Confronted not only by disaster but with the threat of imminent annihilation, I hastened to safety, barricading myself in an interior, fortified, and doubly warded chamber while the thing thrashed and thundered through the building. When at last it broke out and escaped into the night, most of the wing containing my laboratory was in ruins, my tools were bent and crushed beyond repair or even recognition, and the corpse of my slave had been dragged outside and smeared the length of the street.
Shaken though I was, I nonetheless took pains to arrange matters in such a way that the police put the destruction down to a combination of vandalism and unsuccessful burglary. But the cost to me was great: the half idiot, half Great Race entity was now roaming loose, I had lost my tools and my place of working, and my papers and books were scattered and shredded. The few talismans that might have allowed me to renew the wards and bonds I later found as puddled slag in a smoking pool of aqua regia…curiously—or, perhaps, not surprisingly—this was in a room otherwise in perfect order, as though both the flask of acid and the talismans had been carried there and purposefully and deliberately mingled: a clear indication that my adversary was aware of what I had done and how I had done it, and was already taking steps against me.
Since then, my days and nights have been spent in a mixture of fear and satisfaction, both emotions being—so I would assume—perfectly understandable to the perceptive reader of this narrative. Fear, of course, stems from the purely animal side of one’s organism: the unwillingness to pass through the process of life termination and physical dissolution which is death, and apprehension at the thought of the concomitant pain of such a transformation. My satisfaction, though—and I confess it is immense satisfaction indeed—lies in the complete success of my endeavors: the tit-for-tat forcible imprisonment of a Great Race mind in an undesired and abhorrent body. Indeed, the sense of pain and fear that radiated from the blasphemously composite being before it broke free and smashed its way out of my laboratory is, in my opinion, more than adequate compensation for any trepidation or suffering I might experience before or during my final demise.
That my demise will come soon, I have no doubt. The entity itself, not entirely of such substance as forms the basis of our material world, is immensely strong and powerfully armed. For the most part it is invisible to human eyes, and energized with the potent mental capacity of the Great Race, it is canny and thoughtful well beyond human powers. That it has not already done away with me—indeed, that it has not slaughtered the entire population of Arkham and laid waste to the surrounding countryside—is attributable only to the innate reluctance of the Great Race to take life.
But despite any ethical qualms on the part of the imprisoned mind, simple animal needs have triumphed, and brute hunger has driven it to feed on flesh and blood. Indeed, the numerous newspaper and radio accounts of mutilated bodies, human and animal alike, found stripped of flesh and bearing the marks of a hideous, suction-based flensing, provide ample evidence that the transformation from altruistic intellect to bestial carnivore is already well advanced. Moreover, that its indwelling genius has become motivated by the same vindictive desire for revenge as motivated this writer has become markedly obvious, for workmen attempting repairs among the ruins of the building in which I performed my conjurations often report the sound of stealthy movement, or the sense that they are being scrutinized. Some, in fact, have disappeared altogether, but I believe that I myself am the actual target, and that the entity I created—half debased, half demonically sublime—is searching for me.
I was therefore greatly relieved when the university, which to this day remains ignorant of the genesis of the continuing disturbances, provided me with a much smaller but nonetheless comfortable set of rooms in the university’s administration building. The reader can well imagine my ironic smile, however, when I discovered that my new office lay next door to that of my old—very, very old—acquaintance: the esteemed “Click-click Scratch” who, in his eagerness to please his captors, filled volume upon volume of the Great Race’s library with a multitude of scribblings and observations upon our contemporary, human lives. Yet, after meeting him “in the flesh,” so to speak, for the first time, I found him to be a genial enough individual, a cordial gentleman with refined tastes and a scholarly dedication quite in keeping with my own, yet with a sense of transparency about him, as though his trials in the grip of the Great Race had lent him, in contrast to my own dark maelstrom, a clear serenity and a humane perspicacity that transcend the common bounds of our mortal condition.
We have never spoken to one another of our captivity, and yet I am sure he knows me as I know him. And after a leisurely dinner and an evening’s conversation with him in one of Arkham’s more tolerable restaurants, I confess I returned to my lodgings feeling abashed and all but ashamed, as though my efforts over the course of these last decades had somehow been shown to be dishonorable, and again, somehow—though I cannot begin to explain the connection— even subtly disloyal to the memory of my lost beloved.
So it is here, in my much diminished offices, that I now apply myself to the ancient texts and curious volumes borrowed from the library in the hope that some hitherto unnoticed passage might inform my praxis to such a degree as would permit me to rid myself of my pursuer. But the entity, motivated by its unnaturally transplanted mind, is a quintessentially artificial being, a chimera of a power and durability beyond anything dealt with in the writings of past masters of void and darkness. Had I perchance my tools, my supplies, my talismans…but all has been lost, destroyed in the course of the entity’s mad obliteration of my chamber of art.
Yet even in the midst of my frantic and, I fear, ultimately futile researches, my thoughts turn often to my neighbor. “Click-click Scratch” might well have been an indifferent economist, but I fear he has proven himself a better human being than I. I sought power and revenge. He took a path toward understanding. I dedicated my life to hate. He mused his way into a philosophical acceptance of his fate, his losses, and (dare I admit it, even to myself?) his gains. My spiritual powers focused on the obscene rites of the distant past and the criminal present. His turned instead toward wonder at the incredible vistas of time and intellect revealed to him. Had I myself taken his road, what a different life I might have led! What a different fate might at last have overtaken me!
I write these words with a sense of defeated triumph. True, I at last gained my objective, but the final tally confronts me with the depth of my losses and the uncertainty of the game’s merit. I am, so to speak, another Alexander, a conqueror of a world; but if I now weep, I do so not because there is no more world to conquer, but rather because I have discovered that what I have gained is valueless. Nevertheless, even in my fall and my error, I hope that I have demonstrated to those arrogant masters of time and intellect that their word is not law, nor their dominion absolute. Neither can they escape forever the consequences of their actions. Could I but be sure only of that, of that alone, I would find reason enough to dry my tears.
Near midnight now. The building is silent, and as I labor alone in my office, I sense an oppression outside in the street. Something is at the window. The casements shake in their frames. If only—
So you think you know what is bound to happen in any Yig story? Well, young feller, you may be right, but take my advice and don’t go round scoffin’ at familiar genre conventions and plot outlines! Ye knows what they sez happens to folks who mock at Yig stories… That’s right! ‘Fore long, ye begins a writin’ ‘em yerself! Just ask Ron! Yeah, that’s him over there, scribblin’ like mad in the noontide sun.
This serpentine tale debuted on-line in Horror Carousel # 4
The Serpents of Tenoka
Ron Shiflet
Night on the outskirts of Tenoka, Texas, can be as black as any environs imagined. The tall East Texas pines block what scarce light is cast from the dim and distant stars. A person walking among such woods even during times when a
bloated, yellow moon hangs in the sky will have difficulty finding his path among the tall, silent evergreens. It was a moonless night that I first spent in the small but clean house that I had inherited from my uncle, Henry Teal.
Uncle Henry had died of a heart attack while leading a solitary bachelor’s life on the several thickly wooded acres that surrounded the small dwelling. I had been aware of his reportedly high regard for me but was still very surprised and pleased upon learning of my inheritance. I had assumed that his property and remaining resources would be split among his surviving siblings, though they and he were frequently at odds with one another. More surprising still was my two uncles’ attitude during the execution of Henry’s will. They seemed quite happy for me to receive the property and even slightly relieved that the place had not been bestowed upon them.
My Uncle Link patted my back and jokingly asked me how it felt to be “a man of property.” Uncle Stuart commented that he “never wanted any part of the goddamn place.” When I questioned him about his obvious dislike he half-heartedly laughed the whole thing off with comments about the oppressive humidity, “the skeeters” and his distaste for solitude. However, Uncle Link winked at me and said, “Don’t listen to him, boy…he’s just scared of the goddamn snakes!”
We left the proceedings and ate a delicious meal at Tenoka’s only cafe. We shared memories of my deceased parents and vowed to “stay in touch.” Upon parting I made the three hour drive to my apartment in Crandall. I had one week to work before beginning a two week vacation that was desperately needed.
Well, I survived the work week, eagerly anticipating my two week getaway to Tenoka. I packed my things on a Thursday night and left for Tenoka on Friday after clocking out early from the furniture factory where I was employed. The drive was uneventful and I entertained myself by listening to a variety of music compilations, brought especially for the vacation. The thought of solitude was not unpleasant but I still needed the reassurance of familiar sounds. I also brought my guitar and hoped to finish some songs I had been composing.
Arriving in Tenoka at about 4:30 p.m., I bought some groceries at a small store run by a rather taciturn couple well past middle age. I questioned them about my uncle but they seemed almost reluctant to speak of him. They admitted to knowing him and of his death but offered no words of condolence. In fact they seemed relieved once I had paid for my items and prepared to leave. It struck me as odd when upon leaving I heard the older man softly say “God help him if he’s batty as his uncle.”
“What’s that you say?” I asked, through the old screen door.
The balding old man glared at me and replied, “Nothing, son…nothing.”
I shook my head in a combination of disgust and bewilderment and carried my remaining sack of groceries to my truck. My uncle’s house, mine now actually, was situated on about twelve acres just two miles east of sleepy Tenoka, a town with just a few less than prosperous businesses in its small town square. Uncle Link was certainly right about the awful humidity. It was only the middle of June and even with my truck’s air at maximum cooling I still “sweated like a pig.” Irked from the cold reception I had received at Boyd’s Grocery, I popped a Jerry Jeff Walker tape into the cassette player in hope of lightening the mood on the short drive to my newly acquired property.
I took the winding farm to market road from Tenoka proper until reaching the winding dirt road that led to my house. There was an old metal mailbox by the main road with Uncle Henry’s name crudely traced in faded, chipping paint. Stopping the truck, I opened the box and nearly wet my pants as a small, copper colored snake hissed and slithered from the box and dropped onto the sandy soil at my feet. It seemed to look up at me with an expression of malevolence. In fairness to the reptile, I must admit that I found all snakes repulsive, even evil, though the idea is wholly irrational. The copperhead seemed to glare at me, and I was struck by its unusual marking. On the top of its head was an odd crescent-shaped design that to my admittedly limited knowledge did not occur on this type of snake. I shrugged it off as some fluke of nature or strange mutation. After about a minute the snake hissed again and slithered off into the tall grass of the bar ditch and disappeared from sight. Fortunately the snake had not attempted to strike me, for which I was truly grateful. I had no idea how the creature had come to be in the mailbox unless deliberately placed. However, I soon gathered my wits about me, thinking the incident perhaps the sick prank of high school rowdies who sometimes get drunk and engage in such behavior.
Finding no mail, I got back into my truck and proceeded down the gravel and dirt road for a couple of hundred yards until the small frame house came into view. It was a well constructed and maintained abode that had electricity and running water. While not particularly large, it was certainly comfortable enough for an old bachelor with no family. Uncle Henry had lived in the house during the last several years of his life. The house stood in a small clearing and was surrounded on all sides by old, tall pines. It was quite a lovely place, though I had never desired to live in East Texas due to the oppressive humidity of the long summer months. Actually, I hoped to sell the place once my vacation was concluded.
My immediate plans were to place the food and beer into the refrigerator and get settled in. Thankfully I had the foresight to see that there was no disruption of the electric service. Secondly, I hoped to sort through my uncle’s effects which would hopefully tell me more about the man, whom I had always liked. He, as I knew, was of an artistic bent though entirely self-taught. One need only look around the house to see that the man obviously loved carving wooden figures, mostly of the “old west” variety. He was also quite good at sculpting small busts and animals in soapstone and other workable materials. I understood that Uncle Henry had supplemented his military pension and Social Security checks through the sale of such carvings at a twice monthly trade-day in Nacodoches.
There were at least fifteen to twenty of these old west carvings in the house along with a handful of miscellaneous pieces. There was also a large, oak work table in one corner that was cluttered with several sketch books. Most of these contained pencil drawings of western scenes. Cowboys, Indians and buffalo seemed to be my uncle’s favorite subjects. Each sketch was initialled and dated so it was a fairly simple matter to determine what he had been working on near the time of his death. I casually perused the pencil sketches but failed to find anything that had not been done two to four months earlier. Well, it was no big deal as I would have more than ample time to look through the books at my leisure.
Deciding that the remainder of the sketchbooks could wait until morning, I went to the old but serviceable refrigerator and grabbed a cold Lone Star. Unscrewing the bottle’s top, I took a large swallow and proceeded to connect my boom-box and play some of the ludicrous songs that I had been working on. The tape’s first song was “The Ballad of Ed Gein,” the opening piece to a rather sickly humorous “country opera” that I had been working on.
In the cold state of Wisconsin, eating Banquet, eating Swanson,
Was a local boy who craved for something new,
So he hacked up an old geezer, then hung her in the freezer,
Making Ed Gein t.v. dinners ‘cause nothing else would do!
I leaned my wooden chair back on two legs and sighed while experiencing the pleasant little feeling one gets up the spine when the alcohol first makes its presence felt. Downing another third of the bottle, I grinned trying to imagine Jerry Jeff Walker singing the song instead of hearing my own weak, flat vocals.
Was it in December when you started to dismember?
Did you do them in and put them in a stew?
Do you think that you’re a sinner? Who’d you have tonight for dinner?
They say that you are what you eat, so tell us, who are you?
I was really getting into my song when a loud knock on the screen door caused me to jump. Embarrassed, I hurried to the kitchen counter
and punched the off button on the tape player and looked towards the door. A large man wearing a law enforcement uniform of some type was grinning at me through the screen door. I walked to the door, my face slightly red. “Hi, what can I do for you? Didn’t hear you drive up, what with all the racket!”
The big man held out his hand to shake and said, “How do, son, I’m Sheriff Blair…You must be Henry’s nephew.”
I clasped the sheriff’s offered hand. “That’s right! Good to meet you.” I followed this up with, “Anything wrong?”
“No, son, nothing’s wrong. Just wanted to drop by and meet you—see if you were getting settled in all right out here.”
“Yeah, everything’s fine…” My staring must have been obvious, for Sheriff Blair began to laugh and slapped me on the shoulder.
“I know—I know! I’m the spitting image of Robert Mitchum! You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve heard that!”
I, too, began to laugh and replied, “Sir, I believe I can!”
I offered the man a beer which he accepted since he was officially off-duty and about to leave for his home. Blair was an easy man to talk with, quite affable and easy-going. We talked about my Uncle Henry, about whom he had nothing but good things to say. He and my uncle had also drunk beer together and “shot the shit” on numerous occasions.
“He was a good man, always level-headed and easy to talk to, except up until shortly before he died.”
“What changed and why?” I questioned.
Blair thought for a few moments as if trying to decide how much to say. “It was crazy, son. The few times I spoke with him before he passed, he acted flat out touched in the head…no offense, son.”
Worlds of Cthulhu Page 17
