The Miskatonic Manuscript (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens Book 2) (40 page)

He now seated me near the machine, so that it was on my right, and turned a switch somewhere below the crowning cluster of glass
bulbs. The usual sputtering began, turned to a whine, and terminated in a drone so soft as to suggest a return to silence. Meanwhile the luminosity increased, waned again, then assumed a pale, outré colour or blend of colours which I could neither place nor describe. Tillinghast had been watching me, and noted my puzzled expression.

“Do you know what that is?” he whispered.
“That is ultra-violet.”
He chuckled oddly at my surprise. “You thought ultra-violet was invisible, and so it is—but you can see that and many other invisible things
now.

“Listen to me! The waves from that thing are waking a thousand sleeping senses in us; senses which we inherit from aeons of evolution from the state of detached electrons to the state of organic humanity. I have seen
truth
, and I intend to shew it to you. Do you wonder how it will seem? I will tell you.” Here Tillinghast seated himself directly opposite me, blowing out his candle and staring hideously into my eyes. “Your existing sense-organs—ears first, I think—will pick up many of the impressions, for they are closely connected with the dormant organs. Then there will be others. You have heard of the pineal gland? I laugh at the shallow endocrinologist, fellow-dupe and fellow-parvenu of the Freudian. That gland is the great sense-organ of organs—
I have found out.
It is like sight in the end, and transmits visual pictures to the brain. If you are normal, that is the way you ought to get most of it … I mean get most of the evidence from
beyond.”

I looked about the immense attic room with the sloping south wall, dimly lit by rays which the every-day eye cannot see. The far corners were all shadows, and the whole place took on a hazy unreality which obscured its nature and invited the imagination to symbolism and phantasm. During the interval that Tillinghast was silent I fancied myself in some vast and incredible temple of long-dead gods; some vague edifice of innumerable black stone columns reaching up from a floor of damp slabs to a cloudy height beyond the range of my vision. The picture was very vivid for a while, but gradually gave way to a more horrible conception; that of utter, absolute solitude in infinite, sightless, soundless space. There seemed to be a void, and
nothing more, and I felt a childish fear which prompted me to draw from my hip pocket the revolver I always carried after dark since the night I was held up in East Providence. Then, from the farthermost regions of remoteness, the
sound
softly glided into existence. It was infinitely faint, subtly vibrant, and unmistakably musical, but held a quality of surpassing wildness which made its impact feel like a delicate torture of my whole body. I felt sensations like those one feels when accidentally scratching ground glass. Simultaneously there developed something like a cold draught, which apparently swept past me from the direction of the distant sound. As I waited breathlessly I perceived that both sound and wind were increasing; the effect being to give me an odd notion of myself as tied to a pair of rails in the path of a gigantic approaching locomotive. I began to speak to Tillinghast, and as I did so all the unusual impressions abruptly vanished. I saw only the man, the glowing machine, and the dim apartment. Tillinghast was grinning repulsively at the revolver which I had almost unconsciously drawn, but from his expression I was sure he had seen and heard as much as I, if not a great deal more. I whispered what I had experienced, and he bade me to remain as quiet and receptive as possible.

“Don’t move,” he cautioned, “for in these rays
we are able to be seen as well as to see.
I told you the servants left, but I didn’t tell you
how.
It was that thick-witted housekeeper—she turned on the lights downstairs after I had warned her not to, and the wires picked up sympathetic vibrations. It must have been frightful—I could hear the screams up here in spite of all I was seeing and hearing from another direction, and later it was rather awful to find those empty heaps of clothes around the house. Mrs. Updike’s clothes were close to the front hall switch—that’s how I know she did it. It got them all. But so long as we don’t move we’re fairly safe. Remember we’re dealing with a hideous world in which we are practically helpless.…
Keep still!”

The combined shock of the revelation and of the abrupt command gave me a kind of paralysis, and in my terror my mind again opened to the impressions coming from what Tillinghast called
“beyond.”
I was now in a vortex of sound and motion, with confused pictures before my eyes. I saw the blurred outlines of the room, but from some point in space there seemed to be pouring a seething column of unrecognisable shapes or clouds, penetrating the solid roof at a point ahead and to the right of me. Then I glimpsed the temple-like effect again, but this time the pillars reached up into an aërial ocean of light, which sent down one blinding beam along the path of the cloudy column I had seen before. After that the scene was almost wholly kaleidoscopic, and in the jumble of sights, sounds, and unidentified sense-impressions I felt that I was about to dissolve or in some way lose the solid form. One definite flash I shall always remember. I seemed for an instant to behold a patch of strange night sky filled with shining, revolving spheres, and as it receded I saw that the glowing suns formed a constellation or galaxy of settled shape; this shape being the distorted face of Crawford Tillinghast. At another time I felt the huge animate things brushing past me and occasionally
walking or drifting through my supposedly solid body,
and thought I saw Tillinghast look at them as though his better trained senses could catch them visually. I recalled what he had said of the pineal gland, and wondered what he saw with this preternatural eye.

Suddenly I myself became possessed of a kind of augmented sight. Over and above the luminous and shadowy chaos arose a picture which, though vague, held the elements of consistency and permanence. It was indeed somewhat familiar, for the unusual part was superimposed upon the usual terrestrial scene much as a cinema view may be thrown upon the painted curtain of a theatre. I saw the attic laboratory, the electrical machine, and the unsightly form of Tillinghast opposite me; but of all the space unoccupied by familiar material objects not one particle was vacant. Indescribable shapes both alive and otherwise were mixed in disgusting disarray, and close to every known thing were whole worlds of alien, unknown entities. It likewise seemed that all the known things entered into the composition of other unknown things, and vice versa. Foremost among the living objects were great inky, jellyish monstrosities which flabbily quivered
in harmony with the vibrations from the machine. They were present in loathsome profusion, and I saw to my horror that they
overlapped;
that they were semi-fluid and capable of passing through one another and through what we know as solids. These things were never still, but seemed ever floating about with some malignant purpose. Sometimes they appeared to devour one another, the attacker launching itself at its victim and instantaneously obliterating the latter from sight. Shudderingly I felt that I knew what had obliterated the unfortunate servants, and could not exclude the things from my mind as I strove to observe other properties of the newly visible world that lies unseen around us. But Tillinghast had been watching me, and was speaking.

“You see them? You see them? You see the things that float and flop about you and through you every moment of your life? You see the creatures that form what men call the pure air and the blue sky? Have I not succeeded in breaking down the barrier; have I not shewn you worlds that no other living men have seen?” I heard him scream through the horrible chaos, and looked at the wild face thrust so offensively close to mine. His eyes were pits of flame, and they glared at me with what I now saw was overwhelming hatred. The machine droned detestably.

“You think those floundering things wiped out the servants? Fool, they are harmless! But the servants a
re
gone, aren’t they? You tried to stop me; you discouraged me when I needed every drop of encouragement I could get; you were afraid of the cosmic truth, you damned coward, but now I’ve got you! What swept up the servants? What made them scream so loud? … Don’t know, eh? You’ll know soon enough! Look at me—listen to what I say—do you suppose there are really any such things as time and magnitude? Do you fancy there are such things as form or matter? I tell you, I have struck depths that your little brain can’t picture! I have seen beyond the bounds of infinity and drawn down daemons from the stars.… I have harnessed the shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness.… Space belongs to me, do you hear? Things are hunting me now—the things that devour and dissolve—but I know
how to elude them. It is you they will get, as they got the servants. Stirring, dear sir? I told you it was dangerous to move. I have saved you so far by telling you to keep still—saved you to see more sights and to listen to me. If you had moved, they would have been at you long ago. Don’t worry, they won’t
hurt
you. They didn’t hurt the servants—it was
seeing
that made the poor devils scream so. My pets are not pretty, for they come out of places where aesthetic standards are—
very different.
Disintegration is quite painless, I assure you—but
I want you to see them.
I almost saw them, but I knew how to stop. You are not curious? I always knew you were no scientist! Trembling, eh? Trembling with anxiety to see the ultimate things I have discovered? Why don’t you move, then? Tired? Well, don’t worry, my friend,
for they are coming
.… Look! Look, curse you, look! … It’s just over your left shoulder.…”

What remains to be told is very brief, and may be familiar to you from the newspaper accounts. The police heard a shot in the old Tillinghast house and found us there—Tillinghast dead and me unconscious. They arrested me because the revolver was in my hand, but released me in three hours, after they found it was apoplexy which had finished Tillinghast and saw that my shot had been directed at the noxious machine which now lay hopelessly shattered on the laboratory floor. I did not tell very much of what I had seen, for I feared the coroner would be sceptical; but from the evasive outline I did give, the doctor told me that I had undoubtedly been hypnotised by the vindictive and homicidal madman.

I wish I could believe that doctor. It would help my shaky nerves if I could dismiss what I now have to think of the air and the sky about and above me. I never feel alone or comfortable, and a hideous sense of pursuit sometimes comes chillingly on me when I am weary. What prevents me from believing the doctor is this one simple fact— that the police never found the bodies of those servants whom they say Crawford Tillinghast murdered.

N
OTES

(alphabetical by topic)

CAN’T FIND MY WAY HOME: written and performed by Steve Winwood, Almo Music, Blind Faith, ATCO SD 33-304, Atlantic Recording Corp., New York, 1969.

CORONERS’ INQUESTS INTO POLICE SHOOTINGS: Anyone unclear on how police shootings are currently rubber-stamped in America may want to read some non-fiction columns on the topic:

https://www.freedomsphoenix.com/Opinion/013442-2007-01-01-coroners-inquest-not-open-to-the-public.htm

http://www.vinsuprynowicz.com/?p=598&cpage=1

http://www.reviewjournal.com/vin-suprynowicz/inquest-closed-public-again

http://www.reviewjournal.com/vin-suprynowicz/its-fine-police-kill-people-so-long-theres-no-ill-will

http://www.vinsuprynowicz.com/?p=579

http://www.vinsuprynowicz.com/?p=562

http://www.vinsuprynowicz.com/?p=541

http://www.vinsuprynowicz.com/?p=609

http://www.reviewjournal.com/vin-suprynowicz/business-usual-las-vegas-police

http://www.vinsuprynowicz.com/?p=539

THE DOUGHERTY CASE (UNITED STATES v. DOUGHERTY, 1972 — a draft protest case — UNITED STATES COURT OF
APPEALS FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA CIRCUIT, 473 F.2d 1113 (1972): Leventhal, Circuit Judge, wrote for the court: “There has evolved in the Anglo-American system an undoubted jury prerogative-in-fact, derived from its power to bring in a general verdict of not guilty in a criminal case, that is not reversible by the court. The power of the courts to punish jurors for corrupt or incorrect verdicts, which persisted after the medieval system of attaint by another jury became obsolete, was repudiated in 1670 when Bushell’s Case discharged the jurors who had acquitted William Penn of unlawful assembly. Juries in civil cases became subject to the control of ordering a new trial; no comparable control evolved for acquittals in criminal cases. The pages of history shine on instances of the jury’s exercise of its prerogative to disregard uncontradicted evidence and instructions of the judge. Most often commended are the 18th century acquittal of Peter Zenger of seditious libel, on the plea of Andrew Hamilton, and the 19th century acquittals in prosecutions under the fugitive slave law.…”

McKENNA, TERENCE (1946-2000): frequently quoted in the section headings of this book, was an inspired (and entertaining) visionary and champion of the advancement and enlightenment of both the individual and the species through the sacramental use of plant helpers. In fact, he speculated (not without some evidence) that the use of entheogens dates back to the time we “descended from the trees,” thus gave birth to all human religion, and by aiding visual acuity and the development of language may have played a substantial role in making us “human” as we now understand the term. He was (from all appearances; we were never privileged to meet him) a great guy. It is not our intention to belittle him, or to take a stance in the finally pointless debate (based on some of his own statements — he was endlessly voluble) that he served as any kind of government “agent.”

However, lest our citing of his frequent brilliant insights should be taken as an embrace of everything he ever said or
thought, Mr. McKenna came out of the anti-war movement in California in the 1960s, and (while there’s no sin in that) like many from that background who failed to later discover and embrace Ayn Rand, Isabel Paterson, Henry Hazlitt, Friedrich Hayek, or Ludwig von Mises, he continued to carry with him the unexamined baggage of a casual anti-capitalism. Of the three major known forms of economic organization — feudalism, capitalism, and communism — capitalism (though it may remain the “unrealized ideal,” and can certainly be corrupted via subsidies and protectionism into “crony capitalism”) is the only system that honors, embraces, and encourages truly free exchange, with minimal interference by the enervating hand of the kleptocrat state. It thus tends to facilitate through free exchange the creation of wealth and prosperity, where its known alternatives create poverty, tyranny, starvation, and systematic murder.