Now he took his pistol from under his make-do pillow and swept the beam of his light around the campsite, half-expecting to be surrounded by a swarm of insects. There was nothing but the usual debris of camp.
He slipped his boots on and made his way to the tree line, where he paused, and then thought better of it and simply relieved himself, there, shivering with the release.
When he turned back toward the camp he thought he could hear something through the shrill droning of the crickets. It was his imagination, he knew, that made It sound like a low ringing chant-
“Cthulhu, Cthulhu, Cthulhu”-but after recent events he could not be sure. He swept the tree line behind him once again, then turned the beam back to the camp. There was Lovecraft on his cot, safely away from the wood smoke; there was Smith, oddly languid on the ground in his bedroll; there was his own empty cot near the fire; and there was Glory, bundled under her blankets. But where was her red hair? He walked briskly forward, realizing something was wrong, and just as he got to Glory’s cot the whispering abruptly stopped. A loud shriek came from the direction of the cabin, and with it a blast of blinding blue white light that cut through the darkness like the giant blade of a sword.
“HP! Smith!” Howard called, but they were already up, turning toward the sound. “Glory’s missing,” Howard said, and not waiting for the others, he immediately ran stumbling toward the cabin, eyes dazzled by purple afterimages.
The back door of the cabin was open, casting a rectangular swatch of light like the negative of a shadow onto the dark ground. Howard drew his pistol and ran in, his boots thundering on the wood floor.
The first thing he saw was Glory’s silhouette at the table, leaning over the source of the blinding light, whose blue tinge caused her hair to glow an unearthly violet color.
On the table, the pages of the Necronomicon fluttered wildly, behaving as if some frantic invisible hand were thumbing back and forth through it looking for a particular passage. Howard watched, bewildered, as the book flattened down, just as abruptly, its tattered pages open to an arcane diagram. Now Glory raised her arms high, the sleeves of her blouse falling to her shoulders, her skin pale blue, and a voice, clearly hers and yet not hers, whispered, “Cthulhu.”
“No!”
Instantly, Glory spun in her chair and faced him. Her face was damp, her eyes oddly reddish, her hair tangled. She had opened the buttons of her blouse and pulled the fabric down and back, exposing her breasts and her belly. Howard couldn’t help but stare. He tried to hold the pistol steady. “No!” he said again.
Glory smiled a wicked and lascivious smile that distorted the natural beauty of her features. “Put down the gun, Bobby,” she said, reaching toward him.
Howard took a step backward and pulled the hammer back. “Miss McKenna,” he said, “stop it.”
Glory tilted her head back and laughed, then she stared into Howard’s eyes and said, “Look at me, Bobby. Look at me.” She arched her back and preened for him.
Howard couldn’t take his eyes off her body. He thrust the pistol forward, but even to him it no longer felt like a threat. He took a step toward her, pistol still extended, and she reached for the barrel, smiling.
“I’ll shoot you, I swear,” said Howard.
“Oh, Bobby, you’re so brave.”
Glory was about to rise from the seat and take the pistol when Smith barged in carrying a lamp, Lovecraft on his heels. “Stop!” cried Smith.
Howard turned his head, momentarily distracted, and in that instant, Glory leaped up and swatted the .45 from his hand, sending it flying into the darkness of the adjoining room. The blow stunned Howard, and he responded with a boxer’s instinct, dropping his weight at the knees and swinging. His left hook caught Glory behind the ear, and it might have killed her had he not opened his hand and turned the punch into a mighty slap, which spun her all the way around and left her in a heap on the floor.
Suddenly the light from the table died down into a muted blue glow. “The Artifact!” cried Lovecraft. “She took it from me!” He did a foolish thing and reached for it, only to burn his fingers on the intense cold that issued from its face on the table.
Smith lifted Glory to her feet and sat her up in a chair, kneeling in front of her to support her. He took her jaw in one hand and turned her head this way and that. “Are you all right, Glory?”
“I’m fine,” she said, her eyes still closed. “What’s going on?”
“I’m afraid you might be possessed by a demon,” said Smith. He pulled her blouse around her and began to button it up. “I hope that doesn’t sound as absurd to you as it does to me. A demon.”
“Yes, a demon,” murmured Lovecraft. “One that haunts one’s’ dreams and hides like an assassin between one and one’s sleep. In my dreams I heard its whispering in my brain, and I woke to see the shadow of wings and the eyes of a serpent.”
A pall fell over the men in the kitchen. Glory, still in the chair in front of them, made noises of pain and pleasure and what sounded like alien words, and then she laughed loudly, with a guttural edge in her voice.
“A demon is still riding her,” said Lovecraft.
Smith silenced him with a gesture, and was about to speak, when Howard said, “My God, she’s makin’ an animal noise-like a loco coyote. Have we done somethin’ to get her mad?”
Lovecraft furrowed his brow in concern. He well knew that after their recent escape from the odd men the Artifact was alerting the servants of Cthulhu of their whereabouts. Smith’s deep brown eyes glanced up, and he glared at Howard as if wondering whether to take the question as sarcasm or lack of awareness. Howard began to flush, but the attentive Lovecraft leaned toward his friend and tapped him on his shoulder.
“Look at her!” Lovecraft pointed at Glory, who was laughing even more strangely than a moment before.
The men were drawing away from her apprehensively. She did not look at them, or seem to notice them. She tossed her red hair and her loud laugh resounded in the kitchen. Her pale breasts heaved up and down, her sleeves opened and fell downward again as she raised up her pale arms. Her green eyes shone with a wild spark, her lips twisted with her unnatural sounds.
“The hand of Cthulhu is on her,” Lovecraft grumbled uneasily. “Glory!” Smith called sharply.
The only reply was another burst of manic laughter, but then she cried out, hoarsely, “Gnish’ton nog’na p’sto r’fomem olat f’gni!” Her voice rose into an inhuman pitch, and leaping from her seat, she stood behind the table, a knife in her hand. Lovecraft and Smith cried out and scrambled quickly out of her reach. But it was at Howard that Glory rushed, her pale face a mask of rage. Howard caught her wrist, and even the supernatural strength of her madness was futile against his solid muscles. He flung her from him, down onto the paper-strewn floor, where she lay in a moaning heap, the knife driven into the table as she collapsed again.
THEIR TENUOUS COMPOSURE, which had been so suddenly shattered, resumed again as the men lifted Glory’s arms and legs and hoisted her onto the table. Howard disappeared into the other room. and, returning with his .45, pushed it in under his belt.
“Calm down,” said Smith. “Let’s not allow this unexpected complication to discourage us in our work. Spirit possession is common enough.”