by Nick Mamatas
“What the hell happened to his head? I don’t mean the injury, I mean...?” the morning shift examiner asked the police officer who had accompanied the body downstairs.
“We got some photographs from the horror people down at Hotel Bierce. Speaking of horror, this is it—nothing happened to this guy’s head. He was born this way.”
“His cranium is shaped like the top of a goddamned asparagus,” the medical examiner said.
“That four-dollar haircut ain’t helping matters either,” the cop said.
12. The Festival
The trip back to the Bierce was courtesy of the Providence PD this time, and unnecessarily circuitous, though Bonner did stop at a Dunkin’ Dounts and offer to get Colleen something. Cinnamon raisin bagel twists were vegan, but of course the store was sold out of them at 11 p.m.
Colleen just wanted to sleep in her own room, which she suddenly remembered she didn’t have anymore. She also had forgotten to get the room number from either Barry or Raul, so she got out her phone to leave them a Facebook message just in time to see it power down from lack of charge. With luck, they’d still be in the bar. She was headed right to the Warwick when she felt a hand on her back.
“Hey hey,” said the pirate from the dealers’ room. “How have you been? Enjoying the con?”
Colleen contemplated kicking his knee so hard he’d be half-flamingo, but instead just said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Why, what happened? I had to work this morning at ye ol’ dayjob, so I just got back.”
“There was a murder in this hotel. A lot of us have been taken in and questioned. I just got back from my third fucking trip to the morgue,” Colleen said.
The pirate’s eyes widened and he stepped away. “Are you a suspect? Who got whacked?”
“Got whacked? Panossian.”
His tone softened. “Oh, okay.”
“What makes it okay?”
“I don’t mean anything by it,” the pirate said. “It’s just that everyone here is pretty much harmless. You know, nerds. The omegas of society. This is a hotel full of potential murder victims, but I don’t think anyone here is capable of killing another human being.”
Colleen shrugged. “The cops disagree. So do I.”
“Well, who do you think did it?”
Phantasia was on her lips, but she swallowed the word. It was definitely him whom she had spotted so close to the room she had shared with Panossian, and as he was a Providence local there was no reason for him to be up on a non-party floor, but that was a flimsy thread with which to tie someone to a murder. “The cops have a suspect. I just got back myself; I’m sure you’ll hear a lot of gossip.”
“Wow, this sounds really terrible,” the pirate said. He still was wearing his puffy-sleeved shirt and all, despite the dealers’ room being long closed. Was his dayjob singing shanties down by the river for tourist nickels or something? “Want to split? If the killer saw you coming and going, and the cops dropping you off, you might be next. We can hole up at my house for the duration.”
“No,” Colleen said forcefully. “I can’t leave the hotel. We’re all sequestered here until they have a likely suspect.”
“Let’s retire to the Warwick then; I’ll buy you a nice stiff drink. I saw that you were already on the way there, so let’s join forces.” He then held out his arm, as if Colleen were supposed to sidle up to him and be led to the bar. Colleen was exhausted and had had enough altercations today, plus a big stupid gooch with a car might prove useful, so with a chagrined twist of her mouth, she took his arm.
Neither R.G. nor the guys were present, but the Warwick was both packed and quiet. The televisions had been turned off and the conversation was muted. As she walked to the bar, Colleen could feel the heat-vision glares all around. The pirate, a huge smile on his face, didn’t seem to notice. Colleen wondered if he’d ever get around to giving her his name, as he wasn’t wearing his badge. And yet, the pirate probably had the best game in the hotel.
“First round free,” bartender said. “In memoriam.”
“Tequila shots,” the pirate said, and the bartender poured a pair.
“To Panossian,” Colleen said.
“Who?” the bartender said. “Everyone else has been toasting a guy named Charles Cudmore.”
“He’s dead?” the pirate said, his voice cracking.
“How, what happened?”
The bartender poured himself a shot and downed it. “Another murder. Didn’t happen in here though; they found him out in the little vacant lot behind the hotel. This is my last fucking day. I’m not risking my life for dollar tips.” He stared at them expectantly. The pirate sat, rod straight, his big hands delicately holding his shot glass.
Colleen leaned over and stage-whispered, “Give him two dollars, for Christ’s sake.”
The pirate dug out a little leather satchel that was tied to his waist and pulled out a few crumpled singles.
“I have a strange question, if you don’t mind. Was Cudmore…mutilated at all?”
“Mutilated, decapitated, eviscerated. By tomorrow morning he’ll have been defenestrated and disintegrated. According to rumor and gossip from you convention people, of course. Cops say he was just hit in the back of the head with a rock and fell and hit another rock and that’s all it took,” the bartender said.
“Any suspects?”
The bartender shrugged. “I’m a part-time bartender. I’m actually getting my MA in Biology at Brown. The local constabulary don’t exactly loop me in on all their potential serial murder cases.”
“Why would it be serial murder?” the pirate asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be? Two murders of two people who are both attending this convention and staying in this hotel?”
“Serial killers don’t often attack men. They don’t strike a second time so quickly either. It doesn’t sound like any trophies were taken from the victims,” the pirate said.
The bartender glanced at Colleen, but said to the pirate, “You seem to be very knowledgeable on the subject of serial killers.”
“It’s a fascination of mine,” the pirate said. “One of many.” He gave Colleen the once over and smiled.
“Well, thanks for the drink. I have to find my roommates, to make sure that they’re okay,” Colleen said, and she slipped off the stool and trotted out of the bar.
Why would anyone kill Asparagus Head? Panossian had a copy of Arkham, and hadn’t spent his time in the Lovecraftian subculture making a lot of friends. But Charles Cudmore, despite the fact that Colleen didn’t like him or the company he kept, seemed like a gormless sort. From all appearances he was fairly well-integrated into the Bhanushali/Ronald Ranger crowd, and that coterie was composed of the big-wigs who controlled the major anthologies, who gave the big speeches at the conventions, whose aesthetic and political opinions were often argued against, but only rarely when they were actually present.
But he had spoken out against Bhanushali back in the pool area, and then abandoned her—or was expelled from the group—during the Nigger-Man fiasco. What was his deal, and who might have wanted him dead? Bhanushali likely wouldn’t talk to Colleen after that night’s adventure, but other people would.
Norman would.
The Hotel Bierce wasn’t a large hotel, and there weren’t very many common areas. It was almost perfectly suited for the Summer Tentacular, Colleen thought, but then realized that she had been holding the universe upside-down: the Tentacular was designed to suit the hotel’s size and capacity. Norman was on the convention staff, so all Colleen had to do was find the head of staff, and she happened to know which hotel room he slept in.
Armbruster was not pleased to see Colleen. She could only see one eye through the slightly ajar door, and it was like a gray marble, like a stone that would turn her to stone if it could. “Lights out, Danzig. The Tentacular has been destroyed forever. There’s no recovering from this.”
“Look, I don’t give a shit about the Tentacular. Where’s Norman?
”
“Why on Earth are you curious about the location of that man? I would not think you were the sort to seek out a man of that kind.”
“I…have an important question for him,” Colleen said.
“Why don’t you go to his website and send him an email?” Armbruster moved to close the door, but Colleen blocked him with her foot.
“I will crush your toes, Ms. Danzig. I am not above such things.”
“Go ahead.”
Armbruster gave the door a half-hearted push, but Colleen didn’t budge. “My Docs are steel-toed. Expensive but worth it. I guess you can open the door and attack me if you want. Want to bet I can get a kick to your balls before you punch my lights out?”
“Ms. Danzig,” Armbruster said, his teeth clenched, “you are a royal pain in my keister. I hope you treat Norman as poorly.” He withdrew from the door and disappeared into the dark of his hotel room. An interior door shut. Colleen tried the door to the room, but it was latched so she could not force it open any farther. A few moments later, Armbruster’s face appeared again.
“Top floor, the other wing. Party suite. Good night, Ms. Danzig,” he said. Then he shut the door.
Colleen presumed that Armbruster had spoken to Norman on the phone, and perhaps had even warned him about her. He was a big guy, and once upon a time there had been muscles under that fat, she remembered. He had been friendly enough with Panossian for that horseplay photo that someone had tweeted, and Panossian had helped Norman and his pals crash the Lovecraft cemetery vigil, so perhaps he’d be an ally.
Colleen decided against the elevator. Somehow the staircases seemed safer as they were less well-trafficked and weren’t outfitted with security cameras. By the time she reached the party suite, she was breathing heavily, and her lip was sweating. A part of her hoped that there was an actual party going on in the party suite—she hadn’t eaten in hours.
A detourned Christmas wreath hung on the double doors. It had been decorated with a flattened, salted squid most likely purchased at an Asian supermarket. It was painted green and tied to the center of the wreath with fishing wire. A pair of oversized fake bat wings—Colleen couldn’t determine their provenance—extended outward. She knocked and Norman immediately opened the doors, as if he had been waiting for her with his hands on the knob.
“Come in, come in,” Norman said. “You’re the first to arrive.” The suite had been re-organized. The couches and chairs had been arranged in as much of a circle as the fact that all the furniture was rectangular would allow, and they surrounded three coffee tables that made something like a triangle. Some votive candles, as yet unlit, formed a pentagram shape across the table-tops. The blinds had all been drawn, the lights were low.
“Norman, the first to arrive for what? I can’t stay, I just have some questions,” Colleen said.
“Everyone who enters through these doors comes with questions,” Norman said. “Sit, sit.” He gestured toward one of the chairs, and helped himself to the loveseat the pentagram pointed to.
“This is some sort of occult event, isn’t it?”
“Not some sort, a particular sort. Tonight we create a thought-form, tonight we contact the dead, tonight we pierce the veil of the night,” Norman said. “Uhm, would you like a water? A Fanta? Snack? I have cheese.”
“I’m vegan. Listen, I’m not into the occult. My question is about Charles Cudmore.”
Norman’s beard twitched.
“You know, Asparagus Head?”
“Yes, of course. Kind of a jerk, but he had lots of friends. I don’t know…”
They sat together in silence for a long moment. “Is that it?”
“No, of course it isn’t it. You said you had questions. I’ve answered every question you’ve asked me so far.”
Colleen worked to keep from rolling her eyes. Maybe Norman was on the autism spectrum, maybe he was just playing up the occult master gimmick, but she needed information.
“Who thought he was a jerk? Among the people here at the Tentacular, I mean.”
Norman smirked. “Lots of people. Chandler. Armbruster. Robert Goddard. Panossian…”
“Wait, who is Goddard?”
“He’s a dealer. Dresses like some sort of gay pirate.”
“Oh! Why doesn’t…why didn’t he like Cudmore?”
“Cudmore was one of Bhanushali’s little pets. A very enthusiastic one; I think he even grated on Bhanushali occasionally, by which I mean his pointy head grated on her anus. So whatever Bhanushali said, Cudmore took it as gospel. She doesn’t like people selling corsets and games and fuzzy Cthulhu slippers in the dealers’ room. Were it up to her, it would be nothing but a book show…and the autograph session would be all of us lining up to get our copies of her edits of Lovecraft’s stories signed, by her.
“But Bhanushali is pretty politic. I can’t even get a rise out of her half the time,” Norman said. He winked. “I think you were in the audience for my little show at the opening ceremonies. I am a faithful member of the Cult of Cthulhu, but I know how that looks to people like Bhanushali, to people like you. I don’t expect people to treat me like a Presbyterian or anything. Bhanushali can sometimes take me in stride, but whatever occasionally annoys her, Cudmore makes into a personal crusade. And for Cudmore, a personal crusade means bitching and moaning on Facebook till someone tells him to shut up.”
“We’re not Facebook friends.”
“You are a wise woman.”
“Did anyone hate him enough to kill him?” Colleen asked.
“I heard his death was an accident,” Norman said.
“He was hit on the head with a rock.”
“Yeah, but he just landed on another rock and that’s what killed him.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Colleen said. “Nobody picks up a rock, sneaks up behind someone, and smashes the back of their head in, without knowing that their victim could well end up dead. He wasn’t just punched in the face. It was assault with a deadly weapon, and it was a literal deadly weapon.”
“Interesting legal theory,” Norman said, his voice clipped and unimpressed.
Colleen decided to try charm. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to argue with you. I know you need to focus your mind on your ritual. Can you tell me about it?”
Norman’s smile opened widely. “Sure! I am hoping to get enough people in here who are open to a non-drug state of altered consciousness. We’ve all read Lovecraft, we’ve all written Lovecraftian fiction or played a Lovecraftian role-playing game, or watched movies or built models. We’ve rewired our own brains into Lovecraft appreciation machines.
“Do you know the difference between series and parallel circuits?”
Of course Colleen did. “No, please tell me,” she said, leaning in.
“Imagine a string of Christmas lights. In the old days, when one bulb blew, the whole string of lights blinked out. It was basically one long wire, and the electricity had to run through all the lights, in a series, for the circuit to complete. A parallel circuit allows each light to run independently. Even if all the bulbs burnt out except for one, that last one would still light.”
“So parallel is better?”
“Yes, but not in this case. I mean, we are parallel Lovecraftian circuits. You do your thing, I do mine. If someone leaves the fandom—heck, if someone dies or is killed, like Panossian or Charles Cudmore—we’ll all continue. I mean, I know you’re committed to Lovecraftian fiction now more than ever, right?” He shifted his weight toward the armrest of his loveseat, drawing close to Colleen.
“Absolutely,” she told him.
“My theory is this: if, for one night, we can run in a series circuit, all imagining the same exact thing, we can help bring that thought-form into reality. I mean, to us, it will be real,” Norman said.
“And how are you going to do that?”
“Simple.” He bent over and stretched, huffing. With some effort—shifting his weight, planting a hand on a coffee table and almost upsetting it, nearly slipp
ing off the couch entirely—he retrieved a folder from under the tables. “I have written a short story. After some mood-setting with music, and some group breathing exercises, I’ll read it aloud and we’ll all visualize the same exact thing. Do you realize that Lovecraft never tells us how many tentacles hang from Cthulhu’s lip? What his wingspan is? It’s no wonder that everyone gets it wrong.” He patted the folder. “I have it all here. Exact specifications, exact behaviors.”
“I hope you describe Cthulhu as short enough to fit into this room, Norman.” Colleen knew Norman wouldn’t like the joke, but hoped that he would like a woman smiling at him.
“Oh, he won’t be materializing here,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”
“I wasn’t…worried,” Colleen said. “You know, I wonder if this ritual would work with some other thought-form. Like a summoning of someone we actually know. Maybe we can all talk about Cudmore, or Panossian. Sort of compare notes, get a multifaceted look at the guys.”
“I think that’s what Twitter is for, Wolf’s Blood,” Norman said. He winked. “But you know, a little ouija board action in the dark isn’t a bad idea. It might be a good preliminary ritual, in a way. Plus, people are grieving. Or they’re upset at last. I’ll update the Evite.”
Norman pulled out his phone and started tinkering with it. “Hey, by the way, thanks for tracking me down. I didn’t have you pegged as the type to be interested in any of this. I thought you were just here to flash some tits, make some deals with editors, and then split. You seem really committed to the Lovecraftian community. It’s nice to see. This should be an interesting evening.”
Colleen’s thank you leaked out between clenched teeth.
There was a knock on the door, and Norman bellowed, “Come in!” Colleen was extremely relieved to see Raul, Barry, and R.G.
Barry was a little tentative with his hello, R.G.’s smile was running at half-wattage, and Raul entered behind them silently.
“Hi guys,” Colleen said. She wanted to explain why she was here so badly, but there was no facial expression complex enough to explain everything. A few other people strolled in, just as awkward and nearly as silent and took up seats without the usual casual negotiations and gestures that spontaneously emerge in a social group.