Shadows Bend

by David Barbour

  But there were other oddities: tripods made of wooden rods bearing glass or crystal bottles filled with colored water; chalked marks on the floor indicating the cardinal directions; strange mechanisms made of wood and stone and bone, wrapped in coils of animal gut and sinew. Now Imanito’s story and its accompanying ritual took on new meaning, and yet they still could not understand how they were to play their mythic role. They continued to approach the gate, noticing signs of adjustment, repair, maintenance to the primitive mechanisms.

  At a certain point, they seemed to reach a barrier of thick air, almost like suspended water. When they tried to move forward, their bodies grew suddenly weak until they gave up the effort and stepped back.

  “The solution to this must be simple,” ruminated Lovecraft. “Since the Artifact has brought us this far, it surely serves as the remedy, and therefore I shall apply it, thus.” He held the Artifact out in front of him until it touched the thick air.

  There was another balancing of the light, and when he blinked, he saw a patch of the air in front of him rippling, as if it were vertical water showing the rings left by a stone cast into its surface. When he pushed at the center of the concentric rings, something gave, and he felt the resistance vanish. A hole of visibly clearer air appeared, and Lovecraft could pull at its edges to make the aperture large enough to step through.

  “Hurry,” said Lovecraft. “I shall hold the opening and come through after the two of you are safely on the other side.”

  Howard and Glory followed his directions without argument, and in a moment they were all standing on the other side of the barrier. In front of them the gate loomed even larger than it had appeared before. Behind them, the air had turned into a reflective surface that appeared to be a mirrored wall that stretched all the way across the chamber.

  Howard tried to say something, but his voice refused to carry. And then they all simultaneously froze as they felt the power of the gate.

  At first, it was like a dull electrical hum in their inner ears. Then, although there was no discernible change in the surrounding temperature, they all shuddered uncontrollably as if they had been blasted by a sudden Arctic chill. Lovecraft had a flash of memory so abrupt it left him with a physical vertigo. He was in Manhattan again, strolling around a corner with his new bride onto Fifty-seventh Street when, from nowhere, he was struck by the severest gust of freezing wind ever to rake his bones. It was a full three days before he could stop the bouts of uncontrollable shivering and chattering of teeth. But this cold seemed a thousand times worse; it seemed to cut somehow past his body and into his very spirit.

  The hum grew louder, more intense, and now the three of them struggled to resist the instinctive impulse to flee-it was a visceral sense, a mental cry for self-preservation. As they drew closer to the gate, they found it more and more difficult to move. The gate emanated a palpable, concentrated, pure evil force like some pounding, invisible surf, and now the ever-brighter Artifact pulsed once more to illuminate the massive three-story-tall portal in a nearly blinding light.

  They instinctively closed their eyes, but it made no difference-there was an equally bright light inside their eyelids, in their brains, and no amount of obstruction, with their hands or their entire forearms, diminished the power of that illumination. One by one, they collapsed to their knees.

  Howard thought he must be dying, but he suddenly found himself back at home, standing on the shaded porch. He could feel the day’s heat in the breeze and smell the dry bite of sage carried in from the desert. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, knowing, in the back of his head, that this must be a dream. He pinched himself, just to be sure, and winced at the pain. “Ma?” he called. “Poppa?” No answer, but he heard the dry rustle of leaves and the low creak of a loose shutter. Now he turned to the front door, which stood slightly ajar, and as he opened it he heard the sounds coming from his mother’s room, sounds of exertion-expulsions of air, grunts and groans, odd sucking noises. His heart sank. It must be his father using the aspirator again, he thought. He’s pumping Out Ma’s congested lungs with that awful thing. Already Howard Could imagine the nightmarish scene in the room, and he did not want to’ go’ in and interrupt. That Would annoy his father because Ma Would get all embarrassed even though she was in agony. He didn’t want to’ cause any more pain than what she already had to’ bear, So’ he decided just to’ get a peek; he tiptoed to’ the doorway and glanced inside. What he saw sickened him at first, but when he realized exactly what his father was doing to’ his mother he felt such a blind terror and repulsion that his vision went red.

  In the scarlet haze, Dr. Howard appeared to’ be aspirating his wife, draining her lungs. He stood hunched Over her, grunting with effort, his body lurching up and down in a pumping motion. Mrs. Howard struggled under him, weakly kicking her feet, her arms spread wide, fingers pathetically curling and uncurling. She gasped and wheezed under his weight, helpless. Scales Of dried mucus and blood caked her lips. The disgusting wet noises came from somewhere else. “Poppa? Ma?” Howard said again, his voice high-pitched like a little boy’s. His father turned abruptly and faced him guiltily, as if he had been interrupted in the middle Of a crime. “Bobby,” he whispered. “Get Out, boy.”

  “But Poppa…”

  NOW Dr. Howard moved slightly to’ the side, revealing his wife’s torso.

  Long tendrils of coagulated pus and mucus slithered Out Of her Wound; they fell in Coils at the foot Of the bed, wrapping and unwrapping around each Other as if they were alive. And then Howard realized that what lay at his father’s feet was a living, writhing mass Of snakes. He shrieked. Mrs. Howard’s wound started to’ gush blood, and the Doctor turned to’ face the door head-On. From his unbuttoned pants, a gigantic mushroom-headed penis reared up, dripping the same vile gore that issued from his wife’s chest, and now as he leered and brake into a Loud laugh, tilting his head back, Howard saw the penis move Of its own volition and open its serpentine mouthful Of dripping, hooked teeth-into a hideously evil smile. He shrieked again, and he did not care now whether he was dreaming Or awake.

  Neither Lovecraft nor GIory heard Howard’s scream. Their senses were turned inward, Occupied to’ the utmost at the threshold Of madness in their personal realms Of dream reality.

  Lovecraft rolled Over from his contorted Position and found himself in bed. He looked around, surprised that the cave had vanished, relieved, almost, to think it might all have been one of his nightmares. It took him a moment to realize he was thirteen again, groggily waking up from the afternoon nap his aunts forced him to take for his various maladies. From the pleasant warmth in the room he knew it was early summer. Birds twittered in the trees Outside. The rustle Of branches almost made him feel the coolness Of the breeze, bringing him to’ full consciousness. He knew what today was-today was the day he Would take down the heavy anatomy book and examine the illustrations he had waited So long to see. He slipped On his light robe and opened the door to go downstairs into the library. Quietly, quietly—he didn’t want his aunts to hear and Come inquiring like the nosey birds they were. He held the doorknob firmly and pulled it slightly as he turned it to the left, and then he drew the door to him in a smooth, single motion until it stood wide-open. A gust Of perfumed air. He frowned. And suddenly a Woman stood in front of him. Did he know her? It wasn’t either Of his aunts, and certainly not his mother. “Hello, HP,” she said in a COY and melodious voice. “I see You’re finally up. Are YOU ready to’ do’ the honors?”

  “Honors?” said Lovecraft, taking a step backwards. “Carrying me Over the threshold couldn’t have tired YOU that much,” she said, stepping into’ the room. There was something terribly wrong. Once again, an Odd sensation intruded into’ his consciousness, and he Could not decide whether he was dreaming Or awake, whether he was an adult dreaming himself as a child Or himself-now-with lingering confusion from the dream he had woken from. But who’ was this Woman? And why did he suddenly recognize her as Sonia-his wife? He wouldn’
t marry until-and then his thoughts broke Off and he found himself sitting upright at the foot Of his bed, the Woman standing in front Of him, disrobing. He Could not help the excitement that surged through him when he saw her nakedness, the pale gleam Of her flesh in the afternoon sun. What he felt reminded him of illness and nausea, but those sensations inverted into something perversely enjoyable. He felt guilt. He felt anxiety that, quickly verged on fear as the woman pushed him backwards onto the bed and straddled him, looming over him with the shadows of her pendulous breasts “What were you going to do today?” she asked. He looked up in confusion. “Where were you going when you opened the door?” He let out a grunt of air before he could say it: “Library.”

  “What were you going to do there when you should have been here, ready for me?”

  “I—I—” He swallowed involuntarily and pressed him self flat against the bed as she reared up, raising her arms to push her hair out of her face. “You were going to look at the anatomy books,” she declared. “Is this what you wanted to see?” She moved her hands over her torso, cupping her breasts, and then she hooked her fingers between them and pulled apart. He gasped, and yet he was not surprised when her flesh split and her breasts moved apart, revealing a volume of Quain’s Anatomy, opened to the page that showed the dissected female body. His face grew flushed, his breathing quickened, and he felt dizzy. Beneath his robe, where she straddled him, he felt wetness and pressure, and then something rigid and painful, pushing upward and simultaneously downward. She leaned down, and the pages turned of their own volition as she pushed herself sinuously and arched upward; the book opened to a diagram of female genitalia, and just as he realized what he was seeing, just as he felt that sick commingling of excitement and revulsion, she pulled her knees up and apart, spreading her legs to show, alive, what he saw on her torso in the diagram. It was a fishy, clam like thing ringed with hair, and when its two vertical lips parted, it was the color of salmon. He tried to push himself back when it loomed over his face, but he could not move, and when the toothless lips gaped wide, growing slick with a clear mucus, he tried to close his eyes. He could not. The smile widened, and the fluid began to drip on his face. He tried to make a noise, but now all he felt was his paralysis, his revulsion, his fear, and when the first tentacles emerged from that fleshy orifice, all he could do was gurgle, wide-eyed, and enter the depths of insanity.

  Glory lay languidly on the cold stone floor as if she were stretched out in the sun. She was in Texas again. In the oil town. She was so tired her body was sore in more places than she could count, and in the evening heat she had fallen momentarily asleep without meaning to. When she awakened, quite suddenly, she had to shake off the oddest nightmare-about being lost in a cave-before she got her bearings. She was in bed, hot and slightly sweaty. A baby was crying in the other room, a thin and congested cry. “Gabriel?” she said. “Baby?” For a split second she felt a profound confusion, thinking that this must be a dream because she remembered he was dead, but then she realized she had been dreaming that awful dream in which he had died-that had been part of the nightmare. She leaped to her feet and rushed to the other room, not even noticing the splinter she caught in her heel. “Gabriel!” she cried, and she reached down into the crib to lift him out. He’s been alive all along, she thought, folding the swaddling cloth away from his face. The room was dark, and she could barely see him as she lifted him out of the crib. He made odd, congested mewling sounds, distraught with hunger, and he was wet-all over. “Oh, Baby,” Glory whispered, pulling the cloth away from where his face should have been. She saw two large eyes there, but something was terribly wrong. Her baby had no hair. Thick tentacles, like the snakes on a Gorgon’s head, grew where his hair should have been. And below those huge, goggly eyes, his body was smooth, streamlined, and sticky with a mucus like fluid.

  Glory realized it was not a baby she held in her arms, but something like an obscene mockery of a squid. In the first wave of utter repulsion, she felt compelled to dash the thing against the wall, but she could not. It was hungry and crying, huge tears welling up in those ghastly round eyes. Its tentacles twitched weakly, and it made that wet mewling sound again. Despite her repulsion, and then to her horror, Glory felt a tingling in her breasts as her milk began to let down; the front of her slip grew wet. The thing in her arms must have smelled the milk, because it mewled with greater urgency, flailing its limbs about, drawing them apart to reveal its tiny mouth-a jaundice-colored beak at the center of the mass of tentacles. She could not help herself. It was an infant in her arms, and whether it was a changeling in Gabriel’s place or the thing that her own baby had become, it was hungry, in need of nurture, and she exposed her breast, now beaded with white drops of milk, and pulled the thing to nurse. The tiny beak opened wide and clamped down on her nipple. Glory cried out in pain and gritted her teeth as the creature began its urgent sucking. Tears streamed down her face, obscuring her vision, but still, she held the creature, crying with the unimaginable mixture of loathing, love, and physical agony.

  When she opened her eyes, they shone a blank red in the cold light, glittering only momentarily as her tears purged themselves on her cheeks. Glory stood up stiffly, her head swiveling slowly toward her right where, from the periphery of the wall, the figures of the two odd men appeared like shadows materializing into three-dimensional shapes. Even when they had taken full form, there was something about the light that made them seem faceted like the compound eyes of a giant fly.

  Howard and Lovecraft lay crumpled in fetal positions on the cold stone floor, their limbs twitching randomly as their minds unhinged in the world of their nightmares. Glory moved stiffly toward Lovecraft, and at the wordless command of the odd men, she reached for the pulsing Artifact clenched in his hand.

  As Glory leaned over to pry Lovecraft’s fingers apart, her last tear trickled down her cheek and splashed on his upper lip. By some instinct that still moved in him, Lovecraft’s tongue slowly emerged and tasted the salty teardrop; his body stopped its random contractions and calmed.

  Glory moved slowly and purposefully, the Artifact held out in her hand as if to keep her balance as she walked toward the slot at the center of the gate.

  LOVECRAFT OPENED HIS EYES but remained in his posture for a moment as he recovered his bearings. His mind was clear now-exceptionally clear-and his thoughts raced at an incredible speed. Somehow Glory’s tear had snapped him out of the spiraling abyss of dementia into which he had been plunging. What was in that tear? he thought. Was there some alchemical healing property in a droplet of salty water from a human eye? Or was it merely that the tear had triggered a familiar idiosyncrasy that momentarily focused his mind and released it from its unfettered demons? He felt an urgent need to ponder this question, but for the moment Lovecraft quickly assessed the situation and rolled into a crouching position over Howard’s gibbering form.

  The odd men seemed transfixed for the moment, watching Glory approach the gate, and so Lovecraft shook Howard, then slapped him once, twice, three times to help free him from the nightmares that were nearly visible in his half-open eyes. Lovecraft slapped him again and again, and finally, palms stinging, in desperation at his own weakness, he picked up a fist-sized stone and lifted it above his head. Just as he was about to bring the stone down to strike, a spark seemed to leap across Howard’s eyes, and he blinked.

  “Whoa!” said Howard, forcefully grabbing Lovecraft’s poised wrist.

  “Whoa there, HP! Ain’t no call to brain me with no rock.”

  “Bob,” Lovecraft said in relief. “The odd men. We’ve got to stop Glory before—”

  BUT IT WAS too late.

  Glory had already placed the Artifact in its slot. The light changed once again, growing colder and more stable. The Artifact itself dimmed, as if it were expending its energies into the gate that now let out a low, guttural animal-like sound.

  Lovecraft and Howard leaped onto their feet only to shudder and nearly fall again as the sound increased in volu
me until it suddenly was a deafening roar that seemed to issue from everywhere at once. By the time they had raised their hands to cover their ears, the sound had stopped, and they were left with a loud ringing in their heads.

  “What in the Sam Hill is happening?” Howard cried out. It was hardly necessary to ask, because the answer was obviously before them. But the mere act of talking offered them a solace-an illusion that they were doing something when in actuality they were all but helpless.

  “You’ve read my stories,” said Lovecraft.

  “Yeah.”

  Lovecraft watched with solemn resignation as his fiction turned to fact before his eyes. “That, my good friend, is what is happening.”

  Howard stared as the great doors cracked open for the first time in thousands of years and exhaled a foul, whistling gust of wet and stagnant air. It was so humid that they could see the brownish vapor beginning to form, and in a moment, as the full force of the exhalation reached them, they grimaced in disgust, engulfed in the fetid and fishy odor.

  Glory, her task done, quietly collapsed where she stood, as if her body had suddenly lost all animation. In the same instant, the two odd men became more palpable and solid.

  Howard motioned to Lovecraft, and the two of them rushed forward to reach Glory before the odd men decided to move.

  “We’ve got to shut that damned door!” said Howard. “You pull the Artifact out while I help Glory.”

  “Bob, according to the book, it’s too late!”

  “We gotta do something!” Howard rushed forward toward Glory.