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For Wilum Hopfrog Pugmire
Outside, in the nighted city Chaos reigned supreme. Beneath the harsh glare of the yellow streetlights figures shuffled about without purpose, not unlike something out of a George Romero zombie movie. A non-stop flow of traffic rushed by like an ever-flowing stream, bleating carhorns and poisonous exhaust fumes tainting the air. Booming rap music and obnoxious shouts peppered liberally with profanity filled the audient void. It was Friday night in the city.
Slowly, wearily, he made his way up the creaking wooden stairs leading to his garret room. He crept quietly, so as not to wake his sleeping mother. The door swung open on its protesting hinges and the writer thankfully entered his sanctum sanctorum. Here the hateful outside world could not intrude upon his thoughts.
Bookshelves stuffed to overflowing lined the room on all four sides; stacks of dog-eared digests and magazines covered the floor haphazardly. And dominating the quaint study sat a large oaken desk, its dark oblong shape squatting there before him like some sacrificial altar. The analogy seemed fitting, thought the writer, he did sacrifice much upon it. Sighing, he sat down in the swivel-chair and prepared to work.
Taking pen in hand, the writer brought it to the paper. He prepared to write, but no words were forthcoming. Writer's block had reared its inevitable ugly head. Surrendering the pen to the desktop reluctantly, he leaned back in his chair and let his mind wander as it would.
Like so many times before, it took him to the Valley: Between the twin peaks and over the rough, rocky white slope of Mount Selta . . . and directly into the heart of Sesqua itself. He flew over the swamp . . . the circle of standing stones . . . the nameless crypt on the hill . . .
Something drew him back to the study. He listened, but heard nothing; the old lady slept on obliviously. His left wrist began to itch. He scratched it, his nails digging in fiercely, and he failed to notice that his hand came away not with red blood, but with blue.
Then his thoughts were winging over the Valley again, experiencing the wondrous Visions of Kroyd'hon: Below he espied old Vreeland's house . . . young Nelson's tree-house . . . the madwoman's stone tower . . . the bookstore of Wilus Whateley . . .
Now his temple itched, the irritation again pulling his mind from Sesqua Valley. As he scratched, his hand again came away with blue. This time he noticed, however, and a puzzled frown made itself known upon his countenance. A moment later his wrist irritated him once more, and he scratched it again and glanced down. What he saw protruding from the blue-soaked furrow in his forearm sent an icy electric chill down his spine: a shard of whiteness -- BONE!
But no, he could see with a curious detachment that it wasn't bone after all. Gingerly, he fingered it, and felt it pull free from inside the rent in his forearm. He clenched it firmly in his right hand. At first he thought it was a piece of skin . . . but it proved to be a sheet of paper covered with spidery blue ink! The ink formed words, arranged in some cryptic pattern like eldritch runes. He held the paper up to his face and read the words aloud:
'Fogson and Blorn had no intention of pulling a job in Sesqua . . .'[1]
The words seemed familiar to him, and yet again with that curious sense of detachment he found he could not place them. Another piece protruded from the raw wound. This, too, he withdrew with a curious sliding sensation that made him feel momentarily queasy, and again read aloud:
'Mount Selta stood like some silent thing of elder lore; its white stone reflecting the crimson sunset, its twin peaks suggesting wings folded on a daemon's shoulders . . .' [2]
Something hung down in front of his eye, half-obscuring his vision. He reached up and took hold of it and pulled. It came loose with a gentle tug and a small spray of yet more blue blood. He held it up and read aloud once again:
'After living in Arkham for many years, studying languages at Miskatonic University, I began to long for home. Sesqua Valley, that enchanting and secluded place that was my home, began to call me in dreams . . .' [3]
Now he recognized the words for what they were: they were HIS words, words for the stories making up his fantastic oeuvre, the Sesqua Valley Mythos! Now his entire body felt like it was on fire, his skin itching and crawling, aching to let something out. Solemnly surrendering himself to it, the writer dug his hands into his raw wounds with an audible SQUELCH and took hold of his insides firmly. Exerting himself with great effort, he steadily tore open the skin, allowing the flood of ink and paper -- his lifeblood and vitals -- to pour out in a steady stream upon the floor.
It wasn't long before a heap of papers filled the room nearly to the ceiling. It lay there silently for a while, then began stirring madly as if a strong wind suddenly swept the room. The spinning mass cycloned wildly in mid-air for a moment, then again settled itself upon the floor. Crumpling itself into a vaguely manlike shape, something began to form in the pile of paper and ink and rise. Towering massively, it shambled its way out the door (its ponderous footfalls waking a frightened old lady, who cowered silently in the darkness) and down the stairs . . . and out the front door, to make itself known in the outside world.
Bibliographic Sources (from the works of W. H. Pugmire):
[1]. "Never Steal From a Whateley" (DIVERSIFIER #14, May 1976).[back]
[2] . "Thy Cryptic Power" (REVELATIONS FROM YUGGOTH #1, November 1987).[back]
[3] . "Swamp Rising" (GRUE #4, Winter 1987).[back]
Copyright © 1998 Peter A. Worthy
"The World Made Flesh" © 1998 by James Ambuehl
