Continuing, I should add that by that time my eyes had become quite used to the darkness in the room. From the thin lines of light leaking in around the door, I could make out a tiny bit of the bed before me. I tried greatly to see through the curtains, begging providence for even an outline, a bit of shadowy reflection on which I might build some sort of picture of the man to whom I was speaking.
But, even as my eyes adjusted to the near pitch dark gloom, I found the barrier to be complete and unyielding. Embarrassed by my insensitive curiosity, I directed my attention to my recording equipment as much as I could. From then on my patient gave me a great deal to record.
“Yes,” he said, “New Mexico released news of a cosmic mishap, then sent out another story insisting that it was a weather balloon that had crashed. Tell me, doctor, could you believe me if I told you that both stories were true?”
Cain chuckled again, then explained himself.
“You see, Dr. Whittaker, there actually was a weather balloon, some new, larger type of experiment, capable of reaching much greater heights. It had been sent up with mannequins inside it to record some sort of reactions—not much beyond that was ever made clear to myself … or West.” My patient chuckled briefly, then continued. “But there was a weather balloon, a massive affair of rubber and wire and aluminum, and that was what the beast crashed into.”
“The beast?”
“Yes, the thing from space. Oh, it was an incredible sight. Of course, we were not the first to see such a being. Similar creatures were first reported back in the thirties.” When I but stared blankly, Cain continued.
“You must remember the news stories, the Miskatonic Expedition to the Antarctic continent. Pabodie, Lake, Atwood—their wild radio reports—none of them returned? The expedition that followed found their land point and their encampment, but the mountain ranges and caverns they claimed to discover had collapsed upon themselves, wiping out all traces of the tool-using prehistoric civilization they reported finding.”
When I showed no memory of the event, Cain confided, “The officer in charge of Starchaser said that some small evidence of the underground cities they reported had indeed been uncovered over the past two decades, but excavations at the bottom of the world are slow things. Still, why dig for corpses when they deliver themselves to you so neatly, eh?”
“But, Dr. Cain,” I said, more than slightly confused and somewhat convinced that his stories was mere lies, “what are you trying to tell me? Cities under the Antarctic, monsters flying in the stratosphere … what does all of this have to do with Project Starchaser?”
And then, the dry whistling returned, and in the ensuing silence, somehow my brain filled with a dread combination of leaps, a horrible epiphany of wild connections that allowed me access to Cain’s incredible tale.
Decades in the past an expedition discovers traces of an ancient city beneath the southern polar region. An intricate, advanced metropolis created before humanity had found fire or the wheel. Now, a monster similar to those discovered then is found in the upper atmosphere. It crashes into a weather balloon and falls to Earth. Its otherworldly appearance, combined with the wreckage of the balloon, is mistaken for a flying saucer. But, I thought, that would mean …
“Yes,” agreed Cain with an eerie precision, almost as if he could hear my thoughts, “creatures that can transverse the ether of the galaxy the way fish do the ocean. Magnificent things they were … ten feet tall, dark grey, infinitely dense. The one we were taken to within the brightly lit confines of Hanger 18 was an extraordinary specimen. Nine foot membranous wings, flexible and yet impervious to torch or saw, and its magnificent, five-pointed head … the wonders within it …”
Cain stopped talking for a moment at that point. Or at least, he ceased talking to me. Despite several attempts by myself to coax a response from him, my patient engaged in an internal dialogue, yammering under his breath to himself for nearly a minute. Then, the dry whistling returned, slicing keenly through my nerves, followed again by my patient speaking to me once more.
He begged my apology, again in the suspiciously mocking tone I had noted earlier. I bade him continue without mentioning anything. Chuckling as he spoke, he told me,
“Anyway, the beast. That magnificent specimen, fantastically, it was a thing almost completely preserved. Our guess was that the creature, capable of trans-versing the flowpaths of space itself, had managed to glide most of the way to the planet’s surface and thus avoided being severely damaged.”
“But, it was dead, correct?”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Cain. “As some fabrics can turn or blunt a bullet and yet still be slit through by a knife blade, so was this wondrous beast slain. An almost humorous irony, its skin, capable of turning meteors, had been pierced by one of the recording struts of the weather balloon. The more the great Old One struggled, the more entangled it became, the more it drove the broken strut into its vitals.”
The sudden cheerful edge Cain’s voice had taken on disturbed me greatly, although I could offer myself no reason for the uneasy feeling. In fact, I suddenly became aware that everything about the interview was beginning to disturb me. I felt that the darkness was closing in on me. I felt myself growing suspicious of the strange noises that interrupted Cain’s monologue, and the bizarre—what could I call them—arguments, perhaps, that my patient lapsed into from time to time.
I even found part of my brain listening to Cain’s tone and the rhythm of his speech, positive that his voice had changed significantly since the beginning of the interview. Reminding my paranoia that differing emotions can cause fluctuations in the pitch and meter of human voices, I snarled at the runaway edginess slithering through my body, trying to get myself back under control.
And yet, as Cain described the procedures he and West used to examine the great star creature, I could not shake the violent conviction rooting itself throughout the soil of my consciousness that something was dreadfully, terribly wrong. I cursed my unexplainable lack of nerve. There was nothing so unusual, so bizarre to require me to respond in such a fashion, I told myself. Yes, certainly the subject matter being discussed grew more fantastical by the minute, but since when was a psychiatrist supposed to be disturbed by the rantings of one of their patients?
In many ways I was simply furious with myself. So I was sitting in the dark. So Cain’s voice had taken on an almost sinister tone. So he wove tales of nightmare and horror. So what? I could not believe the reaction the situation was inducing within me. But, no matter what I could believe, the reaction was real and growing.
I felt an unease I had not known since I had found myself sitting in the back of an Army medical vehicle on the German front only a few short years ago. I was supposedly safe, safe enough. And yet, you always found yourself thinking, all it might take was an errant shell, an off-course bomber, a land mine … maybe this was the day, any minute, something could go wrong—just one misstep, one tiny error …
My hands were slick with a cold, yet sticky sweat that I seemed incapable of wiping away no matter how hard I tried. My bones ached, my muscles knotted, my nerves were inflamed. Insanely, I closed my eyes against the darkness, grinding my teeth together to keep them from chattering.
At that point it took the rigid summoning of all my will power to keep myself from fleeing the room. And why—why, I did not know. I begged myself for an answer, but none revealed itself. Why was Cain’s voice so frightening to me? What could possibly be so terrifying about a man so withdrawn from the world that he insisted on living in darkness, surrounded by a double layer of windowless walls? What it was, I did not know. I could only think that something in the air of the room had chilled me so utterly that I no longer felt I could control my actions.
My arms began shaking uncontrollably at that point, my fingers trembling. As I wrapped them around myself, hugging myself, pressing my chin to my chest, doubling over, forcing my feet flat against the floor, I could feel tears forcing themselves through my tight clamped eyes, c
ould taste the bile and mucus clustering in my throat.
“Are you listening to me, doctor?”
Terror and confusion blasted through my mind as I sought to answer Cain’s smirking question. When later I played back the tape, I realized my patient had talked for almost fifteen minutes without my hearing a word. He had gone through the complete checklist of his examination of the creature, as well as the application of West’s potions to the deceased alien.
Knowing from Cain’s condescending tone that he knew the truth about my inattention, still I pretended otherwise at that moment, asking him to continue. With a damning snicker, he went on with his story.
“Actually, there isn’t much more to tell, Dr. Whittaker. At that point it was only a matter of moments until the creature began to stir. It was, of course, West’s greatest moment of triumph. No matter what happened from that moment forward, he had proved himself, had carved for himself a place in the annals of medicine for all time. For, he had not merely reanimated simple human tissue this time. No, finally he had proved that his formulas were not just tied to the basic molecules of human life, but to the firmament of all life— to the very building blocks of the universe itself!”
Cain fell into another sudden bout of strangled whispers. This one was quite prolonged, accompanied by sounds which could mean nothing else save that my patient was slapping himself. In the thin silver coming from under the door, I watched his intravenous bottle shaking on its hanger, but I did nothing. I did not call out, I did not go to him. I simply waited for the unknown inevitability which I knew with sickening certainty was racing toward me.
“It sat up on the table, staring at us, at everyone in the room, the five points of its star shaped head taking in the entire chamber. I thrilled to see its various membranes, the delicate gills and pores of it, testing themselves, instantly deciding what kind of atmosphere it was in, involuntary reactions reasserting their independence. The creature stood up on the table, its wings half-folded, staring about itself. For a brief moment, it was like a utopian vision, the wise and advanced stranger staring down on its lesser brothers, grateful for its life, ready to share the bounties of the universe with us.” There came a cold laugh from behind the curtains, after which my patient added,
“And then, reality came crashing down upon us all.”
At that point if I had possessed the strength—any strength, any of my own will—I would have fled the room. I no longer cared about this report, about my patient or my country or anything but escaping the vile and odious sound of the belittling voice oozing toward me from behind the curtains. Helpless I had been, though, and helpless I remained.
“Amazingly, from within a fold of its own skin, the creature removed a marvelously intricate device. It was delicate in both size and design, fashioned from some alloy that shone with a blue-green radiance. Despite its appearance, however, the instrument’s function was decidedly not delicate. Before any of us could sense the device’s purpose, the creature aimed it at the largest knot of men within the hanger and released a shimmering ray utilizing some principle of energy unknown to this world.”
“What happened?” I choked.
“Men died,” said my patient simply. “By the dozens, possibly by the hundreds. Their clothing and skin exploded into flame, blood boiling, erupting through their flesh, hair afire, nails and teeth melting, bones burning, eyes sizzling, popping—fluid bursting from their bodies, steaming away to mist as it arced away from each ruined host.”
“And yet,” I somehow found the strength to say—to accuse, really, “You survived.”
“Of course I survived, Dr. Whittaker,” came the voice from beyond the curtain once more. “I always survive.”
I knew the truth then. Actually, I’d known it far earlier. I’d simply refused to believe it until that moment. As I forced myself to my feet, a hand grabbed at the curtains.
“The beast took maybe only a half dozen rounds from the bewildered, frightened troops surrounding it. Peanuts hurled at an elephant. It shrugged off their attack and murdered them all. I had shoved Cain out of the line of fire, knowing that the alien would first slaughter those who seemed an immediate threat.”
“How?” I demanded, knowing the answer. “How did you know?”
A second hand grabbed at the curtains beyond.
“Because I had transferred my mind into the alien’s brain, of course. Do you think I would let such an opportunity pass me by? Do you think me such a fool?”
Another hand grabbed the edge of the curtain, and then another, and finally, the walls of cloth began to part.
“I felt my body being cut down, but it did not matter. Housing myself within the mind of the great Old One—to be given a chance to raid its storehouse of otherworldly secrets—was ample reward for something so trivial as a sack of oh-so-easily replaced flesh and blood and bone.”
I staggered up out of my chair. In doing so I inadvertently kicked over my recording machine. Thus, I have no audible record of what happened from that point on, but it does not matter, for I will never forget any aspect of what happened next. Hearing the curtains sliding apart, metal rings grating against metal piping, I felt my fingers gliding along the wall near the door.
Part of me was searching for the exit knob, but another, braver, far more insane part of me was fumbling for the light switch. Cursedly, curiosity won out. I heard the multiple thud of bare feet striking the floor. My fingers found the light switch. The room was flooded with brilliance. I was blinded for a moment, and then I was damned.
“Now, Dr. Whittaker,” came the mocking voice once more, “be a good boy and take off your clothes.”
I stared numbly, my fingers moving to do West’s bidding. My mouth hung open, saliva dripping. My eyes bulged, unblinking. Before me stood Cain, exactly as he looked in the photographs I had been shown previous to entering his room. And, there next to him, growing out of his side, was a newly born Herbert West.
Suddenly, all made sense. The insistence on extreme privacy, the continuous intravenous drips, the strange noises and bizarre arguments. And, other things as well.
“You entered my mind as well, didn’t you?”
“Of course, doctor. I really didn’t have the time to wait for you to reach all those conclusions by yourself. In fact, I’m there right now, exerting enough pressure to ensure your cooperation. Now, you will give me your clothing and then you will climb into the bed here and there you will remain until someone finds you. What you do after that, Dr. Whittaker, frankly, I don’t care. The entirety of the world is within my reach now. Nothing you do or say is going to change that … is it, Daniel?”
The pitifully drooped and defeated head of West’s assistant shook itself sadly from side to side. And then, West jerked his new body savagely, ripping away the already drying umbilical membrane that had been connecting them together. There was a horrid ripping, a splash of congealing fluids, and a gurgling laughter which promised horrors I could only guess at.
Shamefully, I confess I fainted at that point, my brain overloaded to the point of insanity. But, even in abject defeat, I could not escape the monster’s grasp. Much as I wanted to simply surrender to unconsciousness and crumple to the floor, since that did not fit West’s plans, I did not fall.
At the madman’s mental direction, my body continued to undress itself even as I sat back in a hysterical dither, silently screaming within the confines of my skull. Before I knew it, West was wearing my suit and smock. With Cain in tow he left the room without another word, even as I obediently climbed into the bed they had just vacated. Without hesitation I slid into the pool of sticky purple staining the sheet. And there I stayed until found by an orderly several hours later.
Exactly as West had ordered.
From here on in, you know the rest. No trace of either West or Cain has yet to be found. Intelligence has declared that they both have disappeared without a trace, and there is nothing I can add to that report. What next will come from the fevered mind of this mo
nster, I have no idea. And, I must admit, I believe I am glad of that fact, for already my brain can not hold the amount of foul baggage unloaded there by my brief contact with West’s mind.
CONCLUSION:
I have thought on this long and hard. There is nothing more I can add. You have the tapes of the session. What happened to the great Star-Headed Old One, West did not reveal. Where either of them has gone, or what they are planning, I can not say. I can not even guess.
But, I can tell you one thing. For some time during my interview with my patient, I was somewhat hostile to Dr. Cain. I thought, if the stories he told about West were actual, if even half of them were true, then I thought Cain contemptible for not finding some way to rid the world of such a monster.
Now, however, I have felt the beast within my brain, and I know such a thing can not be done. There is no defiance possible. He is Herbert West, and we are but men. There is no resisting him. There will only be the fear in the waiting to see what it is he will do next. I am sorry to say I do not have the courage to face that moment of discovery with the rest of you.
My will is attached to these papers. I believe the place I have picked to leave them will make them easy to discover, and yet keep them safe from any splatter or ruin. I apologize to you all. I’m sorry. So sorry, I can not say.
Do not worry about me, however. You do not have the time to waste. Not as long as Herbert West remains alive. Again, I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.
The Worm
John Bruni
* * *
THE STAIRS CREAKED, and Pete Jervis ground his teeth. A soft thump, followed by another, reverberated in his skull, and while the gentle sound shouldn’t have been intrusive, to Pete it was almost as bad as a rusty chainsaw.
He forced his eyes to the papers in his hand. There were copies of several contracts on and around his desk, but most of them weren’t worth the paper they were printed on. Only one showed promise, but he would have to go to great monetary risk before convincing a financer to invest. It was step a tough decision step and he really couldn’t step have his thoughts step interrupted at such a vital—
Vile Things: Extreme Deviations of Horror Page 14