The Dunwich Romance

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ISBN: 978-1-62105-129-9

The Dunwich Romance © 2011, 2013 by Edward Lee

Cover art copyright © 2013 Jim Apalza

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Printed in the USA.

Acknowledgments

Wendy Brewer, Dave Barnett, Larry Roberts, Roy Robbins; Jeff, Rose, and Carlton at Deadite; Sergeant Andrew Myers, Bob Strauss, Corie Fromkin, Thomas Bauduret, Greg James, Qwee, reelsplatter, Joey Lombardo, Scott Berke, Alex McVey, Sandy Brock and Tony, Kyle N., Sheri Gambino, Krist, Tastybabysyndrome, Travis Deputy, Shroud Magazine, Monrozombi, Zombified420, sikahtik, rhfactornl, wm ollie, Konnie, Dianna Busby; Gorch; Ashton Heyd, Bob Chaplin, Southern Blood, Hexsyn, KK, Kim, Jan, Bartek Czartoryski, Michael Preissl, Greg Hurlstone, K in D, Dancingwith2leftfeet, Dathar, eubankscs, mypaperpast, Big T, brownie, drunk yorkshireman, mastodonisgod, fizzmaster, wildwood72, airbucket, squeakytherat, ronin57, etaylor, bodydenny, demonknight80, Foxglove, Matt Parsons, Terrence Patrick Rooney, Matthew T. Carpenter, Marcie, Troy Chambers, erbroxcore, gargirl, Emperor Buyer, allnumber2, Nigel Waspfinger, Old Fan, William M. Miller, Danielle D. Smith, Lisa Clay, EdHead, Cheryl Mullenax, Bgill, jasonwulf, Frank Festa, Fred Tosi, Bigheadsballsback, and Wilum Pugmire.

For Bob Hinton,

a great fan and a great friend.

Author's Note

Though a portion of H.P. Lovecraft enthusiasts are sure to curse me into the deepest pits of the Shoggoths for daring to 1) append one of the greatest horror stories ever written, and 2) for doing so in such an indelicate, microscopically sexual, and scatological manner, I suspect that a good many readers may indeed enjoy this bit of work. Moreover, I’m very grateful to those of you who are fans of my material and have continued to support these intermittent excursions into the venue of the Lovecraftian. Thank you! As a further note, for non-Lovecraftian readers, it would be much better to first read the original masterpiece, Lovecraft’s
The Dunwich Horror
; and for those of you who have read it in the past—I hope you are many—treat yourself to something special and read it again. It’s the type of story—like so many of the Master’s—that becomes more brilliant each time you read it. It can easily be found for free at Dagonbytes and other such wonderful websites. My effort here is merely a wee, insignificant ornamentation to the ingenious original. Long live Lovecraft!

—E.L.

March 15, 2011

The

Dunwich

Romance

One

The end of the Dunwich affair left it granted that the entirety of Wilbur Whateley’s hand-written records had been directed into the possession of the renown Dr. Henry T. Armitage (A.M. Miskatonic, Ph.D. Princeton, Litt.D. Johns Hopkins, Dr.Ing. Erlangen-Nürnberg) of Miskatonic University. Dr. Armitage is due considerable credit for having broken a complex acrostic/substitution code into which these records were enciphered; and the nature of the information gleaned makes it more than reasonable that said data was never publicly released. Instead, a counterfeit explanation devised by authorities spuriously stated that the records were but gobbledygook, an account much more easily digested by all who might be interested.

To reiterate: the existence of these records is granted. What is
not
granted, however, is this: not quite all of Wilbur Whateley’s records found their way to Dr. Armitage.

Two

Sary Sladder was being molested, quite creatively, behind a briar-bordered stone fence which paralleled some unwholesome pasturage on the westerly outskirts of Dunwich, when her dismal and quite mediocre life changed forever. Though attractive in body by most local judgment, the unkempt twenty-three-year-old had long-since resigned to an existence of questionable nutrition (of which semen played a depressingly large part) and poverty so absolute it was better left undetailed. Any world-view or personal doctrine that her grey matter may have engendered will remain equally undetailed; however, it might be relevant to delegate a few words to her physical aspect: very long, tar-hued hair; curvesome in contour to a voluptuous degree, while yet hardily lean; adequately bosomed and tumescently nippled; with skin that was, as goes the cliche, alabaster-white. Lips—if anything,
overly
full—adorned a mouth bereft of front teeth thanks to a father whose explosive psychological climate was all too commonplace amongst Dunwich men; yet this misfortune reversed as Sary soon identified the act of prostitution as her only feasible mode of income-production (more than half of her engagements in this sad yet aeonian trade consisted of “oral succor,” and the aforesaid missing incisors to quite a degree magnified the effectiveness of the service). All of her physical enticements, however, ended with the remainder of her visage: a mastiff attack when very young had left her minus one ear and scarred on both cheeks; she had a hopelessly collapsed nose (thanks, also, to her toper of a father); and an absolutely unvarying facial dermatological outbreak. (Less kind Dunwichers referred to her as “Stew Face.”) But another disability that (like the knocked out teeth) took a turn for the better was a grievous sinus infection during infancy which completely obliterated her sense of smell; hence, without ever even knowing it, Sary’s destitute existence was brightened, as the groins of Dunwichers were not known for their olfactory immaculateness.

Sary at this moment found herself on the less-advantageous end of an awry business proposition. Ten cents was all she charged, yet the target of her commerce today, the burly, hare-lipped Rufus Hutchins, son of an alcoholic well-digger named Elam, made an alternative offer:

“Wal, I got ten cents, Sary, but I also got ten suthin’ else.”

“Ten...
what?
” Sary asked, not in reception of his meaning.

Whack!
came the meaty sound of both fists slamming into her face. “Ten
knuckles,
ya dutty whore!” Rufus replied, pronouncing “whore” as “hoo-ah” in his mushy backwater dialect. He laughed and watched Sary topple to the grassy verge next to the fence. Her senses skewed; she saw proverbial stars as big sandpaper hands hauled her flannel dress up and roved her nude body. Fingertips pliered her nipples; a fist clenched her pubic thatch and
yanked,
and she yelped. “Gonna bust this hoo-ah pussy
up
with my dick, ee-yuh,” assured Rufus, as the organ to which his vernacular referred had already been extracted. It dangled half-limp but when—
whack!
—he struck her once more in the head, the organ erected with an instantaneousness so thorough one would’ve taken it to be spring-loaded. Sary’s vision smeared; she managed vocal incoherencies through the fist-induced stupor, and when she attempted to strike Rufus’s contorted face, her arm only flopped about. “My pa fucked yew onct,” Rufus reminded her. “Said yer cum-hole smelt wuss than a moose-gut pile ben in the woods a month,” and then pushed her face to one side, exposed the unattractive aperture where her ear had been bitten off, and, for some reason knowable only to one as deranged as Rufus, expectorated liberally into that aperture. These few moments of outrage sufficed to revive some of Sary’s vitality; she whipped her head back and forth as if to jettison the sputum from her ear-hole, and shrieked, “Yew’re right, your daddy fucked me but his dick was so little, I didn’t even
feel
it! And I also heerd yew suck
dog
dick!
” Sary, in truth, had heard no such thing, but felt the invention appropriate.

Rufus tensed. “Oh, so’s I suck dog dick, yew say?” and then the well-digger’s son brought two index fingers to his mouth, whistled quite piercingly, and called out, “Heer, Brooter! Heer, boy!” after which Sary’s guts shriveled as she recalled a bit too latently that the Hutchinses owned a collie named
Brooter,
and a
vicious
collie at that.

Over the fence bounded the mangy, yellow-fanged collie, its insane eyes keen with interest. Rufus snapped his fingers, commanded, “Roll over, boy!” whereupon the animal (curiously, as if
used
to this command) circumducted itself upon the ground and spread its hind legs. Testicles large as a human’s lolled in their fleshy sac, and a glistening pink tip of flesh had already begun to extrude from the penile sheath. Sary did not require notice as to what she would next be required to do.

“Thet’s a
good
dutty hoo-ah, thet’s a
good
Stew Face. Jess yew go on’n suck Brooter’s dick...,” her captor approved as Sary performed the unmentionable onus, yet with Rufus’ hands about her throat, alternate options did not present themselves. In no extended time, however, the girl’s skills proved sufficient to summon the bestial emission. Her first reaction was surprise—at the sheer
volume
of fluid that suddenly materialized in her oral cavity—then, the
horror
kicked in, for the taste, texture, and temperature of this aberrant discharge all combined at once, proving itself in all likelihood the most revolting substance to ever occupy space in her mouth. Her innate reflex, of course, was to expel it all as abruptly as it had appeared, yet at the same instant she would do just that, Rufus’ hands tightened about her throat, and he gave every guarantee: “Yew dun’t swalluh? Wal, then I’ll jess have ta crush yew’re head with one’a these fence-stones, then
fuck yew dead.
”