Cthelvis and Others

By James Pratt

This collection of fifteen Lovecraft-inspired tales spans human history and genres. Ranging from high fantasy to martial arts epic to the far future, they are all linked by a common theme of the alien unknown. Among the stories' inhabitants, you will find:

Jonas Bell Presents "The King in Yellow" - A cursed play that may be a doorway to another reality or something far worse.

Sanitarium - The dark secret of the forgotten patients locked away in the bowels of a seaside asylum.

Mission to Yuggoth on the Rim - A desperate mission to deliver an untested weapon to the edge of the solar system.

Crouching Tsathoggua, Hidden Dagon - A martial arts tournament that will determine the fate of humanity.

Black Goat of the Hundred Acre Wood - An eerie fairy tale featuring a character with a passing resemblance to a certain little yellow bear.

Cthelvis - And of course, the King of Rock n' Roll.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Pratt
• Release date: Apr 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301728749

James Pratt

James Pratt likes to create realistically flawed but basically decent characters and have them cross paths with serial killer angels, redneck vampires, slithering horrors from other dimensions, and the end of the world. He also likes to write stories that demonstrate how the ever-present darkness threatening to wash over the world like a wave of endless night can be held back with a little courage and a big shotgun (assuming one hasn't already used both barrels, of course). Some take place in the distant past, others in the far future, and still others somewhere between eight minutes ago and twelve minutes from now. Whether sci-fi, adventure, or straight-out horror, the running theme is that the universe is very, very big and we are very, very small.

Book preview

CTHELVIS AND OTHERS

A collection of Lovecraftian tales by James D. Pratt

All stories © James D. Pratt

Smashwords Edition

Cover image © HeroMachine.com

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Cthelvis

Black Goat of the Hundred Acre Wood

Jonas Bell Presents The King in Yellow

Sanitarium

I Was a Teenage Shoggoth

A Pilgrimage to Carcosa

Crouching Tsathoggua, Hidden Dagon

Tomorrow the World Dies Screaming

The Last Thing You’ll Ever Read

Mission to Yuggoth on the Rim

The Statement of Tom Carter

He is Coming

Damnation Dogs

The Tale of the Giant’s Daughter

Von Neumann’s Last Experiment

CTHELVIS

Elvis wasn’t called the King for nothing. He’d lived a life of epic proportions, rising from the humblest of beginnings in Tupelo, Mississippi to become arguably the most famous man in the world. He lived in a spacious castle in the heart of the magical kingdom of Graceland which he ruled with a trembling, liver-spotted hand. Elvis was generous to his slavishly devoted subjects and was loved by them in return. He was surrounded day and night by servants and vassals who pampered him and lived only to acquire the random things that struck his fancy and indulge his increasingly eccentric desires. And like any self-respecting monarch, the biggest threats to Elvis’s kingdom would come from those nearest and dearest to his heart.

Had there been someone in the bathroom with Elvis on that hot August day in 1977 and had they been familiar with the works of the French sculptor Auguste Rodin, they might have been struck by the similarities between the King of Graceland and Rodin’s most famous work, The Thinker. The King sat hunched over on the crapper, right elbow resting on left thigh and chin perched on the back of his right fist, staring at the floor but not really seeing it as all of his attention was directed inward.

Perpetually constipated or not, it wasn’t rare to find Elvis on the can. The bathroom was where he did all his thinking. It was his sanctuary, the only place he could get a little peace and quiet. But there was no real escape, not even in the privacy of his own home. On the other side of that door, a door that sat on hinges of gold and opened and closed via a knob of the same elemental variety, a ravenous beast waited to gobble him up and that beast’s name was The World.

In the meantime, Elvis had a lot to think about.

Most folks had Elvis pegged all wrong. He wasn’t the dope everyone figured him to be, or at least hadn’t been before he became a walking pharmacy. Even people that had known him for years confused his faith in humanity for a childlike naiveté at beast, outright stupidity at worst. But Elvis didn’t mind. He just figured it was the price he had to pay for trying to be a good and honest person in a cynical world.

And naïve or not, Elvis certainly had no illusions about fame. He’d realized a long time ago that stardom was a mixed bag. Sure, being a celebrity had its fair share of perks; the expensive clothes, the Cadillacs, the sweet, sweet tail, but man oh man, was there a price to pay. Fame was the biggest drug of all. One taste and you were hooked. No, make that a vampire. Fame was a ravenous vampire that chewed you up and spit you out. Or maybe fame was a vampire that injected drugs into your veins while sucking the life out of you so you’d always come back for more. Yeah, that was it. Fame was a drug-injecting vampire whose bite felt so good you’d crawl over broken glass just for the opportunity to get eaten alive.

Elvis’s head started to spin. Maybe that was mixing one metaphor too many.

What Elvis didn’t get was people. Take Sinatra for instance. The guy cussed like a sailor, treated women like yesterday’s garbage, and was known to associate with mobsters, yet in the eyes of the public he could do no wrong. As far as the world was concerned, Sinatra walked on water and pooped sunshine. Elvis on the other hand had given away a fleet of Cadillacs, said his prayers every night, and genuinely loved his mama but still couldn’t catch a break.

Sometimes Elvis wished his family had never left Tupelo. Life would have been a lot simpler, that was for sure. If he’d learned anything in his forty-two years on this crazy old world, it was that you should always be careful of what you wish for. What was it his daddy used to say? ‘Some men can fall into a pile of shit and come out smelling like roses, and some men…’ Never mind. He couldn’t remember how it went. Another pearl of wisdom lost to the ages.

Elvis had seen better days. Once upon a time he’d prowled the stage like a caged tiger, sleek and proud, but indulgence that would have put the Kennedys to shame had turned him into a bloated caricature of his former self. The chemical cocktail he ingested everyday dulled his senses and led him to delegate all his decision-making. In his heyday the King had burned bright and fierce, but what had been a wildfire was now a cinder. Still, there was still enough of the old Elvis left to hope and pray for something big to come along and turn things around. That’s what he wanted more than anything else, a sign from God telling him to cut the crap and get on with the program. And once again, because Elvis was a good man who due to some sort of cosmic error had ended up with the kind of karma normally reserved for pedophiliac serial killers, his wish came true.

It was on a hot August day in 1977 when Col. Parker had summoned Elvis into his speciously appointed office (for Colonel Parker was regent to a still-living King and the true power behind the throne), which also happened to be the day prior to the one described above, wherein Elvis sat and pondered on his porcelain throne (or ponderously sat on his porcelain throne, if you prefer).

Howdy, Colonel, Elvis said as he walked in.

Howdy son, the Colonel replied in his best imitation Southern twang. Elvis had to admit Parker’s accent wasn’t half-way bad, especially considering he was about as Southern as hockey and cheese-steaks.

Native West Virginian Colonel Thomas Andrew Tom Parker was even more of a fiction than most (but not all) of the wild stories they’d told about Elvis at the height of his career. Elvis’s long-time agent had been born one Andreas Cornelis Andries van Kuijk in Breda, Netherlands, which was about as non-Southern as you could get. He really was a colonel though, and not as the result of a stint in the United States Army he’d completed without the benefit of a U.S. citizenship. Parker had been granted an honorary colonel's commission in the Louisiana State militia in 1948, a gift from country singer turned governor Jimmie Davis in return for work he’d done on Davis's election campaign. Colonel Parker (or Andreas van Kuijk or whoever he was) was an ex-carny/dogcatcher/cemetery proprietor living the American dream.

Working as a music promoter since the 1940s, Parker was always on the lookout for the next big thing. Elvis was brought to the Colonel’s attention in January 1955 and by August of that same year the man who would someday be King had appointed Parker as his special adviser/full-time manager.

The Colonel took a puff from a thick cigar. Truth be told, I think you and I can agree your career has reached a sort of crossroads. He exhaled a puff of smoke that hung in the air like a phantom punctuation mark. You and I both know you’re stage performances have been suffering for quite a while. Folks are losing faith in you, son. Even your most dedicated fans are wondering what the hell happened. Parker leaned back in his chair. I don’t think we’re quite ready to throw in the towel, but if we’re gonna stay on this ride some hard decisions will have to be made.

I’ve been doing some of my best work, Elvis protested. I’ve had seven Top 10 hits in the last three years. That wasn’t quite true. Elvis had actually had eight Top 10 hits between 1974 and 1977.

The Colonel nodded. Yeah, that’s true. And I can see how that would be…artistically satisfying, but all the real money is in concerts. I mean, think about it. People will pay twice as much to see you stand on a stage and sing some songs as they would to buy an album. And it’s a performance they only get to listen to once, so if they want to hear it again they have to go to another concert or go ahead and buy an album. Parker laughed, delighted. If that ain’t the same as getting to print your own money, I don’t know what is.

Elvis blushed. I really wish you wouldn’t put it that way, Colonel. I don’t like to think of it as pulling one over on the fans. He was ashamed at what his mentor was saying, but also at himself for questioning the man whose fierce, single-minded tenacity had made him a household name.

Parker simply smiled. Amen, son. It’s them fans of yours that put food on our table. All I’m saying is… The Colonel took a dramatic pause, as was his wont. All I’m saying is the times are changing and we gotta change with them.

But that’s what I’ve always done, Elvis pointed out. No audience had ever seen a white boy move like the way I did. I was a blazing trails from the get-go. They had to come up with brand new words to describe what I’ve done. Rockabilly, that’s what they called it, cause they said I sounded like a hillbilly singing rock n’ roll… Elvis trailed off as he lost his train of thought. Halfway through his little speech, his words had begun to slur. For a while now Elvis had been seeing the world through a haze, and pretty much anything beyond blinking and breathing made him feel like he was overexerting himself. He stumbled toward an overstuffed chair and collapsed into it.

Now simmer down, son. It wasn’t my intention to besmirch your considerable body of work, if that’s what you think I was doing. The Colonel produced a bottle scotch and poured a glass for each of them. Drink up. You look like you could use a little pick me up. Parker eyed him curiously. You been getting enough sleep?

Elvis shrugged. Nor more or less than usual, which wasn’t much.

Parker nodded absently. Let me put it like this. The world’s moved on, which is no surprise. Time’s change and that’s how it’s always been. Remember son, I’d already been in the business awhile when you came along. I’ve seen them come and go, fellas with a little bit of talent who thought their good looks would last and that they’d stay on top forever. But it don’t work that way. He took a sip of scotch and for a moment looked almost wistful. And you know that. You been to Hollywood. You’ve seen how the business chews people up and spits ‘em out. The streets are paved with broken hearts and broken dreams, or however the hell it goes.

The King slowly nodded. I know. I know.

And that tell-all them ex-bodyguards of yours put out didn’t do us no favors either.

Elvis sadly shook his head. No sir, it sure didn’t. That one had hurt. Once upon a time Elvis had thought of those men as friends and family. Now they were making a buck by spreading lies and rumors and, in some cases, the truth. He’d even tried paying the publisher to keep the book from seeing print but no such luck. The public’s appetite for dirt was endless. That was the one thing about America that Elvis, who still believed he lived in the greatest country on Earth, really didn’t understand. The only thing Americans liked better than building up heroes was tearing them down.

The Colonel leaned forward and pointed at Elvis. But that’s okay. you, you got some special. We wouldn’t be sitting her now if you didn’t and that’s the God’s honest truth. There’s a whole new audience out there. You just gotta connect to ‘em. He leaned back, a smile spreading across his face. And I know just how to do it. But first, I’d like to introduce you to someone. Parker rapped on a door to an adjoining room. Come on in here, honey!

The knob turned, the door opened, and Ann-Margret walked in. Only it wasn’t modern-day 1977 Ann-Margret. This was Viva Las Vegas Ann-Margret circa 1964. Man, Elvis still had dreams about her. Wild and reckless and full of life, if any woman had been Elvis’s match back in those days, it would have been Ann. He knew the woman who had just walked in was supposed to be Viva Las Vegas Ann-Margret because she was wearing the same outfit Ann had worn during Elvis’s all-time favorite dance number, a snug orange shirt and a pair of shiny black tights. Once upon a time he’d worshipped those legs. If Elvis had still been capable of getting a hard-on, he would have been standing at full attention.

The thing was, she wasn’t an impersonator. She WAS Ann-Margret, right down to the innocent eyes and not so innocent smile. Elvis had memorized every square inch of her and there was no doubt in his mind that standing before him was the same woman who, at the height of his career, had made him consider settling down and leading a respectable life. The only difference between this Ann and the one he’d danced with on that sound stage all those years ago was the large 1 embroidered on her form-fitting top.

I.. Elvis stammered. I don’t…what…

Parker grinned. You like her? She’s yours.

Ann-Margret-1 walked over, sat down on Elvis’s lap, and planted a big wet kiss on his stubbly cheek. I saw you looking at my legs, she purred. She took Elvis’s right hand and placed it on her left thigh and by God if he didn’t feel something stir in his nether regions.

The Colonel beamed like a proud parent on Christmas morning. I always kind of felt bad about how things ended between you two, you and the original one, I mean, so I thought I’d get you a replacement.

Elvis slowly slid his hand up and down her leg. He loved the feel of her firm thigh through the smooth nylon, like flesh wrapped in smoke. By now, Elvis Jr. was standing at full attention. It was a day of miracles.

Parker was still grinning. I take it you approve then. Well, as they say on the game-shows, ‘But wait, there’s more!’ He clapped his hands and three more Ann-Margrets came in, each identical to the first in every aspect except that their shirts bore the numbers ‘2’, ‘3’, and ‘4’ consecutively. "I got you a matching set. The three of them crossed the room and surrounded him. Elvis was now sitting in the midst of a forest of Ann-Margrets.

I don’t…how…

The Colonel chuckled. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. It seems you got some admirers in pretty high places.

Admirers?

Parker nodded. That’s right. Big fans. The biggest. And this is just…how’d they put it…a token of their appreciation for your art. That’s the word they used, ‘art’.

Elvis was still staring at the Ann-Margret quartet in wonders. Ann-Margret-2 was tracing the outer curve of his lower lip with a long, slender finger while 3 massaged his shoulders and 4 simply sat on the floor gazing up at him in adoration. Well, that sure was…generous of ‘em.

Parker nodded again. That’s right. And these boys, they got connections. Anything you want, I reckon they can get it.

Elvis squeezed Ann-Marget-1’s thigh and stroked Ann-Margret-4’s hair, thrilling at the sensation but also at the impossibility of it all. Well, that goes without saying but…it’s just…this…this just can’t be real.

Son, in my experience, if it feels real, it is real.

Ann-Marget-2 was now blowing in his ear. I s’pose so. He looked deep into Ann-Marget-1’s eyes as if searching for something. They don’t talk much, do they.

Parker shrugged. I ain’t heard ‘em talk at all. But don’t let that stop you from enjoying yourself. Now these fellas, he said, quickly switching gears, they say that not only can they put you back on top but they can keep you there. Forever.

Elvis grunted. Ain’t nothin’ forever in this world. Only thing eternal is God. Is it sacrilegious to mention God while sporting a woody? he wondered.

Well, we’ll see about that. Now, in exchange for putting their considerable resources at our disposal, all they’ve asked for is one tiny little favor.

There’s always a catch, Elvis thought. Which is?

Let me put it this way. How’d you feel about another TV special?

I guess I’d feel pretty good about it. Broadcast appearances had been pretty good to Elvis for the most part, periodically giving his career some much needed boosts.

That’s just what I wanted to hear. Now, the fellas that provided us with these her fine ladies and have promised us so much more, all they want is for you perform a song of theirs on TV.

What song? Elvis asked suspiciously. Tell me you ain’t talking about that disco stuff. He shuddered at the mere thought. No music in the history of the universe had less heart or soul than disco.

Good Lord, no! The Colonel was flabbergasted. I’d cut off my own pecker before even thinking of asking you to do something like that. Naw, this is nothing you would have heard of. These, uh, these backers, they’re foreigners.

Foreigners?

Yeah, and like you and me they done made good in this country and now they want to give something back. All they want you to do is perform a prayer in their native language, you know, for good luck. It’s sort of like their way of saying God bless America.

A blessing, Elvis said thoughtfully.

Parker nodded enthusiastically. Yeah, that’s right, a blessing! In fact that’s what they call it, the ‘R’lyeh Blessing’. I think R’lyeh might be their word for heaven. Anyway, the more times the phrase is repeated, the bigger the blessing. Now these new friends of ours, they think that if anyone can get it on the tongues of people everywhere, not just the USA but all over the world, it would be you.

Really. Parker knew what he was doing. Elvis’s fragile ego was always starved for flattery.

Yeah. See, the way they figure it, if the voices of millions raised up in praise don’t get the Lord’s attention, nothing will. The Colonel produced a scrap of paper and handed it to Elvis. This here is what they want you to sing. All you gotta do is set it to some catchy little tune that’ll stick in peoples’ heads.

Elvis couldn’t make heads or tails of what was written on the paper. ’Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn’, he finally managed to spit out. It helped to pretend that his mouth was full of phlegm. What does it mean?

The Colonel shrugged. Danged if I know. It’s just some sort of blessing, is all. Now the way I figure it was start out with another televised concert. Hell, over a billion people watched Aloha From Hawaii. For once, Parker wasn’t exaggerating. In 1973, 1.5 billion viewers had tuned in to watch Elvis stage the first concert broadcast globally via satellite, just another example of how the King had been a trailblazer. Then we follow it up with the release of a new album featuring the R’lyeh Blessing.

Elvis barely heard him. He too was distracted by Ann-Margret-2’s left leg, which she’d draped over his right shoulder. Whatever you think is best, Colonel.

Parker grinned. That’s right, son. You just leave it all to me. In the meantime, there’s someone that wants to meet you. He turned toward the doorway to the adjoining room. Come on in here, Mr. Y’haneth! The Colonel winked at Elvis. He’s one of our new backers. Real nice fellow, just a regular old salt-of-the-earth type.

A hunched figure silently waddled in. Elvis did a double-take at the fella’s weird apparel, an outfit made even stranger in the context of a sweltering Tennessee August. Dressed in a voluminous overcoat, Mr. Y’haneth’s features were hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, round-rimmed sunglasses, and a scarf wrapped over his face. Head bowed low, he tentatively approached the King.

They think you really are a king on account of your nickname, the Colonel chuckled. You don’t need that get up, Mr. Y’haneth, he said, turning to Mr. Y’haneth. We’re all friends here.

The stooping figure looked from Elvis to the Colonel and back, took off his hat, and slowly began to uncover his face. Elvis’s heavily-lidded eyes flew open. Based on the fella’s size and posture, he’d expected a little old man. Instead, the stranger vaguely resembled a drawing of Humpty Dumpty Elvis had once seen in a book of nursery rhymes. The pale skin clinging to the guy’s curiously elongated skull was smooth and bare as a baby’s bottom. His lidless eyes were the size and shape of a chicken egg