The Book of Cthulhu

by Neil Gaiman

  She pressed her breasts against my chest and began rubbing herself against me. I touched her hips, but withdrew my hand, quickly. There was something unpleasant about the texture of her skin.

  I lifted a hand, pulling at her veil.

  But she had no face. It was only a yellow blur.

  When I woke up, it was nearly nine and I was late for my meeting with the editor of the arts and culture magazine. I turned in my copy and left quickly. I didn’t feel well. I went home, laid down, and spent most of the day dozing in front of the television set. I looked at my steno pad and the lined, yellow pages reminded me of leprous skin. I didn’t do much writing that afternoon.

  Thursday evening I returned to El Tabu.

  Journalists know when they’ve caught the scent of a good story. It’s a sixth sense, learning to distinguish the golden nuggets amongst the pebbles. I knew I had a nugget. I just couldn’t see it yet.

  This time the sequence took place in a banquet hall, with all the guests wearing masks and sitting naked. Several of the actors were unsuitable for such a scene, with obvious physical flaws, including scars. A few of them looked filthy, as though they had not bathed in several weeks. The emperor and the dark-haired woman next to him were the only ones not wearing masks. They both stared rigidly ahead, as the guests began to copulate on the floor.

  The woman whispered something to the emperor. He nodded.

  This time it was not a flash frame. We were treated to a full minute of footage showing the woman in the yellow dress, the fan held in front of her face, yellow curtains billowing behind her and allowing us a glimpse of a long hallway full of pillars. The woman crooked a finger towards the audience, as if calling for us.

  The film switched back to the banquet scene where the young woman sitting next to the emperor had collapsed. Slaves were trying to revive her, but her tongue poked out of her mouth grotesquely. The soundtrack, with its moans and sighs, was completely unsuited for this scene.

  The lights went on. I listened carefully, trying to catch what Zozoya said. It sounded like he was chanting. The congregation chanted with him. I noticed it was a larger group. Perhaps two hundred people, singing.

  I grabbed my jacket and stepped out.

  Life was too short to waste it on exploitation flicks and weirdos.

  ∇

  Three days later, I had another nightmare.

  Light, gentle fingertips fell on my temples, then trickled down my face, neck and chest. Nails raked my arms. I woke to see the woman with the yellow veil. She was on her knees.

  She showed me her vulva, spreading it open with her fingers. Yellow, like her skin. An awful, sickly yellow. She pressed her hands, which seemed oily to the touch, against my chest.

  I woke up, rushed to the bathroom and vomited.

  ∇

  In the morning, I cracked a couple of eggs. I stared at the bright yellow yolks, then tossed them down the drain.

  I spent most of the morning sitting in the living room, shuffling papers and going over my notes for an arts and culture article. Every once in a while I glanced at the manila folder containing my research on El Tabu. The beige envelope seemed positively yellow. I tossed the whole thing down the garbage chute.

  ∇

  Wednesday I dreamt about her again. When I woke up, I could barely button my shirt. I was supposed to go pick up a check for my arts and culture story, but when I reached a busy intersection I caught sight of all the yellow taxis rolling down the street. They resembled lithe scarabs.

  A stall had sunflowers for sale. I turned around and rushed back to my apartment.

  I sat in front of the television set, shivering.

  I’m not sure at what time I fell asleep, but in my dream she was gnawing my chest. I woke up at once, screaming.

  I shuffled through the apartment, desperately looking for my cigarettes. I grabbed my bag pack, all its contents stumbling onto the floor. My tape recorder bounced against the couch. The play button went on.

  I grabbed a cigarette, heard the whirring of the recorder and then a sound.

  It was the movie’s soundtrack. It must have been recording the last time I was there.

  I was about to switch it off when I heard something.

  The cigarette fell from my mouth.

  ∇

  Sneaking into El Tabu was not hard. Bums planning on spending the night there did it all the time. I sat in the balcony, my hands on my bag pack.

  Below me, I counted some three hundred viewers.

  The movie began to play. The emperor rode in an open litter. He was headed to a funeral. The funeral of the black-haired woman. It was a procession. Men held torches to light the way. One could glimpse men and women copulating in the background, behind the rows of slaves with the torches. If you looked carefully, you might see that some of the people writhing on the floor were not making love to anything human.

  The emperor rode in his litter and did not see any of this. The camera pulled back to show he was not alone. There was a woman with him. She wore a yellow gown. She began taking off her gown, lifting her veil. It was yellow; the shade of a bright flame.

  He looked away from her.

  As did I.

  I lit a match.

  ∇

  I woke up late the next day, to the insistent ringing of the phone.

  I picked it up and rested my back against the wall.

  It was the lady from the Cineteca Nacional. She said she had that information about that Italian film I had been looking for. It was called Nero’s Last Days. They had a print in the vault.

  ∇

  On March 24, 1982, a great fire destroyed 99 percent of the film archives of the Cineteca Nacional. One of the vaults alone kept 2,000 prints made out of nitrocellulose. It took the firemen sixteen hours to put the whole thing out.

  As for El Tabu, I already told you about it: they made the site into condos after twenty years of the empty, charred lot sitting there.

  ∇

  You are wondering why. I’ll tell you why. It was the sound recording. The tape had caught what my ears could not hear: the real audio track of the movie. The voice track.

  It’s hard to describe.

  The sound was yellow. A bright, noxious yellow.

  Festering yellow. The sound of withered teeth scraping against flesh. Of pustules bursting open. Diseased. Hungry.

  The voice, yellow, speaking to the audience. Telling it things. Asking for things. Yellow limbs and yellow lips, and the yellow maw, the voracious voice that should never have spoken at all.

  The things it asked for.

  Insatiable. Yellow.

  Warning signs are yellow.

  I paid attention to the warning.

  ∇

  I did get that job at the arts and culture magazine. I’ve been associate editor for five years now, but some things never change. I carry my bag pack everywhere, never been a briefcase man. I still smoke a pack a day. Same brand. Still use matches.

  Anyway, I’ve got a very important screening. The Cineteca Nacional is doing a retrospective of 1970s cinema. They have some great Mexican movies. Also some obscure European flicks. There’s a rare print that was just discovered a few months ago; part of the film collection of Enrique Zozoya’s widow, who was an avid collector of European movies. It was thought lost years ago.

  It’s called Nero’s Last Days.

  Since 1982, the Cineteca Nacional has gotten more high-tech, with neat features like its temperature controlled vaults. But since 1982 I’ve learned a thing or two about chemistry.

  It’ll take the firemen more than sixteen hours to put it out.

  ∇

  Some Buried Memory

  W. H. Pugmire

  Charlotte Hund stood before the full-length mirror in its great gilded frame and examined herself. In the palsied yellow light of the enormous room she could not see her reflection clearly; she could just make out the rough texture of her large face, the verdant eyes, the uneven tusks of xanthic ivory behind t
he bloated lips. Raising a hand, she smoothed the nest of hairs that sprouted from one corner of her mouth, then scratched her face with thick nails. “Is it not true, sir, that I am the ugliest woman in this city?”

  “Au monde, madame, au monde,” Sebastian Melmoth assured her, to which she smiled.

  “I often think that it was for this ugliness that I was shunned in Boston and not my criminal reputation.”

  Her host sucked on his opium-tainted cigarette. When he exhaled, he fancied that the smoke formed itself suggestively before his face. “You must tell me of your crime, Miss Hund,” he told her as he admired the scarab ring on one fat finger. “You are certainly criminally grotesque; but ugliness is a crime of nature, not a felon of choice. Tell me the tale of your trespass, and drench your telling it with such rich description that I may fully imagine it.” He sucked once more at his bit of nacotia and closed his eyes.

  Charlotte stepped away from the mirror and moved to one of the room’s small stained-glass windows. “To speak of my sin would mean to reveal my life, and there isn’t much to tell. I do not know my parentage, for I was found.”

  “Found?”

  She shrugged. “So I was eventually told, by my grandmother, who raised me. She would call me her ‘fond foundling,’ which I liked. Grandmother was an eccentric Boston witch. She taught me divination, and together we discovered my talent for finding long-buried treasure.” Turning away from the window, Charlotte walked to a table and examined the beautifully crafted miniature sphinx that sat upon it. “It’s amazing, the things one finds buried beneath the ground. I could sniff these things, and these nails were fashioned for digging. I especially loved the old burying grounds of New England. I remember one curious early morning, when grandmother hinted that she knew more about my background than she was wont to let on; for as we burrowed beside one venerable tree, she whispered that my kinfolk dwelt beneath that chilly sod.”

  “How esoteric.”

  “We found quite a treasure that morning. Together, over time, we collected quite a pile of buried treasure. She taught me how to weave spells, and together we would dance naked beneath the autumn moon. As I grew older, my ugliness increased, and society taught me that its heart is cruel. I began to shun humanity, to exist in the hours when most were asleep. My own slumber was haunted by curious dreams of dark figures in black spaces. I would awaken, at times, in curious places, with booty in my embrace but no memory of where I had been or with what I had occupied my time. I cannot clearly recall the morning I was found, with mud on my hands and an amazing taste in my mouth. Whatever I had done, it earned me a new home in a state hospital. I was lunatic at first, screaming to be with my grandmother. Over the years I grew more settled. I studied the sane and began to ape their ways. I discovered a great fondness for literature, and my grandmother would bring me wonderful books. The news of her death was a cruel blow, but I endured, and eventually won my release. Among my belongings was a key to grandmother’s house, now mine; it was at the house that I found her letter, from which I learned of the wealth that she had left me, and that told me of this city of Gershom, where I would find exile.”

  “For which we are the richer,” Sebastian told her. “I’m exceptionally fond of the gift of this ring. Its ancient metal, slipped so snugly around my flesh, feels very old indeed. Please tell me that you found it during one of your excavations, adorning the finger bone of some long-interred fellow. That would give me such delicious dreams.”

  “I’m happy that you like it. And in exchange, you will keep your promise.”

  “Ah, a journey to our cemetery isle. I have visited it but once; so much nature hurts my eyes, and the leaves are particularly bright at this autumnal time.”

  “I’m anxious to see it in reality. Your beautiful verbal portrait of it has danced in my imagination. I can well believe that you were once a poet. Come, take my arm and let us leave this smoky chamber. I’m in need of moonlight. We’ll stroll beneath its glow and you can tell me what brought you to this remarkable city.”

  Linking arms, they vacated the building. The night was very still and very silent. As they walked past factories and old brownstones, Sebastian Melmoth began to tell his tale. “I came to Gershom because of what the world calls sin. I came because I heard that this is a godless town, and without god there can be no fall from grace. I confess that I miss sin horribly. It gives such texture to existence. This spectral place has a way of luring lost souls to its confines. I find it a comfortable nether world. One meets such interesting sorts. As for transgression, well, I am hopeful that in time I shall find a new form of sin. And yet, the longer I remain in this city, the more intense my sensations become, innocent as they are. Gershom teases the brain with singular dreaming, and in such visions we find new forms of thought and novel ways in which to express innovative ideas. Ah, but here we are at our destination.”

  He led her onto a pier, and she saw the means of their transportation. “Oh my,” she moaned.

  “No, no. This teakwood raft is far sturdier than it looks, and the couch, though tiny, is quite comfortable. This small gap between pier and raft is easily stepped over. You see how even a heavy fellow like me can manage it. Take my hand and—voila! No, you sit on the couch. I shall stand and hold onto this pole. This pale young creature will be our Charon.”

  The ugly woman sat on the cushioned seat and watched as the child who was their navigator unwound the craft’s brittle sail; and she wondered what was the good of such a canvas, on this windless night. Her interlocutor bent so as to whisper at her ear. “The poor child suffers from poliomyelitis or some such ailment. His limbs are quite curved. I like the way he walks, like some pathetic puppet. He will love you for any pennies you may throw his way. I seem to have forgotten my purse.”

  Charlotte reached into her pocket and produced a silver coin. Bowing to her, the child took the coin and pressed it against his forehead. His wide eyes looked past his wayfarers, into eventide, and when he began to sing the sound of his voice caused a chill to tingle Sebastian’s spine. Charlotte listened to the wind that rose above the water. The raft began to move away from land, toward mist. That cloud of liquid air kissed the woman with beads of moisture, which she brushed away from her face with a rough hand. At last the mist began to thin, and Charlotte could see the mass of land that was their terminus. Eerily, Sebastian Melmoth began to whistle.

  “Why do you make that sound, monsieur?”

  “Because I am afraid.” The winds extinguished, and yet the raft continued to move toward the island, as if pulled to it by some force. “The Isle of Moira,” Sebastian continued, “draped in darkness. Her sand aches for the touch of our hot naked feet. She would drink our vitality with those mouths that are her barrows and her pits. Ah, and there—do you see her? Our desolate receptionist.”

  Charlotte peered at the place of stone steps toward which their craft sailed, and saw the grim figure that stood like some obsidian statue. The raft lodged itself perfectly against the pitted platform of the lowest step. Kicking off his shoes, the child limped toward the waiting figure and offered it his hand. Swiftly, the creature lowered itself until its cowled head was in alignment with the child’s. The infant moved his mouth, as if whispering secrets. A dark face parted its lips and fed upon the lame boy’s living breath. As the child began to shudder, the woman took him in her arms.

  Sebastian removed his slippers and indicated to Charlotte that she should discard her shoes. He tried not to gape at the sight of her bestial feet, which were far more feral than her ungainly hands. Offering assistance, he helped her from the raft, onto the weathered stone steps. They approached the woman and her captive. Charlotte watched the dusky hand that loosened the lad’s shirt and manipulated the flesh nearest the child’s heart.

  Sebastian’s musical voice began to pipe. “Mistress Atropos, may I present Miss Charlotte Hund, of Boston? She has come to dance naked beneath your moon.”

  The black woman chuckled as she rose, not relinquishing her
hold on the child. “You will want to climb the highest hill, where the wind is exquisitely musical among the numbered sarcophagi. You know the place, Melmoth; you capered there once yourself.”

  “In one of my Greek moments, yes. I was much younger then. And far less innocent. But we shall have to ascend slowly. These thick old limbs are no longer in fine fettle. Do release the child, Mistress, that he may playfully lead the way.”

  The woman spread her arms and the child hobbled forward, to Charlotte, whose hand he held. Sebastian watched as they began to climb the upward path, and then he touched his brow to the Mistress and followed his friend. The moon was as orange as many of the decorative leaves, and mauve shadows hovered behind the many trees and shrubs. Sebastian did not like the silence of the place; he could hear too loudly his labored breathing. Now and then, in places of deep shadow, he sensed that he was watched by shapes in the night. He followed the path, past tombs and angels and obelisks, watching the two before him. He saw the child suddenly stop and place a tiny hand to its heart. Stopping, Sebastian produced a gilded case, from which he snatched a cigarette.

  “The child has been too active, too excited,” Charlotte concluded as she folded her arms around the boy. “His heart is racing and he burns with fever.”

  “Yes, he suffers from that dread contagion called Life. But we are almost there, and he may rest upon one of the paws of the great beast. Shall I carry you, boy? Would you like a cigarette?”

  Ignoring the man, the silent child took one of Charlotte’s hands and continued to lead the way. They reached the crest, and Charlotte gazed in admiration at the moon-drenched colossus. She and the child watched as Sebastian approached the gigantic stone Sphynx, before which he raised his hands and snapped his fingers. His high voice hummed an ancient tune, and he smiled as Charlotte joined him in the danse. Happily, the lame child began to move with them, his crooked feet moving in imitation of the woman’s hoofs. They moved beneath the moon for quite a while, until finally the child tripped and fell, clutching again at his chest. Charlotte dropped beside him and smoothed his brow with her rude hand. Sebastian watched as her expression altered, as she lowered her face to the earth and began to snuffle.