Acolytes of Cthulhu

by Robert M. Price

  “And then?” Fletcher urged.

  “And then—for mankind—it will surely be too late. Earth would be devastated, totally stripped of life, before it moved on to other planets in distant galaxies.”

  Fletcher’s face was a study in stunned consternation as the magnitude of Alan’s revelation registered in his thoughts. “Is there nothing to be done?”

  Alan wondered. If they acted now, while this intelligence was still in a state infinitely weaker than that which it once had known, perhaps it would not be too late. Then again, it might already be invulnerable to anything man might do to stop its advance. If only…

  “We can try,” he returned. “We must try, and hope, and not consider the consequences if we should fail. By tomorrow morning it will hopefully have returned to its lair. If it still considers itself weak it will probably continue to seek sanctuary during the day until it is strong enough to openly find its sustenance. To its lair then we will go and somehow attempt to render it harmless.”

  An amused smile played over the features of Dr. Fletcher. “Much in the manner one would destroy a vampire, eh, Mr. Hasrad? Strike while it is dormant!”

  “Exactly. But this is no vampire, Dr. Fletcher, and the tools to be used will be different and far older than the traditional mallet and stake.”

  “Tomorrow then,” agreed Dr. Fletcher, rising to his feet. “Let us retire for what remains of the night and pray to God or whatever guides the fortunes of mankind that tomorrow sees us reach a successful ending to this atrocity.”

  “Amen,” affirmed Alan, rising to his feet and following his host to the guest room which had been readied for his use.

  It was still dark outside, with just a hint of dawn emerging out of the east, when Alan awoke from a restless sleep and aroused his slumbering host. Together they looked out the window. The deadly mist had already begun its retreat before the coming light. No longer was the house enshrouded by its ghostly essence. Much still remained about the cottage, but no longer enough to pose the threat it had but a few hours before.

  Alan and Fletcher stood on the wooden porch of the cottage, breathing deeply the crisp air and appraising the view offered to them of Shadow Lake visible through the stand of trees that pushed toward its edge. About the house, stray wisps of mist lingered but were departing slowly in a direction that led toward the nearby marsh.

  “As I thought,” remarked Alan. “The mist is not dissipating in the air as one would expect; it actually maintains its nebulous form as it makes its retreat.”

  “Precisely,” returned Fletcher. “I’ve contended all along that it’s not a material mist that dissolves into the air as unseen vapor.”

  “Well, if we are to learn more, it’s obvious we must follow it, although there’s little doubt in my mind—nor yours, I’m sure—as to where it’s going.”

  Leaving the porch, the two men followed the vaporous trails around the cottage, away from the lake, towards the decline that led to the swampy area. Long strides carried them through the tract of hardwood trees along the heights overlooking the dismal marsh. The air was crisp and clear, but mist could still be seen in faint, wispy trails.

  Soon they stood upon the crest of the rise overlooking the marsh, where it seemed as though they were on the rim of a gigantic soup bowl. Below, the mist seemed to be more compact, appearing as might a soft, gray carpet moving away from them. It massed together in impregnable shrouds, flowing and converging toward a distant point. “It’s almost,” observed Fletcher, “as though someone pulled the plug in a gigantic circular bathtub and everything is going down the drain.”

  “An apt simile,” agreed Alan.

  Stray wisps constricted harmlessly about their ankles as they walked along the embankment circling the marsh, imprinting a temporary path on the dew-moist grasses that stretched across the side of the knoll.

  “I don’t think I’ve noticed it before, Mr. Hasrad, but it seems to me the mist is thicker… more compact, perhaps… no longer the flimsy, silky wisps we’ve been following. Now it’s so thick we can’t see the ground beneath it.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Alan agreed, “and I think I can venture an explanation. It’s my guess that this entity had, at one time, a solid body that was probably miles in length and width and height—but it has not fed, has literally been starved for many, many millions of years and has, as a result, lost a considerable portion of its bulk. Rather than shrinking in size, its dimensions have remained the same, but the atoms composing it are so wide apart that it has this hazy, unsubstantial mist-like appearance.”

  “Are you suggesting that it thickens as it feeds?”

  “Exactly! And I further believe that if nothing is done to stop it, if it is left to continue unchecked, it will one day be a solid mass large enough to cover the entire countryside for miles around!”

  Minutes passed and each step took them further away from the cottage on the knoll closer to the other side of the swamplands. They did not enter the marsh itself, as this was unnecessary, but traveled along its clearly defined edge, high above the patches of stagnant water and silently waiting ooze.

  “It’s headed toward the cave, all right,” Fletcher exclaimed, beginning to breathe more heavily, following Alan as he led the way around a fallen log. “It’s not very far ahead now.”

  A hundred feet further along found them at a point overlooking the cave to their right; off to their left they could see the sun advance over the distant horizon and delicately touch the leaden-colored Miskatonic River, winding serenely on its way in the far distance. Returning their gaze to the right, they could see the gray mist converge from all over upon a single point in the hillside. What they saw came not as a surprise, but the shock of realization that they had been correct held them spellbound for some moments.

  “We were right, Alan… Mr. Hasrad,” affirmed Fletcher very softly. “It’s draining right into the cave.”

  “And it seems,” Alan observed, “we haven’t arrived too soon. In a couple of minutes it will all be gone—all funnelled into that horrible cave, down the shaft you unwittingly opened, to its prison created eons past by the Elder Gods—if certain ancient writings speak the truth. Do you realize, Professor, that beneath us, down incredibly far, is probably a hollow chamber that must stretch for miles in each direction, large enough to contain all the mist that has been covering the countryside?”

  Fletcher nodded. “I suppose so… but come,” he urged, “while there is still time to see what happens.”

  Most of the mist had disappeared into the hillside, and only stray, tattered remnants remained pursuing the main ranks, as the two scrambled and slipped in haste down the incline. There was no need for Fletcher to point out the precise location of the hidden cavern for the mist was guide enough. As water spirals down a basin drain, so did the mist appear to swirl into the concealed opening of the hill. Moving the branches aside that concealed the entrance, several of them broken, they peered through the ancient maw.

  With no hesitation they parted and passed through the remaining bushes into the cool, dank blackness of the cave; inside, they snapped on the large flashlights they carried. They stood near the entrance and surveyed the cavern which ran back perhaps thirty feet into the hillside, ending in a blank wall broken by a shadowy opening. Along the floor and through this aperture flowed the remaining tendrils of fragile, hazy mist. Alan guided his light about the low-vaulted roof that pressed downward and along the irregular rock walls and rubble-covered floor. All in all, it was a wildly unnatural aspect that met their gaze.

  Slowly they advanced to the back wall where gaped the forced entrance made by Fletcher more than a month ago. Alan led the way, scrambling through the opening into the small chamber it once had concealed, closely followed by his companion. Their lights revealed the pit, half-covered by a large, flat star-shaped stone. Above them, the cavern formed a low arch, hardly high enough to permit them to stand erect. Little of the mist now remained, but what was left was making it
s way into the opening.

  “No doubt about it now, Dr. Fletcher. This is where it retreats during the daylight hours after its nightly feed is ended.”

  Fletcher slowly nodded. “Indeed, yes. The question now is how to keep it down there… permanently!”

  “That hopefully will not be as difficult as you might imagine,” ventured Alan, kneeling at the edge of the shaft. He moved his light about the smooth tube-like opening into the earth and watched the thinly dispersed mist flow over the edge and make its descent. Abruptly, Alan had a thought and withdrew from his pocket a tiny medicine bottle all but empty. He shook from it a few capsules, which he placed into his pocket, then held the open bottle near the shaft.

  “Just what,” Fletcher wanted to know, “are you doing?”

  Alan gazed up at him with a strained grin. “Oh, just indulging an idle fancy. Silly, eh?”

  “And what did you mean by suggesting there might be no problem in sealing this horror up again?”

  “I meant that we can return things to the condition they were before you first entered this place.” As Alan spoke, he carefully examined the rock slab that had covered the opening of the shaft. It was obviously not a formation created by nature, and he was equally certain it had never been constructed by man. Radiating points gave it the unquestionable form of a star. It was only about four inches thick, relieving it of what might have been considerable weight, and its circular diameter of at least three feet was more than enough to effectively cover the hole. Alan’s light licked over the covering, which he dusted off, revealing curious lines etched onto the surface of what he took to be a seal.

  “This,” said Alan, pointing to the curlicue formations, “is writing of a kind, and I think I can assure you it is prehuman—certainly it was never made by man.”

  Fletcher nodded his agreement. “After what I’ve witnessed this past month, I certainly would not question your judgment.”

  As he finished, the two noticed the last of the mist had flowed into the shaft.

  “The Necronomicon tells of such cryptic signs as this, used by the Elder Gods millions of years ago to restrain and virtually immobilize the enormous power of some of the Old Ones to which this mist is reputed to be directly related.”

  “Surely you’re not implying that this stone can imprison the terror down there, are you? Anything strong enough to crush a cow isn’t about to be stopped by a barrier such as this. Even I was able to move it!”

  “I’m willing to wager it will. Not the stone itself, of course, but what has been written upon it. This script, whatever it might read, enforces an inexplicable cosmic spell, incredibly potent, that has been able to restrain the mist for what might have been many millions of years. You must realize, Dr. Fletcher, this is not a slab which someone had carved into the shape of a star and engraved with curious symbols. No, it is far, far more. Mystic incantations of towering proportions attended the creation of the runic inscriptions you see. I myself have seen similar star stones, most of them small enough to hold in my hand. This is by far the largest I’ve ever encountered, but its size is no doubt necessary to confine the actual bulk, as tenuous as it is at present, of the actual Old One. No, Doctor,” Alan concluded. “I think I can assure you that the nocturnal feeding of this nightmare is at an end.”

  Dr. Fletcher was doubtful, but during the short duration of his acquaintance with Alan Hasrad, he had become so impressed with his sense of competence and sagacity that he had no reluctance in placing the matter solely in his hands.

  “Well, then,” he reflected, “I bow to your knowledge in this field of arcane matters, but I would feel better if something further could be done.”

  “Such as?”

  “That I do not know. So… I am content simply to follow your advice. Let us cover the shaft now before it decides to come out again.”

  “A moment more, Professor,” Alan said, continuing to kneel and examine the ancient writing. “All the mist seems to have disappeared in here, but you’d best check the cavern and outside area just to be certain. I’ll stay here and cover the opening if it should decide to come back up.”

  Dr. Fletcher returned shortly and assured Alan that, to the best of his knowledge, all the mist had descended the shaft; he could detect none in the larger or smaller chamber nor outside. Satisfied, it took but a few moments, with their combined strength, to shove the star-shaped seal over the opening. They stood up, nodded firmly at the completion of their task, and gripped hands in silent recognition of this new friendship that had returned the deadly mist to captivity.

  Outside, they spent some minutes sealing the small entrance with large boulders that lay scattered about with the conviction that no one must ever again discover this cavern. It was nearly eleven o’clock before they had finished and began their return to the cottage.

  Alan stayed on for the remainder of the day and night, enjoying the company of Dr. Fletcher and the quiet serenity of the area. That first night the countryside, from all accounts, slumbered undisturbed, no longer troubled by the horror, and Alan left the following morning satisfied that the destiny of mankind was no longer threatened.

  Two weeks later Alan Hasrad sat in his library examining the afternoon mail. His eyes seized upon one envelope in particular which bore the return address of Dr. Fletcher. Deftly, he slit it open and withdrew the contents, a single sheet of paper which relayed the happy message that all was well and serene at Shadow Lake and vicinity. The mist, Dr. Fletcher concluded, was surely laid to rest and the countryside had already returned to its usual tranquility.

  Alan smiled and glanced over to a tiny bottle which adorned his desk. Inside, a gray cloud-like material seemed to squirm and struggle to free itself from its glass confinement. Continually in motion, constantly changing its formless shape, it charged and retreated from side to side and top to bottom of the imprisoning vial.

  Alan continued to smile as he watched with total fascination this fragment from the stupendous whole of the primordial depravity he had captured within the cave before it could follow the larger mass into and down the shaft. Was it sentient, as was the parent body? Alan could not be certain, but he suspected a diminutive portion of the immeasurable intellect struggled to regain its freedom. And it amused him to know that his souvenir was none other than a part—an infinitesimal part—of the quasi-god itself.

  PneephTaal waited.

  Patiently.

  It brooded over the irrational stratagem it had followed of returning to its prison while gaining bulk and strength, only to find itself once again effectively restrained. But one day, perhaps years or centuries or millenniums in the future, its fetters would once again be lifted and it would satisfy its consuming, cavernous appetite. That day, it knew, would surely come; and the same mistake would not be repeated.

  SHOGGOTH’S OLD PECULIAR

  BY NEIL GAIMAN

  BENJAMIN LASSITER WAS COMING TO THE UNAVOIDABLE conclusion that the woman who had written the Walking Tour of the British Coastline book he was carrying in his backpack had never been on a walking tour of any kind, and would probably not recognise the British coastline if it were to dance through her bedroom at the head of a marching band, singing “I’m the British coastline” in a loud and cheerful voice while accompanying itself on the kazoo.

  He had been following her advice for five days now, and had little to show for it, except blisters, and a backache. All British seaside resorts contain a number of bed and breakfast establishments, who will be only too delighted to put you up in the “off-season,” was one such piece of advice. Ben had crossed it out and written, in the margin beside it, All British seaside resorts contain a handful of bed and breakfast establishments, the owners of which take off to Spain or Provence or somewhere on the last day of September, locking the doors behind them as they go.

  He had added a number of other marginal notes, too. Such as Do not repeat not under any circumstances order fried eggs again in any roadside cafe and what is it with the fish and chips th
ing? And No they are not. That last was written beside a paragraph which claimed that, if there was one thing that the inhabitants of scenic villages on the British coastline were pleased to see, it was a young American tourist on a walking tour.

  For five hellish days Ben had walked from village to village, had drunk sweet tea and instant coffee in cafeterias and cafes, and stared out at grey rocky vistas and at the slate-coloured sea, shivered under his two thick sweaters, got wet, and failed to see any of the sights that were promised.

  Sitting in the bus-shelter in which he had unrolled his sleeping bag one night he had begun to translate key descriptive words: charming he decided, meant nondescript, scenic meant ugly but with a nice view if the rain ever lets up, delightful probably meant we’ve never been here and don’t know anyone who has. He had also come to the conclusion that the more exotic the name of the village, the duller the village.

  Thus it was that Ben Lassiter came, on the fifth day, somewhere north of Bootle, to the village of Innsmouth, which was rated neither charming, scenic nor delightful in his guidebook. There were no descriptions of the rusting pier, nor the mounds of rotting lobster-pots upon the pebbly beach.

  On the seafront were three bed and breakfasts, next to each other, Sea View, Mon Repose and Shub Niggurath, each with a neon Vacancies sign turned off in the window of the front parlour, each with a “closed for the season” notice thumbtacked to the front door.

  There were no cafes open on the seafront. The lone fish and chip shop had a closed sign up. Ben waited outside for it to open, as the grey afternoon light faded into dusk. Finally a small, slightly frog-faced woman came down the road, and she unlocked the door of the shop. Ben asked her when they would be open for business, and she looked at him, puzzled, and said, “It’s Monday, dear. We’re never open on Monday.” Then she went into the fish and chip shop and locked the door behind her, leaving Ben cold and hungry on her doorstep.