Gothic Lovecraft

by Lynne Jamneck

  The muffled, high-pitched screech of Josh’s giggling snapped Billy back into reality as he realized it was just a goat’s head on a stick, gore oozing down from its neck. “You asshole! You scared the shit out of me.”

  Josh and Jeff replied by diving and nearly drowning in a sea of laughter. Josh’s shrill voice crept above the surface saying, “Oh my God, Nanny—you should’ve seen your face!” Billy was anything but amused. He stood there tall with anger in his tight blue jean jacket, all gangly posture and big goofy glasses, trembling.

  “That was not fucking funny.” His voice echoed back at him from the bridge towering behind him, reminding him of the fascinating place surrounding them. He turned then, trying to ignore his two friends. The darkness in those open caverns called to him. But the terror he’d felt seeing those cold, dead, animal eyes was a sure sign that even these two idiots couldn’t piss him off enough to go in one of them alone.

  “All right, guys, you had your fun. Let’s go up there. I wanna see inside.” Josh and Jeff’s laughter died down to a light cackle. They nodded at each other and back at Billy, then made their way alongside him, Josh still brandishing the goat-head stick. The three boys began slowly climbing their way up the hill where the bridge melded into the earth. Twigs snapped and owls hooted occasionally as they rustled up the mound through trees and a thick layer of wet dead leaves on the ground. All the while Billy had to fight to look in front of himself; he couldn’t take his eyes off the huge structure above them.

  As they neared the bridge, Josh led the way like some morbid Gandalf with baggy clothes and goat-head staff. He stopped next to the first open spandrel and gestured for Billy to go ahead. “Ladies first, Nanny.” Billy didn’t hesitate. He stepped up onto the concrete, making sure to grab hold of the arch as he went inside. It was pitch black. A moment later the inside was lit up with a flickering yellow light. Billy turned to find Josh and Jeff standing there, Jeff holding a Zippo lighter and lighting a cigarette.

  The place was littered with rusted empty beer cans and remnants of food and trash. Over in the far corner a few small sticks were piled half-ashened from the makings of a poorly made fire. And the walls in here were covered with more graffiti—all colors, shapes, and styles. Billy leaned over and motioned to Jeff. “Hey give me one of those.” Jeff produced a thin, half-empty pack of Kools and pulled one out.

  “Yeah, yeah. Here.”

  Billy took the cigarette and lit it off of Jeff’s still open Zippo. Josh stood there making weird shadows against the opposite wall with the goat-head stick and laughing.

  “This is just too fucking cool,” Billy said.

  Jeff made a fake-menacing gaze, holding the lighter under his face. “Yeah, just wait till the train comes.”

  “Yeah, that’s when the Goat Man appears, Nanny—a boogety boo, hoo, hoo!” Josh’s attempt at a deep tone ricocheted off the curved walls of the tunnel in an explosion of echoes.

  They sat against the cold concrete and waited around for what seemed like hours, no sign or sound of a train. When the moon had set and it was getting late, they decided it was a lost cause. Jeff and Josh were up on their feet, making their way for the opening, when the far off sound of a train whistle pierced the air. Billy was still trying to get up when he looked at Josh, who stared back at him, goat-stick in hand, his usual humor betrayed by the nervous look in his eyes.

  Jeff was just about to jump down when he turned around and made eye contact with Josh as the bridge began to shudder. Both of them glanced back at Billy and stared past him—eyes wide and breath caught in their throats. The train rumbled closer and the ground beneath Billy’s feet shook, his teeth buzzing in his mouth. Following the boys’ staring eyes, he turned slowly, expecting to see some scary homeless guy with a hook, or worse yet … the Goat Man himself. When he faced completely away, staring into the darkness outside the other opening, the sounds of fast rustling leaves and jumbled laughter came from the hill behind him. Those bastards.

  By the time Billy turned around and made his way to the opening, the boys were gone and the train was getting closer. Practical jokes aside, he couldn’t get the look of those empty goat eyes out of his mind. And as the train roared overhead, the feeling of someone—something—behind him grew with a tingling at the back of his neck.

  This time, as he turned to look out the other end of the spandrel, his eyes were flooded with a dark yellow glow filling up the opening. He stood there frozen, staring at the light, the concrete bridge shaking with the weight and movement as train car after train car pummeled over the railroad tracks above. The light grew closer, enveloping the inside of the tunnel and surrounding Billy with its unsettling presence.

  A faint buzzing whispery voice rose in the air chanting over and over, “The Lord of the Woods …”

  Billy woke to the sound of chirping birds and the dim blue light of the morning sky, lying on the most uncomfortable surface he had ever slept on. He sat up, his head dizzy and pounding. He was still in the same open tunnel inside Four Arches. The place looked completely different in the wee-hour twilight. Cool moist air blew on his face as he stared out the opening where he now suddenly remembered the glowing light.

  Trees and the road below had replaced it. But that voice… “Jesus,” he said, turning back to face the way he’d come in. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Carefully, he made his way down from the bridge and onto the hill below. He let gravity dictate his speed as he stumbled his way toward the road. He was almost to the bottom when an unwelcome familiar face caught his attention.

  “Goddamnit, Josh!” Standing upright before him, the goat-head stick was plunged into the ground, head purposely facing up the hill at him. Billy kicked the stick over, knocking the head to the ground, and raced down to his bike. If he didn’t hurry, he wouldn’t have enough time to get ready for school by the looks of the rising sun. He wasn’t sure he should call it luck, but unlike the other two boys, Billy didn’t have to worry about coming home to pissed-off waiting parents. His dad probably didn’t even realize he was gone. Kenny—his father—hadn’t given much of a shit about anything the boy did for going on a decade now. And his mom had been out of the picture since before he could remember.

  Billy straddled his bike and took off for home.

  In third period English, Jeff grinned like an idiot, stifling a laugh as Billy entered the classroom. He gave Jeff the evil eye, but that only seemed to make the kid let loose with laughter. When the bell rang and the classroom conversation died down and Jeff was still laughing, Mr. Koby sent him out into the hall. It wasn’t long before Jeff peeked into the rectangular window from time to time to point and laugh at Billy. By then it really didn’t matter. Billy’s head hurt too much to do more than barely notice.

  As Billy made his way to fifth-period Art, a nervous growl called from his stomach at the thought of facing both Jeff and Josh. Especially Josh. Jeff was far more intimidating in a physical stature kind of way, but Josh’s sharp, witty sense of humor was more destructive than any fist could be. Deep down Billy knew it was because he actually liked the little prick and had only ever wanted his respect, but never got so much as a scrap.

  He shuffled into class, heading straight to his desk, eyes facing front so as not to notice the two boys giggling loudly at him. Then he waited for Mrs. Kemp to start her lesson for the day. But ignoring them wouldn’t last long. They had ways to get his attention, to make him burn with humiliation too much to keep looking away. It was something about the two of them when they were together. As if they could have embarrassed God and still wouldn’t be sated.

  When class was over and Billy made it to the hallway, Jeff and Josh trailed behind him. His dizziness and headache seemed to intermingle with his rising anger. A tug on Billy’s sleeve told him they weren’t going to give up that easily. He shook his hand violently to get whichever bastard was pulling on him to release their grip.

  Josh’s sarcastic, whiny voice cracked, “Well, Nanny, did you see him?” Laughter.r />
  “Yeah, Nanny, did you piss your pants or … even worse, did you fill them up with shit?” Jeff said. More laughter.

  “Oh, come on, Nanny, we were just kidding.” Josh somehow made his mocking tone even more annoying. “Nanny?”

  “Oh, just fuck off, okay?” Billy picked up speed and left the two cackling brats behind.

  Sunlight gleamed off the rearview mirror as Harley pulled up to the Big Four. He parked off the side of the road just in front of the bridge, got out of the white Town of Greencastle truck carrying a long black trash bag, and crossed the street. “Oh, Goddamnit. Not another goat head.” He leaned down and picked up the long, gray, bark-covered stick with the severed head stuck at the end. “Fucking kids.”

  It was Harley’s job, at least once a week, sometimes more if needed, to pick up around Four Arches and various other locations around town. He’d gathered up more beer cans in and around the bridge than anywhere else. Including DePauw campus. He sighed and grabbed the head by one of its horns and carefully put it in the bag, trying but failing to keep from dripping blood on his pants. “Mother—fucker.”

  Once the head made its way securely to the bottom of the bag, he twisted the top of the black plastic to hold it temporarily shut and climbed uphill toward the bridge. From halfway up he could already tell he’d be stuck here at least a couple of hours from the bits of trash and debris he could see within the spandrels. When he came to the top, he stepped up into the first tunnel, pulled the dust bin from his waist, and started scooping up cigarette butts and scraping gum from the ground level of the tubular concrete.

  When he was done, he picked up a pile of sticks covered in ash and tossed them into the bag. He was just about to scoop up the ashes when something shiny in the distance caught his eye. Something small but gleaming, just beyond the other end of the open tunnel on the ground below. Harley set his bag down and climbed out of the back end of the bridge and carefully walked down at an angle through the trees and leaves and sticker bushes. Whatever had been shining, the light was no longer hitting just right, so he went in the general direction where he’d seen it.

  As Harley came closer to where he thought he’d seen the shiny object, the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle and his chest grew heavy. He didn’t know why, but he sensed that someone was there. Someone… or something. He’d heard all the Goat Man rumors—who hadn’t? Besides, he’d seen so many goat heads around there that if he hadn’t, he would have gotten curious and heard the story anyway. But he didn’t believe small-town horseshit and he wasn’t about to start now. The devil was another story. He’d scrubbed down more than his share of satanic symbols from the old brittle concrete.

  His tension was only confirmed when he nearly slipped in a thick congealing puddle of blood. From there a trail of spots and splatters led onward and he followed, heart racing behind his ribs. He kept turning around to look back, sure that at any moment some red scaly beast with solid black eyes and a flaming pitchfork would puff into being and tear him limb from limb. The same limbs that were trembling now, shaking.

  He wanted to go back to the truck so bad he could taste it. It was the sensible thing to do. Go back to the truck and head into town and get the sheriff. It’s not as if he worked for the law or anything. He didn’t need to be out here if someone had been murdered. A stick snapped somewhere by the bridge and Harley turned to look, but kept on walking, in case he needed to run. Another twig snapped and Harley picked up his pace just a little bit. When the third twig snapped, Harley turned to haul ass, and his foot knocked into something solid and sent his body forward, head first, right at the ground. But ground wasn’t what he hit.

  A high-pitched scream gargled its way from Harley’s mouth as he realized he was lying face to face with the pale sunken eyes of a dead man. Leaves rustled all around him as he scrambled to get to his feet. His hands pressed against what quickly became obvious wasn’t a human body, but the body of a goat. He tried to block out this notion as he turned and walked several meters away and leaned down to vomit next to an old thick hickory tree.

  Heart still beating like a motorboat, Harley looked up between heaves, chunks of red hanging from a long line of saliva dripping from his mouth. When he could retch no more, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and circled around looking for whatever had snapped those sticks. Only the typical woodsy sounds surrounded by far-off traffic from town could be heard. And no animal, person, or red devil was waiting for him as far as he could see.

  He glanced back over at the body on the ground remembering what he’d felt between his fingers. Fur… and lots of it. Sure enough, the wet body of a goat lay on the ground where he had just been. But when Harley’s eyes made their way up the black furry neckline, his body curdled and he began to heave again, nothing but air making its way up his esophagus. He would never get that image out of his mind.

  Those same sunken human eyes stared back at him from a man’s bruise-purple face attached to the neck of the black goat.

  Billy stepped off the school bus, backpack dragging from his left hand, and walked across the street to the small rundown blue house nearly hidden behind a lawn of waist-high grass. Loose boards moaned in protest as he walked up to the front door, kicking crushed beer cans and makeshift paper-plate ashtrays off the side of the porch. The quiet, empty living room greeted him inside, and he set his backpack on the couch and went straight for the fridge.

  An odd smell of chemicals permeated the kitchen, coming up from the basement—Dad’s “laboratory.” Billy didn’t know what his father did down there, but he knew whatever it was wasn’t legal, had something to do with drugs, and he was better off not ever finding out. It was the only rule he had to live by in his old man’s house. Don’t go in the basement. The last time he’d broken it, his father had beaten any chance he’d ever want to return out of him for good.

  Billy put his dishes in the sink, got a beer from the fridge, and went to his room to get his electric guitar. A night jamming out on the porch smoking and drinking was just what he needed to relieve the tension that had built up in him ever since he came back from Four Arches. He sat down holding his black generic Les Paul copy with pearl-like square inlays in between certain frets; three, five, seven, nine, and twelve, he remembered to himself. They always made it easier to remember where on the fretboard he was playing.

  He put his lit cigarette, butt first, between the strings where they were attached to the tuning gears on the headstock at the end of the neck. When he was sure it would stay there, poking an end lit with fire out from his guitar, he strummed out some power chords and started to sing the song he had written a few nights before. Across the street, the empty field lay listening, a gentle breeze coursing through the bits of weeds and sticks beyond its rusty barbwire fence.

  From the corner of Billy’s eye, the cigarette was just about to burn up its last drag of tobacco and he stopped, setting his pick on the porch and reaching for the long trunk of ash hanging from the glowing butt. A sharp sting bit his fingers when he grabbed it, not realizing he’d grabbed it by the cherry, and he cried out, “Shit!” The sting sent a chill up his arm as he tossed aside the cigarette, and when its cold fingers brushed up his neck a flash of memory hit him like an ice pick stabbing into his eye—in intensity and pain.

  He grabbed for his eyes, dropping the guitar on the ground in a loud dissonant chord that was cut off as quickly as it was played. Bright yellow light filled his vision and was interrupted with flashes of different scenes in between one moment of glowing from the next. In one flash, he saw a man with a frightened dirty face and pale blue eyes running through some woods in the dark. In another he saw the stars through the branches of some trees from a vantage point that had to be on the ground. The next flash was different— alien in a way he couldn’t place. What he saw was vivid and grotesque, but his mind could barely fathom it, let alone process it into shapes and colors. It was vast as the universe and just as cold. Evil in every way—he knew it was so.


  The last flash showed him something he recognized, something he’d seen somewhere recently but couldn’t remember where. Dark red liquid dripped down from the hieroglyphic-like symbols crudely written on white flesh. The symbols moved in his vision as the yellow light flashed in and out. In between, the movement was rhythmic as moonlight glinted off the streaming red now dripping further.

  Her hands pressed against his chest as her body undulated, blood dripping off her right breast, sweat gleaming from her face and neck, long black and flowing hair behind her as she rode him, staring into his eyes with a hunger that turned his insides apart. Then the flash came again and she was different. Monstrous. In place of her head a black furry horned head much like the gray one Josh and Jeff had scared him with stared down at him, tongue lolling at the side of its mouth, eyes open and staring blankly. That same droning voice whispered in his ear: “The Lord of the Woods …”

  Its whispery voice grew in intensity: “Shub-Niggurath!”

  Billy woke up lying in the thick grass in front of his house, a queasy feeling in his stomach and an erection throbbing in his pants. He rolled over and sat up, listening to the crickets and looking up at the stars with a sense of deep, chilling unease. What the hell was he doing having nightmares in the middle of being awake? And those fucking bastards must have really freaked him out to make him see the kind of shit he’d just seen. That fucking goat head …

  Billy got up and grabbed his guitar, dusting off the grass and dirt, and went in to go to bed, crushing his empty beer can under his shoe on the porch along the way.

  The next day at school Jeff and Josh were at it again. Billy was able to avoid them his first few classes, but when Art II came along, there was no hiding from kids whose desks sat directly next to yours. As Mrs. Kemp droned further on about Michelangelo’s late-night digging habits, Josh passed a folded note back to Jeff and Jeff almost immediately reddened with laughter. He whispered over to Billy.