Best Little Witch-House in Arkham

by Mark McLaughlin

  That’s where I work.

  Well do I remember a certain lightning-streaked, eldritch and mystery-strewn Thursday night. Skoglund, Cheswick and I were sitting around playing Old Maid when we received the call from the house of the Terrible Old Man. I was the one who answered the phone.

  “You must come quickly,” he sputtered. “I am desperately in need of immediate and confidential medical assistance.”

  “Have no fear: we’ll be right there,” I said. I hung up and returned to the game. Half an hour later, we were on our way.

  The gambrel-roofed residence of the Terrible Old Man sits on top of Sentinel Hill like, well, a sentinel of some sort. When we arrived, the elderly albino housekeeper, Florence, showed us into the sitting room—but our host was not seated.

  The Terrible Old Man, wearing nothing but a pink paisley bathrobe and purple bunny slippers, rested bellyside-down on an overstuffed yellow sofa with dusty lace doilies on the arms (of the sofa, not the Terrible Old Man).

  I noticed that the nearest doily had a greasy stain on it. “Remove that filthy antimacassar,” I said to Cheswick. He responded by shoving Florence out the door.

  “I am glad you are here,” whispered the Terrible Old Man in a voice like autumn leaves being arranged into a festive holiday centerpiece. “It would seem that I have had a bit of an accident. Earlier this evening, shards of hell-wrought green lightning tore the skies asunder, and a curious and singular intergalactic anomaly—a meteorite, if you will—plunged out of the night’s yawning abyss and into my backyard.”

  He shifted uneasily, perhaps trying to find a more comfortable position, before continuing. “I instructed Florence to bring this extra-dimensional souvenir into the house,” he said, “so that I might examine it. Upon inspection, it proved to be tube-shaped, of a roseate hue, warm to the touch, and pretty hefty, too. Whether it was a product of nature, or instead forged in some forbidden kiln of strange lore and otherworldly technology, is pretty much up for grabs. As I examined the lengthy alien cylinder, I turned to fetch something really scientific from a low shelf. It was then that I slipped and fell, and—” Here the old man blushed. “I just happened to fall in such a manner that the meteorite was lodged, once again, in my backyard. So to speak.”

  I nodded sagely, and with trembling hands, lifted the hem of that accursed paisley robe, so that we might view the scene of the Terrible Old Man’s misfortune.

  From between his withered and lugubrious nether-cheeks protruded a pink extrusion of prodigious girth. Skoglund, Cheswick and I, in turns, tried first with gingerly caution, then with steadfast insistence, finally with workmanlike vigor, to remove the meteorite. All without success. During our efforts, the Terrible Old Man simply smiled in a disturbing, insidiously pleased fashion.

  Finally, I grabbed the protuberance and, instructing Skoglund and Cheswick to each take hold of my elbows, we gave that stubborn obstruction a mighty tug.

  It was then—God help us!—that the meteorite, with a loud and resounding SMACK!—popped out of its fleshy mooring.

  I stared horrorstruck at the vision before me. Between the Old Man’s bony mounds gaped a pink-rimmed orifice that opened into a nightmare vortex of swirling mists. Skoglund fainted dead away. Cheswick shrieked like a little girl and cried out not only for his Mommy, but also for someone or something named Mr. Boo-Boo Bear.

  And then—merciful heavens!—SOMETHING oozed forth from out of the depths of that Terrible Old Man: a writhing conglomerate of oleaginous, rainbow-hued bubbles, twisted neon-blue tentacles, snapping squid-beaks, three-lobed burning eyes and flexing monkey-tails. The creature worked to squirm free of its rectal receptacle, and as it did, it began to grow, and to release an odour…the likes of which no human nose should ever be forced to endure.

  This ripe, loathsome stench brought to mind a bubbling cauldron of gangrenous corruption—a sickening stew made from motor oil, rancid bacon, three-month-old cottage cheese, cat piss and a week’s worth of diapers from a colicky baby that had been allowed to eat guacamole.

  Suddenly that stinking monstrosity from beyond that enflamed colon of terrors REACHED TOWARD ME with a pustulent, obscenely engorged tentacle, dripping with the digested remains of the Terrible Old Man’s last several meals. I surmised that the Old Man was especially fond of broccoli. The tentacle glowed from within with a hellish sort of light, of a colour I had never seen before—but it reminded me of certain fumes I had peripherally perceived floating up from the toilet bowls of ill-rumored truck-stop men’s-rooms along the Pickman Turnpike.

  I looked around the room for something, anything to use to fight off this ghastly intestinal interloper. But what? All I could see were shelves and shelves of books—self-help books, how-to gardening guides, tips of redecorating, bound volumes of carpet samples, and a really big, medieval-looking leathery thing with the title Necronomicon. I thought perhaps I could hit the creature with that, so I reached out for it.

  “No! Stop!” cried the Terrible Old Man, who was watching me from over his shoulder. Florence, who had crept back into the room, began to fling thick paperback romance novels at me, and Cheswick latched onto my leg, screaming “Make it better, Mr. Boo-Boo Bear!” in the sort of high-pitched voice one usually associates with circus clowns addicted to crack.

  I dodged Florence’s barrage of bodice-buster bestsellers, but one hit Cheswick in the temple and he fell to the floor, out cold.

  I lunged forward, grabbed the leather-bound tome from its shelf, and turned to do battle with the rectum-spawned abomination.

  The monstrosity’s grizzled eyebrows shot up. “Ooooh! Can I have a look at that?” it gurgled. “Yog-Sothoth told me my picture’s in there.”

  So the Terrible Old Man made room on the couch, and those of us who were still conscious gathered around the book, turning pages, looking for the vile, unholy creature’s picture.

  We found it on pg. 387. It was a group shot—the colon-fiend, Cthulhu, and some Lemurian serpent-priests at the annual temple barbeque. The monster said it looked fat because of bad lighting, but I said that it looked fine. Still, it wasn’t convinced. With a disappointed sigh, the repugnant creature returned (with a little cooperation from the Terrible Old Man) whence it came.

  Finally Skoglund woke up from his faint. With a trembling hand, he pointed to a small, slime-streaked pile on the floor—an unspeakable token of soul-shredding horror left behind by that grotesque fecal daemon.

  “Hey, my car keys!” Florence said. “I’ve been looking for those.”

  She's Got the Look

  “Something new…something fresh…” Hopelessly adrift in a sea of fashion magazines, Pretzel flipped nervously through high-gloss stacks of Mademoiselle, Glamour, Harper’s Bazaar, French Vogue, Miss Vogue for teens, Marie Claire, Sky, and a half-dozen foreign editions of Elle. She glanced at Jasmine, who was still trying to squeeze her way into a brown-velvet Vivienne Westwood cat-suit. “It’s not going to happen, you know.”

  “Pee pills.” Jasmine began rolling the leggings down. “Just a few pee pills away.”

  “And an extra kidney. Where’s my Japanese Elle? The one with Magda on the cover.”

  “She looks like a whore.” Jasmine brushed a long curly lock of magenta hair off of her round face. “An enormous whore. Massive. Her left tit is bigger than my head.”

  Pretzel found the magazine and held it at arm’s length. “My God, you’re absolutely right. Gaultier must have discovered her—he’s adores big freak girls. The woman is a horse. A horse on its hindlegs.”

  “With gigantic tits.”

  Pretzel was not to be outdone. “A Clydesdale with obscene mutant cow tits. Somebody should fly her to one of those needy countries and have her nurse all those skinny little babies.”

  “Not much nourishment in silicone, darling.” Jasmine laughed as she threw the cat-suit back onto the pile of clothes on the couch. She poured herself her fourth glass of Dom Perignon that morning. “But seriously. Are you making any progress at all?” />
  “None. I can’t believe I got roped into all this.” Pretzel tossed an armful of magazines into the air. “Stupidest fucking idea in the world. Starving models raising money to feed starving children? Who could possibly tell them apart?” Her eyes widened. “Definitely no Kate Moss. She can’t be more than—what? 85 pounds? The press would tear the whole thing to shreds. Maybe I should get that Magda cow after all.”

  “Good God, no—she’s too big. You might as well throw Liz Taylor or a Russian tractor up on the catwalk.”

  Pretzel crossed to her work table, shooting a look at her reflection in the mirror above it. She still looked fantastic—to-die-for cheekbones, silver pageboy cut, Acapulco tan. A fashion journalist had to look her best to be taken seriously. And she was hot now: all eyes were upon her. Her first novel, Strapless, was No. 3 on the New York Times bestseller list, and publishers were still bidding on her next book, Catwalk Days, Doggy-Style Nights.

  But she had to face it: she was picking up weight from stress-eating and too damn many hors d’oeuvres. In another month she’d be as big as Jasmine, if she didn’t do something about it. She opened her purse and found her Gucci pillbox. She picked out two yellows, then debated between blue and green before finally selecting a yummy pink one. Jasmine brought her a glass of champagne to wash them down.

  “Darling, what’s this?” Jasmine slid a maroon faux-leather valise out from under some catalogues. “This would go with that jacket I bought last week.”

  “Another stupid idea. I’m supposed to be judging the Miss Fresh Face contest for Sizzle. These are the finalists. Snotty little rich girls from all over America.”

  Jasmine gave her a small smile. “I was once a Miss Fresh Face, you know.”

  Pretzel studied her friend’s plump, still pretty face. “We could get you up on that catwalk again, you know. I know this darling French doctor—liposuction, a little nip and tuck, injections of monkey gland extract—”

  Jasmine shook her head. “I shouldn’t even think of losing weight. It’s impossible around Farouk. Every time I lose an ounce he buys a dozen cheesecakes. He’s into big hips. Literally.”

  The women refreshed their champagne glasses and found some smoked salmon in the mini-fridge. During their snack, Jasmine handed Pretzel the maroon valise. “You said you were looking for fresh. Maybe you should use some of these girls. Just a thought.”

  “You might have something there.” Pretzel opened the valise over the work table and scattered the pictures, to see which ones popped out at her. “Bimbo,” she said, tossing one off the table. “Bimbo. Bimbo. Slut.” Three more pictures hit the floor. Suddenly she gasped.

  “What are you looking at?” Jasmine said, examining the seven pictures left. “Which—“

  Then she, too, saw the photo. Saw…her.

  A pale, luminous face. Thin, but not too thin, with full, pouting lips and an elfin chin. The cheekbones were wide, generously sculpted. Her forehead was high and narrow. And those eyes—huge, soulful, a little sad, extremely wise. Haunting, timeless eyes.

  “Who is she?” Jasmine whispered.

  Pretzel picked up the photo and looked at the information written on the back. “Veronica Gilman. From a place called Innsmouth.”

  * * * *

  The next week, Pretzel had Veronica Gilman flown in.

  She met the girl at the airport and was instantly charmed. Veronica was tall and willowy, with a throaty purr of a voice. She wore a black dress trimmed with white lace and carried a white umbrella trimmed with black lace. She also wore black silk gloves with the fingertips cut off. They had lunch in a sushi bar, where the girl ordered double portions of tuna, shrimp and octopus.

  “You certainly have a healthy appetite,” Pretzel said cautiously.

  Veronica smiled, revealing a bright expanse of small, even teeth. “I simply adore seafood. Don’t you? It’s low-fat and extreeemely nutritious. A person hardly needs to eat anything else.”

  Pretzel watched the girl nibble daintily at her fishbits. “Those gloves are fabulous.” She looked closer. “Oooh, they’re studded with little pearls. I love the whole black-and-white look. Very Audrey Hepburn, with a touch of Goth-grrrrl. Tell me about this town you’re from. This Innsmouth.”

  “There’s not much to tell. New England. Old money. A lazy, crazy seaside town: lots of eccentrics. Punks and hermits and maiden aunts. Everybody knows everybody, for better or worse. Steeped in tradition, like a soggy old teabag!” Veronica laughed—a high, jubilantly warbling giggle. Pretzel was vaguely reminded of a show on dolphins she’d once seen on public TV.

  A short blond waiter stopped by their table. “Can I bring you anything else?”

  Veronica flashed her huge eyes at him. “Mmmmm. More octopus, please.” She turned back to Pretzel. “So. I can hardly wait to hear about this fundraiser. It sounds tremendously exciting, It’s a terrible thing, world hunger and what-not. I’m flattered you think I’d be able to help.”

  Pretzel reached out and squeezed the girl’s hand. She was surprised by how muscular it felt. “This event needs a fresh face, Ronny—can I call you Ronny? A fresh face and a new look. That new look is you, my dear. A classic look with a modern edge: Old World meets New Wave. The Ronny Look. The Innsmouth Look.”

  Again, Veronica let loose with that high, warbling laugh.

  * * * *

  That evening, Pretzel, Jasmine and Veronica converged at the HotBox, a dance club that Jasmine suggested. The club was lucky for the former model—it was where she’d met her meal-ticket/millionaire/chubby-chaser Farouk.

  Pretzel wore a black leather mini and bustier from the Gaultier collection. Jasmine wore her old figure-shrouding favorite: slightly baggy, red-velvet hip-hop bib overalls with matching pumps. Veronica wore black lipstick, her gloves, a black lace evening gown with fishnet shawl, and black stiletto heels.

  “You be looking so fine,” Jasmine said to Veronica in what was possibly the world’s worse possible approximation of homegirl lingo. Her wits weren’t entirely about her: she had just done a line of coke in the ladies’ room with a Hispanic transvestite named Caliente.

  “You’re too kind,” the Innsmouth girl purred, absent-mindedly running the fingertips of one hand over the pearls of the other’s glove. She turned to Pretzel. “Any celebrities here tonight? I thought I saw Cher a moment ago.”

  Jasmine shook her head. “That was Caliente.”

  Pretzel popped a pink pill and a couple baby-blues. “There’s Rod Plunge over by the flamingo ice-sculpture. Gay porn star. Should I ask him to do the hunger thing? Get him on the catwalk? I mean, just because he’s a porn star doesn’t mean he’s not worrying about starving babies. The press would absolutely eat it up.” She looked around, slightly dazed. The pills were beginning to kick in. “Where did Ronny go?”

  Jasmine nodded toward the dance floor. “Over there. Doing the Petit Mal with Johnnie Depp.”

  Pretzel watched as the Innsmouth girl twitched and jerked ecstatically among all the giddy clubhoppers. Green and blue flashes from the swirling disco ball overhead gave the dance floor a sort of manic underwater effect, and for one freakish moment Pretzel felt that she was watching some sort of nightmare nature documentary. Behold the slinky, murder-mouthed moray eel: see how it gracefully weaves among all the mindless little prettyfish, sizing them up, biding its time, flexing its jagged jaws, waiting to bite bite bite—

  Hot pain in the side of her face brought her to her senses. It took her a moment to realize that Jasmine had slapped her.

  “What is wrong with you?” Jasmine was looking at her with utter incredulity. “You were whimpering like a scared puppy. Right in front of Barbra Streisand’s personal shopper. I told him you had asthma.” The plump woman handed her a gin & tonic.

  Pretzel sipped at the drink, savoring its faint tang of pine. “I’m fine now. A little anxiety attack, that’s all.” She looked back at Veronica, still dancing, this time with a TV sitcom prettyboy. A lovely girl. Fabulous. A superstar in the mak
ing. Nothing to fear, nothing at all.

  And yet…It suddenly dawned on her that there was something vaguely disturbing about the girl. Those pouting lips…those huge eyes, haunting and more than a little wide-set…

  She turned to Jasmine. “Is it my imagination, or does Veronica look like…in this light, mind you…” She cocked her head to one side. “A carp?”

  The plump woman considered this for a moment. “Yes, but a very pretty carp. Like one of those darling two-color Koi. Farouk has a whole pond full of them.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully as she watched Veronica bump bottoms with a tanned soap-opera hunk. “We should play it up! Sea-green eye-shadow. Big flaming orchids in her hair. Silver lamé and a seaweed boa. An island look. Primitive. Exotic. Powerful.”

  “And very Third World.” Pretzel raised an eyebrow. “I love it.”

  * * * *

  The next month flew by in a mad blur. After considering dozens of designers, Pretzel and Jasmine commissioned Cosmo Sarkazien, a Versace protégé, to whip together some super-slinky variations on the tropical theme: sharkskin micro-minis, kicky cyberpunk/hula girl couture, black fishnet body stockings, and more, more, more. They asked Naomi Campbell and Linda Evangelista to tutor Veronica on catwalk poise. But it turned out she needed very little instruction; the girl was an absolute natural.

  At first Pretzel and Jasmine had wanted to hold the fundraiser at a New York homeless shelter, but at Veronica’s suggestion, they moved it to an abandoned church on Easter Island. The girl’s family owned a beach house there—that was where they went when winter hit Innsmouth hard. The tag on Veronica’s keychain was an actual chunk from one of those enormous heads.