The Wild Adventures of Cthulhu, Volume 3, page 13
It baffled me, even as I penetrated to the kitchen, snapped on the light, and discovered the skeleton of an adult. A male, to judge from the flannel shirt and trousers. The jaws of the skull gaped, as one might expect.
But the worst horror was the right leg. The left leg was a bony foot protruding from a collapsed pant leg—but the right filled the trouser leg almost to bursting despite the fact that it, too, ended in a mass of bone.
I ran, then, ran back out the door and from the apartment. In the hall, I once again tripped, although I swear to God I saw nothing that could possibly have impeded my steps.
I pulled myself to my feet, shaking with fear. There was something on the floor before my feet. I could not see it, but it was there, I knew. I reached out a cautious toe, and the tip of my shoe encountered something invisible. I cannot describe what it was. There was the momentary contact of my foot against a thick, yielding mass, as if a sluggish animate form, a body or…. I thought for some reason of a worm.
With a strangled shout, I recoiled.
Then I felt something large and cold brush my stockinged ankle. I jumped back several paces. The stairs, I knew, would be blocked now… blocked by the thing which had snaked its way up from below to wind in and out of each apartment to seek out living things and somehow rob them of their lives.
I tried to reach the porch. There was no door. It could be gained only by raising a window. But the window was stuck. It was then that I discovered a short flight of steps to my immediate left. At the top was a door. A door? Then I realized its significance. It led to the attic. This was my one chance.
I bolted up those steps and hit the door with my shoulder. It was not locked. It was not even properly closed, and it banged wide. I plunged in—into utter darkness.
My first thought was to close the door behind me, to close it against whatever lurked below, but the door would not close completely. Something obstructed it. What it was, I could not see. Had I been too late? I stumbled back, and my heels hit some obstruction. I fell. Then I felt, with great relief, the hardness of wood steps. I understood. I was not quite in the attic itself.
Fearing the unknown, I scrambled up the stairs, as much on my hands as on my feet, until I reached the long, triangular space beneath the peaked roof.
To my relief, there were windows at each end of the attic, and one—the front window—was on a level with a streetlamp on the other side of the street. The light it shed sculpted black shapes in the attic—boxes, old furniture, and hanging clothes. I saw a roll-top desk. I went to it, probably because its commonplace aspect drew me. I often worked on roll-top desks.
But this desk was not commonplace. There was a skull on its side sitting before the cubbyholes. Its jaw was askew. It was then that I noticed the entire articulated skeleton. It was draped halfheartedly over the chair and desk. Pieces of finger bone and other less familiar bones had fallen to the dusty flooring. A tattered garment, a dress or a robe, clung to the bones, but they were torn in many places, as if the owner had been in a violent struggle—or as if, in agony, he or she had rent the garment in a frenzy of frustration.
Curiously, a fountain pen sat in the dust among the finger bones, as if the individual has been in the act of writing when he succumbed to his fate. I saw no papers strewn about, however. The writer in me can be, I hope, forgiven for thinking that the deceased writer’s fate would have served as a tremendous spur for a shuddery story.
It was then that I knew I had made a mistake in coming to the attic. Because Archway’s body was the first I discovered, I mistakenly thought he had been the first to die. The second-floor victim was not more noticeably decayed than he, and I had reasoned that an intruder would work his deadly way from the ground up. An outside intruder would, but the agency, entity, or demon which had laid waste to all organic life at One Tower Way had not come from without, but from within.
And I knew, looking at the ruin of the skeleton at the roll-top desk, that the lurker originated in the attic.
Fear robbed me of my breath. I could see nothing dangerous in the half-light. The bulky shadows were prosaic ones, but then I had seen nothing on the lower floors and I had tripped repeatedly over something, or the hungry extension of something that lived.
I caught my breath with an effort of will, but my breathing continued to come in ragged, asthmatic gasps. I could not regain my regular respiratory rhythms.
Clinging to the relative familiarity of the roll-top desk, I saw the paper lying under the desiccated hand of the skeleton at the desk. There was a fountain pen beside it. Gingerly, I pulled the paper from under those tiny bones. It crackled gruesomely.
Hastily, I scanned the script, read the final words of the man who had sat helplessly in the firm grip of a power he had called out of the darkness of the Black, sat while the entity he called the Worm Unknown had slowly consumed him from within before wending its ophidian way to the family on the third floor, down to his wife on the second floor, who apparently knew nothing of his secret occult experiments, and then to Mr. Archway on the first floor, the final victim—the final feast—until its quest for human nourishment forced it to venture out from the house which contained it in secret until my chance discovery.
I reeled with the shock of my discovery, reeled and caught myself against the roll-top desk where I felt it. It throbbed and pulsed, cool to the touch, but unmistakably alive. And throbbed in time with my own uncertain breathing.
Or had I fallen into its rhythms?
With a despairing cry, I stumbled down the stairs. Down, down all the way to the first floor where Archway lay on his stomach looking out with that hellish bulging-eyed expression. And I saw, unmistakably, that his mouth had opened wider since I had last gazed down at it—opened wider as a great invisible feeding worm had, after digesting all it could from Archway’s intestinal tract and trachea, emerged from his mouth to seek other prey.
I screamed again, and pulled at the front door. It would not budge! I wept, screeching unintelligibly. Why would the damnable door not open?
Then I felt it. A cool heavy something touching my foot. A gelatinous tendril or tentacle wrapped muscularly around my ankle. It coiled upward slowly, up my leg as it had coiled up those of the others, seeking an orifice through which to invade my body, where it intended to feed, slowly and agonizingly. He who had called it down from whatever Gehenna had spawned it wrote of the experience of having the Worm Unknown insinuate itself into the body. It was sickeningly unpleasant and obscene at first as it slipped into the intestines, filling one’s innards like a great cold tapeworm. The true horror came when the loops found the stomach, causing the unceasing retching until the Worm had eaten the contents of the entire stomach and, satiated, climbed the trachea, helped by the very retching it caused… until in slipping up into the mouth, it mercifully shut off the victim’s suffering by cutting off his wind. By then, the tip of the Worm had only to quest out, perhaps to linger over the tongue and teeth for a few last shreds of nourishment, before emerging invisibly….
The others had not known. Never suspected the horror slipping silently down from the attic region. The Worm had stolen up on them, silent and invisible, to take them one at a time, slowly to the victims, but obviously rapidly enough that it took the entire family on the third floor unawares. Perhaps it moved rapidly through their bodies, not feeding, but establishing itself, so it could catch them all. Then it fed on each one, was still feeding on those who had not entirely decayed. Just as it intended to feed on me.
I screamed again, as the thick coil touched my knee. Again, I yanked at the door. This time it came open. I knew why. The tip of the Worm had held it shut. But now it was creeping up my leg. I pulled myself out the door, into the coolness of Tower Way. The tentacle held tenaciously. I pulled on my leg repeatedly, but to no avail. The tentacle crept past my knee, no longer looping around, it wormed its way to my crotch, brushing obscenely past my scrotum. I fell. The weight on my leg was too great. On my stomach, I screamed as it pushed its cold wormy digit into my lowermost natural orifice, insinuating itself into the intestinal tract, causing my belly to bloat as prodigiously as if I had become pregnant with child.
But it was no offspring of this world that distended my abdomen. Instead, the terrible cold worm lingered in my entrails, prolonging the inevitable.
At any moment, I expected it to creep up into my stomach and find its blind way to my esophagus.
Inexplicably, it failed to do so.
And so I lay there, entirely helpless. I attempted to crawl, but the thing owned me now. I could not move more than a few inches in any direction. For each time I did, the great invisible thing switched about, holding me in place while it continued to feed on the contents of my digestive system.
A cold sweat came over me, soaking my clothes. The inevitability of my fate clamped upon my brain, squeezing it as if it were a sponge.
I could not scream. I could only retch, tasting the uprush of my own vomit.
Then, a door opened.
And I heard a voice that sounded familiar.
“Hello, George.”
It was the sandpapery voice of my editor, Augustus Eldred who I had often visited in his cubby-hole office in downtown Boston.
I tried turning my head, but could not. I could see only from the tail of my left eye. A dark figure stood there, like a human cone.
“No doubt you were wondering how you came to fall into this predicament?”
Eldred stepped into view, and I saw that he was wearing black and purple robes. Weird silvery designs covered his sunken breast.
I could not easily look up, but I managed somehow to crane my neck. I saw that Eldred clutched what appeared be a heavy Bible in one arm, of the type printed a century or more ago. Somehow, I understood that this was no Bible.
“It is not a simple thing to edit a fiction magazine devoted to the weird and the bizarre,” Eldred continued. “Most of these pulp writers are incapable of penning a proper story to the correct recipe. You have no idea how much illiterate junk comes in through the transom. It is called a slush pile for a sound reason. Ghoulash is what I seek.” He chuckled at his own macabre jest.
“I do not edit Shudder Stories out of idleness. You see, I am a dabbler in the arcane myself. I’m sure you will recall the many plot germs I threw your way. They did not come from my imagination. Well, not entirely so.”
Eldred stepped around and knelt so that I could see his cowled face clearly. It seemed transfigured in some way I did not understand. To the crown of his balding head snugged a tight velvet skullcap.
“I will be frank with you, Archer. The magazine is struggling. I often settle for stories that are weaker than I prefer. Such is the state of weird writers in these modern times. Long have I searched for a new Bierce or a modern Poe. But to no avail. They are no longer bred.
“However, I have discovered a way to boost lagging circulation that is sure fire. This may strike you as exceedingly unfair. I quite understand. Life is certainly unfair. If it were fair, my magazine would be published by one of the great magazine chains. Instead, I must eke out a meagre existence, editing it from my own funds.
“You will remember that I began buying your stories after the untimely death of your predecessor, Weir? Well, one day I invited him to participate in one of my rituals in the hope that his stories would markedly improve. And they did. Unfortunately, the Worm Unknown took him unexpectedly. You see, that is his body in the attic.
“Fortunately, I had several of his stories in inventory. And once I announced his death, those issues sold out. I realized two things. That I would need a suitable replacement writer, and that he too, must eventually perish. For the sake of improved circulation, you see. It is a cold fact, I will admit it. But it is why we find ourselves in this room in our present conditions. I thought in the unfairness of the situation I could at least grant you a measure of understanding.”
My eyes fell on the faded gilt title of the tome Eldred clutched. I saw that the words were in German. I attempted to translate them in my mind, but my schoolboy German failed me utterly.
Eldred must have read my struggling intent, for he shoved the volume’s cracked leather front in my face.
“Can you read this? No? This rare work is known as De Vermis Mysteriis. In English, it would be called Mysteries of the Worm. A medieval necromancer named Ludvig Prinn compiled it. It was through the formulae and associated incantations found in these precious pages that I was able to summon The Worm Unknown, as I call it, from its otherworldly burrow. Did you imagine that worms are native only to the earth? They are not. They also impregnate other dimensions. This was known to Prinn, who was inspired in his own occult explorations by the Latin translation of the Necronomicon. I suppose that I need not explain the Necronomicon to you—you who have produced several chilling tales in which that paramount of all grimoire figured. I will, however, note that it was an ancient Danish scholar called Ole Wurm—or Olaus Wormius as he styled himself—who translated the Greek version of Abdul Alhazred’s Arabic text to Latin, thereby promulgating it beyond the historically delimited sphere of Araby and Greece. The fact the Ole Wurm inspired the compilation of De Vermis Mysteriis centuries beyond the natural span of his life is quite a tale—one only partially illuminated by Prinn’s necromantic proclivities. But I can assure you that it is no rumor that Prinn named De Vermis Mysteriis in honor of Wurm, who can rightfully be said to be its co-author. For you see, it was a posthumous collaboration. I would be pleased to recount its entire history, but alas, time is short. Your time, to be quite blunt about it.
“Now, let me explain what is to come. The Worm is in no hurry to finish his repast. Sluggish by nature and temperament, it will linger for some time, dwelling in your bowels and feasting upon the nourishment found within your innards. You, in turn, will persist for as long as it feeds. And during that time, you will write of your experience exactly as it has occurred. I will publish the manuscript as your final story, to the acclaim of your adoring readers. It will be your legacy. Admittedly and regrettably, you will not be able to enjoy it in any way. But posthumous fame is better than nothing at all. Do you not agree?
“There’s no need to nod your head one way or the other. The Worm holds you fast in its gelid grip, and you cannot move anything other than your arms and legs. Even those, only in a limited way.”
I attempted to push myself along the floor, but to no avail. I was like a crab that had been impaled by a marlin spike. No matter how much I scuttled, I made no progress.
Seeing my helplessness, Eldred smiled wolfishly, showing yellowed teeth.
“Do you recall my little lecture concerning the two types of weird stories? The difference between the classic horror story and the modern terror tale?”
I said nothing.
“I am certain that you do. I see that speech is difficult for you. Permit me to refresh your recollection. Horror is the emotion you feel as you watch your loved one being torn apart and devoured by—”
“Ravening… werewolves,” I gasped out.
“You remember! Very good. And terror?”
“Terror,” I groaned, “is the emotion produced by the realization that your dearest one is sinking her teeth into your throat and that she is now and forever a werewolf.”
Eldred beamed yellowly. “Precisely. In the past, you have produced many fine stories of macabre horror. And I have printed them. Now you will write for me a true tale of mind-searing terror. And you will require no more inspiration than your present predicament.”
He pushed a fountain pen and a sheaf of paper toward me, saying, “Now, it is time for you to begin writing. Begin at the point at which you entered this house. No preambles. You know I despise them. Just tell the story is it happened to you without any foreshadowing. The reader must not be permitted to guess where the narrative is heading. Be matter of fact. No overwriting. There is no time. I will permit you to live long enough to complete your tale. I wish that I could provide you with something to drink to sustain you, but as you can plainly see, that is impossible now. You would only expel it, for by now your stomach is fully occupied.”
I stared at the paper and pen for a long time. My brain reeled. The cold sweat that had enveloped my body came again, drenching me anew.
I saw the hopelessness of my position. I cursed it. I cried, weeping bitter tears of regret. I wished I had never purchased that first alluring copy of Shudder Stories, much less become involved with the accused magazine.
Finally, my emotions spent, I picked up the fountain pen, removed the cap and began at the beginning….
My first scratching produced “The Worm Unknown.”
“No!” snapped Eldred. “That simply will not do. Have you forgotten your Lovecraft? Suggest, do not reveal. We must have an evocative title, mustn’t we? One that will not telegraph your story’s shuddery ending. Let me see. ‘Spawn of Rlim Shaikorth.’ No, that is too obscure. ‘I Encountered Bgnghaa-Ythn-Yaddith.’ No, that will not do, either. It sounds like something from a putrid confession magazine. Ah, I have it! Quickly now! Write this down: ‘The House at One Tower Way.’ ”
I did as I was told. I could not explain why. Perhaps it was a last vestige of misplaced authorial pride.
At that point, Augustus Eldred withdrew from the room. He was humming in a manner that sounded pleased yet was slightly mocking.
