The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales) (97 page)

Too awed even to hint theories, the seven shaking men trudged back toward Arkham by the north road. Ammi was worse than his fellows, and begged them to see him inside his own kitchen, instead of keeping straight on to town. He did not wish to cross the blighted, wind-whipped woods alone to his home on the main road. For he had had an added shock that the others were spared, and was crushed forever with a brooding fear he dared not even mention for many years to come. As the rest of the watchers on that tempestuous hill had stolidly set their faces toward the road, Ammi had looked back an instant at the shadowed valley of desolation so lately sheltering his ill-starred friend. And from that stricken, far-away spot he had seen something feebly rise, only to sink down again upon the place from which the great shapeless horror had shot into the sky. It was just a colour—but not any colour of our earth or heavens. And because Ammi recognized that colour, and knew that this last faint remnant must still lurk down there in the well, he has never been quite right since.

Ammi would never go near the place again. It is forty-four years now since the horror happened, but he has never been there, and will be glad when the new reservoir blots it out. I shall be glad, too, for I do not like the way the sunlight changed colour around the mouth of that abandoned well I passed. I hope the water will always be very deep—but even so, I shall never drink it. I do not think I shall visit the Arkham country hereafter. Three of the men who had been with Ammi returned the next morning to see the ruins by daylight, but there were not any real ruins. Only the bricks of the chimney, the stones of the cellar, some mineral and metallic litter here and there, and the rim of that nefandous well. Save for Ammi’s dead horse, which they towed away and buried, and the buggy which they shortly returned to him, everything that had ever been living had gone. Five eldritch acres of dusty grey desert remained, nor has anything ever grown there since. To this day it sprawls open to the sky like a great spot eaten by acid in the woods and fields, and the few who have ever dared glimpse it in spite of the rural tales have named it “the blasted heath.”

The rural tales are queer. They might be even queerer if city men and college chemists could be interested enough to analyze the water from that disused well, or the grey dust that no wind seems to disperse. Botanists, too, ought to study the stunted flora on the borders of that spot, for they might shed light on the country notion that the blight is spreading—little by little, perhaps an inch a year. People say the colour of the neighboring herbage is not quite right in the spring, and that wild things leave queer prints in the light winter snow. Snow never seems quite so heavy on the blasted heath as it is elsewhere. Horses—the few that are left in this motor age—grow skittish in the silent valley; and hunters cannot depend on their dogs too near the splotch of greyish dust.

They say the mental influences are very bad, too; numbers went queer in the years after Nahum’s taking, and always they lacked the power to get away. Then the stronger-minded folk all left the region, and only the foreigners tried to live in the crumbling old homesteads. They could not stay, though; and one sometimes wonders what insight beyond ours their wild, weird stories of whispered magic have given them. Their dreams at night, they protest, are very horrible in that grotesque country; and surely the very look of the dark realm is enough to stir a morbid fancy. No traveler has ever escaped a sense of strangeness in those deep ravines, and artists shiver as they paint thick woods whose mystery is as much of the spirits as of the eye. I myself am curious about the sensation I derived from my one lone walk before Ammi told me his tale. When twilight came I had vaguely wished some clouds would gather, for an odd timidity about the deep skyey voids above had crept into my soul.

Do not ask me for my opinion. I do not know—that is all. There was no one but Ammi to question; for Arkham people will not talk about the strange days, and all three professors who saw the aerolite and its coloured globule are dead. There were other globules—depend upon that. One must have fed itself and escaped, and probably there was another which was too late. No doubt it is still down the well—I know there was something wrong with the sunlight I saw above the miasmal brink. The rustics say the blight creeps an inch a year, so perhaps there is a kind of growth or nourishment even now. But whatever demon hatchling is there, it must be tethered to something or else it would quickly spread. Is it fastened to the roots of those trees that claw the air? One of the current Arkham tales is about fat oaks that shine and move as they ought not to do at night.

What it is, only God knows. In terms of matter I suppose the thing Ammi described would be called a gas, but this gas obeyed the laws that are not of our cosmos. This was no fruit of such worlds and suns as shine on the telescopes and photographic plates of our observatories. This was no breath from the skies whose motions and dimensions our astronomers measure or deem too vast to measure. It was just a colour out of space—a frightful messenger from unformed realms of infinity beyond all Nature as we know it; from realms whose mere existence stuns the brain and numbs us with the black extra-cosmic gulfs it throws open before our frenzied eyes.

I doubt very much if Ammi consciously lied to me, and I do not think his tale was all a freak of madness as the townsfolk had forewarned. Something terrible came to the hills and valleys on that meteor, and something terrible—though I know not in what proportion—still remains. I shall be glad to see the water come. Meanwhile I hope nothing will happen to Ammi. He saw so much of the thing—and its influence was so insidious. Why has he never been able to move away? How clearly he recalled those dying words of Nahum’s—“Can’t git away—draws ye—ye know summ’at’s comin’ but tain’t no use—” Ammi is such a good old man—when the reservoir gang gets to work I must write the chief engineer to keep a sharp watch on him. I would hate to think of him as the grey, twisted, brittle monstrosity which persists more and more in troubling my sleep.

DOWN IN LIMBO, by Robert M. Price

(Dedicated to the Memory of James Wade)

Larry’s eyes scanned the menu and paused at “squid”—then moved on. The University dining room was staffed by culinary students from a near-by community college, and he wasn’t exactly sure he trusted their expertise in seafood. That poor mollusk might take its revenge!

He finally decided to play the gentleman and order a second plate of whatever Barb was having. It wouldn’t be too much of a risk, he reasoned, since one of the things that had made him like her so much so quickly was the uncanny way she shared his likes and dislikes.

Larry was a teaching assistant finishing his doctorate across the campus and down the block at the Sanbourne Institute, which had been absorbed by the University only a year ago. The underpopulated field of Undersea Archaeology was his real passion, and to make any money from it, at least in the short run, he found himself teaching an improbable hybrid slate of courses in ancient languages and oceanography. Barbara Gilbert was a student in a Marine Biology section he taught. She was a nut on the subject, it turned out. And it didn’t take long before Barbara was Larry’s real passion.

He liked just about everything about her. He’d had other relationships, abortive ones, where it turned out he was more the object of hero worship than affection. But between him and Barb there was not only the link of mutual admiration, but mutual desire as well. And, like positive and negative poles in electricity, you had to have both.

After she ordered, Barb handed over the menu and quizzed her pensive partner, “How’s the dissertation going? Near the home stretch yet?”

“No, I only wish I were. It’s a long haul, and yet I do feel that perhaps I’m near some kind of a breakthrough. Today I finally got those rubbings of the glyphs they found last year on the Bimini Wall. Nobody suspected there was anything there till some surveyors picked up something strange with infrared photography, all purely by accident. At first they thought it was just scoring, maybe trails left by some form of sea-life.”

Barb’s pretty green eyes widened as she listened. Larry warmed to his topic. It was great to have a listener who didn’t have to feign interest.

“Anyway, it turned out to be real writing, though not at all clear. And bigger than you’d think would be necessary.”

Barbara took his hand and spoke with real enthusiasm. “And you’re sure no one’s done anything with these inscriptions before? Are you having to translate from scratch?”

“Well, actually, Professor Maitland did the earliest work on it, and that’s how I knew about it to begin with. There hasn’t been much in the way of real publicity, not even in the journals. The discussion has focussed mainly on a real strange puzzle. Somehow they can tell that the Bimini Glyphs—that’s what they’re calling them—were carved while they were submerged. Up to now everybody figured that the blocks formed part of a structure that was overwhelmed and covered when the coastline changed. But apparently not. And then you have to ask why the hell anyone would have carved those words into underwater masonry. For the fish to read?”

His dinner companion laughed brightly, and the food came. What do you know, fish after all. Well, live dangerously.

After a few mouthfuls that boded well enough, Barb asked him, “What did they say? The carvings.
Was
it some message to fish?”

“Ha! No, not exactly. Really, its still pretty conjectural. Seems to be a warning of some kind. It just possible that it was a sign alerting people not to disturb some undersea patch of vegetation or coral, maybe a fishery or hatchery. But those are just guesses. There really isn’t enough left to say for sure.”

“But you’re not doing your thesis on that.”

“No, you’re right. But I’m full of it just now, because there’s something in the shape of the characters of the inscription, they seem to be pictograms of some kind, that gives me a clue to what I am working on.”

“The Reliant Text? Is that it? I still can’t get it right.” She brushed back a strand of dark brown hair.

“Who knows? Maybe you are right, sweetheart. Nobody knows much better, that’s for sure. But the accepted way to say it is the Ril-Yay Text. Ever since that old Yankee trader Hoag brought it back from one of his voyages, scholars have scratched their heads over the thing. There’s never been a real translation of it, though once some hoaxers passed off what they said was a translated version of it…filled a whole paperback book. There’s not nearly enough text for that.

“In fact, that’s how I first heard of it. When I was a pimply junior high nerd, and as you will note, I’m now a well-groomed nerd with a clear complexion, I was reading all these stupid books like Churchward’s
Lost Continent of Mu
, and I think he mentioned it.”

Quietly munching through this speech, Barb now began to giggle, spraying a fish bone or two.

“Oh yes! I read that one, too! I kept hoping Nancy Drew would make a trip to Mu! I thought it was like Oz.”

“You were right the first time, Barb. Churchward was debunked as a faker long ago. Copeland, too. The worst of these guys was Shrewsbury, if you can even believe he was named that!”

“One thing’s for sure: you must have read them all.”

“Yeah, I did, as a matter of fact. And if you want to know the truth, that’s where I got the idea to go into this crazy field I’m in. When I got old enough to take the relevant science courses, I got a big dash of cold water. That’s when I learned these guys were all either con men or just didn’t know their stuff. I decided I’d be for real what these old guys were supposed to be, you know, do something to deserve the honors one or two of them got. You must have seen Copeland’s portrait in the entrance hall at Sanbourne. He was what passed for a scientist in those days. But he didn’t know a pictograph from an ideograph.”

“Neither did I, remember? In fact, I think that was my excuse for coming to see you that first time. You mentioned both in a lecture and I figured I’d as soon get private tutoring on that as anything else!”

“See? Even trivia has its uses!” Larry pushed away the empty plates and sidled around to sit beside Barb, putting his arm around her shoulder. “I guess you’re sick of the tutoring you’re getting tonight, though. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay, Larry, I did want to tell you something. I know you’ll think I’m being ‘unscientific’ and all, but I went with my room mate to see this channeler the other night…”

Larry Stanton, inflexible rationalist, stifled a groan a moment too late. But Barb just smiled and went on. “You can laugh at it if you want to, but I was just curious. And besides, it sounded like fun.”

“I bet it was loads of fun when they started sacrificing chickens. I know all about this stuff, remember. I watched
The Devil Rides Out
and
The Exorcist
and plenty of others in my day.”

“Oh, no!” She laughed, “It’s nothing like that! More like a church service, actually. We all sat down quietly and waited about ten minutes till the channeler came in. It was in one of the big meeting rooms in the University Center. I think we heard Carl Sagan there once. Anyway, they had these great lighting effects, deep greens and blues, like in some seafood restaurants. You felt like you were underwater. Come to think of it, you’d feel right at home!”

“Maybe I would. This is starting to get interesting. Go on. Say, seems like I once heard of some guy whose specialty was to channel the thoughts, or was it the vibes, of dolphins. And not the Miami kind either. Though I don’t think those guys have thoughts. Maybe we can order one for the Anthro Lab and find out…”

“Listen, Larry, you can laugh your ass off if you want to, but let me finish the story, OK?”

“Sorry. I’m duly chastened. You may continue. Just don’t say he was broadcasting from ancient Atlantis or something.”

“Well, he was.”

“And? I’m trying to be serious here. I promise, I’ll take whatever you say seriously.”

“He did past life regressions.”

“Figures. And?”

“I had him do mine,” she said and paused to wait for the explosion. But it didn’t come. She felt almost annoyed at this, for some reason, and asked why.

“This is getting interesting! Actually, I’m not quite as down on this stuff as I give out. Of course it’s hokum on one level. But I’m willing to admit that these people can get in touch with their subconscious, both the medium and the person who gets regressed. Reincarnation’s bullshit, of course, but regression is an interesting free-association sort of exercise. Psychodrama, I guess.”

“Coming from you, that’s almost a profession of faith!”

“Don’t make too much out of it. I’m going out of my way to be tolerant.”

“I can see that, Larry. But y’know what I think? I think you’re still so stung from being fooled by Churchward and those old frauds that you’re being skeptical as a defense mechanism. But you have to be open to new experiences.”

“I suppose so. That’s why I want you to tell me what happened when you were regressed.”

“OK, back to our story. Maybe you’re right and it was pure power of suggestion. But I felt that I was a priestess in ancient Atlantis, or at least some sunken civilization.”

Larry had imperceptibly moved away from her again. He wanted to look into her eyes as she talked. He had done this unconsciously. It was just that when they were on the same wavelength, they almost seemed to merge into one, like a set of twins. But when, as now, they differed, his body language reflected it. He faced her as an object of scrutiny, almost like one of his strange marine life-forms. And now he held up a finger to flag another interruption.

“Y’know, you were in a sunken continent, the kingdom of the subconscious. Jung knew it well. Seriously. Now, go ahead.”

Barb continued: “At first I didn’t think it had worked, the hypnosis or whatever it was. Because the light was the same as in the meeting room, all dark blue and green. I know that’s just dream imagery, right? Borrowing the background from waking life.”

Larry nodded.

“But this couldn’t have been taken from waking life. I had the most vivid sense of breathing water! This wasn’t Atlantis before it sank! It was already sunk, and we lived in it! That’s why I’m mentioning this! It’s just like your Bimini Wall!”

“Damned if it isn’t!”

“I was naked, I know, because there was no place I couldn’t feel the water on me. And I was walking in line with a whole group of women. Or…I’m not sure of that. They were all naked, and none of them had anything between their legs. And, uh, we were all…
bald
…! I had forgotten that till now.”

Larry’s analytical mood had passed. He was back at her side again, holding her. It was as if she were a child having a bad dream, or someone having a bad trip. And he was extending a hand to keep her in the real world.

“Where were you all going? What were you doing? Did you feel like you were drowning?”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t that, because once when I was ten I nearly did drown. There was none of the panic, the clutching, the blacking out. It felt as natural as…a fish in water!

“And we were walking up, kind of gliding, really, along a beautiful coral reef, you know, like you see when you go snorkeling: everything is absolutely brilliant and glowing. It overcomes you, and you feel like you’re trespassing in someone else’s world.

“Anyway, we got to where we were going, and this is the hard part. We seemed to be crawling down a hill, a big tilted plane, really, and we had to be careful not to lose our balance, but when we made it there, we were at the top of the thing!”

“What thing?”

“Something like a huge garage door, or those shutter doors behind a house, leading down into a basement. Some kind of stuff was coming up from a narrow crack of an opening, and it was, like, smoking up through the water. And then we stopped and we looked down at the crack, and we all just stood there, as if we were waiting for something to happen, and it never did. I had the feeling I wanted to sing something—under water! But I didn’t know the words. That’s when I woke up.”

“Barb, I’m sorry; I can see this thing really moved you. I don’t mean to make light of it. Are you feeling okay? Are you—?”

“Larry, I’m fine! It wasn’t scary at all. I guess I speak of it with a kind of amazement, that’s all. In fact, I don’t think I’d mind going through it again.”

“If you do, promise you’ll tell me what happens. I promise, next time no smartass remarks.”

“Sure, Larry, sure I will. And maybe you can come along. I think the channeler has regular meetings, or performances, or whatever, at a New Age store with an auditorium downtown. It would be something fun to do together. And besides, you could use a break from your work.”

“I could, that’s true. But I better wait till the Midterms are over. I’ll have piles of papers and exams to slog through—like sea-floor ooze!”

Larry paid the check and they headed off to the off-campus housing complex. Barb’s roommate was away, so they passed the night there. Larry forgot to set the clock and got to class the next morning just in the nick of time. He’d had little chance to prepare for his lecture, but luckily most of the students wanted to ask questions about the Lab two days before. For once he was grateful they were so obtuse.

When that was over, he shuffled out of the building and down the block to his office at Sanbourne. The pebble-glass door was ajar. This did not alarm him, since it was a cubbyhole shared with two other part-timers. Either of them might have been there. But neither was.

Instead it was the tweed-clad form of the gaunt Professor Maitland. Typically he was standing, not sitting, holding up a sheaf of papers to the window.

“Sorry, Stanton, I was just impatient to see what progress you’d made on the Text in light of the Bimini evidence. Not much, I see. Too deeply submerged with that young lady.”

Tossing his jacket like a shapeless bag over the top of the coat rack, Larry replied, “I guess you’re right, Professor, but I can’t be a cold fish all the time. But the Glyphs are a big help. Almost like a Rosetta Stone. I guess you expected that. I swear I’ll have it done by the end of the semester, at least in draft. The
Text
isn’t long, and it should progress pretty rapidly from here on in.”