The Children of
Cambridge,
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What was once Renee Whateley now slithered across the dark, cold floor of the basement,
leaving a vile trail of slime and ichor in its wake. The creature knew its surroundings,
knew its own life—and its fate—though she had no control over any of the three.
Nyarlathotep hadn’t returned since that terrifying night of the vision, though Renee
knew he would sooner or later. He had to. There was no other way.
At odd moments Renee almost enjoyed her new body, but those
moments were brief, few, and far between. Mostly, this transition into her new form, the
form which would allow her to sire the new young, was painful and horrifying. Some say
that you can get used to pain if you feel it long enough. The fools had never gone through
what Renee was feeling now. Every cell of her human existence was being absorbed,
transmuted into something alien and blasphemous. With every second of this transformation
came pain so intense and so wide spread that she prayed for death a thousand times over,
anything, anything but of this.
Since the evening she first drank of the tainted potion her human
form began to rot away in sloughs of gray slime. Her arms and legs began to wither away
almost immediately until they became small, thin sticks, more like tentacles than what
they once were. Her skin became transparent, slick like mucus and pulsing with the beat of
her heart. The muscles beneath were wet, gray, and leathery. Her facial features, flat and
strange as was inherited through her blood, still lingered around the glistening maw of
the creature.
Renee had caught glimpse of herself a few days earlier in the
mirror propped against the wall The sight filled her with so much grief and terror that
she broke the mirror into a hundred shards that scattered across the floor. For a moment
she played with the idea of taking one of the shards and drawing it across her wrist. She
even had the glass in her hand, resting it on the graying skin of her wrist, even felt the
sharp edge burning there, ready to end it all.
Trembling, she let the glass fall to the floor, unable to harm
herself. She could never let herself be harmed, not after tolerating such unbearable
torture to fulfill her family's legacy. Even if she could, even if she were free to kill
herself she knew he'd never let it happen. The second a single drop of blood appeared on
her skin he’d appear in the room with her, preventing her from destroying herself in
his own special way. She wondered for the briefest second what he would do to her after he
stopped her. He wouldn't let her die, she knew that, but there were countless things one
could do to increase human suffering without risking death.
Her mind seemed the only thing not susceptible to the rotting
curse inflicting her body. If anything, it had sharpened as the rest of her body decayed.
She knew things now, knew things not even Nyarlathotep's most powerful ally, the witch
Keziah Mason, could understand. When Renee dreamed she saw things so terrifying, so
horribly beautiful that now she feared the coming of sleep. She witnessed the death Elder
Things as the dark creatures erupted from their catacombs beneath the earth one hundred
and fifty million years ago. She was there when Tsaggotha's children were driven from the
forests and slaughtered like wild animals. She heard the laments of the damned as the King
in Yellow stood above the foul pits surrounding Lake Hali.
A dark stirring in the shadows of the room caught her attention,
at once sending spikes of terror through her mind. Her heart raced with fear as the
shadows turned solid, forming the creature so many children in this small town had already
come to know as Billy. His black face became a hole in the darkness, sucking the light
into it as his smile, evil and venomous, sent a dark chill through the room.
"Ah, my child," he cooed as he approached Renee.
"You’re doing well, I see." He knelt down and slid a hand across
Renee’s slime covered face. The icy touch burned her like white fire, bringing a cry
of pain into her throat. Nyarlathotep smiled.
"You’ll feel much better as time goes on," he
promised as he stood back up. He stepped up to the altar Renee had so lovingly built only
a month before and placed a canvas bag upon it. The bag was lumpy and wet, dark stains
covered its exterior that could be only one thing.
"I’ve a present for you, my sweet," Nyarlathotep
said, turning back to Renee. While he spoke, she slithered against the far wall of the
room, pushing herself across the floor on the stubs of her arms and legs. Nyarlathotep
continued in his low, grating voice.
"This is the last child you will receive, the others are to
become vessels for the coming of the promised ones. You will do with this one as you wish,
I’m sure you’ll find good use for it.
"In the mean time, I have work to do. It seems we have
someone a little smarter than I had hoped for here in town. Quite by accident, he’s
brought together exactly the wrong people for our purpose." Another smile cracked the
deity’s lips and a glint sparkled in his eyes. "Actually I think I’ll enjoy
this, I’ve not faced a real challenge in quite some time…"
Renee heard the dark man’s ramblings, but had little idea of
what he was talking about. The aroma of stagnant blood that soaked the room from the
canvas bag swam in her head, awakening forbidden thoughts in her darkening mind. Slowly
she began to shamble toward the altar, all the while keeping her eyes on Nyarlathotep. The
man smiled as she moved, his eyes knowing the hunger that stirred in her gut.
"These interlopers want to know who is doing this and
why." he spoke abstractly as he lifted the bag and dropped it on the floor with a
dull, wet thud. "I think I’ll give them what they want." The tie around the
bag fell open, the contents spilling over into the light. The sight of the tiny limb
falling out on the floor drove Renee wild, sending her scampering across the floor towards
her prize.
Nyarlathotep watched her with slight amusement. She would do well
in her job, but he knew already she would die before it was over. She had to. The children
would need nourishment, and wasn’t it the mother’s responsibility to feed them,
after all? No matter, the life of one so insignificant meant little to the total purpose.
Now he had bigger things to worry about. Charlamagne’s
appearance was inevitable, as inevitable as night and day. But bringing this professor
into the mix, this Professor Mendleson, was something he didn’t foresee. Through his
inept bungling back in Arkham, Mendleson had actually stopped the dark man once, and he
had been so close that time. The only thing that kept Nyarlathotep from total failure that
time was the fact that Charlamagne and this professor hadn’t joined forces. This
time, though, it looked like that was exactly what they would end up doing.
Maybe letting these puny mortals see exactly what they were up
against would be the answer, after all. Only Charlamagne knew for sure how terrible an
adversary they faced, and the old black man had been fighting Nyarlathotep for so long he
really had no fear left in him. But the others, they had no idea. This sheriff still
thought he sought some mad man, as did the others. Even Mendleson, knowing the truth as
much as Charlamagne did, still didn’t want to believe, even after over thirty years
since he first found out. If the real truth was presented to them, maybe he could destroy
their little alliance and them as well.
The sounds of ripping flesh and muffled chewing echoed from the
walls of the room. Nyarlathotep looked down at Renee as she chewed mindlessly on the
remains and smiled again. Yes, a little of the truth never hurt anyone.
The remainder of the trip was a silent one, too many things swimming in the darkness
that filled Ron's head, too many things to think about. The parchment Dr. Mendleson
produced proved what he could never believe in a world of ordered sanity—that shadows
hiding in the night really were ghosts and monsters really did hide in caves to devour
children. Mendleson obliged the sheriff by remaining silent, knowing through experience
the severity of the horror which coursed through Ron's mind.
As they approached Cambridge, the skies darkened and the wind
picked up, holding promise that yet another thunderstorm was ravaging the town. Now Ron
saw the storm in a different light, and for a split instant he almost stopped the patrol
car and turned around. Almost. The memory of the vision he experienced in the old shanty
blurred his mind, reminding him of what the parents of the children must be feeling right
now. Even Joannie Bryant, stinking of death and booze, had to be pitied, the disappearance
of her son sure to drive her over the brink. He had no choice, he had an obligation to the
parents and their children as much as he did to himself.
Thirty minutes later the pair arrived in Cambridge amidst the
pouring rain, driving through a river that was Main Street and parking in front of the
sheriff's office. Ron mumbled something about the weather to Dr. Mendleson, but still
refused to say much else. He led the aging professor into the police station where Sally
and Al were just finishing their third pot of coffee. The storm hit Cambridge about an
hour after Ron left for Lexington, beating the town down worse than any other storm had
ever done as long as anyone could remember. Miraculously, the power and telephones were
still operating, though Sally would call it anything but a blessing. As long as the phone
worked she would be swamped with a never ending torrent of complaints, no one ever
realizing that the last people in the world who could do anything at all would be the
police.
Al met the professor with a bright smile, offering a paw of a hand
and shaking the man so hard Sally thought the old guy would snap in half. Al honestly
thought that now the professor had arrived things would be all right. The deputy gave a
hopeful look at Ron, but the look on the sheriff's face drained Al of any hope he held in
his heart.
"What's the matter, sheriff?" he asked almost
hesitantly. Sally saw the look on Ron's face, too, and wasn't so sure she wanted to hear
the answer to Al's question. Ron looked hard at the two of them, almost said something but
thought better of it. He turned and walked into his office, leaving the professor behind.
"Professor?" Sally asked absently. She'd seen Ron in a
lot of moods before, but this one was a first.
Mendleson looked at the pair for a moment and then toward Ron's
office. "I believe I'm not really in a position to elaborate right now. What you ask
for is better explained by the sheriff." He took off his coat and shook the rain from
it, then folded it neatly and draped it over the back of a chair next to Sally's desk.
"I will ask for a cup of coffee, though, if you wouldn't mind?"
Sally smiled and got up to get Mendleson a cup. The professor was
a strange one, she could tell that the moment he walked into the office. His hair was a
disheveled mess, the wind and rain not helping any. His tweed suit was rumpled from the
flight, and his old leather brief case had seen better days. The east coast twang in his
voice was strong and prevalent, and his intelligence was apparent in his manner of speech.
None of this qualified him as strange in Sally's book, though.
It was the look that crossed his eyes when she asked him to
explain the sheriff's mood that dictated his strangeness. The professor knew something
about the disappearances of the children, knew exactly what was going on, and might even
know who was doing it. It was in the fact that he did know, and by his remarks treated the
knowledge as normal that made her wonder.
She handed Mendleson the cup of coffee, the professor taking it
gratefully and sipping the steamy liquid gingerly. A moment later he sat the cup down on
the table and sat in the chair next to Sally's desk.
From the back of the police station a faint humming drifted
through the air, just above the rumble of the thunder and wind attacking the streets of
Cambridge outside. The song was elusive but catching, the notes soft and soothing against
the darkening which spread through the town. At first, no one noticed, all just sat and
stared at each other while the trio waited for the sheriff to come out of the office and
offer them an explanation. Mendleson lifted the cup of coffee silently to his lips and
took another drink when he realized he heard the soothing chant, and when he did, he
nearly dropped the coffee in his lap. The cup landed on the table with a clack, splashing
coffee everywhere.
The old professor stood up and looked around the office like a
trapped animal looking for its hunter in the shadows, barely noticing the mess he made on
Sally's desk. When he finally located the source of the humming, he turned to Al and
pointed to the door leading to the cells. Before he could say anything, though, a voice
wafted from the cell.
"I knows you, professor," the voice said casually as a
matter of fact, "I've seen you before. Question seems to be now is if you remembers
me."
Mendleson walked to the doorway. The voice sounded familiar, but
from where he didn't have a clue. Before he made it to the door, Al stepped in front of
him.
"Sorry, Professor Mendleson, you can't go in there. Prisoner
holding area."
"It's okay, deputy, me and the professor here, we go back a
long way. A long way, yessir indeed. Isn't that the truth, professor?"
Mendleson tried to peer over the deputy's broad shoulder to get a
look at the man talking to him, but couldn't.
"I don't believe we've met," he said instead, knowing
instantly that his statement was a lie. He had met this man before, but where?
"Ah but we have, if you'll just take the time to think about
it. Maybe not as direct as I wish we had now that we've come to this, but we've met all
the same. Over thirty years ago, and ain't it fate that the same thing has brought us here
in this place together again. I didn't knows if I was going to tell these folks what I
knew or not, but seeing that you is here, well, it'd be a shame not to."
Mendleson looked up at Al. "Please, deputy," he
insisted, "I must see this man."
Al began to protest when a voice interrupted from Ron's office.
"Let him through, Al," Ron instructed. He, too, had heard the humming and the
subsequent conversation. "Let him do what he needs to do, it’s okay." Al
looked astonished at Ron’s order, but stepped aside as he was told. The professor
slipped past the deputy and entered the darkness of the holding area.
As soon as he did, a faint, gentle aroma curled around his head.
The turmoil he’d experienced ever since he learned of the events falling on Cambridge
began to melt away, being replaced slowly by a feeling that everything would be all right.
Suddenly, he knew, suddenly, he understood.
He looked into the cell and saw the old black man sitting quietly
on the cot, smiling at him with teeth so white they glowed. "You were there,
weren’t you?" he asked slowly, his voice barely a whisper.
"I guess you do remember me, then. At least I don’t
haves to go through the trouble of remindin’ you of that one." Charlamagne stood
up slowly, stretching his old body like a cat. Bones popped and rattled as the black man
rubbed his neck. "Getting too old for this, just like you are, professor."
"But why?" Mendleson asked, his hands on the bars of the
cell. Charlamagne stepped up in front of him on the other side, his own callused hands
lightling on the professor’s. Charlamagne’s touch was warm and reassuring.
"Why what?" he asked back. "Why are the children
dying? Why is the sky opening the wrath of hell on this poor town? Why are we here again,
after thirty years, facing the same creature we did before? Which one will it be,
professor?"
"Try all three," Ron suggested. Both the professor and
Charlamagne looked over to the door and saw the sheriff, Al, and Sally all standing just
inside the holding area. "You two know something, something more than you’ve
already explained, professor, and I want to know what it is."
Charlamagne let his hands fall to his side. At that precise moment
he looked tired, more tired than a man had any right to be. The countless years of chasing
Nyarlathotep crushed his brow and drove his shoulders down. In another instant the look
was gone. He turned around and sat down on his cot.
"It’s a long story, sheriff, but one you need to know if
you plan to defeat this thing. I’ve got a feeling that this time we have a chance not
just to drive this creature off, but to ban it from this reality for a long, long
time." Ron noticed the uneducated slang disappeared from Charlamagne’s voice,
replaced by the knowledge of a scholar.
"Creature?" Al asked, looking at Ron. "What the
hell is he talking about?"
"I’m talking about your killer, deputy. This monster is
darkness complete, an evil so deep that to know him in the least would kill your mind and
your soul. He is ageless, he is death, and yet, he is but a messenger for a more terrible
race of things."
Ron looked at the pair of old men in front of him and then to his
friends.
"You to need to go do something."
"But—" Al complained, but Ron cut him short.
"But nothing, go out and make sure everything is all right
out there. Sally, as much as you hate it, you need to be ready to answer the phone. I'll
explain everything to you both later, once I get a few answers myself."
Al and Sally looked at each other and then back at Ron. Seeing
that arguments were useless, they turned, leaving Ron alone with Charlamagne and Professor
Mendleson. Charlamagne sat down on the cot in his cell while Ron and the professor sat
down on a bench facing him.
"Is this really the same thing here that happened in
Arkham?" Mendleson asked once the door was closed. He had to know, yet the answer
terrified him. He was old, how could he even hope to face the same horrors he did thirty
years ago and live. Sudden visions of his passage through the crypts beneath the ancient
city exploded in his head, sending shivers throughout his body.
"I think you figured that one out when these fine folk first
contacted you. Yes, indeed, my good professor, you're part of a story that began before
the coming of the human race to this earth, one older than any religion you believe in.
"First, though," he continued, turning to the sheriff.
"let me tell you who your killer is, sheriff. His name is Nyarlathotep, though
he’s know by many others throughout this world. He is known as Ahtu in the darkest
Congo, the Black Man in England, and the Black Pharaoh in the oldest circles of Egypt. In
China he is the Bloated Woman, the Dark One in my own home in Louisiana, and the Floating
Horror in Haiti. The world over, though, he is known as the Beast, worshipped by the cults
of Nophru-Ka of the Fourteenth Dynasty of Ancient Egypt.
"You look at me as if I’m mad." Charlamagne
observed.
He was right. In the period of just over three days, Ron's entire
world has plummeted into a darkness deeper than any crypt's. Yet, even with the
Mendleson's story and the proof of the vellum he carried, even with the vision he
experienced in the shanty, even with all this, his mind refused to let him believe
anything except reality. Reality as he knew it, where demons were men with sick minds and
axes and where storms rolling off mountains were a freak of nature.
"How can I believe this?" he stated, leaning forward.
"How can I believe this at all? You sound like a character in a Stephen King book,
come to whisk us all away on a rollercoaster ride of terror. This killer, he's human, he
may be the world's longest operating serial killer, but he's human. There is no other
explanation."
"But the vellum, the history of Arkham…"
Mendleson's voice was shaky and worried. They could not afford to loose this sheriff as an
ally.
"Penned by the same maniac," Ron observed.
"I don't say that I can blame what you're thinking,
sheriff," Charlamagne said. "If I hadn't lived the life I live for as long as I
have, I'd think me mad, too. But hear me out, let me tell you my story before you make any
final conclusion. Do that much for an old man who suffers delusions."
Ron sat back, he knew he had to hear this man out. And the
smallest part of his mind, the part still linked with primal instincts—and primal
fear—knew something else, too. This was no lie, no figment of an overactive
imagination. This demon was real and in Cambridge, and Ron had to find out how to stop
him. Charlamagne smiled and continued.
"Nyarlathotep, or Billy as he likes to be called, is a
messenger, an intermediary between the Great Old Ones and their worshippers. He carries
their whims to the world and enacts them, as ruthless and as vile as he sees fit for the
situation."
"Let’s just say that what you say is true," Ron
interrupted, "and there is this demon out there who’s causing all this. Why?
What reason would he have to come here?"
"I think I might be able to answer that one," Mendleson
stated, shifting slightly in his chair. "At least partially. I believe there is a
coal company around here that goes by the name of Carlton Coal."
"Sure," Ron replied. "Been around here since prior
to the turn of the century, Carlton’s what put Cambridge on the map in the first
place."
"Back in the early 1900s, a date which I’m unsure of at
the moment, Carlton Coal drilled a shaft into a shadowed part of the mountain. From the
reports, something horrendous occurred, forcing the immediate closing of the shaft and the
area. The only reason I know of this was that an artifact important to my research after
the incident in Arkham was found in the area and turned over to the university at a great
cost."
"I never heard of that," Ron said. "As far as I
know, Carlton Coal has pretty much a spotless record when it comes to accidents in mine
shafts."
"I assure you, sheriff, the accident did occur. What other
explanation can I give for the artifact that was produced." Mendleson fell silent for
a moment and looked at Charlamagne. "I think you know of the accident, too,
don’t you?" The old black man cracked a smile and slowly nodded.
"This artifact, a statue of alien design, was made of green
soapstone the likes of which has only been seen a handful of times throughout history.
It’s design was especially intriguing in that it was explained in detail in the dread
Necronomicon and in Prinn’s De Vermiis Mysteriis, two evil tomes penned
across the ocean by men who had never seen the shores of America. Only now, with the
coming of Nyarlathotep to your town do I understand the full implications of what this
artifact meant."
"It means more than you give understanding to,
professor," Charlamagne said. "Throughout the history of this world, races of
beings have come and gone, from the Race of Yith to the Old Ones of Leng. Of those races,
only a few still survive today, hidden away in the darkest catacombs of the planet, rarely
making contact with humans at all. Those humans who do run into them are normally killed
and devoured, which is for the better, anyway."
"For the better?" Ron asked.
"Unfortunately yes, sheriff," Charlamagne explained.
"Can you imagine the fear and panic that would infest the human race if they knew of
these things? Knowledge of the existence of Shoggoths alone would be enough to send normal
men over the brink of insanity."
"Shoggoths?" Ron wondered aloud.
"Something you don't want to think about," Mendleson
whispered.
"True, professor, but something we must think about all the
same. Later, it would be wise to explain to the sheriff about Shoggoths, and a great many
other things." Charlamagne fell silent, as if searching for his next words very
carefully.
"Of all the hidden races, though, the most frightening are
the ones never hinted at except in riddles, the ones never seen in the darkest of
festering crypts, the ones that exist in the heart of your mountains, sheriff, the ones
that Carlton Coal drilled a shaft to."
The room suddenly went cold, colder than the season would ever
allow. Someone somewhere might have attributed the cold to Charlamagne's last statement,
using the feeling to increase dramatic effect. But Charlamagne felt the cold, too, felt it
pierce his bones to their core, felt it seize his heart and squeeze it with searing icy
fingers. He knew the feeling well, though he'd only experienced it a handful of times in
his long life.
A darkness appeared in the back corner of the cell block,
swallowing the light that touched it, repelling the light that didn't. From the darkness
an outline of a man appeared, insubstantial yet overpowering. Ron recognized the man at
once, though he'd never seen him before. It was Billy.
"My, my Charlamagne, aren't we observant today," Billy
mused. His voice was heavy and rich, echoing from a distant corridor in Hell and slamming
into them as if from a long, hollow tunnel of cast iron and fire. Charlamagne flinched
from the statement, but didn't get up.
Ron pulled his gun from his holster, flipping the safety off and
preparing to level it at the killer. Charlamagne caught the movement in the corner of his
eye and spoke up immediately.
"It isn't him, sheriff, don't waste your bullets. He may be a
demon, but he knows we can still kill him, at least here in this place and time. The beast
isn't fool enough to come here in the flesh, at least not until he holds the advantage. It
is but a shade, but dangerous all the same.
"What is it you want, Billy?" Charlamagne asked, the
spite rich in his voice. "You're time here is short, we know what you want."
"Are you sure?" The voice was terrifying, to Ron it
sounded like an echo in reverse, beginning where it should end, quiet and hollow, and
ending with the loud, booming sound. "I've come to help you, my old friend."
"How will you help us?" Charlamagne wondered
sarcastically.
"By answering the question that burns your mind, old friend,
by letting you know what you want to know. You ask why here, why this town, why its
children. I will tell you, in a way that you'll never, ever forget."
Too late Charlamagne realized Nyarlathotep's intent, by the time
he tried to protect himself and the others, spears of sparkling darkness penetrated the
cell and slammed into the three men's heads. Their sight instantly disappeared, replaced
with a swirling gray vortex that spun their heads and threw their stomachs into their
throats.
Ron tried to scream out, but the motion sucked the wind from his
lungs as soon as he opened his mouth. He felt himself falling, plummeting into the
bottomless void for all eternity. As he spun out of control, Billy's voice shattered his
ears with its dreadful statement.
"You wanted to know, sheriff, you wanted to find out why. I
am an obliging being, I'm going to help. I'm not going to tell you, sheriff. I'm going to
show you, instead."
Ron throat ached to scream as he plummeted head first into the
cold gray fog of the past to witness the beginning of the horror no man should ever know.