Urban Temples of Cthulhu - Modern Mythos Anthology

by Khurt Khave

  I stepped confidently into the examination room. Mr. Torrington sat in the patient’s chair, fully reclined. He was an old man, with leathery skin hanging off of his face. Gray and white hair stuck up in all directions on his head where it hadn’t retreated from the front, showing his age-spotted scalp. Hands with long, cleaver fingers sprouting grotesque, sharp looking yellow fingernails rested on the narrow arms of the chair. His clothing style was better suited for early in the previous century and, judging by their threadbare worn state, looked as if they were genuine articles. A gold watch chain glinted between a button and pocket of his waistcoat.

  His mouth was open and from out of it was issuing such sounds that had never been heard on this planet. The closest thing that it could be compared to was the warped moaning of the terminally and painfully ill and severely wounded animals. At least this time it was faint, I thought to myself. Somehow there was darkness so deep as to be nearly purple issuing from the man’s gaping jaw. I still hadn’t riddled out how that worked. There also seemed to be some sort of local vacuum near his face because a faint sucking sound could be heard mingled with the appalling noise. I checked that the suction tube was turned off, and on its hook near the instrument tray, which it was, and righted the rolling chair that my former colleague had hastily vacated.

  “Hello, Mr. Torrington,” I said, cheerfully, “How are you today?”

  The man in the chair formed the words as best he could with his mouth open, which came out as several throaty mumbles. I saw that Wise had gotten so far as to put wedges at either hinge of Torrington’s jaw. The man had an impressively large mouth and I didn’t think that it had anything to do with the unnaturalness spouting from it; just a feature he was born with.

  “That’s good to hear,” I said, looking at the instrument tray. The small pick was missing. My eyes searched the floor and saw that it had been dropped several inches away. I bent over, groaning as my only slightly pudgy stomach pressed in on itself, and retrieved it. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen you.”

  The man mumbled again as I rolled my chair to the sink set into the counter. I turned on the water and made splashing noises; I didn’t usually worry about sterilization with Mr. Torrington, and he didn’t seem to be someone to complain, but better safe than sorry.

  “Have a good summer?” I said as I splashed my hand under the water. Besides, I thought, these floors are clean enough to eat off of. He made another round of mumbles.

  “Oh Cape Ann! Beautiful seaside.” Besides, I hadn’t even had my coffee yet this morning. I didn’t want to waste the energy that washing would take. “I’ve only been out as far as Ipswich myself. I took a day trip there; got a lot of useful shopping done. And how’s work going for you?”

  Mumble mumble.

  “That’s good to hear.” I didn’t blame Torrington for this; Wise should have known to wait for me rather than take this job on himself. But my coffee time—you don’t mess with that.

  I laid the pick to the side and dried my hands on a paper towel, then tossed it in the bin. Next I slipped a surgical mask over my mouth that I took from the cabinet, anchoring it behind my ears with its elastic straps, and fumbled the blue latex gloves on my hands; you know the kind, the ones that never open at the first attempt no matter how much practice you have. Pick back in hand, I rolled back over to the patient’s chair and its occupant.

  I leaned in close and took a look at his mouth but not a direct one— Wise’s body was evidence enough why that wasn’t a good idea. I don’t know how something that seemed to have a vacuum could still produce a smell so foul. I’m not a physicist after all, so I didn’t dwell on it. It was as I thought: a black pit that appeared to be infinite.

  “Have you been brushing three times a day?” I asked.

  Mumble, mumble.

  “And flossing?”

  Mumble. Mumble.

  “How about mouth wash?”

  Mumble.

  I arched an eyebrow and gave him a stern look. “Hmmm?” I said. A guilty look crossed his face.

  “No, I didn’t think so,” I said, “that would probably help this breath of yours.”

  I plunged the hand holding the pick inside, taking care to keep my head turned away. There was ample room to maneuver—as I expected it was roomier than a mouth should be. It was very cold, so much so that I could imagine frost forming on my gloved hand. Otherwise I couldn’t feel anything except for a weak pulling sensation. I sank deeper, to my wrist now, and slowly kept going, searching around. I have rather thin wrists and arms. It got even colder; the metal pick in my hand was almost too cold to handle. Even so, I let my mind wonder in the usual Zen-like state that comes with all examinations while still being mindful of the few key points to look out for.

  I would probably get some lilies for Wise’s wife, a thoughtful little card as well. She was still pretty young; nice body on her, too. I’d wait a few weeks then see if I could get anything going there. She’d probably be wanting a bit of comfort by that time. I could certainly do that and more.

  I was to my elbow in Torrington’s mouth now. By this time I started to find teeth. They weren’t set in a row but slowly tumbling around the abyss. The first I encountered skittered away as I bumped a careless finger against it, but it only took a few seconds to find it again. I gently poked and prodded at each one I found in turn, taking care to not send any more flying. Torrington made no protests. I continued searching.

  I didn’t know if Thomas the receptionist was going to work out. It was true that he did stay, but it was because he was too afraid to flee. I need someone who wouldn’t cut and run or freeze up just because something weird happened. And I would find a colleague that would listen to me when I said something about my clientele. This couldn’t keep happening; I was going to be made a pauper through cleaning bills.

  The pick caught on something in one tooth: a small hole in a lower second molar by the feel of it. Ah-ha, it was a cavity. But as soon as the point of the instrument touched the diseased tooth, something suddenly wrapped around my wrist. It was thick, rope-like, and seemed to suction itself onto the soft inner skin of my wrist. I tried to pull my hand back but whatever had hold of me held fast. I braced a foot on the base of the chair and pulled with all my might. My hand came free with an inappropriate sucking sound and I fell backwards out of my chair, the pick flying out of my hand to clatter on the far end of the room.

  I looked at my wrist. It looked as if I had been give a severe hickey, just above the hem of the glove, from an over-enthusiastic lover. I vigorously rubbed my arm and feeling began to return as it warmed. That wasn’t a positive thing as it turned out—the mark began to sting. Mr. Torrington looked at me, concern in his milky green eyes.

  “I don’t think I’ll be putting a filling in that one,” I said, employing the brisk, business-like tone I used to keep patients calm. “We’ll go ahead and pull that one.”

  Mr. Torrington began to look nervous. “Oh it’ll be fine,” I said. “One quick tug and it’ll all be over.” The old man nodded.

  I looked at the instrument tray next to the chair and picked the bent nose pliers up. They were long, the two prongs forming an L-shape an inch or so from the end. I didn’t give him a local anesthetic or gas of any kind—he hadn’t jumped or made a noise when I hit the cavity. I didn’t believe that he actually felt any of his teeth at the moment.

  I opened and closed the pliers quickly to check that they were smooth, making that obligatory metallic clicking sound that precedes any use. I drove my hand once again into Mr. Torrington’s mouth. This time I made no pretense and went directly up to my elbow. The climate had changed in the minute or so that I had been out—it was now warm and humid, much like a swamp. I felt as if I was searching through thick mud. And search I did—the offending tooth had moved.

  I could feel putrefied vegetation brush against my fingers. The pliers got caught on something stringy and slimy. Whatever it was seemed to try its best to become tangled; the strands un
cannily finding the hinge and wrapping around the base. Once I had extricated my hand with its tool from the mess, I felt my hand brush up against something that could have been the tooth. I explored it with the pointed tip pliers, looking for the telltale cavity, but was disappointed. I inwardly groaned with frustration; my forehead had begun to bead with sweat, one annoying drop hanging off the tip of my nose, and my awkwardly poised arm was starting to become sore.

  It took several more minutes before I found the right tooth. I had to keep from whooping out loud—my hand was so tired that I could feel that a fine tremble had developed. I didn’t want to accidentally let go of the pliers while in Mr. Torrington’s mouth. They were pretty expensive and I didn’t think that I could get away with putting it on his bill.

  Clamping the tooth firmly between the prongs, I gave it a tug. Apparently Mr. Torrington’s teeth were firmly in the thick sludge set this time because it didn’t budge. I grabbed my arm with my free hand and braced my foot on the base of the chair again. Keeping up a strong, steady pressure, I began to feel the tooth slowly give way to me. I was gritting my teeth at the burning pain in my fatigued hand and arm as it slowly began to come out of Mr. Torrington’s mouth, the molar in tow.

  All at once my arm and hand were free. It was covered in a goopy, gray-brown mush that I didn’t dare try and identify. The tooth itself appeared as if it was decaying; gruesome looking browns and greens had spread out over what should have been the white of healthy and clean calcium phosphate. There was a large hole in what would have been the inward facing side where it was eaten away by the cavity. It emanated what I can only describe as a thick, black fog that evaporated before it had gone an inch or so from the tooth.

  A god awful screech blasted from Mr. Torrington’s mouth—I thought that it would crack glass and cause fruit to go bad with its pitch. The dark, endless void in his mouth vanished with a sound like ripping silk, ending with a small pop similar to that of a bursting chewing gum bubble.

  I rolled over the counter and opened a drawer. Taking out a tiny, bright neon green lidded cup I placed the tooth inside and closed the lid with a snap. There was a picture of a smiling tooth on top, its own teeth straight and clean. I set it on the counter and grabbed a handful of gauze.

  I rolled back over to Mr. Torrington and took my first proper look into his mouth. It was a normal mouth now, albeit one that had not seen proper care. The stench from it had actually worsened. I knew that a few more of these cavities would develop soon if he didn’t change any of his eating or cleaning habits. The spot on the lower right side of his jaw where the molar would normally be set, now just showing the empty pinkness of his gums, was bleeding only slightly. I stuffed a few of the gauze into the hole and removed the wedges on his jaw. He closed his mouth, nodding thankfully at me. Once that was done I happily proclaimed myself done, throwing away the gloves and facemask to prove my sincerity.

  “Don’t eat anything solid or brush your teeth today and change the gauze when you wake up in the morning,” I said. Mr. Torrington rubbed his jaw where the tooth was extracted, nodding his understanding. “I want to see you again in a week to see how that’s doing. Let the receptionist know, he’ll be the young man hiding under the desk in the lobby, and make another appointment. He’ll also work out your bill.”

  Mr. Torrington nodded. “Shank ooo,” he said thickly. I could see that his tongue was working to try and explore the hole where the tooth was.

  “And remember,” I said, stern once again, “brush, floss, wash. Three times a day. I want to see some improvement when you come for your checkup next year.” The man nodded yet again and made a noise of acquiescence.

  I rolled back over to the counter and took the little cup with the tooth inside. Black fog had begun to leak from beneath the closed cap. I rummaged in the drawer again and pulled out a cheerfully bright red tooth brush and a piece of hard, sugar-free candy. I offered all three to Mr. Torrington who smiled at the sight of the candy and held out his hand. I laid all three in his palm and the cup started violently rattling as soon as it touched Mr. Torrington’s skin. He looked at it a little apprehensively, but took it all the same.

  I sat the examination chair back up and watched as Mr. Torrington, age making his steps slow and unsure, walk out of the examination room amidst the sound of a tiny calcium lump tapping frantically against cheap plastic. In fairness, I reasoned, the tooth was his; I didn’t think that I had a right keep it. Nor did I know what he would do with it—maybe put it under his pillow. I couldn’t imagine the havoc that would cause. But, I thought happily and only slightly callously, that was the tooth fairy’s problem now.

  Carl R. Jennings is by day a thickly Russian accented bartender in Southwestern Virginia. By night he is the rooster themed superhero: the Molotov Cocktail, protecting the weak and beer-sodden. While heroically posing on a rooftop in the moonlight in case a roaming photographer happens by, he finds the time to write down a word or two in the lifelong dream that he can put aside the superhero mantle and utility comb to become a real author.

  Facebook.com/carl.r.jennings.2014

  Along the Shore of Old Ridge Stuart Conover

  In the Doctor’s dwelling today was an occasion for both celebration and disappointment. Celebration at the strength of the human spirit being able to return a man to consciousness after months of being in a coma but disappointment at the cost. The utter destruction of the man’s grasp on sanity. With what was coming out of his mouth it was clear the man had fallen into utter madness.

  At least that is what everyone else would believe.

  As the town’s doctor, I had to sedate him to not let the townsfolk worry. In reality I had to sedate him so they wouldn’t hear any truths that were echoed in his madness.

  It had all started three months ago when a man was washed ashore along the banks of Old Ridge. The morning had been cold and the shoreline had been steeped in a dense fog.

  The very fact that he had been found at all had been a miracle. He was skin and bones when a local fisherman had come across him and honestly they all had felt the poor soul was already dead. His pulse was so weak that the first of the townsfolk who had come onto the scene hadn’t been able to detect it and if he hadn’t convulsed when they were moving him they may not have gotten him to me in time to save his life.

  He had clearly been treated roughly in the water and his flesh was a canvas of bites, burns, and who could say what else had been done to him. Being a small coastal town Old Ridge was close enough to a larger city in case of a true emergency but small and remote enough to where we didn’t have a hospital of our own.

  Most of the residents didn’t trust the big cities. In fact, since the local doctor had died last year I was the closest thing to one that they had now and was mostly still considered an outsider myself. Folks were either born into this life never to leave or had come here running from their own miserable pasts.

  When the men who had found him had realized he was alive the first thing they did was bring him straight to me. I could tell the man was injured, but as bad as he looked, he wasn’t in critical condition.

  He had no identification on him and I was getting ready to drive him to where he could be properly looked after when I saw the tattoo that was hidden within the palm of his hand. At a quick glance it resembled the icon of the fish that has commonly become known as the “Jesus Fish” in today’s society. The crude inking techniques that were used and the eye that had been placed within the center of it hinted at something far more sinister.

  It was the symbol I had been chasing for so many years, real before my eyes and inked into the skin of a man who was barely drawing breath let alone able to tell me what he knew.

  I had to keep him here. Keep him alive until he was well enough to tell me what he knew.

  When I had been deployed to help cleanup efforts after the disaster in Pakistan, long before the mess of 9/11, I had witnessed something unnatural. The local government had welcomed our help but forbidden us
to set foot in one of their coastal towns.

  We were told that they didn’t need our help. Instantly, we all felt that it had to be military related and I was assigned to find out what was actually going on there. It was going to be a scouting trip and I had no idea that what I would see would change the rest of my life.

  I had snuck into the city under the cover of nightfall, but even if we hadn’t suspected some kind of a government cover up or secret military base, anyone walking into the town would instantly have known something wasn’t right. The village looked to be almost in ruins though it was clearly still being lived in.

  What had clearly once been quite amazing architecture had fallen into decay. A smell of sickness and rotten fish permeated every inch of the area. As I slowly moved further into the village under the cover of darkness it was all I could do to not retch my lunch, let alone gag, but my training somehow kept me quiet.

  It wasn’t long before I came upon the temple. I can only call it a temple now because at first glance I felt it to be a crypt from how it looked outside but as it was the only building with any light emanating from it I knew I had to investigate. As I drew near, two men in robes could be made out standing guard at the front door. While I seriously doubted that this was any sort of a military installation I knew that I had to be sure.

  I slowly circled the crypt, silently passing through shadows and on the lookout for anyone else who may be watching from within. The windows themselves all looked worn from age and even if they weren’t coated in dust the few lights that shown through clearly gave the impression that they were covered from within.

  It seemed that they were hiding something.

  As I came to the back of the structure it was quickly becoming obvious that there was no other door leading inside though it did look as if the roof near the back had been slightly damaged with age and a stone carving I couldn’t make out in the dark was close enough and tall enough to possibly allow me to make it to the roof, and from there I would have a vantage point inside.