New Tales of the Old Ones

by Derwin, Theresa

  “Cover them while I reload,” barked Smythe. Another one of the creatures lay sprawled in a jumbled heap in the mud. Johnson slashed at the nearest monster with his shovel. The thing sprang aside and Johnson fell over. The beast leaped onto him and grabbed his throat with its webbed hands. Thomas fired, hitting it in the arm. It shuddered, but didn’t stop its attack.

  “Pull up the ladder! Those men are done for,” shouted the captain.

  A scream echoed from the bow. A broad, frog-like face had popped up next to the man on guard, who smashed it with the butt of his rifle. Another set of webbed hands reached up and grabbed one of his arms. The gangly man jerked back, but the creature’s grip held, and the first monster seized the man’s coat. Thomas whipped his rifle left and right to get a clear shot, but the monsters pulled the shrieking man overboard before he could fire.

  Smythe called Thomas to help pull the bald man aboard. His bloodless lips moved soundlessly, and once they brought him over the side he crumpled onto the deck and curled into a ball. His eyes stared ahead, unseeing. Thomas shook the man’s shoulder gently, and then more roughly, but he remained motionless. Smythe put a restraining hand on Thomas. “Leave him be,” he said hoarsely, “He’s gone.” Thomas’ vision blurred and his knees buckled, and he sank to the deck, but a pair of hands shook him roughly, jarring his eyes open once more. “Get a hold of yourself,” Smythe shouted.

  “Mr. Smythe,” cried the captain, “The Polaris is lost. Go to my cabin and get the brass tube; I have already prepared a final message. Start a fire down below as well – they shall not have our cargo.”

  Smythe’s shoulders sagged, and his grip on Thomas loosened. He looked at the younger man for a long moment. “Give me your rifle and ammunition, and take my knife. I’ll do as the captain orders, but there’s no sense in all of us going down. By my reckoning we’re about half a mile off of Salmon Point. It’s not as gentle as the Bay of Quinte, but if you swim hard you might make it.”

  More creatures had climbed over the bow, and the red-haired crewman next to the captain dropped his weapon and sank to his knees, weeping. The captain fired several rounds into the nearest beast, which collapsed onto the deck. Smythe ripped the rifle from Thomas’ hands and put the knife in his belt before giving him a hard shove towards the gunwale. Thomas blinked and grabbed the ladder with numb hands, and swung over the side. He climbed down most of the way, but lost his grip a few feet from the bottom and landed on his backside in the mud. The gunfire was quieter down here, but there were other sounds – splashing water, hissing, and croaking. With a pounding heart he dove into the water and paddled madly. The crack of a rifle, followed by a shout, echoed in the night. He focused on the shoreline that lay somewhere to the north. Half a mile, he thought, I can do this.

  Sometime later a loud crackling broke through the night air, and a reddish light appeared at the edge of his vision. He half-turned, and saw a tongue of flame erupting from the hold into the night sky. The unspeakable creatures swarmed up the sides like ants, and the gunfire became more intense. Thomas shivered in the summer night, and it was with difficulty that he tore himself away from the scene and swam as never before. There was a faint shriek, and another, and the gunfire died away.

  Thomas swam on. His trembling limbs burned. The fire’s red glow grew fainter as he put more distance between himself and the stricken vessel. After a loud splintering sound and a drawn-out hiss, the light went out. The moon provided enough light for him to see the jagged line of the coast ahead. He was almost there. He lengthened his strokes to eat up that distance as quickly as possible.

  Suddenly, something clamped down on his ankle. Thomas kicked frantically, but failed to make contact with whatever was holding him. His assailant dragged him down. He gasped a deep breath before going under. It was too dark to see anything. Something tugged at his belt, and he flailed about. His hand closed on something cold and rough. His lower arm erupted in sharp pain, as though dozens of pins had been jabbed into it. He fought the urge to scream, and pushed his attacker with his other hand. One of his flailing feet made contact with something hard, but he was still trapped. He groped around his belt, hoping to unbuckle it, and his fingers brushed against the handle of the knife. He drew it and slashed wildly. His blade bit into something soft, and he drove the knife down again and again. The tugging stopped and he surfaced as fast as he could, filling his burning lungs with great gulps.

  The rest of the journey passed like a blur. He emerged on the rocky beach and collapsed with a great sob, but forced himself to his feet again and staggered over a ridge, and kept walking. Once the lake was no longer in sight and the sounds of the surf died away, his body grew leaden and he tumbled into the long grasses and fell into a deep sleep.

  X

  The sun was high in the clear blue sky when Thomas awoke, soaked and shivering despite the warmth of the day. He sat up and looked around. Nothing but tall grasses and shrubbery as far as the eye could see in every direction but south, with a faint plume of smoke far to the north. A farm, perhaps. To the south the land rose into a grassy ridge, beyond which would be the rocky beach, and the lake. The wind changed direction, and brought with it the smell of seaweed. Flashes of memory from the previous night bubbled up – fire, smoke, screaming, a bald man slumped on the deck – and he shuddered.

  “It can’t have happened,” he mumbled to himself. Somehow he must have fallen overboard in a storm – it happened often enough. But maybe someone else was on the beach. Maybe his uncle was there. Thomas shuffled painfully to the ridge. He couldn’t believe how much his arm hurt. He held it up, and saw that the sleeve of his shirt was shredded below the elbow, and caked with dried blood. His arm was swollen and red, and it looked like something with a lot of sharp, narrow teeth had bitten it. Another memory flashed into view, of being dragged underwater at night. Thomas shook his head and walked on.

  Patches of drying seaweed, and the occasional dead fish, dotted the rocky beach. A flash of white in one of the clumps of rotting vegetation caught his eye. He carefully slid down the slope and poked through the stinking pile, and found a large piece of wood almost twice as long as his arm that was charred and splintered around the edges. The green paint on it had bubbled and cracked, but enough of the white paint remained to spell out “POL”. His stomach churned and he grew nauseated. He fought for breath and shook his head. A shipwreck. There could still be survivors somewhere else on the beach. He had to keep moving.

  His pain forgotten, he walked briskly along the shore. A metallic glint drew him to a shallow pool, where a brass tube lay. He picked it up and turned it over. Clearly etched into the side were the words, “S.S. Polaris – Capt. N. Harris”. His hands shook as he broke the seal, and pulled out a rolled piece of paper. The writing was cramped and precise, but easy to read.

  Final Log of Captain Nathaniel E. Harris, of the S.S. Polaris (Toronto)

  July 18, 1884:

  I write this final entry, and as God is my witness declare it to be truth. My vessel is stricken, as I knew it would someday be, by unwholesome beings that dwell in the deeper reaches of the Great Lakes. I neither know nor care about their intentions, save that if they were to be realized humanity’s doom would be sealed.

  These ‘Deep Ones’ have been active under all the high seas for uncounted centuries, as I learned years ago while sailing in more exotic climes, and are in all likelihood the source of many of our legends about sea monsters, mermaids, and mythological places such as Atlantis. But in recent years they have established themselves in our own inland waters. I, and certain other like-minded captains, have been recruited by a number of notable scholars, including the eminent Professor A. Winchester, of Toronto, to hinder their activities.

  The professor informed me that these creatures intend to bring even worse terrors into our lakes, for which they need certain artifacts. The professor’s associates have been, at great personal cost, acquiring these items for a number of years, in various parts of the world. Captains, suc
h as I, are entrusted to deliver them into his care, at which point he renders them unusable.

  But the Deep Ones are clever, and have learned of our activities. Each captain who undertakes this duty does so with the knowledge that they may someday meet their end. Many already have, and so, now, do I.

  May God have mercy on my crew.

  Nathaniel E. Harris

  The paper fell from Thomas’s nerveless fingers. He sank to his knees on the rocky shore, and gazed in horror at the grey, rolling waves.

  THE DARNESS AT TABLE ROCK ROAD

  Michael Reyes

  It’s late July when I get the letter. Hand in my mailbox fishing around for the latest Netflix and Con Ed bill when I pull out a burgundy envelope with the name Robert Blake written on it in jagged script. Specialist Blake of 2-37 1st Armor Division... We were stationed in Freiburg ten years back, went to the Middle East together during the first year of the war. He’s been a distant memory since then. To the best of my knowledge completely out of circulation since the middle of the last decade. No family. No close friends. No trace of him on any social networking sites... Last thing anybody heard was that he was out of the service and living in Rotterdam with some woman.

  I walk upstairs to my cramped studio apartment. I turn on the lights, then collapse onto my green bean bag. I open the letter and the heavy scent of paprika wafts out. It reminds me of Baghdad street vendor food and scorching Iraqi heat. I read –

  Buddy!

  Long time no hear. I’m back stateside. Been living abroad this entire time. The sights I’ve seen ... THE SIGHTS I’VE SEEN! In Wyoming now. Come on out to visit me. All expenses paid ... because I’m independently wealthy! I’m not kidding. Will get you caught up when I see you. We can go backpacking in The Red Desert and take psychedelics. Trippy man ...The Blue Bus is calling us! It’ll be fun. Just like old times in Amsterdam. Shrooms and William Burroughs’ Dream Machine! I got one. Let’s make it happen!

  Warmest Regards,

  Robert Blake

  P.S. If you’re wondering how I found you it’s because you’re easy to find.

  P.P.S. My phone number is on the back of the letter along with something else. Turn it over.

  I turn the gray construction paper over. On the top left hand corner is a stapled plane ticket. There’s a sharply drawn map of an area called the Kill Pecker Dunes in the middle of the paper. A small illustration of a smiley face with two devil horns on the bottom left hand corner and what looks like an inverted Ankh underneath it ...

  I place the letter down and go to my fridge to get a beer. I crack it; take a heavy swig – look the letter over again. Blake has always been a strange guy. Only time he ever seemed normal was when he was tripping. He was a great tank mechanic but kind of a space cadet at the same time. Never knew if you were going to get manic chatter or dead silence. We were born the same year on the same day, and we both loved 60s Prog Rock and psychedelics, though my interests were just recreational... Blake’s were not. He read books about mind expansion and the occult; he believed psilocybin allowed access to other dimensions. We were the only soldiers from North of the Dixon line in our platoon. I think he was from Providence, Rhode Island. An interesting guy, kind of a head case, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy his company. We traveled around Holland with some buddies from our battalion the weekend before we deployed to Kuwait and partied like our lives depended on it. When I lined up in formation Monday morning I was still tripping hard enough to see indigo trails kissing the brow of our Brigade Commander as he called us to attention then sent us off to war.

  I tap my bottle again and examine the inverted Ankh. I remember riding into Baghdad after a 22-hour convoy. The starving refugees... One young boy watched me sternly as I pointed my M-16 at the beggars, directing them away from my Hemmet...The silent child had a red inked tattoo of the inverted Ankh under his left eye...

  I banish the memory, down the beer and light up a joint as I sink into my beanbag, all the while trying to visualize exactly where Wyoming is on the map. I can’t. Exhaling the smoke I decide I’m going to visit Blake and take mushrooms with him at a place called The Red Desert.

  In between gulps of tasteless airline lasagna I think about the wasted years I’ve spent trying to create a life for myself back home. Nothing sticks, I go in and out of each day like a confused extra on a low budget movie set, knowing every second the camera will never roll long enough to capture me. No contact with family. They’ve frozen me in their minds in Class A uniform and put me out of their hearts after seeing what I’ve come back as. Maybe just because I’ve come back, guilty of fighting in a war that’s produced no summer blockbuster movies or ticker tape parades. It’s been menial jobs and one-night stands that shouldn’t have even gotten beyond bar bathrooms, friendships that rely on virtual status updates... I wouldn’t change any of it, though I don’t know why. I don’t know my mind that well any more. Sometimes it seems like I’m thinking someone else’s thoughts. My own name seems strange in my mouth so I no longer say it.

  I finish the lasagna and sleep falls over me.

  I’m walking with Blake down a street in Amsterdam. We look at the naked prostitutes standing behind glass in the red light district. They press their bodies against the windows and call us; their voices sizzle, acid rain splashing across a rancid pool’s surface. I try to leap through the window of one whore with giant breasts, but Blake holds me back. He points at her cloven hooves and filthy goat legs, the fur caked in dry shit. I look up at her face and see a hexagonal hole... the eyes, nose and lips strung loosely along the edges of the opening. Blake pulls me away from the thing. He shows me a yellow metal box he’s carrying. It’s covered with pictures of bizarre creatures... he tells me he’s learned all of their names. They’re his to command. The city pavement gives way to desert sand and I see a platoon lined up in formation a few yards away. We watch quietly.

  They stand at attention for the tattooed Iraqi child as if he were their company commander... He raises and drops his left hand. The soldiers fall to the sand, begin slithering on their stomachs like snakes. They rip their clothes off while piling on top of each other, screaming joyfully as they mutilate one another. In this dream I see it all and understand everything–

  The sands scream the insane song of a half broken flute. The blind anarchy of Azathoth, its black lunacy wailing for primal stillborn death across the other side of creation’s void.

  The child has changed its face. The head of a dark-skinned man with the same tattoo under his eye sits on top of the small boy’s neck. He raises his hand and the mad soldiers rise... cheering loudly as they rip each other apart in an orgy of blood.

  Blake shakes his head and laughs. He points feverishly to the box he’s gripping, speaking to me with words I can’t understand. He takes a weird egg-shaped black crystal out of the box and there’s a pleading look in his eyes. When he opens his mouth, again the name Nyarlathotep is sent plunging into my mind.

  When I wake up, the plane is experiencing slight turbulence and I’m about to vomit. I fight the airline lasagne back down as thick drops of sweat cascade off my chin onto my clenched, bone-white hands. I blink heavily and feel a strange haze wrap itself around my mind. It coils behind my eyes as plane meets runway and I shake my head wearily as we set down in Rock Springs, Wyoming.

  Under a dozen people at baggage claim. The airport employees, who stare at me like I plan to burn their ranches down and make off with their steer, titter totter around the place like mannequins undergoing electric shock therapy. I’m wearing a red Hawaiian shirt, green camouflage pants and desert-issued army boots. I reclaim my huge camping backpack; take a snack out from one of its pockets. I snap into a Slim Jim and wink at a petite blonde who passes by like a figure skater on sandpaper.

  “Aloha.”

  She blushes crimson, chucks a brown-toothed smile at me. I walk out of the airport feeling like a million bucks.

  Blake’s waiting for me in front of a black Ford pickup
truck. Looking younger than the last time I saw him, sandy blonde hair pushed back on top of his large head. His algae-green eyes flash brightly for a moment, his mouth does something close to a smile. We shake hands. He looks me up and down.

  “Hey buddy. What’s up with the Hawaiian shirt? We ain’t in Honolulu. This is cowboy country.”

  I laugh.

  “Only clean shirt I have.”

  Good to see you’re still trying.”

  “You couldn’t pick me up in a Benz? You said you were rich.”

  “Lexus is in the shop.”

  “Shit.”

  “You need to catch up on some sleep? There’s a hotel along the way that will put us up for nothing. I’m screwing the owner’s daughter. She’s podunk as hell.”

  The strange nightmare flashes briefly. The name Nyarlathotep remains.

  “No, that’s fine. I got some sleep.”

  “A fucking Hawaiian shirt,” he says as he shakes his head and opens the driver’s door. I get into the passenger seat.

  “There isn’t much sightseeing to do around here, so I guess we’ll be on our way.”

  He hits the gas and we accelerate, on our way.

  When Blake tells me how he made his fortune we’re pushing 70 on an empty stretch of I-90. We pass a herd of wild horses on a distant butte as they thunder along on parched red soil. The sagebrush hugging the edges of the road look like they crept out of a John Wayne movie still, and somewhere not too far I’m sure ghosts on the Oregon Trail continue a spectral exodus past fierce Shoshone.