The Third Cthulhu Mythos Megapack

by Adrian Cole et al.

  The endless fear and trauma that comes with fighting a war kept me from thinking about Old Man Carter, his pond, or Johnny. At times I completely forgot about them. Sometimes, though, we’d march by a quiet little pond in the French countryside, and it all came back like a case of mental indigestion. Unlike the other fellas in my unit, I wouldn’t swim in or drink from any ponds. I had no problem with free-flowing rivers, but I kept away from standing bodies of water as much as possible.

  I remember sitting in camp one night, eating stew out of my helmet, imagining that every pond in the world was linked by a network of subterranean rivers, and that all of these rivers led to a sunless ocean that carried bones, jewels, and the bodies of dead men to the shore of K’n-yan. There, on sands bright as crushed sapphires, busy skeletons and restless mummies roamed about picking up useful and fascinating refuse for the Masters of Tsath. In the back of my mind, I saw the walking dead march from the sunless sea to the glittering spires of the toad-god’s city. Among those diligent corpses I recognized the faces of Johnny Haxton and Old Man Carter, although how I recognized them in such a decayed state, I couldn’t begin to say.

  A buddy woke me up. I’d fallen asleep near the campfire while the rest of the unit bathed and splashed in a pond next to a burned-out French farmhouse. They teased me for a while about my fear of ponds, a terror so great it gave me mumbling nightmares. But I wasn’t so sure my vision of Tsath had been a nightmare at all. It seemed as real as the war itself: A manifestation of impossible horrors made real. I didn’t say anything like that out loud. I didn’t want to get kicked out of the army as a nut-case.

  One morning near Toulon a division of German forces ambushed us and killed half the unit. I took a bullet in the leg that left me lame, so I’d get out of the service honorably, not by virtue of insanity. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to go back to Ellot County and Old Man Carter’s pond. Still the power of that dark water pulled on me like a magnet. There was no escaping it.

  “I know you want to stay here and see this out with your buddies,” Captain Ross told me. “But it’s time for you to go home. You’re no good to us with a busted leg. Count your blessings, Ted. You did your part. Now go home and rest.” I thought about the buddies who’d been killed next to me. I thought about the men I’d killed, either long-range or face-to-face. There were so many of them, I had lost count. I heard their screams again, the boom of the artillery. I cried in that hospital bed like I’d cried the night dead Johnny came to my window. The captain held onto my shoulders like a father would. He was a good man. The next day I began a series of flights that would take me back to the States. On that same day, Captain Ross went back to the front, where he took a German bullet in the head and died instantly. I found out about it when I opened a letter that had passed me on the way home.

  Ma was sick with the cancer and wouldn’t last much longer. Pa was taking it hard, hitting the bottle. My little sister was just old enough to care for them both. They were happy for a little while to have me home again, but they could tell I wasn’t the same. I didn’t talk much anymore, and when I did they cringed at the things I shared. Nobody wanted to hear about the war—not the bloody details, the spilled brains, the slaughtered children, the constant staring into the face of death until you were numb and half-dead yourself.

  I’d been back for three days when I found myself limping by the old Carter place. It was high summer, hot and humid. The pond was still the same size, but its waters were darker now. The sunlight couldn’t penetrate its surface at all. The old Carter house had fallen to rubble, half of it lying underwater. The cries of bullfrogs and toads filled the air, and I sat there until dark.

  The moon rose full and round. I remembered looking at it from a battlefield five thousand miles away. Stand anywhere in the world and you’ll see the same moon as everyone else. The moon is a constant, like Carter’s pond. Now I saw the moon’s reflection gleaming on the surface of the pond, and a sudden understanding washed over me. It all made sense. Before me lay the gateway to an eternal world where change was a myth and death a distant memory. I bent down to drink the cool water, and my tears added a pinch of salt to its sweetness. I waded in and floated on my back atop the water, the moon fixed in my vision like the answer to an unasked question.

  I waited for Johnny to come back. Waited to be pulled low so I could be raised up.

  I was ready now. Sometimes the waters rippled and bubbled around me, releasing odd vapors into the air. Sometimes I called Johnny’s name, but it didn’t do me any good.

  Maybe I’d waited too long and the gate to K’n-yan was closed forever. Maybe I would never walk the glimmering streets of Tsath, where statues of the toad-god stood like stone behemoths above luminous ramparts.

  Now they worship even stranger gods…

  When the sun came up, I swam to the pond’s edge and fell asleep. I woke up and went back to my folks’ house to write all of this down on paper. People were bound to wonder about me like they wondered about Old Man Carter, and I wanted to explain things myself. I didn’t show what I wrote to anyone yet. I knew better. They’d use it as evidence to lock me in a crazy-house.

  Two nights later Ma died in her sleep. We buried her on the hill behind the house, and my father stopped talking to me. We drank together, but we didn’t talk. My sister moved out of the house to live with a young man she’d been courting for a while. There was nothing else she could do for Pa and me.

  Pa was still snoring when I got up this morning. I spent the last of my army pay on a case of good whiskey and left it for him on the dining room table. Then I hobbled over to the old Carter place and took a swim in the pond. Now and then deep rumblings came from below the water. I imagined scaly things swimming up from the sunless ocean with tongues extended like octopus tentacles, pulling me down, deep into the world below the world, where glorious Tsath awaited my service. Where Johnny’s bones rambled along golden beaches gathering the detritus of mystery and carrying it back to enrich the treasure vaults of the Masters.

  I floated on the black waters, reflected constellations swimming about me.

  Still Johnny hasn’t come for me. Neither has Old Man Carter.

  I should have taken Johnny’s invitation on that cold rainy night so many years ago. Now I have to do things the hard way.

  I found a big rock in the pasture, as heavy a stone as I could carry. It didn’t take long to weave some reeds into a sturdy rope. I tied one end to the rock and the other about my waist.

  As soon as I finish writing this, I’ll wade through the mud to the center and let the stone carry me down…down into the swirling depths of Carter’s well…down into the rushing chaos of that nameless river…beyond that into the currents of the sunless ocean…and ultimately to the glittering shore of the toad-god’s kingdom. When I close my eyes, I see the crystalline towers of Tsath rising toward a stalactite sky, where flocks of serpent-bats glide like sparrows. I see myself marching along the jeweled strand, once again part of a unit with a purpose. Fleshless and deathless beings with no more blood or tears to spill. One of them is my best friend.

  Whoever finds this notebook has a choice. You can believe everything I’ve written, if you have a mind to. Or you can toss it into the fireplace like a worthless old pulp and watch it burn. Some folks just can’t abide the truth. Especially when it’s ugly. But for others the truth is all they have, no matter how bitter, strange, or unbelievable.

  The black toads gather around me, croaking their ancient songs.

  They know what’s coming next.

  See you soon, Johnny.

  ENTER THE COBWEB QUEEN, by Adrian Cole

  From the files of Nick Nightmare

  Whenever I see mist, fog or smog, I immediately start wondering who’s responsible. Yeah, the smart guys would say, the weather. Like I don’t know that. I also know that thick, swirling vapors can also presage the coming of something supernatural, twisted, or hell-bent on wreaking havoc. When the noxious stuff is also slightly
greenish in hue and contains more than a hint of a leering face or two, a gleam of teeth, then I know things are invariably going to get a little hairy. So when I ran into a wall of churning fog on my way to a rendezvous with Montifellini, he of Magic Bus fame, I gathered my wits about me and pulled my long coat tighter.

  I’d had a cryptic note from him, telling me we should meet in a convenient side street, where he’d pick me up in his unique vehicle and whisk me off someplace where I’d hear something to my advantage. Like, how to prolong my existence, or avoid the unwanted advances of yet another alien intrusion. I have become the target of numerous dark and dubious powers in recent times. It would be nice to ignore them or project a few potent verbal discouragements their way, but sometimes you just have to get more physical. If Montifellini says there’s trouble brewing, you need to pay heed.

  I fought my way through the aerial blanket, barely able to keep my bearings, but sure enough, the Magic Bus was parked not far ahead, under a street lamp whose tired halo of light burned little brighter than a Zippo flame. The bus was a relic of the 1950s, a squat, snub-nosed vehicle, its paintwork a mixture of yellow and black. I heard the strains of Puccini billowing out from the bus, but don’t ask me which of his works. Montifellini has done his best to educate me in matters operatic, but I’m more of a rock and blues man myself.

  I clambered aboard. The big man smiled hugely. Well, he did most things hugely. He more than filled the driver’s seat. He turned down the thundering orchestra and waved me aboard.

  “What’s on the menu tonight?” I asked him as he got his incredible machine moving.

  “Someone wants to meet you, Nick. Says it’s urgent. I think there may be some big problems coming your way.”

  “Why me?”

  “Since when does the famous Mr Nightmare start asking dumb questions?”

  I gripped the passenger support bar alongside the driver’s cabin as the bus lurched and bounced. Already we were off the New York streets, that or this district was undergoing a minor quake. There was nothing outside but the fog, like we were rolling along a sea bottom. The Magic Bus goes anywhere, literally. Sometimes I reckon Montifellini could take you to Never Never Land if you asked him nicely.

  “You heard of Ulthar?” he said.

  “City of cats?” I dragged a few references from my brain, which was as fogged up as the world outside. It had been a long, tedious day, sorting through too much accumulated paperwork.

  “That’s it,” he said. “I got my Bella there.”

  Bella was his cat, a particularly feisty calico, no-nonsense beastie, not to be messed with. She tolerated me, which made me privileged among men. I looked around the bus. Bella occasionally rode in it, but not on this trip. The bus was empty, save for me. If we were going to Ulthar, it figured. From what I’d heard, it wasn’t somewhere you’d want to go without a damn good, probably weird, reason. Don’t ask me what dimension Ulthar was in. You could spend a week speculating and drive yourself nuts.

  “Who’s the contact?” I asked.

  “Guy named Long Tall Sonny. Traveler, musician, wheeler and dealer.”

  “A hobo.”

  “Sort of. He gets around. Learns things. Useful contact, you know?”

  My world and those I slipped into in the course of my bizarre private eye existence was full of Long Tall Sonny’s of one kind or another. Some were chancers, bottom-feeders living off scraps, others could be relied on to produce a nugget of information from time to time. Montifellini was no fool. No way would he drag me out into a place as off the beaten track as Ulthar unless it meant something, maybe the difference between life and death. So he gave Long Tall Sonny some credibility.

  Eventually we parked up in deathly silence, still enshrouded in fog. I could see buildings around us, distorted by the swirling clouds, although these buildings would have been damn weird in normal light. This was Ulthar, a place of narrow streets and alleys, winding up and down at generally dizzy angles, its houses twisted as if they’d been thrown together in a storm, packed and piled.

  “Welcome to the Dreamlands,” said Montifellini. “You want an inn called the Skai Arms. It’s at the top of that incline. Your watch working? Okay, come back within two hours. I’ll be here to take you home.”

  I disembarked and climbed the jumble of stone steps. It wasn’t easy because they seemed to have been designed to make you dizzy and direct you anywhere but your destination. Behind me, Montifellini ground his gears and the Magic Bus was quickly swallowed by more billows of fog. It might have been night time. There were lamps, but for all I knew they burned perpetually in this dismal city. As I went up, hemmed in by leaning houses seemingly on the point of collapse, I noticed shapes slinking about me, just out of clear vision. Ulthar was famed for its innumerable felines, a host beyond number. They prowled and purred and suffered visitors on the clear understanding that one step out of line would be punished with feral fury, something I was not prepared to put to the test.

  I reached the inn, identified by a low-hanging sign, its paint faded and flaking. Stooping, I entered its shadowy embrace. Inside it was spacious, with a high ceiling. A big hearth and a glowing fire made it more welcoming than the drab streets. I pushed through the empty chairs and tables to the bar.

  “You from the Southlands?” said the barman. He welcomed me as cheerily as he would have a strong head cold. His rheumy eyes regarded me suspiciously.

  I glared back at him. “Nope. Never mind where I’m from, pal. I’m looking for a guy named Long Tall Sonny. Or maybe I should say, he’s looking for me.”

  “I don’t want no trouble.” As he spoke, I saw shapes shifting around him, on shelves, along the bar, on some of the tables—cats. Scores of them. Every one of the furry beasts was looking directly at me, wide-eyed and intimidating. Some of them were as big as a small dog. All in all there were a lot of teeth in that place. I heard a communal purring, which somehow seemed to form itself into a soft, rising chant, focused around one word. Food.

  “Sooner you get him outta here—and his freaky friend—the better,” the barman grumbled.

  Friend? Two of them. I didn’t order a drink, just followed directions as the barman pointed to a shadowy corner of the inn, where a figure slumped over a table. Drunk? Hell, that was all I needed. I went over to the man and he looked up nervously. He was skin and bone wrapped up in rags, with a gaunt face suggesting he wasn’t too familiar with the concept of healthy eating. As I stood by his table he shivered and curled up tighter.

  “Long Tall Sonny?” I said.

  He nodded until I thought his head would drop off. “Did Montifellini send you?” he squawked.

  “Yeah. You got something for me? I don’t have a lot of time.” As I spoke I caught movement behind him in deeper shadows, and I brought out one of my Berettas in a fast draw.

  Long Tall Sonny reached out with a hand—more like a claw—and gripped my wrist. “It’s okay,” he said. “I can explain.”

  I tried to get a clearer view of whoever had moved back there, but all I saw was a blurred shadow and a pair of eyes. Very green, bright and sparkling. My guess was, it was a dame.

  “She’s my—my, uh, partner,” said Long Tall Sonny. He didn’t seem very sure. “We need to get back to New York. Your New York, and mine. Otherwise they’ll kill us.”

  “And what do I get out of it?”

  “I’ll tell you everything. Just get us away before it’s too late. The Cobweb Queen knows I’m here in Ulthar. She’s closing in.”

  I didn’t know of any Cobweb Queen, but anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not a big fan of spiders, or anything on eight legs, or even six for that matter. To be blunt, I’m not that fond of two-legged beings either. I thought I heard a change in the tone of the moggie collective, a sort of growling. They didn’t like spiders, either. I recalled that Montifellini’s cat, Bella, occasionally found one and chewed on it, a snack between meals.

  Long Tall Sonny lowered his hand, but I kept the gun aimed at the sh
adow person. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I saw now it was someone in a thick, black cloak, hooded and with a black scarf covering its face, save those eyes. They were the only thing about it that moved.

  “So—convince me I should help you.”

  “The Cobweb Queen is a cruel mistress,” said Long Tall Sonny. “She’s enslaved half a world and she’s always greedy for more. There were three of them once, demi-gods. They were sisters, the last of their race, but they fought the Old Ones, the terrible deities from the stars, and lost. Two were destroyed, burned to cinders by the wrath of Azathoth. The Cobweb Queen escaped and started a new empire of her own. Zermillia wants out.”

  By Zermillia I guessed he meant the green-eyed shadow behind him.

  “We want to get to the safety of New York. The Cobweb Queen can’t get through to it. Her movements are restricted by the servants of the Old Ones.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.”

  “Zermillia and me will start a new life together.”

  It was tough imagining anyone starting a new life with this bundle of bones, but who was I to argue with love? It being blind, and all.

  “If you get us back, we can help make sure the defenses are strengthened. Just in case the Cobweb Queen tries to invade. She’s restricted, but she’s powerful. Block her out on your side and she’ll never get through. She’ll look someplace else for new conquests.”

  Before I could poke him for more information, the feline tribe set up a new caterwauling. Something had spooked them, big time. The barman rushed to one of the tiny windows and peered outside. Whatever was out there had upset the apple-cart. He swung round and looked at me angrily. “You brought them! You treacherous -” He ran off a string of uncomplimentary insults that made me wince.

  I ignored him and went to the dusty window. One look out explained the barman’s over-excitement. Several figures stood in the street, contemplating the inn. I would have said they were men, but they looked more like they’d risen from the deeps of the Black Lagoon. They were naked, had obvious gills, eyes like moons and a spine of sharp quills that ran from the back of their heads to the lower end of their backs. And being a dark shade of green added to the aquatic effect.