The Dark Rites of Cthulhu Read online

  Warren cocked his head and looked up at Carter. “If it’s a strain on your delicate sensibilities, why don’t you just beat feet and go back to scribbling out another penny dreadful for that hack, Wright?”

  “Farnsworth is hardly a hack,” Carter murmured. “Old Plato is quite a decent editor. And besides, you invited me to accompany you.”

  “A decision that I already have reason to regret,” Warren said loudly. He hunched forward, balancing on his knuckles. “Does he look like he’s been throttled to you?”

  “Which—ah—which one are you referring to?” Carter asked. He plucked a handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it to his mouth and nose as he leaned over Warren and into the room. There were, as Warren had said, two bodies occupying the small square of space, one on the bed, and the other on the floor. The one on the floor was bad enough. He’d seen similar looking examples of mortality in the trenches of France; the dead man’s face was twisted in an expression of horror, his eyes bulging and his tongue sticking out of his mouth.

  But it was the body on the bed that drew most of Carter’s disgust, and not a little worry. It was a shrivelled thing, it’s dried and cracked flesh was shrunken tight to its bones and its body was curled into a loose ball. It was nude, so far as Carter could see, and he could tell that it stunk strongly of strange spices and exotic unguents, even from a distance. There were rags and shreds of what looked like brown, decaying linens scattered over the bed and the floor, as well as on the body of the dead man.

  For a moment, he fancied that it had moved, ever so slightly, when he leaned in. He heard nothing, saw nothing, but even so, he felt it. And he froze, the way a mouse might freeze, when it feels a snake watching it.

  “The one that don’t look like jerky,” Warren said. “And don’t lean too far into the room.” He swatted Warren on the shin with his knuckles.

  “What? Why?” Carter said, startled from his paralysis. Warren didn’t reply. Carter looked down at the body on the floor. It was clear that the man had indeed been throttled by some powerful grip. Even a layman such as himself could tell what those wide, dark bruises indicated. He looked up from the body and let his eyes scan the walls.

  Someone, likely the dead man, had covered them in scraps of paper covered in strange markings that he recognized from several books in Warren's library. He had no idea what most of the markings meant, but, familiar or not, they seemed to swim before his eyes, crawling like insects across the badly patched and plastered walls. Shivering, he looked away. Those sigils he did recognize did not bode well.

  Warren rose smoothly to his feet and ran his fingers along the door frame. Without entering the room, he reached around and felt the interior frame. “Ha,” he said, “There we are.”

  “What is it?”

  “Somebody was whittling,” Warren said. He grabbed Carter’s hand and forced his startled companion to feel the frame, even as the latter let out a squawk of protest. “See? He had himself a high old time with a buck knife, by the feel of it.”

  “Yes, I see that, thank you,” Carter snapped and jerked his hand out of Warren’s grip. “Is that pertinent?” His fingertips felt greasy where they’d touched the wood. His stomach roiled, and his eyes strayed to the leathery thing on the bed. He’d been studiously avoiding looking at it, but now he felt compelled. It was as if reaching into the room had drawn its notice. As before, he felt as if it were staring at him from beneath its brown, wrinkled lids. Between it and the unpleasant symbols stuck to the peeling wallpaper, he was feeling decidedly nervous.

  “Ain’t you the one who reads all those detective stories? Everything is pertinent,” Warren said. He tapped Carter between the eyes with a finger, snapping him out of his reverie. “Clues, Carter,” he said.

  “Yes, clues, I understand, thank you,” Carter said, slapping ineffectually at Warren’s hand. He rubbed his fingers together and looked at the doorframe again. “What was that I felt? I—I can remember touching something of similar shape and convolution before, though I can’t…I can’t seem to recall where.”

  Warren peered at him for a long moment before replying. Carter had the feeling that he was choosing his words very carefully. “It’s the sign of Koth, Carter. You’ve probably seen it in one of my books, when you were making notes for your little stories.”

  “I—yes, obviously,” Carter said, pushing aside the hazy, half-formed not-quite memories of a certain black tower, standing alone in the twilight vale of his dreams. He shook himself and rubbed his arms. Such dreams were one of the reasons he'd come seeking Warren's help in the first place, and he didn't care to be reminded of them. He blinked as Warren's words sank in and said, “Little stories?”

  “Focus, Carter,” Warren said and snapped his fingers. He looked back at the room. “Only reason a fellow might want to carve that particular sign on his door, or put them other ones up on the walls, is to keep something out.” He frowned, as if something unpleasant had occurred to him and added, “Or in.”

  Carter wrung his hands nervously. He felt a thrill of fear. He’d seen that look in Warren’s eyes more than once in their brief, but eventful, association. It was something more than curiosity; it bordered on obsession. “Warren—Harley—perhaps we should call someone…”

  “Carter, I surely do hate to tell you this, but I am who people call for something like this,” Warren said. He knocked on the doorframe and then, before Carter could stop him, stepped into the room.

  Carter held his breath. Warren turned in a slow circle, looking about him. He murmured soft words that Carter didn't quite catch, under his breath. The thing on the bed didn't so much as twitch. Carter wondered why he'd thought it might.

  Warren went to the small writing desk opposite the bed and sifted through the papers there. "Shipping receipts," he murmured, "Iceland." He looked back at the bed. "Is that where you're from?"

  "They have mummies in Iceland?" Carter asked, still staring at the thing on the bed. "Are those markings on the walls Icelandic as well? Have we stumbled upon some ancient rite from the sagas?" he asked excitedly, forgetting his fear, momentarily, in a rush of curiosity. "Wait until I tell Conrad and Kirowan!"

  "They have mummies everywhere, Carter," Warren said. "And no, those markings are not Icelandic. They're Tibetan." He sank down beside the body on the floor. "You don't happen to recognize him, do you?" he asked. "Come on in, get a good look."

  "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you," Carter said.

  "Carter--get in here," Warren said.

  Carter grimaced and stepped into the room. He watched the thing on the bed as he did so, though he couldn't say why. Surely it was no threat? He looked down at the dead man. He was no threat either. He looked down at the man's death-mottled features and shook his head. "No, I don't know him. Do you?"

  "Nope. Pity, I was hoping to learn who it was who thought they were going to perform the rite of rolang here in this pleasant little domicile," Warren said.

  "The rite of what?" Carter asked. Instinctively, his hand dug for the small moleskin notebook and pencil stub he habitually kept in his coat.

  "Don't you dare pull that damn notebook out," Warren snapped. He reached inside his own coat and extracted a heavy, antique revolver from a shoulder holster. The pistol was a LeMat, a Civil War era revolver that Warren had some attachment to, despite its age and unwieldy size. Warren had never shared the origin of that attachment with Carter, despite the latter's numerous attempts to pry it out of him. "You're going to have your hands plenty full with this."

  "What?" Carter stepped back, hands raised in protest. “I’m not the sort for guns, Warren."

  "Take the pistol, Carter. I need you to hold it for me for a minute," Warren said, flipping the revolver around so that he proffered the butt to Carter. Carter made a face, but took the weapon. It was heavy in his hand, far heavier than the pistol he'd carried in France during the Great War. In its own way, it was as much a relic of ancient times as the thing on the bed.

  "
Fine," he said. "Now would you mind telling me what you're talking about? What is this--this 'roh-lang' you mentioned?" He hesitated, struck by an unpleasant notion. "It doesn't have anything to do with that business in Arkham last year, does it?" he asked quietly.

  "Not quite," Warren said, smiling slightly. "You'll recall I spent some formative time in Tibet?" He pushed himself to his feet and dusted his hands. "I learned a lot in those mountains. Mostly things I'd rather not know, but you can't always pick your lessons or your teachers, if you catch my meaning." He grinned crookedly and Carter felt a shiver pass through him, though he couldn't say why. Warren went to the bed and looked down. "At any rate, there are certain men of power in the hinterlands of Tibet who swear by the rite of the rolang. They spoke of signs and marks like those plastered on the walls, and told me of scenes just like this one here, rolang and all."

  "And what, pray tell, is a rolang?" Carter asked.

  Warren gestured to the thing on the bed. "That handsome fellow right there.'Rolang' roughly translates as 'corpse who stands up' or some such, depending on the dialect." He scratched his chin and looked down at the brown thing.

  "He's--ah--he's not standing up," Carter said. His skin crawled at the thought even as he said it. He had an image in his head, of burying grounds full of crawling, rising corpses, and he clutched himself as a cold chill ran through him.

  "You sound disappointed." Warren shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned forward. "This particular rite involves a prepared body, often that of a sorcerer or a lama, and a sealed room. The undertaker of the ritual, whom I'm guessing was the fellow on the floor, and is almost always a wizard, gets on top of the body, repeating a certain formula to awaken the spirit slumbering in the corpse. The corpse gets frisky, tries to escape, and the wizard must hold it down until he can bite off its tongue."

  Carter made a sound of disgust. "And if he fails?"

  "The rolang kills him. As it will kill any other living thing that it gets its leathery paws on," Warren said serenely as he bent low over the withered features of the thing on the bed. "Nasty thing, a dead sorcerer. Ain't that right, Mr. Rolang?" Warren went on, as if speaking to the thing. Carter felt a thrill of horror as he saw its eyelids twitch. The LeMat bobbed up in his grip, almost of its own volition. Warren carefully pushed the barrel aside. "Whoa there, not yet Carter," he said.

  "It moved!"

  "That it did, but that ain't no call to plug it quite yet. Probably wouldn't do any good anyway," Warren said.

  "If it can move, why didn't it leave?" Carter demanded.

  "I did mention that the room was sealed, didn't I?" Warren said, gesturing to the doorframe.

  "It was trapped," Carter said. He felt a sinking sensation in his gut.

  "Yep," Warren said, still examining the thing.

  "It was trapped and you brought us in here with it?" Carter nearly shrieked. The LeMat came up again, and again Warren gently pushed it aside.

  "You're in no danger, Carter, now calm down!"

  "Why would you do this?" Carter hissed, backing away from the bed. Warren's hand shot out and snapped closed on his wrist, trapping him. Carter tried to yank his arm free of Warren's grip, but to no avail. Warren was surprisingly strong when he put his mind to it.

  He dragged Carter close and snapped, "I said calm down." His eyes flashed weirdly, and he let Carter go. "This thing will be dangerous now that it's been woken up. Sorcerers always are, alive, dead or otherwise. The ritual, once started, must be finished, or the rolang could escape to cause harm to any who cross its path." Warren looked back at the thing on the bed. "Can't have some poor policeman or other getting throttled by our guest here, now can we?"

  "What--what are you going to do?"

  “Just stay back, Carter. And don’t hold that gun like it’s a damn snake. It’s just a pistol, for God’s sake,” Warren said.

  "What should I do if it gets up?" Carter asked hesitantly.

  "Well...shoot it, obviously," Warren said, as he got onto the bed and straddled the corpse. "And try to avoid hitting me, if you can possibly help it."

  "But you said that the gun wouldn't work," Carter said.

  "No, I said it probably wouldn't do any good. But it couldn't hurt. Not much on this earth can take a face full of sixteen gauge buckshot and keep smiling." Warren smiled crookedly. "At the very least, it'll give you time to get out the room."

  "Warren--Harley..." Carter began.

  But Warren wasn't listening. As he positioned himself over the corpse, it began to heave and twitch, its limbs flailing flaccidly beneath Warren’s own. Warren pinned the corpse to the bed with his weight and held on for dear life. Carter tensed, ready to lend his meagre weight to the fight, regardless of Warren’s warning to the contrary.

  The corpse heaved, and Warren was nearly thrown from it. It bucked and thrashed, and its spidery limbs uncoiled. Its jaws sagged open, and the air throbbed with a basso hum that made Carter's teeth itch. It sounded as if a hundred voices were speaking at once, and the things they were saying crawled on the air like flies on a screen. Strange shadows grew on the walls, cast by nothing visible to the human eye. The air felt damp and heavy, as if there were a thunderstorm brewing.

  Warren cursed as thin fingers stabbed into his arms. The corpse made a sound like a punctured tire, and Warren was shoved up and back as the rolang began to sit up. He grabbed at it, struggling with it. Its fleshless jaws champed mindlessly as its fingers sought his throat. Carter cried out and raised the pistol, but he couldn't get a clear shot. Warren tumbled backwards, the rolang atop him. It had him by the throat. He clawed at its head, fighting to keep its jaws from his face.

  "Warren, damn it, get away from it," Carter shouted.

  "No," Warren hissed, forcing the rolang's head back. His face was beginning to turn red as the thing's grip on his throat tightened. Carter hesitated, and then lunged forward. He hooked the rolang's neck with his arm and pulled it back, trying to force it to break its grip on Warren. He pounded on its skull with the butt of the LeMat. The dead thing twisted around bonelessly, and far faster than he was prepared for. It released Warren and grabbed for Carter, shoving him back. He staggered away from the bed, and the thing followed with rickety steps, jaws chattering.

  "Warren, help me!" Carter yelped.

  "I told you to stay back, Carter," Warren shouted, stumbling off of the bed. He wrapped his arm around the rolang's neck and tried to haul it away, to no avail. It forced Carter back against the wall. "Shoot the damn thing!"

  Carter twisted his head away and shoved the barrel of the revolver up against the creature's sunken belly. He pulled the trigger and the roar of the pistol was followed by the sound of splintering bone and tearing flesh. Warren gave a triumphant yell and drove his foot up into the thing's back. It bent backwards. Warren jerked his arms and there was another, louder, crack and the thing's head came away in his hands.

  The fallen body squirmed like a broken-backed snake, grabbing blindly for Carter's ankles as it slithered after him across the floor. Carter looked to Warren for help, and saw him raise its head in his hands. A black, swollen tongue protruded from between its jaws and Warren caught it between his teeth in a single, sinuous movement. As Carter looked on in horrified wonder, Warren jerked his head and tore the tongue from the rolang's head.

  The body stiffened and fell still. Warren dropped the head and took the tongue from his mouth. "There we go," he wheezed, "Easy as pie."

  "It almost killed you," Carter said. Then, "It almost killed me!" He looked around the room. The shadows had cleared, and every scrap of paper had fallen from the walls.

  "But it didn't," Warren said, weighing the tongue on his palm. "No sir, it did not. And now the ritual is done, and our Mr. Rolang is safely over the River Styx."

  They stared down at the body for long moments. Carter fought to catch his breath. He could hear the policemen on the stairs, talking loudly, but apparently making no move to investigate the gunshots.

  "You never said wha
t the ritual was for," Carter said, finally.

  "Hmm?" Warren said, still examining the tongue. He hadn't taken his eyes off of it since he'd torn it free of the dead thing's head.

  "The ritual. Why would someone undergo such a hideous experience?"

  Warren held up the withered lump of meat. Carter thought, for a moment, that he might drop it. Instead, he stuffed it into his pocket.

  "Why does anyone do anything, Carter?" Warren said, and smiled.

  The Dark Horse

  By John Goodrich

  The dry, yellow wind off the Dominion of Manhattan brought a bitter scent to Laura’s nose. The building’s broken windows and splintered doors moaned in the acrid wind. She’d holed up in this apartment because the door was still on its hinges. Something skittered behind her. Laura whirled, spear at the ready. A filthy raccoon with one pus-filmed eye twice the size of the other glared at her from the doorway. She tensed, ready to pin it to the floor. The coon crouched. They considered each other, the wind’s low dirge the only sound for long moments.

  Laura reached behind her with one hand, and found a crinkly wrapper by feel. She tore it open with her teeth, and flung it at the coon. She didn’t like to waste food, especially something as good as a Twinkie, but she didn’t want trouble from the coon, either. With that eye, it wouldn’t be good to eat.

  The coon sniffed her offering, then tore big bites out of the golden cake. She watched it gulp the yellow thing down, then lick the plastic wrapper clean, manipulating its treasure with humanlike front paws. It glared at her with its good eye, then limped out the doorway.

  She ought to follow it, find out if it knew where any food was. But she’d eaten well for days, and wasn’t feeling hard up. She could afford a little generosity. The apartment building had been good to her: a safe place to sleep, good forage, and no one else around. Eating from old cans was a lot easier than scrambling after rats and roaches.