Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1)

by Al Halsey

  The Storm Troopers were quiet. They passed the statue and inspected the inhuman visage. It seemed to dull their enthusiasm. They had expected the Holy Grail, the sacred Cup of Christ and found this instead.

  Lukas returned the statue to his pouch, and then wrapped up in a blanket. He leaned against one of the pillars in the main temple. His dreams were vivid and unusually dark.

  Soldiers who never blinked, pointed and shouted as they ordered the crowd down a ramp. He carried that tiny, cold statuette. Lukas reached out to touch one of the guards. They slapped his hand away, grabbed him by the throat and threw him to the ground. “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn,” the implacable guard hissed. The words were not understandable, but chilled Lukas to the bone.

  He was in the crowd, and could feel the pressure of dozens of pathetic souls around him. The air was acrid, the smell of burnt flesh lingered from giant chimneys nearby. The crowd was in a packed corridor, surrounded by the grim soldiers who shouted orders. Lukas tried to protest, to no avail. Doors were locked, and he watched as canisters of Zyklon B were dropped from the ceiling. He tried to scream, tried to explain he was SS but no one responded. No matter how much he pleaded, he was destined to die.

  Then he could see, but not move. He could feel, but not react. Ragged men picked up his limp body, and his mind protested but his mouth would not shout. The Sturmbannführer could feel the heat from the furnace on his bare skin. The men shoved him into the oven and the fire wracked his paralyzed body. The inferno blistered and ignited his skin. Lukas tried to scream that he was alive, pleaded not to be burnt alive, but his mouth would not work.

  He awoke in a cold sweat.

  Lukas spent the rest of the night awake and stared at the candles. They flickered evilly and he waited until the dawn arrived. His thoughts were on Germany, its green meadows and verdant forests. He was tired of Tibet.

  In the morning, the soldiers woke and gathered their gear after a hasty breakfast. The men were oddly quiet, and several complained about bad dreams and trouble with fitful sleep.

  The monks were stoic as the soldiers discussed their execution. At the last minute, the Sturmbannführer made the decision to let them live. It seemed gratuitous at this point to kill them: he was convinced the Grail was not here, and instead would present a report and the demon statuette. Lukas doubted his superiors would be impressed.

  “We leave you to your prayers,” Lukas said to Khadka.

  “I pray for you,” the holy man said. “Pray that you find the peaceful path. You cannot contain what you have unleashed.”

  The Sturmbannführer laughed. “What have I unleashed?”

  Khadka squinted. “How were your dreams?”

  Lukas tensed and tried to find an appropriate response. He had none.

  Fortunately, the weather cooperated, and they slowly worked their way down the peak. The journey down took several days, and while arduous, it thankfully resulted in no more casualties. The same nightmares would find their way back to him. He dreamed of the extermination camps. Dreamed of being liquidated. Dreamed of being incinerated and sent up a greasy, soot-crusted chimney. What was caused the nightmares were beyond his ken.

  Several weeks after the trip to the monastery, Sturmbannführer Lukas Eichmann met with his superior, Ernst Schäfer in the little Tibetan town of Lhassa. Inside a makeshift office, Ernst poured schnapps and handed him a glass. Another man, an American expatriate had joined them so they spoke English.

  Schäfer introduced the American as a Professor Julius Reed, a former faculty member at Miskatonic University. He was an expert in archeology and antiquities, and seemed pleased with the statuette.

  The professor explained to Lukas that the image was of the ancient god Cthulhu. He could not explain the dreams, but postulated that it might be the result of a racial memory or a collective unconsciousness. Few humans alive today, other than academics or cultists who dabble in forbidden knowledge would know of the dark deity.

  On the desk sat the tiny idol. Schäfer looked at it curiously. “I have come to the conclusion that the quest for the Holy Grail is wasting time and resources. Our SS troops have inspected every monastery in this country, to no avail. I have nothing to show for it, other than samples of seeds, plants, a couple of unusual statues and several patches of hair supposedly gathered from some snow-dwelling ape man. The statues are the only artifacts of significant interest gathered. None of them, however, look like yours.”

  “Take the thing,” the Sturmbannführer said quietly. “Since its capture I have not had a decent sleep.”

  “We are done with this wild goose chase for the Holy Grail. The SS Anenerbe is focusing on historical research closer to home,” Schäfer said. “The war is heating up. We need our assets protecting the Fatherland. The invasion of Poland went smoothly, but the Americans have just signed what they have named the U.S. Neutrality Act. They are going to sell arms to the French and British. British Prime Minister Chamberlain has refused the latest peace offer. I fear we will eventually be fighting on the British Isles.”

  “Then we will defeat them. It will serve them right, sticking their noses in where they don’t belong. I don’t have any sympathy for them after what they did at Versailles,” Lukas grumbled.

  “Sturmbannführer Eichmann, you will take this statue back to Berlin. I want you to present this to der Führer yourself,” Eric ordered. “Make sure it arrives safely.”

  “I will present this to Chancellor Hitler himself,” Lukas promised and saluted. “Heil Hitler!”

  “…a shapeless congeries of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes forming and unforming…” H.P Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness

  “Priest River”

  Inspired by H.P. Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness

  Remember, remember, the fifth of November, Gunpowder Treason and Plot. The verse repeated in my mind, a foggy thread that connected me to a disorganized reality.

  Most people would not recognize the original poem. Don't you Remember, the fifth of November,'twas Gunpowder Treason Day, I let off my gun, and made 'em all run. And stole all their bonfire away. The only reason I can think that the verse runs through my thoughts is that this is November fifth.

  My head feels like someone hit me with a pipe. The pain throbs, and is centered in the base of my skull. It rockets down my neck, shoulders, and back. My forehead feels stiff and sticky: no doubt congealed blood. I try to pull my wrists apart, but they are bound. Tape circles my ankles and ties them tight.

  The room was dark and damp. An acrid scent, like something rotten assaulted my nostrils. My stomach churned, wanted to erupt. Whether from the smell or the hit on my head it was impossible to know. In the dim light it appeared to be like a cellar or unfinished basement. It was decrepit, with piles of trash and broken boards against the crumbled cement walls.

  Alone in the room I struggled to get my bearings as the poem refused to worm its way out of my head. Remember, remember. If it was still the Tuesday, the fifth. I don’t think I’d been unconscious for more than a few hours. Maybe it could have been longer.

  I thought of the odd events that led me to this dilapidated dungeon. I had travelled on business from Oregon to Calgary. North Idaho had a reputation of old forests, deep dark lakes, back-woodsy hill folk and mysterious valleys. A drive in November was probably not the smartest thing to do, but the forecast was for calm weather until I hit unforeseen snow near a little town called Priest River.

  Priest River was a little burg nestled in the north of the state, a couple hours south of the Canadian border. At one time it was a thriving little town: now it was just a shell with the decline of mining and sawmills. Some residents got by with government checks. Others poached game. Some with even more scurrilous activities.

  I passed through the highway that led through the middle of the hamlet. The building that seemed most inviting was a two story hotel, surrounded by carved bears. Gray smoke belched from c
rooked stacks, mangy dogs slinked into the evening shadows and shades everywhere were drawn tight to protect from the frigid November. I sighed with relief when the dingy streetlights were in my rearview mirror.

  Snow began to drift from on high. First a few flakes vomited from dark clouds and then it began to stick to the road. The soft white flakes obscured the dark valleys filled with ancient mossy pines. From time to time the frigid, turgid waters of the Priest River to my right were visible from the slick highway. The cold waters drained into Lake Pond Oreille to the east. It was a dark, still, body of water. The stygian waves supposedly lapped the quiet banks unnaturally, against the wind.

  The GPS on my phone lost signal. The map blinked insanely as it tried to point me on a route through the river. For a split second, my eyes left the road as I fiddled with the cell. When my focus returned to the road, the reflection of fiery red and yellow orbs met mine. In a fraction of a second, I realized an animal stood in the dilapidated highway, staring at me.

  The vision frozen in the headlights of the car was of a mangy, bloated deer. My foot went to the brake pedal too late. The ragged, corpulent beast bleated like a demon as my car slammed into it. Blood sprayed as it burst like an overripe fruit against the hood. A wave of wormy fluids washed over the glass. Entrails scattered, and the bulk of the carcass shattered the passenger side of the windshield.

  I could taste the blood from the beast as it splattered through the glass. The two hind legs were impaled through the windshield, and they held the carcass in place. Tufts of foul hair blew past the car with bits of shredded flesh.

  The car began to fish tail on the snow-covered road, then spin. I pumped on the brake and tried not to focus on the cloven hooves inches from my face. Through the shattered safety glass, I could see head of the deer bobble eerily. Its eyes were wide, and frozen in fear from its final second of life. My stomach rebelled as the tongue flapped from broken jaws, between bloody teeth. A single, stunted horn that was twisted oddly scratched at the hood of the car as the head bounced.

  How many times the car spun I couldn’t say. I furiously turned into the spin, but after multiple revolutions across the road it came to a stop in the ditch. The motor coughed several times, sputtered like the last breaths of a tuberculosis patient as they drowned in their own blood, then stopped.

  I can’t remember the stream of colorful curses that I uttered. Puffs of vulgar steam masked my profanities and wafted upwards as I stalked around the car and surveyed the damage. Eerie fluorescent green gurgled from the radiator and melted the snow upon contact. Underneath the hood, steam belched through the grill and into the sky.

  My phone once again had signal, and I found a tow-truck that would respond in the snowstorm. I hated to sit in my car, so close to the warped carcass that stared at me through the pink-washed window. I was cold and totally dejected at the circumstances. The wait was an hour for the yellow lights of the tow truck.

  The truck parked. A heavyset older man climbed out of the rig. He was dressed in grungy overalls and boots, with a dark-green parka. Under the flash of the lights of his truck he approached and handed me a business card.

  “Looks like a mess,” the driver said. In the light I could see he had a dark, native complexion. He walked around the car and surveyed the damage. “Radiator is cracked, axle might be bent. I don’t see any oil, but the block might be damaged. I would guess the fan is broken, too. You got a credit card to cover this?”

  “I have insurance that covers towing. I guess drag me to the nearest town that has a garage, probably a hotel too. I doubt I’m going anywhere until I can get a rental car,” I grumbled. “That little town I passed, Priest River had a hotel. The one with the bears. Parking lot looked pretty empty.”

  “You’re responsible if the insurance doesn’t cover the costs.” The Native said and scowled. “It would be better for you if I took you back west, past Priest River. Little town called Newport. It would probably be…safer. No garage anywhere will look at this rig until tomorrow, anyway. You are stuck, and the forecast calls for more snow. ”

  “Is there a garage in Priest River? No point in going through it to get to another garage. I might as well stay close.”

  The tow truck driver shrugged. “Get a hotel room, lock the door and slide something heavy against it. Don’t come out ‘til morning. Trust me on this.”

  “Ok, then.” I took my two suitcases and laptop out of my car. It took some time for him to rig the chains to the front axle. Then the driver pulled it out of the ditch. I shivered and brushed snow from my shoulders. After what seemed forever, we were in the cab of the wrecker and I put my numb fingers over the hot air that blew from the dash.

  The snow blew hard from the west as we drove towards the dreary little town. The driver lit a cigarette and puffed. I glared. He glared back.

  “Something bothering you?” he mumbled.

  “Other than cancer and second hand smoke, no,” I retorted. “Must you do that?”

  He cracked the window. “Good enough? Or you want to ride in the back with the boom.”

  “It’ll have to do, I guess,” I said. “Why you so worried about me staying in Priest River? Something wrong with that town?”

  “Nothing you’re willing to listen too, obviously,” he said. “My name is Michael Anderson, by the way.”

  “Michael Anderson. Interesting name.”

  He looked suspiciously. “Not all Natives have last names like Running Bear or Croaking Frog.”

  “Nice to meet you, Michael. I’m George Scott,” I said, sheepishly. Instinctively I put my hand out: we shook after he put the smoke in his mouth. I felt warm with embarrassment at the stupid comment about the name.

  Michael blew the smoke towards the window. “Like George C. Scott, the famous actor?”

  “My father loved the movie Patton, what can I say?” I said. A faint smile was detectable before he puffed the butt again. “My middle name is Ronald, though. The man my father loved almost as much as George C. Scott was Ronald Reagan.”

  Michael snorted. “George Ronald Scott. Named after too many celebrities.”

  “So what’s wrong with this town? Why is it not safe to stay?” I said, puzzled. “Looks like any other tiny back-woods town I have ever driven through. I have to travel a lot for my job.”

  The Indian puffed one more time on the cigarette, then flicked the butt out of the window. He rolled it up and sighed. “My people are called the Ak-min’-e-shu’-me, the Ni-he-ta-te-tup’i-o, the Kalispell people. Long before the whites came here, my ancestors were here. The area that Priest River was built on was always considered cursed ground by my tribe. They would go to great lengths not to cross over that place, and would never fish that stretch of the river. The fish that lingered in the holes here tasted foul. They were misshapen, had vestigial fins in odd places, or eyes would bulge unnaturally. They would stare at you long after they were taken from the water. Sometimes their teeth would look more human than fish, warped by the very nature of the place. The water had an odd sheen here, and downriver even into Lake Pond Oreille it moved oddly. Only the massive lake could absorb the evil that emanated from that place. The medicine men of the tribe worked magic on the lake to reverse the evil in the river that flowed into it. Boosted the power of the lake to keep the old evil that drained from the river in check. They do it to this day.”

  “I don’t plan on fishing.”

  Michael looked askance. “Several of the buildings in the old downtown district by the river. When the foundations were dug, the stone that was uncovered wasn’t natural. Blocks were discovered, the ruins from untold millennia ago, long before my people were here. The whites didn’t understand the significance. The Ak-min’-e-shu’-me knew.”

  “Is this one of those attract-the-tourist kinds of stories, like the Loch Ness Monster?” I asked slyly. “Scotland is covered with gift shops. Big business.”

  “War parties from the Nez Perce Tribe would travel north, capture the Coeur D’Alene people
and offer them to dark creatures who demanded the sacrifice of sentient flesh. Flying demons came from the east, from the deep dark canyons of the Rocky Mountains. Resistance was useless. Hiding was useless. Trying to fool them into taking horse or elk flesh was useless. They only had a taste for human,” Michael whispered. He looked intensely through the falling snow. “The thick woods of the Northwest conceal hidden secrets, to this day. Priest River is one of those secrets. Rumors abound of dark robed figures, worshipping dead gods in the deep woods. People vanish. Too many people. I knew a teenage girl that disappeared near there.”

  “How well did you know her?” I asked.

  “Very well,” he said, sadly. “No one knows what happened, but I have my suspicions.”

  I could see the outskirts of the very town I had been warned about. Dilapidated houses, adorned with tireless cars on blocks and dead appliances in yards. “I appreciate all the spooky tales. Scary stuff, you had me going. Gave me the shiver, but this is the twenty-first century. Just unhook the car at the local garage and drop me at the hotel, if you would be so kind. I don’t believe in cults and bogymen.”

  Michael shrugged. We rode through the town in silence except for the motor and the rhythmic snap of the wipers as they cleared the snow from the windshield. He found a decrepit garage, once painted crisp white but now dirty and blistered from the passage of time. The windows under iron bars were cracked, and held together by tape. He unchained my car and drove a couple blocks to the hotel adorned with carved bears. I unloaded my bags and computer.

  “Thanks for the tow,” I said. “I bet I can get a rental here tomorrow.”

  “Remember what I said,” he said emotionlessly. “You have my card if you decide you want me to tow you to Newport. They have a McDonalds.”

  “That’s a selling point,” I laughed. “I don’t know what’s spookier: monsters that bump in the night or McRibs. Thanks, I will be fine. I travel all the time on business. I’m pretty aware of my surroundings.”