Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror

by Joyce Carol Oates

  The crown comes to two strange points. They look like long ears.

  “I want it.” Dr. Sangare is transfixed not by the crown or the sword but by the golden object clutched in the queen’s left hand. It is a miniature version of the guardian I saw above the tomb’s entrance. “Hold this,” she says, thrusting the torch into my hands.

  The color in my mind is brighter than ever, and I realize the idol is the source of the danger. I pluck at her tweed sleeve, urging her to leave it be, come away.

  “What?” she asks, annoyed.

  I point at the statuette and shake my head. She rolls her eyes. I tighten my grasp on her wrist. I shake my head again. I wish I could tell her something, anything, but I cannot, so I do not.

  “Don’t be so superstitious,” she snaps, wresting herself free.

  I step back. I have never heard a tone like that in her voice. It frightens me. I point at it, and her, but I know not how to tell her without words that the gilded thing means death.

  “I didn’t hire you to lecture me,” she says, turning back to the idol. She lifts it gingerly enough, but the skeleton comes unbalanced once the weight is gone and falls forward with a rattle of dry bones. The head bows, the sword clatters to the ground in a puff of dust, and the free hand jerks forward.

  A finger points directly at Dr. Sangare.

  She takes no notice; she is too entranced by her find, the tiny model of a winged snarling jackal now cradled in her hands. She leans in to the torchlight, studying its intricate details.

  “Bridget,” she breathes, “oh, Bridget… don’t you worry. We’ll die rich, yes we fucking will.”

  I resist the urge to knock it out of her hands, cast the thing away. What good would it do? She is resolved upon having it, was resolved before she even picked it up. I see it in her eyes, and in her posture. The way she touches it.

  “Just think of what the British Museum will pay for it.” She grins at me. “Eat your heart out, Lawrence of Arabia! Dily of Leng is about to eclipse your fame!”

  I carry an armful of riches back up the spiraling corridor, but my heart is heavier than the gold. I can share none of their joy over the find, though I know it is extraordinary.

  They do not notice my mood. They are too busy delighting in their fortune. Dr. Sangare shows it all to Bridget, piece by piece. I notice she gives every item to her partner to fondle, save for the idol. That, she holds before Bridget’s eyes, keeping it in her own hands.

  “How much can we carry back, is the question?”

  Bridget and Dr. Sangare look over at me.

  “Krishna, what do you think?”

  What I think and what I can communicate are two very different things. I look at their gear, and think about the volume of gold below our feet. Assuming they are willing to leave behind everything that is not essential to our survival, I imagine I can carry back quite a bit of splendid treasure.

  In order to get this across, I rummage through a bag. I find Dr. Sangare’s favorite teacup and Bridget’s two spare corsets. I show them to my companions, mystifying them, and then set them away from the pile of gold. I point to one, then the other, and shake my head.

  “We’ll have to downsize.” Bridget gets it first. “Of course! I can help with that, while you and Dily pick out the choicest keepsakes.” She sighs. “I see now why expeditions always have a dozen or more people, camels, horses, carts… too bad we couldn’t afford all that, eh Dily?”

  “Next time,” she says.

  Dr. Sangare and I spend the next few hours down in the queen’s vault. I do not fail to notice the bulge in her coat pocket as she sifts through the treasure. She did not leave the idol above; it is with her, with us, in the cave. I wonder if she put it down if the color would retreat from my mind, but I have little hope of this. Dr. Sangare’s hand finds the object often, checking to make sure it is there as she selects other items of varying size and varying value.

  I am flattered by how strong she must think me, but eventually I must protest, when the pile grows to unreasonable proportions.

  “What?”

  I make a motion that I hope conveys my desire that she stop. She gets it after a moment, and sighs.

  “All right,” she says wistfully. “But I can carry some too, you know.”

  I glance at the heap of treasure. It is more than three men could carry comfortably, and while Dr. Sangare is strong, Bridget has never been particularly robust, and now she has a broken arm. But, I know it will be easier to object when she realizes she may risk tearing the canvas of our pack and taking nothing back at all.

  Even with her broken arm, Bridget has not been idle. She has significantly reduced their gear. I return a few crucial items, and then set to loading our spoils.

  “Let’s eat and go,” says Dr. Sangare, eyeing the stairs and the patch of light above. “I want to be out of this hole.”

  “All right,” says Bridget. “I suppose there’s no advantage to waiting around.”

  There is, but I cannot explain they should sleep, that both look vaguely maniacal after all the excitement. I just pack, and pack, and pack, occasionally checking the weight and then packing more.

  When I feel I have loaded the bag sufficiently, I alert my companions. Bridget has been dozing, but Dr. Sangare is awake, staring at the winged jackal, watching it as if it might fly away at any moment.

  “No room at the inn?” asks Dr. Sangare, pointing at the remainder.

  I have no idea what she means, not really, but I shake my head.

  “Ah well, it can’t be helped,” she says, hefting the bag. Her eyes widen. “You’ve packed it so heavy I’ll be amazed if you can make it down from here, much less carry it back to some place where we can hire a cart. You sure this is all right?”

  I nod.

  “You never fail to impress, Krishna,” she says.

  I smile, but it feels strained. The color is still around her, and I cannot feel like a triumphant adventurer with that hanging over me.

  I follow Dr. Sangare and Bridget up the curving steps to the top of the cave. They are in a fabulous mood, and agree there is no way the jackals will have lingered as long as we were unconscious. I have no idea how long we were really out, but I too hope it was long enough for the pack to lose interest and hunt some other game.

  It appears so. We are the only living things to be seen on that windswept, forgotten plateau when we emerge, save for a few bees buzzing in the tall grasses.

  “Can I help you? Do you need help getting down?” Dr. Sangare is already halfway down from the top of the rock spire, but Bridget remains with me. “I know I only have one arm, but…”

  I smile; shake my head no. I am touched that in her condition she would think of me, but I am more worried for her than for myself.

  She takes it slowly, and is able to clamber down without incident. Afternoon fades to evening as we descend.

  Dr. Sangare waits for us near the bottom, sitting cross-legged on a boulder.

  “All right!” she says brightly. “Time to go home!”

  I step off the rock. My feet sink into the springy turf, going deeper than normal due to the weight on my back.

  “Home,” says Bridget. “Fancy that. And far sooner than we expected!”

  I help her down beside me, and she favors me with a smile.

  “I like this buttered cha we’ve been getting,” says Dr. Sangare as she jumps down beside us, “but a cup of builder’s tea sounds like—”

  A distant rumble as her feet touch the ground stills her tongue. At first I think it is thunder, but then the rumbling grows louder, and louder, and the rock spire begins to shake. I back away quickly, and my companions follow me as the structure collapses in on itself with a tremendous roar of stone pounding stone; earth falling onto earth.

  We watch in shock, getting dust and dirt in our open mouths. When it is over, Dr. Sangare spits, rubs her eyes and whistles.

  “Glad we took so much with us,” she says.

  Bridget gawps at he
r. “We almost died,” she exclaims.

  “I thought you didn’t want to die poor.” Dr. Sangare grins at her.

  “No, but—”

  This time, it is a howl that interrupts their banter. It appears we are not the only ones who noticed the disturbance on the plateau.

  “Where are they?” asks Bridget, glancing about. “Where’s it coming from?”

  Dr. Sangare looks to me, as if I might have an answer. I shrug. The wind makes it difficult to tell. We wait, tense, and watch.

  The first black shape on the horizon answers the question. Bridget spies them first, points. Dr. Sangare draws her knives.

  “You want to make a stand?” she asks.

  “Where can we run?” is Dr. Sangare’s answer. I see her point, dump my pack, and draw my khukuri. Bridget already has her pistol in hand.

  It seems like there are more of them than before as they bound closer to us, their shadows long in the fading light. The jackals fan out and surround us, circling us as we stand back to back, the pack with all our loot at the center of our triad. They snarl and growl and snap, some even dart in momentarily to see if we will break and allow ourselves to be swarmed. I am frightened for the first time, for I never can tell when a person will die once the color touches them, and I do not know whether my talent extends to myself. Bridget seems safe, for now, so perhaps this is not the end for us. I cannot imagine how she alone would escape.

  The dogs circle us. Up close, I see their pelts are ragged; their bones show through the skin. Starvation makes them vicious.

  “Flea-bitten mutts,” hisses Dr. Sangare. “Come closer, I dare you!”

  “They have no reason to keep back,” says Bridget, her mind whirling. “They’re waiting for something.”

  “They’re waiting for us to flinch,” says Dr. Sangare. “They want an opening.”

  “Do we give them what they want?”

  “I think it’s time. I’ll fire a shot into one, see what they do.”

  I clutch my khukuri a little tighter as the rapport echoes across the plateau. A howl is cut short, and then they mob us.

  My khukuri is sharp, and I know how to use it. I slice downwards across the throat of the first jackal that springs at me, and the blade glints red in the last of the light. As the jackal falls dead, another leaps; I kick the first away and raise my knife again, this time chopping straight down through the skull of the beast.

  As I jerk the blade out of its brains, two come at me. I drop low, use the pommel to stick one in the eye and then bring it back around to stab the other. I get it in the side, and it takes a second strike to finish it off. By the time I’m done the first has bitten me on the calf and is worrying at the meat there. I yelp but keep my head and stab it in the side of the neck. Its jaws tighten as it dies, and I fall back, coming down hard on my ass as the beast shits itself in its death throes.

  I crane my neck see how my companions fare. Bridget has felled a pile of them with her pistol but is now frantically trying to reload in the twilight, standing behind Dr. Sangare, who is holding her own with her two knives, their long straight blades dripping wet. As ferocious as we three are, there are more of them than there are of us, and I fear for our survival even as I avoid trying to see if Bridget now falls here.

  “Got that bang-stick reloaded yet?” asks Dr. Sangare, stumbling back after kicking away the corpse of another jackal.

  “Not quite,” says Bridget. “Sorry, I just need a bit more time!”

  Time is what we don’t have. I turn back to see more jackals approaching, three this time. I cannot stand, my bitten leg buckles under me when I try, so from a crouch I use one leg to propel myself at one. I stumble, off balance, so the slash of my knife takes its ear off, and cuts another on the bridge of the nose. This just makes them mad, and they shake off the pain to lunge at me. Sensing the third has gotten behind me I roll out of the way. Two collide with one another, but the third jumps over them and is on me. Its heavy paws pin my arms, it slavers in my face, teeth inches from my nose.

  Then it is off me, jumping high in the air like a startled cat. I sit up, knife in hand, but it is slinking away, tail between its legs. They all are—the bloodied and the whole are drawing together, bristling but submissive. I get unsteadily to my feet and hop to Bridget and Dr. Sangare, who are bitten and scratched, but alive.

  “Something’s spooked them,” says Dr. Sangare. “They would have overwhelmed us, why…”

  A sound makes us turn to the rock pile, where a shadow looms, dark against the darkening sky. Slowly it pulls itself from the rubble like some awful newborn crawling from its dead mother, and even though I can see the moon through its hazy form it seems heavy, weighted, misshapen.

  “What the hell is that?” breathes Bridget, as transfixed as I.

  I have no answers until the lumpy mass that appears to be its back bubbles and writhes, unfurling into two great wings.

  I am not the only one that recognizes it.

  “Run!” shouts Dr. Sangare, as she turns and takes off. Bridget follows, slower, but slowest of all am I, limping behind with my injured leg dragging through the grass. Where they are headed I cannot say. They are not thinking those kinds of thoughts. They are only eager to be gone, and I cannot blame them.

  Unlike the last time we were all running together, Dr. Sangare says nothing to encourage Bridget; does not look back at me. She is fleeing from the horrible looming thing. She does not seem to think its ephemeral nature will make it any less dangerous. Neither do I—my khukuri cannot cut smoke and shadow.

  “Dily!” calls Bridget. She is struggling, the jolting of her broken forearm is taking its toll, but Dr. Sangare is not listening. She only slows momentarily when the idol falls out of her coat pocket, bouncing several times and rolling to a stop, gleaming bright in the grass. Turning on her heel, she looks at it only a moment before leaving it there.

  In my mind, the color does not leave her. She is still marked for death, and as I hear a terrible flapping behind us, I sense it will come from claws as sharp as they are insubstantial.

  Bridget does not have to turn back to retrieve the cursed thing. She reaches; I see the color. Her hand draws closer. I am too far behind her to stop her. Time seems to slow; before her fingertips brush the gold I see the color brightening, resolving, spreading over her. I muster my courage, and though my vision begins to swim and the colors of that twilit field grow duller I shout at her not to touch the cursed thing. I cannot sit by a second time, let it happen again.

  Her fingers close on it as the beating of wings grows louder.

  §

  When I wake, it is night. The moon hangs huge and low above me. The first thing I feel is astonishment that I am alive. The next thing I feel is pain, all over, in my arms and legs and chest, and especially in my calf, where the jackal bit me.

  I sit up, carefully, and look around. It is quiet. No shadow looms anywhere, winged and terrible.

  A crumpled thing lies in the grass several yards from me. I drag myself over and see it is Bridget. She is dead, torn to pieces. The golden jackal is nowhere to be seen. I apologize to her, in my mind, for not being braver sooner. Tears roll down my cheeks as I pray she will pass quickly through the bardo and be reborn.

  As I cry, I hear a sound, and I see a second figure lying in the grass. I pull myself away and limp over to find Dr. Sangare. She is no better off—worse, really, because she is still alive and clearly in great pain. She too has been torn and worried by whatever came for the idol.

  She looks up at me, and smiles.

  “You were right,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head. I do not want an apology. It is I who should apologize—if I had mustered the courage to speak before she touched it the first time, perhaps we would not be here.

  “Krishna…” she coughs. “I’m in so much pain. I know we asked you to bear so many of our burdens. Can I ask you to carry one more?”

  I have never killed, never wanted to kill, but I know
it would be a kindness to oblige her.

  I know too that it was not the idol, nor the demon thing we saw that was destined to kill Dr. Sangare. It was me. I damned her with my inability to speak… or was it unwillingness? For the fear of a few moments’ dizziness I failed to say what needed to be said, and that knowledge feels heavier than the pack I bore to Leng, the gold in the tomb… even the task that now falls to me.

  I push these questions away. There is work to be done.

  I smile at her, trying to apologize without words, and unsheathe my khukuri.

  Cthulhu’s Mother

  Kelda Crich

  Knock on door. Door opens

  MOTHER: No, thank you. We never give at the door.

  LENG PRIEST: We are here to honor dread Cthulhu.

  MOTHER: Cthulhu? He’s still in bed.

  LENG PRIEST: Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.

  MOTHER: Beg pardon?

  LENG PRIEST: In his house at R’lyeh, dread Cthulhu waits dreaming.

  C’TTAR: Oh, the dreams! The terrible, terrible dreams. I have glimpsed creatures vast beyond imagination stalk the primordial forests. I have walked monstrous cities of cyclopean stones. His dreams consume me.

  MOTHER: Yes. The dreams are no joke, are they? At least you don’t have to wash his sheets.

  TERRY: That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange eons even death may die.

  MOTHER: Oh, friend of Abdul’s, are you? Nice boy, Abdul. How is he?

  LENG PRIEST: He died in gibbering madness. But we have read his prophecies in the sacred Necromonicon.

  MOTHER: That’s nice, dear. Cthulhu! Cthulhu! Will you get out of that pit. Your minions are here. He’ll be up in a tick.

  LENG PRIEST: Madam, I am no minion. I am the Leng Lord who has waited for Cthulhu, these centuries past. Since before earth formed, since before our race was conceived, in the formless void, I awaited him. This is my acolyte, C’ttar, the sacred dreamer.