The Adventures of Andrew Doran: Box Set Read online

  The Adventures of Andrew Doran

  An Adventure Box Set

  by Matthew Davenport

  Published by Matthew Davenport. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright ©2015 Matthew Davenport

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author/publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Early Adventures of Andrew Doran

  Property of Miskatonic University.

  The Statement of Andrew Doran

  Chapter 1: Miskatonic University

  Chapter 2: The Shadow Over Barcelona

  Chapter 3: The Whisperers in Andorra

  Chapter 4: The Thing in Lyon

  Chapter 5: Geneva-Reanimated

  Chapter 6: Cool Air in Berne

  Chapter 7: The Munich Horror

  Chapter 8: The Doom that came to Berlin

  Andrew Doran at the Mountains of Madness

  No Trespassing! | Keep Out! | and | By Order of the Federal Bureau of Investigations | This Area is Off Limits to All Unauthorized Personnel.

  Note from the author:

  About the Author | Matthew Davenport lives in Des Moines, Iowa with his beautiful wife, Ren. He spends his time writing, reading, and working to promote and support writing communities in Iowa through his company Davenport Writes, LLC. | You can keep track of Matthew through his twitter account @spazenport. | You can follow his blog at http://davenportwrites.com

  The Early Adventures of Andrew Doran

  The bat cracked as it connected with the ball. I flinched. I always flinched, I just couldn't help it. I wished I could be more like the other kids and watch as the ball sailed away, but it just wasn't in me.

  If I could have kept my cool, I would have watched as the ball was propelled high and out into right field. I had swung late, but connected low. It carried out and over the running right fielder before slapping the ground just out of his reach.

  At that point, I had opened my eyes and began running. My feet carried me around first and I spared a glance toward right field. The right fielder was Jimmy's cousin, and I couldn't remember his name. He scooped up the ball during my glance and turned to throw.

  My eyes returned forward and I jumped, bringing my legs forward and into a slide. It probably looked lame, but I felt like a hero. My feet slammed into second base as I heard the slap of the ball against Jimmy's hand.

  I looked up. Jimmy just shrugged and then looked at the pitcher. "Andy made it."

  That's right, I'm Andrew Doran. The King of Baseball!

  I stood on the bag, which was really Jimmy's notebook, and smiled as if I had just single-handedly won the game that had only just started.

  "Andrew!" It was my father, Emmett Doran, standing and waving at the edge of our makeshift baseball field at the back of the school.

  My excitement vanished faster than it had arrived. If father was there, it was time to go home. I had told the guys twice already that we needed to move the location of the game, but nobody listened to 'Dinky Doran'. I figured it out when my father had mentioned us playing ball. It wasn't what he had said so much as how he had said it, and I knew then that he knew where we played. It would only be a matter of time before he exercised that knowledge and completely ruined my afternoon.

  And here he was.

  "Andrew, come along. Your mother needs us home." He was calling louder now.

  I sighed, a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance filling me from my feet up.

  I spared a quick look at Jimmy and he was smiling. "Catch you later, Dinky."

  I stepped off of the bag and heard a collective groan as Jimmy took the moment to reach forward and tag me with the ball.

  "Out!" The pitcher yelled for no reason other than to point out to the others how much I had already messed up this game. So much for being the king of Baseball.

  Now I was the first one to go home. There wasn't any worse humiliation.

  The jeers stopped when I stepped off of the field, replaced quickly by the sounds of the resuming game.

  I wasn't hiding my disappointment, but my father didn't seem to notice as I caught up to him.

  "Who won?" He asked. I didn't think he really cared, but he was trying to reach out to me, and I wasn't completely ignorant to the attempt.

  "We just started. Classes ran longer today. We had a guest speaker." I began to perk up as my mind drifted back to earlier that afternoon.

  "Oh?" Father pressed. "Who was your guest speaker?"

  We had reached the road and walked along the path in the direction of the house. We had an automobile, but father was adamant on not using it except for the most important of situations. Returning home from school did not qualify.

  "He was an anthropology professor from Massachusetts." I answered.

  Father smiled. "And what wisdom did the anthropologist impart to 13 year old boys and girls?"

  At the time, I didn't recognize father's mocking tone for what it was and answered him immediately and with renewed excitement.

  "It was amazing. He told us about ancient Egyptians and the Pharaohs who ruled the pyramids!" My hands were becoming animated now. "He told us how the Egyptians had mastered mathematics and how most of their incredible secrets are still unknown to us."

  My father was nodding. "What did you take away from his time with your class?"

  My father did this regularly. Anything that he could see was exciting me he would ask what I took away from it. Looking back, I appreciate it for what it was. He wanted to turn everything into a moment of learning. At the time, I found it to be an annoying exercise. In this particular instance was probably the first time that my answer wasn't dripping with annoyance.

  "That I want to be the one who discovers those secrets."

  My father stopped and I assumed that I was about to get a lecture on how I should have taken away much more than that. As he hesitated, his gaze seemed to penetrate my soul.

  Finally, he said. "That is wonderful. How will you accomplish that goal?"

  I had already thought through the process and answered immediately. "The professor was from Miskatonic University, in the city of Arkham. I will start by applying to that school and entering into their anthropology courses."

  Father smiled, nodded, and resumed his march toward our home. "I do not know how I feel about anthropology as a professional field, but any motivation toward university is a pursuit that I encourage."

  I said nothing but smiled the rest of the walk home. Father had never hidden how he felt about university being the key toward advancement in the future. He had regularly spoke of my lack of direction with a hint of disappointment, and it made me beam to know that he approved of any sort of path that I had set out for myself.

  The walk from school to my house was a very short distance. We were home within fifteen minutes of leaving the makeshift baseball field.

  Our house was a two-story with a wide porch and tall, almost Gothic windows. Father prided himself on having the most lavish house on the street, whereas I wondered at what creature had once called this place home before abandoning it for my parents to find.

  The large door opened after father turned the knob and grunted, nudging the door with his shoulder. The door, like much of the house, seemed older than it probably was. This entire street hadn't even been around over fifty years ago, yet the house had an ancient quality to it that begged for my t
error to fill its halls.

  Understandably, I didn't like our home.

  Once in the foyer, I could hear mother further into the house. I tossed my notebook and shoes in a corner and followed the sounds to my mother.

  The kitchen was shined to a bright sheen, and I assumed that this had been Mother's work. She stood at the farthest counter from where I entered the kitchen and seemed to be flush with upset.

  Father followed in right behind me and asked, "What's wrong, Martha?"

  Mother looked up at my father and sighed. "Emmett, horror has struck our small corner of town."

  Father frowned at Mother's flare for the dramatic and waited for her to continue.

  "Adam Sturn passed away today," she blurted it out so fast that it was almost impossible to understand.

  Father's mind, as did mine, took its time to slow down and translate the headline that Mother had tossed in our direction.

  "Our neighbor? The milkman?" Father pressed.

  Mother nodded and I could see that her face was starting to blanch at the recollection of the days events. She cast a quick glance at me before returning a more stoic gaze at my father.

  "Andrew," Father asked, "would you go to your room. I need to have a talk with your mother."

  Deciding against arguing, I turned and walked through the central room of the house and to the stairs.

  I stepped onto the first step and then marched in place, slapping my feet down noisily on the first step. Not too noisily, though. I needed them to think that I was going up the stairs, not that I was faking going up the stairs.

  Once, I had made the requisite fifteen steps, I turned and returned to as close to the kitchen as I could get while remaining hidden.

  In my absence, my mother had allowed herself to break down. She was sobbing gently, but it was muffled. I assumed father was holding her against his chest.

  A deep breath was taken and then father said, "Now, slower this time, Martha." His tone was gentle. "What happened?"

  Mother seemed to regain her composure. "All morning there was a horrible sound coming from his house. I didn't see anything, but someone must have called the police." She was starting to talk faster. "They carried him out in bags."

  Father was quiet for a moment before asking. "You, of course, mean a body bag?"

  Mother was sobbing again as she said, clear and loud, "No, he was carried out in bags."

  "That might not have been him, but perhaps evidence," Father attempted to reason.

  I imagined mother was shaking her head as she replied, through even more sobs. "They were dripping blood, Emmett." Her sobs stopped as she almost screamed, "They dropped his head!"

  I was entertained and mortified as my young and inquisitive mind imagined the blood soaked bag, carried in the hands of a terrified policeman, tearing under the weight of its contents. I was almost sick, and morbidly curious from the idea of poor Adam Sturn's head falling from the bag and rolling down the street. A twinge of guilt struck me as I snickered at the idea of that same policeman giving chase of the runaway head.

  I was snapped from my imagination as I heard my father comfort my mother again. "There, there, Martha. It's over now." His voice was calming and quiet. "I will try to find out what happened and spare you the worst of the details." I heard him take a step and I started. "Why don't you let me take you upstairs so that you can lie down? This would have been a trying day for anyone."

  I bolted as if I had been allowed to complete my earlier game. I rounded third base and wasn't thinking as I darted up the stairs and toward the safety of home plate.

  I had enough intelligence to gently shut my door, but the damage had already been done.

  Father walked with mother to their room and I could only barely hear him as they spoke. It was muffled, but it was something about checking on someone. It didn't take a degree from Miskatonic University to know that I was the one he was going to be checking on.

  Only moments later, father walked into my room and crossed his arms. "What did you hear?"

  I shrugged.

  "All of it?" He asked.

  I nodded but didn't look him in the eye.

  He knelt so that he could look me in the eye instead. "First of all, when I say go to your room, I would appreciate it if you would do as I say and not ignore me. There are reasons that we don't want you to hear certain things." He paused. "Things...such as what you did hear, for example. What your mother saw was horrific, and something that a young man with..." his eyes raised as he remembered our earlier conversation, "...aspirations toward anthropology doesn't need to hear."

  I smiled and slid off of the edge of my bed as father stood. "Where do you think that you're going?"

  I looked up at him and smiled. "I was going to go outside."

  Father returned my smile, but shook his head. "Your mother needs you around the house today. Besides," he added, "you still disobeyed me. Go downstairs and set the table for dinner."

  ***

  Mother joined us for dinner and it was otherwise uneventful. Dinner was followed by cleaning the dishes, which didn't take too long and then I did the little bit of homework that I had. I hurried through it and then went to my room to continue reading Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. After a few hours of deep sea adventure, my father called up to me to turn off the lights and go to bed.

  Of course, I didn't completely listen. I turned off my light to my room and then lit a candle. I was far from done with my midnight voyage aboard the Nautilus.

  It was only another hour into my book when I first noticed how cold my room was getting.

  We were nearing the end of the school year, and coming into summer. The temperature of my room wasn't reflecting anything like I had been expecting. The room was getting so cold that I could see my breathe in the candlelight.

  It was too cold. It was unnatural.

  An inexplicable feeling of dread fell over me and I lowered my book. Peering into the poorly lit room, I tried to locate the source of the terror that was flooding my young spine.

  I couldn't see anything, but I had no doubt that I was definitely not alone.

  "Who's there?" I called out. It was barely a whisper that left my throat, but in the quiet room it sound like a thunderclap from a mighty storm.

  I heard no response, but I could feel that something had changed within the room.

  Reaching for the candle, I decided that it was time to blow it out and hide under the covers. Before I could grab the candle to bring it within blowing range, it was blown out from something that was very not me.

  A new sound came to my attention then and it made my hold my breath. A skittering and scratching ticked and tacked across the hardwood floor of my bedroom.

  Suddenly, I was overtaken by a feeling that I had never experienced before. To this day, I don’t know where it came from, but I quickly discovered that I would rather die defeated instead of afraid.

  I threw back my covers and jumped off of my bed and in the direction of the skittering noise. For a few very blind seconds, I was prepared for contact with some sort of ghoulish monster. I was prepared to destroy it, and rend it limb from limb. After that moment passed and my airborne body continued sailing through the air without hitting any sort of critters or lowly boogeymen, fear returned.

  The next moment ended with a painful whoosh of the air leaving my chest as I bellyflopped onto the bedroom floor. I didn’t allow myself to feel the pain of my impact. Instead, I was alert and jumped to my feet without any grace.

  When I had leapt from the bed, I had done so with my eyes closed. While a newfound bravery had found my young mind, stupidity hadn’t. If I wanted to keep the fear at bay, I knew that I would have to keep my eyes shut. To open them was to invite that fear back in and let it sink its disease riddled teeth into my heart.

  Once I had found my feet, though, I had no idea where my adversary had gone and was left with only one choice.

  I opened my eyes.

  The darkness was still
all encompassing, and I wasn’t sure what I had expected to see. The sight that ended up greeting my eyes hadn’t been anywhere within the range of possibilities, though.

  In the insurmountable darkness, I could see very clearly, the slightly bluish glow of the spirit of Adam Sturn.

  The bravery of a young adolescent boy is fueled by ignorance. Once that beautiful shield of ignorance is removed we are left with what I had become.

  I screamed in terror and ran back for my bed.

  A ghost? A ghost?

  I thought I was shouting the words, but I quickly realized that coherent english wasn’t something that I was capable of. Only shouts and screams of gibberish as terror leaping from my lips echoed across the room.

  Somewhere between the initial understanding that the thing before me was the ghost of the recently deceased neighbor and milkman, and my finding my way back under my covers, my gibberish had turned into the chant of the protective powers that all young boys beg for in their times of need.

  “Mom! Mom!”

  I heard no stirring. I heard no running footsteps and no slamming doors. All that I heard was silence. I peaked over the covers and Adam Sturn was holding his hand out and toward my door. I don’t know how it was that I knew, but I did.

  He was stopping all sound from leaving the room. This ghost was more powerful than even my overly terrified mind had assumed. He could murder me without hesitation and I could scream the entire time that it was taking place and my parents would know about it until they came up to wake me for bed.

  My mother would come in first and her scream would bring father. They’d find me, mutilated and torn apart. My blood would have soaked through the covers of my bed and the culprit will have been long gone.

  Or worse. He would be hiding as a ghost would. Invisible to them until they were fully in the room and then he would lock them in as his new playthings, having already exhausted his first gorey toy.

  No. I wouldn’t allow it. It was one thing to murder me, but another thing entirely to murder my parents.

  Again I was overcome with an insane strength from deep inside myself. It was a strength of action born before thought. I had no means of fighting a ghost and no special education in the religious rites that might aid me in such a quest. All that I had were my terror and righteous rage.