Miskatonic Nightmares

by H. David Blalock

  *

  I limped through the door of Thea’s apartment. She sat at her computer, working on a Library Science paper. She turned and saw how I was walking. Her hand moved on the touchscreen.

  “Is there. Much. Pain?” the synthesizer’s voice spoke.

  I collapsed on the couch. “Some. You?”

  She rolled over to where I sat. It had been a long month of recovery. The University didn’t miss Matheson. In fact, Dr. Ward had been instrumental in securing me a full fellowship after it had gotten out that Matheson had gone mad and tried to kidnap and murder two graduate students.

  I touched Thea’s face. The jagged scar through the hollow of her throat had taken her voice. But the spell on the blade had allowed her human will a conduit back into the body and the calling she had chosen.

  The calling I had chosen with her.

  I removed my shoes. The fissures in my feet were growing more pronounced, the toes softening and lengthening. Thea’s lower limbs and mine entwined. I gave her a faint smile. Soon – in weeks, perhaps – I would also need a wheelchair. She moved her stylus.

  “I’m sorry. It never. Stops. The Call will always. Beckon you.”

  Yes, I could hear it. The monstrous song of the Old Ones, beckoning me to madness. But her presence allowed humanity an anchor. Made the calling stronger than the Call. And allowing that power to rule my body rather than my soul was in some ways as natural as giving both to Thea. She had held out so long alone, stumbling only when it looked as though her watch would fail, alone and unknown. I pulled her close and kissed her.

  Together we could hold as long as we must.

  Cauldron at the Gate

  Bill M. Tracer

  The crate sat with a cogent weight on the corner of the professor’s fulsome oak desk. Its label read, “From: Professor Nathaniel Axtell of Brown University, RD. To: Professor Aleister Wendell, Miskatonic University, Arkham, Massachusetts.”

  Immediately upon receipt of this crate, Professor Wendell posted a grateful reply and acknowledgement of having received it to Professor Axtell, but for reasons unknown, even to himself, the crate lay unopened on his desk for nearly two weeks. There was an obscure air of unapproachableness about it. That repellent nature emanated from it with the slightest hint of a fowl stench, only detectable by the good professor when he considered opening it, evoking a disgust long motivating his procrastinations in relation to doing so.

  Five days before its arrival at Miskatonic University, the crate was preceded by a letter. It read as follows:

  To the esteemed Professor Aleister Wendell, Professor of Archeology at Miskatonic University,

  I write to you in regards to an artifact which you should receive in post within the week. Expect a fairly large crate addressed directly to you. It was at an undisclosed secondary site near a recent archeological dig in Turkey, where this decidedly arcane artifact was uncovered. It bears no stylistic points in common with this particular dig; therefore our representative had no serious difficulties securing it. I think he may have surreptitiously suggested it was of a more “modern” nature, and thus not of any real archeological interest. This particular ruse apparently helped him ultimately with the task of transporting this artifact out of Turkey, and subsequently into the US. While there is no scientifically certain method of dating a stone artifact of such fine obsidian, there is only a stylistic analysis which might shed some light on the matter. There is a noteworthy similarity to the Angell-Armitage collection entrusted in the special archeological archive of your library at Miskatonic University. Upon your analysis of this artifact, if in your estimation, you feel it is compatible with this collection, feel free to include it forthwith. Having seen that collection myself a few years ago, I feel confident you will agree this artifact will undoubtedly be at home therein.

  There is one peculiarity, which I feel compelled to inform you about. Several times while studying this artifact, we found it necessary to clean from it an irregular slimy green substance, which most oddly and frustratingly seemed to return of its own accord, as if the stone artifact were actually somehow generating it from within itself. I assure you, before we packed it for shipping; we cleaned this slime away most completely. However, if these growth patterns are consistent, upon your receipt, it is likely you will find it again covered with this decidedly unpleasant oozing substance.

  Most sincerely,

  Dr. Nathaniel Axtell, Professor of Archeology, Brown University, RD

  Aleister read the letter again. How curious that Professor Axtell found this persistent slime only an annoyance and not an actual subject for study. Aleister thought learning of its properties, and from whence it came would be a worthy thing to examine. Unlocking at least a few of its furtive secrets could easily occupy a considerable portion of Professor Wendell’s time. He turned from the letter and again looked at the crate weighing down his desk. A new resolve came over Aleister, and he decided then was finally the time. No more procrastination.

  *

  Chester, Professor Wendell’s most fit graduate student, stepped into the doorway of the professor’s office. The professor looked up, as Chester cleared his throat. “You wanted help, Professor?”

  “Yes, yes,” Aleister replied, as he stood, “We need to move this crate to the basement level of the library, today if possible,” Professor Wendell placed a hand on a corner of the crate as he continued. “The artifact in here will likely find a new home in the special archeological archives. But before we open it, I think it best we move it to Lab Room A, next to the archives. We’ll open it there in a controlled setting.”

  Chester nodded. “I’ll get a two-wheeler.”

  With the help provided by that two-wheeler, Chester and the professor took the heavy crate across campus toward the library. As they approached a back staff entrance, they both noticed a large flock of whippoorwills crowding the trees nearby. Their singing menaced chaotically.

  “Those are some noisy birds,” Chester observed.

  “Yes, I’ve never before seen so many whippoorwills at the same time and in one place,” Aleister replied.

  “I know what you mean. These last couple of weeks they almost seem to have been gathering for something, more of them every day.”

  Without giving it further thought, they entered the library, down the service elevator, and into Lab A. Within the crate, Chester and the professor found a prodigious cup or bowl of proportions almost cauldron-like in aspect.

  Together they carefully lifted it out of the crate and sat it on a lab table for study. They found its entire surface, inside and out, covered with bas relief sculpture of an exceedingly noxious nature. It portrayed an undulating mass of a globular monstrosity with myriad eyes, some appearing to emerge from within, while others sunk back into its frenetically tentacle covered bulk. Two of the writhing tentacles looped back toward the cup’s surface forming handles near the upper lip on either side. Not surprising to Professor Wendell, green slime covered most of this ancient carved stone artifact, and pooled at its bottom interior, giving the impression that this viscous slime oozed from the very fine pores of the nameless black stone.

  “You’d think they would’ve cleaned it off before shipping it to us,” Chester complained, as he wiped slime from his hands onto the sides of his blue jeans.

  Absently, Professor Wendell replied, “Professor Axtell mentioned it in his letter. Apparently you clean it away, it just comes back.”

  Chester shook his head, “That’s weird.”

  “Yes, weird,” Aleister echoed, and then added, “thank you for your help getting it here, Chester, but I think I can take it from here.”

  Chester threw out a quick mock salute. “Sure thing Prof; if you need me anymore, you know my number.” With that said, he backed out the door and was gone before Professor Wendell could turn his attention back to the arcane artifact.

  With a snap of the glove, the professor leaned in close and examined this bizarre relic of enigmatic origin. He immediately under
stood Dr. Axtell’s conviction that this artifact likely belonged with the Angell-Armitage Collection. It bore a considerable number of attributes in common with the current pieces of that collection. Aleister’s breath caught, as he recognized the style of stonework seemed clearly consistent with at least one of the collection’s current artifacts. Not only in subject matter, but the style resembled an idol statuette his great grandfather, Dr. Henry Armitage, had retrieved among the effects of one Wilbur Whateley, who had lived in a Massachusetts farm home near Dunwich. Shortly after his death in 1928, Mr. Whateley’s cryptic diary along with the deceased's collection of peculiar books, had been collected and sent to Miskatonic University, followed by this odd stone statuette.

  Aleister abruptly set down the magnifying glass he used to examine the cauldron, and almost ran into the adjacent archive room. Carefully he opened the hinged glass front of the display case in which the Angell-Armitage collection was housed. His hands still sheathed in protective gloves, he tremulously lifted the Whateley Idol from its place. He took it back to the lab, and situated it next to the bowl for a direct comparison. It scarcely took but slight comparing to see the distinct resemblance.

  Professor Wendell knew there was one more source of information that might shed a conclusive bit of light on the matter. He must consult a book, also kept in the archive, but in its own separate locked bookcase. There were only three individuals at Miskatonic University with keys to that special bookcase. Fortunately, Professor Aleister Wendell was one of those three individuals. He unlocked the case with the same set of keys used for many decades, indeed nearly a century before by his great grandfather, Dr. Henry Armitage. The awesome responsibility as keeper of such arcane knowledge had remained generationally within his family. As his great grandfather had passed it on to his son, then Aleister’s grandfather passed the mantel on to his daughter, Aleister’s mother. She in turn, trained Aleister in the separation of what is known and spoken of outwardly, and what was silently kept in the hidden places, the inner knowledge. This book fit squarely in that realm of the inner knowledge, best kept hidden from most. It was the dreaded Necronomicon, ramblings of the mad prophet Abdul Alhazred.

  Nervously, Aleister turned the pages of that appalling book. He read of an abyssal creature, having the role of guardian at the gate. The mad prophet suggested it was more than a guardian but in some enigmatic way it was really the gate. Embodying it in all pasts, presents, and futures simultaneously. Professor Wendell wasn’t entirely sure of the proper translation, but thought the nuance of meaning suggested this gate to have some sort of cosmic or even extradimensional nature to it, and a transcendent relationship to time. There was also some talk of 'Old Ones' who were familiar enough with the gate to have broken its code, and gotten through it some vague time eons ago. Further, he read cryptic references to these Old Ones possibly getting through the gate again sometime in the future, when the stars might be aligned fittingly. It was a curiosity that would require further research, no doubt. The description of this monstrous guardian seemed to Aleister a fair match to the unknown artifact. He found total agreement with Dr. Axtell, this artifact most definitely belonged with the Angell-Armitage collection. He closed the Necronomicon, locked its special bookcase, and returned to Lab A.

  Aleister picked up the bowl.

  Gazing thoughtfully into a few of its emergent eyes, Aleister smiled. “Well, according to the Necronomicon, you are no longer a nameless bowl. Now I can give you your proper name with reasonable confidence,” he lifted the cauldron with both hands a little higher, unsure why he did so, and added. “Yog-Sothoth, Cauldron at the Gate.”

  With an unsavory plop, a large dollop of green slime fell from the bowl, splashing onto Aleister’s lab coat. Aggravated, he spewed a curse and set the cauldron down. He tried to brush the slime off with a paper towel, but only managed to set the stain deeper and spread subtle spore-like particles of the slime into the air. After getting several more paper towels, he did his best to clean up the artifact, all the while thinking it was probably a pointless gesture. In terms of the attempt at cleaning, Aleister was correct in that assessment. In relation to further spreading those subtle slime spores, his efforts were enormously productive.

  Aleister carefully positioned the obsidian cauldron within the display case just in front of and slightly to the right of the crouching statuette of dark Cthulhu, another piece that had been collected by Aleister’s great grandfather. Acquired in this instance from the New Orleans Inspector of Police, John Raymond Legrasse, many years ago.

  He stared absently into the cup’s slimy interior. It was as if Aleister could smell the writhing tentacular forms covering the bowl with a greenness that plunged into near black. The slime appeared to almost lean to the left, as if the artifact were being subtly tilted. Aleister almost found himself entertaining the ridiculous notion this enigmatic vessel desired its placement in relation to the other artifacts to be slightly altered, in the direction of that leaning. This must be, however, he reasoned, some strange sensory illusion brought on intentionally, no doubt, by the ancient artisan who crafted this obscene arcane implement. His hand drifted toward the quivering bowl, intent to obey a psychic imperative hovering only at the edge of his cognizance. Unconscious of the pressing psychic obligation being imposed upon his mind, his will remained sound against the incomprehensible influence. He stayed his hand, resisting the urge to move the cauldron the small distance to the left. Yet something on a deep primal level continued to drill further than he could know into the very quintessence of his soul. As Aleister stared at this cauldron shaped representation of Yog-Sothoth, it seemed as if the many writhing tentacles came to life, waving toward him with encouragement to come closer. Once more, as if pulled by some unseen force, his hand shifted toward the bowl, almost touching it. A backward part of his own mind nearly believed one of the tentacles had grasped his wrist and pulled him into its inexorable resolve that this decidedly small, yet distinct change of position, must take place.

  The door to the private archives suddenly swung opened, with a loud bump. Aleister jerked his hand back from the artifact, which remained unmoved. He rubbed his sore wrist, as he turned to see the library custodian, Zack Patterson, of the undecayed Pattersons, harkening from Dunwich two generations removed.

  Zack glanced at Professor Wendell, and then looked down to the floor. “Oh, sorry if I disturbed ya, Professor. I cahn always come on a back har later, if ya still got yar work ta do, tonight.”

  “No, no Zack, it’s time I go home, anyway. I’ll be out of your way, momentarily. You have a good night.” Professor Wendell replied.

  Aleister turned back to the display case. He carefully closed the glass lid over and in front of the Angell-Armitage collection. Without further thought, he left Zack to his work.

  After the good professor left, Zack set about cleaning and doing his usual tidying. Unknown to Zack, an “Awareness” perceived him through the Yog-Sothothian cauldron. That Awareness realized a weaker mind presented itself for control. Minute spores of the green slime stretched like tiny tendrils from the bowl’s sculpted tentacles, reaching out in all directions. They escaped the display case through the edges of the hinged glass front. They drifted through the air until some found Zack’s unsuspecting mind. He inhaled deeply, insuring the spores’ ample opportunity to gain a thorough grip. Once his mind had been thus engaged, several more of the myriad tendrils of spores joined those he inhaled, avariciously grasping ahold of his very soul. Collectively, they pulled him closer to the display case.

  Zack quickly discovered that, in his haste to leave earlier, the professor had left the display case unlocked. Though he’d never done so before, Zack opened the front of the case. He folded the glass front back to a resting place atop the case, leaving the entire front and part of the top of the case open. He could scarcely imagine the olfactory grip these tendrils of spores had on him. He leaned close to the bowl and again inhaled with pronounced gusto.

  He stood back. Z
ack faded to sleep, and the Awareness connected through the gate seized absolute sway. The Awareness saw through Zack’s eyes. The Awareness knew the spell. It knew the arrangement. Each of the artifacts must conform to the points of the sign; that special sigil of Yog-Sothoth. Most were already where they needed to be, yet the bowl must have but a subtle nudge to the left and the sign could then be activated.

  A victorious smile crept onto Zack’s lips, a smile not of his making. The Awareness reached forth and made the small adjustment, and then dipped Zack’s fingers into the bowl. He smeared green slime in the shape of the sign on the counter in front of the artifacts. “Y’gnail’ha naflikha’naghathoth Yog-Sothoth. Y'bathnk hy'eh’ye - na'grik-dl'lha. Yog-Sothoth opens the gate.”

  The calm confident smile returned to Zack’s face, as he gazed wistfully at the burbling green slime overflowing from the cauldron. It spread with clear intent toward the other artifacts, following the lines of the sigil that would connect their points.

  At the midpoint rested a silver key, engraved with symbols of an alien and long dead mostly forgotten language. Back in the early 1980s, Aleister’s mother, Abagail Armitage Wendell, added this artifact to the collection, having acquired it from the then venerable and dying Randolph Carter, who claimed to have used it as an instrument of cosmic traveling. The key was the first item of the collection to be touched and then engulfed by the spreading slime. Once it was so consumed, it rose to a vertical position, glowed, and slowly began spinning along a vertical axis, all the while resting in a puddle of the quickened efflorescent green slime.

  Outside, night had fallen. Unseen and unheard by Zack or the Awareness, the whippoorwills sang in cacophony while fireflies danced with demonic frenzy.