Waking Nightmares

By Jonathon Narvey

1946. America is still at war. The atomic age has stalled.

In Boston, a detective must unravel the mystery of his own downfall.

Strange allies lend a hand as he takes on a conspiracy of cosmic dimensions. In this race against time and against ancient horrors, they will risk their very sanity.

When the stars are right, the night will bring madness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathon Narvey
• Release date: Apr 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386497431

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SECRETS

MARCH 1925. THE PACIFIC OCEAN

THE WAVES CRASHED AGAINST the hull of the Alert as the white-knuckled Gustav Johansen gripped the helm. The Norwegian sailor was operating almost entirely on survival instinct. He stared relentlessly forward as if by sheer force of will he might bring the ship through the storm. The roiling seas had let up a little, but they were not quite clear of danger yet.

I dare not look back, Johansen said to crewman William Briden, his last surviving colleague from the Emma. Have we truly outpaced the demon?

It sank beneath the waves an hour ago, Briden said. The cursed island is out of sight.

Johansen’s body shuddered. He could not get the image of the creature out of his brain. Every time he blinked, the monster was there, threatening to break his sanity.

How could such a thing exist in this world? How could it live on this Earth, consecrated by the benevolent God of the New Testament? Unless the old desert religion was not quite right about the limits of evil...

We are dead men, Briden said. We are already dead.

I need you to keep a level head, Johansen said. I cannot steer through this maelstrom on my own.

My mind is clear enough, Briden replied. It was a miracle for us to escape. But I see all too clearly now, Johansen. We shall never be allowed to live by this monster’s unholy heralds.

What can you mean? Johansen asked. Is the thing still chasing us even now? I see no sign of it.

The monster has returned to the depths, Briden said. But now we will be hunted by men who have chosen to become monsters. The half-breeds that we slew upon this vessel were no mere pirates intent on the Emma’s meager cargo. They were worshippers of that cursed thing: dread Cthulhu.

What is this curse of which you speak? Johansen shouted through the driving rain.

Briden went silent for a while. Johansen was not sure his shipmate had heard his voice. When he did speak again, he had lost all trace of his former mania. The calm in his demeanor was perhaps more unsettling.

You have not traversed these waters long, but I have spent years aloft these Pacific waves, Briden began. I know of the myths that rule over the minds of men in the dark streets of the ports. I have heard whispers of dark secrets even among respected men of commerce who dwell in the refined quarters by day and shadowy covens by night. Cthulhu has risen. We have seen the beast with our own eyes. But even if we sail a thousand miles from here, his cultish minions will be our undoing.

You have not spoken of this before, Johansen said. In fact, Briden had always been keen to keep his own company, rarely making his voice known except to acknowledge ship commands or purchase a pint ashore.

There was no need to speak of these things before, Briden said. Until these last days, I had known of these conspiracies only as daft old wives tales with which to impress illiterate sailors. But now the truth has revealed itself. Can we deny the truth of our own eyes? We have seen what we have seen. There is no going back either to ignorance or to the false safety of our old homes.

If we survive this night, I shall return home, Johansen said. I shall embrace my wife and never again set foot on a ship.

Then the span of your life will be short, Briden said. I tell you, I have heard these dark rumors in ports of call in the shadowy backstreets of Europe as in the slums of Asia. Your life will be forfeit. Do not go back to your beloved.

You would hide the rest of your life? Johansen asked. Be a man, Briden. Hold your head high and no low-life scum will harass you. You need not abandon your family, even over this supernatural calamity.

For their safety as well, I must not turn from my plan, Briden said. Yes, I will hide. I will live. And with some small favor from you, it will be easy enough to disappear.

The height of the waves had begun to slacken and the black clouds were beginning to part. The night was not over yet, but it seemed these last survivors of the Emma would not be tossed into the dark waters infested by all sorts of nefarious species. They would live a while longer.

APRIL 1945. LOS ALAMOS, NEW MEXICO

DETECTIVE CYRUS MCKINLEY had never seen a crime scene like this in fifteen years of police work.

Body parts on the furniture. Blood smeared all over the walls. Despite the desert air and relative isolation of Site Y12 in Los Alamos, New Mexico, the flies were already buzzing over the deceased.

The killer hadn’t stopped when he got the last of his victims. The strange machines in the laboratory were smashed to pieces. He’d been meticulous in his destruction. Whatever this apparatus had been designed for, now it was all destined for the scrap yard.

Detective McKinley, glad you could get here on such short notice, said Captain Bruno Blackowicz of the military police assigned to the base. We’ll need a preliminary assessment ASAP.

That’s going to be tough, what with the main suspect’s brains splattered all over that desk. I haven’t even had a chance to examine the scene properly, McKinley said.

Blackowicz shrugged. The President’s going to be briefed by phone as soon as we’re ready. The brass has to tell Washington something.

McKinley lit a cigarette. The President? That’s a first. Maybe you should tell me what you’ve been able to piece together before I got here. What do you know about the victims, for instance?

Most of its classified.

Give me something.

Blackowicz shrugged. From what I know, the victims represented pretty much the top scientific brains in the country.

What were they doing here, exactly?

Blackowicz frowned. Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. And I don’t.

Something to do with the war? McKinley asked. Super-guns? Poison gas?

The captain turned to look at the crime scene. The half of Robert J. Oppenheimer’s face that was still there was already sticking to the wood on the desk. Our suspect, gets in at his usual time, twenty minutes to eight, Blackowicz said. He’s always the first one in. Must have had the rifle and the axe in the trunk of his car. Man at the gate didn’t see anything suspicious.

They never do. Or we’d be out of a job.

The first of the victims start reacting to the poison in the coffee pretty soon after they get in. Oppenheimer starts hunting the ones who can still move with his rifle. By the time he runs out of bullets, they’re all either dead or dying. He finishes up with the axe.

Oppenheimer was one of the lead scientists here?

He headed up the project.

No kidding. Guess you never can tell. What was he? A Nazi sympathizer? Closet communist?

We may never know, Blackowicz said. Of course, he must have got checked over real careful before he got the call to run this lab. I can’t tell you what this project was exactly. But rumor has it whatever they were working on, it was going to win the war for us.

Which one? Germany or Japan?

Maybe both. Overnight.

Huh. Guess our boys are going to have to win the old fashioned way. Tell me again what that guy... Lawrence? What he said.

Oppenheimer was acting weird for months, Blackowicz said. Complained about crazy dreams. Sleepwalked. Insomnia. And violent mood swings.

I’ll say.

Nothing close to this. But the other scientists really got creeped out. Lawrence said sometimes when his mood started shifting, he’d just stare at you like he was somewhere else. Somewhere real dark.

But no violence?

Well, there were incidents. But before the project.

Oh yeah? McKinley said. Like what?

He tried to strangle some guy in Paris about ten years ago. Some physics professor.

Huh. You’d think that would have been a red flag. So why didn’t they take him off the project when he started flaking out?

You can’t just take a brain like Oppenheimer off the project and replace him. Nobel prizes for physics don’t exactly grow on trees, from what I understand.

This is what you get when you try to sweep this kind of weird science under the rug, McKinley said, surveying the bleak butchery in front of him. So that’s all we got, then?

Well, we do have Oppenheimer’s last words, Blackowicz said. Lawrence whispered them to me right before he died. Poor sucker. At least he didn’t rot from the inside out from the poisoned coffee. But when Oppenheimer found him in that corner...

So what were the nut’s dying words?

See for yourself.

Sorry? What are you driving at? McKinley asked.

You haven’t seen the wall over there. I suggest you take a look.

McKinley walked through the lab, taking care not to step on any stray limbs from Oppenheimer’s victims. He saw what Blackowicz was talking about on the east wall.

Smeared in blood like some slaughterhouse graffiti, Oppenheimer had left his last testament before he shot his own brains out.

I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.

PART 1

CHAOS

1

OCTOBER 1946. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

PRIVATE DETECTIVE SAM Stalkwell was looking through the bottom of his whiskey glass wondering where the drink went when he heard the knock on the door of his rattrap office. It was just about 9 am in Boston. Too early for a visit from a bill collector. His usual disgruntled clientele never bothered to knock.

A new client? In that case, he’d have to keep up appearances. Sam hid the bottle of whiskey and the glass in the desk drawer, next to his .32 Colt revolver.

A woman in a fancy wide-brimmed hat entered. She had a brown dress that showed off her nice curves. Her face was partly hidden by her hat, but Sam liked what he could see. He was already sizing up her fine measurements before she’d walked two paces into the room.

You’re the detective? Mr. Stalkwell?

You’ve got your man, he said. That’s one mystery solved straight away. Make yourself comfortable.

He motioned to the worn leather chair that still showed off the scar of a bullet hole from six months back. As his eye lingered for an instant on the damage, he remembered how it had got there: a paranoid client by the name of Muggs, who’d hired him to tail his cheating wife. Turned out, Muggs’ old lady’s only indiscretion was marrying the crazy chump in the first place. The drooling lug came into Sam’s office armed with a pistol and accused the detective of covering up for her. He swore Sam had fallen prey to her sultry charms – and for that, he was going to die. Muggs was the one who left the office that day on a stretcher and a white sheet pulled over his face. Sam hoped this wasn’t one of those kinds of cases.

It hadn’t always been like this. A once-stellar career in law-enforcement had come to a depressing state: private consults with corrupt losers, jealous spouses and spiteful relatives squabbling over inheritance money. But these days, there wasn’t much hope of getting a real gig in law enforcement. Hell, he couldn’t even get hired on as a police informant.

No one wanted to hire a crazy man.

The woman sat down and took off her hat. She was a brunette with pale skin and dark eyes. Her lips were sensual, though she wore no makeup. The advertising hadn’t disappointed. Sam tried to keep his focus.

She took a hard look at the detective. My name is Cleo Priestly. I’d like to hire you.

Sam nodded. Guess you don’t need to hear my sales pitch, then. Speeds things up a bit.

I know you already, Mr. Stalkwell.

I’m usually pretty good at placing a face to a name, he replied. It comes with the job. But I’m afraid you have me at a loss.

Of course, she said, a wrinkle of uncertainty momentarily crossing her face – then disappearing without a trace. I misspoke. I only meant that I knew of you. I’ve done my research. You’re a man with the right kind of experience.

Who referred you? Sam asked.

Not one of your clients, she said. An old partner of yours. Buddy Boyd.

It had been over a year since he’d set foot anywhere near the FBI branch office in Boston. After all that had happened, they had about as much love for Sam as he had for them. He sure didn’t send them any Christmas cards. He hadn’t spoken with Boyd in over a year – and it wasn’t like his old partner had ever tried to reach out to him.

Your work has taken you beyond the typical bounds of law enforcement, she said. That’s the kind of help I need.

You need help tracking down basement bomb-making Nazi sympathizers? That’s a bit outside of my line of work.

No, Mr. Stalkwell. This case involves less conventional threats.

I don’t quite follow, Ms. Priestly, Sam said, eyeing her carefully. He found himself reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, only to remember he’d given it up the week before. Bad luck. What’s your game?

I represent only myself, Mr. Stalkwell, she said. And I’m a rather private person. Now, I would like you to begin your work as soon as possible. Are you available?

I could make myself available, Sam said, knowing full well that his little private investigation practice was about one more late rental payment away from closing up shop. If you could share a few details with me? And before we get ahead of ourselves, my retainer is fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. Does that suit you, Ms. Priestly?

Money is no object for me, Mr. Stalkwell. My family’s estate has fallen on hard times in recent years, but I still have access to considerable assets. Your fee will not be a problem.

She took her wallet out of her purse and counted out two hundred and fifty dollars. This should cover it, to get you started.

Despite himself, Sam let out a low whistle. That was a lot of dough – and he was behind on the rent. More importantly, his bar tab was about a drink and a half away from getting cut off entirely. Paydays like this didn’t come around often – or ever, really.

That will get me started just fine, Ms. Priestly, he said. You normally carry around this much cash in your purse?

Concerned for my safety, Mr. Stalkwell? she replied. I assure you that I can handle myself. Besides, my security is a natural consequence of obscurity. One can hide all manner of secrets in plain sight – as I’m sure a professional investigator like you can attest.

You’re hiding something, Ms. Priestly? he asked.

Everyone has their secrets, she replied. Some are so hidden, we forget they were ever there. As she spoke in riddles, she seemed to be searching his eyes for some sign of recognition. He still wasn’t quite getting it.

Tell me more about this job, Sam said.

I need you to find out the exact location of my brother: Atticus Priestley.

He’s gone missing?

He’s in the Arkham Institute, she said.

I don’t follow, he said. If you already know where he is, why do you need to hire me to look for him?

Atticus may have been moved recently, she said. I believe he’s still at the facility. But he may have been transferred to a specially-secured wing of the asylum reserved for the criminally insane. I need to know his precise location in the Arkham Institute.

You planning on busting him out? Sam asked with a mischievous smirk.

She pretended to ignore the question.

Undeterred, Sam pretended he didn’t notice. He could lose his private investigator’s license if this got murky. But he needed the scratch. Best to hear the lady out, first.

Mind if I ask what Atticus Priestley did to get shut away in there with a bunch of sex maniacs and midnight stranglers? Sam asked.

He has committed no offense, she said. Atticus has been held at Arkham since he was thirteen years old. His doctors will tell you that he suffers from a psychosis and paranoid delusions.

Does he? Sam asked.

He has been held against his will for over a decade by the sadist who runs the ward. If he has such symptoms, they are the result of prolonged incarceration, seclusion and pharmaceutical experimentation.

That’s quite an accusation. You have any proof?

Naturally, they keep it hidden, she said. But a man like yourself will know where to look.

Have you shared your suspicions with the police? Sam asked.

As you say, I have no direct proof.

No direct proof. So what makes you so sure of what goes on there?

She pursed her lips. She seemed to be weighing her options, as though she might just get up and leave altogether. Still, this wasn’t the kind of thing Sam could just ignore.

Ms. Priestly?

The Institute was my home for far too long, she said. I only recently got out. So you see, I have an insider’s perspective on these matters.

I don’t mean to be indelicate, Ms. Priestly, Sam said.

But you would like some certainty that your new client is not a raving lunatic, apt to strut around clucking like a farm animal at the first opportunity, she interjected. That is what you were about to say?

I don’t know that I would have put it like that, Sam replied.

You have a reputation for many things, Mr. Stalkwell, she said. Delicacy is not one of them. You may trust that I am, as the doctors might put it, of sound mind – and that my finances are adequate to pay for your services.

He shrugged. Good enough for me.

I do not know how much longer he can last in that damned place, she said. It has already been so long. And with me gone, they may redouble their effort... But you’re a man who can open doors. A man with authority.

I’m not a cop, Sam said.

Official police will not be helpful here, she said. This requires a certain finesse. I understand you still assist the police on certain matters. If the administrators should ask, you can tell them you are helping with an official investigation.

Sam frowned. So, that’s all you want? Just his room number? Because strong-arming your brother out of there is out of the question. Even if you did have evidence, you’d need a warrant from a judge – and at that point, it is in the hands of the authorities. I’m just your hired snoop.

For now, she said. I believe you are meant for greater things, Mr. Stalkwell. This is only the beginning.

Sam wasn’t quite sure how to take that, but he decided not to dwell on it. Anything else I should know, Ms. Smith?

The Arkham Institute hides very dark secrets, Mr. Stalkwell, she said. There are some truths that cannot be told. You will need to learn these truths for yourself. Do some digging. I’m certain you will learn many things – some that may have slipped your mind.

Sam nodded. She was paying the bills. If she wanted to be mysterious, that was her prerogative.

Atticus’ doctor, she said. His name is Lazare.

A cold chill ran down Sam’s spine. He felt like someone had just walked on his grave. He was pretty sure she’d noticed his reaction. How the hell did he know that name?

Lazare, she repeated. This name means something to you?

I don’t remember.

Perhaps you just need to place the name to the face, she said. Sometimes it helps.

Sam regained his composure, at least on his face. Still, his gut had gone cold as ice when she’d said that name the first time.

He knew that name. Connected to an old case?  Maybe he’d read it in a report somewhere. Who was this doctor at Arkham? Why was the name alone giving him the willies?

Why don’t you just tell me how you think I know him? he asked.

As I said, some truths have to be learned the hard way, Mr. Stalkwell, she said. Perhaps it is best that you do not remember. Fear can paralyze a man.

This Dr. Lazare is someone I should be afraid of?

Oh, yes, she said.

Sam was starting to get annoyed with Ms. Smith’s evasiveness – but with her money already folded in his wallet, he was in no position to complain.

Find out what you can at the Arkham Institute, she said. Be very careful, Mr. Stalkwell. Atticus is not the only one in danger here.

"Careful is my middle name," Sam said.

She shot him a skeptical wink in reply. You can begin your investigation immediately, then?

He nodded. I’ll just move a few things around on my busy schedule, he said.

She wrote her address on a legal pad on his desk. She was staying at the Balmoral Hotel, about ten blocks from Sam’s office, in a slightly more upscale part of downtown.

I’ll call the hotel when I know something, Sam said. We’ll go from there.

Excellent. And good luck, Mr. Stalkwell.

I don’t rely on it, he said. Just good old fashioned detective work. You can count on that. Good day, Ms. Priestly.   

This wasn’t going to be just any regular job. He was intrigued. Maybe it would even be dangerous. It was about time.

2

SAM FLIPPED A COIN into the worn hat of the grizzled old one-legged hobo who haunted the corner of Parker Street kitty-corner to his ramshackle office. As usual, the gray-faced bum paid him no heed. It was really more of a habit for Sam than anything to toss something in the hat; he expected no thanks from a man who simply existed, glued to the damp stone of the curb. The hobo was simply part of the landscape – a crippled, broken, waste of a man, no doubt brought to his lowly state in the last war. Meanwhile, across the street nearest the harbor, a recruiting station ushered in the last dregs of young American draftees into this one.

The city was a dour place, reflecting the state of the rest of the country. Tired of war; fed up with the paranoia that was only a healthy response to entire empires wanting to murder you; sick of rationing out butter and tinned beef while keeping the free world from going under. The news from the front lines of the worldwide conflict against monstrous empires seemed positive enough, but by 1946, no one could feel roused to a throaty roar, even on the seeming cusp of victory.

Too many setbacks; too many false starts. First, the nightmare resurgence of Hitler’s fanatical legions the previous winter, that had thrown the Allied lines back practically to the starting lines at the Normandy beachhead – and damn near pushed them right back into the Atlantic; then the kamikaze pilots and midget subs in the Pacific that with a few lucky strikes had turned back months of island hopping; the bizarre rash of suicides in the Allied High Command; unending blunders of exhausted, hallucinating pilots dropping ordnance on their own side; it was like God himself was holding up the good guys from final victory. If not God, then the other one. Either way, this goddamned war couldn’t end soon enough.

It was an ugly time in an ugly life.

Sometimes, Sam imagined he could see things as they really were – past the outlines. Strip away the facades. The masks. The morose cast on the street now... he saw their real faces if he just squinted and looked at them from the right angle. Green-faced, dead-eyed monsters. The real inheritors of the earth. He’d had that black magic power to conjure up those dead ugly faces since as long as he could remember, but lately he didn’t even have to try. Not since the treatment. Not since the fall. Not since the booze. There were demons everywhere, if you squinted just right. Creatures from another dimension – and most of them didn’t even know it.

It was crazy, Sam knew. But he could hardly blame himself for where his mind wandered with the right stimulus. If he was interpreting reality in a way that most folks would find ugly, maybe it was because he’d never seen much beauty to begin with.

Need some company, sugar? Sam just caught the outline of the hooker sauntering on the stairwell of a seedy two-story tenement. By the looks of it, she’d been up all night and was having trouble maintaining her balance on her stilettos. He’d noticed her in the neighborhood before, though usually not until the streetlights came on. Sam noticed a fading shiner on her that she’d tried to cover up with makeup; she was still young and had her looks, but in this neighborhood, it wouldn’t last long. In the gloom of the overcast morning, her beauty seemed drab and cheap.

A little early for a party, isn’t it? Sam asked.

Sugar, I can take care of you, she purred. You always tell me no, but I see you looking. Why don’t you come inside where it’s warm?

Another time, Sam said, moving past. I’m on a job.

Man on the scene, she called after him. Just my type. You go save the world, Mr. Man. I’ll see you on the way back.

Another block down the dismal slush-strewn street, he’d arrived at his destination.

Rick, open up. Sam could see the bartender through the window. He rapped the door to get his attention.

Damn it, Sam, the big man shouted. You know we’re not open yet. It’s not even noon. Come back later.

You won’t even open up for your best customer? Sam said.

And who would that be? Rick said. Someone who pays their bar tab?

Sam waved some bills. Rick grimaced, hobbled over to the door on his peg leg and let the detective in.

Where’d you get the scratch? Rick asked.

Business is booming, Sam said. Got a new case. I’m just happy it’s not another two-timing spouse.

Huh, Rick said, counting the money. Seems we have the same customers.

He served up a glass of whiskey for the detective. "You didn’t just stop in to pay your