Johannes Cabal: The Fear Institute

His master plan of deception and obscuration failed at the first step. He couldn’t stand up. ‘Damn,’ he said out loud. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’ It had been such a good plan too. He had fooled himself, after all. How difficult could it be to fool a bunch of criminally insane pixies? ‘Damn,’ he said once more, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

He sat propped against the low garden wall, quietly dying. As he faded, he dreamed of how he had raised her from the dead, and how he had felt to see her live and breathe again. How he had not cared about the years, but only about the result and the truth that there were some people in this benighted world who were worthy of sacrificing oneself for. This was the second thing that he had denied Nyarlothotep, Crawling Chaos and bastard, and he might have laughed in his sleep as he dreamed of it.

Slowly he slumped over, and sank too deeply towards death to dream any more.

For five more minutes he faded.

A figure detached itself from the shadows beside the house and walked to him. Cabal was unaware as his eyelid was drawn back and the pulse at his throat checked. He didn’t feel it when he was unceremoniously picked up and slung easily over the figure’s shoulder, his bag gathered. The garden gate was opened and he was carried down the path to the front door of his house. The garden folk scattered in panic. They knew danger when they saw it, and the figure reeked of threat.

The front door was locked. Cabal doubtless had the key about his person or in his bag, but the figure had neither the time nor the inclination to search. Instead it put down Cabal’s Gladstone, punched the door with its now free hand, smashing the bolt through the frame, picked up the bag again and carried it, with Cabal, into the hallway, past the door that still shuddered from the impact. The figure, a tall man in a long coat, didn’t bother to secure the door. The house was warded against intrusions by the garden folk but, even if it hadn’t been, none of them would have dared to enter while he was there.

Stirred from deep sleep, Cabal was muttering in delirium, and the man listened intently without even having to put his ear to Cabal’s feverishly quivering lips. Cabal was running through the last things he had been thinking about before passing out. The scheme to get into the house was now moot, but the cause and cure for his quickly evaporating life was not. The man listened gravely to the burbled imperatives. Time was short, it was true, but he proved remarkably rapid. He opened Cabal’s bag, was only momentarily surprised to find a flaming skull in there, removed the notebook that Cabal had fastidiously kept even during his descent into ghoulhood and flicked through it quickly. At least the relevant sections weren’t encrypted – Cabal’s failing intellect had preventing him doing that. The man read quickly, stopping once to look at Cabal with disgust. He went to the bookshelves and took down a slim volume entitled A Treatise on the Induced Retrocessation of the Physiological Transformation in cases of Lycanthropy, Including Notes on the Metamorphic Processes Catalysed by Ghoulish Anthropophagy by Erast Culpin. Then, in long strides, he was out of the room and up the stairs to the attic laboratory.

Cabal did not die that night, the next, or the next, but neither did he awaken fully. He was nursed through the illness by the man, fed slowly and patiently like a baby, washed and looked after. Sometimes, during the day, Cabal would almost manage to awaken, and would look around his room before lapsing back into sleep, but the man was never there.

The man looked after the house, too, repairing the front door, cleaning the rooms, and laying in provisions. One evening, he opened Cabal’s Gladstone bag and removed the skull of Ercusides. ‘Who’s there?’ Ercusides demanded. ‘There is something going on, isn’t there? Isn’t there? Is there?’

The man did not answer, but instead carefully placed the skull with its cool blue-green flames in a varnished wooden box that had once contained a reflecting mirror galvanometer until Johannes Cabal had inadvertently destroyed it in an unhelpful if exciting experiment. The empty box had been left in a corner of the attic laboratory for years, which was where the man had discovered it. Ercusides’ skull fitted neatly, and the heatless flames did not start a fire in the wood shavings the man had provided as packing. The lid was closed and clipped shut, and the box placed on the high shelf by the fireplace in the front room, beside another wooden box of similar dimensions.

Ercusides wasn’t sure what was being done with him, but he was reasonably sure it was outrageous. ‘What is this? Is that you, Cabal? Speak to me, you vile man!’

The stranger who had placed him there was already gone, but the other box, Ercusides’ new neighbour, answered in a fashion. It whistled, a slow, haunting, melancholy air that spoke of optimism through adversity. Ercusides’ shouts grew quieter, and died away altogether as he found himself listening. Finally he said, ‘You . . . whoever you are. That tune, what is it?’

The other box replied, its voice rich and mature. ‘“Blimey, I’m a Limey”,’ it said.

‘What’s a limey?’ asked Ercusides. ‘Who’s “Blimey”?’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said the box, and began whistling again.

Soon, when he had heard the tune all the way through, Ercusides joined in.

Four days after he had collapsed at his own front gate, Johannes Cabal finally awoke fully. It was late evening, almost eleven, according to the clock on the mantel, and for a moment he felt content. Then he realised he had no idea how he had got there, and his contentment quickly turned to concern. He was wearing pyjamas, which he never wore because he had long since fallen out of the habit of wearing pyjamas to bed, the closest thing he had to a decadent characteristic. They had been sitting in a drawer in his dresser for years. Why was he wearing them all of a sudden? Why was there a carafe of fresh water by his bed? There had been next to no coal when he had left on the Fear Institute expedition, and he had not bothered to order any, so why was there a full scuttle by a healthy fire in the grate? With some difficulty he sat up, and – some ghoul instinct still in place – sniffed the air. There was an ineffable sense of intrusion in the air. Somebody else was in his house. In his house. He looked at the desk and wondered if the interloper had searched it. If not, then the Italian revolver he had in the upper-right-hand drawer should still be there.

The door opened and he had no chance either to reach the desk or pretend he was still asleep.

The anger on his face at the intrusion into his home melted like wax beneath a blowtorch. Entirely forgetting himself, he gawped, and continued to gawp as the man sat on the edge of his bed, and looked at him without saying a word.

It was Johannes Cabal who spoke first, when his wits began to return having been temporarily expelled by mountainous astonishment.

‘You,’ he said at last, his voice thin and weak from illness and disuse. ‘It’s you.

‘But . . . you’re dead . . .’

Author’s Note