The Gods of HP Lovecraft

by Martha Wells

  “We can find it,” she said in a whisper one night as they sat in the dark corner of a bar near campus. She’d allowed her fingertips to touch his hand. This was high intimacy for her. “We can go there. We can see her people.”

  “Whose people?” Artúr had asked. Amanda sometimes got into these moods—intense, focused. They were almost trancelike, and he found them unbelievably sexy. He wondered then, as he often did when she was like this, if he could undress her without her noticing.

  “To say her name is to know her,” Amanda told him, and she looked away.

  In her office, she would lay out tattered maps showing the Wichita Mountains or the Upper Kiamichi River Wilderness and jab increasingly ink-stained fingers on various spots. “Here!” she shouted. “We can know her here!”

  Her agitation suddenly became less erotic and more disturbing. He had never seen her eyes look that wild, as though there was nothing behind them. As though she was gone, and some thing, some force, was animating her flesh.

  “Amanda, who do you mean?” Artúr had asked nervously. It was late, well after dark in early February, and the banks of snow piled outside of her office window. The room was illuminated by only a desk lamp, casting elongated shadows. Amanda’s face was composed entirely of shadow.

  “The doors that never close,” she had said. “The doors that are always open. And she was there, you know. I felt her. The black goat of a thousand young, and I heard them speak her name.”

  Amanda had then uttered some nonsense syllables. It sounded gibberish, but Artúr felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He felt like something was there with the two of them. If he turned around and peered into the dark corners of the room, he might see it. He did not turn around. Instead he stared at her while she stared at the map, and he tried to forget the sounds she’d made. He told himself he already had, and that what was stuck in his mind was just something he’d invented or misheard, but it would not go away.

  Shug-Niggurath.

  It was the last time he ever saw Amanda.

  ***

  They were walking down a spare stairwell, unadorned and industrial. Some of the concrete stairs were missing and had been replaced by wooden blocks, wedged into jagged spaces. Most of these were old and rotting covered with green mildew or a strange sort of slime that Artúr tried to avoid stepping on.

  “Are you a religious person, Artúr?” Jacks asked. The goaty man’s scent came off of him in waves, and Artúr worked hard not to grimace.

  “No, not really,” he said, which was a more polite version of no, not at all.

  “Do you think Jesus is important?”

  “Historically, sure.”

  They had gone down three flights, and now Jacks pushed open a doorway. “I mean right now. At his moment. In this building?”

  Artúr shook his head. “Not to me.”

  Jacks grinned. “Me either. Isn’t that funny? We can be funny together, don’t you think?”

  The door opened into the archive, and Artúr forgot just how crazy Jacks had sounded. He heard himself gasp.

  The three stories they had gone down seemed to comprise the whole of the archive, which reached up forty or fifty feet. Every inch of wall was lined with bookcases, lined with old volumes from massive folios to tiny sixteenmos. Ornate sliding ladders lined the walls, one to each segment. The room, Artúr realized, was in the shape of a pentagon.

  Though the interior was largely empty, there were a half-dozen long wooden tables spread throughout, and in the center, an old-style card catalog. Artúr scanned the space and saw not a single computer. The only sound was that of a ticking tall case clock. The room could have been from the 19th century.

  “This doesn’t look like financial research,” Artúr said.

  “Everything exists within the economy,” Jacks said. “CapitalBank is always looking for new markets to explore. New doors to open, or perhaps to walk through if they are already open.”

  Something came over Artúr. He could not have said what it was or why he chose to probe, but he spoke without thinking. “And if they never close?”

  Jacks grinned. “Oh, I think you are going to do very well here, Artúr. I think you are going to do marvelously well. I think they are going to toast your arrival and drink deeply. And they will spill the excess upon the soil.”

  “I’m still considering my options.”

  “Of course you are,” Jacks said. “Let me show you your suite.”

  ***

  He’d tried to find Amanda, of course. The department would only say that she had tendered a letter of resignation and gone abruptly, leaving her classes uncovered. Artúr wanted to tell her he was sorry, though he didn’t know what for. He wanted to offer to help her, though he didn’t know what with. He wanted to think he was going to tell her he loved her, but he knew he lacked the courage.

  Using Google he managed to turn up the names of her parents, who lived upstate, and he called them. When he answered the phone, Amanda’s father appeared to be sawing wood, and he didn’t stop during the conversation. In the background, Artúr heard an old woman giggling.

  “She’s not here,” Amanda’s father said. “But I’m making a door to find her. Now fuck off.”

  He had so little money to spare, but Artúr had rented a car and driven four hours to find their rickety two-story house, blue paint fading from the wood. Amanda’s father had emerged on the front porch holding a handgun he seemed to have no idea how to use. He was a short man with a fringe of silver hair. He looked like he’d spent his life working for the post office or in a dry goods store. He said that Artúr had two minutes to get the hell off his land or he’d be dead and then fired a warning shot in the air.

  That had ended the search for Amanda, but Artúr could not stop thinking about her—or the things she’d said.

  ***

  Through the archive was a large wooden door, maybe twelve feet high, which Jacks opened with one of his ancient-looking keys. Inside Artúr found a foyer such as he might expect in a Gilded Age New York mansion, complete with coatrack and umbrella stand. He smelled something delicious—maybe bread in the oven—from down the hall. They moved into an expansive living room with turn-of-the-century furnishings, and from the other side of the hall—no doubt the kitchen was off in that direction—came a woman in a maid’s uniform. She was a little younger than Artúr, maybe in her early twenties, blonde, tall, and with a slender build. Her face was striking, if not precisely beautiful, but she had large eyes that were richly, intensely blue. They were like the eyes of a cartoon princess.

  “Artúr, this is Mirja Tiborsdóttir. She is the suite’s housekeeper.”

  She held out a slim hand. “It is for me good to meet you,” she said shyly. Her accent was heavy, but she carefully pronounced each word. “I am making now some skúffukaka if you like.”

  Artúr had no idea what that was, but he smiled and nodded. Jacks suggested they finish the tour, and he led Artúr through the dining room, the sitting room, the three bedrooms, the two bathrooms, the study, the kitchen—where Mirja was removing from the oven a skillet filled with some kind of cake—and, off of that, the maid’s quarters. All were lavishly decorated, like preserved rooms in a museum. There were no windows.

  “And I would live here by myself?” Artúr asked.

  “And Mirja, of course,” said Jacks. “She takes good care of the place, I think you’ll agree.”

  “Why are there no windows?” Artúr asked.

  “We prefer you look inward rather than outward.” He pulled a chain watch out of his pants pockets. “Oh, we’d better hurry. It’s time to meet Mr. Ostentower.”

  Artúr had no response but to blink heavily. He had never closely followed the financial world, but he kept up with current events, so he knew that Howard Ostentower was CapitalBank’s famous and much celebrated CEO.

  ***

  Back before the financial crisis, CapitalBank was one of the first firms to make a killing—a massive killing—on packagi
ng mortgage-backed securities. Profits had soared through the roof, but once the rest of the financial sector joined the party, Howard Ostentower had suddenly divested his firm, going public about his concerns. Dismissing his own role in the craze as “distant history,” he’d warned of large-scale destruction and loss and pain. “An unmaking,” was the term he’d used, and it had generated headlines.

  A number of analysts had condemned Ostentower’s management of CapitalBank, whose profits were high, but not as high as they could have been. Then, when the bubble burst and financial giants were tottering and falling, Ostentower became a media darling, the wise prophet who saw through worldly illusion, the steady helmsman who led his ship through treacherous waters to safety. His own role in the destruction was entirely forgotten. Now you could see him all the time on cable news and financial channels, spouting his opinions and forecasting the market. Artúr had always had the impression that he mainly liked to hear himself talk and that he had no more real insight than anyone else. On the other hand, he was a high-profile corporate CEO and a media darling. His time was literally worth money. Artúr couldn’t imagine he would want to take time to meet a researcher.

  Jacks led Artúr back through the archives, up the flights of stairs and to the elevator, which he had to unlock with his key. They went back to the lobby, where they walked to a distant set of elevator banks. Here Jacks waved a keycard to activate a private elevator and gestured for Artúr to step inside.

  “When you speak to Mr. Ostentower,” Jacks warned. “Do not mention Jesus or any established prophet. Do not read or quote from any of the world’s major holy books.”

  “You’re the one who brought all this up,” Artúr said.

  “Just don’t. You have been warned.”

  They went up to the 87th floor, which opened on precisely the sort of scene Artúr had imagined earlier. It was an expanse of cubicles in which men and women in expensive suits ran from place to place, shouted into phones, called out in triumph or defeat like drunks at a Super Bowl party. There were groans of frustration and high fives and chest thumps and rubber-band-bound documents being tossed great distances like Frisbees. Across the room, a guy leaned back in his chair so far he fell to the ground, spraying a geyser of coffee into the air. The walls were plastered with television screens showing the news and the cable channels. People pointed and jeered and cried “Oh, shit!” at every piece of information.

  They were all so young, he thought—younger than he was. They looked fresh out of college, and they acted like they were even younger than that. They held the fate of nations in their hands, expanding and deflating economies like they held magic bellows, but they behaved like children.

  “You know what is happening here?” Jacks asked.

  “Some kind of trading floor,” Artúr guessed.

  “It is devastation,” Jacks told him. “The devouring of worlds. Things that have abstract value or don’t yet exist or are entirely unnecessary being bought and sold and bet on or against. It is ritual. You’re against all that, aren’t you?”

  “Look, Mr. Jacks,” Artúr began.

  “Your political positions are well documented,” Jacks explained. “We have tracked your social media posts.” He hadn’t moved any closer but his scent became more stifling, more intense, as though this conversation were exciting hidden bodily functions, glands and secretions and ducts all opening and expelling.

  “I can’t change the system,” Artúr said, “and right now I need work.”

  “But you think this is bad?” Jacks pressed. “Evil?”

  “I think it’s ultimately destructive,” Artúr conceded.

  Jacks grinned at him. “That’s what we like to think. Let’s go meet Mr. Ostentower.”

  They wound through the chaotic floor until they came to a circular staircase leading up. They climbed and emerged in a quiet and tasteful lobby where a receptionist waved them into an office quite literally bigger than Artúr’s apartment. Along the far wall, against the expanse of windows, was a desk. Closer to the door was a sort of lounge with a coffee machine, muffins, and finger sandwiches. Jacks had begun stuffing the sandwiches in his mouth, two or three at a time, when the door opened and Howard Ostentower stepped in. He wore suit pants and a shirt, but no jacket. He looked thinner and shorter than he had on television. Older too. He wasn’t the magnetic financial giant he seemed to be on the cable news channels. He was just a middle-aged man, mostly bald, who had a nice office.

  “You must be Artúr Magnusson,” he said with great warmth, as though he had long awaited this moment. “I’m Howard Ostentower. Great to meet you. C’mon. Have a seat!” He waved Artúr over to his desk. Jacks continued to stand by the sandwiches, eating them in huge bites.

  Artúr sat across from Ostentower, who lowered himself into his desk-chair-apparatus, a complication of back support and cushions and armrest gadgets.

  “So,” said Ostentower. “You’re Icelandic?”

  “My grandparents were,” Artúr said hesitantly. Everything was starting to seem like a trap now.

  “But your blood is Icelandic. That’s good.” He smiled.

  “I’m not sure why,” said Artúr. “And honestly, I’m not sure I understand this job.”

  “Do you understand the salary and the accommodations it comes with?” asked Ostentower.

  “It is all very generous, but—”

  “Why not give it a try?” Ostentower boomed. “You don’t like money? Is that it? Because if that’s not it, I don’t see why you’re fucking around with my time.”

  It was a good point, if belligerently delivered. If, after two or three months, Artúr found he didn’t like what they wanted from him, he would still have pocketed enough money to refuel his work-search efforts. He wouldn’t even need to get rid of his apartment.

  “I just don’t understand what it is you want me to do in this job?” Artúr said.

  “We want you to be yourself,” Ostentower said. “That shouldn’t be so hard, should it?” He grinned like the cameras were rolling.

  Artúr glanced at Ostentower’s desk, which was very neat. There was an open notebook computer, a mug half-full of coffee and a nibbled muffin. Three separate stacks of paper were arranged into neat piles. There was also a photograph of a goat, showing only its head, and in the background was a field of stars. The goat seemed to be looking at Artúr. He had the impression it was grinning in some obscure, unknowable goatish way.

  “Mr. Jacks said you want me to continue my research into the search for K’n-Yan. I don’t understand why that’s of interest to CapitalBank.”

  “We’re interested in doors that never close and doors that are always open,” Ostentower said. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded hands and stared at Artúr. “Can you understand that?”

  That was when Artúr knew he would take the job.

  ***

  That meeting was on a Wednesday. Artúr began his first day of work the following Monday. He had been told to pack up such personal effects as he thought he would need, and they would be delivered to his suite. When he arrived at CapitalBank, Jacks was there to meet him again, bringing him down to the archive.

  “Time to get started,” Jacks said.

  “I hardly know where to begin.”

  “Probably best to spend some time familiarizing yourself with our holdings. Then, of course, you can pursue your research as you see fit. However, Mr. Ostentower would like to see weekly updates. Between the two of us, I think it would be ideal if you had something solid to show him before the month is out. Mr. Ostentower can become impatient, agitated, sometimes even violent. He doesn’t show that side of himself on television, but the potential is always there, like some dark thing just beneath the surface. Waiting.”

  A long pause hovered in the air until Artúr said, “Okay.”

  “Just do your best,” Jacks said with a patronizing smile. “We hope you have motivation to do your best, Artúr. It is what we would like to see. Oh, and Mr. Ostentower ha
s requested that you join him for worship tomorrow morning.”

  “I thought I wasn’t supposed to mention—”

  “Don’t be obtuse,” Jacks said, his voice suddenly cold and scolding. “It’s unbecoming.”

  ***

  Much of the archive consisted of diaries and personal notes, and the bulk of these were of people Artúr had never heard of—obscure New England clerics from the 19th century, an early 20th century Nevada missionary, one of the mid-Apollo-era astronauts. There were also papers by secondary and tertiary figures from Artúr’s research, many of whom he hadn’t known had kept papers. These, he found, were bindings of handwritten pages, sometimes stained with dirt or water or even what looked like blood. Some were composed in wild scribbles. He found a box which contained what looked like a memoir scrawled on a roll of toilet paper. But all of them appeared to end abruptly, often in midsentence. And many were adorned with childish images of goat heads or doors.

  There were collections of mystical books too—several editions of the Necronomicon, all remarkably different from one another, and several complete sets of The Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan. On a hunch, he checked the card catalog and found a listing for the complete papers of Amanda Thanton. He felt the air leave his lungs as though someone had punched him in the gut. It took a moment for him to find the rhythm of his breathing again. Amanda’s papers! If he knew more about what she had believed, where she had gone, this would all be worth it.

  He spent ten minutes trying to navigate the organizational system of the archive, but when he found the spot on the shelf where Amanda’s papers were supposed to be, it was empty.

  He sat down at one of the tables, gripping the sides like he was holding on. How could CapitalBank have Amanda’s papers? Why would they want them? Why had Ostentower said that thing about doors, the same thing Amanda had once said? The poor lighting in the room, its windowlessness, was starting to get to him, and Artúr felt like he needed to get outside, get some air. Maybe, he knew, he should never come back.