Miskatonic Nightmares

by H. David Blalock

  A boat was waiting for them. Time was growing short.

  *

  The boy awoke almost a day later on a cold slime-coated stone smelling faintly of fish. It was the soft tom-tom of the drums which roused him. He discovered he’d developed a small involuntary eye twitch and had to fight down violent muscle spasms. The muscle spasms were not painful, but the facial twitches were annoying. The combination of the blanket and thick ropes kept his hands and feet immobile while the gag kept him from screaming.

  Not that anyone would have cared.

  The wind howled around him. Each new gust seemed to carry the chilled salt water of the sea around him. Only the blanket would keep him warm. His head, which was completely exposed, ached as the wind chilled the area around his fresh sutures. The mature brain within the sealed skull was terrified.

  A group of dark skinned people danced a circle around a large stone statue and chanted rhythmically nearby. The statue was some kind of winged tentacled monster. The statue glowed a sick, gangrenous, and unnatural flame. The dancers chanted and each had a maniacal glint in their eyes, repeating in a near hypnotic sing-song tone, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

  The glowing statue, made from a green black stone with gold flecks, stood precariously on top of an unstable marble pillar near a slab. All of this lay upon a smooth hard slimy bit of cyclopean masonry.

  The hooded stranger approached him. There was an abject terror in the boy’s eyes.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said with some cheer. “You, my young friend, will be our honored guest. Indeed, we cannot welcome Great Cthulhu without a new unblemished soul – despite its… recycled body.” The stranger said in a deep throated Cajun accent. He removed his hood, revealing a bald headed mulatto face with wild wide eyes which held an unspoken lunacy. “You and the statue are the keys to His rising. You are alive and dead. But most of all, through your rebirth, you are untainted. This makes you the perfect sacrifice.

  “We await him to come forth to bring us to a new age of divine chaos and usher humanity’s end,” he said passionately pointing toward a colossal structure that could have been a doorway if anyone were large enough to use it. The boy’s eyes hurt to look at it.

  Another twitch riddled the boy’s face. They were coming quickly now.

  The mulatto motioned to two large brutish men. They grabbed the boy and removed his gag. The mulatto took a vial of brown liquid and held it to the boy’s face. “Drink,” he said coolly. “It may make this easier for you and we can’t have you running away. After all, where would you go?”

  The boy, now terrified, opened his mouth obediently and drank the foul brown liquid. A warm feeling washed over him and throughout his body. He stopped struggling against the ropes only because his muscles would no longer obey his voluntary commands.

  The two men cut the boys bonds and casually took his arms, leading him to the slab and the statue. He did not resist. There was just enough control in his limbs to follow their lead, but the moment he thought otherwise to run, he simply could not. They laid him on the slab. The boy did not move.

  The mulatto reverently walked into the circle where the others were dancing. He threw his hands up quickly and the dancers and drum beats ceased. All on R’lyeh were silent. All that could be heard was the lapping of ocean water against the surf.

  The first tremor was subtle but it was followed quickly by another… and then another, stronger yet. The boy moved his eyes to the large portal and saw the fantastically large door open.

  The smell was terrible. It was the stench of a thousand open graves fermenting in a summer’s heat. Then the boy saw Him: Cthulhu – the impossibly gigantic monster emerged. His tremendous green-black wings unfolded and His arms reached for the sky – as if He could find an invisible ceiling and scrape His claws across it. The monster god bellowed a waking cry and from its monumental height, it saw the boy lying on the slab.

  The monster began to descend. The boy saw that Cthulhu’s head was a living monstrosity whose very presence and putrescence made the air unbreathable.

  The dancers had scattered. Not from fright, but out of some misplaced sense of reverence and awe. Cthulhu focused only on the boy. The large tentacles covering its mouth spread out wide revealing an alien mouth opening beyond description.

  Another facial tick came over the child’s face and then the boy’s head felt like it was going to explode. His muscles started to spasm violently causing his entire body to go into convulsions. His leg, acting independently shot out, kicking the pillar which held the mini Cthulhu statue with amazing force.

  The statue almost drunkenly tottered and then it started to fall. When the small Cthulhu statue finally met the stone ground, it shattered, releasing a vomitus yellow cloud of gas from within it.

  The monster screamed in anguish and began to rise but lost its balance and fell back into the portal, closing the door behind it. As the door shut, the island shook as it started to sink again into the ocean. The zealots panicked – not knowing where to run to and also knowing that death by drowning was almost a certainty.

  In his convulsions, the boy, like the statue, had fallen from the slab to the hard ground as well, cracking his not quite healed skull open. Not that the boy had truly ever been alive, but now, he was certainly dead.

  From the top of his cracked cranium, some of the boy’s gray matter was exposed. And from out of that dark space a blood and brain colored cricket hopped out of his skull.

  Stimulus and response. A cricket tapping on a cortex, playing with the boy’s restarted nervous system, and eventually guiding his consciousness in a different direction.

  The city of R’lyeh was sinking quickly. The cricket made several jumps before the oncoming ocean enveloped it. Then it, like the boy, was no more.

  The Miskatonic Cafeteria

  Amelia Collingwood

  Dear Professor Van Glock,

  I am writing to you in the pinnacle of distress. Recently a patient came into my care in the most dire need of psychological help, yet despite my best efforts, and the efforts of the staff here in the Asylum, help him we cannot. I have been told you have some experience in this specific type of madness, and for the sake of the patient I pray you can assist us.

  Emanuel Desmond came into my care several weeks ago, raving mad. At first he could not speak anything except gibberish, muttering over and over again “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!” When I gave him paper and pencil to write with, this was all he wrote, over and over, until collapsing from exhaustion. After trying many different treatments, including shock therapy, exposure to strong smelling powders, and endless hours of talk therapy, I was finally able to calm him enough to hear his story. Still, he could only speak a few sentences at a time before falling into another nervous break-down. In the pages below, I have transcribed his account exactly as Desmond has described it, minus any fits of madness he may have succumbed to during the telling.

  *

  Emanuel Desmond was a proud young man, and perhaps a little too portly by his own confession, for he had no greater love in the entire world than his love for food. His father was a butcher of excellent repute, and the younger Desmond had worked in the senior Desmond's shop since an early age. Young Desmond saved most of his wages, except what he spent on cakes and tarts, for the day he could attend University. Like a good Arkham boy, he enrolled in the Miskatonic and moved into the dormitories there. Desmond intended to study commerce and become a banker, happily spending his days behind his desk snacking, and counting the other great love of his life... money.

  During his first week of class, Desmond had a terrible time finding the cafeteria and none of the other students would show him the way. They all insisted that the cafeteria was a terrible place to eat, though none of them knew why. Only that it was much better to bring their own lunches. Which was all fine and good for them, but what about morning, afternoon, and evening snacks? A growing boy like Desmond required at
least six full meals a day, at least this was what his mother always told him. Desmond could not possibly carry all that food, nor stock it in his dormitory.

  And so in his second week at the Miskatonic, after nearly starving to death several times, Desmond was able to corner a janitor and demand to be shown the cafeteria. The janitor too warned Desmond about the place, suggesting instead a café only a few blocks off campus, but the only thing the young man hated more than hunger was walking.

  “And honestly, the entire campus is so full of ghost stories and other rubbish that if one were to believe all of it, one might think oneself the only human being in the place,” said Desmond, quite fed up with being hungry. “Now tell me where to find the cafeteria!”

  And so the janitor relented and showed young Desmond the way to the cafeteria. The entrance to the place, which was marked only by a tiny bronze plaque, was tucked discreetly beneath a set of stairs in the basement. Desmond would have thought himself misled, except for the smell of something wonderful seeping out from beneath the door. Desmond's mouth was watering beyond discretion as he burst into the room, startling nearby patrons.

  The cafeteria was very poorly lit, but far from empty. There were many diners, all of them eating alone with their hats on and their collars up, as if incognito. Desmond might have remarked on the strangeness of this, but his attention was fully diverted to the back of the room where there was a counter with a chalk board over top of it describing the daily menu, and a kitchen beyond. Two serving ladies stood behind the counter, presiding over the buffet.

  Desmond was so hungry he could have eaten his own fist, so instead of taking stock of the room, he hurried through the line and ordered the daily special without even reading what it was. Desmond paid the delightfully low cost and hurried himself to the nearest table to see what he had ordered. His meal turned out to be a stew filled with lovely brown gravy, peas, carrot, potatoes, and large, succulent cubes of beef. Desmond devoured his meal, then ordered seconds.

  The morning after his first meal at the cafeteria, Desmond awoke with the sense of having traveled a mighty distance. His limbs were sore, especially his feet and legs, and he was enormously hungry. He immediately decided the only thing for it was to return to the cafeteria for breakfast.

  After that, Desmond was a convert, body and soul. He ate in the cafeteria at least three meals a day, sometimes as much as six, and began to find all other food lost its flavour in comparison. He could speak of little else, could hardly even think but to wonder what marvellous delicacy awaited him next. If he could no longer remember any of his dreams, what of it? His entire life had become a dream come true. Having been raised in a butcher's shop, Desmond knew a good cut of meat when he tasted one, and what he was eating in the cafeteria must have come from the cattle of the gods. It was delicious beyond description. The other patrons of the cafeteria remained furtive in their dining. Desmond was a splash of colour and life in the dark room, finding himself in such high spirits that he went so far as to begin wearing coloured jackets, and tucking a fresh flower into his lapel every day.

  None of the other students wanted to hear about the cafeteria, insisting foolishly that somehow, someway, the place was cursed. Desmond’s father, however, was most interested. On the younger Desmond's Sunday trips home for lunch after church, the older Desmond asked many astute questions about the cuts of beef and chicken, the leanness of the pork, and the tenderness of the lamb. It did not take long for him to implore his son to find out where the cafeteria got its meat from, and the younger man did not need much convincing. If his father, already a reputable butcher, could get his hands on such miraculous meats then he would become the most sought after butcher in all of Massachusetts, if not the entire Northeast. The Desmond's would be so rich their son would not have to work at all, except perhaps as a quality control officer for the meat.

  When next Desmond returned to the cafeteria, he resolved to question one of the serving ladies. It was the first time Desmond had properly looked at either of them, so focused had he been on the food they had been serving. The two women behind the counter were both old, plump, and grey. In fact, they could have been sisters, if not twins. And both their skins seemed clammy, and glistened slightly. No doubt it was very warm in the kitchen. They had always been friendly enough, yet when Desmond questioned them on his father's behalf all they did was smile and serve up a dish of the daily special. Well, Desmond could not argue with a meal, so he swallowed his questions until the next time.

  For the next week, every time Desmond ordered his meal he tried to make conversation with the women, always receiving the same answer: a steaming hot plate of the daily special. During this time, Desmond found his nights less and less restful. He hypothesized he was so consumed by the need to know from whence the cafeterias meats came, he could not sleep. Though he still could not remember his dreams, he only knew that when he awoke bits of incomprehensible images slithered into the corners of his mind. Sometimes he even though he saw them in the shadows of his room before he was fully awake. But of course, that sort of thinking was pure foolishness, born from all the tall tales of the other students.

  Desmond knew the cafeteria workers were playing it coy with him, no doubt guarding their profits, but his curiosity was becoming as insatiable as his hunger. And his mission was a desperate one, because he wanted his father to be rich very badly. So Desmond decided to sneak in at night, after the cafeteria had closed. It was not hard. Desmond had learned how to do it when he still lived with his parents and would sometimes need to sneak into the shop for some ham or salami for a midnight snack. On his way out of the cafeteria after dinner, Desmond simply snuck a piece of tape over the deadbolt so that it could not be locked, even though the latch may have been turned.

  Taking a few brief hours of sleep before midnight, when his espionage would begin, Desmond dreamt of a city that could not exist. The dimensions and proportions of it were beyond sense, and even its gravity was off. Buildings so tall they would have exceeded the clouds stood on the point of a needle, expanding until they were as wide as the entire University campus, and not so much as wavering in the breeze. Others were immense and perfectly rectangular, featureless except for a vast tangle of staircases protruding from the outer stone on all sides. Most disturbing of all were the buildings that did not seem to be buildings at all, but great, rooted trees, covered in scales and throbbing gently, as if breathing. Desmond walked in the opposite direction of those, whenever possible.

  The colours in the city were absurd everywhere, and even though the streets were empty, Desmond did not think he was alone. He wandered the city for some time, until he came across a river set in purple stone, flowing into a funnel and falling out of sight. The river had a smell about it that was extremely familiar, though Desmond could not quite place it. When he stared into the river, he thought he saw bits of people, sometimes even places, all swirling around and colliding with each other, losing their shape as they did. Once, Desmond thought he saw his father's butcher shop in the river, before the short brick building fell away into the shadow of a larger, concrete building, labelled “Asylum.” In his dreaming mind, Desmond knew he was looking at a river of dreams sucked from the minds of human beings, and siphoned here, for some dark purpose.

  He had never been so pleased to have his alarm sound, or to get out of bed, though he did not feel anything but exhaustion. Still, Desmond was a man of dedication, so he dressed in dark clothing and left the dormitory, wondering, as he did, where such a fanciful nightmare had come from. A river of stolen dreams? Ha! Perhaps he should transfer his studies from commerce to creative writing.

  The cafeteria had a very different feeling at night. Or perhaps its true atmosphere was revealed without the aroma of delicious food to mask it. The place was cold, the air bitter and even containing an electric static, as if some scientific experiment was being conducted in the kitchen. And it was very, very dark. So dark, the shadows seemed to distort and confuse themselves around Desmond
as he felt his way to the back of the room. Many times he jumped, breathless and convinced someone was reaching for him in the darkness. Desmond almost turned back several times, for he was very cowardly, but his greed won out in the end and he swallowed his fear.

  When he made it to the kitchen, Desmond thought it would be safe to turn on the lights, so he felt around the wall until he found the switch. The kitchen looked much like where his father did the cutting in his shop. There were stainless steel tables, wooden cabinets, and large sinks. The only additions were the two ovens, with four gas burners each on top. To one side there was a large iron door that likely led to cold room. Desmond noticed there were six cords which protruded from a hole above the cold room door, and ran along the ceiling out of the kitchen. The cords looked unnervingly fleshy, and two of them were moving. Desmond stared, transfixed and disgusted, for many long moments before convincing himself this must simply be some complex innovation in the storing of cold food. He forced himself to turn away, and begin poking around in the cupboards where he might find some order forms or a receipt from a farm or butcher's shop.

  Only a few moments later, Desmond heard a sound like a heavy door slamming. Instinctively, he ducked behind a table, though it was not a very good hiding spot. While there was a rack beneath the table which held pots and a few large iron skillets, there was still ample space between the table legs that Desmond could see through and could be seen in return. Yet now there were footsteps and the squeak of wheels. Desmond feared he could not move without attracting attention to himself, so he watched in absolute stillness. What he saw was almost beyond description.