“That’ll go easy on my wallet, Son.”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” encouraged Mom.
“And then I’ll do post graduate work somewhere else, maybe Saudi Arabia or Iran.”
“Some other country? Why would you want to do that?” Mother wondered.
“Because it’s a part of the world I find greatly interesting, and possibly because of our ancestry. Somehow, I’m extremely attracted to it. Dad, you’ve mentioned from time to time the name of Abdul Alhazred, and that’s where he lived, the mad poet of Sanaá in Yemen. He lived in Damascus during the 8th century.”
Father added, “I’d like to know a little more about him, also. After all, he is one of our distant ancestors.”
“Yeah, and he did dabble in esoteric matters you once told me, said he talked of foreign gods and goddesses and entities drifting down from the stars to settle for a time here on earth. I have an urge to flesh out these stories, to find out more about the fantastic creatures subjugating our planet, and learn about their minions who are present to this day involved in bringing about their return.
“Surely, Alan, you know that’s utter nonsense,” Mom interjected. “Pure hokum.”
“Is it? I don’t know, and I’d like to find out just what the situation really is. A normal job wouldn’t provide me with the opportunity. So…as I do have an ability with the use of words, it occurs to me a journalistic career might be my calling and an investigative reporter would provide me with the ideal opportunities.”
“Utter nonsense,” said the father voicing his opinion once again, agreeing with his wife’s skepticism.
“Now, don’t discourage him, Roland. It’s the lad’s life and he knows how he wants to live it.”
Over the years, attempts to conquer his fear of the spooky depths diminished, except for one time when he was twenty years old and on holiday from classes at Miskatonic University. He had read a story, assigned by his teacher, about a young man who accepted a dare to spend the night in a reputedly haunted house. He knew it was a fictional yarn, but was able to identify with the young hero and understand how traumatizing it would be if real, and how similar the situation was to his own. It emboldened him to face whatever lived within the shadows below his house. How would he feel, he wondered, if he had to spend the entire night in the expansive region below? The hero of the tale had left the next day, unscathed, undaunted, and ready to face the world with nerves intact. Could he, Alan, do the same?
One evening soon afterward the right conditions fell into place. His parents were gone for the evening to see the latest movie. He was feeling extremely confident as he descended into the basement, carrying with him cushions from the chaise lounge, a pillow and blankets, and a large, family-sized bag of chips. Among his other accumulation, he remembered to bring with him his transistor radio and the novel he was currently reading.
At the last moment, Alan slipped into his pocket a stone amulet upon which had been engraved the Elder Sign, an icon offering protection against evil forces, a powerful weapon able to banish servants of Cthulhu and the Outer Gods about which he had been learning. Perhaps it would be of use.
He was prepared to tough it out.
If necessary, he could easily climb back up the steps and out of the cellar again. He was no longer a little boy with the fears of one, but a large, stalwart youth with the ability to take care of himself. If he was unable to fall asleep right away, the radio would provide social communication for him.
He had not finished the first chapter of his book when his radio suddenly stopped emitting any sound, and this surprised him as he knew a fresh battery had been inserted.
He looked up and over, his gaze settling first upon his father’s workbench, and then over to the cement lid covering the sewer line from where a humming noise seemed to emanate. Out from it was drifting a fine haze corkscrewing toward the ceiling. Alan lowered his book, the page where he left off unmarked, and moments later his radio dropped to the concrete flooring. Listlessly, he stared in perplexity at the spiraling vapor which he suspected was a combination of odious sewer gasses creating the phenomenon.
“I must have been sleeping,” he theorized out loud, “dreaming without realizing it.”
One of his teachers had been reading to the class just the other day “Pickman’s Model”, written by a prominent author of eighty years ago. The parallel of what had been written then and his situation now was not exact, and yet was strangely similar. In the story, a ghoul had emerged from depths far below an artist’s residence to act as a model.
Alan’s eyes were attracted to the circular rim of concrete in the corner. He had noticed it when forced into the basement against his will, but had paid no attention to it at the time. But now he did and, not certain what it was, walked over and studied it more carefully, staring down at a five-pointed pentagram etched into its surface. Esoteric numbers and letters of Arabic, or another Middle Eastern configuration, were engraved upon the surface, reminding him of the protective charm he carried. This must be a part of the sewer system, he reasoned, but could think of no reason why the senseless eruditions were not written in the English language. It made no sense to him.
“Oh, well,” he thought, his spirit of investigation and adventure controlling normally good judgment. “I’ll take a peak down there and see what’s to be seen, maybe discover what’s making the vapor.”
The lid was heavier than expected and not easily pushed aside as anticipated, but after assorted grunts and curses, it began to move far enough for him to peer downward into the darkness. The lone lightbulb in the ceiling above did not provide enough illumination to see very far along the brickwork, disappearing like a telescope into the depths, and he wondered just how far down the actual bottom was. Too bad he had not brought a flashlight allowing him to see all the way. The haze continued upward, no greater nor lesser than before, and touching it he found its texture to be the consistency of smoke.
He considered. In his pocket he had some change and from it selected a penny to toss into the pit and wait for it to strike bottom, giving him some idea of its depth. He waited and waited, expecting to hear a metallic clink, but nothing was heard and he concluded it must have landed on something soft, or kept going all the way to China. Rumors he had heard indicated unseen tunneling snaked and twisted below the streets of Arkham for miles and miles.
With nothing more to be learned, he prepared to return to the little recess he had assembled and read more of his book. Attempting to move the lid back to where it had been, however, he discovered it was much heavier than anticipated, more difficult to shove forward than it had earlier been to pull back, as though something from below were dragging in the opposite direction he was pushing. The lid would simply not budge. Grumbling and cussing did no good this time, and he decided to leave it there until more of his strength returned. Before leaving the basement he would try again.
And then, unexpectedly, it began to slide more easily, revealing more and more of the curious shaft.
And something else.
He was not as astounded as others might have been. The haze, still creeping up from below, began to solidify and evolve into an indescribably ugly creature just as terrifying as the ghoulish models had been for Richard Pickman.
Whatever it was, it had the features of an elderly genie-like atrocity rising out of the drain like an image floating from a bottle. It began speaking to him, its bulbous torso encircled by folded arms as it glared at Alan with hostile intent. The young man inched his way backward, slowly, as a deep, sonorous voice began to speak and miasma continued spiraling upward.
When the something fully emerged, Alan was almost petrified.
“It’s about time you came,” it greeted him, annoyance curling its globular lips. “I’ve asked for you, called and called repeatedly,” it claimed with the rapidity of a Tommy Gunn. “But you would not hear me; you would not come.”
It was now a black and white, transparent vision filling in with an
assorted coloration of the rainbow.
Alan ignored its absurd appearance and instead asked, when able to vocalize his thoughts, “Are you a genie or what? You sort of look like one.”
“Believe me, I am, but more than that. I am your foulest nightmare,” the revelation spoke. “Come closer.”
“I’m fine where I am,” was Alan’s determined refusal.
“Come closer,” the immensity directed him once again.
Alan refused to budge, and then did, not because he wanted to but his muscles moved against his will.
“I hunger,” it intoned, rubbing its enormous belly.
It occurred to Alan, considering the size of its paunch, it had not been starving very long. He became stationary, not advancing the slightest of an inch. All would be well, he believed, as long as the outrage remained where it was. If it came closer, he feared he might scramble out of the cellar, up the steps, and conceal himself beneath his bed as he had done once before.
“Only you can save me, young Hasrad,” it said in a monotone voice.
“Who…what…are you?” Alan fumbled.
“My name is Hudhayfah, young sir, former friend and ally of Abdul Alhazred, perhaps known to you as the Mad Arab of Sanaá?”
Alan gave no indication he did and eyed the frightful fiend expectantly.
“Abdul was your grandfather more than twelve hundred years ago.”
“You knew him?” the youngster asked of the ogre-faced being. “If you did, you must be quite old, yourself.”
“At least hundreds of years, I calculate. I was old when Abdul was a little boy. I lost track of my birthdate centuries ago, Boy. Heck, I not only knew him, I devoured him.
“One day, I was sent on a diplomatic mission, the jar in which I lived smuggled across two borders, and was given to Abdul as an inconsequential gift for an insignificant favor. He decided to keep me after learning I’m a mediocre conjuror, of sorts, who trafficked with the dark underworld.
“Our relationship was parasitic, he supplying my need for sustenance and protection, while I provided him with certain dark knowledge which had come down to me through vast ages. He carried me about in a Byzantine bottle, and we were happy to profit from the association we shared.
“In the eighth century we visited the ruins of Memphis and explored its subterranean depths. Later on, we spent ten years traveling about the Roba El Khaliyeh, the southern desert of Arabia. It was also my privilege to travel with him to Dreamland’s Vale of Panath, which you likely know is inhabited and guarded by evil haunts. It was there I twice saved his accursed life.
“From me he learned many forbidden, outré secrets and wrote an infamous book of abysmal evil known as the dreaded Kitab al-Azif, later as the infamous Necronomicon, of which you must have heard.”
Alan looked at the frightful fiend expectantly and shook his head innocently. “Not so.”
“You must have, but I caution you, young sir, to never read it, especially during the hours of darkness.”
“Abdul learned from you?”
“Yes, indeed, from me, Hudhayfah, within whose bosom resides the knowledge of the Old Ones who came to Earth millions of years ago to subjugate developing mankind.”
“Hudhayfah, huh? A strange name I won’t forget.”
“You have no time to forget, little man,” it answered. “I am your disaster. I ate your grandpapa on the streets of Damascus more than a thousand years ago.”
“So, you’re the one, are you?” Alan said accusingly, regaining composure while fingering the protective weapon concealed in his pocket, his grim lips pursed in determination. “I did hear rumors,” he said reproachfully, “of something snatching him out of the air one day in Damascus and the treacherous feast in which you ate him in front of a gathering multitude of witnesses.”
“You heard correctly, young sir. I am unique in my ability to vanish and appear at will, and did not want anyone to know of my presence until I was ready to grab him. Oh, he was good, alright.”
“What possessed you to do such an awful thing?”
“He threatened to throw my bottle, with me inside, into the Crimean Sea. Now prepare to be eaten.”
“Be warned, I’ll battle you all the way down your vile gullet.”
“Oh, ho, you would defy me, would you? I have not eaten in more than three hundred years and you deny me sustenance?” It slurped an enormous quantity of air and ballooned outward like a Thanksgiving Parade oddity nodding to the crowd, its expansiveness nearly filling the entire chamber.
“Emphatically, yes! How come you’re here, anyway?” asked young Alan.
“A multitude of generations passed, when one of your Grand pappy’s grandsons, a deceitful descendant named Hakeem, in whose care I was being guarded, captured me, shriveled me, and imprisoned me into a small capsule before dragging me across the bounding turbulence to America, cozy and secure in my bottle. Still not content, he imprisoned me here in this very cellar of the home he was building. Here I have languished ever since. I never sampled him, as I did your awful great…great…and so on…grandfather who’s only positive quality was he was easy to catch—and was extremely tasty.
“When I complained to Hakeem my container was too confining for my bulk, the villain pitched me into the sewage system. When I reached the bottom, it smashed, releasing me into the slimy mess where I was free to roam about in its luxurious spaciousness. It became my home and here I have existed, safeguarded for you, Alan Hasrad, as a portion of your inheritance—you being the last of the Al-Hazred descendants.”
“You lie or jest, deceitful one. Why would my kinsman bring you here?”
“Revenge, of course, for the manner in which Abdul treated him.”
“I had nothing to do with your being here,” Alan stated, “so why consume me? I can help you survive, provide you with nourishment you need to live.
“Anyway, I doubt if you even have teeth.”
“Oh, don’t I?” it returned, inflating itself more than before, filling the entire room except for Alan. It, whatever it was, opened its mouth, exposing bicuspids and tusks, incisors and fangs; a broken molar sat askew in the back of a blood-red maw.
“What think you of these choppers, miniature man? Impressive, eh? I must be fed! I thirst! I have been deprived of food and drink for many generations since eating the last Hazrad, he who betrayed me. Now I am free to remedy the omission.”
“If you’re really so famished,” Alan offered. “I can provide you with sustenance from the grocery stores.”
“But it’s your blood and your flesh I must have before leaving this accursed place.”
“I will never accommodate you,” Alan informed it disagreeably, regaining composure and clutching the mystic icon unseen in his pocket. His grim lips pursed in determination, responding as forcefully as before. “Forget it, whoever or whatever you are.”
“Hah! And now you’ve come along,” said the other-world monster, stomping upon the barrier and pushing it aside. “I should be more appreciative, but more than anything else, I am starved.”
“Too bad,” asserted Alan. “You must dine elsewhere. There is a world out there upon which you can slack your thirst and fill your bursting belly. You must provide food and drink for yourself and trouble me no longer. I’m sure you won’t falter in your quest for edibles.”
“You are correct in your belief I will prosper, but I cannot accept your offer, mini man; you look much too tasty.”
“You disappoint me, Hudhayfah, but before you mangle my bones do not forget you are a genie and owe me three wishes.”
“I am partially jinn—true—but only on my mother’s side and I owe you no wishes. You have released me and I am free to go.”
“I see. You will not gratify me with a wish, but perhaps you will grant me a favor—a little one.”
“And what would it be, little bloke? Yes, I might gift you a small one before I pick your skeleton and slack my thirst upon your vital fluids. Tell me this kindness you would have me do
.”
“My penny. I dropped it in the shaft to gauge how deep it was.”
“And you want me to retrieve it, do you?” it said, pushing its proboscis closer to Alan’s face. “For you, I will do it. It is a small thoughtfulness, easily done, and will take little time— although it’s a sloppy and soggy mess down there and might take a while to find.
“Excuse me. I’ll be back as soon as possible, and my feast will begin.”
With those ominous words, the gruesomeness turned and dived without thinking into the sewer line, squeezing through the edges of the open shaft, the last of him disappearing out of sight like an accomplished high diver plunging into unknown depths to which he was accustomed.
“Damn!” thought Alan. “Damn! Damn! Damn! What in God’s name have I done? I can’t allow an inhuman being to get away from here and into the world. The dark ones only know what havoc and destruction it would cause.”
Alan breathed a hearty sigh and wasted no time in darting to the shaft, believing the abomination was long on mass but short on brains. He shoved the lid over the hole with renewed strength, closing the opening. His subconscious must have taken over, permeating his muscles with adrenalin and whatever additives were necessary to equip him with super normal strength. He laid his talisman on the concrete lid, well aware of the mystical and paranormal powers it had to ward off the powers of evil, entrapping the monster once again.
Alan considered. Should he return to the reclining chair and lay down, perhaps to nap until the return of Hudhayfah, or pick up his book and begin reading again? No, he would only soon set it aside; there was little use in reading the same sentence over and over again. He might also pack up the items he brought with him and go upstairs to bed.
What he really preferred was to pursue his thoughts about Hudhayfah, to see where they led. He stared off into the distance then allowed his eyes to wonder downward, settling upon the covering slab, wondering if Hud had acknowledged its defeat like a good sport and accepted the coming years of forced imprisonment.
The Third Cthulhu Mythos Megapack Page 11
