The Devourer Below

by Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells

  Reginald followed, and in a few minutes they were outside Theodora’s. Reginald looked around. “Funny thing,” he said. “I’d swear I’ve never been here before. Only a few blocks from my house, but I don’t recognize the area at all.” He turned to the dark windows. “Whose place is this? I don’t think they’re home.”

  “She’s home.”

  Peter let himself into the house. A few candles created a path of faint illumination from the hall to the sitting room, where the drapes were drawn to keep the light from leaking into the street.

  “Why are we here?” Reginald asked. “Are you collaborating?”

  “Yes,” said Peter. He walked slowly toward the entrance to the next room, and the heavy curtain he would finally put aside for the first time. That was the Rubicon he had to cross.

  “With whom?”

  Reginald’s insistent questions made him pause, his hand on the curtains, and he did not know if he had the strength to move them. “With Theodora Marlowe,” he said. “From English.”

  “Don’t know her. Did you convince her of your nonsense, or was she already a believer?”

  “She knows how serious the work is.”

  “Wonderful. More crackpots in the humanities. That’s all we need.” Reginald sighed. “Alright, then. Go on. Don’t keep me in suspense. Let’s see your discovery.”

  Reginald’s mockery and his command gave Peter the impulse he needed. He drew the curtain. There was a short hall beyond and, on the immediate right, an open door to the basement stairs. Peter took them, and Reginald followed.

  There was even less light here. They had to take the steps carefully, hands firmly holding the bannister. The descent into the darkness was Peter’s descent into the unknown. The Devoratio had told him something of what to expect, but to read it and to live it were states of knowledge and experience a universe apart. The steps under his feet were stone, not wood, and he thought again of the scraping sounds he had heard on his first visit to Theodora’s. The house felt wrong, as if it were a thing in imperfect disguise, the details of an Arkham home just a little bit off. Mystery enveloped Peter. There was power at its heart, and it was at its heart that he was about to arrive.

  The staircase went down too far.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Reginald, sounding irritated, not afraid. “How deep is Marlowe’s cellar?”

  Deep enough, and dark enough.

  Were those Peter’s thoughts? Or did he hear them whispered?

  He was hearing things now. There were stirrings down below.

  “Is this a gathering of the cracked?” Reginald asked.

  Up above, the door slammed shut.

  “Uhm…” said Reginald, finally sounding uncertain.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs. Lanterns flared suddenly as their covers were removed. Peter stopped breathing when he saw the words of the Devoratio become flesh.

  “What…” Reginald whispered. Now he was afraid.

  The basement was prepared for a ritual. It was almost completely bare, but there was an altar at one end. It was a roughly hewn block of marble, polished smooth by centuries or more of use, and stained dark with blood. Standing around the basement were figures in dark, at least a dozen of them. They had hoods pulled forward, casting their faces in shadow. Peter was just able to recognize Theodora to the right of the altar. The others, he didn’t know.

  Some of them were hunched forward unnaturally. Their limbs were too long, and their mottled-gray fingers ended in dirty claws. They breathed in snorting, gurgling pants, like pigs at the trough.

  Behind the altar, stacked chunks of stone formed a crude throne. A figure in red robes crouched on it. Even on its haunches, it was taller than a man. Its robes were crimson, and it wore a mask fashioned from the skull of a deer. One pallid hand held a staff of gnarled wood, surmounted by a crescent-shaped carving that made Peter think, at once, of runes, of the moon, and of a sickle.

  This was the reality of the words Peter had read in the Devoratio. His head swam, and his pulse beat a deafening rhythm in his ears.

  “What is this?” Reginald demanded, loudly, as if indignation would shield him. He was also shrill with fear.

  “This is where knowledge becomes power,” said Peter. “I’m sorry.”

  The red-robed priest cocked its head, the dark sockets of the skull fixed on Reginald. The priest pointed with its staff. It gibbered with a voice harsh as a dog’s, and thick with phlegm.

  “I’m truly sorry,” Peter said. And he was. It must be done.

  Four of the human cultists stepped forward and grabbed Reginald. They dragged him to the altar and forced him down. They held his arms and legs against the stone. He struggled in their grip. “Peter!” he yelled. “Stop this! Get them to stop!”

  Theodora produced an athame of mirrored obsidian. She cut Reginald’s coat and shirt open and tore the cloth away, exposing his torso.

  The cultists began to chant. Voices human and inhuman formed a hymn that twisted around Peter’s mind like a net of worms. The air began to thrum, as if it might tear, and with it the veil of reality. The verses of the hymn were rot and torn flesh, and its chorus was the coming of a devourer.

  The priest leaned over Reginald. It sniffed and then cackled wetly.

  Peter turned away and covered his ears. He did not want to witness what came next.

  Theodora pulled his arms down gently and handed him the athame. The hilt felt warm and slick. Its carving squirmed in his grip.

  “No,” said Peter.

  “You must,” Theodora whispered. “You see what surrounds us. If we do not seize the power, it will flow through them. We can’t allow that.”

  Peter took a shuddering breath. “No, we can’t.”

  He steeled himself. It must be done.

  Peter walked to the altar and stood over Reginald. The other man was still screaming, but his cries were muffled beneath the force of the chanting.

  The priest hissed and pointed at Peter, and then at Reginald.

  “Peter,” Reginald pleaded. “Why are you doing this?”

  “To save us all from the Devourer. I have to fight fire with fire. And you cannot reform a church from without.”

  The chants rose to a shriek, and Peter brought the point of the athame down hard, silencing Reginald with a single blow. It was easier to follow the priest’s commands than he had expected. He shouted the words of the hymn, the words that the Devoratio could not translate into any human tongue, words he could suddenly pronounce, and know them to be true and strong.

  Peter completed the act of sacrifice, doing what must be done, joining in the ritual with all his heart. He was committed now, and he was glad, and he felt his spirit burn with knowledge. Power surrounded him. It was the foreshadowing of something greater and more terrible to come, and it was power that he had joined now.

  I will control this power one day. I will use it for the good of all.

  The inner voice was faint. It could have been someone else’s echo.

  When the feast began, he did not hesitate. He took and he ate of the body that was given to him.

  Sins In the Blood

  Thomas Parrott

  It was night by the time that Joe Diamond left the Orne Library. All the other readers had gone. The welcoming lamp above the door turned off as he walked away. There were no stars overhead; a ceiling of clouds had swept the sky. A cold gust of wind tugged at his trench coat. Thunder rumbled, and a first drop of chill rain spattered him.

  “Figures,” Joe sighed.

  He pulled his coat tighter around himself and turned the collar up against the wind. His thoughts turned back to the case. Nadia Leandros, an exchange student at Miskatonic University, was plagued by dark visions and spectral harassment. Dismissed by the police as a crank, a mystery person had brought her troubles to his attention. Joe had seen too
much to dismiss the horrors of Arkham out of hand. He had decided to dig deeper.

  Nadia shared a birthmark with a recent murder victim here in town. Researching that had brought him to Orne Library, and the librarian Daisy Walker had been able to guide him onward from there. The tale she unveiled was a wild one. The mark had quite a history, dating all the way back to Ancient Greece and a time of myth. Nadia, it seemed, might be a descendant of Princess Ariadne of Crete, and inheritor of a dangerous pact made with a real nightmare.

  Umôrdhoth, the Devourer Below.

  It was not Joe’s first encounter with this eldritch monstrosity. A cult that served it had been tied to a recent spate of violence, and led to a night of terrors he’d just as soon forget. If he had been fortunate, that would have been the last they’d see of the ancient menace. Luck had never been his strong suit.

  A sound pulled Joe from his thoughts. The rain had picked up to a steady, unpleasant drizzle. It draped the world in a muffling, gray veil. There had been something else, though. Footsteps? He paused with a frown and glanced over his shoulder. Had something moved back there? It was hard to be certain in the dark.

  He hurried onward, picking up the pace. He would stop into his room at Ma’s boarding house. A change of clothes might be in order by that point, and even if not, an umbrella would be welcome. There was a shared telephone he could use there, too. He needed to contact Nadia and convince her to meet him at…

  There it was again. He was sure of it this time: the clack of a heavy tread against the cobblestones. Someone wearing hobnailed boots, perhaps. Or, his mind put forward in an unwelcome interjection, something with iron-shod hooves. Something like the monstrous cult priest from the tale Miss Walker had found.

  Joe’s thoughts raced. It might be nothing. He did not own the streets of Arkham, after all. Something twisting in his gut demanded a more paranoid interpretation, however. If the Devourer Below wanted Nadia, it would not appreciate an incorrigible meddler like him getting involved. Might it have dispatched someone – or something – to take him off the board as a precaution?

  He took a sharp turn down the first side street that came up on his right. A few steps into the alley and he turned to face the entrance with his left side. Joe pulled one of his Colt 1911s from the shoulder holster under his coat. He kept the weapon concealed by his body for the moment. If it was an innocent bystander he’d only make a headache for himself drawing down on them. If it wasn’t…

  Joe could hear them clearly. Tackety footsteps following in his wake. The gait seemed wrong for a human being. Would a person take such long steps? He knew all too well that such things weren’t impossible. They were close now. He focused on keeping his breath steady.

  Silence.

  Joe frowned. Unless his ears betrayed him, his pursuer had stopped mere feet short of the alley. Did they suspect an ambush? Had he played his hand too obviously? He flexed his fingers around the grip of his pistol. He could feel sweat on the back of his neck despite the chill in the air.

  He struggled to remain patient, but there was only the sound of the rain pattering all around and the pounding of his own heart. That twist in his gut curdled into a cauldron of nausea. He couldn’t take it anymore. Joe swept out of the alley, weapon raised, to confront his follower.

  There was nothing. The street and sidewalk were both empty.

  “You’re going crazy, Diamond,” he whispered to himself.

  A sound overhead snatched his eyes upward. A gust of wind or the beat of wings. Something even darker than the overcast sky swept in a circle far above, before turning to the west. Joe blinked, and it was gone.

  Could have been a bat, he told himself. Just a massive bat. Sometimes perspective made size hard to gauge, right? He huffed out a sigh and holstered his pistol again. Ma’s wasn’t far now. It would be good to get out of the rain.

  It was coming down in a full pour by the time he reached the boarding house. A few lights shone in the upstairs rooms, other lodgers going about their lives. Joe stepped under the overhang at the front door with heartfelt relief. He took his fedora off and shook rain off it to the side, before knocking the mud from his boots. Only then did he proceed inside.

  The warmth of the common room enveloped Joe like a hug. The house was old and thoroughly lived in. It escaped being run down only via the constant efforts of Ma and any boarders who made the mistake of looking bored. Footsteps were audible overhead, and low chatter came from all directions. There was a comfortable humanity to the hubbub. He took a deep breath.

  “Got yourself caught in a downpour, Mr Diamond?”

  Joe turned to face Ma. She was sitting over by the radiator with some knitting in her lap. Her wrinkled hands kept the needles busy as she looked him over with a measuring eye. A faint furrow of her brow conveyed a dollop of disapproval.

  “Afraid I did, ma’am.” Joe bowed his head in quick apology. “Hate to track some wet into your home here. Gonna head right upstairs and get myself cleaned up.”

  Ma sniffed. “See that you do.” She gestured with a needle towards the kitchen. “Afraid you missed dinner. You know the rule: if you’re not at the table, you don’t get fed.”

  Joe clicked his tongue regretfully. “Hate to hear that. Work kept me real late today.”

  “Something to be said for hard work,” she allowed. “Also something to be said for being punctual.”

  “Very true.” A thought occurred to Joe. He phrased it carefully. “Wonder if I could ask your help, since I missed dinner and all? Nothing troublesome, I’d just like to borrow the car so that I could stop by Velma’s. I’d walk, but the rain…”

  The needles stopped as Ma considered. “Suppose I could see my way to letting you do that. Keys are–”

  “On the peg in the kitchen,” Joe finished. He grinned. “Thanks, Ma. You’re an angel.”

  She sniffed again. “Don’t let it become a habit, Mr Diamond.”

  He held up a three-finger salute. “It won’t. Scout’s honor.”

  Ma turned her attention back to her knitting. “Have a good evening.”

  “You too, ma’am.”

  Joe hurried up the stairs towards his room. A plan was already forming in his mind. He’d call Velma’s first and talk to Agnes, to make sure she was willing to help. From there he’d try to get in touch with Nadia and ask her to meet with them. Given that she didn’t know him from Adam, that might be a tough sell. Hopefully, the public location would make her feel more comfortable.

  He pushed the door to his room open. It was dark inside. A misty gust caught him in the face. The window was open, letting the rain-damp wind in. Joe frowned. He hadn’t–

  Something barreled into him at full speed. The attack caught him low and lifted him up off his feet. He smashed into the wall, driving the air from his lungs in a painful gasp. Stars exploded in front of his eyes. The boarder on the other side of the wall pounded back angrily.

  Joe caught hold of his attacker in a desperate grip around the neck. Both of them toppled to the ground. He could catch only blurry glimpses of his foe in the dark. They were robed and masked. Something glinted in their right hand – a knife. It swept towards his face and he caught that arm by the wrist to hold it off.

  Joe swung with his right hand balled up into a fist. He dealt a series of fierce blows around his attacker’s head and shoulders. The shadowy figure grunted and some of the strength went out of their knife hand. Joe seized the chance to smash it against the bottom board of the bed. One, two, three times, and on the third the knife came loose and dropped to the floor.

  His opponent recovered with a snarl. They dealt him a series of painful body blows. The layers of his coat and clothes muffled the impacts a little. Something gave in his chest with a crisp snap and pain pulsed through him. Joe elbowed his attacker in the neck to push them back, and went for one of the guns under his jacket.

  His efforts
earned him a headbutt to the face. It snapped his skull back into the floor with a dull thud. His world went white for a moment. When his vision cleared, his foe was winding back for a punch down towards his nose. Joe jerked his head out of the way at the last second, and knuckles met hardwood with a crunch. The masked figure let out a low groan of pain and reeled back, clutching at their hand.

  A shine caught Joe’s eye: the knife. He lunged and grabbed the blade. When he came back around, the figure was charging him again. Joe rolled out of the way and lashed out. The dagger sank home into his foe’s right thigh until metal crunched into bone. His assailant gave a muffled screech of agony. His neighbor pounded the wall again angrily. If this went on much longer, he was going to draw attention from others. That would bring suspicion he didn’t need.

  The attacker staggered away, ripping the knife from the wound. The two of them glared at each other across the space of the room.

  “Devourer take you,” rasped the masked person. “You’re already dead, detective. You just don’t know it yet.”

  They hurled themselves at the window. Joe lunged to try and catch hold of them, keep them from escaping. He came up just short, and the shadowy figure plunged out of the opening. Joe leaned out the window and watched them pick themselves up painfully. They limped away into the night, soon lost in the darkness.

  Joe shut the window firmly. The lock on it was broken along rough lines, as though it had been frozen and hit with a hammer. He sat down on the foot of the bed and let loose a deep sigh. He regretted it instantly, the breath making his chest ache. His head was already beginning to beat a painful tattoo from the hits he’d taken.

  “You know you’re on the right track when someone’s trying to kill you,” he told himself. It was an encouraging sign, if not exactly a comforting one.

  There was no time to rest. Joe dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the small, shared bathroom. The mirror showed an unwelcome but familiar sight. His lip was split and there was a cut above his eyebrow. Half his face would be purple by morning, and he’d broken a rib if he was any judge.