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thankful that the shell had survived
unscathed. It was safe in my jacket pocket, where it remained at all times. At
least I could claim that as tangible evidence.
    "I must admit that I had not
fully contemplated the potential dangers that might be involved in the kind of
exploration I was about. Frankly, I was not even sure just what my purpose was.
Proof, in a number of astonishing forms, had forced me onto a road that might
take me anywhere.
    "On the eve of my leaving, I
was tempted to turn away and try to pretend that things were only what I once
knew them to be, but it was much too late for that. How could I deny what I had
experienced? It was all real; Arabella, the infant, the note from Brinklow,
Fractured Harry, and poor Wakefield's demise. To say nothing of the mysterious
hollows I had seen in not one, but two human heads.
    "I spent that night at Nigel
Wagner's home, where I was plagued by strange dreams. Mind you, I had seen
atrocities in the Argonne, but the professor's violent end disquieted me to my
core. In my sleep I imagined him with that wide open darkness where his
features had been.
    "Another troubling image was
that of the pulpy mass that seemed to mock a face as it covered that of the old
gent. In my slumber it loomed like a sky, and I heard it repeating that
particular phrase again and again. 'Six oceans...' Whatever could it have meant
by that? Previously I had seen a photographic portrait of Simon Brinklow. Only
in retrospect did I liken his image to that dark one that took shape and spoke.
    "In the morning, following
tea and Telegram, I thanked Nigel for all his help, and because he agreed to
tend my dog Rooney in my absence. Not one for tears, I made an exception as I
bade farewell to my two dearest friends. I shook the man's hand and then bent
down so that the dog could give me his paw."

 
     
     
    4. STRANGE APPARATUS
     
    I am alone on the open road. We've
all imagined the archetypal highway stretching off into a distance of uncharted
possibilities -- a dream that both thrills and frightens. But, I am spared the
brunt of those sensations, for I am only an admirer of explorers, and I'm
traveling to a specified destination. Others have done the dirty work, so to
speak, in this case. Still, the solitude suits me, and the sky is such a wide
morning blue above the shadow-mottled pines that I delight in the illusion that
I too am an adventurer.
    I cross the border, and a large
sign welcomes me to New Hampshire, The Granite State. I proceed to Manchester,
where the prime thoroughfare is long and wide, stretching toward garages and
unglamorous localities in one direction, while the other ends with noble old
houses smacking of money. There is something earnest about this city, a
working-class lack of pretentiousness that an old mill town ought to convey. I
am spared the studied hipness of say, Boston's Newbury Street, and the glare of
icy glass skyscrapers. Instead, there is brick and verdigris and weathered
steeples poking above the neighborhoods.
    It is a Sunday morning, and the
traffic is light. My instructions guide me without incident to a residential
area dominated by Victorians. I recognize the house that I am looking for, park
my vehicle and shoot several pictures. The light-grey building rises steeply
from the street, so it is a short walk to the impressive double doors.
    This is the Arcangelo Banchini
House. Built in 1878, it is an imposing example of Italianate architecture. The
roof is almost flat, with eaves that project out, supported by ornamental
brackets. There are bay windows -- both upper and lower story -- on one side;
the rest are long thin things with arched brows. While the facade boasts a fine
entry porch, the most dramatic feature is the narrow tower that presides above.
Each of its four sides holds a pair of hooded windows beneath a precipitous
mansard roof that sits atop like a strange angular hat.
    Simon Brinklow had already
vanished by the time this place was erected, but