The Book of Cthulhu 2

by Lockhart, Ross

  And then peace. Then a breeze. I open my eyes. The cloud has blown away. I still hold Kayla.

  Reality slips. I stand in a corridor full of doors. I can hear scampering about and above me. And I know I can hear the rats in the walls.

  I am still afraid. I would still favor flight over fight. But fight I will. Because I can face my fear. Because now, Nyarlathotep, you get bloody yours.

  The Nyarlathotep Event:: Case File #8 :: Interrogation

  I never thought I’d say it, but once you get used to a dimension of fear and chaos, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Yes, it’s driven my co-worker, Kayla, insane, and yes, it does keep trying to kill me with more and more depraved horrors, but, well it could be worse.

  Take the field of flying knives I have to traverse. Blades whirl, shearing life from plants, small rodents, the odd offensive-looking rock. But a little concentration on my part, and I manifest a titanium steel umbrella and, with Kayla balanced on my shoulder, I cross the place in relatively safety.

  Nightmare logic.

  And when I reach a river of blood leeches—each creature a foot long, each with a spine-filled maw reaching for me—I just think hard and then I have wings. Kayla and I sail over them easy as blinking.

  Seriously, I’m like the Green bloody Lantern in this reality. It’s awesome.

  Really the only serious fly in the ointment is that if I don’t find its ruler, Nyarlathotep, in the next fifteen minutes or so, all of regular reality is going to be permanently buggered. And I have no idea where I’m going.

  Fortunately I’ve always been more of a beta male, so stopping to ask for directions isn’t a serious dilemma. If only I could stop people trying to kill me long enough to ask.

  I finally strike gold in a castle that drips gore and is chock-full of tiny gremlin-like creatures armed with stilettos. An old-school suit of armor makes maneuvering difficult but renders their attempted stabbings utterly ineffective. After a few attempts I finally seize one around the midriff and heft it to eye height. It kicks and spits with its full eight-inch frame. Really, if it wasn’t so full of bile it’d be quite adorable.

  “I’m looking for Nyarlathotep,” I inform it.

  It lunges for my eyes, hurling its blades at the grills in my armored mask. I flinch back and fling it away. Possibly a little too hard. It hits a wall and becomes an ugly stain.

  I keep the next one further from my face.

  “Which way to Nyarlathotep?”

  It suggests some awful things I should do to my mother.

  “I’m not a violent man,” I tell it, “but I can apparently crush you like an insect.”

  More profanities follow. Small he may be. Easily intimidated he is not.

  “Please?” I venture.

  Further obscenities. And then my jaw starts to tremble, because all of this abuse is delivered by a voice so high it’s barely in human hearing range. And then I laugh. It doesn’t feel at all appropriate as chunks of viscera rain down the castle walls, but I’m starting to become immune to the shock horror aspects of this place.

  As soon as the sound is out of me, the gremlin shrieks and does its best to claw its way out of my hand. I’m so shocked I stop laughing and stare at it. It recovers slowly. I chuckle. It slams its body backwards, wrestling an arm free to cover its ears.

  “Nyarlathotep now, or I bust a gut all over you,” I tell it. Not the most threatening thing I’ve ever said, but it has the desired effect. The thing grimaces and screeches, and jabbers, and around me the walls of reality flex and then—

  I stand (and Kayla whimpers) on a cliff overlooking a barren, dusty plain. Rising from the center, like red wax dripping toward the sky, is a many-spired citadel.

  “Nyarlathotep,” the gremlin gibbers at me. “Nyarlathotep!”

  Looks like the sort of place an extradimensional avatar of fear and chaos would call home. I nod my thanks to the gremlin and then throw it over the edge of the cliff.

  Seriously, the murderous bastard could have brought us a little closer.

  The Nyarlathotep Event:: Case File #9 :: Citadel

  As citadels that are the embodiment of sheer terror go, Nyarlathotep’s is pretty imposing.

  I mean, to be fair, he benefits from having built it in a nightmare reality based on humanity’s collective fears where things like gravity and physics are apparently spongier than I’m used to, but still, he deserves points for effort. Blood-colored spires, statues that actually scream, non-Euclidean angles—he went the whole nine yards.

  Still going to kill the bastard, of course.

  I lower Kayla, co-worker, super-woman, and currently dribblingly insane person off my shoulders. I check my watch. If time obeys the same rules here as back home I’ve got about twelve minutes to get this done. Time to take some shortcuts.

  Fortunately, the best thing about a nightmare reality is that nightmare rules apply. I concentrate, my dream armor disappears, I sprout wings, and I take to the air.

  Hell yeah, I do.

  I sweep down over spires, twist between towers, work my way deeper and deeper into the heart of the complex. A vast central tower looms before me. I aim for a window near its peak, tuck in my wings, clutch Kayla tight to my chest—

  —and tentacles explode out of one wall and smash me into the tower.

  And, yes, that would probably be the worst thing about a nightmare reality: nightmare rules apply.

  I fall, scrabbling against the tower’s sheer surface. I try to clear my mind, to focus. My fingers elongate, develop suckers. I latch on. One arm spirals away, elastic and strong, wrapping around Kayla.

  I climb the wall. It ripples beneath me.

  I jump as the first spike erupts from the wall’s surface. I fall, but re-summon my wings. I seize Kayla. I climb. The spikes eject from the wall at speed. Jagged rain.

  My body is steel before they strike me. I shelter Kayla and they clatter away.

  And screw wings. I’m from the twenty-first century, dammit.

  A moment is all it takes to get a jet engine strapped to my back. Going up.

  The tentacles lash out as I jet upwards, but I angle away, roasting them with afterburners. They blacken, curling and falling away. Take that, you bastards.

  A window looms. I blast towards it, faster, faster. And I’m outstripping the citadel’s imagination. I’m outstripping its speed to respond. I’m bloody winning.

  Except the window’s frame twists even as I slam towards the glass, the edges stretching, stretching, until it resembles something worryingly close to a smile.

  Glass shatters. A wall looms. I collide. Blackness descends.

  Later

  How long was I out? How long do I have left? Is it too late for reality? I look for my watch, but everything is black.

  “Kayla?” I say. No reply.

  “Always late,” a voice says.

  I recognize that voice.

  “I’m very disappointed, Arthur.”

  It’s my mother’s voice.

  A spotlight flicks on, a white circle of light on the floor before me. I hear footsteps. My mother comes into the circle. She’s bleeding. A great gash across her neck. She collapses, reaches for me.

  “Jesus!” I dash forward, grab her hand. She’s trying to say something I can’t hear. I read her lips. “Arthur…” There’s something she’s desperate to convey, but she can’t …

  And then it hits me. Nightmare rules apply.

  And this is a cheap bloody ploy.

  Lights. I summon them. Banish the darkness. My mother’s body wilts in their brightness. Becomes mannequin parts falling apart beneath cheap clothes. An illusion dismissed.

  The brightness illuminates a throne room, rich wall hangings, a velvet carpet, a magnificent golden chair. No Kayla. I can’t see her. But there, standing before the chair, waiting for me—my target, my goal. Nyarlathotep is home.

  And seeing him there, all traces of confidence drain away. No, they are violently expunged from my body. Seeing him there, finall
y, I am truly afraid.

  The Nyarlathotep Event:: Case File #10 :: Rematch

  Fear. It’s easy enough to be ruled by it. There are a lot of things to be afraid of these days. Terrorists. Bioweapons. New Lady Gaga songs.

  My personal issue with fear is a little more immediate, though. It is seven foot tall, wears red robes, and goes by the name of Nyarlathotep.

  And I’m in his citadel, in his dimension, and in this moment, I realize I probably should have brought my gun. My super-powered co-worker, Kayla, is a government-paid swordswoman, but she appears to have disappeared into madness.

  Crap.

  Up until now it hasn’t been too much of a problem. Until now, I’ve been able to take advantage of this being a reality other than ours, and just summoned things by concentrating hard. Apparently now I’m in Nyarlathotep’s actual house, that’s not an option. Not that I don’t try it. I imagine swords, guns, knives, bombs, even Donkey Kong on the off chance I can catch him off guard.

  No go.

  Nyarlathotep steps towards me. He’s got no gun either, but that’s not really an issue for him.

  Visions overwhelm me. Rush up at me from the floor, swallow me.

  —drowning here, swallowed by surfaces suddenly turned liquid. I can feel them pressing in. Insects scuttering forward, enveloping me. In my mouth, my ears, my eyes. Peeling back my flesh. And beneath I am something other than expected. There is no flesh here, no blood and bone. Hollow glass veins. Crystalline tendons. A hammer descending, to shatter me, obliterate me. Fear building, building. My heart beating faster in my chest until I fear even that. Until it is enough to shatter my fragile body. Overwhelming me. Drowning me—

  It could go on and on. Forever. There is so much to fear. To run from. Through the vision I can see Nyarlathotep, hand outstretched, pacing slowly towards me. And I know then that all thoughts of killing him are madness. Because fear can never be killed. It will live forever, beat in my heart forever.

  But there, then, I know too, that all of that doesn’t mean fear can’t be overcome too.

  I squeeze shut my eyes as the visions press in, but I push back. I gather my breath. I open my eyes.

  Nyarlathotep is a step away. His fingers an inch from my throat. I have one hope. One trick this place has taught me. I brace myself. And I laugh.

  In his face, I laugh. As loud and hearty as I can make. Trying to avoid the hysteria overcoming me. I laugh, and I laugh, and I laugh.

  His hand strikes me and shatters like glass. Nyarlathotep stares at it, disbelieving. He comes on, his arm grinding against me, splintering, fracturing, spilling to the floor in glistening red shards. And then his whole being smashes against me. And he is only so much dust at my feet.

  And then his whole citadel trembles. Cracks run through it. The whole of this reality shatters and shakes. And then I am falling, tumbling through a tear in the world, into blackness.

  Christ Church College, Oxford

  I land with a crack on my back in the center of Christ Church quad.

  I lie there panting. I look about me. And I realize, this is it. This is Oxford as I remember it. Regular, normal, boring Oxford. Normal, boring students staring at me, wondering where I’m from. The madness from Nyarlathotep’s reality has been banished.

  Kayla, my co-worker, lost to madness in that other reality, sits up next to me, paws at her eyes.

  “Worst feckin’ dream I’ve ever…” She shakes her head.

  In my ear, static as my earbud reconnects with the MI37 home office. I hear Tabitha’s voice. “Five, four, three… oh wait. You’re back.” She pauses. “Cut that bloody close. Idiots.”

  Yeah. Everything back to normal.

  And I smile. Because, really, there’s no place like home.

  The Black Brat of Dunwich

  Stanley C Sargent

  “In effect we have unsettled and reversed the given configuration, suggesting an alternative—culture/nature.”

  —Donald R. Burleson

  At the bartender’s suggestion, Jeffrey and James made their way to the rear of the dimly lit Arkham bar. They saw only one person in the smokey shadows of the back room, a thin ancient man seated alone amidst the shadows and smoke; they casually approached his table.

  “Pardon me, mister,” Jeffrey proffered, “my friend and I are collecting data for a book we’re writing about the so-called ‘Dunwich horror.’ The bartender said you’d actually met Wilbur Whateley and might be willing to speak with us.”

  The dark, seated figure offered no immediate response. After a few moments, the two intruders looked at each other, then shrugged and turned to walk away. Their retreat was halted by a gritty voice inviting them to sit. The pair eagerly retraced their steps.

  Before they could seat themselves, the mysterious figure raised an empty glass and waved it in the air. Jeffrey headed back to the bar in response to the signal while James pulled a chair up to the table. During the awkward silence that followed, James noted the excellent though somewhat old-fashioned quality of the stranger’s apparel. If the fellow had really been acquainted with the Whateley boy, his comments might well prove key elements for their book. He certainly looked old enough to have been Wilbur’s contemporary.

  Jeffrey soon returned, bearing a trio of glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He joined the silent pair, poured three drinks, and waited for the old man to speak.

  As the two researchers sipped their drinks, the old man downed his shot, then poured himself another. He coughed, then gruffly blurted out, “So somebody’s finally writing a book about my old friend Wilbur, are they? Well, I reckon I knew him better than anybody. I haven’t spoken to anyone about him for years, but that’s ’cos nobody cares to hear what I have to say on the subject. If you boys aren’t prepared to hear the truth, you might as well be on your way.”

  Jeffrey assured the man that he and his friend wanted only the truth, which they would not hesitate to print, assuming it could in any way be verified. They explained that they hoped to write the first definitive history of the events leading up to the series of mysterious deaths in 1928, the responsibility for which had been attributed to the Whateley family of Dunwich. To date, the pair had studied police reports, newspaper articles, the famous Armitage account, and various coroner’s reports.

  “The circumstances surrounding the tragedy,” added James, “have become so entwined with legend that it has become impossible to separate reality from fiction. We hope to clarify some of the issues and portray the Whateleys accurately. We would also like to take notes and tape record this conversation if that’s acceptable to you, sir.” He placed a notebook and pen on the table as Jeffrey extracted a hand-held tape recorder from his coat.

  “Whatever you want to use is fine by me,” responded the man seated opposite them. “Only three people ever knew the truth of what happened in Dunwich: Wilbur Whateley, that goddamned Armitage, and me, Abe Galvin,” the old man proclaimed. “Since Wilbur’s gone and you’d play hell finding Armitage, I’d say it’s up to me to set the record straight before I die.”

  Despite their surprise at the aspersions cast upon a person as widely respected as Dr. Armitage, the authors encouraged Galvin to impart his recollections. If the man proved legitimate, he was undoubtedly the only person still alive to have actually known young Whateley.

  “I left Miskatonic University in the spring of 1924,” Galvin began, “after spending six years in the linguistic program. Once I’d satisfied all of my commitments, I decided I’d like to wander around New England for a while, just exploring the backwater areas and maybe earning my keep by hiring myself out as a private tutor. I walked or took buses, answered newspaper ads for tutoring work, and occasionally placed an ad of my own. Between jobs, I’d sleep under the stars; the weather was warm so it was pleasurable to camp out.

  “Dunwich was too small to have a newspaper of its own, but somehow Old Elezer Whateley, or ‘Wizard Whateley’ as most people knew him, came across my ad in the Aylesbury Transcript and mad
e it his business to look me up. I’d never heard of Dunwich or the Whateleys, so I saw nothing unusual in an offer for room and board for the winter in exchange for helping Whateley’s young grandson with some difficult translations of archaic Greek and Latin. I admit the old buzzard struck me as a mite strange—his eyes were about the eeriest I’d ever seen—but with winter just around the corner, I accepted his offer and accompanied him back to Dunwich in his horse-drawn wagon that very same day.

  “The country was green and beautiful along the way, yet once we’d passed through an old tunnel bridge, things began looking pretty rustic and rundown. I was willing to put up with a lot rather than face winter without food or shelter, however, even if it meant spending time in a previous century.”

  The narrator poured himself another glass before resuming his tale. “Whateley’s peak-roofed farmhouse came as one hell of a surprise. It was out in the middle of nowhere and smack up against a dirt incline, with one end extending right on into the hillside. The entire upper story had been boarded up, for reasons I didn’t know at the time, and a wooden runway sloped right up from the ground to where a gable window had been replaced with a solid plank door.

  “The old barn was a wreck and the cattle all looked diseased as hell. I was actually relieved to learn my quarters were to be in one of two unused tool-sheds. The inside of the shed stunk so bad I was obliged to scrub it out with disinfectant, then it still required airing out for two days before I could stand to sleep inside with the door closed.”

  He stopped to address James, who was furiously writing down every word. “Am I going too fast for you, son?” Galvin asked.

  James put his pencil down just long enough to take a sip of whiskey and assure Galvin that, with shorthand, he could easily keep up.

  “Just thought I’d check,” Galvin said, before nodding and returning to his monologue. “Old Whateley occupied three ground-floor rooms of the farmhouse along with his albino daughter, Lavinia, and grandson, Wilbur. Lavinia, or ‘Lavinny’ as the old boy called her, struck me as a bit ‘off,’ though it’s hard to say exactly what was wrong with her beyond her paleness and her too-long arms. She could read, though she lacked any kind of formal education. Housework wasn’t exactly her forte, but she managed to keep everybody fed. Her favorite pursuits were daydreaming and running through the hills during thunderstorms, if you can imagine. She struck me as being fidgety and afraid all the time, which tended to get on one’s nerves, but I got along well enough with her. I guess you could say she spent most of her time trying to keep out of everybody’s way.” He paused in reflection, then added, “For some time, no one so much as hinted about who Wilbur’s father might be.”