Acolytes of Cthulhu

by Robert M. Price

  Perhaps you have had dreams in which you were in danger, a danger usually not specified, but somehow assumed by you to be mortal; yet you find movement is impossible. Often this same physical paralysis attends psychic phenomena—and so it did with me, and, I assume, Sir Harold. We were bound by some agent either within or outside us, to sit and watch as that creature slowly flowed out of Sir Harold’s body, or perhaps his mind, and begin to take form.

  In any case, the head was now forming; it was large, about twice the size of a human head, I should say, while very melon-shaped. It was supported by a column of pulsating ectoplasm, under which was beginning to appear the rudiments of a body—a long tubular shape with what seemed to be long, thin arms and legs. In all, the form was humanoid, but quite definitely not human, not in shape, and not in intent.

  The face was now forming. It was perfectly smooth, unstamped by any of the expression lines that mark creatures of thought or feeling. It was clearly not a ghost in the conventional sense; it was indeed a spirit—that is a creature that exists on a plane other than our own—but in this case a spirit that never was human; it was an elemental, a spirit that perhaps populated Earth before humanity, and that resents us as usurpers.

  With a tremendous effort I succeeded in pushing my chair back slightly from the table. It squeaked over the dirty floor, and the sound enabled me to shake off some of the stupor that unnerved me.

  “Sir Harold,” I managed to whisper, “Sir Harold, you must move.”

  He made a visible effort to move—I could see his hands rise to the table and feebly push against it, without effect. He then made a sort of shrugging movement with his shoulders and shook his hands in a gesture of futility.

  Dripping with sweat, I began to lean across the table in an effort to get at the lamp and light it. It was too far away, and, as leaning forward brought me closer to the thing hovering now almost fully formed above the table, I shrank back in my seat. It would only be a matter of moments before it would break away from Sir Harold with a malevolent life of its own. I knew that we needed light. I reached into my vest pocket and withdrew my matchbox. Fumbling, I dropped one or two matches before I succeeded in lighting one. I held it up as it flared, bringing the room briefly into view. The creature seemed to dissipate, and the features that had been strongly apparent began to melt back into the mass of ectoplasm. As the match began to flicker the creature once more began to fill out. I realized then that the matches did not throw enough light to destroy it, merely to stave off its complete formation. And I could not have had more than five or so matches left. As the match went out, I immediately lit another, with the same effect. I was only putting off the inevitable. In a desperate gamble, I decided to light all at once inside the box; during the longer brighter flame, I would try to get to the door.

  Lighting the match in my hand, I put it inside the box, letting it rest against its corner. As the box itself began to burn, I pushed it carefully under the writhing mid-air figure, which knew now, if it commanded any intelligence at all, that there were agents working for its destruction.

  As the matches remaining in the box flared, I found my legs and bolted for the door, unlocked it, and flew upstairs. At the landing I shouted for the old servant, who came running out of the back in a dressing gown.

  “Good Heavens, what is it, sir?” he asked, no doubt shocked at my appearance and the desperate manner in which I had called him.

  “Light a lamp quickly, man, and come with me!” He did so, admirably quickly, I must say, for a man his age.

  We both ran downstairs, I at the quicker pace. As I reached the bottom, the light carried by the servant was already spilling into the darkened room. I could not resist peering in—it was quite dark, though I could make out Sir Harold, still seated at the head of the table, in the same position I had left him. There was no ectoplasm to be seen. I breathed with relief; we had beaten it!

  At length the old servant ambled up to me with the lamp. We both entered the room, I first, setting the lamp on the table.

  I shall never forget the sight of Sir Harold. Despite the subsequent controversy, I never doubted that it was other than Sir Harold; at first the police believed me only because of the total lack of anything else that could be Sir Harold.

  What sat before me was barely more than a skeleton. Its skin was stretched tightly to the bones, and its eyes were shrunken out of sight into their sockets. Sir Harold’s clothes hung loosely on his frame, and the hands that I had seen writhing in that lap only minutes before, were now inert, bony extremities that would belong under normal circumstances only to the long dead.

  I involuntarily stepped back in horror, bumping into the servant who was muttering. “It can’t be, it can’t be,” he whispered, largely to himself.

  I realized now that the demon had been able to materialize, but only at Sir Harold’s expense, and that it took sustenance not only from his mind and spirit, but from his body as well; every drop of ectoplasm that flowed from Sir Harold was a drop of his own life’s substance flowing out from him. That would explain why he was a shattered man after the first materialization, though his wounds were not so great as to account for such physical deterioration. But now, facing Sir Harold’s skeletal remains, I realized that his death could mean only one thing: the creature’s life!

  I began to shake again, in the realization that the horrid thing must now be alive in that room. I grabbed the lamp and held it high, peering gingerly into the shadows of the far corners of the room.

  The servant apparently gathered what I was about, and made quickly for the door.

  “Don’t open it,” I shouted. “You’ll let it out.” I was wrong.

  The creature was standing in the hall, just beyond the lip of light cast by the lamp I was holding. It was a sort of mottled yellow colour, perhaps cream—it’s hard to tell in the glow of a lamp—punctuated by blotches of a darker colour. It stood about eight or nine feet in height, and had a perfectly round head with no ears, long spindly arms that looked as if they might be jointed in two or three places, and huge, bony hands a good foot across. But its most arresting features were its eyes—great holes on either side of a dark spot that I assume could be a nose. And, as Sir Harold had said, they did indeed glow green, a dull, angry green mist that suggested a primordial fury that no man could hope to contain.

  Before I could shout for the old man to come back into the circle of light, the creature snatched at him with one of those long, spiderly arms, catching him about the middle with a huge hand. The old man gasped once, and then, with an unspeakable crackling sound, the creature literally twisted him apart and then threw his crushed body back into the room at my feet. He lay there, a widening pool of blood issuing from the crumpled and torn body.

  The creature eyed me malevolently and began to move closer. I held the lamp in front of me, realizing with a sinking heart that it was only about half full, with only enough oil to last a few hours. And I knew that when the lamp would begin to dim, the creature would move closer and closer until it could reach me and snap me in two with those loathsome arms.

  Closer and closer it moved, as the time passed glacially and the light flickered. Occasionally it would reach in and flail at me, withdrawing quickly, as if the light caused it pain. I sat on the edge of the table, eyeing with horror the lamp’s dwindling oil reserve, my ears ringing with the preternatural silence and my head reeling from the terror of what I had been through and the fear of the outcome of my current trial. And the creature stood in the hallway, staring at me, its mouth leering in a wide, craggy grin. But at last, no doubt a matter of minutes before the light was to flicker its last, the dawn began to break, and light began to filter through the cellar room’s windows.

  The creature began to move back into the hall, leaving me alone with my two ghastly companions. Knowing that the hall would remain dark throughout the day, I shook off my terror and fatigue and, possessed of the excess energy that we are sometimes blessed with at times of trial, I picked up a
chair and hurled it through the windows. Clambering onto the table, I cleared the broken glass from the sill, and hoisted myself over it onto the cold ground.

  London never looked so wonderful, and its air has never smelled so sweet. The sun had not yet brought warmth, but even at that early hour, I could see men making their way to work, wrapped in mufflers, their breaths rhythmically condensing into clouds of steam. Despite my light dress and my dampness from perspiration, I ran down the street shouting for help. When it finally arrived, I collapsed.

  The police certainly expressed reservations about my story, though my shaken state and the unspeakable condition of the two corpses found in that God-forsaken room argued eloquently in favour of the truth of my story. The coroner stoutly insisted that Sir Harold had been dead many months, but had to admit that identification of rings and physical features as noted by Sir Harold’s physician, proved beyond a doubt that the body was his, and he had been seen as recently as a week earlier by Sir Clive Mathews, Bart., who had stopped by to discuss the sale of some property near Brighton. Moreover, I had in my possession Sir Harold’s letter, dated only a few days before the tragic night.

  Furthermore, the old servant, whose name was Tom, was torn brutally limb from limb, and neither the coroner nor the chief of police could imagine what agency would have the power or ferocity to crumple a human being in that savage manner.

  So the police reluctantly reported that “Person or persons unknown attacked and murdered Sir Harold Wolverton and his manservant Thomas Cooper for cause unknown.” And there’s an end on it.

  But the creature, that living part of Sir Harold, whose full “birth” left that ghastly shell staring at the ceiling of the cellar room, has the run of London, and I am positive that the current wave of murders and maimings can be attributed to it.

  I would expect that its quarters are the now empty Wolverton House. It was apparently a simple matter for it to have eluded the police search after the murders; it could have made its way to the attic, or into the wainscoting, or perhaps even underground. Who knows what its powers, capabilities and intelligence are?

  Wolverton House is a desirable property in an excellent neighbourhood, but rumours persist about it, and I expect that it shall stand vacant for a long time to come.

  MYTHOS

  BY JOHN GLASBY

  “WELL,” SAID MITCHELL, SUCKING ON HIS PIPE AND STARING intently across the desk, “what do you make of it? You think it could be a true record of what happened, or is it just another hoax?”

  Nordhurst looked bored. He flung the manuscript onto the desk, then straightened in his chair, lit a cigarette, and stared out of the window as he blew smoke through his nostrils. “I was thinking of having a talk with you some time ago about this, Mitchell,” he said quietly. “I know you’ve applied for permission and finances, to fit out an expedition to this place. Personally, I think I ought to warn you that I’m against the entire project. I know you hold very firm, and fixed, views on this subject. You’ve spent the past two or three years delving into the records we have in the library here. I haven’t tried to stop you because you seemed to be doing no harm and it was always possible that you might, conceivably, turn up something new. But this—”

  He indicated the manuscript on top of the desk with a sudden sharp jerk of his hand. “Really, Mitchell, I thought better of you.”

  “But surely, sir,” protested the other mildly, raising a brow, “you aren’t going to dismiss it like that. There ought, at least, to be some attempt made to look into it. After all, the legends of Easter Island have been known, in part, for a very long time now, ever since the island was discovered—or rediscovered, if you like—by Roggeveen on Easter Day, 1772. But as far as I know, no one has solved the mysteries of the ancient cult or religion which built those tremendous stone statues on the island.”

  “Doctor Mitchell,” interrupted Nordhurst acidly. “As head of the Archaeological Department, I can assure you that I know something of Easter Island.”

  “I fully acknowledge that fact, Professor,” said the other smoothly. He had the impression that he was getting nowhere fast with this man. “Your personal knowledge and integrity are not being challenged. All I ask is that we fit out a small expedition to check on the facts mentioned in this document. I believe that these notes made by Don Felipe Gonzales may help us to clear up some of the mystery which shrouds the place.”

  “Nonsense.” Nordhurst shook his head vehemently. “Don’t you realise that if we fitted out an expedition based on such flimsy, not to say ridiculous evidence as this, we might be the laughing stock of the entire University?” He got to his feet and walked to the window, standing with his back to the other. He went quickly, without turning his head: “Try to look at this objectively, Mitchell. I realise that may be difficult for you, because perhaps without even knowing, you’re somewhat prejudiced in your outlook on the matter, but what have we got to go on? Nothing more than a note in the diary of the Spanish Captain who was the second person to land on Easter Island after the Dutch had left.

  “Apparently they remained on the island for some time, claiming it in the name of the King of Spain. During that time, seven of their crew disappeared without trace and were never seen again. They certainly never returned to the ships. That much we can be sure of. But they could have remained on the island. It seems quite certain there are many places there where they could hide and not be found by any of their fellow crew members who went out hunting for them. On the other hand, I consider it far more plausible that they were murdered by the islanders and their bodies hidden.”

  “I see.” Mitchell tapped out his pipe into the tray and leaned back in his chair. “Does this mean that no approval will be given to this expedition?”

  “Not necessarily. I’m merely the Professor here. The question will have to be put to the committee of which I’m merely the Chairman. They will have the last say in the matter. If their decision goes against you, and you’re sufficiently determined, I suppose you could obtain some form of private backing for this idea of yours, always assuming you could find anyone sufficiently interested in your ideas.”

  “And you yourself would not be interested in coming along, sir?”

  Nordhurst read the expression in the other’s face and a note of authority crept into his voice: “I appreciate your feelings in this case, Doctor Mitchell, and I detect a little sarcasm in your tone. But even though I do not believe in your theories, after all, I’m still an archaeologist first and foremost, and if it is at all possible to get away from my duties here at the University, I shall be only too glad to accompany you, if only to be present when you are proved wrong.”

  “And if I’m proved to be right, sir?” The other rose slowly to his feet and stood facing the Professor across the desk. He picked up the manuscript and held it tightly in his hands.

  “Then this will be a case, not for an archaeologist, but for an expert on witchcraft and similar related topics, if you can find one.”

  Mitchell felt sullen, but tried not to show it. He had expected this, even before he had come to see Nordhurst. The other had no imagination, he told himself fiercely, could see nothing beyond the stones and pottery he found in his excavations. He knew for a fact that Nordhurst had done nothing along similar lines to the problem he had in mind. Mesopotamia and the Tigris Valley were about as far as he got.

  He shrugged inwardly. The civilization he was seeking was certainly on a par with those ancient cultures with which Nordhurst was familiar, even though divided from them by thousands of miles of open sea. It would be relatively easy for the other to rig that committee meeting so that they voted to throw out his application and he knew that he would not get a second personal hearing after they had once made their decision.

  “You think I’ve merely got a good imagination, don’t you, Professor?”

  The other went back to the desk and lowered himself into his chair, stubbing out the cigarette. “You’ve got to admit yourself that it’s a p
retty wild theory with nothing to support it.”

  He called Mitchell back once before he got to the door. He was seated easily in his chair, completely master of himself, confident that his decision, already made, was the right one and that nothing would ever alter it.

  “You know, I think you ought to have a talk with Walton before you go any further with this. He might be able to straighten you out. If not, at least you seem to be thinking along similar lines.” His smile broadened, almost viciously, as he delivered this final, parting shot.

  Mitchell eased out of the door and closed it quietly behind him. He didn’t hate the other for what he had said and for what he would undoubtedly do when the committee met; he couldn’t hate him. He was just another of the staff who saw only what they wanted to see in the old legends of the ancient civilizations.

  He lit his pipe again, flicked the spent match into the basket halfway along the corridor and started for the hallway.

  Halfway along the hall, he stopped. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have a talk with Walton after all, he thought. Walton was a curious fellow who kept to himself. Not merely because he liked it that way, but because the things in which he was interested seemed to have little in common with what was expected of a University. Officially, he was head of the Mythology Department, if it could be called a department, considering that he was the head and solitary lecturer all rolled into one.

  He had a curious feeling of disorientation as he made his way to the other’s room. Checking his watch, he saw that it was a little after four o’clock. The other ought to be free at that time of the afternoon, with most of the lectures over. He knocked on the door, went inside.

  Walton was seated in the wide-backed chair in front of the empty fireplace. It was far too hot for a fire and even in this room with the window open, it was far too cool.