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The Children
of Cambridge
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The Children
of Cambridge
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Shannon Kilmer wanted to play. It was the hottest night in
September so far and the five-year-old found it impossible to get to sleep. She'd already
slipped out of her jammies, knowing full well her mother would have a fit when she found
out. Shannon didn't care, though. It was just too hot to wear them.
The little girl slipped from her bed and tiptoed to the bedroom
door. Somewhere beyond the hall she heard the echoing of the TV and that man's voice from
the show she'd never seen again. Shannon tried to picture what the guy looked like and
giggled to herself. Everytime she tried, she saw a painted clown juggling multicolored
balls while balancing a pie on a stick on his nose. Every once in a while she heard mom or
dad say something in tones too low for her to hear.
Shannon had two options. She could cry for her parents, but that
led back to bed. Her other choice was to slip through the house while her parents were
watching TV and play in the backyard. Maybe, if she was lucky, Billy would back there
waiting for her. At that thought, her mind was made up, she wanted to see Billy.
She went back to her bed and put on her jammies. It had grown no
cooler, but the little girl knew about mosquitoes. She grabbed her stuffed monkey, Carl,
and slipped into the hall. Stopping for a moment to see if mommy or daddy were moving, she
padded down the hall and into the kitchen.
The back door was wide open, allowing a cool breeze to blow into
the room. Shannon knew how to open the screen door without a sound, something her parents
really hated. In a matter of seconds, the five year old was in the darkness of the back
yard and looking for Billy.
Billy was Shannon's imaginary friend. She'd found him a few weeks
earlier while playing in the woods behind the house, and ever since the two became
inseparable. Shannon's mother thought it was cute at first, but since has had her
misgivings about the whole affair. The whole thing seemed out of hand, Shannon went so far
as to set an extra place at the table for Billy and erupted in a squalling fit when Mary
refused to put food in Billy's plate.
Shannon, on the other hand, knew without a doubt Billy was real.
The man lived in a hole in the woods behind the house, a hole he said was lined with gold
and silver and had a peppermint stick door. Billy promised Shannon that one day soon she
could come to his house to play.
Billy wasn't quite as tall as her daddy, who stood as big as a
mountain and half as wide. Billy was just twice her size, big enough to let her know he
could take care of her but still small enough not to scare her. His skin was as black as
the night sky, something Shannon thought was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
Billy's eyes were always changing, one day bright blue and the next cold gray.
But what Shannon found she liked best about Billy were his
clothes. He wore the kind of clothes her mother read about in fairy tales about Aladdin
and his lamp. Billowing robes of red silk and lacy pants and shirts. It was like Shannon
was living a fairy tale of her very own and Billy was her genie.
Shannon darted through the backyard and dove into the woods, not
really caring that she couldn't see the path. The little girl spent most her free times in
the woods, and she knew every tree, every hole, every stone.
"Billy," she stopped and whispered once she was sure she
was out of ear shot of the house. Shannon stood still as a statue, waiting to see if Billy
answered. When he didn't she called again, this time a little louder.
"Billy! Come on out, it's time to play."
For a second Shannon thought Billy might already be asleep. She
hoped not, she didn't feel like going back in the house just yet. After what seemed like
hours, a branch snapped in the distance and Shannon could hear the rustling of feet
walking through the leaves.
"Hello, Shannon," Billy said from a bush just ahead. His
voice was soft and warm, as thick as honey and just as sweet.
"Hi," Shannon replied. She held up Carl toward the bush.
"Carl says hi, too."
"Hi, Carl. What are you doing out here?"
"I can't sleep. It's too hot and mommy and daddy won't let me
stay up."
"It is hot, isn't it?" Now Billy was moving around to
her right, circling her just beyond her ring of sight. If Shannon looked real hard, she
could just make out his eyes twinkling in the bushes.
"Let's play," she said. For the longest moment, Billy
said nothing. When he did speak again, his voice had changed the very slightest.
"Do you want to play at my house?"
This was exactly what Shannon hoped she would hear. He was going
to take her to his house in the ground. The odd tone in his voice meant nothing to the
little girl, nor did the way his breathing was getting faster.
"Let's go!" she exclaimed, ready to burst through the
woods to Billy's place.
"Then you must take my hand so I may lead you to my
palace."
From the darkness, a hand reached out in front of her in offering.
Excitedly, she grabbed the hand and felt Billy tug hard.
"We're going to have such fun," he said, yanking Shannon
into the bush with him. Before she could cry out, he clasped his other hand over her tiny
mouth like a vise and lifted her up from the ground. "I'm going to introduce you to
some of my other friends. They're just going to love you to death."
The phone and the alarm clock both began ringing almost
simultaneously, nearly knocking Ron out of bed. His hand flailed at the night stand,
knocking the clock to the floor while dislodging the receiver from the cradle. He snatched
the receiver before it slammed onto the floor.
"Yep," he mumbled half into his pillow and half into the
phone.
"It's Al, chief. Are you there?"
Ron looked down at the clock on the floor and groaned. Five in the
morning. What the hell was Al doing calling him at five o'clock in the morning.
"What is it, Al?"
"Missing kid."
That's all it took. In a blink of an eye Ron was wide awake and
reaching for the lamp next to the bed. He flipped on the light and sat up.
"Who is it?"
"A girl named Shannon Peterson. Parents said they put her in
bed about 8 p.m. last night. When they went to check on her this morning, she was
gone."
Ron remembered the Petersons in passing, just like he did most the
citizens of Cambridge. When you’ve been the county sheriff for over 10 years, you get
to know most the folks you work for, in one way or another. He could barely remember a
little girl with straw blonde hair and a huge smile.
"I'll be there in 15 minutes. What's the address?"
"2477 Pontiac. Ah, chief..."
Ron didn't like the sound in his deputy's voice.
"What?"
"When I first arrived on the scene, I went out back to take a
look. The property borders on the woods that lead up into the mountains."
"So?"
"I found a stuffed animal, what the parents had described to
me earlier that went missing with her. It's covered in blood."
A sinking feeling dropped in Ron's bowels, making him feel like he
wanted to throw up.
"I'll be there in 10," he said and hung up the phone.
Pontiac Drive was on the south side of Cambridge. People there
were upstanding middle class citizens, not too poor but not too rich. If this had been a
bigger town out east, folks might've even called them yuppies. Not in Cambridge, though.
In Cambridge, people who lived on Pontiac Drive were known as plain hard workers.
Most the homes on the street were no more than 15 years old, and
most were kept respectable looking by their owners. 2477 Pontiac was no different,
bordered by a lawn peppered here and there with crabgrass and clover but well kept all the
same. The house was a small, two bedroom brick with a basement and garage. Just what a
young family who did well for itself could afford these days.
Al was waiting for him as Ron pulled in the drive. The harrowed
look on Al's usually youthful face had Ron worried. The deputy stood well over six foot
five and could've easily weighed in at 240 pounds. His build came in pretty handy at
times, a bear like Al had a way of stopping fights before they broke out. At present,
though, Al's broad shoulders were stooped and his tanned features were pale and listless.
His butch cut brown hair gleamed in the early morning sun with sweat. He was carrying a
paper bag under one arm and a clip board under the other.
"This looks real bad," he said under his breath to Ron
before he could get out of the car. "I tried to keep the Petersons in the house until
you got here, but while I was calling you, the father went out back to look for himself.
He found the blood and now all hell's breaking loose."
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Ron said while
getting out of the patrol car. "What's in the bag."
"The stuffed animal. Peterson's say Shannon calls it Carl.
Like I said before, it's covered in blood."
"Let me see it," Ron said, taking the bag from Al. He
opened the back door to the car and emptied the sack onto the back seat. A stuffed ape
fell out with a wet plop.
"You sure it's the little girl's blood?"
"Not yet, but what else could it be. The Peterson's remember
Shannon taking that to bed with her last night."
"Have the Peterson's seen it?"
"No." Al replied. He ran his hand through his short
cropped hair and glanced at the Peterson’s front door. "I've been able to hide
it from them until you got here. I figured you'd know what to say to them."
Al was right, Ron did know what to say to them. Sorry, but your
kid's disappeared and there's nothing we can do but beat the woods in hopes we'll find her
before a maniac or a wild animal does. And if she happens to survive that, there's the
fact you sit on the edge of the Allegheny Mountains. Once she's lost in these foothills,
she's gone for good. It was the exact same thing Ron had heard ten years ago, and it
was the last thing he wanted to tell the Petersons now.
"This is what I want you to do," Ron said, pulling open
the front door to the cruiser and reaching for the hand mike. "I'm going to call Sal
down at the station and get the state troopers down here now. You go see Pete Smith and
tell him what happened. Tell him he needs to get some help fast."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'll wait here till you get back. And I'm going to try to
explain things to the Petersons."
Before either man could say anymore, the front door opened and
Craig Peterson stepped out. The short, balding man wore faded pajamas that made him look
ten years older than he really was. A thick brown beard covered his face, making up for
the lack of hair on top of his head.
"Sheriff!" he called out as soon as he recognized Ron.
"Thank God you're hear. What the hell's going on? Where's my daughter?"
"The father," Al whispered to Ron.
"We've met." Ron turned and walked up the drive toward
Craig. The last thing he needed was for the father to see the stuffed animal in the back
of his car. "Mr. Peterson, Sheriff Myerson, we met last month down at city
hall." He extended his hand to Peterson, but the look in the father’s eyes Ron
he was not in the mood for small talk.
"What are you doing to find my daughter?" Craig’s
blond hair was a mess and a stubble littered his jaw. "I want you to find my
daughter!"
"We're doing everything we can, Mr. Peterson, but right now,
we need you to stay calm." Deep down in his heart, Ron knew just how hard this simple
request could be.
"But my daughter..."
"We'll find your daughter, but you've got to work with me on
this." Ron turned to his deputy. "Go get hold of Pete and get him started. I'll
work my end from here."
The deputy jumped walked down to his car and took off toward the
center of town. After he was out of sight, Ron turned back to Peterson. He was staring at
Ron, his mouth moving silently in pleas of help but nothing came out.
"Mr. Peterson. I want you to go inside and be with your wife.
I'm going to contact the dispatcher and get the state police involved. When I'm done, I'll
be inside to ask you a few questions." Craig nodded his head slowly and turned to
leave.
"But my daughter...," he said, stopping and turning back
to face Ron.
"We'll find her, I promise."
Once Craig was inside the house, Ron returned to his cruiser and
reached for the stuffed animal in the back seat. It was an ape, a goofy looking creature
that reminded him of one of those cartoon characters that came on every afternoon on the
cable. The cartoon character had acquired a new twist, now, one which included blood
soaked fur and a missing child. Ron stuffed the animal back into the sack Al had brought
to the car and pushed the bundle onto the floor. A second later he was sitting in the
front seat, wiping the blood away on a rag.
His hands clean, Ron grabbed the hand mike and contacted Sal at
the office. A few seconds later he was patched through to the state police headquarters in
Lexington. He quickly explained the situation, but left out the part about the animal. Too
many folks in these parts had police scanners.
The conversation with the state troopers complete, Ron went up the
walk and entered the Peterson residence. The place was small but cheery and clean, a
striking contrast to the mood that soaked the house like a wet blanket. Mr. and Mrs.
Peterson sat on the couch, silently watching the sheriff as he took a seat across the
room.
"Tell me what happened," Ron said after clearing his
throat. He fidgeted with a notebook and a pen, hoping to make himself look like everything
was under control. But things weren't under control, not by a long shot. This was too much
like ten years ago, though then he was the one sitting on the couch with his wife while
another sheriff asked the questions.
"We told Deputy Dunn everything we know," Mrs. Peterson
said, her voice strain with fear. Usually a beautiful woman, the sudden disappearance of
her daughter had the effect of aging her twenty years.
"Maybe there's something you missed, something I might catch
that will help us."
"There's nothing to catch sheriff," Craig said slowly.
"We put Shannon to bed last night and then we watched a little TV. This morning I
went to wake her up, but she wasn't there. I searched the woods out back with no luck.
That's when I called you guys. Now why don't you go do something, like search the
woods?"
"The state police are on their way and Deputy Dunn is
contacting the mayor to get up a search party. We'll be out in the woods within the hour
and then we'll see. Until then, though, you've got to stay calm. Getting bent out of shape
is doing no one any good."
"What would you know," Craig snapped back. His face was
blotched red and his breath came in gasps. "My girl is gone, sheriff, and I don't
know where she is. You can't imagine what this feels like."
The words stung Ron like searing hot pokers. He flinched
noticeably but managed to hold his tongue. Craig realized what he'd said and swallowed the
last of his words. It was well known throughout the county of Cambridge what happened to
Ron's child.
"I'm sorry," Craig whispered to the ground, the sudden
shame he felt not letting him look Ron in the face. Ron cleared his throat and went back
to the questioning.
"Has Shannon ever ran away before, left the house with the
intent to scare you into doing something she wants, anything like that at all?"
"No, never," Mrs. Peterson answered. "She knows
other ways to get what she wants." A feeble attempt at a smile crossed her lips.
"She was good at it, too."
"How about strangers? Has either of you noticed any new faces
in the neighborhood?"
"The only new face around here is Billy," Craig mused.
"Billy?"
"Her imaginary friend," Mrs. Peterson said. "She
said she found him in the woods behind the house a few weeks ago. But he doesn't exist,
he's just make believe."
"Has either of you seen her playing with Billy, or has she
only told you about him?" It was a long shot and Ron knew it. Most kids acquire an
imaginary friend or two in their childhood, it wasn't unusual in the least. But something
struck a chord deep inside Ron's mind, as if somehow he'd heard this conversation before.
"Sheriff Myerson, I've had tea with Billy," Mrs.
Peterson smiled, though the action appeared no more than a cracked in her face.
"According to my daughter, he's the perfect gentleman, just stepped out of Aladdin's
Lamp and everything. Billy is the least of our worries."
Outside, a car pulled in the driveway behind Ron's cruiser. A few
moments later, two state police knocked lightly on the door. Ron motioned for the
Petersons to stay seated as he got up.
The next two hours were a blur of anxiety and fear for the
Petersons, and a grueling period of terror for Ron. This was too much like it was before,
too much like it was when his own daughter took a walk in the woods behind their house and
never came home. Somewhere in the middle of all the questions and speculations, Al
returned with an ever growing throng of volunteers and immediately began combing the woods
in search of Shannon. Ron and the troopers cordoned off the area where Al found the
stuffed animal. When everything was well underway, Ron went to that place for a closer
look.
Nothing in the woods indicated a struggle of any kind, but that
didn't mean anything. Shannon was only 5 years old, a grown man of average strength
could've taken the child off her feet before she knew what happened. The exact area where
the deputy found the toy was dull with dried blood, but nothing else spoke of foul play.
The state sent a specialty team to sweep the area for more clues, but Ron was pretty sure
they wouldn't find any. Whoever was responsible for this was good. Somehow, the sheriff
got the feeling that the assailant wanted them to find the animal.
The rest of the day proved no better than the beginning. By noon a
group of local hunters brought in a pack of bloodhounds, though it turned up nothing. By
three in the afternoon a light rain began to fall, unnaturally cold for late summer. The
rain fell in a steady stream, quickly soaking the searchers to the bone. Any scent of
Shannon or her kidnapper were quickly washed away and the dogs were returned to their
pens.
All through the afternoon Ron made it a point to keep busy, and he
was fairly successful at it. The crime people came to pick up the toy in the morning with
a promise of a preliminary report by late that evening. Coordination between the volunteer
search parties and the state officials took a lot of time, as did the constant questions
that came from the press.
Still, a quiet moment would every so often push its way into his
schedule and he couldn't help but think of his own daughter, Tanya. It was those times
that tears would cloud his vision and his voice would crack under the strain. This was all
too much, yet he had no choice but to do his job. If anyone saw him weaken now, even for a
second, it would signal a premature loss of hope for Shannon Peterson.
The Peterson family held up surprisingly well considering
everything that was going on. Ron didn't know it, but he was probably the biggest reason
that they kept hope. Craig regretted his words early that morning to no end, and promised
that as long as Sheriff Myerson could suffer everything going on, so could he.
The search went on into the night, though some of the folk started
to wonder whether or not they'd find Shannon alive, if at all. It wasn't the weather
anyone worried about, the rain had tapered off and the evening temperatures were still in
the 70's. Nor was there any really wild animals to harm the child. What worried some was
whether Shannon had accidentally found one of the hundreds of abandoned mine shafts that
peppered the hills surrounding Cambridge. Had they only known about the stuffed animal. If
they had, most would've been home protecting their own children. But they didn't know, nor
would they find out for another 2 days.
Ron stood in the woods, surrounded by darkness that was speared by
the occasional ray of light from a distant flashlight. The light pattering of rain fell
through the leaves like tears, quiet and soothing against the fears of the day. Yet, even
in the darkened solitude, Ron couldn't help but feel as if he'd already lived this
nightmare once before. Little did he know that the nightmare had yet to begin.
Renee Whateley hummed a tune to herself as she worked, one her
grandmother hummed to her on cold winter nights so many years ago in upstate New York.
She'd heard the words once or twice, though Renee would never remember them now. It was a
sad tune, sad but perverse in the way the chords jumped to and fro within the structure of
the melody. This erratic gesture caused most who heard it to dislike the tune, but, as so
many of her acquaintances were quick to point out, Renee was not most people. She hummed
it softly, not caring if the song made sense or not. She liked it.
Abruptly the tune was replaced by a grin which twisted Renee's
thin lips. What she would give if her great-grandfather could see her now. She'd been
successful in her bid to complete the family legacy, so successful in fact that she had
long surpassed Old Whateley's accomplishments before she even realized what she had done.
Of course, she had a lot more help than Old Whateley did, but in the end that didn't
matter. The simple fact that she had gotten as far as she was counted for everything.
Renee was the first of the decayed Whateleys to proclaim the
continuance of that branch of the Whateley bloodline in over sixty-eight years. No one
knew Lavinia Whateley had birthed a child a year before the twins. On the very night of
the delivery, Old Whateley whisked it away while Lavinia was still suffering the pains of
labor. In the wee hours of the morning he left the child on the doorstep of Arkham's
welfare center in a basket. He knew if the child remained in Dunwich, it would suffer the
fate Dunwich was destined to experience. In the basket he left a note and an envelope. The
note was simple and to the point, stating that the envelope was to be given to the child
on his twenty-first birthday.
So it was that Garth Whateley was given into foster care and
raised as any other normal boy while the horror split Dunwich and tore it down to its
foundations. Garth had no idea what blood coursed in his veins, nor did he understand the
power he possessed deep within his soul. In fact, he later discovered he was, in many
ways, much more powerful than even his half-brother Wilbur, though certainly not due to
his heritage. Not even Lavinia knew who Garth's father was, the act of conception
occurring on a lightless night on Sentinel Hill in a way that bordered on rape. Old
Whateley took the identity of Garth's father with him to the grave, though it was
generally accepted that Garth's father was, at least, human. No, the power that Garth
possessed came from within himself. The rarest of souls beat within his chest, the soul
that could control the energy of the universe.
As requested Garth was given the envelope left with him at the
welfare center on his twenty-first birthday. Inside he found two sheets of paper, one with
a short note written in almost cryptic handwriting and the other a map. The note was
abrupt and to the point.
Follow the map and find yourself.
This intrigued Garth. His foster parents had been honest with
him about the adoption, and Garth had often wondered who his real parents were. This
message and the map promised to answer his questions. He swore not to pass up the chance.
The map was one of the Devil's Hop Yard overlooking the ruins of
Dunwich, marking a location beneath a fallen stone and a stump. The place was easy enough
to find, though not many people ever went to Dunwich, even then only five years after the
passing of the horror. By that time, most folk who did elect to remain in the area were so
degenerated that they became little more than husks of a mockery of life. Those families
whose blood remained generally untainted by years of inbreeding found it necessary to
leave Dunwich soon after the horror was destroyed. The village of Dunwich was nothing but
a lifeless shell of a town, the horror that had ravaged it had driven even the heartiest
of souls out of the countryside. What remained was an odd collection of broken buildings
that, if not inhabited by the strange townsfolk, nature immediately went about trying to
reclaim for its own. Here and there, Garth found the foundations of fallen homes jutting
from the vines like skeletal fingers.
The Whateley house was completely gone, not even the stone
foundation remained to mark the spot where it once stood. What the monster failed to
destroy the village people dismantled after the initial fear of the place was replaced by
the necessity to rid the countryside of this horrible blotch. Garth had learned of the
horror that came to Dunwich before embarking on his journey, though no one he spoke to
knew that it was his own family who brought that horror to life. The terror that would
fill most men at the thought of visiting such a site did not come to Garth. Rather, he
reviled in it. Somehow he knew his grandfather was the cause of the destruction, and this
intrigued him to the point of obsession.
The subject of the map was easy to find, though it lay well hidden
from even the most prying eyes. Garth found a tube made of bone which he tucked under his
arm and left back to Arkham. He wanted badly to open the parcel and discover its contents,
but he felt a danger in the area, not from evil, but from those who would not want that
evil to return.
Once back in Arkham at his apartment, Garth opened the tube and
laid the contents on his desk. A sheaf of paper, ancient beyond reckoning, was rolled into
a scroll along with another map. This time the map depicted a mountainous area somewhere
far away. A letter was included with the paper, a letter from Old Whateley to a grandson
he never knew.
In it he explained in detail what transpired with the Whateley
family, why things were done as they were and why Garth was slipped away on the night of
his birth. The letter also explained the intent of the map and Old Whateley's purpose in
life. The map led to the lost city of Loriad, a place of terror beneath the mountains
where beings from aeons past were imprisoned for nameless crimes. Not even the priests of
the Great Old Ones knew of the city. If they did, they never spoke of it. The map was
explicitly detailed in all but one respect. Old Whateley was never able to pinpoint the
exact location of the entrance to the city. That was where Garth came in. Old Whateley
wanted his grandson to find the lost city beneath the mountains and release those who lay
in deathly slumber back into life. It was a mission that Garth gladly accepted.
It was Renee who finally discovered the location of the lost city,
though, some sixty-two years later. Her job as assistant librarian at the New York City
Public Library offered her access to records and the Internet, which she used with skilled
forethought. It was the Internet that finally gave her the answer. Many a day passed with
Renee visiting sites which proclaimed knowledge of Great Old Ones. She quickly found,
though, that of every hundred sites she visited, only one or two were serious enough to
warrant further investigation. Slowly, methodically, she collected information from a slew
of different sources which confirmed Old Whateley's dream.
Yet it was not those sites which gave Renee the final piece to the
puzzle, but one which was not connected to the religion at all. On a whim, Renee began to
search databases for information on disasters and castrophies in mountainous regions. Her
search began in the northeast and, when that proved unfruitful, she widened her search to
include the world. In the wee hours of the morning after pouring over report after report,
she discovered the one she wanted right in her own back yard.
At the turn of the century in a place which came to be known as
Cambridge, Kentucky, rich coal fields were discovered in the mountains, lending to the
opening of multiple mines. The town of Cambridge was founded originally to house the
miners, and had grown into a self sufficient town since. Up until 1929 the town and mines
prospered and life went on without worry or care. Then disaster struck.
Carlton Coal, the mining company who owned most the land
surrounding Cambridge, decided to open a new shaft in the higher elevations of the
mountain above the town. Though the news reports were vague, Renee discovered that the new
shaft collapsed a month after being opened, killing seventeen miners outright and trapping
fifty-three more below the mountains. The reports never said why, but the lost miners were
never recovered. A few days later, another report stated that townspeople were locked in
terror of the night as the ghosts of the lost miners aimlessly walked the streets. After
three weeks another newspaper report surfaced in connection with the collapse, and this
proved to be what Renee was looking for. An official from Carlton Mines had gone up to the
collapsed shaft to recover some equipment and heard voices from the mouth of the tunnel.
Thinking it may be one of the lost miners, he ran inside the tunnel to offer his help. The
report never said what he found, but did say that he returned to town with a strange stone
he found just inside the shaft. It was made of some mineral officials were hard put to
identify, and was etched with glyphs no one had seen before. A picture of the stone
accompanied the report. When Renee saw the picture, a grin of satisfaction crossed her
face. She had found Loriad.
Soon afterwards she moved to Cambridge, bought a storefront and
opened a general store. Business was brisk and Renee prospered, which helped her fund her
search for the lost mine shaft. The news clippings she found didn't say exactly where the
shaft was, and company records at Carlton Coal failed to reveal anything as well. It
didn't matter, Renee didn't need to know where it was. The location would come to her soon
enough if she had her way about it.
So it was that a week before the world came crashing down around
Cambridge, Renee Whateley conducted the rite last practiced by her great grandfather on
Sentinel Hill overlooking Dunwich over eighty-two years prior. The creature who came to
her that night nearly drove her to the brink of insanity by his appearance, yet pushed her
into the heights of ecstasy in her wildest of fantasies. His skin was as black as the
darkest night, though no one would consider him a black man. His face resembled the face
of a god, chiseled from black onyx in intricate, beautiful detail. He wore the garbs of
the middle east, flowing silks of red and gold that billowed and swayed with his every
breath. His muscles were as hard as iron and twisted like steel snakes under his shining
skin. Here was Nyarlathotep, the mighty messenger, intermediary of the Great Old Ones.
“Who has summoned me?” he whispered, his voice rasping
like sandpaper. Renee stared up at him from her protective circle and shuddered in the
strange mix of near orgasm and fear.
“I have,” she replied, her voice betraying the feelings
that coursed through her soul. She didn't care. Renee had no doubt Nyarlathotep could see
into the deepest shadows of her mind. To attempt to hide anything was a waste of time and
power.
“Say the words and be quick, or I shall rip your entrails
from your body and feed them to the Shoggoths.” Her father taught her the words
Nyarlathotep wanted to hear when she was still young, made her repeat them over and over
again until she could say them in her sleep. Now she knew why. Nyarlathotep's threat was
not an idle one.
“Fhtagahn Yog-Sothoth shimmina farnal.”
“You speak the syllables well. What is it you wish?”
“I search for the lost city of Loriad.”
Laughter erupted in the little room that was Renee's cellar. The
laughter was absent of life and shook the very foundations of the house with its power.
“Why do you search for Loriad? Do you understand those who
sleeps within its walls?”
“I understand their power and wish to wake them.”
Silence suddenly filled the space around her, silence so intense
that Renee feared the sound of her own heart would shatter it into a million pieces.
Finally, the being spoke.
“You would wake those who were sent to the sleep with
purpose? Do you understand their crime?”
“I understand their crime and wish to wake them.” The
drama was unfolding exactly as her father told her it would. Only one more question
remained, one more before she would be given her answer.
“Do you understand the payment you must make for me to show
you the way?”
Renee's breath locked in her lungs. This was not the question she
was expecting. Nyarlathotep was supposed to ask about a key, the entrance to the gate, not
a payment. It was too late to turn back now, though. She had to go on or lose everything
her family had worked for since the late 1890s.
“I will do what it takes and I wish to wake them.”
Silence again, this time lasting what seemed two eternities. The
man stood perfectly still, staring down on Renee with cold, emotionless eyes. Renee could
not read his thoughts, for there were none to read. She had to wait. The least mistake and
everything would be lost, including her soul.
Finally, the man broke the silence. His voice had changed
dramatically. Before, it was as if he spoke through hollow iron, his voice booming like
thunder in the heavens. Now his voice was more human, betraying a hint of amusement at her
request.
“You shall have what you wish for. It is a long path that you
seek, one that is washed with blood and flesh. Should you reach the end, you may very well
find the only thing waiting for you is the fate of all around you.”
“I understand. It is what my father wished and my father's
father before him. Once we stood at the gate of destiny. The Great One lingered at that
threshold, yet we were denied our victory. We shall not be denied again.”
“The Whateley's were always a stubborn crowd,”
Nyarlathotep mused, speaking more to himself than to Renee. The words surprised her.
“What have you brought me to seal the pact?”
Nyarlathotep asked, turning his gaze full on Renee's face. His eyes suddenly pierced her
skull like burning arrows, ripping at her mind with their intensity. Yet, Renee withstood
the pain. She had to, she had no other choice.
Beneath the shroud of pain she turned and grabbed the burlap sack
laying on the floor to her left. She lifted the sack and threw it out of the protective
circle she sat in. Without taking his eyes off her, Nyarlathotep opened the sack and
lifted out the decaying fetus hidden within. Renee knew long ago this payment would be
demanded. Days after finding out about Cambridge while still in New York City, she began
visiting clubs one after another, having sex with any man she could find. She cared not
who fathered the child, only that their seed would be planted within her. The week before
she conducted the rite she aborted the pregnancy to bring this gift to her masters.
The pain stopped abruptly and was immediately replaced by a
feeling of gratification and soothing pleasure.
“You shall do very well in the eyes of the masters. Few give
this much of themselves to come into the fold.”
The rest of the night was a blur to Renee, a mixture of raw
ecstasy and brutality. Nyarlathotep took her and ravaged her, planting his seed inside her
belly. At times he held her as no other lover ever had before, tender and caring and
catering to her every whim. At others he was more vicious than a rabid dog, slamming
himself into her with a strength and power that threatened to rip out her insides. It was
a night she would never forget.
Now, a week and a half later, Renee heard over the news that a
little girl named Shannon Peterson was missing and presumed lost in the mountains above
Cambridge. Renee was sure the little girl was in those mountains, though she doubted
anyone would ever find her again. The disappearance of the girl marked the beginning of
the fulfillment of her dream. Renee began humming again, this time a little louder.
Tonight she would call upon the Nyarlathotep. Then she would give herself to him again, if
he wished it. Renee felt a tingling glow spread through her groin and down her thighs.
Closing her eyes and laying back in her chair, she let her hand slip beneath the material
in her dress and trace the outline of her panties. She hoped he would wish it.