Keyport Cthulhu

by Armand Rosamilia

  Matthew could only nod and smile, but the movements felt awkward like he'd never done them before. The minister was smiling at him but, behind the smile, he knew a million horrible questions were spinning through his head. A barrage of questions Matthew didn't want to answer was percolating. He could see it behind the man's eyes. He glanced at the stairs leading up to Tina's room. Somewhere, up above, she was getting dressed. Maybe she was in her panties and bra right now.

  Minister Cecil cleared his throat and Matthew nearly knocked over the lemonade when he jumped. The minister smiled again but now Matthew noticed there was no warmth behind it, only probing questions.

  "What do you do for a living, son?"

  Matthew couldn't smile. He couldn’t produce spit in his dry mouth. "I'm an author," he managed to squeak out. He hoped her father didn't notice the hitch in his voice.

  "Interesting," the minister said, and Matthew knew it wasn't just a simple statement. The man had made his decision about the boy and the verdict would soon be in. Matthew glanced at the stairs again, wondering if he'd be leaving with Tina for this date. If he was a gambling man, he'd give himself no better than three-to-one odds.

  "What do you actually write?"

  Ten-to-one odds, Matthew thought. "I write horror stories."

  "Fiction?" the minister asked with a dismissive grunt and, suddenly, became interested in his own sweating lemonade glass.

  Matthew wanted to get up and run out the front door, down the path and dive into his car and never look back. This was going even worse than he had imagined. When he'd asked Tina out two months ago, he knew at some point he'd have to meet her parents. Since her mother was out of town and he'd kept putting it off, he thought this would be the perfect time. Now he knew why Tina was so hesitant to have him meet her father. Her minister father, he thought. This is such a nightmare. He knew now the mother was the buffer between father and daughter, and he'd played the wrong hand and lost.

  "Do you write as well as Stephen King?" her father quickly asked, staring, once again, at Matthew.

  "I wish," he said with a laugh, hoping the old man would join him in a snicker. He didn't.

  "I think King is a poor writer, with too much gratuitous sex and violence in his work. He's no Faulkner and couldn't hold a candle to some of the great Christian writers, either classic or contemporary."

  "Hmm… interesting," Matthew finally said when it was obvious the man was looking for some sort of answer. Matthew had no idea who Faulkner was, and he was sure he'd never read anything labeled Christian fiction. He didn't even know it was a real thing. Maybe, if he wanted to keep seeing Tina, he'd have to read a bit and suck up to the old man.

  "What are some of the inspirational classics you take note of?"

  "I'm a big fan of the newer guys, I guess you could say. Keene, Everson, McKinney, Clegg… Edward Lee and Carlton Mellick."

  "Never heard of one of them."

  "I also grew up reading H.P. Lovecraft," Matthew added with a smile, which dropped when the minister looked like he'd sucked on fifty lemons at once.

  A large finger was aimed at Matthew's face. "Not only was the man a bigoted racist, but he wasn't a very good writer. Anyone who creates and puts so much effort into trying to defame God with his own set of pathetic creatures will not be mentioned in my home. He was a charlatan and a fraud, and his Dark Gods or Greater Gods or whatever he created was an abomination."

  "That's kinda the point," Matthew said defensively.

  The minister was red-faced and looked like he was about to explode. He turned away from Matthew and glared up the steps. "Darn, Tina, this young man is down here waiting for you. Slap on some clothes and get yourself together."

  * * * * *

  Sorry it took so long," Tina said when they got to his Kia Spectra. He opened the door for her, not because he was a gentleman but because the brackets had rusted out and if you swung the door too far, it was liable to fly off the car.

  "Not a problem, your dad and I had a lovely conversation," he said through gritted teeth. They'd sat in silence another six minutes until she'd finally come downstairs. Matthew wanted to ask what the heck took so long, since she was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a boring red top. Her hair was back in a ponytail and she didn't have any makeup on, which drove him nuts. She needed to look her best when they went out. What if someone he used to date was around and saw this Plain Jane he was dating now? He'd dated strippers, for God sakes.

  OK, he never really dated one, but he'd once given a stripper named Jasmine a ride home when her Porsche had broken down. She'd complained his car smelled like cabbage, and she would avoid him in the strip-club whenever he came in. But he'd twisted the story a bit for his friends (he was a writer) and voila! He had his stripper-banging story.

  Tina didn't get into the car. "Did he ask you about your faith?"

  "He was too busy asking me about my job."

  "What did he say when you told him you were unemployed?"

  Matthew wanted to scream. "We've been over this a million times. I have a job. I'm a writer."

  "You haven't sold a single story in weeks. You said so yourself. A job means you make money doing it." Tina looked down at her feet. "Just saying."

  "You sound like my old man now. I told you: this is going to work out, and I'll have more money than I know what to do with. Just have patience." Matthew smiled. "You know I really like you, right?"

  Tina smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

  "You know I love you," he whispered.

  "I told you to stop saying that," Tina said and got into the car.

  Matthew grinned as he walked around the car to the driver's side. He'd said he loved her on their third date and it shook her. He really did think he loved her, because she was a great gal. Tina was the first chick he'd dated who hadn't put out, in the backseat of his car or in a shitty motel room in Sayreville, on the first or second date. Usually, the first. These Hazlet bitches were easy. Like shooting chubby fish in a barrel.

  Tina was a pretty girl. She was a little on the plump side but he liked her curves. Best of all, she was very self-conscious about her weight and he would make subtle jabs at her, when they ate out, to keep her in check.

  "Wow, another cookie? You really like those," he said the other night when they were at his parent's house and she'd eaten two Oreo cookies. It worked another way, since the cookies were actually his mom's and, if she found out he had a girl in the house or she was eating her snacks, she'd be pissed. Even in his mid-twenties, he had to follow his parent's rules if he wanted to live in their dining room.

  Matthew slid into the car and started it, doing his best to ignore the loud squeal of the belt as it started. After twenty seconds, the car relaxed a bit, and only the cracked dashboard made noise as it rumbled with the engine. "Where do you want to eat tonight?"

  Tina shrugged. "I don't care." She never had an opinion. If he was paying, it would be Keyport Diner or a fast food place. If Tina offered, they could go to a nice seafood restaurant in Sea Bright or to a chic café in Red Bank.

  Matthew made a big show of pulling out his wallet and checking his funds before pulling away from her house. "I'm a little short tonight. I have to buy stuff for, um, my writing. A new printer ink and some stamps and things."

  Tina looked back at her house. "I could go inside and ask my father for some money."

  Screw that. The old man already hates me. "How does the diner sound?"

  "I don't care."

  Matthew smiled. "Keyport Diner, here we come." He glanced back at her house when he pulled away from the curb and saw her father standing, with his massive arms folded, and watching them.

  * * * * *

  Father Rocco woke with a start, spitting out dirt and gravel from his dry throat. He tried to rise but there was something over him. He panicked. Am I dead? Buried alive? In Purgatory?

  He realized, with relief, he was in a dumpster. Covered with a cardboard box. But why? He remembered the pit and the e
vil hounds and… the people he was in the hole with. Had Bones and Nichole escaped as well? Rocco didn't know how he'd gotten here, or where here actually was. He instinctively knew he was still in Keyport, though. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he would spend his last minutes in this godforsaken town.

  He was surprised to see he was in the alley behind the Broad Street Bar & Grille. Had he been tossed out the back door of the establishment? He doubted it. There was something evil about the bar, he was sure. It was situated right in the center of the small downtown area, on the main street leading through town and to the docks. The bar's owner was also someone to be feared. Everyone in town knew it, but no one knew exactly why. Dylan Murphy was the ninth of the Murphy brood to own the place in the 150 years it had been situated on Broad Street. He was quite easily the meanest of the bunch if you weren't a local or didn’t follow his agenda, and now it was all becoming clear to Father Rocco. He was more than a bartender and business owner in Keyport. He was the puppet master behind all the goings-on. Father Rocco glanced at the sky and prayed God was going to give him the strength he'd need to fight the good fight.

  Father Rocco knew there would be no help coming his way. He was on his own, a crumbling old man without a church but with his strong faith intact. Because of the evil in Keyport, his devotion had grown stronger. It was no coincidence the Good Lord had made sure he was still inside the city limits. Rocco felt the intensity and foreboding brewing in town. There was something mesmerizing going on, and it would need to be stopped very soon.

  "God, grant me the power to succeed as I face my unearthly foes," he intoned with a whisper. He stepped out onto Broad Street, expecting to be attacked at any moment. Instead, the street was preternaturally quiet, as if the town was holding its breath. Without his church and home, he had nowhere to go as a safe haven. It had been burned to the ground days ago. Or had it been weeks? So many things had transpired in such a short time, and he had no idea how long he'd been held captive.

  He lifted his hands, dirty and calloused. He smelled like the earth. Rocco couldn't remember when he'd ever been filthier, and he didn't like it. He felt beaten, a broken old man facing such a monumental task. He only had his faith. Was it enough this time?

  "I know I don't deserve to ask you, Oh Lord, but I need some strength to go along with my conviction now. I need some help in the coming battle to be waged. I ask you to look down on me. Give me a sign."

  A rusting Kia Spectra went past on West Front Street and the kind face of a God-fearing child peered out at him. Their eyes met and Father Rocco could see the life behind them. He knew what it meant. With a smile, he looked to the sky and spread his hands. "Thank you, Lord."

  He began walking, as quickly as his old bones would let him, grateful when he saw the tail lights glow red as the car slowed, across from Keyport Fishery, and pull into the lot near the dock.

  * * * * *

  "Why are we here?" Tina asked, as Matthew pulled into the empty lot and killed the engine. "I have to be home soon. You know my father will be displeased if I'm even a minute late."

  "Displeased? I like that. I would have said pissed, but I know you don't use words like that," Matthew said.

  "Those words are disrespectful." Tina didn't like all the profanity Matthew used around her, especially when other people were within earshot. He also used the Lord's name in vain, and she had lost track of the number of times he used sexually charged expressions or called people curse words, especially when he was driving. She often thought about what she was doing dating him, and, when she was alone, she was sure the next time he picked her up she was going to break it off and move on.

  But Tina had nothing to move on to. She had no options when it came to men, and she knew it. While her family often fawned over her hair and her smile, she knew men didn't really find her frumpy outfits and lack of makeup exciting in this day and age. She didn't even own a makeup case, and had never had cause, before Matthew, to try to look pretty. She knew she was failing at it, anyway.

  "You know I'm just playing. Lighten up, babe. If I didn't really love you, I wouldn't be me around you. Good and bad and all that jazz, you know. We need to be open and honest with each other. How else are we going to spend the rest of our lives together?"

  Tina thought he was moving way too fast, but she wasn't one for confrontation. She knew her father would never give her an ultimatum, but, this afternoon, when Tina had mentioned Matthew was going to take her out on another date, her father had decided to meet this boy. Feel him out, and see what his plans in life were. If he had any. There was also an underlying, unspoken thought: why would he be interested in Tina?

  "The rest of our lives? We haven't been dating long enough for big plans."

  Mathew laughed and tapped on the steering wheel with his fingers. He was always a ball of nervous energy, his hands or legs in motion. He hummed and sang along to songs in his head and Tina tried to ignore them, especially the songs he sang about sexual encounters and violent imagery.

  "All I have is big plans, and you're going to be my Angel Girl, and we're going to be rich and famous together."

  "Doing what?"

  Matthew moved suddenly, leaning into her and putting his face close to hers. She thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he grinned. "Doing anything and everything, don't you get it? Once my writing career swings into high gear, we can travel the world. Haven't you ever wanted to see Paris?"

  "Not really. I like it in New Jersey. I don't need to travel."

  Matthew scoffed. "There's nothing here to like. It's smelly and dirty and crowded, and people are arrogant jerks. I'm talking about culture and foreign languages and strong beer. I can't write about the world unless I see it."

  "You write stories about folks doing horrible things to each other." Tina had read a couple of his short stories and they were appalling, especially the zombie ones. People getting ripped apart and doing bad things to one another, without compassion. Matthew had gotten mad when she said she didn't want to read any more of them because they were too cruel and violent. One of the stories even had a young boy who killed neighborhood cats and dogs. Who wanted to read about stuff so evil?

  "I write stories that make people think, even the simpletons from Jersey. What good is high literature if it doesn't move you in some way? Stephen King and jokers like him are so tame in today's climate of horror writing. I'm the new line of extreme horror, and I make people stand up and take notice."

  Tina was about to ask what he was talking about, since she knew it had been weeks since his last sale. His self-published stories were routinely given bad reviews for grammar and story errors. He'd be mad if he knew she went online and read them, but she wanted to know if everyone had the same opinion of his writing as he did. Most people did not.

  "I support you in your career," Tina said. "But I'd rather not read it. Some of the anti-religious titles you have really bother me."

  "Like what?"

  "Something about Jesus," she said quietly. If her father found out some of the crazy things Matthew wrote, she'd never be allowed to date him. Again, she wondered if it was a bad thing.

  Matthew laughed. "Ah, you are talking about my story in the cannibal anthology, Zombie Christ. What a classic."

  "That is a horrible title."

  "Wait until you read it. It's about this deranged guy who thinks everyone is a zombie, and he has to kill the new Jesus, like the Anti-Christ, before he is birthed into this world."

  "Please stop talking about it," Tina said and put her hands over her ears. "I don't want to know."

  Matthew didn't seem to be listening to her, rambling on about killing and cooking victims and the smell of human flesh sizzling on the grill.

  Finally, Tina had enough. She opened the car door and leapt out.

  "Wait, where are you going?" Matthew asked.

  "Home," she said, just before crashing into the priest as he came shuffling to the car.

  * * * * *

  Dylan Murphy
stood on the weed-riddled lawn and watched as two men launched the small boat with its captive contents. "Let's try this again," he said to the group behind him. He turned to Harrison. "Without any more problems."

  "It wasn't my fault." Harrison looked away, back at his grandfather's house he'd inherited. He'd left the upper bedroom light on again. Or maybe someone else had. He shuddered. This wasn't what he had in mind when he came back to New Jersey. He wanted a peaceful new beginning for Nichole and his life, maybe a baby and new friends and a reconnection with his past. He didn't foresee this ancient house smothering him, a barren life where they should have seen happiness in a small town, the cabal that was Keyport, the Esoteric Order of Dagon taking over his life, and the rampant evil forces.

  "So emotional. Did I say it was your fault? I merely pointed out things could have been done differently. Stop being such a baby. There is much work to do tonight," Dylan said.

  "Why does it have to be my wife?" Harrison asked, aware he might get attacked for the open rebelliousness of the question.

  He was surprised to see Dylan smile. "We do not choose the outlets. We simply do as we are told by Him." Dylan pointed at the slowly moving rowboat. "This time the sacrifice will go on without incident. Those to the north will never laugh at us again, for we do not sit silently and wait for Cthulhu to wake eons from now. We help him to see we are no longer interested in toiling away while he sleeps. We need him to rise before it is too late."

  "You are quite mad," Harrison said quietly.

  Dylan looked at the group around him, some carrying torches. "Did you do what was foreseen?"

  "Yes," one of the older men said. "The priest and the biker have been set free."

  "What? Why?" Harrison asked, fear gripping him. "They'll kill me if they find me."

  Dylan shrugged. "Then I suggest you don’t get found. Cthulhu has spoken, and they are no longer important to us. I will not have senseless bloodshed, so we released them."