The smell of the thing up close made Pandora gag and she had to swallow some vomit that left her throat burning with acid. “You keep saying the Kub’sek, but you are one of them aren’t you?”
The giant beetle head turned in a puzzled animal way. “Physically I suppose, yes this is the body of a Kub’sek, they are remarkably similar to the species that supplanted your own as masters of the Earth, but mentally I am something entirely else. I’m part of a species that exists only as pure psyche, one with a highly developed tind’losi. Like yourselves we don’t belong in this paratime, we come from the same branch as you, but from an entirely different epoch, one very far in your past. We have an affinity with humans, they are such easy targets to supplant. We, well I, knew one of your ancestors, many of your ancestors actually. There is something about certain genetics, your genetics, that make you attractive to us. When you were resurrected, a signal was sent out, and when I saw you were so far from your home line, I took the opportunity to use you as a conduit to explore. This paratime is simply fascinating. It is also free of anything that could threaten us. We have enemies at home Major Peaslee, but they don’t exist here.”
Pandora looked down at her hand. It felt cold and week. It had turned gray. The skin was flaking off.
“I was only in you briefly, just long enough to jump to the body of your attendant here and route him backwards to our own branch. Unfortunately, given your condition and the amount of energy expended to accomplish the exchange, the process is, in a sense, fatal. You are going to decay Major Peaslee. Over the next minute or so you will desiccate and fall into ash. You will return back to your essential saltes.” A tear escaped one of her eyes. “Don’t cry,” Mister Ys reached out with one of his black insectile claws and lifted her head, “I know the process to resurrect you, I promise I shall bring you back.”
A smile, a small one crossed her face. “You promise?”
“Of course. I shall bring you back, and the other humans as well. I shall gather up all the containers of essential saltes and reconstitute all one hundred of the rogue humans. And through them I shall bring forth billions of my people to this place and we shall finally be free of our ancient enemies. We shall go here, where they cannot follow.”
“But you said the process was fatal, there are so few of us, how can you bring that many over?” Even as she finished her question she knew the answer and began sobbing. Her hand turned to ash and her arm collapsed beneath her. She was on the floor decaying into dust.
“I can resurrect you, again and again, and each time I will bring over another of my brethren. It will be slow at first, but once we have all the funerary urns the process should run relatively smoothly.” Mister Ys stood up and looked out the window at the landscape below. “I promise you, after that you and your friends will be free.”
“That will take forever,” whispered Pandora.
“Not at all, factoring in some time for a paltry resistance from the Kub’sek, and a recycling period for each human of an hour or so, the entire invasion shouldn’t take more than seven to eight thousand years. Hardly ‘forever’.” He looked down at the pile of ash that had once been human. “Really Major Peaslee, you have no sense of time whatsoever.”
Pete Rawlik has been collecting Lovecraftian fiction for forty years. In 2011 he decided to take his hobby of writing more seriously. He has since published more than twenty-five Lovecraftian stories and the novel Reanimators, a labor of love about life, death and the undead in Arkham, and its sequel The Weird Company. His short story Revenge of the Reanimator was nominated for a Best Short Story New Pulp Award. He lives in Royal Palm Beach, Florida, with his wife and three children. He is absolutely not a living brain in a jar. Yet.
Story illustration by Nick Gucker.
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That Which Dwells Beneath
by Andrew Nicolle
The warden led detective Elliot Winter downstairs, past row upon row of cells filled to the brim with the assorted filth of the city. The place stank of piss and desperation. Grimy men reached through the bars of their cells, brushing his shirtsleeves and begging him to listen to their proclamations of innocence. Winter ignored their pleas, and proceeded through the dimly-lit hallway with the warden, who whistled contentedly.
It had seemed like an open and shut case to Winter. The killer had been caught red-handed, dragging his latest victim into the catacombs beneath the city. After spending a few nights in the lockup, the man had confessed to murdering no fewer than fifteen upstanding young men and women. He’d been tried and convicted, and was due to face the gallows at dawn the next day. But something Winter heard during the trial had nagged at him for days. His conscience wouldn’t allow him to rest until he’d had a chance to speak with the man.
“Here he is, detective.” The warden unlocked the cell and led Winter inside. A huddled form sat in the corner, head and upper body draped with a tattered brown coat. “He shouldn’t give you too much trouble. Been sitting like that ever since we dragged him down here after the trial.”
The warden turned to leave, jangling his keys. “You’ve got ten minutes. Holler if you need anything.”
“Much obliged, warden.” Winter said. He waited until the warden had left and locked the door behind him, then turned to the prisoner.
He nudged the man with his foot. “Mr. Hughes, I’m detective Winter. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
When he received no response, Winter reached down and tossed the man’s coat aside. His face was gaunt, eyes staring. Sweat ran down his forehead and red cheeks. The knowledge of impending death did harsh things to the condemned, but this fellow looked plain sick. It was quite a contrast with the well-fed, relaxed man who’d been led away from the court room in shackles a mere two weeks earlier. Apparently his society connections held little sway in the prison.
Winter briefly held the back of his hand against the man’s forehead. He pulled it back in surprise. It stung as if he’d been scalded by a hot iron. The killer may yet escape the noose by succumbing instead to fever. This would be a rather unfortunate outcome, leaving the bloodlust of the townsfolk unsated.
“I’m going to assume you can hear me,” Winter said. “I have doubts about your guilt. It seems to me most of the evidence against you is circumstantial. I also believe your confession is bunk.”
He crouched down to maintain eye contact. “You’re covering for someone else, and I’d like to know why?”
Hughes blinked, and licked his chapped lips. “Walk away, detective. You best not get involved.”
“So you’re willing to hang for your masters, Mr. Hughes?”
Hughes remained silent. Well, then. It was time to try a different tack.
“They say hanging can be a rough way to go.” Winter said. “If you’re lucky, your neck will snap and it’s all over fairly quick. And if you’re not so lucky, you’ll struggle for breath for a few minutes as you slowly suffocate. I’ve seen it happen many a time. Not very pleasant at all.”
Hughes squirmed, but said nothing.
“I’ve been doing some thinking, and there’s something about your case that puzzles me. Despite your confession, we’ve found no dead. Curious, would you agree?”
Hughes peered up at him, eyes narrowed.
“The girl you dragged into the catacombs was merely drugged, with no injuries or signs of molestation. She made a full recovery and couldn’t tell us much. We briefly had her in custody, but she has since flown the coop.”
Winter continued. “We’ve absolutely no solid evidence, only your word you’ve committed murder. It baffles me why you’re here and not in the asylum like so many other poor deluded fools. Who else but a fool would be willing to hang for crimes they did not commit?”
“I’m no fool,” Hughes spat. “Either I hang tomorrow, or I still meet my demise. Powerful people want me dead.”
“So it appears. I’m not privy to all the particulars of your case, since much of the evidence has been
sealed under judge’s order. But I believe you are innocent of murder.” Winter said.
Hughes shook his head. “That doesn’t do me much good. I’m nearly out of time.”
“That you are. However, I may be able to assist if you’ll kindly tell me why these people want you dead. That business with the catacombs, is it?”
“Aye, I’m a delivery boy. I take care of errands and such. Now that I’ve drawn attention to the business, I’ve become a liability.” Hughes said.
“What do you deliver?” Winter had heard rumors of illicit trades taking place in the catacombs, but investigations thus far had turned up empty. Perhaps Hughes held the key to exposing the operation.
Hughes shrugged. “Packages. People. Animals. Whatever they need.”
“Who are ‘they?’ Where do you take your deliveries?”
“Not a clue who they are,” Hughes said. “I just meet up with their other lackeys. I take the goods deep into the catacombs and leave them there.”
“And they pay you handsomely, I gather?”
“Detective, you ever had to beg on street corners and wonder where your next meal’s coming from? It’s a living.”
Winter knew privation all too well. As a child, he’d often gone cold and hungry when his parents were unable to afford the basic necessities. Such a harsh environment bred desperation in even the most honest souls.
“Fair enough.” He said. “But answer me this–why confess to murder? You don’t strike me as the type. Why not do your penance behind bars, and avoid the gallows?”
Footsteps approached along the corridor, accompanied by the sound of jingling keys. Hughes’s eyes widened, though whether it was from hearing the approaching warden, or the question, Winter couldn’t say.
“It’s the only way out,” Hughes said hurriedly. “Some things are worse than death. Someone’d spirit me away to the catacombs if I were still to live. They’ve already been drugging me, I can feel it. They….”
As the key turned in the lock and the door creaked open, Hughes slumped forward and stared at the floor. The warden entered the cell, beaming.
“I trust it has been a productive visit, detective?”
Winter looked from Hughes to the warden. He gave Hughes a rough kick in the side. “A waste of my time. The boy’s catatonic.”
He turned and left the cell without waiting for the warden. He had a busy day ahead of him.
After stopping at the station to fill his coat pockets with ammunition, Winter caught a horse-drawn carriage to the catacombs. The entrance lay within the grounds of the Peterson abbey at the edge of town. Two monks stood by the huge wrought iron gate at the cemetery entrance, their faces hidden beneath brown hoods. The gate was flanked by weathered stone walls covered in moss and ivy. Somber chanting came from the nearby church.
“Good afternoon, brothers,” Winter said, doffing his hat. “Name’s detective Elliot Winter. I was wondering if I might borrow a moment of your time for some questions.”
The monks bobbed their heads in unison. He could imagine skeletal faces peering at him from within their hoods, their blank eyes fixing him with undead stares. It was ridiculous, of course. Such thoughts often came to him while walking near cemeteries, or worse, during murder investigations. In his line of work, death was a constant companion.
“I’m investigating reports of nefarious happenings in the catacombs. May I ask how one might gain entrance?” Winter was sure his colleagues had already investigated alternate entryways, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.
The monk to his left removed his hood and pointed to the gate. The man had pale skin, with a prominent forehead and a stubby, hooked nose. He regarded Winter with a bland expression of boredom. “Only through here. These walls surround the cemetery, and the gate is guarded constantly by our order. None pass without our approval.”
The second monk, still hooded, spoke. “What are these nefarious happenings, as you put it? Are you referring to the young man who was captured here recently?”
“The very same,” Winter said. “He’s due to hang tomorrow for his crimes, unless I can uncover evidence to prevent it.”
“We discovered him in the cemetery in commission of a heinous crime,” said the pale monk. “And yet you believe him innocent?”
“Insufficient evidence.” Winter said. “I believe he was coerced into a confession, an unwitting pawn in some larger conspiracy.”
The hooded monk chuckled. “Things are often simpler than they seem, Mr. Winter. We sometimes look for patterns in events that are just figments of the imagination.”
“Perhaps. But I’ve covered enough cases over the years not to distrust my instincts. For one, I find it interesting that the sole witnesses to the alleged crime were all members of your order.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” said the pale monk. “The man was on our grounds, and others are seldom permitted within. Francis here was guarding the gate at the time.”
The hooded monk, presumably Francis, nodded. “We heard sounds of a struggle near the entrance to the catacombs. We discovered the man dragging a young woman inside. She was crying for help. We immediately came to her aid, and subdued the man until the authorities arrived.”
Winter frowned. “If the gate’s always guarded, how did he get inside with his victim?”
“We stand guard in pairs for three hours until we are relieved by our colleagues.” said the pale monk. “On that particular evening, we were distracted by an incident near the church. A thief had pilfered some belongings from a wealthy man alighting from a carriage nearby. When Francis and Peter returned to the gate, they heard cries coming from the grounds.”
Francis sighed. “We already provided our testimony to your officers on the night of the incident, and during the trial, detective. I’m not sure what more information you expect us to provide?”
“I have one more question before I leave you in peace.” Winter said. “Are you aware of frequent deliveries of illicit goods and persons to the catacombs, for purposes unknown?”
The two monks looked at each other, but Winter found it hard to read their expressions.
Francis removed his hood and stared at Winter, eyebrows raised. “I don’t know where you get your information, but let me reiterate that only members of our order are permitted within the catacombs, and only then for the purposes of general upkeep and ceremonial burials. That is all.”
Winter had considered asking whether he might obtain a brief tour of the catacombs, but the monks were clearly stonewalling. He would have to consider another approach, preferably over lunch. His grumbling stomach was becoming rather insistent.
“Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I’ll trouble you no further.” Winter bowed and headed down the street to the bakery, toward the comforting smell of freshly baked bread.
Whilst consuming some pastries and strong tea, Winter planned his next move. He was keenly aware the hanging would likely proceed regardless of his efforts.
He canvassed the neighborhood, questioning store keepers and patrons alike. Few could provide any useful information. Most businesses had been closed at the time the incident occurred. Only a barkeep at one of the public houses could provide anything of substance.
“They’re always fending off curious tourists and miscreants over there,” the barkeep said. “Makes you wonder why they don’t just lock the gates and walk away.”
“Maybe they don’t trust the gate’s enough to keep people out?” Winter said. “And besides, they’ve already proven their effectiveness at catching intruders.”
“Aye,” said the barkeep, a glint in his eye. “Or mayhap they’re worried about keeping something in? I’ve always been suspicious about them monks.”
“What makes you say that?” Winter asked.
“Late at night on occasion I’ve heard strange noises coming from them catacombs. I’ve a room upstairs, and whenever I’ve heard things, I peer out the window. The monks are always by the gate, of course, but they never seem much bother
ed by what’s going on behind them. Very odd fellows.”
Winter told the barkeep about the monk’s account of the incident, curious if he would know any different.
“Sounds about right. There was some commotion in front of the church, and a bunch of monks came running. Didn’t see anyone sneaking in, though I didn’t have my nose to the window all night, either. There was a bunch of cries and shouting, and I saw them dragging a couple out of the cemetery soon after. Then, the police. You probably know the rest.”
Winter wandered over to the window facing the street and saw he had a clear view of the cemetery gates. He decided it might be worth watching the goings on for awhile, meanwhile sampling the fine ales on offer in the pub.
Two hours later, Winter was rewarded for his patience. It was after dark. The pub had become a good deal busier and rowdier since his arrival. The crowd was mainly working class folk, clearly enjoying the atmosphere and the band playing lively jigs on piccolo, drums, and violin. Outside, the same two monks guarded the gates the entire time.
Winter was about to order another ale, and possibly some pie, when he noticed the two monks leave their posts and head back toward the abbey. It must have been the end of their shift.
Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 4 Rev1 Page 54