Still, something in me wanted to do it. It wanted to...I don't know...quit the foreplay and get right to the f**king.
I could see-or thought I could, I'm still not sure about this part-the place where the eighth stone belonged, and I could see that...that fadedness...bulging toward it, trying to get through where the protection of the stones was thin. I was terrified! Because if it got out, every unnamable thing on the other side would be born into our world. The sky would turn black, and it would be full of new stars and insane constellations.
I unslung the camera, but dropped it on the ground when I tried to unzip the bag it was in. My hands were shaking as if I was having some kind of seizure. I picked up the camera case and unzipped it, and when I looked at the stones again, I saw that the space inside them wasn't just faded anymore. It was turning black. And I could see eyes again. Peering out of the darkness. This time they were yellow, with narrow black pupils. Like cat's eyes. Or snake eyes.
I tried to lift the camera, but I dropped it again. And when I reached for it, the hay closed over it, and I had to tug it free. No, I had to rip it free. I was on my knees by then, yanking on the strap with both hands. And a breeze started to blow out of the gap where the eighth stone should have been. It blew the hair off my forehead. It stank. It smelled of carrion. I raised the camera to my face, but at first I could see nothing. I thought, It's blinded the camera, it's somehow blinded the camera, and then I remembered it was a digital Nikon, and you have to turn it on. I did that-I heard the beep-but I still could see nothing.
The breeze was a wind by then. It sent the hay rippling down the length of the field in big waves of shadow. The smell was worse. And the day was darkening. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, it was pure blue, but the day was darkening, just the same. As if some great invisible planet was eclipsing the sun.
Something spoke. Not English. Something that sounded like "Cthun, cthun, deeyanna, deyanna." But then...Christ, then it said my name. It said, "Cthun, N., deeyanna, N." I think I screamed, but I'm not sure, because by then the wind had become a gale that was roaring in my ears. I should have screamed. I had every right to scream. Because it knew my name! That grotesque, unnamable thing knew my name. And then...the camera...do you know what I realized?
[I ask him if he left the lens cap on, and he utters a shrill laugh that runs up my nerves and makes me think of rats scampering over broken glass.]
Yes! Right! The lens cap! The f**king lens cap! I tore it off and raised the camera to my eye-it's a wonder I didn't drop it again, my hands were shaking so badly, and the hay never would have let it go again, no, never, because the second time it would have been ready. But I didn't drop it, and I could see through the viewfinder, and there were eight stones. Eight. Eight keeps things straight. That darkness was still swirling in the middle, but it was retreating. And the wind blowing around me was diminishing.
I lowered the camera and there were seven. Something was bulging out of the darkness, something I can't describe to you. I can see it-I see it in my dreams-but there are no words for that kind of blasphemy. A pulsing leather helmet, that's as close as I can get. One with yellow goggles on each side. Only the goggles...I think they were eyes, and I know they were looking at me.
I raised the camera again, and saw eight stones. I snapped off six or eight shots as if to mark them, to fix them in place forever, but of course that didn't work, I only fried the camera. Lenses can see those stones, Doc-I'm pretty sure a person could see them in a mirror, too, maybe even through a plain pane of glass-but they can't record them. The only thing that can record them, hold them in place, is the human mind, the human memory. And even that's undependable, as I've found out. Counting, touching, and placing works for awhile-it's ironic to think that behaviors we consider neurotic are actually holding the world in place-but sooner or later whatever protection they offer decays. And it's so much work.
So damn much work.
I wonder if we could be done for today. I know it's early, but I'm very tired.
[I tell him I will prescribe a sedative, if he wants-mild, but more reliable than Ambien or Lunesta. It will work if he doesn't overdo it. He gives me a grateful smile.]
That would be good, very good. But can I ask you a favor?
[I tell him that of course he can.]
Prescribe either twenty, forty, or sixty. Those are all good numbers.