Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2012 - Issues 10 through 20

by Tanzer, Molly

  And then they were gone. Roger stared at the door as it closed. He realized he was still holding the little ceramic bridge with the fire eel inside, and he tossed it back into the aquarium. It settled with a jerky sawing motion before coming to rest on its side in the blue gravel at the bottom. There was no sign of the eel.

  Roger looked at the hand he had plunged into the aquarium and with which he’d held the bridge. Water dripped from his entire forearm. He suddenly felt very tired, and his face felt hot and dry. Without thinking about what he was doing, he ran his hand across his face. It was wet and cool, and he found this soothing. A drop of aquarium water ran onto his upper lip, and without thinking, he licked it off. It had an unfamiliar tang that he actually found quite savory.

  All at once, his stomach spasmed. He staggered toward the hallway bathroom, making it just in time. Up came lasagna, salad, garlic bread. Up came the sardines. Up came everything, and when there was nothing left to bring up, the dry heaves began, continuing a full five minutes.

  When he could finally stand up again, Roger rinsed his face with water from the tap. He still felt hot, and his face felt dry, so the water helped some, but the flavor of the tap water he rinsed his mouth with did not have the same effect on him the drop of aquarium water had. He was weak and feverish. He knew that he must be coming down with something. He hoped it wasn’t food poisoning–if there was something wrong with the lasagna and Amy and Terrence got sick, he would really be in for it. But he didn’t think so. He was a careful cook, and all his ingredients had been fresh. He wondered instead if he might have picked up something in the humid stuffy air of the pet store.

  Roger wanted to take a couple Tylenol, but he feared even that much would set his stomach off again, so he just kicked off his shoes and curled up fetal on his bed. He still wore his street clothes. He made no attempt to clean the kitchen or put away the remaining food.

  Roger got up several times during the night for more dry heaves, but when he finally woke for the day, it was after 11:00 a.m. His fever seemed even worse, but at least the nausea was gone. Not surprisingly, he was ravenously hungry.

  Roger pulled the top blanket off the bed and clutched it around himself like a robe. He shuffled into the kitchen and considered his options for nourishment. The wilted salad and crusted contracted lasagna on the table held no appeal. Neither did anything in the refrigerator, and he could not bear the cold air coming out of it. He opened the cabinets, hunting another can of sardines, but there were none.

  He groaned, looking around the kitchen again, and his gaze passed through the door to the living room and fell on the aquarium. Remembering how the fire eel’s lack of cooperation had been the primary cause of last night’s debacle, Roger advanced on the tank. He tapped the glass. Nothing happened. He tipped the tank back and forth on its stand again. Nothing. With an angry cry, he reached into the tank and pulled the bridge out a second time. He shook it but that did no more good than it had the night before.

  Angrily, he carried the bridge into the kitchen and slammed it on the counter. He began to mutter to himself: “Goddamn fish, goddamn fish, goddamn fish…” He opened a drawer and drew out a heavy chef’s knife. “Goddamn fish, I’ll show you,” he said, and brought the back of the knife down hard against the little ceramic bridge, which caved in at the point of impact and split in two, with smaller fragments skittering across the counter and onto the floor. At last, the fire eel was revealed, contorting in obvious agony between the two halves of the ruined bridge, bits of ceramic stuck to its slimy skin.

  Roger pulled the two pieces apart to expose the fish. At the pet store, he had seen dozens of them in one tank, sinuous and almost graceful in their movements. Now this one writhed on his kitchen counter, injured and unable to breathe. Roger pressed his hands over its two ends and felt its struggles. This fish had taken his money, given him a false hope of intimacy with Amy, then betrayed him terribly. Grasping its head in one hand and its tail in the other, he lifted it up in front of him to look more closely at it–and then on a sudden impulse, he brought it to his mouth and bit it in the middle. Warm, salty blood squirted over his tongue and he tasted the flesh of the fish, which convulsed spasmodically.

  It was the most delicious thing Roger had ever tasted. He bit down harder until he had completely severed the section in his mouth. The two remaining pieces of the eel fell still in his hands.

  He chewed it, savoring its warmth, its flavor. The small bones crushed between his teeth. When he had chewed this middle piece to a paste and swallowed it, he followed with the tail end and finally the head. He had to bite down hard on the skull, but eventually it gave with a delightful crunch.

  All too soon this savory morsel was gone. Roger had barely swallowed the last bit of it before the enormity of what he had just done settled on him. He had eaten his own pet. Raw. He slumped down against the counter until he was sitting on the floor, staring blankly ahead. What would Amy say when she found out? Well, Amy was not going to find out. He was going to go back to the House of Pets and get another fire eel. Amy and Terrence had never even seen the one he had just–had he really just eaten a tropical fish? Yes, he had. He could not escape it in his thoughts. And he also knew that he was going to buy more than one fire eel, and he was going to buy them to eat rather than to stock his aquarium. He could still taste the one he had just devoured. He licked his lips.

  Roger groaned deeply and collapsed on his side on the linoleum, again briefly contemplating his burst of depravity. At least Amy hadn’t called to complain that she and Terrence had come down with food poisoning. Whatever was wrong with him hadn’t come from the dinner. Meanwhile, he could tell that his fever was getting worse. He really needed to go to a doctor, but he no longer had health insurance, and even if he went to the public health clinic, he might vomit again, and when they saw chunks of tropical fish in his spew, they might report him for animal cruelty.

  The craving for more eels consumed him. He crawled back to the bedroom, found his shoes, and slipped them on. It was warm outside, but he dug a bulky sweater out of his dresser and pulled it over his head nonetheless. Yet even with the sweater, he shivered. What is happening to me? he wondered, but could not carry this line of reasoning further. All he could think about was his hunger. And then he remembered what was in the freezer…

  Roger brushed crumbs of partially thawed tubifex worms off his sweater as he drove. He was afraid that he would not be able to find the House of Pets again–he had no clear memory of its location–but it seemed to draw him like a magnet, and he turned unerringly down street after street that brought him closer to his destination. Soon he was pulling up outside the store’s faded blue exterior. As he opened his car door, a violent fit of shuddering struck him. The hunger returned the moment the fit subsided. He staggered out of the car and into the pet shop.

  Inside, all looked the same as the day before, except that the clerk with the stringy seaweed hair was not at the counter. Roger tried to call out “Hello?”, but he was short of breath and the word came out as a wheezy gasp. He thought he heard sounds from the back of the store, so he headed in that direction. He wanted to go down the fish aisle–where the fire eels were–but he was shaking so badly he was afraid he might knock over some aquarium decorations as he squeezed past the display at the corner, so he lurched down the aisle of books and incense instead.

  When he reached the end of the aisle, he was surprised to find the huge murky tank he’d seen the day before was empty, completely drained, with only a thin film of water remaining in the bottom. The metal cover was off and lay on its edge against a shelf of dog toys at the rear of the store. There was no sign at all of the thing he thought he had seen inside. A thick red rubber hose ran from the bottom of the tank all the way to a door marked “Private” even further back in the store, beside a glass-fronted room holding only empty cages. Thick clamps held the hose to the tank where it hung over the edge.

  Suddenly the hose belched and jerked as if alive. Roger too
k a shaky step backwards. The hose jerked again and Roger watched as it began spouting fresh water into the tank.

  A few seconds later the clerk emerged from the Private door. Without a glance at Roger, he walked to the tank and checked the clamp holding the gushing hose. Then he retreated back into the door, still without acknowledging his customer.

  When the clerk reemerged, he was holding a cylindrical plastic container about a foot high. He climbed a metal stair at the back of the tank and upended the contents of the tub into the water whirling around the tank. The stuff from the container looked like dirty salt.

  At this point, Roger said, “Excuse me…”

  Nothing.

  He said it again. The clerk looked over.

  “Hi,” said Roger. His voice was rasping and faint. “Remember me? I was here yesterday. I came back; I–I wanted to buy some more fire eels.”

  The clerk looked him up and down, slowly, as if measuring his height, and said: “I’m busy now, but you can get them yourself. The net and the bags are hanging up in the aisle. Just let me know when you’re ready to check out.” With that, he returned to his work.

  “Okay,” wheezed Roger, and he shambled around the big tank and the clerk, stepping over the hose on his way. The man ignored him. Everyone seemed to be ignoring him now–Amy, Terrence, even this bug-eyed ugly pet store clerk.

  Roger made his way down the aquarium aisle until he arrived at the fire eel tank. There had to be 50 or 60 eels in there. His stomach convulsed with hunger just looking at them. How many this time? At least a dozen. He wondered if the clerk would notice if he reached in, grabbed one, and ate it right there. He looked back. The man was not facing his way, but was still in a position to observe him if he turned. Roger decided against it despite the craving the eels inspired.

  He found the little green aquarium net where it hung from a peg next to a roll of plastic bags. Roger pulled a bag from the roll and lifted the lid of the fire eel tank. He dipped the net in the tank, but his hands were shaking so bad he couldn’t catch a single eel. Each time he tried, the fish escaped him easily, and on the fourth attempt, the net itself slipped from his trembling fingers. Eels darted out of its way as it settled to the bottom. Roger swore. It was then he noticed his hand. Unbelieving, he held it up in front of his face to examine it closely. It was a dull slate-gray all over and a transparent webbing seemed to be growing up between his fingers. His left hand was the same as his right. He tried to get a look at his face in the reflection off the tank, but the light was too dim and it was coming from the wrong direction. He was glad Amy could not see him this way.

  Roger shuffled back toward the rear of the store. He was weak and shaky and his breathing was very shallow now. He felt hot all over and his skin was uncomfortably dry. The sides of his neck ached terribly. He knew that he was seriously ill. There was no longer any question. Amy would tell him to go see a doctor. Maybe the clerk had a couch or even a bathtub in the back room where Roger could lie down. Roger might even have to ask him to call 911.

  When he reached the big tank, the clerk was not there. Roger did not have the wind to call him. He felt dizzy, and he reached out and gripped the edges of the tank with both gray hands to steady himself.

  The water in the tank was several inches deep now. It looked fresh and so, so cool. Roger stared at the foaming eddy circling from the end of the hose and around the tank to its starting point. Then he climbed up on the little metal stair the clerk had used, threw first his right arm and then his right leg over the edge, and with one awful, rasping breath, he pulled himself over the side and dropped into the tank with a splash. He lay on his side in the swirling water. The current was cool and comforting. He thought briefly of Amy and whether she would miss him, and then he pressed his face and neck into the flow, gasping in an agonized mouthful of it as the gills in his neck tore open and began to work. Wherever the rising water touched him, wisps of pea green murk spread outward in the tank.

  Scott Nicolay‘s writing has been described as “good” by several people, although this is somewhat of a paraphrase. Although his influences are manifold, he first encountered “The Dunwich Horror” over 40 years ago at the age of 7, and it remains his model for short fiction. When he is not disseminating a bleak gibbering madness, he works as a professional educator on the Navajo Nation, where he lives with his children. He has no spare time, but wishes he did so he could pursue his interests in caving, archaeology, political organizing, poetry, gardening, landscaping, and 43 Man Squamish. And of course, writing, which he accomplishes at a glacial pace. He is currently finishing the last 2-3 stories for what he hopes will be his first collection. His controversial “Dogme 2011″ manifesto of weird fiction may be read online here, although the current story predates that document slightly:

  http://weirdfictionreview.com/2011/11/dogme-2011-for-weird-fiction-by-scott-nicolay/

  Story illustration by Nick Gucker.

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  The Thing in the Depths

  by Pete Rawlik

  For Wilum H. Pugmire

  Once, I had found my dreams horrid, terrifying even, but over the years I had become accustomed to the strange visions that filled my nights. Vast aquatic landscapes of bizarre coralline architectures swarming with thousands of ichthyic figures no longer disturbed me. That in dreams my reflection was more reminiscent of a fish or frog than a man, no longer woke me in a cold sweat. Indeed, such sights had grown comforting, even soothing. So, when in slumber I once more found myself floating silent and effortlessly through the dark waters past Devil Reef, I let the dream carry me where it would.

  Down I went, past schools of baitfish and predatory blues and even more predatory sharks. The reef itself, its crabs and echinoderms, mollusks and corals were lost as I sank deeper and deeper into the murky green. A hundred feet down and the light vanished but still I was aware of my surroundings. As I plummeted past a fleet of infant giant squid the first dim lights of the upper terraces of Y’ha-nthlei appeared. Men have created images of Atlantis, Lemuria and other fanciful aquatic cities, as if they were mere counterparts to those of men. What foolishness. There are no streets in the sub-aquatic metropoli, what need are roads to creatures who would sooner swim than walk? Y’ha-nthlei is built in vast terraces that jut out from sea canyon walls like titanic fungoid growths. Channels and tunnels honeycomb the metropolis, moving both water and inhabitants in a constant fluid stream. Shoals of Deep Ones banked effortlessly in the current, their scales and eyes glittered back the pale light of the ubiquitous lamp worms that infested the city.

  The current suddenly quickened, and inexorably I was drawn down past the lowest tier into the cavern below. Down I floated, toward the faint glow that leaks from the lower tiers. This was the old city, fashioned before the first men stood upright. Age had taken its toll and the network of tunnels and channels had clogged with the organic snow that fell from above. Vast colonies of necrophagic barnacles rhythmically extended feathery tentacles to harvest great quantities of the slowly falling debris before being curled back into their calciferous pentagonal shells. Choked with debris and colonized by the strange invertebrate forces of abyssal decay, the old city still sheltered a few lingering inhabitants. Ancient anthropomorphic things waded through the detrital snows with remoras and other parasites writhing hideously in their wakes while blind crabs, monstrous with thorny points and thick spiny hairs scuttled for shelter. No hybrids here, not in the deep city. Once the pinnacle of the food chain, they had long since ceased being predatory, their once sharp and gored stained teeth had elongated into brittle hair like sieves that transformed each breath, into an unconscious act of feeding.

  Then, as quickly as the old city had come into view it was gone, and I plunged deeper than any dream had previously taken me. In dreamtime I become less blind and I perceived below me the tiniest pinprick of illumination. I knew instantly that it was towards this speck of phosphorescence that I was being carried. Slowly the light source resolve
d into a luminescent and monstrous titan, larger than any of the elder deep ones who dwelt above in the old city, though it shared their general shape and characteristics. The pale light of the ancient corpus attracted a variety of biota that I could not classify. Whether they were fish, crustacean, or mollusk, the ancient fed upon them quite passively, for it had little choice. The thing’s upper limbs were pinned behind it, bound in a strange mass of pulpy tentacles that congealed along the creature’ spine and enveloped everything below the massive abdomen.

  So intent was I on studying the poor imprisoned creature that I failed to comprehend that the thing had noticed me as well. When it spoke I shuddered, for the language was too ancient, the voice too loud, the pressure too great, but I knew that it was revealing to me a secret, something horrid and forbidden. When it finished, it drifted away, but the movement was incidental, for it was the thing to which the titan was bound, the vast mass of tendrils that pulsed and provided motivation. As it left I began to see the entirety of the horror, the ancient one, bound so tightly to that tentacled thing. It was then, as the prisoner and his prison drifted away, that I saw the details of the things that swarmed and trailed about them. There was a moment of clarity, of reasoned logic that turned from initial denial inevitably into terror.

  I awoke screaming, my heart pounding. My breath was ragged and my throat hoarse from screaming. As panic subsided my mind slowly rationalized the images I had seen. Such things should not be, I proclaimed silently, cannot be, and no god of earth or sea should be subjected to such horrors. And if it must be, then let it be in the far off abyssal depths where sanity cannot dwell. Let it be there, where pitifully ancient things lay imprisoned, forced against their will to spawn with horrid masses of protoplasmic tentacles birthing forth shoals of mephitic spawn that swarm in great clouds. Billions of larval deep ones, newly born from a horridly forced union, drawn like thousands of other species instinctively to the light. Yet in that place where there is no sun or moon or star, the only light that issues forth is from that ancient one, a dark and forgotten Chronos forced to feed on his own monstrous spawn.