The Horror In The Water Tower & Five More Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos

by McLaughlin, Mark

  "Well, let’s see…” Michael thought for a moment. “I've mentioned that the Slimy Ones have been in touch with alien visitors, whose ships have left crop-circles in certain fields in the area. The visits of these aliens coincide with the Mississippi's highest flood levels. I've also told you about the time I glimpsed one of the Slimy Ones skulking outside the River City Public Library – and now, I think I know why. Tonight I will tell you why a horrible catfish humanoid wanted to get into the library."

  "They've got DVDs there. Maybe he wanted to check out Jaws,” George said as the movie's theme music blared forth: da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum!

  Michael bit his thick lower lip. George must have prepared that sound-bite in advance for the next update on the catfish people. Michael didn't like being set up – but still, he had to let the world know about the menace lurking and growing in the muddy depths of the Mississippi.

  "Lately, I've been doing some research on some of the families that founded River City." Michael shuffled through his notes – photocopies of old documents and pages from diaries. "There was a family back then called the Thraggs. Hecuba Thragg and her daughters, Rose and Lavinia, came to this country from England because they were on the run from the authorities."

  "Hey, now wait a minute," George said. "There are some Thraggs on my mother's side of the family. You won't be pulling old George's leg now, would you?"

  Michael's eyes itched, and he started blinking again. "Certainly not. I didn't know that about you. I'm part Thragg, too. That's why I have some of these old diaries. When my mother died, I started looking through all her old boxes in the attic, and there they were. I think she got them when my grandmother died. So you're part Thragg? We must be related."

  "Great. I'm related to Fishboy. I mean Michael. So tell me more about these three Thragg babes."

  "Well, they were wanted for witchcraft. They worshipped the ancient sea-god Dagon. So when they came to this country, they eventually settled in River City and – picked up where they left off."

  "But River City's nowhere near any ocean. Did their sea-god swim upstream to meet them?"

  "He didn't have to. He holds power over catfish and all bottom-feeding creatures. They are his evil spawn."

  "Yeah, evil – and pretty darned tasty. Have you ever been to Mississippi Mama's Catfish House? I hear they put shredded ginger on–"

  "As I was saying," Michael continued, undaunted. "The Thraggs started a coven of Dagon worshippers here in River City, and during the river's flood stages, they would walk into the water to commune with the catfish. It's all here in the diaries. And after a while, some of the worshippers began to take on the physical characteristics of their river brethren."

  "Those are the catfish people. Right?" George played that snip of movie music again.

  "Right. Their lifespan is now measured by centuries. They hope to eventually rule the land dwellers – but in order to do that, they will need The Book of Old Wisdoms, which used to belong to Letitia Thragg. That copy – the only one in the world – is under lock and key at the River City Public Library. And they don't even know it."

  "Wait a minute…." George actually sounded interested now. "How can they have a book locked up there and not even know it?"

  "Because it's a very small book – no bigger than the palm of a child's hand and as thick as a pencil. There are less than one hundred pages. Letitia hid the book inside the thick leather binding of a much larger book – but I don't know which one. All I know is that the larger book had been donated to the library, along with a lot of other old volumes."

  "And what would happen if these catfish people ever got their webbed hands on this book?"

  "Ultimately, they’d be able to change our world into the perfect environment for themselves and their alien friends. Unfortunately, that sort of swampy hell-hole wouldn't make much of a home for humanity. We'd all be reduced to slaves or livestock."

  "So what do these aliens look like, anyway?" George asked.

  "They can look like who- or whatever they want, so long as it helps them to meet their purpose. In old times, they used to take on the appearance of Indians to fool people of European descent. And vice versa. They always appeared as a stranger to whoever they met, in case their 'disguise' was a bit off."

  "There you have it, River City. We're all doomed to be eaten by the very catfish we so love to charbroil. We'll be back after this commercial break. Michael, please stay on the line, we'll take up where we left off."

  On Michael's radio, a snappy commercial jingle for a muffler shop started up.

  "Ya still there?" George said on the phone.

  "Sure I am." There was a moment of awkward silence. Michael looked over at a small table covered with little figurines that his mother had bought, years ago. Fragile little statues of barefoot farmboys and freckle-faced girls with pigtails. He smiled. "You probably think I'm a big nutball, huh?"

  "Oh, I don't know." George said. "I've seen some weird stuff myself. And when you think about it, we live on a pretty weird planet. I mean, take TV for example. We've all got little boxes that show what's going on all over the world. Cavemen would have thought that was pretty freaky."

  "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

  Suddenly there was a loud rattling, crunching sound – it seemed to come from the back porch. Michael couldn't help but think, that side of his house faced the river. "I've got to get off the line, George. Something's going on outside."

  "Like what?"

  "It's probably just a dog or something – but I've really got to check it out."

  "Oh ... okay." Was there actual concern in George's voice? "Well, call back as soon as you find out what it is, okay?"

  "Will do, George." He hung up and looked around for something to use as a weapon. He wanted to call the police, but he was always calling them for information on his various investigations, and they never seemed to take him seriously. They sure weren't going to break their butts to rush and help him.

  In his odds-and-ends drawer he found his dad's big old fishing knife. He grabbed it and moved down the hall toward the porch, listening. Somebody was moving around on the back porch – the screen door had been locked, so whoever it was must have broken through it.

  Usually, the back porch light was always on, since there were several large, shady trees lining that side of the house, and it was always dark back there. But now, no light shone through the curtains of the window looking out onto the porch. But he could see a larger shadow that seemed to shift uneasily through the darkness. The rest of the view was obscured by a thick, swirling fog.

  "Who's out there?" Michael called out.

  The shadow moved directly in front of the darkened window. It was shaped roughly like a huge person with some sort of shaggy mane around the head. A surge of bile rose up in his throat. His stomach always acted up whenever he was worried. Or nervous. Or scared out of his mind.

  "You should not ..." A thick voice, full of phlegm, murmured. At least, Michael supposed it was phlegm.

  "What shouldn't I do?" Michael called out, moving a little closer. There was a hammer on the table by the couch. He'd been fixing a bookshelf in that room earlier that day. He didn't want to get too close to the window, but the hammer would make a good weapon, if needed.

  "No more talk. Why are you saying these things? You are one of us." The voice had an odd, halting accent to it – either that, or the speaker just wasn't used to speaking. "You are a Thragg. Forever."

  As Michael's hand closed around the handle of the hammer, something dawned on him.

  A picture. I should get a picture. It would be proof.

  But where was the camera–? Then he remembered. It was outside, in the glove compartment of his car, along with his mother’s old tape recorder. He'd taken them to a UFO symposium in Peoria the week before, and had forgotten to bring them back in the house.

  A ripe, fishy odor seeped into the house. It was so strong that Michael soon began to feel nauseous.

  "
You must be quiet," the shadow murmured. "Do not destroy all we have worked for. In time you will join us in the water. In the mud and decay and darkness. You are a Thragg, and you cannot escape your destiny. You cannot escape … this.”

  Something hit the window with a wet smack. A hand had emerged from the fog and was now pressed against the glass: a wide hand with long, clawed fingers and veined, scaly webbing.

  “This shall be you,” the voice chortled, bubbling with slime.

  Michael blinked repeatedly. Yes, his own fingers were very long, but he'd never given it much thought. After all, his mother's fingers were long, and so were his grandmother's on that side of the family ... the side that traced back to ... the Thraggs….

  "We have friends who have been telling us about your..." The voice paused. "...your treachery. We do not like what you have been saying. But there is still time for you to undo your foolishness. Then the way will be cleared for both of you, and we will embrace you when at last you are ready."

  "Both? Who else are you talking about?"

  "The other Thragg ... the one who speaks to everyone...."

  "George Flicker?"

  The being on the other side of the window pulled away its hand and chuckled. "Yes. He is older than you, he will be joining us soon. How surprised he will be when his gills open up and his fingerwebs begin to grow … when his skin grows cold and slick...."

  The creature then pressed, for just a moment, its face against the glass. Or rather, it pressed one side of its face; perhaps to get a better look at Michael. And he was shocked by the fact that the face was–

  Beautiful.

  Yes, it was unmistakably the face of a beautiful woman, with sculpted cheekbones, a well-shaped patrician nose, an imperious forehead and full, pouting lips. True, the sky-blue eye that ogled against the glass was huge and watery, and thin fleshy whiskers dangled from the top lip, but still, there was no denying that this was a face of ancient, unspeakable beauty.

  "Who are you?" Michael said. Then he remembered a name. "Are you Hecuba Thragg?"

  The voice bubbled with laughter. "Mother is much too huge to leave the river's depths. No, I am Lavinia." The hand slapped against the glass once more. "You can still undo the damage you have brought about. You must call that program again and tell the people that you were..." The hand half-rubbed, half-clawed at the glass. "...joking. Tell them it was all a sort of amusement."

  Michael shook his head. "Never!"

  "Simple-minded dolt!" the creature bellowed. "It would be easy ... so very easy ... for us to kill you and then ask one of our friends ... the creatures from the stars ... to take on your voice and appearance and tell everyone it was all a game. But we are giving you a chance to redeem yourself. Go to the phone. Do it. Do it now.”

  Michael raised the hammer, preparing to give it a good strong throw, right through the window. But then that beautiful sky-blue eye pressed up to the window again. The full lips parted and a low, rhythmic murmur – a timeless and compelling song – poured forth from that slime-coated throat.

  Michael stood completely still, listening, transfixed. One single, all-encompassing thought oozed through his brain:

  Obey … obey … obey…

  He turned and moved back down the hall.

  Obey … obey…

  Behind him, he heard the sharp crash of breaking wood, but he did not turn around to see what had happened. He already knew. The thing on the porch had burst through the porch door, singing with triumph.

  Obey … obey…

  When he reached the phone, the hammer and knife dropped from his hands. He found himself picking up the phone receiver and punching in numbers. He did not want to … but he had no choice. He had to obey … obey…

  He was about to punch in the seventh number when he paused. Someone was now by his side. He looked up at the grotesque creature standing next to him.

  The beautiful, unearthly face was surrounded by a tangled mass of thick, writhing tentacles. The body was thick and powerfully muscled, with a slick, leathery tail that whipped around savagely. The lashing tail upset a small table, sending figurines crashed to the floor.

  Michael gasped and slammed the phone receiver down. "Look what you did! Those were Mother's!" He stared at the beast and realized, with a sudden rush of exhilaration, that the hypnotic spell had been broken.

  Lavinia Thragg stopped singing and let loose with a piglike squeal of rage.

  His hand swept down, snatched up the hammer and swept back up, as high as he could reach. He then brought it down with all his force, right on top of the creature's head.

  Lavinia collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain. After a moment, she stopped moving.

  Michael suddenly realized that the radio was still on. And of course, George was still talking. The guy never shut up.

  "Well, we still haven't heard back from Michael," George said. "Call in, dude. Please. I promise I won't call you Fishboy. I just want to know if you're okay out there."

  Yes, it was time to call in. Michael took a deep breath – and then vomited. The fishlike reek of the dead creature was overpowering. It looked even slimier in death than it had in life. In fact, it seemed to be turning – liquescent. Greenish-yellow rivulets of rank liquid flowed down the oversized carcass.

  Soon the floor was awash with stinking, oily fluid. The body was quickly turning into a pool of rot. He couldn't allow his mother's house to turn into a fishy slop-pit. He found some buckets and a mop and began to clean away the mess. He poured it all down the sink, letting the garbage disposal take care of the larger, semi-solid chunks.

  Four hours later, he realized that the call-in show was long over.

  Five hours later, when the clean-up was finally finished, he realized he had discarded the best evidence he’d ever had in his possession.

  At least his clothes were still coated with that ungodly fish-juice. Maybe some scientists could analyze that. He took them off, dropped them into a garbage bag and stuck that in the freezer.

  God, but he felt itchy. No surprise. His skin had been soaking in that smelly goo during the entire clean-up. He examined his skin to see if that horrible ooze had given him some sort of rash.

  He shook his head wearily. No, not a rash.

  Something else. Something worse.

  His skin was turning grey and slimy … leathery, too, like the hide of a catfish.

  He trudged to the shower and turned on a nice cool stream. He let the water pour over him. Nice, very nice. As he changed, his growing eyes protruded from their sockets, and the waters washed the contacts right off of them.

  When at last he emerged from the shower, it was midnight. His finger-webbing had grown in completely.

  He looked around his mother's house. There was no way he could stay here, stinking up the place with his heavy fish-smell.

  He fumbled open the door, looked around, and shambled off into the night….

  Toward the river.

  The beautiful river.

  Uncle Caesar

  by Mark McLaughlin

  Uncle Caesar stayed with us for one month, back when Dad was off work and really sick. I was nine at the time.

  The first thing you noticed about Uncle Caesar was his wide, full-lipped mouth – a woman's mouth. The rest of his face was extremely male: wide jaw, perpetual stubble, thick red eyebrows, and heavy cheekbones. His eyes were dark blue and his wavy hair was reddish-blond.

  Uncle Caesar wasn't related to us. Mom made that clear on the day he arrived. She whisked me into her sewing room and said, "That man in the living room will be staying with us for the next month, so be very, very nice to him. Call him Uncle Caesar, okay? Can you do that for me, sporto?"

  "Is he a doctor?" Dad's heart problems were so bad, they made Mom cry.

  "He's your father's mentor, dear. A special teacher." She gave me a big smile. "We're very lucky to have him here."

  All of Uncle Caesar's clothes were black and white. He wore a gold stickpin in his lapel, and the top
of this stickpin was a gleaming rat's-head with a red gem clenched in the teeth. He once said to me, "See that red stone? That's Mr. Death's heart. He came after me and my clever rat bit his heart out. I have two rats, actually, but I don’t show folks the other one."

  “I wouldn’t mess with Mr. Death!” I told him. “He’s a monster, and monsters always win! I’ve seen enough scary movies to know that.”

  Uncle Caesar just laughed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right! I imagine he will beat me, eventually. But not for some time, I think.”

  Uncle Caesar and Dad would spend hours chatting in the living room. I often watched them from the shadows under the stairs in the hall. Uncle did most of the talking, but I could never make out what he was saying. I do remember that Uncle would stare at Dad with wide-open eyes as he talked. And Dad would nod like a good boy.

  At mealtimes, Uncle Caesar ate like crazy, and always said, "Num, num, num!" and that made Mom laugh. I wanted to tell him, "Yum, not num," but I didn't because I was supposed to be nice. Sometimes at night, I would hear funny noises in my parents' bedroom. Then I would look in the guest room – empty. As a child, I couldn't imagine what was going on in that noisy room. All I knew was this: Dad always looked happier and healthier after one of those noisy nights.

  "That stickpin sure is pretty," I said to Uncle after dinner one evening. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen doing dishes. Mom would wash and Dad would dry while they talked about parent stuff. "Doesn't Mr. Death want his heart back?"

  Uncle grinned with his big woman-lips. "He keeps his distance. That's all that matters."

  "Mom says you're Dad's teacher," I said. "So what are you teaching him?"

  He looked toward the kitchen door, then at me. He leaned toward me, staring in that funny way of his. "I'm teaching him to live."

  I'd never looked into his eyes so closely before. Those big dark-blue eyes had lightning in them. Crazy lightning and swirling stormclouds.

  "To live? How does that work?" I said.

  His eyes opened even wider. "My lessons will make him more like me. Abundantly healthy.”