The Dark Rites of Cthulhu Page 8

  “You’re going to kill me?” Dennis croaked.

  “Not directly. I’m going to call forth a Harbinger of Hermes, one of the Lords of the Wing, a Black Flyer of Yibb-Tstll. Oh they have had so many names over the countless centuries. Essentially they’re just really big psychopomps, soul takers of the highest order. When these things are summoned they never arrive happy, and if you’re not thoroughly warded, they’ll tear your soul out of you and take it back to the stygian depths.”

  Radu gave Dennis a cold look, like a butcher appraising a cut of meat. “Ideally, you would cast the spell, as it would draw the Black Flyer’s complete attention to you, but I guess that’s out of the question now. But, as you should doubtless know, a good magician is always prepared, and that’s why I purposely didn’t complete your magic circle.”

  Radu grinned, the very image of Mephistopheles. “When the Black Flyer arrives and finds out that it can’t get to me, it will be even more pissed-off than usual, and I’m afraid that it’ll take that out on you, my unprotected, immobile friend. In doing so, it’ll take your soul to wherever they take them, and those damned crows outside will disperse. That will give me a few more years of peace to find a better solution to my bird problem.”

  “Oh my God,” Dennis whispered.

  “No, my gods, the Old Ones, and they’re listening,” Radu said. “Now, let’s get the show on the road.” With that, he began to read the strange words from the ancient papyrus.

  Dennis pulled and struck at his legs with his hands, even tried to force himself to fall over in order to crawl away, but all for naught. It was as if he was stuck in cement from the waist down. He looked around for something, anything he could grab hold of to either pull himself to the floor or use as a weapon. Unfortunately nothing was within reach.

  Remember the water bottle trick?

  Dennis stopped his frantic looking around and turned his head towards what his little voice was suggesting, an open bottle of water he’d bought from a vending machine in the hall and brought with him to Radu’s room.

  Remember the levitation spell Radu taught you?

  Dennis nodded, focused on the water bottle and intoned the spell of levitation just under his breath in the hope that Radu wouldn’t hear him. At first nothing happed, so he concentrated even harder. Dennis gritted his teeth and mumbled the alien sounds through his clenched jaws. He could feel pain starting to build in the front of his forehead, between his eyes, like a start of a bad sinus headache.

  The water bottle twitched ever so slightly, but that was all.

  What’s going on? Levitating Radu and the chair was easier than this? Dennis wondered, and his little voice answered, maybe he was helping you then?

  “No, I can do this,” Dennis whispered and then started intoning the spell again. He balled his hands into fists, sweat gathered at his temples, and he started to tremble from the waist up. Then all of the sudden and without warning, the water bottle rose up and flew towards Radu.

  It missed the wizard by mere inches, landing at his feet with a thud.

  Radu stopped reading and arched an eyebrow at Dennis. “Trying to throw off my concentration, little apprentice? Sorry to inform you, but I’ve done this incantation so many times, I could now almost do it in my sleep.”

  He went back to reading from the scroll and the room became charged with ozone. The crows outside cawed and threw themselves against the magically-protected window. Dennis felt the air around him change, become heavy, press in on him from all sides. He saw the shadows in one corner of the room darken and solidify, elongate and take on the shape of something winged and monstrous. It appeared to be made as much out of darkness as it was out of anything solid. The creature’s form twitched and blurred into the shadows around it. What little Dennis could make out was mostly piecemeal images: ebony feathers, a long and wickedly serrated beak, eyes fathomless and dark; each image was only an individual fragment of a terrible whole.

  A sudden and total silence filled the room. Radu had stopped chanting and although Dennis could see the crows still crashing into the window, they made not a sound.

  “Welcome, oh great Harbinger of Hermes!” Radu addressed the shadowy thing in the corner, then bowed low…and then abruptly stiffened in fear. Looking down, he saw the thrown water bottle lying at his feet. He also saw that it was open and had spilled its contents. The water had washed away some of the sand of his magic circle, breaking the protection it offered.

  “Oh shit,” was all Radu managed to get out before the thing in the corner lunged at him with a mighty, room-shaking caw.

  You don’t want to see this, Dennis’ little voice warned, but Dennis, a slave as ever to his curiosity, couldn’t look away.

  The bird-thing landed within Radu’s ruined circle trailing feathers and tendrils of smoky shadow. Radu straightened up and raised his arms in front of his face in a futile gesture of defense. He began another of his arcane chants, but was only able to utter the single syllable of “Yog” before ebony talons buried themselves in his throat.

  Even from across the room Dennis could hear the sound of flesh tearing and the delicate click of claws scraping Radu’s spine as the creature tightened its grasp. As jets of crimson sprayed the walls, the copper tang of blood filled Dennis’ nose.

  Then Dennis’ head was filled with a sibilant whispering that cut ragged words into the soft folds of his brain. It was the voice of the Lord of the Wing.

  Greetingssss, Grigory, it said soundlessly. Long have you eluded ussss, but no more. To your final judgment I sssshall take you, but firsssst, assss payment for your inssssolence, ssssome pain. A ssssmall tasssste of what awaitssss you.

  Radu turned a wet, pleading eye towards Dennis. He extended a hand to the younger man, tried to beg, cry out, but the only sound that left his ruined throat was a red, bubbling gurgle.

  The crow-thing ran a wicked talon slowly down the side of Radu’s face, a lover’s caress filled with malice. The claw peeled flesh off in a dripping flap, like it was skinning a blood-filled apple. Black eyes, devoid of mercy and filled with terrible wisdom, then followed Radu’s outstretched arm and fixed on Dennis.

  Your tale issss not yet at an end, the hissing screech scalded into Dennis’ mind. And thissss issss not for your eyessss. Look no further, lesssss you learn too much.

  The window shattered at last under the relentless assault and the murder of crows flew into the room, an undulating mass of darkness. Dennis could feel them all around him, their feathers rushing past, their claws and beaks scratching at his flesh. Now that the birds were in the room, it was filled with their deafening cries, but even still he could hear the Harbinger clearly in his head. It was mirthlessly laughing.

  Almost simultaneously the feeling returned to Dennis’ lower body and he toppled over, sending sand and black feathers scattering. His legs were cramped and unresponsive, so he dug his fingers into the matted carpet and slowly clawed his way towards the door.

  Things wet and warm rained down on him and the carpet around Dennis became spotted with red as he pulled himself along. All around him were screams, the fluttering of wings, gurgling pleas in Russian, the snapping of bones, and the caws of the crows. Dennis kept his head down, eyes on the carpet, and focused on moving inches at a time out of this waking nightmare.

  Did you think you could esssscape the pull of the Black Gulf, little wizard? Your kind, ever ssssince they crawled out of the muck have thought yoursssselvessss sssso sssspecial. All but the Great Old Onessss come before ussss in time, and you are far removed from them.

  The crow-thing continued its psychic shriek as its claws made wet, ripping sounds in the quivering mass of bleeding meat with the one unmoving blue eye.

  At the door at last, Dennis used one arm to lift himself up and the other to reach for the doorknob. Fingers wrapped around the cold metal and Dennis allowed himself a little smile of a job well done before twisting it. He then let out a curse and fell back down to the carpet.

  The door was l
ocked and he was sure that Radu had the key.

  Ssssorry young one, but the ssssoundssss musssst sssstay within thissss room for I have only jusssst begun to play. If you were to open that door, you would let the ssssoundssss out.

  “No, no more, please,” Dennis cried, placing his hands against his ears in a vain attempt to block out the screeching in his head.

  Do you wissssh an esssscape from thissss?

  “Yes, yes!” he shouted over the din of the murder.

  Then witnessss what awaitssss your kind, until your mind can take no more and sssseekssss the comfort of oblivion. Behold, my gift to you.

  Images then slammed into his brain so fast and strange that Dennis couldn’t make sense of them, but even in half realized mental glimpses, they burned. Undulating masses twisting in the lightless reaches of space, an abandoned city both alien and coldly beautiful choked in yellow mist by a still lake with something monstrous just below the surface, another city beneath the waves wreathed in shadow, madness, and death, barrel-shaped monstrosities playing with the primordial ooze they found and not only accidently creating life, but the things that would one day consume it.

  There was more, so much more, but as the Black Flyer had said, the rest Dennis lost to sweet oblivion as he slipped away into unconsciousness.

  Dennis awoke with a start and a scream. His sudden movement stirred up the crow feathers that lay all around and on him, and seeing them flutter caused him to scream again.

  He looked about the room, there were hundreds of black feathers, two scattered circles of red sand, gleaming shards of glass from the broken window, but not a single drop of blood, nor any other trace of Radu save for a pile of shredded clothing in a heap by the bed.

  Dennis stood on stiff legs and limped over to the pile of torn garments. Bending, knees popping, he riffled through the torn and blood-free cloths until he found the key attached to the plastic tag with Sunshine Harvest Motel pressed into it.

  Straightening up, he looked at the ancient papyrus scroll that lay where it had fallen, and then to the green covered Cultus Maleficarum on the bed next to Radu’s – or was that Grigory’s – suitcase.

  Dennis looked at the old book with its terrible, wonderful secrets and thought long and hard about the possibilities it offered.

  Then the image of the Harbinger of Hermes peeling away the old wizard’s face from his skull like a rubber Halloween mask flooded Dennis’ mind. He shook his head back and forth to clear it, and when the phantasm had left him, he was looking down by his left shoe where something round and blue stared up at him.

  Radu’s glass eye, like his torn clothes, was all that was left of the man.

  “Fuck that,” Dennis whispered and turned to unlock the door.

  Once back in his own room he grabbed his suitcase, which he never even unpacked last night, and left for the lobby.

  Out by the registration desk, Jim was still wearing the cowboy costume, minus the cheap felt hat, and was talking to an older, heavyset man, probably his dayshift replacement.

  “Hey, Amazing Kraygen, happy day after Halloween. Getting an early start on things?” Jim smiled a weary ‘I haven’t been to bed yet’ smile.

  “Yes, and it’s just Dennis, not Kraygen. By the way, can you tell me whether anything…weird happened last night?”

  Jim and the other man exchanged looks and then the younger one answered. “Nope. Nothing out of the ordinary. Why, you hear something last night?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Uhm, buddy, you got something…” The older man said and pointed to Dennis’ head.

  Dennis reached up and plucked a long black feather out of his hair.

  “So, you off to do some more magic then, Dennis?” Jim asked, picking up the checkout paperwork.

  Dennis thought for a second. “No. I think I’m going to go back home to Michigan and pick up accounting again. It’s a lot safer.”

  He signed the papers, handed back his room key, and walked out into the sun-bathed, early morning parking lot toward his dependable old Ford. His little inner voice piped up, You know, this is a good idea. Accounting is good, dependable, well-paying work. Why I bet if you went home and contacted the old firm they’d be happy to hire you back. Oh and you could look up Lisa, you know she always had a thing for you… On and on the little voice went, and this time Dennis agreed with everything it had to say.

  The Grey Rite of Azathoth

  By Robert M. Price

  I write in great haste. I must needs set down my recent experience while I am able, for I do already feel the memory fading and failing, as a dream flees with the dawn, as I was told. While no man is entitled to expunge from his memory any knowledge, even if it be possible, I confess I shall not mourn the flight of that recollection which I am presently to lose. And yet the knowledge may someday prove of value, even of great necessity, for the good of mankind. I shall not consult this account again, but shall lock it away for any who come after, whoever they may be, as Providence shall decree.

  My name, John Checkley, will likely be familiar to you. Upon my arrival in the Colony of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, subsequent to certain much-noised difficulties in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, I waxed curious concerning a notorious resident whose acquaintance I could not make in my new congregation of King’s Church, as he frequented the Congregational Church instead. The man’s name was Joseph Curwen. By all accounts, Mr. Curwen, a prosperous but secretive merchant prince, was the possessor of a keen intellect and of numerous esoteric scholarly interests. I ventured to call upon him and was welcomed quite cordially, contrary to all I had been told of his supposed reclusivity. I was relieved to find him wholly congenial as a host and convivial as a companion. I soon learned how much we had in common, as we had each traveled extensively through the capitols of Europe, sampling liberally the rich opportunities there afforded to the seeker after knowledge of the unseen realms. I, of course, sought an education in the field of theology, of which I made ample use in my later controversies with the Calvinists of Puritan Massachusetts. Curwen’s quest inclined him to more arcane pursuits of a medieval character. I should not hesitate to brand the speculations implicit in his cryptical hints as heresy, but I have long championed sectarian tolerance, and if Joseph Curwen could be persecuted for unorthodox beliefs, so could the Quakers and the Baptists, a thing I decried in print. I now know, to my chagrin, that even enlightened tolerance must draw boundaries.

  Joseph Curwen’s manner of conversation produced in me strangely mixed sensations of expectancy and of apprehension. There was no guessing what he might say next. One was eager and yet frightened to receive the next revelations, mercifully cloaked in ambiguity as they might be. But things were about to become altogether too perspicuous.

  “Dr. Checkley, I am of course familiar with your theological polemics and with the courage which moves you to advance them against those less amicable than yourself. I should like both to reward and to test that courage. Indeed, I have reserved to you a great privilege accorded to no divine in the history of Christendom.”

  I confess that the grandiose character of this utterance at once took me aback. In truth, Curwen’s words were so extreme as to compel their hearer to question their speaker’s sanity. And he had not even got to the hinted disclosure. I replied, “Mr. Curwen, whatever you intend, I am sure there are many who are more deserving than I. I would only puff myself up with vain pride should I accept the favor with which you tempt me.”

  “So you compare yourself to our Saviour and me to his diabolical tempter.”

  He had taken me by surprise, and I knew myself for a woodland creature caught in a trap. There was naught for it but to laugh and to let my host proceed.

  “I dare say, Mr. Checkley, that, as a clergyman in the Church of England, you are a believer in the resurrection of Jesus Christ; am I correct in that opinion?”

  “Of course you are, sir. And what of it?”

  “Then I fear a grave duty has falle
n to me. I must inform you of the error of your sincere belief.”

  As Curwen himself had already mentioned, I was no stranger to polemic and debate on religious subjects. I had met more than one Deist in public debate as well as in pamphlet wars. Their futile arguments aimed at refuting the resurrection of our Lord did not shake my faith in the least degree. I did not fear aught that Curwen, now seemingly revealed as an infidel, might propose. I braced myself to engage in the tiresome rhetorical motions entailed in these exchanges. But I quickly found that such was not after all what my host had in mind. He continued.

  “Do you think me a religious skeptic? A denier of all things supernatural desirous of winning you to my opinions? Let me assure you: that is antipodal to the truth. In truth, I aim to confirm your faith, that and more! For in truth, Jesus the son of Joseph did not return from his death sixteen centuries agone. But rise he will. Today. And it shall be done by your own word.”

  I glanced over in the direction of the door by which I had entered. My one thought was now to take my leave with as little offense and mutual embarrassment as possible. It had become inescapably clear that Joseph Curwen was beside himself. What he might be planning next I could not guess, but I did not fear violence. Nothing in his manner, his words, or his movements suggested such. But I had no desire to be the audience of a sad spectacle of pathetic madness such as now seemed likely to commence.

  Wordlessly beckoning me with a wave of the hand, Curwen strode into an adjacent room. It would now be a simple matter for me to head for the opposite door. Yet to do so would be unconscionably rude, as foolish as this may seem. Besides, my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I could not resist the lure of whatever charade he might have in mind. So, yes, I rose and followed him. The trail led through several small rooms and down a twisting flight of crudely hewn steps. My apprehension was growing as I realized that, the deeper we descended, the more difficult it would be to escape should there prove to be aught from which to escape. Perhaps we all have a dangerous dose of Faust inside us; I only hoped, in vain, as it would prove, that Joseph Curwen did not possess rather too much of it.