Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

by Mark McLaughlin

  Cord moved on to his next project—the 138kh.c. food preparation area. Certainly the angle of the air vents could be improved upon…

  Later, as he was imaging new designs for the air-plant employee washrooms, Cord heard Pitt gasp—with pain? His coworker did seem even paler than usual. “Is something wrong, Pitt? Should I alert a medic?”

  Pitt looked up from his monitor, his face long with anxiety. “No, I am fine, Cord. But the image I have called up does not…” He began to gnaw on a fingernail. “…does not appear to be work-related.”

  Cord removed his temple sensors and walked over to the pale man’s side. “I hope this will not take long. I am working on an important—” His brow furrowed as he took in the scenario on the screen. “Pitt! This landscape is completely inefficient. I do not recognize the sector.”

  The monitor showed three tall hills, all laced with twisting footpaths. A large, dark house stood on the middle hill. Suddenly the image changed to a close-up of the house.

  “This baffles me,” Cord sighed. “The lawn is half-dead and the sidewalk is broken and uneven. And the building…the doorway is too wide. There are far too many windows. What are you trying to picture here?”

  Pitt rubbed worriedly at the sensors on his temples. “I do not know, Cord. I was designing a sector 150dh warehouse facility when this suddenly came into view.”

  “I should inform our supervisor,” Cord said as he reached for the interoffice communicator.

  “Please do not, Cord. I am being considered for a promotion and I would not want this aberration to weigh against me.” Pitt put a hand on Cord’s wrist. “I should like to be a class-5c designer like yourself. My family would be so pleased.” He shot a fretful glance at his monitor. “Maybe I should simply disconnect my sensors for a moment…”

  Cord rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Not just yet. Since we are overlooking protocol, we might as well explore this aberration in detail.” He gave Pitt a small, stiff smile. “This scenario piques my curiosity. Someday I shall become a supervisor, so perhaps I could use similar images to illustrate poor design to trainees.”

  Pitt nodded, but said nothing.

  “Now tell me,” Cord said. “Why are the sidewalk tiles all of irregular shapes? And why is the roof so steep?”

  “I do not know. I am imaging it, but I cannot control it.”

  “How eccentric. No wonder you fear for your promotion. Your visions are usually so practical.” On the screen, the building’s wide door swung open. “Did you do that?”

  Pitt frowned. “Not consciously.”

  “Perhaps if I saw more, I could fathom this abnormality. Can you direct the image through the doorway?”

  “I will try. I hasten to remind you that I did receive a blow to the head this morning. That rock—it was purple, and roughly textured. Very unusual.”

  On the monitor, the image blurred for a split-second, then came back into focus. Beyond the building’s entry stretched a long carpeted hallway lined with doors.

  “The pattern of the carpet…” Cord tilted his head to one side. “Tentacles? How disturbing. Why not something tranquil, like interlocking circles? I see a large room farther down. Please direct the vision in that direction.”

  The screen’s perspective swept forward. At the end of the hall was a room filled with large wooden boxes, strapped shut with metal bands.

  Pitt gently peeled up the bandage on his forehead and began to poke gingerly at his sore. “No doubt about it,” he said. “There is a tiny bit of stone caught in there.”

  Cord pointed to the screen. “There is a rope tied around the largest box. A rope with knots tied in it at regular intervals. And it leads through a hole in the wall…”

  The view moved along the rope and through the gaping hole, into—

  “Pitt! This is extraordinary!” Cord clapped his hands together. He was gazing down upon a vast marble platform floating in a gray void. Two objects stood on the platform: an enormous coffin, on end, and a tall, curious—Objet d’art? Idol? Cord had no idea what this strange item could be. It was a black, metallic pillar topped with a sphere of rough purple stone. This sphere was covered with a network of wormy, pulsing veins. The knotted rope led down to the platform, where it was tied around the base of the pillar.

  “Down the rope to the platform, Pitt,” Cord commanded.

  “But Cord—that purple globe. Small chunks of it are shooting off into space. Surely that is significant…?”

  Cord thought for a moment. “Purple was once considered the color of royalty. Now down the rope.” With a small wince, Pitt directed his attention down the rope to the platform.

  “What fools we have been, Pitt.” Cord reached over his shoulder and touched a button on the control panel, activating the continuous data-save. “We should be saving this aberration of yours to study.”

  “But my promotion!” the pale man wailed. “The project review officials might come across the file. They will be conducting an audit in a few days.”

  “Really, Pitt. We can always erase it before then. Now to open that casket!” Cord grinned with anticipation.

  “There is a little window on the lid, Cord. Let us peek inside first.”

  In a moment the dark, octagonal window filled Pitt’s screen. The two imagers leaned closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the box’s contents. Suddenly something loomed forward within the coffin: a misshapen lump of blue flesh dotted with yellow eyes. A puckered opening in the lump twitched once, twice, and then dilated, revealing a ring of dark, rotted teeth.

  “Pitt! Remove your sensors, Pitt!” Cord cried.

  “I cannot,” Pitt moaned. “They will not come loose.”

  Cord looked down at his coworker and screamed. The sensor wires had become ropy veins leading into—or out of—Pitt’s forehead.

  Cord reached out to turn off the continuous-save function, but too late; a froth of blue liquid was oozing up from around the control panel buttons. As he watched, the froth solidified into thick blue tissue. From where he was standing, he could see a similar blue mass growing over his own control panel.

  “No, no…” Pitt whimpered, his eyes wide with fear. Cord followed his gaze.

  The lid of the coffin, hinged at the bottom, had fallen open—or more probably, had been pushed from within. The occupant of the coffin was an absurd creature—very inefficiently put together, Cord thought grimly. Too many eyes, too many antennae, far too many limbs. A horrible calm came over Cord. He was not even surprised when the cables leading from their work station to the d8055 processing column turned into huge, pulsing veins.

  “Now, do not worry, Pitt,” Cord whispered. Where was that strange sucking noise coming from? Best to ignore it for now. “What have we done, really? Transferred a bit of jelly from a small box to…a larger one.” The d8055 column began to rumble and throb. “Correct?”

  The shriveled, papery husk once known as Pitt rustled in lieu of a reply.

  The Embrace of Kugappa

  Jasper Dunlap gazed up at the enormous statue of metal, glass, plastic, dead insects and more. It stood about thirty feet high and was situated in the Pavoni Gallery’s atrium. Huge ferns stood behind the statue, with a faux creek burbling through a pebble-lined plastic canal encircling its base. The work depicted an enormous octopus-like creature, coiling around a crude brass skeleton. The complex curves of the monster’s tentacles seemed to suggest the spiraling double-helix of DNA.

  The tentacles were studded or otherwise adorned with all sorts of curious items—gems, rings, baby toys, bottles, condoms, books, shoes, even moths and beetles stuck on pins.

  Jasper began to write in his notepad, looking back and forth from the art to his notes, back and forth, until suddenly he realized with a start that someone was standing next to him, watching him.

  “Hello. How’s every little thing?” the woman said. Her voice was low and raspy—a chain-smoker’s voice. But she didn’t smell like smoke. Actually, she smelled like…He couldn’t place it, but it
was sweet and somehow familiar. She was pale, thin and angular, and she wore black horned-rim glasses and a navy-blue business suit. Her thick black hair was gathered up in a loose bun, with two yellow pencils stuck through it. She tapped his notepad with a shiny blue fingernail. “Taking lots of notes, I see.”

  “This piece…” Jasper said. “It’s ridiculous. Trite. Eccentricity for eccentricity’s sake. Do you see its name anywhere?”

  The woman pointed to an engraved rectangle of dark gray plastic mounted on a small stand next to the statue’s base.

  Jasper squinted at the tiny white letters: The Embrace Of Kugappa. Vyvyka Megamega. 2001.

  “The artist’s name is just as stupid as the—” He stopped and turned toward the woman. “Oh, great. I bet you’re this…Mega-mega.”

  She managed a small smile. “It’s pronounced Muh-GOM-muh-guh. You’re Jasper Dunlap, aren’t you?”

  He closed his notepad. “have we met?”

  “No,” she said. “But I’ve read your arts column, and you bring out that phrase all the time—‘eccentricity for eccentricity’s sake.’ You use it in about every other column.”

  “Oh, so now you’re attacking me?” Jasper said. “Criticizing the critic?”

  The artist shrugged. “Just stating a fact. That’s all.”

  Jasper waggled his pen at the statue. “Well, since you’re here, perhaps you can tell me, if you can, what this…object…means?”

  The woman laughed—a loud, rasping bray. “‘Means’? It is a representation of Kugappa. What more could or should it mean?”

  “And what exactly is Kugappa?” He opened his notebook to a blank page. “Tell me. I’ll try to work it into my column.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you will.” The woman laughed again. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time or patience required to give you an explanation. But—” She stepped up to the statue, looked it up and down for a moment, and then plucked a small blue bottle out of a slot in one of the tentacles.

  “The stars are right,” she said. “Take this.”

  Jasper shook his head. “No way. I’m not going to drink it.”

  “Did I tell you to do that?”

  “Well, no—but that comment about the stars. This must be one of those designer drugs that movie stars take.” He gave her what he hoped was a hard look. “Movie stars—and artists?”

  “The stars I’m talking about have no use for drugs.” She slipped the bottle into the breast pocket of his shirt. “You claim to be a critic. If an artist offers you some valuable insight into a work, you must evaluate that insight before you write about said work, yes?”

  He fished the little bottle out of his pocket. It looked to be half-full of some sort of foam. “A bottle of insight? It looks like rabid dog spit.”

  The artist pointed to the empty slot. “If you think that little bottle will hurt you—if you are afraid of it—just put it back in its place.”

  He glanced at the slot, and then noticed that all of the arms of this creature, this Kugappa, had several slots on them, filled with similar bottles of different colors.

  “Of course I’m not afraid,” he said. “I’ll take your little bottle. But can you at least tell me what I should do with it?”

  Vyvyka Megamega gave him a wide smile, revealing a mouthful of small, square, very white teeth. “I can think of many things you can do with it.”

  Before he could say a word, she turned and walked briskly away.

  * * * *

  That night, in his office—the spare room next to the bathroom—Jasper had to admit: that girl knew how to push his buttons.

  He held the bottle up to the bulb of his desk lamp. It was half-full of froth—he’d noticed that before—and now he saw it also held dark little bits of something. Black thread? Tiny buggies? Could this stuff be some sort of bio-hazard? Surely the gallery wouldn’t allow that. Surely they would check out the bottles first. Wouldn’t they?

  He wanted to call the gallery, but then he realized that if he did, they would only call Vyvyka to find out what was in the bottles, and then she would know that he had called them…

  Called them out of fear.

  And she’d have the last laugh.

  Finally, he decided to call his mother.

  After listening to Mary’s usual ten-minute stream of boring neighborhood anecdotes, he explained the bottle situation to her.

  “She sounds like a nice girl,” his mother said. “Ask her out.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Mary.” His brothers used to make fun of him for calling their mother by her first name, but he just couldn’t bring himself to call her ‘Mom.’ That would’ve been such a sitcom thing to do.

  “She likes you,” Mary said. “That thing she said about the stars. That spells romance. She was obviously flirting with you.”

  “Oh, I really doubt that,” he said.

  “Why? Are you that ugly?”

  He looked at his reflection in the window to his left—no light outside, so the image was a midnight version of himself in shades of blue and gray. Though that made the picture more dramatic, it still wasn’t more enticing. He was simply a stocky, plain man with a pudgy face. “A girl like her wouldn’t want a guy like me,” he said.

  “Jasper, you call tell your mother. Are you gay?”

  “No!” he cried, exasperated.

  “Well then, why do you find it so hard to believe this girl likes you? You’re a man. She’s a woman. For Christ’s sake, Jasper. When are you going to make me some grandkids? All your brothers have kids.”

  Jasper sighed as he stared at the bottle. That stupid, trouble-making bottle. “This conversation is going nowhere, Mary.”

  “What a way to talk to your mother! Just open the bottle and smell what’s inside. Maybe it’s perfume. If it is, that means she likes you. Then you can write a good review of her statue thingy and ask her out. She sounds like a nice girl.”

  “Good Lord, Mary,” he said. “I would never, ever write a review just to impress a girl. I have my integrity. The community depends on me for cultural guidance.”

  “Now I’ve heard everything,” she said. “You’re just a computer fix-it guy with a little column on the side. People are going to like or hate stuff no matter what you say. You know that. Don’t get all fancy-schmancy on me.”

  “But—” Jasper shook his head. “Whatever.”

  “Now while you’ve got me on the phone, open the bottle,” Mary said. “If it’s poisonous and you faint, I’ll call 911. See? I’m looking after you. You need your old mother after all. Now open the bottle. That police show starts in about two minutes and I don’t want to miss it. The one with the police driving around. Do you watch that?”

  “No, Mary. I don’t watch that. I hate police shows. Hold on, I’ll open the bottle so we can just get this over with.” He had to admit, if only to himself, that he liked the idea of smelling what was in the bottle while he had Mary on the line. He grabbed the bottle, pulled out its little cork, and held it cautiously under his nose. “It smells…like…” He sniffed a few times. “…Like nothing. No, wait, maybe…just a little like…strawberries?”

  “See? She likes you.” Mary was triumphant. “Finally, a girl who likes you. Ask her out, for Christ’s sake. I gotta go, my police show is starting.”

  She hung up.

  Jasper noticed an empty plate on the corner of his desk. It had a few crumbs on it, from some sandwich past, but he brushed those away and poured out the bottle’s contents. He swirled the plate a little to make the little puddle of froth spread out.

  But actually, it wasn’t a froth—he saw now that it was a watery, light-blue gel filled with tiny translucent globes. Fish eggs? He couldn’t tell what the black bits were.

  He picked up the plate and held it under his nose, trying to figure out that smell. It really wasn’t strawberries, though it was certainly that sweet…

  He brought the plate closer, and finally recognized, with a sting of dismay, the fruity aroma.
/>   Decay. Rot. A bad meat smell.

  A cold wetness touched his chin. To his horror, he realized he’d brought the plate too close to his face. But that close? He wondered, in a mad rush of absurd panic, if the substance had somehow jumped onto his face.

  He wiped his chin on a sock he found on the floor. He threw the sock in the trash can. Then he took the plate into the kitchen and rinsed it off in the sink with hot water. He wondered what to do with the plate. At last he tossed it in the garbage. When in doubt, throw it out.

  He went back into his office and grabbed the Arkham phonebook. He could not find Megamega in the listings—but then, it had to be a pseudonym. No one could actually be born with a name like Vyvyka Megamega. And really, what could he possibly have to say to the woman? He wanted to scream something at her—but he wasn’t sure what.

  It then dawned on him that he hadn’t washed his chin off. He should have done that first! He went into the bathroom and washed his whole face with bar soap and the hottest water he could stand. Then he rubbed his skin with an astringent—he always kept some on hand because he had oily skin, though he hated the vanity behind worrying about such things. He looked at his chin in the mirror.

  His chin had a tiny cut on it, from shaving that morning. Oh God. Did any of that goo get onto the cut? He looked up into the reflection of his eyes. They were completely dilated. His heart was beating like a jungle drum. He was right in the middle of a full-blown anxiety attack, and he usually passed out when that happened.

  And that’s exactly what he did.

  * * * *

  Jasper always knew when he was dreaming, and yet the realization never woke him up, like it did most people.

  He dreamed that he was on the beach of an island with bone-white sand, and before him stretched a horizon of dark green sea.

  Sinuous—vines?—stretched up out of the water, huge vines overgrown with many smaller vines, and all those vines held an abundance of small, squirming things.

  One of the vines swirled up out of the water close to shore, and he saw that it wasn’t a vine after all—how silly, how stupid, vines didn’t grow in oceans. It was a huge tentacle, overgrown with smaller tentacles, and those had even smaller tentacles on them, and so on in a sort of bio-fractal progression.