Best Little Witch-House in Arkham. Mark McLaughlin
so often jump to outrageous conclusions. Why, maybe the grave-robbers in question were just borrowing.
“This matter of Reginald…very curious,” my butler stated. “I shall have to ask the group their opinion of the matter.”
Lars, in addition to his many other talents, was also a singer with a musical group called ‘The People of the Village.’ I was forever telling them to shorten that name—to perhaps take out some of the smaller words. But their response was always that ‘The People Village’ was a bit awkward, so they would be leaving the name as it was.
There were five members, and they dressed in the garb of various professions. Lars, of course, had his butler suit. Gregor wore a pirate’s swashbuckling finery. Theodore sported the billowy hat and smart white outfit of a French chef. Horatio’s costume was that of a matador, while Calvin favored the multi-colored togs of a circus clown.
“So you will be going back tomorrow?” Lars asked. He had just finished applying a thick layer of wax to my back. “Perhaps I should go with you. This Reginald fellow may be dangerous.”
“I don’t think I have anything to worry about. Reginald wouldn’t hurt a fly.” I screamed just a bit as Lars ripped off the wax, along with hundreds of thousands of back-hairs. “You know,” I said after I’d regained my composure, “I’m still not sure what back-hair removal has to do with disco-dancing.”
“Nothing. I just like waxing people. How hairy is Reginald?”
I ignored the question. “If for some reason I do not come home tomorrow, feel free to come and rescue me. Bring the group if you like. The more the merrier.”
“That’s what I always say,” Lars said with a smile. He aimed a pair of tweezers at my face. “Now let’s see what can be done about those eyebrows.”
* * * *
The next day, I had to knock several times before Reginald came to the door. I was appalled to see that my friend had experienced a shocking transformation since our previous meeting. His thick black hair was now streaked with white, and his plump face now sagged hideously and was networked with the deep wrinkles of advanced age.
“Great bowls of clam-dip!” I uttered. “I take it your mood-ring discussion group didn’t go well…?”
He lead me into the living room, where the coffee table was set up for the dispersal of any sort of drink one could imagine—except coffee. Bottles of gin, vodka, tequila and ouzo cluttered the lacquered surface. Reginald’s booze-soaked breath conveyed to me that he was pretty lacquered as well.
“How can a man,” he sobbed, “endure the burden of a century-spanning legacy of unspeakable decadence, the likes of which no decent, God-fearing society could ever tolerate?”
“Don’t know…” I looked around the room, and noted that the black door was open about an inch. “But I bet this whole legacy of terror rigmarole concerns what’s behind that door.”
He followed my gaze and, seeing that the door was open, rushed over to shut and lock it.
“Oh, stop being such a mollycoddle,” I said with a laugh, mixing myself a Manhattan from the assorted bottles on the table. “Let us see what is behind this door of delirium, this entryway of evil, this gateway of ghoulishness, this—”
“Okay, okay, I’ll show you.” Heaving a huge sigh, he unlocked the door. “Follow me.”
I quickly downed my drink. “If what’s behind that door is so terrible, shouldn’t we carry a machete or two? A kitchen knife? An especially sturdy cocktail umbrella?”
“There is no weapon on Earth one could wield against such terror!” he moaned.
“Oh, I see. Then we should just go in unarmed. Well, fine. Lead the way.”
We passed over the threshold of the black door, into a hallway of stone and earth walls shored up with heavy timbers. The way was lit with bare bulbs strung every ten feet or so on an electric cord that ran along the ceiling.
“So. Your decorator is into minimalism,” I remarked.
“This is no time for bon mots and flippancies!” my host thundered. “The matter at hand is as serious as the Pope having a heart attack while wrestling with the Devil over the fate of the world’s blind orphans!”
“Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so?” I followed him.
“My ancestors,” Reginald said, “came to America from a little-known country called Lower Belgravia—a harsh, windswept, forsaken country, only three miles across, bordering the Flemm River, just north of Even Lower Belgravia. Oh, I know you probably thought I was descended from British royalty—in line for the throne and all that—”
“Actually, the thought never crossed my mind.”
“Anyway, when my people came to this country, they shortened their name to Blathingsmythe so that they would fit in—”
“They shortened it? What was it before?”
“VanDeBlubblatheringsmythenstein. My ancestors came to Dunwich hundreds of years ago, bringing with them huge boar’s-hide trunks filled with all sorts of ancient secrets—some of those being in fact living secrets, which my ancestors have had to feed for centuries, and which I had to feed about ten minutes before you arrived…”
“They like mixed drinks?”
“No, you fool! That was for me, to steel my nerves. Have you not read about the local grave-robbings?”
“I saw the headline, but I didn’t have time to read it. Lars needed to wax me.”
Reginald raised an eyebrow, then continued with his lunatic ravings. “Long story short, I have to rob graves to feed the—the things—you are about to see. They are quite frightening, I assure you.”
“Is that why you look so grey-tressed and age-ridden?” I asked. “Did the sheer fright do this to you?”
“No. I just took a shower and forgot to reapply my hair dye and Skin-So-Tite face cream. I’m actually ninety-seven years old.”
“But you were my childhood friend!” I reminded him. “We played together on the jungle gym, the see-saw, and the steam-powered child-slinger…which is now, I understand, outlawed in most states.”
“I was having a spot of trouble with the law back then,” he said. “I was in disguise.”
“That explains a lot,” I said, remembering his thick childhood moustache.
“Behold!” he suddenly and very dramatically cried. “The Grotto of Grotesqueries, where the VanDeBlubblatheringsmythensteins have hidden their loathsome secret for lo, these many years.”
Certainly I’d had no idea what was to be found at the end of the tunnel trek, though I half-suspected giant killer moles with snail antennae. Imagine my shock to find—milling around in an enormous, fungi-encrusted cave, littered with skulls, ribcages, and class rings—not giant killer moles with snail antennae—but in fact, enormous centipedes with goatlike heads and bulging multi-faceted fly-eyes. And yes, snail antennae. I was right about that, at least.
“Sweet coleslaw for breakfast!” I wailed. “These beings are the very pinnacle of vileness! Nothing could be more horrible!”
“Wait until one humps your leg,” Reginald said with a shudder. “My ancestors brought the eggs whence these atrocities hatched into this country in those hellish boar’s-hide trunks, for they sought to someday harness the insidious power of these creatures. But alas their efforts failed miserably—as have those of all their descendants leading right up to me. Of course, now I am the last of my family—all my relatives have died of old age, and I never took the time to get married and have a few kids. So there is no way I will ever be able to control these living blasphemies. What a pity that no six male Lower Belgravians have ever lived at the same time who all had a natural sense of rhythm.