been hours by a gentle knock at the workroom door.

He looked up at the sound, putting down the network of veins in his hands, laying the fine red and purple webbing aside like the fairest of lace. He knew who it would be before he called out.

‘Come.’

He was correct, as he’d known he would be. 

'I won't keep you long,’ Jean muttered as she slipped into the room. 

Herbert saw her eyes drop down to the mess of a circulatory system on the metal table in front of him. As she drew closer he saw she looked tired, pale, and that she was still wearing the rather revealing dress she’d worn out to the movies. 

He couldn’t stop himself from admiring the way her body looked in it, as he had done earlier before he could check himself, and he felt a flustered panic when he realized his own treacherous body was responding to what he saw. His face had flushed, he knew, and - much worse - he was growing hard, a situation which his suit trousers would be woefully ill-equipped to disguise. He balled up his fists, biting his nails into the soft flesh of his palms in an attempt to distract himself. 

Herbert had rarely met a person, male or female, whose physical presence could elevate his heart rate or cause any of the other physiological signs of infatuation. Not that it had never happened. It had, but barely, and he had always been able to put those feelings firmly out of his mind, until -

‘No, no,' he replied, too coldly, trying to cover the rising heat in his cheeks. 'Do feel free to take up my night, just as you took up my evening. It’s not like I was at all busy.'

When Jean replied there was no hint of retaliation in her voice, and that worried him. She sounded hollow, defeated, not like the young woman he so admired in his most secret depths. 

‘I've just come to apologize for being an ass,’ she sighed, and Herbert couldn’t hide the naked surprise on his face. ‘I shouldn't have got so offended you didn't want to spend the rest of the night with me. You don't owe me anything, and you told me explicitly you wanted to be home early to work - you stated boundaries and then I got mad at you for sticking by them. So I've just come to say I’m sorry and now... I’ll go.'

She turned to hurry back out the room, her piece obviously said. Herbert started forwards, his hand reaching out at nothingness; she paused and looked down at it, blankly, from across the room. He dropped his arm to his side but closed the distance between them, wishing his sleeves weren’t streaked with gore, wishing he could offer her what those other young men at the movie theater could offer their sweethearts, wishing...

'I never said I - ' he began but she cut him off with a waving hand, as if not really listening, hearing only what she expected him to say.

‘You never said you’d hang out with me when we got back from the movie, I know. I was being an asshole. Can you forgive me?’ 

‘Of course. There’s nothing to forgive. But - ' he began, then faltered. She had crossed her arms, hugging them across her chest, gazing down at the assorted organs and viscera on the low metal table. ‘What are you looking at?’ he asked, distracted from his train of thought.

‘You really… love this, don’t you?’ she asked, voice soft.

‘What?’

‘All… this.’ 

She waved a hand at what he’d been working on, her expression difficult for Herbert to read. She looked a little curious, a little wistful, and he frowned; her evasiveness was making him irritable.

‘I don’t know what you mean. Love isn’t - Love doesn’t enter into it. This is my work. This is my life. But my point was - ‘

‘Because you want to help people?’

Herbert paused at her question.

‘Well... Yes, of course. But more than that, I want to see with my own eyes the secrets which death holds. Why do you ask?’

‘I guess I just want to understand you better.’ Her eyes were wide and locked on his own, twin moons in the eerie basement glow. ‘To understand why death... excites you so much.’

He didn’t know how to answer that. The conversation was not going the way he had expected it to, either in his hopes or his fears.

‘It’s not death itself which excites me,’ he began carefully, as if feeling the way ahead through a dark tunnel. ‘It’s that we can defeat it. Reverse it. And I am so close - so close - to finding out what comes after. To peering beyond the veil.’

‘Herbert, you don’t mean - ’ 

‘I’m not working on whole subjects again - don’t misunderstand me,’ he rushed to explain. ‘But I am certain that when I find a suitable candidate I will be able to revive them to a state where they can reason, can think, can remember. As if they were never really gone. That they will be able to report on their experiences during the brief period of their death. I know that, in time, I will make death obsolete. Just think of it! I mean to say, wouldn’t you want to live forever?'

He gazed imploringly into her face but his hopeful expression soured to a frown when she looked away from him, wracked by a shiver.

'Honestly, Herbert, that idea terrifies me. We aren't supposed to live forever, it's not… natural.'

'Why not? Because God says so?' he sneered, wounded by her disgust but not wanting to show it. 'The same God who would have let Chapham kill you out there in the cemetery, without blinking an eye? The same God who lets millions suffer from war and disease, without lifting a finger to relieve their pain? The same God who would take a child's mother from him before he’s even old enough to remember her? The same God who would let a father - ' 

He stopped himself, and got his breathing under control. She was staring at him and he felt she was seeing him, really seeing him, and the feeling made him shudder uncontrollably.

'No, not because of that,’ Jean began, laying a gentle hand on his arm. He stiffened at her touch, longing to lean into it but prevented by his pride. ‘Because all things have to end, and it's the same with us. Isn't it? I mean, why would you want to live forever, when everything around you withers and dies? As for knowing what comes after - I’m sure there's something good waiting for us but I don't want to know, not until my right time comes. And besides,' she smiled, a hint of a laugh in her eyes. 'Didn’t you see Ghostbusters? No good comes from messing around with this stuff.'

He threw off her hand and turned away from her, swiping his glasses from his face. There were a few specks of blood on the lenses and he made a show of wiping them off, trying to buy time whilst his mind whirred like an out-of-control automaton. He wanted to understand her beliefs on this, wanted to extend to her viewpoint the same respect he held for her as a person, but he found he just couldn’t. Curiosity drove him, propelled him, and her apparent lack of it was flabbergasting to him. 

Then he felt her touch him once again, on his shoulder this time, light and tentative, and he spun around to see her standing very close.

‘I’m sorry if that disappoints you.’

‘It doesn’t… disappoint me,’ he replied, truthfully and with a sigh in his voice. ‘I just feel that you’re yet to understand. Perhaps you will, in time.’

‘Maybe,’ she agreed, with a tired smile. He returned it, taking her hand and pressing it, impulsively, to his cheek. She looked surprised but didn’t pull away, instead drawing even closer to him. With a quiet but steady voice she said:

‘I really am sorry for being so harsh on you, earlier. I know you’re not jealous of Dan. You were just being yourself and I - ‘

‘I am, though.’

He spoke bluntly and she froze, a small line appearing between her brows. If he hadn’t just ripped his heart out of his chest and held it up to her in cupped hands, he would have laughed at the gobsmacked expression on her face.

‘What?’

Herbert took a quick, shallow breath. It was all he seemed to be able to fit into his lungs. Like he had on that night they’d fought the reanimated Lt. Chapham, he felt the moment was alive, throbbing, significant. He desperately grabbed at it, tried to stop it running through his hands.

He suddenly saw the future stretching ahead of him as if he were driving along a deserted road at midnight, lit only by headlights; before him was a junction and he sat in the idling car, looking first one way, then the other. 

One road would see him shaking his head, telling her he hadn’t meant anything by his words. She would go back upstairs and he would turn back to his work, would perhaps put a needle into his arm, and the night would bleed into the next day, and into the next, on and on into eternity.

And perhaps, in time, she would meet another man. A man who would take her hand as he walked down the streets of downtown Arkham. A man who had never had gore and viscera sprayed into his face, a man who had never tasted another person’s blood. 

And she would be happy, and maybe so would he, in his own way. But perhaps she would always think of him and wonder ; he certainly would, for the rest of his life.

And then there was the other road. The other road which led to - 

‘I am. Jealous of Dan.’

‘You… want to be with Francesca?’ 

He shook his head impatiently. 

‘No, of course not. Don't be obtuse.’

She raised her eyebrows, took her hand back to cross her arms. Herbert pushed on, knowing that if he stopped he could never return to his instant, this moment opening out like a long stretch of highway. His words came out in a desperate rush.

‘I’ve been thinking for a long time - for months, perhaps even as far back as my first few weeks in that house on Darkmore - that I am, in fact, jealous of Dan. And I don’t mean for his… frequent lovemaking, either. But because he seems to know how to express what he wants. That’s a skill I’ve never quite mastered.’

'What are you talking about? What - '

'If you'd be quiet long enough to let me finish,’ he cut across her, a warning hand in the air. She froze with her mouth half-open in an almost comic pout and he felt that rush of something, again, the intangible, indescribable force which was compelling him to say these ridiculous things. ‘What I’m talking about is…’

But the words wouldn’t come. She was still staring at him, her arms crossed, and he felt again that flustering stab of panic. He swallowed hard and barreled on, saying the first thing that came into his head.

‘Earlier - in the car - I never said I didn't want to spend the rest of the night with you. Just that I wouldn’t go to a bar. I don't dance and… What use am I to you, at a bar? At home we can talk. Make conversation. At some ghastly nightclub with blaring music, what can I do? What attraction would there be in my company? What - '

He was still speaking when she put out a hand and laid it on his chest, against his heart, stopping the words as they left his lips. He looked down at it, then up at her, confusion written starkly on his face.

'What if I don't want to talk?'

Now it was his turn to stare, mouth open.

'What?' he asked, warily, heart sinking. The road which led to her sweeping away back up the stairs seemed to be calling to him, as did a lifetime spent alone in a lab. Perhaps that was best. Perhaps that was right.

'What if I just want to kiss you?'

'What?' he repeated, sure he'd misheard her. Jean sighed.

'Has it not occurred to you, Herbert, that I'm really attracted to you and I want nothing more than to rip your clothes off?'

Something in Herbert's brain short-circuited. 

He watched her move toward him, moistening her lips, and he was put in mind of the way a cat moves. His arousal was sudden and total. He heard himself speak in a small voice, almost giddy, sounding very far away. 

'Uh. No. It… hasn't.'

'But do you want me to?' she asked, sounding more uncertain than her prowling movements would suggest.

'Yes,' he choked out, reaching blindly for her hands. 'Yes, I do, I - '

And with that she stepped forward into his arms, light and gentle as a sigh.

III.

You take his face - his frustrating, infuriating, beloved face - in your hands and kiss him, firmly, on the mouth. His lips feel soft, softer than you would have imagined, and you notice they taste faintly of something sharp, something chemical. Then your stomach swoops out from under you, catching your breath short and leaving you gasping, light-headed.

He tenses up, just for a second, and in the moment before your eyes close you see surprise and uncertainty there. Then he's kissing you back, hard.

He seems unused to the motions and you wonder, suddenly, if this is his first kiss. Surely it can’t be, can it? But he’s all teeth and questing tongue and for a few moments you have to steady him, hands on his chest, but then he slows and finds the rhythm and you feel him relax. 

A shiver runs through his body and you feel him tremble beneath your fingertips, so you draw back to check he’s okay; you see his pale face has flushed an almost violent shade of rose, his eyes wide and hungry as they rove over you, but you can tell he’s still holding himself back. Like always.

One of his hands finds your hair and dives in, and the other cups your face, moves down the side of your neck, skitters over your pulse point and draws away as if burned. 

Then your back hits the wall. Herbert's pinning you there, but gently, as if he wants to give you the option of slipping away from him if that’s what you need. You moan, overcome with the feeling of his mouth working on yours.

Wet heat is pulsing between your legs and your heart is hammering in your chest, beating against the bars of your rib-cage as if imprisoned there. You picture it freed from your body, held out before you, thrumming and raw. But is it your heart or is it his? 

Herbert is handing his heart to you, you suddenly understand, in this moment, with these frantic kisses. The thought makes you ache for him, in your soul and deep down in your core, and the groan which vibrates in your throat is high and needy.

At the sound of it Herbert pulls back, ever so slightly, and presses his hot forehead against your own. He says your name like a question.

'Is this… alright?'

You answer him by swinging your leg up to wrap around his hip, drawing him closer, drawing a hiss from him as his erection presses into your lower belly. Your hands go to his chest, running over the hard flesh you feel through the whisper of his shirt; you grab his tie, loosen it and whip it off into a corner of the basement. 

It's your first time together but it's like you've done this many times before, every movement is a frenzied dance and you’ve dreamed the steps in the darkest moments of the night, stifling the sounds you make as your fingers find your sex, thinking of Herbert in the laboratory below where you sleep.

His mouth is moving over your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses, and with deft fingers he unzips your dress and draws it partially down. Then his hands are on your breasts, cupping through the material of your bra, somehow tentative yet insistent at the same time. You cast around, looking for a foothold, and brace your leg against his workbench, draw up the hem of your dress. 

‘I need you.' You gasp the words out, breath huffing in the dry basement air. ‘Here, right up against this wall.’

'No, not down here. Upstairs,' Herbert murmurs, and you hesitate. 

You had thought that perhaps this interlude between you might just be a break in the work for him, a way to let off some steam, and that he'd turn away from you the second he was finished to resume his research. And you wouldn't have been offended; that’s just Herbert, the man you know and accept. The man you love.

'No?' 

Your reply is breathless; you're still trying to get his shirt open. He gives you a searching look, eyes glinting behind his glasses in the strange green glow of the basement, then lifts you off your feet in one lithe motion that you never would have expected from him. 

'Herbert!' you half-shout and half-laugh as he carries you bridal-style out of the room and up the stairs. You’re almost the same height as he is, so you’re surprised he can lift you so easily; you realize how much strength must lie in those arms, perpetually hidden by his white shirt-sleeves, and the realization makes you throb with desire.

'I don't want it to be down there,' he murmurs quietly, mouth close to your ear. 'Not amongst all those dead things. All that… decay.' 

You watch his eyes as he says it and see a flicker of sadness in them. You nuzzle his neck, plant a kiss on the edge of his jaw. He doesn't look at you, and you turn your face up to the ceiling, watching the stairway become the hall, the rough brickwork turning to deep oak boards.

He carries you past the stained-glass window beside your bedroom door and you stare; the streetlamp outside casts red and blue light across the side of Herbert’s face, ripples the harsh colors against his skin like a warning. 

Then Herbert reaches your bedroom and shoves the door open with his shoulder, stepping over the threshold confidently and without hesitation. He lays you down on your bed with gentle care, then draws back a little, fixing you with a hard stare, as if he suddenly feels the need to ask for a permission he hadn't felt as he barged into your space.

'Is this what you want?' Herbert asks, and you sit up and reach for him, touch his face, bring him down to lay beside you under the whisper of your fingertips. 'It's not too soon, too - '

'Yes, West. I want this. Do you?'

He nods, shakily, and lowers his intense gaze to your exposed skin. Runs a hand over the bare flesh of your side, over your stomach, up to your collarbone. Rests his fingertips lightly on the pulse in your neck, feeling it tick away, proof that you're alive.

Quietly he whispers to you, face stiff as if daring his cheeks to flush.

'I know how to do this in theory, of course. In anatomical terms, I’m very well versed in how the female body functions. And I've taken apart more than I could count…'

'Thanks, Herb,' you roll your eyes, pulling a face. He doesn't smile. 

'But my point is I've not… done this before. And I've never even come close with a woman.'

He hesitates and fixes you with a deep look, slightly spoiled by the fogging of his glasses from the point where the heat of your bodies meets the air. Herbert's bisexuality is something you've never discussed together - you don't think he'd discussed it with anyone, in fact - because it goes without saying, so much a part of him as the work is.

And, like the work, anything private or sensual in Herbert's life is bound up in secrecy, in an unwillingness to share.

'That's okay, Herbert,' you reassure him, placing a kiss on his forehead, over that little scar he has courtesy of Dr. Hill. His eyes close as you do it and his throat makes a little clicking sound as he swallows, dry, before he continues.

‘I want to be clear. I have very little experience. I was kissed, once - when I was an undergrad, at NYU - and he wanted to take it further, but… He was..‘ Herbert trails off, his eyes skittering around the room, then presses on. ‘I wanted to, but… it didn't go ahead. ' 

'Why?' you ask, letting curiosity get the better of you. 'Were you... too shy?'

His face snaps back to you and he gives you a quizzical look.

'No,’ he retorts, as if your guess is too ridiculous to credit. ‘I was late for class.'

You giggle and he hesitates for a second, like he's gauging if you're laughing at him or with him. It's the latter and he sees it, and smiles at you weakly. When he speaks again his voice is low, tremulous, but his eyes never waver from yours. 

'I hope I'll be a satisfactory lover.'

The sting of rising tears catches you by surprise; you reach up quickly and wipe them away, smiling despite the faint burning in your eyes. There had been something in the earnest way he had spoken, the vulnerability in his words, which had stopped you short.

'I don't care how much experience you have, how many people you've slept with,' you whisper, placing a kiss lightly on his mouth, cupping his cheek in your hand. He relaxes under your touch. 'It makes no difference to me, just like I hope it makes no difference to you who I've slept with. I want you, Herbert. And I - '

The words I love you rise unbidden in your throat. You force them back, thinking that those words would push him too far, would send him scurrying straight back down to the darkness of his solitary basement.

He blinks back at you and there is a moment where you feel he knows exactly which words you've swallowed. 

Then he's kissing you again, and his hands are unclasping your bra with an ease which would have seemed expertly practiced in another man, pushing you firmly onto your back as you utter a surprised moan.

You reach up, swipe off his glasses, throw them blindly onto your bedside table. His shirt is off and you run your hands over the dark smattering of hair covering his chest, feel the coiled muscles of his stomach jump under your fingertips. He trembles as he moves his mouth to your breast, nuzzling, sucking, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin.

You cry out, and he drinks in the sound with his eyes shining. You reach down and squeeze the hard shape of his erection as it juts from the slope of his smart black pants; he gasps, groans, a strange and vulnerable sound coming from a man you'd barely even known to flinch. He puts a staying hand over yours.

'Wait. Let me - Let me…' 

He's panting as he unzips your dress the rest of the way, helping you to pull it off over your head. You open your mouth to speak, which turns into a high moan as his fingers find your clit.

He wasn't lying about his anatomical knowledge; he has the nimble hands of a surgeon and you’re already so wet and ready for him that it takes only seconds for you to feel your climax approaching. You see him smile, with more than a hint of smugness, and you feel your love for him crash over you like the weight of the sea. 

Herbert hovers above you as you crest the wave of your orgasm, thighs trembling and clinging to him like he’s a buoy in stormy waters. He’s watching you with the unblinking intensity, you think, that he must turn towards his experiments. Those things in the basement. Although you doubt that his face is this flushed or his breath comes in such hot, shallow pants whilst he conducts his research.

You roll him over and straddle his hips, taking him in hand. A few quick strokes and he's hissing, gasping, his face alive with barely-controlled desire. You guide him to your entrance and meet his gaze; Herbert looks up at you with wide eyes, somehow innocent and commanding at the same time. Yours hold a question and he answers with a hurried nod.

His eyes flutter closed as you lower yourself onto him and he expels a slow, shaky breath. He takes hold of your hips and guides you as he slides in; he does it slowly, inch by inch, clearly controlling himself with an iron will, savoring your connection but anxious for it not to end too soon.

He fills you totally, no bigger than your previous lovers but somehow more right than anyone you've been with before. You both moan at the same time as he pushes himself up to the hilt; the noise from Herbert's throat is more like a whine. 

Your foreheads press together, hot and damp, and you think of the last time you did this, in the backseat of a classmate's car almost two years ago, before you'd met Herbert, before you'd seen death. That time had been rushed, passionless, somehow stale. This was nothing like that time.

With Herbert you feel like every movement is right on the dot, just like touching yourself, a fulfillment you didn't think you'd ever find with anyone but your own hands. When you look at him laid out beneath you, his skin dappled with sweat, his delicate mouth half-open in a silent gasp, his eyes squeezing shut, you don't just see a lay, a sexual partner, a potential boyfriend - you see someone who feels like home to you.

A grunt and a snap of Herbert's hips grounds you back in the present. Taking you by surprise, he pushes you gently onto your back and kneels between your legs, stretching over you in a movement like a cat. He catches your hand in his and brings it lightly to his mouth; against your knuckles he breathes:

'Du bist mein Zuhause…'

It's quiet, so quiet you almost miss the words. 

'What was that?' you murmur. He doesn't answer; even in the midst of passion and pleasure, Herbert is like a veiled moon to you, always partly hidden and in shadow. 

Instead, he shifts and begins to thrust into you, slowly at first, watching your eyes as they drift closed. You wrap your legs around his hips, run your hands through his hair. He takes your chin between his nimble fingers, turns your face up so you open your eyes and look directly into his. 

They're burning, suddenly, the gentleness still there in his actions but the softness gone from his gaze. You suddenly feel you are seeing him as Dr. Hill must have seen him, in those last moments before his head permanently parted company with his body; his eyes wide and aflame with zeal, his mouth set, your fate sealed.

'Do you... want me?'

He thrusts harder this time; you whine, rake your fingers down his back. 

'Yes,' you moan and he shudders a breath, leans in to press his face into the crook of your neck, begins to build up a steady rhythm.

'Do you need me?' he asks, voice clear and strong despite the pants that punctuate his words.

'I'm - I'm yours…'

He whimpers and begins to thrust desperately, arrythymically, his right hand travelling down to find your clit again. You moan and shudder your way through your second orgasm; he gives one last groan against your neck, thrusts deep, his back arches and you feel him come undone inside you as you twitch around his cock. 

In the aftermath, as you both cling to each other, you pull him close and draw his head down on your chest. He sighs, the most contented sound you have ever heard from him.

You stroke his hair and know that he's listening to your heart beat as you lay there, watching the first rays of dawn sunlight begin to stream in through the window high above your bed. 

'I'm not going anywhere, Herb. I'm with you, and that's not going to change. Unless you want it to.'

You say this quietly, pressing a kiss against his hairline, beside that little scar. You don't know why you say it, apart from that it's the truth. Maybe you feel he needs to hear it. Usually, Herbert would be the last person to admit that he needed anything, and you fully expect him to answer in his waspish way. ‘It’s of no concern to me where you go, or what you do,’ perhaps. But he doesn’t say that.

'I know,' he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot enough to burn. ‘And the same is true of me. I’m by your side, until you instruct me otherwise.’

The morning light is growing brighter, illuminating the powder blue wallpaper like the clear sky after a storm. You close your eyes and, soon, you’re sleeping curled around Herbert, his head resting on your chest, right above your heart.

Chapter 6: aftershock

6 - aftershock

May 1987

The end of term is fast approaching and so, instead of lounging on Herbert's bed watching him transcribe notes or on the couch watching some gory splatter-fest, you’re in your room, listening to Oingo Boingo’s last album and studying for your final exam as if the punishment for failure is instant execution. 

Final year is no joke, for you or the boys, although of course they still have several years of residency in front of them. Even if they will soon be allowed to put a ‘Dr.’ in front of their names. Dan is in his room, likewise pouring over his books; even Francesca has sworn-off visiting during the period, which is practically unknown.

In another revelatory turn of events you’re aware that Herbert isn't in the basement, although it's past 8pm. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter, his notes spread out before him and a constantly-full cup of coffee within easy reach. You know he’s been trying to wean himself off his reagent and if the price to pay for that is a housemate constantly wired from caffeine, then that is a very small one.

‘Have a toast, down the cup

Drink to bones that turn to dust

'Cause no one, no one, no one, no one…’

You realize you haven’t eaten all afternoon, so you switch off your stereo - it isn’t exactly studying music, in any case - and head to fetch something that will keep you going until you can collapse into bed, exhausted. 

You’ll be going to bed alone; although Dan is aware of your burgeoning relationship with Herbert and has given his blessing, he has said in no uncertain terms that if he is abstaining from sex for the exam period then you and Herbert had better be prepared to do that, too. 

Herbert had once suggested, in a half-whisper, that you were always welcome to sneak up to his room once Dan had gone to bed. But the floorboards in the old house creak terribly and you had a sudden image of Dan rising like Nosferatu at the slightest hint of a tread on the stair, his eyelids rolling back like window shades, so you demurred. You have no intention of getting yelled at by a housemate harassed both by exam stress and sexual frustration.

As you cross your bedroom you catch your foot on your dresser and, cursing, hop straight into your bedside table. The photo frame which is propped on it is sent tumbling to the ground and you bend to pick it up, checking the glass for any cracks. It’s your favorite photo, now, although at the time it was taken you never would have expected that would become the case.

The photo was taken in the old house on Darkmore. There’s that nondescript bland wallpaper in the background, you think, and - oh, yes - a blurry black tail in the foreground which belongs to poor, ill-fated Rufus. It was taken in early October 1985 - only days before everything that happened… happened - and you, Dan, Meg, and your friend Annie had dressed up to go to a midnight screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Boston. 

---

All four of you are excited to see the movie; you and Meg have seen it hundreds of times before but you’re bringing Dan and Annie along, who are both virgins. You spent hours with Meg and Annie, picking out your costumes, and you’ve all gone full-out. Meg’s in a sparkly gold top hat and matching waistcoat, and has brushed temporary pink dye through her blonde hair. Annie is in a French maid’s outfit and red curls, whilst you’ve managed to find a magenta Bride of Frankenstein wig in the bargain bin of a costume store in Bolton. You’re wearing that, along with elbow-length black gloves and a short, sparkling silver tunic which you’ve created by massacring a spaceman suit from the same store.

Dan, meanwhile, is a revelation in a corset and slightly-ripped fishnet stockings. They hadn’t been ripped before he’d attempted to yank them straight on from the waist like a pair of jeans, ignoring Meg’s exasperated instructions. You and Meg spent an hour on his makeup, giving him dark eyeshadow up to his brows and bright red lipstick, the whole look finished off with a sparkling string of pearls; you’re very pleased with your handiwork and your giddiness isn’t even dimmed by the fact that you’re the designated driver for the rest of them, who are all swigging from bottles of beer before you leave the house.

As the four of you head out the front door, stumbling a little in the heels you’re all wearing, you grab up your Polaroid and ask Herbert to take a photo to remember the night. You barely know Herbert at this point and just see him as your odd - and rather disagreeable - new housemate. You giggle behind his back with Meg and pull faces as he sighs and fusses around with the camera, complaining that he hasn’t used one like it before. 

In the end Annie laughs - a little unkindly - and snatches the camera off him, taking the photo of the rest of you herself. Dan, who is leaving ‘tipsy’ behind in the dust and approaching ‘fully drunk’ at speed, pulls Herbert into the frame and holds him around the shoulders as the flash lights up the room and the shutter whirs, ignoring his huffy protests.

You don’t imagine, in that moment, that the photo Annie is taking will take on such significance for you. Such mixed feelings of sadness, love and nostalgia. Dan is laughing, looking towards Meg, one arm around Herbert and one around you. You're posing, throwing a leg over Dan and placing a kiss against Meg's cheek, whilst Meg has two fingers raised behind your head to make bunny ears. All of your eyes are brimming with excitement. 

And Herbert is… Well, he's being Herbert. Standing awkwardly to one side, obviously only being held in place by the strength of Dan’s grip, a disgruntled wince on his face. His undertaker's clothes actually fit in with the theme you all have going on: he looks almost like he's in costume. His dark brows are furrowed and he looks absolutely furious. When the photo is taken he yanks his arm out of Dan’s grasp and scurries away down to the basement, slamming the door pointedly as he does so.

---

When the photo had developed you’d rolled your eyes at it and shoved it away in a drawer, but then - weeks later, when the blood coating the walls of the Miskatonic Morgue had dried - you’d got it out again and stared at it for an endless time. 

It was the last photo you had with Meg. For a while that had made you sad, but now you gently clean the glass and place it, reverently, back on the table. You wonder what she would say, if she could see you, Dan and Herbert now. You hope she’d be happy for you, and for Dan. And, more than anything, you hope she’s happy wherever she is.

Herbert looks up as you come into the kitchen, blinking from behind his glasses in the dwindling evening light. His face relaxes when he sees it's you. 

'Sorry to interrupt you, Herb, I'm just getting that leftover pizza from yesterday.’

‘It’s alright, Jeanie, you’re not interrupting me,’ he says, laying down his papers and running his hand through his hair. ‘I thought it was Dan. He’s been back and forth to that refrigerator four times this past hour alone.’

‘He must be hungry,’ you laugh, grabbing the pizza and putting it into the microwave. You smile to hear him use that pet name for you - it's a very recent development, and very welcome.

‘Oh, he doesn’t eat anything. He just opens the door, stares inside for a full minute, mutters “you gotta be kidding me!” and leaves. I’m concerned for his sanity, honestly.’

‘It’s just exam stress. Even Miskatonic’s brightest aren’t immune.’ You hop up onto the counter next to where Herbert is sitting and offer him a slice. ‘Want some?’

He regards the proffered pepperoni suspiciously, the silence broken by a growl of his stomach. You laugh and he huffs, as if disappointed at his body for betraying him in this way, but swipes the pizza out of your hand and takes a bite.

‘Just as I thought. Even the great soon-to-be Dr. West can’t resist the allure of Pizza Hut.’

Somehow dignified even whilst masticating, he shoots you a sardonic little look which goes straight to the pit of your stomach, makes it swoop.

‘I’ve noticed my appetite increasing, lately,’ he mutters, still chewing. ‘I may be suffering from some form of intestinal parasite.’

‘Ew! Jesus, Herb,’ you screw up your face in disgust at the thought; Herbert keeps munching, unfazed. ‘Maybe you’re just - ‘

You stop yourself. You were going to say maybe you’re just hungrier now you’re not running off reagent and spite alone but you don’t. Herbert’s ongoing struggle with using the serum is private and you respect it - and him - too much to make jokes. So instead you say:

‘Maybe you’re just stressed out too. It’ll all be over in June. Not long, now.’

Herbert shrugs, distractedly, and goes back to his notes. You prop your feet up in front of you and stare out of the window above the kitchen sink. The sun’s going down, throwing blood-red light over the gambrel roofs of the houses you can see in the distance. Soon it’ll be night-time over Arkham, and what comes out of the darkness in that strange city is anyone’s guess.

‘Herb?’

‘Yes?’ he murmurs, not looking up at you. 

‘Do you want to stay in Arkham? Permanently, I mean.’

He looks up at that, forehead creased and mouth slightly open in confusion. You see those deep lines appear next to his mouth and long to kiss them. You can, now, if you wish - you and Herbert have been doing more than kissing for several months - but you don’t. With Herbert it very much has to be the right time, the right place.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know,’ you begin, shrugging and looking back out at the sunset. The city stands out in stark relief against the scarlet sky, like so many old bones; it’s picturesque, in a charnel sort of way. ‘I was just thinking… I still don’t know what I’m going to do after I graduate. Where I’ll settle.’

‘You’re going to stay here, with me and Dan.’ Herbert says this as a statement; there’s not even a hint of a question. You turn to look at him and see he’s set down his notes again, his face set in a stern expression which almost makes you giggle.

‘Am I?’ you ask, playfully. He gets up and moves towards you, stands between your legs as you perch on the counter-top. You feel your arousal start to stir; it seems like maybe Herbert’s decided this is the right time and indeed the right place, after all. ‘Is that a fact? I can go anywhere I want, you know.’

‘That’s true,’ he replies, deliberately, taking you by the hips and drawing you close to him. ‘But you want to stay with us, don’t you?’

‘Yeah… Of course I do,’ you admit, snaking your arms around his neck. His delicate mouth is set in a smirk, now, and you answer it with your own, reaching up to kiss along his jawline. He hums a moan in response, light and breathy, and when you pull back his eyes are dark with a different kind of hunger.

‘We may move elsewhere when our residencies are complete - perhaps we might set up practice together in Bolton or Boston - but until then Arkham serves our purposes well. Serves the work well.’

You nod and reach up to place a deft kiss on his lips.

‘I understand,’ you say, and you mean it. Then Herbert’s mouth is on yours and neither of you does much talking for a little while.

Later - as you both lay in your bed, trying to keep quiet to escape the Wrath of Dan - you put your head on Herbert’s chest and sigh contentedly. He’s laying on his back, idly playing with your hair, and you get the feeling he’s working his way up to saying something.

‘What is it?’ you ask him, not turning your head. You’re too comfortable on his warm chest, safe in the crook of his arm.

‘Do you recall the first time we did this?’

Herbert’s tone is low, conversational, but there’s something serious behind it. You want to joke in response but you stop yourself, feeling whatever he’s about to say may be very important indeed.

‘Yeah, of course I do. Why?’

‘There was a moment when you seemed about to say something but stopped yourself. What was it?’

You stiffen. You certainly aren’t going to look around, because you don’t want to see the expression on his face.

‘Nothing, Herb, it wasn’t important.’

'I ask you this because I think that… what you were about to say, that night…' Herbert begins, a catch in his voice. You jump in.

'Herbert, don't, you don't need to - '

'I feel the same way.'

Your head whips round so fast your neck clicks, painfully. He’s looking down at you gravely, a little frown playing about his brows, but his dark eyes are wide and you can see no hint of a lie in them. You're stunned and can only manage a shaky:

'Do you mean that? Do you really?'

'Yes,' he replies, his voice tight but a small smile growing on his lips. 'I thought you should know, so there’s no misunderstanding between us.'

You reflect that, with any of the other relationships you’d been in, this would have been a pretty poor declaration of love. Herbert hadn’t even said the words; he’d only hinted at them, cryptically, and left you to fill in the blanks.

But you know he means it and, more than that, you know how big a deal it must be for him to even approach saying it. So when you grin and throw your arms around him, laughing and forgetting all about keeping quiet, you feel happier than you’ve ever felt in your life.

---

June 1987

I.

The summer air is warm and inviting as you step outside, blinking, into the light. Your last exam is done; you throw your notes up in the air as you leave the exam hall, linking arms with your friend Annie and whooping with joy. 

Dan happens to be passing by on the quad and notices you, laughs at your expressions of relief. He and Herbert are on your campus sitting their written exams, as a burst water pipe in the Medical School’s exam hall has flooded it with three inches of water. He comes over, slipping a friendly arm around your shoulders and giving you a congratulatory shake.

‘You did it, J! You made it through college without flunking out! I, for one, did not see this coming.’

‘Shut up, you jerk,’ you laugh, shoving him off. Dan puts his hands up, all innocent, and you stick your tongue out at him. 'Just because you're a doctor now doesn't mean I won't kick your ass.'

'Actually it won’t be official until next month, but I do expect you to start calling me Dr. Dan immediately.'

Annie laughs coquettishly at his joke and flutters her eyelashes in his direction.

‘Hi, Dan,’ she says, coyly. You roll your eyes and mouth 'he’s still taken' at her when he looks away. She pouts back, cuts her eyes over to the side and looks irritated.

‘In that case I’m out of here,’ she whispers. ‘That weirdo you live with is headed this way and I don’t want him to hit on me.’

You snort with laughter, although certainly not for the same reason Annie thinks. She stomps off and you follow her gaze; sure enough, Herbert is making a bee-line for you, marching sassily across the courtyard with a heavy black folder under his arm. You smile at him as he gets close enough to speak and he returns it, a little awkwardly but obviously pleased to see you.

‘Hey, Herbert. Check it out. We’ve got a graduate on our hands,' Dan remarks, winking at you and beginning to amble off in the direction of the cafeteria. Herbert falls into step with you both and the three of you begin to walk across the campus, through the teeming throngs of happy post-exam students.

‘She’s not a graduate yet, Dan. She may not have passed.’

‘See, Dr. Dan, Herbert will never let me get too big for my own boots,’ you laugh, rolling your eyes. ‘Thanks for keeping me humble, Herb.’

Herbert flushes and looks away from you, but the twist of his lip tells you he’s smiling.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he huffs. ‘I’m just making the point that nothing’s certain. I’m sure you did sufficiently well.'

Dan roars out a laugh and you giggle, nudging Herbert with your elbow. He laughs too, and for a helpless moment the three of you can only stumble along, cracking up for reasons you couldn’t fully put into words. You're getting some odd looks but you ignore them. Perhaps having gone through hell together has given you and your housemates an increased ability to see the funny side. 

‘We should go out tonight, to celebrate,’ Dan says when he can finally speak again, clicking his fingers at you like he’s just discovered electricity. Herbert bristles.

‘Certainly not. We have our final performance examination on Thursday, Dan, or have you forgotten?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Dan looks crestfallen for a second, then recovers. He turns to you with a hopeful grin. ‘How about we go on Friday, then? I know you said you wanted to rent The Fly but we can do that anytime. Let’s go to a bar, get drunk... Have a good time. It could be our last chance before we’ve got - ’ Dan shudders. ‘- adult responsibilities.’

‘Yeah, we should! I’d love that,’ you beam, linking your fingers with Herbert’s. If Dan notices, he’s too tactful to say anything. ‘My Cronenburg fix can wait a couple days. Let’s be normal twenty-five year olds for a change.'

‘Twenty-eight, you mean,’ Herbert supplies, shooting you a quick, secret little grin. You can tell he’s softening to the idea, maybe in no small part because of the way you’d obviously lit up at the mention of it. You turn to him and put on your best puppy dog eyes.

‘Will you come out with us, Herb?’

‘Alright,’ Herbert sighs, although you’re almost certain his irritation is mock. He seems to be smiling as he turns his face down to shuffle the notes in his folder. ‘But I am not - categorically not - going to dance.’

You plant a quick kiss on his cheek. Dan looks away, rolling his eyes.

‘God, I can’t wait!’ You grin and practically skip the next few steps. ‘Let’s check out that new drag club in Boston - I heard they had Divine performing there last month, I’m so bummed I missed her. I've listened to You Think You're a Man so many times I've worn the tape out.'

'Yeah, I know you have,' Dan retorts, his voice leaden with exasperation. 'I'm pretty sure I heard that goddamn song in my dreams last night. If I hear it again I'll go crazy.'

You and Dan continue to bicker gently over where you should go on your night out whilst Herbert pours over his notes as he walks, almost tripping over steps and curbs multiple times if it weren't for your steadying hand on his arm.

‘Wanna join us for lunch, Herbert?’ Dan asks, his eyes on the prize as the cafeteria doors loom up ahead. Herbert looks up and nods but his eyes follow a harassed-looking man with a receding hairline who has just passed you, heading in the opposite direction.

‘Yes, alright. But just a moment - I just saw Dr. Reilly. I need to tell him something about the paper we just sat. There was a mistake on the second page, it really was outrageous…’ He begins to hurry after the man and calls back over his shoulder. ‘You two go ahead, I’ll be a while explaining this to him.’

‘Still thinking about the exam.’ Dan shakes his head, a look of disbelief on his face. ‘It’s over. It’s behind us. Why can’t he just let it go and focus on what’s really important?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Lunch,’ Dan answers simply, and you grin. 

He bounds up the steps to the cafeteria and holds the door open for you; through it you see a classmate of yours, Eric Averill, waiting in line at the cash register. Eric catches your eye and gives you a pompous little nod. Your heart sinks. 

Eric is desperately in love with Annie and always hones in on you whenever he spots you around campus, determined in his quest to get you to talk him up to her. You wouldn't mind, apart from the fact that he is an insufferable know-it-all, and prejudiced to boot. 

The last time you saw him he'd insinuated that Dan was unintelligent, simply because of his good looks - and his low-income upbringing. You'd pointed out that Dan was at Miskatonic on a scholarship for the academically gifted, unlike Eric himself, who was attending mostly through the trust fund his wealthy Arkham family had set up for him. After that, he had suddenly remembered he had someplace else to be and scurried off.

But like a bad zit Eric kept coming back and so you sigh, resigned to having an extra body around the table whilst you eat your lunch with Dan and Herbert. You make to follow Dan into the cafeteria. Oh well, you think. Lunch is a bust.  

You don't know how right you are.

You’re just about to walk through the door when someone comes blundering into you from your left, almost throwing you to the ground. You yell out in surprise and stagger into the wall, your back colliding with it and knocking the wind out of you. They came out of nowhere. What the hell?

You turn around, gathering yourself to give the bozo a piece of your mind, but then you hear Dan’s yelp of surprise and you freeze. Suddenly your eyes take in the pair of bare bluish-purple feet and travel up, up and up over a torn, dirty hospital gown, up to the woman’s sagging face. A fruity stench hits you; deep, festering, earthy. The smell of decay. 

The woman who collided with you is standing a foot away, staring at you, as if weighing you up. But there is no intelligence behind those milk-white eyes. You have time to think

(the Sefton Ward’s discharged you? that can’t be right I should go check with them)

and then Elizabeth Chapham - or the body which had previously been Elizabeth Chapham - reaches out a hand, quick as a striking snake, and grabs you by the throat. You can’t even cry out.

She holds you against the wall by your neck, lifting you off your feet as if you weigh no more than a child. You struggle, feebly, the blood rushing to your head, roaring in your ears. You try to scream and find that you can't, that even breathing is impossible.

There are sounds happening, you notice, but it’s as if they’re all very far away. Screams, yells. Panicked voices. One belongs to Dan. 

'Oh, my God! Jean! No! West! West! '

There is a blur and Elizabeth jerks, lurches heavily to one side, but does not let you go. Dan has charged her and she has shaken him off as if he were an irksome fly. Distantly, you hope that your friend is not hurt. 

Your vision is beginning to close in, dark spots exploding behind your half-lidded eyes. Then you feel like you've been punched in the chest. 

What little breath you still had is knocked out of you and the agony is total. You try to look down, to see where she's hit you, but you can't move, can only kick your dangling legs like a man caught in the grip of the hangman's noose. 

Instead, you watch the dead woman lift her hand high, as if in triumph. There's something dark in her streaming fist; like a sweet, twitching apple. You realize vaguely that it is your heart. 

It glistens savagely. You see Elizabeth put it to her mouth and take a bite. In the moments before consciousness fails you, you notice that your blood is dribbling down her chin and you think

(it’s just cranberry sauce it’s Christmas pass the sauce Michael don't hog it all)

and then she lets you go and you slide all the way down the wall to the ground, grateful to fall and be allowed to rest.

The last thing you see before the world goes dark is Herbert West's face leaning over you, suddenly by your side. You smile. Your vision’s closing in so you can’t make out his expression, but that’s okay. Perhaps it’s better. 

You think of the night of the Miskatonic Massacre, when you'd woken up on the floor of Meg's house to see him and had felt relief wash over you like an awesome wave. This time you try to tell him just how welcome his face is, but the words won't come. 

II.

'I can't let you do this!'

'I'm not asking for your permission, Dan.' 

Dan made a grab at Herbert's hands, trying to tug the syringe out of his grip, but Herbert neatly side-stepped him and twisted away. Dan made one last lunge for it and for one wild moment it looked like Herbert was going to strike him; he pushed Dan back with the heel of his hand and glowered up into his down-turned face, as if daring Dan to try it again. Dan didn’t. He dropped his hands and let his friend go, a reedy whine of despair making its way up his scream-parched throat.

Herbert ignored him. He moved to kneel down on the bloodstained flagstones, his face a waxen mask of concentration. Beside him was a crumpled body, unnaturally twisted and leaking scarlet in a steady stream down the steps, like some garish waterfall.

His mouth went tight as he stared down at it for a moment, his lips drained of all their color and pressed into a thin line. Then he looked away. He pulled a small glass bottle from his jacket pocket and withdrew the reagent into the syringe, watching the barrel fill with glowing green liquid, the light reflecting in his glasses so Dan could no longer read the expression in his eyes.

'20 ccs. Make a note of it, Dan,' Herbert murmured under his breath. Dan gaped at him, open-mouthed in disbelief.

The crowd which had gathered when the late Mrs. Chapham attacked had all long-since fled, their screams and yells reverberating off the walls of the surrounding buildings. Dan and Herbert were alone on the steps that led up to the cafeteria, kept company only by the bloodied corpse of their housemate.

Elizabeth had likewise scrambled off soon after Herbert had arrived, and where she had gone was anyone’s guess. She had left them a gift, however; the girl’s heart lay on the bottom step, pulped like a weeks-old pomegranate, a neat bite mark in its flesh.

'Please, Herbert. Please don't do this,' Dan pleaded. He was on the verge of tears, tugging at his hair, and he blundered into Herbert, grabbing onto his arm like Herbert had once grabbed for him, long ago, in the Miskatonic Morgue. ‘I'm - I'm begging you. Listen to me. You don't want to - This is a mistake. Trust me. And there are - there were people here, that guy said he’s gonna call the paramedics, they’ll be here any second - '

‘And what will they do when they get here, Dan?’ Herbert’s voice was hollow, like all the life had been drained from it. He shoved Dan’s hands off, pushing him away so hard Dan stumbled and almost fell. ‘She’s dead. She’s beyond their help. She’s beyond anybody’s help - but mine…’

‘There were witnesses, Herbert, they - ‘ 

' - They won’t know what they saw! ’ Herbert growled, cutting across Dan. His eyes were on the woman sprawled before him and he leaned over her, lifting her lolling head gently onto his lap. It moved with broken-necked ease and he shuddered. ‘She's been dead less than two minutes. That should be enough time. It's not too late.' 

Herbert seemed to mutter this more to himself than to Dan, his knuckles gripping the syringe so hard they stood out bone-white. 'It can't be too late.'

Dan threw up his hands and reeled away from Herbert, backing up to the wall and collapsing against it. He slid down into a sitting position, putting his head between his knees. Herbert ignored him. He was focused on the task at hand. Two and a half minutes, now, supplied the small corner of his mind which was hanging on by its fingertips to rationality. 

He ran a hand over her side, feeling that five - no, six - of her ribs were broken. Perhaps a collapsed lung. Severe bruising to her throat and a catastrophic wound to the sternum. All minor concerns. Her heart was a lost cause, of course, but he also paid that no attention. Her brain could awaken without a heart. Dr. Hill had proven that. 

And he could fix her body later. He knew where he could get his hands on a spare heart, after all; a heart which had inspired great love, and devotion. One which was just laying around, hastily and secretly stashed - within its fleshy prison - into the crypt on the other side of his workroom’s wall. He would concern himself with these things when he had her back in his arms. 

He made the injection at the base of the skull, right at the seat of the nervous system. The needle pierced her skin easily, sliding through flesh and muscle. Three minutes, he thought. It's not too late. It's not too late. 

As his thumb hovered over the plunger he paused for a moment. For reasons unknown to him he heard her words from that day in the basement, back in November, when he had shown her his creation and she had shied away from it, and from him. They echoed clearly in his head as if she were sitting beside him, speaking them once again. 

'When you love someone… you can't do this to them. They don't come back the same.'

But she was wrong, Herbert thought, and felt the start of a hysteric laugh crawling up his throat. He took a quick breath, noted the time on his watch, and depressed the plunger. 

The reagent shot directly into her brain stem.

---

EXTRACT FROM THE ARKHAM GAZETTE, JUNE 24TH 1987

The Miskatonic University campus was once again plunged into darkness yesterday, when at approximately 1 o’clock in the afternoon there was a mass escape at the infamous Sefton Ward. This ward, as Gazette readers will remember from our extensive coverage eighteen months ago, is the psychiatric unit of the Miskatonic University Hospital which until yesterday was home to the six individuals responsible for the so-called 'Miskatonic Massacre'.

Witnesses have described dramatic and bloody scenes of violence perpetrated against students and faculty members by the escaped patients. There have so far been thirty confirmed serious injuries associated with the incident and there are also numerous unconfirmed reports of at least one fatality, although this has been refuted by law enforcement and emergency response personnel who were on the scene. 

 At the time we went to press there had been no comment made by the Arkham Chief of Police, Andrew Moreland, however the University Board of Trustees has played down the ‘breakout’ and emphatically denied that there were any fatalities. Dr. Harold Lee, Dean of the University said:

“All patients affected by this temporary security issue have been located and moved to Arkham Asylum whilst we investigate what went wrong at the Sefton Ward. We are working with the police and wish to co-operate fully with their investigation.

This was an extremely unfortunate incident but wild claims of maiming and murder are mistaken and harmful, as is any suggestion that not all patients have been accounted for…”

 

Chapter 7: PART TWO - to taste the flesh, not yet deceased

"To die, to be really dead, that must be glorious... There are far worse things awaiting man than death."

- Dracula (1931) dir. Tod Browning

 

7 - a room where the light won't find you 

July 1985 - 3 months before the Miskatonic Massacre

The Delta judders and whines as it takes the gentle bends of the road. You murmur to it reassuringly under your breath; the car had been your father’s back in the 70s and you sometimes feel your constant encouragement is the only thing keeping it from breaking apart on you. Soft Cell’s Tainted Love is playing on the car radio - crackling a little because you need to get it fixed - and you hum along with it, tapping your hands against the steering wheel in time with the pulsing beat.

The Atlantic Ocean falls away from you on the right, stretching out to the horizon, and the clouds which threatened rain earlier in the day have cleared. You’re taking the scenic route through New Hampshire, wanting your friends to get a clear view of the water glittering prettily under the relentless sun. The waves are practically non-existent, so still you almost feel you could walk straight across them to touch the sky. 

The summer air is hot and the air inside the car is even hotter, but you don’t mind. You’re driving Dan and Meg up the coast to Ogunquit; you’re going to call in on your parents and then spend the night on the beach, watching the 4th of July fireworks and getting high. Maybe your brother will be there, maybe some of your old friends from high school. You're excited for what's to come.

‘Dancing?’ Meg is saying, leaning forward from the back seat to be heard above the rumble of the straining car. ‘Jean, did you just say your housemate has left Arkham to pursue a career in dancing ?’

‘Yeah,’ Dan laughs, glancing over at you from the passenger seat. ‘Lil Eddie’s gone to New York City to make his fortune. He called last night to send for the rest of his stuff. He said he’s got a part as a… swinger, or something, in Cats. ’

'A Swing, Dan,' you correct him, just as Meg giggles:

‘Well, good for him!'

‘Yeah, good for Eddie Grimley - but bad for us,' you reply, rolling your eyes. 'I really don’t know how we’re going to manage the rent on that place with just the two of us. I can ask my folks for a little help but neither of us was exactly born with a silver spoon in our mouth.’

Dan shrugs and sticks his hand out the car window, feeling the ocean breeze. You watch him and smile; you really do hope Michael will be home, so your actual big brother can finally meet your honorary one.

‘It’ll be fine, J. Don’t you worry. We can make ends meet if we really scrape. We don’t need anyone else. It's cool.’

‘Dan…’ You frown at his flippant attitude. ‘This is serious. We have to get a third housemate. We’re screwed without one.’

Dan sighs and nods, rubbing the back of his neck.

‘Okay. How about this: we’ll see how it goes until term starts up again, and if you still feel we need a third housemate then I’ll put up a notice, or something.’

‘That sounds fine by me,’ you concede, primly, then turn to glance behind you. ‘You could always move in, Meg. The house has always been too heavy on testosterone.’

You’re only half-joking; Meg has been your friend since your first week at Miskatonic University a year previously, when you’d bumped into her on the quad and bonded over the matching copies of The Complete Brontë Sisters you’d both been lugging around. She had been the one to introduce you to Dan when he first got the house at 666 Darkmore, back in January, and you thought you could do a lot worse than to have her as your third roommate.

‘Oh, I don’t know…’ Meg demurs, shaking her head. You notice that she and Dan exchange A Look and realize that they’d most likely had this exact conversation before, in private. ‘You know how my dad is. He’d die without me. He just couldn’t cope. I really wouldn’t have the heart to leave him.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ you sigh, wistfully. ‘But, Dan - we’d better get someone in by Halloween or it’ll be peanut and jelly sandwiches for Christmas dinner, and no heat. No telephone. Even worse, no TV.’

‘Sure, sure. Quit worrying. Everything will be fine... Hey, look - isn’t that a dolphin?’ Dan cries, pointing vaguely at the waves. You shoot him a rueful look.

‘I mean, I doubt it - ‘

‘I’m serious, I just saw Flipper!’

Meg’s laughing at Dan’s goofy attempt to change the subject and you can’t help but laugh along with them. Soon afterwards you reach your hometown and your concerns about finding someone to help share the rent are temporarily forgotten. Michael is home, and he and Dan get on like they’ve known each other all their lives. Your parents love Meg so much you feel like she’s replaced you in their affections. 

‘Where’ve you been hiding this guy, Gremlin?’ Michael calls out to you from across the lawn, as he fetches Dan another beer from the cooler. ‘I had no idea you had such cool friends. Or any friends, honestly.’

‘Fuck you!' you retort, earning yourself a rebuke from your mom.

‘Language!’ she tuts, then turns back to Meg, who had been helping you lay the table at the end of the backyard, where there was a magnificent view of the ocean. ‘Megan, honey - you were saying your father is the Dean?’

‘That’s right,’ Meg smiles prettily, giving you a sideways glance. You’d warned her to expect the question which followed.

‘He wouldn’t happen to know any young doctors who would be looking for someone to… spend time with?’

‘Mom!’ you exclaim, disgusted. ‘Stop trying to pimp me out to the entire faculty of the Medical School. I’ve told you, I’m not interested in dating, and I’m especially not interested in dating doctors. No offence, Meg.’

‘None taken,’ she laughs, looking over to where Dan sits with your brother, chatting about baseball. ‘They’re overrated.’

Your mom throws up her hands and backs off, sighing a little in good humored exasperation. 

‘Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off. I just want you to be happy.’

‘I am happy,’ you reply, as Meg takes your hand and tactfully leads you away to help with something. And it’s mostly true, you reflect as you sit down to eat and watch both your families - biological and found - sitting around the table together to eat lunch. You’re happy as things are, but there is something in the back of your mind - something which nags at you as you laugh and pass around the food. Like something is missing. You shrug the feeling off.

As the sun sets you say your goodbyes to your family and the three of you pile down to the beach to go for a swim, screaming and whooping and splashing in the surf. When the skies have darkened you towel off and sit in a row on the sand, passing a joint between you and watching as fireworks begin to explode the night sky above your heads. 

Looking at Dan and Meg beside you, their arms around each other, their faces splashed with red and gold and green light, you feel at peace. That feeling of absence from earlier is gone, replaced by complete contentment. You're surrounded by family and by love, and you’re sure that you’ll remember this night for the rest of your life.

The good news is: you're totally right. The bad news is: your life has about two years left to run.

---

24th June 1987 

I.

‘Reanimation at twenty seconds.’

II.

‘West - - - - - - - - - - What's - - - - - - - she hear us?’

 

‘ - - - - - - - - get her out of here. - - - - - - - - home.’

 

‘ - - - - - - - - - are coming! They know! We can’t just - - - - - - - - !’

 

‘- - - - - - - her feet, I’ll take her shoulders.’

 

‘- - - - - - - listen to me! - - - - - - - - - - - - too far this time, we’ll never - - - away with - - - - !’

 

‘ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - with you or alone I don’t much care but you will move out of my way God damn it or I’ll - - - - - - - - !'

III.

‘Wo bist du gewesen? Where have you been? Where have you been? ’

IV.

Sounds come to you distantly, like a TV left to play unheeded in another room. Your eyes are open, shapes move before them, but you don’t recognize any of the patterns. Only bright light, bright light, light which burns, and dark shadows moving in and out of your field of vision.

You know the voices, and yet you don’t know them. You hear one and your mind says Dan and you hear another and your mind says Herbert but you don’t understand what those words mean. All you can understand is pain.

It hurts. It hurts. 

So you scream, and scream, and scream, all the way down into the black abyss.

V.

Later, you come to yourself again. There had been strange dreams, a swirling maelstrom of disconnected images

(a hypodermic needle, falling from trembling fingertips to the floor; an old man’s face, bloated, twisting in pain; the vivid red tang of fresh blood)

but now the dream is over and the creature is awake. 

You feel solid matter under your fingertips, something hard and yet yielding. You’re laying in a 

(bed)

a bed. It could be your own. No way to tell.

There’s a pressure on the fingers of your right hand. You open your eyes and see a powder blue ceiling, far above. Hazy light filters in through a window. It’s blood red, crawling down the wall. Sunset. Yes. 

You stare at the ceiling for a long time. There’s a noise to your right and your eyes flick that way; there’s a man sitting beside the bed, his dark head drooping down on his chest. Sleeping. There are a pair of glasses in his lap, sliding, about to fall. His hand is clenched around your own. You don’t know him. You look away.

You feel something, the first tug of a new sensation. It's in the pit of your stomach, roiling, pulling on your senses insistently. Hunger. You push it away, ignore it. For now.

Time passes. Full dark comes. There are no 

(stars?)

stars to light the night sky you can glimpse from out the high window. It’s just darkness and suddenly you are afraid; you don’t want to be in the darkness again. Not in the dark. There had been 

(where have you been)

darkness before you were yanked back into the burning, blazing world. And although the brightness hurt, hurt so bad you could almost scream, anything was better than that endless night. You never want to be in the dark ever again. 

The sleeping man gives out a little snuffling yelp when your hand jerks in his grasp and you sit bolt upright in the bed, your legs pumping, feet scrabbling to meet the carpeted floor. In the gloom he’s just a flash of white teeth, his concerned face a pale smudge looming in your peripheral vision, and you ignore him. He doesn’t exist to you. All that exists is the dark, and the fear, and you’re screaming without even knowing it.

You hear him say:

‘It’s alright! It’s alright! I’m here, I've got you…’

But you don’t know him and you don’t know here and you just need to get out of that place, out of the shadows. You throw his embracing arms off and he is thrust all the way across the room, his chair falling to the ground as he slides down the wall, and you know he’s struck his head on something

(on the dresser)

and it reminds you of something that happened to you once. You think red handprints on a white blouse and you think Dan’s blood is on the wall and you think who is Dan?

 - and then the man is up again, grabbing you around the middle whilst you struggle to open the door, and you feel a flash of an emotion unfamiliar to you but so enormous and close that it fills you completely. That emotion is rage, it’s fury, it’s a desire to rip his head off his shoulders for daring to touch you and so you reach out and feel blindly for his throat and then -

and then there’s a sharp jabbing pain in your neck and the darkness swallows you again, before you can make a sound.

---

27th July 1987

‘Has she stopped screaming yet?’ Dan asked, his voice hollow. He dropped his coat onto the hanger and walked slowly down the hall to where Herbert sat outside the ground floor bedroom, on a dining chair he’d dragged there many days previously.

As Dan finished speaking a cry rang out from beside the door; tortured, shrill, terrible.

‘No,’ Herbert answered, a dry smile on his lips. He was slouching in the chair, his hair dirty and unkempt, and Dan thought suddenly that his housemate looked more like a corpse than anything he’d ever seen on a slab. He seemed to have aged at least half a decade since that day in the summer sun, only four weeks previously. ‘I’d say she still has some way to go.’

Another scream, more awful than the first.

Dan watched as Herbert let out a high giggle; he raised his hand to his mouth, almost primly, and turned it into a cough. Dan slowly shook his head and sank into a crouch opposite Herbert, putting his face in his hands. He’d been out at work - he couldn’t afford to take another day off, especially considering the strain the hospital was under whilst West took an extended leave of absence - and had spent the day batting away questions from curious members of the hospital faculty.

What’s wrong with Dr. West?

I don’t know.

When will he be ready to take up his position?

I don’t know.

Can we see him?

No.

You don’t look great. Are you sleeping okay?

Well, I have the reanimated corpse of my best friend locked in a bedroom at my place and she’s got a fine pair of lungs on her - I know that for a fact, see, because I’ve seen them up close - and I can't even let my girlfriend come over, because we're scared she'll see that my housemate’s come down with a bad case of Being Dead  - and I'm pretty sure my remaining housemate has completely lost his mind, gone totally out of his gourd - so no, sleep is just a little hard to come by at the moment. 

That last he didn’t say, of course. Would never say. That horror was private, that hell reserved only for Herbert and himself.

'I spoke to Dr. Graves today,' Dan mumbled, still muffled behind his hands. 'He told me the police still don't know how the - the patients got out of the Sefton Ward.'

'They didn't get out. Someone let them out.'

Herbert's voice was firm but there was a hollowness in it that Dan didn't like one bit. He shook his head at the words and rubbed his hands through his already-tousled hair. 

'No, Herbert, I've already told you, there was no evidence of outside involvement - '

'And I've already told you, Dan, that there is no way those… creatures were acting under their own power. They were my early works, no more than mindless automata. Someone let them loose, that day, and - when I'm feeling… up to it - I will find out who that was.'  

Again, Herbert’s voice had a disturbing edge, like he was barely restraining hysteria. Dan opened his mouth to retort something like: 'So you know better than the police, do you? Even though you’ve been locked up in the house for the last month?'  but he decided against it. There was no guessing what Herbert’s reaction would be, these days. 

‘She knows me,’ Herbert spoke again, after a long period of silence. Dan shot him a look full of deepest pity.

'She doesn't, Herbert. I know you like to think that, but she doesn't. She's just - just blank. Her mouth is moving but nobody's home. Like Dean Halsey. Like... Meg. I'm sorry, I really am. But you've got to - '

‘No!' Herbert's head jerked, like Dan had slapped him. 'No, Dan, she does. I’m sure she does. She seems to be crepuscular - most active at twilight, have you noticed? So I was surprised she was awake, earlier today when I - when I went in to re-administer the sedative. But she was! And she looked up at me like - '

Dan jumped to his feet, the cold chill of fear washing through him.

‘Wait. You went in there with her? Whilst I was out? Herbert, are you crazy?’

‘I had to, Dan. She was - You don’t understand.’

Herbert looked up as he spoke, a pathetic expression wavering on his pinched face, and Dan almost forgave him. Almost. He paced over to where Herbert sat slumped in the chair and leaned over him, trying to look him straight in the eye; the shorter man avoided his gaze, his eyes drifting away like he couldn’t focus. Dan could bet he knew why that was; he’d also bet Herbert had a now-empty vial of reagent in his pocket.

‘Herbert.’ Dan punctuated each word with a gentle shake of Herbert’s shoulder. ‘She. Could. Have. Killed. You.’

Herbert turned his face away and Dan sighed, the sound coming out in a resigned little whine. He knew what Herbert wasn’t saying - maybe I should let her, maybe I deserve it, maybe maybe maybe - but he had no time for thinking like that. 

In some ways Dan was the least practical of the inhabitants of the former Christchurch mortuary, being more of an idealist than a realist, but throughout the period after his housemate's reanimation he had proven to be quite pragmatic. He had not been certain of the course of action they had taken that day on campus 

(not been certain? try ‘had begged Herbert not to do it until tears streamed down his face’, yeah that’s more like it)

but, once the reagent had been administered and they had been set irrevocably down that path, Dan had quickly adapted to the new situation with bracing bravado. He was trying to make the best of things, had been trying to keep Herbert from going off the deep end for weeks, and had mostly been succeeding. 

After all, he knew from first-hand experience what it was like to lose a girlfriend in a violent confrontation. But, a month on and with Jean languishing in her former bedroom, sedated into semi-consciousness for fear that she’d quite literally bite their heads off, it was getting harder and harder to stay positive. 

Things fall apart, Dan thought. The center cannot hold. That was from a poem by a guy called Yeats. She had taught him that poem. Fuck.

One of the first things they had done after they brought her home

(carried her home, don't you mean, dragged her home)

was to clear out all the furniture from her room. That seemed cruel at first, but Herbert deemed it necessary after she'd destroyed most of her possessions on the very first night.

When they'd ventured into Jean's room on the second day, armed with enough sedative in a ready hypo to knock out a small army, they'd marveled at how one small person could create so much destruction. Her bed was broken in a splintered heap, her wall art ripped down and torn into shreds. Her favorite, a framed poster for John Carpenter's The Fog with an image of a dark figure looming out of swirling mist, was screwed up and thrown in the corner.

Among the broken shards of glass and wood on her bedroom floor, Dan had spotted a photograph in a cracked frame. He'd bent to inspect it, turning away whilst Herbert injected her in the arm with the sedative. He would have looked anywhere else in that moment. It hurt for Dan to watch, to see the fierce tenderness in his friend's face and the raging blankness in hers, the way she bared her teeth at Herbert as he spoke low, gentle words to her.

‘Es wird gut, mein Schatz... Alles wird gut werden...’

It was a photograph of herself. Not just her - there was him, Meg and Herbert too, although the latter looked pretty pissed off to be in the frame. Dan remembered getting dressed up and driving over to Boston to see a movie; he didn't remember taking that photo but she had obviously loved it, kept it safe in a beautiful frame for almost two years. Then she'd thrown it at the wall.

She loved that photo and then she just… threw it away. She’s not the same, Herbert, Dan longed to say, remembering that photograph. She’s not come back the same.

‘One of her friends stopped me today,’ he said instead. ‘Eric... Eric Something. He caught me at the hospital. He seemed okay but he was asking me all sorts of questions.’

That made Herbert look up, alarmed.

‘What was he doing there? Was he seeking medical attention?’

Dan shrugged and stepped back, leaning against the wall.

‘Didn’t seem like it. I got the feeling he went there specifically to see me.’

‘What sort of questions?’

Dan shrugged again, irritable suddenly. It wasn’t as if any of this had been his idea.

‘I don’t know, Herbert. Just questions. How is she, will she be at their graduation ceremony, did she get his note about the summer internship at the Gazette - '

‘What is all this to him?’ Herbert asked, a plaintive note in his voice. He rose to his feet, steadying himself with a shaky hand on the wall, and began to pace in the cramped space of the corridor. Dan watched him coolly, arms crossed. ‘What does he think he’s doing, poking around? Do you think he knows? Was he there, that day - '

'I don’t know. How should I know? I’m just telling you because I don’t think it’s inconceivable he may try here next. I don’t think he knows where we live but he’s friends with that Annie Pataky girl - you know, the one with the glasses? - and it’s only a matter of time before he finds us.’

‘Ha! I can handle him if he does,’ Herbert shot over his shoulder. Something in his voice made Dan shiver. 

‘Herbert…’ he growled, drawing out the name into a warning. ‘If that kid shows up here, you’re going to tell him she’s sick and send him on his way. You understand?’

‘And how long do you imagine that will buy us, Dan?’ Herbert retorted, curtly, spinning on his heel and charging back at speed. ‘Two days? Three? If he becomes a problem he isn’t going to go away with simple wishful thinking. Why draw out the inevitable?’

'Jesus! You aren't really suggesting you'd - you'd just murder the guy, in cold blood?' Dan spluttered, appalled. Herbert just stared at him, his gaze chilly and measured, and Dan's mouth fell open. 

'What are you saying, Herbert? That you'll just… kill anyone who comes here asking about her? Are you crazy? Do you want to ring in the new millennium at Arkham State Penitentiary? That can't be your solution!'

'Have you got a better idea, Dan?' 

'No, Herbert, I - I know you don't mean that. This isn't you talking. You're just - just tired - for God’s sake, when was the last time you slept? Or ate? I know you aren't seriously saying you'd - '

'I'll do anything it takes to keep her safe. This time.'

With those words, Herbert pulled up the edge of his untucked shirt and showed Dan the gun belt slung around his slim hips. Dan gaped.

‘Herbert…’ he spluttered. ‘How did you get a fucking gun?’

‘It’s the Colt 1911 I used when we were in Peru. Have you forgotten?’

‘No, no, I just - I didn’t know you brought that home. What the hell for?’

‘Well, Dan,’ Herbert retorted, waspishly. Dan reflected that, strangely, this was the closest to his old self he had seemed for weeks.‘I thought it might come in handy for self-defense. And I was entirely correct. I just wish I’d had it on me, that day…’

Dan shook his head, trying to dislodge the image of West packing iron and patrolling the Miskatonic University Campus like some pint-sized Clint Eastwood.

‘I can’t believe I have to say this, but... you can’t just shoot people!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because - because - it won't work, for one thing. Not long-term. What will you do when her parents show up here? Bump them off, too?' Dan caught the hesitation in Herbert's face, the twitchy glance to the side, and pounced upon it gratefully. 

'No, I thought not. Her mom called again last night, did you know that? There's only a certain number of times I can say she's out or in the shower, Herbert. And what am I gonna tell Francesca when she gets back from her assignment in New York? I can't put her off forever. God damn it, we need to make a plan!'

'I have a plan. I told you.'

‘Fucking hell!’ Dan cried and turned away, kicking the chair in frustration. It fell to the ground with a clatter and both men froze, waiting. As if on cue, there was an answering growl from behind the locked bedroom door and a loud thump, as if something heavy had struck against the wood at full tilt. 

‘We never should have brought her here,’ Dan muttered under his breath. ‘We should have - have - ’

‘We should have what, Dan? Let the paramedics take her to the ER, screaming and kicking and biting? What would have happened when they discovered she was missing a heart? Think before you speak!’

‘While we’re on that subject,' Dan retorted, shooting Herbert a dark look. 'Where did you get that heart on such short notice?’ 

‘That’s no concern of yours,’ Herbert muttered, turning away from Dan. ‘It belongs to her, now, no matter what.’

Dan made to bite back at him, meaning to push him further and finally get the answer to the question that had plagued him ever since they had carried her back to the house, twisting and growling, and had dragged her down to the basement. 

Herbert had banished Dan from the room for a few moments on that awful afternoon - ostensibly to fetch some rope from upstairs - and when Dan had returned, shaking and recognizing in himself the early stages of shock, Herbert had a heart in his hands. 

Dan hadn't asked at the time where the organ had come from. Everything had been a blur of noise and blood and pain. He had wondered about it in the weeks since, however, and had wondered especially why there had been a sudden draft coming from the hole in the brickwork wall. The hole he knew led to the Averill crypt.

But, even a month later, Dan found himself unable to ask. He saw how Herbert's shoulders were sagging and how, before he'd turned his back, his eyes had jittered around the room as if they couldn't gain purchase on any one surface for long. Herbert wasn't in any state to be interrogated, Dan decided, and pushed his qualms away for another time. Just as he'd been doing every day he’d known Herbert West, Dan made a conscious decision not to ask any more questions - with the distinct feeling he was a coward.

'Okay, okay. Sure. But - Herbert - you really can't go in there on your own again. You hear me? Don't make me come home to find you ripped to pieces. It's not fair on me, it...' Dan found there was a lump in his throat, suddenly, and coughed to cover himself. 'Just… Please promise me?'

Herbert glanced over his shoulder, an uncharacteristically tender expression on his face, although his eyes were still blazing with frantic emotion.

'You know, Dan... When I was administering the sedative I took her arm - to keep her steady, although I needn't have, she was very complacent with me, Dan, very calm, I'm sure she recognized me - '

Dan sighed; it seemed like his desperate pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Being ignored by Herbert shouldn't still sting as much as it did, with all the practice Dan had at it.

'What's your point, Herbert?'

' - and when I touched her I saw something. In my head. It's... hard for me to explain.'

Herbert broke Dan's gaze and pulled off his glasses, cleaning them with the dirty edge of his shirt. Dan frowned and stepped towards him, wanting to reach out and touch his shoulder, to comfort him. Something held him back.

'What do you mean, in your head?'

'It happened to us once before. Several months ago. When I touched her skin we seemed to have a - a moment of connection…'

'It always feels like that when you're in love, Herbert. When me and Francesca - '

'No, no!' Herbert waved a hand impatiently. 'Not like that. It was like a… a memory came to me, so clear I felt I could just reach out and - and scoop up the sand in my fingers… But it wasn't any memory of mine. I've never even been to a beach, much less swam in the sea - '

'What are you talking about? Are you saying you saw... her memory?’

Dan snorted, expecting Herbert to deny it, but when no denial was forthcoming he paused. It seemed Herbert was serious.

‘That isn't possible, Herbert. In fact, it's ludicrous.'

'Not possible? I may have said the same thing, even months ago, but - Dan - what about anything that has happened over the past weeks would have seemed possible to you, before you'd seen it with your own eyes?'

'That's a fair point...' Dan sighed and turned to look at the impassive wood of Jean's bedroom door. He presumed that, within, the walls continued upright and floors stayed firm; but silence lay steadily against that wood and stone, and whatever truly walked behind it was anyone’s guess. 'But what - what was the memory? I can't believe I'm asking this but... just say I believe you. What did you see?'

'You were there. And… Meg. It was as if I were there with you, although it must have been her - in reality. We were on a beach at night and there were fireworks overhead. I could hear them booming and crashing over the sound of the waves, and even though I don't enjoy fireworks - the sound they make is frankly repellent - it was… it was very peaceful. I was experiencing it through her eyes, Dan.'

Dan stared at him, open-mouthed.

'That was - that was two years ago. We all drove to her parent's place in Maine and got stoned on the beach. Herbert, how could you know… No. No, she must have told you about that sometime and it got embedded in your subconscious, or something.'

Herbert shrugged and turned away from him again. Dan got a clear sense that the conversation was over.

'Believe whatever you want, Dan. It makes no difference to me. Now, I'll keep watch over her whilst you go and eat something and then maybe - maybe you could cover for me, just for an hour or so, while I take a quick nap.'

'No way, Herbert. You're going to bed, right now, and you're gonna stay there until tomorrow. I'll keep an eye on her tonight. You need sleep.'

'No!' Herbert visibly balked. 'I don't want to be away from her that long! What if something happens?'

'If something happens - which it won't - I promise I'll come get you straight away. Okay? Trust me. Let me do this for you.'

Herbert nodded, shakily, and began to stalk off towards the stairs.

'Okay, Dan. Perhaps you're right. I have been feeling a little… weak, today.'

'Goodnight, Herbert,' Dan called after him as he disappeared down the hall. 'And don't forget to eat something!'

There was no response. Dan sighed and glanced at the bedroom door again. If he concentrated really hard, he had the horrible sense he could hear something on the other side. A low, soft sound, keening and mournful. 

Dan picked up the chair Herbert had vacated and set it back in front of the door, then sat down in it heavily. It was going to be a very long night.

Chapter 8: give me these moments back / oh darling, make it go away

8 - give me these moments back / oh darling, make it go away

August 1985 - Zurich, Switzerland - 2 months before the Miskatonic Massacre

‘Bist du vorbereitet, Professor?’

The office was drab, worn, lit only by harsh fluorescent lights. Not the most scenic or aesthetically pleasing of environments for a person to take their last breath, Dr. Hans Gruber reflected, but it would do.

‘Ja, natürlich bin ich,’ he replied, smiling benignly up at his young protégé from his seat beside the work bench. ‘But the question is, Mr. West: Are you prepared for what is to come?’

The young man frowned and looked up from his task. He had been painstakingly withdrawing liquid from a small glass vial into the barrel of a hypodermic syringe - a liquid which gave off a haunting green glow. 

It put the elderly professor in mind of the stories his Großmama had told him about the goblins and ghouls which were said to trouble the Bavarian countryside of her youth; the mischievous Kobold and the deadly Irrlicht, which would lure travellers to their watery graves with its ghostly light. The association was nostalgic, and not unpleasant. 

Dr. Gruber pondered whether to ask his young companion if he had ever been told such stories of the fae folk as a child, but ultimately thought better of it. Mr. West was a bright student - a genius, in many ways - and a quick study, but he was also a truly literal thinker and had very little time for those parts of the human experience which dealt with the mysterious, the macabre, or the emotional. As if to prove this point, Mr. West answered:

‘Of course, Professor. I have 25 ccs of the reagent measured out here, just as we discussed. As you’ll recall, the computer model recommended 15 ccs - ' 

‘Nein, nein,’ Gruber waved a dismissive hand in the air and West’s mouth twitched, as if suppressing a scowl. Gruber noticed this and made an effort to moderate his tone; he was incredibly fond of the young man but he still often found himself on tiptoes around him, trying to account for his pride and quick-temper.

‘I mean to say…' he continued, deliberately. 'I am aware that you have made adequate provision, that you have worked toward this moment for the past three years… six, if we are to count the years you spent toiling alone in that dreadful back room in New York. However, I am asking you: Have you prepared for this, in your heart? Are you ready for whatever outcome we shall achieve, no matter what that may be?’

West furrowed his brow even further and when he replied his tone was curious, and a little strained.

‘I don’t understand the question, Professor.’

Gruber sighed - not unkindly - and rose to his feet on unsteady legs. West put out a hand to support his arm and Gruber waved him away, more gently this time.

‘That’s all right, Mr. West. Perhaps these are merely the ramblings of an old man, near to death - ha! Extremely near, as it happens. I am simply concerned for you. I wish to know if you have truly considered what we are doing here, today. If you have thought about the potential… consequences.’

West nodded hurriedly, a proud set to his jaw.

‘Yes, Professor, I have. We are performing the greatest experiment since Louis Pasteur disproved the doctrine of spontaneous generation - greater, even. And we are earning you your second Nobel prize.’

Gruber cocked his head, regarding the young man with a smile.

‘You’re sure that it will be a success, then?’

West gave him an even stare and inclined his dark head slightly, as if in confusion. He had set down the hypo and picked up the bottle containing the mixture of cocaine, cyanide and Acidulin which Gruber himself had prepared earlier in the day. The mixture which would kill him. The professor noted how at ease West seemed, holding in his hands the method by which his mentor would die.

‘Yes, I’m sure of it. I have supreme confidence in my serum. I will admit to some qualms about increasing the dosage, but - '

‘The dosage must be increased. I insist. If I am wrong, then - ha!’ Gruber chuckled, dryly, and his thin lips stretched in a benevolent grin. ‘Then I am afraid I will not be in a position for you to gloat! But perhaps, in that case, we may meet in the next life - and there you may have the last word…’

West didn’t laugh along with the professor at this remark. Always so serious, Gruber reflected, shaking his white-haired head a little. My dear boy. Whatever will become of you, if I am no longer here to guide you?

‘As you say,’ West replied, steadily, and Gruber patted him on the shoulder. 

‘Is it time?’ 

‘If you’re ready. The serum is prepared.’ West seemed to hesitate for a moment and the professor waited, wondering if this would be the moment the young man would finally admit to possessing feelings beyond academic curiosity. 

‘I hope this will not be… painful for you, Professor,’ West said, his voice cracking a little. Gruber relaxed. Not quite the declaration of familial love he had been hoping for but not bad, by West’s standards.

'Birth is always painful, my boy. We are born screaming, crying and howling, covered in blood - and so many of us leave this world the same way!' 

The professor laughed as he spoke, the comparison amusing him. West didn't even crack a smile.

'Wasn't it Shakespeare who said that all men are born crying because they are entering a world of fools?' West asked, pointedly. The old man regarded him, his eyes twinkling with strange mirth. 

'Ja, I believe it was. Perhaps he was correct. But I hope that you will not let such sentiments guide you throughout your life, Mr. West. There is much idiocy in man, I admit, but there is also great potential. How else are we to explain your good self?'

West narrowed his eyes and Gruber wondered if he had understood him. Unfortunately, he felt he had not. Gruber wasn't afraid to die - after all, his death should only be momentary, if West’s serum was a success - but he was a little afraid of what would become of his protégé, if anything went wrong with the experiment. He was such a dour boy and, more concerningly, he seemed to have no love in him for his fellow man. Grudging respect, in some cases, but never love. 

'Ha! In any case,' Gruber continued, 'as I say - birth and death are two sides of the same coin. How fortunate I am, then, to be experiencing both here today.’

Gruber laughed again, a little less enthusiastically this time, and took the mixture from West’s unresisting fingers. With hands which trembled from old age, rather than fear, he picked up a second hypodermic syringe from the bench beside him and filled its barrel with the innocent-looking liquid.

He held it aloft but made no move to locate a vein in his arm, not yet. There was something he had to say to West, before it was too late.

‘Mr. West?’

‘Yes?’

Gruber regarded the other man through his failing, but still sharply observant, blue eyes. He is so young, he thought to himself, not for the first time. He is so quick to forget just how young he is.

‘You know, don’t you,’ he said, matter-of-factly, ‘that I love you as if you are my own son? That for these past three years you have spent with me here, I have been more happy - more proud - than ever before in my life?'

West squirmed, saying nothing, a look of panic flitting across his pale face. He shifted from one foot to the other and a dark flush crept into his cheeks, his body betraying his emotions in a way his words never could. Gruber smiled.

‘That’s alright, my boy,’ he said, bracingly, as if West had replied with effusive affection of his own. ‘I’ve said my piece. I can go to the grave - or into the history books! - a satisfied man. Now…’

With that, Gruber took the needle and injected the mixture directly into the cephalic vein. The cocaine overdose was almost instantaneous. As I knew it would be, he thought to himself approvingly, as he felt his heart begin to race and the edges of his vision begin to close in. Then the cyanide took effect and, head spinning, he slipped to the ground, sprawling there in a gentle heap.

‘Professor? Professor Gruber, can you hear me?’ he heard West saying, seemingly very far away. The young man's voice was urgent, perhaps even anguished. Gruber tried to open his mouth, to tell West that the mixture was a success - although, perhaps, the Acidulin had been unnecessary - but found he could not speak.

Oh, well, supplied the last vestiges of his failing consciousness. He is a remarkably clever boy. He will work it out for himself. Without me, he will have to work it all out for himself.

---

28th July 1987 

I.

Herbert awoke slowly, mumbling under his breath in a language he had barely used for years. He had been dreaming about Gruber. No, that wasn’t right. He’d been dreaming about Jean. The woman he loved, the woman he had begun to suspect - in the darkest moments of the night, when all most men had was a prayer and Herbert had less even than that - was lost to him forever. 

But in his dream he had spoken the same words to her as he had spoken to Gruber, as the professor had lain writhing on the floor almost two years previously. Those desperate entreaties he had murmured to his mentor in the moments after his reanimation, those pleas for him to divulge the secret knowledge he had ripped from the endless void.

His lover is lying on the faded linoleum floor of Gruber’s old office, that dingy room high at the rear of the Universität. Her skin is pale and grey, so like the ash-stained surface under her. She is still and stiff but her eyes are open wide and filled with a terrible fear. Herbert is at her side, shaking her, his notes forgotten.

‘Where have you been?’ he asks her, as he had once asked Professor Gruber on that very same spot. Urgency hangs on his every syllable, tangles in her tumbling hair. ‘Wo bist gewesen? Where have you been?’

‘Only… Now…’ she answers, her voice weak and failing. When her lips move he sees that her teeth have become sharp and her mouth is full of blood. Then there comes an urgent hammering on the door.

‘Herr Dokter? Geht es dir gut?’ 

He knows that voice. It’s Dr. Koslik. She has the office directly opposite Gruber’s and she hates Herbert with a passion. It’s happening again, he thinks, his mind racing. Dear God, it’s all happening again.

‘Hans? Hans, was ist los?’

As if in response to his thought the dead woman leaps to her feet, clutching at her head. Herbert rushes forward, grabs her arms to steady her, tries to bring her in close to his chest. He is rewarded with a spray of blood, warm and slightly sweet, which hits his face at speed as her eyes burst outwards.

Dean Willett, Dr. Koslik and the Kantonspolizei come bursting into the room - as Herbert knows they must, as they had done the first time he lived through this waking nightmare - and the screaming begins. Herbert has time to think: Overdose. It was an overdose. But what if - what if I were to lower the dosage but increase the frequency of administration. What if - 

and to throw his arms around Jean's unheeding body one last time before he is dragged away, kicking and yelling, and the dream comes to an end.

His head hurt. He lifted his hand and pressed it against his forehead, felt the sweaty flesh to judge if he had a temperature. When he shifted he realized he wasn’t sitting in the chair outside her room, as he had spent so many nights for the past month. He was in his own bed. Oh, yes. Dan had sent him there, being Dr. Cain rather than his friend.

The last weeks had tested Herbert more fully than he felt he had ever been tested before. He couldn’t explain why he felt so desolate, so alone. Looking at his situation rationally, he decided he had surely faced worse. He was an adult now, not a helpless child in the foster system - not that Herbert would characterize himself as ‘helpless’ at any stage of his life - and he hadn’t truly lost her, not as he had lost Gruber or his parents. There was some part of her still alive, still with him, even if that part didn’t remember who he was. 

And Herbert was sure he had all the components he needed to rebuild Jean back up to what she had been before. To put her personality back together, piece by piece if he must, a temple he would gladly build with his bare hands until they were ragged and bloody. He had her brain, her body. All the parts. And what is a person, over and above a collection of parts?  he reflected, glaring up at the dingy ceiling. 

If she was here she would say: a lot more than that, of course. Herbert answered his own question, a bittersweet smile on his lips. She would argue that what makes a person themselves - their soul, for lack of a better term - flies at the moment of death and cannot be recaptured, no matter how badly we want to do so.

She had argued that very thing about Meg, seemingly a lifetime ago - but that was nonsensical to Herbert, as fatalistic and pathetic as simply shrugging and turning away from the scene of a car crash. If he had thought in that vein then he never would have brought her back at all.

(but that is rather the point, isn’t it? she didn’t want to come back. so for whom did you truly do this, Mr. West? whose life were you saving?)

He got to his feet and dressed, pulling a relatively clean shirt from the back of the wardrobe and buttoning it up correctly on the third attempt. His sparsely furnished bedroom had seemed even emptier the past month, without her to fill it. Just like his life had. He recalled the times she had spent lounging on his bed, reading aloud choice passages from Dracula or some other classic, or else simply watching him work and chatting to him about what he was doing.

There were times he had tutted at her, had told her she was disturbing him, and he shuddered to remember them now. He found he would give anything - even surrender his research to another scientist, let someone else take the credit - to have those moments back. 

As he did up his tie in front of the mirror - dirty and dusty, he noticed dispassionately, just like everything in this room - he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. It was the photograph which stood beside his bed, mirroring the place it had held in Jean’s bedroom. Dan hadn’t noticed how Herbert had retrieved it from its place amongst the wreckage on the floor, how he had furtively stashed it in his jacket pocket and spirited it away to gaze at when the night hours seemed to stretch on for a lifetime. 

Looking down at the photo, running his fingers over her face, he had caught himself wishing so passionately for her to be restored to herself that his thoughts lost all rhyme or reason and became a string of nonsensical pleas, muttered in the secret cavern of his mind. Some would call this praying, he realized. But Herbert had never prayed, and would never do so. Still, the frantic, wordless nature of his desire to see her again - the true her, the her he knew - almost transcended reason. But -

He didn’t throw the frame against the wall in a shower of broken glass, although that’s what he felt like doing. He simply set it down firmly on the table, with a click which sounded terrible in its restrained formality. In the weeks since his lover had died he had resisted the ever-growing temptation to recognize that she was lost to him forever, but in that moment it was almost upon him - creeping, undeniable. 

Herbert recalled a solar eclipse that had occurred back in '70, the year he turned eleven; being taken out of the foster home along with all the other kids and lined up on the sidewalk with viewers to watch as the sun was swallowed by darkness.

The other kids had all ohhh'd and ahhh'd and then promptly forgotten about it once the eclipse had ended. Herbert hadn't uttered a sound, hadn’t betrayed any hint of emotion whilst peering up at the sky through his viewer, but the image had never truly left his mind.  

The knowledge of her death was a little like that. Something that was stealing the light, progressing slowly yet inevitable. The dreams of Gruber were surely some resulting spasm of his subconscious. And the accompanying thoughts of dosage and frequency are just...

Herbert froze on the spot, staring blankly at the floor for several moments. Then he threw open the door and raced down the stairs.

II.

‘I’ve formulated a plan.’

Dan started awake, leaping up from the chair and immediately regretting it. His neck cracked, painfully, and he swore under his breath.

‘Ah, shit… What? Good morning, by the way.’

Herbert ignored his question and his greeting. He was almost vibrating with nervous energy, his eyes gleaming. Dan saw that thankfully his friend looked a little more rested than he had the night before and that he’d changed into clean clothes, although he was still too pale and his gaze too wild.

‘Of course, I’ll need to restock - I'll drive out to the hospital tonight, for supplies...’ he muttered, under his breath, and Dan felt a flash of irritation. 

‘Supplies of what? Talk to me, God damn it.’

‘Last night you told me we need to make a plan,’ Herbert replied, whipping out a hand to grasp Dan’s wrist. Dan took an involuntary step backwards. ‘I’ve thought about it and you’re absolutely correct. So I’ve decided upon a treatment plan for her. I’m not certain it will have the desired effect but…’ His voice cracked a little, whether with grief or frustration Dan couldn’t be sure. ‘But I have to try something.’

‘A treatment plan?' Dan repeated, gently. 'Herbert, she doesn’t have cancer - she’s undead. There is no treatment plan for that.'

‘You’re right that we’re in uncharted waters, medically speaking, but wasn’t it ever thus? You were right, Dan, that we can’t keep her here - like this - indefinitely. Something has to change and I think my new theory might be instrumental in that change.’

‘What’s the theory?'

‘Regular administration of reagent. A low dose, perhaps 5 ccs, once a day. I’ll begin with a trial period of - say - seven days, and observe if there are any changes to her behavior. I hope that a constant low dose might improve her cognitive functions, might even help her regain her memories. It could bring her back, Dan. The real her! I’ll have to stop sedating her, obviously - '

‘Woah, woah! Are you nuts? The last time you got close to her without a sedative, she almost strangled you to death. Have you forgotten that?’ Dan gaped, appalled; Herbert rounded on him, glowering up into his face with frenzied zeal.

‘Do you really think I can ever forget that, Dr. Cain ? To have the person that I - that I... to have her try to kill me? To have her not even recognize my face? Can you imagine for one moment that I will not remember that feeling until the day I last draw breath?’

‘Can I remind you, Dr. West, that I’ve been through the same thing?’ Dan remarked, coldly. ‘You of all people should remember that.’

‘And just what do you mean to imply?’

‘Oh, I think you know what I’m saying,' Dan retorted, laughing bitterly.

‘Really? Humor me!’

Herbert’s eyes flashed behind his glasses. Dan didn’t back away but instead shook his head, huffing in protest.

'No, Herbert, I'm not gonna - '

‘Say what you mean, man!'

‘Really? You really want to do this?' Dan rounded on him, pointing an accusing finger in Herbert's face. Herbert glared back at him, steadily, and Dan took a deep breath. 'Okay, let’s do this. Meg died because of you. Because of your ambition, because you could never just - just fucking leave something alone. And I brought her back because… Because I loved her. Then I had to - I had to kill her again, because it was her or me, because she went for my fucking throat, and - and - '

Dan realized, dimly, that he was in tears; they ran down his cheeks in a great stinging river and he swept them away, furiously, with the back of his hand. He hadn’t intended to do this but, now he’d begun, he felt unable to stop. Herbert was staring at him, open-mouthed and seemingly powerless to interject during Dan’s tirade. 

‘- and I was alone. I went through that alone. Neither of you really understood. Jean tried to support me a little, but she was a mess herself - don’t you remember how devastated she was, after Meg died? So forgive me if I‘m having one or two issues with your plan. I’ve just seen what happens when you get your way, when you... play God. People die, Herbert. Lives get ruined.’

There was a pause. Dan breathed heavily through his nostrils, suddenly feeling sick. He thought he'd feel better for finally telling Herbert to his face how he felt; about Meg's death, about the past year and a half. But he just felt nauseous.

‘You were only alone because you pushed me away.’

‘What?’

Herbert spoke again in the same small, weak voice. Dan thought distractedly that he sounded almost like a child, scolded and sent to bed without supper.

‘When we got back from Peru. You pushed me away.’

‘I was traumatized, Herbert,' Dan spluttered, waving his hand wildly to emphasize the point. 'Not that you ever offered me the slightest sympathy - '

‘I did!' Herbert interrupted in a pleading tone which took Dan aback, made him blink owlishly in surprise. 'Or at least, I tried to. But in Peru you refused to even acknowledge what had happened back home and then the moment we set foot back in Arkham it was like you didn’t want to know me.’

‘Well…’ Dan grasped around for a few moments, unsure how to respond. ‘You know what? Maybe you're right. I didn’t want to know you. I mean, Jesus Christ - before I met you I was on track for the Wellman Scholarship. I was engaged. I was happy. Then you moved in and within weeks my girlfriend’s dead, my studies are derailed, my best friend’s a sobbing wreck and I can’t even sleep without the light on. I think you can understand why I wasn’t exactly Chairman of The Herbert West Fan Club !’

Dan was panting, his hands balled up into fists, his heart racing. Herbert stared at him, wide-eyed, his mouth open in a horrified gape. Good, Dan thought. It’s about time he actually recognized the concept that his actions have consequences.

‘Why haven’t you said any of this before, Dan?’

‘Because - Because what would have been the point?’ Dan sighed. He suddenly felt some of his anger evaporating, the powerful surge of righteous indignation in his chest deflating like a punctured balloon. Maybe it was the expression of naked sorrow on Herbert’s face, so unfamiliar and almost unnatural. ‘I’ve been trying to forget all this stuff. I’ve spent a year burying it all. And anyway, I didn’t think you’d understand.’

‘Well, I certainly understand now.’ Herbert’s voice was low, barely more than a whisper. ‘And for what it’s worth - which may not be a great deal - I apologize.’

‘You what?’

‘I apologize, Daniel. For the things I’ve done. For the hurt I’ve dealt you. In the past I’ve done many things which I now regret, and - and what happened with Meg is high among them. It’s an irony that I’m now suffering the same as you once did, although I imagine that is of no comfort to you.’

‘You’re damn right, it’s not,’ Dan muttered, completely unnerved by this display of contrition from a man he’d previously believed incapable of any form of self-reflection. ‘I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Definitely not Jean. She was…’

He trailed off, lost for words. Herbert nodded and smiled, tightly.

‘She was beautiful, wasn’t she?’ he whispered, his gaze on something Dan couldn’t see.

Dan was alarmed to see tears sparkling in Herbert's eyes. Alarmed because he had barely ever seen Herbert lose control and had no idea how to comfort him, how to react. He reached out and awkwardly placed his hand on Herbert’s arm. Herbert stood immobile, not returning the gesture but not shrugging him off, either.

‘Yeah, Herbert. She was. Inside and out.’ Dan sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, his neck still painful and stiff. ‘You know… She was the one who persuaded me to give you another chance. After we got back to Arkham. A couple months ago she told me you were sorry and asked me to forgive you. I didn’t know what to think, at the time, but… I took it to heart.’

‘She did?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And did you forgive me?’ Herbert’s lips twitched and his hands worried at the pocket of his jacket, turning something over and over within.

‘I thought I did. Being with Francesca helped. Distracted me. But I guess…’ Dan let out a shaky laugh. ‘This little outburst here has made me realize my forgiveness didn’t go all that deep.’

‘I see.’

The disappointment was heavy in Herbert’s voice. He began to turn away, back towards the door, and Dan caught him by the elbow.

‘I can try, though,’ he said, in a voice he hoped conveyed the seriousness of his sentiments. ‘From now on I’ll really - really try.’

‘Thank you,’ Herbert replied, his eyes still shining. ‘I’ll try to deserve it.’

There was a heavy silence, during which neither of them moved. They were frozen in a tableau, Dan still holding Herbert’s arm, Herbert twisting towards him and staring up into his sincere face with an expression of hope. Or was it guilt? 

We look like some student art installation, Dan thought, a man who had very little patience for such things. Maybe titled ‘Penance’, or some other damn thing. 

The silence was eventually broken by the rumbling of Dan’s stomach. Herbert glanced down at it and seemed to remember himself; he shook his head and was suddenly all business again. The vulnerable man of a few minutes earlier, the man who had been close to tears, was gone in the blink of an eye.

‘As I was saying, I intend to begin her treatment plan right away. Why don’t you go get yourself some breakfast. I’ll just go in and - ’

‘No. Way. I’m going in with you.’ Dan’s tone was firm and he stared Herbert down, as if challenging him to disagree. Herbert didn’t.

‘Very well,’ he sighed, turning to the bedroom door and removing the key from the hook beside it. ‘But - ’

‘Wait a second!’

Dan ducked and scooped up something which was leaning against the wall next to his chair. It was his old baseball bat. He shrugged apologetically at Herbert.

‘Sorry. You know I wouldn’t use it unless I really had to, but…’

Herbert nodded, jerkily, and turned to unlock the door.

It opened with a shrill creak. Herbert entered first and Dan peered over him, fingers curled around the polished wood of the bat’s handle. The room beyond was dark. The only thing she hadn’t torn down off the walls were the heavy blue curtains, which blocked the morning light filtering into the stuffy space.

‘Mein Schatz?’ Herbert called, voice cracking a little. Dan tried not to look at him; there was something excruciatingly private about Herbert using terms of endearment, like seeing him naked.

More of the room came into view. It was bare as they’d left it, the only items as such in the room being the nest of blankets and pillows Herbert had insisted on leaving for her in one corner. It didn’t look disturbed, which was no wonder as she didn’t appear to require any level of comfort. A light covering of dust had settled on the floor and there were clear footprints in it, leading around and around the small space. But, crucially, the room appeared to be empty.

‘She isn’t here,’ Dan breathed, following Herbert into the center of the carpet. ‘She’s gone, Herbert. What the hell - ’

‘Dan - MOVE!’

Dan whipped around at Herbert’s yell and saw a dark shape lunging towards him, hands outstretched, fast as a speeding comet. He screamed and swung the bat, just as -

BANG!

- Herbert fired a warning shot into the air, bringing down a shower of plaster. Dan landed on the floor and rolled, leaping to his feet and spinning wildly in a circle, trying to get her back in his sights. And it was his housemate, he saw; crouching low to the ground, her hair wild and matted, her teeth bared in an inhuman snarl.

She scrabbled against the floor with her untrimmed nails and her movements put Dan in mind of a fox, a coyote, some other slinking thing. Her face was pale and twisted with hate, her eyes wild and tinged with red. Dan knew it must be burst blood vessels but couldn’t shake the feeling that they were glowing, like some kind of night-time beast. 

Dan saw there was a thread of bright scarlet blood running down her chin and wondered if it was internal bleeding; they had done their best in patching up her wounds but her body had been in bad shape after Mrs. Chapham’s attack, and there was only so much they could do. Herbert had sewn up the huge crater in her chest where her heart had been removed and drizzled reagent over it, muttering about the regeneration of cells, but Dan couldn’t see that it had helped much. 

The wound had closed a little, yes, but there was still a ragged tear in the flesh of her breastbone which repelled the eye. He could see it winking at him through a hole in her oversized gray Miskatonic University T-shirt, which had been the only item of her clothing they could pull her into whilst she struggled.

She looks like a deer after the hunter’s blasted a hole through its side, he thought, and the image brought a sharp surge of bile to his throat. 

She was circling Herbert, now, who had the gun raised above his head and seemed set to squeeze the trigger once again. For the sake of the ceiling, Dan hoped he wouldn’t. The landlord was going to kill them.

‘No!’ Herbert yelled, his voice steady and commanding. ‘Stay back.’

Her eyes were locked on Herbert and, at his words, she seemed to cower, backing up a little, her posture softening and becoming more servile. Herbert nodded, as if pleased, and lowered the gun. She eyed first him, then the gun, then Dan; when her gaze moved towards the second man she seemed to glare, as if to accuse him of some great betrayal.

‘Good,’ Herbert murmured, moving towards her and stretching out his hand. Dan watched, horrified, as Herbert touched her hair, gently stroking it. He was certain he was about to witness Herbert’s fingers disappearing down her gullet. But, much to his shock, she leaned into the gesture, her eyes squeezing closed like a cat’s.

‘What’s got into her?’ Dan breathed, edging forwards, weighing the bat in his hands. At his movement her eyes snapped open again and she let out a deep, throaty growl.

‘Dan, I rather think the trouble is you.’

‘Me? What the hell did I do?’

‘You were behind me with a bat. Perhaps she thought you were a danger to me. I knew she’d grown to recognize me. It shows the time I’ve been spending with her has paid off. Just sitting with her, speaking to her… She was attacking you to defend me, I’m sure of it.’

Herbert didn’t sound displeased about this. To the contrary, Dan thought he seemed almost giddy.

‘And that’s a good thing, is it?’ he demanded, feeling wounded.

‘Don’t you see? She formed several cognitive links. She hid behind the door, just as she heard us entering. She saw you with the bat. She recognized the bat as a weapon. And she decided - ’

‘Decided to go all Xenomorph on me. Yeah, real great, Herb.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

Herbert had stiffened. Dan saw his hand was still resting gently on the young woman’s head and she glanced up at him, as if trying to gauge what had caused his sudden change in voice pattern. She’s not a cat, she’s a loyal dog, Dan thought, then felt like a Grade A bastard.

‘What? What did I say?’ he demanded, beginning to feel more and more like he was trapped in some strange nightmare, his own personal David Lynch movie.

‘Don’t call me… that. She used to call me that. I mean, she… Just don’t. Please.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Dan muttered, backing up towards the door. ‘I won’t. But - Look, can we just get on with what we came in here to do? The longer we spend in here the more likely it looks I’m gonna have my throat ripped out.’

Herbert seemed to remember himself.

‘Of course. Forgive me.’

With that, he bent to kneel beside her; she watched him move carefully and Dan was reminded of an alligator, waiting patiently beneath the murky surface of a river. Herbert took her arm and, without breaking eye contact with her, quickly brought a full syringe out from his pocket and deftly stuck it into the back of her neck. 

The effect was immediate. Jean shrieked like a banshee and reeled away, knocking Herbert to the ground with a sharp strike of her arm in the process. He fell with an understated ‘oof!’ and Dan raised the bat, certain that - despite the love he had for her - if she charged him again she was going to get it in the face. 

She didn’t. Instead she backed away, scrunching herself into the furthest corner of the room. There she cowered, curling in on herself, her arms hugging her knees.

‘Jeanie!’ Herbert murmured, pulling himself to his feet. He staggered towards her, seemingly blind to the danger she could pose to him. ‘Mein Schatz…’

‘Herbert! For God’s sake, stay away from her!’ Dan cried, moving towards him, thinking to drag him backwards. 

He watched as Herbert reached her and bent to touch her face, to turn it upwards towards him. Tears were pouring down his cheeks, Dan saw, falling onto her upturned face and mingling with those which were spilling down her own. Dan couldn’t see her expression but he lunged forwards as her face raised up, visions of her teeth sinking into the naked flesh of Herbert’s throat pulsing through his mind.

Then Dan was stopped in his tracks.

‘Herb?’ he heard her croak, her voice cracking from long disuse. 'Where have I been?'

Chapter 9: if you could only see the beast you've made of me

9 - if you could only see the beast you’ve made of me

September 1985 - 3 weeks before the Miskatonic Massacre 

‘I’m just trying to get this straight in my head, Dan,’ you begin, pacing around the drab, beigely-lit kitchen and trying to keep your voice low. ‘You’re telling me this guy just showed up on our doorstep three hours after you placed the notice… and you actually met him earlier today at the hospital, and he seemed like a Grade A prick… and Meg got major creepy vibes from him… and yet you still, for some reason, gave him the room on the spot?’

Dan shifted uncomfortably.

‘You’re making it sound worse than it was, J. He’s a little… odd, sure, but it’s not like the guy’s Ted Bundy.’

‘How would you know if he was a serial killer? He’s basically a stranger. Honestly, Dan, I can’t believe you didn’t wait to run this by me. We’re a team - and this is my house, too.’

You bend to scoop Rufus off the floor, where he’d been rubbing against your legs, and hug him close. Dan looks from you to the softly mewling cat, guilt warring with defensiveness in his dark eyes.

‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ he begins, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting on the spot. ‘You’re right. I should have checked with you. But the guy paid six months rent up front! Come on, Jean. You’re the one who insisted we needed a third roommate after Eddie split. I thought you’d be pleased.’

You open your mouth to answer back, then close it, conceding the point. You stroke Rufus’s ears and look around the room doubtfully, as if expecting your new housemate to suddenly materialize out of the bread box.

‘So where is he, anyway? Our mystery man?’

‘I don’t know. The basement, I guess. He seemed awful interested in it.’

‘Oh, great. That’s not creepy at all. You said he’s German, right? As long as his name isn’t Dr. Frankenstein - ‘

‘No. It’s West. Herbert West. And you are?’

A quiet but firm voice rings out from behind you, close enough to disturb your hair with the breeze of his breath. Dan jumps so hard he knocks over a jar of dried spaghetti with one flailing hand; it crashes to the ground, sending shards of glass flying across the linoleum. The sound mirrors the crashing beat of your heart. You swivel on your heel and see - 

- just a man. About your age, perhaps a few years older. He’s slim and roughly your own height, with dark hair which is neatly combed. His clothes are smart, even expensive; he’s dressed all in black and the sight puts you in mind of a crow, a raven, or some other carrion bird. Sea-green eyes glint at you from behind large, thin-framed glasses, set against a tout, pale face. All things considered, he’s not what you were expecting.

‘Fucking - shit!’ you curse, struggling to keep hold of Rufus. 

The cat has suddenly gone wild, twisting desperately to get out of your grip. Gently you let him down in the doorway, blocking his route back into the kitchen with your foot. The last thing you want is for him to get glass embedded in his paws. 

West raises his eyebrows at you, a trifle nastily, and his mouth does an odd little twitch.

‘That’s certainly a novel name. Whatever do they call you for short?’

Dan clears his throat, casting around for a sweeping brush and glancing nervously from you to the new housemate. 

‘Oh, uh, sorry about your pasta, J. I’ll replace it - ‘

‘My name’s Jean. Jean Marsten. But you can call me anything you want, Mr. West,’ you snort. ‘As long as you never sneak up on me like that again. You almost made me drop my cat. He could have gotten hurt.’

‘I was scarcely sneaking, Miss Marsten. I was merely stepping into the kitchen to get myself a glass of water. I’d remind you that this is my home too, now.’ His chilly eyes glance from you to Dan and back, his gaze hard and appraising. ‘I mean to say, have I rented a room in a private house or a cell at Arkham Penitentiary?’

‘Okay, point taken,’ you agree, trying to save the conversation from the dark pit of awkwardness it seemed to have veered into. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you can’t leave your bedroom. We don’t chain people up in this house. That, ah… costs extra.’ 

You try to smile, attempting to draw him into your lame joke; his face remains impassive as a statue. You glance at Dan for backup. He’s still looking around at the mess of broken glass on the floor, muttering under his breath:

‘God damn it, I think some got under the refrigerator…’

‘Look…’ you begin, turning back to the strange newcomer with a sunny expression. ‘I feel like we’ve sort of got off on the wrong foot, Herbert. It really is good to meet you.’

You extend a hand to him and he glances down at it quickly, nostrils flaring, as if it were something virulent and diseased. You groan inwardly and wish the floor would swallow you - Hell, swallow Dan and West as well, put you all out of your misery. 

‘How do you do,’ he mutters, scarcely letting the words pass his pursed lips. He takes your hand and pumps it up and down once before dropping it like a hot coal. His grip is firm but cold and you try unsuccessfully to suppress a shiver as your flesh touches his. 

His sharp eyes are still locked on yours and when he opens his mouth to speak again you think he’s going to say something like: ‘it’s a pleasure’ or ‘sorry for being stand-offish, I have anxiety around meeting new people and honestly you both did seem pretty weird when I first came in’, both of which would have been fair. But instead he says, in that same clipped, nasal tone:

‘It’s Mr. West, if you don’t mind. Not Herbert . We are not colleagues or friends, and so I would not take the liberty of addressing you as Jean.' He pauses, ignoring your incredulous expression. Being asked to call your housemate by an honorific really takes the cake. ‘And in regards to your earlier conversation, I think you’ll find that Victor Frankenstein was Italian-Swiss. Not German.’

You shoot Dan a desperate glance, your eyes saying: ‘Are you hearing this guy? '  West catches the look and does that... twitchy thing with his mouth again. Is he trying to smile or to grimace? you wonder, morbidly fascinated.

‘There,’ Dan says, more to himself than to anyone else, a slightly hysterical note in his bright and peppy tone. ‘I’ve, uh… I’ve got the glass cleared away. Just don’t walk barefoot in here for - ’

‘And for your information,’ West continues, as if Dan isn’t speaking, ‘I am not German and have never claimed to be, although I have just arrived from Zurich. That’s in Switzerland. If you have any further questions about me or…’ He quirks his eyebrow and smirks. ‘Or about geography in general then please, feel free to ask me directly. Until then, I’ll wish you both a good night.’

With that, the odd man turns and sweeps back down the short corridor to his room. You and Dan stand in the kitchen for a full minute after he leaves, just staring at each other with wide eyes, like waxworks. Then you both collapse into peals of hastily stifled laughter, grabbing onto each other to stay upright as you shake and gasp.

‘He’s a real charmer. Oh, God!' you giggle, wiping away tears and imitating his sneering voice. 'Mr. West. That’s Mr. West to you … Dan, what’s his fucking problem ?’

‘I have no clue,’ Dan shrugs, trying to get himself under control. ‘He's on something, he's gotta be. I didn't tell you this before but earlier, he…'

Dan collapses into laughter again and you elbow him encouragingly.

'What? Dan, what?'

'He used the bathroom and when I went in after him…'

'Oh, God, don't tell me if it's gross - '

'He'd stuffed a dollar bill into the toilet roll holder! To pay for what he'd used! 

You shake your head slowly, watching your best friend wipe the streaming tears of mirth from his eyes.

'Oh, Dan. Dan. Why did you let this guy into our house? It's easy for you to laugh, he seems to like you. I'm the one he's going to come after in the night with a pickaxe, Shining-style.'

'J, relax. I’m sure he’ll - he’ll learn to love you, eventually.’ 

Dan snorts and you flip him off, still laughing. 

But he isn’t wrong.

---

August 2nd 1987

I.

Francesca Danelli was angry. No, not angry; she was furious. She hadn't seen her boyfriend in more than three weeks, since she had told him the Globe was sending her to cover a story in New York. Even then they’d only shared a strained and tense ride to her Boston apartment and back, because Dan had got a call from one of his housemates as soon as they’d arrived and told her he needed to go home immediately, refusing to listen to her protests. It had been Mr. West, too - not Jean, the nice one. The normal one. Francesca didn’t like that Mr. West had her telephone number. There were a great many things about him she didn’t like, in fact. The man gave her the creeps. 

And now she had got back from her trip to New York and found that Dan, far from rushing out to see her at the first opportunity, wasn’t even answering the door. She stood in the porch of the former Christchurch mortuary a while longer, hammering on the ornate iron door knocker one last time, then gave up.

It had begun to rain and she scurried back to her car with her purse held over her head. She’d parked right in front of the house, so there was no way Dan could have missed her. And he was definitely home - or at least, someone was. She’d spotted a curtain moving in a window upstairs and a light beyond, as if someone had been peering down at her. 

‘Che diavolo sta succedendo?’ she muttered to herself, blowing her long curls from her face and glaring despondantly out the windshield.

She backed the car up, throwing another glance over her shoulder at the house, and rolled away down the long drive. She let the car idle once she reached the cemetery gates, thinking to herself and listening to the hard pummeling of the rain on the Chevy’s roof. 

‘Uh… Hello? Excuse me?’

Francesca jumped, twisting violently in her seat. There was a man tapping on the passenger-side window, shielding his eyes from the rain. He was smartly dressed and his hair was slicked back, like Francesca’s own father had been styling his hair since the ‘50s.

His eyes were wide and blue and friendly, although there was something in them that Francesca wasn’t sure she liked. A hardness in them, perhaps. When he spotted that he’d got her attention he grinned and hurried around to the driver’s side. She wound the window down, eyeing him suspiciously. 

'Yes?' she asked, taking in the way the stranger's gaze traveled down her neck to her cleavage. 'Are you… a friend of Daniel's?'

'No, no - I’m a friend of Jean’s. Sorry, where are my manners - my name is Eric. Eric Averill.'

‘Francesca. How do you do,’ she answered, politely extending her hand through the open window. Eric took it and squeezed her fingers for a little longer than she felt was strictly necessary. ‘So… Are you here to see Jean?’

Eric puffed himself up, importantly.

‘Indeed, I am. No one in our little circle has heard from her in over a month and she didn’t show for graduation on Friday. I’m concerned for her welfare, frankly.’

‘I can promise you, Mr. Averill,’ Francesca bristled, ‘she has a very caring housemate in Daniel. If anything had happened to her he would take good care of her. And he hasn’t mentioned anything.’

‘Ah. You’d be his… girlfriend, then?’ The way Eric said it, with another glance down the front of her top, made the term sound obscene.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Then how come he didn’t let you in? They’re both in there, you know. Him and that…’ Eric’s face twisted momentarily in disgust, the hateful expression making his pleasant features suddenly ugly. ‘That freak. I’ve been here an hour. They don’t answer the door but they’re definitely at home.’

Francesca felt a cold shiver, not entirely due to the unseasonably chilly weather. 

‘Uh, Mr. Averill… If you’ll excuse me - I’m very late for work.’ Francesca made to roll up the window but suddenly Eric’s hand was there, slamming down on the steering wheel; she jumped back and glared up at him, eyes narrowed, biting back the choice curse words which had leapt to mind.

‘Perhaps you should give me your number, in case I get a scoop for you.’ Eric leaned into the car and she felt his hot breath on her hair. He smelled like old cigarettes and fruity gum, a combination which made her nauseous. ‘I know a lot of people in this town. My family is very influential. Our ancestral crypt is here somewhere, in fact - in this very cemetery. It ran out of space in the last century but my great-great-grandaddy’s bones could be under our feet, right now. Maybe we could go take a look for it, sometime.’

‘Sure, I'll write it down for you,’ she muttered, giving him a tight little smile which she hoped was conciliatory. She whipped out her notepad and scribbled on it, then threw the paper out of the window. As he bent to pick it up she put the car in drive, hard, and sped away so fast she left skid marks on the asphalt. Eric smirked after her, then looked down at the note. It read:

‘617 - FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE.’

He snorted to himself, humorlessly, and balled the paper in his fist. Then he looked back up the drive towards the house, where he could see a single window illuminated through the slate-gray sheets of rain, and settled in again to wait.

II.

You wake with a start. You’re in your room; you recognize it, now, just like you recognize the man sleeping beside you. He is propped at an awkward angle against the couch that he and 

(Dan)

Dan had dragged in some time before, to replace the bed which had somehow been broken. One of the man’s arms is wrapped protectively around your shoulders and his face is resting against your hair. His name is Herbert and he’s become the only thing you trust.

Only five days earlier your mind had been roiling, clouded, enraged. It still feels like that, sometimes, when several hours have passed between doses of the reagent, but it’s better. You still don’t remember much from before the attack, the attack which Herbert has explained left you so injured that only reagent could heal you.

Your recollections of the time after it are hazy, too, full of strangely vivid images and blank spaces which are almost more frightening. That's probably because of how violent the attack was, Herbert has confided. You got so close to death, he tells you, that his serum could barely snatch you back from the brink of Hades in time. He doesn’t look you in the eye when he says it. 

Memories have been coming to you in strange drifts, like flotsam carried in on a wave. Ogunquit Public Beach in high summer, the night lighting up with golds and greens. A grim, grey office, garlanded with an old man’s blood; a total eclipse, the moon blotting out the sun like the stone rolling across the entrance to the Garden Tomb. These memories are so foreign and yet strikingly familiar that you feel they’re half-remembered from a dream, perhaps not truly real at all.

A new memory has just surfaced as you awake and you rub your eyes, trying to snatch it back from the rolling tide. You were in a kitchen, not the kitchen here but one you vaguely recognize, and had been meeting Herbert for the first time. The memory makes you feel happy, safe and warm, and you cling to that feeling gratefully. That’s how Herbert makes you feel.

There is another feeling, though, behind the glow of Herbert’s presence. The hunger. It’s growing, getting worse with every injection which Herbert administers, and you don’t know what to do about it. You haven’t mentioned it to Herbert because you don’t know how to put it into words. How to describe the desire pulsing through you, like wet heat, like ravenous fire. The clenching in your belly every time he gets close to you. You’re hungry, but you don’t know what you’re hungry for.

‘Jeanie? Are you alright?’

Herbert is awake; he’s looking at you closely, his face drawn and tight and so close to your own that you can feel his breath on your lips. You smile at him, a little weakly, and stretch up to kiss his cheek. He freezes as you do so, joints locking, eyes slipping away to the side; as if your touch frightens him, or else makes him feel guilty.

‘Yeah, don’t worry. I’m - I’m fine,’ you reply, and find the words catching in your throat a little. It feels parched, your voice weak and reedy despite several days of use. It’s a little like you felt three years previously, when you and Michael had gone to see The Cure at the Orpheum Theater in Boston and you’d screamed so loud you couldn’t speak for days. Why you should feel similar now is a mystery to you, though.

‘I’m acting as your physician and I’ll worry as much as I see fit. Are you thirsty?’

‘Uh, a little - ’ 

A bottle of water is shoved into your hands before you can finish the sentence. You smile at Herbert, ruefully, then begin to chug it under his critical gaze. As you do so, you run a hand over your breast-bone, feeling the place where the skin has barely closed.

The day before Herbert had spent a long time applying reagent to the site of that strange wound between your breasts, and it had lessened somewhat - the flesh knitting over the gory tangle beneath - but the ugly scar will be with you forever, you are sure of that. You can’t find it in you to be bitter, though, or to mourn for your previously unmarred chest. You’re lucky to have survived Mrs. Chapham’s attack. You’re lucky to be alive.

‘Good,’ Herbert murmurs, watching you drink it down. ‘Good. You need to hydrate.’

‘I’m trying my best, Herb. But it’s hard. The water tastes… weird.’

‘In what way weird?’ His eyes are suddenly sharp and hard, his eyebrows furrowed.

‘I don’t know. Just weird. Like it’s not… right. Gone bad. But water can’t go bad, that’s crazy. I think my taste buds are fucked up, maybe from the shock.’ You peer up at him, suddenly concerned. His arm draws tighter around your shoulders, protectively. ‘Do you think that’s what’s happened?’

‘I don’t think that shock could cause a permanent loss of taste,’ Herbert replies, which you think isn’t really an answer to the question you asked. ‘How about your appetite? Are you hungry?’

Your stomach clenches, as if in reply, but the idea of eating anything Dan has offered to prepare makes you feel like throwing up. He has waved many different foods tantalizingly before you in the last few days - everything from hamburgers to French toast - but nothing smells right to you. Still, though, the hunger burns.

‘No, I… don’t think I’m ready for food yet.’

Herbert huffs, unhappily, and stands with a pained-looking stretch. Sleeping in an upright position on a couch can’t be good for him, you think, but both he and Dan seem to think it’s better for you to stay in your room than upstairs in Herbert’s bed. ‘At least for a couple more days,’ Dan had said the night before, shooting a furtive look at Herbert as he did so. If you weren’t so preoccupied with recovery, you might wonder a little more on why that might be. Your bedroom has a lock; Herbert’s doesn’t.

‘I’m going to see if Dan is home,’ Herbert says, glancing down at you tentatively. ‘I thought I heard him upstairs and I need to speak with him. Will you be alright on your own for a few moments?’

You roll your eyes. 

‘Herb, I’m recovering from an injury. I’m not a child. I’ll be fine.’

Herbert nods and does that little twitch of a smile that you know so well, but he looks unhappy. Uncertain. Something in his expression strikes a chord with you, perhaps one you remember from your dream, and you jump up from the couch to take his hand. In the moment of your sudden, swift movement you see a clench of fear in his eyes and he takes a stumbling step backwards, away from you.

‘Jean, I’ll only be gone for a moment! You can stay here, can’t you?’

‘I want to go for a walk,’ you grumble, eyeing the brightening sky visible from your high window. ‘I’m bored of staying in all day. I hate it! And I’m feeling so much better…’

There’s another flash of something behind his eyes.

‘Alright,’ he replies slowly, raising your hand to his mouth and brushing a kiss against your knuckles. ‘Of course. Let’s go for a walk in the cemetery.’

‘Who are we, Gomez and Morticia?’ you pout, and Herbert looks uneasy. You snatch your hand away. ‘I don’t mean a turn around the garden, Herb. I want to go out. Out. You can do whatever you want but I’m going over to Annie’s. Don’t look at me like that. I’m really feeling a lot better.’

Herbert is opening his mouth to retort and you steel yourself for some sort of lecture on your still-recovering health, but suddenly a cramp hits you so hard you stagger and almost fall. The hunger. God, it’s agonizing, you think as you feel Herbert’s arms go around you.

‘Now see! You need to rest, Jeanie. Please! Sit back down, and I’ll - ‘

‘Wo bist du gewesen?’ 

Herbert blinks, freezing in the act of helping you back to the couch. You regard him hazily. The words feel like they’re leaving your mouth without first passing through your brain. Like someone else is speaking through you, speaking from the past. 

‘What?’ His voice is dry, tremulous.

‘You asked him: Wo bist gewesen? ’ you reply, with a burst of sudden clarity. You see the room around you, see your familiar four walls, but you’re not really there. You’re in a small office in Zurich, and you’re about to die. ‘It means where have you been, doesn’t it?’

‘How do you know I said that?’

‘I saw it, in a dream.’ You speak deliberately, knowing that everything you are saying is true. ‘A while ago, but I’d forgotten it until now. The old man… I guess he was Professor Gruber? He fell to the ground and then - and then he started to twitch. His face, it looked - he was in pain. And you asked him where he’d been. Since he died, where he’d... And then they broke the door down and they were yelling at you, stuff like Er is tot - ’

‘Er ist tot,’ Herbert interrupts. His face has gone white. ‘Ist. It means…’

‘He’s dead,’ you cut across him. ‘I could guess.’

The hunger is insistent, now. Large, all-consuming. From beneath you it devours, from out of time and from inside your head. You feel as if you’re on fire and so you do the only thing you can think of to satisfy it, to slake the flames; you grab Herbert by the back of the head and shove your face into his.

III.

Herbert’s body froze as Jean pressed herself fully against him, her arms winding around his neck. His body - treacherous thing that it was - reacted immediately, his length beginning to twitch and swell beneath his black trousers, and her thigh rubbing against him through the material was so good it almost made his eyes roll. How much relief it gave him, after a month starved of any touch, even his own. She let out a breathy moan against his lips and he felt desire lance through him, urgent and so strong his knees felt weak. But still he hesitated, extricated himself from her embrace and held her at arm’s length.

‘Liebe?’ he panted, trying to ignore the pulsing heat in the pit of his belly and between his legs. ‘We - we shouldn’t. You’re still recovering, you’re not ready to -’

‘Herb?’ she murmured, leaning in for another kiss and breathing the words against his mouth. He hummed in response, not trusting his voice again. ‘Stop talking.’

He reflected that Jean seemed to have changed, somehow, in the moments before she’d grabbed him into that crushing kiss. She had shocked him by bringing up Gruber’s death, those words he had spoken to the professor as he lay writhing on the floor. How she could possibly know of those things was a mystery to Herbert and was something he would be keen to study at a later date, just as - in truth - he had longed to study Dr. Hill’s psychic abilities after what happened at the Miskatonic Morgue. 

Although the very concept repelled him, being as it was based more upon superstition and supposition than any hard evidence, he had learned to accept that he and Jean shared some moments of mental connection. But this change in her behavior was something different. She had stumbled, almost fallen, and repeated his own words back to him. And then she had… changed.

The woman before him was regarding him hungrily, as if he were an oasis in a sun-scorched desert. And there was something else, something he couldn’t quite name. The movement of her body as she closed the gap between them was low-down, slinking, like a cat moves after it sights something small scurrying in the short grass.

‘But!’ he almost squeaked as she rolled her hips against him again. ‘Are you sure you’re in your right mind? Is this… truly what you want?’

She gave him a slow look as he spoke, her eyes wide and calm, and for a moment Herbert felt certain she would back away from him. That she would change her mind. And he would of course allow her to do so with no complaint - he wanted her so badly his legs trembled but he only wanted her if she wanted him, too. To pressure her into sexual situations was an abhorrent notion to him at the best of times, but in light of what had happened to her in the past month… The things he was keeping from her… 

Then she smiled, and leaned in to flick her tongue against his lower lip in a deliberately lingering gesture.

‘I do want you. I want to eat you alive,' she breathed, and with those words she dropped to her knees. As she swiftly drew down his zipper and pulled his erection free Herbert couldn’t bite back the groan which tumbled from his lips; he grabbed at the door frame with his right hand, gripped on to it to keep from stumbling. 

Her hands were cool but not cold, delicious against his heated flesh, and when her mouth closed over him he cursed under his breath. This seemed to amuse her and she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, a sly look in her eyes. The combination of that look and the actions of her mouth almost made Herbert come undone, there and then. He drove his fingernails into the palm of his left hand, keeping his release at bay only by breaking the skin. 

She sucked and bobbed, humming her own pleasure until Herbert had to take her face gently and push her away, sure he was about to lose control of himself. She wiped her mouth with her hand then stood and drew him into a deep kiss; something about the action seemed incredibly erotic to Herbert and he found himself remembering the first time they had made love; how nervous he had been, how the feeling of her enveloping him had been so sweet he had seen stars behind his tightly-closed eyes. 

He raised his hands and ran them over her stomach, raising her T-shirt, filling his palms with her breasts. He could feel the closed scar between them, the weal of angry flesh which would not simply go away, despite his judicious attempts with the reagent. He found that it did not repel him, however. Smiling into their kiss, she drew down his trousers and stepped out of her own shorts, kicking them away into a corner. Then she pulled him by the shirt until she was backed up against the wall; there she wrapped a leg around his waist and took hold of him, lined him up with her entrance. 

With aching slowness she speared herself on him and Herbert groaned against her mouth, his legs trembling, his body on fire; being inside her again was like coming home. She was so wet, her body burning with feverish heat. As he entered her he tried to draw back, wanting to watch her face as he filled her, but she clung on to him. Then she bit his lip, hard.

Herbert jerked away, a small yelp in the back of his throat. It hadn’t hurt, per se, but she’d taken him by surprise. He froze, watching her smile at him as she reached up and wiped a small trickle of blood from her mouth. He realized that a twin trickle was making its way down his chin, from where her teeth had roughly torn his flesh. They were both still, eyeing each other like animals on high alert. 

‘You… You bit me, ‘ he whispered, redundantly. He licked his lip and tasted metal; the tang of it filled his mouth. Like molten brass, like pig iron.

‘I know. Did you like it?’

Her eyes were wild, he saw, and there was a hunger in them the likes of which he had never seen in a person who was sane. Her lips were glossy-red and she rubbed them again, her hand coming away stained with a blossoming rose of his blood. The image of her wiping the scarlet from her mouth, combined with the accompanying twitch of her walls around his aching erection… did something to him. 

With a noise - more akin to a growl than a moan - he pushed her against the wall and began to thrust into her, reaching desperately between their bodies to find her clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, almost inconceivable, and as his hips bucked and he lost all sense of time and place he felt his orgasm building so much faster than he would have hoped.

She was scratching at his back, her other leg brought up to wrap around his hips, clinging onto him like he was the only other thing in her world. As his thumb rubbed ever-speeding circles around her clit he felt her stiffen, her inner walls tighten around him, and he drew back to see her maddened eyes squeeze closed and that darkening smudge of his blood on her chin and then - with one last surge - the rest of the world fell away.

IV.

In his bedroom directly above, Dan tentatively raised the headphones off his head. He winced, listening for a repeat of the animalistic thumping which had sent him scurrying to grab them and shove them down on his ears, blasting Depeche Mode and pretending this was all a dream. 

Silence. Blessed silence. He relaxed, switching off his Walkman and jumping off the bed to head downstairs - finally free to make himself something to eat.

‘Oh, God, Herbert!’

He froze. Surely not. Not again. Please don’t say...

'Yes! There!'

Dan sighed and picked out another cassette from the pile on his shelf. Maybe a little New Order, this time...

Chapter 10: you're blinded by romance / you're blinded by science / your condition is critically grave

10 -   you’re blinded by romance, you’re blinded by science / your condition is critically grave

October 1985 - 6 days before the Miskatonic Massacre

‘Dan! Hit it, Dan!’

You don’t sit up in bed; you just lay there, awake but without opening your eyes, because you’re sure that what you’ve just heard was actually in your dream. It had been an odd one; something about pig carcasses hanging in a store window. But when you had got close you’d seen they were moving on their hooks, struggling sluggishly of their own accord. It put you in mind of maggots, of dead things.  

I’m only dreaming of the dead because of poor Rufus, you think. Poor Rufus who got his head stuck in a jar and ended up in West’s damn refrigerator, like some kind of medical specimen...

Then you hear the scream. That was West’s voice, you realize, and you’re already scrambling through your bedroom door as the sound ends. There are more noises coming from the basement, thuds and grunts and an awful wailing which is clearly not human. It sounds barely recognizable as an animal’s cry - at least any animal you’d ever heard.

You descend the basement steps, eyes frantically searching in the darkness. The bare hanging bulb is swinging wildly, casting shadows around the room and illuminating the figures moving there only in arcs and moments, like a strobe light. There’s Dan - he’s hefting a bat and lunging at something you can’t see, which seems to be the source of that terrible screaming. And there’s West behind Dan, pointing desperately into a corner and yelling:

‘There! There, Dan! Get the little bugger! Get it!'

‘What the hell are you guys doing?’ you exclaim, hurrying down the rest of the steps to the basement floor. Your feet are bare and it’s cold, so cold you shiver uncontrollably.

Dan spins on his heels and when you see his face you take an involuntary step backwards. His eyes are wide and dark in his queasy face, like black holes in a death mask, and you think he looks like he’s had the shock of his life. West is staring at you too, although his expression is one of irritation; you see blood trickling from a deep scratch across his cheekbone and you open your mouth to ask him if he’s okay -

- and then you’re hit in the face by a flying ball of fur and claws and teeth. You scream in surprise and reel backwards, slapping at the thing ineffectually with your hands.

‘Get the fuck off her!’ you hear Dan roar and there’s a moment where you see the bat swinging through the air and you think 

(for God’s sake he’s going to hit me in the face like we’re in a Tom and Jerry cartoon)

but the bat instead makes contact with the thing which is just that moment trying to gnaw your face off, and sends it spinning away to crash against the unforgiving basement wall. It sticks there for a second, then falls with a sickeningly wet sound, leaving part of its brain attached to the plaster. You retch at the sight, your head spinning.

Dan rushes towards you and holds you at arm’s length, scanning your exposed skin for injuries, eyes raking over the scratches on your face and the rips in your pajamas. After a moment he nods to himself, apparently satisfied that you’re not badly hurt, and draws you into a bear hug.

‘Hey, hey, J baby, it’s okay, it’s okay…’ he murmurs. You’re sobbing, dragging in great gulps of air, and you can barely get your words out as you ask him:

‘Dan - Dan, what - was - that?’

But the response doesn’t come from Dan. It comes from the other side of the basement, a tight, clipped voice which seems to be barely restraining some kind of violent emotion.

‘That was your cat,’ Herbert sneers, his face aglow with excitement like a schoolboy’s on Christmas Eve. ‘Was, I’m afraid, being the key word. He is now, once again, an ex- cat. Ah! Watch out!’

He suddenly throws up a hand and gestures, wildly, towards the thing laying in a bloody heap behind you. Both you and Dan spin around, Dan raising the bat and shoving you behind him with one motion, staring around desperately. But there’s nothing. The corpse is still there, just as broken and immobile as before. You look back around at Herbert, confused, and what you see makes you gape in numb horror.

He’s laughing. No, not laughing; giggling, hysterically. He collapses against a cabinet and slides down to the ground, almost doubled-over with mirth. You and Dan stand side-by-side, staring as one at your housemate, and you are sure that you’re both thinking the same thing.

This man is insane. Dangerously, dangerously insane.

‘Dan,’ you say, voice shaking. ‘I don’t know… what the fuck that was. But it certainly wasn’t my Rufus. I’m going to go back to bed now.’ You look towards West, who has finally got his giggling under control and is pulling himself to his feet, straightening his clothes. ‘And I think maybe it would be best if you find yourself a new place to live, Mr. West. We can refund the rent you’ve paid, of course - ’

West's face snaps towards you, thunderstruck, and he marches up to you, drawing himself up to his full height. He glares first at you, then at Dan, as if testing if you’re presenting a united front.

Something in his outraged expression reminds you - bizarrely - of Donald Duck, hopping up and down and quacking in fury, and you bite your lip to stop from laughing. Maybe I’m insane too, you think. Maybe this is all just a vivid nightmare.

‘By no means will I move out! We have a deal! Daniel, tell her!’

Dan throws his hands up and backs away, shaking his head. 

‘Hey, I don’t -  I don’t know… I mean yeah, we had a deal, but she’s right, Herbert. This is some weird shit.’

West grunts in disgust and then turns back to you, rounding on you. You stand your ground.

‘I think our deal fell by the wayside long ago, West, when you decided to sneak some poor rabid cat in here and tell ridiculous lies about it being my Rufus.’ Your eyes narrow and you strike what is, in your opinion, the killer blow. ‘And I’m starting to wonder whether Rufus really did die accidentally, after all.'

‘So you don’t believe this is your cat?’

‘No, of course not. My cat is dead. And you’re a maniac. Dan - '

You turn away from West, making to get up the stairs and as far away as possible from this horror show. A grunt of shock and irritation escapes you, then, as Herbert grabs onto your arm and yanks you back around to face him.

‘What the - Get your hands off me!’

You shove him off, outraged, but West ignores your protests; his face is grim as he lets you go and storms across the room to where the dead cat lies crumpled in a pathetic little heap on the ground. Dan lets out a noise of disgust as West bends to scoop the creature up in his hands.

‘Do you agree he’s dead now?’

‘Herbert, for God’s sake…’ Dan murmurs, sounding like he’s trying to keep from losing his lunch. West doesn’t look at him. His eyes are fixed on you, beady and black in the gloom of the basement, and he doesn’t blink as he demands again:

‘Do you agree that he’s dead now?’

‘Yes, yes! What more do you want?’ you cry, backing away from the grisly mass of pulped flesh and fur in West’s grip. ‘It’s dead, yeah, but it’s not Rufus!’

West makes a little triumphant humph sound and pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. It gives off a green glow. Like a glow stick, you think, the ones they pass out at club nights in Boston. He takes the glowing thing - it’s a syringe, you realize, and understanding begins to dawn in you like a terrible sunrise - and sticks it, without ceremony, into the animal’s neck.

‘West, what the hell is wrong with you?’ you ask, disgust lacing every syllable. You look to Dan for backup but see that he’s taken several steps towards the other man, an expression of disquieted curiosity on his face. He’s a scientist, after all, and whatever West is doing has all the hallmarks of some kind of sick experiment. You turn your back on the pair of them, absolutely sickened. Then you hear it.

A shrill, shrieking mewl. Like an animal in pain.

You whip around, mouth hanging open, to see the body in West’s hands trembling and twitching, as if jittering on a live wire. But this is no trick of electricity and Herbert West is no magician. It’s alive. The cat is alive. And it’s screaming.

‘You see, Dan?’ West asks him, looking from the spasming carcass to the other man and back again. There’s a new light in his face, one that Dan seems to be reflecting back at him; they’re both aflame with zeal, glowing with wonderment. You stare at the two of them as they gaze down at the cat and feel nauseous. There is no such joy in your heart to see this.

‘Dan?’ you whimper, taking a few steps towards him, bringing your hands up to your face. West glances at you but dismisses your approach out of hand; he only has eyes for Dan’s amazed reaction, the gentle way he’s reaching out to prod the jerking animal in Herbert’s hands. ‘Dan, what’s going on? West? What the fuck have you done to my - to this cat - '

As you get within touching distance of the men, three things happen at once. 

Herbert turns to look at you and, for one brief moment, you see something in his eyes which you don’t expect. It’s a kind of softness, a tenderness, tempered with a tinge of disappointment. As he turns he opens his mouth and begins to speak:

‘Miss Marsten, please understand - '

The third thing only Dan sees, until it’s too late. His eyes grow wide and he’s yelling: 

‘West, watch out!’

- just as the thing in West’s hands leaps up and towards you, making a desperate break for freedom, leading with its teeth and its claws. You stagger backwards, a shrill scream rising in your throat, and you feel the whisper of its paws on your face and the hot rush of its blood splattering down your chest and you close your eyes -

and then it’s gone. You hear West cursing and a metallic clang! and Dan’s arms are suddenly around you once again. You collapse gratefully against his chest, sobbing with relief, and finally dare to open your eyes.

Herbert is standing before you, a shovel in his hand, and he’s crushing the cat’s skull under its blade. His mouth is a triumphant white line and there are flecks of blood in his hair. He raises the shovel again, like a fisherman harpooning the greatest catch of his life, and brings it down once more, a picture of Vengeance incarnate. The cat is still twitching.

'That's quite enough of that,' he mutters. Your scream is muffled by the front of Dan's T-shirt. 

'Jean, baby, calm down,' Dan's murmuring, stroking your hair, but you shove him away and look up at him aghast. 

'Calm down? Dan, did you not just see that?'

'Sure, I saw it. It was incredible!' Dan is looking from you to the cat and back again, his eyes bright and shining with passion. 'It was dead. How did you do that? Herbert, it was dead!'

'Twice,' West smirks, and turns to look at you as if expecting you to share Dan's excitement. He is still holding the shovel and you see a lump of gory fur drop to the floor from its blade as he moves. 

'You're both crazy!' You shake your head and back up the stairs, slipping and sliding in your bare feet. The floor is bloody and you can't watch where you're going, can't take your eyes off your two housemates who seem to have taken leave of their senses.

'Oh, J, don't be like that. Wait!' Dan calls after you, but you're already slipping through the basement door and running to your bedroom.

You lock yourself in; Dan comes to plead with you through the door and you ignore him, cold tears drying on your face. You pack and unpack, then re-pack a suitcase. Annie lives in the dorms on campus, so you figure you can probably crash with her for a day or two.

Beyond that, you don't know where you'll go. You don't want to leave the house but you don't think you have any choice. You're terrified of what you've just seen and even more terrified of what it means. Means for you and Dan, and for your strange third housemate. 

Later, much later, there comes a quiet knock. You don't even look up from your place prostrate on the bed. 

'I said go away, Dan.'

'It's not Dan,' comes the reply through the door. You freeze. 

'Get lost, West,’ you growl, your hands balling into fists on top of the comforter. There are a few beats of heavy silence; you know he hasn’t left.

'Please, Miss Marsten…’ comes his voice again, and you hear a true note of pleading in it, shocking you. ‘Jean. Will you let me in?’

'I have nothing to say to you.'

'But I have something to say to you.'

You huff, sitting up and rubbing your tear-swollen eyes. There is a creak from outside your door, as if from a person shifting from foot-to-foot, and you can see his shadow in the crack underneath.

'Anything you have to say, you can say it from there.’

'I really would find it easier to say this to you directly.'

You leap to your feet and storm over to the door, ripping it open. West is standing there, so close he’s almost touching you as you wrench it back, but he doesn’t even blink. You glare at him, staring him down.

'What? What can you possibly have to say to me?’

He’s frowning, his lips pursed, and that scratch on his cheek is still weeping a little, as if he hadn’t even bothered to cover it with anything. His hair is ruffled and untidy and you glance down, automatically; his jacket’s off, his pants are creased and his shirt is unbuttoned a little, giving you a glimpse of his chest, sparsely covered in hair. Like he’d been undressed for bed, maybe even laying down, and then thrown his clothes back on to come speak with you. Perhaps he couldn’t sleep. Neither could I, if I had his guilty conscience, you think darkly.

‘I felt I needed to tell you…’ he begins, adjusting his glasses in a fussy little gesture and glaring at a point just to the left of your face, ‘that I regret… on balance… that my actions tonight caused you pain.' 

You raise your eyebrows and your mouth drops open a little.

'Oh, really?’ you respond, sarcasm heavy in your voice. ‘You regret you caused me pain? By torturing my cat? And hitting it with a shovel? Jeez, thanks. That makes me feel so much better!'

'So you recognize that it was your cat?' he counters, sharply. His gaze flits towards you and you see the expression in his eyes isn’t as harsh as it usually is.

'I…' You're momentarily speechless, then rally. 'I don't know what that was, down there. All I know is I never want to see your face again. So, if you’d just go away, please - '

‘But I saved your life!’ he protests, and he sounds just as plaintive as if you were merely falling out over whose turn it is to do the washing-up, or who had left the cap off the toothpaste. You scoff and make to close the door in his face; he stops it with a hand and you snarl at him:

'I wouldn't have been in danger if you hadn't set that… thing on me! So please just - just get out the way!’

'I've already told you that I regret what happened, earlier,' he says, speaking softly now, still holding the door in one hand. 'But if my stay here has truly become untenable, then… I'll go. You needn’t leave.'

You pause, not letting go of the door but no longer trying to squash his fingers with it, either. 

'Wait. You’re saying you’d leave? Rather than have me move out?’

West nods, his frown deepening. You see for the first time how his quick expressions create harsh lines on his face; between his eyes, besides his lips. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this man properly smile, you think, distractedly. Or laugh in a way which doesn’t seem insane. 

‘I’d rather not leave. This house is perfect for me and for my research. But I’d also hate for you to feel you have to move out. I know how it feels to lose a home unexpectedly.’

His last sentence hangs in the air for a little while, naked and alone.

‘Well,’ you struggle for words, the fury in your blood ebbing away a little and confusion rushing in to fill the void. ‘That’s… something, at least. What do you mean, your research ?’

West regards you through those chilly sea-colored eyes. For a moment you don’t think he’s going to answer; he takes his hand off the door and shoves it into his pants pocket, looking away from you, but then he pulls something out and holds it up to the light. It’s another of those syringes, filled with glowing green liquid. You stare at it, fascinated.

‘This. This is my - my life’s work. The theory of reanimation. This serum is my own invention. I’ve worked on it for years, perfecting it. Alone at first, and then under the tutelage of Dr. Hans Gruber, in Zurich.’

‘Reanimation?‘ You scrunch your face, looking from the syringe to West and back, and laugh a little. ‘This sounds like some kind of Romero shit, West.’

His serious expression doesn’t change and you stop laughing.

‘I don’t know who that is,’ he replies, a hint of exasperation in his voice. ‘But if he has also invented a way to revitalize dead tissue then: Yes. This is some kind of Romero shit.’

‘Are you expecting me to believe that you’ve - what? Invented a way to bring people back from the dead?’

‘Why not? All life is a physical and chemical process. My serum merely recharges that process. It’s really quite simple,’ West responds, impatient now. ‘I mean, really - Miss Marsten - you saw what happened down in the basement. Don’t feign ignorance; I know you’re really quite intelligent. Just consider what you’ve seen tonight. Open your mind to what’s in front of you. Don’t narrow it with prejudicial thinking.’ 

You chew your lip. What he's saying is crazy, too crazy to even consider. But then again… you did see the cat. It had certainly appeared to be dead, right up until it leapt at you and tried to claw your eyeballs out.

‘After Rufus died and she found him in your room…’ you begin slowly, picking your words with care, ‘Meg sneaked into her father’s office and got a look at your file.’ You see Herbert visibly bristle, his mouth open to protest at this breach of his privacy, and you hold a hand up to quiet him. ‘She told me that your notes said that when your mentor died - Professor Gruber? - they found you with the body. Doing things to it, she said.’

You leave the statement hanging. Herbert answers the unspoken question.

‘Yes, I reanimated Gruber, at his insistence. It was an experiment. But it wasn’t successful. It didn’t…’ He pauses and sniffs, his voice going tight and brittle. ‘Well, anyway. I’ve been perfecting my method since then. I know what went wrong.’

‘You didn’t mention any of this when you applied for the room,’ you snort humorlessly. He looks at you askance.

‘You didn’t ask.’

There are several beats of silence in which you stare at him, disbelievingly. He meets you gaze and holds it, level. Then:

'Okay, West,’ you sigh. ‘I'm not saying I believe you about this… reanimation thing. And I'm not saying I'll stay here. But… I want to ask you a question. It's a yes or no question. If you answer honestly, I won't leave… and I won't make you leave, either.'

'And if I answer falsely?'

'I'll go straight to Dean Halsey to tell him what I saw.'

'Agreed.'

He nods once, businesslike. You take a deep breath and brush the hair back from your face, feeling sick but resolved.

'Did you kill my cat?' you ask him, trying not to let your voice waver. He inclines his head a little and glances away.

'You saw me hit it with the shovel,' he replies after a pause, as if this should be obvious. You shake your head, vehemently.

'Not that time. The first time. Did Rufus really suffocate in the garbage... or did you kill him?'

West pauses a moment, then he looks you straight in the eyes and the words come quickly this time, like blood welling from a deep wound.

'Yes. I killed your cat.'

You sway backwards as if he's hit you. There are a few moments before his answer registers with you, and then the tears begin to prick at your eyes. He seems to notice them and makes an odd half-movement, as if he means to put a hand on your shoulder, but he doesn't and you're thankful.

'I see,' you murmur, voice thick with shock. You hadn't really been prepared for the answer, had believed - deep down - that even Mr. West would never do such a thing. You cast around wildly, trying to stop your mouth from twisting and the tears from falling. The only thing you can think to say is: 'Did… Did he suffer?'

'No!' West answers swiftly, his face suddenly earnest and alive. 'I rendered him unconscious, first, using something of my own invention. He didn't know anything about it. And… It wasn't personal. I needed a specimen in a hurry and the cat - I mean, Rufus - was just there. For what it's worth, I regret it now. It was incautious.'

'That's worth very little to me,' you respond, bitterness dripping off your words. He nods, slowly, but says nothing. You feel a bizarre urge to laugh. 'You're crazy, you know that, right?'

'Perhaps I am,' he shrugs, although you think you see a flicker of something in his eyes. Hurt, maybe. As if he has any right to be hurt at this moment. 'Many have thought so. Will you go to Dean Halsey?'

You think for a moment, then shake your head.

'No.'

'No?' He raises an eyebrow, lips slightly parted. 'Why not?'

'Because I told you I wouldn't if you told me the truth.' 

The answer seems obvious to you, simple, but he gives you such a suspicious and searching look that you almost change your mind. You brush tears from your eyes and look at him for some time, steadily, not moving an inch. He stares back at you and for a while neither of you speaks. Then he gives a curt nod and says:

‘Fine. We have an accord, then.’

You roll your eyes. It was straight back to business with him, as if nothing unusual had passed in the last few hours.

'Go to bed, Herbert.'

The door swings shut in his face. You relax against it, eyes closed, your pulse pounding. It's a long time before you hear the creaky footsteps as he makes his way back to his room. And it's only later that you realize you called him 'Herbert' for the first time, and he hadn't corrected you.

The next morning Dan looks warily from you to Herbert, waiting for you to demand the other man's eviction, but you don't. You don't insist he leave, or storm out in a huff. And you don't go to Dean Halsey to tell him all about Herbert’s experiments, either. You feel you have an agreement with Herbert, as strange and sick as it might seem from the outside; that you’ve made a shaky peace with each other.

But ultimately, it doesn't matter; the next day Meg walks in on Herbert and Dan reanimating a severed hand they’ve smuggled home from the hospital. Her screams are enough to rouse the whole neighborhood. Dean Halsey finds out the truth, in any case. Almost as if it was meant to be.

---

August 6th 1987

I.

‘Right, Mom. Okay, well, I gotta go now. Okay, yeah, I will. Bye!’

Jean hung up the receiver just as Dan and Herbert entered the kitchen; Herbert had caught Dan’s attention as he’d come in from work and they’d lingered in the hall, heads close together in whispered conversation. Herbert looked bright and cheerful as he walked in (in relative terms, at least). Dan, less so. The thin smile on Herbert’s face dwindled away like gore down a shower drain, however, as he saw her on the telephone. Oblivious, Jean lifted a hand to them both and shot them a happy grin.

‘Hey, Dan! How was work? Are they missing Herb?’ 

‘Oh, you bet,’ Dan responded, smiling uneasily and glancing from one housemate to the other. ‘In fact, we were just talking about that, weren’t we, Herbert?’ He looked at the other man, meaningfully. Herbert’s face remained impassive, his eyes glued to the telephone as if it had caused him deep personal offence. ‘He’s gonna be starting back at the hospital at the start of next week. Isn’t that right?’

Herbert ignored Dan’s question. Eyebrows raised, he strode across the room and laid a gentle hand on Jean’s waist. She smiled at him and covered his hand with her own, her eyes following a fly which had slipped in through the open window and was buzzing lazily against the pane.

‘Jeanie?’ Herbert asked, his voice light and pleasant but with an undertow of concern tugging back his words. ‘Who were you talking to?’

‘Just my Mom. She’s fine and she sent love from my Dad and Michael.’ Jean shrugged and turned to the cabinets, pulling out a packet of crackers and moving over to the refrigerator to fetch the cold cuts. She had regained her appetite in recent days, Dan was pleased to see, although her hunger seemed to extend largely to various kinds of meat. 

‘Ah, yes. I’d been meaning to tell you that your parents called several times, during your period of… convalescence,’ Herbert replied, and Dan shot him a sharp look which Jean luckily didn’t catch. She was busy plating up her lunch, singing softly to herself a tune which Dan vaguely remembered hearing on the radio that morning before he headed out - ‘please, please, please, let me get what I want, this time.’ 

Amen to that, Dan thought, and shivered.

‘You didn’t mention your injury to your mother, did you?’ Herbert continued, speaking slowly and carefully. Jean glanced backwards at him over her shoulder, plate in hand, and snorted.

‘God, no! What would I have told her? Some lady went crazy for no reason and attacked me on campus? No way. It’d only worry her. It's not like I can tell her the truth; that it was a dead woman.’

Dan sensed, rather than heard, Herbert’s sigh of relief.

‘Quite. Quite right. I’d suggest you not mention it to her - to anyone, really - for quite some time yet.’

'No fear of that. Not that I've seen many people, recently. I really have to go see Professor Gordon to find out about my grade - and graduation. Have I missed it?' She turned concerned eyes on Herbert and he looked away, suddenly very interested in his wristwatch. It was Dan who answered.

'Yeah, baby. You missed it. I'm sorry. But, uh - they mailed your certificate, it’s somewhere around here…’

‘Oh, that’s okay,’ Jean shrugged, smiling at him. Dan felt a pang of sadness, which turned to confusion as she looked past him and shouted: ‘Hey, Belial!’ 

Dan turned and saw the finger-creature, scuttling under the sideboard. He raised his eyes in confusion at Jean.

‘What did you call it?’

‘I’ve named him Belial,’ she answered, passing him to scoop the creature up from the ground. It stared up at her with its single, glassy eye and Dan suppressed a shiver. Herbert, he saw, had not taken his eyes off Jean but stood silently by the sink, saying nothing. ‘He had to have a name; it’s been a year...’

'So you named him after the brother from Basket Case ?' Dan asked, with an amused smile.

'Why not? Herb was just calling him Hey-You. As in, Hey you, get out from under there, and Hey you, stop that at once.’

‘It needs to learn discipline, Jeanie,’ Herbert murmured, giving the creature a hard stare. It ignored him totally. Jean held it up to her face and spoke directly to it; it seemed to hum and gravitate towards her with glee, like a plant reaches towards the light.

‘Where’ve you been, little guy?’ she cooed. ‘I haven’t seen you in months.’ 

There was no answer from Belial, surprising no one.

‘Hey, listen, J,’ Dan began, moving over to her and gently taking her arm. ‘I was just telling Herbert - I noticed the cellar door looks like someone’s tried to break in. You know, the one which leads down to the basement from round back, where the boiler is? I might be wrong,’ he hastened to add, seeing her immediately concerned expression. ‘But it looks like someone’s tried to pry it open. Just be careful, okay?’

‘It didn’t look like foul play to me,’ Herbert piped up, earning himself a warning look from Dan. ‘Perhaps a raccoon, attempting to burrow underneath. Or… something.’

‘Or something, yeah. But still. Just… be careful, okay?’

‘Sure, I will,’ Jean nodded, still holding Belial close. It seemed to be much more at-ease with her than it had ever been before, Dan noticed, snuggling up against her and practically purring. I guess like recognizes like, Dan thought, and dead recognizes dead. 

‘Great,’ he said out loud. ‘So, uh, what do you wanna do tonight? I swung by the video store and rented Back to the Future on my way home from the hospital. I thought maybe we could all watch it together.’

‘Yeah, sounds good!’ Jean nodded. As she spoke she went back to the lunch she had been preparing, dropping Belial gently to the countertop where it blinked up at her reproachfully. She began to tear off strips of meat from the large plate of cold cuts before her and ate them with a distracted expression, jaws working manually. The fly, having abandoned its attempts to break out through the window, languidly approached and came to rest on her forehead, just above her right eyebrow. She didn’t flinch. Dan and Herbert shared a worried look, Herbert’s pale eyes very large behind his glasses.

‘Remember when you, me and Meg went to see that movie?’ Dan asked, trying to sound casual. ‘God, it must have been… summer ‘85. Seems like forever ago.’

‘No, sorry. I don’t remember. I don’t remember a lot of stuff, yet,’ she replied. She looked down at her hands for a moment, at their mechanical ripping off the meat, and dropped the chunks messily back onto the plate with a little gasp of surprise. The startled fly sped up to the ceiling, rubbing its tiny hands together in irritation. Herbert was at her side in moments, slipping a steady arm around her waist. 

Dan reflected that, before Jean’s accident, he had seldom seen them be physical together in his presence. Since then, however, Herbert had changed, at least in the privacy of their shared home. Perhaps he’s seen the value in appreciating a girlfriend before she’s killed by something. Join the club on that one, buddy.

‘Well, it was a great day,’ he said, trying to get the conversation back on track. ‘It was hot and the theater was air-conditioned - I remember that - and when we came out I remember walking down the street with you two singing that God-damned Huey Lewis song at the top of your voices.’ Dan laughed at the memory. 

He could see them when he closed his eyes; Jean and Meg, arm-in-arm, the streetlights bouncing off their hair and their smiles. Then he opened them and saw her looking at him from across the kitchen, the same person - but paler, more gaunt. Dead. Both of those girls were dead less than two years later, he realized with a lurch, and turned to pour himself a glass of water to mask his expression.

‘Yes, well,’ Herbert said quickly, eyes on the mess on Jean’s plate. ‘Mein Herz, are you hungry?’

‘I was, but… I don’t know. Listen, guys, I’m feeling beat. I’m gonna go nap in your bed for a while, okay Herb?’

Jean made to leave the room, shooting Herbert a questioning glance; he hesitated for a barely perceptible moment and then nodded.

‘Of course. I’ll be up in a moment to give you your shot,’ he replied, twitching a smile her way. When Jean was out of sight he turned to Dan, raising his eyebrows. 

‘I don’t know why you felt the need to frighten her like that, Dan. It was just a raccoon, if that. I know what you were thinking, but… You’re mistaken. And she’s had enough on her mind of late.’

‘Yeah, about that, Herbert,’ Dan drummed his fingers on the counter top, looking up at the cracked tile of the kitchen ceiling. ‘I don’t think she has enough on her mind.’ 

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning… don’t you think it’s about time we told her?’

‘Told her what?’ Herbert asked, his face going curiously blank. Dan pursed his lips.

‘You know what.’

‘No, I - '

‘That she died, Herbert,’ Dan cut across him, his voice low and not unkind. ‘I went along with this for the first couple days - I think you were right, it would have been way too much of a shock for her to learn all at once. But… it’s been almost two weeks. She has a right to know.’

‘No, Dan! I completely disagree. She’ll remember when she’s ready. At the moment her psyche is vulnerable, delicate… the shock of it would cause her to spiral!’

‘Oh, really?’ Dan crossed his arms, his face crumpling with exasperation. ‘That’s why? Not because you know she’ll be mad at you?’ “Mad” being the understatement of the century, he added internally. Herbert bristled.

‘No, not at all. That’s got nothing to do with it. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll understand… when she finally learns the truth. Which isn’t today.’

‘You know, sometimes I wonder if you’ve really accepted what happened to her.’

‘Of course I have,’ Herbert huffed, whipping his glasses off and cleaning them in agitated little jerks. Dan snorted.

‘It’s not just a river in Egypt, Herbert.’

Herbert’s eyes narrowed in confusion. 

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Dan shook his head and crossed to the refrigerator, eyeing the many packs of meat inside with distaste. As he reached past them to get his Tupperware, Herbert came up close behind his elbow and said:

‘So you promise to keep your peace?’

‘Fine,’ Dan agreed, feeling anything but fine about the arrangement. Herbert relaxed a little and nodded, seemingly to himself.

‘She’s doing marvellously, isn’t she?’ he asked Dan with a small smile. ‘Her reanimation was more successful than I could have hoped, Dan. My first total success, my first perfect creation. Only a physician could tell she was in anything but perfect health. Her core temperature seems to be borderline-hypothermic, around 33˚C even in times of agitation or arousal - ’ 

Dan had been sipping from his glass of water but choked a little as Herbert said this, splashing it on his shirt. He cursed under his breath as Herbert continued.

 ‘- and I have some reason to believe that anything other than the mild climate we find here in Massachusetts might cause her some issues, possibly even cause her to begin to decompose… So perhaps we shall never make the Seychelles our home. But with a steady dose of reagent her cells are regenerating, almost as well as a healthy person’s should. Only time will tell if she will age at pace with us but I suspect not; I suspect that in twenty years time she will appear no more than a year or so older than she does now.’

‘What, she’s immortal?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Herbert tutted, as if Dan had said something completely ridiculous. ‘I imagine she will be vulnerable, just as we are. But in short - Dan! - she’s a miracle, or the closest thing to a miracle that the world has ever seen, despite what any holy man might say. I never expected that just one more dose could bring her consciousness back so totally. She’s perfect, Dan. Perfect. There’s something more to it, I’m sure.’ 

‘What do you mean, something more?’ Dan asked, head spinning from all that Herbert had said. 

‘I told you before that Jean and I share some kind of bond. I’m certain that this bond has had something to do with her quick recovery.’

‘You mean, that whole… Psychic connection thing?’ Dan sounded doubtful and Herbert shrugged, loftily.

‘I have long-theorized that my reagent can strengthen even living bodies. In fact, I credit my survival in the morgue the night of the massacre with having recently… administered the reagent, myself.’

‘I thought you said you survived because - '

‘Because Hill just didn’t have the guts?’ Herbert’s smile was impish; Dan rolled his eyes. Herbert was impossible. But damn, was he fond of him. 

‘Yeah, that.'

‘Well, that was true; I was able to fight his reanimated intestines off with relative ease. But why was that? I think I know. I’m sure it was because the reagent I’d injected shortly before had strengthened me. Made me more robust. And if it can do that for the body, then…’ He flashed Dan a lupine smirk. ‘Why not for the powers of the mind?’

II.

They did watch Back to the Future , all three of them curled up together on the couch, Jean in the middle and Dan’s arm trailing along the back. Herbert sat upright, alert as always, his hands folded neatly in his lap - although Jean’s was folded there with them. They laughed at the jokes (well, Dan and Jean did) and even Herbert struggled to suppress a smile at the end.

‘What I don’t get,’ Dan said as he switched off the TV and Jean stretched out to steal his place on the couch, ‘is why no one ever mentions again that Marty’s dad was peeping in through the window at his mom. Pretty creepy to keep quiet about that, if you ask me.’

‘I agree that it’s not the best start to a relationship,’ Herbert sniffed, checking the time on his watch. ‘It’s late. I’m going to bed.’ With that he rose and made to cross the room, pausing at the door and looking back over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised. ‘Are you going to come, Jean?’

‘Isn’t that kinda your call, Herbert?’ Dan called across the room, pulling a face; Jean threw a pillow at him. 

‘Ha ha, Dan. The Muppet Show should have you on with Statler and Waldorf. Goodnight.’

With that, Herbert and Jean climbed the stairs to bed. In Herbert’s room, which seemed infinitely lighter and more airy to him with Jean in it, they made love as quietly as they could - which wasn’t too quietly, these days. Late in the evening, long after her daily dose of reagent, Jean always seemed less frantic, less hungry than she did during the day. Still, though, as she rose above him in the slanting moonlight, riding him as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle his moans, he couldn't help but see her as some kind of creature of the night; but not one from a horror show. To him, she was beautiful. 

Afterwards they lay in Herbert’s bed, wrapping around one another like a sigh. Herbert’s head was on Jean’s stomach and her hands were in his hair. There was something about these quiet, vulnerable moments which reassured him hugely, even if he would be loathe to admit it. 

‘Herb?’ she asked, looking up at the ceiling. In the half-light her expression was inscrutable to him.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think it’s possible to truly… understand other people?’

Herbert was silent for a long time, so long it seemed like he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, clearing his voice slightly as he did so:

‘You know I grew up in a foster home, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘Well… When I was a child, my roommate Jim bought a record player. He couldn’t afford to purchase many records - none of us could afford much of anything -  but he did buy one. I don’t remember the name, or the artist, but I do recall that I hated it viscerally. He would play the damned thing over and over, just to spite me. Some years later I invented a serum which would turn his semen green, and that gave me some satisfaction, but - '

‘- Wait, you turned his what green?’

‘ - but when he was playing that record I could only sit and seethe.’

Jean chuckled a little, drawing him closer to her; he relaxed under her touch.

‘What’s this got to do with the question, Herb?’

‘Be patient,’ he admonished, then continued: ‘There was one track on that record which stayed with me. I can hear it now, so many years later. The singer says: is it wrong to understand the fear that dwells inside a man? That has stayed with me, ever since, because I felt like he was speaking directly to me out of those speakers - for me.’

His eyes had gone soft, the past stretching out before him, an unknown country. He continued in hushed tones.

‘So in answer to your question; I don’t understand other men, per se, but I understand what they want. It’s the same thing I want. To go beyond death. To gain comprehension. And, ultimately, to escape the fear. Other men might not admit that’s what they want, but it is.'

There was a long silence.

‘That was T. Rex, I'm pretty sure.'

'What?'

'It was a song by T. Rex. On the record.'

‘Well, Mr. Rex was a very profound man.' Herbert shifted and peered at her, trying to make out the shape of her expression. 'Why do you ask me this question, in any case?’

‘Oh, just… Sometimes I feel now that I don’t even understand myself. I have these… urges. And sometimes it feels like I’m… possessed. Like someone else is acting through me. Something else.’ 

She glanced down at him, her eyes flashing white in the gloom, and Herbert felt she looked uncomfortable. He propped himself up one elbow and cupped her face in his hand, felt her cool skin, the slick hint of a falling tear. 

‘What is it? Jean?’

‘Do you love me, Herb?’

He felt hot, suddenly, as if warm fingers were reaching into the unscrewed top of his head and feeling around inside. Bloody hearts and even bloodier mouths danced through his mind; Guilt once again raised its insidious head and sniffed the air. He lowered his head back down to her chest and took hold of her wrist, focusing on the bones moving beneath the skin and naming them silently. Scaphoid. Lunate. Triquetrum.

‘You know I do.’

‘You’ve never said it,’ she pressed him, running a hand across the smooth expanse of his back. ‘Never those three words.’

‘I resent being told I have to prove myself when my feelings are obvious. I am what I am, Jeanie. I can’t force myself to be otherwise. I’ve tried it, as have others.’

‘You’ve never said those words, have you? To anyone. Not to your parents. Not to a lover.'

‘I’ve told you I haven’t,’ Herbert answered, although in truth he wasn’t sure he had told her anything of the sort. She seemed to just know such things, now. ‘My parents didn’t live long enough, and before you I never had…’ Herbert’s voice petered out, then he began again. ‘But you also know how I feel, just as I know how you feel. That’s enough.’

‘Yeah. I guess that’s enough.’

Herbert turned and regarded her with his chin propped on her rib cage, just beside her terrible scar. Jean was still smiling at him, her hands still moving over his skin; she nodded, thoughtfully, and then her eyes skipped over his and went to the moon glimpsed through the high window.

‘I dreamed about Rufus, last night,’ she said, her voice far away. Herbert jerked, involuntarily.

‘So did I,’ he answered, nostrils flaring; he tried to keep his voice level, casual, but inside his heart beat fast as a piston gaining speed. 

‘What did you dream?’

‘Oh, just about the cat running about the place - our old place, on Darkmore,’ he lied. In truth he had dreamed of crushing the cat’s skull, felt the brittle crunch of it over and over again, leaving him to wake sweaty and sickened and reaching for Jean’s form in the dark.

‘I wish my dream was that lovely. I dreamed about Rufus being hung up on a meat hook. And something about… the sun going out. Being swallowed up in one big gulp. My brother was there, and so was Mrs. Chapham. All swallowed up.’

Herbert shifted uncomfortably. He had broken a lot of new ground in the past two years, socially speaking, but this was unknown territory even so. Sometimes since her treatment began Jean had been her old self, happy and full of life. Other times she seemed distant, despite her physical closeness; as if part of her had stayed crumpled at the foot of the steps outside the campus cafeteria. He decided to keep his reply cautious, optimistic.

‘The next total solar eclipse isn’t expected until 1989, Herz. Don’t waste your dreams on that. And I shall have to see about getting you a new cat. A kitten, perhaps?’

‘Thanks, but I’m okay. I’ve got Belial. He’s like a cat I don’t even have to feed. I’ve got all I need, really.’

‘As have I.’

She smiled, stretched and then turned away, burying her face in the pillow. 

'It's getting late,' she said, and Herbert hummed his agreement. He moved behind her and put an arm around her waist, his face on her shoulder.

‘Good night,’ he said, feeling her cool flesh against his cheek.

Sleep took her swiftly but left him for a time, laying beside her and feeling the steady beat of her heart under his hand. And it is her heart now, he thought, sagely. I no longer hear Meg in its rhythm at all. 

Presently he slept, and then there was no more movement in the old mortuary - apart from a scuttling low to the ground in the kitchen. Belial, most likely, bedding down for the night. 

There was movement out in the cemetery, though. A lighter flared, a cigarette suddenly glowing in the warm summer dark. Behind it a figure shifted in the shadows of a gravestone, its gaze fixed on the second-floor window behind which Herbert and Jean dreamed. Watching and waiting, and dying to be let in.

Chapter 11: as I whisper in your ear / I want to fucking tear you apart

11 - as I whisper in your ear / I want to fucking tear you apart

August 10th 1987

I.

‘Do you have a minute, Dr. Graves?’

Francesca flashed the older man one of her prettiest smiles, her fingers tightening around the tape recorder she was holding just out of sight. Dr. Graves paused, his hand on the open door to his office, and regarded her over his shoulder. She turned the smile up a few watts and wished she’d had time to find out his first name; older men, in her experience, liked to flatter themselves by thinking that young women took the trouble to learn their first names.

‘I do, but not for just anyone. Who are you, please?’

‘My name’s Francesca Danielli. I’m a reporter for the Boston Globe. I’m doing a piece on - ’

Name-dropping her employer usually opened doors for Francesca. In this case, however, it shut one in her face. She stared at the dark grain of the doctor’s office door, suddenly very firmly in her way; through it Graves called out to her, his voice slightly muffled but the trembling in it loud and clear.

‘No thank you! I’ve told you reporters before! I am sick to the back teeth of talking about the massacre, do you understand? Sick. To. The. Back. Teeth! Yes, I was there that night. No, I didn’t see anything. I was in my office, working. As I would be now, if I wasn’t being constantly interrupted. Now please go away.’

‘But Dr. Graves!’ Francesca exclaimed loudly in protest, hammering her fist on the door. An orderly passed by the end of the corridor and looked up, startled at the sound; she smiled at him, reassuringly, and made an effort to lower her voice as she turned back to the door. ‘Dr. Graves. Please. I’m not here to talk to you about the Miskatonic Massacre.’

‘You’re not?’ 

‘No! I want to ask you about the escape from the Sefton Ward, earlier this summer.’

‘Oh! As if that’s any better! Young lady, I will say this once and I will not say it again. I don’t know anything. I don’t know how those… patients escaped their confines. I don’t know anything. I don’t know!’ There was a pause. Francesca frowned, pressing her ear to the wood of the door. She could hear a faint sniffling sound, as if the doctor had begun to cry. In a small voice, barely audible despite her straining, he added: ‘I don’t know what to do…’

‘Please, doctor. I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t have a reason. A good reason!’

‘A good reason?’ he scoffed. There were several loud thumps from within the office, as if Dr. Graves was struggling with something weighty. With her ear so close to the door, Francesca could have sworn she heard another sound underneath the doctor’s voice; a low sigh, perhaps a hastily stifled grunt. ‘What’s that, then? To get a scoop? To win a promotion? To afford a bigger apartment? Please, Miss Danielli. Just leave me alone.’  

‘No! I’m here for my boyfriend. Daniel Cain. Dr. Cain, don’t you know him?’

‘Excuse me? Say that again.’

‘Dr. Cain!’ Francesca repeated, excitement blossoming in her stomach. ‘He’s my boyfriend… at least, he’s supposed to be - and he needs your help.’

There was a silence. She waited, heart thumping, fingers curling around the recorder concealed in her purse. Then the door was swung back and Dr. Graves appeared in the gap, his worried and sweaty face only inches from Francesca’s.

‘Daniel needs me? What are you talking about?’

Francesca dived straight in.

‘There’s a man watching Daniel’s house, spying on him. I think he means to do him harm. I’ve talked to his classmates and I’ve been told that this man spends a lot of time here at the hospital - and that he’s been asking about you, doctor. His name is Eric Averill.’

She said the name deliberately, watching the older man’s eyes as she did so. Aha. There it is, she thought as she saw them flicker with recognition. So it’s true. He has been here.

‘Never heard of him,’ Dr. Graves said. His face was carefully composed, now, the twitching edges of his mouth forced into a gentle smile. Only his eyes betrayed any hint of emotion, and what Francesca saw as she looked into them was one thing only; panic. Desperate, pitiful panic.

‘He’s never come here, looking for you?’

‘He may have done, but if so he didn’t find me.’

‘You’re sure? Perhaps if I told you what he looked like, that might help. He’s white, about 6ft, brown hair, blue eyes - ’

‘I said I don’t know him, Miss, and that won’t change no matter how much of his Lonely Hearts ad you relay to me.’

Dr. Graves’s tone was smooth, level, and if she listened only to his words she would have turned around and left straight away. But Francesca listened to more than just a person’s words; she listened to what they were really saying, in their expressions, in their movements, in the quick twitch of their gaze. That’s what made her so damn good at her job. She decided to take a chance, aware that if she blew it she may never get another opportunity.

‘Why aren’t you telling me the truth, Dr. Graves?’ she asked, icily. ‘Who has frightened you?’

For a moment, he looked as if she had slapped him. The small smile fell from his features and in its place Francesca saw terror; deep, bone-shaking terror. Then the door was once again shut in her face.

‘Go away, Miss Danielli. And please… If you know what’s good for you… Don’t come back.’

‘Shit,’ Francesca murmured under her breath. With a heavy sense of failure she backed away from the office door, hoping every moment that Dr. Graves would wrench it open and come running back out to give her the information she so desperately needed. He didn't.

Eventually she turned to leave, feeling bitterly disappointed. As she walked away she thought she heard a muffled argument, two hushed voices raised in bitter acrimony - but she brushed it off, thinking it must surely be coming from the floor below. Dr. Graves had been all alone in his office, after all. Hadn't he?

II.

You slam your car door, juggling with a grocery bag in one hand and an armful of books with the other. You’d driven over to visit Annie in Innsmouth, where she was staying with a boyfriend she’d hooked up with over the summer; the drive had only taken you an hour but you feel completely shattered, as if you’ve run a marathon. And, more than that, you feel hungry. 

It’s like you haven’t eaten in days, even though you had a generous helping of blood sausage for lunch and that was only an hour ago. Even Annie had commented on your appetite, watching distastefully as you demolished the plate in front of you.

‘How are you not as heavy as a horse?’ she complained as the fifth helping disappeared down your throat. ‘I so much as look at a burger and I gain five lbs.’

‘Don’t know,’ you had shrugged, wiping meat juices from your fingers. ‘I guess I just have a good metabolism.’

‘Hmm,’ Annie had frowned, clearly unconvinced. ‘The same can’t be said for your complexion.’

‘What? Do I have a zit?’

‘No, but you’re so pale. You look like death, honey.’

None of it had satisfied, though, so after you’d got back into the car you’d taken out the spare vial of serum which Herbert insisted you carry at all times and, unsure if you were doing the right thing, had administered it there and then. It had helped some, but not a lot, and as you juggle your way from the car up to the front door your mind is totally on your next meal. And that’s how Eric is able to sneak up behind you.

‘Woah there!’ he cries, only a few inches behind you as you step through the door.

You scream and throw the bag in the air; the contents - mostly food, some cereal for Dan - go flying across the floor of the hall in a spreading rose of mess and debris. You spin around, horrified, and find that he’s already stepping into the living room, staring around the place with naked and gloating inquisitiveness. 

‘Eric? What the hell are you doing here?’

He reaches out and plucks one of Herbert’s books on anatomy off the shelf, not looking at you or even acknowledging your question. Your surprise and dismay begin to curdle to anger as he weighs the book in his hands, running his eyes over the title on the spine and only deigning to recognize you once you repeat yourself, this time emphasizing with a hand shaking his arm.

‘I could ask you the same question, Marsten,’ he answers, a little sneer on his lips. Previously you’d found him unpleasant to be around, bigoted and waspish, but this is different. He seems to have changed, any veneer of politeness or agreeability completely dropped. ‘What have you been doing here, locked up for the last six weeks?’

‘I don’t see how that’s your business.’

‘Now, now. No need to bite.’ He flashes you an amused wink and continues in a voice that he evidently thinks is charming. ‘You are pretty when you’re mad, though.'

You shift, uncomfortably. You suddenly feel like the serum is rushing in your veins, your blood singing with it, and then your senses kick into overdrive. It’s as if you can hear his heart beating, the little scuttlings of spiders in the oak panelling of the walls, Belial’s tiny steps somewhere on the other side of the house. 

Eric seems to notice your discomfort and raises his eyebrows. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘Wrong? You’ve just shoved your way into my home, of course there’s something wrong!’

You’re trying to ignore the sound of his pulse, the scent which wafts from him as he moves his head, looking at you askance. This isn’t like when you’re with Herbert - that urge to drag him into bed, to do things to him. You don’t want Eric anywhere near your bed. You want to -

‘Your home? I thought it was Cain’s salary which paid the rent on this place. Him and that other one - the freak.’

‘Herbert is not a freak!’ you growl. His words ignite something within you, something which burns your blood and makes your whole body thrum with fury.

‘Whatever you say.’ He throws the book carelessly on the couch and advances on you, looking your body up and down appreciatively. ‘You’re looking good enough, at least. You haven’t been sick. Not sick in the usual way. What are you hiding?’

You’re backing away from him as he speaks, down the hall and into the kitchen until your back hits the counter. He follows you move-for-move and you eye the back door furtively, trying to judge if you can make a run for it. Then you stop. You shouldn't have to run from him, not here. This is your home.

‘Nothing. Now get out of my house.’

‘Nope. Shan’t.’ He’s only inches away from you now. You smell his aftershave, the oil in his hair - rich and expensive and pukey. ‘Things have changed. You’re going to have to get used to some new facts. I’ve learned things. Made… new acquaintances.’

You start to feel a tendril of fear creeping in and you mutter: ‘Dan and Herbert will be back from work soon. You’d better be gone before they arrive. Or - ’

‘Or what?’ Eric laughs, heartily. ‘What will they do? Kick my ass?’ He gets closer still, his lips only a whisper away from your face. ‘Kill me?’

Something catches in your throat. You flinch and he sees it, and laughs even harder.

‘What do you want from us?’

‘From Cain? Nothing. But from you and West…’ He leans back and takes you in, all of you, greedily gobbling you up with his eyes. ‘I’ve been sent to collect you. There are big plans for the three of us, Marsten. Big plans.’

You snort with derisive laughter.

‘Why would I ever come with you?’

His eyes gleam as he glances down to your chest. Ordinarily you would suppose he was ogling your breasts, and maybe that’s the case; he’s also staring straight at the spot where your scar is, underneath the thin material of your T shirt.

‘Oh, I think you know why.’

It all happens so fast. His hand whips out and grabs the neckline of your top, dragging it down and exposing the tops of your breasts - and the twisted tissue between them.

‘I knew it. I knew I saw you, that day…’ he breathes. ‘Uncle didn't believe me, but I knew I was right. I always am!' The unrestrained triumph in his voice does something to you, something dark and primal. 

‘If you know what’s good for you,’ you growl, feeling yourself begin to lose control, ‘you’ll get the fuck out of my house.’

‘If you know what’s good for you you’ll come along with me…’ Eric laughs, gleefully, and then his hands are on you; on your waist, moving on your hips. The tension in you stretches thin, thin as a fine thread, and then snaps completely.

His shoulder blades break beneath your fingers like brittle twigs as you grab hold of him, bearing down, pulling him towards you in one lithe motion. He’s too shocked to scream at first, and then he does, and you like it. You drink in the sound, fill your lungs with it, and then your teeth are in his throat and all conscious thought ceases. 

III.

It’s Dan who finds you, around ten minutes later. What’s left of Eric Averill’s body is still steaming, the hot secret parts of him opened up to greet the air. The walls are red. The ceiling is red. You are red; the color is plastered to your skin, your hair, your teeth.

Dan can only stand and stare at you as you crouch over your prize, licking blood from your palm, traces of flesh still clinging to your lips like cracker crumbs. You look up as he finally moves, making a soft cry in the back of his throat.

‘Dan!’ you smile through your haze of pleasure. ‘Want some?’

You offer him the gleaming back of your hand. Dan stares at it for a moment, at the dark blood dripping from your fist and the bright, peppy grin on your face, and briskly vomits over his shoes.

IV.

The reagent begins to wear off shortly afterwards. As it does, understanding creeps in. You pause, look down at yourself like it’s the first time you’ve noticed the blood. Surely it’s just corn syrup, you think to yourself. Like they used in Carrie. But how did I get covered in the stuff?

Your pondering is scored by the tune of Dan still retching beside you. And then you remember.

‘Dan… What have I done?’

He doesn’t answer you. He just straightens up, shakily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘I’ve seen some pretty fucked up stuff, but… Oh God, J… Oh, God…’

‘Dan!’ Your voice is shrill, hysteric, and you stagger over to grab his shoulders with your sticky palms. You shake him and he gapes down at you, eyes wide with shock. The expression in them reminds you of that other night, the night Meg died. ‘Dan, please!’

The pleading tone seems to cut through his stupor and he runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes like if he presses hard enough the image in front of him will be wiped away. You see that you’ve left scarlet hand prints on his white shirtsleeves and you step back, as if burned. Turning from him, you make your way on shaky legs out into the hall and look at yourself in the mirror which hangs beside the coat stand. You stare at your reflection for a very long time.

You look as if you’ve been swimming in Eric’s guts. Which, you suppose, is almost true. Your clothes are dark and slippery with blood, the garish color of it caking your bare arms, your neck, your face. There are unmentionable streaks of gore clinging to your hair and your eyes stare out of the picture like two terrified marbles. And you’re smiling.

‘Jean, will you come back in here please?’

Dan’s voice carries from the other room. You follow it, leaving dark footprints on the carpet behind you, and find him standing in the midst of all the mess in the kitchen with a determined set to his jaw. The shock is gone, leaving only an icy certainty in his face. 

‘Dan, I’m sorry, I… I don’t know what happened, I don’t…’

He holds up a hand to stop you. 

‘It’s okay. We’ll talk about… this… later. Right now we have to move. Herbert has to stay late at the hospital today so we'll have to start the clean up without him - we need to get this place spotless, you understand? I saw Manhunter; forensic science is insane these days. We need to get every single trace of this guy out of here.’

‘But… You mean you think we should just get rid of him?’ you stutter, feeling the dull thud of horror settle in your belly. 

You glance down at the desiccated corpse at Dan’s feet - the pathetic scraps of flesh and hair, the pulpy guts, the incongruous jut of polished white bone - and feel sick. The burning hunger you'd felt all day is gone, sated. All that’s left is the knowledge of what you’ve done, and that knowledge is terrible.

‘We have to do something, J!' he retorts, exasperated. 'I am not seeing you go to jail! It would kill me to lose you too.' He crosses his arms, like he's daring you to argue further. 'I can't go through that again.'

'Okay,' you repeat, nodding numbly. 'Where do we start?’

You both set to work at once; mopping, scraping, scrubbing. The kitchen slowly loses its red sheen, the surfaces stinking of bleach now instead of coppery blood. What's left of Eric goes into a single bucket - and not even a big one. You grit your teeth, working beside your best friend in silence, trying not to think of what you’ve done. You feel heavy, bloated. Like a fucking tick, you curse yourself, spilling over with blood. Fat and happy.

It's only when Dan brings up disposing of Eric's car that you finally crack. You wring your hands, accidentally flicking scarlet specks over the freshly-cleaned worktops, and your voice comes out in an agonized whine.

‘Oh, Dan! I can’t do this! I can’t pull this off!’ Your eyes glaze, terror stealing rational thought, and begin to ramble. ‘I don't have any experience! I had a great uncle once who was a bootlegger in the 20s, in some little rinky-dink town in Maine - Hubie Marsten, I'm pretty sure his name was Hubie - but he went crazy and got whacked by the mob! Or something! I don’t remember! I don’t - ’

‘No one’s getting… whacked, J. Just relax. Now try to think. Did he have his keys on him?'

'No, I don't think so,' you mumble in reply, struck by the uncomfortable thought that - if he had - you must have gulped them down in your animalistic fervor.

'Okay, that's fine. They're probably in the car. I saw it as I pulled up to the house - it was parked out by the gate. I'll go and move it closer to your campus, and hopefully they'll think he never left after class today. When we moved in you told us the real estate agent mentioned this place used to do cremations, right?’

‘What?’

‘Cremations,’ he repeats slowly, trying to cut through your dismay. ‘When this house was a mortuary.’

‘Uh, yeah…’

‘So there must be a furnace around here someplace?’ There’s a gleam in Dan’s eyes that you don’t much like.

‘I… I think it’s in that little room where the boiler is. I saw it once, but - it’s all bricked up.’

‘I hope to God it still works.’

‘We’re gonna burn him?’ Perversely, you feel disgust at the idea of fire eating away at what’s left of Eric. At the image of flames licking around the very flesh you have tasted with such delight.

‘You got a better idea?’

‘Well, no, but… but…’ You feel panic rising again and your voice rises with it. ‘What am I gonna I tell Herb? I can’t let him know about this, Dan. I can’t tell him I just fucking - fucking ate somebody! What the fuck! What’s wrong with me?’

Dan stares back at you, slightly comical in his arm-length yellow rubber gloves, and watches as you collapse to the floor with your hands in your blood-soaked hair. You scream. It comes from somewhere deep in your stomach, somewhere you’ve never been, and it goes on for a long time. When you’re done you feel Dan’s arms around you and you fall against him, sobbing.

‘Shh,’ he’s cooing, without much enthusiasm. ‘It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.’

‘How is this okay, Dan? I’ve - I’ve turned into some kind of monster! It’s not just… this.’ You gesture to the bucket, unceremonious final resting place of Eric Averill. ‘I’ve been wrong ever since I woke up, after the accident. I feel this need. I thought it was for sex, at first, but… it’s to tear everything to fucking pieces. Everything and everyone. It's like I have this cup inside of me and I'm trying to pour it out, pour out all the hunger and the rage, but it just keeps coming and coming with no end in sight. It's a bottomless well. What's wrong with me, Dan? What's happening to me?’

You’re almost screaming again, now, and Dan holds you at arm’s length with an alarmed expression.

‘Is it the reagent?’ you continue, rubbing at your stained arms compulsively, Lady Macbeth in a rubber apron. ‘But Herbert shoots it up almost every day - I know he does, I know he’s back on it - and he's fine! I mean, not fine, but he’s never gone feral and polished off a classmate! It's me. There’s something wrong with me. And the worst part is… I enjoy it. I enjoy it! I feel so much better now! Killing that guy… Killing Eric… Eating him… God, it felt so good !’

‘Jean!’ Dan yells, cutting through the frantic stream of your words. You startle, as if slapped. ‘You’ve got to calm down. Herbert’ll be back soon and we can talk about this and figure out… Figure out what to do.’

‘How the hell do you suppose I tell him about this?’

‘You’ve got to be honest, baby.’ He hugs you again, tighter than before, and you get the distinct feeling that there's something he's holding back. ‘Honesty is the only way. Just wait - wait until Herbert gets home and we can all be honest.’

His words hit something deep inside you. You take a quick, shallow breath and say something you've been keeping down for too long.

‘There are some things I haven’t told you, Dan,’ you sniffle against his shoulder. ‘I’ve been feeling bad about it for ages and all this talk about… cops and being honest, it’s made me realize I have to tell you. Herb will understand, I know it.’ You draw back and look him straight in the eyes. ‘Do you remember Lt. Chapham?’

‘I remember his wife sure enough.’ 

‘Yeah, well… Herbert killed him. In self-defense, he said.' You shift back and look him straight on, trying to gauge his reaction. 'And then he reanimated him and then… We both had to kill him again, earlier this year. It was a whole thing. And… and there’s something else, as well. Something I should tell you. It’s about Meg, and… Dan? Are you listening? ’

Dan is staring at you with wide eyes, not moving. He looks at you for so long that you start to feel embarrassed, to think that he’s so mad at you that he can’t even find the words. Then he looks away and you see tears in his eyes.

‘Dan? Dan, what is it? I’m sorry, I know we should have told you, we just thought it would hurt you more, and - and - look, the other thing is, late last year Herbert went to Dr. Graves’s office and he found something in his collection, something he brought home with him. Dan, it was - ’

‘ - J, I've got to tell you something too. Herbert won't like it, but... he's gonna just have to deal with it.’

'What?' You pause, slightly irritated at the interruption. 'In a second, Dan, this is important. Herbert stole - '

'You're dead, baby.' He shudders as he speaks, so the words only hit home when he says it for the second time, in a voice filled with ashes and dust. 'You're dead.'

Chapter 12: INTERLUDE: blood makes noise

12 - interlude: blood makes noise

October 12th 1985 - the day of the Miskatonic Massacre

I.

You’re on your way out of a seminar when Dr. Hill catches you.

You don’t recognize him at first; you’ve obviously never been taught by him and you had in fact only seen him once before in your life. You'd glimpsed him from afar at Meg’s house, just a sliver of his profile through the open dining room door, and hadn't liked what you'd seen. Meg has told you about the innumerable dinners she has suffered through with Dr. Hill clearly undressing her with his eyes - those clear, cold eyes - and when they fall upon you it’s hard to restrain a shiver. 

‘Miss Marsten, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ you answer, guardedly. Clutching your books to your chest you glance around, uneasy. Your classmates have all disappeared down the corridor and no one is around on the deserted floor. It’s just you and Carl Josiah Hill. ‘Can I help you with something, Doctor?’

‘Perhaps you can,’ Dr. Hill purrs. His voice is like fine brandy, rich cream; the brandy laced with cyanide, the cream hiding razor blades. His cologne smells a lot like your Dad’s but the way his eyes are looking you up and down is anything but fatherly. You shrink away, just a little; he notices and his lips curls, as if he has won some kind of bet. 

‘How is that?’

‘You live with Daniel Cain. And, recently, the two of you have been joined by Herbert West.’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ you nod, trying to subtly put as much space between you and the doctor as possible. 

‘What can you tell me about Mr. West, Miss Marsten?’

‘Uh… No much. Sorry. I barely know him.’

Dr. Hill’s eyes narrow. You feel… something. A sense of giddiness, perhaps. Looking into Hill’s face is a little like looking into the sun - do it for too long and you start to feel faint. His eyes are cold as ice; they’re on fire, they make you feel like you’re burning from the inside out.

‘You take English Literature, correct?’ he asks, seeming to change tack. ‘And you’re in the second year of a three year degree? So you must be studying under... Oh, the delightful Professor Gordon. You know, I could put in a word with her. Your days of essay writing could be numbered. You could pass with distinction, no effort required. How does that sound?’

‘Like cheating, Dr. Hill.'

He chuckles, showing a lot of teeth.

‘No, no. Simply a little quid pro quo. In return... I want you to tell me what Mr. West is up to.’

‘Up to? I don’t understand. He - '

‘Oh, I think you do understand. Don’t play dumb with me, girl. I know the wild stories Cain spun for the Dean, before Halsey had that unfortunate accident. Dead cats returned to life, severed limbs which move and jump... I know something is going on in that house, and I intend to find out what.’

‘They aren’t wild stories.’ You stick out your chin, defiantly. ‘They’re true. Everything Dan has said is true. My cat was dead. Then it wasn’t.’

‘The cat was brought back to life? I see… Fascinating… How, exactly? And what of the Dean?’

You go quiet, aware already that you’ve said too much.

‘You will tell me,’ Hill says, not a request but a statement. His voice is smooth and gentle as the guillotine. He takes several steps towards you and you back up, feeling the cold press of the wall against your shoulder blades.

‘Why should I?’ You're surprised at how strong your voice sounds, because you feel anything but. A fog seems to have come over your mind, strange creeping tendrils worming their way into your thoughts and pulling them apart at the seams.

‘Your brother is a researcher at the University of Maine, isn’t he? In the field of Astrophysics. I have a lot of friends at the University of Maine. I'm thinking of one in particular, Dr. Edward Pretorius, who heads that department. We are both part of a…’

He hesitates for a brief moment, eyes glinting like small wet stones. ‘A gentleman’s club, shall we say. A very exclusive one. And at UMaine, he is a very influential man. Do you think Dr. Pretorius will want the brother of a madwoman working under him?’

‘A madwoman?’

‘My dear girl, you have just corroborated Cain’s claim that he and West have brought dead matter back to life. It all sounds quite insane.’

‘But I thought - I thought you believed me!’

Dr. Hill smiles nastily.

‘I do. Oh, I do. Perhaps Pretorius would, too - he has seen a great many things which other men don't dare to dream of - but he'd still fire your brother like a shot, if I gave the word. And perhaps I should also have a quiet chat with Professor Gordon about your suitability to study here at Miskatonic.’

'You can't do that!'

'I beg to disagree.' Hill's eyebrow quirks, a challenge. You feel nauseous.

'What do you want from me?' you plead, your voice cracking. 

You almost whimper aloud as Dr. Hill moves closer to you, close enough for you to count every one of the pores on his face. You take a shaky breath and all that floods into your lungs is his smell, cloying, sickening you. His smile only grows wider - wider and wider - and then his lips are at your ear.

---

II.

You fret your way through your last class of the day, toes tapping frantically as the lecturer drones on and on about The Woman in White. When you're finally free you drive home way over the speed limit and screech into the drive at 666 Darkmore so fast you almost knock over the mailbox.

It's already dark but you don't stop to flick on the lights as you barge through the front door and make a bee-line for the basement, dropping your books carelessly to the ground as you go.

Herbert is down there; so is a whole lot of blood. It’s on the floor in a great puddle and it’s on him, covering his shirt and splattering his face.

He's unconscious, sprawled across his desk, and you don't even stop to think as you run to his side and try to raise his head off his pillowed arms. You don't have any first aid training and maybe everything you're doing is wrong, but you feel like you've got to do something.

'Herbert?' you cry frantically, slapping at his cheeks. 'Who hurt you? Herbert? Please wake up. Oh, God. Oh, fuck.'

He mumbles something and begins to stir. His hair is plastered to his sweaty forehead and, unthinkingly, you take his face in your hands and wipe his sopping brow in an attempt to soothe him. His eyes open but his pupils are slipping around the room, unfocused. Then he sees you.

'Jean?' he mutters, voice thick with sleep and confusion. 'Jean… Was ist mit...  What happened? Where's Hill?' 

You feel a lead weight drop into your stomach. It's like all the air is sucked out of the room, taking all sound with it, leaving only the blood rushing in your ears. 

'Dr. Hill was here?' you ask, numbly.

'I... I was just…'

Herbert trails off, sits up, feels around on the desk for his glasses. You pluck them up and shove them into his hands; he replaces them and then he freezes, his gaze on the opened refrigerator behind you. Something dawns behind his eyes, some terrible comprehension.

'My work. My work! He's taken my notes, my - my serum! It's gone!'

His voice climbs with every word and he's almost shrieking, more distressed than you've ever seen him. He launches himself off the stool he was sitting on and drags the door of the refrigerator back, gaping into its tomblike emptiness, making little mewling sounds of misery.

You come up behind him and put your hand on his arm, meaning to comfort him; he whirls around to face you with a manic rage in his eyes and you take a frightened step backwards. Your foot collides with a spade which is laying beside the desk, its handle and blade stained with dark blood, and you only save yourself from tripping over by grabbing onto Herbert's outstretched hand. You feel your palm becoming sticky under his. Tacky, rust-colored.

'It's gone, Jean!' he says again, as if he doesn't think you truly understand the depths of his horror. 'He's stolen it!'

'Herbert, you've got to calm down and tell me what happened. You're saying Hill came to the house?'

You look uneasily around at the puddle of blood on the floor, at the scarlet splatters which drench Herbert's otherwise immaculate shirt, and a horrible note of suspicion chimes somewhere in the back of your mind. He follows your gaze and trembles, shivers like a tree in a high gale. 

'Yes, but he's… he's gone, now,' he answers, teeth chattering. 'It seems like he had to… to head out.'

Something about what he's just said seems to amuse him and he lets out a strangled, yelping laugh which turns into a cough. 

Doubling over, Herbert runs a hand through his hair - spreading blood liberally as if it were pomade - and expels a series of shuddering breaths. You feel sick, sickened, like you've gone quite mad. If you have, it seems like Herbert's gone right along with you. 

'Listen, Herbert...' you begin, reaching out again to cup his face and bring his eyes up to meet yours. For a moment you just stare at each other. You're struck by how lost he looks; as if, in that moment, he's just waiting to be told what to do. Told that everything will be okay, like a child. You would never usually touch him like this but, in this moment, it feels right. Feels like what he needs. 

You're just opening your mouth to say something more - anything, anything which will make that scared, childlike look on his face go away - when Dan comes clattering down the basement steps. 

'Jesus Christ!' he exclaims, looking at the blood, at the destruction, at you and Herbert in the middle of it all. 'What the hell happened here?'

Herbert pulls away from you and shoots you a look which, in the moment, you interpret as embarrassment. 

'It was Hill. He came down here and threatened me - threatened to make both of you disappear - if I wouldn't give him my notes. He tried to blackmail me for my work, Dan,' he whines, wrapping his arms around himself protectively, as if the very thought of giving up his work is like physical pain. ‘My work!’

'He beat Herbert up, Dan,' you butt in. 'He was unconscious when I got here. He looks like shit. No offence,’ you hurriedly add to Herbert, who darts a quick glance from you to Dan, his eyes narrow and oddly blank.

'Hill.' Dan spits out his name like a rotten tooth, nodding slowly. 'That bastard. Oh, God. That’s why he did what he did to Halsey…’

‘You’ve seen Dean Halsey?’ Herbert asks, and you blanch. The memory of what had happened to Meg’s dad - who’d always been so kind to you, so welcoming at their house - makes you sick to your stomach. Dan waves a hand at him distractedly.

‘Yeah, he - he lobotomized him. In case he tried to talk, I guess. So he could pass your work off as his own. I knew he was insane but I didn’t realize he was this dangerous… I need to warn Meg.'

'Meg?' Herbert repeats, shrilly. 'What does Meg have to do with this?' At the same time you’re saying:

‘Dangerous? What do you know, Dan?’

'Hill's got some weird file on her. It's full of hair and napkins and photographs,’ Dan says, answering you both, his jaw clenching. You make a noise of disgust. 'I think he's projected some kind of psychotic need onto her!’

'God! We've got to go to her, now. What if Hill gets there first?' you exclaim, already making your way towards the stairs. 

Herbert snorts with laughter. You stare at him, shocked into silence.

'I shouldn't worry about that. He's not in any condition to do Miss Halsey much harm. As long as she keeps her head around him, that is.'

'What do you mean?' Dan demands, rounding on Herbert, whose snorts of mirth have grown into a hysteric cackle. In the moment you're afraid Dan is going to strike him and you jump forward, preparing to get between them if it comes to blows. ‘What are you laughing at? What the hell’s funny about this, Herbert?’

Dan gives Herbert a small shove and, in the face of Dan's ire, Herbert let's something slip which you'll never forget. 

'I had to kill him!' he exclaims, shrinking back. Dan blinks.

'What? Hill's dead?' he repeats, thunderstruck. You feel like you've had the wind knocked out of you for the second time in minutes. The blood, you realize, isn't Herbert’s at all. Holy shit.

'Not anymore,' Herbert grudgingly admits, and you take a few steps backwards from them both. You barely register Dan grabbing Herbert, shaking him and yelling at him, or the short sharp argument that follows. 

Your stomach is a heavy mass of lead, your breath is stuck in your throat and you can only whimper, tremble, try to keep from vomiting. This is all my fault, you think, head spinning. This is my fault. You go to sit on the basement steps, head in your hands, and you only stir when you feel a presence beside you. 

'Jean? You okay?' Dan asks, putting an arm around your shoulders. You look up at him uncomprehendingly. 

'Yeah,' you answer, your voice sounding very far away. You notice Herbert looking at you from across the room, his thin fingers worrying at the bloodstained sleeves of his shirt. His expression is tense, apprehensive. You turn your face away.

'I told Meg I'd see her tonight,' you murmur, getting unsteadily to your feet. 'She doesn't want to be alone, after everything that's happened. We're going to have a… a sleepover, like old times.’ You realize you sound pretty out-of-it, dreamlike, and make an effort to ground yourself. ‘I think I'll go there now.' You just want to be as far away from this house as possible.

'Okay, that might be a good idea,' Dan agrees, giving you a little squeeze. 'Herbert says Hill will come back here later tonight, to finish the job.’ He shoots a dark glare at Herbert; you don’t look around to see if it is returned. ‘So I’d feel a lot better knowing you and Meg were safe at her place. Go straight there and lock the door when you get in, okay?'

‘That’s pretty male chauvinist, Dan. Like you think I can’t take care of myself,’ you grumble, with an exhausted smile. He bows his head. 

‘Yeah, well, you and Gloria Steinem can give me the lecture tomorrow, when we’ve taken care of Hill. I just want you and Meg to be locked up tight tonight. If that makes me a pig, so be it.’

'So what, you two are just going to wait here for Hill to show up?'

'That seems to be the extent of the plan,' Herbert snipes from across the room.

'But what will you do when he gets here?'

Dan doesn't answer; instead he picks up the shovel which is laying on the ground beside Herbert's desk, its blade sticky with drying blood. He hefts it in his hands, a thoughtful expression on his face, and you understand.

You leave without another word, just a really long hug with Dan and a quick vague wave at Herbert. You hope that by the time the night is over this will all turn out to be a dream, some terrible nightmare, and your next sight of your housemates will be smiling over breakfast as it nothing has happened. But that won't be the last time you see either of them that evening. 

---

III.

A few hours later you and Meg are sitting in the living room of her house - the Halsey Mansion, as you always privately think of it - drinking cups of hot chocolate with generous jots of whisky. Meg is crying, telling you all about what she and Dan had found in Hill’s office; about how Hill had gone behind her back and lobotomized poor Dean Halsey; about how she still loves Dan, despite everything she thinks he’s done to her family. 

‘I just don’t know what to do,’ she’s saying, sniffling into a tissue. ‘I know I should hate him, but I just can’t. I love him so much.’

You pat her back, trying to be supportive, still feeling in shock yourself. You haven’t told her about Hill’s death. You think it will only make her break down again and, what’s more, Dan and Herbert seemed so sure that Hill will be dealt with that very night, once and for all. What’s the point in frightening Meg when there’s no danger to her? 

‘Oh, Meg, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I guess if you feel that way about him, maybe it can work out?’ 

Meg shakes her head rapidly.

‘No, no. It can’t. Not now. Maybe he should just go away; move schools, leave Arkham. Maybe that’s for the best. That's what Daddy thought. Maybe - '

You never get to find out how she was going to end that sentence. That’s the moment a great hammering starts at the door, thumping and banging.

'No, Meg!' you exclaim and grab her arm as she jumps up to answer it. 'Don't! Keep it locked - you don't know who could be out there!'

Meg shakes you off and goes to the door anyway, looking at you like you've lost your mind. You hurry after her, casting around for anything that could be used as a weapon if the late-night caller is Dr. Hill's reanimated corpse.

'Who is it?' she calls and glances at you, her eyes very wide and very blue in the dim light.

'It's me!' Dan's voice is enough to make you faint with relief. You hang back as Meg hurries to unbolt the door and watch as Dan comes piling through, sweeping her up into a bear hug. The door slams shut behind him but none of you think to pull the bolt home. He looks like hell, you marvel, feeling fear and doubt creep back into your mind.

‘Oh, Meg! Jean! God, I was so afraid!’ He catches your eye over Meg’s shoulder and you pull a confused face at him; he just shakes his head in response, like he's so relieved to find you both safe that he can't even speak of it.

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ Meg asks him, extracting herself from the hug. 

‘I - I guess I was just getting paranoid,' he responds in a rush, breathless. Did he run all the way here? 'I thought you might be in danger, I thought maybe we got it wrong and he might be heading here instead - '

‘Got what wrong? Dan, who might come here? What are you talking about?’ Meg cuts across him and he looks at you helplessly, as if for backup. You’re just opening your mouth to try to bail him out when the front door, in front of which Meg and Dan are still standing, seems to explode inward.

The next few moments are a riot of disjointed images; Dean Halsey’s bloodied arms reaching through the collapsing mess of the door, his battered and lumpen face looming out of the dust and the darkness; Dan throwing a punch at him and being batted easily away against the wall, blood bursting from the point where his head hits the plaster like pus expelled from a zit; Meg backing away, pleading with her father as he advances upon her.

'Daddy! Daddy, no! Please!'

You don't hear her. Your ears are ringing and the only noise that breaks through is the high pitched whine of your own blood rushing in your head. You try, dazed, to make your way over towards where Dan is sprawled on the floor, to check if he’s okay, if he’s 

(please God no please no)

dead, but that puts you in Dean Halsey’s path, means that you’re between him and Megan. Bad idea.

As you cross in front of him he grabs you, his meat-gray hand bunching in your blouse, and he half-drags, half-throws you across the hall. Your head hits the hall table with a resounding crack. 

Before you lose consciousness you see, through drooping eyelids, the image which will be seared indelibly on your brain for years to come. What you’ll always see when the night stretches on forever and sleep seems like an unknown country.

Meg is hanging over the back of her late father’s shoulder as he carries her away, her pretty blue eyes stretched so wide in her pale face that she looks more like a Death's-head than anything of flesh and blood; she's a doll, cast forever in a visage of horror and misery; her expression seeming to say, still without sound, forever and ever Amen: Daddy, no. Daddy, no.

---

IV.

It’s Herbert’s face you see first, when you come round. He’s looking down at you, his face floating as if disembodied in the gloom. You realize he’s got his arms around you, propping you up, and you struggle into a sitting position.

‘Jean? Jean, come on...’ he’s saying, looking very white and very strained. He’s all you can see; there's nothing beyond him, as if you’re the only two people to exist in the world. His glasses slip down his nose a little as he cranes over, his dark hair falling into his eyes and hiding their expression.

Your alarm at his actions earlier that evening are forgotten. In that moment, seeing him there and feeling his touch as he eases you up against the wall, you feel like crying and throwing your arms around him, sobbing with relief to be alive. 

‘Herbert?’ you mumble, your hand going to your head. A lancing jab of pain shoots through you, like an ice pick has just mashed through your eye socket. You moan, feebly, and slump back down. 

‘Oh no, you don’t,’ Herbert tuts and pulls you upright again. He withdraws a small flashlight from some hidden depth of his jacket and holds it up first to one eye, then the other; you bat him away, protesting, but he nods to himself and makes a small satisfied sound. 'Good, no concussion,’ he murmurs, pocketing it again. ‘Very good. You’ll be alright.’

‘Dan!’ you suddenly cry, remembering him. You jerk up but Herbert puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder, staying you. 

‘Don’t worry about him. He’s fine,’ he answers, glancing towards the double doors which lead to the Halsey's living room. You think his expression looks a little bitter, a little triumphant. ‘He woke up before you did. He’s resting on the couch.’

‘Thank God. Herbert… it was Dean Halsey, he - he took Meg…’

‘I know,’ Herbert nods, businesslike. ‘Dan told me. We’re going to the hospital now to fetch her back.’ He doesn’t sound overly pleased about this plan of action, although in your confused state you barely notice. ‘Can you stand?’

You can; you struggle to your feet, finding the shakiness ebb away after a few moments, and look around at the destruction of Meg’s front hall. You’ve spent so many happy hours in the Halsey home, it feels like seeing your own house be ripped apart.

‘Jean, this is very important.’ Herbert takes your arm and holds it tight, binding you; his grip is firm and his palm feels hot on your skin. You look down at it and see, for the first time, the almost perfect outline of Dean Halsey’s handprint in blood on the front of your blouse. It’s darkening, drying to a dull brown, but it still makes you think - bizarrely - of fresh pomegranate juice. 

Herbert sees you staring at the stain and snaps his fingers in front of your face, regaining your attention. ‘I said, this is important. Home is four blocks away. Do you think you can drive? Ordinarily I would never advise you to do so in this condition, but the alternative - walking out in the open and exposed - could be far worse.’

‘I think I can,’ you mumble, craning up at him. He looks more serious - and more frightened - than you’ve ever seen him. He nods, briskly.

‘Good. When you get in, lock the doors. Lock the windows. Don’t open up for anybody. I mean it, this time. Dan and I have a key and when we return we'll let ourselves in. Is that understood?’

‘Yeah, I guess, but - Herbert - I want to come too. Meg’s my best friend, I want to come, what if she needs me, what if - ' You’re beginning to babble and he takes your arm again, giving you a small shake. You snatch it out of his grip and glower at him, rubbing it petulantly.

‘You aren’t needed,’ Herbert says shortly. It’s blunt and to the point, and it hurts like hell. ‘You have no medical training; you’ll only get in the way. Meg,' he spits her name like it's a curse, 'will most likely be hysterical enough, without you slowing us down too.’

‘Jesus, Herbert,’ you mutter, shaking your head. You choose not to pick a fight about his words; some things can wait. ‘You make it sound like you and Dan are going into battle.'

He doesn't answer. You stare at each other for a second, like you're playing chicken, and you break first. You rub your face with your hands and when you remove them he's still looking at you, saying nothing but his lips parting as if he is about to speak again. 'What the hell are you staring at?' you ask him, more forcefully than you intend, and he stiffens.

'Nothing,' he mutters, and then Dan is there and he's hustling Herbert out the front door. 'Remember: lock the doors!' Herbert calls back to you; that is his goodbye.

'Don't worry, J,' Dan throws over his shoulder, giving you an unconvincing nod as he hurries out into the dark night air. 'Everything's gonna be okay.'

But he’s wrong; it’s not going to be okay.

---

V.

When you get back to the house on Darkmore it’s about 11pm. The streets are quiet, eerily so, and it feels like Dean Halsey’s come to carry off every other living person in Arkham. Bats swoop through the scant sheets of light afforded by the streetlights and disappear under the gambrel roofs of the houses which line your journey home. The October air is still, and cold, and full of breathless anticipation. 

You shut the curtains, lock the doors and windows, and settle in to wait. And wait. And wait. You check the clock over the mantle periodically; midnight. 1am. 2am. 3am. Finally, when you had started to dose and lost track of the advancing hours, there’s a scraping sound at the front door. You jump up off the coach, a jolt of terror running through you like a live current.

In your mind’s eye, frantically scanning the room, you see Dean Halsey smashing his way through, his bruised and bloodied arms reaching for you; you see Meg, her bright eyes turned dull and unseeing, advancing upon you like a lifeless automaton; then it’s Dan and Herbert, coming home to you with murder in their hearts. Somehow, the thought of Herbert’s reanimated corpse distresses you more than anything else. 

You’re on the verge of running to snatch up a knife from the kitchen, anything to defend yourself, when the door opens and you see it is Dan and Herbert. Not dead but alive, gloriously alive, and as they come through - Herbert first, Dan less than a step behind him - you run to them and throw yourself into their arms. You grab Herbert around the waist with one flailing arm, Dan around the shoulders with the other; Herbert goes stiff whilst Dan returns your embrace slowly, absently, as if he’s an old man.  

‘Dan! Herb! Oh, my God, I’m so glad you’re okay,’ you cry, sobbing into Dan’s chest. Neither of them say anything at first. You just stand there, the three of you in the doorway, and then Herbert hesitantly says:

‘... Miss Marsten? Jean?’

and, ridiculously, you realize you just called him Herb and feel embarrassed. Then the tone in his voice comes through to you. It’s leaden, dull, full of exhaustion and horror. You draw back, then, and catch the expression on Dan’s face.

It’s waxy-pale, his skin slick with feverish sweat and streaks of gore. Your stomach drops. For the first time since they got in you take in Herbert’s clothes, which are likewise drenched in ropes of fresh blood. You think of Meg, of the empty space here where she should be.

‘Dan, what happened? Where’s Meg? Did you take her home?’ you ask him, shakily. You ignore Herbert, who seems to be trying to get your attention, his face grim and tight.

Looking at him too long would mean acknowledging the bloodstains on him, the flecks of gore on his glasses, the small dark wound above his right eye you can glimpse from behind his shifting hair. That looks like a burn mark, you think, then file that away for another time.

Dan’s not looking at you; he’s staring at a point on the floor just beside your feet. Then you say his name for a third time and his eyes meet yours and, in that moment, you know that Meg is dead. You’ve never seen eyes like that before; so empty, so full of pain. 

'I couldn't save her,' he mumbles, his voice tinny and slight. 'I tried… I brought her back, and I tried… but… it didn't work. Why didn't it work? Why didn't it... work?'

What he's truly saying finally sinks in. You let out a horrified cry but clap a hand across your mouth, trying to hold back the inevitable tide of tears. That won't help anyone right now. That's not what Dan needs. 

Pulling Dan with you, you make your way over to the couch and sink down onto it. You hear Herbert moving quietly around the room, shutting and locking the front door, locking out the world. 

This is our castle, you think. We’ve always lived in it and it’s ours. Perhaps if we lock the world out, none of this will have happened. Hill will be alive, Meg will be safe at home, and none of it will be my fault.

Slowly, Dan comes alive a little in your arms and allows you to hold him. He doesn't say another word. You become aware that Herbert has left the room and come back again; he’s cleaner, the gore gone from his face and in a fresh shirt. That small wound on his brow bone is covered with a band-aid. You look up at him and gesture for him to sit beside you; he does, so you’re all squeezed onto the couch together, with you in the middle. 

You remember a time only a few weeks previously when you and Dan had sat like this watching Robert Wise’s The Haunting, a bowl of popcorn and several bottles of beer between you, and Herbert had made one of his brief trips up from the basement to fetch himself some food. 

You’d called him over and Dan, quite tipsy, had yanked him down onto the couch and insisted he join you for the last half hour of the movie. He’d protested; you’d ignored him. The three of you had sat in the dark, the light from the TV flickering across your faces, and although it had been cramped you’d started to feel like Herbert was really part of the household. Of the family. That, of course, had been before Rufus. Before Dean Halsey. Before all this death.

The three of you sit like that for hours, until you start to hear the early-morning traffic on the road outside and realize that the dawn has come and gone. Dan has fallen asleep in your arms, his head on your shoulder, and you’re hesitant to move and disturb him.

You look around and see that Herbert is also awake and watching you both. You smile at him, weakly, and he gives you a curt little nod which you think is the closest to a smile you’re going to get out of him.  

‘He’s asleep,’ you whisper, redundantly. ‘I really want to try and get some rest too, but I don’t want to leave him here alone.’

‘I’ll stay with him,’ Herbert murmurs, glancing across at Dan’s impassive bulk. His eyes have a softness to them as they rest on the other man, something a little like tenderness - or regret.

‘You sure?’

‘Well, I can’t carry him to his bed. And I... owe it to him, I think.’

‘But don’t you want to get some proper sleep too? In your own bed?’ you press him, although you're already easing Dan off you and rising to your feet.

‘No,’ Herbert answers, reaching into his pocket and turning something over inside. ‘I don’t need - I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.’

You nod, uneasily, and your eyes go to his pocket and what he’s concealing there. Dan had told you the day before about how he’d come into Herbert’s room and found him shooting up the reagent. The idea concerns you, to put it mildly, but your brain is too frazzled to even begin to unpack all of that tonight.

‘Okay. Thanks, Herb.’ You reflect that you’ll probably never feel close enough to call him by that pet name again. But, on this terrible night, it feels permissible. It feels right. You watch him as he shuffles a little closer to Dan, regarding him with uncharacteristic gentleness.

'You really care about him, don't you?' you breathe. He doesn't look up at you but rather keeps his eyes on Dan's sleeping face as he replies:

'Yes, I do. He's been a... friend to me.'

'A friend,' you repeat in a low whisper. Something about the way Herbert had said it makes you feel like there's something else, something he isn't quite saying. Then you're thinking of your friend, the woman who is missing from this touching little scene, and your words catch in your throat a little. ‘If I asked you what happened out there, tonight… What happened to Meg... Would you tell me?’

Herbert pauses, finally turns his head away from Dan to take you in. His eyes rove over your face for a moment, that softness still burning there, then he looks away. As he speaks his hand goes for a moment to that band-aid on his forehead.

‘Not now. But tomorrow. I will, tomorrow.’

'The truth? Everything, all of it?'

'Yes.'

You nod, slowly. 

‘Okay. Thanks, Herb.'

He does a quick little shrug and his mouth twitches, like he's in pain. You decide it's definitely time for you to go to bed.

'Goodnight, then.’

You make your way slowly along the corridor to your room, catching one last glance of your two housemates bookending the couch as you go; one sprawled against the armrest, the other sitting bolt upright and staring at something you’re sure no one else can see. 

Chapter 13: unaware / I'm tearing you asunder

13 - unaware / I'm tearing you asunder

August 10th 1987 continued

You blink, his words not registering with you for a second. It’s like he’s spoken in a foreign language, one you recognize as similar to your own but cannot quite grasp. 

‘What did you just say?’

Dan drags a heavy sigh and goes to rub his face, stopping himself as he notices the blood dripping from his gloves. He yanks them off, looking disgusted, and throws them to the spotless floor with two wet little splats. You stare down at them as he begins to speak again, his speech slow and terribly clear to you now.

‘You died. When Chapham’s wife attacked you, she - she didn’t just hurt you. She… She pulled out your Goddamn heart. Herbert had to reanimate you on the spot. He found another heart from - from Christ knows where. You were... it was like you were an animal, like you’d forgotten how to be human.' His voice frays at the edges, like he's fighting back tears and losing the battle badly. 

'We brought you back here and kept you safe… We didn’t know what to do. Then a couple weeks ago Herbert thought of dosing you with reagent every day, and it worked. You came back to us and he's been doing it ever since, you know... But… You’re not… You...’

You slide to the floor. Your knees connect sharply with the ground and at the back of your mind you think

( pain that's pain how can I hurt if I'm dead?)

but it's a distant thought, like lightning far out at sea. Bolts of electricity arcing down towards the waves as a storm brews miles from the land, unnoticed and unheeded.

Somehow, you had known. Even if the confirmation hurts more than you can ever have imagined, you had known. The blank maelstrom of your inconsistent memories; Herbert's recent protectiveness and unwillingness to let you out of his sight; the scar cracking your sternum in half, which he had tried so hard to heal; the hunger, the awesome hunger, only sated now that a man lies dead on the floor. It all comes together. 

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but find you can still taste Eric on your tongue, coppery slick, like an open wound. You close your mouth, feeling something building deep within you, something so loud and violent that you're afraid to move. When you move, you think, it will slip out of your control. You feel like you've been punched in the chest, like your heart has been torn to pieces - which, you suppose, is exactly what happened.

A memory is dancing on the edge of your vision, threatening to overwhelm you; a memory of pain, of screaming, of being lifted high into the air as you struggle and bleed; of a throbbing red apple grasped in an old woman's hand. You push it away, focusing on the moment before you. On your rage, on your anguish.

Dan is speaking again. He comes over to you on shaky legs, kneels down beside you and tries to pull you into his arms.

‘I’m sorry, J, I really am… I just can’t… I tried to make him tell you but he wouldn’t, he said… Herbert said…’

You shove him away. All your strength goes into it; this new strength which you just used to break a man’s bones as if they were bread sticks. Really, you think, that should have been a clue about the whole being dead thing. Dan flies across the room, thrown as if he weighs no more than a child, and his flailing foot knocks over the bucket holding Eric’s remains. They spill across the floor, a spreading rose of entrails and viscera.

‘Ah, shit!’ he cries, picking himself up gingerly and trying to avoid the pool of blood. ‘What the hell, J?’

‘Don’t touch me. Don’t even… Don’t even look at me, Dan,' you snarl, voice breaking, turning your face away from him in disgust. 'You knew? You knew this for… for weeks, and you didn’t tell me?’

As you speak you get unsteadily to your feet and advance on him, not caring that he takes a step back from you, not caring that you see a flash of fear spark low down in his eyes. Good, you think, let him be afraid. Let them both be afraid. I'm the monster now, after all. 

‘I told you! I wanted to! But Herbert - ’

‘Fuck Herbert!' You cut across him deliberately, chewing on the words and spitting them out raw. 'You’re my best friend. I’ve known you since the beginning. You're like… You were like a brother to me. How could you go along with his lies?' You take a quick breath and land the killer blow. 'What would Meg think?’

You see the hurt register on his face and feel a savage kind of satisfaction, strange to you and unwelcome.

‘It wasn’t like that, I didn’t - ’

‘If I’d known, I could have stopped it,' you growl, wrapping your arms around yourself and feeling a great shiver welling up through your bones. 'I would have… I would've thrown myself into the fucking Miskatonic River before I let this happen, before I killed a person. I’m a murderer now. I can never take that back. And neither can you.’

‘It’ll all be okay, like I said, we can fix this, we can - ’

The phone rings. Both your eyes go to it. Its mundane, electronic blat seems alien in this moment of blood and pain. Dan takes a nervous look at you and then goes over to it, stepping carefully around the puddle of gore.

‘Hello?’ he answers, keeping his wary eyes on you as he does so, like he doesn’t trust you not to sneak up behind him. You hear Francesca’s voice on the other end, small and tinny and full of fear.

‘Daniel? Daniel, it’s me.’

‘Francesca? Honestly, sweetheart, it’s not a good time. I’ll call you back.’

‘No! You’ve got to listen to me. I’ve been asking around about that guy who’s been stalking you. Eric Averill?’

Dan’s eyes widen in shock and horror. Your hand lashes out and you grab the counter, digging your nails into its hard plastic surface, leaving deep grooves. You feel faint, like you’re about to pass out; you feel more powerful than you ever have before, newfound strength pumping through your veins.

‘Eric Averill? What about him?’

‘You have to be wary of him, Daniel. Don’t let him in the house, don’t even talk to him. He’s bad news. There’s some link between him and Dr. Graves - ’

‘ - Wilbur Graves, from the hospital?’

‘Yes! There’s something going on between them, something… Bad. He won’t talk to me but there’s something there. I think it’s bigger than just the two of them. And… Daniel?’

‘Yes?’ Dan answers, the hand not holding the receiver going to rub his eyes. You see a smudge of Eric's blood high on his cheekbone and feel like you're going to throw up.

‘There’s something else; he’s Chief Inspector Moreland’s nephew. The Chief of Police. He’s got connections, amore mio. Tread very carefully.’

Dan drops his hand. His eyes meet yours. Then, as one, you both look down to the stinking mess of Eric’s bodily remains, which are still at that moment seeping into the floor. There's a long silence.

'Shit,' you say. It's the best you can do.

'Amore mio? Are you still there?'

‘Hold, please,’ Dan croaks into the receiver, his tone oddly bright. Then he slams it back onto the hook without another word, looking distant and hazy, as if he's hoping this is all part of some awful nightmare. It’s at that moment that you hear a key in the front door and feet wiping on the doormat.

‘Jean? Dan?’ Herbert’s voice carries from the hall. You turn to look that way, then back at Dan. There’s a pause where time seems to cease. Then you’re both racing for the door.

‘Herbert! Herbert, there’s been an accident!’ Dan is yelling as he runs. He’s lagging behind you, his usually impressive speed no match for you now, and you reach Herbert first.

He's unbuttoning his coat and as you both get to him he turns, an amused and perturbed expression on his face. His lips are moving to form a question but then his eyes drop down to the blood you're covered in, to the rubber apron you're wearing, and his features freeze in shock.

'What - ' he manages to begin, and then you're upon him.

'You bastard!' you cry as you shake him. 'You brought me back! You knew I'd rather die! I'd rather die than come back as some kind of monster! Some kind of killer!’

His glasses, shaken loose from his face, fly off and clatter to the ground. The sound is terrible in the ponderous hush that follows your words. 

‘So you know.’ It’s a clipped mutter, as if he’s only commenting on the weather. ‘Perhaps that’s for the best.’ 

Herbert drops his coat on the coatstand slowly, deliberately, and keeps your gaze as he does it. His expression is blank, his eyes cold and unflinching as they bore into your own. You, on the other hand, are spitting with fury, squaring up to him and gathering yourself up to your full height. Dan hovers in the background, almost forgotten.

‘Yeah, I know. No thanks to you. How could you, Herbert? How could you?’

‘How could I?’ Herbert’s answer is quiet, so quiet you almost don’t hear him over the pounding of rage in your ears and the loud thump of your own heart. 

(But it's not your heart, is it? it grew from the soil of another person's body, deep in the rich loam of their nerves and their blood and their flesh Oh God)

‘How could I? Oh, my Herz. That really is beneath you.’ He turns towards Dan and has the temerity to raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Did you also tell her, Dan, that she was gone for a mere three minutes? Less than some on the operating table?’

‘But people on the operating table haven’t usually had their hearts ripped from their fucking chests!’ you roar, moving to shake him again. Then his hands are on you, pinning your arms to your sides, his face only inches from yours.

‘No! But you did! So what was I to do? To lose you forever? To just let you go?’

‘Yes!’ It’s a scream that echoes throughout the old house, around the gravestones beyond it. ‘Don’t pretend you did this for my sake! You did it because you’re a coward. You didn’t want me to leave you because you’re a coward and now you’ve damned me forever!’ 

Your anger and pain are too much, so all-consuming you can hardly breathe. Your chest is heaving, your heart - that borrowed organ, bartered or pawned from God knows where - beating so hard you can scarcely stand it, your breath dragging in and out of your lungs like unholy fire.

‘That’s not fair, J,’ Dan interjects from the corner. You round on him and actually snarl.

'Like hell, it isn't!'

‘It’s not true, either,’ Herbert murmurs, ignoring your outburst, a gentle touch to your chin bringing your face back around to him again. ‘I brought you back because you deserved to live. There's your answer. The universe had judged that you should die and yet I had judged that you should not. Who is there to say that I was wrong? God?' He lets out a bitter laugh and you recoil; he doesn't seem to notice. 'No. No, His will has no part in this. In you and me, in our lives. His will is immaterial; my will is all that matters.' His voice rises to a crescendo, his tongue lapping around the words like they're the sweetest love song. 'So yes, I reanimated you. And I am not sorry. I would do it again, today - and tomorrow, and every day if I had to. You are my proudest achievement. You are my one true creation.'

You stare at him. 

'What am I, Herbert?'

His brow wrinkles in confusion. It's clear that his words haven't had the effect he was expecting them to.

'What do you mean? I just told you - '

You don’t allow him to finish.

'Am I... alive? Or am I dead? Dan says I'm dead, but I feel… I feel. So what am I?'

'Yes, of course you're alive,' he answers as if the question is ridiculous. 'Your brain is active, of that much I'm certain. Electrical impulses surge through it. Your heart is beating - stronger, now, than ever. You can think, and speak. You have motor function - '

'But will I grow? Will I get old? Can I change?'

'I don't know. I think not, but I shall need to study - '

'No,' you snarl, 'you just don't care. That's the truth, isn't it? You've turned me into a monster - and you don't even care. I'm just an experiment to you, aren't I? Just another one of your projects!'

He stares back at you, his face impassive as carved marble. He doesn't tell you you're wrong. He doesn't argue with you. He just watches you, a small frown playing around his eyes, his mouth set and pursed in a line. Somehow that only enrages you more. 

‘You’re nothing!’ you yell into his face, the face you know so well, the face you love and thought loved you. ‘It’s you who’s dead, not me! You’re so cold, like… like you're frozen, a corpse on ice! You have no love, no warmth! You're nothing!'

With that you tear out of his grip, wrench the heavy front door open and run out into the cool air of the night.

Chapter 14: like an energy / rushing inside of me

14 - like an energy / rushing inside of me

“We only live, only suspire

Consumed by either fire or fire.”

- T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

December 20th 1985

'So this is goodbye, then.'

Herbert’s lips barely move as he speaks the words. You look from him to Dan, who is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, uneasy in the cold air outside Terminal E at Boston Logan International. Your breath hangs in front of your faces in icy huffs, your hands thrust deeply into coat pockets and scarves pulled high over exposed flesh. 

Herbert's eyes are still on you and you feel them caress your face, chilly as the weak winter sun which peers out from the clouded sky. The odd flake of snow pirouettes from that vast emptiness, clean and pure and soon to be trodden under dirty feet.

'Yeah,' you mumble, looking down at the ground, feeling sudden tears close to the surface and hating them. 'I guess it is.'

'We'll call every chance we get. And write too,' Dan supplies, offering you a thin smile. It's the best he can manage, you know, and you appreciate it all the more for the effort you know it is costing him. Smiles have come very seldom from Dan since that terrible night two months prior, and you think that every one must cut him like a razor blade.

'You'd better. I want to hear all about Peru.'

'We aren't going on a vacation, Jean. We'll be in the middle of a warzone. There won't be time for us to send you postcards.' 

Herbert's interjection is reflexive, spasmodic, like it has been jerked from him against his will. Dan rolls his eyes and looks away; you glance up and catch the hurt and confused expression on Herbert's face as Dan does so. There have been a lot of similar expressions between them in the time since the massacre.

'I know that,' you reply, evenly. 'But I want you to keep in touch. I couldn't stand not to hear from you for the next six months. And it’s Christmas. I - '

The words I'll miss you catch on your tongue. I'll miss you, I need you, I wish you could stay. You bite them back. It's best that they leave, you know; better for Dan to be away from Arkham for a time, away from his memories of Meg and the nightmares which wake him screaming in the early hours. And better for Herbert to be away from the still-ongoing police investigation. 

(So far, Herbert’s work has escaped serious scrutiny from the police. Mostly, you think, because they simply can’t believe that the massacre had been committed by anything other than ordinary, flesh-and-blood people. Because the thought that the undead had killed Meg, Dr. Hill and Dean Halsey was just too out-there to occur to the police, at least in their waking moments. 

But Herbert’s irascible nature and the argumentative tone he takes when interviewed isn’t helping him, and he feels it’s for the best for him to remove himself until local interest in the case has died away. Luckily, a former French colleague of Herbert's from Switzerland has made contact with an invitation to participate in Doctors Without Borders, providing them with a much-needed excuse to - as Dan puts it - 'get the hell out of Dodge'.)

You are dragged back from your reverie by Herbert’s voice.

'I'll send you the money to make a deposit on a new place for us.' Herbert says this with an air of reconciliation, a little sniff and a furtive glance towards the ground, and you realize keenly he is trying to make peace.

'So you still want to live together next year?' you ask, genuinely surprised. You haven’t discussed it openly. You glance at Dan and see him shrug, look away as if it doesn’t concern him at all.

'Of course. Dan and I will return to Arkham in the summer, ready for our final year. Don’t…’ Herbert trails off, his mouth moving as if he is trying out new words in a language he isn’t yet fluent in. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be back with you before you know it.’

‘We better get going, Herbert,’ Dan interjects, looking at his watch. He doesn’t look at Herbert when he says it. 

‘Yeah, you should. Goodbye, you two,’ you say, trying to hold back tears and throwing your arms around Dan’s neck in a fierce hug. He holds you too, in a firm and reassuring hug which casts your mind back to a happier time.

‘I’m gonna go ahead and check us in,’ he says as he pulls back, grabbing up his case and heading off in the direction of the entrance without looking back. Herbert’s eyes follow Dan’s retreating form, moving over the other man’s resolutely-turned back, then shiver away from him with a little jolt. 

He regards you instead, a little warily, as if sizing up whether you, too, will turn and run from him.

‘I will write,’ he murmurs, a small frown playing around his dark brows. ‘Of course, I will.’

‘I know you will, West.’ You smile at him, wipe away a few traces of the tears threatening to fall. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’ Your nervous little laugh dies in your throat - it doesn’t seem like a joke, somehow -  but Herbert’s mouth curves in a small smile of his own.

‘Noted,’ he says, dryly. 

Beats of silence.

‘You’d better hurry, or you’ll miss your flight.’

‘There’ll be others.’

‘But Dan’s on that one.’

You watch each other. He’s only a few paces away from you, close enough to touch, but the distance feels like a vast expanse. It’s snowing in earnest now, the flakes building up in the air and clouding his features. You think you should go, should turn and walk away, leave him to himself. Then he stretches out a hand.

‘Uh… Have a good Christmas. I’ll see you again.’

His voice is soft, almost sweet. You take his hand and it’s warm; you shake, such an oddly formal gesture compared to the violent emotions roiling inside your chest.

‘Yeah, you will. I’ll miss you.’

It slips out too fast for either of you to take it back. You can’t read his expression; his glasses are fogged, the snow in your eyes. You think he’s about to speak again, to make some reply, so you jump away before he can.

‘Have a good journey!’ you call over your shoulder as you hurry away, holding your hand curled close to your chest as if it’s burned.

---

Christmas Day, 1985

‘I'll protect you from the hooded claw

Keep the vampires from your door…’

‘What’s eating you, Gremlin?’ Michael asks, sitting down beside you and laying his hand on your shoulder. His voice is serious and his wide, dark eyes are unusually grave. You see yourself in those eyes; in his face a mirror of your own, before terror and grief had done things to you.

‘Nothing.’

‘When the chips are down, I'll be around

With my undying, death-defying love for you…’

The sounds of the radio come washing over you from within the cosily-lit house. You’re on the outside, perching on the edge of your parent’s back porch, watching the slate-gray ocean heave sluggishly in the distance. You used to love sitting here as a child, listening to the far-away waves and feeling the salt breeze on your face.

But it’s a cold evening, and only growing colder. There are dark stormclouds sweeping in from the sea and night is settling down on your shoulders.

‘You can bullshit Mom and Dad but you can’t bullshit me,’ he says, pointedly. ‘Something’s up. Is it some guy?’

‘Mike, it’s nothing, okay? I just…’ You trail off. How can you explain how you’re feeling, even to the person you trust most in the world? How can you encapsulate the guilt and the horror of seeing Meg’s eyes staring back at you over her father’s shoulder as he carries her away from you, every time you lay down to sleep?

‘It’s not just some guy, is it? Something’s happened to you.’

He hops off the porch and crouches down in front of you, knees in the dirt so his face is level with yours. He looks as afraid as you’ve ever seen him.

‘Jean, if somebody… did something to you at that fucking college, you tell me and I’ll - I’ll fix it. I promise. I’ll fix him.’

‘It’s not… You can’t do that, Mike.’

‘Fine. Then I’ll go straight over there and I won’t leave until the Dean sees me and I’ll tell him - ’

‘You can’t see the Dean. He’s dead.’

Michael blinks. 

‘What? Megan’s dad?

‘Meg too.’

This time he gapes at you, mouth dropping so wide it's almost comical.

'Meg's dead? What the hell are you talking about?'

The dam breaks, then. Tears come pouring down your cheeks and you can't stop the sobs welling up in your chest, hitching your breath and thickening your words. 

'She - she - she - it was awful, Mike, it was awful…' You fall into his arms and he hugs you, your face in his shoulder, his hands patting ineffectually at your back and your head and your arms. 

You tell him all about it. Not the whole story, of course; just the highlights. Some patients went rogue and killed the Dean, Meg and Dr. Hill. Your housemates Dan and Herbert had been there, and barely escaped with their lives. Michael listens, and holds you, and asks the occasional question, and holds you, and makes comforting noises, and holds you. 

Eventually he murmurs, 'Why didn't you say anything, baby?'

'Didn't - want - Mom and Dad - to - to - worry,' you hiccup, trying to get your breathing under control. 'You've got to promise not to tell them.'

'Jean, you've got to tell them, they - '

'Not until after Christmas! Please!'

'Okay, okay. But I really think you should tell Dad. I think he’d get it.'

‘No, Mike. No one gets it. No one apart from…’ You falter, Herbert’s name on your lips, left unsaid. Michael stares at you. It’s getting really dark, now; you can barely make out the shape of his familiar face, the set of his turned-down mouth.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

You sit together in the chilly shadows of the late evening, listening to the waves in the distance and the sounds of your parents inside the house. The radio’s playing the Jackson 5 and little Mikey is singing about how he saw his mother kissing Santa Claus. You hear your own mom laugh at something your dad has said, and the clattering of plates. 

Soon it will be time to go back inside, to have a meal together and eat dessert and drink coffee and to act once again like your world hasn’t completely fallen apart. But not yet. For now, you can sit with your brother’s arms around you and be outside that world.

‘Come on, Gremlin,’ your brother says at last. ‘The wind’s picking up. We’d better get in there.’

The spell is broken with Michael’s words. You sigh, knowing he’s right.

When you make your way back into the warm glow of your parents’ sitting room you feel much too hot, uneasy, like you’re under a microscope. Your father is at the table rolling himself a cigarette, your mom putting out the placemats. You take your seat in silence, trying not to look at your brother - whose eyes are now so full of pity and worry for you - or at your father, who is starting to look the same.

‘Sweetie, what’s got into you?’ he asks after a time. 'You look damn near like you've seen a ghost.' You don’t glance up. Michael jumps in, desperately trying to change the subject.

‘Hey, Dad, me and the guys were thinking of hiring a boat sometime and going over to Little Tall Island - just for the day, y’know? What do you think?’

‘I think,’ your father answers in a measured tone, keeping his eyes on you, ‘that’s a stupid idea. Ain’t nothing out on Little Tall in the winter.’

Michael closes his mouth and looks irritated. You keep your face down. Your father pauses to lick the cigarette he’s formed under his calloused fingers and then pats his pockets for his lighter.

‘Can I tell you a story, sweetie?’ he asks you abruptly. You glance up, surprised.

‘Yeah, I guess,’ you shrug. He grunts and launches straight in, his native Maine accent coming out stronger the longer he drawls on. 

'It’s about my dad's brother Hubie. Well, sorta about him, more about me.’ He makes a sound a little like a dry chuckle, although without much humor. ‘Hubie died when I was a kid. My dad and him, they weren't close. Hubie killed his wife, then he hanged himself, so… Not exactly a part of the family we liked to write home about.’ 

He sighs and looks past you, out the window. The night is black outside and all you can see is the three of you reflected back in the glass, translucent as ghosts.

‘My dad took me out to Hubie’s place, after, to clear out his stuff. This must have been, oh… the late 30s. We drove out to this tiny little town on the other side of the state. Weird place, it was. Insular, a little backwards. It burned down about ten years ago, matter of fact… The whole place just went up in smoke for no reason. But it was empty by then, all the people moved out. Weird, like I said.'

He pauses to light his cigarette before continuing. 

'Uncle Hubie's house was right on the edge of town. High up on a hill, this house was, staring down at the townspeople like… like a vulture, or something. That's the best way I can describe it. Like the house was watching, waiting, licking its lips. Ready for the day the town would drop dead and it could just swoop down, and - '

'Vultures don't have lips,’ Michael interjects, somewhat rudely, earning a sharp look from your dad.

'The point is,’ he continues, deliberately. ‘This house… it was bad. Like it had always been bad, like whatever bad stuff my uncle had been up to - and make no mistake, he had been up to some bad stuff, had Hubie Marsten - had sort of… bled into the walls and made them rot. Like damp, but… damp of the soul. If a house can have a soul.'

‘What’s this got to do with me, Dad?’ you ask, dully. He acknowledges your impatience with a nod.

‘I’m getting there, sweetie. So I was playing around whilst my dad was packing up some of the old stuff Hubie had laying around - some photos from when they was kids, some jewelry my mom had been promised in the will from Aunt Birdie - and I went upstairs. I went out of sight. Further than I should’ve gone. The place had left to rot and some of the floors were unstable. But up the stairs I climbed and I went into one of the bedrooms. Dark, it was, windows clotted with dirt. So I pushed open the door and I went inside and I saw…’

Your father’s eyes glaze, the past pulling on them, drawing his gaze away.

‘What did you see?’ Michael presses, interested now.

‘A man. Not old, not young. Early 50s, maybe, his hair slicked down and his moustache trimmed thin like a pencil. Wearing a smart suit that was twenty years out of fashion. He was just standing in the window, looking out, relaxed as can be. When I opened the door he turned to look at me. And he… He smiled. ’

‘Who was it?’ you ask, curious now despite yourself. ‘Dad?’

Your father grimaces and shakes his head.

‘I’d swear, honey, it was Uncle Hubie himself. Like he was welcoming me to his house. Welcoming me home.’

You pause, digesting this. Your heart has started to beat a little faster and there’s a humming in your head. Distantly you think you can hear a voice calling to you. A voice that’s floating on the ocean wind that blusters around the house, dancing on the edge of your hearing. A frightened, deathly voice. 

You push it away.

‘But he was dead,’ you say, a little too loudly, trying to speak over the rush of your own blood in your head.

‘Ayuh, he was.' Your dad makes a little grunting sound, deep in his throat. The clattering of plates in the kitchen has grown quiet; you know your mom is standing still, listening through the closed doors at what is being said.

'What happened next?' Michael breathes.

'I screamed,' your dad continues, with a shrug. 'I closed my eyes and yelled my little head off. My dad came running… and when he got there Uncle Hubie was gone. And I got a spanking for being such a fool. But I'll never forget his face. Or his smile.'

He pauses, shivers, and takes a sip of his coffee. The wind howls and moans outside the windows, the storm upon you now.

'You asked what this had to do with you - well, I'll tell you,’ he says, fixing you with a searching look. ‘I spent years trying to tell myself that this didn’t happen. Years denying it. I was too old for the draft - thank God - but I knew guys who went out to Nam and came back… affected. Shell-shocked. That’s how I was after that day in Uncle Hubie’s house. I couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t acknowledge it, almost to myself even. Now, though? I think it did happen, for sure. I think I saw him that day, even though it makes no sense.’

‘So what are you saying?’ you ask him, feeling a creeping sense of dread. The voice has grown louder now, insistent, and you can’t ignore it anymore. You see blood-red hand prints on a silk blouse and hear that voice on the wind - and it’s Meg’s voice, of course it is, and she’s screaming Daddy no, Daddy no.

Your dad pushes his chair back from the table and makes his way around to you, placing his hand gently on your shoulder. His eyes are old, and kind.

‘Something’s happened to you, sweetie,’ he says, slowly. You feel tears begin to well, not yet falling. ‘I can tell. Something’s changed in your eyes. It’s like my eyes changed, after I saw my Uncle Hubie. I didn’t think anyone would believe me - that they’d say I was crazy, not right in the head. That these things don’t exist.’

‘What things?’ asks Michael, doubtfully. 

‘Things from… Beyond, I guess,’ your father answers, simply, then gives a little laugh. ‘It sounds odd to say it out loud. But whatever it is that you’ve seen, Jean… You can talk to us.’

You reach up and take his hand, squeezing it tight. Across the table from you Michael is staring hard at the floor, a stress line creasing his forehead. He looks lost in thought and you wonder where he has gone behind his eyes.

Your father’s given you a lot to think about, too. You can scarcely believe the story he’s told you - you’ve always known him as such a practical person, steady and methodical. To hear him talking about the Beyond, whatever that might mean, has completely floored you.

But you know he’s right, a small part of you whispers. These things do exist. And you’ve seen them.

‘I mean it, Jean,’ he continues, seriously. ‘You can tell me anything.’

Blood on a white blouse. Dean Halsey’s blank, dead eyes. His twitching hands reaching out for you.

‘I know, Dad,’ you lie, and offer him a strained smile.

---

October 20th 1987

'She isn't here, Herbert.' 

Dan’s voice carried across the water, dark and reflective as a sheet of glass. For a moment there was no other sound but the creak-creak of the few boats which bobbed at anchor and the gentle lapping of water against their hulls. A rat scurried out from a hole and sped through a puddle, visible in the narrow beams of their flashlights as only a fuzzy streak of black fur.

The three of them were in Innsmouth, at the old disused harbor which was once just another busy port along the Miskatonic River. Until the 1970s it had been a working dock and their presence would certainly have been noticed, but it had closed to trade in 1978 and only serviced tourist’s pleasure cruisers these days. It was, at that time of night in the bitter autumn chill, totally deserted. 

'Daniel's right, West. It's getting late - and it’s cold. Let's go home.' Francesca hummed an irritated little sigh and rolled on the balls of her feet. She was standing some way from the water’s edge, back by her car and under a dim streetlight. She had left the door open and the keys in the ignition, more out of hope than any real expectation that their visit to this dark and grimy harborside would be brief. 

None of their trips ever were.

‘No, he’s wrong. I’m sure she’s here! She must be!’

Herbert was a lonely figure at the end of the wharf, his silhouette pooling with the shadows which swam around him; he looked small to Francesca, like he had shrunk with the disappointment of once-again hitting a dead end. He stared out at the water, at the far-off banks of the opposite side of the Miskatonic river and the lights which reflected in its surface. Those lights were Dunwich, Francesca knew, or possibly Ipswich; certainly they meant warmth, and comfort, and home.

‘I know you said you… felt her here, but Herbert - we’ve looked everywhere. She’s not. Okay?’ Dan said, making his way over and slipping an arm around Francesca, who leaned into the touch. 

‘I didn’t feel her here, Dan. I saw her here.’

‘In your dreams?’ Dan asked, doubtfully. Herbert sighed. He still hadn’t turned to face them and Francesca huffed, beginning to feel impatient. 

(She had agreed - two months ago, now, and it felt like years - to help Dan and Herbert search for their missing housemate, because she had liked Jean and was alarmed at the idea of her out there in the world, all alone. But, like most things with her boyfriend, nothing about that simple request had been what it seemed. 

‘Why can’t you report her missing to the police?’ she had asked Dan that first night that he had come to her apartment, his eyes wide and his hands shaking, talking about Jean and a fight and Herbert being beside himself.  She remembered vividly the look he had given her, and how frightened it had made her feel. Her complaints about him avoiding her for weeks and then showing up in the dead of night - skin scrubbed raw and with his hair still soaking wet from the shower - had died in her throat.

‘No cops. We can’t - we can’t go to the cops. Okay? Promise me, Francesca,’ had been his grim reply.

‘Why? Is she in some kind of trouble? Tell me, amore mio. I can help! Do you forget I am a journalist?’

‘I haven’t forgotten. Just… please. Promise me.’

She had promised, and had since made innumerable trips to a series of dead-ends. They had searched everywhere they thought Jean might flee to; the campus, her friend’s houses, even - for reasons Francesca didn’t understand - the mortuary. Dan had driven with her to Ogunquit to speak with Jean's parents, not sure what story he would tell them even as he drew up to the house. They had both been shocked to hear that Jean had called Mr. and Mrs. Marsten at some point in mid-August to tell them she was going to study abroad for a term in Europe, and not to worry if they didn’t hear from her for a while.

‘That was right, wasn’t it?’ her father had asked Dan and Francesca on the doorstep, peering up at them somewhat anxiously. ‘Because it did seem kind of funny to us, kind of… sudden. And she sounded… a little off. I trust you, Dan. Is everything okay?'

‘No, that… that’s right,’ Dan had hastily covered, trying to process what he’d just heard. ‘We just swung by here because we were in the neighborhood… Meeting an old schoolfriend in Wells, you know? I knew Jean wouldn’t be here. Don’t you worry.’

They had begged off from eating a meal with the Marstens and driven back up the coast to Arkham at 90 mph, taking the turns on the coastal road at a break-neck pace, Dan almost wishing he would crash and break his neck and be done with the whole nightmare. If it hadn’t been for Francesca in the car with him, perhaps he would have done it.

Except Herbert would probably bring me back, he thought, glumly. He’d find me and drag me back to life. And then I’d never be done. 

That had been the night they had started searching further afield. They’d scoured the neighboring towns, gone door-to-door in Kingsport and Dunwich and Bolton, and had spent weekend-after-weekend in Boston tramping the streets handing out flyers with her yearbook photo on them, along with a blurry reproduction of a photo of Jean, Dan, Herbert and Dan’s late girlfriend Meg all dressed up for some sort of horror show (Francesca was hazy on the details).

They’d searched almost the whole Miskatonic Valley, in fact. No one had seen Jean. Or, at least, no one would admit to it. The folks of Arkham and surrounding areas were reticent, though, a closed-mouthed people who seemed unfamiliar and alien to Francesca in her openness and desire for the truth, so it was hard to tell how much of their blank-faced denial was genuine or illusory.

And then there was West. West, tramping the rain-lashed streets with his mouth set in a grim line. West, barely speaking as he grew paler and grimmer as the weeks passed. If even Dan’s friendly countenance couldn’t coax information from the people they spoke to, then West’s aggressive questioning and wild eyes only made them clam up further.

Francesca still wasn't sure how she felt about West. His heartbrokenness at Jean's departure and his desperate, single-minded dedication to her return had thawed her frosty-feelings towards him somewhat, but she still found him decidedly creepy.

Now, watching his impassive back on the edge of the night-black waters of the Miskatonic, she thought he looked like a lost child, waiting for someone to come home who never would come again.)

'In your dreams?' Dan said again, as if by repetition it might start to make sense.

'Yes, in my dreams,' Herbert replied, testily. 'Last night.' He spun around for the first time and Francesca had to suppress a shocked gasp. He seemed to have deteriorated even further with this new disappointment. His eyes had become darkly-circled hollows of madness and his skin was sheened in sweat. 'I saw her standing here, by the water's edge… I was so sure she would still be here…'

‘But she’s not,’ Dan said, sounding exasperated. ‘Come on. This is another dead end. I want to find her as much as you do - ‘

‘Oh, I doubt that,’ Herbert interrupted waspishly, and Dan threw up his hands. Francesca watched the two of them, her eyes darting from one to the other, thinking not for the first time that they were like a bickering old couple, sometimes, more than two friends.

'Whatever! But Herbert, you need to be sensible.'

'I am being sensible! I offered you a perfectly reasonable theory earlier and you waved it away…'

Dan looked taken aback. He advanced on Herbert, drawing him aside with a firm grasp of the elbow and looking nervously over at Francesca. He said something she could only hear snippets of. 

'... told you Herbert… that's not… reports of … can't be… by now… that Derby woman must have…'

Francesca frowned, her journalist’s mind filing these words away for later revisitation. Derby? Where had she heard that name before? She edged closer, trying to look like she was studying her nails too intently to listen.

‘She doesn’t have her serum, Dan. You know what that means. She won’t be able to control it. It’ll be like it was with - ’

Herbert caught sight of Francesca over Dan’s shoulder and scowled, slamming his mouth shut. Dan glanced over and a strange expression passed across his face to see his girlfriend within hearing distance. 

He looks guilty, thought Francesca. But for what? And where do I recognise the name Derby?

'Francesca and I are leaving,’ Dan said, angrily, shaking his head and cutting their surreptitious conversation short. ‘You can ride with us - or you have a very long walk home. Your choice, Herbert.’

With that, Dan bounded over to the car and slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door. Francesca hurried to hop in beside him and watched Herbert through the rear-view mirror. 

He looked back towards the water, tense and straight-backed as a dancer, then seemed to deflate. His shoulders dropped and he seemed to let out a sigh, although she couldn’t hear him from this distance; perhaps it was a moan. 

She glanced at Dan beside her. He was tight-lipped, glaring straight ahead at the path the headlamps cut in the dark shadows. She reached out a hand and touched him.

‘We’ll find her, amore,’ she said, and his answer confused her.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ he murmured. Then the door in the back opened with a sudden click! and he jumped, as if a gunshot had gone off in the small cab.

‘Drive on then, Dan,’ came Herbert’s voice from the back, tight and low. Dan needed no encouragement. In seconds they were gone from that place and then there was only the soft lapping of water, the creaking of the boats, the small scurrying sounds of rats and other low creatures in the shadows. 

Several minutes passed.

Slowly, cautiously, a shape rose out of the water, close by where Herbert had been standing. A pale hand was thrust upwards and something pulled itself onto the wharf, barely causing a ripple in the wine-dark Miskatonic. The newcomer stood to its full height and froze perfectly still, head crooked to the side. 

An observer might have said that it seemed to be watching something in the distance - the far-away headlights of a car dwindling into nothing, perhaps - but of course, there was no one else there to see. 

No one could have seen this and lived.

It wavered for a moment on the water’s edge, watching, watching. And then it too was gone and only the sounds of the rats remained.

---

EXTRACT FROM THE BOLTON EXAMINER, SEPTEMBER 17th 1987

NO LEADS IN DERBY CASE: WOMAN FEARED DEAD

The husband of missing local woman Asenath Waite-Derby, 56, has told the Examiner he believes she is dead.

Mrs Waite-Derby has been missing since August 26th and sources close to Bolton P.D. have suggested that the force are at a loss to explain her sudden night-time disappearance.

Edward Derby, her husband of thirty years, said: “The police aren’t doing enough to find my wife. How can a woman just vanish from her bed in the middle of the night? Whether she’s alive or dead, I just want to know where she’s at.”

When asked if he believes his wife has been killed, Mr. Derby answered that he does. 

“But how the b****** got to her is anyone’s guess,” he continued, in colorful language. “I didn’t hear a thing. It’s like she’s just been swallowed up.”

Bolton P.D. have refused to comment on their ongoing investigation apart from to say that they are not linking this incident to the disappearance of two young men in Kingsport last week, which is also being treated as unexplained at this time. 

Chapter 15: heat lightning / I give it up to you

15 - heat lightning / I give it up to you

June 1986 - Arkham 

It seems like no time before you’re back at the airport, this time in the dry hum of a summer heatwave. The sun is trapped behind a heavy wall of gray cloud and the air has no give in it, stifling your throat and pressing a headache into your temples. 

A storm is approaching, you think as you lean against the door of your Delta and squint up into the sky. Or perhaps we’re in the eye already.

The past six months have been

(hell)

difficult for you. You were excused from taking your examinations in January because of the events of the previous term, and your professors have been as understanding as they possibly can be, but they don’t understand. That’s the problem. No one understands what you’ve been through - no one apart from the two men who were three and a half thousand miles away. 

All you can do is wait for them to come back to you. Wait and try to survive until they do.

Dan and Herbert’s flight is due in at 2pm and, sure enough, at two-thirty you see two figures striding out of the Arrivals gate and hustling towards you. In front is Dan; gloriously tanned, his hair longer than you’ve ever seen it and his eyes lighting up with joy to see you. He grabs you up in a big bear-hug and spins you around, knocking the wind out of your lungs.

‘J!’ he cries, happily, and you bury your face in his shoulder, breathing in his familiar smell. ‘God, I missed you. Did you lose weight?’

You swat at him, laughing, and he sets you down with a grin. Compared to the dark mood he’d left Arkham under, this happy mood is like light and day. But you’d been expecting this, to some extent - his letters had gone from perfunctory and grim to hopeful and excited in the past six months he’d been in Peru, and you think the introduction of a certain reporter named Francesca Danielli has a lot to do with that change. 

(For the first few months they’d spent in Peru the letters were infrequent and when they’d come they’d been in Dan’s scrawled hand, dirty fingerprints on most of the pages and barely a mention of Herbert to be found. Occasionally there’d be a postscript in the other man’s cramped handwriting, though - something like: 

P.S. Dear Jean, I hope you are well. Please find enclosed a check for five hundred dollars, for use as a deposit on a house. Remember that a basement is ESSENTIAL and remoteness preferred. Regards, Herbert.

and there would be a check, often with bloodstains decorating the edges. A couple times you’d received phone calls from Dan, made crackly and indistinct by the distance, and those times were the worst because you could often hear gunshots and yells in the background. Once it had been Herbert’s voice on the line.

‘Herbert, is that you?’ you’d mumbled into the receiver, checking your bedside clock and seeing it was 3am. ‘I was sleeping.’

There’d been a long silence and you’d almost hung up.

‘Forgive me,’ he’d said eventually, his voice sounding thin, somehow insubstantial. ‘I suppose I just wanted to hear… It was nothing.’ Then the line had gone dead.)

‘She looks exactly the same size to me, Dan,’ comes a tart voice from behind you now and you feel a thrill of recognition wash over you. You savour it before you turn around to see Herbert, standing just out of arm's reach, a look of bemused impatience on his face. 

He's tanned too - though nowhere near as deeply as Dan - and his sole concession to the stifling heatwave is to have removed his black jacket, which is slung over his free arm whilst the other drags a khaki case stamped with the words ‘Médecins Sans Frontières’ . He seems to have aged in the months you’ve been apart; his face a little more careworn, the lines beside his mouth just a touch deeper. 

'Gee, thanks, Herbert,' you reply, rolling your eyes. 'It's good to see you again, too.'

He acknowledges you with a small nod and a quick, slightly stilted smile, then looks expectantly at Dan, waiting for him to make some reply. But Dan ignores him, brushing over the moment as if he hasn’t heard, and you see the fleeting look of confused hurt on Herbert’s face as Dan turns away. 

‘I have so many questions for you two! How was your journey?’ you ask, looking from Dan to Herbert. Herbert opens his mouth as if to reply but Dan jumps in, waving your question away. 

‘Fine, fine - hey, where’s your car?’ he asks, turning away from the other man, and you’ve got no time to wonder at the frosty atmosphere between them. 

When they’d left Arkham more than half a year ago they’d been barely on speaking terms, but you’d expected this to have thawed by now, especially in view of Dan’s lightened mood. How the hell have they managed not to have patched things up after six months with only each other to rely on?

You try to catch Herbert’s eye to make some sort of sympathetic expression but he’s studiously fiddling with the clasp on his case, suddenly very interested in it and not at all in Dan, who is sweeping you towards the Delta.

You drive them back to Arkham much too slowly, relishing the experience of having them both with you again. The Delta moves through the historic downtown at a crawl and you watch Dan in the passenger seat beside you as he stares up at the red-brick buildings you pass, the slate gray spires of the churches, the familiar people bustling about their days on the sidewalks. His face is carefully blank, any recognition he feels kept carefully in check. A signpost points to the Miskatonic University campus and then another for the General Hospital, and it’s only then that you see him wince, his eyes darkening. 

Talking about the house you’d picked out for the three of you is your attempt to distract him, but you don’t think he’s listening. You’d warned them in your letters that it was a former mortuary but it seems this hadn’t fully sunk in for Dan.

‘Jesus, J, it’s in the middle of a cemetery!’ he cries as the car trundles up the drive, past the rows and rows of graves. He leans across you and cranes his neck up at the large, gothic house which looms above you.

‘This is very near the potter’s field,’ comments Herbert from the back. He sounds pleased. ‘It’s a perfect location.’

‘Yeah, I guess,’ you answer, slightly uncomfortable, and meet his eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s got a basement, like you asked for. It used to be a mortuary.’

‘Does it have a furnace?’ Herbert asks as you swing the wheel around and park, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. 

‘The realtor said it used to do cremations, so… uh… sure, yeah, I think so,’ you answer, a little unwillingly. You avoid Dan’s eyes - he looks troubled, suddenly - and jump as he suddenly slams open the passenger-side door and leaps out.

He leans back into the cab, holding out his hand for the keys, and when you drop them into his palm he hurries up the steps to the front door, muttering something about ‘wanting to settle in’. You’re left sitting in the car with Herbert, looking up at the old stone building and wondering whether things will ever be normal between the three of you ever again.

---

The house really is perfect, you reflect as you settle in that first day. It’s 19th century and spacious, the ceilings high and the woodwork dark and polished. It came furnished and you’re not sure about the tastes of the last guy who lived here - it’s a little fussy, like an old lady’s sitting room, all doilies and floral patterns and over-stuffed pink couches. But it could be a home, you think.  

You’ve already chosen a room on the ground floor which clearly used to be a storeroom but is large and well-lit, and Dan claims one directly above. Herbert takes the room next door but mutters that he expects to spend most of his time in the basement, where he’ll set up his research. There’s a sign reading Embalming Room above the door which leads down to it, which you try not to think about.

‘You did good, J,’ Dan says, giving you a one-armed hug when you, he and Herbert regroup in the kitchen. Herbert smiles, thinly, and says nothing. He’s said very little ever since their plane arrived, in fact. He turns away to open the refrigerator and frown at the contents within.

‘Thanks,’ you reply, and give him a reproachful little poke. ‘But enough about me. I want to know about Peru. I want to know…’ You trail off, realizing that the enormity of all you want to question is just too large. Your voice becomes small. ‘Everything. Tell me everything.’

You see Herbert’s back stiffen. He doesn’t turn around. Dan looks uneasy and rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze.

‘Everything like what? I already told you most of what happened out there.’

‘Bullshit, Dan,’ you reply, surprised at the vehemence in your voice. You cross your arms and glare at him and the back of Herbert’s head in turn. ‘I want to know what I missed while I waited at home for you, all these months.’

‘Okay,’ Dan replies, raising his hands and fixing you with a defiant look. ‘Fine. You want to know? It was hot. Very hot. There were a lot of bugs. We got shot at. That’s it. That’s all.’

‘That can’t be all,’ you protest, looking at both men and feeling your irritation rise. How could they abandon you for half a year and then expect to pick back up as if nothing happened? ‘What did you see?’

Dan opens his mouth as if to speak, then swallows hard and takes a step closer to you. You fight the urge to step backwards. Something in his eyes looks lost. It frightens you.

‘We saw… Jean, you really want to know? We saw people hurt,’ he says, voice low but rough and harsh. ‘Their arms hacked off with machetes. We saw kids playing in the streets with no shoes on, laughing kids, happy kids, kids with nothing, kids whose parents had been killed. We found an indigenous village that had been totally massacred. Women, children, old people.’ His cheeks fill with color, his eyes with tears; you open your mouth to speak and he shushes you, a finger raised, as if to say you asked, now you’re gonna get . 

‘We saw stars - so many stars, the nights were so dark. We went hungry. We got bored, sometimes. Days when nothing happened. We met people from all over the world. Doctors, soldiers, reporters... We saw terrible things. We saw all the world. Well, I did. I don’t know where Herbert was most of the time.’ 

Here he pauses and looks directly into Herbert’s eyes, you think for the first time since they got back to Arkham. Herbert glares back; something passes between them, something unspoken in the air.

‘I never shirked my responsibilities, Daniel,’ he says, icily, raising one of his dark eyebrows. ‘I pulled my weight. I stood beside you as we were fired upon. I sewed up wounds and carried the corpses. I saved your life, didn’t I, when we came under attack by those guerillas?’

Dan shakes his head, not to negate what Herbert is saying (you think) but seemingly involuntarily, a manifestation of some deeper denial.

'Oh, yeah,' he chuckles mirthlessly. 'Big surprise there. When there's the prospect of a dead body, you come running. But how about the rest of the time? How about when I needed to talk to you about her, about…'

Dan trails off, his voice catching. It’s like he suddenly remembers where he is - looks around at the kitchen, at the two of you staring back at him - and flinches with surprise. Then he waves a hand and walks out of the room, leaving you alone with Herbert. You look at him but he’s staring after Dan, face immobile.

You want to apologize for setting Dan off. You want to lie, to say that Dan’s mood will pass, that he will forgive. You want to reach out and touch his arm, touch some part of him and reassure yourself that he’s really here with you again. You want to

(hug him hold him kiss him)

(kiss him? what the fuck? what the fuck?)

'It really is good to see you again,' you tell him instead. He glances at you, jerked out of his reverie, and you’re shocked to see a little smile tug at the corner of his tight mouth. He looks irritated by it.

‘Likewise,’ he says, and leaves without another word. You hear the thump of his feet on the stairs and know he is heading down to the basement. He does not reappear all night.

---

The next morning you hear a knock on your bedroom door - early, no later than 4am. You rise, bleary-eyed and pretty pissed off, but when you peer out onto the landing there’s nobody there. Just a little cardboard box, no wider than your hand. It’s quivering.

Against your better judgement you pick it up, feeling the tell-tale warmth of a living creature within, and bring it inside. You place the box upon your coverlet and, with a sense of falling, pull off the lid. 

You stare at the thing inside for a long time. So long that you start to hear the sound of birds outside, to see the creep of sunrise on the wall. Then you scoop it up, holding it in front of you with an outstretched arm like something diseased, and climb the stairs to Herbert’s bedroom. There’s a light under the door, just like you’d known there’d be.

‘Herbert,’ you whisper, your voice tight and low with anger. You know he can hear you. ‘Herbert, open up right now.’

He does, and you slip inside.

‘What the fuck?’ you say, before he has a chance to speak, spinning on your heel as you stride in and pinning him with your glare. He’s fully dressed, wearing his jacket and a hunted expression. He narrows his eyes at you.

‘Most people say good morning , Jean.’ 

‘Don’t play games. You know what this is about.’ You thrust the box towards him with a moue of distaste. Herbert takes it from you without even glancing down. ‘It’s about you dumping body parts on me.’

‘It’s not just parts. It’s a gift,’ Herbert shoots back, and you physically recoil with surprise. 

‘A gift?’

‘Yes. A gift. To say thank you to you for securing this house.’

You stare at him, your mouth hanging open. Your eyes are drawn down to the still-quivering box in Herbert’s hands. Moving slowly closer you peer inside and see, once again, the strange jumble of fingers and gore - with a single green eye perching directly on top. The eye swivels up to look at you and one finger waves, cheerily.

‘A gift,’ you repeat again, your voice sounding weak and sickly to your ears. ‘Oh, Herbert.’

‘I thought it could be a pet for you. To replace the cat.'

'Oh, Herbert,' you repeat, bile rising.

'And I - I meant what I said,’ he whispers, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close to him you are standing. You can count his eyelashes, the lines beside his mouth. ‘It truly is good to see you.’

It’s too much, suddenly. All too much. You take a step back, see the disappointment register in his eyes, don’t have time to reflect on what your own expression might let slip. 

‘I’m going back to bed,’ you mutter, and move towards the door. You have your hand on the doorknob when you pause.

Silently, without looking at him, you turn back and take the box out of his hands. Then you’re gone without a backwards glance.