The Devourer Below

by Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells

  “You think we needed your husband’s little shop for meat? We were being kind. You soon learned your place.”

  “You weren’t being kind,” Lita spat out. She thought of her husband, of how she’d found him. What they’d done to him. “I have no hope now. This is how I must grieve him.”

  “You have no hope because I took it. I ordered his death like I will order yours.” Sean continued speaking over the top of her but she didn’t listen anymore. This was the man who had killed John? He’d ordered his death, he said, as if it was nothing? Blood roared through her ears, her throbbing head inciting her temper to greater heights.

  “However much you–”

  Sean was interrupted as someone ran into the room. “The church is beyond saving. Will this affect our worship of Umôrdhoth–”

  “Silence!” Sean’s beatific smile cracked as he whirled around to see what was happening. “We do not talk of Him in front of unbelievers.” He ran from the shed.

  As her head started to clear further, Lita thought about what she’d just heard. Umor, something? She tried to keep the name in mind. Umôrdhoth. She hadn’t come across that name in her research so far, but there was something about it that resonated. Perhaps this was her next step? The name was obviously important to them; it must mean something. If, no– when, she got out of this, she would find out. She would find out and make them pay.

  She strained to see what she could of what was happening outside. The discussion was clearly urgent, Sean Bateman calling over others to join in. In the distance she could hear the shouting getting louder, the splashing of water never ending as buckets were thrown in vain. The fire roared as it devoured the wooden structure.

  Lita tried to catch their voices over the racket. They were talking about how it was vital to save the church. Lita’s breath caught. That was good. This place needed to be destroyed. That gave Lita direction. Anything that would disrupt the cultists’ plans.

  Her own planning was disrupted as a blast ripped through the open door. Lita winced, despite the fact that the scattered wood chips didn’t make it far into the little shed. Her heart pounded as dust and smoke choked the doorway. She couldn’t see anything, only hear hurried movement, screams, flames, and smoke. A single figure pushed through the smoke, Sean Bateman glowering at her. He turned, heading off toward the town, tailed by her guards. They weren’t gone far, so she couldn’t move yet, but at least she had some breathing room.

  Lita flexed her arms, testing the ropes. No give. Nothing. She fought exhausted discouragement. Next she tried pushing against the chair to see how flimsy it was. Solid oak. Not fragile in the slightest. Even if she tipped it, she doubted it would crack. Her legs weren’t tied, though; at worst she could stand and try to smash the chair off her back. Anything to get out of here. Her simmering rage would give her the strength.

  The fire flared, another blast shaking the ground and echoing. Smoke billowed in through the doorway. Sean staggered back in, bowing over and coughing and looking concerned for the first time. His bodyguard was gone, probably helping with the blaze. Lita’s heart thundered. This was her chance.

  She braced her feet, ready to stand, when a slender shadow fell across the floor. She froze. The shadow resolved into a familiar shape. Priya.

  A hundred thoughts and feelings flooded Lita’s chest. Happiness and relief at the sight of a familiar face, someone come to her aid in her darkest hour. But with it, guilt, terror, and the need to scream. Sweet, kind, careful Priya could not be here. Emily needed her. She needed Emily. Lita refused to destroy their lives over her plans for revenge. She ground her teeth, trying not to cry out for her friend or show her emotions, lest she endanger her.

  Priya stood behind Sean Bateman in the door, her left hand holding a gun, her right pressing her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. Lita swallowed acid in her throat. Priya padded forward, the panicked cultists, Sean’s hacking, and the burning inferno of a church covering the noise, and although her hand shook, she steadied the gun, her eyes wide. “Untie her,” she told Sean, bluntly.

  “What?”

  That was all Sean managed to say before Priya shoved the gun in his face.

  “Untie her,” Priya repeated. She sounded angry, very unlike her usual soft and calm self. She wasn’t quite as tall as the cult leader, but she still looked intimidating with her gun aimed at his cheek.

  Sean flinched as though he’d been hit, glaring down at her with gritted teeth. His dark eyes flickered to the doorway. All it revealed was a wall of smoke and vague shadows, the sound of coughing and strained voices distant now. The mild concern in his face shifted to panic, the kind of panic you see in a cornered wolf. His hands shot up, a low jovial chuckle bursting from his chest as he tried to act in control. Priya stepped back, making sure she was out of his reach.

  “I can do that, don’t you worry, sweetheart,” he said, but Lita could hear his insincerity. He was sizing Priya up, trying to determine if he could take her. Priya was smart. She kept her distance, herding him back toward Lita.

  He slowly maneuvered around the chair, his eyes darting away from Lita toward the wall of tools, then back to her. Priya didn’t seem to notice him sidling closer to the wall as he ostensibly headed to free her friend, but Lita did. Sean reached out, slow and casual, toward a huge wrench. Lita didn’t have time to think, just react. She pushed up with her feet, hard, while leaning back. The wooden chair was heavy, her legs strained to move while tied, but she clenched her fists and pushed herself beyond all endurance. The chair slammed up, smashing into Sean’s torso with a nauseating crunch. He huffed, then slid to the floor, wheezing.

  “Lita!” Priya ran closer, steadying her as she settled back down.

  Lita’s legs screamed at her, the muscles tight and hot. She had to get up, try and stretch them, do something to ease the pain. Priya seemed to understand, grabbing a tool from the wall and cutting through the rope binding her. Lita stood, staggering a little as she fought for balance. The pain was intense, throbbing along her thighs, her calves screaming. She’d done too much for too long and her body was forcing her to stop.

  “Not yet,” she murmured to herself. She still felt more than a little dizzy, but her vision had cleared and her balance had stabilized. She shook out her hands and wrists, the blood flowing again. Lita gathered up the rope and knelt by Sean Bateman’s prone body. He glared at her, his cheeks a rich purple as he gasped for breath. Maybe she’d hurt him too much to fight back, but she had to be sure. She used the rope to tie his arms and legs, twisting them uncomfortably until there was no way for him to move. Then she reached for an old greasy tool rag, ripping the stiff fabric open.

  “What are you doing?” Priya asked.

  “Gagging him.” Lita slid the cloth underneath his head, readying it to twist into his mouth.

  “Lita, the smoke in the air, the grease on that cloth. He’s going to suffocate.” Priya sounded distraught.

  Lita held back her initial response of “good,” knowing that Priya deserved to escape this mess as innocently as she’d entered it. Lita might have no inhibitions about killing the man who killed her husband, but she refused to taint her friend in the process. She put the cloth down.

  “We know where you live,” Sean sullenly reminded her from where he lay.

  “You have enough to worry about with your own house,” Lita pointed out, as the heat and smoke thickened around them.

  “We have time,” Sean threatened. “You’ll end up like your husband.”

  “One more remark like that and I’ll put a bullet in you,” Lita snarled. She took the gun from Priya, gently squeezing her friend’s shoulder with her other hand. “Now we’re leaving. Come after us and I will shoot you.”

  Sean scoffed but didn’t try to move as Lita and Priya crossed the shed. The bolt on the back door creaked open, but the noise was insignificant compared to the blaze. No one would hear t
hem. Lita let Priya go first, keeping an eye on Sean as Priya scoped out the road. When she motioned that it was clear, Lita started edging out the door.

  “Help me! They’re getting away!” Sean instantly bellowed from the floor, as a shadow darkened the smoke-filled main entrance.

  Lita didn’t want to wait, but she also knew how to shoot. She controlled her breathing, lowering it as she felt her blood beat through her neck, arms, and eyes. Focusing on that feeling, she shot between heartbeats.

  Sean’s body shuddered. Blood sprayed across the concrete floor in an arc.

  Calm quiet flooded Lita’s brain for a blissful moment. She let out a breath, her hand steadying. Then Priya’s gasp echoed in her ears. Nausea roiled in her stomach. Priya couldn’t see this.

  Lita slammed the door shut to block the sight. The smoke was overtaking this side of the shed now, which helped. She didn’t want to see the look on her friend’s face. She grabbed Priya’s wrist and bolted. She had no plan now, nothing but the need to get far away. To get to safety. She was in too much pain to run fast, but she had to get Priya away from them.

  They stumbled away, hips bumping into each other, hands clutching together. Whenever Lita felt like she might stumble, Priya seemed to know, pulling on her arm to support her. They were in the middle of nowhere, the end of a long road out of Arkham, with no easy way back home.

  There was a shout behind her. The sound of panting. Lita pulled on Priya’s hand before dropping it, skidding to a stop in the center of the deserted main street. She raised her .41, holding it steady as the people pursuing them rounded the corner. Two men, cultists, both middle-aged and flushed from the exertion. They slowed down, mouths hanging open in surprise when faced with the gun.

  “You might like to know that I’m a good shot,” Lita lied. “I recommend you turn the hell around right now before I lose my patience.”

  The men glanced at each other, then headed toward her again, their faces the usual chilling blank. Lita only wanted to escape, but she had no choice. She aimed her gun and fired, clipping one of them in the shoulder. Red blossomed over his white shirt as he stumbled, grabbing at the wound.

  “Any closer and I’ll aim for your heart. That was your last chance.” Lita aimed the gun toward the uninjured man. “One… two…”

  Lita had barely started counting before both men had turned on their heels, throwing fearful glances over their shoulders. She waited for a moment or two, surprised it had been so easy.

  She only realized that the gunshots had damaged her hearing when a large fire truck pulled up beside her. She lowered the gun, tucking it out of sight in her clothes.

  A square man of middling height jumped down from the cab. He was dressed in the recognizable long blue-black coat of the Arkham fire company. Lines creased his face with age, though he had a thin beard that dusted a soft chin. He peered around warily and rushed to them, placing himself between them, the fire and the cultists in a protective, pointed way.

  “Priya?” His voice was scratchy from smoke and young sounding. He let out a breath, reaching out to touch her friend’s arm. “I thought that was you. You alright?” He scanned them both eagerly with big, concerned eyes.

  Lita had never met this man, but it was clear Priya knew him well. That made him safe. Lita relaxed, but only marginally, her gun held tight under her clothes.

  “Dean,” Priya sounded relieved, taking a moment to cough some of the smoke from her lungs. “I’m not sure. There’s a huge fire just up the road, and these crazy men are running around shooting guns.”

  “Did you hear that? We better get some help out here. Someone go call the State Police.” Dean tapped on the cab door before turning back to Priya, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Do you want to sit in the truck? What can I do?”

  “We need to leave. It’s not safe,” Lita butted into the conversation. She pointed to some nearby bicycles thrown to the floor. “We can cycle out of here.”

  Dean eyed her, taking in the blood on her clothes, the soot darkening her skin, before nodding. “Yeah, OK. Well, we’re here now, we won’t let anyone past us. You two get home safe, alright, Priya?”

  Priya nodded, patting his hands on her shoulders until he dropped them. “I’ll call you later. You stay safe too, it’s dangerous up there.”

  “Dean’s got us,” a new voice called from inside the truck. The man leaned out of the open door, a huge fire axe in his hands. “We’ll be fine. If we get a move on.”

  Dean nodded, taking a step back. “Right, stay safe. We’ll speak soon.”

  Lita grabbed Priya’s hand, leaving Dean to head back to his firefighting buddies. Lita moved toward the bikes, glancing behind her to see the fire truck driving toward the burning church.

  “They’ll be OK,” Lita reassured her friend. “It’s too public for the cultists to do anything.”

  They had almost made it back to town when Lita dropped off the bicycle, blood dripping from her head wound, her knees trembling. She took a breath, then another, gulping the fresh air into her lungs. Her head really hurt now, and she figured a doctor’s visit was her next step. Once she could get her legs to work again.

  There was a noise beside her. Priya had dropped her bike and lay sprawled on her back, staring up into the midday sky. Her soft breathing turned into a laugh. Soft and low. Relieved. Perhaps a little shocked. Her eyes were wide, but there was a curve to her lips.

  “We made it. Thanks for finding me,” Lita grated out.

  “Idiot.” Priya punched her lightly. “If I hadn’t gone to check on you and found your note I wouldn’t have. What would have happened to you? Huh?”

  Lita sat back on her haunches, gazing up at the bright sun. It warmed her, helping her to feel good despite all her aches and pains. “Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe I could’ve broken that chair. Maybe we’d have all burned together. But we’re here now. That’s good enough.”

  “It’s not good enough. I worry about you and your obsession.” Priya frowned. “At least make sure you’re fully healed before you go back out there. You’ve got weeks-old bruises still.”

  “Fine. I’ll heal,” Lita nodded, smiling as Priya lit up at her agreement. “I don’t want this to happen again.”

  Lita thought of John, of how she’d brought him some small measure of vengeance in killing Sean, the man who had ordered his murder. But what she didn’t mention was the name Umôrdhoth. That the cultists worshipped him. Perhaps she didn’t know anything about him or how to stop him. But Ida Smith the local librarian might. And, if not, Lita would access the Miskatonic University library. She might have won one small victory today, but her war was far from over.

  The Hounds Below

  Josh Reynolds

  …infra canes videte quoniam tu ululabitis…

  Ludvig Prinn, De Vermis Mysteriis

  Holsten navigated the long, sterile corridors of the administration wing of Arkham Sanatorium, his shoes squeaking on the ugly linoleum. The writer walked briskly, with what he hoped was an air of purpose and determination. He shifted his bag from one hand to the other, comforted by the weight of his life’s work.

  Despite appearances, he was nervous. There was no denying that he’d begun to lose hope of ever speaking to Philip Drew. Mintz and a few of the other doctors seemed to regard the man as private property, and it had taken months of glad-handing and outright begging to even be allowed see him – let alone speak to him for any length of time. Even then, he’d had to agree to having a chaperone, as he wasn’t a doctor or even an academic – just a layman, writing a book. Unfortunate, but insurmountable.

  When he found the office he was looking for, the door was already open. “Is that you, Mr Holsten?” a woman’s voice called out from within as he made to knock.

  Holsten, surprised, nodded then, shaking his head at his own idiocy – of course she’d heard him coming – said, “Yes… Doctor Fern
, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s me. I heard your shoes squeaking on the linoleum. Thought it must be you.” A prim red-headed woman, dressed in dark clothes and wearing glasses, stepped out of the office and shut the door behind her. She gave him a chilly smile. “I want you to know up front that I argued against this.”

  Momentarily taken aback, Holsten had no reply. Fern continued, “Philip’s mental state is fragile at best – one wrong word, and he could very likely plunge into an abyss of personality so deep that we would never recover him.”

  “The papers called him feral,” Holsten said.

  “The papers said a lot of things. Most of it was hogwash.”

  “Then he’s not a cannibal?”

  Fern paused. “I don’t care for that term. If you’re asking whether he’s gripped by anthropophagic compulsion, the answer is, unfortunately, yes. But to my knowledge, he has never eaten anyone.”

  “Didn’t he bite off that police officer’s ear?”

  Fern grimaced. “Yes, but he didn’t eat it.” She looked him up and down. “I mean it, Mr Holsten. If I think your questions are out of bounds, I’ll haul you out of his room myself. It’s taken months to even get him temporarily lucid. I won’t have you sensationalizing him like he’s some freak in a travelling circus.”

  Holsten shook his head. “I assure you, I have no intention of hurting him – quite the contrary, in fact. I think the book I’m working on will be of great use in understanding Mr Drew, and those like him.”

  Fern gave a grunt of what Holsten judged to be either disagreement, or disbelief. As if in an attempt to change the subject, she said, “Philip is housed in the secure wing. That’s another reason you need a chaperone – no one without proper credentials gets into the secure wing unescorted.”

  Holsten nodded. He’d found out that much himself in his previous attempts to gain access to Drew. “I thought you said he wasn’t dangerous.”