The Lurker at the Threshold : A Horror Mystery by Brandon Berntson (books under 200 pages .txt) 📗

“Dev,” Millie said, putting a hand on his shoulder.  “I’ve had some bad feelings before, but nothing like this.  Please don’t go down there.”

“I think Mr. Kalabraise agrees with you,” he said.  “I’m not sure I have much of a choice, Mill.”

“I’m with Millie, Dev,” Capshaw told him.  “That place is sending off some bad juju in the worst possible way.  It’s making me think of the Mad Arab and writing those notes.  It’s also making me think of Mike, God rest his soul.  And the man I killed.”

“That was self-defense,” Macky said.  “You need to quit giving yourself a hard time over that, but I’m touched by your concern.”

Mr. Kalabraise had quieted to a low growl.  Asenath was chuckling.

“You guys stay up here and keep an eye on Mrs. Jolly over there,” Macky said.  “Or whatever she wants to be called.”  He turned to Armitage.  “Henry, my friend, how would you like to join me in the crypt?  Looks like the perfect playground for a couple of young boys.  Whattaya say?”

The look on the doctor’s face said it all.  Macky had never seen him so serious, pale, and white.  He wasn’t smiling, and he wasn’t frowning.  He adjusted his glasses, swallowed, and nodded a single time.

“I’ll help in any way I can,” he said. “Even if I don’t like it.”

Macky nodded.

“Dev,” Millie said.  “Please, be careful.

Mr. Kalabraise barked.

“Let’s use that flashlight, Henry,” Macky said.

Armitage handed it to him.

“We could use another,” Macky said, looking around.  “Millie, do you mind looking for one for me?”

Millie ran toward the area divided by the curtain.  She rifled through the kitchen in the back and managed to find a lantern.  She lit it, carried it over, and handed it to Armitage.

“You’re earning your money now, Mill,” Macky said.

“What money?” she asked.

“Touché,” he said.

He started down, the steps aglow with light.

Asenath began to laugh.

—

Macky looked back to see Asenath.  She was smiling wide.

“Be careful, Dev,” Millie said.

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

“I care about you, you dunderhead.”

“She likes pet names,” he told Armitage, who was right behind him.

“So I see,” Armitage said.

Macky and the doctor started down.  The light depicted a cold, dirt floor, an unfinished basement.  The shadows moved, the lantern swinging back and forth.  Something wet and amphibious was moving along the wall.  Macky couldn’t see it, but he could hear it.  In the pitch black, the orbs of Yog-Sothoth, the Lurker at the Threshold, began to glow.  The screeching of rats sounded.  Several ambled along the base of the wall.

Faces and figures materialized in the dark. They grew more defined as Macky shined the flashlight.  Armitage gasped, holding the lantern.  It took Macky a second before he realized he was holding his breath.  Claws, faces, teeth, ghosts, misshapen anatomy, inhuman faces, appeared in the darkness.

Macky and Armitage stood in the middle of an art studio.  Macky thought the faces were real until his eyes adjusted, and he noticed the easels and canvases all around.  Hundreds of painted faces stared back at them like actual figures in the dark.

There were canvases, easels, portraits, some small, some no more than pencil sketches.  Some by the dozens leaned against the wall.  Tables, trays, paintbrushes, charcoal sketches, etchings, and tubes of paint lay all around—an underground studio of unholy manifestations borne from the imagination of a man soon to be murdered by his wife.  Mouths so ghastly and inhuman, a scream rose in the back of Macky’s throat, but it refused to come out.

Where had they come from?  Could men conceive such horrors, born from the same Outer Darkness as Yog-Sothoth?

This wasn’t a recent work, something done overnight.  This was a lifetime of arduous labor.

“Dev,” Armitage said. “This is frightening.”

Macky nodded.   “I’ve seen enough to last a lifetime.”

“Do you think it’s possible your connection with Abdul, The Necronomicon, actually had nothing to do with the gates?  Maybe this has been going on for longer?  Long before your meeting with the Mad Arab.  You didn’t initiate this.  You weren’t the first.  You were becoming a part of what had already been set in motion.”

“Yes,” Macky said, shining the light in a slow circle. “Millie brought that to my attention recently.  It doesn’t make me feel any better.  And Gomory was still the first gate.  We’re in a story, like you said, a Mythos.  This isn’t here.”

“There’s something here beyond our understanding.  This isn’t about Yog-Sothoth coming through.  The Mad Arab has an agenda.  He has a motive for setting these things in place.”

“His definition of fun is definitely different than ours,” Macky said.  “That’s for sure.”

The paintings were gaining dimension, texture.  The colors were bleeding, deeper and richer.  Something whispered in Macky’s ear.

He turned to Armitage.  “Did you hear that?”

“No.  But I feel plenty.”

“What’s going on down there?” Millie said.  “Dev?  Henry?  Are you guys all right?”

“It’s a treat to be down here!” Macky said.  “Armitage said this might not be my fault!”

“Dev!  Henry!  Will you guys answer me?”

Macky looked at Armitage.  Armitage widened his eyes.  The darkness was smothering, muting their voices.  Millie couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them.

Something slunk against the wall, a shadow so massive it extinguished the light.  It breathed strangely.  Mottled gray flesh, an irregular spine protruded from split skin.  It appeared for a second and disappeared.

“Yes,” Armitage said. “Something’s down here with us.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Macky said.

They headed for the stairs.  Macky let Armitage go first.  The old man took the stairs as fast as he could.

Macky could feel it . . . the darkness was in the air, tangible.  He climbed the stairs.  He was going slowly.  He didn’t know why.  The reality-warping was happening again, making it feel like he was moving through syrup.  Something