Byron Craft [Craft - The Dunwich Dungeon

THE DUNWICH DUNGEON

Book 4 in The Arkham Detective Series

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Copyright 2016, United States Library of Congress; The Dunwich Dungeon

www.ByronCraftBooks.com

Artwork by Eric Lofgren; www.ericlofgren.net

ISBN 10: 1976209528

ISBN 13: 9781976209529

DEDICATION

A homage to my dogs Buddy and Sherlock who wait

for me in Heaven.

THE
DUNWICH
DUNGEON

Ian Woodhead was a dreamer. Dreamers, especially those of prodigious talents, do not require the darkness to sleep or dream. Rarely were great dreamers insomniacs. And Ian was just such a person since he could fall asleep at the drop of a hat.

Ian Woodhead could make his mind as blank as a fresh leaf of paper. No places of wonder were glimpsed from the minds eye to distract his resting, no marvelous secrets unfurled; his sleep was a temporary death. It didnt frighten him, though, because Ian was certain that there was no death from the perspective of infinity. Once in deepest slumber, he could escape the darkness between his ears within that collection of wet matter and electricity. He was so adept at crisscrossing dreamland that he would blithely circumnavigate around the World-Eater who sat and waited, sharpening its black claws, tearing at inexperienced travelers.

Escaping his earthly bonds was normally an enjoyable and exciting experience for Ian that he sometimes used for pure adventure and, at others, became helpful during an investigation. Most of his dreams were that way, but now he truly needed to escape a physical prison. For his body lay captive in a stone dungeon of indestructible confinement. He had been lured into a trap, and his keeper had left him to rot. That door, that impregnable barrier of iron and steel, could only be undone from the outside. He was lost for all-natural means of release. No amount of shouting or pounding could bring about help because he had been incarcerated far away from civilization in the countryside of Dunwich. His only hope was to travel deeper into dreamland than he had ever journeyed before, through unknown realms, and find his old friend, the policeman.

***

Her hair was in tangles, and her makeup had been wiped clean off. There were wrinkles on the left side of her face left by the pillow. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I gently stroked her cheek, bent over, and kissed her. I love you, I whispered.

I love you too, she replied, half sleep. I had awoken in darkness for a reason I couldn't remember. I had a hazy recollection of a knocking and clawing upon my skull as if something was trying to get inside my head. Any memory of my dream disappeared in the time it took me to turn on the lamp. There was, however, the faint after image of a face rattling around in my noggin that was vaguely familiar, but when turning to look at my Angel beside me, all recollection of the vision vanished.

I got dressed and put on my glasses. I wear bifocals. In half a shake, I could see Nora clearly, sitting up in bed staring at me with an enticing smile. I tried to be quiet while going about my business, getting ready for work so that I wouldnt disturb her, but she says that my portrayal of subtle is akin to a Clydesdale traipsing through a junkyard. You be careful now, you here. Come back to me tonight in one piece, her smile changed to a firm resolve.

Ill do my best Angel. Her name was Nora Bishop, except we got hitched last month, and I gave her my last name.

I want more than your best Copper, I want you one-hundred-percent, her sultry smile returned on that one.

I work at Station House 13. I am the head of the Mythos Division for the Arkham Police. I guess Angel has plenty to worry about because I investigate any and all things that go bump in the night while at the same time trying to discover their secret intent. In everyday lingo, I hunt down things that now and then are misshapen, vague or unseen, and on other occurrences, material horrors, all of which usually leave bloody trails wherever they go.

I used to be a single hard-boiled chump that put in long hours on the job because I had nothing better to do, besides hanging out at a speakeasy. That ended about a year and a half ago when I became a family man. First, there was Allison; shes nine-years-old now, I adopted the kid after I snatched her from a fiend in the decaying town of Innsmouth. She and I have bonded as close as any parent and child can. Shes my sweetheart. So, I had to get a bigger apartment and our landlady, Mrs. Trumble, assumed the role of grandma. Then along came Nora and I fell for her hook, line, and sinker. Allison is happier than a clam because she now has both a mom and a dad. Before long Nora says we must get a house, You never know Copper when the stork might pay a visit and Mrs. Trumble isnt getting any younger, shell need looking after.

I get chump change working as a cop, and the thought of buying a house was scary. At that moment, it became scarier than those things I chase after. I kept tormenting myself about real-estate acquisition until the ringing of the telephone recalled me to the known world.

***

I got called to the station house, as you would expect. No time for a sit-down morning meal with my family. On my way, I grabbed a hamburger and coffee at Granny Bertrams joint. I used to be a regular at her greasy spoon until I got married, home life does have its advantages. Granny still remembered how I like my java though, black, no sugar. Her take-out service is quick, and she would put the coffee in those little glass containers that looked like a miniature milk bottle with a cardboard stopper.

It was chilly out, and I was wearing my trench coat and fedora. I was munching on my burger, as I hastily dashed through Station House 13 to the back of the building and my department. Officer Matthew Bell was at his desk, his blue uniform newly pressed, not a button out of place. Originally, I was a division of one at the Arkham Police headquarters. After the two of us effectively snuffed out the demon, Corvus Astaroth, and returned normalcy back to the town, as normal as Arkham, Massachusetts is as capable of being; Bell became my assistant within the Mythos Division.

Morning Detective, he announced, without getting up. Breakfast on the run I see.

Yeah, the honeymoon is over, I guess. I let the wife sleep in. I had set a time to close out some old case files with Bell, and he had called reminding me that I was an hour late. I dragged my chair from my desk over to the front of his and sat down. I hate paperwork. I had been putting it off for weeks, and now the task had escalated into a full day of work. I set my half-eaten burger on a file folder, some of Grannys grease had dripped onto my hand, and I wiped it off on a stack of police reports. Ok, lets get started.

That was when Robber entered the room. My back was to the door, and I should have noticed the pitter patter of his claws on the linoleum. The big yellow Labrador was swift, and in an instant, my sandwich was his. Running into the adjoining hallway, he stopped, turned with a triumphant look in my direction, and swallowed my half-a-burger with one gulp.