The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales) Read online

  She couldn’t have been dead for long, since I’d seen her only a few hours before, but she was already stiff. There was foam around her jaws. I couldn’t tell what had happened to her until I turned her over with a stick and saw, on the side that had lain against the ground, a gaping red hole that opened like some new orifice. The skin around it was folded back in little triangular flaps, exposing the pink flesh beneath. I backed off in disgust, but I could see even from several feet away that the hole had been made from the inside.

  I can’t say that I was very upset at Bwada’s death, because I’d always hated her. What did upset me, though, was the manner of it—I can’t figure out what could have done that to her. I vaguely remember reading about a kind of slug that, when eaten by a bird, will bore its way out through the bird’s stomach… But I’d never heard of something like this happening with a cat. And even more peculiar, how could—

  Well, anyway, I saw the body and thought, Good riddance. But I didn’t know what to do with it. Looking back, of course, I wish I’d buried it right there… But I didn’t want to go near it again. I considered walking into town and trying to find the Poroths, because I knew their cats were like children to them, even Bwada, and that they’d want to know right away. But I really didn’t feel like running around Gilead asking strange people where the Poroths were—or, worse yet, stumbling into some forbidding-looking church in the middle of a ceremony.

  Finally I made up my mind to simply leave the body there and pretend I’d never seen it. Let Sarr discover it himself. I didn’t want to have to tell him when he got home that his longtime pet had been killed; I prefer to avoid unpleasantness. Besides, I felt strangely guilty, the way one often does after someone else’s misfortune.

  So I spent the rest of the afternoon reading in my room, slogging through the Stoker. I wasn’t in the best mood to concentrate. Sarr and Deborah got back after four—they shouted hello and went into the house. When Deborah called me for dinner, they still hadn’t come outside.

  All the cats except Bwada were inside, having their evening meal, when I entered the kitchen, and Sarr asked me if I’d seen her during the day. I lied and said I hadn’t. Deborah suggested that occasionally Bwada ignored the supper call because, unlike the other cats, she sometimes ate what she killed. “Maybe she’s just full,” said Deborah, and laughed. That rattled me a bit, but I had to stick to my lie.

  Sarr seemed more concerned, and when he told Deborah he intended to search for the cat after dinner (it would still be light), I readily offered my help. I figured I could lead him to the spot where the body lay…

  And then, in the middle of our dinner, came that scratching at the door. Sarr got up and opened it. Bwada walked in.

  Now, I know she was dead. She was stiff dead. That wound in her side had been unmistakable, and now it was only…a reddish swelling. Hairless. Luckily the Poroths didn’t notice my shock; they were busy fussing over her, seeing what was wrong. “Look, she’s hurt herself,” said Deborah. “She’s bumped into something.” The animal didn’t walk well, and there was a clumsiness in the way she held herself. When Sarr put her down after examining the swelling, she slipped when she tried to walk away.

  The Poroths decided that she must have run into a rock or some other object and had badly bruised herself; they believe her lack of coordination is due to the shock, or perhaps to a pinching of the nerves. That sounds logical enough. Sarr told me, before I came out here for the night, that if she’s worse tomorrow, he’ll take her to the local vet, even though he’ll have trouble paying for treatment. I immediately offered to lend him money, or even pay for the visit myself, because I desperately want to hear a doctor’s opinion.

  My own conclusion is really not that different from theirs. I tend to think now that maybe, just maybe, I was wrong in assuming the cat dead. I’m no scientist—maybe what I mistook for rigor mortis was some kind of fit. Maybe she really did run into something sharp and then went into some kind of shock…whose effect hasn’t yet worn off. Is this possible?

  But I could swear that hole came from inside her.

  I couldn’t continue dinner and told the Poroths my stomach hurt, which was partly true. We all watched Bwada stumble around the kitchen floor, ignoring the food Deborah put before her as if it weren’t there. Her movements were stiff, tentative, like a newborn animal still unsure how to move its muscles. I suspect that’s the result of her fit.

  When I left the house tonight, a little while ago, she was huddled in the corner staring at me. Deborah was crooning over her, but the cat was staring at me.

  Killed a monster of a spider behind my suitcase tonight. That Ortho spray really does a job. When Sarr was in here a few days ago he said the room smelled of spray, but I guess my allergy’s too bad for me to smell it.

  I enjoy watching the zoo outside my screens. Put my face close and stare the bugs eye to eye. Zap the ones whose faces I don’t like.

  Tried to read more of the Stoker—but one thing keeps bothering me. The way that cat stared at me. Deborah was brushing its back, Sarr fiddling with his pipe, and that cat just stared at me and never blinked. I stared back, said, “Hey, Sarr? Look at Bwada. That damned cat’s not blinking.” And just as he looked up, it blinked. Heavily.

  Hope we can go to the vet tomorrow, because I want to ask him whether cats can impale themselves on a rock or a stick, and if such an accident might cause a fit of some kind that would make them rigid.

  Cold night. Sheets are damp and the blanket itches. Wind from the woods—ought to feel good in the summer, but it doesn’t feel like summer. That damned cat didn’t blink till I mentioned it. Almost as if it understood me.

  June 17

  …Swelling on her side’s all healed now. Hair growing back over it. She walks fine, has a great appetite, shows affection to the Poroths. Sarr says her recovery demonstrates how the Lord watches over animals—affirms his faith. Says if he’d taken her to a vet he’d just have been throwing away money.

  Read some LeFanu. “Green Tea,” about the phantom monkey with eyes that glow, and “The Familiar,” about the little staring man who drives the hero mad. Not the smartest choices right now, the way I feel, because for all the time that fat gray cat purrs over the Poroths, it just stares at me. And snarls. I suppose the accident may have addled its brain a bit. I mean, if spaying can change a cat’s personality, certainly a goring on a rock might.

  Spent a lot of time in the sun today. The flies made it pretty hard to concentrate on the stories, but figured I’d get a suntan. I probably have a good tan now (hard to tell, because the mirror in here is small and the light dim), but suddenly it occurs to me that I’m not going to be seeing anyone for a long time anyway, except the Poroths, so what the hell do I care how I look?

  Can hear them singing their nightly prayers now. A rather comforting sound, I must admit, even if I can’t share the sentiments.

  Petting Felix today—my favorite of the cats, real charm—came away with a tick on my arm which I didn’t discover till taking a shower before dinner. As a result, I can still feel imaginary ticks crawling up and down my back. Damned cat.

  June 21

  …Coming along well with the Victorian stuff. Zipped through “The Uninhabited House” and “Monsieur Maurice,” both very literate, sophisticated. Deep into the terrible suffering of “The Amber Witch,” poor priest and daughter near starvation, when Deborah called me in for dinner. Roast beef, with salad made from garden lettuce. Quite good. And Deborah was wearing one of the few sleeveless dresses I’ve seen on her. So she has a body after all…

  A rainy night. Hung around the house for a while reading in their living room while Sarr whittled and Deborah crocheted. Rain sounded better from in there than it does out here, where it’s not so cozy.

  At eleven we turned on the news, cats purring around us, Sarr with Zoë on his lap, Deborah petting Phaedra, me sniffling… Halfway through the wrap-up I pointed to Bwada, curled up at my feet, and said, “Look at her. You’d think sh
e was watching the news with us.” Deborah laughed and leaned over to scratch Bwada behind the ears. As she did so, Bwada turned to look at me.

  The rain is letting up slightly. I can still hear the dripping from the trees, leaf to leaf to the dead leaves lining the forest floor. It will probably continue on and off all night. Occasionally I think I hear thrashings in one of the oaks near the barn, but then the sound turns into the falling of the rain.

  Mildew higher on the walls of this place. Glad my books are on shelves off the ground. So damp in here my envelopes are ruined—glue moistened, sealing them all shut. Stamps that had been in my wallet are stuck to the dollar bills. At night my sheets are clammy and cold, but each morning I wake up sweating.

  Finished “The Amber Witch,” really fine. Would that all lives had such happy endings.

  June 22

  Rain continued through most of the morning. After the Poroths returned from church (looking, with their black clothes and large old-fashioned black umbrellas, like figures out of Edward Gorey), I passed some time indoors by helping them prepare strips of molding for their upstairs study. We worked in the tool shed, one of the old wooden outbuildings. I measured, Sarr sawed, Deborah sanded. All in all, hardly felt useful, but I was in the mood for some companionship.

  While they were busy, I stood staring out the window. The day had finally cleared. There’s a narrow cement walk running from the shed to the main house, and two of the kittens—Minnie and Felix, I think—were crouched in the middle of it, drying themselves in the late afternoon sun. Suddenly Bwada appeared on the house’s front porch and began slinking along the walk in our direction, tail swishing from side to side. When she neared the kittens, she gave a snarl—I could see her mouth working—and they leaped to their feet, bristling, and ran off into the grass.

  Called this to the Poroths’ attention. They said, in effect, Yes, we know, she’s always been nasty to the kittens, probably because she never had any of her own. And besides, she’s getting older.

  When I turned back to the window, Bwada was gone. Asked the Poroths if they didn’t think she’d gotten worse lately. Realized that, in speaking, I’d unconsciously dropped my voice, as if someone might be listening through the chinks in the floorboards.

  Deborah conceded that, yes, the cat is behaving worse these days toward the others. And not just toward the kittens, as before. Butch, the adult orange male, seems particularly afraid of her…

  Later, good Sunday dinner—chicken breast, rice, slice of rhubarb pie—and came back here.

  Yet now am a little irritated at the Poroths. They claim they never come into these rooms, respect privacy of a tenant, etc. etc., but one of them must have been in here, because I’ve just noticed my can of insect spray is missing. I don’t mind their borrowing it, but I like to have it by my bed on nights like this. Went over the room looking for spiders, just in case; had a fat copy of American Scholar in my hand to crush them (only thing it’s good for), but found nothing.

  Tried to read some Walden as a break from all the horror stuff, but found my eyes too irritated, watery. Keep scratching them as I write this. Nose pretty clogged, too—damned allergy’s worse tonight.

  Probably because of the dampness. Expect I’ll have trouble getting to sleep.

  June 24

  Writing this in the morning. Slept very late, as noise from outside kept me up last night. (Come to think of it, the Poroths’ praying was unusually loud as well, but that wasn’t what bothered me.) I’d been in the middle of doing this journal—some notes on De la Mare—when it came. I immediately stopped writing and shut off the light.

  At first it sounded like something in the woods near my room—an animal? a child? I couldn’t tell, but smaller than a man—shuffling through the dead leaves, kicking them around as if it didn’t care who heard it. There was a snapping of branches and, every so often, a silence and then a bump, as if it were hopping over fallen logs. I stood in the dark listening to it, then crept to the window and looked out. Thought I noticed some bushes moving, back there in the undergrowth, but it may have been the wind.

  The sound grew farther away. Whatever it was must have been walking directly out into the deepest part of the woods, where the ground gets swampy and treacherous, because, very faintly, I could hear the sucking sounds of feet slogging through the mud.

  I stood by the window for almost an hour, occasionally hearing what I thought were movements off there in the swamp, but finally all was quiet except for the crickets and the frogs. I had no intention of going out there with my flashlight in search of the intruder—that’s only for guys in the movies—and I wondered if I should call Sarr. But by this time the noise had stopped, and whatever it was had obviously moved on. Besides, I figured he’d have been angry if I’d awakened him and Deborah just because some stray dog had wandered near the farm. I recalled how annoyed he’d been earlier when—maybe not all that tactfully—I’d asked him what he’d done with my bug spray. (Will walk to town later and pick up a new one; clearly I must’ve misplaced the old.)

  I went over to the windows on the other side and watched the moonlight on the barn for a while; my nose probably looked crosshatched from pressing against the screen. In contrast to the woods, the grass looked peaceful under the full moon. Then I lay in bed, but had a hard time falling asleep. Just as I was getting relaxed, the sounds started again. High-pitched wails and caterwauls, from deep within the woods. Even after thinking about it all today, I still don’t know whether the noise was human or animal. There were no actual words, of that I’m certain, but nevertheless there was the impression of singing. In a crazy, tuneless kind of way the sound seemed to carry the same solemn rhythm as the Poroths’ prayers earlier that night.

  The noise only lasted a minute or two, but I lay awake till the sky began to get lighter. Probably should have read a little more De la Mare, but was reluctant to turn on the lamp.

  * * * *

  …After returning from town, the farm looked very lonely. Wish they had a library in Gilead with more than religious tracts. Or a stand that sold the Times. (Truth is, though, after a week or two you no longer miss it.)

  At dinner (pork chops, home-grown string beans, and pudding—quite good), mentioned the noise of last night. Sarr acted very concerned and went to his room to look up something in one of his books; Deborah and I discussed the matter at some length, and she suggested that the shuffling sounds weren’t necessarily related to the wailing. The former were almost definitely those of a dog—dozens in the area, and they love to prowl around at night, exploring, hunting coons—and as for the wailing…well, it’s hard to say. She thinks it may have been an owl or whippoorwill, while I suspect it may have been that same stray dog. I’ve heard the howl of wolves and I’ve heard hounds baying at the moon, and both have the same element of, I suppose, worship in them that these did.

  Sarr came back downstairs and said he couldn’t find what he’d been looking for. Said that when he moved into this farm he’d had “a fit of piety” and had burned a lot of old books he’d found in the attic; now he wishes he hadn’t.

  Looked up something on my own after leaving the Poroths. Field Guide to Mammals lists both red and gray foxes and, believe it or not, coyotes as surviving here in New Jersey. No wolves left, though—but the guide might be wrong.

  Then, on a silly impulse, opened another reference book, Barbara Byfield’s Glass Harmonica. Sure enough, my hunch was right: looked up June twenty-third, and it said, “St. John’s Eve. Sabbats likely.”

  I’ll stick to the natural explanation. Still, I’m glad Mrs. Byfield lists nothing for tonight; I’d like to get some sleep. There is, of course, a beautiful full moon—werewolf weather, as Maria Ouspenskaya might have said. But then, there are no wolves left in New Jersey…

  (Which reminds me, really must read some Marryat and Endore. But only after Northanger Abbey; the course always comes first.)

  June 25

  …Slept all morning and, in the afternoon, followed t
he road in the opposite direction from Gilead, seeking anything of interest. But the road just gets muddier and muddier till it disappears altogether by the ruins of an old homestead—rocks and cement covered with moss—and it looked so much like poison ivy around there that I didn’t want to risk tramping through.

  Overheated from walk—am I getting out of shape? Or is it just the hot weather? Took a cold shower. When I opened the bathroom door, I accidentally let Bwada out—I’d wondered why the chair was propped against it. She raced into the kitchen, pushed open the screen door by herself, and I had no chance to catch her. (Wouldn’t have attempted to anyway; her claws are wicked.) I apologized later when Deborah came in from the fields. She said Bwada had become vicious toward the other cats and that Sarr had confined her to the bathroom as punishment. The first time he’d shut her in there, Deborah said, the cat had gotten out; apparently she’s smart enough to turn the doorknob by swatting at it a few times. Hence the chair.

  Sarr came in carrying Bwada, both obviously out of temper. He’d seen a streak of orange running through the field toward him, followed by a gray blur. Butch had stopped at his feet and Bwada had pounced on him, but before she could do any damage, Sarr had grabbed her around the neck and carried her back here. He’d been bitten once and scratched a lot on his hands, but not badly; maybe the cat still likes him best. He threw her back in the bathroom and shoved the chair against the door, then sat down and asked Deborah to join him in some silent prayer. I thumbed uneasily through a religious magazine till they were done, and we sat down to dinner.

  I apologized again, but he said he wasn’t mad at me, that the Devil had gotten into his cat. It was obvious he meant that quite literally.

  During dinner (omelet—the hens have been laying well) we heard a grating sound from the bathroom, and Sarr ran in to find the cat almost out the window; somehow she must have been strong enough to slide the sash up partway. She seemed so placid, though, when Sarr pulled her down from the sill—he’d been expecting another fight—that he let her out into the kitchen. At this she simply curled up near the stove and went to sleep; I guess she’d worked off her rage for the day. The other cats gave her a wide berth, though.