Letters to Lovecraft

by Jesse Bullington

  As she spoke, I eyed the fortifications. I’d picked this as “the spot” for a few reasons. First and foremost, there were very few streetlamps. Additionally, Piccadilly had been blocked off by the new wall, and Knightsbridge largely destroyed by overgrown tree roots pushing up through the asphalt and between paving stones. It would be impossible for anyone to come speeding along in a coach and see us up to no good. Also, I’d spied an overhanging tree branch poking through the barbed wire atop Apsley Gate that looked a likely aide in getting across — oh, and the barbed wire wasn’t concertina-style, as it was along some portions. Like everything else built in the Old City since the impact, the wall had been thrown together with whatever was around at the time, and with a minimalist approach to resources.

  “Well,” I said, “if we find some big chunk of the green stuff, let’s see if we can chip off some. Bet it’d sell even better than pheasant on the black market.”

  “Cross that bridge when we get to it,” said Burderop, giving me an exasperated look as a gust of wind kicked up, nearly blowing my trilby off and away forever. “You know what your problem is, Sam Bottleton? You want everything.”

  I considered this. She was right, but I didn’t feel like admitting it.

  “Mm,” I said. “Ready?”

  “No,” she said, heaving herself up onto the stylobate. “But let’s go ahead anyway.”

  I had with me the scrap of Turkish carpet I always used to get over barbed wire, rolled into a tight cylinder and tied in such a fashion that I could sling the rope across my chest, bandolier-style. After checking to make sure it wouldn’t come undone, I stepped into Burderop’s cupped hands. Being the larger and stronger of us, she gave me a powerful boost that sent me close to flying. I scraped my cheek before I found my grip more than halfway up the stones that had been mortared between the columns of the gate, but I didn’t complain. Such inconveniences are all a part of the business. Digging my gloved fingers in between the cracks, I pulled myself higher, grateful for the layers of tweed between myself and the freezing wall.

  “Hurry up!” I heard her hiss. I gritted my teeth, biting back a retort, instead channeling my effort into getting my foot secured on the lip of the architrave. That gave me enough leverage to scramble atop the cornice, and extending my reach high enough to grab that branch. Only a few feet of it hung over the razor wire — I had to be careful; completely sure of my next move. I’d seen a friend die of lockjaw, and had no wish to go that way.

  One-handed, I unslung my rug and threw it over the wire to protect myself from the barbs. Once the carpet was in place, I could lean against it, using the tension to half sit and swing my legs over the top. Nimble-footing it sideways, I got close enough to edge along the bough so I could shimmy down the trunk of the tree whose branch had been such a help, then jumped the rest of the way.

  Beyond checking that I wasn’t about to come down in a lake or through the roof of a gamekeeper’s cottage — or a cannibal cultist’s shack, I suppose — I hadn’t really scoped my surroundings. Haste had been paramount. A quick look around showed me I’d landed in a pretty typical park. Nothing spooky or abject — just a dark, quiet wood. So I looped a long length of rope around the base of the linden and threw it back over the wall for Burderop. Moments later, I saw her pulling herself overhand up and over the carpet, bag of ferrets on her back like I’d worn my rolled-up rug. Freeing the rug, she tossed it down before dropping beside where I stood at the base of the tree.

  “All right,” she whispered, eyes darting around every which way. “What’s the plan?”

  “To our right are the former Apsley House gardens,” I whispered back. “According to my map, if we head left, there should be the remains of paths that will take us to the Serpentine. A long lake,” I clarified, when Burderop looked mystified by this. “I say we just… take a tour. See what’s to be seen, right? If we come upon a run, we’ll set snares — or let your ferrets do their thing — but this place is supposed to be huge. We might want to just explore first.”

  Burderop grumbled something about a waste of a night, but I ignored her. The danger, the uncertainty, it was making me feel alive again. Like Eve exploring the Garden of Eden once she knew there was a tree of knowledge hidden somewhere. I glanced up, and every leaf looked like a yawning black hole in space, the moonlight bending around them impossibly. It made me feel wild, free. I had to see more — felt an irresistible compulsion to see it all. Pushing heedlessly through the brush, I came upon the broken remains of a road, and on the other side of it lay yet denser woodland.

  “Let’s go,” I whispered, mostly to myself, and made a break for it. The heels of my brogues fell like hammers on the shattered asphalt; I could hear Burderop panting behind me. I realized the strange sense of exhilaration I was experiencing was doing things to my senses, judgment not excepted. Still, I pressed on, winding between oaks and slipping in amongst low bushes, until I came to a circular clearing bordered by four overgrown stands of bare, thorny rosebushes, with a fountain, dry now, of a fish and a sea nymph posing together in the center. There remained some rotted-out benches for admiring the scenery. Inspired, I jumped up on the lip of the fountain and imitated the nymph’s pose, one hand behind my head, the opposite hip cocked out.

  “Are you insane?” Burderop hissed at me, pulling at the hem of my trousers. “Get down, now. Someone might see us! Might have seen us already!”

  She had a point. But the more I saw of it, Hyde Park looked so unkempt as to cast doubt on the rumor that it was an immaculately curated hunting ground. I almost said as much, but caught myself in time. I knew mentioning my observation would almost certainly have Burderop clamoring to leave immediately — she so hated to come home empty-handed. She was close to putting her foot down already, I could tell.

  “The map said if we carry on this way…”

  “Damn your map!”

  “Steady on,” I said. “Let’s —”

  “This is stupid! Haven’t you noticed?”

  I hopped down off the pedestal. “Noticed what?”

  “Are you daft?” She shuddered. “It feels dead in here!”

  “Eh?”

  “I dunno!” She looked up and around where we stood, up at the leaves and then back to me. She was afraid of something, I realized. I’d never known Burderop to be afraid of anything. But something had spooked her good and proper. “It’s a… dead… place,” she said. “Not like, where the dead are buried. Animals live in graveyards, and the trees feel… alive.”

  I put my hands on my hips and shook my head at her. “Trees feel alive, do they?”

  “Shut up! Just listen!”

  I stood very still and listened. Beyond the pounding of my heart and the squirming ferrets rubbing against the burlap of Burderop’s sack, I couldn’t hear anything strange. Then I realized it wasn’t that I couldn’t hear anything — there was nothing to be heard. That was admittedly queer. It had been quite a windy night when we approached Hyde Park, but now we were inside the walls it was deeply, perfectly still. Not even the leaves at the very tops of the trees were rustling.

  “Let’s go in deeper,” I advised, more madly curious than ever.

  “I don’t know. This place…”

  “Come on,” I urged. “Just a bit further. If we don’t see anything soon, we’ll call it a night. All right?”

  She inhaled; bit her lip. Then she nodded. “But for pity’s sake, try to be a bit quieter?”

  “I promise to be the very soul of discretion.”

  And I kept my word, as we stepped off the path and back into the woods. I watched where I stepped, moved as quietly as possible, and looked around carefully when crossing any roads. But being more judicious also made me more aware that Burderop was right — we made the only noises, and there was no sign anywhere of other living creatures existing anywhere inside of the park.

  Then all at once the dense foliage opened up, revealing a black expanse of still water. In the distance I could see a flat bridge, the space
under its supporting arches lighter than the lake. This must be the Serpentine, I was sure of it — and said so.

  “Hey!”

  This time it was Burderop who cried out heedlessly. She was pointing at something; I peered along the line of her finger, but could see nothing but a burned-out structure with an octagonal roof.

  “What?”

  “I saw a rabbit.” She broke from the treeline. I followed after. “Oh, there’s a warren, look!”

  Along the foundation of the octagonal building there were indeed a series of likely looking holes. Burderop was nearly ecstatic, was already unslinging her bag of ferrets, but now I found I was the cautious one. It was odd to see rabbits burrowing so close to water, and I said so.

  “Well, didn’t you say it was a man-made lake?” She looked up from messing with her nets.

  “Oh. Mm. That must be it.”

  “All right,” she said, and I could tell she would tolerate no further discussion; she was totally focused on the task at hand. That was Burderop’s talent. “I think I’m ready to let Ghost and The Duke go.” She looked up. “Hey, if you want to keep, you know, exploring, I can do this on my own. It’s not a huge run.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” she said, generous now that she was happy. “Just don’t stay away too long.”

  I didn’t need further encouragement. I stepped carefully away from the netted warren just as Burderop withdrew The Duke, an enormous pale hob, and untied his muzzle with her teeth. She set him in front of the hole and he vanished down it, fur rippling, moving in that way that ferrets move, like he was actually a liquid.

  I headed left, around the southern edge of the long lake. The trees had grown thick nearly up to the very bank, and dead moldering reeds clogged the shoreline. Here and there I could see a rusted-out fence, a reminder that once people had come here all the time, perhaps to eat their lunches, or just enjoy the odd spot of good weather, and had to be prevented from swimming.

  It was startling to me, how beautiful the sky was above me. It was a clear night, and the smile of a moon cast a silver sheen over the whole world. Away from the ground light of the Old City streets I could see more stars than usual; there were whole constellations I’d never seen before. Save for the crunching of my shoes in the gravel that had been a walking path long ago, the night was perfectly silent. Nothing moved. Beautiful, peaceful. I’d never felt so free, so utterly surrounded by nature. To think I felt myself familiar with the wild places! I’d never even seen a patch of sky that wasn’t hemmed in on one or more sides by buildings.

  I realized I felt alone for the first time in my life. Shocking. And while I knew somewhere nearby Burderop and her ferrets were hunting, it was so very silent I could almost believe I was the only living thing left in the world. It was the queerest feeling I’d ever had in my life.

  Reaching the bridge forced me from my reverie, as I had to make a choice. Looking back the way I’d come, it seemed about the same, turning around or crossing and circling back to where I’d left Burderop. I hadn’t been gone too long at that point; I figured she wouldn’t be missing me yet.

  Beside and slightly below where I stood lay the Serpentine, totally black, perfectly smooth. Tranquil. I think that’s what made me do it — what appealed to the strange, reckless mood that I was in. Picking up a stone that lay by the side of the path, I stepped onto the bridge proper and walked across the flat expanse until I was in the very center over the water.

  I set my stone on the railing and looked down — only to look away quickly and rub my eyes. Something felt… wrong about the surface of the lake, and, glancing back, I realized it wasn’t moving. At all. Steeling myself, elbows on the balustrade, I craned my neck out and over. The water was so motionless it wasn’t even lapping at the bases of the arches that supported the bridge. I told myself that was absolutely impossible, and reached for my stone. Almost to prove it to myself, I dropped it in.

  The stone hit the surface without a sound and lay there. Atop the water.

  “No,” I whispered, my heart pounding. And yet, I couldn’t deny my own eyes when it slowly began to sink beneath the surface, as if it were being engulfed by tar, or maybe golden syrup. Then it was gone, leaving no trace it had ever been there.

  Being alone in the world seemed vastly less appealing after that, and I took off toward the opposite side of the bridge at a healthy trot — not really running, but definitely moving faster than I had been. Burderop, I reckoned, had been right about this place. I didn’t like it anymore. Not at all.

  The sudden clattering behind me brought me up sharp, not two meters before I reached the far side of the bridge. Part of me — most of me, really — did not want to see what had made the sound — wanted to just keep walking and not look back. But my curiosity won out. Slowly, I turned.

  My stone. It was the stone I’d dropped into the water. Lying there, pale and smooth, in the exact center of the bridge.

  Some sound escaped my throat, and I nearly tripped over my own feet in my haste to get the hell away from there. My only thought was get off the bridge, but as I turned back around, there, blocking my way, was something, something thick and bubbling, like living treacle, pulling itself up and onto the bridge with long, sticky arms. I nearly fell over in my haste to not run straight into it.

  That’s when I heard Burderop start to scream.

  Back the way I came, then — I jumped over the stone, lying still and clean, and got off the bridge at last, pelting pell-mell along the disused walkway. Burderop was screaming and screaming, it was the only sound I could hear other than my labored breathing and soles slapping on dirt and shattered concrete.

  “I’m coming!” I called into the silence, but it felt like the air swallowed my words as I spoke. My lungs were burning like a fire by the time I rounded the last corner, where I saw Burderop on her arse, scrambling hand and foot away from something black that bubbled out of the holes she’d sent her ferret down. There was no sign of The Duke except for a few patches of white fur scattered about.

  I felt sick from running, from the sights I’d seen, and from what was before me now. “Hold on!” I shouted, as the whatever-it-was slithered over the grass toward my only friend. One leg buckled as I stumbled on the uneven ground, but I kept moving despite the pain. I had to get to her, help pull her out of its reach — but before I got close enough to grab her hand, it wrapped itself around her ankle.

  I’ve often thought back to how coolheaded she remained right then. Instead of totally losing it she tried to sit up and untie her Doc Marten… but reason had no place in Hyde Park that night. Whatever it was that had her foot quickly engulfed her hands and spread up the rest of her leg, clear up to the knee. Trapped, Burderop let out a shriek as it pulled her down what we’d foolishly thought was a rabbit hole. The tunnel was too small for her to fit, and I felt momentary hope that I could get her before she was dragged under, could pull her free. Then there was a great sucking sound, and she was gone. I could hear her bones snapping in the overwhelming silence as it pulled her underground.

  The only thing that indicated she’d ever been there was her cap, upside down on the lawn.

  I ran toward the hole, not away from it, as would have been sensible. As I drew nearer, I saw Burderop’s ferret sack poking out from under a bush. The fabric seemed to squirm, and I nearly stomped it right then and there. Ghost wriggled her way free, still muzzled, before I could.

  “Ghost,” I breathed, taking the jill into my arms. “I’m so sorry.”

  She coughed. I almost laughed, it was such a normal sound. I untied her muzzle, thinking that would help her, but she coughed again. I scruffed her, holding her up in the weak moonlight to make sure she wasn’t choking on something… which is when I saw it coming out of her mouth, black and sinuous.

  I dropped her and ran for it, ran harder than I’d ever run, before or since. Back the way I’d come, crashing heedlessly through the undergrowth, and up the tree, not even bothering to grab my carpet
. I just hauled myself up the trunk fast as I could, and clung there until I could work up the nerve to hurl myself over the edge of Apsley Gate, where I came down hard on my right leg. I heard the bones breaking before I blacked out.

  They found me the next morning, but by then it was too late to save it. The doctors were so apologetic. I told them never mind, they’d done their best, and I was grateful to be alive. They said that was the spirit; promised that enough practice with the crutch and I could do just about anything I wanted. And that turned out to be true. I’d lost my taste for poaching.

  The Semi-Finished Basement

  Nick Mamatas

  “[D]iluted product can never achieve the intensity of a concentrated essence.”

  It’s always strange to be asked about inspiration and ideas. It doesn’t happen often, the joke about writers constantly being assailed by questions like “Where do you get your ideas?” and “Is this story semi-autobiographical?” aside. When Jesse Bullington asked me to participate, I looked through “Supernatural Horror in Literature,” and the above phrase popped out at me. At first I thought I might do something about fuzzy Cthulhu slippers and all the little Lovecraftian jokes and goofiness, which supposedly bother hardcore Lovecraftians. (I don’t care one way or another.) Then I thought about all those dumb neckbeards who run around actually claiming to worship or venerate Cthulhu as part of some metaphysical Satanism, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about that either. It’s not like the actual Lovecraft stories are really all that concentrated an essence of evil or universal disinterest. Stories are always entertainments; some people are just entertained by their own existential irrelevance.