Two of the strange, pudgy, clammy people entered the kitchen, pushing a rickety metal cart about six feet long. On the cart was a human body, either dead or drugged. The body seemed to be a man, with a healthy amount of fat on him and tender young skin. He reminded Desmond of himself.
Worse, the two men pushing the cart had the same fleshy cords that emerged from the cold room trailing behind them, coming out from beneath their shirts, just above their tail bones. Desmond watched on in petrified horror as the two things that looked like people opened the cold room door. From where Desmond crouched he could clearly see inside, to his great regret. It was nothing of this Earth.
It was part squid, part spider, and part of it was too horrible to even understand the shape of it. Its bulbous squid head contained a constellation of red eyes, and it had a massive mouth which contained both a large tube for sucking, and mandibles tipped with needle-like claws. The body beyond the face swelled and squirmed in the shadows. The whole thing hovered in mid-air, supported by dozens and dozens of the fleshy ropes which came from its core.
The people-things, which were perhaps only hands to the beast, lifted the fat man from the cart and lay him down beneath the creature's mouth, where the mandibles immediately set to work on the body. Then, from some unseen place in the storeroom, the people-things dragged something wet and heavy out, and set it on their cart. Desmond squinted at it, trying to see past the mindless bodies. When they both moved behind the cart, he saw. It was the meat of a person, stripped of all its bones and organs, and marinated in a disturbingly familiar smelling saliva. In fact, it smelt exactly like the secret ingredient to the meals Desmond had enjoyed so much.
Suddenly, Desmond felt a force on his face, a pressure so mighty he nearly collapsed. He turned slowly back to the beast... and found all of its eyes upon him.
“Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn,” said the beast, in a voice like a thousand cuts of a knife. And somehow, for just a moment, Desmond knew what it meant. It meant a river of stolen dreams, leeched away by evil food. It meant a monster beyond imagination was being nourished by the sleeping minds of humans. It meant “In his house in R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu lies dreaming.” And then the moment passed, and Desmond understood only terror. He screamed.
A hand descended on Desmond’s shoulder. In a display of agility he did not know he was capable of, Desmond grabbed one of the cast iron skillets before him, spun, and swung. The skillet struck the face of one of the serving ladies. Her features collapsed and shook, made of nothing but the rubbery fibre of a squid. As the creature's person-like appendage fell away, Desmond ran from the kitchen, through the cafeteria, and into the night.
*
The police arrested Desmond several days later for disturbing the peace and brought him to my care. He had been raving mad, clutching people by the shoulders and screaming meaningless words at them, the ones he later claimed the creature from the cold room spoke. Despite my gradual success in getting young Desmond to tell his story, I have been completely unable to convince him to eat anything. It takes four orderlies to hold him down and pry open his jaw, that we may provide him with the basic nutritional requirements he needs to live. Desmond has lost all of his weight since arriving into my care, and appears to be nothing but skin and bones, which he rubs constantly, as if to check that they are still there.
Any information you might be able to offer about Desmond’s delusions would be most appreciated. The University itself has been far from helpful. They don’t even admit to having a cafeteria. I've investigated the cafeteria myself, obviously, and found absolutely nothing wrong with it, except the steak they served, while otherwise sublime, was a bit too rare for my taste.
Yours truly,
Dr. Cornelius Cridge,
P.H.D., M.D., P.S.D.
Arkham Institute for the Insane
Miskatonic Darkness
Kris Dikeman
Jane stands with her back against the bookshelf, one of Jasper's ersatz grimoires pressed up hard against her spine. Across the room, Jasper fumbles his way through the bastardized Latin text, running his fingers down the faded page as the mangled incantation tumbles out. The other guests stand spellbound, mesmerized by his performance. Jane puts a hand to her neck, measuring the pounding of her heart. Her skin goes cold, then hot, the hair on her arms standing straight.
Jasper’s apartment is like a set from a 1960s horror film. Black velvet curtains block out late afternoon sunshine. Candles flicker on every surface, crowding his collection of dark ephemera: tarot cards, skulls -- animal and human, a taxidermied mouse in a gilt cage, a model of bloodshot human eye.
And of course, the books. Piles of them everywhere, replicas of forbidden texts from around the world.
But the book Jasper holds is no replica. Jane recognizes it at once, the striated ridges running along the spine like the pupae of some monstrous insect. The gassy, noxious reek of it mixes with the candle smoke to create a throat-closing fug. The Copenhagen Grimoire. The fool hadn’t even bothered to pry the red wax Miskatonic Library seal off the spine.
How the hell did he get hold of it? she wonders.
Jasper’s voice rises as he nears the end of the second Canto. The other guests glance at each other, uneasy, finally beginning to sense something is wrong. They'd expected another over-the-top artifact of dubious origin, another lecture on arcane lore they'd pretend to enjoy while knocking back Jasper’s liquor. Jane almost feels sorry for them. If Jasper screws this up, these foolish, greedy people are on the cusp of becoming party refreshments themselves.
He keeps reading, confidence growing with every word. The apartment is hotter now, the central air kicking into overdrive to keep up. Jasper's voice catches the rhythm of the toneless, droning Tibetan chants from the stereo, and the runaway pounding of Jane's heart falls into step. Her eyes meet his across the room.
This is his real face. Jane thinks.
Grinning at her as he reads, this is the true Jasper, the one usually kept hidden. Under the carefully constructed veneer - student of the unknown, disciple of the bizarre - Jasper White is a spoiled, not very bright child with a filthy temper.
Scream, cry. Do something to break his concentration. You can’t just stand there and let this happen.
But she stands frozen, mind moving a thousand miles an hour while her body is locked in place. The grimoire is a strong one, the power trapped within its pages hungry to escape. For an instant, the air in the apartment shimmers. The grimoire twitches in Jasper’s arms, a shuddering, convulsive movement Jane knows the others can’t see. But the skinny goth girl with the Kraken tattoo must sense something. She screams, dropping her glass.
It shatters like a bomb against the tile floor, crystal and bourbon spraying everywhere. Startled, Jasper stops reading and pulls the book tight against his chest.
The power dies. The lights go out, the music cuts off mid-grunt, the air conditioning gives a last chuffing heave before quitting. In the candle-lit murk everyone is talking at once, running to the windows.
Jane pushes air out of her lungs in a long gasp, able to move again. The goth girl gave a shrill laugh, scrambling to sop up the mess with a pile of paper napkins. Cursing, Jasper thumps the book down onto the table.
"Everybody stay calm. We’re fine. Just light a few more candles. We'll try again once you all settle down."
Like hell we will, Jane heads for the door, not looking back.
The air in the hall is thick with heat and humidity. Thin pencil strokes of fading daylight gleam from under apartment doors, the peepholes glowing faintly. Unlike every other standard-issue door in the building, Jasper's heavily carved wooden door sports an elaborate snarling demon with a lolling tongue as the knocker. She stares at the ugly little iron face, waiting for Jasper to come out.
But a moment later his laughter rings out strong and harsh, echoed - a little uneasily, she thinks - from his guests. He isn’t going to chase her. Not in front of other people.
Suddenly the dogs - little ones, by the sound - start barking again, sharp and shrill. When they’d started up earlier Jasper had made a joke - my neighbor's children have gone mad! Run for your lives! - everyone had laughed, but alone in the hall, it isn’t so funny. They might be a floor above or a floor below. The sound bounces around in every direction.
She walks down the hall, pulling out her cell phone as she went. She'd never put the Head Librarian's number in her phone’s contacts. That was a place for friends and family, people she liked and trusted. But she can still dial the number by heart.
It rings. She pictures the drinking song from Rigoletto echoing through the Library stacks. She was far away from all of that now, the width of the continent between herself Miskatonic. But not far enough.
There’s nowhere far enough. Not if I could fly to the moon. She passes the phone to her other hand, wiping her sweat-slicked palm against her shirt.
Another ring. Another.
Please, oh come on...
“Jane? What is going on out there?”
“Ma’am, I…a man out here, a professor at my college, his name is Jasper White…I…I think he’s been in contact with you?”
“Get to the point, girl.”
She takes a breath, relaxing a bit. The woman’s manner - peevish, peremptory - is oddly calming just now.
“He’s got The Copenhagen Grimoire.”
“Indeed he has.” The head Librarian’s voice holds not the slightest trace of surprise.
“How did he get it out of the library?” Hating the querulous way she sounds, Jane presses on, “I never said a word to him about - ”
“How it came into that wretched man’s possession is not your concern. I will deal with that problem when the present matter is resolved. We must act quickly. He could use that grimoire to gain access to the special collection. And once there…well. I don’t need to tell you what might happen. The safety of the University is at stake.”
The University? she thinks, horrified. If Jasper got into the inner vault and started mucking around, it wasn’t just Miskatonic that would suffer; it was the world, and everyone in it.
“What should I do?”
“Leave that place at once. Put as much space as you can between yourself and the book. Call me when you’re -” the voice cuts off.
“Ma’am? Are you there?”
The phone jumps in her hand, thrumming with a low, insectile buzz that passes up her arm to her skull, setting her teeth on edge. For an airless moment she has a vision of a filthy black beetle whirring its filthy, chitinous wings against her fingers. Then the vibration stops and Jasper says:
“Come back inside, Jane.”
“Get stuffed.” Not exactly original, but not bad under the circumstances. Her throat has gone sandpaper dry. A wave of nausea roils her stomach. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know,” Jasper agrees, with maddening patience. “That’s why I need you. Just come back and we’ll figure this out together.”
“Listen. For me, just being in the same room with a book like that is dangerous. For you to be reading it out loud, and that section especially -”
“Don’t be frightened. I promise, you’re perfectly safe.”
“You promise?” she fights back mad laughter. “You promise?”
“I am going to see the special collection, one way or another. The book can get me in. I just need a little guidance. It’s cost me everything I have to reach this moment. I won’t let your cowardice stop me.”
The phone thrums again. Phantom legs scuttle against her hand, tenebrous wings brush her face. Jane throws the thing to the floor.
She stands for long moment, trembling, blood roaring through her ears. After a while she picks the phone up, holding it between two fingers. A spider web of cracks crisscross the darkened screen. It won’t switch back on.
She takes a deep breath, using the calming exercises her therapist - the first one - taught her. In. Out. Find your center. Be here now.
All right, she thinks. I’m here, now. Here is a dangerous place. But I’ve got a plan. Get home. Call the head librarian from the house line, find out what she wants me to do.
She takes a step and promptly trips over a doormat, cursing as she falls. A scrabbling sound, then locks being worked. The door she’s in front of jerks open. A woman in a pink wrapper stands on the threshold, a book in one upraised hand, her body backlit against the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows.
"What's happening? What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Sorry," Jane rights herself carefully, wiping sharp bits of matting off her hands. "I need to find the stairs."
"It’s dangerous to go outside in a blackout. You should stay put until the lights come back on."
It’s dangerous inside too, that's the problem. "It's not even really dark yet. Do you have a flashlight I could borrow? Or a candle?”
“Why don’t you use your cell phone light? Carrying lit candles around isn’t smart.”
“My phone is dead.” In more ways than one. “I need to get home. Unless, Ma’am do have a land - “
“These power outage things happen sometimes. Shouldn’t be more than an hour before it all goes right again." She looked Jane up and down, eyes narrowing. "You’re not from California, are you?”
“New England. Can I -”
“Work over at that Community college?”
“Yes. Ma’am, if I could use your phone, it won’t take a minute -”
For a moment she thinks the woman might let her in. Jane is clearly in need; she barely comes up to the woman’s chin. What threat does she pose?
But the woman’s expression - guarded but not unkind - twists shut when she sees the cicatrix of scars running up Jane’s bare arms.
“You're one of his friends, aren’t you? People in this building know what goes on at those parties. Your friend has quite a reputation."
“He’s not my friend.” And you have no idea what’s going on, that I’m sure of.
The dogs start in again, high-pitched and frantic. From behind the woman a black pug runs out into the hall, muscular backside and curly tail instantly swallowed up by the darkness. The woman pushes her book into Jane’s hand and lunges after the dog, cursing. Jane runs a finger over the binding as she listens to them scuffle. Joseph Conrad. Heart of Darkness. Italian leather, cheap gold stamping. Too much glue on the spine.
A sharp yelp, more scuffling and the duo reappear, the woman’s face shiny with exertion as she drags the dog back. She muscles it over the threshold, and then turns and pulls the book from Jane's hand.
“About the call. It won’t take long,” Jane lies, inching towards the threshold. “If you could find it in your heart -”
“Wait here.” The woman shuts the door in Jane’s face.
Rummaging noises, cabinets and drawers being opened and slammed shut. The door jerks open again.
“Here.” The woman pushes a fat green candle and a book of matches into her hands. "The fire exit is at the far end of this hall." She stepped back and slams the door again, this time narrowly missing Jane’s hand.
"Thanks bunches." Jane says as the locks snap shut. "Appreciate the help."
It’s just as well. A safe distance, the librarian said.
The matchbook holds four bent, sad-looking matches. The first one crumbles in her fingers as she strikes it. She holds the next one closer to the tip, fighting to keep her hand steady, scorching her fingers until the wick finally catches, filling the air with the cloying scent of fake green apple.
She moves slowly, free hand trailing the wall. From her left, the smell of fabric softener and a blue door with a hand-lettered sign: LAUNDRY ROOM. Past that the elevator, still and silent.
Jane presses her ear to the door and hears sobbing, faint and far below. She moves her hand into the groove between the doors and gives an ineffectual tug.
“Hello? I'm going to the lobby; I'll tell them you need help."
For
no reason she can name, Jane pictures the person in the elevator as one of Jasper’s fashionably androgynous friends. They seemed to follow him in packs, clad like their hero in black leather and discrete eyeliner. She rests her forehead against the cool metal of the door.
I actually thought we might be friends. I knew he was kind of a dick. But it would have been nice to just talk with someone who might understand.
But Jasper had never wanted her friendship, she sees that now. He wanted what she’d had, access to books of power; real ones, not expensive fakes. He aspired to her former job. The full court press had started the moment she’d let it slip she’d worked as the head Librarian’s assistant. Invitations to dinner, 'accidental' meetings around campus. Jasper White was of a type the head Librarian had warned her about: a Miskatonic Wannabee.
You’ll meet them, here and there. Convinced the Special Collection is some kind of supernatural candy store. We know better, don’t we Jane?
She does know better. She’d paid dearly for the knowledge. She also knows that Jasper - with his rock star wardrobe and ridiculous store-bought grimoires - will never be allowed anywhere near the Miskatonic Library’s inner sanctum.
A sound starts deep below her, surely deeper than the building’s foundations. Laughter, hysterical and shrill. It geisers up, like poisoned water trapped inside an ancient aquifer, finally set free. Jane steps back as the sound rushes past the door, vibrating the doors in their tracks.
When she finally comes back to something like rational thought, she has no idea how much time had passed. The little slivers and glimmers of light along the hallway are much dimmer and the candle has spilled a long dribble of wax down her shirt. Carefully, she puts her ear to the door again.
Silence.
After a while, she starts moving. Presently the dim outline of the fire door appears. She steps out onto the landing, the door swinging shut behind her with a decisive click.
Miskatonic Nightmares Page 13