Free The Dunwich Romance by Edward Lee Page B

thet spit-can!”
    “Mebbe he’d like ta trade thet cane in fer a wheelchar...”
    Sary was able to lean slightly up, and found her vision clearing enough to see one blurred shape spreading her legs. Then—
    Clunk!
    Her head was slammed back down. A now fully hardened penis was seeking entry to her mouth. Sary had recouped enough coherence to yearn, Gawd, I wish I had my front teeth, but still could scarcely move. After a pause, the pasty, foreskinned corona pulled back, then fingers dug past her lips. Her mouth was pried open.
    “Luke? What’cha fixin’ ta dew?”
    “Piss in her maouth, a’course.”
    “Why ya wanna dew thet?”
    A chuckle. “Aw, Tobe, thet ain’t the question. The question’s why not? ”
    Then came a roar of laughter.
    The denizen who’d spread her legs was beginning to mount her, when—
    “Whut the—” someone huskily exclaimed.
    “Hey!”
    And Tobias: “Why, yew big butt-ugly shit-smellin’ freak!” and then the sound of scuffling. Sary still couldn’t see but she could feel that her three molesters had all pulled away.
    “Thet witch Levinny’s bastert kid!”
    Sary received the sense that loud, steady footfalls were making an entrance; then came a slam! as a door closed; and at her vision’s farther periphery...did something hove into sight? What’s happenin’? she thought. With a significant effort she was able to lean up on elbows. Why had the men prorogued their carnal fete?
    Her vision continued to clear but not enough to discern anything in detail.
    “I’se a-fetchin’ my gun!”
    “Ee-yuh, Tobe. Time someone done away with this buzzard-neck white trash devil.”
    “Be dewin’ justice, mind ye. Ever-one knows it were he who made off with Kelly Bishop!”
    “And Lars Low’s boy tew! Disappeart last October and en’t been seen sinct! ”
    “And them poor Farr sisters! All they ever faound of them was their blammed shoes at the bottom of Sentinel Hill!”
    These accusations confused Sary—with some of those names came a ring of familiarity—but something else confused her as well: a hush as material as a solid wall that insinuated itself throughout the room. Sary’s ears buzzed, while in her mouth an odd mineralish flavor suddenly fizzed. Pricklish static pelted her skin, and she could positively feel her body-hair rising on end from the roots.
    Then...
    The sound which Sary heard next she could not liken to any manner of aural example in her life. An abstractionist, or an audiologist, or perhaps a hebephrenic writer, might describe it as “guttural pressure,” something akin to human utterance yet too distantly departed from the combination of the traversional and longitudinal waves that are referred to as “sound” to be called “vocal.” Its source seemed to defy identification, and it would strike the intellectually inclined as a mode of pandemonic transliteration via some sensitivity to a phenomenon with no previously recognized ken.
    In truth, though, it was merely the laryngeal vibrations of an only partly terrestrial throat.
    These sounds that were not sounds only heightened that queer mineral taste on Sary’s palate, while the remonstrances of her attackers had ceased altogether. But as her senses grew more revitalized, her confoundment redoubled.
    Exactly what was taking place?
    At last her vision returned as the blood supply to her brain normalized.
    Sary stared.
    Alas, Tobias, Lang, and Wheeler were still in the room, but all entertained preposterous poses as their trousers were at their ankles and their genitals not only exposed but so terror-shriveled as to be pathetic. All three ruffians bore the most strained facial expressions, as if in violent resistance against what they were doing...
    What they were doing was this:
    Lang knelt, his neck inclined forward and his mouth opened wide. It was the suet-white, sack-bellied post-digger Henry Wheeler who stood upright, the withered penis tweezered betwixt thumb and forefinger. Wheeler was