Cthulhurotica

Steven James Scearce THE ASSISTANT FROM INNSMOUTH

It was in the fall of 1937 that my bureau dispatched my services from Boston to the old Whateley estate in the Miskatonic Valley, near Dunwich, in Northeastern Massachusetts. I was to act as legal executor of the estate, tasked with cataloging the various properties on site for a complete valuation of the assets of the now-deceased Dr. J. S. Whateley.

My journey to the Miskatonic Valley was long and arduous, made only somewhat bearable by the cruising comforts of the spacious 1935 Ford Eifel hired for me by the estate. As this transport and all its creature comforts were of no small expense, I was naturally puzzled by the assignment. Nevertheless, I took pleasure in stretching out across the seats to the rear of the car, allowing the driver to take his time, and watching curiously as the wonders and mysteries of the unfamiliar valley played out before me during the long journey to Dunwich.

The valley itself was wondrously dusky and quiet, although somewhat ominous. Massive trees of deep green foliage populated the whole of the valley and at no point in my journey was my vehicle ever without cover of deep shade. The central aspect of the valley was the Miskatonic River, a broad, dark watercourse that babbled rapid but quiet, as if whispering urgent secrets that only creatures of the water could hear and comprehend.

Near the border to New Hampshire, some thirty miles below the mouth of the river, was Dunwich and the Whateley estate — my final destination. The property, upon first sight, was more peculiar tusehan I could have ever imagined. The grounds were overgrown and populated by scrubby, weather-worn trees — ill-kept by whatever staff and groundsmen were employed by the late Dr. Whateley.

The house was old but not decrepit. Four stories in height and perched high atop an incredibly-steep hill, it was a large wood frame construction in Stick Style architecture, with steeply pitched slate roofs topped by iron cresting. When I noticed no view of the river, my driver politely informed me that the river pooled up against the backside of the hill and broke into one steady flow around the west side to the valley. I commented that it was amazing that the river had not washed away the lonesome hill — to which the driver only replied with a soft chuckle.

I stared in wonder at the huge house. As we neared, the house grew larger, consuming the view ahead of the car. In the winding ride up the main drive, I counted thirteen chimneys across the expansive rooftop. The house was, for lack of a better word, monstrous.

I did not find these mandatory travel assignments particularly enjoyable. It was my assumption that family men from the company were not chosen for these assignments due to the strain it placed on the relations at home. As a bachelor without siblings or living parents, I was routinely selected. As much as I disagreed with their methods, I approached every travel assignment with great speed and efficiency. It was my belief that the proper end to any demanding assignment was an orderly stack of detailed reports and a quick journey home.

Upon arrival, I was met at the door by Barnabas, a bent, ruddy-faced man who was acting as caretaker to the interior of the estate since just after the passing of Dr. Whateley. That evening, Barnabas gave me a quick tour of the common areas about the house. He made sure that I was comfortable with the provisions in the kitchen and showed me to my room. Exhausted from my day of travel, I put myself to bed and slept somewhat soundly through the night.

In the morning, just after a small breakfast of eggs, sausages and tea, Barnabas allowed me access to the libraries, offices, and private rooms in the house. As I was introduced to the vast assortment of books and oddities collected by the late Dr. Whateley, I found myself wide-eyed and speechless.

It was a museum of horrors. The rooms were filled with ancient books of strange language and origin, occult statuary, weird tapestries, ceremonial weapons, idols and charms depicting bizarre sea creatures, and wall sculptures too vulgar to ponder for any length of time. The only area of the house that I was not allowed to access was the cellar. But after viewing the contents of the private rooms, I did not wish to journey past the locked cellar door for any reason. I would gladly confine my efforts to the main floors of the house. I swallowed my fears and set to work.

Competent and professional as I was, I felt quickly out of my depth with the assets found in the Whateley house and jotted off a nervous message back to the company for immediate aid. Within a day, I received a telegram in reply. Their message stated that assistance would be sent from a sister company in the Innsmouth region. I was to expect a young woman familiar with the type of property on the estate. She would be most willing to help.

As I began pouring over stacks of ancient books and rooms of puzzling old relics, I wondered just what kind of woman would be familiar with the contents of this atrocious collection — and would I actually want to meet such a person.

On the morning the assistant from Innsmouth came to the Whateley estate, I was working over a new stack of tomes, found in one of a number of old trunks. Although seawater or some such corrosive had eaten away at the locks, I managed to pry the trunks open one-by-one. In the first trunk was a collection of thirty-three leather-bound books that consisted of a few journals, a handful of tomes on occult philosophy, and an assortment of other books so arcane and baffling that I didn’t know quite what to make of them. All were wrapped in a wine-colored ceremonial robe that was adorned with a bizarre assortment of dark runes and symbols. I was nearly at wit’s end. Who were the Whateleys? What did they do here? In my unprepared mind, I couldn’t add it all up. That’s when she arrived.

Barnabas showed the assistant into the house and escorted her to the second floor library where I was working. I was immediately consumed by her appearance. She was uncommonly beautiful. But something about her didn’t look right. She was fashionably thin, but not gaunt. She had a full mouth and lips, high cheekbones, a well-defined jaw line, and a sharp nose. Her skin was pale, almost winter white, but her eyes were large and dark and deep.

Barnabas offered to take her overcoat. As she slipped from the sleeves, I stole a glance at her modest bust and shapely figure. She was dressed smartly. Beneath her two-button double-breasted slate gray overcoat, she wore a thin white blouse with small silver buttons. Her gray cotton skirt widened softly below the hip and reached only to mid-calf. She wore no jewelry and no wedding ring. Adding to the striking nature of her appearance, she allowed her silky, bone-white hair to hang down to her shoulders; this was unfashionably casual for a professional of her gender.

She stepped cautiously into the room, her expression blank; her eyes blinked and flitted from one pile of books and relics to another. She looked at me.

“Are you Mr. Combs, the executor on the premises?” she asked, in a deep, resonating voice marked with a strange, cold accent. Was it Bulgarian? Romanian?

“Yes. That’s me,” I replied, standing up from the trunk of odd books.

“I was told that you are having trouble with the assets on the property. What are you attempting to do here, Mr. Combs?”

“I am here to wind up the estate for the late Dr. Whateley, catalog his earthly assets, and protect his property until all debts and taxes have been settled.” I put out my hand to shake with her, or kiss her hand, depending on how she offered hers to me.

She stared intently at me, unmoving, silent. She was like a life-sized porcelain doll with eyes painted in India ink.

“And you are —” I began.

“I understand now,” she said, cutting me short. “I can help you with the identification of the items on the property. I have some experience.”

“What exactly is your background, Miss—?” I trailed off, still not knowing her name.

“I was sent here from Ithaqua Holdings in Innsmouth.”

I leaned slightly forward and raised an eyebrow, still hanging on my last question.

The woman appeared puzzled by this motion. Then, apparently realizing her fault, she grimaced slightly and reached out to shake my hand.

“You may call me Anna,” she said.

I thanked her and accepted her handshake. Her fingers were as cold as river stones, but her eyes were marvelously deep and inviting.

Feeling quite a bit better about having some attractive company in this strange inventory, I called for Barnabas to make some tea and we went to work.

Although Anna was certainly possessed of odd demeanor and not one to make casual conversation, the following three days were most productive. Anna explained that the strange books and relics about the estate were tied to Dr. Whateley’s interest in the arcane study of something called cosmicism. I couldn’t comprehend any of what the artifacts suggested — and I didn’t care. My interest was only in making certain that they all made the inventory and the final report, so that I could leave the Whateley estate forever.

We worked from very early in the morning until late in the evening. Anna was perfectly capable of dictating the details on each and every item with extraordinary efficiency. I followed along dutifully behind her, taking my notes, checking items off my list. While Anna moved about the rooms and was distracted by the work at hand, I would occasionally sneak glances at her legs, the bare flesh at her neckline, and the slight curve of her hips.

At the end of the fourth day, I was genuinely satisfied with the rate at which the inventory was progressing. Our work would be completed in less than a week. Happy to be on track with our deadline, I invited Anna to join me for a late dinner on the balcony of the fourth floor library. This was Dr. Whateley’s private library and the balcony commanded a marvelous view of the river. Looking down some ninety feet below the balcony, we could see the base of the hill where the waters pooled up into a deep, dark lake.

Barnabas was good enough to serve us upstairs and we dined on the balcony overlooking the slow-churning waters below. It was a light meal of toasted bread with butter, a tomato salad, and whole grilled sardines. To round out our celebratory meal, Barnabas selected a lovely little bottle of white wine from down in the locked cellar.

Anna said little during our meal and made a small effort to push her food around the plate without actually eating anything. She refused her wine and took only small sips of water from her glass. At that point, satisfied with her talents in cataloging the mysterious assets about the house, I didn’t personally care if she was a lagging conversationalist or a picky eater. The Whateley job was moving along swimmingly and I was soon to be homeward-bound again.

But, what I did find mildly disquieting was her strongly-focused attention on the roiling waters below the balcony. She listened intently, as if the gurgling Miskatonic spoke to her directly and gave up all its little secrets.

As Anna was quietly preoccupied with the sounds of the water, I spent my time listening to the hauntingly beautiful chatter of the whippoorwills in the night and watching the dim flashes of fireflies in the distant brush. After our strange, quiet little dinner, I excused myself and went promptly to bed.

In the stillness of the countryside, I am a nervous sleeper. However, the wine I consumed with dinner had a profound effect on me and I fell easily into a deep slumber and dreamt of floating naked along the dark waters of the Miskatonic under the cover of the tall trees above.

In fact, my sleep was so deep that I didn’t hear the door to my room open in the night. I heard no creaking from the old wooden floor beneath her bare feet. Nor did I feel the bedclothes move as she crawled her way toward me. I only woke when I felt her cold hand pressing against my bare chest.

I awoke with a start, my heart immediately racing. Anna sat on her knees next to me. I assumed that something was terribly wrong.

“What is it, Anna?” I asked with a nervous tremble to my voice. I felt hot, my ears burned.

She said nothing. I stared at her until my eyes adjusted to the dark. Anna was wearing a thin cotton slip nightgown, untied, open to her navel. Her eyes were large and insistent. And she was dripping wet from head to toe. I could smell the dank water from the river on her body and on her breath. I could clearly see the skin of her belly and breasts through the wet nightshirt. Her nipples were as pale as the rest of her flesh. They would have been undetectable but for the fact that they were stiffly pressed against the nightshirt that clung wet to her body.

I couldn’t breathe. My heart thumped in my chest. My brow went slick with sweat. But I didn’t move; I was captive to those dark eyes.

“Why are you so wet?” I asked. “Where have you been? The river?”

Anna said nothing in reply. With her hand firmly on my chest, she rose on her knees and let her nightgown slowly fall from her shoulders, slide down past her slender waist, and drop to her knees.

I took a quick breath and stared at Anna’s beautiful nude form.

Her body was pale and thin, with skin like alabaster. She had small firm breasts and beautifully long limbs. Her belly was smooth and flat. Her waist was tiny, with pronounced hip bones at the edges. Below her navel was a small patch of pubic hair that was so light in color it was almost imperceptible against the cleft of her sex.

As she drew breaths, her ribs showed through her flesh — but her thinness was not unattractive. No, she was captivating and desirable and hovering naked over my body in the soft moonlight that played through the folds of the curtains on the east window.

“You’re so beautiful,” I said, hardly able to find a voice above a whisper.

Anna slid her hand down my chest and pulled the sheets below my waist — exposing me. My stomach fluttered. My breath came in short gasps. As she straddled my hips, she turned her head to one side and back again, letting her hair sway in wet tangles about her neck and shoulders. I felt her cold buttocks and pubis against my abdomen.

I was nervous, shaking slightly, and beginning to feel a little ill. In all my twenty-six years, I had little experience with women on the whole — and no experience with naked women at all.

Anna’s cold hands slid up my stomach and over my bare chest. Her unnaturally cool touch was comforting on my hot, tense body. Her eyes were wide and her gaze intense. The way that she held herself aloft over my body, married with her silence and expressionless gaze, made me think that she was in a kind of trance. But before I could doubt that she was fully aware of her acts, Anna leaned down, only inches from my face, and spoke.

“Open your mouth to me,” she said.

I drew a breath and paused. “I — I don’t understand,” I replied nervously.

Anna moved closer still. Her wet hair fell cold against my warm neck and shoulders. I could feel her nipples, small and hard, pressed against my chest. She caressed my ear with her soft, cool lips as she spoke again.

“The mouth is the opening to the whole of the body,” she said. “Open your mouth to me.”

Anna slid her hands up to my temples and held my perspiring head in her cool palms. Her mouth was now hovering over my lips. Slowly, obediently, I opened my mouth. And for the first time since we met — I saw Anna smile.

Anna’s knees closed quickly against my hips, holding me firm. With a swift movement, she rotated her hands and pressed her thumbs into my cheeks and held my jaw painfully open. I jerked once in surprise and went tense. Anna opened her mouth frighteningly-wide and leaned forward. Her tongue extended and her eyes snapped shut.

What happened next, I could scarcely believe; from Anna’s mouth and tongue ran a foul, stinging, salty fluid that filled my mouth and ran cold down my throat. It tasted of bile and seawater and dark venom. It burned the back of my throat and made my lips numb.

Anna clutched my jaw tighter and held it in place, as I swallowed and choked and spattered both our faces with remnants of the vile liquid.

As I writhed under her naked body and gagged, Anna sat up quickly, drew a long screeching breath and released me. I arched my back and tossed her to the edge of the bed. She rolled on to her knees again and perched herself at the corner of the bed. She stared at me with eager eyes and a wide, toothy grin.

Wild with terror and confusion, I opened my mouth to shout at her. Only a garbled croaking sound came from my throat. My neck and jaw went numb.

Anna leaned forward. Her horrific smile frightened me further.

“Don’t try to speak,” she commanded. “It works quickly.”

I clutched my throat and struggled to sit up. I lost feeling in my feet and fingertips. Anna moved in closer.

“Relax, Mr. Combs,” she said with a soft voice. “You can’t fight against fate.”

Naked, unable to scream, and rapidly losing feeling throughout my body, I tried to kick myself free of the remaining covers tangled around my legs. I pushed myself off the bed and landed hard on my back with a crash.

I was still tangled in a pile of sheets on the floor when Anna crept to the edge of the bed and peered down at me.

“You’re almost ready,” she said with a smile. “Your fear will soon subside and then you will know the wonder and the glory I’ve prepared for you.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and seeing. I was still breathing, still functioning internally, but I could no longer move my limbs. My body was paralyzed.

Anna disappeared from view. I heard her leave the bed, cross the floor and open the door to the room. When she returned and appeared around the edge of the bed, she was in her wet nightgown again. Behind her came a shuffle of other footsteps and I saw Barnabas, two unknown men and three unknown women appear over my naked body.

They reached down and lifted me up by my arms and legs. Unable to move or speak, I was carried out of the room, down through the house, and through the open cellar door.

They carried me down a series of winding stone steps. The air was chilly and reeked from the dank odor of the Miskatonic and the moldering stench of something quite old. My mind raced in a panic of confusion and fear — but I came to no answers.

When we reached the bottom of the steps, we passed through an iron door into a cavernous substructure that featured a rectangular stone altar ringed by seven seats.

As they carted my body across the room, I saw beyond the altar to a great pool of bubbling and churning water. We were below the Whateley house, deep inside the steep hill, where an ancient foundation met the dark waters from the river.

I was laid out on the altar, my head nearest the water, eyes open and forward. The walls and ceiling were covered in the same dark runes and symbols that I saw on the robe in the trunk.

Anna, Barnabas, and the five strangers took their seats and began to softly chant in a ghastly, guttural language more horrible than I could imagine ever issuing from a human mouth.

As their voices grew louder, so did the bubbling and gurgling of the waters behind me. The chanting grew to a fevered crescendo of unholy anticipation. With a great burst of spray and a terrific roar, something massive ejected from the waters behind me. I saw the seven of them leap eagerly from their seats. Anna ran forward, her eyes fixed on something tall and commanding. Her demented chanting changed and became something akin to growls and squeals from an animal not of this earth. She no longer sounded human and I doubted then that she was ever truly human.

As she approached the altar, she began calling again and again to something with a name that could not be written in any language or repeated with a human tongue. My mind reeled and swam and screamed out for answers — but found none.

Only when I caught sight of that horrific palate — a giant, gaping mouth of swirling tentacles and thorns — did my sanity succumb to madness and collapse under the weight of the horrors in the gullet of the beast from below the dark waters of the Miskatonic.