Urban Temples of Cthulhu - Modern Mythos Anthology

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Urban Temples of Cthulhu - Modern Mythos Anthology Page 18

by Khurt Khave


  I moved to the propane tank pouring gasoline on the floor as I went. Stepping close to the tank, I fired three shots in rapid succession into its side. The gun was silent but the metallic crack as the bullets punctured the tank was a lot louder than I expected. The tank hissed like a motherfucker. I ran as best I could with the Jim Beam smoothing all the sharp edges. I smashed another window pane, pulled a book of matches from my jacket, struck a match and dropped it through the broken window. There was a low whoosh as the gas soaked pile of wood lit up.

  I spun around at the creak of springs, pistol lining up with the opening door. Clack. Another robed figure dropped.

  As I moved to the hut, I could smell smoke, the rotten eggs stink of the hissing propane and the sharp tang of the gasoline. I needed to keep the acolytes, or whatever the fuck you want to call them, away from this open part of the garage until the propane could build up enough to reach the broken window panes and leak out to the fire in the back.

  Clack. Clack. Two more figures dropped as they came up through a trap door in the middle of the hut. I charged down the wooden steps leading below and pulled the trap door shut behind me. The crash and bang of the slamming door startled the dozen or so robed figures arrayed around the rough hewn room at the foot of the stairs.

  A pit filled the center of the dirt floor. The room was thick with the smell of blood and excrement. There were five pilings driven into the wet, sloppy ground. Their smell of creosote mingled with the stench of pain and death. Nailed to each post was a woman. Their throats cut, a massive amount of blood had flowed down their bodies, into the grooves at their feet, then into the pit.

  A few of the figures drew long curved daggers from beneath their black robes. I raised my pistol and shot the two closest to me then dropped the empty pistol.

  The figures came fast, their knives flashing and jabbing. They spoke in scratching voices that hissed in time to the rhythmic wet slapping sounds that came from the pit, “Food for Abhoth. Food for Abhoth.” They lunged and hacked with no regard to damage they might cause their fellow acolytes, as I spun, locked and threw the ones that got too close. The circle of robed figures closed around me until I felt the burning pain at the back of my thighs as first one and then the other hamstring was sliced to the bone. I dropped to the muddy ground. Knives stabbed and cut, never hitting vital organs, never severing arteries, but slicing tendons free of their attachment. The muscles in my arms and legs rolled up under my skin like opening window shades. They dragged my helpless body over to the edge of the gore-soaked hole in the center of the room.

  “Food for Abhoth,” the voices hissed.

  Horrible wet sounds slopped up from the depths of the pit sounding like a giant’s hands squeezing jello through its fingers. The pit swelled with a gelatinous substance that heaved and roiled. On its surface, shapes would form and reform. Tiny arms reached and stretched and scrabbled with ropes of sinewy ooze that stretched and pulled behind. Across the surface of the pulsating mass were children’s faces locked in silent rictus screams pushing against the undulating surfaces as if struggling to break through an unearthly placenta.

  “Food for Abhoth.”

  The sickly mass seemed to focus its movement, the children’s faces pushed out from horrid ooze and turned toward me. The viscous mire began to slosh toward my side of the pit as if the whole floor was tipping towards me. Sickening vertigo overwhelmed me and I vomited into the bloody mud. The arms and faces appeared and reabsorbed even more rapidly as the thick sludge tipped ever closer. Like molasses pouring from a bottle, the bloody ooze flowed up and over the edge of the pit. Slime covered arms and hands grasped and grabbed at me as the viscid fluid washed towards me.

  I remembered the old Afghan’s body covered with tiny purple bruises as hundreds of small hands reached out to pinch and pull and tear. I could feel my skin rip under the inexorable pull of the hands. The protean fluid burned like alcohol where it entered my wounds. Tiny heads materialized on the surface and bit and chewed before absorbing back into the foul liquid. I felt things begin to form in the oozing concretion that entered through the jagged holes in my body, things that ripped and tore and bit from the inside. I could see my abdomen distend and move, fists and feet pushing and kicking from the inside. Grotesque struggles of an inhuman fetus.

  My head rolled back, and I realized I was screaming when the sound pushed through the crushing pain of the things pulling and breaking ribs from inside my body. My gaze rolled up to the ceiling, and I saw thin tendrils of smoke twisting and snaking under the trap door.

  I felt hundreds of tiny hands pulling at my clothes, tearing at my sliced flesh, as they dragged me over the blood-slicked edge of the pit. I gibbered as my brain began to unhinge for good.

  In Mother Russia, the door kicks you down. . .but I blew that shit the fuck up.

  The propane tank exploded.

  There was a moment of unbelievable pressure.

  Then nothing.

  Guy Riessen is a writer and artist living in the untamed wilderness of San Francisco. Visit his site at www.guyriessen.com

  The Abomination of St. Jude David F. Gray

  The street cleaner rumbled down Spruce Avenue, its spinning brushes throwing up tiny tornadoes of grime and soot. The miniature vortexes whipped across the cement, tearing at the legs the only person who dared brave the dreary weather. This solitary figure trudged along the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the drizzling October rain.

  Destin Phillips pulled his raincoat tighter around his chest and silently cursed the hulking machine as it soiled the pants of one of his few remaining decent suits. The machine's operator, perched on his seat high above the world, ignored Destin's discomfort, his attention focused on the empty street. The cleaner trundled onward, disappearing around the corner less than a block ahead.

  It was well past two in the morning. Destin had been walking the dark Cincinnati streets for almost six hours, with only the widely spaced amber streetlights to guide him. He did not know what else to do. Every now and then he would reach into his coat pocket and grab the crumpled sheet of paper he had stuffed there earlier that afternoon. The instant he touched it, his face would go slack and his eyes would glaze over. He had known it was coming; had expected it, in fact, but the harsh reality of its physical presence felt like a knife corkscrewing into his gut.

  This is to inform you that the Federal Bureau of Investigation has instigated proceedings against you, stemming from accusations of insider trading. Pursuant to an agreement reached with your firm, you will be allowed to surrender yourself on the first of November, 2016. Failure to do so will result in additional charges. There was more, much more, but it all boiled down to one simple fact. Everything he had worked for was gone. One brief lapse in judgment and now, at the relatively young age of thirty six, he was an outcast. He was tempted to find a hand bell and ring it as he walked while crying out ‘Unclean!’

  His was nearing the final stages of exhaustion. He took another step forward, but the toe of his expensive dress shoe caught on an uneven place in the sidewalk. With a startled cry he tumbled forward. His outstretched hands slammed into the rough concrete of the sidewalk, sending jolts of pain coursing through his arms. His knees hit an instant later, and he felt the flimsy material of his suit pants give way. A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach.

  Suddenly the dam he had constructed in his mind to keep the day’s events at bay gave way. He knelt there on the sidewalk and discovered one simple, crushing fact. He did not have the will to get up. He had not eaten since early that morning. That, coupled with his never ending walk, had pushed him to his physical and mental limits. At that moment, all he wanted to do was roll over and die. Instead he managed to crawl away from the street on all fours. He desperately needed to rest.

  He made it to the edge of the sidewalk and was somewhat surprised to find a wide set of smooth concrete steps waiting for him. Looking up into the drizzling rain, he saw that he had fallen in front of a massive church. He
grimaced at the irony. Great, he thought, raising his eyes to the black, starless sky, Where were you six months ago? Since he had never really believed in God, he did not expect an answer. He was not disappointed.

  The building was huge, more of a cathedral than a simple gathering place. Four wide marble columns supported an ornate roof that ended high above in a long tapering steeple. The structure itself seemed to be made of large, rectangular granite blocks, each the size of a small car. The two sets of dark wooden doors at the top of the steps looked sturdy enough to withstand a determined siege. The steeple was lit with a glaring spotlight, and there were five smaller lights inset into the granite above the doors. On a cornerstone to his right, etched deeply into the weathered stone, were the words ‘The Church Of Saint Jude.’

  Moving in slow motion, he slid up onto the first step and rolled into a sitting position. Wrapping his arms around his aching knees, he let his head sink down onto his chest. He sat there, unmoving, a poster child for utter defeat.

  His thoughts were hazy and indistinct. He knew that he should go home, but lacked the will even to stand. There was no one there anyway; had not been, in fact, for over a year. Carrie and the kids had gone to live with her parents in Oklahoma, and he was lucky if he heard from them every other week. The courts had sided with her. The first time he had cheated on her, he had promised that he would never do it again. After the third time, Carrie had simply packed her bags and left, with both Alan and Nikki in tow.

  “I’ve seen some hard luck cases in my time, but I think that I might just be looking at a new standard for misery.” Destin’s thoughts were so muddy that it took him several seconds to realize that someone had just spoken to him. He raised his head and saw the priest sitting next to him on his right, regarding him with bemused pity.

  “Huh?” It was the best that he could do. He had been so wrapped up in his own troubles that he had not heard the other man approach. He blinked, trying to clear his head.

  “If I were to hazard a guess,” continued the priest, “I’d say that you’ve probably lost your job or your family. Both, maybe?” He paused expectantly, waiting for an answer. He was an older man, with close-cropped gray hair and a football lineman’s build. His voice was a rumbling bass, so deep that Destin suddenly envisioned him wearing a striped vest, sporting a handlebar mustache and and belting out "Lyda Rose" in a barbershop quartet.

  “Uh.” Destin tried again, but did not have the words.

  “It’s okay. Believe me when I tell you that you’re not alone.” The priest smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Max. Max Sloan, the pastor here.” Destin’s hand moved automatically. Sloan’s grip was firm and warm.

  “Destin,” he replied. It felt as if his mouth was filled with cotton balls. He swallowed and tried again. “Destin Phillips. It’s nice to meet you, Father.” Sloan smiled again.

  “Destin. That’s nice, like destiny. Oh, and I’m not a priest, just a humble pastor.” Destin glanced down at Sloan’s clothes. The man certainly looked the part of a Catholic priest. He was wearing the traditional white collar, black coat, shirt and pants. Sloan shrugged.

  “My people like it better if I wear the outfit. They seem to find some comfort in it.” He nodded toward the doors. “Why don’t you come inside for a while?” Destin shook his head.

  “I’m not Catholic,” he said. “I’m not much of anything, for that matter.” Sloan laughed.

  “Neither am I,” he answered. “My church is something of an anomaly. We don’t belong to any particular denomination, and we certainly don't worship any kind of traditional god.” He gestured toward the building. “St. Jude closed years ago. We just use the place, and pay a little rent. Sooner or later the Diocese will probably start a new congregation here, but until then, it's our home.” He nodded at the doors again. “Come on in. At least you can get out of this wretched drizzle for a while. I can even offer you a hot cup of coffee.” Again Destin hesitated. Then a wave of exhaustion washed over him and he sagged in on himself.

  “For a little while, I guess,” he mumbled. Sloan stood, smiling. With a tremendous effort, Destin lurched to his feet. He found himself looking up at Sloan and suddenly realized that he was standing next to a very big man. At six feet even, Destin was not exactly short, but Sloan topped him by at least another four or five inches.

  With a nod the reverend turned and marched up the steps. Destin followed obediently. He felt nothing, neither relief nor anxiety. He just wanted to sleep and forget about this entire wretched day.

  Sloan reached the double doors on the right and pulled them open with ease. Destin stepped inside and found himself in a rather ornate if small vestibule. The odor common to most older churches; stale air, flowers and Pine Sol, settled over him. For a moment, it was almost suffocating, and he had to resist the desire walk out. Then his sense of smell adjusted and he relaxed. Dark oak paneling lined the walls, and thick blue carpet covered the floor.

  It should have felt cordial and inviting, but to Destin it was rather claustrophobic. Still it was warm, and that was enough. While the Ohio fall was mild this year, wandering the streets in the forty degree cold, hour after hour, had been enough to chill him to the bone.

  Taking off his raincoat, he followed Sloan through a swinging wooden door, this one much less intimidating than the main doors, and found himself in the sanctuary. The claustrophobia disappeared and he took a deep breath. His mind cleared a little.

  “This is something,” he murmured. Sloan nodded.

  “It was built over a century ago,” he said. “Most of the decor is original; the pews, the woodwork, the stained glass. We cleaned it up when we moved in, but it was already in pretty good shape. It's surprising that the diocese would let all this just sit, but they’ve been having some pretty serious money troubles, among other things.” Destin nodded absently.

  The sanctuary was big enough to seat at least five hundred people. Two rows of dark wooden pews ran all the way to the front, lined up in neat arrangement and forming a left, right and center aisle. Overhead the vaulted ceiling disappeared into the shadows. Six golden chandeliers, each at least ten feet in diameter and hanging on long chains, bathed the entire area in a soft, golden light. The altar stood on a raised platform and was covered with dark, expensive looking wood. The walls on either side featured tall, rectangular stained glass windows that ran from floor to ceiling. It was too dark to make out any details but Destin assumed that, like any other church, they depicted various biblical scenes.

  The wall behind the altar featured a stained glass window of another sort. It was artificially lit from behind, shining down on the altar and bathing it in a surreal glow. The glass was cut in irregular shapes that formed a sort of abstract vortex. The interlocking swirls glowed with vivid reds, blues, greens and a hundred other rich hues. He stared at the pattern, his eyes following the different lines.

  “It does demand your attention, doesn’t it,” chuckled Sloan. “Don’t bother trying to make sense out of it. You’ll give yourself a headache.”

  “Too late,” muttered Destin. He blinked his eyes, suddenly dizzy. He swayed and would have fallen if Sloan had not caught him.

  “Over here,” said the pastor, leading him to the center aisle and nodding at the nearest pew. “It’s wide enough so that you won’t fall off the edge. I'll get you that coffee and then you can rest for a while. Okay?” Destin did not have the strength to argue. He lay stomach down on the hard wood of the pew and cradled his head in his arms. The exhaustion he had held at bay finally breached his defenses and he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  He was awakened sometime later by the murmur of several low voices. At first he thought he was dreaming, but as he slowly regained consciousness he began to realize that he was not alone. For several seconds, he did not remember where he was. Then his brain revved up to full speed and his thoughts sorted themselves into their proper order.

  He groaned as the harsh reality of his life reasserted itself. He glanced at his w
atch. His eyes were watering, causing the tiny digital numbers to blur in the dim light. He blinked, clearing them, and saw that it was barely after four in the morning. He had been asleep for less than two hours. He let his head sink back down onto the pew, thinking that he had at least several more hours before he would be forced to face this day, which would certainly be worse than the preceding one. Then the voices reasserted themselves into his consciousness. Huh? Slowly he pushed himself up high enough to peek over the pew in front of him.

  At the front of the sanctuary, a group of about thirty people were gathered. They were seated in the first row of pews and looked rather lost in the huge space. Destin started to sit all the way up, but then froze. What were these people doing here at this hour? Sloan had called his congregation an anomaly, but this was just a little too weird. Wanting suddenly to be anywhere else, Destin lowered his head again, intending to crawl between the pews to the aisle and slip out the main entrance.

  “Rabba, sabbac. Rabba sabbac. Ra-ba-ba-ba-ba. Neidi an dre robo sabbacc.” The nonsense words boomed out through the sanctuary, and Destin’s gut clenched. The deep voice was coming from behind him. He twisted around in time to see Max Sloan, now clad in a full- length vestment of pure red, stride past him. His right hand was raised as if in blessing, and in his left he carried a long, polished staff tipped with a brass knob. The reverend did not so much as glance in his direction, but Destin suddenly felt exposed, naked. Sloan continued on toward the front of the sanctuary, all the while chanting his nonsense words.

 

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