Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT
STAFF
FROM THE EDITOR’S TOWER
THE SHINING TRAPEZOHEDRON, by Robert M. Price
A NOBLE ENDEAVOR, by Lucy A. Snyder
DOLMEN OF THE MOON, by Deuce Richardson
ANCIENT ASTRONAUTS, by Cynthia Ward
LOVECRAFTIAN LIMERICK, by Andrew J. Wilson
THE THING IN THE POND, by John R. Fultz
ENTER THE COBWEB QUEEN, by Adrian Cole
TRICKS NO TREATS, by Paul Dale Anderson
RONNIE AND THE RIVER, by Christian Riley
CELLAR DWELLER, by Franklyn Searight
YELLOW LABELED VHS TAPE, by R.C. Mulhare
TUAMA, by L.F. Falconer
MERCY HOLDS NO MEASURE, by Kenneth Bykerk
TREACHEROUS MEMORY, by Glynn Owen Barrass
THE HUTCHISON BOY, by Darrell Schweitzer
A WIZARD’S DAUGHTER, by Ann K. Schwader
THE SHADOW OF AZATHOTH IS YOUR GALAXY, by DB Spitzer
ASCEND, by Mark A. Mihalko
THE SOLACE OF THE FARTHER MOON, by Allan Rozinski
THE STARS ARE ALWAYS RIGHT, by Charles Lovecraft
DAEMONIC NATHICANA, by K.A. Opperman
ASENATH, by Ashley Dioses
THE BOOK OF EIBON/LE LIVRE D’EIBON, trans. by Frederick J. Mayer
COPYRIGHT
Weirdbook Annual #2 is copyright © 2019 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
7945 MacArthur Blvd, Suite 215
Cabin John MD 20818 USA
Visit us online at wildsidepress.com.
STAFF
Publisher & Executive Editor
John Gregory Betancourt
Editor
Doug Draa
Consulting Editor
W. Paul Ganley
Wildside Press Subscription Services
Carla Coupe
Production Team
Steve Coupe
Sam Cooper
Shawn Garrett
Karl Würf
FROM THE EDITOR’S TOWER
We here at Weirdbook decided to do a yearly themed fifth issue. An Annual if you will.
Last years theme was “Witches” and it turned out to be one of our most popular issues to date. After much soul searching it was decided that this years theme would be the ever popular “Cthulhu Mythos” created by Mr. Howard Phillips Lovecraft, that esteemed gentleman from Providence.
One of the main reasons “The Mythos” was picked was mainly due to its undying popularity. Even after more than 9 decades, Mr. Lovecraft’s literary universe still continues to fire the imaginations of both writers and readers alike. It’s not an overstatement to say that Mr. Lovecraft’s fans and those of his Mythos’ are truly legion and beyond numbering.
I think that you, the reader will find this a highly enjoyable issue full of eldritch, unspeakable, and nameless horrors. I decided that this issue should contain stories by the finest of Weirdbook’s regular contributors. This list includes such luminaries as Lucy A. Snyder, Ann K. Schwader, Leanna Falconer, Cynthia Ward, Darrell Schweitzer, Adrian Cole, and John R. Fultz to name just a few. I’m also very proud to have a brand new story from Mr. Robert M. Price which marks his very first appearance in this incarnation of Weirdbook! I can honestly call this Weirdbook’s very first All Star Issue!
By the time that this issue arrives at your doorstep, the days will have gotten shorter and cooler. I hope that it adds to the thrills and chills that are inherent to the season. So enjoy!
—Doug Draa
THE SHINING TRAPEZOHEDRON, by Robert M. Price
The Reverend Enoch Bowen was already excited at the prospect of traveling to Egypt with an expedition from Miskatonic University. He had won a lottery whereby the Antiquities Department provided one fortunate applicant passage on the trip. It was principally a public gesture to court the good will of New Englanders. For a clergyman to be included in such a dig helped reassure the pious who were easily offended at some of the recent discoveries made in far-flung places like Egypt and Babylon, hieroglyphic and Cuneiform inscriptions that challenged traditional readings of holy scripture. Like many of his colleagues in those days, the Reverend Bowen, while no professional academic, was a well-informed amateur in scholarly questions, especially as regards biblical history, and he was understandably thrilled to see the world of the Bible face to face. He felt the experience would make his faith more real, more vibrant. It was too late to meet Moses or Pharaoh in person, but meeting the eternal sands of Egypt was almost as good.
But his enthusiasm fully blossomed only after a particularly striking dream that visited him the night after he had been informed of his prize. He was quite excited and found it harder than usual to fall asleep. A sleeping draught took care of that, and his dream, as if waiting impatiently for him, descended at once. Mr. Bowen found himself lying, clothed in a linen tunic, on a smoothly tiled floor. He was sure he had never visited the place in waking life. It was cold, though the air was static, unmoved by any hint of a breeze. His slightest movement set off light echoes. It was dimly lit, he thought by bracketed torches, though they did not fall within his field of vision. The light was, he thought, greenish in tint. And then a vague form appeared before him. Strangely, its details were obscured, either because the form was in shadow or because the light was too bright, though a moment before it had seemed so weak. But such illogic and ambiguity were to be expected in dreams. Mr. Bowen found one thing very clear, however, and that was what the figure said to him. The angel, as the pious pastor supposed, told him he must find what was lost to mankind, a great treasure of a spiritual nature. It was a Grail of knowledge for which the world was starved, and God had chosen Mr. Bowen to bring it to light.
When the sleeper awakened, he remembered what had transpired in the dream, which was unusual for him. Did it mean anything? Was it simply a figment of his own prideful self-importance? Or had God really spoken to him? He sat up in bed pondering this for a few minutes, then rolled over and went back to sleep. He didn’t quite know how seriously to take the dream, but in the morning he arose with an unshakeable sense of adventurous expectancy.
Mr. Bowen would be away for the whole summer for this sabbatical, and it was a tearful farewell he received from the congregation of the First Free Will Baptist Church of Providence. His sermon on his last Sunday before departure was “Seeking God in the Sands of Egypt,” and several congregants shook his hand and told him, sincerely or not, it was one of his best, and he appreciated the compliment. The next morning Mr. Bowen caught the train to Massachusetts, to Arkham Station. A taxi took him the rest of the way to the University, where he was greeted by the chairman of the Department of Antiquities and two of the archaeology professors, one a faculty member at Miskatonic, the other from nearby Harvard. All three seemed generally affable, but Mr. Bowen was a keen observer and thought he detected a hint of condescension. He understood and took no offense. He would take care not to get in the way and to do anything he could to assist the efforts of the experts whom he was privileged to accompany.
He did wish his learned companions would deign to confide more of their plans to him. The little he picked up that evening at a reception implied their goal was to discover the hidden tomb of a half-mythical Pharaoh named Nephren-Ka. That king’s successors, the story went, had sought to efface every mention of him from monuments and documents, the same thing that had ensued upon the death of the similarly heretical Akhenaten. Their thoroughness made it especially difficult to track down his relics after so many centuries. The paucity of surviving evidence made most Egyptologists skeptical of the very existence o
f this Nephren-Ka. Certainly the Reverend Bowen had never heard the name.
Mr. Bowen spent most of the boat trip across the Atlantic, through the Pillars of Hercules, across the Mediterranean, and into Egypt, in intense Bible study and meditation. To what end, he did not quite know. He only knew he returned again and again to the Genesis tale of Joseph in Egypt, how he entered that dusky kingdom as a slave betrayed by his brethren who had grown to resent their father’s obvious preference for this brat who boasted of dreams in which his elders bowed before him. No matter the depths into which fate cast Joseph, his gifts were soon recognized by his captors who promoted him to positions of authority and responsibility, until eventually he attained the office of the Pharaoh’s Grand Vizier, master of all Egypt in all but name. Mr. Bowen knew the story well and had known it since boyhood. But now he seemed to sense a new depth, a new relevance to his own case.
When he had puzzled over Joseph to the point of frustration, he would turn several pages back to an earlier chapter to focus on the brief but enigmatic anecdote of Enoch, the pre-Flood patriarch who escaped death, being taken up bodily into heaven to walk, like the sun, with God across the heavens. This passage, too, was long familiar to him, as he bore the same name and had, as a young boy, always delighted to see his own name in holy scripture. But now he sensed a deeper significance in the strange episode. At length he closed the book and decided he would let unfolding events make clear the message that attracted but eluded him.
Once the archaeologists had established their camp and negotiated the hire of local workers to do their digging, they spread their maps, drawing perimeters for the first round of excavations. Now the scantiness of evidence came home to them with new force. How little they really had to go on, even to know where to look. Miskatonic Professor Daniel Aiken remarked in exasperation that they might as well flip a coin. Most of his colleagues agreed, but Mr. Bowen kept his silence, unwilling to voice his confidence that guidance would soon be forthcoming, perhaps from God. He knew what the archaeologists would say to that.
The outsider cleric offered to assist in the digging and disposing of the sandy soil, but he was in his sixties and, as a native New Englander unused to such heat, he found even minor efforts quickly exhausting. Professor Aiken and the others forbade further exertions, though Mr. Bowen’s efforts seemed to increase their respect for him. Then the Harvard archaeologist, Dr. Alan Farrington, approached him with a welcome suggestion.
“Reverend Bowen, I think I have a special job for you. You’re just the man. I have received word from a colleague down south in Abyssinia who has been offered a sheaf of Coptic manuscripts, seemingly of Gnostic provenance. Such offers are far from unique, and many prove to be frauds, a sophisticated version of dummy artifacts manufactured in back room workshops by crafty rogues for sale at exorbitant prices to gullible explorers too eager to make discoveries. My contact asks me to make the trip to consult about the texts, but I just cannot take the time away from our project here, fruitless though it seems so far to be. I wonder if you would make the trip to examine the manuscripts and give an opinion. Of course, if it looks promising, we will take the materials back home, leaving an earnest payment, for final authentication. So we don’t expect you to bear the burden of final decision. Sound interesting?”
“Interesting? It sounds exciting! Of course I shall be delighted to help in any way I can!”
* * * *
Though the only means of travel available was a camel, and it was by no means comfortable, the Reverend Bowen could not repress a thrill at the thought of himself riding a camel like a true Bedouin. But this did not last long, for soon he and his guide boarded a boat up the Nile. The old clergyman was seized by new wonderment at the sight of a Monophysite monastery sunk entirely into the dry earth, dug laboriously ages before, a weird counter to the Edomite fortress city of Petra, carved from red sandstone cliffs above ground. As it turned out, the dealer of whom he had been told was actually an agent for the monastery. The monks had decided to part with some of their treasures to ameliorate their chronic financial distress. The old, wizened men seemed relieved that the potential buyer, as they regarded Mr. Bowen, was a fellow “holy man.” For his part, Mr. Bowen was equally relieved to know that the manuscripts came directly from a monastic community; since this lessened the likelihood of the codices being fraudulent, though of course pious frauds were hardly unknown. A meeting of the minds was quickly achieved, and Mr. Bowen spent but a single night among the monks.
When he awoke the next morning, he was much surprised, not to say distressed, to discover his guide had disappeared without a word. Asking around, Mr. Bowen found no one who admitted to knowing anything about the man, but he could not help thinking the agent of sale knew something. His anxiety dissipated, however, when the agent offered to accompany him on his return trip. The man surprised him further by suggesting the two of them return to Egypt on camelback, by a different route. He said he knew of an ancient site, as yet unknown to Western archaeologists, and that he suspected the learned American clergyman might enjoy seeing it. The fellow, a native Egyptian, was named Abu Serif, and he did not seem particularly devious. Mr. Bowen knew he might be taking a risk, but against this consideration was his awareness that his completed task of assessing the codices must have been mainly a ploy merely to keep him busy, but that now he might have a golden opportunity to make a real contribution to the expedition. So he shook hands with Abu-Serif and quickly made ready to depart. The monks watched the pair ride off, the barest hint of an equivocal expression on their eternally impassive faces.
The ride through the desert was long and difficult. This time, Mr. Bowen found his stomach churning uncontrollably, so he did not try to converse much with his guide. He would slip intermittently into a half-daze, and it was all he could do to hold onto the saddle of his mount. A pounding, splitting headache cost him any real sense of the passage of time. Finally, they came to a stop, after some days. Mr. Bowen could no longer remember whether they had stopped for food and sleep, or how often. He felt an aching in his middle, but he did not know whether to attribute this to hunger or to nausea. But now he did lie down on a rug for some sleep, as Abu-Serif watched over him. As he yielded to Morpheus, Mr. Bowen imagined he heard the faint sounds of jackals barking in the distance.
As the aching, sun-burned American regained his senses with the morning light, Abu-Serif handed him some dried meat and a soup can of coffee, which he gratefully received. The two exchanged no pleasantries. Suddenly the Egyptian broke the silence and blurted out, “Sahib Bowen. It is time I tell you what we seek. Indeed we have reached it now. It is said to be the tomb of the Black Pharaoh, Nephren-Ka.”
Mr. Bowen’s eyes widened and focused as he set aside his meager rations, all hunger forgotten. “The tomb of…. Why, that’s exactly what we…”
“Yes, sahib. I know who you are and why you have come here. Or shall I say, why you were summoned here.”
Ignoring this last bit, which did not register with him as he did not understand it, Mr. Bowen replied, “But why just me? Why not rejoin the expedition and bring the rest of them?”
“The professors are not wanted. You are.”
“By whom?”
“Why not ask him yourself? Are you ready?”
Mr. Bowen rose to his feet and followed his enigmatic guide only a short distance to the open mouth of an already exposed tomb entrance. Someone had obviously beaten the Miskatonic expedition to the prize. It was surely odd that the university archaeologists had known nothing of a rival endeavor. But here he was. He supposed that he, too, was beating his colleagues to the prize. How their opinion of this “fifth wheel” would change!
Abu-Serif stood silently to the side of the sandy path down to the open threshold of the tomb, his hand extended in the same direction, like a maitre d at a restaurant. Mr. Bowen felt decidedly awkward at the changed nature of the situation. He did not like being the focus of some staged, planned charade, or even a trap.
*
* * *
Professor Aiken was concerned. The Reverend Bowen was long overdue. Dr. Farrington of Harvard had taken a certain liking to the bright clergyman and proposed forming a search party. “I realize it would sidetrack the dig, but we seem to be getting nowhere on that score anyway. I think we stand a better chance of finding a living colleague than a dead Pharaoh.”
The next day, the two professors explained the new mission to the native diggers, half of whom took off with them to search for the missing Mr. Bowen. Everyone else half-heartedly continued with their examination of the countryside for any indication of the site they sought.
* * * *
His peripheral vision revealed little as Mr. Bowen paced steadily down a very long, dimly illumined hall. At last, where the hall ended in a chamber perhaps only twice the width of the walkway leading to it, he took note of his destination. His first reaction was one of alarm, even panic, for he saw that he now stood on the same stone-flagged floor he had seen in his dream weeks before. As he recognized more and more details of the chamber, which seemed to be growing lighter, he had both a sense of dread and a kind of relief that the other shoe had finally fallen. He had anticipated something, and this had to be it. He knew that, if the dream were to continue unfolding into waking reality, he should momentarily meet the one who had summoned him. He had not long to wait.
“In the Name of Mighty Nyarlatophis.”
A three-dimensional silhouette of absolute blackness and radiating cold stood before him. The stone floor and walls had turned to glowing emerald green, which, however, did nothing to illumine the void of speaking shadow. “I am the Trismegistus. Men once called me Pharaoh. Now behold: I am about to do a new thing. I shall make all things new. And you, Enoch, blessed above my Million Favored Ones, shall bring these tidings to mankind who are like sheep without a shepherd.”
At this, Mr. Bowen fell prostrate before him, averting his gaze.
“Take this, my beloved. Look into its depths, and you will know as you are known.”
The Third Cthulhu Mythos Megapack Page 1
