The Horror! The Horror!

I don't think I've posted this here before ...

The Barton-Upon-Humber Horror

by

Steve Perry

The night was moonless, and a heavy, opaque, greasy fog oozed fat tendrils onto the land from the icy waters of the Humber to dampen and thicken the darkness yet more. Cold it was, and stinking, and the night and fog enveloped the woods in a dank and sodden shroud of slimy and infernal stillness.
A perfect night, perfect -- except that ...
Bhulabhula, Youngest of the Real Real Old Ones, itched -- and he had nothing with which to scratch. When you were shaped and sized somewhere between a stately pyramid and a slightly -- but handsomely so -- squashed cone without limbs to mar your geometric perfection, scratching became a problem requiring some consideration to solve.
The nearby trees would not serve. Bhulabhula had learned eons past that leaning his beauteous bulk against a tree, no matter how stout it appeared, resulted in the tree simply falling over. In short order, a mere hundred years, such a process resulted in serious deforestation, and left him resting in the middle of a most large clearing, plainly visible for miles, and his older siblings -- and naturally all of the Real Real Old Ones were older, him being the Youngest -- would smile, and if they had heads, shake them, and call him insulting names, just as they always did. What was the word he had learned from men so long ago? Ah, yes -- bastards, they were bastards, every one of his brothers and sisters!
But never let it be said that Bhulabhula had not learned a trick or two even in his short life. To avoid denuding the forests in which he preferred to rest whilst awaiting the day the Real Real Old Ones would once again Take Their Rightful Place, Bhulabhula had indeed divined other ways of dealing with physical irritants.
He gathered his forces, and began to extrude a tentacle. Such work took energies, naturally, and these forces had to be, ah, borrowed, from somewhere where they would not be missed and an accounting demanded. He routed his metamorphic request through the Seventeenth Dimension, wherein time and entropy ran backwards, into the Ninth Dimension, where the Weak Force was strong, and finally into the Twenty-Second, where it was always yesterday and generally raining, and siphoned off a fair amount of etheric power. As the nacreous and pustulent-gangrene-colored limb began to take shape upon his south side -- he could not be said to have a “front” or “back” in the ordinary sense -- he added to the filament’s tip a bit of claw-shaped diamond. Alas, it was not the fastest of processes.
Was there ever anything more irritating than an itch that could not be scratched?
COME ON, COME ON -- ! He had no voice these days to express his thoughts, but the power of his radiopathic intelligence was great, and he could broadcast it for miles if he chose, though he usually did not. Why bother? There was no one around for miles, which was, of course, why he was here. He liked his own company, and mostly disliked that of anyone else. Except, now and then, for Sheelasheela, who could sit for a hundred years without uttering a single thought, and who was comely enough -- even though Sheelasheela now preferred to spend her time with Uugahbuugah, though Bhulabhula could not for his life understand why. Uugahbuugah was loud, unkempt, and obnoxious, and why anybody would wish to be around him was a mystery, no matter how large his chwingam was supposed to be. The female gender’s motivations were beyond reason and unknowable -- everybody knew that.
The scratcher seemed to take millenia, but finally -- finally! -- it was done, and he applied it to the itch ...
Ah ... yes ... right there ...
“There it is!” came an excited human voice.
Had Bhulabhula bothered to manifest eyes this century, he would have blinked. Excreta! Men were about! He should have known! No wonder he itched -- he was allergic to men! Did one of the little pests venture within a mile, his normally clear and beautiful skin would begin to erupt in swellings whose itches were vexing in the extreme!
And unless his ears deceived him -- he did like to listen to the water lap against the nearby shore from time to time so he’d kept a few auditory organs -- the bastard humans -- and there must be more than one, for one of them to be saying “There it is!” unless, of course it was mad and talking to itself -- and it if wasn’t mad, it soon would be, once Bhulabhula turned his attention to it more fully -- were almost upon him. But where were they, exactly?
It was but the work of a moment to route a sub-etheric moibetic function through several aethers to swipe another bit of entropic juice from which to manifest some optical visualization orbs. Half a dozen were probably sufficient. When they were in place, he turned them to see the source of the voice, and of course, he could not see squat because it was so fornicating dark and blasted foggy --
No, wait. There were some dim glows, in that direction ...
He focused his eyes, and discerned that there were three humans, tramping through the woods as men did upon their stubby little appendages, heading directly toward him.
The itch got worse. Alas, he had been concentrating upon the men, and thus his lack of attention had allowed the tentacle to dissolve back into incorporeality. Damn!
Bhulabhula hated humans, as of course he should, and could not wait until the Day When The Real Real Old Ones Arose Again and wiped the irritating little bastards off the face of creation.
Itch-causing bastards, one and all!
As his eyes began to work properly, he could see that the dim glows were some kind of lighting devices, and each of the three -- trio? triad? -- carried one, the devices emitting enough of a yellowish gleam to be just barely visible through the fog, even though they were practically bumping into him.
“I say, Howard!” said one of the men. “You were right! Good Lord, look at the size of that hideous creature!”
Hideous creature? Where? He swiveled a few eyes, but saw nothing. He had been in this spot five hundred years and had never noticed a hideous creature lurking about. He had better start paying attention, lest he be surprised.
Well, he could deal with that later.
Narrowing his focus this way always difficult, but Bhulabhula attended to it with care, and as the three approached, he was able to get a clearer picture --
KILL THEM! his primary hind-brain said. QUICK! QUICK! MANIFEST SOMETHING AND SQUASH THEM INTO THE MIRE!
His primary hind-brain was called Scunthorpe, and its first reaction to anything new was to kill-it-quick. Indeed, it seemed, it was Scunthorpe’s only reaction. The organ was violent in the extreme, and had it run things, half the world would have been squashed by now, with the other half but marking time for its turn.
SHUT UP, he told the hind-brain. WHEN I WANT YOUR OPINION, I WILL ASK YOU FOR IT.
I AGREE WITH THE BOSS, said Driffield -- the secondary hind-brain.
Had Bhulabhula a head, he would have shaken it in disgust. The secondary hind-brain was such an obsequeous sycophantic suck-up. No matter what Bhulabhula said, Driffield would fall all over himself to agree. Pathetic.
BOTH OF YOU BE SILENT! I AM IN CHARGE HERE!
Although he must admit it to himself, if not to the hind-brains, that squashing the approaching three instanter was basically a good idea. They were tricky bastards, men were.
Swatting them outright was never an entirely bad way to deal with them.
Then again, any secondary hind-brain could swat somebody and be done with it, and where was the fun in that? It was ever so much more interesting and amusing to drive them mad and send them back from whence they had come, as an example of what disturbing a Real Real Old One and making it itch would get you. Over the last few thousand years, he had driven quite a few batty and babbling, and another object lesson to show the bothersome insects who was really in charge was never inappropriate, either. In fact, if he did say so himself, Bhulabhula was the most expert among the Real Real Old Ones at this particular endeavor. Sure Thuluthulu could scare the garments off anything with eyes by dint of his sheer ugliness -- Thuluthulu was exceedingly ugly -- but that took no skill. No, he might be the Youngest, but he had his talents. Driving men mad was right up there at the top. Nobody better at it.
Bhulabhula formed another radiopathic essence, having only to wend it through the Fourteenth Dimension to gather a little steam, and aimed it at the three. Yes. He would drive them mad, soon as he had a handle on their minds, which he could easily read, just so ...
The radiopathic sub-etheric two-way enthropic communication essence enwrapped the three men, then returned, bearing a somewhat-abbreviated gist of their tiny minds.
Huh. Look at that.
One of the three -- the one called “Lovecraft,” was already mad, barely able to feed and clothe himself, and able to do that only by utilizing the most basic of skills, making up stories to tell his fellows, something any moron could do. Waste of energy to try and make him more crazed -- he had so little to go to hit the bottom, and where was the challenge in that?
The second, while not mad, was dull-witted to the point whereby madness would probably not even be noticed. The “Doctor,” this one was. No joy to be gained there, either. Drat.
The third -- ah, but here was a mind! Rows upon rows of neat thoughts, catalogued, logical, bright, sharp, here was a mind wherein madness would offer a wonderful arena in which to play!
Here was a field in which a being could romp! He had never seen the like. And this one was called ... the Detective --
“Good God, have you ever seen the like?” the Doctor said.
The smart one -- the Detective -- turned to observe the Doctor. “I believe there are several in Hyde Park.”
The Doctor’s face contorted in what Bhulabhula had learned eons past mean puzzlement. “Really? Odd, I’ve never noticed any. Toward Hammersmith? Or Westminster?”
“No, Doctor. I am being ironic. The only monsters in Hyde Part stand upon speaker’s boxes prattling about the government.”
“Ah. Yes. Quite.”
The Detective turned to observe the third man. “What are you about there, Mr. Lovecraft?”
“I brought my revolver,” the Lovecraft said. He waved a device he held in one hand, pointed it at Bhulabhula, who did not recognize it, having never seen one before. Some kind of talisman, perhaps? Men set great store by these, as he recalled. He would have to delve back into its churning mad thoughts and learn more about this.
“And have you filed the front sight from the barrel?” the Detective said.
“I have not, sir,” the Lovecraft said. “Why would I?”
“So that it will not hurt as much when this creature takes it from your grasp and inserts it with some force into your nether region.”
Had he a mouth, Bhulabhula would have smiled. Ah. He got it. the Detective was informing the Lovecraft that his talisman was useless against a being of such wondrous and formidable stature. Decidedly a clever one, the Detective. It would be a delight to bring him to gibbering lunacy. Why wait? He would start now ...
“I assume you can hear and understand me,” the Detective said, addressing Bhulabhula.
Bhulabhula blinked several of his new eyes, intrigued. They usually didn’t try to talk to him, the fear was ordinarily too great. Generally, once they saw him, they tried to flee, wise, but too late. The sane ones, anyway. But, truth be known, the combination of a crazy one, a dull-witted one, and one with a mind much stronger than ordinary was outside Bhulabhula’s experience. A novelty, indeed. He could perhaps bide a moment before crushing this one’s mind.
I HEAR YOU. WHAT DO YOU WANT?
DON’T DO IT, BOSS! Scunthorpe said. KILL THEM!
THE BOSS KNOWS WHAT HE IS ABOUT, Driffield said.
HEY, WHO ASKED YOU? CONSUME EXCRETA AND PERISH, YOU MISERABLE SLACKWIT SECONDARY TOADY!
Had he lungs, Bhulabhula would have sighed. Those two had never gotten along, Scunthorpe and Driffield.
And the third hind-brain, who for whatever reason preferred to be known as “Bruce,” awoke. Bruce, who was down in the most nether regions of Bhulabhula’s most august and lovely person, generally roused himself but once or twice every thousand years or so, and then usually had nothing better to offer up than, “Mmm. What is going on?”
Bruce said, MMM. WHAT IS GOING ON?
GO BACK TO SLEEP, BOWEL-WIT, Scunthorpe said.
OH. OKAY.
ALL OF YOU WILL BE SILENT OR I WILL REPLACE YOU WITH NODES.
Scunthorpe and Driffield immediately fell quiet. Bruce had already drifted back into hibernation.
“You plan to drive me mad,” the Detective said, “is this not so?”
Startled, Bhulabhula blinked all of his eyes this time. Demonishly clever, the Detective was. He had never met the like.
YES, THAT IS THE PLAN, Bhulabhula admitted.
“I have a proposition for you. Let me offer you a riddle. If you can answer it, then you can cause me to go mad and send me on my way. If you cannot answer it, I will instead do the same to you.”
Had Bhulabhula a forehead, he would have wrinkled it, perplexed. What manner of offer was this?
I HAVE NO NEED TO ANSWER YOUR RIDDLE. I CAN MAKE YOU MAD AS I CHOOSE! YOU CANNOT DO THE SAME TO ME!
“Perhaps,” the Detective said. “Or perhaps not. But now, having heard that I have traveled here and am willing to bet my sanity on a riddle, are you not ... intrigued?”
Well, yes, Bhulabhula admitted to himself, the Detective had him there. He knew of riddles, of course. His old female friend the Sphynx had been an adept with those, offering them to humans, and then gobbling them down when they failed to answer them. Bhulabhula seemed to recall something about a human who had offered her one in return and stumped the Sphynx, but the Sphynx had not been nearly as clever as she fancied herself. Nor nearly as attractive, for that. Could not hold a candle to Sheelasheela for looks, even though she did have some moves ...
A Sphynx was not a Real Real Old One, in any event. No human mind could begin to compare with Bhulabhula’s mind. He had nothing to lose, and it might be momentarily amusing. It was something to do.
DON’T!
WHAT DID I JUST SAY TO YOU, SCUNTHORPE?
BETTER TO BE A LIVE NODE THAN A DEAD HIND-BRAIN, Scunthorpe replied.
I SHALL DEAL WITH YOU LATER. SHUT UP.
UH ... BOSS? That from Driffield.
WHAT?
SCUNTHORPE MIGHT, UH, HAVE A POINT.
Had he a jaw, it would have dropped. Not in ten thousand years had Driffield agreed with Scunthorpe about anything.
EXPLAIN.
I, UH, HAVE A FEELING ABOUT THIS, BOSS.
WELL, OF COURSE YOU DO -- YOU ARE THE EMOTIONAL COMPONENT OF THE BRAIN STEM. DO NOT TROUBLE YOURSELF WITH WORRY. I CAN HANDLE THIS PUNY HUMAN.
Bhulabhula returned his attention to the Detective: I ACCEPT YOUR OFFER. SPEAK YOUR RIDDLE.
The Detective removed from his garments a short and curved artifice. There was a hole in the wider end of the object, into which he packed some herb that had a sharp smell. Bhulabhula had kept a couple of his better olfactories active, so he could detect An old memory stirred. A ... pipe?
Indeed, the Detective caused a tiny fire to erupt from a short twig, applied the flame to the herb in the pipe, and inhaled, shortly thereafter producing a fragrant cloud of bluish-gray smoke. He smiled -- another recognizable expression that men had.
“Do you know what hands are?” he asked.
DO I LOOK LIKE I JUST FELL OFF THE ASTEROID? OF COURSE I KNOW WHAT HANDS ARE!
“And do you know what the sound produced when two hands are brought together sharply with some force is called?”
Bhulabhula considered this for a moment, but found no memory of it.
As if he had known that Bhulabhula did not know this, the Detective continued without waiting for an answer. “It is called a ‘clap,’ he said.
To show the Detective that he was paying attention, Bhulabhula stole a little poly-entropic energy from the Ninety-Seventh Dimension and quickly extruded a pair of hands from his magnificent body, extended them on short arms, and whacked them together smartly, producing a sound with sufficient volume that it had the Doctor and the Lovecraft reaching up with their own hands to cover their ears.
YOU MEAN LIKE THIS? he said, feeling quite proud of his feat.
“Precisely,” the Detective said. “That is the sound of two hands clapping. The riddle is: What is the sound of one hand clapping?”
Had he a mouth, vocal chords, and lungs, Bhulabhula would have laughed aloud.
PREPARE TO GO MAD, the Detective. THE SOUND OF ONE HAND CLAPPING IS HALF THAT OF TWO!
“No,” the Detective said. “That is incorrect.”
Bhulabhula was tempted to extrude himself a forehead so that he could frown.
YOU LIE.
“No. You may access that portion of my mind that shows if I am lying or telling the truth -- but no other portion.”
As if the Detective could stop him. But for now, he would keep it fair, so Bhulabhula did just that.
Bastard! the Detective was not lying.
ALL RIGHT. FINE. THIS IS THE SOUND! With that he waved one hand, producing a faint swishing noise in the fetid air.
“No, that is a swish, not a clap. And also incorrect.”
Without bothering to ask, Bhulabhula snuck into the Detective’ mind again. Sure enough, he was telling the truth. Damn!
What was half of a sound that had not yet been produced?
I TOLD YOU YOU SHOULD HAVE SQUASHED THEM. BUT, NOOO, YOU ALWAYS KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING. YOU DON’T NEED MY HELP. FINE.
NOT EVEN A NODE, Bhulabhula said. A GANGLION. A DENDRITE. THE METABOLIC WASTE OF A DENDRITE.
WHAT DO I CARE IF I’M LIVING INSIDE A MAD MIND?
Bhulabhula metaphorically waved Scunthorpe off. He worried over the riddle for a time. He noticed the the Detective take another device from his garments, a small, round, golden metal object with a chain connecting it to the recess from which it came. There were what appeared to be inscriptions upon the face of this device. The the Detective put the device back into his ... pocket? was it? Yes.
The Doctor said, “Do we have an appointment?”
“Ideed, Doctor. Our friend here is not the only one of his kind in our region. If we are to catch the packet to the steamship docked at Kingston-upon-Hull for a noon departure, we shall have to cross the Humber and be on our way by first light. We have other fish to fry.”
The Detective blew more smoke into the fog. He smiled.
The night wore on. Bhulabhula circled the riddle from every angle and he could find no way to grasp it. It slipped from him at every turn. Even in those dimensions where time ran sideways or backwards, there were no answers that seemed to fit, though he tried offering several. He grew exceedingly irritated at hearing the Detective say, “Incorrect.”
Finally, after some hours, he said, THERE IS NO ANSWER! IT IS A TRICK QUESTION!
“There is an answer,” the Detective said.
I WILL RIP IT FROM YOUR MIND!
“No need for that. I will give it to you. But it is too late. You have lost. It won’t help you now.”
TELL ME!
“Very well. Do you know what a dog is?”
YES, YES!
“And a yew?”
A KIND OF TREE! GIVE ME THE ANSWER, NOW!
“All right. The answer is, ‘The dog peed upon the yew.’”
WHAT? THIS IS NONSENSE!
“Nonetheless, it is the answer.”
YOU CANNOT TRICK ME! I WILL HAVE THE TRUTH!
With that, Bhulabhula lanced his way into the Detective’s brain, sped straight to the compartment which held the riddle’s answer, tore it open, and found therein --
The dog peed upon the yew.
Had he shoulders, they would have slumped. Had he a mouth, he would have spat. Had he a sexual organ, it would have drooped into the dirt.
Something was very wrong here ...
It made no sense! How could a domestic animal urinating upon a plant have anything at all to do with a sound not yet made? It was madness! Madness ...
The horror of that thought fell upon Bhulabhula like an comet from out of space. No!
No, no, be calm. He could do this. He had the riddle, he had the answer, if he could make sense of them, if he could see how one related to the other, he would triumph!
Something in the urine? Some chemical component, perhaps? Or maybe it was in the kind of wood produced by the yew? The noise of the urine striking the tree? But -- but how could that possibly connect to about-to-be sound from hands? There was no thread he could see, no causal way to get from here to there!
YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO ME, Scunthorpe offered.
I HAVE A BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS, Driffield added.
SHUT UP! HELP ME! WE MUST MAKE SENSE OF THIS!
But Scunthorpe and Driffield had little to offer. The puzzle of it consumed Bhulabhula. There had to be a connection! Had to be! If a mere man could devise such a puzzle and an answer, he could at least see the fornicating connection!
So deep was he in his ruminations that he noticed the men were gone only as dawn began to seep through the trees, trying vainly to burn the thick fog away -- a fog that seemed to have invaded Bhulabhula’s very mind, making his thoughts dank and slippery and hard to see. They were gone, fine. That did not matter. What mattered was the bastard riddle.
Dog. Pee. One hand?
Bhulabhula had a sudden premonition. Out there in the fog, hidden in the trees, madness slinked nearer, edging in to pounce. Coming for him, after all the times he had sent it to claim others. He could feel it! It was ... there ...
NO!
But the fear was upon him, and he knew. He would never understand the answer. Not in a million years. And yet, he had to try! All right, maybe it would take two million years.
In the wood, the madness inched closer.
STAY AWAY FROM ME! he ordered. He thought about the riddle again. One hand clapping ...
Had he hair, he would have torn it out. Bastard! Bastard!
And deep in Bhulabhula’s nether regions, the tertiary hind-brain Bruce whimpered in his sleep ...

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