Arkham Institutions E-Book

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 546

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Travel to the lands of gambrel roofs and unspeakable terror with Dragon’s Roost Press. Join us and 26 authors as we once again explore Arkham, Dunwhich, Innsmouth, and the surrounding areas to explore how the people who run these towns and their institutions deal with the eldritch abominations of Lovecraftian horror.

Take a tour of the Mythos mainstays and visit schools and libraries, morgues and museums, banks and businesses, and even the cat sanctuary and the public pool. See how the citizens of these horrifying New England towns cope with Cthulhu and the other Eldritch monstrosities which are part of their every day lives.

Leseprobe

ARKHAM INSTITUTIONS

WHERE THE MYTHOS MEET THE MUNDANE

Edited byMICHAEL CIESLAK

Arkham Institutions: Examining the Intersection of the Weird and the Mundane is published by Dragon’s Roost Press.

This anthology is © 2024 Dragon’s Roost Press and Michael Cieslak.

All stories within this anthology are © 2024 by their representative authors and are printed with the permission of the authors.

All stories in this anthology are original.

Artwork by K.H. Koehler

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any persons living, dead, or otherwise animated is strictly coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

Ingram ISBN: 978-1-956824-45-2

Print ISBN: 978-1-956824-36-0

Digital ISBN: 978-1-956824-37-7

Dragon’s Roost Press

2470 Hunter Rd.

Brighton, MI 48114

thedragonsroost.biz

CONTENTS

.

People Love Cosmic Horror

The Old Gods’ Banker

S.L. Harris

Eldritch Edge Promotions 666 Randolph Carter Way, Innsmouth

K.G. McAbee

One More Bite

E. N. Dauvin

Adjustments

Asher Ellis

Damp Envelopes

Elizabeth McEntee

Light & Power

Clancy Nacht

Books of the Dead

Mia Dalia

The Cat Whisperer in Darkness

Lucas Franki

Something’s In The Water

Jacob Henry Orloff

Licensing

D. Marmara

U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Inspection Report No. IF-32651

Sarah Hans

Wasted

Chris Settle

Colour Out of Nothing

Liam Hogan

No Questions Asked

David Gonzalez

The Green Act

Karen Ovér

Tailor-made

Patrick Rutigliano

One Night in Arkham

Alexandr Bond

Aquarmarine Alert

Jonathan Louis Duckworth

Billington’s Wood Befouled

Henry Herz

Arkham Music Hall

Emily Lowery

What Our Fathers Wrought

Willard Brannen

The Pupils of Dr Vogt

Jake Matthews

The Sewage Treatment Pond

Jason P. Burnham

His Time Is Nigh

Daniel Powell

What Happened in Room 201

Willow Redd

Midnight at the Department of Horrors

Tim O’Neal

Acknowledgments

About The Authors

Dragon’s Roost Press

Last Day Dog Rescue

PEOPLE LOVE COSMIC HORROR

Perhaps it is the sense of being something minuscule and unimportant in the universe that readers and authors identify with. Maybe it is the grand scope of the Cthulhu Mythos that draws folks in. Whatever the case, no matter where we go, bookworms and bibliophiles are always asking “When are you going to do another Lovecraft book?”

You hold in your hands the most recent release in what we have come to think of s our Love The Mythos But Not The Man series of Lovecraftian anthologies. Our first, Eldritch Embraces: Putting the Love Back in Lovecraft, is still a consistent seller almost 10 years in. LOLcraft: A Compendium of Eldritch Humor was released two years ago, again to great reception. So naturally we decided to move on to a third.

We don’t mean to sound mercenary, it’s not just about the sales. People also enjoy writing cosmic horror. The sheer number of submissions we receive for these titles reveals how many authors worldwide are dying to play in this particular sandbox.

Unfortunately, this means we had to reject a ton of really well written stories. This is the most difficult portion of putting together an anthology like this. If we could, we would extend the Table of Contents infinitely into the cosmos, stretching past even the sleeping Elder Gods.

This means that the stories which do make the cut are the cream of the cosmic crop.

We hope you enjoy this collection which examines how the mundane institutions of the modern world would be affected by encounters with entities from the Eldritch realm.

We thank the authors for sharing their visions, artist KH Koehler for the amazing cover art, the Kickstarter backers for the financial support, and you wonderful readers for being willing to join us on another Cosmic Exploration.

Michael Cieslak

Dragon’s Roost Press

THE OLD GODS’ BANKER

S.L. HARRIS

Friends, it all comes down to Money. I mean all of it—everything. Cold, hard equations. Cold, hard cash. Yeah, sure, it’s an abstraction and a representation, but when you get right down to it, Money’s the universal language. The language of the world, the language of the cosmos. All that other stuff—who cares? Let it go off the rails.

So I used to tell ‘em, when they’d show up at Arkham Farm, Bank, and Trust with their salt-crusted necklaces smelling of the sea, blubbering about what they were worth; their trapezohedrons, asking about a safe-deposit box; their bags of old Dutch gold, looking around all nervously…I’d always tell ‘em: I don’t care where it comes from, don’t care what you do with it. People do good things with money, people do bad things, and damned if you can tell how it’s all going to shake out anyway. Money’s just the language, fellas. It’s just the wheel the world spins on, and I happen to be quite good at riding that wheel. Doesn’t matter which way the world wants to go. Money doesn’t care, and neither do I.

This generous attitude had made me very wealthy, a respected man in the ancient and lovely little town of Arkham. It brought me business from the pillars of the community as well as the more marginalelements. Unlike First National or any of my competitors, I didn’t require you to have an ancestor on the Mayflower to bank you. In one case at least, I didn’t even require confirmation of a physical body. Burghers, housewives, lawyers, Italian workmen, doctors, farmers, goggle-eyed folk up from Innsmouth, college kids, loners from the backwoods. If you got the money, honey, I got the time.

Now, did I worry about fraud, dealing with these unsavory characters? Well. I have a good eye for people, if I do say so myself, I was insured up to my neck, and, when you get right down to it, some fella comes up and says that when he drained his accounts yesterday it wasn’t him, see, honest, it was a crustacean from space in a rubber mask, well. Let’s just say no one ever got around to taking me to court.

And theft? The vaults below the Bank & Trust were and are very full, and it was widely known that I kept more—and stranger—capital on hand than most. But you don’t do business with the kinds of people I do business with without learning a little about how to keep things safe. I don’t just mean my sleepy old security officer, Willy. There were wards down there that even the big fellas would have a bit of trouble getting by. And I was no pugilist, even then in my younger days, but I was no wilting lily either. So no, I didn’t worry about theft.

What did worry me? What kept me up at night? Besides the business itself, I mean. Well, confidence, I suppose. The thought that people could start thinking in a different way. That they might give up on the system and that Money wouldn’t mean the same thing anymore. Like I always used to say: you doubt the fundamental solidity and sanity of the world, you've got yourself a problem. But there’s nice folks up at the asylum will take care of you for that. You start to doubt the fundamental solidity and sanity of the banking system, the world's got a problem. And more to the point, I have a problem.

So when the tall man with the unplaceable accent and the bizarre electrical sound and light show arrived in town, I wasn’t afraid. But I was cautious, because he was just the sort of man who could make people doubt the reality served up with their apple pie by Ma, Pa, and the Arkham Farm, Bank, and Trust.

It didn’t take him too long to find his way to my door. I take it he was interested in personally reaching every man, woman, and child in Arkham, like some two-bit bum running for president. And if you didn’t make it to one of his shows, he’d find his way to you.

Old Willy let him into my office, and even sitting the man was awful tall. He had a posture that I can only compare to that of a skeleton hanging up in the medical school. That gaze of his was all sparks and explosions, little lights flaring in a dark so dark you couldn’t imagine it. Those eyes could get into you. Convince you do horrible things. Could—if you looked long enough into them—show you something about the universe that you really didn’t want to know.

Well, I didn’t look too long. I’d heard all about him, about his shows and what happens there, and how people leave. But like I said, business is business.

“How may I help you, sir?” I asked.

His voice was deep and echoing, like it came out of those old colossi that they say have said good morning to the Egyptian dawn all down the millennia. There was ancient in that voice. But there was electricity too. There was tomorrow. And above all, there was the end.

“A new era is upon us,” he said, “and I require your participation in the jubilee which I announce. In ancient times, there came a year when all debts were forgiven and the vaults of the king were thrown upon, that there might be festival and feasting, as though there is no tomorrow.”

“Is that right?”

“I likewise require that you open your vaults, that in this chaos season, men may be glutted and drunken.”

“Oh, you require, do you?” said I. “Listen, Slim. You want my vaults to open, I’ll open ‘em right up for you, with appropriate collateral and at…” my eyes flicked to the day’s numbers, “Eight and a half percent. Just like everyone. Well, everyone I don’t know. Now, I hear tell you got some fancy electrical machines you use in your little circus. I’ll be glad to hold ‘em for you, and you got yourself a loan.”

The man’s eyes flashed perilously. I saw sparks in them, dying stars, galaxies gasping their last, and streaks flying toward the empty center of the universe.

“I am not a peasant begging for a usurious loan. I am a herald. I am telling you that a new age is here. There will be a great wild dance of fear and lust and destruction, and if you are not a part of the dance, you will be trampled.”

I tell you, I didn’t quite get the feeling that even the dancers were getting out of that one without their toes getting a little bit trampled, if you understand me. Slim stood up, and like I said, he was very tall. But I got a little trick—nobody can look down on me. Doesn’t matter if it’s the Cardiff Giant or J.P. Morgan. It’s ‘cause I’m on the side of Money, and there ain’t a person born who don’t look up to Money.

Slim left, saying, “You think you know how the world works, but I know the little buzzing minds of men. Your vaults will be thrown open, and you will be trampled.”

I stroked my chin. I could see that this was a man who wouldn’t mind telling people how it’s going to be. Good.

* * *

It didn’t take long for the bank run to start. Like I say, the guy was electric. A few well-placed words and it was a panic. All the fine burghers of Arkham were suddenly anxious after their savings, the country people over their few hard-earned dollars, the Miskatonic faculty over the little they had squirreled away, even the Starry Wisdom folks over their tax-sheltered slush fund. I had Willy close us early, but they were pounding on the windows and on the doors.

I’d made my preparations, built up my reserves, put my own lines of credit in place. I’ve been through a lot of panics. Ninety-three. Ninety-six. Ought-seven. Nineteen-and-ten. But this was different. I’ve never seen such blind, unreasoning fear. These people had been stirred up by an expert. Damn him.

Nothing for it but to go out and talk to them.

“Friends!” I said. “Friends. You all know me. You know I’m good for it. Are you going to let some stranger, some foreigner,tell you I’m not?” A few murmurs and mutterings. “He’s telling you all about this new age, and sure, maybe he’s right, but the world’s always changing, and let me tell you: in the long run, the folks who keep their accounts steady are going to come out ahead. It’s the folks who panic who are going to be ruined. “All there is to fear,” I said, suddenly inspired, “is fear itself.”

I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but for the first time in my life I could feel Money talking through me, Money working to save itself. Like those Pentecostals speaking in tongues, like the folks out there in the Arkham hills. In the language of Money, I rebuilt the myth for them, rebuilt the necessary story, the confidence to keep the wheel turning.

I stopped the run.

But I knew my opponent. It was not the end.

He returned that night, when the bank was closed in good order, all accounts settled. I told you I’m no pushover, but he was a terror, a nightmare walking into our world from some other that’s not like anything we know. I should have kept my doors locked and sealed, but I couldn’t say no to that cloaked figure at the door, that voice of command. He swept into my office, and I could feel my hair standing up like in a thunderstorm. Terror and madness were there on his left and right.

But I was on my home turf. Out there in the void he comes from there may be endless chaotic dark and mad piping. But I was sitting in my good chair in the central office of the great temple of Money, and I had my numbers, and my equations, and I clung to those. I hoped it would be enough.

“Let me tell you,” he said, “how it will be.”

So he began to prophecize. The future he spun out for me felt terribly real. Every detail was seared—is still seared—upon my mind as if I could see it happening in front of me. He tells me of towers falling and trams derailed. Dread machines rising to the sky and falling again horribly to earth. Electricity humming in the wires, bringing death and news of death. He related to me in lurid detail the coming pestilences, the famines, the earthquakes. Winters of great and suffocating snows. Summers scouring the land until not only crops but human hope itself withers and crumbles. Storms of dust rising up to the uncaring sky. Upheaval and uncertainty. Guilt and agony. War and holocausts to shatter the mind. New sciences of destruction, a turn toward entropy, ennui, despair. Every human thing no more than a handful of insignificant ash on a mindless wind. A whole cosmos of dead worlds spinning into blind infinity.

I held fast to what I knew as he tried to carry me with his words toward madness and despair. I held to the ideas of Money, of capital, compound interest, supply and demand, profit and loss. It felt like clinging to a tiny life raft in the cosmic flood he had poured out in my mind. But it was a life raft. I kept my mind together, and I think that made him very angry. But when at last he stood to go, he was smiling.

“You see,” he said. “The blind idiot god will have his victory at the last. What you do or do not do will not matter. The dance is far, far older than you, and you see the music now, whether you will dance along to it or not.”

When he was gone at last, I sat staring into nothing for a long time, replaying all the searing details of his prophecy. There was some magic or power in his voice that keeps every iota in my memory. It was dawn before I found the strength in myself even to move.

I started making some calls.

* * *

The weeks and months passed. The terrible man moved on from Arkham, carrying his terrible electric prophecies to far cities, and the terrible future unfurled as he said. But me, I was doing fine. Better than fine.

See, Slim screwed up. He gave me what every banker wants more than anything. What every investor, every stockbroker, every combination, every yokel with a nickel in penny stocks, and yes, every priest and prophet, would have killed for: he gave me perfect information about the future.

And a man with a lot of money to invest and perfect information—well, that man might just as well be God.

I shorted the tram companies before the accidents and played insurance games on those crumbling towers. The arms manufacturers were hurting after the War to End War, so I bought ‘em up pennies on the dollar, and when Uncle Sam came knocking, well, I’m a patriot of course, but a man’s got to make a profit, sir.

I was into oil before anyone quite understood what oil would mean, and you’d laugh if I told you what uranium mines were going for in 1921. The chemical companies here and over the water, preparing to deal mass death at a healthy profit—one by one, they’re mine. Incidentally, I set their top minds to work on some of the essential salts an old fella abandoned in one of the Bank & Trust’s safe deposit boxes long ago. With that, it wasn’t long before I didn’t need to worry about time, or aging, anymore.

Months turned into years. War, famine, pestilence, death, all those pretty little horses trotted in and did their show. It all happened just as that mad prophet said. And it all profited me.

I pride myself on being a pretty cool customer, a logical man, but you’ll understand of course if I had a bit of an interest in ol’ Slim and how he was doing. Keeping track of a rival, you might say. A fellow like that, well, he could be a stick in the spokes of the big wheel on which the world turns. And I didn’t want that.

* * *

He came to me again on the eve of the Second War, showed up in the penthouse office of the brand-new skyscraper where I looked down on the gambrel roofs of Arkham and plotted postwar highways and urban renewal, slum clearance and white flight and a nice little central shopping district down the line.

The guy looked terrible. Gaunt and haggard, his skin drawn in on itself, like a walking mummy. But those eyes. Still in those eyes was the same terrible cosmos, the same unspeakable chaotic Thing knocking at the door of our reality. Even with all my money, with all the wards and signs I’d been sure to build into this building, I knew he was dangerous. But it wasn’t like last time. This time I had the upper hand.

“I cannot,” he said, “find venues any longer for my talks and demonstrations. I find all doors closed to me.”

“That a fact,” I said.

“And when I look to find the ultimate owner of those shut doors, I trace things up through many hands—to you.”

“I see,” I said.

“My electrical apparatuses have been taken from me. The materials so critical to my prophetic work have been foreclosed upon. I find that I am unable to access my usual sources even of raw metals, much less the precision equipment on which I rely.”

“Well,” I said leaning my feet back on the mahogany desk and taking a puff of my cigar. “You know how it is. Times are tough all over.”

He leapt up then, and I felt the wind of the hollow nameless void, heard the insane sound of flutes in his voice gone high with rage.

“You think to ruin me,” he cried. “You think that you can touch me! Surely you can see that I am the faintest flicker of the tip of a finger dipped into this pathetic reality. You are nothing. Atoms and void, spinning into the crawling chaos at the heart of reality.

If I’m being honest with you, it was touch and go there. The force of that man. He might have drawn me into the place he came from, and that would have been the end of Yours Q. Truly—no, that’s not right. I’d only wish it would have been the end.

But fortunately for me, I was sitting right there on the world’s greatest monument to my very own god. And I had something to say to him. I stood up and jabbed at him with my cigar.

“Listen,” I said. “You were kind enough to give me a prophecy once. Now let me prophecy to you. All that stuff you said, it’s going to keep happening. And even as it does, the wheels of the world will run on Money. I don’t give a flip whether we’re running up to Heaven or down to Hell or off to Tinseltown. I don’t even care if we’re rolling down to your big man in the center of the galaxy. The wheels are going to turn. And anybody that tries to get in their way is going to be crushed. Crushed, you understand, under those big, beautiful greasy wheels. You come around telling me “man is insignificant ashes,” like that’s supposed to horrify me. No, friend. Let me tell you the real horror. Man is nothing but numbers in a ledger. And then on an electrical screen. And as Money keeps on feeding itself and getting bigger and bigger, they won’t even be numbers. They’ll be fractions. Rounding errors. People are going to be lost in a great big world, and the only thing they’ll have to fumble their way through with is Money. Ships the size of cities are going to sail the dying seas, and they’re going to be chock full of the worthless products that a billion human hands have wasted their lives to make for other human hands who have wasted their lives to buy. Every promise, every vow, every church and temple, every home, every parent, every child…every single thing that folks have ever loved or cared for is going to be reduced to transactions in the temple of Money.

“Money will move as quick as light in the aether, and Money will dispose of men and nations alike. Without even thinking about it, pal. There will be no stopping it, no reasoning with it, no comprehending it. There’ll be no one, no one, not even me, that can get their brain around what’s happening. And sure, sure, maybe we’re all headed down to your Azathoth. But you know what? When that last human brain goes out, you know what its last thought is going to be? It’s not going to be humming your song, pal. It’s going to be thinking, worrying, wishing—about Money.”

I took a nice long puff at the cigar. I looked at the shrunken, defeated, hollow man before me, and I smiled.

“Mister Nyarlathotep. You are a good and faithful servant of your blind, insane, devouring god. But I serve a blind, insane, devouring god too, and, fella, your Azathoth has nothing on Money.”

ELDRITCH EDGE PROMOTIONS 666 RANDOLPH CARTER WAY, INNSMOUTH

K.G. MCABEE

From the Eldritch Edge Promotions’ brochure:

We’re on the cutting edge! A few of the services we offer:

Branded Necromancy

Mythos Marketing Strategies

Eldritch Event Planning

Dark Design Services

Infernal Influencer Partnerships

Maddening Media Buys

Abyssal Analytics

Come to the Edge for all your eldritch advertising and promotional needs!

You won’t be disappointed! We’re willing to bet our souls on it!

As soon as I got to the office, I checked with the receptionist to see if I had anything new on the agenda and then got my latte. As I was sipping it, I flipped open the book I’d been carrying around all weekend and reread the description of my new client for the dozenth time…and that was just since I got up this morning. I’d perused it first over coffee and bran cereal with almond milk. Second time, while I was brushing my teeth and deciding what to wear. The third time, I was on the bus to work. Sure I can afford a car. But living and working in the seaside resort—that’s gallows humor, in case you wondered—of Innsmouth, I don’t really need one. We’ve got a pretty great infrastructure these days, and the money to keep it up to the council’s exacting standards, thanks to the local government finally managing to figure out how to tax the Deep Ones. I’m glad those guys out in the bay now have to pay their fair share, is all I’m saying.

So, as I walked down the hall to my office, I was pretty sure I was letter perfect in the description, but hey, when an extremely powerful client is checking out my agency, I do my homework, believe you me!

So I opened the book again and read:

“A vaguely anthropoid outline, an octopus-like head and a face full of feelers, a scaly, rubbery body, claws on hind and fore feet, and long, narrow wings behind, the Great Lord has been described as the combination of an octopus, a dragon, and a human, with human-ish arms and legs and a pair of rudimentary wings on its back. Simply looking upon the creature can drive some viewers insane, a trait shared by more than a few of the Great Old Ones and Outer Gods.”

I shook my head and gave a couple of tsk tsks. Insane? Just by looking at one of these guys? Wimps, is all I can say!

I closed the book, tucked it into my pocket, and finished my latte. My administrative assistant reached out and took my cup as soon as I lowered my hand. I was fighting to keep the delighted grin off my face, and Micah could tell. He knows me that well.

“Well, this is shaping up to be an interesting day, huh, Mikey? I hope you’ve got everything we need?”

Micah’s face turned the same blazing red as his hair. “Hey, boss, have I ever failed you?”

He’s too easy to mess with. “Not this week, but how long can you keep it up?” I teased him.

Mikey opened his mouth to argue but, at that exact moment, down at the end of the hall in front of me, the freight elevator went ‘dong’. That meant someone was loading below…and it had to be our new client.

People poured out of their cubicles and clustered around me.

“Okay, people, show time!” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and reassuring. “Remember, if we’ve got all our ducks aligned, this could well be Eldritch Edge’s next big client. And the emphasis is definitely on ‘big’, guys. Now get back to work and remember, look busy!”

They scattered, all except for my crack team gathered around the elevator doorway, which was wide enough for a small vehicle. I only hoped it would be big enough for our new client.

Prospective new client, I reminded myself firmly as I took my place. Don’t let him see how much I need this. Even though I need it bad. I wiped my suddenly sweaty hands on my designer jacket. Maybe, if this worked out, I could actually afford a new one.

Okay, I admit it, things had been kind of rough since that little snafu with Nyarlathotep. I mean, who knew that a contract transcending space and time and woven in starlight, blood, and madness would be so, well…binding?

Still, I owed it to myself to bright side it, it’s not like my mom has another soul to lose, am I right? And besides, our company founder is fine—most of the time. Seems a soul isn’t necessary in our business and, in fact, could be considered a liability. But Mom did have to step back from the day-to-day and gift me the business, so all in all, I’d say it worked out okay.

And this time will work out too, I reminded myself. Be positive, girl! I took another of the deep breaths I’d been taking all weekend.

The ding! of the elevator arriving on our floor made me jump, though.

A shudder went through the building, I swear, as the door slid open. But I was proud of my team, not a one of them made a sound.

Our client stepped—slithered? crawled? undulated? pretty much all of the above, actually—out of the elevator. A reek composed of equal parts rotting fish and ancient seaweed rose around him in a miasma, so thick it was almost visible. My eyes started to water. I could hear the air recirculation system struggling to keep up, emitting a distant moan like a dying man.

Hey, this is Innsmouth, after all. The smell of fish is pretty much a given, rotten or otherwise. But mostly rotten. Those darned Deep Ones!

I glanced around at my team. Micah, of course, looked calm and collected. Tiffany, I could tell, was nervous, but Tyler looked fine. Well, Tyler has been with the firm a long time and he’s seen a lot. I wasn’t worried about him. And I could detect not the faintest expression of distaste or fear or disgust on any of them. Professionals, each and every one. I only hoped my face showed nothing more than innocuous welcome.

I took a deep breath—through my mouth; I’m no fool, and stepped forward with outstretched hand. The things I have to do in this business.

“Welcome, welcome, so great to meet you at last! You would not believe how much we’ve all been looking forward to this, let me tell you, my team and me,” I said, upbeat and cheerful like I’d just won the lottery. And who knows, maybe I had? “I won’t introduce them right now, if you’re okay with that. I know you’ve had a long trip getting here. And you’ll never know how much I appreciate it. Just sorry we couldn’t come to your place.”

Silence. I could feel my blood pressure rising.

“Uh, well, okay,” I continued desperately. “Let’s go straight to my office and have a seat.”

My team scattered as I motioned towards my open-plan office. With my particular clientele, I knew better than to have a regular door, but the opening was still a tight fit for him. I followed him as he slithered forward.

Once he was inside, I pushed the sliding door almost closed.

“Oops, did I catch that last tentacle in the door? So sorry, my bad!” I said nervously as I jerked the door back open.

A rumble of, I hoped, laughter bubbled out of one of his mouths; it smelled like an explosion of sewer gas with just a soupcon of skunk.

“Not a problem,” my client said, his basso profundo rattling the window frames. “I’ve got plenty more tentacles where that one came from! Just hope the ichor doesn’t stain this gorgeous carpet.”

I allowed myself to relax a bit. “Ah, a sense of humor! Really good to see you’ve got such a strong one. It can really pay dividends in our business, sir. Um, I don’t want to make any mistakes right here at the get-go. It is ‘sir’, isn’t it?”

Another explosion of sewer gas. I was pretty sure I could detect a faint greenish tinge rising around his octopoid head.

“Sir or ma’am,” he said. “I’m flexible, and you can believe me—I’m not just saying that.”

I had trouble telling which mouth that comment came from, but that particular problem is par for the course in my line of business. My clients are mostly, well, let’s go with non-human, shall we?

I pattered around his bulk and took a chair between him and my floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a view of Innsmouth Bay and the docks below us. I suspect I was grinning like an idiot. “Ha! And there’s that snarky humor again! Great! We’ll just go with ‘sir’ for now. With the proviso that your gender is…let’s call it fluid, shall we? And let me just say, that’s yet another benefit to add to your great sense of humor: the pansexual lifestyle is big, no, tremendous these days. Now, Mr….uh, I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to help me out on the pronunciation of your name, sir. I don’t want to screw it up!”

His ‘head’ nodded and several eyes blinked, one after the other. “Do not apologize, please. I’m always having problems with the pronunciation, believe me. Not to mention, the spelling is a real nightmare for everyone. I don’t know what the folks were thinking when they named me and the rest of my siblings. In the old language, it’s pronounced Ckkk-sthloohuuu…but I don’t think human tongues or throats can manage that?”

“Well, mine can’t for sure!” I bubbled, crossing my legs.

“What I thought. I’ll tell you what, let’s just be informal, shall we? Call me ‘Lu’.”

“Thanks so much!” I leaned forward. “Lu it is, then! I’m Amanda Waites, but please call me Mandy. I hope we’re going to be working together for a long, long time.”

“If we’re indeed a good match, you won’t believe how long we’ll be associated, Mandy,” Lu rumbled. “I’ve been around for a while, you know.”

“And plan to be for a good bit longer, I hope!”

I shuffled through some papers Micah had placed on the little table beside me. Of course, I had all the pertinent information on my phone and computer, but our older clients prefer tech they’re more familiar with. It can be a logistical nightmare, sometimes, when some of them insist on stone or clay tablets, let me tell you. A good stone carver can cost a fortune, and clay tablets don’t do well in our Innsmouth dampness, so we had to invest in special temp-and-humidity controlled safes.

Lu pulled a small golden tank from between his shoulder wings and gave me an enquiring look. “You don’t mind if I spritz myself a little, do you? Air conditioning dries me out like you would not believe, so I always carry a canister with me.”

“Of course not, Lu!” I said, shocked I hadn’t thought of it myself. “I’m sorry! Hold on, I’ll get Micah, my PA, to come help with the spots you—oh, never mind. Tentacles!” I giggled. “You can reach everywhere! Can I get you anything else? Something to drink or a snack?”

“Nope, I had a couple of skinned goats before I came, so I’m good.” Lu spritzed for a few minutes, upping the fishy smell by about a thousand percent. I was glad for the umpteenth time that I’d had the foresight to install stain-and-waterproof carpeting and a state-of-the-art, heavy duty air conditioning system.

“Ah! Nothing like sea water straight from the old sunken city,” Lu sighed. “No pollution at the bottom of the ocean to speak of, you know, though we do get the occasional bits of plastic sinking down, even as deep as R’lyeh. Why, I once had to rescue a minion who’d got one of those six-pack nets caught around his head. You would have loved his expression, Mandy. Funny, let me tell you! We laughed for days!”

“Sounds hilarious, Lu!” I contemplated grinning again but my mouth was getting tired, so I just worked on having my eyes twinkle. I shuffled some more papers. “Okay. All better now, then? Skin moist? Are you sure you got every nook and cranny of those absolutely gorgeous tentacles?”

“I’m good, Mandy, thanks for asking. And you’re a bit of a flirt, I see.” Lu gave some rumbles that send vibrations throughout his tentacles.

I gave a giggle and shook one finger at him, then continued, all professional, “Okay, now, Lu, I’ve been reading over your resume—and an impressive one it is, too—and I want to make sure I’ve got all the information I need to do what I can for you, so to speak. I see you started out your long career as, let me just read this part verbatim, ‘the supreme deity in an unspeakable cult dating back to prehistoric times.’ Is that correct, Lu?” I looked up and gave him my serious look.

An interesting shade of puce suffused his left eleven tentacles. I can’t say he smiled, exactly—he didn’t really have lips—but I was sure I could detect a nostalgic look on the left quadrant of his head/body.

“Whoa, just hearing that takes me back to the good old days and the Great Old Ones. Haven’t thought about those times in quite a while, not to mention all the rest of the guys in the pantheon. This modern era…well, can we be honest here?” Lu leaned forward and I could hear the big sling chair I’d had specially constructed—cost me a fortune but worth every penny—creak alarmingly. “Let’s face it, Mandy, I’m floundering around, trying to catch up.”

I laughed, hoping it didn’t sound too forced. “Floundering. There’s that snarky humor again, Lu.”

“It’s not snarky, it’s real,” Lu protested, sending out some eye-watering gusts of fishiness and what sounded like a belch. “Pardon me! But as I was saying, this new world is hard for me to navigate, Mandy, and that’s the main reason why I’m here. I want to get some expert help from you and your team.”

“And that’s exactly what we do, Lu! Expert help is the byword of Eldritch Edge Promotions. We know how it is, and we feel your pain. Heck, some of our other customers have been in your spot.”

“Yep, I’ve studied your prospectus.” Now his thirteen right tentacles shifted into a very pretty pea-green streaked with blood-red. “You’ve got some of my family in your client list, I’m glad to see.”

“Yes, we do, Lu!” I winked at him. “And we at EEP understand where you’re coming from like no one else can. We get it: You’re an ancient and powerful god-like being, and you’ve been out of the mainstream for a few millennia, taking some well-deserved R & R. But now that you’ve got all rested up, you’re ready jump back into things and wham! What do you find out? Well, might seem to you that you’re irrelevant; you could even find yourself on the verge of being forgotten. It’s the way of the day, Lu. This modern age is all about the now, the current, the new. We hear it all the time from our other clients, and it all boils down to this: what apocalypse have you caused lately?” I held up both my hands, fingers spread. “In other words, if you haven’t been involved in a recent Armageddon or even a minor apocalypse, then what good are you?”

“Exactly how I feel, Mandy.”

“Okay, let’s get on, shall we, Lu? Now, I see in your bio that you and your dark…cult. Hmm.” I looked at him and shook my head slowly. “I’m sorry, but the word ‘cult’ has some negative connotations these days, Lu. What do you think about having your followers apply for official status as an ancient religion? They can really benefit from the tax breaks. It’s not very expensive to get the ball rolling for government recognition and approval. I have some…” I tried to look modest, “…connections on the Innsmouth Council. They’d be glad to help us expedite that.”

Three tentacles rippled and emitted a loud pop. I interpreted this as a shrug.

Or possibly a fart, if I was to go by the odor.

“Works for me, Mandy, if you think it’s a good idea. Though I understand there are some issues these days about, uh, human sacrifice?”

“We can work around that, no worries. It’s all in the wording. You’d be surprised what we can push through here at EEP, Lu. Why, when Dagon signed up with us⁠—”

“Dagon!” he yelped, and his rudimentary wings rose behind his face and spread over his head in a big, quivering, multi-hued fan. “How is that old Fish-Face? Haven’t talked to him in centuries!”

“He is doing great and I’ll tell him you asked about him. Dagon is one of our greatest success stories, Lu. We’ve managed to get him inserted into all sorts of things: video games, books, movies. He’s loving the attention, plus, it’s really raised his profile. From has-been to celebrity, I believe is how he worded it.”

Lu’s head, almost hidden in the writhing mass of feelers and antennae and beaks and openings, nodded solemnly as waves of unnamable colors flowed through them. “You’ve put your digit tendril on it. That is exactly why I’m here, Mandy, as I’m sure you realize.”

“I have, Lu, and let me just say: I think you’ve made the right decision.” I leaned forward, hitting him with my best ‘sincere’ look, the one Mom taught me. “Sure, I know it’s relaxing, hanging around your sunken city and napping, but you’ve got to ask yourself: is this really what I was born for? I know you needed some ‘me’ time to recharge your batteries, but for you undying types, it’s important to reinvent yourselves occasionally. I know you can see how necessary that is. Don’t you agree?”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head, Mandy. I can see EEP is all it’s cracked up to be.”

“We try hard, Lu. We really do,” I said in my best, practiced-in-front-of-the-mirror, earnest, straight from the shoulder voice. “We do our research, we study our markets, we plan for optimum outcome. And speaking of research, our library has the best collection of books of ancient power in the entire world, bar none, plus more than a few from several alternate worlds. The classics, of course, Prinn, Abdul A-H, Dee, all those guys. The Books of Eibon and Iod. The Cultes de Ghouls. The Mysteries of the Worm in a new translation with updated illustrations. The Pnakotic Manuscripts and the ever-popular Unaussprechlichen Kulten.”

I was glad to see Lu nodding along with my list.

“Of course, we’ve also managed to get our hands on some new stuff that would curl your, uh, tentacles. And EEP is based in Innsmouth, sure, but we have offices in Arkham, Dunwich and DC. So, we’ve got all the high and low places covered, not to mention the dark ones.”

“You’ve convinced me, totally. I’m in, Mandy, all the way. Old Azzie was right, I can see. EEP is the company I’ve been looking for to make all the arrangements for my imminent comeback.”

“Lu, you name dropper!” I said, giving him a roguish shake of one finger. “Could ‘Azzie’ possibly be a ‘certain amorphous blight of nethermost confusion…”

“…which blasphemes and bubbles at the center of all infinity’?” Lu finished the quote with a liquid chuckle. “That’s old Azathoth, all right. He’s the one who gave me your company’s info, though it was kind of hard to make out everything he said, what with that vile beating of drums and whine of accursed flutes that he’s so into. Just sounds like noise to me, but then, I live on the bottom of the ocean. Not a lot of music except when I visit the surface.”

“So sweet of Mr. Azathoth to recommend us, Lu! I’ll be sure to send him a nice thank-you card and a fresh sacrifice soon.” I made a note on my pad, flipped over and reread a bit. “Okay, we seem to be on the same page so far. I can see you and EEP going places together. Just one last comment. And please, don’t just blurt out the first thing that comes to the top of your, uh, heads. I’d like for you to really think about this, to look at it as a call-to-action on your part.”

“I’m ready, Mandy. Hit me with all you’ve got,” Lu said, and I could tell he was taking me seriously: all his tentacles, which had been twining around and through each other the whole time we’d been chatting, got deathly still.

“Here we go, then, and please, like I said, don’t rush your answer.” I straightened my shoulders and started right into his middle eye, the red one. “Give it some thought. Ready? Okay. You’re ancient, you’re powerful, you’ve had worshipers all over this world and countless other realms for millions of years. I know that, you know that, we all know that. Okay, then: what is it, Lu, that you really want Eldritch Edge Promotions to do for you in today’s society?”

He settled back a bit and took a few minutes before jumping into an answer. I like that in a client. Shows he’s paying attention.

“Actually, I have given this a great deal of thought, a great deal. And while I have an answer that I’m ready to share with you, I’d like to ask you one question first. What do you, Mandy Waites, and EEP in general, think my place in this modern world should be and, most importantly, could be?”

“Well, that’s an easy one,” I said in my best no-brainer tone. “Considering who you are and who you’ve been. Supreme ruler of all, of course, Lu.”

“See, I knew I’d come to the right place!” Lu chuckled, making my eyes water from endless waves of fishy stink. We were gonna have to invest heavily in room deodorizers, I could see. “So, Mandy, you think I should go into politics, then?”

“You’ve nailed it, Lu,” I said eagerly. “In fact…well, my team and I have already been throwing some ideas around, working on some bumper stickers. ‘Don’t Settle for the Lesser Evil’ is one of our favorites.”

“Ha! That’s a good one, all right!” he gurgled.

“And then there’s ‘Vote for Me…or Die in Agony’.”

“Can never go wrong with the classics, Mandy! And it rhymes! You’ve got some talented folks on your staff, I have to say.”

“We hire only the best and brightest,” I agreed.

“Okay, what about my campaign platform? Have you given that any thought yet?”

“Well, we thought you’d probably want to bring some of your own crew onboard for that. I know you’ve got quite a few worshippers, Lu, and there’s nothing like absolute loyalty in politics. But don’t forget: EEP is here, and we can offer market strategies, event planning, design services, infernal influencers, the whole ball of wax. And we’re always ready to provide any and all of the support and backup necessary…for a piece of the action, naturally,” I added, just to make sure we were indeed on the same page.

“Naturally. Those who are loyal to me always reap great rewards,” Lu said, flapping his wings solemnly.

“See, you’re talking like a politician already. You’re a natural, Lu!”

“Just one final but very important question, Mandy: can I feast on the blood and bones of my enemies?”

My new client sounded concerned, but I rushed to reassure him.

“Lu, Lu,” I said, shaking my head at his silly question, “don’t forget this is modern politics. Machiavelli was an infant, Lu. These day, you can feast on the blood and bones of your friends! And your ratings will soar!”

ONE MORE BITE

E. N. DAUVIN

Jenna donned her white coat and stepped inside the temperature controlled greenhouse. She breathed in the humid warm air, filled with the scents of moist earth as she checked the notes from Tony’s shift on the workbench. The piped in, tinny classical music had been cycling non-stop during the past two weeks of their experiment.

The rented greenhouses were still plastered over with signs reading “Arkham Greenhouse, Bedding Plants: $5” leftover from the spring sales.

“Plants leaning towards the speakers. Preferential over light sources.”

Jenna measured the angle on several samples. One tomato, smaller than the others had slipped into a crack between two trays.

“Sorry little guy,” Jenna murmured, setting it back in a good spot under the lights with the others.

Jenna completed her notes before moving to the next greenhouse. She slipped some ear plugs in before opening the door. The thundering bass shook the floor and rattled the metal tables. The discordant music, created for the experiment by a local musician spewed from the speakers, setting Jenna’s teeth on edge.

Tony didn’t leave any notes. Jenna flipped through the log sheet. There was plenty of un-updated entries, left blank. “Tony,” Jenna muttered, as she dated and carried around the clipboard to make notes.

Tony was a deadbeat lab partner. Always an ideas man, but he rarely came through when it actually came to the day-to-day data collection. Of course, he had made extensive notes on the other conditions, so maybe Tony just didn’t like his cousin’s music that they had picked for the experimental condition.

The tomatoes, despite the noise that grated Jenna’s soul, seemed to be growing better than the classical group, or the control. They reached towards the speakers set up in the corners of the greenhouse, away from the sun and supplementary bulbs. They were at least a foot taller than the other conditions and they also were developing a purple tinge that did not seem to be linked to any nutritional deficiencies.

“Strange.” Jenna set the clipboard back on the workbench. This was supposed to be the negative condition—the least likely for the plants to grow well. They were going to have to publish something completely contradictory to what they expected. They would have a time explaining this in their paper.

On the bright side, Tony’s cousin could advertise his music as great for growing plants. As long as you could stand the horrible grating guitar riffs. Jenna threw her ear plugs out in the can outside. She could still hear the music outside, as well as another noise, which she could only describe as the straining of the plants as they grew. But that was ridiculous.

* * *

“Keep loading the trucks, I’ll take this next batch to my grandma!” Tony called as they cleared out the greenhouses. They were in the process of writing the paper on their experiment, and their lease on the greenhouses was nearly expired. The regularly sized plants from the control and classical conditions were already cleared out and distributed, but they were left with the daunting task of removing the jungle from the experimental condition.

The tomatoes were three times the size of the other conditions, all in vibrant shades of burgundy and purple. They hung heavy with fruit, knocking onto the tables and falling off to split on the ground as they tried to dismantle the jungle.

Tony lifted down a pot with purplish fruits hanging down the size of melons. “Oof. Can you believe it? I’m going to give this one to Nanna. She grows tomatoes every year. Nothing like this.” He slapped a leaf the size of his face. “I can’t wait to see her face when she sees it. This one has to be as big as her head!” He laughed, turning a deep plum fruit to the front. “I’m going get her a whole set up with speakers and a few discs of Trev’s music so that she can get her garden going into overdrive!”

Jenna checked the list. There were only ten more plants in the greenhouse, although she couldn’t believe it with the foliage hanging down over her head. “Does your cousin want any of them? See what his music created? We are going to have to pawn a few more off on someone.”

“Maybe one or two. He’s not a big plant guy. But he’s gotta see what happened. He might try to market it, the music. Heck, give him two, the kids will like them.”

Jenna scratched out two lines on the list. “I only hope that gardeners will be able to bear to listen to listen to his music. It really gives me a headache. I feel kind of woozy when I hear it, like I need to sit down. Especially when I don’t have the ear plugs.”

“Right? Man, that Trev. He’s a character.” Tony set his tomato on a dolly to wheel it out.

Jenna watched the tomato leave the green house, unfurling its leaves to the sky as it went through the door.

* * *

“What is that?” Brett asked as Jenna struggled with pulling a tomato out of her car at home.

“It’s the last one.” The pot hit the ground and the plant fluffed its foliage outside of the confines of the car. “We donated the normal ones to the food bank and the community gardens. But we didn’t feel right giving them these.”

“It’s crazy,” Brett said as he weighed a tomato in his hands. “Let’s get it in the backyard. We can put like a quarter of this tomato in the salad I’m making for dinner.” He lifted the plant with Jenna’s help and they dragged it to the back yard where it stood by the side of the deck as high as the cedars.

Brett set the plates on the table, complete with purplish tomato diced on top of the garden greens. “This could go a long way towards world hunger, you know? Is that what you said in your experiment? Bigger food, more servings. Although I suppose that might also contribute to food waste,” he mused.

Jenna folded her napkin in her lap. “No. We were testing the effects of different music on growth. This was certainly not the expected result. We will have to do more studies next year. Perhaps with more traditional rock compared to what Tony’s cousin does. I wanted something really horrible to listen to, that’s why we picked this music, but we will have to scale it back a bit, something that doesn’t make the gardeners pass out. There must be some overtones, or something that just make my head feel strange.”

Brett was already digging into his salad. Jenna forked a piece of tomato.

“How does it taste?”

“Trippy.”

Jenna frowned, considering the tomato before popping it in her mouth. “Trippy?”

Jenna awoke on the couch, the dishes still on the table from dinner. Brett was holding his head, curled up in the hall. Scenes of dark, purple space, and some creature, some thing rising up from frothing purple seas lingered in her mind as she struggled to get up. It was reaching for her, trying to grab her while she couldn’t move away.

She found her phone and looked for her messages from Tony. She slowly typed, frustrated with her numb fingers, “Don’t let Nanna eat the tomatoes. And get me your cousin’s number.”

* * *

Jenna sat outside the suburban house on the East side of Arkham, waiting until Tony pulled up to step out of her car.

“This is it,” he pointed to the white house with the manicured lawn.

“I expected something... different.”

“Like what?”

Jenna shrugged as Tony pressed the doorbell.

Tony turned to her as they waited. “Do you wish you made the music, after all? You had something you wanted to record, right?”

Children cheered inside as heavier footsteps hurried to the door.

“Trev’s music was pretty close to what I had in mind. I didn’t think it would have that effect though.”

A surprisingly normal, slightly more greyed version of Tony answered, surrounded by children and an excited dog.

“Come on outside, I want to keep an eye on the kids with their new playhouse. Even I don’t trust my DIY skills.”

They followed him through, to the backyard. “So this is about the music, huh? I heard that it went really well.”

Tony nodded. “It did. Or certainly I’ve never seen plants grow like that before!”

Jenna cut in. “However, I have concerns that they aren’t entirely, normal. At least, after ingesting some of the fruit last night, I have confirmed that something is not normal about it at all.”

“What happened?”

“Drug trip, man,” Tony chimed in. “She was seeing other worlds. A big monster. Kind of a scary trip, honestly.”

“Yes. I am awaiting some toxicology results from the tomatoes, but can you tell me a little about your process, with making the music? Like what instruments were used, any editing software?”

Trev contemplated his kids playing in the yard. “I don’t know. Just normal stuff. Guitar, bass, some drums. My usual software. Everyone uses that. But you know, I heard it before. I had dreams, it just flows through you, you know?”

“Can you elaborate on your dreams?”

“Like purple. Lots of purple. And a sea, water. Something was coming out of it, kraken-like. Other planets, man. I had a feeling that it was calling for something. Like it’s lonely.”

Tony exchanged glances with Jenna. “And did you pass out?”

“Nah, I was already sleeping. But I sure didn’t feel good in the morning. I had to write it down. The music was in my head. Just ringing through my ears all day. I thought I’d go mad if I didn’t get it down.” He leaned in. “I know that the music isn’t... nice to listen to. But Tony said you wanted something wild, discordant, and I started having the dreams only a couple days before. I thought it was too perfect, you wanting just the thing I dreamed up.”

Jenna rose to leave. “Please, just don’t listen to it, or sell it, or do anything at all with it. We can’t risk something else happening until we know more.”

Tony nodded. “And don’t let the kids eat the tomatoes.”

“Nah, man. They don’t like their veggies.”

* * *

Jenna’s phone rang. Tony’s face was plastered over it as it buzzed.

“Yes, Tony?”

“Jenna, can you meet me down at Arkham food bank?”

Jenna sighed, the tomato plant was still waving in the breeze outside, like some other worldly palm. “What’s happening, Tony?”

“I got a call. They’ve had complaints. They want us to pick up the tomatoes. And there’s a gentleman there that wants to speak to us.”

Jenna pulled up in front of the food bank. Tony was already there, talking to an older man. He smiled as she walked over.

“Jenna, this is Larry. He frequents the food bank every week, and he ate some of the tomatoes we donated.”

“How are you, Larry?” Jenna shook his hand.

“You’re the lady from the purple space.”

“Pardon?”

“I saw you. In the tomato world. You were trying to tame the octopus man. He’s real lonely, you know. All alone up in space. Wants to talk to you. He’s been looking for you for a long, long time.”

Jenna stared between Tony and Larry.

“There was this music too. Something like,” Larry tried to mimic the grating sounds of Trev’s music. “Yeah. It was wild. You have any more of those tomatoes? Sheila wouldn’t give me any more.”

“I’m afraid not, Larry.” Tony said, laughing.

“Ah well.” Larry wandered down the street, still humming the awful music.

Tony opened the door to the food bank.

Jenna side-stepped him as she walked through the door, avoiding the tables filling the room. “Tony. We only gave the food bank tomatoes from the classical condition.”

“I know.”

“There was nothing wrong with those tomatoes.”

“There had to have been. Or Larry wouldn’t have the same dream as you and Trev.”

“They must have heard it through the greenhouse glass!”

Tony sniggered as they approached the food-bank counter, in the process of lunch clean up. “Look, Sheila has all our plants lined up for us to take.”

Jenna grabbed a pot of tomatoes. “It’s no laughing matter, Tony. Any tomatoes that heard that music, however faintly, could be affected.”

Tony filled his bear arms with as many pots as he could scoop up. “And so could we.”

* * *

T