* * * *
He’d painted a small boat on the river. Just a dinghy, large enough for a person to sit in. Ronnie planned, in fact, to illustrate himself inside this same boat, but someone beat him to it.
Largely, it was Ronnie’s fault, for leaving his work-in-progress on the easel, and on the back porch. When he rode his bike home from work, past blinking street lamps, through darkened alleys, and even, at certain spots, alongside the river, Ronnie imagined in full detail just how he would illustrate his self in the boat—down to the smallest shadow. However, when he arrived at home, he found that someone had crudely formed, in black paint, a stick-figure standing in the boat. The cartoonish character sported a wide grin, not unlike Ronnie’s, and was grasping an exceedingly large penis, (along with a pair of hairy balls), from which spurted into the river orbicular gobbets.
Largely, it was Ronnie’s fault. He should have known better. Should’ve stashed his easel into his room before he left for work. He did this now, and he sulked in his Lazy-Boy afterward, listening with a brooding aspect at what he swore was Rick, snickering from up above. The next morning, as Ronnie stepped outside for a walk, he discovered this same neighbor sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. And the man’s subsequent response dispelled any reservations Ronnie might have entertained the night before.
“Hey, Ronnie-boy,” Rick said, “is it true—that retards have big dicks?” He followed his words with a gleeful cackle, then stared as Ronnie walked quietly away.
* * * *
On his third night after discovering the secret door in the library, Ronnie began to see strange hieroglyphs. Oddly enough, he saw these symbols amongst everyday patterns, embedded in curves and lines, adjoining or bisecting complex forms of matter. At the conjunction of a computer and a desk, he saw a hieroglyph. In the folds of a hanging coat, he saw another. Then, in the river, on his way to work, amongst the gently lapping ripples…full paragraphs.
Ronnie had no clue what these symbols meant, and was only vaguely aware of their presence. And he certainly did not suspect that the discovery of these symbols, in due time, would have an impact on him.
A few nights later, after returning home from work, Ronnie ran into Rick once again. Caught the man red-handed, in fact, shitting in a box placed in front of Ronnie’s door. After realizing his bust, Rick stood erect and ran for the stairs, laughing maliciously as he worked up his pants.
More of the same, Ronnie thought, with a shake of his head. He picked up the box of shit, gingerly, and placed it outside near the dumpster. On his way back inside, he inadvertently glanced at the river, and then froze. Under a pale moon Ronnie read the glyphs riding the current, and this time he knew what they meant. This time, he could read them.
* * * *
Two more days passed, finding Ronnie once again running into Rick on the back porch. Ronnie was almost finished with painting away the crude figure in the boat, when Rick walked outside.
“Aww, man, you erased it,” Rick complained. He had a cigarette in his mouth, was spinning a keychain around his finger. “What the fuck for?”
Ronnie remained silent. He shifted his feet, fidgeted with his palette, all the while staring blankly at Rick.
“Well, say something, stupid retard. Why’d you go and erase it?”
More long seconds passed. Rick turned, was about to walk away, then Ronnie said, “I’m not a retard.”
Rick turned and faced him. “Say what?”
“I’m not a retard,” Ronnie repeated. “I have Down’s syndrome.”
At this, Rick grinned. “Same difference, ain’t it? You’re still a dumb fuck.” Then he turned and walked down the steps, got in his truck and drove away.
When the dust settled, and the silence of seclusion mounted the porch once again, Ronnie’s stare found that of the river beyond. He observed the ripples glisten against the morning light; and he read each and every hieroglyph along that same stretch of water. He read them out loud, like poetry, and he used a precise inflection and beat, and he heard himself speak in a tongue that defied reason. And then, after reading the last of the symbols, Ronnie casually lifted his palette and went back to painting.
* * * *
He was in the bathroom getting ready for work when he heard the men laughing outside. It was a late, Friday afternoon, and apparently Rick had gotten off work early. He and a friend were in the parking lot behind the house, up to no good, Ronnie presumed. He tried to rack his mind around what it could be, assuming some form of mischief was in process, and also, assuming the target of such trouble was indeed, him. Eventually, Ronnie left his room, and this was when he discovered the nature of Rick’s delight.
Ronnie kept his bike chained up outside, under the back porch, where, incidentally, Rick and a friend were now sitting, drinking beers. They were both suspiciously quiet, and obvious in their manner of repressing laughter. But they gave up the struggle and roared triumphantly, once Ronnie found the state in which his bike was in.
It was a deer, he realized. Road kill, most likely. The carcass had been grotesquely splayed open, roughly applied upon, and interwoven, into the frame and spokes of Ronnie’s bicycle. Entrails draped raggedly over the handlebars, and the seat was covered with something black and sticky, which Ronnie assumed was blood. If it wasn’t for the head, (creatively positioned onto the handlebar frame, as if to stare pensively at the bicycle rider), Ronnie would have had no clue what kind of creature it was.
It took him almost an hour to clean the animal off his bike, with Rick and his friend laughing, making crude comments the whole time. Ronnie ignored them, up until he at last sat on his bike, and prepared to leave. He looked stiffly at the men, and they stared back, a humorous, inquisitive gleam in their eyes. At that moment, Ronnie saw, and heard the hieroglyphs, and then he stated in a most uncharacteristic way, “The One of Infinite Disorder, Lecher of the Foul Water, shall seek revenge upon your kind.”
Both Rick and his friend appeared dumbfounded. They stared at Ronnie, confusion and humor battling across their faces. Finally, Rick replied with, “What the hell did you say?” And then he laughed, along with his friend, as they watched Ronnie quietly ride away.
As soon as Ronnie arrived at work, he wasted no time. Immediately, he went to the hidden door in the library and climbed down.
* * * *
When the last day came, Ronnie was on the porch, adding the final touches to his painting. It was a Saturday morning—a cold and gloomy morning, with rain clouds that sat low and heavy in the sky. Ronnie had been up for most of the night, unable to sleep, all because of Rick and his friend, and their drunken commotion gushing down from above. Every few minutes they’d screamed something about Ronnie, about him being a retard, or about the size of his penis, and how he liked to fuck dead animals. On and on and on, their clamor went…while on and on, Ronnie whispered a strange language into the night.
They were still asleep now, Ronnie was sure. He wondered if they’d wake when the darkness came, or if they’d sleep right through it.
The final touches to Ronnie’s painting included him standing in the river, facing the boat he’d painted earlier. Also, he added a black streak in the sky, at the horizon—a distant cloud, perhaps…or, perhaps something else. When he was finished, Ronnie set his brush and palette on the railing, and stepped back. He studied the painting for a minute, nodding with approval. Then he picked up his brush, dabbed it copiously in black paint, and stroked a single, massive hieroglyph across the entire scene.
In the minutes that followed, Ronnie found himself walking through dead grass, and toward the river. He heard the deep resonance the sky made as it split open, but he missed the long shadows falling behind him. The water was warmer than Ronnie expected, and he met it up to his knees before the dinghy reached his fingers. Carefully, he climbed in, and carefully, he took a seat. The boat set slowly adrift, and Ronnie watched as the current pushed him along, toward a vague, yet indisputable destination. He smiled, and then let one han
d slip into the water, felt its tepid touch.
From afar, an observer might suggest that this man in the boat contained a sheepish quality. That his grinning stare pushed toward the boundaries of the horizon with an expecting, yet flat gaze; as if, despite his excitement, he had all the time in the world to wait.
Still, a different observer might relinquish this observation altogether, in lieu of the other, more dramatic scene, unfolding in the background. Indeed, this second witness would likely gasp in undeniable horror as he watched the colossal appendage reach down from the sky, crash through a gabled roof, and then pluck the shrieking bodies into a black and terrifying end.
And finally, it is quite possible that a third observer, perhaps that of a bird, or a bat in flight, may observe the fallen painting now left abandoned in a gravel parking lot—a painting depicting that of a yellow sun with a turquoise sky, and a world of paradise as seen along the shores of a thriving river.
CELLAR DWELLER, by Franklyn Searight
Alan remembered his early days with clarity as he sat back in the lounge chair, swiveling shards of shivering ice in his mouth and watching clouds floating above the peaceful lake to where he and his wife, Sheila, had retired. It amused him to see their resemblance to beings he had bested in the past.
As a former reporter for the Arkham Daily News, he had spent a good part of his life investigating and writing about strange and dark corners of the country, places unknown to average Americans. He was seldom surprised to find legends were often based on solid, though perhaps slightly exaggerated, fact.
In his infancy, Alan had shown no sign of one day being the intrepid nemesis of the Elder Gods who had arrived on Earth countless millions of years ago. It was not until his early teen years he learned of his heritage, which included being the great, great, etcetera, grandson of the infamous sorcerer of the burning sands of Yemen, known as Abdul Alhazred, the Mad Arab of Ciené, and author of the Kitab al-Azif.
It was an ominous legacy for a youngster to inherit which would follow him throughout his life. As a baby, it manifested itself almost right away, even though he was not yet the fearless, resourceful oppressor of the Elders with sharpened instincts to combat and withstand their nefarious attempts to return to Earth and deal with its denizens as they wished. Growing up in the small Massachusetts town of Arkham he was not immune to their threats.
For the most part, he was a happy, enthusiastic American lad, with no especial talents beyond those of his little friends, yet with the potential to rise above formidable obstacles threatening to complicate the direction his life would take as he overcame fears others did not encounter.
The differences were subtle. His fledgling playmates, for instance, did not feel at all uneasy when near their cellar doors, as Alan did. He was too small and immature to understand why or even acknowledge his instinctive fears of the unknown. Since the earliest days he could recall, he knew this was so. During those times when the door was accidentally left open, allowing him to see the darkness welling up from the basement, his uneasiness became so intense he would turn his head to avoid seeing something monstrous plodding up the steps.
Of course, nothing did, but he still expected the very worst to materialize.
His parents, Roland and Sarah Hasrad, an easy-going and understanding couple, knew of the little tyke’s aversion to the depths below, but never comprehended his dislike of them.
He remembered, long into his dotage, the one time he was taken by his mother down the gloomy steps to the basement pantry for a jar of strawberry preserves, and his reaction convincing him to never descend the steps again. He had been near the bottom when he began to sweat profusely and his heart raced as his face broke out in unbecoming blotches. The descent completed, his words became slurred, his steps faltered, and his eyes seemed to dance awkwardly in their sockets. Alan had bolted away, rushed back up the steps to the kitchen and from there to the sanctuary of his bedroom where he trembled, his face drained of blood and blanched a ghastly, ghostly white. There he remained for several hours enveloped in the solace and peace it offered, eventually playing with a set of toy soldiers he had received for Christmas.
When asked what he had seen or heard, he shook his head and innocently said, “Someting’ down there,” and would not, or could not, elaborate upon the simple statement.
“It’s characteristic of a growing intellect,” Mom and Dad reasoned, certain he would eventually grow out of it. Sensitive to his unusual aversion, they refrained from assigning to him chores that would take him into the lower level, even when the lights were on, wary of the fuss he would likely make and the excuses he would offer for what he believed to be an extremely good reason.
Never again was he asked to make the scary descent into the depths below.
As the years progressed, and he graduated from the immaturity of puberty to adolescence, and from there to a gawky teenager, one would think his anxieties would lesson—but such was not the case. Being a rational individual, he knew there was nothing for him to fear from down below. His parents, when occasion required it, would open the door and descend, thinking nothing of it. His mother would return with a few potatoes stored down in the coolness, or Father might return with a Phillips Head screwdriver from his tool bench. Both would retrieve whatever was stored below when needed, and feel no degree of trepidation whatsoever.
But not Alan. In all other respects, he was a fearless, normal youth, able to scramble with ease around the scaffolding of a building being constructed, or quickly dispatch a blocker protecting the quarterback of an opposing team, or climb the tallest tree in the neighborhood. No problem whatsoever.
‘One day, in his mid-teens, he had been forced by armed burglars into the cellar where he sat, out of their way, leaving them to loot the home without fear of interference. Alan had objected, but their weapons, being quite persuasive, decided the issue. The door was locked behind him, and it was not until three hours later his parents returned home. They found him on the top step behind the locked door, curled into a ball of fear. He was trembling and whimpering, drenched in perspiration and incoherent, refusing to tell anyone what had frightened him so badly.
The truth was, he had blacked out almost immediately, only regaining his senses from time to time, so petrified he was afraid to twitch a muscle. He had no idea what monstrous being might be nearby, and for years ascribed his fear as a normal characteristic of growing youth.
His unrealistic dread increased the older he grew, and by the age of seventeen, he was still unable to conquer his aversion to the cellar, something that would always bother him. Still, he knew with certainty there was something down there—he just did not know what, not until the day came when he decided to challenge his qualms and determine just what it was.
He had recently celebrated another birthday when, sitting at the dining room table with his parents one evening, he felt the urge to share with them a recent thought.
“You know,” he said, hesitantly, “you’ve been living here for the last twenty-six years, and me for seventeen—all my life.”
“Yes?” said his mother, spearing a green bean on her plate.
“Well, I was thinking: That’s a long time. Stats tell us most people live in the same place for about six years and then move on.”
“So?” said his father, looking up from the table. “Sounds like a statistic you made up yourself.”
“Maybe it does, but haven’t you ever felt the urge to move away?”
“Why would we want to do that?” asked Mom, her mouth full and chewing slowly.
“Yeah,” said Dad, “my job’s nearby, and my friends and relations not far away. Why would we want to leave our home-sweet-home?”
“I didn’t mean far away. Even a few blocks would be nice. New homes are being built over by Hangman’s Hill you might like.”
“They might be overly expensive, too, you know, and our home is paid for. Did you think of that?”
“Well, no, but you have a good job. New surr
oundings are always nice.”
“Says you. We should be content with what we have: nice house, well built, sturdy and comfortable; plenty of good, nourishing grub in the kitchen. We’ve been quite happy living here, you know?”
“Yeah, I know…but still…”
“Hey, just a minute; now I get it,” his father said, allowing his fork to slip to his plate. “You want to live somewhere else because of this cellar obsession you have. Right!”
“Wrong. Well, that might be a little part of it,” Alan admitted. “But aside from that, it would be pleasant to live in new surroundings; different school, new friends. It’s an old house, remember, and built before the nineteen hundreds.”
“Don’t you have lots of friends, right here?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You’ll be leaving next year for four years of college, anyway.”
“I guess so,” he admitted, adding, in an unheard undertone, “but I’d leave this very minute if I could.”
“Given any thought to a career for yourself?” asked Dad, changing the subject, forestalling further argument his son might make about relocating.
Alan sighed and sipped from his water glass. He would never be able to convince them to move, and would just have to endure the coming days until his collegiate career began. After that, he silently vowed, he would not return unless absolutely necessary.
“Well, you’ve known for years I’ve had this fascination for studying words and their entomologies, and so on, and also working as an investigative reporter, maybe for the Arkham Daily News or one of its competitors. I’ll probably be doing most of my collegiate work at the Miskatonic University, right here in Arkham. It’s not far away, so I can commute every day and live here instead of a dormitory.”
The Third Cthulhu Mythos Megapack Page 10
