The Children of Llothora

THE CHILDREN OF LLOTHORA

  By Grant Hoeflinger

  Copyright 2013 Grant Hoeflinger

  Cover Design By Don Saunders (webmark at Fiverr.com)

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  Even as I commit these words to paper, I remain uncertain as to my reasons for doing so. It was no easy feat to obtain the materials I would need for this project. My keepers decided long ago that access to paper and pen was more a detriment to my "recovery" than an aid. Considering the difficulty involved in obtaining these items, one would think that I would be eager to record my experiences, yet all I feel at the prospect of confronting these specters of my past is a cold horror that stems from my gut and runs all the way up my spine to some primal part of my brain. Every fiber of my being screams for me to stop this memoir, and yet I continue writing despite the aching of my eyes caused by squinting in the dim light provided by the single bulb hanging from the ceiling and the small windows beyond my reach that are desperately in need of cleaning.

  My neighbors do nothing to make this task easier. They are a colorful bunch, I suppose. The one across the hall from my "suite" is screaming again, demanding that he be given a horde of insects that he might consume them to feed the million spiders that crawl through his veins, laying the webbing needed to hold his body together. At first his cries caused me some concern and despair, but after all these years I almost look upon them as a means of telling time – horribly inaccurate, but still reassuring for someone who has been without a timepiece for so long. Both of the rooms on either side of mine are occupied as well. One gentleman has told me several times that he is the famed Napoleon Bonaparte and lists to his credits several historical escapades including the chopping of a fruit-bearing tree, battling the British Army for the independence of America, and taking the first sworn oaths to become President. To my amusement, he seems to speak only the German tongue, of which I am only passingly familiar.

  It is my other neighbor who fills me with dread. He has been here the longest, longer even than I. I hear him at all times, whether his voice is screaming or only whispers from a distance. At times, his voice is strong, at others his throat sounds savaged by thirst and exhaustion, but I have never heard him cease his chanting. I have even suspected him of chanting in his sleep. I cannot tell you the meaning of these words he speaks, only that they send a feeling of disquiet throughout me and a feeling of nausea from within my stomach as if something inside of me raged at the sound of them. Even if I were to lose all my other memories, I would still hear his words echoing in the primal recesses of my mind:

  "Innota ea tor Markanthoran!

  'Eloa ea tor Markanthoran!

  'Ikkor pon ea tor Markanthoran!"

  Never have I felt such distaste for someone as I do for this man who lives beside me. I have never met him, but I would gladly strangle him if only to stop the words that pour forth from his lips like a constant deluge of filth.

  Perhaps my neighbors are the reason I wish to commit my tale to paper. They are the only ones who will listen to me anymore. My keepers gave up long ago after coming to the conclusion that I would never believe their lies. Those who might read these pages are the only sane beings I can expect will ever learn of my tale.

  But I beg you, do not judge me based on my past! I will come right out and plainly tell you that I am guilty of the crime for which I was arrested. I make no claims to the contrary. All the others who have listened to my story could not see beyond my guilt. They were convinced that I was speaking falsely to provide some defense against incarceration. No jail cell could ever be worse than the cell in which I have been confined all these years. I shall be up front with you, and tell you my history so that you might see that it was not malice or some imbalance of reason that led me to my criminal acts, but rather a desperation that all men who have suffered as a result of a conspiracy against them might feel.

  With your indulgence, I shall tell you of my life prior to my fall from society's graces. It was still early in my life that I achieved what I considered to be some measure of success. While still in the early years of the second decade of my life I married my sweetheart from high school. I had gone into the career of banking and had risen to a position of assistant manager at the local branch. My superiors assured me that I would soon find myself promoted if I continued to excel at my position. I awaited this achievement with scarcely contained enthusiasm. My wife and I had moved into a house that had belonged to her deceased grandmother, a quaint Victorian home in a neighborhood populated mainly by the community's elders. We had just celebrated the arrival of our first child, a daughter we had named Erica. We had no complaints with our lives, barring the exception of the occasional squabble about the color of the new draperies or floor covering. It was an ideal life by any standards.

  The end came with no warning. I walked to work that morning, a common event since we were fortunate enough to live only a few blocks away from my branch office. I passed by several distinguished members of the community on my way, sharing nods, smiles, and the odd pause to engage in friendly conversation. Working at the largest bank in the community had its advantages, chief among them was popularity among so many for making their transactions go smoothly and resolving the rare dispute that arose. Were there to be a contest to determine the individual most beloved in town, I had no doubt that I would have been among the highest contenders.

  Barely two hours had passed that morning when the branch manager called me back into his office, not an unusual event in itself. I was frequently summoned so that I might be awarded praise from the manager, or for an invitation to join him in a drink either during lunch or after the bank had closed. I sat down at his desk, and my smile swiftly vanished at the sight of that serious glower on his face.

  The other assistant manager at the bank, a sniveling worm of a man named Jeremy Bradford, had gone to my manager that morning and weaved a web of lies. Always jealous of my success, Bradford had reported that I had returned from my lunch break the previous day in a drunken stupor, had continued drinking while finishing my shift, and had even stolen money from the evening's deposits! It is deplorable that a man should be so unable to find accomplishment through his own efforts that he must turn to smearing the good name of another. Bradford was one such man, and I was the latest name he would smear to ascend the ladder of privilege.

  I protested my innocence to the charges accused of me, and I assured my manager that I would never arrive back to work in a state fogged with inebriation, nor commit the sin of drinking while performing my duties. To my shock, my manager accused me of reporting to work intoxicated on numerous prior occasions, of reeking of alcohol on most days, and stated that he had other witnesses who had informed him that not only had I taken money the night before, but that I had done so multiple times in the past. I could not believe that Bradford possessed such powers of persuasion that he could turn my coworkers against me, even the supervisor who had praised my work so often in the past.

  Despite my best efforts, I was unable to save my job. I was cast out of my branch onto the street without so much as the personal effects I had kept at the bank, not even the picture of my daughter. It would take a better liar than I to claim that I was not filled with anger at this outrage, this injustice, but alas, there was nothing more I could do for myself at that time. My emotions would surely only lead me to rash
decisions that would eliminate any future efforts to restore my job. Conceding that I must back down for now and wait for my time to come, I went in search of solace.

  I could not return home with this news. How could I tell my wife, only recently recovered from the rigors of childbirth, that I had lost our sole means of income because of false accusations against which I was powerless? I needed the advice and comfort of friends, so I headed directly to where I knew I could find them. This haven from my troubles was a well-known establishment around town. To the common eye, it was an excellent restaurant catering to the spicier foods favored by the Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Spanish population of the city. For those with the proper connections, The Gentleman's Haven was a place where one might enjoy fine imports of both cigars and alcohol. I'd known the owner, Bernado Rivera, for some time now, and The Gentleman's Haven was my place of choice for a drink after work. Bernado would be a source of wisdom and sage advice that would do well by me, particularly in finding a delicate way to break my unfortunate news to my wife.

  The Gentleman's Haven had just opened for the day's luncheon crowd. I entered into the front area, which was filled with neat tables covered in plain tablecloths and adorned with small lamps that would be lit at night to provide a more intimate atmosphere. I passed by the tables and headed directly to a doorway leading to a dimly-lit area. In this back recess, Bernado offered his distinguished guests privacy and comfort as they indulged in their preferred vice. It was also where the man himself spent much of his time while at his establishment, enjoying a cigar of his own with his meal. I passed through the doorway past the large man who kept out those Bernado had not given permission to enter. The bouncer looked oddly at me, a frown on his face, a departure from his usual lack of expression. A feeling of dread overcame me. Had Bradford's treacherous webs spun so far as to reach here? Dismissing my unease as paranoia, I entered Bernado's den.

  The dim lighting required a moment for my eyes to adjust. Several booths and private tables were set up inside the room, but its main feature was the prominent bar that started from the entrance and occupied the entire length of one wall. The room was devoid of any customers. It was too early for reasonable men to be sneaking a drink or a smoke during the business day. Bernado and one of his bartenders were seated at the far end of the bar, busy inventorying the stock. They looked up from their business at me as I approached.

  Bernado was not a tall man, but was recognizable. His heritage as the son of a Puerto Rican immigrant and the passing fancy of an unknown white man gave him a skin tone unique to this town. He wore his dark hair neatly combed back, and had a trimmed beard occupying his chin. He preferred to wear cream-colored suits with ties that stood out, that day's being a red tie with a white stripe running down the length of its left side. He looked up at me as I approached. I was taken aback by his expression, a mixture of anger and disappointment. I sat down beside him and said nothing as he glared at me. Finally, I decided to indulge in a drink. I ordered a bourbon, of which Bernado kept some of the best in stock.

  The bartender gave Bernado a look, and I was shocked to see Bernado shake his head. Rather than ask what was wrong, I instead began trying to explain what had happened to me at the bank. When I told him about my protests of being sober the night before, Bernado simply shook his head and asked that I leave. He felt it would be best if I stayed away from his bar and went straight home. My protests that today's tragedy surely called for the solace of some bourbon brought only further anger from Bernado.

  How it stung when this old family friend accused me of having been to that very same room twice the day before, drinking copious amounts of liquor before returning to work penniless, and then returning later that evening flush with cash and determined to continue drinking! That Bernado, a man I had known since my childhood, would make false stories about how he had needed for me to be carried out, and had arranged for cab fare to take me home! How, I wondered, was it possible that Bradford had turned even this dear friend into an enemy who now claimed me a drunkard?

  I left The Gentleman's Haven in anger, cursing Bernado for his lies. I sank down to the curb outside, despair settling deep in my heart. I knew now that Bradford must have been at work against me for some time, spreading his lies and falsehoods. How could he hate me so much that he would turn everyone against me like this? I saw the look of disgust people gave to me as they passed by. My popularity had been ruined by the tales that must have spread like wildfire since that morning. It could not have been merely the work of my jealous coworker that had brought me down so low, but the efforts of some cabal that conspired against me for reasons I could not fathom even as I suffered for them.

  I returned home sullenly. How does a man prepare himself for the devastation his wife must feel at the news that he had been so thoroughly ruined? No answer was forthcoming to me as I made the walk home, my steps unsteady from the mental burden I carried. I ascended the steps leading to our home at the intersection of Vine and Mulberry, tripping over the loose stone I had fixed so many times in the past. It had always dislodged again almost immediately. I noted that my wife was not home, likely out shopping for groceries or perhaps taking Erica for a walk. I made my way to the cabinet where I kept a bottle of Bernado's finest, though I would never again associate anything fine with the man who had turned on me so viciously.

  I had finished one, perhaps two drinks by the time my wife arrived home, bearing our sleeping daughter in her arms. As soon as she had stepped through the door I could tell that she knew at least some of what had happened this morning, no doubt having heard the twisted tale developed by Bradford and his conspirators! I waited until she had laid Erica down to speak with her, meaning to pass the time with another drink but disappointed to discover that the bottle was empty. When my wife returned, I had barely opened my mouth before she had begun a tirade against me.

  Woe to the man who must watch his whole life be turned against him! First my coworkers, then my friends, and then even my family; I was without any refuge or succor against this assault of my character. And my wife, the woman I had loved since we had begun our courtship during the early years of the tenth grade, her betrayal stung the most of all. She accused me of being drunk there on the spot, a claim that my two drinks could not support. Then she accused me of drinking to such excess that the whole city knew me as a drunkard. Because I had placed the security and future of our family at risk by my actions, she accused me of being unworthy of calling myself a man.

  How long she ranted against me, I do not know. A sickly feeling came over me, starting from the bottom of my stomach or perhaps within the intestines and working its way up through my body, traveling the length of my spinal cord until it reached the recesses of my brain. The world became dark, and I welcomed oblivion's embrace as the first comfort I had received in these trying times.

  My awakening was rude. The shock of cold water being dumped over my head left me helpless and sputtering as constables of the law dragged me to a waiting car. Not a one would tell me why I was being manhandled, and it was not until I had been thrown into the local jail that I learned the reason. The police had been notified of my alleged theft, and then supplied with sufficient falsified evidence to warrant my being locked away. The police had visited Bernado and had been told to come to my house in search of me. Amid all the lies these men who have conspired against me have told, the next was the most heinous of them all. I swear to you, while I am guilty of the later crimes I was locked away for, it is not now, nor has it ever been in my nature, to lay a hand against my wife!

  I do not know to what degree my foes had wanted me reduced, but no doubt they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. I was unfairly convicted of the stealing the bank's money, and then further convicted of assault against my wife. To add to my dismay, my wife divorced me and was awarded everything; my home, the rights to our child, and all of our worldly possessions, were hers. I was left destitute, and upon my release from jail two years later I found myself forced to li
ve on the streets.

  After a year of penniless poverty, I had plenty of time to wallow in self pity, but pulled myself out from it. I carefully worked to collect evidence of my innocence, spying on whispered private conversations between those who had turned on me. I collected what physical proof I could of the conspiracy until I felt I had enough to prove my innocence to my wife. It was my plan that we should leave this damnable city together after she had accepted my proof. Full of purpose and vigor from the thought of our reconciliation, I returned to the house at Vine and Mulberry.

  There, I was subject to a sight that crushed my hopes with singular efficiency. A man I had never seen was locked in a loving embrace with my wife. Their kiss had a passion to it that spoke of time spent together, and the new wedding band on her finger announced that she was now the wife of another. This sight was enough to stop me abruptly, but I fell to my knees when I saw a young girl whose hair matched my own in color, but with her mother's texture, run up to this stranger and leap into his arms while screaming in joy that her "daddy" had come home. Oh the agony I felt in knowing that my Erica had grown up with no knowledge of her true father, tricked into believing some man with no blood tie to her whatsoever had the right to be called her "daddy!" I wept.

  There would be, I knew, no reconciliation with my family. Better that I should leave everything of my past behind and travel to some new location. Perhaps the small town of Newfane, isolated as it was from most traffic. But to travel anywhere I would require funding, and my plans of selling off property to raise those funds were dashed along with my hopes of familial reconciliation. Where then might I gain access to the cash needed to support my relocation and new life?

  After much contemplation, desperation provided me with my answer. I had no means of lawfully earning the money I required; public opinion had been turned against me to such an effect that no one would hire me. I needed to find a source of income sufficient to cover the expenses of travel and lodging while I found gainful employment in a new city. If I could no longer earn it through hard work, it stood to reason that I must earn it through less reputable means. It is not in my nature to be a thief, but with no other option before me, I could not turn back.

  The ideal mark was obvious, and I had settled upon him before I had finished wrestling with my morals over the matter of using theft to start my new life. Old man Cunnings was something of a local legend. He had come into the bank once every three months to make large cash deposits into his only account, which then paid for his bills until it was emptied and he returned to refill it after another three months. No one had any idea where Cunnings' money came from; he did not work, and there was no record of family inheritance to produce such funds. And yet there he was, without fail, visiting the bank quarterly to make certain his bills were paid. It stood to reason that he must have had some source of income, and since he did not keep it in the bank, I deduced that he must keep it all in his house, which lay only three blocks away from my previous home.

  Cunnings was known for leaving town periodically for at least a week at a time, sometimes for as long as a month. All I had to do was wait for him to leave, and I would be afforded plenty of time to enter his home and search for whatever treasure lay within. By the time of his return, I would have sold whatever trinkets I had pilfered and be relocated elsewhere, safe and sound.

  I had passed by Cunnings' house often enough in the past to be familiar with its exterior. An old stone wall that came up to my chin surrounded the property, whereupon the two-story house squatted and gazed upon the rest of the community. A driveway led to a garage in the small backyard of the house. The rest of the grounds were wild and unkempt much of the time until someone lodged a complaint and Cunnings hired a man to come maintain it. The vegetation had crept up to the house and had begun to cover it as well, making the building blend in at times with its surroundings.

  Old Man Cunnings lived alone but for a single servant, whose name was unknown to any in the city. Both were always seen together whenever they left the confines of the house, with the servant driving Cunnings whenever he left on his mysterious trips to parts unknown. They never had any callers, though with the gate always shut while they were at home it would have been impossible for any well-wishers to approach at all. Cunnings liked his solitude, and that was to my advantage as I planned for my crime.

  I did not have long to wait. , Cunnings and his servant pulled away from the house in his car, leaving me the opportunity to search for a way inside the building. Darkness had already fallen when they left, and I wasted no time pulling myself over the wall and hunting for a way inside.

  I did not think it likely that the garage should have anything in it worthy of stealing, but determined not to overlook so obvious a hiding place. The door was unlocked, and of no matter to pull open, though it made a most dreadful racket as it cried out for maintenance. My search turned up nothing of interest, for the garage was stocked with little more than the basic essentials that all garages posses. My search was not a waste of time, however, for upon exiting I spied what seemed a likely source of entry: a cellar door.

  The door appeared to be unlocked, though the metal hinges and handles had begun to convert to rust from neglect and the unmerciful attentions of the elements. I rejoiced at the ease in which I had found entry, and grabbed hold of the handles to pull the doors open, when the oddest sensation stirred within my stomach, causing me to stop. Not the fluttering of nerves, for those had certainly already been at work in abundance, but rather a feeling of disquiet and sudden, inexplicable nausea. My mouth became dry as I stared at the doors, trying to use force of will to open them and descend into the darkness that waited. A sweat broke upon my brow, and at the very edge of my vision danced shadows that took on the forms of creatures most unimaginable. I released the door's handles and backed away. Each backward step eased my symptoms, but they did not vanish until I had backed myself all the way to the garage and stood there shaking for several moments.

  Easy access to the house it might have been, but I could not bring myself to enter that cellar. The thought of stepping into those depths brought back that queer, unsettling sensation, and I nearly retreated further to escape from it. How long I stood there trying to gather my composure, I am uncertain, but when I finally could bring myself to move again, I set about searching for an alternative means of entry. Before long I found it, an unlocked window on the ground floor that had warped in its frame, making it difficult, but not impossible, to pry open. With some effort, I managed to pull myself up and squeeze through the small opening I had made, falling to the floor on the other side in what appeared to be some sort of mud room.

  The first thing I noticed was that the room was disgusting, covered in filth. While it is not uncommon for such rooms to have dirt, this particular one was caked with it. It appeared as though Cunnings' servant had never set foot in this room except to pass through it. There was a cabinet in the room, but I ruled against searching through it after a quick glance revealed exceptionally copious amounts of undisturbed dust on the handles.

  Undaunted, I moved on to the next room, which proved to be the kitchen. Like the mud room, this was also filthy but was accompanied by an odor of rot and decay that came from food long past its prime. Stacks of filth-encrusted dishes sat in the sink, unknown species of mold and bacteria growing on their surfaces. My stomach churned at the combination of the sight and smell, but I ignored it and moved to what I felt must have been the pantry.

  As soon as my hand touched the door knob I was again assailed by those same feelings that had threatened to overwhelm me at the cellar doors outside. My hand went rigid on the knob, and I could not pry my fingers loose as I began to turn it. The natural instincts of man that instruct us to either fight or flee kicked in, screaming warnings to run from whatever was below, but I could pay them no heed. Panic rose, and I observed the hairs on my arms raise straight up as though an electrical current had run through me. In the distance, I could almost make out whispe
ring voices that had a beckoning quality to them. I had just begun to pull the door open, when my will was at last able to assert itself, and I wrenched my hand free of the doorknob, kicking the door shut as I did so. I was covered in sweat and observed that quite some time had passed, for the moon had become obscured by thick clouds, and moved from where it had hovered in the sky, leaving me without its pale light. In the dark, that door took on an even more menacing quality, and I fled the room with haste.

  Beyond the kitchen was a foyer with a staircase leading to the second floor of the house. I passed this by in favor of exploring the small dining room and adjoining sitting room. Both had the same quality of filth to them as the previous rooms, and I observed that all the furniture was extremely old and in poor condition. Dust caked nearly everything, and what wasn't covered in dust was too filthy to be of any real value. Again I questioned what role Old Man Cunnings' servant held here. It was obvious that he did not clean, and I shuddered to think it possible that either of them ate from the dishes in the kitchen. How then did they survive in this place? Perhaps that was the real secret of Old Man Cunnings; he did not leave on trips, but only came to visit his old home when occasion demanded it. My hopes of finding some secret cache of money or valuable antiques were quickly being dashed, but I continued my search regardless, the stairs creaking under my weight as I ascended to the second floor.

  The upstairs was a cramped space, consisting of a narrow hallway with only three doors leading off from it. I opened the first door that I came to and discovered a small room, barely larger than a closet, and upon the floor I saw a pallet of straw. From the man-shaped impression I observed, this straw was likely the servant's bed. Small shelves were bolted to the wall and were covered in what appeared to be perfume bottles, the source of the cloying smell that filled the tiny space. Spying what I thought to be movement in the pallet, some perverse curiosity bade me nudge the straw with my foot just hard enough to disturb it. To my horror, a horde of slithery things, maggots the size of my thumb, poured from the straw amidst more common crawlers such as worms and cockroaches. Horrid images of sleeping on this pallet every night while the maggots and other members of the horde feasted upon my flesh filled my head, and I fled the room, praying that my stomach would not empty itself before I could reach the bathroom.

  It was the condition of the bathroom that finally forced me to vomit. I had never stopped to consider what state the bathroom would be in, despite the retched condition of the rest of the house. If the bathroom had ever been cleaned since this house was constructed, I would have been surprised. Dried excrement filled the room with an unbelievable stench that had been released when I had thrown the door open. Wood rotted in the walls, anything of porcelain was stained beyond recognition of its original color, and the mirror was so encrusted with a foreign substance that I could not see myself in it. After the contents of my stomach had fled, I found myself trying to vomit three more times from the overpowering smell and disgusting conditions of the room.

  Were I not in such desperate straits, I would have left the house just to escape this housekeeping horror. As I was in a situation that would not permit me to turn away, I instead went to the end of the hall to explore the last room on the second floor. The stench of the bathroom still followed me, a horrid odor that now filled the entire upstairs, and I was disturbed to notice that I had begun to not mind it as much. Wondering what horror would await me in this final room, I eased the door open cautiously and only peeked inside.

  Compared to the rest of the house, this room was pleasant. It was the master bedroom, and it proved to be in relatively good shape, though crammed with furniture, books, and writing supplies to an extent that it was almost impossible to walk without stepping on something. Wallpaper was peeling away from the wall in several parts of the room, but the ever present filth that pervaded the rest of the house was absent here. I entered cautiously, expecting to find some horror hidden from view at the door, but was pleasantly surprised when nothing assailed me upon my entry.

  The room was dominated by a large, ancient bed as well as a massive desk covered in papers and other writing supplies. I noted an old quill pen and inkwell on one corner of the desk. It seemed obvious that old man Cunnings spent all of his time here at this desk. Should anything of value be present in the house, I was certain I would find it there. My hopes of discovering something of worth restored, I set about searching the desk.

  I discovered that Cunnings was writing some massive volume, but could not decipher its contents. The language was unlike any I had read before, and I wondered as to its source. Strange drawings of geometric patterns and alien anatomies were spread amongst the pages, and I felt certain that no sane person could have devised such things. Within one of the drawers, I found a large book, thick with moldering pages that felt so fragile I wondered if I dared risk breathing on them for fear that they might crumble. I attempted to determine its contents, thinking that perhaps it might be some valuable first edition I could pawn for sufficient money to leave town, but there was no title present on neither the cover, nor on the spine of the book. Risking the worst, I opened its pages and was met with more of the same unknown language. Setting that book aside, I searched through the rest of the drawers and came upon a second book. This tome had a cover that seemed to be metal but felt like leather, with pages lined in gold. A variety of papers were placed between the pages, each with writing in English, but in a tight, cramped handwriting that made them difficult to read. I realized that Cunnings was translating this tome, but the translations were only of mere passages, and I could make no sense of them. Still, I was able to discover that the title of the book was Of the Mysteries of Abarathoran, the Sundered King. I felt odd as I read the words, and the leathery texture of the metal cover began to confound my senses. I replaced the book in the drawer and turned to my last discovery, an old stone tablet. It was covered in a variety of writing, and I discerned that it was some sort of Rosetta Stone. As I read the letters carved onto its surface, I thought that I heard the same whispering voices I had heard at the basement door and quickly returned the tablet to the drawer where I had found it.

  My spirits had sunk below any point where I might rally them, and I began my retreat from this ancient and filth-ridden house. As I descended the stairs, I was horrified to see Cunnings' car enter the driveway. That strange servant let the old man out of the car before proceeding to drive to the garage at the back of the house. Cunnings walked slowly with the aid of a cane, heading for the front door that was directly before me!

  Panic filled me. What might Cunnings do should he discover me trespassing inside of his home? I had no interest in discovering the horrors anyone capable of living in a place such as this could unleash on someone, but I could think of no means of escape. Cunnings himself blocked my exit through the front door, and his servant would no doubt be upon me if I attempted to leave through the back. I decided to risk the rear exit anyway, and returned to that putrid kitchen only to see the approaching form of the servant at the door to the mud room beyond. With no other avenue of escape left to me, I decided on a course of action that I would otherwise never have chosen. Without pausing to think, I wrenched open the door to the basement and began a hasty descent down the stairs, shutting the door behind me.

  I stood there in complete darkness, certain that Hell itself waited for me at the bottom of those stairs. The sensations and fear I had felt upon merely touching the entrances leading to this dark abyss were as nothing compared to the terror which now threatened to overwhelm me. I could not bring myself to descend the steps further, but neither could I leave this place and take my chances with the house's owner. As I stood paralyzed by my inability to take action, I found myself imagining that something had grasped my ankle, and before I could react I found myself being pulled down the stairs.

  I landed on the cement floor with a hard thud, amazed that none of my bones had shattered from the force of my impact. Sounds I could not identify mingled with the
strange whispering voices that lay just on the edge of my hearing. The darkness was absolute, and I could make out nothing before me, not even the stairs I had just somehow fallen soundlessly down.

  I fumbled in my pockets and eventually discovered a single match. Striking it against the concrete floor, I nearly cried out in pain from the sudden flaring of light but held my voice so as not to alert the house's occupants. With the appearance of the light, the whispers and noises ceased, leaving me in an uncomfortable peace. I used my meager source of light to look around and found several large shelves filled with jarred and canned goods. Some of the jars were filled with a pale yellowish liquid. I tried to identify the contents floating within those jars but recognized none of them, though a few struck me as similar to the drawings I had seen in Cunnings' bedroom. Dismissing it as impossible that such things could truly exist, I turned my attentions to trying to find the cellar doors and escape from this nightmarish place.

  Moving into the larger and more open section of the cellar, I saw several large crucifixes embedded into the concrete floor. Despite the screams of some wiser, inner voice warning me not to, I proceeded forward to examine the crucifixes more closely. They were all of them ancient things, and a crucified corpse hung from each, decaying but somehow not filling the room with the smell of rot. I stared at the corpse closest to me, trying to make out some sort of feature on its face, but too much of the flesh had gone for me to recognize anything. My morbid fascination grew at this unnatural decay, and I reached out with a trembling hand to touch the corpse, perhaps in an effort to prove to myself that it was real. It was then that I noticed the chest cavity of the cadaver had been ripped open, seemingly from within. I thought that I saw movement within the cavity. Mindful of the horde of maggots and other crawling denizens I had disturbed in the straw pallet earlier, I jerked my hand away. It was at that moment that my attention became focused on something even larger than the occupied crucifixes.

  It was a statue, and at first glance its silhouette was reminiscent of a woman, but upon closer inspection I noticed horrific differences. Upon her head rested three distinct faces. Each face was beautiful, with seductive gazes that promised pleasures undreamt of. She had two sets of arms with six clawed fingers on each hand, not counting the thumb. Her chest was bare, exposing three sets of breasts and a belly that had the fullness of pregnancy but did nothing to detract from the horrific alien beauty she possessed. My eyes were drawn closer to the surface of her swollen belly, where I imagined impressions in the stone that appeared to be monstrous faces pressing against her "flesh" as they tried to escape from her womb. If the worst nightmares of mankind had a birth mother, this was she.

  Behind this statue lay a mural painted upon the brick of the basement wall. It depicted a scene in the midst of the duality of day and night. I could make no further details out, for at that moment, my match burned down to my fingers, and I dropped it. As the last bit of light sputtered out of existence, I caught sight of those three faces once more, and my mind screamed for me to escape this place, for I thought I saw an eye wink at me. The whispers began again as soon as the match went out. I heard a slithering noise and tried to judge its point of origin, but if my mental picture of the basement was correct, the only place the noise could have originated was from within one of the corpses hanging from those crosses. I shuddered at the thought of something nesting within those decaying cavities.

  The door from the kitchen was noisy as it opened, providing me with ample warning before the light from the kitchen flooded down the steps. I leapt away from that circle of illumination, diving behind a set of shelves so as to hide myself from discovery by whoever might descend into this horrid place. I soon saw that it was Cunnings, his servant shambling behind him. The servant carried two large pieces of lumber and tools while the old man himself concentrated on descending the staircase without mishap. I caught the smell of perfume on the servant as they passed by my hiding place, but it was old and faded; another odor, that of rot and decay, penetrated the perfume. The servant was gray of skin and moved stiffly as he walked, as if he were one of the living dead. The thought of the maggot-ridden straw pallet caused me to shudder and find the idea of a walking cadaver not quite so impossible.

  The whispers did not retreat from the light that accompanied Cunnings and his servant as they had with me. Instead, they intensified into a frenzy of sound that I could not ignore. Frustrated by the futility of my resistance, it did not occur to me that I might try and escape through the kitchen door until that portal had swung shut again and the basement returned to darkness.

  Cunnings lit a circle of candles that I had not noticed before, concentrating on that task as his servant assembled a new cross. I watched this process with fascination, scarcely willing to let out a breath for fear of discovery. When all was said and done, nary a shadow remained within the circle of candles that Cunnings had erected around the new cross, save for around a single unlit candle. His servant lifted the wizened man up into the air and bound him to the cross first with rope and then by driving nails through the flesh of his hands, elbows, knees, and feet in a horrid ritual crucifixion. His task completed, the servant stepped out of the circle and lit the final candle.

  A horrid transformation occurred then, one I still see in my nightmares. Flesh sloughed from the servant's bones, revealing muscle tissue beneath that had turned to grays and greens in coloration, accompanied with the smell of meat that had gone bad. The maggots from the straw pallet and other crawling things I cannot identify as from this Earth moved about his innards freely, feasting on decayed muscle and organs. The skinless cadaver collapsed to the floor, his remaining body collapsing into a morbid ooze upon the ground.

  Cunnings remained silent during the rapid decomposition of his servant. From my hiding place, I could see that his face was somehow in a calm, relaxed state despite the severe pain his crucifixion must have been causing him. I had seen faces that matched his on those about to experience religious rapture, but the thought of a religion that required crucifixion as a form of worship was a terrible thought indeed.

  I do not know how long I crouched there in morbid fascination. My eyes were riveted on Cunnings, but from the edge of my vision I thought I could see movement amid the cadavers crucified throughout the room. At some point, my imagination began to play tricks on me, and I thought I saw the monstrous statue move slightly, as though it were repositioning itself. Even had I wanted to explore these movements, I could not take my eyes away from Cunnings as he hung there, seemingly at peace with his situation.

  Without warning, Cunnings' eyes snapped open, and a terrible chanting began to escape from his withered lips. I could not understand a word of it, and to this day I cannot summon forth his incantation to my memory, but I recall shaking uncontrollably at the sound of it. Sweat beaded upon my brow, and chills ran down my spine.

  After a time, I noticed that other voices had joined Cunnings. Strange voices, unlike any I had heard before. By some quirk, I imagined them belonging to a group of women, but no woman had ever reached the octaves I was hearing. Octaves, I was certain, that ranged beyond what human ears could normally perceive. I sought out the source of these voices, and opened my mouth in a silent scream upon discovering their origin, my voice stolen by the horrors I was suddenly confronted with.

  From each of the cadaver's mouths, or what remained of their heads, emerged a series of tendrils covered in a shimmering ooze and ending with what appeared to be mouths. The cadavers twitched and shook as these unknown creatures squirmed within them. More tendrils extended from torn openings in the cadavers' chests, and these ended in vicious claw-like appendages. I could not begin to fathom the forms these tendrils were attached to, not even with the whole of my mental prowess and imagination focused on the task.

  The tendrils reached out to the statue, caressing its limbs and body lovingly. The statue was soon covered with the tendrils, and I could think of nothing so much as a family hugging an ancestor, though I was
uncertain as to why I would reach such a conclusion.

  Behind the statue, I noticed a transformation upon the mural. The sun and moon had begun a rotation as though passing through the hours of the day. There was no sense of time in the room except for the slow movement of the mural as it went through the first day's cycle. It might have lasted for a few short minutes or even the length of a full day; I had no way of knowing. This cyclical movement repeated itself twice more, and the whole time Cunnings' voice never wavered. At the end of the third cycle, all chanting suddenly ceased.

  Cunnings' body began to spasm wildly, as though he was finally aware of the pain his crucifixion was inflicting upon his body. As his thrashings grew wilder, I observed a strange undulating of his torso, as though something was pressing against his flesh, straining to escape the confines of his body. The image of the cadavers flashed through my mind, of their torsos bearing the markings of something having burst forth from them, and I could not escape the horrid certainty that I was about to bear witness to yet another such event.

  Cunnings' grew massive and bloated, nearly double his original size as he thrashed upon the crucifix. He arched his back, thrusting his belly forward as a terrible claw tore its way out from his stomach. Gurgles and other noises emerged from Cunnings' throat as a variety of liquids spilled freely from his mouth, running down his chin and raining upon the concrete below. That claw tore upwards, creating a huge incision in Cunnings' chest as the organs and other meat contained therein spilled forth. I could see now that this claw was attached to a tendril that matched the ones emerging from the other cadavers, and I wondered what horrid birth this ritual heralded.

  No sooner had my thought presented itself than I saw my answer. Amid the gore and viscera being pushed out of Cunnings' body, there came a new form, the size and shape of a grown man. It was not expelled with force, but gently held and lowered by tendrils from within Cunnings' cadaver. I had seen similar gentleness from my wife as she had laid our daughter down to sleep for the first time. The figure rose to its feet, and I observed in shock that it was naked of any flesh. Muscle and bone were visible for all the world to see but even without flesh I knew his features. This was Cunnings; not the decrepit ancient who had gone to the bank every third month to deposit money, but a powerful and vibrant Cunnings in the prime of his youth. His eyes were the same as those I had seen before, and I wondered at the number of cadavers upon similar crucifixes throughout the room. Had each of these been a Cunnings, reborn fleshless an unknown number of times through this blasphemous method of resurrection?

  Cunnings turned and addressed the statue, which was still covered in the embraces of the tendrils from the other cadavers. The tendrils from his own cadaver, or perhaps I should say his most recent cadaver, had embraced him in a fashion similar to how the other tendrils embraced the statue. Cunnings raised his hands above his head and fell to his fleshless knees.

  "Llothora, grandmother, hear me! Born anew am I through the glorious birth of our own daughter, who is also mine mother, born from the womb that was my old flesh! All praises to you, womb of Sundered Angoranathoran! I shall continue thy will with this new life, our next daughter gestating within me until I have lived the lifetime of a man! Innota ea tor Llothora! Eloa ea tor Llothora! Ikkor pon ea tor Llothora!"

  It was at this point that all reason fled from me, and I gave in to those baser instincts of flight that have ensured the continuation of our species. I broke from my hiding place at a full run, taking no care to avoid upsetting the various items between myself and the stairs. I took to the stairs two and three steps at a time with near-leaps in my hurry to exit that horrid place. My hand grasped the door knob and had begun to turn it when I felt something again wrap around my ankle. A sharp pull resulted in my fall, my face bashing against the stairs several times during my descent. I slammed hard into that concrete floor. As unconsciousness claimed me I had the displeasure of my last sight being the new Cunnings crouching down above me, his fleshless mouth pulled into a grin.

  I awoke later in the back of a police car. A man who had claimed to be Cunnings' son had reported seeing me enter the house while arriving to visit his father, who had taken ill. The police ignored my rantings, which I admit had become less than lucid due to the shock I was still suffering from after the events I had witnessed. I was escorted to the local precinct and placed behind bars while I awaited my trial. It was there that I noticed the itching from under my clothes.

  I was horrified upon my examination to discover that somehow I had been cut open and then sewn up again. The thread was crusted in filth and grime that matched the horrid state of the Cunnings house and the items stored within that basement. I ranted and raged, insisting on an immediate medical examination. I was provided with no such care, though a sedative was applied to calm me down. On multiple occasions while still in that cell, I attempted to tear open the wound that I might rip out whatever Cunnings had placed inside of me. My captors always prevented this, and my further attempts led to my incarceration within these walls of madness.

  I worry that soon my thoughts will no longer be my own. I can hear her voice, her whispers that promise me life eternal if only I should serve her mother. I would be offered all the joy I had ever desired, and the child my ex-wife has denied me. The promises grow ever more appealing as I listen to the mad ravings around me, and every time I grow closer to accepting I can feel the twisting and writhing of excitement from the thing that grows within me, placed there by Cunnings that I might be its new womb.

  I can only pray that death will take me before my will fails, and shudder at the thought that each day I come closer to ending my struggle.

  ALSO BY GRANT HOEFLINGER

  LAERYK'S PROVING

  BOOK ONE OF THE SAGA OF THORNS