Cthulhu Lies Dreaming: Twenty-Three Tales of the Weird and Cosmic by Salomé Jones

Author:Salomé Jones [Jones, Salomé]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror, Anthologies
ISBN: 9780957627178
Google: GcgaDAAAQBAJ
Goodreads: 28486444
Publisher: Ghostwoods Books
Published: 2016-02-25T00:00:00+00:00

He stepped out of the stall and grimaced at his slinking, ghoulish reflection, the half-washed makeup smeared down his face. How could he have let this happen? More than anything he hated and feared the stigma of his father’s madness, the trace of it in him, the knowledge that he was likely genetically marked. And yet here he was, courting it, taking it to the ball, acting out his father’s artfully scripted insanity. Wanting his sister. Hating his best friend. But what, then? He would drop out, quit, go away. Everyone would think he was batshit, that he’d caught the family bug, but fuck it, let them. He’d be saving the best part of himself.

“Joey.”

He spun around. He was alone. The voice had come from the hall. Not in his head, he was sure.

“Joooe-ey.”

He opened the door and peered out. The hallway was empty, but what was that? He started walking. Something, way, way down at the southeast end, was going around the corner. He quickened his pace, almost running to the end of the hall. He turned the corner and saw the door to the gym was open. It was dark inside. He stepped through the door. (Get out of there!) “Hello?” (Don’t speak to it!) “Someone in here?” (Run!) The face, the pale, oval face with the placid smile and sparkling black eyes, floated out of the darkness at midcourt. At first it was just a face, but as he walked to it—his heart knocking in his chest, his breath coming in shallow little sips—the rest began to take shape. That smile of perfect serenity, that doting, generous mien… “Joey,” it said, with a voice like dribbled honey. “Let’s have a word, shall we?”

*

Walter’s TV dinner tasted bad tonight. Worse than usual, as if it had been thawed, left to turn, and then re-frozen to seal in that little gift of decay. He stopped eating halfway through, pressed the ‘mute’ button on nightly news, and picked up the telephone. It had been so long. He couldn’t remember the number until his thumb was on the keypad and then he knew it by touch. The little code of sequential beeps unlocked something in him, a dark room painted in sad shadows where he had spent far too much time already.

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