FIC: Superstitions Pt. 2
Fic: Superstitions Pt. 2
Fandom: Re-Animator
Rating: PG-13
Type: Sequel to "Superstitions"
Summary: Dan Cain's son Rodger cannot deny his building curiosity about Herbert West. It has begun to consume him, until one day he decides to go out and find Herbert West...though he wasn't expecting what he found.
Notes: Takes heavy stylistic influences from Army of Darkness vs. Re-Animator, which will become more evident as the story progresses.
Warnings: Probably a shit-ton of spelling mistakes because I wrote it at 3 AM.
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Dan Cain's son couldn't get his father's story out of his head. It had been months, and early fall had bled into mid-winter.
Everyday he'd pass the old house by Potter's Field where his father had taken residence with West. Everyday he'd wonder about what had really gone on there, what his father hadn't told him.
Rodger Cain was no longer content with heeding his father's warnings. It had been relatively easy, just tell his parent's that he was going to Arther's house for the afternoon and would be home before dark. He walked the few blocks from school before turning into a backstreet which led to Potter's Field.
It was an old, rotten, and decaying cemetery, if a re-animator was to live here, it would be the right place. It had rained the previous day, so the whole lot was nothing but soggy mound of earth with sagging tombstones. When the house finally came into view he froze.
It loomed over the landscape as a dark shadow, looking almost as dead as the bodies buried so close to it.
He slowly approached it, looking for anyway to get inside. He'd prepared for this venture, bringing with him a baseball bat, emergency whistle, and his mother's silver cross necklace. He knew silver didn't work on zombies, but the idea of having it with him calmed him down. In his pocket was the picture of his father and Herbert West.
Just as his father was, Rodger had an infinite curiosity. It had been what had gotten his father into a relationship with Herbert West in the first place. It was that same curiosity that drove him up to the back door of the house.
With one hard 'thwapp!' Rodger swung the bat at a kitchen window. It shattered with a loud crash, and Rodger pulled back his hand with a hiss of pain. One of the shards had cut right across the back of it, bleeding right down his fingers and onto the bat which had fallen inside the house.
He bit back tears, before shaking his head a few times. He refocused on his goal, before reaching in and unlocking the door from the inside and letting himself in. He retrieved his bat before carefully looking around the inside.
The interior of the house seemed to be rotten as well. The cabinetry was barely hanging on the wall, there were still papers and such strewn about, books all over the place. From the kitchen he ventured into the living room, only to be met with a similar sight. Here there were bookshelves, an old sun-faded sofa, some chairs and a coffee table. All of which were practically sinking into the floor. There were open books about, as well as closed ones. Various pieces of paper were tacked onto the wall. The only thing that seemed out of place was a small wooden box by the front door. It was open, and a few packing peanuts were still visible inside, along with a few strewn around the surrounding floor.
The longer he stood there the more out of place he felt. He went back into the kitchen to investigate further, but upon turning around he faced something he never expected to see.
The face of his father.
The picture was old, tacked onto the wall in a sloppy fashion. But sure enough there he was. Dan Cain, around age twenty five was smiling happily. The picture displayed only him, against the backdrop of what Rodger could only guess to be Potter's Field.
It unsettled him so much that he suddenly felt sick.
His father looked so...happy. It made no sense, all it did was raise more questions. He grew quickly frustrated, and retreated down the hallway in search of answers. He opened all of the doors, not bothering to look inside until he reached the end of the hall. He carefully then walked back towards the kitchen, taking the time to go in each one. Most were empty, or filled with papers, books, and boxes.
One was just completely empty all together. It's wallpaper was peeling off, and the floor was rotting a hole in itself.
Still dissatisfied he went back to the end of the hall, attempting to open the last door only to find that it was locked. Disappointed, Rodger ventured up the stairs. All but two of the rooms on this floor had open doors. He quickly went through each one, only to find that they were all as empty and barren as the ones downstairs.
Except for the two with closed doors.
Rodger approached the first one expecting it to be locked, but surprised when it wasn't. Inside of it was a simple bed, a dresser, all of the basic things one would find in a bedroom. There were a few posters up, the occassional book around. Overall it was unnervingly normal compared to the rest of the house.
There were a few notebooks on the bed, and he picked them up curiously only to drop them on the floor in sudden realization.
Neatly printed on the front was his father's handwriting, reading "Property of Dr. Daniel Cain", and a telephone number.
This was his fathers room.
A strange feeling overcame Rodger, and he slowly backed out of the room until the comforting sound of his back hitting the hallway wall met his ears. He didn't know why it unnerved him so much, but just being close to that room gave him a strong sense of dread.
Carefully he walked down to the last closed door, praying it wouldn't be nearly as disturbing as the first one had been. He gently pushed the door open, the soft creak only heightening his senses as he discovered he was holding his breath in anticipation.
Papers. Papers were everywhere. Papers tacked on the wall, all over the bed, the closet doors, the floor. All of which had crude chickenscratch handwriting on them, some with diagrams others with just words. A large poster of the human nervous system hung on the wall just above an ancient small refrigerator.
This one had an air different than that of his father's. It was almost calm, but something about it seemed sad.
On the shelf there were a few small items, an empty syringe, folded notes, and a small framed picture. He picked it up gingerly, dusting it off only to find the face of his father again. Beside him were two young men, one of which he recognized as Herbert West and the other looking extrodinarily similair to West. He looked gentler, with a small smile on his face and soft eyes that seemed to draw one in.
He carefully slid the photo out of the frame, reading the handwriting on the back of it.
"Crawford Tillinghast, Dan Cain, and Herbert West. Summer, 1990".
Who was Crawford? Was he a friend of his fathers? Were they still friends?
Rodger carefully slid the picture into his pocket with the other, before poking around more. Most of the papers were all notes about some sort of scientific experiment. He didn't really understand most of the words, but he had a feeling they were all related to the one thing all of Arkham knew about Herbert West.
He could bring the dead back to life.
He went over to the large wooden desk, where a few cardboard boxes were sitting. Each had a dates on them, some just had a year scribbled on them. Inside were folders, each containing what at first seemed to be more notes. Rodger took a few out to find that they weren't notes at all, but instead letters.
"June 19, 1991," he read aloud, almost startled by the sound of his own voice.
"Dear Dan,
I'm still here where you left me. I know you don't want to think about it, but I imagine that you do. The house is holding up surprisingly well, despite having no running water or electricity anymore. Since I had to go into hiding after the events of the night you left, I lost my job as you well know. How you didn't amazes me sometimes. The police have finally stopped coming over to look through the house, the bumbling idiots never bothering to try to check the basement. Though with it cemented shut now -my handywork by the way- they really can't. I haven't ventured past Potter's field in almost six months. Food is cumbersome to come by, but there is an old water spout by the shed that still provides that necessary resource. The work is going well, but there are days where I don't want to work on it at all. Bodies are being buried in the field again since the new church was built down the street. I've managed to aquire a few specimens that with care will last a long time. I hope you are doing well. I hope you will come back one day. Knowing you I know you won't, but you're curiosity never fails to amaze me. It's cold down here, despite it being summer. I've gotten a bit sickly the last few months. Materials for the work are running extremely low. Have you talked to Crawford? Is he still doing well? ...Have you turned to him instead? I know you always seemed to favor his company to mine, just as most people have. I would rather it be my brother than that woman. I keep meaning to send you these letters, but I never do. I don't know where you live now. Do you even still live in Arkham? Did you transfer hospitals? Are you still alive? If you are, do you still think about me? I still think about you.
With great sincerity,
Herbert West."
Upon finishing the letter, Rodger was only met with more questions than answers. Only one question was answered throughout the entire letter, and that was who this Crawford person was.
Crawford Tillinghast was Herbert West's brother, and he was friends with Rodger's father at one point in time.
He read it over again, this time in his head, trying to understand any bit of information that it could potentially give him. This time around he managed to piece more things together.
If Herbert West was still in this house, he'd be in the basement.
If Crawford Tillinghast and his father were as close as the letter suggested, they were probably still friends.
Herbert West seemed to care a great deal about his father.
With this information in mind, he placed the letter on the desk and thought about his next move. To look through all of these letters would probably help him, but it would take hours. His mind burned with only one other option, and that was too look for this basement. If it was cemented up he wouldn't be able to get inside from inside the house. But the letter mentioned Herbert being able to get out into Potter's Field, so there must've been a way inside from outside.
He took a few more letters to read later at home, one from each box, before going downstairs. It was only as he reached the bottom of the stairs that it dawned on him that the room he'd just been in had belonged to Herbert West himself.
He shook his head, trying to settle his thoughts. He went back through the kitchen and out the back door. He circled the house a few times, looking for any opening big enough to get into . There were none.
Rodger was growing increasingly desperate for any kind of clue, any information that he could get before it grew too late to be out. He walked around the house again, this time slower, carefully observing any tall grass or small holes or anything. With a deep sigh he sat down by a gravestone, only too be met with a creaking sound. He jumped up instantly, before gently tapping the ground with his foot. The unmistakeable sound of wood met his ears, and he tore off all of the grass covering a the hatch.
There it was. A small wooden door. He almost didn't believe his eyes.
It wasn't locked or anything. He opened it with ease, looking down to find a small ladder.
Nervousness filled him. It wasn't a good feeling. But as he looked down the hole all he could think of was that the answers he was so fervently looking for were all down there, finally within his grasp. It was too late to turn back now.
With a shaky breath Rodger carefully decended into the hole. It was dark, but still light enough to see. The small shaft was only about five feet deep before it emptied out into a room. A feeling of relief hit him when his feet hit the floor.
Suddenly a rustling noise met his ears, and he whirled around only to see nothing. It was a dark damp place, that appeared to be at one point some sort of burial place. There were two broken coffins, and Rodger swore he could see bones on the stone floor. A large hole in the wall seemed to lead into another room.
"H-Hello?" he stammered out?
More rustling met his ears, and he found himself protectively reaching for the photos in his pocket.
It wasn't too dark, but dark enough to see that there were shadows of other persons in the room on the walls.
"I-I'm looking for someone. Dr. West? Is he still here?"
Silence. Then more rustling. Suddenly the light seemed to reflect off of something, and a soft green color met his eyes. He looked down to find that it was a small tube of sorts, but it appeared to be attached to something- one of the shadows.
"Who are you? Are you Dr. West?" he asked, trying to sound somewhat brave.
The shadowy figure was shorter than he was, but the other two seemed to be a lot taller. With a few more rustling noises they all came into sight.
Rodger screamed.
They were corpses. One male. One female. One child. All of which were partially decayed, creating a morbid image when combined with the small glass fixtures attached to their bodies. Each fixture was filled with a sickly green liquid.
They slowly walked towards him, and before Rodger had time to react he found himself cornered. He felt tears starting to run down his cheeks as the terror seemed to crush his young frame.
"W-who are you? P-Please, get back! D-Don't come any closer, I've got a weapon!" he stammered, holding up his bat weakly.
The creatures all seemed to look at each other, silently observing the child in front of them. These were dead people. Dead people that were brought back to life. That meant that Herbert West was still alive.
Herbert West's undead seemed to suddenly lurch forward at him, grabbing his arms and holding him against the wall. Rodger screamed, attempting to fight them but finding that they were far stronger than he was.
"Thats enough!" a stern voice ordered, cutting through the room like a sharp knife.
All of the creatures immediately let him loose, before retreating to the figure standing by the entrance to the chamber.
"What are you thinking? Attacking people like that! You only attack if it's the police, remember? Does that look like the police to you?" he scolded.
The large male seemed to sulk a bit when the voice spoke to him. The female simply looked down, and the child hid behind the legs of the speaker.
"You." the voice said suddenly. "Come here."
Rodger didn't move.
"Now!" the voice demanded.
Slowly, the child began to pull himself up and pensively approach the person at the far side of the room. The closer he got, the less intimidating the figure seemed to be. He was shorter than the to adult undeads beside him, and with the child attached to his leg he looked slightly silly.
"Follow me. Nelson, Lucy, go back to the lab. I'll take Sophie." he ordered. The creatures all seemed to go away, with the exception of the child.
"Sophie I can't walk with you holding onto me." he said flatly. The little girl quickly let go.
The man proceeded to stray back into where he came and Rodger followed him quietly.
The creatures obeyed him. As long as he stayed close the creatures probably wouldn't harm him unless the man told them too. He'd yet to get a good look at his face, but he didn't really need to. He knew who this was.
This was Herbert West.
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Well there you go. This muse has been in my head for a long time. Don't worry, Herbert isn't going to be as OOC as he seems at first. He's not going to be all angsty or 'woe is me my dear Dan Cain abandoned me'. I won't spoil it, but let's just say with the work finished, things have changed quite a lot.