Shadows Bend Read online

  “The remainder of my time in Providence is difficult for me to recall. I know I wandered the length and breadth of the deserted city with lurking shadows constantly on my heels. I cannot clearly distinguish between dream and memory and fancy here, for I was uncertain, that entire duration, of my psychic state. On the one hand I felt the constant possibility of yet another false waking, relegating my experience to yet another layer of dream. On the other hand I believed none of it had been a dream, but merely brief lapses of memory, and that the Night Gaunts and the bleak, black world of my nightmare was entirely real. I half recall passing the Halsey mansion on Prospect Street because I heard an alien gibbering issuing from within. I recall haunting the cemetery of the Episcopal Cathedral of St. John for a time, winding my way among the fog-enshrouded headstones and the mausolea as I heard, and perhaps even saw, sinister half-things flittering at the periphery of my overtaxed senses.

  “Toward daybreak I found myself at the bus station with a ticket in my hand, boarding a westbound bus, and it was not until we had been under way for several hours that I realized I had eluded the monsters, whether they were of the dream world or of this one. And I realized, too, that I had purchased a ticket with my meager funds to come petition you for your assistance.

  “For the duration of my trip, I have been lapsing in and out of states which I cannot clearly distinguish as contemplation, daydreaming, sleep, or hallucination. In Oklahoma, a mysterious man boarded the bus, a man whose face I could never make out, a faceless man. If he is an intruder from the world of the faceless Night Gaunts, I must still be dreaming, Bob, but I believe this mysterious odd man has been following me ever since, and that he is somewhere in Cross Plains, biding his time, even as I narrate this fantastic tale.”

  3

  THERE WAS A LONG SILENCE punctuated sporadically by the sounds of the storm, which was gathering strength once again. The two men did not look at each other. Lovecraft sat on the edge of the davenport, hunched forward over his empty cup of coffee; Howard seemed to be looking somewhere into the distance, considering how to respond to the wild tale he had just heard.

  “Have ya had supper?” Howard spoke so suddenly that Lovecraft started and jerked upright at the unexpected question.

  “Why, no, I have not.”

  “Look,” said Howard, “you dig through your stuff and fish out that Kachina of yours while I make us a fresh pot of coffee and rustle up some grub. I get the feelin’ we’re goin’ to be talkin’ for a long stretch here.”

  Howard rose stiffly to his feet and bent down to lift the coffee tray.

  “Know how to shoot?” he asked.

  “In my opinion, the ability to pull a trigger is innate to all humans.”

  “Well,” said Howard, “if that odd fellow should barge in while I’m in the kitchen, just ventilate him with that.” He motioned, with his eyes, to the .45 on the coffee table.

  “That was my intention, quite independent of your suggestion.”

  They both laughed uneasily, but the release of tension allowed Lovecraft to sit back at ease for a moment while his friend was absent in the kitchen. Now that he had told his story, he wondered again if he might be asleep at that very moment, dreaming the entire episode. He casually gave himself a pinch, smiling tiredly at his half joke.

  In a little while, Howard’s voice called him out to the dining room, and Lovecraft carried his travel bag over and joined him at the oak table for sandwiches and more coffee.

  “Bob, let me tell you now that if you had recounted this very same tale to me, I would at this very moment be doubting your sanity. I know that you are more inclined to believe in things mystical and supernatural, but I fear my behavior, even in that light, may seem highly irrational.”

  “Show me the Kachina,” said Howard. “I’d say your tale seems a tad tall, but we Texicans can smell the real thing.”

  Lovecraft opened the black-oilcloth satchel and produced the Kachina with the broken headpiece. Howard turned it back and forth, then upside down, in his hands, examining it from every angle before he put it down on its stand.

  “Nothing remarkable about the handiwork,” he said. “I’ve seen dozens just like it in curio shops. But you’re right about the face, though it takes a little stretch to see your squid-faced Cthulhu in it.”

  “You don’t seem inclined to believe me at this point.” Lovecraft’s tone held a hint of injury, although his face showed nothing. “Have you no confidence in me, even after our long correspondence?”

  “I trust ya, HP. Now show me the Artifact. I think that’ll prove your point for sure if anything will.”

  The act of reaching into his watch pocket sent a sudden jolt of pain through Lovecraft’s side. He winced and paused momentarily.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “No. Nothing to be alarmed about. It’s just a cramp.” Lovecraft first placed the Artifact flat on his left palm, then turned it so that they could both watch the object slowly mimic the slightly bluish color of his flesh. Then he put it on the tabletop, and Howard gasped as it seemed to vanish into the grain of the wood. Both men felt the hair rising on their arms.

  “It’s like a damned chameleon!”

  “Pick it up,” said Lovecraft.

  Howard leaned forward, getting partially out of his chair to reach for the Artifact, but before he could close his hand over it the whole world seemed to vanish in an incredible blue-white flash, and in the deafening roar that followed a window exploded inward, showering them both with fragments of glass and wood.

  Lovecraft thought he was blind at first, but through the purple afterimages that ringed his vision, he could make out the faint glow of the Artifact on the tabletop. The house was dark, the electricity out, and he could hear a weak voice calling for Howard.

  “Stay where you are,” said Howard’s voice. “That was a damned close one. Hit the cedar by the porch. I’ll see to my mother and bring some light.”

  “Bobby! Bobby!” Mrs. Howard’s voice called out again in the dark, and Lovecraft heard the burly man stumble off toward it.

  But that was not all he heard. Lovecraft turned his head left and right to pinpoint the source of the other sound, but it did not vary. At first he thought it was simply a hallucination produced by the ringing in his ears after the thunderclap, but it was too irregular to be a ringing, and too low, too husky, like a whispered voice. He concentrated. He located the coffee cup in the dark and took a sip.

  In a moment, as the shrill tone died down in his ears, he could almost make out the words—Cthulhu fhtagn Cthulhu fhtagn Cthulhu fhtagn. He had to laugh, even in his uneasiness-the words were from his own stories-it was clearly his overactive imagination unbridled by the stresses of the past several days. Cthulhu fhtagn Cthulhu fhtagn Cthulhu fhtagn. The demonic whisper was joined by another voice, then another, until their overlapping sounded like leaves rustling in the wind. Lovecraft pressed his palms flat over his ears, and still he could hear the murmuring. He looked around the room, or tried to in the pitch-blackness, but all he could see was the faint, greenish glow of the Artifact pulsing subtly brighter and brighter, growing more intense in unison with the sound. It was the source of the voices.

  IN THE KITCHEN, Howard opened the utility drawer and picked out the flashlight by feel. When he switched it on nothing happened until he banged it once on the counter and jostled the batteries into place. The flashlight cast a distorted circle of dim light against the ceiling. Howard turned the beam to the floor and followed the patch of weak illumination into his mother’s room, where Hester Howard was alone, propped up in her bed by a mass of pillows and bolsters; her face was turned away, toward the window, and if it hadn’t been for the wheezing sound of her breathing, just barely audible over the rain, Howard would have thought her dead. With the flicker of distant lightning strobing constantly, Howard found he hardly needed the flashlight.

  “Ma?” he said. “I’m here. Are ya all right?”

  “Bobby, my baby,” Mrs. Howard said
, still facing the window. “Did the lightning give you a fright?”

  “I’m fine, Ma. I think it hit one of the trees outside. We just lost our lights is all.”

  “Daddy says your good friend’s come…” Her voice grew thick and phlegmatic for a moment and then cleared again. “…for a visit.”

  “Yes, Ma. It’s Howard Phillips Lovecraft. The Yankee writer from Providence. ”

  “He seems like a nice boy.”

  “He’s older than me, Ma.”

  “Tell him I’m sorry I can’t be a proper hostess.”

  “All right, Ma.”

  “Make him something to eat. A sandwich.”

  “I did, Ma.”

  “Daddy’s got no sense about how to treat guests” she coughed. “so you got to do your best to show the proper hospitality.” Mrs. Howard turned her head, and the harsh, sporadic illumination of the lightning made the lines of her face seem deeper and darker, like fissures that cut all the way into her skull. “Don’t let Daddy hog all the talk, and tell him to watch his language.”

  “I will, Ma.”

  Mrs. Howard closed her eyes and seemed to lean farther back into the pillows. Her health had been deteriorating since the complications following her gallbladder surgery. Although the abscess along her incision had finally healed, even the trips out to Lubbock and to Amarillo for the dry Panhandle air hadn’t improved her lungs. In the damp of the storm, she was sounding more congested than ever.

  “Where’s Father?” Howard asked, but in the next flash, he saw that his mother had fallen asleep. He listened to her troubled breathing for a moment before he tucked the blankets more securely around her and gave her a light kiss on the forehead.

  As Howard turned to leave the room, another strobe of lightning illuminated the room, but this one cast an odd shadow across the far wall. He froze momentarily and waited until the next flash revealed the black silhouette of a man outside the window. Without hesitation, Howard ran into the bathroom, where he threw open the wall cabinet and picked up his .38 automatic, which he kept loaded for emergencies. Flashlight in one hand and the pistol in the other, he walked quickly out of the house, securing the door behind him so it would not blow open in the wind.

  The tree by the porch had been blasted into black slivers by a direct strike. Portions were still smoldering, even in the heavy downpour, and he could smell the pleasant odor of burnt cedar. Howard carefully circled the porch, squinting to keep the rain out of his eyes. As he edged around each corner, he swiveled into a firing stance, scanning in front of him with the beam of the flashlight, which was almost useless. In the black gaps between the lightning flashes, he could see nothing at all.

  Howard circled the house until he was sure no one was lurking outside, then he proceeded to the garage and directed the beam of the flashlight in through the loose door that creaked shrilly each time it swung back and forth. Something inside seemed to catch the light. He raised his pistol, taking aim at the patch of light. The next time the door swung open he saw them clearly-two glowing orbs at eye level, glaring out at him. Whatever it was let out a low, moaning sound and moved with surprising speed toward him. Howard stumbled backwards, his shout cut short by the dark figure that hurtled out at him. He pulled the trigger more out of instinct than intention, and the .38 coughed twice in his hand, the bullets tearing splinters through the weathered wood of the garage door. When he gathered his wits again he realized it must have been some trick of the light the door swung at him. Nothing had emerged from the blackness the garage.

  With more caution, Howard crept up to the loose door. He paused, gathering courage, telling himself that what he had seen was more than just a reflection of the flashlight off some fragments of broken glass. He wanted to go back indoors and come back with help, but then what if it was only a trick of the light? He didn’t want to be’ humiliated in front of his friend and his father. Taking a deep breath, then two, to calm himself, he crept up to the door and yanked it open, stepping aside to get a clear shot at whatever lay in waiting for him.

  Nothing.

  Howard lowered the gun, and it was then that the thing flew out of shadows, knocking him off his feet in a flurry of feathers. In his panic, he cried out, shooting off another round before, with a sudden acuity in his senses, he realized he had been bowled over by a barn owl even more frightened than himself.

  Still on his back, Howard felt with his left hand for the flashlight he had dropped, but before he found it some other light appeared from above him, and he squinted.

  He looked up to see a lantern swaying in the grip of a large, rugged hand. He heard laughter.

  “Quite a hero,” said his father’s voice, finally. “Almost shot yerself a lil’ ole hoot owl.”

  “Where were you?” Howard said, struggling to get to his feet with out slipping. “You left Ma all by herself.” ,

  “Why, she had her best little boy to protect her,” said Dr. Howard. “I don’t like the mess of candles, so I just borrowed this here hurricane lamp from Mrs. Butler. What’re you doin’ outside?”

  “I thought I saw someone.”

  “Yer always seein’ things, boy.”

  “Outside Ma’s window.”

  “A minute ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was me, boy, just checkin’ the property. We damn near got blasted to hell by that lightnin’. Why don’t you just go back inside and see to yer delicate-Iookin’ Yankee friend, eh? Heat him up some tea or somethin’.” The wind seemed to twist Dr. Howard’s expression into one of disgust.

  WHEN HE HAD DRIED OFF and returned to the kitchen, Howard was surprised to find Lovecraft illuminated by a flickering candle stub attached, with a drip of wax, to the lid of a tin can. He was sitting at the table, still sipping his coffee, his shoulders hunched together and his right foot shaking with anxiety.

  “I see you found a candle,” said Howard.

  “My travel bag is equipped for such eventualities. I believe I heard shots outside.”

  “It was nothin’,” said Howard. “Thought it might be the fellow you mentioned, but it was just my father prowlin’ around. Everythin’s fine.” He went back into the kitchen for a moment and returned with two new candles on their holders. As he lit them from Lovecraft’s candle stub, he saw the black-oilcloth satchel open on the table and couldn’t help but notice the ivory handle of a knife protruding from a compartment.

  “It’s a flint knife of African origin,” Lovecraft said, noticing his glance. “Another present from my friend, Loveman.”

  “Just what we need to cut the still-beating heart out of a lovely nubile virgin, eh, Lovecraft?”

  “It’s best to be prepared for the widest possible range of eventualities, Bob, although I’d be forced to defer the honors to you.”

  Howard’s friendly slap on the back nearly knocked the more slender man out of his seat. “Sorry there,” said Howard. “Didn’t know my own strength.”

  “I shall take that as evidence of your past pugilism,” Lovecraft said, coughing to clear the coffee that had gone down the wrong way. Now. that they had other candles, he pinched his out, filling the room with the odor of burnt wax.

  “Where’s the Artifact?”

  “On the table, where it was when you left.”

  Howard followed Lovecraft’s gaze to the tabletop and saw the Artifact, nearly indistinguishable from the wood grain except for its faint contours, which seemed to be absorbing the light from the candle flames. The first time he tried to pick it up, his fingers could not grip it. As Lovecraft had done before him, he had to use his nails to pry its unexpected weight off the table.

  “My God,” said Howard. “This thing’s got no right to weigh this much.” He held it closer to his face, turning it to catch the light as its color changed to match his flesh. At the instant when its transformation was complete, it glowed momentarily, revealing the lines of its hideous face. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Nor have I.”

 
“Let’s go back out to the livin’ room, HP. I’ll light the heater to kill some of this damp. We got a lot more to discuss.”

  They left the dining room, leaving one candle behind. Howard discovered that when he held the other candle close to the Artifact its flame dimmed and grew smaller, as if the thing were robbing it of air, but when he drew the flashlight closer, its beam grew more intense.

  “Exceedingly curious,” said Lovecraft. “Those phenomena were ones I had not noticed.”

  “There’s somethin’ electrical about it.” Howard put the candle down on the coffee table and walked into the shadows to ignite the heater. He heard a sharp exhalation from Lovecraft, and he swung the beam of light around to illuminate his face.

  “My leg!” cried Lovecraft.

  Confused, Howard moved the light over the contours of Lovecraft’s body until the beam highlighted his outstretched leg. At first the white fabric of the pants looked mottled with shadows, but the shadows moved oddly, as if their two dimensions were rising into a third, and as they seemed to take on a tangible shape, Howard suddenly realized they were alive-insects-crawling spiders. Lovecraft cried out again, more shrilly, and frantically brushed them off until they were all scattered somewhere in the darkness of the room.

  “Shine the light this way! Crush them!” said Lovecraft.

  “They’re only spiders, Hp_ Might as well leave ‘em be.” Howard tracked one with the flashlight until it disappeared under Lovecraft’s hat. “I’ll be God damned,” he said, very quietly.

  There was something very wrong with the hat.

  The white pellets of hail on the hat should have melted long ago, but they were still there; the crown of the hat and its rim seemed to be trembling. Howard moved the light closer, then arced it from side to side, swearing under his breath. Tiny spiders, hundreds of them, thousands of them, had just hatched from the white pellets and were swarming all over the hat and around it, spreading across the table, covering everything in their path. Howard picked up a copy of Weird Tales and swatted at them, crushing dozens with each blow. “Gimme a hand, Lovecraft!”