The Haunter Of The Threshold

by Edward Lee

  “You should’ve done like your daddy said,” the slush-voice remarks next, and begins to splatter laughter.

  You scream, then, loud as a train whistle when you finally look at his face.

  It’s not the woodsman–oh, no. The face is upside-down: an eye on either cheek, a toothy mouth and fat lips on the forehead. His ears are pointed.

  “The devil told me all about you...”

  It’s your shriek that sparks his orgasm. You can feel it pumping into you, one warm eddy after another. Sicker and sicker you feel, though, as you notice the next distinction: this does not feel like semen shooting into you, it feels more like your vaginal canal is being filled with something unhumanly thicker, like warm marmalade.

  The mouth on the man’s—or the thing’s—forehead smiles in a complex satisfaction. “That should fix ya up,” his voice splatters, and, again—

  Thunk!

  —he throws you down to the floor.

  It is with more uncontemplatable revulsion that you notice his great scrotal sack is now deflated, as though each of the “grapes” has emptied...

  Into me, you realize.

  The excess oozes from your sex, and it does, indeed, look like marmalade but slightly cloudy and flecked with tiny black things that remind you of whole peppercorns.

  “Won’t take long now.” Your monstrous assailant stuffs the mass of spent genitals back into his jeans. “See, I’m an ectogenically transfected Shoggoth, but you can’t know what that means. I’ve got about ten percent. It changes ya; they like to change things from what they’re supposed to be...”

  The words spin in your head. Shoggoth. Transfected. Ectogenic... They mean nothing. But now your sweat begins to pour...

  “I wish they’d’a changed me all the way to an attendant but they ain’t gonna. I ain’t smart enough...Shit...”

  You start to shiver, and—

  “None’a this nine-month shit. When a gal gets a pussy full’a Shoggoth cum, it don’t take but a minute or two...”

  —and your belly begins to swell. The image of an air pump filling a beach ball comes to mind; the pressure is so great, your back is slammed to the floor, and then you notice that your breasts are swelling as well, filling with inhuman milk as something abominable grows in your belly. Your navel pops inside out, and then you groan in rising pain.

  “See how fast? Ain’t that sumpthin’?”

  In only seconds more, your baby bump is larger than Sonia’s.

  “Time for that critter to come out,” the man slushes. “Push. Push it out. ”

  You tighten your muscles and push—

  —and scream from the prod of pain.

  “Lemme help,” the thing offers. He places the workboot on your belly and begins to slowly push down. Water splats out as the pressure breaks a membrane; you shriek.

  The boot levers down some more.

  “Theeeeeere it is,” he gutters. You feel your sex stretch, then waves of pain make you convulse as you feel something wriggly slide out of you.

  You hear a baby wail.

  “Hey there, little buster,” says the man-monster’s upside-down mouth. The eyes on his cheeks look at you. “It’s a boy.”

  He picks it up.

  Your own eyes flick first to the gleaming baby’s face and mid-section, which appear normal. It’s pudgy-faced, cuddly, cute even, but then a scream fires when you see that its arms and legs are writhing tentacles. And the baby’s face? Normal?

  Not quite.

  Its mouth is a pale, whitish-pink sucker the size of an espresso cup.

  The baby’s malignant father places the infant at your bosom, whereupon the sucker immediately finds a distended nipple and begins to suck...

  “There. Mommy’n her little ‘un.” He hoists you up; you feel the atrocious afterbirth hanging like a tail between your legs. As the tiny creature siphons milk from your sodden tit, the father’s voice slops, “You’re right. This is just a dream, but a dream ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of shit from your own head. What ya gotta understand is that, here? In this place? The shit from your own head mixes with the shit out there...”

  Out there, you recite the words, limp in his arms. The baby has already drained one breast, so the sucker hunts for the other nipple.

  “When all your milk’s drunk up, it’ll drink your blood,” you’re notified. “Now I’m gonna go out there and fuck that pregnant one. You wouldn’t believe what Shoggoth cum’ll do to a gal already knocked up. It’s a piece of work...”

  The upside-down mouth lowers to yours and kisses you ever so gently.

  “But the dude weren’t lyin’, just so ya know. Euclid’s Ten Elements are all wrong. Constant angles are pliable. Fictile...”

  “What?” you gibber.

  “And one last thing.” Slush runs from the corners of his mouth. “Find the stone...and you’ll be rewarded,” and then you scream as he drops you and your atrocious baby into the excrement pit—

  “Hazel!” the shrill voice cracks. “Jesus, how long does it take you to pee!”

  Hazel roused from the evil vision as if slapped in the face. Holy shit, where did THAT come from? She dripped sweat, still sitting on the crude hole in the board. “Uh, coming!” she shouted back.

  Shorts pulled up, she flew from the outhouse. The look on her face no doubt signaled her nauseousness.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Sonia asked, leaning against the car fender. “You’re all flushed and prickly.”

  “I...That outhouse is hotter than a pizza oven,” was all Hazel could think to say. The vision or daydream or whatever it was—the daymare— confounded her, and as she strode away from the outhouse, she instinctively threw glances back over her shoulder. It was nothing new for lewd and even sick fantasies to sneak up on her when she least expected it, but this?

  Unbelievable...

  She regained her stolen breath. When Sonia reached into the trunk for their bags, Hazel slapped her hands and pushed her away.

  “You’re pregnant, remember? Ready to drop? Pregnant women don’t haul suitcases.”

  “I don’t need a nurse maid!”

  “Don’t argue. Open the house; I’ll get the bags.” In spite of her lithe frame, Hazel managed both large suitcases and both of their laptops in one trip. Sonia had left the front door half open; when Hazel stepped up on the wooden veranda, she couldn’t help but stare at the peculiar door knocker: a face of dulled brass showing wide empty eyes but no nose or mouth. For whatever reason, the featureless face gave her an odd shiver.

  “Oh my God it’s hotter in here than outside!” Sonia squealed from within.

  Hazel crossed the threshold into annoying heat, then flinched. “You’re not kidding.” She dropped the bags and rushed to open each window. “Hopefully we’ll get a cross-breeze,” but then she deflated when the air remained stagnant. “Sonia, find the lights.”

  “I’m trying! ”

  Hazel heard switches flick, then, finally, the long broad front room filled with light. “At least they’re going green,” Sonia remarked of the spiraling high-efficiency bulbs which hung bare from cords in the rafters. “Christ, this place looks like Bonanza. ”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I keep forgetting. You’re too young.”

  Great. But now the air inside began to circulate and, hence, cool down. Several ceiling fans had turned on as well.

  Hazel at least found the place interesting. This main room comprised most of the house; dark paneling covered the walls, while wooden planks like those on the exterior formed the floor, only these were sealed with a shiny shellac. No paintings hung on any wall, and there was nothing in the way of carpeting, not even a throw rug.

  “Fuck,” Sonia blurted.

  “You’ve really come full circle,” Hazel said, amused. “You were the gung-ho one. But big deal? The place is primitive, sure, but it’ll be an adventure.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Hazel.” Sonia tramped around the great room. There was a high, queen-sized
bed in one corner. “There aren’t even any bedrooms. This is the bedroom.”

  Built for efficiency, Hazel figured. A half-decent sectional couch sat in a half circle before a large flat-screen. In front of it sat a coffee table full of trade journals about mathematics. Hazel picked one up and frowned. The American Journal of Geometric Theory. She couldn’t imagine anything more boring.

  “And I guess this is the kitchen,” she said next, finding the rear of the room lined with cupboards over a butcher-block counter, a small refrigerator, and a microwave. Pots and pans hung from pegs in the wall. “Primitive, but it’ll do.” She patted a large wood stove. “And I guess this is the range. I have a feeling we’ll be eating out a lot.”

  Sonia suspiciously ran her hand over shelves and table tops. “It’s clean, at any rate.” Her head tilted abruptly. “Wait——what’s that sound?”

  Water trickling, Hazel noticed. “I was right—a spring barrel.” At the far end of the kitchen stood, not a wooden barrel, but a plastic open-topped keg full of crystal-clear water. An input tube trickled water, while the outflow exited through another tube. “This is how they did it in Colonial days.”

  “I’m thrilled.”

  Hazel dipped a tin cup into the water, and took a long drink. “Oh, Sonia! It’s delicious and almost ice-cold!”

  Sonia took a sip and had to agree but then a look of sheer horror crossed her face. “Wait a minute!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Where’s the shower!”

  Good question. Hazel went on the hunt; all the while Sonia shrilly griped behind her, “I don’t care how hot it is, Hazel, I cannot take a bath or shower in water that cold! Please tell me there’s some sort of water heater!”

  Three narrow doors lined the east wall. They looked like closet doors but when Hazel entered the first one, “Here it is. And, wow, things just get more and more primitive.”

  Sonia peered in behind her, viewing a tiny wood-planked room with an even tinier window. A metal tub with a drain sufficed for the “shower floor,” and hanging above it was a simple shower head and a pump handle on the wall.

  Sonia was outraged. “We have to pump the shower water?”

  “It seems so, but—we’re in luck.” Hazel leaned over a small apparatus on the floor which, via tubes, existed between a modest water reservoir and the shower head. “Here’s your hot water heater.”

  Sonia sighed, a hand to her belly. “Thank God for small favors.”

  More and more, Hazel speculated that this might be more fun than she’d thought. When she opened the second door she found merely a ladder. “What’s this? An attic?”

  “Oh, Frank mentioned there was an access to the roof.”

  “We can star gaze and sunbathe nude!”

  Sonia seemed less enthusiastic. “You can star gaze and sun bathe nude. Can you see me climbing up that? My giant stomach probably wouldn’t even fit through the trapdoor. Frank said the only reason it’s there is to make it easier to clear the gutters in the spring.”

  But Hazel had already shot up the metal-runged ladder. When she pushed open the trapdoor she could see right down the front road to the open fields. “Oh, this is cool!”

  “Come down from there!” ordered Sonia’s voice. “You could fall.”

  Hazel really did want to come up here some time and take some pictures; the higher vantage point offered a better view of the lake’s edge and the town. But when she scooted back down the ladder, Sonia wasn’t there. For a split-second, she felt a prick of alarm. “Sonia? Where are you?”

  “In here...”

  The third narrow door stood open. “Ah, Henry Wilmarth’s study,” Hazel said upon entering. It was the only area of the house that appeared normal: a computer, a desk, several bookshelves, a radio.

  Sonia was curiously inspecting some papers on the desk. Her expression had deadened.

  “What did you find?”

  “Pretty dark stuff,” Sonia remarked. “It’s the suicide note that Henry left for Frank.”

  It struck Hazel only now that she was standing in the room where Professor Henry Wilmarth had ended his life. Instead of a chill, she felt something akin to a hot-flash. She peeked over Sonia’s shoulder and read the tight, concisely formed handwriting:

  My dear friend Frank: If you’re reading this, then I am already dead. My decease via my own hand is an action I cannot and will not fully explain; I only hope that you and your father Thurnston can understand. I think the world of you both, and was edified by our stimulating research over the years. I apologize after the fact for the spurious manner in which I lured you here, for, now, I’m sure it’s occurred to you why I did so. No suicidal person wishes to be found weeks or months after the fact. Forgive me and, again, comprehend me.

  Since that calamitous storm in St. Petersburg last May, I’ve grown quite ill mentally. My spirit feels soiled. I wander these woods, motiveless and desultory, with sleepless eyes and an utter absence of vitality. It’s beyond description, my friend. The ghosts of all those dead from the storm follow me everywhere, figuratively speaking, of course. I often wonder of late: is it my afflicted mind or the cabin itself that has so drastically soured my dreams and tainted my thoughts? Were I not a man of erudition, I think I’d be more inclined to say the latter—though I know this cannot be so. A man’s mind can get sick, not a man’s house. Nevertheless, my symptoms can only be clinical by this point. My dreams have turned ghastly indeed, tinged by a grotesque carnality unlike anything ponderable. Sometimes, even—I swear—people (or things like people) make utterances in my dreams that reveal information which I verify later. This is impossible, I know, and I can only fear what you may be thinking. In all, it’s just more proof of the enervation of my mind.

  Please arrange for the disposal of my pitiable body; I’m all too sorry to have to leave it to you in this way. My warmest regards for your father, and take care and be well, Sincerely,

  Henry

  P.S.—But you’re not off the hook this easily! Call the number at the bottom for further instructions that I hope are not too inconvenient.

  “The lawyer’s number, in town,” Hazel recalled.

  “Good luck making anything out of this.” Sonia handed her the next piece of paper. It had been archaically closed with sealing wax and a brand reading, H.W., the seal now broken, of course. Hazel’s eyes poured over it...

  No doubt, Frank, you’ve now been informed by my attorney that my estate all goes to you. I hope it will assist your and your father’s future, you especially, with a child coming. In return, however, I submit to you my final requests...

  1) I’ve delved too deeply into the guts of our research, Frank—for more than a generation. Like proverbial rabbits, we’ve been chasing a carrot on a stick. Ah, but what dreams we had, eh? Nevertheless, my most recent findings indicate without revocation the falsehood of Non-Euclidics. It doesn’t work, Frank. It’s an impossibility. So, please, waste no more of your time pursuing this golden calf. I’ve apprised your father likewise, and he agrees. If this theory were to make its way into our academic channels, my name would be posthumously lambasted. You’re young and still full of vigor, Frank, but you must see this my way. Our research, ultimately, can never be functional. So put it out of your mind and return to more productive studies. Moreover, I must ask you with much urgency to destroy all traces of our theory. Destroy all of my papers in this cabin, and delete all my computer files. Do this, Frank, please. Any intellectual legacy I may have will be tainted with ridicule if you don’t. The only reason I haven’t destroyed it all myself is due to a grievous lack of energy on my part, which I can only suspect is a symptom of severe depression.

  2) In years past, before your dear father’s affliction, you’ve heard our references to the Gray Cottage. This, too, is a sullied place, quite dangerous, and, also, quite useless. Please, never go there, Frank. Never try to find it. It’s a fool’s errand—

  “The cottage Frank mentioned on the phone,” Hazel uttered. “Wi
lmarth asked Frank not to go there—”

  “And said it’s dangerous, ” Sonia augmented. “Frank must be trying to give me a heart attack.”

  –for hundreds of years, this execrable place went unnoticed. Therefore, I’m asking you to mention it to no one, and let it return to its anonymity. You’d likely not be able to find it anyway so just...appease me, Frank. Don’t try to find it.

  3) Likewise, don’t try to find the ST. I’ve disposed of it irretrievably. It’s a phony augur, so, like the cottage, forget about it...

  “The ST? ” Hazel asked. “What’s that?”

  “Got no idea,” Sonia smirked. “Wilmarth must not’ve known Frank’s character very well. You tell Frank not to do something, that only increases the chances of him doing it.”

  “Just like a man.”

  —I’ve disposed of it so completely I have every confidence it will never be found. My final rummagings of research revealed the unserviceability of the ST and, attendantly, the entire theory. That dismal ST, Frank. It’s a jonah, the mathematician’s graven image. Like the Devil, it is a Great Deceiver that solicits us to follow lies. Please don’t insult my memory, Frank.

  Forget that goddamned stone ever existed.

  Hazel folded the paper up, her head misted in confusion. That goddamned STONE? The marauder in her ghastly outhouse fantasy had said something about a stone, hadn’t he? He’d also made references that could be traced back to what Frank had said over the phone, but those references were obviously re-filtered through the fantasy via her subconscious.

  But Frank never mentioned anything about a STONE during his phone conversation, did he?

  Hazel winced out of a shudder.

  “Frank just burns me up sometimes,” Sonia fumed, pacing the small room. “Not only is he disregarding Henry’s last wishes, he’s trying to find some ridiculous cottage that’s hundreds of years old and probably ready to fall in. With my luck it’ll fall in on his head and I’ll be a widow before I’m even married!”