Shoggoth 2- Rise of the Elders
Page 22
The Devil Came to Arkham
Follow the Arkham Detective as he attempts to discover the source of a deadly epidemic. Is it the devil? Is it a Night Gaunt? Or both? Find out when you read about a soul sucking creature that is bent on turning Arkham, Massachusetts into a ghost town. [Book Three]
The Dunwich Dungeon
In this final chapter, a seven-foot tall man in black has caused the Detective's good friend to go missing. A woman is brutally murdered in a museum, and mysterious artifacts lead us on a trail to inter-dimensional horrors. This time the Arkham Detective is armed to the teeth, and determined to avenge murder with mayhem. [Book Four]
Keep reading for an excerpt from Byron Craft’s
CTHULHU’S MINIONS
Book One in “The Arkham Detective” Series
Cthulhu’s Minions
Some say that they have always been there. A guy down on Delancey Street once said they were the remains of aborted fetuses. But the story I liked the best was told to me by an old tramp at the Nathaniel Derby Soup Kitchen. He said they were what was left over after a great war; a war that took place millions of years ago between good and evil. In my business evil prevails too often, but in his story, they lost. The Dark Ones, as he called them, were cast into some kind of underworld although a few managed to stay behind.
There were many stories, but I didn’t believe any of them until Jefferson Buck had his face chewed off.
Jeff had been my partner back in the days when we wore the blues and drove black and whites. A few years later, a series of budget cuts put cops alone in their squad cars. A very dangerous situation for a policeman in a big city when there is no one to watch your back, a situation that followed us even after we both made detective. Oh sure, if we were investigating a homicide, the coroner would be at the crime scene along with a police photographer and one of the guys dusting for prints, or at the scene of a robbery there would normally be a uniform officer in attendance with me, but that was it. Most of the time, like all guys on the force, I was on my own, knocking on doors in some tenement or cold water flat questioning perps, looking for clues in back alleys and speakeasies.
Detective Jefferson Buck was found face down in the basement of the old Crowley Milner Building. The long forgotten department store had been closed for decades. Most of the windows in the twelve story brick structure had been broken out over the years, leaving it open to the wind. It had become a haven for drifters and street people. The guys from forensic said that Jeff had been dead for several hours before they got there. One of the bums, looking for a safe place to shoot up, found him. His screams carried through the opened windows and an officer on the beat heard the clamor.
Jeff’s face was completely gone. I had seen something like this before. A couple of years ago I was called to the scene of an accident. A drunk had fallen off of a dumpster and cracked his skull for good. His face had been gnawed away by rats; not a pretty picture, but this was different. Jeff Buck’s features hadn’t been removed by a hundred little fangs like the drunk’s; instead, it looked like it had been done by one size-able bite as if it had been made by a large animal.
“An alligator,” a young forensic assistant blurted out. His assumption was quickly ruled out. There were rumors of alligators living in the sewers, but in all my years on the force, I had never seen one. Besides, there were several chilling things in addition to Jeff’s condition. His .38 had been discharged…six times. Whatever he ran into down there, he had emptied his Smith & Wesson into it before it took him down.
Also, there was plenty of blood at the scene, mostly Jeff’s, but there was some that didn’t appear to be his, next to an open storm drain. It was pale, very nearly pink, like veal, giving the impression of whoever this second party was; he must have been very anemic.
***
I went home that night looking forward to cold fried chicken and several belts of Scotch. The cozy thought didn’t last long. The phone rang. I almost let it ring off the hook before I answered it. “What?” I challenged.
There was no, “Hey how ya doings,” or “long time no sees.” The chief just said, “Get your ass in here. You’re pulling extra duty.”
I didn’t argue. I knew the old fart had no choice. I should have seen it coming. We had two detectives on extended leave pending investigations, and now with Jeff gone, we were really short-handed. “I’ll be there in a half an hour,” I said and slammed down the receiver.
Chicken and whiskey weren't a very proper homecoming. Except for the lack of sleep, the station would probably be a better place to hang out. I might be able to catch a few winks in my office. I had been living on my own for quite a while. The wife took the kid and left me three years before, and my old man died when he was sixty, too much booze and too much cholesterol.
Alimony and a disastrous economy left me broke for the most part. When my dad died, he didn’t have much either. He left me his roll top desk and his 1911 Colt. Dad was a cop, and so was his old man. It runs in the family I guess. I could have sold his desk to an antique dealer and his semi-automatic pistol to a gun collector for a good piece of change, but I liked keeping them around. They reminded me of him. He was a great guy. Once a month I’d get out the furniture polish and give the old roll top a rub down. Then I’d field strip the Colt .45, oil it and replace the loaded clip. It was my way of saying, “Hi Dad, how are you doing up there?”
My car was parked at the curb in front of my house. It would probably be another quiet evening on my block because Bill, my next door neighbor, who was gainfully employed by Whateley Petroleum and his family were gone. They were on vacation, and Bill had left his tanker truck that he used to refuel service stations, parked in their driveway. I guess some people would have complained about it as an eyesore but there were too few of us living on that street to make a fuss, and I could give a damn.
***
It was midnight. I drove the Chevy towards the precinct. It was supposed to be an unmarked car. It had been painted orange. You could see me coming six blocks away. Purdy, a beat cop, flagged me down. “Your radio work, Inspector?” he asked in a hurried voice.
“Yeah, what do you need my boy in blue?”
He leaned in through the window on the passenger side. It was raining outside, and water dripped off the brim of his hat. “A guy’s been murdered across the street.”
“How do you know he’s been murdered?’
“There’s blood all over the place,” he answered looking ill. He appeared to be badly shaken.
“Any perps in custody?” I asked.
“No, I just got here.”
“Where’s the body?”
“In that boarded up store,” he nodded in its direction. “The plywood over the front entrance is missing. He must have wandered in there and got mugged.”
“You keep the site free of any gawkers, and I’ll call it in.” There are times when I wonder how I ever got to be a detective. I radioed our precinct for an investigative crew and was laughed at.
“You are on the scene detective,” taunted the voice on the police radio. “Do you need a policeman or do you want us to call your mommy?”
“No,” I croaked. I was told that the coroner or a forensic official would be there when one could be found.
Feeling like a piece of crap, I got out of the orange billboard and walked across the street. I was soaking wet before I reached the curb. Inside, Purdy was a safe distance from the corpse shining his flashlight on it.
“Any onlookers,” I asked.
“Not in this weather,” he squeaked.
I took his flashlight and started to examine the body. There was a lot of blood. The vic seemed to be middle-aged, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I needed a closer look. He was face down.
“Come over here and help me turn him over,” I shouted to Officer Purdy.
The lanky young policeman hesitated and then approached slowly. “Grab his shoulder while I keep his head from bobbing all over.” We turned the corpse over,
and Purdy threw up.
Looking up at us with bloody empty sockets where his eyes used to be was a head with its face ripped off.
Continue reading Byron Craft’s Book “Cthulhu’s Minions” available at Amazon.com in Kindle or soft cover, or pick up all four Arkham Detective stories in “The Arkham Detective Collection.”
THE MYTHOS ALLIANCE
This is Byron Craft’s tribute to a secret society of mythos authors and artists known only to a select few as THE MYTHOS ALLIANCE. Please check them out:
F. Paul Wilson . . . is an extremely prolific author, primarily in the science fiction and horror genres. He is the winner of multiple awards: two-time winner of the Prometheus Hall of Fame Award, 2005 World Horror Convention Grand Master Award, 2009 Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement, and twice has received the Prometheus Award for Best Novel. Mr. Wilson has requested that we showcase his most Lovecraftian tale, “The Barrens & Others: Tales of Awe and Terror,” available at Amazon
Sean Hoade . . . writer extraordinaire who, like a butterfly within a chrysalis, has masterfully developed inside a cocoon of literature and has, so far, written novels about a murderous RV salesman, Charles Darwin on the Beagle, and vis-à-vis Lovecraftian monsters attacking an Edwardian household. Mr. Hoade would like you to examine his novel “Cthulhu Attacks! Book 1: The Fear” Check it out on Amazon.com
C. T. Phipps . . . is a lifelong student of horror, science fiction, fantasy, and especially H.P. Lovecraft. C.T. unearthed a passion for tabletop gaming that compelled him to write and he eventually metamorphosed into a lifelong geek. Take a gander at one of his latest, “Cthulhu Armageddon” @ Amazon.com
David J. West . . . tells us, "I write because the voices in my head won't quiet until someone else can hear them." David writes dark fantasy and weird westerns. He is a great fan of sword & sorcery, ghosts and lost ruins, so of course, he lives in Utah with his wife and children. Peruse all his books @ Amazon.com
Sarah T. Walker . . . is a writer and artist of dark subject matter, both fiction and non-fiction. Her art and writing have been published in multiple places from the Lovecraft eZine, to Audient Void, The Lovecraft Lunatic Asylum, and Shoggoth.net. You can learn more about Sarah at http://shoggoth.net/author/sarahtwalker/
Eric Lofgren . . . is an awesome Lovecraftian artist. Eric is a recognized freelance illustrator in the RPG and CCG markets, a master at commercial illustration that includes collectible card art, book cover art and interior book illustrations. Please review his impressive works @ www.ericlofgren.net
Matthew Davenport . . . spends his time writing, reading, and working to promote and support writing communities in Iowa through his company Davenport Writes, LLC. Author of over a dozen books, some Lovecraftian, he is an absolute MUST READ. You can keep track of Matthew on his Website www.davenportwrites.com
Paul Atreides . . . is an author, playwright, theater critic, and columnist. Troubled with abiding by those pesky rules of the afterlife, Paul has penned the Deadheads series as well as numerous short stories. To learn more about Paul Atreides go to
www.paul-atreides.com
Kristopher Neal McClanahan . . . tells us that he is an artist, Con Man, soap boiler and teller of tales, currently living in Southeastern Idaho. You can see what he's made of by going to the Deeply Dapper website that features his artwork and links to his podcast and con appearances @ www.deeplydapper.com
Peoples Guide to the Cthulhu Mythos . . . is a podcast that follows the literary timeline of the Cthulhu Mythos from the big bang, to the cooling of our sun. Go there and listen to find what lurks in the darkness, and who created these lurkers. They also talk cult film, graphic novels, and contemporary mythos collections. Go, if you dare, and be scared @ www.pgttcm.com
Seesar . . . The Seesar project constructs dark ambient soundscapes inspired by the works of H. P. Lovecraft, utilizing Italian Futurism and Dadaist approaches to sound creation. To find out where to obtain his several compilations on CD or tracks visit, www.seesarmusic.com