Miskatonic Moon - FINALIST

[carnage_lee]

MISKATONIC MOON


If it came from this world, it did not belong there.
I stared at it as I awoke with a feeling of nausea, only scant inches away from that primordial ooze of unknown origin, a fetid mass of sickly green mixed with strange iridescent colors, totally foreign to the limited world we know.
As I struggled to arise from the floor, I recalled that this noxious mixture came from a source that was human, or at least what was left of one. It was the result of a rare overindulgence, something that a poor graduate student like myself has few opportunities to engage in.
A singular visit to an Arkham pub near the campus of Miskatonic University led to an invitation to sample a new “happy hour” libation. Of course, Arkham had little that could arouse happiness, but the opportunity to receive something for nothing led me to ingest numerous “Gin and Miskatonics,” with the unfortunate results described above.
I was sure that in time I could revive myself to pursue my daily studies. But the thought of football practice, never anticipated with pleasure, raised in me a dread, as if I were traveling to a foul and hellish domain.
If the idea of a football team at Miskatonic University seems ludicrous, that is precisely the point. The sight of the effete scholars of Arkham attempting a contest of physical exertion was expected to draw thousands of half-drunken, mocking spectators. Our school’s lagging income would thus be bolstered by curiosity seekers.
The University’s connection with the late H.P. Lovecraft has attracted a certain amount of tourism over the years, which peaked with the unfortunate craze of the “Cthulhu Lulu” doll. The number of visitors had declined over the years, however. Once they reached the campus, enticed by glowing descriptions in the glossy pages of the Visitor’s Guide and other varied advertisements, they were inevitably disappointed by our crumbling, fungi-infested infrastructure and the general atmosphere of gloom that weighed heavily over the entire Arkham area.
My afternoons were spent floundering in football practice, while most mornings I was engaged at the Miskatonic Library, working on the graduate thesis whose theme was a postmodern analysis of The Necronomicon. My research into postmodernism found it to be nearly as arcane as our school’s famous unreadable book, so combining the two was expected to appeal to our faculty’s taste for the bizarre, and accelerate my escape from Arkham with a depressingly unmarketable degree.
Although I was an enthusiastic scholar of ancient literature, I fully admit to being a skeptic until the events that I am recording took place. If sarcasm and an unpleasant tone permeate these writings, I beg forgiveness, placing at least some of the blame on my fear of life-shattering debt from student loans, and the general cheerlessness of a solitary existence in one of New England’s least welcoming territories.
An historic copy of The Necronomicon is kept under lock and key in the library, but I generally relied on the most acceptable of the numerous English translations. Repeated perusal of the text drove me nearly as mad as its author. However, the ambiguity of the work presented an immense advantage.
Like The Book of Revelation in the hands of a fundamentalist huckster, The Necronomicon can have an infinite number of interpretations. Combined with rudimentary astrology, I found the notorious tome yielded a wealth of hidden meanings, all esoteric and all useless, or so I believed. At that time, I doubted the existence of the Elder Gods, the Great Old Ones, and all the deities that I believed were derived from the overactive imagination of a bookish eccentric.
I reasoned that the popularity of Lovecraft’s work must have generated hundreds, perhaps thousands, of impassioned calls to the sleeping gods that dwell in what HPL called “black zones of shadow close to our daily paths.” Yet all such spells and incantations appeared to be unanswered. What would it take to reach the consciousness of these beings and cause them to burst into our mundane world? Such questions were beyond the efforts of a penurious student attempting to complete his studies.

“What seems secure to man by day
The moon will give and take away.”

I began to drowse over the hypnotic ramblings of the Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred. Into my thoughts crept visions of a degenerate race leaping, shouting, and celebrating, their half-naked appearance a mockery of the human form.
This reminded me of cheerleading.
Miskatonic was a co-educational institution. Therefore, not only did it have a football team, but it had added cheerleaders, dressed in the immodest and brief costumes of the day.
Although I secretly agreed, I considered myself too much of a gentleman to join in the unflattering comments that other players contributed to discussions of the new “squad without bods.” I banished from my thoughts those females, with their strange attempts at choreography. I also blocked out their inarticulate endeavors at cheering, which often seemed to devolve into unintelligible chanting.
After a ghastly lunch at the campus cafeteria, I went to an appointment with my faculty adviser, Amos Wheeler. Professor Wheeler was a recluse, avowedly brilliant, but thought to be weird and unworldly. If that were true by Miskatonic standards, he was a strange person indeed.
I was initially wary of him after hearing rumors of his mysterious talents and unusual tastes, although I was surprised that these qualities would differentiate him from other members of the school’s faculty. However, he shared my interest in arcane knowledge, and encouraged such pursuits in my thesis.
The professor had passed many years at Miskatonic, and in fact his numerous eccentricities most likely kept him from service at other institutions. He seemed to have chosen the most remote campus offices that he could find. They had a fine view of the sagging gable roofs and stark church spires of Arkham, and overlooked the brooding hills beyond.
I entered the labyrinthine corridors of the Philosophy and Ancient Science Building and felt my way up, climbing dimly lit, narrow stairways. As was my wont, I took in the many remarkable odours of decay, and marveled at the structure of the moldering building whose many odd angles did not quite fit the geometry of our world. A graduate student could easily disappear within these walls, and according to rumour, a few were lost if not lamented.
Professor Wheeler was at his paper-shrouded desk, and invited me to sit down. His office was filled with decaying, leather-bound tomes and strange biological specimens floating in large glass jars. He rose to greet me with a jovial air that was a contrast to his usual brusque manner. I began to explain my latest findings which centered on the phases of the moon recorded in The Necronomicon, but he interrupted me, quickly changing the subject.
“How is football practice going, Hiram?”
It was not only his uncharacteristic use of my first name that startled me. The professor was the least likely person to be interested in contemporary athletics, it being well known that he did not possess a television set, and refused all communication by modern devices such as cell phones and the Internet.
“As well as can be expected, sir. I…”
“We have known each other long enough for you to cease using ‘sir’ at the end of every sentence,” he answered. “In fact, you may now refer to me as ‘Coach’.”
I was beginning to feel as if I had entered one of the foreign dimensions described in The Necronomicon.
“I see that you are surprised by my interest in sports. Yet I have come to realize that the pursuits of the mind must be balanced with those of the body. In fact, it was I who invented the team name ‘Catatonics’. And the cheerleading squad was my personal innovation.”
He moved closer to me. “Some of those girls are pretty hot, eh?” he added with a less than convincing wink.
I could barely stammer out, “Actually, with their new uniforms, it would appear that they will become quite chilly.”
The professor emitted a strange wheezing noise which I realized was meant to be laughter. “Ha! I bet there will be indulgence in ‘brewskis’ after the game, and I anticipate that you young people will pursue what you call ‘hookups’ in the nocturnal hours.”
Silently renewing my vow to renounce alcoholic beverages, I was nearly overcome with shock at witnessing this new side to my advisor. It was as if Scrooge had been visited by the ghosts of Cthulhu Past, Present, and Future, and turned into a jollier man on Christmas morn.
“Do you find the cheers I wrote to be encouraging to the team?” he said, dropping his bonhomie for an instant and giving me a strangely hard stare.
“No, sir, I am afraid my studies force me to avoid, er, miss cheerleading practice.”
“Well, no matter,” he said in a lighter tone. “You will hear them in the first game of the season, which will fortuitously take place under a full moon.”

That dreaded night finally arrived. The Catatonics was an apt name for our team, since any attempt to move forward on the field of play seemed hopeless, and our main defensive maneuver was falling and curling into a fetal position whenever we were approached.
A more dispirited group could hardly be imagined in the locker room before the game, as each of us anticipated minor injury at best. The exception was “Coach” Wheeler, whose “pep talk” reminded us of our school pride and obligation to our fellow students. It ended with one truth, a subtle reminder that our somewhat generous football scholarships were “on the line” as much as we were.
We entered the field to a combination of salutation and laughter. I was fortunate enough to be a “benchwarmer”, witnessing and not contributing to the humiliation of our university. It was thus that I heard for the first time the cheers that “Coach” had written for our cheerleaders. Copies of the words had been distributed to the entire student body, and attendance at the game was mandatory.

“Miskatonic, Miskatonic, we are in the groove!
Catatonics, Catatonics, we aren’t gonna move!”

My dread grew as the verses evolved into something both complex and familiar.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn! Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn!"

I sat next to Wheeler and shrieked my warning to him above the noise of the crowd.
“Coach, coach,” I cried, “the verses have morphed into rituals to draw the Great Old Ones from the dimensions where they lie sleeping!”
Wheeler had become flushed and excited. “Yes, those exalted beings do not listen to my sole voice even when combined with those of fellow professors. But thousands of people chanting as one during the proper alignment of the moon and stars cannot fail to draw their attention!”
The true Amos Wheeler was now beside me, a man whose isolation and lust for forbidden knowledge had driven him to madness.
And there were other, more startling changes that filled me with horror.
The stars that had dotted the cool New England sky were being blotted out by a blackness that approached the soullessly shining moon. A chilling breeze arose. I could hear howling even above the roar of the intoxicated crowd, which I prayed was simply an effect of the wind.
I was engulfed by a fear and foreboding that bubbled up from the depths of my soul. I felt I must do something – anything – to thwart the plans of the professor, who was now looking upwards, drooling and gibbering with excitement.
Taking advantage of his inattention to the playing field, I ran out and insinuated myself into a huddle, to give particularly unusual instructions to the team. My affiliation with Wheeler was well known, and my heightened emotions must have gifted me with enhanced powers of persuasion, for they accepted my orders without question.
The athletes aligned themselves to face the stands full of chanting revelers, who seemed to be hypnotized by the foul ritual words they were repeating. Then I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Now!”
The entire team turned around, bent over, pulled down their pants, and presented their bare posteriors to the viewers.
The chanting instantly ceased, replaced by drunken cheers and shouts. Wheeler, for his part, ran up to me in the field, cursing me for saving the ungrateful and degenerate human race which could not now be cleansed from the earth.
I simply replied, “The moon giveth and the moon taketh away.”

Saving the world, of course, did nothing for my academic career. I was barely given time to pack my things and leave campus after being banned for life. I did receive my degree, however. Although Wheeler had developed an infinite and eternal hatred for me, I convinced him via correspondence that it would be in his best interest to let me graduate and let my story remain untold in Arkham.
Yet I am still filled with black dread as I think back upon those times, gazing upon my diploma in Mediaeval Metaphysics and Arcane Literature, with the words “Ad eundum quo nemo ante iit.”
Translated, this in effect means, “Would you like fries with that?”