brushwork of even the most gifted artist. Somewhere south of Corona I found myself on a smaller, more crudely paved road, and continued to delight in the incredible vistas of cholla cactus and undulating stretches of sandy earth, where the pointed shadows of yucca and mesquite began to splay themselves out upon the plain in the waning light of the sun. I reminded myself that soon it would be getting dark, and I would need either to return to Corona or go on to Roswell or Artesia to find a room for the night.
But first I felt in the mood for some more exploration; there was something addictive about this landscape.
I turned off onto an even smaller road and bounced along in a cloud of dust, feeling, with a certain pleasure, that I was further from human habitation than I could ever recall having been. After a while the road became a rock-strewn, primitive path where even the rugged vehicle I had chosen found it tricky to proceed. A darkening expanse of chaparral lay all around me, and now for the first time since my arrival I began to feel, in spite of the thrill that the newness of the place imparted to me, a certain suspicion that there could be something a little spectral about this land after all. But still I felt fascinated, and a little disinclined to head back to populated areas just yet.
At length the passable road, at this point merely a vague predominance of rock over cactus and mesquite, played out altogether, and I stopped the car and got out and walked ahead into the twilight, picking my way carefully and once pausing to watch the dusky form of a rattlesnake sidle off into the gloom, its warning rattles reaching me as a paper-dry burring on the evening air. Clearly, one had to be careful here, and the sight of this reptilian reminder was sufficient to suggest to me that indeed it might be time to turn back.
But I thought I saw something in the distance that I wanted to examine at closer range. It was something vaguely familiar, though the light was very uncertain now.
Stepping carefully over snake holes and prickly clusters of cactus, I made my way to a large standing stone that protruded from the sandy soil like a somber finger pointing at the darkening sky.
And I could not believe what I was seeing, in stark actuality now, rather than in the vagaries of dream. This simply could not be, but it was. Its ancient Indian petroglyphs still faintly visible in the dwindling remnants of light, the stone was undeniably the sinister monolith of my dream-visions back in Providence.
Providence, now infinitely far away in another, saner world.
Heaven help me, this was the place of my dreams.
I have no idea how long I stood there, unable to wrest my gaze from the dreadful stone, before my mind registered something else.
A sound. A low, insistent thrumming in the ground, like the bass notes of a great pipe organ.
And then — that other sound.
Two syllables, in some voice of the mind or some real physical vibration, I could not tell which — two syllables upon which I must refuse to dwell.
The impressions that followed are what I must especially resist thinking too steadily upon, if I am to retain what sanity remains to me.
In the uneven light of a chalky moon beginning to spread its radiance from between black, scudding clouds, I thought somehow that the sandy plain on which I stood became — what shall I say? — lower, indented, subtly concave, while the shadowy line of the horizon rose slightly in contrast. Perhaps my unconscious mind understood before my reasoning self could do so, for I broke and ran, hoping that I was headed back toward the car, which was invisible from here. Stumbling and falling headlong, I scarcely felt the cactus and the stony soil rend my clothing as I fell and ran and fell and ran again, trying to block from my ears those reverberant tones that must have been rising in pitch all along, those notes that murmured
I had the sensation that a great chasm was opening to receive me, and that in another moment it would be too late, and I would be gone, and no one would ever know what had happened to me. The whole scene seemed to churn itself up into a kaleidoscope of nightmare impressions, a blur of sand and tumbleweed and stone and muttering sound and frowning sky, and I ran and ran, choking on clouds of dust and terrified to look back over my shoulder. It was only when I was driving frantically back up the dusty, rocky road that some corner of my mind registered that I must have reached the car after all, before whatever came for me had time to close upon its prey.
I spent the rest of my trip moodily walking the populous and well-lighted streets of Albuquerque and Santa Fe, and I took an airplane back to Providence, Rhode Island.
Now when I walk down Benefit Street and stop to look at a fanlighted doorway or watch a sleek gray cat make its serene way along the ancient brick walkways, I realize that it is possible for consciousnesses beyond the common grasp to reach across unthinkable gulfs of time and space and fasten upon the unwary dreamer. I know now that, whatever some may say of dreams or of imagination or of the fanciful nature of such mythic creatures as the vile cannibal-god Gwai-ti, I came within seconds, one night in the desertlands of New Mexico, of dropping into the primal ravenous mouth of that horror from my dreams.
Engravings
Joseph S. Pulver, Sr
Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. is the author of the acclaimed Cthulhu Mythos novel
Straight rain. Mean and murderous. Its eyes screaming for blood.
Denver faded 300 miles back. 300 miles of wet asphalt back. It could have been 1,000.
Rain. Mean and murderous — engraving the world with sheets of thorns. Rain. Screaming like the Old Man on a gin bender. Screaming like the Old Man before the belt and the fists.
Thirty years back. or it could have been yesterday.
This run was supposed to end in the desert, not in a ditch. But the clock pressed. Tick-tock/tick-tock. Like a boss with eyes that only said FASTER.
He needed coffee and a pack of smokes. Maybe some eggs and toast. and something other than this Bible- thumping Forever that poured out of the radio. A nice sexy waitress — not some upper-class package with radar eyes searching for money, but earthy — knowing, with blue eyes and a big butt that swayed. Not unkempt and worn, but nice and maybe with a little extra. And she would wink all-sexy-like when she refilled his coffee.
Rain — full throttle, carrying violence with each slap. Like the Old Man crossing the hardwood floor.
For the last 50 miles or every step he'd ever taken.
Broken. The knobs wouldn't work. He couldn't turn the fuckin' radio off or down. The wipers working overtime, fighting off this wallop of darkness.
He should pull over and wait it out. But he needed a smoke and needed to be warm. Wanted. wanted something to look at that didn't hurt his strained eyes. Wanted to hear something — someone other than Rev. James Theodore Ellison's promise to heal you if you sent him money. To be healed by money. That's what got him here. Got him on this road. Got him out this night. With The Package in the trunk.
He should pull over and check The Package. When he did that
365 miles back, almost running off the road, he heard it slam into the side of the trunk. Heard it thud. Jittery balljoints, shitty tires, and bad shocks — shitty-ass Pontiac junkbucket, new this thing never purred along Nirvana Road like a hot kiss; a Chevy would, 'Ain't nothin' like a fine-ass Chevy glidin' top down in the sun. A fine candy- apple red one, not this black piece of crap.' And that timetable. He was screwed if the Package was damaged. That's what Mr. Phoenix said. Promised. Stark as bloody murder with one look and few words.
But that wasn't his fault. Wasn't his fault Mr. Phoenix gave him this car. Made him drive on thin tires. Not in this shit. This was Mr. Phoenix's fault. Not that he could tell him that and live.
Mr. Phoenix and his red tie and his red stickpin! and the red cufflinks. Red. It stared right into your eyes.
