The Dark Rites of Cthulhu (22 page)

“Power cut?” Robson asked.

The butler hissed through his teeth and said, “Master’s orders.”

“Ah, so he’s in then? Good.” Robson stepped forward and moved past the man into the dimly lit foyer. There were candlesticks here too, barely dispelling the gloom. He heard Jessup come in behind him. “Sir, don’t you think—”

There was a loud, dull thump, and Robson turned to see Jessup crumble to the floor; the butler, with panic on his face, stood behind him with the candlestick holder raised.

“I, er…” the butler mumbled, and although still in shock, Robson stepped forward and slammed the old man square in the face. The butler went down, unconscious to the floor. Rubbing his smarting knuckles Robson kneeled. He felt a momentary regret for hitting someone so obviously feeble, then took handcuffs from his coat pocket and cuffed the man’s hands behind his back.

While he was checking on Jessup, who he found was unconscious but breathing steadily, a voice issued from upstairs.

“Wendell, bring me more candles.”

The voice was unmistakably De Racine’s. Edgy over this turn of events, Robson steeled himself, checked Jessup once more, and crept up the stairs, slowly, taking two at a time. No candles illuminated the shadowy upstairs, but a door to the left of the top of the stairs stood ajar and more candlelight flickered from within. He approached with caution, for he could hear movement inside. When he reached the door he paused, for inside he spied a strange looking device stood upon a table.

What on earth?

The size of a typewriter, the thing was formed from tubes of copper and clusters of unlit bulbs. Metal cylinders were visible beneath the outer fittings, and it appeared inert. Still, it bore a slight violet glow about it. Robson had never seen anything like it. Stepping closer, he saw it was connected to two twelve-volt batteries.

He flinched as the door swung open, De Racine appearing in the gap. His face ablaze with anger, he was dressed in a scarlet smoking jacket. He held a revolver pointed directly at Robson’s chest.

“I do believe you’re trespassing.” He said with a snarl. “Raise them, slowly.”

Robson raised his hands and stared from the revolver to De Racine’s face.

“Just a moment, sir,” De Racine said, and keeping the gun aimed at Robson, he edged towards the strange machine. He placed his hand beneath the cluster of bulbs and Robson heard the click of a switch.

The machine started to sputter, a strange liquid sound that made Robson queasy. Then the noise levelled out, becoming a low drone that made the hairs stand up on his arms. The violet tint grew, throbbed brightly, and then became other colours he couldn’t put a name to.

“Now come in, then remain still,” De Racine said, “I will shoot the second you do anything.”

Robson stepped into the room, saw candles on low tables and bare plaster walls flickering with shadows in the candlelight. The floor was bare board beneath his feet. Adding to the lack of illumination, his vision dimmed as whatever sound the machine emitted had a strange hallucinogenic effect on him. He blinked and shook his head as the room faded completely, replaced by something cathedral-sized, filled with twisted stone pillars and deformed statues. The black, titanic stone blocks throbbed with a violet aura, the statues; things resembling mutated women wrapped with violating spidery limbs and tentacles, mouthed silent obscene ecstasies. Swaying on his feet Robson looked up, saw deep space between the cathedral’s broken roof filled with red suns and stars and planets oscillating in deranged dizzying motion that coalesced into De Racine’s leering face.

“You like my temple? It was seeing this that gave me the idea of using Highgate for the rituals. And wherever I take the machine, the temple follows. Now again, don’t move.”

Robson couldn’t if he tried. Ashamed of it as he was, he was utterly terrified of this unearthly turn of events – hallucination or not.

“Machine, what sort of machine?” He said with difficulty. “What’s its purpose?”

“Bringing our worlds together through miscegenation,” De Racine said and backed away. The temple faded, the usual contours of the room re-appearing in its place, although they were starker now, brighter than before, the colours subtly wrong.

“Loretta? Loretta, come in now,” De Racine said and a moment later, a door to Robson’s right, almost invisible in the earlier shadows, opened.

A young woman, late teens, stepped into Robson’s field of vision. Long blonde hair, she was slim, beautiful, and wore a scarlet kimono decorated with flamingos. The colours on the kimono throbbed like the machine. She smiled at Robson, and embraced De Racine.

“These types are so easy to get hold of you know.” De Racine said. “Hang around a book shop reading Aleister Crowley and they appear like bees around honey. Are you ready my dear? Ready to commune with the Devil?”

The girl nodded, and De Racine undid her kimono. It slipped to the floor to reveal a naked form that De Racine proceeded to kiss, from her neck down to her breasts before he backed off, turning to Robson with a lascivious grin.

“You want to join in?” he said. “Always better when more than one performs with the Beast.” He raised the gun to Robson’s head. Behind De Racine, the room faded, became the cathedral-like place again, and then returned to its usual form. Usual, except that eerie shapes had begun coalescing from the walls, rubbery lumps of multicoloured matter that seethed and shuddered as they filled the room.

Robson felt sweat building on his brow. The shapes, obviously alive in some form, moved through each other, or bounced off their companions. Some were congregating above the girl, growing feelers to stroke and explore her vulnerable form. She moaned, her head tossing around as her body convulsed in obscene ecstasy.

“These are mere minions, minor devils curious of the gateway between realms.” As De Racine spoke, one of the shapes passed through his head. As it did so, his eyes glowed violet.

“You’re a stranger to them, for now, so I cannot guarantee your safety should you move.” De Racine lowered the gun and backed slowly towards the girl. With his free hand he reached into his smoking jacket and produced a small, curved knife. He smiled at Robson. “Blood is needed to summon the Beast, blood and sigils. But you have witnessed that already, yes?”

De Racine knelt, stroked the girl’s stomach sensuously with the tip of the knife,
then placed the gun on the floor beside him. He pressed down with the knife, the girl yelped, and De Racine began carving ugly, twisted shapes into her flesh. He said, “The Beast can be eager, destructive with its failures, but, there is always more beautiful fodder.”

Entranced by this sordid scene, Robson didn’t notice a closer, more insidious threat, until one of the
entities was right beside his face. In a flash it entered him, and he screamed both inside and out as pain unimaginable tore his brain to shreds.

Robson found himself on his knees atop a blasted black mountain, dead grass like brittle white fingers surrounding him, thrust from grave earth blackness alive with squirming forms. The winds about him roared, howling in rage, screaming in his ears. His clothes buffeted about, he clutched his pounding head, screaming back at the wind and rolling onto his back. What he saw falling towards him from the sky froze the scream in his throat. His eyes watered, his jaw locking as his mouth issued a hoarse croak. The thing, the
Devil,
coming down on him resembled an obscene inkblot against the dark blue parchment of lightning-filled sky. And the blot had tentacles, flashing round like angry cats’ tails, shivering spider limbs and shiny black horns and gaping mouth upon mouth upon mouth…

“Come, Master!” De Racine screamed, and suddenly Robson found himself back in the room, on the floor beside the prone girl with De Racine squatting atop her, his arms raised to the ceiling where something black and horrible seeped through.

“Defile this virgin,” the maniac continued, as black tentacles roped into the girl. She shuddered and moaned at the violation. “Take this my—”

Robson cocked the hammer on De Racine’s discarded pistol, aiming it squarely at the man’s head. De Racine turned to him, wild eyed, his parchment-skinned face resembling a grinning skull. “Do it,” he said, “take me closer to my god.”

Robson turned the gun from De Racine’s head and aimed it at the machine. He pulled the trigger.

De Racine was arrested, dragged from his house in cuffs by a dazed but not too injured Jessup. He was eventually charged with three counts of murder, although Robson knew the truth, that it wasn’t a man that had killed the three youngsters at Highgate but something he had summoned from…where? Hell? Robson didn’t know, didn’t want to know.

He was just glad he survived that desperate encounter in De Racine’s house. The girl, Loretta Thomas, left the house hopelessly catatonic, just another victim of De Racine’s perverse lusts. Robson received a call from the mental hospital she was admitted to two months later. Loretta Thomas was pregnant. They suspected De Racine to be the father.

If only that were true.

But as the girl had left the house irreparably changed, so had Robson, for even now, six months later, he still saw those floating, amorphous shapes De Racine had summoned From Beyond. Mostly he saw them in the corner of his eyes, but sometimes, when he awoke shaking in the middle of the night, he would catch them hovering over his wife, and sometimes, leaving her body.

He tried explaining it away as delusion, the after-effects of the mental trauma he had suffered at the hands of De Racine. The things
couldn’t
still be here, not when he had so totally destroyed the machine, shooting it repeatedly while an agonized De Racine wept and begged for him to stop.

For the most part, Robson could deal with seeing the entities, but the other thing, the horror he had witnessed coming for him and the girl before her mind had broken and he had fired his shots? Sometimes he could feel it, on the peripheral of his senses, and he would look to the bedroom ceiling and wonder whether the moans his wife made in her sleep were mere nightmares alone.

By C. J. Henderson

"Forty years on, growing older and older,

   Shorter in wind as in memory long,

Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder

   What will it help you that once you were strong?"
                                                                                                       E.E. Bowen             

"You heard me--"

It was not that those present within earshot had not heard what the man had said.

"I want a refund."

It was simply that they could not believe their ears. A refund? For a house de-ghosting? While the confrontation escalated in the front room, back in his office Franklin Nardi closed his eyes--briefly. At least, that had been his intention, to cut himself off from the world for no more than, say, an extended blink. Really. He simply needed a second of darkness, had to remove himself from the world of light and reality for at least a moment.

Although, ultimately he had to admit, to do so was dangerous. The cool and comforting black was seductive in its feeling of relative safety. Some days, it seemed that every time he closed his eyes he felt a boiling apprehension he might never open them again. It was not a fear of dying, but rather of simply retreating from the world--of finding the appeal of separation from all mankind was too seductive, and that he had finally decided to give in because enough was enough.

"It seems to me, Mr. Douglas, sir," the voice of Mark Berkenwald, one of Nardi's partners in the Arkham Detective Agency, the sound of his words accompanied by the rustling of papers, "we have your signature here, signing off as an indication of your satisfaction with the job in question."

Nardi chuckled within his head at his partner's voice--Mark, always so calm, always able to put off an aggressor with little more than an excess of words. He also remembered the Douglas couple, remembered the job. He remembered losing his cool just a bit on the night he had spent in the old house. Arkham, like any town with an abundance of top drawer types, had money to burn. Recently among the well-to-do in that corner of New England, it had become fashionable for new home purchases to not be considered finished--or at least dignified--until said structure and its lands had been inspected for aberrations, both physical and other-worldly.