Worlds of Cthulhu

by Robert M. Price

  “How was he crazy?” I asked.

  “Well,” said Blair. “He latched onto this crazy notion that all the snakes around these parts were conspiring against him. Towards the end he became obsessed with the damn things. But hell, son…it was probably just the outward symptoms that something was physically wrong. He may even have suffered a light stroke that maybe changed his thinking. It’s hard to say, what with him living out here alone.”

  Sheriff Blair finished his beer and prepared to leave. He told me he was glad we met and that next time he would buy. I told him to drop by any time and waved good-bye as he drove his car down my rough, dirt drive.

  I spent the remainder of the evening drinking, listening to music and attempting to stay cool. Thankfully my uncle’s old window unit did a reasonably good job of keeping the temperature inside the room fairly comfortable. The day had tired me, so I determined to turn in early, do a little reading and spend part of the next day exploring the property.

  While placing fresh linen on the bed I happened to find a rather bizarre stone carving or sculpture on a shelf of the linen closet. It was the figure of a grotesque snake-man. The base of the sculpture was about six by six inches square and the subject stood about ten inches in height. The word Yig was cut deeply into the base. A closer inspection and handling of the statuette revealed the material to be something much harder than the soapstone I had originally thought it to be. Being no geologist, I cannot say what type of material was used. I inwardly shuddered while holding the piece and placed it back upon the shelf where it had previously rested. Had my uncle sculpted the repulsive figure? I did not know but thought it unlikely in light of his feelings about snakes, especially if Sheriff Blair had spoken the truth. Its placement in the linen closet made me think that perhaps my uncle was hiding it away for some strange reason. But why? Did it somehow play into his wild delusions of a reptilian conspiracy against him? And where or how in God’s name had he developed such a wild idea? Perhaps Sheriff Blair’s theories of stroke and resultant mental changes were plausible.

  After placing “Yig” (whoever the hell he was) back upon the shelf I began to experience a feeling of faint dread and uneasiness. This was not helped by a strange coincidence involving the sculpted figure and the copperhead that had been in my mailbox. The Yig figure possessed the same unusual crescent marking upon its head! I closed the linen closet and went to bed. Reading a Thompson novel called Savage Night I eventually became drowsy and drifted off to sleep.

  Not surprisingly, my dreams were unpleasant and nightmarish. The ones I remember involved being imperilled by snakes. In one I was wandering, lost in a labyrinth beneath some strange underground city whose inhabitants worshipped this Yig and punished those who transgressed against his “children.” Apparently my great sin had involved slaying a serpent that had attempted to strike me as I worked in the mines that produced the fabulously exotic gems, used as an energy source for this race of beings. In my nightmare I was blindly stumbling through the darkened corridors as massed rolling coils of serpents hissed, spat and snapped at my heels.

  I awoke from this particular nightmare in a cold sweat, thankful that it was nothing but a dream. I swung my legs off the bed, needing to use the bathroom, and screamed as I stepped down on the long, snakelike vacuum cleaner hose that protruded from beneath the bed. I repeatedly kicked and cursed the offending object until I realized how foolish I must look. I laughed hysterically, breaking the tension, until finally able to calm myself. Feeling like a total ass, I sheepishly made my way to the bathroom without further incident.

  I returned to bed and slept fitfully until morning. Awakening early, I arose and prepared myself a breakfast of eggs, chopped onions, bacon and canned biscuits. Too many beers the previous evening had left me hung over and slightly depressed. However, breakfast and four to five aspirin took the edge off my hangover and I began looking forward to exploring the property.

  Shortly after breakfast I stepped out onto my wooden front porch and was unhappy to discover that it was going to be another oppressively humid day. The porch had not been recently swept and I noticed winding trails in the thin layer of dirt and dust. The pattern caused me discomfort in light of my recent experience. The mailbox, my uncle’s obsession and my nightmares of the previous evening had made me rather touchy on the subject of snakes. Strolling through the pine-covered acreage I could not help but notice the many areas that could easily conceal the creatures that now seemed to preoccupy my thoughts. The sandy soil displayed many winding trails similar to those on my front porch.

  The property also had one large pond, or stock tank which looked promising for fishing. I decided to try my luck when it became cooler in the late evening. As the day quickly heated I returned to the house with the intent of continuing the inventory of my uncle’s sketchbooks. As the house came into view I made a mental note to question Sheriff Blair about the strange sculpture that I had found in the linen closet. Had my uncle perhaps shown it to Blair during their occasional visits?

  I was heavily perspiring from my tour of the property and welcomed the prospect of air-conditioning and a cold beer. Approaching the wooden steps of the porch, I heard an unusual noise but could not determine its origin. Shrugging it off, I stepped on the lowest step and received a terrible fright as a large rattlesnake struck at my ankle. Loudly hollering, I kicked at my leg in a frantic effort to dislodge the serpent that had managed to sink his fangs into the top of my leather work boot. I did not feel a bite and prayed that I could loosen the repulsive and poisonous creature before its hollow fangs fully penetrated the footwear and caused me harm. I suspected that the snake was just as eager to be free of me. I would kick and the snake would coil itself around my leg attempting to extricate its teeth from my boot. Finally I caught sight of some rusty looking hedge clippers on one end of the porch and with trembling and unsteady hands I severed the writhing creature’s body just inches below its head.

  The snake’s blood thickly oozed from the mortal wound as the severed body writhed and blindly thrashed in its death throes. I shuddered with revulsion and almost lost my breakfast. Still, I somehow found the fortitude to carefully dislodge the rattler’s head, using the same shears that had served to kill the reptile. A chill went up my spine as I noticed the unmistakable crescent atop the snake’s wedge-shaped head.

  I confess, the sudden attack had unnerved me more than any other event that I could recall, and it suddenly seemed to me that my two week vacation was fast becoming a nightmare. I pretty much decided that I would spend one more day to collect my uncle’s sketchbooks, carvings and other items of interest. Upon the completion of this task I would happily return to my home in Crandall and contract with a realtor to sell the godforsaken place! After my own experiences, occurring in less than twenty-four hours, I could more easily relate to my uncle’s delusions. There might be no conspiracy at work, but there “was for damn sure” too many snakes for my peace of mind. Disgusted, I disposed of the snake’s remains, rattles and all. I did not want any part of the damned thing!

  Once safely inside, I opened a cold bottle of beer and immediately drank half its contents. Sitting at the kitchen table and drinking the remainder of the brew, I finally began to feel somewhat better. After a second Lone Star I felt steady enough to shower and change my clothes. The two beers and shower went a long way toward calming my jittery nerves. However, I still felt some unease, irrationally I then believed, about the sculpture of Yig that was resting at the back of the linen closet. I somehow managed to banish this feeling after drying myself and changing into some clean clothes. After opening a third bottle of beer I finally found my uncle’s most recent sketches. They were in an unmarked box along with a spiral notebook that apparently served as his journal.

  I was not really surprised to find that the sketchbooks featured almost nothing but snakes. So Sheriff Blair had not exaggerated my uncle’s obsession in the slightest. I leafed through the pages, se
eing snake after snake. There were rattlers, copperheads and cottonmouths. All were well rendered and all possessed the same bizarre crescent marking with which I had become familiar. Different species with the same mark? I had about decided the pattern denoted some obscure local subspecies, but this discovery baffled me anew.

  There was also the occasional drawing of Yig, with written comments by my uncle. The words “loathsome bastard” frequently accompanied the sketches, written in ink with exclamation points at the bottom of the page. Uncle Henry had great natural ability and it saddened me to think that his final days were spent in drawing the likenesses of such cold-blooded and unappealing creatures. In disgust I put the sketchbooks down and turned my attention to the journal which I rightfully feared would further document my uncle’s mania.

  The first mention of anything noteworthy told of his discovering the grotesque figure of Yig. (It was not his own work, then.) Uncle Henry had been out metal detecting in what was locally reputed to be “a place of evil.” I could not suppress a smirk at this bit of cliché but continued to read. The figure, or something, had caused the detector to give a strong, positive reading. My uncle enthusiastically dug in hopes of perhaps finding gold or silver coins, buried by Spaniards, Confederate renegades or any of the numerous “bad men” who had once roamed this part of Texas. He had dug about three and one-half feet when he found the statue. It wasn’t exactly what he had hoped for, but perhaps it might be of some value to the “right” person. He carefully dug around the figure, not wanting to damage his find. Grasping the object, he gently worked the base free. This was the point at which my uncle’s account veered off into the wild and unbelievable. The stone figure was freed from the soil, revealing a slanted, gopher-sized tunnel. As my Uncle Henry began to poke and pry at the mouth of the opening with his spade he received a strong fright. According to his account, an abnormally thick, eyeless, albino serpent slithered from the hole and attempted to strike. It missed only due to my uncle losing his balance and tripping over the metal detector which was lying near the fresh excavation. He described the snake as poisonous due to its wedge-shaped head and fangs. It also possessed the crescent marking with which I was now all too familiar. My uncle grabbed his shovel and, after two or three unsuccessful attempts, managed to cut the bizarre viper in half. The repulsive reptile wildly writhed and continued to blindly snap its jaws. Suddenly the creature began to disintegrate into a fine, white powder and was soon scattered across the field by the spring winds.

  The journal went on to describe how my uncle covered the hole, placing the sculpture in a sack which he carried for whatever “loot” he might find on his jaunts. In a state of semi-shock and disbelief he returned home and began to question his mental health. The next couple of entries were rather noneventful except for a mention of the figure being cleaned and placed in a prominent place of viewing in the kitchen, where my uncle did most of his sketches. I wondered what had prompted my uncle later to place the statue in the linen closet.

  A couple of more uninteresting entries, and then the tone of Uncle Henry’s writing seemed to change. The journal began to relate a series of incidents in which my uncle had been threatened or attacked by snakes, all of whom had the odd crescent marking on their heads. He believed that there was an obvious correlation between his taking the Yig sculpture and the increase in aggressive reptile activity. The bizarre markings on the serpents convinced him beyond a shadow of a doubt that the events were linked. He also wrote of terrible nightmares since bringing the likeness of Yig into his home. These dreams usually portrayed him as a victim of some divine retribution, carried out by serpents in dark corridors beneath a fabulous underground city.

  Believing these things to be connected, he still refused to get rid of the sculpture. He had spoken to Sheriff Blair about many of the incidents but omitted the one concerning the vanishing albino creature. Blair tried to convince him that the events were mere coincidence and nothing particularly ominous. He agreed that the crescent markings upon the snakes were indeed odd but chalked it up to some type of local mutation. The writings reflected an escalating trend of incidents and also a growing fear on the part of my uncle. Later entries made reference to his consideration of selling the property and moving. The final entry indicated that he considered himself a doomed man but hoped he might escape his fate by returning the sculpture to where he found it. However, he did not live long enough to accomplish this task. The last words written showed my uncle to be a very shaken man. His final sentence was, “God help me, I fear that Yig is coming.”

  I was admittedly stunned upon reading these words of a man who had always been practical and level-headed. The journal disturbed me greatly and I resolved to leave Tenoka the next day. I still damn myself for being a fool and staying one last night. That fateful night I drank many beers before retiring, hoping that the alcohol would make sleep come easily. In a semi-drunken condition I searched the house, trying to reassure myself that all was secure. Finally I went to bed, falling asleep still in my clothes. I recall no dreams or anything else until the sound of my splintering door awakened me to face the thing that I most dreaded. A thing that logic dictated could not be!

  As the cabin’s wooden door gave way under the relentless pounding, snakes of many types and varied sizes slithered as one huge, writhing mass into the stifling room. I screamed in horror at the fate that was now mine. Momentarily paralyzed with fright, I knew that my minutes in this world were numbered and considered turning the pistol in hand upon myself. Still it was not in my blood to surrender without struggle and I determined to destroy as many of the loathsome reptiles as possible before succumbing to the deadly venom which would soon be coursing through my veins. I cocked the hammer of my 20 gauge and reassured myself that my uncle’s .45 was still tucked in my belt. Preparing to squeeze the trigger of my weapon, I paused as a large shape seemed to fill the open doorway. Slowly, a huge, monstrous creature slid through the doorway.

  I shuddered in terror and revulsion as I recognized the creature as the living embodiment of the grotesque figurine that had belonged to my Uncle Henry. Whoever sculpted the figure had done an incredible job in capturing the essence of Yig, who was glaring at me with inhuman and riveting serpent eyes. The vile figure’s facial characteristics were both reptilian and humanoid. His scaled head was hooded much like a cobra. The nose was somewhat blunted and he possessed a thin, wide mouth from which a long, forked tongue obscenely flicked. The thing had stunted arms and a torso which merged and melded into a long, unnaturally thick serpentine body.

  Yig—as I now knew this creature to be, had a noticeable effect on the snakes that slithered and writhed across the floor, attempting to encircle me. His unnatural presence seemed to calm the cold-blooded bastards. However, it also allowed me to realize just what had caused my uncle’s heart attack. Surely such a sight as this would have caused the old man, with his history of heart disease, a fatal cardiac arrest. Suddenly my mind was flooded with childhood memories of my Uncle Henry’s kindness to me. Rage unthinkingly overcame fear and I fired the shotgun, its lead pellets tearing into the coiling, ever-squirming mass of snakes. Heads were severed and bodies torn apart. A collective and soul-chilling hiss of pain and anger deafened me as the innumerable survivors slid across the bloody floor with renewed purpose.

  I emptied the magazine of my pistol, throwing the now useless weapon into the writhing mass. Quickly grabbing the discarded 20 gauge, I put it to renewed use, clubbing and knocking aside the first reptiles that reached me. I crushed the head of one viper with my leather boot heel but soon felt numerous hot, searing bites through my jeans. Realizing that I had only moments to live, I staggered towards Yig in a last vain effort to avenge my uncle, dragging with me a score of reptiles attached to my thighs and lower torso. The devil slid towards me and I absurdly noted how it sounded like a dresser being dragged across the wood floor. Weakened and numb with shock from the poison permeating my tissues, I swung the butt end o
f my weapon at Yig’s leering excuse for a face. Sadly, he easily avoided my pathetic attack. With my remaining energy I screamed in rage as his long, retractable fangs sank deep into my neck.

  The next morning I miraculously awoke upon the floor. Thinking the previous night’s events some wild hallucination, I attempted to stand. My body was instantly racked with excruciating pain and my head felt like it was going to explode. I struggled to my feet but instantly collapsed into a handmade wooden chair that was nearby. Painfully raising my hands to wipe my sweating forehead, my blood chilled as I discovered the grotesque and horrible changes my body had undergone. My skin was peeling, sloughing off like snake skin, revealing a dry scaly covering beneath. Grabbing my head in revulsion and horror, I began to sob as large tufts of my thick, brown hair fell to the floor. Staggering to the small bathroom, I somehow found the courage to look into the mirror. My hairless head was becoming wedge-shaped and a familiar crescent marking was plainly visible. My entire body was squamous and mottled, and my legs were now attached to each other through a rapidly toughening membrane of spotted skin.

  I have written these words while my withering arms and hands still function. Even now I feel myself beginning to think less like a man…soon I will shed this pathetic human flesh and slither into the woods to find Father Yig and take my place among the serpents of Tenoka.

  Darrell Schweitzer once commented (in The Dream Quest of H.P. Lovecraft) that Lovecraft’s classic novella At the Mountains of Madness should have ended, and effectively did end, with Dyer’s discovery of the ruins of Lake’s outpost and the evidence that the frozen Elder Ones had revived and destroyed the pitiful humans who had dug them out of their snowy hibernation. He’s right: that would have been a hell of a tale by itself. And yet who can complain that we discover, at great length, what happened next? Not me. But I recall Schweitzer’s insight because, in a sense, the author of “The Journal of Thomas Gedney” has supplied something like the “original” as envisioned by Schweitzer, only from a different focal character. We knew that Gedney and his party had their own awful adventure, but now we see it happening on stage. That is a wonderful open window for apocryphal add-ons to the Lovecraft canon. Lovecraft frequently packs in implicit back stories presupposed by the plot of the main story he is telling. Why not go back and try our best to fill in those implicit stories? At least I find it fruitful, as my own tale, “The Prying Investigations of Edwin M. Lillibridge,” is such an exercise: not a sequel, but rather a kind of intra-narrative or sub-narrative supplement. Why not?