The Weird Company: The Secret History of H. P. Lovecraft's Twentieth Century

by Pete Rawlik

  I plunged into that hole, hugging to me what gear I could and dragging the rest of it behind me. I used my arms and knees to push myself through, all the time the wind whipping past my face and into whatever gap in my gear it could find. The rocky shards did their best to bruise and break me, but the padding of the jacket afforded some protection. With each movement forward my breathing grew more rapid, my heart beat faster, the wind whipped more ruthlessly, and my desperation grew palpable. Straining against that demonic, freezing wind, I burst from the end of the warren and tumbled into the light beyond.

  I found myself at the base of a mountain, of a mountain range. Behind me the white-crowned peaks stretched up into the sky, grey basaltic things, like inhuman towers that clawed at the sun. Before me was a vast icy plain, white and blue reflecting in the sun. Snow drifted in great waves, stopped and then moved on. The cold was a tangible thing I could feel with my hands as it hung in the air. If I tried, I felt I could almost grasp it, shape it, twist it into any form I desired. The cold tore at my skin and eyes as I struggled to put on a pair of snow goggles and cinch down my hood. As I lowered my head to protect my face, my eyes wandered across the ground at my feet and discovered two thin, parallel scratches in the ice-covered rock, readily recognizable as traces of a sledge similar to the one I left behind in the cavern. The trail began at the cave mouth and went off over a low rise just a few hundred yards away, more evidence that I wasn’t alone in this place. Excited at the possibility of seeing another person, I foolishly dashed down the trail and over the rise.

  I wish that I hadn’t, for on the far side of the hillock I found the sledge, and more, so much more. I ran from that place, ran from the light and the sky and the wind. I crawled back through that tight little hole and pushed my way into the cavern of monstrous penguins. Pulses racing with looming madness, I went through the sledge that remained there and took all that I could use. I slaughtered the birds, even though that was all they were. I felt a tinge of regret, but that faded as I pulled my supplies down the spiral ramp and into the tunnels below. The drums of kerosene rolled easily through the tunnels and from cavern to cavern. The thing that played at being a forest shrieked as I doused it with fuel and set it ablaze. It took hours to make sure that I had destroyed all of the thing, for bits of it kept breaking off and trying to escape. I hunted them all down. The flying, creeping, crawling things flopped angrily within the flames, but they all died.

  The machine-creature went easier. It, too, shrieked against the flames, but it seemed to lack the power to divide itself and thus could not attempt an escape. It roared as the flames charred its titanic bulk. It crashed against the wall, reared up and gouged the ceiling, knocking massive chunks of rock down onto itself. The boulders pinned the beast and left it wailing pitifully. I cackled maniacally as it slowly succumbed, struggling for more than an hour. It died with a violent shudder. As whatever life force that sustained it finally fled, the structure of the thing gave way and the strange matter that comprised it crumbled into a strange pasty jelly which lingered for a while and then suffered some catastrophic change, dissolving into nothingness.

  The creatures trapped in the pits were easiest. They didn’t even scream as I poured the kerosene over them. I don’t think they even noticed. They were too simple to understand what was happening. Even after I set them ablaze they barely reacted. They bubbled in the heat, turned greasy black, then crisped. When I was done, all that remained were a few piles of glossy black ash.

  I rolled the barrel containing the rest of the kerosene back to where it all began, back to the place where I woke up. God help me, I wish I hadn’t! I wish I hadn’t awoken. That I hadn’t wandered through the dark labyrinth. That I hadn’t found my way out. I wish that I hadn’t seen those mountains, nor the madness that I found at their base. Or seen those shapes, those blasphemous shapes frozen in the ice around the sledge.

  I shall finish writing my account, and perhaps then you will understand why I ask you the questions I do. I ask you again, do you know who you are? Because I do not know who I am, and I suspect that neither did any of those who came before me. When I am done, I shall crawl into one of the five pits and I shall pour the last of the fuel over my head and set myself ablaze. A portion of me pauses, and I recall that the Church considers suicide is a sin, but I dismiss such concerns, for I doubt that such rules apply here. Perhaps for me, immolation is a consecration, not a sin.

  The things in the ice, the shapes that lay frozen solid against the sledge, they were what drove me mad. They were men who sat there in the frigid landscape, frozen and unmoving. Men who had succumbed to the elements, four men. Four men like myself, who had escaped from beneath the mountains of madness. Men dressed in what they could salvage from the sledges, and equipped the same way. Men with stubble on their heads, and their faces. Men like me.

  Do you understand me? Look at yourself. Find a mirror, something reflective. Look at yourself. Look hard. Men should have hair on their heads, beards on their faces, eyebrows and lashes. Men should have scars where time has taken its toll on their bodies. Does your body betray the ravages of time? Or is it like mine, like those out in the ice, free of scars and with freshly grown hair? Are you a man, or are you like me? Is your face your own, or is it the same as mine, the same as the four things I left behind in the ice? Men have faces of their own, but I, I and those poor frozen things, we are monsters, and though we are four, we share but one face. God help me, they all had my face!

  CHAPTER 15

  From the Account of Robert Martin Olmstead

  “Weird Questions”

  We sat there in that cavern the three of us, myself, Asenath Waite and the alien Zkauba possessed by the mind of the author and mystic Randolph Carter, wondering what to do next. If Carter was correct, he had discovered our enemy, though their intentions remained unclear, at least to me. For Asenath and Carter things were plain as day, though they differed on some points. That the shoggoths had been trying to imitate members of the Antarctica Expedition, or more precisely one of the members of the expedition, again and again was clear. It was also clear that they had failed. Something in the human psyche had driven their imitations mad with despair. Confronted with the truth of what they were it seemed they preferred death. Yet why the monstrous metamorphs continued to try baffled me. Men were apparently too hard to impersonate, why bother at all?

  Asenath tried to explain. “Shogoths are the most powerful of the tools created by the Progenitors. They are infinitely adaptable, and malleable. They can be used as beasts of burden, menial laborers, manufacturing plants, even chemical and biological laboratories. Some highly specialized shoggoths were used to seed planets with life, engineer entire ecosystems. It’s what the Q’Hrell did, and it’s why they are called the Progenitors. They have travelled the universe colonizing worlds and creating new life, new species, new races. They’ve done it innumerable times, and for billions of years. In that time shoggoths have themselves become myriad and multiform, becoming what would best be described as subspecies: Tsathaqqua’s Formless Spawn, Abhothian spawn, the Dark Young, those of the Green Abyss, even the whistling Flying Polyps are just another type of shoggoth. What’s worse is that many of these creatures evolved into unique entities, gods even. On Earth the Q’Hrell used three specialized shoggoths to seed the planet with life; Abhoth, Ubbo-Sathla and Idh-Yaa. All earthly life comes from these three beings, and their memory, though corrupted, forms the basis for many creation myths and deities including the gnostic Demiurge and the ancient Magna Mater. Like it or not, you and I Mr. Olmstead are the products of these three behemoths. We are their children.”

  “So why should we be afraid of them?”

  It was Carter’s turn to speak, even though it was labored and mediated through the alien mouth of his host. “Without the Progenitors, they can tkrt become uncontrollable, dangerous and monstrously tkrt powerful things. Millions of years ago on Zkauba’s home world tkrt Yaddith, the Progenitors lost control tkrt of a shoggoth
and it became something more than it should tkrt have been. The Progenitors imprisoned tkrt it, locked it away within the tkrt core of the planet where they hoped it would never tkrt be able to free itself, and they would tkrt never have to deal with it again.”

  “What happened to it, the shoggoth I mean?” I asked, knowing what I had read in his notebooks.

  “It took eons, but tkrt eventually her spawn, horrid worm-things known tkrt as Dholes ate their way through the planet, left tkrt it riddled and unstable. It collapsed in on itself, destroying tkrt Zkauba’s species, and freeing Thaqquallah from tkrt her prison. Now she roams the cosmos, free to tkrt visit world after world after world spreading her tkrt dark young where ever she can. Her multi-form children tkrt fester and breed like maggots, corrupting worlds and waiting tkrt for their mother to call out for vengeance.”

  “On Earth,” commented Asenath, “the witch Keziah Mason and her sisters were servants to Thaqqualah whom we call Shub-Niggurath, and spread her spawn throughout the secret places of the world, particularly in the Miskatonic Valley. The people of Arkham like to cast dispersions at those who dwell in Innsmouth and Dunwich and the miscegenation that has occurred there. Truth be told, there is more genetic dirt hidden in the closets of Arkham and Kingsport than in the streets of Innsmouth.”

  I shook my head, “I find that hard to believe.”

  “You should Mr. Olmstead, she’s telling the truth.” The new voice that shattered the tension was one I recognized but never expected to hear again. My shock increased as not one but two figures walked into our midst. That Frank Elwood had returned to us was surprising enough, for despite Asenath’s reassurance, my estimation of his character was not high, but it was not Elwood’s return that shocked me, but rather the second man that stepped out of the darkness. Asenath seemed cowed by the man’s gaze, a man who I myself had seen die, a man who had come back, not as the broken thing who had reluctantly served Asenath, but as an undeniable presence: Doctor Stuart Hartwell, the Reanimator, had returned, and with a vengeance!

  We rose up to great them, but Hartwell ordered us to sit and both Asenath and Carter reluctantly complied, though not without questions. “It is a pleasure to see you again Doctor, and you as well Mr. Elwood.”

  Doctor Hartwell looked over at the damaged and exposed thing that was Randolph Carter, the tatters of its Chandraputra disguise still clinging to it in places. The doctor shook his head in disappointment. “I see you’ve damaged your mask and robes again.”

  The casual comment caught my attention. “Wait, you knew? All this time you knew what he was?” Hartwell nodded. “What about you Elwood, surely you didn’t know?”

  Elwood shrugged. “I’ve known since the first time I saw him. His geometries are all wrong. I thought you already knew.”

  Asenath rose up and put a hand on my shoulder, gently suggesting I return to my seat. “However did you both manage to survive?” She asked with sarcasm in her voice.

  Asenath’s question was greeted with an uncomfortable pause, and when it was obvious that Hartwell did not wish to speak, Elwood took the lead. “When I saw the hounds appear in the car and begin to attack, I panicked and instinctively stepped outside. That was a grave error. The ship was already in the in-between and I found myself traveling in a reality I was wholly unfamiliar with, not a passage between places, but rather a passage through time. I could see the hounds plunging through space in a series of slow moving frames, like shadows in a flickering light. I could see what was happening to Hartwell, what would happen and what had happened in a kind of non-linear madness of echoes of what had been and what could be. When the event stabilized, when I could see Hartwell as he was just before the hounds attacked, I threw myself at him and the two of us plunged into the time stream, the great flow rushing around us as we struggled against it.”

  “But we saw him torn to pieces,” I protested.

  “As did I, but that was only one possible future, and when I back stepped through time I changed all that. I changed the future, something the hounds did not take kindly to. They howled in anger over my interference and bounded after us jaws agape, eyes thirsting for our flesh, or whatever. I’m not sure what it is that the hounds eat, but it is not flesh or blood. Perhaps it is some kind of intrinsic personal time, something bound up inside us that we don’t understand. Not that it matters. To escape the hounds I opened a door and with Hartwell still in my arms I once more sidestepped out of harm’s way.

  “We emerged in the midst of a raging windstorm here, deep in the interior of Antarctica. I had no coat and no materials that could possibly be used to construct shelter or a fire. In my arms I felt Hartwell shudder and he let loose a weak and pitiful moan. If we were both going to survive, we needed shelter, warmth and a place to heal. All three seemed unattainable in the raging cyclone of ice that seemed intent on burying us. Fearing the hounds, but fearing certain death on the ice plains of Antarctica, I gathered Hartwell close and once more crossed over into the in-between. The hounds thankfully were gone, the weird dimensions around me were wholly empty and bleak, but I could see that was only a local condition. In the distance was a vast eerie complex of towers and structures that seemed older than anything I had ever seen before. Oddly it exuded an almost solid presence in the in-between, solid and relatively warm. Driven, Hartwell and I began the long arduous trek to this remote alien shelter. I needed to focus on something, needed to ground myself in some kind of reality. I tried counting my steps but any concept of rational numbers failed me. Indeed I suspect that at one point I had begun counting in multiples of pi, but in that place such a measurement as that meant nothing.

  “As we neared our destination I returned to the world and I was able to clearly discern the massive pentagonal and star-shaped monoliths of basalt that surrounded us. The great stone city appeared lifeless; no plants clung to its walls, no birds roosted in its heights, no insects crawled amongst its nooks and crannies. Yet as I cautiously hobbled down its ancient passageways I developed the most curious sensation that I was being observed by forces unseen, something invisible even to my enhanced and preternatural senses was watching my every move. The feeling grew as I on occasion began to sense within the vast stone walls and beneath the strangely smooth roadways a deep thrumming hum, as if ancient but idled machineries were suddenly and slowly springing to life. We followed that alien throb as best we could and moved slowly through the labyrinth of sloping passages and pentagonal gates. Down we went through vast chambers of eerie emptiness and undreamt of corridors that no human hand could have carved. Down, always down, and down oddly led to warmth, for as we descended through insanely sloping switchbacks the air around us grew warmer. At first it was hardly noticeable, for the transition from the Antarctic sub-freezing temperatures to merely bitter biting cold was but a minor improvement. Yet with each level we descended the temperature rose and within hours I was startled to see a small pool of water, fetid but clearly not frozen. It was then that I noticed that the climate in the depths had warmed to the point at which we no longer faced the threat of freezing to death. It was at this moment that I also realized that I had long since left the surface, indeed I must be hundreds of feet beneath the earth, far from the nearest pentagonal gate, and yet there was ample light by which to see. My eyes darted across the room and ceiling but I failed to find any trace of a light source. Disturbed but with little choice we continued to follow the ramp down until at last we came to a chamber which was warm enough for us to be comfortable.

  “Once we had recovered from nearly freezing we began to explore our refuge. We found a sledge from the expedition that had some supplies including some food, clothing and other supplies. We used pieces of the sledge itself to fashion some crude weapons. Not far from that we found the bodies of several Elder Things. They had been decapitated. It took us some time, days, but eventually Hartwell learned their secret.”

  Asenath interrupted. “Did you say days?”

  Elwood nodded. “Days, yes. We’ve been here for
two weeks, I think. It’s hard to tell time in this place, but I think we’ve been using our makeshift laboratory to search the city for you for at least ten days.”

  Asenath, Carter and I exchanged looks, but none of us wanted to say anything. Eventually Asenath reluctantly spoke. “We’ve only been here for a few hours.”

  This news seemed to crush Elwood. “When I stepped through time I must have stepped further back than I thought.” He mulled this thought over and opened his mouth to say something, but then apparently thought better of it.

  It was Carter that broke the uncomfortable silence. “Doctor Hartwell, Elwood tkrt said that you had discovered the tkrt secret of the Q’Hrell. What did the tkrt mean by that?

  There was a look of supreme satisfaction on the doctor’s face. “It is an established fact that the Q’Hrell are extremely long lived. It is said that their journeys through space from planet to planet may take millennia. They are extremely resistant to physical injury, and as we have learned can survive even being frozen for what was likely hundreds of thousands of years. The only way to kill them it seems is to decapitate them, to separate the brain from the body.”

  “Isn’t that the same way that your subjects had to be destroyed?” Asenath questioned. “An odd coincidence.”

  The doctor nodded. “Not as much of a coincidence as it would seem, for the issue is rooted in the same cause. My reanimating reagent and the blood of the Q’Hrell are remarkably similar. Indeed it would not surprise me if the serum that flows through their bodies was found to be a superior formulation of my own reagent, capable of accomplishing that which I have been struggling to do for all these years: not only reanimating the dead, but inoculating the living against death itself. I am on the verge of finding the secret to near immortality!”