Ch.57Ch.5 – The Dead City Dreams and Waits (12)

James Chidlow, while good at following orders, lacks a certain perceptiveness. His common sense is average or below average.

Though his physical abilities and navigation skills might be excellent, he’s clearly not what one would call an “intellectual” character.

So imagine his confusion when presented with names like Dagon, Hydra, and Cthulhu—names too messy to even pronounce.

What’s more, these words came not from some gloomy novelist scribbling away in a dimly lit corner, but from the librarian of Miskatonic University.

It seems James paid attention to these bizarre terms precisely because of this incongruity.

First, Armitage insisted on clarifying terminology. According to his interpretation, entities like Dagon, Hydra, and Cthulhu are not gods. The term “god” is merely a vague label applied to them because they are immense, abstract, and metaphysical beings beyond human comprehension—not their true essence.

Instead, he proposed the term “Ancient Ones.”

“It’s true that some cultures worship them as gods,” Professor Armitage said, sipping his tea.

“But consider this perspective. James, I don’t know if you like cats, but let’s assume you do. Imagine a stray cat you’ve been friendly with brings a dead mouse to your doorstep one morning, looking up at you with expectant eyes. What do you think it wants?”

James hesitated but gave a common-sense answer.

“Um, praise?”

“So you’ll eat the dead mouse then?”

“Of course not!”

“But you’d still appreciate the cat’s gesture, wouldn’t you?”

James nodded.

“That’s it. The rituals humans perform—these ‘ceremonies’—look much the same from the perspective of the Ancient Ones. Some become angry at the same offerings, while others respond quite intuitively. Just like how stray cats interact with humans. ‘This human gets angry often,’ or ‘That human gives food if I play with them for a while.’

Remember, the cat story is just an example! Anyway, since ancient times, humans have realized that certain offerings elicit responses from the Old Ones. They gave them names in their own way. Dagon. Hydra. Cthulhu. Yog-Sothoth. Yig. And…”

Armitage hesitated briefly but then pronounced the name in one breath, as if swallowing bitter medicine.

“Hell’s ■■■ Chaos’s ■■■■■ One who denies ■■■ own ■■■ and ■■■ transforms,

That which ■■■■ names and ■■■■■■■ cannot ■■■■■■■■■ express,

■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■ Fluid and the ■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■■ takes comfort in, the dull-witted Father.

■■■■■.”

Armitage hesitated ■■■■■.

“■■■ ■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■ ■■■ ■■■■■■■,

That which ■■■■ ■■■■■ and ■■■■■■■ cannot ■■■■■■■■■ express,

■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■ ■■■■■ and the ■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■■ takes comfort in, the dull-witted Father.

■■■■■.”

Armitage hesitated.

“■■■ ■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■ ■■■ ■■■■■■■,

■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■,

■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■ ■■■ ■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■■■ ■■, the dull-witted Father.

■■■■■.”

Armitage hesitated.

“The dull-witted Father. That’s all the records say. But that’s not important. Since ancient times, humans have known about the Ancient Ones and tried to establish relationships with them, much like stray cats courting humans.

The story I’m about to tell you is what I’ve discovered through my research, along with what an ‘anonymous voice’ has shared. He provided various evidence that Agent Scully and I have thoroughly examined, so the credibility is quite high.

I won’t tell the entire long story, but I will tell you what lies on the tracks ahead of us—where the train carrying us is heading. Simply put, the Black Market is trying to ‘awaken’ Cthulhu.”

Professor Armitage pulled documents from a box. Wearing thick gold-rimmed glasses, he read aloud certain passages.

It was a strange, unfamiliar language, but the professor translated its meaning.

“The Ancient Ones have no fixed physical form. Mind you! Having no physical form doesn’t mean they’ve ceased to exist. Cthulhu’s spell maintains them. However, while this spell can keep them awake, it cannot make them move. Like being trapped in sleep paralysis.

But there are times when they break free from these constraints—when the stars align in certain configurations. When that time comes, they will tear through the firmament. They hear everything and express themselves in some way.

But there are those who understand their language well, like the noble families of Pollard Island. The worship rituals honor these sleeping entities and celebrate R’lyeh—the land, home, and sanctuary that will one day rise.”

“Wait. Hold on, Professor. Do you take questions?” Crayfield interjected anxiously.

“I apologize, but I’m not exactly a brilliant student. Theory lectures are fine, but I’m more concerned about what’s on the test. If Cthulhu’s spell maintains the Ancient Ones, on what basis does the Black Market claim that Cthulhu restrains Dagon and Hydra?”

“Dead Cthulhu waits dreaming in his dwelling place, R’lyeh. As I mentioned, Cthulhu is also an Ancient One. Cthulhu’s spell also serves to protect himself.

So Cthulhu too waits, trapped in sleep paralysis. But what if someone were to slightly awaken him?”

Horror swept through the audience.

“Of course, compared to the vast timespan this enormous entity experiences, it would be just a moment—merely turning over in his sleep. But even that would be enough to shock Dagon and Hydra. The Black Market intends to send a warning.”

“They’re insane,” Crayfield groaned.

“Is it like saying, ‘Touch me and I’ll kill everyone’?”

“More like, ‘Let’s all die together.’ But if Cthulhu awakens even briefly, someone needs to dream in his place. The role of the kidnapped people is precisely that—to dream. To dream on behalf of Cthulhu.”

Professor Armitage looked at everyone with stern eyes.

“Now you understand what awaits you. The Market will be fully prepared. I’ve heard that figures wrapped in dogskins have been roaming the streets—a practice of certain polar tribes who were ostracized even by their own kind.”

“How can we stop the ritual?”

“Make sure Cthulhu continues to dream. If those who would substitute for him disappear, Cthulhu will fall back into deep sleep. His time has not yet come, and he values his own existence.

Either wake those who dream in his place, or kill them all.”

“Wake them?” James mumbled.

“Haven’t you ever woken someone up? Grab them by the shoulders and shake them awake. Or go into their dream and bring them out. I warn you, don’t expect someone who returns that way to be in their right mind.

If they appear sane, they’re something merely posing as human, not human at all. Do you think a human intellect could withstand the dreams of Cthulhu?”

“Then killing them all would be easier.”

“No!” Crayfield and James shouted simultaneously. Agent Scully placed her hands on their shoulders.

“Let’s think about it when we get there. We’ll try to save as many lives as possible—and their minds too. Isn’t that what modern civilization is for?”

“How can you…?” James mumbled again. Scully smiled.

“Did I not introduce myself? I’m a Federal Security Bureau agent who graduated top of my class from Johns Hopkins Medical School. I also studied analytical psychology and hypnosis in the Old Continent, earning a doctorate.

My mission is to descend into the deep wells of the human mind and retrieve people.”

“Have hope,” Professor Armitage emphasized.

“The knowledge of the Necronomicon is certainly evil. But consider this: as I said, these wicked rituals can be passed down through experience, oral tradition, and bloodlines. Why bother writing them down in a book?

History tells us that the first Arab to write it, Abdul Alhazred, author of the original ‘Al Azif,’ was devoured alive in broad daylight by invisible monsters just days after writing it.

Something doesn’t add up. If the Ancient Ones wanted their story widely spread, wouldn’t they have established publishing houses instead?”

“Then Abdul Alhazred was…”

“In my opinion, he was the first heretic, traitor, and rebel. He was certainly deeply involved with evil entities. But he left records. And paid for it with a terrible death, didn’t he? I believe it was to provide enlightenment.

‘These evil things exist in the world. So prepare. Be ready. Stand up.’ He was a madman. He knew he had gone down the wrong path and sacrificed his life to spread knowledge.

We were never alone. Humans have been fighting these malevolent entities since ancient times.”

“Well, I’d rather not be eaten alive,” Crayfield muttered.

“No. As long as we don’t write books, we should be fine, right? Assistant, let’s never become novelists. And thus, the world loses two great literary figures.”

* * * * *

May 12, 1929. 4:50 PM

22 Gorde Avenue

Crayfield’s Office

The previous day, Scully and the federal agents sent us back the same way they brought us. James said they dropped him off somewhere appropriate.

After a deep, dreamless sleep, we opened the morning newspaper.

“This is good,” Crayfield grinned.

The Arkham Times featured a special article about kidnappings and crimes on Pollard Island, while the Pollard Times’ advertisement section promoted a new grocery delivery service.

The delivery company specifically listed which areas of Pollard City they served—areas that matched almost exactly with the regions Crayfield had marked in red on the wall and the list I had taken to Aurora Savio.

Three locations were empty: 11th Avenue, 13th Avenue, and Norington Intersection. All located in the eastern part of the city.

“Aurora Savio put in quite some effort. Makes me want to ask her on a date. So, the Omelli gang has already established boundaries in all areas except these three, or the White Hand will attack those places tonight? Then the kidnappings must be happening in the remaining areas.”

The police and city hall probably know this information too. Our friend Josh Graham always complained that everywhere had fallen into mafia hands.

All that remains is news from our protagonist, but we’ve had no contact from him yet.

Even by late afternoon, Crayfield and I waited anxiously in the office.

“Why haven’t they contacted us?”

Crayfield eventually put a large X on the window. But there was no contact from Scully either.

“Assistant, this isn’t working. Either both sides don’t have proper means of communication, or they’re being watched. Let’s move. 11th, 13th, and Norington Intersection are all close together.”

Though “close” still means a stretch of about 2km, with a complex maze of alleys and houses inside. But as Crayfield said, we couldn’t just sit around.

We each took our revolvers and spare ammunition. Crayfield handed me Chekhov.

“It’s a tough day, Assistant. A tough day indeed. Until now, I’ve only feared the Doomsday Clock striking twelve, but I’ve never worried about running out of ammunition for Chekhov.”

Crayfield anxiously checked his watch. He was making a compromise—between the pressure not to waste more time and the desire to wait just a little longer—by telling me a story.

“Professor Henry Armitage’s account differs somewhat from the Lovecraft originals I’ve read. But I think we should follow Armitage’s version here. Nobody adopts the Cthulhu Mythos exactly as it is anyway.

However, his interpretation of Abdul Alhazred is quite original. I never thought of him as a betrayer of the cult who warned the world. It actually aligns with the steamship story I was planning to write. So…”

The phone rang. Crayfield quickly answered it. The caller said something urgently and hung up.

“13th Avenue. Let’s go!”