The Horror In The Water Tower & Five More Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos

by McLaughlin, Mark

My reply was always the same. “I’m not alone, Mom. I have you. Isn’t it healthy for a son to love his mom? Do you want me to hate you?” That would shut her up for a day or two.

  It’s strange, but these days, I have difficulty envisioning Mom’s face. I vaguely recall that she was thin and nervous (she lost fifty pounds after Daddy died), but that’s about it. All that comes to mind is another image that I know is wrong.

  Gat wouldn’t eat any of the canned food or use the litter box. Since I was letting him wander outside, I figured he was finding food and tending to his duties elsewhere. I soon noticed another odd thing about Gat. He didn’t lick his fur like other kitties. He rubbed himself clean on the carpet, or on the grass if it was a dry day. He wouldn’t lick my hand, either – even if I poured some yummy gravy on it.

  Most of the DVDs I rented fell into one of three categories: adult, martial arts, and horror. When Mom was alive, I only rented horror movies. The others came later. Eventually I began to miss Mr. Root’s hammock cavalcade. In the past, the DVDs had augmented the live show nicely. But with Randy gone, the DVDs just weren’t enough.

  Did I want sex? Not quite. I did want interaction, though. Something more involving than simple conversation.

  One of the clerks at the Adult Arcade was becoming very chummy. Often she would ask how I had enjoyed a particular DVD. Since it was obvious that the clerk was interested in me, I decided to involve her.

  I hinted that the DVDs I had rented were not particularly satisfying. I added that I really didn’t know what I was looking for: could she, perhaps, make a suggestion? Her expression as she reached behind the counter was plainly meant to be seductive. Ah, but her lewd wink ruined the effect. A wink is meant to signify a secret understanding, and she knew far too little about me. She brought out three DVDs, all without labels.

  These DVDs, she explained, were not for rental. If I liked, she would gladly stop by my place after work. She added that her name was Sonia and could she perhaps bring a friend...?

  Of course I said yes. I went home and three hours later, Sonia came by with her friend – a pale young man with a wounded-puppy look in his eyes.

  The first DVD was short and violent. A young businessman had a flat tire outside of a motorcycle bar. His cell phone wasn’t working, so he decided to go inside and use their phone. Within twenty minutes he was beaten, sodomized, and forced to drink piss. Sonia asked if I had any beer. All I had was vodka, which I mixed with lemonade.

  The next video was equally odious – naked folks with whips – but Sonia found it captivating. I studied her for a moment. Her heavy green eye-shadow didn’t flatter her dirt-blonde hair. The combination made her look hard. The pale young man kept glancing from the screen to Sonia. Every now and then he’d look my way.

  Gat was on top of a bookcase, watching. During the first DVD, I had happened to notice him climbing up there. His long front toes had actually gripped the shelves on the way up, like fingers. Those long toes hung over the top of the case as Gat stared down at us.

  Sonia put in the third DVD. I poured more vodka and lemonade. This one began with a young couple having dinner by candlelight in a restaurant. Soon the scenario took a turn for the perverse. Masked waiters entered the dining area carrying silver trays stacked with ropes, pliers, and long needles. They subdued Mr. and Mrs. Well-To-Do, stripped them, and tied each of them across a tabletop.

  Sonia opened her shirt and her companion began to fondle her. They grinned in my direction, inviting me to join in. The pale young man had a thin, pained smile, and no wonder: Sonia was pinching him repeatedly.

  By this time, I felt close to some sort of breakthrough. I think it helped to have Gat there, staring at me. It enabled me to concentrate on what it was I wanted.

  What did I want? I watched the masked waiters heat the pliers over a candle flame. What exactly did I want? It certainly did help to have Gat watching, forcing me to bring the picture in my mind into focus. Why, what I wanted was to play. Gat understood – kitties adore their toys. Mr. Root liked to play too, but his game was too simple for a complex fellow like me.

  In my mind– You know how kitties knead soft things with their forepaws? It was like that. Like Gat was kneading at my brain. I looked over at Sonia and her friend and something clicked. Something clicked and suddenly I felt very light-headed.

  My hand hurt. I was holding a figurine from the bookcase – a heavy panther figurine Mom had given me for Christmas. It was a little too large to hold with one hand. Sonia was on the floor, clutching her head. Her friend was – screaming? I had an image: Gat licking and kneading at my brain like a good kitty.

  I brought the figurine down again as the waiters tended to the young man. The game they played was very nice, but mine was going to be different. A game of struggle, of red ribbons of flesh. Gat purred for the first time since entering my life. The game was nourishing him. Nourishing him well.

  - - -

  After that, I made many visits to the Adult Arcade. I visited bars and answered the personal ads. I invited many friendly men and women to my home. Later, I hid the bodies in an abandoned house on the west side of town. Gat had shown me the way to gratification. I ended their lives because that was what Gat wanted.

  Let me amend that: it was what I wanted and what Gat needed. My experiences nourished my little friend. And it was good, so good to have a friend. It’s not healthy for a man to be alone.

  Gat grew bigger. His shoulders fattened so that his neck all but disappeared. I won’t be so moralistic as to say that Gat fed on sin. Not sin, but perhaps extreme emotion. Certainly the sustenance I had to offer was more substantial than the simple fare served up by Mr. Root.

  I quit my job at the TV station. I found work at an adult bookstore in a neighboring town. The nice thing about a porn shop is that no one knows the whereabouts of the clientele while they are there. If they disappear during their visit, it’s as though they’ve dropped off the face of the earth.

  Occasionally I would wonder what sort of creature Gat was. A demon? An alien? Were there others like him? I tried to talk to him but nothing came of it. I showed him how to hold a pencil but he wouldn’t take it, even though his toes were long enough.

  One night, I brought home a young woman who commented on Gat’s name. She explained that she was part of a coven. Disgusted with her Catholic upbringing, she’d taken up pagan worship because it seemed more natural. Her coven name was Moon Breeze.

  “We have a song in praise of masculinity,” she said. “Pan, Loki, Coyote, Cernunnos, Osiris...” She chanted the names over and over. “Your cat reminds me of Loki, the treacherous one. The shape-shifter.”

  “Maybe my Gat will change shape,” I said. “Maybe he’ll turn into some sort of big yellow demigod.”

  Moon Breeze thought for a moment. “I wonder if he’s an avatar of Ghattambah…? I admit it’s a stretch. Still: Gat, Ghattambah. Something to think about. Does Gat have any insect-like qualities?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that.” Her words sent a strange, thrilling, almost electric pulsation through my brain. “Who is this Ghattambah?”

  “Ghattambah is an insect-god originally worshipped in Africa,” she said. “His worshipers call him The Hungry One. Over time, the cult has spread to South and Central America, the Caribbean, some Mediterranean islands, India, Southeast Asia … mostly tropical locales. Some of the cult members also worship the bestial god Cthulhu, since both gods are nourished by the energy of human lust and violence.”

  “I’ve never heard of this Ghattambah cult,” I told her.

  “They stay under the radar. Their Bible is a book called The Seven Blasphemies of Ghattambah. Ghattambah is an ancient deity that lives outside of time and space. It can manifest itself in a variety of ways, but it’s true form is an enormous insect-creature that consumes people and lays its eggs in their living flesh.”

  I was so happy with Moon Breeze, I let her live. Later, I looked up ‘Ghattambah’ online, but couldn’
t find anything. I decided to watch Gat more closely, to see if he ever did anything that seemed insect-like. Her suggestion resonated with me. It seemed strangely right.

  One night I came home (alone this time) and could not find Gat. I looked in all the spots I’d ever seen him napping. Finally I found him under the bed. I couldn’t see him very well, but something seemed different. I dug the flashlight out of my nightstand drawer and looked again.

  Gat was licking himself. His tongue – at least three times longer than the average kitty’s – left a thick snail-track of slime on his fur. In spots, this slime had already hardened into a yellowish crust.

  Gat licked his tail, his body. He used his paws to spread the slime where his tongue wouldn’t reach. After half an hour, Gat was almost completely coated. All that was left was his muzzle. A thick clot of slime welled out of his mouth. With a final flourish of the tongue, the process was complete.

  I watched for another twenty minutes, but nothing changed. Gat appeared to be encased in some sort of chrysalis. I reached under the bed and tapped lightly on the crust with a fingertip. It was hard but slightly yielding, like shoe leather.

  I took the chrysalis out from under the bed for a better look. It must have weighed about twenty pounds. Up close I could detect a light pattern of little diamonds (human skin has a similar pattern). There also appeared to be hundreds of little pores. I wrapped the chrysalis loosely in a blanket and slid it back under the bed.

  This new development completely reinforced the Gat/Ghattambah connection. The Gat I had known was merely a sort of caterpillar – the larval stage of a higher life-form.

  The next day I had to work from four to midnight. As I was leaving the building after work, I slipped and fell down five concrete steps. Even though my left leg was broken, I managed to crawl back into the building, where a co-worker called an ambulance for me.

  Later, when my brother Philip picked me up from the hospital, he insisted that I stay with his family for a few days. I was worried about Gat, but in the end I agreed. Caterpillars took months to spring from their cocoons – I figured that since Gat was much bigger than any insect, he might very well take years.

  It was very pleasant, staying with Philip. He and his wife had three children – two boys and a girl. A nice little family. Not that I wanted that sort of thing for myself. One afternoon I found a school notebook in Philip’s living room and sketched out a few ideas on what Gat would look like, once he’d hatched.

  Would Gat have wings? Yes, I was sure of it. Antennae? Of course. While I was drawing, Philip came in. I made no effort to hide my sketch – I wanted him to see it. I told him I was trying to envision a cross between a kitty and a butterfly, and invited him to critique the result.

  He studied my drawing. “All in all, your picture is too … friendly,” he said. “Insects are mindless eaters. Reptiles are downright cozy compared to insects. And cats? Carnivores, first and foremost.” He took his pen and added a few details to my picture – hooked claws and mandibles.

  My stay with Philip lasted a few days longer than I’d originally planned. Philip drove me home on a Saturday afternoon. My cast was covered with messages from his kids. One of them had written SEE YOU NEXT FALL! in big red marker letters.

  When we got to the house, Philip stayed a few hours, so it was evening by the time I was able to check on Gat. Leaving my crutches by the newel post, I limped up to my bedroom at the top of the stairs. I grabbed the flashlight in my nightstand and crouched down to look under the bed.

  The chrysalis was empty, a tattered sheet of yellow leather.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed. The house smelled heavily of soap and bleach (my diversions made constant cleaning a necessity), but there was another smell, too. Very sharp and musty, like dead flies in an attic.

  Gat had never responded when I tried calling for him. Even so, I called for him now. I heard a faint dragging sound down the hall in Mom’s old bedroom. A moment passed, and the sound was repeated.

  Because I liked to snack in bed, I kept a microwave oven in the room and devoted two shelves on a bookcase to food. I now noticed that the food on the shelves was gone – the packages were torn to bits and not a crumb remained. There was more food upstairs: several boxes of cookies, crackers, beef jerky and dried soup, all stored in Mom’s room.

  Gat was consuming real food. This suggested a change to a coarser nature. I had always admired the purity of Gat’s psychic nourishment. I could hear him drawing closer. In addition to the dragging sound, there was a slight pattering.

  In a moment, Gat entered the room.

  God? Alien? Demon? Gat was a nightmare. He had more than tripled in size. His body was segmented and instead of fur, he was now covered with fine black bristles. The abdomen was long and fat, with small gaping holes – for breathing? – scattered on the sides. His belly dragged along the floor as he moved. The thorax branched into eight twitching, bone-thin legs. His head was a broad, flat triangle, tipped with heavy mandibles.

  Gat now had praying mantis eyes. One was blue and the other was green.

  He looked at me, head tilted to one side, and began to talk. He explained his situation in a dry, rasping voice, and made his request.

  I gave my answer. Then I limped past him, down the hall to the bathroom, where I locked myself in and swallowed all of Mom’s old pills.

  - - -

  So. Here I am in the hospital.

  Philip had stopped by the next morning to bring me some groceries. He told me later that a living room window was broken, and when I didn’t answer the doorbell, he let himself in to see what was the matter.

  I’ve told the police about Gat and the people I’ve killed, but I don’t think they believe me. Of course they couldn’t find Gat in the house. He’d broken the living room window to leave the house. To carry on his plan without me.

  That’s also why they couldn’t find the bodies in the abandoned house. Gat is eating them. I’m sure he’s much bigger by now. The remaining bodies are probably hidden in some other empty building. The police should search the entire area. The entire city.

  Everyone thinks that I’m a self-destructive lunatic. They keep sending in psychologists who pretend that they’re regular doctors. There’s even a guard outside my door – although at this point, I’m thankful that someone is watching over me.

  For you see, Gat will be coming soon.

  After he has devoured the bodies of my victims, he will be big enough and mature enough to reproduce. That’s what he told me in the bedroom just before I tried to kill myself. Gat’s new body has sexual equipment of both genders. Once he has fertilized his own eggs, he will implant them in my living body. To grow. To hatch.

  Gat reminded me of what my Mom used to say: that it isn’t healthy for anyone to be alone. This avatar of Ghattambah has visited our world before, in Egyptian times, and it has returned because it was so wretchedly alone, adrift in the void between dimensions. How funny that Gat should quote my Mom. Whenever I try to picture her face, all I can visualize is a writhing black cloud with eyes of blue and green. Kitties adore their toys – lives and minds are Gat’s favorites.

  When the time is right, Gat wants me to serve as womb to his spawn. He even asked my permission.

  I regretted my answer instantly. That’s why I tried to kill myself.

  I said yes. Yes, my glorious Gat. Yes.

  The Slimy Ones

  by Mark McLaughlin

  Michael Jarvis blinked his eyes once, twice, then opened them wide and rolled them around in their sockets. His new contacts were killing him – but anything was better than wearing those horrible glasses. The lenses were so thick they made him look all fishy-eyed.

  His mother would be pleased that he was wearing contacts. She had always hated his glasses. "I bet they cut those lenses off the bottoms of pop bottles. You look like Aunt Edna with her big googly glasses. How are you ever going to get married? What kind of woman would want a guy with big googly glasses? I just want you
to be happy." She used to say that all the time, and it was true. She wanted him to be happy. Unfortunately, he'd never found the right young lady to help bring about that happiness.

  He'd been lonely after his mother passed away, if you can call getting hit by a bus ‘passing away.’ She'd been such a caring woman – and very frank, too, always one to speak her mind. Well, he now had his investigations to help him not feel so lonely. And he still had the family house.

  People had told him to sell it, saying a single man didn't need such a big place. But he couldn't do a thing like that: the new owners might not take care of it. He kept it looking nice, every little thing in place, just the way Mother would have wanted.

  Eventually his eyes felt better. He looked at the clock – time to turn on the radio. Soon, it would time to call-in.

  Thank God for talk radio. The George Flicker Show was the perfect forum for talking to the River City, letting the people know about The Slimy Ones. He realized that people thought he was being a pest, a crackpot, but he didn't care. The people – the world – had to know.

  After the show's opening music, George went into his usual spiel about every little thing that was ticking him off these days. Then it was call-in time.

  Michael already had the first six numbers dialed – he still used Mother’s old landline. He hit the last number.

  A moment later, he was on the air.

  "Hey, it's our old friend Fishboy," George said. "How ya doin', Fishboy?"

  "Please don't call me that. My name is Michael. I have some more information for your listeners, George. About the Slimy Ones."

  "Ah, yes. The Slimy Ones." A note of amusement crept into George's voice. "A little background information for our first-time listeners. Our friend Fishboy – Michael, I mean – has been collecting information on a race of giant catfish people living at the bottom of the Mississippi. He has described some photos he has on file: slimy handprints on the sides of the riverboat casinos, and some webbed footprints around the Prescott Bridge area. What else, Michael?"