The Altar in the Hills and Other Weird Tales
Page 11
“Well, Mr. Tesla, this has been most entertaining, I assure you, but we’ve come to the end.”
“Oh?” I replied, feigning coyness while subtly shifting my position slightly closer to the still-humming apparatus. I had never gone far from it, keeping it always within my reach, but now with the end indeed close one way or another, I would take no chances.
By then, the portal had grown very large – large enough for a man to walk through, though he’d have to stoop somewhat and step up over the small gap between ground and light. Nyarlathotep, close enough to reach through the aperture, now took a step forward, carefully swinging one limb fully through into this world. Seeing the opportunity I’d been waiting for, I acted and what followed happened very, very quickly.
I lunged for the machine in the same instant that the beast’s ebony foot touched the snow-covered sward, sending up a gout of snow-steam and scorching the wet grass beneath. I flicked, in a very specific order, the series of switches I had added upon most-recently reassembling the device and as I did so, the throbbing, pulsing hum that had become the locality’s vile heartbeat took on an immediate and drastic change. Gone was the sinister and unidentifiable quality, replaced by the steady, comforting sound of machinery at work. Simultaneously, the awful and peculiar light being generated by the machine morphed into a solid red beam that seemed to be chasing the ghastly streak out of the night sky and perhaps into open space beyond it.
For his part, Nyarlathotep instantly recognized my intentions and howled horribly, turning towards me with sudden pits of flame where eyes should have been, and I was nearly overcome with the almost-palpably overwhelming hatred they contained. The winds, already strong, whipped into a chaotic frenzy of destruction that swirled directly out of the being’s mouth, tearing hunks of frozen sod from the Earth that battered my form and threatened to uproot me from my position.
I held on to my machine for dear life as that wild face came close, thrusting itself within inches of my own and shouting with the voice of the abyss, “What have you done?! Have I not shown you a world that no other man has seen? Have I not secured for you a place in history on a level unrivaled? And this – this is how you repay me?!” As the rant continued, the portal was shrinking with increasing rapidity and I feared that the Black Man would attack me directly and reconfigure the machine to its preferred setting, but instead he continued to alternately groan, moan, roar and shriek, to stamp, stomp, to claw the air before me and gesture angrily at the dwindling rift. Whether overcome by childish tantrum-rage or bound by some unwritten rules I am not privy to, the beast made no attempt to stop me directly and set its plans to right.
I admit that even untouched, I cowered before its fury – but I did not back away, continuing to shield the machine from the creature with my own body. Finally, it hissed, in a voice almost too quiet to be heard over the still-raging winds, “You think you are clever, little man. And you are – oh, you are clever – but not half so much as you believe. You think I am stymied, but I am merely delayed!” The thing moved so close that I could feel the heat generated by its black, roiling hide and it jabbed a claw into my face, only millimeters from actual contact. “You fancy time and space, form and matter are concrete but I know depths that mortal minds cannot fathom, and I know the ins and outs of reality. Someday, someone of your race will probe those secrets as you have and draw my attention once again. Whether tomorrow, next century or a millennium from now, I will win out for there will not always be a Nikola Tesla to stop me.” Here, it chanced a look at the portal, so small now that only a thin strip of that other world was within sight, before turning back to me one final time. “Go on – warn your simpering little species. Tell them of the Crawling Chaos! They’ll think you mad and the name ‘Tesla’ will be laughed at for generations. Either way, I will win out!”
Finished with its diatribe, Nyarlathotep’s form dissolved into a dark, swirling mass that flowed into the pin-point fissure that remained just before it winked out of existence like some cabalistic eye of the world shut, at least temporarily, away. And as it went, I heard somewhere in the back of my mind a horrible whisper that said, “I should have chosen Edison!”
With that, the world returned to a familiar state just as the sun began to rise and I mercifully sank into unconsciousness and the first peaceful rest I have had in the year 1887.
When I awoke battered, cold and sore but also joyous and lighthearted, I surveyed the area. Other than the melted snow, chunks of torn sod and the odd burn marks, there was no evidence of my encounter and I smiled, uncontrollably and broadly. I disassembled my machine into its base components, destroyed each in its turn, then packed the detritus up and returned here to record my ordeal.
While I am glad that my time of torment is over, I cannot help but feel a strange sense of loss. Though I know it was nothing more than a cruel ruse, the letters from “Ethan Layport” came at a time when I truly, desperately needed some impetus to keep myself going. I have fallen into despair before and I know that without the stimulation and excitement those missives brought into my life, I would surely have retreated into a state not unlike the one I experienced during my breakdown after university. The world seemed against me at every turn, and yet one kindred spirit rose up to shine a light of deliverance that I stepped eagerly into. Of course, that was the most malicious part of that unclean thing’s designs, but still some good came of it and so I mourn what could have been, for had he been genuine, I believe “Ethan Layport” could have been exactly what he seemed – a friend and fellow with whom I could have gladly and productively explored the workings of our universe. Perhaps I shall encounter such a person one of these days.
Now, I believe, I shall spend what remains of this fine Saturday catching up on some sorely-needed rest.
March 17th, 1887 -
Attorney Peck and Mr. Brown have just left my rooms after a lively and exciting morning of discussion. They are extremely interested in the possibility of my developing the AC motors that I hold so dear and we three have agreed to go into business. I shall have my own lab again and they have pledged as much financial backing as I could possibly need!
I can scarcely contain my excitement. After all that has happened, I knew I was bound for some good turn. After all, modesty aside, does not saving the world deserve some reward? I jest, of course, but even if no other living soul ever comes into possession of this journal and the tale contained within, I feel that whatever governs the cosmos knows what has occurred and takes care to ensure balance.
And who knows? Perhaps more good will come of my tribulations. These experiences will surely generate some new and interesting areas of study. I’ve already conceived of a number of ideas and they continue to gush forth from the recesses of my own half-explored brain in the form of unshaped notions, glimpses of machines I’ve yet to design and words for which I have no definition. Some of these things are so strange and audacious that I wonder wherever they could have come from. An idea concerning rotating magnetic fields to power an engine is merely an extension of concepts I’ve been pondering for some time, but others seem like nothing I’ve ever heard or conceived of before and are so unconventional it’s nearly as though they belong to someone else.
For example, whatever could the words Cthulhu fhtagn mean?
About the Author
Brandon Barrows lives in the shadow-haunted hills of Vermont, the last bastion of Lovecraft’s New England, with his wife and a pair of elder spawn cats, writing comic books, prose and poetry.
His detective comic series JACK HAMMER is published by Action Lab Comics and VOYAGA, a science fiction graphic novel, was published by AAM/Markosia, both with art by Ionic. His horror one-shot RED RUN was published by Alterna Comics and he has contributed to the New York Times-bestselling anthology FUBAR from FUBAR Press. He has also had comics work published by or forthcoming from such other publishers as 215 Ink, Reasonably Priced Comics, Fan-Atic Press, Grim Crew, Monsterverse Entertainment and more.
His prose work has appeared in the book anthologies Whispers from the Abyss from 01 Publishing and Another 100 Horrors from Cruentus Libri Press as well as magazines/webzines such as Sorcerous, Mystic Signals, Fiction365, Voluted Tales, One-Forty Fiction, The Were-Traveler, Linguistic Erosion, Daily Love and others.
His poetry has appeared in magazines such as FrostFire Worlds and multiple issues of Scifaikuest, including being chosen as the featured poet of the February 2014 issue.
Find more at www.brandonbarrowscomics.com and for daily updates follow him at https://www.twitter.com/brandonbarrows.
Table of Contents
Copyright
The Altar in the Hills
Suck It Up, Get It Done
The Thing That Remained
Seeker in the Dark
Perchance a Dream
Lewis
Through the Ether
About the Author