The Strange Dark One by Pugmire W. H

Author:Pugmire, W. H. [Pugmire, W. H.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Miskatonic River Press
Published: 2012-11-14T16:00:00+00:00

Didn’t you used to have some killer black Russian? Or am I wasting my time here?”

He tutted. “How impatient is the addict. Cool your mania, Stefan.” I watched him reach for a small ivory box, which he opened and from which he removed a small hypodermic syringe. His smooth movement proved slightly hypnotic, and my eyes felt odd as they watched him place the syringe’s needle into a large artery that pulsed in his short neck. The ampoule filled with black solution. Turning his crafty eyes to me, he pointed the needle into one of the glasses and let fall a few dark drops. Returning the hypodermic to its box, his hand, which so resembled a pale white spider, reached for the bottle and poured its liqueur into each glass; and then he set down the bottle, produced a packet of white powder and sprinkled some of its contents into a glass, which he offered me. I held the chilly glass and examined the liquid as Leonidas picked up a long thin piece of bone with which to stir the concoction. “Drink,” he commanded. “The atrocious nausea will quickly subside, and then vision will be yours – and sensation. The Faceless God is well known throughout the Dark Continent, that place where your human ancestry had its infancy. His shadow creeps through Haiti and Kenya, through murkier regions unknown and unnamed. Imbibe, sirrah, and behold the Beast.”

I closed my eyes and drank. Never had I tasted a bitterer brew, and my stomach protested violently. I fought the urge to gag as my flesh began to twist and freeze. With what difficulty I breathed! I wanted to open my eyes and retain my sense of balance, for the world seemed to be spinning; but my eyes would not obey command, and the tears that seeped from them were like pebbles of ice rolling down my fevered face. I felt a petrified wind push into my mouth and then realized that it was the frigid exhalation of the devil whose mouth touched mine. I did not wince as his fangs pierced my lip, as my blood spilled onto the tongue that relished it.

When I finally opened my eyes I saw that I no longer stood among the clutter of a curio shop. Rather, I stood precipitously upon a precipice. The absolute absence of light did not prevent vision: an alien tableau stretched before me, one that seemed eerily familiar, like some landscape frequented in dream. A passage from Al Azif came to me, wherein the poet had beheld the surface of Iukkoth, that world beyond known planets that rotated in parallel angle to our own. Beneath an extraterrestrial gale I heard other howlings, the calling of they for whom I served as avatar. Oh, they shrieked and clicked and whimpered, wanting so to recall the signals that would rightly form dead starlight. Beneath me were my servitors, who changed their color as they called mine ancient name. I spread my magnificent hands

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