Shoggoth

by Byron Craft

  “No one is in hot water here gentlemen, the Admiral declared. And before we go any further I want to make it clear that I am in full support of your program Professor. As for you Mister Ward, the FBI ran a check on you, which is standard for all visitors to the petroglyph site from the Maturango Museum. You’re harmless. I could give a rat’s rear end if you went spelunking from now until doomsday. But there is one more clarification, and that is if any of you breathe a word of my declarations, or the pursuant conversations in this room today, I will have you both thrown in the brig. Is that understood?”

  With relief, Ironwood said, “Yes.” Some weight was lifted from his shoulders. It was great to have a comrade in high places. Alan, on the other hand, had the wind taken out of his sails. Ironwood kicked him again. “Yes!” he let out with a yelp.

  “Good,” Hawkins added. “The other night I had a cocktail party at my home in Ridgecrest. What I am about to show you is confidential. He swept the flags on his desk aside like Moses parting the Red Sea. Turning the flat screen monitor to his personal computer around to the two visitor’s vantage point, he plugged in a thumb drive. After selecting the proper icon on the screen, a Windows Media player appeared. Clicking “Play,” moments later Thomas and Alan were peering into a room. It had the appearance of a private library. “That is my study,” offered the Admiral.

  The point of view was probably videoed from the other side of the room because at the far end, a door opened and they observed Captain Eastwater being pushed inside by a gentle but firm hand. Congressman Neville Stream followed quickly behind. Stream surreptitiously looked out the door and then closed it. The two walked towards a library table bringing them closer to the camera view. A nice “Two Shot” thought movie buff Ironwood.

  “At this stage of the game Clayton, your database of seismic surveys is crap. I want that file, and I want it now,” ordered the video image of the congressman.

  “What do you expect to find?’ answered Eastwater visibly uncomfortable.

  “The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. You are in this too deep already. If you are worried about a court-martial and jail time, they will seem like a holiday compared to what I can do to you.”

  Stream’s intimidating tactic was clearly painful and unnerving to the Captain. “All right but it will take time. I will have to find the right moment when there is the least amount of personnel on duty at the Security Management Office. The SMO has multiple protective measures for safeguarding classified national security information. I will have to obtain the appropriate security clearance.”

  “Make it happen now,” the congressman countered with a raised voice. “I’ve told you before that this file dates back to the Second World War. If you get caught just tell them that you thought it was declassified and that you were doing research on a book you were going to write on the history of the NWC.”

  “I could photograph them, I guess.”

  “Now that’s my nephew,” chided the congressman with a wry smile. “Thinking outside of the box is the mark of a successful man. Come on I’ll buy you another Scotch.”

  The two left the room and closed the door behind them. The image went black and the word “Done” appeared in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. “The camera is motion activated,” Admiral Hawkins informed his confidants. “It’s a little larger than an ink pen and was concealed in the bookcase.”

  “That’s really high tech Admiral. Did your people at the Michelson Lab make the camera?” Alan Ward asked.

  “No, I bought it at RadioShack.”

  “What was that all about Admiral?” Ironwood interjected.

  “That those two are up to no good. If I am any judge of Congressman Neville Stream, there have to be either big bucks in it for him or something of greater importance to his political aspirations.”

  “With all due respect Admiral,” Professor Ironwood implored. “Why us? Can’t you have this SMO investigate them?”

  “Not on your life. Neville Stream’s web of cohorts is very extensive. He probably has several moles planted on the base. I don’t know who I can trust. One false step on my part and he’d have me in front of a Congressional Oversight Committee on trumped up charges.”

  “But you would be found innocent,” Alan naively proposed.

  “Stream has a sycophantic media on his side. They would tear me to shreds, and the truth would never get out. No gentleman, your tunnel is the source of his deception.”

  “Our tunnel?” exclaimed Ironwood.

  “Absolutely! I need you to keep after this thing. I am asking you to keep me abreast of whatever you turn up.”

  “Since we are offering confessions,” Ironwood responded a bit shamefaced. “I revealed the Space Guard Program to Alan. With all the subterfuge I’ve witnessed between Eastwater and Stream, I thought it best if I had someone to watch my back.”

  “That will be your cross to bear,” replied the Admiral.

  “Well, Alan,” Professor Thomas Ironwood said turning to his companion. “I am certain now that we need to take another look at the old Morley house.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE MYTHOS DEPARTMENT

  “Miskatonic University, how can I direct your call?”

  “Mythos Department, please.”

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Professor Thomas Ironwood.”

  “One moment please.”

  “Nathaniel Peaslee.”

  “Nate, its Thomas Ironwood.”

  “Tom, you old son of a gun, how the hell are you?”

  “Doing my best to survive Nate.”

  “The last I heard about you they said you were a hermit living in the desert.”

  “Sounds like a lame cover story. I’m out here in the Mojave working on a military project.”

  “Army, right?”

  “Navy.”

  “Navy! What do they do for water for all those boats?”

  “They turn on the faucet. Look, Nate, I need a favor.”

  “Do you want your old job back Tom? Just say the word. The Mythos Department hasn’t been the same without you. We certainly could use an old bomb thrower like you.”

  “No Nate, as long as the Millennials in administration consider the threat of the Old Ones as junior varsity I don’t want anything to do with them.”

  “Ok, ok what can I do for you?”

  “Alan Ward is a houseguest of mine, and I need you to check into something for me.”

  “Poor Alan, is he behaving strangely again? You know about his amnesia?”

  “Yes, I knew. He is what I guess you could call a shell of his former self. He is the Alan Ward we use to know only seriously diminished. He looks ill, and as far as his memory goes he is still missing a few years of his life,”

  “So what is he doing living in the wild west?”

  “That’s why I called you Nate. He says he is out here on a grant from the Nathaniel Derby Pickman Foundation.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “The Nathaniel Derby Pickman Foundation is tapped out. It’s the lousy economy, Tom. Donations from the private sector are in the dumper. Even if they approved a grant for him, he’d have to wait a decade before any funding would be available.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nada!”

  “Thanks, Nate.”

  “Keep in touch Prof.”

  When Nathaniel Peaslee disconnected the call, Ironwood heard static followed by three short beeps on his smart phone before the screen went black. Could someone have been eavesdropping, he troubled?

  CHAPTER 17

  RETURN TO THE MORLEY HOUSE

  Inside was a black hole. White lines slashed the darkness vertically. Professor Thomas Ironwood and Alan Parker Ward shone their flashlights into a dim abyss below. Dust gently floated in the beam of their lights, making the rays stand out like wide lasers in the pitch darkness. Ironwood shivered; it was much colder here.

  “Why did you derail our det
ailed exploration of the cellar before?” asked Ironwood visibly annoyed.

  “I didn’t think it necessary. I’ve been over it quite a few times. It’s as barren as the desert,” replied Alan a bit of an edge to his voice.

  The two stood on a decrepit wood landing leading to a flight of steps. The construction of the stairs was in the same state of decomposition as the rest of the house.

  “Keeping in line with modern research methods, we’ll try the process of elimination,” declared the professor with a touch of rare humor.

  Careful of the time-worn staircase they descended one at a time. Upon reaching the cellar floor, their search seemed baffling. Each inch of the earthen floor and stone foundation walls had such a solid nondescript aspect. The thought of anything out of the ordinary appeared ridiculous under the revealing LED glare of their flashlights. Ironwood commented, “If there are any hidden passageways or secret cubicles within these walls or the floor they are well hidden.”.

  “That’s what I was saying Prof,” Alan returned.

  Slowly they moved carefully over the entire subterranean surfaces, vertically and horizontally considering every inch separately. An hour elapsed and they both stood on opposite sides of a pair of cast iron washtubs knowing little more than when they started. Earlier they had attempted to move the tubs, but they wouldn’t budge. The vessels turned out to be immovable.

  “They were the only articles left behind after the house was abandoned,” offered Alan. “The weight of the tubs must have been too significant to remove them plus they are bolted to a concrete base, probably to prevent the legs of the washtubs from sinking into the earth when filled with water,” he added. Alan shined his light on the crudely formed concrete base. A sand lizard scurried across the dirt floor and disappeared into a tiny orifice beneath the platform.

  Ironwood shined his flashlight on Alan and Alan shined his on Ironwood. They stared at each other. They were speechless. Ironwood set his light on the floor, stooped down and summoning all his strength attempted to lift the two tubs and the concrete platform. Alan, recognizing that Ironwood was unable to dislodge them, dropped his flashlight and assisted with added muscle to no avail.

  Experimenting in every-which-way possible and, exerting double strength on the platform, Alan and Ironwood felt a slight movement of the base. “It slid horizontally about an inch,” shouted Alan with unconcealed excitement.

  “The damn thing was meant to slide,” added Ironwood joining in on the excitement. “There must be a fulcrum point.”

  Testing different directions to push the tubs sideways, they soon discovered that there was a corner pivot next to the stone wall. Applying muscle power in that direction, the washtubs, concrete base and all, slid on its corner, almost effortlessly for over five-feet. Alan and Ironwood scrambled to retrieve their flashlights.

  Exposed below was another concrete surface with an iron manhole inset in its center. In the middle of the circular lid were two holes, close together, approximately one-half inch in diameter. “See those two holes,” said Ironwood pointing.

  “Yes I do,” answered Alan triumphantly. “I told you I had explored this cellar several times before,” he proclaimed. “And I believe I know where the key to open this concrete and iron tomb is hiding.” Alan Ward jumped to his feet and focused the beam of his torch on the floor joists above. Hanging over where the washtubs once stood was a rusted metal bar. One end of the bar was bent. Grabbing it Alan almost shouted, “I observed it here before on several occasions and wondered what it was used for; I thought it was an old longshoreman’s hook.”

  Ironwood took the metal bar from Alan and, after weaving its hook through the two holes in the manhole, dead lifted the iron lid upwards with the ease of a man that did resistance training. A gust of stale air swept up from below. The subterranean pair aimed their LED torches like laser beams.

  For a brief moment they could distinguish nothing in the stygian hole. In the seconds that their eyes took to adjust to the bright glare they observed a cylindrical brick wall leading downward. It was a sheer drop of about ten feet. Imbedded in the brick wall was a wrought iron ladder and beyond its length, the hole appeared to strike off onto a flight of stone steps. Ironwood wondered if the steps may have emerged to the earth’s surface in another age.

  ***

  The wall had been constructed with a less common type of brick, molded rectangular blocks of clay-baked stone hardened by the sun. Irregular in shape, no two bricks appeared to be of the same size. The sloppy mortar joints were as uneven as the bricks themselves. Fire ants scurried in and out of the cracks. A scorpion crawled across the knuckles of Ironwood’s right hand. He noticed it and, mildly annoyed, shook his hand and watched it tumble off to the stone steps below. Professor Ironwood climbed down the wrought iron ladder. He looped the vinyl wrist strap on the end of his flashlight through a button hole and over a button in his shirt collar where it hung securely. The LED torch swung back and forth as he slowly descended, casting ghostly white images on the cylindrical brick cavity.

  Ironwood cautiously pressed on, not waiting for Alan to follow. Hand over hand he traveled downward pausing momentarily, testing the strength of the ancient ladder, gradually easing his weight on one rusty iron rung after another. Looking down with each step the stone staircase became more discernable. He could see that it had been chiseled out of one gigantic piece of solid rock. No joints or seams were visible that would have been the tell tale evidence of smaller stone blocks stacked on top of one another. Looking up he could see Alan Ward peering down at him. Ward appeared small, framed in the circle of the manhole. It was like going down into a sewer, a dark gloomy open drain with me as the waste that has been flushed, he reflected with a bit of melancholy and then he smiled at his perverse humor. He had, after all, volunteered to go down first. He had insisted in fact. He was concerned about Alan’s health. Alan Ward was frail. Ironwood was at least fifty pounds heavier than his old friend so it was wise for him to test the strength of the ladder. He also thought it best that he be on firm ground initially so he could help Alan down off the ladder.

  Ironwood set foot on the top tread of the flight of steps. It was gritty under the soles of his boots. Removing the flashlight from his shirt collar, he shined it down the stone staircase. It was a black yawning aperture. The beam of the flashlight wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate its depths. It was cool, even cold, he thought. For a brief moment, he was struck with an uncontrollable shiver. “Alan,” he shouted looking up the round well shaft. “Attach your light to your collar button like I did and come on down.”

  Alan was far more agile than Ironwood had expected and he made it down the ladder and to the stone staircase in half the time. “Well done Mr. Ward, well done. You surprised me,” declared the Professor. “Shall we proceed?”

  “Is it too late to tell you that I am afraid of the dark?” Alan exclaimed. Ironwood looked incredulous. “Come on, I’ll lead the way,” Alan declared with a laugh. “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 18

  BENEATH

  “Those idiots at the tunnel, I hope they blow themselves up!” Gwen exclaimed, jamming the parking brake on. The Dodge Neon momentarily lurched forward, in her driveway, as if in response to her rage. She had wasted most of the day at the tunnel site politely disobeying orders. She had been ordered to the airstrip, then choppered out to the area where she had fallen into that damn hole the day before. Upon landing, she saw that her flatbed truck with its drill rig was parked nearby along with the trailer that held the blasting gel. Why it was there, she didn’t know, and before she had a chance to find out Lieutenant Jason Riggs had her by the arm and was leading her down the ladder into the earth.

  She didn’t mind being manhandled by Jason but she wished it would have been done under the influence of candle light and wine. “What’s up Lieutenant,” she cooed, momentarily forgetting her annoyance.

  “You are needed.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. What did you have in mind?” They
had finished there climb down and Gwen stood facing the young Lieutenant. She didn’t take her eyes off of him, not even to notice the enormous tunnel works that surrounded them. They stood less than a foot apart. Riggs returned her gaze with a smile. Gwen hoped it was the right kind of smile.

  “We need your explosives expertise,” he answered still smiling.

  “So this was your idea Lieutenant?”

  “No Petty Officer, the orders came from the CO.”

  “Aye, aye,” she returned only sadly this time. It was then that she first took notice of the extensive length of the tunnel with all the cabling and bright lights. “Wow, this certainly has grown,” she exclaimed while being led through the passage. She walked with Riggs for what seemed like a mile or more. Every so often, during their trek, a seabee would pass them by, going in the opposite direction, pushing a wheel barrow load of dirt and rock. Then they reached the end of the cavity. More seabees with picks, shovels and sledge hammers worked at the dead end. The tunnel was blocked by a huge boulder. It was the size of the passageway itself. The men worked unsuccessfully trying to break down the enormous stone. There was writing on it. A funny kind of writing she thought. It looked more like hieroglyphics but they ran vertically instead of horizontally like the ones she saw in books. They were intricately carved with great precision, not like the crude petroglyphs in the canyon. The inscriptions looked machined. In an instant she realized that the glyphs were actually written horizontally. What she thought to be vertical writing, as in some Asian scripts, was simply parallel line after line of engraved rock that had been turned on its side. Although the meaning of the script was totally foreign to her there was somehow an underlying meaning. It touched her inside and she felt her skin crawl. It was the same sensation she felt the night before when something lurked beneath her house. “Something lurked?” she quaked internally, why did I think there was something lying in wait last night? The mental cringe aroused her suspicions. The big stone, somehow she knew, must have been part of a greater structure that had toppled over on its side, probably thousands of years ago, crashing through the tunnel’s ceiling.