David Barbour - Shadows Bend

“I’m fine,” she said, her eyes still closed. “What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid you might be possessed by a demon,” said Smith. He pulled her blouse around her and began to button it up. “I hope that doesn’t sound as absurd to you as it does to me. A demon.”

“Yes, a demon,” murmured Lovecraft. “One that haunts one’s’ dreams and hides like an assassin between one and one’s sleep. In my dreams I heard its whispering in my brain, and I woke to see the shadow of wings and the eyes of a serpent.”

A pall fell over the men in the kitchen. Glory, still in the chair in front of them, made noises of pain and pleasure and what sounded like alien words, and then she laughed loudly, with a guttural edge in her voice.

“A demon is still riding her,” said Lovecraft.

Smith silenced him with a gesture, and was about to speak, when Howard said, “My God, she’s makin’ an animal noise-like a loco coyote. Have we done somethin’ to get her mad?”

Lovecraft furrowed his brow in concern. He well knew that after their recent escape from the odd men the Artifact was alerting the servants of Cthulhu of their whereabouts. Smith’s deep brown eyes glanced up, and he glared at Howard as if wondering whether to take the question as sarcasm or lack of awareness. Howard began to flush, but the attentive Lovecraft leaned toward his friend and tapped him on his shoulder.

“Look at her!” Lovecraft pointed at Glory, who was laughing even more strangely than a moment before.

The men were drawing away from her apprehensively. She did not look at them, or seem to notice them. She tossed her red hair and her loud laugh resounded in the kitchen. Her pale breasts heaved up and down, her sleeves opened and fell downward again as she raised up her pale arms. Her green eyes shone with a wild spark, her lips twisted with her unnatural sounds.

“The hand of Cthulhu is on her,” Lovecraft grumbled uneasily. “Glory!” Smith called sharply.

The only reply was another burst of manic laughter, but then she cried out, hoarsely, “Gnish’ton nog’na p’sto r’fomem olat f’gni!” Her voice rose into an inhuman pitch, and leaping from her seat, she stood behind the table, a knife in her hand. Lovecraft and Smith cried out and scrambled quickly out of her reach. But it was at Howard that Glory rushed, her pale face a mask of rage. Howard caught her wrist, and even the supernatural strength of her madness was futile against his solid muscles. He flung her from him, down onto the paper-strewn floor, where she lay in a moaning heap, the knife driven into the table as she collapsed again.

THEIR TENUOUS COMPOSURE, which had been so suddenly shattered, resumed again as the men lifted Glory’s arms and legs and hoisted her onto the table. Howard disappeared into the other room. and, returning with his .45, pushed it in under his belt.

“Calm down,” said Smith. “Let’s not allow this unexpected complication to discourage us in our work. Spirit possession is common enough.”

Howard nodded indecisively. “Ya know, I’m worried about Glory and us. I’m holdin’ on to my pistole.”

“I believe her fit is over,” said Smith.

As Lovecraft grumbled in pain and retreated to examine his hand,

Glory turned her head and blinked at them, her eyes and expression now quite normal. “What am I doing up here?” she asked.

Smith helped her sit up. “Don’t you remember?”

“Remember what? Where are we?”

“In my kitchen,” said Smith. “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

Glory stood up, feeling her face and looking puzzled. She turned her back to the men to tuck her blouse in, and while they were preoccupied with decorum, she quietly retrieved another large kitchen knife from a countertop knife holder. She matter-of-factly turned back around and stretched her arm over the ancient book with the intention, it seemed, of slashing her wrist.

Howard reacted instantly. He leaped toward Glory and tried to grab the knife before she could harm herself, only to receive a slash across the top of his hand. Part in reflex and partly in desperation, he swatted her across her face again, his blood spraying across the open book and the glowing Artifact. Smith and Lovecraft caught Glory as she staggered, then collapsed into a chair, mumbling in a strange tongue. In a moment she was quiet. Her eyes seemed to clear, and she looked at them as if she had just woken.

Smith was the first to see it. Where the blood from Howard’s hand had soaked into the vellum like surface of the page, a jaundice-colored script was beginning to form in the space between the printed lines. “My God,” said Smith. He moved the lamp closer.

Lovecraft and Howard stared in amazement as Smith frantically smeared the blood across the page, revealing more of the formerly invisible text. “Quick!” said Smith. Before Howard knew what was happening, Smith grabbed his injured hand and squeezed, extracting a large gout of blood that splashed across the facing page.

Howard grimaced in pain, momentarily stunned. “What the-!”

For a split second it was unclear whether he understood Smith’s impulsive act, but then his eyes Hashed with a deeper anger that suggested he was reacting with a willful violence. He drew back and slammed his good fist into Smith’s jaw.

And now it was Smith’s turn to be stunned. He reeled against the desk, then fell to the floor semiconscious. Lovecraft understood the urgency of Smith’s act. As he groaned on the kitchen floor, rubbing his sore jaw, Lovecraft quickly stepped forward with a butter knife and proceeded to spread the blood evenly across the surface of the two facing pages. Slowly, numerals began to appear, the jaundice turning into a deep purple color against the dark red that now completely blotted out the original text.

Smith rose unsteadily to his feet. “It’s a palimpsest,” he explained, massaging his jaw to determine if it was still properly attached. “I’m sorry, Bob, but it had to be done quickly in case there was a limited time for the catalysis.”

“What the Sam Hill are ya talkin’ about?” Howard nursed his bloody hand. “That hurt like hell.”

“Likewise, I’m sure.”

“What’s a palimpsest?”

“Most commonly a holy text,” said Lovecraft. “In the days when paper and parchment were rare, it was customary to write over a preexisting document. Some, of course, were created on purpose to give symbolic meaning to the layering of text upon text.”

“In this case, the surface gives instructions for how to reveal what’s underneath,” said Smith. “I’m sorry we didn’t figure out the meaning of ‘iron fluid’ until it happened to fall on the page.”

“What?” said Howard.

“Iron fluid. Blood. Blood is red because of its high iron content.”

“It’s a damn shame you eggheads and monkish types don’t have any thin’ better to do,” Howard grumbled, turning to give the text a look.

The numerals had become more defined, filling out a series of what appeared to be coordinates. Hermetic and alchemical symbols, runes, and a hideous, unrecognizable text began to appear, including what appeared to be a webbed letter H and an ominous seven-pointed star that bore the same image as the Artifact.

“These numerical tables look like astronomical charts,” said Lovecraft. “Clark, do you have any astrological books in your library?”

“You can take your pick,” said Smith.

Lovecraft lifted the book, still open to the same page spread. “Bob, Clark and I will retire into the study to attempt a deciphering of these familiar figures. Would you be averse to guarding Glory during that time?”

“No, I don’t mind,” said Howard. “But how about givin’ me some rope or somethin’, Clark? I don’t reckon she’ll take too kindly to bein’ clobbered again.”