Under the city of Dreaming Death Read online

  Torches were wedged into the surface of the walls, emitting a red flame that licked their stone confines. Smoke billowed up toward the vaulted ceiling and dissipated into cracks in its surface. The cavern was covered in debris. Split bones littered the floor and were heaped up into massive piles. From the ceiling hung winged things, too terrible to name, too wretched for Lindbergh to contrive of. They squeaked and squealed at his movements like hawks warning of an imminent attack.

  A massive giant of atrocity sat upon an alter of bone and decay as it stared downward at the tiny man. Its feet were gnarled gristle and ragged claw, emerging into gargantuan calves covered in scale and moss. A bloated belly gave way to a bulging chest and enormous arms the size of tree trunks. But the monsters face is what made Lindbergh fall to his knees in terror. A mess of patchwork crisscrossed about its visage as if it had been sown together from bits of animal and demon, plant and mineral. Teeth the size of a man’s arm extended outward as its forked tongue lapped at the air. Its eyes as black as coal as they pierced Lindbergh's soul and made him quiver in dread.

  At the monster's side, a heap of corpses laid like toys. Limbs bent in unnatural ways, crisscrossing one another amongst torso and skull. Here and there, the dead turned their heads to look upon the man who had entered, silently laughing at his folly. A series of steps led up to the beast as it played at the stone and dirt beneath its feet, carving patterns into the floor with the blackened talon of its big toe.

  The beast brought air into its lungs and a horrendous wind ensued that played about at Lindbergh's clothes like a gale about the sails of ship in peril. With its hands upon its knees, the monster crouched lower as if it were trying to get a better look at the insect of a man below it.

  “Come closer,” the demon bellowed, “let me see what it is that has dared to confront me.”

  Lindbergh was pushed forward by abomination that guided him into the caverns. Sharp claws dug into his flesh and burned away the tiny hairs at his back. He jerked from the pain and was thrown to the ground. From all fours, he looked up at the beast as he quivered in fear.

  “What is your purpose?”

  Confused, Lindbergh stuttered, “I am here for the book.”

  The Demon laughed and sent out a cascade of spittle and waste, “No. What is your purpose in the world?”

  He tried to speak, but only manage to whimper as the fear overtook him. With a deep breath, he regained his courage, “My purpose is to live.”

  The Demon's eye twitched as he exposed his fangs, “And now your purpose will be to live for me.”

  From behind, Lindbergh was restrained and dragged forward as his feet cut deeply into the ground beneath them. He struggled with his captors before being brought to his knees once again. One of the creatures grabbed him by the hair and wrenched back his head.

  “Maulk argat abrim norsh meeto. Farboos mine grimp lot neal ver aushtoo.” The Demon reared its head as its voice boomed, “HELLORM NOM BIN MAURK GRON SHIN VEEBRUM!”

  The ground shook with every utterance, rocked the foundation of earth and mist that gathered in the cave. Debris dislodged from the ceiling and rained down like Armageddon. Fierce howls echoed through the tunnels as the other creatures mimicked the chant. The dead sang as their broken and twisted limbs flailed in a cryptic dance. A flash of green appeared before Lindbergh's eyes as he fell backward to the ground. His body shook in violent spasms, gripped by disillusionment and terror. Saliva rose from the corners of his mouth, trailed downward and pooled into the moist earth beneath him.

  “I am Nyarlathotep. Of my legions: ye are one. Of my deliverance: ye shall lead,” Nyarlathotep gazed down upon Lindbergh, “Of my bidding: ye shall do.”

  * * *

  “Was he like that when you found him?” Detective Proust looked down at the shivering man.

  “Yes, sir, exactly like that. We haven't touched him,” the officer replied.

  “Nyarlathotep...” Lindbergh whispered, his voice was dry and faint.

  “What is that he's saying?” The Detective leaned in closer to inspect the man and quickly covered his mouth, “My God, he's soiled himself.”

  “Yes, it seems as though he has,” the officer agreed.

  “Well get him down to the station and get him cleaned up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Lindbergh tossed about in his cell, laughter echoed throughout the police department as he shouted and coughed out hysterically. The straight jacket used to restrain him did little to keep him from rocking back and forth out of madness.

  “Dr. Croup, thank you for coming on such short notice,” Detective Proust guided the Doctor to the reinforced window on the cell door, “but this is something I thought you would like to see.”

  “My God, man! What's wrong with him?” Dr. Croup asked.

  “That's what we were hoping you could tell us.”

  “Isn't that Lindbergh?” The Doctor asked, “I saw him just this morning and he was perfectly fine. What could have happened in such a short period of time?”

  “We found him at the old cemetery, completely out of his mind.” Proust pulled a notepad from inside of his jacket and flipped through a few pages, “Here it is. He kept saying, 'Nyarlathotep' and laughing like he is now. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “No, I can't say that it does. Never heard of the word,” The Doctor replied as he tugged at the tip of his finely groomed beard, “Are you sure he hasn't bitten his tongue or something? Perhaps he is saying something else, entirely.”

  “Physically, he's fine. We brought him in and had a full work up done,” Proust slicked back his hair as if in thought, “The only thing we can figure is that he just snapped.”

  “Well, give me a few minutes with him, if you will and I'll see what I can do.”

  “Officer,” Proust shouted, “come open this cell.”

  The Officer quickly retrieved the keys and made his way to the cell.

  “This is Officer McGuire, he'll restrain Lindbergh for you and let you out when you're ready,” Proust extended his hand; “I've been on duty since this morning. Hope you don't mind, but I'm going home.”

  Doctor Croup shook the Detective's hand, “This shouldn't take too long. Go ahead and go home, I'll have a report for you in the next few days.”

  * * *

  Detective Proust dreamed of fire and pain, of laughter and the murmurings of a language lost to time. He saw great monoliths that jutted out of the ground and rivers of molten lava teaming with the bodies of the damned. Babies screamed in the distance like the victims of plague, gurgling out blood soaked pleas.

  Above him, enormous winged creatures glided in storm covered skies, swooping down to the earth and plucking up victims for torment. Blood rained down upon war covered fields as demons raped naked, devastated souls and impaled those who tried to flee.

  Decapitated heads adorned rusty spikes fixed to massive pyres like some wicked tree strewn with tinsel and decorations of death. An alter, graced with entrails and skin, dripped off a soup of excrement and blood to the hungry mouths of impish creatures that waited below.

  Giant Demons rocked the earth as they made their way through ravaged bodies piled as high as mountains. Each footfall stomped out earthquakes and laid waste to any who scurried in their way. Tired, huddled masses of naked men and women became pulp, squished out between putrid toes and razor-like claws, smeared across blood soaked ground.

  Proust watched as Lindbergh scurried from body to body, pissing on the fallen and laughing as he found new massacres to defile. He stopped the lunatic by grabbing his arm and restrained him, “What is this?! What are you doing?!”

  Lindbergh turned on Proust and threw him to the ground, “Nyarlathotep!” he stated and tore out the man's throat.

  * * *

  Covered in sweat, Proust awoke with a start. His heart was beating so fast that he was sure it was trying to escape his chest. He tore out of bed and went to the bathroom. A cool stream of water came from the
faucet and he splashed it on his face. The image from the mirror above the sink returned the gaze of a disheveled and weary man, old beyond his years. Deep lines coursed across his face like a map of rivers and streams, all of which intersected at his eyes.

  “What's wrong?” His wife asked from the doorway.

  “Nothing… It was just a bad dream. I'm all right now; you can go back to bed.” He could see her reflection in the mirror; her short auburn hair, her milky white complexion.

  “Are you sure?” She asked, “I'm about to get up anyway.”

  “I'm fine,” he replied and dried his face on a towel that hung over the railing of the bathtub, “but if you want to start some coffee, I wouldn't stop you.”

  She smiled at him, “I think I can manage that.”

  Proust stopped his wife before she made it out of the doorway, “I love you.”

  Taken aback, “I love you too,” she said in confusion before she turned and went to the kitchen.

  Proust looked in the mirror one more time before leaving. A demonic face flashed before his eyes. It glared at him through black eyes and torn flesh. He blinked and the image suddenly vanished. Startled, he jumped back and let out a cry.

  “What was that?” His wife asked from the kitchen.

  “Nothing,” he replied, inspecting the mirror, “I'll be there in a minute.”

  Shaken, Proust turned away and went into the kitchen.

  “The coffee will only be another minute,” his wife said, placing two cups on the counter, “Now, do you want to talk about that nightmare you had?”

  “No, not really,” he said as he sat down at the kitchen table.

  “It might make you feel better,” she coaxed him.

  “I think I just worked too many hours yesterday,” he rubbed his face, “And I'm sure that guy we found in the cemetery last night didn't help.”

  “The guy you found in the cemetery?”

  “He was out of his mind,” Proust shook his head, “He kept repeating this name, over and over again.”

  “Really? What was it?”

  “Nyarlathotep. He kept saying it like a chant.”

  “Nyarlathotep? That's funny.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I remember reading something in college about that name...” she became engrossed in thought, “The bringer of destruction. Nyarlathotep was a demon. God, I don't even remember why I was looking it up at the time. It might have been for a mythology assignment or something.”

  “A demon?”

  “Something like that. I can't remember everything, but I'm sure about the name.”

  “Strange...” Proust admitted.

  “How so?” she asked as she poured the coffee.

  “The dream was about demons and...”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. It's probably just a coincidence,” he said, flatly, “I'm going to skip coffee this morning. I need to get down to the station.”

  * * *

  An eerie silence covered the town like a thick blanket as Proust walked along the empty sidewalk. He thought it was odd that no one was out, but figured that maybe he was just running a bit early. Pulling his pocket watch from his vest, he opened it and tapped the face, “Odd. Seven o'clock in the morning, and not a soul to be found.”

  Even the bakery, which usually teamed with people heading to work, was empty. The front doors were still locked, and the rear dock was clear of any deliveries. He turned and looked toward the town square and stared up at the clock tower. Both hands were fixed at the twelve o'clock position, unwilling, or unable to budge.

  In the distance, a dense fog began to roll in, followed by storm clouds that drifted over the mountains. The bright blue morning sky was quickly swallowed whole and darkness prevailed.

  “What is this?” Proust asked aloud.

  He could hear children laughing in the distance, coming from the playground across from the Police Station. Proust picked up his pace, almost jogging as he crossed the street. Seated on a merry-go-round in the center of the park, several children held tight while others pushed to make it go faster.

  “Children, where are your parents? Where has everyone went?” The Detective asked, slightly out of breath.

  A single child turned in a flash and confronted Proust. Startled, he stopped dead in his tracks and fell over backwards as he tried to get away.

  “They're all dead...” the child replied, her voice as sweet as a cool breeze.

  Proust kicked away on his backside, caking dirt and leaves into his trench coat, repelled by the faceless child. It looked as if her features had simply been smeared away, save for an incision where her mouth used to be. From the gapping black hole, a bruised tongue appeared and lapped at it featureless visage. The children proceeded to twirl in amusement, propelling the merry-go-round faster and faster as the girl returned to play.

  He scurried to his feet and fled, not daring to look back at the nightmare behind him. From the corner of his eye, Proust caught a glimpse of something swinging in the tree to his right. His breath escaped him as he looked into the branches. Bodies came into view as his eyes adjusted, bringing hundreds of people into focus, all hanging in various positions. Some dangled by their arms while others were hung by their necks or legs. Every one of them were naked and eyeless. Blackened sockets glared out into the nothingness of the blind.

  Proust pulled a handgun from his jacket and turned. The Police Station lay just ahead, and he was intent on finding out what had happened. With all his weight, he slammed against the front door and sent it crashing against the benches which adorned the entry. An unabashed silence greeted his ears; a coldness of inactivity that he had never heard before. It was as if the air were afraid to move, afraid of what lurked within.

  “Hello,” he called out.

  Creak...

  The sound of metal on metal rang out through the station. Instantly, he was aware that what he was hearing was one of the cell doors being opened.

  “Hello...” He called out again.

  Silence.

  Cautiously, Proust made his way around the front desks and into the hallway that led to the rear prison cells. The incandescent lights flickered over head, creating a strobe effect that made him disorientated. At the end of the hall, a shadow played at the edge of reality. He blinked several times to make sure he wasn't imagining the huddling shape. The object seemed to be breathing, moving slightly like a spooked animal.

  Clack. Clack. Clack.

  Proust's footfalls echoed throughout the hall upon tiled floor as he approached the figure. He steadied his aim, keeping the gun pointed at the shadow. A few yards away, he finally spoke, “Put your hands up where I can see them.

  The figure convulsed as if it were trying to catch its breath, but it extend its arms into the air. Long belt loops hung from the ends of each of its arms and a silhouette of tangled hair graced the top of its head.

  “Now slowly come towards me,” Proust instructed.

  The figure raised its head at Proust's voice and with a series of sobs, ran toward the man.

  “Stop!”

  With only a few feet left before the figure would have him, Proust fired several shots into its chest. The force of the bullets sent the figure to the ground. A few convulsive breaths and it stopped moving.

  “Lindbergh, you fool...” Proust said, his voice quivered at the sight of the motionless body at his feet.

  In ten years of service, this was the first time he had ever been forced to fire. He closed his eyes for a moment before crouching down to inspect the body. A tangle of auburn hair jutted up from the eyeless face of his wife. Her mouth had been sewn shut and blood stained her cheek, but he knew it was her.

  “Oh my God… What have I done?!” He fell to the floor next to her body as his vision went blurry, cascading into white as the tears flowed. His stomach knotted as he stared down at his wife. Neat little stitches graced the curve of her lips, tied off at the corner of her mouth. Blood stained sockets peered upward to th
e ceiling, devoid of lids, cavernous and hallow. Proust gritted his teeth and held back the urge to collapse. Anger welled up within him, growing fierce as something moved in the distance.

  He looked up for a moment and caught a glimpse of shadow scurrying from the doorway. As he looked at the figure, it vanished. A shriek of laughter caught him by surprise, emanating from somewhere below. He took to the stairs that led to the basement as his emotions welled.

  Along the stairs, etchings stood out upon the walls. Ornate symbols covered every available space as he descended, building in size and pattern. At the bottom of the stairs, large double doors stood in his way to the boiler room and he pressed his ear to their surface. Breathing; ragged and deep, wheezed from beyond the doors. It sounded like wind through a cave entrance, billowing out in rasping wetness and immensity.

  Silence.

  The sound dissipated into nothingness until all he could hear was his own breath, horror stricken and erratic. Launched inward, Proust was held about his arms. Two emaciated figures tugged at him, pulling his flailing body into the room. He kicked out at the creatures, but could not loosen their grasp. Withered bodies hung from the support beams on the ceiling, torsos ripped open, sending out entrails like gory waterfalls over their waistlines. Excrement and bile washed out against the floor, making his resistance futile as he kicked at the slop in an attempt to find a footing.

  Some of the bodies that hung from rope and chain above him were still alive. Pathetic moans escaped their taut faces, smeared with blood and wrought with pain. Others hummed out sorrowful pleas between sewn lips as their bodies dangled from the rafters. Their nakedness hid nothing as they twisted within their restraints.

  Proust felt cold and helpless as he watched his breath mist out above him. He shivered as the creatures held him to the floor and pulled back his head, giving him a wide view of the atrocity that laughed and giggled at the rear of the room. Upon blood, bone and corpse, Lindbergh glared down at him, chuckling out lunacy and diabolical intent as he used the gore beneath him as a seat. His face had lost its color, contrasting severely with the smears of blood that marked his features like antique brass. Nude, he gave a look of perfected insanity as his genitalia laid upon a piece of meat that served as a cushion to his throne of depravity.