The Greatest Lie

 

The Greatest Lie
by M. J. Harkins

In anticipation of his arrival at Lake Aldrich station, Robert Wayland reviewed the letter he received from the solicitor representing his distant uncle’s estate. Parts of it were cryptic, especially about his uncle’s demise in Aldrich Asylum. A respected professor, Director of Interdisciplinary Studies at Miskatonic University until only a few years ago, George Wayland Angell was a revered scholar. Robert had misgivings about what he would find when he arrived. 

The train through Lake Aldrich ran south at 10am, and north at 2pm. He disembarked and had a few hours before sunset. He picked up one of those cartoonish maps you see in every town these days. He didn’t see Aldrich Asylum on the map, so he asked the station agent. The man seemed pleasant, until Robert asked for directions. The man went white, scribbled a small box out on Paulson Road, past the Old Hollow Inn, then busied himself, as if to say goodbye.

It was a short walk west from the station, the solicitor had suggested the Inn. They had scheduled a meeting room and would conduct business at noon the next day. The Old Hollow must have been the depression on the other side of the road. There seemed to be a dried-up pond, outlined by ancient, disheveled trees. For a truly old hotel it seemed well kept. The large front desk, off to the right, offered meeting rooms further in. On the left was a comfortable parlor, with dining accommodations beyond. The center hall had a wide staircase that divided right and left halfway up. It all seemed inviting.

The receptionist was pleasant, until Robert gave him his name, and then he got that same look, the one the station agent gave him. The man behaved professionally, but hurriedly. He checked Robert in, handed him keys, then disappeared. Uncomfortable, Robert proceeded to his room on the 2nd floor, dropped his one bag on the bed, and considered his situation. He decided he didn’t want to eat in the hotel, so, if he wanted to be back before sunset, he had best be going.

Robert walked back along Forest Drive toward the train station, crossed the tracks, eyed St. Anthony’s Church on Reynald’s Way, then continued to the next corner. He turned left on Winthorpe and stopped. Miskatonic University was a grand old building, with iconic ivy clinging to its walls, but there was an emptiness. Some windows were boarded. Dead shrubbery cluttered the grounds. He continued north into town.

The first establishment on his left was a funeral home, which doubled as the Morgue, not a welcoming site. He should have studied the map more closely, but there weren’t many roads in and out of town, unless you wanted to walk along the train tracks. He crossed E. Francis and Barrel streets, made a right on Main, and another on Hyde Crossing, just following the map. He had to choose where to eat. He decided on something ordinary, so he seated himself in Ethel’s Diner. He had a BLT with fries, and a chocolate egg cream. He paid and left. He decided to walk through town. Stopped at Riley’s books, grinned when he passed The Tipsy Cow, let out a small chuckle passing Bob’s Burger, crossed the tracks and the mood changed.

He was a bit dismayed by the old library, which was in disrepair. Apartment buildings, a general store, the pawn shop, and a pair of gas stations ushered you out of town. The trailer park put the finishing touch on “the other side of the tracks”, as Main Street ended at Paulson Road. Robert turned left onto Hollow Road, making it back to the Inn well before sunset.

Sitting in his room, Robert was trying to put the pieces together. When he was a child his dad had subscribed to the Miskatonic Journal, and they would sit and discuss papers written by his famous uncle. Explaining interdisciplinary studies to a nine-year-old was hard at first, but his dad compared it to Bob’s playroom, his dad called him Bob, nobody else did. His dad pointed out how the Lincoln Logs, the Lego sets, the Hot Wheel tracks all seemed to fit together, and that really smart people, like his uncle, could fit together all kinds of ideas about the world.

It took years for Bob to get a handle on those ideas. His dad had a heck of a time understanding these things himself. A library card, some good teachers, and an inquisitive mind laid the foundations, and by the time Bob was in high school, he had a pretty good handle on the wide and varied ideas his uncle alloyed in his papers. For nearly two decades the papers, a few each year, were scholarly and engrossing. Ecology, anthropology, engineering, philosophy, and other subjects, blended skillfully into rational and plausible suppositions about how and why the world was and is. But in the last few years of his publications, which were fewer and fewer, they began to be repetitive, combining obscure texts with apocalyptic overtones, and the findings of modern science.

To Robert, it seemed George Wayland Angell was fixated on speculations about life in the universe and the end times. He started on his descent, applying metanalyses to the disappearance of civilizations throughout history. Mostly about how they flourished, and how they perished, providing interesting and logical conclusions, but more and more often attributing their demise to prophetic writings. At the same time, he was equally obsessed with the origins of life on earth and its implications when applied to the findings of astronomy, particularly the abundance of exoplanets.

Professor Angell had gone down a pair of rabbit holes that formed a worm hole in his thinking. Somehow, he had combined ancient terrestrial life with demonic worship, and then extrapolated this across the myriad worlds throughout the known universe, coming to nightmarish conclusions. Now of course those last few theories never made it into the Miskatonic Journal, and were published privately, leading to a request for his retirement. Miskatonic University did not want a revival of those unfortunate happenings of nearly a century ago.

All these memories added to Robert’s troubling feelings. Exsanguination? How did his uncle end up in Aldrich Asylum, and, it was inconceivable, bleed to death? Would he get all the answers at the meeting with the solicitor tomorrow? He was assured that the proper authorities from the town and the asylum would explain everything. What bothered Robert more was not having seen his uncle since they had a falling out over his not wanting to attend Miskatonic University at Lake Aldrich. His opinion was he wanted to be an engineer and build things out in the world. He had read of all those faraway places and couldn’t imagine himself cooped up in a library for decades with more reading.

The large armchair was so comfortable, and with the travel, the meal, and long walk through town, Robert fell asleep. He had numerous dreams. He dreamed of civilization after civilization growing in splendor and collapsing into dust, as in his uncle’s Ozymandias Theory. He dreamt of those hundreds of millions of years, when soft bodied lifeforms ruled earth’s oceans, before the dinosaurs. Ginormous denizens of the deep lurked in the darkness. Cephalopods that could capture and tear apart the largest sauropods. Seas so saturated with tentacled predators that life itself fled up streams and rivers, and onto dry land to get away. In some horrific version of the Rite of Spring scene in Fantasia, ten thousand worlds experienced the same ouroboric happening, the ever-consuming maw, the flight from terror, he awoke with a scream.

The solicitor arrived on the 10am train down from Boston, he would be leaving on the 2 o’clock. Robert and Mr. William Q. Harrow, esq. had coffee, spoke of the firm’s long relation with his uncle, handed over the deed and keys to Prof. Angell’s house in town, and was rather reserved in his dealings. As others arrived, they moved into the private meeting room. The coroner was present, a Mr. Patrick Samuels, as was the Administrator from Aldrich Asylum, Dr. Melissa Blair, and Chief Inspector Matthew Blake. In addition, the Headmaster of Miskatonic University in Arkham, Prof. Thomas, joined them. After introductions, and a call for more coffee, the proceedings began.

Mr. Harrow ran the meeting, first explaining that he had taken care of personal matters with Robert and would represent him today. Most offered their condolences to Robert. Mr. Harrow thought it wise to walk through the timetable leading up to the unfortunate outcome. The inspector gave a brief account of the decline of Robert’s uncle, with Prof. Thomas relating how Prof. Angell’s behavior had alienated the students and faculty, and they both proceeded to demonstrate how Prof. Angell’s harassment of citizens associated with the University eventually led to shuttering the school and having him committed to the Asylum. Then it was Dr. Blair’s turn.

It was obvious to everyone in the room that Dr. Blair was still shaken by the outcome at the Asylum. Robert’s uncle never adjusted to his being committed. He was belligerent to the staff, and berated patients for not wanting to listen to his theories. Eventually, they had to isolate his uncle. His incessant obsession with his theories seemed an obstacle to his treatment, so his notebooks were removed. Without his work he began drawing on the walls with anything he could find. Food. The soles of his shoes. He was restrained.

Finally, one morning they found him. He had somehow removed his restraints, and the walls were covered with hideous drawings of creatures. Half man, half sea monster. There was a huge, floor to ceiling beast, with the body of a man and a tentacled head with a gaping jaw on one wall. The other walls were covered by an army of odd ichthyoids. Prof. Angell had chewed off his fingertips to make the obscene drawings. He lay on the floor white as a ghost. The coroner and inspector assured Robert and Mr. Harrow that they found no foul play involved. It seems his uncle was taking blood thinners. It was all an unfortunate set of circumstances. All parties said they would make themselves available if there were further questions. Mr. Harrow thanked everyone for participating. The meeting was adjourned.

Robert was dumbfounded. It was all so overwhelming. He had managed a few questions, but it all seemed choreographed, like a movie scene. It was all matter of fact. Laid out and logical. Obvious to all. Something that happened every day. Fine reputable man goes mad, bleeds to death. What’s next on the agenda? He sat in the meeting room until someone came to take away the coffee cups. He was startled out of a trance. He picked up his things and went to his room. It seemed like the sane thing to do.

Combined with his restless sleep, his nonexistent breakfast and lunch, and the mountains of burned up mental energies from that “meeting”, Robert found himself out on Main Street, approaching the Pheonix Chinese restaurant. He needed food. After some soup and dumplings, shrimp fried rice, and half a crispy skin chicken, Robert was almost himself. He continued east on Main, his uncle’s house was just down the road, and he thought he’d go by. Heading down Main, past Poe, where he should have made a right if he was going to his uncle’s, he continued east.

He saw a sign that said Lake Aldrich. He remembered fishing by the lake with his dad and his uncle when they visited. He wanted to see the lake, catch a glimpse of Raven’s Rock Islands. He felt nostalgic for some semblance of normalcy. As he approached the east end of Main, he noticed the hills going off south to the right, and the picnic grounds on the left. The hills seemed overgrown, and the grounds were unattended and shabby. Broken benches, forgotten outhouses, weeds and bramble run wild. At the shore, he was disillusioned to see dead fish washed up. Off to the east, in the gloom of approaching night, he could make out a slight luminescence out on No Man’s Isle. None of this gave him comfort, it only added to his disquiet. He turned back.

Prof. George Wayland Angell lived in a sprawling ranch home, at the southeast corner of Poe & Main streets, with the entrance facing Poe and a garage on Main. The large backyard had entrances on both streets. Fences ran along both streets for a few hundred yards, but the yard was enclosed on the back by trees and shrubs. A path led off east to the wood and the hills. There was a large gazebo that could seat a dozen or more. The house was L-shaped, and facing the yard, adjacent to the building, along each wing, ran an extended pergola, providing shade all day. It was always cool and light. The professor was known for his garden parties. Robert had attended a few as a boy. Half the faculty, and a goodly number of students would participate. The mayor would occasionally stop by. But again, stepping into the yard, Robert immediately saw that joy hadn’t been celebrated here for many a year. Again, disrepair, neglect, rot had reign, just like at the lake.

Robert turned and entered the library, which doubled as his uncle’s home office, especially since being asked to leave the university. Disheveled and dusty, disorganized and, in places disintegrating, this mess made him think of his uncle’s muddled mind. He immediately left, made a beeline across the field that became the Miskatonic campus, and walked swiftly along Forest until he was back at the Inn just as it got dark. He collapsed in the armchair, passed out, and had troubled dreams, that he luckily couldn’t remember at dawn.

Robert figured on staying a week or so to get his uncle’s things in order. During the fog of war that was yesterday’s meeting, he managed to setup a few follow up meetings. His first was this morning’s at Aldrich Asylum with Dr. Blair. Upon arriving, Robert was firmly instructed to call the doctor Melissa, she had been a close friend of his uncle George. She told him about the decline, the dismissal, he was not asked nicely to resign, his unwillingness to desist from contacting and later harassing the staff and students, wanting to continue his “important work”, and the ensuing exodus of families, both staff and students, from the town. She intimated that she couldn’t abandon George in his state, but now, with all that has happened, she was considering going back west to decide what to do next.

Before the interview ended, Melissa broke down a bit, but quickly composed herself. She had known members of the faculty for over a decade, attended many garden parties at his uncle’s house. He was a very brilliant man. But a gloom came over him and he delved more and more into ancient religions and civilizations, finding myths of creatures from the deep vs the sky gods. Ancient astronauts were amusing, but his uncle was becoming worrisome. Then there were the endless discussions about eons of sea creatures with little or no geological record. His argument was “what made creatures leave the sea?” “What was after them?” “Why were the earliest fish armored?” Robert told Melissa that he was familiar with all these theories and arguments. He had thought his uncle was just trying to stay published. He had no idea it had become an obsession, and that it destroyed his life and career.

She had to make some reference to what she believed was the tipping point. Once he started looking at all the data coming in about exoplanets, and world oceans, and the possible commonality of life, all of this was amplified in his mind, more likely than not, the majority of worlds were ruled by such gelatinous creatures. The cosmos was awash in enormous sea demons. He postulated intelligences, millions of years old, capable of not just echolocation, but of seeing through bodies, destroying bodies at a distance, telepathy. He couldn’t stop himself. You couldn’t sit in a room with him. People left public spaces when they saw him coming. “We all loved him, and wanted to care for him, but it was all very unsettling.”

It was all starting to come back to him. There was a part of him that was fascinated by his uncle’s ideas and his persuasive writing style. He had had long long-distance calls with him through high school, and the Internet made everything more intensive. Sharing links and whole sites, and access to so many libraries and so much research. Which brought him back to the inevitable letdown. They barely communicated while Robert was in college. What with college life, and the path he took in applied science and engineering. Then his internships which took him across the country, and his jobs that took him around the world. He felt like he was in that episode of Star Trek NG, where he was Picard and he had disappointed Prof. Galen, but Robert had never reconnected with his uncle. However, he had read his self-published texts.

He made his way across town. The previous day he had taken an inventory at his uncle’s house, and the only thing he needed immediately was some garbage bags and gloves. He walked east on Paulson, turned up Main, into town, stopped at Jim’s General Store, then made his way to Ethel’s Diner to meet up with Inspector Blake for lunch. He was exactly on time, he had dillydallied at Riley’s Books to kill time. He ordered the hot open turkey, with all the trimmings. The inspector had the pot roast. Ethel was a grumpy, heavyset man with a 5 o’clock shadow at noon.

Food has a way of bringing you back to a feeling of normalcy, especially comfort food. Blake was brusk but friendly. He knew of his uncle for decades but ran with a different crowd. College towns have their intelligentsia and then there’s everyone else. Blake was certainly an everyman. You’d find him at The Tipsy Cow when the swells were at the Prof’s garden parties. He really didn’t have anything for Robert. He waited until after the meal before going through the rundown.

He talked about how his uncle ran the university for nearly two decades, then there was the falling out, which is when the bad behavior and bizarre stories started. At first it was the worship of sea monsters, and then ancient astronaut invaders wiping them out. It was amusing for a minute, then it wasn’t, and then it got worse. He could talk forever, switching between gnostic nonsense, exoplanets, a cabal of intergalactic demon minds trying to control the universe, to what it means in the scripture of any religion, without missing a beat. Once his harassment bled the town of his peers, and families started leaving because he still wanted to teach their kids. He had to be stopped.

Robert came away with not much more than he already knew. Dr. Blair and Inspector Blake thought a short stint in the sanitarium might correct the obvious imbalance he was experiencing. Nobody thought it would go downhill so fast. Robert still had the better part of the afternoon, so he felt action would get his head right. He made an assessment. Deciding to create a living space before attempting the office, he opened all the windows in the living room and kitchen for light and air. Too many sloppy college roommates had made Robert an expert at sizing up and executing what he called a purge & clean.

 Robert now had a base of operation. He could eat and sleep. He just needed food and clean sheets. It was barely twilight. He was back at the Inn before dark with Chinese takeout. He checked out in the morning, made his way across town, a slight detour off Main on Liberty to get a few things from Earl’s Hardware, amazingly Earl had linens, grabbed a coffee and donuts at Tina’s, and Gene’s Grocery would deliver the essentials he ordered. Now to tackle the big job, figure out what his uncle was up to in the library. 

In a few hours Robert had done some rough sorting, fast dusting, purged some furniture just to make room, moving pieces to other rooms, or positioning them in the garage for disposal. It was in the garage that he discovered his uncle’s old roadster, but that would have to wait. He now had a handle on what could be thrown back on bookshelves, what looked like books that may not belong to his uncle, a lot of papers and manuscripts, and piles of mail and correspondences. 

He thought the mail should be first. Luckily, the utilities and all bills associated with his house were handled by a woman named Elisabeth, who was hired by Mr. Harrow, the solicitor, and receipts were forwarded each month. Everything was in order, including taxes. His uncle’s personal accounts were handled directly by the solicitor’s office, his finances, his investments, his publishing contracts. It seems his uncle had squirrelled away quite a bit of money, and the new boom in ancient astronauts had reinvigorated his residuals. Robert had come into a home free and clear, and with the nest egg built, he could retire at a young age. Lucky for him Mr. Harrow was an honest man.

The correspondences were difficult. Seems he’d have to tell scores of people that his uncle was deceased. Additionally, there were many series of correspondences that were connected to the professor’s various exploits. Uncle George had contacts around the world. Some had to do with the books, papers, and manuscripts strewn about. He started to sort these things chronologically, some going back many months, if not longer. There were about thirty odd people interconnected. The link was a common refrain each shared over and over, like a mantra, it lent a harmony to their disparate paths.  The overall connection was that they all seemed to share the belief that humanity as a whole could hold back the demonic tide. He ordered a pizza and kept piecing things together until he passed out on the couch.

He awoke refreshed for the first time since he had been notified of his uncle’s death. His life had changed drastically in just three days. He went around the house. It was spring. It was definitely spring. The air was fresh, the breezes were light. He threw open all the windows. Cleared a spot on under the pergola. He made coffee, eggs, toast. He even had butter and jam. What was going on? He guessed it was some kind of odd euphoria. Maybe he’d have to see a psychiatrist. That day the coroner released the body, and Robert made arrangements for his uncle to be quietly buried in the local cemetery. The euphoria was gone, but a calm had taken its place.  Again, Robert asked himself if any of this was normal? 

He had taken a leave of absence, and, as it just so happened that the project he was on was close to being complete, so he arranged to push off his next project for six months. He would spend the spring and summer in Lake Aldrich, assessing the situation in the fall. He met with Elisabeth Brooks, the woman that handled what was now his estate. She had already been informed by Mr. Harrow. She was a quiet, older woman. Oddly she had only met his uncle twice in twenty years, to sign contracts. She was also a notary.

He enjoyed his mornings under the pergola in the backyard. He developed a routine where he spent a few hours each morning going through files and papers, catching up on his uncle’s day to day, which had twisted into a tangle those last months before he was committed. Midday was spent doing chores around the house and the yard. Lunch was followed by clearing the garage, and subsequently working on the roadster. Dinner, and then back in the office piecing together all the threads of his uncle’s interdisciplinary studies. It took him a few weeks to find those threads in his memory, the relationship they had the summer before he left for college. The two had a cadence. Robert didn’t know everything his uncle knew, but his uncle had taught him a method. He had taught him how to get in sync with another person’s mindset, and it didn’t matter if that person had been dead for centuries.

As the days passed, Robert periodically met with Dr. Blair and Chief Inspector Blake. Now it was Melissa and Matt. The three had become fast friends. They occasionally had dinners in the backyard. Matt felt a little warry at first, but when Melissa started drinking beer like a sailor, he felt at home.  They rarely touched on Robert’s work with his uncle’s materials. Toward the end of summer, they began to notice more and more that Robert was getting eccentric. Going on about things. Cruising around town in his uncle’s old roadster. The quiet dinners were getting more elaborate. Then, all of sudden, Robert started talking incessantly about the possibility of creatures in the lake, about ancient ruins that were inexplicable, about faulty logic in some of the theories about the coming apocalypse. Matt and Melissa were worried. Maybe it was hereditary. The last thing you want is a cop and a shrink looking at you funny. Then Robert had a seizure. 

He was rushed to the hospital. He seemed to be speaking in tongues. Tests were run. Matt had Melissa check for poisons and hallucinagens. Both came back positive. He was treated, and when he regained coherence, questioned. Robert couldn’t explain what had happened. Matt had tests run on the foodstuffs at the house. It was a longshot, they had all been eating and drinking the same stuff. Matt widened the investigation to the library. There were exotic substances on many of the correspondences. But they had been tossed about so often that they had obviously contaminated each other. The three of them came to the conclusion that one, or more, of Prof. Angell’s pen pals poisoned him. The three of them were taken aback.

Matt had everything, all the papers, and the books and manuscripts tested and cleaned. Nobody, not Melissa, not Matt, nor the coroner had suspected foul play. They were wrong. Matt wanted a motive, but he wanted Robert to interpret what this hodgepodge of letters were communicating. Matt remarked that it all sounded like something from a Dan Brown novel. Melissa countered with “more like Umberto Eco”. Matt snorted back, where do you think I got the poison letter theory? A confederation of loonies, trying to hold off the forces of evil. A cosmic threat to all terrestrial life, and one or more flies in the ointment. Matt couldn’t see a payoff. 

After a little ruminating, Melissa had put on her psychoanalyst cap, at first talking psychobabble, then, once corrected, gave it to Matt straight. These people believed in what they were doing. Regardless of whether or not there was a cosmic battle between good and evil at work in the universe, one or more of these people had switched sides, or worse, had always been a double agent, and if that was true, there was a cabal out there threatening the good guys. Robert’s mind was spinning. He was barely over the poisoning and this had him reeling. Not only were they talking about a pair of adversarial occultist sects, but that his uncle was poisoned, leading to his death. 

A week later the three musketeers met. Matt provided them with a link via text. It led to all the documents in Robert’s office. He had them scanned while they were being cleaned, and uploaded them to a secure site, so they’d all have access from anywhere. He also went up to Boston to meet with some friends. He wrangled information from Interpol about all the suspects on Robert’s list. Luckily, Robert hadn’t yet written to any of them about his uncle’s death, so as not to put himself on their radar. Matt and Melissa concurred. 

Fall was fast approaching, and Robert had made a decision. He was going to start consulting again and would be traveling. Melissa and Matt saw right through him. They both confronted him with his goose chase. He admitted that while he was going to look into these people, he really would be on work assignments. He wasn’t independently wealthy, but he wasn’t going to be a jet-setting playboy either. He was going to take simple assignments in key locations, in proximity to multiple suspects, and in his CFT (copious free time) look into them. This way he wouldn’t be burning through his inheritance, and he’d have a cover. 

The night before he started off, Robert told the team about one of his uncle’s lessons. He asked if they were familiar with Anselm’s argument. Melissa started her dissertation. Matt coughed and asked for the Dummy version. Robert said: 1) imagine a Supreme Being. 2) Now imagine it doesn’t exist. 3) If you completed 2, you misunderstood 1.  Matt looked perplexed. Melissa replied, The Supreme Being will still exist even if you don’t believe in it. Matt frowned. Robert continued. My uncle explained it to me as requiring a suspension of disbelief, with a twist. He said we need to suspend our decision in the middle. Weigh the ideas. Not decide. Matt offered “and”.  I was a teenager at the time and it was all academic, but more recently he amended the thought experiment to include the Drake equation. Matt chimed in, the one about the number of civilizations possible in the universe. Melissa and Robert looked at each other and then stared at Matt. He came back, I’ve been catching up on the professor’s work too. Robert continued. If those other civilizations are advanced, they may have advanced capabilities. Taken to the extreme, there may be advanced beings out there that may be considered Supreme. Both Matt and Melissa immediately seemed to take issue with this idea. Robert reminded them they were in suspend mode. That didn’t stop Matt from saying let’s keep this between us loonies.

It was mid-October when they headed to the train station. Matt would travel with Robert to Boston and introduce him to some people before he caught his plane. They made their goodbyes. Things got emotional. Melissa told Robert to be careful, and to stay in touch. She hugged them both as the train was arriving. Matt said, “Hey! I’m not getting on that plane.” Melissa said, “Just get back here to keep me company.”

Robert hadn’t been sleeping well since shortly before his collapse, but soon after he boarded the plane he fell asleep. He dreamed he was at a meeting with friends. He was troubled because he knew none of these people, but his uncle did. A long table was set, and a simple meal was being served. His uncle appeared to be the host. He thanked everyone for coming. He spoke of the work they had before them. About how they were insignificant mortals waging an endless war against which they may never have a positive outcome, but as long as they were engaged, as long as they held, there was hope. The mantra was unspoken, but Robert felt it in his heart, in his soul. The greatest lie the Devil had ever told was that he didn’t exist.