The whore nodded.
“What’s taking them so long?”
The whore shrugged. “I was about to ask the same thing. They were going at it a while ago, but it’s been awfully quiet a long time now.”
So Maggie had been able to encourage the stranger to take her. Pete smiled. That was his girl, Maggie. She could make a dead man hard just by standing over his grave.
The young whore came down the hallway, still dressed up for work. She stopped in front of Maggie’s room and knocked. Pete, Ray, and Earl stood behind her. Pete thought he heard a sound in the room—another muffled cry?—but he couldn’t be sure.
“Maggie!” The young whore called. “You done, yet?”
The crying grew louder. Hysterical.
The stranger.
The whore turned to the men, her pretty features alarmed. “What’s goin’ on in there?”
Pete stepped back and brought his foot down hard on the door, splintering the wood. His second kick snapped the lock, sending the door flying back against the wall, and then they were in. He rushed in, feeling Ray and Earl bump into him as he stopped in his tracks at the sight before them.
The bed was red. The stranger sat at the foot of it, his hands and forearms a deep red, dripping with it. His right hand clutched a steak knife, the kind with the wooden handle. He was naked, sitting at the foot of the bed cross-legged, rocking back and forth. He was crying hard, his breath coming in gasps and hitches. “I told I…told you I didn’t want to…didn’t want to…didn’t want to k-k-keh-kill her…”
Lying sprawled on the bed, her legs still open, was Maggie, her eyes staring sightlessly upward, a second smile carved below the one with lips now growing pale from loss of blood. Her breasts were separated now by a red slash that grew wider at the junction of her stomach, spilling entrails down her side. Pete found it hard to tear his eyes away from the mass of flesh that used to be Maggie.
The man was rocking back and forth, eyes staring sightlessly at Maggie’s corpse. He was crying dry tears. “I can’t help myself anymore…I just can’t control it…I told you not to make me, and look what happened. I can’t help it, it just happens and…oh God!”
Pete pulled his revolver, set the stranger’s head in the sights of the barrel and pulled the trigger. The young whore behind him screamed. Pete thought at first it was because he’d shot the stranger, but a second later he felt something rough and slimy grab his gun hand. Something else, hard and sharp, crashed into his face, tearing into his throat. There was more screaming but Pete Jenkins didn’t hear any of it…
* * *
Brett Hope, Deputy Sheriff of Eagle Rock, Wyoming, woke because someone had poured cold water on his head. He tried to sit up but dizziness made him lie down on the wet pillow.
“Brett! Brett! You gotta get up! Something’s happening upstairs!” It was Carey Raines, the assistant barkeep. “There’s been shooting and screaming!”
“Christ Almighty!” roared the deputy, pulling himself up. “Where’s my gun?”
“Right here, Brett.” The teenager handed over Hope’s colt. “Bud made me hide it so Pete Jenkins wouldn’t kill you.”
“Thanks. Where were you when I needed you?”
“Hurry! Them whores is screaming something awful!”
Brett steadied himself. The pain in his head throbbed down from his ears to his toes. He almost lay down again, but grabbed the wall.
“Whiskey! God damn it! Now, Raines.”
“Yes, here, Mr. Hope.” The boy thrust a bottle of single malt at him. Hope pulled the cork out with his teeth and took three swallows. For one second the fiery liquid threatened to come back up, but Hope fought back. He put the bottle on a near-by table and readied himself for trouble.
He stumbled into the bar with his Colt drawn. The bartender stood behind the bar with a scattergun, looking at the lawman. “Hurry up, deputy.”
“Hurry your damn self, Bud! What are you doing waiting down here?”
“Whatever’s up there killed Pete Jenkins. It ain’t goin’ to get me!”
Brett pushed himself to the stairway. Holding one rail, he drew his legs up each stair like a dead weight. He cocked the Colt and held it in front of him. A body lay in the hall at the top of the stairs. The dead man was Earl Jones, Brett guessed by his clothing. His head was missing.
Hope stepped over the body, the hand holding his gun shaking. He pushed the door to Maggie’s room open with his gun barrel, waited, moved in. The sight beyond that door would haunt him to the end of his days.
The bed was a mass of red gore, covered with a mash of human flesh that had once been Maggie Brooks and Pete Jenkins. Alongside the bed was another whore whose name Brett didn’t know, and Earl Jones’ head.
Presiding over the red ruin was the stranger, his naked, scarred body covered in a sheet of blood and gore. In one hand he bore a long steak knife. In the other hand—there was no other hand but a tentacle of dark, scaly flesh. Long hooks and barbs protruding from the strange organ, as did several mouth-like orifices that sucked and fed on the mess upon the bed.
“I am the Red Opener! I am the Red Opener!” The stranger shouted with his back to the deputy.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Brett Hope gasped and opened fire.
The slugs jerked the monstrous stranger to the floor, knocking the knife from his grip. Beside the bed, he squealed like a pig with its throat cut, hissed and then stopped. For a second, Hope thought it was over, but when the bloody shape rose slowly and looked at him, he knew he was in trouble. The face was that of the stranger but his eyes no longer saw. The pupil-less orbs were blood-filled sacks. The mouth hung open and did not move.
“I am the Red Opener of the Way! I am the Red Opener! Ia! Ia! Yog-Sothoth!” the stranger said. “Ia! Ia!” said the row of obscene mouths along the killer’s arm.
Brett had begun to reload his pistol but now hurled the weapon blindly at the abomination. He turned to flee but something heavy rammed into the back of his head. He fell into blackness but soon opened his eyes to the sensation of a half dozen rats chewing his flesh. Only they weren’t rats, his awakening brain realized. Sharp-toothed mouths, with fetid breath, bit and sucked at his chest and face.
Hope struck the thing that had once been terrorized by Pete Jenkins across its face. The human head rolled side to side like a vestigial lump. Brett struck again but to no effect. Instead of a third try, he dug his fingers into the weird ropy arm that pressed him to the floor. The strength within that monstrous limb held him like a child. One of the mouths took notice of his strain and bit into his hand. His left hand came away with one less finger.
The deputy lost it then. He screamed and tore at the floor, but he was trapped. His thick-soled boots thumped out a weird drum roll on the wooden floor as the tentacle savaged him. His arms flew ineffectually around on the boards. Once his hand came away clutching something. It was Earl Jones’ head, which he dropped with another scream. Another time, his fingers felt the sheets of the whore’s bed. Something hard rested on them. The knife! The killer’s own knife!
Brett seized the weapon and stabbed with no concern for his safety. The blade swung up in an arc, burying itself to the hilt in the stranger’s chest. The effect was minimal and he almost lost the blade as the monster shifted around him. The knife came out with a sucking noise.
The deputy tried again. His desperation drove him. He could feel himself weakening as the thing drew his life’s blood from his veins. He stabbed the ropy limb that held him. The blade skidded off the tough leathery hide. He tried again but he could not penetrate its protective armor.
The third try he got lucky. The blade slid but fell into one of the mouths. The rat-like teeth pulled at the steel but Brett slammed on the handle with all his remaining strength. His attempt was rewarded with an angry shower of black blood. He retrieved the blade and stabbed another orifice. Again, the geyser of gore.
He felt the pressure on his chest lift. The monster was fleeing for the window. Brett knew i
t could survive a fall, could live to kill again. He grabbed at the tentacle with his injured hand, held it for only a second. The knife came down, finding another mouth. He rolled, putting all his weight on the dagger. He felt it passing through the tough skin and piercing wood.
The monster squealed again, fought to loosen itself, to dash to the window. Brett got to his knees, looking for his gun. The stranger tried to pull the knife from the floor with its human hand. Hope got to his feet and kicked the thing in the head. He found his gun under a side table. He took a second to reload the pistol.
Shots filled the room of Maggie Brooks one last time as Brett Hope blasted each of the obscene mouths. Once he was sure it was dead, he would burn it. Then he’d walk those ashes out into the great plains and bury them where no one would ever find them.
* * *
One week after what people were calling The Brown Jug Incident, the patrons of the saloon were still talking about the deaths of Maggie Brooks, Pete Jenkins, and the others. It was a shame, the men said, pounding down shots of Jack Daniels and drinking mugs of beer. Such a nice girl, too.
Sheriff Daniel Hann returned to the Brown Jug Saloon one week after it happened. He tethered his horse outside the saloon and sauntered in, not saying a word to anybody as he approached his quiet spot at the bar and sat. Bud, the bartender, poured him a shot without being asked, which Hann downed. Bud poured another one. The Sheriff eyed it but did not drink.
The atmosphere was still, reflective. The girls had been relieved of their duties until Maggie was given a proper Christian burial; now they were holed up in their rooms, biding time for clients passing through. In the week that had passed since news of the incident had floated through the Wyoming territory, the girls hadn’t gotten much business. The local men just didn’t have the mind to partake in them with Maggie’s violent, bloody death on everybody’s minds.
Hann spoke up suddenly from his place at the bar. “U. S. Marshal told me this afternoon that they identified the guy that killed Maggie. Name was Jack Walker. Twenty-six years old. From a small town near Boston called Arkham. Officials I spoke to there didn’t have kind things to say about him. There were rumors he practiced something like witchcraft.” He shook his head, eyes still dark from the memory of what he’d stumbled upon. For a man that had dealt death many times before and who had seen death, the scene in Maggie’s room was still on his mind. It would haunt him for the rest of his life.
“Something like witchcraft?” Bud asked, wiping the counter down.
“Yep,” the Sheriff said. “And nobody would right tell me exactly what it was. Anyway, something happened in this little town of Arkham and he up and joined the merchant marines. Was stationed in London up until seven months ago when he went AWOL suddenly. Just disappeared real quick like. Bounty hunters were after him, but they never found him. Until last week.”
The bar was silent as the men digested this bit of information.
In the week since Brett Hope had killed the thing that was Jack Walker, he’d been questioned by the U. S. Marshals and a state official. He was quickly cleared of any wrong-doing and handed in his badge. Last Hann had heard, Hope was headed for the Canadian border.
Bud shook his head, wiping the beer mugs on a towel in front of him. “But what was he—really?”
“I don’t know,” Hann said, eyeing that second shot of rye. “He just said those words over and over—called himself ‘The Red Opener’.”
Bud turned to the Sheriff quizzically. “You say this guy went AWOL from the merchant marines? And that he was stationed in London?”
Hann nodded. “Yeah.”
“When did he jump ship?”
Hann shrugged. “Year and a half ago. Marshals said he left London suddenly towards the end of last year. Just hopped on a freighter and hightailed it back to the states. Why?”
Bud was frowning as he wiped down the bar. “Nothin’. Just jumping to conclusions as usual.” The bartender cast a glance at Hann. “It’s nothin’. Just my mind getting to me.”
“Nah, really, “Hann said, now looking interested. “You got our interest, Bud, now spill the beans.”
Bud sighed. “’Bout nine, ten months ago, London’s Scotland Yard had their hands full trying to catch a killer called Jack the Ripper. He killed six whores. Cut them up really bad, from what I read in the Denver Tribune. After the last murder just this past November, the murders abruptly ceased. They haven’t caught him yet.”
“What does what happened here have to do with this Jack the Ripper character?”
Bud laughed and shook his head. “Nothing. Drinks on me!” He reached for a bottle of whiskey to refill glasses. His hand shook as he did the job.
The Summoning
(with Mike Baker)
This story appears here for the first time and is the oldest story in this volume. It was originally written in collaboration with Mike Baker shortly after we met in 1990 or 1991. Come to think of it, it may be the very first Lovecraftian story I ever wrote. I remember loving the idea for this and bashing it back and forth with Mike. I also recall being somewhat let down that my first attempt at Mythos fiction was also humorous. I’d always wanted my first published Mythos piece to be more along the likes of Bloch’s “Notebook Found in a Deserted House,” or Karl Edward Wagner’s “Sticks” or something of that merit. Instead, my first attempt was pretty seriously whacked.
Mike and I sent this story to damn near every market publishing short horror fiction at the time (early 1990’s) and nobody wanted it. They didn’t understand the humor behind it. I tried to convince Mike to publish it in his short-lived horror magazine Skull, but he didn’t want to be perceived as a self-publisher if he included this piece. Can’t say I blame him. So the story remained unpublished.
Until now, that is. Enough time has passed that I think this story still has merit. And seriously whacked fiction seems to be in vogue now. We have Jeff Strand to thank for that.
* * *
Dan Medeiros groaned when the transient walked up to his counter, but with a smile on his face and a lilt in his voice, he said the magic words anyway: “Welcome to Burger Master, sir. Can I take your order?”
The raggedly-dressed, dirt-covered old man slammed a large, leather bound book onto the gleaming pseudo-wood countertop and glared at Dan with his rheumy, bloodshot eyes. “Heeh, heeh, heeh,” he chortled. “The iguanas, they’re everywhere. I even hear some crawling around back there with you. I can hear their scaly green tails going skinkt, skinkt, skinkt on the floor. You better watch out boy; they bite!”
Dan wondered why he always got the weird ones: everyone else got nice, normal people at their counters and he ended up with the funny-farm escapees.
Dan looked down at the floor, then back at the old man, who was drooling profusely. “I can promise you sir, there are no iguanas in this restaurant,” he said, smiling a professional smile.
“You just can’t see ‘em; they’re invisible.”
“Right. I forgot. I’ll watch out for them for you, sir. Now would you care for some food?”
“Coffee!”
“Yes sir, we do have coffee, there’s no need to shout. Would you like anything to eat to go along with your coffee?”
The old man stared at Dan and inserted his index finger into his nose.
“I’ll take that as a no. Your total is sixty-seven cents. Have a nice day.” Dan walked over to pour the coffee. When he returned, the old man was counting pennies on the dusty cover of the book. “Here’s your coffee sir,” he said, placing the cup before the old man.
The old man looked up from his pennies and screamed. His foul breath struck the helpless teenager in the face. Dan fought back the urge to gag. “He’s here!” the old man shouted. The restaurant fell silent as everyone turned to watch the scene, their greasy burgers and limp fries forgotten. “Iguanicus, Dread Lord of the Iguanas!” A filthy finger pointed at Dan. “You summoned him boy, you set him upon me. You won’t get me, vile creature, not today.” The ol
d man scuttled across the room and slammed open the door with enough force to crack the glass.
Dan watched with the rest of the patrons as the old man ran into the street, screaming and waving his arms about wildly, right into the path of a tour bus. The driver of the bus didn’t see the old man until after he hit him, when the body splattered into the windshield and left a large bloody smear across it.
“Gross,” Dan said as he watched the body bounce off the windshield and fly through the air towards the restaurant.
“Look Mommy, that man is flying,” a precocious three year old said moments before the old man’s body crashed through a plate glass window. Glass, blood, guts and soggy French fries exploded outward from the area of impact.
“Cool,” Ted Gibb said. Ted weighed three hundred pounds, and was Dan’s best friend at work.
“Utterly gross,” Dan said as he put his hand on the leather bound book the old man had left behind. “And I bet I’m going to end up cleaning it up, too.”
* * *
In the stygian depths of space, far beyond the light of all known stars, Zthbuhwgwoa stirred. Zthbuhwgwoa sensed a life form, a young, suitable life form, touch the gateway. Zthbuhwgwoa cackled and oozed and coiled a tentacle with glee. It had been a long time, such a long time, since a suitable host had held the gateway. All of Zthbuhwgwoa’s friends, Cthulhu, Nyarlathotep, Yog-Sothoth and all the others, got summoned all the time while Zthbuhwgwoa sat at home, alone, unworshipped and very bored.
Sometimes Yog-Sothoth would stop by and brag about all the damage he’d done the last time he’d been summoned. Zthbuhwgwoa would listen and feel jealous, which, of course, was exactly what Yog wanted. Then Yog would show Zthbuhwgwoa pictures of his spawn until all of Zthbuhwgwoa’s mouths started to yawn.
Now Zthbuhwgwoa was being summoned and he planned on showing Yog a thing or too about destroying things and having a good time. Zthbuhwgwoa sent a message through the depths of space to the gateway and splorped with glee.
The Summoning Page 12