by Khurt Khave
“Maybe you should see a psychiatrist.”
“Don’t you get it?” the man cried, poking me in the chest and leaving a smudged fingerprint. “We created a doorway, not just for the obsolete gods but for the Old Ones to come through! They’re widening the crack from the other side and the wider it gets,” the man held up his claw-hand, “the stranger things will become.”
I thought about that for a moment. “So reality’s changing but nobody seems to notice because they’re changing along with it?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Okay, say you’re right. How do we fix it? How do you close the crack?”
The man’s smile returned. “Space-time isn’t a vase you can just glue back together. This is. . .entropy. It’s inevitable. You can’t fight the inevitable.”
“What do we do?”
“Go to the movies. Take a walk on the beach. Do whatever it is you enjoy because pretty soon, it’ll all be gone.”
I returned to the subway instead. Now I never leave the trains. It’s the one place I’ve never seen the alien gods or the city’s mutant population. I think I know why. The trains are my place of power and while I’m not a fancy sky-god or world-creator, my powers are real enough. Everyone is a passenger at some point in their lives, even when they’re being carted around by their mother in the womb. That’s a pretty big congregation. So long as I have the strength, I can protect my temple and keep it pure. I’m thinking of going topside one more time and trying to round up as many mortals as I can who haven’t been affected yet. At some point I’ll have to close off the trains from the rest of the universe, or from whatever the universe is going to become. Eventually the trains will be like a tomb when the universe collapses back into the quantum foam and reality returns to the primordial darkness of preCreation. Then I’ll have a choice to make. Let go and accept the inevitable like Dr. Walter Mitchell said or wait it out in hopes of another Big Bang. Waiting is bad enough but waiting in a timeless place is literally hell. I wonder if this is how the Devil got started?
James Pratt lives in southern New Jersey and enjoys writing horror, fantasy, and weird fiction. His influences include H. P. Lovecraft, Jack Vance, Clive Barker, William Hope Hodgson, Clark Ashton Smith, Michael Moorcock, Roger Zelazny, and Stephen King. Jame's stories have appeared in a number of anthologies including Canopic Jars: Tales of Mummies and Mummification from Great Old Ones Press, Dark Hall Press Cosmic Horror Anthology, Alter Egos Vol. 2 from Source Point Press, Barbarians of the Red Planet from Rogue Planet Press, Fall of Cthulhu Vol. II from Horrified Press, Demonic Visions 50 Horror Takes Books 1 thru 6, and A Mythos Grimmly from Wanderer's Haven Press.
Sects and the Single Girl Steven A. Roman
The subpoena came wrapped in a twice-folded sheet of blue cardstock paper. The Reverend Dr. Martin Goldsborough accepted the bundle even before the words of the FedEx deliveryman had registered in his ears, “You’ve been served.” By then it was too late to do anything about it; the impostor had turned and hurried down the flagstone path before Martin could try to hand it back. Or kill the little bastard.
Martin sneered, “Goddamn process servers.” He angrily slammed the rectory door. It was the second time this week he’d been conned into signing for an alleged package, only to discover he’d fallen for the old fake deliveryman routine; the first had been a midget or dwarf—or whatever the hell the politically correct term was, he didn’t really care—dressed as a Girl Scout selling cookies. You’d think after thirty years of running this parish I’d have learned better—but no, he thought. Shit. Next time I should just shoot whoever’s standing on the welcome mat and find out their business later.
He walked back into the living room, taking a few moments to read the caption printed in black ink at the top of the blue sheet:
SUPREME COURT OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK CITY OF NEW YORK
SHITAKI CUMBERBATCH PLAINTIFF
— against —
T HE CHURCH OF STARRY WISDOM AND REV. DR. MARTIN GOLDSBOROUGH DEFENDANTS
“Cumberbatch,” he muttered sourly. “So this is how you want to play the game, eh, girl? Too afraid to confront me directly; have to hide behind your lawyers’ skirts.” Then his gaze shifted over to the subject line that explained the nature of the lawsuit, and his blood pressure skyrocketed. He choked on his initial response as the words caught in his throat; his face turned a brilliant shade of crimson.
“SON OF A BITCH!” he finally managed to scream, and threw the papers on the floor. Then he stomped into his private office to call his attorney.
“The nerve of that bitch!” Martin roared an hour later, his heart rate no lower now than it had been during his first apoplectic fit. “Where the hell does she get off suing me for sexual harassment? She worked here for three years, three goddamn years, and I never laid a hand on her—not that I didn’t want to —and now she’s saying, what? That I tried to stick my dick in her ear at one of the ceremonies? That I groped her ass whenever she bent over to pick up something? It’s nothing but goddamn slander, that’s what it is!”
“This is bad, Martin,” Arthur Mannix said as he flipped through the pages of the summons for the third time. “Very bad. You’d better be prepared for the worst.”
Martin snorted derisively as he dropped ice cubes into two glasses and splashed a few shots of Glenfiddich whiskey over them, “What are you expecting me to do, Arthur—tremble in fear over some bullshit allegations in a lawsuit that has absolutely no merit? You should be concentrating more on how you’re going to crush this whore for trying to slander me. I won’t have my name, or the good name of this venerable institution, dragged through the mud by some, some gold digger!”
“Well, you better get a little weak-kneed about this one, Martin,” Arthur replied, and slapped the subpoena for added effect. “As my teenaged son would say—on those rare occasions when he doesn’t have a coke spoon wedged up his nose—this is some serious shit.” He took another glance at the name of the legal firm printed on the top sheet. “Mather and Standish. This girl has some high-priced talent backing her up, and these two just love the media spotlight. We could be in for one hell of a smear campaign before this ever gets to a courtroom. Believe you me, dragging the church’s ‘good name’ through the mud will be the least of your worries once they start pleading their case on the Today Show.”
Martin groaned, “But for Dagon’s sake, Artie—a sexual harassment suit, of all things? It’s preposterous! Sex is a major part of our rituals—and she was a willing participant in every one of them!”
“Oh, don’t act so surprised, Martin,” Arthur countered. “It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Sacrificial rites, black masses, fund-raising orgies every Nath-Feast—with all that naked flesh on display, sooner or later someone was bound to start making noises. This isn’t like the good old days, when you could treat a woman like a piece of chattel and just cut out her heart whenever you needed to beg a favor from the Great Old Ones.” He smiled wryly, “We live in enlightened times now, you know. Women’s Liberation, the Equal Rights Amendment, female empowerment—I’m sure you must’ve seen something about it on Fox News in the last decade.”
“Enlightened times, my ass,” Martin groused, handing him a glass.
Arthur took a seat on the couch and sipped his drink, “So, tell me about this Shitaki Cumberbatch.”
Martin lowered himself into his easy chair, “Used to work as my personal assistant, up until last June. You must’ve crossed paths with her at some point, or at least spoken with her on the phone. Asian; half Japanese, I think. Quite the looker. Had a set of knockers like ripe honeydew melons— hard to miss, even under the ceremonial robes at the midnight offerings. Lips like a pair of bright red suction cups. Head of hair black as coal. Legs up to her neck.” He shifted in his seat, trying to ward off the hard-on that was forming at the memory of those soft curves and that milky-white skin.
“Oh, now I remember her,” Arthur said with a rueful s
mile. “You’re right—the girl was a knockout.”
Martin chuckled, “Why do you think I put her at the front desk? Or used her as the main recruitment officer at our college drives? If there’s one weakness every college boy in America shares, it’s for an Asian beauty with a pair of class-A breasts offering them a good time.”
Arthur sighed, “See? That’s exactly the sort of politically incorrect situation I warned you would get the church into trouble one day!”
Martin raised an eyebrow, “Artie, the Church of Starry Wisdom sacrifices human beings to Elder Gods in the hope of having them return to enslave the planet. You can’t get more politically incorrect than that.”
Arthur grunted in response. He stared into his glass and swirled the ice cubes around for a few seconds, “So what are you going to do?” he finally asked.
Martin, who was about to take a sip from his own glass, halted in midgesture and glowered at him, “What am I . . . Artie, you’re the one getting paid to be the church’s legal advisor—and don’t think for a minute I haven’t been hearing that meter running in the back of your head from the moment you walked through the front door. So stop adding up your billable hours and start advising.”
Arthur took a gulp of whiskey, then stared into space for a moment. “We could try settling this out of court.”
Martin frowned, “You mean pay her off. I don’t care for extortion, Artie; you know that.” The frown deepened, and he glanced toward the ceiling, “Neither do the Great Old Ones, praise be to them.” He sipped his drink, then waved the glass toward his friend, “I don’t know. What if I just had her killed?”
Arthur sighed, “Always the direct method with you, isn't it?”
“It’s usually the least complicated.”
“So you say.” The attorney shook his head, “No, that would just drag us into a major police investigation. Again. I have enough trouble keeping your acolytes out of prison without adding the defense of yet another murder charge to the mix. And my staff is already overloaded as it is, fending off constant attacks from every ambulance chaser and district attorney in the tristate area whenever someone goes missing in the dead of night.” He raised a questioning eyebrow, “You want to have all of them killed, too, and just be done with the whole mess?”
“Don’t think I haven’t considered it.” Martin pursed his lips, “What about having her committed? Nobody would believe the things she’s seen; hell, some of my ‘acolytes,’ as you put it, have a hard time believing it themselves. And if she got on the stand and started yammering about the ‘terrible things’ lurking out there in deep space, waiting for their chance to gobble up mankind, we could just say she was nuts to begin with.” He pointed an emphatic index finger at his friend. “I’m telling you, Artie, a big-titted girl like that, there’s not a jury in the country that’d think she had an ounce of brains in her head.”
“But didn’t you tell me once she graduated magna cum laude from M.I.T.?” Arthur asked. “I am remembering that correctly, aren’t I? ‘Artie, this chippy’s got brains big as her boobs—and that’s saying a lot,’ I think is the way you put it.”
“Yeah,” Martin agreed dourly. Not the best of comebacks, he knew, but it was all he had at the moment.
“‘It’s like hiring a Penthouse Pet for eye candy and finding out she’s a founding member of MENSA,’” Arthur continued.
“All right, so I said all that!” Martin bellowed. “I also said I’d like to bang the shit out of her until her spine snapped, but that never happened! So what?”
Arthur laughed, and held up his hands in mock surrender, “Down, boy. Remember your blood pressure. I’m merely saying you’d have a hard time convincing a jury she’s an idiot with the kind of bona fides she’s got. As for an insanity defense in general,” he shook his head. “No, otherwise we get caught up in that whole ‘proof of demonic existence’ thing, and that didn’t work for us the last time we played that trump card. Remember Avery Thorne?”
“That little shit,” Martin muttered.
“Yes, the little shit who took the church for a $300,000 payday because you kept insisting he was nuttier than a fruitcake. Right before the ‘little shit’ cracked open a copy of the Necronomicon and summoned up RhanTegoth to testify on his behalf.”
Martin smiled tightly, “He’s dead, you know. Thorne, I mean.”
Arthur started, then held up a hand, “I don’t want to hear it. We need to focus on the case at hand.”
The smile widened, “Screamed like a fucking pig in a slaughterhouse when I sliced off his eyelids.”
“Enough!” Arthur snapped. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mather and Standish have religious experts programmed into their speed dial who’d back up Cumberbatch’s claims at a moment’s notice. And I’m sure they’re well versed with the Thorne case by now.”
Martin slammed his glass down on the table, “I still say we should just kill the bitch. Release one of the shoggoths from the cellar and have it rip her to shreds. That would put an end to this goddamn annoyance, let me tell you.” He rose to pour himself another drink, “You know, she’s only doing this to get back at me.”
“How so?” Arthur asked.
“The sexual harassment charge is just a bullshit cover story.” Martin poured out another two fingers of whiskey. “The girl had aspirations of becoming high priestess. I didn’t think she had what it took.”
“You mean this is really all about a disgruntled employee who didn’t get a promotion?”
“Exactly! She wanted to move up in the ranks, but didn’t want to play by the rules. You know how it is, Artie. As a high priest, it’s my right under church doctrine to bed whomever I want, whenever I want, no strings attached. No refusals, either, especially if you’re looking to move up a few rungs on the ecclesiastical ladder.”
“Uh-huh. And this Shitaki wouldn’t play ‘hide the salami’ with you even though, I take it, she knew the tenets of the charter and the consequences of refusing the commands of a church elder.” Arthur drained his glass and set it on the coffee table, “So, just out of curiosity, who got the job?”
“Eleanor Crowley,” Martin said with a wry smile.
Arthur’s eyebrows shot up, “The redhead who likes to diddle herself with ceremonial daggers—during the ceremonies? Wow. You sure can pick ’em, Marty. So how is she in the sack?”
Martin’s eyes sparkled, “Like a wild animal. I’m telling you, Artie, the girl has an insatiable sexual appetite.” He gestured toward his crotch, “I still have teeth marks on my. . .”
Arthur waved him off, “All right, I get the picture. So this Shitaki refused your advances, and you denied her the position in favor of someone more willing to fulfill the requirements.”
Martin nodded, “Right.”
Arthur grimaced, “That’s going to be a bitch to defend against, without getting bogged down by having to go into vivid descriptions of our religious practices that are certain to scare the shit out of a jury.”
Martin’s jaw dropped, “A jury trial? You’re joking.”
“With Mather and Standish involved?” Arthur shook his head. “Not at all. Like I told you, Marty, we’re gonna be in for one hell of a fight.”
“I still say it’d be a whole lot easier if I just killed the bastard,” Shitaki muttered harshly, lips twisted in a sneer, arms folded across her chest. “Be a whole lot more satisfying, too.”
“That’s just the anger talking,” said Juliet Mather from the other side of the large mahogany desk. She and her black minidress–wearing client had gathered in her midtown Manhattan office at Mather & Standish to go over the particulars of the lawsuit. “You’ll feel differently once you’ve seen me slicing up Goldsborough on the stand.” Her lips drew back in a predatory smile. “Trust me, Shitaki, it’s the slow, torturous kind of public humiliation that’s always the more satisfying.”
Shitaki’s left eyebrow did a slow crawl up her forehead, “You’re not a member of the church, are you? Because that sounded
awfully like something a follower of Dagon would say.”
Juliet laughed, “Never been around lawyers much, have you?”
“Only the ones who work for the church,” her client replied, “and they’re all members of the congregation. That’s why I asked.”
“I assure you, there are no sorcerers on the payroll here—only exorcists,” Juliet gave her a wink. “Okay, maybe a couple of hunchbacked assistants down in the mailroom. But that’s it.”
“Cute,” Shitaki replied with a polite laugh. Also incredibly lame, she thought. But since when were lawyers known for their sense of humor?
“So how did you meet Goldsborough?” Juliet asked. “You weren’t too clear about that at our first meeting.”
“I guess it was a little over three years ago, at a mixer the church held,” Shitaki explained. “Mi-Go/Yu-Go/We-All-Go Dancing, it was called. It’s one of those religious ‘singles night’ things.”
“What, like Shabbat Across America?”
“Yeah, kinda,” Shitaki replied with a chuckle. “Only without the Jewish mysticism—or any clothing.”
“So. . .they’re orgies,” Juliet said hesitantly.
Shitaki snorted.,“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Only when your willing participation in them threatens the strength of our case. Shows you were aware of what the church was like before you joined it, and still thought it was okay that women were being treated as sex objects. Or worse.”
“Well, the men are treated that way, too—the good-looking ones, anyway,” Shitaki replied with a smile. “Honestly, I’d never seen so many wellhung straight guys in one place before. Well, outside of my dorm room on a Saturday night, back at M.I.T. Anyway, I figured if the social functions were like that all the time—and Martin assured me they were—how could I not join the congregation?”
