'What's up with you now?' the barman demanded. When his father had embraced him, Michael had thought of nothing but escape. Now at last he realized how final his father's gesture had been. 'My parents,' he said. 'They're, they're worse.'
'Just sent you a message, did they? Off home again now, I suppose? You'd better see the manager, or I will.'
'Will you watch that bloody beer you're spilling!' Michael slammed shut the tap and struggled through the crowd. People grimaced sympathetically at him, or stared. It didn't matter, his job didn't matter. He must hurry back to head off whatever was going to happen. Someone bumped into him in the doorway, and hindered him when he tried to push them aside. 'What's the matter with you?'
he shouted. 'Get out of the way!' It was June.
'I'm really sorry I didn't come last night,' she said.
'My parents dragged me out to dinner.''All right. Okay. Don't worry.'
'You're angry. I really am sorry, I wanted to see you - You're not going, are you?'
'Yes, I've got to. Look, my parents aren't well.'
'I'll come back with you. We can talk on the way. I'll help you look after them.' She caught at his shoulder as he tried to run upstairs. 'Please, Mike. I'll feel bad if you just leave me. We can catch the last bus in five minutes if we run. It'll be quicker than your bike.'
God! She was worse than his father! 'Listen,' he snarled, having clambered to street level. 'It isn't ill, they aren't ill,' he said, letting words tumble wildly as he tried to flee. 'I've found out what they do at night. They're witches.'
'Oh, no!' She sounded shocked but delighted.
'My mother's terrified. My father's been drugging her.' Now that he was able to say so, his urgency diminished a little; he wanted to release all he knew. 'Something's going to happen tonight,'
he said.
'Are you going to try and stop it? Let me come too. I know about it. I showed you my book.'
When he looked doubtful she said, 'They'll have to stop when they see me.'
Perhaps she could look after his mother while he confronted his father. They ran to the bus, which sat unlit in the square for minutes, then dawdled along the country roads, hoping for passengers who never appeared. Michael's frustration coiled tighter again. He explained to June what he'd discovered: 'Yeah,' she kept saying, excited and fascinated. Once she began giggling uncontrollably. 'Wouldn't it be weird if we saw your father dancing naked?' He stared at her until she said, 'Sorry.' Her pupils were expanding and contracting slightly, randomly.
As they ran along the Pine Dunes road the trees leaned closer, creaking and nodding. Suppose his parents hadn't left the trailer yet? What could he say? He'd be tongue-tied again by his unsureness, and June would probably make things worse. He gasped with relief when he saw that the windows were dark, but went inside to make sure. 'I know where they've gone,' he told June.
Moonlight and unbroken cloud spread the sky with dim milk; dark smoky breaths drifted across the glow. He heard the incessant restlessness of the sea. Bare black silhouettes crowded beside the road, thinly intricate against the sky. He hurried June towards the path.
Why should his parents have gone that way? Something told him they had - perhaps the maze he remembered, the tunnel of undergrowth: that was a secret place. The path wound deeper into the woods, glinting faintly; trees rapidly shuttered the glow of the moon. 'Isn't this fantastic,' June said, hurrying behind him.
The pines gave out, but other trees meshed thickly overhead. The glimpses of fiat whitish sky, smoldering with darker cloud, dwindled. In the forest everything was black or blanched, and looked chill, although the night was unseasonably mild. Webs of shadow lay on the path, tangling Michael's feet; tough grass seized him. Bushes massed around him, towering, choking the gaps between trees. The glimpses of sky were fewer and smaller. 'What's that?' June said uneasily.
For a moment he thought it was the sound of someone's foot, unplugging itself from the soft ground: it sounded like a loud slow gulp of mud. But no, it wasn't that. Someone coughing? It didn't sound much like a human cough. Moreover, it sounded as though it were straining to produce a sound, a single sound; and he felt inexplicably that he ought to know what that was.
The bushes stirred, rattling. The muddy sound faded, somewhere ahead. There was no point in telling June his vague thoughts. 'It'll be an animal,' he said. 'Probably something's caught it.'
Soon they reached the tunnel. He knelt at once and began to crawl. Twigs scraped beside his ears, a clawed dry chorus. He found the experience less disturbing now, less oppressive; the tunnel seemed wider, as though someone stout had recently pushed his way through. But behind him June was breathing heavily, and her voice fluttered in the dark. 'There's something following us outside the tunnel,' she said tight]y, nervously.
He crawled quickly to the end and stood up. There's nothing here now. It must have been an animal.'
He felt odd: calm, safe, yet slyly and elusively excited. His eyes had grown equal to the dark. The trees were stouter, and even closer; they squeezed out masses of shrub between them. Overhead, a few pale scraps of sky were caught in branches. The ground squelched underfoot, and he heard another sound ahead: similar, but not the same.
June emerged panting. 'I thought I'd finished tripping. Where are we going?' she said unevenly. 'I can't see.'
'This way.' He headed at once for a low opening in the tangled growth. As he'd somehow expected, the passage twisted several times, closing almost impenetrably, then widened. Perhaps he'd noticed that someone before him had thrust the bushes apart.
'Don't go so fast,' June said in the dark, almost weeping. 'Wait for me.'
Her slowness annoyed him. His indefinable excitement seemed to affect his skin, which crawled with nervousness like interference on the surface of a bubble. Yet he felt strangely powerful, ready for anything. Wait until he saw his father! He stood impatiently, stamping the mushy ground, while June caught up with him. She gripped his arm. 'There it is again,' she gasped.
'What?' The sound? It was only his feet, squelching. But there was another sound, ahead in the tangled creaking dark. It was the gurgling of mud, perhaps of a muddy stream gargling ceaselessly into the earth. No: it was growing louder, more violent, as though the mud were straining to spew out an obstruction. The sound was repeated, again and again, becoming gradually clearer: a single syllable. All at once he knew what it was. Somewhere ahead in the close dark maze, a thick muddy voice was struggling to shout his name.
June had recognized the sound too, and was tugging at his arm. 'Let's go back,' she pleaded. 'I don't like it. Please.'
'God,' he scoffed. 'I thought you were going to help me.' The muddy sounds blurred into a mumble, and were gone. Twigs shook in the oppressive dark, squeaking hollowly together.
Suddenly, ahead of him, he heard his father's voice; then, after a long silence, his mother's. Both were oddly strained and muffled. As though this were a game of hide-and-seek, each had called his name.
There,' he said to June. 'I haven't got time to take you back now.' His excitement was mounting, his nervous skin felt light as a dream. 'Don't you want to look after my mother?' he blurted.
- He shouldered onward. After a while he heard June following him timidly. A wind blundered through the forest, dragging at the bushes. Thorns struggled overhead, clawing at the air; the ground gulped his feet, sounding to his strained ears almost like words. Twice the walls of the passage tried to close, but someone had broken them apart. Ahead the passage broadened. He was approaching an open space.
He began to run. Bushes applauded like joyful bones.
The thick smoky sky rushed on, fighting the moonlight. The vociferous ground was slippery; he stumbled as he ran, and almost tripped over a dark huddle. It was his parents' clothes. Some of them, as he glanced back impatiently, looked torn. He heard June fall slithering against bushes.
'Don't!' she cried. But he had reached the space.
It was enclosed by trees. Ivy thickened the trunks an
d had climbed to mat the tangle overhead; bushes crowded the cramped gaps between the trees. In the interstices of the tangle, dark sky smoldered.
Slowly his eyes found the meagre light; outlines gathered in the clearing, dimmer than mist.
Bared wooden limbs groped into the space, creaking. The dimness sketched them. He could see now that the clearing was about thirty feet wide, and roughly circular. Dimness crawled on it, as though it were an infested pond. At the far side, a dark bulk stood between him and the trees.
He squinted painfully, but its shape persisted in eluding him. Was it very large, or was the dark lying? Across the clearing mud coughed and gurgled thickly, or something did. Dimness massed on the glistening shape. Suddenly he saw that the shape was moving lethargically, and alive.
June had hung back; now she ran forward, only to slip at the edge of the clearing. She clutched his arm to steady herself, then she gazed beyond him, trembling. 'What is it?' she cried.
'Shut up,' he said savagely.
Apart from her interruption, he felt more calm than he had ever felt before. He knew he was gazing at the source of his dreams. The dreams returned peacefully to his mind and waited to be understood. For a moment he wondered whether this was like June's LSD. Something had been added to his mind, which seemed to be expanding awesomely. Memories floated free, as though they had been coded deep in him: wombs of stone and submarine depths; hovering in a medium that wasn't space, somehow linked to a stone circle on a hill; being drawn closer to the circle, towards terrified faces that stared up through the night; a pregnant woman held writhing at the centre of the circle, screaming as he hovered closer and reached for her. He felt primed with centuries of memories. Inherited memories, or shared; but whose?
He waited. All was about to be clarified. The huge bulk shifted, glistening. Its voice, uncontrollably loud and uneven, struggled muddily to speak. The trees creaked ponderously, the squashed bushes writhed, the sky fled incessantly. Suddenly, touched by an instinct he couldn't define, Michael realized how he and June must look from the far side of the clearing. He took her arm, though she struggled briefly, and they stood waiting: bride and bridegroom of the dark.
After a long muddy convulsion in the dimness, words coughed free. The voice seemed unable to speak more than a phrase at a time; then it would blur, gurgling. Sometimes his father's voice, and occasionally his mother's - high-pitched, trembling - seemed to help. Yet the effect was disturbing, for it sounded as though the muddy voice were attempting muffled imitations of his parents. He held himself calm, trusting that this too would be clarified in due course.
The Great Old Ones still lived, the halting voice gurgled loudly. Their dreams could reach out.
When the human race was young ... and strayed near the Old Ones ... the dreams could reach into the womb... and make the unborn in their image. Something like his mother's voice spoke the last words, wavering fearfully. June struggled, but he gripped her arm.
Though the words were veiled and allusive, he understood instinctively what was being said. His new memories were ready to explain. When he read the notebooks again he would understand consciously. He listened and gazed, fascinated. He was in awe of the size of the speaking bulk. And what was strange about the head? Something moved there, rapid as the whirl of colours on a bubble.
In the dark the face seemed to strain epileptically, perhaps to form words.
The Old Ones could wait, the voice or voices told him. The stars would come right. The people the Old Ones touched before birth ... did not take on their image all at once ... but gradually, down the centuries. Instead of dying, they took on the form ... that the Old Ones had placed in the womb of an ancestor. Each generation came closer to the perfect image.
The bulk glistened as though flayed; in the dimness it looked pale pink, and oddly unstable.
Michael stared uneasily at the head. Swift clouds dragged darknesses over the clearing and snatched them away. The face looked so huge, and seemed to spread. Wasn't it like his father's face? But the eyes were swimming apart, the features slid uncontrollably across the head. All this was nothing but the antics of shadows. A tear in the clouds crept towards the dimmed moon. June was trying to pull away. 'Keep still,' he snarled, tightening his grip.
They would serve the Old Ones, the voice shouted thickly, faltering. That was why they had been made: to be ready when the time came. They shared the memories of the Old Ones... and at the change their bodies were transformed ... into the stuff of the Old Ones. They mated with ordinary people ... in the human way, and later... in the way the Old Ones had decreed. That way was...
June screamed. The tear in the clouds had unveiled the moon. Her cry seemed harsh enough to tear her throat. He turned furiously to silence her; but she dragged herself free, eyes gaping, and fled down the path. The shadow of a cloud rushed towards the clearing. About to pursue June, he turned to see what the moon had revealed.
The shadow reached the clearing as he turned. For a moment he saw the huge head, a swollen bulb which, though blanched by moonlight, reminded him of a mass dug from within a body. The glistening lumpy forehead was almost bare, except for a few strands that groped restlessly over it -
strands of hair, surely, though they looked like strings of livid flesh.
On the head, seeming even smaller amid the width of flesh, he saw his mother's face. It was appallingly dwarfed, and terrified. The strands flickered over it, faster, faster. Her mouth strained wordlessly, gurgling.
Before he could see the rest of the figure, a vague gigantic squatting sack, the shadow flooded the clearing. As it did so, he thought he saw his mother's face sucked into the head, as though by a whirlpool of flesh. Did her features float up again, newly arranged? Were there other, plumper, features jostling among them? He could be sure of nothing in the dark.
June cried out. She'd stumbled; he heard her fall, and the thud of her head against something: then silence. The figure was lumbering towards him, its bulk quaking. For a moment he was sure that it intended to embrace him. But it had reached a pit, almost concealed by undergrowth. It slid into the earth, like slow jelly. The undergrowth sprang back rustling.
He stood gazing at June, who was still unconscious. He knew what he would tell her'. she had had a bad LSD experience, that had been what she'd seen. LSD reminded him of something. Slowly he began to smile.
He went to the pit and peered down. Faint sluggish muddy sounds retreated deep into the earth.
He knew he wouldn't see his parents for a long time. He touched his pocket, where the envelope waited. That would contain his father's explanation of their disappearance, which he could show to people, to June.
Moonlight and shadows raced nervously over the pit. As he stared at the dark mouth he felt full of awe, yet calm. Now he must wait until it was time to come back here, to go into the earth and join the others. He remembered that now; he had always known, deep in himself, that this was home. One day he and June would return. He gazed at her unconscious body, smiling. Perhaps she had been right; they might take LSD together, when it was time. It might help them to become one.
Notes on Contributors
A. A. ATTANASIO was born in Newark, New Jersey, but has travelled widely and now resides in Hawaii. The author initially encountered H. P. Lovecraft in his seventh-grade literature class: The Colour Out of Space disguised beneath a jacket for Sir Walter Scott. Attanasio's first science fiction novel, Radix, was published by William Morrow and Company.
RAMSEY CAMPBELL was born in Liverpool, which has provided a setting for many of his stories. Since 1973 he has been a full-time writer and also reviews films for BBC Radio Merseyside. Such spare time as he has is occupied by listening to music from Bach to Tippett, reading far less than he would like, relaxing with jigsaws, and watching wrestling matches. His collections include The Inhabitant of the Lake, Demons by Daylight, and The Height of the Scream, and his most recent novels are Obsession and The Hungry Moon. One of his ambitions is to write a single successful
Lovecraftian story.
BASIL COPPER is one of the most prolific writers in this field. For thirty years he was a journalist, and ultimately editor of a Kent newspaper, but he has been a professional author since 1970. Not all of his nearly sixty books repose within the domain of the macabre, but those which do include such renowned collections as From Evil' s Pillow, And Afterward, the Dark, When Footsteps Echo, and Voices of Doom; the Gothic thriller Necropolis; and a science fiction novel, The Great White Space. More recently Copper has donned deerstalker and inverness to create a new series of adventures featuring the London detective Solar Pons.
DAVID DRAKE lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where he is assistant town attorney.
Previously he was at~ached as interrogator to the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment in Vietnam, and his stories based on that experience have appeared in Analog, Fantasy and Science Fiction, and Galaxy. Drake is the author of a fantasy novel, The Dragon Lord, and of the science fiction collection Hammer's Slammers.
STEPHEN KING is the most phenomenally successful horror writer of his generation, whose novels such as Carrie, The Shining, 'Salem's Lot, and The Stand have become contemporary American classics of the genre. King has long been an admirer of Lovecraft, and his contribution to the present volume was conceived during a period of residency in London where he visited a fellow writer, Peter Straub, in Crouch End: an innocent beginning for a nightmarish story. Other books by this author include the novels Firestarter, Pet Semetary and Misery, and a nonfiction study, Stephen King's Danse Macabre.
T. E. D. KLEIN lives in New York City in an apartment on the West Side, surrounded by fantasy books, Hopper paintings, a pet mouse, a preserved tarantula, sculptures, and much else. After receiving degrees from Brown and Columbia Universities, he spent a year teaching high school in Maine and three years working in the Paramount Pictures story department. He has written articles for the New York Times, and his fiction has appeared in various anthologies, including the Years Best Horror series.
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