Chapter 1
Wilmarth woke up screaming. Droplets of sweat ran down his pale face, joining together and then spreading out in different directions. Whole body trembled, and the words "we're close" thundered in his head.
The young man sat up on the bed abruptly and, being perplexed, tried to reproduce in his mind the dream that had frightened the poor man so much. Only vague images surfaced in his mind, but he knew for sure that he was somewhere in the mountains. Then a voice seemed the loud buzzing of an insect pierced his body: "We are close”.
Willmarth sat in a daze. "No, it can't be, not again…" He clutched his head convulsively with his hands and collapsed back into bed. A little over a year had passed since the events of that horrible night. For the first few months he'd struggled to find a place for himself, persecution mania had taken over what was left of his mind, spies had been found at every turn, and the flat in Arkham seemed to him like an aquarium, constantly watched over by a pair of eyes, if you could match their ugly pink sprouts to eyes, of course.
He moved to Arkham after graduating from university. He liked the atmosphere of the bustling city, and the proximity to the river gave him an excuse to walk around more. But most of all he liked wandering just beyond Lang's Inn, where a strip of woods began. Wandering among the trees, he felt a sense of freedom, and the place gave him strength. The sight of nature in its natural beauty seemed to indicate to Wilmart that his place was here on Earth, not in the depths of the universe on some Yuggot.
It was a hot July day, so after stomping on the jetty in the blazing sun and realising that he could no longer look at the dazzling river, he decided to go to his favourite spot to take a break from the summer heat under the wide canopy of trees. When he reached the spot, he sat down on a large fallen tree and exposed his face to the sunlight scattered across the leaves, letting it flow freely from his nose to his chin and back again. There was, as always, no one around, just him, the forest, the chirping of birds and…
Walter listened. The chirping of the birds… it wasn't there. There was nothing at all. No, there was Walter, there was the forest, but there was perfect silence, as if someone had covered the whole world with a pillow. The young man jumped up abruptly and looked around. The scary thoughts were in the back of his head at first, and then gradually moved to his legs, making them tense. He knew WHEN that silence would come, and he knew WHO would follow. The young man rushed towards the hotel, although he was not much liked there for often 'scaring away customers with his strange gait', it was better than facing them.
When he reached the building, Wilmarth dashed through the door and slid the deadbolt shut with a loud click. The landlord at the front desk raised an eyebrow in surprise:
"What the hell are you doing here?" – he walked up to him and unlocked the door, making Walter recoil from the entrance closer to the stairs.
"I'll say it again – what the hell are you doing here!" – It was obvious from the old prick's face that he wasn't in the mood for friendly conversation.
"Please forgive me…" – mumbled Wilmarth, still recovering from his shock – "Please forgive me." – he coughed and took a serious look – "The thing is, I met… outlaws in the woods, and they… Well, can I stay here in the hall for a while and then go to my place in peace?"
"You think you can just show up at my door with no respect and…"
"I'll pay," the intruder interrupted and held out some notes.
The landlord snorted, roughly snatched the money from the hands of the pale young man and, grumbling to himself, returned to the counter.
Wilmarth looked around. He had never been inside before, only seen some of the furnishings through the windows. The young man walked to a large chair and sank tiredly into it. He had to think about what to do next. He asked the maid to fetch him some coffee and deepened his thinking, taking a magazine from the table so as not to look too suspicious.
An hour later a boy burst into the inn.
"Mr. Albert Willmarth, they told me he was here!"
"What on earth is going on today," came the owner's angry voice, "there's your Willmarth, he's been asleep in his chair for an hour! And what's the matter with you all today…"
"Mr Wilmarth, Mr Wilmarth!" – the boy ran up to Wilmarth and shook him by the shoulder – "I have urgent news for you!"
"What is it?" – The man asked in a sleepy voice. After all, he had dozed off a little from his long rumination.
"Your flat… it burned down." – the boy muttered, and froze in anticipation of the fireman's reaction.
Walter's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in a mute question that, frankly, he was afraid to ask even to himself. Fifteen minutes later he was standing in front of his house, or rather what was left of it.
Eyewitnesses said that the fire broke out suddenly, and there was a wild rumbling noise from the flat, as if some large creature was breaking furniture. However, the rumbling stopped as quickly as the flames disappeared – it is not known how, where or why.
The young man could only nod his head in sympathy for the loss, for he knew WHO was in his flat and WHAT had happened to it. A few hours later he realised something else as well: the manuscripts had burned along with the flat – all that he had left behind after those terrible events at the Ecklie house. It was easy to guess the reason for what had happened – they had gotten to him, they were very close.
There was no time to think about it. Wilmarth did not want to spend the night in town, although neighbours and good acquaintances suggested it. But he could not go to his brother's house either – he did not have enough money. So there was only one way out: the Lang Inn. After collecting what was left of his possessions (namely, the documents he had kept in the safe and a couple of books with burned spines), and taking a shabby shotgun from a neighbour, the young man gathered his will and headed for the outskirts of town. Taking a shabby shotgun from a neighbour, the young man gathered his will and headed for the outskirts of town.
Yes, anything could happen, but he had to survive the night.
Chapter 2
Wilmarth sat on the windowsill, gazing up into the night sky. In his right hand he held a shotgun, in his left a glass of cheap whiskey from Lang's bar. The room was silent, only the ticking of the clock on the wall challenged its authority. There was shouting from downstairs – the young couple couldn't decide who would sleep against the wall and who would sleep on the edge of the bed.
