Cthulhu will reward you for your service; you’ll be rich, successful, and sought after. Your works will outsell all others; your name will be on everyone’s lips.”
Andrew frowned. “Doesn’t sound so bad,” he yelled over the ugly chorus. “Your success will only last for as long as you write for Cthulhu. You’ll advance Its kingdom through your gift—the written word. You’ll be rewarded richly.” The boy’s eyes sparkled with cold wrath. “This will only last for a season; however, because when you’ve served your purpose, you’ll be discarded, and a new herald will be called.”
Andrew shook his head; his mind spinning, stomach heaving. He felt like he was going to vomit, and everything spun into chaos. “Herald for what?” The boy’s eyes glowed with blue fire, his countenance transformed into something unearthly, holy and divine. “The coming destruction of all there is and ever was.”
Andrew passed a hand over his eyes, trying without success to block out the chanting, rhythmic alien voice. “You said ‘that’s the last time you used your gift as you were meant to’. What’s that mean?”
The boy cocked his head; as if the answer was obvious. “You’re not just a writer but a Herald; one who turns life into fiction, and fiction into life. What’s spawned through your pen becomes life ; and in Michael Lockenstein, you followed a path chosen for you before time; a path you’ve since forsaken.”
“What path?”
The boy lifted his chin, gazing at Andrew, daring confrontation. “To be a Herald not for destruction, but for the Witness.”
“That’s freakin’ crazy!” Andrew spat. “Michael Lockenstein isn’t real!”
The boy’s voice dropped low; a whisper that shook the heavens. “But Michael Hazelton is.”
Sudden, awful, terrible self-knowledge pierced him to his very soul. Michael Hazelton; the autistic savant he and his friends grew up with, who he hadn’t seen in years; the template for the fictional Michael Lockenstein, was more than the special boy he’d always thought him to be.
So much more.
No. It wasn’t possible.
Something terrible inside of him, however, told him it was.
“No,” he whispered, not sure where his words came from, “Please. I can’t write that story. I was going to; God I tried, but I just can’t. It’s too hard; I’m too afraid.”
The boy shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Andrew Slater, because it’s time. You must choose.”
Something flashed from the shadows behind him, wrapping around Andrew’s ankle. With a mighty jerk, it yanked his feet from underneath him, his chest and chin slamming to the diner’s floor; salty blood filling his mouth as his teeth dug into his tongue.
The alien tongue chanted on, destroying Andrew’s shredded sanity. It chanted one word over and over; the name of the Other: Cthulhu! Cthulhu! Cthulhu!
Biting down hard on his tongue to keep from screaming, practically choking on his own blood, Andrew looked over his shoulder at the thing wrapped around his ankle. It was something borne of nightmares and fever dreams—long, muscular; a dark, mottled green. With a sense of revulsion, he noticed the leathery hide bristled with thousands of tiny, near microscopic hairs, and as the fleshy thing wrapped tighter around his ankle, those hairs pierced his pant leg, digging into his skin.
He looked up, and in the shadowed end of the diner, he saw curved, bulbous hulks of rubbery, thick hide. A shape defying description, the heaving mass didn’t correspond to reality as rows of impossibly intelligent and malevolent eyes glittered in the dark. Tremendous ripples flowed beneath fleshy flanks; it continuously shifted, refusing to be pinned down into one form by the mere human eye.
Stark, unreasoning terror filled Andrew’s mind at the sight of the interweaving display of innumerable tentacles twisting in a serpentine halo. With a cobra-like strike, another tentacle shot from the darkness, and Andrew cried out as it wrapped itself around his other knee, dagger-like hairs ripping through his pants, tearing into his skin.
Slowly he slipped backwards as he scrabbled for something to anchor him. Like a fisherman tired of playing with its catch, the thing behind him heaved once; hard, and Andrew felt himself pulled along the floor, his arms flailing, screaming the cry of a lost infant as his hand shot out and snagged the base of the podium upon which sat the old, empty cash register. Somehow, his desperate hand caught the podium’s edge, and as the pressure on his legs increased and his hip-joints strained, somehow he latched onto the podium, wrapping his arms around its base; making a desperate anchor.
He looked up, and there was the boy, somehow standing only several feet from him, hands shoved into his pockets, looking forever calm and placid. “Please,” Andrew panted, his lips cracked and bleeding, his throat raw, “help me, please!”
The boy looked at him speculatively. “Will you pledge yourself to serve me only? Will you be a Herald for the Witness and not for destruction?”
He heard a rustling, dry sound like a snake sliding through autumn leaves, and Andrew realized yet another fleshy arm hurtled towards. He kicked with mad fright, his heart clogged with both glee and disgust as he struck something warm and leathery. “Whatever!” he shrieked, “Just take me away please!”
The boy squatted face to face with him, glowing blue eyes pulsing. “Have a care,” he said in a strange voice, “pledging your loyalty to me will save you from ruination; however, it won’t save you from death and suffering. There is no ‘safe path’ to choose.”
“I don’t understand,” Andrew whimpered, broken now, useless. He heard another dry whisper of something wriggling and squirming, but this time his kick met nothing but air as yet another beastly arm wrapped around his thigh, and his body was pulled with twice the weight. His shoulders popped and creaked and he bit down futilely to fight off the pain.
There was nothing left. His arms shook, and pain worse than anything he’d ever felt filled his body and mind. He looked at the boy, and realized in utter panic his vision was fading, everything going dark at the edges. “What do you want me to do?” he moaned.
The boy gazed him, his intense, glowing blue eyes filling him with warmth, washing away the despair. “Your gift is your writing; your tool; your power. I gave that to you, Andrew, and after Shades of Darkness, you squandered it, buried it in a hole.”
Cthulhu! Cthulhu! Cthulhu! Cthulhu!
“You must choose; you must finish Michael Lockenstein’s story, and usher in the Witness. In its pages you’ll find your destiny, because what you write comes to life. You will provide either victory or destruction; Cthulhu knows this; that’s why It wants you.”
Those horrible tentacles tugged harder, and terror suffused him as his fingers slipped on the smooth, worn edges of the podium. “What if I don’t want to write this?” Andrew sobbed. “What if I choose not to?”
The boy sat back on his heels, the warmth fading from his eyes. “Others will write for me,” he responded tonelessly, “and you’ll be lost. You must choose.”
Andrew opened his mouth, his heart swelling with the answer he wanted, needed to give, but before he could speak, he was torn loose from his wooden life-buoy with a tremendous jerk. Pain blazed from his feet to his hips; his legs shattered and torn but none of that mattered as he flew forever backwards, a thousand icy daggers and teeth ripping into his skin, cutting him to shreds, as everlasting darkness swallowed all he was, devouring him whole.
ANDREW BLINKED RAPIDLY and snapped his mouth shut, a scream dying in his raw, cracked throat. The darkness immediately dissolved into a harsh whiteness making him wince. He swallowed, feeling light-headed, weak.
He tried to move his legs, and fear spiked his heart when he felt them restricted, bound.
He cried out as it wrapped around his other knee.
As the world slowly coalesced around him, he found himself sitting upright in a hospital bed he somehow knew was in Mercy General Hospital, staring numbly out the window as snowflakes fell endlessly from a dirty gray sky onto a dirty city. His abdomen ached dull
y, the pain blunted by Vicodin, and numerous bandages covering small cuts on his cheeks stung. His head — swaddled in white gauze — throbbed, echoing his forehead’s blow against the steering wheel. Martin was speaking; had been for awhile; but the fatigue and drugs left him fuzzy and uncomprehending.
“I said, you’re pretty lucky, you know?”
Reluctantly, Andrew turned his attention from the snow’s mesmerizing descent to his agent’s worried face. “Sorry?” he mumbled, “I missed that.”
“I said, you’re pretty lucky that old guy in the pick-up truck found you right after you wrecked. You were there for only ten minutes; any longer, you probably would’ve frozen or bled to death.”
Andrew shook his head, his eyes inevitably drawn back to the wintry scene outside. “Ten minutes,” he whispered, seeing fragmented images of an elderly man with amazingly blue, compassionate eyes interwoven with other, nightmarish images he had no words for. “Felt like a lifetime.”
Martin nodded sympathetically as he leaned against the wall. “You’re lucky your kidneys were only bruised; at first they thought they were both lacerated, and they figured you’d be on dialysis for life.” Martin smiled, raising his eyebrows for comic effect in his best attempt at gallows humor. “Can you imagine that; having to carry around a piss bag for the next twenty years?”
Andrew grunted, still looking outside. “Only bruised, huh?”
“Yeah. Someone must have read the CT scans wrong, because when they did a laparoscopy for a closer look, everything checked out.” Martin shrugged. “Like I said, pretty lucky.”
“Yeah.” The whisper was flat, uninspired.
They remained silent for several moments, until Martin finally stirred to life as he said, “Listen, I talked to Franklin, and he says not to worry about it.”
“I’m an ass,” Andrew blurted abruptly. “What’s that?”
Andrew turned and looked Martin straight in the eyes, screwing up what little courage he had left. “I’ve been pretty miserable lately, haven’t I? Drinking too much; acting like a bitchy, ungrateful little crack-head?”
Martin shrugged neutrally, his voice carefully optimistic. “Everyone hits a bad patch now and then.”
Andrew licked his dry, cracked lips, and forced himself not to turn away. “Call Franklin, tell him I screwed up. Tell him I’ll stop my complaining, check into rehab and dry out. I’ll make it right.”
Martin nodded slowly, smiling faintly. “I’ll tell him, Drew; he’ll be glad to hear it.” He paused, then added, “We’ll work it out; I promise.”
He glanced at his watch, startled at the time. “Look, I’ve got to run back to the hotel and shoot off about a dozen emails.” He looked back up at Andrew with such concern, the writer instantly felt horrible for the way he’d treated him the night before. “Will you be all right for a bit?”
Andrew waved limply; his range of motion restricted by the shooting pain in his shoulder and the tug of the IV in the back of his hand. “I’ll be fine,” he whispered.
Martin moved past the foot of the bed and then abruptly checked himself, remembering something. “I almost forgot; when they brought you into the OR, you were clutching these to your chest as if your life depended on it.” Martin paused, smiling. “I think they had to use industrial-grade forceps just to pry them from your fingers. I figured they were important and you’d want them.” He withdraw the objects from under his arm and handed them to Andrew, who accepted them wordlessly, afraid his pounding heart might trigger the call-nurse alarm. “Hang tight until I get back.”
Martin moved to leave again, but Andrew stopped him with a quiet, “Hey.”
Martin stopped at the foot of the bed, hands tucked away into his pockets, eyes bright with concern. “What’s up?”
Looking at the objects in his hands without really seeing them, Andrew murmured, “Remember last night when you said you’d say a prayer for me?” Martin looked off into the distance, searching his memory. “Yeah, I did say that, didn’t I?” “So did you?”
“Did I what?”
Andrew looked intently at Martin. “Did you say a prayer for me?”
Martin paused for a moment, looking slightly sheepish, rubbing his mouth with his hand. After several seconds, his face broke out into a wide grin as he confessed, “You know, it’s the craziest thing. I’m driving down Main Street last night in a total fit over the way you acted, and I come across this old church on the corner Fifth and Main—St. John the Evangelist, I think it was. I get an overwhelming compulsion to stop and visit, and before I know it; I park the car, slip inside, light a few candles, and say a pray for you.” Martin looked down, chuckling slightly. “I think I may’ve even said the rosary, too.”
“Thanks,” Andrew whispered, rubbing his thumb over the topmost object in his hands, a black and white notebook.
“Any time. It obviously did some good. You get some rest.” He flipped
Andrew a jaunty salute and left the room.
Andrew sat motionless, staring for several seconds at what he held. The topmost object was a simple marble black and white composition book, the kind grammar school students across the generations had written countless themes, essays, and journals in. Ironically enough, he’d written the bulk of Shadows of Darkness in these notebooks; had even started writing the sequel in one before pitching it and moving on to something else.
The sequel in which he would’ve continued Michael Lockenstein’s life but for some reason had been too afraid to.
Carefully, his hand trembling, he shifted the objects, and when he saw the other thing – a hardcover novel – his heart practically stopped. In his hands he held a slightly soiled, faded copy of Shades of Darkness. His mind rebelled against the implications, because he knew without a shadow of a doubt the only copy he owned was at home in his library, but here it was, nonetheless.
He breathed once; so hard it hurt, and he winced. He waited for an interminable moment, and then flipped the cover open to find the following: To Hank— best cook in Pennsylvania, who called me ‘not a pain in the ass’.
Andrew slammed the cover shut, and tossed the hardcover on the table next to him like it was a ticking bomb. Sucking in deep gulps of air, he mumbled almost hysterically, “No way; it’s not freakin’ possible, there’s no freakin’ way.”
And yet, two opposing refrains echoed in his mind. . .
Ph’nglui mglw’nafh, Cthulhu R’lyeh, wgah’nagl fhtagn! You’re here to decide your destiny.
His heart churning furiously, Andrew reached out and grabbed the standard hospital pen all rooms came amply supplied with; picked up the notebook he’d dropped into his lap, and opened it to the sight of a stark white, pure, empty page. He clicked the pen, and wrote.
Though he didn’t know how or why, he was the Herald of things to come; a Herald for the Witness of everything there ever was and is.
Andrew wrote on into the night, as the bitter winter wind howled and beat against his hospital room window.
THE DEMON
ROBERT N. JENNINGS
Come on, baby, don’t be like this. Let’s you and me just talk like civil people, okay?”
Otis went on packing. The suitcase lying open on the bed swallowed his belongings as the sense of panic boiling in Billie’s gut bubbled. She’d seen him put his church clothes in there; a man didn’t need church clothes just to go spend the night on his mama’s couch. Otis had a mind to stay gone.
She stood by the dresser wringing her hands. “Baby, I’m sorry, okay? It was just a little glass! It didn’t even hit you! I would never hurt you, you know that!”
The suitcase ate its fill. Otis slammed it shut and flipped the latches, snatching it off the bed so fast Billie feared he’d throw out his back again. He clutched the handle in his right hand while his left curled into a fist at his side. He moved his lips as if to say something, then shook his head and charged forward with such power that Billie found herself swept aside and pinned against the dresser. He passed through the doorfram
e and stormed down the hall, his gait hobbled by the weight of the suitcase. Billie peeled herself off the dresser and went after him. “Baby . . .”
He whirled around, pointing an index finger like a gun. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
She stopped as dead as if he’d shot her. Her lips drew together tightly. “You been talking to that whore again!”
“Say what you want,” he said. His voice had gone hoarse from the shouting earlier and he spoke now almost in a whisper. In the darkness of the hallway Billie could barely make out his eyes, big as dinner plates, staring at her with a mixture of anger and fear. “You know the truth. You got the demon in you.”
“The demon?” She clutched at her hair. Not this mess again, please! “Otis, that woman is a false prophet! False!”
“Oh, she for real, Billie. She for real.” He turned back around and started for the living room.
Billie hurried after him. If she let him get to the living room he’d get to the front door, and if he got there he’d get to the porch, and if he got there he’d get to the yard and his truck. She didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he got to his truck.
“Otis, stop and think! What kind of prophet of God is gonna come between a man and his wife? What kind of prophet of God is gonna do the things she been doing with you? That’s the devil!”
The hallway ended and Otis steamed into the living room. The waning rays of the sun glinted off shards of glass on the kitchen floor. “What do I got to do?” Billie cried. “What do I got to do to show you what a liar she is? Otis, I love you!”
He opened the front door but threw a look her way over his shoulder. For the first time, she noticed his hands were shaking. “Lies!” he hissed. “You don’t even know how much you lying, you had the demon in you so long!” His eyes watered. “And I’m through. I can’t take this no more. I done all I can do. You change your mind and want to beat this thing, you go see Nell. I’m out.”
MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu Page 5