Tales From Lovecraft Middle School #2: The Slither Sisters

by Charles Gilman

  Then he stumbled into the bathroom, unbuttoned his shirt, and examined himself in the mirror, studying his physique for signs of change. His biceps looked the same—but the muscles in his chest seemed … well, if not bigger, then definitely swollen. Was it his imagination? Robert turned left and right, studying his body from different angles. It was hard to tell.

  Mrs. Arthur walked past the door. “What are you doing?”

  Robert buttoned his shirt. “Nothing.”

  She squeezed behind him, studying their reflections in the bathroom mirror. “I hope you’re not worried about your looks. You’re going to make a very handsome president.”

  Mrs. Arthur had been thrilled to learn that Robert was running for student council. She seemed to believe that he had an excellent chance of winning, that everyone in Lovecraft Middle School loved Robert as much as she did.

  There were times, Robert thought, when his mother simply didn’t have a clue.

  After tucking Pip and Squeak into their shoe box, Robert got into bed and fell asleep immediately; all the exercise had made him very tired. That night, he had another dream, and for once it wasn’t a nightmare. He was back at Lovecraft Middle School with Karina Ortiz, and she was telling him to wear the red shirt with the little squares, and then she playfully swatted his shoulder. Only this time, her fingers didn’t pass through his skin. This time, her hand was warm and solid and real. She was real.

  Robert looked into her eyes, astonished.

  “I know,” she said, grinning. “Isn’t it crazy?”

  He woke up shivering. His alarm clock read 3:13. He pulled his blankets up to his shoulders and turned over in bed, trying to return to the dream. He willed himself to fall asleep, but he was too cold to concentrate. He was freezing.

  He sat up in bed.

  His window was open.

  That was weird. Robert often propped his window open during the summer, but never after Labor Day. It was now the end of October, when the night temperature could dip as low as thirty degrees.

  Maybe his mother had opened it?

  A frigid wind whipped through the room, fluttering the posters taped over the bed, threatening to rip their corners from the walls.

  He wished there was some way to close the window without leaving the warmth of the blankets. He lay there for a moment, mustering the willpower to stand. And in that moment his toes nudged something smooth and cool and dry, something with the texture of a leather shoe. Robert was always falling asleep with books in his bed. Maybe tonight he had fallen asleep with a shoe?

  But then the “shoe” moved, sliding over and under his ankles, binding his feet together. Robert lifted the blanket and saw two glowing yellow eyes; their pupils were thin vertical slits. He tried yanking his legs out of bed but he was already too late; the snake coiled around his knees, thighs, and hips, immobilizing him from the waist down. The more Robert struggled to get free, the easier it was for the snake to encircle the rest of him, pinning his arms to his sides and anchoring his torso to the mattress. Every time Robert exhaled, the snake coiled itself tighter, slowing the circulation of his bloodstream. His hands and feet were already tingling. Finally Robert closed his eyes and willed himself to wake up.

  Because it had to be a dream. It simply had to be. Boa constrictors couldn’t open windows. Massachusetts didn’t even have boa constrictors. This was just like the dream where Principal Slater turned into a frog monster. Any moment now, Robert’s mother would open the door and turn on the light and the snake would disappear …

  “Give up, Robert.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “Quit now and we’ll go easy on you.”

  The snake’s mouth hadn’t opened but Robert could hear it speaking—or, rather, he could hear Sarah and Sylvia speaking, as plainly as if they were standing right beside him. Robert would have said “Okay” if he’d been capable of saying anything—but he lacked the strength to even nod his head. The edges of his vision were going dark. The room was fading. He felt like he was back underwater, stuck at the bottom of the swimming pool with no gate in sight.

  Then Pip and Squeak stumbled out from under the bed, drawn by the unfamiliar voices. They saw the snake and immediately sprang into attack mode, leaping onto Robert’s nightstand and toppling his lamp. It fell to the ground with a crash. The boa hissed. Pip and Squeak leaned back on their haunches, baring their teeth.

  “Robert?” Mrs. Arthur called from her bedroom. “What’s that noise?”

  “Don’t come in,” Robert tried to shout, only no sounds could leave his mouth, not anymore.

  The hallway light came on, filling the gap under Robert’s bedroom door with a pale yellow glow. The boa gave him one last warning—a squeeze that nearly made his heart pop like a balloon—before uncoiling itself and darting toward the open window. Mrs. Arthur’s frantic footsteps were already coming down the hallway. As the last of the snake disappeared through the window, Pip and Squeak hurried under the bed just as the door opened, flooding the room with light.

  His nightstand lamp lay in broken pieces on the floor.

  “What happened?” Mrs. Arthur asked.

  Robert couldn’t speak. He was still catching his breath.

  “And why is your window open? It’s freezing in here!”

  She walked over to the window and slammed it shut.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just having another nightmare. I reached for my light and I guess I knocked it over.”

  “See, that’s the thing I hate about Halloween,” Mrs. Arthur said. “They put all these violent movies on television and then kids can’t sleep at night. We’re cutting back on screen time, Robert, do you understand me?”

  “All right,” he said.

  “And you need to be more careful. Lamps cost money!”

  After his mother had left the room and closed the door, Robert got out of bed and walked over to his window. Under the light of a full moon, his backyard was bathed in a soft pale glow. He could see the boa slithering across the grass, crossing toward a hedge at the rear of the lawn.

  Standing behind the hedge, waiting for the snake, were two silhouettes of human figures—two identical silhouettes. Robert couldn’t see their faces, yet he knew exactly who they were.

  TWELVE

  The next morning, Robert went to school early and walked the hallways with a stack of posters and a roll of masking tape, hanging advertisements every ten feet or so. Sometimes he heard kids reading the posters and giggling.

  “Who the heck is Robert Arthur?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Robert knew these were perfect opportunities to introduce himself. A real leader would turn around and shake hands and tell the kids exactly why they should vote for him. But Robert was afraid they would laugh or make fun of him or worse. The poster presented him as a valiant warrior, but after last night he felt more frightened and inadequate than ever.

  He was taping a poster in the boys’ bathroom when he was startled by a loud clatter of metal. He turned to see Howard Mergler struggling to push open the door. Howard had dropped one of his forearm crutches and was trying to retrieve it. The orthotic braces on his legs made it impossible to bend his knees. He looked like he was about to topple over.

  “Here,” Robert said, grabbing the crutch for him.

  “Thanks,” Howard said. “You would not believe how often that happens.”

  Robert returned to taping his poster.

  “So it’s true?” Howard asked. “You’re running for president?”

  “It’s true. Nothing personal.”

  “Let me give you some free advice,” Howard said. “Don’t say you’re going to give students better computer equipment. Or more nutritious school lunches.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m saying that, and no one listens!”

  Robert laughed. “It’s too bad. Those are good ideas.”

  “They’re great ideas. But who can compete with
Cupcake Friday? That’s what Sarah Price is promising. Free cupcakes in the lobby every Friday. Never mind who makes them, or who pays for them.” Howard sighed. “People love her and they’re going to vote for her. We don’t have a chance.”

  At lunch, Robert went to the library and told Ms. Lavinia about the giant snake. “It told me to drop out, and I think I should.”

  Ms. Lavinia scoffed. “Now why would you listen to a snake?” She was pushing her wooden cart through a corridor lined with books and Robert hustled to keep up.

  “Well, for starters, this snake was in my bed. And it was a hundred feet long. It was very persuasive.”

  She absently plucked a book from a shelf and added it to the cart. “You can’t quit now. We’re running a great campaign. You just need to stick with it.”

  “The election’s tomorrow. All I’ve done is hang posters!”

  “That’s phase one of the plan. My husband will help with phase two.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Warren Lavinia. You can find him in the old lighthouse down by the waterfront.” She pulled a pink envelope from her pocket and handed it to Robert. “Give him these instructions and he’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Can you come with me?”

  “I wish I could. My brother forbids it. But you can take Glenn.” She thought for a moment. “And go as early as you can. You boys don’t want to be at the waterfront after dark.”

  THIRTEEN

  Long ago, Dunwich was home to a thriving seaport, full of fishermen, lobstermen, and even whalers. All those industries eventually moved away but the old docks remained, a twisting, splintered maze of wooden planks. By the time Robert and Glenn arrived at the waterfront, the sun was already setting. Seagulls circled the sky, screeching and squalling. There were no other people around so Robert unzipped his backpack and allowed Pip and Squeak to walk behind them.

  “This place stinks,” Glenn said.

  “Like larval tea,” Robert agreed.

  The lighthouse was a skinny five-story tower that reminded Robert of the Rapunzel story. A weathered sign was nailed to the front of the door: PULL ROPE FOR SERVICE.

  He looked up. Above his head—and nearly out of reach—was the frayed end of a tattered cord. It extended fifty feet straight up, all the way to the top of the lighthouse.

  Robert tugged on the rope and listened.

  “Did you hear anything?” he asked.

  “Try it again,” Glenn said.

  This time, they both listened carefully. It was hard to hear anything over the sounds of the waves crashing against the rocky shores.

  “There!” Glenn said, pointing.

  Robert looked up. There was a small balcony ringing the top of the lighthouse. A man wearing a scuba mask leaned over its railing.

  “Not interested!” he shouted.

  Robert looked to Glenn. “Not interested?”

  “He thinks we’re selling something. Girl Scout cookies, I don’t know.”

  Robert cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Your wife sent us!” but it was too late—Warren had already left the balcony. Between the waves and the screeching seagulls, he hadn’t heard a thing.

  They waited outside another few minutes, until it was clear that Warren wasn’t returning to the balcony or coming downstairs to open the door.

  “Now what?” Glenn asked.

  “I don’t know,” Robert said.

  A seagull landed beside them and stamped its feet impatiently. Robert wished he could ask the bird to deliver a message. Then Pip and Squeak came charging over, playfully baring their fangs and chasing the bird away.

  “I’ve got it,” he said.

  He removed the pink envelope from his backpack and knelt beside Pip and Squeak. “I need you guys to make a delivery.”

  His pets never failed to impress him with their intelligence. They seemed capable of understanding virtually everything Robert said. He believed this was because they had twice the brains of an ordinary rat. Pip took the note in his mouth, and Robert raised the rats over his head, holding them steady until they had grasped the rope with their claws.

  “That’s it,” he said. “All the way up to the top. Take your time and be careful. Give the note to the man.”

  Robert held the rope taut and the rats advanced slowly but steadily, stopping only when a strong wind blew off the ocean and strummed the rope like a guitar string. After another minute or so, the rats reached the summit and disappeared over the railing.

  Robert was still looking up at the sky, waiting for Warren to return, when he noticed a tiny object hurtling toward him. Robert leapt aside and a heavy silver key landed in the gravel at his feet. It fit perfectly into the lock of the front door.

  “Mission accomplished,” Glenn said.

  It was Robert’s first time inside a lighthouse, and he was surprised to see that it consisted almost entirely of a single spiral staircase. It seemed to stretch toward the sky into infinity.

  “No wonder he doesn’t want to come down,” Glenn said.

  Robert grabbed the handrail and began to climb. Every fifteen steps or so, they passed a small window cut into the side of the building; they could see the waterfront docks getting smaller and smaller. Halfway up, Robert felt winded, but since Glenn was having no trouble following along, he kept his complaints to himself.

  At the top of the stairs, they emerged into a small round room with glass walls. It was a mess. Papers, charts, and maps were strewn across the floor; workbenches were cluttered with vials, test tubes, and other lab apparatus.

  In the center of the room stood an elderly man dressed in a neoprene wet suit and swim fins. He looked like he had just emerged from the ocean—his hair was wet and water was still dripping down his body—but he was focusing all his attention on Pip and Squeak, offering them slices of fresh apple from his hand.

  “Hello,” Robert said. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are, I read the note,” Warren said, dismissing introductions with a wave of his hand. “I’m conducting an experiment and I need your help.” He directed the boys to a workbench containing three lemons, a wooden cutting board, and a serrated knife. “Cut these into quarters. Big fat chunks.”

  “But Ms. Lavinia wants—”

  “Chop, chop, chop,” Warren said. “Hurry, please.”

  Robert realized Warren wasn’t going to listen, so he picked up the knife and set to work. Meanwhile, Warren carried over a small glass aquarium about the size of a shoe box. Pacing inside on a bed of blue gravel was a large hermit crab with a magnificent spiral-coiled shell. The hermit crab seemed exceptionally lively, marching in circles around its tank.

  “I plucked this fellow straight from the ocean.” Warren opened the lid of the aquarium, then tapped the crab’s shell with the point of his pencil. “Do you see the exoskeleton? Do you hear the tap-tap-tap? Very hard, very brittle, right? That’s calcium carbonate. A very convincing disguise. But look what even a mild acid can do.”

  Warren took a lemon wedge and squeezed it over the crab. Tiny plumes of smoke arose from the shell, as if it had somehow been ignited.

  “What are you doing?” Glenn asked.

  “Don’t worry, the crab doesn’t feel any pain,” Warren assured him. He squeezed the lemon again, squirting more citric acid onto the shell. “He’s not even a real crab.”

  More smoke billowed out. The once-brittle shell was dissolving into a mound of quivering, translucent gray goo. It looked like the world’s most disgusting serving of Jell-O.

  “You killed it?” Robert asked.

  “I exposed it. Watch careful now, see the little arms and legs?”

  Robert and Glenn peered into the tank. Within the mound of gray goo, they could just discern a tiny human figure, punching and kicking at the sides, like an insect escaping from its cocoon. The creature was no bigger than a thumb. Its skin had the slimy gray texture of a snail. It had two long flippers for arms but walked on two legs, like a miniature person.


  The most dramatic difference was its head. The creature had tiny eyes and nostrils, but its mouth was hidden by a dozen mini tentacles that hung from the bottom of its face like party streamers. As the creature emerged from the goo, slapping away the slime, Robert could hear it droning in a tinny high-pitched voice.

  “What is it?” Glenn whispered.

  “Cthulhu,” Warren said, pronouncing the word ka-THOO-loo, and then he gestured to the ocean outside the windows. “The shore is full of them. Hundreds, maybe thousands.” He lowered salad tongs into the tank and used them to pinch the cthulhu’s waist. The creature hissed and yelled and frantically waved its flippers.

  Warren carried it across the room to a larger aquarium. This one was filled with more cthulhus, at least three dozen of them, sitting and standing and pacing in circles, little convicts in a miniature prison. The sound of their tinny voices crescendoed as Warren raised the lid and deposited the newest arrival inside.

  “Where are they coming from?” Glenn asked.

  “Your school. The gates. Every day, dozens of these tiny creatures come creeping out.” Warren walked his fingers across a tabletop, mimicking the footsteps of a cthulu. “They’re beneath our shoes, they’re barely visible, we never notice them. But soon, believe me, we will notice. Soon, they’ll grow too big to ignore.”

  “We’re trying to help,” Robert explained. “Ms. Lavinia wants me to run for class president. The election is Friday—”

  Warren nodded. “I read my wife’s note. But I think she’s mistaken. You boys are too young for this war. You wouldn’t last five minutes in the alternaverse. Tillinghast’s mansion has creatures more horrific than anything you can imagine. Spiders, demons, eyeslime …”

  “We know,” Glenn interrupted.

  Warren shook his head. “You can’t know until you’ve been there.”

  “Right,” Glenn said, “we’ve been there.”

  Warren peered at the boys over the top of his glasses. “Wait a second. Are you saying you’ve crossed over? And made it back alive?”