The Haunter Of The Threshold Read online

  The Haunter

  of the Threshold

  Edward Lee

  For Brian McNaughton.

  Rest in peace.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Wendy Brewer, Bob Strauss, Larry & Shane, Ken Arneson, Christine Morgan, Chrisperri-das, jonah, Steve Vernon, Tree705, vampduster, Rob Johns, Morleyisozzy, Miss Wellington, Ogreblood, bsaenz24, Bob Taylor, liquidnoose, and many, many others.

  Author’s Note

  I must preamble, as authors often do. THE HAUNTER OF THE THRESHOLD is a sequel—more than likely a damnable one—to what is arguably H.P. Lovecraft’s last story in earnest, the brilliant “The Haunter of the Dark”—which is probably my favorite of his stories. (“He,” “The Rats in the Walls,” “The Hound,” and “The Dreams in the Witch-House” are among my other favorites, though almost all of the Master’s non-Dunsanian works I hold a very high regard for.) Many of you have read “The Haunter of the Dark,” but it was probably none-too-recently; therefore, I urge you to re-read it before embarking on my effort, and rediscover its macabre wonder and phantasmal genius. And those of you who have never read HPL’s final masterpiece, please do so now. It is easily procured via public domain sites online, such as: www.psy-q.ch/lovecraft/html/

  As you can see, I’ve dedicated this book to the late, great award-winning novelist Brian McNaughton. Though I never met Brian, I corresponded with him actively in the early ‘80s (he claimed I was his first “fan” letter not related to his porn books). His horror novels Satan’s Love Child, Satan’s Mistress, and Satan’s Seductress were of a paramount influence. (By the way, those weren’t his titles, they were the publisher’s! The publisher was Carlyle Communications.) Though some will easily object, I contend that never has Lovecraft’s ground-breaking Mythos been so entertainingly redefined in contemporary terms than in these three wonderful books. Revised versions have been re-issued under new titles, though I prefer the originals, and I urge you to seek them out. They’re available quite inexpensively from used dealers.

  Lastly, I want to thank you, for having enough faith in whatever talents I may have to buy this book. I hope you enjoy it. And may God and H.P. Lovecraft forgive me.

  —Edward Lee

  PROLOGUE

  NEPTUNE, NEW JERSEY

  It must have been some imp of the perverse that led Wally Gilman to the fly-specked and cigarette-smoke-tinged windows every night. He even remembered that line—“imp of the perverse”—from a Poe story he’d read as a child. (Or perhaps it was another author...) Why it occurred to him now (with his penis out!) and why something close to a literary allusion might thrust itself into his darkest introspections...he had not the alacrity to cerebrate; lo, he was a fairly unmotivated night-watchmen, not a delver into symbology. He was something else, too: a hopeless voyeur—hence the evidence not only of his exposed and desperately erect penis but also the dried ghost-crust-tracks below this and every window of the motel.

  It was a penultimate fleabag dump called the McNaughton-Regency Motel that had employed Gilman for so long, though the word “regency,” in truth, figured not at all into any aspect of the establishment. The L-shaped hovel sat near a bluff above the coast road and all its well-heeled beach hotels below—just past the exit off the turnpike. The $39-per-night rate told all. Wayfarers came here, not businessmen, and the lower-crust, not tourists and vacationers. Truckers pulled in often as well, which explained the periodic tenancy of prostitutes. Regardless of the nature of the occupants, Gilman had spied upon many a sex act through the dingy windows, and he’d done so with much gusto, exuberance, and satisfaction. He’d watched college choo-choo trains, “Roofie” parties, bachelor parties, “youporn.com” parties, crack-whore tricks, generic one-night stands, and much, much else. Best of all, he got paid to perceive this cornucopia of visual delights whilst slaking himself by hand. I have the BEST job in the world, Wally mused on a regular basis. For the entirety of his employ, though, no single guest had ever stayed more than a week.

  Until now.

  The woman in No. 18. She’s been here two months, he figured, peering in through the gap in the tattered curtains. And a strange situation it was. The woman was pregnant, and, shit, she’d looked fit to drop way back when she’d checked in, yet here she sat, staring at the television night after night, doing absolutely nothing. To Wally’s knowledge, she’d yet to even set foot out of the room.

  But she was a looker and that’s all he cared about–eye-candy and then some. She sat around the room naked all the time, and even though her stomach stuck out like a skin-covered basketball, she didn’t have a whole lot of fat going on like lots of women once they’d been knocked up awhile. There was something...just something...

  The realization was revelatory to Wally Gilman. With the advent of this woman, he came to the conclusion that he must have some kinky “thing” for pregnant chicks. Something about the fullness of her, that big alabaster-white belly sticking out like it meant business, all stretched tight; that big beautiful almost black plot of hair between her legs; and—

  Those tits, he thought now as he did most every night since she’d arrived. They were big as proverbial cantaloupes, with nipples the size of beer-can rims. Wally was pushing sixty now but even the mere thought of those breasts, at any time of the day or night, got him hard and oozing.

  He was done in a minute, imagining her spraddled before him and offering that delectable pink twist of flesh in the middle of her bush. Shit, he thought, huffing. His frantic climax pumped yet another milky line below the window sill. When he looked at it, and then looked at all the other dried-up lines in proximity, he thought, I wonder how just how much cum I’ve shot on that wall...

  Indeed.

  He’d never stolen a peek onto the sheet at the check-in desk to discern her name; asking questions of the dried-apricot-faced night-clerk Miss Tilton was something he’d never done. Why bring attention to himself? There were no worries that Miss Tilton might stealthily check up on him during his “rounds” because the sucked-dry, withered stick of an old biddy had a walker. Took her ten minutes just to hobble from the front door to the desk. And though Mr. McNaughton, the owner, had never checked up on Wally, either, the cognizant security officer knew he mustn’t take this luxury for granted. Wally had likely masturbated at these windows thousands of times over the years, but he always kept an ear out. Shit, if I got caught? The ensuing embarrassment would be inexpugnable.

  Back to the woman, though, the woman in No. 18. He could only guess that she was from New Hampshire because every Friday at midnight, some rube-looking redneck dude in a pickup truck stopped by to bring her food, take out the previous week’s garbage, and presumably pay the next week’s rent. It was all canned food he brought her, and when he came, he scarcely said a word to her. She just smiled kind of dopily at him as he went about his business; she either lay on the bed or sat in the beaten recliner all big-titted and sassy, rubbing her bloated stomach. At any rate, this dude’s truck had New Hampshire plates. He was a lean but well-muscled redneck, one long-accustomed to hard manual labor; they were all over the place. The only oddity was the very uncharacteristic ring on his hand: a chunky red stone, a little smaller than a marble maybe. It looked downright silly on a working-class ‘neck if you asked Wally.

  Most times the dude helped himself to a little midnight delight once he’d discharged his duties. Blowjobs, mainly, and once he’d stroked off on her big, beautiful, wobbly tits. A few other times he’d positioned her on hands and knees and cornholed her. It was all very perfunctory and silent. And when he was done, he left.

  Weird, not that Wally was complaining.

  Weirder, though, was just a few days ago when, for the first time since she’d checked in, the woman
had received additional visitors.

  This time the pickup truck dude had brought four more rough-and-tumble-looking men, and one woman on the fat side. Wally had peered in evermore keenly at the unusual scene–penis in hand, of course–and witnessed something he couldn’t quite explain.

  The four men and one woman had stood in line before the pregnant gal, who’d sat in the recliner with her knees hooked over the chair’s arms. The hassle was the chair’s back faced the window through which Wally secretly peered. It’s fuckin’ up my view! he’d raged in thought, but those were the breaks for a voyeur, eh? You couldn’t have it all, all the time.

  He’d watched nonetheless. From that flawed vantage point, he saw each newcomer kneel between the pregnant chick’s legs and lower their faces. They’re all eating her out, Wally had reasoned. When they were done, they all left at the same time.

  The strangeness begged the question: Why would four dudes and an over-the-hill fat woman come here to simply go down on a pregnant chick and then leave?

  Off the wall...

  Crickets tremoloed; the moon shimmered. Wally’s private business was done for the night but when he turned to get back to his rounds—

  He locked up in his tracks.

  Shit!

  Footsteps came crunching around the corner. Wally stood with his eyes peeled open as the back-lit figure stepped into view.

  It’s Mr. McNaughton! Fuck! Did he see me jerking off?

  Wally snapped on his flashlight.

  “Hey, Wal. What’cha doin’ back here?” came the familiar but not-terribly-welcome voice.

  Wally’s adrenalin dropped; he snapped off the flash. It was not Mr. McNaughton, it was Joe Sargent, the stoop-shouldered wise-acre who drove the Route 428 bus. He stopped by at night sometimes to shoot the shit.

  “Hey, Joe,” came Wally’s relieved greeting. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”

  “How come you’re back here? ” Joe strode up. His face looked weird; it was kind of flat, and he had eyes that seemed too big.

  “I was...making sure...the windows are all secure.”

  Joe sniggered. “Yeah, and if I had a square dick-hole, I could piss dice.” Joe peered into the window and smiled. “Ooo, leggo my preggo!” he said of the pregnant chick who now lay asleep and spread-eagled on the bed. Joe elbowed Wally. “What’cha think? Think she’s a virgin?” and then he laughed.

  “Shhh! You’ll wake her up!”

  “Aw, that knocked-up mama’s sound asleep.” The bus driver peered more intently. “Man, you could plant fuckin’ cabbage in all that pussy hair, huh? And would you get a load of them tits? ”

  Wally could hardly disagree.

  “Yeah. Man,” Joe muttered, still peeping. His fingers caged his crotch and squeezed, an action that Wally pretended not to see.

  Then Joe pulled down his zipper.

  “Come on, Joe,” Wally griped.

  Joe frowned. “What?” He pointed to the window sill and chuckled. “It ain’t like you don’t.”

  I guess he’s got a point, Wally admitted.

  But Joe had scarcely been pumping ten seconds before engine noise alerted them both.

  “Fuck!”

  “Someone just pulled into the motel!” Wally whispered. “Put your cock back in your pants, man!”

  Inside, the pregnant woman came awake at the noise. For one terrifying moment, she looked at the window with a suspicious squint, but then her eyes darted to the motel room door.

  When the door opened, six people walked in, led by the original rube.

  “Him again,” Wally whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Usually he comes every Friday night by himself, but last time he brought five others with him. And they-and they...”

  Joe glowered. “Yeah?”

  “They all went down on the pregnant chick.”

  Joe couldn’t have been more amused. “You’re shitting me!”

  “Nope–er, at least I think that’s what they were doing. She was sitting with her back to the window so I couldn’t see everything.”

  “But they fucked her, too, right? Or got blowjobs?”

  “Naw. They each ate her pussy for a minute and then left. Oh, and one of ‘em was a woman.” Then Wally pointed. “But these ain’t the same people.”

  This time the rube had brought three men and two women, all of the same low-scale blue-collar cast. But unlike that first occasion, the pregnant woman remained on the bed, hitching her ass to the mattress edge, and then she pulled her knees up. The position puffed her pubis out like a hair-covered tart.

  “Now watch,” Wally whispered. “Here they go...”

  A beer-bellied guy in a wife-beater T-shirt was the first to kneel between the woman’s legs. The vantage point was much better this time, for Wally could see the action directly. He could also see...

  How do you like that?

  The man in the wife-beater wore a ring just like the original rube: a marble-sized scarlet stone.

  “This is gonna be great!” Joe whispered and grinned. “A pussy-eating party on a pregnant girl!” Joe had his cock right back out and in his hand, ready to go.

  With great intensity, then, they both stared. Neither of them were the least bit aware that someone was standing right behind them.

  1

  PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND

  TWO MONTHS PREVIOUS

  Just as you begin to urinate, the bearded man with the gun lopes into the bathroom.

  The pistol goes click! and is immediately pressed to your head. Shock bulges your eyes; shock freezes your nerves; shock cuts off the stream of your urine.

  “Don’t scream,” the intruder advises. “Don’t fight. Do everything I tell you. Do you understand?”

  Your throat wobbles once, then you gasp out, “Yes, but, please, don’t—”

  The pistol barrel ticks right against your teeth. “And don’t talk. I’m not kidding.”

  The voice sounds dry, slightly muffled, like someone speaking through a scarf. In this instantaneous and utterly unprepared-for horror, you’re able to note no details regarding his physical characteristics, race, or attire. All you noticed was the beard when he’d loped right into the bathroom an instant after you’d sat down on the toilet. After that, you see nothing more than the pistol: large and black, and its oddly extended barrel.

  “Now,” he orders. “Finish pissing.”

  The command astonishes you, but rather than protesting, you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and push.

  Nothing comes out.

  “I-I’m sorry. I’m just too nervous—”

  His hand blurs, and cracks you across the face.

  “Concentrate,” issues the cool monotone. “And lean forward with your hands on your knees. And arch your back.”

  Your teeth chatter, but in spite of your terror, you do as commanded, while your mind ticks back to the moments before this event barged into the middle of your unassuming life...

  You’d walked home from campus just as the sun was setting. You felt tired yet fulfilled because you know you’re getting the hang of teaching. In your apartment you lock the door behind you at once—there have been rapes just off campus—and you kick off your shoes and strip in the middle of the room, reveling in the gracious stun of cool air after escaping the heat and humidity outside. It’s the cool air which constricts your nipples and covers you with delightful gooseflesh. God, I have to pee, you think, striding to the bathroom. At once your image is captured in the bathroom mirror and you stop to appraise your reflection.

  You hate your hair, the unruly red frizz which can only be managed by tying it back behind your head; on any other woman it would become a silken ponytail but on you, it looks like a bristle brush. Yes, you hate your hair and its queer ox-blood-red color, yet everyone else, men and women alike, seem to find it fascinating. Your wedge of pubic hair matches the color, and puffs out in abundance. Shaving or waxing seems all the rage these days, especially with women your age, yet
you know you’ll never do that, as if the existence of your pubic hair proves something—a ludicrous thought.

  You hate your frame too—you think you’re too skinny—and you hate the barely perceptible freckles which cover you from head to foot. Like your hair, everyone else finds them fascinating, or “Exotic,” several men have said.

  But now was not the time to contemplate your self-image: your bladder feels fit to burst, so just as you move to sit on the toilet, a sparkle in the mirror stops you.

  It’s the cross glittering.

  Your father gave it to you long ago, when you at least in part believed in what it symbolized. How can I now, though? you wonder, feeling suddenly tainted...Your father’s last phone message reverberates in your mind: “Please, come back to church. Come back to God. It’s where you belong, honey...,” so similar to so many other messages which you never had the nerve to answer.

  This was when you sat on the toilet and began to urinate, after which the bearded man with the gun waltzed in...

  “And spread your legs—yeah, like that,” he says. “Shit, I love that big red bush. And put your feet back a little too. Push up off the balls of your feet.”

  Mind-numb, you obey the inexplicable commands.

  “It’s the image—understand? The image of the pose. I want that image while you’re pissing. I need to see the pee coming out...”

  He’s crazy, you think.

  “Now. Finish pissing. If you don’t, then I’ll—”

  If I don’t...he’ll kill me, you know.

  You concentrate, reclosing your eyes. You think of a garden hose cranked all the way open. You think of lawn sprinkler. You think of broken water pipes.

  “Come on.”

  Out it comes, then, the glittering cascade. You can feel the warm void race out of you as if it’s escaping this terrible predicament that you cannot escape yourself. Likewise, you hear the near-musical sound of it tinkling down into the toilet water.