MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu

by Chris Mikesell

  Worst case scenario, it was empty—which didn’t make sense with the lights on—and he’d have shelter against the frigid wind. The thought occurred that perhaps it was a trap set by thieves or even depraved serial killers who lurked inside, hungry for his wallet or his blood, but he instantly dismissed it. Just because he was a writer didn’t mean he had to let wild fantasies run away with him; he was a science fiction author, for cripes sake, not a horror writer.

  With that in mind, he moved towards the apparently empty diner.

  AS HE STEPPED ONTO THE ROAD, a chillingly familiar sensation pulsed

  through his body. He wavered there, on the highway’s edge, staring at the empty but lit diner, the barest whispers lingering in his ears, one in particular, an alien tongue with one word, perhaps a name, standing out . . .

  Cthulhu.

  He stood there, his foot suspended ridiculously in the air like a string puppet, as more of the strange words spilled through his mind.

  Cthulhu . . . Cthulhu R’lyeh.

  He tipped his head, listening intently; part of him straining to hear the dread whisper, convinced in a surreal way it was important, vital, even, that he understand its meaning.

  Wgah’nagl fhtagn!

  The words faded, as well as the strange, dreadful urging, and he was disgusted to find himself so hesitant. “What the hell?” he muttered. “This is ridiculous. I’m tired, sore, and probably have a mild concussion.” And maybe losing it, a small voice added primly.

  And still he listened, but now there was nothing, save the empty moaning of a winter’s wind.

  He snorted in self-disgust and dropped his foot down, trotting across the empty highway—remembering to look both ways despite its barrenness— and towards the empty diner.

  FOR SEVERAL SECONDS after the wooden door screeched shut behind him, Andrew stood in the middle of the diner, the silence profound, almost tangible. All the lights blazed with homely warmth, but in eerie concert with his worst fears, no one was behind the counter, busing tables, or sweeping the floors.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” he winced at how squeaky he sounded and swallowed, injecting a heartier tone as he bellowed, “Got a paying customer out here, Al.”

  Nothing but silence. Perhaps most disturbing was its quality; there was no echo, as if he’d spoken into a vacuum that hungrily lapped up his voice. It made the diner feel like the ultimate terminus—even sound was swallowed up here.

  He passed a cursory glance around its interior, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. A chipped Formica-topped counter ran the diner’s length on one side; dull, faded red “pleather” booths on the other. Along the counter sat evenly spaced stools with the trademark red, round cushions that looked like gigantic push-buttons on a toy radio, and behind the counter was a narrow window leading to the kitchen beyond, through which a short order cook could slide dinner orders, presumably ringing a bell and barking out the order in gruff, clichéd fashion.

  He stood on his tiptoes, peering through the rectangular window for a glimpse of the kitchen beyond, but he couldn’t make out anything past a silver row of what he assumed were heavy-duty refrigerators and a wide variety of utensils hanging on the far wall.

  As he turned towards the entrance, he spied an old cash register on a podium next to the door, but when he craned his neck, he saw the cash drawer hanging out, empty.

  “Hmph,” he grunted, “looks like the last customer cashed out awhile ago.” The sarcastic quip fell flat in the silence, and he realized with a quiet sense of horror the sentiment wasn’t funny at all.

  He sighed pensively, and took a few circular steps, continuing his investigation. He’d dined in plenty of these joints in the early years before hitting literary success. He remembered road trips with his college buddies; as well as two years worth of weekends spent eating in similar establishments while chasing down feature articles for Hip Art magazine—only for a pittance and contributor’s copies, but that had been a breath of fresh air from teaching junior high English at a private school in New York City. On those weekend story hunts, he’d sat at innumerable counters; writing in his notebook, scribbling ideas for his first novel, ignoring his return to junior high hell on Monday morning.

  He especially remembered one diner just outside of Philadelphia, the last stop on the book tour for his first novel, Shades of Darkness. He and Martin had sat at the counter, eating burgers and horribly greasy but absolutely wonderful steak fries. The book tour was a moderate success; no one mistook him for Stephen King but no one booed either. He hawked a considerable number of his books, made some good contacts—an all around good time.

  The warmth of the memory took over, momentarily allowing him escape the freakishly empty diner. He remembered sitting at the counter of this Philadelphian diner, improbably called Ma’s Apple Pie, chatting with Martin, enjoying the ending of their successful tour, when suddenly he realized that unlike his two years on the road with Hip Art, he’d never have to return to the cramped halls of junior high academia again; at least not any time soon.

  With his royalties, he’d paid off most of his school loans and other debts. The novel’s numbers were consistent, promising a few more royalty checks and fostering discussion about a potential mass market paperback release in a year. He’d spent his earnings modestly, depositing most into his savings. He could settle back, work with Martin on a new project he was thinking about; perhaps look at graduate school options—anything he wanted.

  He remembered discussing his plans with Martin when the owner of the establishment—ironically enough, a large, forty-year old barrel-chested man named Hank, not Ma—approached them from behind the counter and rumbled, “Get ya dessert?”

  Martin just smiled and shook his head, Andrew saying, “No, thanks—it was fantastic. I’m not sure I could fit it in, honestly.”

  The large, bald man accepted the compliment with brusque aplomb, nodding once. Instead of drifting back to check on other customers, he asked gruffly, “Couldn’t ‘elp over-hearin’ you fellas talkin’.” He nodded at Andrew, drawling, “You a writer-fella?”

  Writer-fella. Even with its provincial trappings, Andrew couldn’t help but smile like a mindless idiot. Damn, he thought to himself, I guess so. Out loud, he replied, “I am—just finished my first book tour, and I’m heading to my hometown to speak at my alma mater’s graduation.”

  Hank grunted. “Where’dja grow up?”

  “Clifton Heights, New York. It’s in Adirondack Park, near White Face Mountain.”

  The owner grunted again, his head bobbing. “You used to be country folk?” Andrew smiled; memories of running through the forest causing mischief,

  diving off his best friend’s lakeside dock, and lazy afternoons fishing, catching nothing but sunburns and bug bites for their troubles. “Yes sir; I was.”

  “Thought so. I heard you boys talking about novels when ya first sat down; I expected ya to be a pain in my ass.” He paused, swiped the counter with his dingy towel, and pronounced confidently, “Yer not, though—seem like stand-up guys.”

  Andrew smiled, pleasantly touched. “Not a pain in the ass,” he remarked with good humor, “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about me.”

  Martin chuckled as he sipped his coffee. “Don’t look at me,” he murmured, “you’ve always been a pain in my ass.”

  Andrew smiled, lightly popping him in the shoulder. He looked back at

  Hank, and his eyes lit up. “Hey Hank, you read much?”

  The big man shrugged, saying, “Yeah, guess so. I talk rough; but that’s

  ‘cause of the redneck in me; that and I never could afford college. I read, though.”

  Andrew grabbed the satchel sitting on the stool next to him, unzipped it, and rummaged through its contents. “What do you read, Hank?” he asked with a smile, “Westerns? Murder Mysteries? I trust not Danielle Steele?”

  Hank shook his head emphatically, smiling. “No sir. Got it right t’ first time; I grew up on Louis L’Amour an
’ Dashall Hammit. Like Mario Puzo, too.”

  Andrew grunted when he finally found his prize, and pulled from his bag a black and white hardcover book; a picture of an adolescent’s shadowed profile gracing the cover. “Listen Hank, this was one of the best meals I’ve ever had, and you’re a pretty stand-up guy yourself.” he held out the novel to the short-order cook, “I’d like you to have this. It’s my last copy, and though it’s not L’Amour, Puzo, or Hammit, I think you’ll find enough action in here to suit you.”

  Hank smiled; it was confirmed. They were stand-up fellows after all, and not stuck-up pains in the asses. “That’s good of ya. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.”

  “Here,” Andrew offered, grabbing a pen from his shirt pocket, “let me sign it for you.” He opened the book to the first page and dictated while he wrote, “To Hank—best cook in Pennsylvania, who called me ‘not a pain in the ass’.” He signed the name with a flourish, and handed the book back to the cook

  Hank accepted it almost reverently. “That’s awfully good of ya, sir.” He looked at the book with a grin of appreciation, and then said, “You come back through anytime ya want, dinner’s on the house.” He nodded, tucked the book under his arm, and moved towards his other guests.

  In the abandoned midnight diner, Andrew was still reminiscing on the memory when his eyes fell on the hardcover book sitting on the empty Formica counter.

  HIS HEART FROZE. It wasn’t really a book; only looked like that in the dimness.

  He frowned, glancing around. It was getting dim, which was odd, because moments ago the diner blazed with light. He realized with cold shock it was much darker than it had been minutes before.

  He looked back warily at the book on the counter.

  No, that’s stupid, he argued, it’s not a book; it’s an account register or something like that, but it’s not a book—no way.

  As he stepped tentatively closer to the counter, what he saw was undeniable: the object was just the right size for a hardcover novel, and the dimming light glinted off its glossy-black jacket.

  He couldn’t breathe. His stubborn mind struggled to deny the truth, insisting it’s a trick of the light, but as he moved closer, his unbelieving eyes saw an adolescent boy’s gray profile, features shrouded by darkness, and printed across the bottom was: Andrew Slater.

  The story’s main protagonist, Michael Lockenstein, was an autistic savant whose prophetic visions had become entangled in a serial murder case. Hence the book’s title; Shades of Darkness; because it described the different shades of darkness the boy had endured his entire life.

  His first novel, it had been deeply personal—based on an autistic boy he’d known back home named Michael Hazelton—and while he’d written it, he’d truly felt alive, as though he was doing something important, something real. They had enjoyed unbelievable experiences, his friends and Michael, and though he’d enjoyed writing his other novels well enough, he hadn’t felt the same since—since his writing was making a difference.

  He lifted a trembling hand, and with an odd combination of loathing and wanting, reached out and flicked the cover of the book open, revealing the inscription, To Hank—best cook in Pennsylvania, who called me ‘not a pain in the ass’, in his handwriting.

  He jerked back, hissing, “What the hell?”

  “That was the only time you used your gift as you were meant to.”

  Andrew spun awkwardly, almost catching his foot on a stool-leg and tripping. Though normal, the voice conjured up the most frightening images possible—a tattered, blood-soaked serial murder with an axe, some crazed highway thief who didn’t mind torturing him sadistically before robbing him, or worse, something leathery, covered in mucus; sinewy tentacles undulating in the dark, whispering in a voice so inhuman it was maddening.

  Ph’nglui mglw’nafh, Cthulhu R’lyeh, wgah’nagl fhtagn!

  What he saw, however, didn’t match his horrible fantasies; it was rather mundane, which in itself was unnerving. Standing ten feet from him was a teen-age boy, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with a checkered red and black flannel over it. He wore an open winter jacket, and his feet were shod with battered, mud-splattered Nikes. The boy’s hands were jammed into his pockets; unruly brown hair spilled across his forehead, and clear blue eyes pierced Andrew with a disconcerting stare.

  “Who are you, kid?” Andrew rasped, too vexed to be polite.

  The boy remained silent for several seconds, staring at him with an impervious look, until he said in an admonishing tone, “You know who I am—or at least, you should.”

  The situation was too bizarre for Andrew; empty diner on an empty highway, a book that couldn’t be there, this boy glaring at him like he was a wet-nosed little brat, those voices lingering at his mind’s edge. He shook his head and snapped, “Hell I do, kid, and I don’t care. I gotta get out of here and flag down a cop or something.”

  He took one step forward, and suddenly his chest burned horribly, a phantom knife twisting in his gut, causing him to double over in pain as he convulsed spasmodically. Something terrible pulsed through him, jolting him to the bone, and trembled at the edge of vomiting all over himself. It was over in seconds that felt like lifetimes, and he collapsed to his knees, gagging, drooling through clenched teeth.

  “You don’t understand,” the boy said mildly. “There are no police out there; no cars to flag down. We’re alone; you, I, and the Other.”

  Andrew felt insanity creeping along the edge of his senses. He looked up at the strange boy, croaking in irrational fear, “Where are we? What is this place?”

  The boy shrugged and looked away nonchalantly, as if the matter was trivial. “An in-between place; a crack between worlds.” He looked back at him thoughtfully. “A way station of sorts.”

  Andrew hated his next words, but the crawling insanity slowly edged him closer to hysteria. “Is this hell?” he gasped.

  The boy’s eyes hardened, something inexplicably old and ancient lingering behind them. “It doesn’t compare,” he pronounced coolly, “especially to someone who doesn’t believe hell exists.”

  Sadly, petulant sarcasm was his only defense. “I used to teach junior high English,” Andrew sneered, “I’m pretty familiar with the concept.”

  As if in punishment, the burning sensation returned, along with the body-spasm. After the seizure released him, he collapsed, drooling freely, saliva pooling on the linoleum floor like that of an old Basset Hound he’d once had.

  Between ragged gasps, lying on the floor, propped up on his knees and elbows, Andrew choked, “Am I dead?”

  The boy drew himself up, clasped his hands behind him as a lecturing professor might. “No, not yet.”

  Andrew shouted as another muscle-shaking jolt passed through him. “You’re here because you need to choose.”

  Andrew sat back on his haunches, grabbing the feeble flame of his ire, fanning it desperately. “Choice; what choice? What the hell are you talking about?” He breathed in deeply; amazingly enough, the shock didn’t return. He wiped his mouth with his forearm—ever mindful he was ruining a Brooks Brothers suit—and snapped, “What is this? Some crappy, low budget version of The Christmas Carole?”

  The boy stopped pacing and all ire, sarcasm, and petulance died under his intense gaze. “You’re here to decide your destiny, Andrew Slater.”

  Andrew frowned, managing to retain a little annoyance despite the boy’s penetrating gaze. “Destiny? I don’t have a destiny. I’m a writer and no good to anyone; my father could tell you that.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve again, adding, “No real destiny here.”

  The boy remained still, his blue eyes boring into his. “You will choose today, Andrew Slater, whom you will serve: I, or the Other.”

  Despite the certainty he was going crazy, Andrew shook his head, wondering—if the kid was real, and not a figment of his broken psyche— if the kid was crazy, too. “Other? Other what?” Slowly, weakly, Andrew lurched to his feet. Even though he towered over the kid, he felt dwarf
ed by something incomprehensible and held his distance, regarding him warily.

  The boy’s eyes burned intently. Finally, he whispered, “You know the Other—you’ve served It most of your life, but now It wants you as Its Herald.”

  The words sounded ludicrous, the stuff of badly done horror flicks like The Omen III or Sometimes They Come Back II. However, the proclamation struck him deeply, uncovering the memory of something massive and inhuman slithering around in the dark; rubbery wet sounds of something oozing in its own filth. The whisper of an alien, unutterable tongue.

  That’s when he heard it. Something flopping at the far end of the diner. He whirled, his eyes searching the dimness frantically, but he saw nothing. Something long and coiling squelched wetly behind the counter, and he leapt back, fearing it would come after him.

  Slowly, the slithering sounds swelled, accompanied by a voice vibrating with an essence evoking primordial fears, each unintelligible syllable pounding against Andrew’s brain.

  Ph’nglui mglw’nafh, Cthulhu R’lyeh, wgah’nagl fhtagn! Ph’nglui mglw’nafh, Cthulhu R’lyeh, wgah’nagl!

  “What’s that?” Andrew yelled, on the verge of screaming, but he didn’t care. The words slammed into him, turning his insides to jelly. He whirled on the boy, desperately shouting, “What is that?”

  Despite the chanting, the boy remained unruffled, and somehow his calm voice spoke above it. “That’s the Other,” he answered simply. “It has many names – Cthulhu is only one of them.”

  Bladder twitching fear filled him. “What does it want? Why me? Why me?” “Your desires have served Cthulhu for years, but now It wants to use

  your directly. You have a gift, something It desires above all else, and It wants to make you Its Herald because of it.”

  Still holding his hands over his ears—which didn’t matter, because that voice kept echoing over and over—Andrew shouted, “What do you mean?” The boy gazed indecipherably at him, mouth a hard line. “Initially,