The Devourer Below

by Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells

  “Don’t worry, Leo.” Donny’s mad laughter rose above the chorus of snarling shrieks. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

  A ghoul charged from the shadows of a fallen cenotaph. Leo ducked the swipe of a clawed hand and smashed the butt of his gun into the creature’s distended jaws, following up with a heavy kick.

  The car was maybe twenty yards ahead, lamps bright, engine still running. Leo staggered toward it, only to have his hopes shrivel as the bulky form of Donny’s pet ghoul lunged from the shadows behind the car.

  Unable to bring his shotgun to bear, Leo tried to step into the blow. Although his quick advance kept the creature’s hooked talons from doing anything more than shredding Leo’s work shirt, the ghoul’s terrible strength was enough to knock him from his feet.

  He landed hard, somehow keeping hold of his shotgun. The ghoul’s shadow fell over him. This close, there was no way he could miss.

  He unloaded a round into the ghoul, but might as well have been firing at a brick wall. The impact barely staggered the massive creature.

  It tore the shotgun from his hands.

  Leo screamed as the ghoul’s talons dug into the meat of his shoulder. White hot pain seared along his side, dark spots swimming along the edges of his vision as the ghoul lifted him from the ground. He tried to kick at the thing, only to have it shake him like a dog with a rat in its jaws.

  “I forgive you.” Donny walked into the circle of headlights. “We vets have to stick together.”

  “OK, you win.” Leo forced the words through gritted teeth. When you’d been dealt a losing hand, all you could do was bluff. “I’ll run your hooch, feed your pets, whatever.”

  “Oh, Leo.” Donny regarded Leo with a sad frown. “I know you better than that.”

  Shaking his head, Donny glanced toward the ghoul holding Leo, but whatever order he was about to give the beast was cut off by the sound of a distant car.

  Donny’s face twisted into a rictus of fury. “He hunts me, even here.”

  Judging by Donny’s reaction, it had to be Fedora. From the sound of tires on gravel, Leo figured he was passing just beyond the switchback – a half mile distant, maybe less. The noise seemed to agitate the ghouls. The one holding Leo let out a snuffling grunt, the charnel reek of its breath making him feel faint.

  “He can’t find us here.” Donny raised a calming hand. “Umôrdhoth’s power hides this place. That stupid gumshoe could drive right by the path and not see it.”

  Leo clenched his jaw against the urge to shout. Even if Fedora heard, Leo was likely to be ripped limb from limb before the cavalry could arrive. He needed something to keep them busy.

  Although Leo’s Colt was still in its shoulder holster, he doubted it would do much. Donny was an obvious target, but at the moment he seemed to be the only thing keeping the ghouls from devouring Leo. The car was idling nearby, keys in the ignition, two cases of night whiskey in the back seat.

  And there it was.

  Jaw clenched against the pain, Leo twisted to draw his Colt. It felt awkward in his off hand, but the cases were barely ten feet away.

  Leo’s first shot smashed through a half dozen bottles, spattering night whiskey over the Studebaker. His second shot struck sparks from the steel door, a glittering cascade that fell among spilled booze. There was a heartbeat of expectant silence, then flames blossomed in the back seat, casting Leo’s beloved car in tones of red and orange.

  There was no time for regret. The explosion snatched the breath from Leo’s lungs. If the ghoul hadn’t been between him and the car, the blast would’ve almost certainly shattered his ribs. Instead, it tore Leo from the creature’s grip and set him rolling across the broken ground.

  Flames crackled all around, the air full of acrid smoke and the shrieks of fleeing ghouls. Dimly, Leo heard another rattling boom as the Studebaker’s gas tank went up, a hail of jagged metal pinging from the stones around him. The gouges in his shoulder burned like someone had pressed a hot coal to Leo’s flesh, and it was all he could do to lay gasping like a consumption victim as the wave of heat and sound rolled over him.

  For a moment, it was like being back in France.

  Donny’s aggrieved howl cut through the din. He staggered from the smoke, expression turning feral as he saw Leo crumpled on the ground before him.

  Leo tried to move, but couldn’t seem to find his breath.

  Donny stepped toward him, fingers crooked into claws. Muttering, he reached for Leo, only to flinch back as a bullet ricocheted from a nearby headstone.

  More gunfire sounded in the swirling smoke, and Donny staggered back, one hand clapped to his bleeding arm. Teeth bared, he shot Leo one last hateful glare, then staggered off into the smoke.

  Boots crunched on broken stone.

  “I suppose I have you to thank for all this?” Fedora stood above Leo, a revolver in each hand.

  Leo braced himself against the remains of a tombstone and slowly pushed to his feet. “What the hell is all this?”

  Fedora let out a low whistle. “The tip of the iceberg, pally.”

  Leo regarded the man. “You got a name?”

  “Tony Morgan.” He reached up to tip his hat.

  “Leo De Luca.” Leo glanced over his shoulder. The woods were quiet but for the crackle of flame. In the dim firelight, he could just make out the cliff beyond the clearing – its sheer face flat and unbroken, as if the cave had been some vast and terrible mouth, snapping shut behind Donny and the ghouls.

  “You’ve done the world a real favor here,” Tony nodded. “I won’t forget it.”

  Leo looked back at the blackened remains of his car, throat tight with anger and loss. The wreckage sat like a smoldering punctuation to Leo’s dreams of creating a bootlegging empire. With a grunt of pain, he straightened. Donny may have taken almost everything from him, but Leo De Luca always had cards to play.

  “Mind giving me a ride back to town?”

  “Sure.” Tony holstered one of his revolvers to give Leo a hand limping back to the Model T, now sporting four new tires. “It’ll give us time to talk about how you got mixed up in all this.”

  “I’ll do more than that.” Anger whetted Leo’s words to razor sharpness. “I know where Donny is getting the hooch, and what it does. We can take apart his whole operation.”

  “We?” Tony cocked an eyebrow.

  “The man owes me ten large, not to mention a new car.” Leo fixed Tony with a steady look. “And I aim to collect.”

  Shadows Dawning

  Georgina Kamsika

  Lita Chantler stumbled to her knees, bracing her hands on the rough ground. The sharp gravel dug into her palms, blood dripping from her many cuts. She took a breath, then another, before forcing herself upright. There was an ache in her knees, either from too much exertion or from falling onto them, Lita wasn’t sure. She dragged freezing air into her lungs, focusing inward, readying herself to move.

  There was a noise from the dark house behind her, low enough that she couldn’t tell if it was from a human or not. She had only recently found out that there were other things besides humans. Other monsters.

  That new reality pressed against her sense of consciousness; with it came a wave of numb panic. She swallowed it with the bile in her throat. She could panic later. Now, she had to run.

  Lita scrubbed her hand over her jaw, leaning back onto her heels as she contemplated the sliver of moon above. A wisp of cloud passed in front of it on the cool spring breeze, but she heard no more noises from the house behind.

  The last time John had kissed her with affection had been under a moon like this. It had been a day without an argument. Rare enough that they’d celebrated it, without acknowledging the reason with words, of course. They had a midnight picnic on the hill overlooking Easttown. Cold meats, some bread, a woolen blanket and soft starlight. They’d kissed in the moonlight, tal
king about their future, about trying for their first child. It had been a night she would never forget.

  The next day John had left bloody butcher’s clothes to stain their bedroom floor. Lita had snapped at him; he’d snapped back that the blood had been earned through his hard work. They sank into their usual routine of shouting. Not long after that, John was gone. Had been killed. And then there were no more chances for affection for Lita.

  A misty rain began to fall. Lita shivered. Her blood soaked, sticky and uncomfortable, into her hemline. More blood earned from hard work. At least she wouldn’t drop the dress to stain the bedroom floor.

  She glanced behind her, the stranger’s house silent and still. She had followed a clue to find a cultist cowering inside. He had been coerced into helping; a weak man addicted to alcohol, he’d told her everything he’d known. It wasn’t much, a name, a profession, but it was enough for Lita to continue her search. Another link in the chain leading her to the people who had murdered her husband.

  Now the place was of no more use to her, she began picking her way home. The route was quiet at this time, no people walking the streets, none of the few cars on the road. Lita swept past Velma’s Diner, ducking away from the faint light by the front windows. Agnes peered out but didn’t acknowledge her, the diner clearly closed despite the couple of people talking to the waitress. Lita expected no less; she barely talked to the server beyond polite greetings and ordering her food.

  Lita was more careful about keeping to the shadows after that. She’d already managed to mess up her reputation over the last few weeks since John’s murder, she didn’t need anyone to see her wandering the town covered in blood.

  John’s murder. Tonight felt like the first time in a long time that she’d had a clue as to what happened. A glimpse into what had brought the horror into her home. After her husband’s murder, her only goal had been to find the monsters that killed him. Not the ghouls – well, not just them – but the humans, the cult, that had killed him for refusing them.

  Lita hadn’t taken them seriously, not at first, the strangers harassing her husband at his butcher’s store. What kind of customer wanted to take his shipments? These strange, pale men, what could they do with live meat? But when the same strangers had started to follow them around, harassing them at all hours, Lita had insisted they go to the police.

  What a mistake. The police in Arkham refused to help, and then threatened to arrest her when Lita had raised her voice in frustration. The strangers had kept up their harassment until the day Lita found John murdered.

  She rubbed at her brow, wincing at the sharp pain beginning to dig into her temples. Enough. She couldn’t think about the past. She was doing everything she could to make them pay now.

  Her house, a little older, a little more rundown than its neighbors, stood brightly lit, a beacon calling to her. Lita couldn’t hear much over the soft chuckle of the Miskatonic River nearby, but she knew the lights meant safety. Meant that her friend who had a key was there waiting for her.

  Lita forced her aching legs to limp up the high stone steps to her narrow door, pushing her shoulder against the frame to lift it enough that the key turned in the lock. Her friend Priya stood behind it, one hand holding a cast-iron poker above her head.

  “Lita!” Priya lowered the poker, reaching to help her up the last steep step into the house.

  Priya Anand. A couple of years younger than Lita, but almost as stubborn. They’d met a few years ago, butting heads in the grocery store. What had begun as an argument over produce quickly turned into laughter and jokes. It was rare for Lita to find someone she related to so well, especially someone who did not mind her occasional flaring temper.

  Priya was tall, like John, but with a softness and sweetness he’d never had. They’d never been close, but John had appreciated Lita having a good friend. Priya had never married, instead choosing to share her home with her longtime friend Emily. Lita didn’t judge. They seemed happier than she and John had ever managed.

  “You’re bleeding.” Priya hooked an arm through hers and pulled her toward the kitchen.

  “Most of this isn’t mine.”

  Priya glared over her shoulder, tugging harder. Her thick dark hair fluffed around her shoulders as she shoved Lita ungracefully toward the dining chair. Lita slumped back with a relieved grunt, some of the aches easing as she relaxed back into the wooden seat. She shook out her arms, trying to release the tension in her shoulders.

  Priya moved around the old oak kitchen as if it was her own, heading straight for the first aid kit. The dark cabinets were cluttered, but Priya found it easily. Lita didn’t think about why. About the number of times Priya had stayed up late waiting for her. About the cuts and bruises she’d helped treat.

  Lita sat quiet, controlling her breathing as Priya cleaned her wounds. Her entire body ached from a mix of pain and adrenaline. She jerked as the medicine stung a particularly deep cut on her hand.

  “These will get infected, stop fighting!”

  “Stop fussing!” Lita snapped automatically.

  Priya pushed her back into her seat. “You’re too young to be this crotchety.”

  Lita’s annoyance flared at the word, before she winced as another wound stung. “Ow!”

  “Just sit still, then.” Priya’s grip got tighter, holding her firmly in her seat. Lita closed her eyes, zoning out at the gentle feeling of Priya’s soft hands and the astringent smell of the medicine. She pushed down the feelings of pain, taking deep breaths that helped her to relax.

  “There. Done. Don’t do anything to tear these bandages.”

  Lita nodded her thanks, gathering the bloodied cotton to dump into the trash. She washed her hands, the rust-red water swirling down the sink. The combined smell of medicine and blood made her stomach shift. “C’mon.”

  Priya followed her into the sitting room, settling primly on the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped in her lap. Lita ignored the gas lamps, lighting the half-melted candles on the mantelpiece. The golden glow banished the dancing shadows to the corners of the room. Lita moved to the mahogany sideboard, then waggled the brandy bottle. Priya shook her head, wrinkling her nose. Lita poured herself a couple of fingers, then splashed some more on top.

  Lita settled in John’s old armchair, the cushion still compressed into his shape. The lumps dug into her back, while old springs tugged on her legs. It was the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the room, but she never wanted to sit anywhere else. The room was mostly silent as Priya stared at the ticking grandmother clock, Lita swirling the brandy in her glass. The adrenaline was wearing off, and she felt shaky and cold. Her mood dipped and she slumped further back into the unpleasant chair.

  “I didn’t mean to get hurt. I just want justice for John.” Lita spoke gruffly, making it clear she wasn’t apologizing for anything.

  Priya scoffed. “John wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “I don’t know, after some of our fights, he might.”

  Priya glanced over, her mouth twitching. Lita couldn’t help herself and let out a low chuckle. Then they were both laughing hard, tears leaking from Lita’s eyes. Happiness bubbled up in her chest as her shoulders shook with amusement.

  With some of the tension eased, Priya sank back against the sofa cushions. “I understand why you’re doing it, but you have to stop sometime. You have to move on with your life.”

  Lita’s smile dropped. Priya’s words were a harsh reminder that it felt wrong, somehow, to laugh, with everything she knew. With Priya asking her to stop. She missed John, his smile, his anger, everything good and bad. There was a hollow carved in her chest that would never be filled again.

  Lita gulped down the brandy. Sweet and warm, it took the edge off her aches. “I’ve told you what happened to us. The harassment, the stalking, even John’s murder and who did it and why. Could you move on from it? Can you now that you’
ve found out there’s more underneath this faked civilized veneer in Easttown?”

  Priya shook her head. “I don’t know anything, not really. And I don’t want to.”

  Lita tried to stop the flare of annoyance at her friend’s deliberate ignorance, but it was hard. She understood it was a form of defense, but it was a dangerous one. One Lita couldn’t let her hide behind. Her breathing increased as her agitation rose. “What if it was Emily who had been harassed? What if Emily was scared and upset? Who one day you find bloodied and cold on the floor?”

  Priya’s face creased into a frown. The hands clasped on her lap started to twist. “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s not fair, no, but that’s what happened to us. We didn’t do anything to invite these people in. They chose to target us. Him. They wanted something so they took it. Just because they don’t need anything from you or her now, doesn’t mean they might not come back next week or next month, demanding something from you.” Her voice rose in volume as she continued, the words bursting out of her throat, scorching more than the brandy had. Her chest ached with the hurt she’d bottled up. How could Priya not understand?

  Priya frowned. “I… I don’t–”

  There was a noise at the front door. Lita almost didn’t hear it, but she was already tense, tense enough to catch the faint scratching. She stared at Priya, then wound her hand in a “keep talking” motion. Priya raised her eyebrows, but stuttered on further about how much she cared for Emily.

  Lita glanced to the fireplace, but the poker wasn’t there. Still by the front door. She tamped down her worry and stalked toward the hallway, Priya’s voice covering any other sound. There it was again. This time it sounded like footsteps on the stoop, one person back and forth. One person. Good. Lita knew from experience that she could handle one. Lita dipped down to grab the poker propped at the foot of the stairs. It was a solid cast iron piece, easily the best weapon she had to hand.

  There was the sound of running. The cracking of wood. The door smashed open, splinters stabbing Lita’s bare skin.