Keyport Cthulhu

by Armand Rosamilia

  Charlie ignored Richie’s question as he picked up some relics that adorned the end table. The house was eerily silent.

  “Let’s get to work. The old coot must be at Bingo or something. Look for that treasure they talked about.” Richie entered the parlor in the front of the house. It looked like a library. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined three of the walls. He noticed a few stuffed birds with black eyes which stared at him as he walked past. He found it odd that the birds were crows and vultures. Based on the sea port’s history, he would have expected seagulls or herons.

  Charlie opened a little jewelry box, set on the desk in the middle of the parlor. The ornate box was empty but for a few rusted fishing weights. He began opening the drawers on the desk, searching for anything they could pawn for quick cash.

  Richie read the titles on the book shelf. The spines revealed many first edition classics like Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. But his attention was drawn to a huge tome that leaned back upon a brass display stand. Richie thought that something urged him closer to it. He couldn’t explain the feeling that filled his body as he drew near. He knew he had to touch the book. The one word on the cover perplexed Richie. Necronomicon. He had no idea what that meant. As he reached for the book, a voice startled him.

  “Find anything…interesting?”

  Richie spun around to find a frail man sitting in a red, high-backed chair near the window. He could have sworn that nobody else was in the house just a few seconds ago. Charlie audibly swallowed hard from the center of the room.

  “Well? Have you?” The old man’s skin was so pale that Richie swore it glowed.

  “Uh, no. I mean, I guess so.”

  The old man stood up. His head hung slightly forward as his back hunched over. He didn’t so much as walk as he glided across the oriental rug. “I’m Seymour, but I suppose you had already figured that out.”

  He was dressed in a black coat with tails. A frilled, white blouse rose up to his chin. Richie stared at the man’s neck. It looked like Seymour had gills. Richie blinked and the marks were gone. The strangeness overwhelmed his sensibilities. He felt rooted to the floor.

  “You aren’t from around here, are you?” Seymour walked toward Charlie. He stared at the old man and replaced the small jewelry box on the desk. Charlie shook his head in response.

  “Well, it would be rude of me to not offer you gentlemen a drink. Care for some Port?”

  Charlie didn’t speak. Richie answered for both of them. “We actually just wanted to hear some stories.” Seymour faced Richie with an interested expression on his face.

  “Stories? What kind of stories?”

  “Stories about sea treasure. We heard some guys at the pub talking about some treasure you got from the sea.”

  Seymour chuckled. “You believe everything you hear muttered in a place full of liquor?” The question seemed rhetorical because Seymour continued without delay. “Yes, the sea contains many treasures. Some unnamed.” He glided back to the high-backed chair and gently lowered his frame. “Please.” He indicated that the guests should pull up a few chairs. “Rest your legs while I regale you a fine tale about the sea.”

  Mesmerized, Richie and Charlie sat before Seymour. Their plan to loot the old man now fogged over and nearly forgotten. They sat stoic, only blinking and breathing ever so slightly so that they wouldn’t miss one syllable.

  “This lovely town of ours has existed as far back as the colonies. Some say even longer. A few families chose to settle here. Fishing families. Folks of the water.”

  Seymour’s black eyes darted between his two guests. He seemed pleased with their rapt attention. He rubbed his scaly hands together as he spoke.

  “The Murphys were the first family to discover the ancient ones. They learned the language of the sea. And shared it with the rest of us.” Seymour smiled. “I believe you met Dylan Murphy. Yes?”

  Richie nodded slowly. He wanted to scream and run from the house. But he couldn’t break away from the invisible tethers that bound him in place.

  “Good. So Dylan introduced the Grandons and the Reynolds to the Old Ones. And also the Pikes. My family.” Seymour paused to look at Charlie, who sat silently staring with haunted eyes. “I’ll never forget the day I met Cthulhu. He was quite majestic. Inspiring, really.”

  Seymour Pike stood and began to pace behind his guests. He stopped behind Charlie and rested his bony fingers upon his shoulders. Charlie shuddered and tasted salt water in the back of his throat.

  “You see, we are just mere servants in this world. We blindly go forward in search of love and fortune. It only occupies us until we are called. That…is when we truly come alive.”

  Seymour stalked back to the book case and retrieved the Necronomicon. He brought the ancient tome back to his chair and rested it upon his lap. Richie and Charlie were drawn to gaze at the over-sized book. It’s textured binding beckoned their eyes.

  Seymour opened the Necronomicon to a page with a hand-drawn image of a beast with long, gloomy tentacles. The writing alongside the picture was scrawled in quill ink. Words that could not be deciphered by the untrained eye.

  “The sea is the bringer of life. The giver. We are born of its icy waters. We grow from the mollusks and the crustaceans to transform life into the land. And in the end, we return to the waters. We provide renewed nutrition to the Old Ones who call us back to our roots.” Seymour lifted his hands in mock sermon. “The great god Cthulhu reassures us that in dying we live forever. In serving, we are served. And in darkness, all is brought to light.”

  Richie trembled. His skin crawled like thousands of bugs burrowed beneath his flesh. A clap of thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the gabled roof. The darkness outside the parlor windows painted the glass, obscuring the street lights. Richie managed to glance at Charlie. His friend’s eyes protruded from their sockets. Foamy saliva bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His gnarled fingers dug into the wooden arms of the chair leaving white grooves.

  Seymour Pike seemed to grow stronger with each utterance. The hunched countenance became more rigid. Even his pallor turned a rosy hue. The scales on the backs of his hands more prominent with silvery-green color.

  Richie was horrified. He fought against the tidal currents. A watery death waited for him, somewhere toward the pier. Richie wondered how everything could have gone so wrong. Their little road trip to score money and women had turned into a death trap. Things unseen crept out of the corners to consume the living. A kaleidoscope of terror swirled around the men trapped in their chairs.

  Richie thought of his mother. The poor woman would have to watch as they lowered his rotting corpse into the earth. That is, if they ever found his corpse. And he wasn’t quite sure that would be possible. Thoughts of his mother crying over his grave provided just enough strength for Richie to fall to his knees. The inexplicable chanting paused as the old man appeared surprised. Richie worked his way to his feet to grab Charlie. His friend twitched and clawed the chair. It looked like it was too late for Charlie. Richie stumbled across the parlor, knocking relics from a coffee table. He looked over his shoulder at the old man. Richie thought that nictitating membranes clicked over the black eyes.

  A rickety door opened from the back of the parlor. Richie strained to meet the eerie sound. His jaw trembled at the realization that one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases served as a hidden passage to a dark portal. The waitress from the diner sauntered past Richie on her way to Charlie. As Richie watched her straddle his friend, two more figures brushed past him. The fetid smell of marsh water assaulted his sinuses. The two old men from the pub giggled as they closed in on Charlie and the waitress. Richie blinked furiously to clear the tears filling his eyes, only to witness the old men feed upon Charlie’s flesh. The west sound of lip smacking and slurping sent chills down Richie’s spine. The old men ate of Charlie’s meat even though he was still alive, trapped inside the frozen spell of the Necronomicon’s words.

 
; The waitress cooed and glanced up at Richie. Her eyes blinked, a nictitating membrane sliding over her blackened irises before she leaned in to join the feast.

  Richie screamed. The horror was too much to keep bottled inside his brain. He lunged for a shiny cutlass which hung across the parlor entrance. Swinging the heavy steel blade, Richie scrambled toward his tormentor. Seymour stood in defiance. The Necronomicon under his right arm while his left arm pointed at Richie. A bellicose wail reverberated around the parlor. Book cases rocked against the walls. Stuffed birds toppled to the floor.

  Richie dropped the cutlass and fell to the floor. He clutched at his ears as the ancient horn wrapped itself around his brain stem. Hot fluids dripped between his fingers. He glanced at his hands and confirmed that blood was pouring from his ears. Richie’s eyes glazed over, petrified in a colossal anguish. His head grew heavy and slumped to the old oriental rug. He smelled rotted fish in the dense fibers beneath his skull. Sea water drooled from his lips and puddled on the carpet.

  Staring up at the cobwebbed ceiling, a new figure hovered over Richie with a sheepish grin. Dylan, the bartender, stood above Richie with a gaff in his hand. The large fishing hook was rusted with a scrimshaw handle etched with tentacles carved into its skin. Dylan grinned when he saw the fear blossom in Richie’s eyes. He swung the hook down, tearing through Richie’s mouth and tongue. Blood filled his maw and flooded Richie’s throat, choking off his air supply.

  Blackness enclosed Richie as he shrieked for salvation. The last thing Richie saw was Seymour Pike standing over him. Seymour laughed as he patted the bartender’s shoulder with approval.

  * * * * *

  The screams startled Jerry so much that the lit cigarette fell from his lips and burned a hole in his lap. He fanned the burning embers to the floor and stomped them out with his heel. Jerry’s eyes danced across the ancient home. The lamps and candles that had recently lit each window were no longer glowing. The windows looked like black, soulless eyes watching over him.

  Jerry’s chest beat hard. His breathing became erratic and he swung the car door open. He needed to find out what happened. He hoped the screams didn’t come from his two friends. As he took a few steps toward the house, a clap of thunder rolled across the heavens. Jerry jumped from the sidewalk and landed against the fender of his car. Another shriek tore through the darkness, shaking Jerry where he stood.

  He hustled around the hood of his car and dove into the driver’s seat. His foot slammed on the gas pedal before he even shut the door. The tires screeched upon the asphalt, kicking up a strip which laid bare the old cobblestone beneath. Jerry never turned on his headlights. He was so scared, he forgot.

  * * * * * *

  The Broad Street Pub was busy. Keyport locals seemed to be in good spirits tonight. Like an unknown weight had been lifted from their shoulders. Irish music filled the background between mugs slammed on tables and roars of laughter. Dylan Murphy shined a few mugs and watched his patrons with pride.

  Two men sitting at a table in the corner of the bar shouted over the din to be heard.

  “Two of the bodies floated ashore. The eyes and tongues were missing, like they had been eaten away.” The old man adjusted his round hat as he spoke. The other man, wearing a cabby cap, poured ale from a half-empty pitcher. “I heard the third body was found in the car that crashed into the pier. A sweet ’55 Chevy wagon. The car was cherry.” He slogged down his ale in one gulp.

  “That body was just a husk of skin. No bones, no innards. They said it was like an empty burlap sack.”

  Both men repeated the gruesome details to each other like they forgot they had just spoken about it. The old men began giggling as they showed off the dark, bloody mustaches each wore upon their upper lips. The hairy souvenirs stuck only by the slimy flesh beneath the whiskers. As they ran through the highlights again, a hunched man at the end of the counter put two rare coins down upon the bar. He finished his glass of Port and placed his hat upon his head. The old man glanced at Dylan Murphy on his way out of the pub.

  Dylan Murphy winked at the gentleman and slid the coins under the bar. He returned to shining mugs and enjoying the celebratory atmosphere in his establishment.

  Lockbox

  Armand Rosamilia

  Three bodies, all torn apart like a pack of wild dogs had been through the apartment. I didn't think it likely, as they were on the second floor, above where the infamous A7 Club was located on the corner of East 7th Street and Avenue A. More than likely it was because of the wild pack of kids who roamed the East Village.

  "Did you pull anyone from downstairs?" I asked a uniformed officer impatiently. I'd been woken from a nice dream and wasn't in the mood for wasting time. I knew what this was going to be: a drug deal gone wrong, or some of those hardcore kids from the bar looking for cash to buy drugs. It was all it ever was in this part of town, where the NYHC crew would terrorize and tag everything in their path like an ugly wave. I didn't get it, but my job was to solve murders and eventually get all of these damn punks off the street.

  "We got twenty of them lined up around the corner in a vacant lot, Detective Graeme."

  I wasn't looking forward to being this close to them. They were mostly street kids, and I considered them an unorganized gang. Most of them were skinheads and wore the uniform of choice: wife-beaters, Doc Marten boots and covered in seedy tattoos.

  But it was better to talk to the street trash then hang out with the senseless violence inside this tiny apartment.

  "Robbery gone bad?" Detective Briggs asked as he arrived late as usual. I knew he was a junkie and it was only a matter of time before heroin caught up with him and put his ass on these mean streets as well. Some guys never learned or kicked a bad habit.

  "Doubtful," I said. There was cash on the dresser in the bedroom and the TV and microwave were still intact. The apartment hadn't been ransacked. Whoever did this wanted these three people dead. "Go talk to the landlord and bring a uniform with you."

  Briggs scrunched his face, looking sickly with his sunken eyes and yellowed skin. He was visibly sweating despite the snow outside. "I don't need a babysitter."

  "And I don't need a problem once you come down, right? Just do your job tonight without complications," I said. I didn't want Briggs anywhere near the street kids. All he'd try to do was score another connection in Tompkin's Square Park for later use. I thought 1983 was a bad time for drug use in NYC, but the first month of this year was even worse.

  I passed a dozen NYPD officers on the steps as I went out into the cold night. This was the part of my job I hated the most: the lull between first look at the bodies and figuring out who did the dirty deed.

  The kids were all leaning against the wall in a perfect line, which unnerved me. I was used to seeing them strung out on heroin, bouncing around, eyes darting back and forth.

  "You search all of them?" I asked the nearest officer.

  The cop nodded. "Every one of them is clean. No weapons. No drugs. Not even a pack of cigarettes."

  "They knew we were coming."

  "Nah. These cats say they're all Krishna or something weird."

  "We're straight edge," one of the punks said.

  I walked over and grabbed him by the arm. He didn't resist. I was going to make an example of the little runt but he didn't fight back, which pissed me off. "What's your name?"

  "Ray." I noticed the punk had giant black X's written in marker on either hand.

  I turned my back to the rest of the kids and the cops. This wasn't going to land us a suspect unless I played nice right now. The straight edge kids didn't curse, drink, do drugs, have premarital sex... nothing fun. "What happened upstairs?"

  Ray looked over his shoulder to the rest of his crew.

  "Don't worry about them. This is you and I talking. Off the record," I lied. "You know something?"

  "Yeah. I know who might've done it. A guy named Ivor lived up there with his family. English guy with an accent like you," Ray said. "They'd only been
in the country a few months."

  I'd been in New York City since I was seven but the damage had already been done. My accent made me the eternal outsider, and as much as I tried to stifle the accent it was no use.

  "Got a last name?" I asked out of habit. They'd find out who they were soon enough.

  Ray shook his head.

  "Where can I find Ivor?"

  "He'd wander down to the club most nights it was open. Saw him at CBGB's last Saturday. He hangs out in the park until first light. He was a good guy. Never on drugs or wanting to fight. Just part of the crew," Ray said. "Can I go now?"

  "Sure." I turned to the police officers standing near the punks. "They can go once you get all their ID info and write it up. I want it on my desk in an hour, too. We're burning time right now. We need to find out the last name of the son of the couple upstairs, too. Ivor something or other."

  * * * * *

  I found Ivor just after ten in the morning in Tompkin's Square Park.

  His throat had been slit and he'd been dead for hours, propped up obscenely on a park bench facing the murder scene.

  Even more players in this, I thought. It wasn't a simple suicide. He'd been attacked from behind based on the angle of the cut and the bruises around his shoulders and chest. Whoever had sliced Ivor open had made sure he was dead before letting go.

  I shook my head when the EMT's arrived, hoping to save another soul. It was too late for any of that nonsense.

  "We have a witness," Briggs said excitedly. The detective also looked sick. I was sure he hadn't pumped junk into his veins in hours and would be unbearable soon.

  With such a big police presence, most of the transients had moved on to neighboring soup kitchens, abandoned buildings and other parts of town.