possessed it in spades.
The streets were quiet, and barrel fires lit the darkness.
Electric lampposts had not yet been erected this far south. It was still the dark frontier of Manhattan, without a social safety net of any kind—where the bottom dwellers needed different sustenance and where nourishment came via thievery, drugs, and prostitution. Violent crime and murder were common, their numbers never tallied. The disappearances of immigrant children were never investigated, and when those same children’s bodies washed up on the charnel shores of the Hudson, they were tossed onto wagons and forgotten.
Long ago, Doyle knew poverty—a result of his father’s debilitating alcoholism and insanity. The family worked hard to support ten children in a tiny flat in Edinburgh. There, from the age of thirteen, Doyle had worked three jobs up to and through his university years, until he earned his physician’s degree.
Yet this new world with all its plenty and promise was a different animal, and the helpless ones who crawled to her breast did not understand the nightmares that hid in the long shadows of liberty. The carrion of the occult lived here, and it was safest not to ask why the children vanished. Some nightmares do not end; some nightmares go on eternally. And in these sad ports of loneliness and suffering, certain organisms grew and thrived. Which was why Howard Phillips Lovecraft called it home.
Doyle stood outside a collapsing tenement. Only one meager light glowed from the top-floor window. In the wavering silence, a trash can lid fell to his left, and a figure in rags swayed into an alley, face obscured by darkness. Doyle turned to his right and felt more eyes upon him. They were in the alleyways and under the stoops. Quiet, watching. He could make out two faces filled with dull rage, lit by the glow of a dying barrel fire. Though tall and powerfully built, he was still sixty years old, and dressed in a thirty-dollar Worsted wool suit. This marked him as prey. But beneath the surface was strong fiber. Doyle reeked not of fear but of steel. He was a gentleman warrior, and knew how to out-think dull-witted predators like these. Perhaps because of this, they only waited while he crossed the street to Lovecraft’s last known address.
A hobo slept on the stoop of 1414, cradling a bottle of scotch. Doyle stepped over him and passed through the unlocked front door. He was assailed by the heavy odor of excrement and urine; the floor of the corridor was shiny and slick with it. He put his monogrammed handkerchief to his lips and took shallow breaths. Twenty feet down the hall was the door to the firstfloor apartment, and inside a woman moaned loud enough to vibrate the walls. There were men talking to her in rough, low voices. The moans spiked into sobs, which were swallowed up by laughter and slaps.
Doyle set his jaw and stepped past the door and onto the stairs. The banister shook as he grasped it and climbed to the second-floor landing.
Something cadaver-pale flashed in the corner. A man with wild, bloodshot eyes moved toward him. “Money. Give me money.” Doyle stopped him with his stick, pinning him to the wall. The addict wriggled. Doyle swept past him and continued climbing to the third floor.
Lovecraft’s door was ajar, and the apartment had been ransacked. Numerous shelves lay empty or facedown on the floor. Books were everywhere. The card table by the window had been upended. Jars of God-knows-what lay broken on the kitchen floor.
A .45 snub-nosed revolver pressed to Doyle’s temple, and the wielder patted Doyle down expertly with his free hand. “Evenin’, sir.”
“Good evening,” Doyle replied politely.
A heavyset officer emerged from the closet, holstering his weapon.
“Lookin’ fer Mr. Lovecraft, are you, sir?” The man with the gun retrieved Doyle’s wallet and perused the contents.
“I am, yes. Is there a problem, Officer—?”
“Detective, if you please. Mullin’s my name.
The streets were quiet, and barrel fires lit the darkness.
Electric lampposts had not yet been erected this far south. It was still the dark frontier of Manhattan, without a social safety net of any kind—where the bottom dwellers needed different sustenance and where nourishment came via thievery, drugs, and prostitution. Violent crime and murder were common, their numbers never tallied. The disappearances of immigrant children were never investigated, and when those same children’s bodies washed up on the charnel shores of the Hudson, they were tossed onto wagons and forgotten.
Long ago, Doyle knew poverty—a result of his father’s debilitating alcoholism and insanity. The family worked hard to support ten children in a tiny flat in Edinburgh. There, from the age of thirteen, Doyle had worked three jobs up to and through his university years, until he earned his physician’s degree.
Yet this new world with all its plenty and promise was a different animal, and the helpless ones who crawled to her breast did not understand the nightmares that hid in the long shadows of liberty. The carrion of the occult lived here, and it was safest not to ask why the children vanished. Some nightmares do not end; some nightmares go on eternally. And in these sad ports of loneliness and suffering, certain organisms grew and thrived. Which was why Howard Phillips Lovecraft called it home.
Doyle stood outside a collapsing tenement. Only one meager light glowed from the top-floor window. In the wavering silence, a trash can lid fell to his left, and a figure in rags swayed into an alley, face obscured by darkness. Doyle turned to his right and felt more eyes upon him. They were in the alleyways and under the stoops. Quiet, watching. He could make out two faces filled with dull rage, lit by the glow of a dying barrel fire. Though tall and powerfully built, he was still sixty years old, and dressed in a thirty-dollar Worsted wool suit. This marked him as prey. But beneath the surface was strong fiber. Doyle reeked not of fear but of steel. He was a gentleman warrior, and knew how to out-think dull-witted predators like these. Perhaps because of this, they only waited while he crossed the street to Lovecraft’s last known address.
A hobo slept on the stoop of 1414, cradling a bottle of scotch. Doyle stepped over him and passed through the unlocked front door. He was assailed by the heavy odor of excrement and urine; the floor of the corridor was shiny and slick with it. He put his monogrammed handkerchief to his lips and took shallow breaths. Twenty feet down the hall was the door to the firstfloor apartment, and inside a woman moaned loud enough to vibrate the walls. There were men talking to her in rough, low voices. The moans spiked into sobs, which were swallowed up by laughter and slaps.
Doyle set his jaw and stepped past the door and onto the stairs. The banister shook as he grasped it and climbed to the second-floor landing.
Something cadaver-pale flashed in the corner. A man with wild, bloodshot eyes moved toward him. “Money. Give me money.” Doyle stopped him with his stick, pinning him to the wall. The addict wriggled. Doyle swept past him and continued climbing to the third floor.
Lovecraft’s door was ajar, and the apartment had been ransacked. Numerous shelves lay empty or facedown on the floor. Books were everywhere. The card table by the window had been upended. Jars of God-knows-what lay broken on the kitchen floor.
A .45 snub-nosed revolver pressed to Doyle’s temple, and the wielder patted Doyle down expertly with his free hand. “Evenin’, sir.”
“Good evening,” Doyle replied politely.
A heavyset officer emerged from the closet, holstering his weapon.
“Lookin’ fer Mr. Lovecraft, are you, sir?” The man with the gun retrieved Doyle’s wallet and perused the contents.
“I am, yes. Is there a problem, Officer—?”
“Detective, if you please. Mullin’s my name.
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