The Sea of Ash Read online

  The professor had ceased his flailing at this point, and took several resolute steps toward the other men. Wagner managed to get a hold of the door frame and called for Pond to follow, but Pond was determined to remain. He pawed at his shelves even as their bottles flew off and disappeared into Wakefield's face.

  The gangly figure stepped closer and closer to Pond, thrusting its orifice forward. It was a horrid sight, bending down as if to kiss Albert, its wild red hair dancing in the wind. The blaring vacuum increased its intensity and Pond started to slide across the floor toward it.

  Wagner saw Pond's hands come up -- one let go of a small open bottle of ether, the other a lit cigarette lighter. Both items were drawn into the hollow.

  There was a flash and a thunderous roar that could not have simply come from a small bottle of ignited ether. Professor Wakefield was tossed in one direction, Pond in the other. Nigel grabbed his friend and pulled him to safety as the examination room was suffused with flame.

  Appalling screams came from the burning chamber, a multitude of voices echoing away as if Pond and Wagner were listening to a string of mountain climbers falling into a cavernous chasm.

  Firemen arrived in time to save the Queen Anne, although the examination room and part of Pond's study were destroyed. Professor Wakefield's charred remains were dragged from the rubble; they had been obliterated from the neck up. All traces of the enigmatic infant's body were lost, as were most of the photographs that Pond had taken of it. The only one that remained was burnt along one side so that the seashell-face was no longer visible.

  Nana was a collector as well as a naturalist. When she died the attic of her house was filled with treasures stored in boxes of yellowed cardboard. There were shed snake skins like coils of brittle brown lace, shriveled horse chestnuts that once were dark and polished as mahogany; there were stones and pine cones and dead insects she had found and delicately interred in beds formed from cotton balls. These things were as valuable to her as jewelry might be to another.

  There were shells, of course, all manner of shells. They were scalloped and spiraled, smooth, textured, colorful and dark. She even had a pair of ponderous conches with shiny pink mouths and pale petrified horns. They were like the skulls of demons or some unclassifiable prehistoric thing.

  On the subject of shells... Dr. Pond writes of the shell that he removed from the child. "While the remains of the infant were lost, I was thankful that the shell had survived unscathed. It was safe in my jacket pocket, where it remained at all times. At least I could claim that as tangible evidence.

  "I must admit that I had not fully contemplated the potential dangers that might be involved in the kind of exploration I was about. Frankly, I was not even sure just what my purpose was. Proof, in a number of astonishing forms, had forced me onto a road that might take me anywhere.

  "On the eve of my leaving, I was tempted to turn away and try to pretend that things were only what I once knew them to be, but it was much too late for that. How could I deny what I had experienced? It was all real; Arabella, the infant, the note from Brinklow, Fractured Harry, and poor Wakefield's demise. To say nothing of the mysterious hollows I had seen in not one, but two human heads.

  "I spent that night at Nigel Wagner's home, where I was plagued by strange dreams. Mind you, I had seen atrocities in the Argonne, but the professor's violent end disquieted me to my core. In my sleep I imagined him with that wide open darkness where his features had been.

  "Another troubling image was that of the pulpy mass that seemed to mock a face as it covered that of the old gent. In my slumber it loomed like a sky, and I heard it repeating that particular phrase again and again. 'Six oceans...' Whatever could it have meant by that? Previously I had seen a photographic portrait of Simon Brinklow. Only in retrospect did I liken his image to that dark one that took shape and spoke.

  "In the morning, following tea and Telegram, I thanked Nigel for all his help, and because he agreed to tend my dog Rooney in my absence. Not one for tears, I made an exception as I bade farewell to my two dearest friends. I shook the man's hand and then bent down so that the dog could give me his paw."

  4. STRANGE APPARATUS

  I am alone on the open road. We've all imagined the archetypal highway stretching off into a distance of uncharted possibilities -- a dream that both thrills and frightens. But, I am spared the brunt of those sensations, for I am only an admirer of explorers, and I'm traveling to a specified destination. Others have done the dirty work, so to speak, in this case. Still, the solitude suits me, and the sky is such a wide morning blue above the shadow-mottled pines that I delight in the illusion that I too am an adventurer.

  I cross the border, and a large sign welcomes me to New Hampshire, The Granite State. I proceed to Manchester, where the prime thoroughfare is long and wide, stretching toward garages and unglamorous localities in one direction, while the other ends with noble old houses smacking of money. There is something earnest about this city, a working-class lack of pretentiousness that an old mill town ought to convey. I am spared the studied hipness of say, Boston's Newbury Street, and the glare of icy glass skyscrapers. Instead, there is brick and verdigris and weathered steeples poking above the neighborhoods.

  It is a Sunday morning, and the traffic is light. My instructions guide me without incident to a residential area dominated by Victorians. I recognize the house that I am looking for, park my vehicle and shoot several pictures. The light-grey building rises steeply from the street, so it is a short walk to the impressive double doors.

  This is the Arcangelo Banchini House. Built in 1878, it is an imposing example of Italianate architecture. The roof is almost flat, with eaves that project out, supported by ornamental brackets. There are bay windows -- both upper and lower story -- on one side; the rest are long thin things with arched brows. While the facade boasts a fine entry porch, the most dramatic feature is the narrow tower that presides above. Each of its four sides holds a pair of hooded windows beneath a precipitous mansard roof that sits atop like a strange angular hat.

  Simon Brinklow had already vanished by the time this place was erected, but Albert Pond certainly paid visit here. It was in the summer of 1920. This is where Fractured Harry had directed him.

  I have an appointment with the present owner, the great-grandson of the brilliant inventor who built the house. Vincent Banchini answers the door in a plaid bathrobe. He has a coffee mug in hand and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Funny how we envision people we've met over the telephone differently from how they turn out to be in the flesh. This man is not what my imagination had made him out to be. He is a middle-aged fellow of average proportions, balding on top, with a longish black tail tied in back. He is unshaven and wears round sunglasses the color of stout.

  "Man," he says, "you're punctual." Then he laughs, vigorously shakes my hand, and drags me in before releasing it.

  I'm immediately ushered into a sunny parlor full of heavy Victorian furniture. A figure hovers by a tea table dressed in a sack-like Middle Eastern burka. The dark garment covers the wearer from head to foot, but for a thin meshed opening at the eyes.

  "This is Tabina, my housemaid," Vincent says with a gesture. Then, close to my ear, he confides with a snicker, "I like a challenge when I mentally undress a woman."

  I struggle out a little laugh and bid good morning to the inscrutable female pillar.

  My host feels the urge to clarify: "Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not some subjugating patriarchal control freak. She chooses to dress this way. It's her traditional garb, as they say."

  "Yes, of course," I return.

  Vincent thrusts a finger at me and blurts, "Coffee! Don't tell me...cream and two sugars."

  "That's right," I say.

  The man beams. "I can always tell. I have a sense for these things. With tea I'm a little foggy, but coffee drinkers, I can read 'em a mile away."

  We sit. Tabina pours and prepares my coffee. She does a better job than I am known to
do.

  "I'm also a human thermometer," Vincent chatters. He sticks an open hand into the air, thinks a moment, then proclaims, "Sixty-six degrees. Guaranteed." Then he scrunches out his cigarette and lights another.

  The draped figure, like an upright body bag, stands solemnly a few paces from the table. I find this intimidating. Considering the locale, how can I know for certain that there is even a human under that thing?

  Vincent carries the conversation. "So, you're traipsing around in the tracks of that Pond guy, eh? Cool. I can't honestly say I know much about him. Hey, didn't he kill somebody?"

  Before I can answer, Vincent is up on his feet and rushing across the room. He plucks an oversized book off the cushion of a sofa and returns, puffing a trail from the cigarette in his mouth.

  "See," he says, "here's his signature."

  There, indeed, is Dr. Albert Pond's mark. The old leather ledger contains nothing but signatures, the names of those who experienced the wonders of the hidden room below this structure.

  "My great-grandfather didn't believe in documentation. He never wrote any articles about his work, no books, nothing. Not even a journal. He kept it all up here..." He taps his head. "His work was too important, too secretive, and he didn't want it falling into hands that would have misused it, and there are always plenty of those around. Undesirable hands. He kept his secrets to himself and worthy associates."

  "Understandably," I utter.

  "So, this book of signatures, and the contraption itself, are all that remain."

  Vincent allows me to photograph the ledger. Before I can finish my coffee, I am being led down a steep wooden staircase into the under-chambers of the old house. There is a short dark hall with an adjacent compartment dominated by a coal bin and some kind of boxy object that looks to be a furnace of sorts. At the end of the hall there is a heavy rust-colored door constructed entirely of metal. The host opens it.

  "Here we are," Vincent announces, "the Spirito Macchina, as old Arcangelo called it."

  Vincent Banchini is a metal sculptor, a vocation undoubtedly inspired by his great-grandfather, whose artistry produced the dimly lit room we enter. There is nothing extraordinary about the shape of the enclosure. It is a simple rectangle. This rectangle, however, contains a petrified jungle of baroque clutter, the walls and ceiling textured with rusty mechanical detail, the lines of which bear an archaic and ornamental grace -- the Victorian impulse for embellishment evident. There are crusted pipes and leather bellows, flaking gears and oily pistons, chains, springs, grates, all delicately smothered in dusty webs. The room is a machine.

  A single high-backed chair stands on a low platform facing away from the entry. It looks upon a pair of tall narrow doors that are streaked with what I hope is only rust. Void of knobs, handles and even hinges, they are set into the far wall.

  "It's amazing," I breathe.

  "Still works, too," my host notes nonchalantly.

  "Really?" He had not mentioned that on the phone when I had arranged to come and photograph the apparatus.

  "Sure. Last week I saw this cute little brunette with no arms or legs, just an umbilical cord whipping around like a drunken cobra."

  I get a chill.

  "Here, hop in the pilot's seat," Vincent says, a fresh cigarette bobbing.

  I stare at him. "Do you mean you want me to operate it?"

  "You didn't drive all this way just for a few snapshots, did you?" He peers over his glasses.

  The fact is I'm more than happy just snapping my pictures. "Thank you, Vincent, but I'm fine."

  He looks hurt. "Oh, come on, don't be a pussy. This is an opportunity to look beyond the Big Lie. Give it a shot."

  I've never been good at saying no. My students had taken terrible advantage of that weakness. Before I can find the words to rationalize a refusal, I am sitting in the stiff metal chair.

  Vincent blathers, "I've had all types of things come through here, and they're not all people who've died. I had a Swiss mountain climber who disappeared in the Himalayas back in 1938. Guy hadn't aged a day. He stayed out here, by the way, ended up going back to the home country."

  I suddenly feel feverish.

  But there's more: "I've even seen some things that aren't quite human, but the beauty of it is that you can sort of window shop. If you see something coming through that you think is bad news, you can throw a lever and bingo! It gets shut out."

  I actually stammer, "I'm not sure I--"

  "Okay, here's how it works...

  "If you're looking to talk with someone specific, you call to them through this thing." He points to a funnel, a refurbished ear-trumpet maybe, that hangs to the left, at face level. It is the terminal end of a twisty metal pipe that snakes up into the ceiling.

  The man goes on, rapidly instructing me on the use of several tall levers that jut up from the floor at the base of the chair.

  Ashes rain down Vincent's bathrobe as he looks at me squarely and warns, "Remember, if you see the right door opening, it means you've got something undesirable trying to come through. Don't hesitate, just go for your lever."

  "But...."

  Vincent is heading for the door. "It won't work if there's more than one person in the room, but don't worry -- I'll be right outside. Okay, I'm off to fire this baby up..."

  The door behind me clangs shut and I find myself sitting here alone in a haze of cigarette smoke with my camera in my lap like a bulletless gun. I feel as if I am sitting in a submarine, deep in a night-dark sea. It may as well be night for the darkness of the chamber, the meager light sources vague, set somewhere in the jumbled components.

  I find myself questioning the degree of belief that I have in all things supernatural. At a safe distance, I would have thrilled at the thought of an opportunity to have actual contact with Pond, but now, seated in the darkness beneath the Banchini House, I feel only trepidation. Maybe Pond was indeed a madman, maybe there never was an Arabella, or a baby with a seashell face, or overlaps where dimensions merge. Maybe this room is an entertainment, or a fake, like doctored Victorian “ghost” photographs, mock ectoplasm, profitable spirit-knockings and the like. Maybe Vincent is rushing into a hidden room to operate levitating bed sheets, or to moan and rattle chains through one of the vents. Maybe his great-grandfather Arcangelo Banchini made his fortune hoaxing during the spiritualist craze.

  Trembling, I hear a soft hiss of steam as the lights flutter. A gear alongside one of the walls squeals and starts to revolve, hesitantly at first, loosened scabs of rust clicking like hail as they fall to the metal floor. Then plates in the floor begin to rumble as mechanisms beneath the room stagger to life, groaning and rasping. I hadn't realized that there was another level beneath the cellar. As the platform under my feet vibrates I find myself hoping that the plates are stable and that I don't end up falling through the floor, chair and all. To my left something bangs as though someone has hurled a hammer. Pistons pulse, and the whole chamber rattles like a factory. There is clanking and squeaking, and I imagine disrupted mice scurrying unseen over the floor, their footfalls lost in the cacophony.

  "What if this is real?" I say to myself.

  I must do something. If spirits, or whatever, are being conjured, it's best that I dictate what they are. I turn to the mouth-funnel and stutter…

  "Albert Pond...Dr. Albert Pond..."

  I hear several loud booms as if something powerful is punching to get through the metal doors.

  "Albert Pond, please...Albert Pond...."

  Pale motion draws my eye. Only a mist of steam leaking from a pipe. But then a more dramatic movement. One of the far doors is starting to open.

  It is the right door sliding up into the ceiling like a guillotine blade in reverse. I tense, recalling what Vincent had said about the right door. Something bad is trying to enter.

  I look down at the stiff levers. He had jabbered instructions about what to do if the bad door opened. But there are three levers, and he was talking so fast that I didn't quite take in
what he was saying. Which lever do I pull?

  The door makes a grinding sound as it goes up. I see only darkness beyond it. The door is fully open. My eyes adjust, and the light reveals a vague figure seated in a chair. It is thin and dark, coming into focus as the chair slides forward on rails. The chair jerks as it halts and the ghastly metal puppet sitting there lurches forward.

  I cry out and grip the arms of my chair.

  "Dear God!"

  It's an animatron and nothing more, I tell myself, like the figures at Disneyland. Its lines date it as a work of the Victorian mind, for like the other machine parts that surround me, it has grace and floridity, the elegance of a past sensibility. But I am too frightened to be awed by the technological aspect.

  The puppet has a demon face, part man, part beast, the prominent snout revealing upper and lower sets of sharp black teeth as the mouth opens, and the thing jerkily stands up from its chair, joints whining.

  "Expletive!"

  I look back at the levers, struggling to remember. What if I were to try them all?

  I get a better view of the torso now. It is split down the middle and has lines suggesting ribs, or the definition on the shell of a trilobite. The thin arms bend at the elbow, and skeletal hands reach to open the twin plates of the chest as if a big black book.

  Now I am looking into a window of dull luminescence. Mist in moonlight, or a low-wattage light bulb drowning in milk. My eyes try to adjust, or make out detail, but the light is like water, shifting, protective of its secrets.

  I lunge for one of the levers and yank it toward myself. Nothing happens.

  I begin to notice nebulous spheres rising like great bubbles in the water-light. They bob, floating closer to the window in the metal demon's chest.

  I must try another lever... Something is coming.

  They are faces, I can see that now as they hover closer, eagerly jockeying for escape. The chamber around me is clanging and banging, the gears rotating, the pistons stomping like the feet of Frankenstein's creation.