by Byron Craft
“Vinnie I could kiss you. We’ve got our man!”
***
It didn’t take Bell long to locate Judge Spicer. He was home sick. Wouldn'tcha know it! He was propped up in bed looking sicker than a dog. He had it. His cheeks were sunken, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he was as pale as a ghost. Spicer was still lucid, and it took very little effort for us to convince His Honor to sign the warrant.
“Your Chief phoned me and said that you believe that Mayor Astaroth is the cause of this . . . Stain?” he inquired while juggling the pen and clipboard on his lap.
“That’s my theory, Your Honor.”
“Is there a chance that putting him in custody will enable your people to find a cure for me?”
“And hopefully half the town,” I probably perjured myself.
“His apprehension should be carefully coordinated.”
He was very weak. He started to slur his words. When he said “coordinated” it sounded like “chlorinated,” but I knew what he meant. “Don’t worry Your Honor; we are Arkham’s finest.”
***
Spicer lived across from Astaroth’s place on French Hill Street. No wonder the Judge came down with the sickness, probably went next door to borrow a cup of sugar. Corvus Astaroth’s house, if you could call that pile of stones a house, was even more ghoulish-looking than the last time I visited. I wasn’t eager to go in there with just Bell and me. I called the Chief on the radio and requested back-up. I had learned that Mayor Astaroth was having a reception for his constituents over there. I read about the function in the Arkham Advertiser. It was supposed to be a big shindig. I like to feel I'm in the know. When I buy a paper, the first thing I look at is the gossip column. The people attending this Jamboree were members of a club that called themselves “The Friends of Ash,” and Bell and I would be severely outnumbered.
In regards to my request, I received a flat “no.” A fire had broken out in the Devil's Playground. It was Slim’s joint. The Chief said it was a raging inferno and they were trying to contain it so it wouldn’t spread through the entire district. Arkham had three fire stations, and they were shorthanded like the police. With economic cutbacks and the Stain taking down every other man in their departments they were ill equipped to handle the blaze. The Chief and the other police stations in town were sending all their available manpower to help. “If our cops are unable to assist in putting out the fire,” he bellowed, “then they will be on hand to evacuate as many people as possible. You’re on your own Detective, either make the collar or join the bucket brigade.”
Officer Bell and I stood on the back of our police cruiser’s bumper and attempted to peer over the rooftops in the direction of the Miskatonic River. In the distance, a wide column of black smoke was twisting upwards. I looked at Bell, and he looked at me, turning we stared at Corvus’ domicile. “Maybe we are not Arkham’s finest after all,” the young rookie said a bit squeamish.
“More like the bottom of the barrel.” Deep down inside I knew that the fire in the district was purposeful. To what purpose I did not know, but it had to be part of our not so beloved Mayor’s devious plan.
***
We decided to crash the party. “The devil be damned,” I said to my partner. We were stupid but as they say, “fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” The front door to the house was slightly ajar. Matthew Bell drew his .38, shoved the door open with his foot then stepped aside assuming a defensive posture. The kid was learning fast.
The foyer was deserted. The undertaker butler was nowhere to be found. It was daylight outside, but the light inside had an unreal greenish color as if it was filtered through an aquarium tank. On the far end of the foyer we could see that the door to the courtyard had been left open; thus, the source of the weird light? How can that be, I wondered? The courtyard had no roof; it was open to the morning sun. There was movement in there. Dark furtive shadows shuffled about.
When we first walked over to the house, I noticed that the lawn glittered from a slick deposit, like the slime-trail left by a huge garden slug. By then I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that when entering the oversized patio an unspeakable Harry Crowcroft type of thing might emerge to greet us, the sort with flapping shadowy wings.
The green light was stronger out there when we crossed the threshold. I felt a mild electric current in the air, like when you bump your funny bone except it was all over. Bell must have felt it too because he was rubbing the back of his neck attempting to dispel the sensation. Suspended above, maybe ten or twelve feet up, was a glowing orb; the source of the creepy light, it was the size of a basketball, and there were no visible ropes or wires supporting it. It was stationary, hovering up there as if it was weightless, a buoyant sphere floating in a sea of air. The sphere gave off a faint electrical static buzz. Officer Bell raised his revolver, aimed it at the orb and cocked the hammer. I took hold of his shooting hand and pulled his arm down and away from his target, “No,” I whispered, “don’t.”
“Why?” he complained.
“May not be a good idea. We don’t know what might happen.”
There was a large crowd forming in the courtyard, and more were pouring in through a back way. There must have been close to a hundred of them. A fella standing next to the circular planter took a couple of steps in our direction and waved to us shouting, “Welcome brother! Come and join The Friends of Ash.”
I pulled back the left side of my jacket revealing my badge; Bell brandished his .38. Our greeter took a step backward. “There is no need for that!” he shouted again, “we are all constituents, elements for Arkham’s greatest Mayor. I tell ya, Corvus Astaroth was elected mayor by spontaneous combustion.” Unquestionably the man had become possessed by satanic energy.
Every Tom, Dick, and Harry of the multitude were wandering aimlessly within the courtyard. In a short while their numbers had grown to well over a hundred. All had the Stain. They shuffled, waddled and jumbled up against one another. Each had the tell-tale signs of impending death, emaciated with ashen complexions. I recognized many of them, several city councilmen, two one-time officers of the law and the guy who used to sell apples on my street corner. They were not alive; they were not dead yet, they were in between. Some of them were so weak, close to their demise, that they were lying on the flagstones. There was no brotherhood here; the whole concept was as patently counterfeit as my picture on a three-dollar bill. They were, of course, all slowly dying.
A guy I’d seen before, hanging around the Devil’s Playground sporting a busted-up kisser from too many bar fights, hobbled over to me. “He will help us,” he howled. “He will give us what we need?”
“No, he will give you what he wants,” I answered, “or more accurately he'll take from you what he wants.”
Bell moved aggressively. He was confused, angry and afraid. “What is this? The ravings of a deranged and superstitious demonologist?” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
“No!” I yelled back at Bell, shoving the ugly mug aside. “It’s Astaroth. He feeds on energy, life-force energy, and as he keeps feeding he keeps growing at an increasing rate. That one, all of them are his victims. This way,” I ordered pointing across the courtyard toward the ebony door. Officer Bell is not from my division, my one-man division, the Mythos Department, and all of this was surely abhorrent to him. I don’t know if Bell thought I was as nuts as Harry Crowcroft appeared to be. Nonetheless, he obediently followed. Like the last time, I didn’t stand on formalities. Walking abruptly and forcefully through the throng I flung open the shadowy door to Corvus Astaroth’s office, and we charged inward.
He was calm, just sitting there, my quarry, long-legged and raven black hair flowing down to his collar. There was a manic gleam in Corvus' eyes. He was smoking a pipe that had the fragrance of a pile of dirty underwear burning in a damp cellar. The smoke curled out his nose resembling the tentacles of an infernal demon. “You will come along quietly with us Mr. Mayor,” I announced the moment I laid eyes on
him.
He just laughed, it was a brittle voice, a grating laugh that was annoying, it irritated the hell out of me. “You and your little friend don’t have the knowledge nor the power to apprehend me, Detective.”
“This is always a good persuader,” challenged Bell pointing his gun at the pipe smoking fiend while dangling a pair of handcuffs in his left hand. The kid was really getting on my good side.
The Mayor from our nightmares sighed and pulled on that tasseled bell cord. “Nevertheless,” feigning boredom, “I have taken additional precautions.” The bookcase creaked and then slid to one side. I was shocked and momentarily rendered speechless because standing in the opening was Allison, Mrs. Trumble, and Angel. On either side of the trio were two of the walking dead that undoubtedly were there to do the Night Gaunt’s bidding. The two death-warmed-over mugs weren’t as far gone as the rest out in the courtyard, and they looked dangerous. All three of my girls looked frightened out of their wits. Angel, however, was giving a good performance as being the tougher of the three. “Hello Doghouse,” she smiled.
“Some loved ones’ I presume,” taunted Astaroth blowing more smoke out his nostrils. “This is just a little insurance policy. There is nothing you can do to hurt me, but I guess you could attempt to be a nuisance while right now I have some urgent business that requires my immediate attention.”
“Like sucking the life out of the rest of those stooges out there so you can get back to dreamland?” I inched a little towards my kidnapped family.
Corvus stood up quickly staring evilly; he was now taller than me, “Bravo Detective. You have been doing your homework, probably with that fool Armitage. Doesn’t matter, however, I would like to have added the Doctor to my congregation. Even so, I must get to work. Don’t try to detain me. My fellows over there have orders to start breaking necks if you approach me. I told them to start with the little one first.”
I wanted to rip his throat out, but I didn’t dare. I couldn’t risk the girls, and besides, I wondered if his claim about us not being physically able to restrain him was not a bluff. I remembered the bodies of the two police officers that were found, and that neighbor of Harry Crowcroft’s, that was killed. Every bone in their bodies had been crushed. Then there was that dark thing that Willie Mack and Enoch Wells shot and did not die.
I restrained Bell as the Devil walked by us. “Ta-ta boys, I will see you on the other side.” We watched as the ebony door closed behind him.
“Well, Fellas,” acting friendly to the two guys making like zombies. “We’ll just wait this thing out, and nobody will get hurt. Faking a pleasant and affable attitude I casually strolled over to the liquor cart. I picked up the eighteen-year-old bottle of Glenfiddich and pretended to read the label. “Hey how about a drink, on me?”
“Um drink good,” answered the bigger of the two.
“Um fire bad, drink good, that’s great, just like in the movie.” I turned to Bell and winked, “Lord I love that film.” Turning back quickly and facing the zombie henchmen I fired the bottle at the big one. I wished that there would have been a cheap blended scotch that I could have thrown, but there was none. After all, Corvus does have a refined taste in liquor. The bottle slammed into his kisser with full force and broke into a thousand pieces. He fell promptly to the carpet. Dizzy Dean couldn’t have done better. Before I could draw my roscoe, Bell shot the other guy through the forehead. From now on, I told myself, I was going to call him Dead-Eye-Dick.
Allison, Mrs. Trumble, and Angel rushed me and fought to be the first to give me a great big hug. “These bad men came to our house Daddy, and we had to do what they said,” Allison almost cried.
“I’m getting a gun permit,” exclaimed Mrs. Trumble. “If I had had one I would have shot those two bastards. Oh, sorry for the language Sweetie.”
Allison didn’t seem to mind; she gave old lady Trumble a healthy squeeze. Mrs. Trumble still looked poorly. All of it motivated me to fierce action. “Never mind that now,” I said. “All three of you stay here. Officer Bell and I are going to take care of this clown once and for all.” How we were going to go about it, I had no idea. Hopefully, a plan would materialize. If not I was going to die trying to get the guy. Matt had torn the bell cord loose from its mounting and tied as well as handcuffed the zombie I had cold conked. The office would be a safe place for the time being.
***
Entering the courtyard, Corvus Astaroth’s back was turned towards us. He was walking through his crowd of death-warmed-overs. Corvus’ arms were raised skyward with the palms of his hands facing out. Was he surrendering to the multitude? The mob rushed closer, all wanting to touch him. He made a motion, with his outstretched palms, for them to halt and everyone did.
Bell and I had our guns drawn by then and any of the half dead creeps that started to move in our direction, with malicious intent, still had some sense about them because after thinking better of it, they backed away from us. Astaroth casually walked over to the raised brick planter in the center of the courtyard and stepped up, placing himself above the throng. Strolling through the planter to its middle his feet snapped off a small number of the slimy stalks and meaty leaves.
There stood “Corvus the Great” peering down on the multitude. Here was a guy who had sold humanity out in Arkham, and convinced most of his followers that he’d done it for them; probably promised them some ultimate knowledge crap in return. The odds are that a segment of his followers helped him do the selling. None of them suspected that Corvus wasn't human.
A woman, one of the half-dead, hollered out, “Help us please!” The crowd pushed closer to the front of the brick planter facing Astaroth. Spreading his arms wide he looked lovingly down at the crowd, “That is why you are all here. You are my disciples, and shortly I will be taking you into my fold.”
“Are you God,” the same woman cried out.
“God? Oh, no my dear. I will tell you a little something about him. He is an observer only. He is a mischief-maker. God is a comedian that performs for an audience that has forgotten how to laugh. I, on the other hand, am a lamp spreading light, a beautiful pattern for all my disciples to follow.
“But we’re dying,” she wept.
Corvus’ compassionate smile became a misshapen satanic grin. “Death is nothing at all, just a farewell kiss.”
Bell is a good Catholic boy, and he became enraged over Astaroth’s devilish comments. He forced his way through the crowd and faced his demon. I easily navigated around to the back of our devil, placing myself between the plant-holder and that outdoor fireplace of his.
I noticed something peculiar about his shoes. They weren’t shoes anymore. The leather wrapping on his feet had vanished and in their place, were cloven hooves; mirrored images of half-moons, but dark as coal. Then again each was very big, bigger around than Granny Bertram's donuts, much bigger. The soil in the raised planter steamed beneath his pile-driver hooves. The plant life withered, turning to a crispy brown. My eyes traveled up his form. He had become huge and black, swaying slightly in the greenish light. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and this time the vision remained. A fearsome wind kicked up. There was a large black hump on the back of the thing that was once Corvus Astaroth. The bulge cracked open like an enormous egg, split end to end. Shadowy leather dilated the shell and pushed through the opening, gleaming wet. The black leather-like substance spilled away from the creature’s back and fanned open. It was wings, Harry Crowcroft’s pterodactyl wings. Attached to the shoulders of the Night Gaunt with arm-like projections the flapping extensions stretched wide.
My stomach fluttered; also, a quiet cold foreboding crouched behind the flutter that was once the Mayor of Arkham. A dark whirlpool of dread swirled in the depths of my imagination. At first glance, he or it appeared to have no face. Then that same demonic grin that had swept across Astaroth’s human features now materialized on a black rubbery countenance, except the eyes and mouth were now blazing yellow openings scrutinizing his victims. Long pointed horns projec
ted out of the top of its head and below the immense wings, a boa constrictor sized tail lashed about. The Devil from Dreamland’s followers fell to the flagstones before him.
I became aware of pandemonium happening. There were a dozen horrible noises. A girl screamed, a dog barked somewhere; grown men cried. I had the sensation that the earth was crumbling into nothingness. What used to be Corvus kept his glaring eyes straight ahead fixed on his sufferers.
Officer Bell was quick to act again. With a two-handed grip on his .38, he pointed upwards and let loose with the gun’s remaining five rounds in rapid succession emptying them into the chest of the dark thing. I was dumbfounded because the slugs didn’t empty into it, rather they impossibly passed through, out its back, causing no injury. Sparkling streams ricocheted off the back wall behind it. The Night-Gaunt bellowed in a thunderous rage. Astaroth, the nightmare, projected a hefty clawed hand and grabbed Bell by the throat, lifting him from the stone floor. Bell’s legs dangled and kicked for dear life.
"Get your paws off him," I screamed, the kid had become my new partner. The jinx that killed all my sidekicks was happening once more. I fired all eight rounds from the clip of my automatic into its shadowy form. The results were the same as when the .38 caliber bullets had let fly. Sparks flew everywhere, but the thing kept standing. Bell was losing consciousness. His writhing movements slowed to a frail thrashing. The creature of nightmares looked at me over a misshapen shoulder with a hateful glare. The thick boa constrictor tail lashed out and slammed into my chest. I was propelled backward by the strength of the impact and smacked up against the fireplace. A rib cracked. The shock of the collision with the stone mantel face came close to rendering me unconscious. Dizzy and trying to regain control of my limbs, I looked down and saw the shadow of a great winged thing glide over the flagstones. I thought that Astaroth’s current form had taken flight. I was wrong. Summoning strength, I raised my head to see Maggot the turkey vulture alight atop the stone casing over the entryway to the courtyard.
