R.H. Walker, Author

This piece was written in June 2024 for submission to a Lovecraft fiction anthology, with the prompt “Arkham Institutions” — basically, what is day-to-day life like for the citizens of Arkham, especially those that work in its government offices, schools, and shops? I thought it would be fun to explore what Arkham’s Chamber of Commerce might look like, inspired by a research project I completed in college. How does one keep financially afloat in a city that worships world-ending terrors?

Ultimately this story wasn’t accepted, as it didn’t quite fit what they were looking for, but I received a very kind rejection email from the editor. Someday I hope to find this story its proper home, but until then, it can live here 🙂

Word count: 4,965

Genre: Lovecraftian horror-comedy

(cover photo by Marko Blažević on Unsplash)

The Arkham Autumn Festival

“FRIDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1922,” the fliers read. “RING IN THE HALLOWEEN SEASON AT THE ARKHAM AUTUMN FESTIVAL.”

Simon Clark compared the illustrations he’d painstakingly described to the printer to the real thing, and felt a little swell of pride. It was the picture-perfect festival: the strings of lights, the straw bales and pumpkins shoring up the rows of festival tents, the hundreds of people milling excitedly. It was his doing, and damn if it didn’t look good.

He startled from his reverie as the suspiciously piscine owner of the fish and chips shop, Mr. Williamson, dropped his cash box down on the counter.

“You seem happy,” Simon said, smoothing his suit coat and giving the man a withering look.

“I am,” said Mr. Williamson, cackling wetly. “Quite happy. I have to hand it to you, Harvard. You did a fine job.”

Simon bristled again, this time at the nickname. “You know I don’t have anything against Miskatonic U, Mr. Williamson,” he said, allowing the ice of insult to creep into his tone. “Is it so wrong for a young man to spread his wings a little, explore outside the nest?”

“I don’t think so,” Mr. Williamson said. “But there are others in town less progressive than I.”

“You? Progressive?” Simon laughed. “Yes, and I’m the seventh coming of Yog-Sothoth.”

“Don’t let Them hear you say that, dear,” called Mrs. McCanless.

Mercy McCanless had taken the stall directly across from Hosea’s Fish and Chips, anchoring both of the festival’s food choices in a single convenient location. As Simon watched she slid another tray of picture-perfect sweet buns onto the counter, warm with cinnamon for the autumn chill. The smell sent a pang of nostalgia through Simon’s heart; an upbringing in Arkham could never be truly normal, but the McCanless Bakery had always been a bright spot in his dour childhood.

“Who, the Great Old Ones? Pish,” said Mr. Williamson. “They’ll sleep until we’re all long dead, and a little more besides. I’m sure they won’t mind if we borrow their names some.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Mrs. McCanless confided, whispering over the aisle to Simon as though Mr. Williamson couldn’t hear her. “But don’t worry. If the Great Old Ones rouse from their sleep, I’ll be sure to protect you, dear.”

“Thank you, Mrs. McCanless,” Simon said. Others might wonder what a sweet old woman could do against the Elder Gods, but, after all, this was Arkham. Nothing was as it seemed. Not if he could help it.

Another wave of tourists approached, and Simon used the renewed hubbub to separate himself from the conversation. He slipped into the crowd and walked along the promenade on Main Street, keeping his ear open for news. He’d planned some parties for his clubs back in his Harvard days, and he knew that the first rumblings of trouble could always be found in the crowds. He couldn’t afford for things to go wrong tonight.

#

Three months earlier

“This meeting of the Arkham Chamber of Commerce has now officially commenced. First order of business. Mr.— oh, Mr. Simon Clark, welcome. Where is Solomon?”

“I’m afraid my father is unable to attend tonight, Mr. Williamson. He asked me to come in his stead.”

“Oh, well, that’s too bad. Thank you for coming, Mr. Clark. Onto other matters—”

“Actually, Mr. Williamson, I have a proposal for the chamber. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Well . . . It’s a little unusual, but your father has been a loyal member of this chamber for decades. I’ll allow it.”

“Thank you. I’m sure you all know that Arkham’s reputation has grown in recent years, ever since that business with the Color. Try though we have to suppress them, rumors around our gods, the university, our very way of life have expanded all across the state. I’m sure you’ve noticed the effects yourselves. Profits are down across the board. Wages have stagnated, and you’ve all been forced to raise your prices, which is driving even some of Arkham’s oldest families to consider moving elsewhere.”

“What exactly are you trying to say, boy?”

“Only that there’s room for improvement. If we can bring people to town, show them there’s nothing to be scared of, perhaps we can drum up some regular traffic.”

“I see what you’re saying, Mr. Clark. Only, in Arkham, I think they’ll find there’s much to be scared of.”

“I know that, Mr. Williamson, and you know that. That doesn’t mean they have to.”

#

Simon’s ears pricked, and he paused in his stride, as though contemplating whether to participate in the ring toss or the fishing game. In reality, he strained his ears to hear the distressed cries of two young women, pleading with a young man in front of the shooting gallery.

“Please, Benny, take us home,” one said.

“I still think you’re being ridiculous, Marjorie,” Benny said. “Dorie is absolutely fine!”

Dorie didn’t say anything, only let out a long, petulant wail. Simon glanced over, and noticed Marjorie rubbing the girl’s back.

“She’s not,” Marjorie snapped. “I don’t care that you didn’t see it! She was a goat, clear as day. Granddad was right about this town. Something weird is going on!”

The argument continued, but Simon had heard enough. Steaming, he marched through the maze of game tents, across the broad, tree-lined thoroughfare with its picturesque autumn colors, and onto Hangman’s Hill.

Simon could guess that his father’s tent would no longer be among the other vendors, but it was still a shock how quickly he’d managed to pack away his immense collection of curios, leaving only a dying patch of grass. Simon turned towards Church Street; if Solomon would go anywhere, it would be his shop.

Simon ducked under the cordon with a graceful lean, and almost instantly the noise of the festival muted. Simon felt some of the tension release from his shoulders as he walked down the twilit street. A chill autumn breeze wound its way around his leg like an affectionate cat, bringing with it the earthy scent of dying leaves. He paused and let the scent wash over him, warm and musky despite the nip. There were things he had not liked about growing up in Arkham, but it would always be home. A Massachusetts autumn, and Mercy McCandless’s sweet rolls had ensured that.

A wheezing cough from a side alley caught his ear, and he slowed. To his astonishment, as he rounded the corner, he found Gideon Templesmith, the mayor’s assistant, slumped against the alley wall.

“Templesmith? What the hell happened to you?”

#

Two months earlier

“It’s a disgrace, Clark. The mayor doesn’t like it. Abomination is the word he used, I think. An affront to all our storied traditions.”

“You’re not even from here, Templesmith. What would you know of it?”

“I know the mayor doesn’t like it, and that’s all I need to know.”

“Did you even bother to show it to him? Or did you conveniently forget?”

“You only have two months, anyway. An autumn festival of this scale needed to be approved six months ago. You should already be advertising, you should already have rental agreements signed. Even if we push this through it’ll collapse under its own weight.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t need to. If I show this to him he’s going to laugh me out of city hall.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

“ . . . “

“Look, Gideon. Arkham’s economy is suffering. If we don’t do something about it soon, it’s going to fail entirely, and then you’ll be out of your cushy job. I know you wouldn’t like that, would you? You might even have to move again.”

“Gods, you’re insufferable. Fine, I’ll ask him to take a look. But I make no guarantees. And you owe me a massive favor.”

#

Simon and Gideon had hated each other from the moment they met.

The mayor’s assistant was an out-of-towner. He’d apparently been studying at Columbia when he’d experienced a mental break. At least, that’s what his physician had called it. He’d recognized the visions of the sleeping gods for what they were, and had eventually made his way to Arkham. He’d transferred to Miskatonic University and taken some degree or other, Simon hadn’t bothered to pay attention. He still wasn’t trusted by much of Arkham, but his position as mayoral assistant was beginning to change that.

Simon, by contrast, was part of Arkham’s old guard: born and bred in a family that stretched far into the earliest memories of colonial Massachusetts. Not that he could forget it. Arkham pride had been so drilled into him that he’d been sick the night he found out he’d been accepted to Harvard. He’d attended anyway, of course, he wasn’t about to let an opportunity like that slip through his fingers, but it had its costs. Simon was still working to prove his good intentions to the community. The festival had been his first real effort, a chance to show his fancy education could be useful to the town.

Aside from these monumental differences, both were young men eager to rise in their standings. They’d stepped on each other’s toes to do it more than once.

Gideon glared up at him, looking ashen. “Asthma attack, if you must know. I’ve been chasing Mayor Clements around all night.”

“Do you need help?”

“No. I took some epinephrine, I just . . . Need a moment.”

“Right.” Simon awkwardly shuffled his feet. “I’ll just go, then?”

“Hang on.” Gideon groaned, then pushed himself to a standing position. “Let me come with you. You’re heading to Clark’s, right?”

“How did you—“

“The mayor’s behind it.”

“It? What are you talking about? Is this about that girl that turned into a goat?”

Gideon smirked. “You mean you don’t know?”

“R’lyeh’s bleeding walls, Templesmith. I’ve been running a festival all evening, trying to single-handedly pull this town out of a financial crisis. Forgive me if I’m not at the top of my cryptic puzzle game.”

Gideon rolled his eyes, and began to straighten out his crumpled suit. “Clements wants to complete the awakenings tonight. All of them.”

Another autumn breeze rolled in, this time sending goosebumps down Simon’s spine. “You’re kidding,” he said.

“I am not.” Gideon sounded offended at the very notion. “He had me tracking attendance numbers all evening. The second we reached a thousand, he took off for your father’s tent.”

“My father’s tent? Why?”

“No idea.”

“Great.” The more Simon thought about it, the more he was beginning to fear that his father might be the biggest roadblock to the festival’s success. What’s more, he was scared it was on purpose.

“Can you walk?” he asked. Gideon nodded, and together they covered the last two blocks to Clark’s Curios.

The shop was dark, but the remnants of Solomon’s tent display, piled unceremoniously in the middle of the large Persian rug, were on full display. His father had returned, alright. Simon fiddled with the light-switch, but only after it failed to come on did he remember that he’d requested all power in the town be redirected to the festival generators. Electricity was fairly new to Arkham still, not abundant like it was in Cambridge and Boston.

“Dad!” Simon shouted. “I know you’re here. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Silence. Simon bit back another curse. It was just like Solomon to disrupt the night of his biggest-ever project, and in cahoots with the mayor no less. Was it any wonder he’d wanted to go to Harvard, to complete his projects without his father breathing down his neck, trying to overturn everything?

Gideon squared his shoulders. “Split up?”

Simon let Gideon, still faintly wheezing, take the ground floor, and took the spiral stairs to the second floor himself. He climbed carefully, listening for movement over his own creaking step. The top floor was dim, and as Simon crept through the shelves, he couldn’t help but feel that he was being watched.

His foot hit a body, which gave a weak cough. Simon leaped back with a yelp, knocking into a shelf of porcelain plates that rattled in protest.

“Simon? What happened?” Gideon’s footsteps thudded up the stairs, but Simon didn’t pay him mind. He was too busy struggling to make out the lump on the floor.
It sat up, groaning, and Simon realized that the form was his father. He breathed a sigh of relief, then promptly gave his father another sharp kick.

“Ow,” Solomon groaned. “What—“

“What did Clements need?” Simon stooped and shook his father by the scruff of his shirt. “We know he’s doing the Awakening tonight. What did he need?”

“Stop! Damn it, Simon, let go of me. My head is throbbing.”

“What happened?” Gideon asked, finding them at last. “Why’s your father on the floor?”

“Glad to see someone cares about my well-being,” Solomon said waspishly.

“Spare me,” Simon scoffed. “Do you know what Clements is planning?”

“Nary a clue.”

Simon folded his arms and glared expectantly at his father.

“Alright, fine. A couple of years ago, Clements came to me and asked me to keep something in the safe. I said yes, it’s always handy to have a favor from the mayor in your pocket. Then, tonight, as I was tidying up my tent—“

“After you turned a girl into a goat?”

“That was an accident, Simon. The goatshead amulet must have been mixed in with the jewelry, and I didn’t noticed until the poor girl tried it on.”

“Fine. Say I believe you. What then?”

Solomon groped around on the floor, until he came up with an old kerosene lamp. As the flame sputtered to life, Simon noticed that its glass shield had broken, lying now in sparkling shards at Solomon’s feet.

“Obadiah told me he needed his item back, urgently, so we came back to the shop. I opened the safe, and the next thing I knew I was being kicked awake by my ungrateful son. And the mayor’s assistant.”

Simon sighed. “Alright. What was the item he wanted stored?”

“Not sure. He gave it to me in an envelope, and I kept it just like that for him.”

Simon flicked his gaze to Gideon. “Any idea what it could be?”

Gideon shook his head. “If I had to guess . . . Perhaps a key element for the ritual? But from what I know of it, it really only requires a pentacle and an incantation.”

“Could it have been a book? Perhaps he found another copy of the Necronomicon?”

Solomon shook his head. “Wasn’t big enough. If I had to guess I’d say it was a key.”

A memory pricked at the back of Simon’s mind, and he looked up sharply. “Wait. Do you remember that story Clements tells? About his great-great grandfather?”

“Sure.” Gideon shrugged his shoulders. “The grandfather was one of Arkham’s founders, he was one of those in the party that made the discovery of the Great Old Ones. I think he even made an endowment that helped fund Miskatonic. That’s why he’s so set on being the one to complete the Awakening.”

“The Clements have a crypt,” Simon said. “We toured it once while I was in school.”

Gideon paled. “You think—“

“Come on.” Simon bolted, down the stairs and out the door, Gideon close on his heels, leaving Solomon to clean himself up.

#

Six weeks earlier

“Ah, young Mr. Clark. Come in, come in.”

“Mayor Clements, thank you for finding time to meet with me.”

“Of course, anything for old Solomon’s son. Now, how can I help you, my boy?”

“Has Mr. Templesmith given you my proposal?”

“He has. You’re working on both a tight budget and a tight deadline. Are you truly confident you can pull this off?”

“I am, Mr. Mayor. I made a lot of friends at Harvard, and I think I have some pull in the local lodges. And, if I can be frank?”

“Please.”

“I don’t know that Arkham will survive another year on this path. Prices are rising, while property values are plummeting. Families that have been here for generations are preparing to leave, even though the American economy as a whole is at an all-time high. We simply cannot afford to carry on as we are.”

“I see what you’re saying, Mr. Clark, I do. But some of the things you are proposing . . . Many Arkhamites will be loath to hide their true nature, even if just for a night. What am I to tell them, if I approve your plan?”

“Respectfully, Mr. Mayor, I would call it an unfortunate necessity. Arkham is special. I mean, the Great Old Ones chose this place for a reason. But if we are unable to hold the line here, we may be passed over when they awaken. I would encourage anyone feeling skeptical of my idea to remember that.”

“A compelling point, Mr. Clark.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How many people do you expect to draw with this festival, then?”

“From the surrounding areas, probably two to three hundred. If I call in some favors, I’m hoping for another three to four hundred from Boston and Cambridge. And, if we can offer the proper lodging, I think we can even draw folks as far as Manhattan. If we can exceed a thousand, we can sell enough to keep the town going for another year at least.”

“ . . .”

“ . . .”

“Ambition is a fickle mistress, Mr. Clark, but you wear her well. Very well, you have my support. I will personally contribute a hundred dollars to your cause, as well as another hundred dollars from the city project budget. Use it well.”

“I— Thank you, Mr. Mayor! Your generosity will not go unrewarded.”

“I don’t expect that it will, Mr. Clark.”

#

“Simon, slow down!”

At the end of Church Street, Simon slowed and glanced back. Gideon had his hands on his knees, wheezing anew.

“We can’t— just go— after him,” Gideon panted. He pulled what looked like a perfume atomizer out of his pocket and spritzed some of the liquid (Simon supposed it was his medication) into his open mouth. “We need backup.”

“Who?” Simon demanded. “Who could we possibly ask for help in a scenario like this?”

“The police? No, he’s got them in his pocket,” Gideon said. “The professors at the university?”

“I saw Dr. Armitage around, but I don’t know where he is now. I don’t think we have time to look for him.”

“Right.” Gideon snapped his fingers. “The shop owners. You got the Chamber to sponsor the festival.”

Simon shrugged. “Most of them were about as interested in it as you were, at least at first.” He thought over each of the members. “Well . . . Perhaps Mrs. McCanless? She’s always going on and on about not waking the Great Old Ones before their time, I’m sure she’d want to help.”

Gideon looked at Simon with faint disgust. “The old woman that runs the bakery? That’s who you want as your backup?”

“Trust me on this, Gideon,” Simon said, turning. “Nothing is as it seems in Arkham. Even you should know that by now.”

They made their way back to the stalls as quickly as they could with Gideon still wheezing. The food stalls had an enormous crowd of people sandwiched between them, clamoring for the last of the food.

“Well hello!” Mrs. McCanless said cheerily, as Simon and Gideon skidded into the stall behind her. “Do you boys need something?”

“Mrs. McCanless, we need your help. The mayor is . . . Well. He lied to all of us. He didn’t want to save the town. He wanted the numbers we gathered for the festival to conduct an awakening.”

Not AN awakening,” Gideon said. “THE Awakening. He wants to call them all, tonight.”

“All at once?!” she shrieked. “But they’re supposed to awaken one by one! And we cannot be the ones to do it, otherwise—”

“Which is why we need your help to stop him,” Simon said hurriedly. “We think he’s at the cemetery, but we need to hurry.”

“I’m right behind you, dear,” Mrs. McCanless said. Then, she put her hands in her mouth and gave an ear-splitting whistle. She ducked her head to look under the tent’s overhand and across the thoroughfare. “Hosea!” she hollered. “You’re coming with us.”

To Simon’s absolute astonishment, Mr. Williamson obliged, ignoring the groans of his customers to join them in the bakery tent.

“Where are we going?” he asked jovially.

“Cemetery,” Simon said, stunned.

“Alright. Lead the way.”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“Do you really have time to explain why?”

Simon blinked. “No, not as such.”

“Explain on the way. If Mercy thinks it’s urgent, I believe her. Come on.”

#

The crypt gate swayed on its hinge as they approached, a wrought-iron hand beckoning them closer.

“Seems Clements neglected to lock the gate,” Gideon said, peering down the dank, musty stairs. Simon peered too, though the sharp spiral of the stairs left much to the imagination.

“Well, no time like the present.” Mr. Williamson squared his shoulders and marched past them. Mrs. McCanless followed close behind, pattering down the steps.

Simon made to follow, but Gideon hesitated, and Simon turned to look back at him. “Scared?”

“Hardly. Just . . . Concerned about the air.”

“Oh, right.” Simon pursed his lips. “You know, you don’t have to come. You’ve already done your part in telling us about Clements. You could just go home and let us take care of the rest.”

“I could,” Gideon acknowledged. Instead of walking away, he took another puff from the atomizer. “Arkham is my home too, Mr. Clark. I won’t stand by as it is threatened, even if the one doing the threatening is my boss. And even if the threat is of a nature concurrent with my beliefs.”

An understanding reached, they wound their way down the crypt steps. Immediately Simon knew this was not the crypt he visited as a child. The staircase seemed to reach far into the earth, a distant, echoing drip the only clue to how deep the crypt now sat. As they progressed the air seemed to thicken, the cloying humidity curling the hairs at the nape of Simon’s neck.

Their collective silence began to get to him, pressing on his mind as the air pressed on his lungs, his skin. Simon had to break it now, or else he would lose his mind.

“Gideon, what exactly is Mayor Clements hoping to accomplish?”

“He’s been worried about reelection next year,” Gideon said. “He’s doing whatever he can to improve his image before the election cycle starts in January. Including fulfilling all his old campaign promises.”

“Don’t know why he’s bothering,” Mr. Williamson grunted. “You don’t praise mayors while they’re in office. You complain about them as long as they’re there, then complain that they’re gone when the next one does even worse.”

“I don’t know how he was elected in the first place,” Mrs. McCanless sniffed. “Trying to wake the Great Old Ones now! It’s like he’s trying to draw their wrath down on us. I won’t stand for it, it goes against everything this town was founded on.”

“There’s that too,” Mr. Williamson agreed. “It’s a foolhardy thing to do, even in the best of circumstances.”

The little group fell silent again as they came into sight of the floor. Simon could not tell how far they had come, nor how far they had to go. Still, with at least one end in sight, he felt grateful they had come with him. With a deep breath, he stepped through the arched doorway and into the crypt proper.

The crypt was too many things at once. Simon could tell, somewhere deep in his mind, that the crypt was only a small, boxy room, with most of the Clements family resting on narrow shelves, yet it was so much more. A city underwater, its architecture twisting and curving in impossible patterns, and the familiar shapes of the Great Old Ones standing sentinel around it. R’lyeh, the lost city where the Great Old Ones slept, imprisoned. Clements had already started.

Yes, Simon could hear the mayor’s voice now, an echoing chant held separate from time and space, bidding the Great Old Ones to rise from their slumbers and bring fire upon the world. Simon’s brain fuzzed like radio static, fading between the crypt and the wide, crumbling avenues of R’lyeh.

Nausea suddenly threatened to overtake him. His mind whirred, ricocheting between the two locations, and he dropped to his knees. He turned to check on his companions, and realized they were gone. He didn’t know where. The stairs were gone, too, or at least he could not see them. The only way forward was through. They had to stop Clements, no matter what. But first he had to close his eyes.

Simon groped along the smooth stone floor of the crypt until he reached the wall, then followed the wall until his hands brushed something warm.

He opened his eyes, and found himself and Gideon perched atop a rocky outcropping overlooking a jade-green sea, the impossible towers of R’lyeh stretching inward as though to look down on them.

“How long has it been?” Gideon asked, not taking his eyes off the sea.

Simon looked there too, and found it helped with the vertigo. He sighed with relief.
“Moments, I think,” he said, but instantly he started to doubt himself. “Perhaps it’s been hours.”

“It feels like hours,” Gideon agreed. “But he’s still going. He’s not done yet, so it can’t be more than a few minutes.”

“Maybe it’s a really long incantation.”

Gideon snorted. “Maybe.”

Simon felt a smile play at the corners of his mouth, the first smile he’d probably made since returning to Arkham.

“Sorry,” he said eventually.

“What for?” Gideon looked at him now, puzzled.

“That you have to stop the end of the world with me, of all people.”

“Don’t be.”

Simon realized then that the warm thing he’d touched was Gideon’s hand, and that Gideon hadn’t pulled away. Quietly he laced their fingers, and quietly Gideon didn’t pull away. Something slotted into place in Simon’s mind, and he felt suddenly anchored. Images of distant R’lyeh began to bleed away, revealing the walls of the crypt. His ears pricked, and he realized that someone was singing.

He looked over, and saw that it was Mrs. McCanless, warbling an ancient lullaby in her worn, crackly soprano. Mr. Williamson, staggered to his feet, then held out a hand to Simon. He took it, pulling Gideon up after him.

“The song will keep them asleep for a while longer,” said Mr. Williamson, “but we still have to stop him. Now. Come on.”

Images of R’lyeh still floated behind his perception, like double-exposed film, but at least Simon could see the crypt truly. He noticed now a small corridor leading further in, from which the mayor’s voice echoed. He pushed forward, still towing Gideon by the hand, and led the group further in.

They found the mayor knelt in the middle of a small pentagram, reading from the Necronomicon. He didn’t notice them as they approached, which allowed Mr. Williamson to walk right up and yank him from the circle by the scruff of his neck. Simon & Gideon took it upon themselves to snuff out the black candles and break the lines of the pentagram, and the last vestiges of R’lyeh faded.

“What the hell are you doing?” Clements spat. “I was nearly there! The Old Ones were almost awake! I could have realized everything we’ve worked for for generations, why would you stop this?”

“Are you serious?” Simon crossed his arms and glared the mayor down. “I wasn’t about to let you kill a thousand people just to improve your polls.”

“A thousand people? A thousand strangers and heretics. What are they compared to our masters?”

“If you’d succeeded you would have brought their wrath down on Arkham too,” Mrs. McCanless said, wagging her finger in Clements’s face. “They must be allowed to rouse in their own time, and in their own way. I taught you in Sunday School, Mr. Clements. I didn’t think you’d learn nothing with me.”

“It’s a betrayal of all of us,” Mr. Williamson said, crossing his arms.

At a loss, Clements looked to Gideon. Gideon didn’t say anything, only turned away from his mentor in shame. Simon gave his hand a comforting squeeze, and he begrudgingly squeezed back.

“Book,” Mrs. McCanless said, holding her hand out. Sulking, Clements handed it over, and allowed Mr. Williamson to frog-march him up the stairs, returned now to their normal length.

Simon made to follow, but Gideon held him back for a moment.

“What now?” he asked.

“I don’t think the festival-goers will have noticed anything amiss,” Simon said. “Well, except for that poor girl who tried on the goatshead amulet. But considering how badly the rest of tonight could have gone, I’ll take it.”

Gideon snorted, and Simon felt his smile tugging again.

“They’ll go home,” he continued, “and we’ll let the town know about what Clements tried to do. Have Mrs. McCanless remind everyone of what could happen if we wake the Great Old Ones before their time. Then back to business, I expect. We should have at least enough profit to get us through another year, and hopefully we’ve drummed up enough interest in the town to bring in some more tourism. After that . . . I’m not sure. We keep going, I suppose.’

“That is, truly, a terrible plan,” Gideon said. “Luckily for you, I’m excellent at plans.”

The full moon shone bright as the emerged from the crypt, seeming to Simon like a portent of a bright new world. Despite its problems, he had always loved Arkham, and tonight Arkham had proved it loved him back. He couldn’t bring himself to care about the rest.