The Culinary of Cthulu

Legends speak of a vile concoction that twist and warp a person's mind until it snaps. What happens when someone goes in such of it?

What follows is the description of one man’s slide into madness. You must know that going in about how young Danforth Alley soon fell completely to dementia after writing this. It must all be taken with a grain of salt. It is the work of one poor depraved young man.

 

 

The doctors have recommended I write about the horrible things I have experienced, the men in white coats tell me it would be therapeutic. They are secure in their knowledge, that I can only be insane. If only what I had seen could be attributed so easily to insanity. For only an unhealthy mind could conjure that which I saw, but I tell you my friends, I am not insane, I am more sane now then I was before. That is why I agreed to write this, only when the doctors assured me it would be published, did I agree to it.

            I must tell you about myself, I grew up in a small town in the backwaters of Rhode Island. The town had been called Jack’s Grove for the over 50 years, after Jack Aston, our most famous resident. Jack’s Grove had another name, an older name, whispered in the dark to scared children, Witchhaven. As in every small town, it was full of myth and horror about what took place in the dark forest that surrounded us. I never took the myths seriously. No scientific man would dare give credence to the un-natural things spoken of in these myths. Su-go-thuth, Black Enigargug, Zulthugh, the father of a thousand young, all these and others are whispered about in those parts of the world. Never did I pay any real heed to them. I knew them for what they were, the uneducated man’s way of dealing with the world. Even the town name was a myth; the town had been called Jack’s Grove for over three hundred years, long before Mr. Aston climbed those mountains in Antarctica.

            At the age of eighteen I was given a scholarship to the prestigious Miskatonic University of Arkham. Many years of study had paid off, I would finally be able to attend  the school I had long dreamt of. I am happy to tell you, it did go well for the first few years. Biology, chemistry, all those came easily to me. The other classes were the ones which gave me the most trouble. Mythology in the Present, by Professor Dyer was the hardest class I took, so difficult for me I had to take it twice. It was during this second attempt that my story does truly begin.   

            It was for final of the class, an essay about how some myths were based in fact and how they were distorted to myth that it happened. All of the students had convened in my room to attempt at finding an interesting topic for Professor Dyer’s essay.  One of the freshmen in the class spoke up in our study session. At the time, I didn’t know his name, being of the shy sort, I rarely interacted with my fellows. I will never forget his name. Charles Ward Jr.  Charles told us about a local legend he had heard about a soup that would break men’s mind.

            We all laughed at poor Charles immediately, a food that could break a man was preposterous, beyond all serious discussion, even Shayla’s Sewer raptors seemed more credible then a soup that could cause madness. Charles got a serious look upon his face and told us of his uncle, Dexter Ward, who he swore was still locked up in Our Lady Mercy down in Innsmouth. Charles spoke to us about how Dexter had found a cavern near the old cemetery. Dexter had been of the explorer type, one of those brave souls who will venture off into the black unknown. Charles told us of how Dexter had bust into his house one day, mumbling about insidious deeds and forbidden knowledge. Before his wife could question him, Dexter grabbed an electronic torch and a rope. He explained to his wife how he was going to explore a cavern in the cemetery, and then Dexter Ward left his house.

Charles pulled out a newspaper article from his jacket and handed it to me, the article was titled ‘Young Dexter Ward Vanishes, Search continues’. Charles explained how Dexter disappeared and no one could find him nor the cavern he went to explore. It wasn’t until 4 days later that he was found, wandering the streets, mumbling about what he had found in that cavern. A strange brew sat upon a dank pedestal. That was all could be gotten out of him before the poor man broke into sobs. He never spoke of it again, never told them where the cavern was located.

            My fellow classmates then began to discuss other local legends that would make interesting topics of an essay. My mind lurked on the story of the soup, how could an educated man even begin to believe a soup would break a man down, make him into a sputtering fool. After the study session ended, I did something that I will forever regret; I asked Charles if he knew where the cavern was located. Although he had told us he did not, I suspected he was withholding some knowledge of what had transpired.

            How hard I cajoled him that night, first I spoke nicely, and then more harshly. I began to voice my doubts of the veracity of the story. This made him very angry, he yelled at me the name of the cemetery before he stormed off out of my dormitory.  I fooled myself into believing I pestered him for no other reason, then to try to disprove his story.  Later I knew it was because I wanted to see one of the ‘unexplained’ things myself.

 

-2

            At around midnight I was prepared for my journey. I packed an electric torch borrowed from my roommate and a few spare batteries, I also took with me some rope and some food stuffs. I knew of the cemetery he had told me about, I deduced it would only be about a twenty minute walk there and an hour searching. If all went well I would have been back in my dorm before breakfast.

            The walk over to the cemetery was just leisure. I took my time and enjoyed the cool night. I found the cemetery with easy and was happy to note the gates had not been locked. Never did my luck seem so well. I removed the Electric torch from my bag and turned it on. I used it to help find my way through the cemetery. The moon had been full when I left my dorm, by then the sky was overcast and the moon had been hidden.

            The walk through the cemetery and finding of the cavern went without any trouble either. The cavern itself was in the far back corner of the cemetery, the woods on the other side of the wall threatened to overtake the cemetery at anytime. For just a moment wondered why they had constructed the wall with the cavern inside of the cemetery. It would have been wiser to build around it, but I took little time to dwell upon the oddity of the cavern itself and ventured into the gapping maw that stood in front of me.

            The cavern was as boring as could be, and it seemed to be made of limestone. Deeper I walked into the cavern, and more proud I became. I knew there was not a thing abnormal held within. I resolved to walk about a quarter mile into the cavern, or until it gave out, which ever occurred first.

            About where I declared my spot of return, I noticed an odd rock on the stone floor, I bent down to take a better look and was even more amazed. It was a strange soapstone that I had never encountered before. It was a greenish color with flecks of gold within. Even more odd was that it was shaped into a six-pointed star. My natural curiosity took over at that point and I began to pocket the strange stone when something more interesting caught my eye.

            There was carving on this part of the cavern. It was of a type I am not familiar with. It seemed to resemble the oldest Sanskrit tablets in the vaguest of ways. The same way a silhouette resembles a man. I began to curse myself for not bringing charcoal with me. I would then be able to make an imprint of the writing to bring back. At that point, I resolved myself to further explore the cavern. I knew there would be many other treasures to behold. If only I had halted my advance there. I must apologize to the reader of this letter for the penmanship of this part of the letter and for the next part, my hand begins to tremble, just from my recollections of the next part of my horror.

            As I have tried to make clear many a time, I am a man of science and I refuse to give any credence to any person who will not back themselves up with fact. Yet I must stress how imperative it is that no man ever return to the cavern I journeyed into that night. I know many of you will find this story fantastic, perhaps mad, but you must believe me. There are things down there men was not meant to know or to meddle in.

            As I have stated, I began to further explore the cavern, although now it more resembled a passageway. At this point the rock transmuted into a black hard rock. The rock seemed to give off some sort of green colored light. It was bright enough for me to find my way without the torch. I still left the torch on, in hopes of quelling the growing dread I felt. For some unexplainable reason, as I traversed deeper, a sense of dread grew in my chest. Some dark part of my mind was screaming at me to leave before it was too late. I ignored my feelings, I had been a man of science, and no man of science would let silly superstition stop him from discovering the unknown. I went deeper in the former cavern and the carvings grew larger, some even had pictograms. Pictograms of dark things I would rather not recall. I ignored the pictograms as best I could, when in the distance I saw a pedestal with what seemed to be a plate sitting on it.

            I slowed to a crawl as I realized what must lie just in front of me. It could only be the dark soup Charles had spoken of. I held the torch high above my head, in hopes of lending more light to my walk. In just the way it had seemed to give off light, the black stone now seemed to absorb it. No matter how I held the torch, the level of illumination never varied. Closer still I inched to the pedestal as my heart began to race in my chest and fear tingled at the spine. My foot ran across a hard metal object. I cried out softly at way lay at my feet, Dexter’s torch and his other supplies, this is as far as poor Mr. Ward had made it. I knew I must stop, yet I could not

 

-3

I stood upon the first step at the base of the pedestal and my mind reeled from that which I saw, refusing to acknowledge the horror held within that ordinary dish. From a far it looked as though a normal soup, a soup that could have been made on a cold winter’s night. Yet as I moved closer to it, a subtle creeping dread slithered up my spine. I realized that only a perversion of the natural order could be responsible for the vile brew. Only a mind with queer intentions could conceive of this fare, and only one with sinister mad ones would dare to make it. I inched closer still to it, trying to contain the growing terror that griped my being.

A grotesque odor assaulted my nose, it nearly stopped me in my tracks. If only I had been fearful enough to stop there I would not be as I am today. The odor was an un-natural rot that brought to mind the decrepit ancient Egyptian tombs where mummies rule over forgotten empires. It was much later when I learned that many a man before me had succumbed to the noxious emanation flowing from the plate. Those poor doomed souls were the lucky ones, I do not wish to describe what happened next, for it goes against every rule of nature and life I had been taught in those Miskatonic classes, but in the name of science I had to dip the ladle into the boiling muck and had to bring it to my mouth.

            Oh but I should have known, for before it had even touched my tongue, my very soul screamed in terror. As I attempted to swallow the concoction, my bowels rebelled and forced me to empty myself upon the pedestal that the plate sat upon. My mind was flooded with nameless horrors from undreamt nightmares, eldritch things that crept to the left of human comprehension. As the last of my sanity drained from me, I came to realization that no human being had a hand in this dish. Only those queer strange things whispered of in the mad Arab’s book "Necrocuspisinomicom”, could have been responsible for this contemptible concoction.

            With finality I fell to the hard earth, and curled myself into that position from the womb, my mind having been broken by the dark thoughts given to me by the dank brew. For how long I laid there mumbling about death dying and the proper alignment of the stars, I know not, but eventually my fellow Miskatonic students found me and brought me to the hospital. It was only due to that timely intervention that I am able to make this, my warning today. Man was not meant to meddle in those dark eons spoke of in the vile tome, and I know with dark certainty, the brew could only have been from that eon. I must warn you, dear friends, do not return to that hole. It goes further down then any man dare dream. Deep old things lurk down there. Su-go-thuth, Ai! Ai! The stars will soon be right….

 

At this point the letter ends. Poor young Danforth’s dementia had completely overtaken him. He died a few hours later, screaming about eternal things that lie. As I promised him, it has been published in this periodical. We can only hope it will help lead to other young men who are close to the edge of madness to go seek help.

          Dr. Thomas Winchester           

          Our Lady Mercy

          Innsmouth, RI

Reviews

[kbob]

Very interesting peice. I can't honestly say that I could resist a small taste either...

Great job!