Cthulhurotica (21 page)

The waters were comforting, like the strangers’ presence, and I felt at peace despite the strangeness of the situation. I marveled at how realistic the dream was, and I asked, “Who are you? Please tell me, what is this place?”

“I am Shaya,” the woman said. She stepped toward me, embracing me tightly. Again I felt the galvanic response as our skin came in contact, and as I felt her breasts touch mine, I felt a melancholy longing for the kind of passionate touches I’d last experienced with Jenna. She pressed her lips to mine. They were slick with a thin layer of balm and tasted of honey; that erotic fire one feels at the kiss of a beloved partner coursed through my veins, centering in the sensitive cleft between my legs. I kissed back, and after a few seconds, she drew away. I was both astounded by the familiarity of the greeting and saddened that it had to end. Then the man took her place.

“I am Khellen,” he told me. He enfolded me in his muscular arms, and my knees grew weak at the feel of his hard musculature, and of the distinctly masculine bulge that pressed into my pubic mound. Memories of that night with Byron flooded my mind, and memories also of other men before Jenna, and I knew in that instant I wanted to experience with Khellen what I had with them.

He smelled faintly of grass and charcoal fire and manly sweat. I drew his scent in, breathing deeply as he kissed me, and electricity shot over my skin, making my nipples tighten and my nether regions tingle. I gripped his back lightly with my fingernails, and he gasped. He returned the gesture, bit my lip lightly, and added more passion to his kiss. Against my belly, I could feel his erection rise, and I moaned. With difficulty, I drew myself away.

“I feel as if I belong here,” I said softly, surprising myself, as I gazed into his eyes.

“You do, Merilyn,” said Shaya. “You are a part of us.”

“You always have been and ever shall be,” Khellen reiterated the words they had both spoken before.

I told them I didn’t understand.

“You would call this,” said Khellen with a sweeping gesture of our surroundings, “your world’s past.”

“But time,” added Shaya, “is not that rigid. In dreams, worlds meet, and time means little.”

“For now, you inhabit this world in your dreams,” Khellen said, “but on all worlds the Great Ones have touched, they have opened a portal whereby you might traverse the cosmic network of space and time and join us in physical form.”

“This,” said Shaya, “you have done and will do.”

They each grabbed one of my hands, and then each other’s, so we formed a triangle. I didn’t have long to wonder what was happening before my mind’s eye was flooded with images of past, present, and future, in which I was inseparable from Khellen and Shaya. As they had said, I was a part of them – their constant companion, friend, and lover. I knew then that life with them was my destiny, and I felt a deluge of love.

There, in the water, we embraced, and before my rational mind knew what was happening, we had moved toward the shore and were making love, our bodies entwined in the warm, shallow waters, illuminated by their green glow and the stars above.

Three bodies, three sets of lips, three pairs of arms and legs, all intertwined. Khellen’s hardness alternated with the softness of Shaya’s body. My fingers traced the sharp angles of Khellen’s hips, and the smooth curves of his companion’s. They gripped his manhood and felt their way into Shaya’s moistened folds, and their fingers found their way into mine. Our lips met each other’s and explored each other’s bodies, with tongues darting playfully in and out of secret crevices. Then something else filled those crevices as well, as Khellen moved back and forth between me and Shaya, showing both tenderness and all-out lust, meted out in equal amounts. I could tell that he loved me as much as he did Shaya, though I was new there, and Shaya offered to me the same passion she did to Khellen. As for me, I loved them too, and found them equally beautiful, for different reasons.

Hours passed, and I found myself brought to the point of ecstasy uncountable times. I know my lovers also reached those heights, but at some point, I stopped noticing. I simply gave in to the pleasure, letting go as we joined together, laughing, gasping, moaning, splashing in the waters near the shore.

The hours there in that Dreamland led to days, and days to weeks, during which I learned more about the world, in those spare moments when I wasn’t enjoying the physical contact of my companions, either separately or together. I came to understand my connection to Khellen and Shaya, that we truly were one at the deepest level, and that I had known that, somehow, in the depths of my soul all my life. That was why I had found myself attracted to Jenna and Byron – because they were, superficially, images of my true soulmates.

It’s difficult to be back here, without them. But I know I’ll see them again soon. In my vision that night at the lake, I saw the future, and I know where to find the portal, which the silver key will open. This will be my last entry, for tonight will be my last on colonial Mars. The past calls out to me. I will go to meet it, to spend eternity in the thrall of love.

CATEGORIES: LIFE, RELATIONSHIPS | TAGS: FINAL ENTRY | SHOW AUTOGENERATED LINKS

Steven James Scearce
THE ASSISTANT FROM INNSMOUTH

It was in the fall of 1937 that my bureau dispatched my services from Boston to the old Whateley estate in the Miskatonic Valley, near Dunwich, in Northeastern Massachusetts. I was to act as legal executor of the estate, tasked with cataloging the various properties on site for a complete valuation of the assets of the now-deceased Dr. J. S. Whateley.

My journey to the Miskatonic Valley was long and arduous, made only somewhat bearable by the cruising comforts of the spacious 1935 Ford Eifel hired for me by the estate. As this transport and all its creature comforts were of no small expense, I was naturally puzzled by the assignment. Nevertheless, I took pleasure in stretching out across the seats to the rear of the car, allowing the driver to take his time, and watching curiously as the wonders and mysteries of the unfamiliar valley played out before me during the long journey to Dunwich.

The valley itself was wondrously dusky and quiet, although somewhat ominous. Massive trees of deep green foliage populated the whole of the valley and at no point in my journey was my vehicle ever without cover of deep shade. The central aspect of the valley was the Miskatonic River, a broad, dark watercourse that babbled rapid but quiet, as if whispering urgent secrets that only creatures of the water could hear and comprehend.

The Whateley Estate
Galen Dara

Near the border to New Hampshire, some thirty miles below the mouth of the river, was Dunwich and the Whateley estate – my final destination. The property, upon first sight, was more peculiar tusehan I could have ever imagined. The grounds were overgrown and populated by scrubby, weather-worn trees – ill-kept by whatever staff and groundsmen were employed by the late Dr. Whateley.

The house was old but not decrepit. Four stories in height and perched high atop an incredibly-steep hill, it was a large wood frame construction in Stick Style architecture, with steeply pitched slate roofs topped by iron cresting. When I noticed no view of the river, my driver politely informed me that the river pooled up against the backside of the hill and broke into one steady flow around the west side to the valley. I commented that it was amazing that the river had not washed away the lonesome hill – to which the driver only replied with a soft chuckle.

I stared in wonder at the huge house. As we neared, the house grew larger, consuming the view ahead of the car. In the winding ride up the main drive, I counted thirteen chimneys across the expansive rooftop. The house was, for lack of a better word, monstrous.

I did not find these mandatory travel assignments particularly enjoyable. It was my assumption that family men from the company were not chosen for these assignments due to the strain it placed on the relations at home. As a bachelor without siblings or living parents, I was routinely selected. As much as I disagreed with their methods, I approached every travel assignment with great speed and efficiency. It was my belief that the proper end to any demanding assignment was an orderly stack of detailed reports and a quick journey home.

Upon arrival, I was met at the door by Barnabas, a bent, ruddy-faced man who was acting as caretaker to the interior of the estate since just after the passing of Dr. Whateley. That evening, Barnabas gave me a quick tour of the common areas about the house. He made sure that I was comfortable with the provisions in the kitchen and showed me to my room. Exhausted from my day of travel, I put myself to bed and slept somewhat soundly through the night.

In the morning, just after a small breakfast of eggs, sausages and tea, Barnabas allowed me access to the libraries, offices, and private rooms in the house. As I was introduced to the vast assortment of books and oddities collected by the late Dr. Whateley, I found myself wide-eyed and speechless.

It was a museum of horrors. The rooms were filled with ancient books of strange language and origin, occult statuary, weird tapestries, ceremonial weapons, idols and charms depicting bizarre sea creatures, and wall sculptures too vulgar to ponder for any length of time. The only area of the house that I was not allowed to access was the cellar. But after viewing the contents of the private rooms, I did not wish to journey past the locked cellar door for any reason. I would gladly confine my efforts to the main floors of the house. I swallowed my fears and set to work.

Competent and professional as I was, I felt quickly out of my depth with the assets found in the Whateley house and jotted off a nervous message back to the company for immediate aid. Within a day, I received a telegram in reply. Their message stated that assistance would be sent from a sister company in the Innsmouth region. I was to expect a young woman familiar with the type of property on the estate. She would be most willing to help.

As I began pouring over stacks of ancient books and rooms of puzzling old relics, I wondered just what kind of woman would be familiar with the contents of this atrocious collection – and would I actually want to meet such a person.

On the morning the assistant from Innsmouth came to the Whateley estate, I was working over a new stack of tomes, found in one of a number of old trunks. Although seawater or some such corrosive had eaten away at the locks, I managed to pry the trunks open one-by-one. In the first trunk was a collection of thirty-three leather-bound books that consisted of a few journals, a handful of tomes on occult philosophy, and an assortment of other books so arcane and baffling that I didn’t know quite what to make of them. All were wrapped in a wine-colored ceremonial robe that was adorned with a bizarre assortment of dark runes and symbols. I was nearly at wit’s end. Who were the Whateleys? What did they do here? In my unprepared mind, I couldn’t add it all up. That’s when she arrived.

Barnabas showed the assistant into the house and escorted her to the second floor library where I was working. I was immediately consumed by her appearance. She was uncommonly beautiful. But something about her didn’t look right. She was fashionably thin, but not gaunt. She had a full mouth and lips, high cheekbones, a well-defined jaw line, and a sharp nose. Her skin was pale, almost winter white, but her eyes were large and dark and deep.

Barnabas offered to take her overcoat. As she slipped from the sleeves, I stole a glance at her modest bust and shapely figure. She was dressed smartly. Beneath her two-button double-breasted slate gray overcoat, she wore a thin white blouse with small silver buttons. Her gray cotton skirt widened softly below the hip and reached only to mid-calf. She wore no jewelry and no wedding ring. Adding to the striking nature of her appearance, she allowed her silky, bone-white hair to hang down to her shoulders; this was unfashionably casual for a professional of her gender.

She stepped cautiously into the room, her expression blank; her eyes blinked and flitted from one pile of books and relics to another. She looked at me.

“Are you Mr. Combs, the executor on the premises?” she asked, in a deep, resonating voice marked with a strange, cold accent. Was it Bulgarian? Romanian?

“Yes. That’s me,” I replied, standing up from the trunk of odd books.

“I was told that you are having trouble with the assets on the property. What are you attempting to do here, Mr. Combs?”

“I am here to wind up the estate for the late Dr. Whateley, catalog his earthly assets, and protect his property until all debts and taxes have been settled.” I put out my hand to shake with her, or kiss her hand, depending on how she offered hers to me.

She stared intently at me, unmoving, silent. She was like a life-sized porcelain doll with eyes painted in India ink.

“And you are –” I began.

“I understand now,” she said, cutting me short. “I can help you with the identification of the items on the property. I have some experience.”

“What exactly is your background, Miss–?” I trailed off, still not knowing her name.