Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) (22 page)

Something that mimicked human vocalization responded. “By the grace of Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young! He watches us. Protects us! But the wards prevent us. In the ruins, the ruins, the Eye of the Great Race of Yith. Retrieve it. Be rewarded,” the voice buzzed. “Live.”

“What are you?” Frank shrieked. He spun around and looked towards the horizon.

“The Eye sees the gate. The Gate opens to the Great Cthulhu! Cthulhu! Cthulhu! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! Dead, he dreams. He dreams of us. Dreams of opening the gate.”

“There is no gate! Show yourself!” Frank screamed again. He leveled the pistol at the horizon, and looked back and forth. He felt something behind him. When he spun, he saw nothing. He tripped and tumbled. “Bullshit! This is some trick!”

On the horizon something stirred and bobbed as a distant spot moved. The insect voice, some diabolical mimic of a human, continued. “Go below, into the ruins. The red ruins. Bring us the eye and live. La! Shub-Niggurath be praised!” A spot on the horizon took flight and the Commander watched it: the optics in his helmet zoomed in. His chest tightened with panic as several dark figures took to the Martian sky. Giant wings unfurled. He screamed. It was animalistic. Primal. With a mix of rage and fear, he sprinted towards the wall of reddish stone.

Slightly to the right of the wall, a rough, dark hole in the ground had boot prints that disappeared into it. In a moment of weakness, he went down into the hole. He was in a huge stairwell, cut from ancient stone. Bas reliefs of unrecognizable characters and figures covered every wall. Something about the oddly angled architecture, the inhuman figures of bulbous cones with four appendages that had been carved, disturbed him at a primal level. Distracted by the demonic images, he stumbled deeper into the well.

The lamps on his helmet activated as his foot touched something soft, and he looked down in the artificial light. It was Connor’s body, his uniform ripped and melted like he had been dipped in acid. The helmet was cracked, and some type of tan-colored fungus protruded. Frank reached down, then lifted his crewman’s head. Through the faceplate he could see the helm, stuffed with fungus that
wriggled
. An eyeball appeared: a bloodshot green-tinted orb that blinked. An oval shaped-orifice opened and screamed inhumanly, a keen shriek that chilled his soul. He screamed himself in abject terror, and ran back up the stairs and out of the hole.

As he tumbled onto the surface of Mars, he saw several figures that milled about on the cluster of tracks. Now closer, the inhuman fiends were highlighted by the sun. They were about the size of a human, with pinkish fungi-like bodies similar to that of a crustacean with multiple sets of arms. The head consisted of dozens of wriggling, ropy, antenna-like structures. Wings furled and unfurled. Thin membranes stretched: the light showed thick veins as they danced. Frank screamed again, and one of the creatures held an astronaut’s helmet and again he heard the voice buzz.

“We cannot approach. Enter the catacombs. Retrieve the Eye! Live! Shub-Niggurath be praised! The Black Goat of the Woods! Long we have waited on Yuggoth for the hands of men to bring us the Eye!” The flock of evil things cavorted and skipped at that revelation. Frank raised his pistol, but the things continued to caper like decayed crows over carrion.

“Bullshit!” he screamed as the pistol bucked as he emptied the magazine. Several of the monsters took wing. Several others dropped to the ground, and dark fluids spurted onto the sands. Several others watched evilly as their comrades fell. The clip ejected and he jammed in the second clip, short one cartridge. Frank squeezed off several more shots and another demon fell. It flopped and twitched. He retreated to put his back against the stone outcrop and catch his breath.

The monster with the helmet had been shot. Another picked up Tina’s helmet. The parody of human speech buzzed again. “We have waited for an eternity for our prize. You will do what we say or die. The Mi-Go is patient! Cthulhu awaits and dreams of us. You primates have never seen us. Your archaic technologies cannot record us. We sail the distance between the planets.”

As the sun set, Frank watched. The rosy hues of the sand reflected the weak, yellow light of the sun. So far from his wife. So far from the ocean. So far from Oregon. He missed Earth. He missed the salt air.

The bodies of the dead abominations decayed and disappeared before his eyes. “Let me leave,” he demanded as the sun vanished. It faded and cast and eerie light.

“No!” buzzed the inhuman response. “Bring us the Eye, you live! We let you live!”

Frank pondered the thought of going back into the dark hole. The dead crewman was now infested with an inhuman fungus that waved and wriggled and winked. He unloaded the rest of his bullets at the flock. Several more fell onto the red sands. “No. I’m not going back down there.”

“We’ll wait forever,” was the inhuman response. “Forever!”

“You may have to.” He sat. The lamps in his helmet showed the monsters as they shuffled and hovered at the edge of his lights. In a tiny pocket on his arm, he took out the one last bullet and fed it into the gun. He gazed at a laminated photograph of his wife and himself. They stood on the beach at Lincoln City. He breathed deep, watched the stars as they appeared then put the barrel of the gun against his helmet. Frank missed his wife. He missed the ocean.

The press was furious. Mike tried to stay calm. “This is my last question. I have a lot to do.”

A hundred voices shouted questions. Finally, he pointed at a reporter. “We didn’t see this micro-meteor shower until it hit. Space exploration is inherently dangerous. That’s all.”

He returned to his office and ignored the shouts: he felt anger mixed with sadness, but a new fear had overtaken him. Fran closed and locked the door, then looked at a still photo. A print of one of the last pictures of data DPacked from Frank’s helmet. It showed Tina’s disembodied helmet as it floated above the Martian surface. Whatever supported it was unable to be recorded.

“What has risen may sink, and what has sunk may rise. Loathsomeness waits and dreams in the deep, and decay spreads over the tottering cities of men…” H.P. Lovecraft,
The Call of Cthulhu

Sturmbannführer

Part I

Inspired by H.P. Lovecraft’s
The Call of Cthulhu

Lukas Eichmann looked down into the valley. From his vantage point on the snowy mountain in Tibet, the world lay before him.

The sun reflected off of the snow that surrounded him. A few wisps of clouds were pushed across the sky by the wind. Some originated from the peaks that cut into the sky around him. This was the first day in several that snow had not fallen and clouds had not blocked out the sun. He adjusted the straps on his pack, pulled his gloves tight, and shifted his goggles.

The air was so crisp and clean, yet so thin. His lungs ached from the effort to draw in breath. This break from the climb was a welcome relief. He did not like to look weak in front of his troops.

Lukas’s men were gathered around a small stove. A mess kit tin of hot tea was passed from soldier to soldier. Several shared a tin of hard biscuits. Those who did not eat or drink, double-checked their MP 40 submachine guns.

He reached down and pulled his Walther P 38 from its holster. The heavy glove made the gun feel strange and disconnected from his hand as he held it. Lukas did not pull the magazine from the pistol because he didn’t want to drop it in the snow.

Even though the view took his breath away, it was not without a heavy price. While they climbed up the mountain, the Assault Group had lost its translator and photographer. Not only would it complicate matters of communication when they took the monastery, it would mean that future generations would not witness their efforts. For Lukas, that was the most grievous hurt of all.

He looked up the mountain to an ancient wall of stones above them. His men observed his gaze, shoved biscuits in their mouths and put their packs back on. Submachine guns were slung, and the mess kit that made the tea was packed and stowed. 

Lines were retied and ice axes were hefted. In the thin air, the group began the climb up the ancient steps to their destination. Sturmbannführer Eichmann took the lead. Here in the final stretch of the climb, he had insisted he would be the first to stand at the door of the monastery that held the prize they had been sent to claim.

The stairs led up the side of the man-made wall and deposited them on a large, smooth stone ledge. It was easily three meters wide and eight meters long. A solid barrier of stone barricaded the viewpoint, waist high. The mountain jutted out and formed a roof that covered the lookout. Smooth carved pillars of natural rock held the mountain in place, and a single lamp burned beside a massive wood door.

The entry was Lukas’ height, and two meters wide. A giant bronze ring was set into the right side of the portal, and on the left were massive hinges also made of bronze. A bronze bell attached to a ratty rope hung from the wall. It appeared to the Sturmbannführer that this had been a cave at one point, excavated and made into something more livable. Life at such an altitude did not appeal to him, however.

He sniffed at the frigid air. The scent of burnt wood was weak, but indicated activity behind the massive door. Lukas pulled his Walther and signaled to his troops.

One of his soldiers, Sturmann Hans Klien pointed at the bell with his MP 40 and smiled. The Sturmbannführer shook his head. It was just like Storm Trooper Klien to make a joke about ringing the bell before they assaulted the monastery.

Sturmann Klien pulled the bronze ring. The door silently opened, and to the surprise of Lukas seemed well balanced. Three of his soldiers entered the door, guns raised. Lukas followed, and his eyes adjusted to the dim chamber.

A row of sixteen pillars were carved from the mountain. The floor was dark wood, polished and stained to perfection. At far end of the chamber stood a large, gold figure. Wood rails surrounded the outside of the carved room, and behind them were small statues and tables. The tables held arrangements of dried flowers and plants. The aromatic fragrance of the scented oils soaked in the flowers mixed with burning incense.

Several tables held candles, and lamps hung from brass chains at intervals down the middle of the room. The light was uneven, and pockets of darkness and long shadows played.

Several dark, weathered men in red and yellow robes stared at the soldiers. The Sturmann advanced and ordered the men to their knees. They looked puzzled and spoke in a language that the Sturmbannführer recognized as Tibetan.

“Auf die Knie!” the soldiers shouted. Klien kicked at the back on one of the monk’s legs, and he dropped to his knees. Then he bent the monk’s hands behind his neck and put the barrel of his MP 40 against his neck.

This would have been easier if the translator had not fallen down the icy ravine,
thought Lukas.

“Bleiben Sie noch!” one of the other soldiers shouted. The monks stayed still as ordered, even though it was likely they did understand the command.

“Hat jemand Deutsch sprechen? Deutsch sprechen?” Klien shouted. The monks looked confused: none of them acknowledged they spoke German.

“Hat jemand Englisch sprechen? Sprechen Sie Englisch?” The Sturmbannführer shouted. “Does someone speak English?”

One of the monks signaled and nodded agreement. “I speak the English.”

Lukas walked slowly to the monk and signaled for him to stand. “I don’t want to kill any of you. But we are going to search this monastery, and will do it with you alive or dead. Once we find what we want, we will leave you in peace.” He holstered the pistol and pulled back his parka to show the insignia on his collar. “Do you recognize this? This is the mark of the Waffen SS. I am Sturmbannführer Eichmann. Our mission is to find something special, lost to time. We have combed every record possible, and we know it’s here.”

“I doubt that. Your lightning bolts are nothing I know. What you seek is not here. This is The Temple to the Four Winds,” the holy man said, his English marginal. “The world outside holds no interest to us. Neither does your treasure hunt.”

“Interested or not, you are rumored to have something that holds interest to me, alte mann,” Lukas whispered, then corrected the mistake in German and resumed English. “Old man. A cup. A grail. The cup that caught the blood of Christ, the Holy Grail. It’s rumored to be here. Somewhere in these caves, there is a cup. Do you understand?”

“Let us kill one of them,” Sturmann Klien shouted.

“We will not kill them. Not yet,” Lukas said as he looked at the monks. “They know we are serious.”

“We have cup,” the monk said. “Take the cup and go.”

“Very good,” the Sturmbannführer said. “Take us to it.”

“I take you to cup, yes,” the holy man said.

The monk led Lukas and several of the Storm Troopers from the temple and down a rough corridor. The hall branched several times. In the dim light, he passed a large dormitory with bedrolls stacked against a wall, several storage rooms and a common room. The rooms were lit sparsely with oil lamps.

“What is your name?” the Sturmbannführer asked.

“Khadka,” the monk answered. “Khadka Thapa.”

“How long have you been here, Khadka?” Lukas asked.

Khadka looked puzzled. “As long as I remember. I was young when brought here.”

“This does not seem like much of a life,” one of the Sturmann whispered.

“What more life would one need?” the small man asked.

The group came to a small, smoky room. Two crude fire pits were in the center of the room, and dented metal pots held gruel that simmered on metal grates. The room was stacked with sacks and barrels, and a tiny crack of a window hewn in the rough stone let in cold air and vented smoke.

Khadka pointed to a crude wood shelf, stacked with equally crude featureless clay cups and wood bowls. “Cups. You take all the cups you want. Leave us in peace,” he said.

Lukas examined several of the clay vessels. “I don’t want these. I want the Grail.”

“The gruel will be hot.” Khadka pointed to the pots. “You like rice?”

The Sturmbannführer shook his head. “I don’t want rice gruel, I want the Grail. The Holy Grail, the cup of Christ.”

Khadka shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Verdammt. Search these caves,” he ordered. “Schnell! Schnell!”

The Sturmann escorted the monk back to the temple as his soldiers fanned out in the complex. As he passed the dormitory, he could see the Storm Troopers as they cut open the bedrolls.

Lukas held the monks at gunpoint with one of his Sturmann. The holy men were quiet and compliant. The soldiers searched every nook and potential hiding place with diligence. It took several hours for them to finish searching the caves, to no avail.

“Sturmbannführer, haben wir nichts gefunden,” one of the soldiers stated. News, even in German, that the soldiers had not found what they searched for did not please Lukas.

“Erneut suchen!” the Sturmbannführer ordered.

The Storm Trooper saluted stoically, obviously not pleased to have to search again.

Lukas sat against one of the stone pillars, and then yawned.
This has taken far longer than it should have
, he thought.
How hard can it be to find an ornate cup in a monastery?

Khadka started to stand but the Sturmbannführer shook his head and pointed. The monk sat again as Lukas tightened the grip on his Walther. “My soldiers cannot find what they search for. We will sit here until they do.”

“Take all the cups,” the old man said.

He surveyed the large room and studied the statues that surrounded the perimeter. They were tacky, gilded, and unsightly at best. His eyes wandered from one to another. The golden eyes of the statues stared back: unfocused and lifeless.

Lukas’ eyes finally settled on one of the statues. It was rough carved stone, oddly proportioned, cruder than the others. It looked older. He tilted his head and thought about the image.

The irregular figure was another carved Buddha, but somehow the parts were not right. The fingers were strangely out of proportion, the head elongated and vaguely simian, the facial features stretched. The more Lukas watched the statue, the more it seemed to stare back with hungry eyes.

He stood and cautiously approached the idol. The Sturmbannführer ran his fingers over the stone. It appeared that some original statue had been modified, carved repeatedly to disguise it. “Khadka, tell me about this statue,” Lukas ordered.

The small man sputtered. “Very old statue, the oldest. Was here when the Temple to the Four Winds was built.”

The statue rested on a stone pedestal. Lukas inspected the rock. He ran his hand around the pedestal and could feel a crack on the floor behind the dais. “There is a gap here. It looks worked.”

Khadka stood. “Please. Don’t. That is the entrance to the catacombs. Where the dead rest. Don’t disturb the dead.”

Lukas moved behind the statue, braced his back against the stone wall and pushed. It took all his effort, but when the figure toppled forward, the pedestal shifted. He pushed at the square stone, and eventually it slipped to reveal a stone block underneath.

The block measured a meter square, with a finger-width gap between the plug and the temple floor.

“Soldaten!” The Sturmbannführer shouted. His soldiers congregated after they heard the order. They gathered around the toppled statue and debated how to remove the heavy stone plug. After much discussion, one of the Storm Troopers remembered seeing a pry bar as the kitchen had been searched. It was behind some barrels and he did not think much of it at the time.

Lukas ordered the soldier to fetch the pry bar. The monks became agitated by the desecration of the temple and they complained in their native tongue. Although he could not understand it, the Sturmbannführer could tell that they grew angrier as they chattered.

“Tell your men to quiet themselves,” Lukas ordered.

“Do not disturb the dead. There is no cup in the catacombs. Only our dead. Our sacred dead,” Khadka said.

The soldiers used the pry bar to remove the slab from the hole. A concealed door was cut into the rock, and a tunnel descended. One of the soldiers shined an electric light into the shaft. The beam cut the darkness and revealed a natural passage cut with handholds.