* * *
Ted Gibb watched with his fellow Burger Master co-workers, and restaurant patrons, as the paramedics loaded what was left of the old man into an ambulance and drove off.
“Gnarly to the max,” Ted said. He reached out a flabby hand and picked up an abandoned burger, which he started to eat after he wiped off a few stray pieces of glass. “Hey, Mr. Meyer,” he turned to his boss, a thin, intense man who never smiled. “Do we get the rest of the day off or what?”
“No Theodore, you don’t. Burger Master never closes unless the main office orders us to, of course. We will temporarily close the dining area until this, uh, mess is cleaned up, but our drive-through will remain open. And I’d like you to take Annette’s place in the window, Theodore.”
“But Mr. Meyer!” Ted said through a mouthful of burger.
“No buts, young man, and don’t let me catch you eating on the job again.”
Muttering under his breath and chewing at the same time, Ted made his way towards the drive-through window.
“Have fun,” Dan said as Ted walked past.
“Daniel.” Mr. Meyer turned his beady little ferret eyes upon Dan, and Ted grinned as he listened to the exchange. “Don’t just stand there, start cleaning up this mess.”
As Ted walked past the counter, he picked up the leather bound book and carried it with him to the drive-through window. I wonder what this is? he thought.
Standing before Ted, leaning up against the cash register, was Annette, the girl of Ted’s, and hundreds of other horny teenage boys’, dreams. She had blond hair, blue eyes, large breasts, and no brains at all. Ted thought she was perfect. “Mr. Meyer wants us to switch,” Ted told her.
“About time,” she snorted. She stuck out her chest, lifted up her nose and marched regally out of the booth.
Ted watched her walk away. It’s cruise time for a few minutes, Ted thought. Until those police cars move, nobody can get into the drive-through and I don’t have to do anything.
He set the book on the counter and ran his hand across the cover. Dust came off on his fingers.
“Necronomicon,” he said as he read what was written beneath the dust. “Cool to the max.” Ted had heard of the book before; it was supposed to have all kinds of cool drawings by that guy who designed the monster in “Alien” H. P. Gagger, or something like that.
Ted rested his hand on the cover of the book. A tingle ran through his fingers. Suddenly, he had an overwhelming urge to flip through the book. Where are the pictures? he thought as he scanned the yellow pages that passed before his eyes.
Ted’s fingers stopped flipping at a page halfway through the book. Suddenly, he felt compelled to read what was written on the page. “Zthbuhwgwoa Alyah Gyyagin,” he said, his tongue tripping over the alien words.
* * *
The police cars drove off and a station wagon entered the drive-through. Behind the wheel of the car sat a frumpy woman in curlers. In the back seat, two children, ages five and seven, screamed and hit each other repeatedly. “Be quiet,” the woman droned. “Mommy’s trying to order us lunch.”
“Stop hitting,” the little boy said as he punched his sister in the face.
“Mommy, Billy hit me!” the little girl whined. When the boy glanced over at their mother, the girl swung her Teddy Ruxpin doll and struck her brother a savage blow to the side of his face.
The woman pulled her car to a stop next to the ordering grill. The ordering grill was built to resemble a cross between a clown and a mime. “Hello,” she said. “Is anybody there?”
“Methagin,” a tinny voice said over the speaker.
“Uh, yeah. I’d like a Master Burger Deluxe, two hamburgers, three small fries, a large coke and—Billy, Jennie, what do you want to drink?”
“Coke,” Billy said as he kicked his sister in the stomach.
“Ufdah,” Jennie replied.
“And two small Cokes. Did you get that?”
“Feth Thatapin,” Ted’s voice intoned over the speaker. “Yog-Sothoth fhtagn! Ia! Ia! Theig Gyaggin Zthbuhwgwoa! Aiiee!”
“What?” the woman asked. She hit the speaker with her fist. “I can’t understand what you’re saying. What’s a Yog Sandwich? Is that something new?”
* * *
The woman’s tinny voice cut through Ted’s system and he shook his head. It was like he had just come out of a trance. He took a deep breath. Must have passed out for a second, he thought. I’m working too hard.
“Did you get my order?” the woman’s voice whined over the intercom.
“No ma’am,” Ted told her. “Could you repeat it please?”
* * *
In the stygian depths of space, in a place where few live and no one vacations, Zthbuhwgwoa waited. “At last!” Zthbuhwgwoa yelled as its slimy, tentacled form began to fade. “It’s fun time!”
* * *
“Your order comes out to eleven thirty-four,” Ted told the woman, whose car was idling beside the drive-through window. She handed him the money.
As he counted out her change, a sudden chill ran through his body. Boils popped up on his face and sweat poured out of all his pores. His body began to convulse and the boils started to pop, spraying pus on the station wagon and its driver.
The little boy and girl stopped fighting and stared at Ted. “Neat,” the boy said.
“Double keen-o’rific,” the girl added.
“Aaaaaah!” the mother screamed.
Ted’s body began to convulse faster and faster. His eyes turned a very putrid shade of green and his cheeks bulged out as a mysterious, and probably noxious, liquid filled his mouth.
Alerted by the noise, Dan and all the other employees ran to see what was happening. Mr. Meyer threw open the door to his office and stormed over to Ted. “What do you think you’re doing Theodore?” he asked. “What have you managed to do this time?”
Ted opened his mouth to answer and gouts of stinking, highly acidic green liquid exploded forth and rained down upon the helpless woman. “Blaargh!” she screamed. Her scream was abruptly cut short as the green liquid melted her face, her chest, her torso, and most of the driver’s seat.
“Wow!” both of the kids exclaimed simultaneously.
Ted’s body spun around and faced Mr. Meyer. Droplets of green liquid dripped from his lips and fell to the floor, where they ate through the linoleum.
The transformation finally complete, Zthbuhwgwoa examined its host body. Zthbuhwgwoa was confused; Zthbuhwgwoa had expected being summoned on some dark, mist shrouded hillside where it would possess the body of a handsome, charismatic black magician. Zthbuhwgwoa didn’t want to occupy the body of a grossly fat, pimple-faced teenager. Zthbuhwgwoa didn’t want to rule the world from a fast food restaurant. Zthbuhwgwoa was rather upset.
“Theodore, get yourself under control,” Mr. Meyer told his possessed worker. “If you don’t stop this this very instant, I’m going to have to fire you.”
Zthbuhwgwoa bellowed its rage at being summoned into a sub-standard body.
Sue fainted and fell in a heap by the soft drink machine. Pam started screaming and ran out the back door. Annette and Dan looked at each other, then at the side door. Mr. Meyer stood his ground. “Theodore,” he told the figure before him. “Your services are no longer required by Burger Master. Please give me your hat and leave this establishment.”
Ted’s eyeballs burst with wet popping noises and two red feelers slid out of his eye sockets. They waved about in the air while a tentacle extended out of Ted’s mouth, lifted the hat off of his head and shot towards Mr. Meyer. It wrapped around the manager, pinned his arms to his sides and lifted him up in the air.
“Put me down this instant,” Mr. Meyer yelled. “Stop this before you force me to get violent.”
Zthbuhwgwoa decided that it had no need for Ted’s corpulent body, so it manifested its full form. Unfortunately, Zthbuhwgwoa was much larger than the body it inhabited, so Ted’s body blew up. Bits of Ted sprayed all over the restaurant.
> Annette screamed as a good-sized portion of Ted’s large intestine wrapped itself around her face.
Zthbuhwgwoa chortled and splorted and flung its tentacles about with glee. One of the tentacles wrapped around the Necronomicon and tossed it at Dan. The ancient tome struck the teenager in the chest and knocked him to the floor.
Annette continued to scream and ran for the door. Zthbuhwgwoa oozed across the room and blocked her path. One tentacle snaked forward and lifted up Annette’s skirt while another tentacle lowered Mr. Meyer’s twitching body to a waiting mouth, which bit off his right foot.
Zthbuhwgwoa gibbered with glee and spat out Mr. Meyer’s shoe. Zthbuhwgwoa was so happy; it had caught a fab babe, one who was obviously cuter than anything Yog ever scored, and it was going to have fun. Zthbuhwgwoa wished that it had remembered to bring along a camera so that it would have proof to show Yog.
Annette, who was blessed with a nice set of lungs, kept on screaming. Mr. Meyer groaned as one of Zthbuhwgwoa’s mouths nibbled on his leg while another traveled up the front of Annette’s dress to her heavenly bosom. Another mouth found its way between Annette’s legs and she squealed as it began to pulsate.
Dan grabbed the Necronomicon and ran for the back exit. Zthbuhwgwoa pondered what it should do next: it couldn’t ooze after him; well, it could, but then it would have to stop playing with the fab babe. Zthbuhwgwoa didn’t want the boy to escape, so it threw its food at Dan.
“Nooo!” Mr. Meyer screamed as he arced through the air towards Dan, who tried, unsuccessfully, to dodge the flying manager. As his supervisor struck his side, Dan dropped the book and fell over backwards.
Mr. Meyer ricocheted off of Dan and crashed, face first, into the deep fat fryer. His screams ended abruptly as his face plunged into the boiling liquid grease.
The Necronomicon fell onto the flame broiler.
Zthbuhwgwoa shrieked and chattered as the gateway started to burn. Zthbuhwgwoa gnashed its tentacles and mouths until it realized, too late, that it had been holding a fab babe. Zthbuhwgwoa tossed the two halves of Annette’s body away, swallowed the few pieces of Annette it had bitten off inadvertently, and slipped across the room towards Dan.
Flames danced upon the Necronomicon.
Dan raised himself to his knees and saw Zthbuhwgwoa oozing over the counter towards him, its tentacles flailing and its mouths drooling.
Dan closed his eyes and tried to remember a prayer, any prayer.
Zthbuhwgwoa wrapped a tentacle around Dan’s neck and pulled him towards multiple mouths filled with lots of nasty, sharp teeth.
The Necronomicon collapsed into flaming fragments.
Zthbuhwgwoa vanished.
Dan fell to the floor and gasped for breath.
* * *
In the stygian depths of space, in a realm that was dark, nasty and really slimy, Zthbuhwgwoa appeared. Yog-Sothoth was waiting for Zthbuhwgwoa; he’d been watching from a time stream and saw the entire episode. Zthbuhwgwoa bellowed and slammed its tentacles into nearby asteroids.
Yog splorped over to Zthbuhwgwoa’s side and put a reassuring pseudopod around it. “Everything’s okay,” Yog said. “We all have bad summonings sometimes. It’s nothing to get upset about, it’s happened to everyone, even Cthulhu.”
“Even Cthulhu?” Zthbuhwgwoa asked.
“Even Cthulhu. Do you feel better now?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Good. You know, I’ve got these great new pictures of my spawn that you haven’t seen yet. Now this one, Yog Jr., he’s the one with three heads, found this cat and…”
The Watcher From the Grave
This is the second oldest story in this book, and was my first serious stab at the Mythos vein. I’m fascinated by ancient religions, pre-history, conspiracy theories, all that good shit. I love it. When the idea for this story came to me, I had just finished reading Graham Hancock’s Fingerprints of the Gods. That book, and its suggestion of a race of an advanced civilization prior to our own, had a huge influence on this story. I was also reading a lot of Lost Race novels like the pulp stories of Edgar Rice Burroughs and A. Merritt, and this story (novella, really) came together pretty quickly.
I’d like to add that even though it took years for this novella to first see print—in a little small press magazine that only paid in contributor copies—I got paid over $400 for it. It was written while I was working a temp job. I showed up on my first day and nobody knew what I was supposed to be doing. I was put in a cube, sat around for thirty minutes and kept trying to get the people who’d contacted the agency to…oh, I don’t know…find some work for me! But they didn’t have a clue what to do with me. They just told me to look busy. So I did. I fired up a Word document on the computer and wrote this story, on their dime, over the course of the week I was employed there.
Hey, I had to do something with all that free time, right?
I
Now about the “terrible and forbidden books”—I am forced to say that most of them are purely legendary. There never was any Abdul Alhazred or Necronomicon, for I invented these names myself. —H. P. Lovecraft, Letter to Willis Conover, dated July 29, 1936.
Justin Grave was lucky that the house he finally landed had such a cheap rental rate.
It was situated at the end of a long, narrow road in Reamstown, Pennsylvania, a lonely two story rambling farmhouse situated on ten acres of land. His closest neighbor was half a mile up the road. He could work well into the night with the phonograph playing loud and it wouldn’t pose a problem.
The rental agent had informed him that the previous occupant of the house had kept late hours, too, and that most of the neighbors had hardly known he was around. She seemed to think he was a student, pre-med maybe, who was on a brief sabbatical from University. In any case, acquiring the house took a load off of Justin’s mind. The rent was affordable, the location bearable, and the space gigantic compared to his apartment in town. He’d already decided where the study and the library were going to be. All he had to do was settle in.
He moved in right after Christmas. The holidays were bitter cold, and on New Years Eve greater Lancaster County, Pennsylvania received a foot of snow that covered everything from barns to downtown city streets. Justin moved in three days before the storm.
The storm lasted four days, unleashing a cold front brought along by a fierce wind that blew in from Canada. It was a good thing he’d moved in and unpacked before it hit. What better place to be in a howling storm than snug in your own warm study with the fireplace blazing?
The storm brought no relief. Justin sat by the radio on the second day of the storm, listening to a weather broadcast. The forecasters were predicting a Nor’easter to pummel much of the New England and Mid-Atlantic region. Bad weather. The rest of the month was going to be shot as far as neighborhood exploration went.
This became apparent two weeks later. He’d just finished another Rex Bates tale for Adventure Magazine when he suddenly realized it had been six months since he’d worked on anything horrific. His last appearance in the land of the weird had been “…When the Bells Toll” which appeared in the December issue of Weird Tales. That story had been written at the commencement of the previous summer. The six-month time lag had been spent writing two science-fiction novels to be serialized in Amazing Stories and Astounding respectively, along with the usual work. As a writer of pulp fiction, Justin Grave could turn out romance novellas for Romance Stories and Love Stories; detective stories for Black Mask and Detective Fiction, adventure serials for Argosy, and weird-menace tales for Spicy Mystery Stories, Thrilling Mystery, Dime Mystery Magazine, Terror Tales, and Horror Stories. Thank God for pseudonyms.
But the itch to churn out a couple of horror stories gnawed at him. His first sale had been to a small circulation pulp (a rag actually) entitled Tales of Terror, in the summer of 1928 when he’d graduated from high school. His first appearance in Weird Tales saw print six months later. In the ten years that followed he’d probably published well over
five hundred stories and a few serialized novels in every pulp magazine on the stands. By the time he graduated to writing full time, his name was being advertised on the covers of the horror pulps along with H.P. Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith, as well as in most of the adventure and detective fiction pulps. Even some of the pen names he used for the romance pulps began to make cover status after a few years. Half of the stuff he churned out was pulp for the masses, with a guaranteed life of one month on the racks in whatever pulp magazine it appeared in, only to be gone by the next month’s issue. Forever.
At least it paid the bills.
The storm outside was providing the perfect atmosphere to get back into the horror mode. The house in general seemed to emanate a sense of foreboding. He noticed it when he first settled in. It was as if the very air was weighted, leaden. The elements seemed to churn and change in different rooms. It was probably his imagination—his mind had been turning to horrific themes for story ideas—but he still couldn’t shake the feeling off. It felt the strongest in three rooms: the kitchen, the bathroom, and the master bedroom. It was worse in the master bedroom. He would lie in bed, eyes wide open, faint murmurings fluttering through his mind. The silence of the house seemed to whisper to him and he got up a few times to investigate, thinking he really was hearing something moving stealthily in the house. He never found anything.
Which was why he wanted to start on another horror tale. Channel the nightmares out of his mind and put them on paper. That method had always worked before. It would work again.
A couple of feeble attempts at starting a new tale were undertaken with negative results. Writer’s block had set in after six months away from the creepy crawlies that he normally enjoyed dealing with. After his fifth attempt, he tore the page out of the typewriter and tossed the crumpled ball into the wastebasket. Cabin fever had set in, but the storm showed no sign of abating, making an afternoon walk a no-go. He had to clean out his mind, carve out the clutter that was occupying his brainpan.
He decided to explore the rest of the house. The attic and the basement hadn’t been explored yet, and now the urge to examine them blossomed. He left his work area and donned a jacket to make the trip downstairs.
The Summoning Page 13