《Father Dagon Mother Hydra》


 Prologue: Necessary Sacrifice [Writathon]

    ¡°they were damnably human in general outline despite webbed hands and feet, shockingly wide and flabby lips, glassy, bulging eyes, and other features less pleasant to recall¡­ Polyphemous-like, and loathsome, it darted like a stupendous monster of nightmares to the monolith, about which it flung its gigantic scaly arms, the while it bowed its hideous head and gave vent to certain measured sounds. I think I went mad then.¡±


    ~H.P.Lovecraft, Dagon.


    The humans were shivering.


    Even under the dark robes of the Esoteric Order, it was easy to tell who was of the weaker species, untouched by the great gods to which they now prayed.


    The leader, a tall creature that loomed far above them when standing, now was at eye level. The humans could not form the name with their pathetic mouths. Still, the human¡¯s dropped their gaze and bowed their heads as the leader moved among them.


    They half walked, half crawled to the altar. This world of stone and gravity under the unforgiving stars, was not made for the Deep Ones. So they had to debase themselves to do what must be done. It did not matter, This world and its obstacles would soon be theirs and molded to their needs and the desires of their gods just as the world below was. The world of the deep and dark ocean. The womb of Mother Hydra herself where Father Dagon¡¯s seed flourished, creating the brood who have grown in strength and power since before the stupid apes crawled across the land. Now, the next step in holy evolution was at hand.


    They looked down at the altar - a slab of ocean jasper laid across two darker stones. In the center was a child of the accord. Part human. Part Deep One. Being young, even for human standards (their lives so quick, so meaningless), she still had her human form. There, the toes beginning to web, the slight bulging of the pale blue eyes - signs of changes to come. Well, that would come if it were not for their current needs.


    The knife was jagged, serrated, and made mostly of gold. The handle was twisted into the writhing, mating forms of their gods. The holy coupling of too many limbs and not enough separation to tell which was male and which was female glinted in the starlight.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The leader spoke in guttural tones to the crowd. Only the other brood of Dagon and Hydra could comprehend. Some of the hybrids tilted their misshapen and malformed heads to decipher. The humans quaked under the sound.


    It was time. They would bath first in the blood of the sacrifice then in the waters of the new world. They would open the way for their beloved gods, Father Dagon and Mother Hydra. Through them, they would honor the Old One from which all came.


    I?! I?! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph¡¯nglui mglw¡¯nafh Cthulhu R¡¯lyeh wgah-nagl fhtagn-


    A scream pierced the air as the knife found purchase in the sacrifice¡¯s chest. Not deep enough, not yet, but just enough to begin an opening.


    She writhed but did not fight. There was no point in fighting fate. The will of the gods.


    A few slow movements, a few guttural screams, and she was open before them. Malformed organs spilled forth - some mammalian, some amphibious, and some so cancerous and strange it was impossible to tell what formed them. The slaughterhouse stench rose from the twitching soon-to-be corpse. Some of the hooded figures shivered but this time in anticipation and giddiness.


    Others of the holy brood moved forward. They bathed their limbs - some hand some more like tentacles - in the red warmth. Their own blood could never be so disgustingly heated and sluggish.


    So marked, they continued their chant.


    The humans who dared look up and watch the sky break lost what little sanity they had left.


    It took hours that felt like moments between breaths for the first holy stone to rise. It shifted from the deep and primordial heart of their home and into this world.


    The geography was all wrong at first. But that was no matter. Another sacrifice, more unfathomable hymns, and they would set it to right.


    They¡¯d waited eons. Moments, breaths, of a human life would be nothing to them.


    Around them, the nighttime forms of the residents of Arkham paused in their movements, stirred in their beds. Foul dreams filled their minds, waking or asleep. Dreams of moon-splashed stones rising from dark sand, marked with hieroglyphs and images they could not comprehend but instinctually feared. Some, those touched by intuition and insanity, saw more¡­to their detriment.


    The brood brought another sacrifice to the altar. The previous slid off with a sickening thud. Blood turned the altar a dark color that would have been red under more forgiving light. The stars only saw blackness as screams sliced the heavens once more and cruelly changed this section of the world.

 Ch. 1 What Dreams May Come [Writathon]

    ¡°Waking up in the same place in which you dozed off has never happened either to you or to anyone else. Ever. Earth does not stop moving when you sleep. Every hour that passes, Earth travels a little more than 800,000 kilometres around the centre of our galaxy. And so do you. That''s the equivalent of about twenty trips around the planet. Every hour. No one minds, though, as long as their bed stays still beneath their body.¡±


    ¨D Christophe Galfard, The Universe in Your Hand: A Journey Through Space, Time, and Beyond


    Marlow Eliot had a nightmare.


    There was nothing particularly strange about having a nightmare, of course. However, it was strange for Marlow to remember theirs. They were a light sleeper in general and upon waking, usually forgot whatever subconscious picture show their brain happened to play while unconscious. This time, however, the dream lingered like Gran¡¯s cigarette smoke after a long night of work in the office. The smoke, the nightmare, and the memory of Gran, still so painful after her recent death, created an ache. It tainted Marlow like yellow nicotine and they could practically smell the nightmare on their hair, which was getting too long, and their jacket.


    Their jacket¡­


    Marlow frowned down at their clothes - a light wool blazer over a knit vest, button up shirt, and corduroy pants all in various shades of gray down to their well worn boots that were once black but even now looked more charcoal. Adjusting their glasses, they looked around, frown deepening.


    Perhaps more surprising than the lingering dream was the fact they¡¯d fallen asleep in the Arkham Historical Society¡¯s meeting room 3. Books were strewn out over the mahogany table and the usual smell of potpourri and dust filled the space. It was dark.


    ¡°Fuck.¡±


    Marlow grabbed their messenger bag and fished out their phone. Clicking the side button, they silently prayed it wasn¡¯t terribly late. It couldn¡¯t be, right? Margaret or one of the other Historical Society¡¯s old biddies would have given Marlow the boot by now if they were closing.


    Click. Click.


    ¡°Fuck,¡± Marlow repeated, staring at their phone¡¯s black screen. They could have sworn it was charged before coming down here. Then again, it wouldn¡¯t be the first time work and study had made them forget basic things like charging their phone or eating or apparently getting a decent night¡¯s sleep.


    Carefully stacking the papers they were reviewing, Marlow stuffed their notebooks and pens into the messenger bag with their dead phone, and gathered the rest to return to Margaret. They would apologize for running so late, make a cursory offering to put away the papers quickly, then maybe have time to catch the mess hall open for a quick bite before bed.


    Turning to the door into the main area of the Historical Society¡¯s building, Marlow paused. It was dark.


    Why weren¡¯t the lights on?


    Marlow reached for the light switch for the meeting room.


    Click. Click. Click.


    Nothing.


    They sighed deeply. Power outages weren¡¯t uncommon but certainly were a pain in the ass. It likely meant the mess hall was closed. Marlow wondered how many of the undergrad dorms were filled with panic right now. Hell, even Armitage Hall, where the graduate students rented meager apartments, likely had a number of residents praying over laptops that whatever they were working on auto saved in time.


    Marlow looked through the doorway and into the dark main room. Without even the street lights outside, it was too dark to see anything. The darkness itself seemed deeper, more velvet than usual night.


    The nightmare reached through it towards Marlow. Things moving in the deep dark. Inhuman and knowing. Then, just as Marlow thought they would drown in the darkness, overtaken by those things, something all too bright appeared. It was so white it seemed to glow. A monolith made of moonlight.


    Something so bright in such horrible darkness should have been a welcoming sight, a beacon of security. It wasn¡¯t though. Marlow remembered that.


    Seeing the white thing made Marlow¡¯s guts twist the way they did when Marlow knew something terrible was about to happen. That the white thing was just the beginning of something they couldn¡¯t¡­didn¡¯t want to ever imagine.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The dark in the doorway felt like that dream. Like stepping through would put them right back into that nauseating moment when the white thing was looming over them.


    ¡°This is stupid,¡± Marlow whispered to themselves, to the dark, then winced. Gran would have given them a look for using such a banal word. Illogical. Impractical. Unconstructive. Puerile perhaps¡­but not stupid. Stupid was a word a child uses.


    Marlow felt like a child, staring at the closet door left ajar in the night. Unwilling to risk getting out of bed to shut it but unable to go to sleep while it was open to let any dark thing in.


    They swallowed and stepped forward. Their foot found the wooden floor of the main room in the dark. Another step found the plush rug that Marlow tripped on the first time coming here years ago as a history undergrad.


    ¡°Marge?¡± Marlow called into the dark. Had the old ladies left when the lights went out, forgetting a student was there? That seemed likely.


    Marlow looked to the left where the front door lay. They could make a run for it, be outside in just half a dozen steps. Outside where undoubtedly people were, at least some rowdy co-eds perhaps taking this moment of black out as an opportunity for mischief.


    But the papers in Marlow¡¯s hands were a problem. They could just take them. Bring them back tomorrow and ask forgiveness. If Beth or Donald were at the desk they¡¯d give Marlow an understanding look, the same look one might give a puppy that pissed on the mat - you¡¯re cute but annoying, that look would say. Marge however, Margaret Paulson, head of the Arkham Historical Society, would not be as forgiving.


    Marlow worked hard during their years in undergrad to get on Marge¡¯s good side and didn¡¯t relish the idea of losing what foot they¡¯d obtained during that time.


    ¡°Come one,¡± they muttered, turning from the door towards the inner sanctum of the Historical Society building. The main desk was in that deep darkness. Marlow could set the papers there and no one could blame them for not doing more than that considering it would be impossible to read the labels to find the appropriate files.


    The steps through the shadows were slow. One hand out to make sure they didn¡¯t walk into anything, the other gripping the papers. Marlow was sweating. Sweat was acidic. They imagined corrosive handprints eating away at the papers. That would definitely piss old Marge off.


    Thud.


    Marlow winced as their hand hit the main desk sooner than expected. Gingerly, they felt along the front to the lip of the top section, to where it dropped to the main desk on the other side. Carefully, they laid the papers there and turned. With the desk at their back they felt a little better. At least nothing could reach forward and run its claws along their lower back if they leaned against something, right.


    Marlow pushed the thought away. This was¡­unintelligent (that was a good grown up word for stupid). It was all that damned dream''s fault. And the nap. How could they be so irresponsible as to fall asleep in the middle of their work?


    But it was strange, wasn¡¯t it. Marlow was not prone to dozing off. Couldn¡¯t remember ever doing it before. And they¡¯d gotten their usual amount of sleep the night before, hadn¡¯t they?


    Now wasn¡¯t really the time to wonder about it, though it did keep the creepy crawly feelings at bay, for now.


    Just get to the door, then worry about your possible narcolepsy, Marlow silently chastised.


    The main room seemed to stretch forever. The sound of Marlow¡¯s breath, now labored as if they¡¯d been climbing uphill, not walking a few yards across a rug, filled the space.


    Was that Marlow¡¯s breath? They turned. Something moved.


    It was a low sound. Not a step or a thud. Something sliding across the carpet.


    ¡°Hello?¡±


    Their voice was barely a whisper so they tried again.


    ¡°Hello? Marge? Donny?¡±


    Nothing responded. Just that slow, low drag.


    The nightmare Them reached for Marlow in the dream.


    Unintelligent, perhaps, but Marlow couldn¡¯t give a shit just then as they bolted through the dark for the door.


    Hands clutched at the knob as a voice in the back of their mind whispered. It''s locked. They locked you in here with it. You¡¯re trapped!


    The knob turned with ease and they were out, stumbling down the concrete steps and into the front walk.


    Turning, Marlow stared at the slowly closing door, half expecting something to reach out and make a final grab for them.


    Nothing. The door shut with a definitive, almost mocking thud.


    ¡°Hah!¡± Marlow laughed breathily and shook their head. Pushing hair back and glasses up, they laughed again, at themselves. The relieved laughter of the survivor.


    The cool spring air chilled the sweat on their brow and neck.


    Marlow looked up at the stars and their laughter stopped.


    The sky was wrong. It was hard to decide why but, it just was. The clusters of stars here, blank empty space there. It was just¡­wrong.


    Turning, Marlow lowered their gaze to the parking lot. No¡­where was the parking lot?


    At the edge of the walk was a ragged green space ending in a tall, wild hedge.


    That nausea feeling. Vertigo. The earth pulled out from underneath and left you hanging for just a moment before falling feeling. Falling without moving.


    Marlow wondered wordlessly if they had ever woken up from the nightmare at all.

 Ch. 2 Running on Coffee and Instinct [Writathon]

    ¡°Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil.¡±


    ¨D Edgar Allan Poe, Complete Tales and Poems


    You knew this was going to happen.


    The words played in Lochlan Ward¡¯s head over and over as he crouched down between the red vinyl bench seat and the table in the back of Rose¡¯s Diner. The words weren¡¯t exactly wrong but neither were they entirely true.


    Loch had been having the dreams ever since he was a kid. And sure, they were becoming more vivid in the past few months. That was hardly a clear indication that his nightmares were about the leek into reality like a faucet drip turning into a dam break.


    The wet sounds from the other end of the diner were dwindling. Either the unlucky diner that had woken up and started fighting back against the hooded figures that came in was giving up the ghost or the cultists were done poking holes in him.


    Running a hand over his face, two days worth of stubble on his chin and eyes dry and raw from lack of sleep - he hardly ever slept when working on a big story. Now, however, it hardly seemed important that the head of Arkham Police Department was taking money under the table from the Governor¡¯s brother. Not much mattered when you¡¯re hearing people die and you could be next.


    Loch needed to get the hell out of there. He had no weapons on him unless you counted car keys and a swiss army knife. The second was in his hand, the tiny blade out. It wouldn¡¯t do much but at least it was something.


    Slowly, Lock stuck his head out to look around. Something shuffled to this right. He turned to see a body, unconscious or dead, dragged away by a hooded figure. The dingey tile was streaked with what could only be blood but it looked black in the darkness.


    Pulling back under the table, he took a breath, listening to see if he was spotted. Nothing came closer and he couldn¡¯t hear any of that strange language - gurgling at times and high pitched and drawn out at others.


    Looking back out, he turned to his left. There was another booth and then the cubby where the waitresses sorted out change and kept rolls of silverware.


    Past the cubby and around the corner was the rubber-edged swinging doors into the kitchen. Loch knew there was a back door through there and probably a number of knives he could grab that would do a better job than the one in his hand. The only problem was this meant moving, likely making noise, crossing an open space between the cubby and kitchen doors, and then the door movement itself.


    He wasn¡¯t particularly stealthy. Loch knew this from years of attempts at listening in on conversations or trying to sneak information out of a place. But he was fast and relatively strong.


    Grimacing at the idea of outrunning or having to take down one of those cloaked figures, he hoped it wouldn¡¯t come to that. Besides, there was more than one of them.


    The door to the diner opened and closed, sending the bell above it clanging.


    Loch slipped out of the booth, almost crawling. He made his way into the waitress cubby and stopped for a breath. Listening, he heard more wet dragging, the bell, footsteps at the other end of the diner. There was no way of knowing the orientation of the robed figures without looking up over the edge of the cubby. Loch wouldn¡¯t risk it.


    Instead he peeked out and continued his shuffle-crawl around the side towards the kitchen doors.


    The open space between cubby and doors was a direct path between the back of the diner and the front door. Outside was dark, much darker than it had been only moments ago¡­before.


    Loch pushed the thought away. He would contemplate the moment of vertigo and headachey way the world felt like it slid sideways when he was safe. For now, the robed figures and their golden knives were the problem. Loch didn¡¯t see them.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    A deep breath and he stepped across and through the kitchen doors, pressing them shut behind them so they didn¡¯t flap back and forth and call more attention.


    It was too dark to see. Loch almost reached for his phone but remembered it was dead, which had made it impossible to call 911 when the robed figures came in and started stabbing.


    Loch tried to remember where the back door was based solely on seeing it when driving around the building and making note of Charlie, the cook, throwing out trash. Figuring it was near the back corner, he stood slowly and held out his hands, Stumbling blindly. Hopefully the grill wouldn¡¯t be so hot it burned him and maybe he could find a knife without harming himself.


    Something shuffled to his left. Loch almost called out to see if it was the cook or one of the wait staff. He bit his tongue and took another step in the opposite direction. If it was Charlie or Rose or anyone else¡­well¡­the risk was too high. It could be one of those robed bastards with a knife and Loch¡­he wasn¡¯t a hero.


    His hip hit the counter, alerting him that his hands were too high up to find anything before his torso did. He carefully moved around it, trying to make as little noise as possible. Loch didn¡¯t try and feel for a knife, opting to get the hell out of there instead.


    Another shuffle, still on the other side of the room. At least it wasn¡¯t getting closer.


    Loch felt along the center island until he reached the far corner. To his right he felt heat and knew it was likely the grill. Over the grill was a window between the kitchen and front room. Loch turned and could barely make out the wall of windows and the front door. A robbed figure was standing there, looking away from Loch, thankfully. He couldn¡¯t be sure but they seemed to have no trouble moving in the darkness as if able to see through the dim lighting. Could they have night goggles on? He didn¡¯t doubt it.


    Tearing his eyes away from the robbed figure, Loch tried to peer through the dark kitchen. Still nothing. An outline of something large in the back corner that was likely the freezers. Otherwise, very little.


    He turned and made his way along the short edge of the island counter and then reached out into the open dark space. His hand landed on the cold metal of the industrial sink. This became his new anchor, following it.


    Thud. Rumble. Crash.


    ¡°Fuck.¡±


    Loch hit a trash can with his hip, again his searching had was too high to catch it before his body did. Footsteps. Scurrying then a yelp. The flap of the kitchen doors.


    Loch scuttled over the trash and found the back door, throwing it open and lunging out into the night.


    The back parking lot was all wrong. Where previously the asphalt stretched and met up with a small back road, now the space was bisected by dense overgrowth and sickly looking trees. Loch didn¡¯t have time to wonder at this.


    He turned and saw Charlie¡¯s old beat up truck. Half of it anyways. It was like something had sliced off the back end and replaced it with plant growth and brush.


    Still, it was the only thing Loch had to hope for so he ran for it. The backdoor of the diner opened again. He could hear it slam against the side of the building followed by that strange gargled language from the robed figures.


    As Loch¡¯s hand closed on the truck door¡¯s handle, the hooded figure behind him let out a shriek. From across the parking lot, near the front of the building the shriek was met with another. They were coming for him.


    Inside the truck reeked of stale beer and cigarettes. Behind the passenger seat was an open tool box, a testament to how often the truck broke down and Charlie¡¯s handiness. What was sorely missing from the truck was any sort of firearm. Loch checked under the driver seat but found nothing. Turning, he saw one of the robed figures approaching from the front of the truck, unhurried and certain. Its dagger gleamed under the starlight - gold and twisted.


    Shutting the driver''s side door, Loch made sure both doors were locked and turned back to the tool box. Wrench, screwdrivers, hammer - all ok in a pinch but only in close combat. Just behind the tool box, Loch found something better.


    Something heavy and wet sounding thudded on the driver side window. Knock knock.


    Loch grabbed the tire iron and turned to see the robed figure. Really see it.


    His stomach turned.


    What was under the robe wasn¡¯t human. The eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets. The mouth hung slack and behind thick, flabby lips were too many, too sharp teeth in rows. Its tongue lolled to the side, swollen and black. Hands, webbed and taloned, knocked on the window.


    Loch shook his head and wriggled across to the passenger side. Holding the tire iron up in a pathetic threat, he grasped the passenger side door handle.


    Once unlocked, he nearly fell out but for something stopping him. Another robed figure, missed in his panic.


    Its knife came down swift and sure. Loch cried out as the serrated blade tore through his shirt and slid against his collar bone. Flailing, he hit the figure as hard as he could with the tire iron before landing on the pavement.


    Another shriek as the figure moved back. Not much but enough, just enough.


    Loch scrambled up just in time to see the knife come down on him again¡­