Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz (26 page)

“Beautiful sight, innit?”

Startled out of my sightseeing I turned to see an old man giving me a
furtive side glance as he began to fill my tank. He was a fossil
of the times, deep carven wrinkles proved evidence of decades of hard
service. Now his station was the welcoming sentinel guarding and
serving the growing town at its feet, and this was the town’s
self-appointed gatekeeper. His voice was that of a rusty door, low
and grating as if rarely used and equally frail. His steel blue eyes
looked out from deep thick brows that had long ago decided to stick
out as far from the old man’s face as possible. His hair had
ceased attempting to keep any pigment and decided to take on the pure
white of old age.

“Comin ta stay, I see,” he said in that queer accent I
would soon learn was particular to the Miskatonic valley. Having
grown up in Maine, I was accustomed to that peculiar New England
accent so nasal that deciphering every other word was the best many
visitors to the area could accomplish. Even to my practiced ear this
man’s way of speaking was difficult to understand at first.

“Why, yes I am,” I replied. “How did you know?”

“Well, not many come roun’ here too of’en. Visitin’s
not somethin’ many come here ta do.”

While staring at this fossil, I started to wonder how long he had
been here at this tiny gas station meeting all who visited this
valley. His lean and bony body hovered over the pump as it ticked
away the coins from my purse.

“Well, there’s been plenty of you folks comin’ in
o’ late anyway. So, where’s yahs plannin’ ta stay?”

“Well, the mayor has arranged to lease me Whateley Manor.”

At the mention of Whateley, the old man’s face seemed to lose
all pigment and became as white as his hair, but I tried to ignore
this as I had been warned by the realty agent of the local
superstitions behind the Whateley family.

“I’ve heard it has been re-built,” I said in an
attempt to break the awkward silence that had fallen over us.

“Much been re-bilt sin’ then,” he replied, facing
the pump in his hand but his eyes turned toward me. “Not tha’
I think tha’ place ought a’ been re-bilt. Leave it a
burn’ pile a’ rubbish I say.”

He spat out his view of the name of Whateley, and I couldn’t
figure out if he was spitting in disgust or to ward off any
ill fortune at mentioning the name. At that time, he stopped pumping
and placed the pump back in its holster and twisted my cap back on
with his other hand, which proved to be more dexterous than I had
anticipated.

“Well, that’ll be three-fifty fo’ the gas ma’am,”
he finally replied while holding out his hand. “An yah take
care out there a’ the ol’ Whateley place. You seem like a
nice enough lady t’ me. By the way, what’s yah name
agin?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t think I mentioned it. It’s
Collins. Diana Collins.”

“Well, yous take care of youself now, Miss Collins, and if you
need anythin’ at all, you just see my boy Jimmy at the livery
downtown. He’ll get you set up straight with anythin’ you
need.”

“Livery?”

“Oh yeah, forgot you city folk talk funny down there in Arkham.
He runs what you would call a … ” he paused for a second
trying to think of another name. “I guess yah coud call i’
a growsowry store?”

I laughed at his over exaggeration of the word “grocery”
but quickly checked myself afraid of offending the old man.

“Anyways, he sell more than just fruits an’ otha vittles.
You can ge’ mos all yahs need there, an if yah evers need any
work done a’ th’ house my granson is pretty good with a
hammer an’ saw. Good hard worker too. Just tell ‘em that
ol’ Joe Osborn sent yah. They’ll take care o’ yah.”

At that he pocketed the money and waved goodbye. I couldn’t
help thinking that I was going to love it here if all of the people
were like “Ol’ Joe”.

When entering Dunwich proper, one passes by one of the most iconic of
New England environs, that of a wooden gable bridge crossing the
Miskatonic, just south of the town. The constant creaks and groans as
my car traversed its span testified to the bridge being ancient of
both design and craftsmanship, but that craftsmanship was both solid
and secure.

When passing by the end of the bridge, and making the final turn onto
main street, the first impression that came to mind was how quiet and
quaint this place was. The street was cobbled in an old fashioned style that reminded me of a
painting I had once seen; a wooden, horse-drawn water wagon, which drizzled cleansing water down the street,
barefoot children playing behind it. It was a unique blend of the old country that,
unfortunately, had been dying in America with its urban sprawl and
modern ways.

On the right hand side, I saw the store that ol’ Osborn had
spoken of. In bright red and gold letters was the sign “Osborn
Sundries and Livery.” The store was small and full of the basic
needs of country life from large bags of sugar and flour, to loaves
of fresh baked bread, and fresh laid, off-white eggs carefully laid
in pallets lining one wall.

One thing that I found interesting was the fact that the local
butcher also had a stall to the side of the store, and seemed to be
doing a large amount of business. Ranging from ground beef to many
cuts of pork loins and various other cuts of meat his cornucopia of
meats seemed to be the largest draw within the store. For me the one
drawback was in the fact that though this butcher had all of these
varieties of meat, he was lacking that one source of protein that I
did eat, that being fish. This being the case, this home grown
Main-ite walked away sullenly.

Though I did not find my fish, I did find practically everything else
I needed, and many things I would never probably need but would be
quite understandable that they would carry. I found it interesting
the variety of items one would never consider necessary in the city,
but out here in the sticks would be essential. Not needing such
things, I silently bought some old fashioned sticks of licorice to
chew on while I acquainted myself with the rest of the town.

While waiting in line, I was approached by a young man who did not
fit in with the rest of the people I had seen, so far. He was at
complete odds with the town in the same way a Ford Mustang would be
out of place in a parking lot of Model-T’s. While most people I
had met, so far, were clothed in ragged denim overalls, this man had
new blue-jeans and was wearing a buttoned down India style Nehru
tunic similar to those I had seen when I had visited the
Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco. In essence, he looked like
a hippie.

“I take it you are not from around here,” were the first
words I heard him utter. I assumed it was also my own way of dressing
that pointed this out to him, but his next statement proved me wrong.

“Welcome to Dunwich, Miss Collins. I hope you enjoy it here.”

This man calling my name shocked me. Who was he? How did he know me?

“Don’t be so surprised, I would be a very poor mayor if I
couldn’t recognize my newest schoolteacher whom I personally
selected. By the way, you can call me Thomas.”

At this realization, I smiled broadly back at the man before me.
Where I had been expecting an older gentleman, at least in his
forties if not fifties or sixties, here was a man just reaching the
prime of his life

“Let me show you around, Miss Collins.”

“That is kind of you,” I replied softly and walked down
the sidewalk.

“It is quite the town you have here.”

“Yes, it is,” he said while casting side glances my way.
“Quiet and peaceful, unlike most of the country right now. You
know, I just heard there was another riot in Miami, just last week.”

“Liberty City? Yeah. I heard about it. Everything has been very
volatile lately. You know the situation in Chicago is also getting
worse, and with the convention starting next week, everyone is on
edge. Mayor Daley stated the entire Chicago police force will be on
alert throughout the convention.”

“Heh. Those Yippies are pushing his buttons. One thing I can
say about Abbie is that he is very persistent.”

“You know him?”

“Yep. Was with him when he started the Yippies in the first
place. ‘Save the world one free concert at a time,’ was
his motto. Naïve if you ask me. He continued with his Youth
Intervention Party and I returned here.”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you. What made
you start all this?” I asked while indicating the street around
me. I had already started to see signs of the peaceful integration
that Chifford had instilled in this place. It gladdened my heart to
see because nowhere else was this happening. This was truly the
heavenly condition I had heard about.

“Well, I decided to start in Dunwich because this was where I
grew up. You know, I had a class with you once, about three years
ago. You may not know it, but I am a fellow Miskatonic alumnus. I
graduated that year, in fact.”

“Really? What class was that?”

“Archeology with Doctor Kiska. You know, I saw him just a few
months ago, and he is the one that recommended you for this
position.”

“Really? I didn’t know he even remembered who I am.”

“Over here we have the town hall, where I work”

The building he pointed to was a small affair. It was only one story
with a bell tower, which resembled more of a church than a modern
city hall.

“You know, this is not a new role for Dunwich. We use to be a
secret destination of the Underground Railroad. Some people had even
started calling us ‘New Haven’ except that a few people
in Connecticut would have had a problem with that so we just remained
plain old Dunwich.”

Looking at Chifford, I could see a devotion to serving his hometown,
and his devotion to the cause of peaceful integration. It was
something I could admire in the man.

“ … and if you look up there, you will see Dunwich
Academy where you will be working”

Startled out of my meandering thoughts, I glanced in the direction he
indicated. On the top of a lone hill stood a tall stone and masonry
structure imposing to look upon even from this distance. It was grand
in nature and seemed like it had been there for ages, overlooking the
town below.

“Impressive, is it not? Took us five years to build, and at a
pretty penny too. Hard to believe it is only three years old.”

“Three years old? It looks like it has been there for ages.”

He smiled at me knowingly and laughed.

“It’s meant to. I designed it that way. I look at some of
these new schools they are building, with their red brick walls and
laminated floor tiles, and I feel they are so sterile and lifeless. I
wanted the students, who enter Dunwich Academy, to have the same
feeling I had when I first went to Arkham Preparatory School, that of
entering an austere institution where future presidents are forged,
and that they could be that next president.”

“That sounds like the kind of school I would be proud to teach
at.”

“That is why I hired you. I won’t lie to you. The reason
I have been able to do so much with this town is the fact that I own
most of it. Dunwich Realty is my family inheritance, and with us
owning so much of Dunwich, I felt it was high time for us to progress
beyond what we were, and move into a new future. What I didn’t
want was for it to be a community for the haves. I wanted it to be a
community for the have-nots. Affordable housing, good strong economy,
plenty of jobs, and the finest education available for everyone is my
goal.”

The more I heard, the more I respected this man. This was a vision
that was sorely lacking elsewhere. Instead of insulating themselves
from the
lower class
and
heathen
non-whites,
barricading their world against invasion with white sheets and
burning crosses, here they were inviting them in and asking them to
help build a new and hopefully better world. This man was practicing
what so many others in the country only talked about. If only Dr.
King would have known this man. I felt a twinge of regret thinking
about our fallen martyr who had been gunned down by that same
white-sheeted society of bigots only a few months before. Perhaps we
could fulfill his dream here.

It did not take long for me to settle into my new life in Dunwich,
and as the waning days of summer ticked away to the beginning of
school, I grew anxious. I had never really taught a class of my own,
and I was worried I had the wherewithal to handle thirty 8
^th
graders all in the same classroom. What would they be like? Would I
have enough to teach them, and do I have the ability to prevent them
from creating a Hell on Earth in my classroom? I had very few
problems during my tenure as a student teacher the year before, but I
had my mentor beside me helping me along the way. This was me on my
own. I could feel the first day rapidly approaching.

My first view of the inside of Dunwich Academy didn’t help with
my anxiety, either. Mr. Chifford had succeeded with his attempt to
creating an austere and robust environment for his new school. All
was grandiose in nature, and would have been well in place on the
campuses of Harvard or Yale, and put the small Miskatonic campus to
shame. The halls were of solid oak, a type of wood not unfamiliar to
these parts, and probably milled at the factory that lay just 15
miles to the north, as I could roughly guess of its location after
briefly seeing smoke from the factory far in the distance as I drove
in. All I remember was thinking that it must be a large facility.

Though the school itself was a little intimidating at first, I found
the faculty to be very accommodating and easy to work with. That is
most of the staff. The one man who intimidated me the most was
Headmaster Bishop, a stern man in his late fifties with a bald head
and a face that reminded me of a bulldog. For some reason some of the
older inhabitants, including some of the teachers, would call him one
of the Undecayed Bishops, but I never fully understood the meaning of
the term. I think it had something to do with an old tradition of
some descendants of the original settlers of the area remaining
“pure” from the lower class, and realized that even here
that there was still that old stigma of “class” and
“breeding.” but I never fully understood the meaning of
the term.