The voice on the phone said, "I understand that you are a friend of my son, James. He has gone missing. I require your assistance in bringing him home again...”
A university student has gone missing. Can his friends find out what has happened to James Frazer in 1920s Massachusetts?
Ivy suppressed a sigh, forcing herself to smile at the foolish child.
"Good morning Emily, I hope you are having a pleasant day. I'm afraid Miss Dufresne is still at large, but the police have their best men on the case. I wonder, Emily, if you can remember anything else that might help us locate your friend: something she may have said or perhaps a passage from that book you found?"
Emily looked upset at the news about Miss Dufresne. "I liked her.” she said tearfully. ”She was nice to me but she started to go a bit strange towards the end.”
She sniffed loudly as she thought about Ivy’s question. ”Before she disappeared, she was speaking to us, but it wasn’t anything I recognised. When she finished speaking, that’s when that... hole... appeared and James’ friends arrived.”
“May I ask, Emily, if you can remember anything that was said that you could repeat?” Ivy asks as gently as she can (in case the foolish child bursts into hysterics.)
"I’m not sure...” she stammered, looking to Dr Roy, who gave her an encouraging nod. Emily closed her eyes, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, and took a deep breath. Haltingly at first, but getting more sure, she began to recite the words she had been taught, ensorcelled, to say...
”... Attende, vento et quaerere consilio tuo. Ego offerre donum spiritus meus in haec verba loquor. Ad ostium portae quae non video: inter locum et locum. Loqueris ad me: ventus. Et tu iter quo nunc - porta hoc dicite mihi, quid latet in parte altera.
Sto loco isto amet porta ultra mundum. Et magicae simul coniungere istis: nunc autem hic late proris exaratum portal.”
It was just an excerpt of the Latin text that Ivy had found but she could feel a change in the air, like a static charge but faint, as if it were just out of reach.
Tuesday March 18th, 1930 3.00pm
North Windham, Maine
The journey up to North Windham took over two hours. The rain had blown in and Ivy needed the windscreen wipers on the borrowed car so she could see the road ahead. As she coasted over a rise and the town opened up before her, she could see it was dominated by a large stone-built prison that towered over the town like some sort of malign, brooding entity just biding its time.
Beside the road, she could see the distinctive striped garb of the prison work gangs, toiling in the fields as guards on horseback watched on. The guards wore their sou’westers but the convicts had no such protection against the elements; and their uniforms were soaked through.
North Windham itself had obviously seen better days. It had neat rows of clapboard houses but most looked like they needed a lick of paint and here and there some were missing altogether, like a broken tooth rotted down the stump.
The town centre, such as it was, comprised a handful of civic buildings, again in a clapboard style and, like the rest of the town, in need of some attention. The centre was pretty much deserted, the rain keeping people indoors for the most part. As Ivy brought the car to a halt and switched off the engine, it was quiet except for steady beat of the rain on the car roof...
The Police station formed part of a town hall cum courthouse. Ivy pushed open the door which squeaked alarmingly, its echo reverberating in the gloomy hallway behind. A large clock ticked steadily and the sign on the main reception said ‘Out to Lunch’ even though the lunch hour was way past.
In the corner, a light illuminated the glass panel of one of the doors leading to offices beyond. A sign on the door stated it was the office of ‘Wm. Kurchak, Sheriff’. Turning the handle and opening the door, she was greeted by the sight of a uniformed officer with his feet up on the desk, perusing the red-sunned cover of his ‘Short Stories’ magazine. Startled, he almost tipped his chair as he dropped the magazine and struggled to sit up. ”I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “You caught me off-guard. How can we help you today?”
The officer checked the day book then nodded. ”Ivy Ripley, from Arkham. It says so right here.” He tapped the entry on the page.
He looked behind him and took an envelope from a row of pigeonholes on the wall behind the desk. “The sheriff left you this, ma’am. He’s had to go out of town on account of his father-in-law being taken ill. He lives upstate and his wife don’t drive, so...” He shrugged and handed over the envelope, inside of which was a sheet of paper with the words, “Brophy, Waterfield Plantation, off Mt. Hunger Shore Road.”
”No, ma’am,” replied the officer. “They moved out a few years ago and we ain’t seen hide nor hair of them since. Good riddance too, no-one liked them. Most folks would cross the street rather than give them the time of day.”
“They ran that plantation up in the hills. Lots of itinerants working there. People drifting from town to town as the work takes them, know what I mean?”
“I see. Well, you have been most helpful,” Ivy replies. “Oh, I wonder, does your town have a newspaper? If so, where might I find their office? Additionally, if one were to stay the night here, where might one find lodgings?”
The officer shook his head. ”A newspaper? Sorry, ma’am. Windham’s not big enough to have its own newspaper. Some of the churches had their church newsletters but that was mainly parish notices, weddings, funerals and christenings. Not much in the ways of ‘news’, as such.”
“I think Mrs Peabody lets out the occasional room - we don’t get many people staying so we don’t have a hotel or anything like that. I can give you her address - she doesn’t have a telephone.”
“Very well, I will make arrangements with Mrs Peabody and then take a trip to this plantation. May I ask that, if for some reason I fail to return this evening, you alert Detective Keats of my absence?”
“Oh, and one last thing: the lake that the Mount Hunger road runs along - any unusual legends about it?”
”Not that I recall, ma’am. Mrs Peabody might be able to help you there, she’s lived here since forever.” The officer made a note in the day book. “If you don’t check in before my shift ends, I’ll ask the Sheriff to give your Captain Keats a call,” he said.
He gave Ivy directions to Mrs Peabody’s house and ten minutes later she found herself stood in front of a neat, if rather tired, two storey clapboard house. The woman who answered the door had grey curly hair and half-moon glasses. Ivy estimated that she might be in her fifties - perhaps not quite as old as the police officer made out!
The woman looked at Ivy, glancing from her to the car parked at the kerb and back. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Lodgings is a dollar a night, including breakfast,” replied Mrs Peabody. She opened the door further and invited Ivy inside, where she showed her a compact but clean bedroom. “You’re welcome to use the bathroom or I can get you a bowl and jug of warm water if you’d prefer to wash in your room,” she added.
“Will that be to your satisfaction?” she asked. “It’s basic, I admit, but we don’t get many visitors up this way.”
