The Children of Cthulhu

by John Pelan

  If such a refuge or road exists in this region, I have not yet found it.

  Time after time, at first light, I have left the feeble safety of my cabin to stalk through the woods in search of a neighbor, an abandoned dwelling, a road. I have roamed in every direction… never, however, for more than six hours at a time.

  You've no doubt heard the old mind-teaser: “How far can a dog run into a forest?”

  The answer, of course, is “Only halfway. Then it's running out.”

  I am much like that dog.

  Knowing I must return to my cabin before the arrival of night, I can search only half the distance I might be able to travel in the course of a full day of hiking.

  Over the weeks I have been trapped here, I've gone greater distances by quickening my pace. Not long ago, I actually ran from the cabin at the break of dawn in order to cover as much ground as possible. I ran until overcome by exhaustion, then walked, then ran again. By this means, I traveled perhaps twice my usual distance.

  No place of sanctuary, however, presented itself to me. Nor did I come upon any roads.

  At last, with half the day gone, I turned back.

  Dear God, not soon enough.

  In my worn-out condition, I hurried as quickly as possible but soon realized that I stood little chance of regaining my cabin before dark.

  It felt like a death sentence.

  Worse than that. Our criminals are mercifully hanged or electrocuted or shot, not torn from their feet and carried off in the talons of a monstrous creature, flown away to confront a fate so hideous I cannot bear to think of it.

  I did, however, possess Arthur's double-barreled shotgun.

  While it was hardly capable of destroying the creature, it could certainly destroy me. I vowed to use it on myself rather than allow the monster to snatch me away.

  With the promise of a shotgun blast to console me, I continued my journey to the cabin. My race against darkness had begun shortly after the noon hour. I dodged trees and bushes, waded streams, climbed over deadfalls, chugged my way painfully up steep slopes, bounded down hillsides, sometimes fell, stopping to rest less frequently than my body called out for—but more often than seemed wise.

  In the late afternoon, the sunlight took on a rich golden hue and cast long, long shadows. Once, this had been my favorite time of day with its deep, melancholy beauty. Now, it filled me with dread, for it signaled the approach of dusk… and darkness… and the hideous flapping thing that would come down for me out of the night sky.

  Soon came dusk, silent and dim, gray and blue. My legs felt like pillars of stone. My arms were leaden, my hands barely able hold on to the shotgun. My lungs burnt and my heart felt ready to explode. And yet I ran on, and on.

  At last, as night spread across the hills, I saw my cabin in the distance. Though my legs could hardly carry me at all, I struggled forward, wheezing for air. I left the trees behind and trudged across the clearing. Closer. Closer to my cabin. Then came the cry of the ungodly beast and the whup whup of its enormous wings. Raising my eyes, I saw it sweep across the night, its massive shape blotting out the stars.

  It wasn't coming for me. Not tonight.

  Instead, it was no doubt busy on some other unspeakable errand.

  But it would be back for me. If not tonight, then tomorrow night or the next.

  It will never let me leave this place alive.

  It needs what I have.

  2

  Arthur Addison, my brother-in-law, was the first to go. Though I am appalled by his fate, I cannot help but feel a certain wry satisfaction.

  He had, after all, accompanied us into the wilds against my wishes.

  I'd been looking forward to a time of solitary intimacy between myself and my new wife… not to a threesome including her brother.

  We couldn't keep him away, however, because he was half owner of the cabin. It had been in my wife's family for well over a century, being passed down from generation to generation and finally to Emily and Arthur following the sudden deaths of their parents in a train disaster.

  Though they owned the cabin, they had never visited it. Their ancestor, Garrett Addison, had apparently built the structure in the most wild and desolate region he could find in order to elude … no one is quite sure who or what he hoped to elude. According to family tradition, he was an “odd one.” Even his wife and three small children, left behind in Providence, were apparently glad to find themselves abandoned by him.

  I have neither the time nor inclination to relate all I know about the history of Garrett's cabin. Let me simply say that its location eventually became known to the family, it was visited and photographed by subsequent generations, and passed down through the family until the property came into the hands of my wife and her brother.

  To me, it seemed like an ideal place to while away a fortnight before resuming my attempts to finish the collection of dark and brooding stories on which I'd been working for the past two years.

  When I proposed the adventure to Emily, she said, “Smashing idea! Let's do it!”

  Soon, however, Arthur learned of our plan. “You're mad,” he said. “The old place is virtually inaccessible.” Their father had apparently journeyed there as a young man and had very nearly been turned back by the distances and the rough terrain. After persisting and eventually reaching the cabin, he'd stayed for only a single night before hurrying away. “He never told us what happened that night,” Arthur explained, “but he warned us never to go there. I think it would be wise to heed his warning.”

  “But Arthur,” said Emily, “that was ages ago. Though I can't imagine what might have distressed Father so much, it surely wouldn't be a problem this many years later.”

  Arthur continued to argue, protesting that such a trip would be arduous, uncomfortable, and quite possibly dangerous. But we were not to be dissuaded. At length, Arthur said, “All right, then. If you must go out to that godforsaken cabin, I'll go with you.”

  “Don't be silly,” Emily told him.

  “I insist. I won't have you traipsing off into such a region with no one to protect you except Dexter.” When he uttered my name, he wrinkled his nose as if sniffing a foul aroma.

  “I'm quite capable of seeing to Emily's welfare,” I informed him.

  He said, “Hogwash.”

  In consideration of his size and propensity for violence, I refrained from punching him in the face.

  Emily tried several times to talk him out of accompanying us, but to no avail. Nor could we simply strike out and leave him behind. Aside from being half owner of the cabin, Arthur was in sole possession of the only map detailing its whereabouts.

  He refused to allow us so much as a glimpse of the map.

  Though I was tempted to call off the entire enterprise, Emily had grown so curious about the cabin and its environs that she wouldn't be talked out of it.

  “It'll be fine, dear,” she assured me.

  “Arthur's an oai.”

  “Oh, he's simply overprotective of me. He is my big brother, after all.”

  “But I had my heart set on being alone with you.”

  “I know, dear. I'm disappointed, too, but Arthur has made a solemn promise to allow us privacy whenever we ask for it.”

  “Ah, splendid. We're doomed to be asking his permission.”

  “It won't be so bad. Really.”

  “You deal with him, then. I can hardly see myself requesting him to walk off so that 1 can engage in dalliance with his baby sister.”

  Laughing sweetly, she said, “I'll take full charge of shooing him off.”

  She proved to be as good as her word.

  3

  After departing from the train at Brattleboro, we hired a car to take us as close to the cabin as roads would allow. After requesting the driver to pick us up at the very same spot a fortnight hence, Arthur consulted his map for the umpteenth time and we set off over a woodland trail. All three of us carried backpacks loaded with clothing, equipment, and food for our adven
ture. In addition to his pack, Arthur bore his rather large shotgun, which he rested on his shoulder as he strolled along.

  Our hike from the road to the cabin took the better part of five days. Though we suffered from exhaustion, aching muscles, mosquitos, numerous scratches, bruises, and blisters— though we found ourselves ever more uneasy about the utter isolation of our surroundings and the strange noises we sometimes heard in the night—we completed the journey without major incident.

  This surprises me somewhat, looking back on it. Surely, the creature must've been aware of our approach. The noises in the night, at that time unidentifiable, I later realized had been the flapping of its giant wings and its uncanny screams of rage or glee.

  Why it refrained from attacking us, I don't know. Perhaps it had reasons of its own for allowing us to continue on our way to the cabin. Perhaps it wanted us there.

  By the time we arrived, weary and battered, we were ill-suited for further travel. Otherwise, I doubt we would've spent a single night at the place.

  It appeared somewhat brow-beaten and ramshackle from the outside, but that came as no surprise. After all, the dwelling had stood abandoned for a great many years. If anything, I suppose we might have expected it to look worse than it did.

  Overall, the cabin appeared to be intact except for its front door. The door, smashed from its moorings, lay flat on the floor a few feet inside the cabin.

  We stood on the porch, looking in at it.

  “I wonder how that happened,” said Emily.

  “Perhaps a bear wanted in,” said Arthur.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Nothing to worry about.” Arthur removed his backpack and lowered it to the porch floor. “No doubt our intruder is long gone. However.” He readied his shotgun. “Wait here,” he said, and stepped into the cabin.

  After only a few strides, he very nearly vanished in the gloom.

  “Do be careful,” Emily called to him.

  “It's quite all right. Though I must say, there is a rather foul odor. A smell of death, I'm afraid.” A few moments later, a match flared. Its glow illuminated Arthur near a far corner of the room, his back to us, a match pinched between the thumb and forefinger of his upraised hand.

  “I say,” he said.

  “Arthur?” Emily asked. “What is it?”

  “A chap,” he said.

  “A What?” I asked.

  “A dead chap.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Emily.

  “Quite without his noggin, I'm afraid.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Come and take a gander for yourself, Dexter. Quite up your alley, the sort of drivel you're so fond of scribbling. Unless, of course, you're too timid to experience the genuine article.”

  I started through the doorway, but Emily clutched my arm.

  “I'll just take a look,” I told her. “Wait here.”

  “Be careful, dailing.”

  As I made my way through the cabin, Arthur's match died out. I was engulfed by blackness. Stopping, I explained, “I can t see.

  Arthur chuckled softly. “Follow your nose, old boy, follow your nose.”

  “Arthur!” Emily chided him from the doorway.

  He chuckled again. A few moments later, another match flared. I hurried toward Arthur while he sucked the flame down into his briar. The aroma of cavendish quickly joined the stench of rotted flesh.

  The match still burned when I came to a halt beside him.

  Sprawled on the floor just in front of a rocking chair was all that remained of a human body. Arthur, in his droll and faux-British way, had called this person a chap. Unless he was considerably better-versed in anatomy than myself, however, the attribution of maleness to the cadaver was a matter of pure supposition —or wishful thinking. Its clothes were shredded rags. So was most of its flesh. Little more than bones was left, and the skull was gone entirely.

  As I stared down at the horrid stranger, Arthur's pipe died. The air, bereft of his sweet smoke, suddenly choked me with its stench. Gagging violently, I ran for the door. Emily leaped out of my way. I jumped from the porch. In the fresh air and sunlight, I managed to halt the spasms and avoid the further embarrassment of vomiting in front of my darling wife.

  Arthur was vastly amused. He spent the next ten minutes or so chuckling and shaking his head at me and making comments such as, “Cast-iron stomach there, Dexter?” while he went about removing the cadaver. He carried it out of the cabin with his bare hands. It took him several trips. He threw the bones into a bushy ravine about a hundred feet from the cabin.

  Done, he grinned at us and brushed his hands together like a man who has just chopped a good load of firewood. “That's that,” he said.

  “But where's the poor man's head?” Emily asked.

  “I suppose he lost it somewhere.”

  “Perhaps it's still in the cabin.”

  “Awfully dark in there,” I added.

  “I'll open the shutters,” Arthur said. “The place could use a bit of an airing out. Whiffy in there. Quite noisome, actually.” Laughing, he trotted up the porch stairs and entered the cabin.

  A few minutes later, he came out.

  “No sign of the chap's head, I'm afraid.”

  “I don't believe I'll sleep in there tonight,” said Emily.

  4

  It was then we discussed quitting the cabin altogether. I was in favor.

  “Let's get away from here now,” I said, “while we still have light.”

  And our heads, I thought, but kept that part of the argument to myself, not wanting to appear unmanly.

  “But we've only just arrived, dear fellow.”

  “There was a dead man in the cabin,” I reminded him, going along with the prevalent assumption that the victim was indeed a male, though I had no reason to believe it so. “By all appearances,” I went on, “he did not succumb to old age. I don't want to subject Emily to whatever it was that … destroyed that poor man.”

  “Oh, Dexter,” said Arthur, “he's been dead for ages.”

  “Hardly ages. He still had meat on his bones.”

  “None worth mentioning,” said Arthur with a grin.

  Squeezing my arm, Emily said, “I'm done in, darling. I think we all are. Besides, it'll soon be dark. Let's remain here at least for tonight. We'll sleep under the stars. When we're all fresh and rested in the morning, we can decide whether to stay on here or begin our trek back.”

  “Bravo!” said Arthur. “The voice of reason.”

  “I still don't think we should stay here,” I protested.

  Chuckling, Arthur patted me on the shoulder with one of his soiled hands. He said, “Don't be frightened, poor boy. I'll protect you.”

  5

  I was fast asleep late that night when Emily, in her bedroll beside mine, shook my arm and whispered, “Dexter! Dexter!”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Do you hear that?”

  I listened and heard a quiet, heavy whup… whup… whup, like the slow beating of gigantic leather wings. During our trek to the cabin, we'd heard such sounds many times in the night but they'd always seemed far away.

  Now, they were nearby and coming closer.

  I put a hand on Emily and whispered, “Don't move. Don't speak.”

  “I should warn Arthur.”

  All three of us had spread our bedrolls in an area in front of the cabin. To allow us a modicum of privacy, however, Arthur had settled down some twenty feet away from us.

  In the brightness of the moonlight, I could see his dark shape on the ground. He didn't appear to be stirring.

  The flapping of the creature's wings grew louder, louder.

  “Oh, dear God,” Emily murmured.

  I shouted, “Arthur! The skies!”

  He bolted upright, gasping.

  We all looked to the skies.

  Though I gazed toward the flapping sounds, I saw little more than the dark shapes of trees. Then something crashed through the upper branches.

>   Crying out, “By Jove!,” Arthur shouldered his shotgun.

  The monster's squeal pierced my ears.

  A huge shape of blackness descended upon Arthur.

  KRAWBOOM!

  The flash of his muzzle blast lit the night … lit Arthur and the creature.

  Emily screamed.

  Arthur fired off his other barrel. In the darkness following the second brilliant flash, I was too blind to see what became of him.

  Sobbing and shuddering, Emily clung to me.

  Some time later, holding each other, we struggled to our feet. We staggered over to Arthur's bedroll. His shotgun lay on the ground, but he was nowhere to be found.

  6

  Emily and I spent the rest of the night inside the cabin. I smoked Arthur's pipe, every so often, to mask the remains of the stench and also in an effort to prevent myself from drowsing off.

  We'd closed the cabin as much as we could: fastened the shutters, propped up the door in its frame and barricaded it with various articles of furniture.

  Emily lay on the floor, her head on my lap. I sat with Arthur's shotgun ready by my side.

  During the long, seemingly endless hours of waiting for sunrise, I thought of many things. Along with so many other thoughts, it occurred lo me that I'd been granted my wish to spend time in the cabin with Emily… sans Arthur. How ironic, I thought; now that he was gone, I didn't feel the slightest inclination toward tomance.

  I also considered the possibility that my “wish” might have been the cause of Arthur's misfortune. The notion plagued me with guilt for a while. However, I realized that no power of mine could have drawn such a beast to Arthur. I also knew that, if I'd had control of Arthur's fate, he never would have accompanied us on this journey in the first place. Even now, he would be safe in Providence.

  Throughout the long hours of the night, I had ample time to wish that Emily and I had remained in Providence ourselves. We'd known of the cabin's reputation. Like children eager to play, however, we'd chosen to ignore the dangers and make our journey anyway.