Atomic-Age Cthulhu: Tales of Mythos Terror in the 1950s

by Robert Price

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. But something still bothered Mirabel. Perhaps they weren’t being smart about this. She looked hard at the girl—beaten, bloodied, and so close to looking like one of her own kind. Ginny also looked much closer to her doll, sitting above her in silence—only one button eye, and a hand torn away. She held Ginny’s hand in her own, giving it a light squeeze to comfort the girl.

  “Do you think she could draw?” she asked Carl.

  “Not very well. She’s just a kid.”

  “No, I mean to communicate.”

  Carl looked at the girl. It took a second for realization to dawn on his face. “We should take her fingers, shouldn’t we?”

  “Let’s remove her whole right hand,” Mirabel said.

  Ginny screamed anew, a warbling, gurgling sound now without her tongue.

  Mirabel swelled with pride. She sounds like one of us. We’re almost there.

  YELLOW IS THE COLOR OF THE FUTURE

  BY JASON ANDREW

  And remember, my friends, future events such as these will affect you in the future!

  — Criswell narrating for Plan 9 from Outer Space

  Sickly yellow light washed through the chain-linked gate casting long spider web shadows over the lot. Ed cupped the rusty padlock in his hand, and awkwardly poked the borrowed key into the slot. He jiggled it until it finally opened smooth as sandpaper. He glanced back through the headlights to his friends waiting in the pearl-white 1955 Chevy Convertible.

  The driver, a thin man with dark hair, groaned then honked the horn wearily. “It’s almost midnight, Ed! Can’t we save the showmanship for later? I gotta work a double-shift tomorrow!”

  “There’s always time for a bit of showmanship, Pauly!” Ed wrapped the chain around his hand then bowed as though suddenly caught in a spotlight on stage. With a grand flourish, he jerked the chain as though he were a magician pulling a white table cloth out from under a full dining set. He flashed his patented Wood smile known for dazzling friends, actors, and debt collectors alike. The gates slowly swung open anticlimactically with a loud creak. “Destiny awaits us, friends!”

  “Bravo! Bravo!” The gray-haired gentleman in the backseat of the Convertible stood and clapped loudly. “Quite right, Edward. Quite right! Never let the soulless minions of banality deter you from eloquence.”

  Paul rolled his eyes and reluctantly clapped. “The great and powerful Bunny Breckinridge doesn’t deign to rise from his bed until well past noon. I’m a working stiff.”

  “Pauly, the world can be a wonderful exotic and beautifully bizarre place if you know just how to look at it.” Ed opened the side door of the Convertible, slid into the passenger seat, and gestured forward. “We have the opportunity of a lifetime here. Let’s not diminish that by focusing too much on the details and lost sleep. Kelton the Cop managed to survive the Bride of the Monster and Plan 9 from Outer Space. I promise that he shall appear on the big screen once more!”

  The mention of his most notable screen role, such as it was, brought a much needed dose of cheer to Paul. “You really think that there’s going to be undiscovered treasures here just lying around an old studio warehouse?”

  Bunny sat back in his seat, adjusted his cravat, and nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, the studios hoard uncanny stores of costumes, props, and even old scripts. When I performed the Scottish play a few years ago with Rock Hudson, we scavenged a number of sets and prop swords from Ivanhoe. Incidentally, that’s also how James Whale furnished the laboratory set for Frankenstein.”

  Ed grinned as wide as a kid waiting to sit on Santa’s lap. He loved listening to Bunny’s stories of the glory days of Hollywood, especially when said tales included a healthy sprinkle of sordid details. “Whale stole that set?”

  “He found the Tesla coils from one of the lost studio warehouses,” Bunny explained with great flare. “The rumor is that he found a number of broken sets from a proposed remake of Metropolis. No one knows exactly where the instruments came from. Records for such things aren’t always well kept as you know.”

  “We don’t even have a script for our next movie,” Paul complained. He started the Convertible then drove through the vacant parking area to the freight entrance of the warehouse. “How will we even know what we’re looking for?”

  Ed laughed confidently. “Why don’t you see? That’s the perfect time to start looking for props. We can’t afford a big studio budget, but what we do have is limitless imagination and vision. We’ll look for things that might appear visually interesting on camera and I’ll write a script around it. It’ll save us a ton of money budget-wise without sacrificing a penny on the screen.”

  “If this is all perfectly legal, then why do we have to come here at night?” Paul complained.

  Ed waved away his friend’s valid concerns. It wouldn’t be the first time that they had engaged in a freelance guerilla film production. “We’re just getting the jump on the rest of the bargain-hunters tomorrow morning. I had to hand over one of my last autographed Bela as Dracula posters for the privilege so let’s make the most of it. I’m not going to lie to you, times are hard all around. And if this doesn’t work out, I might have to go back to making teenage delinquent movies.”

  “Perish the thought!” Bunny reached over and patted Ed on the arm gently. His friend always reminded Ed of a cat just dignified enough to treat you well, but haughty enough to still remain aloof and mysterious. “I’m sure Bela would have wanted it that way. In a way, he’s still making movies with us.”

  The warehouse stank of mold, dank fabric, and rotted wood. Years of neglect combined with a broken window and damaged roof ruined much of the western wing of the warehouse. Ed now understood why his friend had given him such a good deal for the Bela poster, but he had a good feeling about this place and refused to let the obvious flaw in the bargain drain his enthusiasm. He found himself lost amongst the stacks of crates and only found Paul by his continual sneezes.

  Ed jabbed the crowbar just under the lid of the wooden crate, coughing from the dust and the mold. He used the leverage of his body to pry it open. It finally popped open like a Champaign cork. He flipped it open, careful to avoid the nails, and fished through the straw until his hand felt coarse fabric. He produced a set of dark robes with a long hood and presented it to Bunny Breckinridge. “This is the second crate I’ve found with these creepy robes. I’m thinking this would be perfect for some sort of evil cult. They would go perfect with that crazy box of curved daggers we found.”

  Bunny turned from the crate he was exploring and reached over to feel the fabric. “This is pure wool, Edward. It’ll be quite warm under studio lights, but perfect for an outdoor shoot. I wonder what production company paid for such quality.”

  Ed shrugged, not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it did have wobbly legs. “The manifest for all of these crates mentioned someplace called Innsmouth. I’ve never heard of it, but it looks like the whole lot was bought at a government surplus auction. I’ll mark this crate and we can claim it later.”

  Paul sniffed and peaked over the wall of crates. “What would the government be doing with creepy cult robes and leather books filled with old yellow news clippings?”

  “What sort of news clippings?” Ed asked.

  Paul lifted his hand revealing a leather-bound folder over the crates. “I can’t read them. I think they might be in French.”

  Ed took it and started glancing through the pages. He couldn’t read the text, but Paul’s guess seemed spot on. He recognized the structure of the language, a few cognates, and the word Paris that appeared in almost every article. There were a number of old theater ads featuring a golden crown on top of a horrific death mask. Were these Parisian Theater reviews? “We might be able to use this as a prop of some sort.”

  Bunny tilted his head sardonically and wiped his brow. “May I?”

  “You read French, Bunny?” Paul asked.

  “I was born in Paris. She has forever left her mark u
pon my soul.” Ed passed the folder to Bunny, who immediately started skimming the articles. His friend might have stopped performing Shakespeare on a regular basis, but you would never know by listening to him. “Why these are clippings of Le Canard Enchaîné; one the best Parisian newspapers still in print! I used to read these pages as a child.” His voice grew somber, quiet as the grave. “Oh yes, I remember hearing stories about this. Very tragic!”

  “About what?” Paul asked, his curiosity peaked.

  “Murder most foul!” Bunny explained with his usual flare. “These articles detail a horrible massacre that occurred during the performance of a play in the ‘20s, just after the war. When I danced the burlesque in my youth, we used to drink absinthe after hours and frighten each other with stories about this play.”

  “What play?” Ed asked, imagining the free publicity such a ghoulish backstory could generate for even the tired Hollywood rags. “Have I heard of it?”

  “Doubtful. Le Roi en Jeune it was called. The King in Yellow. It was written by a man named Castaigne. They say he gouged his own eyes out after writing it.” Bunny glanced through the pages a bit more. “The King in Yellow was only performed the once and then it was banned forever. All of the copies were burned in a public bonfire.” Bunny held the book tightly to his chest and then spoke barely above a whisper. “They say the entire audience went mad and killed each other. Tore the flesh from their bodies with their bare fingers and teeth. This article says that there was a strange poison in the grain of the meal before the show that caused hallucinations. The director was hanged. None of the actors were ever found.”

  “Why haven’t I heard of this play?” Ed asked credulously. “You’d think that there would already be a movie starring Bela or Karloff.”

  “Alas, it was lost. There is only one mention of it at the Revue Biblique in Paris. It is only a legend whispered amongst actors in the theater. It would be a miracle to discover a lost copy of the play akin to the discovery of a new Shakespeare play.”

  Ed shook his head wistfully. “Too bad! We’d rake in the cash with a ghoulish tale like this for the publicity. We couldn’t keep the teens away with a cattle prod and a ten foot fence.”

  Paul tilted his head and then ducked down amongst the crates and produced a thick leather-bound book with golden-yellow lettering that read Le Roi en Jeune over an arcane looking sigil pressed in the center of the cover. “You mean like this?”

  Ed’s eyes widened as he accepted the book gingerly. It had a solid weight to it and more importantly the skin of the leather cover looked downright creepy as though it had been bound with human skin. It would look amazing on screen with the proper angle. Ed could almost believe that he was holding the sacred tome of the devil himself.

  He studied the strange yellow sign; it looked to be three interlocked spirals that resembled a horrible tentacled creature. Strange, he hadn’t felt so shaky since the Battle of Guadalcanal. He pressed his fingers against the flesh of his arm and wished desperately that he felt the soft comfort of his angora sweater. Ed shook his head, feeling silly. “That couldn’t be what I think it is, could it?”

  “Le Roi en Jeune! The King in Yellow. Could this be a surviving manuscript of that play?” Bunny snatched it greedily and flipped open the thick tome and started scanning the page. “Let me see if I can translate any of this. Strange is the night where black stars rise, but stranger still is lost Carcosa.”

  “It sounds almost Shakespearean,” Paul retorted skeptically.

  “Yes, yes, but we can clean up the language a little, if Bunny will help translate!” Ed interjected.

  “Surely you don’t mean to film this play?” Bunny asked. “What about the alleged fate of the first audience?”

  “You said it yourself that it was likely dangerous hallucinogens. Why I once saw a grown man try to eat his own hand once after smoking some reefer.” Ed turned his hands into an imaginary screen and held it before him with rapt reverence. “Imagine it! The King in Yellow; an Ed Wood Jr. production. See the major motion picture based on a play so insidious that an entire French audience committed mass suicide after watching it.”

  “What about the censors?” Bunny asked concerned.

  “Why we’ll rewrite it with an anti-communist slant,” Ed explained. “They love that stuff!”

  “Won’t it be hard to film yellow in black and white?” Paul asked, scratching his head. “I mean the title suggests that there’s a lot of yellow in the play. Isn’t that hard to see on the screen?”

  “We’ll use special lighting and sepia tinting to give off that eerie yellow perfect for the movie.” Ed snapped his fingers at the thought of it. “The process is actually very cheap these days since most movies have turned to Technicolor. Will you do it Bunny? Will you help me translate it?”

  Bunny barely glanced up from the page. When he finally spoke, it was slow and stilted as though he was forced to wake from a splendid dream. “Yes. These words must be heard by the public.”

  Ed smoothed his mustache and then smiled. “Looks like you were worried for nothing, Paul. If you have the right attitude, fate just has a way of making sure everything works out in the end.”

  “Song of my soul, my voice is dead.” Bunny paused a moment letting the words germinate as he scanned the page for the next line. The overhead lamp illuminated his head as though Bunny was crowned with a golden halo. “Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed shall dry and die in lost Carcosa.”

  Ed typed furiously, listening to the words of the play dreaming of this lost city of ancient gods. Later he would run through rewrites as needed, but for the moment he wanted to experience the chilling vibe of the play. “That’s just swell Bunny! Can you give me a moment to catch-up?”

  Bunny wiped his brow with his handkerchief and glanced around the director’s makeshift office. He seemed paler than normal like he had not slept in nights. “The words seem to haunt me even when I close the book, Edward.”

  “Imagine how it will go on-screen, Bunny. Why this could be the part you’ll be remembered for!” Ed stopped typing just a moment and gestured to the Technicolor Dracula poster that hung over his writing desk like an altar. “You could be as famous as Bela after this.”

  Bunny closed the manuscript with a loud thump and reluctantly set it next to Ed. “I think I am spent for tonight. I’ve given some thought as to the costume for the role of the King in Yellow. Tattered golden lamé fabric! It will glitter on the screen!”

  “Bunny Breckinridge, you are playing a legendary god-king of an ancient city with unfathomable secrets and pleasures both subtle and gross. You can’t play the King in Yellow in golden lamé fabric. Show some taste!”

  Bunny huffed and then closed his eyes, holding his face in his hands. “You’re right, of course. I’m just so tired.”

  “Do you want to take a snooze on the couch?” Ed asked concerned. “Kathy won’t mind. She adores you.”

  “Perhaps just a nap to collect my strength.” Bunny loosened his cravat then flopped backwards on the comfortable couch. “I’ve never had a role burrow into my brain before. Perhaps I should take a valium.”

  “Just don’t lose yourself. I need you tomorrow to help convince the Hollywood Shakespeare company to lend us those Julius Caesar columns. With the right lighting and sepia tinting, we can capture the feel of the Carcosa palace throne room and film everything in extended long shots like a play.”

  Bunny waved away Ed’s concerns. “I have given my life’s blood to that company. They will lend us what we need, especially for the chance to play roles in the movie. There’s quite a buzz starting to form in the underground.”

  Ed stopped typing and tilted his head. Never had such a thing been said about one of his movies. “Really?”

  Bunny sniffed and wiped his brow again. Droplets of sweat formed at his gray temples. “They say the play is cursed and that only you would dare to try to film it. Half of them expect you to fail miserably.”

  “And the other half?”
<
br />   “Well, they think you are the only director deranged enough to capture the essence,” Bunny admitted.

  “This is some kooky stuff.” Ed started typing once more. “I had a nightmare about a winged man in tattered robes chasing me last night. Kathy had to shake me to wake me.”

  As if on cue, a blond slim woman with a sweet smile entered the room. Bunny roused himself and politely nodded. “Speak of the horns and the devil appears.”

  Kathy laughed. “I’m not the devil, I hope.”

  Ed stood and kissed his girlfriend. “Only an angel as far as I am concerned.

  “Are you boys going to work late in the office?” Kathy asked. “I could make sandwiches.”

  Ed smoothed his mustache and smiled. “That would be swell, honey. I think we’re making good progress. This script is giving me the willies.” His hands were shaking. Why should they be shaking? “I don’t think I’ve felt such dread in my stomach since the Battle of Guadalcanal.”

  Kathy patted Ed. “How did you handle it then?”

  “I fought every battle with a brassiere and panties under my uniform.” Ed laughed at the memory. “Somehow that soft feeling next to my body gave me the confidence to keep fighting.”

  “Sometimes, my friend, I think whatever gets you through the night is helpful,” Bunny added. “I was a little bit wild when I was young, darling, but I lived my life grandly and didn’t let fear stop me.”

  “Was Paul disappointed that he can’t play Kelton?” Kathy asked, concerned.

  “He was at first, of course.” Ed stood from his desk and then hugged her. She cared deeply about their friends and that was partially why he loved her. “However, I think he warmed up to the idea of playing the lustful Prince Thale seeking the hand of beautiful Princess Camilla to secure the throne of lost Carcosa.”

  Kathy shook her head. “Listening to you two talk about these characters, I imagine that they are real somewhere.”