Author E. Dane Anderson: 2016

Thought I'd post one of my earlier stories for fun. Enjoy!

The Ill Wind

The Butterworth Mortuary, Seattle, Washington. The inspiration for this story.

“It is an ill wind that brings the smell of fish.”

-Capt. J.B. Tanner, HMS Roland, MBE, DSO.

ARTICLE FROM THE LUDENBERG CITY EXAMINER, DATED JULY 12, 1893.

At last night's city council meeting, several leading citizens, led by Mr. J. Butterfield of Butterfield and Sons, urged the mayor and the council to expedite the city’s plans to fill in the tide flats at the eastern end of the bay. Mr. Butterfield said that his concerns stemmed from a recent upsurge in noxious odors of a piscine nature that could only be sourced to the tide flats, and that he and his fellow citizens were concerned about the possible health implications to the city.

RECOLLECTIONS OF MR. F.W. DOBSON, LATE OF BUTTERFIELD AND SONS, SOON AFTER HIS ARRIVAL AT EASTGROVE HOSPITAL.

When asked about my occupation, there was no need for me to answer in a manner that may be to some people, off putting. I did not have to answer either "mortician’s assistant," or "assistant undertaker." All I had to say was that I was with the firm of for Mr. J.G. Butterfield. That alone answered all questions, and in this city, also carried a certain level of unexpected prestige.

Butterfield and Sons ran one of the most respected businesses in Ludenberg, catering to every need of the deceased and the bereaved family within the most professional of surroundings, just as long as they could pay. The firm boasted as having the most modern of facilities, much more advanced than anything anyone could see in either Boston or New York. And their pride and joy was there modern, gas-fired crematorium, one of the few in the entire region. That was my responsibility, the smooth operation of the most advanced pieces of funerary technology in the entire United States.

There were of course, downsides to such responsibilities, as would be expected. The city had been going through a rough time. Violent crime was on the rise. The specter of cholera, consumption, as well as a myriad of other diseases were ever present in the minds of the citizenry. It was because this, that there was an unfortunate surplus of the indigent dead.

The city had to making plans to turn one of the islands in the bay, Foster’s Island, into a permanent depository for those poor, unfortunate souls. Yet the city was still in negotiations with the Federal Government who had owned the island since the war. In the meantime, the city put a bounty of $50 for each body that had been removed from the streets and disposed of in a “sanitary” manner. Mr. Butterfield came upon the brilliant idea of accepting those bodies into his crematorium for the most generous price of $25.

The number of dead bodies that were simply lying around the streets quickly diminished as a result. Unfortunately, the murder rate suffered a noticeable increase as well. The rumored common practice was for the murderer to leave a corpse to be recovered by an accomplice who was establishing an alibi at the time of the killing. That, and the occasional corpse from Dr LeMarche’s “starvation cure” sanitarium over in Rugglesville made the cremation business quite busy.

That was a very large part of my job, accepting, making a record of, and cremating those who were turned over to our facilities, sometimes disregarding the manner of their deaths. It was quite typical to see at least three, and usually five corpses arrive at our alley way entrance every week. Our facilities were equipped to house them in our naturally chilled storage facilities on the premises. In accordance with the relevant city ordinances, the deceased were kept up to ten days, allowing time for loved ones to both identify and claim them, except in times of “health concerns.” Then with all the best of care and reverence, they would be cremated with their ashes placed in handy metal receptacles such as a coffee can, labeled properly, and then stored unceremoniously in a basement closet.

The system was designed to run by itself. I was more than happy to be an adequately compensated cog in that system. But it was on that terrible occasion, that horrible day where everything suddenly went very wrong.

***

It was just past seven in the evening when the terrible chain of events began. I was on the lowest level of establishment, directly adjacent to the back alley. I was nearly alone, only a few members of the cleaning staff were still on the premises along with Jessup, the over-eager night watchman.

There was a faint knock at the loading dock, the unexpected rattling of a large wooden door caught my attention as I was going over some last-minute paperwork for the day. Being a bit suspicious and after reaching for my pocket revolver, I cracked the door open just enough to get a look see. The first sensation that came to my attention was not the look of a man, but the odor that accompanied him. It was a strong smell of dead fish that came though the open door. Although we were only a short distance from the waterfront, this was more than could be accounted for under the circumstances.

What I saw was a little unexpected, especially for this time of the evening, a man hunched over, burdened by a large object over his shoulder. The item in question, completely encased in burlap bags could have only been a human corpse. I let him in, explaining to him that he would indeed be able to deposit the body now, but would be unable to collect the bounty until the next day when our accounting staff would return. He quickly agreed, and I allowed him to put the remains down on the nearest gurney.

Now that he was standing straight up, I was able to get a much better look at him. He was a very odd looking man, probably in his late twenties but appearing much older, more than likely due to excessive drink. He gave his name as Riley, and had the distinctive style of sloth that was common to most opium fiends. His clothes were beyond shabby, almost falling apart at the ragged edges. He definitely had a look of an Irishman, tall, lanky with the usual facial characteristics of his race. My recent fears had come to pass, as it seemed as though our shores were becoming quite inundated with such degenerate papists.

I quickly filled out a receipt, something that he would be able to use to collect the bounty the next day and quickly dispatched him on his way. Even after I closed the back door, the room was still permeated with that rancid fish-like smell that he had come in with. It was an obvious conclusion that the source was the body in question, quite possibly having been retrieved from the bay. This is not the way I envisioned my evening ending.

After re-donning my freshly cleaned leather apron and gloves, I immediately set to work. The way the body was encased in its burlap shroud made it difficult for easy extraction. So, I grabbed the nearest pair of scissors began cutting. What I found inside was quite disturbing.

I had been working at this particular occupation for nearly nine years, and I had never been as viscerally and instinctively repulsed as I was that night. Even though the corpse was obviously that of a male, I knew instinctively that there was something very wrong. Regardless of the fact that it had no clothes, I was initially struck by how completely abnormal the body’s proportions were. All the extremities were much longer than I had ever seen. The legs, the arms and even the fingers were completely out of balance to the rest of the body. The grayish-greenish skin had an odd texture that was even detectable though my heavy gloves.

His head was completely bald, and the shape of the skull, as like the rest of him, was completely abnormal. In fact, the face had a certain frog like quality to it, the eye sockets somewhat bulging, the nose sunken almost be nonexistent and an elongated mouth just above it quite heavy jaw line. There were sets of parallel lines on each side of his neck that I could not account for. Even his ears were beyond misshapen, just bud-like protrusions surrounding the tiniest of orifices. I foolishly pried open one of the eyelids, what I found inside was nothing more than a completely black orb. I speculated that all the blood vessels inside had burst due to some concussion or pressure, and of the dark color was due to a form of blood-soaked putrefaction.

After recovering from the initial mild shock, I came to conclusion that this poor individual was from one of the more degenerate Asian races, probably from one of the more obscure, barbaric islands. This would account for the lines on his neck, perhaps being some sort of ritualistic, tribal scarification. The pallor of the skin reinforced my conclusion that the poor soul had been in the water for some time. Because there was no sign of bloating, it was obvious the man had not drowned. With further examination, I discovered a small but deep knife wound in the left upper portion of the chest. Unfortunately, this has become an all too familiar manner of death in the city.

Again, it was the pungent, fish-like odor that kept my attention. The entire room seemed to be filled with it. I made the decision that because of the strong possibility of disease, to cremate the corpse immediately. God only knew what strange illness the obvious genetic throwback could have been carrying. In my opinion, I was only performing my civic duty.

I placed it in our specialized elevator to take it up to the cremation level and then fired up the crematorium. I would usually say little prayer before placing the body inside the chamber, but not this occasion. I doubt if there was to be any salvation for this malformed heathen degenerate. I just placed him in the incineration chamber, along the burlap shroud.

It took all night for the body to be reduced to ash, nearly three times as long as usual. That fact I could not account for, but I would need to explain the extra usage of gas to Mr. Butterfield in the morning. I spent that time drinking much more coffee than I probably should have and doing everything I could to rid the receiving dock of that terrible odor. I thoroughly cleaned every surface that the corpse may have touched, I could still smell it on everything. It even somehow permeated my gloves as I detected a faint lingering of the odor on my hands.

The morning had come just as I finished the cremation process and put the ashes in the storage. Mr. James Butterfield, Mr. Butterfield's eldest son, came into crematory just as I was shutting the oven back down. The younger Mr. Butterfield had been in operational control of the establishment for the past several months, since his father had suffered a series of devastating strokes. He cut a very dapper figure and had a reputation of being a bit of a ladies’ man, nothing you would associate with the occupation of mortician.

He immediately inquired about my early presence in the building, and why I had just been shutting down the ovens. I explained him about the unexpected arrival of strange corpse, its condition and how I had been there the entire night performing the cremation out of obvious health concerns. He commended me on my diligence and invited me to take the rest of the day off and get some sleep. Just before leaving, I profusely apologized for the odor that still lingered, both in the building and on my person. He gave me a bit of an odd look, telling me that he did not smell anything out of the ordinary, not even for mortuary.

My watch read just past five in the morning when I finally left the building. The sun was barely making an appearance over the hill on the other side of the bay. Although it was only eight blocks my lodgings, I was always keenly aware of possible dangers. It would have been most ironic if I myself would've been turned into the mortuary for the $25 reward.

I was perhaps two blocks down Water Street when I became aware that there were footsteps somewhere behind me. Although I instinctively recognized them as the footfalls of a human being, that was something about their quality that was just a little wrong. Perhaps it was a child, or a midget, or maybe someone limping.

I casually glanced over my shoulder several times, and saw nothing. Although the morning fog had not completely cleared, I could see at least a full block in all directions. I decided to take a short detour around a couple of blocks to see if the footsteps followed. After cutting down the steep slope of Stevens Avenue down to Railroad Street, I stopped and listened. For several seconds, the footsteps continued and then abruptly ceased. Feeling more than a little suspicious, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my revolver.

About halfway down Railroad Street with the fog was considerably thicker, I quickly spun round, aiming my pistol at anything that I might be able to see. Again there was nothing. Just as I was about to turn back around and continue my journey, something resembling a head peered around the corner around the building to my right. I pulled back the hammer on the revolver, the loud clicking noises echoed off the brick of the surrounding buildings. Just as I was totally prepared to fire a warning shot, the head had disappeared, accompanied by the sound of something making a rapid escape.

When I arrived at my lodgings, minutes later, I began to feel the coffee beginning to wear off. With a loaded revolver on my nightstand and the door tightly bolted, I slept the rest of the entire day completely away.

***

More than a week had passed before I could no longer detect any sign of that terrible odor. Even though I felt as if it had permeated my very skin, not a single one of my coworkers could detect the awful smell. For the next several evenings, even in the crowded streets of the early evening, I still had the unnerving feeling that I was being followed. Even in what I thought the relative safety of my lodgings, I was awoken by the sound of footsteps in the hallway, footsteps that bared some resemblance to what I had heard on that early morning in the fog.

Several weeks past, and I had thought very little of the incident. Business at the mortuary had been brisk. It was the beginning of the winter when a disproportionate number of the elderly came through our doors on their final journey. Another one of Dr. Rachel LeMarche’s deceased and wealthier patients arrived, Mr. James Butterfield personally conducting the embalming himself. The number of those seeking the $25 bounty continued, unabated by the cold, as a large number of the indigent were dying of exposure.

It was a late Tuesday morning, after I had finished with a short stack of paperwork, when I went down to the main level to prepare for that day’s cremations. As I went over the list, I noticed that there was a late entry, a body that had been delivered the previous evening and bore the name G. J. Riley. I went down to cold storage to examine the corpse after jumping to the most ridiculous of conclusions.

Opening the storage room door, I was nearly knocked down by that exact same sickening rotting fish-like odor. Locating the source and pulling down the sheet to expose the face, it was clearly the body of the man who had delivered the Asiatic mutant to me several weeks before. I pulled him out of storage and onto a gurney, taking him out to the main room where there was better light. The smell was so awful that I was forced to open the loading dock door for some fresh air, regardless of the temperature outside.

Riley's body was in a terrible condition. What I could see of his skin was that same sickening gray-greenish pallor. I could not conclude that his body had spent any time floating in the bay as is raggedy clothes were almost completely dry. His head was now completely bald, or what was left of it. A large portion of the back of his skull had been carried away, obviously by the exit of a large bullet. There were powder burns all around his mouth, mixed with the remnants of blood that had freely flowed from his nostrils. I pulled out his right hand and found powder burns there as well. It was obvious that the poor wretched man had taken his own life.

Again I felt that chill of overwhelming dread as I made a closer inspection of Riley's hand. Although not as pronounced, both his hands exhibited nearly the same type of elongation as the mysterious corpse. I opened one of the dead man's eyes. It had become a solid black orb devoid of any detail. In addition to that, the man's ears had inexplicably shrunk to about half their previous size, and on both sides of his neck where those same parallel lines of scarred tissue.

I reached out my gloved hand and touched his neck. To my complete horror I discovered that the lines were not scars, but seem to be freshly cut flaps of skin. Yet underneath was not what I expected. There was no sign of bleeding, nor sign of healing. In the tissue I discovered underneath, although as completely insane as it sounds, could only be described as resembling the gills of a fish.

Even though I knew that the assistants on duty had already done so, I quickly rifled through the man's pockets, searching for anything that may be a clue to his condition. Opening his coat in search of inside pockets, I noticed a series of partially healed puncture wounds on his chest. All else notwithstanding, I took real no notice of it. Finding absolute nothing on his person and again fearing the outbreak of an unknown disease, I decided that it was past time to put him in the chamber. It took all day for poor Riley to finally burn.

It was past nine in the evening before I finally got out of the building. My usual concern over my safety became secondary to the fact that I was once again permeated with that same smell of a thousand dead fish. It was my plan to go the bathhouse and soak for at least an hour in an attempt to remove myself of this odorous curse. I was only half a block down Water Street when my plans quickly changed.

Again the strange footsteps appeared from behind, human, yet distinctly non-human. There were more of them this time as well, perhaps four, maybe five, somewhere behind me in the fog and getting quite close. I quickly reached for my pocket revolver and turned around to face them. I could make out several figures through the dense fog. Although there were all walking on two feet, the manner of their stride was something more akin to an animal, not quite upright, as though it were an unnatural manner of ambulation.

Startled by that very sight, I recklessly fired one shot over their heads and they stopped their advance. I could hear them making something akin to speech, it was more like a series of high pitched whispers than anything that sounded like a human language. I waited for a moment, hoping that the things might see reason and immediately retreat. Still holding the gun aimed squarely at the closest of the shapes, I foolishly took two steps backwards. That's when they decided to rush me.

I somehow regained my composure, held my ground and fired a single shot into their mass. It was obvious that I hit one of them as it fell to the ground emitting what can only be described as a high-pitched grunting squeal. In almost an instant it was picked up and carried away by the others, all of them completely disappearing back into the fog. Frightened completely out of my wits and longing for the company of my fellow men, I quickly made my way to the nearest tavern just around the corner on Douglas Avenue. After two whiskeys I was still visibly shaking.

***

The next day I was in quite a state, performing my duties as best I could under the circumstances. I was obviously still in a visible state of shock as several members of staff expressed concern. All I would say was that it was concerning the cremation of a suicide victim that occurred the previous day, and that I had been slightly unnerved by it. Each time I apologized for the odor that still clung to me like a second layer of skin. Again, I was complete baffled by the apparent fact that I was the only one present who could smell it.

I no longer traveled streets during daylight hours, except for those occasions in the early evening when the streets were somewhat crowded. On evenings that I thought it too dangerous to try and reach my lodgings, I would sleep on a comfortable couch in the upper floors of the building.

Yet I knew that the hellish creatures were still about. And I use the term creature deliberately, as it had become obvious that my pursuers did not belong to some degenerate race, but instead were something monstrously inhuman. There were times when I was on the street, or in my place of work, when I could detect a sign of their foul, piscine odor emanating from somewhere nearby. On those late nights when I was forced to remain at the mortuary all-night, I could hear them milling about in the alley, or even scratching at the loading dock door. I didn't know whether or not this was an attempt to get inside, or simply to drive me into a deeper terror.

It was on one particular night that I spent in the mortuary, when I awoke to that all too familiar disgusting smell, I knew that they had somehow broken into the building. I reached for my revolver and then called out to Jessup, the night watchman who was on duty that night. There was no answer.

I could hear their inhuman footsteps on the floor directly beneath me, probably in the chapel. It was only a matter of time before they found the stairs that led directly to me. I had only one possible plan of escape, to make it to the roof and then over to one of the adjacent buildings. Then I would use a convenient fire escape and down to the street.

I quietly made my way upstairs to the next floor, making my way through the main embalming room. I knew there was something dreadfully wrong the moment I saw a body stretched out on one of the tables. It was poor Jessup, a huge mass of broken and bloody pulp was where the left side of his head previously been. Copious amounts of blood had already flowed from the table and on the concrete floor. I froze, and in the silence I just make out its ever so faint dripping sound.

Before I could regain my wits, they came at me from behind. There were disgusting, clawed hands all over me, pulling me to the floor. I may have gotten one, maybe two shots off before the revolver was wrenched from my hand. The silence had also been instantly broken by an eerie cacophony of high pitched whispers as an unknown number of the terrible creatures pulled at me from every conceivable direction.

In the drastically subdued light, I could barely make out faces. But what I could see, I could only describe as being something akin to a disgusting combination of fish and frog, with bulging, solid black eyes, no discernible nose, and a mouth that looked more at home in a fish market than on a semi-bipedal monster. Before I could make any rational sense of what was happening, the creatures had ripped open my shirt and I could see the disgusting outline of a hand reaching toward me. It would be the last sane moment I would ever have.

CONFIDENTIAL MEMORANDUM OF PERMANENT COMMITMENT,

EASTGROVE STATE HOSPITAL

Subject: Dobson, F.W.

Attending Physician: Dr. G.G. Helmsworth

Date of Memorandum: March 17, 1894

The patient, Mr. F.W. Dobson was admitted to Eastgrove State Hospital late last November after being severely injured in an attack by unknown assailants, having been brought in by his most generous employer: Mr. James Butterfield of the Butterfield and Sons Mortuary. At the time of admittance, the patient's condition can only be described as suffering from a series of unexplainable physical mutations, accompanied by a rapidly degenerating mental state.

The subject claimed that he had been attacked by several non-human creatures, and that his mutations were a direct result. When pressed about possible motivations for such an attack by our chief psychiatrist, Dr. C.C. Melbourne, it was Mr. Dobson's contention that it was an act of revenge for his earlier cremation of one of their brethren several weeks prior. It was also his contention that individual who brought him the non-human corpse for cremation, and who may have indeed killed the “creature,” was also attacked in the exact same manner. The man he would refer to only as Riley, apparently took his own life sometime during his allegedly induced transformation. The subject also claimed to have cremated the corpse of Mr. Riley. There were five distinct puncture wounds on Mr. Dobson's chest. He claimed that not only he sustained these injuries during the attack, but this was somehow the cause of his mutations. He also claimed that the body of Mr. Riley showed nearly identical injuries.

In regards to the patient's physical mutations, although we have determined that they are not caused by any form of communicable disease, we are still at a complete loss in explaining the biological mechanism at work. Although Mr. Dobson's physical mutations were somewhat pronounced upon his arrival at the hospital, his condition has grown far worse than we could have ever envisioned.

Although the patient was completely hairless upon arrival, the condition of the dermis has continued to transform. The skin color has completely turned to an overall medium gray slightly tinged with hints of green. The surface of the skin is slowly developing a much more scale-like quality. It is somewhat cold to touch, and is developed a certain damp quality that we cannot account for. In addition, his entire body is producing a very strong odor, unfortunately resembling that of decaying fish. On occasion the odor is so strong, several members of my staff find themselves quite ill when working with or near Mr. Dobson.

All of his digits have become inexplicably elongated, nearly half again their normal length. A recent set of x-rays show this to be a process driven by unexplained bone growth. In addition, the nails on all of his fingers and toes have been replaced with a much more claw-like structure. When Mr. Dobson arrived, there were several unexplainable flaps of skin on either side of his neck. There was no sign of obvious injury that could have caused this. Over the intervening weeks, these have developed into what I and my colleagues can only describe as gill-like objects.

But the most disturbing physical aspect of this mutation is the condition of Mr. Dobson's cranial region. The patient's mouth has become laterally elongated and the lips becoming much more pronounced. The nose has shrunk to nearly a quarter of its normal size accompanied by an almost total disappearance of the supporting cartilage. The ears have practically all but disappeared, leaving only small protrusions leading to the ear canal. Several tests have been conducted and it appears that the patient's hearing has not been compromised.

Most curious are the eyes. Upon arrival, all pigmentation associated with the iris had completely disappeared, and the rest of the eyes were showing the initial signs of a much more drastic change. Their current condition is even more baffling. The eyes have completely turned totally black, with no signs of any functional structure on the surface. It is my current hypothesis that this is been caused by a drastic enlargement of the lens and pupil, which seems to have given the subject a much greater sense of vision, especially in very low light level conditions.

As to the mental state of Mr. Dobson, is only complete fair to say that he is now in a state of total delusional insanity, more than likely brought on by his inability to psychologically cope with his physical condition.

During the period in which Mr. Dobson was still somewhat lucid, he kept repeating the claim that something that he would only refer to as "The Old Ones" were actively communicating to him through his dreams. He continued to mention a name that we could only transliterate as "K’too-loo." After several conversations, the attending psychiatrist determined that he was referring to some sort of entity. He also kept insisting that this entity was continually calling to him and it was only a matter of time before he was able to join with it in some undisclosed underwater location. Further references were also made to other, possibly similar entities, increasing in number in direct proportion to the deterioration of the patient's mental state.

Over the course of the previous three months he has been slowly losing the ability to verbally communicate, preferring to make the most unintelligible, yet consistent sounds. Although what remains of his voice is no more than a series of further high-pitched whispers, my staff was able to recognize several of the most frequently spoken phrases and transliterate a rough approximation:

“Ph'nglui mglw'nafh K’too-loo R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.”

All attempts at decipherment have completely failed, leading us to conclude that the phrase is nothing more than gibberish, the product of a deranged mind and does not correspond to any existing language.

In late January of this year, our resident psychiatrist and I were attending a reception at Hargraves University. It was on this occasion that we met one of their visiting professors, a specialist in Anthropology, Dr. Hardwicke, who was temporary on loan from Miskatonic University. During an intimate discussion on perceived cultural definitions of insanity, I happen to mention, although not by name or any of the physical details, the case of Mr. Dobson and how he fantasized about a powerful entity entering his dreams from some unknown aquatic location.

When Dr. Hardwicke asked if the name “Cthulhu” was ever mentioned by the patient, we both became quite surprised and pressed him further. It seems that Dr. Hardwicke had encountered that mysterious name on several occasions, in relation to an unknown cult that perhaps exists in various isolated portions of the world. This of course gave absolutely no validity to the subject's claims, only gave us pause and ponder were Mr. Dobson may have actually heard the name, and subsequently incorporating it into his delusional state.

Within the last two weeks, Mr. Dobson's condition has deteriorated so dramatically, that he is been confined to a padded cell and restrained with a straitjacket. We found this to be necessary when one our interns, Dr. R.L. Warren, discovered that the patient had deeply bitten his left arm. Then using his blood, he covered one entire wall of his room with a series of arcane, undecipherable symbols.

Access to the patient has been limited to only a few members of staff. Enforcing such rules has been quite easy, as almost none of the nursing staff will go anywhere near his cell as a result of his increasingly disturbing behavior. All members of staff have been instructed not to discuss this patient outside of hospital grounds, and even to deny that the patient exists to all members of the public if they should inquire.

It is therefore my opinion, that both the physical and mental state of Mr. Dobson is irreversible and that he should be confined to this facility for the rest of his natural life. Quite candidly, I find any use of the word natural in relation to this case to be completely unsatisfactory.

Signed: G. G. Helmsworth, M.D., PhD.

Author E. Dane Anderson

Thursday, February 25, 2016

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Sunday, January 10, 2016

The Ill Wind

Friday, January 1, 2016

Story Accepted!

Story Accepted!

Cthulhu Lives! Now Out in Audio Book