Shoggoths Are My Business

Copyright Notice

All stories contained herein are Copyright © 2012 by D. Nicklin-Dunbar and Mouldy Squid Media. Published at Smashwords. This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. You may distribute, copy or upload this document but you may not change or charge for this work.

To view a copy of this license, visit:

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

or send a letter to:

Creative Commons

444 Castro Street

Suite 900

Mountain View, California

94041 USA.

Contents

Cover Illustration

Copyright Notice

Foreword

Three Drink Memory

Amelia & the Windypine Spa for Superheroes

The Dead Man's Wind

So Shall the World

A Sordid, Lathered Knife

Colophon

Foreword

This volume represents the culmination of twin obsessions. The first obsession is, of course, the works of H.P. Lovecraft. I discovered Lovecraft, rather late as fans of his go, in my early 20s. But I was hooked. HPL’s vision of a vast, uncaring universe filled with beings and forces far beyond Man’s inadequate and tiny understanding resonated with me in a way difficult to describe.

I was studying the occult at the time and that decade was spent (among other things like University, scuba diving for a living, investigating altered states of consciousness and generally being a twenty-something) in the twin pursuits of reading all I could of Crowley, Regardie, Blake, Waite, Argippa &co. and tracking down every piece of Lovecraftiana I could find. Needless to say, these two courses of research dovetailed nicely and have provided the budding horror writer in me with an extensive knowledge of not only real-world occultism, but fictional occultism as well.

The other obsession is, as you can probably tell from the title of this anthology, Raymond Chandler. My admiration for his writing style is profound. Chandler is noir detective fiction in a way that no one else can be. His influence in the genre is vast, and his voice is just as relevant and fresh as it was when he was still alive. In many ways Lovecraft and Chandler are meant for each other: they both have had a massive and lasting effect on their respective genres, both are a product of their times and both had a unique voice unequaled by imitators. It comes as no surprise to me (and many other writers and fans) that their fiction should also be compatible.

During that decade and for several years after, I watched the resurrection of the occult detective story and its transformation from the stuffy and mannered 19th Century drawing room ghost stories to the hard boiled, down and dirty mean streets noir horror. That this unlikely new combination of mystery and supernatural fiction owes its origins to Chandler and Lovecraft can in no way be disputed. There is even an entire anthology devoted to it (and it’s filled with some pretty good stories too).

In some ways, I have missed the boat. I have been working on Howard Phillips for almost twenty years now, having completed the first story all the way back in 1997. Life is what happens, as they say, when you are making other plans. In other ways, in 1997 the tools for self publishing weren’t widely available and there were no iPads and iBooks and Amazon was only selling actual hard-copy books. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to put these stories in your hands all by myself.

Inside you’ll find my take on the Lovecraft/Chandler con-fusion, and despite the title, some fantasy and science fiction besides. And about the title: an anthology of hard-boiled Lovecraftian detective stories deserves to be called Shoggoths Are My Business. If you still are wondering why, hit up the Google for a list of Chandler’s books, and if you don’t know what a shoggoth is, well you might want to look that up too. Just don’t blame me if it gives you nightmares.

David Nicklin-Dunbar

Three Drink Memory

Dunwich.

I have got to be out of my mind coming here again. Twice before this place has tried to kill me. I swore I’d never give it another chance.

The Aylesbury Pyke snakes around the feet of the hills. With the drizzle they’re headless shrugging giants lumbering through the clouds on some nameless errand. I have to wait for a relatively straight piece of road to take a shot from the flask. Normally I prefer to drink in a safe non-mobile chair, but I desperately need one. So, instead, I take two.

A place like Dunwich will do that to you.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this job and it hasn’t even started yet. The first time I went to Dunwich I don’t talk about. The second still wakes me screaming from sleep. Neither time, though, was there a paved road or a huge sign at the bridge:

Seeing this does not fill me with happiness. All the signs pointing to Dunwich were taken down fifty years before I was born. It was done for a reason.

§ § §

Looking back, I should have never answered the phone. I was in my office, the ringing like an ice pick in the ear. I couldn’t be sure how long it had been ringing, but once I noticed, it had to be stopped.

Scrubbing the fur off my tongue, I grabbed the receiver and growled, Phillips’ Consulting.

Howard! the voice shouted. Thank god you answered.

It was Ward. I looked at last night’s bottle, wishing there was more than one or two drinks left, and decided that one would help me tolerate him. Ward ran one of those big money consulting firms; slick T.V. adds, hi-tech detectors, Hollywood clientele.

Look, Ward, I’ve told you a thousand times. I am not interested in working for you. Period. I picked up the bottle and started pouring into a bleary glass.

Howard, Ward said, it’s Lin. I kept pouring. Lin rates at least a two drink memory.

What about her? I growled.

She’s two days overdue checking in on a consult— Ward began.

I cut him off. She’s just taking a couple of days off to herself. She does that. You should know. I did, all too well.

It’s where I sent her, Howard. She said that if anything happened I should call you— Ward was babbling now. In my profession you hear a lot of panic, and Ward had it in spades.

Where’d you send her, Ward?

She always said you were the best—

Ward! Where did she go?

Dunwich.

§ § §

There are, in the world, places that should be forgotten by humanity. Savage dark places where jungle and sand rule, where man is small and transient. Dunwich is one of those places. The men who took down those signs in 1928 understood this.

I take one last swallow and drive across the bridge into the village. A shudder goes through me. I pass bright, rebuilt Colonial houses, low siding-clad apartments, a 7-11 and a Starbucks. The old church under Round Mountain is gone, replaced by some small chain supermarket. People move briskly through the streets. There’s even a motor-home or two parked in empty lots.

What the fuck is going on here?

I cruise through town, following a muddy track on the pavement. Less than a mile out I find the construction. Lots of it. There are two or three nearly finished condominiums and what looks like four more on the way. I pass by a sign:

I use a truck turnaround and head back to the village, cruising through one more time before leaving. It‘s getting dark. I spent a night in Dunwich country once. Nothing on Earth could induce me to do it again.

§ § §

Arkham broods in the rain. Its ancient buildings huddle together whispering their secrets to one another. The darkness seems to absorb the wan glow of the streetlights so that the lanes are dark, haunted. It’s a charming place.

I prowl the narrow twisting streets, heading toward the University. Something is going on in Dunwich, and I need help. Luckily, I know where to find it.

The University Miskatonic squats like a spider in the center of town, and in the middle of the University squats the Library. A few students are braving the rain, heading for bars or wherever, but there are fewer than usual. I reach the parking lot of the old Library, a pile of diseased looking stones. I spent a lot of time here, once. It almost feels like coming home.

I rush from the car to the doors, trying in vain to remain dry. Inside a young co-ed hands me a flyer advertising something. I take one absent mindedly and crumple it into my pocket. At the information desk a wizened crone asks if she can help.

Yeah, I’m looking for Edward Kelly. Last time I was here he was working in …

Yes, you mean Doctor Kelly. Second floor, Curator’s Office.

Well, shit. They must have handed the keys to him at last. I knock on the door of the Curator’s Office after mounting the stained marble stairs worn smooth by countless past students. I enter at a muffled yes. Kelly is pouring over some huge ancient tome on his desk, not looking up. Just like I remember him.

Doctor Kelly? I ask.

Yes, what can…Jesus, Howard! Kelly exclaims, leaping up to embrace me. Holy shit, Howard. What are you doing here? How the hell have you been? God, it’s good to see you again. Here, have a seat.

Nice office, I say. The place is almost as big as my entire apartment.

Comes with the keys, Kelly says, his huge grin splitting his face in half.

Doctor Kelly? Were they actually stupid enough to hand the collection over to you?

Yeah, well, when Armitage finally kicked off I was about the only guy on campus who knew the collection well enough to take over. What about you? Still looking for skeletons in other people’s closets? I tell you man, you should come back here. This is where the real action is.

Dusting books?

Hah. You’re jealous. Hey, you want to take a tour through Special Collections? They finally told me where they keep the good stuff locked up.

Maybe later, I say. I’m on a job and I need a hand.

What kind of job?

Dunwich.

Kelly’s grin fades away. I thought you swore you would never go back there.

It’s Lin.

What? That bitch? Jesus, Howard. I thought you’d have gotten past her by now.

She was on a job up in Dunwich. Ward called me when she was three days late checking in. There’s something going on.

Kelly leans back in his chair. Well, it’s been quiet since you left the last time. Lots of construction though. They’re turning the place into some kind of tourist trap.

And that doesn’t seem strange to you.

"No, not really. Hell, even this place is a tourist trap. Some dim bulb started running tours through rural New England a few years back. Took off like a rocket. Hell, New England gets more tourists than Disneyland. ‘American Heritage’ and all that crap. Besides, you and Lin cleaned out all the