“This,” said Alan, pointing to the curlicue formations, “is writing of a kind, and I think I can assure you it is prehuman—certainly it was never made by man.”
Fletcher nodded his agreement. “After what I’ve witnessed this past month, I certainly would not question your judgment.”
As he finished, the two noticed the last of the mist had flowed into the shaft.
“The Necronomicon tells of such cryptic signs as this, used by the Elder Gods millions of years ago to restrain and virtually immobilize the enormous power of some of the Old Ones to which this mist is reputed to be directly related.”
“Surely you’re not implying that this stone can imprison the terror down there, are you? Anything strong enough to crush a cow isn’t about to be stopped by a barrier such as this. Even I was able to move it!”
“I’m willing to wager it will. Not the stone itself, of course, but what has been written upon it. This script, whatever it might read, enforces an inexplicable cosmic spell, incredibly potent, that has been able to restrain the mist for what might have been many millions of years. You must realize, Dr. Fletcher, this is not a slab which someone had carved into the shape of a star and engraved with curious symbols. No, it is far, far more. Mystic incantations of towering proportions attended the creation of the runic inscriptions you see. I myself have seen similar star stones, most of them small enough to hold in my hand. This is by far the largest I’ve ever encountered, but its size is no doubt necessary to confine the actual bulk, as tenuous as it is at present, of the actual Old One. No, Doctor,” Alan concluded. “I think I can assure you that the nocturnal feeding of this nightmare is at an end.”
Dr. Fletcher was doubtful, but during the short duration of his acquaintance with Alan Hasrad, he had become so impressed with his sense of competence and sagacity that he had no reluctance in placing the matter solely in his hands.
“Well, then,” he reflected, “I bow to your knowledge in this field of arcane matters, but I would feel better if something further could be done.”
“Such as?”
“That I do not know. So… I am content simply to follow your advice. Let us cover the shaft now before it decides to come out again.”
“A moment more, Professor,” Alan said, continuing to kneel and examine the ancient writing. “All the mist seems to have disappeared in here, but you’d best check the cavern and outside area just to be certain. I’ll stay here and cover the opening if it should decide to come back up.”
Dr. Fletcher returned shortly and assured Alan that, to the best of his knowledge, all the mist had descended the shaft; he could detect none in the larger or smaller chamber nor outside. Satisfied, it took but a few moments, with their combined strength, to shove the star-shaped seal over the opening. They stood up, nodded firmly at the completion of their task, and gripped hands in silent recognition of this new friendship that had returned the deadly mist to captivity.
Outside, they spent some minutes sealing the small entrance with large boulders that lay scattered about with the conviction that no one must ever again discover this cavern. It was nearly eleven o’clock before they had finished and began their return to the cottage.
Alan stayed on for the remainder of the day and night, enjoying the company of Dr. Fletcher and the quiet serenity of the area. That first night the countryside, from all accounts, slumbered undisturbed, no longer troubled by the horror, and Alan left the following morning satisfied that the destiny of mankind was no longer threatened.
Two weeks later Alan Hasrad sat in his library examining the afternoon mail. His eyes seized upon one envelope in particular which bore the return address of Dr. Fletcher. Deftly, he slit it open and withdrew the contents, a single sheet of paper which relayed the happy message that all was well and serene at Shadow Lake and vicinity. The mist, Dr. Fletcher concluded, was surely laid to rest and the countryside had already returned to its usual tranquility.
Alan smiled and glanced over to a tiny bottle which adorned his desk. Inside, a gray cloud-like material seemed to squirm and struggle to free itself from its glass confinement. Continually in motion, constantly changing its formless shape, it charged and retreated from side to side and top to bottom of the imprisoning vial.
Alan continued to smile as he watched with total fascination this fragment from the stupendous whole of the primordial depravity he had captured within the cave before it could follow the larger mass into and down the shaft. Was it sentient, as was the parent body? Alan could not be certain, but he suspected a diminutive portion of the immeasurable intellect struggled to regain its freedom. And it amused him to know that his souvenir was none other than a part—an infinitesimal part—of the quasi-god itself.
PneephTaal waited.
Patiently.
It brooded over the irrational stratagem it had followed of returning to its prison while gaining bulk and strength, only to find itself once again effectively restrained. But one day, perhaps years or centuries or millenniums in the future, its fetters would once again be lifted and it would satisfy its consuming, cavernous appetite. That day, it knew, would surely come; and the same mistake would not be repeated.
SHOGGOTH’S OLD PECULIAR
BY NEIL GAIMAN
BENJAMIN LASSITER WAS COMING TO THE UNAVOIDABLE conclusion that the woman who had written the Walking Tour of the British Coastline book he was carrying in his backpack had never been on a walking tour of any kind, and would probably not recognise the British coastline if it were to dance through her bedroom at the head of a marching band, singing “I’m the British coastline” in a loud and cheerful voice while accompanying itself on the kazoo.
He had been following her advice for five days now, and had little to show for it, except blisters, and a backache. All British seaside resorts contain a number of bed and breakfast establishments, who will be only too delighted to put you up in the “off-season,” was one such piece of advice. Ben had crossed it out and written, in the margin beside it, All British seaside resorts contain a handful of bed and breakfast establishments, the owners of which take off to Spain or Provence or somewhere on the last day of September, locking the doors behind them as they go.
He had added a number of other marginal notes, too. Such as Do not repeat not under any circumstances order fried eggs again in any roadside cafe and what is it with the fish and chips thing? And No they are not. That last was written beside a paragraph which claimed that, if there was one thing that the inhabitants of scenic villages on the British coastline were pleased to see, it was a young American tourist on a walking tour.
For five hellish days Ben had walked from village to village, had drunk sweet tea and instant coffee in cafeterias and cafes, and stared out at grey rocky vistas and at the slate-coloured sea, shivered under his two thick sweaters, got wet, and failed to see any of the sights that were promised.
Sitting in the bus-shelter in which he had unrolled his sleeping bag one night he had begun to translate key descriptive words: charming he decided, meant nondescript, scenic meant ugly but with a nice view if the rain ever lets up, delightful probably meant we’ve never been here and don’t know anyone who has. He had also come to the conclusion that the more exotic the name of the village, the duller the village.
Thus it was that Ben Lassiter came, on the fifth day, somewhere north of Bootle, to the village of Innsmouth, which was rated neither charming, scenic nor delightful in his guidebook. There were no descriptions of the rusting pier, nor the mounds of rotting lobster-pots upon the pebbly beach.