Dennis: Richie? What the hell are you doing here?
Me: Dennis! Oh God, is it you? Is it really you? I’m so happy to see you!
Dennis: Okay, yeah, I’m happy to see you too, little bro, but…how’d you find me?
Me: We were looking for Redcap, snooping around his old apartment building.
Dennis: What the hell do you want with Redcap?
Me: It’s, he…uh, I don’t know how to explain.
Maggie: We thought he killed you.
Dennis: What?
Me: Dennis, we haven’t seen you for two years. The police told us you died. They brought us your body. We had a funeral and…
Dennis: Ha-ha. Bullshit.
Maggie: He’s not joking. We cried our goddamn eyes out over you.
Dennis: I don’t…What the hell are you saying?
Me: What is this place? We don’t know how we got here.
Dennis: You couldn’t have come here unless you were invited by that guy I was following, or Redcap opened the way.
Me: We came through a trap door in the basement of Redcap’s old building.
Dennis: That’s how I got here. He did a ritual. He sent me to find…
Me: Find what?
Dennis: I…I can’t say. How long have you been here?
Me: Not long.
Maggie: Longer than we think. Look.
Maggie pointed at the now three-quarters moon, night’s eye watching our every move. How had it changed phases so fast? Even Dennis regarded it with discomfort — or, perhaps, distrust. One more thing about which our senses lied.
A series of screams rose from every direction.
Dennis hurried us along crooked alleys and irregular courtyards, through buildings that reeked of rotten wood and mold. The city changed as we walked, the gloom deepening, gaslights giving way to conical tin candle lamps of Colonial vintage, architecture regressing in time from one building to the next, closing on us with sinister shadows and overhangs. Along the whole way, mad, tortured screams dogged us.
We stopped in a courtyard, where Dennis approached a wood and steel door.
The sight of him filled me with happiness that even our horrifying surroundings couldn’t dampen. My brother alive and my best friend at my side, I held my fear in check, bolstered by the presence of the two most important people in my life.
Dennis: Wait here. I’ll be back fast as I can. Then we’ll all beat feet out of here.
Me: No way I’m letting you out of my sight after finding you.
Dennis: Man, if you came down here the same way I did then Redcap let it happen. That means he wants something from you. Trust me, you give that creep an inch, he’ll take a mile. Wait here and then I’ll get us all out of here and away before he can do anything to you.
Me: I haven’t seen you in two years. I’m not letting go now I’ve got you back from the dead.
Dennis: Two years? When…when did you think I died?
Me: August, 1971.
Dennis: That’s now, that’s this month.
Me: Now is 1973, Den.
Dennis: No, you’re wrong, that’s not possible…Listen, we’ll figure this out later, but you can’t come with me. You aren’t protected.
Me: What does that mean?
Three overlapping screams, loud, close, slightly distorted on the tape.
Maggie: Yeah, ’cause I don’t feel very protected right here either.
Dennis: It means you don’t have this.
Me: A medallion?
Dennis: A talisman. This is the symbol of Redcap’s coven. It carries power here. Not much but enough to keep me safe while I do what I came for.
Me: What’s going on? Is this even real? Are you really here?
Dennis: Yeah, it’s all real, but, little brother, it’s not what I wanted. I sure as hell didn’t want you tailing me here. It never occurred to me you would — or that you even could. All I wanted was to open people’s eyes to how the universe really works. I figured it would bring us together. Right? What unites people more than knowing we’re all equally screwed? But that’s not Redcap’s trip. He’s a power-hungry asshole into pulling people’s strings.
Me: Then why are you doing…whatever the hell you’re doing?
Dennis: I want out. I want to get off the drugs, the bullshit, and the lies. He promised to let me leave the coven if I did this for him.
More screams, louder, further distorted.
Me: Did what?
Dennis: There’s a special house here. Redcap calls it the Private Estate. It’s a place where the space between dimensions intersects and time becomes…I don’t know, malleable, I guess. We call the guy who lives there the Inheritor. He knows more than anyone else about the occult history of the universe and its future. Redcap wants me to find out when the Old Ones will return.
Maggie: Who the hell are they?
Dennis: It’s hard to explain, Mags. Richie can fill you in later. You remember, little brother, the wasps and the wasp spray? The Old Ones are Mom and Dad. Redcap wants to know when Dad is going to spray poison on the shed. The Inheritor can see that. From the windows in his library he sees all time from the birth of the cosmos to its end.
Maggie: Seriously, Dennis? What are you on right now?
Dennis: Nothing! It’s not like that. This dude’s family made a pact for knowledge centuries ago, and Redcap covets the secrets they’ve pulled from time and space.
Maggie: So why doesn’t he come get them himself?
Dennis: Bastard’s chicken. I’ve never seen him so scared as he was when he performed the ritual to open the way here for me. Just because he got his hands on an old book of Keziah Mason’s notes doesn’t make him a magician.
Me: He sent you here with…magic?
Dennis: Not magic, not really. Wicca dances around it, keeps it spiritual, right? But it’s math. Equations, geometrical diagrams, and symbols for an understanding of physics beyond what we know. Humans can only comprehend it with help from the Old Ones. The Black Stone Man. The Goat with a Thousand Young. Yog-Sothoth. Redcap’s familiar draws their aspects to our world, and we hope they never become fully aware of us. Shit, this is not the time for a lecture.
Me: Insane! It’s all nonsense. You really believe this?
Dennis: Look around, little bro. You saying seeing isn’t believing?
I had no answer for that. Maggie and I had gone too far to deny what we experienced, no matter how terrifying or bizarre. And at that point, in the last courtyard, the moon shone on us at its brightest, now full. The sight threaded fresh fear into my brother. I don’t know what the full moon signified, but I sensed his urgency.
He handed me a folded sheaf of papers Redcap had given him and swore me to keep it, the only known description of the Inheritor and the Private Estate. From the personal effects of a New England poet bought by Redcap at auction in Arkham, Massachusetts. The poet, who came to New York in the 1920s, found the city nightmarish and oppressive, its antiquarian remnants its only saving grace.
I read the brittle pages again tonight, recalling how I first skimmed them by moonlight, an account of a night walk like our own, ending in my brother’s destination. The poet rendered what he saw from the Estate’s library windows a “pandaemoniac sight…the heavens verminous with strange flying things, and beneath them a hellish black city of giant stone terraces with impious pyramids flung savagely to the moon, and devil-lights burning from unnumbered windows.” He called it “the shrieking fulfilment of all the horror which that corpse-city had ever stirred in my soul, and forgetting every injunction to silence I screamed and screamed and screamed…”
Were the screams that haunted us that night echoes of the poet’s screams? The screams of others who’d walked those same alleys? The screams of children murdered and discarded behind old walls? Of those who’d looked out the Estate’s windows at a world of madness and despair?