

# The Elder Unearthed

## Tales of NasNoroth and the Cult of the Elder

By

Michael W. Garza

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including

photocopying, recording or by any information and retrieval

system, without the written permission of the author, except

where permitted by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are the product of the author's imagination or

are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,

locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-615-98737-8

Copyright © 2014 by Michael W. Garza

All rights reserved.

Proofread by Karen Robinson of

INDIE Books Gone Wild.

### Also by Michael Garza

The Decaying World Saga

The Hand That Feeds

The Last Infection

Tribes of Decay

Season of Decay

Cult of the Elder Mythos

The Elder Unearthed

(A collection of tales)

Vision of the Elder

NeverHaven

Children of the Mark

Rise of the Elder

Drums in the Abyss

The Shadow Gate Chronicles

The Last Shadow Gate

A Veil of Shadows

### Table of Contents

The Elder Unearthed

The Harvester

Teeth of the World

The Burning of Legel Manor

The Calling

Crimson Rising

A Rose by Any Other Name

The Long Forgotten

The Grief That Lingers

Drums in the Void

A Step through Darkness

The Hunger

The Elder Unearthed

It was a warm Connecticut summer in 1926 when I first came across the book. I was in the throes of my early thirties, and I cared little for anything besides social functions and the occasional company of a young woman. My home on the New Haven waterfront was the scene of much debauchery. My father died in June, and I spent most of my time drinking away his memory and spending a rather large inheritance.

I put off looking through my father's personal effects until late September. The family's old brick house was dreary by comparison to the rest of the row. The house proved too much for me, and I was forced to leave with little more than my father's more prominent papers and some personal childhood items of my own. I would have the rest of it delivered to my home and stored away in the cellar. My father had been a well-known archaeologist. His frequent studies away from home had marred our relationship beyond repair. In my mind, he'd died a long time ago. I thought no more about his passing or the effects hidden in the darkness beneath my home.

In the spring of 1928, a disastrous fire swept across the commons and took most of the waterfront with it. I was lucky that my home was only moderately damaged, but enough that I had to find quarters for a few months as repairs were being made. As a result of the fire, I conducted an inventory of my things, which ended in the cellar among my father's belongings.

I found myself peering through the dark corners of the cellar as if I'd broken into the property and feared apprehension. The fright was ridiculous of course, but I had it set in my mind to never bother my father's belongings again. I found the book in a small trunk, stuffed in the corner of the cellar. Bound in a heavy leather cover and thick iron hasps, there was an eeriness to it I could not account for.

The book was unusually cold to the touch, and I considered putting it away almost at once. The mere sight of the vile tome brought back the tale of my father and how it came in to his possession. My father's line of work would often put him in contact with men of ill repute. Such men gather in the far corners of the world where civilized law is a privilege and not a right. One man who fit this description, whom I have met on two occasions, was Jonathan Duebar. He called himself an antique collector and an adventurer of sorts. There were a great many others who called him a thief and a liar.

Mr. Duebar specialized in collections of the darker nature. He found the trafficking of such items to be far more profitable than the occasional rare heirloom. Unfortunately that was a particular interest of my father's, although he did his best to hide the fact from his scholarly peers. I knew little more about Mr. Duebar; however, it was my father's last encounter with the man that has stayed with me.

Mr. Duebar had sent word to my father of some exceptional importance asking him to join him and a fellow by the name of Sam Morris. They'd stumbled across a rare book and in using its contents made a significant discovery. They made reference to some unnamed cult in a village on the outskirts of Istanbul. My father could not resist the allure of the correspondence although he never shared the specifics with me.

At great cost, he acquired passage on an eastern steamer. I knew upon his return that the trip had been both difficult and a disappointment. He would only say Mr. Duebar never showed at their agreed meeting point and his lodging was vacant. My father inquired with the local law enforcement and discovered Mr. Duebar's body had been found in a small town east of Istanbul called Kocullu. He had gouged out his own eyes and bled to death on an old path outside the village. Sam Morris was found several days later; he'd slashed his throat with a broken piece of glass. My father did not speak of the days in between, only that neither Mr. Duebar nor Sam had any known next of kin. The Ministry of Security gave the men's belongings to my father, and the book was among those personal items.

Crouched in the corner of the cellar, I laid the book on the ground and forced myself to open it. The smell of its interior pages reeked of a rotted tomb. Much of the writing was little more than maddening nonsense to me, but it was my first encounter with the name NasNoroth. This was a chief name among the dark things written there, much of which I did not understand. Of all the things I saw, it was a depiction of something that struck me with a chilling blow.

Difficult to explain in words, the thing was drawn in a black coal. Long, lanky legs extended from a bulbous head, a gaping mouth at its center. I saw nothing I would call an eye, but it had horns protruding from the top of its head. To view the thing was somewhat revolting; I found myself wanting to look away. I closed the book and sat alone in the cellar for a long time. I felt my father's curiosity burning in my gut. In truth, the fire had caused me to consider an early holiday until the repairs on my home were complete. In a sudden moment of inspiration, my mind was made; I would go to Kocullu.

♦

The passage to Turkey cost me far more than I'd expected, but the macabre sense of curiosity had grown within me tenfold. I must admit my fascination with the book and its foul contents consumed me. I spent the better part of the journey across the Atlantic hidden within my quarters. My second rate scholarly skill garnered only a vague understanding of sacred places called witch-mounds and something known as the Elder. I understood this NasNoroth to be in this grouping. My new fascination caused a cautious stir amongst the crew of my passage ship. In the end, my money bought me additional privacy at the assurance of the ship's captain. I arrived in Istanbul deprived of sleep although otherwise unaccosted.

I spent the first day in the city arranging transportation. The excitement for my new surroundings was somewhat stifled by thoughts of the book. The image of the drawing haunted me. I closed my eyes, and its hands reached out for me. This growing darkness shrouded my steps as if subconsciously I knew something far more wicked than I could imagine awaited me. There was desperation to my actions, like my destiny was predetermined and I could do little to sway from the path.

I booked passage on a horse-drawn carriage that very night and arrived, exhausted, in the town of Kocullu the following morning. Quaint and rustic, the village appeared pulled from a page of history. There was little there in the way of conveniences. The dark-skinned locals were pleasant for the most part, but my grasp of their language was hopeless. I found a room in a small establishment for a fair price. I was surprised to find the young boy who carried my bags to the room spoke English. He pointed me toward a place I could get a warm meal, and I departed with high hopes that someone might remember something about the book and in particular the incident surrounding Jonathan Duebar's death.

With the book secured in the inside pocket of my coat, I found the establishment the boy spoke of at the edge of the village. I ordered a meal from a local man whom I took to be the waiter, cook, and owner. He returned with my dinner, and I decided to take a chance on him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," I said. "Do you speak English?" He nodded but said nothing. "I suppose not many outsiders visit the village?"

He nodded again and smiled. The establishment was empty, and the perfectly white tablecloths hinted it was often that way.

"Only those who intended to reach Kervansaray but lost their way," he said, "and those who come in search of the witch-mound." His accent was thick, but he spoke well.

I nearly dropped my spoon at his mention of the place.

"You sir, look the kind of man in search of something," he said.

"I am indeed," I said and introduced myself. "Edward Louis III."

"It is a pleasure. I am Aydin." He bowed. "Have you come to search the darkness?"

My host took a seat and then offered a brief history of Kocullu as I finished my dinner. Kocullu sat on the site of another village, burnt to the ground in the early 1800s. All of the current residents could trace their families to distant places, transplants to the region. It was long believed that the original village belonged to a band of gypsies, castoffs of the Ottoman Empire. Local folklore said these people kept their faith in dark gods, pleasing them with the blood of human sacrifice. I saw the possible connection with these people and the book and maybe the unnamed cult, although I could not see how it would have had anything to do with Mr. Duebar or his assistant's death.

"Do any of the people from the original village still live in the area?" I asked.

"Of course not," he said. "They were all sent to the fiery death they deserved." Aydin fell silent but then, after a moment, laughed at himself.

I had a feeling he did not believe much in the story he told, so I decided to press my luck.

"There was a man here some years ago," I said, "in search of a similar thing. He met a particular dark end, you might remember."

Aydin hesitated. "I do," he said. "He sought the witch-mound as you do. He had some fool idea he could find something there to sell."

"I am here for personal research."

Aydin came to his feet and smiled. "If it is nonsense you seek, my friend, find the high mound east of here." He pointed out the window. "At its peak, turn north toward the mountains." He turned his finger toward me. "If you have the endurance, you can reach the witch-mound in a single day."

He turned to leave.

"And how will I know it?" I asked.

He continued to walk and did not turn back to face me.

"You will see it on the rocky face. A relief scarred beyond recognition by my great-grandfather's generation."

I finished my meal in several large bites and took my leave. Aydin offered one last piece of advice as I reached the doorway.

"Take heed, Mr. Louis. Those who visit the witch-mound and find their rest are said to be followed in their dreams by the darkness that once tread there."

As I left, I could hear his deep, booming laugh long down the main road.

♦

That night I lay in my bed tossing from side to side. The morbid anticipation of what I might find in the morning ruled my thoughts. The first sight of dawn reached my window ledge, and I was dressed and ready with little sleep to my credit. The mound in the east was an easy find. Once at its top, I turned north as instructed and found the mountains. I was intimidated by the climb ahead but found my curiosity drove me on. The heat of the day was on me, and I was soon soaked through with sweat.

The incline of the mountains was daunting. I was thankful that my goal was not in the mountains themselves, but somewhere hidden within their foothills. Midday came and went before I pushed through a dense grove of trees. In my haste, I had failed to pack accordingly and had to satisfy my hunger on wild fruit that I could not name.

Among the trees, I found a clearing of tall grass. I knew at once the witch-mound was near. There was a deathly silence to this place that was menacing. The sunlight was fading and coolness swept across the grass. An unnatural chill in the air brought my mind back to the first moment I'd held the book. I came to a small, flat open area beyond the tall grass, and my gaze found a rocky face across the clearing. I looked in awe at the flat surface carved in the tall stone outcropping. I stood before the rock face, trying to piece together the carved relief. Aydin's great-grandfather's people had done considerable damage.

Trying to decipher the relief proved impossible. Deep grooves and gouges in the rock scarred the sight from one side to the other of its circular face. I found the deepest crack running down the center of the face, and I assumed it was caused by an earthquake in the distant past. All at once, I found myself filled with disappointment. I looked around the witch-mound under the fading light and found nothing that tempted the fringes of my dark imagination. The failure of my investigation drained me beyond my strength, and I was forced to consider the way back to Kocullu.

Knowing full well that the day's heat had taken a toll on me, I was aware of an unnatural fatigue. I made for the tall grass sure that the overwhelming feeling was nothing more than the result of a weary mind. Fear rose in my chest as my legs felt sapped of strength. I stumbled into the grass like a drunken buffoon. I found myself looking back at the ruined relief as if it might spring to life. In one moment, my body fell limp, and I crashed down on the ground. The night washed over me as I lost myself to unconsciousness knowing full well there was something sinister and deviant at work.

♦

I awoke, lying in the tall grass, to the sound of my beating heart. It beat wildly in my chest, and I could hardly catch my breath. I could not move with all my strength. An invisible force held me, pressed against the ground. The timeline between consciousness and unconsciousness was blurred. I had very little sense of myself beyond the invisible force and my beating heart. A chill I could not remember was all about me, and a low-lying mist covered the place above the grass.

Pale moonlight cascaded through the trees to the west. The glow filled the open space before the rock face. The light cast long shadows that danced across the grass. My eyes found the vision before me mystifying. My mind was lost with a bewildering amazement. I could see several shadowy figures in the open area. They knelt around the site, forming a semicircle. One lone figure among them stood. I could not understand what I was seeing under the moonlight, but in an instant all was revealed.

Like an explosion, a flame came to life near the center of the circle. Firelight roared into the night as a plume of black smoke rose into the trees. The pounding of my heart was drowned by a growing, rhythmic moan. Rising and falling like the coming tide, the kneeling men kept their faces toward the ground, hands raised to the rock face.

The one who walked among them was brought to life by the firelight. Short and squat, his muscular body tensed in the light, his skin dark as the night. The full sight of him wreaked terror on me. The head of a ram sat on his shoulders, covering his face, its skin hanging down over his chest. The horns of the thing shone in the light.

There was a true dreadfulness exuding from the dark priest, and I knew him to be one at once. The constant moaning grew louder as the priest stomped his feet. He crossed the clearing to the rock face with powerful steps, and there, carved in the rock, I saw what I knew to be NasNoroth. The deep gouges and scars on the rock's surface were no more. Left in their place were the grooves and lines carved for a purpose.

The sight tore the breath from my lungs. Long tentacles spread across the rock, reaching from one side to the other, a gaping mouth lying at its center. The grotesque depiction was too much for me to gaze upon, and I had to shift my sight. All at once I could not breathe. I knew for sure death had come for me and I would be devoured by the thing that was old when the earth was young. My body shook beyond control, but I could not look away.

The priest's movements drew me back to the center of the circle. He stood before the fire, and in his hand, he held a long pole of sorts. I could see the grooves carved along its length and small stones embedded throughout. The use of the brutal device was clear. Beyond the fire, I saw two figures I'd mistaken as large covered stones. The priest stood between them, and I beheld their predicament. Bound at the wrists and ankles, their arms behind them, they were forced to kneel. Two flat stones held their chest off the ground. Another rope tied their necks to the stones, forcing them to look straight ahead.

They struggled against their restraints to no avail. The firelight washed over them, and I knew one of their faces. His thick black hair was washed in sweat, but I knew him to be the young boy who'd carried my bags in the hotel. I could not see the other. Their mouths screamed, but I could not hear anything above the constant moaning.

All hope in me was lost when the priest raised his device above them. He brought it down with vicious precision. The first strike tore the skin. In agony, the boys cried and writhed in pain. Blood ran from their backs as the priest struck relentlessly. The terror was thick in the air; my heart pounded in my ears with every hit. The moaning rose to a ferocious wail. The sound beat against the rocks with the intensity of every strike. The agony of the moment was maddening. I could not bear to watch, but I could not look away.

When the beating stopped, the meat of the boys' backs was indescribable. Vile pieces of flesh dotted the blood-soaked ground around them. One of the boys lay still while the hotel boy clung to life. The priest was in the throes of madness, and my own sense not far behind him. The face of the ram looked up at the moon, and I could feel the roar of bloodlust erupt from within the mask.

The priest stood over the boys, and in my soul I knew the worst was yet to come. The circle of men never dared to show their faces, looking at the one who walked among them. The priest made a gesture toward the moon and then the carved rock face. He drove his hand toward the boys without warning, digging his fingers into the hotel boy's back. He pulled free a handful of flesh and blood. The priest approached the rock face with heavy steps and thrust his hand upon the rock and smeared the mess of the boy all across the carving.

My concern for the boys was lost as I saw the deepest line in the rock shudder in the light. The priest stepped away, and his ferociousness subsided. The sight of that devilish man succumbing to fear frightened me beyond imagination. The rock face pulled inward like tall double doors. The stench of that place beyond came over me, and I was sick at once. There was a deep sigh from the dark tunnel behind the rock when it was full and open.

I knew that what was to come from that place was beyond any disturbing thought I could imagine. My mind was not prepared for the first sign of what was drawing near. The priest had vanished, and the circle of men lay flat against the ground. Only the bodies of the poor boys lay exposed in the firelight.

A tentacle reached out from the darkness and took hold of the ground. Covered in scales, it dripped of foul ooze. Another tentacle lurched out after the first, landing near the center of the circle. I could hear the weight of the thing moving toward the light. Flashes of the drawing from the book came to my mind and madness consumed me. I could not bear to see it. I knew the boys would be pulled to some murky and dreadful place and I would soon follow. The thought of my impending doom was overwhelming. Dizziness consumed me as the world spun around me at an impossible rate. My mind succumbed to the strain, and I fell faint before the thing pulled itself free from its catacomb.

♦

I awoke to bright rays of sunlight. There was a glint of dew on the grass and not a cloud in the sky. The chill in the air was gone, replaced by a soft warming. I could not gather where I was or why I was there for several moments.

The haze of my mind was difficult to pierce. At first there was only a vague memory of the night before like a shattered pane of glass. A sudden dreadful fear washed over me as the pieces in my mind fit together. I came to my feet in a crazed state. A few stumbling steps brought me to the center of the area before the rock face.

For a time, I was sure I was still asleep. It was the sun's heat on my face that convinced me otherwise. I was sure I'd gone mad. I searched the scene for signs of the horrific event but found nothing. The grass was smooth and lush green, offering no sign of the boys' blood. There were no pieces of flesh, not even the footprints of the dark priest. I stood before the rock face dumbfounded. I stared at the carved relief, scarred with deep gouges to the point of unrecognition.

I was sure of my madness and knew I had to leave that place at once. In frenzy, I ran through the tall grass and the trees beyond. Once I reached Kocullu, I was sure my current state painted me as a lunatic. I reached my hotel and gave no time to the doorman and could not stomach to remember what happened to the bag boy.

I climbed the stairs as I struggled to understand what had happened to me. Did I fall victim to the dreaded curse of the witch-mound? Would my dreams forever haunt me of some nefarious sacrifice? Was this the terror that befell Jonathan Duebar and his assistant? I nearly convinced myself of this until I reached my room.

I sprang through the door with a fierce haste. My eyes locked on the bed. The breath was knocked out of me as the invisible weight returned. I fell to the floor and let out a cry for help that I knew no one on this earth could answer. The thing looked back at me from the bed, as hideous as it was, carved in black stone. I knew the small figurine from the picture in the dreaded book and the carving in the rock face the night before.

It was by sheer will that I pulled myself from that room. I left all my belongings there with the stone figurine, never to return. In constant fear, I returned home to New Haven. My mind shattered in pieces, I struggle to manage.

With all my heart, I know had I looked upon the living thing that pulled itself from beyond the rock face I would have met a similar fate to Jonathan Duebar and his assistant Sam. I live now in constant fear. The name of NasNoroth haunts me. Gripped in maddening terror, I wait in the old brick house of my father for the hands of the unnamed cult to reach out and pull me down into the darkness.

THE END

# The Harvester

Joshua's eyes were slow to open. His head ached, and his memory was lost for the moment. Darkness surrounded him. He begged his arms to move, and although they resisted, he was able to bring his hands up to his face. A deep cold pressed against his body, and he realized he was lying on his stomach.

His hair was matted to his face, the ends stiff and hard. It took a moment before the last remnants of his memory returned. Joshua yearned for power. He yearned for the gifts of another world. He'd performed the ritual. Joshua had called out to Illumik, chief among the Elder gods.  
A way had opened into the void, and Joshua had passed through.

He shifted himself with his hands and then pushed up to his knees. His movements echoed in the darkness. Joshua rubbed his hands along his chest. He was stripped clean, naked.

He tried to bring himself to stand but found his legs lacked the will. His muscles were wrought with pain. He cringed as he collapsed back down to the hard surface. The cold of this place was overwhelming. His hands shook as he struggled to ball his fists. There was a wash of dread all about him. Joshua did not have the heart to speak. There was something in that place that filled him with terror.

Joshua got to his knees when he could stand it no longer. He breathed deep, searching for the strength to push further. He clenched his teeth and strained with every ounce of muscle and got to his feet. His body wobbled to and fro, and the chill of that place rushed over him.

He took a step forward, followed by another. He held his arms out in front of him like a blind man. The cold enveloped his body. His mind couldn't contemplate the question that he should be asking. Where am I?

Joshua walked for a long time. He struggled in the darkness, finding neither a wall in front of him or at his sides. The terror in his heart grew. There was something down there with him in the dark. He had to keep moving.

It appeared as a pinhole at first, a light so small but so bright somewhere far ahead. He lunged out for it, begging his legs to carry him. He pushed on with a single-minded purpose, urging himself to continue. The light grew with every lumbering step.

There was an opening in the darkness. It was a doorway, and he could make out what lay ahead. A sickly light cascaded in from outside. The air warmed as he neared.

Joshua's eyes burned as the light caught him. He tried to hold it back with his hands before his face. The cold of that place vanished at once. A thick and humid blanket replaced it.

He stepped out into the open. His eyes begged to remain closed as he forced them to see. The light of that place was somehow hollow, void of substance. The sky was grey and dead, no clouds or sun, only a vacant illumination.

The land opened up all around him. Joshua stood atop a dusty soil. Dirt covered his bare feet. His skin was lifeless. He turned to find the doorway crafted of decayed old wood. It hung, ends dug into the dirt as it had for centuries. A pathway few had come through and even fewer had returned from. There was no building, no structure of any kind. From behind, Joshua could see the land beyond it was endless.

He looked down at himself. He was a pitiful sight for sure, haggard and loathing. Lost was the confident man who'd begged to cross the void. He was lost and alone. The land did not change. The ground was hard and colorless. The air was stale. Joshua struggled to breathe.

He'd walked away from the doorway, directly out in front of it. Some part of him wanted to be able to get back to it if he must. Another part of him believed he would never see that place or the world he'd come from again.

His strength was returning. There was no time here. The sky never changed, offering no help or direction. There was only the doorway behind.

Joshua kept the black opening in sight as long as he could. He turned with every few steps to ensure it was still behind him until he could make it out no longer. It was somehow comforting to him.

Once the doorway was lost from his sight, the terror in Joshua's heart returned. He was lost in the void. That much was sure. The promises of power and indulgence were unfulfilled. Joshua continued to walk, and after a time, dryness burned his throat and his belly growled at him. The loneliness of that place was all encompassing.

Something changed. Whether it had been an hour or a decade, Joshua couldn't say. The sky darkened. Slowly at first, then increasingly so. The night of that place was awful; a black so thick shrouded his body and concealed his hands from his face.

Trepidation crept across his mind like a dying prayer. There was something in the dark. There was something moving toward him. Joshua knew he could not hide; he could only hope to run. And run he did. Like a mad man, he flung himself to sprint. He ran with a fury. He ran for his life.

The sound of his heart pounded in his ears. His breaths gasped out in the heat of the night. Ever still the watcher came after him. Joshua could feel him gaining, matching his every step.

There was a pale light within the darkness. Joshua's eyes adjusted after a time. The barren landscape had changed. As he stumbled, his feet touched a hard grass. The feel of it cut into his exposed skin. His blood spilled onto the ground.

In time, the pain of each step was stifling. His mind was plagued by dread and panic. He knew he would never leave this place. They would come for him, not to praise or offer the power he sought, but to condemn him. Joshua wept.

The darkness went on forever in every direction. It was when he reached the end of his strength that a light appeared. Different from the grey sight of that place, he knew the light at once: fire. He could do no more than a slow march. The watcher that followed him slowed as he did. It mocked Joshua as his strength failed. It had all the time it wanted.

The fire divided as Joshua neared. The light dotted all along the landscape ahead. There were figures within the shadows. Joshua advanced. He dragged his bloodied feet across the grass, forcing back cries of pain.

He moved close enough to count the fires of tall torches planted in the ground. The dim light revealed a grove of trees. The squat trees were twisted and disfigured. Few branches clung to each trunk, their sway erratic in a wind Joshua could not feel.

A sudden stammer brought him to his knees. In the darkness behind him, a terrible pounding crash rang out. Joshua lost his breath. He trembled, pressing himself closer to the ground, half lifeless with terror.

Joshua had little strength to speak of, but he clung to a will to live. He came to his feet and rushed forward. The light of the trees was near, and his pace faltered. There was movement in the edges of the light ahead. The silhouettes of the trees danced under the flickering glow.

He scanned the darkness and discovered something on all fours. It ran in between the trees like a wild dog. There was a dark fur about it with patches of skin between. It came to a stop and rose up on two awkward legs.

Joshua dropped to the ground as he gasped for breath. The creature faced away from him as it reached out toward a tree. It was then that Joshua became aware of the truth of the grove. He saw the eyes first. Bleeding and jutting back and forth in panic. The trees were alive. It was no trunk at all, but the body of a man. His legs were planted in the ground, his arms held out wide to his sides.

The horror of the scene was overwhelming. Joshua looked from one planted figure to the next. There were women among them, their bodies exposed. Gashes and wounds lined the skin, the stains of a vile mixture of dried dirt and blood giving them the dark wooden look from afar.

Wide-eyed with fear, Joshua took in the grove all at once. The evenly spaced bodies were dug into the ground from one side to the other. Some struggled in the light like branches swaying in the wind. Their arms were held up by long sticks pierced into their sides.

Joshua could not force himself to move even as the watcher following him neared. He could hear its steps as it crept up from behind. Joshua focused on the creature before the tree. Its head swayed back and forth as it looked into the eyes of a woman.

Without word or reason, it reached up with a long lanky arm and gouged its fingers into the eyes of the victim. Muffled screams filled the grove as the creature dug at the eyes and pulled them free. Long bits of human debris dripped from the empty sockets even as the creature tossed the morsels in its mouth. Joshua lay in the darkness in morbid bewilderment. He could no longer grasp his reality. All he wanted was to wake from this awful nightmare, and he promised to seek his fortunes elsewhere.

There was a fierce pull at his head as a tight grip took hold of his hair. His body was dragged across the ground as he kicked and screamed. The hard grass of that place sliced his skin in a wicked manner. Joshua flailed about in a fit of mad terror.

The sight of his assailant's enormous feet stomping beside his head filled him with dread. He was pulled into the light and saw the broken legs of those unfortunate enough to be planted there. The fur-covered creature was near, running alongside Joshua's body like a hunting dog returning home. They came to an open patch in the middle of the grove, and Joshua was flung to the ground. He scratched at the soil, trying to pull away, but found another hand tight around the back of his neck. Joshua was turned to see the assailant from the darkness.

A massive figure bent over him, its skin blackened and weathered. Loose pieces of flesh dangled from exposed limbs. Powerful arms took hold of Joshua and lifted him from the ground. A face was hidden behind the shadows of that place although its eyes pierced the darkness.

The eyes of the watcher would haunt Joshua for eternity. They were void of humanity and empty of all but delightful agony. Joshua convulsed as his feet were driven hard into the ground.

The bones in his legs broke and splintered all at once. Figures danced in front of him as he let out a battered scream. His arms were lifted as slithers of wood jabbed into his sides, holding them out wide.

He let out a pitiful plea, and as he did, something was forced into his mouth and his jaw pressed closed. Small lengths of wood dug into his upper palate and tongue. Blood flowed from his wounds as the assailant stepped back to admire his work. There was a deep laugh followed by a vulgar, wide grin. Joshua could not move. An agonizing pain consumed him. He could see the fur-covered creature run forward, another of its kind close behind the first. Joshua trembled as it brought itself up on two legs.

He tried to scream as the creature reached out for him. The spiked wood in his mouth dug farther into his tongue. Joshua knew he would pay eternally for his deed. And a sightless eternity it would be as the creature gouged its fingers deep into his eyes.

THE END

# Teeth of the World

Swirling mist rises from cavernous shadows,

in the far recesses of the deep it calls.

Rushing water crashes like growls in the dark,

stone pillars jutting from long jagged peaks.

Fires roar from the belly of creation,

rock grinding as sulfur burns.

The crust breaks and devours land,

hands of time pull them downward.

Waves smash against a crowded shore,

generations lost, man, woman, and child.

Mountains crumble as the earth falls,

renewing the world over and over.

# The Burning of Legel Manor

I have decided to write down my knowledge of the events surrounding the burning of Legel Manor for the fear that it will be the death of me. The New Haven Gazette has only given the affair a small writeup on the back page, which leads me to believe they have either uncovered no real truth in the matter of what happened in Portsmouth, some forty miles up the Connecticut coast, or the Cult of the Elder have farer reaching hands than I imagined. I have no doubt that I can do nothing to save myself, so I will leave this in the safe hands of my confidant Jonathan Morgan in case of an untimely demise.

I am aware that what I have seen will be difficult for many to read and even harder to believe. I must admit I would have a great deal of difficulty with it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. The events began with the most peculiar of letters arriving at my home. It was the 8th of November 1924, some two months ago, when the postman slipped the envelope under my door. I recognized Victoria Monroe's name on the address but knew little more than her social status. I will transcribe the brief letter's contents here for accuracy's sake:

Mr. Philip Martin,

It is with a heavy heart that I call on your services. Your experience has been brought to my attention by Lady Helen Garrett. She has recommended you for my situation. I can say little more except I fear for my son's life and no amount of money will be spared to ensure his safety. I will await your response, please be quick.

The nature of my public persona is a far longer tale than I wish to explain. The important point is that for a majority of my life I worked as a police investigator. My minor celebrity revolves around an odd set of circumstances involving the kidnapping of Lady Garrett's youngest daughter Anna and my efforts to find her. I will not go into the events that led to Anna's well publicized recovery or the lesser known affairs surrounding my dismissal from my position.

I knew very little about Ms. Monroe except that her husband had died three years prior in a hunting accident, leaving her with a considerable amount of money. She had since remarried, and few other details were known to me. I took two days to decide on a course of action. I have no rational explanation for the fear that clung to me. There was something hidden within the words of Ms. Monroe's letter that I could not push from my mind. My nights were restless as I thought on what to do. In the end, it was a morbid sense of curiosity that drove me to accept the case.

The road from New Haven to Portsmouth was well traveled. The carriage came for me in the afternoon and placed my arrival in the late evening. Dark clouds blocked the moon's pale light. The surrounding lowlands between New Haven and my destination were a step back in time. Darkness far thicker than in the city encircled me, and I found myself quite disturbed by a low-lying mist. There were few houses on the thick grasslands, which created an intense privacy.

I found the town of Portsmouth locked up tight for the evening upon my arrival. From my passing window, I saw few lights save for the dim street lamps. The old cobblestone road was an odd match in my mind as if the town itself were out of a time long forgotten. There was an air about the place that I could not shake from my mind, which left a lingering thought of dread that had no rational idea behind it.

I was struck all at once by the intensity of the sea. The smell of salt water enveloped me as the docks came into view. I could make out movement along the wooden rows leading out to small fishing ships. The vessels stirred slowly on the water as the waves ran along the coast.

The mist clung to Portsmouth like a blanket, hanging at knee level and thicker in some patches than others. The rolling vapor slithered like a snake in between the low, flat buildings. I felt a watch on me as the carriage drove on through the town. That eyeing feeling clings to me to this very day.

Portsmouth was far smaller than I imagined, and after a few moments, the buildings were gone. The carriage was again among the tall grasslands. The way east led to the open waters of the Long Island Sound and to the west a thick forest of tall pine trees. There was a break in the clouds, and a perfect full moon lit the countryside. Shadows loomed far off from the tree line. My mind sorted shapes moving in the grass, approaching the carriage from the dark spaces. In my time as an investigator, I have seen horrific crimes I will not repeat, but something in that place shook me beyond.

I was lost in my thoughts until the carriage turned from the main road. Legel Manor lit up the darkness like a bonfire. It was a house like no other I have ever seen in size or grandeur. It appeared to be pulled from some far away colonial plantation. The mist roamed the grounds of the manor in every direction. It worked its way between the house and the carriage like sprawling fingers reaching out for me. I knew my fear was getting the best of me, but I would not allow myself to be persuaded in my appointment.

Stepping from the carriage, I was met by a slender man dressed in model formal wear. He led me into the house, and I was left in an enormous front room awaiting my caller. After several minutes, a female's footsteps could be heard approaching the room. Victoria Monroe was the picture of a New England socialite. Her pure white hair was in the modern fashion of New Haven, and she carried herself in a state well aware of her stature. She met me with a warm smile and a drink in hand. Her husband, Richard Monroe, followed in shortly after her.

We exchanged pleasantries, and I was led to a private study. There was an awkward silence as Victoria was dismissed by Richard with a kiss. He offered me a drink as he explained my reason for being there. Victoria's son Mathew had gone missing several weeks prior. I did not understand Victoria's insistence on my coming. Mathew had a history of running away; at only sixteen years old, this was his sixth such episode.

Richard was quite callous about the situation and made it clear he was not interested in my involvement. I took note of his indifference and waited for an opportunity to speak with Victoria alone. The chance did not come until the following morning. Richard was away in town, and I was left to myself within Legel Manor with no more understanding as to my purpose than I had on my arrival. I was in the kitchen area speaking with the cooks and cleaning ladies when Victoria approached me.

She was in obvious distress, and the staff would not so much as look her in the eyes. At her request, I followed her through several rooms until she stopped in a small sitting room on the main floor. She relayed to me the point of her urgent request after locking the door and closing the drapes.

"Mr. Martin, I'm sure my son has been killed," she said.

I could see the stains of tears on her face. There was an obvious stench of liquor about her.

"Madam, how can you be so sure?" I asked. "Your husband relayed to me the commonplace of your son's actions. Isn't it possible that he has run away and will return as he has before?"

"No," she said and shook her head. Victoria stood near the closed drapes, holding the edge with one hand. She continued to look out the window through a small slit between the two parts. I could see her hand shake. "I have seen it."

I took a seat in a chair against the wall and decided to take a note of the conversation.

"What have you seen?" I asked.

She turned to me and stared with the eyes of someone who'd seen a vision of hell itself.

"The figures in the dark," she said, whispering. "Moving through the halls. That night I saw them coming from Mathew's room. They took him, I tell you." She crossed the room and stood before me, her eyes open wide. "They took him."

Victoria rocked back and forth, and I was sure she was going to collapse. I stood and took her arm. She sat down and took several deep breaths but would not continue. Of the many questions I had, she would answer none. I suspected Richard's return was imminent and she did not wish to be found with me in such a state. She retired to her room, and I was left to my thoughts.

I roamed freely for two days. I took Victoria's concerns with suspicion although I continued my investigation. It was sure to me the lady's mind was not sound. I found little of interest in the house, and the staff was unhelpful. There was a noticeable fear within the house that I could not put my finger on, but I felt it nonetheless. The darkness was thick in the evenings, and the mist lurked across the lands surrounding the house like it was searching for something. My intuition told me there was far more to this case than I had discovered, but I had a strong desire to rid myself of involvement altogether.

I was lying awake long after midnight trying to purge my mind of doubt when a light flashed in my bedroom window. It lasted for a moment, and then the room fell dark again. I stepped to the window with a pounding heart, but from what I wasn't sure. I stared through the glass looking to the northeast.

The calm water of the Long Island Sound was lost to me. A veil of darkness covered everything as the mist swirled over the ground. The silence in the room was haunting. My heart beat in my ears as I waited for the light to reappear. I held still for longer than I can remember but was rewarded for my patience.

A beam of pale light appeared in the distance more to the north of the house. It was low on the ground, and I struggled to see through the darkness surrounding the source. I could not be sure, but I decided it was a lantern. The light moved for a time and then went dark again.

I considered for a moment taking to the field beyond the house, but after a time I thought the better of it. I could not sleep that night. I stood near the window watching for the light, but it did not return. I kept my pistol close to me, finding some security in it.

The following day, I found the manor nearly deserted. A few staff members moved silently about the place, but none of them knew the whereabouts of either Richard or Victoria. It wasn't until I finished my meal alone in the servant's kitchen that I found Richard. He was en route to his study and showed an obvious lack of interest in my calling.

"Mr. Monroe, I wondered if you have seen the lights north of here?" I asked.

He swept the question aside with his hand and then appeared to consider closing the door to his study before I could reach him. His hand held, and he offered me a moment of his time. I took notice that the desk was in visible disarray, but the rest of the room was as elegant as my first impression.

"Lights, you say?"

"Yes, sir, north of here. Very late."

He eyed me queerly. "You keep odd hours do you?"

"At times."

Richard shook his head. "I know nothing of it," he said.

He sat down behind the desk and wrote at something. I took this as my dismissal. I posed one last question before I left the study.

"What lies in that direction?"

Richard looked up with apparent aggravation. "Stream beds and run offs from the Sound," he said. "Awful lowlands."

I excused myself, but I knew I would not be permitted to stay much longer. At an impasse, I had it in mind to investigate the land to the north, not sure what I was looking for. It had been two full days since I had spoken with Victoria. I still could not shake the terrible fright in her eyes when she confided in me her account of Mathew's disappearance. I appeared to be no better off than I was the night before, but I couldn't help feel that it was all about to change.

In a thick sweat, I awoke. A light rain tapped at the window, and I could hear a wind stirring. A terrible fright clung to me, and I could hardly catch my breath. In a thick darkness, I sat at the edge of my bed trying to recapture some resemblance to normal.

As I sat, focusing on my breath, a sound rose from the hall that pulled at my nerves. I knew at once it was this reverberation that had caused me to wake. There were footsteps in the hall moving near my door. I dressed quickly and held my pistol at the ready. My hands shook, and there was little I could do to calm myself. Like a child, I stood at the door holding my breath. The steps came closer, and I knew there to be several people behind them.

Calling on my courage, I unlocked the door and opened it the slightest space. I peered out into the hall and let the darkness in my room hide me. The light of a small lamp on the first floor cast shadows across the hall, and I saw movement. Like wraiths, the figures walked in silence. I could not bring myself to act; the terror was too great.

I could not see their purpose nor could I hear a sound among them. In haste, I counted at least four shadows as they moved from room to room. It wasn't until they reached the grand staircase that I found the courage to step out into the hall. The sound of my own steps frightened me, and I cringed with every move.

Legel Manor was deathly quiet. My heart beat in my ears, and I feared the shadows would return. Looking down over the wide front room, I was left in a sudden shock as a figure darted out from under the stairs. I nearly dropped my weapon as I staggered forward. In the light of the lamp I saw Victoria Monroe trip and fall to the floor. A yell came from her and echoed up the stairs.

I ran down the staircase and reached Victoria as she tried to recover from her fall. Like a wild animal, she lashed out at me with teeth and nails. I was forced to lift her from the ground and push her into the small sitting room adjacent to us. She was inconsolable, her face smeared with blood and dirt.

Victoria's state of mind was beyond repair, and it was all I could do to calm her down. She rambled about shadows in the hall. I was able to gather that she and Richard were seized in their bed. Her face showed signs of bruising, and there were scratches from her forehead to her neck. She had no idea what had happened to her husband. She'd managed to get away as the shadows pulled her toward the study.

Under the circumstances, there was little I could do for her. I managed to get her out of the house through the large window in the sitting room. I found a car in a small barn attached to the home. I was set to escape while we could, but Victoria refused. Even in her wild state, she begged me to look for her husband. I left her in the car with an assurance that if I did not return in half an hour she would drive away and get help.

I reentered the house through the sitting room and found myself before the door to the study. The door was ajar, and a thin line of light shone from within. I held the barrel of my pistol waist high. I pushed my way into the room and found myself alone. There were papers thrown about the floor near the desk but no sign of Richard. I was at a loss. Part of me wanted to return to the car and leave despite Victoria's demands. There was something afoot, but I could not place my finger on it and I feared the worst for Richard.

Standing in the center of the room, I was struck by some aspect of the wall of books beside the door. I studied the row from the vantage point in front of the desk. My attention settled on the center shelves, and I found a discrepancy among them. A line of books was angled irregularly.

I discovered the entire row of hardbacks moved as one as I pulled at them. A latch gave way somewhere behind the tomes, and the center bookcase pulled from the wall. I peered at the slight opening and was met with a cool breeze and utter darkness beyond. The chill that came over me was less from the cool air and more from a sudden fear.

In my mind, there were no phantasmal shadows lurking in the halls of Legel Manor, but there was a creeping madness beyond me I could not shake. I had no reason to fear the dark save for the apparent men who'd broken into the house and now had Richard against his will. My breath quickened as I forged down the stairs behind the bookcase. I recognized my mistake at once. The light from the study was behind me, and I was left in darkness. Sounds enveloped me from far ahead. I swore I heard footsteps, but in my state, I could not tell if they were nearing. I walked with my finger on the trigger of my pistol and my free hand running along the wall for some sense of direction.

I became aware of the faint light of the moon ahead. It showed the tunnel for its true form, little more than a crudely carved path from the house to an exit hidden in a low hill surrounded by trees. The old wooden door in the hill was pushed back, opening the way into the lowlands north of the house. My eyes adjusted from the dark, and the full moon opened up the lowlands like the light of day. The clearing beyond the trees sat across from a sloping plain. Mist covered the grass, and light reflected off patches of tall weeds penetrating from below. The cool wind grew about me and intensified from the east.

I knelt before the clearing and was drawn to a light beyond the plain. I knew it at once to be the light from the lowlands seen from my bedroom window. The beam scanned back and forth across the grass and settled still at its center. I waited and lost my breath as shadowed figures crossed through the light. Even in the chilly air, sweat formed on my brow. Some terrible source of fear told me Richard would surely die. I forced myself to leave the safety of the clearing edge and push out into the plain. I walked slowly, crouching as low as I could.

The lone light moved, and I felt my heart leap to my throat. In one movement the beam scanned the clearing, and I dropped to the ground prone. The light washed over me several times, but I was hidden by the mist. I waited with my face buried in my arms, listening to the sounds of the night, sure the shadows would return for me.

The sound never came, and I was forced to continue on. I found the light had vanished, replaced in my mind by a sound I could not at once recognize. The sound pulled me closer and came to me as a hum riding on the wind. The humming grew around me, calling to my mind in a horrible way. The sound of it brought revulsion although I could not name it.

As I neared the edge of the clearing, the light washed over an opening below me, and I came to a stop. The sounds were clear to me, and I heard the words among them. Blasphemy I will not repeat matched a rhythmic harmony constructed by many voices. On my hands and knees, I moved to the crest before the ground sloped down.

All at once terror consumed me, and I froze in place. The pistol in my hand no longer offered safety. The ground opened to a still pond, running in from a thin creek in the east. The light came from a tall lamp hung by its handle on the edge of a walking cane, its glow centered on the calm water of the pond.

The pond's description came to me with a passing glance. My shock was brought by the figures about the water's edge. I counted no fewer than twenty figures, and my sense of dread was intensified by their makeup. Covered in long red robes, they stood with their arms out wide. A devious song emitted from them like a chorus. Their faces were coved with masks as black as the night, each different from the next.

A sudden silence washed over them as a lone figure stepped from the surrounding edge into the water. Knee deep, the ends of the robe looked like blood on the surface. The figure held a book in one hand and read the words aloud. I knew not what he spoke and dared not try to discover the vile language. I shudder to think of what loathsome speech reached my mind.

I knew I had to leave that place, but I found my investigative mind pulled toward a dark figure in the grass behind the edge of the pond. My stare hardened as it jerked violently. I could not understand what it was until I moved closer. Under the moonlight, I knew it to be a long sack tied at one end.

My heart sank, and I knew Richard lay there on the grass. Terrible visions of what these figures would do to him filled my mind, and I was set on my course of action. I crawled ever closer as the chief among the figures continued in his foul tongue. My senses raged, begging me to depart, but I could not turn away. My very soul reeked of fright and repugnance with every movement. I was sure the hammering of my heart would give me up. Once within arm's reach of the sack, I could see it shifting in the light. Through the immoral speaking, I heard the murmur of screams from within.

I took hold of the sack and felt the strength of the man within. He fought against me as if his life depended on it. I could only pray the figures would not hear my struggle. I tore at the leather tie and was able to pull it back. Terrified eyes met mine, and I was taken aback by the youth of his face. This was not Richard, but I saw the resemblance of Victoria Monroe and knew who he was. I pulled at the wrap around the young man's face and leaned in close to him.

Whispering in his ear, I called him Mathew and he responded with a nod. Panic stricken, he pushed at the sack in desperation to be free. I did my best to calm him, and he saw firsthand the pool and surrounding figures. He understood the dire need for silence at once. I freed his hands and feet, and together we crawled back toward the rise of the hill toward the mist-shrouded plain.

It was as we crossed the peak of the rise that I became aware of the silence. Horror stricken, I peered back, expecting the worst. I found the leader among the figures standing back at the water's edge. In unison, a chorus erupted from them that burnt into my mind.

"Come forth, Aganon, and devour thy faithful sacrifice."

The memory of the vision that followed scares me beyond words. I cannot say a sane man would listen, but on my life I swear it is true. Rising from the pond in the most grotesque manner was an abomination. Like a crab, it walked supported on four legs, its body covered in a blue-green skin that shimmered in the moonlight. A bulbous head rose from the center of its mass. Long stalks waved from a hole in its head, slithering in the air, and from underneath tentacles searched along the ground.

It reached the edge of the pool, and the figure standing below us turned for the sack. His eyes met mine, and he cursed at me. The foul creature came from behind and towered over him. As he raised the alarm, I saw it take hold of him around the neck. Its tentacle latched hold to squeeze the life from him.

The madness of what I saw took control of my mind. I pulled at Mathew, and we ran into the field. We ran screaming, and I heard terror erupt from the site below. In my state, I could not find the hidden entrance to the tunnel. Lost in the woods, we stumbled back toward the open plain to find figures moving toward us.

A beam of light swept ahead of our pursuers, and it was by chance that I found the concealed door. We stumbled in the darkness of that tunnel, and I heard pounding footsteps closing in behind. Mathew and I burst into the study in a mad frenzy. The light revealed the true extent of his ordeal.

His bare chest was covered in cuts in the shape of dark symbols. Blood stained his skin, and the look of his eyes was lost to this world. I could not imagine the images burnt into his mind, and I had no time to consider it. I turned for the door leading to the front room of the house, and the bookcase sprang open.

Two figures stood before us, blocking our escape. Although masked, I recognized one to be the leader among them. He held the lamp with one hand and a long curved knife in the other. His eyes moved from Mathew to me in silence, and I pointed my pistol at his chest. He spoke to me, and the sound of his voice stole the breath from my lungs.

"That will not save you. Aganon will have his sacrifice."

He removed his mask, and I came face to face with Richard Monroe. I could not speak. The sound of Mathew's cries filled the room from behind me. Richard walked toward me, and I did not have time to think. I could hear the sound of the others running toward us from the tunnel behind the bookcase.

I fired two shots, hitting Richard both times. His body was forced back by the impact, and the lamp smashed against the bookcase. The flames took quickly, engulfing the shelves of books and the robes of both Richard and the man behind him. I turned to Mathew and pulled at him, and we smashed through the window behind the desk.

We were up and moving before I had time to consider the damage to my face and neck. Victoria was waiting in the automobile. She grabbed hold of her son, and I drove toward the main road. As we pulled away, I watched as the side of Legel Manor became engulfed in flames. The fire lit the darkness behind us for miles like a rising sun.

I parted ways with Victoria and Mathew the following day. Mathew dressed in a set of clothes from my closet, and they booked passage on a northern bound train. That was the last I saw of either of them. A week following their departure, I received a package at my home with no return address; inside I found three times the amount promised for my involvement in the matter.

Soon after, I learned what little my newfound wealth would do for me. A month ago, my house burned to the ground, and in a twist of fate, I was saved by my sleepless nights. I often take long night strolls to hide from the terrors that await me in my dreams. There is little doubt in my mind that they will let me survive. I fear for Victoria and Mathew and wonder what corner of the world they have hidden themselves away in.

I often hear footsteps behind me in the dark, waiting for me to render myself defenseless. This Cult of the Elder will not let me rest. As exhaustion reaches me and I am forced to close my eyes, I can see them in pursuit. They will drag me away to some dark place where the mist swirls across the grass and the moonlight shows the way. That abomination waits for me, biding its time. Aganon awaits a sacrifice long overdue.

THE END

# The Calling

An early winter's north Atlantic storm pounds New England. The Cranberry Isles take a harsh beating as the ocean's waves crash against the coast. In 1921, the Isles are little more than a waypoint between the eastern tip of Canada and larger harbors farther south. On the southeastern point of the main island, a large manor rises out of the surrounding beech trees. The immense estate stands firm against the howling winds. To the south, the Marshall Point lighthouse shines high above the Cranberry Harbor, its light cast far out over the tumultuous water.

The sound of laughter fills the air all around the manor. Light cascades through the windows out into the velvet darkness. The wind has little effect on those within. Warmth encompasses the home as a collection of smoke rises from tall chimney stacks.

Snow covers the cobblestone walkway across the courtyard. A massive oak double door is shut tight. Inside, the sounds of folly rule. The invitees of a long-awaited celebration are lost deep in a drunken extravaganza.

A spiral staircase leads to the floors above where a solid wood door stands locked. Hidden up in the north tower, another gathering is taking place. The short corridor beyond the staircase is dimly lit and ends at an open room. The curved tower walls are covered with shelves stuffed full with books. There is a lifetime of information contained within the volumes. Artifacts of the most bizarre nature lie scattered about. A long desk sits underneath the lone window; across its top lies a petrified skull, a blood-stained cleaver, and the thigh bone from a long-dead priest.

Including Marcus, twelve participants stand in the tower room. Their faces are covered by expressionless masks. They stare at one another as they come together in a circle in the center of the room, gathered around a small table. Marcus stands within the ring, leaning over a thick, leather-bound book.

His slick, black hair glistens in the light of the candles around the room. Dressed in a golden robe, his face is the only one exposed. Marcus' brow furrows, his eyes etched with concentration. He has held on to boyish good looks, but the madness in his eyes hints at the darkness in his heart. He slides his hand along the pages of the book laid out on the table before him, stopping time to time to take in the words. The ancient text is said to unlock the secrets of the Elder. Marcus means to open a way between his world and theirs.

"And so it begins," Marcus says.

He looks up from the book and makes a grand turn to gaze at those around him. He smiles with his hands held out wide. On the table above the book sits a tall urn, a single candle burning at its side. Marcus motions toward the contents of the urn and continues.

"This blood is but a taste for the masters of the offering we bring. I alone possess the power to call forth into the void. Our masters, our gods," Marcus continues. "They will take this world for themselves, and we shall be raised as demigods. We shall rule this world when our masters' thirst for blood is quenched."

Marcus swings his hand in a wide arc and the candles around the room blow out save for the one on the center table. Light from the pale moon fills the room as Marcus turns back toward the open book. The participants moan in unison, swaying as he focuses on the words. In a hollow voice, he recites the call to the Elder. As he speaks, the members of the circle repeat his every word.

"Arimine alda amin," Marcus says.

He dips his hand in the urn and smears the blood across his face. He continues until the front of his robe is soaked through. Marcus works his hands in the air with precise motions as the words flow from his mouth. The tips of his fingers fill with light, the glow leaving burnt visions of the symbols he forms above the table. The words stream from his lips and erupt as smoke pours from his mouth.

Shadowy vapors flow with every word and cross through the glowing symbols in the air. A bolt of lightning flashes outside the tower, illuminating the room for a brief moment. Shadows creep across the floor as the subsiding light reveals shapes of unseen creatures hidden in the black recesses. The shadows cling to the walls as the light retreats.

A long howl calls out as the shadows pull away from the walls, attempting to penetrate this world. Wind rushes through the room, extinguishing the lone candle. The light from the symbols grow and surround Marcus until his figure is indistinguishable from the glow. In the center of the room the floor momentarily loses solidity and then returns as a rose-colored sphere forms out of the darkness. The edges of the center table blacken as if burning from an unseen flame. Streaks of ebony dance across the rose light, drawing from the shadows around the room.

Marcus backs away from the table his face etched with startled delight. The rose light struggles against the waves of blackness as the shadows churn and wrench themselves together.

Marcus' expression sours as the shades form and another howl erupts from the rose-light sphere. A cold flurry of air hastens toward the center of the room.

A raging wind drowns out the astonished cries and whimpers of the onlookers. Marcus stops outside the circle. The look on his face is clear: something is wrong. His eyes are locked on the haunted oblivion within the light. Lightning strikes the top of the tower and above the sphere, the ceiling starts to give way. Another strike reaches the center of the room, and the force of the strike tosses bodies to the floor.

Marcus sees it first. A withering black hand pulls itself free of the rose light. He reels as he backs away with terror-filled haste. The roused wind lifts the books from their shelves and tosses them around the room. Snow falls in from a crack in the ceiling, and Marcus stumbles as he tries to escape.

An elongated arm covered in dark, leathery skin follows the reaching hand. A bloody ooze drips from every inch of the thing as it twists and turns. A leg follows the hand as a blanket of terror suffocates the room. The leg stomps onto the floor as it tries to pull itself free. Panic grows to mad frenzy. The members of the sect rush for the lone door, trampling over one another. Screams of fright are drowned by the swirling wind as the door to the room is thrust open and the patrons spill out into the upper halls like escaped lunatics.

Marcus catches a glimpse of what is to come. The hand grabs hold of a woman fallen on the floor. The claws of its gnarled fingers dig into her leg as it pulls her close with a vicious strength. She cries and begs for help. Her mask has fallen and her tear-streaked face locks on to Marcus. The hand grabs hold of her robe and pulls her up onto her knees. The arm reaches out farther from the rose light and wraps its hand around the top of her head as long, boney fingers take a firm grip over her face.

Horror stricken, Marcus watches, unable to turn away from the woman's startled and terrified gaze. Her arms and legs flail about as the hand's grip tightens. She convulses as blood trickles down from her ears. Her mouth hangs open as her body falls limp. The strength of the thing prevails, and her head pops open like a ripe fruit. Her body buckles and collapses to the floor. There is a spasm from the headless corpse and then nothing more.

Marcus stumbles out into the hall. Several others are ahead of him; none of them are able to get through the locked door at the top of the stairs. Marcus is the only one with a key. The panic of the moment is on him as he rips at his robes to get at his clothes underneath. His hands shake as he moves. He fumbles through his pants pockets to no avail, and by the time he reaches the door, he realizes the key is not on him. His mind is incapable of figuring out where he's placed it. He searches his pockets again, then a third time: nothing.

Two men bang against the door, the skin on their hands battered and bloody. The fear in their eyes as they look back down the hall tells Marcus what he needs to know. The figure in the light is coming. None of them will make it through the door in time.

Marcus pushes one of the men away as he pleads for his life. Marcus ducks into a side hall, squats down, and risks a glance back at the tower room. Through the open door, he sees flashes of rose light. It pulses brighter with each passing moment. There are people trying to get out of the room. Marcus can see them crawl over one another in a desperate attempt at salvation.

He wants to run, but a sight holds him fast. A masked man dashes out into the hall. His mouth opens wide as he yells. Marcus cringes as a long flesh-colored tentacle slithers after him. It wraps around his waist and heaves his body up as another tentacle works its way across the floor.

Writhing like an animal, the second appendage pulls itself up the back of the man's legs, reaching his neck. Suspended high above the wood-paneled floor, he gasps for air. Tighter it squeezes, strangling the life out of him. The body jerks backwards with a sudden ferocious pull. His head bashes into the doorframe and tears clean off. The head hits the floor and bounces once.

Through the blood-stained doorway, a figure pulls free from the pulsing rose light and steps out into the hall. Silent and colossal, it hunches over toward the ground. Gouges cover its arms as they hang long and low. Its skin is burnt black; boils and patches of loose flesh hang from the exposed limbs. Its face is shadowed and invisible.

"Mother of God," Marcus whispers.

The figure's movements are slow and lumbering. It grows tall and menacing as it pulls itself upright. Marcus' frozen fear subsides long enough for him to continue his run, but not before he lays eyes on the full ferocity of the wicked thing. The figure moves down the hall with long strides, catching a woman by the back of her hair. Her screams fill the creature with delight as it throws its head back and lets out a terrible roar. Blood runs down the side of its face as two long rows of teeth flash in the light.

The woman kicks and screams to no avail, her mask falling to the floor. The figure extends its hand far above its head, holding the cleaver from the tower tight by its long, leather-bound handle. Marcus is drawn to the woman's eyes in the moment the cleaver comes down. The wide blade tears into her chest with a solid sound of cracking bone. Her body falls limp and drops to the floor. A hint of death and decay sweeps across the hall from droppings of scattered human debris littered on the floor around it.

Marcus shakes as terror grips his every move. The cold wind rushing through the hall cannot pierce the sweat on his brow. He struggles to recognize his surroundings. Marcus runs blindly, passing others fleeing in fright. One such woman gives in to her fear, lying balled up in the corner of the hallway wrapped in panic-filled darkness. The horror in her eyes registers with Marcus. Her mind can no longer deal with the reality of the situation. She lies still as a shocking stream of moans escapes her lips.

Marcus steps past her and into an open bedroom. He closes and locks the door behind him. The room is as still as a tomb compared to the mayhem in the hall, the silence intimidating. Marcus dives over the bed and onto the floor behind it. He pushes himself underneath as far as he can. He listens to the silence as his eyes focus on the crack of light underneath the door.

He tries to hold his breath as he searches for movement. Shadows dance across the slit of light and plays havoc with his mind. It is a small whimper that catches his attention. A shudder runs down his spine as he realizes the sound comes from the woman he left in the hall. The whimper grows until he makes out a few words in between deep sobs.

"Please no," she says.

She whispers at first.

Marcus holds his breath, pushing himself closer to the edge of the bed. His vantage point gives him a slight view farther down the hall. He can make out the woman. She has her back against the wall with her knees pulled close to her chest.

"Oh God, please no," she says.

Her voice grows louder as her feet rock back and forth. Marcus cannot see it, but he is sure something approaches; the sound of a distinct, slow walk echoes throughout.

"God, please," she begs.

She gets to her feet with a desperate attempt to push herself farther into the corner of the hall. A fresh stream of urine runs down her leg and pools on the floor. Marcus trembles. He wants to turn his head away but finds himself edging closer to the door.

"Please."

The word jerks out of her violently. The woman's feet shift several paces to one side as she is lifted from the floor. Her legs twist unnaturally and screams of nightmare follow. Her heels slam against the wall. Marcus watches her body fall to the ground in a lifeless heap. He can see her eyes as a pool of blood forms around her face.

A movement underneath the door draws his attention away from the void in her eyes. A twisted and blackened foot stomps on the floor in front of the door. Marcus pulls himself away. He slams the back of his head against the bed's metal frame, and the noise is intensified by the desperate need for silence. The sound of the doorknob turning echoes in Marcus' mind. He pushes his entire body up against the wall underneath the head of the bed. A click follows as the door's lock refuses to give way. Marcus can hear his heart as it pounds in his ears like a drum.

Then there is silence. Marcus holds still, unable to make out anything over the beat of his heart. A sudden crash rips into the room as the door splinters. Marcus watches the slithers of wood slide across the floor. He knows he shouldn't move, but the grip of terror on him cannot be controlled.

Marcus slides out from under the bed and comes to his feet. He screams. A deep gouge runs through the middle of the door. Another smash sends a long piece of the wood into the room as the blade of a cleaver digs through from the other side. An arm pushes into the breach and unlocks the door from the inside.

The figure pushes himself into the room, his silhouette filling the doorway. Marcus never sees its face. He turns away, filled with madness, searching for escape. He finds no salvation except for a window across from the bed. The cleaver raises back, the blade covered in blood and bits of flesh. Marcus' mind cannot control the terror as the figure steps toward him.

Lightning flashes outside, filling the room with light. Marcus runs as a thunderous boom follows. He leaps through the air, screaming, and crashes through the window. As the sounds of the party greet him from the grand room below, Marcus' body smashes into the snow-covered cobblestone ground below as his temptation to call on the Elder comes to a satisfying end.

THE END

# Crimson Rising

On leathery wings it rises,

feeding on the dark.

The flavor of flesh lingers,

a taste of memories not its own.

Each life a desired morsel,

the crimson fuel behind the curse.

No mercy offered,

not man, woman or child.

A cry in the night from those who feed,

a whispered fright between its teeth.

Blacked and twisted it writhes,

eating the souls of all god's lies.

# A Rose by Any Other Name

It was early morning in the low grasslands of the Quinnipiac River marsh when Anthony Daniels, a respected botanist of some note, discovered the most peculiar thing. The marsh was a favorite study ground of Professor Daniels for its superior specimen count. Located on the northern outskirts of New Haven, Connecticut, the marsh offered a cornucopia unlike any location in the local area.

Professor Daniels had begun his study of a possible Aldrovanda vesiculosa species in the United States only six months prior in July of 1927. He was well on his way to completing his journal review piece, but today's find was far more tantalizing. He first caught sight of it between the roots of a pair of pine trees. The pale green foliage did not match the surrounding growth and stood out a considerable amount. His fascination sparked when he turned toward it and was sure it moved.

Common sense told him there was some concealed animal behind the stunning event. It was a repeat of the movement that caused him to consider otherwise. It appeared to be connected in some way to a clump of green-brown leaves at the head of a vine lying between the roots of the trees that continued off somewhere behind them. The color shifted as the vine moved out into the light then recoiled as the professor took a step toward it.

There was nothing in Professor Daniels' past that prepared him for such a thing. He stood stoic, amazed beyond all words staring at the vine and its leafy head. A feeling of curiosity encouraged another hesitant step. The long stride pulled him within a few feet of the tree roots. The vine did not move again. Sure he had spent too much time in the sun, he was about to turn away when the most extraordinary thing happened.

The head of the vine, which had been an off-colored patch of foliage before, pulled together in a circular form about the size of a fist. Professor Daniels slumped back with a deep exhalation at the sight of it. The form parted in two places as if peering back at him through a pair of flora eyes. It rose off the ground by the vine, its end hidden somewhere behind the trees. Professor Daniels' stunned silence was broken after several gasping breaths and then only by a single word.

"How?"

The thing pulled back at the sound of the word and then turned to the side in a quizzical manner. It occurred to the professor at that moment that the form had heard him. He jerked back, withdrawing his hand once he realized he'd held it out without a thought. Professor Daniels was a cautious man by nature, but a series of recent events had stirred his prudence far beyond usual.

In his preparation for fieldwork in the marsh, he had been introduced to a subject he did not quite understand. The Aldrovanda vesiculosa plant was not common to the Americas and had never been documented outside Europe, Africa and Asia. His entire research started on the word of a savory man who fancied himself a treasure hunter. This Martin Hull spoke in volumes about his exploits at a private party Professor Daniels attended. None of the dreadful man's tales made an impression on the professor except when he spoke of a plant that ate mice. Such a thing was nonsense of course, but the very possibility that a carnivorous plant had been brought unintentionally to the U.S. was worth a look.

Professor Daniels had found that species growing wild among the marsh, and his discovery would soon be the talk of the scholarly world. His only real concern was what he would name the species. None of that, including the laughable Cult of the Elder which Mr. Hull stressed as the creators of the plant life, concerned him now. This miraculous thing he had before him would mean unimaginable fame. He thought no more of the cult or their desires of this world.

The professor gathered the courage to take another step closer and was met with a response similar to the first. The form at the head of the vine pulled back although this time not as much. It appeared to be watching his actions as if such a thought weren't lunacy. The professor removed the strap of his satchel from around his neck and laid the bag on the ground.

He sat down and pulled open the case, searching for his tools without daring to take his eyes off his wonderful discovery. The flora head moved forward as Professor Daniels removed his sketchbook and laid it on the ground in front of him. He jotted notes and sketched out the breed. It edged even closer as he pretended not to notice, its petaled eyes blinking ever so often as it appeared to watch his movements.

The professor had it in mind to reach out and grab the thing when he could, but he thought the better of it. He could not allow it to get away if such a thing was even possible. He had to see the root of it and mark it. There had to be proof of his discovery, and he would need to bring a group out to witness what he alone had found. He made up his mind at once and set about his trap.

Professor Daniels laid his book on the cool grass and acknowledged the flora head only a foot away. He placed the charcoal instrument on the book and rolled it across the edge of the page with a push. He was rewarded in an instant. The vine pulled out further from beyond the trees, and the head swept down toward the book. The beauty of its stamens was in full view. The pale violet color was memorizing even as the professor took hold of it.

The head of the plant lashed as the vine lurched to and fro trying to get free. Professor Daniels was surprised by the strength of it as he pulled himself toward its root, hand over hand. He neared the gap between the trees and was at once confounded by what he saw there. The vine did not push directly into the ground but instead pulled from the center of a far larger section. A rosette of five enormous leaves sat a foot from the ground. Two man-sized lobes lay exposed to the opening between the trees, facing the very direction the professor was trying to reach. The instant recognition of the plant's arrangement sent a shock of fear through his body, and he nearly collapsed.

Professor Daniels stopped his advancement at once, releasing his grip on the vine. What he could not have expected was the head form's reaction. The head moved with the precision of a serpent, wrapping itself and the vine around his chest and arms. The strength of the vine as it tightened about him took his breath away. He tried to scream, but nothing could escape his lungs. The vine pulled him in and pressed him down on the awaiting lobes. As the trap snapped shut around him, his last hope was that someone might discover his remains before he was digested and name the carnivorous monstrosity after him.

THE END

# The Long Forgotten

The enduring touch of fingers seizing the heart,

tepid breath makes a sweet aroma linger.

Remembrance afflicts a name's gentle call,

silence left behind to retreat to deeper holes.

Pale glow washes across the bedroom floor,

as midnight air rushes between the shadows.

Terror tiptoes through forgotten corners,

loneliness singles out the meek for want.

Breaths beat in tune with a long lost heart,

panic holds the sunrise, tick tock, tick tock.

Pale skin reeks with the stench of fear,

an end to the long forgotten draws near.

The cut runs deep down blue-blooded veins,

promises lost on what could have been.

To stand before the void with soulless eyes,

no reprieve given or forgiveness found.

# The Grief That Lingers

Benjamin Hack was a simple man who lived his life sullen and alone. His tall, gangly features promised him reclusiveness, and Benjamin would have it no other way. He shied from social contact and had little temperament for small talk. The nature of his personality was to draw away into the recesses of society and leave others to their own devices.

The old brick home at 124 Hamilton Street was similar to its owner. The outside was poorly maintained, and the interior was cold and dreary. The people of New Haven, Connecticut knew nothing about the home, and like its owner, the old brick residence liked it that way.

The sounds of New Haven harbor were perfectly timed. The early morning arrival of fishing boats mixed well with dockhand calls and conversation. The smell of fresh fish was often pungent. Benjamin hated fish, and the aroma made him nauseated.

He had not purchased the home in which he lived, a fact he reminded himself of often. He'd inherited the lot some ten years prior following his parents' tragic and untimely death. It was a memory that deepened his appalling impression of life and everything else in it. The light from the morning sun crawled across the cold floorboards of Benjamin's bedroom. He awoke with a shudder and considered avoiding the day altogether. He grumbled to himself and pushed away from the bed. It was New Year's week of 1928 and, according to Benjamin, the days ahead offered little more than those past.

In truth, Benjamin had few reasons to change his opinion on the future. He'd not worked in several years, and his inheritance was at its end. If he planned to eat, employment was necessary. The introverted, self-proclaimed scholar was having a tough time.

The collar of his shirt was frayed although he took no notice of it. He ate a bit of cold bread and washed it down with a cup of yesterday's coffee. He avoided one of the taller stacks of books randomly placed about the house and headed for his chair. Cursing under his breath, Benjamin took an irritated glance at the letter lying on the edge of the small table at the end of the hall.

He stepped into the front room with his mind fixated on the letter he'd received three days prior. There was no return address although it bore the mark of Drearmoore Asylum. Most disturbing to Benjamin was that the letter was addressed to his father. The letter clung to Benjamin's mind like a sickness. He had not uttered the name of his father in years, and to see it in print was unsettling.

Edward Hack had been a renowned psychologist at Drearmoore Asylum. His stature in New Haven provided a comfortable life for Benjamin and his mother. Unbeknownst to most, it was his father's hidden interests that had a profound impact on Benjamin. Edward had been an officer in the Great War and developed a macabre interest in life and death. He carried that interest back home following the war, spending the remainder of his lifetime acquiring knowledge of a perverted nature. A good portion of the books and aged tomes strewn about Benjamin's home were of an archaic knowledge.

The only other gift Edward had received from the war was a disturbing scar running from his chest to his hip. The wound was the result of shrapnel which had torn into his flesh during a German air attack. It was a gruesome reminder of the war, one he kept hidden from prying eyes. Benjamin had seen it a few times in his childhood.

Benjamin had inherited an interest in ghastly things from his father. His eyes had seen foul incantations written in languages few could read. He knew the evils of NasNoroth and read of the existence of the Cult of the Elder although he did not believe. His father had brought back from the war a true belief in these so-called greater gods.

Benjamin cursed as he grabbed hold of the letter. He sat in his father's old, tattered chair and drank from a new bottle of Scotch. He continued at his task with heated determination. The day moved by in a haze, and Benjamin awoke hours later, the room cloaked in darkness. He adjusted the lamp by his side and tried to account for the time.

Self-pity was the rule of the day, and Benjamin was in a coarse temper. He rubbed his hand across the letter where it rested on the arm of the chair. He took one last look at the hand-stamped emblem on the envelope and then turned it over and slid his finger under the seal. The scrawling letters were difficult to make out in the soft light. Benjamin fumbled for his spectacles and then peered down, piecing the words together.

Surely they will come for you. The damning hour is upon us all and those who seek to reveal NasNoroth shall not be denied. I fear my ruse will be found out and my life forfeit. The Elders will never rest on this earth while a breath clings to your lungs. Fear the shadows or they will have you here within their grasp for all time.

J.R.S. 241

A sudden sobriety washed over Benjamin as the full content of the message came to him. There was a true terror in-between the words that struck him. He found it difficult to breathe, and the darkness about his home enclosed him. He held the lamp up with a sudden interest to absorb the rest of the room.

Benjamin's hands shook as he tried to refold the letter. He managed to place it back in the envelope and then tossed the thing on the floor as if it might bite him. It lay there leering like a waiting snake, its edges shifting in an unseen wind like a rattler. The bottle of Scotch trembled as Benjamin tried to pour another drink. He found the task too difficult and pulled straight from the top. His nerves were beyond him, and the words clung to the recesses of his mind. NasNoroth, the Elder, he'd heard these before. The books strewn about the house contained volumes dedicated to such things.

Benjamin eyed the letter as he drank. There was no want in him to pick it up. He growled at it and cursed to himself. He kicked at the envelope as he got to his feet. Benjamin searched the house long into the night. He found every text containing reference to the unclean words mentioned in the letter. He sat in his front room for days and allowed the foul knowledge to consume him. It was when his mind could stand it no longer that he finished. The visions of those things inspired him, and his urge to know the meaning behind the letter became an obsession.

There was little for him to work with. Benjamin's only clue lay in the marking on the envelope. Whoever it was that felt his father's life was in danger was in some way involved with Drearmoore Asylum. He set out that very morning to discover the truth.

♦

Benjamin walked through the city's streets under an unusually dark sky. Drearmoore Asylum sat on the northeastern edge of New Haven, hidden from the common view. The autumn weather had begun its work on the dense vegetation outside the city. The thick grass was dying, leaving behind a lifeless growth of brown. The trees were barren, writhing on the wind like chilling bones.

The long road from the city was a muddy mess. Benjamin wondered how anyone could manage to cross such a thing on foot. He cursed with every step as his boots took the worst of it. Many times he was tempted to quit his curiosity altogether. The peak of Drearmoore rose above the rolling hills and over the surrounding landscape. Benjamin counted four spiral tops like an ancient castle, dark and menacing. His steps grew slower as the face of the building rose to meet his eyes. Benjamin felt the weight of the madness hidden within the asylum's walls like he'd been there a thousand times before.

The whole of the structure loomed across the open grassland between the road and the arched doorway at its entrance. Benjamin felt compelled to stop for a moment as if to consider his decision. His imagination was at work as the old brick exterior pulsed, timed with the beat of his heart. A shudder shook his nerve although there was no reason for such a thing.

There was a sense of desolation to the place that aged the structure far beyond its years. It stood several stories high, and a lack of windows on the lower floors stood out prominent to the mind. The highest floors gave a hint of the contents within. Small windowpanes were covered from the inside by pale shades drawn tight.

The tall double doors opened with a loud whine. Benjamin was overcome by a wave of heat so in contrast to the cold autumn day that perspiration soaked his shirt at once. The stale air of the drab foyer clung to his lungs as he fought with the heat. He was left with few options but to remove his coat and gloves at once.

There was a ripened feel to the interior that matched the brickwork outside. The lighting was poor and widely spaced. Long shadows covered portions of the forward hall, obstructing the view. Benjamin strained to catch a glimpse of a figure walking toward him.

A man pulled free from the shadows into full view with an unmistakable limp. His eyes were far too large for his face and at present locked in on Benjamin with a frightening effect. His hair was disheveled and poorly combed to one side, caked in a thick mixture of oil and sweat. The man's pants and shirt were a mess of stains over white cloth.

He introduced himself as Earl Howard, the asylum's administrator of sorts. Benjamin found his purpose lost on his tongue and took a moment of stammering to inquire about possible employment. He did not know why, but Benjamin's heart was struck with a sudden fear to not speak of the letter addressed to his father. A crawling sensation of doubt brushed across his neck as he stood in uncomfortable silence.

Mr. Howard was a man of obvious self-importance. He considered the matter for longer than he should before agreeing to speak with the doctor. Benjamin followed Mr. Howard with halfhearted courage deeper into Drearmoore to a grand staircase. The spiral stairs ran high into the asylum at a steep rate. The light grew dimmer with each passing floor until there was little more than a slither of illumination. The effect was great on Benjamin, and he found himself walking closer to his guide. He noted the necessity of closeness brought far too much satisfaction to Mr. Howard.

The darkening light was only one of the haunting elements of Drearmoore. The air filled with the foul stench of bodily secretions and a detestable dank reek. However, it was the growing sounds that brought a true fright to Benjamin. They started as moans and then crystallized with each passing step. There were calls for help drifting on the air mixed among random screams of fury.

The heat swelled as the stairs rose, culminating in an inferno-like swelter. Benjamin's shirt was soaked through as the sweat poured from him like an open faucet. He struggled to keep his nerve amid a barrage of roaring profanities and anguishing pleas. The voices were chaotic and filled with a lunacy the sane mind could not grasp.

The enormous door to the fourth floor opened with little effort, and Mr. Howard casually strolled down the center hall beyond. Benjamin knew at once his aim and meant to hold his stoney expression as long as possible. There was a test afoot, Benjamin thought, and he meant to pass with flying colors. Doorways lined the center hall, each protecting a crammed room no bigger than a closet. The inhabitants of these dreary places were each a spectacle in their own right. All were men, from what Benjamin could tell, each wearing little more than tattered breeches. Most were bound in some fashion, either limiting the use of their hands or covering them completely.

Benjamin attempted to give little notice to the inhabitants but found such an approach impossible. Those occupants who were not gagged in some way shouted blasphemous speech in horrific tones. The hollers rose as Benjamin reached the center of the hall. The madmen danced about like banshees, some smashing their heads against the iron bars of the viewports in the doors.

Spit covered the floor of the hall, and the smell of urine was at its worst. Wild eyes bulged behind the metal masks of those deemed too dangerous to leave uncovered. The scene was something Benjamin could never have imagined in his worst nightmare, and he couldn't fathom his father dedicating his life to such a monstrous place.

The door at the end of the hall gave no indication of what lay beyond. Mr. Howard knocked once and waited. He fidgeted about, standing an inch from the door as Benjamin stood at his side. A shout from within led Mr. Howard to open the door and then give Benjamin a grand bowing gesture. The room beyond gave little relief to the heat. The wide office was surrounded by shelves on all four walls lined with rows of unkempt books.

The doctor stood in front of an impressive oak desk, his hands folded behind his back. Tall and frail, his limbs seemed somehow disproportionate to his body. His coat was a perfect white with impeccable creases. Beady eyes focused on Benjamin behind large, round-rimmed glasses. The doctor spoke with an accent Benjamin couldn't place. His voice was dry and unemotional.

"I knew your father well," he said.

Benjamin wasn't sure how the doctor knew who he was. Benjamin mumbled a response.

"I am afraid I have exhausted my means."

"And you expect me to do something about it?"

"No sir. I had hoped that my father's reputation would grant me some favor."

"Favor?"

Benjamin hesitated to the point where it became uncomfortable. The doctor's eyes widened as he soaked in Benjamin's hesitation.

"I have a desire to follow after my father."

The doctor held a piercing stare for a time and then smiled. "And this is purely a monetary decision?"

The question held a great deal of weight. Benjamin felt as if the doctor somehow knew about the letter and was waiting to hear the truth.

"Yes sir."

The stage was set as simple as that. A position was given to him on a temporary basis, and Benjamin was relieved to leave the office although crossing the hall proved difficult. He found the staircase and the first floor on his own. Bidding good day to Mr. Howard, he stepped out into the cold air with relief.

Benjamin caught his breath and started on the long walk home. His sweat cooled on his clothes and brought with it a terrible chill. He trembled, but the cold was not the cause. The fear of what he'd done clung to his mind. He loathed the idea of returning to that place, but he knew on the following morning he would have to do precisely that.

♦

The first evening was dark and cold. Benjamin was left on his own with little direction from the doctor. He kept to the first floor, not sure what it was he was supposed to be doing. It wasn't until the first Friday evening that the peculiar, handwritten note showed up on Mr. Howard's clean desk.

Benjamin's name was written on the outside of the plain manila envelope. He removed the first note with hesitant hands. It was simple and to the point. _Clean the empty cells on the fourth floor._ His eyes were drawn to the next line in particular. _Stay clear of the basement._ The letter wasn't signed, but Benjamin knew the doctor was the author. The penmanship was immaculate. There was a real beauty to the lettering coupled with a demonic attention to detail.

Benjamin fumbled with the letter. He tried to place it back in the envelope, but his eyes were focused on the central staircase. His heart raced with the thought of it, but he'd known all along that he couldn't spend his entire night on the first floor. The air about him thickened as he sucked in a long, deep breath. He approached the stairs with slow, purposeful steps.

The heels of his shoes echoed off the floor as he neared. Shadows danced across the walls as the light played tricks on his eyes. Benjamin picked up on the sounds of muffled yells from somewhere up above. Each floor brought with it a new wave of dreadful noise. The first two floors gave rise to maddening screams. Benjamin didn't know how the patients were aware of him, but they cried out from their cells like they were dying. He could see them from the stairs as he rushed past the doorways to each hall.

The third floor was filled with dull moans. The patients' calls mixed in a dreary symphony of pain and mindless dribble. Benjamin could barely breathe. He struggled to fight an urge to run.

By the time he reached the fourth floor, Benjamin was taking each step with his eyes closed. Somehow not being able to see calmed his nerves. He reached the entrance to the floor and fumbled for the doorknob. The light in the long hallway was underpowered for the length. Benjamin opened his eyes and calls flooded the hall from the side cells.

They bayed like wild animals. Benjamin stood frozen, unable to force himself to walk. It took him a while to gather his courage. Under the pale light he moved from one cell to the next. He was forced to watch from the center of the hall, catching the movements through small openings in the cell doors. Benjamin learned quickly that the movements were the easiest way to determine which cell was empty and which was not. He guessed wrong on two occasions; the first left him with a face full of some unimaginable body fluid, and the second left him with a black eye.

Slim lines of morning light crept out from underneath the edges of the doctor's door when Benjamin was finished. Every empty cell was clean, and he guessed his time to go home was near. As he turned toward the stairs, his attention was drawn to the cell closest to the doctor's door. He was sure the cell was occupied, but the interior was as silent as a grave.

Benjamin edged closer, and he could hear the faint sound of breathing within. There was a constant _thumping_ that drowned out everything else. It tapped in perfect rhythm over and over. Benjamin leaned in slowly, his eyes catching the outline of a figure. It was down on both knees, a rotund stomach wrapped tight in a straightjacket.

A pair of dead eyes stared out through a featureless mask. The figure swayed back and forth, each time smacking his head against the wall. Benjamin watched in horror as the small stain of blood on the wall grew with each tap of the head. Benjamin backed away, and in one quick motion he ran to the stairs, down to the first floor, and back out into the fresh morning air.

♦

Benjamin found it difficult to sleep. It had been a full month since he'd begun working at Drearmoore, and he was no closer to finding the answer to the letter that had caused his arrival. He'd decided the information he needed was kept by the doctor. Any files he would need would have to be in his office.

The thought of entering the doctor's office was enough to stop his heart from beating. He'd set to the task on more than one occasion but came up empty handed. While the doctor's personal files on his patients read like terrifying horror novels, there was little of use within. Benjamin discovered nothing about his father or anything out of the ordinary. Still determined, he found his curiosity turning toward the basement.

It was getting dark when Benjamin left his home. The walk to Drearmoore was becoming a chore, and the dark grey clouds overhead proved this day would be the same. His tall frame struggled against the wind as he made his way through the city and out into the open country. By the time the tall brick building loomed ahead, darkness consumed the landscape.

The interior of Drearmoore was particularly haunting. The shadows felt menacing, and Benjamin did his best to step from one sliver of light to the next. His mind was set on what he was going to do. The basement was the only logical choice.

The doctor's letter was laid out on Mr. Howard's desk as it always was. Benjamin read it although he already had the pattern of his tasks down. _Clean the first floor._ The familiar warning followed as it had on every letter. _Stay clear of the basement._

Benjamin went about his work. He completed the first floor in half his usual time and prepared to put his plan into action. He made one last look around the grounds and then locked the front double doors to the building and headed for the stairs. He approached the tall metal door behind the staircase with heightened caution.

The handle of the basement door was warm to the touch. Benjamin pushed down and was surprised to feel the handle turn. Part of him had hoped he wouldn't have to venture into the bowels of Drearmoore, but the basement door pulled open, leaving him with no excuse. The first of many steps was visible under the first floor light. The remainder of the tunneled stairway leading down to the basement was covered by darkness. Benjamin hurried back to the front desk and returned with a small lantern from the wall. He held it high at the opening to the stairs and tried to see what lurked farther down.

His heart beat wildly as he took the first step. The way below revealed little on what to expect, but Benjamin's mind raced with awful possibilities. The stairs went down several flights before ending at a flat, dirt floor. The light from the lantern showed a low tunneled hall stretching out straight ahead.

The air was cold, and a smell of mold and decay saturated everything. Benjamin's steps were slow but determined. He ventured several feet, and the light shone on an outline of another metal door, this one on the side of the hall. As he approached, he could see another door across the hall up ahead.

Benjamin edged in front of the door and held his lantern high. The hinges looked to be rusted in place. There was no sign of a handle, only a large keyhole. A sliding plate in the door's center held his attention.

It took some considerable strength to open the plate, but once it moved, Benjamin instantly regretted it. The foul stench that crept from the opening was beyond description. Benjamin gagged at once and then threw up all the contents of his stomach on the floor. He backed away in desperation, at the same time trying to push the plate back in place.

It took him a moment to gather himself. Unable to close the plate, Benjamin moved farther down the hall, using the wall to support himself. His legs felt weak, and he fought the urge to vomit again. The light from his lantern revealed doors similar to the first, spaced evenly down both sides of the hallway.

Benjamin stumbled past the doors. The smell filled the hall, and he was forced to pull his coat over his nose. The passage held straight, stopping at a large double door. Unlike the smaller aligned doors, this one appeared to be well-used. Benjamin was hesitant but mustered the courage to pull the long handle.

The doors parted, and a low light from the room beyond met Benjamin's eyes. He stepped through and into a high-domed chamber. He was drawn to the abomination in the center of the floor. Like an unholy altar it stood, center stage, forcing all eyes on it.

A series of rib bones rose from a small dais, an impossibly long spine holding it upright. Towering over Benjamin's six-foot frame, the skull of an animal looked down at him. Blackened horns ascended from the skull several feet higher. Benjamin could feel the stare of the thing peering into his soul. The weight of all the atrocities that had taken place within the walls pressed against his chest. The stench of the chamber was familiar; death was all around him, and he could sense it coming.

The vile centerpiece was also familiar to Benjamin, and he recognized the thing at once. In the volumes of blasphemous writings his father had left behind, sketches of the offerings to the Elder covered the pages. Benjamin felt a horror cover his heart from which he could never recover. He turned to run from that place, vowing never to return.

The events that followed played out in his mind like a production in which he was not a participant but a member of the audience. They came at him all at once. From a dark opening across the chamber, figures poured into the room. Dressed in long, flowing robes, their faces were concealed by hauntingly expressionless masks.

A wave of noise hit Benjamin before a single hand took hold of him. Rhythmic chanting filled the domed chamber like an opera house. The archaic words consumed his mind as the first of them pulled at his arms. The lantern dropped to the ground, and the light was blocked out as they surrounded him.

Fists beat Benjamin in the face as others pulled at his limbs. The sound of laughter echoed in his ears between the disturbing chants. His arms were forced against his chest as something was wrapped around him. Benjamin pulled at his arms ineffectually as they backed away.

They stood around him, looking down with uncaring eyes. Benjamin found himself bound tight in a perfectly white straightjacket. As he struggled against the restraints, one amongst the onlookers stepped forward. The chanting came to a sudden stop as the figure lifted his mask.

Benjamin looked up into the smiling face of the doctor.

"I have a gift for you," he said.

The others grabbed Benjamin and lifted him off the ground. They carried him back the way he'd come. Reaching the first floor, they turned toward the spiral stairs. Up they wound to the fourth floor and then tossed Benjamin down outside the doctor's office door.

The cells erupted with howls and screams, the likes of which could drive any man mad. Benjamin was thrust toward the final cell door by a crushing kick to his back. They forced him up, and his eyes fell on the lone, kneeling figure. Benjamin felt the doctor's icy hand grab hold of the back of his neck.

"Look," the doctor said. "Look hard."

Benjamin watched the figure rock back and forth, his head smacking the bloodstained wall with each pass. Terror engulfed Benjamin as he spied the thing the doctor so longed for him to see. The figure's straightjacket lifted with each sway. The exposed skin of his stomach revealed an unforgettable scar beneath.

Benjamin screamed until his lungs gave out. He fought against them as they opened the adjacent cell door and tossed him in. He pulled with all his strength at the straps of his jacket, unable to move. Madness tore at his mind as he crashed about, slamming into one wall and then the other. Blood trickled from a cut on the side of his head.

When all his strength was spent, he lay on the floor looking up at the walls of his cell. His eyes focused on the bloody mark from his head. It was then that he heard the haunting, rhythmic thumping from the cell next to him. In agony he cried out, knowing it was his father beating his head against the wall on the other side.

THE END

# Drums in the Void

(Found in the journal of Professor William Markinson of Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut.)

Correspondence with Ahmed has uncovered the most exhilarating information. My assumptions about the book have been confirmed. The Cult of the Elder has deep roots in Adana, dating back over two thousand years. I know this exploration will produce tangible results.

-April 16, 1931

Professor Markinson wrote June 19th in the top right corner of his journal and then slammed it closed in frustration. They'd been lost down in the abominable caves for longer than anyone could track with any real assurance. Their faithful guide Ahmed continued to pursue their freedom from the shadowy darkness. The professor feared none among them had faith that a joyful ending awaited.

There were five in the group, including Professor Markinson's assistant Alex Reed, the geologist Lauren Miller, Ahmed, and his nephew Emre. It was from the professor's insistence that they were there, and he was miserable for it. His passions overwhelmed him far beyond his common sense, and he feared the worst was yet to come. It was the promise of finding the truth behind the Cult of the Elder that had brought them to Bursa and the endless valley to the west of the city. The fissure that brought them down into the caves beneath the earth was promised to bring answers to questions the professor had searched for over the course of his life. It appeared to him now that the Elder's secrets would remain beyond his reach.

Professor Markinson had little choice but to continue to follow Ahmed. He believed him to be hopelessly lost although his pride would not allow him to admit it. No one was questioning Ahmed's judgment; however, the professor knew it couldn't be far away. They had enough rations to last five days more, and the professor feared as the supplies began to dwindle so too would their morale.

There was a chill in the darkness he couldn't describe which mimicked the growing fear in his heart. The light wind that brushed against his exposed skin offered hope, but Ahmed swore it would not carry them to open ground. There were apparently endless tunnels down in the darkness far beyond their imagination. Their present direction led in a lowering angle with little more than long cracks in the stone and murkiness ahead of the lamplight. The professor was not sure what bewilderment had overcome them in order to hold back the terror that should have swept their courage away, but he was grateful for it.

"We seem to be moving farther down," Alex said, whispering. He was critical of Ahmed and had expressed his reservations about continuing to follow him. "I'm sure we should have given an effort to climb the fracture in the rock we found an hour ago." This was the third time he had reminded the professor of his suggestion since Ahmed disagreed with him. "We should go it alone," he mumbled to himself.

Professor Markinson had grown tired of Alex's constant complaining, but he was forced to remind himself that Alex was only there by his request. As a graduate student, under his personal guidance for a full year, he was the logical choice to join the expedition. However, their relationship at the university had not prepared the professor for dealing with Alex in such stressful situations. Ahmed carried an oil lamp at the front of the group, and Alex carried another at the rear. The light had a difficult time piercing the darkness all around them. Long shadows stretched across the cold, stone tunnel walls, shifting with their every step. Exhaustion was playing havoc with the professor's imagination, and there was little he could do to keep off the inevitable dread that was sure to consume him.

He heard sounds in the darkness ahead. The others did not speak of it, and he was beginning to question his sanity. There was a wavering beat beyond them that he knew was not natural. At times it imitated the professor's heart, at other times, his every step. He breathed a deep sigh of relief when the silence returned, although it was not long before the pulse revisited.

"We should rest," Ahmed said from the front in a heavy accented voice.

He continued to lead as if their destination were within reach. The professor could not fault him; his courage was far more than he could ever muster. His tall, dark-skinned, wide-shouldered frame continued to exude confidence. He carried the hard chin of a man who other men would follow into battle. Among them, it was Emre that the professor felt for the most. He couldn't be more than fifteen, and the dread in his eyes was blatant. He hadn't spoken aloud in a day.

They sat on the cold stone ground, and the break gave the professor's legs a chance to rest, but his mind wandered at its worst. He didn't believe he could continue much longer. It was only his desire to leave the dreadful place that carried him. He was first to get back to his feet, in the hope that something ahead might clear his mind for a moment. It was another several hours before Ahmed broke the silence again.

"Professor, look at this."

He was down on one knee, holding something in his hand. Emre held the lamp above his uncle's shoulder. By the time the professor ventured closer, Lauren was kneeling next to Ahmed.

"Seems out of place," she said.

He saw what Ahmed was holding but for a moment couldn't bring himself to identify it. He held it up closer to the light, and there was no denying the carved piece of stone was the head of an axe. Ahmed gave it to the professor, and everyone's eyes locked on him as if he would surmise something far beyond their capabilities. He turned the stone and ran his hand over its side. The smoothness of it indicated a great deal of skill in its making. Alex's voice echoed around the group.

"What do you think, Professor?"

"A fairly common find," he said. "Only it's about six thousand miles from where I would expect to find it."

"I don't follow," Ahmed said.

Excluding his nephew, Ahmed was the least historically educated of the group.

"You see the curvature along the top of the axe head?" The professor ran his finger over its length. "This is something you might find in an excavation in the central states of North America, possibly even as far south as Mexico, but here..." He considered the possibilities but found himself at a loss.

"There are other examples of fossils discovered in unlikely locations," Alex said. "The Anders-Myer expedition of Antarctica in 1919." Alex was a fountain of rare knowledge. "They found arrowheads and even the remains of a headdress piece some half a mile beneath the ice surface. To my knowledge no one has ever been able to account for it."

The professor removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the axe head in it. "Then let us pray," he said, "that we shall have an opportunity to inquire about the history of our find."

They began to walk again. The axe head provided them with the distraction they needed. As far as the professor could gather, there was no logical reasoning to find a weapon of that design so far from its natural location. He pondered the issue for as long as it would occupy his mind.

No more than an hour passed before Ahmed called them to a halt. The professor was hopeful to find another artifact that might, in some way, correlate with or at least provide some additional insight on the true nature of their first find. However, he was not prepared for what the light from Emre's lamp showed ahead of them. Complete awe and fascination consumed him. The dreaded tunnel had come to an abrupt end. A new way opened into the dark in opposing directions, but it was the wall directly before them or to be more precise, what appeared to be carved in the rock, which took their breath away.

The professor ran his hand over the hieroglyphics as if they might crumble at the touch. He could hear the awe spew from Alex as he looked over his shoulder. The professor had only recently shared with him some of the factual findings of his labor to uncover the truth behind the Cult of the Elder. The professor knew Alex recognized the symbols on the wall from the book of the Fallen Star, which was the pride of the professor's collection on the subject matter.

"Is that Egyptian?" Lauren asked.

"No," the professor said.

Lauren had not been his first choice for the expedition. She came highly recommended, but she had very little insight as to his true aims.

"This is a foul thing," Ahmed said in a low tone to his nephew. Ahmed was not formally schooled, but his knowledge of the legends of his people ran deep.

The professor had little doubt that he knew something about the writing and perhaps what it meant.

"You are pleased?" Ahmed asked.

The professor did not answer. He removed his pack with Alex's assistance and found the thick, ancient book he sought. He removed some papers from the cover on which he'd worked a premise of sorts for translation and then mulled over the carvings on the wall with heated anticipation as Alex copied down his every word. The process was slow going, but they managed with a great deal of success.

"From the heavens the stars fall," Alex read aloud what he'd written down. "The Elder brings life. Walk the great city of Morgainok and offer your soul."

Everyone stood in silence waiting for the words to have some meaning they could grasp. The professor knew all too well what they had found and could barely contain his excitement.

"Professor, it is as you hoped," Alex said. "Morgainok."

"You knew there was a city buried here?" Ahmed asked.

"Hoped," he said.

"We're trapped down here," Lauren said. "Doomed to die no doubt, and you say you hoped for this?" She wore her anger plain on her face.

"Of course not," the professor said. "I will not deny that the search for Morgainok was my true intent, but I never intended to lose myself in the process. Don't be absurd," he added for good measure.

He could see the argument that was to come. He was in no mood for such a thing, but it was a faint sound that brought them to silence. A look in Lauren's eyes told the professor she'd heard it as well. Distant, but distinct, he heard it again. It came from their right, and he could see Alex's eyes bulging as he tried to see down through the darkness. They held still as if somehow their motionless stance would make the noise go away.

The fear that followed did not come all at once. Like pinpricks, the professor felt the onslaught of fright begin to take hold. This new fear appeared communal as Ahmed drew his pistol, the only such weapon among the group. Emre dimed his lamp, and they stood like statues until their knees ached.

"What devil of a thing lurks in your Morgainok?" Ahmed asked.

"Superstitious nonsense," the professor said. "My study of the occult is fueled by fascination of what these people believed or what some of them still believe, but not what I believe myself. This represents a monumental archeological find and proves the Cult of the Elder has its roots buried in some four thousand years of history." His passion for the subject overtook him. He was forced to hold his tongue as the sound returned louder.

"And whatever makes that noise is something you don't believe in either?" Ahmed asked.

He was trying the professor's patience for sure. The professor did not answer, nor did he see the point in arguing. Their discovery did not change their dire circumstances. He motioned for everyone to follow as he took up the lead and headed down the tunnel in the direction of the sound.

The noise grew steadily, and they knew it was near. It was a faint glow that stirred their fright. The professor saw to it that the lamps were extinguished, and a glow gave away the outline of an opening in the tunnel ahead. As they reached the end, the opening in the tunnel doubled its original size.

Every step forward brought with it a terrible fear and a childlike excitement. At a slow pace, they reached the opening and found two things which stretched their bewilderment beyond any time before. A cavern opened before them, a size unimaginable to their minds. The immensity of it swallowed them whole and gave the professor a profound sense of insignificance like he had never known.

The cavern walls were inlaid with a substance or mineral he could not identify. The faint glow in the rock was the result of this substance embedded in the stone. They could see the light running far up into the rock face high above them. It gave the appearance of an open sky and an endless sea of stars. Lauren stared at the rock as if overcome with madness. She knelt and ran her hand along the surface.

"It flows like water," she said.

A moment later her assumption was confirmed. She chipped at the rock with a small tool and exposed the liquid beneath. The moment the substance came in contact with the air, the pale light faded to darkness.

"Impossible," she said, muttering to herself, "nothing on earth—"

"Professor?"

Lauren was cut short by Alex's whisper. The professor turned to find him on his hands and knees, a good distance ahead. Even in the pale light, he could see the utter panic in his eyes as he looked back. The professor advanced and saw the cavern open up in a massive bowl beneath them. He found at once what had stolen Alex's breath.

Rising from the cavern floor was the outline of towers and bizarrely shaped structures. It could be no doubt that the city of Morgainok lay before them. The lines of pale light highlighted everything. There were structures climbing several stories high, some of the most peculiar architectural design. In the distance, standing high above the city was the most impressive sight of all.

What could only be described as a pyramid dominated the cityscape like no other. It was constructed in the squared style of Chichen Itza in Mexico. The professor could make out a towering staircase which centered on the side facing them. Never in his wildest dreams could he have foreseen a discovery such as this. There was no doubt that they had found one of the mighty cities of the Elder.

"What in God's name?"

Lauren stood beside him. He knew she had no knowledge of the occult. Only Alex had the slightest insight as to what they'd found. The professor also knew Ahmed's beliefs would keep him from understanding the true value of the find.

"This is unholy ground," Ahmed said, "the forgotten death."

"Gibberish," Alex said. "Do you understand the importance of this?" He pointed out toward the sprawling city. "An advanced people who no doubt are the foundation of the myths and legends of your people." His voice carried far off the surrounding rock. "Professor Markinson has long believed the superstitions of your ancestors are little more than fantastic explanations for the unknown, an unknown that could only come from a far advanced people."

"Alex."

The professor was forced to step in. Alex's clarification would solve nothing and would have little effect on Ahmed. His beliefs were the result of countless generational teachings. The professor held his scientific curiosity in for the time being and looked to Ahmed for guidance. There was intensity to his stare as he looked out over the city.

"It would seem reasonable to me," Ahmed said after a long silence, "that a city so grand would not have been intended to survive below ground alone."

The professor followed his reasoning.

"While we have stumbled upon an entrance," Ahmed said, continuing, "there must surely have been other such passages in and out."

Lauren shifted her stance with noticeable hesitation. "You mean to take us down there?" she asked.

Ahmed looked to the professor and then back to her. "I do," he said.

"Do not concern yourself," the professor tried to assure her. "The trappings of such a place would have been long destroyed. Judging by the sheer size of it, I would say our deepest concern should be avoiding aimless wandering." His explanation appeared to calm her for the time being.

Ahmed led them down the cavern side into the city, and the professor would admit, if only to himself, a ghastly, unnatural anxiety. He ran through his explanation to Lauren, but it did little to calm his nerve. He knew Morgainok awaited them, and the ominous dark walls rose high above as they dared to step foot where no man had in thousands of years.

♦

The city climbed around them with jagged, crumbling fortifications. Their eyes adjusted to the light within the walls, and Ahmed suggested they keep the lamps dark. The professor could see he was scared of something and now had Emre terrified. His nephew kept close to him, moving in step.

The professor felt their superstitions were foolish, but he couldn't explain his own hesitant steps. The unknown sound had vanished, and the professor tried to reclaim his courage. They spoke in whispers if they spoke at all. The sinister feel of Morgainok weighed on their minds.

Surrounded by the black walls of the city, it was Laruen who was most disturbed by the place. She ran her hands across the rock and noted what the professor had already seen. The walls of the surrounding structures had not been carved from the cavern itself. The black rock had been brought in from somewhere else and carefully set in place. The idea of this task was fascinating. The feat would have been monstrous by current standards. How it was accomplished or even planned, thousands of years ago, was unimaginable.

The buildings did not appear to have roofs of any kind. They were simple structures consisting of little more than four walls. As of yet, they could find no doorways or entrances. The larger structures and towers seen from the opening in the cavern wall were deeper in the city. The professor could see spiral towers, several stories tall, which he could not imagine a purpose for. Platforms opened up high on the bastions, and odd stone spikes adorned the uppermost points.

"Professor."

Alex drew him back to the building he'd inspected. The professor was frightened by the call, the first above a whisper since they entered the city. There was a churning in his gut he could not rid himself of. He found Alex by an opening in the face of the rock. Ahmed was beside him, pistol at the ready. The hair on the professor's neck rose at the sight of the weapon.

He was confused by what he found peering in through the opening. The interior of the structure was small and bare save for an opening in the ground which dominated the space. The pale light in the walls reflected off clear water within the hole. There was little else to see. Ahmed knelt at the edge of the open hole. He looked at the water as if expecting to see something lurking down beneath. The professor found himself drawn to the water, enticed by its purpose.

"It's hollow underneath," Ahmed said.

The professor moved closer at his assertion and found he was correct. The discovery further stirred his fear, but for the life of him he could not explain why. He could not piece together the use of that place or the idea of what type of people once lived there. An abrupt, loud noise caused him to leap. Ahmed spun around with his pistol at the ready.

"That was close," Alex said.

It was, in truth, very close. They stood frozen for a long time. Ahmed was first to risk a step, but his hesitation frightened the others more than the noise itself. The professor realized someone was missing.

"Where's Lauren?"

He called out her name with no response. Along silence followed. Ahmed took charge and stepped back out onto the main walkway.

"Ahmed."

The professor tried to stop him, but it was too late. He hesitated and then ran out after their guide. He strained to find Ahmed in the low light as the beat of his heart pounded in his ears. He heard Alex's feet shuffle behind him and then stop, his courage failing him. Out on the walkway, the professor was alone; Ahmed had vanished. His breathing labored as panic grabbed hold. The rattling of his heart consumed his thoughts until a rhythmic beating, not of his own, rose above all else.

All at once his senses were consumed. The beat of a distinct, but distant drum grew louder. A pungent smell followed soon after, which he could not place. It reminded him of the sea and the long fishing boats on the Connecticut coast. The sound of the drums swelled with intensity.

The professor did not want to hear the drums; his mind would not accept such a thing existed in that place. He could not pretend the beating was a natural sound, but it simply could not be. To accept those drums would mean there was something down there in the dark besides the group he had brought with him. That was something far too terrifying to consider.

It was a singular moment that followed his thoughts that nearly stopped his heart. He felt the grip of something take hold of his arm with a sudden pull. He gasped for breath and let out a whelp like a small child. He peered over his shoulder, as if to look death in the eyes and found Ahmed looking back at him.

Ahmed released his arm and put a finger against his lips. He looked past the professor at the dark, his eyes bulging from the strain. Ahmed stared back the way he had come with his pistol pointed down at the walkway. He stepped close enough for the professor to feel the heat of his breath.

"She's gone," he said in a whisper.

There was a foreboding in his words which struck the professor. Ahmed was not implying that Lauren had gotten lost, but that someone or something had taken her. The beating drums came to a hasty stop. The professor could not tell their direction, but he knew it was close. Ahmed motioned back to the structure they had come from, and the professor followed him. They gathered in a close circle with the others, each peering into one another's eyes.

"We must stay close," Ahmed said, insisting. "And we must leave this place at once."

"What about Lauren?" Alex asked.

Ahmed gave him a hard look but did not answer. The professor knew at once what he meant to do. The professor's conscience ate at him, but he longed to run from that place. What he could not believe for a moment, not long ago, seemed like a ghastly reality now.

"We can't leave her," he found himself saying.

Ahmed's expression changed as he wrestled with his conscience. "We stay close together," he said at last.

The foursome returned to the walkway as the drums resumed. They were closer now. Ahmed was forced to pull his nephew with one hand and keep his pistol in the other. Alex and the professor kept close behind them, neither surefooted. The professor realized he was hunched over, his shoulders weighing down on him as he moved forward. They circled the structure that they'd entered with little result. The dim light in the rock was not enough to do a detailed search of the cavern floor, and they dared not relight the lamps.

Hesitation claimed Ahmed for a time before he was willing to venture farther into the maze of walkways in the city. At that point, the professor had to consider the safety of everyone over the possibility of finding Lauren. He could not believe it had come to that. They skulked farther into Morgainok, and the dark walls rose up around them. The pyramid remained the dominant feature in the distance. The light within the rock seemed at its strongest on the highest levels of that dreaded icon. The professor found it difficult to look away, and somehow he knew it to be a loathsome place.

The walkway opened before them to a large gaping space between tall surrounding walls. The professor could not begin to guess its dimensions, but it was far larger than any space they'd seen. The opening felt somehow out of place, but it was what covered the ground that perplexed them most. Tall, but slender, stone spikes rose from the cavern floor at varied heights. In between the spikes in no discernible pattern lay man-sized holes cut into the stone. They could make out water within the openings from their position.

Ahmed continued on with little regard for what they had stumbled across. The way within the open space proved far more difficult to cross than they imagined. It wasn't long before there was a good distance between each of them. It was the screaming voice of Emre that sent the terror of that place crawling over them with a sudden jolt. The professor could not make the boy out in the low light; however, the splashes that followed his screams told him what had happened. Ahmed called after his nephew with a shout that echoed off the surrounding walls.

The professor caught a glimpse of Ahmed as he searched frantically for the boy. Emre yelled out again, and Ahmed closed in on him. The professor followed Ahmed as best he could, but the spikes made it a difficult task. In his haste, his feet betrayed him, and he tumbled to the floor.

A searing pain ravaged the professor's body as something tore through his leg. He knew at once that one of the smaller spikes had caught him. To make matters worse, he slid as he fell, freeing the spike from his leg, his head, arms and chest ending in one of the small pools. The water within was freezing cold, and he pulled himself free with a rush of panic.

Warm blood soaked through his pants, and he knew he was in a desperate situation. Rolling onto his back, the professor ripped at one of his sleeves. The fear of the dark city retreated from a new thought that he might bleed to death. He managed to cover the wound with a rag from his pack and tie it in place with his sleeve. None of his precautions did anything to ease the pain.

He thought to call out for help but was struck by Ahmed's silence. The professor ground his teeth and pushed himself up to his feet. His head spun as the blood loss consumed him, but he could still hear the drums beating in his failing state. His body rocked, but he managed to stay on his feet. He found Ahmed close and feared the worse. Ahmed was kneeling next to a hole in the floor, his face buried in his hands.

"Emre," he said in a dreaded tone.

The professor knew at once the boy was gone. Sickness overcame him as he looked at the cold, still water. Ahmed did not move, but his hands trembled as he spoke in his own language. His voice shook to the point of breaking. The professor was oblivious to the pain in his leg for a moment. The drums drew nearer and pulled him back to the present, back to his desire to leave that cursed place at once. He pulled at Ahmed, trying to get him to move. He came to his feet, but the professor could see there was no heart left in the man.

"I dropped my pistol," he said.

The professor could not focus on the loss of their only means of defense when he came to the sudden realization that they were alone.

"Alex?"

His call went unanswered. The drums were pounding all around them. The professor's body swayed, and he was forced to grab hold of Ahmed for support. The smell of the sea returned, and they knew the foul things that wandered the dark city were near.

"We have to go."

The professor could barely make out Ahmed's face directly in front of his. His body convulsed as he succumbed to the pain. Ahmed grabbed him to hold him up. They walked a slow pace as Ahmed was forced to drag him along. The professor felt something coming up from behind them, but his legs refused to work.

The drums beat in their ears and shook the ground. Ahmed let go of the professor, and he gasped for breath as he fell. He hit hard against the stone but spun around in fear of what was to come. The professor found Ahmed struggling with someone; they stood over him, pushing back and forth. The professor rummaged through his pack and found his only protection.

He felt the two figures crash to the ground beside him, and he swung around with all his might. The sharp edge of the axe head found the back of a skull and split the bone in an instant. The professor got to his knees and discovered Ahmed lying on his back and a body beside him motionless. He was sure his eyes had failed him or his mind had finally gone.

The thing that lay before him could not be real. It was humanoid in that it had arms and legs. In the light beneath the rock, he saw blue-green skin covered in what he could only describe as scales. Gangly at its chest and shoulders, the professor saw a thin membrane webbed between three long fingers and thin elongated feet. Filled with terror, he set his gaze on the face of the wretched thing and lost all connection between it and himself. Drawn to eyes three times the size of his own, the professor found a milky white swirl absent of any human quality. A jutting forehead fronted its hairless skull. There was no sign of ears or a nose except for a deep hole between its eyes where it ought to have been. A underbitten jaw hung open at a small mouth filled with jagged teeth that gave a hint of the thing's taste for meat.

The professor had little time to take everything in before he felt an intense urge to move. He rolled out into the walkway and rose to his feet. He struggled to maintain balance. His leg was useless and he was left to grabbing hold of the wall to keep himself upright.

The drums never stopped. He could hear the sound of feet slapping against the stone cavern floor behind him. Terror engulfed his senses, and it was all he could do to keep moving. He screamed in vain for help he knew would never come. He heard the last cries of Ahmed blare out in a shrill sound.

"Run!"

Staggering like a madman, he forced himself to continue. Dizziness consumed his mind and he had no bearing on where he should turn. Every wall looked the same to him as they towered overhead like rising mountains. He couldn't catch his breath, and his strength was failing. Finally, he could go no further. He fell to the ground and waited for those awful things to take hold of him; only then did he realize the drums had stopped.

♦

The return of the drums pulled the professor from his madness. It was not the thundering beats that focused him, but the fact that they were moving away. He pulled himself up by sheer will alone. Hopelessly lost, he tried to locate the drums. Every part of his being begged him to turn away, but he was drawn to them now. He must know what purpose those foul things served.

He staggered for hours in search of the source of the evil. He avoided all entrances to the black structures with a desperate fear. He found a break in the surrounding walls as an intense light washed over everything. He was forced to shield his eyes for a moment as if the sun were rising.

His sight focused and allowed him to find the pyramid towering ahead in all its glory. The professor could not have imagined the true size of it from the distance they had first lain eyes on it. It rose in the dark cavern like a beacon from the heavens. The pale light within the rock gathered at its top to create a powerful radiance unmatched in that murky place.

He knew the drums came from the base of the pyramid although the sight of it was blocked. He could feel the ground vibrate under his feet with every beat. There was a rhythm to it he could not sense before. It rose and fell like the crashing waves of a high tide. The beat moved his body as he focused on the sides of the colossal pyramid.

A movement caught his eye, first at the pyramid's lower levels and then throughout. Like slithering worms, he saw bodies of the abominable scaled things crawling up the sides of the edifice. They pulled at one another in a frenzy, swarming like ants over a mound. The entire structure looked alive, moving on its surface.

The professor was struck with a sudden shock by what he found among the creatures scaling the walls. He heard a cry first above the drums which drove his attention. There among the foul things, Lauren's body was tossed about from one to another. She was alive, which he could see as she tried to get away. They pushed her back and forth like a piece of meat, and she rose up the face of the pyramid.

The professor watched from his hidden place, and in the dark recesses of his mind he imagined what they would do to her. It wasn't until Lauren was flung onto the top plateau at the highest point that he saw Alex. Mixed among the creatures, he found Ahmed as well. All three reached the highest point and were allowed to stand.

The rhythmic beating of the drums rose to mark some climactic event and then came a sudden and defining silence. All at once, the humanoid things froze, and the stillness frightened the professor far more than anything else. His companions waited for several terrible moments for what was to come. The professor could do nothing but watch for whatever horrendous entity lurked in the dark void above the cavern. A sudden blast of a thunderous sound like none he'd ever heard before engulfed him. Like the fabled horns of Valhalla, the roar erupted twice more with such ferocity that it took him from his feet.

No nightmare could have prepared his mind for the monstrosity that reached down from the darkness above the pyramid. He could only call it the leviathan, for his mind could grasp no other word that would compare. There was no living thing on earth that could give justice to its size or girth. Like the massive flying zeppelins, it hovered over the pyramid. Its body was the color of burnt flesh, scarred by black patches all along its frame. It had no eyes he could tell, only a swirling pit at its tip, which he took for its mouth. The jaws of it parted, and it erupted again in a vicious roar. Elongated arms like broken trees reached away from the monster, and it took hold of Ahmed and tossed him into the air. His crying words were smothered as he was swallowed whole.

Madness consumed the professor, and he pushed away from the wall. He had to turn away from the slaughter as the monster took its next prey. Keeping on a straight course, he tried to force the horrendous sight from his mind. He knew the end was near. The drums returned, and the beat pounded against his back. He could hear them coming, their feet stomping on the cavern floor. His path ended at a wall where he waited for their grip to take hold of him.

In desperation, his eyes followed the rock face, and he saw a shift in the inlaid light. The glow outlined a way through the rock above. On his hands and knees, he struggled to get through as the shaft shifted to an upward slope. The channel opened wide after a short distance and then narrowed again as the inlaid light dimmed. He struggled to find hand and footholds in the stone. The cold vapor of his breath rose and circled his head with every gasp.

The damned beating of the drums drove him on as fear tore at his mind. The tips of his fingers burned as dirt and stone ripped his nails. The pain in his leg was overwhelming, and he was forced to pull it along like a dead limb. The exposed flesh burned like fire as it rubbed against the rock. The drums were constant, but he could not climb any faster. He could imagine their hands reaching up for him from below.

The sides of the rock were close, and he feared he had managed to trap himself. He continued to climb with no sense of seconds, minutes, or hours. He lost the sound of the drums but dared not turn to hope for fear it would forsake him. His lungs burned with every breath, and he could feel the last of his strength failing. Death was within his grasp, but then he saw it.

Like a lone withering flame, a speck of deep, red light called to him. Closer he climbed, and the red faded to a hypnotizing yellow. It called to him in the dark, and the renewed pounding of his heart frightened him. The color changed one last time to a soft white glow. The light grew about him, and he smelled fresh air as it washed over him. His hands reached up and felt the lip of the earth and his freedom.

He burst from a crack in the ground like the steam of a geyser. He shaded his eyes with shaking hands from the last bit of sunlight. Collapsing from the pain in his leg, he dragged himself across the ground. He watched the blood orange sun disappear from the horizon, and his body refused to continue.

The solace of his escape was short lived. It came first as a whisper slithering across the ground. The drums beat in a familiar rhythm, growing ever louder on the wind. Somehow he knew they would never let him go. He could not will his body to move, and he felt the damage to his leg was complete.

The drums grew louder, echoing from the crack in the ground that had been his savior. There was nowhere for him to run, no one to hear his screams. The drums were behind him, although he dare not look it in the eyes. He could feel the heat of them as they neared. Their foul hands would take him to his end, down into the soulless void he must go again.

THE END

# A Step through Darkness

Lightly treading on a broken path,

the watcher closes one last time.

Maddening hunger keeps him close,

sharpened teeth to tear muscle from bone.

A midnight stroll the lass has made,

beating heart and soaked with sweat.

Echoing steps in darkness creep,

no hope for a savior or safe return.

Step by step the watcher nears,

the smell of life drawing in.

A faltered pace, a broken fall,

gasping breath, the spill of blood.

Tall it stands peering down on prey,

a feast begins no desires at bay.

Life given to fuel the beast,

no morsel wasted, bone gnashed with teeth.

# The Hunger

Jonathon stared at the front door through eyes as dark as night. His mind was filled with death and decay. He'd done things he knew could never be forgiven. What was worse, he'd tainted his beloved Abigail by pulling her down in the world he'd created. All of it he could accept because he had been given a true blessing.

The sun would soon make its way up over the endless streets of New Haven. The common folk would open their doors and start the day with renewed hope. Jonathon and his bride would hide themselves away. They would not dare leave Matthew alone in the house. He was trapped for now, but Jonathon could not say what the boy would do if he managed to get out.

Jonathon owed everything to Mr. Allen Tolbert. It was in the spring of 1922 that Mr. Tolbert's connections allowed Jonathon to enter the world of those who worshiped the true gods. All he had ever wanted was to have a son. It was the one thing Abigail could not give him.

"What are we going to do?"

Abigail had asked the question countless times, but never had it sounded more hopeless to Jonathon's ears. Her hands were stained with blood, and her one good dress was badly torn at the knees. She was a broken woman, and her face showed it. Abigail had cried more than Jonathon thought possible.

"Give me time," he said. "I need more time to figure out..." He trailed off, trying to find a suitable way to say what they had to do.

It had been her idea to kill Matthew. The words broke his heart. The frail young man had never shown anger in all the time they'd known one another, but when she suggested a final ending for their son, he lashed at her like never before. The bruise on her cheek showed the result of their confrontation.

Abigail was going to try a response, but a sound from the hall held her tongue. It came in waves, like some terrible chorus of death. The guttural moaning echoed down the hall and filled the front room like a dark cloud. There was a thump at the lone door at the end of the hall. That was when the scratching began. Abigail's stare hardened, and she turned from the hall back to her husband.

"This is your fault." She ground her teeth. "You did this to us."

The scratching reverberated down the hall. The smell was nearly unbearable. The remains of three bodies lay littered across the bedroom floor. The boy had had his fill of each.

Abigail could not conceive a child, and the very thought of it had nearly driven Jonathon insane. He'd confided in Mr. Tolbert nearly six years ago to the day. Mr. Tolbert said he had an answer. He promised Jonathon a son if only he would believe. Once Abigail was exposed to the Cult of the Elder and saw what faith was needed in their dark ways, it was too late for her to turn away.

It happened in a ritual neither of the parents cared to remember but neither could ever forget. They witnessed things that should not be seen by human eyes. The horrid images of those otherworldly monstrosities haunted their dreams every time they closed their eyes. The madness was only soothed when Abigail discovered soon after she was in fact with child.

"We can't go out," Jonathon said. Abigail shifted in her chair, but her eyes were still on the door at the end of the hall. "We can't leave him here." What he really meant was that he no longer trusted leaving Abigail alone with Matthew, but the boy needed to feed.

"I will end this if you won't." She rose from her chair, and Jonathon leaped up after her. "God forgive us."

"You will do no such thing." He slid in front of her. "That's our son."

She shook her head furiously as her stare bore through his chest. "That thing is a monster."

Jonathon's hand flew before he knew what he was doing. His knuckles smashed into her face with all his strength.

"Please, Abby."

Abigail pushed into him, and he was caught off guard. She was past him before he realized what she was doing. He ran after her down the hall and caught her from behind before she could get to Matthew's door. Jonathon wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to the ground.

"Don't do this," he said.

She reached into the pockets of her dress and grabbed hold of something. Jonathon saw the light flash off the blade of his razor as she pulled it out and flipped it open. He had hold of her hand and slammed it against the wall. She dropped the razor but didn't give up the fight. They were so close to the end of the hall that the reek of death engulfed them as they struggled on the floor.

Abigail bit the top of his hand, and Jonathon let out a howl as blood ran down his arm. She pulled away and got to her feet. She was reaching for the razor when he pushed her from behind. Abigail launched forward and the impact against the door splintered the wood and cracked it open down the center.

She froze in the hall, staring at the darkness beyond the broken door. Jonathon scrambled to his feet and held his breath as the first sight of his son broke the open doorway. He stood stoic, wrapped within the darkness. His weathered, leathery skin blended with the shadows as if created for that purpose.

The foul stench of rotted meat filled the hall, reminding Jonathon of the beastly acts he'd done and the horrible request he'd given his wife. She'd used her looks to draw them in. Men of lesser ilk followed her home, and each of them met their end at the hands of the boy. Jonathon was no better. The body of the young woman he'd lured into their home was the freshest among the carcasses. The mark of the Elder and their gods on the boy was undeniable.

"Oh my son," Jonathon said as his eyes swelled. "I will provide."

Matthew stepped out into the light, revealing the extent of his transformation. The darkening skin was of little note compared to the growth on his back and head. Tentacles waved in the air behind him as if moving with a mind of their own. Grotesque horns pressed outward from his skull like a crown forcing the bone through the skin.

Matthew moved quickly, reaching Abigail before Jonathon could react. His mother lashed wildly, screaming as she tried to push him off. Jonathon reached them and grabbed hold of his son from behind. He pulled with all his might only able to match the boy's strength. He tumbled back with Matthew on top of him. The boy turned to face him, staring back with eyes completely black, void of any human semblance.

Abigail was up, rushing past the pair into the kitchen. Jonathon kept his son at bay as his tentacles latched onto him, octopi cups pulling at his exposed skin. Abigail returned armed with a meat mallet and ready to finish the madness once and for all. She stood over her son with the tool raised above her head.

"No!"

Jonathon spun around on the floor, pulling himself on top of the boy. The mallet came down on the center of his back and tore through his shirt and ripped open the skin. The blood ran freely as he tried to get to his feet. Matthew moved across the floor on his hands and feet like an animal, pulling away from his father's grasp. He positioned himself at the feet of his father, his stare on his mother.

"He's our son," Jonathon said as he picked himself up. "You can't do this."

Abigail glared back at him with hate in her eyes. "We have to stop this lunacy," she yelled at the top of her lungs. "I can't live in a world with this sinful thing."

She shrieked like a banshee and ran toward her son. The boy never moved, remaining crouched on the floor like a ferocious cat ready to strike. His vacant eyes watched his father catch his mother in the center of the hall. Jonathon flung her to the ground and forced his knee into her back. Tears streamed down his face as he spoke.

"You are right, my love," he said. "Your part is done, but there is one last service you can perform for our son."

Jonathon beckoned the boy, and he stepped forward with a dreaded focus on the helpless woman. He joined his father on top of her and slid his tentacles around her throat. Jonathon averted his eyes as the boy took the first bite. He did his best to block out the screams, but in his mind he knew he would sacrifice anything to keep his son alive. The Elder gods required total faith, and Abigail would be subservient whether willing or not.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael W. Garza often finds himself wondering where his inspiration will come from next and in what form his imagination will bring it to life. The outcomes regularly surprise him, and it's always his ambition to amaze those curious enough to follow him and take in those results. He hopes everyone will find something that frightens, surprises, or simply astonishes them.
