The Book of Cthulhu 2

by Ross Lockhart

  “In a few minutes, then,” Paxton said and his face relaxed. When I let loose of his tie, he toppled sideways and lay motionless. Jeeves, or Reynolds, or whatever the butler’s name was, opened the door and froze in mid-stride. He calmly assessed the situation, turned sharply as a Kraut infantryman on parade, and shut it again.

  Lights from the fires painted the window and flowed in the curtains and made the devil statue’s grin widen until everything seemed to warp and I covered my eyes and listened to Dan Blackwood piping and the mad laughter of his thralls. I shook myself and fetched the Thompson and made myself comfortable behind the desk in the captain’s chair, and waited. Smoked half a deck of ciggies while I did.

  Betting man that I am, I laid odds that either some random goons, Blackwood, or one of my chums, would come through the door fairly soon, and in that order of likelihood. The universe continued to reveal its mysteries a bit later when Helios Augustus walked in, dressed to the nines in yellow and purple silk, with a stovepipe hat and a black cane with a lump of gold at the grip. He bowed, sweeping his hat, and damn me for an idiot, I should’ve cut him down right then, but I didn’t. I had it in my mind to palaver since it had gone so swimmingly with Paxton.

  Bad mistake, because, what with the magician and his expert prestidigitation and such, his hat vanished and he easily produced a weapon that settled my hash. For an instant my brain saw a gun and instinctively my finger tightened on the trigger of the Thompson. Or tried to. Odd, thing, I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t so much as bat a lash. My body sat, a big useless lump. I heard and felt everything. No difficulties there, and then I recognized what Helios had brandished was the mummified severed hand he’d kept in his dressing room at the Hotel Broadsword. I wondered when he’d gotten into town. Had Blackwood dialed him on the blower this morning? The way things were going, I half suspected the creepy bastard might’ve hidden in the shrubbery days ago and waited, patient as a spider, for this, his moment of sweet, sweet triumph.

  That horrid, preserved hand, yet clutching a fat black candle captivated me…. I knew from a passage of a book on folklore, read to me by some chippie I humped in college, that what I was looking at must be a hand of glory. Hacked from a murderer and pickled for use in the blackest of magic rituals. I couldn’t quite recall what it was supposed to do, exactly. Paralyzing jackasses such as myself, for one, obviously.

  “Say, Johnny, did Conrad happen to tell you where he stowed the key to his vault?” The magician was in high spirits. He glided toward me, waltzing to the notes of Blackwood’s flute.

  I discovered my mouth was in working order. I coughed to clear my throat. “Nope,” I said.

  He nodded and poured himself a glass of sherry from a decanter and drank it with relish. “Indeed, I imagine this is the blood of my foes.”

  “Hey,” I said. “How’d you turn the Blackwood Boys anyhow?”

  “Them? The boys are true believers, and with good reason considering who roams the woods around here. I got my hands on a film of Eadweard’s, one that might’ve seen him burned alive even in this modern age. In the film, young Conrad and some other nubile youths were having congress with the great ram of the black forest. Old Bill stepped from the grove of blood and took a bow. I must confess, it was a spectacular bit of photography. I informed the boys that instead of hoarding Muybridge’s genius for myself, it would be share and share alike. Dan and his associates were convinced.”

  “I’m sorry I asked.”

  “Does everyone beg you for mercy at the end?”

  “The ones who see it coming.”

  “Do you ever grant quarter?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will you beg me for mercy?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  The magician laughed and snapped his fingers. “Alas! Alack! I would spare you, for sentimental reasons, and because I was such a cad to send the Long and the Short gunning for you, and to curse Donald purely from spite. Unfortunately, ’tis Danny of the Blackwood who means to skin you alive on a corroded altar to Old Bill. Sorry, lad. Entertaining as I’m sure that will prove, I’m on a mission. You sit tight, Uncle Phil needs to see to his prize. Thanks oodles, boy. As the heathens and savages are wont to say, you done good.” He ignored the torrent of profanity that I unleashed upon his revelation that he’d killed my father, and casually swirled his elegant cape around his shoulders and used my own matches to strike a flame to the black candle. Woe and gloom, it was a macabre and chilling sight, that flame guttering and licking at dead fingers as he thrust it forth as a torch.

  Helios Augustus proved familiar with the layout. He promptly made an adjustment to the devil statue and ten feet away one of the massive bookcases pivoted to reveal a steel door, blank save for a keyhole. The magician drew a deep breath and spent several minutes chanting in Latin or Greek, or bits of both and soon the door gave way with a mere push from his index finger. He threw back his head and laughed. I admit, that sound was so cold and diabolical if I’d been able to piss myself right then, I would’ve. Then he wiped his eyes and disappeared into a well of darkness and was gone for what felt like an age.

  I spent the duration listening to the Blackwood Boys reciting an opera while straining with all of my might and main to lift my hand, turn my head, wiggle a toe, to no avail. This reminded me, most unpleasantly, of soldiers in France I’d seen lying trussed up in bandages at the hospital, the poor bastards unable to blink as they rotted in their ruined bodies. I sweated and tried to reconcile myself with an imminent fate worse than death, accompanied by death. ‘Hacked to pieces by a band of hillbilly satanists’ hadn’t ever made my list of imagined ways of getting rubbed out—and as the Samurai warriors of yore meditated on a thousand demises, I too had imagined a whole lot of ways of kicking.

  Helios Augustus’s candle flame flickered in the black opening. He carried a satchel and it appeared heavily laden by its bulges; doubtless stuffed with Eadweard Muybridge’s priceless lost films. He paused to set the grisly hand in its sconce before me on the desk. The candle had melted to a blob of shallow grease. It smelled of burnt human flesh, which I figured was about right. Probably baby fat, assuming my former chippie girlfriend was on the money in her description.

  Helios said, “Tata, lad. By the by, since you’ve naught else to occupy you, it may be in order to inspect this talisman more closely. I’d rather thought you might twig to my ruse back in Olympia. You’re a nice boy, but not much of a detective, sorry to say.” He waved cheerily and departed.

  I stared into the flame and thought murderous thoughts and a glint on the ring finger arrested my attention. The ring was slightly sunken into the flesh, and that’s why I hadn’t noted it straight away. My father’s wedding band. Helios Augustus, that louse, that conniving, filthy sonofawhore, had not only murdered my father by his own admission, but later defiled his grave and chopped off his left hand to make a grotesque charm.

  Rage had a sobering effect upon me. The agony from my wounds receded, along with the rising panic at being trapped like a rabbit in a snare and my brain ticked along its circuit, methodical and accountant-like. It occurred to me that despite his callous speech, the magician might’ve left me a chance, whether intentionally or as an oversight, the devil only knew. I huffed and puffed and blew out the candle, and the invisible force that had clamped me in its vise evaporated. Not one to sit around contemplating my navel, nor one to look askance at good fortune, I lurched to my feet and into action.

  I took a few moments to set the curtains aflame, fueling the blaze with the crystal decanter of booze. I wrapped Dad’s awful hand in a kerchief and jammed it into my pocket. Wasn’t going to leave even this small, gruesome remnant of him in the house of Satan.

  An excellent thing I made my escape when I did, because I met a couple of Blackwood’s boys on the grand staircase. “Hello, fellas,” I said, and sprayed them with hellfire of my own, sent them tumbling like Jack and Jill down the steps, notched the columns and the walls with bullet holes. I exulted at t
heir destruction. My hand didn’t bother me a whit.

  Somebody, somewhere, cut the electricity and the mansion went dark as a tomb except for the fire licking along the upper reaches of the balcony and the sporadic muzzle flashes of my trench broom, the guns of my enemies, for indeed those rat bastards, slicked and powdered for the performance, yet animals by their inbred faces and bestial snarls, poured in from everywhere and I was chivvied through the foyer and an antechamber where I swung the Thompson like a fireman with a hose. When the drum clicked empty I dropped the rifle and jumped through the patio doors in a crash of glass and splintered wood, and loped, dragging curtains in my wake, across the lawn for the trees. I weaved between the mighty lines of the burning pentagrams that now merely smoldered, and the trailing edge of my train caught fire and flames consumed the curtains and began eating their way toward me, made me Kipling’s rogue tiger zigzagging into the night, enemies in close pursuit. Back there in the yard echoed a chorus of screams as the top of the house bloomed red and orange and the hillbillies swarmed after me, small arms popping and cracking and it was just like the war all over again.

  The fox hunt lasted half the night. I blundered through the woods while the enemy gave chase, and it was an eerie, eerie several hours as Dan Blackwood’s pipe and his cousins’ fiddle and banjo continued to play and they drove me through briar and marsh and barbwire fence until I stumbled across a lonely dirt road and stole a farm truck from behind a barn and roared out of the Hollow, skin intact. Didn’t slow down until the sun crept over the horizon and I’d reached the Seattle city limits. The world tottered and fell on my head and I coasted through a guardrail and came to a grinding halt in a field, grass scraping against the metal of the cab like a thousand fingernails. It got hazy after that.

  * * *

  Dick sat by my bedside for three days. He handed me a bottle of whiskey when I opened my eyes. I expressed surprise to find him among the living, convinced as I’d been that he and Bly got bopped and dumped in a shallow grave. Turned out Bly had snuck off with some patrician’s wife and had a hump in the bushes while Dick accidentally nodded off under a tree. Everything was burning and Armageddon was in full swing when they came to, so they rendezvoused and did the smart thing—sneaked away with tails between legs.

  Good news was, Mr. Arden wanted us back in Olympia soonest; he’d gotten into a dispute with a gangster in Portland. Seemed that all was forgiven in regard to my rubbing out the Long and the Short. The boss needed every gun in his army.

  Neither Dick nor the docs ever mentioned the severed hand in my pocket. It was missing when I retrieved my clothes and I decided to let the matter drop. I returned to Olympia and had a warm chat with Mr. Arden and everything was peaches and cream. The boss didn’t even ask about Vernon. Ha!

  He sent me and a few of the boys to Portland with a message for his competition. I bought a brand spanking new Chicago-typewriter for the occasion. I also stopped by the Broadsword where the manager, after a little physical persuasion, told me that Helios Augustus had skipped town days prior on the Starlight Express, headed to California, if not points beyond. Yeah, well, revenge and cold dishes, and so forth. Meanwhile, I’d probably avoid motion pictures and stick to light reading.

  During the ride to Portland, I sat in back and watched the farms and fields roll past and thought of returning to Ransom Hollow with troops and paying tribute to the crones and the Blackwood Boys; fantasized of torching the entire valley and its miserable settlements. Of course, Mr. Arden would never sanction such a drastic engagement. That’s when I got to thinking that maybe, just maybe I wasn’t my father’s son, maybe I wanted more than a long leash and a pat on the head. Maybe the leash would feel better in my fist. I chuckled and stroked the Thompson lying across my knees.

  “Johnny?” Dick said when he glimpsed my smile in the rearview.

  I winked at him and pulled my Homburg down low over my eyes and had a sweet dream as we approached Portland in a black cloud like angels of death.

  •

  Acknowledgments

  My sincere thanks to those who offered assistance, contacts, story suggestions, and advice (both heeded and unheeded) as I assembled this anthology, particularly John Joseph Adams, Matthew Carpenter, Scott Connors, Daniel Corrick, Richard Curtis, Ellen Datlow, Mike Davis, Vanyel Harkema, Ron Hilger, Dot Lumley, Kay McCauley, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Merilee Heifetz, Sarah Nagel, Cameron Pierce, Pete Rawlik, Martin Roberts, Jaynie Rodriguez, Jonathan Strahan, Allison Stumpf, Pam Valvera, Gordon van Gelder, Jim Wagner, Jerad Walters, and everybody involved in the H. P. Lovecraft Film Festival in Portland, OR. Apologies to anyone I might have forgotten.

  Thanks to the entire Night Shade team: Jason Williams, for buying the book; Jeremy Lassen, for agreeing that it was a good idea; Amy Popovich, for mad layout skills and wrangling talents; Dave Palumbo, for art direction and the myriad cover options; Tomra Palmer, for marketing expertise, and Liz Upson, for promoting the hell out of it. Thanks as well to Shannon Page for her eagle-eyed copyediting, Mobius9 for the breathtaking cover art, and Claudia Noble for her outstanding design.

  Thanks to you, the reader, and aficionados of weird ficiton everywhere. Thanks to all who helped #FeedCthulhu. Let’s do it again this year.

  Special thanks to my wife, Jennifer, for keeping me sane in a maddening, carnivorous universe, and for continuing to put up with my proclivity for keeping my nose in books.

  Copyright Acknowledgments

  “Hand of Glory” © 2012 Laird Barron. Original to this anthology.

  “Boojum” © 2008 Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette. Originally published in Fast Ships, Black Sails. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

  “The God of Dark Laughter” © 2001 Michael Chabon. Originally published in The New Yorker, April 9, 2001. Reprinted by arrangement with Mary Evans Inc.

  “This is How the World Ends” © 2010 John R. Fultz. Originally published in Cthulhu’s Reign. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar” © 1998 Neil Gaiman. Originally published in The Mammoth Book of Comic Fantasy. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Once More, from the Top” © 2001 A. Scott Glancy. Originally published in Delta Green: Dark Theatres. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Rapture of the Deep” © 2009 Cody Goodfellow. Originally published in Dark Discoveries #15, Fall 2009. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Black Hill” © 2010 Orrin Grey. Originally published in Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Nor the Demons Down Under the Sea” © 2003 Caitlín R. Kiernan. Originally published in The Children of Cthulhu: Chilling New Tales Inspired by H. P. Lovecraft. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Terror from the Depths” © 1976 Fritz Leiber. Originally published in The Disciples of Cthulhu. Reprinted by permission of the author’s literary estate.

  “Take Your Daughters to Work” © 2007 Livia Llewellyn. Originally published in Subterranean, Issue #6. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Big Fish” © 1993 Kim Newman. Originally published in Interzone #76, October 1993. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Hands that Reek and Smoke” © 2008 W. H. Pugmire. Originally published in Sesqua Valley & Other Haunts. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “I Only Am Escaped Alone to Tell Thee” © 2012 Christopher Reynaga. Original to this anthology.

  “A Gentleman from Mexico” © 2007 Mark Samuels. Originally appeared in Summer Chills: Tales of Vacation Horror. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Black Brat of Dunwich” © 1997 Stanley C. Sargent. Originally appeared in Cthulhu Codex #10: Eastertide 1997. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Objects from the Gilman-Waite Collection” © 2003 Ann K. Schwader. Originally published in Strange Stars & Alien Shadows: The Dark Fiction of Ann K. Schwader. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Of Melei,
of Ulthar” © 2009 Gord Sellar. Originally published in Clarkesworld Magazine, October 2009. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Ocean and All Its Devices” © 1994 William Browning Spencer. Originally appeared in Borderlands 4. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Hour of the Tortoise” © 2012 Molly Tanzer. Original to this anthology.

  “The Drowning at Lake Henpin” © 2012 Paul Tobin. Original to this anthology.

  “Sticks” © 1974 Karl Edward Wagner. Originally published in Whispers #3, March 1974. Reprinted by permission of the Karl Edward Wagner Literary Group.

  “Akropolis” © 2007 Matt Wallace. Originally published at Pseudopod #47, July 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Nyarlathotep Event” © 2011 Jonathan Wood. Originally published at Wired.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  About the Editor

  Ross E. Lockhart is the managing editor of Night Shade Books. A lifelong fan of supernatural, fantastic, speculative, and weird fiction, he holds degrees in English from Sonoma State University (BA) and San Francisco State University (MA). In 2011, he edited the acclaimed anthology The Book of Cthulhu. His rock-and-roll novel, Chick Bassist, is forthcoming from Lazy Fascist Press. He lives in an old church in Petaluma, California, with his wife Jennifer, hundreds of books, and Elinor, who is fitting in nicely.

  Find out more about The Book of Cthulhu at www.thebookofcthulhu.com

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