by Byron Craft
The Night-Gaunt apparition was clearly affected by the appearance of the buzzard. He let go of Bell’s throat dropping him to the rock floor. Bell writhed and coughed holding his neck with both hands. He was getting his wind back. It was right then that my stomach started contorting, I became inspired. That innocuous scrawling of Wilbur Whateley’s echoed in my brain, “Iron is the devil’s enemy; iron is the devil’s enemy.” Could it be that simple? The slugs we fired at that damned phantom were made of lead. Was that the solution . . . iron? I forced my pain racked body to turn around, stretch upwards and grab the iron broadsword that hung over the hearth.
The Night-Gaunt, one-time Corvus, was transfixed staring at Maggot. Ignoring the pain of a cracked rib, I took hold of the hilt of the sword; with both hands and plunged the pointed end into the fat tail. Unlike the bullets, this time was not the result of a ghostly piercing. The stabbing was solid. When the blade penetrated, there was a resistance; a lancing of flesh and bone. The tail became pinned to the earth within the confines of the planter. A sizable electric shock ensued, propelling me once more against the fireplace.
The sky shattered with jagged white-hot lightning-strokes. The house groaned with the agony of a living beast. Pouring from the tail a voltaic current sparked and splintered in ear-shattering crackles. Corvus, the black beast, reaching behind, tried unsuccessfully to remove the sword. Every attempt saw him draw back as high voltage charges seared his talons and appendages. Mass into energy? The dark thing screamed and roared. It sounded like a pipe organ from hell.
The green orb exploded into a harmless shower of fireworks. The entire darkened flesh of the Night-Gaunt peeled and smoked. Once towering over six-feet its mass reduced in size swiftly like a pile of burning leaves in the autumn. The town of Arkham had been defiled, but the spectral nightmare, known as Corvus Astaroth, was now reduced to a charred mass. Yeah, tough break.
Black smoke curled up from the raised planter. Bell got off the deck giving the impression that he was no worse for wear. The crowd, once afflicted with the Stain, got to their feet as well. Corvus’ guests wandered out of the courtyard looking like they were suffering from a cheap drunk. As if his work had been finished, Maggot, the vulture, took to the air and flew out of sight. My family of three came out of the office to see what all the racket was about. Bell and I, as well as the bellowing of the demon, must have caused one hell of a ruckus.
The color had returned to Mrs. Trumble's cheeks. I held Angel’s hand, she, in turn, took hold of Allison’s and old lady Trumble had the other hand of my little girl. Looking over my shoulder at Ash's smoldering remains I could see that no one would miss him too soon. We left the courtyard, passed through the foyer, and stood on the city sidewalk.
A cool breeze blew in. The air smelled sweet, like the fragrance after the rain.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Byron Craft started out writing screenplays, moved on to authoring articles for several magazines and finally evolved his writing style into exciting, sci-fi, fantasy, horror novels.
Craft has published two novels in a planned five-novel mythos series that reflects the influence of H.P Lovecraft. Byron Craft's first novel, "The CRY of CTHULHU," initially released under the title "The Alchemist's Notebook," was the reincarnation and expansion of one of his most memorable screenplays. Craft demonstrates he is as capable a novelist as a scriptwriter. Craft's second novel, “SHOGGOTH” continues with all the ingredients of a classic Lovecraft tale, with some imaginative additions.
The Arkham Detective is a four book series, which includes “Cthulhu’s Minions, “The Innsmouth Look,” “The Devil Came to Arkham,” and “The Dunwich Dungeon.” All are available in Kindle format or soft cover either individually or can be obtained in the set: “The Arkham Detective Collection.”
Craft enjoys writing full-length stories and would love to get feedback from his readers.
If you would like to read more books by Byron Craft, please visit his website: www.ByronCraftBooks.com or go to Amazon.com
The Mythos Project Series
The CRY of CTHULHU
(Originally published under the title: The Alchemist’s Notebook.) This novelization of The Cry of Cthulhu film project is about a shell-shocked Vietnam vet, and his wife. They inherit an old country estate in Germany around the time his company transfers him to the same area. The two soon discover that the coincidence is really too good to be true.
Their home rests near a timeworn door into the earth that is poised to open, exposing all to a horde of four-dimensional beings. Soon the line between our reality and that other space-time will be blurred forever, leaving mankind to be consumed by shrill, shrieking terror. Only one man has the slimmest chance to save our planet and, even though he has no place to hide, he prefers to run. [Book One]
SHOGGOTH
An accepted theory exists that millions of years ago a celestial catastrophic occurrence wiped out every living thing on the planet. This theory may be flawed. Fast-forward to the 21st century. A handful of scientists, allied with the military, discover a massive network of tunnels beneath the Mojave Desert. Below, lies an ancient survivor, waiting...and it's hungry! [Book Two]
The Arkham Detective Series
Cthulhu’s Minions
A Novelette introducing the Arkham Detective. Cthulhu’s Minions are Pilot Demons. Nasty pint-sized legless creatures that crawl on their hands with razor sharp claws and fangs. The diminutive beings must be stopped before they conduct one of Cthulhu's Old Ones to the back alleys and streets of Arkham, likewise the entire planet. The story takes place during the Great Depression, a spot in time where H. P. Lovecraft and Raymond Chandler could have collaborated. Henceforth the narrative begins, through the eyes of an Arkham Detective.
The Innsmouth Look
The second story in the series that brings the detective back, investigating a murder and the kidnapping of a small child, which leads to Innsmouth by the sea, the frightful creatures that lurk there, and what they plan to call up from the depths.
The Devil Came to Arkham
Follow the Arkham Detective as he attempts to discover the source of a deadly epidemic. Is it the devil? Is it a Night Gaunt? Or both? Find out when you read about a soul sucking creature that is bent on turning Arkham, Massachusetts into a ghost town.
The Dunwich Dungeon
In this final chapter, a seven-foot tall man in black has caused the Detective's good friend to go missing. A woman is brutally murdered in a museum, and mysterious artifacts lead us on a trail to inter-dimensional horrors. This time the Arkham Detective is armed to the teeth, and determined to avenge murder with mayhem.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Byron Craft’s
THE DUNWICH DUNGEON
THE DUNWICH DUNGEON
Ian Woodhead was a dreamer. Dreamers, especially those of prodigious talents, do not require the darkness to sleep or dream. Rarely were great dreamers insomniacs. And Ian was just such a person since he could fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
Ian Woodhead could make his mind as blank as a fresh leaf of paper. No places of wonder were glimpsed from the mind’s eye to distract his resting, no marvelous secrets unfurled; his sleep was a temporary death. It didn’t frighten him, though, because Ian was certain that there was no death from the perspective of infinity. Once in deepest slumber, he could escape the darkness between his ears within that collection of wet matter and electricity. He was so adept at crisscrossing dreamland that he would blithely circumnavigate around the World-Eater who sat and waited, sharpening its black claws, tearing at inexperienced travelers.
Escaping his earthly bonds was normally an enjoyable and exciting experience for Ian that he sometimes used for pure adventure and, at others, became helpful during an investigation. Most of his dreams were that way, but now he truly needed to escape a physical prison. For his body lay captive in a stone dungeon of indestructible confinement. He had been lured into a trap, and his keeper had left him to rot. That door, that impregnable b
arrier of iron and steel, could only be undone from the outside. He was lost for all-natural means of release. No amount of shouting or pounding could bring about help because he had been incarcerated far away from civilization in the countryside of Dunwich. His only hope was to travel deeper into dreamland than he had ever journeyed before, through unknown realms, and find his old friend, the policeman.
***
Her hair was in tangles, and her makeup had been wiped clean off. There were wrinkles on the left side of her face left by the pillow. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I gently stroked her cheek, bent over, and kissed her. “I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you too,” she replied, half sleep. I had awoken in darkness for a reason I couldn't remember. I had a hazy recollection of a knocking and clawing upon my skull as if something was trying to get inside my head. Any memory of my dream disappeared in the time it took me to turn on the lamp. There was, however, the faint after image of a face rattling around in my noggin that was vaguely familiar, but when turning to look at my Angel beside me, all recollection of the vision vanished.
I got dressed and put on my glasses. I wear bifocals. In half a shake, I could see Nora clearly, sitting up in bed staring at me with an enticing smile. I tried to be quiet while going about my business, getting ready for work so that I wouldn’t disturb her, but she says that my portrayal of subtle is akin to a Clydesdale traipsing through a junkyard. “You be careful now, you here. Come back to me tonight in one piece,” her smile changed to a firm resolve.
“I’ll do my best Angel.” Her name was Nora Bishop, except we got hitched last month, and I gave her my last name.
“I want more than your best Copper, I want you one-hundred-percent,” her sultry smile returned on that one.
I work at Station House 13. I am the head of the Mythos Division for the Arkham Police. I guess Angel has plenty to worry about because I investigate any and all things that go bump in the night while at the same time trying to discover their secret intent. In everyday lingo, I hunt down things that now and then are misshapen, vague or unseen, and on other occurrences, material horrors, all of which usually leave bloody trails wherever they go.
I used to be a single hard-boiled chump that put in long hours on the job because I had nothing better to do, besides hanging out at a speakeasy. That ended about a year and a half ago when I became a family man. First, there was Allison; she’s nine-years-old now, I adopted the kid after I snatched her from a fiend in the decaying town of Innsmouth. She and I have bonded as close as any parent and child can. She’s my sweetheart. So, I had to get a bigger apartment and our landlady, Mrs. Trumble, assumed the role of grandma. Then along came Nora and I fell for her hook, line, and sinker. Allison is happier than a clam because she now has both a mom and a dad. Before long Nora says we must get a house, “You never know Copper when the stork might pay a visit and Mrs. Trumble isn’t getting any younger, she’ll need looking after.”
I get chump change working as a cop, and the thought of buying a house was scary. At that moment, it became scarier than those things I chase after. I kept tormenting myself about real-estate acquisition until the ringing of the telephone recalled me to the known world.
***
I got called to the station house, as you would expect. No time for a sit-down morning meal with my family. On my way, I grabbed a hamburger and coffee at Granny Bertram’s joint. I used to be a regular at her greasy spoon until I got married, home life does have its advantages. Granny still remembered how I like my java though, black, no sugar. Her take-out service is quick, and she would put the coffee in those little glass containers that looked like a miniature milk bottle with a cardboard stopper.
It was chilly out, and I was wearing my trench coat and fedora. I was munching on my burger, as I hastily dashed through Station House 13 to the back of the building and my department. Officer Matthew Bell was at his desk, his blue uniform newly pressed, not a button out of place. Originally, I was a division of one at the Arkham Police headquarters. After the two of us effectively snuffed out the demon, Corvus Astaroth, and returned normalcy back to the town, as normal as Arkham, Massachusetts is as capable of being; Bell became my assistant within the Mythos Division.
“Morning Detective,” he announced, without getting up. “Breakfast on the run I see.”
“Yeah, the honeymoon is over, I guess. I let the wife sleep in.” I had set a time to close out some old case files with Bell, and he had called reminding me that I was an hour late. I dragged my chair from my desk over to the front of his and sat down. I hate paperwork. I had been putting it off for weeks, and now the task had escalated into a full day of work. I set my half-eaten burger on a file folder, some of Granny’s grease had dripped onto my hand, and I wiped it off on a stack of police reports. “Ok, let’s get started.”
That was when Robber entered the room. My back was to the door, and I should have noticed the pitter patter of his claws on the linoleum. The big yellow Labrador was swift, and in an instant, my sandwich was his. Running into the adjoining hallway, he stopped, turned with a triumphant look in my direction, and swallowed my half-a-burger with one gulp.
“Oh, I’m sorry Detective, I didn’t see him coming,” apologized officer Bell. “He did the same to me last week; only he absconded with my entire ham sandwich, my lunch! I chased him for a block, but he kept chomping and swallowing as he ran. When I finally caught up with the damn dog, he had eaten the whole thing. I could swear that he smiled at me.”
Robber looked disappointed that I didn’t run after him. He was a part-time station house mutt and a full-time troublemaker. He looked healthy except for a spot of mange on the top of his skull. To my knowledge, he didn’t belong to anyone, but he did love to hang around Station House 13, where a meal was easy pickings. He also seemed to like the chase.
“Look at him!” shouted Bell pointing. “It's as if the beast is trying to decide if he should eat us or save our mortal souls.”
Robber’s black eyes suddenly grew hard. “If dogs could speak as we do,” I answered, “mankind would have a lot to learn.”
The dog barked, peered up at us, then turned and started to walk away. After a few steps, Robber paused and swung his mangy head around as though beckoning to Bell and me. “I think he wants us to follow him,” I declared, sensing an opportunity to skirt my responsibilities. “Let’s see where he leads us.”
“But what about these files,” objected Bell while grabbing his policeman's brimmed hat.
“Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?” I replied with a grin.
Keep reading THE DUNWICH DUNGEON
Available at Amazon.com
THE MYTHOS ALLIANCE
This is Byron Craft’s tribute to a secret society of mythos authors and artists known only to a select few as THE MYTHOS ALLIANCE. Please check them out:
F. Paul Wilson . . . is an extremely prolific author, primarily in the science fiction and horror genres. He is the winner of multiple awards: two-time winner of the Prometheus Hall of Fame Award, 2005 World Horror Convention Grand Master Award, 2009 Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement, and twice has received the Prometheus Award for Best Novel. Mr. Wilson has requested that we showcase his most Lovecraftian tale, “The Barrens & Others: Tales of Awe and Terror,” available at Amazon
Sean Hoade . . . writer extraordinaire who, like a butterfly within a chrysalis, has masterfully developed inside a cocoon of literature and has, so far, written novels about a murderous RV salesman, Charles Darwin on the Beagle, and vis-à-vis Lovecraftian monsters attacking an Edwardian household. Mr. Hoade would like you to examine his novel “Cthulhu Attacks! Book 1: The Fear” Check it out @ www.CthulhuAttacks.com
C. T. Phipps . . . is a lifelong student of horror, science fiction, fantasy, and especially H.P. Lovecraft. C.T. unearthed a passion for tabletop gaming that compelled him to write and he eventually metamorphosed into a lifelong geek. Take a gander at one of his latest, “Cthulhu Arma
geddon” @ Amazon.com
David J. West . . . tells us, "I write because the voices in my head won't quiet until someone else can hear them." David writes dark fantasy and weird westerns. He is a great fan of sword & sorcery, ghosts and lost ruins, so of course, he lives in Utah with his wife and children. Peruse all his books @ www.kingdavidjwest.com
Sarah T. Walker . . . is a writer and artist of dark subject matter, both fiction and non-fiction. Her art and writing have been published in multiple places from the Lovecraft eZine, to Audient Void, The Lovecraft Lunatic Asylum, and Shoggoth.net. You can learn more about Sarah on her Blog Website.
Eric Lofgren . . . is an awesome Lovecraftian artist. Eric is a recognized freelance illustrator in the RPG and CCG markets, a master at commercial illustration that includes collectible card art, book cover art and interior book illustrations. Please review his impressive works @ www.ericlofgren.net
Matthew Davenport . . . spends his time writing, reading, and working to promote and support writing communities in Iowa through his company Davenport Writes, LLC. Author of over a dozen books, some Lovecraftian, he is an absolute MUST READ. You can keep track of Matthew on his Website.
Paul Atreides . . . is an author, playwright, theater critic, and columnist. Troubled with abiding by those pesky rules of the afterlife, Paul has penned the Deadheads series as well as numerous short stories. To learn more about Paul Atreides go to www.paul-atreides.com
