Free At Fear's Altar by Richard Gavin Page B

until he looked down and discovered that the hideous thing from within the rock had stretched one of its wings across the water, forging a bridge between its Outer realm and the world of man. There were other figures perched on various ridges of The Abject, human in size if not altogether in shape; just as The Abject itself had been mountainous in scope, but not in composition.
    Petra, looking feral, black-stained, yet regal in her madness, treaded upon the feathery arch. Most of her body looked positively ossified, save for the belly, which was swollen with fledgling life.
    She held something in her spindly, filthy arms.
    Something that shifted and mewled.
    Something that she freed.
    Something that came scuttling at a great speed toward Earth’s End.
    Tad saw the thing pushing itself along on unnumbered flabby claws. Its eyes were like the suckers on a deep sea creature’s tentacle. Its mouth was nothing but tongue.
    He prayed he’d have time enough to fire once.

Faint Baying from Afar

    An Epistolary Trail after H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Hound”
    27th November 1922
    D arling Mother,
    I pen this letter with a heavy heart. I am afraid that the awful news, in which we have both been seeking some discrepancy that might prove the ordeal false, is unfortunately true. I arrived in Rotterdam this morning and received confirmation from the local authorities.
    Patrick, beloved brother to me and your cherished younger son, has perished.
    How I wish I could be there to offer what comfort I may in this, your time of grieving. Know that I too ache, and am at a loss as to the nature of Patrick’s demise. The police admit they have not ruled out foul play but assure me that his death was very likely by his own hand.
    I blush, Mother. I cringe at having to put such a theory in your imaginings. Of course I shall remain here for as long it takes to clear this fog that taints my poor brother’s memory, and indeed our family name.
    I have been allowed to keep the sole possession that Patrick had on his person at the time his body was discovered here at this inn—a journal bound in tawdry, battered leather. Once I have read its contents I will expedite it to you, as I am sure you will wish to make it a keepsake.
    I must close this letter as I am hoping to engage a room of my own here in order to continue my investigation. Take solace, Mother: this too shall pass, I assure you. Let us rely on one another in this, our direst hour.
    Your ever-loving son,
    Hugh

    ***

    29th November 1922
    Dearest Mother,
    The sun has not yet risen, and though my body is weary, my mind refuses to cease reeling. My thoughts are quite troubled.
    I have read as much of Patrick’s diary as I could stomach. It is distressing, Mother, distressing and more than a little frightening. My original plan of hastening it along to you so that you might examine its entries for yourself must, I think, be repressed for now. I wish to spare your thoughts the troubling stains that Patrick’s confessional may impress upon them.
    While I think it best to exclude a good number of his exploits at this time, I will not punish you by withholding all that I was able to glean. Consider the following a concentrated, sanitized account:
    After failing out of Trinity College, Dublin—a fact I’m sure would have driven dear Father to his grave from shame had he not already been occupying it these past five years—it seems that Patrick adopted the life of a vagabond; drifting from city to city, country to country, often by smuggling himself onto cargo trains or the so-called “tramp steamers.”
    There is little to speak of in those early entries. Patrick took to imbibing, though (assuming he was not being self-deceitful in his entries, of course) not to excess, and late last autumn Patrick’s wanderings swayed him to London, where he became enchanted by the city’s infamous “bohemian” crowd: poets, artists, and eaters of hashish.
    From this group Patrick seemed to latch most