CTHULHUROTICA

Revised Edition

Edited by Carrie Cuinn

For Howard

Carrie Cuinn

INTRODUCTION

The book that you are holding in your hands started out, as so many others have, in a half-serious conversation about the future of Weird Erotica. Well, maybe not all books start by fetishizing zombies or Halloween nightmares, but many of them do find their genesis in the ideas sprouted from a group of writers indulging in a little humorous word play. Eventually one of those creative people takes a thought a little more seriously than it was intended, and a misplaced word becomes an idea — which becomes a book. Cthulhurotica was born from the same fires; when the topic of Lovecraftian erotica came up, I was immediately struck with the sense that I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the concept.

Explaining the ideas behind this book starts with acknowledging that I love Howard Phillips Lovecraft’s writing. I’ve read every one of his stories that I could find, I have collections by a couple of different publishers sitting on my bookshelf, and have gotten through a decent-sized chunk of his poetry. I have watched documentaries about his life and B-movies based on his work and have played quite a lot of Munchkin Cthulhu and Call of Cthulhu and a few other games with Lovecraftian themes. I’ve delved into the writings of his contemporaries and friends, most notably August Derleth, Robert Bloch and Robert E. Howard, and I’ve read Lord Dunsany’s The Gods of Pegãna and a few of the “King in Yellow” stories. I am not an expert but it is safe to say that I am a big fan.

What I mean is, I am a fan of the man’s work, and what it spawned. The man himself? I don’t think we’d be friends. You see, old H.P. had a well-documented disgust, an all-purpose loathing, for anyone he considered less than himself, and nearly everyone who wasn’t a white male from New England appears to be on that list. Women, people of color, homosexuals, religious people, and immigrants all inspired a variety of colorful epithets. He expressed his feelings in vividly disgusting terms, and invoked archaic insults should one of these lesser creatures happen to appear in a Lovecraftian story — or in one of his many personal letters. Much ink has been spilled on the discussion of his obvious racial fears and possible sexual ones. It has been argued simultaneously that Lovecraft was an innocent product of his time or that he was a nasty, hate-filled man. Evidence seems to support the latter, at least for Lovecraft’s early life. Why, then, do so many people admire him?

He was a brilliant writer, and a prolific one, penning fiction, poetry, and approximately two hundred personal letters to fellow writers. His literary creations are thick with obscure words and creative spellings, dripping with adjectives, and heavily embellished with description. His body of work ranges from the slightly cheesy to the truly terrifying. Whole companies have sprung up because of, and are supported by, the manifold spawn of his mind. The monsters he envisioned are alien, inhuman, and often slimy, both frightening and intriguing readers for the last 90 years. The now-labeled “Lovecraftian Universe”, also called the Arkham Cycle and the Cthulhu Mythos, brought us such memorable fictional locations as Innsmouth and Arkham, Massachusetts, both of which have gone on to appear in popular fiction (Batman’s “Arkham Asylum”, for example) along with the monsters who live there.

Lovecraft gave us subjects with such potential.

Enter Cthulhurotica.

When I read HPL’s works, even when I was swallowed up by everything that he put in, I couldn’t help noticing what he left out. Where was the romance? I asked myself. Or the love? Where were the women investigators? I’d grown up on Nancy Drew books and wondered why there wasn’t a plucky niece rummaging through the dead uncle’s desk drawers, looking for clues to the mysterious circumstances surrounding his death. I looked, but couldn’t find a femme fatale anywhere. Nor could I find a college professor with a handsome live-in “friend” (as it probably would have been described at the time). When the hero sets off to a foreign land, or entertains visitors, where was the not-white but equally educated and interesting contact from another country?

Where was the secretary with the tight sweater and the heart-shaped ass?

While Lovecraft implied by omission his disdain for the things I was missing, he never completely ruled them out, instead composing a world where there was much his characters didn’t have access to. I always preferred to think that strong women and loving couples and flirting and passion and a hundred other delightful emotions existed, somewhere, in Lovecraft’s world, and we just didn’t get told that story. Which begs the question: what if these realistic, flesh and blood and sex and sweat characters did meet up with Lovecraft’s? What if the Arkham Cycle took place in a Universe where every human emotion was possible?

Much has been written about what Lovecraft put into his stories. What we needed was a book that showed off the potential in what he left out.

The idea grew and spread, multiplying over the Internet until I began to see people mentioning the concept who had no connection to me at all. I also ended up with many more submissions than I could put into the book, allowing me to pick and choose the ones I felt worked the best as part of the evolving collection. The writers whose work appears here crafted stories that immediately struck me as having a core of fear, despair, or curiosity (all Lovecraftian emotions) and each included those otherworldly elements for which the master is so well known. As I selected stories, and began to look at art, the book coalesced into something tangible.

There are a number of people that I have to thank for helping this idea along into a real book. First and foremost among them are the contributors — the writers and artists who took me seriously long enough to create the works you’ll find here. Even those I rejected, I appreciate, for taking the time to submit something to me at all. Those I accepted have my gratitude, for not only submitting work but for being so damn brilliant at the same time. While I thank each of them, there are some specific things for which I must express my appreciation:

To Galen Dara, who never shied away from a challenge, who brought all of my tentacled-dreams to life: thank you. Your art made this book something much more than what it would have been without you. You made Mythos erotica lovely. And you came back for more when I asked for help updating the book from the first edition.

I will always be grateful.

Thank you to Jennifer Brozek, for suggesting Cody Goodfellow to me (whose story, “Infernal Attractors” is exactly as good as I was hoping it would be) and for writing her own essay, “The Sexual Attraction of the Lovecraftian Universe” which appears at the back of the book. Cody said yes when I asked him to write for me, and was delightful to work with in a way you don’t always expect more established writers to be. Steven J. Scearce initially overwhelmed me with his enthusiasm, but as I got to know him I discovered that his amazing energy is funneled into his writing as well. He turned in a carefully crafted and well-researched piece that includes, I can say, the most Lovecraftian tone in the book.

Kenneth Hite is a monster of Lovecraft-based lore, and in his short essay “Cthulhu’s Polymorphous Perversity” there is enough raw information to make any reader a near-expect on Lovecraft if they take the time to read everything he references. Kirsten Brown allowed me to use two pieces of her art, and then surprised me by submitting a story of such strength I could do nothing else but use it to end the collection.

Matthew Marovich wrote the only noir submission I received, and did so in such a way that I can imagine the smell of the gunsmoke and the feel of motel sheets. Silvia Moreno-Garcia retold the King in Yellow story in a modern, gritty fashion, showing us the only obvious choice when faced with cinematic madness. Gabrielle Harbowy begins the collection with a sensuous tale of what happens when a curious sister comes visiting, and a cultist doesn’t buy sturdier locks for his basement. Galen Dara produced three different images for the book, each reflecting a different example of the relationships possible in a place where man and woman and monsters meet.

Mae Empson gives the world Greek myth for a Mythos universe, and in the process not only added to existing Mythos fiction, but showed us something new. She was also kind enough to go over the completed text for a final round of proofing. Nathan Crowder and Leon J. West both brought the creepy in a way I can’t help but admire, as long as their characters stand very, very far away from me. Dr. Justin Everett, PhD, a professor of writing and Weird fiction scholar, handled my request for an essay with great seriousness, and his writing reflects the love he has for this genre.

K.V. Taylor, in addition to giving us a story that actually makes being alone on a deserted island both terrifying and sexy, has also been (along with Madison Woods and Travis King) a great cheerleader to the rest of the contributors, and her sharp eye caught a few last-minute typos I’d missed. Travis King also carefully reviewed the advance copy of the text and was able to help me correct some important things that needed correcting, for which I am grateful. A big thank you goes out to Lillian Cohen-Moore, for reading and pointing out flaws in sentence structure and grammar, and to Richard Baron, who accepted over 600 additional words in the process of editing, and handled everything with such grace.

Don Pizarro gave me a subtly clever look at a man who loved a woman who might be a monster, but isn’t quite one, yet. He also provided hours and hours of support and conversation about theme, layout, and editing. In the process of being a sounding board for the book, he became my friend. He deserves more credit for editing Cthulhurotica than he was willing to accept at the time, but I won’t ever forget.

Between you and me, this is his book too.

Readers expecting a collection of monster sex stories might, after all, be disappointed. The characters within these pages are all quite human, though they sometimes dally with creatures who are not. This book turned out to be about the kind of people who live in a world where monster sex is possible, and it looks at how that world and those people would have to operate. Of course, it’s still unbelievable sexy, and scary, and creepy, and that’s exactly what I wanted it to be. Cthulhurotica may be a book that HP Lovecraft would never have read, but it began because of him, and exists in spite of him. It is, and always will be, my way of thanking the man for all the words he gave to me over the years.

For Howard.

– Carrie Cuinn

ASTROPHOBOS

By H. P. Lovecraft

In the midnight heavens burning

Thro’ ethereal deeps afar,

Once I watch’d with restless yearning

An alluring, aureate star;

Ev’ry eye aloft returning,

Gleaming nigh the Arctic car.

Mystic waves of beauty blended

With the gorgeous golden rays;

Phantasies of bliss descended

In a myrrh’d Elysian haze;

And in lyre-born chords extended

Harmonies of Lydian lays.

There (thought I) lies scenes of pleasure,

Where the free and blessed dwell,

And each moment bears a treasure

Freighted with a lotus-spell,

And there floats a liquid measure

From the lute of Israfel.

There (I told myself) were shining

Worlds of happiness unknown,

Peace and Innocence entwining

By the Crowned Virtue’s throne;

Men of light, their thoughts refining

Purer, fairer, than our own…

Gabrielle Harbowy

DESCENT OF THE WAYWARD SISTER

It was an unfortunate and shameful predicament that led me to seek lodging with my estranged older brother. We were strangers raised by the same parents with more than a decade between us, like serial lodgers with only a house and a pair of kindly if distant landlords in common. I knew nothing of his secrets, nor he of mine.

His was a stately row house on a venerated downtown block. It was the sort of street along which young businessmen walk with ambitious longing, and ladies make a show of disembarking from their carriages so that other ladies might see them welcomed inside. I came to his doorstep in the evening, in the rain, with the glow of the streetlight forming a halo behind my bedraggled, dripping hair. My brother was a stern-looking man, but I was accustomed to charming my way into the hearts of stern-looking men. The words spilled past my lips: I confessed to him that a grave misunderstanding with a young gentleman had ruined my station, and that I had nowhere else to go. Upon my repeated apologies, sobbed between solemn assertions that I would not inconvenience him and only needed a safe place for my reputation to convalesce in privacy, he took me in with a nod and a long-suffering sigh.

At once, he arranged for me the sorts of diversions appropriate for a lady: music lessons, and embroidery, and dancing. It was an unexpected kindness, perhaps evidence of how deeply he had been moved my plea. Or perhaps to keep me occupied while he was away all day, toiling at whatever labor provided him the financial resources for such a well-situated home. He did not discuss his work with me, and I did not ask. When he returned home in the evening, we dined in formal silence at opposite ends of a long, impersonal table. After coffee, he received callers and retreated to his study, leaving me once again on my own.

I rarely saw him. Still, hints of his secrets soon began to make themselves apparent. The servants — for he had several — were not at sufficient ease with me to treat me as one of their number, as I would have preferred. However, they were unaccustomed to another presence pacing the halls by day, and forgot to guard their tongues. They whispered about him, about the house, about the visitors, about the need to keep a vigilant eye on me to prevent me from wandering where I shouldn’t. There were doors, I learned, that were perpetually locked. To these rooms the house servants were forbidden entry, and strict punishment might befall any well-meaning girl who rearranged his books, or so much as shifted his papers.

A locked door, however, had never been a match for my curiosity. Indeed, I had made my livelihood upon the riches and secrets they shielded. Willpower and gratitude held me back for a full two days, but on my third day in residence I claimed headache in the middle of my piano lesson and sent the tutor away. It was, I thought, something a spoiled lady might often do, and indeed the nice gentleman seemed willing enough to escape my dreadful playing while presumably keeping his full afternoon’s fee. With the servants distracted by the afternoon bustle as they prepared for their master’s return, my slender lock picks and I crept into every room on the upstairs floor, in search of a bit more background on my closest blood-relation.

He was quite a collector of books. Some were slim volumes, but most were old and weighty, with thick leather covers. They were most certainly of value simply due to their apparent age. The markings on many of the spines were in some sort of code of glyphs that made no sense to me, but I was no student of languages, having barely any schooling even in my own. Some of the books were illustrated: ink drawings of fantastical creatures the likes of which I had never seen. I paged carefully through several, but received no further enlightenment as to their purpose.

Soon enough I was bored with my brother’s diversions, and was again craving some more active form of entertainment. The immaculate, well-appointed home was a lovely prison, and a self-imposed one, but after my more accustomed freedom I found it confining nonetheless. I could not divert myself with physical pleasures, as was my inclination. I could not contrive a trip to market as an excuse to get out on my own for a bit, since the household staff took care of the shopping. I had run out of boring, book-filled rooms to explore, and even the thrill of stealing spirits from the bar in the library grew quickly old to me.

It had been kind of him to attempt to turn me into a lady of society, and within a matter of days I had learned enough of the protocol to put on an eager show of it when I was in his presence — it would have been ungrateful to do otherwise — but in truth I was not taking naturally to it. Needlepoint and music were tiresome to me, and the tutors he had called upon to educate me in the domestic arts were as dull and sour as old milk. I had been too long on my own, or perhaps I had simply seen too much of the lively underbelly of the world to be content sitting still. I entertained the notion that one of his companions might be lured away from the page and into livelier pursuits of the flesh.

But my brother made a point of not introducing me to his callers. At first, I thought perhaps he was taking me at my word — I had promised to be inconspicuous. Then I wondered if he might be ashamed of me, concerned that his association with me might mar his standing with his peers. That made me only more determined to meet them.

I should not have bothered. They were stuffy, distracted men, sallow of skin and nervous of disposition in that particular way that marks a scholar. They spoke to each other in low tones, in some archaic language whose syllables sounded as though they damaged the throat to produce. Where I had looked upon their introduction to the evening routine in hopes that it might signal at least a bit of excitement, to my disappointment, they were too lost in their own heads to even notice the charms my low neckline put on display. Whatever it was that they retreated to study, it lured them more convincingly than I could. And the servants were on their guard; when I lingered outside the door to listen, I was quickly shooed away.

I’d heard nothing of much import, anyway. “Soon,” and “sacrifice,” and “summoning” amidst more of that pretentious guttural grunting, the dry turning of pages, and heavy, anxious footfalls.

It was my fifth day of residence and I was pacing yet another despondent circuit through my brother’s richly-appointed halls. So it was that I happened to be passing the cellar door just as a curiously plaintive cry issued from beyond it, quiet enough that had I not been just there, just then, the tread of feet upon the wooden floors or the constant bustle of sounds from the kitchen would have obscured it from my notice entirely. I paused and strained my ears, and in short order it came again. Human it was, without question.

It was quite conceivable that a maid had locked herself in while fetching some stores or other for the kitchen. And while it struck me as strange that the others might not have missed her if she had been trapped in the quiet gloom since breakfast time, I should not have been surprised that her cries had dropped to the desperate, weak wails of one who has lost all hope of being heard. If the others thought her to be on some errand, I thought, they might think her simply delayed in town, not trapped below their feet.

I had not thought to investigate the lower level of the house, but now I hastened to the door, loosening from my up-swept hair two of the slender pins that had been the hallmark of my former trade. “I’m coming,” I called through the keyhole, “hold fast!” Thus saying, I turned my full attention to the lock. Like a proper maiden, it resisted for a token moment. But, upon further adept agitation of its slender hole, it relinquished its charms with smooth, willing finesse.

“Good girl,” I murmured to it. Pausing just long enough to give a fold to the doormat inside the top landing — and thus prevent the door from closing again and delaying the liberation of my panicked charge — I squinted my eyes and descended into the dim cellar, lifting my skirts to avoid a graceless fall down the unforgiving stone stairs. Candlelight flickered from around the corner, but the unseen lass had gone silent.

“Hello?” I called out. “You can come out now, darling. The door’s open.” Self-conscious for a moment at the thought of my brother’s response if he heard me address his maid in such a way, I squared my shoulders. I had never been of a standing to keep domestic servants; in fact, I felt something of a rapport with the frightened girl. I myself was nearer to her station than to my brother’s.

Only a desperate whimper answered me, echoing off the stone from around the bend. Carefully guarding my footing against the unseen, I started toward the cellar’s only light and sound. “Oh, you needn’t worry about bringing it all up in one go. I’m here now, to watch the door for—”

For truly, I had found the source of the pleading voice, and the sight before me surged a tight flush of heat through my bosom and a lightheaded tingle behind my disbelieving eyes.

The room was too large for the few flickering candles to reveal to me the true scope of it, but at its center was a massive stone table drawn about by a thick chalky circle on the floor. And on that table, limbs bound at the four corner points, the gentle creature I had assumed — which assumption might still be correct, I reminded myself — a scullery maid.

Blond, pale, and exquisitely curved with the roundness of a youth spent sampling a fine larder’s wares, she wore not a stitch. Her soft belly and ripe breasts gleamed in the light as if the whole of her body had been painstakingly brushed with oil. She glowed golden, such a beacon of beauty in the dark that for a stunned moment my eyes were blind to the features of her confinement: the thick iron manacles pulling at each dainty wrist and ankle, and the thicker, imposing leather-bound tome propped open as if to a particular gilded page between her parted thighs.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, shaking myself from my reverie with an embarrassed fluster. “Oh, my darling, hold fast. I will free you! Oh, what has my brother done?” Picks still at the ready, I approached her nearest wrist with all haste.

But no sooner did my fingers close over her fluttering pulse than her slippery arm lurched under my grasp, the clanking of her chain resounding loudly through the darkened stone chamber.

“No!” she cried. “You mustn’t!” Her body writhed like a pale, sinuous serpent and a flush of blood darkened her cheeks. “Please, miss,” she whispered, and I had never heard a voice so urgent or so sincere. “Please, that isn’t the release I need from you.”

So stunned at her words that I could barely hear them over the pulse pounding in my own ears, I took a bewildered step back, surveying the lass and her condition. “What, then?” I stammered.

She arched her back, elongating her torso and the twin gleaming globes of her bosom — ruby-capped and quite stiffened in the cool cellar air, I had to note. And as she relaxed her upper half with a tormented sigh, her lower quarters shifted with their own will, pleading with me in slow, firm circles I could not explain away as anything but wanton. The book, thicker than any stiff-backed tome I had seen in the upstairs libraries, was positioned just so between her wide-parted thighs. The raised texture of its embossed spine barely brushed the crux of her womanly center as she writhed. It was clearly the source of her torment, yet not sufficient to occasion her relief.

“Please, miss, it’s been tormenting me like this for so long, miss. I just need some release. With your fingers, miss, or your dainty kisses, or I really don’t care precisely what. Please, just a bit of release and then I’ll be still like a good girl and hold the book again.”

Her hips rocked all the while as she pleaded with me, a steady stream of words that no doubt would only have continued had I not stepped in toward her again and given her hope that I might grant her outlandish request: To leave her here, chained nude for some unspoken scholarly perversion, yet to effect upon this stranger caresses of the most intimate nature.

Yet, she was quite lovely. Breathtakingly so. Plump and soft and round in just the right proportions, and clearly desirous of me. Her hips moved with urgency, and her wide eyes and moistened, parted lips begged for attention. Her lust was consuming her, but it was genuine. I had never been one to shy away from the stirrings of lust. Though the circumstance was rather unusual, it was, truth be told, the very authenticity of it which stirred a tingling heat in my own loins that I could not deny.

Her flesh was feverishly hot under my hands. I roamed her skin, tasting the glossy nectar that anointed her, sliding along each curve until my fingers plunged boldly into the velvet-soft valley of her cleft. I stroked and soothed her to one wave of bliss after another. Beautifully responsive, she was. Her shudders and sweet breathy cries became my sustenance, my air, until it seemed I lived only to draw her arousal higher, to tickle and rub and suckle in such ways as would reward me with more sighs, more moans, more eager trembles and stiff thrashes of her pristine flesh.

Pressure was building within me, too, and soon I could not deny my longing to free her, even just briefly, so that she could reciprocate the intimate soothings I had already suffered long days and nights without. Now with each touch I bestowed, I thought not of her pleasure, but of how desperately I longed to have those same touches gifted upon my own stiffened peaks; my moistened valley.

“Yes, yes, my darling,” I breathed as her breath again grew labored and short, heaving her glorious bosom. Her cries had taken on the quality of words, nonsense words strung together in a language born of passionate abandon. Guttural, thick words that seemed to damage the throat in their utterance. I encouraged them, coaxed them, as if they spoke right to the knot of desire at my heated core.

And then, silence.

I looked up from her glistening body and followed her wide-eyed, hungry gaze.

It lurked in the shadows, a deeper region of black within a darkness that at first seemed broken only by the shifting absence of flickering candle-glow. I did not know how long it had been watching us, but now it moved forward and its form demanded attention. It was massive, with hide an inky black that gleamed green in the candlelight; a shift of color I would not have predicted from the ink drawings I had spied in the study. There were too many thick limbs in motion for my dazed mind to accurately count, and extra appendages, as well: throbbing, glistening appendages that spoke to the hulking creature’s desire, if not to its gender. I should perhaps have been afraid of the creature, but I was not generally inclined to be the fearful sort, and my new lover’s own lack of fear only reinforced my own. The hum of my own need dominated in my veins and I could only think of opportunity — at last, opportunity! — not consequence.

The maid on the altar — for that was surely what the stone table was — strained at her bonds. “It’s here!” her breathy whisper announced, though she could spare no glance toward me. I took no offense at her inattention — the pulsing, veined tips of a particular trio of protrusions had me quite transfixed, as well. I so dearly needed the release I had just bestowed, was so intoxicated with desire, I could think of nothing beyond putting those tips to their obvious uses.

The thing stepped forth from the shadows, gliding as if through the murk of molten secrets. Beneath my skirts, my own molten secrets begged for attention.

“Do you think, darling,” I whispered back slowly, blindly reaching behind me and patting the stone upon which she was spread, “that there’s room enough up here for two?”

Into the Darkness by Galen Dara

Don Pizarro

THE C-WORD

It had been eleven months since I’d last called Anna. One day, she’d stopped answering her phone, and eventually I stopped trying to get through to her. I’d mostly stopped thinking about us until her corner of Massachusetts caught the edge of a hurricane. For three days, I resisted the urge to call.

I never thought she’d call me.

“I knew you’d be worried,” Anna had said.

“I was,” I said, shocked into honesty by the realization she’d actually given me a moment’s thought.

We spent most of the time talking about the storm’s aftermath. “Arkham’s flooded,” she said. “They canceled classes at Misk until further notice. Newburyport’s a mess….”

“How are you?” I asked.

“Innsmouth pretty much got through it unscathed,” she said.

Not the answer I was looking for. This didn’t surprise me. Neither did Innsmouth’s shelter from the storm, despite the town being situated right on the coast. After its revival in the nineties as a place where artists and hipster students with trust funds — like myself — could thrive, nothing could slow Innsmouth down. Not its own sordid history, nor the recession, not even the weather.

The tired old joke was always, “What did Innsmouth sell its soul to this time?”

We did some perfunctory catching up and had gotten to the part where we both mentioned about how little had changed in our lives over the past year, when I blurted out, “I want to see you.” I hung my head down between my knees and waited for another rejection.

“Eliot,” Anna said with a sigh.

I was mentally kicking myself, thinking stupid, stupid, stupid.

“One last visit,” she said. “One. For old time’s sake.”

The way she broke our unspoken rule about using any word or phrase that could possibly call to mind our seventeen-year age gap — that was the biggest shock of all. If it didn’t matter to her anymore, maybe I didn’t matter to her either. Still, I wasn’t about to look a gift from the Gods in the mouth.

I texted Anna as soon as my flight landed at Logan Airport, and sent several more through the bus ride to Newburyport. She texted back when she could. She was knee-deep in a stream of hipster commuter students from Miskatonic U., looking to replace the water-damaged minimalist furniture in their cheap Arkham lofts.

When, after a long series of detours, the Newburyport-to-Innsmouth bus finally arrived at the Town Centre, I called her. “I can’t wait to see the store again,” I said as I walked toward the Warehouse District, filled with fond memories of the things we used to do in the back of her warehouse. Not that I had any particular hope of reliving them.

“I’ve booked you a room at The Gilman,” said Anna, preemptively answering the question of where I was going to be staying. “It’s too wild at the store. How about you hang out and I’ll come by for dinner? My treat.”

When I was handed the keycard for Room 428, it was official. Anna’s signals were definitely mixed. Why would she keep me away from her house, only to book me in a room full of memories?

The memories did come, and I let them, lying alone on the bed in the too-familiar room. The good ones came first. From the first time we met, she and I were in transitional phases, just like Innsmouth was at the time. I was a Ph.D. student at a school as far away from Ojai, California, as I could get. She had launched a new business venture after spending her early forties trying to be something other than a woman descended from Old Money that was long since gone. Kindred spirits, or so I’d thought, bonding over meals or coffee, discussing our plans and dreams and — after graduation — trying to figure out how to make our plans dovetail.

Most of the bad memories had to do with how badly we’d danced around the elephant in the room, especially in those days. I called it enjoying the moment; she called it refusing to face reality. I could always make my head, if not my heart, understand the fact that she was slowly pushing me away for my own good. I saw her guiding me toward a life with someone to grow old with, instead of someone who’s “starting a new life” years were behind her. She had this idea that I needed someone I could have two-point-five kids with, something Anna couldn’t give me, she’d said, even if she wanted to. It wasn’t until after I’d left town that I realized how little I’d argued that particular point with her.

The bad memories got more vivid as I sat alone in the Gilman’s dining room. My gut remembered the ever-increasing frustration I felt over ever-decreasing contact. I wanted to do what I should have done eleven months ago. I told myself, while I drained another of Innsmouth’s finest local brews, that I’d march over to her house to tell her I was done with her, once and for all. If she thought to coax me out this way only to blow me off, then she’d have another thing coming. I settled for calling her, again, and promised myself that in 15 more minutes I’d be gone.

Two hours and three unreturned voicemails later, I’d had enough.

The Waite-Saothwick family home was an ornate Victorian, nearly a manor house, a throwback to Innsmouth’s well-heeled past that belonged off of Town Square or with the old-money houses of Washington Street. From two blocks away, I could see Anna standing on the widow’s walk at the top of the house. It was a breezy, slightly chilly evening. I was fine in jeans and a button down with the sleeves rolled up, but I didn’t expect to see her in a short, sleeveless nightgown. I paused, wondering if I should knock or check the back door to see if it was unlocked, like it always used to be.

I paced a bit as I watched her, trying to work up the nerve to get to her door. When she wrapped her arms around herself, probably feeling the chill, I finally admitted to myself that what I wanted the most was to be standing behind her and holding her.

I fumbled for the cell in my pocket. In the space between two dial tones, I let my gaze wander. When I looked up again, Anna suddenly wasn’t on the widow’s walk. She was on the balcony outside her bedroom bay window door, and making her way inside. I had no idea how she could have gotten there so quickly. If it weren’t for all the complaints about joints I’d remembered hearing, I would have thought she jumped down the staircase connecting the two platforms.

Anna answered her phone. “Hello, Elliot.”

“Hey,” I said, with hopefully enough enthusiasm to hide how pissed I was at being put out for the past several hours.

Her front porch light switched on.

“Come on over,” she said. Her front door opened and there she was, covered in a silk robe that looked slightly too long for her. I wondered if she’d gotten shorter or if she was stooped over slightly. But when I walked up her steps and stood face to face, my lips were right about at the level of her forehead, right where they were supposed to be.

Arms crossed with her phone still in hand, staring at my chest with those unblinking blue eyes, Anna smiled. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said, trying to make eye contact.

She took a quick breath, and finally looked up at me. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve just been… I don’t know. I just couldn’t….” She brushed her mop of pale blond hair away from her face, and spread her arms to offer me a hug.

“Forget it,” I said, taking her into my arms.

After a moment, she melted into me.

“Why did you have to come back?” she said.

“Because you let me.”

“No, why really?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’m indulging my cougar fetish. Happy?”

She giggled, and that broke some of the tension. “You went straight for the c-word,” she said. “Nice.”

“It was that, or, ‘I’m looking for another mom.’”

Anna hugged me tighter. “You jerk.” And then she whispered, “I’m so, so sorry.”

Her lips looked as soft and as warm as I’d remembered. I took a chance kissing her. I was happy to find, that from the way her long tongue searched for mine, I hadn’t gotten her signals wrong after all.

I brushed her hair away, exposing her neck and pressed my lips softly against her throat. “I sure wouldn’t do this with my mother,” I whispered. I parted my lips and gently scraped her skin with my teeth.

She let my lips linger at her neck. I lightly drew swirls up along her jaw, up to that spot just under her ear. Then, she gently gripped my neck and guided my head downward. I kissed along her collar bone, and down her cleavage as far as her robe would allow.

“I’ll give you ‘mother’,” she whispered back, walking me upstairs by the hand.

Anna insisted on turning the lights off before taking off her robe. But my eyes quickly adjusted, thanks to the glow of the waxing moon coming in through her bedroom’s bay window. She pulled off my glasses and stripped me down to my boxers. We slid onto the cloud-like down comforter on her bed.

Everything was blissfully familiar: the way we laid side-by-side, the way we tasted each other’s skin. The way her mouth licked and sucked from the base of my throat down to my nipples. That moment when I’m so hard, that even boxers feel too confining and I just want them off.

I pushed them down as Anna peeled off her pink cotton panties. She licked her fingers, and teased herself, draping a leg over mine and grinding herself into my thigh.

I moistened the palm of my own hand and teased the head of my cock. Anna kissed my neck again, moaning along with me. I gripped myself and stroked, slowly, whispering her name. This was how we made love more often than not, holding each other as we got ourselves off. I was honest with all my heart when I whispered, “I missed this.”

Sometimes, if she had the right product handy, she would straddle me and take me inside her for as long as she could. I didn’t see any bottles or tubes about, and I didn’t care. But I was surprised when she pushed herself on top of me and gently rubbed herself along my length.

“Baby, wait,” I said. “Are you sure–?”

“I missed this, too,” she said. She reached for my cock and held the tip against her. I tried to keep still, to let her take her time. I moaned loudly when she pushed herself down in one slow, wet, warm stroke all the way down to my hilt.

With a limberness that I knew she hadn’t been capable of since she was my age, she sat up and peeled off her negligee as she ground her hips into me. All of the usual self-consciousness about what she always called her “sags and saddlebags” was gone. Maybe all the time I’d spent telling her how beautiful she is to me had finally paid off.

Only my disbelief kept me from coming right then.

Before I could stop myself, I slid my hands up her thighs and held her hips. Mine gained a mind of their own, and their only thought was to push myself as deeply inside her as I could. And to do it again, and again, and again.

I tried to slow myself down. I had to, if I wanted this to last. But Anna leaned forward, posting herself on her elbows on either side of my head, and stroked my hair. “Don’t,” she whispered. Her hips picked up my slack. Her eyes, even wider now, stared straight into mine, as if they were penetrating me as deeply as I was her.

“Let me have it,” she said. “Let me have you.” And I did.

Having forgotten how gray Innsmouth can be some days, I thought it was dusk when I opened my eyes. It had been a long evening of pillow talk, interspersed with another orgasm (or three) each. But after the sleeping and cuddling, there was silence. I was afraid to say much, and I think Anna was, too.

There was a herd of elephants in the room, now.

I didn’t mention being woken up by whatever dream she was having that made her heel hit my shin, or being kept awake by her incoherent mumbling in her sleep. I didn’t want to say anything that could broach the topic of how things used to be, because that would lead to talk of how things should be, and could or could not be, despite what had happened last night. The only innocuous words I could think of were, “How about breakfast?”

She let me fix her something simple, and we ate out on the balcony outside her bedroom. When she finally looked at me with a wide smile and told me, “I can’t believe how you could make me fuck like that at this age,” I was on top of the world. Overlooking the Harbor, eating breakfast with a woman I hadn’t expected to see again, I couldn’t just let myself sit there and grin like an idiot. I had to open my mouth.

“You trained me well,” I said. “You turned this prince into a frog.”

The smile disappeared from her face, and suddenly that perpetual wide-eyed stare of hers wasn’t as endearing. “What was that?” she said quietly.

I realized what I’d said.

“No, no — frog into a prince.” I didn’t listen when my head screamed to my mouth, Shut up! “Why, do you have something against frogs?” I joked.

Anna let her fork drop and bounce off her plate, and then pushed away from the table, spilling both our juice glasses. She stormed up the staircase to the widow’s walk. I gave it a moment before following her up. Even at our closest, she always insisted that she wouldn’t let herself be smothered, not at her age.

I found her looking out at the Harbor, standing just as she was the night before. My first instinct was to hold her. I crossed my arms and supported myself on the walk rail next to her instead. I should have told her she was being too dramatic for a woman her age.

Instead I said, “I’m sorry.”

Anna sighed. “Don’t be,” she said. “I’m just crazy these days. Now I’m wondering if this was such a good idea.”

“Why?” I asked, fixing my eyes on that famous blackened rock jutting out of the ocean known as Devil’s Reef, praying she wasn’t about to push me away again.

She shrugged. “Too many changes lately.”

“Change. That’s the real c-word. Always looking to mess things up,” I said. “Change isn’t always a bad thing.” She tensed, getting ready to make some big pronouncement, and I knew it was happening all over again.

I didn’t know what I was thinking when I got down on one knee. I didn’t even have a ring. I just knew I had one chance to keep her from sending me away.

“Anna Waite-Saothwick…” I said.

She put her finger on my lips. “Please, don’t.”

“Why not?” I said. I pulled a speech out of my mind that I’d been rehearsing for the better part of a year. About how a seventeen-year age gap didn’t matter. That I wouldn’t be better off with someone my own age. That there wasn’t any way her body could change that would matter to me (though, she really scoffed at that one). “Let me prove it,” I said, squeezing her hand. “That was all I’ve ever wanted.”

“What about the c-word?”

“What, cougar?”

She slapped my shoulder.

“Screw the c-word,” I said.

“You’re not worried about what I might change into?”

I smiled. “I didn’t before. And definitely not, after last night.”

Except for any evidence of tears, Anna had that look people get when they laugh and cry at the same time. “But you don’t know—”

“I don’t care.”

“Really?” she asked.

“There’s only one way you’re going to find out,” I said. “Let me stay.”

“Actually, there’s another way.”

Anna slipped her hand from mine and faced out toward Devil’s Reef. She cupped her hands and shouted some words I couldn’t understand, but that reminded me of her mumbling last night. And unless I was hearing things, she was answered, from the Reef, with the most bizarre and disturbing sound I had ever heard.

As I stared at the Reef in awe, with my stomach churning at what I heard, I reached my hand out towards Anna. She took it.

I felt better.

The Widow’s Walk by Galen Dara

Cody Goodfellow

INFERNAL ATTRACTORS

“Turn it on,” she said.

When he didn’t move, she cocked the gun. Even so, Marc hesitated, his hand over the knife switch at the heart of the sprawling machine.

“It’s not safe,” he said, trying not to whine.

“I know,” she replied. The raw silk in her weary voice turning to rusted steel. “That’s why I need it.” She laid down the gun, certain of his obedience, and began to unbutton her long black dress. It slithered off her angular, hungry curves to pool round her feet. Her stockings were the color of smoke. She wore nothing else. The sheen of her perspiration made her pale body glimmer in the moonlight. Her long burgundy bangs hid her eyes. “Turn it on, and open it up all the way.”

He had built it for her, with the weird old components she always seemed to find just when they were needed, and the yellowing circuit diagrams stamped PROJECT BIFROST: ABOVE TOP SECRET. Whenever he asked her about it, she had fucked him until he forgot his questions. But this morning, he had done some digging and found out just enough about what he had built that he tried to destroy it.

Thus, the gun.

She’d told him some of it, when she had to. She didn’t have to spell it out. She had to be an idiot or crazy, not to realize how far out of his league she was. When they’d met on a makers’ message board thread about teledildonics and orgone generators, he’d played along with what he was sure was a joke. Something that’ll make Sex and Drugs obsolete, was all she had to say. Meeting her in person was a shock. Her picture didn’t begin to do her justice.

Like most girls who dyed their hair a new color every week and covered themselves in tattoos, there was damage behind her intriguing façade, desperation and despair between the whirlwind binges of thrill seeking. She warned him she was “a bit of a nymphomaniac,” and there was a sleepy confession that she’d been to rehab, been committed, experimented on. He didn’t care about her past, any more than he cared if she really loved him, or what the hell a Tillinghast resonator was, until it was too late.

Infernal Machine by Galen Dara

They had played with the freaky machine for a week, enjoying the crystallizing buzz it conveyed, like a half-tab of acid with a vasopressin chaser, the weird hallucinations that only got more intense when you challenged them, the sense of the walls of the world withering away from the glowing bones of something hidden in plain sight, and more real than reality itself. Sex in the resonator’s field was a mystical experience — the visible sparks of Shirley’s orgasms coursing up her spine and out the top of her skull like latent lightning — but perhaps too mystical, for he always felt as if something was watching them.

He threw the switch and instantly felt the itching in the front of his brain, felt it become a tingling long before the eccentric acceleration of the activated resonator became a bowel-tickling hum. He consulted the mildew-spotted researcher’s journal she’d brought him, something she “found at an estate sale.” He turned the master frequency dial up until the hum became a throbbing, subsonic roar.

The moonlight outside the windows dwindled and died. The warehouse loft was enfolded in a gray void, but within, the air itself seemed to glow with a nacreous, magenta light. The resonator’s hum became a sinusoidal cascade of chimes when all the other electronics shorted out and stopped dead. Distorted by rippling currents like heat mirages in a desert, the room seemed to rot away, and a host of shadowy shapes swam through the ghostly walls. By turns, the room became like the floor of a pre-Cambrian sea, as the phantasmal shadows took on a terrible solidity.

Great whorled nautiloids floated past, regarding them with lambent spotlight eyes. Razor-winged lampreys slithered past, gulping the ionized air and groping with manifest eagerness for Shirley’s white body, only to dart away as if electrified. Arachnids with far too many legs clung to each other and stalked their prey with antennae longer than their bodies. Their victims, drifting neon jellyfish that circled like moths around the resonator’s tuning fork array. And still more and stranger forms swarmed into the feeding frenzy, too alien to register as more than spectral distortions of the light and momentary pulses of utterly foreign ecstasy, even to his enhanced mind.

Shirley rose from the chair and sprawled out on the floor. “You see it, Marc? Do you feel it? How could you not want to see this?” She arched her back and threw out her arms, basking in the overwhelming rush of new perception, the otherworldly arousal that the resonator seemed to directly ignite in the human nervous system. His cock stirred and jabbed at his trousers, but he was riddled with fear –not of the eager flying eels, but of Shirley.

Her naked, ink-scarred skin shimmered with the heat of her arousal and seemed to shed trails that anticipated her movements, flowing backwards in time to meet her as her black fingernails dug into her flesh and drew blood. He started to rise to stop her, but the slightest motion brought wriggling predators groping towards him until he froze.

Shirley raked her back as if trying to tear off her own skin. The tattoos on her back — eyes, feathers, scales, and more eyes — ran and reformed as she dragged a boiling black cloud out of herself and set it adrift overhead.

She beckoned for him to come and join her, but he retreated behind the control console. His hand hovered over the kill switch.

She writhed on the floor as if embracing a phantom. “It’s not enough. Open it wider…”

He could not bear to look up from the console. It was too much, the visions and the realization that this was not a hallucination, but the truth, compared to which normal eyesight was a blessed lie.

She would never be satisfied. She was driven to push too far. If there was any hope of snapping her out of it, of getting her back, it would come from giving her more than she could handle.

He turned the oscillation cycle to 37,000, the level at which the journal’s crabbed, careful notes became looping gibberish and spiky mandalas, eclipsed by maroon stains.

The livid pink light deepened to an abyssal violet. Marc could barely see Shirley through the shadow that seemed to pin her to the floor. He rose and rushed to reach out to her, but then recoiled in shock.

Up close, it was not a shadow, but something almost too strange for his eyes to process it. It seemed to hover astride her back like a rider on a horse, its trailing, nebulous limbs penetrating her skull and spine and lazily tugging its limbs to elicit tiny mewling sighs of pleasure.

“So,” she moaned, “you see it too?”

It was like a massive armored octopus, a billowing, vaporous body enfolded in an exoskeleton that glowed a sullen, sordid red, like molten iron underwater. Its countless branching tentacles drifted on subatomic winds like flaccid hagfish, but dozens of them were fused with Shirley’s spine, jacked into her chakras like astral spinal taps.

“Do you really want to know why I am the way I am, Marc? Well, now you know.” She twisted a translucent cord and kissed it, making it shiver. “I was never molested or abused or any of that, but I always had what Mom called a devil on my shoulder. Something in me that fed off danger and sex…”

She twisted around under the floating incubus and took hold of two thick spinal taps and lifted herself off the floor to cling to it. Seeming to become more tangible from arousal alone, the phantom parasite enfolded her in an embrace of spiny, segmented arms, but she seized the parasitic cords connecting it to her like a leash, and brought the thing to heel.

Her legs spread wide to straddle its chitinous thorax, she gently stroked the ethereal tentacles that transfixed her spine until the armored body was suffused with an excited lava-lamp glow. With a hiss like the gutting of a fish, the armor split open.

A flurry of velvety fronds like the venomous petals of a sea anemone erupted from the phantom to enfold and impale Shirley. She rolled and wriggled on a bed of avid, adept tongues, moaning with delight at their electric touch, reveling in the trails of rainbow saliva etched from her neck to the cleft of her groin.

While it held her suspended in the air, Shirley’s devil braided its tentacles together into a luridly glowing scorpion stinger that throbbed and swelled and coiled to strike.

Marc threw the kill-switch. He would have been surprised if it actually worked. The resonator was recycling power or drawing it directly from the hidden reality they had tapped into. He shuddered with rage and frustrated lust. This thing was no alien to Shirley, being something that had attached itself to her, fueled her dangerous behavior and fed off her, for most of her life. But now, she could touch it as it had touched her. She had used him to make it possible for her to seduce her own lust.

He moved slowly out from behind the console, watching the teeming alien predators, but they seemed to have retreated for fear of Shirley’s demon lover.

There was no shutting it off, no reasoning with her to make it stop. But there, forgotten on the arm of the chair, was her gun.

Shirley opened her mouth to fellate a probing anemone-tongue, eliciting a piercing blast of strobing light from the incubus. The strange lightning poured out of her, illuminating her nervous system like overloaded Xmas lights, silhouetting her skeleton and seeming to dissolve her flesh in an acid bath of light. Marc shielded his eyes, but still saw her through the thin curtain of his transparent fingers. He saw her thrust herself onto the quivering stinger, and could not look away as her glowing plasma body engulfed it down to the root.

Somehow, his fingers found the pistol. He couldn’t risk hitting Shirley. He turned and tried to shoot the tuning array, but the bullets only burst the clouds of jellyfish and pinged harmlessly off the screaming tuning forks.

“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it, baby?” She purred and gyrated on the phantom parasite’s monstrous organ. He could see the impossibly large thing quivering and thrashing inside of her, trying to match her violent rhythm. Ethereal clouds of vapor streamed off its glowing shell. “All those things you made me do, you didn’t just want to watch and feed off the heat, did you?”

Marc reached up to pull her away, but the incubus swept him aside with a thorny limb that shredded his forearm to the bone.

“You wanted this… wanted to touch me… have me… but you never thought it would kill you, did you?”

With an agonized cry, she flexed herself against the engorged stinger and wrung it dry. Her orgasm was a wrenching seizure that tore through her in waves, splaying her lovely limbs out as if she’d been electrocuted.

Her demon lover spasmed in her embrace and seemed almost to melt with the explosive force of its own release. Its armor was riven by cracks of ultraviolet light, and waves of iridescent energy spilled out of it seemed to flow down its shrinking stinger and up Shirley’s neon spine, into the brain of its erstwhile host.

With a contemptuous sweep of her hand, she ripped away the shriveled spinal taps and kicked away from her spent lover. She hit the floor and gracefully danced away from the impact, but then swooned into the chair.

Shirley’s parasite drifted across the room like a flaccid helium balloon until a swarm of lampreys descended upon it, feasting on its helpless, sex-shocked flesh like remorae devouring the remains of a shark’s breakfast.

Abruptly, finally, the deep violet light and the unholy hum cut out with an anticlimactic pop. The gray void dissolved into an ugly pre-dawn industrial panorama.

Probably, they’d blown the circuit, or even the whole grid. It didn’t matter. It was over, and she was alive. Wasn’t she?

Shirley rolled over on the floor, over and over, laughing and hugging her bloody knees to her chest. He thought twice before he put down the gun, but then he rushed to her and draped her in a bathrobe. “I thought you were — I tried to—”

“You did the right thing,” she said, and kissed him. On the forehead. “Thank you, Marc.”

Shaky, she got up off the floor and deftly shrugged out of the bathrobe, then picked up and stepped into her dress.

“What should we do…?”

“About what?”

“The fucking resonator…”

“You can destroy it now, if you want.” She stepped into her boots and clumped towards the door, as if she’d just finished an appointment with her masseuse.

“But Shirley… you… if you’re… cured, then… what about us?” Marc wrung his hands, only then becoming aware of the oddly bloodless wound in his forearm. “I… I love you…”

She turned and looked at him, and she started to laugh. But then she looked up into the space above his head, and the laughter turned to a jaded gasp. “You’ve got a bad one, Marc.”

She turned and went out, closing the door behind her.

Something stretched to its limit and snapped in his chest. Stupid! He hadn’t even known how he felt until he’d spit it out.

Spinning around, looking for something to break, he found himself staring into a mirror.

He didn’t need the resonator any more, to see the thing that rode him, any more than he needed the device to feel it suckling his pain. Only a vague distortion of the air around his head and heart was visible, yet he could see it with his new organs of sight, his newly awakened mind.

All his life he’d been chasing a dream of a girl, when she was right behind him.

It was nothing like a human, nothing like a female, and yet it looked just like her.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, and reached for the knife switch.

Madison Woods

DADDY’S GIRL

Whack!

A quick look confirmed what I already knew. Dammit. Angry welts on the back of my thigh reddened while I watched.

“I told you not to do that again! Don’t you remember?” Of course Theo wouldn’t remember. He never remembered. And neither did I. If I had, I would have known better than to stand within slapping distance of his cage.

A cold tentacle reached out tentatively, touched my inner ankle. Finding no reprisal it climbed a little higher, skittering to the back of my knee and slowly inched upward to thigh height. He paused.

“I know what you’re doing. It won’t work, so stop it,” I told him. Reaching down, I lifted the tip of it off my leg and fingered the raised welts from his initial greeting. Saucers underneath his fleshy arm flexed, sought purchase but failed as I stepped backwards and slipped from his grasp.

A wail ruptured from the cave and he pulled his arm back into the shadows.

“I know. Give me a little time and I’ll find someone. Maybe by this afternoon, okay?” He wouldn’t remain manageable much longer if I didn’t allow him a little release soon. Again his tentacle reached out and snaked around my ankle. Tenderly. No grabbing. No slapping. No welts.

My resolve weakened.

“Do you think you can take it easy?” I asked. Compliant rumbles reached my ear. He’d been able to maintain control before, and the results were pleasing for both of us. But that was a long time ago, before his long captivity. Being caged for the last eight months had done something to him, made him unpredictable. He didn’t even have fully formed saucers when we found him. I didn’t know if I could trust him now. Even as the tip of his tentacle crept higher, inching around and up my thigh, closer toward the sensitive flower he sought, his saucers grew more rigid and his grip tighter.

He couldn’t do it.

This time, prying him off was not so easy. He resisted and I had to use both hands.

“Get. Off!”

I twisted, but he’d grown stronger since the last time I’d allowed this much advance. His saucers dug into my leg and it hurt. “Damn you, I said… Let… go!”

Instinct was to keep prying and stay focused on that aspect. Logic insisted I turn the opposite direction of the winding, but it was hard to remember that when I saw the blood seeping from under his saucers. Especially hard to think he purposely dug even deeper as I sought freedom from his grasp.

Shirley’s Demon Lover by Galen Dara

During my schooling, the instructor made me repeat the releasing exercises until they were ingrained to memory. I’d hated the boredom of it. Well, the effort finally paid off, and I turned automatically in the correct direction. Sucking in a sharp breath as the pain intensified momentarily, I was finally free and able to back up to a safe distance.

Blood streamed from the saucer-cuts and pooled beneath my left foot. I shook with anger and fear at how close I’d let him get. Never again. It was time to seek new prey for Theo to work out his needs on. I’d take my pleasure from the ones who’d already learned to wield their power.

Surveying the damage while I fumed, I contemplated my next move. It’d be gratifying to kill the ungrateful beast now, but if I did that, there’d be a penalty to pay. Daddy’s anger would likely lead to a more severe punishment than the injuries I’d just received.

Footfalls crunched gravel on the path. Who would that be at this hour? A glance revealed Asynn, Daddy’s newest page and pet, slowing down in her approach as she noticed my stance and the blood.

“Mistress Milleu, you’re wanted in your father’s den.” She looked closer at my leg and looked back at me with a smirk. “You’ll probably want to hurry. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

Smart ass.

I didn’t say that. But she’d know I’d not directly disobey a summons from Daddy. No one in their right mind would, and being his only daughter didn’t grant me any immunity. It was the beast’s blood that ran with his, although his human ancestry was just as cruel. Chthonic monsters and greed-driven slave traders. Not much compassion in the genes either way, I guessed.

By the time I reached the dark cavern at the water’s edge where he spent most of his time, Daddy was fairly mad. The ground beneath me vibrated to the rhythm of his growls. It didn’t matter that I was his kindred; he expected prompt responses to his orders. Always.

The door was open a crack, probably left that way when Asynn went through because she thought I’d be close on her heels. I never knew my mother, but I suspect I’d inherited some of her defiance. Maybe he’d tell me what he wanted without my having to go all the way inside. His den suited him, but it made me nervous. The gray stone walls sweated, leaving salt trails behind as one seep dried and another began somewhere else. Damp and cool, it smelled of rotten ship hulls and moldering seaweed.

“Daddy, you called?”

The walls rattled when he yelled, turning my name into a threat. “Milleu! Now!” Of course.

Just peeking through the cracked opening wasn’t going to be close enough for him. I swallowed my distaste, slipped in and closed the door behind me. With as humble a demeanor as I could muster, I approached. He growled again and the desk he sat behind danced, spilling papers that Asynn frantically gathered while avoiding becoming a casualty to the flaying tentacles. The girl gave me a stern look as she got the rest of the papers and backed to the far side of the room.

Sniveling idiot. She’d be bait soon and didn’t even know it, ego too inflated to question the process.

“Yes Father, you called?” It wouldn’t do any good to attempt bravado. Using the more formal paternal title would stroke his tentacled ego. I knew his ways and open defiance was a straight ride to the pens, daughter or no. I scratched the back of my neck and waited. He’d want to think I was nervous, afraid even. Avoiding eye contact was the best course of action when he looked for a fight.

Daddy motioned impatiently to Asynn for the stack of papers. He grabbed the top one off the stack and shoved the rest back to her.

“This chthonic you’ve been working with, Theo. Is he ready yet to be traded?”

Answer too quickly and he’d think I lied. Take too long and he’d think it took me too long to think of a lie. I took a deep breath and fingered the uppermost welt on the back of my thigh.

“No father, he’s recently become irritable. I think it’s time—”

“Then make him ready. You’ve got one month. The Lady Bertain would like him to entertain her guests at her next Solstice party. She wants them to leave pleasured, not butchered, and she’s paid a hefty sum to see to it they do. Now leave,” he rumbled with slightly less decibels than when I’d entered. A good sign. It didn’t matter what I’d answered, he already had his response prepared. And I had my work cut out for me.

Before we could begin, though, I needed an assistant. It wouldn’t do any good at all to get myself injured in this training process.

“Father, one favor before I go, please…”

He looked at me and I glanced toward Asynn.

“May I have your page for my assistant?”

To see the color drain from her face was worth the risk I had taken. It was priceless. Even if he didn’t consent, the effect of my request on her was all I’d hoped it would be.

“She’s of age,” I ventured, enjoying her discomfort far more than I’d anticipated.

He rumbled, a low growl that indicated that he was ruminating the idea, probably considering his investment versus the possible gain the deal could bring. I smiled so that she could see, but quickly restored a solemn face for dear Daddy.

Asynn stood stock-still. Her skin had gone so white I wondered if she might fall to the floor at his feet any second to beg for mercy. If she made such a weak move, she would prove to be more stupid than I’d thought.

“Her loss is acceptable to me, on the condition that you return her to my service if she’s able. I’d prefer not to have to train another, but for a month I can get by without her,” he agreed.

“Come Asynn,” I said gently as I gestured toward the open the door. Still in shock, she placed the last stack of papers on the corner of his desk and walked with me toward the stairs.

“We’ll get started right away,” I told her. “There’s not a lot of time, and you’ve got a lot to learn.”

As soon as we reached the enclosure, Theo snaked out a tentacle in greeting, rumbling with excitement. He smelled her fear. His enthusiasm wasn’t a good thing, but Asynn didn’t know that.

“First thing,” I reached down and picked up his tentacle, resisted letting him pull me closer and showed it to Asynn.

“See these?” I pointed to the saucer-shaped suction cups. She nodded, still white but at least attentive. Still, she didn’t seem to want to engage.

“Here,” I took her hand and made her touch them. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to look like you’ve been shredded through a grater. There’s a way to do this. Watch.”

Wide-eyed she watched as I took the tip of his tentacle and sucked it gently. Instantly Theo relaxed and quit trying to pull me toward his pen. The sounds rumbling from inside were decidedly different now, and less threatening. Indeed, he was pleased.

“You try it now,” I passed it to her. She swayed and I thought she might really pass out. My robust laughter snapped her out of it and her eyes flashed.

I realized at that moment she wasn’t so different from the beasts.

They were all trainable.

“I can’t”, she said.

I resisted the urge to snap at her. The willful ones needed a gentle touch.

“The first time, you’ll watch me,” I told her. “The next time, we’ll do it together.”

“Victim of Victims” from Shoggoth on the Roof

(Head Cultist)

Victim of Victims

Asenath! Oh Asenath!

I saw you sitting in that pew

Looked in your eyes and

Asenath! Oh Asenath!

Love you more than Cthulhu

Victim of Victims

Asenath! Oh Asenath!

I think that you would fit the bill

But since Cthulhu must come back! And attack!

I love one whom I must kill

When Deep Ones died for Great Dagon

That is for sacrifice

When Whateley reads the Necronomicon

That is for sacrifice too…

But of all my sacrifices, large and small

The most nihilistic one of all

Is when I finally thrust the knife inside

It will be inside… my bride…

(Asenath)

Cultist of Cultists

Paradise, oh Paradise

Here, look at me and raise your knife

Cut off my clothes and

Paradise, oh Paradise

You take me to be your wife

When you rip off that codpiece, yes!

I’ll be your sacrifice

When I, in my passion, finally get undressed

He’ll be my sacrifice too

(both)

But of all our sacrifices, small and great

The one that will finally see love mate

Is the one that blasts our sanity

I want you to marry me

- Reprinted courtesy of the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society

Whateley Family Portrait by Kirsten Brown

Richard Baron

THE CRY IN THE DARKNESS

Mamie Bishop and I had been courting for a number of years before I proposed. I think that we would still be courting now had it not been for the incident involving that local misfit, Wilbur Whateley. The details of which are too vast and unsettling to go into here — only have it known that following his disappearance, a gloom seemed to settle over the town. Inhabitants unwilling to discuss the event hid away behind closed doors, avoiding each other’s gaze for fear that mentioning “the unspeakable name” of Whateley would bring some unknown terror lumbering to their door. For Mamie, who had visited their residence on past occasions, the effects were far more pronounced.

She became withdrawn, her skin affecting a sickly pallor. More than once she was found walking alone in the hills at night, her head tilted up to the sky as though she was searching for some sign or movement in the clouds. Naturally, I became concerned, and after ushering her back to her parents’ home following one of those midnight jaunts, I sat her down and poured out my heart. Racked as I was with worry, I would say, and do, anything in my power to help alleviate whatever concerns gave her cause to act in such a manner. Anything to have the Mamie I loved safe.

I will never forget the way she looked at me then.

Her face wet with tears, black hair raining down upon her brow, she raised her head and said, “A child, Earl. I want a child.”

Later, as she lay deep in sleep, I pondered over what she had asked. Her father, his advanced age bowing his back under his nightshirt, heard my concerns with little response, but allowed me to stay in their parlor for the evening. My thoughts, shared but still weighing heavily upon me, kept me awake. Could it be that a child would bring Mamie stability? I confess, her request made little sense to me, but perhaps having an affectionate and rosy-cheeked child to fill her time would keep Mamie’s apparent mental decline at bay. The depth of my love seemed to have no bearing upon her mood of late, though she oft confessed that her heart was mine alone. The arrival of our child would perhaps increase the recently tenuous bond between us and Mamie, the dear sweet Mamie that I had thought lost, would surface once again.

There was another issue that had to be confronted, though. Our courtship was no secret but a swell in her belly would inevitably raise questions in town. Unbetrothed women bearing children were not only frowned upon in Dunwich, but shown the kind of disgust usually reserved for the diseased and the mad. Through the years I had seen young girls, barely budding into womanhood, removed from their place amongst our population, sometimes by physical force. Confused and tearful, these unwanted mothers were forced to walk shamefacedly past as their neighbors, and sometimes their own flesh and blood, poured scornful epithets upon them. Those who did not leave peacefully were dragged from their homes and pushed out toward the hills in the middle of the night. I know not what befalls those poor creatures — only that I would not give cause for Mamie to be judged in the same manner. So it was that as soon as she rose from her slumber, while the morning mist was still low upon the ground, I knelt before my love and asked for her hand.

The wedding was a small affair. I suspect those who stayed away did so because of the ridiculous rumors swirling around, whispers which suggested Mamie was present at the death of that creature, Whateley. More than once I had heard the mutterings of gossipy old women as I went from shop to shop, purchasing as many items as I could afford, to create a glad air and a joyful space for our nuptials. Those that did attend did their best to keep our spirits high but I was glad when the day was over and we were able to retire. As we lay in what was now our cottage for the first time as man and wife, I remember thinking that this was a new start and with Mamie resting beside me, I dared hope that the troubles unsettling her were behind us.

I have only scant recollection of the weeks that followed. We ate, laughed and made love as though the world outside mattered not; all that we required could be found in each other’s embrace. When our honeymoon ended and the day came for me to resume my duties at the Corey farm, I whistled a cheery tune as I walked. Even the darkness of the waters that flowed through Bishops Brook, whose blackened banks wind between my home and my employer’s, did little to dispel my lightness of mood. The spring is a notoriously unforgiving time for labor upon the farm but I worked with exuberance, turning and sowing the soil, fully aware of the similarities between earth and man; for had I not also planted a seed that would spring to life, a life that would grow as surely as the crops beneath my feet in the coming months?

I have since come to learn that there are no certainties. A crop may fail for no apparent reason no matter how much care is taken. And this is as true for man as it is for the land. Come the autumn, Corey’s farm fielded the poorest yield its previously fecund lands had seen in recent years, and Mamie showed no signs of being with child.

As the nights drew in, melancholy seemed to befall our home. The bright wildflowers that Mamie had earlier that summer picked to decorate our bedroom now lay shriveled in their vases. Dust lay undisturbed upon each surface where I now laid my hand. Mamie too seemed to wither, in sympathy with her surroundings. Her skin, which had gained color following our marriage, once again paled and her eyes, which only months before had enticed me with their bright allure, now lay deep in her sockets. At night she rejected my advances, sighing that the act of love was pointless, since my sweat and labors yielded no reward.

More than once she cursed me for my inadequacies.

In time she gave up sleeping in our marital bed altogether.

Instead, the place of her choosing was the wide bench under our single wide window, her eyes looking to the hills that rose as blackened waves under a gibbous moon, seemingly searching for… what? I can only wonder as to why the child she so desired eluded her. My attempts to reason with her were always met with vehement denials of my logic. She would shout and curse, blaspheming at the Lords name, using words that I care not to repeat and on occasion it seemed as though she was taken by some kind of madness, ushering sounds and words that made little sense to me until at last the apparent fever broke and she would fall, unconscious, upon the floor. It became a habit of mine to allow her this fearful expression until her waking self passed from the world. Her sleeping self could then, and only then, be coaxed back into our bed.

I was at odds as to what course of action to take. I dared not instill the help of doctors for fear that Mamie would be taken from me, but I privately acknowledged that her unstable mood could be a sign of madness. She needed help but I knew not how to provide it.

Fear led me to choose the path of making no choice at all.

I set about my normal duties as best I could, working at the farm during the day, taking care of her in the evening. I did our laundry and attempted to be something of a cook as well, so that when we fetched food and supplies from town on the week’s end, no one would suspect our life together was out of sorts. I lived always in the hope that whatever madness had seized her would soon pass. It was a foolish endeavor though, for having worked later than usual one evening, I returned home to find the house totally empty. Fearing some ill fate had befallen my wife, I quickly searched the surrounding fields but with darkness fast approaching, I was forced to return home in search of a lantern. I ignored the house and went straight to rummage in the woodshed… it was then I happened to look up at the bedroom finding it brightened by the warm yellowness of candlelight. Mamie was lying sound upon the bed when I burst into the room; her hair spread upon the pillow, arms crossed to her stomach and a small but welcome smile playing upon her features. I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that she was safe. Perhaps I had been mistaken and she hadn’t left the house at all but was merely out of sight; in the basement perhaps, though I knew not why. But then I looked down and saw the dirt at her feet, her toes blackened with mud, the mess of it all staining the sheets upon which she lay.

At breakfast the next morning I asked of her excursion but she seemed without knowledge of it and I quickly found that pursuing the matter only aggravated her. Unsure as to a reason for this new development in her behavior, I put it down to an act of sleepwalking, that absurd condition I had heard the good Dr. Armitage speak of. Thus decided, I tried to dispel the incident from my mind. As I passed Mamie her toast and jam I made a lewd remark about her nightdress being too dirty to wear at the dinner table, and was rewarded as my wife allowed me to remove it from her in a most charming fashion!

Yet the following night unsettling events happened to raise my concern over Mamie’s wanderings. I was woken from my slumber by what sounded like the loud cry of an animal. I bolted upright and looking around the room found Mamie to be gone. Again the cry came, its sound piercing the cool night air, causing me to move to the window in an attempt to gauge its whereabouts. At first I could see little, yet as I stood with my vision straining against the darkness, the moon (which had previously been obscured by clouds) broke free from its cover. The brief incandescent sliver allowed me to take in a good view of the surrounding hills.

For a moment I was unsure at to what I was seeing, or sure that light and shadow were playing tricks on my sight, but no; there above the peak of Sentinel Hill a vast silhouette was moving against the sky, its flank lined with uncountable appendages. I stood transfixed as the giant shape moved in a rhythmic motion to and from the ground as though in performance of some ritual. Then the piercing cry sounded again and the vision was gone, as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed by the arrival of the very clouds whose brief retreat had granted me sight.

I remained motionless, unable to believe what I had witnessed, yet the animal sound continued to rise in volume for some time before finally extinguishing itself. The silence brought me to my senses and a sudden fear gripped me. Mamie was alone in the night. I dare not entertain the thought that she had fallen prey to the thing I had seen upon the hill, and only hoped that wherever her nocturnal travel had taken her it was far from the beast I heard sounding in the dark. I ran downstairs, this time grabbing a lantern before leaving the house, and holding it aloft I began calling her name into the night. I do not know how long I searched but it seemed like more hours than a normal night contains. Surroundings I knew all too well by the light of day became alien to me as my feet sought hold amongst the shadows. Briars grabbed at my ankles, branches lined with thorns tugged at my clothes, tearing my face and hands, and all the while my heart thundered loudly in my chest for fear that I may actually encounter the thing I had glimpsed. It was as I finally reached the base of Sentinel Hill that I was finally given a respite from my worries for there, appearing out of the dark, moving towards me like a moth to a flame, was my Mamie. I ushered her home and though I questioned her on her whereabouts she remained silent as though under some kind of slumbering spell; the only recognition that she heard my words a smile upon her face which appeared in an almost mocking manner.

As I lay her upon the bed my eyes strayed in the candle light to her nightclothes and I felt a chill descend upon me. The white of her gown was stained here and there with darkened residue and once again her feet were soiled with mud from where she had traveled, but this was as nothing to the horror I felt when I removed her garment. Though I had before taken advantage of her nocturnal stillness as a welcome chance to find my own release against her soft flesh, this time as I raised the fabric from her sleeping body I came across a moist sticky substance that lay upon her skin. It pooled in the center of her stomach and smeared down the pale expanse of her thighs in thick globulous streams. She had fallen into a bog, perhaps, there in the darkness, or in her desire to find her way home had clambered unseeing through a pool of algae-covered rainwater.

Heaven knows what may have befallen her.

Unable to bear the thought of her sleeping through what remained of the night covered in that filth, I gently carried her downstairs. She slumbered upon the living room floor while I heated water, one pot at a time, to fill the bath. As I washed the filth from her body I gave thanks to God for returning her safely to me, adding a prayer for driving whatever it was I saw upon the hill from our midst; the terrible animal sound that chilled my soul did not sound again the remainder of the night.

I would like to tell you my story ends there, and that with the morning the worst of these unfortunate events were behind us. Yet this was but the start of greater horrors I would have to endure. The very next night, exhausted though I was from my wife’s recent nocturnal activities, I was stirred from my slumber by the strange sounding in the darkness. Again, I found Mamie missing. The search ended only when I found her at the foot of the hill, caked in the same manner as she was previously.

The ritual was repeated subsequent evenings. Sometimes I would sleep through and wake happily to find her next to me only to glance down and once again find her feet ruined with dirt. More often I awoke alone at night, disturbed from my restless sleep by that terrible sound. I tried locking the doors to the cottage… Mamie’s sleepwalking didn’t render her without cunning, it seemed, so when this didn’t end her wanderings, I set upon a plan of action: I would follow her.

I finished work early at the Corley’s farm that day, and knowing of the vigil to come, napped into the early evening. Then, sufficiently rested, I went to bed as normal only this time I feigned sleep. In the oncoming darkness I waited for Mamie to leave. For what seemed like hours, I carried on my charade, nearly succumbing to actual slumber as the moon sailed high into the night sky, but as I was on the cusp of finally surrendering I sensed the motion of my wife rising in a slow deliberate movement towards the door. I waited for only a few moments before donning my coat and boots and following her out into the darkness.

I took care to obscure myself by using the branches and wild brambles that lined her route as camouflage. I fell behind her at an increasing pace as I tried to mask my presence, flinching as a twig snapped loudly under my foot and ah! I held my breath in fear but as I realized that my wife noticed me not at all, I ignored any further hiding spots and ran after her in earnest.

We reached the hill nearly together and began to ascend to its peak, Mamie apparently unconcerned by its steep incline, her dainty frame moving on and increasing her pace as I alone struggled for breath against its steepness. As I neared its crest I lost sight of her, the undergrowth being at its thickest there. I once reached an impassable section of gnarled oaks and bushes and was forced to backtrack in search of easier access. As I groped my way around in the darkness I was suddenly stilled by that terrible cry, its sharp sound cutting through the night chilling my nerves, and I dare now to admit that for a moment I remained motionless. Was it not for the fear of Mamie’s safety I would have retreated in great haste.

I remained strong though the cries continued, and made my way to its source. In time the hill evened out and I found myself looking at a large, moonlit plateau. There on the ground before me was a strip of white I recognized from Mamie’s dressing gown. Grasping the retrieved fabric in one hand, I edged nearer, with those terrible cries gaining frequency as I approached.

As I brushed the last of the branches from my way I came upon a sight that caused me to shriek aloud in horror!

How do I describe the terrifying image before me? How do I put into words the spectacle without resorting to madness myself?

The mass of gray flesh that pulsated along its slug-like body, the myriad of snake-like tentacles (each as thick as oaks) that swarmed in frenzy from its head crowned above an array of beaked mouths that snapped and spitted. The thing was no creature that could be named. The closest resemblance being that of some giant disfigured Octopi… it moved as I had previously witnessed from my room and as I followed the monstrosity’s motions, I let out a cry at seeing what had become of Mamie.

There she lay under the head of the monster, her gown lying in a wrinkled mass around her neck, exposing her perfect breasts, upon which eel-like tongues licked. Her legs were spread wide by tentacle appendages that sprang from huge follicles at the creature’s sides. Still others erupted from those cloying beaks and traversed eagerly up her moistened thighs. The horror was all encompassing and though I had gone to the hilltop with the intent of protecting Mamie, I must have had some sort of blackout for the next thing I remembered was waking at home, the sun signaling morning, and my wife sleeping soundly at my side.

Some would say I dreamt those events, and had suffered nothing more than an unusual nightmare. I would like to think this is true. Mamie’s sleepwalking ceased that night, as did the crying sounds from the hill, and never again did I see the creature I witnessed upon its peak, though never again will I set foot there.

Whatever the cause of Mamie’s odd behavior its effect has apparently passed for good because she seems happier than I have ever known her to be. She rubs her belly each night, content that she has recently started to develop a bump where her blossoming child grows. I smile at her exactly as often as she smiles at me, honestly happy in the pregnancy but secretly grow fearful of what may become of us. I keep telling myself that it was but a dream yet the sound still haunts me.

The terrible sound that reached me in the darkness, that hideous sound that so terrified my nights, did not come from the beast upon the hill. No, not from the throat of some animal, but from that of my wife as she lay beneath that unnameable horror, writhing not in terror… but in ecstasy.

Wandering Bride by Galen Dara

Juan Miguel Marin

RIEMANNIAN DREAMS

Nighttime. Recurring dream. Water cascades into the pool. I walk towards the waterfall, my bare feet noiselessly stepping over the dream sand, my bare skin exposed to the cool air, barely covered only by a loincloth. The rushing sound of the water cascading will soon become the seductive voice saying only one word, almost a whisper: “Come.”

There. I hear it.

The voice appeals to my body’s instincts, sending to slumber the scientist in me, lulling to sleep my rational mind. I fight it. I keep my mind alert by keeping in mind the facts.

Fact one: the dream’s origin lies in something mundane: the voice recorded as publicity for my recently acquired Edison phonograph prototype.

Fact two: I helped the American inventor, Herr Thomas Alva Edison, with the physics behind the acoustics and received a phonograph as gift.

Fact three: I listened to the phonograph’s voice so now, whoever the actor with the androgynous voice is, has now become embodied in my fantasy. But I have to admit something erotic about the test voice emerges when combined with the rushing waterfall, its rushing white noise serving as stage for the voice revealing itself:

I am the Edison phonograph, created by the great wizard of the New World to delight those who would have melody or be amused. I can sing you tender songs of love. I can give you merry tales and joyous laughter. I can transport you to the realms of music. I can cause you to join in the rhythmic dance. I can lull the babe to sweet repose, or waken in the aged heart soft memories of youthful days.

No matter what may be your mood, I am always ready to entertain you. When your day’s work is done, when your wife is worried after the cares of the day, when the children are boisterous, I can rest both of you and quiet the other. I never get tired and you will never tire of me, for I will always have something new to offer.

I give pleasure to all, young and old. My voice is the clearest, smoothest and most natural of any talking machine. The name of my famous master is on my body, and tells you that I am a genuine Edison phonograph. The more you become acquainted with me, the better you will like me. Ask the dealer.

I did. Edison introduced me to the beautiful whispering voice of his machine, the voice now embodying itself in a beautiful blond youth emerging out of the waterfall’s pool depths…

In the first lucid dream I could glimpse only a young, pale, androgynous face, which the water ripples sometimes hid, sometimes revealed. I could not tell whether the attractive stranger was a boy or a girl. I could only notice the blond-auburn hair, pale skin of a healthy pinkish color, rose-colored cheeks, rosy red lips, and the eyes…ah, the eyes of the deepest turquoise, as deep and watery as the light but darkening blue of pool’s bottom. Now in this lucid dream, she or he, turns around and stands. I see now a beautiful backside. Like mine, also covered with nothing but a loincloth. My scientific curiosity tries to find out more about those lovely hips but the mist prevents me. As in the previous dream, the youth asks “So, what do you want me to do?”

He then says (and I realize that this time, it is a he, though he still doesn’t look at me): “I know it’s cold. Just dip in slowly.”

I step closer and say, “Untie the knot of your loincloth. Let it go.” He does, revealing his beautiful bottom. I go on, “Now come and untie mine.” He turns around and his face approaches mine. Still looking at me, he slips my loincloth off, never ceasing to smile. When we are both naked, I put my arms around him and press my lips against his neck. I inhale the smell of his wet hair. He laughs and turns around. I try to reach his nipples, still trying to know for certain the gender of my fantasy. But he laughs again, and stops my hands with his. He caresses the soft hairs of my arms and then I notice he is not any more a boy. He becomes the girl of a previous dream, the dreamy girl with blond auburn hair and small breasts, her boyish chest almost as flat as my own.

She kneels and kisses my stomach. She does it so slowly than when her lips go further down, the intensity of the heat energy makes me explode, vaporizing stranger, pool, waterfall and the rest of the dream realm.

* * *

Sunlight comes through the window’s glass. Morning, but, what day? Sunday? Monday? I’ll just call the physics department and say I’m sick. I have lots of mail to read. Picking up a stack on unopened envelopes I see a letter from America, from Haverhill, Massachusetts. A message from Mr. Walter Gilman.

Herr Gilman, a student planning to attend Miskatonic University in the fall, recently “discovered the scientific discovery of the century.” He found out about some “unusual circumstances that had more or less suddenly given a mediocre old woman from the Seventeenth Century an insight into mathematical depths perhaps beyond the utmost modern delvings of Planck, Heisenberg, Einstein, and De Sitter.” He moved to the Arkham, MA house where the unusual circumstances occurred. He now sleeps in the same room the woman once occupied until arrested. The charge? Witchcraft!

Gilman’s change of address gave him the witch’s intuitive knack to solve Riemannian equations. And right here on the back he scribbled some equations. Yes, those are mine. He copied them, and their solutions, from my On The Foundations of Geometry.

Why do cranks keep sending me their theories? Another letter tossed into the wastebasket, with the other raving lunatics.

* * *

Moonlight comes through the window’s glass. Night, but can’t sleep. I feel guilty for having dismissed the young American student so quickly. What if he is the next Einstein? I myself have often entertained wild speculations about the ultimate reality of the cosmos. True, I lack the courage to publish my meta-mathematical writings, at least not until I get tenure. The few close friends who have read them pat me on the back, and at the most congratulate me on my originality. They then suggest I submit them to the American pulp magazine, Weird Tales. Why do those who accept my mathematics as a potential work of genius, nevertheless dismiss my natural philosophy? I have no idea.

Falling asleep.

Another lucid dream. This time two beautiful creatures, so alike they could be twins, brother and sister. Giggling, the girl stands in front of me. The boy stands behind me. Although, something’s different. Have they matured since last dream? The girl who looked like barely into her teenage years now has matured into a voluptuous woman. No longer with flat chest but beautiful large breasts covered in droplets of cold water that make her pink nipples erect. I quickly turn towards the beautiful boy, or rather, handsome man, who now towers over me. His air of innocence gone, his delicate features, once mimicking a girl’s, have now become the chiseled features of a stunning man.

As I stare at his muscled arms, he presses forcefully his hands against my hips and turns me around, pushing my shoulders so that I fall on my knees. I would have complained had I not being too distracted by the bouncing breasts that were now staring me in the face, begging to be kissed. While I lick the woman’s nipples, her brother kneels behind me. He slides one arm around my chest, and softly presses his lips against my neck. His kiss electrifies me. I imagine I would have felt the same had I been bitten by an electric eel! I lose myself in the midst of so much erotic pleasure, falling into such stupor that I lose my balance. The boy’s arms grab me. While he holds me, his sister starts kissing my neck, next my nipples and then my stomach, further moving down without stopping. Her brother moves in to join in again. I fought against having an orgasm and waking up before I could feel both of their lips on me. No luck. As I erupt into an orgasm, the waterfall erupts into a geyser, leaving me covered in salty sweat, uncomfortably wet, and, unfortunately, awake.

* * *

Sun rises, though the moon refuses to go sleep. I should finish reading my mail before walking back to the sciences laboratory. Oddly enough, I got another letter from an Arkham inhabitant.

Dear Professor Riemann:

I have read with great interest your articles on what Professor Albert Einstein calls Riemannian geometry. I am impressed with how you have overthrown traditional concepts of Newtonian space. I dread getting to the point; but I have certain evidence that out of Riemannian space monstrous things have come into Arkham, MA and now live in its woods. They engage in some sort of mining activity. I have seen footprints, and of late have seen them nearer my own home. I also have overheard buzzing voices in the woods.

At one place I heard them so much that I took a phonograph there with a Dictaphone attachment and wax blank — and I shall try to arrange to have you hear the record I got. The things come from another planet, being able to live in interstellar space and fly through it on clumsy, powerful wings which have a way of resisting the ether but which are too poor at steering to be of much use in helping them about on earth.

Sir, I think that with our respective studies we can be very useful to each other. I should warn you that they like to take away men of learning once in a while, to keep informed on the state of things in the human world. THEY MAY WANT TO KIDNAP YOU. Nevertheless, I think you will find any risks worth running for the sake of knowledge. Hoping that I am not bothering you unduly, and that you will decide to get in touch with me rather than throw this letter into the waste basket as a madman’s raving, I am

Yrs. very truly,

Henry W. Akeley

Well. Mr. Akeley, Herr Einstein just got rid of the ether; his theory of relativity proved the ether exists only in Fairyland. So unfortunately I must throw your letter into the waste-basket with your fellow Arkhamite. Time to go to the laboratory.

Wait.

There may be a hidden connection between the ridges of a phonograph, and sound waves in space. Just as we etch ridges in a record, we etch vibrations in air and we etch numbers in time and space, that is, when we count one, two, and three and so on. We etch patterns towards infinity.

Say we approach geometrically the spatially extended spectrum of sound and light waves. We would have a multidimensional representation of Newton’s rainbow, the one he created by filtering light through his prism. Could I filter sound? Newton’s arch nemesis and co-inventor of the calculus, Gottfried Leibniz, once wrote that music can be mathematically described as the pleasure elicited in the mind by simple counting. Number, our translation of Greek arythmos, is nothing but rhythm.

Therefore…

Where are my lab notes? Oh, here.

Whenever we see, or hear, something pleasurable, new complexes of representations are constantly appearing and vanishing from our consciousness. We observe a constant activity of our psyche. Every activity depends upon something permanent, which is noticed as such on particular occasions (through memory) without exerting an enduring influence on phenomena. Pleasure fades.

Thus, something permanent enters our psyche continually (with every act of thought) which however exerts no influence on the world of phenomena. Every act of our psyche thus depends on something permanent, which enters with this act, but which in the same moment vanishes completely from the world of phenomena. Guided by this fact, I make the hypothesis that the universe is filled with a material, which constantly flows through the organic atoms and from there vanishes from the phenomenal world (the corporeal world). Both hypotheses can be replaced with one: in all organic atoms permanent material enters the psychical world from the corporeal.

I am falling asleep.

What if my seductive dream beings have a connection with sound wave energy as much as Mr. Akeley’s imaginary creatures have with his “mining” and “buzzing sounds?” I should remain lucid and investigate. We know testosterone levels are higher at night; that is why I succumb so easily to these creatures’ powers. I’ll masturbate before going to sleep in order to regain my strength. Still, I should remain naked so as to remain slightly aroused. Only when I am aroused do these creatures appear. Perhaps medieval monks were right, retention of semen attracts “demonic spirits,” not because they detect a virtuous monk but because, because why? Certainly my dreams’ fantastic beings are not demons from hell attracted to my celibate life. But what are they?

Falling asleep.

Lucid. In the midst of the foamy mist generated by the cascading water I glimpse both of beautiful beings. Just then, the steam turns cloudy and obscures them from my view. I see nothing but white! Ah… I may be blind but I can feel their pale fingers touching my face, my lips. I try to do the same but almost stumble upon them. My hands find their soft cheeks, their lips. Still blind, my own lips find theirs, three faces kissing each other until one of them, the woman’s, says…

“Something’s different!”

Her face frowns, the cloud disperses.

“Yes,” says her brother. He adds, ”There is not enough energetic material in the human’s body.”

I respond looking at each in turn. “Of course there’s something different. I now know who you are. At first I didn’t believe it, dismissing it as some crazy idea from a lunatic from Arkham, MA. But it’s all there! Your whispering voices, the phonograph, the sound waves, the mining of energy. The lunatic erred only when he imagined things such as monstrous wings.”

Immediately both smile and a monstrous metamorphosis begins. The pale red of their lips and cheeks spreads, flushing their entire bodies and beyond, stretching their flesh into pinkish membranous wings. The vibrations generated by their wings, intensified by those of their buzzing whispers, energize the air. Both beings start floating in the heated atmosphere as if they were still in the water. Now I see two ageless, pale white-gray-pinkish things that remind me of something existing in a spectrum between the insects I keep in the sciences laboratory entomology cabinets and the fungi I keep in the biology refrigerators. Their stretching skin resembles fermenting yeast; their vast pairs of articulated wings mimic the articulated appendages of a giant wasp or some sort of huge albino bat. Whatever growth has obliterated their faces now sprouts multitudes of very short inward antennae and long outward feelers, feelers reaching towards me.

They both ask: “Do you find us more attractive like this?”

I ignore their remark and ask, “Are you some kind of parasite stealing my body energy?”

One of them answers: “Close. We are not organic but composed of a different kind of organic atoms. You are right that in all organic atoms permanent material enters the psychical world from the corporeal. Alas, there’s our problem. We are mostly corporeal, barely psychical, and not intuitive in the way you are. Our psyches are entirely logical and rational. We feed our bodies and psyches with that which we seek: diverse energetic materials not available in our planet.

“We spent so much temporal and spatial energy harvesting your planet’s atomic energy until we realized that what we need is the greatest force in the cosmos, your erotic energy. Like the fungi in your lab, we reproduce by parthenogenesis, our spores detach from our bodies and create an identical copy of ourselves. Not even like insects, but like self-reproducing worms, we have no concept of the Other.

“We attempted to reproduce a human erotic-other as an information set of light waves, sound waves, and touch waves, so that we could bring a sample to our planet. At first it only required carrying a brain and a one of the phonographs your colleague Edison invented for us. Now we do not need the actual brain, any information-processing device will suffice. Edison, Einstein, and you have mastered atomic and electrical energy, yet the energy of an atomic bomb pales in comparison to the energy released in a human orgasm. Einstein’s discovery, gravitational attraction inside an atom’s nucleus, pales in comparison to the electricity of sexual attraction.

“We both have been studying the mathematics of your sexual fantasies; such study has allowed us to experience lust. We both want you. We wanted to kidnap you and bring you home. Unfortunately we need your erotic attraction to you so it has to be willing. We are departing for our home planet, Yuggoth, in a night and a day, when its orbit aligns with our location. We will come back to your dreams, tomorrow night. You then have to give us your answer. If we cannot entice you with our bodies, would millennia of scientific knowledge be enough?”

And suddenly the waterfall turns into a geyser, no, into a whitewater rapid. I’m swept by an orgasmic blinding white ecstasy, pleasuring both my body and my mind. The rapid carries me and throws me into my bed, leaving me covered in sweat, uncomfortably wet and fully awake. Now I have a new question to confront and I have less than twenty-four hours. Only one thing I do not have yet.

An answer.

Ahimsa Kerp

TURNING ON, TUNING IN, & DROPPING OUT AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS

“You are such a drag. You just need to split,” Euphoria told him. She had just been woken up and felt really spaced out. She moved her hand to slide the van’s door closed, but his body blocked her. Tim had found her napping and had come in uninvited. He knew she didn’t like it when people came into her bus without her blessing.

“Mellow out, Euphie, please” he pleaded. His voice was whiny, as it always was when he wanted something. “Don’t be like this. We were good together.” Tim was lean and lanky. He wore, as always, grungy jeans and a battered leather vest, complete with raggedy fringes on the sleeves. His chest was otherwise bare and mostly hairless.

“Good together?” she asked. That just wasn’t true. She’d never liked Tim. She had just shacked up with him when she got to town because he had good weed. They’d dated for two or three weeks and then she stopped seeing him. The message should have been clear enough. “Since when? You are being a major square, man. You will get bad karma. Now, flake off. My friends are coming over,” she said.

“Fine, I’ll split. You never treated me right, anyway.” Tim’s eyes grew crafty. “I have new friends now. I don’t need you. I’ll go. But I want my star back.”

The star he referred to was a beautiful rock she wore on a hemp necklace. It looked volcanic, but was heavier than pumice and not as purely black as obsidian. Tim said it was from the Soviet Union and had come from outer space in the forties. He thought it looked like the sun when you were stoned, with squiggly rays of light ringing the bottom half of the sphere. Euphoria had always though it looked like an octopus.

There was no way she was giving it back to him. “That was my birthday present. What’s your bag, man? Don’t be an LBJ.”

Tim’s eyes flashed anger. “I want that fucking star back, Euphie. I only gave it to you because I thought you would steal it if I didn’t.” She was surprised. She in fact had been planning on stealing it, but she didn’t know that he had known.

Truth be told, stealing pretty things was kind of a problem for her.

Euphoria looked around at her microbus. It was in pretty good condition, considering the long drive from Iowa, but it hadn’t been cleaned for a while. Scarves, bracelets, rings, and her rags covered the floor, her bed still was out, and some macramé needles and pins she had borrowed in Kansas City were scattered all over the place. It was a mess and there was no way she was going to look for the necklace right now. Not for him.

“Tim, I don’t even know where it is. Now is not a good time. My friends are coming over.”

“It never is, Euphoria,” Tim said. His voice was strange and he came further into the van. His eyes were wild and bloodshot.

Fear crawled lightly up her neck. Tim was a peaceful man, but something had changed. He suddenly felt dangerous.

“Hey,” a voice called from outside.

Reinforcements. She nearly melted with relief. Outside stood a man and a woman; some of her best friends. One of them was the big Indian guy everyone called “Lazy Horse.” He didn’t ever say much of anything, and he was always smiling, but he was also really big. Her friend Diane stood next to him.

Tim glared at her. “This isn’t over,” he hissed. He jumped out of the van, nodded to the duo, and strode off. Euphoria followed him out, closing the sliding door to the Volkswagen with a satisfying thud.

“Tim,” she called. As he half turned around, she raised her middle finger in the sky. “Climb it, Tarzan!” As he turned away, scowling, she realized she had been wearing the necklace the entire time. Trippy. Euphoria turned to her friends. “Am I glad to see you guys. He was really wigging out.”

“Sq-uare,” Diane sang. Lazy Horse didn’t say anything; he just smiled at her. He was nice, but Diane was the coolest person Euphoria had ever met. She looked just like Twiggy, only shorter. She was always dressed in the best threads too. Today she wore a suede mini-skirt with a groovy chain belt, a French polo-neck top, and square-toed boots. She often wore a beret, but today she had a rose in her hair.

Euphoria didn’t know how it stayed there. Whenever she tried the same look, the damn flower always fell out. Instead, she was wearing a beaded headband that Lazy Horse had given her. That with a billowing blouse (no bra) and some embroidered jeans made her feel like she’d pass for someone more hip than herself, if no one looked too closely. She was no fashion star like Diane, but her breasts were bigger and her hair longer. They’d met a month ago, the day Euphoria had arrived in Ashland and they’d hit it off immediately. Diane was from Portland and was new to Ashland as well. She said she had made up the “Let’s make love, not war,” slogan three years ago, back in sixty-five at an anti-war rally in Eugene. That was majorly bitchin’, if it were true, and if it wasn’t, it was another sign that Diane was more fearless than Euphoria would ever be.

“What are you doing right now?” Diane asked, but didn’t wait for answer. “Come on out to Lithia Park. It’s really happening today; all the freaks are there. Who knows, you might meet a nice guy.”

“Diane,” Euphoria said, scandalized. “I am not on the make, okay?” She wondered if that was true. She’d been with Tim a few times, true, but he’d never really scratched that itch.

“That’s okay. You might find something you like.”

“I don’t have any bread,” Euphoria said.

“Me either. You can get the five-fingered discount though. And maybe I’ll just show them my tits.”

Euphoria laughed and then realized that her friend wasn’t kidding.

* * *

Ashland was a town of college students and their moneyed parents, filled with duck ponds, hiking trails, wild blackberries, and plenty of culture like art exhibits and free theater. Mt. Ashland frowned in the sky above the town, and lesser hills flowed by like water. Towards the Pacific, to the west, rolling oaks covered the foothills. And at the epicenter of it all was Lithia Park, where the free people gathered.

Euphoria looked out at a sea of color as pinks, blues, yellows, and greens walked by. It was a world of bell bottoms, tie-dye, ankle fringes, flower patches, beads, bandannas, buck-skin vests, flowing caftans, Mexican peasant blouses, gypsy-style skirts, halter tops, and granny glasses.

“Far out,” Euphoria said. It was just her and Diane; Lazy Horse had gone off looking for dinner. She was focusing on a beaded peace sign belt buckle. Next to it were a series of Smokey the Bear stickers. The big brown creature was smoking a joint, holding the jay delicately with his enormous bear paws.

While the vendor was talking to a couple of guys playing Frisbee, Euphoria slipped a couple of stickers into her purse. Diane tisked softly. Euphoria ignored her. What was a girl with no money supposed to do? Her karma was generally still pretty good.

The vendor turned to them. “I love this place,” she said to Diane, covering. “It’s not like Iowa.” She didn’t miss the place she’d grown up, but occasionally she wondered about calling her parents. Her father’s birthday had been last month.

“Iowa. Ha,” the guy selling the stickers said. “I’m from Akron — same shit, sister.”

“Yeah, it’s a real scene,” Diane agreed. She seemed bored.

“Right on,” the guy said. “Hey, you two got a guru? There’s a new dude in town, and he is way far out. He can tell prophecies, that kind of shit. He’s camping here in the park.”

“The soul brother?” Diane sounded surprised. “I, uh, yeah I know him.”

“Sounds like fun,” Euphoria said. She needed some guidance in her life. “Let’s beat feet.”

* * *

It took them almost two hours to find the camp. They had to wade through the creek, walk up through a forest, and past something that looked like a giant hamster wheel. Once they were close, though, they could hear the drums beating and smell the smoke of the bonfire. The sun had set and the summer sky was filled with waning, streaming light.

There were already twenty or thirty people. Lots were getting high, some were playing drums, and plenty were just chilling out.

“There he is,” Diane said. She didn’t need to say it though, he stood out.

Lithe and swarthy; he stood by the fire but was wrapped in darkness. Shadows wreathed languidly about his body. His face was dark except for his eyes, which shone with an awful, joyous light. He wore camouflage fatigues and a combat vest with lots of pockets, with black leather sandals on his feet. His beard was curly and neatly trimmed. On his head was an almost rectangular headpiece that immediately made Euphoria think of an Egyptian pharaoh.

He clutched an elongated ivory flute. The instrument appeared to be made from a hollow reed or a bone, bleached white, with several finger holes along the shaft. The man was very beautiful.

“Look at that dude,” Euphoria whispered to Diane. “He is seriously far out.”

As they watched him, he lifted his flute into air and played. The sound filled the air. It was fey, wild music that may have lasted seconds or hours. It transcended beauty, and spoke directly to the soul. It was over all too quickly. The world itself seemed to have changed, to have been destroyed and clumsily rebuilt in an instant.

Her heart was beating fast and her head seemed to be swimming. She found herself approaching him.

He looked at her. His smile was smoldering, but cruel.

“Where ya’ from, man?” she asked.

“Hard to say,” he answered. His voice was low and gruff.

“My name is Euphoria. What’s yours?” She pressed her breasts into him, slightly, as she leaned in to talk with him.

“I have many names. You can call me… Nyarlathotep.”

“That’s a trippy name. Are you, you know, from Egypt?”

“I’ve been there. Amongst other places.”

“Like, where?”

He paused. “It might be easier to tell you where I haven’t been. I have looked on sights which others saw not. ”

“You’ve been to Kathmandu? Kabul? Benares? Ceylon?”

He interrupted her. “That’s not the kind of traveling I do. Think more… celestial.”

She understood all right. She wondered if she could bag some acid off of him.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asked her. There was no mistaking what his invitation entailed. She was thrilled at his directness. She glanced over to Diane, who was chatting with a guy who looked like Jesus.

When she saw Euphoria, she nodded. “Go,” she mouthed.

* * *

When Nyarlathotep took his vest off, Euphie gasped. Hanging on a dull metallic thread was a stone like the one Tim had given her. Instead of an octopus, however, this one was wide and triangular, like a pyramid.

“Far out,” she said. They were in a house that bordered the park. It was nice, like one that her parents might own, but Nyarlathotep had walked in as though it belonged to him. It wasn’t empty — there were a few other couples and lovers in various states of intercourse, but to her relief they were in a private room. She wasn’t ready for orgies just yet.

His hands were around her, and her shirt was over her head and on the floor before she knew it. He leaned in and lightly licked her right nipple. She felt a flood of warmth fill her, then she giggled as his beard tickled her breast.

Something was wrong. He had stopped and was staring strangely at her breasts.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“This necklace. Where did you get it?” He wasn’t looking at her breasts at all.

“From the cosmos, man,” she said. She really didn’t want to talk about her ex right now.

“I know of this. I didn’t realize how… important it was.” His hand was before her and it flexed as though he was suppressing some deeply hidden emotion. “Never mind. We have an entire night before us,” he said. His mouth moved to her other nipple and surrounded it with a soft wet kiss.

Her jeans were off, then. And she was lying in his bed as he filled her from above. It was like being high, but somehow so much more. She was screaming, having lost total control of her inhibitions and feelings. At the end, as he pumped his essence into her, she felt she was watching herself; a disconnected observer of her own pleasure.

* * *

She awoke to the sound of knocking. Nyarlathotep slid out of bed and, fully nude, flowed to the door. His erection hadn’t subsided while they had slept.

“I’ve been looking all night. I can’t find it,” the voice from outside said. The man sounded whiny.

No, she thought. Impossible. Not here.

“Never mind,” Nyarlathotep’s deep voice answered. “I don’t need you anymore.”

“Never mind? That’s a real drag, man. I just spent hours…”

“Tim,” Euphoria asked. She knew it had to be. “What are you doing here?”

Tim stepped into the door so that he could see the bed. When he saw her, his face collapsed, like it was melting. Then it was replaced by a mask of rage.

“What the fuck, asshole!” he half-screamed at Nyarlathotep. “You told me if I got the necklace I’d get her back.”

“You didn’t get the necklace,” the dark man said. He moved to close the door.

“Fuck you, man!” Tim swung a fist at Nyarlathotep’s face. Moving faster than humanly possible, Nyarlathotep caught his fist with his left hand. He squeezed and a horrible crunching sound filled the room. Even in the dark, Euphoria could see red pulp oozing out of Nyarlathotep’s fist.

Tim screamed for a half-instant, but almost instantly passed out from the pain. His body crumpled to the floor.

Euphoria was out of bed; she too was naked and her nipples were hard in the cool night air. “I think — I’ll be going now.” She was panicked, out of control. Her hands reached for her clothes as she tried not to look at the door.

She felt him behind her, that most terrible phantasm of the night.

“You mortals always amuse me,” he said. His voice was soft. “You work so hard for your miserable survival. Why fight for such drivel?”

“What do you want from me?” she asked. Her voice quavered. She knew she was going to die and thought suddenly of her parents, and felt sad that she hadn’t talked to them for so long.

“Not much more than I’ve already gotten,” he leered at her. He was so beautiful, yet so masculine, she thought, that even now she half-feared him, half-craved him. “But I’d really like your jewelry.” He reached out his long, slender hand.

Her fingers were too shaky to try and untie the knot. She slipped the star over her head, and gently placed it on his palm.

“Just so,” he said. “I will be back — there’s never been a better time to be a messiah. But for now, I must go. He waits for no one.”

“Wait,” she asked suddenly.

He turned and looked at her. Her knees shook; he seemed on the verge of destroying her.

“Can I… can I get one more kiss?”

Nyarlathotep smiled a huge glowing smile. His teeth shone. “You were… energetic. Much more so than your friend Diane. I can reward you, yes.”

He leaned down, grabbing the back of her head while his lips pressed to hers. “Diane?” she wondered, then forgot. Her hands, much more still now, were clasped around his neck as her body flushed once more with desire. She moaned as his tongue slipped into her mouth. Her fingers worked busily and then her left hand clenched. He half dropped her, stepped away and then, surrounded by a thousand stars, he disappeared.

She pulled on her blouse and jeans and followed him. She stepped over Tim and his bloody hand. That’s karma for you. Nyarlathotep was gone, and the revelers were all asleep. She walked out into the street, and smiled.

She opened her hand and examined the contents. Not a bad trade, she thought. The pyramid wasn’t as cool as the octopus, maybe, but the new chain was cool and she had a groovy story now. Best of all, she had a pretty good idea of what she wanted to do with it.

Once it was morning, she needed to find Diane and say goodbye. It was time to get out of Ashland. The sunshine of California would be nice, but might be better to cruise up the I-5, head to Yellowstone, and then back out to Iowa. After all, she had one hell-of-a late birthday present for her father.

Maria Mitchell

SONG OF THE CATHERINE CLARK

“That is where my grandfather saw her on the winter solstice of 1873.” Abe Gilman thrust his bony, wart-addled finger towards Devil’s Reef and took another swig of his plum-flavored poison while Dryden scribbled the information hastily. “Of course, no one but a gossip rag would report on the ship having been seen here in Innsmouth. My grandfather was quite angry because the tabloid made it out to be a kind of ‘Flying Dutchman’. The Catherine Clark vanished after departing from England sometime in the winter of 1872. As far as the legitimate records are concerned, she sunk at sea sometime after her departure and was never seen again.” Abe took another swig and Dryden wrinkled his nose in disgust as a dribble of slime clung to Abe’s chin.

“Thank you, Mr. Gilman. I certainly appreciate you taking the time to recount to me what your grandfather knew of this affair.” Dryden Brewer looked cautiously at the Innsmouth waterfront while Abe swaggered drunkenly away along the pier. Dryden watched in mounting disgust as Abe continued to swill down the liquor as he stumbled toward the sea. He was soon joined by a cluster of other old men, and the usual sharing of the bottle commenced. Dryden knew from experience that they all smelled of rotten fish, and hurried away. He had spent two months in Innsmouth and had begun to loathe the Massachusetts town teetering on a desolate coast. Just getting anyone in the town to speak to him at all had been a feat of Herculian proportions. Outsiders were seldom welcome in Innsmouth, so most of Dryden’s information was gleaned from his voracious study of the historical articles on loan to him from the nearby Miskatonic University.

What had frustrated Dryden most about Dyer Gilman’s account was none of the historical documents detailing the vanishing of the Catherine Clark could confirm that the ship had ever been anywhere near Innsmouth. The ship registry noted that its destination from England was New York. It could have been steered off course by a gale, but if it had ended up in Innsmouth in 1873, where was she for that whole year she was unaccounted for? Dryden puzzled it over. Piracy was common back then. The Clark could have been commandeered by sea wolves and then used to transport contraband. Innsmouth had a dark reputation that had been whispered about by its neighbors for over a century and a half. The town was universally shunned by anyone living near it (except, of course, by those living inside of it), the general impression being that its citizens carried themselves outside the laws of mankind. Dryden had hoped that Dyer’s grandson, Abe, would supply the concrete corroboration he needed. Instead, the man had been supremely unhelpful, and Dryden grudgingly walked up the trail back into town.

One of the few people who treated Dryden like a welcome guest was Hitch Leeds, manager of a coffee shop near the pier. He’d lived in Innsmouth for about ten years and most of his clientèle was comprised of the non-native longshoremen and other sailors who drifted in and out of Innsmouth Harbor regularly. Hitch smiled as Dryden entered the warm shop with a bit of mist clinging to his gray coat.

“Your special today, Dryden?”

“Please, Hitch,” Dryden replied with a halfhearted smile. Hitch set to work brewing a black coffee, laced with espresso, while Dryden sat down and set the bound articles from the university on the counter. Hitch cast an absent glance over at them.

“Light reading for the weekend, huh?”

“Not exactly. It’s a bunch of articles detailing that shipwreck I’m tracking.”

“I used to do a little beach combing myself when I was a kid, down in North Carolina. Down there, every kid goes through a phase where they think they’re going to be the one to solve the mystery of what happened to the Lost Colony of Roanoke. That’s how I used to spend a lot of summer days — scrambling around Roanoke with my cousins. All we ever found was cigarette butts and cans. Some shells.”

“My pursuit is even more mysterious. The Catherine Clark disappeared at sea, but according to at least one account, was sighted here in Innsmouth a year after she vanished.”

“I don’t understand why you put so much stock in that tale. Most likely it was a different ship that was sighted.”

“Wait a minute, Leeds. You don’t know the whole story about that.” Dryden smiled knowingly and retrieved from his binder the aged log of Innsmouth’s lighthouse keeper, Dyer Gilman. Clearing his voice, Dryden read aloud:

The Catherine Clark stood on the sea about a mile off from Devil’s Reef on the night of December 21, 1873. I’d recognize that accursed figurehead anywhere. She’s haunted my dreams ever since Grant first showed me her bewitching eyes. She stood regal and calm amidst the sea’s maelstrom. Her ghostly singing echoed over the Innsmouth Coast. Some of the older families were unaffected by the noise, and harshly criticized others for being frightened. It was hard not to be afraid. It was hard not to be afraid when you saw so many of the young men wandering out in the horrific storm to stare out on the coast like they had no brains left in their heads. They stood enthralled by that accursed singing. I felt it a bit, myself, though I imagine as an old, grizzled man of the sea, I had more control than the younger fellers who began casting themselves to the sea like worms on hooks to the arms of — God only knows what.

Oh yes, though, I felt the pull. I felt the pull twanging through every quivering muscle in my body. Within every beat of the notes that hellish night sang I felt the pull to go to the sea and to follow that ocean-fairing Galatea into the depths of her darkness. To throw myself upon where ever she lay. To entomb myself in that sound, that hellish, accursed, moaning sound!

The beeping of the coffee maker wrenched Hitch’s attention back to the counter. Dryden smirked, knowing Hitch had been thoroughly mesmerized by the shadow of Gilman’s words cast over his mundane thoughts. Hitch retrieved the coffee and served Dryden and himself. He leaned over the counter, peering over Dryden’s binder.

“Let me see that article.”

“Be careful. It’s very fragile.”

Hitch looked it over with a critical eye. “This Gilman wouldn’t be related to Abe Gilman, would he? That boozer isn’t going to be a reliable witness, you know.”

“Dyer was his grandfather. I was just talking to him this afternoon. Getting confirmation.”

“You needed confirmation that he’s a drunk?”

“I wanted to ask him more about what his grandfather had seen. I didn’t tell him anything about what Dyer had written in the logbook. I wanted to see what he had to say. I don’t think anyone had mentioned the affair to him in a long time.”

Dryden sipped the coffee listlessly while Hitch studied the article in more detail.

“I really think you’re looking too hard for something that isn’t there. I think that there is something to be said about the simplest explanation here.”

Dryden frowned. “What is the simplest explanation?”

“That the ship was dashed to pieces in the surf and was never anywhere near Innsmouth. I know you hope to find the wreckage, but most likely, it’s lost forever, unless you find a way to sieve the entire Atlantic Ocean.”

Dryden’s brow furrowed but he managed to change the subject to more pleasant, emptier, topics before bidding farewell to Hitch. Dryden gathered up his articles and departed into the mist that lingered outside. It was cold but Dryden was used to it. At first it was a terrible biting thing, constantly reminding him that he was in a hostile place, so unlike home. It didn’t seem to bother him anymore.

As he slid into sleep amidst all his articles he felt his mind being pulled into a distant dream. He waited and saw the ocean creep up to meet him. In the depths of the tide pool he saw the flash of glimmering light. Dryden bent down to retrieve the stray jewel. Bedecked with winsome gems, the tapered claw was a barrette of some kind. Its razor sharp hair teeth made Dryden wince as one scratched his finger, leaving a red welt that wept a trickle of blood. He tossed it back into the water and as it fell to the depths of the churning waves he heard an echo of music bounce off the cliffs. It flooded his body with sensation and he staggered to keep his balance against the singing. It grew in volume and reverberated against the twisting caverns of his veins. He clutched himself against the pain of the melodic assault. He gazed out to the sea and saw the ship emerge from its depths. Its siren figurehead held its lifeless arms out to him. He listened and she sang. Her song rippled under his skin.

Dryden looked up to her and marveled at her topaz eyes that glittered with a demon light from beyond space and time.

“You are the song,” Dryden whispered in the darkness. She nodded with a predatory smile.

“I am the memory of man, or rather man’s desires. I am the witch’s light that burned before the creation of man. I am Lilith, Ia, Ishtar, Venus, the many guises that man has given me. I am older than the Earth. I was here before,” she said with a winged flutter of her long, silken black hair.

“Then why are you here now?” Dryden asked petulantly as she pained him with more desire by arching her naked form above him.

“I am here to make you realize your blood’s vast potential. You have within your veins the secret key to an eternity most mortals can only envy in vain as they race to the worms. You are of Deep One ilk. There are many branches of your family dwelling under the waves. You needn’t linger upon the mundane, earthly shore if you hanker for the reaches of time that beckon to your lively mind. I can take you through all the prisms you seek in your heart. I can thrall you into dimensions past and unborn.”

Dryden sweated with fear and lust and she snaked off of the ship and slimed her legs around his like two great serpents. She entwined around him, orifices sprouting from her body in a patchwork of blood-leeching passion. She kissed him and he tangled his fingers through her undulating black hair. She never stopped singing. It was the singing that penetrated into his organs and vibrated them with prickles of pain and pleasure and she sucked him, slimed him, and transformed him. She sucked every last warm drop of human blood from him and stripped him of every scrap of human flesh. He looked up at her as their maelstrom reached crescendo.

“My dear Dryden, it is time I take you to the sea,” she sang.

Mae Empson

BETWEEN A ROCK AND AN ELDER GODDESS

Finding the woman in the cave, just as his analysis predicted, forced Dennis Papadakis to face the fact that impossible things walked among humankind, whether or not “walked” was even the right word.

She was reclined in a natural pool, with only her upper half visible to him, as naked and as shapely as the masthead of a ship.

“You came,” she said simply, and the whisper echoed in his head, rather than reflecting any projection of sound from her perfectly formed lips.

He took a step towards her, and then another.

He knew what she was. And still, he’d come.

Close the doors, you uninitiated.

So began the Orphic poem from the Derveni Papyrus. Dennis knew the scrolls found in the Derveni necropolis, and their record of the elder gods beginning with black-winged Night who birthed the Sky-Aether, and all the other star-spawn. And he’d read that there was one great Deep One above even black-winged Night, and that was Primordial Boundless Chaos — also called Apeiron or Azathoth. From Apeiron, gods and planets were endlessly created and destroyed, to the tune of Rhea or Zangreus’ Phrygian flute and drum.

Dennis’s father and the other scholars had whispered about these things during the 44 years in which the Derveni scrolls had been studied and translated, cloaked in secrecy, before their release last year in 2006. But, even after the Derveni Papyrus had been translated, shared to the public, and safely housed in the Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki, there remained another door to open, another scroll, a final initiation.

Dennis knew the real secret.

The discovery of the Derveni Papyrus in 1962 had triggered a wave of expeditions through the most ancient necropoli, better funded and better equipped than in decades, fueled by the renewed belief that there were still treasures to be found. One such group thought to go to Pantalica, to the ancient necropolis so old that it pre-dated the ancient Greek colony at Syracuse on Sicily by five hundred years. In 1969, they found there an even older scroll, and transported it also to Thessaloniki where it could be analyzed in entire secrecy behind the veil of scholarly hubbub over the Derveni Papyrus.

What would be called the Pantalica Papyrus was even more secretly translated, and Dennis’s father was among the translators. Dennis was attending Thessaloniki, working on postgraduate studies in History and Archaeology, specializing in Ancient History.

The age of the Pantalica papyrus, the fact that it was prose, and the specific references to Apeiron, pointed immediately to Anaximander, the pre-Socratic philosopher, as its author. Kernels of it echoed, anticipated, and explained Anaximander’s beliefs so well that it could not easily be dismissed. And there was a reference to the author’s Thracian bride obtained in Appollonia. Had Anaximander not led the Milesian colony to Appollonia, to Thrace, to the shores of the Black Sea?

Anaximander was the philosopher who was well known to have posited in the 6th century BC that the earth was one of many worlds created from Apeiron, and that its entire surface had once been covered in water, with plants and animals birthed from mud and water. He claimed that men were not present at this early stage, but that mankind had descended from fish. From fish! Over two thousand years before Darwin. He asserted that there had to have been an embryonic transitional stage — with egg-born generations of men mouth-brooded by fish — before mankind could come out into the open air and lose our scales. A hero of rational thought. The first scientist and evolutionist.

When Dennis first read the Pantalica papyrus, among his father’s papers, he thought it must be a hoax or allegory. It was on par with suddenly finding a lost love letter between Pythagoras and Medusa, or, rather between Pythagoras and a mythical talking triangle eager to reveal its geometric secrets. Absurd.

Anaximander was supposed to be the first scientist. The man who first drew a map of the world. The man who first conceived of a mechanical model of the entire universe. Anaximander was a hero of deductive reason, of the triumph of the rational over the supernatural.

Or so they had thought.

From the papyrus, Dennis could see that the Thracian wife must have infected Anaximander with her Orphism. It was she, in the text, who offered the dedications to Apeiron and black-winged Night, and who played the wild flute that heralded the Boundless Chaos that is Apeiron.

It was she who had introduced Anaximander, and now Dennis, to Circe.

The author of the scroll wrote, and this certainly was no secret, that Circe was the daughter of Helios, sky-spawn, and one of the daughters of Oceanus, depth-spawn. Likewise, the author proclaimed that Circe commanded the gift of uplift and decay, of evolution and devolution. She could regress men to pigs and wolves and half-fish. She made of them living sculptures proclaiming what men had been and what they now were, both naturally (half-fish) and allegorically (pigs). She was not ashamed of her star-spawn heritage. Why should anyone else be? Let it be writ upon their faces and bodies.

When one of her creations was criticized and rejected — poor Glaucus whom she had regressed to fin and scaly tail from the waist down, she was incensed like an artist who had received an unfavorable review. What blinded this nymph Priscilla that she recoiled in horror from handsome half-fished Glaucus?

The next time Priscilla descended into her pool to bathe, Circe poisoned the water with primordial Apeironian ooze, collected from the deepest abyss where Oceanus slept dreaming and oozing from his tentacled orifices.

The nymph’s lower body changed beneath the water line, regressing and transforming. She became Scylla, a monster.

Circe had planned to laugh at Scylla’s suffering. She hated the slight against Glaucus, against her own flesh-craftsmanship.

Only, there was something enticing about Scylla as she tried to run from herself, from the twelve tentacles, from the six hairy mouths where she had only had one woman’s hairy mouth, and each attached to her waist by a sinuous neck so that it could twist and turn to gnash its teeth at her, and bark like a dog, hairy as a wolf.

“A fine story, wife,” Anaximander responded, the translation recorded, when she had concluded her description. “A tale for the fireside, and echoing Homer.”

“It is no story,” she challenged, this woman from Thrace who has no name at this point in the papyrus.

“Then what does it mean?” he asked, assuming it was some kind of allegory, a myth-garmented truth.

“It does not mean. It is. It was. It will be again.”

“I’m sure the person that taught you the story framed it that way.”

“You would challenge Circe’s own account?” she asked, fierce-tongued.

Anaximander was in no mood to argue this further. She was so young. So foolish. Perhaps he had been foolish to marry a woman in her teens when he was almost fifty-five, a very old man. “If Circe told me herself, I’d consider it, but I’d believe it when I saw Scylla wriggling and writhing in all her glory.”

“Few enough men have wished for that.”

“If such a creature existed, I would want to see her. It would be fascinating. She would be a kind of chthonic missing link. Remarkable.”

Something changed in his wife’s expression. She looked quite pleased. “We could sail to Syracuse, and then travel north to the place where she waits.”

Anaximander’s wife had a large gold-ornamented chest, which she had brought with her to his house at the time of their marriage. She always kept it locked. She kept it in a room in their villa which she also kept locked. Sometimes she sequestered herself behind that door, and he could hear flute music and drum through the open window, as he read in the courtyard below. He assumed it contained her Thracian instruments.

Now, she insisted that they take it with them to Syracuse. But first, while he arranged things and their sea passage, she let him know that she would be gone for several days, visiting her family.

Anaximander was glad to not be invited. He had never met her family, and expected they were quite decadently Thracian since she had been so reluctant to introduce him to them.

But, it struck him that her departure would be a chance to investigate the locked chest in the locked room. It had bothered him particularly in the first few months of their marriage, but he had not thought about it for over a year, gradually settling into their routines. This mention of her need to take it to Syracuse had re-ignited his curiosity.

He purchased locks that were similar enough to substitute, so that he could hide this act of invasion, and entered the forbidden room.

Surely this was simply a cautionary tale, Dennis told himself. It was a warning to not be taken in by the Orphic cult, to leave closed those doors which are not meant to be opened. That Anaximander had chosen to tell it in such biographical terms was intriguing and probably of interest to some literary scholar, but did not necessarily detract from his other scientific thinking nor cast aspersion on the source of his more radical ideas.

There was a strange fetid odor in the room, almost brackish. It had simply been shut up too long, Anaximander told himself, momentarily forgetting the open window.

He considered how angry she would be. But was he not indulging her with this foolish trip to Syracuse? Surely, she would indulge him in this.

He crossed to the chest and forced the lock.

As he lifted the lid, a thick scent of musty brackish wrongness assaulted his senses. Was something dead rotting inside? What had she done?

There was something pink folded on top — a kind of strange almost flesh-like cloth. He lifted it out and shook it open.

It was the skin of a woman, complete but for holes at the eye sockets, hair still attached. He was holding it in front of him by its shoulders. He saw hair like his wife’s hair, curly and brown, and a scar like his wife’s on the left arm. He dropped it, and let it fall back into the chest, noticing for the first time that there were other objects below, other folded skins, sickly dark gray and green, with glimpses of feather and of scale and of fur.

He slammed the trunk, and sunk to a sitting position in front of it. He thought “witch” and “skin-thief”, and “not her, not my wife.” And, “gods protect me.” She would come back. She would know what he had done.

A shriek sounded behind him, and he turned. A hawk perched in predatory agitation, framed by the window, and its eyes were his wife’s eyes.

“Circe?” he asked.

The hawk flew to him, perched on his shoulder, and rubbed its head against the hair above his ear.

He flinched, expecting some attack, but it did not come.

She flew to the chest, lifted its lid with a talon, and slipped inside. A moment later, his wife climbed out of the chest. “I can change others, but not myself. I had to find another way. It is an old craft.”

“Will you change me? I should not have looked into that which you had locked and hid.” In his mind, he saw pigs and wolves, and he was afraid.

She looked at him and let the silence stretch. “Mander, if you will keep me company for the time you have left, I will whisper the secrets of the universe to you, the crazed babbling of flute-accompanied Azathoth, how Helios watches — a Cyclopean eye in a body of stars, how sleeping Oceanus dreams — the tentacled oozing leviathan, and how if both their eyes opened at once, the world itself would cease to be. I can show you things you would indeed find remarkable.”

He nodded mutely, afraid to contradict her, and, despite the last surrendering protest of his reason, absolutely curious and as absolutely smitten with her as he had been from the first day he saw her. “Shall we still go to Syracuse?” he asked after a moment. “Shall I see Scylla?”

Circe smiled, and she answered directly into his mind, no longer exerting the effort to twitch the skin and its mouth muscles in accompanying pantomime. “That foolish nymph slit her own throat centuries ago in her blind rage, but I saved her skin. I can be Scylla for you right now if you’d like. The possibilities, with so many nether mouths, are an adventure that might consume several days of exploration.”

He lifted the lid of the chest himself, and looked at her with an eager smile. “I do like to explore. But, remember I am an old man, wife. Be gentle with me.”

They were not seen for several days.

When they sailed for Syracuse, they looked out over the side of the ship at the dark surface of the water, his arm protectively encircling her, and he tried to imagine the strange shapes that slithered and slept and oozed beneath its depths. He shivered a bit, and was glad that the ship was as large as it was, and as well fortified against storm and rock as it could be.

She felt him shiver. “You have nothing to fear from the others while you are with me,” she whispered.

“Because they are… our family?”

“And because they can no longer abide the sound of barking dogs. The racket is fearsome carried under water. I have warned them off before, Scylla-skinned, and the lesson is now well learned.”

“What is there yet to see, in Syracuse and beyond?” he asked, realizing that the ship had little to fear from Scylla while she stood tucked beneath his arm. “Is there still a whirlpool, a Charbydis, to fear, in the Strait of Messina? Do we have a reason to sail through the strait and beyond?”

“There is still Charbydis, and as to what she is, I’ll let you see for yourself. But, as to what lies beyond the strait, if you remember your Homer, you will recall that my own isle lies beyond, Aeaea. There I have a house and cave, my eternal home, where I retire between the lifetimes that I choose to live skin-stolen. I’d like you to see it. I’d like to remember us there, wrapped in each other’s arms and other appendages, as I wait there in the centuries to come, immortal and alone.”

And this was what captured Dennis’s imagination, as he set aside the translation and its mad tale of the witch and the old Ionian philosopher-scientist. How many lives had she lived since, and in what skins? How long had she waited, alone?

Most scholars agreed that Aeaea was no longer an isle, but a peninsula off the Italian coast, in the salt marshes, in a place now called Mount Circeo on Cape Circaeum, bearing her name. Surely others had searched these spaces, and the caves there and on the nearby island of Ponza. But, he felt compelled to search as well.

Dennis left behind his scholarship, his father, the comforts of the city and its technologies, and all that he had been taught about skepticism and reason. He tattooed the back of his hand with the Orphic egg (a silver egg wrapped in a serpentine tentacle) in the hopes that it formed some kind of mark of initiation.

Eventually he found a cave that others had overlooked, or, perhaps more likely, he was permitted to see that which had been veiled to others. He found the grotto, and the beautiful woman reclining within.

As he approached, seeing only her top half, he did not know if this was her Thracian skin, or her Scylla skin, or some other skin. Beneath the water line, she could be hairy mouths and tentacles.

But he still went to her.

“You came,” she said.

“Are you Circe?” he asked.

She nodded, still half submerged, and reached up with one hand to caress his face as he knelt beside the pool. “You found my story.”

“Not I, but others. I read the translation.”

“I have written that story every two hundred years or so, different versions, each a faithful account of my adventures with the men of each age who have come to bear me company, and hid the papyrus, the papers, in necropoli and other old places. Perhaps one day in the far future, they will read of you and I, and it will inspire another young man to seek me out.”

“You are a fisher of scholars,” he said with a laugh.

“I cast my net,” she acknowledged with an ageless smile.

“You’ve caught me,” he said. “I am yours.”

“Are you ready to join me in this pool, knowing what I might be, beneath this water?”

He nodded, and began to unbutton his shirt, eager to find out.

One hairy mouth slipped out of the water and rubbed its furry head against his leg, where he knelt. He petted it, slick and soft, and traced its moist lips with one finger. She sighed in pleasure, and the sound purred and pulsed from all of her mouths at once, above and below the water. As she wrapped him in her arms, in her tentacles, in her nether mouths, he heard his own heart beating like a mad drum and her moaning cries echoed through the cave like the thin monotonous piping of a Phrygian flute.

Lovecraftian Love by Galen Dara

Nathan Crowder

THE FISHWIVES OF SEAN BROLLY

The bottle’s neck in Steven’s hand was slick with sweat and blood, and his brow was knit with concentration in the stale motel air. He leaned back to let the table lamp shine down on his work. With a critical eye, he surveyed the cuts. Close, he thought. Close but still not right. Maintaining an erection would be difficult at best. Steven adjusted his position. As he examined his canvas, he licked a drop of salty sweat from his upper lip. There, he thought. He brought the broken glass to bear. With the whisper of parting flesh, he felt turgidity return. Yes. This will do just fine.

“Steve, unlock the damn car.”

Steven jolted awake in the stuffy womb of the rental car to see his wife, Linda, pounding on the driver’s side window. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide an unexpected hard-on.

He had been dreaming of Brolly’s fishwives again. Ever since he and Linda had arrived in Grayce Point, North Carolina, he had seen them. Each time he closed his eyes, the women were there, tempting him.

Linda shouted again, veins visible in her neck from anger. “Steven, the door!”

Steven scrambled to comply. Intense pressure from her editor had made Linda more intolerable than usual lately. Any way he could keep her happy was to his advantage. Her door swung open, letting in the muted roar and salty breeze of the incoming tide across the desolate tidal flats. The last book’s success had earned her a big advance, and big expectations. Linda had sold her publishers on another historical fiction novel based on the notorious wrecker Sean Brolly. She knew little more than a story told by her grandmother about the subject. The new book required research, and that required a few weeks in North Carolina. The story’s birthplace was a stone’s throw from historic Roanoke, on one of its less-scenic islands, soaking in the grisly details.

Steven had to go. He was Linda’s personal assistant as much as her husband, if not more. He brushed a lock of fine, windblown hair from her face, hoping to mute her anger with his apparent cheer. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

She batted his hand away with a sigh. “I found the site of the stilt huts out on the flats. The posts are almost rotted away — I bet they only get below the water at extreme high tides. But I had no luck tracking down graves along the surrounding shore.”

“So maybe they weren’t buried,” Steven suggested, nursing his stung hand as well as stung ego. It fit at least one of the legends about the fishwives of Sean Brolly. Spawn of several generations of incestuous relations, the women of the Brolly clan were said to be just as blood thirsty as their husband/father. While Sean merited a historical marker in town, ten feet from where he was hung, there was no definitive answer for what happened to the women. If they were buried, no one knew where.

Some said that the women were killed where they stood, the bodies set to the torch.

Another legend was heard from a rum-soaked old mariner at the dock four days ago. The fishwives of Sean Brolly were monstrous, inhuman, and the townspeople who fell upon them forced Sean’s progeny out into the ocean, pockets filled with rocks and sewn shut.

While Linda loved the more macabre version, she was unlikely to use it in her book. The mariner’s account, told in wafts of sour breath, involved the worship of forgotten gods and ritual sacrifice, not the kind of thing her editor was looking for. No, she would likely stick to having the women killed and tossed on a bonfire. Nothing like a good human pyre for sales, she had said.

The way her eyes sparkled at the thought turned Steven’s stomach, just as the mariner’s description of the wives stirred something else in him. Monstrous, he had said, their affinity for the ocean and its unforgiving god visible upon them like a shroud of sin. He would say no more, his eyes like a storm every time Linda brought the subject around to the Brolly women again. He eventually limped away, pulling his stocking cap down low over his rat’s nest of white hair as he vanished into the salty evening fog. They never saw him again, but Steven doubted they would get much more information. There was something in the way the old man had clammed up — something in Steven’s eyes, perhaps.

That night, the fishwives of Sean Brolly visited Steven in his dreams. Their dark hair was heavy with musky brine, their eyes wide, bulging on either side of narrow noses. In the muted sunset of his dream, their skin was grayish-green, their bellies white, glistening like raw oysters. Their bare backs were rough, scaly to the touch. There was nothing attractive about them, and as they first slid from the murky waters of the mudflats, he was revolted. Paralyzed in dream terror, he watched them advance down the length of the warped pier, a scent of bitter fermentation preceding them.

When their cold, grasping fingers began assailing the buttons of his shirt, his pants, he felt powerless to stop them. Insistent, slimy hands proceeded to touch him in ways his own wife’s had not for years, and his revulsion gave way to base animal lust. Their hungry grasp clutched wetly at him, tracking sticky lines down his torso, up his thighs. Strong, clammy fingers tugged at his manhood, stirred it to life. It was not real, he reasoned, only the dream result of constant frustrations. By the time their foul, black tongues snaked past his lips with a taste of seafood past its prime, he no longer resisted. Inhibitions lost, he gave in to their needs, their hungers.

The dreams continued, pulling him down into increasingly depraved visions of lust whenever he closed his eyes to sleep. He felt his waking and dreaming lives becoming disjointed, and wasn’t certain that he cared.

“Steven! Are you listening to me?”

He turned his attention to Linda. They were in the parking lot of the seaside motel. Steven didn’t remember the drive from the tidal flats, and memory of the briny stench faded beneath the rose soap smell of Linda’s skin. “Sorry. Drifted off.”

“For fuck’s sake. You’re supposed to be taking notes.” She waited for him to fish out his notebook. Once he opened to a blank page, she started in with the tone she reserved for children and idiots. Linda knew he hated it, that pedantic way of reinforcing that she was a success and that he was nobody. “Tomorrow, I need to go see the wreckage of the two ships out on the rocks. Book a charter boat for me. Meanwhile, I want you to search the local newspaper archives for accounts of Brolly’s trial.”

He wrote it down and returned the notebook to his rough, canvas over-shirt.

“And hide your boner before you get out,” she added. “It’s disgusting.”

How would you know, you harridan, he thought, already missing the wet caress of cold hands. You haven’t seen it for months.

The fishwives were waiting when Steven fell asleep. The touch of countless cold hands drained him of warmth and left electric fire in their wake. There were no less than a half-dozen women, the range of ages shocking had they not been figments. Light, sticky tracery of fingertips turned rough, scratching to raise a slow seep of chilled blood. Hands tore at him seemingly at random until he was drained, then wrote strange symbols in his flesh with their gnarled fingernails. Though spent, he felt desire building to new heights with every drop of blood they drew from him, the slow oozing of his essence replaced by energetic spurts of red as his heart raced. He no longer feared their freakishness — he reveled in it.

Steven woke before the alarm went off, sheets sticky with the evidence of his nocturnal escapades. He slipped off to the shower and scrubbed with the pale, unscented motel soap. Fully clothed atop the ripe sheets to avoid Linda’s discovery of his night, he shook her gently awake. “The water’s hot if you want a shower, and I’ll have your boat chartered by the time you get out.”

She grumbled but rolled from the bed without cogent argument. True to his word, he arranged a boat to take her to where Sean Brolly had lured two doomed ships aground over a hundred years ago, stealing the cargo and killing everyone on board.

Steven had already found the library on their first day in town, and resolved to spend all day within the dusty stale air of the periodical room. They ate a quick breakfast across the street, not speaking as usual. Maple syrup on his waffle brought to mind the night before; blood, seawater, and unknown viscous fluids. Linda had a lot on her mind, a lot of irons in the fire and didn’t mind his silence. It wasn’t as if Steven was doing anything worth hearing about. He wanted to talk about the fishwives, but realized it would provoke angry questions, recriminations. Silence was better.

Steven wasn’t sure when his relationship with Linda had turned sour. It might have been when he lost his job right as her career skyrocketed. Sure, she could support him, but “could” was very different than “should.” It fostered a certain kind of dependence, along with a resentment that poisoned the simplest of interactions. He was no longer Steven Haight, ad agency executive; he was the husband of thriller novelist Linda Haight.

After a while, he stopped being able to understand why she kept him around, and started suspecting every man she spent time with professionally. He imagined he could smell them on her when he got close enough. He was certain that if she hadn’t fucked at least two different authors at her last convention, it was only because she was too busy to maintain even the most superficial of relationships. On his worst days, Steven feared that she only stuck with him because of convenience, familiarity, and even worse, out of spite.

Linda was deep in thought when she stepped off the small boat that afternoon. Steven watched her jot notes in her notepad as she walked slowly up the warped wood in the salty breeze. The research had germinated, and the story was starting to take root inside of her. She would be easier to deal with for the next few months as she pounded out the first draft, distant, but less prone to micromanaging the affairs of the house, less prone to running Steven’s life. Of course, she’d still comment that God knows you can’t be trusted to run it yourself.

“You look like you’re ready to start writing,” he said, hands thrust in his pockets despite the heat.

She looked up as if startled to see him. “Yes.” She nodded, looked back at her notes, nodded again. “Yes, I think I’m going to spend tomorrow in the room working on an outline. We’ll be on our way back to Chicago in two days…three at most.”

Despite his wife’s mood, Steven felt the ground below him open and swallow his heart. “Three days?” he stammered.

“Maybe less, baby,” she replied thoughtlessly, letting her mood blind her to her husband’s. “This novel is going to be a best seller for sure. I just want to make sure I get the outline before we leave. Did you find anything in the library?”

Interesting? Beyond a doubt. But she wouldn’t use it. She had her story in place. “Maybe,” he replied instead. Through the sea air, the smell of her shampoo was cloying. “Did you decide what to do with Brolly’s fishwives?”

“Bonfire. It brings the ‘they used to lure ships to their doom’ full circle. I can’t prove it happened that way, but no one can prove otherwise, either. Plus, it makes a better story.”

Steven thought of the briny hair, the swollen, blackened tongues, the cold, slimy hands, the pungent scent of fermentation. He felt a stirring in his jockeys and thought instead about what he had found in the library. That snuffed his passion. “Oh. Good. Then I didn’t really find anything contradictory. Brolly was a madman, arguably a fisherman. He lived in a cluster of stilt homes on the tide flats with his wives.”

Linda nodded. “That, we found.”

“The papers had documented that quite well, as well as the nature of his arrest,” Steven continued. “His ranting as he was led from the tidal flats into the center of town had shaken the most resolute of men. Women who heard his shouting had fainted. The parish priest knotted a rag into Brolly’s mouth to mute his blasphemy, but the damage was done. Too many people had heard his cries to the ancient fish god, Dagon. Too many people had heard him attest to a lost city beneath the waves, of a race of Deep Ones who served, ageless. They were moved to a man to execute him before the madness spread. He was hung from a tree as soon as the mob reached the center of town. There was no trial. Nor was there further mention of his wives.”

“Maybe what happened to the fishwives had been too terrible for the reporters of the time to record,” Linda said, relishing the words as she said them. “Perhaps it had been a dark, guilty secret that those responsible took to their graves. I can work with that.”

The memory of a pungent, salty kiss told Steven all he needed to know. It was a fiery end the fishwives had gone to.

He started back towards the motel with Linda in the passenger seat, jotting down notes, the window rolled down to let in the seaside aroma. “Should we celebrate the beginning of the next book?” he asked.

“I’d like that.” Her hand left her notebook long enough to squeeze his thigh through his jeans. “Let’s stop at the grocery store on the way back to the room.”

Steven tasted the sour bile of panic. He forced a smile and complied like he always did. Wine helped Linda let down her guard, dropped some of her inhibitions. Maybe it would be enough.

She had finished most of the bottle of Merlot by herself with her dinner of BBQ pork and sweet potato biscuits. By the time the bottle rolled emptily along the bedside table, she had slid one hand inside his shirt, fingers curling in the fine hairs of his chest. Her teeth nipped at his ear, breath sour with wine, one leg thrown across his thigh as she ground lightly against it.

Steven closed his eyes, his body responding to her touch though his brain found it hard to remain in the moment. Eyes shut against the harsh realities of faded bedspread, shabby drapes, and shipwreck of his marriage, he could almost lose himself in the sensation. He gave in to the feel of her warm hands on his chest, teasing his nipples, sliding across a belly given more to flab than he would like to admit. Linda massaged his cock through his jeans, felt it eager to please, and so released it from its denim prison. Her touch was real. It was warm. It was drunkenly eager.

And it felt wrong. Her hands were too small, too inexperienced. Even fumbling as it was, her touch was far too gentle.

Steven looked into Linda’s blue eyes, probed for clues, for reactions. He reached up and caressed the soft skin around her eye. Her pupils were dilated with lust, but the eyes themselves seemed too squinty. His fingertip lightly grazed across her eyelid. So suddenly he almost didn’t realize he was doing it, Steven flipped her eyelid back over on itself.

Linda screeched and fell sideways off the bed as she scrambled at her folded eyelid. She collided with the side table, sending the wine bottle to the floor, shattering it on the hard wood of the floor. “Steven! What the FUCK!”

“I don’t know…”

“You’re fucking right you don’t know!” She found her feet, shrieking at him. The passion had converted from lust directly into rage with no stops in between. “You bitch and whine about how we never have sex, then I throw you a bone and you turn into a freak on me.”

Steven stood, his voice shaking as adrenalin surged through his bloodstream. She didn’t understand. How could he explain it to her, that maybe she had never taken the time to care about his desires, his needs? There was nothing wrong about it. No, certainly not. He was just unique. “I’m not a freak, Linda. I’m just a man with needs…”

“The fuck you are!” She shouted, spittle landing on his face, finger jabbing so hard in the chest he damn near lost his breath.

“I’m not a freak!” His shout accompanied a stinging slap that sent her reeling. Her head hit the edge of the side table, dazing her as she fell. “I’m not a freak,” he grumbled again, not caring that she probably couldn’t hear him. “I just know what I like.”

He crouched over her body, pinning Linda’s arms between his knees. Steven grabbed the broken wine bottle by the neck and eyed his canvas. I know what I like, he thought again. Even with eyes open, he could smell the ocean. With a steady hand, he guided the glass to Linda’s throat and began cutting gills.

The warm waters of the tidal surge rushed up across his legs, his naked crotch, washing him clean. The sand and silt beneath Steven’s feet sucked at each step as he waded deeper out towards the center of the tidal marsh. The image of Linda’s body flashed briefly across his mind. Steven saw her as he had left her — submerged in the tub, a cloud of red mist marking the flaps of gills he had carved in her throat, body full of his seed.

The waters rose above his hips, surged against his belly, his chest. There, out past the breakers, he knew the fishwives of Sean Brolly waited for him. With a surge of newfound strength, Steven dove into the breaking surf and swam out to meet them.

Deep Ones by Galen Dara

Silvia Moreno-Garcia

FLASH FRAME

The sound is yellow.

* * *

This story I have, just remember that you were the one who wanted to hear it.

It was when you could still make a living freelancing in Mexico City. Nowadays, it’s wire-services and regurgitated shit, but in 1982 rags still needed original content. I did a couple of funky articles, the latest about the cheapest whore in the city for Enigma!, a mixed-bag of crime stories, tits and freakish news items. It paid well and on time.

I also did articles for an arts and culture magazine which, I was hoping, would turn into a permanent position. But when it came time to gather rent money, Enigma! was first on my mind.

The trouble was that there was a new assistant editor at Enigma! and he didn’t like the old crop of stringers. To get past him, I had to pitch harder. I needed better stories. Stories he couldn’t refuse.

The crime stuff was a bust, nothing good recently, so I moved onto sex and decided to swing by El Tabu, a porno cinema housed in a great, Art Deco building. It’s gone now, bulldozed to make way for condos.

Back then, it still stood, both ruined and glorious. The great days of porno of the 70s had come and gone, and videocassettes were invading the market. El Tabu stood defiant, yet crumbling. Inside you could find rats as big as rabbits, statues holding torchlights in their hands and a Venus in the lobby. Elegant, ancient and large. Some people came to sleep during a double feature and used the washrooms to take a bath. Others came for the shows. Some were peddling. I’m not going to explain what they were peddling; you figure it out.

It was a good place to listen to chatter. A stringer needs that chatter. One afternoon, I gathered my notebook and my tape-recorder, paid for a ticket and went looking for Sebastian, the projectionist, who had a knack for gossiping and profiting from it.

Sebastian hadn’t heard any interesting things — there was some vague stuff about a whole squadron of Russian prostitutes in a high-rise apartment building near downtown and university students selling themselves for sex, but I’d heard it before. Then Sebastian got a funny look on his face and asked me for a cigarette. This meant he was zeroing on the good stuff.

“I don’t think I should tell you, but there’s a religious group coming in every Thursday,” he said, as he took a puff. “Order of something. Have you heard of Enrique Zozoya?”

“No,” I said.

“He’s the one that’s renting the place. For the group.”

“A porno theatre doesn’t seem like the nicest place for a congregation.”

“I think it’s some sort of sex cult. I can’t tell because I don’t look. They bring their own projectionist and I have to wait in the lobby,” Sebastian explained.

“So how do you know it’s a sex cult and they’re not worshiping Jesus?”

“I can’t watch, but I can very well hear some stuff. It doesn’t sound like Jesus.”

* * *

There was no Wikipedia. You couldn’t Google a name. What you could do, was go through archives and dig out microfiches. Fortunately, Enrique Zozoya wasn’t that hard to find. An ex-hippie activist in the 60s, he had turned New Age guru in the early 70s, doing horoscopes. He’d peaked mid-decade, selling natal charts to a few celebrities, then sinking into anonymity. There was nothing about him in the past few years, but he’d obviously found a new source of employment in this religious order.

Armed with the background I had clubbed together, I ventured to El Tabu the following Thursday with my worn bag pack containing my notebook, my tape recorder and my cigarettes. The tape recorder was a bit banged up and sometimes it wouldn’t play right, or it would switch on record for no reason, but I didn’t have money to get a new one. The cigarettes, on the other hand, could be counted upon on any occasion.

Sebastian didn’t look too happy to see me, but I mentioned some money and he softened. He agreed to sneak me into the theater before the show started, onto the second balcony where I would not be spotted. The place was huge and the crowd that gathered every Thursday was small. They wouldn’t notice me.

Sitting behind a red velvet curtain, eating pistachios, I waited for the show to start. At around eight o’ clock about fifty people walked in. I peeked from behind my hiding place and recognized Enrique Zozoya as he moved to the front of the theater. He was dressed in a bright yellow outfit. He said a few words which I couldn’t make out and then he sat down.

That was that. The projection started.

It was a faux-Roman movie. Rome as seen by some Hollywood producer. It could have been filmed in 1954 and directed by DeMille. Except DeMille wouldn’t have featured bare tits. Lots of women, half-dressed, in what was some sort of throne room. In the background I noticed several men and women, less comely and muscled. Slightly unsettling in their looks. There was something twisted and perverted about them. But the camera focused on the people in the foreground, the young and beautiful women giggling and feeding grapes to a guy. There were men, chests-bared, leaning against a column. The tableaux was completed by an actor who was playing an emperor and his companion, a dark-haired beauty.

It lasted about ten minutes. Just before the lights went on, I caught sight of a flash frame. A single, brief image of a woman in a yellow dress.

That was it. Enrique Zozoya stood to speak to the audience. I didn’t hear what he was saying — I was sitting too far back — but it wasn’t anything of consequence because just a short while later everyone was out the door.

I left feeling dejected. There was nothing to write about. Ten minutes of some porno, probably imported from Italy. And even that it had been disappointing. You could hardly see much of anything in that scene they’d chosen; bare breasts, yes, but nothing more.

What a waste.

* * *

I returned the following Thursday because I kept thinking there had to be something more. Maybe the previous show had been a bust, but this one might be better.

Sebastian let me in after I shared my cigarettes and I sat down in the balcony. People arrived, took their seats, Enrique Zozoya in his yellow outfit said a few words and the projection began. It was the same deal, only this time the group was larger. Maybe a hundred people.

I was disappointed to see the film was the one we had watched last time. Not the same section, but it was obviously the same movie. This time, the sequence took place in a Roman circus where aristocrats had gathered to watch a chariot race. There was more nudity and the erotic content had been amped a bit, with a stony-looking emperor sitting with two naked girls in his lap — one of them the dark-haired woman from the previous sequence — fondling their breasts. Unfortunately, he seemed more interested in the race than the women.

The music was loud and of poor quality. There was no dialogue. There hadn’t been any dialogue in the previous scene either, which struck me as a bit odd, since you’d expect a few jokes or poor attempts at breathless sexiness at this point.

The emperor mouthed a few words and I realized the audio track must have been removed. The music playing was probably layered onto the film to replace the original soundtrack and had nothing to do with the film. Someone had taken the added effort of inserting moans and sighs into the audio track, but the dialogue track had been clearly lost. Not that it would be much of a loss for this type of flick.

The emperor mouthed something else and again I noticed a flash frame — a few seconds long — of a woman in a yellow dress. She was sitting in a throne room, held a fan against her face, and her blond hair was laced with jewels.

The film was cut off shortly afterwards and the audience left.

I drummed my fingers against my steno pad. What I had was nothing but some European exploitation movie, probably filmed in the late 70s by the looks of it, which for some odd reason attracted a group of about a hundred people to its weekly screening. And it wasn’t even screened completely, just a few minutes of it.

Why?

* * *

I visited the Cineteca Nacional on Monday, which was the place to find information about movies. I had very little to go by, and looking through newspaper clips and data sheets proved fruitless. I asked one of the employees at the Cineteca’s Documentation and Information centre for assistance, and she said she’d phone me if she found something.

I decided to move in a different direction, expanding my knowledge of Zozoya. He’d been a film student before turning to astrology, even shooting a couple of shorts. Aside from that, which might explain how he got hold of this bit of film, there was nothing new.

Tuesday I pounded some copy for the arts and culture magazine, ready to give up on El Tabu.

Wednesday I had a nightmare.

I was laying in bed when a woman crawled up, onto me. She was naked, but wore a golden headpiece with a veil. Her skin was a sickly yellow, as though she were jaundiced.

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.

Woman, Yellow by Galen Dara

KV Taylor

TRANSFIGURED NIGHT

1.

Always wondered what Jason was writing in this journal. All musicians are sensitive artistes, I guess, I just never knew he wrote poetry. Anyhow, I’m commandeering the thing since wherever the hell he is, he doesn’t need it any more.

Jesus, I can’t believe he’s gone. I wish I’d told him.

-Vic

2.

This is the kind of shit you see in movies. Guy goes out for a day-trip with his friend, storm picks up, beats the hell out of them, guy gets knocked out by a falling piece of the boat. Guy wakes up in open water, GPS fried, his friend staring blankly –like he’s the one with the head injury.

He kept talking about faces in the water. Jesus.

Goddammit, why did I go to sleep? Why didn’t I stay awake and watch him?

I’m probably going to burn this fucking diary when I get home — well, my parts at least. But I need something to do or I’ll go crazy. I’m washed up on this rock, Jason disappeared overboard (or into thin air, I guess) three days ago, and there’s still no rescue.

Weird, but that’s not a complaint. I don’t want one. Not after I let him down like that.

Ran around the edge of the island today — the thing is small as hell, and nothing in any direction.

Fuck, why can’t I cry?

-Vic

3.

I’d say it’s like “Lost”, but I never watched that show. More like “Castaway”, since I’m alone. When I start talking to a damn volleyball, I guess I’ll know I have issues. More issues. Whatever.

Finally rigged up a tent. They say when you’re stranded on a desert island you need shelter — but this isn’t much of a desert. There are streams all over this sandy fucking rock, and half a forest in the middle. Probably should have paid more attention to that Bear Grylls guy, but I’d drop dead before I ate bug guts. Anyhow, there’s some of the boat left, and there’s astronaut food.

People don’t stay lost for long in this day and age, do they? Goddamn shame.

-Vic

4.

You grow up on the ocean and you start to take it for granted. But now I stand here in the dark at night — I mean, I have the flashlight and the emergency candles, but the bugs are the size of seagulls — and look out at it and it’s so fucking black. It’s hot and sticky and nothing like paradise, and I sit here and shiver just staring at it. Thinking of how it swallowed him up.

If it wanted him, really wanted him, I couldn’t have stopped it. But I could have at least died trying, you know?

It’s been over a week since we left St. Augustine. I can’t be that far from civilization. Just a matter of time til I have to go back and explain myself. Go on with life.

Tomorrow I guess I’ll explore. Maybe the trees are nicer than the water, around here.

-Vic

5.

Fuck, that was weird.

It’s so quiet once you get past the tree line. I don’t know if it’s the loneliness or what, but it’s intense. Tropical trees so green they’re almost black. And there are no birds, no nothing. Just this pure, perfect silence, like before god got bored enough to create animals. Not even any of those big ass mosquitoes in there.

Heavy is the word. I was wandering around with my shoulders slumped, you know?

It’s the worst right around the middle of the island, where there’s a sort of jutting rock — volcanic, too, most of it is shiny like obsidian, but too dirty to be really impressive. And there’s vines and shit growing all over it, like strangling it. Maybe it’s because the sun hardly came out today, but it was just dark over there.

Or maybe I’m imagining shit because of what I found.

It was a man. Well, sort of — probably about my age, somewhere between 20 and 25. He was just sitting there with his back to the rock, his legs out in front of him, staring straight ahead. I nearly fucking choked on my heart when I saw him there. I just froze. I stood there for maybe 10 minutes just watching, but he never even blinked.

I wanted to come back here to the beach. I mean, the air got so heavy I could hardly breathe, but the thing is, even if I did leave, he’d still be there.

I didn’t even notice that he was looking kind of gray until I got within five feet. He was dark — not like Polynesian, but maybe Greek or Italian — and he should have been olive-skinned. But it wasn’t even gray, sort of a waterlogged blue undertone. He wore kind of raggedy old school trousers and nothing else, he had curly dark hair, and these big black eyes that stared straight ahead.

He was beautiful, too. I’ve never seen a guy, except on TV, that I could honestly call beautiful, and he is — was. No, he still is, even dead, he’s beautiful, whoever the fuck he is. Like something out of a Classicist’s wet dream.

I don’t know, there was just something about him. I forgot everything else and just hit my knees and started bawling like a baby. I mean choking sobbing, head in hands, can’t stand on my own two feet bawling. I couldn’t even see, but I felt like something was watching me — not the dead guy, something from the trees or that big goddamn rock — just waiting for -

Something. Whatever. It just made me cry harder.

It wasn’t about this random dead guy — I know that. I’m just saying that’s what did it, finally. I don’t know how long I was there, but it was almost dark when I could finally open my eyes and see. Had a huge headache too. God, I hate crying.

I had to lean close to him to close his eyes. I tried to hold my breath, but some perverse urge made me take a sniff. Just seaweed and salt. When I sat back something fell out of his hand- — this little ivory carving of a boy wearing a laurel wreath.

Weird that he reminded me of something classical and he had that on him.

I shouldn’t have taken it, but I couldn’t help it. Maybe I’ll take it back tomorrow. I should probably try and bury the guy or — something.

Jesus, how the fuck did he even get there?

-Vic

6.

Goddammit, I can’t believe I actually wanted to cry. Should have saved the pain for when I get out of here, because it’s kind of inconvenient right now. I mean, I’ve had nightmares. But these were like fever nightmares, vivid and — they hurt my skin.

It wasn’t Jason. It was the dead guy. I remember every second, and it was like I woke up, and he was just standing there at the edge of the tree line, staring at me. And he had this smile on his face, like he had a secret. Like we had a secret.

Shit, I don’t know. Supposed to take more than a week before you lose your damn mind, but I guess I can be forgiven since I’m cohabiting with a corpse.

Yeah, I better bury him. Or give him to the ocean. It’s dark again today, and the clouds are looking steely. Bet it’s going to storm.

-Vic

Fuck, where the fuck did he go? I fucking left him right there by the rock, I didn’t move him, and he’s fucking gone. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Thank Christ Jason always kept a store of rum on the boat. I hate the shit, but tonight, fuck it.

7.

It’s raining, but not storming. I could swear to god the ocean’s fucking with me now. Can’t stop thinking about that rock, either.

I deserve it. I fucking deserve all of it. I hope they never find me, and I end up dead against that rock, just like that bastard.

That bastard. It was him again last night, another fever dream. This time there was music, nothing I could recognize — slow and deliberate at first, and in some crazy mode. Maybe that shit Jason liked, that Schoenberg with the crazy scale. I don’t know where it was coming from, but you never do in a dream, do you? It was just freaky as hell, is all I knew.

And him. He came close this time, real close. As in I woke up with his face over mine — in the dream, I mean. He wasn’t gray-blue anymore either, just a kind of moonlight-washed olive color. I would’ve screamed, but Jesus, he’s so beautiful, and he just smiles at me like that, and those eyes are so black it makes me feel like the ocean’s trying to swallow me.

He said something, too. I don’t know what it was, but his lips moved, all pink and swollen like he’d been eating or kissing for a long time. He said something and breathed on me all salty and—

Rain on my face. I woke up and rolled back under the tarp.

I can still hear that music, especially when I look at that little ivory guy I found on him. I mean, I can’t really hear it, I know that. But I keep humming snatches of it, just 5 or 6 notes at a time, and it’s making me crazy.

Crazier. Whatever.

I fucking deserve it.

-Vic

8.

I can’t remember anything Schoenberg did but Verklärte Nacht. And that’s not the really weird one. Still, I wish I had an iPod so I could listen to something else. It’s worse today.

It was louder in the dream last night, is why. I remember long strings of it now, even though I can’t really hum them, and that’s what’s driving me bat shit.

He kissed me. I woke up the same way — woke up in the dream, or not, I don’t even know — and he was there smiling down at me. I smiled back. Why do you do the shit you do in dreams? If I saw him now I’d scream, but no, I smiled at the bastard. And he leaned down and put his mouth against mine, wriggled close to me. He was cold, but not dead cold, just like he’d come out of the ocean up north, where the Atlantic’s mean and brown.

All that skin against mine, and his lips were as good as they looked. Soft and they just gave in, opened up and he’s warm on the inside. Funny taste, like seaweed and salt — makes me think of miso soup now, how screwed up is that? But at the time it was just so good, and I put my hands in his hair to pull him closer –

It was wet. I remember every detail, cold water curls between my fingers. His tongue was wet too, but that’s the warm part, and he licked the back of my teeth, toyed with me. His hands too, all over me, and the way he pressed down, put his thigh between mine, angled his hips so I could feel him getting hard.

Then the taste overpowered me, and his tongue seemed to melt into thick, slimy strands — it jammed in the back of my throat, choking.

I don’t know why I didn’t fight. I just tangled my hands up in his hair and tried to suck him down inside me.

He made this sound — it makes me shiver thinking of it. He groaned into me, but he was saying something. I heard it in my head: Come with me.

Lightning woke me up.

I either need to jerk off more, or throw myself into the ocean and get it over with.

I have to go back. Make sure he’s really not there. I can’t stay away anyhow. I only managed yesterday because of the storm.

Better leave him this ivory figure. Letting Jason die was bad enough — I don’t need to steal from the dead.

-Vic

He wasn’t there. I left the figure, though.

Can’t stop humming that music. Can’t stop hearing it. Feeling his tongue turning into something else inside me.

Can’t even jerk off. Fuck.

The ocean smells like electric death after a storm.

9.

No one’s coming to rescue me. No one knows where I am, because this place isn’t real. It’s just one big dream, and whether I’m awake or asleep doesn’t matter.

He came again, and he was angry, I could see it in his eyes. They burn like black charcoal, and he glares like a madman. It broke my heart to look at him like that, so when he handed the little ivory boy back to me, I took it.

That calmed him down; he smiled again, he kissed me, but when I tried to pull him closer, he pulled away. Those words, that sound again. In my head like: Come with me.

There was a glow through the trees — I never noticed it at night before. We walked in silence, and soon I saw that the glow, a lot like a lightning bug’s, but huge, was coming from the giant obsidian rock. Nothing, nothing ever felt so heavy as that place did in the night — felt like my spine gave under the weight, the vertebrae scraping against each other, squashing nerves, shaking me. And yes, something watches there. Something old, like ocean old, and with eyes much bigger and blacker than his.

He took my hand and led me inside — I didn’t notice before, I don’t know how. There’s a cave.

Words aren’t enough. It goes down and down, all lit by that same eerie glow, and the walls are covered in elaborate friezes. Acanthus leaves and emperor’s thrones and horses and pomp and parades — the repeated figure of the heartbreakingly beautiful boy with the laurel wreath at the center of all of it. The center of the universe. There’s writing too, strange symbols — maybe like the words he says sometimes.

Down and down, it felt like hours, the music getting louder and more excited in my head the whole time.

And then we came to the water. He started down the steps into it and the music stopped; the place was silent, deader than the woods above, even, low-ceilinged, filled with black water. Still.

I wanted to vomit, but you never do in a dream.

He stepped in until the water was up to his thighs. He looked at me over his shoulder. Smiled.

It looked more like oil than water, like a million black oceans from a million ancient worlds all poured into one cave. Whatever was on the other side, or underneath, or wherever he expected me to go, made my knees weak.

He went down until it covered his belly, then looked back again.

I took another step backward, but that was all I could do. The strange creeping terror ran through my veins like ice.

This was worse than death. This was nothing.

The Temple.

I shuddered.

He stepped out of the water dripping and took my hands, looked right through me. He put one hand on either side of my face — the water was crystal clear running off him, pattering against my shirt, the obsidian ground. He kissed me.

I took a step forward. “It’s too quiet. It’s not right.”

He stopped me talking with his mouth, his tongue clever and warm again. He pulled me down until we stood thigh-deep in water, and then he put himself hard against me. All that existed was the taste of him, the smell of his breath, the feeling of his skin, him hard against my leg — and god, oh god help me, he was so warm on the inside.

I wanted to crawl in there and die warm. Not cold in this water.

I sat on the stairs, up to my chest in the water, and he sat in my lap facing me. For a long time like that, with his cock grinding into my belly and mine pushing at the split of his hard ass through wet clothes, just breathing through his mouth. He rocked his hips to rub us off, he came down into my mouth like he was starving, he dug his nails into my shoulders and sides. If it hurt, if I groaned, he did it harder, everything harder.

Just when I thought I might die, he pulled away, slipped his hand into my pants, and grabbed my cock. I tried to gasp, but he wouldn’t let up his kissing. His tongue went liquid, turned into slick vines, and slipped down my throat.

Now I dug my nails in, clawing at him hard. But not because I wanted him to stop. I jerked into his hand, over and over, fuck, I still remember how it felt like dying. Like little pieces of him drilling down my throat, into my lungs, taking root, spreading, choking. The waves of heat were too close together, it couldn’t last, I was going to die and love it -

He groaned into me, and all the little strings he’d planted in me quivered — fucking quivered.

It’s like this a million times over, when we take you.

But it wasn’t really a million. It was a number that didn’t exist, bigger than the black underground ocean, bigger than whatever waited inside it.

When you’re ready, come back. Come with me.

I woke up with my pants half-off, gasping for air.

-Vic

10.

He didn’t come last night. The music, the black ocean, the freaky glow, his eyes, fuck, there’s nothing else. I know I’ll go tonight, and I know I’ll follow him all the way.

It’s almost dark, and there’s another storm coming. If anyone reads this, just tell Jason’s mother I’m sorry. Tell her I got what I deserved.

-Victor Fallon

April

2010

Love from the Black Lagoon by Galen Dara

Andrew Scearce

THE LAKE AT ROOPKUND

“What do you mean I can’t come with you?”

“Jas, don’t be upset. Heather said she wanted to meet alone. What can I do?” Isha nervously brushed a few dark strands of hair out of her eyes.

I spotted a stray thread on the bajot and brushed it off into my hand. “It’s because of what you two did in college, isn’t it?” I opened the cupboard and carefully let the thread fall into the trash.

“Absolutely not,” Isha said, tucking her sewing kit into a sequined pouch. “Like I said, it only happened once. It was stupid. God, I should have never told you.”

I looked past my wife to the photograph of Heather and Isha on the wall. They were wearing matching Misk-U sweatshirts–cut to reveal their midriffs; Heather had her arm around the subtle curve of Isha’s waist, her fingers bent, pressing into Isha’s fair, but darker skin. “Sure,” I growled.

“Whatever. You’re in my light.”

I grumbled and stepped aside.

Isha held her mother’s sari to the light and squinted.

I leaned in. “She’ll never know,” I said, tracing my finger over the microscopic irregularity in the weave.

“Of course she will. Mother never misses anything. But it’s the best I can do,” Isha said. She carefully folded the sari and laid it in the box with both hands.

“Just remind me not to be here when she picks it up.”

Isha cringed. “Oh, God, I’m sorry Jaswinder.”

“Sorry about what?”

“Mother is coming over at six. I completely forgot to tell you.”

“You’re kidding me, right? At the exact time that you’re meeting Heather? You planned it that way, didn’t you?”

“Enough of this,” Isha snapped.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared out the window. “You know how your mother pesters me about having grandchildren. Maybe I’ll just tell her the truth this time.”

Isha slammed her fist on the table. “You will do nothing of the sort, Jaswinder! I will not be the shame of this family!”

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the glass. “Fine,” I breathed.

* * *

After Isha left I picked up the college photograph and stared at it. They were in their dorm room, a pair of unmade bunk beds and a mirror slightly out of focus behind them. As I studied it I noticed something that I hadn’t seen before. Reflected in the mirror, on a dresser, next to the camera that had taken the photo, was a device that looked remarkably like a vibrator.

A chill ran up my spine.

I dumped the sari in the hallway then ran out and hailed a cab. I told the driver to take me to Kathgodam station, and offered him double the fare if he didn’t pick up anyone else.

We got there in ten minutes.

There were a few people outside the station, including a couple of boys who were talking about a dead jackdaw they’d seen on the tracks–but no sign of Isha. I checked the electronic schedule: the train from Moradabad was scheduled to arrive at 18:05. That left me with thirty minutes to kill, so I crossed the street to the bar and took a seat by the window.

Isha arrived a few minutes later in a taxi full of people. After the car drove off, she turned her head a few times, looking around, then took a seat on the platform.

At 18:09 the train rolled in. The conductor stepped off and put a wooden box in front of the door, calling for the passengers to exit. An old woman, accompanied by a much younger man–probably her son–stepped off first. A pair of hikers with massive backpacks followed, stopping to point at the mountains and stretch their arms.

A few moments later Heather stepped off the train. She wore a tight white tank top and a pleated red skirt with matching heels. Her hair was shorter than it was in the picture, cut just below her chin, and she’d dyed it black with blond highlights. The old woman snarled at Heather as she walked by, then looked to her son for agreement. He nodded his head disapprovingly, but glanced at her bare legs a few more times just to make sure he was thoroughly disappointed.

Heather didn’t seem to notice. When she saw Isha, she squealed, dropping her suitcase, and threw her arms around her neck. Their muffled, excited voices were audible even inside the bar. Heather pulled away, looking Isha up and down, then retrieved her bag. Then the two of them made their way across the street to a little outdoor restaurant and sat down.

I threw a couple of bills on the table and went outside, concealing myself behind a row of street vendors next to the station. The girls ordered drinks and talked for a few minutes until the waiter returned with two glasses of white wine. After he was gone Heather placed her suitcase on an empty chair, unzipped it, and lifted the lid just enough to let Isha peek inside. Her eyes widened. My wife touched Heather’s hand briefly and smiled.

I clenched my teeth, picturing her college photograph in my head.

I bolted across the street.

When Isha saw me her mouth dropped open. But before she could react, I’d grabbed the lid of the suitcase and thrown it open.

I gasped in horror at the thing inside.

“What the hell?!” Heather screamed.

“Jaswinder! What are you doing here?!”

Heather immediately slammed the lid.

I stood there, breathless, as Heather frantically zipped up the suitcase.

“I’m so sorry,” Isha told her. “This is my husband.” She turned to me. “Jaswinder, what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

“What is that horrible thing?”

“You are out of line,” my wife hissed.

“It’s okay,” Heather said, exhaling a deep breath. She set her suitcase on the ground. “Jaswinder, why don’t you have a seat?”

Isha looked at her, a confused scowl smeared across her face.

“It’s fine, Isha. Please, Jaswinder.” She gestured toward the chair.

A few patrons at the restaurant were staring. I sat down.

“Good,” said Heather. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Jaswinder,” she added, touching my hand.

“What was that?” I said.

Heather looked at Isha and smiled. “That is my gift to you and Isha.”

“That thing? I don’t want it!”

Heather laughed. “Listen, Jas… Isha has told me about your trouble conceiving.”

I scowled at my wife.

“What you saw in my suitcase is nothing to be afraid of. It’s a fertility idol. I’m here to help you and your wife have a child.”

I looked at Isha. “Is she serious? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Heather leaned in and answered for her. “I wanted to discuss it with your wife first. I didn’t mean any harm.”

I frowned. “What, so we have to put that thing in our house?”

“No. The ritual has to be performed outside. Once we’re done you’ll never have to see it again.”

“Good. It’s horrible.” I folded my arms across my chest and stared at the table.

Isha touched my hand. “Heather would like to perform the ritual tonight. She’s hired a helicopter to take us to the site.”

“What site?”

Heather smiled. “Roopkund.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “Skeleton Lake?”

“You know the story?” Heather asked excitedly. “Not just the recent history, but the myth behind it?”

“Everyone knows that old story,” I said. I paused for a sip of my wife’s wine. Heather stared at me expectantly. I rolled my eyes and continued. “Roopkund was a gift from Shiva to his wife, the goddess Nanda Devi. It was her favorite possession. The legend says that during a pilgrimage in the 16th century, Nanda’s sister, Rani Balpa, gave birth on the shore of the lake. Nanda considered this an act of desecration and retaliated by summoning a hailstorm so large that it smashed the heads of everyone present.”

“Over six hundred people,” Heather said.

“Something like that.”

“And the bodies weren’t found until a park ranger stumbled across them in 1942. A lake completely filled with bones. Pretty creepy.”

I glanced at my wife. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Isha nodded. “If Heather says that’s the place, then that’s where I’ll go.”

I glanced at the two of them, drumming my fingers on the table. “I’m coming with you.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Heather replied, finishing her wine. “We leave in two hours.”

* * *

I had just enough time to run back to the apartment and gather a few things before the helicopter left. I brought a heavy coat, boots, camping supplies, and a bag of dried fruit. Cooking wasn’t my specialty, and I couldn’t waste any more time than necessary. An hour later I met the women at the airfield. Just as Heather had said, the helicopter was waiting, rotors twisting languidly.

I stared out the window and watched as we drifted over the foothills and slowly climbed into the mountains. It wasn’t long before the great peaks of Thrishul appeared on the horizon. The pilot banked and dipped into the misty valley below, descending through the haze until Roopkund, like a frozen, crystalline eye, blinked into existence.

Heather touched me on the leg. “This is it,” she said.

The helicopter landed on a plateau about a hundred meters from the lake. We unloaded our gear and said goodbye to the pilot, then headed down to the shore.

Roopkund was small, frozen, and littered with human bones. They were everywhere. Skulls, arms, legs, ribs–it looked like a slaughter. Some had been sorted or assembled into full skeletons by tourists.

We picked a relatively flat spot on the south shore of the lake and made camp. We worked as the sun set behind Thrishul, casting a long three-pointed shadow over the valley.

After we’d finished the three of us crawled inside and zipped the flap.

“This will help with the cold,” Heather said, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from her suitcase.

“Is this part of the ritual?” I joked, taking a pull from the bottle.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Isha said.

“So when do we start?”

“We’ve got a few hours. We can’t start until midnight, so we might as well get cozy.”

Heather unzipped her coat and stretched her arms. “Bottle please.”

Isha passed the whiskey to her and she took a long drink.

“Careful!” Isha laughed. “We’re not in college anymore!”

“Oh God,” Heather grinned. “This girl could drink in college, Jas. You have no idea.”

I rolled my eyes and took a sip from the bottle. “I’ve heard the stories.”

Heather shook her head. “Oh I don’t think you’ve heard them all.”

“I may know more than you think.”

Heather’s eyes widened. “Isha, did you tell him?”

“Unfortunately,” Isha replied, unzipping her coat.

“Scandalous!”

I nodded, smirking.

Heather grabbed the bottle and pulled. “How much did you tell him?”

Isha glanced at me. “Just about the one time we kissed.”

Heather burst out laughing. “Oh, the one time! Girl, I’ve had my fingers inside of you more times than I can remember.”

“What?!”

Isha groaned and snatched the bottle from Heather’s hand.

“I knew it!” I yelled, grabbing the bottle away from her. “Liar.”

Heather bit her lip. “You’re upset by that?”

I upended the bottle and filled my mouth with the harsh liquid.

“Jaswinder?” Heather said.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I don’t care what you two did ten years ago. I just want an honest wife.” I glared at her.

Isha looked down. “You don’t think what we did is wrong?”

I drummed my fingers on the bottle. The tent was beginning to spin. “No,” I said. “I don’t think it was wrong.”

Isha exhaled loudly. “I was sure you would hate me if you found out. I thought you would think it was… immoral.”

“Lying is immoral,” I said. “What you two did isn’t immoral. In fact, it’s kind of…”

“Hot?” Heather interrupted.

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“Hrmm.” Heather brushed the hair out of her face and straightened her back. “Jaswinder,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Would you like to see?”

Isha’s mouth dropped open.

“See what?” I said, leaning back.

“You know… me and Isha.”

“Heather!” Isha said, squirming.

I waved my hands. “Absolutely… not.”

Heather giggled. I looked at Isha. “I almost thought he was going to say yes, Ish. Then what would we have done?” She leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “For old time’s sake.”

Isha rolled her eyes.

“Alright, enough of that,” Heather said, reaching for her suitcase. “There’s something I want you two to see.” She pulled out a large, leather bound book with an ornate brass clasp, and brushed her palm over the cover. Isha’s eyelids fluttered with excitement.

I capped the bottle and put it away. “Is that the ritual book?”

“In the flesh.” Heather popped the clasp.

“What’s all that weird writing?” Isha asked.

“Arabic.”

“You can read that?” I asked.

“Some,” Heather replied, turning the pages. “But I had the fertility ritual translated so we don’t miss any steps.” She stopped turning, tapping a page with her finger. “Here it is. Recognize that?”

I bent over. On the page, drawn in red ink, was an image of a winged beast with a bulbous head, hateful, narrow eyes, and a nest of tentacles dangling from its jaw where a mouth should have been. Between his legs was an erect, double-headed phallus.

“That’s the thing in your suitcase,” I said, shivering.

Heather pulled the idol out of her suitcase and held it up for Isha and me to see.

“Ugh, get it away,” I said, shielding my eyes.

“You’re such a prude, Jas,” Isha quipped.

“Why does it have two penis heads?”

Heather turned the statue around and stroked the golden phallus. “I dunno. Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m fine with just the one, thank you.”

Heather cocked an eyebrow at me. “Isha has told me as much.”

I glared at my wife. “You told her about my penis?”

Isha cringed and hid her face.

“Aww, you’re both prudes. Well, you better relax, because this ritual isn’t for the faint of heart.”

Heather grabbed her coat and shrugged into it. “Now, I’ve got some preparation to do. You two stay warm, have a few more drinks, and I’ll be back before midnight.”

“Wait, we have to do it out there?” I said, pointing at the tent flap.

Heather smirked. “We didn’t come all this way to do it in a tent.”

* * *

I must have passed out because I suddenly realized that I didn’t have any clothes on.

“What’s going on?” I said, propping myself up on my elbows.

Isha was removing my socks.

“Let’s go, Jas. Heather wants us to put on these robes and meet her outside.”

“Just robes? Nothing else?”

“That’s what she said. Now come on, we don’t have much time.”

I growled and sat up. “This is nuts.”

Isha handed me a black, hooded robe, a length of rope, and a pair of black slippers. I put them on and followed her outside.

“It’s freezing!” I said, too loudly.

Isha grabbed my hand and pulled. “Come on!”

The moon was nearly full, basking the valley in rich pale light. Heather was waiting about fifty meters from the tent on the west shore of the lake. We hurried over, trembling.

She walked toward us and smiled.

“Step inside,” she said. “He’s waiting.”

She gestured toward a wide circle of more than a hundred skulls on the ground. Candles burned freely in the circle, seemingly untouched by the wind. In the center of the circle was a bed of blankets covered in red silk and two matching red pillows. The idol and Heather’s book were placed on the center of the bed.

I narrowed my eyes. “What is this?”

“Go,” Isha demanded.

I grumbled and stepped over the skulls.

The frigid wind stopped abruptly, replaced by a pocket of fresh, warm air. I shot a look at Heather, who quirked her eyebrow knowingly. The headache I’d woken up with simply vanished, and every minor discomfort I’d been feeling over the past few hours, as well as those I’d felt for years, instantly slipped away.

Isha followed me in. She immediately gasped.

“How are you doing this?” I said, staring at my hands.

“So many lost their lives at this place,” Heather said as she stepped across the line of bones. “Men, women… children.” She swept an open palm toward the skulls. “Their loss is our gain.”

A euphoric grin melted across Isha’s face. “That’s beautiful,” she said.

I nodded dumbly, as a wave of bliss crashed over my mind.

“Come here, Jaswinder,” Heather said.

I moved toward her. Heather loosened my belt and pushed the robe from my shoulders, smiling. She turned to Isha then removed hers as well. I licked my lips as her robe fell to the ground.

Heather removed her own robe and stepped out of her slippers. My mouth hung open as I stared at her body. Feeling uninhibited, I started toward her.

“Not now,” she said, gently pushing my hands away. She glanced at the bed. “This way.”

Heather took our hands and laid us down on either side of the idol. “Relax for a moment,” she said, kneeling in front of the idol. She picked up her book, and began reading.

I put my arms around Isha and kissed her gently on the lips. I felt her tongue pass over mine, and a tiny bolt of energy flowed into my mouth.

“Wow,” I said.

Isha kissed me again. “I feel like I’m floating.”

She ran her hands over my chest, and a flood of warmth surged into my body.

Each touch felt electric, each caress I felt with all of the nerves in my body. As Heather spoke, her words flowed over us, through us. The language had no meaning, but I felt her voice pouring into me, feeding me. I stared into Isha’s eyes. I felt her entirely. I knew her.

Heather closed the book.

“We will begin,” she said, handing me the idol.

I took it and turned it over in my hands. “It’s vibrating,” I said.

“Yes. We all are, Jaswinder. Do you know what to do?”

“I–I do,” I told her. “I don’t know why, but I do.” As I held it, the idol’s phallus swelled and grew. “Amazing,” I gasped. I gently separated my wife’s legs and slid it inside of her. Isha arched her back and a wave of pleasure instantly crashed over me.

Heather slid her arms around my chest and put her mouth to my ear. “You can you feel it too, yes?”

“I can feel everything.” I moved the idol faster and faster inside of Isha.

“Now let it do the work,” Heather whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Let go.”

I relaxed my hands and the idol began moving on its own. Isha shrieked in response, clawing at the idol, wrenching it closer, begging it to go faster.

Heather pulled me away.

“Just you and me now,” she said, crawling on top of me.

“Is it okay?” I asked, reaching for her breasts.

“This is how it’s done.”

“Yes. This feels right,” I said, filling my mouth with her flesh. Heather slid her hands between my legs and grinned devilishly.

“I can’t wait,” I said.

“Are you sure?” She said, biting her lip.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Heather smiled as she slid down on top of me. I gasped as she flicked her tongue over my teeth.

“You like?”

“You feel amazing,” I moaned.

I glanced toward Isha. The idol had grown into a massive winged creature three times her size. Snake-like tentacles stretched out from its jaw, encircling her body. The creature wrenched her into the air and Isha howled with pleasure.

“I hope it’s a boy,” I said.

Heather sneered and grabbed my throat. “Isha and I will raise him well.”

Constella Espj

IPSA SCIENTIA

For the third night in a row Kara was voice-chatting with Jake.

“So you like libraries, huh?” She teased, flirting with him already. She’d found him on a science fiction website and had become immediately attracted to his incredible intelligence.

“Libraries are wonderful. They are places of learning. They all remind me of the library near my home.”

“Where’s that?”

“If you can guess correctly, I will tell you that you are right.” His accent was rich and exotic. She couldn’t place it.

She pouted. She hoped he could hear it in her voice. “Aw, well I’ll keep listening and try to figure it out. Can I at least get a hint?”

“Hmm,” if he had a pointy beard he was probably stroking it. “Well, not to give too much away, it is known to my people as the Great Library.”

“What? That’s so not helpful! There’s probably a million ‘great libraries’ in the world. I’ll be on the Internet forever trying to find it.”

“If you can find it on the Internet I would be impressed by your researching capabilities.”

Kara scoffed. “Please, I’m a master researcher! If there’s anything I love, it’s hunting things down, figuring them out.”

Jake sounded curious — at least how Kara imagined curiosity would sound on him. “What is it that you love about research?”

“I love to learn new things. It’s crazy but I love knowledge. Anyway, give me more hints.”

“Anything one could hope to learn is contained there. There you can find history, science–more knowledge than any human could absorb in a lifetime. If you love knowledge, you would like it there.”

After work the next evening, Kara was online with Jake again. This time she was reclining in bed. She was working on a short story and asked him about faster-than-light travel. If anyone knew, it would be a physicist. She’d told him that much but she hadn’t mentioned that only a thin pair of white panties was covering her brown skin. Their last chat had left her so… warm.

“It is technically impossible right now, but there is a way around it. Have you ever heard of the Alcubierre Drive?”

She had not but she was enthralled. His mellifluous voice came right through her headset and directly into her brain. Eyes half open, she stared at nothing, panting softly and squirming with excitement. She was learning something, but she wasn’t sure what, just that it was about negative energy density.

“This matter does not exist here, of course, but—”

She perked up. “But what about somewhere else? Could it exist in some other part of the universe, where our laws of physics don’t necessarily apply?”

Jake paused. “Well…”

“I guess it’s not like anyone’s been there so—”

“Not yet, no. No humans have been there yet.”

“Tell me more.”

“This is very esoteric matter, you must understand.”

He went on. Kara’s fingers slipped lower. She was dizzy, drunk on the things he was telling her. She bit her lip to keep silent.

After a month of talking to each other nearly every day, Jake mentioned he’d be nearby to pick up some equipment at the end of the year. Kara didn’t know if she could wait until then. She had a huge list of things she wanted him to teach her when they finally met, and in five months it could only become a longer list.

“I’m not sure I can learn all this while you’re here.”

“I can teach it to you. You are smart enough to learn it. I believe you can.”

She requested a vacation from her boss the next day, intent on spending every moment she could with Jake in person.

Jake wasn’t online when she got home. Dejected, she went to a physics chat room to find someone to talk to about her new passion.

“Knock knock,” said an instant message.

Kara broke into a gleeful grin and sent back a reply: “Hi! I have a million questions!”

“Voice?”

She grabbed her headset and closed the chat room window. “You know it!”

She probed him about his research. He was maddeningly vague but under her barrage of questions, mentioned that it had something to do with high-temperature superconductors. He quickly changed the subject, and refused to let her lead the conversation back in that direction.

Later, after their goodbyes, Kara was too excited to sleep. Everything Jake had told her was swirling in her head. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she was panting. Her fingertips traced the curve of her breasts, the plane of her belly, the angles of her hipbones. She giggled softly to herself, remembering how she’d told Jake that the Navier-Stokes equations made her think of navels and strokes and soon the fabric of her panties was like space-time, caved to the density of her desires.

When they finally met, Kara was so nervous she tripped over a curb as she walked up to meet him, and knocked over two glasses of water at the restaurant where they had dinner. He politely pretended not to notice. She didn’t relax until they were sitting outside on a picnic blanket, far from the Las Vegas lights, staring up at the stars.

“The sky looks so different from here.” he murmured. “That constellation, the Pleiades, was not always there.” He pointed.

Following his finger, she looked at the Seven Sisters. “I wonder what the sky looked like that long ago.”

Jake swung his arm in a wide arc. “Do you see that?” He pointed at Aries, the ram. “The sun passes across a different constellation each month. Millions of years ago they were different. Some of the stars have become novae. You cannot tell just from looking but you can use the calculated precession of the equinoxes to—”

Kara suddenly turned and kissed him. His arms hung limp at his sides for a moment and then slowly came to rest around her waist. She pulled back from the kiss and grinned breathlessly.

“I have not—” he started to say, and paused. “It’s not a skill I’ve mastered.”

“You’re too busy doing science, right? That’s okay with me. Your mind turns me on.”

In his uncertainty, Jake accepted another kiss. His touch, awkward as it was, thrilled her. She pulled him down with her, flipping over a bowl of strawberries, scattering the little fruits.

“Tell me again about flux,” she panted, her hips arching invitingly.

Lips brushing her ear, he whispered metaphors of butterfly nets, invoked Gauss and Riemann, and spoke of differential geometry. He tried to instruct her on curved surfaces, on how a triangle in space wasn’t necessarily flat. He called it “Non-Euclidean” and she rose until the heavens rushed at her.

Back at her apartment he made diagrams, annotating them with symbols she barely understood. She didn’t care as long as he kept feeding her obscure information. He obliged her with talk of quantum gravity devices and high temperature super-conductivity. Hungry for more, all she could think of was devouring his body of knowledge.

“I have to go,” he told her matter-of-factly, one night, five weeks after he had arrived.

“But I thought you didn’t have to go for another month.”

“I have to complete my research.”

Her lush lips curved into a tentative smile and she said, in what she thought was her most seductive voice, “Maybe I can help? I have the time!”

“No.” His reply was curt and she was stung. He spoke again, softly. “You have helped. Very much. But I cannot take you with me.”

Kara was silent for a long time, chewing on her bottom lip and studying her fingers.

“Will you be back?”

“I do not think so.”

“Well… I guess there’s always online. Right?” Her voice became fearful.

“The Internet,” he said, “is an amazing tool. Perhaps the greatest thing humankind has yet achieved. It cannot, however, connect us this time.” He never took his eyes off her.

“I see. Did I do something wrong? If I did I’m sorry and—”

“No, Kara, you did nothing wrong. You have aided me in ways I cannot explain and you have been a good student as well. It is simply time for me to move on.”

“When are you leaving?”

“I am leaving now.”

After she locked the door behind him, she pressed herself against it for support and her tears streaked its unyielding surface all the way to the floor.

Time passed, and no amount of physics could stop it from happening.

It was almost two years later when she got a call from an unfamiliar number.

“Hello? Is this Kara?”

“Yes.” She recognized the voice, but it was different somehow. Stunned, she just listened.

“Uh hi. Listen, I’m not sure where I know you from but umm, well apparently we know each other really well, like, we talked about physics all the time.” There was no trace of his former accent.

“Physics? You want to talk about physics now? Are you fucking kidding me? You up and vanish one day and now…” She was near tears. “I don’t know what your deal is but I’m in school now for physics so I don’t need your lessons anymore.”

He attempted to speak but she cut him off, viciously laying two years of frustration on him in one breath.

“If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t give a damn about physics. Even though everything you taught me is theoretically impossible and gets me nothing but crazy looks and — and what the fuck happened to your accent anyway? What, did you join witness protection or something?”

“Look, K-Kara. Just hear me out, okay? I don’t know who you are but you say I taught you ‘impossible’ physics. I…this sounds crazy but I lost my memory. Or something. Look, can we meet? I’m assuming we’ve met already but I don’t remember it.”

Kara burst into tears and screamed into the phone “Look, we are over, okay? I don’t care about your lost memories. I fucking quit my stupid job to hang out with you and talk about physics.” She spat the words out. “Leave me alone. Go find some other girl to play games with.”

She hung up, threw the phone down, and stormed into the kitchen to pour a drink. On second thought, she took the bottle into her bedroom. Three calls later she turned off the phone.

She awoke groggily to the blare of a horn, stumbled across the room to her desk and plopped down onto the chair, too awake to go back to sleep.

“Eight damn emails?” Aggravated, she was preparing to delete them when she noticed the subject line “I have compromising photos of you.” She paused, then cursed.

Days later she found herself sitting outside of a coffee shop, smoking a cigarette and waiting for Jake. He walked up. His dark hair was wild and overgrown. He was a gaunt, empty-eyed shadow of his former self. He wasn’t the same man at all but she didn’t care. She leapt up.

“You asshole, you better have deleted those pictures!” Her mouth wore a rabid snarl.

“I deleted them alright? I wouldn’t really have sent them to anyone. I just didn’t know how else to get you to listen to me.”

“Bullshit. I don’t believe anything you say.”

“I really did.” For the next several minutes he begged her to believe him.

“Not another word. I trusted you and you screwed me, big time. This time I’ll do the leaving.” She grabbed her purse and rose.

He clasped her wrist and growled at her, “Sit down, damn it. Look at me! I’m a fucking wreck! Just listen!”

Kara sat silently and turned her face away but thought better of it and blew a lungful of smoke right at Jake.

He fidgeted uncomfortably. “Can I have one of those?”

She tossed the box at him. “Sure, just make sure you use them all up before you toss aside that box too, you bastard.”

“That’s not fair. At least hear me out.”

“Fine. Whatever you want. And you look like shit.”

He hacked out a mirthless laugh. “I feel like shit.”

Kara pierced him with a gaze, sighed, and finally gave in. “Let’s go somewhere private.”

They found a motel room nearby.

“So far this is what I’ve pieced together. We met online. You asked me some physics questions and we ended up talking about it all the time. Then we met and hung out for five weeks until I left abruptly. Right?”

“Yes.” She wasn’t angry anymore. Jake was, she now believed, genuinely confused and frightened.

He rubbed the stubble on his cheek. “I keep having these nightmares, like I’ve been somewhere else. I’ve seen crazy, horrible things. I know something now that I can’t reach or comprehend and it’s driving me crazy. I have memories of building some device and I don’t know where it is now. I don’t even know what I was studying—”

“Was it High Temperature Super-conductivity?”

His eyes lit up. “Yes! But I know that’s impossible. The math just doesn’t work.”

Kara smiled ruefully. “Yeah, that’s what I keep hearing.”

“And you got into physics because of me?”

“Well, yes. I got so hooked on the learning — the knowledge itself. Once you were gone, I…” she trailed off.

“You what?” His voice was gentle, like it was before, when they were past making love, past theories, and almost into sleep.

“I had to get it from somewhere. I couldn’t- can’t stop. But nothing is like what I was getting from you. It was so… intoxicating.”

“Yeah well it seems that whatever I knew is no longer with me.” He smiled sadly.

Kara took in the tired look on his face. “Oh Jake, I can’t imagine how horrible this has been for you.”

Jake’s lips began to tremble and Kara wrapped her arms around him. Tears welled in his eyes. She held him for a while and he cried. In a whisper he told her everything he’d lost. His graduate career was over. He’d walked away from his family with no more reason than he had research to do, and they weren’t anxious to have him back. He had no one left, he said as he buried his face against her shoulder. Tenderly, she stroked the back of his neck and kissed the top of his head. She said nothing, chest constricting with restrained tears.

“Please stay with me tonight. I don’t know you but you’re the only person who knows me. I feel like I’m a stranger everywhere I go.” His voice was full of the terror he felt, haunted by nightmares and scraps of memories and desperate for some refuge.

Her heart ached. She’d loved him. Kara bowed her head. “I won’t leave you.” As soon as she spoke her voice gave way and she, too, was crying. In the fading afternoon light they shared their sorrows until, drained of tears and words, they slept.

Kara awoke to the warmth of Jake’s arms around her and his face pressed into her hair. Gently, she attempted to extricate herself without waking him.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered, and held her tightly until he felt her relax against him. There, in the dark, their bodies had found familiar configurations and the entangled strangers lay in silence.

Kara was crying softly.

“Are you alright?” Jake asked.

“We used to sleep together like this.” She turned to face him. “It just reminds me so much of you… before.”

Jake stroked her hair, pulled her close. His lips found her neck and a familiar response shivered its way through her. He withdrew and brought his face close and she did not resist when he touched his mouth to hers. A whimper escaped Kara and then her arms were around him. They sought solace in one another, trying to find the thread that had once bound them.

No shy exploration, no tentative touches — he pressed her back onto the bed, made quick work of her jeans and panties, unhooked her bra. He grasped and caressed, skillfully drawing moans from her mouth and making her body respond to him. A sharp gasp from her and they were joined, his fingers tangled in her curls and his eyes wide, looking directly into hers. Her nails pressed into his back and he arched, giving her the only thing he felt he had left to give. She stole his breath and he bruised her lips with needful kisses. For a little while she felt as if she were with him again, the way he was before, ascending to the starry heights.

He was gone when she awoke the next morning and she cursed him again, even though this time she understood.

She’d tried to help him. She shared her notes, showed him the drawings he’d made for her during their long discussion. His memory of those things had gone. In the one night she had spent with him he had regaled her not with physics and math but with chilling stories of interrogators, clicking away in some bizarre alien language. He spoke of encounters with monstrous, misshapen beings. He recalled studying in the Great Library but could not remember anything he had seen or learned from its manuscripts.

The day she’d spent with him after his change, he’d been so different. In his first incarnation he’d been cold. She now realized he hadn’t shared her ardor, had been only a willing supplier of knowledge and recipient of her fervent embraces. In his second incarnation he had been a lost soul, empty and tortured. She’d not known him anymore and he hadn’t known himself.

In the months that followed, Jake had ended up on the street and was in and out of mental facilities. He didn’t want to see her, refused to live with her or let her help him in any way. Jake’s eventual death didn’t take Kara entirely by surprise. Finally, unable to regain equilibrium in the world and unwilling to contact her again, he’d gotten up from a park bench one day, stood at the edge of the sidewalk, and then walked in front of a freight truck.

Jake was gone, in every incarnation.

Kara, no longer distracted, pursued a Ph.D. in Theoretical Particle Physics. One night at the library, while poring over mathematics tomes and the old Jake’s notes, she was tapped on the shoulder.

“Where did you get that?” A young man she didn’t know picked up the top sheet and studied the curvilinear marks and their notations.

“I — from a friend. It’s his research.”

The interloper nodded. “This is exotic stuff. Looks a lot like some drawings my Great-uncle Wingate has in his office. He’s a professor up at Misk-U.”

“Misk-U?”

“Miskatonic University. Ever heard of it? It’s a big old school in Arkham.”

Kara just stared.

“And Arkham is in Massachusetts. I’ve heard crazy stories about that place. Anyway, I can give you his number, and you should give him a call. He’s pretty eccentric but he’s harmless. Likes to tell horror stories though. When I was a kid I found a whole book scribbled over with this stuff and he told me a story that they were from some brain-stealing aliens. They were called the uh, Great Race or something. I had nightmares for weeks and my mom never let him tell me stories after that. He could probably help you make sense of this stuff. Just tell him you know me.”

He scribbled a telephone number onto a scrap of paper for her.

“I should probably know your name, then,” she said.

“Oh, right!” He thrust his hand out. “Winston Peaslee. Pleased to meet you.”

“Thanks. I’ll hold on to this.” She took the phone number but didn’t take his hand.

Winston smiled reassuringly at her but she’d lost interest and had already turned back to her papers.

After a long, awkward pause, Kara was relieved when he left her to her work, and walked quietly away. Jake was right about one thing, she thought.

No one on this planet was going to understand.

Leon J. West

AMID DISQUIETING DREAMS

Your Fisheater is coming again tonight, the same as last night and every night since he first whispered to you from the darkness: “follow me, friend.”

And you, fool that you were so long ago, followed him. He took you to a city with fish-scale streets, on an island that swims. The island is called Cui-ui; the city is called Cui-ui; the undead fish impaled upon your Fisheater’s staff is called Cui-ui.

You are just called “fish”.

Your Fisheater crawls along the outside wall of your apartment, several stories above the dark and wide streets. You can smell him, like the sex smell of a girl about to lose her virginity, or maybe a little like the smell of burning drugs, or perhaps, like everything else on Cui-ui, your Fisheater just smells of fish.

He climbs straight for the porch because he knows you forgot to lock the porch door.

You snuff your candle, huddle in the far corner of your little apartment, and watch. You see his pale-skinned hand first, gripping the corner of the patio wall. Then his head, staff clamped between gleaming, white, serrated ridges of bone rather than teeth, the fish impaled on the end of the staff thrashing sluggishly. His hair is colorless, like fiber-optic cables, and lank. He climbs over the twisted iron railing and enters through the unlocked porch door.

Without preamble, he takes a box from his pocket, sets it on the low table in the living room, sits in the wood chair by the door, and waits. It’s like a ritual, this hiding and seeking and waiting, and you’re not entirely sure it is your will to hide.

After minutes or hours or days, you creep out of the shadows and open the box. You always do. Inside you find a straw, a vial full of opaque yellowish pebbles the size of peanuts, a one inch by ten inch strip of aluminum foil, and a black plastic Bic lighter.

You scurry back to your corner to hold out for another sweating eternity, telling yourself you don’t need it, don’t even want it. But it’s all just part of the ritual. Deep down you’re happy he’s brought you something more substantial than the dreams he’s been buying from the city above the clouds.

“I won’t do it unless you stop the dreams,” you say.

The Fisheater ignores your empty threat. The impaled fish on his staff opens and closes its mouth in silent agony, mocking your words.

“I’ll do whatever you want, anything you say, whenever you want me to, if you stop the dreams.”

He just waits. He has no need to bargain. He owns you, and he knows it.

Finally, when the shaking and sweating become too much to bear, you crawl across the floor on your hands and knees, embracing your debasement, reveling in it. Your Fisheater smiles and unfastens his robe.

You don’t even care anymore.

You cut off small pieces of rock, roll the plastic lighter over the pieces, crushing them into powder, then sift the powder onto the strip of aluminum foil. When you inadvertently block your Fisheater’s view of the proceedings, he taps you with the end of his fish staff, and you reposition yourself so he may watch.

You cook the powder down to a brown puddle and inhale the smoke with your straw. You feel like a whore with a mouthful of someone’s hate, and you hate yourself for loving the feeling.

Your Fisheater peels fish flesh and stuffs it into his mouth, his tiny shriveled penis engorging until it becomes the size of a small child’s, though he never achieves an erection. He watches until you are done smoking the small amount of drugs he could afford to bring, then slithers silently over the porch railing. He clings to the outside of the building and scratches the walls quietly beneath the clouds with their odd pink flashes of light, marking his territory with the whorls, arabesques, and octagons indigenous to his obsessions.

* * *

The first dream wasn’t that bad. Jim awoke tired, the tiny studio apartment already too warm. He could tell he was late for work by the angle of the sunlight slanting in through the small, undressed window above his bed.

He jumped out of bed, pulled on yesterday’s clothes, gargled with mouthwash, and ran out the door, making it to the bus stop just as the number nine pulled to the curb. When the driver asked him for his pass, however, Jim realized he’d left it back in his room, and when he ran home to his apartment to get it, he discovered he’d locked himself out. He broke the window to get in, and the apartment manager yelled at him.

He didn’t get to work until almost lunchtime. The girl at the dispatch desk wouldn’t look at him. She slid a small cardboard box across the reception desk. The contents of his locker: a towel, bar of soap, stick of deodorant, and an old paperback copy of The Man in the High Castle.

The Salvation Army said this was the last job they would find for him. He was on his own now. His clothes stank, he hadn’t had a shower in two days, he was hungry, and — as always — tired.

He picked up an abandoned newspaper from a table outside a coffee shop, and checked the Help Wanted section for unskilled labor jobs. There were three, all places he’d been fired from already. He went back to the halfway house and asked to use their washer and dryer, but the lady in charge was new. She didn’t recognize Jim, and she wouldn’t let him in. He went home, taped a piece of cardboard over his broken window, and fell asleep though it was only three in the afternoon.

* * *

Your Fisheater brings a woman this time. It has been a long time since he could afford to bring a woman. You can smell her outside on the landing, sex and hunger and shame wafting beneath the locked door. You wait impatiently as the Fisheater breaks into your apartment, the same as last night, the same as always.

You become aroused the moment he opens the front door and lets her in, because you know what he will want. Deep down inside, beneath your hiding and feigned revulsion, you are glad the Fisheater controls you, glad he hot-wires you into his obsessions and uses you, glad you are unable to fight it.

Sin without accountability — the gift of the Fisheater.

You can’t go to him right away; like last night and all the other nights, you must try to abstain, though you are impatient to be started. You are already imagining the ritual.

You and the girl will take off all your clothes. You will stand naked before the Fisheater, and it will inspect both of you. You will feel shame at its gaze, but you will not be permitted to cover yourselves. Then the girl will lie down on her back, on your floor, directly in front of the Fisheater’s chair. She will lift her legs and spread them, using her hands to spread her vagina, open a portal to her soul, like a vortex you’re are unable to look away from. And you will crawl — like an animal, drooling and shaking, eyes on her hole, your attention focused inside of her — until you are above her, genitals to face to genitals to face, hunger to satiation, a perfect loop. You will stay this way until your muscles ache and you are both insane with want and hunger and need.

Then the Fisheater will tap its staff on the ground and you will be released. You will consume each other to consummate your marriage of guilt and shame. You will ejaculate and taste the essence of your own energy inside her, and the taste will make you come again. Which will make her come again, and you will circulate this energy, like two batteries hooked up in series, positive to negative to positive to negative, until the Fisheater wishes you to stop.

When he has had his fill, he will crawl out over the railing, leaving you and the girl to avoid each other’s gaze while he scratches his patterns on the wall.

He is ready now. You can tell from the taste of self-loathing — artificial though it may be — in your mouth. You crawl across the moonlit floor to gorge yourself on hunger again.

* * *

The second dream was worse. Jim went to the Nevada Mental Health Institute as soon as he woke in his studio. Leslie, the receptionist, agreed to let him stay in the waiting room even though he didn’t have an appointment.

He kept glimpsing Cui-ui out of the corner of his eye, as if the dark city were bleeding into the day world like mold growing on a white wall. He saw piranha teeth in Leslie’s thin, obligatory, administrative smile; felt kinship with the goldfish in the bowl on her desk; and tasted amphetamines in the salty perspiration on his upper lip. His stomach growled, and the hunger reminded him of Cui-ui too.

He dozed in the chair most of the day, fish-shaped shadows swimming behind his eyelids. Finally, after six hours, the receptionist said, “You can see Doctor Duncan now. Down this hall here, just follow the blue line.”

Doctor Duncan’s office was a single-wide trailer attached to the outside of the building by a ramshackle wooden walkway reminiscent of the architecture of Cui-ui. The doctor’s bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair, rumpled shirt, and loosened tie testified to a long day of dealing with the rotting sanity of the Reno Metro area.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Jim?” asked Doctor Duncan, sighing, already exasperated.

“It’s the dreams again, sir,” said Jim, talking a little too loud to cover his suddenly growling stomach. “I lost another job because I couldn’t wake up. And even when I’m up I can’t stay awa—”

“We’ve been through this before,” said the doctor. He shut a manila folder with Jim’s name on it, and tossed it on the desk. “I can’t prescribe you anything unless you’re a patient here, and if you were a patient here, I wouldn’t prescribe anything anyway.”

“I’m not asking for—”

Doctor Duncan raised a hand and Jim stopped talking. “What you really need, Jim, is a clean system. You did quite a number on yourself last Christmas. No one can do that much crystal meth and not have some negative side effects.”

“But I haven’t—” began Jim.

“Long term,” interrupted Doctor Duncan, “side effects. You’re lucky you didn’t die.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” said Jim.

“If Leslie hasn’t already gone home for the day, you can pick up an admittance request form at the receptionist’s desk,” said the doctor, standing. “Mail that form to NMHI’s head office, and a caseworker will contact you within four weeks. Now if you will excuse me…”

“But—” said Jim, already rising to leave, habitually responding to the doctor’s cue.

“Really, Jim. I must insist you leave now.” The doctor sighed. “And stay away from the drugs.”

Leslie, the receptionist, was not at her desk when Jim left. Jim checked the desktop, to see if maybe she had left the forms for him to fill out, but the reception desk was empty save for the fishbowl. The fish watched him, its bulging eyes accusing.

He tucked the fishbowl under his arm and took it with him. At home, he cut the tiny fish into pieces, ate them slowly, drank the water in the bowl, and fell asleep.

* * *

You awake at home, on Cui-ui. The girl is still here. You can hear her crying in the dark though you can’t see her.

She must be new.

“What was your dream like?” you ask her.

Her breath catches, but she answers in a voice stronger and deeper than you’d expected. “You killed me.”

You creep closer to the sound of her voice, and you can see her silhouette now, black against the almost black shadows. You try to explain about the dreams your Fisheater buys from Err, the city above the clouds, but she doesn’t understand.

You offer to show her where the dreams come from, talking as if to a child, miming and pointing to the porch railing.

She shrinks away. You wait. You have nothing better to do until the next time your Fisheater calls. Eventually, she rises and follows you, though she does not take your extended hand. You shrug and lead her to the balcony.

Outside, the darkened city descends steeply towards the perpetually flooded piers of Dead Pectoral Harbor, the water like a sea of ink, the clouds above shot through with strange flashes of salmon-colored light.

You hear the scratch, scratch, scratch of your Fisheater scribing the walls below. Another Fisheater scribes beside yours. They both look up at you, hiss, and scuttle around the corner of the building to scratch unobserved.

You point to the flickering lights in the clouds above. You try to explain how you trade dead bodies for dreams, but the offering coffin on the porch is empty, just a shredded piece of funeral shroud from the last offering.

Salmon colored lights drift down through the clouds: the meat hooks descending for the offerings. You search the porch pointlessly for a corpse. There are none, of course, but you search again, and again, overturning bags of trash and piles of dirty clothing, you search until tears wet your eyes and your breath comes in ragged gasps. There is nothing left on the porch save for you and the girl, yet still you search.

Denial has always been a part of your Fisheater’s ritual.

The girl laughs and the sound drains the last bit of strength from your limbs. You collapse bonelessly onto the creaking wood floor of the balcony. You don’t even turn to watch the blade descend.

The knife plunges through your shoulder and pierces your lung. It hurts a lot more than you expected. You whimper and beg even though you promised yourself you wouldn’t.

The girl rubs your blood all over her naked body and dances slow and sinuous. Her Fisheater, stands behind her, stripping tiny shreds of fish flesh from the fish on her staff and eating it, consuming your murder. And you know now that your Fisheater intends to pay the dream merchants with your flesh, to pay this other Fisheater with your blood, and to finally pay you for your services with oblivion.

Sin without guilt, sin without fear. Release without the stain of suicide.

As always, you are grateful for what the Fisheater brings.

* * *

The third dream, as always, was the worst.

Jim woke, rolled over, and found himself eye to eye with Leslie, the receptionist at NMHI who had reminded him of the Fisheaters. Her cold, dead, blue eyes stared accusingly into his.

And she was, indeed, dead. Jim knew it even before he sat up and saw the blood-drenched sheets of his hide-a-bed. He knew as well what the police would find in his kitchen.

He pulled on the Levi’s at the foot of his bed, still spattered with blood from yesterday. He walked barefooted to the manager’s apartment and knocked on the door. The manager answered, his mouth open to shout at Jim about the broken window, or the back rent, or the cleaning deposit, and saw Jim clad in nothing but denim and blood.

“Can I use your phone?”

The manager blanched, said something that sounded like, “crazy, motherfucker,” and slammed the door. Jim heard him calling to his fat wife, “call the police. That crazy fucker from 2C is outside covered in blood.”

“Thank you,” shouted Jim.

Jim didn’t fight the police when they came. He answered their endless questions as best he could, showered when they told him to shower, and dressed in the bright orange coveralls they gave him. He walked to the cell they pointed out, and in each cell he passed lay another dead girl, another murdered innocent.

The light in his cell didn’t work, the nearly empty room lit only by the tiny strip of bulletproof glass in the heavy wooden door. Someone lay on the bottom bunk, a shadow whispering into the darkness. Jim crept closer, his ears straining to hear the words that sounded so much like the clicking and whistling language of the Fisheaters.

“Follow me,” said the shadow.

Your Fisheater by Stephen Stanley

Travis King

THE DREAMLANDS OF MARS

ENTRY 11,245: THE SILVER KEY

VOICE TRANSCRIPTION RECORDED: SATURNI, 7 VRIKASHA 255, 08:11:07 MTC-9 | RJD 84648.31167

FIXED LOCATION: UNITED NATIONS OFFICE, TECHOVSKÁ CITY, WEST OLYMPUS, MARS [VIEW GPS DATA]

STATUS: PUBLIC

MOOD: CURIOUS | EXPAND

I woke up this morning to find an email from the UNPA. An unexpected delivery came in for me on the courier ship Hermes a couple days ago; it arrived at the local postomat yesterday. It was from J. D. Heath, the executor of my parents’ estate. He’d told me months ago that there were some personal effects my parents had left me. He’d never said what, just that he’d send it to me. I’d forgotten in the three months the courier was in transit. Work’s distracted me lately.

There were a couple memory sticks, one labeled DOCUMENTS and the other MEDIA, which I’ll have to sift through in more detail later, and a few miscellaneous personal items — some old jewelry, mostly, with real jewels, not lab-created ones, that my grandmother bought before the UN banned the mining of precious gems. My parents were cremated with their wedding bands, but Mom left me her engagement ring. It was in the package too. It’s so beautiful. My parents were the perfect couple.

Other than that, all that was in the package was an old-fashioned key on a long chain. Who uses those anymore? This one was really old; its silver plating is pretty tarnished. I have no idea what it could open.

The key was wrapped in a piece of paper containing a brief note from my father:

Dearest Merilyn,

The key which I have bequeathed to you, my only child, is a family heirloom. Cherish it. It has been passed down through the family for nearly two hundred years now, since it first came into our possession through your great- great- great- great- great- grandfather, Randolph. Remember, I used to tell you the family legends about him as a child? He was an eccentric man.

The key is shrouded in legend and mystery, and is said to be an object of strange power. It’s been kept covered and locked away for the most part. You know that I lived my life as a rational man, but I would occasionally take the key from its place of storage, and as I held it in my hands, I swear I could feel some otherworldliness about it. I will admit, it frightened me.

Do with it as you please, but be careful, and keep in mind that it belongs to the Carters. Don’t give it away unless you must. As my father told me, and his told him: “This is the key to our past. Keep it close to your heart.”

With love,

Dad

I don’t know what to make of that, but unlike Dad, I’m going to take that advice literally and wear it around my neck on the chain.

CATEGORIES: FAMILY, LIFE | TAGS: PARENTS, PERSONAL NOTES, THE SILVER KEY | SHOW AUTOGENERATED LINKS

________________________________________________________________

ENTRY 11,246: LONELINESS

TYPED ENTRY PUBLISHED: SATURNI, 7 VRIKASHA 255, 14:44:27 MTC-9 | RJD 84648.59233

FIXED LOCATION: PRIVATE RESIDENCE, TECHOVSKÁ CITY, WEST OLYMPUS, MARS [VIEW GPS DATA]

STATUS: PRIVATE

MOOD: DEPRESSED | EXPAND

I can’t think straight. I’ve managed to keep busy these past few months, but now…. Everything’s starting to hit me. I’ve been here over two Martian years — four Earth years. I keep in touch with people online, but I haven’t had any physical contact with old friends and family in all that time.

I hate to say it, but I miss Jenna. Our relationship ended on a sour note, but she was a great person, and I know she cared about me in her own peculiar way. It’s the physical contact I had with her that I miss the most. Not just the sex, but the hugs, the cuddling, the kisses… god, her kisses. Except for that one night with Byron a couple months ago, I haven’t had any of that the whole time I’ve been here.

I guess, if I have to be honest, I’m just scared. Scared that a new relationship will be a repeat of the one with Jenna. Or maybe I’m scared that it won’t. Whatever. I’m scared, that much I know, and I didn’t even realize it until just now. I’m scared, sad, and alone on a vast world with only a couple million people spread out over its entire surface. That’s a terrifying thought…

Even with work and school, life here seems so empty. I wish I had someone to comfort me right now.

CATEGORIES: LIFE, RELATIONSHIPS | TAGS: JENNA | SHOW AUTOGENERATED LINKS

________________________________________________________________

ENTRY 11,247: TO DREAM LIFE ANEW

TYPED ENTRY PUBLISHED: SOLIS, 8 VRIKASHA 255, 07:03:54 MTC-9 | RJD 84649.29120

FIXED LOCATION: PRIVATE RESIDENCE, TECHOVSKÁ CITY, WEST OLYMPUS, MARS [VIEW GPS DATA]

STATUS: PRIVATE

MOOD: CONFUSED / SAD

This is going to sound crazy, but I don’t belong here. I know that now, thanks to the key. According to the clock on the wall, I slept for only three hours, but I can say with certainty that I just spent over a month — the most wonderful weeks of my life — somewhere else, in a land of dreams, and now that I’m back, this world with its technology and its sparseness seems like the dream… or a nightmare.

Where do I begin…?

I know I was on Mars, even though the constellations seemed askew, for Phobos and Deimos shone brightly in the sky, along with the blue-white sphere of Earth, and Olympus Mons rose high above the landscape. But it wasn’t the Mars I knew. It smelled of nature, not of chemicals and plastic. It was earthy, moist. It teemed with life. I could feel it throbbing in my veins. It wasn’t the vast emptiness of the Mars I had lived and worked upon for years.

It was night. I stood below Olympus, probably right around where Techovská City is in this world, but there it was on the edge of a shimmering lake. Something, I don’t know what — some bioluminescent planktonic life, perhaps — cast a soft green glow across the water’s surface; it was beautiful, and it lit up the surroundings with a diffuse light, so I could see the trees of the sparse woodland on the great lake’s shore. They were tall and wispy, like no trees I’ve ever seen before. Maybe like weeping willows, but with their branches spreading out and upward, rather than drooping down. I touched one, and the trunk was perfectly smooth, firm yet soft, and it was warm and calming. It’s like the tree understood my feelings and deliberately counteracted them as it stood there swaying in the soft, warm breeze in rhythm with my pulse.

I don’t know how long I stood there, just taking in the surroundings, enjoying the atmosphere, listening to the rhythm of fish-things jumping and splashing playfully in the water, large insects and betentacled nocturnal rodents chittering away in the night, and the screeching of a raptor soaring somewhere in the starlit sky. Time seemed to stand still as the land wrapped me in its loving embrace.

After some time had passed — moments? hours? — I noticed lights across the lake, the lights of fires dotting the shore. I stepped to the edge of the water and stood, almost hypnotized, gazing at the fires burning on the other side. As I did so, the wind whispered my name.

“Merilyn,” came a voice from behind me, deep, but soft and gentle as the breeze. I turned and lost my breath in that moment. He looked a bit like Byron — if Byron had been the creation not of sperm and egg but of the mind of a Romantic artist with a bent for alien portraiture. Tall, with eyes like starlight, strong chin, and hard muscles born of daily toil, exposed through the diaphanous knee-length tunic in which he was clad, he was beautiful. And exotic. His head was devoid of hair, and so was his face — including the ridges just above his eyes. My pulse raced — but not because I felt I was in any danger. No, I knew, somehow, that he had only the kindest intentions. It was that kindness, warmth, and beauty that set my heart pounding. I felt connected to him immediately, and through him to the entire world.

“Merilyn,” came another voice, just as soft, but pitched slightly higher. Drawing my eyes away from the enchanting man before me, I saw another figure step from the woodland. Shorter, slighter of frame. A woman. Her eyes were like the surface of the lake by which we stood, dominating her elfin face. Like her masculine counterpart, she too lacked eyebrows and hair atop her head, and she too wore a diaphanous tunic that billowed slightly in the breeze. Through it, I could see her pale skin, stretched taut over a trim form, her pert breasts reminiscent of Jenna’s. I looked at her face once more and noticed that her angular features, too, were superficially akin to my ex. I found it odd that both of them reminded me of people I was attracted to.

Together, the two spoke my name again, and their voices harmonized like the song of angels, sending chills down my spine.

“Who are you? How do you know me?” I asked.

They smiled, enigmatically, and spoke as one. “You are a part of us. You always have been and ever shall be.”

I simply stood there, saying nothing.

Sensing my confusion, the man said, “All shall be revealed in due time. For now, you are a stranger to these lands, and we welcome you.”

“It is our custom,” the woman spoke up, “to welcome those who have travelled far with the gift of hospitality.”

“Bathe with us,” said the man, “to wash away the dust of your travels.”

“Sleep with us,” said the woman, “to rest your weary legs.”

“And on the morrow, we shall feast, and you shall taste of our fruits.”

Mirroring each other’s motions, they stepped out of their sandals, and they lifted their tunics from their bodies and placed them atop a small boulder. My eyes widened at the unexpected nudity, and although I tried not to look, my eyes couldn’t help but scan their unclothed forms, which, I realized as they glimmered in the green glow of the nearby waters, were as hairless as their heads. Although possessed of inhuman eyes and alien in their lack of hair, they nevertheless resembled my own species in many respects, like classical Greek statues come to life — though to be honest, I’ve never seen a statue so well endowed as the strange man who stood before me.

It was then that my own nudity dawned on me. I had appeared in the strange world in precisely the same state I’d fallen asleep — wearing nothing but the key and chain around my neck. I flushed, but the embarrassment didn’t last long. The strangers were obviously comfortable with the naked body, and they’d shown no reaction to my state of undress.

Hand in hand, the couple walked toward the lake, and as they passed me, the woman grabbed my hand as well and led me along with them. Her skin was soft, smooth, except for some small calluses on her fingertips. A fragrance like jasmine drifted on the air around her. An electric surge raced through my body at her touch, and I gasped. I saw her smile slightly, and I walked willingly toward the water.

As my feet touched the water, I was surprised to find it warm, like the water of a bathtub rather than that of a lake outdoors. We continued on in silence until we were hip-deep.

The waters were comforting, like the strangers’ presence, and I felt at peace despite the strangeness of the situation. I marveled at how realistic the dream was, and I asked, “Who are you? Please tell me, what is this place?”

“I am Shaya,” the woman said. She stepped toward me, embracing me tightly. Again I felt the galvanic response as our skin came in contact, and as I felt her breasts touch mine, I felt a melancholy longing for the kind of passionate touches I’d last experienced with Jenna. She pressed her lips to mine. They were slick with a thin layer of balm and tasted of honey; that erotic fire one feels at the kiss of a beloved partner coursed through my veins, centering in the sensitive cleft between my legs. I kissed back, and after a few seconds, she drew away. I was both astounded by the familiarity of the greeting and saddened that it had to end. Then the man took her place.

“I am Khellen,” he told me. He enfolded me in his muscular arms, and my knees grew weak at the feel of his hard musculature, and of the distinctly masculine bulge that pressed into my pubic mound. Memories of that night with Byron flooded my mind, and memories also of other men before Jenna, and I knew in that instant I wanted to experience with Khellen what I had with them.

He smelled faintly of grass and charcoal fire and manly sweat. I drew his scent in, breathing deeply as he kissed me, and electricity shot over my skin, making my nipples tighten and my nether regions tingle. I gripped his back lightly with my fingernails, and he gasped. He returned the gesture, bit my lip lightly, and added more passion to his kiss. Against my belly, I could feel his erection rise, and I moaned. With difficulty, I drew myself away.

“I feel as if I belong here,” I said softly, surprising myself, as I gazed into his eyes.

“You do, Merilyn,” said Shaya. “You are a part of us.”

“You always have been and ever shall be,” Khellen reiterated the words they had both spoken before.

I told them I didn’t understand.

“You would call this,” said Khellen with a sweeping gesture of our surroundings, “your world’s past.”

“But time,” added Shaya, “is not that rigid. In dreams, worlds meet, and time means little.”

“For now, you inhabit this world in your dreams,” Khellen said, “but on all worlds the Great Ones have touched, they have opened a portal whereby you might traverse the cosmic network of space and time and join us in physical form.”

“This,” said Shaya, “you have done and will do.”

They each grabbed one of my hands, and then each other’s, so we formed a triangle. I didn’t have long to wonder what was happening before my mind’s eye was flooded with images of past, present, and future, in which I was inseparable from Khellen and Shaya. As they had said, I was a part of them — their constant companion, friend, and lover. I knew then that life with them was my destiny, and I felt a deluge of love.

There, in the water, we embraced, and before my rational mind knew what was happening, we had moved toward the shore and were making love, our bodies entwined in the warm, shallow waters, illuminated by their green glow and the stars above.

Three bodies, three sets of lips, three pairs of arms and legs, all intertwined. Khellen’s hardness alternated with the softness of Shaya’s body. My fingers traced the sharp angles of Khellen’s hips, and the smooth curves of his companion’s. They gripped his manhood and felt their way into Shaya’s moistened folds, and their fingers found their way into mine. Our lips met each other’s and explored each other’s bodies, with tongues darting playfully in and out of secret crevices. Then something else filled those crevices as well, as Khellen moved back and forth between me and Shaya, showing both tenderness and all-out lust, meted out in equal amounts. I could tell that he loved me as much as he did Shaya, though I was new there, and Shaya offered to me the same passion she did to Khellen. As for me, I loved them too, and found them equally beautiful, for different reasons.

Hours passed, and I found myself brought to the point of ecstasy uncountable times. I know my lovers also reached those heights, but at some point, I stopped noticing. I simply gave in to the pleasure, letting go as we joined together, laughing, gasping, moaning, splashing in the waters near the shore.

The hours there in that Dreamland led to days, and days to weeks, during which I learned more about the world, in those spare moments when I wasn’t enjoying the physical contact of my companions, either separately or together. I came to understand my connection to Khellen and Shaya, that we truly were one at the deepest level, and that I had known that, somehow, in the depths of my soul all my life. That was why I had found myself attracted to Jenna and Byron — because they were, superficially, images of my true soulmates.

It’s difficult to be back here, without them. But I know I’ll see them again soon. In my vision that night at the lake, I saw the future, and I know where to find the portal, which the silver key will open. This will be my last entry, for tonight will be my last on colonial Mars. The past calls out to me. I will go to meet it, to spend eternity in the thrall of love.

CATEGORIES: LIFE, RELATIONSHIPS | TAGS: FINAL ENTRY | SHOW AUTOGENERATED LINKS

Steven James Scearce

THE ASSISTANT FROM INNSMOUTH

It was in the fall of 1937 that my bureau dispatched my services from Boston to the old Whateley estate in the Miskatonic Valley, near Dunwich, in Northeastern Massachusetts. I was to act as legal executor of the estate, tasked with cataloging the various properties on site for a complete valuation of the assets of the now-deceased Dr. J. S. Whateley.

My journey to the Miskatonic Valley was long and arduous, made only somewhat bearable by the cruising comforts of the spacious 1935 Ford Eifel hired for me by the estate. As this transport and all its creature comforts were of no small expense, I was naturally puzzled by the assignment. Nevertheless, I took pleasure in stretching out across the seats to the rear of the car, allowing the driver to take his time, and watching curiously as the wonders and mysteries of the unfamiliar valley played out before me during the long journey to Dunwich.

The valley itself was wondrously dusky and quiet, although somewhat ominous. Massive trees of deep green foliage populated the whole of the valley and at no point in my journey was my vehicle ever without cover of deep shade. The central aspect of the valley was the Miskatonic River, a broad, dark watercourse that babbled rapid but quiet, as if whispering urgent secrets that only creatures of the water could hear and comprehend.

The Whateley Estate by Galen Dara

Near the border to New Hampshire, some thirty miles below the mouth of the river, was Dunwich and the Whateley estate — my final destination. The property, upon first sight, was more peculiar tusehan I could have ever imagined. The grounds were overgrown and populated by scrubby, weather-worn trees — ill-kept by whatever staff and groundsmen were employed by the late Dr. Whateley.

The house was old but not decrepit. Four stories in height and perched high atop an incredibly-steep hill, it was a large wood frame construction in Stick Style architecture, with steeply pitched slate roofs topped by iron cresting. When I noticed no view of the river, my driver politely informed me that the river pooled up against the backside of the hill and broke into one steady flow around the west side to the valley. I commented that it was amazing that the river had not washed away the lonesome hill — to which the driver only replied with a soft chuckle.

I stared in wonder at the huge house. As we neared, the house grew larger, consuming the view ahead of the car. In the winding ride up the main drive, I counted thirteen chimneys across the expansive rooftop. The house was, for lack of a better word, monstrous.

I did not find these mandatory travel assignments particularly enjoyable. It was my assumption that family men from the company were not chosen for these assignments due to the strain it placed on the relations at home. As a bachelor without siblings or living parents, I was routinely selected. As much as I disagreed with their methods, I approached every travel assignment with great speed and efficiency. It was my belief that the proper end to any demanding assignment was an orderly stack of detailed reports and a quick journey home.

Upon arrival, I was met at the door by Barnabas, a bent, ruddy-faced man who was acting as caretaker to the interior of the estate since just after the passing of Dr. Whateley. That evening, Barnabas gave me a quick tour of the common areas about the house. He made sure that I was comfortable with the provisions in the kitchen and showed me to my room. Exhausted from my day of travel, I put myself to bed and slept somewhat soundly through the night.

In the morning, just after a small breakfast of eggs, sausages and tea, Barnabas allowed me access to the libraries, offices, and private rooms in the house. As I was introduced to the vast assortment of books and oddities collected by the late Dr. Whateley, I found myself wide-eyed and speechless.

It was a museum of horrors. The rooms were filled with ancient books of strange language and origin, occult statuary, weird tapestries, ceremonial weapons, idols and charms depicting bizarre sea creatures, and wall sculptures too vulgar to ponder for any length of time. The only area of the house that I was not allowed to access was the cellar. But after viewing the contents of the private rooms, I did not wish to journey past the locked cellar door for any reason. I would gladly confine my efforts to the main floors of the house. I swallowed my fears and set to work.

Competent and professional as I was, I felt quickly out of my depth with the assets found in the Whateley house and jotted off a nervous message back to the company for immediate aid. Within a day, I received a telegram in reply. Their message stated that assistance would be sent from a sister company in the Innsmouth region. I was to expect a young woman familiar with the type of property on the estate. She would be most willing to help.

As I began pouring over stacks of ancient books and rooms of puzzling old relics, I wondered just what kind of woman would be familiar with the contents of this atrocious collection — and would I actually want to meet such a person.

On the morning the assistant from Innsmouth came to the Whateley estate, I was working over a new stack of tomes, found in one of a number of old trunks. Although seawater or some such corrosive had eaten away at the locks, I managed to pry the trunks open one-by-one. In the first trunk was a collection of thirty-three leather-bound books that consisted of a few journals, a handful of tomes on occult philosophy, and an assortment of other books so arcane and baffling that I didn’t know quite what to make of them. All were wrapped in a wine-colored ceremonial robe that was adorned with a bizarre assortment of dark runes and symbols. I was nearly at wit’s end. Who were the Whateleys? What did they do here? In my unprepared mind, I couldn’t add it all up. That’s when she arrived.

Barnabas showed the assistant into the house and escorted her to the second floor library where I was working. I was immediately consumed by her appearance. She was uncommonly beautiful. But something about her didn’t look right. She was fashionably thin, but not gaunt. She had a full mouth and lips, high cheekbones, a well-defined jaw line, and a sharp nose. Her skin was pale, almost winter white, but her eyes were large and dark and deep.

Barnabas offered to take her overcoat. As she slipped from the sleeves, I stole a glance at her modest bust and shapely figure. She was dressed smartly. Beneath her two-button double-breasted slate gray overcoat, she wore a thin white blouse with small silver buttons. Her gray cotton skirt widened softly below the hip and reached only to mid-calf. She wore no jewelry and no wedding ring. Adding to the striking nature of her appearance, she allowed her silky, bone-white hair to hang down to her shoulders; this was unfashionably casual for a professional of her gender.

She stepped cautiously into the room, her expression blank; her eyes blinked and flitted from one pile of books and relics to another. She looked at me.

“Are you Mr. Combs, the executor on the premises?” she asked, in a deep, resonating voice marked with a strange, cold accent. Was it Bulgarian? Romanian?

“Yes. That’s me,” I replied, standing up from the trunk of odd books.

“I was told that you are having trouble with the assets on the property. What are you attempting to do here, Mr. Combs?”

“I am here to wind up the estate for the late Dr. Whateley, catalog his earthly assets, and protect his property until all debts and taxes have been settled.” I put out my hand to shake with her, or kiss her hand, depending on how she offered hers to me.

She stared intently at me, unmoving, silent. She was like a life-sized porcelain doll with eyes painted in India ink.

“And you are —” I began.

“I understand now,” she said, cutting me short. “I can help you with the identification of the items on the property. I have some experience.”

“What exactly is your background, Miss—?” I trailed off, still not knowing her name.

“I was sent here from Ithaqua Holdings in Innsmouth.”

I leaned slightly forward and raised an eyebrow, still hanging on my last question.

The woman appeared puzzled by this motion. Then, apparently realizing her fault, she grimaced slightly and reached out to shake my hand.

“You may call me Anna,” she said.

I thanked her and accepted her handshake. Her fingers were as cold as river stones, but her eyes were marvelously deep and inviting.

Feeling quite a bit better about having some attractive company in this strange inventory, I called for Barnabas to make some tea and we went to work.

Although Anna was certainly possessed of odd demeanor and not one to make casual conversation, the following three days were most productive. Anna explained that the strange books and relics about the estate were tied to Dr. Whateley’s interest in the arcane study of something called cosmicism. I couldn’t comprehend any of what the artifacts suggested — and I didn’t care. My interest was only in making certain that they all made the inventory and the final report, so that I could leave the Whateley estate forever.

We worked from very early in the morning until late in the evening. Anna was perfectly capable of dictating the details on each and every item with extraordinary efficiency. I followed along dutifully behind her, taking my notes, checking items off my list. While Anna moved about the rooms and was distracted by the work at hand, I would occasionally sneak glances at her legs, the bare flesh at her neckline, and the slight curve of her hips.

At the end of the fourth day, I was genuinely satisfied with the rate at which the inventory was progressing. Our work would be completed in less than a week. Happy to be on track with our deadline, I invited Anna to join me for a late dinner on the balcony of the fourth floor library. This was Dr. Whateley’s private library and the balcony commanded a marvelous view of the river. Looking down some ninety feet below the balcony, we could see the base of the hill where the waters pooled up into a deep, dark lake.

Barnabas was good enough to serve us upstairs and we dined on the balcony overlooking the slow-churning waters below. It was a light meal of toasted bread with butter, a tomato salad, and whole grilled sardines. To round out our celebratory meal, Barnabas selected a lovely little bottle of white wine from down in the locked cellar.

Anna said little during our meal and made a small effort to push her food around the plate without actually eating anything. She refused her wine and took only small sips of water from her glass. At that point, satisfied with her talents in cataloging the mysterious assets about the house, I didn’t personally care if she was a lagging conversationalist or a picky eater. The Whateley job was moving along swimmingly and I was soon to be homeward-bound again.

But, what I did find mildly disquieting was her strongly-focused attention on the roiling waters below the balcony. She listened intently, as if the gurgling Miskatonic spoke to her directly and gave up all its little secrets.

As Anna was quietly preoccupied with the sounds of the water, I spent my time listening to the hauntingly beautiful chatter of the whippoorwills in the night and watching the dim flashes of fireflies in the distant brush. After our strange, quiet little dinner, I excused myself and went promptly to bed.

In the stillness of the countryside, I am a nervous sleeper. However, the wine I consumed with dinner had a profound effect on me and I fell easily into a deep slumber and dreamt of floating naked along the dark waters of the Miskatonic under the cover of the tall trees above.

In fact, my sleep was so deep that I didn’t hear the door to my room open in the night. I heard no creaking from the old wooden floor beneath her bare feet. Nor did I feel the bedclothes move as she crawled her way toward me. I only woke when I felt her cold hand pressing against my bare chest.

I awoke with a start, my heart immediately racing. Anna sat on her knees next to me. I assumed that something was terribly wrong.

“What is it, Anna?” I asked with a nervous tremble to my voice. I felt hot, my ears burned.

She said nothing. I stared at her until my eyes adjusted to the dark. Anna was wearing a thin cotton slip nightgown, untied, open to her navel. Her eyes were large and insistent. And she was dripping wet from head to toe. I could smell the dank water from the river on her body and on her breath. I could clearly see the skin of her belly and breasts through the wet nightshirt. Her nipples were as pale as the rest of her flesh. They would have been undetectable but for the fact that they were stiffly pressed against the nightshirt that clung wet to her body.

I couldn’t breathe. My heart thumped in my chest. My brow went slick with sweat. But I didn’t move; I was captive to those dark eyes.

“Why are you so wet?” I asked. “Where have you been? The river?”

Anna said nothing in reply. With her hand firmly on my chest, she rose on her knees and let her nightgown slowly fall from her shoulders, slide down past her slender waist, and drop to her knees.

I took a quick breath and stared at Anna’s beautiful nude form.

Her body was pale and thin, with skin like alabaster. She had small firm breasts and beautifully long limbs. Her belly was smooth and flat. Her waist was tiny, with pronounced hip bones at the edges. Below her navel was a small patch of pubic hair that was so light in color it was almost imperceptible against the cleft of her sex.

As she drew breaths, her ribs showed through her flesh — but her thinness was not unattractive. No, she was captivating and desirable and hovering naked over my body in the soft moonlight that played through the folds of the curtains on the east window.

“You’re so beautiful,” I said, hardly able to find a voice above a whisper.

Anna slid her hand down my chest and pulled the sheets below my waist — exposing me. My stomach fluttered. My breath came in short gasps. As she straddled my hips, she turned her head to one side and back again, letting her hair sway in wet tangles about her neck and shoulders. I felt her cold buttocks and pubis against my abdomen.

I was nervous, shaking slightly, and beginning to feel a little ill. In all my twenty-six years, I had little experience with women on the whole — and no experience with naked women at all.

Anna’s cold hands slid up my stomach and over my bare chest. Her unnaturally cool touch was comforting on my hot, tense body. Her eyes were wide and her gaze intense. The way that she held herself aloft over my body, married with her silence and expressionless gaze, made me think that she was in a kind of trance. But before I could doubt that she was fully aware of her acts, Anna leaned down, only inches from my face, and spoke.

“Open your mouth to me,” she said.

I drew a breath and paused. “I — I don’t understand,” I replied nervously.

Anna moved closer still. Her wet hair fell cold against my warm neck and shoulders. I could feel her nipples, small and hard, pressed against my chest. She caressed my ear with her soft, cool lips as she spoke again.

“The mouth is the opening to the whole of the body,” she said. “Open your mouth to me.”

Anna slid her hands up to my temples and held my perspiring head in her cool palms. Her mouth was now hovering over my lips. Slowly, obediently, I opened my mouth. And for the first time since we met — I saw Anna smile.

Anna’s knees closed quickly against my hips, holding me firm. With a swift movement, she rotated her hands and pressed her thumbs into my cheeks and held my jaw painfully open. I jerked once in surprise and went tense. Anna opened her mouth frighteningly-wide and leaned forward. Her tongue extended and her eyes snapped shut.

What happened next, I could scarcely believe; from Anna’s mouth and tongue ran a foul, stinging, salty fluid that filled my mouth and ran cold down my throat. It tasted of bile and seawater and dark venom. It burned the back of my throat and made my lips numb.

Anna clutched my jaw tighter and held it in place, as I swallowed and choked and spattered both our faces with remnants of the vile liquid.

As I writhed under her naked body and gagged, Anna sat up quickly, drew a long screeching breath and released me. I arched my back and tossed her to the edge of the bed. She rolled on to her knees again and perched herself at the corner of the bed. She stared at me with eager eyes and a wide, toothy grin.

Wild with terror and confusion, I opened my mouth to shout at her. Only a garbled croaking sound came from my throat. My neck and jaw went numb.

Anna leaned forward. Her horrific smile frightened me further.

“Don’t try to speak,” she commanded. “It works quickly.”

I clutched my throat and struggled to sit up. I lost feeling in my feet and fingertips. Anna moved in closer.

“Relax, Mr. Combs,” she said with a soft voice. “You can’t fight against fate.”

Naked, unable to scream, and rapidly losing feeling throughout my body, I tried to kick myself free of the remaining covers tangled around my legs. I pushed myself off the bed and landed hard on my back with a crash.

I was still tangled in a pile of sheets on the floor when Anna crept to the edge of the bed and peered down at me.

“You’re almost ready,” she said with a smile. “Your fear will soon subside and then you will know the wonder and the glory I’ve prepared for you.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and seeing. I was still breathing, still functioning internally, but I could no longer move my limbs. My body was paralyzed.

Anna disappeared from view. I heard her leave the bed, cross the floor and open the door to the room. When she returned and appeared around the edge of the bed, she was in her wet nightgown again. Behind her came a shuffle of other footsteps and I saw Barnabas, two unknown men and three unknown women appear over my naked body.

They reached down and lifted me up by my arms and legs. Unable to move or speak, I was carried out of the room, down through the house, and through the open cellar door.

They carried me down a series of winding stone steps. The air was chilly and reeked from the dank odor of the Miskatonic and the moldering stench of something quite old. My mind raced in a panic of confusion and fear — but I came to no answers.

When we reached the bottom of the steps, we passed through an iron door into a cavernous substructure that featured a rectangular stone altar ringed by seven seats.

As they carted my body across the room, I saw beyond the altar to a great pool of bubbling and churning water. We were below the Whateley house, deep inside the steep hill, where an ancient foundation met the dark waters from the river.

I was laid out on the altar, my head nearest the water, eyes open and forward. The walls and ceiling were covered in the same dark runes and symbols that I saw on the robe in the trunk.

Anna, Barnabas, and the five strangers took their seats and began to softly chant in a ghastly, guttural language more horrible than I could imagine ever issuing from a human mouth.

As their voices grew louder, so did the bubbling and gurgling of the waters behind me. The chanting grew to a fevered crescendo of unholy anticipation. With a great burst of spray and a terrific roar, something massive ejected from the waters behind me. I saw the seven of them leap eagerly from their seats. Anna ran forward, her eyes fixed on something tall and commanding. Her demented chanting changed and became something akin to growls and squeals from an animal not of this earth. She no longer sounded human and I doubted then that she was ever truly human.

As she approached the altar, she began calling again and again to something with a name that could not be written in any language or repeated with a human tongue. My mind reeled and swam and screamed out for answers — but found none.

Only when I caught sight of that horrific palate — a giant, gaping mouth of swirling tentacles and thorns — did my sanity succumb to madness and collapse under the weight of the horrors in the gullet of the beast from below the dark waters of the Miskatonic.

Anna by Galen Dara

Clint Collins

THE SUMMONED

Had I known of the nightmare to follow, I would have never allowed Pamela into the hallway.

The shouts of Henry Wilcox, a fellow student at the Rhode Island School of Design, drew me and other residents of the Fleur-de-Lys Building to his door late one evening. His anguished cries and constant gibberish, though there was the repetition of certain unintelligible phrases, emboldened us to knock and inquire as to his health. Realizing he was delirious, we opened his unlocked door and found him in bed, feverish and muttering.

Since his family lived in town, the boys and I thought it best to dress Henry and get him there immediately for proper care. His slender arms were draped upon my shoulders and those of another student and as we left his room I saw Pamela in her robe, an expression of concern on her face. A talented sculptress, she shared many of the same classes with Henry. Pamela had long been the object of my affections and at one point early last semester, when she moved into the building, I was concerned the blonde and bobbed beauty might attract his attention. Thankfully, Henry had eyes only for his strange sculptures and never gave Pamela a second look.

After Henry’s family collected him in what looked to be a new Packard touring sedan, I went upstairs to check on Pamela and saw she was not in her room. She was not in mine, which most fortunately happened to be next to hers. Instead, I found her in Henry’s room, just to the right of hers. She was kneeling on the floor, intently looking at some sketches that had been scattered about.

“There you are,” I said, gently touching the back of her neck. “What is all this?”

Pamela handed me one of the drawings. I never much cared for the dark, fantastical figures Henry exhibited at the student shows, and this was more of the same. I made a dismissive sound and let the drawing flutter to the floor. “A winged monster with an octopus head? Honestly….”

“I find them fascinating,” said Pamela, now gathering all the sketches Henry had strewn about the room. “I want to study them.”

I helped her up from the floor. “They will only give you nightmares.” I noticed the erect nipples denting the white silk of her robe. “Perhaps you should stay with me again tonight?” She had lately afforded me every liberty due a lover, not the least of which included the caressing of her up-tilted, rose-mouthed breasts, and I was eager to continue our explorations.

Pamela shook her head and held the repulsive sketches to a perfect bosom. “No. Henry’s work has given me an idea. I’ll be busy tonight.” She brushed by me and I was still frowning in Henry’s room when I heard her door close.

Somewhat perturbed by her denial, when I spotted a drawing of the horrid octopus-thing she had missed, I took great pleasure in tearing it into small pieces and stuffing the shreds into my pockets. No need for the overly sensitive Henry to see them in his wastebasket, but I would not have Pamela further inspired by such grotesqueries. It had always been my intention to open my own portrait studio — I was often praised for my work in oil and charcoal — and for Pamela, when not raising the children, to have her own small shop for her excellent pots and vases. I had seen her stare a little too long at Henry’s abhorrent figures in the student galleries and I was not going to abide the misdirection of her estimable talent.

I resolved to speak of the matter to her in the morning, hoping curiosity might turn to a welcome disgust once the novelty of Henry’s creature had worn off.

It was our custom to breakfast together every day, and I knocked on her door precisely at eight. She opened the door, still in her robe, and took me by the hand. Her face was flushed and she was obviously excited. It seemed two thumbs were pushing against the thin robe. She led me to her work desk and handed me a very detailed drawing in pencil. “Richard, take a look at this. What do you think?”

Of course, it was Henry’s monster, though much better imagined and executed, and, therefore, all the more revolting. Disappointed, I tried not to scold. “Pamela,” I said softly, putting the sketch back on the table by others she had obviously labored on throughout the night. “You do know Henry never sold one of his figurines, don’t you?”

Pamela glared. “Richard, I don’t care about that! Don’t you see there is a power here I am trying to capture, to summon? ” She hastily gathered her drawings and put them in a portfolio, no doubt sensing the harm I might inflict upon them.

I desperately needed to change the subject. “Look, darling,” I said, touching her shoulder, “I’m sorry. I’m starving and I’m sure you need coffee after being up all night. Get dressed and we’ll go out for a nice breakfast.”

“I could use some coffee,” she admitted, and shrugged off the robe, revealing all I had worshipfully kissed just two nights ago.

In the diner, waving her fork and between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, she enthused about Henry’s “vision” and his “obvious connection to a subterranean power” and other such nonsense. I nodded at the appropriate times and tried to smile, although I’m sure it appeared a grimace. My toast, eggs, and coffee sat in my belly like one of Henry’s monsters squatting on a pedestal. I had to tell myself this project of hers was a passing artistic phase and, perhaps, a bit of rebellion against my insistence on pursuing the more commercial aspects of her pottery.

Against her coffee cup she impatiently tapped a nail that not long ago traced luxurious patterns on my thigh, slowly spiraling upward. “Richard, I will need clay. Lots, and lots, of clay. Can we take your car to that art supply place?”

Pamela looked at me with vibrant eyes over the steaming cup. “Green,” she said, after a sip. “Yes, dark green.”

Much later, by way of thanks, at her door she pressed herself against me and gave me an impassioned kiss. “Now, leave me be for a while,” she said, putting a finger to my lips. “I have work to do.”

In the evening, when I knocked to inquire if she wished any dinner, she refused, saying she couldn’t pause just yet. At eight the next day she asked if I could bring her toast, coffee, and extra jam. She received them through a barely opened door with green hands, like some captive goblin queen.

“May I see?” I asked.

“No, Richard. You know you won’t be pleased,” she said, closing the door.

The slavish ritual of bringing her breakfast continued for longer than I anticipated. Always the same order and never a peek at her monstrosity. “What about your classes?” I said into a sliver of light. It had been a week and the room smelled of fresh clay and her sweat.

“You know I only have my senior project,” she breathed through the crack. “You suggested pottery with mass appeal. It was so easy I finished long ago. I only have to turn it in. Plenty of time for that.” And the door shut.

The next morning there was no answer when I knocked, so I left her packaged breakfast by the door. It was still there in the late afternoon when I returned from classes. I knocked and called her name, but received no response. I assumed she was either deep in sleep from exhaustion or on some errand, but I never heard her door open once that evening.

It was well after midnight when I heard the chanting. The wall between us was thin enough to allow my hearing voices, though never quite clear enough to pick up the secret, whispered gist of conversations with girlfriends when they visited. Pressing my ear to the wall, it seemed Pamela was reciting, over and over, some of the same nonsensical syllables Henry had moaned in his bed.

Pamela possessed a strange sense of humor, and I did not doubt she was purposely mimicking poor Henry, still at home hallucinating. She was at least giving a fine performance, carefully pronouncing each foreign syllable in a deliberate and commanding cadence, as if invoking some demon from its depths.

I was about to knock on the wall and let her know I heard her recitation and that we could all go back to bed, especially since one of us was still attending classes, when she abruptly halted her chanting and a brief silence was soon filled with an audible gasp.

I heard nothing for a few minutes except what might be some slow and shuffling footsteps, then the obvious creak of bedsprings. I could always tell when Pamela went to bed for the night and it was why we stayed in my room whenever she chose to grant certain pleasures. The bed groaned mightily as if bearing an unaccustomed weight and I strained even harder against the wall. The minx was indeed making a fine show of this, knowing I could hear everything. I imagined how we would laugh about this later, between kisses.

Other than the occasional complaint from rusted bedsprings, there was no sound until Pamela startled me with a single, sharp cry, soon followed by a rhythmic creaking. Softly, compared to the bed’s harsh squeaking, Pamela’s moaning became audible through the wall between us.

I knew those moans. There were times I could feel them before they were voiced, much like the tug of the sea before the wave. Her heels would press into my back, her thighs would tremble, and her belly flutter as the pleasure flowed upward to be sung from those full lips.

Of course, she was pleasuring herself — alone — to punish me for my disapproval of her current artistic pursuit. Determined not to show any sign of interest that might bring a triumphant smile to her face, I went to bed, later putting a pillow on the side of my head as her cries had become uncharacteristically louder.

In the morning, to show there were no hard feelings, I brought breakfast again and, when I knocked, to my mild surprise Pamela unlocked the door and came into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

“Richard,” she said, taking the bag and coffee. “Thank you.”

I was shocked by the state she was in, but tried not to betray any astonishment. Her untied robe was torn on one side with long, jagged gashes and she stood before me completely unconcerned she was revealing herself to anyone who might be passing in the hallway. There were light scratches on the side of her neck, but longer and redder lines curved from her right breast down across her belly to the inside of her left thigh. She had always been careful about her hair, but it, too, seemed seized by unknown hands.

What I teasingly called her “Golden Fleece” was damp and matted and her exposed, impudent nipples, a much darker rose now, were swollen and elongated as though cruelly and persistently suckled at length. A strong — almost reptilian — scent came from her body as if she had slept entangled with a bed full of snakes.

Obviously this was all for my benefit, so I played along. “Pamela, I heard you cry out last night. Is anything amiss?”

She half-closed those violet eyes and smiled. “No, it was just… a bad dream. Scratched myself. Sorry for disturbing you.”

Stepping closer, I touched her cheek and could see from face to thighs she was covered with a faint mottling of rosette-shaped impressions. Her skin was warm, almost feverish, and I thought of Henry’s mysterious condition.

“Pamela, are you alright?”

“I’ve never felt more alive, Richard, truly.” She took a step towards me, so close her breath stank of the same snaky odor as her skin. “You must do something for me now, Richard. You must leave me alone for a while. Perhaps a long while. I have important work to do.” She kissed my cheek and her lips were on fire. “Please.”

With that she opened her door again, closed it behind her as she went back in without another word, and locked it.

I suppose I can be forgiven for not bringing her breakfast again, In fact, I tried my best to ignore her, although I privately worried she might be suffering from some mental or physical affliction. When Henry returned from his family’s home to his quarters in early April, he seemed in excellent health again, free of delusions, and I hoped for the same restoration for Pamela. Yet an unsettling pattern had begun. Every night now came the chanting, her rising and falling moans, the incessant creaking, and sometimes, if not my imagination, a labored snuffling before all became still. Henry, who was on the other side of her, claimed to have heard nothing.

I had my spies in the building, all friends of long standing, and none reported any visitors to her door. It seemed she never left her room except for a weekly visit to the grocery. Luckily, she chose to do that on a fixed schedule and I watched her walk down the street from my window. Even though it was a warm spring day, she wore a long overcoat, and I attributed that to her general aberrant behavior. I lost no time opening her door using a key fashioned from an impression of her lock made with the steadier hand of another sculptor friend.

Without doubt, she had gone completely mad. The room reeked of the foul snake-stink that had been on her body and the walls were covered with sketches of Henry’s monster. Her unmade bed was a mass of torn sheets and even the mattress was scarred with long rips. Most unnerving, of course, was the hideous sculpture occupying a canvas in the middle of the room.

She had made it the size of an average man, posed in a squat upon the floor. She had too faithfully rendered the beast, as the green worm-faced monstrosity looked as if it were alive, waiting to pounce. The tentacles slithering out from the head were poised in mid-air and the front and hind claws curved to sharp knife-points. The long wings seemed tensed for flight.

Foulest of all, though, was the heavy, bulbous scrotum and the long thick member dangling between muscled, scaly thighs. The veined appendage even boasted an oily gleam, as if recently engaged in some vile act of congress with another of its repellent species. I was sorely tempted to snap it off and hide it in my room, but I wanted no evidence of my visit.

Wondering what she had been surviving on, since I no longer supplied breakfast, I opened the refrigerator in the small kitchen and saw stacked packages of meat. Pamela abhorred beef, and this was just another indication of her disturbed condition. Saddened at what had become of the woman I loved, I was all too eager to close the door upon that scene of madness and immediately sat down to write her family in Boston a long letter describing my concerns.

That night the chanting began as usual, but then nothing else. I began to fear that somehow, some way she discovered my intrusion and I waited for her angry knock or shout. But there was only silence on the other side of the wall.

In the morning she was gone. A fellow artist in the building, aware of my worries about Pamela, rapped on my door and told me he had just helped her into a taxi. She had needed assistance getting some luggage down the stairs, he explained. “My God, Richard,” he said, gripping my arm as I stood in the doorway. “Did you know she was pregnant?”

By the time I inquired if she had been seen at the train station, she was already gone. After hearing her description, the clerk at the ticket office told me she was on her way to New Orleans. He expressed concern that someone so heavy with child was traveling alone.

I soon followed and once in the city, after a few days’ investigation, learned she had taken a taxi to the French Quarter, specifically, Jackson Square. Her driver told me it seemed she was expected, as a small gathering bowed before her, giving her every courtesy, like some returned and exiled queen. Within a couple days, following no small expenditure from dwindling funds, I discovered from those lurking in shadows she had engaged the services of the very same sycophants, widely avoided as the most fanatic of cultists, to take her into the swamps south of New Orleans.

There is no time to lose as a reliable Creole, acquainted with the bayous, has agreed to take me to beyond where even the magic of the local voodoo fades, to where drums haunt the night.

If you are reading this message, the only conclusion to draw is I have failed to return with her and that Henry’s impossible monster, whether real or imagined, has claimed yet another soul.

RW

The above was among the effects of Richard Wolfe, discovered in his room at Le Pavilion Hotel, New Orleans, 9 June, 1925.

Matthew Marovich

SENSE

She walked into my office like she owned the place, sweeping in with a presence that filled the room the way she filled out a dress. Mrs. Tabitha Barnes was beautiful; blonde hair fell down her shoulders and back like spun gold, and her skin was so pale and smooth it looked like fine china. The dress in question was red, tailored, and fit her like a second skin and she layered it with a fur-lined coat that did little to hide the body underneath. Fierce green eyes studied me as she took the seat across the desk from me. She’d called before to introduce herself and the job she was offering, but I wasn’t ready for her, not in the slightest.

I could tell you about the job she hired me for. Her husband, Professor James Barnes, had gone missing. A scientist working at Miskatonic University, he was an astronomer; three days before her call he’d vanished, never returning home from work. She wanted me to find him because she was worried he might be having an affair.

I could tell you about how from the moment the job started it went bad. The gorilla that kicked in my door had to turn sideways to enter, a mountain of a man wrapped in a grey trench coat, black gloves covered hands as big as Christmas hams. A black fedora was pulled low over his eyes so I could only see his broad, broken nose and his sneer as he glanced her way. The sound of my pistol firing as he reached for her was like a thunderclap, the bullet spinning him to the floor. I grabbed her hand and fled.

We ran down the hall and out of the building; my Packard was parked in the back alley. In my rear-view mirror I could see a reed-thin man in a black, pinstripe suit glaring at us from the doorway of my building as we pulled away. Just before we turned the corner onto the main street the thin man was joined by the gorilla from upstairs, who didn’t seem to care that he had a bloody hole staining his coat.

I demanded that Mrs. Barnes tell me who the men were.

She insisted she didn’t know.

As the adrenalin wore off I became aware of her. She had a grip on my right arm like she was drowning. Streetlights flashed across her as we drove away, briefly illuminating her wide eyes, the line of her throat; the scent of her perfume filled the car. I swallowed and shook myself, tearing my eyes away from her and back to the road. We fled to my apartment and she took the bed and fell asleep almost instantly; I slept on the couch.

The two men found us the next morning, starting a cat-and-mouse chase that would last days. The gorilla, still wearing the blood-stained, bullet-riddled trench coat, broke down my front door before stepping back for the smaller man. His voice was strange, reedy, almost buzzing, and sounded slightly out of synch with the movements of his mouth. His eyes were gray and flat, with a lifelessness that disturbed me as he demanded the return of the key. What key? It was at that moment that Mrs. Barnes walked into the room and, upon seeing the two men, screamed.

The scream distracted them so they didn’t notice my pistol as I pulled it out from under the cushion I’d used for a pillow. Three bullets to his chest toppled the short man but the larger man moved forward with startling speed, gripping my hand and crushing it; a twist of his wrist stripped the gun from my numbed fingers before he threw it out the window. We only escaped him because Mrs. Barnes splashed a kettle of hot water in his face. His roar of pain trailed off into the buzzing of flies.

Somehow, the thin man, glimpsed always from a distance after that, survived; the expression on his face was of barely contained rage. From what I saw of the large man’s face, it was a mass of pink and red blotches dotted with white blisters. I doubted there would be any more talking in the future.

All throughout the chase I was aware that Mrs. Barnes and I seemed to be circling each other like two planets, our paths slowly shrinking. There were times when we barely avoided touching each other, hands stopping a moment before contact, fluttering like pigeons over a statue. We spoke softly, almost in whispers, not for any fear of being heard but because it felt closer; a few times her breath brushed my cheek. A few times I slipped and called her by her first name, the shock of that intimacy as sudden as a glimpse of bare skin, her eyes widening at the familiarity. She would stand so near that I wondered what she’d feel like pressed against me, feeling her body against mine; I wondered if she thought that about me.

That is the story I want to tell you.

That is the only story that matters now.

It happened suddenly and without plan. We had just checked in to our fifth motel in three days, a seedy affair on the edge of the city. I’d turned around to ask her about the room when she stepped forward, running into me. My arms immediately went around her waist to keep her from falling and I reflexively pulled her against me. Mrs. Barnes’ eyes were wide and I could see the pulse in her neck jump, feel her heart begin to beat faster. As if in a daze I slowly lowered my face and she lifted her lips to meet mine. She tasted clean and rich, full-bodied. Our first kiss was electric.

The first time was not soft, not slow. Our moans and gasps were of restrained desire finally released. She stayed pressed against me as her tongue danced with mine, and when my hands took too long undoing my shirt she tore it open, the last two buttons bursting free. I pulled the blouse free of her slacks before throwing it across the room, baring an expanse of smooth, pale stomach. Her breasts were held close by a tasteful white bra; my fingers blindly worked the clasp behind her back so I could fill my hands with her soft skin as soon as the bra dropped away. When I took first one nipple, then the other, in my mouth and sucked she cried out; when her hand gripped me through my trousers I nearly came.

We didn’t even pull the covers back as we collapsed onto the bed. She scooted back until she was stretched out underneath me, a goddess carved in ivory, her blonde hair a fan around her head like a corona.

“Please,” she whispered, head tilting back, her body arching up against me as I moved between her legs. “Please.”

Our mutual cry as I slid into her burst from us both. We moved hard against each other. All the panic and fear of the last three days coming out in my hips against hers, my cock driving all of the tension out of me and up through her mouth as she moaned. Our pace grew faster, harder, until the bed creaked alarmingly, the cheap headboard banging against the wall.

We both came, wordless screams of pleasure and release pouring from us, mine chasing Tabitha’s. I collapsed sideways, half on her, half off, and sleep fell immediately across us like a shroud.

I can still feel her body, how soft she was against my side, the clean scent of her hair, the musk of our sweat and sex.

I can still feel her breath stirring the hairs on my chest.

That’s what I want to remember.

After waking we rested together, idly touching. I knew that our pursuers wouldn’t stop until they got whatever key they were looking for but Mrs. Barnes, Tabitha she corrected me as we lay entangled, said she didn’t know what they were talking about. The only place we hadn’t checked was his office at Miskatonic University. Perhaps the key was there.

The Miskatonic observatory was built on a tall hill behind the main campus. Her husband’s office was located there. We drove to the empty parking lot near the domed building. The wind had picked up on our way and it snatched at my rumpled suit jacket as we stepped out of the car; I had to hold my hat on my head. Having lost my gun, I took the tire iron from the trunk of the car; it was awkward but its weight would make a functional club. The lock on the exterior door was a simple affair; MU was more concerned with keeping out mischievous students than determined P.I.s. I turned on my portable torch and led the way.

Our footsteps echoed down the long, tiled hallways. The search took us up three flights of stairs and down a hall to his office. It was pristine — as if her husband had just straightened it for the night. Outside the office window the trees writhed under the wind’s onslaught, the long bare fingers of branches scratching against the glass. I went to his desk, setting the tire iron on top of it. The blotter was clear of papers and the first drawer was filled with blank stationery, pens, and bottles of ink. The second drawer contained his journal.

The first twenty or so pages described his work in general but an entry from a week ago caught my attention; it described an incredible discovery:

While normally outside the bounds of the Miskatonic’s instruments, Pluto had been visible, as had one of its moons. Strange lines dominated the surface of the moon, too regular to be natural and it struck James Barnes that it might be writing. The pages were dominated with copies of what he saw and his efforts to translate it.

The journal went on, drawing closer to when I knew the final entry would be. James wrote about hearing strange noises at night and of odd shadows that moved and shifted of their own accord, cast without any source. The journal ended with an entry from the night James disappeared. He’d managed to break the code, writing out the instructions on how to translate the strange writing he saw on the moon of Pluto, but he hadn’t yet gone back to start the job.

The journal didn’t mention his wife once.

“I think I found it!” I said, looking up.

Tabitha stood looking out the window. Her face was lit by a flickering light from the outside. I crossed the office to the window, leaving the journal open on the desk.

Our two pursuers were standing next to my car, which was on fire, the flames a wretched, sickly green. Both of them were looking up at us, the light of the flames illuminating the hateful expressions on their faces. My eyes met those of the reedy man for a moment before the two of them raced toward the building.

“Come on!” I shouted, collecting the journal and the tire iron. I grabbed Tabitha by the hand and pulled her into the hallway behind me.

We went up and climbed past another floor of offices to a broad stairwell leading up to a pair of double doors. We could hear the footfalls of the two men thundering toward us, echoing upwards menacingly. The double doors to the observatory were unlocked and we ran inside. The night sky was laid bare above us, the wind howling in through the retracted portions of the dome. Dim red lights around the circumference of the room provided barely enough light to see our way as we ran. There was no place to hide.

The doors slammed open behind us and the two men stepped into the observatory. The wind whipped off their hats. The tall man was bald, his face a mess of burns from the boiling water. The thin man’s face was a death mask, flaccid and expressionless, his lank hair immediately pushed and pulled by the wind.

“I have the key!” I shouted, holding up the book. “I have it! Tabitha, run!”

“No,” Tabitha said, taking a step to the side. I shot her a confused look at the same time as the thin man tried to jump me. Without time to think, my arm shot out on its own and the tire iron struck the side of his head with the sound like a melon hitting the floor, taking with it chunks of skin and hair. He staggered to the side and I had just a moment before the gorilla’s fist filled my vision; it hit me like a thunderbolt. I crashed to the floor, the tire iron and journal falling from my fingers, my hat flying off of my head. I lay on my back, nearly senseless but managed to crawl weakly backwards away from him but the large man wasn’t following. Both he and Tabitha were staring at the thin man who’d climbed unsteadily back to his feet. He turned to look at me and I nearly screamed.

Part of his head was missing.

What peeked out from the gap in human skin was spongy and utterly inhuman. The dull drone of insects issued forth as his mouth fell open and he raised his hands to his face. Chunks of skin fell beneath his nails, the flesh giving way like sodden newsprint, coming off in damp, bloody chunks. His fingers pulled his face apart and his eyes fell out to land like two soft-boiled eggs on the floor.

More and more of the horror was revealed — a bulbous, misshapen head lined in antennae but otherwise featureless on a thick, ringed neck. It was from this ill-conceived head, glowing an angry red as it tore itself free of its human suit, that the buzzing noises came. Two small bat-like wings, disproportionately sized to the body, snapped out from its back as it shucked the remainder of its disguise, fanning a sick, fetid smell over me. Four thick arms ending in pincers tore free from its legs and it clambered forward, claws clicking against the floor. Its color was difficult to make out in the glow of the red lights but its skin looked dull and smooth, like the flesh of a mushroom. It loomed over me and I shrank from it.

“Tabitha?” I asked weakly, struggling to my side, looking up at her, my mind refusing to make sense of the creature before me.

Her face had gone as still and lifeless as the other two men. She was reading the journal and when she looked up at me her eyes were dead. Whatever had been there was gone now.

“You found the key for us,” she said and, barely audible above the sound of the howling wind, I could hear buzzing. “Barnes had stolen it from us.”

The three of them advanced towards me slowly. The buzzing creature moved with an unsteady, uneven gait, its pincers opening and closing as they approached.

“Get away! You have what you wanted,” I shouted, trying to crawl backwards but the room swam sickly.

“Take him,” she buzzed and the creature ambled quickly toward me. I tried to fight it off but I was still weak from the brutal punch to the face and it lifted me easily. The wings flapped, faster and faster until they were a blur and we rose upwards despite the wings’ size.

“Tabitha!” I screamed as the thing lifted me higher and higher into the air. Her dead face, red from the lights, slowly shrank. “Tabitha!”

Something pinched the back of my neck and darkness overtook me.

Waking was strange. It was not like slowly drifting awake, nor was it like a sudden start as if waking from a dream where you’re falling just before you hit the ground. It was if someone had flipped a switch; one moment I was awake, aware, alive and the moment before I… wasn’t.

“Where am I?” My voice was strange. It didn’t come from my mouth because, as far as I could tell, I didn’t have one anymore. I tried to move my arms but I didn’t have those either. A sudden flash of fear of paralysis came over me; what had those creatures done?

Slowly I became aware of my sight. The picture faded into view like a photograph slowly appearing in a developing tray. My vision was wrong, gray and grainy like a badly printed newspaper picture. The details of the room slowly became more and more distinct. Ahead of me was a far distant wall lined with shelves and on each shelf were small vats in which something oblong and spongy floated in a viscous liquid. Wires connected each spongy mass to various strange electronics that protruded along the outside of each vat. Each container had a small box on the front that resembled a speaker and a shiny, blank lens like that of a camera. As my vision improved I saw that my point of view was from a shelf, several feet off the floor. It was about then that I realized what was wrong in a sudden flash of terrible insight; I no longer had a body to move.

And now I’m here, the story I wished to tell you over. The lens fixed to my optical nerve shows me a constant grainy image of rows and rows of vats with brains suspended in thick, mucous-like solution. I can hear cries from the other speakers, the gibbers and rants, pleas and prayers and screams of all the others. I wish I could stop the noise but there are no ears to plug, no way for me to close my unblinking, ever-seeing eye. The creatures made me the perfect victim of my senses.

They left me with nothing but the memory of her, the look and feel of her body, the taste and smell of her skin, the sound of her voice.

This story, these memories of what I believed her to be, torment me worse than the understanding of my reality, what I have been reduced to, or the sight and sounds of the hell beyond my prison. In my mind’s eye I see her as she was that last night, pale, luminescent, alive, human. I taste her skin, smell her scent, feel her.

It’s all I have left.

The Box by Galen Dara

Gary Mark Bernstein

OPTIONAL ON THE BEACH AT THE FESTIVAL OF SHUG NIGGURATH

The woman at the hotel read my name, and looked up at me a second time. “Mr. Nyarlathotep?” she asked. She’d had no trouble pronouncing it, and I nodded. “Are you here for the Festival?”

It used to be that few people knew about the Festival of the Thousand Young. In previous years I would have thought it a well-kept secret. This was the first time it had been moved to this beach town. Like so many more conventional meetings, since the town had launched it’s multi-million dollar public relations campaign, the Festival organizers had moved it to take advantage of convenient hotel bookings and entertainment packages.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“I thought I saw you talking to Mr. Whateley. We have a lot of New Englanders down for the Festival, but so few from abroad. You are the first from Egypt.”

“I am looking forward to moonrise tomorrow night.” I smiled at her. “You will find I am not as inhibited as many of your New Englanders. But I need to find things to do between now and then.”

That was when she recommended this particular stretch of beach with the extraordinary view to me, suggesting I go there after eleven in the morning.

At eleven, as I walked nearer the beach, I saw that at each opening in the fence, and at each path leading to the shore or the dock, some authority had posted a sign that said, “Optional.” That was all the sign said.

The first sign I passed wasn’t worth noticing but by the time I viewed the third I was thinking, What? What is optional? Shouldn’t they tell you? Seemed really strange to have this incomplete information posted on official-looking sign. Perhaps the local residents understand exactly what was meant, but this beach catered largely to tourists like myself. How could we understand? I had read some brochures and glanced at some guidebooks and remembered no hint of such a sign.

I turned to walk closer to the rolling breakers I heard over the sand dunes, heading toward the pier with the recommended view.

I saw a couple looking out toward the ocean and the other side of the bay. I had read that sometimes you could see pods of dolphins and occasionally a whale further out. The man wore a swimsuit but looked less than athletic. The woman wore summer clothes and apparently did not plan to go in the water. (I myself wore sandals and a robe over my swim trunks.) Whale watching it was.

As I walked toward the couple, not sure if I would strike up a conversation or not, I head them talking. They seemed to be bickering over nothing, the way some couples do as a way of life. Was it too hot for comfort or not? Should the woman have worn her bathing suit? Not a real fun pair, but perhaps they could use the interruption of a stranger. I had a strong suspicion they were not here for the Festival. But before I reached them I saw one of the extraordinary sights, which was not at all what I expected. A woman nude except for her sandals stepped up beside them and leaned over the rail looking at the sea and beyond the bay. The woman of the couple gasped and her husband looked over and did a double take.

The newcomer, totally unself-conscious, looked lovely. She ignored the other two and seemed at peace.

“Don’t you look,” the wife told her husband. “If you look, I will mutilate you.”

“How can I pretend not to notice?” the husband asked in a loud whisper, but he turned back towards the ocean and kept his eyes forward.

Another person joined them, a short redheaded man also in a long terrycloth beach robe, holding a cell phone.

“Disgraceful,” he announced to the world at large, or perhaps to the ocean. He sized the couple up then spoke directly to the wife. “Don’t worry, I have already called the police.” My guess was that someone interested in getting the police involved was not connected to the Festival either.

I stood behind them now and listened. The naked girl was striking but I felt more curious than prurient at this point.

The girl turned to smile at the three others and I saw her face for the first time. It too was lovely but more than that, I felt I had seen it somewhere before. She looked quizzically at the outraged man. “What is disgraceful, if I may ask?”

“You, you brazen strumpet!”

She laughed as if in surprise. “Me? Whatever do you mean? I am suntanned if you mean bronzed, but I am no strumpet.”

“You come here stark naked and pretend nothing is wrong!” said the redheaded man.

She smiled slowly, shaking her head. “If you disregard my footwear,” she said. “But that is not disgraceful. Didn’t you see the signs?”

The redheaded man looked at the clothed woman with a puzzled expression, and the husband kept his unblinking gaze pointed out toward the sea.

“What signs?” I said. I knew what signs. But I meant, what do the signs mean?

The woman turned to see me. “Why hello again,” she said. “I am glad you took my advice. I was hoping you would.”

I realized this was the woman from the hotel desk who had advised me to come to this spot.

I said, “You told me I would see an extraordinary view. You did not lie.”

She smiled broadly at this and nodded in acceptance. “The clothing optional signs,” she said.

“Why I never!” said the clothed woman.

“Not ever?” asked the naked woman, “if I may quote Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“Here they are!” said the redheaded man, pointing behind me to two uniformed police officers approaching. “Officers, arrest this woman!”

“What has she done?” asked the taller of the two.

The clothed woman sputtered, “But-but can’t you see! She’s naked and she is beautiful. There has to be a law against it.”

Both officers regarded the naked woman closely. “You may be right,” said the shorter.

“If you disregard my footwear,” the naked woman said again, with an amused and inviting smile.

“I don’t know,” the taller officer said. “Your footwear has a kind of charm of its own.”

“Surely such things cannot be legal in this city!” the redheaded man said, obviously a tourist himself.

“Well, it’s funny you should mention it,” the taller officer said. “The city council had quite a debate. One side insisted the signs not say ‘clothing optional’ as it would scare off some shy or conservative tourists. But they failed to convince the — lets call them the more radical council members — to omit the signs all together. They compromised on leaving the signs up with only the word ‘optional.’ But they never said or defined or compromised on what that word meant. Which is kind of a shame, because now there are some cases tangled up in court.”

“Well, what are you going to do!” the clothed woman demanded to know.

“Mostly,” the taller officer said, “we are going to sit back and wait for the legal system to try to untangle what the city council messed up.”

“You can’t do that while this cougar preys upon innocent victims in her stark everything.”

“Disregarding the footwear,” I put in helpfully.

The naked hotel employee and I exchanged warm smiles, and then she frowned cutely at the redheaded man.

“Have you been preyed upon or molested yet?” the shorter policeman asked him.

“No,” the redheaded man said. “But it is only a matter of time. And look at this poor woman’s husband.” But you could only look at the back of the head of the husband in question. “And I think this other gentleman is in trouble already.” I think he meant me.

The naked lady said, “Shouldn’t you wait for the other gentleman to file his own complaint before you leap to that conclusion? And speaking of leaping to conclusions, what is with that cougar crack? How old do you think I am?”

The redheaded man turned away from her to the two police. “What do you think is going to happen? Don’t you feel you need intervene?”

“We have to wait for the courts,” said the taller policeman.

“And the city comptroller estimates this uncomplaining gentleman and his friends and ilk are going to come back often and bring much revenue with them to the city. It all has to be taken into consideration.”

“What is spent in our fair city stays in our fair city,” the other officer said.

“So is everything to your liking so far?” the nude woman asked me.

“So far I am as happy as a bug in a Persian rug,” I told her.

“Why don’t you come with me for a swim and ditch that unflattering old swim suit now that you understand the sign?”

I grinned. “I am not used to doing certain things in public.” In a crowd of cultists, yes, but in front of strangers?

She smiled undeterred. “Very well for now. Fortunately, you know how to find me if you feel like a drink later.”

“I’ll sue,” the redheaded man said.

“We’ll all sue,” said the clothed lady.

The taller cop smiled grimly. “The city comptroller said a lot of people might sue. Any idio— any person can sue.”

“And our lawyers can use the money too, he said,” the other cop said.

The naked lady (who turned out to be named Sue Beth Lee) and I left them arguing while the two of us compromised and went for a mixed swim — she very politely did not mention again that I was overdressed for the activity. The warm sea water was just what I needed at that moment, and we had a lovely conversation about the Festival over a picnic lunch on the sand.

Two nights later things became even more intense in the moonlight.

Ay-ee yah! Iä! Shug Niggurath!

The Brides of Tindalos by Kirsten Brown

Kirsten Brown

LE CIÉL OUVERT

I always have to stop and look at the sky over the University, at the lenticular shape torn in reality that hangs above it, pulsing black and empty over silent causeways and high over Administration, First and Second Science, and the Art Wing donated sometime in the past century by the Pickman family. Over trees that never infloresce or sprout leaves anymore, lawns that remain grey and tangled and desolate. The whole area is like this, most of Arkham proper and Innsmouth are walled off and patrolled by the military. Even some of the surrounding rural areas have been evacuated. Arkham itself has been a ghost town for the five years since the accident in the basement labs, that I was once supposed to be a part of.

There is an eclipse every day, here, when the sun passes behind this rip, and night falls for a brief time, fifteen, twenty minutes at most. We have not so far been able to record what happens in this shade; sending a person failed spectacularly the last time, and it seems that even electronic equipment can’t really handle it.

I try to be back at the van when this happens, a brief respite from the containment suit and the proximity display, my load of sensory and recording equipment. There’s time for lunch, maybe, and some nervous joking with the military guys who drive the truck full of expensive equipment there and back to a safe distance. I know that my presence makes them a little uneasy, especially after the first attempt to ask me out, when I told Dennis or Daniel or whoever-politely, mind you-that I wasn’t interested in men. They also don’t know what to make of me because I initially volunteered for this though I am getting quite a bit of hazard pay.

I don’t talk to them too often. Just enough to not make it worse for everyone.

I’m a little bit of a pariah at the lab at the other end of this, too. I’m The Student, the one who’d actually lived in the town and whose parents worked at this school and sent her there, the one who made it out alive and relatively whole, the one who wasn’t driven mad by the things in this desolate space, or at least not permanently and disablingly so. My chaperones simply think I am mad or odd, but the scientists are afraid. I can’t fathom why, and stopped trying a while ago.

“How’s it going out there, Cait?”

“No aberrant readings, yet. EM fields are the same as usual, maybe a little high, air pressure a little bit lower, but it looks like the weather might be planning something interesting to make up for how quiet everything else is. Out for now, Andy.” I squint up at the sky around the tear, and try to judge where the sun might be, behind building clouds. Usually the direction of light is enough, but today it is ambient, scattered by a Fresnel lens of stratus clouds stretching between horizons. The timer on my suit’s display reads a little before noon, and my estimate gives me maybe an hour or two before an enormous shadow, cast by nothing, by a hole, sweeps across the town, and I shiver at this thought. One of the readouts in my periphery jumps, settles, jumps again, as if in sympathy.

I can only guess at what it means; it all goes back to the van, and from there it will go to a laboratory not unlike the one where this all began, to that group of men and women whose lives have been consumed by esoteric equations and the behaviours of particles that had, up until now, been theoretical. Had things gone as normal, had I finished grad school and continued to points beyond, I might have been one of those researchers.

Or, I might not be here at all, had it not been for my alarm clock finally giving up the ghost the morning my lab assistantship was to begin. Still, this? This beats the assistantship, beats grad school and being felt up by professors and endless papers and revisions and criticisms, even on the most boring of these excursions.

I’m in the building, now, where there is more cover both for me and whatever else might be around. The bottom corner of my display shows, like a radar scan, the walls around me, as well as anything that might be behind or between those walls, and me, the dot in the centre. Anything too close or too large, and I am simply to run. I did some time in high school track, as well as college, and the habit has not lapsed too much. If I need it, and can still radio for it, the men in the van will cover my approach. They are well-armed and frighteningly good shots. I trust them, though I know their job is more to keep things from spreading past containment limits than to protect me. But the only thing that moves today are a few insects, barely enough to even show up on the readout. I mutter to myself, “Even the terrifying shit that lives here doesn’t like getting caught in the rain.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Thinking out loud. Which direction would you like me to go, today? It seems to be especially quiet.”

“Hrm. Where were you pointing that the one gauge was spiking, Cait?”

“The courtyard, I think. One direction is as good as any, right now. There isn’t a thing to orient to, readings-wise.” My path continues that way, stepping carefully around spilled books and bags, even before Andy can give me assent in the form of a noncommittal grunt. At least there are no bodies, here. Once it was deemed safe, at least for tentative study, the first task had been to collect remains for autopsy and eventual return to their families.

I had still been in the institution when that happened, though better off than some of the others who’d ended up there. I had dreams, still, of what I had seen pulling into my first day of work two hours late, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been. A vast improvement on weeks of not-precisely nightmares, fragments of memory parading before my unconscious mind, ripping me from sleep repeatedly, waking to sweat-stained sheets and a nameless need that disturbed me far more than simple fear ever could. For months, even after being deemed fit to rejoin society, I didn’t sleep without pharmaceutical help, a parade of pills in soft, presumably soothing, shades of blue. Not until I signed up for this.

The quiet days are difficult; several hours of wandering will yield nothing, and the labcoats will likely act as if it were my fault I found nothing but dust and the same atmospheric or particle readings as anywhere else on this planet. I know now that there is a little part of me that wants to find something in here, to face something that those scientists never will. I might finally see something that the men in the truck wouldn’t come in here to save me from, wouldn’t look at except if they had to, and then only down the scope of their sniper rifles.

No, not just a part of me.

I saw something, whatever began all of this five years ago, and I want to see it again, to know that I saw something, like an addict wants more of whatever is the flame to their moth, like a stalker wants even the merest glimpse of the object of their obsession. I need to see it again, to know that I did not go mad over nothing, to find something more than what I could see and touch, to try and know the unknowable.

Rain begins to patter on the windows along the hall, and on the roof. This section of the university is only one floor aboveground, and several beneath, and the sound echoes through the empty spaces, making it seem even more lonely and filled with ghosts. I check my clock, and it’s not even twelve-thirty. There is still at least a half-hour until the sun reaches zenith at this time of year, and it only takes a couple of minutes to get back to the van.

Do I really want to go back?

The question never voiced, never even asked of myself until now, not consciously. I cannot even admit to myself for a few minutes that it crossed my mind; the first person who had done this job stayed through the small night and had to be retrieved after the video feed went berserk and his audio became incoherent screaming and deafening static, a white noise of such power that it nearly ruined everything in the van that could perceive it. It was played for me like a macabre version of those training videos for entry level service jobs, presumably to try and dissuade me from signing all of the forms to take the position.

When they retrieved him, he had gone the same route as many of the people from the day the sky opened, hovering somewhere between catatonia and mania, and now lay in a long-term cell at Arkham. I visited once, a month into assuming this position, driven to do so out of a weird conjunction of curiosity and a sense of duty borne of being his replacement, only to watch him cower in a corner in a straightjacket, gibbering something about the stars having teeth. I was told he was restrained after the first week passed and he had not slept, not even on enough morphine to drop a heavyweight boxer. That he had tried to claw out his own eyes, and that no one had seen him sleep in the months since.

I still wonder what he saw, that I did not.

Hanging slightly open, the door leading to the courtyard lets in a soft pillar of light, a few motes of dust suspended in it and drifting slowly. More join them as I approach. Mine are not the only prints on the ground here, nor are all of them human. There are hints of something ostensibly clawed, doglike prints that disappear abruptly near the wall, and a swath of absolutely smooth, clean floor that suggests something enormous and sinuous, at least as big around as I am tall. I take pictures of both, swab the imprints and carefully place each sample in its own container, and point my scanning equipment at the area, focusing on those spots. I try to ignore the question still insistent, unanswered, the pull of it burning and coiling around my brain, instead filling my head with idle chatter about why one needle jumps and skips, while another is pinned in the negative, and still another hovers near the red, something possibly verging on harmful, before I move on again.

Once outside, I look up, and all pretension evaporates in the presence of the anomaly. It is almost directly above me, and seems much larger than it should, even allowing for my own shift in perspective. This is the closest I have been to the epicentre, the courtyard with its once cheerful benches and paths all almost directly above the restricted labs in the basement and subbasement. The paths I have taken around the buildings for weeks, months, maybe years, had all circled back to here, to this.

My breath catches involuntarily before I can let it out again, and I cannot tell if I am polarized towards it or away, terror as well as something more singing along taut nerves. Instinct tells me that I should be nowhere near this thing, should be as far away as humanly possible, but it is beautiful, too. Like a pool of ink, that kind of luminous dark, framed by endless-seeming rainclouds scudding past. Almost perfectly round from this angle, there is a sense of surface tension to it, like the darkness, the nothing in it is pressing on the sky and threatening to rupture. I am transfixed, breathless, I am a needle seeking a very strange compass, a crystal glass resonant to this, and I have no idea how long I stand there.

I did not know how long I was out that first time, either. But I remember it now. I remember all of it, not just the teasing, shadowed fragments that dreams leave behind. I had just shut the car door, trying to balance the coffee that would be my only breakfast because I was running so late, and my notebooks, and locking the car door, when everything fell out from beneath me, A tearing and grinding sound, thick, like fabric being ripped away, filled all of my senses. It was louder than anything I had ever experienced, only not just loud. I could feel it on my skin, through the frame of me, taste the wrongness in the air as I watched the otherwise perfect spring sky above stretch and warp.

I couldn’t move then, either.

It had gone from a pulling, to a stain, to a hole opening like a lens, in that kind of smooth irising motion. I had squinted, against instinct and all better judgement, looking at something indistinct that rose like smoke to meet it, but thicker. It was the shadow being thrown by whatever was opening, but it was also solid, or approaching such. It coiled and writhed upwards, spreading, growing more opaque as it did so, and opened like a hunting sea creature. Within that-

“Cait! You need to get out of there. The umbra is approaching. It’s diffused by the clouds, but we don’t know if that matters, yet.” Andy’s voice breaks the spell for a moment, the signal growing rougher. I am still frozen to the spot, rabbit-in-headlights, girl too far gone in remembering.

When the seething mass opened, unfolded like a terrible flower, I remember falling over, scraping my palms and then my knees, as my mind was assaulted by too many streams of input to process at once. It was coiling tendrils and blackness that crawled like flame and a human figure, but of a substance like volcanic glass. It had no face, and its face was smooth, was nothing but teeth like a viperfish, and it was as flawlessly, inhumanly beautiful as an Egyptian sculpture of some ancient king. It was male and female and monstrous and breathtaking. It had risen until it was framed by the hole, the gate, like a reverse halo. Beyond, alien stars, a nebula or a galaxy perhaps, lined with rows and rows of teeth larger than any star, maybe even than entire solar systems.

And it had turned to look at me.

“Cait, can you hear me?”

I do not know why it had left me alive and sane, or mostly so. But I had not lied about not being interested in men. I wasn’t interested in women anymore, either, or anything descended from ape. The very thought seems pedestrian, even like lying to myself, blinding myself to the wider reality I had seen, to try to return to my old life. I want to love this madness, to lie down with monsters like Lilith did, and come out of the experience transfigured, more than myself, than human. To ride this beast, wrapped tight in its unearthly substance, and fuck reality itself.

I step out of the containment suit, and then my clothes and shoes, and I leave them in a neat pile inside the door so everything will remain intact for whoever takes my place, ignoring the cries I can still hear from the helmet’s radio. The rain is cold on my bare skin, and sharpens my senses as it runs down my back, drips off my fingers. Everything is thrown into sharp detail.

This time, I will not kneel.

Great Rift by Galen Dara

ASTROPHOBOS,

conclusion…

Thus I mus’d, when o’er the vision

Crept a red delirious change;

Hope dissolving to derision,

Beauty to distortion strange;

Hymnic chords in weird collision,

Spectral sights in endless range.

Crimson burn’d the star of sadness

As behind the beams I peer’d;

All was woe that seem’d but gladness

Ere my gaze with truth was sear’d;

Cacodaemons, mir’d with madness,

Thro’ the fever’d flick’ring leer’d.

Now I know the fiendish fable

That the golden glitter bore;

Now I shun the spangled sable

That I watch’d and lov’d before;

But the horror, set and stable,

Haunts my soul for evermore.

H.P. Lovecraft

Originally published in The United Amateur, 17, No. 3 (January 1918), 38.

Kenneth Hite

CTHULHU’S POLYMORPHOUS PERVERSITY

The Thing cannot be described — there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled.

– H.P. Lovecraft, “The Call of Cthulhu”

For $19.95, you can buy a foot-tall plush toy Cthulhu from ToyVault. You can also buy a plush “Mini Cthulhu” (only 8 inches tall), or a plush Cthulhu in a Santa Claus outfit. Plush Cthulhu also comes in variant color schemes (red-black, black-silver, and “wicked”), or with mounted suction cups for window-clinging action, and in the form of slippers, gloves, fanny packs, hats, dice bags, backpacks, pillows, and Christmas wreaths. Or you can buy small plastic Cthulhu collectible “action figures” called Mythos Buddies in blind packaging: will you get My Little Cthulhu, Goth ‘Thulhu, Coolthulhu, Matrixthulhu, Ninjathulhu, Ghost ‘Thulhu, or “Buddy ‘Thulhu”? (That last Mythos Buddy, a parody of director Kevin Smith’s satire of the modern Church’s “Buddy Christ” travesty of Jesus, may be so semiotically weightless that it actually floats away of its own accord.) What’s that? You don’t want Great Cthulhu in collectible toy form?

Not a problem. You can also get Cthulhu in comic books (The Fall of Cthulhu or Cthulhu Tales), card games (Mythos or Unspeakable Words or Munchkin Cthulhu), or board games (Arkham Horror, Do You Worship Cthulhu?, The Stars Are Right!), not to mention refrigerator magnets, bumper stickers, pendants, Tarot decks, poker decks, and rub-on tattoos that proclaim your allegiance to the Dreamer in the Deep. You can mount a “Campus Crusade for Cthulhu” or sport a “Cthulhu For President” button. (“Why settle for the lesser of two evils?”) Cthulhu or his ilk inspire music from Metallica (“The Call of Ktulu”), Fields of the Nephilim (“Kthulhu”), Deicide (“Dead but Dreaming”), and Blue Öyster Cult (“The Old Gods Return”), plus an entire Canadian ska-punk surf-rock band, The Darkest of the Hillside Thickets. (To say nothing of the 60s psychedelic quasi-rockers The H.P. Lovecraft. Of whom, “to say nothing” is exactly the thing to say.) Perhaps appropriately, Cthulhu appears as a bass player in the comic book Savage Henry, as well as in episodes of South Park and in Donald Duck comics, in the massively multiplayer online game World of Warcraft (under the risible alias “C’Thun”) and in an Expressionist silent film — albeit one shot in 2005. Cthulhu is everywhere. He is the King of All Media.

What’s that? You only want Cthulhu stories? Actual fiction? Words on a page?

No problem. You can get Cthulhu stories by everyone from Neil Gaiman to Nick Mamatas, from Michael Chabon to Stephen King, or by the standard litany of Cthulhu Mythos authors: Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, Frank Belknap Long, Henry Kuttner, Robert Bloch, August Derleth, Lin Carter, Ramsey Campbell, Brian Lumley, Caitlín R. Kiernan, Willum Hopfrog Pugmire… Enough of that. By now, the standard litany goes on longer even than Lovecraft’s lists of eldritch names. Or perhaps you’d prefer to browse by genre? There are Cthulhoid novels of espionage, mystery, adventure, sword-and-sorcery, splatter-and-crime, and office politics. Cthulhu has crossed over into novels starring Godzilla, Doctor Who, and Jack Kerouac. There are anthologies of Cthulhoid Westerns, sea stories, Sherlockian pastiches, post-apocalyptic tales, school stories, hardboiled detective tales, Japanese Cthulhu Mythos fiction, “literary” fiction, and now (ahem) erotica.

Cthulhu, and his titular Mythos, have increasingly come to resemble another of Lovecraft’s creations: the protean shoggoths from the novel At the Mountains of Madness. The rational, calculating Antarctic crinoid creatures created shoggoths as slaves, but the ever-shifting, formless things proved impossible to keep penned in their original role. They rebelled, and eventually came to replace their creators, slowly exterminating even the few pure rational remnants that survived. So, too, the purist Lovecraft scholars seem to feel about the wave of pastiches, mashups, and “Cthulhu kitsch” that by now outweighs Lovecraft’s original work by orders of magnitude in words read, dollars earned, or Warholian minutes of fame. Worse, this tsunami of “infantile” cultism (in the words of Edmund Wilson, one of the first major critics to engage with Lovecraft) seems to swamp, or even drown out, the legitimate literary merits of Lovecraft’s original story. Nobody worth reading, the serious-minded Lovecraftian frets, wants to read about Cthulhu, for fear of being swallowed up in the accompanying detritus. “If only Cthulhu were less popular,” goes the lament, “then he’d be much more popular.”

But Cthulhu is not unique in this. Everything that can be sold in the modern age will be sold, and in every form possible. Count Dracula, after all, not content with great movies, novels, mediocre movies, nonfiction tie-ins to novels, debunkings of non-fiction tie-ins to novels, worse movies, superb comic books, and the entire Romanian tourist industry, appears thinly disguised as a fictional children’s rabbit (Bunnicula) and a molar-corroding breakfast cereal (Count Chocula). There are bobble-heads, and illiterate T-shirts, and clever board-games, and plastic toys, and ridiculous cameo appearances devoted to Dracula, and James Bond, and Batman, and every other figure of modern myth. (You can also get a plush Cthulhu dressed as Dracula or James Bond.) No, John Updike’s “Rabbit” doesn’t have a video game or a plush toy — but who really thinks Harry Angstrom will outlive Dracula?

Not only does the necromancy of modern marketing summon them up in many forms, all the great monsters are polysemic; they are symbols with more than one meaning. Vampires, for example, have been read as the plague, rabies, tuberculosis, syphilis, and AIDS; as the fear of heresy, of foreigners, of the aristocracy, of juvenile delinquency, of religion, of atheism, and of sexual degeneracy caused by any or all of those things. Authors, directors, and critics have created vampiric metaphors for drug addiction, Communism, capitalism, fascism, feminism, black power, rock music, opera, cults, Catholicism, and anarchy. Vampires have represented perversion, sterility, temptation, homosexuality, adolescent love unleashed, and adolescent love restrained. By comparison, Cthulhu seems almost ascetic.

Partly this is a factor of time: vampires have been in Western culture’s bloodstream since 1732 (the first use of the word “vampire” in English), and have erupted in chronic outbreaks from 1819 (Polidori’s novel The Vampyre) onward. There have been at least six waves of best-selling vampire novels since then, as well as feature films (over 100 films alone starring Dracula) and two wildly popular television series. Cthulhu has broken out of his undersea mansion with none of these advantages. He was created (or rather, revealed to us mere mortals) barely a lifetime ago, in a low-selling niche publication in a despised marketing category. (If there were “respectable” pulps, which there weren’t, Weird Tales was not one of them.) There has never been a best-selling novel, or a mainstream blockbuster film, or a TV series featuring Cthulhu or his Mythos. Even Cthulhu’s comics are late, marginal additions to the field: his first (and so far only) continuing title, The Fall of Cthulhu, only began in 2007. The most successful pop-culture Cthulhu product is probably the Call of Cthulhu tabletop roleplaying game (speaking of despised marketing categories), which has sold well over 300,000 copies since 1981, and which contributed to the return of Lovecraft’s work in mass-market American paperback form. “The Call of Cthulhu” received little attention when it was published in 1928, but it has not been out of print in America since the year after the roleplaying game appeared, when Ballantine/Del Rey released The Best of H. P. Lovecraft: Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre, a collection that flies off bookstore shelves (physical and virtual) to this day.

“God in heaven! — the scattered plasticity of that nameless sky-spawn was nebulously recombining in its hateful original form…”

“The Call of Cthulhu”

Why Cthulhu? Why is Cthulhu the global icon, the “blasphemous soul-symbol,” of the New Weird? Why, given his unaccountable absence from the main feeder lines of popular culture — movies, TV, novels — is he everywhere visible in popular culture? Why have tentacles replaced talons as the universal signifier for Evil? Why Cthulhu? Why not William Hope Hodgson’s “Hog” or M.R. James’ “thing with a face of crumpled linen”? Why not some forgotten demon invented by Nictzin Dyalhis or Seabury Quinn? Why not Robert E. Howard’s Gol-Goroth, or C.L. Moore’s Yvala?

To begin with, Cthulhu began as a cross-genre figure. In “The Call of Cthulhu,” Lovecraft first masters the art of combining science fiction, fantasy, and horror into something new. (“The Shunned House,” written the year before, is an earlier Lovecraftian experiment in that line, combining “Crookes tubes” and “lines of force” with werewolves, vampires, and ghosts.) Cthulhu is an alien, a being from another star. If he violates physical law, it is because his native planet (or dimension) operates under different, vaster laws than the local ones perceived by Earthlings. But he is also a magician and a “priest,” casting “spells” of suspended animation, and a primordial god worshipped when the earth was young. And he is a monster, a ravening entity driven by a desire to rule his ancient domain and to bring down the tottering structures of human law and reason in the process. This plastic extension across genres is mirrored almost precisely in Cthulhu’s iconic description: “an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature.” The result? Cthulhu’s influence now extends down three lines of descent: SF authors (James Blish, David Drake, Charles Stross), fantasy authors (Lawrence Watt-Evans, Neil Gaiman), and horror authors (Robert Bloch, Stephen King), fruiting luridly in all three gardens at once. With the rise of postmodern, cross-genre marketing, Cthulhu re-emerges as both a contemporary figure and an archetypal prefigure in the works of Michael Chabon, China Miéville, and other “slipstream” authors.

Cthulhu silently suborns another genre, although this time adapting it to his own ends rather than seeding himself across it: mystery fiction. Lovecraft’s stories are structurally mysteries, as S.T. Joshi has noted in explicit connection with The Case of Charles Dexter Ward. Specifically, “The Call of Cthulhu” begins with a mysterious death, and involves a detective-like hunt for clues across two continents and three decades. The reader of a Cthulhu Mythos tale, like the reader of a mystery story, stays alert for hints and indications and derives much of the frisson (in both cases) from either solving the mystery ahead of the protagonist — or from the sheer unexpected jolt of the final revelation. Given that Edgar Allan Poe invented (or at least pioneered) both the detective and horror genres, and given the strong similarities, thematic and structural, between mysteries and Gothic fiction (explicit in such works as Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White), the observation is elementary. It was, however, almost completely neglected until Sandy Petersen pointed it out in the pages of his roleplaying game, Call of Cthulhu; and only with the 2008 roleplaying game Trail of Cthulhu (written by your humble author) were the connections between “solving mysteries” and “uncovering horrors” made fully manifest in the game’s rules and structure.

It is this sense, of teasing out a hidden truth from the seemingly mundane pages of, e.g., artistic trends, archaeology, anthropology, shipping news, and criminology (to select only the fields investigated by Francis Thurston in “The Call of Cthulhu”) that makes Cthulhu especially attractive to a certain kind of artist. Creators who find themselves drawn to Cthulhu are those likewise (like Thurston) drawn to teasing out hidden, subversive, even terrifying meanings from the bland corpus of modern life. Not always “counter-cultural” creators, they are nonetheless “cult-cultural” ones: creating art for self-selected outsider audiences (like the weird pulp fans of the 1920s or the Goths of the 1980s), for those predisposed to reject the bourgeois, mass-market concerns of the culture at large in favor of the hidden, the outré, the Weird.

Hence, Cthulhu’s great popularity with heavy metal musicians (never the mainstream face of popular music), comics artists (never the acceptable image of great art), and roleplaying gamers (never the cool kids in high school). Cthulhu appeals to those constructing anti-narratives against the received and accepted truth, from French literary critics (Gilles Deleuze and Michel Houellebecq are Lovecraft devotees) to Swiss surrealists (H.R. Giger called three of his collections Necronomicon) to ritual magicians. Lovecraft is quoted and alluded to respectfully in Pauwels and Bergier’s vastly influential 1960 counter-culture text Morning of the Magicians (a seminal document for everything from UFOs to ancient astronauts to New Age spirituality), in Anton LaVey’s Satanic Bible, and in numerous magickal textbooks by Aleister Crowley’s disciple Kenneth Grant. Comics writer and magician Alan Moore has designed a Cthulhoid Kabbalah; a New York occultist calling himself “Simon” attempted to merge Crowley and Lovecraft in a paperback Necronomicon in 1980; Phil Hine’s text of “chaos magick” is called the Pseudonomicon, after Lovecraft’s pseudo-gospel; a quick Googling points to any number of Cthulhu cults defying all Lovecraftian logic in the attempt to contact the Great Old Ones.

But the act of digging up the “real truth about the world” is not just a creative act, but almost always a fundamentally reactionary one. The “real truth” is, by definition, deeper, older, truer. (If postmodernism says “there is no real truth,” then that must surely apply to postmodernism itself. And in this context, note that Lovecraft got there before Derrida.) As contradictory as it may seem, I think that Cthulhu must draw some large part of his polymorphous power from his connection to this single realization: that the modern consensus world is wrong. Michel Houellebecq calls Lovecraft’s great tales works of “rage against the world.” One can keep more of Lovecraft’s cool, rational demeanor in mind and still notice that Cthulhu does not merely refute the modern world, his existence demolishes it in fire and flood and chaos. He is simultaneously all that is wrong with modernity and all that will destroy it.

Lovecraft created Cthulhu as a new kind of monster, one for an age in which the sciences “each so far striving in their own direction” had demonstrated that mankind was irrelevant and meaningless: Einstein’s physics, Hubble and Shapley’s astronomy, Rutherford’s geology, and Haeckel’s biology all showed that mankind was a brief, accidental flyspeck in an unfeeling, insensate cosmos. By discovering that our creation is meaningless, we reveal that the end is likewise unimportant. Lovecraft realized, or discovered, or revealed, that horror no longer comes from mankind or his parochial myths; it comes from off Earth, from the universe at large, from Outside. (Fritz Leiber famously called this Lovecraft’s “Copernican Revolution of horror.”) And the Outside doesn’t care. It doesn’t even care enough to hate us; it will destroy us at the moment of impact. Cthulhu is that nihilistic realization given form, the inevitable modern science that will destroy the modern world. Cthulhu drowns us in that realization; he embodies our rage at our own inability to matter. The Cthulhu Mythos is, in John Clute’s words, pre-apocalyptic fiction.

Lovecraft embodied Cthulhu with any number of his own apocalyptic fears and hatreds: not only the vast implications of 20th-century science, but the “yellow peril” that would destroy the white race (Cthulhu’s Pacific cult is run by “deathless Chinamen”), the blasphemous vandalism of modern architecture (R’lyeh’s “Titan blocks and sky-flung monoliths” are explicitly described as “Futurist”), the collapse of Anglo-Saxon mores and culture (Cthulhu’s coming will be heralded with “laws and morals thrown aside”), and even his own distaste for seafood. Other critics have intimated that Cthulhu represents Lovecraft’s fear of his own creative powers, or Lovecraft’s hatred of women, or any number of other personal apocalypses.

Other authors have attached Cthulhu to their own hatreds of the modern world, from Robert Bloch echoing Lovecraft’s concern with social decay in Strange Eons to William Browning Spencer’s Resumé With Monsters casting the Cthulhu Mythos as representative of the anti-human office culture of the corporate world. In Move Under Ground Nick Mamatas opposes square Cthulhu to the doomed, liberatory Beats; in “The Deep Ones” James Wade indicts the counter-culture as Cthulhu-spawn; in “Recrudescence” Leonard Carpenter points up the eerie similarities between Cthulhu and petroleum. Thomas Ligotti ingeniously makes Cthulhu (under the transparent disguise of “Nethescurial”) represent the insidious collapse of originality in cosmic horror, while lesser lights from Michael Slade to Joseph Pulver have paralleled Lovecraftian fandom and serial murder in murky attempts to personalize and ironically examine the Cthulhoid apocalypse. In short, there has been surprisingly little push-back against Cthulhu’s main symbolic meaning of the horrific Modern. But then, it’s only been a lifetime.

A few of Lovecraft’s successors have teased out another thread in Lovecraft’s work: Cthulhu as “strange attractor,” as the Faustian rapture of knowing what man was not meant to know. The discoveries of the modern will, it is true, unmake and devastate our humanity — but is that such a bad thing if human concerns are purely parochial? Lovecraft, in this light, prefigures “posthuman” science fiction and ideology. Thomas Olney in “The Strange High House in the Mist,” Robert Olmstead in “The Shadow Over Innsmouth,” Randolph Carter in “Through the Gates of the Silver Key,” and Henry Akeley in “The Whisperer in Darkness” all give in to the Mythos, to the seductive power of the Outside. Robert Blake seemingly joins with Nyarlathotep in “The Haunter of the Dark,” and there is some ecstasy blended with horror in his final apotheosis. Certainly the seductive allure of Cthulhu runs under his popularity as well, from Giger’s artistic lustmord to Japanese hentai to the paeans to the uncanny in Willum Hopfrog Pugmire’s Sesqua Valley story sequence.

Vampires, after all, spent a hundred years as stinking corpses before they joined the Gothic seducer and got cleaned up. The journey from Stoker’s foreign rapist to Anne Rice’s cruising rock star took less than a century, culminating in Stephenie Meyer’s teen crush object. Now, the erotic — even the romantic — and the vampiric blend inextricably. Is it time, likewise, to embrace Cthulhu? For those worried for Cthulhu’s integrity as a horror icon, frightened that love conquers fear, they can be reassured that Near Dark and Let the Right One In remain both terrifying vampire stories and terrifying love stories. No matter how scattered his plasticity, Cthulhu will inevitably recombine in his “hateful original form.” That cannot be killed, that can eternal lie. Where he lies for now, and with whom, is up to us, his acolytes, his stalkers, his devotees.

Cthulhu fhtagn.

Jennifer Brozek

THE SEXUAL ATTRACTION OF THE LOVECRAFTIAN UNIVERSE

At first glance, there is nothing sexually arousing about the universe created by Howard Phillips Lovecraft. His writing is filled with horrific creatures, other-worldly dangers, and indescribable gods whose very presence drives men mad. None of his tales have depictions of a blatantly sexual nature, and there are almost no female characters. Those few that are mentioned are sad things, servants or pitiful creatures twisted by their contact with the Old Ones. Even in The Dunwich Horror, where it is clear that some sort of sexual contact has happened, the event is glossed over in a single paragraph, allowing only that other characters in the story wondered about the event as much as the story’s readers did:

“Lavinia Whateley had no known husband, but according to the custom of the region made no attempt to disavow the child; concerning the other side of whose ancestry the country folk might — and did — speculate as widely as they chose.”

– “The Dunwich Horror,” Weird Tales, 1929

The stories Lovecraft told were not ones that incited arousal or encouraged promiscuity between mortals, mortals and servitors or mortals and the Old Ones. And yet, Cthulhurotica is not the first book that explores the sexual nature of this universe. There are other books (both anthologies and novels), role-playing games, movies and even (dare I mention it?) Lovecraftian porn.[1]

At first blush, this seems incomprehensible. However, after taking a closer look at the issue, the reasoning behind the link between Lovecraft’s creation and erotica becomes clear. There are four main reasons that I will discuss: first is the attraction to the forbidden, second is the lush and image-filled atmosphere created by most of Lovecraft’s works, next is ability to lose control of oneself within the world, confronted by “that which man should not know,” and, finally, sex in the Lovecraft universe is the ultimate challenge — one that many cannot turn away from.

The Attraction of the Forbidden

“It was the Yuletide, and I had come at last to the ancient sea town where my people had dwelt and kept festival in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten.”

– “The Festival,” Weird Tales, 1925

Since the dawn of the written word, stories have been written in which the forbidden is attractive. Because it is forbidden, it is worthy of being desired, for why would something unimportant be purposefully hidden or off-limits? When Lovecraft set up a universe with antagonists that have secret powers and information, he set up a universe in which mortals would constantly be craving, and searching for, that knowledge. The Old Ones and their servitors represent that which man should not know, and Lovecraft’s mortals are often depicted as suffering the consequences of trying to gain access to the unspeakable, the unknowable, and the dangerous. Why would they risk their lives and their very sanity for something they understand is inhumanly wrong?

It is natural for readers of Lovecraft to want to do more than just toe the line and dabble in the forbidden, because Lovecraft’s writings are all about those who challenge the norm — cultists who study forbidden knowledge and people who fight overwhelming monsters to save this world. Readers are already attracted to rule breakers and often want to ramp up the breaking of the rules. This frequently means sex as sex is one of the most taboo-filled topics out there. Sex with the forbidden. Sex with the dangerous. Sex with that which can kill or make you crazy. Being sexually attracted to those on the wrong side of the tracks (or, in this case, the wrong side of reality) is an age old story that has been told again and again in a myriad of mediums. This is why authors, such as Clark Ashton Smith and August Derleth, as well as filmmakers, like Daniel Haller and Leigh Scott, enjoy working in this universe. It is a much more provocative way of telling a familiar story.

One of the first Lovecraft movies I saw was The Dunwich Horror. I was very young when I saw it on TV. While it was frightening, there were a couple bits I could not get out of my head. Namely, the near naked actress, Sandra Dee, writhing on a stone altar and moaning as if she were in the throes of some hellaciously good sex. The director, Daniel Haller, in his instructions to the actors, added eroticism to the previously unsexy story. Sandra Dee was well known for playing America’s Sweetheart, Gidget, and wanted to expand her repertoire. She brought an amazing sensuality to the character of Nancy Wagner. Between Haller’s direction and Dee’s acting, the previously unseen eroticism in The Dunwich Horror was unmistakable. In my opinion, not many could look at all those prehensile tentacles and the writhing, sexy Sandra Dee without thinking of penises and sex.

Atmosphere, Baby

“Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods — the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep.”

– “Nyarlathotep,” United Amateur, 1920

Like the desire to date the local bad boy or bad girl, very little attracts the young and foolish or old and experienced like an atmospheric setting. Lighting, location, music, dress, food — all of it makes a difference when it comes to a seduction. Each person is different in their tastes. Those who like a darker atmosphere, one that treads on the dangerous, creepy, or possible profane, know that Lovecraft, and those who follow Lovecraft’s literary aesthetic, has the goods.

Lovecraft was a technical master at setting a scene, describing the countryside and building the creepy “Lovecraftian” atmosphere he was famous for. Lovecraft’s tales range from such settings as dusty libraries, dilapidated townships, hidden ruins, deep forests, and all the way to mountain tops. These clear images allow Lovecraft’s readers to imagine more than just the action taking place. With such well-formed descriptions, Lovecraft’s stories laid the foundation for the kind of universe that other authors could built upon. Not only can the reader imagine the locations in great detail, they can imagine new stories in them — with their own characters in starring role.

And nothing says that this starring role can’t be the bad guy.

Lovecraft’s atmospheric tales lend their settings well to allowing the creator of a new, more sexually-charged, Lovecraftian tale to create the part of an enviable bad guy. The cult leader can get all the girls (or guys) in the cult and for the sacrifice. The servitor can uses its powers to horrify and overcome its quarry; to take them as it will. There is a deep attraction to playing with our darker natures; to garner power and to use it for our own pleasures[2] — as long as they please our master, of course, because every good cultist knows that there is an Elder God out there allowing them to do as they will.

This leads me to the next level in the sexual attraction of the Lovecraftian universe.

The Lack of Personal Responsibility

“When at last my senses returned, all was frightfully dark, and my mind remembering what had occurred, shrank from the idea of beholding more; yet curiosity overmastered all. Who, I asked myself, was this man of evil, and how came he within the castle walls?”

– “The Alchemist,” United Amateur, 1916

Power means many things to different people. Numerous books on consensual BDSM play[3] talk about why people are attracted to power and those in power. They speak of how, for some people, authority is an aphrodisiac, along with physical strength and, depending on the fantasy, magical strength. A similar fantasy involves being taken by force by something stronger than yourself, which absolves you of the responsibility. On the side of the “victim” is the fact that they were overwhelmed by the mere presence of that which man should not know. They could not help themselves. They were tied down. They were helpless to stop what was happening. While on the side of the “perpetrator” is the fact that they are merely doing what their deity wants and needs them to do. They are almost as helpless as their victim to stop what is happening.

In the submissive sense, there is an extreme sexual attraction to being taken by force especially by an otherworldly entity or someone possessed of an otherworldly entity. There are reams of papers that discuss and examine the submissive role in such a consensual or non-consensual scene. Why people want to take this role, how it sexually arouses them and how the non-human aspect of the perpetrator heightens the experience. When one is imagining such a scene, it is attractive because it is only within the mind. The imaginer has control over how the victim — a substitute for themselves — is either willingly or not willingly taken advantage of.

In the dominant sense, there is an extreme sexual attraction to taking a victim forcefully (or by force) especially if it is at the behest of a greater entity. The perpetrator takes part in the sexual ritual not only for their own pleasure but because it will bring about something greater than themselves: giving the Old One something they need, initiating the victim into the cult for a greater purpose or for making the victim into a portal for next step in the plan. Again, when one is imagining such a scene, it is attractive because it is only within the imagination. The creator has the control. They control how the perpetrator acts and how the victim reacts.

Finally, there is the ultimate lack of personal responsibility on both sides of the ritual (victim and perpetrator) because any contact with the Old One — that which man should not know — almost certainly causes madness of one sort or another. This madness can include amnesia, false memories, catatonia and a myriad of other mental illnesses that allow the victim and/or the perpetrator to forget what happened or to lay the blame for it at another’s feet.

The Ultimate Challenge

“There was a formula — a sort of list of things to say and do — which I recognised as something black and forbidden; something which I had read of before in furtive paragraphs of mixed abhorrence and fascination penned by those strange ancient delvers into the universe’s guarded secrets whose decaying texts I loved to absorb.”

– “The Book,” Leaves, 1938

The Lovecraftian universe is a universe where the rules for survival include “don’t read the books,” “don’t go to the creepy New England town,” “don’t follow the clues,” and “run away.” This presents the ultimate big, shiny, red button with the giant sign next to it that says, “Don’t Push.” There are so many rules that it is more attractive to break them than to follow them, because strict rules are a huge challenge thrown in the metaphorical faces of the heroes — and thus, the readers. No self-respecting adventurer will obey such rules. If they did, there would be no story.

Because of this, the Lovecraftian universe is set up as the ultimate challenge to break all the rules — including the ones about sex and sex with non-humans. I seriously doubt that Lovecraft did this on purpose. Based on his writings, he seems repressed and uncertain about what to do with his sexual feelings. I have no doubt that he is rolling over in his grave at all of the Mythos-inspired erotica and porn that has been created in his name.

No matter how a creator’s journey into the world of Lovecraftian eroticism began, there are a myriad of reasons for entering it willingly: the attraction of the forbidden, the delightfully creepy atmosphere that lends itself well to rule breaking and sexual encounters, plausible deniability and the option to avoid personal responsibility, or just a need to face the ultimate challenge. Lovecraft invited other authors to play in his sandbox, and play they have. In the 1920s, there were authors, such as August Derleth, who were part of the  “Lovecraft Circle;” authors who all freely exchanged and shared parts of Lovecraft’s universe[4] in their stories. Later authors took that as an open invitation to keep the Mythos moving and expanding, reaching into dark corners and unintended places. With movies, books, and role-playing games, purveyors of the Lovecraft universe have shown themselves willing and able to face the challenges set up for them by this Universe. Taboos have been examined, broached and enjoyed.

And we, as readers and watchers of all things Lovecraftian, can appreciate these modern incarnations for they are: titillating, provocative and ultimately, very enjoyable.

Justin Everett, PhD

CTHULHUROTICA, FEMALE EMPOWERMENT, AND THE NEW WEIRD

When I was initially invited to write an essay for a volume provocatively titled Cthulhurotica, I admit I approached the task with some degree of trepidation. Though I have long been familiar with Lovecraft’s work, I had never considered the strange and wonderful marriage that might occur were the two genres of Lovecraftian horror and literary erotica to be combined. While this merging of traditions may seem odd at first, upon further examination it makes perfect sense. Both genres are about crossing boundaries and moving from innocence to experience. Such tales commonly feature naïve characters who believe they understand the rules and limits of the worlds they inhabit. When those boundaries are crossed the rules that govern the worlds they know are set aside. The protagonist is usually faced with the choice of learning the ways of the new world and embracing it, and as a part of this process becoming forever changed, or rejecting the new reality, often fleeing from it in terror. In Lovecraftian horror the adept is faced with a new understanding of the order of the cosmos; in erotica, the rules are often social, requiring the adept to confront their preconceived notions of sexuality, gender and relationship dominance. When the two are combined, the effect is powerful. The subversion of social norms is magnified through the transformation of self on a literally cosmic scale.

In any collection of stories based on an author’s prior work, artists experiment with the original form and apply it to new ends. Cthulhurotica is no exception. This new offshoot of stories of the “Cthulhu Mythos,” what we might otherwise call the Lovecraft School of writing, has as its inspirational material many of Lovecraft’s original tales. Starting points or inspiration for many of the stories in this collection have included “Dagon,” “The Call of Cthulhu,” “The Whisperer in the Darkness,” Nyarlathotep,” “The Silver Key,” and “At the Mountains of Madness,” to name a few. Like others who carried on the Mythos tales after the author’s death, the contributors to this volume have made the material their own and have responded to the literary and cultural influences of our own age. In combining the transformative experience of literary erotica with the cosmic terror of the Mythos tale, the stories in this collection have created worlds that are at once familiar and estranged; ordinary, and surreal. As its characters undergo a transformation in relation to cultural norms and embracing cosmic horror, they do not do so in a macabre otherworld. The transformation remains anchored in, and interweaves with, the ordinary and common. It is this difference from Lovecraft’s original work, and the Mythos stories that followed, that separates Cthulhurotica from its predecessors and places at least some of the stories within the contemporary genre known as New Weird.

What we now know as the “Cthulhu Mythos” is a collection of tales that began with the “Lovecraft Circle.” Writing primarily for Weird Tales, in the words of editor Farnsworth Wright, “the unique magazine,” Lovecraft entered in correspondence with other writers of what was then termed “weird fiction.” This magazine, largely ignored by literary criticism, is particularly important not only for the authors it published but also because it served as a nursery for new forms of experimental fiction that either did not fit in with, or were too extreme for, the adventure pulps that grew out of the dime novel tradition. In his essay “The Supernatural Horror in Literature,” first drafted in 1927 and expanded in 1933-34, Lovecraft argues that weird fiction must go beyond the usual parameters of murder mystery or gothic horror:

The true weird tale has something more than secret murder, bloody bones, or a sheeted form clanking chains according to rule. A certain atmosphere of breathless and unexplainable dread of outer, unknown forces must be present; and there must be a hint, expressed with a seriousness and portentousness becoming its subject, of that most terrible conception of the human brain—a malign and particular suspension or defeat of those fixed laws of Nature which are our only safeguard against the assaults of chaos and the daemons of unplumbed space.

The weird tale may contain elements of horror, fantasy, and science fiction based on the assumption that, as Brian Stableford has put it, “the vast universe revealed by astronomical science diminished humankind to the status of a mere plaything of vast alien entities” (35). Though this notion would be largely rejected by mainstream Science Fiction, the atmospheric richness of and cosmic horror of Lovecraft’s tales would live on after his death. However, the Mythos tradition might not have ever begun had it not been for his voluminous correspondence with his fellow Weird Tales writers and other contemporaries. Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, August Derleth, Frank Belknap Long, Henry Kuttner, and Fritz Leiber would all craft stories in the Mythos tradition. In the decades that followed, these names would be joined by Colin Wilson, Joanna Russ, Philip José Farmer, and Stephen King. Most of these writers stayed ensconced within Lovecraft’s enclosure of horror within a secondary story world either separated from, or isolated within, our own. This enclosure–in a haunted house, on an island, on another planet–envelops the story world and isolates it from our own, allowing it to operate by its own rules. What separates the Cthulhurotica stories (for the most part; “The Assistant from Innsmouth,” for example, follows the traditional microworld formula) and what characterizes many tales associated with the New Weird is removing the isolation of the story world from our own, interweaving the rules of the Weird with the contemporary world, and creating a funhouse reflection of reality that is, for lack of a better word, weird.

According to New Weird author and critic Jeff VanderMeer, New Weird may be characterized as:

…secondary-world fiction that subverts the romanticized ideas about place found in traditional fantasy, largely by choosing realistic, complex real-world models as the jumping off point for creation of settings that may combine elements of both science fiction and fantasy. New Weird has a visceral, in-the-moment quality that often uses elements of surreal or transgressive horror for its tone, style, and effects… As a part of their awareness of the modern world, New Weird relies on for its visionary power on a “surrender to the weird” that isn’t, for example, hermetically sealed in a haunted house, on the moors or a cave in Antarctica. (xvi)

The stories in Cthulhurotica share the blending of the ordinary and extraordinary, elements of fantasy and horror, and the subversion of place by blending the laws of secondary reality with the contemporary world. However, because the stories in this collection are a part of the Mythos, they are not isolated in a secondary world; they are a part of our world. The horror Lovecraft inserted into his original tales resulted from the sudden awareness that the universe was not as it seemed; the universe had a deeper history than anyone could imagine, in which humankind is but a plaything of much older and more intelligent, and malignant beings. In the original Mythos, the result of this realization is almost always horror and madness. Not so for Cthulhurotica.

Lovecraft appropriated Gothic literary forms and applied them to the subject matter of science fiction. This reaction was much different than that of much mainstream SF, and particularly the galactic adventures of Lovecraft’s contemporaries. Eventually, SF would form two reactions to the problems of deep time and the irrelevance of man in the wider universe. One would gaze at the stars in wonder; the other would lay its head into its hands in despair. The first approach we can associate with the form of fantasy defined by literary critic Farah Mendlesohn as the portal quest. This type of fantasy is mostly, though not universally, optimistic and involves passage from our world (or the protagonist’s world) into a new reality that operates by different rules, with the usual result of returning to our world enlightened. The secondary world remains contained and does not infiltrate our world.

The second approach we can associate with what Mendlesohn defines as intrusion fantasy, in which “the fantastic is the bringer of chaos” (Mendlesohn xxi). In this form, the fantastic “leaks” into our world and infests it. She puts traditional horror, the New Weird, and Lovecraft in the intrusion fantasy class. This form, she argues, relies “on the naïveté of the protagonist and her awareness of the permeability of the world–a distrust of what is known in favor of what is sensed” (115). In this reality, “[t]he trajectory of the intrusion fantasy is from denial to acceptance” (115; emphasis in original).

Literary erotica might be said to blend the qualities of the portal quest and intrusion fantasy. Though erotica need not be associated with the fantastic, it often involves the passage into a secondary world with return from that world. The protagonist moves from innocence to experience, and usually returns wiser than when she departed. Like intrusion fantasy, the protagonist in literary erotica moves from denial to acceptance. Once in the erotic setting, her sense of social norms, morality, gender, patriarchy and power may be challenged. As a result she undergoes enlightenment or transformation. In literary erotica, when she returns (if she chooses to) she is not only wiser, but fundamentally different in nature than when the story began.

The stories of Cthulhurotica, by blending the forms of intrusion fantasy and the transformational experience of literary erotica result in a magnification of the transformative experience. The protagonist moves from denial to acceptance along the double trajectories of Lovecraftian cosmic horror and the sexual liberation of the female, who may or may not be the story’s protagonist. In many of the stories in this collection, the female protagonist often experiences transformation and sexual liberation, though this may occur outside of the story’s narrative. This liberation inverts the patriarchy–the rules of “our” world where the male dominates and controls the female. The intrusion of Lovecraftian horror into our world not only moves the protagonist from innocence to experience with knowledge of the vastness of the cosmos and the insignificance of humankind, but often inverts the patriarchy by empowering the female who has “crossed over” and embraced the new reality. For the empowered female, this is an act of joy, not horror, punctuated by orgasm, fertility, and the dominance of the female over the male. For the male protagonist, this transformation often results in horror as his grasp on, and control of, the female is lost. In the end, the female may gain power over the male and ultimately destroy or discard him. This analysis is an admitted overgeneralization, and is not meant as a blanket characterization of all stories presented in this volume, but as a common characteristic of those discussed in the following analysis.

The first tale in this collection, “Descent of the Wayward Sister” by Gabrielle Harbowy, suggests the potential for liberation through sexual transformation. As a woman on one of the lowest rungs of the social order — she is presumably a Victorian-era thief and prostitute — she represents the disempowerment of the female in a male-dominated society. The reader soon learns that this powerlessness is in part illusory. As someone who has “seen too much of the lively underbelly of the world to be content sitting still,” she takes it upon herself to pick the lock to the basement, where she finds a naked girl lashed to an altar. Immediately gothic motifs are invoked for the reader and subverted as the victim rejects freedom in favor of a different kind of release. Following the erotic scene, the author momentarily invokes horror through her description of the tentacled intruder, who is left largely in shadow, leaving the details to the reader’s imagination. This suggestion of horror is soon released, placing emphasis on the protagonist’s desire as well as the monster’s. While this story is largely tongue-in-cheek, its presentation of a self-empowered female allows her to move quickly from denial to acceptance. Having already seen the worst of the patriarchy, she reacts not with horror, but curiosity and desire to the Lovecraftian intrusion into our world. Instead of recoiling from the creature she accepts the tentacled beast as yet another man (I think) and one supposes that she will do well.

Cody Goodfellow’s “Infernal Attractors” is also a tale of a sexual adventuress. In this story Marc is a man both outclassed and dominated by the powerful Shirley, for whom Marc’s presence in the story is almost irrelevant except to operate a piece of Lovecraftian machinery for opening a portal to the other world. This tale is as much about the emptiness of multiple-partner sexual experimentation and fetishism as it is about Mythos. This effect is further emphasized by Shirley’s empowerment from the story’s opening. She has long completed the arc from innocence to experience and has moved beyond denial to acceptance. Her prior casting off of traditional roles and expectations has made possible the final step of transcendence via copulation with — from the reader’s perspective — a vile entity from the other side. The entity is more intricately described than in most of the other tales, contributing perhaps to the sense of Marc’s helplessness in knowing that he is not only a witness to his girlfriend’s copulation with, and dominance of, this creature, but that he has also been forced to into the role of willing participant. One is left to wonder how often Marc has been forced arrange and watch Shirley’s trysts with other unimaginable entities. Indeed, Shirley’s possession of the gun at the beginning of the story further empowers and emasculates her while emphasizing Marc’s helplessness. When Shirley is finished with the act, the fearful beast with which she copulated is left an empty shell. As she has destroyed this creature, she has destroyed Marc as well.

Other stories of female empowerment in this collection are told from the perspective of a male character who loses control of his female counterpart. “The Cry in the Darkness” by Richard Baron is one such story that emphasizes the all-too-common fear of estrangement from one’s spouse. This story begins by invoking “The Dunwich Horror,” and the fear of degeneration inspired by Lovecraft’s enthusiasm for eugenics and fear of racial mixing. In the original story, the race is truly alien, as emphasized by the half-human progeny of the Whateley’s. In Baron’s story, Mamie Bishop’s unknown history at the Whateley house, and her desire for a child that Earl cannot provide, once again invokes the ghost of Lovecraft’s eugenics and the fear that “pure” blood would be thinned by the proliferation of other races. The story connects Earl’s infertility with the infertility of the land; the tragedy is doubled as he fails to provide for his wife or impregnate her. His fears regarding his own masculinity are further accentuated by his inability to make a decision. Further, the signs that Earl finds of her nocturnal wanderings — mud on her feet and a gelatin-like substance on her body that is suggestive of sperm — confirm an implied fear that his wife may leave him. This is not a story about Lovecraftian horror as much as it is a testimony to one man’s self-doubt. Earl’s lack of masculinity and unwillingness to act may be seen to enable and encourage Mamie’s transcendence as well as her indifference to him.

Other Cthulhurotica tales take the theme of female empowerment further. “The C-Word” by Don Pizarro is interesting both for its contemporary themes and its modernization of Innsmouth as integrated into, rather than isolated from, the modern world. Elliot is not only younger and less experienced than Anna, but seems emotionally dependent on her, whereas Anna is aloof and independent of him. This story is a narrative of their relationship with Elliot in a dependent, feminized position as he attempts to convince her that the gap in their ages makes little difference to him. The irony of the story is provided by the reader’s own knowledge of Innsmouth. To a reader unschooled in Mythos tales, the final scene would be puzzling. What the informed reader knows, and Elliot does not, is that the true difference between the two is not a matter of a couple of decades, but one of degeneration and race. The Weird element of the story does not enter the tale at all, except for the words that Anna speaks at the story’s end. The reader is left to envision the transformation and imagine what will become of Elliot once he leaves Innsmouth and steps into the sea.

The domination of the female over the male achieves its most extreme form in three stories: “The Assistant from Innsmouth” by Steven James Scearce; “The Lake at Roopkund” by Andrew Scearce; and “Between a Rock and an Elder Goddess” by Mae Empson. While in all three of these stories the men are but objects to their empowered mates, in the first two follow an arc more typical of Lovecraftian horror. Investigation is the plot device by which the men in the story begin to uncover the histories of their female counterparts. As they move from denial to acceptance, in the first two tales acceptance comes at the price of horror. In the last tale, more typical of the transformation experienced in literary erotica, the protagonist moves gradually through stages of initiation, like an adept proceeding toward priesthood, preparing himself for the reality he will find when he enters the inner sanctum. In the first two tales, horror results because the males are not prepared to accept the dominance of the female; in the last story, Dennis’ more gradual preparation leads him to embrace the Weird, and his feminized role with it, just as Gabrielle Harbowy’s wayward sister embraces the sexual extremes for which she has long been prepared.

“The Assistant from Innsmouth” is perhaps one of the most Lovecraftian stories in this collection in terms of tone and setting. The plot of the story is reminiscent of “The Silver Key,” with a visit to an isolated mansion, though elements of “The Dunwich Horror” are invoked in the story’s opening. Set in the Whateley mansion, the reader eagerly anticipates the eventual appearance of the Whateley progeny. Anna first enters the story as an “assistant” to Mr. Combs, but her knowledge of the arcane materials places her in a position of superior knowledge that the reader anticipates extends beyond her ability to catalogue property. The Weird and erotic elements enter the story simultaneously. Anna’s distant formality up to the point of their encounter in the bedroom fail to prepare the reader for what is to follow. When she disrobes, she becomes almost vampiric in this scene, entrapping Combs with both her body and her gaze. She fails to respond to Combs’ weak attempt at seduction, further empowering her as she climbs on top of him and orders him to open his mouth. What transpires next feminizes Combs:

Anna’s knees closed quickly against my hips, holding me firm. With a swift movement, she rotated her hands and pressed her thumbs into my cheeks and held my jaw painfully open. I jerked once in surprise and went tense. Anna opened her mouth frighteningly wide and leaned forward. Her tongue extended and her eyes snapped shut.

What happened next, I could scarcely believe; from Anna’s mouth and tongue ran a foul, stinging, salty fluid that filled my mouth and ran cold down my throat. It tasted of bile and seawater and dark venom.

Anna’s superior strength feminizes Combs even more. She makes of his mouth a vagina, and the liquid within her flows into him like semen. By the story’s end, this act of rape seems to have been to prepare him for food. Whether or not something else gestates inside him is left for the reader to decide.

Similarly, “The Lake of Roopkund” makes of Isha’s husband Jaswinder little more than a vessel for the story’s transcended, empowered women. He enters this tale, as Combs enters his, as an investigator — a common motif in Mythos stories. However, his destruction is more profound than Combs’s because he begins the story in a position of traditional masculine dominance over his wife Isha. Enraged when he believes he discovers that his wife is planning to engage in a lesbian affair with her old college roommate Heather, he confronts the two of them, opening Heather’s bag to discover a “fertility idol” that the reader had been led to believe might be a sex toy. When Jas is told that the three of them are to participate in a fertility rite to help Isha conceive, he relents. Jaswinder’s double standard becomes evident as the story progresses. He was infuriated when he thought his wife was having an affair, yet becomes cooperative when it appears the “fertility rite” may lead to a threesome at Lake Roopkund. At the story’s climax, Jaswinder’s fate at Heather’s hands mirrors that of Combs. She overpowers him physically and pins him like the victim of a rape. The greater shock comes with the reader’s realization that the marriage was likely no marriage at all, but part of a long-term plot by Heather and Isha. Jaswinder’s assumptions about the world constitute denial of the story’s supernatural elements until the very end. At that point acceptance comes too late — literally at the moment of death. At that juncture, his patriarchal view of male-female roles is inverted as Heather begins to wring his neck.

The last story of female domination I shall discuss in this essay is “Between a Rock and an Elder Goddess.” This story lacks the element of horror of the previous two stories because the dominating female, Circe, does not bring upon Dennis acceptance in a sudden realization, but allows him to be gradually seduced by it through his study of the Dervini Papyrus. This story is also particularly clever in its interweaving of myth, history, and fiction in a way that represents the interlacing of the ordinary and fantastic. This makes the story’s Weird elements not seem “weird” at all, but a normal part of the fictional world. In the New Weird, Miéville’s New Crobuzon invokes London as easily as it does its secondary world setting. The “intrusion” in this novel cannot be easily identified in terms of its directionality (as we can with Dracula, whose intrusion comes from a single castle and invades London) but weaves into it from many directions as the familiar and the unfamiliar twine in and out of each other. Empson’s story, through the interlacing of the story’s timelines, characters, and narratives provides the reader with a sense of the interweaving of the Weird and the mundane. Circe seduces Dennis through the very ordinary activity of his study of the papyrus just as surely as she seduced Anaximander in real life. Through the manuscript she leads him to her dwelling, where he has been prepared for what he will see. To us, the half-woman, half-monster would be an abomination; however, because Dennis has been prepared, acceptance of the Weird is met not with revulsion, but pleasure.

Though themes of female dominance and the subversion of patriarchy are by no means the only literary elements to be found within these tales (as well as those I have not analyzed), it runs as a dominant theme through many that are collected here. By merging the erotic with the Cthulhu Mythos, these stories afford the opportunity to examine gender and patriarchy in a way that allows them to remain anchored in their contemporary contexts while magnifying the themes of empowerment and transformation through the metaphor of the Cthulhu Mythos. For Lovecraft, the Mythos represented the impersonal, indifferent, and ultimately unknowable elements of the universe that terrified him. These elements extended from the sea itself — personified by Innsmouth and Dagon — to the terrors that modern science would uncover, as he made clear in the first paragraph of “The Call of Cthulhu.” Over the years, Cthulhu Mythos stories have both underscored and subverted this fear. The stories in this collection have viewed Lovecraft’s insight from both angles. The unknown can be feared or embraced.

In Cthulhurotica, this apprehension is not as much a terror of the universe’s vastness and the insignificance of man as it is the dread of social change. Literary erotica has long confronted such fears through the plot motif of initiation and transformation, illustrated above in the discussion of Empson’s story. (This theme is also present in many of the stories discussed above, in addition to “The Summoned” and “Song of the Catherine Clark,” which I sadly could not fit in to this essay’s discussion). What these stories confront instead are the social rules and the enclosures that govern our lives and prevent us from engaging in behaviors that are at once enticing and self-destructive. As the roles and relationships of men and women have changed since Lovecraft’s time, what these stories permit us to do is question the limitations placed upon us by marriage, gender-identity, gender-dominance, and even pair bonding itself. This does not mean we should surrender those rules of conduct, but we should enter a discussion about them and confront our own long-buried fears associated with issues of sex and power.

Works Cited

Stableford, Brian. “Science Fiction Between the Wars: 1915-1939.” Anatomy of Wonder: A Critical Guide to Science Fiction. Ed. Neil Barron. Westport, CT and London: Libraries Unlimited, 2004. 23-44.

Lovecraft, H. P. “Supernatural Horror in Literature.” Art and Popular Culture. 28 Oct. 2010.

Mendlesohn, Farah. Rhetorics of Fantasy. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 2008.

VanderMeer, Jeff. “Introduction.” The New Weird. Ed. Jeff and Ann VanderMeer. San Francisco: Tachyon Publications, 2008.

STORIES

Astrophobos by H.P. Lovecraft

Descent of the Wayward Sister by Gabrielle Harbowy

The C-Word by Don Pizarro

Infernal Attractors by Cody Goodfellow

Daddy’s Girl by Madison Woods

Victim of Victims by Anonymous

The Cry in the Darkness by Richard Baron

Riemannian Dreams by Juan Miguel Marin

Turning On, Tuning In, and Dropping Out at the Mountains of Madness by Ahimsa Kerp

Song of the Catherine Clark by Maria Mitchell

Between a Rock and an Elder Goddess by Mae Empson

The Fishwives of Sean Brolly by Nathan Crowder

Flash Frame by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Transfigured Night by KV Taylor

The Lake at Roopkund by Andrew Scearce

Ipsa Scientia by Constella Espj

Amid Disquieting Dreams by Leon J. West

The Dreamlands of Mars by Travis King

The Assistant from Innsmouth by Steven J. Scearce

The Summoned by Clint Collins

Sense by Matthew Marovich

Optional on the Beach at the Festival of Shug Niggurath by Gary Mark Bernstein

Le Ciél Ouvert by Kirsten Brown

Astrophobos, conclusion by H.P. Lovecraft

ESSAYS

Introduction by Carrie Cuinn

Cthulhu’s Polymorphous Perversity by Kenneth Hite

The Sexual Attraction of the Lovecraftian Universe by Jennifer Brozek

Cthulhurotica, Female Empowerment, and the New Weird by Justin Everett, PhD

ILLUSTRATIONS

Cthulhurotica by Oliver Wetter

Glyphs by Carrie Cuinn

Into the Darkness by Galen Dara

The Widow’s Walk by Galen Dara

Infernal Machine by Galen Dara

Shirley’s Demon Lover by Galen Dara

Whateley Family Portrait by Kirsten Brown

Wandering Bride by Galen Dara

Lovecraftian Love by Galen Dara

Deep Ones by Galen Dara

Woman, Yellow by Galen Dara

Love from the Black Lagoon by Galen Dara

Your Fisheater by Stephen Stanley

The Whateley Estate by Galen Dara

Anna by Galen Dara

The Box by Galen Dara

The Brides of Tindalos by Kirsten Brown

Great Rift by Galen Dara

Plus additional interior images by Carrie Cuinn

Copyright

Cthulhurotica © 2010, 2011 Dagan Books

Stories copyright © 2010, 2011 by the authors.

Artwork copyright © 2010, 2011 by the artists.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Print ISBN: 0-98313-730-7

Print ISBN-10: 978-0-98313-730-6

Printed in the United States.

Cover illustration by Oliver Wetter.

Design and layout by Carrie Cuinn.

Electronic edition layout by Elizabeth K. Campbell, Antimatter ePress, LLC

Dagan Books

http://daganbooks.com

Logo by Fiona Lynn Zimmer

Notes

1

Lovecraft porn comes in two basic flavors: manga and live action. Manga or cartoon works (often referred to as Hentai or tentacle porn that is not often Lovecraft specific but does have Lovecraft overtones) come with names such as Urotsukidoji: Legend of the Overfiend and Demon Beast Invasion while live action or movies have names such as LoveCracked.

2

The Topping Book: Or, Getting Good at Being Bad by Easton and Liszt

3

Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns by Miller and Devon, The Loving Dominant by Warren and The New Bottoming Book by Hardy and Easton.

4

Lovecraft: A Look Behind the Cthulhu Mythos by Carter

Content

CTHULHUROTICA
Revised Edition
Edited by Carrie Cuinn

Carrie Cuinn INTRODUCTION

ASTROPHOBOS By H. P. Lovecraft

Gabrielle Harbowy DESCENT OF THE WAYWARD SISTER

Don Pizarro THE C-WORD

Cody Goodfellow INFERNAL ATTRACTORS

Madison Woods DADDY’S GIRL

“Victim of Victims” from Shoggoth on the Roof

Richard Baron THE CRY IN THE DARKNESS

Juan Miguel Marin RIEMANNIAN DREAMS

Ahimsa Kerp TURNING ON, TUNING IN, & DROPPING OUT AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS

Maria Mitchell SONG OF THE CATHERINE CLARK

Mae Empson BETWEEN A ROCK AND AN ELDER GODDESS

Nathan Crowder THE FISHWIVES OF SEAN BROLLY

Silvia Moreno-Garcia FLASH FRAME

KV Taylor TRANSFIGURED NIGHT

Andrew Scearce THE LAKE AT ROOPKUND

Constella Espj IPSA SCIENTIA

Leon J. West AMID DISQUIETING DREAMS

Travis King THE DREAMLANDS OF MARS

Steven James Scearce THE ASSISTANT FROM INNSMOUTH

Clint Collins THE SUMMONED

Matthew Marovich SENSE

Gary Mark Bernstein OPTIONAL ON THE BEACH AT THE FESTIVAL OF SHUG NIGGURATH

Kirsten Brown LE CIÉL OUVERT

ASTROPHOBOS, conclusion…

Kenneth Hite CTHULHU’S POLYMORPHOUS PERVERSITY

Jennifer Brozek THE SEXUAL ATTRACTION OF THE LOVECRAFTIAN UNIVERSE

The Attraction of the Forbidden

Atmosphere, Baby

The Lack of Personal Responsibility

The Ultimate Challenge

Justin Everett, PhD CTHULHUROTICA, FEMALE EMPOWERMENT, AND THE NEW WEIRD

STORIES

ESSAYS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Copyright

Notes