Read Online Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) by Graham McNeill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Graham McNeill
Ads: Link
fell upon a fire-blackened corpse and tore a lump of seared meat from its haunches. This was too much. Flying bloody insect monsters, and now a cannibal horde… Christ, he had to get away!
Finn scooped up the silver sphere and edged around the corner of the building, keeping low to the ground as the battle raged in the glare of the burning liquor. He ducked around the corner and ran for the trees, not daring to look behind him, not daring to stop for fear of what he might see at his shoulder if he did. At last he reached the shadows of the forest, and pressed his back to the thick bole of a tree. Horrified tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them away as anger took over from fear.
He risked a glance around the tree, catching a last snapshot of the horror unfolding behind him. Finn saw Sean borne to the ground by three pallid-skinned savages who bit and tore at the skin of his face. Fergal ran into the forest with a pair in pursuit. Mobsters’ guns blazed to little effect. The fires were dying as the liquor burned up. He heard a crash of glass and a resurgent buzzing noise of unnatural wings that couldn’t possibly allow flight.
“Christ, who the hell are these guys?” gasped Finn.
Scampering forms, like men but hunched and degenerate, loped through the clearing before the house, and in their midst walked a hooded man swathed from head to foot in crimson robes like some ancient pagan priest. The creatures did not touch him, but gathered around him like supplicants. Finn couldn’t see the man’s face, the hood wreathing his features in shadow.
Though this was simply a man, not some blood-hungry cannibal or hideous monster from beyond the realms of understanding, Finn felt his terror mount at the sight of him. Terrible evil, palpable and without mercy, flowed from this dreadful figure, as though all the malice and horror in the world were bound to his mortal form.
“Oh Jesus Christ and all his saints, save me now,” hissed Finn.
Unable to bear the sight a moment longer, Finn turned and ran blindly into the forest.
He didn’t know where he was going; all he knew was that he had to get away from that damnable crimson priest.
CHAPTER FOUR
Oliver paced the length of the classroom, tapping a piece of chalk against his palm with every step he took. His students watched him attentively, and he waited as they copied his words in their books before continuing. Polynesian Anthropology was his favorite class to teach, and his passion for the field hopefully passed to his class. Certainly there were several students who didn’t need to take the class, but had chosen it as an elective credit.
“So you can see that the study of anthropology in Polynesia owes a debt to the sensationalist journals of Bougainville and his crew, but also to the writings of explorers such as James Cook and Dumont D’Urville. But who can tell me what else might have driven the anthropological study of these islands?”
A number of hands went up, always a good sign. Oliver scanned the faces, gesturing toward a red-headed boy from Ipswich named James Malloy.
“Mr. Malloy, what do you say?”
“From the missionaries, sir.”
“And do these missionaries have any names, Mr. Malloy?”
“Of course, sir. Laval, Turner, and Bingham are the ones that spring to mind first.”
“Very good,” said Oliver. “But, of course, Polynesia was always a land that had fascinated the Occidental nations. Partly thanks to the mythologizing of the landscape by the artist Paul Gauguin. You might know this fellow from some of Dr. Goddard’s classes. He lived in Tahiti for a time before moving to the Marquesas Islands. The works Gauguin produced there are laden with religious symbols and present a somewhat over-exotic view of the island’s inhabitants. There is undoubtedly a degree of romantic primitivism in his work, which fueled others to come after him and discover this far off land for themselves.”
“Was that what
Finn scooped up the silver sphere and edged around the corner of the building, keeping low to the ground as the battle raged in the glare of the burning liquor. He ducked around the corner and ran for the trees, not daring to look behind him, not daring to stop for fear of what he might see at his shoulder if he did. At last he reached the shadows of the forest, and pressed his back to the thick bole of a tree. Horrified tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them away as anger took over from fear.
He risked a glance around the tree, catching a last snapshot of the horror unfolding behind him. Finn saw Sean borne to the ground by three pallid-skinned savages who bit and tore at the skin of his face. Fergal ran into the forest with a pair in pursuit. Mobsters’ guns blazed to little effect. The fires were dying as the liquor burned up. He heard a crash of glass and a resurgent buzzing noise of unnatural wings that couldn’t possibly allow flight.
“Christ, who the hell are these guys?” gasped Finn.
Scampering forms, like men but hunched and degenerate, loped through the clearing before the house, and in their midst walked a hooded man swathed from head to foot in crimson robes like some ancient pagan priest. The creatures did not touch him, but gathered around him like supplicants. Finn couldn’t see the man’s face, the hood wreathing his features in shadow.
Though this was simply a man, not some blood-hungry cannibal or hideous monster from beyond the realms of understanding, Finn felt his terror mount at the sight of him. Terrible evil, palpable and without mercy, flowed from this dreadful figure, as though all the malice and horror in the world were bound to his mortal form.
“Oh Jesus Christ and all his saints, save me now,” hissed Finn.
Unable to bear the sight a moment longer, Finn turned and ran blindly into the forest.
He didn’t know where he was going; all he knew was that he had to get away from that damnable crimson priest.
CHAPTER FOUR
Oliver paced the length of the classroom, tapping a piece of chalk against his palm with every step he took. His students watched him attentively, and he waited as they copied his words in their books before continuing. Polynesian Anthropology was his favorite class to teach, and his passion for the field hopefully passed to his class. Certainly there were several students who didn’t need to take the class, but had chosen it as an elective credit.
“So you can see that the study of anthropology in Polynesia owes a debt to the sensationalist journals of Bougainville and his crew, but also to the writings of explorers such as James Cook and Dumont D’Urville. But who can tell me what else might have driven the anthropological study of these islands?”
A number of hands went up, always a good sign. Oliver scanned the faces, gesturing toward a red-headed boy from Ipswich named James Malloy.
“Mr. Malloy, what do you say?”
“From the missionaries, sir.”
“And do these missionaries have any names, Mr. Malloy?”
“Of course, sir. Laval, Turner, and Bingham are the ones that spring to mind first.”
“Very good,” said Oliver. “But, of course, Polynesia was always a land that had fascinated the Occidental nations. Partly thanks to the mythologizing of the landscape by the artist Paul Gauguin. You might know this fellow from some of Dr. Goddard’s classes. He lived in Tahiti for a time before moving to the Marquesas Islands. The works Gauguin produced there are laden with religious symbols and present a somewhat over-exotic view of the island’s inhabitants. There is undoubtedly a degree of romantic primitivism in his work, which fueled others to come after him and discover this far off land for themselves.”
“Was that what
Similar Books
