Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

by Mark McLaughlin

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2013 by Mark McLaughlin.

  All rights reserved.

  *

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  To Michael Sheehan, Jr. for believing in me 24/7.

  It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.

  To Pamela Briggs, who has known me longer than anyone—

  and still likes me! Hurray!

  To Michael and Cindy McCarty, rabbit enthusiasts

  in pursuit of hare-raising adventure.

  To John Betancourt and Wildside Press:

  Thank you for your support!

  Introduction: What's Your Pleasure?

  Welcome to the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.

  What’s your pleasure?

  In this midnight den of dread and desire, you will find twenty-five rooms, each with a story of its own to tell. Here you will enjoy a delectable variety of otherworldly horrors and delights…enough to satisfy even your most eldritch desires.

  You will find evil pop-stars longing to devour their fans. You will find a sophisticated secret agent in search of supernatural super-villains. You will find a futuristic restaurant for alien connoisseurs, where you’ll savor the monstrous specialty of the house.

  You will learn the vile secrets of Kugappa, the writhing octopus-god, and Ghattambah, an unholy insect deity whose soul dwells beyond time. You will hear the wicked laughter of the Heckler in the Ha-ha Hut, as well as the salacious cackle of the Pecker in the Passageway. You will taste the creamy Milk of Time, served up in a forbidden hideaway known as Der Fleischbrunnen. You will even smell the unhallowed stench of the Odour out of the Terrible Old Man.

  But enough of my blasphemous blubbering…off you go! Be sure to visit every room of the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham. Heck, visit them twice, thrice, as many times as you like.

  After all, you’ve paid the price of admission—a shiny little coin known as your soul—so you might as well get your money’s worth.…

  A Beauty Treatment for Mrs. Hamogeorgakis

  “Don’t look now,” Kyle said, “but that old scarecrow lady is staring at you.”

  Melina and Kyle were having a cigarette break outside of The Perfect Profile, the most popular beauty salon in the seaside town of Innsmouth. There were three other salons, but they were just part-time operations out of people’s homes. Melina took a long drag off of her Belgian vanilla cigarette. They were expensive, but they were smoother than regular cigarettes and not as stinky as those clove things. “What old lady?” she said. She glanced across the street, where some people where talking in front of a doughnut shop.

  “Not that way,” Kyle said. “Inside. You can look now. She’s talking to Marie.”

  She squinted through the plate-glass window. Most of the women in the waiting area were overweight, so it was easy to tell which one he meant. A bony woman in a simple black dress and heavy black shoes was talking to the receptionist. The woman had long, thick gray hair, done up in a shaggy ponytail. At one point she turned and nodded at Melina. The old woman’s face looked like a parchment-covered skull with an eagle’s beak for a nose.

  “Very scary,” Melina said. “I hope she doesn’t want me to work on her.”

  “Well, I don’t want to get stuck with her.” Kyle flashed his big, lopsided smile. “Let’s both go home sick. Simultaneous food-poisoning. The twenty-hour Ebola virus.”

  For the third time that day and probably the thousandth that year, Melina thought, Too bad he’s gay. She still couldn’t figure out why any gay man would want to be a beautician, surrounded by women eight hours a day.

  “Hey, maybe she wants to be your friend,” he said. “You’re always saying that you wish you had more friends.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not desperate. We’d better get back inside,” Melina said, “before Midget has a fit.” Midget was in fact Midge, their manager, a five-foot-four red-haired dictator. They also called her Little Miss Stopwatch, because she said things like, “You were in the bathroom eleven minutes and forty-five seconds. Did you fall in or what?”

  “Mel, honey,” Marie said as they entered, “this is Miss Papadakis. She asked for you special.” The plump, middle-aged receptionist gave her a small, apologetic smile. “She’d like a makeover.”

  “Lucky you,” Kyle whispered as he passed her to go to his workstation.

  “Right this way,” Melina said, leading the old woman to her area. “So you asked for me? Which of my millions of happy customers sent you my way?”

  Miss Papadakis settled into the hot-pink padded chair. “I saw you and decided you were probably Greek, like me, with those big brown eyes and that lovely olive skin. I thought we might have fun talking. Perhaps we are related. You are Greek, yes?”

  “One-hundred percent. My name’s Melina.”

  “And your last name?”

  “We don’t give out last names here. Sorry. It’s not like I don’t trust you, but…”

  The old woman nodded. “I understand. Young women these days, they have to be careful.”

  “Marie said you needed a makeover.”

  The woman smiled. She had good teeth, even and white. Maybe they were dentures. “I am no Miss America, but do you think you could make me—pretty?”

  Melina turned on her best fake smile. “All us Greek girls are pretty. A little make-up’s all you need, and I’d love to do something with that hair.”

  The woman’s smile widened. “Very good. You are skilled with the bullshit. You are being kind to an old lady with a face like death.” She looked into the mirror. “What is this ‘something’ you would do?”

  “Add some color. Something soft. Muted. Anything too dark might look a little hard on you.”

  Miss Papadakis thought about this. “Soft, yes. I do not want to look like a tavern whore. You may begin. But first I am going to give you your tip. As incentive.” She handed Melina a hundred-dollar bill.

  “That’s great,” Melina said. She slipped it into a pocket. “I hope you decide to become a regular customer.” She leaned toward the old woman. “My last name’s Theodorakis.”

  “A name from Crete, like mine. Marvelous!” Miss Papadakis gave her a wink. “Call me Kiwi, please. All my friends call me Kiwi.”

  * * * *

  During the appointment, Melina found out much of the old woman’s life story, including why friends called her Kiwi instead of her real first name, which was Angela.

  It turned out that many years ago, an old boyfriend, a policeman, had given her a basket of kiwi fruit, and she’d found them to be absolutely delicious. And so every day, she always ate at least three or four kiwis, since they were so tasty and also, they reminded her of her beloved policeman, who had died in a car accident. That was back when she had lived in New York.

  “After my Tony died, I came to Innsmouth with a patient of mine, Mrs. Hamogeorgakis,” Kiwi said. “I am a doctor, you see. Back in New York, I would drop by her place every now and then—she had many health problems, the poor dear, and she has always been a friend of the family. So when Mrs. Hamogeorgakis decided to come here—she has relatives in town—she asked if I would like to come with her. I was tired of New York, so I said yes.”

  “You still call her by her last name after all these years?” Melina said as she rinsed out the bony woman’s hair. Kiwi’s old enough to be my grandmother, she thought. How old is this gal she’s taking care of?

  The old woman laughed. “Mrs. Hamogeorgakis is like a queen. Her very presence commands respect.”

  Finally, Melina finished her work. And the old woman looked—nice. Her hair was now a m
edium golden-brown and trimmed to shoulder-length. Her gaunt face, through the subtle use of foundation, shadow, lipstick, lip-liner and more, now looked pleasant but dignified. Almost grandmotherly.

  Kiwi gasped at her reflection. “My child, this is a miracle! It is like I am only fifty again.” She got out of the chair and looked her closely in the mirror. “Interesting, how you’ve applied the color on the sides of my nose. It doesn’t look so big now. I will have to study this when I get home, to see if could do it myself.” She turned around. “Or perhaps you could come by sometime and teach me?”

  Melina shook her head. “Sorry, we don’t give lessons. Otherwise you wouldn’t need the salon.”

  Kiwi pouted. “But I wouldn’t have the time to come here every day. And I’d still need you to do my hair.” She moved closer to Melina and whispered, “I would pay very well for these lessons. Give me your home number. I’ll call you and we’ll talk more.”

  Kyle walked over to Melina’s workstation. “Mel, you didn’t tell me you had a sister,” he said with his usual lopsided grin.

  Kiwi ran a bony hand through the male stylist’s blond highlights. “This is an interesting effect. Very dramatic. Maybe you could do this for me sometime, Melina.”

  Melina wrote her home number on the back of a business card and handed it to the old woman. “Whatever you like, Kiwi.”

  “Your name’s Kiwi?” Kyle said.

  “Have Melina tell you the story.” The old woman put a fingertip on Kyle’s cheek. “Such large eyes you have. Are you a Gilman, by any chance?”

  He nodded. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “The family resemblance is unmistakable.” She turned back to Melina. “I must go now—I still have some shopping to do for Mrs. Hamogeorgakis. I pay the receptionist, yes?”

  Melina nodded. One hand was in her pocket, touching that hundred-dollar bill.

  Later, during their next cigarette break, Kyle said, “That old lady looks about a hundred times better now. But what was the deal with her knowing my last name?”

  Melina looked at his big soulful blue eyes and his wide, full-lipped, sensuous mouth. Too bad he’s gay. “Like she said, a family resemblance. That’s not so weird. Most of you Gilmans have the same look. Though you are better looking than most of the others. Your uncle Carl looks like a big toad-man.”

  Kyle grimaced. “Thanks for telling me. Does that mean I’m going to look like an old toad someday?” He threw down his cigarette, crushed it under his heel and went back into the salon.

  Melina just shrugged. “Maybe,” she said to no one.

  * * * *

  That evening, Miss Papadakis called Melina. The beautician was lounging in a beanbag chair in her apartment at the time, drinking a glass of wine and doing a crossword puzzle, when the phone rang.

  “Mrs. Hamogeorgakis had much to say about your skill—all good, of course,” Kiwi said. “I must confess, I had a special reason for coming to your salon today.”

  God, I hope it’s not kinky, Melina thought. “Is that right?”

  “My visit was—what is the word I’m looking for?—let me think…”

  “I’m good at crosswords—I’m doing one right now. What’s the word mean?”

  “The word for when you try somebody out, so they can do a task later.”

  “An interview?” Melina said. She grabbed the wine bottle and refreshed her glass. “An audition?”

  “Yes, both of those,” Kiwi said. “You see, Mrs. Hamogeorgakis is in need of your services.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I need them, too. But Mrs. Hamogeorgakis needs them even more.” Kiwi paused, and then said, “Much more.”

  “I see.” Actually, Melina didn’t want to see how ugly the ancient woman in question had to be.

  “Mrs. Hamogeorgakis would not be able to visit your salon. You’ll have to come here, to 605 Cherrywood Lane. Do you have pen and paper so you can write that down?”

  Melina wrote it in the margin of her crossword puzzle. “You know, I am really busy these days, and the salon would be mad if they knew—”

  “One-thousand dollars.” Kiwi stated. “You will receive one-thousand dollars for your visit. Tomorrow night at eight o’clock.”

  “Great! I’ll be there,” Melina said. “I look forward to meeting your friend.”

  “You will like Mrs. Hamogeorgakis. She is a fascinating person, and she will be very grateful. We will see you tomorrow night.”

  Melina hung up the phone and had some more wine.

  A fascinating person.

  The old hag probably looked like a mummy. A fascinating mummy.

  * * * *

  The sky was overcast the next morning. By noon, the clouds were roiling black and grey. Rain was pouring down, accompanied by gale-force winds.

  Midge locked the front door of The Perfect Profile and the employees all went down into the basement. It would have been impossible for any of them to go home at that point. Midge was afraid the wind might blow a branch or a trashcan through the salon’s plate-glass window.

  Melina and Kyle sat away from the others in a corner, smoking.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” Melina said.

  “That’s okay,” her friend said. “It’s not your fault. I guess I’m just afraid I’ll end up like my uncle. That’s all.”

  “But you really are a lot better looking than—”

  “There’s more to it than just looks,” Kyle said. “Carl disappeared last week.”

  “Oh no.” Melina lit up a fresh vanilla cigarette. “Didn’t you have a grandmother who disappeared?”

  Kyle nodded. “And my grandmother’s brother. What would that be—a grand-uncle?” He reached over and took one of her expensive cigarettes. Ordinarily she’d have complained, but she decided to let it slide this time.

  “I don’t know why they’ve disappeared,” he continued. “They just go away and the thing is, nobody talks about it. It’s like everybody’s in on the secret except me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Probably because I’m not like them.”

  Melina shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Do you really think your family is off somewhere saying, ‘Let’s not tell Kyle the truth about the disappearances because he’s gay’? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Kyle’s large eyes glistened with tears. “So what’s the truth?”

  Melina sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. Does it have to be something bad? Maybe it’s something really cool. Something wonderful and mysterious.”

  Kyle sat up. “Like what?”

  “Well, maybe you’re all royalty. Or aliens. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Her friend grinned. “Maybe we all grow fingerwebs and swim off to an underwater palace.”

  “Whoa! Where did that come from?”

  “I have dreams like that all the time.” An oddly blissful look crept across his face. “I dream that my hands are green and there are webs between the fingers, and I’ve swimming past all these beautiful fish and eels to this big palace, but it’s really more of a coral reef. And there are all these green and yellow people waving to me, and I know they all love me. I had that dream again just last night.”

  Melina looked at her friend’s hands. The fingers were long and slender—and between them, there did seem to be a little extra skin. Maybe a fourth of an inch. Not much. Certainly nothing freaky.

  But when she looked up into his face, it suddenly dawned on her that yeah, she could see a touch of his uncle Carl in his face. That forlorn, toadlike quality. But in Kyle’s case, it was more froglike.

  Maybe it was just as well that this frog would never be her prince.

  * * * *

  The storm was over by two-thirty, but the skies still looked terrible. All the day’s clients had called to cancel, so Midge told everyone to go home.

  Melina had to tell Kyle about her appointment with the old women that evening. It would be best if somebody knew her whereabo
uts, in case something weird happened. Kyle said, “We have the rest of the afternoon to kill. Why don’t we drive around Cherrywood Lane? Check out the neighborhood before your big gig tonight.”

  “That’s in the rich part of town, isn’t it?”

  “You bet. So we’d better take my car. It’s nicer,” he said. “Besides, if we took your car, they might recognize it when you came by later and they’d know you’d been snooping around in their neck of the woods.”

  “Good idea you’ve got there.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “First time for everything, I guess.”

  “Clever! I should just let those two old witches eat you.”

  Twenty minutes, Kyle was steering his car onto Cherrywood Lane, which led up a hill overlooking the town. This part of Innsmouth was old and moneyed, and all the houses had winding driveways and expansive, well-groomed lawns. “You’d better scoot down in your seat,” Kyle said, “so they can’t see you.”

  605 was certainly the most impressive house on the street. It was a huge, sprawling structure, three stories high and covered with ivy. “Good God,” Kyle said. “Yeah, I guess they can afford thousand-dollar beauty treatments. That’s the old Marsh place. I used to have a boyfriend who lived on this street. He showed me who lived where.”

  “Marsh?” The Marsh family was one of the most prestigious in Innsmouth. “Kiwi said Mrs. Hamogeorgakis came here to live with relatives. The Marshes aren’t Greek.”

  “Maybe they’re related by marriage somehow.”

  Melina pointed. “What’s behind that big wall?”

  Kyle looked in that direction. A short distance behind the house was a high wall made partly of large, pale stones and partly of red bricks. “Well, we’re right on the ocean, but we had to drive up this hill a ways…Must be a cliff. Let’s turn around.”

  A minute later, they were heading back toward downtown Innsmouth. At the base of the hill, Kyle took a side road to a small seaside recreational area, with picnic benches and a white-painted metal pavilion.

  Kyle got out of the car, so Melina did, too. He nodded toward the sun-bleached cliff to their left. “There’s what’s on the other side of that wall.”