By the time Carlton Fitzhugh reported to Breckenridge and Perry, Brokers Inc., on West Hyde Street, he had come to regret the two cups of black coffee he drank that cold March morning.

    He hurried up the stone steps of 1411 West Hyde Suite, wincing inwardly at the pain in his distended bladder. Hyde Suite was a Norman tower where pigeons cooed and burbled within the arched gothic recesses of upper windows. It was tall, imposing - probably easily defended against irate customers, as Carlton liked to tell his young wife. Perfect for a pair of old curmudgeons like Breckenridge and Perry.

    Once inside, Carlton turned right down a hall. He resisted the urge to run, even though the hall was empty. The men's room was on the left.

    The bathroom, like the hallway, was deserted. He set his Samsonite briefcase down. His reflection - a man midway through his thirties, balding, as perpetually harried as Carroll's white rabbit - hurried with him to the gleaming white urinals.

    When finished, he went to the sinks to wash. Carlton was a fussy man with a genuine fear of germs, and wasn't March, after all, still flu season? The soap was lilac scented, the water lukewarm.

    In the mirror he briefly studied the face regarding him. It was too pale. Too bookish. Features that had once been fetching, if not handsome, had begun to soften, grow fat, and slowly disappear in the years since college. His hairline he examined with especial care. Lately it seemed to be finding new, secret methods of retreat in the night, every follicle a guerilla-bandit. Left behind was his high forehead. Beth, his wife, had once joked about it at a party. Carl's forehead? It's like the cliffs of Dover, you know? True, she had been more than a little drunk, but he had returned home with her in a state of high fury nonetheless.

    He briefly considered having a cigarette here, in the bathroom. No. Too risky, even though having to go outside for such a minor evil made him feel a second-class citizen.

    It was then that he noticed a little cartoon booklet sitting beside the bathroom sink.

    "The REAL Beast" read its caption. Beside the portentous title was a roughly rendered ink sketch. It was a monster of some sort, winged like a demon, fat and enthroned, somewhere between a cuttlefish, a dragon, and a drug dream. In tiny print in the lower left hand corner, where the publisher's logo should be, was only a strange sign, a small star-shaped rune.

    Intrigued, Carlton opened the book.

    The artwork was capable if undistinguished, rendered in rude strokes, as if the artist were in haste. A black horned figure astride a block of stone - the Devil, obviously. In one hand he held two lengths of chain, to which were collared a nude man and woman, both strangely composed and serene.

    "Friend," the text began, "there are many who believe that the Beast is SATAN."

    Carlton turned the page. Depicted was a montage of decadence - a hypodermic needle and pills, a rock star in leather flailing at a guitar, stacks of dollar bills, an obviously inebriated and half-dressed young couple drinking and laughing, ignorant of the words about them like flies on a carcass: LUST GREED ADDICTION BLASPHEMY ADULTERY...

    "The Beast is many things to many people," the pamphlet continued. "Some believe he is at the root of ROCK AND ROLL. Some believe he is high among MASONS. Some believe he is the MASTER of all that is WORLDLY, SECULAR and CORRUPT. Some believe he lurks within US ALL...

    Carlton smirked, sighed, and turned another page. It was a dismal, morose form of kitsch, eccentric and mildly amusing. That anyone should actually believe in such nonsense appalled him. A theological hard sell was all it was, as cynical as the secular world it despised.

    The dragon-cuttlefish was depicted again, bursting forth from tempestuous waves. Wasn't the Leviathan of the Bible supposedly a sea monster? He would have to ask Beth sometime.

    "BUT did you know," the text continued, "that the true ENEMY of MANKIND is not SATAN, but a being from beyond space and time, the being whose name men hardly dare whisper: CTHULHU!

    Carlton's tongue tripped over the pronunciation of this unknown word. He noted with wry humor the small paragraph at the bottom. Place the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Now say 'KLUH-luh'.

    "More like BULL-shit," Carlton said quietly to himself, throwing the pamphlet in with the wadded-up paper towels.

    Carlton took the elevator to the sixth floor. There was a curious, vaguely unpleasant smell in the car, reminiscent of cough lozenges and old sweat. It clung to his clothes like an old ghost.

    He walked in padded silence to a glass-faced office. BRECKENRIDGE AND PERRY, BROKERS the glass door read in bold gold letters, underneath: Serving Arkham since 1962. Beyond were a desk, secretary, leather-upholstered waiting chairs and landscape paintings. Hunting dogs and waterfowl were the prevalent theme.

    "Morning, Julia," Carlton said. He hung up his coat.

    The secretary did not look up.

    "Julia?"

    "Hmm? Oh! Morning, Mr. Fitzhugh."

    Julia pushed her glasses back up her nose, reminding Carlton of a librarian - well, not quite, the peach-shaded blush she wore made him think more of ripe fruit. She brushed back her auburn hair with one hand, folded her arms. She held something in one hand.

    "Cold out today, isn't it?"

    "Spring in Arkham," Carlton replied absently. It was a pamphlet she held between her fingers. "Mind if I see that?"

    "See what? Oh! This..."

    Julia handed the pamphlet to Carlton, seeming slightly embarrassed.

    It was a pamphlet, all right, even more lurid than the last. THEY CRAVE YOUR FLESH! screamed the title. Beside the boldface type was depicted a crouched, subhuman creature gnawing upon a bone. Its eyes burned with feral, animal cunning. Its feet terminated in cloven hooves. It sat upon a crumbling, ivy-choked crypt. And there was the tiny, cryptic sign again in the corner.

    "Weird, isn't it?" Julia asked.

    "I'll say," Carlton opened the booklet and began to read. Since ancient times Man has feared the dark...and what dwells therein.

    Vampires, revenants, disembodied spirits and demons - all were believed to come forth with the setting of the sun...or upon the summons of wicked men...

    A reproduction of an old engraving on the opposite page illustrated this latter point. Two sorcerers, one with a torch held high and the other bearing a book and long stick, stood within an inscribed circle. The setting was an ancient English graveyard beneath a full moon. Behind the men rose a benighted church and shadowed trees. Before them stood a tomb and a very pale, still figure - a skeleton in its burial shroud.

    "Wait 'til to you turn the page," Julia said.

    "But there are those who neither fear nor heed men," Carlton read, and winced at the following illustration - that of a huge goat-legged beast gnawing the head off of a man. The thing's expression was lit with a sullen, sardonic intelligence. This, too, appeared to be a copy of another work, much more recent than the engraving, if Carlton's memory served him right. The artist responsible had caused quite a stir in Arkham years ago, before disappearing. Pickett, was that his name?

    "Isn't that awful?" Julia asked, and shuddered.

    Carlton nodded. "Where did you find this, anyway?"

    "That one was in the ladies' room. I found others in the lobby on the table and the phone booth. They're all the same. Very warped."

    She opened her purse, rummaged about.

    Julia handed Carlton a booklet. "This one seems like it's aimed at a younger audience." "The Crawling Chaos is Coming For You," read the title. A slim, jet-black man clad in rich robes stood tall against a starry sky. At one hand stood a young boy, at the other a young girl, gazing worshipfully upon him. The man's smile was arch, more smirk than anything, as if he knew he already had you.

    "This one reminds me of that old show about...oh, what's his name, it had Orson Welles narrating. Remember?"

    "Nostradamus."

    "Yeah, him. Nostradamus."

    "WHAT THE MAD ARAB REVEALED!" declared the second booklet. Perhaps said Arab should have kept quiet, Carlton mused. Held aloft like St. Anthony by flying demons seemingly pieced together by a madman, the Arab was in the process of being clawed, bitten, and beaten to death.

    And this one," she said of a third with marked disapproval, "is obscene. It's all about Druids and fertility cults and fuck- oh my God, I didn't mean to say that, Mr. Fitzhugh." Julia clapped a hand over her mouth and blushed scarlet. Carlton only chuckled.

    "No harm done," he said. He read the title aloud, "'Secrets of the Thousand Young'...well, if there's a thousand of them, they must be doing something right. But I have to admit, these are the strangest salvation tracts I've ever seen."

    "That's just it," Julia said.

    "What?"

    "They're not salvation tracts at all. I've read three of them so far and they don't quote the Bible, even once. There's nothing in them about God or Jesus or anything. They just...talk about monsters and horrible things. But they do mention some 'gods' at the end of each that might be able to help you - and they mean 'might', from the sounds of it. And the names! Nodens. Nath-Horthath. Vorvadoss..."

    The phone rang. Julia picked up the receiver. "Breckenridge and Perry, Brokers. Julia speaking. How may I help you?"

    "Mind if I borrow these to read?" Carlton asked.

    Julia nodded, preoccupied with whomever was on the other end of the line. "No, Mr. Breckenridge isn't here right now, would you like me to take a message? OK. Your name?"

    Carlton went to his office. While Breckenridge and Perry was a relatively new firm, 1411 Hyde Suite was an old building, erected in 1936. And, as a junior member, Carlton had one of the older offices - dark, paneled in wood, like the parlor of a funeral home. His only company was an antique brass furnace that did an admirable job of fogging up the windows in the colder months. On the far wall hung an equally antique lithograph of the firm's founder - Gedney Breckenridge the II. Carlton thought the old man resembled a crazier variety of abolitionist.

    A depressing stack of papers sat in Carlton's "IN" box, work leftover from Friday. He turned his computer on, and the machine went through its roll call of clicks, whirs, and messages. A neon pink Post-It note on the monitor reminded him of a MEETING, 9:30 MONDAY. His blonde wife smiled at him from a cheap metal frame, beside an equally cheap imitation wood plaque bearing his name: CARLTON A. FITZHUGH.

    He opened the curtains, allowed thin daylight into the room. Outside, below, was an empty courtyard, massive bare oak trees still in their winter sleep, and hummocks of white, the remnants of last week's snow. Flurries danced through the air. The sun was a shy face hiding behind the clouds. Spring in Arkham, indeed.

    He settled into the heavy leather chair that was the sole comfort of his office. Julia would be by with coffee soon. His phone was mercifully quiet for now.

    Carlton opened the booklet titled, "The Crawling Chaos is Coming For You", and began to read. It was, as Julia had said, a comic book meant for a younger audience - easily swayed, awkward adolescents. In this case, it was the man (or being, it was hard to tell what, exactly) depicted on the cover who threatened to corrupt our youthful, wholesome protagonists.

    His name was NYARLATHOTEP. He liked it when young people lied, stole, cheated, drank, and took drugs...but he liked it even more when they killed their parents and each other, went stark raving mad, or swore allegiance to "certain terrible powers."

    'He's cool!' one spotty-faced teenaged cretin was saying to his fellow hoodlums. The bad kids, obviously. 'He's like eight feet tall, man, and he doesn't even have a FACE! And if he touches you, he totally ices you.

    'I mean he kills you @#$%* DEAD!'

    Lunch was at noon. Carlton went to a restaurant two blocks down to eat - a small Lebanese eatery with a single string of Christmas lights blinking in its windows. He took with him the booklets, and some paperwork. Mr. Breckenridge applauded those who worked through lunch. They earned his Grunt of Approval. Old Mr. Breckenridge was an accomplished grunter. He also ate with appalling haste so that he might not lose a moment's work time. Between the grunting and predatory chewing, Carlton thought Breckenridge much like a Neanderthal elder who had traded in his club and loincloth for stock investments and Brooks Brothers suits.

    Carlton ate a gyro sandwich, alone, as usual, in the smoking section. At small tables beneath lovely travel posters of the Mediterranean and plastic ivy, other businessmen also sat alone or in small knots of two and three, talking, eating, and reading the Arkham Advertiser. A low hum of conversation was in the air. Carlton paid little attention. He was busy reading the booklets.

    Despite their apparent disparity in tone, subject and execution, the morbid little tracts did have a common theme. Hundreds of millions, perhaps billions of years ago, beings known as "The Great Old Ones" had "trickled down from the stars to an Earth still in tumult and upheaval." At one time their rule had been supreme, unquestioned. Alien races built monolithic, terrible cities - Leng in the Waste, R'lyeh, Y'ha-Nthlei, K'n-Yan. From the tallest peaks and deep beneath the protean sea they waged war against each other. Their rule, however, came to an end, long, long before man left the trees and set foot on the ground. But they were not dead, merely waiting. Someday they would be free again to raven and slay, to cast down all law and order, shatter all thought and emotion. No longer would there be wonder, or sadness, or love - only the unbridled terror of annihilation.

    Julia was right. There seemed little hope of salvation in this bleak universe, apart from whatever dubious aid the so-called 'Elder Gods' could provide - precious little, according to the unknown author. Vorvadoss offered advice, but nothing more. "Hoary old Nodens" might help those beset by the Great Old Ones, but in this case the solution was hardly better than the problem. Nodens usually sent the concerned party to a very remote place, far beyond the reach of his foes...or anyone else. Faceless beings known only as 'nightgaunts' were said to serve him.

    "Nightgaunts..." Carlton muttered, shaking his head.

    'Secrets of the Thousand Young' was next. Carlton supposed some might think it obscene. Naked forms cavorted around stone circles and block-like altars while others copulated. There wasn't anything here intrinsically evil, except perhaps for the doubtful shapes in the background. They should be trees, Carlton knew, but they were disturbingly like tentacles.

    Beyond the strange star-symbol, the booklets were entirely anonymous. There were no publishing credits, no names, no one to write, no web page or email -- only dire portents and luridly gruesome pictures, nothing more. Perhaps it was all an elaborate joke, something for some lone lunatic's private enjoyment. In a world where the nice polite boy-next-door was sometimes found making pipe bombs in his parents' basement, the idea made sense.

    At least it made more sense than the diseased ranting before him.

    He set the booklets aside, and tried to concentrate on the work before him. But he found his attention drawn back to them. Before long he was perusing another, this one being titled: RULER OF ALL SPACE AND TIME!

    Said "ruler" looked nothing so much as a gigantic mass of iridescent globes suspended in a stormy night sky. Ridiculous. And yet another jaw-cracker of a name: Yog-Sothoth. Carlton quietly rolled the guttural syllables off his tongue, smiling to himself. Yawg-saw-THOTH.

    He ceased to smile, however, when he examined his watch. Only ten minutes more and it was back to his stuffy little office on the sixth floor. He sighed, contemplating the mysteries of Yog-Sothoth, who had conquered both space and time. Carlton supposed that under such circumstances, old Yog-Sothoth could have as long a lunch hour as he wished.

    The following day brought more of the same: turbulent skies, flurries, and strange little booklets.

    One was of particular interest to Carlton: BEWARE THE SONS OF SHUB-NIGGURATH. The name stuck in his throat like fish bones.

    Of all those who follow the Great Old Ones, those who follow the Black Goat of the Woods, Shub-Niggurath, are at once the most secretive and the most incensed when their rites are discovered or revealed. Those who cross Her must sooner or later deal with Her SONS, who like Her young are a thousand in number, and every inch as cruel...

    There was an amusing element of film noir to this particular outing: rainy streets, misted lights, dubious shapes in long coats and hats. The Sons of this Shub-Niggurath were purported to be corpses, reanimated by a few drops of her poisoned milk placed on their lips...or whatever was left of them. All that was stipulated was that the corpse be male; the condition of the cadaver was of secondary concern. Some might be unblemished, some blue-tinged and cloudy-eyed, and some worm-crawling skeletons. Extreme specimens were cuffed, collared and buttoned head-to-toe to avoid suspicion and, if especially foul, strongly scented with lotions, or even cologne.

    Though without minds, a malevolent will and ceaseless desire to punish those who offend the Black Goat guide them. They heed no entreaties and offer no mercy. Often they do not even speak. Their only wish is the destruction of their appointed victim, by whatever means necessary.

    Once again the elevator smelled faintly of sweat and throat lozenges. And once again Julia was reading another pamphlet when he entered the office. Lucas Perry - Breckenridge's younger, less stuffy partner - mentioned the matter to Carlton. Who is distributing these crazy things? Carlton had no idea, but he would talk to the custodian.

    In his office Carlton found himself staring at the flurries tapping against the window, at the paved courtyard with its oak trees below. He could not concentrate. On his computer monitor was a spreadsheet half-finished, on his desk a cup of coffee grown cold.

    Spreadsheets, he thought. Meetings. Company reports. Stocks and bonds. Cold coffee and a stuffy office. Call on Line One!

    A figure walking slowly below caught Carlton's interest. He wore a faded fatigue jacket and gray billed cap. From six stories up Carlton could not see the man's face, but he could tell by the slightly awkward, shambling gait that the man was probably a derelict. Arkham had its share of them, though people liked to think otherwise.

    He had seen the little man before, once or twice, in the Lebanese eatery. Carlton had met Julia for lunch there. The man had been up at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee. Oh my God, look at the bum! Julia had whispered. Is he allowed to be in a place like this?

    Long as he doesn't cause trouble, Carlton had replied.

    It was odd, though, that the man should be in this neighborhood, an upscale business district. His kind was common to the warehouses and docks several blocks further south, across the Miskatonic River.

    Carlton watched the man cross Jenkin Street, and disappear into the offices of a temporary agency. Perhaps ten minutes later he emerged. Furtive and watchful, the man quickly made his down Jenkin Street. Soon he was lost to sight, even though Carlton rose from his chair to view the man's progress.

    Carlton would have put on his own jacket and gone to follow the strange man in the faded fatigue jacket, had not his phone began to trill self-importantly.

    The following morning Carlton arrived early to work - very early. In fact, he arrived even before the building custodian. He had told old Breckenridge yesterday that he was coming in early to catch up on some work. Breckenridge had given him a Grunt of Surprise followed by a muttered "good, good," and his patented Grunt of Approval.

    It was dark outside, and cold. Morning was an hour away. Carlton's footsteps echoed hollowly on the marble-floored foyer. The light was dim, somehow subterranean. The few furnishings present - the table with its old copies of Time magazine, the two waiting chairs, the great green ferns in the corners - seemed oddly out of place. He walked past darkened hallways where the shadows lay still as cobwebs. Turning right, he went to the men's room.

    Once inside, he turned on the lights. They blinked and crackled into sodium life, casting a flat incandescent glow over the black faux-marble walls, the white faux-marble sinks and tiled floor. Carlton thought it all ostentatious. More money had been poured into this bathroom than he made in a year. Honestly, whom were they expecting? Louis the XIV? The Queen of England?

    Or perhaps whoever was handing out those dismal, frightening tracts...

    Though he knew better, Carlton glanced underneath each of the stall doors - these in a tasteful burgundy, of course. Each was empty. Good. He decided he would hide in the last one.

    Once inside, he closed the door, and placed his suitcase out of sight. If he stood on the toilet, he could see the entire bathroom, including the sinks and the huge mirror behind them. Catching a glimpse of himself in the latter, he felt suddenly ridiculous. What if the custodian came in first, and not the mysterious Dispenser of Existential Doom?

    Easy enough. He'd pretend to be "using the facilities". Besides, the custodian was an inveterate whistler. You could hear the man coming from a block away. Carlton frankly doubted that the fellow handing out booklets would be that cheerfully noisy.

    Fifteen minutes passed, and then twenty. No one. Carlton sat in silence but for the occasional muffled clank and thump of the old building's pipes. He began to question what he was doing. Was his life so dissected and desiccated that the least promise of something unusual was enough to make him act the fool? Sighing, he checked his watch again. He had been waiting twenty-one minutes now. To divert himself, he wondered what his wife Beth was doing at this moment. She'd be out of the shower by now. The ritual of makeup application would begin. God only knew how many different brushes, powders, rouges, bases, eyeliner pencils and shades of lipstick the woman had. You'd think she was Cleopatra. Breakfast would be coffee with cream and a bagel, or plain yogurt. Gah. Plain yogurt. Carlton had tried it once at her urging and nearly spit it out into the sink it was so -

    The door to the men's room squeaked open.

    Carlton's breath caught in his throat. It wasn't the custodian. Too quiet. No clatter and rattle of the mop bucket. No whistling. Carlton had always wondered how a man who spent the better part of his day cleaning up after people could carry on like a songbird.

    Carlton waited. Footsteps, slow, very slow, the dull tread of heavy boots. Had the darting little man he had seen yesterday worn boots? He couldn't remember.

    The footsteps made their way to each stall with great deliberation. A pause, and then on to the next. Who was it? Was he looking for somebody? From right to left he was moving; the stall Carlton was in would be last.

    Without thinking, Carlton pulled his feet up and out of sight. He suddenly very much did not wish to be discovered.

    And, quietly as he could, he slid the lock to the stall shut.

    The footsteps paused. The man outside had heard him.

    Click. Clump. Click. Clump. He was standing outside the stall now. Below the door, Carlton could just see the man's boots, scuffed, worn, muddy, of leather with narrow toes.

    A scent filled his nostrils, a cloying unwashed mustiness, almost thick enough to taste in the back of his throat, strong as the smell of burning leaves.

    The stall door rattled once, and then again, with greater force.

    Suddenly, ten fingers sheathed in stylish driver's gloves gripped the top of the stall door, and the shaking and pulling began in violent earnest.

    "Hey!" Carlton said. "Hey!"

    With a start he saw that the door's hinges had started to give way; they were beginning to buckle. The shaking had ceased. Now the door was being steadily pulled downward, away from its moorings. It creaked in protest. The gloved fingers dug in like talons, but from the other side came no sound at all.

    "HEY!"

    Desperate, Carlton struck hard at the fingers with his briefcase. Three times he hit them, hard. At the third blow his briefcase dropped open like an astonished mouth and several days worth of notes and papers scattered across the floor.

    The man on the other side didn't so much as flinch.

    Suddenly, it stopped. The fingers withdrew, the stall door was released. Carlton, sweating, panting, briefcase ready to strike again, listened. Click, clump, click, clump went the boots again, that terrible slow deathwatch beetle sound, like an unseen clock marking the endless moments of nightmare. They receded, back to the door, which squealed open, and then wheezed shut. Then they were gone.

    For how long he sat there and waited, Carlton did not know. But eventually he gathered his wits, and his panic subsided by degrees. He did not leave the stall yet. There was the possibility of an ambush. Instead he gathered what papers he could back into his Samsonite briefcase. Papers, copies of his business card, two binders, the gold pen he had been presented with for ten years loyal service - all it went, back into the briefcase. It took some time to do this; his hands were trembling badly.

    Gathering himself, Carlton left the stall. Apart from a few scattered papers, and a trail of muddy boot prints leading in and out, the room was undisturbed, almost pristine.

    The door to the men's room squealed open.

    Carlton jerked backward and away, hitting the wall behind him. He dropped his briefcase and it broke open again.

    A dingy yellow bucket propelled by an old mop nudged clumsily into the room, behind them the custodian, whistling as usual.

    The custodian's whistling came to an abrupt halt when he saw Carlton, standing there disheveled against the far wall. He took in the scene: the muddy boot prints, the flurry of papers, a junior member of Breckenridge and Perry looking as if he had just had a brush with the Devil himself.

    "Jesus," the old man said, "the hell happened in here?"

    He sniffed the air and his seamed features wrinkled even further. He waved a knotty hand before his face.

    "Whew! And who the hell went overboard with the Old Spice?"

    Carlton Fitzhugh was given the next two days off.

    The Arkham police had come by shortly after Wednesday morning's incident to ask questions of Carlton and take a statement. They examined the stall door, and noted that the hinges had been bent as if by great force. The police, however, did not believe a man capable of doing this with his bare hands, no matter how strong. An instrument of some sort must have been used, a crowbar, perhaps. But who would go through so much effort and trouble?

    One of the cops, a stocky fellow who rolled a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, seemed to think Carlton might have been the one responsible for what happened. The others were merely puzzled, and of the opinion that it was the work of a psychopath, perhaps an escapee from the Arkham Sanitarium.

    In any event, Carlton was temporarily relieved of his duties. Julia was delighted to hear he was unhurt, if rattled. Perry sent him a card and a fruit basket. Breckenridge called him at home and offered his Grunt of Sympathy, which was somewhat softer than the rest of his repertoire. Then he talked at length about the upcoming week and the work it entailed. Carlton pretended to listen. His mind was on other things.

    Particularly irritating was the fact that Beth treated him like a semi-invalid. Maybe you should stay inside. No, don't worry, I'll get that on my way home. You're supposed to be resting, remember? You've been through a lot. Off she would go then to her job as a dental assistant, leaving him at home with little to do besides check the mail and rifle through the inanities of daytime television.

    He went outside only to smoke a cigarette now and then, and only during the day. Beth didn't like him smoking in the apartment. He crushed the butts out on the parking lot asphalt.

    Initially, Carlton was acutely afraid the man would try to break into the apartment. Granted, Beth and he did live on the fourth floor, and the building did have an attentive and diligent doorman...but still, that man had nearly tore a metal door off its frame. Nor did he appear to feel pain. So what obstacle could James, their pudgy, inoffensive doorman, possibly present?

    And so Carlton lay restless for most of the first night. There were too many suspicious sounds, too many shadows, all crazy angles and notched like knives. The light of the moon lay in stilted meaningless windowpane patterns on the floor, while outside the March wind gibbered and whined. If Carlton strained his ears he could, from the living room, hear the quiet ticking of the antique brass clock from Austria. The hour always came in a series of gentle, melodious, somehow sweetly mocking notes - two, three o' clock in the morning. Should he strain harder, Carlton could hear, from far away, the dim toll of a steeple, ringing in sympathy.

    And all the while his young wife slept beside him like the dead, and he hated her in her peace, her undisturbed dreams.

    He paced the apartment. Checked all the locks. Contemplated wedging a chair against the door, but decided that was going a bit far. So he sat on the sofa and flicked through late, late night television - which was largely old movies, infomercials, and hissing static - starting at every creak, thump, and thud. There was sleep, but it was light and fevered, and came with clutching leather-clad fingers.

    On the second night he glanced out the window and saw, in the parking lot far below, a shadow-lump by the lights.

    Puzzlement quickly gave way to unease when Carlton noticed that the lump was moving, slowly, swaying. What was it? A derelict? The victim of a mugging? No...there was a quality about it, its shambling movements, which suggested something far worse. It was bent nearly double...it was searching.

    It had risen, painfully, to its full height. The night had been windy and restive, and about the figure flapped a long scarf and the tail of a trench coat. It held something up to the lambent peaceful glow of the lights, examining it closely and then from afar, like a jeweler with a stone. What in the hell...

    Cigarette butts!

    Shock of realization trickled down Carlton's spine like freezing water. Where the figure stood was where he usually smoked! Carlton knew that it was Him. Old Fingers. His pulse beating high and hard in his throat, Carlton had shut the curtains.

    Beware the Sons of Shub-Niggurath. Over and over he read that pamphlet, telling himself it could not be...

    By late Friday afternoon Carlton, though exhausted, ventured forth.

    He was in no mood for the lunch Beth had left him: tomato soup and crackers. Instead he walked the few blocks over to the Lebanese restaurant. The gray March clouds had peeled back to reveal a blue sky almost sharp in its clarity, the sun shone white and piercing, and the air was brisk and invigorating. Carlton breathed deeply of it. He hoped not to run into anyone he knew. Still look like hell, he thought, even after a shower and a shave.

    The restaurant was a comfort, with its glittering lights, its exotic posters, its businessmen. Carlton sat near the window, studied the menu even though he ordered his usual: a gyro and a Coke. The antique cash register clanged and chattered, from somewhere in back of the restaurant came a faint burst of staccato laughter - the very ordinariness of his surroundings eased him. He decided then and there that he would read no more of those God-awful insane pamphlets. He would throw them away. Into the trash with you, Great Cthulhu!

    Peace and quiet.

    From further back in the restaurant there was a shout. Hey! Carlton jerked in his seat. The businessmen looked up from their newspapers and conversations, in equal parts interested and irritated. Hey! What did I tell you about leaving those damn things around here? What did I tell you? No more! No more!

    It sounded like the owner to Carlton - a slender, intense Lebanese man forever in a starched apron, all emphatic gesturing brown hands. It was him, and he was very annoyed. He had someone by the collar, he was so angry, a short stumbling rodent of a man in a dirty fatigue jacket and lumpish gray cap. He pushed the little man toward the door.

    "I see you again in here, I call the cops, you understand? Huh? You understand?"

    The little man said nothing. He hurried away. His face was like that of a small burrowing animal, something unused to light and frightened by noise - pink, plump, the black beard stubble and limp mustache only serving to emphasize its chinless flabbiness. No, he was more like a beetle in his clumsy haste to escape, Carlton thought, especially when the man glanced momentarily at him - March sunlight flashed white off his sunglasses, which were small black round discs, like the eyes of an insect. Then the little man was out the door and down the street, almost running. The owner shouted after him, "And don't come back!"

    A ghost scent of sweat hung in the little man's wake.

    Carlton fumbled for his wallet, removed a ten-dollar bill, slipped it under his plate, and he too, was out the door, struggling into his jacket.

    There he was, a block ahead, having slowed now to a walk.

    Carlton discreetly trailed the little man.

    The little man crossed the West Street Bridge, headed south toward the decaying brick buildings of the abandoned warehouse district. Carlton followed. Sunlight sparked and spangled upon the dark waters of the Miskatonic, winking white. To his left lay The Island - a low, marshy hummock in the midst of the river, thick with undergrowth and straggling scrub pine. Carlton recalled certain vague but sinister rumors about The Island: that from the Garrison Street Bridge, you could see a ring of gray mossy stones, like old rotten teeth. Witches had met there in the dim distant days of the Colonial period. Animals, and worse, had been sacrificed on the low stone block in the middle of the ring. Or so they said. Carlton made an effort to dismiss such black thoughts.

    Instead he focused on the little man ahead, shuffling, indefatigable, purposeful. A strange and not altogether unpleasant sense of unreality pervaded Carlton's imagination. With each step it seemed his small, dull, dusty life was left further and further behind. Who knew what lay ahead? All the while the dark Miskatonic chuckled and muttered about the pilings of the old West Street Bridge.

    Once over the bridge, the little man turned left on River Street, toward the 19^th century brick Georgian-style warehouses that clustered opposite. For a moment Carlton hesitated. This was no place for decent people; River Street with its trash, its piled crates and pallets, its muddy potholes; the warehouses themselves, of discolored brick, shuttered and crumbling and abandoned; the rotting docks and wharves. God only knew what he might find. Homeless people muttering to themselves. Junkies. Muggers. Wharf rats the size of small dogs. Christ!

    Nevertheless, Carlton followed.

    There were no homeless people to be seen. Nor were there any junkies or muggers, or outsized rats. Carlton did see a mange-stricken tomcat, fleeing up a garbage-choked alley. There were many potholes full of filthy water, and mud, and trash: broken beer bottles, discarded paper, boards, bricks, boxes, trashcans, here and there the rusting carcass of a derelict car or dock machinery. NO TRESPASSING read several weatherworn signs. The warehouses, in turn, did not invite the idea. Looming large and silent, they cast long shadows, and were tightly shuttered and chained and padlocked.

    The little man turned right down a narrow alley between the two largest warehouses, and climbed a long flight of wooden steps to a paint-peeling door three stories up. He opened the door and disappeared inside.

    Carlton waited below. Well, now what? Do I confront him and ask him what the hell is going on? Do I give up and go back? What?

    He went to the stairs, testing them warily with a foot. Carlton had never been fond of heights, and halfway up, he was forced to remind himself not to look down. Standing before the door, he debated if he should enter. That someone would actually live in such a place...

    Carlton swung the door open.

    The loft of the warehouse was vast, its corners receding into indistinct shadow. Through several louvers and small, smudged windows thin sunlight filtered. Dust motes danced in the translucent rays. A nasty odor was in the air, years of wood rot and rat droppings and creeping mold, the stink of tight, airless spaces.

    Allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, Carlton took inventory of his surroundings. No immediate signs of habitation. Just crates and boxes, dirty canvas bags gray with accumulated dust, piled halfway to the ceiling, stacks of old newspaper and ledgers, broken office equipment of the kind not seen in more than a century. File cabinets. Corroded antique devices: adding machines and ancient typewriters.

    It was when Carlton rounded several stacks of old, rotting cloth that he saw it on the brick wall, in red paint that had run and dried like old blood. It was a circular symbol, flanked by even stranger markings, something a witch or warlock might devise. A shaft of dusty sunlight touched it, made it seem almost to glow. His throat suddenly dry, swallowing nervously, Carlton stepped away only to find another symbol, in chalk, upon the warped wooden floor. This symbol he recognized. It was a larger reproduction of the tiny logo on each of the pamphlets he had read: the tiny stylized star and burning eye.

    Suddenly they seemed everywhere, on the walls, the crates, in odd corners. Signs. Sigils, in paint and chalk, of all sizes. And there were other icons, too - crosses of wood, small ceramic saints, the star of David, rosary beads, various figurines carefully arranged, paintings of a beatific and patient Christ. It was all a mad jumble, a theological lottery. Bemused, Carlton picked up a string of beads. It made sense, somehow...

    There, in the far corner, near a stack of old wooden boxes and barrels! A mattress cast upon the floor, stained and rotting, a jumble of Salvation Army blankets piled atop it. Next to the mattress was a small cracked hand mirror, tin cup and bag of cherry-flavored throat lozenges. On a ledge above rested a cheap AM transistor radio and several old books. The smell of medicine and sweat was strong here, almost overpowering...

    "You! What d'you want?"

    It was a small, rather high-pitched voice, tight and irritated, from behind him. Carlton slowly turned around.

    It was an equally small, mole-like man, barely topping five feet in height. The green fatigue jacket made him seem bulkier, misshapen, somehow. He had removed neither his sunglasses nor his cap. But his shoes were off - that was why he had been able to creep up on Carlton. The man's socks were peppered with holes and stiff with grime. What concerned Carlton more, however, was the two-by-four the man held in one hand.

    "I said, 'What do you want?'"

    "You - you live here?" Carlton asked.

    "Yeah. Why?"

    "Well - I mean - it's the attic of an abandoned warehouse, for God's sake."

    "Beats a cardboard box," the little man replied smartly. The two-by-four descended a notch.

    "Look, you can put down that board. I'm not here to cause you any trouble."

    "Well, how do I know that? And what are you here for, anyway?"

    "I...uh...I followed you back from the restaurant you were thrown out of..."

    "Yeah? Why?"

    "Well, I wanted to know more about you."

    "You wanted to know more about me?" the man asked in apparent disbelief. The board fell another notch. "Like what?"

    Carlton licked his lower lip nervously.

    "I know what it is that you do."

    "Yeah? What's that, smart guy?" The little man sniffled and swiped his sleeve under his nose.

    "Are you sick?"

    "What? Yeah, to one degree or another. But come on. What is it that you know I do?"

    "You hand out pamphlets. You leave them in offices and restrooms and lobbies."

    "Yeah. So?" Again with the coat sleeve. He reminded Carlton of a small petulant boy.

    "But these aren't ordinary pamphlets. They aren't about saving your soul and accepting God and that sort of thing. They're...they're, well, crazy. They're warped. They're disturbed. I've never heard of such things in my life."

    The little man smirked bitterly. "So I guess by your definition, I'm crazy, too, for handing them out, right?"

    "I didn't say that."

    "So why did you really follow me then? Are you with the Feds or something? Because if you are, I haven't done anything wrong. Anything more serious than trespassing, anyway."

    "Why do you hand these crazy things out?"

    "Why do you sit in that office day in and day out?"

    "Because it's my job, that's why."

    "Well same here, smart guy. It's my job. So now that we're done here, why don't you run along now back to your little office. Go push papers or something. OK? Between you and that bastard who runs that restaurant, I've had a very rough day. Go on. Go."

    "What's your name?"

    "Not important. Now will you just leave?"

    "Look, I just-"

    "Get lost, pal. I'm not gonna ask you again..."

    Carlton, at a loss, sighed and, brushing past the little man, began the long walk back to the paint-peeling door. The floor creaked and squealed underfoot, his footsteps were heavy, echoing.

    "And do me this favor, while you're at it," the little man asked. "Don't go bringin' the cops down on me, OK? I've got enough problems as it is, between handin' these 'crazy' pamphlets out and tryin' to keep from freezin' to death here at night."

    Carlton stopped. "Why don't you just go down to a shelter? I'm sure they'd take you in."

    The little man chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah, I'd like to, pal, but I prefer my own company. And besides...there's what you'd call some 'occupational hazards' in this line of work that I'd rather not get other people involved in..."

    Carlton nodded, chewing on his lower lip. "Well, Mister..."

    "Lacey. Dennis."

    "Well, Mister Lacey, then I might have some news for you."

    The little man's eyebrows contracted, making him look petty and mean.

    "Yeah? Like what?"

    "Seems like you're not alone in this anymore."

    "Huh? The hell are you talkin' about now, smart guy?"

    Carefully, Carlton reached into his coat pocket. The little man tensed, his grip tightening on the two-by-four. "Hey!"

    Momentarily confused, Carlton chuckled and said, "No, it's not what you think. Relax."

    He produced a booklet and handed it to Lacey. The little man squinted at it suspiciously, finally took it. BEWARE THE SONS OF SHUB-NIGGURATH, read the title.

    "So what're you sayin', then?"

    "What I'm saying, Mister Lacey," Carlton said, "is that we need to talk."

    "And so that's when you came lookin' for me then, huh?" Lacey asked.

    Carlton nodded. The old crate he was sitting on, stamped INNSMOUTH-ARKHAM in faded blue letters, was not the most comfortable of seats, and his lower back had begun to ache. Lacey sat opposite, on his lumpy mattress, rolling a cough drop about his mouth. He had eaten several during their conversation. He had removed his sunglasses. His eyes were pouched and puffed, weary, as if he slept little.

    Lacey crunched down on the cough drop, and puffed out his cheeks with a long sigh.

    "Damn..."

    "What?"

    The little man rubbed his eyes. "Nothin'. Just a little tired, is all."

    "Me too."

    "You pretty sure it's one of them?" Lacey asked.

    "Yeah...yeah, I am. II mean I fucking nailed    "Mmm...and you've seen it about twice now, right?"

    "Yeah, I - why do you keep callin' him "it', anyway?"

    Lacey shrugged. "Because that's what it is. An it. A thing. That's why."

    "Oh, come on..."

    "What?"

    Carlton shook his head. "Look. It's hard for me to believe that I'm even here talking to you, let alone think that this guy is some sort of monster or something."

    Lacey popped another cough drop into his mouth. "Fine. Door's right over, pal. Go on. Head on home. Give the little woman a peck on the cheek and tell 'er how your day went. Maybe it won't come tonight. Maybe not even the next. But it will, eventually. It always does. I mean, sure, it's slow and all, and it's not too bright, but it never gives up. It's strong as hell. And it likes its work. It's...motivated. A go-getter, you know?

    "So do what you want. You're safe during the day. It's night you gotta worry about."

    "I'll get a gun. I'll shoot him if he tries something."

    Lacey snorted. "The fuck you gonna do, kill it again? It's already dead, smart guy. Kaput. Fini. It doesn't exactly worry about getting shot, or set on fire, or run over, or thrown off a bridge.

    Believe me, people have tried."

    "Have you?" Carlton asked.

    Lacey shook his head. "No. I know better. I've gotta a few trade secrets for dealing with shit like that. Few aces up the sleeve, if you know what I mean."

    "No, I don't."

    "Don't worry about it. Cough drop?"

    "No thanks. So what are my options?"

    "Damned if I know. Depends on whether you believe me or not. If you don't, you'll do something dumb, like get a gun or go to the police and file a stalking report. You won't be able to do shit. They won't be able to do shit. Meanwhile, this thing - this Son of Shub-Niggurath, if you will - keeps closin' in. Closer and closer. Eventually it gets you, when you're alone and far away from help. Then it's over. It strangles you to death. Takes a hatchet to you. Throws you out a window. Drowns you in a toilet. Pretty mean, don't you think?"

    Carlton nodded, thinking of the incident in the men's room of 1411 West Hyde Suite, two days ago. He rubbed his temples to ward off an impending headache.

    "And it's more than happy to hit someone close to you, if it can't get you right away."

    Carlton looked up. "Beth..."
 
    "Wife? Kid?"

    "Wife."

    "My advice," Lacey said, "is this. Get this 'Beth' out of town for a while. And any kids you might have. You got kids?"

    "No. Not yet, anyway."

    "OK. That at least makes things a little easier. But I'm dead serious pal, no pun intended. Get this wife of yours out of town right away. Send 'er off to see the in-laws or something. Seriously. This thing isn't too bright...but it isn't entirely stupid, either. It has good instincts. It knows where to hit you. And if it gets to hurt someone else besides you, well, hell, that's just the icing on the cake as far as it's concerned."

    "Why is he-"

    "It."

    "Fine. Why is it after me? I haven't done anything."

    "You got in the way. That's all the reason it needs, really. You know about it."

    "I still refuse this crap about it being a zombie and all. I mean, what the fuck is this, Night of the Living Dead?"

    "So what do you think it really is, pal?"

    "Hell...it could be a guy strung out on drugs. PCP. LSD..."

    Lacey laughed. It was an unpleasant, crumbling cackle. "Yeah, that's what they used to say about me, too. 'Drugs make him act like that.' 'Look at the little weirdo, handin' out those crazy little cartoon books. What a nut. What a headcase.'"

    "How did you end up doing this?"

    "What? Passin' out these tracts. Long story. I guess you could think of it as a calling or something."

    "Do you believe them?"

    Lacey's brows knitted themselves together again. "Heck, yeah, I believe 'em. What, do you think I do this as a joke or a scam? Look around, pal, and I'll tell you this much: if it's a joke, then it ain't funny, and if it's a scam, I ain't exactly rollin' in bills here, as you can see..."

    "Maybe you're crazy."

    "Yeah, well, maybe I am. But look who came here for advice. Mister Hotshot Moneybags from uptown, who heard something go bump in the night. What, your headshrinker on vacation? He out playin' nine holes?"

    "Fuck you," Carlton replied.

    "No, pal, I think we're both fucked on this one. You and me both."

    Carlton rose and jabbed a finger in the little man's sadly amused face.

    "Listen, you little turd. I don't have to put up with this garbage, all right? Because that's what it is: garbage. Sickness. The work of a sick mind."

    Carlton walked toward the door.

    "Yeah, whatever. Call it what you want, pal. Don't change a thing. So you gonna leave now, right? Had enough of the nut, right?"

    "Shut up."

    "So what're you gonna do if it comes knockin'? Not answer the door? Sit down and talk things over with it? There's a classic..."

    Carlton was halfway across the attic loft.

    "Well?" Lacey asked.
 
    "I don't know."

    "Yeah, well, for your wife's sake, at least, I hope you do."

    Hesitating at the door, Carlton glanced out the smeared, bleary, cracked window. The cluttered, trash-filled alley was in shadow. The other warehouses were enormous indistinct shapes. He checked his watch. The sun will be setting soon, he thought, and the knowledge brought with it an atavistic chill. Walking home alone in the growing dark seemed hardly less inviting, or safe, than discussing insane things with a madman in a warehouse attic scored with signs and sigils to ward off - what? Demons? Evil spirits? Bad vibes?

    Laughing weakly, Carlton leaned against the door.

    "I ain't jokin', pal," Lacey said.

    "I know," Carlton replied. "That's what scares the hell out of me."

    In the end, Carlton convinced his wife to pay a "long overdue" visit to her parents in Boston. Not that she had made things easy, by any means. There had been questions, questions, and questions. Why am I going by myself? Why aren't you coming with me? Don't you want to see my parents, too? You don't have something against them, do you? Why do you want to be alone for three days?

    Worst of all: are you hiding something from me?

    Momentary temptation there, to tell her the truth, reveal everything, never mind that it was insane, all insane. Scream the answers in her face, give her a good sound shaking. Let her in on it. Pull back the curtain one night and let her see that thing down there in the parking lot once, with its scarf and trench coat. Hey, Beth, look who's coming to visit! Old Fingers! The guy who tried to off me in the men's room! That's why I'm trying to get your silly ass out of here, because according to this little kook I've made acquaintance with, he - oops, I mean it - isn't too particular about whose head it twists off!

    Hell, why not tell her? Goddamn, she asks questions about everything, all the time...why, why, why, WHY!

    No. No, no. He couldn't do that. He could never do that. If there were really things like this, dragging themselves through the bleak, howling spaces of the universe, then he would face them alone. So he had bemusedly kissed his young wife on the forehead and said, "I just think a few days to myself would help me get through things, honey. And besides, you've been talking about visiting your parents for a while, haven't you?"

    Finally, thankfully, she had come to agree with him - not entirely, but that did not matter. The suspicion kindled in her eyes never entirely faded, either, but that was of no consequence. He did, however walk down with her to the corner market to buy milk, and never once let on the extent of his terror. Every figure was an effigy in menace, every alley a gaping maw. Their breath plumed and mingled in the bitter March air. Carlton lit not a single cigarette the entire way.

    When Beth asked why, he replied with nervous good cheer, "Actually, I'm thinking about quitting."

    The temptation to look back over his shoulder had been nearly unbearable...

    She called her parents that night, and packed two suitcases. Carlton desperately wanted her to leave then...but that would only make her even more doubtful, and then she might not leave at all.

    And so he had remained well awake, and had sat in the kitchen watching the door to their apartment, a butcher knife beside him. The antique clock had ticked and chimed, ticked and chimed, and the distant steeple had answered. Minutes crept by in geologic time. Twice he nearly fell asleep, lulled into somnolence by the muted one-note thrum of the refrigerator. The second time he jerked awake, heart pounding, convinced that something was slowly, carefully trying the doorknob. But it had been a dream. He had even mustered the courage to unlock the door and glance out into the dark hallway. Emptiness in perspective. Nothing.

    Carlton, grainy-eyed with exhaustion, crept into bed an hour before Beth rose. She showered, woke him for breakfast - orange juice and some health cereal she swore by, which he ate to humor her. Packed, powdered, and blow-dried, she left not much later, pecking Carlton on his stubbled cheek. He hardly noticed her kiss. He was simply relieved to see her go.

    He went immediately back to bed and slept fitfully until noon.

    Saturday was cool and clear. Clouds scudded rapidly across the luminous sky, and were reflected in the mud puddles Carlton carefully sidestepped as he made his way to the old warehouse district.

    The stairs up to the loft creaked underfoot. Carlton noticed the door was slightly ajar.

    The inside of the loft was obscure, shadowy. He entered and heard something, outside, a burst of flapping wings, and he cursed in his fright. Crates, boxes, icons and figurines, nothing seemed disturbed. No muddy boot prints.

    "Dennis?" he called, hesitantly.

    From his coat he removed a long kitchen knife - the same knife with which he had kept vigil last night. The blade glinted in the dusty light that filtered through a boarded-up window.

    "Dennis, you here?"

    Carlton went to the filthy mattress were Dennis slept. Nearby lay his two-by-four. Booklets and pamphlets covered the moth-eaten Salvation Army blankets like the colorful aftermath of a warped tickertape parade. All titles were present and accounted for, including several bound, worn books, all cracked bindings and loose leaves. Ancient Rites, Modern Mysteries read one. Ghorl-Nigral, read another. The Book of Iod, a third. A Gideon Bible.

    Wait. A limp hand protruded from beneath the blankets.

    Jesus Christ...

    Ever so carefully, and with deep misgivings, Carlton prodded the lump under the blankets with the board.

    "Dennis?"

    With a startled, strangled yell blankets, booklets and books flew upward and in all directions. Carlton, too, cried out, dropped the board, stumbled backward and fell over the crate stamped INNSMOUTH-ARKHAM with a crash. Dennis, in nothing more than fraying underwear and a back hole-pocked Hard Rock Café T-shirt, was against the wall, chest heaving, gasping. Without his bulky jacket, he seemed even smaller, almost frail, his knees a patchwork of old peeling scabs.

    "The hell are you doing!" he cried.

    Sitting up, wincing at the dull pain in his backside, Carlton retorted, "The hell am I doing? What the hell are you doing still asleep? And why didn't you answer? I thought you were dead there for a moment!"

    The little man ran a hand through his stringy, thinning hair. "Well you about scared me to death, anyway," he said in a small voice. He sat down on the mattress and gloomily surveyed the disaster about him. Carlton, absently rubbing his aching backside, put the knife back into his jacket. He picked one of the leather bound books up - The Book of Iod.

    "I was up practically the whole night reading," Lacey said, yawning. "That's why I was asleep when you got here. Book after book after book. Pamphlets. Anything and everything."

    "And?"

    Lacey shrugged. "Not much. Not much that can help us out, anyway. Sort of a case where the cure can be worse than the disease, if you what I mean..."

    Carlton leafed through the book. It was all crabbed, painful script and pages seemingly brittle as dried flowers. "So then what?"

    "I don't know. There are some answers, obviously. Whether they work or not is anybody's guess."

    "Wonderful," Carlton said, rolling his eyes. On a page before him was depicted an elaborate hand-drawn symbol or sigil. Should Arabic and advanced geometry ever produce a bastard child, this was what it might resemble. The script about it, though, was in English. He read several of the names aloud before Dennis stepped forward and snatched the book away.

    "Hey!" he said. "Don't go readin' that out loud like that! The hell you think this is, abracadabra presto-chango kind of stuff? This is serious business."

    "What? They're just names."

    "'Just names,'" Lacey repeated. He began shelving the books. "As if."

    "Well, you were reading them, last night."

    "That's because I know what I'm doing, pal."

    "Oh? And what's that?"

    The little man gave Carlton a withering look. Then he sighed, and seemed to slump. "I'm looking for a way to destroy that thing that's after us. Or at least send it somewhere where it can't get us."

    "And I say we go to the police."

    Gnorl-Nigral joined the other books upon the crowded shelf. "Fat lotta good that'd do.

    "Did you send your wife away, by the way?"

    Carlton sighed. "Yeah. She's suspicious, though."

    "Don't matter, long as she's far away. Where'd she go?"

    "Boston."

    Lacey paused to consider this fact. "Good enough," he said, and began picking up booklets. "Yeah, that should be far enough. It's gonna be comin' down hard on us. Real soon, I think. Maybe even tonight."
 
    "Jesus...," Carlton muttered.

    "My plan...is this," Lacey gathered up the last of the scattered booklets, stacked them, and placed them beside the books. He then struggled into a pair of dirty, threadbare jeans, talking all the while. "We stay here together tonight, me and you. And we wait."

    Next went on a rumpled flannel shirt, which he buttoned up with rapid, neat motions. "Like I said, I've been up reading, and I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. Now I can't guarantee they'll work. But I can try. We just might - might - be able to get some help on this one. Like I said, nothin's sure. But if things go really bad...I want you to hightail it out of here. Don't wait up for me. I want to get your ass on over to Boston, and then you and your wife head for the hills. I mean that. Don't fuck around or you'll be sorry."

    "What about you?" Carlton asked.

    "Don't worry about me. But I want your word on what I said. I blow it, you run for it. OK?"

    He held out his hand. Carlton took it reluctantly, shook it.

    "OK."

    "Good."

    "How in the hell did you ever end up in this line of work?"

    Lacey waved his hand. "Ah, I hate all them Great Old Ones. Buncha schemin' bastards. Fuck'em, I say. And besides..."

    He offered Carlton a strange, fey smile. "I'm what you call a 'people-person.'"

    And so they made ready for the coming of night.

    Carlton smoked cigarettes, one after the other. Lacey did the same, but with throat lozenges instead. Each made his preparations, and their efforts, like ripples on still water, crossed but did not mingle. Each man lived within his universe, hardly daring to speak, ticking away the endless moments of a dreadful time.

    Carlton wedged an old office chair underneath the doorknob. "Oh, that'll really slow 'im down," Lacey said sarcastically. Rummaging among the bower bird's nest of religious paraphernalia, Carlton selected for himself a foot-long cross of polished wood, the worn and well-thumbed Gideon Bible, and of course the kitchen knife.

    Lacey took Carlton over to the far corner of the warehouse loft. There was a ladder, which led out to the roof above.

    "See that?" Lacey asked. "If things start goin' really bad, we head for the roof, understand? If you have to, try and climb down onto the landing by the door. If you gotta jump, try for one of the dumpsters. It might break your fall."

    "Or my neck," Carlton replied.

    "Either way, just do what I tell you, OK? And lose the cross. The hell you think this thing is, a vampire or something? You gonna read it Leviticus?"

    "Can't hurt to try."

    Lacey snorted and walked away.

    "Isn't there a hoist or something we can take down, instead of going out on the roof?" Carlton asked after him.

    "Sure," Lacey replied, rooting through a cheap footlocker. "Only problem is that it's been busted for years. Quick way down though, if you don't mind breakin' every bone in your body. Now don't bother me anymore...the hell are those goddamn candles..."

    Finding them, Lacey lit and placed them carefully stop tall crates. With chalk he traced lines, ellipses, arabesques, and Cyrillic-like characters on the floor and walls. Often they disappeared in a flurry of erasing and muttered curses. For some time Carlton was convinced that the man was humming to himself. Gradually he realized that it was a half-articulated chant - there were words but he could not understand them. Perhaps it was best, that way.

    But he did recognize a name, repeated several times: Nodens. Lord of the Abyss.

    And bit by bit, the light faded from the tiny smudged windows, the shadows lengthened, and the dust motes ceased to dance.

    Carlton sat down on the crate marked INNSMOUTH-ARKHAM. The cross and the kitchen knife lay beside him. He tapped cigarette ash onto the wooden floor, ground out the butts. All about him, the warehouse settled into its joints like an old man trying to sleep, creaking, squealing, tiny stealthy sounds that kept him well on edge. The candles burned and soon the air smelled heavily of wax. Lacey persisted in his lonely, preoccupied work.

    Carlton wondered what Beth was doing at this moment. She'd probably called several times by now, choking the answering machine with slightly anxious messages. Beep. Hi, babe, it's me...just back from shopping with Mom. What're you up to? There's TV dinners in the freezer, don't forget. Well...I'll call you later. Love you. Bye.

    You just stay in Boston for a while, Beth.

    Wind pressed against the small windows, flapping like clothes on a washing line. From somewhere far away came the toll of the steeple bell. Carlton counted the solemn notes, until the wind interrupted his thoughts, screeching thinly in some unseen nook or cranny of the roof.

    Wait. He'd heard something, from outside. Footsteps?

    No. It was just Lacey. Damned warehouse was probably full of strange little noises. Lacey probably didn't even notice them anymore.

    It was uncanny how acute his senses had become. The slightly overweight, slightly obtuse Carlton of before was, like the candles, melting away. He could see beads of wax run down the sides of candles like tiny pearls. He could feel the grain of old wood under his hand, rough and dry, like stone. The air - was it heavier now, charged somehow, as if before the onset of a storm? And did he notice something beyond the attic door's smeared windowpane, something black and curious, moving unsteadily, there and then gone?

    "Dennis," he said, but his voice failed him, was a croak.

    There was a slight bump against the door. Carlton rose, cross and knife in hand.

    Carlton swallowed. His throat seemed lined with wool, and he wet his lips "Dennis," he hissed.

    "I said, don't bother me anymore."

    There was a second blow, heavier this time. The door rattled on its frame. Lacey jerked, disturbed from his work, and began backing slowly away. "OK," he said quietly, the words trembling, papery, like autumn leaves. "All right...OK...all right."

    He bumped into a stack of crates, which swayed dangerously.

    "Watch out for the candles!" Carlton said.

    "Huh? What-"

    Grimy glass exploded inward. Shards tinkled to the floor. A hooked length of metal - a crowbar - clumsily clattered about the window frame, shattering whatever jagged pieces were left. The shape beyond, touched red by the glowering sun, heaved itself against the barrier. Again and again the door was struck, began to splinter, to give way. Then it crashed open, the chair falling aside.

    Click, clump, click, clump. The sound alone nearly unhinged Carlton. Old Fingers entered the warehouse attic, slow as wasting death. From head to foot it was hidden: trench coat, driving gloves, narrow-toed boots, trailing red scarf pulled up over its nose, battered old fedora from a world forty years dead. Even its eyes were concealed behind gold-tinted sunglasses.

    Clutched in its hands was the crowbar.

    Its movements were stiff, awkward, draggling, as if it were under the power of an indifferent puppeteer. Its walk was almost crab-like, its upper body carried like a stack of dishes. The smell, too was here, the heady spiced cheap signature of its presence...but there was something beneath it, older, rotten, spoiled, the dry black gassy stink of carrion.

    It came toward them, like a blind thing, seeming to sense more than see. With sudden, unexpected force and venomous speed it swung the crowbar, knocking down a stack of boxes. A small avalanche of ceramic figurines tumbled, shattered. The muddy watercolor of Christ fell to the floor. Old Fingers stepped through the wreckage. Bits of ceramic crunched and popped under its boots.

    Carlton held up the wooden cross.

    "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," he said, his voice constricting unbearably, "I c-command you to g-get back. Get back!"

    Old Fingers came to a sudden halt, swaying like a drunk. The blank gold lenses fixed upon Carlton. With an ungainly lurch, it came toward him.

    "Though I walk through the valley of the sh-shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for- for thy-"

    It brought the crowbar up, two-handed. Its grotesque, clockwork danse macabre fascinated Carlton - it seemed so loosely built and fluid, to be held together by only the thinnest of sinew and integument. What would happen if the coat should come away? What -

    There was a wild howling yell, and Old Fingers was struck a blow to the head that drove it to its knees. The crowbar clattered to the floor. The fedora hat crumpled, the sunglasses flew off and the scarf fell loose under the impact.

    Lacey, two-by-four in both hands, shouted, "What'd I tell you about that cross? Huh?"

    Old Fingers fumbled for its crowbar, found it, and awkwardly rose, slowly turning on its attacker. Lacey hit it again and again, glancing blows to the head and shoulders that staggered it momentarily. Carlton winced at the mushy, sludgy sound of impact.

    Then something fell from it and clattered on the floor. Carlton stared in dull shock. It was a lower jawbone. Five or six teeth, worn to brownish nubs, were all the remained -the rest were missing, their sockets plugged with black dirt, one from which a fat earthworm writhed.

    Again, with unexpected speed, it lunged underneath Lacey's next swing. It picked the little man up and threw him into a pile of old furniture with a tremendous crash.

    It rose to its full height, facing Carlton. What he saw made him groan aloud.

    Old Fingers had no face. Or, more precisely, only the rudiments. Scraps of dry, peeling flesh still clung to its skull, but that was all that was left really - a skull. Its eye sockets stood empty as the mouths of bare tombs, though tatters of cobweb hung within. The nose was no more than a dark arched cavity. A clot of earth, which had no doubt clogged its fleshless mouth, still clung to its palate. Ribbon worms writhed and squirmed through the crumbling soil. A beetle scurried across its bare forehead.

    It touched a gloved hand to its ruined features with almost obscene delicacy, searching, in idiot puzzlement. Then, with great fastidious care, it wound the scarf about its bare head, pulled it up again over its awful broken jaw and nonexistent nose. Beneath the fabric, worms moved. The empty eyes stared blankly.

    Carlton thrust the cross into its face.

    "H-Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom-" he stuttered.

    Leather-clad digits snaked around the angled wood of the cross and tore it from Carlton's grasp, threw it contemptuously away. Old Fingers swung the crowbar low, striking Carlton in the belly, doubling him up. The air burst forth from his lungs in an agonized rush. Staggering toward the ladder, Carlton narrowly missed having the hooked end of the crowbar buried in his back.
 
    Twice Carlton fell. He couldn't breathe. The pain in his belly spread sickly through his body, like poison. From behind him came the patient, steady, implacable progress of his pursuer. Halfway to the ladder, Carlton turned on him. Old Fingers, seemingly taken by surprise, swung clumsily, the crowbar describing a murderous arc through the air. Carlton stabbed at the thing.

    There was a slick, slimy, tearing sound, like a boot pulled from mud, as the knife slid into the thing's chest, up to its handle. Dead flesh parted with sickening ease, like rotted fruit. Old Fingers was only briefly slowed. Regaining its balance, it ignored the knife protruding from its ribcage and advanced. Right, left, right, left, swung the crowbar, like a great steel talon, a clawed pendulum.

    Carlton began his painful climb.

    He cried out when the crowbar hooked his shoe, kicked it savagely away.

    Up, up, he climbed. Below him, Old Fingers watched, seemingly baffled.

    But it was only a brief respite. The dead thing stumbled forward, seized the lowest rung and began to climb, too, hand over crowbar-hook. It paused only to swing its weapon, like a man casting a flyrod. Iron clattered off wood. Once. Twice.

    On the third attempt, it hooked Carlton's shoe again, the notched ice-cold metal head slipping between leather and sock. It pulled with such sudden force that Carlton slid down a rung, losing the shoe and very nearly his own grip. He wriggled free, righted himself and stomped on the thing's shoulder. Bone snapped dryly. The thing lost balance and tottered. But it hooked a rung and held on, flailing like an insect.

    Gasping with pain, Carlton made it to the topper of the ladder. Something small, black and flapping struck his face and he yelled, waving an arm wildly. The terrified bat flew away. He pushed against the trapdoor.

    It refused to open.

    "You bastard," he snarled between clenched teeth.

    A sound from below him: Old Fingers, the Son of Shub-Niggurath, was rising to meet him. Its empty eye sockets seemed full of vacuous, violent glee.

    Carlton threw his shoulder against the trapdoor. It shook, but did not budge. Other bats joined in their brethren's brainless panic. They flapped about like tatters of ash. Their wings sounded like sheets in a high wind.

    "Come on...Come on...COME ON!"

    Old Fingers was close now. Very close. The stink of it filled Carlton's nostrils. He could see something wet and squirming in the back of its skull. And something else as well. Drops of red. They pattered and bloomed on old bone like tiny morbid flowers, disappeared into the scarf. Carlton, baffled, only then realized that his shoeless foot was bleeding.

    With one last heave, the trapdoor crashed open. Carlton lunged through the opening, out onto the sloping warehouse roof. Despite its gentle angle, he stumbled and nearly fell. The sky was growing dark. In the east, it was the shade of old wine, while to the west the sun was sinking in bloody defeat behind a black tangle of gambrel roofs, aerials and chimney pots. The wind struck his face like a slap.

    He half-ran, half-hopped to one edge. More then three stories below was the ground - gravel, melting snow, mud puddles and junked dock machinery. Nor were things any different to his left. The staircase landing Lacey had mentioned was to the left and due north, facing the Miskatonic. With dizzying despair, Carlton realized that he had run in the wrong direction - south.

    Like a spider Old Fingers emerged from the trapdoor. Several bats burst forth and flapped off, squeaking.

    Carlton slowly backed away.

    It came toward him, crowbar in hand. It stopped, scarf flapping like a dark banner, the knife still wedged between its ribs. Raising a hand it pointed at him, marked him.
 
    The crowbar swiped at Carlton. He dodged, and then grappled with Old Fingers. Scuffling, feet scraping, they struggled atop the peak of the roof, until the thing pushed Carlton away.

    Carlton hit the rooftop on his back, hard, and rolled. The world spun out of control, sky, tiles, Old Fingers all upended, and he screamed in a cracked voice, certain he was plunging headlong to his death.

    He slid to a stop, legs and lower torso dangling in empty air over the edge of the roof.

    Old Fingers came for him, scarf trailing. Carlton knew what was next. It was a simple matter now. It would kick him off. It would break his fingers, bury the hooked end of the crowbar in his back or skull. Kids or some old bum would find a body the next morning, bones broken, mutilated.

    He cried for help. There was no answer.

    Old Fingers closed in, bringing the crowbar high over its head.

    Carlton squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle tensed. He tucked his head into the crook of his arm.

    "In the name of Nodens, Lord of the Great Abyss," shouted a voice, "go back!"

    Lacey stood at the apex of the roof. His nose was bleeding. His voice rose to the sky, loud and forceful. Old Fingers swiveled to face him.
 
    "Go back, Son of the Black Goat, Thing of the Pit! In the name of Nodens, I command you! No longer shall the Dead walk! No longer shall the Dead hunt! No longer shall the Dead plague the Places of the Living!"

    The dead staggered forth to meet the living. Carlton took advantage of the moment and struggled to right himself. His legs kicked uselessly at the air. He was mesmerized by what unfolded: Old Fingers advancing upon Lacey, who retreated not an inch, but who continued to bellow defiance.

    Shadows sailed dreamily across the tiled roof. They wheeled and turned in graceful acrobatic patterns. Birds? Carlton wondered. Bats? There was a quality of the surreal to the silhouettes, something was wrong...

    Old Fingers held forth a hand, and made a sign: four fingers up, thumb out, the third finger curled inward.

    "The Sign of the Black Goat will not avail you, Son of Shub-Niggurath!" Lacey cried. "Go back! Return to soil and dark dreams! Eat of the Earth and Become of the Earth! Already your Fate is decided! Already your Doom is at-"
 
    Right to left swept its hand, a contemptuous slashing gesture.

    Lacey went mute and swayed unsteadily, like a man dealt a serious blow. He shielded his face, buckled.

    Old Fingers brought the crowbar up high. A shadow rapidly descended.

    "NO!" Carlton yelled.

    And the crowbar was suddenly stuck fast in mid-air. Old Fingers pulled, and it scarcely moved.

    A flying, flapping noiseless thing held the hooked end in its impossibly long, curved talons. Its membranous wings worked furiously, but made no sound. Carlton gaped at its awful form, the shade of a deep bruise, a form neither entirely man, nor demon, nor bat, nor insect. Nor was there a face - only an empty planed surface supplanted by two curved horns, blank as a medieval helmet. Far more suggestive of its frame of mind was its segmented tail, which was tipped with a sharp barb the size of a fishing gaff. It lashed in great agitation.

    Old Fingers and the flapping thing fought for the crowbar. The only sound was the stump and scuffle of heavy boots.

    Straining with effort, Carlton pulled himself up and over the edge of the roof. That was when he saw more of the noiseless, purple-black gargoyles, wheeling about the roof like demons in an old woodcut. Terrified, turning in slow wary circles lest one take him from behind, he made his way back to the trapdoor.

    "Dennis!" he shouted. "Dennis!"

    The crowbar clattered onto the roof. The gargoyle-thing clutched Old Fingers by it shoulders, digging in with all its talons. Old Fingers kicked and thrashed, was pulled upward. Another gargoyle-thing appeared, and it too, took hold of the Son of Shub-Niggurath, seizing it by the ankles. Higher and higher they ascended into the air with their victim.

    Lacey rose to his feet.

    "DENNIS! BEHIND YOU!"

    Too late. One of the oily purple-black things swooped down like a hawk, took the little man by the shoulders, and flapped soundlessly away with him.

    "DEN-"

    Carlton was next. The impact was sudden, paralyzing. Clawed fingers and toes the shade of obsidian pierced his coat like knives, hooking into the fabric. He was pulled effortlessly off his feet, into the air. There was a thin, sharp smell to the thing, redolent of vinegar. Its flesh was rubbery and hairless.

    By the time Carlton recovered from his initial shock, he was already high aloft, and Arkham far below. The Miskatonic was a dark blue-brown ribbon between clustered buildings, the Island a gray-green hummock with its ring of stones. He saw white steeples, and blackened smokestacks, and modern glass offices, and ancient crumbling Colonial roofs. He saw lights burning yellow. He saw graveyards overgrown and old beyond recollection. To the north were the remote woods, and to the south, the lonely hills, their crowns purple and gold in the last light, fading away into darkness.

    East was where the nightmare flock was headed. East, to the stars, to the ocean.

    He began to struggle, but not for long. The segmented tail went to work. The honed edge of its barb delicately scraped first one cheek, then the other, ripped a long tear in his coat and the sweater beneath, just touching flesh. He winced with hot embarrassment and sweaty fear when it prodded experimentally at his thighs and groin. Again and again it was before his eyes, large as a butcher knife, first inches and then only millimeters away. It parted his lips, clicked torturously across his teeth, over his scalp, down his spine. He must not move. The razor-barb would cut him to red ribbons, cut him like paper if he did. He must remain still.

    The gargoyle-things were moving swiftly. Carlton, his eyes tearing, saw no sign of Lacey, or of Old Fingers. Sky and ground were lost in darkness and the stars hesitantly emerged. The air was thin and very cold. Far below he saw clusters of city lights - a latticework of diamond, sapphire, emerald and ruby upon black, the horizon lavender at its edges. So many lights. Too many to be Arkham. Boston? Was Beth below, ignorant of what had become of him? Would she ever know? He pulled desperately at the talons holding him, and winced when the barb poked his cheek sharply, like a pin. A petulant reminder...

    The lights gradually diminished as the city below came to an end. Fewer and fewer, ever less, scattered jewels, and then darkness again. Beth would never know. Now his tears were not all the merciless work of the wind, and he would have cried out her name, had not his lungs ached so, had not the air been so terribly, cruelly thin...

    Carlton awoke to pain.

    His stomach hurt. His shoulders ached abominably. His head seemed full of sand. And there was something boring into his back, for God's sake...

    Stone.

    It was behind him, before and all about him. Stone, pitted, white-splattered granite and the great gray Atlantic. Below, waves smashed against rock. He could feel the primordial impact in his bones.

    Wincing, he rose. Every joint in his body lodged a formal protest in response, and he was forced to sit. Absently he began rubbing his bare foot, and examined the cut. It was a nasty gash, but no longer bleeding.

    "Lost a shoe, then, huh?"

    Startled, Carlton jumped to his feet. The voice was behind him.

    It was Lacey, hands in the pockets of his fatigue jacket. There was dried blood about his nostrils, and a bruise above one eye...but otherwise he appeared unhurt.

    "...yeah." Carlton said uncertainly.

    Lacey shrugged and said, "I lost my cap on the way over."

    "Well that's a bitch," Carlton replied.

    For a long moment they stared at each other. Then both Lacey and Carlton broke into hysterical, wheezing, painful black hilarity, laughter that sounded more like two kettles near boil than true merriment. Doubled up, they alternated between bemused groans and fits of choked giggling. They wiped tears from their eyes. Their shoulders shook. When the fit subsided, Lacey sat down beside Carlton. They stared in silence at the restless, heaving Atlantic.

    "Any idea where we are?" Carlton asked at last.

    And it was a while before Lacey answered. "Somewhere off the coast of Massachusetts. Maybe twenty, thirty miles. I paced this rock out. Ain't too big, I'll say that much. Nothin' to eat, either, except maybe sea gulls."

    "Mmm."

    Silence again, but for the waves. Carlton rubbed his foot. Lacey sighed and breathed deeply of the salt air.

    "You know, one good thing came out of this mess."

    "What?"

    "Bein' up that high cleared up my sinuses."

    Carlton shook his head.

    The ocean crashed and boiled below them.

    "Dennis?"

    "Yeah?"

    "Is it gone?"

    "Oh yeah," the little man said. "Yeah. They took it," he waved a hand, "Hell. God only knows where. I'm just glad my summons was answered, is all."

    The sea dominated their thoughts for a time.

    "Dennis?"

    "Yeah?"

    "What were those things?"

    "Nightgaunts."

    "Oh...why didn't they put us down in Boston?"

    "What, you think Boston International's gonna give them clearance to land? Not on your life, pal...

    "Besides, be thankful. They could've taken us much further. Much, much further."

    "What? Timbuktu?"

    Lacey stared at him flatly.

    "No...I'm talkin' Leng...Irem of the Pillars...maybe even the moon or another planet, smart guy. So be happy. We lucked out."

    "Really?"

    "Really."

    "So now what?"

    "We wait for a little while. It isn't a good idea to bug Nodens too soon, too often. He's kind of touchy that way. But anyway, we'll wait for a bit, and then I'll do my thing again. And...with some luck...we'll be a little more on target this time."

    "What's a bit?"

    "I don't know. Twelve hours. Maybe a day or two. Who knows?"

    Now it was Carlton's turn to stare. "You're nuts, you know that?"

    "Yeah, well, look's who with me..."

    "He isn't gonna send those nightgaunt things again, is he?"

    "What? You gonna walk back to dry land, pal?"

    Carlton closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, shifted on his hard, smooth stone seat. The sun burned a hazy white through a shadowed landscape of clouds, appeared, and was gone again. All about them was the ocean, vast and tempestuous, crashing against the rocks. A day or two here would be an eternity...

    Lacey gently nudged Carlton. He held his palm out in offering. There was something small and red in it.

    "Cough drop?"

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