New Tales of the Old Ones

by Derwin, Theresa

  I didn’t understand any of it but it didn’t make any difference. Like Ruth had said, none of this really mattered. All of our laws and morals are nothing more than the chattering of insects. So I let them go through the motions. I refused the insanity defense. I pled guilty and got a life sentence three times over for it. They shipped me to Walpole Prison where I sit in my cell, pressed against the farthest corner from the door. No one comes near me and that’s the way I like it. I’m safe here; safer than most people because they don’t know what I know. Those things are all around out there... just waiting for their chance to come through. They don’t care about us. We’re nothing more than tools to be used and discarded; when they bother to think of us at all. As soon as they come through, they’ll wipe the earth clean and they will reign supreme. I know it’s true because, at night, while I listen to the birds screech along with my breathing, I finger the scars on my chest and I remember.

  DAVE ZAHN

  Chip Fehd

  I’m sitting here alone, trying to get my thoughts into coherent form before my time is done. I know the end is coming soon. I can feel Death, that sneaky magnanimous bastard, as he stands outside my window watching me. Oddly enough, Death looks suspiciously like old Mr. Jenkins in his strategically tattered bathrobe. Because of this, I have started keeping my blinds closed. Sunlight can’t keep the demons away anymore, anyway. I can no longer bear the overwhelming torment or the nightmares that come with it. I’ve seen things that shouldn’t be seen, smelled things that shouldn’t be smelled and experienced things mortal man was not meant to know about. I struggle for forgetfulness or a timely case of amnesia, but my pleas go for naught. These images will not leave my conscience, despite my many attempts at drowning them in whatever manner of cheap rum, whisky, or Thunderbird wine that I can find. No amount of chemical lubrication has provided shelter from the images that haunt me. I hope these pages never see the light of day, for the story I have is too terrible and horrifying, and I will not be held responsible for any mental anguish that my words may convey. These words will follow me to my grave, and no power in Heaven or on Earth will make me share them. I cannot, nor will I ever share them with another living soul.

  It started on a Tuesday. I never could get the hang of Tuesdays.

  I was travelling through a barren and deserted section of the Newburyport turnpike, heading north out of Peabody. I was hitchhiking my way up to Portland, and I had taken up with a group of nuns who apparently were moonlighting as circus acrobats in order to fund their charity work. They picked me up in a large panel van with THE AMAZING ORDER OF THE IMMACULATE FUNAMBULISTS stenciled across the side. I was three days out of Boston and grateful for the ride. The nuns welcomed me warmly, apparently none too shy about picking up strange men on the side of the road. I’ll freely admit to harboring that most secret and universal of all male hitchhiker fantasies, and when I inquired into the meaning of the word “Funambulist”, the explanation given to me was definitely not what I was expecting. As disappointed as I was, I still managed to maintain a cheery exterior. I listened to the nuns’ exploits with a smile and I paid attention as best I could. They had been on the road since the previous fall, and they were headed to Portsmouth for their final show before heading on a feed-the-hungry mission to some African country I’d never heard of. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

  I was awakened by the sudden noise of the van bouncing over the ruts on a gravel road. All the nuns were all sitting towards the front of the van, peering through the front window with serious expressions. As I sat up, Sister Mary Elizabeth the Fire Eater looked at me with a wan smile and said simply “We’re lost. Sister Agatha took the wrong turn off.”

  “Fabulous,” I muttered. I wasn’t going to argue with a nun, fire eater or not. She could probably disintegrate me with hot holy breath for all I knew. I returned my gaze to the outside world.

  Dark, impenetrable woods lined both sides of the road. What little afternoon sunshine there was seemed unable to break through the heavy copse of trees. I glanced out the window, thinking how absolutely horrible it would be to get lost out here. There was a palpable malevolence that I could sense emanating from the outside scenery. I knew it to be crazy, but I could feel the shadows hidden amongst the trees as they moved, following us as we passed. As if to validate my suspicions, Sister Helene the Overly-Flexible crossed herself with a worried look, “I don’t like this. This is the Devil’s territory.”

  Sister Agatha sighed deeply, “Oh, Sister. Everything is evil with you, isn’t it? First, it was the cashier at the What-A-Burger in Pensacola, and then it was that adorable little Justin Bieber kid. I also seem to remember you calling the women’s shoe section of the Harrisburg Wal-Mart ‘Satan’s shoe store’. Sometimes, I wonder about you.”

  Sister Helene looked somewhat mollified. “That’s because those things are evil. That cashier gave me onion rings when I specifically asked for cheese sticks. Onion rings are disgusting.” When the Mother Superior shot her a bemused look, Sister Helene added a quick “Well, they are!”

  The van bounced and jostled down the gravel road for another mile or so before the woods gave way to empty farmland. Tattered barbed wire fences ran along both sides of the road. An anorexic crow sat on a fencepost, watching us as we passed. I was secretly pleased to be out of the woods. The apprehension I was feeling eased the further away from the forest we got. Sister Abigail, the mostly successful knife thrower, sat in the seat in front of me, her attention focused on a handheld electronic Sudoku game. She looked up briefly, “My Sisters, it appears we have come closer to what passes for civilization. Sister Agatha, please get us turned around. I’m in need to use the little nun’s room if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  Sister Agatha, whose exact role in this traveling show was never made quite clear to me, glanced at the instrument panel. “I’d love to, but the van is almost out of gas. I’m going to need to stop at the first town we come to if we are going to make Portsmouth on time.” The poor girl, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty-one, gripped the steering wheel with enough force to turn her knuckles white. She was a cute girl in that nerdy step-sister kind of way. If she had put a little more effort into it, I could see her being fairly hot.

  “My apologies, Sisters. I must have misread the last mileage sign we passed.”

  The Mother Superior (and Lead Funambulist, apparently) patted the girl’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s alright, my child. To err is human. Follow this road and stop at the first gas station. God will see us to our destination.”

  Almost on cue, a sign materialized on the side of the road. It read Arkham-City Limits.

  “See?” beamed the Mother Superior. “God always provides.”

  X

  To say the town was small would be committing the biggest understatement since General Custer looked at the oncoming waves of Cheyenne warriors and famously told his soldiers, “Boys, we very well may be fucked.” The main road leading into town was lined with a couple of old storefronts connected with a common sidewalk. Red maple trees were in full bloom, their leaves littering the ground. Cape Cod-style houses sat atop immaculately trimmed yards. Even the white picket fences looked like someone had just painted them that day. In fact, the entire town looked like Norman Rockwell had vomited everywhere and left it to dry.

  Of course, I was the only one to think this. The Mother Superior looked around, and with a smile said, “What a charming little town! Oh Sisters, look at the quaint houses.” The other nuns ooh-ed and aah-ed accordingly. I sat in the back, watching the passing scenery. I’d been through enough All-American towns recently to know that when something looked too good to be true, then it sure as hell was. Call it my pessimistic nature, but calm and orderly freaked me out more than chaos and disorder. I was getting nothing but bad vibes from the sleepy little town of Arkham, and the sooner we found our way back to the main highway, the better. There was something nagging at me that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

 
; Sister Agatha turned right at the town’s main intersection, onto West Herbert Street. She pulled the van into the parking of a Chaugnar Fuel store. It looked like your typical small town rest stop. A small diner sat connected to the gas station, advertising something called Yog-Sot Broth, which promised to be New England’s best homemade soup. The van stopped next to an ancient gas pump. Whoever owned the station obviously never got around to upgrading to a pump that used a digital readout.

  The sisters all piled out of the van, happy to have stopped. Sister Abigail, the mostly successful knife thrower hopped out like her habit was on fire, and made a beeline for the restrooms inside. As much as I would have liked to have stayed in the van and kept an eye on the nun’s stuff and possibly rubbed one out, I needed to stretch. The Mother Superior already had the pump going, whistling “Climb Every Mountain” from The Sound of Music.

  “Ma’am, I’m going inside to grab a coke and maybe a moon pie. Can I get you anything while I’m in there?”

  She smiled at me. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  I walked towards the front doors of the store, my unease dissipating with the breeze. Maybe a coke and a moon pie was all I needed. Just a bit of a processed sugar rush, and I’d be back to a more normal frame of mind. Maybe the constant traveling was finally starting to wear on me.

  As I opened the front door, and heard the little bell announcing a new customer had just entered, I was immediately hit with that same feeling that something was just not right. For one thing, the entire store was spotlessly clean. Not just well maintained, but borderline anal-retentive clean. The linoleum floor shone like the newly bleached teeth of a movie star. There weren’t any of those gaudy neon beer advertisements in the windows, or any promotional ads inside the store either. The shelves appeared to be fully stocked, dusted, and well-maintained. That in itself wasn’t too bad. The thing that seemed peculiar, at least to me, was what was stocked. In the aisle where the candy bars and gum usually sat, there were rows upon rows of granola bars. Instead of beer and soda in the cooler, there were bottles of water and something called Miska Tonic. There appeared to be more bottles of Miska Tonic there than anything else in the cooler. Rows of fresh fruits and vegetables, enough to put most Farmer’s Markets to shame, sat where one might ordinarily find the salty potato chips and pretzels. In the corner where a frozen drink machine would have sat, there were three juice machines; apple, orange, and pineapple-mango. All in all, I think I lost five pounds just by looking around.

  Behind the counter, the clerk was standing against the counter, thumbing through a copy of the Arkham Advertiser. She was a pleasantly plump dowager-type, dressed in a flowery print dress with thin framed glasses on a chain perched delicately on her nose. She wore a nametag that identified her as Eunice. Picture the least likely person who would be manning the counter at a gas station, and you would probably find her picture. The immediate thought I had when I saw her was Bible-thumper, although she bore a scary resemblance to the receptionist from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. As I approached, she put her paper down with a smile.

  “Good news?” I asked, trying to be friendly.

  “Oh, golly yes,” she said. “The high school football team is going to play for the district title. We haven’t been very good at sports over at Arkham High, but this is looking like the Flying Polyp’s year.” She looked at me closer, “You’re not a local, are you?”

  “No, Ma’am. Our driver made a wrong turn off the highway, and we have stopped for gas. One of my companions came in a few moments ago to use the ladies’ room.”

  Eunice looked out the window towards the van. “Funambulist? That sounds awfully kinky. What on earth is that?”

  When I explained what the term meant, Eunice looked disappointed. “Really? I would not have guessed that.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said sourly. “I noticed there isn’t any soda in the cooler. Where can I find something with caffeine in it?”

  “Oh, we don’t sell soda here.” Eunice smiled again. There was no warmth behind her eyes. “We don’t sell coffee, either. The Old Ones wouldn’t allow it. Try a bottle of Miska Tonic instead. We make it here locally. It’s good for body and soul.”

  “Um, okay. I’ll try it. Which way to the restroom?”

  Eunice pointed towards the back. “Down the hall, first door on the left.”

  “Thank you.”

  I would like to say that my story lightens up at this point, but then I’d be lying to you.

  X

  I went around the corner and found the door Eunice had pointed out. Stepping inside, I pulled the door closed behind me. Like the rest of the store, the restroom was immaculately clean. The air was lightly scented with a pine odor like any other roadside pit stop, but that’s where the similarities stopped. Honestly, it was the strangest convenience store restroom I had ever seen. The tile on the floor was inlaid with bizarre geometric patterns. It looked like something from a Turkish bazaar. The bathroom fixtures appeared to be made of solid gold. A mural occupied the far wall, showing finely-detailed bas-reliefs of human figures, gnarled and bent over, their extremities resembling tree limbs. The figures (I almost hesitate to call them human) were perched among mountains of bones, circling around huge bonfires. To call the whole thing creepy as hell would be putting it very lightly. I turned towards the toilet. As I proceeded with my business, a chill did a slow tango down my spine. I quickly zipped up and turned towards the wall. You can call me crazy if you want, but it appeared as though the engravings on the mural moved. I quickly washed my hands, and I leaned in for a closer look.

  The engravings on the mural were cut in such a way that if you looked at them without really focusing on anything in particular, the entire picture seemed to move. It was a trippy little mirage, to be sure. The ancient and wizened figures looked like they were lording over some kind of pagan ritual. Figures around the campfire danced and played odd-looking musical instruments. At least that’s what it looked like. Hell, they could have been holding their weekly tiddlywinks game for all I knew. All I knew for certain was that this mural was a little weird to be sitting in a restroom out in the middle of nowhere. It was then I noticed something strange. Well, stranger anyway.

  Along the border, there was writing. It was invisible from a distance, only revealing itself upon closer inspection. It was written in a strange language I did not understand, kind of a cross between Cyrillic and Klingon. I tried to trace the letters with my finger, when I heard a voice behind me.

  “It says ‘The Old Ones do not like intruders who are not invited into their midst’. It also says please wash your hands after using the restroom.”

  I wheeled around in surprise. Eunice stood there, looking like a tour guide giving a bored explanation of an exhibit. How she got in the door without me knowing is a mystery I have yet to figure out. I was about to protest when she continued, “Oh, golly, yes. The Old Ones aren’t very happy you are here at all, no sir.” From behind her back, she swung something towards my head, and apparently it connected, because I don’t remember much after that. A delightful-pine-scented blackness swallowed me up.

  X

  I awoke to the soft melodies of something that sounded like elevator muzak, which sat in diametric opposition to the painful throbbing in my head. After a few moments of trying and failing, I was finally able to open my eyes. My initial reaction was to try to rub my head where Eunice had blind-sided me, but moving my arms proved to be rather useless. Turning my head, which proved to be no easy feat either, I noted with some dismay that my arms had been handcuffed to the railings of the bed. Two sickly-grey tubes snaked out of my forearm and disappeared somewhere under the bed. I craned my head slightly, where I could see the edge of a fancy and very complicated machine sitting behind my bed. If I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn it was an EKG machine. The tubes must have been hooked up to a saline drip somewhere, but why? Where in the Shub-Niggurath was I?

  A raspy cough drew my attention to the far side o
f the room. Another person lay handcuffed and tubed in a fashion similar to mine. “Hey! Who’s there?”

  I was greeted with the sound of weak retching. “Ow, my head! Did we stop at Bennigan’s last night? Did I forget to order the virgin Daiquiri again?” It was Sister Agatha, and she didn’t sound too good.

  “Sister Agatha! What happened?”

  “Well, if it’s anything close to how I feel, my guess is we were ambushed by seven hundred Klan biker ninjas who used my head as a piñata before making me swallow about a gallon of pine-sol scented mouthwash.”

  “Um, ok. That kinda sounded oddly specific. Where are the others?”

  She paused, and then responded. “I’m not sure. Sister Abigail went in to relieve herself, and I saw you wander in. Mother Superior finished pumping the gas, and when you two didn’t come out right away, she thought something had happened so she sent me in.”

  “Let me guess. You met Eunice, this town’s welcoming committee.”

  “Was that her name? She seemed like such a nice lady.”

  I tried working my hands free, but the cuffs were proving to be somewhat of a bitch to get past. That gave me the bright idea to swing my legs off the side of the bed so I could get a better angle on it, but when I willed the lower half of my body to move, nothing happened. For the briefest of brief moments, I thought my legs had been removed. I mean, hitchhiking with circus acrobat nuns, getting lost in Mayberry and then getting cold-cocked by the gas station attendant was one thing. Losing my legs at this point would just be the next logical procession. Looking down, however, I saw that my legs were still there, neatly covered by a white knit blanket. I was relieved, but only a little.