Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation (31 page)

I wandered into the laundry room and saw the well-worn trap door that led to the shrine. I walked by it for all eleven years of my life but not once had descended its steps. I was nervous, and excited, at the same time.

It took a lot of effort to lift the door, as it was as big as me and was twice my weight. It was just as hard to stop it from slamming backwards onto the floor when I managed to get it open. I didn’t want to disturb my family downstairs.

I carefully walked down the stone steps, well worn by decades of regular use by my kin. I heard some muttering below and I smelled a strange mix of incense and the pungent tones of the ancient river sediment. As I descended the muttering increased, as did the aroma of the burning amber-frankincense joss sticks. I neared the end of the stairs and found a narrow doorway, leading to a dimly lit chamber. The muttering transformed into old Mandarin chants, much of which I could barely understand. They were prayers, this was clear enough, and I assumed they were directed to the Lucky Mouth.

I gasped at the size of the chamber that I slipped into. It was circular, at least thirty yards in diameter, and at the far end of the room was a giant frieze of a large sea creature, with many tentacles curling from its head, and malevolent, ruby encrusted eyes. Its mouth was strangely human in shape, and it was closed—and spanned four feet. It was a horrifying looking creature and yet I was fascinated by it. I could only assume that it was the Lucky Mouth, because my family was all kneeling before it.

To my surprise, Oldest Son and Second Oldest Son climbed to their feet and pulled up Mr. Baker. I had not seen him before as he had been lying on the cold stone floor in front of my family. His hands were tied behind his back and he was a wretched sight. He had bruises and blood on his face, one eye was puffed; his clothes were wet and mucky. He was trembling but said nothing. They dragged him to within a few paces of the frieze and I realized that he was going to be made a sacrifice to our family god.

I don’t know why, but because I liked Mr. Baker I ran into the chamber, to the shock and surprise of most of my family. I intended to reveal myself, but this hasty action was not planned. Granma looked up at me and smiled, while Papa showed concern. I bowed before my elders and humbly asked if Mr. Baker could be spared. Again, there were some shocked faces among those who were there.

Granma raised her weary body and hugged me, explaining that Mr. Baker was not a student, as he said, but an official of the government who intended to attack our friends and family in Innsmouth. He was an investigator. Papa showed some documents that proved it. I turned to Mr. Baker but he didn’t notice me, he was just kneeling with bowed head before the Lucky Mouth.

I didn’t know what to say. I still liked Mr. Baker, but I had already been disrespectful by speaking to my elders out of turn. Granma showed me a place where I should kneel and gave me a smiling, understanding look that also clearly told me to be quiet and only follow instructions. I smiled back but I was worried about Mr. Baker.

While my brothers kept a tight hold on Mr. Baker, Granma started to chant in the old tongue, and Papa responded in the same language. I had an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, uncertain as to what was going to happen to my friend. I was stunned by the occasion, and what I was seeing, and I was subdued by the powerful family compulsion to obey.

The smoke from the incense started to thicken and my head got a bit light. My eyes widened when I saw the frieze move slightly and the mouth began to open. I gasped, but my Granma held me around my shoulders, indicating for me to keep quiet. Mr. Baker started to cry. I really felt sorry for him.

The majority of the frieze remained a lifeless stone carving, but its mouth stretched open until it was big enough for a man to walk through. It was dark inside the mouth, but I thought I saw a faint orange glow, like the fire inside our steam engine when it isn’t in operation. I felt a warmth from its breath, and yet I also smelled the sea air.

Granma lowered her face near mine and whispered that I should stay put. She said that the Lucky Mouth would punish me if I pay no respect. I was scared and nodded that I understood.

I saw Mr. Baker tremble and try to break free, but my brothers were strong and held him fast. Granma stood and cried out in a tongue that I never heard before—in a way that couldn’t have come from a human voice—and yet it seemed familiar to me. The orange light burst into a flame, and then as quickly it turned a dark blue and the mouth changed into a window to an underwater world. It reminded me of Papa’s aquarium where he keeps his fish and crayfish for cooking.

Mr. Baker started shouting and screaming in English, begging to be released. He swore on his mother’s grave he would never say anything about what he saw, but my family ignored him. I looked to Granma, and she shook her head solemnly. Again, her eyes told me to be quiet and still.

Mr. Baker was dragged a few feet closer to the Lucky Mouth and suddenly his screaming stopped. His body jerked violently for a few seconds, and then he knelt still, gazing at something in the murky depths of the water world through the maw. I couldn’t see his face, but I sensed, by his relaxed muscles, and the slight inclination of his head, that he was paralyzed, or so shocked he lost his sanity.

Two pearl-white tentacles burst through the mouth, splashing water into the chamber, drenching poor Mr. Baker. One tentacle whipped around his shoulders, pinning his arms to his torso, while the other wrapped around his waste. I wanted to stand up but Granma kept her frail hand on my shoulder, and then to my horror, the tentacles ripped Mr. Baker in half, and dragged the two pieces into the water. Blood sprayed my face, contrasting with the paleness of my shocked face. For a fleeting moment I thought I saw in the water a giant eye, the size of an automobile, glowing a sickly yellow; blinking.

I pulled out a handkerchief from my sleeve to wipe away the blood, but my Granma stopped me. She pointed to the mouth. It slowly closed and all that was left were puddles of sea water and blood on the chamber’s floor.

Granma hugged me again and everyone smiled and nodded with satisfaction. I looked in Granma’s face and saw, where there were splatters of blood, there were also light colored scales underneath them. I desperately felt my face, and where there was wetness, there were also the unmistakable outlines of scales.

I now knew. I suppose I always did, deep down inside, but this was my life’s lesson. The Lucky Mouth was no human god, but a god of some other race, whose blood in part coursed through my veins. Maybe the veins of others in Arkham, and especially Innsmouth. I realized that Mr. Baker had to go as he was an enemy of me and my kind. I no longer felt sympathy for him.

I noticed my fingers covered in Mr. Baker’s blood. I enjoyed licking them clean.

HOLDING HER HAND

by

Anthony Bell

Monday feels so long ago, much more than a few days. I didn’t notice the effects until later, but looking back, I’m sure I was first affected that morning.

I was at my kitchen table, which I found on craigslist; it’s a bit warped and ugly, but serves its purpose. The stool I sit on is a bit high and leaning over my bowl of cereal chapped my ass at times, but Cindy always made me feel better in the morning.

She was the anchorwoman. Cindy “
big
tits” Merchant. Gorgeous smile, big eyes, and bigger twins barely shadowed by an extra button left undone. Men are simple creatures to please, and I know I watched the morning news less for info than for enjoyment.

She was relating a story about orphaned children in Bolivia. They had footage from earlier that day of one Ronald Burgess, finely dressed and clean, interviewing the caretaker as the destitute kids played off to the side. He asked about the conditions and what the children did for fun.

A dark brown boy, made darker by a layer of dirt, walked across the background. Ronald asked the caretaker, Eva, who spoke both Spanish and English, what the little boy’s name was.

“
Enrique,” she said.

“
Would you call him over here, please?” Ronald said, and favored the camera with a smile, so viewers knew his motivation stemmed from
the kindness of his heart
.

Eva did, and little Enrique walked over, looking from Eva to Ronald and the camera beyond. He took hold of Eva’s dress with one small hand, bunching it between his fingers. His cheek rested against her thigh, hiding half of his face.

Ronald asked Eva how old Enrique was, and she said five. Reporter extraordinaire that he was, Ronald squatted—careful to keep his pants from touching the muddy ground—so that he was about the same height as Enrique. He smiled wide at the boy to ingratiate himself, but half-turned so that the camera couldn’t miss it. He looked up at Eva.

“
Would you ask Enrique if he’d like to have
a
teddy bear?” From off camera a hand extended and placed one into a palm he held behind his back.

That pissed me off—Mr. Burgess: worthless uncle offering gifts to win affection. There was a stinging feeling on my nape, so I slapped at it. I didn’t feel any bug fall down my back; I stood and flapped my shirt against my body, but nothing fell out. I turned back to the TV.

Eva asked the boy if he would, and Enrique’s eyes brightened and he grinned to show missing teeth and puffy, red gums. But his smile faded and his eyes dulled, as if thinking the question a trick.

Seeing the distrust, good man Ronald pulled the teddy from behind his back before Enrique could worry himself too much, at which point the boy’s eyes became bright again. He looked up at Eva and she nodded her permission. Enrique grabbed the bear from Ronald and giggled.

The camera focused in on Enrique for a moment while Ronald rose and explained the visible delight of the child as though viewers were, indeed, dumber than dog shit.

“
Eva,” Ronald said. “Would you ask Enrique what he would want more than anything if he could have anything in the whole wide world.” Yes, he said it, not just the world, folks, but the
whole wide world
.

After being asked, the camera rested on Enrique; the boy looked into it, eyes glazed as he sought his heart’s desire. He dropped his head and spoke…

Eva translated. “Food,” she said. “Enrique says he’d want food, because he’s—” her voice caught, “he’s hungry.” She brought a hand to her mouth as tears started. She grabbed Enrique by his free hand and hurried away. “I’m sorry,” she said, her mouth muffling the words.

Ronald, conscientious and caring man that he was, had a furrowed brow. “A simple request…such a simple request. Truly a sad situation these kids endure every day.”

Then he wiped a speck of unseen dirt from his coat and smiled at his lover. “I’m Ronald Burgess, down here in Puerto Heath, Bolivia, signing off.”

I think I said, “Wow,” out loud, but forget. For some reason that I fully regret now, I was so mad at Ronald for putting on a performance, more so because of its transparency. The asshole didn’t even care. He waltzed onto the scene of the orphanage, probably counting down the minutes until he could get his two-hundred-dollar shoes off of the filthy ground and back on a plane headed to the States. He walked on with a smile of orthodontist-straightened, bleached teeth, a generously gelled comb-over, and an insensitivity that nearly seeped through his pores like sweat. He had no sympathy for those kids. And by the pompous look of him, sure as hell no empathy. The forced smile proved he’d never experienced a tenth of their situation.

What a prick. What a world-class, sorry-excuse-for-a-person prick. Watching the kids in the background, with their ragged shirts hanging over their shoulders and their bare, blistered feet and faces of dirt makeup, I had felt a pure type of horror, a sympathetic disbelief that seemed to poke at my heart with branding fingers. Seeing those kids made me feel ashamed of what I have and gave me a vigilante type of perspective. At that moment, when rash indignation flowed through me and I was consumed by a do-gooder attitude, I felt that I should sell my meager belongings and send the money to those unfortunate kids. I should fly down there to be with them. I should join some humanitarian group that was surely sewing blankets together for the poor bastards, do my part and make a change.

But the clock said I had to be at work in fifteen. I shoveled two more bites of cereal into my mouth, tossed the bowl of milk into the sink, where it clinked and sent up a spray of good old two percent. Then I grunted because I had to spend another minute wiping off my textbook and the borrowed paper that sat on the counter.