I could not help but smile. Maybe there was still a chance that we could make it out of the hellhole alive.
We did our utmost to make a rational assessment of our location but produced little by way of results. We concluded that we would have to head in what we hoped was the direction opposite the path the worms had taken. Porter was fairly sure they had been headed south, the same general direction we had traveled, so we set out upon a northerly path as determined by our compass.
As we trudged on, I was not particularly encouraged to notice the batteries in my lantern were giving out. To cover my increasing edginess, I adamantly charged Porter several times to keep his loaded rifle in preparedness.
The endless twists and turns of a tunneling devoid of landmarks confounded our struggle to stay on course. We forgot our despair, however, when we encountered a gaping aperture twice the girth of anything we had as yet encountered.
By that time, we were both dependent upon the feeble glimmer of Porter’s lantern, by which he lit the path immediately in front of us. Just a few cautious steps beyond the great opening, he raised an arm to halt my further advance. Following his gaze, I saw that the path ended suddenly just a few feet further on. Without a word of warning, Porter switched off the lantern.
As my eyes adjusted to the new depth of darkness, I perceived hundreds of pinpoints of light in the void. It was as though we were poised atop a high hill overlooking a star-studded sky.
Nearly overcome with awe, Porter whispered, “Ernest, we’ve come to the end of the world.” Only much later would I realize the ironic truth of his words.
I remembered reading of archaic theories which claimed the Earth was a series of hollow shells, layered like an onion with worlds within worlds, the underside of each layering providing a firmament for the layer below. I had to drive those thoughts from of my mind along with the vertigo I felt at being suspended in darkness above what truly resembled the vastness of outer space.
Presently, Porter asked if the lights were really stars, to which I replied, after a moment, “Stars don’t make the sort of noise I’m hearing.” We both listened as a subtle rustling sound gradually increased in volume, became more of a shuffling, as if dozens of very large objects were being dragged across the earthen floor.
All at once, a group of brighter, star-like points of light appeared out of nowhere, just a few yards away from us. After a few moments, they rose up high above our vantage, then blinked out of sight. Whatever they were, they were much too close for comfort. These new lights were accompanied by the wheezing tones of large amounts of air being repeatedly forced in and out of a colossal bellows, or such was the image that came to mind. Porter and I dropped to the ground at the sound and lay quite still, half out of our wits with terror. It provided little relief when, from just a few feet beyond and below our position, something the size of an elephant heaved loudly before dragging its carcass dully over the ground and away from us. Only after it gained some distance did we feel free to breathe easily once again.
“What, in the name of God, was that?” I croaked.
“I don’t know,” Porter replied, “and I don’t want to know. Not anymore.” Yet, we could not just lie there in the dark forever.
“Give me your lantern,” I said. “We can’t deal with anything until we know what it is. I’ve got to see what’s out there.”
I crawled carefully to the furthest point of the ledge before switching on the light. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I aimed the powerful beam directly into the blackness. What I saw there further stunned me. If we had not come to the end of the world, as Porter had suggested, we were at least perched on the brink of insanity.
As far as was visible in the dim illumination of the lantern, I beheld an unearthly primeval wood of ancient, leafless trees crowded tightly together across a level expanse of cavern floor. The thicket seemed to float in the surrounding nothingness, the distant walls and ceiling lost to sight in the encroaching darkness. Tiny, pale blue points of brightness, like decorative Christmas lights, dotted the upper trunk and boughs of each tree. The irrationality of the scene left me feeling totally disoriented.
Finally, Porter crawled up next to me. He pointed out that the trees, in particular their sprawling, gray-tipped branches, were moving, as if swaying in the grip of an otherworldly breeze beyond our own senses.
“Those aren’t trees, Ernest,” he whispered. “Remember Curwen’s drawing of the worms and how they looked with their upper third lifted to an upright position? That’s what we’re seeing right now, although I can’t account for the lights that dot their forms.” His voice sounded almost too controlled to be natural, but I had to agree with him, the ‘trees’ were identical to Curwen’s sketch of a Shub worm freed of its burrow. I cannot describe how it affected me to actually witness an impossibility come true, yet there they were, nearly a hundred of them, just a short distance ahead. It hardly comforted me to realize the creatures we were seeing had attained a length of at least thirty feet, each being about ten feet in diameter.
We watched in fearful fascination for some time, hoping to determine what the beasts were doing. Now and then, when the lights on their bole-like bodies brightened in intensity, the creatures emitted a deep, plangent cry, similar to that of a cow in dire distress. The unsettling chorus of grunts was repeated incessantly for several minutes before ending abruptly.
The creatures, we knew, were devoid of vision, so Porter held the lantern while I observed the mewling individuals more closely through binoculars. The lights were, in fact, small, bubble-like eruptions on the upper torsos of the worms, just below the spot where the tendril extensions attached to the body. Upon attainment of an intense luminosity, the bubbles burst one at a time, releasing a blue phosphorescent gas that hung like a cloud in the air around the body; the resultant odor was noxious indeed. Moments later, a flood of pencil-thin snakes of flesh, none more than five or six inches long, belched out from the burst bubble, only to tumble down the larger creature’s side and onto the ground. They lay still only for a moment before beginning to writhe and thrash wildly. Their disgusting motion ceased only when they attached themselves to the nether regions of the parental torso or, failing that, to the body of another worm in close proximity. Once attached, they gave the impression of being the animated roots of the host ‘tree.’ Porter and I took turns studying the curious reproductive ritual as it was so unlike any other of which we were aware.
Each of the eldritch beasts gave birth to hundreds of offspring which, once appended to a parent’s ‘tail,’ bestowed a centipedal look upon the bizarre giant. We could no longer doubt but that we had made an extremely important scientific discovery.
I suppose I am partially to blame for the horror that followed, as, in all the excitement, I neglected to fully take my friend’s disturbed mental state into consideration; we were both totally caught up in an enthusiasm that is, I imagine, peculiar to men of science. I can offer no other excuse for raising only a half-hearted objection to Porter’s subsequent actions.
First, he startled me by jumping to his feet and clapping his hands loudly several times.
“Are you mad?” I hissed through clenched teeth.
Smiling confidently, Porter squatted down beside my prone form. “I had to find out for certain whether the Shubs are deaf as well as blind. I believe their total lack of reaction to my clapping demonstrates the veracity of that hypothesis.”
I did not breathe easily again until I had surveyed the herd of worms lumbering on the plain below. As far as I could determine, none had reacted to Porter’s outburst. Despite the seeming correctness of his deduction, however, I voiced strong yet futile objections to the plan he then described to me.
“There’s an incline over to the left that provides easy access to the cavern floor,” he declared as he rummaged through his backpack. “And if you’ll notice, the Shub ‘cow’ nearest that spot has moved on, abandoning several spawn that failed to attach themselves before it moved away,
so …” He paused a moment to ply a glass specimen jar from the pack.
“So,” he continued, “I’m going to climb down and snatch one of the little ones as a specimen. Then,” he said, “I suggest we get the hell out of here as fast as we can.”
I admit, I was more delighted than suspicious at what I interpreted as his miraculous recovery; his terror apparently had vanished as quickly as it had manifested.
“I’ll only be a minute and you, being my brave protector, can cover me with your rifle.” Noting my look of burgeoning concern, he anticipated my objections with, “No one will believe us without the undeniable proof a specimen provides, man. You know that!”
I glanced at the camera strapped to my shoulder, but he further announced, “Even photos of the herd will be questioned should we fail to produce a ‘live’ sample. They’ll claim we faked them, using some trick technique or other.” He smiled smugly at my inability to refute his words.
Porter suggested I retain the lantern. I was to light his way and thus allow him the freedom to use both hands as he scurried up and down the ledge. I nodded my agreement, but reminded him to keep his loaded rifle handy at all times. Looking back, I doubt that anything I might have said at that time could have deterred him from achieving his goal. Before I could say anything further, he was on his way.
I took great care to keep the light focused upon Porter and the ground immediately before him. Periodically, I asked him to stop momentarily while I made a cursory check on the Shub worms, making certain none had noted his presence.
He easily reached the intended area. The newborns worms had slowed their movements once the adults had vacated the area. Their sluggishness made it easy for Porter to successfully scoop one of the tiny worm spawn into the jar. Instead of returning immediately, however, he stayed where he was long enough to carefully place the now-occupied specimen jar securely within his pack.
Unnerved by Porter’s nonchalance, I called out, pleading with him to hurry. A brazen grin was his only response as he slowly reclimbed the ledge and returned to my position.
“See,” he boasted, “nothing to worry about! I got us a beautiful specimen. We’re going to be famous.”
I deferred to his judgment and we congratulated each other heartily with back-slaps and mock award-giving, utterly oblivious to the fantastic backdrop to our foolish shenanigans.
All at once, Porter’s expression dramatically altered and he began to moan, his body weaving back and forth as if he were about to faint.
“What is it?” I cried, suddenly panic-stricken.
“I don’t know,” he gurgled.
As I watched, he undid his belt, then thrust his pants down with such immediacy that he sat hard on the ground as he kicked them off. I had no idea what was going on, but he was shaking all over and uttering disconcerting sounds. Grabbing the lantern from my hand, he aimed its bright glow at his now-bare legs. I do not mind admitting that I was the first to scream.
I was unable to fully understand what I saw until much later, and I still wonder if Porter had any idea what was happening to him. My later experiments with the specimen have led me to believe the hide of the Shub worm is unbelievably tough, so tough that when the young attach themselves in search of nourishment, their minuscule beaks are only able to penetrate the adult’s flesh with pinpoint incisions. Due to its delicate vulnerability, however, the hungry spawn are able to bite right through human skin and thereby feast upon the vital liquids and organs, even the bone structure, of the human body. Several of the needle-thin creatures must have done just that while Porter was occupied with the collection of his specimen, the resulting trauma revealed only when his legs were lit by the glow of the lantern.
The horror of that moment is truly beyond my ability to describe, and I cannot even begin to fathom the ungodly amount of pain poor Porter must have experienced. I could see, even in that dim light, four or five of those filthy little worms moving just beneath the surface of his pale skin, devouring blood and muscle tissue in their passing.
Once Porter saw the vermin were inside of him, he must have realized the threat to me, for he crawled away, shouting for me to keep back as his body writhed and pitched in agonized seizure. Somehow overcoming my terror and squeamishness, I made move toward my friend so as to help him in any way I could. Before I reached his thrashing form, he sat straight up, his face clearly visible to me in the full brilliance of the lantern. His eyes were stark-wide with anguish, and when he opened his mouth, either to speak or scream, I will never know which, he spit the decimated, worm-riddled remnants of his tongue and larynx into his lap. The worms must have already been at his brain, for his movement halted almost immediately and he was dead within just a few seconds.
I fought the urge to pass out, convinced it would mean my doom as well. Instead, I fired my rifle at the short black lines that crawled toward me from Porter’s ruined form. I fired until the gun was empty, disbelieving the evidence of my own eyes — the damnable things were impervious to the effect of the discharged bullets. In desperation, I grabbed the backpack that Porter had thrown aside in his misery and beat at the minuscule abominations, knocking them away and off the ledge, down into the darkness of the cavern with its equally awful occupants.
Finding myself alone in that madhouse of death and unconscionable monstrosity, I temporarily lost my reason. Seeing the backpack as the only weapon of value, I clutched at it and the lantern before running as fast as possible from the site. My memory of what followed remains a claustrophobic nightmare of confusion ending only when I found myself desperately trying to keep my head above the surface of the dark waters of the cenote. Three days had passed since we had entered the tunnels; I must have wandered those chambers for many long hours, locked in the thralldom of madness.
Our guides had long since given us up for dead, so it was only by chance that my cries were heard by anyone. A small child proved the means of my salvation; in disobedience of her mother, little Maria came to pray to the gods of the well, asking that her parents might somehow afford a fancy doll she had seen in a store window in a nearby town the day before. Risking punishment, she reported my presence in the waters, and within the hour I was rescued. Needless to say, I later made sure little Maria received not only the desired doll but many other gifts as well.
The necessary reports were made to the local police, who seemed unconcerned as to the circumstances of Porter’s demise. They obviously felt the world was better off with one less gringo in it. Nevertheless, I told them only what they expected to hear, that Porter had fallen down a deep shaft in the tunnels and his body was thus unrecoverable, the same story I was to tell again and again upon returning home to Massachusetts.
Only now, nearly a year after the trip to Yucatan, have I come to realize the full treachery of Curwen’s implied promise that the Shub-Niggurath will rise en masse to the surface that humanity might attain its glorious apex. I find myself recalling, too, Porter’s naive belief, based on the copies I made of Curwen’s lies, that the worms are benevolent beings that mean no harm. I would publish my findings, offering the photos and, of course, the specimen as proof, but to what end? Even if the world should heed my dire warning, nothing can stop that which is inevitable.
After exhaustive testing of the specimen Porter obtained at such high price, I have concluded the worms are indeed virtually indestructible. Even this young spawn’s biology thrives on deadly poison, and its flesh cannot effectively be crushed or penetrated with sharp instruments or bullets. As Curwen, whom I now recognize as less a scientist than a foul necromancer, related, the worms are immune to every extreme of temperature and pressure. Even highly lethal doses of radiation fail to affect the thing adversely. What chance can man possibly have when millions upon millions of invulnerable behemoths simultaneously emerge from the depths everywhere across the globe?
Further study of the Shub legend in certain rare volumes overlooked in my earlier research has instilled in me a most frightening and unsettling view o
f the universe in which we live. I have concluded the Shub-Niggurath are nothing less than cosmic scavengers bent on completely devouring any form of sentient life that dares aspire to evolutionary enlightenment. Thus, when the stars are “ripe,” the worms will rise to demonstrate mankind’s true significance in the universe as fodder for the feasting of worms.
The Paladin of Worms
“I, who am dead, must guide him here below …”
— Dante’s INFERNO - XXVII, 49
They were greeted at the door by a reserved but hospitable gentleman. He expressed no undue surprise at their unexpected appearance. “Reverend Peterson, Sheriff McKinny, come in out of this disgraceful afternoon heat!”
The visitors, on an official rather than a social visit, entered the old but well-maintained Georgian farmhouse of Richard Walraven, a distinguished, forty-year-old high school teacher. He held the screen door open for the pair as they strode into his home.Once inside the parlor, Walraven warmed to his guests. “Please, gentlemen, sit down and make yourselves comfortable. And excuse me while I put the kettle on for tea. Reverend,” Walraven fussed, “you might want to try that slat-backed rocker to your right. It’s of Shaker design, nearly a hundred years old and most comfortable. As one gets older, comfort becomes so important, wouldn’t you say? Sheriff, the leather chair next to the good Reverend should suit you quite well.” Satisfied his advice would be taken, Walraven shuffled off to the kitchen where the visitors could hear him toss wood into the cast iron stove and fill the kettle from a hand pump.
Reverend Peterson had never been inside the Walraven farmhouse before, but he was well aware that it was the oldest residence in the county. The polished puncheon floor, here and there littered with hand-hooked throwrugs of muted, tasteful colors, the crude but solid antique furniture, and glass-chimnied hurricane lamps appealed to his fondness for the old-fashioned. Every inch of the room bore blatant testimony to the heroic Europeans who had braved the wilds to bring the Lord and civilized ways to a heathen land. He recalled hearing that the walls of the original structure, a cabin, had been built by Adodiah Walraven from massive, handcut logs bound together with pitch. Although those old logs were no longer visible, having long ago been covered over as the house was updated and enlarged, still the place retained an atmosphere of hardy dignity he found lacking in modern constructions. The homes built in the last decade, since 1920, lacked the solid, enduring workmanship of structures from before the turn of this or the previous century. Even the room’s musty odor of age made him feel somehow at home.
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