The effect, he decided, was probably just some weird reflection. A trick of the light.
Still, there was something oddly compelling about that yellow glow. As he stared at it … or rather, into it … he felt a growing sense of serenity. He needed to visit that place, that shining realm of yellow light. How could anything go wrong there, in the heart of that magnificent glow?
He reached into his blazer pocket and brought out an old coin, or perhaps token of some sort. He wasn’t really sure what it was. He’d found it in the pocket of one of his clients at the funeral parlor. Mason had never seen a coin quite like it before … which may explain why he’d slipped it in his own pocket.
The token was crafted from a hard yellow substance with a slight opalescent quality. An ornate black symbol had been etched into it. The symbol looked like a combination of stylized swirls that reminded him of tentacles. Perhaps it was a word spelled out in some foreign alphabet.
The deceased gentleman had been a wealthy Dutch businessman. The old fellow’s body had been covered with odd tattoos – yellow and black symbols, as well as considerable text. It appeared that an entire play had been inked into his flesh. Mason could tell it was a play from the way the performers were identified. He’d tried to read some of it, but the gentleman’s wrinkles and body hair had made that effort problematic. He didn’t know what the play was called: he couldn’t find the title.
He did recall, from what little he’d read of the play, that one of the main characters was Cassilda, an elegant madwoman. There was also some talk of a king draped in yellow tatters – hardly what one would consider royal finery.
Mason carried the token all the time, and whenever he felt worried, he would bring it out and rub it for a minute or two, to calm him.
He wasn’t particularly worried now – he’d come to terms with his fate – but still, he rubbed the token as he stared into the yellow glow on the horizon.
Soon.
Soon he’d be there.
- - -
At the airport, he began his search for the baggage carousel assigned to his flight.
He’d decided on the trip at the last minute, so he hadn’t made hotel reservations. He’d figured that he would find something once he got to Las Vegas. How hard could it be? The city was a tourist mecca, filled with hotels.
Even though the hour was late, he was surprised by how few people he encountered in the spacious hallways of the airport.
At one point, he noticed members of the security team escorting a disheveled homeless woman out of the building. But then, just a few minutes later, he noticed a homeless old man resting on a bench. The man appeared to be fairly settled in: he was surrounded by bags of his belongings. How had this fellow eluded the scrutiny of security officers?
The gaunt old man was wrapped in a torn yellow blanket and wore a stained yellow stocking cap, even though the airport was quite warm.
“Hello, lone traveler!” said the old man. “Can you spare a coin for one who has seen better days?”
“Sorry, no.” Mason never gave money to strangers. It wasn’t his fault if they were down on their luck.
“Are you sure you don’t have a coin for me?” The old man raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps some other small item of value? One that was never really yours?”
Mason shook his head and walked past the man on the bench. He made a point of not looking back.
Once he found the baggage carousel, he claimed his two scuffed blue suitcases. Looking around, he saw an EXIT sign and headed toward it. The bright red letters seemed to be swimming in a faint yellow mist.
As he drew closer, he saw that outside the windows, the night was filled with swirling yellow fog. In Las Vegas...? Maybe desert weather turned strange late at night.
As he stepped outside, he noticed a pale-yellow van marked HALI TRANSPORT, LTD., ready and seemingly waiting for him.
The driver opened the side door and loaded Mason’s suitcases inside. The driver was a tall, gangly man with wet or perhaps greasy hair plastered to his skull. His pale-blue eyes were huge and watery.
“This mist matches your van!” Mason said with a laugh. “Did you bring the mist with you?”
The driver tipped his head to one side. “Is that a joke?”
“It’s not hilarious, but yes.” Mason wasn’t sure what to make of the driver’s comment. “I’ve just never seen fog like this before.”
“I see it a lot.” The driver smiled and shrugged. “Maybe I really do bring it.”
Mason sat in the back while the driver took his place behind the wheel. “Where to, sir?” the tall man asked.
“Is there a hotel around here with lots of yellow lights?” Mason said. “Tonight must be a night for all things yellow. I saw the lights from the plane. I think the place must be just outside of town.”
“That would be the Hotel Carcosa,” the driver said. “They have an enormous casino. It’s quite grand.”
“Sounds great. Let’s go.”
On the way, Mason noticed the yellow glow in the distance, and it was actually thrilling to watch as the glow gradually increased in size and intensity.
“Will the missus be joining you later, sir?”
“No, I’m traveling alone.” Mason frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the driver said. “You seemed like a married guy, that’s all. I’ve been a driver a long time. I pick up vibes. I guess the vibes were wrong this time. Sorry.”
Mason fought to control a surge of panic. He needed to calm down. There was no way this greasy-haired stranger could know anything about Cora’s death.
It had taken Mason fifteen years to work up the courage to murder his wife. For all those years, he’d endured her nagging and random infidelities. The method he’d used was clever indeed. She was allergic to shellfish, and all it took to finish her off was a half-spoonful of his lobster bisque, stirred into her cream of mushroom soup while she was in the restaurant’s ladies’ room.
As he later told the police: At some point, some staff member must have stirred her soup with the same spoon they’d used on his. Really, how could anyone prove otherwise? He’d made sure her medicine for such emergencies was not in her purse before they left the house. There was nothing to stop her throat from swelling shut, choking her to death.
How infuriating that he should learn about his brain tumor only a few weeks after receiving Cora’s life insurance money. He’d come to Las Vegas in the hope of having some actual fun before shuffling off into nothingness.
“Here we are,” the driver said. “The Hotel Carcosa, coming up on our right.”
Lost in his thoughts, Mason hadn’t noticed that they’d reached their destination. He look out the front window and gasped with surprise.
The Hotel Carcosa was strangely beautiful. It stood six stories high – not a giant by Vegas standards, but its elegant minarets gave it an exotic flair and made it seem taller than it was. And while it wasn’t especially tall, it did seem to sprawl down the street for quite a distance. Pale-yellow floodlights and swirling mists surrounded the structure.
“It’s a rather … long building,” Mason said.
“Miles long,” the driver noted, matter-of-factly.
Mason laughed. “That can’t be right! You’re exaggerating.” He studied the building a moment longer. “How do the folks in the rooms get any sleep, with all those lights?”
“The rooms are hung with thick purple curtains,” the driver said. “I know because I live there.”
“You live in a hotel? How does that work?”
“It’s an unusual situation, but yes,” the tall man said. “The Hotel Carcosa takes care of its own.”
“Oh! So you’re a shuttle driver for the hotel…? How lucky that the hotel you drive for is the one I wanted to visit.”
“Lucky indeed. You must have some sort of good luck charm on you.”
Ever helpful, the driver carried Mason’s suitcases to the front desk for him. The inside of the h
otel was as beautiful as the exterior, with golden walls, black velvet carpets, purple curtains and exquisite, gold-framed paintings of weeping willow trees and exotic birds.
Mason watched the driver leave the building. It then dawned on him that the man hadn’t asked for payment. Perhaps the hotel paid him to bring stray tourists from the airport.
Mason rang the golden bell at the front desk. A reed-thin, white-haired woman drifted forth from the offices behind the desk.
“Good evening, and welcome to the Hotel Carcosa,” the clerk said in a high, breathy voice. “A bellhop will be with you shortly to escort you to your room, No. E-37.”
“But I haven’t checked in yet. Don’t you want my credit card information?”
The clerk laughed. “It’s so late! You must be dying to get to bed. We’ll take care of all that paperwork tomorrow. Or whenever. Here is your key.”
The room’s key was actually an old-fashioned piece of shaped metal, as opposed to the electronic cards Mason usually received at hotels. It appeared to be made from real gold, etched with an ornate pattern of vines and adorned with a sparkling black gem.
The bellhop hurried up to him. He was a nervous little fellow, very gaunt with curly red hair and a galaxy of freckles. He was stronger than he looked – he was able to swing both fully packed suitcases with ease as he carried them.
In the elevator, the bellhop asked, “Are you a gambler, sir? Casino Carcosa is magnificent. The best in town – and in Vegas, that’s saying something.”
Mason shrugged. “Not really. I’m just here to have fun. Not trying to break the bank.”
“Have you seen the lake yet?”
The funeral director shook his head. “Nope. Didn’t even know there was a lake. Where is it?”
“Behind the hotel. You’ll be able to see it from your balcony.”
After entering his room, Mason decided to have a quick look at that lake. But as he slid open the balcony’s glass door, he remembered that he still needed to tip the bellhop.
He turned back to the room. The suitcases were resting on the bed and his front door was closed. The bellhop was nowhere to be seen. Didn’t anyone associated with the Hotel Carcosa accept money?
Mason returned to the balcony. The lake was breathtaking – reflections of the hotel’s lights made it gleam like molten gold under a swirling haze of yellow mist. It also reflected the moon overhead – three times…? Mason squinted at the images before him. Why were there three reflections of the moon? And why were they all different sizes and colors? It was as though the lake reflected an alien sky.
Confused and suddenly very tired – exhausted, really – Mason returned to the room. He prepared for bed and was soon curled into his usual fetal position. Within seconds he was asleep–
–and walking through a dream-desert of golden sand. Coal-black palm trees swayed slowly under a blazing bone-white sun.
“Where am I...?” he whispered. He walked for what seemed like hours. Occasionally, wee purple scorpions with skulls for faces scurried around his feet. On the horizon, a towering form beckoned to him.
The figure had to be hundreds of feet high for him to see it from such a distance. It seemed to be tracing a complex symbol in the air with one finger.
He kept walking and as he neared the gigantic shape, he was able to make out more details. The figure wore a gleaming yellow robe with a hood that cast its face into shadow. Swirling golden tentacles crept out of the sleeves. Soon the tips of those tentacles were also tracing the symbol in the air.
Mason stared, mesmerized, as the writhing tentacles began to stretch downward, still tracing the symbol as they reached for him. Then a booming voice cried out in baleful, thunderous tones, rising up from the basalt depths of Hell: “RETURN THE YELLOW SIGN … RETURN THE YELLOW SIGN … RETURN THE YELLOW SIGN–”
–and with a sharp cry of shock, Mason woke up, swatting at empty air, desperately trying to keep writhing dream-tentacles at bay.
Finally he realized where he was. He jumped out of bed and opened the curtains. Bright sunshine streamed into the room. The sunlight helped to restore his sense of reality.
Three sharp knocks sounded. He went to the door and looked through the peephole. The redhaired bellhop stood outside with a worried look on his face.
Mason opened the door. “Yes?”
“I was dropping off someone’s bags when I heard a yell coming from your room. Everything okay?”
“Oh, sure,” Mason said. “I’m fine. Thanks for checking in on me.”
“Glad you’re okay.” The bellhop smiled. “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”
“Sure. Had some crazy dreams, but at least I’m rested. What time is it?”
“About 1:30. Do you want me to bring you some breakfast? Or lunch?”
“That does sound good.” Mason thought for a moment. “I need to take a shower. Could you come back in an hour with orange juice, smoked salmon and some toast? Lots of butter on the toast.”
“Want some champagne in that orange juice?” the bellhop said with a wink.
“Perfect.”
The bellhop left and the dying man smiled. Soon, he hoped, the fun would begin.
- - -
After his meal, Mason decided to visit Casino Carcosa and try his luck at their games of chance.
He didn’t know much about gambling, but it really didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to make money. He was here to enjoy himself and not worry about the expense. His money would outlast his life. At his last doctor’s appointment, he’d been told his estimated time of arrival in the land of shadows. One thing was for sure: his would be a short vacation indeed.
Casino Carcosa was an exquisite wonderland of unbridled energy. Gold-trimmed tables and displays and slot machines filled his senses with their flashing lights, their beeps and chimes, their bright, multi-colored symbols.
The casino was packed with gamblers, all dressed in designer clothes. At first he was delighted by their glamour and elegance. But as he wandered among them, it dawned on him that these chic thrill-seekers weren’t what they seemed.
Amidst the wild noises of the machines, they did not speak. Their movements were sluggish, sometimes jerky. Their skin was too pink and oddly translucent, like fresh wax. Some of the gamblers had features missing. A mouthless face here, a missing eye there…
What was going on here? Had he wandered onto the set of a horror movie? Or was the brain tumor driving him insane?
A sharp-faced blonde waitress in a gold blouse and black shirt stepped up to him. To his horror, he realized that she looked exactly like his dead wife.
“Care for a drink?” she said in a sad, sleepy voice. Her eyes seemed oddly unfocused. “Or perhaps a nice hot bowl of lobster bisque?”
“Cora…?” he whispered. “You’re supposed to be dead…”
“Cora?” she echoed. “My name is Cassilda. Perhaps you need some fresh air … perhaps a walk by the Lake of Three Moons to clear your head.”
Mason turned and rushed deeper into the crowd – anything to get away from his dead, dazed wifey. He ran straight into a seated man playing a slot machine and realized it was the driver who’d brought him to Hotel Carcosa. He felt strangely relieved: he didn’t know the man well, but at least they’d talked before.
“Hello again,” the driver said. “Is something wrong? You look like you’ve seen something … horrible. Like a ghost. Or the wife you killed.”
“What are you saying?” Mason cried. “Oh God! This can’t be happening. I just got here and already I’m in Hell! I only wanted to have some fun. Is that too much to ask?”
The white-haired desk clerk drifted forth from out of the crowd. She was now missing her left eye. “I heard that, Mr. Schell. We all heard that. The thing is, you don’t seem to realize that fun has a price.”
Mason began to cry. “I have money. Lots of money. All that beautiful insurance money. I’ll pay you whatever you wish. Any amount.”
“If only you’d read the play,�
�� the clerk said. “Then you would understand.”
“The play...?” Mason stared at the white-haired woman. Was she talking about the play tattooed on the dead businessman? That hardly seemed possible.
“Yes! The play, the beautiful play. The King in Yellow.” The white-haired woman traced a symbol in the air with a slender finger. “A poignant, poisonous tale.”
Cora made her way through the crowd to stand by the clerk. “He knows quite a bit about poisoning,” Cora said. “It’s a fishy business.” She, too, began to trace a symbol in the air. The driver and all of the gamblers followed suit.
Suddenly, windows and glass panes in the game machines shattered as that hellish dream-voice thundered through Casino Carcosa: “RETURN THE YELLOW SIGN … RETURN THE YELLOW SIGN … RETURN THE YELLOW SIGN…”
“But what’s the Yellow Sign?” Mason screamed to no one and everyone. “What is it? What? Tell me, please!”
The driver patted the top of a slot machine, trimmed with gold like all the rest. On this one, the trim was shaped like slender tentacles, wrapped around the walls of the machine. The glass in this machine’s display window was unbroken.
“It’s time for you to have some fun,” the driver said. “Go ahead, my friend.”
Mason walked up to the machine and grabbed the handle.
“I’ll use my lucky coin,” he said.
With his free hand, he reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out the curious black and yellow token. He stared at it for a moment. Maybe this was that sign thingy that seemed so important to Mr. Dream-Voice.
He inserted the coin and pulled the handle.
Symbols began to spin in the machine’s display window. Bees, skulls, spiders, stars, swords. At last three symbols clicked into place and Mason smiled.
They all matched the symbol on the coin.
- - -
The next morning, airport security found a lifeless form resting on a bench.
The body was wrapped in a torn yellow blanket. A stained yellow stocking cap was stretched over the face.
At first assumed to be a homeless John Doe, the deceased was eventually identified as Mason Schell, funeral director.
The Blasphemy In The Canopic Jar & More Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos Page 6
