Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois (41 page)

Anyway, before I could fix myself the nightcap, I noticed there was a personal letter in among the bills and junk mail I’d received in the post that day.

I saw by the various stamped labels that it had been sent originally to my previous address in New Jersey where I had lived until almost ten years before, when job requirements forced me to leave there and relocate to Manhattan. Whoever sent me the message, then, must have been someone who hadn’t been in touch with me for quite some time. Tearing the envelope open, I pulled free the message and was surprised to find that it had been sent by my uncle, Giles Wilcox, the anthropologist and well-known explorer. Maybe you’ve heard of his greatest discovery, the jaw bone of Selenga Man that proved the existence of the fabled lost people of the Mongolian high country that vanished almost one hundred thousand years ago? No? Understandable. His field was rather specialized. Among his other accomplishments were his explorations of the upper Amazon jungle, the discovery of the hidden crypt of Prince Tunka-Re in the Valley of Kings in Egypt, and the excavations in the lower Gobi Desert of the hidden city of Chin.

As a result of his travels, my principal recollections of Uncle Giles’ old house was that it was crammed with strange artifacts he’d collected from all over the world. I’d spent a bit of time there in my childhood and remember the house being swathed in shadows with relics of dead civilizations and objects of blasphemous and questionable origins littering every room and hallway. There were vaulted ceilings supported by heavy oaken beams that gave rooms an oppressive, claustrophobic atmosphere, and a massive fireplace on the ground floor that was shaped in the form of cyclopean jaws gaping wide with a grate like bared fangs and a fire like the fires of Hades burning in its gullet.

My thoughts returning to the letter in my hand, I found that I was being urged to come to visit my uncle at his house at once, but without stating any specific reason. However, whatever the reason was, I suspected that it would have to be pretty important for my uncle to suddenly have need of me after so many years.

More out of curiosity, I think, than out of a genuine desire to help, I decided to leave immediately. I packed a suitcase and bought a ticket on the next train bound for Woodhaven, New York. That night was a largely sleepless one as I spent hours going over the possible reasons for my uncle’s summons. Perplexed, but eager to find out more, I finally fell asleep just before dawn.

It was approaching evening the next day when the train pulled into the region around Woodhaven. Its dense, silent woods threatened to encroach upon the few ramshackle farms that dotted the landscape and the low hills with their mysterious cairns built in the times of the Indians looked down upon the countryside with a sort of primeval decadence that lay heavily upon this isolated area of the state.

The sun was all but down when I finally deboarded and found myself upon a short length of platform where a faded sign declared that the stop was indeed the Woodhaven station. Looking at the sign, I realized the wind had begun to pick up and the rustling of the trees that lined the railroad tracks whispered suggestively in the growing twilight.

The station doubled as Woodhaven’s Post Office and after checking the ranks of mail boxes inside, I found one labeled with my uncle’s name and address. Apparently, his house lay about a mile or two up the road and, finding no transportation about, I decided to walk the rest of the way. I’d only been walking for a few minutes before I heard the creak of a wagon coming up behind me. Turning, I saw an old man in faded overalls and work shirt sitting atop an old buckboard coming up the road. The swaybacked horses pulling the wagon looked none too reliable but when the old codger pulled up alongside me and asked if I wanted a lift, I decided to accept his offer.

After he’d judged that I’d had enough time to get used to the wagon’s hard seat, the old man spoke up.

“Where yer headed fer young fella?” he said from amidst a scraggly beard.

“To my uncle’s house a mile or so up the road.”

“An’ who might he be?”

“Giles Wilcox.”

“Oh? He lost his wife a coupla weeks back, mebbe yer comin’ fer thet?” He sounded mildly interested, but I sensed some curiosity behind the words.

The news of a deceased spouse though, came as quite a surprise to me; I hadn’t known my uncle had married. With my own curiosity aroused but reluctant to reveal that I wasn’t up on family business, I decided to play along with the old man a bit.

“I was sent a telegram inviting me to come,” I said. “Uncle Giles didn’t go into any details. Did you know his wife?”

The old man thought for a minute then, apparently deciding that his response would do no harm, said, “Not exactly. She wasn’t a local girl. Don’t know how she died. Just that she did. We all saw the coffin bein’ shown in his den before he had her buried behind the house. Thet was a few weeks ago naow. A terrible thing, it happening on their weddin’ night an all.”

“She died on the very day of the wedding?” I asked, more shocked than ever. “And you have no idea how she died?”

“Well, thet there’s the mystery,” said the old man. “She fell down the stairs they say. She lived fer two days after th’ accident. There weren’t any marks on ‘er, though. ‘Course, some wags in town say she was poisoned, others thet she kilt ‘erself. Hell, I don’t know, ask yer uncle.”

I grunted some neutral reply, not wanting to get into what the local gossips were saying. But the news that my uncle, who’d always been what used to be called a confirmed bachelor, was married, even briefly, certainly was interesting news and made me all the more intrigued about my invitation.

The old man quieted after a while and soon deposited me at the end of a wooded road that led back into the forest. Standing at the entrance, suitcase in hand, I could see that the trees had been allowed to grow so far into the roadway that in some places they threatened to choke it off completely. Not without some trepidation, I began walking up the path, half expecting to be jumped by some denizen of the woods before arriving at a gate that led into a weed-infested courtyard. The old house loomed large across the clearing, crowded and almost hidden by saplings and overgrown shrubbery that had remained untrimmed for years. Clearly, my uncle had been negligent beyond ordinary neglect. He’d always kept his properties as clean and orderly as an archeological dig but now, trees were prying up the flagstones in the courtyard and the fence that surrounded the yard was falling apart. Ivy crawled over everything so that as I approached the door, I was hard pressed even to find the bell-push. Waiting for an answer, I noticed that the house itself hadn’t been painted in years and that shingles lying on the ground indicated that the roof was in need of repair as well. The branches of the old oak trees that dotted the encroaching forest began to squeak and protest in a rising wind that bore a hin

Just then, the door opened revealing a tall man standing just inside the shadowed foyer. I recognized him nonetheless as my uncle’s butler, Bruce.

“Hello, Bruce; don’t know if you remember me, but —”

“But of course master Simon. Please step inside,” he said gravely, moving aside to let me in.

“How’s Uncle Giles?” I asked without preamble.

“Not too well I’m afraid,” Bruce replied. “He’s been acting very peculiar recently.”

“Oh? When did this begin?”

“Shortly after his marriage, as a matter of fact. A condition that’s only accelerated since Mistress Ruth’s untimely death a few weeks ago.”

“I understand she died the night of their wedding; it must have been a great shock to Uncle Giles.”

“It’s not my place to say, Master Simon, but if I may, I suspect his feelings have less to do with the suddenness of his wife’s death than the strange circumstances surrounding it.”

“Strange circumstances?” I asked, recalling my conversation with the old man on the road. “What actually happened Bruce; Uncle Giles never even mentioned that he was married in his letter to me. There seems to be an air of mystery surrounding the whole relationship with his wife.”

“The master has never been one to talk about his personal life with anyone,” said Bruce. “But I’m sure he deeply mourns the loss of his wife and would surely not want to profane her death by having it publicized. If you want any more information than that, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want you to abuse your position as an employee.”

“Thank you, sir. And now your bag sir?”

“Oh, sure.”

Bruce led the way up the curving staircase to the shadow haunted rooms above, our feet making little noise as we walked along the carpeted stairs and hallways. Suddenly, the silence was broken by the patter of raindrops against the rank of large windows that lined the north face of the house. Distantly, the rumble of thunder echoed in the distant hills and as the rain tossed patterns against the inner walls, we passed a door from beneath which a yellow light creeped into the hall.

“Is there someone else visiting besides me, Bruce?” I asked, hooking a thumb at the door.

“A Mr. Sean Stout, actually, a former colleague of your Uncle’s. Mr. Stout is here seeking your uncle’s advice on some carvings he discovered on the
L’isle Mystere
. No doubt your uncle will fill you in on the subject at dinner…ah. Here’s your room Master Simon.”

Bruce pulled out a wad of keys and a moment later had pushed a door inward, the scent of freshly cleaned linen and floor wax exhaling from the interior of the room. “I trust you’ll find everything in order.”

“No problem, Bruce…this is the same room I used on my last visit if I’m not mistaken…”

“You have a good memory, Master Simon,” Bruce replied.

Inside, the room was just as I remembered it, like the set for the castle in the old Bela Lugosi
Dracula
film: the overstuffed upholstery, the expansive bed with its overhead canopy, the cedar chest with its accompanying washbowl, pitcher and towel and, of course, the full length mirror with its teak border and frosted edges. And how could I forget the mysterious oriental rug with its curious and vaguely obscene pattern? Suddenly, the shadows that seemed to have followed me in to the room were momentarily chased away as the sky outside was split by a great bolt of lightning. It did the same for the outdoors, revealing the crown of a small hill set in the midst of surrounding woodland. When the light had vanished, I was left with the after-image of tombstones scattered about the hill’s slopes. I shuddered to think of my uncle’s wife being buried out there with the unknowns. I called them that when I was a boy, because no one knew who the unfortunates buried out there were. When my uncle had bought the property years before, it came with its own burial ground. When I asked him once, who was buried up there, he told me he’d tried to find out but no records existed beyond the curious inscriptions carved into some of the stones and what might be learned from the old cairns covering a few of the grave sites.

With the darkness of dusk once more covering the land, I turned back to my suitcase and began to unpack my things, an impression of oppression and evil suddenly hovering in the air. When I’d finished, I laid down on the bed and stared up at the canopy without really seeing it. Instead, I began to think over what I’d discovered since arriving in Woodhaven.

Why had my uncle decided to summon me after all these years? What, if any, were the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of his wife? Why was the mansion in such a sorry state? Who was Sean Stout and was it a coincidence that he was visiting my uncle at the same time I was? All of that and more swirled in my muddled brain; all that and the vision of the hill outside with its ghastly fill. Did it, beneath its noxious soils, hold the answers to my questions?

I was in a light sleep when I was awoken by a soft rapping at the door. When I answered it, I found Bruce silhouetted in the door frame, his figure stark in the persistent flashes of lightning.

“Dinner will be served in half an hour Master Simon,” he said, a clap of thunder punctuating his announcement. “The Master wishes me to inform you that you need not dress formally for the occasion.”