The Dark Rites
Of Cthulhu
Edited by
Brian M. Sammons
An April Moon Books Publication
Published in arrangement with the authors
Edited by Brian M. Sammons
Introduction © 2014 Brian M. Sammons
The Keeper of the Gate © 2013 William Meikle
Dead Man’s Tongue © 2013 Josh Reynolds
The Dark Horse © 2013 John Goodrich
Changing of the Guard © 2013 Pete Rawlik
The Murder at the Motel © 2013 Brian M. Sammons
The Grey Rite of Azathoth © 2013 Robert M. Price
The Vessel © 2013 Sam Stone
Like Comment Share © 2013 Don Webb
With Death Comes Life © 2013 Scott T. Goudsward
The Dogs © 2013 Jeffrey Thomas
Of Circles and Rings © 2013 Tom Lynch
The Bride of the Beast © 2013 Glynn Owen Barrass
The Nest of Pain © 2013 C. J. Henderson
Black Tallow © 2013 Edward M. Erdelac
The Mindhouse © 2013 Christine Morgan
The Half Made Thing © 2013 T. E. Grau
This anthology copyright © 2014 April Moon Books
Cover Design and Illustrations © 2014 Neil Baker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
These stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, historical events or organizations is purely coincidental.
First Edition 2014
Published in Canada.
www.AprilMoonBooks.com
ISBN: 978-0-9937180-0-7
For Jamie D. Jenkins
Not even with a whole bunch of words could I express everything you mean to me, so I’ll just use three: I love you. Brian
For my mum, my wife and my children.
None of whom should really be reading this book. Neil
CONTENTS
Introduction by Brian M. Sammons
The Keeper of the Gate by Willie Meikle
Dead Man’s Tongue by Josh Reynolds
The Dark Horse by John Goodrich
Changing of the Guard by Pete Rawlik
The Murder at the Motel by Brian M. Sammons
The Grey Rite of Azathoth by Robert M. Price
The Vessel by Sam Stone
Like Comment Share by Don Webb
With Death Comes Life by Scott T. Goudsward
The Dogs by Jeffrey Thomas
Of Circles and Rings by Tom Lynch
The Bride of the Beast by Glynn Owen Barrass
The Nest of Pain by C. J. Henderson
Black Tallow by Edward M. Erdelac
The Mindhouse by Christine Morgan
The Half Made Thing by T. E. Grau
About the Authors
Unmentionable Rites for Nameless Horrors
By Brian M. Sammons
“He must meet the Black Man, and go with them all to the throne of Azathoth at the centre of ultimate Chaos. That was what she said. He must sign in his own blood the book of Azathoth and take a new secret name now that his independent delvings had gone so far. What kept him from going with her and Brown Jenkin and the other to the throne of Chaos where the thin flutes pipe mindlessly was the fact that he had seen the name “Azathoth” in the Necronomicon, and knew it stood for a primal evil too horrible for description.”
H.P. Lovecraft, “The Dreams in the Witch House”
Sorcery, witchcraft, the occult, rituals, and black magic have all been a part of H.P. Lovecraft’s weird world of horror, oftentimes collectively referred to as the Cthulhu Mythos, from the start. While many think of ancient, alien, god-like horrors when the topic of H.P. Lovecraft’s stories are brought up, magic has always been at the heart of the Mythos. Whether it’s the bloodthirsty cults who commit indescribable atrocities in the name of eldritch horrors they worship, or the ancient tomes penned by madmen, full of knowledge and rituals man was not meant to know, magic has always been there, promising unimaginable power, often delivering unbelievable torment.
In some cases, vile thaumaturgy was what a Lovecraft story was all about. From “The Terrible Old Man” and his collection of strange bottles, to the horrifying secret behind “The Thing on the Doorstep.” The magical melodies of “The Music of Erich Zann” brought only madness and worse, and “The Dreams in the Witch House” were never pleasant. Even Lovecraft’s epic tale, “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward” was about forbidden sorcery and the price one inquisitive soul pays for meddling with it. In Lovecraft’s world, magic is very real, and very dangerous. It doesn’t heal the sick, mend broken glasses, or make brooms come alive to clean your house. It allows mankind to talk to the Great Old Ones, or worse, lets them bring the exiled horrors forth. It could smite a foe, or steal everything away from them, including their very body. While it could be used to cheat death, it could also inflict a horrible existence upon the unwary where death would be a sweet release. There were no Gandalfs or Dumbledores in Lovecraft’s stories, only madmen with the desire to risk it all for the chance to play with power that should have always remained beyond their reach.
In that tradition of mankind meddling with forces beyond their control, here you will find 16 all new tales of Mythos tainted magic. The stories span time and space and explore all facets of the Black Arts. From cults full of true believers engaging in well-rehearsed ceremonies, to the lone practitioner following his own twisted plan. Here detectives will investigate ritualistic slaughter, and professors will try to keep arcane secrets out of the hands of those that would use them to their own selfish, and destructive, ends. Those with the talent for sorcery will pay a high price for their craft, and those seeking occult knowledge may soon regret their lifelong quest. Would be wizards will play with the very building blocks of reality, with damnation, madness, and death awaiting those that slip up even the slightest bit. This is where great power and greater danger walk hand in hand. These are The Dark Rites of Cthulhu.
Brian M. Sammons February 12th, 2014
The Keeper of the Gate
By William Meikle
We almost went off the road twice, lights flashing and sirens blaring, doing forty on the bends despite the snow. Shots fired was the message.
We were too late to stop any bullets hitting their targets—and far too late to catch the shooter. Two bodies—two children—lay in the driveway, half-naked and already freezing, single gunshot wounds to the back of the head. The father sat in the hall just inside the door—shot in the left eye with an exit wound that had taken off the back of his skull and decorated the wall in Jackson Pollock red.
"Where's the mother?" Jake Rogers asked me, but I didn't have an answer.
We searched the house and did a tour around the outside. Ours were the only footprints in the snow, and there were none around the dead girls' bodies. No tire tracks either.
"Did the father do it, then do himself?" Jake asked.
"If so, where's the weapon?" I replied.
That had us both stumped.
We had a wait ahead of us—the forensics boys were tied up on another shooting downtown—Saturday night in the city this close to Christmas brought out more crazies than normal, and tonight was no exception. Jake and I were used to seeing shooting victims—just not out here in the 'burbs on the coast, and not pre-teen girls lying half-naked in snowy driveways. I'll admit I was more than a bit twitchy as we stood in the relative warmth of the hallway waiting for the cavalry to sho
w up.
Matters didn't improve any when the chanting started up in the cellar.
"Didn't you check down there?" I whispered.
Jake had his gun out already.
"I thought you did."
The chanting got louder—there were at least three voices, maybe more.
Jake reached for the door handle. As soon as his fingers touched it the chanting stopped, like a needle taken off a vinyl record. Everything went quiet again.
"Cover me," Jake whispered, and pulled the door open.
There seemed to be nothing but darkness beyond, but Jake wasn't to be deterred. I followed him, gingerly, down the cellar steps.
"Armed police," he shouted. "We're coming down. Don't do anything stupid."
There was no response. I got my flashlight off my belt and switched it on, the sudden flare of light almost blinding me so that, at first, all I could see was the back of Jake's head.
There was still no sound from below, and the place was so quiet and dark I started to wonder whether we'd actually heard what we thought we'd heard. Then there was a shuffling scrape, as of something heavy being dragged across a dirt floor.
"Don't move," Jake shouted.
I swung the flashlight down, but with Jake in the way, the space was too confined to show me anything beyond a couple of square yards at the foot of the steps.
There was another scrape, deeper in the darkness. Somebody moaned—a woman, in some pain.
The mother?
"Armed police," Jake shouted again. If I didn't know him so well I might not have noticed the tremor in his voice. "Come on out where we can see you."
Jake stepped off the steps onto the cellar floor, giving me space to move the beam of the flashlight around. I saw the pale shape in the gloom just before lighting up the body. She lay spread-eagled, naked on a circular diagram that had been crudely scratched in the dirt. Whoever had moaned, it hadn't been her—her dead eyes stared at the ceiling although there was no obvious sign of any wound. A gun lay on the floor, just outside the etched circle.
Jake dropped into a crouch and pointed his own weapon into the far-left corner.
"I see you, back there," he shouted. "Come on out."
I swung the light around to where Jake was aiming, but all I found were rough walls and storage crates.
"What did you see, Jake?"
He didn't reply. I swung the light around to look him in the eye. He was as white as a sheet, and shaking. He turned on his heels and went back up the steps, almost running.
I stood there for long seconds, turning in a full circle, searching the whole space. I was quite alone in the cellar.
The father's prints were the only ones on the gun. The case was closed almost before we finished the paperwork. Neither the chanting nor the moaning made their way into our reports—Jake and I both knew that would just lead to questions we couldn't answer. Murder, suicide was the verdict and it was all tied up in a pretty bow for public consumption. I wasn't happy, but I couldn't see what else could be done.
Jake had other ideas.
I found him in his usual perch at O'Hara's—far end of the bar near the Guinness tap. He had a pint of the black stuff waiting for me.
"Did the Captain tell you how the father shot himself then threw the gun down into the cellar?" he asked. He sounded weary, but there was something else there too, something I couldn't quite identify. "Did he tell you how the wife died of shock on finding him and fell down the stairs, just happening to land dead center on that…whatever it was? And all of this through a closed cellar door?"
"I don't think they want anyone to look too closely, Jake," I replied. "They don't want a scandal. The father was some kind of big cheese in finance. You know what happens in those cases—ranks get closed, favors get called in…"
"…and questions get quietly buried. Yeah. I know."
"That's not what's eating you, is it?" I asked. "We've played the game too often for this one to be getting to you."
He ordered two whiskeys—that's when I knew it was serious.
"I saw something," he said softly. "Down in that cellar. I saw something."
I knew now what I was seeing in his eyes—it was fear, and that got me scared, for big Jake Rogers had never been afraid of anything in his life.
I downed my whiskey in one.
"Tell me," I said.
At first I wasn't sure I was going to get an answer, and when I did it was in a managed whisper so that only I would hear.
"It was just dim lights at first," he said. "A dancing pattern of lights. I thought it might be her ghost."
If anyone else had said that to me, I'd have laughed it off, but Jake wasn't a man prone to flights of fancy. Work, booze and football were his holy trinity; for him, fiction was something read by people who couldn't handle reality.
"What do you mean?" I asked, not entirely sure I wanted to know.
"I only caught a glimpse—you know that, you were there. It was only a dark shadow when I first glanced at it. I thought it was a woman, hunched over, standing deep in the corner. But just before you shone the light over that way, I got a good look. You know those pictures the telescope in space takes—galaxies and nebulas and gas clouds and shit? Like that—only small, in the corner, but big at the same time, as if I could have walked into it—walked into infinity and never looked back."
He'd got it all out fast, as if afraid to stop. Now I didn't know what to say in reply.
"Jake, we'd just had a shock and…"
"I know what I saw," he said, interrupting me. "This isn't over. Something happened in that house. That family was murdered—all of them. I'm going to find out who did it."
What can I say? Jake had been my partner for more than a decade. The next day, we started digging.
We had to keep it off the books, so it was slow going at first, snatching what time we could to look into the family’s life. The father, John Mitchell, was a bigwig in a trading house—he managed futures in commodities, effectively guessing which way the market might go, and backing his best guesses with cash—lots of cash. There was motive aplenty in that cash—the kind of amounts that attracts shysters like flies to shit.
But this didn't smell like a robbery gone bad—it was messy, but not messy enough.
We went deeper. Jake got Mitchell's laptop from evidence—don't ask—and we had Joe Kaspervitch go through it for us. Our fifty bucks didn't get us much, but it got us Mitchell's last draft email—one he never got around to sending, and one that started Jake's gears grinding in the right direction.
"I want out," it read. "It's getting too close now. The risk isn't worth the reward. We should stop while we're ahead."
Unfortunately there was no sign of any intended recipients, but Jake had a sniff of conspiracy in his nose now.
We dug deeper still.
We discovered that Mitchell was just one of a group of businessmen—rising stars if you like—who, in the last eighteen months, had taken the sector by storm, making money hand over fist in the Futures markets like no one had ever managed before. There was talk of methods, patterns, even a faint whiff of skullduggery, but the bottom line was that these guys were getting rich fast, and no one knew how they were doing it.
"We should talk to these other guys," Jake said. We were back in O'Hara's, on the black stuff. The case had its hooks in my partner now, and like a terrier with a bone, he was in no mood to let go. "Look at that last email again. Mitchell wanted out—that would threaten the gravy train. There's our motive, right there."
"We can't," I said, trying to be the voice of reason. "The case is closed, and so are the ranks of the great and good. We can't go charging around like a bull in a china shop—we've got no evidence."
Jake smiled and I realized I'd fallen into his trap.
"Well, let's go find some then. There must be something in the Mitchell house that everybody missed."
Disturbing a crime scene was enough to get us both shit-canned, but I didn't mention it as we open
ed the door, slipped under the tape and went into the dark hallway—it wasn't as if this was our first time at this particular dance.
For half an hour I thought Jake was going to be disappointed. We went through the ground floor fast—nothing to see but the normal domestic habits of a family with two kids—and a stain on the hallway wall I didn't like to look at too closely.
Upstairs proved little more fruitful, although a search of the study delivered a small notebook tucked in the back of a drawer that contained columns of letters and figures that were obviously in some sort of code. Jake pocketed that, and finally we headed to the one place neither of us really wanted to go—down into the dark cellar.
Despite our best efforts, neither of us could find a light switch, so we both had our flashlights lit as we went down—me first, this time. My fingers were twitching to draw my weapon—it felt like the situation demanded it, but I knew it was just my mind reminding me of the last time. Even so, I half expected to see a naked corpse on the dusty floor when I reached the foot of the steps. I let out a sigh of relief when a sweep of the torch showed nothing but the etched circle of strange pictograms, the design partially scuffed and smudged by the footprints of the cops and forensics men that had come through here.
A bulb burst into light just above my head, almost blinding me. I turned to see Jake, hand on a switch.
"Well, that's something at least," he replied, and smiled, although I saw the same tension in his eyes that I felt in my chest.
We made a search of the room, each of us—consciously or otherwise, working around the drawn marks on the floor, as if fearful of stepping on—or worse, inside, the lines. There was nothing to see but packing cases, packed earth and dry walls. I was about to admit defeat when Jake hushed me into silence.
"Do you hear it?" he whispered.
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