I followed my grandpa’s uncle to the stairwell. “It’s in the cabinet by the furnace.”
He opened the door. “Thank you kind—”
I didn’t give him time to finish. I pushed that ancient bastard down the stairs the first chance I got. He grabbed the railing, but it was too late. His body tumbled head over foot to the bottom and lay broken on the cement below. Footsteps thundered through the house towards the basement door: Mule.
I stepped down, locked the door behind me and ran to the gun case. The door at the top of the stairs burst open as I fumbled through my pocket to find the key. Mule flew down the stairs, first with intent, then because several of the steps gave out under his weight. I slid the key into the lock and turned it to open the case when Mule was less than five feet away from me. I froze, thinking it was too late. But Mule never got to his feet. He gathered the lifeless mass on the ground and held it in his arms. For the first time I heard him speak. “Daddy!” he cried. “Dad-dy, you be ok Dad-dy!” He dropped the body on the floor and turned on me. “I kill you!” he shouted. “I make you bleed like your mom!”
For the moment his threat was idle. He didn’t move. So I raised the gun, and using every ounce of hate I’d kept bottled up over the years, I fired at him.
Then the reality of the situation, all 700lbs of it heaped on my grandfather’s basement floor, hit me. I loaded the gun again and walked towards them. Mule’s head had been leveled at the shoulders, hardly plausible given the firearm, but there it was. I had no idea what to do. There was a truck in the front yard, and the body of an old man who had likely been declared dead years ago, as well as the corpse his son lying dead on my basement floor. To make matters worse, the auction was only a week away.
I thought about burning the bodies, but the idea of cutting them up into manageable pieces was too much for me. I thought about dragging them outside for the coyotes, but that would entail taking Mule out piece by piece as well. So I settled on the most irrational, unconventional means of getting rid of them I could think of.
I carried the gun upstairs and sorted through Grandpa’s toolbox until I found a screwdriver that’d take the butt guard off Dad’s rifle. Against better judgment, I planned to feed those two to whatever the hell it was that almost ate me years before.
X
With the gun resting beside me on the floor, I copied the etching by drawing from Mule’s blood with my finger. I continued the interlacing strands atop their bodies until the circle was complete. Then I backed against the furnace and waited.
And not a damned thing happened.
I double-checked the design, holding the base of the gun up beside the circle on the floor. They looked the same, so I leaned over the circle to check it point-by-point. Of course that’s when it started glowing like a red flame and erupted upwards out of the concrete, nearly blinding me. By the time I recovered, the concrete began to crack inside the circle, falling into the gaping maw of whatever was heading towards the surface. The sheetrock on the far wall began to shift, and the stairway warped under the duress of pressure. Then the spindly appendages of one of those godforsaken things basted the bodies in a thick, black ooze. The blood on the floor drew into the circle as the bodies were engulfed, and it surfaced, some lesser incarnation of what my grandfather’s uncle called “Hastur.”
Its hunger had not been sated by the two men, and it set its eyes on me. We paused for a brief moment, each of us in the crosshairs of the other, each of us waiting for the other to make the first move. When it finally grew impatient and veered in my direction, I did as my father had suggested many years ago. I made the shot count, firing into the creature’s throat, hoping in part that its vitals were no different than the creatures of the over world, and in part hoping that the wound would drown out its terrible cry that haunted me in my sleep.
A clotted mass of black phlegm-like goo sprayed from the exit wound, but the creature did not withdraw. It held fast, clinging to the ground as the circle began to close. I ran to the gun cabinet and loaded the rifle again, but knew even as I did so that it was pointless. The circle began to constrict the beast until its bodily fluids spurted from newly-forged relief holes, the pressure of which was so great that the tears in its flesh grew considerably, eventually granting passage to the vitals contained within.
And when the hole in the floor finally closed, my initial problem was solved. The bodies were gone...replaced by a pile of writhing tentacles and the head of something three times their size, something a pack of coyotes probably wouldn’t eat even if on the brink of starvation.
The black bilious substance that had come from the creature’s wounds was now starting to spread across the floor. I turned to look behind me, and saw the windows and the wall spattered with the stuff. This time, Grandpa’s chainsaw and the furnace would have to do.
I opened the furnace door and grabbed a few of the day planners and one of the empty leather-bound journals from the pile of kindling, lit one of the planners, and fed the flame. I reached for another one of the empty journals, but it was no longer empty. On the cover where the black bile had hit it, a title was partially illuminated. I took the tome, dropped it face down in the pool on the floor, turned it over and read from the cover. It was the diary of Nathan Bradford, my great grandfather.
The diary was scrawled in barely-legible penmanship, a broken narrative interspersed by summoning rituals unique to each of the demons, and the means to destroying them. There were multiple techniques, which appeared to evolve as my grandfather’s narrative continued. He started by discussing a technique he called netting, in which the circles were infused with various ingredients to weaken the demon upon its emergence.
The ingredients used for each approach to destroying the demons were essentially the same, divided into three categories. There were transitory ingredients, which rendered the ethereal composition of the demons flesh-like. There were lethal ingredients, which harmed the demons. Finally, there were the material ingredients that were used simply to allow man to wield the weapons.
On the third page was a brief entry on tempering blades with the ingredients needed to kill lesser demons, but it was for the most part incomplete, replaced several entries later in different handwriting, alongside a method of casting bullets. These entries were initialed J.B. They were my grandfather’s.
The tone of the book changed then, comparing biblical passages to previous entries in the book, positing that the “demons” were not demons at all. Moreover, Grandpa’s entries questioned whether these beings were actually evil, or if evil had just been read into them on account of their apathy towards man’s existence, and their perturbation at being summoned by what they considered lesser beings. It didn’t matter to him. Whether inadvertently or intentionally, one of them had killed his brother, and he aimed to make things right.
As for my grandfather’s uncle, there was no mention of him directly, only a short passage on our family’s division into two sects at the turn of the century. There were no names, no mention as to why a division existed between the two branches. As I continued reading, the missing details made it apparent that my grandfather’s entries were intended to be a memory aid, nothing more. The book was not meant to be passed down to my father, nor to myself. Grandpa had intended for the family’s art to die with him.
Knowing what I know now, I wonder sometimes if that would have been for the better. If things would have gone as Grandpa had intended, my mom and dad would still be alive. I’d probably be off at college or on the road to starting a family. But the more I think about it, the more I’m glad that what could have been remains something I visit in passing. Had I remained oblivious, those wretched bastards under the earth—pardon my Judeo-Christian upbringing—wherever the hell they come from, would still be crawling around in the underbelly of our minds. Eventually someone out there would find out and conjure up these things, bartering for gifts. Maybe whatever those things were that came out of the circles weren’t evil. But some of their po
wer had rubbed off on my grandfather’s uncle, maybe Mule too, and that power led them to corruption.
That’s why I’m continuing in my ancestor’s footsteps, why I’ve decided to write my part of the legacy down in the blank pages at the end of this journal. The road I’m on now, it’s not necessarily better for me. But it’s for the better. And if you’re reading this, chances are you already started putting the pieces together well before figuring out what rests in your hands is more than just a blank book. Whatever led you to this point, one thing’s for sure. You’re not doing this to put food on the table, and it’s too dangerous to consider a sport or hobby. If you somehow slipped upon this out of chance or curiosity, think long and hard about what you do next. If you choose to put what’s between these pages to use, the hunt becomes your life.
...and the cleanup is a bitch.
SHOWTIME
Sam Gafford
“Hey kids! It’s Captain Billy time!”
For over ten years, that was the phrase that kids in the New England area woke up to in the morning. In the world of regional children television, Captain Billy (William Turner) was approaching the big time. He had already brought the show to prominence in the New England market, far eclipsing any other show in recent memory and was approaching such records that hadn’t been seen since the heady days of Salty’s Shack. Within days, a new contract would be signed and Captain Billy would be on his way to national syndication. Everyone was poised for the kind of market penetration that hadn’t been seen since Mr. Rogers retired, except for one thing...No one could find Captain Billy.
The rotund funnyman, loved by thousands of youngsters, had been missing for over two weeks. The local Rhode Island network, which aired the show, filled the space with repeats and had managed, through a great deal of pressure, blackmail and cash, to keep the events from reaching the newspapers or evening news – but I knew more than they had realized. Although I had only been working in the Captain Billy Show production department for the past six months, I knew panic when I saw it and everyone was in full panic mode. Even the producer, Mr. Banks, a small, beady man who looked the part of a middle aged accountant turned producer, acted worried and no one could ever recall Banks being rattled by anything. Not by the lawsuits from certain children’s parents, not by the rumors of sponsor kickbacks, not even by the mysterious late night ‘trips’ that Captain Billy would take. But this rattled him. This shook him to the core. He didn’t show it around the set but I could sense it and each day made it worse. Of course, it was strange how Banks was even more upset when Captain Billy returned.
The executives were thrilled, naturally, as Billy Turner came back just in time to sign on the dotted line and made everyone’s dreams of money and syndication come true. “I just needed to take some time by myself,” Billy said, “I never thought it would be such a big deal! Didn’t you get my memo?” Everyone laughed and said how Billy was such a kidder and bottles of champagne flowed and various other substances were ingested and fun and laughter was had by all. Except for Mr. Banks. Not many noticed that he didn’t stay around for the after-signing party or for the after-signing party “party” that was invitation only. Being only a Production Assistant, I wasn’t included in that last celebration but that was okay. A few of the other “non-included” office workers and I stopped at a local bar afterwards and continued with our own party. When I had finished my forth beer or so, I staggered my way to the men’s room and that’s when I saw Banks. He was sitting alone in a booth in the back, away from the lights and the noise and the people. When I got closer, I saw something that I never thought I would see. Mr. Ryan Banks, terror of the network, the man with ice water in his veins, was sobbing.
Not the kind of crying that you see most people doing with little tears falling from their eyes. This man was sobbing with his entire body. It shook as he cried. So badly that you would have thought that he had palsy. Unbelieving, I went up to him. “Mr. Banks?” I asked tentatively.
He recognized my voice and looked up tentatively. “Ah, Kevin,” he said, “I was just having a few drinks. Been a long few weeks, you know. Why...ah, why don’t you join me for a few, eh?”
Now, even drunk, I knew the politics involved. When your boss offers to let you join him for a drink, you don’t refuse. Not if you want to get anywhere, that is, and I really wanted to get somewhere. Banks motioned for the waitress and ordered a double shot of whiskey. I ordered the same and he chuckled at that. “You’ve got a way to go if you want to catch up to me, Kevin.” The drinks came and he gulped his down quickly and ordered another. I tried to do the same but ended up coughing a bit and needed a few tries to get it down. Banks smiled at that and ordered another.
“So,” he finally said, “everyone’s still celebrating, eh? Big payday for all of us now. National syndication, big time ratings, lots of money flowing in. Everybody’s happy. Are you happy, Kevin?”
I told him I was.
He snorted into his empty glass. “I was happy once. Seems like a long time ago though. I remember being happy when I met Bill Turner. I remember being happy when the show started climbing in the ratings. I remember being happy the first time I went to one of the ‘elite’ parties he throws. Then I don’t remember being happy again.”
I asked why he wasn’t at the after-party party tonight.
“I will be, soon enough. Have to fortify myself privately first.” He raised his glass. “But I’m expected and I will have to put in my appearance.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Did you know...” He stopped for a moment to compose himself. “...did you know that they used to do it all through books? It’s true. Once upon a time, the world communicated through books. Imagine that. No instant communication. No faxes. No phones.” He chuckled to himself and then sang, “‘Not a single luxury’!”
I could feel the room spinning around me and could barely hear what he was saying but it didn’t seem like he’d make much sense even if I had been sober.
“In those days, ideas were communicated over long distance through books. Especially dangerous ideas. The kind of ideas you could get killed for having. Books were easily disguised and hid if needed be but it wasn’t enough. You still couldn’t reach enough people because not enough of them could read! Not to mention the fact that a lot of the books became ‘forbidden’ so people couldn’t even find the damn things!”
Another round of drinks came and Banks downed his again. I had no idea he was such a prodigious drinker. I could barely touch mine.
“The thing that everyone kept missing was that communication was essential. Even at the right time, even when the ‘stars were right’, if there wasn’t enough people who believed, truly believed, then it still wouldn’t work. So things went underground for quite awhile. You going to drink that?”
I shook my head ‘no’ and he downed my drink as well.
“But then, at the beginning of this century, things started to change. Communication of ideas faster was a lot easier with the invention of wireless and they almost got it right. But only part of it got through. Still, that was enough to result in WWI and the 1918 flu epidemic. Millions died and Europe was devastated but there still weren’t enough believers. You have to believe to make it work. So then came radio. It helped spread the word but, primarily due to the efforts of one small scribbler from Rhode Island, a lot of people didn’t take it seriously. So that resulted in WWII. Still not enough power.
“Then came television.
“That started to work. But there were problems. Sometimes the message didn’t convey correctly and that resulted in such debacles as McCarthy and Southeast Asia. But then they hit on the right formula and connection. It’s taken a while to get it all together and co-ordinate the astronomical factors but they’re nearly ready to try it again.”
Banks leaned forward and whispered to me. “Kevin, have you ever seen what happens to kids when they watch TV? They’re mesmerized. They become totally absorbed in whatever is on and they soak it all in. To top it off, they�
�ll believe anything they see. Want to sell a piece of crap toy? Tell them how great it is and you won’t be able to make enough of them. Packaging a new cereal or candy? Make them believe how great it is and it’ll fly off the shelves. Their friend in Germany knew this. Capture the young and you can determine the future. And that’s was Bill Turner was for. Start small. Make sure it works and then go big time. Now it’s the big time. Spread it electronically and spread it nationally.”
Banks grabbed my hand.
“Do you want to know, Kevin? Do you really want to know what goes on at the after-party parties? What really walks the earth in the guise of Bill Turner? Then I’ll show you!”
Banks looked into my eyes and I saw, for the briefest instant, what he had seen. It was the future. The earth had been wiped clean, and huge, hideous things slid and climbed over the wreckage of humanity. Dark horrors swam through the air and reached through the clouds. They had been waiting for centuries to reclaim this world and now, finally, through the miracle of television, they would succeed. Cthulhu roared through the abyss. Nyarlthotep gloated over his huge camps of human slaves and pain. Hastur, in his golden lake, luxuriated in his horror, and over it all, orchestrating the terror, was Azathoth. The Lord of Chaos ululated grotesquely over the cosmos.
I fell off my chair like an electric shock had gone through me.
“So now you see. When Bill disappeared a few days ago, I knew what was about to happen. He was getting ready for his big debut. Except...except when he came back, it wasn’t Billy. The man was gone. In his place was a mere piece of what was to come. Yog-Sothoth had claimed him. It was in his eyes. God help me, I could see it and I did nothing. Nothing!”
Banks started sobbing again.
“And now I’m going to go to that ‘party’ and do nothing again. I’ll sit there and do nothing as they gather believers and open the door. I’ll do nothing when they come through and I’ll do nothing when they wipe the earth clean in their image.”
New Tales of the Old Ones Page 24