The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales)

by Anthology

  The body had been buried several days earlier, but Masson had not dared to disinter it before. A relative of the dead man had been coming to the grave at intervals, even in the drenching rain. But he would hardly come at this late hour, no matter how much grief he might be suffering, Masson thought, grinning wryly. He straightened and laid the shovel aside.

  From the hill on which the ancient graveyard lay he could see the lights of Salem flickering dimly through the downpour. He drew a flashlight from his pocket. He would need light now. Taking up the spade, he bent and examined the fastenings of the coffin.

  Abruptly he stiffened. Beneath his feet he sensed an unquiet stirring and scratching, as though something were moving within the coffin. For a moment a pang of superstitious fear shot through Masson, and then rage replaced it as he realized the significance of the sound. The rats had forestalled him again!

  In a paroxysm of anger Masson wrenched at the fastenings of the coffin. He got the sharp edge of the shovel under the lid and pried it up until he could finish the job with his hands. Then he sent the flashlight’s cold beam darting down into the coffin.

  Rain spattered against the white satin lining; the coffin was empty. Masson saw a flicker of movement at the head of the case, and darted the light in that direction.

  The end of the sarcophagus had been gnawed through, and a gaping hole led into darkness. A black shoe, limp and dragging, was disappearing as Masson watched, and abruptly he realized that the rats had forestalled him by only a few minutes. He fell on his hands and knees and made a hasty clutch at the shoe, and the flashlight incontinently fell into the coffin and went out. The shoe was tugged from his grasp, he heard a sharp, excited squealing, and then he had the flashlight again and was darting its light into the burrow.

  It was a large one. It had to be, or the corpse could not have been dragged along it. Masson wondered at the size of the rats that could carry away a man’s body, but the thought of the loaded revolver in his pocket fortified him. Probably if the corpse had been an ordinary one Masson would have left the rats with their spoils rather than venture into the narrow burrow, but he remembered an especially fine set of cufflinks he had observed, as well as a stickpin that was undoubtedly a genuine pearl. With scarcely a pause he clipped the flashlight to his belt and crept into the burrow.

  It was a tight fit, but he managed to squeeze himself along. Ahead of him in the flashlight’s glow he could see the shoes dragging along the wet earth of the bottom of the tunnel. He crept along the burrows as rapidly as he could, occasionally barely able to squeeze his lean body through the narrow walls.

  The air was overpowering with its musty stench of carrion. If he could not reach the corpse in a minute, Masson decided, he would turn back. Belated fears were beginning to crawl, maggot-like, within his mind, but greed urged him on. He crawled forward, several times passing the mouths of adjoining tunnels. The walls of the burrow were damp and slimy, and twice lumps of dirt dropped behind him. The second time he paused and screwed his head around to look back. He could see nothing, of course, until he had unhooked the flashlight from his belt and reversed it.

  Several clods lay on the ground behind him, and the danger of his position suddenly became real and terrifying. With thoughts of a cave-in making his pulse race, he decided to abandon the pursuit, even though he had now almost overtaken the corpse and the invisible things that pulled it. But he had overlooked one thing: the burrow was too narrow to allow him to turn.

  Panic touched him briefly, but he remembered a side tunnel he had just passed, and backed awkwardly along the tunnel until he came to it. He thrust his legs into it, backing until he found himself able to turn. Then he hurriedly began to retrace his way, although his knees were bruised and painful.

  Agonising pain shot through his leg. He felt sharp teeth sink into his flesh, and kicked out frantically. There was a shrill squealing and the scurry of many feet. Flashing the light behind him, Masson caught his breath in a sob of fear as he saw a dozen great rats watching him intently, their slitted eyes glittering in the light. They were great misshapen things, as large as cats, and behind them he caught a glimpse of a dark shape that stirred and moved swiftly aside into the shadow; and he shuddered at the unbelievable size of the thing.

  The light had held them for a moment, but they were edging closer, their teeth dull orange in the pale light. Masson tugged at his pistol, managed to extricate it from his pocket, and aimed carefully. It was an awkward position, and he tried to press his feet into the soggy sides of the burrow so that he should not inadvertently send a bullet into one of them.

  The rolling thunder of the shot deafened him, for a time, and the clouds of smoke set him coughing. When he could hear again and the smoke had cleared, he saw that the rats were gone. He put the pistol back and began to creep swiftly along the tunnel, and then with a scurry and a rush they were upon him again.

  They swarmed over his legs, biting and squealing insanely, and Masson shrieked horribly as he snatched for his gun. He fired without aiming, and only luck saved him from blowing a foot off. This time the rats did not retreat so far, but Masson was crawling as swiftly as he could along the burrow, ready to fire again at the first sound of another attack.

  There was a patter of feet and he sent the light stabbing behind him. A great grey rat paused and watched him. Its long ragged whiskers twitched, and its scabrous, naked tail was moving slowly from side to side. Masson shouted and the rat retreated.

  He crawled on, pausing briefly, the black gap of a side tunnel at his elbow, as he made out a shapeless huddle on the damp clay a few yards ahead. For a second he thought it was a mass of earth that had been dislodged from the roof, and then he recognized it as a human body.

  It was a brown and shriveled mummy, and with a dreadful unbelieving shock Masson realized that it was moving.

  It was crawling towards him, and in the pale glow of the flashlight the man saw a frightful gargoyle face thrust into his own. It was the passionless, death’s-head skull of a long-dead corpse, instinct with hellish life; and the glazed eyes swollen and bulbous betrayed the thing’s blindness. It made a faint groaning sound as it crawled towards Masson, stretching its ragged and granulated lips in a grin of dreadful hunger. And Masson was frozen with abysmal fear and loathing.

  Just before the Horror touched him, Masson flung himself frantically into the burrow at his side. He heard a scrambling noise at his heels, and the thing groaned dully as it came after him. Masson, glancing over his shoulder, screamed and propelled himself desperately through the narrow burrow. He crawled along awkwardly, sharp stones cutting his hands and knees. Dirt showered into his eyes, but he dared not pause even for a moment. He scrambled on, gasping, cursing, and praying hysterically.

  Squealing triumphantly, the rats came at him, horrible hunger in their eyes. Masson almost succumbed to their vicious teeth before he succeeded in beating them off. The passage was narrowing, and in a frenzy of terror he kicked and screamed and fired until the hammer clicked on an empty shell. But he had driven them off.

  He found himself crawling under a great stone, embedded in the roof, that dug cruelly into his back. It moved a little as his weight struck it, and an idea flashed into Masson’s fright-crazed mind: If he could bring down the stone so that it blocked the tunnel!

  The earth was wet and soggy from the rains, and he hunched himself half upright and dug away at the dirt around the stone. The rats were coming closer. He saw their eyes glowing in the reflection of the flashlight’s beam. Still he clawed frantically at the earth. The stone was giving. He tugged at it and it rocked in its foundation.

  A rat was approaching—the monster he had already glimpsed. Grey and leprous and hideous it crept forward with its orange teeth bared, and in its wake came the blind dead thing, groaning as it crawled. Masson gave a last frantic tug at the stone. He felt it slide downwards, and then he went scrambling along the tunnel.

  Behind him the stone crashed down, and he heard a sudden frightful s
hriek of agony. Clods showered upon his legs. A heavy weight fell on his feet and he dragged them free with difficulty. The entire tunnel was collapsing!

  Gasping with fear, Masson threw himself forward as the soggy earth collapsed at his heels. The tunnel narrowed until he could barely use his hands and legs to propel himself; he wriggled forward like an eel and suddenly felt satin tearing beneath his clawing fingers, and then his head crashed against something that barred his path. He moved his legs, discovering that they were not pinned under the collapsed earth. He was lying flat on his stomach, and when he tried to raise himself he found that the roof was only a few inches from his back. Panic shot through him.

  When the blind horror had blocked his path, he had flung himself desperately into a side tunnel, a tunnel that had no outlet. He was in a coffin, an empty coffin into which he had crept through the hole the rats had gnawed in its end!

  He tried to turn on his back and found that he could not. The lid of the coffin pinned him down inexorably. Then he braced himself and strained at the coffin lid. It was immovable, and even if he could escape from the sarcophagus, how could he claw his way up through five feet of hard-packed earth?

  He found himself gasping. It was dreadfully fetid, unbearably hot. In a paroxysm of terror he ripped and clawed at the satin until it was shredded. He made a futile attempt to dig with his feet at the earth from the collapsed burrow that blocked his retreat. If he were only able to reverse his position he might be able to claw his way through to air…air.…

  White-hot agony lanced through his breast, throbbed in his eyeballs. His head seemed to be swelling, growing larger and larger; and suddenly he heard the exultant squealing of the rats. He began to scream insanely but could not drown them out. For a moment he thrashed about hysterically within his narrow prison, and then he was quiet, gasping for air. His eyelids closed, his blackened tongue protruded, and he sank down into the blackness of death with the mad squealing of the rats dinning in his ears.

  TOADFACE, by Mark McLaughlin

  John Masters was always hungry. Hungry enough to eat a whale. That’s all there was to it. He was on a high-protein, low-carbohydrate diet and so far, he’d lost fourteen pounds. At work, he found himself constantly looking up at the clock, wishing those sluggish mechanical hands would spin him closer, always closer to his next meal, so he could leave his computer monitor and hurry to the company cafeteria and wolf down a plate of meat—any kind of meat—and some green vegetables.

  Every evening after work, he would stop at the Pantheon Coffeehouse to enjoy a sugar-free caramel mocha latte. It was hot, rich, creamy and altogether wonderful, and it didn’t break any of the rules of his diet. The coffeehouse was also a great place to hang out because some of his friends and coworkers went there, so there was usually someone to chat with while he enjoyed his drink. The walls were covered with loaded bookshelves, so if none of his friends were there, he could at least find something to read.

  One night, he stopped by the coffeehouse and saw Meg, a project manager from work. She was very pretty, with green eyes, black hair and a friendly smile, and Masters often thought about asking her out for dinner. He hadn’t done so yet because he had a couple worries holding him back: he was still about twenty pounds overweight, and he was ten years older than her. Maybe she didn’t consider him attractive.

  Masters walked up to her table. “Hi! How’s life been treatin’ ya?” He waved a hand toward the other chair at her table. “Are you here with somebody?”

  “No, go ahead and sit down,” she said. “Well, we have a new director in our department. She works from eight A.M. to eight P.M., so of course she expects the rest of us to work around the clock, too. She must have the words ‘salary’ and ‘slavery’ mixed up—she thinks they mean the same thing.”

  “Tell me about it. My director is the same way. I think he just sleeps under his desk at night.” Master took a sip of his drink and then continued. “He’s always asking me to do things outside of my regular duties. Last week he asked me to fix his computer—as if I knew how. I just called one of the guys in technical support.”

  “Makes sense. So what was wrong with it?”

  Masters smiled. “Loose nut near the keyboard.”

  Meg shook her head slightly toward the other side of the room. “Speaking of loose nuts,” she whispered, “look over there. The booth near the men’s room.”

  Masters lifted his mug to sip from it, and also to hide his face as he glanced in that direction.

  The man in the booth had gray-white hair and a greasy, heavily wrinkled face, with huge, startled black eyes, a thick-lipped mouth and a puffy double-chin.

  “He looks like the frog prince,” Masters whispered.

  “More like the toad king,” Meg replied softly. “Maybe he’s on the same diet as you. Earlier, he was eating a tuna salad sandwich, but he just ate the tuna salad and didn’t touch the bread. No, I take that back—he did touch it, he just didn’t eat it. He licked off all the salad gunk. So how’s your diet coming along?”

  They began to talk about his meal plans. Masters told her what foods he was allowed to eat and which ones were strictly out-of-bounds. He told her about some of the ways he prepared different foods to make them more interesting, since boredom was the usual reason for people straying from diets.

  “So would your diet help me with my thighs?” Meg asked.

  “Your thighs are fine,” he replied. He then lowered his voice. “If you want a second opinion, ask old Toadface. He’s coming this way.”

  A moment later, the thick-lipped man was standing over them. Masters noticed that he had a flabby, pear-shaped physique, probably from licking up too much salad gunk. The man’s shirt was wet and stained around the armpits.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Toadface said in a high, nasal voice, “but I happened to overhear you two talking about some diet. May I join you?” Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed a chair from a nearby table, pulled it over and sat down. “I’d like to hear more about this diet. It sounds extremely interesting.”

  “Basically, it’s all about eating protein.” Master didn’t want to explain the whole complex matter to this bizarre man, so he decided to give him the condensed version. “You just eat a lot of meat and some vegetables, and no sugar or complex carbohydrates. Drink plenty of water and the weight just melts off.”

  “The water wouldn’t be a problem. Can it be any sort of meat?” Toadface blinked his wide eyes with rapt curiosity.

  “Yes, I think so,” Masters said. “After all, meat is meat.”

  The man cocked his head to one side. “But do some meats have more protein in them than others?”

  “I suppose so.” Masters had never thought about it before. “I guess lean meat would have more protein in it, since there’s less fat content.”

  The man smiled, revealing an abundance of yellowed, oddly narrow teeth. “But if the animal—the source of the meat—ate a lot of protein itself… Then it would probably contain even more protein. Yes?”

  Masters couldn’t bear to look at that hideously eager, hungry smile a second longer, so he glanced at his watch, pretended to be surprised at the time, and stood up. “Wow, I almost forgot. There’s a movie on TV tonight I’d really like to see. I’d better get going.”

  “Yeah, I’m running late myself,” Meg said. “See you at work, John.” She gave him a big hug—something she’d never done before. He wondered if it would be okay to give her a little kiss, a peck on the cheek. But no, not with Toadface standing by.

  Masters watched her leave, lost in thought. Toadface said, “What’s the name of the movie?”

  “What movie?” he replied without thinking. Then he remembered his impromptu lie, but it was too late.

  Toadface was clearly upset. His mouth stretched wide in an ugly grimace. Then the grimace turned into a vicious smile as the man looked down from Master’s face. “You just came from work, didn’t you?”

  With a rush of panic, Masters realized he
was still wearing his name tag. JOHN MASTERS, ACCOUNTING. INNSMOUTH QUALITY CONSTRUCTION.

  There was nothing for him to say, so he just turned and walked away from the table, dismayed that the clammy creep now knew his name and where he worked.

  * * * *

  Later that night, Masters fried some chicken and made himself a salad. He wondered if Toadface would give him any trouble. Would the flabby freak suddenly show up at his office?

  Masters worried about visiting the coffeehouse again. He’d never seen Toadface before, but perhaps the weirdo would start hanging out there, ready to make trouble.

  He decided the best thing to do would be to start visiting a new coffeehouse for a little while. Surely another place would be able to make him a sugar-free caramel mocha latte. How hard could it be?

  Later, with bedtime drawing near, he made sure all the doors and windows of his rented house were locked. After all, anybody who knew his name could look up his address in the phone book. As he double-checked the last window, which happened to be in the kitchen, he looked out to admire the ocean.

  He was relatively new to Innsmouth. He’d moved to the city for the job a year ago, and he rather liked this quaint seaport community. His new place was on a hill with a nice view of the Atlantic from the rooms on the east side.

  As he looked down at the rolling waters, he noticed a couple walking on the moonlit beach. The fact that they were down there at eleven-thirty didn’t surprise him. People always seemed to be walking down there, no matter what the hour.

  Did Toadface ever walk the beach? As he though about it, it occurred to him that he’d noticed other funny-looking folks around town. Some of them even had that same bulgy-eyed, puffy face—though most were not as extreme as Toadface’s. Maybe it was some sort of disease or hereditary condition.