Black Wings of Cthulhu 6

by S. T. Joshi

  Exhaling a huge sigh, he sat down on the broad step. His only hope was to wait for the water to subside. The rain had now stopped so with luck the lake of black fluid would drain away. If it behaved as water did, of course.

  He might as well make the best of things and play the tourist while he waited for the lake to subside.

  To one side was an arched entranceway cut into one of the bizarrely angled buttresses. It led to a wide platform set into the wall of the enormous structure. Cautiously, he peered around the corner of the archway. There was no sign of anyone and nothing that looked dangerous, so he stepped through the opening.

  Just a few steps past the archway stood a pair of unusual objects. Set into the floor were two enormous curved shapes, rising to a height of about seven feet. As he walked around them it became clear they were two immense horns, facing each other. He doubted whether they could ever make any sound, as they were made of the same cold, black material as the building itself. They were obviously a piece of sculpture, though what they were meant to represent eluded him.

  Between the two fake instruments was a narrow raised platform. It sat in the ten-foot wide space between the bowls of the horns. Worryingly, there were two large metal rings set into the platform. There appeared to be some dried liquid on it. He walked past the rings, not wanting to think of their possible use.

  Clustered just beyond the horns was a set of figures, dark and still and slightly forbidding. Some were nearly full-length. Others had been formed as if they were cut off at the knees. Still others were simply a head and part of a flailing arm.

  At first he thought they were sunken statues, impossibly mired in the black stone. He couldn’t think how stone could be softened enough to allow such large sculptures to sink down into it like rocks in mud. Yet, instinctively, he knew they had not been carved. He backed away from them in fear when he finally realised that they were the remains of those who had come here before him and stayed too long.

  He moved away from them, his arms tucked into his sides, as if they were contagious or unclean. While backing up he bumped into another archway. Looking around, he saw it led to yet another platform. This area contained something that couldn’t possibly be human. The giant dark hand was three times the height of even the tallest man.

  Only when he stood to one side and looked at a particular angle could he see that, carved into the tip of each great finger, was a face. The expression on each of them was twisted in anger or agony, maybe both.

  It was as the wind suddenly picked up that he discovered its true purpose. As the breeze changed direction, each malformed mouth began to moan. He clapped his hands over his ears to block out the hideous sound. The vibration was inhuman. It shuddered through his body, causing pains to rise in his stomach and chest as his ribs vibrated in sympathy.

  Other sounds seem to join in, as if the foul voices were accompanied by some monstrous instrument that scratched at his brain like tin and old pain. It was the coldest music ever created; each impossible note held one crisp-edged corner of the night, ready to fold it over him, smotheringly, trapping his breath in his lungs, never to move again.

  He twisted from side to side, adding his own voice to the unearthly cantata of despair. His feet started to work seemingly on their own, desperate to get him away from the overwhelming din.

  He stumbled past the two enormous horns he had seen earlier. To his horror, they had both burst into life, emitting gargantuan notes that shook the stone beneath his feet. The impossible instruments had been given horrific voice. Anything caught between them would be pulverised with sound, dead within minutes.

  He fell to his knees, pushing the material of his sleeves into his ears to afford some relief. The vibration still shivered painfully through his body.

  And now he saw that the sound was indeed a summons. From across the lake he saw a procession of figures approaching. At first he thought it must be a mirage brought about by the mind-jarring noise, because the figures seemed to walk on the surface of black fluid itself, in a parody of the divine. But when they refused to fade away, he understood this mock miracle was actually happening in front of his eyes.

  As they came closer he sensed that they were walking along a raised path that led across the plain. This was his chance. As soon as it was safe he intended to take that same path away from here.

  The procession drew closer with each second. They were not moving at a respectful, stately pace but seemed to be rushing to worship, as if answering an urgent summons.

  Their unnaturally long legs moved swiftly like branches tormented by a high wind. Their garments drank in light, as if made of the black rain, cowled around faces of fog and shadow.

  Behind them, dragged along as if on invisible chains of air, were a small herd of human vermin, their clothes tattered and filthy, their faces shoddy masks that could not hide their despoiled souls. They were the very lowest apostles of depravity. He was sure he recognised some of the faces.

  Fearing discovery, he slid back behind the archway cut into the smooth, cold stone.

  From where he now stood, the swelling threnody of bleakness threatened to overwhelm him. He pressed his head against the cold stone, seeking relief. If he were to smash his head open against the unyielding wall, maybe the torment would stop. That was the answer: if he could just dash it hard enough to split it open, maybe the obscene music would spill out of him, every last drop, leaving him in blessed silence at last.

  When the figures were within a few feet of the enormous doors, the deafening cacophony stopped suddenly. He dared to breathe a sigh of relief, though he did not hear it. His ears rang abominably, as if someone standing next to him was singing in a preternaturally high voice.

  From his hiding place he dared to crane his neck, catching a glimpse of a red-lit interior. He had the unmistakable impression that the procession was descending and moving to the left. He was puzzled why a building that stretched up so high would also need to descend into the ground.

  The last of the figures passed out of sight. Once the procession was inside, the gigantic doors closed with an overwhelming crash that he felt more than heard.

  He unblocked his ears and massaged his temples. Then he yawned to try and return his ears to something close to normality. Within less than half a minute his ears were more or less back to normal. But then he almost wished that he’d lost his hearing.

  From inside the building came an awful sound. It reminded him of enormous hooks scraping against stone. From time to time it sounded as if they caught, digging into the hard surface and dislodging material, which tumbled down noisily.

  The unsettling sound continued for a short while, punctuated by the sound of words chanted in an unnatural rhythm. Then both gradually and mercifully faded.

  He was certain he heard the sound of hands pounding against the enormous door. There followed a sudden babel of voices. Only one cut through the rest; it trailed off in despair after shouting, “There is no outside!”

  This was followed a few seconds later by the sound of the voices receding quickly into the depths of the enormous building. In the sudden silence, he heard the wind pick up, whispering its message of despair to him.

  There was only a few seconds of this respite before a single voice could be heard from within the cathedral.

  It was lost somewhere between a chant of praise and a cry of terrible agony. It phased alarmingly, becoming something not quite human just before the chilling noise stopped altogether. His mind reeled at what might have happened to the owner of that voice.

  Then a chorus of others joined in, adding their pain and their devotion to the lone acolyte’s song. Whether in support or condemnation, he preferred not to know.

  Within the catechism of despair he’d recognised peculiar names. The last time he’d heard them was in the mouth of one of his daughter’s boyfriends. He’d assumed in his arrogance that they were fictional bogeymen, conjured up to scare and delight impressionable children. But in the mouths of these devot
ees, among words tinged with both devotion and terror, the names had a cold, awful power—one devoid of any human idea of mercy.

  The names themselves became unnaturally amplified, rising in volume until they became a huge column of sound. Once more he clapped his hands over his ears and ran to the edge of the lowest step. It was as far as he could go to get away from the sound.

  Eventually the liturgy died down and he lowered his hands in relief. He felt as if his mind had been turned to fog by the onslaught. One thought fought its way to the forefront, and then he remembered the earthen causeway used by the sinister procession.

  He ran to the edge of the broad steps and peered down, seeking his path to freedom.

  Moments before, it had begun to rain once more. The blackness started to rise almost at once. He stared at the raised pathway as the blackness began to spill over it. He tried to muster his courage, standing with his feet half hanging over the edge of the lowest step. All it would take would be to extend one leg and step onto the path. It was only a foot or so below him.

  He had no evidence that the black fluid was dangerous. But his sense of revulsion at touching it sounded like a bell in his head, drowning out any rational thoughts.

  Breathing heavily, he tried to force himself to place his foot where he knew the path must be. Then it dawned on him how long the journey across the plain would take. And he had no clear destination. The black flood would have taken him long before anything like salvation appeared to him. He clung desperately to his fears, afraid to let the fluid—if that’s what it was—touch his skin.

  He suddenly became aware that it was twilight. The light was going and he struggled to fight back a wave of anxiety. The thought of spending the night in this place horrified him. But what choice did he have?

  He feared that his presence would be discovered—that the doors would burst open and he would be dragged away to participate in some unimaginable scarlet ceremony. Or that he would be condemned to join the frozen figures, petrified in place forever while his soul screamed in agony, immortal and trapped within.

  Night was here now, black as raven feathers embedded in tar. Small dark waves lapped against the stonework at his feet as if against a shore of utter desolation, an island of pariah souls.

  Something was being borne along gently by the rise and fall of the bizarre inland sea. A flash of whiteness would rise above the surface for a few seconds before being obscured again. He bobbed his head from side to side, trying to identify the object. As it drifted closer to where he stood, an awful realisation dawned.

  It was the body of a woman, her eyes white against the overwhelming blackness of the fluid. He couldn’t be sure because he hadn’t been close enough to see her face, but he suspected this was the corpse of the young woman he’d seen running through the poppies earlier. Her face rose towards him on the soft swell of the waters, and he could see that something had used her as food.

  He looked away, clamping his eyelids tight shut. When he opened them again, the waves had carried their grisly cargo off into the blackness, offering her up to the night’s mercy.

  That was the fate that awaited him if he tried to brave the unnatural lake. He felt grateful that he hadn’t sought an escape across the causeway into the uncertain night. His thoughts were interrupted by a sound, and he turned his head to follow it.

  From far above him he heard sounds of movement. He raised his head to peer upwards, but even the light from the faint stars failed to help him penetrate the darkness. The sounds continued, but he could see nothing. His imagination painted pictures of enormous night birds with penetrating vision, many times better than his own. They might do him harm or even kill him.

  Clutched suddenly by a shiver of fear, he retreated along the side of the cathedral, pressed close to the wall. Taking care not to touch the half-buried petrified figures, he slid down the wall behind them and pulled his knees up to his chest.

  After many minutes he was seized by a kind of sleep. Inside his unquiet slumber, he dreamt that something came to him, easing its huge body almost gracefully between the immovable figures. It touched him, leaving an invisible stain on his flesh.

  He jerked awake, fearful and cold. Instinctively, his hand went up to his face at the place where the dream creature had touched it. He could feel nothing, though the spot tingled and stung. Pulling his jacket even tighter about him, he forced himself to believe his imagination had got the better of him.

  If such a creature did exist, if it had come to him in the darkness, surely he wouldn’t still be alive, he reasoned. Unless it was saving the pleasure of his death for later, of course.

  He had to get away from here before he became a part of the building or a victim of something unknown. Before he was unable to leave.

  He already felt that this non-place, leaking through a rent seam in reality, had sucked him almost dry. It was nearly too late to escape.

  For all of one second, he contemplated plunging into the blackness and “swimming” for it, if that was the right word. Even the awful fate that awaited him there was better than the uncertainty that was torturing him.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose suddenly as the scent of blood reached him on the night wind. He could never mistake that smell. It reminded him of hunting trips with his father. The scent had overwhelmed him as the animals died, surrendering their lives too quickly. The smell had made his stomach turn over and it threatened to do the same now. He covered his nose and mouth with his arm and moved back from the edge of the steps.

  He wondered who or what had been killed. Had they been killed by the creature he was sure he’d heard earlier? The fear that he might be next froze him in place. He stood, pressed against the vast doors, for an unguessable span of time.

  The coldness of his own death touched him, making him feel small and old. He didn’t want to die here, alone in this ugly place, far from those who loved him . . . even if only a little.

  He was seized by a sudden wave of anger. He felt mistreated, abused by this place.

  This shadow cathedral, this gathering-place of obscenity, must not be allowed to remain standing. Though he could not imagine how much force it would take to demolish this leviathan citadel of night, he knew he had to try and persuade someone—somewhere—that it must be utterly destroyed.

  Its very existence seemed to blacken the world. Those who had been taken inside were now surely lost. Though he had no sympathy for their type, he knew that others must be spared the same fate . . . whatever it was.

  And whatever dwelt within or around it must be destroyed, too.

  Sullenly he sat on the step, the cold seeping into him from the stone, staring out into the nothingness around him.

  Gradually he saw a shape appear out of the darkness. He was preparing to retreat through the doorway that led to the place of the petrified figures when he saw it was a boat. Crouching down, peering anxiously, he saw that it was his boat, the one that had brought him to this accursed place. A small part of him wanted to sink the damned thing in misplaced vengeance. But it was his only way out of here.

  The tiny craft was eddying and turning, frustratingly out of reach. Taunting him with a dream of escape.

  For minutes he watched as it slowly came closer but still remained out of reach. Carefully he emptied his jacket pockets of his few possessions, then wound the jacket around his right hand. As the boat looked as though it might drift right past him, tantalisingly out of reach, he lashed out with the jacket. One sleeve caught on part of the outboard motor. He tugged at it, giving the boat enough momentum to drift his way. When the side of the boat hit the step with a clunk, he thought it was one of the most beautiful sounds there could ever have been.

  Making sure to keep one hand on the boat, he slipped his jacket back on, scooping up his few bits and pieces and dropping them back in his pocket.

  Afraid that the blackness might not hold up the weight of the boat with him in it, that he’d sink into the ebony lake, he gently placed one foot dow
n. Ready to leap back onto the steps at the first sign the boat was sinking, he leant more of his weight on the tiny vessel. It sank only a few inches.

  He eased himself into a seating position in the boat. Then, mustering all the strength he could, he pushed against the cold stone of the step.

  Looking around in the boat, he realised that his rucksack was gone. All his food and water had been stored inside it. He sighed heavily, consciously fighting off the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. One or two items had obviously fallen out and lay in the bottom of the boat, including his watch.

  He’d slipped it into an outside pocket of the rucksack when the strap had broken yesterday. He picked it up. The illuminated dial showed him it was just gone 9.30. It should have been light hours ago. He shook his head, puzzled.

  Sitting up straight to look behind him, he allowed himself to feel some relief as the enormous spires, blacker even than the lightless night that surrounded them, began to recede into the distance as the boat drifted farther away.

  This was the first time he’d ever thought that any architecture could be predatory. But the idea fitted this carnivorous dark structure perfectly.

  He reached out to start the small outboard motor, then quickly withdrew his hand. Part of the side of the motor was missing. It appeared to have been torn off as if it were simply paper. He imagined that it had been done by whoever, or whatever, had taken his rucksack. The perpetrator obviously possessed enormous strength.

  There was nothing left to do but sit and wait to be taken wherever the boat would take him. He looked back in the direction of where upriver might have been. Nothing waited for him back there. He wondered what waited for him up ahead as he drifted into the overwhelming darkness.

  He pressed the button on his watch to light it up once more. He was incredulous that the dawn hadn’t broken. Only darkness was allowed to reign here, it seemed.

  By the weak light, he noticed that the map he’d used to get here had fallen out of his pocket. As he picked it up he noticed there was another fold to it. He carefully unfolded the part that had been tucked inside—perhaps on purpose—and peered at it closely, struggling to see. The prospect of undiscovered territory ahead at least offered hope.