The Book of Cthulhu 2

by Lockhart, Ross

  “I am glad you have not had your fill of me. I have heard it said in town that you are indeed a rake and libertine.”

  “It is all in the past,” he assured me. “I have never thought to marry, but you, my cousin, have won my heart, body, and soul.”

  Alas, for I was a fool to believe such words! I assure you, as I write this, locked up for crimes I did not commit, that no woman has ever suffered more than I on account of love!

  We lingered over supper, which consisted of every food known to inspire amorous devotion: caviar, asparagus, oysters, champagne, artichokes in white wine, and finally, a tiny cup of potent chocolate. By the end of it I was swooning with passion and anxious to retire, but it was not to be. As a final course, Laurent’s housekeeper surprised us by coming in with two chilled glasses of a French anisette liqueur as a digestif—but when I reached to take mine off the silver tray, the silver-filigreed cameo Laurent had given me spilled out from the neckline of my gown.

  “Thief!” cried his housekeeper. “Why, it is Lady Fanchone’s favorite ornament, long thought to be missing! How did it come to be concealed on your person, I wonder?”

  “Laurent gave it to me last night,” said I, shocked by her implication.

  “How could he, when it has been gone these ten years? As I recall it, Lady Fanchone wished to bequeath it to her only son and heir—and could not, for it had vanished!”

  I thought Laurent would come to my defense, but when I raised my tear-filled eyes to meet his, I saw only cruelty there.

  “Indeed, it had long been my desire to have that ornament turned into a cravat-pin—and here you are, possessed of it! My, my…Camilla! I never thought you would be the sort of girl around whom I should have to count the silver! To discover the woman I thought to make my bride is actually a low thief—and a thief so bold as to wear her ill-gotten possessions around those who might miss them!”

  I know it does not speak to my honesty to confess here that I bolted from the table then, thinking to leave The Beeches on foot. But I ask you, dearest reader, what hope I had of protesting my innocence when Laurent—he whom I had thought devoted to me—was speaking such dreadful falsehoods? You, my friend, know that I am innocent, that I would never steal, but I was apprehended by the handyman before I had taken ten steps out the front door. I screamed and beat his breast with my fists, demanding he release me, but he was far stronger than I, and restrained me easily. Then a policeman was called, and the matter seemed more and more hopeless. My character is no longer known in these parts, after all, and so it was the easiest thing to conclude I was a thief!

  To keep me from fleeing before my trial, I was locked into the tower with only a meager supply of candles to keep me from the grim darkness at night.

  It seems a century past, but it was less than a fortnight ago that I was found guilty of the crime of stealing the cameo necklace, and tomorrow I shall be hanged for it. The town being so small I was locked back into the tower at The Beeches for safekeeping; they bring me my meals fairly regularly, but already my dress hangs off my body, so hungry, cold, and lonely am I. Woe is me! I asked my jailers for paper and pencil so I could write my story; this, as it is my last request, they have given me. Thus I have recorded all that transpired during my fateful journey to my home county, where, instead of love, I have found only death. My only conclusion is that Laurent always intended to cast me aside, and gave me the necklace to have a good reason to do so.

  I have no regrets but one as to my actions in life, the things I have enjoyed and done—but trusting such a knave as Laurent and his hateful staff was a greater mistake than any of my amorous encounters. Would that I had taken Mr. Milliner up on his offer to elope with him! I am sure I should be happier than here, alone, in the darkness, awaiting my death.

  That should do; I shall copy it out now.

  Date unknown, time of day uncertain, languishing in the crypt—My plan has not worked, all hope has left me. I must conclude that either my dear editrix Susan did not perceive the cipher I painstakingly included in the handwritten conclusion I composed for “A Camilla Among the Beeches,” or it has not been sent to her was promised. I suspect the latter; given the extent of the treachery I have experienced, I cannot believe in human kindness any longer.

  Here I shall record what actually befell me more than a fortnight ago, if my sense of time has not been too much disturbed by living as I have been, in the Calipash family crypt. (I have counted meals, but they have been thrown down to me at strange intervals with no difference between breakfast and dinner, as I can no longer stomach much.) It pains me to write about my misfortunes, for this honors a hideous request, but at the very least I know this document will live on in the Private Library—which I have found out was never burnt, and exists today, and now one book richer. I suppose it is every writer’s wish to compose something that others might enjoy, and though future Calipash heirs may take pleasure in the real account which inspired ‘A Camilla Among the Beeches’ more for my suffering than any greatness of prose, such is life.

  I went down to dinner in my most modest gown, for when I was dressing for dinner I saw how brown and mottled my skin had become. I thought then it was from too much sun during my earlier walk; I know better now. Regardless, Orlando, sweet boy, remarked upon my dress favorably, and we enjoyed our meal.

  But when Lizzie came in with our dessert, I reached for the decanter of wine upon the table—and the jade tortoise pendant fell from my décolletage. Then all was confusion!

  “My God, it is my father’s necklace!” cried Orlando, pointing at the glowing object dangling before my bosom. “How has it come into your possession, Chelone?”

  “It is the potent thing itself!” cried Lizzie, dropping the tray of blancmange. “Bill!” she screeched at the top of her lungs. “Brother! Come! I have discovered it! It is not lost!”

  “What?” said I, backing away quickly from the table. “Orlando! Tell them you gave it to me late last night!”

  “I did not give it to you, nor did I see you after you left this room!” he exclaimed. “I drank and drank, then went down into the crypt after Bill came to me and told me he had forgotten to strip the pendant from my father’s body. I went to get it—and there was my father’s corpse, cold on the marble slab where Bill had put him, but the necklace was gone! And then there was a strange sound…and I startled away from the body—and hit my head—and woke up in my own bed!”

  “Indeed,” said Bill, coming into the room, “I think I have an explanation for that, dearest Lizzie. I’ve just had a visit with Rosemary’s golem.”

  “The golem!” exclaimed Lizzie. “Well, I never!”

  “Explain yourselves,” demanded Orlando. He was standing between myself and Lizzie and Bill. “Tell me what is happening here!”

  At this, Bill backhanded Orlando across the mouth, and the young Lord fell to the carpet, howling and clutching his mouth.

  “Silence, churl,” said Bill, and spat on his master. “You speak unto your rightful lord! I am William Fitzroy, Lord Calipash, and you are nothing but a lesser man’s son, thou shameful usurper!”

  It was such a strange scene—and my confusion so great—that I made to run away from the room; indeed, I wished to quit the house entirely, but Lizzie stuck out her foot and tripped me. After I fell to the ground with a cry, I tried to claw my way to the door with my hands, but she lifted up her skirts and sat upon my chest to hold me hostage. When I cried out she punched me in the side so hard I wept for the pain.

  “Dearest William,” said she, “why is it you suspect the golem?”

  “He told me—or rather, I had him write it all down for me,” said Bill. “When I saw how fit and healthy Orlando looked when he came down to dinner, I knew his earlier indisposition must be from some other source than the necklace’s transformative properties. Looking upon Chelone, how dreadful her skin appears now, I suspected some trickery, and went to the crypt for insight. And look at this!”

  He held up a scrap of pap
er before Lizzie’s eyes, and I caught a glimpse of it—the note was in my guardian’s own handwriting!

  “It wrote to her,” said Bill. “It apparently saw her as a girl and took a fancy to her, and in the confusion over our brother’s decline it thought it could safely invite her back and have some sport with her. It’s smarter than I ever realized, and it does look rather like Orlando—if one doesn’t peer too closely. Thus it was able to sneak down to the village and send her the note that called her hither! It wants a bride, dear sister. Just like the legends about it! Imagine that—the peasants knew something we didn’t!”

  “It seems from this note that they had quite a wedding night,” said Lizzie, looking up from the parchment to leer at me.

  I could barely breathe for her sitting on me, and choked on my tears. What, I wondered, was a golem, to live in a crypt, and send false letters?

  “Careful, sister, or you’ll give her fits,” said Bill. “We can’t have another one die on us, after the failure with our brother.”

  “I shan’t let her suffocate. If we keep her and allow her to pupate into the Guardian, then all we’ll have to worry about is that,” here she pointed to where Orlando whimpered on the ground, “We can’t have him destroying the illusion that we are a happy family…”

  “Indeed,” said Bill. “We can use him for all sorts of things, actually. I believe he’s a virgin, which could prove…useful.”

  “What is happening,” I wept. “Oh, do get up, do let me go, please!”

  “It’s too late for you, stupid girl,” said Lizzie, and kicked me in the side with her boot-heel. “Though it may please you to know you alone have been the agent of your undoing. Rather amusing! If you hadn’t surprised the former Lord into death, then he would have completed his transmutation, and you should have gotten away from here safely.”

  “Sister, do think—if she had not been discovered perusing the Private Library, inducing the anger that made our loathsome brother wish to destroy it, then we never would have thought to create a Guardian to protect our family legacy from future well-meaning fools! Ha! It is very funny, how a young girl’s curiosity can result in such tragedy.” He smiled thinly. “Rather Gothic, really. Isn’t the bitch some sort of petty writer? Too bad she’ll never put it all into a story.”

  “Perhaps we should have her chronicle her transformation!” sniggered Lizzie. “It might be of great scientific interest one day.”

  “So it is you who are the twins of whom my father spoke,” mumbled Orlando, his hand raised to where his cheek still bled. “I thought he had become completely insensible when he began to rant about how he had siblings—twins, yes, but not terrible he thought, though he said to be on the lookout for you, lest you show some sign of treachery! Alas—I have realized it too late!”

  I know it sounds incredible, that in this modern time such things as curses are real, but as I languish in the crypt, surrounded by my mummified ancestors and these strange stone gargoyles that emit the weird light by which I can see to write this, gradually changing into the creature whose jade likeness I so unwittingly wore upon my breast, I have been forced to admit I should have heeded the warning given to me during my train-ride home to Ivybridge. Lizzie and Bill, two people whom I should never have suspected of evil, have been proven to be nothing but. Long did they plot their revenge on my former guardian for his decision to destroy the Private Library; long have they cursed fortune for having made he who I knew as the Lord Calipash the legitimate heir, and them the servitors of an estate they could claim no right to manage.

  The worst part is, Bill was not being hyperbolic when he accused me of authoring my own undoing—indeed, it is the case, in so very many ways. When the former Lord Calipash found me so entranced by that strange, deviant copy of Fanny Hill, he resolved to burn the collection. Bill told me that, horrified by the idea of his family’s Private Library destroyed, he offered to do it for his master and half-brother—but instead he stoked the bonfire with other books, all the while secreting the foul tomes of the Private Library in the family crypt, where I will now dwell until the end of my life, which I think will not be for decades, if not centuries, if what I have been told is true.

  It seems the very day I was sent away to school, Lizzie and Bill resolved to create for the Calipash family’s possessions a Guardian, immortal and terrible, who would protect the satanic heirlooms of this degenerate family if again they were threatened. Such will be my fate. The golem—he with whom I am miserably and all-too-closely acquainted—would not do for the office, being constructed by his mistress, as I understand it, out of dead Calipash males for pleasure-purposes, and thus is more lover than fighter.

  But the twins, like me, had gazed upon the fell contents of that strange, leather-bound book wherein I first saw the image of the winged tortoise, only they knew how to decipher its malignant text. Discovering that the pendant would transform its owner into rabid protectors of mortal treasure, long did they search for the idol that has changed me, and when they at last found it, they gave it unto my guardian—but I surprised him into death before he could fully transmute! Thus I was many times over my own executioner, and I use that word for I sense I shall be Miss Chelone Burchell for not too much more of my life. I can tell by the thickening of my skin and the swelling of my belly; the seizing of my hands into clawed monkey’s paws, the growing of two strange protuberances upon my already insensate back.

  The twins had wanted the old Lord Calipash for a guardian, to punish him for his attempt to destroy the Private Library; my heinous half-aunt and half-uncle, evil though they surely are, held no ill-will towards me, and to their credit have expressed some regret over the unfortunate circumstances that have led me to this very particular doom. Their next victim was to have been Orlando; indeed, Bill himself had sent my cousin out to the crypt that night, to suffer the transformation himself. Now they are holding him for purposes of their own, I know not what—and likely never shall. They have told me only that Bill, shaven, is very like the old Lord Calipash, and so plans on impersonating his old master until the end of his days, claiming to have had a miraculous recovery from the illness that, unexpectedly, claimed his own groundskeeper!

  At least I shall not be lonely. There is the voiceless golem who tries in his way to comfort me, poor creature, and the massive Private Library to read, and demoniac treasures I have found, and spend many hours contemplating. Oh, but none of it is any comfort to me; how I wish I had never come home! Calipash Manor is a blasphemous, unthinkable place, and to visit here is to face not death, but the vast terror of selfish, unfathomable evil. So ends my tale—my hands stiffen, my eyes dull—and the world shall never know what became of me. Beware those who would seek to rob my family: Soon it shall come the hour of the tortoise!

  I Only Am Escaped Alone to Tell Thee

  Christopher Reynaga

  Whatever you do, don’t call me Ishmael.

  Don’t call me anything at all. Give me my pint of piss-poor ale and leave me be in this yellowed corner where men relieve themselves when they are too lazy to make three extra stumbling steps to the streets of Nantucket. I am done. Finished. Come to this hole to die—and if you insist on speaking to me, I’ll find a deeper hole than this dying excuse of a whaling town can offer.

  No, I do not want another round, nor your sick curiosity. Why can’t New Englanders, most stoic of men, keep to their business when a dead man walks among them. Yes dead, though life still beats in this heart. It does not matter that I am the only survivor of what happened to the Pequod out there in the deep. I am marked by it—

  I see now. It’s not me you want at all, it’s him. Captain Ahab. Old Thunder. The god and monster among men. Ahab the cracked, the insane. The captain who would cut the throat of his own wife and son and lap up the blood, if it would give him revenge on the white beast he hunted. I heard the rumors of his madness on these very docks before we shipped out. And now you want to know all.

  How wrong you are of him. He does not deser
ve your eager eyes and poison tongues. He was nothing of the monster you imagine. For his sake alone, I will set his tale to right.

  The captain was no saint, I’ll have you that. My first sight of him was his savage backhand to Pip, the cabin boy, for touching the scar on the captain’s face as he made his way up to the quarter deck to address us. Ahab was the iron hand on the ship’s tiller, as all good captains are. A good captain would have you in irons if he smelled mutiny in your blood. I saw in Ahab’s eyes that he’d heave you over the side.

  “There’s no man on this boat fool enough to have signed on without having heard the tales. I have seen to that. Ye are not the finest whalers to board this ship. Ye are the boldest, the most dangerous, the most desperate. I have seen to that. I want no common harpooneers here. I hunt greater game.”

  “Ye have heard of the white leviathan that took my leg and left me with this.” The captain lifted the shroud of his pant, revealing the greasy white bone, carved in queer, twisted angles that made Pip gasp and me squint my eyes till he dropped the cuff again. “Ye know the wealth in gold I offer. This much is true. The rest has been lies. Ones you have told yourselves. It is not a whale we hunt… but a god. A tentacled and winged god greater than the greatest whale that ever lived.

  “Ye must think me mad! And I am. But mad with knowing what is in store for this earth. For when that beast took my leg as I dangled in the green moss that grows from its fishbelly white tentacles, I saw into its mind, and it left a splinter of itself in mine. It means to kill us all, and not because it is the Lord’s instrument hailing the end of days. This beast is the end of all gods and men.

  “If there is any of ye that wants no part of this hunt, I will leave ye in a whaling skiff with a day’s food and water to row the thousand miles back to shore. I do this not to doom ye, but because it would make no difference to your fate. This thing does not care that ye exist. We are krill to its massive jaws and it will eat ye here or in the deepest landlocked desert ye can hide.”