I was gobsmacked. “How do you know—?” I began.
“Don’t ask questions! Just answer mine!”
“What’s happening? Well, the obvious answer is: some unknown creature, washed onto the beach, is creating a toxic plague as it decays.”
“Really? Is that the best you can do?”
“Well, I mean…” I stopped trying to gainsay her and made an effort to work through the confusion in my head, which was replicating the chaos outside the house. I remembered what Sergeant Sandros had said. You’ll just have to wait like the rest of us to find…
“…what it becomes.” I completed the thought out loud, filled with a sudden insight. “That thing on the beach is growing into something. It’s becoming something, something bigger. It’s not decaying. This is the opposite of decaying. It began decayed and is getting less so. I guess that means—”
“It’s about to reach its true form, a living form.”
“Yes, possibly, but what’s that got to do with you?”
She hesitated and I saw that the unreflective energy that usually drove her had become suffocated by a deep uncertainty. When she answered, there was reserve, a sense of self-doubt, something I’d never seen in her before. “Like you,” she continued, not looking me in the eyes, “I have a deep interest in strange phenomena.”
“How do you know about my interests?”
“From your website and that one by the other bloke…the author. Stop interrupting me! I suspect we’re running out of time.”
I gestured compliance and she began her heart-felt story of anguish and frustration, of deep and deepening research, of a burgeoning belief in the sanctity of life, all life, and disgust at the way humanity insisted on wantonly working against the planet and its long-term wellbeing. Scientists and their well-founded warnings were stupidly being ignored by self-interested corporations and corrupt governments. Species were dying rapidly. Everything was being bent out of alignment. In every way, the future seemed bleak, not just for the guilty party—humanity itself—but for all life on Earth. Her anger grew so fierce she began to delve into less orthodox systems of thought. And that’s when she found “The Book”.
“What book?” I asked, feeling some urgency. She’d already fetched it in anticipation of this tête-à-tête, and now held it out for me. I took it. It was called The Benevolent Deities: A New Hope by someone with a name I couldn’t begin to pronounce without having my mouth and vocal chords replaced by something less human. Clearly a pseudonym, yet the name seemed familiar in its construction, especially as I’d been reading Lovecraft’s stories over the past weeks and the names of his fictional “Old Ones” were constructed of very similar groupings of consonants. The text itself was hand-written, though bound as a printed book. Quite possibly—hopefully as it happens—it was a one-off. While I flicked through the pages, Tange gave me her take on its contents. It quickly became clear to me that the author of the would-be grimoire had been familiar with Lovecraft’s fiction, and had worked to re-tool that author’s Cthulhuan monstrosities into something much more benevolent, something he called the E’ashalsinir—infused with a strain of universal good-will never evident in the pages of the Necronomicon itself.
“Have you read H.P. Lovecraft’s stories, Tange?” I asked, interrupting her monologue.
“No,” she growled. “Who’s that?”
“He’s a writer. He wrote about…oh, never mind. Keep going!”
According to her story, she became so desperate she began to practice reciting one particular summoning spell, a spell designed to draw into our reality an ocean deity from its own universe or sub-space hide-away or whatever it is they live in, believing it would help right the wrongs being perpetrated by humanity.
“I wasn’t really serious,” she said. “It was just a letting-off of steam, as it were. At heart, I didn’t believe in it. It’s ridiculous. But look at what’s happened! Look at that thing on the beach! It can’t be a coincidence. And there’s nothing good to be had from its involvement in our problems. What am I going to do, Mr Ormsham?”
“I doubt you could have caused this.” I held up the book. “This book is just plagiarised clap-trap, driven by the ignorant notion that Lovecraft—who originally invented all this stuff—was more than just an imaginative popular writer.”
Disgust squirmed over her features. “From what your great-grandfather told me, I thought you were more open-minded.”
That startled me. How did she know of Hugo Drakenswode? Chance? Then I remembered; she’d looked up the website.
Tange seemed to read my thoughts. “The website. But not only that. Remember the letter you brought to me, when we met? Well, it was from Professor Hugo Drakenswode, who apparently died several decades ago, as I discovered when I Googled him. I thought it was a scam. I only read on because he remarked that the person who brought the letter to me was in fact his nephew, Douglas Ormsham. He claimed to have detected a potentially dangerous temporal anomaly focused somehow around me. Though the Professor had no idea what form it would take, he’d sent you to investigate. He wanted to stress to me that I should trust you. That’s when I looked you up online.”
“You didn’t think to tell me this?”
“He suggested I should keep it to myself until it became obvious something was wrong. All things considered, I decided to wait and see. That’s why I know I caused this—and I know that thing out there is one of the E’ashalsinir.” She scowled at me. “How can this Drakenswode write to me so long after his death?”
I said I had no idea, but he’d done the same with me. “He was…is, a remarkable man.”
“So can you help?”
“I don’t know.” For a few minutes, I listened to the winds outside, aware at that moment they were calming down and that the Demon Stench, the smell of decay, was little more than a background ambience. Once again, I had to ask myself: how could the creature go from non-existence and gradually work its way up to life, going through a process of backward decay? Such an idea is rendered impossible by the Second Law of Thermodynamics, which dictates that everything moves from an ordered state to a disordered state, thus restricting Time’s Arrow (as they call it) to a relentless entropic movement forward.
But—
What if, I theorised, when Tange spoke the enchantment that summoned it, little expecting it would work, the entity that entered our universe was not attuned to its physics, dying on entry, but bringing with it its own time stream, one moving in the opposite direction to our own. Is it possible the summoning of the creature created an intermingling of the two worlds’ temporal states, though the incoming state maintained its integrity like a drop of oil in water? The creature then rotted away, doing so (from our point-of-view) backward in time as it drifted toward nothingness? Perhaps this phenomenon changed the stability of our Time’s Arrow, from that moment of entry back to when the creature disappeared completely—a sort of unresolved temporal bubble. At this point, from our perspective, Time within the anomaly began moving forward again.
What if, unaware of these temporal shifts, and instead interpreting the “decaying” process as the gradual arrival of the E’ashalsinir that she summoned, Tange tried to send it back to where it came from, using an incantation from the book?
“Is there such a spell?” I asked her.
“Yes, yes, there is.” I could see the mingled terror and confusion in her eyes. “So, should I try it?”
“I think you’ve already tried it,” I replied, “but all it did was create another loop. I suspect you’ve been doing this over and over again for quite a while, never being aware you’d already cast the return spell—thus creating the escalating temporal anomaly that Drakenswode detected.”
She frowned. “Sounds ridiculous—and the idea’s full of scientific absurdities.”
“Says the person who tried summoning a Dark God using a book written by some madman with an absurd name. Good motive, poor judgement.”
Outside, through the raging winds,
the gloom was rent asunder by a violent flash of lightning, instantly accompanied by a thunderclap that made Tange’s house shake.
“So what do we do about it?”
I didn’t reply, but moved toward the window and pulled the blinds open. The sight of what was out there chilled me to the bone. It was several streets away, yet visible even over the intervening trees and houses: a raging mass of tentacles taller than the tallest trees, eyes like exploding nebulae, winds and incessant lightning bursts sweeping around it. The carcass was no carcass now. It was alive.
“Now’s the time,” I said.
“What time?”
“The moment when you actually made the very first incantation, the one that brought the creature into our universe. See?”
I gestured toward the window, but she wouldn’t approach.
“I should read the words before it’s too late and force it back.”
“You should do nothing.”
“But if I don’t send it away —“
“If you do, it will all just repeat.”
“Are you sure?”
Before I could answer, the night filled with a roar, whether of anger or pain it was hard to say. It shook the house. A number of large trees along the street tore apart and fell.
“Do nothing,” I said, hoping it was the right thing to do. “Come! Watch! You’ll see what I mean.”
We stood side-by-side. I could feel her tremble, reacting to the awesome, and profoundly terrifying, sight of the monstrous creature highlighted against a tumultuous sky. A swirling burst of light followed, causing pain right through my head, from my eyes to the back of my skull. Tange squealed. She grabbed me and I grabbed her, huddling together like scared rabbits under the hunter’s spotlights.
Suddenly everything went quiet. Looking out the window, we watched as a whirlpool of dark clouds retreated into a pristine light-blue sky.
“Has it gone back to its own world?” Tange said.
“What we were looking at was its initial arrival, Tange, seen in reverse. After that it died—in some agony, I believe—and over the previous few weeks rotted away.”
“So are you saying it’s all over?”
“From our normal point-of-view, yes.”
She had a look of desperate sorrow on her face. “But all the people who died…can’t I bring them back? How can I live with the guilt of what I’ve done?”
“Give it time,” I said.
I left soon after, aware much of her memory of the event was fading, as is usually the case in the aftermath of such otherworldly occurrences—or so Hugo Drakenswode reports in his journals. As I left her house, Tangerine Harken handed me The Book. I’d been hoping she would. “Don’t forget this,” she said.
“Thank you. Hopefully, this is the only one in existence. I’ll keep it safe.”
She looked at me with a quizzical frown. “Keep what safe?”
That took me by surprise.
“The Book,” I replied, holding it up. “You just gave it to me.”
Again, she regarded me with earnest puzzlement. “The Book? I haven’t seen it before. Didn’t you bring it with you?”
I smiled. “Never mind. Of course, I did. I meant, thank you for your hospitality.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Mr Whateley,” she replied. “I’m glad the weather has improved.”
Sometimes the universe can be kind.
Dead End Town
Lee Murray
Uncle Bradley grunts. His eyes open wide, his mouth going slack, his fat tongue lolling between purple lips. He lets out a gasp.
I breathe through my mouth to block out the smell, not daring to gag. Moments pass, his weight pinning me to the sofa, then he pushes away from me, his lips twisted in contempt. I glance down, past the Salvation Army skirt bunched around my waist, as he staggers backwards, a silvery cobweb still tethering me to him. It dribbles from between my legs, a hideous white tendril snaking across the dark orange sofa cushion where it seeps into the stitching. I close my eyes, so I don’t have to see while he pulls up his trousers. His zip buzzes. Still I don’t move. Instead, I trace my fingertip over the scar on my lip, a pink welt extending from the corner of my mouth to my cheek. Uncle Bradley’s backhand. Each time it reopens, it takes longer to heal.
“You really need to be more careful on that bike of yours, Kayla,” my form tutor Mrs Arnott had said.
Like she even gives a shit. I haven’t used my bike since the summer.
In the kitchen, the fridge door opens and there’s the sigh of a beer tab.
Now. Pulling my knickers up and my skirt down, I tiptoe to the front door, push my feet into my gumboots, grab my sweatshirt, and slip out.
I take the back way, cutting through Henderson’s paddocks to the forest. Henderson’s dog barks when I pass, but I tell him to shut the fuck up and he stops. From there, I climb over the fence and head west towards the creek. Apart from the dog, no one sees me. I’m the only one who comes here. There’s no track so it’s tricky to get to, the beech trees leaning on themselves the deeper I go, their trunks squeaking where they meet above my head, the scratchy mānuka making a grab for my clothes. I breathe deep. The air is tangy, a mix of lemon and moss. I push on through the scrub, the bushes criss-crossing the backs of my arms with tiny cuts and grazes, little white lines that disappear if you lick them, only I don’t, because when I get to the creek, I take off everything but my t-shirt and submerge myself in the water. The creek is shallow, barely coming to my knees, but sitting down with my back to the bank, the water swirls around my legs, rinsing Uncle Bradley’s white rot off me. In seconds, my limbs are numb and dimpled, the flesh tinged blue-green, like a decomposing orange.
I sit there for as long as I can bear.
As always, I slip down, letting the water submerge me, allowing it to close over my face, inquisitive tendrils seeking out my nose and mouth. It would be a relief to let it stifle me. I will myself to do it, but something always stops me. I got as far as my eyes once, but, in the end, I was too chicken.
My teeth are rattling, so I crawl out and get dressed. Then I hunker on the bank, my back to a pūriri tree and my arms wrapped around my knees. It’s getting dark, but I don’t want to leave yet. I stuff my hands into my pockets, pull out my hand-powered torch and squeeze it rhythmically. The torch is small, but it keeps the shadows from crowding in on me, its friendly whirring playing bass to the trickling high notes of the water. In the treetops, the forest murmurs. Mum’s people say it’s the patu-paiarehe talking, the mischievous fairy creatures who live in the mists. The stories say they like to snatch little girls. They’re like the Pied Piper, playing their flutes to lure people away. If it is the patu-paiarehe, their words are soft and mournful, like poetry.
I used to write poetry. Before. I’ve stopped now.
“Why is your writing always so dark, Kayla?” Mrs Arnott had said. For a woman of letters, she’s pretty dense.
“Didn’t you say that poetry’s about self-expression?” I replied.
“That doesn’t mean you have to be so morbid,” she said.
What was I supposed to say to that? But she was right in a way, because Uncle Bradley kept recurring in my poems and it was as if I was giving him that power. Although, maybe stopping was playing into his hands too: because I made myself even smaller. Some days, I think I’m crumbling into dust, like a statue left to weather and getting rounder and blunter at the edges. Soon enough, I’ll be smoothed away to nothing.
I’m a minor, so I have to go home. I scramble to my feet and start back. The forest doesn’t want me to leave either, grey-green mānuka fronds grabbing at my sweatshirt as I scramble through the brush.
I open the front door to yellow electric light and the stench of cigarette smoke. Back from her shift, Mum is lounging on the couch watching Game of Thrones with Uncle Bradley.
“Where’ve you been?” Mum asks, leaning to her left to stub out her cigarette in the ashtray.
“Out,” I reply.
&nb
sp; Over Mum’s head, Uncle Bradley smirks.
“Out where?” she asks.
“Just walking.”
“She’s been fucking that neighbour boy again, I reckon,” Uncle Bradley says. I glare at him. If stares were kitchen knives, his face would be pulp.
Mum turns to him. “You mean Aaron from up the road? Kirsty and Wallace’s boy?” She gives him a playful shove. “He’s harmless. Wouldn’t even know where to put it.” She giggles like the girls from school.
Inside the pockets of my sweatshirt, I clench my fists. “I’m off to bed,” I say.
“I brought you some chips back from the shop.”
“I’m not hungry,” I snap, moving towards the hall.
“Hey!” Bradley says. “You get back here and say thank you to your mother.” He stands up. “Kayla!”
I stop.
“Well?”
I stare at a thin bit in the carpet, where the trample of too many feet have worn it to muddy threads. “Thanks,” I mumble.
He points the remote at the TV, pausing it. “And you can say it like you fucking mean it,” he snarls.
Mum leans forward and puts a hand on Bradley’s leg. “It’s fine, babe. She said she wasn’t hungry. The chips’ll be cold now, anyway.”
“That girl is spoiled rotten, Leanne. After everything you do for her, the least the disrespectful little madam can do is say thank you.”
“C’mon, Bradley. She’s a just a teenager.”
“She’s a disgrace.”
“Well, let’s not let her attitude ruin our evening, shall we?” Mum says, taking the remote from him and flicking her eyes towards the hall. My cue to bug off.
I don’t have to be asked twice.
In my bedroom, I pull the lock across. I bought it from Hammer Hardware and put it in myself with a borrowed a hand-drill and a screwdriver from the Wood Tech room at school. When he saw it, Uncle Bradley just laughed.
Mum’s whole life is a fantasy, like thinking Uncle Bradley is the real deal. As if their relationship is something special. I squeeze my eyes closed and pull the duvet over my head, trying to get warm.
The thing is, Mum really believes it. Maybe she thinks she’s in love with him. Uncle Bradley’s not like my other ‘uncles’. For starters, he’s got a job at the sawmill. Shift work. Pretty decent money, too. Every now and again he gives Mum some of his pay packet, which makes her go all gushy with gratitude.
Cthulhu Deep Down Under Volume 2 Page 6