by Unknown
He slowly pulled a chair back from the table and reluctantly seated himself opposite the figure. It felt strange…familiar, yet alien. He was afraid, yet he felt the force of a will greater than his own drawing him. Perhaps even tempting him, as Hazelwood always had, with his dark promises. Kearns carefully reached into his pocket and placed the gold button on the table in front of him. He could scarcely muster the courage to slide it any closer to the shadowy silhouette before him. “Thoughtful of you, old man. When I noticed it missing from my coat sleeve, I suspected you’d be along shortly. Now, I suppose you’ll want to know all about these disturbing dreams you’ve been having.”
A lump formed in Roger’s throat. “They’re not dreams, are they?” he managed, finding his voice at last. “Were they telepathic transmissions? From you, Julian? You always said our mental link was strong, especially when triggered by potent or violent emotions.”
“I’m impressed. You always did have a razor-sharp mind, Roger. What a pity you lacked the courage to use it. I had such hopes for you. You showed such promise. But when you reached the verge of that final step into the unknown, your courage failed. You crawled back to your mundane existence.”
“You were visiting realms too dark for any man to survive. Your obsession was consuming you, Julian.”
Hazelwood seemed to snort, as if repressing a chuckle. The raspy, pumping sound was growing louder. As Roger’s eyes slowly adjusted to the feeble candlelight flickering beyond the open door at his back, he thought he could just make out the outline of Julian’s head. Or could it be his shoulders? The bulky mass he discerned was not the familiar shape of his old friend’s visage. Had Julian been crippled, somehow … disfigured on his expedition?
“Yet, here I am. I survived because I am strong. Because I do not fear the darkness as you do.”
“And, what of the rest of the expedition? Cummings?” Kearns asked.
“Those who proved strong are still alive. Those too weak to endure … did not. That is the true nature of life, Roger. You must accept that.”Now Kearns heard him scribbling furiously on a paper with a pen and ink. As though he could see perfectly in the dark.
“In the name of God, Julian…what have you done?”
He heard him lay the pen down. “Mere words fail to express what we found in Kebir. The cosmic glory into which we were allowed to peer. Open your mind, Roger. Let me show you.”
Kearns was seized by a power that shot through him like a lightning bolt, his body convulsing in violent anguish as the floor…the world, it seemed… dropped out from under him. He was swept into a maelstrom of madness, a thousand times more powerful, more devastating, than any drug-induced delirium he had ever experienced. His mind spun through flaming suns and dying nebulae. Alien thoughts, cold and ancient, walked the corridors of his brain. Memories a million times older than those of man invaded his consciousness. He saw constructs the size of great cities enclosed in glass domes. Many of them, linked together in unimaginably vast conglomerates, moving en masse through interstellar space, utilizing technologies beyond Man’s feeble comprehension, principles of science that warped the cosmic ether, perverting the shape of the universe itself. He witnessed a cosmic war between two immensely old and powerful alien races. Terrible, inhuman outposts on the moons of Saturn and Neptune destroyed each other with weapons beyond human imagination. Energy bolts, powerful as exploding suns, tore apart entire planets, leaving only vast, floating graveyards of stony shards drifting through the black void between Mars and Jupiter. He saw ancient cities on the surface of the moon, cities whose towers dwarfed the mountains of Earth. Once mighty citadels, they now lay as dead as the world they had dominated, standing like the gravestones of fallen gods, chalk-white and crumbling, over vast, lifeless plains of bleached bones and dry ocean beds. And all consumed in a heartbeat in a fiery cosmic eruption, glimpsed in the night sky only by five Canterbury monks, back in the year 1178. He saw a fiery missile plunge to Earth from the cosmic heights, crashing into the bowels of man’s cradle with a thundering explosion that tore loose the foundations of a continent. When the flaming cauldron cooled, a yawning black pit formed. The very bottom of the world, it seemed. And something stirred within its fathomless depths. Something great and terrible. Something that longed for escape from its hellish confines. A mind so powerful, it could reach out from its prison, its thoughts warping matter and space, expanding like the ripples of a pebble cast into a lake. The ripples spread, mutating native species caught in their wake. And, with a terrible Promethean purpose, sparking the agonizing flame of intelligence in a species of ape that would one day tremble before the dark majesty of its true creator.
Kearns gasped for air like a drowning diver, his head swirling in inky darkness as he clawed his way back to reality, his hands gripping the edges of the table. “No…” he whispered.
“Cast aside the infantile foolishness of this pathetic little race, Roger, and accept the greater reality so long hidden, the darkness at the core of man’s being, that he has so long fought to deny. Through the ages, few have glimpsed it and lived to tell the tale. Of these few, fewer still remained sane. Many ancient mythologies of gods and demons have been inspired by the Great One Below, but none have dared truly know It. Until now.” Hazelwood lit a lantern on the table beside him. Roger’s eyes snapped wide, his throat frozen in a silent scream.
The slithering gray monstrosity that had attached itself parasitically to Julian Hazelwood’s back seemed to be growing into him, its glistening, slimy surface a writhing mass of tentacles that worked its way down Hazelwood’s right arm, ending in the grotesquely mutated two-pronged claw his hand had become. The alien creature’s pulsing, sac-shaped body half covered the right side of Hazelwood’s head, gripping his face with a row of short, curved claws, like the legs of a centipede. The claws had dug deep into Julian’s flesh, producing that horrible sucking sound as it squeezed flesh against bones. Some form of gill pulsed and drew air like a bellows in the gray mass. A large, protruding stalk sprouted like the antenna of a giant slug from the living mass just above where Julian’s right eye should have been. A membrane opened at the tip of the stalk, revealing a horrible glowing green eye dominated by a noxious, burning green iris with a slash-like black pupil, like that of some huge reptile.
Hearing that strange squishing noise behind the monstrous hybrid, Kearns glanced into the now-illuminated corner and saw a tub filled with slimy gray pods, each about the size of a ripe melon. They looked like the eggs of some gargantuan insect or sea creature. They seemed … ripe, pulsing with life, writhing in a slimy brine as if they might burst like giant pustules at any moment. Kearns instinctively clutched the ivory handle of the cane Hazelwood had given him those long years ago. Strangely, he recalled now the pain he’d suffered during long, arduous training sessions, as Hazelwood had taught him the use of that most remarkable instrument. Even now, having it close at hand comforted him.
“The Great Old One’s emissary is one with me,” Hazelwood said with a smile, his one remaining eye gray and clouded, staring off into space as if blind. “The Great Old One in the pit has the power to shape living matter with Its mind. Just as It created Man to channel Its power, It created this…offspring from Its own living tissue. It augments the comparatively feeble power of my brain a thousandfold,” he declared, holding up the sheets of paper on which he had scribbled vast reams of incomprehensibly complex mathematical equations. “The experiments with which you and I tinkered pale in comparison to what power I have discovered here, Roger.” He pointed. To his left, Kearns saw an intricate laboratory set-up with many carefully labeled beakers of strangely-colored liquids, and odd-looking equipment. He turned back to Hazelwood, staring at the monstrosity that had once been his friend. It was like another horrific nightmare. But this time undeniably real. “Julian … It’s taken possession of you, man. It killed all those people. Through you.”
“Insignificant rabble. The symbiote had to absorb their cerebral tissues in order to augment
my brain capacity. And it had to derive nourishment from their bodies, in order to spawn.” Kearns’ eye wandered again to those horrible egg pods. “When its offspring hatch, there will be many more like me. You could be the first, Roger.”
He stood up. “Me?”
“Join me, old friend. Become one with the greatest power in the universe. I could use the power of your mind to help me complete my mission, to free the Great One from Its ancient captivity. The age of man, the puny creature that crawls this earth, will end. The age of the Old Ones shall begin anew.”
“Never!” Kearns cried, drawing the sword concealed in his cane. Its long blade glinted silver in the lantern light. “I’ll die first!”
“Then, die!” Hazelwood’s mutated arm lunged at Kearns like a striking cobra, lengthening unnaturally across the table, those horrible twin claws stabbing at his eyes. Kearns jerked his head back and reflexively caught the slimy alien appendage in his free hand, his own terror-fueled adrenalin fighting its monstrous strength. The tips of its claws dripped with horrid venom as they drew dangerously close to his eyes. He trembled in desperation, channeling his fear and forcing himself to recall the martial techniques Hazelwood had taught him.. Lashing out with his sword, he lopped off the tentacle. It fell to the table with a sickening thud. Black fluid oozed from the stump as the half-man creature hissed hatefully. Even severed from the body, the appendage twisted and writhed wildly on the tabletop like a snake, its claw snapping like a maw. Kearns hacked furiously at it.
Suddenly, a vent of sorts burst open in the pulsing gray mass attached to Hazelwood, spewing a vile-smelling spray into Kearns’ face and eyes. He choked on the stink of it. It was the same sickly-sweet, burned stench he’d smelled at the scene of each murder. His eyes stung, his limbs grew numb. The numbness spread quickly through him. The sword dropped from his fingers, clattering as it fell. His knees buckled as he sank to the floor, immobile. He could only stare up helplessly as the thing that had been Julian Hazelwood came towards him. The horrible green eye trained on him; Kearns could see now that the vent-like opening was a sucking, drooling, circular mouth, with several rows of gnashing teeth. He fixed his eyes on it in horror, realizing his fate. “Goodbye, Roger,” Hazelwood said coldly. He screamed. The piercing, half-human shrieking almost drowned out the repeating gun report. Kearns strained his eyes to focus and there, in the hallway, stood Rachel Cummings, pointing a revolver. She emptied its chambers into Hazelwood’s chest. Dark stains spread across his white shirt-front as he staggered backward and sank to his knees. Kearns watched with horror as the alien parasite detached itself from its dying host. Hazelwood roared in anguish as the monstrosity sprouted many legs, like a giant crab or spider, tearing itself free. With frightening speed, it clambered over Kearns’ prone form, scuttling across the floor. Rachel screamed as the monster shot out long, lashing tentacles, ensnaring her in its terrible embrace.
Kearns watched in terror as the monster leapt upon its prey, smothering her in its coiling tentacles. Rachel fought savagely. She pounded at the creature with the butt of the revolver. But Kearns could see it was no use. The alien’s intention was clear; it meant to make Rachel Cummings its new host. Kearns grit his teeth in frustration, his face flushing as he strained with Herculean effort against his paralysis. But it was pointless; his arms and legs may as well have been weighted down with iron chains. “Damn it,” his mind roared in impotent rage. “Damn it to hell!”
“Roger…” Hazelwood’s voice suddenly invaded his mind, as it had during their telepathic experiments of years ago. He was still alive, Kearns realized. Or, was he a…no. No, he could not believe that. “Don’t try to fight it with brute strength. Use the skills I taught you. Channel the power of your will. You are the master of your body. Make the adrenalin course though your blood and bring you strength.”
Kearns focused, recalling the teachings he had almost forgotten. His expedition with Hazelwood to the Himalayas…the time they had spent in that remote monastery. It all came flooding back. The chants. The discipline. The balance. He felt Hazelwood helping him, even as his life force ebbed. He felt his old friend coming back, as though a dark shadow had lifted. Kearns felt his blood flowing, tingling through his arms and legs. He fought the numbness in his hands as his fingers closed, painfully slowly, around the ivory handle of the sword. He forced himself to turn, every move excruciating torture, his muscles on fire. It seemed an eternity before he pulled himself up onto one knee. Kearns focused his mounting anger into one primal surge, a thundering roar rising from his diaphragm as he lunged, sword in hand, skewering the monster through its mid-section. The tip of his sword dug into the wood, pinning the creature to the wall.
A blood-curdling, inhuman shriek cut to Kearns’ vitals as the creature writhed in twitching convulsions. But he was on his feet now. He helped Rachel pull free of the clammy, sucking embrace of the flailing alien tentacles. Pulling her clear of the ungodly thing, he staggered awkwardly back into the room. Hazelwood lay face down on the floor. Half his face, the back of his head and most of his shoulder had been torn away. The gray, convoluted mass of his brain lay exposed. Kearns watched with a mixture of anguish and wonder as the viscous black fluid that had filled Hazelwood’s body thinned and dissipated, turning back into red, human blood. As he watched, the remaining eye cast off its gray, clouded color to return to its natural dark brown.
“Roger,” he said in a strangled voice, looking up at his friend. Kearns knelt beside him, blinking back sudden tears. “Sorry. So … sorry. It twisted my mind…addictive, like a drug. You can’t know. Ohhhh…”
He touched Hazelwood’s shoulder, the tears sliding down his cheeks. “Julian…”
“No time. You must stop … it. Use the crystals…the box…on the table…” He moaned, pointing feebly with his one remaining hand. A blinding light seared Kearns’ mind then, as though his friend were transmitting to him all he might have said over many years. The pain ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Hazelwood drew a single breath. Then the light left his eye and his head slumped to the floor. Kearns wiped his eyes. His grief would have to wait. His gaze shifted to the laboratory table. Before he could even gather his thoughts, Rachel Cummings seized two beakers filled with noxious-looking fluids and hurled them against the wall behind the tub in the corner, smashing them. Kearns saw then that the ghastly pod-like things had begun to hatch. Small, wriggling tentacles burst from their mucous confines. The tub suddenly burst into flames. Following the channels where the chemicals had dripped across the floor and walls, the fire spread quickly. A hideous shrieking filled the room. “Come on, Professor,” she called, running to Kearns’ side. “There’s nothing you can do for him now. We have to get out of here before the fire reaches the rest of those chemicals. This whole house could go up like a tinder box!”
He stood, his legs painfully stiff. Julian was dead. Without his telepathic help, Kearns’ strength was failing. But he couldn’t leave yet. What had Hazelwood meant? He staggered painfully to the laboratory table, the heat of the rapidly spreading flames scorching his face and hands. A rectangular metallic box sat at the center of a strange basket-like assembly of metal rods and wires. He felt an odd vibration in the surrounding air as he lifted the container. Rachel helped steady him, his arm across her shoulders, hers around his waist as he struggled down the corridor towards the stairs. His legs felt like stone. He was choking on smoke, the smell of burning wood filling his nostrils. Rachel screamed as burning timber crashed down behind them. Kearns nearly lost his footing, fearing he’d tumble down the stairs and take her with him. “Get a move on, Professor,” she urged, her voice desperate. The beaded sweat on her forehead gleamed in the flickering firelight as she helped him down the stairs to the front hall and, at last, through the door.
They clambered down the front steps and hurried down the walk, away from the searing heat. At the road, they stopped, and watched, panting, as the house erupted into bright orange flames. The gables ignited like torches. There would be p
recious little left for the police to search. He slumped to the cold, damp ground. Pulling his flask from his breast pocket, he took a long swig of bourbon. He coughed and wheezed, the liquor a cool fire in his blood. “Miss Cummings….” he managed in a strangled voice. “Quick thinking, that. May I ask how you knew which of those chemicals would ignite when mixed?”
“I read my father’s notes for years,” she explained breathlessly, snatching the flask from his hand and taking a long swig herself. “He recorded many of Hazelwood’s experiments,” she remarked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Well, thank you, Miss Cummings,” he muttered, thinking of what his silence had put her through. Had she not ignored his warning and brazenly followed him here, he would surely be dead. “You saved my life. I am in your debt.”
She looked down at him, her face flushed, hair disheveled. “I would say that debt is paid, Professor Kearns, since you did save mine. As for the circumstances that made it necessary…for that you most certainly are in my debt, Sir.” Her tone sharpened. “Had you been truthful with me from the start, I might have been able to gain access to that house long ago and steal a peek at Hazelwood’s notes and journals. I might have found some clue to my father’s whereabouts. Now, all hope of finding him is lost!” Her tone had shifted from anger to despair.
“Take heart, Miss Cummings. Julian Hazelwood’s knowledge may not be completely lost. Much of it, I believe, he transmitted directly to me before he died, in a way I couldn’t easily explain. Though, I fear time may be running short. For your father, and…perhaps for the entire human race.”