Paula Guran - The Mammoth Book of Cthulhu

But the crowd faltered in its mission. Through no fault of the Church, the masses succumbed to the throes of their animalistic and irrational nationalism, and tore Felix Nordlund apart instead. Professor Kettle and his fellow members of the Church of the Holy Star howled. How thoughtless the human heart, how mad! Even Drew Stephens seemed to know that the ritual had gone awry, for his cry of lamentation was sadder than all. He screamed Felix’s name, as if he knew that Azathoth’s first choice in human vessel had been so rashly destroyed. And then he fainted, for there was much blood and gore upon the court.

What could the Church do, but prepare Drew Stephens for the ritual? Only one among the entranced crowd could call Drew Stephens her flesh and blood, but on this day Mrs. Maggie Stephens was joined by ten thousand others who lifted the unconscious body of their little prince over their heads and passed him around, pawing affectionately at his hair. “Quickly!” said Hyperon Talta as the ashen half-light was overcome by the final dark. The Church commanded the crowd to place Drew in the umpire’s now-vacant throne, where Hyperon sent a firebolt into Drew’s cerebral cortex and awoke him, sweating and afraid.

“Drew Stephens, rejoice!” the Church sang. “For Azathoth wants to live inside you.”

Drew Stephens curled like a snail and refused the invitation. Words fail to describe the depth of the humiliation this brought to the Church. To keep Azathoth the Ultimate waiting just one mile overhead was sacrilegious enough, but to deny Azathoth entirely?

“Why are you crying? You are going to become a vessel for a God.”

He did not answer, but he did not have to. He wept, the Church realized, because Felix Nordlund was dead. This came as a great surprise to the Church, which having seen all things — dark things, light things, splendid crimson secret things — knew that Drew hated Felix. They had watched Drew smash nine rackets after losing to Felix in the semifinals of the 1994 Gondoi Open. They had heard Drew hiss, drunken and sloppy, that Felix was a “motherfucking fuck.” Yet the only recording that played in Drew’s head, now at the hour of Azathoth’s descent, was an inconsequential blip that had taken place two years ago, when he and Felix had filmed a watch commercial together. It was a dull, flat memory, nothing compared to the spikes of rage that contorted Drew’s face every time he lost to Felix and certainly nothing compared to the Church’s visions of golden crowns and laurel wreaths. Yet Drew’s mind had clenched like a fist around this episode, and as a result he saw nothing but Felix Nordlund juggling the ball and making childish puns, over and over and over again.

When the clouds began to cleave, Drew Stephens jumped from his throne and ran from his fate. He thrashed against the crowd when they tried to feed him little bits of Felix, and screamed for help after he threw open the back doors of Center Court. But all had been put to sleep to allow for Azathoth’s successful landing: the groundskeepers, the sponsors, the poor who could not afford tickets to the main event. Hyperon Talta manifested in front of the still-gurgling Fountain of Champions, where all the names of Mercatilly’s titleholders had been laid under the water. Azathoth’s emissary released the full might of his interstellar strength as he shouted to the restless sinner, “ Drew, why do you run? ”

Hyperon was so overwhelming that Drew could not help but fall to his knees in reverence. “I don’t know who you people are,” said Drew, his voice muffled by guttural sobs, “but please just let me go.”

Was it shame that held Drew Stephens back, the knowledge that he with his 59-20 win-loss record was unworthy of Azathoth? Or was it simply cowardice, the same mental frailty that had prevented him from seizing victory at Falun-Re, at the Parkidi Olympics, at Gondoi? These are questions that the Church continues to debate today. One thing we know for sure, one thing for which there is no doubt, is that Drew Stephens was not a Champion. And when Azathoth the Ultimate descended from the heavens, immediately melting the walls of Center Court, Drew’s contemptible eyes and ears began to bleed. Greatness had been thrust upon the boy, and stopped the pitter-patter of his weak little human heart.

And so Azathoth the Ultimate, Lord of All Things, touched down upon planet Earth without a host to contain its splendor. PA systems across the grounds of Mercatilly ripped to life to announce the God’s arrival, but their crackly rendition of the Canticle of the Hunter was immediately trumped by the glorious sound emanating from the fires of Azathoth’s own eternal furnace — fishermen on trawling boats up to fifty miles away were stunned in their sleep, and altered.

Azathoth tucked Hyperon Talta between its many nests of luminous eyes and galloped northward into the night, leaving brilliant green aurorae burning in its wake.

The Church of the Holy Star wept, for we had been abandoned. But by the grace of St. Sasha we picked ourselves up, and just as she had chased the gold medallion we chased Azathoth the Ultimate, following the trail of skeletonized human wreckage. For glory and grandeur, we will chase forever.

We believe that we will win.

Lois H. Gresh’s inspiration for “In the Sacred Cave” came from a museum visit where she saw “thousands of Inca clay pots representing all realms of life, death, and whatever lies beyond death. To the ancients, these realms were intertwined, and one could communicate with and perform actions with beings in these other realms. What came before the ancient Incas? Could they have been unknown Old Ones, and their realms unknown times and spaces? Why would human life matter in such a vast multi-dimensional context? Lois pondered these ideas while in Peru, where she wrote “In the Sacred Cave.”

Gresh is the New York Times best-selling and USA Today best-selling author of twenty-nine books and sixty-five stories. Look for her trilogy of Lovecraftian Sherlock Holmes thrillers coming soon from Titan Books. Her latest book is collection Cult of the Dead and Other Weird and Lovecraftian Tales (Hippocompus), and she recently edited Innsmouth Nightmare and Dark Fusions (both for PS Publishing). She has weird stories in eighteen recently released anthologies, including, Dreams From the Witch House , New Cthulhu 2: More Recent Weird , Black Wings III , Gothic Lovecraft , That is Not Dead , Dark Phantastique , Mountain Walked , Madness of Cthulhu , Searchers After Horror , Expiration Date , Black Wings IV , Eldritch Chrome, Summer of Lovecraft , Mark of the Beast , and more.

Sky so brown, like rusty iron. Tarnished clouds.

Never anything to do here, just listen to the insects buzz and the world groan.

Chicya can’t spend another day here, she just can’t.

Far below, the river thrashes as if trying to punch its way through the mountains. Nearby, her alpaca dips its head, and teeth rip the scabby ichu from the ground.

Chicya swishes lime around in her mouth, and it mingles with mashed coca leaves. The mountain seems to tremble with her.

The air vibrates slightly. A vehicle rattles.

She scrabbles to the edge of the terrace and cranes her neck over Orq’o Wichay, the sacred mountain of her ancestors. Wriggling down the opposite mountain to the river is the Owambaye pass, known only to the indigenous Inca, never to the Spanish or those of mixed heritage. A pickup truck rumbles around a boulder and totters on the edge of the Owambaye where it hangs a thousand meters over the water.