The Dark Rites of Cthulhu Read online

  "I guess that part is up to who you believe. You see, it seems there are those who felt that the Mortonson who got hung, Jedidiah, who was supposed to be the grandson of the original Mortonson who originally built the place and started all the hocus pocus crap, was actually the original Mortonson. You know, stretching his days by living through others--"

  "Life extension through blood sacrifice," said Renee. When the others all turned to her, she added, "It’s not unheard of."

  "Neither is getting a good night's sleep, either," growled Galtoni. "What's crawling around inside that place, anyway?"

  No one spoke for some long time. No one ate, either. Finally Nardi, having stared at the forkful of gravy-rich mashed potatoes on his fork throughout the silence, dropped the utensil to his plate, exclaiming:

  "Goddamnit, but what goes on in this damn town? What is it? Every ten feet there's either a haunted house, or some old crazy stealin' souls, or gods slippin' in from other dimensions--"

  “Let it go, Frank."

  "Let what go, Mark," snapped the detective. "Tony's death? His atoms jumbled by some thing--some nightmare thing that no one can explain? We came here to get away from all the crap in New York, and what? What'd we find? What?!"

  "Please, Frank," Renee threw in. "There isn't anyone here at this table that didn't think the occult was some dodge we could use to make some extra bucks. This town taught us different. I'm not saying that everything from crop circles to the Loch Ness monster gets a free pass, but we've all seen shit. And Tony Balnco... died, was killed... by something no one here will ever be able to explain. But all that doesn't matter."

  "Yeah," Nardi shot back, "then what does matter?"

  "What matters is what you decide to do next."

  Renee was right, and the security man had to admit it. What exactly, he asked himself, was he going to do next? Edward Douglas had asked for his help. Indeed, if he had missed something during his inspection of the man's home, a something that had now taken possession of the man's wife--something of which he should have taken notice, then didn't he have an obligation to do something about it?

  Should have...

  Despite the insanity of it all, actually taking the idea of a spirit living within a house that could claim the soul of a person seriously, there were those words again. "Should have." They had sprung into his head that morning, the notion that he had thought back when first he had been in the Douglas home that there was something there. Something black and evil. Something dangerous. Something that had hungered for him, but that had apparently waited.

  Waited for someone younger. Someone less resistant. Someone like Julie Douglas.

  Shit, thought Nardi. Goddamned to Hell shit...

  After another moment of silence, and then a long, defeated sigh, Frank Nardi told the others exactly what they were going to do next.

  When Douglas came to the door the next morning, the look on his face was one of utter surprise. Blinking twice, he stammered for a moment, then finally managed to say:

  "Mr. Nardi, you've come back.”

  "I said I would."

  "Yes, yes, of course, but I ... oh, no matter. And I see, my... I can be so bad with names--"

  "Madame Renee," the witch answered in her mock central European voice.

  "Yes, I remember now. Please, please come in."

  The fact Douglas was more than willing to usher them into his home at 7:30 in the morning revealed much about his situation. They had arrived without even an email's worth of announcement, but such an oversight in protocol seemed not to matter to the beleaguered husband. As he ushered them into the kitchen, he asked if he could get them anything.

  “No, no thank you," said Nardi. "We filled up on the way."

  "No, I insist," countered Douglas. When both guests continued to refuse politely, he tried suggestions of "just coffee" and even "water," but Nardi merely revealed the top of the water bottle in his bag, and the portly Renee begged off from the standpoint of not being allowed to break her ritual fast.

  "We just want to see your wife, Sir," said Renee, "so we can try to help."

  Conceding that such was probably for the best, Douglas left the room, insisting he would be back with her as quickly as possible. As he did, Nardi checked the remote in his pocket, making certain it was ready to switch on when necessary. The team had spent the evening devising a plan for driving a spirit away from a host, if indeed such were the case. Although the available evidence strongly suggested such, still the members of the ADA came from a firm, rational world background. Even after everything they had witnessed over their years in Arkham, they still felt it best to be certain--especially considering the fact that despite what most knew, or at least suspect about their town, they still needed to live in a world governed by law.

  A moment later, when the Douglases entered the kitchen, those seated at the kitchen table were as certain as they needed to be.

  "Here she is, folks, the old ball and chain."

  Both Nardi and Renee made the mistake of looking where they had been directed. Julie Douglas was indeed present, but not to the degree she had been the night before. As the visitors, they found her greatly diminished--hair bedraggled, lifeless. Skin sallow, sagging. Eyes, without luster—wandering, pain filled.

  "Wha--"

  The single syllable was all the security man could manage. The woman shuffled wordlessly into the room, mouth hanging open, the slightest dribble hanging from her lower lip.

  "Oh, you were expecting ..."

  Edward Douglas' words collapsed into laughter. The tone and strength of his voice came at the pair at the table far stronger than previously. Both wanted to turn, to try and understand from where had come the sudden change in the man's demeanor, but they found they could not. Their minds had been ensnared by the sight of the broken, desiccated figure advancing toward them.

  "Sorry, so sorry. Where are my manners?"

  As he spoke, what remained of Douglas circled the room, ending on the other side of the kitchen table from Nardi and Renee. His formerly retreating, cowering manner now began to reveal itself as the physical deficiency it truly was. All became clear for Nardi in that moment. In his own way, Galtoni had been correct. At the time of his execution, Jedidiah Mortonson had prepared an escape route for himself. The black magic the old warlock had practiced had given him the means. Instead of reincarnating as yet another son, however, he had chosen a more subtle hiding place--the walls of his own home.

  More than likely, the security man figured, he'd already been sucking the life from the children he'd had as prisoners. When the house was transformed into their orphanage, he maintained that contact through the furniture, the very walls--then continued on down through the years, latching onto each new orphan delivered to his door step.

  "Ahhhhhh," hissed the Douglas-thing, "I see it in your eyes, Franklin. You understand. Like yourself, yes... I retired. It was so, what would be a good word... comfortable. So easy to simply drift along, helping myself to a psychic meal here and there, living so many different lives... boys, girls, matrons, guards, making them do such wonderful things..."

  Nardi ground his teeth together. He had not expected to be taken so completely by surprise. Suddenly his plan had fallen into jeopardy from a completely unforeseen angle. He had been waiting to confront the wife--had never considered the force living within the house would have had them both under control. He had been so certain of his strategy he had not even turned on his electronics--cleverly making certain there was nothing about his person that might give him away. As he strained to move his hand, the Douglas-thing chortled:

  "I'm sorry to disappoint, Franklin. You were determined to be so heroic, to save the girl, to free her for her helpless husband. It's why I came to you first. Since the orphanage was closed, your filthy modern age and its political correctness, I withered, trapped in here, Franklin. Starved--starved! Do you hear me?"

  Forget him, Nardi screamed within his own head. Concentrate. Fight, you useless sack o
f shit! Fight!

  "It took decades for this place to sell. I was reduced--spent. Desiccated. Then, the ages of neglect meant repairs had to be made. I had to wait for someone to move in for so long. By then even the spell I had invoked to keep me tethered here was starting to fade away. Without nourishment, I could not sustain its power. I was so tempted to take you when you opened yourself to me, but no, I waited. And do you know why, Franklin?"

  The assembly was distracted as Julie Douglas slid down the wall, collapsing to the floor. Mortonson had pulled too much from her, leaving her unable to move under her own power. The distraction allowed Nardi a full four seconds outside of the monstrosity's control. The first one and a half were wasted as he struggled simply to reconnect with his own nervous system. The next two were lost fumbling to shove his hand into his jacket pocket. As the creature across from him finished chuckling over the woman's fate, in the final half-second his fingers closed on his control device--

  "I'll tell you why I waited, Franklin--"

  And suddenly the security man found his control slipping, fading like the colors of the evening sky as the Sun drifted behind the horizon, surrendering all unto night.

  "Because I wasn't about to settle for an old fool's body." Screw you, Nardi screamed within his mind. I might be a fool--

  "Death would have been better."

  But I'm not old--

  Rage fueling him--anger aimed squarely at Mortonson, fury at himself--Nardi forced his fingers together, sliding the contact button on the bar control in his pocket, hissing into his lapel mic at the same instance--

  "Now!"

  Outside in their company van, Galtoni and Berkenwald reacted immediately, the first jumping out of the vehicle and heading for the house, the latter flipping the switch that started their speaker system broadcasting. It had been Renee that had suggested loud noise as a way of cutting through the control of whatever power was inside the house. The crew had decided on a double series--one of random heavy metal clips, none more than ten seconds each, the second a blending of high decibel electronic screeches. As every dog within a half-mile began to bark or whimper insanely, the Douglas-thing staggered, clawing at its ears.

  As the horror cried out in agony, Nardi snapped into action.

  Without hesitation the security man placed his hands under the edge of the kitchen table and flipped it upward, pushing it in Mortonson's direction. As it struck, Renee regained her senses, hurriedly digging into her bag. She managed to pull forth a small plastic container of powder she had prepared the night before. As she pried open its lid, the monstrosity managed to fling the table aside. Crawling back to its feet, it moved on the witch, just as Berkenwald reached the kitchen. As Renee screamed--

  "Do it!"

  The detective clicked on the over-sized strobe light assembly he had dragged in from the van. The horror threw its arms upward, shielding its eyes--screeching as the witch flung her container of powder over the forms of both Edward and Julie Douglas, chanting as she did so:

  "Gel bin, de'sey... brougher kumbi... brougher kumbi... Gel bin, de'sey... brougher kumbi... brougher kumbi ..."

  Mortonson screamed--the sound pouring from him a thing of unimaginable agony. Shielded from both the creature's terrible noise as well as the sounds from the van by the earplugs all of the team were wearing, Nardi moved forward to where Mrs. Douglas lay sprawled on the floor, scooping her up and heading for the door. Renee followed him slowly, backing toward the exit, continuing to curse Mortonson with her chant. As she watched the creature writhe, she spotted the moment when her powder along with her spell forced the spirit form from Douglas' body.

  "Grab him," she cried out to Berkenwald who, already struggling with the heavy lights, shouted back;

  "Are you kidding me?"

  And then, before either could react further, the house began to groan. Mortonson's monstrous soul had retreated to the only sanctuary left to it, the home it knew so well. Desperate for sustenance, it immediately began to draw strength from its foundation of massive stones, its timbers--new and old--the plaster, the glass and pipes, tiles, latches, hinges--everything. And thus was its undoing.

  As the witch and Berkenwald managed to struggle both the lights and Douglas outside, the ancient structure began to groan horribly. They were barely a yard away from the door when the sharp cracking of multiple rupturing beams began to be heard. The end came with an unbelievable abruptness. Having stolen so much of the vulgar dwellings solidity over the preceding few decades, that which remained, even adding in the repairs made by the Douglases, proved to be nowhere near adequate to revive the retreating warlock.

  As the team watched in near shock, the ground itself gave way, building and foundation and the very earth falling downward into a pit which swallowed not only the cursed structure but nearly all of its acreage, plants and trees, walkways--everything. The fire that erupted, engulfing everything combustible, was eventually blamed on the ruptured gas line. Neither the Douglases nor anyone from the Agency saw any reason to argue the decision.

  Over the following few weeks, both Edward and Julie made, if not full recoveries, steps far enough back to normalcy that they were content not to bring suit against the Arkham Detective Agency. In the end, they decided that even in a town as dark as the one in which they lived, the law was neither backward reaching or far-sighted enough to award damages in such a case. The settlement from their insurance, the gas company, and the original surveyors who had certified the land as stable was adequate for them to relocate.

  "Besides," the somewhat restored Edward decided, "it was a nest of pain. Better it rot in whatever Hell it landed."

  The Douglases did not rebuild on their lot. That was donated to the municipality of Arkham, to do with as it pleased. The town elders were given sufficient warning as to what might still lurk below the surface.

  It is believed that adequate precautions were taken before any excavations were attempted.

  Black Tallow

  By Edward M. Erdelac

  I hadn’t physically seen my old university roommate, Paul Woodson, in more than a decade, not since a few years after graduation when our lives really started to radically diverge. His began a rocketing climb that culminated in his establishment as the grand high financial wizard of a Fortune 500 multinational. Mine nosedived in a steady, occasionally desperate and perennial flounder that has left me what I always was, a translator of antique books, respected in circles much smaller than his, but nowhere near as successful, financially.

  We kept in touch, of course, over the years, mainly via e-mails and the occasional phone call, perhaps mostly because of my extensive contacts in the rare book field, a subject which has never ceased its fascination for Paul.

  That’s because he believes everything he has achieved has been thanks to the practice of magic. That was how we met, as furtive, over-serious young initiates, dabbling in Tarot cards and the intricacies of the Goetia, pretentiously spelling magic with a ‘k.’ We pored over the writings of John Dee, Simon Magus, and Eibon, and the three A’s of our higher education were Abramelin, Al-Hazred, and Alistair Crowley.

  Yet when I, in my senior year, finally pronounced the whole business utter bullshit, and argued with Paul that no man can hope to harness and steer the chaotic winds of the universe by engaging in embarrassing tantric orgies and messy black chicken assassinations, Paul merely refrained from countering me, and continued on his path.

  Time may judge which of us was correct.

  That’s not to say I believe in magic now, but I believe in the human mind, and that personal magnetism may be trained like a muscle when the will is there, and made to domineer over lesser personalities. Paul had that will, and now he commands that magnetism and worldly power.

  He is a multimillionaire, perhaps even a billionaire, is married to an achingly gorgeous former Parisian cat walker, with which he has fathered a bright young daughter. He has a bona fide fleet of vehicles (notice I didn’t say merely cars), and a senior officer
’s position in a financial empire which literally spans the globe.

  For him, dedication to magic, training his personality and intelligence via methods both arcane and scientific, has inarguably borne fruit. Maybe his study of bold ideas and meditation on complex alchemical formulas somehow helped him divine the erratic movements of the chaotic economic markets. Whatever his pursuits, he resides in that position all men crave. He needs nothing.

  That was why, when he called me one day at the rare book dealer where I am on precarious retainer in Chicago, I was surprised to hear the old hunger still unabated in his tone.

  I guess hungry men strive harder than the rest of us, but it was never worldly success Paul had craved in those years of scrying and scratching pentacles on the floor of our dormitory to call down the powers and thrones. For him, the pursuit of magic had always been that old alchemical dream of self-actualization. His own soul was the lead he wished to turn to gold, and that divine transmutation, he always said, only came with the attainment of ultimate knowledge.

  But how could knowledge ever be ultimate? I’d always argued. It was folly on the level of Faust. No man could know all there was.

  “The universe, its true nature,” he had told me once, a hungry, fiery look in his captivating eyes. “That’s the final answer worth attaining. To know that, its origin, its purpose, answers all other lesser questions by default. Life, death, love, transcendence, they’re all marginal concerns compared to that.”

  He had been like an addict then, transitioning swiftly from gateway magical systems to harder, more involved disciplines, casting aside traditions with exasperation when he rapidly mastered and consumed their most secret teachings and, in the end, found them lacking.

  That anxious quiver was still in his voice. I could hear it even over the phone.

  “Raymond,” he said without preamble, when I picked up the line. “I want you to drive up to see me this weekend. I have a book I’d like you to take a look at.”