The Horror from the Blizzard

The names, characters, places and events in this story are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. All characters are over the age of 18. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Please note: Fair warning - this story is non-erotic. I wrote this some time ago but this story is one of my favorites so wanted to upload it. I was, and am, influenced by the writings of H.P. Lovecraft and this is my humble tribute to the master. If you read it, I hope you enjoy it.

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Any scientific expedition to the Arctic expects plenty of risk. However, Dr. Welham of Miskatonic University's survey uncovers far more than the usual geologic and ethnographic samples. In the severe, rock-scouring blizzards of the far north, the team comes across a hideous object from an elder age. A relic that brings earth shattering terror in its wake...

This story is loosely inspired by H. P. Lovecraft's short story, Polaris, which was written in 1918. In that story, a modern man is troubled by recurring dreams, gaining in intensity. During these visions, he assumes the role of a sentry guarding the pass against the invading Inutos people from the west. However, under the malign influence of the pole star, the watcher falls asleep. This time, when he awakes, screaming, the sentry wakes as a modern man and realizes that he has failed the marble city of Olathoe in the lost land of Lomar.

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CHAPTER 1: RETURN TO ARKHAM.

"Tarleton?" the Chancellor said, raising his bushy eyebrows. "Are you sure? Wasn't he the one...?"

Professor Bamford lifted his glass of bourbon and peered at the Chancellor through its amber depths before swallowing a third of it. He set the glass down on its silver coaster.

"Yes, Robert. That's right. The only survivor of the expedition to Baffin Island back in '16. But the hospital says he was completely cured on discharge and he's had a good long leave of absence. Since then, he's been finishing his research at the University of Texas down at Austin..."

"A complete change from Baffin Island," murmured the Chancellor of Miskatonic University. Even now, the disastrous expedition to Baffin Island was a sore point. Early and terrible blizzards, severe even by the standard of that Arctic island, had completely destroyed the base camp whilst preventing the supply ship from saving the men ashore. However, that didn't explain everything that had occurred. Although those had never been made public.

"Precisely," said Professor Bamford, breaking into the Chancellor's thoughts. "On his release, the hospital recommended somewhere hot and sunny with no chance of snow or blizzards."

The Chancellor sipped some more oak-aged bourbon, appreciating its smoky warmth on a late summer's evening. "I remember now. Young Tarleton was found comatose, wasn't he? Then in the hospital, when he came to, he was raving about something that came out of the blizzards, wasn't he? Do you think it's wise; him coming back here? I mean, Massachusetts is noted for its severe winters. Wouldn't he be happier staying where he is?"

Bamford thought for a moment before replying. He knew the Chancellor was a scrupulously fair man, but considering some of the strange events that had happened around the University in the past, he would be wary about exposing Jack Tarleton to the weird influences in the area.

"Tarleton would be a credit even to such an august institution as Miskatonic University, Robert. As you know, he graduated Salutatorian. He is showing much promise in his field and don't forget he has family in town who can keep an eye on him in case, only in case, he shows signs of any relapse. They're good people -- I know them well."

Professor Bamford thought for a moment, thinking about what he had said. "Not that he will relapse. 1916 was three years ago and he's shown no sign of mental instability whatsoever according to my friends at Austin."

"And the hospital said he was completely cured?" asked the Chancellor, looking for confirmation.

"That's right. Dr. Aubrey gave Tarleton a complete bill of health."

Chancellor Robert thought. He finished his bourbon and poured another two fingers into their tumblers. "As you say, Andrew, He'll be an asset to us. But keep an eye on him, will you?"

"Aye, aye, skipper," said Bamford with a smile, referring to the Chancellor's yacht that he kept moored at Kingsport's marina sheltered by its lofty cliffs.

* * *

A week later, a young man crossed the Miskatonic River. He paused on the wide Peabody Bridge, built sixty years earlier, and looked down as the water flowed past. Knowing the city well, he made sure he crossed downstream out of sight of a small island with an evil reputation.

The man was of only average height but he was strongly built. He wore a linen suit, straw boater and carried a silver-topped cane. He lifted his boater and nodded, acknowledging a young woman walking by. The woman smiled, pleased with his courtesy as well as his healthy-looking tanned skin, dark brown hair and intelligent hazel eyes. Eventually, the man turned away from considering the river, before crossing the bridge and carrying on into Arkham itself.

The ancient city had not changed since the young man's last visit. Eldritch brown houses of great antiquity leaned and slumped against each other and hid close-guarded secrets behind narrow, lead-paned windows. Its clustered gambrel roofs still swayed and sagged over attics where smugglers hid from the King's men in the olden days of the Commonwealth. Warlocks and witches, not all of them captured during the Salem trials of 1692, also used the attics and cellars for their black rites.

He turned right walking through the maze of narrow, crooked alleys between the very oldest houses fronting the river and shortly after made his way into the University Quarter. Away from the river vapors, it was lighter here with a more wholesome air. Tarleton checked the time against the clock set in the ivy-clad tower, admiring the ancient brick buildings, mellow in the late August sun. The first of the new term's students were walking or cycling or just standing, chatting and idling in the sun. Late season swifts darted and wheeled in the air, their cries shrill and mournful symbolizing the end of summer.

Jack Tarleton walked through the groups of students, checked in at the porter's lodge and then made his way up an old, uneven staircase to the Professor's suite of rooms. The sun shone through the stained glass windows, creating myriad jewels of colored light on the stone floor and paneled walls. Eventually, Tarleton stood before a door with a plaque screwed onto it. In gilt letters, the plaque said: 'Professor A. G. Bamford, M.Sc.'

Tarleton raised his hand to knock. He felt a sudden chill; his skin broke out in goose-bumps and a quick burst of fear. Worse than the worries he'd had before starting at Austin. This is silly, Tarleton told himself. Professor Bamford was a good friend of the family and wouldn't have recommended his appointment on the Geography and Geology department if Bamford didn't think he was up to it.

Also, it was a late summer's day with a clear blue sky and, before this sudden irrational chill; Tarleton had been perspiring under his suit. No, there was nothing to be frightened of at all. Before he could have second thoughts, Tarleton raised his hand and rapped sharply on the oak paneling of the Professor's door.

"That you, Jack? C'mon in," a well remembered voice told him.

Turning the handle, Tarleton let himself into the professor's study.

It was like turning the clock back over three years to the time since he'd last stood in this room. Apart from fresh piles of paperwork and a few extra books stacked up on the floor, the room still had that air of cozy, dusty neglect he knew so well. Mullioned windows overlooked the quadrangle and one wall was completely taken up with a bookcase.

Three globes stood on top of the bookcase -- one showing the features of this world. As always it was turned so the American continent faced the room. The second showed the stars in the heavens. Yet the third, made of some strange iridescent purple material that was neither metal nor stone, showed a world completely unknown to science. It was threaded with dark rivers and mountain ranges surrounding a vast plateau. Some students, of the more irreverent and practical types, thought that Bamford had commissioned it as a jest.

Others, especially those allowed access to the forbidden tomes stored in locked rooms in a cellar beneath Miskatonic's library, shuddered and hinted darkly at a certain world not of this galaxy. A world intimated towards the end of Abdul al-Hazred's tome. Bamford himself kept silent on the subject. All he would confirm was that he found it beneath Yucatan's rainforest in ruins far older than the Olmec civilization.

Professor Bamford turned away from the bookcase. A student with the build of a linebacker stood and smiled at Tarleton.

"Thank you for your time, professor," the student said politely.

"I'm only glad you've decided to continue your studies here, Webster. As you will be aware, Miskatonic has a policy of supporting scientific expeditions and I know that you will be interested in going to...," Bamford broke off, recalling his visitor. "Come back Thursday; no, make it Friday, and we'll talk further."

With a polite nod to Tarleton, Webster made his way out, closing the door behind him.

Professor Bamford stood and gripped Tarleton's hands warmly. "Jack. I'm so glad to see you again. You're looking good. Austin's been treating you well, I see."

"Yes, professor, but I am glad to be back home. My parents have kept my room for me."

Jack Tarleton's father was a successful businessman who had got rich supplying timber even before the Great War. After the end of hostilities, Royce Tarleton had gone on to make even more money out of reconstruction in Europe. The family lived in one of the grand old mansions on French Hill.

"That's good, Jack. I shan't expect you to do much during your first trimester...,"

"I intend to pull my weight, professor."

"... however, teaching our students; collating our displays, cataloguing our archives and such like will form much of your work until Christmas."

Tarleton leaned forwards, resting his arms on his knees, facing the Department Head. "With respect, professor, I did more than that at Austin. I can guess what's been said about me but I can assure you that you need have no fears. I'm completely over my... panic attacks. I intend to be fully involved in the life of the University and if there are any expeditions next year then I would like to be considered. Are there any?"

"Any what?" asked Bamford.

"Expeditions. Where are you going?"

Professor Bamford looked away, out of the window. "Nothing's been decided yet, Jack. Nothing. It's all a matter of securing funding, you understand."

The two men shook hands and Tarleton left. As he crossed the quadrangle, Bamford stood by the window and watched his progress. Tarleton stopped and chatted to Dr. Armitage, the college librarian before carrying on out of sight. To Bamford, Tarleton looked fit and well; a young man without a care in the world and not the desperate, catatonic wreck he had been when the rescuers from the ship made it to that blasted camp in the end.

Bamford smiled. Yes, it was time for young Jack to come home to Arkham.

* * *

Meanwhile, after asking Dr. Armitage about library access, Tarleton walked under the archway and out onto College Street. Outside the university precincts, carters and taxi drivers were dropping off boxes and trunks belonging to the students starting the new term. The late afternoon sun was still strong and Tarleton's shadow stretched out before him.

Crossing Garrison Street, Tarleton spotted an ice truck outside a restaurant. The driver swung down from his bench seat, draped his reins over the brake and opened the truck's insulated doors. He placed sacking over his shoulder as cold air billowed out in a wave of condensation. The driver climbed inside and backed out carrying a block of ice.

Tarleton stopped walking, his mind fixed on the ice. Even as the iceman crossed the sidewalk splinters of ice fell from the block, melting the instant they hit the sun-warmed cobbles. Tarleton watched, transfixed as a woman opened the restaurant's door and let the iceman in. The two spoke together in Italian. A minute later, the man returned, stuffing some money into his apron pocket. The iceman then swung back up into his seat, clicked his tongue and his tired looking nag picked up his hoofs and shuffled down Garrison Street to make the next drop-off.

Rooted to the spot, Tarleton still hadn't moved. Ice. Cold, sub-zero ice. The Arctic wastes of Baffin Island. The raw, howling, cutting wind; the land's grey rocks rimed with frost. And then the pure Hell of what came out of the blizzard and into their camp. No, no, no... his mind shrieked.

"Mister..., mister, are you alright? Mister?" Tarleton felt several tugs on his sleeve, pulling him from that nightmare and back into the sunny street. A boy, maybe nine or ten years old, was pulling him towards the restaurant. His mother was standing by the door, a look of concern on her face. She said something in rapid Italian to the boy who replied in the same language.

The boy dragged Tarleton into the restaurant and sat him down at a table with a red checkered tablecloth before running and fetching a glass of water from the kitchen.

"The heat, signor? You felt faint?" the woman asked. Her dark brown eyes looked into his as if searching his soul. She pushed several strands of black hair out of her face as she did so.

Tarleton shook his head. "No, ma'am, not the heat. Something... something came over me. I don't know...," Tarleton's voice tailed off.

The boy brought a glass of water and placed it before him. The boy then stood next to his mother; like hers his big brown eyes staring. Tarleton reached out his hand. Then stopped. His hand shook, a slight tremor at first but then a definite tremble. He withdrew his hand. Condensation beaded the glass. Yet what stopped Tarleton's hand floated on top of the water. Chips of ice. Like little icebergs floating in the Davis Strait. One chip chinked against another and it dipped beneath the surface. A crack splintered the ice.

"Your water, signor," the woman reminded Tarleton, pushing the glass closer. His eyes stared, fixed on those tiny chips of ice. He could almost see the ice-haze on the surface. Straining his ears, he heard the tiny crackle and pop as the chips melted.

He felt a scream rise in his throat. No, no, no. Cold flooded his body and his skin broke out in goose-bumps. For a moment, yet it felt an eternity's age to Tarleton, he was back on that rocky camp on Baffin Island's Cumberland peninsula. That camp where soul shattering horror came one night.

With a cry, Tarleton pushed his chair back away from the table and leaped to his feet. The glass rocked, the ice tumbling like bergs calved from a glacier. Snatching up his boater, Tarleton dashed from the restaurant. He raced along College Street, east towards French Hill. Passers by jumped out of his way and then stopped and stared as the young man ran as if pursued by invisible demons.

CHAPTER 2: THE FEAST -- AND HALLOWEEN.

Calling on his reserves of stability and fortitude, Tarleton pulled up at the junction of Parsonage Street. He stood, gasping, panting, his heart pounding in his chest. A wagon loaded high with tea-chests rumbled past. The carter called to one of his friends on the far side of the street. Normality. Nothing to remind Tarleton of that horror north of the Arctic Circle. Just an ordinary, everyday street scene with people walking to and fro. A group of schoolgirls with their heads together laughing and giggling. Shopkeepers leaning against their door frames enjoying a few minutes quietness.

"I thought I was all right," Tarleton whispered to himself, his mind still shocked by the experience. "I thought I was completely cured. Perhaps it was the shock of coming back to Arkham on top of such a long journey; maybe I should have stayed down at Austin. No -- it was just a one-off. The doctors at the hospital told me there might be relapses if I got overtired but they would dwindle with time. No, I need to ignore this incident. Put it behind me."

Saying which, Tarleton tried to reassure himself as he walked along College Street to the higher ground of French Hill. Nevertheless, Tarleton was upset and unnerved by his reaction to something as innocuous as a block of ice.

All the same, he'd never had any problems with seeing ice down in Texas so he was surprised that it should happen now. It could just be the mental association of the Miskatonic University with that disastrous survey expedition. Perhaps he should see 'Old' Waldron, the college doctor, get something to settle his nerves, but on second thoughts, Tarleton rejected that idea. He didn't want his mental health discussed amongst the professors. If any were having doubts or second thoughts then he didn't want to give any of them a handle to find ways of getting rid of him.

Also, Tarleton was glad to be back in Massachusetts. It was home. Sure, he'd enjoyed his time in Texas but Massachusetts was where he belonged. "My family's from Arkham -- we've lived here for almost one hundred years and Miskatonic has the best research facilities in the country," he thought.

Looking up from his thoughts, Tarleton saw he was home. He stood before his parent's mansion on the exclusive Saltonstall Street -- a large neo-Grecian built some fifty years before. His grandfather had served on the staff of Major-General Benjamin Butler's occupying force in New Orleans and on his return from the Civil War, he had torn down the old colonial and rebuilt in an antebellum Louisiana style.

The house was a gracious, classically proportioned home, freshly whitewashed and it shone brightly in the late summer sunshine. With a smile, Tarleton walked between the gateposts and up the driveway, passing a stand of shade-oaks. He didn't need to knock on the door before it was flung open.

"Master Jack! Welcome home!" Cartwright, the family's old retainer greeted him. He shook Tarleton's hand and guided him into the marble-floored atrium. A double staircase swept upwards to the second floor gallery; another design feature his grandfather had insisted upon. Tarleton's earlier worries were forgotten when he saw his mother sweeping down the staircase, her skirts swishing as she walked. Although not yet fifty, she had not taken to modern dress and looked like a Victorian matriarch in her black dress with a jet brooch at her throat.

Tarleton sadly realized that his mother had not yet got over the death of his elder brother, Thomas, who was killed by German artillery whilst fighting with Canadian forces at the maelstrom of St. Julien. Thomas had survived the horror of chlorine gas only to be blown up during a counter-attack. A terribly sad end but not unusual in the carnage of the western front.

Thomas had earned the respect of his father and the tears of his mother by not waiting for the United States to declare war but had slipped across the border shortly after the Great War had broken out in order to join up with the Canadian First Division. At the time of Thomas's enlistment, his mother had been upset and had locked herself in her room for a week but his father, although pretending anger, had made no secret that he was proud of Tom.

However, both Tarleton's parents had been equally devastated when the telegram arrived notifying them of Tom's death. That terse note was followed a week later by a letter from the Colonel giving more details and enclosing Tom's few personal effects. His mother had read that letter so many times she knew it off by heart.