The Dark Rites of Cthulhu (25 page)

"It took decades for this place to sell. I was reduced--spent. Desiccated. Then, the ages of neglect meant repairs had to be made. I had to wait for someone to move in for so long. By then even the spell I had invoked to keep me tethered here was starting to fade away. Without nourishment, I could not sustain its power. I was so tempted to take you when you opened yourself to me, but no, I waited. And do you know why, Franklin?"

The assembly was distracted as Julie Douglas slid down the wall, collapsing to the floor. Mortonson had pulled too much from her, leaving her unable to move under her own power. The distraction allowed Nardi a full four seconds outside of the monstrosity's control. The first one and a half were wasted as he struggled simply to reconnect with his own nervous system. The next two were lost fumbling to shove his hand into his jacket pocket. As the creature across from him finished chuckling over the woman's fate, in the final half-second his fingers closed on his control device--

"I'll tell you why I waited, Franklin--"

And suddenly the security man found his control slipping, fading like the colors of the evening sky as
the Sun drifted behind the horizon, surrendering all unto night.

"Because I wasn't about to settle for an old fool's body." Screw you, Nardi screamed within his mind. I might be a fool--

"Death would have been better."

But I'm not old--

Rage fueling him--anger aimed squarely at Mortonson, fury at himself--Nardi forced his fingers together, sliding the contact button on the bar control in his pocket, hissing into his lapel mic at the same instance--

"Now!"

Outside in their company van, Galtoni and Berkenwald reacted immediately, the first jumping out of the vehicle and heading for the house, the latter flipping the switch that started their speaker system broadcasting. It had been Renee that had suggested loud noise as a way of cutting through the control of whatever power was inside the house. The crew had decided on a double series--one of random heavy metal clips, none more than ten seconds each, the second a blending of high decibel electronic screeches. As every dog within a half-mile began to bark or whimper insanely, the Douglas-thing staggered, clawing at its ears.

As the horror cried out in agony, Nardi snapped into action.

Without hesitation the security man placed his hands under the edge of the kitchen table and flipped it upward, pushing it in Mortonson's direction. As it struck, Renee regained her senses, hurriedly digging into her bag. She managed to pull forth a small plastic container of powder she had prepared the night before. As she pried open its lid, the monstrosity managed to fling the table aside. Crawling back to its feet, it moved on the witch, just as Berkenwald reached the kitchen. As Renee screamed--

"Do it
!
"

The detective clicked on the over-sized strobe light assembly he had dragged in from the van. The horror threw its arms upward, shielding its eyes--screeching as the witch flung her container of powder over the forms of both Edward and Julie Douglas, chanting as she did so:

"Gel bin, de'sey... brougher kumbi... brougher kumbi... Gel bin, de'sey... brougher kumbi... brougher kumbi ..."

Mortonson screamed--the sound pouring from him a thing of unimaginable agony. Shielded from both the creature's terrible noise as well as the sounds from the van by the earplugs all of the team were wearing, Nardi moved forward to where Mrs. Douglas lay sprawled on the floor, scooping her up and heading for the door. Renee followed him slowly, backing toward the exit, continuing to curse Mortonson with her chant. As she watched the creature writhe, she spotted the moment when her powder along with her spell forced the spirit form from Douglas' body.

"Grab him," she cried out to Berkenwald who, already struggling with the heavy lights, shouted back;

"Are you kidding me?"

And then, before either could react further, the house began to groan. Mortonson's monstrous soul had retreated to the only sanctuary left to it, the home it knew so well. Desperate for sustenance, it immediately began to draw strength from its foundation of massive stones, its timbers--new and old--the plaster, the glass and pipes, tiles, latches, hinges--everything. And thus was its undoing.

As the witch and Berkenwald managed to struggle both the lights and Douglas outside, the ancient structure began to groan horribly. They were barely a yard away from the door when the sharp cracking of multiple rupturing beams began to be heard. The end came with an unbelievable abruptness. Having stolen so much of the vulgar dwellings solidity over the preceding few
decades, that which remained, even adding in the repairs made by the Douglases, proved to be nowhere near adequate to revive the retreating warlock.

As the team watched in near shock, the ground itself gave way, building and foundation and the very earth falling downward into a pit which swallowed not only the cursed structure but nearly all of its
acreage, plants and trees, walkways--everything. The fire that erupted, engulfing everything combustible, was eventually blamed on the ruptured gas line. Neither the Douglases nor anyone from the Agency saw any reason to argue the decision.

Over the following few weeks, both Edward and Julie made, if not full recoveries, steps far enough back to normalcy that they were content not to bring suit against the Arkham Detective Agency. In the end, they decided that even in a town as dark as the one in which they lived, the law was neither backward reaching or far-sighted enough to award damages in such a case. The settlement from their insurance, the gas company, and the original surveyors who had certified the land as stable was adequate for them to relocate.

"Besides," the somewhat restored Edward decided, "it was a nest of pain. Better it rot in whatever Hell it landed."

The Douglases did not rebuild on their lot. That was donated to the municipality of Arkham, to do with as it pleased. The town elders were given sufficient warning as to what might still lurk below the surface.

It is believed that adequate precautions were taken before any excavations were attempted.

Black T
allow

By Edward M. Erdelac

I hadn’t physically seen my old university roommate, Paul Woodson, in more than a decade, not since a few years after graduation when our lives really started to radically diverge. His began a rocketing climb that culminated in his establishment as the grand high financial wizard of a Fortune 500 multinational. Mine nosedived in a steady, occasionally desperate and perennial flounder that has left me what I always was, a translator of antique books, respected in circles much smaller than his, but nowhere near as successful, financially.

We kept in touch, of course, over the years, mainly via e-mails and the occasional phone call, perhaps mostly because of my extensive contacts in the rare book field, a subject which has never ceased its fascination for Paul.

That’s because he believes everything he has achieved has been thanks to the practice of magic. That was how we met, as furtive, over-serious young initiates, dabbling in Tarot cards and the intricacies of the Goetia, pretentiously spelling magic with a ‘k.’ We pored over the writings of John Dee, Simon Magus, and Eibon, and the three A’s of our higher education were Abramelin, Al-Hazred, and Alistair Crowley.

Yet when I, in my senior year, finally pronounced the whole business utter bullshit, and argued with Paul that no man can hope to harness and steer the chaotic winds of the universe by engaging in embarrassing tantric orgies and messy black chicken assassinations, Paul merely refrained from countering me, and continued on his path.

Time may judge which of us was correct.

That’s not to say I believe in magic now, but I believe in the human mind, and that personal magnetism may be trained like a muscle when the will is there, and made to domineer over lesser personalities. Paul had that will, and now he commands that magnetism and worldly power.

He is a multimillionaire, perhaps even a billionaire, is married to an achingly gorgeous former Parisian cat walker, with which he has fathered a bright young daughter. He has a bona fide fleet of vehicles (notice I didn’t say merely cars), and a senior officer’s position in a financial empire which literally spans the globe.

For him, dedication to magic, training his personality and intelligence via methods both arcane and scientific, has inarguably borne fruit. Maybe his study of bold ideas and meditation on complex alchemical formulas somehow helped him divine the erratic movements of the chaotic economic markets. Whatever his pursuits, he resides in that position all men crave. He needs nothing.

That was why, when he called me one day at the rare book dealer where I am on precarious retainer in Chicago, I was surprised to hear the old hunger still unabated in his tone.

I guess hungry men strive harder than the rest of us, but it was never worldly success Paul had craved in those years of scrying and scratching pentacles on the floor of our dormitory to call down the powers and thrones.  For him, the pursuit of magic had always been that old alchemical dream of self-actualization.  His own soul was the lead he wished to turn to gold, and that divine transmutation, he always said, only came with the attainment of ultimate knowledge.

But how could knowledge ever be ultimate? I’d always argued. It was folly on the level of Faust. No man could know all there was.

“The universe, its true nature,” he had told me once, a hungry, fiery look in his captivating eyes. “That’s the final answer worth attaining. To know that, its origin, its purpose, answers all other lesser questions by default. Life, death, love, transcendence, they’re all marginal concerns compared to that.”

He had been like an addict then, transitioning swiftly from gateway magical systems to harder, more
involved disciplines, casting aside traditions with exasperation when he rapidly mastered and consumed their most secret teachings and, in the end, found them lacking.

That anxious quiver was still in his voice. I could hear it even over the phone.

“Raymond,” he said without preamble, when I picked up the line. “I want you to drive up to see me this weekend. I have a book I’d like you to take a look at.”

Paul’s name was not unknown at the shop. He was one of our most loyal patrons. But although the owner chatted with him from time to time when he called to request some obscure tome, he never came in himself, and an invitation was unheard of.

“Paul. This weekend? I don’t even know where you live.”

“I’m in Hinsdale. I’ll give you the address. Do you have a pen? Or should I send a car?”

“No, no I can drive myself. What book is this?”

“I’d rather not say over the telephone. I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t even ask. Have you any plans?”

I can’t really afford plans. When my rent and bills are paid, I have very little left over to entertain myself with, and usually spend my weekends at the shop cataloging and reading. The shop was only open by appointment on Saturdays, and there was nothing scheduled for this, the weekend after the New Year.

“I don’t have any plans. But listen, wouldn’t you rather have Mr. Zell or Travis look this book over? I’m not really the guy around here when it comes to assessing really rare books. I’m just a translator.”

              “No, Paul. It has to be you. When can I expect you?”

“Well, we close up in two hours. I’d like to stop to eat. I can be there at….”

“Don’t. I’ll have dinner waiting. Can you spend the night?”

“Spend the night? What are we, kids?” I laughed.

“You’ll want time to look this over. I guarantee it.”

“Paul, won’t Cherie and your little girl….”

“They’re out of town, Raymond. Visiting her mother in Bayonne. Will you?”

This was strange, but I thought about my shabby, drafty apartment on Lake with its ticking old radiator and shrugged. I didn’t mind spending the weekend in an old friend’s opulent digs, even if it would have me chewing my own heart out in envy on Monday.

“Alright, Paul. It’s a date, I guess.”

He rattled off the address so fast I had to ask him to repeat it.