Cthulhu from Yuggoth Read online

  copyright (C) 2018 Adam Musselman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, or his agent.

  Cover art by Adam Musselman

  All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

  WARNING: CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENT

  INCLUDING GRAPHIC AND OFFENSIVE MATERIAL

  Recommended for mature readers only.

  Cthulhu

  from

  Yuggoth

  Maximoff 3000

  Contents:

  The Melanocetus Residence

  Virginia

  Hamestagan Tales

  Log#25:73 G'hiron 3

  Touch it

  Cthulhu

  White Genocide

  Sick

  THE MELANOCETUS RESIDENCE

  Part 1

  MELANOCETUS

  Beep... Beep... Beep... Turning his head forty-five degrees Erik sees the number 5:45 glowing in the darkness. “Uhh..”, a sigh exits his lips as a weary hand reaches for a plastic oval inscribed with the word snooze. For the time being the agitating buzz of a decade old alarm clock retreats from it’s onslaught. The atmosphere has returned to it’s near silent state, other than the steady hum of an air purifier. Erik lay content next to his wife of seven years only covering up because the sheets feel soft against rough skin. His bladder sends a signal instructing him that he will need to relieve himself in the near future. Erik has received this memo yet resists the urge to exit his resting place. Beep... Beep... Beep... He rotates his cranium once again, “Damn.” The illuminated numerals have changed. This time 5:55 beams into his retinas. Knowing he must leave

  his house by 6:20 to make it to work on time Erik raises from the mattress pushing the comfy sheets aside, Kelly only shutters slightly then takes over his portion of the pillows. Flipping the alarm to the off position Mr. Hunt slowly drags his feet into the restroom to answer the earlier received memo. He then walks down the hallway to the kitchen. Filling a bowl with cereal he prepares his first meal of the day. Erik is a man of order, he tends to follow a similar routine day to day. Some may call it OCD, or maybe not, but regardless of others opinions he enjoys it this way. And eating a bowl of cereal has become part of that pattern. So, weather he is particularly hungry or not he always sits down for his bowl of cereal in the mourning. After finishing up he places the glass dish in the sink to commence a series of primping and grooming exercises before getting into his 1979 Ford Ranchero to begin another journey down to the warehouse that has fulfilled his monetary needs for the past five years.

  *****

  As the old yellow Ford rolls down the pavement Erik cracks the window after lighting a cig. He doesn’t necessarily want to reek of tobacco when he gets to work and figures the smell might be diminished somewhat by the outside breeze. Taking a deep pull off

  his cig Erik intakes the familiar scenery of the country. The houses along the road sit about a quarter mile apart, sometimes further. Everything else is either farm land or fields that haven’t been noticeably touched by man in recent years. Beyond is a row of tall mountains. A sign passes reading Cherokee National Forest. The metal placard, even though it has sustained a mild rusting, appears to be in better condition than many of the residence. Taking another drag smoke creeps out over Erik’s lips. He exhales a large plum of fog inside the small cab. About the time fire reaches filter his destination appears in the distance. As the forestry clears a large rectangle building can be seen surrounded by rows of parked vehicles, his Ranchero soon to join.

  *****

  "Hey, what's up?", co-workers greet each other upon arrival, a modern customary gesture. Erik slides his identification badge over an electronic box that shows the time. As his badge is scanned by the device it beeps and flashes a green light, his shift has begun!

  Oh the monogamy of another ten hour shift in a dusty, box filled, steel enclosure. The signature of an American warehouse; dust from China, dust from Japan, dust from Indonesia. And cardboard as far as the eye can see, boxes on top of boxes on top of boxes. Boxes containing

  items so meaningless you wonder why a manufacturer would even waste there time, money, and resources producing such crap. And who in their right mind would see these things on a shelf in a store and say Wow, I’ve got to have this crap, then proceed to hand over money they earned packing and shipping similar junk.

  Erik attends the daily mourning meeting, a ten minute gathering where individuals stretch and bring up any information or concerns that they have deemed important. The person usually doing the informing being the manager, generally a socially incompetent ass kisser. Erik once applied for a higher position, he didn’t get it of course. He possesses two of the key qualities that will always damn his progression into a higher role in a warehouse, common sense and lack of desire to suck his manager’s dick. And so Erik will again retrieve his assignment to move merchandise around the building using a forklift, which is actually much less stressful than being in a managerial role. Knowing this Erik is somewhat glad he wasn’t awarded the promotion.

  *****

  Carrying a pallet of dog food on the forks Erik maneuvers his lift up and down aisles till he finds an open bin. He then scans the bin to virtually assign the product and raises the pallet into the location using his

  forklift. He must do this twenty-one times an hour to please his overseers. This is referred to as rate, you must always make rate. If you don’t make rate you are lazy or undependable or you must not be managing your time wisely, these are the things managers will nicely tell you and then give you a citation. Knowing this Erik quickly retrieves another pallet to put up.

  "Hey Erik", Chris, another forklift jockey, yells.

  "What's goin' on?", Erik responds.

  "Me and Jeff are goin' to Grimple's later. You in?"

  Grimple’s- an old bar hidden in the trees at the top of a hill off Hwy 64. A little run down, but the beer is cold, and cheap.

  "Yeah, I'll be there."

  "Cool", Chris beeps the horn on his forklift and drives away. Erik looks at his watch. The short hand has just past the three and the longer covers the six, "Two hours left."

  *****

  Upon the arrival of 5:30 a chime is heard over the intercom. People who had previously found it hard to walk without dragging their feet suddenly have the gate of a race horse. A stampede of sweaty bodies exited the building in minutes. Car engines revved outside. Groups form in the parking lot as patrons make plans to meet up

  elsewhere. Erik lights a cig as he walks to his Ranchero. Getting into his vehicle he dials Kelly on his cell, “Hey, I’m gonna stop by Grimple’s with Chris, I’ll probably be home bout eight-thirty nine.....Ok, love you babe... bye.” After throwing his phone in the passenger seat Erik cranks his ride.

  *****

  The drive to Grimple’s is a short one. Arriving at about 5:50 the lot is almost already full, about half cars and half cycles. The bikers like the place because nobody cares how wild you get. One time a guy got a little too worked up while watching a boxing match, if I’m not mistaken it was when Tyson bit a piece of Holyfield’s ear off, and took a shot at the set. Realizing his overreaction the man began to apologize for the disruption when a second shot rang out across the room, this one aimed skyward. Well, before you know it shells are hittin’ the floor like hail. Every pistol totin’ boozer is running around the bar screaming and blastin’ off rounds. Nobody even saw the finale of Tyson’s cannibalistic episode. Next
day everyone was back chuggin’ brew like usual. Now and again a tipsy upstart will take a shot at the television to see if they can kickstart a reenactment, and everyone looks around chuckling a little.

  Erik wedged the Ranchero between a faded Silverado and a nice looking Nova on the far side of the gravel lot. Chris and Jeff pulled in behind Erik, the brakes on Chris’ Honda giving off a light squeal as the duo come to a stop. Immediately Jeff exited the vehicle, a smoldering Camel hanging from his lips. “Yo what’s up?”, clasping Erik’s hand.

  “Just chillin’.”

  “How’s the old lady?”

  “Kelly? Oh she’s good.”

  “So we goin’ in or what?”, Chris walking past to the door.

  Inside the atmosphere is alive with excitement. People attempt conversations over loud music and the knocking of pool balls. The lights are slightly dim and thick smoke lingers in the air, just enough distortion for the girls to look good. At the bar a man hunches over a half empty mug. Beside the glass an ashtray overflows with cigarette butts. He doesn’t speak to anyone in particular only mumbles under his breath between drinks and drags, almost inaudible with the exception of the occasional Shit! or Fuck! On the other side of the room a young man flirts with an older woman, much older. And her appearance could be referred to as lackluster at best. Like she was attempting to revive a pair of warn Reeboks from the 80’s by touching them up with some dried acrylic paint she found in the basement

  when she damn-well knew they needed a complete overhaul by a professional cobbler. He sways from side to side with squinted eyes and a droopy grin, lips shiny with excessive moisture. His perception of surroundings most likely ranging from little to none. In the future he will most likely tell a wild tale of a sexy college girl.

  Chris takes a table by a pool table. He loves the game, wants to be a shark some day. Jeff and Erik watch an MMA match on the screen. The first round of brew vanishes almost before the glass touch the table. As mugs are filled and emptied words begin to melt together. Chris challenges a large tough looking man to a game of pool. The man laughs at the thought of being challenged by the rather scrawny looking hick. Over the course of the next hour Chris proceeds to crumble the man's ego as he skillfully escorts an array of colorful striped and solid balls to their cozy resting places at the sides of the table. Pissed, the man throws down his pool cue and trudges away.

  "Damn, you see that?", Chris with a smile.

  Erik nods.

  "Yeah Bitch!...... keep walkin."

  Suddenly the atmosphere calms as an announcer on the television yells into a microphone, "And nowww, the time you have all been waiting for, the main event of the evening!" The trio take their seats in anticipation for the upcoming attraction, two contenders beating each other to a bloody pulp to claim the illusive title of Light Heavy

  Weight Champion of the World. Each has already made vocal claims of victory.

  "His ground game is a joke. As soon as the match starts I'll take him down and it'll be over.", a ripped gladiator yells followed by another muscled man, "I'm going to rip his fuckin' head off!"

  Jeff lights a cigarette. Soon, the lights go down in the arena and a classic rock tune begins to play. A spotlight illuminates the man who's ground game is supposedly a joke as he walks through a massive crowd to an octagonal cage. Once inside he paces back and forth looking down and clenching his fists. After a few moments the arena goes dark again before a different song begins playing. Now a light shines on the gladiator whom claims superior abilities on the mat, he high-fives screaming onlookers as he makes his way to the caged area. People in the bar exchange commentary about who will be the victor and why.

  "So, who do thinks gonna win?", Jeff inquires.

  "You never know, Silva might pull it off this time."

  Erik drains another glass of ale, "Ma'am, could I get another please?"

  "Yeah, be right back."

  After an elaborate introduction of the fighters as well as several judges, cut-men, and a referee the collision of two professionally trained brawlers begins. As the ring of a bell fades into the background the contenders approach each other with caution. One throws a short

  jab knowing it won’t connect, he’s just getting a feel of the encounter. The opposing contender comes in closer, but instead throws a high front kick to his opponents face. The opponent falls to the ground unmoving. The ref jumps in between the two waving his arms, the fight is over.

  “What the fuck!”, a voice from the far side of the bar is heard. “I can’t believe that shit!”, another annoyed onlooker announces.

  “The fight only lasted five seconds!”, Jeff putting out his cig. Obviously the outcome was not desirable, sure a knockout is cool but a five second main event does kind of suck. Soon, the clumping of boots picks up as wayfarers begin to leave the establishment. Erik looks at his phone, “Ten-fifteen, damn time passes quick..... I better get going. I told Kelly I’d be home round nine.”

  “Alright man, we’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah man, good to see you.” Shaking hands with his posse Erik stumbles out of the bar. He fumbles with his keys as he walks to the Ranchero. His eyes feel dry and he squints to see. After he turns the engine Erik lays his head back a moment listening to the steady hum before pulling out of the gravel lot.

  *****

  Erik's head bobs as the old Ford coasts down a

  quiet country road. Headlights sway awkwardly as a car passes in the opposite direction. Errree Erik quickly turns the wheel to the right. The Ranchero seems to be having a difficult time finding the middle of the lane. He knows he shouldn't be driving, but like so many others Erik wanted to try. The night was cool with a thin fog drifting about the ground. Peeking out from behind the clouds a bright sphere could be seen overhead. The country offers a darkness not known in the city. The absence of street lights, illuminated signs, and constant traffic allow a thick black covering to creep over the countryside. The sounds of nature fill the atmosphere with clicks, chirps, and rustlings. As Erik's head falls once more a half burned cigarette drops from his fingers. Brushing against the door it then lands in his lap. The red ash swiftly chars a thin layer of cotton to make contact with Erik's belly. Caught by surprise Erik jerks his arm not fully aware of his surroundings. The large Ranchero careens hard to the left into the opposing lane. By luck there is an absence of traffic at the time, but in his lethargic state he overcompensates the reverse clockwise turn of the steering wheel sending the vehicle charging into a ditch. “Ahh damn...” Erik sits momentarily taking in the situation. He places a hand on his aching head, a result of an impact with the steering column. “Uhh...”, pulling a handle the driver side door falls open with a metallic clank. Climbing out Erik observes the wreckage, “Shit..” With the nose a foot

  deep in mud and the ass caught on a ridge the vertical chariot wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. Quickly Erik retrieves his cell from the floor board. Depressing a knob atop the devise the screen brightens. Four darkened lines in the upper right corner indicate no service is available. Erik attempts to dial Kelly anyway.

  Nothing happens.

  “Dammit!”, Erik deposited the cellular devise in a denim storage location. He turn’s his head back and forth in every direction. What a beautiful view even in the moonlit night, the towering crested mountains outlined by a star filled sky. Yes, the view was breathtaking, but at this moment that wasn't quite what he needed. What he needed was help; a car, a house, a person. But out here that can be hard to come by at times. Erik began a slow trudge down the country road, surely he would eventually stumble upon some form of human life. His shoes scraped against the rough pavement, tiny pebbles coming loose from the cracked sun-bleached strip of driving canvas. He looked up, a small clump of cloud drifted smoothly across the atmosphere. But then something caught his eye, off in the trees beyond the superficial row of forestry a tiny glint. A faint glow in the distance. Feeling a hint of hope Erik's stride increased gradually, almost into a jog. The loose
granules now made a crunch crunch crunch beneath his

  feet. And then, all at once he came to a screeching halt as before him a new interest caught his attention. A large iron gate stood presenting a single declaration, Melanoce..., the end of the phrase had become illegible due to the effects of weather and rust. It looked to be the entrance to an estate. “Wow”, Erik thought studying the intricately designed barrier, “I never even knew this was out here.” Just off the road a narrow path split away into the woods immediately barricaded by a metal hindrance. Looking through the bars Erik could see the source of the illumination more clearly now. Like a glowing bobber floating at the surface of a night lake an antique looking lantern swayed in the breeze from an anchor mounted to the entryway of a massive residence. It looked like a medieval castle pictured in a National Geographic magazine. The stone walls towered into the heights of the forestry, the top not even visible in the darkness. Rrrreeeee.., leaning against the rails Erik accidentally pushed one side of the gate open. As he walked through a dilapidated terrain dry leaves blew past his feet. While the estate was impressive to say the least whom ever lived here must not be much for landscaping as around the property the thick forest thrived, but within the confines of the gated estate lifeless vines and sagging limbs overran the lot. But as Erik reached the threshold of the manor he was quite impressed once again, running his hand lightly across