The Call of Cat-thulu

This time of year always makes me a little a little nostalgic for the days when huge, evil and monstrous things were hiding under the bed or in the closet. What I wouldn't give for some simple monsters right about now.

So, with that in mind, I actually bothered to replace my copy of "At the Mountains of Madness" by HP Lovecraft. That those books disappeared during that fateful expedition of my wife and myself, is common knowledge, as are the general details of the expedition itself, which we reported by means an ingenious relay, from the midst of parts then unknown. Those books, with their myriad of amusing horrors, have lain safely out of human knowing, their terrible fate, mercifully vague. It is only now, when others threaten to unearth the terrible truths that have laid safely hidden from human eyes for long, that I can force myself to speak of the hideous end which befell those books, and the terrible consequences, which included the end of my sane fiscal life.

I had, at one time, almost all of Lovecraft's works of fiction in paperback form. They kept me company throughout high school, providing a safe, if not entirely sane, backdrop of mythology. They were a paper wall of fancy, which defended me against the true ugliness of a world that had long since gone madly real. Slowly, however, I was drawn away from such things by faint and blasphemous piping of college degrees, gainful employment, and the modern world of politics and religion. As I moved from place to place, first alone, then with my wife, I transported the books with me, until that ultimate step. That terrible step, of which I speak only as a warning to others. Some will be tempted to risk fate, but I implore them, hear out my tale. I tell the truth of what happened reluctantly, with greatest hesitation in fact, and only so that others may be spared the maddening fate which has befallen me.

Our family having grown beyond the comfortable size of our 600 sq ft apartment, we decided to move to a house. A real and true house, whose unknown challenges and apparently boundless size lured me on, in spite of my cautious nature. A place which we determined to examine, to set up camp in, and perhaps even to conquer. Preparations being made, the books, safely in a box with others of their kind, were loaded so that they might travel with our expedition. Little did I know, I was also transporting the terrible means of their destruction. Oh, fateful day, on which my ignorant and careless excitement for the unknown set in motion the steps to the demise of my dear and old friends, and my own entrance to the land of the fiscally insane!

Upon arrival at our new base of operations, we quickly set all things in order, delivering supplies and material possessions to their appointed places. Dishes went to the kitchen, couches to living room, and, of course, books to the den, where they would be safely ensconced on tall shelves. We also brought with two examples of the exotic creature known colloquially as "cat." These smallish, fur covered beasts had been domesticated for the performance of simple tasks such as holding down the sofa for 20 hours a day, the warming of feet at the end of the same sofa, or the protection of pillows... also on the same sofa. These creatures even emitted a mysterious, low whirring noise, which we decided to be both benign and hypnotically calming. So convinced were we of these creatures docility that we did not hesitate to cohabitate with them in our new domicile.

Ancient myths and rumors did, however, hold vague warnings about these creatures. Though clearly the work of a primitive and superstitious age, these warnings carried terrible hints, and soon began to act wildly on our imaginations. We would awake to the distant and inexplicable sound of little jingling bells, and a strange scratching, as if some terrible force were playing viciously with the small cloth likenesses of mice which we kept in a corner of the living room. In fact, we would often awake to find these small, cloth mice, sometimes with little bells detached by a brutal show of force, lying scattered about the house. Though suspicion clawed at our minds, we did not speak of it. For the sake of our own peace of mind, however, we decided to close the door to that den which held so many precious items, including the still loaded box of books.

Here, I must admit my own culpability in the horrors which befell our simple home. In my enthusiasm for having two bathrooms, my wonder over the vast expanse of a garage capable of holding more than two, I dare say, almost three! vehicles, in my joy over being in this new land of discovery, I unleashed a horror which mankind has been free of for aeons. I have caused this menace to awaken, to once again walk through the land of the living. I witlessly left open the door to between two worlds not meant to meet: the world of the hallway, and the world of the den.

And so, I tell of the terrible thing which I found, on rising early, and seeing with guilt and fear that open door. Would that I had closed it, never to be opened again. But no. Having gone this far, I willed myself to go further. I stepped through that unholy gate, into the great beyond, hoping, praying, that my mistake had not caused the doom which I indeed feared and somehow knew I would find. That doom which I speak of now, only because it may spare you the same hideous fate.

There, lying plainly amidst all those familiar surroundings, was a sight that will haunt me until my end. The sight which has driven me to levels of insanity that only my darling wife has had the misfortune to witness, and in so doing, damaged her own tender psyche. For there, as you may have already guessed, was my box of books, my entire collection of H.P. Lovecraft's fine works, lying helplessly in a pool of sticky yellow. The box stared at me, mocking, accusing, knowing that it was I, my very own careless self, that had caused this doom.

Of the rest, I fear even to speak, for the evil that had beset us had not yet run it's course. The damaged box was relieved of it's clean contents, then box, and horror fiction, were exiled to the garage, from whence the books have, mysteriously, vanished into some strange place between time and space, where blind, mad readers dance to blasphemous piping and drumming, amid Cyclopean structures that defy the laws of geometry, and the terrible elder gods of pre time suffer through reading some really smelly books, by which they are, nonetheless, very amused.

The box they were in, as my dear readers must now have guessed, had become the victim of my cat, who has never been known for his taste in books. In an expression of furor over being moved to a new house, he had reached across the formless void of hall, through the very gateway which I had unwittingly left open, and attacked that which I loved. Oddly enough, all the other books in the box survived unsoiled, but the entire collection of early 20th century horror fiction was ruined. By what mechanism this fiend had done this, I do not know, for it conforms to no law of physics known to man, even contradicting the laws set out by our great scientist, Albert Einstein, who proved that in a sane universe, urine runs downhill. It hints at the terrible powers of these creatures, and the awful consequences of leaving the gateway between their world and ours unchecked.

But the worst, the very worst, was the cost to myself and my dear wife. For upon seeing this discovery, and reaching that time of year in which tradition dictates that we enjoy our fondest and finest spooks and monsters, I took leave of all my senses, and in a fit of spending madness which I still reel in the wake of, I spent $5.95 on a new copy of one of the books which I had previously purchased! Yes, this was the horrible length to which I was driven, the terrible financial fate that I have pulled my whole household into.

And as for that horror, that creature known to men as the harmless "cat," he has vanished back into the nether world, that place outside of normal space-time, that place which legend says is somewhere hidden at the bottom of the sea, high in the Himalaya, or perhaps behind the couch or under the bed. There he lurks, who is more rightly known by his true name, the name from before the advent of man, the terrible and unpronounceable name, Cat-thulu! There he lurks, waiting for the stars to align in an unholy pattern, while deep in the night, I hear the tinkling of bells, and the sound of a blasphemous, hypnotic whirring.