Stairway to Hell

by CW Hawes

  “Promise,” Zink replied.

  Behind them they could hear the dull patter of feet. The enemy was in pursuit.

  Beames stumbled, and Kemper caught her before she fell.

  “God, I don’t think I can make it,” the ethnologist panted.

  “Think of Patty or Eliza. You don’t want that.”

  “No. I don’t.” From somewhere inside her, came additional resolve and she and Kemper ran on, following the others. At last the group burst into the chamber where they’d fought the K’n-yanians and been captured.

  “Go on,” Mostyn yelled to the others. He swept the chamber with his helmet-mounted flashlight. And that’s when he spotted the computer assembly sitting on top of a box where the pedestal and statue of Cthulhu had been. He looked across to the opposite alcove and saw that the statue of Shub-Niggurath was no longer there, either, and in its place was another computer.

  “God bless you, Doctor Bardon,” Mostyn murmured, and followed his people up the tunnel.

  He caught up with Jones, who, for all his hulking strength, was obviously tired. They were met by H’tha-dub, who’d dropped back from the others.

  “I will take this man.” She pointed to Zink.

  “Thank you, H’tha-dub,” Mostyn said.

  She and Zink disappeared.

  Jones looked at Mostyn. “So you were really doing her?”

  “Shut up, Jones.”

  The junior agent burst out laughing. “Well, I’ll be damned. Mister Up-Tight—”

  “Enough. Let’s go. They’re coming, and Bardon has a surprise for them. One we don’t want to be around to share.”

  They ran as fast as their legs could carry them. They’d managed to put some eight hundred feet between them and the chamber, when the blast occurred. The concussive force knocked them down and pelted them with dust and stones.

  “Shit,” Jones groaned. “Wish to hell he would have warned us.”

  “On that, I agree,” Mostyn replied, and slowly sat up. “God, my ears.”

  “Yeah,” Jones agreed. “A frickin’ bell choir’s in my head.”

  They stood and continued trotting up the passage. At the bottom of the stairway, they met Kemper, Beames, and Baker.

  “Where’s your wife and Zink?” Kemper asked.

  “She’s not my wife, and she took Zink on ahead,” Mostyn replied.

  “I hope she teaches me how to do that,” Kemper said.

  “Beam me up, Scotty.” Jones chuckled, and he and Kemper bumped fists.

  “Bardon blew the tunnel; we shouldn’t have anymore problems.”

  Slowly, they climbed the stairs. About halfway up, they met H’tha-dub and Zink. Beames was the first to notice.

  “Where’s the arrow?” she asked, pointing at Zink’s leg.

  In Spanish, H’tha-dub said, “I dematerialized it and then rematerialized his flesh together.”

  “Oh, my God,” Beames said in English, and then explained what the K’n-yanian had done.

  Kemper’s eyes were big and round. “She just obsoleted surgery.”

  Behind them, the air shimmered. Mostyn yelled, “Enemy!” And eight beings materialized, two K’n-yanians, and six y’m-bhi — the mutilated forms of their former comrades.

  Jones, Mostyn, and Kemper fired their weapons and the two K’n-yanians perished in a hail of lead. Then the y’m-bhi were upon them.

  The torches having gone out some time ago, it was now brutal hand-to-hand combat with the live-dead.

  Slowly Mostyn and his people climbed the stairs, fighting off the reanimated dead every step of the way. Mostyn fired his pistol into the once pretty face of Patty Gibson, until her head was a shattered mess. Her snake-like body continued to undulate towards them until H’tha-dub dematerialized it away.

  Jones fired the machine gun until it was empty. The pieces of what was once Eliza Pettigrew continued to hop, roll, and crawl after them.

  H’tha-dub dematerialized the thing that was nothing more than two legs and two arms attached together and re-materialized it inside the stone wall. She did the same to the thing that was Evan Tanner’s head and hands.

  Using a sword Mostyn cut off the arms of what might have been Philip Grundseth, before H’tha-dub dematerialized it and rematerialized it inside the stone ceiling.

  While H’tha-dub finished dematerializing the hacked up pieces, they sat on the steps catching their breath. A squad of OUP Special Forces arrived.

  “About time you bastards showed up,” Kemper spat out.

  22

  Mostyn sat in Doctor Bardon’s office. The director of the Office of Unidentified Phenomena sat behind his large and heavy black walnut desk puffing gently on his pipe. For some time neither one said anything. The one who broke the silence, at last, was Bardon.

  “No, Pierce, I am not going to accept your resignation.” The director’s tone was avuncular, almost fatherly. He went on, “For your information, I’m not accepting Doctor Kemper’s either.”

  “She resigned?”

  “Tried to. Just because you two had a misunderstanding is no reason why I should lose my best operative or scientist. We have important work to do here, Pierce. I don’t have to tell you that, now, do I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Enough of this nonsense. Come. Join me in a glass of port?”

  Mostyn didn’t care for port, but when it came to port no one said “no” to Bardon.

  The director walked over to the sideboard that was now between the statues of Cthulhu and Shub-Niggurath.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir.” Although, if Mostyn were honest, he’d question why anyone would want such ghastly portrayals of evil around. Then, again, he wasn’t Bardon, and the professor had a taste for such things.

  The director poured out two glasses of port, sat in the dark chocolate leather chair next to Mostyn, and handed a glass to him.

  The director took a sip. “She asks about you, you know.”

  “Who? H’tha-dub?”

  Bardon grunted an affirmative. “You should see her. It would help her to acclimate.”

  “She’ll see me?”

  “Of course, my boy. She’s in love with you. Ah, to be young again and have two beautiful women smitten by Cupid.”

  Somehow Mostyn couldn’t imagine Bardon with a woman. He seemed married to his books.

  Bardon sipped wine and continued his musing. “I suppose at some point you’ll have to choose.”

  “Choose, sir?”

  “My boy, have you heard anything I’ve said?”

  “I thought so, sir. You mean make a choice between Dotty and H’tha-dub?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dotty’s done with me. She cleared her stuff out of my place.”

  “Oh, pshaw! My boy, she’s just hurt. She’s a normal, red-blooded American woman. Thinks she’s all independent. Bah. She loves you. Just be patient. Before you know it, she’ll be moving all her stuff back to where it was before in your place.”

  “How can you know that, sir?”

  Bardon looked over the top of his glasses at Mostyn. “You are asking me that? You should know better, my boy.”

  The director sipped his wine, and Mostyn thought back to Dotty’s comment about Bardon’s voodoo being greater than God’s omniscience.

  Mostyn drank wine. “I hope you’re right, sir.”

  “Don’t worry, my boy. In the meantime, I think you should see H’tha-dub. Oh, incidentally, she’s decided to take the name Helene Dubreuil.”

  “I see.”

  “We have paperwork being drawn up so she’s an official person. Do see her.”

  “I will, sir.” Mostyn finished his port in one gulp.

  “The bodies of the two K’n-yanians were autopsied. Aside from larger brains, they’re no different than you or I. I do regret we could not get more of the y’m-bhi. Fascinating. Simply fascinating.” Bardon finished his glass of wine. “I hope Doctor Slezak is happy. She’s a fine linguist. I’ll mis
s her.” Bardon got up and sat in his chair behind his desk.

  “Sir, may I ask what you brought in to fight the K’n-yanians?”

  “Wasn’t enough. We installed some remote cameras to observe the field. You can imagine my surprise when they dematerialized that Class Six inter-dimensional droggaught. Thank God they’re xenophobic. I don’t think they’ll be unsealing that tunnel.”

  “Probably not, sir. What about Obermaier and Bessemer Corporation?”

  “They’ve closed up shop and moved their operation. Obermaier wasn’t happy about it, but after he saw the video of what he was sitting on, he decided it was in everyone’s best interests.”

  “A big bother, but certainly best.”

  “Now, my boy, you go see Helene Dubreuil and make up with her. She’s going to be a tremendous asset. I’ll have Agent Hollins take you to where we’re keeping her for the time being.”

  He pressed a button on his desk and when Evelyn, his secretary, answered, told her to get Agent Hollins.

  “You did a fine service for your country, Mostyn, in bringing us that wonderful young…” Bardon laughed. “Well, I guess she isn’t exactly young at that, is she?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Tremendous asset, then. Thank you for bringing her to us.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Agent Hollins appeared. Mostyn stood.

  “Thank you, again.” Bardon said.

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Mostyn, though, didn’t feel good about any of it. He followed Hollins down the hall and out to a car. Betraying Dotty and deceiving H’tha-dub… He sighed. He’d done it to get his people home. And they were home. In that, he’d accomplished his mission. He’d done his duty. Except for Slezak, but her choice was her choice.

  As Mostyn was getting in the car, he murmured, “I hope she’s happy.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Hollins asked.

  “Nothing, Hollins. Nothing at all.”

  Epilogue

  High above the amphitheater a tiny drone sat anchored to the rock ceiling, its camera focused on the proceedings below. Miles above the chamber, on the surface of planet earth, and three states away, Doctor Rafe Bardon watched on the large screen the scene playing out far, far underground. With him was Helene Dubreuil. The camera zoomed in to focus on a woman tied to the table. The woman who was the attention of three men.

  “That’s B’ya-lub, the one who seduced Special Agent Jones in order to spy on him,” Helene informed Bardon.

  “She’s speaking,” Bardon said.

  “Yes. We often do when under pressure or tremendous excitement.”

  “Are you able to read her lips?” he asked.

  “Yes. She’s begging them to have mercy. She’s saying, ‘I did as you asked.’ ”

  They watched as the tongue was cut out of her mouth and set aside. The camera shifted and focused on the table next to her. There, similarly secured, was Candy Slezak.

  “She’s not speaking English,” Bardon said.

  “No,” Helene affirmed. “It’s K’n-yanian. She’s saying, ‘Why are you doing this? I want to be like you! I’m not one of them! Please! Don’t! Let me be one of you!’ ”

  Filling the screen was the torturer’s back, and then moments later he was holding Slezak’s head by the hair. Her mouth still forming the words, “I’m not one of them!”

  Pierce Mostyn’s Adventures

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  Author’s Note

  If you’ve gotten this far, I’m assuming you’ve read through Stairway to Hell. I hope you enjoyed reading the book as much as I did writing it. And if you did, please consider leaving a review. It’s free advertising for authors. And we appreciate it very much.

  If you want to get in on more investigations, then please stay in touch! Join my VIP Readers Group for monthly updates on progress and news of future publications. And because conversation is a two-way street, I answer all my email. CLICK OR TAP HERE TO JOIN!

  I’ll also send you a copy of “The Feeder”: an exclusive Pierce Mostyn short story. It’s only for members of my VIP Readers Group.

  Maybe you aren’t too keen on email. I’m also on Facebook. Like and follow my page for updates. You can do so RIGHT HERE. You can also message me on Facebook.

  Irrational fears. Monsters under the bed or in the closet. The fear of the dark. The bump in the night. Or are these fears irrational?

  Fear is one of our most primal emotions. It’s a protective mechanism. It’s designed to keep us alive.

  Horror literature. Tales of terror. Weird fiction. Stories of the macabre. Fairy tales. Whatever we call them, these warnings of the dark things, of the unknown, have been with us from the beginning. They are what parents told their children for millennia to curb unhealthy desires to venture too far from home. Unhealthy desires to change the status quo. Because home and the status quo is what is known — and the known is what’s safe.

  I’ve always been drawn to horror literature. Not the hacker/slasher type. The slow burn, psychological tale that creeps up on you and leaves you feeling very uneasy — that leaves you once again afraid of the dark. Those classic tales of Poe, Victorian ghost stories, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery”, Saki’s “Sredni Vashtar”, Howard’s “Pigeons from Hell”, and Lovecraft’s “Colour out of Space”.

  Or TV shows such as The Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, Night Gallery, The X-Files, Dark Shadows, and Stranger Things. Shows that make you turn on the lights.

  The Pierce Mostyn Paranormal Investigation series came about as I wondered what a blend of The X-Files and Stranger Things and the Cthulhu Mythos would look like, with an added dash of Charles Stross’s humor. I hope you’ve enjoyed my experiment.

  Thank you for reading. I hope to see you on the other side. I’ll keep the light on for you. After all we don’t like the dark, do we?

  CW Hawes

  Other Books by CW Hawes

  I’m a multi-genre author because I’m a multi-genre reader. You can check out my other books on my website’s My Books Page.

  Copyright © 2018 CW Hawes. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author. All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Dedication

  In memory of my friend and mentor, John J “Jack” Koblas, who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.

  Acknowledgements

  No book is ever a solo project. There are all the folks who wrote the material an author draws upon for research. There are all the writers who are currently writing and who came before that the author has read. There are also all those who help on the technical end of things.

  To name everyone who has helped me in the production of my books would be an impossible task. Consequently, for this book, I’m going to single out a few folks who helped make this book possible.

  I want to thank Crispian Thurlborn for his kind words of encouragement. Encouragement is a powerful force.

  Thanks also goes to Ben Willoughby for his great cover.

  Many thanks go to my beta readers who provided valuable input to make the story better. They were my sister, Jodi; my daughter, Susannah; Ben Willoughby; and Andy Decker.

  A special acknowledgement must also go to HP Lovecraft, who’s imagination and writing got the ball rolling in the first place.

 

 

 
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