The Lurker at the Threshold : A Horror Mystery

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The Lurker at the Threshold : A Horror Mystery Page 19

by Brandon Berntson


  —

  The witch-house shook. The inside was starting to look like a slow, roiling miasma. It shifted again, came together, and wavered a second time. The electricity was shorting out, the zapping and currents losing charge.

  “What’s happening?” Millie asked.

  Nyarlathotep looked at her. “It begins.”

  “What?”

  “The cycle returneth. It began long ago. Millenia. It’s happened before. It was written it would happen again.” He held up the Elder Scrolls. “In here.”

  “What?”

  Armitage looked at the colors, the wavering electricity sparking here and there. It moved and came together like melting liquid, a strange gale rearranging everything in various sequences. Folding. Unfolding. Pulsing. Rhythm. It looked like it was about to form some magnificent creation or blow up entirely. They stood on the edge of a great, cosmic, cataclysmic battle.

  “What are you talking about?” Millie asked.

  “The war,” Nyarlathotep said. “The Outer Gods were once banished to the farthest reaches of time and space. They were no longer allowed to enter. But there is a second war. A return of the cycle. That is what we’re seeing. That’s what’s here now. Yog-Sothoth, The Lurker at the Threshold, is through. He is at the threshold no more.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We must wait.”

  “Isn’t Dev helping? Hasn’t he reached the Elder Gods yet?”

  “He has not.”

  “Well, what’s he doing?”

  “Getting drunk,” Nyarlathotep said.

  Armitage groaned.

  “We’re doomed,” Millie said.

  —

  Newt reached the door of the farmhouse. It was a crooked thing, barely held on by rusty hinges and loose screws. The brightness was blinding when he reached it. He shielded his eyes when he pulled the door open. The glow was like a strange, radioactive nightmare, a blinding incandescence. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them slowly because of the light. He could barely see a thing. The boards, the way the extension had been put together looked like it had been constructed by a child. There was no particular order or symmetry, just boards nailed in place in whatever fashion was necessary. A growling, hissing intake of air was coming from inside.

  “Be still!” a deep, throaty voice said. “Meet your master!

  Amelia screamed.

  Newt pulled his arm away and squinted against the light. He could barely see two figures to his right at the near side of the add-on. The spheres were everywhere. He had never seen anything like it. He hoped he never would. They were filling the addition of the house, all shapes and sizes, making what looked like an amorphous body on the ground. He couldn’t put a name to it. It was too big. The spheres branched out in all directions, connected in some way that made a human shape.

  Amelia was being held down by a creature with cloven feet, eyes embedded in its thighs, horns like a satyr. The addition had been built for Yog-Sothoth, to house and hide the behemoth within. Yog-Sothoth was here. He was in Innsport. He was the past, present, and future. He was omnipresent. Here, in the countryside, in the town of Dunwich, it was easy to see his motivation: to make another thing with cloven feet.

  Amelia noticed Newt the second he opened the door.

  “Neeewt! Oh, thank God! Help meeee!”

  She looked relieved and terrified at the same time. The creature holding her down, Wilbur Whateley, in his original form, hissed and fought. The glowing spheres began to writhe.

  “Get off me, you brute!” she cried. She elbowed the thing behind her in the throat.

  Wilbur made a gagging sound, fell back, and clutched his neck.

  Newt ran, grabbed his wife, and held her close, keeping her away from the glowing orbs.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “That’s a stupid question?”

  “It’s not a stupid question,” she said, then sobbed into his chest.

  The door burst open. Mr. Kalabraise bolted inside. Capshaw appeared seconds later.

  Wilbur Whateley widened his eyes at the sight of the dog. He held his arms out, as if trying to ward her off. Mr. Kalabraise launched into the air, latched onto Wilbur’s throat with her jaws, and refused to let go. She growled and bit down. Wilbur held the dog with both hands, fell backwards, and screamed.

  Duke appeared in the doorway, laboring for breath, holding onto the frame. The spheres were glowing brighter and trembling. A diabolical shriek came from under the earth.

  “We’d better get out of here,” Duke said.

  —

  Macky wasn’t sure what to expect when Ubba-Sathla appeared. The thing was a mass of organisms without limbs or eyes. It could transform, and it managed, in some bewildering fashion, to represent a human form. Macky thought the creature did it for his sake, but it still made him uneasy.

  Or maybe it was the wine, the warping, bubbling reality that expanded and shrunk at the same time. He was seeing things he couldn’t label as normal.

  He was trying to retain as much dignity as he could. The wine was stronger than Saki. He’d never drunk anything that made him feel this way before. He’d never drunk anything that made him see this way.

  “I will speak to you in a tongue you can understand,” Ubba-Sathla said, emerging from the darkness of the cave. He carried a stone tablet in his hand. “I have many languages. You have been entertained by the Weevles. They can be a nuisance.” He turned and confronted the creatures. “Leave our guest alone. Where did you find him anyway?”

  “Chalk-chalk,” Oh-lee-Oh said. “Flabber-fisted. Style gifted. Wouldn’t let us go. Want to entertain. No one sees us. No one please us. Say it isn’t so!”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Ubba-Sathla said.

  “Outside, chip-chip. Appeared from gate. Foreigner. Traveled. Many miles. Comes from bad style. Rip in hem leg.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Macky said.

  “It’s no matter,” Ubba-Sathla said. There was sadness in his voice. “What’s your name?”

  “Devlin Macky,” he said.

  “I am Ubba-Sathla. As you already know. I’ve been exiled here from the Outer Darkness. It’s a punishment.”

  Macky tried to right himself. “Why?” he asked.

  “An act of rebellion against the Elder Gods,” Ubba-Sathla said. “I invoked their power through the Elder Scrolls. They let me keep a copy as a sort of mercy. Which was very rare. But I’m stuck here. They made me. I am what I am because of them.”

  The colors were coming together, then separating. “Why?”

  “The same reason they make anything,” Ubba-Sathla said. “Servitude. Slaves, if you must know. The Weevles got you drunk on the wine of Kadath.”

  “It didn’t take . . . much persuading. It’s . . . different. Not like back home. They said I could contact you and . . . see the Elder Gods through it—hiccup! But I’m . . . having a hard time focusing.” Macky leaned over to one side, as if he were going to pass out.

  “That’s not true,” Ubba-Sathla said. “You see me but not because of the wine. They like to make up things. It amuses them.”

  “I didn’t need to get drunk to see the Elder Gods?”

  “No.”

  “Well . . . it’s a nice change of pace. It’s . . . been a long—hiccup—night.”

  Ubba-Sathla smiled. “I would ask you how you got here, but I think I know. Why you are here is a different story.”

  “The witch-house,” Macky said. He felt like he was on a trip to Mars. “Nyarlathotep. Yog-Sothoth. Hiccup! I think the only way I can get help is to talk to the . . . Elder Gods. I don’t know how to reach them, though. I was hoping . . . someone around here could—hiccup—help.”

  “Hmm,” Ubba-Sathla said. “How did you get wrapped up in all that?”

  “The Necronomicon. I came into its possession. Accidentally, of course. Hiccup! I opened a doorway, then another, and another . . . until—”

  “All thirteen were opened?” Ubba-Sathla finished fo
r him and nodded. “The Mad Arab is at it again. His claim to fame. We all have our weaknesses, don’t we, Mr. Macky?”

  “Mine is strong drink,” Macky said, leaning a little too far to his left.

  “Very clever, you all,” Ubba-Sathla said, confronting the Weevles. “But you didn’t have to get him drunk.”

  The Weevles bickered, hit each other on the head, and grumbled.

  “I’m fine,” Macky said. “Hiccup! Really. I just hope this doesn’t offend the Elder Gods. I would hate it if they—hiccup—thought less of me?”

  “It’s no matter.”

  Macky nodded. It felt like his head weighed fifty pounds. “How do you . . . summon them?”

  “I’m not sure they would be happy to help me, to be quite honest,” Ubba-Sathla said. “But I can try. An invocation, a prayer, a reading from the scroll will get their attention. How they respond—if at all—of course, is up to them.”

  The scrolls weren’t like the ones Nyarlathotep had taken from the museum. The Elder Scrolls, perhaps in a more primordial fashion, was the stone tablet he’d brought with him. It had strange markings on it, reminding Macky of the Ten Commandments.

  Ubba-Sathla got on his knees, set the tablet before him, and started reading. The cadence, strangely, put the Weevles to sleep. They quieted, slowed, and drifted off, falling sideways on the ground. Others caressed the heads of their neighbors and looked sleepy-eyed. Macky watched all this, astounded.

  Nothing happened. Macky had a hard time paying attention. His eyes were getting heavy, and he wanted sleep. He felt like he was going to pass out, but the wine was so flavorful, he reached for the flat, mishappen cup, brought it to his lips, and spilled it on his chest.

  “Oh . . . jeez!” he said, trying to wipe it off.

  A portal opened on the cave wall to his left, a dark void. A face was staring at him: eyes and a mouth, but the features were flat. It wore a regal helmet of some kind. Macky realized it was part of the creature’s crown, a sheet of silver flame. The face was intense, hard to read, ominous, and noble at the same time. It demanded reverence. Macky felt very small and insignificant in its presence.

  Ubba-Sathla continued to invoke his prayer. His head was bowed.

  The picture widened. Other figures came into view, similar in form and shape as the first. They were standing in what appeared to be a great hall.

  “You called on us again, Ubba-Sathla?” the figure in silver flame said.

  “You honor me with your response, Nodens. I am grateful. Thank you.” Ubba-Sathla bowed slightly.

  “Your gratitude is warranted,” Nodens said. “And your reverence is welcome?”

  “Thank you, Nodens. You honor me with your presence.”

  “Why have you called us?”

  “The man here with me, Nodens,” Ubba-Sathla said, motioning to Macky. “His name is Devlin Macky. He comes from the Third Dimension. He pleads for help. I would not come to you if it were not important. The Outer Gods have broken through the Third Dimension. The Lurker of the Threshold inhabits the earth. The Eradication has begun. The cycle begins. I plead to you for mercy, not for me, but for this man here. And for the Third Dimension.”

  The flames in the picture on the wall brightened and towered higher. The Elder God nodded. His eyes flashed. “What has this man told you?” Nodens asked.

  “He has told me of Yog-Sothoth . . . and Nyarlathotep. They roam the earth.”

  “They will lose their power soon enough,” Nodens said. “We have waited for this day.”

  “I have no right to ask of your motive, Nodens,” Ubba-Sathla said, and bowed again.

  “But you long to know?” Nodens said. Macky thought he saw the god smile. “We understand. Sacrifice for a worthy cause is favorable in our sight. Even rewarded. We admire it in him, despite his current . . . state of inebriation.”

  “It was the Weevles,” Ubba-Sathla said. “He was hungry, tired, and they toyed with him. They entertained him. I was unaware until it was too late.”

  The god continued to look at Ubba-Sathla. “Weelves cannot be blamed. They are doing what they were made for.”

  “Will you help him?” Ubba-Sathla said.

  “Don’t we always?” Nodens replied.

  Macky was having a hard time focusing. The picture in the wall was one that intimidated and frightened him. He had no idea what to expect or how to talk to a god. Nyarlathotep was one thing. This was something else. He felt foolish. The edges of reality continued to blur and separate.

  “We know your mind, mortal,” Nodens said, turning his gaze to Macky. “You do not need to seek forgiveness, though it would be respected, even honored with great grace. We have seen Innsport from afar. We’re aware of the gates, and we know of your troubles. They should’ve never been opened to begin with. How did this happen?”

  “It was the Mad Arab,” Macky said, trying to blink the gods into focus. “Abdul Alhazred, and The Necronomicon. He fooled me with it. And others. We opened the gates, not willingly, of course. It was . . . an accident. He played us. Hiccup! Excuse me.”

  “And the Outer God, Cthulhu, wreaks havoc upon your city. He has taken lives.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Macky asked.

  “Of course,” Nodens said.

  “Why wouldn’t you help, if you knew?”

  “It is not wise to question the gods,” Nodens said. “Though I admire your courage for it. We have our reasons. And we work pain for a greater good. We are, what you might call, the Pain Lords. Death is not defined the way you define it. You are here and gone tomorrow, but there are other pathways. Other worlds. Like most good, it demands sacrifice. All good things do. A sacrifice made from love. You have proven worthy to the cause, Mr. Macky despite your . . . mental state of mind.”

  “It’s a vice, I know,” he said. “But the Thirteenth Gate? It’s opened. And Yog-Sothoth is already through. Hiccup! Excuse me. I feel terrible about this.”

  “There is no need for you to feel shame,” Nodens said. “Your repentance is most welcome . . . and forgiven. We will intercede on your behalf.”

  “You will?”

  “Of course. We are the Pain Lords.”

  “What do you want from me?” Macky asked.

  “Want?” Nodens asked.

  “Yes. A sacrifice. Allegiance. Loyalty. My body. My . . . blood? You must want something.”

  The god looked lost, confused. It surprised him.

  “You misunderstand us, Mr. Macky. We do not seek sacrifice in the literal sense. We are merely honored by it. That alone has its own rewards. The truth is, we pity your race. There is evil among you, but there is good. We will banish these gods back to the Outer Darkness where they belong. They should have never been created to begin with. That was our mistake. The cycle must begin again, and we will go to war.”

  “You’re fighting for us for no reason?”

  “There is always a reason. If you want to know, call it love.”

  Macky raised his eyebrows.

  “Does my answer surprise you?” Nodens asked. “It’s different than how you imagine it. Our words mean different things where we are. Your definitions are worldly, Mr. Macky. Ours are eternal. Our motives, even in your pain, are for your greater good. If you desire to give us anything, give us your allegiance. We would be honored.” Nodens paused. “Or . . .?”

  “Yes?” Macky asked.

  “Believe,” Nodens said.

  “Believe? Are you serious?” Macky suddenly felt very sober.

  “Believe . . . and trust in us,” Nodens said.

  “Sounds like a fair trade,” Macky said. “Consider it done.”

  “Very well,” Nodens replied, and nodded a single time. He looked to the other gods, who nodded in return. “Let us go to war.”

  Chapter 20

  Yog-Sothoth echoed out a long, rage-filled lament. The pillars of light shining through the add-on grew brighter.

  Capshaw, Duke, Newt, Amelia, and Mr. Kalabraise—mouth wet with Wilbur’s
blood—ran back the way they came

  The clouds were a fierce, swirling, wind-gusting vortex. Lightning flashed. The Mad Arab had one hand raised to the sky, the other cradling the dreaded Necronomicon. Pages whipped back and forth in torrential gusts. Villainous triumph shone from his eyes.

  “Whatever happened to the hound?” Newt asked, searching the area.

  “Good question,” Duke said, holding onto his hat while he ran. “It doesn’t make sense. Let’s worry about it later.”

  Amelia clung closely to Newt. Her knees were shaky. She had no intention of letting go of him.

  Capshaw stopped. He looked around. “How do we get back?”

  “Duke?” Newt asked.

  The big man shrugged. “What are you asking me for?”

  “But you’re a philosopher?” Newt said.

  “I’m just a cop. There’s a difference.” He looked at the Mad Arab. “But I can do something about that grating pustule.”

  Duke pulled out his gun. He aimed it at the Mad Arab and fired. The report was loud, but the bullet sailed wide. Abdul Alhazred, despite failing his god, continued to summon dark forces from The Necronomicon. Shadows came to life beyond the trees. Yog-Sothoth was a waiting, pulsating light of horror. The wind continued to blow. Pillars of light continued to emanate from the barn, reaching the clouds.

  Duke ran toward the Mad Arab.

  “What’s he doing?” Capshaw asked.

  Duke ran, firing at the same time. Soon, the chamber was empty.

  A whirlwind of dark matter moved around the Mad Arab. He chanted, gathering more darkness, and started to laugh.

  —

  Jerry Fogherty didn’t have names for what he was seeing. The only words that came to mind were monstrous, horror, and insanity. It was in the skies and streets. The real horror was the towering leviathan that stood over the city like a shroud across the night. Cthulhu was one hundred stories high. Behind him was a trail of razed buildings, fallen telephone poles, broken concrete, smashed cars, and crumpled bridges.

  The spherical god, Yog-Sothoth, the Lurker at the Threshold, moved beneath the stars, the mass of which Jerry’s mind could barely comprehend. The glowing orbs and spheres were everywhere in the city, dancing in a complex, interwoven conglomeration like a colossal game of connect-the-dots.

 

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