Cthulhurotica

Clint Collins THE SUMMONED

Had I known of the nightmare to follow, I would have never allowed Pamela into the hallway.

The shouts of Henry Wilcox, a fellow student at the Rhode Island School of Design, drew me and other residents of the Fleur-de-Lys Building to his door late one evening. His anguished cries and constant gibberish, though there was the repetition of certain unintelligible phrases, emboldened us to knock and inquire as to his health. Realizing he was delirious, we opened his unlocked door and found him in bed, feverish and muttering.

Since his family lived in town, the boys and I thought it best to dress Henry and get him there immediately for proper care. His slender arms were draped upon my shoulders and those of another student and as we left his room I saw Pamela in her robe, an expression of concern on her face. A talented sculptress, she shared many of the same classes with Henry. Pamela had long been the object of my affections and at one point early last semester, when she moved into the building, I was concerned the blonde and bobbed beauty might attract his attention. Thankfully, Henry had eyes only for his strange sculptures and never gave Pamela a second look.

After Henry’s family collected him in what looked to be a new Packard touring sedan, I went upstairs to check on Pamela and saw she was not in her room. She was not in mine, which most fortunately happened to be next to hers. Instead, I found her in Henry’s room, just to the right of hers. She was kneeling on the floor, intently looking at some sketches that had been scattered about.

“There you are,” I said, gently touching the back of her neck. “What is all this?”

Pamela handed me one of the drawings. I never much cared for the dark, fantastical figures Henry exhibited at the student shows, and this was more of the same. I made a dismissive sound and let the drawing flutter to the floor. “A winged monster with an octopus head? Honestly….”

“I find them fascinating,” said Pamela, now gathering all the sketches Henry had strewn about the room. “I want to study them.”

I helped her up from the floor. “They will only give you nightmares.” I noticed the erect nipples denting the white silk of her robe. “Perhaps you should stay with me again tonight?” She had lately afforded me every liberty due a lover, not the least of which included the caressing of her up-tilted, rose-mouthed breasts, and I was eager to continue our explorations.

Pamela shook her head and held the repulsive sketches to a perfect bosom. “No. Henry’s work has given me an idea. I’ll be busy tonight.” She brushed by me and I was still frowning in Henry’s room when I heard her door close.

Somewhat perturbed by her denial, when I spotted a drawing of the horrid octopus-thing she had missed, I took great pleasure in tearing it into small pieces and stuffing the shreds into my pockets. No need for the overly sensitive Henry to see them in his wastebasket, but I would not have Pamela further inspired by such grotesqueries. It had always been my intention to open my own portrait studio — I was often praised for my work in oil and charcoal — and for Pamela, when not raising the children, to have her own small shop for her excellent pots and vases. I had seen her stare a little too long at Henry’s abhorrent figures in the student galleries and I was not going to abide the misdirection of her estimable talent.

I resolved to speak of the matter to her in the morning, hoping curiosity might turn to a welcome disgust once the novelty of Henry’s creature had worn off.

It was our custom to breakfast together every day, and I knocked on her door precisely at eight. She opened the door, still in her robe, and took me by the hand. Her face was flushed and she was obviously excited. It seemed two thumbs were pushing against the thin robe. She led me to her work desk and handed me a very detailed drawing in pencil. “Richard, take a look at this. What do you think?”

Of course, it was Henry’s monster, though much better imagined and executed, and, therefore, all the more revolting. Disappointed, I tried not to scold. “Pamela,” I said softly, putting the sketch back on the table by others she had obviously labored on throughout the night. “You do know Henry never sold one of his figurines, don’t you?”

Pamela glared. “Richard, I don’t care about that! Don’t you see there is a power here I am trying to capture, to summon? ” She hastily gathered her drawings and put them in a portfolio, no doubt sensing the harm I might inflict upon them.

I desperately needed to change the subject. “Look, darling,” I said, touching her shoulder, “I’m sorry. I’m starving and I’m sure you need coffee after being up all night. Get dressed and we’ll go out for a nice breakfast.”

“I could use some coffee,” she admitted, and shrugged off the robe, revealing all I had worshipfully kissed just two nights ago.

In the diner, waving her fork and between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, she enthused about Henry’s “vision” and his “obvious connection to a subterranean power” and other such nonsense. I nodded at the appropriate times and tried to smile, although I’m sure it appeared a grimace. My toast, eggs, and coffee sat in my belly like one of Henry’s monsters squatting on a pedestal. I had to tell myself this project of hers was a passing artistic phase and, perhaps, a bit of rebellion against my insistence on pursuing the more commercial aspects of her pottery.

Against her coffee cup she impatiently tapped a nail that not long ago traced luxurious patterns on my thigh, slowly spiraling upward. “Richard, I will need clay. Lots, and lots, of clay. Can we take your car to that art supply place?”

Pamela looked at me with vibrant eyes over the steaming cup. “Green,” she said, after a sip. “Yes, dark green.”

Much later, by way of thanks, at her door she pressed herself against me and gave me an impassioned kiss. “Now, leave me be for a while,” she said, putting a finger to my lips. “I have work to do.”

In the evening, when I knocked to inquire if she wished any dinner, she refused, saying she couldn’t pause just yet. At eight the next day she asked if I could bring her toast, coffee, and extra jam. She received them through a barely opened door with green hands, like some captive goblin queen.

“May I see?” I asked.

“No, Richard. You know you won’t be pleased,” she said, closing the door.

The slavish ritual of bringing her breakfast continued for longer than I anticipated. Always the same order and never a peek at her monstrosity. “What about your classes?” I said into a sliver of light. It had been a week and the room smelled of fresh clay and her sweat.

“You know I only have my senior project,” she breathed through the crack. “You suggested pottery with mass appeal. It was so easy I finished long ago. I only have to turn it in. Plenty of time for that.” And the door shut.

The next morning there was no answer when I knocked, so I left her packaged breakfast by the door. It was still there in the late afternoon when I returned from classes. I knocked and called her name, but received no response. I assumed she was either deep in sleep from exhaustion or on some errand, but I never heard her door open once that evening.

It was well after midnight when I heard the chanting. The wall between us was thin enough to allow my hearing voices, though never quite clear enough to pick up the secret, whispered gist of conversations with girlfriends when they visited. Pressing my ear to the wall, it seemed Pamela was reciting, over and over, some of the same nonsensical syllables Henry had moaned in his bed.

Pamela possessed a strange sense of humor, and I did not doubt she was purposely mimicking poor Henry, still at home hallucinating. She was at least giving a fine performance, carefully pronouncing each foreign syllable in a deliberate and commanding cadence, as if invoking some demon from its depths.

I was about to knock on the wall and let her know I heard her recitation and that we could all go back to bed, especially since one of us was still attending classes, when she abruptly halted her chanting and a brief silence was soon filled with an audible gasp.

I heard nothing for a few minutes except what might be some slow and shuffling footsteps, then the obvious creak of bedsprings. I could always tell when Pamela went to bed for the night and it was why we stayed in my room whenever she chose to grant certain pleasures. The bed groaned mightily as if bearing an unaccustomed weight and I strained even harder against the wall. The minx was indeed making a fine show of this, knowing I could hear everything. I imagined how we would laugh about this later, between kisses.

Other than the occasional complaint from rusted bedsprings, there was no sound until Pamela startled me with a single, sharp cry, soon followed by a rhythmic creaking. Softly, compared to the bed’s harsh squeaking, Pamela’s moaning became audible through the wall between us.

I knew those moans. There were times I could feel them before they were voiced, much like the tug of the sea before the wave. Her heels would press into my back, her thighs would tremble, and her belly flutter as the pleasure flowed upward to be sung from those full lips.

Of course, she was pleasuring herself — alone — to punish me for my disapproval of her current artistic pursuit. Determined not to show any sign of interest that might bring a triumphant smile to her face, I went to bed, later putting a pillow on the side of my head as her cries had become uncharacteristically louder.

In the morning, to show there were no hard feelings, I brought breakfast again and, when I knocked, to my mild surprise Pamela unlocked the door and came into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

“Richard,” she said, taking the bag and coffee. “Thank you.”

I was shocked by the state she was in, but tried not to betray any astonishment. Her untied robe was torn on one side with long, jagged gashes and she stood before me completely unconcerned she was revealing herself to anyone who might be passing in the hallway. There were light scratches on the side of her neck, but longer and redder lines curved from her right breast down across her belly to the inside of her left thigh. She had always been careful about her hair, but it, too, seemed seized by unknown hands.

What I teasingly called her “Golden Fleece” was damp and matted and her exposed, impudent nipples, a much darker rose now, were swollen and elongated as though cruelly and persistently suckled at length. A strong — almost reptilian — scent came from her body as if she had slept entangled with a bed full of snakes.

Obviously this was all for my benefit, so I played along. “Pamela, I heard you cry out last night. Is anything amiss?”

She half-closed those violet eyes and smiled. “No, it was just… a bad dream. Scratched myself. Sorry for disturbing you.”

Stepping closer, I touched her cheek and could see from face to thighs she was covered with a faint mottling of rosette-shaped impressions. Her skin was warm, almost feverish, and I thought of Henry’s mysterious condition.

“Pamela, are you alright?”

“I’ve never felt more alive, Richard, truly.” She took a step towards me, so close her breath stank of the same snaky odor as her skin. “You must do something for me now, Richard. You must leave me alone for a while. Perhaps a long while. I have important work to do.” She kissed my cheek and her lips were on fire. “Please.”

With that she opened her door again, closed it behind her as she went back in without another word, and locked it.

I suppose I can be forgiven for not bringing her breakfast again, In fact, I tried my best to ignore her, although I privately worried she might be suffering from some mental or physical affliction. When Henry returned from his family’s home to his quarters in early April, he seemed in excellent health again, free of delusions, and I hoped for the same restoration for Pamela. Yet an unsettling pattern had begun. Every night now came the chanting, her rising and falling moans, the incessant creaking, and sometimes, if not my imagination, a labored snuffling before all became still. Henry, who was on the other side of her, claimed to have heard nothing.

I had my spies in the building, all friends of long standing, and none reported any visitors to her door. It seemed she never left her room except for a weekly visit to the grocery. Luckily, she chose to do that on a fixed schedule and I watched her walk down the street from my window. Even though it was a warm spring day, she wore a long overcoat, and I attributed that to her general aberrant behavior. I lost no time opening her door using a key fashioned from an impression of her lock made with the steadier hand of another sculptor friend.

Without doubt, she had gone completely mad. The room reeked of the foul snake-stink that had been on her body and the walls were covered with sketches of Henry’s monster. Her unmade bed was a mass of torn sheets and even the mattress was scarred with long rips. Most unnerving, of course, was the hideous sculpture occupying a canvas in the middle of the room.

She had made it the size of an average man, posed in a squat upon the floor. She had too faithfully rendered the beast, as the green worm-faced monstrosity looked as if it were alive, waiting to pounce. The tentacles slithering out from the head were poised in mid-air and the front and hind claws curved to sharp knife-points. The long wings seemed tensed for flight.

Foulest of all, though, was the heavy, bulbous scrotum and the long thick member dangling between muscled, scaly thighs. The veined appendage even boasted an oily gleam, as if recently engaged in some vile act of congress with another of its repellent species. I was sorely tempted to snap it off and hide it in my room, but I wanted no evidence of my visit.

Wondering what she had been surviving on, since I no longer supplied breakfast, I opened the refrigerator in the small kitchen and saw stacked packages of meat. Pamela abhorred beef, and this was just another indication of her disturbed condition. Saddened at what had become of the woman I loved, I was all too eager to close the door upon that scene of madness and immediately sat down to write her family in Boston a long letter describing my concerns.

That night the chanting began as usual, but then nothing else. I began to fear that somehow, some way she discovered my intrusion and I waited for her angry knock or shout. But there was only silence on the other side of the wall.

In the morning she was gone. A fellow artist in the building, aware of my worries about Pamela, rapped on my door and told me he had just helped her into a taxi. She had needed assistance getting some luggage down the stairs, he explained. “My God, Richard,” he said, gripping my arm as I stood in the doorway. “Did you know she was pregnant?”

By the time I inquired if she had been seen at the train station, she was already gone. After hearing her description, the clerk at the ticket office told me she was on her way to New Orleans. He expressed concern that someone so heavy with child was traveling alone.

I soon followed and once in the city, after a few days’ investigation, learned she had taken a taxi to the French Quarter, specifically, Jackson Square. Her driver told me it seemed she was expected, as a small gathering bowed before her, giving her every courtesy, like some returned and exiled queen. Within a couple days, following no small expenditure from dwindling funds, I discovered from those lurking in shadows she had engaged the services of the very same sycophants, widely avoided as the most fanatic of cultists, to take her into the swamps south of New Orleans.

There is no time to lose as a reliable Creole, acquainted with the bayous, has agreed to take me to beyond where even the magic of the local voodoo fades, to where drums haunt the night.

If you are reading this message, the only conclusion to draw is I have failed to return with her and that Henry’s impossible monster, whether real or imagined, has claimed yet another soul.

The above was among the effects of Richard Wolfe, discovered in his room at Le Pavilion Hotel, New Orleans, 9 June, 1925.