Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time (30 page)

To: Leningrad Operational Center
From: R’lyeh
Date: December 5, 1934

How can you have been so incompetent as to have allowed the humans’ investigative agencies to locate materials which your ill-chosen and poorly-conditioned tool produced? Already, one of these insufferable creatures has become suspicious and is beginning to look in directions difficult to conceal.

It is absolutely essential that this Yezhov human be neutralized in such a way that involves no mental manipulation, nothing that might arouse further suspicion. It is not sufficient to kill it. Its reputation among its kind must be completely and irrevocably demolished to the point that no one will dare question its fate.

Yezhov knew his old hometown well enough to navigate it in the middle of the night. The Party might look dimly upon a respected member investigating the icy streets and dim buildings without a bodyguard. Especially now, given Kirov’s death and fears of other assassins. But Yezhov suspected his search would be impossible with a strong official escort.

The building housing Nikolaev’s apartment wasn’t that different from the ones Yezhov recalled from his own childhood. Though the city had been the Imperial capital then, the air still reeked of boiled cabbage. The same domestic quarrels still filtered through the closed doors.

The Nikolaevs’ apartment was quiet. The adults were in custody, as suspected accomplices, and the children in one of the special orphanages for children of Enemies of the People. Though the NKVD had hastily searched the place, the officers would’ve been looking for mundane conspiracy clues. Not hints of interference from mysterious entities that could turn a Party man into whimpering mush.

Removing the NKVD wax seal from the door wasn’t precisely normal procedure. But a senior official of the Party Control Commission had wide operational latitude, especially within such an investigation: the murder of the Leningrad Party chief by a disgraced Party member. Still, Yezhov lifted the seal without damaging it. It would be far easier to replace it later, than to acquire another one.

With a creak, the door opened into profound darkness. When Yezhov’s eyes adjusted, he located a light switch. A single bulb cast only a meager reddish glow upon the chambers within. More evidence of the financial turmoil mentioned in Nikolaev’s dairy, amid his confused ramblings about noble heroes and grand blows against the Revolution’s betrayers.

Still, it was sufficient to allow Yezhov to navigate his way through the battered furniture, to look in the various cupboards and drawers for anything out of place. To be sure, the place was somewhat better furnished than those of his childhood, simply because its occupants had been Party members and thus, able to avail themselves of such luxuries as shelves on which to put the volumes of instructional materials they’d accumulated.

He was so busy looking behind and through all those bound volumes for hidden papers that he almost didn’t notice the figurine which had fallen behind the shelving unit. He put his hand down to steady himself while looking at the bottom shelf and suddenly felt something hard and knobby under his fingers. Startled, he pulled it out to take a closer look and immediately wondered what could have possibly struck Nikolaev as attractive about this grotesque creature, like a bat-winged man with staring eyes and a beard of squidlike tentacles.

Unless it was placed here by whoever had tampered with his mind, perhaps as a reminder of their power. No doubt, the NKVD would have seen nothing significant about it and probably never even noticed they had knocked it off its perch during their investigations.

Examining it more closely, Yezhov noticed a peculiar design repeated around its base, a symbol like a twisting, writhing trefoil picked out in yellow paint. Just looking at it made his stomach nauseous and his eyes twitch away. Yes, most definitely some kind of tool of control, but of whom and from where?

Whom could he consult about it, let alone entrust with further investigation? Not Agranov, who clearly despised him. Had Agranov not seen the Northern Lights? Or was Agranov part of a larger plot, one connecting this nasty little figurine with the mysterious and unearthly display in the sky?

Yezhov dropped the figurine into his pocket. Yes, he’d been right to carry out his own investigation. He’d track this filth to its source, reveal to the Party an infection of unimaginable horror and scope. The Party would act to save itself, and reveal its true heroism to the human race.

He barely remembered to replace the NKVD’s wax seal on the apartment door before he left, taking the steps down to the street two at a time in his haste. Overhead, the sky was alive with light. Rising from the neon gloom of Leningrad’s sky-glow, the great streamers of light flashed with frantic intensity like some unearthly creature signalling a desperate message across the sky.

That disturbing light forced Yezhov to avert his eyes from the sky. Looking down, he noticed a mark on a storm-drain grating. The faint mark seemed scratched into the metal, but he was certain the same symbol twisted around the figurine’s base.

Some people liked to claim that the city’s sewer system went all the way back to its founding by Peter the Great, but Yezhov had clear memories of districts without proper sewer service when he’d been growing up. If something unearthly had infiltrated the USSR and was using Party members for its own nefarious purposes, the construction of Leningrad’s modern sewer system would have afforded a perfect cover for the establishment of its base of operations.

Getting the grate pried up without attracting attention to himself wasn’t easy, but he still remembered some tricks from his youth. However, he soon realized he wasn’t as young as he felt. Things that had come easy to a junior metalworker weren’t so trivial to a senior official softened by a decade of Party privilege.

The stench made Yezhov wrinkle his nose. Comfortable living had weakened him in other ways, as well. Only resolve enabled him to push his way in. This business could not be left to fester.

The sound of his footsteps on the access ledge echoed and re-echoed, mixing with the babble of effluent flowing and hitting splashblocks, creating a confusing tangle of noise. More than once, he had to stop and just listen, trying to sort out the various sounds, to recognize anything that didn’t belong.

Yezhov was beginning to wonder if he’d come on a fool’s errand when something he half-saw in the corner of his eye tickled at his awareness. He turned to get a better look, yet found it oddly difficult to focus upon it.

Just like the symbol repeated endlessly upon the figurine in Nikolaev’s apartment. Yezhov focused directly on the bricks and, by force of will, closely examined the delicate lines traced there in yellow paint. By examining only a portion at a time, he was able to see enough to feel confident that yes, he was looking at that same symbol.

At the knowledge that he had to be very close to his quarry’s lair, Yezhov’s heart began to pound. He had to pause to calm himself, to think clearly. He had to think of a way to reliably locate that mysterious yellow sign when it was all he could do to look at it.

It took a little trial and error to discover that his peripheral vision was actually a more reliable way of detecting a sign. Each time he got that twitchy feeling, he would look just enough to confirm that yes, the yellow sign was indeed painted there, and then move forward in search of the next one.

Ahead came a sharp sound, not a splash but a sucking, like something soft being pushed or drawn through an opening too narrow for it to pass easily. The back of his neck prickled and he flattened himself against the filthy wall, looking ahead for whatever had made it.

In the dim light of the purplish fungi that clustered on the walls, Yezhov was able to get only a confused impression of vast eyes like glowing saucers, surrounded by a mass of squirming tentacles patterned in colours that shifted and shimmered before his eyes. He unholstered his pistol.
Aim at the eyes. The brain should be right behind it.

The first shot went wild, ricocheting off the wall with a shower of sparks astonishingly bright to his dark-adapted eyes. He advanced the next chamber, fired. The monster emitted a horrific scream that brought bile to the back of Yezhov’s throat and the thing thrashed its tentacles, sending raw sewage spraying in all directions.

Yezhov fought the urge to flinch, forced himself to keep firing until the hammer clicked onto an empty chamber. He’d failed to bring additional rounds, a lapse that would now cost him his life.

Filled with dread, Yezhov slowly realized he heard human voices now, instead of the keening of that hideous monstrosity. His knees went weak with relief.

Yezhov shouted over his shoulder, “It’s down here. I think I’ve wounded it.”

And then he was joined by two young NKVD men, both armed. When the first one’s pistol shots located the creature, the second raised a tube to his shoulder and fired a device that filled the tunnel with a trail of brilliant light. Its projectile slammed into the tentacled nightmare, which dissolved into a ball of fire. Moments later, there was nothing left but a foul, burning stench.

One of the NKVD men looked at him. “Comrade Yezhov, that was very foolish of you, trying to take on a Lloigor by yourself.”

They believe. They understand
. “So, that’s what that thing was. I presume it left that symbol.” Yezhov gestured vaguely in the direction of the Yellow Sign marked upon the nearby wall.

The NKVD officer nodded. “Yes, it’s one of servants of the Ancient Power Beyond the Stars.”

“And it’s what was controlling Nikolaev, setting him on Kirov?”

That got an even more energetic nod from the NKVD man, whose eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the stygian gloom. “Exactly. We’ve destroyed the puppet master, but its dupes and servants are scattered throughout the USSR. Nobody can be safe until we’ve rooted out all of them, everywhere.”

Yezhov gestured back the way they had come. “Then there’s no further purpose in remaining down here. We’ve got work to do, and we’d best be about it.”

To: R’lyeh
From: Leningrad Operational Center
Date: December 6, 1934

Inform Their Supremacies the matter has been successfully resolved. The attention of the Yezhov human, which had apprehended at least some part of our true nature, has been deflected, albeit with the sacrifice of one of our number. It will now be a simple matter to convince the Yezhov human to take command of the punitive organs of the USSR and carry out a vast extermination program, believing that it is thus eliminating the remaining agents of Their Supremacies. Because it will act of its own free will, based upon our disinformation and not from any compulsion on our part, it will be remembered for a thousand years as one of the greatest monsters of history. Any human who may uncover any hint of our involvement in the matter will not dare to speak of the matter, lest it, too, be condemned by its fellows as an apologist for mass murder, a moral monster of the worst sort.

Nikolaev went to his death in the same squalid, pitiful manner he’d lived his life, protesting a confused innocence. Yezhov noted the number of senior officials, tasked with the investigation, who found convenient ways to absent themselves from the execution.

Yezhov himself wanted to be elsewhere. Only a substantial bracer of strong drink let him endure the sight of that pathetic little man being led to his doom. There could be no other way. Yezhov wanted his daughter to grow up proud of a father who did not shirk even the unpleasant parts of duty to Party and State.

Now it was time to complete what had been started here, to extirpate, root and branch, the foul influence of the tentacled nightmare he’d encountered beneath the streets of Leningrad. Of course, nobody would ever believe a story about an ancient monstrosity from beyond the stars, so it must be phrased in terms that Stalin and the other senior officials of Party and government would understand, of a Trotskyite-Zinovievite conspiracy of wreckers and assassins. But, in the end, the effect would be the same: the cleansing of the sacred Motherland of a power that could destroy it.

Leigh Kimme
l lives in Indianapolis, Indiana, where she is a bookseller and web designer. She has degrees in history and in Russian language and literature. Her stories have been published in
Black October
,
Beyond the Last Star
and
Every Day Fiction
. Leigh is working on a novel.

The author speaks:
“Red Star, Yellow Sign” was inspired by my study of Russian history. Historians have called the Kirov murder “the mystery of the century” because of the many questions surrounding it: Did Stalin order the killing? Did Nikolaev have protection at high levels? Did Nikolaev even pull the trigger, or was he a patsy for an NKVD assassin? Thus, it seemed natural to ask,
What if ancient eldritch entities had interfered in this critical moment of history?

FOUND IN A TRUNK FROM EXTREMADURA

Meddy Ligner

T
he man entered the central aisle where he found, at the end, the reception desk. Some columns, ornate from capital to base, gave the room an ambiance both austere and academic, an impression reinforced by the photos of ancient
savants
hanging on the walls. Everything in this place he breathed in; the knowing and that sum of knowledge seemed to crush anyone who entered there. He began the passage with difficulty, handicapped by a right leg that made him limp. Advancing, he systematically threw glances at the ranges of stacks, where were crammed books by the thousands. Astronomy, history, geography, law, philosophy, studies filed in order before his eyes as he approached the end of the aisle. On each side, students worked, installed at tables lighted by weak lamps; they murmured among themselves, so as not to disturb the others. In addition, there reigned over that place a sense of calm and studiousness, even as he noticed two men engaged in active discussion. One of the two, with a wan complexion, stared in a fashion almost inappropriate. In return, the man lanced him with a rapid look then superbly ignored him. He finally achieved his objective:

– Good morning. Can you help me, please? he asked the librarian.

There was a pause before the librarian lifted his nose from his magazine. Over a pair of glasses, two yellow globes twitched:

– Of course. What can I do for you,
Monsieur
?

– I understand that you have archives concerning the riches of the world and I have heard that you possess an example of the
Voyage of Don Ignacio de Arroyo
. Would it be possible to consult it?

All is blurred inside my head ... A fog thicker than the London smog … the void … I remember almost nothing. Only images, of which others tell me nothing that helps. Scattered dots, with no lines between them.

It’s the interior chaos. I’m very afraid that I have a failing memory. Why am I in this bar and how could I have landed here?

Good God. I haven’t the faintest idea!

And these men who fix me with an evil eye … I must look awful to get such glances … What could have happened?

Wait … something’s coming back … his head tells me something … I have the impression that he knows me … and … and me him, also, apparently … he’s motioning to me with his hand … one could say that he’s inviting me to sit at his table ….

My name is Ignacio de Arroyo and if, in the evening of my life, I take up my pen to write these lines, it is to lighten my spirit of a most heavy burden. I have never spoken of any of these events and– as God is my witness, praise Him and His Blessed Mother– I adjure to tell the entire truth of that which I have seen during my journey in the New World. I was present; I have seen and heard all.

Everything began in the month of April, in the Year of Grace 1539. Some months before, I had taken a caravel from the port of Seville to traverse the Great Ocean in the hope of making a fortune. Mythical Peru attracted every lust. There, in a tavern in Lima, I met Don Santiago de López. Originally from Cádiz, the cadet member of a family of ruined
nobility, this Andalusian gentleman sought to recruit men for his new expedition. Gold fascinated him and, to obtain this precious metal, Don Santiago de López was ready for anything. Like the rest of us, the Conquistadors of the New World. All of us dreamed of walking in the steps of Cortés , who put his hand on the fabulous treasures of opulent Tenochtitlan. We all wished to imitate Pizarro, who had captured the phenomenal riches of the Inca. So, when Don Santiago proposed to me that I become his second in discovering the legendary El Dorado, I accepted without hesitation.

I respond to his invitation and sit facing him. The man is a giant of two meters, of a strapping build. One could say an athlete or a rugby player, who must weigh ninety kilos. Next to him, I feel like a shrimp. With tan skin and blue eyes, he wears a grey suit, very sober. He smiles as if he’s known me a long time. We sit there for several moments, looking at each other. Without a word. And then, finally, it’s he who speaks. His voice is grave, calm and he articulates perfectly each syllable:

– I know that you have some big problems. I can help you. Meet me in two hours in the Main Library. Don’t be late.

He’s getting ready to leave me, already?

– Wait … wait … what’s your name?

– Call me ‘Bob’.

– Why all the mystery, Bob? Do you know some things about me? I ….

– Until then.

I can’t believe my eyes! This guy has some nerve! I take pains to join him and he’s already leaving! And then, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, he tranquilly finishes his glass before standing and saluting me. I don’t stop him for further explanation. Everything is all so confused in my head.

I begin to remember pieces, but good God, this is complicated … since Bob the Giant left me, the memories rise to the surface like bubbles of air in water.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born on August 20, 1895 and died March 15, 1937 from cancer of the intestine. And me? I think I remember that I was born barely a century after him. On the other hand, I don’t believe that I’ve lived as long as the Magus of Providence.

Lovecraft … it’s bizarre that the guy had the word ‘love’ in his name, yet he was never a specialist on the subject … a failed marriage, a hermit’s life … It’s said that his best friends were his cats … strange ….

I’ve seen in his biography that in April 1917, Lovecraft enlisted in the National Guard of Rhode Island after the declaration of war by the United States on Germany. It was his mother, in reporting that he was in bad health, who succeeded in making him return. And if she had not succeeded? If she had failed in her attempt? Her son might have been able to depart for the European trenches. Might he have returned? If yes, what influence would this traumatic experience have had on the solitary man from Providence? Would he have become the legendary author that we know?

We were 24 conquistadors embarking on the quest to find El Dorado. We had all been doughty warriors for many years. We had fought on the fields of battle in Italy or against the Saracens. Under the conditions of our
encomienda
[commission], we had requisitioned 20 Indians who, aided by some mules, carried our rations and equipment. Two among them served to guide and interpret for us. Three horses were also on the voyage and our convoy also counted one cannon. Finally, our ranks harboured Brother Hernando, originally with me in Cáceres, who represented our Most Holy Church and had the mission of evangelizing any pagans that we would eventually encounter.

The entire baggage train set out on the road on April 14, in the Year of Grace 1539, heading northeast toward the dense and impenetrable forest. It was, according to Don Santiago de López, in this region yet unexplored that we would find El Dorado. Our captain had information from the Indians that he had encountered during previous expeditions. They had told him of a mythical city hidden in the depths of the forest and had indicated how to reach it.

At the hour of departure, Brother Hernando blessed all of our troop: “
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti. Amen.
” Then we started out on the road.

Lovecraft … Howard Phillips … this man has always fascinated me … It could be because I have read so many books that I have actually forgotten the titles … the myth of Cthulhu … a cosmogony complete, a universe entire … with forbidden books … the
Necronomicon
, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the
Book of Dzyan
… Where does reality stop? Where does fiction begin? It’s like an old bit of parchment. After the death of my grandfather, I found it while going through his affairs … it was at the bottom of an old trunk, covered in dust … the text was written in Old Spanish … I tried very hard to translate it, but I quickly gave up … I have never been any good at languages … How was my grandfather able to procure the document? … That I don’t know … I know only that he dabbled with junk and antiquities ….

By following the Incan roads, we rapidly crossed the Andes and arrived on foot without encumbrance in dense forest. There, progress became much more problematical. The overpowering heat forced us to drop our armour and our coats of mail, even our faithful
morions
[helmets]. Because of the extreme heat, the powder in our arquebuses compacted and quickly became useless. Happily, we still had our arbalests and our swords. The latter were a great help in hacking a way through the abundant vegetation. The forest was not the only thing hostile to us: the mosquitoes made life disagreeable and the snakes could, at any moment, make us lose our lives. Sadly, this happened to one of our companions. The punishing conditions had wicked repercussions for the morale of our troop: the men complained often and, in two or three instances, the tension resulted in fights. Our beasts also suffered under the circumstances and they became a drag on our advance. They became so dispirited that we were forced to abandon them. We had to do the same with the cannon.

I just left that beknighted bar. Outside, it’s cold and the streets are deserted. Is it dusk or dawn? No idea.

I walk toward the Main Library. I must meet with Bob because I have the feeling that it is he who can give me the keys to leaving this infernal spiral … in any case, what do I have to lose?

I am completely lost ….

A black cat just cut in front of me. An evil omen? I’m not very superstitious, but under the current circumstances, I’m wary … in fact, I’ve never really liked animals … I remember when I was a kid … I must have been ten or eleven, with my friends; we captured an old tomcat who regularly wandered the neighbourhood … I still dream about him: he was a fat, grey tiger … To amuse ourselves, we attached a big stone to his neck. We wanted to dunk him in the pond behind my house … The cat fought like a devil, but we wouldn’t let him escape, though he scratched us a lot. Of course, once in the water, he sank. The stupid things we do at that age!

Like all the others, I profoundly hated this virgin forest, but, at the same time, she exerted a powerful fascination on me. The profusion of life particularly impressed me and, at night, I stopped often to listen to the birdsong, the buzzing of insects and the howling of monkeys. An original, inhabited paradise. Since we had left the Andean plateau, we had not encountered a living soul. No trace of indigenous people.

After six days on the march in this green hell, we finally found the river we were looking for. Snaking through the middle of the forest, the water’s course was at least twice as large as our Guadalquivir and its waters carried a sort of red mud. According to the information that Don Santiago had, it was necessary to continue for two days. For this purpose, we constructed with haste three great rafts that we immediately launched on the water. The prospect of gold increased our strength ten-fold.

We stayed for a while near the banks of the river, where the current was weakest, then advanced at a fast rate, faster than we had through the forest. On the second day, toward noon, in the winding of the river, we saw in the middle of the trees an immense megalith of stone, erected at the foot of the bank. It looked like one of the ancient
menhirs
found in certain countries of the Old Continent. Don Santiago ordered us to disembark at the foot of this colossal stone. As tall as five men, at least, this block possessed a surface perfectly smooth and polished. Judging this to be a pagan idol, Brother Hernando demanded in the name of our Most Holy Church that we throw it down, but Don Santiago firmly refused. It was necessary to save our strength. El Dorado was now very close by.

I have read somewhere that Lovecraft felt ill at ease in his time, that he would have preferred to live in the 18th century. A little like me … I would have lived in Antiquity, walking the streets of Imperial Rome or the Greece of Pericles … Ah! There is the entrance to the Main Library. I climb the steps … hop, here I am in the main lecture hall … Kids work at the study tables and there, at the end, I see Bob the Giant … I stand in front of him.

– Here I am. Am I late?

– Sit there and wait, he says, indicating the chair next to him.

– I’d like an explanation, at least. You can’t tell me why you had me come here? Whom are we waiting for?

– ‘Patience is the mother of all virtues.’

– Okay, but I’m a little bemused by all this mystery, and –

– Wait, look over there, he says, pointing to the entrance I have just entered through moments before.

– That man is your key.

A man wearing a macintosh advances down the center aisle. I notice immediately that he limps, that his right leg hurts him. He comes closer and I begin to see his face … more and more clearly … the oval face … the fine and regular features … the almond eyes with a glassy look … the skinny profile … the sallow skin … no … no … It’s not possible … this man … He just looked at me and I know him … This cannot be who I think it is … I swim in delirium … He is now some meters from me … There is no longer any possible doubt … It is indeed Howard Phillips Lovecraft … I am afraid.

– Good morning. Can you help me, please? he asks the librarian.

The other takes some time to respond then Lovecraft continues:

– I understand that you have archives concerning the riches of the world and I have heard that you possess an example of the
Voyage of Don Ignacio de Arroyo
. Would it be possible to consult it?

I feel as if a lance of brilliant light just pierced me through and through and searched my heart. I’m two fingers away from fainting. Everything around me pitches about, but bit by bit, I master myself. This
Voyage of Don Ignacio de Arroyo
… the trunk of my grandfather … I had thought to be in possession of the only copy of the manuscript and yet, here before my very eyes, the Master of Arkham asks to see the manuscript. The employee answers him with all the courtesy of the world: