Acolytes of Cthulhu

by Robert M. Price

  “And besides, I got this—” She rubbed her ring reflectively. “Wonder how much it’s worth? Sure shines pretty, doesn’t it, Walter?”

  “Yes, dear,” he said mechanically.

  He glanced sideways at the ring. He shivered as he saw the symbols carven in the sides. Strange twisting runes, like the ones he had seen on that little piece of paper back in Jonathan’s study…

  “Agatha,” he ventured timidly. “Agatha, maybe you’d better sell that ring. I think—”

  No answer.

  He turned.

  Agatha was staring into the crystal with a strained, rapt expression. Walter Simmons swallowed uncomfortably as he looked at the crystal.

  In the darkness, it had a dim reddish tint, that seemed to be pulsing with a strange unsteady glow. It looked—eerie.

  Walter bit his lip.

  Yes, the crystal looked remarkably like some gleaming, baleful eye.

  The next morning, they went to the bank. Agatha bustling ahead, buoyed up with a sense of her own importance; Walter trailing small and timid, just behind.

  Agatha informed the bank clerk that they were the heirs of Jonathan Miles, and why they had come.

  “Ah, yes,” the clerk said. “Right this way, please.”

  They went down to the vault.

  “Mr. Miles, you understand, always did business with us by mail,” said the clerk, pausing uncertainly in front of them.

  “Yes,” Agatha said impatiently. “Of course. Let’s see in the boxes.”

  The man drew out the two safe-deposit boxes slowly, opened them. “At last reports Mr. Miles told us he had two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of negotiable securities in this one,” he began abstractly. “And almost half a million in bonds in this—”

  His voice choked off. He blinked.

  Agatha stared, and Walter stared, and then Agatha’s voice rose in a shrill, angry scream, demanding to know where the money was. Who was the thief, and why didn’t the bank take care of what belonged to her, and was this the right deposit box after all?

  Where was her money?

  The bank clerk could not explain it.

  The boxes were empty. That was plain.

  And for a very brief moment, as Agatha stared around the vault, trembling, clenching and unclenching her fists on empty air, she seemed to hear the faint tinkle of distant laughter.

  Jonathan’s laughter.

  The president of the bank could not explain it either. He looked quite grave, informed them there would be an investigation made, but Agatha refused to be consoled.

  “We’ll sue them, that’s what we’ll do!” she announced grimly to Walter afterwards. “First the house, now the money. You—you realize what this means?”

  “Yes,” said Walter a little wearily. “I suppose I’ll have to get my job back.”

  “You certainly will! And furthermore—” And she was off on another tirade.

  Walter did not say anything. He was thinking. Thinking about what the stranger had said.

  “This house will have to be taken with the rest—”

  The rest. The bank securities. The house. Everything. Remembering the way the stranger’s shadow had looked, Walter Simmons was not surprised that the bank president had been unable to explain the disappearance of the bonds.

  * * *

  The remainder of the week dragged slowly. They managed to sell the lot the house had been on for a rather pitiful sum, but Agatha was at least half-satisfied.

  “I can buy me that fur wrap from Modent’s I’ve always wanted,” she told him Friday night over the supper-table. “And maybe some new silver—”

  Walter’s forehead wrinkled. “But how about that pipe you promised me for Christmas, dear? The red briar—”

  “Oh, shut up! Always thinking of yourself. Why can’t I have a husband that thinks of his wife once in a while? Let’s see… I’ll wear it to church, Sunday. And will make them all jealous! Walter. Did you get your job back today?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I got it back.”

  He neglected to tell her he was getting ten dollars a week less than formerly. If he had, she would only wither him with scorn and ask him, as she always did, why didn’t he stand up for his rights? Why didn’t he assert himself, instead of being a timid little mouse all his life? Why indeed?

  “Pass the sugar.” Her voice broke shrill, strident, across his thought.

  Walter reached for the sugar bowl casually—and then paused, his arm in midair.

  It was over by Agatha. He could have sworn it was next to his plate not ten seconds ago.

  He could also have sworn that he had seen out of the corner of his eye, a dim red flash—across the table.

  It was after supper. Walter was sitting in the front room, reading his paper and wishing he dared smoke a cigar.

  “Walter!”

  He looked up. Agatha was standing in the kitchen doorway. Her face was white.

  He got up slowly, went into the kitchen. “Look, Walter.”

  He looked. The dishes were all washed and shining and stacked neatly into place.

  “Very good, dear,” said Walter vaguely, searching for some new compliment. “Very fast, too—”

  “You fool! I didn’t do these dishes!”

  “Huh?”

  “No. I was standing over by the icebox, putting food away, and wishing that I—well, I was wishing that I had a husband who was considerate enough of his wife to do the dishes for her. And I thought I saw something red.”

  “Red?”

  “Yes. Behind me. A—a flash, sort of. I turned around, and there they were. Done!”

  “Oh,” said Walter weakly. Then he caught sight of the ring on Agatha’s finger.

  It was glowing like ruby fire.

  * * *

  About four o’clock the next morning, Walter Simmons was quite rudely awakened. Beside him, Agatha was screaming over and over in a shrill falsetto. Screaming, and still asleep.

  Abruptly she woke, and clung, trembling, to him for a good five minutes before he managed to soothe her.

  “Walt,” she sobbed hysterically. “Oh, Walt! I had a bad dream.”

  She had not called him Walt for almost ten years now.

  “I dreamt,” she whispered, “that this ring had a funny little red man inside, and he was laughing at me and hiding. I wanted him to break the crystal, and let me see him, but he wouldn’t.

  “Then, all of a sudden, he did show me his face. Oh, it was… awful.” She sobbed shudderingly. Then she was silent.

  She gazed dreamily into the ring.

  Walter Simmons moistened his lips. He said, “Agatha.

  “Agatha!”

  She gave a little jump, and turned on him. “What?”

  “Look, Agatha. Why don’t you sell the ring?”

  “Sell it?”

  He gulped, took a firm hand on his courage. “Yes. After all, you said you were afraid.”

  Agatha looked at the ring. She was smiling strangely.

  “I know. But I—I’ve changed my mind.”

  Walter Simmons left for the office next morning with a sickening apprehension gnawing at his insides. His fears were not relieved by the sight of Agatha, after breakfast, sitting on the sofa, staring at the winking bit of rosy crystal on her finger.

  She did not even bid him good-bye.

  That evening, Walter did not go home. He went instead to the library, and spent a good hour and a half browsing through the section marked “Demonology” before he found what he wanted.

  FAMILIAR—he read. A demon given to a sorcerer or witch as part of his compact with Satan. In the olden times they inhabited usually the body of a toad or black cat. Of late, however, it has been found more convenient to use for the dwelling-place of the familiar some more personal object—such as a bracelet, a necklace, or ring—

  “Ah,” said Walter very softly. He read on.

  …And if the owner of the familiar dies, or his compact with Satan runs out, then the imp shoul
d be buried with him. In the event another human comes into possession of the familiar, it owes him temporary allegiance—though it can, perforce, commit whatever mischievous pranks it will. Should the name of God be mentioned in the familiar’s presence—

  Walter Simmons gulped as he read the next few lines. He jumped up and went out of the library hurriedly, his short fat legs pumping, eyes wide.

  He knew now who the impeccably dressed stranger had been.

  He knew about the ring.

  And—he had a very good idea what would happen should Agatha wear that ring to church tomorrow.

  When he arrived home, Agatha was huddled over on the sofa, staring into the ring. She looked up as he came in, gave him a dreamy smile. “Oh, are you home already?”

  Walter blinked.

  “Look, Walt! Look at my coat.”

  He glanced briefly at the new fur wrap, and nodded. “Yes, dear. Very nice.”

  “Just wait ’till they see me tomorrow with it at church. And with this ring.” She smiled in anticipation.

  Walter blinked again. There was something odd about his wife’s behavior.

  “Agatha,” he whispered numbly. “You’ve got to listen. That ring. You mustn’t wear it tomorrow to church.”

  Agatha looked at him. “Why not?”

  “Because. It’s evil. Look, dear. Do me a favor, will you?”

  She nodded, absently.

  “Make a wish. Wish that, oh, that supper would be ready. Right now.” Agatha’s lips moved. For an instant the crystal on her finger sparkled with unearthly brilliance, and Walter thought he saw something red streaking toward the kitchen—and then back again.

  “Now,” he managed. “Come into the kitchen.”

  Walter had half-expected to see what he did, but the sight was still rather frightening.

  The roast was done. The table was all set. The potatoes had been mashed and the salad was made. Everything ready to go on the table.

  “There,” he said weakly. “See that?”

  Agatha was smiling. “Of course. It’s the ring”

  Walter fought down the black wave of panic that closed on his insides. “Then you’ll get rid of it? Sell it, or—”

  “Of course not. I rather like this ring now. Sort of… fascinating.” She kept staring at it.

  Walter argued and pleaded all through supper, but to no avail. Agatha liked the ring. She would wear it tomorrow morning to church and nothing Walter could say or do would change her mind.

  That was that.

  * * *

  At church services next morning, all their neighborhood acquaintances were properly awed by Agatha’s new coat. They oh’d and ah’d, as Agatha smirked, and displayed it to her heart’s content.

  A dull, fatalistic feeling had fallen upon Walter. He did not even respond to his wife’s most barbed insults, paid no heed to her hisses of “Walter! Sit up straight. Everybody’s looking at us!”

  But as the service slowly dragged through the next hour, Agatha stopped prodding him. She was staring into the crystal on her finger, as if hypnotized. Walter closed his eyes very tightly as he remembered what he had read…

  Somehow he couldn’t stop trembling.

  At the conclusion of the hymns, the pastor turned to the congregation and lifted his hands for the blessing.

  This was it. Walter held his breath. The minister’s voice thundered out.

  “In God’s name, may peace reign!”

  As the pastor uttered the words, Walter felt Agatha stiffen beside him.

  Then she screamed. Horribly.

  Everywhere there was commotion, a babble of excited voices, people shouting and demanding to know what had happened, ushers exclaiming and hurrying forward.

  Very slowly, Walter Simmons turned. He looked at Agatha’s face.

  Her eyes were wide and staring, and at the expression in them, he felt the short hairs bristle at the nape of his neck.

  He looked at the ring.

  He was not surprised to see the dim red glow gone. Instead the crystal was white and lusterless, as if—whatever dwelt in it had fled forever.

  Walter wondered briefly how the familiar had looked to Agatha, as it came out of the ring.

  There were no complications. Heart failure, the coroner said.

  At the funeral, many were the strange remarks at Walter Simmons’ strange apathy.

  “Don’t look a bit sad,” one of his friends whispered. “Well, that’s not surprising either, if you knew how Agatha treated him. A regular shrew, she was.”

  The good neighbors of Walter Simmons might have been a great deal more concerned than they were, had they seen him the next night—seen him in the cemetery, digging furtively in a grave which could not have been over a week or two old. A grave with the name “Jonathan Miles” inscribed on the headstone.

  They might have said much and wondered more, could they have seen the small crystal ring Walter left in the grave.

  The ring which he was returning to its former owner.

  THE WILL OF CLAUDE ASHUR

  BY C. HALL THOMPSON

  I

  THEY HAVE LOCKED ME IN. A MOMENT SINCE, FOR WHAT WELL may have been the last time, I heard the clanking of the triple-bolts as they were shot into place. The door to this barren white chamber presents no extraordinary appearance, but it is plated with impenetrable steel. The executives of the Institution have gone to great pains to ensure the impossibility of escape. They know my record. They have listed me among those patients who are dangerous and “recurrently violent.” I haven’t contradicted them; it does no good to tell them that my violence is long since spent; that I have no longer the inclination nor the strength requisite to make yet another attempted break for freedom.

  They cannot understand that my freedom meant something to me only so long as there was hope of saving Gratia Thane from the horror that returned from the flesh-rotting brink of the grave to reclaim her. Now, that hope is lost; there is nothing left but the welcome release of death.

  I can die as well in an insane asylum as elsewhere.

  Today, the examinations, both physical and mental, were quickly dispensed with. They were a formality; routine gone through “for the record.” The doctor has left. He wasn’t the man who usually examines me. I presume he is new at the Institution. He was a tiny man, fastidiously dressed, with a narrow, flushed face and a vulgar diamond stickpin. There were lines of distaste and fear about his mouth from the moment he looked into the loathsome mask that is my face. Doubtless one of the white-suited attendants warned him of the particular horror of my case. I didn’t resent it when he came no nearer me than necessary. Rather, I pitied the poor devil for the awkwardness of his situation; I have known men of obviously stronger stomach to stumble away from the sight of me, retching with sick terror. My name, the unholy whisperings of my story, the remembrance of the decaying, breathing half-corpse that I am, are legendary in the winding gray halls of the asylum. I cannot blame them for being relieved by the knowledge that they will soon shed the burden I have been—that, before long, they will consign this unhuman mass of pulsating flesh to maggots and oblivion.

  Before the doctor left, he wrote something in his notebook; there would be the name: Claude Ashur. Under today’s date he has written only a few all-explanatory words. “Prognosis negative. Hopelessly insane. Disease in most advanced stage. Demise imminent.”

  Watching the slow, painful progress of his pen across the paper, I experienced one last temptation to speak. I was overwhelmed with a violent need to scream out my now-familiar protest to this new man, in the desperate hope that he might believe me. The blasphemous words welled for an instant in my throat, sending forth a thick nasal sob. Quickly, the doctor glanced up, and the apprehensive loathing of his gaze told me the truth. It would do no good to speak. He was like all the rest, with their soothing voices and unbelieving smiles. He would listen to the hideous nightmare that is the story of Gratia and my brother and myself, and, in the end, he would nod calmly, more c
onvinced than ever that I was stark, raving mad. I remained silent. The last flame of hope guttered and died. I knew in that moment, that no one would ever believe that I am not Claude Ashur.

  Claude Ashur is my brother.

  Do not misunderstand me. This is no mundane instance of confused identity. It is something infinitely more evil. It is a horror conceived and realized by a warped brain bent upon revenge; a mind in league with the powers of darkness, attuned to the whimpering of lost, forbidden rites and incantations. No one ever could have mistaken me for Claude Ashur. To the contrary, from the earliest days of our childhood, people found it difficult to believe that we were brothers. There could not have been two creatures more unlike than he and I. If you will imagine the average boy and man, the medium-built creature of normal weight and nondescript features, whose temperament is safely, if somewhat dully balanced—in short, the product of normalcy—you will have before you a portrait of myself. My brother, Claude, was the precise antithesis of all these things.

  He was always extremely delicate of health, and given to strange moodiness. His head seemed too large for the fragility of his body, and his face was constantly shadowed by a pallor that worried my father dreadfully.

  His nose was long and thin with supersensitive nostril-volutes, and his eyes, set well apart in deep sockets, held a sort of mirthless brilliance. From the outset, I was the stronger as well as the elder, and yet it was always Claude with his frail body and powerful will who ruled Inneswich Priory.

  At a certain point in the road that fingers its way along the lifeless, Atlantic-clawed stretches of the northern New Jersey coast, the unsuspecting traveler may turn off into a bramble-clotted byway. There is (or was, at one time) a signpost pointing inland that proclaims: “INNESWICH–½ MILE.” Not many take that path today. People who know that part of the country give wide berth to Inneswich and the legends that hang like a slimy caul over the ancient coastal village. They have heard infamous tales of the Priory that lies on the northernmost edge of Inneswich, and of late years, the town, the Priory, the few intrepid villagers who cling to their homes, have fallen into ill-repute. Things were different in the days before the coming of Claude Ashur.