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

“Whose house is it?” Millie asked.  Mr. Kalabraise was beside her, wagging her tail.

“How much does it go for on the market?” Macky said.  “It looks cheap.”

Armitage and Capshaw looked at each other.

“It’s the witch-house,” Nyarlathotep said.  “A nexus.  A different sort of gate.  To other, unknown things and places.”

“What’s there that’s so important again?” Macky asked.

“Don’t you pay attention to anything?” Millie asked.

“There’s a lot to take in,” Macky said.

“It’s your only chance to reach the Elder Gods.  Once you get there, you won’t be able to return.”

—

Frye W. Fields was listening to the book and all it told him.  It was the sound of the Wendigo, as he liked to call it.  The Nameless Mist.  He’d been immersed in the story of the hound, typing away, but it was missing something.  He wanted to come up with a few more angles.  There was something here.  Something juicy.  But it needed pizzazz.  The Necronomicon was showing him how.  It had told him its name.

Fields stopped typing and looked at the book.  It was strange, creepy.  The smell coming from its pages was one thing.  If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was written in blood.  But who’s?  Or what’s?

He didn’t want to know, but the words came together.  They were written in a language he didn’t understand.  Then miraculously, he did.  The words came together and started to make sense in his mind.  His cat, Munster, had retired to the bedroom, making a hissing sound at the sight of the book.  He hadn’t seen her since.  He would coax her out later with some tuna and chicken.

The language was Latin.  Or Greek. Or perhaps Aramaic.  He didn’t know exactly.  His journalistic mind wrapped around the words and put them together in a way he understood.  It was unnatural.  Impossible!  But there it was.

Fields recited the words out loud, a sing-song cadence, like music.  Poetry.  Once he got started, he couldn’t stop.  He didn’t want to stop.  It was . . . fun.  He was having a good time.

A response sounded, something on the other side.  It was listening and responding to his words.  Fields was under the spell of the book, the thing speaking to him from the other side of the cosmos, from deep space, underground, and beyond Innsport.  But he understood its language.  He welcomed it.  How could he not?  That which all things eternal lie, a voice said.  Even death. 

Even death. 

It was the heart of Yog-Sothoth. Its progenitors.  A successive line of monsters from generation to generation.  From the Ancients.  The Old Ones.  The Outer Gods.  Beyond space and time.  They were waiting to come through.  A resurrected horror lay buried in the deep, beyond the gates, longing to get through.

Fields realized he had the opportunity to do just that. The gates opened one by one.  He could see it happening, the Mad Arab moving from place to place, starting with Macky and ending with Frye.  Fields was number thirteen.  Eleven and Twelve had been opened shortly before.  In his mind, he saw a great, tentacled nightmare.  It crawled up the side of the building like a giant octopus.  The tentacles weren’t part of its body, though.  They were part of its face.

“What’s it saying to you, Frye?” a voice said.

The book had a voice, and it was asking him questions

“What exactly is it telling you to pronounce?”

“C—” was all Fields could make out.  He had no idea how to pronounce the word, let alone if he could pronounce it correctly.

“That’s fine. That’s fine,” the book said.  “But there’s a long way to go.  Give it another try.”

“Ct—”

“It gets easier once you get the hang of it, doesn’t it?  Yes, it does.  Go on. Go on.  Don’t let me stop you.”

“Ct—” Fields tried and gave up.  “I can’t.  I can’t pronounce it.”

“Sure, you can.  Just think of it differently.  Think in the ways the words were spelled out to you in a different language, but you still understood.  It’s a cosmic tongue, Frye.  Don’t clench it between your teeth.  Think . . . abomination.  Damnation.  Madness.  Horror beyond dreams, nightmares, dreamscapes, from those who’ve lost their way.  They are beyond him now.  Space.  Their beginning lies elsewhere.  They aren’t who they claim to be.  But it can come through if you let it.  You just have to pronounce it in its native tongue.  You were chosen for this, Frye.  Consider yourself blessed.  Does that help?”

“Yes.  Yes,” Fields said, eager now.  “Cthu—”

“Now you’re getting it.  Keep going, Frye.  Keep going.”

“Cthu—”

“It’s getting better.  So close.  Soooo close.”

“Cthul—”

“You’re bringing tears to my eyes, Frye.  It’s happening. It’s happening now. Once more.  Take a deep breath.  Concentrate.  You have it.  You have it!”

“C-C-Cthulhu!” Fields finally got out.

The voice started laughing.  “Very good!  Very good, Frye!  You do our makers proud!  You have opened the Thirteenth Gate.  You have made the Outer Gods happy!  As is Cthulhu’s father, and his father before him.  Thank you for your cooperation, Frye!  Now, bow to the Outer Gods and submit yourself to their mercy!”

Chapter 18

“I’m-just-singing, singing-to-the-sounds-of-monsters-in-the-city.  I’ve-just-been-singing.  Singing-to-the-sounds-of-girls-who-are-so-pretty.” 

Macky took a deep breath.  “You know, Mill, ever since this nightmare began, I haven’t had a single drink.  Now I know what you’re going to say.  You’re gonna say you’re proud of me, that you knew I could do it, and that’s great.  The fact is, I feel great!  I really do!  We’re about to enter the witch-house on account of our good friend, Nyarlathotep, who is leading the way most valiantly.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was starting to feel a little hope.  It might not be much, but it’s something.  I’m thinking we might beat this thing after all.