Cthulhu Noir

The batrachian denizen squatting there on his stool at the bar eyes me hatefully. He says, ‘I serve the demon-sultan Azathoth, which rules all time and space from a black throne at the centre of chaos.’ He likes to say this sort of thing.
‘Right,’ I say, ‘friend of yours says you saw Elmore Jameson getting killed.’
‘I didn’t see nothin’,’ he says.
‘So you didn’t see...’ I check my notes, ‘...someone with a ridged, barrel-shaped torso, grey, two metres tall, with five spoke-like tentacles and membranous wings?’
‘S’right,’ he says. ‘I didn’t see nothin’.’
I say, ‘can you think of anyone who might want to see Elmore dead?’
He gazes at his drink thoughtfully, and after an interminably silent moment, says, ‘there is one, who would see all life extinguished. He is the youngest, who slumbers within the abyss. When he awakens, he will devour the world in his hunger. He is Lord Cthulhu, the eater of souls.’ He swigs his beer and I sigh.
It’s been a long night, a long week, talking to these cult wackos, and there’s a bottle of scotch behind the bar, winking at me suggestively. I write down what he says, ‘cause I’m being paid to investigate the murder. Besides, I figure if I point out the kind of weirdos I’ve had to put with on this case, I might be able to get more money.
I say to him, ‘so where can I find this Kathloolhoo?’ He winces at the way I say it, but finally says, ‘his temple is on the bay,’ and he gives me the address. ‘I would warn you, do not meddle in the affairs of the Ancient Ones, detective. The crawling chaos Nyarlathotep, soul and messenger of the Other Gods shall find you, and...’
I kinda lose it at this point, and grab the miserable son of a bitch by the collar, lifting him up off his seat. ‘Fuck the crawling chaos Nyarla-whatever,’ I say, ‘and fuck your demon-king Visigoth and Lord Clotho, too. A man’s died, you get me? Some motherfucker ripped him apart, and if I find out you’re involved, I’m coming back for you.’ I throw him back on his stool and he stumbles and falls onto the ground. He mumbles something like ‘yob sod off,’ and I walk out of the seedy bar and into the Melbourne night.
It’s a damp night, but not too cold, and the address the pitiable little bastard gives me isn’t too far away, so I walk. I like walking, it gives me time to think. Professor Elmore Jameson, thirty-eight, a mythology scholar of no particular reputation, gets mutilated in a back-alley in the city. Limbs ripped off, gutted, skull beaten in—not a nice way to go. The police find nothing, and give up, and that’s where I come in. Jameson’s sister Justine, a lanky chick with nice legs and a slightly fox-like face, calls in at my office asking for help. She says Elmore was involved in a cult, and that’s why he’s dead. She pays for the first week up-front, so I take the case.
So far, everyone I talk to is completely psycho, talking about ancient this and eldritch that, and raising spirits from corpse-salt or some such thing. Furthermore, I find out that Jameson’s sister dies some time ago, so the tall, skinny woman saying she’s his relative is lying, but I can’t see the angle to it. I’ve got a suspicion when I meet Lord Cthulhu’s high priestess, it’s gonna be her, but again, I can’t see why she’d go on with the sister routine.
Of course, most of this case makes no sense, but I’m starting to get a few ideas about what happened. The creep I roughed up at the bar, Johnny Carstein, runs a pawn shop by day, runs around with these cultists most nights. Some of them talk about raising corpses, which means grave-robbing, and many a well-to-do person gets buried with jewellery and other such valuables. I figure some of these cultists have got it in their heads to nick said valuables, selling them through Johnny. Could be the Professor didn’t approve of the ghouls’ capitalist venture, so they did for him.
As I’m walking and thinking, I come to the supposed Temple of Cthulhu, looking like a shack made of rough stone and driftwood. When Johnny said it is on the bay, he wasn’t kidding; it leans out over a headland, and looks like it could fall into the ocean if a strong wind had a mind to tip it. There’s a dim glow from the windows, and I can hear a woman’s voice inside, probably chanting some gibberish. I go in, and am not surprised at all to see the tall woman there, cloaked in a black robe, surrounded by candles and chanting. I cough politely and she stops chanting, turns around to look at me. She doesn’t look surprised to see me either, just pulls the hood of her robe back and smiles. I say, ‘nice place you got here.’
‘Mr Carter,’ she says. ‘So good to see you. How does your investigation progress?’
I say, ‘It’s going well,’ pull out my notebook, and relate what I’ve got so far. I tell her about my theory of the grave robbers hocking stolen jewellery through Johnny Carstein, and how Elmore disapproved, so they knocked him off. While I’m telling her all this she’s nodding and saying ‘uh-huh’ and ‘yes, I thought so’ and other such things. Once I finish my report I say, ‘and furthermore, Ms Jameson, the professor’s only sister is dead and has been for eight or nine years, so I’d appreciate it if you told me who you really are.’
She raises an eyebrow and cocks her vulpine head to one side at this and says, ‘why I am Justine Jameson.’ I make to interrupt here but she cuts me off, saying, ‘yes, I did die, that’s true. Car accident when I was twenty seven. Most tragic. Fortunately, my brother was able to raise me with the appropriate blessings to Yog-Soggoth, and my spirit took control of this body, which belonged, I believe, to some hooker before me. It is not too difficult a feat for an adept of our faith.’
I see a flaw in her beliefs here, and say, ‘so if you can raise the spirits of the dead, why not just do that with Elmore and ask him who killed him?’
‘Your sarcasm is withering, Mr Carter,’ she says. ‘I do intend to summon dear Elmore, for a while at least, as he has knowledge of the Ancient Ones which could be useful to me. As you know from your investigation, I would need the corpse-salts of the departed to raise their spirit. My brother’s remains were buried with a parchment of particular importance and power. If some amongst my congregation are stealing from corpses I would know who they are before I order his exhumation. I cannot allow that parchment to fall into the wrong hands. You must continue your investigation until you can determine exactly who is involved in this ghastly practice.’
‘Ghoulish practice,’ I say, correcting her, ‘and as I said, Johnny Carstein is involved, and probably Damien Knox and ‘Bones’ McAllister.’
‘They will be punished,’ she says. ‘But I need to know everyone involved, before I can safely proceed with raising my brother.’
‘Look,’ I say. ‘You realise this is all bullshit, right? Summoning ghosts? Cthulhu and the other gods? I looked all this up, lady, and you know what? These so-called ancient gods you’re worshipping, they were made up by a horror writer back in the ‘twenties. It’s all bullshit.’
She smiles, all calm and knowing, and says, ‘you doubt the reality of Lord Cthulhu? After all this, all your investigating, you still refuse to believe he exists?’
I say, ‘all my investigating has turned up is a bunch of psychos like yourself, carrying on about chaos gods with unpronounceable names.’
She says, ‘a shame. Then I will have to show you the truth myself. Come here.’ She turns back to the candle-lit altar, and I notice there is an old copper bowl on it, which she picks up. I walk over, and she holds uot the bowl for me look at. It’s filled with what looks like blood, and, as I look, the surface of the dark red liquid begins to shift and reflect prismatic colours of unknown quantity. ‘Show him,’ she says to the bowl, and the colours playing on the surface of the liquid begin to form into a scene. I see what looks like a stone temple underwater, vast and falling to ruin. The scene shifts and moves inside the temple, where, I see amidst statues of eldritch creatures and pillars carved with strange hieroglyphs, the slumbering form of Lord Cthulhu.
He looks like a big squid.

Gerald and the Guard Dog

Part One
The Jorgensen family purchased a small stone gargoyle to put on their house, protecting it from evil. He cost $14.50. They named him Gerald. He sat on the corner of the guttering, watching the quiet suburban street intently. Gerald was pleased to be able to protect such a lovely family as the Jorgensens, and vowed to do the best job he possibly could. He remained diligent, and the Jorgensens soon noticed how few salesmen and Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked on their door. Gerald felt safe and fulfilled in his job. Then one day, the Jorgensen family brought home a guard dog.

Part Two
Gerald was furious. Did the Jorgensens not trust him? He perched on his corner that night, trying desperately to think of what he could have done wrong to deserve this encroachment upon his territory. As he perched and thought, he was suddenly roused to attention by the loud, clipped barking of the guard dog, Griff. Gerald looked about frantically, and spotted a man in the shadows by the house, running away. A light went on in the house. Gerald yelled, ‘I saw him first!’ but no one heard him.
‘Good work, Griff,’ said Mr Jorgensen, before turning off the light.

Part Three
The next night, Gerald crouched on the corner of the roof overlooking the backyard, where Griff slept in his kennel. Gerald brooded over the possibility of obsolescence that the dog presented. Clearly the Jorgensens did not feel secure under his protection, and this enraged him. I am the pinnacle of home security, he told himself. Guard dogs? Just a fad, they could never replace gargoyles. If I could just get into the backyard...
But of course he couldn’t. A gargoyle could never leave its roof. It didn’t matter; Gerald vowed that tommorow he would find a way to kill Griff.

Part Four
There was an old iron weathervane on the roof. Gerald unscrewed it and carried it to the guttering. He propped the weathervane on himself and looked around. The Jorgensens were out for the day, the adults at work, the children at school, and Griff…
Gerald spotted Griff in the back yard, sniffing around. He called out, ‘Griff! Come here boy!’
Griff bounded over to Gerald excitedly, looking up at the roof where he perched. Gerald dropped the weathervane, missing Griff by half a metre. Gerald swore under his breath. He had run out of things to throw at the dog.

Part Five
That night Gerald explored the rooftop, looking for weapons. He had found a slingshot abandoned by young Mike Jorgensen. Now all he needed was a projectile. Finding nothing lethal, he returned to his original attempt to loosen some tiles. One way or another, he was going to kill Griff.
As he gently rocked a tile back and forth in its setting, the gargoyle noticed the wind rising in force, and an eldritch silence descending upon the street. A dark figure stood by the gate to the house. Griff whined and fled to the backyard. Evil had come to the Jorgensens.

Part Six
A gloved hand reached for the gate, and Gerald sprang into action. He opened his mouth wide, revealing long, curved fangs. The gargoyle dug his claws into the tiled roof, took a deep breath, and emitted a piercing shriek beyond human hearing. The dark figure reeled backwards as if physically struck by the sound. It raised its hand toward the gargoyle and uttered a sepulchral chant in a voice like blades. Gerald swayed slightly at the dark figure’s power, but continued his cry, until finally the figure turned and fled. Gerald sighed, wobbled a bit, and fell off the roof.

Beautiful
After years of failed attempts to stay so slim and beautiful, Ashley found the perfect solution. She’d tried fad diets, traditional diets, yoga and Pilates, bingeing and purging, methamphetamines, heroin, and diet pills. Ultimately, the problem was that she had to consume food to live, and food meant weight gain. Finally, she understood how to overcome this problem.
She cut a long, thin slice of flesh from her thigh and flicked it casually into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, wiped blood from her lips and smiled at her reflection.
She would always be slim.
She would always be beautiful.

The Day the Dead Walked

Edmund pushed aside the massive stone slab guarding the entry into his brother’s tomb with preternatural strength. The superstitious locals had placed the rock there and inscribed religious symbols on its surface, believing that the depraved man inside would not rest easily. Edmund stepped through the entrance and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before continuing in. The howling wind outside brought the fresh scents of the living world into the cold, dead air of the tomb, hints of earth and plants before the rain.
Edmund walked down the steps, the echoes of his footfalls muffled by the damp air following him. Dust had already settled, though he had been laid to rest only two weeks ago. He kneeled down beside the slab where his brother lay and produced a single white candle from his pack.
‘Zachary, my brother,’ He whispered, ‘You will soon be with me again.’ He lit the candle, its fragile flame seeming to bounce tentatively above the wick for a moment, before settling on the string, eating it as the wax gave way to the heat.
Edmund stood and closed his eyes, remembering the sacred words required. The single light of the candle burned its image on the inside of his eyelids, distracting him. He knew he must get this right. He opened his eyes. He began the chant.
‘Dnim ruoy eb lliw ym tel! Esira, rehtorb nellaf, esira!’ The wind picked up in response to the dark voice pounding its arcane words into the air. Rain began to fall as he repeated the chant over and over. The candle’s flame grew spitting and sputtering as the wind fed it air.
On the slab, Zachary’s face twitched.
Drumming their pattern on the cemetery grounds outside, the noise of the wind and the rain battled against Edmund’s rising voice. Cracks of thunder punctuated his sepulchral chant. The candle’s light threw disturbing shadows, looking like twisted demons cavorting on the walls of the tomb. Outside, lightning struck the cemetery, thrown at the Earth in anger to this affront to nature. But still he persisted.
Edmund lifted his hands to the sky, shouting his chant for the world to hear, and Zachary opened his eyes, the stitches in his lids tearing. His sunken chest heaved and he retched a stream of pale green fluid mixed with clots of dried blood from his mouth and nose.
‘I knew I could do it!’ Edmund squealed in delight. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We will never be apart again, Zachary!’ A feral gleam touched his eyes. ‘They all said I was mad. Well, we’ll show them, yes-yes? Those foolish villagers who spurned our ways shall soon know the bite of our fury, soon learn the steel of our conviction! Go now, my brother, descend like wrath incarnate upon the puny mortals as they sleep. Show them the meaning of terror!’
Zachary swung his legs off the slab, onto the ground. He sat up and moaned, rubbing his head. He looked up at Edmund, tried to focus his dead, pale eyes in the dim candlelight.
‘Snoo?’ He said.
Edmund squinted at his brother. ‘I…what?’
‘Splork foodaddi.’ Zachary said.
‘That, that’s all right, Zachary. I guess you’re a little confused.’ Edmund sat down on the slab beside Zachary. ‘It’s me, Edmund, your brother. I’ve raised you from the grave. You’re going to be my minion, just like we planned. Well, I guess you would have wanted it the other way around, but fate has played me the winning hand. Now go; terrorise the populace and kill those who would stand before you!’
Zachary leaned over and began to suck Edmund’s nose.
‘Goddammit.’ Edmund said. ‘I fucked it up, didn’t I?’
Zachary replied, ‘Honk.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
Betrayed by the wind, the candle’s flame sputtered and went out.

The Puppeteer

David was a good man. He knew he was. Jesus told him so. Now he was waiting, seated in his single chair, staring at the telephone on the table. Waiting patiently for his life to change, for the reward he knew he deserved, his thoughts turned to God.
Alone in his dirty apartment, somehow cluttered and bare at the same time, David often thought he could hear the whisper of Christ from the crucifix on the wall. Or was it Lefty speaking? David knew that he could speak. He imagined the conversations they would have, when his twin would finally raise his sweet, angelic voice to talk to him. He looked out through the small window, saw the darkness outside and shivered. So much warmer in here. This is home. He flicked through a magazine, read something about a war, and took stock of his supplies.
Enough food for one more day perhaps, and then what, go out, leave the telephone? None of that would matter. David knew she would call tonight. He could feel it.
‘Tonight for sure, Lefty, she’ll call.’
Call. The thought rebounded across overused paths in his mind, tracks run too deep to leave as he sat, as he waited, cans of food piling over his crowded table. The kitchen tap was dripping a rhythm unbroken in two weeks, since he had first sat, since he had begun waiting in a room closed in upon itself, wanting, unwanted. Beyond, the vast walls of the cold polluted sky surrounded the diorama of a man in waiting.
Flies busied themselves around the single chair in the barren room, revelling in the faeces of a man too preoccupied for such trivialities. Urine dripped patiently from the seat to the floor, a counter rhythm to that infernal kitchen tap. The puddle says ‘W’. W is for wait.
An unused syringe lay on the table, resting against a bottle. David reached and took them both with his hand, in a ritual played throughout his life he filled the syringe from the bottle. No air, he thought. That was important, somehow. Never let the blood breathe.
He injected the nutrient supplements into Lefty, his left hand, just below the skull, at the back of his wrist. Almost forgot, he thought, wouldn't do to let Lefty die.
Lefty hung limply at David’s wrist, his eyes half closed, awakened by the sting of the needle. Barely more than a foetal head, he remained the most important person in David’s life, grown out of his arm. They were twins merged at birth. The most important person in his life, though not, perhaps, for much longer.
‘I’ll bet she’s nervous,’ said David. ‘That’s all, I mean, heck, it’s not like a woman gets to meet a catch like us every day, huh, Lefty?’
He would have sworn that Lefty understood. His unformed eyes seemed to focus when David spoke to him, his small mouth moving, as though he was speaking.
‘Yeah, she’ll call.’
David scanned the room, a stranger despite living in the apartment so long. The puddle of urine below his seat formed shapes as he added to it, and he could but speculate upon their meaning. The puddle says ‘T’. T is for tonight.
Two weeks ago they met. It was a chance encounter in a bar, he sitting alone but for his thoughts, which were company enough, her sidling through the crowd to get a drink. Her name was Sarah, strange then that her friends called her Nicole, but why would she lie? Sarah was new to the area, moving too recently to recall her phone number, so David had given her his, scribed it carefully on a coaster. She had promised to call. She would call. So David waited, sitting in his dank room patiently lest he miss the telephone.
He glanced at the puddle at his feet. The carpet absorbed his urine slowly, shifting its shape, adding its stain to the already filthy floor. It was his connection to the outside world. The floor was after all connected in spirit to the ground, to the earth, and the earth absorbed everything in the end. It knew all. The puddle says ‘N’. N is for no. David stood, knocking his chair over, disturbing the flies and canned goods.
‘Dammit! How hard is it? How hard is it to pick up a phone and dial a number? Tell me that, Lefty! That, that…’
David was a good man. He knew he was. Jesus tells him so. He never shouted. He was shouting now.
‘That goddamned whore!’
With a careless swing of his skinny right arm David vented his frustration upon the stupid cans, the stupid magazines, the stupid telephone.
He knocked the telephone off the table. It lay upside down on the stained carpet, the receiver hanging off its cradle. David could hear the buzz of the dial tone.
Sarah called. She called, heard the dial tone, engaged, and hung up. That was it. Over. He knew it. Calmly, methodically, David righted his chair and sat down again. He gazed about the room, taking in the crucifix on the wall opposite, the small, dirty window, the urine puddle.
‘You knew, didn’t you? You told me “no” to make me knock over the phone just as she called, and now she isn’t going to call again and you did it on purpose.’ David was calm. He didn’t get angry; he never got angry. David was a good man. The puddle says ‘Y’.
‘So. You’ve been mocking me all this time, is that it, puddle? Laughing at me? You stupid puddle! You stupid…’
David looked at Lefty, his grotesque little head hand lolling calmly on his wrist. He looked around again at his dank, dirty little room and thought of Sarah’s shining eyes, filled with love and wonder, and cried.
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid…’
Beneath his sobs, his chastising mantra, he heard a voice; soft, gentle, calm.
‘David?’
It seemed a voice in his head, yet so real. Surely, Lefty could not speak, he thought, certainly he never had before. The doctors had explained it to be physically impossible. Yet David found his gaze drawn to his left arm to meet the firm, clear stare of his twin, alert, comprehending, loving.
‘Lefty! You can speak!’
‘David, I love you.’ Lefty’s small mouth struggled to form the words, but David saw clearly now that he had spoken, his soft, high voice everything he imagined it to be.
‘Oh, Lefty,’ he said. ‘I love you!’
‘David, that woman, she was never going to call you.’
‘I…I know it. But it doesn’t matter any more, Lefty.’ He leaned over to plant a soft kiss on Lefty’s forehead. ‘You and I. We’re going to be together forever.’