JACK DEWITT: ATROCITIES UPON MOUNT SINAI

Detective DeWitt (Abridged)

Chapter 1

The Atrocities Upon Mount Sinai

"Last night, I dreamt of Kathmandu again. Also obsidian shores and sanguine onyx piers. Of bioluminescent beings, and blasphemous altars to Moloch Baal. The rum usually takes me there, or the whiskey. Some drink to remember, I drink to forget. Often, my investigations have led me to places many don't believe in yet. Perhaps it's better that way. But now, I prefer my vacations at the bottom of a glass. A lot safer. And about the best a private eye can get, especially in Los Angeles.

                            ***

She came into the room like a velvet hurricane, a Browning .45 in her hand, and a smolder in her eye.

"Put that away, you're hurting my feelings. "

Shutting the blinds I day dream out of, I inhaled my Lucky Strike cigarette, calmly.

"I was making sure we're alone."

"Thanks . Now what do you want, Mrs. Lamont. "

It was quite some time since I last saw Genevieve, half a year at least. People of that sort only come around occasionally because their problems are more important than others, three times as expensive, and most likely to get one sleeping the long sleep.

"This matter involves the utmost confidentiality and care. "

I'm sure it did.

"Well you see, it's about my husband, Roger. "

It usually was, with this sort. Infidelity, absconding to the tropics, even narcotics. But there was something in her voice that was past those things.

"It's been two weeks and he hasn't been home. No notes or anything. He's not the best husband by any means but he tries. And as a journalist, he always writes me. Oh and one more thing, I-ah, I just need you to write your name in this little black book."

She unclasped her Dior purse and unearthed an address book. At first glance, it looked to be an ordinary black book for dates or numbers and such, but upon closer inspection it was adorned with abhorrent insignia, faces and runes, some sanskrit, some Sumerian, other languages and hieroglyphs I knew not. A buzzing or fuzziness of the air also came into play, but it was probably from the rum earlier. I did not like it.

"Apparently he was with his friends, near Griffith Park. Some event at the observatory. But that was weeks ago."

"Mr. Marloe was there, wasn't he."

"Of course."

It was a name I hadn't heard in a while, yet knew far too well. Randolph C. Marloe owned the biggest import export business in on the pacific coast, Westgate International. Many said it an abhorrent front for all sorts of black market deals. It was all most macabre.

"If your husband had any dealings with Mr. Marloe, death would be the best thing to hope ford. I've heard things you don't want to believe in yet."

"Look Jack. I just want to know what happened. I am aware of some of your past experiences. " 

"I'll come around Saturday, and we can continue the search then. There are some of his things I must decide.... What to do with."

"Very well, Mrs. Lamont,"

"I'll be in touch, Mr. DeWitt."

"Well here's my card -"

"No, no... It really must be in this one here."

She seemed adamant about it, so I dutifully filled out the book. As soon as I signed, she took it away rather quickly, so the edge gave me a small paper cut. And, perhaps it was my imagination or the rum, but the book shivered ever so slightly. Absolutely ridiculous.

Later that week, around seven, I saw her waiting outside in the golden hour cigarette holder smoking. A postcard moments. Before the evening turned sour, that is.

"Did you hear me sing Jack?"

"I did. And it was lovely."

"Thank you."

We walked into the Yamashiro, an oriental ambience washing over us, which I was most fond of. Westerners are too high strung in my opinion.

"Hundreds of craftsmen were brought from the Orient to recreate the replica of a palace located in the Yamashiro province mountains near Kyoto."

"Fascinating."

In the middle of the restaurant there a bonsai garden, with wooden bridge and koi pond. For a moment Genevieve was transfixed, and I saw something undulating in her eye. But when I turned it was gone. The waiters went about the business

"So tell me Gen, what am I doing here.

"having dinner with a beautiful woman, you silly man. And getting to the bottom of this. "

There was a commotion in the kitchen and Mr. Miyazaki came storming out. He was a good friend, a little extravagant, and I owed him something. "Don't forget what you promised me, DeWitt. Anata wa sore o watashinokazoku ni motte konakereba narimasen"

"I'll bring it, when I've got it, Mr. Miyazaki. "

I could smell the sake on him. I'm sure he smelled the rum on me.

I went for a cigarette in the bathroom. There was a myriad of things she wasn't telling me, and I could șee them swirling in her minds eye, malformed malevolence, empty nights from empty bottles, unsaid things in the dusk of memory. A man came in. Paced past the stall I was already drawing my Colt 1911 in. The shoes doubled back. There was an unsnapping of a holster.

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into Jack. She'll play you all the way to the grave. We already know about the bank account. We think it's already too late for you detective DeWitt - you know what you owe-"

I had had enough.

Kicking down the stall, I decked him in the face, he was struck but side stepped, sending me into the mirror. A brief, but intense scuffle occurred, and ended when I rolled up a hand towel around the barrel of my pistol, and I shot him, point blank as he drew an automatic Luger on me. Stuffing his corpse around the toilet like a poisoned patron, I cleaned up in the sink, and walked back through the unbothered patrons to our table, to find her vanished.

A waiter left a tray of Tempura, with a note saying she'd gone to the rooftop. I sighed, drained my glass and obliged. A Pacific Cresent moon loomed over downtown Los Angeles, reflections of trolly cars glistening, ants of people going home. It also loomed over something at the edge of the roof, something grotesque, mumbling in myriads of voices, opalescent in the moonbeams, writhing and bubbling with a cosmic putrifaction. And Genevieve was speaking to it. I staggered. She whipped around, sobbing, mascara bleeding in rivulets down her olive skin.

To say that it resembled her husband, would be an absolute deservice to the imagination, though I will describe best I can. It was tubular and bulbous in shape, distorted, with cephalopod like suckers turned the wrong way. The most awful bit was the phosphorescent ectoplasm that dripped of its ghostly form. The worst part was its eyes, eyes of such hate-filled longing, ire and malice. A tentacle from the twelve around it's face shot out, writhing its way around and up her leg.

An awful moaning wail came from where its mouth used to be, and there was a rushing sound. Then it vanished.

"I'm sorry Roger. My God, I'm so sorry."

She collapsed into my arms, somehow, someway we descended from that rooftop of hell, crossed Franklin Ave and Hollywood Blvd and caught a trolley back to her mansion, down Sunset Blvd. She was delirious and mumbling in her sleep, I'd catch phrases here and there

"psychopomps" and "Novus Ordo Seclorum". Of the latter I

I shall not speak of, for some knowledge is dangerous to behold and far deadlier to say again. I could tell It was the first time Genevieve Lamont had beheld anything supernatural. Unfortunately for me, I had seen all manner a phantasmagoric apparitions and diabolic energies.

By the time we got to my flat, she had recovered a bit, enough to kis me.

"Oh Jack. We both know what happened to him...Carlyle says he saw him skulking out near Mulholland drive and mount Sinai...we'll think about it Saturday. But not anymore. Not now. "

"There's other things to think of."

She kissed me again. I didn't mind so much.

"You should probably lie down. " ,

"You need to start making your way up the ladders of society Jack. We can both lie down. "

She undressed on the worn velvet couch, garters slipping softly to the wooden floor. Black lace and sweat. Wrapping her porcelain legs around me, we did our best making something close to love.

"Hold me till dawn, would you."

The next morning, I made a visit to Mr. Marloe. I knew it had to be done. What I saw last night was a testament to the occult horror that has plagued my life and those closest to me.

Of Randolph C. Marloe, my acquaintance in college and in afterlife, I speak hesitantly, for our history was vast as it was sordid. 

My Chevrolet torpedo master deluxe purred, as the wrought iron bars screamed open to the Marloe Estate. It was unsettling place. Built sometime in the early eighteen hundreds, time and maltreatment had rusted a jem of architecture. It had pools and tennis courts, gazebos, monkeys, camels, giraffes, tigers (it looked as though a few safari animals had escaped) a Greyhound race track, a dance hall, a massive greenhouse encumbered ivy, many more earthly pleasures that had fell to decay and neglect. A sort of titananic structure King Midas would have taken to.

The Butler, Mr. Wadsworth greeted me in the cavernous entrance hall. Tapestries and portraits frowned down upon us, cobwebs and what looked like a family of bat's in the upper most reaches. A portly man with 3 star Michelin cooking, the highest level at that time, he was a friend somewhat, and our interactions were brief yet amicable, and whenever I ran errands for Mr. Marloe, he'd always fix me a plate of fine cuisine to help ease the gruesome labour.

"Ah yes, Master DeWitt, he's been expecting you. You're running tad behind schedule."

"Apologies Wadsworth, I got lost on near the second waterfall?"

Ah yes, near the mines... "

" I believe the tigers has escaped."

" Yes. Yes. Well, now I let them out on Thursdays."

Good to know. And good to see you Wadsworth. I'll have to stop by for the lamb coconut curry sometime. "

"Please do, Mr. Dewitt."

I continued to the reading room, or library rather. Books from floor to vaulted ceiling, spiral staircases. There is where Mr. Marloe spent most of his time, pouring over ancient tomes and arcane lore when we wasn't off on a mad adventure to unveil the mysteries of the world. There was an armchair turned to a smoldering fire, a bottle of brandy on a stand.

A spectral voice boomed out from the gloom.

"Mr. DeWitt, still running your two bit detective agency?"

"Mr. Marloe, still ruining lives with

If the labadoath codex?

"Unveiling the mysticism of this banal realm is no sin. Though for most, it will drive them insane. What news do you bring. "

It's the Lamont girl. She's just come across some Egyptian Book I believe from its hieroglyphs in the blood it took from me and what I saw on the rooftop last night I believe its related to Adremalech. And her husband's.... Missing.... Or so she says.

He took a long draft of brandy and stood, towering above me, seven feet at least, and walked slowly to a window, hands clasped behind.

There are many who delve too far into the esoteric truths, for some it brings wisdom but for many, naught but ruin of the mind and worse. I believe the latter shall be miss Lamont's Fortune, a vain trite thing who never wanted to look farther in life than her own pearl necklace, she now plays with things far beyond her control, and detrimental to us all."

"I really don't think she's cut out for any of this, I'm sure we could get someone else-she doesn't deserve"

"Just get it done DeWitt, this will protect you. The order of the Mythic Dawn does not approve, and the timeline approaches. If any of this ever gets out, I'll kill you DeWitt. Then I'll transmutate your soul and you won't fear dying anymore."

I left.

And Spent the next few days dreading the weekend.

Saturday morning I picked up Genevieve. She looked happy to see me, yet women wear many veils.

My black 1941 Chevrolet Torpedo roared up Mulholland drive, the whitewalls making ribbons on the badly draining pavement. I was shaking.

I turned, smelled that perfume of pure poison, saw a needle go into my arm and knew no more...

When I came to, I was bound and gagged, near or on Mount Sinai. Alarmed, but unharmed a bedraggled oak loomed above me on the peak, small rocks and dirt was turned up in the oddest fashion, like some magnificent swine heard had swept through. Something cold was against my ankle; I was chained to the tree. There was some faint buzzing noise. Perhaps it was a my head. Genevieve stood, at the very edge of my vision in the half light, muttering incoherently with great seriousness. She seemed to be stooped over something small, that had an unhealthy emerald glow of phosphorescence. That goddamn book.

Suddenly that sound in my head shifted frequencies, growing louder until it was shaking my bones. The light from behind her changed drastically. My stomach went to my throat as I felt us sink deep into the mountain on some massive slab of stone. The circle of sky above began to retreat as we descended. The buzzing was painful now. I saw its shadow first, then the putrid gale. Something mammoth sized with large membranous wings, silhouetted in the caves natural skylight, tusks and fangs seeping poison, four eyed and four armed, a being of unmentionable design, a flying, flapping monstrosity of abhorrent nature and supreme malevolence. I was frozen.

There were organs saturating the walls, skeleton fragments too, the putrifaction almost physical. the hulking cantankerous mass huddled above, it's four saucer eyes looking down on me with alien intent. Adremalech, folded its wings, shifting its massive bulk, and began to crawl towards me. Genevieve continued in that rapture, as the nightmare approached, I could see her lips were bleeding and there was blood flowing into the little black book.

"Ygnar, rgs, yganralth. Zia Kanpa, Kia Kanpa, Zeer joom geer zia Kanpa. "

She turned to me, tears of mascara turning her face phatasmagoric in the gloomy half light.

"My husband didn't dissappear. Neither did his friends. They all deserved it, you have to believe me Jack, they all deserved it. The things they did to me. What they're still doing to me." 

The little black book perched in the air, on its own, illuminated with a glowing sanguine aura, the pages began to turn, the winds wailing from an unending Stygian abyss, there was a delay of sound, a crack with a metallic hiss, and a void of violet spilt down the cave. Stalactites fell like missiles, as a herculean rumble rattled my skull, vibrating my teeth. Adremalech opened its cavernous maw in agony, as a stone spire punctured its wing, still reaching for me with its six clawed fore-arms. I went for Genevieves' hand and held it a while, but one of those damn windows opened up, and she was sucked in, screaming, pleading. The edges closed around her arm, she was telling me something. I still held her served hand.

It was absolute pandemonium. And still, the beast remained silent. It was crawling ever nearer, ignoring its pale green ichor that flowed hot and heavy over the ground. The stench was unbearable, but then it all was. And it was almost upon me. Suddenly, a rift in the floor began to spread, the oddest feeling of l'appel du vide, I scrabbled for a moment, and fell down, down, down. Last thing I saw was its abysmal face staring me down with absolute rage, the clawed fore-arm grasping where I had been, through the crack. Was thinking what my last thought would be, when I hit the water.

I came out near Barham boulevard, on the spillway behind Warner Brothers, looking as if I escaped a war zone. Something hit me from behind, and I started. It was the little black book. I pocketed it. I wandered to the nearest liquor store on Magnolia and stumbled back to my flat, relishing the dismal, vain depressing Los Angeles I didn't know I missed.  The rain cooled my face. Later that week, a sheriff's deputy came to ask about Mrs. Lamont. The official report is that she was kidnapped. I hadn't the stomach for the truth. So the usual run around did the job. It's what people want to hear. Happens a lot in the city of angels. People go missing all the time.

I keep that little black book in the novel cabinet now. It sits collecting dust next to the LUCRUM INFERNALIS, the Ars Magna et Ultima, and the Sworne Booke of Honorius. Haven't opened it since that day. Best to keep it somewhere no one would think its valuable. I haven't even told Mr. Marloe about it. It's an interesting notion, but apparently people only value things if they are in the proper atmosphere.

                          ***

Sitting in my Los Angeles office as the rain pounds, my nicotine stained lips wetting themselves with bourbon, I have tried to forget, and Dr. Carl Linden suggests I see someone else about the morphine addiction, but I cannot even discuss these things without being taken for madman. If I could only forget, but that damned thing was so silent!