MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu

by Chris Mikesell

  Thunder threatened them from the horizon all afternoon.

  At the end of the day Paul’s father staked down the wagon with ropes the best he could in the soft ground, and fastened the canvas cover to the supports.

  They gathered into the wagon after dark. Under the lantern light his mother read Psalms aloud from her Bible.

  The scent of rain came as the storm steeled itself for another downpour. Paul also smelled that other odor. He grabbed his mother’s wrist to stop her reading. “You smell that?” he said. “That smell, like fresh dirt dug out of the ground?”

  Frowning, his parents smelled the air.

  The animals fussed. The wagon shook. Wood snapped and popped. Someone was breaking the yoke to the oxen and tearing the reigns of the horses from the spokes of the wheels. Paul’s mother wrapped her arms around him, pressing his head to her chest. He clung to her, too. His father balled his fists, readying himself for the intruders if they tried climbing inside.

  The shaking and the breaking of wood stopped. They heard the meaty slaps of heavy hands on the rumps of the animals. The horses whinnied and fled along with the oxen. The sounds of their hooves thundered away. Lightning flashed, and Paul and his parents saw through the canvas the silhouettes of the squat, misshapen prairie trolls.

  His father immediately dipped his hands under the canvas to make a grab for the pickaxe strapped to the side of the wagon outside. It was a gamble that did not pay off. He cried out and clenched his teeth as he pulled to bring his arms back in.

  Paul grabbed his father, pitting their strength against the grip of the thing that held his father’s wrists. The other trolls took to rending the boards on his mother’s side of the wagon. She used the only object she had on hand, her Bible, to beat the brutish black paws. Some of the trolls switched to yanking on the supports to the canvas cove r. The lantern dislodged and smashed in the bed of the wagon. Paul felt the oil soak into his pants leg, and in the next moment felt his right leg blaze fiery hot.

  “Paul!” his mother yelled. “Into the rain!” She grabbed him by the back of the collar and his belt, and flung him out the back. He splashed into the mud with her jumping out right behind him. By then the storm was in full force.

  “I got it! I got it!” Paul hollered back. “Help Pa!” He smothered the side of his leg into the water-soaked soil. His mother hesitated to make certain he was all right. Her concern cost her. It gave one of the trolls time to grab her from behind, yanking her by the hair and slinging her down amongst its comrades. Paul reacted to help only to be stopped in mid-motion at the sight of his father being pulled from the wagon and splashing at the feet of the second group of unholy assailants. Both of his parents fought as the trolls brought their heavy fists down upon them. Paul cringed. His own body ached at the pulpy sounds of the beatings.

  He scrambled to his feet only to wince and fall. His burned leg stung from shin to hip.

  And then, strangely, the blazing wagon no longer gave off heat or created flickering shadows, even though it was fiercely burning. The wagon, his parents, the trolls all melted into the darkness and disappeared.

  He scrambled on hands and knees over the spot where the wagon had stood. “Mother! Father!”

  Thunder resounded.

  He kept his eyes to the ground, searching every detail in the fits of lightning. It was the same as with the Wilkes. No prints, no tracks, no sign of struggle.

  “Where did you take them?” He pounded the ground and screamed till his voice cracked. “Where!” He broke into wrenching sobs, and pounded the mud harder, splashing muck into his face. “Oh, God, where did they go?”

  There was no answer from heaven above or earth below.

  PAUL LIMPED IN the direction he hoped would take him back to the Sioux. Exhaustion took its toll and left him a drenched, hungry, vacant-eyed little ragamuffin. At nightfall, he collapsed at the top of a hill. Rolling to his back, he stared up at the sky. He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until the clouds broke and the moon shone full upon his face.

  His eyes widened when he saw an object swaying leisurely from side to side up in the sky, before the face of the moon. As it neared, it took the shape of a galley with three banks of oars creaking at its sides, rowing the empty expanse of the firmament. The ship settled upon the plain some distance away.

  The trolls returned, rising from the soupy ground. Paul lacked the strength to fight. They in turn raised not a fist against him, but merely picked him up in their hands of earth and carried him aboard the galley, scaling a lowered ramp and laying him on the deck beneath a tent like awning.

  The ship’s crew was a queer lot. Their cheeks, nose, and chin stood out sharply, and whatever was wrapped under their turbans pushed against the cloth like a pair of horns. Their shoes were cloven.

  One of them, dressed in a jeweled vest and pantaloons, handed the trolls little sculpted objects. Paul couldn’t make out what the objects were. But the trolls seemed pleased to accept them as payment. They bowed as they each received a trinket and descended the ramp. The crewman slapped the last one on the back in a comradely fashion as it left.

  His palm now muddied, he whistled over a subordinate and wiped his hand off on the little man’s dun-colored vest. The lower-ranked sailor bowed and left without complaint.

  The dapper-vested sailor then stepped over to Paul.

  “You rest there till we get to port.” He grinned like a leering gargoyle. “Are you the captain?” Paul asked.

  “I’m the one wearing the most gold, am I not?” The leering man laughed. His voice then boomed, “Set sail!” The ship lurched, rising from the prairie, gaining speed swiftly at the tune of dozens of oars swishing through empty air.

  Dead ahead was the moon.

  The helmsman steered a course for the dark side, descending gradually until it slopped into a thick sort of goop. There was a whole ocean of it, pungent and oily black. The ship slipped through it as easily as a gear through grease. Above, the stars brought a baleful sparkle out of the moon dust along the shore and illuminated the crusty-looking fungi that riddled the landscape and brimmed from the lips of every crater. Ahead was the port of call, a city of domed cottages and towers. Several other galleys were already moored there.

  So fantastic a sight, Paul stepped up to the railing, wide-eyed and openmouthed. Surely, this was a dream.

  The ship laid anchor. The dockworkers were of the same people as the ship’s crew, adorned in the same turbans and cloven-toed boots. The bejeweled captain nudged him. It was time to go.

  As they crossed the deck, the hatches to the rowing stations slapped open and out climbed the rowers. Big as bears, white as oysters, and toad-like, they shuffled by, brushing Paul’s shoulder with their slippery skin in their passing. Bundles of pink tendrils wriggled from their snouts.

  “Moonbeasts.” The captain answered Paul’s wondering gape. “Don’t mind them.” He then bellowed at the rowers. “Watch where you step, you bags of blubber!”

  “See?” he said to Paul. “Harmless.”

  Yet, that leer of his just didn’t win Paul’s confidence. On the contrary, the boy turned just that much more wary.

  Two more of the toad-things stood guard at the foot of the ramp with spears. Between them stood a tall man dressed in regal robes shaded in gold, silver, and scarlet. Like the Pharaohs he wore a double crown pshent. Paul was familiar with Egyptian rulers from the confrontation Moses had with the Pharaoh in the book of Exodus. Although this man did not fit the odious caricature depicted in Scripture. He was young. His mannerisms were refined.

  The captain escorted Paul up to this man, bowed, and said, “Master, here’s the boy.”

  The man dismissed the captain with a wave of his hand.

  “Very good.” The captain winked at Paul and then ascended back aboard his ship.

  Flanked by the toad guards, Paul followed his new escort across the wharf. There were hundreds of creatures, both toad and turban men, hauling and stacking crates and pushing lines
of slaves linked by chains—slaves who appeared to be travelers from the wagon trains who had gotten lost on their journey west. Paul strained to see if he recognized any of them.

  “This isn’t your fate,” his escort gestured to the slaves. His tone was of someone who had great authority. It was also soothing.

  “The gods taught your people on Earth from the beginning that how you live is your reward,” he continued. “That idea has survived in phrases such as,

  ‘the wages of sin is death.’ However, the gods also taught that if you try to deny a person his destiny with another way of life, then that way of life will be forced upon you. Such is the sin of your parents. Behold.”

  Paul’s escort stopped in the center of the wharf. Here Paul saw his parents, as muddy and bedraggled as he, hauling loads of bricks sheathed in heavy netting over their shoulders, singing praises to a god that was not their own. When their worn voices went silent, a turbaned slave driver lashed them till they resumed singing.

  “You are free,” his escort said, “and they will spend eternity doing work they do not want to do and worship a god they have no love for.”

  “Who are you?” Paul faced the robed man. “Are you the king here? I

  didn’t ask for revenge.”

  “I am just a messenger.”

  “Set my ma and pa free!”

  “We heard the cry of your unhappiness. We answered it. You will either appreciate what has been done or join them. Which is it?”

  A bold risk was the only worthy course open to Paul. If this were the dream world, he could call upon the fighting skills the Traveler had taught him on their adventures. If not he would find out soon enough.

  Without warning he snatched a spear from one of the moonbeast guards. Its tendrils warbled in a guttural sound of surprise.

  Armed, Paul bolted toward the slave driver.

  Quickly, the turbaned man signaled his subordinates to hurry the chain of slaves further into the bustle of the wharf. Paul’s parents were being pulled out of sight, but Paul kept his eye on his quarry and the spear leveled. The slave master then turned, planted his cloven feet down firm, and then snatched the spear from Paul’s grasp with a lash of his whip.

  Without a loss of momentum, Paul spun with the pull of the whip. He made a swing kick, sinking his heel square into the slave master’s gut, doubling him over. Paul flattened him with a solid blow to the chops. While the turbaned man was in a stupor, he fished for the keys at his belt. All around were stacks of crates, bricks, and a lot of stirred-up dockworkers. The only thing Paul could say was in his favor was the fact this was the dream world.

  That is, until the moonbeast guards seized him from behind. More moonbeast troops pushed their way forward with shackles. Paul yanked and pulled, but their grip remained firm.

  Just as they were in the process of snapping an iron collar about his neck, the feral shriek of an enraged cat pierced the din. As if responding to a bugle call, hundreds of felines leapt from behind the crates, tearing their claws into the moonbeast soldiers. Paul slipped free from his captors as the wharf plunged into chaos.

  The robed Messenger folded his arms, watching the battle with lukewarm interest. If a cat came too close, he merely glared at it, making it scamper away.

  Grabbing the spear, Paul confronted the robed messenger. “My parents. Order them free or I’ll gut you!”

  The Messenger smiled, and then faded from sight. “Coward!” Paul yelled. “Come back!”

  He then heard his name called. Turning, he spotted the Traveler, Randolph Carter, poised atop a stack of crates with two scimitars. He threw one down to Paul. “Head for the silver tower at the end of the wharf. I’ll meet you there.” Carter pointed in the direction Paul needed to go.

  His blood now on fire at the sight of his dream world mentor, the boy drew the blade from its scabbard and cut a swath through the moonbeasts to the silver tower. Randolph joined him shortly, his scimitar slick with green ichor.

  “I didn’t know cats could fight like this!” Paul yelled over the battle.

  “They’ll do anything for you if they’re your friends,” Randolph replied. “Follow me.”

  Through narrow alleys Carter took Paul to the outskirts of the city, to a small gate in the city wall. Amelia was also there, waiting. Her hair hung in bedraggled strands around her face, smudged from the last rainstorm on the prairie. She unclasped her anxious hands when she saw Randolph and threw her arms around him.

  “You made it back!” she cried.

  “W-what? Wait,” Paul stammered jealously. “Amelia, how come you know the Traveler?”

  “You don’t think it’s fair she knows me?” Randolph Carter turned from her embrace. “The Dreamlands are not your private dream. Think of this realm and the waking world as separate countries. Anyone can come and go from one to other. As for you two, you need to go. Here.” Randolph put a silver key into Paul’s hand. “This will open a hidden door in the fields of fungi outside the city. Amelia knows where it is. If I am to be born it is vital you return to Massachusetts.”

  “But my parents!” Paul protested.

  “There isn’t time. The robed man you were with, Nyarlathotep, can be dangerous on a whim. We’re lucky he doesn’t have a major stake in this.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Paul said. “I spooked him. He vanished when I

  pointed a spear at him.”

  “He doesn’t have to be seen to be present. Now go while you have a chance. Have no fear about your parents. I’ll see to them. After all, they’re my grandparents.”

  Randolph Carter squeezed Paul’s shoulder to reassure him, and then opened the gate.

  WHEN PAUL AWOKE, the last thing he remembered from last night was falling asleep on the hill. Now he found himself lying in a wagon beside Amelia, who was fast asleep. Walking alongside were the Sioux. They were taking them to Fort Kearny. Paul recognized it in the distance. The wagon train had stopped there some weeks ago while heading up the banks of the Platte River.

  Amelia suddenly sprung awake calling for her parents. She then locked eyes with Paul. “Where is everyone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Amelia settled down. “I had a dream. I dreamt that during the storm these men made of dirt captured us. They took us to a ship to be hauled away as slaves.”

  “Yes, the dirt men.” Paul recalled. “But I didn’t dream them . . . or did I?”

  Amelia stared at him quizzically.

  “But I did have a dream.” Paul went on. “I dreamt that I sailed to the

  moon. My parents were slaves. Then a friend rescued me. He was supposed to rescue them.” He shook his head. “Then the dream ended.”

  “Were there cats in your dream?” “Yes.”

  “Goat men wearing turbans? And big white toads with pink worms wriggling from their lips?”

  “I don’t remember any goat men. But there were men with turbans. How would you know?”

  Amelia caught her breath. Her brow dimpled in worry. “I think we had the same dream.”

  The two youngsters slipped into silence as they pondered how this could be, and what it meant.

  “I was rescued in my dream, too,” Amelia said. “In my dream a handsome prince broke the chains from my neck and wrists. He’s been in my dreams many times. We have tea parties with lots of cats around. We go for rides in crystal carriages to radiant castles. We’re always the guest of honor of kings and queens, and all the knights want to dance with me . . .” Her voice trailed off in a sigh.

  Paul grimaced at this girlish description. “Does this prince have a name?”

  “Yes,” she blushed. “Don’t laugh. His name isn’t princely. It’s Randolph

  Carter.”

  “That sounds so familiar. I have a friend who keeps appearing in my dreams. I call him the Traveler. I bet they’re the same man!”

  “Can’t be,” Amelia giggled. “My prince said one day he would be my son.” “And the Traveler said I was going to be his . . .�
��

  Paul stopped in mid sentence. Their complexions turned white when they realized implication of their shared dream.

  For the rest of the trip they found it difficult to look each other in the eye. The Sioux handed them over to the U.S. troops garrisoned at the fort. The

  Sioux chief explained to the commanding officer how they found the boy and girl wandering together out in the prairie. The officer asked about their parents.

  “Their parents followed the teachings of your god,” the Sioux chief said. “No doubt they reaped what they sowed.”

  Paul didn’t miss the edge in the Indian’s tone. He agreed with the words, but not with the slight the man intended for his mother and father. His parents had gone to a better place. The Traveler, Randolph Carter, would see to it.

  ELVIS LIVES

  JENNIFER J. EDWARDS

  Celine thought she had been driving too long when the interstate started to look a little blurry somewhere in the middle of Indiana. She wondered if there was someplace close she could stop. Lights flickered ahead from other cars, illuminating patches of scenery. Taking the next exit, she had to drive a couple of miles before seeing signs of civilization. The sign of a gas station loomed a few blocks down the road, but just off her right stood a building that looked like a restaurant. The windows were lit up, but the parking lot was pretty bare. As she pulled up to brick front of the building, the word DINER lit up one of the windows with a pink neon light. It looked like there were some people in there, too.

  As she walked up to the door, she could see a small group of men standing by a booth where one other man was sitting. Most of the men wore casual business clothes with shirts and sports jackets in various colors. The one sitting in the booth facing the door looked a little different—the flashy light blue outfit and fashionable scarf hanging around his neck made it seem like he was the center of attention. Two of them paced up and down with either their hands crossed or on their hips. A third man leaned over the back of the booth where the guy in the light blue outfit sat. Nobody noticed Celine at first, so she tried knocking. The blond-tinted hair guy with a light orange collared shirt stepped over to the door. Seeing Celine, he waved his hand away and shook his head. Not wanting to give up so easily, Celine knocked again. The man walked over and cracked open the door. Up close, he appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties.