Future Lovecraft
edited by
Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles
Cover illustration: Markus Vogt
Interior illustrations:
“In the Hall of the Yellow King” and “The Library Twins and the Nekrobees” by Nacho Molina Parra
and
“Dolly in the Window” and “The Kadath Angle” by Chadwick Saint John
Cover and interior design: Silvia Moreno-Garcia
INTRODUCTION: THE FUTURE IS LOVECRAFT
H.P. LOVECRAFT IS not generally considered a writer of science fiction, even though he had a personal interest in the sciences (astronomy, of course) and wrote stories that were rooted in science, even if they frequently had a horror bent (“The Colour Out of Space” is a memorable example). In his stories, Lovecraft explored scientific concepts like evolution, alien invasion and genetic engineering. His aliens were truly alien, not funny-looking people, and had no interest in humans—except, perhaps, to eat us. For that reason, his realistic view of the tiny human position in the cosmos, and his espousal of a very long view of human history, he has had as large an influence on science fiction as on horror. Thus, it seemed to us an excellent idea to develop a whole science fiction/horror anthology, and set all the stories and poems in the future.
The entries included here vary quite a bit. We do have Mythos-inspired fiction—including guest appearances by Nyarlathotep, Azathoth and others. However, our concern is not merely Mythos fiction but Lovecraftian fiction in general. We could go on for pages and pages about what ‘Lovecraftian’ means to us, but in the end, we think the stories can answer that best.
Thus, there are tales questioning reality, undermining protagonists’ sanity, or dwelling on the hopelessness of the characters. There are post-apocalyptic fables and stories in the near future. Space opera and tales set on Earth. Poems and epics told by aliens. Stories where sinister entities slip into our world. Stories where humans slip into other worlds. Tales of chaos and destruction.
Welcome to the future: It is Lovecraft.
IN THIS BRIEF INTERVAL
By Ann K. Schwader
Ann K. Schwader is the author of six poetry collections: Twisted in Dream (Hippocampus Press, 2011), Wild Hunt of the Stars (Sam’s Dot Publishing, 2010), In the Yaddith Time (Mythos Books, 2007), Architectures of Night (Dark Regions Press, 2003), The Worms Remember (Hive Press, 2001), and Werewoman (Nocturnal Publications, 1990). Ann was a Bram Stoker Award nominee (for Wild Hunt of the Stars) in 2011, and received a Rhysling Award from the Science Fiction Poetry Association in 2010. She is an active member of HWA, SFWA and SFPA. A Wyoming native, she now lives and writes in Colorado, USA.
IN THE HALL OF THE YELLOW KING
By Peter Rawlik
Peter Rawlik is a contributor to the New York Review of Science Fiction and has had fiction published in Crypt of Cthulhu, Talebones, and Dead But Dreaming 2 (Miskatonic River Press). He has stories forthcoming in Horror for the Holidays (Miskatonic River Press), HPL Mythos 2: Urban Cthulhu (H. Harksen productions), and Tales of the Shadowmen 8 (Black Coat Press).
AS THE DOORS to the throne room opened, the human Erbert Ouest cast a last look upwards at the great, towering spindle that rose through the sky and into space beyond. At the pinnacle, a scintillating light marked the location of The Armitage, the Tillinghast transport that had brought him and the rest of the delegation from Earth to dim Carcosa. Six weeks they had spent aboard The Armitage with the Tillinghasts, whose skill at traversing the Between Space had made them something more, and something less, than men. Ouest was no stranger to the metamorphic, but even he was disturbed by the dead, black eyes of the Tillinghasts and was grateful that there had been on board one of the few remaining Nug-Soth to serve as steward.
Once the doors had opened completely, an impatient Tcho-Tcho waved Ouest and his companion forward. With a gesture, the twsha master Sthast placed the shoggoth in motion. It slid forward, its hideous, protoplasmic bulk carrying its great load in silence and ease. The lozenge-shaped sepulchre was carved from the finest black coral and massed more than five full-grown carcharadons. As they proceeded, the court tittered. Ouest, though tempted, resisted the desire to cast a foul glance at the school of Hydran Sisters that swam amongst the courtiers whispering and hissing in their strange, lungless voices. Now was not the time for petty acts of reprisal, he thought. Later, when the formalities were complete, then the traitorous sorority would know the skill and wrath with which he could wield a scalpel. Only then would the flaying of Father Dagon be avenged.
Never had Ouest seen such a diversity of creatures in a single place. He supposed that any such court must have its parasites. By far, the most represented were the sycophantic Mi-Go, but there were contingents of Shan swarms, Xiclotl, and Nagaae, as well. There were a dozen Yith, identifiable not by their conformity to a single species but by the mandatory wearing of the Voorish sign. A small cluster of Martian Aihais fretted and tried to remain unnoticed behind a column. Ouest noted their presence and that of a rogue Xothian that he could not identify by name. Yet, despite all the species he could identify, the crowd was mostly dominated by those that he could not. These came in single exemplars, which meant that Ouest could not tell whether they were representatives of an unfamiliar species or something entirely unique. Such individuals were many and multiform, dread and vile, wondrous and terrifying, and none more so than that occupying the great throne before him.
One might be tempted to call the thing that rested uneasily on the dais “humanoid”, but such a classification would be giving it too much credit. It was swathed in yellow, diaphanous robes that concealed the vastness of form, and a square of the same material draped over its head, concealing the eyes, but revealing the gaunt, lipless mouth and ivory, peg-like teeth that sat amongst a husk of grey skin. Its hands, resting in its lap, were gloved, with only a thin gap between the gloves and the sleeve of the gown. Ouest could see nothing in that gap; no skin or bone seemed to connect the appendages to their terminal digits. Ouest knew that acting as Ythill was a dread task, and that the host was to expect certain concessions, but becoming partially unreal seemed excessive. Above the creature’s head, floating like an untouched and untouchable crown, was the ghostly, triple-curved symbol of He Who Must Not Be Named, marking its wearer as the King in Yellow.