He bristled. “I merely thought it odd you chose to write when the tourists got too noisy.”
I smiled my gap-toothed grin. “It is not tourists.”
“Then is it the boats?” he persisted. "We are in a lighthouse, so we should be near some water."
“There are no boats.”
He snorted with impatience, which barely covered his growing fear. “I believe I know boats when I hear them.”
My smile erupted into a grin. “Do you hear boats?”
“Of course,” he answered sharply.
“Really?” I said, feigning interest.
Frustrated, he quieted down and listened, determined to point out the noise of boats outside.
Yet there was nothing.
Only silence.
A deceptively innocent calm.
No annoying call of sea birds, no gentle growl of surrounding waters, no creak from the lighthouse settling, not even scrambling of rats in the walls - nothing but the sound of our breathing and the faint thudding of our hearts.
He was realizing how truly quiet it was in this room. With the chatter he had kept up during his meal, he had not realized when the whispers began or stopped. Yet, with the hush enveloping us, he was recognizing the varying degrees of quiet. The quiet of the city always had activity underlying it, the calm of rural areas murmured the occasional animal or even infrequent traffic, and even the peace of the country was preferable to this oppressive stillness. He had passed all this on his way here, and he was missing it. In this stillness, he began to be afraid to speak, fearful of the sound of his own voice. Even a whimper seemed unacceptable because it would invite more taunts from the frost-lined window.
The whispers crept forward again, fueled by his realization.
A mocking melody of voices, laughter, tinny dogs barking, even off-tempo music. We could almost smell home cooking, my favorite dish waiting on just the other side. I could almost taste it. I do not know what tempted him, but he stood and approached the window, enticed by sweet memories. I restrained myself from stopping him as outstretched fingers reached for the curtain and brushed against the frigid material...
He yelped as the sting of the extreme cold spread from the covered window. It helped him regain his senses. I watched the frost extend from the window edges, extend along the wall that housed it, and reach across the floor for him. He shrank away, resisting the almost tangible pull from the drape. As he did so, I used our only weapon and began to write again. Almost immediately, the voices drifted into silence.
As the noise stopped, he ran his fingers through his tangled hair. I waited. His eyes scanned the room, his visage becoming worried. The closed door, the strange cold from what could only be the haunted window, and the slight icy mist which had wisped out of the living quarters when I first greeted him – he was growing more and more distressed. Now he would think I, the sole occupant of this bizarre cell, needed help. The chill, coupled with the absence of familiar sounds of the outside, bothered him inexplicably. I watched as the urge for flight built, and for a moment I shared it. It was tempting to turn away from this, to just put down the papers at the edge of the open door to the living quarters and ignore my gnawing conscience about leaving the strangely cold lighthouse.
The closed door reminded me this was no longer an option.
"Why is it so quiet now?" the young man rasped. "Why can't we hear anything from outside?"
The silence was affecting him now. I almost pitied him. I had used the same trick the sly old fox who had been my predecessor had used. I had blanketed the maddening quiet by allowing him to chatter on and, now his attention was on the silence, it was too late for him to escape – much too late. His chance was gone the moment he had not run away from the pervasive cold, and his fate, like mine so long ago, was sealed once the door to the living quarters had closed.
“It is far worse than you think, boy,” I said.
“I can't think of anything worse than this,” he replied, still confused but the dread remained. "Eerie quiet followed by scary whispers. What is this place, man?"
I chuckled, an eerily soft sound in the stillness of the room. It was the wrong response but for some reason it tickled me to hear my own question replayed to me so many years later. No wonder my predecessor had laughed. The irony of it was unmistakable.
Unnerved by my inappropriate reaction, he began to pace. When he passed the table, he saw there was only a setting for one. This caused him to stop. I could see his mind working. There had been two plates before, why now only one? The implication was unpleasant. Nervous, he turned back towards the draped window. The room was illuminated despite the heavy fabric but I could see him twitching. The lure to open the curtains was growing. I could feel it, too. Only, I was long accustomed to the pull. He was not. The stillness was closing in on us, oppressive and unyielding. The previously friendly room was now too small, inducing the claustrophobic sensation of being forced into a small box. The need for an opening was incredible. He crossed the increasing cold towards the portal and even as I rose to stop him, I knew it was too late. When his hand grasped the icy fabric, I heard it crackle in protest and was aware of an overpowering sense of doom. He paused, as if feeling the same thing, but then cursed himself for a fool and did the only thing I had never been able to do: he pulled the curtain aside and looked beyond.
What lay beyond the window was not the waters surrounding the lighthouse.
It was not even a port in a bay.
It was not any landscape I was familiar with.
Words fail to describe the swirling darkness beyond. The unending void curled and boiled in a continual foul miasma. I gazed upon the eternal blackness and saw a spark in the corner of my eye. Turning, I would see the spark again in my peripheral vision. Wherever I turned, I could not see the light directly but always obliquely. Yet I could tell its movements were becoming faster, its illumination more intense, and the cold more pronounced as it seemed to be getting closer. It was not long before the darkness itself moved, shifting like figures within the shadows being drawn towards the light. We coughed as a stench akin to rotten debris from a rancid lake wafted into the room from the abyss.
“Close it!” I finally managed to bark.
Startled, the youth complied and backed away. The beginnings of the noise from beyond the drapes followed my fellow prisoner as he scrambled away to the relative warmth of the opposite side of the room. I moved past him, arranging the drapes to block out the light from this room which attracted the denizens from beyond. I quickly returned to the table without turning my back to the covered aperture.
Deftly, I took the pen and began writing, the entire time never turning my back to what I now knew lay behind the drapes. I had been unable to take my eyes from the gateway, my mind still struggling to make sense of what I had seen. I know not when the whispers stopped. I was brought to my senses by his touch on my shoulder. He was shaking, terrified. He should be.
From under the door, fog was creeping. I knew what this meant. My time was done. I had to prepare him as best I could.
“I have little time now,” I said. “What you have done accelerates the timeline and you require an explanation. I will provide one but I doubt you will understand it fully now. It will make more sense later.”
“What do you – ?“
“Quiet and listen! My time is shorter than I thought,” I snapped, chills invading me from a sound I knew he could not hear. I wanted to be calm but my heart was racing. At the end of my time, I found I was not ready. I thought I would be, but when faced with mortality is anyone really ready? “I can hear the howling, so Hastur has lifted his protection. This is to be expected. It is your turn now.”
“Hastur?” he echoed dumbly.
“The story of the Old Ones and the Elder Gods is there,” I explained as I pointed to the manuscript. “Commit it to memory, boy. This is your job now. You are now the Keeper of this lighthouse and that is your lifeline.”
“Lifeline?” he was
dazed, coughing slightly from the residual stench still tickling our noses.
“What lies beyond that portal must never break through,” I instructed him with a passion that startled me. It broke him out of his stupor long enough for him to focus on me. “There are nexus in the world, boy. Places where the barrier between the worlds is tenuous, feeble. And thanks to that idiot Arab, there are those who try incessantly to break those barriers. Hence the need for us; those fortunate, or mad, enough to find a weak juncture and remain to find ways to blockade the eager would-be intruders. Or perhaps the juncture calls to us…”
I became lost in thought for a moment, then started and looked warily at the corners of the room. The fog was growing and it was becoming difficult to see. The howls were getting louder. Despite this, I tried to keep my apprehension from my voice. “The means to prevent the crossover varies. Music, song, art; all of these have been used though the end results have not been altogether effective. Another lodging house in France had a musical talent which was effective until the sentry was killed. Then there was the artist who painted what he saw and made a miniscule profit from it.” I soured at his blank look but I swallowed my impatience. He would read about it. “Never mind, boy, my words will make sense in time. For, you see, in order for you to keep the portal closed you must find a way to block it. When you do, the materials you require will be provided.”
The stillness of the room was then pronounced by a sudden gloom. The illumination which had kept each inch of the small quarters adequately lit began to dim and flicker. Terror blossomed as I realized what this meant. There was so much more to say but I had to trust he would read. I sighed resignedly. “Keep your wits about you, boy. This is a solitary mission and when you find your weapon you may not like what happens. Yet persevere, so that those things do not escape.”
My sense of urgency was infecting him, thank goodness. “What happens if they break free, man?” he asked. He clearly still did not understand but he was accepting the importance of the task.
“I shudder to think, boy.” I answered. “Entities using bodies across time, including those who consume the dead, have been known to slip free. Denizens entreating the easily seduced have already taxed walls of reality and weakened other barriers so their masters may come through. So much blood, so much terror…”
“How can you know all this?” he asked in a rush as the lights dimmed more and more.
I regarded him then, feeling so very old. Older than I thought possible. This room had been my home for most of lifetime and yet I had seen so much. My writing had been my tool but it had also been my window. I saw life outside as one did through a mirror or through wate r, never fully. In those glimpses, I had seen the seals falter and break. In addition to those was the dreams. I may have been isolated but I was never without knowing. All at once I was tired, so very tired. My time had passed and now I was ready. My successor's question had brought everything to a head. I realized I was ready for the hounds. I almost welcomed their coming. Almost.
“I know this in the same way you will come to know it,” I explained with a tinge of sadness. “Knowledge will crowd your mind once you properly accept your post. It will drive you to the edge of madness but you will persevere. Hastur would not have chosen you otherwise.”
The young man opened his mouth, undoubtedly to ask who Hastur was, but he was interrupted.
The corners of the room began to smoke, adding to the increasing haze which now filled the room. White tendrils poured and thickened until I could not see properly past the white fog. I put my hand on my successor's shoulders, silently commanding him to remain still...
I felt the old man's hand on my shoulders and was compelled by some unseen force to keep quiet and not draw any attention to where I was. Somehow I knew it was imperative I not make a sound. It all seemed so surreal, but when I finally heard the howls I knew it was too terribly real.
The old man cried out in a strangled voice, one almost immediately cut short. My throat constricted to keep me from answering. The fog swirled and for a moment I saw him grabbed by some hideous shadow. A second, and then a third, joined the first, converged on my companion as he slid down the wall. I swore there was a dark smudge marked where the old man slid down the wall. I suspected what the stain was but dared not focus on that thought lest I break my silence. A terrible snarling accompanied the shadows as they dragged the old man about the room almost gleefully, until finally the lights in the room began to brighten. In response they yowled, and somehow I managed not to shudder. The fog softened, and for a moment I had a terrible certainty I would see what the shadows truly were. I obeyed the compulsion to close my eyes. I knew if I were to see the owners of those blurred forms, I was doomed to the same fate as my poor host. It would be several heartbeats before I dared open my eyes again.
I was shocked to see him on the floor, his body mauled and mutilated. Finally able to move, I scrambled toward him. He was barely breathing when I reached him, and with his last breath all I heard him say was “Hastur be with you.” Then his body shriveled before my eyes. The mummified corpse disintegrating to dust as I watched, until it sifted between my fingers into a pile on the floor. The last thing to drop, without blemish, was the pen.
I knelt there for a moment, in shock. It did not take long for the fog to clear and I realized I was staring at the pen atop the ashes. The quiet began to envelop me again and panic set in. I focused my will towards getting out of this room and, in desperation, I ran to the door. The fact it did not open was not surprising but the solid nature of the barrier was surprising.
I searched the bleak room for what felt like hours and yet the exit eluded me. The plain walls stood firm against the pitiful pounding of my fists, the plaster immoveable and indifferent to the frantic scratching of my fingers, the ceiling apathetically watched as I paced and examined every inch of the smooth surfaces of the walls, and the door – what I had come to see as my jailor – a silent sentry who stoutly refused to open, however minutely, despite the pulling and pushing and dubious incentives of hurled curses.
The sparse furniture of the room now lay in debris at various points on the floor from where I had hurled them against the door. My attempt to damage the stubborn portal or to even force my way through the stone walls, made no marks on any of the surfaces around me. All were as pristine as when I had first arrived.
Momentarily spent, I sat by the steadfast barrier and wondered at the turn of my fate. My labored breathing echoed against the bare walls. The sound turned my thoughts back to my prison. Propped up, my eyes searched the small space. Other than the curtain opposite me, nothing moved of its own volition. My breaths fluttered along the smooth surfaces, vibrated against the cold stone, and thudded against the curtain's fabric. Other than this, the room was still. The quiet would not last long. I did not know which was worse: the empty silence which aimed to stifle me or the insidious whispers which would eventually come from the only other portal of the room.
The hairs stood on the back of my neck and arms as the murmurs began again. It mocked me as it falsely broadcasted sounds from the outside. The roar of boat engines; the laughter of children at play along the rocky shore; the general cacophony of traffic cruising the waters outside the lighthouse I was imprisoned in – it was lies, all of it. The window suggested the possibility of escape but I knew it was a lie. It was my duty to keep the malevolent beings on the opposite side of the barrier, but how? My predecessor had said my tools would be made known to me, but when? Not to mention I was not even sure I wanted this!
The sounds on the other side were becoming more insistent. I had no desire to see the void again but needed a way to resist the pull to open the curtains again. Unable to think of anything else, I covered my ears and hummed familiar songs until the clamor stopped.
When it was quiet again, I had to find something to ground myself despite the featureless walls around me. Even the door, though solid, had no patterns and the doorknob was fastened to the outside. How c
ould the old man have stayed in this room for so long? How much longer would he have waited? Had it really been fate that drew me here?
Impossible. No one was that patient. My world was one of instant gratification. If you wanted something, you got it. If you did not, you complained until you did. It was simple. The idea someone had waited until he came along to fulfill a strange duty was foreign. And just what was this job?
I reached for the manuscript my predecessor had left and began to read. As the old man indicated, it began to clarify what had been hinted at earlier. The struggle between the gods and how humanity was caught in between. The importance that Cthulhu and his minions never break free of their seals.
The more I read, the more I felt the heavy weight of responsibility.
I finished the manuscript. I understood now. I was the sentry of this nexus.
Only it was not something I wanted and absolutely not something I would have asked for. Was I really going to accept the fact my fate was to sit in this boring room for the rest of my life, battling with cold, quiet, and maddening whispers? I shivered at the thought. I needed to get warm.
The first thing I wanted to do was burn the offensive manuscript. I had already committed all the horrific information to memory but I wanted the evidence gone. I managed to find some matches and promptly set the papers ablaze. I watched the flames until I realized I was no longer shivering. I looked up and saw the frost, which had been creeping along the floor towards me, visibly retreating from the heat.
Encouraged, I grabbed the debris from the demolished furniture and fed the flame. The fire helped me to corral the unwanted frost back to the one wall where the window resided. Was it just me, or did the curtain itself seem to draw away from the fire? I grinned manically.
The old man had said my tool would make itself known. What if my task was not to guard the window but instead to destroy it? Then I would not have to stay, would not be driven crazy by the alternating quiet and noise. The idea grew in my mind, a certainty it would work building. I had all the material to keep the flames going, but was it the right thing to do?
The Idolaters of Cthulhu Page 7
