The Little Apartment Building: Something Outer...

The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors

Chapter 3: Something Outer This Way Comes

It was dark. And quiet. Nothing happened. Not a fleeting thought in her mind, not a smidgen of fear gnawing at her thoughts. Later she would think that was what heaven must feel like - absolute peace, blessed emptiness.

Then something began moving…

… like a pleasant stir underneath a warm blanket…

… growing, moving, stretching… skin and muscle, blood and nerves and various organs…

… whole again, healthy again …

… alive.

The cover of her casket was lifted and its soft creaking woke her up.

The first thing she saw was the face of the Dark Man.

She took a deep breath and felt her ribs crack, the sudden rush of oxygen making her light-headed…

… and she screamed.

Hiseyesitshouldn’tstareatyouthedarknessdoesn’tstarebackthisiswrongIwanttodieagainplease.

***

“So how many?” Randolph Carter felt sick just thinking about it, but he’d be lying if he said he was not curious.

“Three.” Ephraim Waite confessed shamelessly. “All on Samhain, in the span of about forty years. The first one was just after my thirty-first birthday; I think the whole ordeal is something of a local legend nowadays.”

“Mine were five, in the span of ten thousand years.” Khaa’r’s tone had that hypnotic lull they had begun to associate with his more bloody war stories. “It is a great honor among my people, to lead the Solstice ceremony. There were three thousand other participants, and that is not even counting the choir that sang praises to Mother Hydra and Father Dagon. The finest substances were served to the people to keep them going. That particular ritual lasts for three days, and few have the stamina to last until the sixth gong.”

“Ooookay. Anyone else?” The Dreamer craned his neck to look at Wilbur Whateley. “What about you? How many people have… “

“You don’t have to talk about it if you haven’t.” Ephraim hurried to assure the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth. “You’re still very young.”

Wilbur, who was pacing with deliberate slowness across the room, did not bother to look at anyone before answering:

“Twenty-five hyuman sacrifices in five years.”

There was a collective sigh:

“Oh…”

To elevate the tension between the three violent nut jobs (they were all crazy, no doubt about it; but there’s a fine line drawn between slaughter-a-man-with-a-pickaxe-in-the-name-of-Cthulhu crazy, and I-just-want-to-dance-in-spaaaaaace crazy), Richard Pickman whistled:

“Don’t you look sharp tonight?”

That immediately drew the attention back to the actual reason of their gathering, namely Wilbur’s new shirt. Wilbur’s new proper shirt, button-down and with a normal collar. And his cleaned shoes. And his date.

“Shuddup.” Wilbur tried to answer in his usual blunt way and failed. His voice was a bit higher than usual.

It’s hard to be taken seriously when you’re trying not to look anxious before your first date, especially if your so-called frie… companions are lounging about in your living room, watching your every move and snickering every time you drop something or twitch the wrong way.

“Thank ye fer not makin’ a ridiculous good luck banner.” Wilbur checked his pockets and damn it, the ticket was still there. “Otherwise, I would’ve made the artist eat it.”

If only he had somehow managed to lose it during the long three days it was in his possession…

He’d have probably bought a new one.

Probably.

Positively.

Pickman scratched his left ear in mock discomfort.

“Well, I was going to make a huuuuge sign that reads ‘Go Get Laid!’, but Randolph decided it was crass… ”

“You were planning to put it on the window overlooking the street and shout at random people, asking them whether they can read. And then make suggestions.”

It was amazing how those four had managed to squeeze on the couch, even if Ephraim was half-seated on the elbow-rest. Herbert was leafing through yesterday’s newspaper, looking disinterested as always. Randolph and Pickman, joined at the hip as usual, began a glaring contest. Near them Khaa’r had sprawled majestically on the armchair. Ever since they met, Wilbur had been feeling jealous of how comfortable the Deep One seemed to be in his own body, as if he had chosen it personally.

“Just remember to open the door for her.” In spite of his decision to pretend that that one decade or so never happened, Ephraim actually had several enjoyable memories from his time as a female and now tried to remember what had made her… him happy during the time spent with Edward Derby. “And… uh, hold her purse, I think?...”

“Like hell I will!” Wilbur snapped.

“Everything will go smoothly.” Khaa’r reassured him and reached out to touch him lightly on the wrist. It was a very meaningful gesture among his caste, meant to warn the receiver of the touch that they were nervous for no reason, okay, now drop the knife and release the poor man you’re about to gut, for goodness’ sake.

There was a knock on the door.

Everyone looked around in confusion. Herbert looked up from his reading and counted the people present to make sure nobody was missing.

Wilbur cast them a last warning look and slunk out of the apartment as fast as he could, allowing them to get only the briefest glance of Helen Vaughan’s face and attire.

That one glance was more than enough. The contents of the woman’s wardrobe were well-known and instantly recognizable because of their uniqueness and extravagance.

“She was wearing a green dress. The green dress, if I’m not wrong. And the silk coat with the golden butterflies all over it.” Pickman bounced a couple of times on his seat with excitement, almost making Ephraim fall off.
“Now I can sleep peacefully!” Herbert remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
***
The play was going to be in a small and rather dingy music bar near Miskatonic University that had once been frequented by Asenath Waite and her yes-men. It could barely contain thirty people at most, and for the show the organizers had brought chairs of all shapes and sizes to accommodate the expected guests. Helen had visited the place once before and described the morose atmosphere inside, the unpleasant smell of the incense the owners used, and the garish pictures of various magical symbols that hanged on the wall.

“They put the candles straight on the tables, can you imagine?” Helen laughed. “How quaint!”

“Do the waiters wear long robes embroidered with stars an’ crescents too?” Wilbur smirked and was rewarded with a charming giggle.

“No, but the wine is served in goblets.”

“Huh, so it’s true then. The occult scene’s really been decayin’, ef nowadays it’s just a scene an’ nothin’ more…”

“Most modern practitioners speak of ‘good’ and ‘evil’.” Helen sighed and sneaked her arm around Wilbur’s. “They speak of my father as if he’s humanity’s patron, protecting them from the malevolent Outer Gods.”

It was a lovely evening, just cool enough to make their stroll pleasant. The breeze that roamed the quiet streets of Arkham carried smells from the river and the many unkempt gardens, giving the air that specific aroma typical for May and the beginning of June, heavy with the promise of a beautiful golden summer.

“Do we really hafta go to the play?” Wilbur heard himself ask. “We’re ‘avin’ far too good of a weather to waste it gittin’ crammed inna pretentious matchbox of a bar.”

Helen raised her startlingly green eyes to meet his and grinned, her teeth glimmering in the yellow light of the street lamps.

“Don’t worry, I won’t try to sit in your lap if there are no other comfortable seats.”

***

There was movement around her, constant and chaotic, as if trains were passing a hair’s breadth away from her. She kept her eyes tightly shut ever since her arrival, because that first single glimpse scared her more than anything, even if she wasn’t exactly sure what it was that she saw. The sounds that filled the space were beyond description, but not as bad. She could feel them interfering with the beating of her heart, which had begun to thump in unison with a certain high-pitched note that occasionally rose above the other noises.
Sometimes she could swear she heard words and syllables being pronounced somewhere not too far away from her.

After an eternity passed, silence came, and for a moment she thought she had finally gone deaf. A stone floor appeared beneath her feet out of nowhere, and the air became warm and dry.

She began breathing again.

Something warm and dry touched her eyelids, pried them open.

“Momma?”

The woman before her blinked and her mind fell open before her like a dropped book.

She was just like her Momma. Such devotion, etched into the very core of her being...

Almost instinctively, she reached out…

… and made the woman’s heart squeeze into itself until it was half its size. Her agony felt so right, and she finally felt some peace again.

Her hair was then grabbed and pulled gently, like a kitten’s tail, until she finally turned around and saw him.

She began screaming again.

Ohgodpleasemakeitstophisfingersinherhairandonherfacenodon’tI’lldoanythingIpromise…


***

No matter how renowned, brilliant or revolting a work of art is, be it a musical piece, a novel, or a play, should it be introduced to the audience by a talentless hack, it quickly loses its power to influence people. A badly played concerto, a dully recited poem and a play performed with inept gestures and stuttering can disperse the audience faster than the hint of smoke in the hall.

At least, that was Helen’s opinion, which was whispered angrily to Wilbur in their dark corner. The woman felt cheated and she apologized profusely for dragging him here to suffer as the skinny creature on the stage doggedly read the lines from a hand-written page.

“This is still Act I. Wait till the second part. My grandfather used to tell me a short version o’ this play ‘stead of a bedtime story.”

“You had a fantastic childhood, then.”

“Ye could say that… Wait, what’s goin’ on…”

Helen blinked in confusion.

“That’s not ‘ow Act II begins. They’ve changed the play.” Wilbur looked appalled as he began listening more carefully, his expression getting more and more sour with each word.

“It’s an edited version.” A croaking voice answered.

They turned simultaneously to the old lady on their right. The smile on her face made her resemble an old wrinkled apple. She was dressed rather plainly in brown, as far as anyone could tell in the dark, and her bony hands cradled a rather large handbag in her lap. Her white hair was worn in a long plait that was wrapped around her neck like a scarf.

“The general public has shown a renewed interest in ‘The King In Yellow’, so the play was changed to preserve the mental health and well-being of both actors and audience.” She explained with a rather nasty smirk. “Quite innovative, no?”

“An’ who’s the kind soul behind these changes?” Wilbur literally bared his teeth at her, as if it all was somehow her fault.

“The head librarian of the University, I believe.”

“Armitage, of course.” He muttered before turning to Helen. “One o’ these days I should really pay ‘im a visit… “

Helen smiled at the old lady apologetically.

“He’s a fan of the original.” She explained. “I don’t think we’ve met before, I’m known to my friends as Mrs. Beaumont. And you are… “

“Call me Miss Nahab, dearie.” The last word carried enough poison in it two syllables to poison a well for a year.

“Well, I won’t be invitin’ ye over fer tea, so it’s all the same to me.” Wilbur threw one last irritated glance at the elderly woman before focusing on the perversion that was being played on stage before the entranced audience.

He could swear he heard someone confess the play wasn’t scary at all. Scary, can you imagine? His grandfather had revealed to him that, should the play be performed in a certain way, The Unspeakable One, having taken the form of the titular King, would appear and take the one who summoned it to the legendary city of Carcosa, in the star cluster known to humanity as the Hyades. He tried to imagine what kind of world would accommodate The Unspeakable One, and entertained himself by envisioning a dark planet whose vast skies offered far better sights for his telescope to find and study than those of little ol’ Earth.

Helen used his reverie to gently lace her fingers with his and smiled when he subconsciously squeezed her hand.  

Miss Nahab continued staring at the two, unperturbed by Wilbur’s gruff tone, and Helen noticed the odd look in her eyes, as if she was pleasantly surprised by something. Then her expression suddenly changed – the beady black eyes popped out, and her mouth formed a little ‘o’.

The old woman stood up from her place, carefully slung the handbag on her shoulder and hurried towards the rear entrance of the bar. Helen did not lose sight of her as she gently pulled at Wilbur’s sleeve.

“I think something is wrong… “

“Yer damn right somethin’ is wrong, those imbeciles are spittin’ all over one of hyumanity’s greatest achievements an’ we’ve paid to watch ‘em do it.”

Helen sighed delicately.

“No, I mean… “

“The rhymes are cheesy, the characters make absolutely no sense, an’ ef this whole charade ends with a ‘they lived happily ever after’, I swear I’m settin’ this place on fire.”  

Helen opened her mouth to say something but then Wilbur began stroking the top of her hand with his thumb and that was something she decided to concentrate on instead. And if he was bitching about the stage decoration and the badly sewn costumes in the meantime, well, nobody was perfect.

***

She missed the safety of the chaos, where she was just a little speck of dust, too small to be in anything’s way. More than that, she missed the solitude of the grave.

His attention was focused entirely on her when he locked them both in that small stone room that lacked a door and windows

(like a music box, and when you open it, the tiny ugly doll appears and starts twirling in a mindless dance)

She tried to close her eyes, like she did before, and find a safe place inside herself to hide but to no avail. Cool hands

(ohpleaseletitbehandshandsIknowhandsIcanhandle)

would run unpredictable courses up and down her face and her back, their long fingers dancing and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Her bones seemed to harden (to pluck them out easier later, my sweet) and her skin would ache as if the muscles underneath it were slowly decomposing.

Sometimes he would talk. About gifts (you are one, my sweet), about power (like a mountain spring, before turning into a great river), about consummation (I could be your river, my sweet), and about masks (I have so many, and yet I still need more).

He would talk a lot about masks.

Sometimes the woman who resembled her mother would appear, only to be shooed away with a single gesture.

Let me wear you, he would say. Like a mask, like a beautiful mask, like a crown. I can give you so much more power than you ever had, I can make you so much more than you ever were. Your world wronged you. I can make it right. I will even let you help. I will place you on a throne like no other else, and you will be a Queen, painted Crimson with blood and fire and exaltation.

In the forced stillness of her mind, something clicked, the box was about to open and spill its contents…

Crimson…

Crimson.

Red. Red. Crimson. Blood.

There was a red dress…

… and then there was blood…

… and then her world ended.

“Your promises are nothing but lies.” Her voice had never sounded so beautifully in her ears, an entire symphony from a tiny music box.

His fingers paused their dance and his mouth opened slightly. She looked him straight in the eyes and this time she did not falter.

Her mind felt the walls around her.

“Let me go.”

She pushed at the walls and they easily broke apart, the pieces flying into the abyss that surrounded them in all directions. The chaos from before her imprisonment greeted her and she felt her heart skip a beat or two in order to follow the now familiar rhythm.

She turned her back to the Dark Man, and faced his master.

***

Luckily for the owners of the bar, the play ended on a rather somber note. Nothing was summoned though, nobody died a cruel and unusual death (neither characters not actors), and the madness-inducing content of Act II was severely toned down. For Wilbur, it felt like reading a cheap paperback romance novel after a lifetime spent devouring the greatest classics in literature.

That is to say, it left a very bad taste in his mouth.

Everyone stood up to applaud the actors. Wilbur and Helen prepared to leave as quickly as possible.

“Never thought I’d say these words, but this is blasphemy.” He muttered.

“There, there, don’t let it get to you.” She agreed cheerfully, because he was still holding her hand and by all the gods watching over them, this evening went far better than she’d expected.

Wilbur suddenly froze in place.

A smallish old man, his white hair and beard practically glowing in the poorly lit hall, had climbed on stage with the help of the actors. The audience began clapping even louder than before. The man looked around, beaming, before raising his hand to silence the cheering.

Wilbur let go of Helen’s hand, but not before leaning to whisper in her ear.

“This is Armitage.”

“The man who made ‘The King In Yellow’ human-friendly?”

“The man who killed my brother.”

He had mentioned to her that several professors from Miskatonic University had banished his twin after Wilbur’s untimely death, and also that there was no force in this universe capable of bringing his sibling back from oblivion.

Helen knew better than to get sentimental.

“From what I’ve gathered from our previous conversations, you weren’t very fond of your twin.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “And when you refer to him as such, your voice gets that sarcastic tone usually reserved for my roommate’s brother.”

“Please!” he scoffed. “This ain’t ‘bout familial love, or bein’ the last o’ my kind; it’s ‘bout Armitage bein’ a prick. An’ so is princess Nuala’s brother.”

“You’re not getting into a fight.”

“ ’Course not.”

“And you’re not making a scandal. Mr. Waite wants us to be incognito.”

“Mr. Waite was all fer us comin’ ‘ere an’ throwin’ eggs till the actors ran away cryin’.”

“Also, I’m not helping you with whatever revenge you might be planning to take on the man. I mean, look at him – he’s easily pushing eighty.”

Wilbur looked at her incredulously.

“Wasn’t gonna ask ye fer help anyway. Ye won’t do.”

Helen’s right eye twitched slightly.

“What?!”

A more clever being would have kept their mouth shut. Wilbur, however, possessed the surviving instincts of an adventurous toddler when faced with a drawer full of very shiny knives.

“D’ye even know any magic that doesn’t require takin’ yer clothes off?” he said matter-of-factly. “A curse to bring ‘im bad luck; a bindin’ spell to keep ‘im away; something that can alter reality inna second, fer a second, or at least make another person lose their lunch along with bits of their digestive tract?”

Helen glared and stepped slightly away from him. He didn’t notice, choosing to focus on the stage where Armitage was talking about the importance of simultaneously being well-versed in the secrets of the universe and having a finely set moral compass to guide one through life, in order to be able…

“… to recognize the dangers lurking at the very edge of sanity. There is no piece of knowledge, no amount of gold and no fleeting promise of power in this world worth losing your humanity for. This is all I have to say, this is all my life has taught me. Thank you for joining us this evening! Bless you and good night!”

More cheering, as Armitage carefully climbed off the stage.

Wilbur took a step back to the wall, where his dark clothing allowed him to blend in with the shadows. Next to him, Helen could feel her anger steadily transform into pure rage, like a sword being sharpened before battle. She heard him mutter:

“I should probably teach ye some o’ that.”

Her light-hearted tone could cut through armor, flesh and bones.

“As if you could teach me anything. How presumptuous for an unworldly lad such as yourself, and how typical for any secluded wizard.”

That caused him to flinch slightly before hanging his head in embarrassment, to her eternal surprise. The people were leaving now, stretching their shoulders, putting their coats on and talking animatedly. Nobody paid any attention to the pair in the darkest corner.

“There’s no reason a child of Nodens shouldn’t know any o’ those things, even ef ‘is domains are killin’ things fer fun an’ runnin’ half-naked in the woods.”

So much for a simple ‘sorry’. Helen gave a barely audible sigh.

“It’s decided, then.” Wilbur grinned, just like Pickman would when something not very nice was about to happen to Ephraim’s precious tablecloths. “Tomorrow, yer gittin’ a crash course in the basic principles o’ magic, then we start with the main symbols an’ some Aklo an’ we’ll make our way from there. With enough practice, ye’ll be able to summon yer father an’ other relatives in the middle of the city, miles away from the nearest forest…”

Why did she like him so much again?

“You do realize I kind of hate you right now, don’t you?” Helen snapped.

“Yes.”
Their eyes met just as Wilbur reached out to clumsily lace his fingers with hers.

“And I don’t want ye to.”

Almost despite herself, Helen felt her anger subside. Her mouth quirked into a pleased little smile when he gently tugged at her to come closer to him.

“Well that’s adorable.”

Henry Armitage had made his way through the dwindling crowd to sit comfortably on a nearby chair and rest his chin on his palm. A folder, no doubt containing the script of that abomination of a play, sat on the table next to him.

Wilbur’s expression and stance did a smooth transition from ‘I adore ye so much I wanna bash my own head in that’s how ridiculous I feel’  to ‘I hate ye so much I will gladly bash yer head in that’s how repugnant ye are’.

A certain distance from them, two of the actors were watching intently the librarian, fear and worry plainly visible on their faces. Helen sized them up. One of them was the skinny creature with the stutter. They were most certainly students from the university and in less than a decade would probably begin to resemble Randolph Carter with his thinning hair and penchant for questionable hobbies and friendships.

Mr. Carter had once described his youth to her quite vividly – an idealistic child, not much older than those before her, bewitched by the exotic of the occult, after long years spent sitting on the pew in his parents’ preferred church; eager to discover and revel in the mysteries of the universe; believing the world was his oyster.

They probably ate up every word that came out of the librarian’s mouth. That creatures like the monstrous Wilbur Whateley and his abomination of a brother could be defeated easily, as long as you did your homework and read the required books.
 
“I heard your dying scream. I still hear it echoing in the library after the sun has set.” Armitage seemed to be in full control of the situation, his voice was even and clear. “I can testify that your blood is green, and that you don’t have a decent bone in your body. I watched as your corpse melted on the floor.”

“I bet I left a stain.” Wilbur spat at him.

“You did.”

“I hope yer not too attached to this shack after tonight’s show. What’s next, a colorin’ book version o’ the Necronomicon? ”

Armitage furrowed his brow in thought, as if he contemplated the idea before ultimately rejecting it.

“How’s your twin brother, by the way?”

“Still dead.”

“It almost destroyed Dunwich, I’ll have you now.”

“All it knew of the outside world an’ humanity, it learned from me. An’ I taught it well.”

Armitage made a disdainful face at him. Wilbur ignored it and came out of the shadows. The two young men appeared startled and then astounded, giving him a once over, obviously shocked to see someone this unnaturally tall. Helen guessed they were trying to pin-point exactly what was wrong with the creature standing in front of them, since it looked a lot like a human, but so did mannequins in the more expensive boutiques…

Wilbur went round the librarian’s chair, his long tail forming a semicircle, before placing an arm on the old man’s shoulder and leaning in to whisper in his face:

“Like it or not, my father – ye know who that is, right? – brought me back, an’ this time I’m stayin’. I need to ‘ave serious words with ye about the play, but later. Ef ye send anyone after me, I’ll kill ‘em an’ leave their head at yer front door. Yes, I know where ye live. Didja git all that?”

The old man ignored the tail whose tip had opened to reveal several needle-like teeth and a long serpentine tongue which began twisting in the air, inches away from Armitage’s face.

“A lot of strange things have happened during the last year.” The librarian was yet to show any discomfort, instead choosing to be as readable as an empty piece of paper, and Helen realized that Wilbur had a damn good reason to want him out of his way. “Some of them are horrible, and most raise a lot of strange questions that are better left unanswered. Rest assured that your presence shall be monitored more closely than you can imagine; and I swear, if you step out of line, you will have the brightest minds of Miskatonic University on your trail. I’ve begun teaching selected students about your kind.”

“Only a self-entitled idiot like yerself would drag young minds into the abyss ‘stead of ‘avin’ the courage to fall alone.” Wilbur sneered, before straightening up. “Why do I even bother?”

Meanwhile, Helen decided it was high time for her to be losing her patience.

“Are we leaving already? Or would you like to have some tea with your old friend and hiss at each other for old times’ sake?”

Armitage deigned to look at her, before taking his glasses off, cleaning them carefully with a clean handkerchief and putting them back on.

“And you are…”

“For you, sir, I am Mrs. Beaumont. And that is all you need to know.”

“She takes after ‘er father, too.” Wilbur added with one of his rare, far-too-wide-to-belong-on-a-human’s-face grins.

“I am also very disappointed. I insisted on seeing this play because Wilbur speaks very highly of it; instead, I get a cheap knock-off. Maybe you should have called it ‘The Marquis In Beige’, to warn people in advance.”

With those parting words, Helen went on to grip Wilbur by the elbow and lead him outside. He followed her with only a token struggle, but made sure to turn around and give an obnoxious salute before walking through the door.

Armitage sighed as the woman’s distant laughter reached his ears.

“One of you gentlemen should’ve brought a shotgun.”

***

“I wonder if your arch-enemy has any suspicions regarding the death of that poor boy I played with last week.” Helen laughed as she wrapped both of her hands around Wilbur’s and pressed her cheek to his coat’s sleeve.

She felt Wilbur tensing at the mention of her last victim and purred.

“Come now, it was all in good fun.”

“Ye still ‘aven’t given me an autograph on that first page in the newspaper.”

“Do you still keep the clipping?”

“No.”

Helen extended an arm to playfully pinch his cheek. They were even now, she supposed.

“Then… are you still going to teach me a spell or two, like you promised?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, while you mull over it, I sure as hell won’t be teaching you any of my magic.” Helen glanced up to see him eye her oddly. “Also, next time we go out, I’m bringing my shotgun, just in case.”

It took Wilbur a couple of seconds to process all that.

“Ye’ve got a shotgun??”

***

Miss Nahab, also known as Keziah Mason, walked as fast as she could, clutching the key for her front door like an amulet. The street she lived on was rather dark because of the old trees that partially blocked the light from the few lampposts.

She would occasionally look around, peering into every shadow and searching for that frightful outer silhouette. Her pursuer’s presence in this world could be felt by anyone who was consciously trying to pick up similar trails. Nahab could sense her movement even better, after almost losing her life to the girl’s extraordinary power. She would still relive their brief clash in her nightmares. She secretly feared that one night she wouldn’t wake up in time to calm her frantically beating heart before it bursts in her chest.

Even worse than that, than the feeling of your body being destroyed from the inside, was the memory of the girl invading her mind, her thoughts, flipping through them like a child searching for the colorful pictures in a big book. It made Nahab curse at her curiosity and thank her master for protecting her against the outer creature he himself had brought from the other universe.

Her master recognized how useful and talented Nahab was, especially now, after she had cleverly used the sudden, short-lived commotion that shook their universe to its foundations to more or less travel forward in time – something only the Great Race of Yith were considered capable of. He had also helpfully revealed to her the reason for the whole racket and, just as her luck would have it, when Nahab finally ran into the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth, bless the child’s skill in hiding, her pursuer finally managed to pinpoint her exact location.

It made her sick, being forced to lie low in boring old Arkham, her past journeys through space and time postponed until the cracks in the universe repaired themselves, making travelling safer. And now she had another reason to hide – the girl came back, after being gone for several months, no doubt studying the world whose sky she had dropped out of like a falling star.  

The sight of the familiar door made her huff out a breath of relief. Once she was in, the spells of protection would save her from the outer presence. Nahab reached to unlock it, only to have the blade of a rusty knife fly inches away from her head and get stuck into the wood.

“Don’t move, Momma.” The familiar mellow voice spoke behind her. “Your end will be quick.”

“I am not your goddamn Momma.” Nahab growled though her gritted teeth as she carefully slid her hand in her pocket.

The rain gutter of the house began tearing off its hangers and twisted downwards with horrible creaking. It broke into several pieces that managed to form a crude cage around the old woman. She turned around, very slowly, to meet the girl’s eyes.

She appeared to be emitting her own light in the darkness, but that was just an illusion caused by her white dress and shawl and her blonde hair. All the girl needed was a pair of baby blue eyes and a friendly expression, which combined with her habit of levitating instead of walking would make her appear positively angelic. Instead, her face had an expression of absolute callousness, her dark eyes were surrounded by bruise-like shadows, and at least ten other blades hung in the air around her like a halo of rust and death.

Still, it was a striking image none the less.

“Momma, I can see you’re holding something.”

Nahab felt the fragile vial with her fingertips before raising her arm to throw it as fast as she could.

“I got you a present.” She almost squeaked at the last word.

The vial hit the girl square on the middle of her forehead, breaking and splattering about a ladle-full of blood on her face and hair. Her nostrils flared as the all-too-familiar smell filled them and the girl’s broken mind began recalling bits and pieces of her previous life. Nahab almost felt bad for her – if only she had let the master use her as he had intended...

The rain pipes fell on the pavement one by one. The old woman used wisely the couple of seconds the girl needed to go from a catatonic wreck back to a mass murderer – she quickly entered the house and locked the door twice, before running to her small windowless room, where her familiar waited.

Or not. Turns out they had a visitor while she was in the music bar, and Brown Jenkins had had no other choice but to entertain their guest as well as it could.

The man was tall and thin and dressed in the typical clothes of a paperboy, up to and including a newsy hat and a huge bag which was currently empty. However, his shiny slicked-back dark hair and well-groomed thin moustache did not match the look he was currently aiming for, nor did the expensive fabrics of which his clothing was made of.

Brown Jenkins had somehow managed to make tea (which kind of resembled swap water) and had arrange several biscuits on a small plate for the guest. Now the human-faced rat was letting the man scratch it absent-mindedly on the back, squeaking happily every few seconds.

The Crawling Chaos and messenger of the Outer Gods Nyarlathotep impatiently waved Nahab in and pointed at the nearest chair. When she commenced with the pleasantries, he interrupted her with his slightly resonating voice:

“I would advise you not to do that again.” His nose twitched irritably – his entire nose. ”She has been very sensitive these days. Her mind has just begun the healing process.”

The old woman nodded reverently.

“As you wish, master.”

“Of course. Not that I blame you for using the knowledge I impaired you with to save your life. “

Nyarlathotep, or Noyes, as this particular avatar of his was called, handed Nahab a piece of paper that most certainly was not in his hand a second ago.

“The Thaumaturgical Herald? Isn’t this from the March issue, the one with the article about Ithaqua’s abnormally frequent recent sightings?”

“Which reminds me, I would have to pay the Wind-Walker a visit soon. He’s being annoying, giving unwanted advice to animated corpses that wander in his hunting fields… Check the ads.”

Nahab quickly scanned the page before her eyebrows shot upwards in surprise.

“Are we talking about this so-called ‘fertility’ potion? Because if we are, I would advise you to try…”

Nyarlathotep cleared his throat pointedly.

“I meant the one with the apartments.”

“Oh.”

Brown Jenkins choked on the biscuit it was nibbling on. It sounded an awful lot like snickering.

“Edward Derby? The name doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid.”

“He has been known as Ephraim Waite before switching bodies with his daughter Asenath, and also as Kamog ever since he began dabbling in what you humans call magic.” Nyarlathotep leaned forward and so did Nahab. “I know for a fact that one apartment is still tenantless. You have to move in first thing in the morning. She would not dare attack you while you are close to the assassin.”

The old woman chewed on a long fingernail for a second.

“You’re sending me to live in the same house as an assassin – meaning someone who’s actually getting paid to kill – with apparently enough skill to make a ridiculously powerful telekinetic steer clear of the premises of the building?”

“She ran into him once and I doubt she wants to repeat the experience. Also, besides the assassin and the wizard landlord, you will have the owner of the Silver Key nearby.” Nahab whistled. “I am very generous, I know. As long as you stay inside as much as possible and try not to get in the way of the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth, you will be fine.”

“The Spawn lives there too? What a strange coincidence… almost too strange to be natural.”

“I know!” Nyarlathotep threw his hands up in irritation. “This universe has been like a jigsaw puzzle ever since the runt was resurrected.”

Nahab really hoped her master would elaborate on that, but he didn’t say anything else, instead choosing to have a biscuit.

They drank the nasty tea in silence, until Nahab blinked and found that she and Brown Jenkins were the only two creatures in the room.

***

On the next day, Henry Armitage found a business card on his desk at work. He read it very carefully and chose not to dwell on the fact that ever since the incident with Whateley the library had been turned into something of an impregnable fortress.

The card was printed on cheap white cardboard and on one side it read:

Miss C. N. White
Tormenters eliminated, oppressors obliterated, bothersome bullies removed.
Negotiable prices. Discretion guaranteed.
59 Aylesbury Street, floor 5, apartment 19

The back of the card contained a single sentence:

Adam D. Frankenstein, antiquarian