“I—I—” Lovecraft’s words changed abruptly into a cry of alarm, then shrill sounds of disgust as he swatted at his legs once again, brushing the tiny spiders off.
The insects were easy to see against his white suit, so when Howard could see no more, when it became futile to look for their tiny, skitterIng shapes in the inadequate light, he helped his panicked friend until Lovecraft finally sat down, shivering from both cold and repulsion. On the cover of his Weird Tales, the curvaceous body of the scantily clad maiden in distress was covered in the sticky gore of crushed spiders, plastered with still-trembling legs. Howard dropped the magazines, face up, onto the coffee table. “Damn shame,” he said. “That nice artwork ruint.”
Lovecraft thought it no loss to have defaced the lurid covers, but he kept silent as he examined himself carefully in the dim candlelight.
“You’re right,” Howard said. “There’s somethin’ mighty strange goin’ on here. It can’t be just coincidence that all of this happened just after you walked in.”
“You believe me now?”
“I believe what I see, Lovecraft. But that don’t mean I can help ya with any of it.”
“On the bus, I had more than ample time to review a wide range of possible strategies.” He held himself, hunching his shoulders, and shivered involuntarily before he continued. “My conclusion was that I would ask you to be my ally and join me on a trip to visit Klarkash-Ton in California. I believe he would know how to dispose of this unholy thing.”
“Clark Ashton Smith is a good choice, HP. He’s smarter than the both of us. But I’m afraid I can’t join you on this adventure.” Howard went back to the interrupted task of lighting the heater.
“Bob, you must,” said Lovecraft.
“I can’t.”
“I would not have come here if I thought any other option were available to me, Bob. I’m afraid you’re my only resource.”
“It’s out of the question. I have to stay here to look after my mother.” He handed the Artifact back without giving it another look, and Lovecraft quickly placed it back in his watch pocket.
“I understand your profound devotion and concern, Bob. I lost my mother not too long ago, and so I can empathize. But there’s nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do for advanced tuberculosis.”
“It ain’t TB!”
They both stood momentarily in silence, equally stunned by what Howard had just said. Lovecraft looked down, hanging his head, like someone defeated, while Howard tried to compose himself.
A light glowed in the hall, and Dr. Howard entered, carrying the hurricane lamp, which illuminated the entire living room, though dimly. The darker shadows retreated.
“I’m sorry, HP,” said Howard.
“You best be sorry your dear mother’s dyin’,” said Dr. Howard.
“What the hell do you think you’re doin’ raising your voices like that and stompin’ all about like a coupl’a flamenco dancers? Your mother’s rest is hard enough to come by with the heavens blazin’ down on us.”
“My apologies, Doctor. It was my irrational fear of insects that caused the commotion.”
“You get used to ‘em out here mighty fast,” said Dr. Howard, taking his place at his favorite leather chair. He sank in with a sigh, adjusting his glasses as he put the lamp down on the coffee table. “Heck’s-that’s Mrs. Howard’s-gallbladder operation didn’t go quite right. Scar got infected, and we had to go outta’ town a couple times. Her lungs ain’t doin’ much better, probably on account of the anesthesia in her weak condition. Lotsa folk get pneumonia, as you know.
“Now, I do that pranayama bit, myself, for clearing out the lungs and brain, but Heck ain’t one for Hindoo mumbo jumbo and such. Her lungs been getting steadily worse, even with my magnetic-healin’ treatments I give her when she’s asleep.”
“Father,” said Howard, “I don’t think my friend needs to hear—”
“Just hold your hoss there. I heard everythin’ you two been sayin’ all evening and now Mr. Lovecraft here can listen to my voice for a kindly moment or two.” He turned to Lovecraft, his blue eyes flashing even in the dim light. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“I suppose it is only polite to reciprocate your hospitality by lending an ear.”
“Couldn’ta said it better myself.” Dr. Howard exchanged glances with his son before he went on. “Now, from what I heard, Mr. Lovecraft here said this Artifact of his might have some healin’ powers. Just now I heard the two of you sayin somethin’ about electricity. The way I reckon it from my perusal of that Artifact, I would say it’s got some thin to do with that force the Hindoo call fohat. Some kinda magnetic thing that could be healthful for you or detrimental.”
“He saw the Artifact?” said Howard, turning to Lovecraft.
“While you were out.”
“Why didn’t ya tell me?”
“There was no occasion, and I didn’t think it entirely relevant.”
“So I seen it!” said Dr. Howard. “And let me tell you, boy, it’s some’ infernal machine. Take the likes of Edison or the madman Tesla to figure it out scientifically. But your friend here seems to know something about it already, if those whoppers he tells in that magazine of yours are even half-true. So what’s the harm in humorin’ him a little while, eh? Ain’t nothin’ you can do here for your mother’s health. Yer taxin’ her with all that attention she pays ya.”
“I don’t appreciate you meddling in business that’s not yours, Father.” Howard held his face in one hand; Lovecraft could see his jaw tensing and relaxing.
“Bobby,” said Dr. Howard, “it’s about time we admitted what was what around here. You ain’t no doctor, son. Only God’s good graces is gonna make any difference now. Dammit, help your friend while you got a chance and do two good deeds insteada one.”
“You’re gangin’ up on me! You’re tryin’ to get me away from Ma!”
“I’ve a mind to flay your ornery ass and hang it out to dry!” said Dr. ‘
Howard. “Stop bein’ Heck’s little pansy boy and act like the man you should be, son!”
Lovecraft saw Howard’s eyes flash with a rage pent up for years, and although they shifted for only the barest instant to the .45 on the table, he knew that Howard could have murdered his father at that moment. He saw Howard’s right hand flex open, as if in a spasm, before he clutched it into a white-knuckled fist and smashed it so hard on the table that the oak split from end to end and the pistol fell to the floor, its hammer clicking hard on an empty chamber. When Howard looked from the gun to his father again, the rage was gone from his eyes, and the elder Howard grimaced, half in relief and half in contempt, before he turned his back and walked away into his wife’s bedroom.
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Lovecraft.
“The hell you are.”
“I was most earnest with you, Bob.” Lovecraft saw there were tears in Howard’s eyes, but out of respect for his friend, he pretended not to notice.
4
THE LATE NIGHT drew on without excitement; even the weather lost its strange fury. Dr. Howard said his good nights and retired, leaving his son and Lovecraft in the living room, where they talked of less charged matters for a while, reminiscing about past issues of Weird Tales, planning overlapping stories, and dreaming of their great future works as if the evening had been a long-anticipated social engagement and not the inauspicious beginnings of a troubled adventure.
It was near sunrise by the time they were done chatting, and the faintest touch of sun was beginning to bum away the gray false dawn in the east. The odd incidents of the night seemed now to be a mere series of coincidences, though the artifact remained to remind them of more dire things.
“I’ll go with you,” Howard said, finally. It had been clear that he would come around to agreeing, but for him, forcing the words out of himself was another matter.
“I am delighted, relieved, and honored,” said Lovecraft. “You do not realize the great favor you are doing me.”
&
nbsp; “It ain’t no favor,” said Howard. “Come on, we gotta pack up and hit the road before it gets too hot.” He excused himself momentarily and went back to his mother’s room.
Lovecraft could hear the muted inflections of an argument, or at least a sad leave-taking. Howard did not come directly back out to the living room, but went outside, where he seemed to be loading his car.
In his twilight state of consciousness, Lovecraft closed his eyes and listened to the thumping of the car doors, the creak of the garage, the muffled sounds of Howard swearing. He heard the heavy sound of Howard’s footsteps on the porch, the scrape of the front door, more footsteps, silence.
“HP?”
Lovecraft opened his eyes to see Howard standing over him, his expression tired and concerned. In the light he looked dead tired and rather forlorn. “Yes?”
“I was worried for a moment. You looked like you were in some kinda trance.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had closed my eyes.”
“Are ya ready?”
“As always.”
“Then let’s go,” said Howard. “I’ve explained everythin’ to Ma, and I don’t exactly want to be wakin’ my father, if ya know what I mean.”
“I believe I do,” said Lovecraft. He followed Howard outside and got into the passenger’s side of the dark green ‘31 Chevy two-door, putting his cane and his satchel in the back. He had to try twice before his door would catch.
“I packed some supplies and I’m bringin my pistols, just in case. We gotta get some gas and some grub,” said Howard. He pulled out onto the deserted road and headed toward town just as the sun raised itself fully over the eastern horizon, over the silver angel on the radiator cap, Illuminating a landscape still fresh with the scars of the night’s storm.
AFTER GASSING UP the Chevy, Howard forced the reluctant Lovecraft into the local diner for breakfast, but only after assuring him that the coffee would be free. The regulars were already there, heads bowed over their steaming black Texas joe, chewing thoughtfully in silence or holding sideways conversations about the same tired old topics with the same tired people. They paid Howard little heed, but all eyes watched the Yankee newcomer as he tucked up his soiled white pants before scooting into the booth. The waitress approached them immediately from behind the counter, ignoring the beefy man who held out his cup for more coffee.
“Mornin’, Sally,” said Howard. “I’ll have a stack of hotcakes.”
“Sausage, eggs, bacon?”
“Yeah, I’m feelin’ a little hungry.”
“And for you, sir?” Sally looked down at Lovecraft as if she were about to scold him about something-probably for his strange attire. “I’ve brought my own repast, if you don’t mind,” said Lovecraft. ” ‘Scuse me, sir?”
“I’ve brought my own food,” said Lovecraft, somewhat annoyed.
“And if you don’t mind, I shall enjoy it with some of your free coffee.”
Sally gave Howard a quick glance, about to say something, but the look on Howard’s face quickly changed her mind. “Well. .” she said. “I s’pose I don’t mind, Mister.” She went off mumbling.
“May I borrow your spoon?” said Lovecraft. “They seem to have neglected a full setting for me.” He produced a can of pork and beans from under the table and proceeded to open it with a small can opener, being careful to go only seven-eighths of the way around so that the top stayed on when he folded back the jagged circle of tin.
“Look, HP, I’ll buy ya some breakfast if ya can’t afford it. Ya ain’t really eatin’ that at this hour of the mornin’, are ya?”
“My diet is quite suitable for my constitution, thank you.” He poured an inordinately long stream of sugar into his coffee and stirred briskly before licking the spoon and dipping it into the open can. “Do you mind if I begin without you?”
“No, not at all,” said Howard, roIling his eyes. He sipped his coffee loudly, glaring, while Lovecraft ate his pork and beans with his teaspoon-the man seemed to have no clue about his eccentric behavior. When his own food arrived Howard dug into it like a starved man. The smell of beans had been rather unappetizing at first, but it had made his stomach rumble with hunger nevertheless.
They ate quickly. Each time Lovecraft tried to make conversation, Howard snubbed him and went back to his food until he had mopped up his egg yolks with his toast. When Lovecraft was on his third cup of coffee, much to Sally’s annoyance, he began to glance around at the other customers in the diner. “Are you acquainted with everyone here?” he asked Howard, looking from person to person.
“Yeah. More or less.”
“No strangers?”
“No. Look, they ain’t likely to accost us in no diner at breakfast time.”
“The minions of Cthulhu can be most subtle,” said Lovecraft. “As you are well aware from my writings,” he added as an afterthought.
“Let’s go, HP.” Howard fished some change out of his pocket and left it on the table. “How about you leave the tip?” he said.
“What you’ve left is more than generous.” Lovecraft carefully folded the lid of the can back down and slid out of the booth, taking the empty container with him. He followed Howard to the door of the diner and scanned up and down the street although there was absolutely no traffic.
“What’re ya lookin’ for?” said Howard.
“Just attempting to confirm my intuitions,” said Lovecraft. “I have the oddest feeling that we are being followed. Can’t you sense it yourself with those barbarian instincts of yours?”
“I know what it feels like to be watched, HP, and it don’t feel that way to me now. Don’t let your imaginin’s get the best of you now. Things are weird enough.”
“Then I shall beg your pardon.” Lovecraft glanced once more over his shoulder and shrugged. “Perhaps they are watching from some other realm or though some arcane sorcerer’s contrivance.”
“Or maybe just binoculars,” said Howard, opening the door to his car and pausing to let out the blast of hot air. He wiped his brow, though he hadn’t broken into a sweat quite yet. “It’s gonna be a hot one.”
Lovecraft got into the passenger’s side and settled comfortably against the hot leather, closing his eyes and stretching his neck backwards as the engine labored and then roared to life. “Yoik,” he said, placing his can between them on the seat.
“What?”
“An enthusiastic expression.”
“I’ll be enthusiastic when this is all over and done with.” Howard slammed the gearshift and lurched forward into the road, not bothering to look behind him or check the rearview mirror. While Lovecraft was looking the other way he quickly grabbed the empty can and flung it out of his window.
THE BLACK SEDAN glided silently out of the side street, muffling the crunch of gravel under its tires, consuming the sound. The car was large and hearse like in its proportions, and its outward design was in no way remarkable; and yet where its black finish and polished chrome should have gleamed or sparkled, its surfaces had an oddly flat quality.
One would have imagined the entire sedan to be covered in a coat of dust, but it was remarkably clean, indeed, strangely clean for having driven through the dusty roads of north Texas.
The window of the sedan opened very slowly, and an oddly indistinguishable face emerged to take a momentary look at the discarded can. And suddenly, in a motion so swift it would have been no more than a blur to anyone watching, the figure inside leaned out and snatched up the can, returning to its pose in the car window as if it had not moved at all. The face sniffed at the can, its nostrils quivering like those of a famished wolf; a black, serpentine tongue emerged from between tight lips and pushed its way past the jagged metal lid into the cylinder, emerging slowly, covered in the syrupy bean gravy, a single wet bean clinging to its split tip; and now the indeterminate face turned to the air and took a quick draught of it before it was swallowed up once again in the flat darkness inside the car.
The black sedan pulled out onto
the road and turned silently eastward. In a moment the can flew out of the passenger-side window and landed at the roadside, crumpled and punctured as if it had been chewed by some large predator. The can lay in the roadside dust, glistening and wet, but not even a starving coyote would dare approach it.
AFTER A FULL TWENTY MINUTES on the road, Lovecraft finally broke the silence. “May I inquire,” he asked, “as to what finally prompted you to change your mind?”
A series of expressions formed and unformed across Howard’s face, as if he were trying simultaneously to reveal and yet mask his true feelings. “You said somethin’ about that damned thing maybe having healin’ powers, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to involve your father in what is your affair.”
“Never mind it now.”
“Loveman was never able to unlock the Artifact’s secrets, Bob. And there is no guarantee that Klarkash-Ton will have any better luck with it. But I must assure you that it was no desperate stratagem on my part, knowing how both you and your father are devoted to your mother’s welfare.”
“I said never mind it, HP.” Howard grasped the wheel with more force, so tightly that the car actually swerved toward the right.
Lovecraft took this as a clear indication that it was time to change the subject, but even at the risk of his friend’s wrath, he had to finish what he had begun. “I sincerely beg your pardon, Bob. But there is one last thing I must mention regarding the Artifact and its possible healing powers.”
Howard’s glowering profile grew hunched, like the mass of muscle and gristle on a bull’s back, and a trickle of perspiration began to descend from where it had already beaded around his right temple.
“All right. You have your say, but make it quick. And that best be the end of it or by Sam Hill…”
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