"There's an emergency stairwell. If I go down, I suggest you both use it," Johnny instructed.
"I am not running," I said. And though I couldn't see his face, I knew Johnny was smirking.
Suddenly, the gunfire and screams from the lobby stopped. There was a crashing noise, and then the metal frame of the elevator shaft began to whine loudly. It protested under tremendous weight.
"It's on its way up," Johnny said, cracking his knuckles.
We heard it climb and quicker than any of us expected, giant hands forced the elevator doors open. Wraight lumbered into the formal room from the elevator shaft. He was covered with gore and slime. He had been busy.
Wraight was able to stretch fully in Johnny's spacious penthouse. The thing took us all in. It was just the three of us. Johnny had spread his men everywhere else and I doubted there were any left, or the stairwell would have been erupting with them. Wraight's mismatched eyes focused on Johnny.
"You picked the wrong birdhouse to fly into, my friend," Johnny said grimly.
"Ah, the fiend with no name. I thought you'd be taller," Wraight said. "So you are the Jack Straw those weaklings downstairs follow."
"I only hire the best men. They would all die for me," Johnny said.
"Most just did," Wraight bragged. "I hope you'll be more of a challenge."
"I don't think you'll be disappointed," Johnny said.
Without another word, Johnny charged Wraight. He leapt up with a power and grace I wouldn't have expected, clutched his hands together, and gave a double-fisted punch to Wraight's head that nearly knocked the beast back down the elevator shaft.
Wraight was able to catch his balance and steady himself. Before he could react, Johnny grabbed the ogre's big head, twisted Wraight to the floor, and landed such a flurry of punches that I lost count. Johnny stopped to catch his breath and regarded the gross form he had just stilled.
"I heard you were tough," Johnny said, shaking his head disappointedly.
Wraight's form began to quake. I thought maybe the creature was having some sort of seizure after the beating Johnny had handed him. But he was laughing, and it issued vigorously from his mouth. He stood up and glowered impressively at Johnny.
"That's the spirit, mate," he said, grabbing Johnny by his head and smashing the big man into a wall.
Wraight pulled Johnny back into the open. Johnny pried the giant fingers from his head. Wraight used his other fist and sent Johnny flying across the room and into the wet bar counter. Then Wraight looked at Herbert and me.
"When a man makes an investment, he expects a return," Wraight said to Herbert. "It is time to pay me back, West!"
"What does he owe you? I'll write you a check," Johnny said.
I glanced over at the bar. Johnny had ripped the counter from the ground. A geyser of water shot into the air. Johnny threw the counter and Wraight was knocked into the fireplace from the impact.
Suddenly, a dozen or more of Johnny's men busted in through the fire stairwell. They were dressed in Kevlar body armor and they fired their weapons madly at Wraight. Wraight stood quickly and charged into the men. He grabbed two and squashed them against the floor. Blood spewed from their eyes and mouths and the sounds of their cracking bones played sickly in the air as the beast put his weight on them. As Wraight went for the others, Johnny scrambled up his disgusting back and wrapped his arms around the giant's throat.
I looked to Herbert who was watching with a helpless dread. "I am of absolutely no use in this instance," he confessed.
Wraight thrashed around and Johnny's remaining men held their fire. I decided it was time to stop watching and help end this. I rushed over as Johnny twisted Wraight's neck. I gave the ugly bastard a kick to the back of his left knee. He grunted and tumbled down. Johnny again began to pummel the giant's head. I struck out at his mid-section with what had to be the strongest punches I had ever delivered. I heard the monster lose his breath as I added a front kick to his stomach. From out of nowhere and at an incredible speed, the back of his hand sent me reeling away. I scrambled back up and saw he and Johnny facing off.
Both monsters were fatigued and panting heavily. They eyed each other as they gathered their strength.
"I am the son of terrible gods, you quilt of indiscriminate dead flesh!" Wraight bellowed. He came down with both fists, but Johnny easily evaded them.
Johnny landed another heavy blow, and Wraight backed away.
"You're second rate, Wraight," Johnny taunted. "You're just another carnival circuit boogeyman who thinks he's ready for the big time."
"I have suffered enough of these indignities!" Wraight bellowed.
He barreled quickly at Johnny. He grabbed Johnny around the waist and began to slam him against the expensive floor of the penthouse. He screamed liked a rabid banshee and broke the flooring with every ounce of his strength. Johnny's remaining men rushed at the giant. Wraight used Johnny like a swatter and smashed the men away, breaking or killing the remaining dregs of Johnny's forces.
I came at Wraight and met his giant fist which drove me to the ground once more. Wraight postured with Johnny's form still clutched in his hand. Johnny was out cold.
"Let's see how much fight you have without a head!" Wraight said, opening his mouth and raising Johnny toward it.
"Stop!" I shouted.
Wraight paused. Then his eyes took on confusion. "What’s this?"
Wraight stared at me silently for several seconds, as if awaiting further instructions. Johnny hung limply in his grasp. Wraight looked like a scolded toddler trailing a teddy bear at his side.
"Carol, you're holding him!" Herbert shouted across the room.
I focused as hard as I could.
"Put him down," I instructed. "Gently."
Wraight did as I commanded, placing Johnny's unconscious body on the ground.
"This isn't possible," Wraight said, his eyes growing with alarm. "You can't do this."
"Sit down," I said. "On your hands."
Wraight's body trembled and his head shook madly. "No! No! I won't be your meat puppet!"
"Sit," I said again.
Wraight plopped to the floor. He slid his hands under his haunches.
"What do I do with him?" I asked Herbert.
"We have to find a way to contain him," Herbert advised. "I'm sure Johnny has a holding cell in that basement dungeon of his."
Suddenly, I felt a tug on my mind. I looked to Wraight. His head was vibrating so forcefully that I expected it to explode.
"He's resisting," I said. I walked toward him. "Don't move Wraight."
I focused on the huge monster, and his struggle to free himself from me became an undeniable energy in my head. My upper lip suddenly felt wet. Cold, dead blood was creeping from my nostrils. Pain like none I had ever experienced mushroomed in my skull. I had to release him.
Wraight bounced back up. He snatched me into the air. He squeezed me in his grip. I couldn't think straight. I was still reeling from the agony in my mind. Wraight immediately put my left fist into his mouth and he bit it off. I screamed, though I didn't feel the pain of that particular mutilation above the loud misery in my brain.
"You couldn't hold me for long, you dead strumpet! And I'll make sure you never grab at my thoughts again!"
My head began to clear. Wraight glanced down and my eyes followed. Herbert was slamming the dull sword against the monster's leg with all of his might.
"Please, Herbert. You are embarrassing yourself," Wraight said.
Herbert stopped and turned the sword to his throat. "Let her go. If you harm her, I'll cut my throat. And then who will give you what you want?"
"That knife isn't sharp enough to cut paper, much less your throat, old boy. I can't spare Miss Haddon. She has the ability to get into my head. And I can't have that," Wraight said.
"The secret inside of her is what I need to give you power. If you eat her, it'll be lost," Herbert said, tossing the sword aside.
"I think there is more to it
than that. Do you fancy her, Herbert? Be honest and I will consider your request."
Herbert stared at me. "Yes," he said softly. And he wasn't just stalling. "Yes I care for her very much. She is more than an experiment to me."
Wraight tsked. "Fooling around with lab rats? Highly inappropriate, Mr. West. And I am sorry, but Miss Haddon has to go. But don't worry. I'll leave enough of her for you to study. Or do other things with, if you like."
I lashed out with my right hand and punched him through his sloping eye. Wraight screamed in absolute agony and dropped me. A mixture of blood and cancerous pus poured from his socket. Herbert helped me up and we scampered back.
"Heads up, folks."
We turned. Glass was standing in the penthouse. He looked bloody and bruised. He had a rocket launcher leveled on his shoulder. "You might want to scoot over a bit," he advised.
We jerked away as Glass fired the weapon. There was a flash of fire and smoke. The shell hit Wraight and sent him through the large window of the penthouse. A few seconds later, we heard a car alarm sound off from below.
Herbert rushed over to the window and looked down. "I don't see him!" he reported above the rush of night wind.
Suddenly, I heard something scrambling up the elevator shaft. I stood next to Glass, who trained his guns toward the sound.
Abraham Janvier emerged. He looked around, surveying the carnage and damage. "What has transpired here?"
Glass lowered his weapons. "Damn, Janvier! Start answering your fucking phone!" he said angrily.
I rushed over to Johnny, who was still unconscious. I knelt down and shook him with my remaining hand. He was cold and not breathing. But I wasn't sure if that meant anything or not. I turned to Herbert, who still lingered by the broken window. "Johnny isn't waking up, Herbert."
"This has happened before. His system has shut down from the trauma," Herbert said. "He'll recover. I only need to-"
Wraight suddenly appeared behind Herbert. His large hands grabbed the scientist. As Herbert was pulled away through the window and into the night, I stared at his face. For the first time since I had met Herbert West, his eyes conveyed terror.
Without limit.
Epilogue
A Weird Tale
November 15th, 1936
Providence, R.I.
Baker Johnson stood at the door of the meager house. He gave it a knock and waited for a long time in the cold wind. Finally, the knob twisted and the door opened. A tall, gangly and unattractive man greeted him.
"Mr. Johnson," the man said, with a smile that rarely appeared on his solemn face. "I am so happy you agreed to meet with me. I am Howard Lovecraft."
***
The house was flowery and clean. Howard Lovecraft had explained to Baker that it was actually his aunt's home, and that he was in-between places at the moment. As Lovecraft made tea in the kitchen, Baker sat on a couch and wondered why the author had requested a conference. The special perception Baker wielded had already told him the man was dying, but he wondered if that would have been obvious to any eye.
Death was chasing Lovecraft, and it was steadily closing the gap. The man was wasting away. Impressions of a person upon first sight was a gift of Baker's that he couldn't explain, but he always trusted. Having been assailed by that strange ability since entering the small house, Baker already knew much about the man. Lovecraft was prideful, highly opinionated, and extremely judgmental. But at the root of it all, Baker sensed a deep insecurity, sensitivity, and a lifelong apprehension that motivated every word and action from the man. Baker suspected that Lovecraft wrote the tales he was known for to exercise the fear and curse others with it.
Lovecraft returned and carefully placed a tea tray on the living room table. As they poured themselves cups, Lovecraft said, "When I heard that you were in town for a lecture, I just had to telegram you and request this visit."
"It isn't a problem. I have a few hours to burn before my train departs."
"You are considered one of the best psychical researchers in the world," Lovecraft said, and Baker could sense that sincere praise came rarely from the man. "I am shocked your name isn't as widely known as the others in your field."
"I am a private man who doesn't seek publicity," Baker explained.
Howard nodded sympathetically. "Yes. I find the promoting of oneself quite loathsome. You are from England, if I understand correctly."
"God save the Queen," Baker said, toasting his tea cup and wishing it were filled with sterner stuff.
"You are a welcome import. Not like so many of the deviant criminals who cross our borders and shit upon our shores," Lovecraft said, loathing deep in his tone.
That Lovecraft suffered from xenophobia didn't surprise Baker at all. The man was ruled entirely by dread, rational or otherwise. Baker felt very sorry for Lovecraft, though he was clearly intolerant. The end loomed before the author, but he was still going to haul his hatred with him to the grave. Where it belonged.
Baker brought the conversation back to the business at hand. "So what can I assist you with, Mr. Lovecraft?"
"I asked you to come because I need someone to talk to. There are so few who might be able to comprehend what I have to say. I am dying. Surely that is obvious to you. The pain that has plagued me for years will end soon, but before I begin that unfathomable black journey, there is a dark secret that must be shared. And I think you are the only one who might give what I am about to divulge credence."
"I am intrigued," Baker said.
Lovecraft pulled a folded and worn magazine from his sweater. He smoothed it out on the table. It was titled Weird Tales and dated February 1928. Baker sneered at the gaudy cover.
"Have you read my work?" Howard asked, without high expectation placed on any answer Baker could give.
But still, Baker was kind. "No. I don't read fantasy or horror stories. I deal with the fantastic enough in my work, Mr. Lovecraft."
"What I have to confess to you pertains to a tale in this issue. What I had thought was fiction I am now thoroughly convinced was not. My imagination was touched, corrupted, by the thing I mentioned in those pages."
"It isn't uncommon for an author to think a godly force behind his work. One merely has to look at the Bible to see such an instance."
Lovecraft scoffed. "Drivel perpetuated to police the masses with an all-seeing overlord installed in the sky. Gods are not benevolent. They are pitiless and deeply amused by our misery."
Baker agreed, though not as darkly.
"I regrettably assure you that this isn't a case of an author mistakenly placing divine inspiration upon that which mere human imagination has fashioned. In that tale, I gave the name of the destroyer of our world. And I cannot take it back. In my work I often described a race of great and terrible gods that look upon us as gnats to be swatted away from their meal. But what I had thought to be my own genius was merely a perception given to me so that I could stab it into our consciousness. I was their unwitting herald, Mr. Johnson, who congratulated himself on a tale well told. I sold our world for a few pieces of silver and the end of man will have my touch upon it."
Howard paused to sip his tea.
Baker wanted to believe that Lovecraft's admission was the dying man's way of coping with his own end. That the desire for his name to endure was strong. He wanted to believe that Lovecraft was attempting to immortalize himself in a way that would be appropriate for a writer of the macabre. But he sensed Lovecraft's words were sincere, and that a deep regret hung on this. Baker sensed truth in this tale. And it chilled him deeply.
"Do you think I am mad, Mr. Johnson?"
"No, I don't. Eccentric perhaps. But not insane."
"For over a year now, I have had vivid and terrible nightmares," Lovecraft said. "An evil is breeding at the center of our world, and when it eventually stirs from its death sleep, it will shake and tear this planet asunder. I have seen what will come eventually. Not now. Maybe not for many years. But the black magic will arrive. I have seen gha
stly beasts, secreted from the monster and sent to plague our world. They will silence the non-believers and make way for dark sorcery to blossom from the foundation of the earth. There will be terror, bloodshed, madness. Carnage such as the world has never witnessed. The stars shall dim, the light shall perish, and then even death shall die, Mr. Johnson."
Baker's story continues in
Available now!
Monsters and the Magic Now
The Prequel to Night Things
Warning: Monsters and the Magic Now contains extreme violent and sexual content. It is not recommended for anyone under the age of 18. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Night Things: The Monster Collection Page 27