The Cry of Cthulhu: Formerly: The Alchemist's Notebook

by Byron Craft

The wound in my shoulder, after being cleaned, wasn’t as bad as it had appeared and I was able to tend to it myself. I didn’t want to bring anyone in from the outside if I could help it, there would have been too many awkward questions to answer. I stayed behind to tie up loose ends putting the house in order trying to make things appear as normal as possible.

  The windlass is safe, well hid. I concealed it in the schloss where no one will find it without the proper instructions. The dagger and amulet I have kept with me, they should be kept separate from the machine. When I reach Massachusetts, before going on to Essex I will stop in Arkham and give them to Miskatonic University along with the instructions to locate the windlass and the words that I have carefully taken the time to write down. I have written ahead to the colleagues of Armitage at the University informing them of his death and what had happened. When they receive my letter I believe I will also find a buyer for the estate.

  The summer house and foundation had been ripped clean from its spot and very little rubble remained to show proof of its existence. The body of Milton Armitage, alias Peter Von Tassell M.D., had disappeared along with it. Besides a few loose stones and broken boards, only a page from that old book was found. It had a contrasting irony about it when I discovered it under the flattened library table, the only evidence that the Doctor was there. The single page bore a combination of Latin and Arabic transcripts rendered unreadable by the mixed splattering of human and alien blood.

  I buried Jim Ruttick in the old battlefield. He didn’t have any relatives and few would miss him. I hope that he will find peace with the other soldiers buried there. Poor Jim died needlessly, never getting much into the fight, he would have been a great help if he could have and I am sure he would have enjoyed it. I’ll miss him.

  There was a horrible smell in the glade after it was all over, primarily in the area where the knoll was. The stench left quickly though but I doubt the vegetation will ever come right again. I imagine that there will always be something strange and unwholesome about the growths around that region.

  The papers the next day reported many strange occurrences around the globe. The west coast of the United States suffered a large earthquake and a tidal wave struck the coast of Australia. The weather was unusually active all over the world causing storms at sea, floods and even one hurricane was reported building up in the southern pacific.

  The U.S. Naval Observatory and other astronomy institutions were busy quelling fears about a phenomenon popularly termed the “Jupiter Effect.” While on an international level, the emergency wards of hospitals in major cities around the world had their hands full that night with an abnormally large amount of rapings, muggings and shooting casualties and several asylums and prisons reported incidents of violence and riots. There was no explanation offered by the press or authorities but it was believed that one would probably be short coming after a joint investigation by all nations concerned.

  There were a lot of disturbances that evening but there will be scientific explanations for all of it because these Old Ones are not gods. They were evil, sentient beings that deserved to be locked up where they can’t harm us. There is a higher God in the universe.

  I am at the Heathrow Airport in London waiting for the fog to lift. There has been a fog every night since that evening and it seems to have followed me even here. The airport is socked in and all commercial flights are grounded. I have managed to book passage on a small private charter to the states that somehow got clearance, when all other flights, according to reports are not allowed in or out until probably sometime tomorrow morning.

  I bought this tape recorder and several blank tapes a few hours ago when I saw the pilot and crew entering the terminal, making boarding preparations. That was when I discovered that I am the only passenger listed. I listened in on their conversation but I don’t think they noticed me. It was the pilot that shook me up. He was a thin, stooped shouldered man under six feet tall, dressed in a gray uniform, wearing a frayed pilot’s cap. His age was perhaps thirty-five but the odd deep creases in the sides of his neck made him appear older. His head was large, he had watery blue eyes that never seemed to blink, a flat nose, a receding forehead and chin, and small underdeveloped ears. I jumped with a start when he reached for the flight plan, noticing something familiar about his hand.

  I could leave here and come back and get a commercial flight when the weather clears but I know I am being followed. They have been tailing me for quite a while. I have tried to shake them several times in the past week but just when I thought I had lost them, one of their kind would always turn up keeping a watchful eye on me. I believe that even if I could slip onto a plane undetected that they will just find me some other way. If it isn’t now, it will probably be later. Maybe they mean me no harm. Maybe they are only keeping tabs on me. Whatever the situation is, I am too tired to run anymore. Besides, I can take care of myself.

  The dagger is in my tote bag along with the amulet and if I have to I can always fight if any trouble comes up. I am going to package up these tapes, Janet’s diary and the notebook and send them to Miskatonic University in America for safe keeping. There is a postal service here in the airport and the mail will probably be the safest and less conspicuous route to use.

  For the record, my name is Faren Church and until a few days ago I resided with my wife at Schlactfield Strasse, rural post number twenty seven, Valsbach Dorf, Schloss Todesfall. A fact now I don’t mind if it is made public, because if I make it back my wife and I will slip into hiding, change our names and move to where hopefully no one will find us. Maybe Miskatonic will be able to help.

  There are a lot of these Innsmouth people. They are after me I am afraid, for who can say that the job is completed, and that other phenomenon do not exist in other parts of the world. It is an invasion. There is a war on, one that is not restricted by conventional boarders and trenches but is only bounded by the universe itself. Surprisingly enough I find myself longing for the human conflict of conventional war rather than this. In those days at least you could tell who the enemy was. Not like now. They all walk, talk and pay their taxes like everyone else. Many of them appear as normal as you and me.

  There are forces out there in the unknown, beings so powerful that man and all his achievements are dwarfed beyond human comprehension. I know it sounds like the ravings of my late Uncle and that the testimony I have given will not only be considered strange by whomever may hear it, but will be judged in the end as the fabrication of an over imaginative mind. I may not have another chance to tell my story and that would be a dangerous conclusion, an ill omen. The handwriting is on the wall. I fear that even though this world has been spared, this time, due to my intervention, or some master plan, man may not be free to walk the earth long, before an outside force enters and plucks us off.

  I beg whoever hears these tapes to listen with great care and pay close attention to my wife’s diary and the old alchemist’s notebook. Caution the world to tread softly when exploring the unknown or uncovering some newly discovered ancient secret. Arm yourself with knowledge of the Elders for there lays our only salvation from the impending apocalypse. Then maybe we will have a chance to fight this thing, keeping it at bay until its wardens return.

  I was a good Tanist, and if what Armitage told me about the vigilant efforts of Miskatonic University are correct, then I can’t fault them or believe that they’ll do anything but their best.

  A new problem has risen though, out there in the hills, the two NATO countries will be digging soon to conceal their missile silos. They must be stopped. The horror still exists, those unexplored recesses in the earth are still there and the combined warheads of all the NATO countries won’t be able to stop the Coming if it reaches the surface again.

  It’s a fantastic claim, I know, but it’s true. I know now that every part of that legend is fact. If all that had to be dealt with was Yath-Notep, then the problem would be small by comparison. The giant creature I am sure could eventually be cont
ained or possibly even killed but that’s not what worries me or has made me a believer. It was what I heard that night. After it was all over, before the earth spun away that evening and I was driven mercifully into unconsciousness. It was after that hell hole was sealed and everything was quiet. I was looking to my left wondering what had happened to the walking dead soldier that had helped me. All that was left of the once animated corpse was his skeletal remains clothed in the tatters of an American Army uniform. His skull face seemed to be smiling toward the heavens. Then I heard it.

  It was coming from overhead after the alien activity around the knoll had stopped. The sound was so simple that almost a minute elapsed before I understood and passed out. I could have imagined it, you’ll say, brought on by the shock of the struggle or from the loss of blood. I heard it all the same. I can recall it clearly even now. I can’t sleep at night thinking of it and have to take tranquilizers when it thunders. If God is merciful then let him remove the memory of it so I can live out the remainder of my life in peace... it was a voice, a sound produced by alien vocal cords, the ultimate piece to the ancient puzzle, the embodiment of all the fears of the Elder Race. It excited shadowy recollections of a snarling chaos that lurked behind all life, the origin of which was so terrifyingly real that it caused my mind to slam shut, because filtering down from the sky, sounding as if it was calling through a long tunnel, was the faint answering cry of Cthulhu!

  Editor’s Note:

  Examining the facts of these three narratives has produced little evidence to support their authenticity. My inquiries with Interpol, Federal authorities and branches of the American armed forces came to a dead end as well. All reported having no information on Faren and Janet Church. They were either telling the truth, which supports the hoax theory, or they have chosen to remain tight lipped about the case. Inquiries with Miskatonic University were just as disappointing.

  Never knowing Mrs. Church’s maiden name made it impossible to track down her parents (Faren Church never made any reference to the location of his family) and I gave up searching after running an ad for several months, with no results, in the Essex Examiner asking for any information leading to their whereabouts.

  The disappearance of Ephraim Pryne has become public knowledge. The collapse of his corporate empire was widely covered by the media. I was well into the editing of the manuscripts when the news reached me. It was alleged that Pryne and some of his associates had been slowly converting the company’s liquid assets into gold, then disappeared abandoning their complex to their creditors. It is believed that he left the United States. He was last reported heading for the eastern seaboard of Massachusetts, where it was assumed that he fled the country.

  All my efforts to locate Faren Church have turned up practically empty handed and if his existence was indeed real, then his disappearance was truly complete.

  The only clue to his whereabouts was in the form of an article, although released by U.P.I., was evidently so fantastic that only a few newspapers across the nation, besides the Arkham Advertiser, saw fit to print it, albeit on the back pages:

  “Lost Plane” lands in Arkham

  By Fredrik King

  United Press International

  ARKHAM, Mass. -- A twin engine Cessna jet owned by the Emmerson-Pryne Corporation and reported missing shortly after takeoff from London Tuesday made an emergency landing today.

  During a frantic concerted search effort by the Coast Guard and the plane’s owners, the jet unexpectedly appeared over the town of Arkham, Mass., where it made an emergency landing about 2:00 P.M., 13 miles south of the town at a small rural airport. The jet, with only a single unidentified passenger at the controls, was guided down by instructions radioed from Phillips Field Airport. According to the frantic passenger, no pilot was on board.

  The jet was guided down to a safe landing, just stopping short of the end of the runway, when an unidentified passenger was seen running from the plane and into an adjacent vacant lot, disappearing into the surrounding woods.

  Upon examining the plane, and finding no other passengers on board, the local sheriff was called in to investigate. Airport officials who immediately boarded the jet found no other passengers but noticed streaks of what appeared to be blood inside the cabin.

  One of the officials who observed the landing mentioned that the fleeing male passenger was carrying a duffel bag and suggested that the jet may have been used for smuggling purposes. “There’s not enough evidence to substantiate any speculations at this time,” said Arkham Sheriff Caleb Marsh.

  A representative of Emmerson-Pryne, when informed of the recovery of the Cessna jet, and the circumstances surrounding its landing, declined to comment when after careful examination of the aircraft there was found clinging to the exterior handle of the door to the passenger section, an amputated hand or claw. Although at first what was thought to be a human hand, a closer inspection revealed certain odd characteristics that suggested otherwise.

  “The hand...if that’s what it was,” said one observer, “was webbed. I frankly don’t know if it’s human or not.”

  If you would like to read more about Byron Craft’s Pilot Demons, check out his novelette, “Cthulhu’s Minions.”

  Keep reading for an excerpt from CTHULHU’S MINIONS by Byron Craft

  Cthulhu’s Minions

  By Byron Craft

  Some say that they have always been there. A guy down on Delancey Street once said they were the remains of aborted fetuses. But the story I liked the best was told to me by an old tramp at the Nathaniel Derby Soup Kitchen. He said they were what was left over after a great war; a war that took place millions of years ago between good and evil. In my business evil prevails too often, but in his story they lost. The Dark Ones, as he called them, were cast into some kind of underworld although a few managed to stay behind.

  There were many stories, but I didn’t believe any of them until Jefferson Buck had his face chewed off.

  Jeff had been my partner back in the days when we wore the blues and drove black and whites. A few years later, a series of budget cuts put cops alone in their squad cars. A very dangerous situation for a policeman in a big city when there is no one to watch your back, a situation that followed us even after we both made detective. Oh sure, if we were investigating a homicide, the coroner would be at the crime scene along with a police photographer and one of the guys dusting for prints, or at the scene of a robbery there would normally be a uniform officer in attendance with me but that was it. Most of the time, like all guys on the force, I was on my own, knocking on doors in some tenement or cold water flat questioning perps, looking for clues in back alleys and speakeasies.

  Detective Jefferson Buck was found face down in the basement of the old Crowley Milner Building. The long forgotten department store had been closed for decades. Most of the windows in the twelve story brick structure had been broken out over the years, leaving it open to the wind. It had become a haven for drifters and street people. The guys from forensic said that Jeff had been dead for several hours before they got there. One of the bums, looking for a safe place to shoot up, found him. His screams carried through the opened windows and an officer on the beat heard the clamor.

  Jeff’s face was completely gone. I had seen something like this before. A couple of years ago I was called to the scene of an accident. A drunk had fallen off of a dumpster and cracked his skull for good. His face had been gnawed away by rats; not a pretty picture, but this was different. Jeff Buck’s features hadn’t been removed by a hundred little fangs like the drunk’s; instead it looked like it had been done by one size-able bite as if it had been made by a large animal.

  “An alligator,” a young forensic assistant blurted out. His assumption was quickly ruled out. There were rumors of alligators living in the sewers but in all my years on the force I had never seen one. Besides, there were several chilling things in addition to Jeff’s condition. His .38 had been discharged…six times. Whatever he ran into down ther
e, he had emptied his Smith & Wesson into it before it took him down.

  Also there was plenty of blood at the scene, mostly Jeff’s, but there was some that didn’t appear to be his, next to an open storm drain. It was pale, very nearly pink, like veal, giving the impression of whoever this second party was he must have been very anemic.

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