Only the TV screen with the naked, dead woman seemed untouched by this unholy smearing of the world; the white room and her beauty a stark contrast to the darkness now permeating everything.
“For god’s sake, Topic—do something!”
He was bewildered. His heart throbbed in his chest, in his ears.
“What? Me? I’m just an acc—” Blood spilled from Tom’s mouth.
“You’re a fucking Quishar, for god’s sake!”
From the other room a final cry now roared above the darkness and broke into the office. Seeping in was an unthinkable Being. He couldn’t see it clearly, but he instinctually knew that somewhere, somehow, inside that insane and dancing shroud of colors, symbols, and swirling wards (that were close to evaporating for good now; he knew this!) a Creature of Darkness was feeling its way into this world—wanting to feed its way in; feed in ways unimaginable, ways never meant for this world.
As It descended upon the man standing before Topic, the accountant coughed another splash of blood and tried to wipe some of it off his coat . . .
(If ever you face such a dangerous situation, just remember to do that, okay?)
He blinked, confused, then looked at the coat, and then up at the pure screen displaying her in her dead purity. Oh God, she was beautiful.
The tendrils were now wrapped around the muffled and futile fight of the disappearing figure in the suit. An opening resembling a mouth of a thousand flickering electrical tooths, formed by incorporeal matter more foul than any hellish nightmare could conjure, came into existence. The last wards of light almost gone now—
(She stood in the doorway, gently handing him his coat.
“I will give you this final kiss, dear Tom, and then you won’t remember anymore.” A tear ran down her chin. “It’s for your own good, my dear.”
He doned the coat, smiling at her stupidly, and couldn’t say anything more clever than “Beautiful Salma,” after which she gave him that dazzling smile he knew he would always love.
“But should the worst happen—just remember that you’re wearing the answer, okay?”
“Er—okay . . . ?”
And then she had kissed him, as if their lives depended on it.
And when she closed the door, he had forgotten everything . . ..)
A triumphant, chaotic screech filled his ears. In a rush he felt around his coat; outside, in every pocket. Nothing. Inside, in every pocket . . . Goddammit, how could there be so many tiny compartments inside a coat? Why—
There!
A triumphant cry erupted from his red lips, and ignoring the pain from the throbbing tongue and the earshattering wailing of bleakness everywhere advancing on him, Tom Topic tore out a piece of parchment whereupon writhed strange, mystical symbols. Symbols written by her nails; symbols written in their mixed blood.
Symbols writhing to ward off the Evil that was inside her. The Evil that she had trapped inside her, and which she willingly kept there to protect the world; an entrapment he had helped strengthen that mysterious, magical night. His passion had unleashed powers he never dreamed he possessed; and with passion and wisdom she had showed him a cosmos more amazing than he had ever imagined possible.
But now she was dead, and he had accidentally loosened the bonds ensuring the captivity of this nightmare Creature. He had been taught things, yes, but he was still untrained. It had only been one night, after all, a limited time to truly learn; he was still prone to suddenly becoming caught in his passions . . . And that could result in the most unfortunate of events—such as the release of this horror now almost sucking in both men (pain. pain! PAIN!)—or—
Holding up the parchment, he read aloud. First mumbling incomprehensibly; then, as the symbols of the parchment and from his mouth verberated with the now hesitating darkness, louder and with confidence. The weird colors began taking on meaning for him; he saw what were part of Its abhorrence, what were part of the Ward’s protective force, and what were natural elements to this world—and, he discovered with a secret shiver, the tiniest suggestions here and there of impossible colors naturally crossing this sphere of existence from and to other spheres.
For a moment the Thing and Topic stood still in the consumed office; wills, words and desecrated magic trapped in a barrier where time didn’t move, awaiting the outcome. Then the world began moving again, in slow motion; and as the Quishar’s blood merged with the words and the symbols with more force and conviction, the Thing retreated. It lashed out tentacles of dread and perversion, but he flicked them aside with a sureness that denied its existence in the world. Soon he also managed to create a protective force around the other man—it was just a matter of combining mystical threads in the right way—who began breathing easier, his claw turning into a functional hand. Awe was in his eyes following the blinding signs and flashes of light around the Quishar, who backed It into the white room, screeches of denial echoing from its dark depths.
Like a priest fighting back the hordes of Hell, Tom Topic pressed on relentlessly, designing intricate sounds and mystical energies biding the creature back into the body that was its prison; the dead body of the Mexican woman once being Salma Cortez.
As the ground and walls shook with disbelieving violence in reaction to the powers at play, the passionately focused Quishar shouted a final incantation; it tore through the bleached parchment and drove the unnameable horror back to its prison. All light and dark disappeared. The electrical light turned back on.
Then it was over. Just like that. Before him, lying in dreadful beauty, lay the woman he had only met once, with whom he had had an amazing night. And she wore those strange tattoos, but he couldn’t see any swirling symbols about her. It was just a dead body. Above, the camera hummed back to life, a neutral eye documenting every inch of cold flesh.
No cracks or tentacled evilness any longer adorned the walls. Everything was as smooth as ever.
He felt drained, exhausted.
Behind him, the accountant heard humping steps, and he quickly turned.
The man in the expensive grey suit was approaching, warily massaging his one hand, which looked fine now.
The world started spinning. Then Tom Topic fainted.
* * *
When he opened his eyes again, he looked up at the ceiling and was greeted by an antique chandelier that gave a friendly light to a large office looking like it was taken straight out of an old English movie. He hurt. Instinctively looking at his watch, he saw it was twisted, that his wrist was scarred. He groaned; he remembered. As he sat up, he noted that everything was still in perfect order.
At the large, carved desk with a few, neat piles of paper, sat the man whose name he still didn’t know. He had just put the phone down and pressed a key on the computer, the oversized flatscreen TV on the wall behind him dark now.
“Ah. You’re back. Good.” He paused, contemplating his next words. “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Topic. You saved my life. And, strange as it seems, it is clear you really didn’t knew what was going on until that final moment.” He stood and thoughtfully walked to the accountant, absentmindedly massaging his hand. “I appreciate that. I really do. You didn’t lie. You didn’t try to play games with us.”
With a brief nod to the wall that hid the white room, he continued, “I am no expert on how Symbologicians are supposed to behave when they work their . . . magic . . . but what I witnessed was clearly an untrained man pulling every strength of intuitive power he had to fight a being he didn’t comprehend.” He sighed, a small smile gracing his serious face. “Luckily for us, Mr. Topic, it worked. Thank you.”
“Er . . . You’re welcome . . .”
“Heh. That’s a humble stance if ever there was one. A rare trait in a Quishar.
“Now, I can’t promise that we’re done with you—in fact, I can say for certain that we are not—but I have arranged that, for now, we will leave you alone.” He looked solemnly at Tom Topic. “Consider it my gift of thanks. A very sincere gift, I can assure you.”<
br />
Before the accountant could utter his fumbling thanks, a hand was presented. “Now, let me help you out of here. Two of the officers you have already met are waiting outside. They will take you home. They don’t know exactly what has transpired within these walls. And they don’t want to.”
He helped Topic stand. Tom still felt rather exhausted, and his legs had to adjust to his weight before he could walk. Before opening the door, they looked at each other. Respect and silent gratitude resonated in their eyes. They shook hands.
“Oh. And don’t worry. We have taken steps to ensure that your wife won’t begrudge your absence too much.”
With this cryptic salute he opened the door, where the two stout officers were waiting.
They silently followed him out of the corridor with the blinking light bulb, and as they ascended stairs, the officers readily helped him up each step. Only when they finally returned to the surface and the outside did his gait resume something like his normal walk.
* * *
The police car entered the suburban street in silence. The sun was well on its way down behind the horizon; the world was graced with its red-orange wonder.
Tom Topic was quiet on the ride home. Everything had been like a surreal dream. Now his eyes focused on his surroundings more clearly. Much to his chagrin, though, he saw that in every house on the street curious neighbours were looking out. So much for returning in secrecy. He sighed.
When the car stopped in their driveway, the house’s front door opened and the silhouette of his wife appeared. Seconds later she ran to meet her husband who nervously nodded his thanks to the broad officer helping him out the car.
“Tom! Oh, Tom! You’re home again!”
She had tried to wipe away the worst of the smearing, but he could see that she had been crying. She hugged him and bestowed him with kisses. “Why didn’t you leave a note, Tom? I’ve been so worried. So worried.”
“Well, I . . .” he started, embarrassed by all this attention and show of affection.
“What’s that with your glasses, dear?” She took them off and gave them a closer look. There was a small crack in one of the lenses.
“Oh.” He quickly took them out of her hands and placed them back on. “I accidentally dropped them, that’s all. Gonna have them fixed first thing in the morning.”
She smiled at him with relief on her face. A warm feeling washed over him.
“Oh, if it wasn’t for the News I wouldn’t have known what was going on. Why didn’t you tell me, Tom?”
He stopped short.
“What?”
The officer broke in. “Yes, once again I will extend the City’s thanks for your invaluable help, Mr. Topic.”
“Er . . . Thanks. I guess,” Tom mumbled, the confusion on his face only hidden because of his wife’s renewed kissing attack.
The officer saluted him, and soon after the car drove away.
“Oh, Tom. To think that you helped put a dangerous criminal behind bars. And to think that no one but you could help them. A modern gangster boss, they said. And now, thanks to your financial expertise, they busted him, putting him behind bars for good!”
Anna beamed with pride, taking in all the not-so-secret onlookers.
“Well, er . . . As you know, Anna, I am just an accountant, and . . .”
The sun set as they walked up the driveway. Soon, twilight was gone too.
-
-
Henrik Sandbeck Harksen’s short publication list: “Metaphysics in ‘The Music of Erich Zann’” (Lovecraft Studies 45, Spring 2005), “A Spectre Is Haunting Chicago: The Lovecraft-Leiberian Connection” (Fritz Leiber: Critical Essays, 2008), “Some Thoughts on The Ninth Configuration” (American Exorcist: Critical Essays on William Peter Blatty, 2008). One Lovecraftian short story, “The Bibliophile” (Eldritch Horrors: Dark Tales, 2008, an anthology published through his own small press, H. Harksen Productions). He is a member of the Lovecraft APA, The Esoteric Order of Dagon Amateur Press Association, under the “leadership” of S. T. Joshi. His blog is updated on a weekly basis: http://hharksenproductions.wordpress.com/
Illustration by Mike Dominic.
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NOTE: Images contained in this Lovecraft eZine are Copyright ©2006-2012 art-by-mimulux. All rights reserved. All the images contained in this Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without my express written permission. These images do not belong to the public domain. All stories in Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without the express written permission of the editor.
Table of Contents
Sledding and Starlings
Rickman’s Plasma
The Brown Tower
The Crane Horror
Some Distant Baying Sound
A Different Morecambe
False Light
Allure
Cockroaches
A Meeting on the Trail To Hot Iron
Things We Are Not
Descent Into Shadow and Light
The Slickens
The Town of Autumn: Chapter 1
All the Gold
Dreams of Fire and Glass
O, Lad of Memory and Shadow
Dragon Star Lucky Food
Curse the Child
The Case of the Galloway Eidolon
The Call of the Dance
Unearthly Awakening
Dreams of Fire and Glass – part 2
Darius Roy’s Manic Grin
Ushered On the Wind
The Wagon’s Trail
The Audient Void
In Phantom Isolation
The Weird Studies of Harley Warren
Sky Full of Fire
The Lord of Endings
Loaners
The Prophecy of Zarah
The Stranger From Out of Town
Desert Mystery! Gas & Go!
The Tunnel Inside the Mountain
#Dreaming
What Dances In Shadow
The Time Eater
Elder Instincts
Among the Dark Places of the Earth
At Best An Echo
Stone City, Old as Immeasurable Time
Just An Accountant
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Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2011 Page 50
