by Rick Dakan
Then came the voice, cutting though the noise. “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn,” it intoned in a sonorous, alien voice. It reminded me of how an ancient crocodile might speak if it could, sharp and slow and full of death. “In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming,” the voice continued. “Dreaming of you. That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange eons, even death may die.” The last syllable echoed hollow and harsh for a long, pregnant moment before bursting into a piercing shriek that once again deafened me. I screwed my eyes shut and held my hands over my ears and started yelling back at the sound because that was the only thing I could do.
Then, silence. Well, comparative silence anyway. I for one kept screaming for a few more seconds. So did some other people I couldn’t see. And there were some sobs coming from somewhere. And some laughter too. But the mind-stabbing noise was gone, and the smoke had begun to dissipate, taking the stench along with it. I opened my eyes and looked around, surprised to find that at some point I had fallen to my knees. I stumbled to my feet and tried to get my bearings. A dozen feet away I saw Conrad bending over Cara’s prone body.
I ran over and slid to my knees beside him. “Is she OK?” I asked, looking down at her. Her eyes were shut tight and her hands gripped her stomach as she rolled back and forth in the dirt. She was moaning or maybe crying. Or maybe laughing?
“I don’t know,” said Conrad. “I found her like this, and—”
“I’m fine,” Cara croaked, her voice hoarse. “I’m fine.” She smiled and laughed.
“You don’t look fine,” Conrad said.
“It’s just that it was all so… so… ”
“Fucked up?” Conrad suggested.
“Wonderful,” Cara said. “Wonderfully fucked up.” She opened her eyes and looked up at me. “Total mind fuck.”
I took her hand and helped her to sit up. Fake blood covered her face and chest. Her dress was dirty, disheveled, and torn, and there was grass in her hair. Her white teeth blazed bright in the dim light as she grinned in a way someone less charitably inclined than me might call maniacal.
“I want to take that ride again!” she said to me. “Don’t you?”
Conrad looked over at me like she was crazy. I looked at Cara like she was crazy. But something deep inside me agreed with her. It had been a hell of a ride.
“Come on,” I said, lifting her onto her feet. “Let’s see if there’s a way out of here first. Maybe then we can start over at the beginning.”
“Next time… ” she said. “Next time, I want to wear one of the masks.”
Chapter 10
I woke up the next morning sore and dirty, having collapsed into my bed as soon as I got home. The Cthulhu Cult ceremony had ended with dazed and bleary-eyed guests wandering back to our cars. A previously hidden gate in the fence opened on its own and set us free from the ritual area. There had been no sign of Shelby or Kym or indeed any of the other “cultists.” The warehouse was locked up tight and, despite the efforts of several people pounding on the front and rear doors, none of them could be found. Cara, still smiling and laughing to herself, had given both me and Conrad big hugs as we went our separate ways. I gave her my number and she promised to call me the next day and maybe meet for lunch.
I’d slept in my clothes, which stank of smoke and a whiff of that disgusting “Cthulhu scent” that they’d released at the last moment. I peeled them off, dumped them on the bathroom floor, and stood under the shower until the hot water ran out. My head pounded like I was hung over, but I hadn’t had that much to drink besides those foul shots. I suspected the deafening aural assault was more to blame than the alcohol. Not up to messing with my contact lenses, I put on my old glasses and shuffled over to the computer to check e-mail. Just the usual assortment of junk and business related e-mail. Nothing from Cara. No voice mail messages on my cell either. But of course if I was only now clawing my way into consciousness, she might still be sleeping. I wondered idly which hotel she was staying at, which in turn led me to idly look around my own condo and contemplate just how messy it was. On the off chance that things might once again take a turn my way, I decided to try and make the place presentable for company.
Two hours and a dozen distractions later, my phone rang. I rushed to pick it up, but was a little let down to see Conrad’s name on the caller ID. “Hey, Conrad,” I said, “What’s up?”
“Have you looked at the Weekly Voice’s Web site?” he asked without preamble, referring to the site for our local free weekly paper.
“No. Why?
“You should check it out. Their blog thing has a whole write-up of Shelby’s ritual last night. Read it and call me back,” Conrad said and hung up. He sounded tense. Or maybe just terse. It was odd for him to just hang up on me like that. I found the Weekly Voice’s site but didn’t see anything on the front page about Shelby, just an article about the best pizza in town. I clicked on the “blog” link and there it was:
Gallery Hop With Satan
posted by Wendell Locking
Ever wondered what happens when you mix alien demons, mediocre art, and a heavy metal concert? Me neither. But last night I and about a hundred of what passes for “beautiful people” in Sarasota found out, and the experience literally left many of us choking on our own bile. Local art provacateur Shelby Tyree, best known for getting run out of town after an alleged rape attempt at a party he was hosting at the Indian Point Road home he rented from a county commissioner, is at it again. This time he’s got a gaggle of naked Satanists with him. Under the guise of an art show called the Cthulhu Cult, Tyree and company staged a gory, special effects–laden amateur spectacle that owed more to schlock horror flicks than any art I’ve ever seen. There was plenty of fake blood, naked people, and loud, loud noises, plus stink bombs. I’ve got no problem with any of that in a Halloween haunted house, but calling it art stretches the meaning of the word beyond recognition and I’d be surprised if anyone was moved to do more than gag. I guess you had to be there, although I wish I hadn’t been.
I called Conrad back. “Well, he didn’t have a very good time,” I said when Conrad answered.
“He wasn’t the only one. I’m still pissed at him.”
“Over the blood thing?”
“That’s just for starters. You know who else was there last night? Buchman. The guy who owns the damn building. Republican, Rotary Club, Association of Realtors, churchgoing Bill Buchman. There were three messages from him on my cell phone by the time I got home and he just spent ten minutes yelling in my ear. Lucky for Shelby he had my wife the contracts expert write up the rental agreement and, believe it or not, he’s covered. He even had the right liquor permits. But I’m not covered and Buchman is mad as hell, and with each piece of bad press he’s going to get angrier.”
“This is a blog entry on a free weekly’s Web site. I’m not even sure that counts as press.”
“He’s got the words ‘rape’ and ‘Shelby Tyree’ in the same sentence. There’s no way that’s good.”
“I noticed that. Not really fair of him. Makes it sound like Shelby was the one who tried to rape someone.”
“And then there’s the Satanism stuff. And the talk of blood and sex,” Conrad continued. “These are not words Buchman’s pleased to have associated with his property. If Shelby had just fucking told me what he was up to, maybe I could have prepared Bill, told him it was some kind of haunted house. But no, Shelby doesn’t care about his reputation, so why would he give mine a second thought Why would Shelby court controversy like this? He had to know that staging a spectacle combining sex and violence was going to dredge up all that old news about the party. No matter what he’s trying to do, I don’t see how press like this helps him.”
“You said it yourself. He must not care what people say. I mean, when did Shelby ever care what people say?”
“But there has to be a reason,” Conrad insisted. “A reason he wanted to provoke people like this. You saw how complica
ted that whole thing was, how expensive. There had to be more to it than just wanting to freak people out. That’s what’s killing me. I don’t know. It’s not like anyone had a good time. It wasn’t much of a party.”
“I kind of had a good time,” I said, and I had. In retrospect it was an amazing story, if only because nothing like that had ever happened to me before. “Sort of. I mean, I’m glad I saw it. Cara certainly seemed to enjoy it.”
“Yeah, that was kind of weird. I don’t remember her being into weird shit like that in high school. When she and I were going out she teased me all the time about the fact that I played D&D.”
“Oh, I don’t know. She always had a little bit of a twisted side,” I said, remembering Cara’s fascination with Stephen King novels and true crime books about serial killers.
“Huh. I don’t remember that. But, OK, she had a good time. You did. Probably a few others. I really do think it was a good thing I was there. That I saw it.”
“What do you—” I started to ask, but Conrad talked over me.
“You know who had a good time— Shelby and Kym.”
“And those dancers and the people in robes,” I added. “I’m sure pulling off a show like that was a blast for them too. I reckon this was all really for his church. A way to get his followers excited about whatever it is he’s teaching them.”
“Yes, yes, maybe. Although I assume some of them were dancers he hired from local strip clubs.”
This thought hadn’t occurred to me, although it made sense. I’m not sure where else Shelby could have found a dozen people willing to dance naked with him and Kym. “Why? Did you recognize some of them?” I asked, teasing him. His wife was not a fan of strip clubs as an institution and I knew Conrad hadn’t been to one in years.
“I just can’t figure this out,” Conrad mused, ignoring my jibe. “There’s something we’re missing. He didn’t even leave out any promotional material for this church of his, so it’s not like he was proselytizing or looking for converts.”
“Well, I have no idea. But next time I talk to Shelby I’ll ask him.”
“Are you going to see him soon?”
“I assume so,” I said, although I wasn’t sure. I was more interested in seeing Cara soon and wondered if Shelby might be able to help me there. “Maybe. I’m expecting another couple books I bought for him online to show up this week.”
“If you see him in person, let him know I need to talk to him, OK?”
“Sure. And same for you. If you see him first.”
“I will,” Conrad said. “Gotta run now. I’ve got to find some way to calm Buchman down. If Shelby doesn’t leave that building spotless when he moves out, there are going to be lawsuits flying and I don’t want any of them to hit me.”
We both hung up. I hadn’t wondered much about why Shelby had done what he’d done last night. I saw more than a little merit in the whole extravaganza as an end unto itself. Why do actors act or writers write? Because we want to impress an audience. And Shelby had impressed everyone there, one way or another, including Cara. I had a moment’s regret then about not taking Shelby up on his offer to join the church when he asked me. At the time it had seemed more trouble than it could possibly be worth, and as much as I liked Shelby, I had no interest in being one of his minions. I knew him too well to ever submit myself to his leadership. But now having seen at least some of the fruits of his labors I felt envy suffusing my brain. What had I ever written that evoked such reactions in an audience? Nothing that came close. I imagined what a thrill it must have been for all of them. Not that I was going to dance naked around a fire in front of a couple hundred people. But I could see how Shelby, utterly bereft of shyness, would love every moment of it.
On the other hand, Conrad did make some good points. The blood and sex thing was bound to bring up the rape story in everyone’s minds, and the whole production must have cost a small fortune to put together. The more I thought about it, the more curious I became, so I went looking for some excuse to contact Shelby. I’m not sure why I felt I needed an excuse to contact an old friend, but I wanted one, so I wrote an e-mail to Calvin Sinclair to confirm that he’d sent out that copy of The King in Yellow for Shelby.
About forty-five minutes later Sinclair called me. I was still disappointed it wasn’t Cara, but glad he’d called back so soon.
“Hello, Mr. Dakan?” he said, always polite.
“Speaking.”
“Calvin Sinclair calling, I just read your e-mail. Apologies about the slight delay, but the collector selling the book has been a bit recalcitrant to actually part with his copy now that I have a realistic offer for it. You know how these die-hard collectors can be. It’s hard to part with cherished items. I did come across a lead on something else that might interest you. Or perhaps your friend. A rather rare pamphlet collecting letters from Lovecraft to a young Robert Bloch. He of the movie Psycho fame. Or rather the book it was based on. You expressed some interest in the Starry Wisdom Church previously, and the protagonist in Lovecraft’s story ‘The Haunter of the Dark’ is an analog for Bloch. It’s quite a good price.”
“That sounds like something my friend would want. Do you have it on hand?”
“I do. I can send it out today, if you like.”
“Please do. Overnight if possible.” That would let me drop by Shelby’s tomorrow evening with a nice little surprise and maybe get a few questions answered. I particularly wanted to know what he and Kym might have talked with Cara about in the limo the night of the reunion. “If you could e-mail me the tracking number, that would be great. I’ll let you know if I get another shopping list.” I was halfway to saying my goodbyes and hanging up when Sinclair broke in.
“Last night was March twenty-third,” he said. There was an expectant pause.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, non-committal. I didn’t want to spend the next half-hour describing last night’s events to Sinclair, but I knew he was curious.
“I saw the write-up on your local paper’s Web site,” he said.
“You did?” I asked, surprised.
“It came up in my daily Google Alert for all things Cthulhu- and Lovecraft-related,” Sinclair explained. “I assumed it was the event you’d mentioned.”
“Yes.”
“Is this Shelby Tyree person the friend you’ve been collecting for? No, please don’t answer. I don’t want to put you in the awkward spot of being asked to betray someone’s confidence. But you cannot blame me for seeing two and two and putting together the number four.” When I didn’t immediately comment, Sinclair pressed on. “I naturally did a little follow-up research about him, what with his run-in with the authorities that the Web site alluded to. He seems a, shall we say, controversial figure.”
I rose to my friend’s defense. “The papers, and especially that blog, don’t have the full story. Not by a long shot. Shelby didn’t attack anyone. In fact he saved that woman. He may have made some unfortunate decisions, but he’s not a criminal.”
“I didn’t imagine he was! I’m more than familiar with the ways the press and especially the Internet can twist the facts to suit their own agendas. And I’m not one to disparage a fellow Lovecraft enthusiast, although I must say, your friend seems to be taking things to a very extreme level. Quite extreme. I don’t think Lovecraft himself would have approved of such behavior. He was quite conservative about such matters.”
“It’s all for show. It’s theater.”
“Is it?” Sinclair asked. “Are you quite sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, I suppose there’s no harm then. Still, it does seem rather unseemly. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way of course, and no criticism is meant or implied, but such antics have the potential to give serious Lovecraft scholarship a bad name. Perhaps if I more fully understood what Mr. Tyree is up to I’d be able to explain things to the online community in such a way as to ameliorate any untoward salaciousness? I’d appreciate hearing more about what happened.”
“Oh,” Sinclair said, sounding disappointed. “Of course. Yes, sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll have the Bloch letters manuscript packed up nice and snug and on its way to you this evening.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Have a nice day.” I hung up.
Well, the cat was out of the bag now, I thought. Sinclair knows that I’ve been buying for Shelby. But then again, Shelby no longer seemed to care too terribly much about who knew what he was up to. Maybe all the secrecy about him being a Lovecraftiana collector had only been important to him while he was preparing for his big show. Now that Sinclair knew, he would definitely tell all his other little online friends about it and the secret would be out. Not my problem, though. Still, I hoped Shelby wouldn’t be mad when I told him about it, and while some part of me wanted to disconnect from the whole affair, I found myself strangely nervous about the possibility that Shelby might not want my services as his go-between anymore. Whatever he was up to, this Cthulhu Cult thing was a hell of a lot more interesting than anything else going on in my life. After last night, it was the most interesting thing going on in all of Sarasota, and I didn’t want to lose my one connection to it.
Sinclair charged me the extra fee to have guaranteed delivery by 10:00 a.m., since the slim, worn pamphlet fit easily into the standard overnight envelope. I was barely awake when the delivery man came pounding on my door, and I ended up signing for the package while squinting, because my contacts weren’t in and I hadn’t bothered to grab my glasses. I opened up the envelope and glanced inside to make sure that it was the Bloch pamphlet and then laid it on the table before heading back up for a quick shower. No messages or e-mail from Cara. I had no way of getting in touch with her at all and the frustration was boiling in the back of my brain. Was she still in town? Where was she staying? Why the hell hadn’t she called? I felt myself growing resentful towards her, but fought the nasty thoughts back down. She was clearly going through some serious personal shit, and calling me back had to rank low on her list of priorities.
