Blood Lite

The Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadow of Horror Christopher Welch

I went through the motions, the ritualistic motions I had done hundreds of times. But this one was special.

I printed out a standard cover letter along with my freshly edited story, "The Scarlet Horror from Beyond Space." I placed both with an SASE in an envelope addressed to the top professional horror-fiction market. I threw on my favor­ite coat—a faux letter-jacket from Miskatonic University— left my apartment, and strolled into the cool air of the night, a night that seemed darker than ...

No, stop it.

I cannot think that way anymore. The night sky was simply the night sky, not some infinite brooding sentience with a conspiratorial agenda to reveal indescribable terrors to a timid dreamer. I will not believe in monsters.

I walked a few blocks to the nearest mailbox and dropped the envelope through the slot. I felt good about the story. I think this one had a really good chance of being accepted for publication. But then again, maybe I'm just crazy to believe that.

This one was special, though. This one was my last. This was the equivalent of a last drag of a cigarette on New Year's Eve, before quitting cold turkey for the New Year. I needed help, and with the wonderful information I found on a special Internet forum site, "Ignoring the Dark Places and Others," I found presumed salvation from my problem ... from my addiction.

I walked through the city . . . and it was just a city, I told myself. It was not an uncanny multitude of honey­combed fears. It was not the domain of sinister machi­nations directed by the malformed hand of an inhuman puppeteer.

Just a city —it's just friggin' Janesville, Wisconsin, for Pete's sake!

After a few blocks, I found the old brick building I was looking for. The unremarkable structure was of standard Euclidian architectural practices. Its entrance was shad­owed, a grim entrance to an unknowable ... stop it! I can­not think like that. It is ruining my life.

The door was open and I entered the building. My heels clicked on polished floor tiles of squamous decor. A small light escaped from the only open interior doorway at the end of the long, dank hall. I slowly approached. I argued with myself.

Should I? Should I not?

I decided I truly needed self-control back in my life.

My problem . . . my addiction . . . had cost me too much already, in terms of jobs, friends, and romantic relation­ships.

I had reached bottom. I needed help.

I came to the door and peered into the room. A single uncovered bulb, like a cyclopean eye, hung from the ceil­ing. There was a circle of a dozen folding chairs. Sitting in each one was a man, some younger and some older than me, but all had the same look about them: baggy eyes behind ill-fitting spectacles, unruly hair, and all about thirty pounds overweight.

"Is this your first time here?" the man at the front of the room asked me.

I did not see him at first glance. He was at a podium, and obviously had been talking to the congregation of men who all looked a little too much like ... me.

"Yes," I finally answered. "I need help. I can't control myself."

"Welcome, friend. I'm Tom," he said as he shook my hand. "I have just finished telling my story. Please, tell us yours. We all have this addiction. But with group support, we can overcome it."

I stood behind the podium and Tom sat down nearby.

After swallowing hard, I finally uttered, "Hi, my name is Chris, and I write Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror."

"Hi, Chris," everyone said in unison.

"It started when I was in middle school. That is when I first discovered H. P. Lovecraft and his Cthulhu Mythos. After reading his stories, I was addicted."

"Sounds right," someone in the audience muttered, followed by acknowledging nods.

"I mean, I had to read everything—everything—that made even the briefest of references to Cthulhu, YogSothoth, Azathoth, and Nyarlathotep."

"How come everyone forgets Ithaqua," someone in the circle mumbled. "We live in the cold waste of Wiscon­sin, for crying out loud, yet everyone forgets Ithaqua the Wind-Walker."

"You hush, Artie," Tom admonished. As Tom spoke, I noticed one figure was sitting in the back of the room, outside the circle of chairs. The figure blended with the corner shadows so perfectly that he was almost imperceptible.

"Please continue, Chris," Tom said. "I hunted down every author—Derleth, Lumley, Campbell, Leiber, Smith, Howard, Ligotti—I read every story, every book, and every back issue of Weird Tales I could locate. I even found authors outside of the 'normal' realm of Mythos writers. I mean, I even finished Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum just for its single Mythos refer­ence."

"If you finished Foucault's Pendulum, you must really have a problem, Chris," Tom said.

"But I did not stop at authors, oh no," I continued. "I played every adventure of every role-playing game based on the Mythos. I played every video game and every col­lectable card game. I even played LARP."

There was a collective gasp of shock.

In that dark corner, I heard a faint chuckle.

"But then, at some point, I realized I had consumed everything—books, games, even DVDs. I had to have more. Then it hit me. I had to create the next generation of Mythos literature."

Again, a round of acknowledging nods. This group really did understand my problem, and it felt nice to know that I was neither alone nor mad, finally.

"That is when I wrote my first Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror story. It was a quick tale, less than a thousand words. I called it 'The Beast from Beyond Terror.' It was about a necromancer who sum­moned an Elder Beast that was more powerful than he, so it ate him immediately."

More nods. "Yes, textbook predisposition," a man in the audience muttered with ivory-tower arrogance. He had white hair and apelike features.

Did I hear another chuckle from that veiled figure in the corner?

"I wrote nearly two stories a week, in those early days," I said. "I remember my titles clearly: 'The Thing Beyond Horror,' 'The Monstrosity from Nega-Time,' 'The Colors from Beyond the Shadows,' 'The Eldritch Witch Elders,' and 'The Madness at the Center of Eternity'"

"Oh, I like that one," a chubby middle-aged man whis­pered. He received a collective scorn.

"Of course, I had to mention every Elder God in every story," I said. "I had to mention awesome Cthulhu; the gatekeeper Yog-Sothoth; Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young; the blind idiot-god Azathoth, who lives at the center of the uni­verse; and Hastur, the Unspeakable."

"And Ithaqua."

"The tomes. I had to mention the tomes in every story, as well: the dreaded Necronomicon by the Abdul Alhazred was always mentioned first, of course, followed by De Vermis Mysteriis by Ludvig Prinn, von Juntz's Unaussprechlichen Kulten, The Pnakotic Manuscripts, and The Book of Eibon, as well. I could not continue to write anything unless I inserted this litany into my cosmic melodramas at some point before the real thrust of the story began."

"You forgot Comte d'Erlette's Cultes de Goules," said Artie. He was immediately smacked in the back of the head by the person sitting next to him.

"You're not helping," the smacker said.

"I mailed my stories off to the top horror-fiction maga­zines and anthologies," I continued. "For three years, I got nothing but rejection letters. Every editor said the same thing—I was writing pastiche.

"I realized that they were only partly correct. I was writing Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror, a very special and unique literary art form, if art it be. But I knew that if I persevered, I would, one day, be able to add my name to the Mythos Canon, that I would be up there in the highest echelon of Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror authors. At least that was my dream ... my obsession ... my addiction.

"I tried new approaches," I added. "Instead of having my protagonists always being eaten, I thought maybe they could live, but just go insane. At the time, I thought that was an original ending."

"We all thought that once," Ape Face said.

"Then I tried having my protagonist become the mon­ster he most feared, which I also thought was an original idea. But, after years of this, I have come to realize that I have no new ideas. I knew I could only write the same basic idea over and over, I would just go on and on and on and on and—"

"Yes, we all know that Ramsey Campbell story, Chris," Tom interrupted. "Continue."

"I'm sorry. Thank you. I know I should stop thinking in Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror terms, and that is why I am here tonight. I need help. This whole Mythos thinking has invaded my daily life—my job, my relationships, everything.

"I have realized that this world, this universe, does not need another author like me, an author who feels com­pelled to write this type of literature that is so rightly rejected and can only find a home on my personal website. I still hope someone will visit the site once they discover its link on HorrorFind."

"You have all the support you need here," Tom said. "Together, we can help you get through this difficult time in your life."

I had to fight back the tears welling in my eyes. "Thank you."

"Would someone else like to speak?" Tom asked.

I sat down and I listened with rapt attention to three more testimonies of how the insidious disease of Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror addiction was ruining their lives, as well.

However, I sometimes found myself staring into that dark corner. I swore somebody was there while I was speaking, but now there was just empty darkness.

After the meeting, Tom gave me two pamphlets to read, "The 12 Steps of Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror Recovery" and "So You Think You Can Write Something Scary, Eh?"

I left the meeting feeling uplifted. I was not alone and drowning in madness. The monsters were at bay.

As I was walking home by the dim light of a gibbous moon, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to look. A few dozen yards behind me was a tall figure with noble yet ancient features. An overwhelming sense of dread chilled my veins.

When he saw me, he chuckled. I recognized that laugh; it was the same one from the meeting.

I turned back around and continued on my way.

He was following me, pacing me.

I could hear his heavy footfalls. Were those boots or hooves?

I could feel him behind me. I took another quick glance back. His shadow was stretching toward me. The low night sky, previously brooding in its pitch, now seemed to be a blazing quasar compared to his heatless shadow, which was an elongated pool of demoniacal darkness.

I ran down the street, away from this horrible but unnamed menace.

I turned one corner, and then another—when I plowed right into his chest as he seemingly just materialized in front of me. I fell to the ground, short of breath. I rose, and instinctually felt the need to retreat at full speed.

"Wait," he said, with a voice that sounded ... a lot like James Earl Jones.

"Who are you?"

"You know very well who I am."

I had to admit it, though my mind screamed at the impossibility. It was undeniable. The Pharaoh-like features, the multiple infinities twirling in the eyes, the unshakable fear inspired by his presence. There was ho doubt.

I could barely speak, yet I uttered, "Nyarlathotep."

"Who else?"

"Impossible ... you're not real... you're just a fictional character .. . it's all made up."

"Of course I am real," he said through a contemptuous snarl. "We are all real. We are not some postmodern metafictional trope awaiting deconstruction as a metaphor for metrosexual Freudian angst from an untenured professor.

"No, we are monsters. If there is one thing I know about you, Chris, it is that we are real monsters to you. You believe the pastiche. It is your Holy Litany. You recite pastiche chapter and verse, author and publication date. You believe in the Word of the Almighty Pastiche. You are the door-to-door proselytizer of the pastiche. You want us Old Ones to be real—and so we are."

"What do you want from me?"

"Want? I want nothing from you. I came to warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath. "Look, this meeting you attended tonight. You can't go to one ever again. Ever. Do you understand?"

"But, I have to. I have this addiction. I can't control it. I have to continuously write Eldritch Pastiche from—"

"—Beyond the Shadows of Horror. Yes, yes. I get it."

"But it's like alcohol or narcotics. It is ruining my life, and I have no control over it anymore."

"You have never had control over your life, human,"

Nyarlathotep said with a sneer. "And you never will. But that is not the point. Well, not the entire point. You see, you hold a special place in the universe, Chris. A very spe­cial place that only one person in a generation can hold."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your work. Your stories. Your whole Eldritch yadda-yadda bit. You must continue to write more of it."

"Why?"

"Because you are unique, Chris. Your work achieves a level of recognition rarely seen in the entire writing indus­try, nay, the very universe itself."

My heart skipped a beat. A lump formed in my throat. Was my literary skill being recognized by beings that are higher than a mere mortal? Was I getting the ultimate acceptance letter?

"You mean you like my fiction?"

"Like it?" Nyarlathotep laughed, and all of Janesville trembled in fear. "I have read every single syllable you have written, and I can't stand it! Your work is the most unorig­inal, unimaginative, most derivative, overwrought use of any language I have read since Captain Obed Marsh wrote love sonnets to his wife."

I was speechless. This was like a rejection letter from reality itself.

"I mean, have you ever really thought about your titles? 'The Thing from the Asteroid'? 'The Nega-Space Beyond Time'? ''The Horror from Pluto's Shore'? 'The Haunter Called from the Shadows'? I mean, c'mon now!

"And your so-called plots." He made quotation marks with his fingers. "You are the literary equivalent of a Fam­ily Dollar store coloring book."

I remained speechless. How could I say anything?

"Let me ask you something, Chris. Do you know the definition of insanity}"

I was not sure how to respond. It is not every day the Crawling Chaos asks you to define insanity. Finally, I said, "Do you mean doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result each time?"

"Correct."

"You're saying I'm crazy, right? That because I write Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror over and over again, I am insane. Because no one will ever publish my work, but I think that some day, some way, it will get published? I mean legitimately published, like with an editor and an ISBN number, and not just uploaded to my website."

"That is only half of the answer."

"I don't understand."

"Of all the pastiches that you have read, what was the single most important philosophy, as a whole literary body, :hey encompass?"

"That humanity is insignificant to the rest of the universe, and that once humanity understands that, the terrifying vistas beyond our world will drive us to the safety of a new superstition-driven dark age."

"That's more fact than philosophy, but I won't argue right now since you have the gist," Nyarlathotep said. But, what—or who—are those terrifying vistas?"

"The Old Ones, like Great Cthulhu and Yog-Sothoth." The Pharaoh motioned encouragement with one hand. "And... who else?"

"Ithaqua?"

"Keep going ..." More motion.

"Azathoth, the Demon-Sultan," I said. "He is the blind idiot-god at the center of the universe. He is the mindless Primal Chaos behind the Veil of Colors, which is beyond our comprehension. He is accompanied by an inhuman cho­rus of dancers and pipers; they are servitors as equally mad as himself." Then, as I spoke, it hit me: "He is pure, ultimate chaos, conventional laws of space, time, and matter fail to exist in his presence—he is total insanity made incarnate."

"Very good," he said and folded his hands. "And who am I again?"

"You're Nyarlathotep, the Black Pharaoh, the Dweller in the Darkness, the Mighty Messenger, the Crawling—" I stopped in midsentence. "You are the Messenger of the Old Ones. You converse with Azathoth."

"Very good. Now what messages do you suppose I take to him?"

"Necromancer's spells?"

"Yes. But remember, he is insane."

I did not like where this was going. I said nothing.

"He likes to do things over and over, and over and over," he reminded me. "Do you have any idea what he likes, being a mindless idiot?"

I swallowed nervously. "He likes to read Eldritch Pas­tiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror?"

"Likes it? The crazy bastard loves it! He can't get enough of it. He loves to hear about humans being driven mad by encounters with horrors beyond space and time. When you are literally the center of the universe, your favorite subject is the center of the universe. And guess who gets to read these stories to him every damn time?"

"You?"

"Me!" Nyarlathotep thumbed his chest. "That's how I know that you are such an awful writer."

Nyarlathotep sighed in resignation. "You are not the only writer of pastiche I have had to read to him. Oh, no. There are many, many unskilled and unimaginative authors out there. Every single one of them thinks, like you, that they have the same vision, talent, and discipline as our original courier, Lovecraft. But they don't. They are merely chim­panzees aping behavior that has been carved onto the blank slate of their pubescent brains. Their literary incompetence is only surpassed by their laughable claims of literary supe­riority. Everything with them is always blacker than black, darker than dark, nighter than night, or whatever.

"These so-called authors come a penny a dozen, and the Demon-Sultan loves to have each and every single one read to him, like a child having a parent read Dr. Seuss, over and over and over."

I said nothing.

"And Azathoth is like a child. These Eldritch Pas­tiches from Beyond the Shadows of Horror keep him soothed. And for the time being, it behooves me to keep him soothed. And that is where you come into the picture, Chris."

He looked me in the eyes and I saw twirling galaxies inside his.

"Out of all the thousands of literary hacks on this orbiting pebble, you, Chris, are the single most untalented, single most uninspired, single most formulaic one of this generation ... and Azathoth is your biggest fan. You are prolific in your output. You write the same crap over and over, and I read it to Azathoth over and over, and he loves it over and over. But it keeps him calm. Relatively speak­ing, of course, because . . . well, he is such vast churning Primal Chaos and all.

"So that is why you must never attend another Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror Anony­mous meeting." Nyarlathotep pointed at me. "Your stories are needed to keep the universe glued together. You want to see a terrifying vista? You want to live in real madness? Then you tell Azathoth he doesn't get a bedtime story.

"Don't get me wrong, human," Nyarlathotep contin­ued. "You view time and space in a strict linear manner, and one day, as you see it, I will destroy this world with a planetwide holocaust and a crushing flood of doom. And afterwards, Cthulhu will rise from his slumber, the one-millionth grandchild of Shub-Niggurath will be born, Yog-Sothoth will throw open the Final Gate, and yes, Azathoth will spew forth into this reality and all the Outer Gods will glorify this realm once more.

"But not at this moment. Right now I have another agenda, and I require keeping Azathoth's eyes closed for the time being."

"What agenda?" I asked.

"That is no concern of yours," Nyarlathotep said in anger. He seemed to grow in stature, and fear slithered down my spine.

"Enough," he said. "I have warned you. Do not stop writing Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror. Do not stop!"

He was looming over me like a bear, when suddenly, he levitated into the air. His Pharaoh-like appearance melted into a formless mass of darkness, like a cloud or an oil slick. Something like wings, resembling a bat, or maybe a manta, sprouted from the mass, as did a solitary red eye with three lobes. With a screech like a carrion bird, Nyarlathotep flew into the brooding sky and faded into the black horizon. It was very CGI.

I know I stood at that street corner laughing for a long time at the mere idea that my overwrought gothic melodramas have such an important role to play in the universe; to entertain such an idea invited lunacy . . . the lunacy of an accursed cosmos . . . madness rides the san­guine howls between the stars ... a subbestial bacchanalia baying across the void . . . the mind-annihilating truth, the victory of the macabre and grotesque . . . I believe in monsters... Id! Id!—Cthulhufhtagn—

How long I laughed, I do not recall. I vaguely remem­ber ripping the pamphlets into confetti and tossing them into the air. But how I made my way home, I have no clear recollection.

Once there, I found myself typing madly at my com­puter. In a blind and idiotic fury, I cranked out what I thought was my best, most original, and most inspired story yet, "The Pharaoh from Beyond the Shadow of Insanity."

I printed out a standard cover letter along with the story, and placed both with an SASE in an envelope addressed to the top professional horror-fiction market. I walked a few blocks to the nearest mailbox and dropped the envelope through the slot.

I felt good about the story. I think this one had a really good chance of being accepted for publication. But then again, maybe I'm just crazy to believe that.