The Little Apartment Building: Getting A Clue

The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors

Chapter 7: Getting A Clue

May 25, 1934 14:14

The smallish black cat in Randolph Carter’s arms uncannily mimicked the man’s crestfallen face. Why must you hurt my human so, fishy?, it seemed to ask as it mewed loudly and twisted to pat Randolph’s nose. Now I have to make my human happy again. Smile, human.

Khaa’r could not help but be reminded of a rather unpleasant king he had assassinated several thousands years ago, who had been just as fond of cats. The man had used the purring creatures to add an air of mystique and grace to his appearance, without much success – every inch of his bloated body had been covered with scars and the palace had reeked of the animals. Randolph Carter, however, was capable of making a wildcat behave like a playful young kitten with just a distracted scratch under its chin (and a timely bowl of cream).

“I’m sorry to hear you won’t be able to come to my book’s first public reading. It’s going to be very interesting.” Randolph cracked a brief smile at the cat, which blinked smugly at Khaa’r, as if to say See? My human is happy.

“Hopefully I will have the opportunity to attend one of these readings before I leave dry land permanently.”  The Deep One stuck out his bottom lip. “I would also like to thank you for the costume you prepared for me. I regret not having the chance to try it on”

“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be spared from witnessing the traditional screaming match between Ephraim and Albert Wilmarth from the university.” Randolph’s scowl was immediately patted away by a fluffy paw. “And I’ll let you know, I was also forced to wear a similar disguise for a while, when I was stuck in an alien’s body. The turban would’ve fit you well.”

“I am certain of that.”

“You won’t be staying in Innsmouth for very long, I hope.”

“Only for two or three weeks. My mother and sisters wish to see me before retiring to their summer residence. I am going to ask you to keep this information confidential, however.” Here Khaa’r lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Ephraim suspects that I am actually testing the waters for a future invasion or something, and now I have to report to Cthulhu.” Randolph snorted with amusement at that. “Needless to say, I am quite flattered.”

“At least you’ll take some time off from babysitting Wilbur.”

“This reminds me that I will have to hide my helmets before leaving. Thank you for the understanding, my friend. Celebrate this evening, for it is yours!”

Khaa’r gave a curt bow in the small corridor and Randolph nodded graciously, before retreating to their respective apartments.

***

“Ye know I can always pick the lock, right?” Wilbur drawled from the armchair while pretending to read a book. His tail-mouth hissed in irritation.

Khaa’r shrugged and locked his bedroom’s door for a second time. He had piled most of his belongings inside for safe-keeping and now the living room looked odd and dark without all the various weapons glittering in the afternoon light.

“Yeah, that’s gonna stop me.”

“I cannot have you prancing around in my armor, Will.”

“I don’t prance.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Nuh-uh.”

”Yuh-huh.”

Wilbur looked up from his book to grin at Khaa’r as the Deep One made his way to the couch. He sat carefully on its edge and began collecting the daggers that were still scattered on the coffee table, deftly wrapping each blade in a piece of silk and arranging them in a massive iron box.

Unlike most of the equipment he had brought from R’lyeh, the daggers were something Khaa’r actually valued; the gilded armor, helmets and shield were rewards he had earned for his previous missions – they were symbols of glory which he was proud to own and display, and even wear from time to time. However, it was the daggers and the throwing stars, the crossbow and the arrows that Khaa’r could not survive without. And even more important that these pieces of metal and wood were the millennia spent away from his mother’s protective embrace – living in foreign lands among inhospitable races and creatures, always on guard, always on a mission. Khaa’r collected experience in the same way Wilbur Whateley collected knowledge – instinctively and indiscriminately, and the process usually involved murdering/stealing/setting something on fire.  

“I will be back in a week.” Khaa’r glanced from his work to the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth. “Please try not to get killed in my absence. And do some cleaning for a change.”

Wilbur’s mouth formed an offended ‘o’ at the last request.

“I’ve been doin’ the cleanin’ ‘ere since we moved in!” he cried.

“Because it is usually your mess that you clean.” Khaa’r shot back, unruffled.

Wilbur rolled his eyes. His roommate was right, so he switched the topic of conversation.

“Ye sure ye don’t wanna go with Ephraim’s car? I know where ‘e keeps the spare keys.”

“We talked about this already…”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun…”

“I have already made arrangements.” Khaa’r placed the last dagger in the box and closed its lid. “Besides, Helen probably wants to honor Randolph and his new book.”

To his surprise, Wilbur’s face darkened. He returned to his book and began flipping through the pages with his tail, obviously not caring whether his secondary tongue got a paper-cut.

“Oh, right… The readin’. Yeah.“

Khaa’r knew Wilbur to light up like one of those trees humans would decorate for the Winter Solstice whenever Helen Vaughan was mentioned. His affection was far from unrequited, too. The Deep One raked his brain, but as far as he knew, their happiness was unclouded – not an argument in sight.    

“You are not going?” he finally guessed, and watched his roommate swallow thickly.

After a couple of minutes, Wilbur caved in. Most people just blurted out what they had to say but did not want to as quickly as possible, the words rushing to their mouth like a shoal of fish; Wilbur did the exact opposite.

“I... I can’t jus’ show up like that… like a normal hyuman.”

Khaa’r was at loss now. What did Wilbur want to show up like anyway – a whale?

“Of course you can not show up like a human. Because of your father’s indescribable nature, you are a half-human at best, or a chimera, if you would prefer a more sophisticated appellation based on your appearance rather than your genetics…”

The Spawn of Yog-Sothoth made a miserable face at him.

“What is the problem?”

“People’re gonna stare. An’ I hate that.”

“They most certainly will if you and Helen do no keep your hands off each other for the duration of the event.”

Wilbur’s sad expression shifted into an annoyed glare. He harrumphed as he angrily turned several more pages, not caring whether he damaged the paper.

“This is the last time I’m tryin’ to talk with ye ‘bout… emotions an’ stuff.” He mumbled under his nose. “Damn Carter an’ ’is sharin’-and-carin’ bullshit…”

Khaa’r blinked very slowly.

“Perhaps if you spent more time talking with me instead of ‘swapping spit’, as Pickman elegantly put it, with Helen, I would actually be able to help you…”

To his eternal joy, Wilbur immediately flared up.

“Can we forget ‘bout this whole conversation? Please?”

“Can you also do my laundry while I am away? Please?”

“… Fair enough.”

***

May 26, 1934 19:06

Richard Pickman was bouncing in the back seat of Ephraim Waite’s car like an overexcited five-year-old, chanting happily ‘still not banned, still not banned’ at the top of his lungs and occasionally kicking the back of Randolph’s seat.

Randolph however ignored him in order to have a proper creator breakdown, wringing his hands and muttering to himself.

“I’m still not banned. They still haven’t banned my book… Where did I go wrong?”

Herbert West cast a disdainful if short-sighted glance at the two while cleaning his glasses.

“I’ll never understand you artists.” He declared. “Frightfully messed-up in the heads, the whole bunch.”

Ephraim plopped himself into the driver seat, looking exasperated beyond description.

“Turns out Helen and her niece have gone out earlier and will join us in the club.” He announced. “And Will said he’ll come after sunset, which was kind of expected...”

Randolph seemed to have heard none of that. He pulled at his landlord’s sleeve.

“Eph… what if everyone hates my book? What if somebody calls it mediocre or unimaginative?”

“I’ll break their nose for you, no big deal.”

“It’s been out for a week and I haven’t received a single letter from a church offering a free exorcism. I’m worried…” Randolph fidgeted some more for emphasis.

“I told you to add more tentacles.” Pickman called from the backseat.

***

Carrie White watched from her usual roof as the car left. While she knew that the dolphin would be absent for quite a while, she wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. In a way, it was like pulling out a baby tooth – one sharp thug, and life goes on as usual.

Carrie focused on the one remaining tenant that needed to get the hell out of her way. She clenched her jaw. If it hadn’t been for that stupid, ugly, annoying Whateley, the old witch would have been dead meat by now.

***

Wilbur finished the magical circle and gave it an appraising look. Few things made him feel at complete peace with the world, Aklo being one of them – the process of writing out its symbols had a calming effect on his nonhuman mind. Aklo was something that could not be faked, destroyed or taken away. Wilbur understood Aklo in the same way he understood ley lines and alchemy – they spoke to him with kind, familiar voices that reminded him of a childhood spent among the hills of Dunwich.

He sat in the middle of the circle, carefully wrapping his tail around himself. A small bowl of incense was placed in front of him, waiting to be lit. He waved at its general direction and spoke out the command for fire that wizards had devised thousands of years ago for the specific purpose of impressing people by lighting up their pipes with a single word. It was in Aklo, of course, and it was one of the few spells that could be performed without a complicated accompanying ritual.

Wilbur took a deep breath, welcoming the smoke from the incense in his lungs, and began chanting. He felt the words coming alive while still in his throat, their essence bleeding into the world as they were spoken, gently forcing the reality around him to shift and change.  

***

Carrie immediately forgot about Nahab, who was currently debating with herself whether to spit in the face of danger and attempt to leave the house via dimension-hopping, having sensed her enemy’s presence.

Something unnatural was going on inside the house. Carrie frowned slightly when her searching mind took notice of Whateley’s weird actions. After several seconds she realized that he was performing some sort of a ritual – exactly what Mr. Armitage had asked her to look for.

The strange signs around Whateley glowed brightly in her mind, searing themselves under her eyelids. They were drawn on the floor with some sort of powder that seemed to emit clarity, making it possible for Carrie’s mind to easily note ever the smallest details.

Then Whateley started talking… or rather singing, and the world shook - very subtly, but Carrie felt every atom of her being vibrating in tune with the motion. A series of images appeared in her mind – a butterfly flapping its wings, a lightning bolt splitting into countless directions, a shattering glass window, Heaven and Hell being a hair’s breadth away from each other. Blinding light filled Whateley’s room, sinking into everything it touched like teeth into a piece of meat.

Carrie was grateful for choosing to lie on the roof rather than sit. Her muscles had gone slack because of the effort it took to keep her mind focused on the house. She was dimly aware of Whateley chanting a familiar word – Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth. Her mind also heard something else underneath the eldritch name, something that sounded suspiciously like ‘fatherfatherfather’.

She became aware of the crack that had appeared inside the circle only when the creature lurking beyond it reached out to give reality one last final poke. Her mind scrambled in panic as the alien presence brushed against her thoughts.

You again? it said in a way she would later think of as unnervingly patient. You have been useful to me, little one. There shall be a place for you when I put this unstable universe in order.

She almost screamed, but then the light disappeared, the entity was gone and the crack in the universe healed itself shut.

Carrie opened her eyes and let her thoughts rush out of the Crowninshield House and back into her brain. She knew exactly what she had seen.

‘He’s picking the lock. That crack I saw… is like a door and he’s picking its lock.’

Armitage had told her all he knew about Yog-Sothoth and had described it as a personification of the Time-Space Continuum that was somehow locked outside the known universe.

‘He’s picking the lock in order to let his father out… or in. But more importantly, he’s holding the door open so that his father can reach inside and change reality as it wishes.’

Wilbur Whateley and his twin had been born with the specific purpose of summoning the Old Ones, whoever those were, and wiping out all life on Earth. Armitage theorized that Whateley would attempt to finish the task.

‘I have no idea what Whateley’s trying to do right now, but the old man needs to know that his schedule isn’t up-to-date. Nothing like this has ever happened on any of the days he marked as ‘suspicious’.

Carrie shifted uncomfortably on the tiled roof. Her back felt sore and her limbs were stiff. She thought of calling it a day, before remembering the old witch. After all, she was the real reason for Carrie to be lurking around the apartment building on this day – the dolphin with the crossbow was not going to be around, and neither were the rest of the tenants; in short, she had the perfect conditions for committing a bloody murder.

Her mind crept back inside the Crowninshield House. Carrie expected to see Nahab and her pet rat in a magical circle of their own, ready to pelt the first person to enter her humble abode with vials of blood.

Instead, her mind found an empty apartment. No witch, no rat, no nothing.

Only a patch of wall, covered with half-smeared symbols that had been written out with an oily red liquid…

***

When Wilbur heard the crash, he was in the process of sweeping up the circle of powder that was left after the ritual. He froze, kneeling on the floor, and listened as another crash followed promptly after the first one.

A blood-curdling howl of rage pierced the air.

Wilbur had not used a gun since the night when his old revolver betrayed him. As quiet as a cat, he sprinted down the two flights of stairs to investigate. When he reached the first floor, he was greeted with the sight of the solid front door lying on the ground in two halves. He crept towards Nahab de Salem’s apartment, whose door was also destroyed along with its frame.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” Someone screamed and all the windows of the building were torn off the walls and hurled into the unkempt garden around the building. The lamps were then lit one by one, their light bulbs threatening to explode.

Wilbur held his breath. The air hummed with unfamiliar power. He felt like a moth near a flyswatter.

A young woman stood in the middle of Nahab’s living room, breathing heavily. Her long blond hair reached past her waist and covered her back and shoulders like a veil. She turned around in the precise moment Wilbur entered the apartment. Her dark eyes bulged like a rabid dog’s. Recognition flashed across her face, which was almost as white as her clothes.

A table flew towards Wilbur, propelled by an unseen force. He spat out the Aklo word for ‘shield’, his resonating voice somehow managing to hit the right note in order to get the needed response. The table burst into hundreds of pieces in the middle of its flight.

“Wilbur Whateley.” The woman growled. Yup, a rabid dog.

“Present.” Wilbur quipped and mentally applauded himself for retaining composure.

“An old woman is supposed to live here. A witch. I need to find her. Where is she?”

“What d’ye want with ‘er?”

“Where is she?”

“What makes ye think I know or care?”

The woman made a movement with her hand – like slapping someone across their face. Half the furniture in the room was dragged to the farthest corner, breaking in the process and leaving deep scratches on the parquet.

Great. He had to deal with what was probably the most accomplished telekinetic in the world. Just what the hell had Nahab done to piss her off?

“You were thinking of her. I sensed her name cross your mind.” The woman said before repeating her gesture. More furniture flew into the room from the kitchen, including cutlery and chinaware. Some of the items remained floating above the floor.

Wilbur raised an impressed eyebrow. A telekinetic, a telepath, and a psycho – all in one unhinged package.

“I was simply wonderin’ ‘ow she ‘ad the guts to git on yer bad side.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously. Her features would have looked attractive on the face a saner person, but her undisguised madness warped them into something monstrous. Wilbur realized she could not be much older than him – he would eat Pickman’s hat if she was a day older than twenty.

“Ye’ve been stalkin’ this house, ‘aven’t ye?”

“Guilty.” The girl admitted. She began pacing the room slowly, walking towards what Wilbur knew was the southern wall.

Several symbols had been drawn on the expensive wall-paper with thick reddish liquid. Some of them were in Aklo – Wilbur recognized the signs for different directions and numbers. He frowned slightly at what appeared to be the central symbol of the group – a stylized human figure wearing a long robe, drawn with black ink.

The Dark Man, one of Nyarlathotep’s avatars.

The girl noticed his look. She waved at him. Before he even knew what was happening, he was thrown at the painted wall with greater force than necessary. His vision swam as he slid down on the floor.

“You’re lighter than I expected.”

The girl crossed her arms and watched curiously as Wilbur instinctively wrapped his tail around himself.

“I’ve been tol’ I don’t ‘ave a decent bone in my body.” He managed to wheeze. His back hurt like all hell.

“Huh.” She jutted out a hip. “You seemed to know what these scribbles mean. Unfortunately, I have a better chance of reading ‘The Three Musketeers’ in original French than your thoughts. Your mind is like a fucking labyrinth, you know that?”

“I’m both flattered an’ flattened.”

His joke fell on deaf ears.

“You will tell me where the old witch is.” Three quarters of a chair, several knives and forks and a frying pan flew towards the girl and froze in the air around her. “And you will translate the scribbles.”

Wilbur pretended to weight his options.

“Okay, I’ll tell ye. Listen carefully.”

And he began reciting his favorite curse in Aklo. The intonation of his voice caused chunks of plaster to fall from the ceiling. The girl threw up.
   
He had to stop half a minute later. Instead, he started chanting the word for ‘shield’ over and over again, lest he was beaten to a pulp with every object in the room.

***

May 26, 1934 23:49

“That went well.” Herbert could not decide whether to be embarrassed or amused. “Everyone was very mature and civilized.” After all, it was not often that he had to stop a fight between two grown men by twisting their ears. “I’m thinking of becoming kindergarten teacher, seeing how well I deal with children.”

“Please, you were enjoying yourself a whole lot.” Randolph was the one driving the car, since Ephraim had obtained a black eye from his scuffle with Albert Wilmarth.

“I for one would like to commend our landlord on finally breaking the nose of Mr. I-Read-The-Necronomicon-Once-And-Only-Screamed-A-Little.” Pickman did not seem to mind that he, Herbert and Ephraim had been squeezed into the backseat of the car.

“Yes, I especially liked the part when Wilmarth’s companion started shrieking for a doctor and you pointed at me.” Herbert’s voice was simply oozing sarcasm now.

“The poor man bled all over a stack of books, Richard.” Randolph reminded him. “Not copies of my book, thank Providence, but still.”

Nuala, who was sitting next to Helen in the passenger seat, woke up from her reverie. She was almost as tall as her aunt, pale, blonde and exquisitely beautiful, with graceful manners and a mild temper – all in all, a classical fey princess.

“Wait, his name is Richard?” She said, craning her neck to look at the driver. “I thought he was just Pickman.”

“Heh, it’s a funny story.” Randolph grinned, not taking his eyes off the road. “You see, we were in this bar in New Orleans, where we got spectacularly drunk. While the rest of our company sat on our table like the model citizens we were, Pickman managed to get himself invited to the dancers’ dressing room, where for some reason he scrawled Richard was here on one of the mirrors.”

Pickman tried to interrupt, only to get elbowed into silence by Herbert. Even Helen, who was currently in a very bad mood and had uttered no more than a few sentences over the course of the entire evening, perked up her ears.

“Then he comes back to the table, refuses to tell us what happened there, everything’s good for a while, and then the owner of the bar – a very skinny, very ugly, very angry man – interrupts the show, climbs up on the stage and start screaming” here Randolph did an over-exaggerated Cajun accent, ‘Who is this Richard fellow and what the hell was 'e doin' with the girls?, to which Pickman oh-so-cleverly shouts back, I’m not Richard; heck, do I even look like a Richard? My name is Pickman, I’m not Richard, I don’t even know anybody named Richard, because I’m Pickman. And then we had to run for our lives.”

“But it’s true!” Pickman managed to shout over Herbert’s hysterical laughter and Nuala and Helen’s giggles. “I don’t look like a Richard!”

Ephraim placed a comforting hand on the artist’s shoulder.

“If it’s any consolation” he said in a completely serious tone, ”you still look like a Dick.”

Pickman’s tone was sharper than necessary when he answered:

“At least I don’t act like one.”

Ephraim quickly crossed his arms and muttered something about Pickman being a sensitive little girl, only to get hissed at by Helen (“You talking about overreacting, that’s rich!”). Pickman and Herbert were quick to choose sides, getting them even more riled up (“You should know better, Ephraim; you’re over one hundred years old, for Pan’s sake!” “Look, if you’re angry because your boyfriend didn’t show up, don’t take in out on me, capisce?”). In the end, Randolph had to threaten to kick everyone out of the car (“Except Lady Nuala, of course.” “What? I am your roommate!” “This is my car you’re driving, pal!” “Good idea, throw them out like filthy mutts!” “That means you too, Helen.”)  

However, the quarrel was  immediately forgotten when they finally reached 80 High Street to find their house in terrible condition – all the lights were turned on, the garden was littered with glass from the broken windows, and one of the external walls of Nahab de Salem’s apartment was missing.

***

Ephraim forbade (under penalty of eviction) his tenants to leave in the car. He felt his pocket for the gun (ever since Daniel Upton’s suicide, he had never left the house unarmed) and practically ran inside, ready to make heads roll - literally.

The first floor was a complete mess - the front doors of the house and Nahab’s apartment had been practically destroyed. His beloved parquet was hideously scratched and his beautiful wallpapers were ruined.

He found Wilbur sitting on the floor of Nahab’s living room, looking half ready to faint from exhaustion. His hair and clothes were covered with plaster dust. Green blood was drying on his lips. The wall above his head was covered with hastily drawn Aklo symbols.

“Git out…” he wheezed and more blood trickled down his beard, but a cheerful voice drowned his words.

“About time you showed up!”

A blonde girl, dressed from head to toe in white, stood amid the chaos of broken furniture, glass shards and pieces of porcelain. Several knives hung in the air around her like a halo, their sharp edges pointing outwards. She met Ephraim’s gaze and he shuddered involuntarily – the look in her eyes did not belong on a human face.

“Where’s the old witch?” she asked bluntly.

“You mean Nahab?” Ephraim looked back to Wilbur. “Is this whom she was hiding from?”  
His tenant nodded with great difficulty. He had managed to draw a semicircle around himself with his own blood and had scrawled the Aklo symbol for ‘sanctuary’ inside it.

“Telekinesis. Also insane.”  He was referring to the girl. “Nahab escaped…”

Ephraim drew out his pistol and aimed at the intruder. He had never actually shot a person, but hell if he’d let the special snowflake do any more damage.

“You heard him. Nahab de Salem is not here. Now leave before I lose my patience.”

The girl snorted in amusement.

“Silly cactus!” she cooed. “I’m the one who makes the threats around here, not you.”

The men dared to exchange confused glances. Wilbur mouthed ‘cactus?’ at Ephraim, who shrugged.

Special Snowflake walked up to the wall with the scribbles. The knives followed after her like a school of fish. She pointed at each of the symbols, not taking her eyes off Ephraim’s face.

“Look at this gibberish. It was left behind by the woman you call Nahab. I want you to translate it for me.”

“Don’t tell ‘er anythin’!” Wilbur’s strangled shout startled the wizard. “Don’t even look at it!...”

“It’s in Aklo.” Ephraim furrowed his brow, the scholar in him taking over. The signs did not make any sense when arranged like that. He unconsciously lowered the gun.

“Don’t tell ‘er!”

The girl burst out laughing. It sounded artificial and strained, as if she had practiced it back at home.

“Too late!” She clapped her hands in delight. “He thought of it.”

Wilbur sighed in defeat and tried to sit up straighter.

“She’s a telepath… a mind-reader.”

“I know perfectly well what ‘telepath’ means!” Ephraim waved at the scribbles. “This doesn’t make a lick of sense! There are symbols for directions, and for numbers, and for units of time… but there’s nothing to connect them. It’s like a list of ingredients without a recipe.”

“Yer forgettin’ the sign in the middle…”

“Yes, one of Nyarlathotep’s masks, but it won’t work unless you know how to summon …”

The knife’s blade stopped an inch away from Ephraim’s eyes.

“Don’t.” the girl said through clenched teeth. “Ever. Speak of him. In my presence.”

A gunshot broke the tense silence and the knife was flung away from Ephraim’s face.

Helen entered through the hole in the wall, her pocket aimed at the girl now. She carefully made her way through the rubble without even pausing to look where she stepped. Her lips were drawn into a thin line and her hair was fluttering slightly, even though there was no wind or draughts to disturb her tresses.

“Please excuse these idiots.” Her tone was deceptively light, more appropriate for pouring tea rather than threatening to shoot somebody in the face. “They can talk about Aklo and semantics till early dawn.”

Ephraim seemed to remember he too was armed, and hurriedly aimed his own pistol back at the intruder.

“I told you to stay outside.”

“Shut up, Eph.”

“Helen...”

“Not now, Will.”

Helen and Special Snowflake were sizing each other up. The knives discreetly aimed their blades at the new threat. Suddenly, the girl’s face was twisted by a nasty smirk.

“Was that your best shot?” she mocked, seemingly unperturbed by the two guns pointing at her. “Try again.”

Ephraim glanced at Helen, who shrugged and fired.

The bullet seemed to slow down even as it exited the muzzle before stopping a foot away from the girl. It twirled twice and dropped on the floor. Helen cocked her gun quickly, but did not shoot again.

The girl gasped in surprise.

“I did it.” She allowed herself a quick, sincere smile that made her sour face startlingly pretty. “I mean, I knew I had it in me, but I actually did it. I am sooo treating myself to some chocolate tomorrow!”

She rubbed her palms together in anticipation. Her grin turned feral.

Both Helen’s and Ephraim’s guns were torn out of their holders’ hands and aimed at their foreheads. Special Snowflake kept smiling as she stepped closer to Wilbur. She squatted to meet his eyes. An innocent, almost childish glee was written on her face.  

“Tell me about the symbols, Whateley, and I’ll let them liiiive.” The girl sang the last word. “You have your magical words to protect you, but they don’t have anything. Oh, I know you tried to teach her” she pointed at Helen with her thumb, “but she doesn’t have the voice to make it work, unlike you…”

Wilbur coughed out some blood he had obviously held in his mouth before answering.

“It’s a spell fer inter-dimensional travel, alright? An’…  an’ that symbol summons Nyar… the Crawlin’ Chaos.” He swallowed hard. “ ‘E makes it all work. I guess… ye ‘ave to be ‘is servant, like Nahab is…”

The girl stood up to look at him from above.

“I guessed as much.” She whispered. “I’ll be on my way, now. Thank you for cooperating... eventually.”

She waved her hand at the scribbles. Plaster, bricks and wall-paper were instantly ground to bits. Ephraim winced. He imagined the girl doing the same to a living being. After all, muscle and bones and skin were not as tough…

The girl walked to the demolished wall and jumped in the air but did not land. Instead, she gracefully rose above the ground. Guns and knives slowly descended on the floor when she flew out through the same hole in the wall Helen had entered the house.

Helen rushed to Wilbur, almost tripping up on her skirts. Ephraim helped them get Wilbur back on his feet and into Helen’s apartment, which seemed to be unaffected by the attack if one did not count the missing windows.

After several minutes, Pickman, Randolph, Herbert and Nuala joined them. The doctor took one look at Wilbur’s condition and hurriedly went downstairs to get his medical bag.

“What the hell was that white witch?” Pickman exclaimed as he half-carried the princess to one of the chairs.

“Such fury… “ Nuala shuddered. “There was nothing else in her mind but rage, every other emotion was pushed far back. Helen, I’m so glad you are alive!”

Helen reached out to pat her niece’s face and smiled. A second later, she pounced on Nuala and pulled her into a tight and somewhat awkward embrace.

Randolph began asking questions the second he got close enough for Wilbur to hear. He attempted a smile, only to hiss in pain. He still managed to say:

“A massive drawer to the face more often than not beats a spell to the stomach, I tell ye.”

The poet tsk-ed and tried to gently pry Wilbur’s mouth open.

“You bit your tongue, didn’t you? Does your nose hurt?”

“What the hell d’ye think yer doin’?”

“Looks fine, no blood in the nostrils… Any broken… well, you’ve said you lack a skeleton, but you might have lost a tooth or two…”

Herbert returned and shoved Randolph out of the way. Wilbur seemed grateful, at least until the doctor forced him to rinse his mouth with a gulp of saline solution, before inspecting the damage in a manner similar to a vet looking in a horse’s mouth. Wilbur made a strangled noise when Herbert unceremoniously tried to pull his tongue out.

“Don’t whine!’ Herbert scolded. “There’s a reason I’m not a family physician.”

“Yes, yer into corpses an’ chemicals.” Wilbur muttered as he rubbed his jaw.

“True, but that’s not all.”

Meanwhile, Pickman was pestering Ephraim. The artist wore nearly the same expression he had when he talked about his beloved ghouls.

“Seriously, who the hell was the girl? It was a girl, wasn’t it?”

Ephraim explained as much as he could, occasionally glancing at Wilbur, who added previously unknown (for Ephraim) details, such as the intruder’s inability to read a non-human mind and her spying of the apartment building and its residents for an unknown period of time.

“She was very interested in the symbols Nahab left. Probably wanted to use them and track the old witch. Did you see how she reacted when I mentioned the Crawling Chaos?” Ephraim felt like he needed a drink, but the landlord in him was already mourning all the comforts he would have to deny himself until his house was fully repaired. “I bet she has beef with him too.”

“An enemy of Nyarlathotep himself!...” Randolph gasped in horror. “Do you have any idea what you’re talking about, Eph?”

“Apparently, yes; since I’m currently housing another enemy of his, and if you’re still alive without having any incredibly well-developed telekinetic abilities at your disposal, then surely that wom…”

A squeaky voice interrupted the landlord’s tirade.

“It’s not about abilities; it’s about choice.”

“Who said that?” Ephraim barked and surveyed the circle of pale faces around him.

“Get yourself a pair of glasses, moron.”

Brown Jenkins had at some point managed to crawl through the Forest of Human Feet and Chair Legs, climb Small Table Mountain and balance itself upon Peak Jewelry Box. The human-faced rat waited until it had everybody’s attention, before obnoxiously scratching its ear with its hind leg.

Pickman was the first to react.

“Quick, give it some cheese to distract it while I go get my camera!” he tried to leave the room, only for Randolph to grab him by the sleeve and pull him back.

Herbert’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. His right hand twitched, as if the doctor tried to get a better grip on an invisible scalpel.

“Is this the familiar you told me about?”

“I don’t know, how many rodents with tiny human faces do you think we have in this building?”

“You know me, Eph; nothing can surprise me anymore.”

Brown Jenkins shot them a dirty look before raising its voice to a fingernails-on-a-chalkboard level of annoying.

“Okay, first of all – this.” The small furry creature coughed pretentiously. “You’re a bunch of unenlightened peasants and deserve to have this entire house brought down on your stupid heads, you ignorant wastes of air and space.”

“Oh, no, an old hag an’ her rat are very very annoyed with us.” Wilbur rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Lemme play ye a sad song on the world’s smallest violin.”

Brown Jenkins was decidedly unimpressed by the ‘concert’.

“If a skinny girl almost made me eat a drawer, I wouldn’t be so quick to draw attention to myself.”

Wilbur ignored the jab.

” ’Ow’s Nahab?” he asked.

The familiar clearly had not expected that kind of question.

“She’s more than fine." It answered plainly. "We managed to find a stable thread in the space-time. She’s currently as safe as a witch of her caliber can be.”

“Which ain’t a lot, if we ‘ave to be honest. An’ she’s not gittin’ any younger.”

“She’s nearly three hundred years old.”

Wilbur gave a low whistle. Brown Jenkins preened.

“My mistress sent me here to inspect whatever havoc the White bitch has wreaked here. Overall, your precious little apartment building got off lightly.”

Ephraim snorted.

“Does your mistress have any idea how much her feud is going to cost me? The windows alone will drain my bank account, not to mention cleaning the debris, rebuilding almost five meters of wall, restoring the parquet, redecorating, refurnishing…

“You have no idea what you just had to deal with.” The rat interrupted. “That girl? Her name is Carrie White; she’s one of Nyarlathotep’s avatars. Or will be, in any case. He had to do a lot of travelling to obtain her; imagine his anger when she managed to break out of her cage – and in the middle of the Court of the Daemon Sultan! The universe will never be the same, not after …”

“Why are ye tellin’ us all these things?” Wilbur asked impatiently.

Brown Jenkins shrugged its little shoulders and jumped off the table. Before anyone could make a move to stop it or step on it, the familiar had already reached the door, where it turned to look at the company one last time.

“My mistress thinks that you deserve to know your enemy.” It said. “Also, try and make the White bitch bleed. A lot.

With those parting words, Brown Jenkins slipped under the door.

***

May 27, 1934 14:11

“This is so odd.” Henry Armitage said for the fifth time that day. “Yesterday’s date fits with the date of the earthquakes and the date of your book’s appearance, but not with the others. It’s almost as if I have miscalculated; however, that simply does not happen. I know what I’m looking for; I know better than to make such ridiculous mistakes…”

“So what are you trying to say?” Carrie was vexed. “Someone broke into your office and changed your notes and formulas? Redrew your star charts? Stole your lucky eraser?”

The librarian ignored her in favor of the new schedule he had prepared.

“This should be correct.” He muttered while doing some last minute calculations in a cheap notebook. “Yes, now we’re good to go…”

“Oh puh-lease!” Carrie threw up her hands in exasperation. “We know that Whateley summons Yob-Sodd… his father regularly! Remember his father? The eldritch abomination, as you like to call it, the one who wants to destroy all life and take over the planet? I for one am not going to wait and see what happens when that… that creature breaks through. So I say we kill the bastard and be done with it.”

Armitage hummed before responding.

“No use; Gytrash killed Whateley once, only for him to come back. We need a different tactic.

Carrie rolled her eyes.

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

“I’ll let you know when I have a detailed plan of action. In the meantime, keep a low profile, would you?”