Cthulhurotica (10 page)

“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.