by Khurt Khave
Even with his limited knowledge of religious practices, Destin understood that the reverend was speaking in tongues. Over a year ago, before Carrie had walked out, he had been channel surfing in the middle of the night and caught the tail end of a program that featured a very energetic televangelist. The man had whipped his crowd of followers into a frenzy, chanting the same type of nonsense words. Sloan reached the front of the sanctuary and as he turned to face his tiny flock, he switched to English.
“We call upon you, our terrible god, who was alive, is now dead, and will soon live again. We call upon you, who dwells dreaming in the hidden city. We call upon you, O Great Old One, who's world this was and shall be again. We beseech you, our savior from the Devourer of the Universe. Grant us your vision. Allow us to see what is to come through the vessel you have sent.”
Sloan fell silent and Destin shivered with fear. There was an atmosphere of what he could only describe as deadly expectation permeating the sanctuary. It was as real as the pew beneath him. It pressed in on him from all directions, as if trying to crush him into a tiny, insignificant speck of dust. The very air around him felt stale, lifeless. . .ancient.
Fighting his growing panic, he slid off the pew and crouched on all fours. Gathering his nerve, he crawled over to the aisle. He peeked out from between the pews, half expecting to see Sloan crouching there, ready to grab him and drag him kicking and screaming to the front, but the center aisle was empty.
Fighting the urge to bolt, he crouched low and dashed through the back doors. Once in the vestibule, he stood up straight and almost leaped to the main entrance. He threw himself against the door closest to him, and nearly screamed when it did not move. He pushed again but it barely rattled. Panicked, he grabbed the long iron handle that was bolted to the door and pulled, but again the door did not budge. He tried the other doors in quick succession with the same result. He frantically looked for a lock or dead bolt, but there was nothing. Behind him, he could hear the chanting gathering both speed and volume. His eyes darted around the vestibule, but there was no other way out.
Suddenly the chanting stopped. Destin froze, straining his ears. He was effectively trapped, because he knew that no matter what happened, he did not dare go back into the sanctuary. Seconds dragged by. Then another sound, muted and dull but still all too audible, came from behind the swinging doors.
The scream that he had managed to suppress burst out of his lungs. He slammed his shoulder into the nearest door, planted his feet against the carpet and pushed with every fiber of his being. The doors groaned but did not give. The sound grew louder and Destin screamed again. It seemed to penetrate deep into both his body and mind. He had no reference, no way to compare it to anything in the encyclopedia of his memory. It crawled, and it slithered, but it also clicked and rolled. It walked on two feet, and four, and a thousand. It did all of these things, and none of them. It was vile, and it was alien, but a part of him, a very old, ancient, buried part, recognized it and sent one single word crashing into his conscious mind – run! He swung around, jamming his back against the door. At that instant, one of the swinging doors rocked slightly.
“Please,” he managed to croak. His throat was dry and even that single word caused him to cough. The door rattled again and then slowly swung open. His eyes looked into the darkness beyond the door. They saw what lurked there, but his mind rebelled. It simply refused to process the signal it was getting. Instead, it flicked a switch and shut itself down. Destin tumbled forward, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Do not wake up.
Do not wake up.
For the love of God, do not wake up!
For the remainder of his short life, Destin would never be sure if
someone was whispering those words to him or if his own mind was begging him to remain unconscious. He struggled, trying to move, but something bound him. He tried to breathe, but something clogged his throat. Terror overrode reason and he flailed against his bonds. They tightened, and he struggled harder. Darkness closed in but he fought it, until finally a tiny speck of light flared.
Reaching out with his mind, he grabbed the light and squeezed. The light flared brighter and the darkness retreated. Destin fixed every ounce of his strength on the growing light. He suddenly understood that he was still unconscious, just as he understood that if he did not somehow manage to break free of his bonds, he would never wake up. He struggled harder, until finally the dark force that was imprisoning him shattered. He opened his eyes.
And wished to God that he had obeyed the order to stay unconscious. He was lying on a hard, cold surface. Above him a large, golden chandelier glowed softly. His memory rebooted and he understood that he was lying on the altar at The Church of St. Jude. Somewhere to his left, he heard a low murmur. He moved his arms and legs, surprised to find that he was not bound. He turned his head, half expecting Max Sloan to pop into his field of vision wielding some kind of sacrificial knife. Sloan was indeed there, flanked by his congregation. They were several feet away and below him, on the main floor. The pastor, at least, appeared to be unarmed. His staff was nowhere to be seen. His eyes met Destin's and he smiled. He glanced at his followers.
“See? He's strong. Our master chose well.” Several of the congregants nodded.
“Wha. . .” The instant Destin tried to speak, his dry throat rebelled and he began to cough. Sloan held out a hand and someone handed him a glass of water. He climbed the two steps to the main platform and held it out to Destin. Destin leaned away, shaking his head.
“It's just water, Destin,” said Sloan. “Believe me, if we wanted you dead, you would be dead. Please, drink. You're badly dehydrated.” Destin coughed again. He sat up and out of desperation took the water. It was warm but at least it seemed to be pure. He drank it down and Sloan deftly retrieved the glass. A woman, short, stocky with bleached blonde hair, moved to his side and took it. With a neutral glance at Destin, she rejoined the congregation. Destin looked at Sloan.
“I'm going to leave now,” he managed to say, although his voice was still raspy. Sloan smiled again.
“You have no idea how much I envy you,” he said. “What you are going to see.” He shook his head. “I would gladly consign my soul to oblivion for just a glimpse.” Moving slowly, Destin swung his legs off the altar. He started to stand, but something grabbed him from behind. With a startled cry he fell backward, his head hitting the unyielding stone of the altar. Darkness flitted around the edge of his vision. He struggled, but whatever was holding him easily resisted his effort.
“Let. . .me. . .go,” he gasped. He lunged forward, trying to roll off the altar, but was immediately pulled back. His body was forced flat onto the hard surface, both arms and legs immobilized. His head thrashed back and forth, trying to get a glimpse of what was assaulting him, but he could see nothing. “What. . .what. . .”
“You beheld the servant of the One We Do Not Name,” said Sloan. His voice seemed to come from a great distance. “It led you here, and when you saw it in the foyer, it nearly destroyed you. Now, your mind refuses to allow you to see it, but don't worry, Destin. Soon, you will witness signs and wonders. You're mind will open and you will be forever changed. Oh, how I envy you!”
Something wrapped itself around Destin's head and clamped his mouth shut. He wanted to beg Sloan to release him. He wanted to find Carrie and beg her to forgive him. He wanted to surrender himself to the F.B.I. and atone for his crimes. He wanted to forget the creeping, growing terror that held him in an unbreakable grip. He wanted to. . .
Something. . .something cold and hot and wet and dry and oozing. . . pressed against his left temple. He moaned and tried to pull away, but it pressed harder. He screamed a silent scream as the pressure increased. Then, something gave way. It wasn't skin or bone. His skull did not cave in, nor did he bleed. Some kind of natural, ancient defense that Destin possessed, that all humanity possessed, disintegrated. His mind was left open and vulnerable.
He was invaded.
/> Above him the cathedral ceiling dissolved like sugar in water. Beyond was a field of stars, billions upon billions of blazing stars. He felt his mind, perhaps even his soul, lifted. He fell toward the stars until suddenly he was swimming through them. For an eternal moment, his fear disappeared, replaced by pure wonder. Faster and faster he swam, until the stars disappeared. Now he existed in absolute darkness.
You have passed beyond the veil of time and space. Sloan's voice echoed all around him as if it was the voice of God, but Destin retained just enough of his reason to understand that his body was still on the granite altar and he was hearing Sloan through his physical ears.
You are retracing the path of the One We Do Not Name. It came here with its brothers when our world was ever so young and man was nothing more than a distant dream. It had been driven across the stars by its great enemy and needed refuge. In time, its brothers left and returned to fight. Now the time of our god is near. It feeds to grow strong, but it is not unkind. It takes from you, but it gives so much in return. Look, Destin. Look and see the wonders!
Far ahead, a tiny spark of light flickered. Destin felt his speed increase and he flew toward it with a velocity that was beyond thought. It grew and took the shape of a great, sparkling pinwheel, and he understood that he was seeing an entire galaxy of stars. He slowed and came to a full stop. The galaxy rose above him, like a coin standing on its edge, incomprehensible in its size.
Then Destin's perspective changed and he understood that everything he knew, everything he believed, was wrong. Against his will, his vision was forced closer to that shining center. He did not see, for he had no eyes, but he perceived. Then mercilessly, his vision was forced beyond the galaxy, to the darkness beyond, to. . .
NO!
He wanted to shut it out, but the power that imprisoned him knew nothing of compassion or pity. He was forced to look, just as he was forced to understand. Then, mercifully, all went dark. He struggled and discovered that he could move again. He opened his eyes.
He was still lying on the altar, but now the sanctuary was much brighter. He tried to turn his head and found that it was no longer bound. He looked to his right and saw daylight streaming through the stained glass windows. He flexed his arms and legs and then slowly rolled over and sat up. The sanctuary was empty. Sloan and his congregation were nowhere to be seen. Destin put his feet on the floor and stood.
“You saw.” The voice came from the rear of the sanctuary. Destin blinked and saw Sloan coming through the inner door. “You understand now.”
“I understand,” said Destin. His voice was flat and lifeless. “But you don't.” Sloan smiled and walked toward him. Destin watched as the big man approached. He no longer feared the pastor. He no longer feared anything. Fear is predicated on caring, and he knew that he would never care about anything again.
“They all say that,” said Sloan as he reached the steps of the altar. “It's a normal reaction. You've seen eternity, Destin. You've seen the truth!”
“Yeah,” said Destin. “I've seen the truth.” He stepped down off the platform, wobbled slightly, and then walked past Sloan as if he did not exist. The pastor made no effort to stop him.
“I truly envy you,” said Sloan. “I wish I could see. . .”
“No,” said Destin, whirling on him. “You really don't.” He took a step toward the pastor. “You're right, I saw the truth, and the truth is, we don't matter. Nothing matters. Do you get that? Nothing we do, nothing we have ever done, nothing our entire race has ever done, matters.” Sloan shook his head, smiling.
“The One We Do Not. . .” he began.
“Your god feeds,” said Destin. “That's all it does. It feeds on us so that it can grow strong enough to return to its war.”
“But look at what it gives us in return,” said Sloan.
“An accident,” said Destin. “It forges a connection with its food, but it's nothing more than a byproduct of its feeding.”
“But what you saw,” said Sloan. “Don't you understand, Destin? You saw things that the rest of us dare not even dream about.”
“I SAW YOUR GOD'S ENEMY,” screamed Destin. The sudden release of rage caused him to wobble again and he quickly composed himself. “I thought it was a galaxy, but it was a. . .a thing. I looked into its center, and the center was an eye. Do you understand? This thing is as big as a galaxy and it's alive.”
“Magnificent,” whispered Sloan. “We have brought in many others but no one has gone as far as you. No one has ever seen the Enemy. I had no idea.”
“You still don't,” said Destin. “What I saw was just a foot soldier. One of billions. There's something else beyond it. . .something bigger than all the soldiers combined, and that is what is giving the orders. It's beyond your comprehension, reverend.” He forced the corners of his mouth into a very slight smile, although there was no emotion behind it. “You're not capable of comprehending it.” For the first time a hint of anger crossed Sloan's face.
“Be careful,” he warned.
“Or what?” said Destin. “You'll kill me? Don't make me laugh. Your god fed on me. It's still feeding on me, and trust me, the last thing you want to do is deprive it of its food.” He turned his back on Sloan. “Goodbye, reverend. You have my pity.” He walked away, knowing that Sloan would not stop him.
He could feel his connection with Sloan's god. It was as if some vile tentacle had fastened itself to the base of his skull. It followed him, stretching back to the pocket of un-reality with which the god's servant cloaked itself. He could almost see billions of other tentacles running throughout both time and space, all ending at a hidden city beneath a dark ocean. No matter where he went, not matter how far he ran, that tentacle would follow him for the rest of his life. He would not even be allowed the mercy of madness. Sloan's unnamed god liked its food sane.
A hearing gave way to a trial. His firm abandoned him, his former bosses sacrificing him in order to save themselves. They did not offer him legal representation, and Destin would have refused even if they had. He would not even allow the state to provide him with an attorney. He stood mute at his trial, offering no defense.
The judge was in no mood to show leniency. It was an election year and she was in a tight race. She sentenced Destin to fifteen years in the Ohio State Penitentiary. If he behaved himself, he would be out in seven. He was taken into custody, processed and incarcerated.
Less than a year later, he was found dead in his cell. The autopsy was performed by the prison doctor and caused a bit of a stir. While Destin Phillips retained the appearance of a man in his thirties, his organs withered and blackened. The report was examined and re-examined, until it was finally buried and forgotten.
David F. Gray is an experienced television producer, director, and editor, although his first love is and always has been writing. His work appeared in numerous anthologies, although The Abomination of St. Jude is his first foray into Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. David and his wife Heidi recently celebrated their 32nd wedding anniversary. They live in an older neighborhood in Tampa, Florida where rumors of ghosts are common.
Flesh-Bound Shadow Sun M. S. Swift
The laughter which welled from my body at the bottle that crushed my nose, ground against my gums, and dislodged two more of my denuded teeth, further enraged my attacker. He pounded me several more times knocking me to the floor where I lay, twisted and heaving in pain. It is when I rose from the broken glass and shuddered against the wall by the door, smearing thick streaks of blood across the paintwork, that his fear surfaced once more.
Not that he or his friend who cowered in the corner of the first floor flat’s living room could be condemned for their fear. They had locked their door against the night, had opened cans of beer and began uploading their film of that tragic old tramp who lived on the beach below the promenade raving among the driving waves. They did not expect when they played back the footage that his face would emerge from the shadows at the back of their sofa, his mouth dangling above the
ir shoulders. . .
I know as soon as I behold it the face to whom I must speak. The eternal night cradled within me drives me across the land, prompting me toward the one who must hear.
I had been led to the banks of the Mersey where I slept on the beach or occasionally in the park by the promenade. Whilst waiting for my next audience, I pass time scrabbling among debris that I arrange in swirling patterns in the sand or in the soil.
‘Gardens,’ I call them to any who draw close enough to comment. Few are inclined to approach this lean figure clad in a worn tweed jacket, loose t-shirt and pants with sandals on his feet. Those that do, stare at the necklace of human teeth around his neck. It is those teeth which form the centre piece of each garden. There is a meaning to such patterns. They are transmitters of the void within and there is always one whose own inner nothingness resonates in response. At first I will be only half-glimpsed standing among the waves or mistaken for a piece of drift wood planted in the sand, its shreds of cloth swaying in the wind at twilight. Perhaps I will be seen standing immobile in the guttering rains or heard setting the stones on the breakwater skittering when the high tide pounds the shore or plunging into the gaps between those boulders to hang below the swell.
What others think or do whilst I am waiting for the next one does not matter for I feel the shadow uncoiling beyond the surface of the world and my whole body fades before Her vastness. In Her presence, the physical world is unmoored and breaks ecstatically around me. When the sea spray flecks my face, it is stars stretching their fire within me. Wings unfold as the waves crash around me and I soar across the current; sodden clothes dragging at me are the pull of countless arms, drawing me into the soft expanse of oblivion.
