NOTHING EVER HAPPENS IN OHIO

Lovecraftian pulp fiction by James Heath Lantz

Scene from Japanese artist Guo Tanabe’s adaptation of The Call of Cthulhu

Transportation magnate Horace Greenberg’s infant son, Horace, Jr., had been kidnapped mere days before Christmas 1925. Harold’s investigation led him to the gray-robed Cult of the Great Dreamer, whose symbol - the crimson image of an eye with six small tentacles coming out of the pupil - sat in the center of their robes. Underground tunnels led to their base and its altar. Torch flames danced across the walls, providing light for the shadowy paths. They looked as if they had been burrowed from below by a gargantuan mole. The remains of some otherworldly, gigantic beasts also seemed to have been used to create them. Harold could have sworn that the bones were a mixture of whale, frog, and some tentacled creature like a squid or an octopus.

Harold’s keen ears had picked up chanting somewhere between the third and fourth tunnel. He crouched and slowed his pace upon nearing the entrance to the cult’s sacrificial altar.

Torches surrounded six cultists in the center. Their flames cast a light that seemed more eerie than illuminating, and they, like the half-dozen cowled and robed men around them, formed a circle around a rectangular stone. Resting upon the oddly perfectly shaped rock was Horace Greenberg, Jr. His chubby arms and legs moved in fits as his screams became louder. Voices that seemed to come from everywhere at once echoed the chants Harold had heard.

Harold’s nostrils were assaulted by an overpowering smell of rotting flesh and death. It took all of his willpower not to vomit from the stench. He kept thinking to himself that young Horace needed him. This allowed him to proceed.

The cultists continued their chants. One of the six at the altar had a dagger with a triple curved blade in his right hand. Harold Roberts knew in that moment that the Cult of the Great Dreamer intended to kill the baby. He had to stop them no matter what it cost.

The cultist raised the dagger over his head. Harold had only one chance. He had to make sure his shot didn’t miss. He fired his pistol. The bullet struck the cultist’s hand. The knife had fallen to the cave floor with a slight clatter. Another projectile struck the back of the wielder’s hooded head. His body struck a torch. Its wood split, causing fire to fall on the corpse. The other five cultists backed away as their comrade turned to ash.

The cultists at the altar looked in Harold’s direction as he made an unsuccessful running dive to grab Horace, Jr. Ten fists pummeled his burly body. The police detective did everything he could to defend himself and shield young Horace. A punch to one, a kick to another. Harold was able to free himself from the robed madmen. He was relieved, but he couldn’t stop to catch his breath. One portly cultist was suddenly over Harold, punching him repeatedly in the face with his fat, swollen fists. Harold had pulled his assailant’s hood down in the scuffle. The revelation of his attacker’s identity sent a wave of shock and anger throughout his body. It was Boston Police Chief William Riley, the man who had assigned Harold to search for Horace Greenberg, Jr. This same man had saved Harold Roberts on numerous occasions and even gave him a medal for preventing the mayor’s assassination. Harold’s boss was a member of the Cult of the Great Dreamer who wanted to kill Harold.

The white hair on the sides of Riley’s head and in his beard made one believe he might have played Santa Claus at this time of year. Yet, the crazed look in his icy blue eyes showed he was not the ripe, jolly old saint whom he could imitate. His fists struck Harold in rage and madness. Harold’s hands clamped around Riley’s thick neck after punching him several times.

It’s like strangling a bull, Harold thought.

Both men struggled, yet Harold was no slouch in the brute strength department. He’d knocked out crooks twice his size when he was a beat cop. Both men, full of rage and adrenaline, continued squeezing each other’s necks just as Riley gripped his in his meaty hands. However, the screams, cries, and whimpers of Horace Greenberg, Jr., motivated Harold Roberts. The police detective would move mountains to ensure the child was safe at home with his mother.

Flesh was squeezed until a horrible crunching like dry, fallen tree branches under one’s boots as they had walked in the woods was heard. Harold Roberts managed to break Police Chief William Riley’s neck. The other three at the altar hadn’t moved for some seconds because they hadn’t expected Harold to survive his fight with Riley.

Harold fired his gun. One bullet struck a cultist in the abdomen. He fell backward from the altar. His body was impaled by a stone carved into the shape of a tentacle. Two more shots hit two others dead center in their heads. The rest of the group had gone mad with anger. Having only one bullet, Harold needed to figure out how to stop the rest of this mad lot.

In the center of the cave’s ceiling hung a large pyre-like structure, suspended by a chain intertwined between two spiraled stone tentacle shapes. If Harold could shoot a weak link, the huge lamp would create a flaming wall to stop the others from following. He could also throw his lantern to literally add fuel to the fire if necessary.

Suddenly, Harold felt a sharp pain. The dagger blade with three curves was sticking out of his chest near the junction between his right arm and shoulder. He let out a loud scream. His blood dripped onto the stone floor. Damn him for not taking care of the last cultist at the altar when he should have!

Harold turned to face his attacker, the gaunt, sallow, and frail Horace Greenberg, Senior. When Harold had only spoken to Wilma Greenberg, the infant had disappeared. The child’s father refused to see anyone because of the cancer ravaging his body. Harold understood why. The man had looked like death warmed over.

There was a raging madness that rivaled that of Chief Riley in Horace Greenberg, Senior’s gray eyes as he hissed, “You will not deny me my chance at immortality!”

The intensity of both Horace, Jr.’s cries, and Harold’s blood loss increased. Still, something - his strength of will, adrenaline, his need to save Horace, Jr., or perhaps a little of all of those factors - kept Harold standing.

Harold took a deep breath and asked, “So, you’d sacrifice your own son to live forever?”

“My immortality is more important! With it, I’ll rule this world of stupid apes!”

Something happened after Greenberg, Senior, had made his venomous statement. The members of the Cult of the Great Dreamer went from serene, sheepish chanters to a riotous mob with a bloodlust in mere moments. In spite of the blood loss, Harold grabbed the Greenberg baby and moved as fast as possible. He could hear Greenberg, Senior’s protests being drowned out by the outraged roars of the crowd behind him.

Harold moved like a drunk due to blood loss, but he still did his best to run. He saw that nobody followed him. His ears told him the Cult of the Great Dreamer was too busy tearing apart Horace Greenberg, Senior. Harold wouldn’t need to shoot his last bullet after all. These people and their anger at Horace, Senior’s broken promises, were doing his work for him.

Harold tried to console the crying child while he moved through the dank passages back to Boston’s city streets. Harold took lit torches from their tentacle-shaped handles and threw them to the ground to cover his escape. Oil from Harold’s lantern increased their blaze.

Harold was about to pass out from blood loss as he approached the roughly constructed exit leading to the street. His movements were becoming more unsteady as he got closer to the old, gnarled wooden door.

A winter wind stabbed Harold in the face, and snowflakes of blowing snow bit his cheeks. He and the baby had almost made it. If Horace, Jr., got to safety, that would be enough for Harold. He and young Horace had made it to a snow-covered sidewalk. The burly detective had fallen backward. He was sure he’d land in the snow until he felt three pairs of hands catch him. Blood loss had overtaken Police Detective Harold Roberts, and he welcomed the black-veiled sweetness of repose.

*

The tall, burly, dark-haired Harold Roberts woke up from the same nightmare. “Nightmare” was only a partially accurate term for what he had endured. His subconscious had forced him to relive the events that had forced him to leave the Boston Police Department. While he recovered from his injury, Wilma Greenberg thanked Harold for saving Horace, Jr. There had been no trace of any of the Cult of the Great Dreamer. Fires had consumed the caverns. However, Harold didn’t care what had happened to them. Horace Greenberg, Jr., was home safe and sound, where he belonged. That’s all that truly mattered.

In the days that followed, Harold checked in on the Greenbergs, turned down a promotion to chief of police, and handed in his resignation. Harold didn’t know who he could trust. Harold had once thought Chief Riley was an honorable man. A part of him still believed in the good in all people. However, the Greenberg case increased his suspicions nearly tenfold.

Harold had packed all his belongings after he was released from the hospital. He had every intention of returning to Dove Creek, Ohio, where he was born and raised. He’d open a private detective’s office there. He could live with and look after his elderly paternal grandparents. Their neighbors, Sam and Edith Anderson, and their daughter Beth, had looked after Grandma and Grandpa Roberts after Harold moved to Boston. Beth had written Harold when he was in the hospital. Both Grandpa and Grandma Roberts’ health had worsened. Grandma needed a wheelchair to get around, and Grandpa is confined to his bed.

When Harold told his friends and colleagues in Boston he was opening a private investigator’s office in Dove Creek, Ohio, they all chuckled or laughed heartily.

“Nothing ever happens in Ohio,” they all said.

That was exactly what Harold was counting on. Recent events had soured him on life in Boston. He wanted to make a difference when he first arrived at the Third Precinct on Harvest Avenue. Perhaps he did make a difference to some, including Horace Greenberg, Jr. Yet, how could Harold do more if those he worked with were as bad or worse than the criminals he put in prison?

It had been nearly three years since the Greenberg Baby Case had been closed. Harold still had the cruel dagger scar on his shoulder. He sat on his bed for a few minutes before checking on his grandparents. He stood up to look out the window. There had been a heavy snow the night before. The main creek and the surrounding streams were frozen. Getting water from the pump would be a real chore today.

Harold left his room, knocked on the wooden door across the hall, and asked impishly, “Are you both decent?”

“Come on in, Skeeter,” Grandpa Roberts called.

Grandpa had always called Harold “Skeeter” ever since he was a toddler. Harold never understood where the nickname had come from. Grandpa never gave him the same answer every time he asked. Most people might find that irritating, but Harold found the nickname endearing. Grandpa’s stories about it were a continuous private joke between the two of them. Grandma had once told Grandpa to stop calling Harold “Skeeter” not long after he had joined the Boston Police Department. Harold insisted otherwise. He called it a beacon of joy in the madness of the big city. Harold hadn’t realized how right he was until he had returned to Ohio.

He turned the doorknob and entered the room. What he saw still pulled at his heartstrings even after all this time. Two of the strongest people he knew now need help with basic everyday tasks. They put on a mask to hide how they felt about their need for assistance, but he could see it hurt their pride from time to time.

Grandma, a tall, medium-built woman in her early seventies, gave the impression of great strength despite her recent setbacks. Her flowered pajamas mirrored her colorful spirit. From what Grandma had told Harold when he was old enough to understand, her father drank heavily and beat her, her mother, and her younger sister. Sometimes, Grandma would do everything to make them laugh in order to ease the situation. This helped forge her character. It’s one of the many things that made Grandpa fall in love with her.

Grandpa had his stubborn streak, but his character was similar to Grandma’s. One tended to help the other in moments of weakness or troubled times.

Grandma moved from the bed to her wheelchair with help from her arms. Harold ran to her. “Now, Gram,” he said in a slightly scolding tone, “I told you to wait for me to help you get in the chair.”

“Hush, now, Harry,” She shot back in a similar tone. “You’ve got your hands full enough as it is with Grandpa.”

On the left side of the bed lay Grandpa. He had lost weight, but he still looked powerful enough to wrestle a bull. For reasons that Doctor Simmons and others can’t fathom, Grandpa had been paralyzed from the neck down. He could move his head and facial muscles. Yet, he was unable to get out of bed by himself. He needed help sitting up, and Harold had to carry him to a chair or to the bathroom. He also had to do the latter for Grandma.

It hurt Harold to see his grandparents like this. He found it strange that Grandma and Grandpa Roberts’ current condition began the same night he had been stabbed. According to Beth, her father, Sam Anderson, had found them the next morning and called Doctor Simmons. Grandma and Grandpa told Doc when their afflictions had started. Harold regretted not returning to help them sooner.

“You don’t go blaming yourself, Skeeter,” Grandpa said to Harold when he returned. “You were hurt badly for what you told us.”

“Besides, Sam, Edith, and Beth Anderson looked after us while you were in the hospital,” Grandma said.

Harold brought himself back to the present. He wouldn’t help Grandma and Grandpa by beating himself up about the past. They needed him here and now, and he wasn’t about to let them down.

“I had that dream again,” Grandpa had said to Harold after breakfast.

Grandpa had had the nightmares since before Christmas of this year. Harold had learned the details a couple of days ago. Portals of green energy appeared in the skies over Dove Creek, Ohio. Gray-green-blue tentacles came out of them. The appendages were wet, and a grayish-green viscous fluid dripped from them as they undulated and moved frantically.

The liquid changed people’s appearance when it came into contact with them. Their human skin was shed, making way for something gray and amphibious. Human eyes were replaced with something unblinking and unearthly, like a leviathan from another part of the cosmos, ancient when the Big Bang began. Said eyes’ irises had two colors instead of one - a chilling blue and a fluorescent green. Small appendages resembling tentacles were all over the edges of the people’s faces.

Those who weren’t struck by the slimy substance were grabbed by the tentacles. After being entwined, the victims, for want of a better term, were encased in a green-blue-gray cocoon with a frightful glow to it. Grandpa said he saw at least ten of them in his dream.

Grandpa told Harold that this dream didn’t seem like a nightmare. In fact, he neither felt good nor bad after waking from it numerous times. Harold felt a shiver run up and down his spine when he heard the details, but he told Grandpa it was just a dream. This morning, however, it seemed like someone had danced on his grave when he heard what Grandma said. She had had the dream, too.

*

After chipping away at the ice and using foul language, Harold finally managed to get the kitchen water pump working despite the frigid temperatures. He helped his grandparents clean up afterward and threw more logs into the wood-burning stove at the other end of the hall. Grandma and Grandpa won’t have trouble keeping warm once the fire gets started.

Harold made breakfast. He wasn’t the best cook, but he remembered Grandma’s pancake recipe. She taught it to him when he was a teenager. He whipped up a batch for his grandparents and himself. They needed his assistance with many things. However, their appetites were still as they were before they were stricken. Plus, pancake breakfasts had been a Roberts family tradition since Harold’s parents were still alive.

Harold never quite understood why his parents had to die in that train crash when he was just a boy. Grandpa told him that things happen that we can’t explain. Sometimes, we aren’t meant to know why. They happen, and that’s that. It isn’t because we do bad things or think bad thoughts. Fate just turns things around in ways we neither want nor expect. At the time, Harold was confused by Grandpa’s words of wisdom. Now, he found them to be extreme sage and true, particularly now.

The morning had crept away, leaving room for the afternoon. His grandparents’ dream was on Harold’s mind as he did various chores around the house. His thoughts on it were especially strong when he went to the kitchen to start his next task before lunch. He couldn’t pinpoint why. Something - the instinct and intuition that made him a decent detective, perhaps - made him believe that it was something more sinister.

Harold looked at the calendar. The date was December 31, 1928. Tonight was Dove Creek’s annual New Year’s Eve party. Everyone will get together in the town square to celebrate. Various small fires would be placed around a larger one in the center to keep folks warm and cook food for those who got hungry after dancing. The lavishly lit heart of the village always seemed to overflow with joy and merriment during the party. It was one of the few nights when the townspeople didn’t worry about the winter weather.

Harold still couldn’t shake the ominous feeling he had in his soul. It was a sensation that chilled him to the core. He wondered if tonight would be the last New Year’s Eve for Dove Creek, Ohio. He couldn’t put his finger on why. Maybe Grandpa’s dream had shaken Harold up more than he realized.

A knock on the front door interrupted Harold’s dark reverie. He went to the foyer.. The winter wind lightly slapped his face as he opened the door. He smiled when he saw Beth Anderson’s frail form bundled up in what looked like seven layers of wool and winter clothing. Only her green eyes were visible. Behind her were her parents, Sam and Edith. Like Beth, they were tall with green eyes. Their winter garments also covered their features. The Andersons, as per annual tradition, dropped by on the afternoon of December 31st before everybody went to the Dove Creek Square to ring in the new year. All three entered the foyer. Sam closed the door while Harold helped Beth with her hat, coat, and scarf. She removed her gloves. Beth was as tall as Harold. Her braided red hair had been mussed slightly. Her dark blue skirt and sweater complemented her form. Harold admired her body. She smiled timidly at Harold, knowing he was looking at her. Her cheeks became rosy in color. Harold couldn’t tell if this was due to the winter wind or to Harold’s reactions to her. Harold Roberts was madly in love with Beth Anderson.

“Snow let up about an hour ago,” Sam said with a broad grin as he took off his hat and helped Edith place her winter gear in the small closet in the foyer. Edith wiped her horn-rimmed glasses with a handkerchief. She muttered something about snow and rain fogging up her spectacles.

Both Sam and Edith had red hair flecked with gray. Sam, like Grandpa, was a robust man. However, he had bald spots on the top of his head, with his graying hair thinning in the center between them. Edith and Beth were both a mix of physical and mental strength and fragility. Harold equated them to the goddesses he had read about in those Greek and Norse mythology books Aunt Rita gave him when he was a teenager. Both Sam and Edith were in their mid-sixties, yet, they looked much younger.

“We may have good weather going to the New Year’s Eve party tonight,” Sam continued, clapping Harold’s left shoulder.

“I hope so,” Harold replied joyfully. “I’m looking forward to dancing with Beth.”

Harold saw Beth blush again. Perhaps he had been too direct. He was never quite sure about these sorts of things. He approached her while Sam and Edith went to greet Grandma and Grandpa. He held Beth’s hand, smiled at her, and said, “You look adorable when you blush.”

“Stop,” Beth said in mock protest, blushing even more.

“No, really. You do.”

Harold took Beth’s other hand, hummed a tune like a sick mule, and danced with her from the foyer to the living room. The fire he started some time before needed a fresh log or two. He placed them in the fireplace and returned to dance with Beth.

“I love you, Beth,” he said while they twirled together around the room.

“I love you, too, Harold.” There was a hint of fear in Beth’s voice. Considering she had been together with Roger Lucas until his death about a year before Harold’s return, her tone was normal. Harold understood why. It didn’t need to be said. She was scared Harold would become like Roger, even if she knew in her heart he wouldn’t. Whatever Roger did to Beth had scarred her soul as much as, Harold assumed, it had her body. Harold could see that. Words were unnecessary, not between Harold and Beth, anyway. He just held her while they danced. His humming was more off-key than usual. Yet, it somehow calmed Beth and made her laugh. The dancing would continue well into dusk, and both Harold and Beth paid no attention to the world around them. All they saw was each other.

*

The time for Dove Creek’s New Year’s Eve Party was just minutes away. Sam had prepared a large covered wagon attached to a team of four horses as he did every year. It was large enough to hold four people, including a driver and a passenger up front. Harold and Sam helped Grandma and Grandpa get in. Grandpa protested that everyone would have more fun without him and Grandma.

“Now, Gramps,” Harold counter-protested while covering Grandpa tightly with a trio of blankets, “if you think it’ll be fun without you and Gram, you’ve gone senile. Besides, folks want to hear you sing “Auld Lang Syne” at midnight. I can’t sing a lick. Last time I tried, the local cows gave sour milk for months.”

Grandpa laughed. Grandma sat in front of him with Beth to her left. Harold placed himself to Grandpa’s right. Sam and Edith sat in the front of the wagon. They both guided the horses. As much as it hurt his pride to travel this way, Grandpa had to admit that he did enjoy traveling to the New Year’s party this way. The ride to town, as always, was smooth and without incident.

“I had that dream again,” Grandpa said to Harold. “This time you were in it. One of those creatures took you. I woke up thinking it was real.”

Beth listened. Harold had told her of his grandparents’ eerie dream. What Grandpa had just said scared her. She didn’t show this to everyone, but Harold could see it in her eyes. He smiled with a glance that told her everything would be okay. Harold then looked at Grandpa reassuringly. “I’m right here now, Gramps. Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to me that I don’t want to happen.”

“You’re right. I’m just being a silly old fool.”

“No, you’re what you always were, a grandfather worried about his grandson.” Harold patted Grandpa’s left shoulder. “Now prepare your singing voice and your best fishing stories. We’re almost there.”

Upon their arrival, Harold helped Grandma into her wheelchair. Sam was nearby to lend a hand and prevent her from slipping. Harold gave Grandpa a piggyback ride to the chairs near the large cooking fires at the center of the Dove Creek town square. Grandpa grumbled and complained about being carried.

Harold chuckled. “Remember the piggyback rides you gave me when I was little? I’m returning the favor. Besides, you said you always wanted one.”

“I wanted one from my grandfather. I never knew him. He died before I was born.”

“Well, just pretend I’m him, Gramps,” Harold replied with a smile.

“The sky’s colors are unusual tonight.”

Harold helped him sit in a wooden chair. He then stared at the sky. Grandpa was right. There were some odd hues in Ohio’s winter skies that night. Glowing greens, grays, and blues peeked through the black curtain of darkness like holes in a moth-eaten fabric. Harold had gotten a chill that wasn’t from the cold. It had made his very being shiver even from within. Could Grandpa’s dream be a premonition?

“Go dance with Beth,” Grandpa said to Harold. “The music’s gonna start soon. I’ll be okay.”

Sam had parked Grandma’s wheelchair next to Grandpa when Beth stood next to Harold. Edith was conversing with Father Thomas, the local priest who served as band leader. Musicians tuned their instruments and tested them with a few notes. Beth put her arms around Harold. Dancing with her made him forget his worries. All that mattered was this moment together.

It was sometime after two o’clock in the morning, once the New Year’s Eve party had ended. Grandma and Grandpa fell asleep the moment they got in the wagon. Beth began to yawn. She placed her head on Harold’s shoulder and allowed herself to rest. Upon returning to the Roberts home, Harold noticed the unearthly hues in the sky seemed bolder, brighter, and more intense. There were also intermittent flashes of blue-green sparks like a blacksmith’s hammer striking hot metal.

Harold and Sam helped the former’s sleeping grandparents to their bed. They moved carefully up the stairs so as not to wake the elderly couple. Edith and Beth were quietly talking and yawning while sitting on the living room sofa. Sam took his wife’s hand and said, “Let’s get these ladies tucked in, Harold.”

As Sam guided Edith’s fatigued form upstairs, Beth had yawned again. Try as she might, she could barely stand. All the dancing she and Harold had done had taken more out of her than she realized. Harold carried Beth upstairs and placed her in the bed located in the room to the left of his. Harold covered Beth with a thick, blue blanket and kissed her goodnight.

Harold walked quietly to his room. He put on his pajamas and looked out the window. The sky’s colors that Grandpa had noticed seemed brighter. The flashing sparks became more frequent. Harold had that feeling that came to him before Beth, Edith, and Sam had arrived. It made him wonder what was going on. Are the weird lights in the sky the cause of these ominous sensations? Something told Harold that Dove Creek, Ohio, would be completely changed after tonight.

*

It was the afternoon on January 1, 1929, when Harold had been awakened by a knock on his bedroom door. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and stretched. The voice on the other side jolted Harold from his half-asleep stupor.

“Are you decent, Harry?” Grandma had asked.

Grandma most likely got into her wheelchair without waiting for him to help. He almost ran to the door. Harold noticed Grandma was cleaned up and in a bright blue dress. Had Edith, Beth, or Sam helped her get ready? It wouldn’t have been the first time. Harold yawned again. “To call me ‘decent’ is an insult to decency, Gram,” he said.

“Oh, Harry,” she said between a series of giggles.

Sam and Edith come out of their room, yawning in that moment. Beth walked into the corridor, her face telling Harold she had just awakened. Harold was confused. If Beth, Edith, and Sam had just gotten out of bed, who helped Grandma bathe and dress? Harold’s befuddlement soon turned to shock at what he witnessed next. Grandma got up out of her wheelchair, walked to Harold, and hugged him. The surprises continued on this New Year’s Day when a familiar, jovial voice said a phrase Harold hadn’t heard in years.

“Race you downstairs, Skeeter.”

Harold turned to see Grandpa standing before him in his gray-and-black three-piece suit, which he called his Sunday best. Grandma could walk again, and Grandpa wasn’t confined to his bed. Like the beginning of their infliction, there had been no explanation. Grandma had already made it to the living room on her own without help. Grandpa ran downstairs to follow her. He took her in his arms and sang a song with which Harold was unfamiliar. They danced while Grandpa belted out the tune with the energy and vigor of a crooner half his age.

Everyone was overjoyed by this miracle. However, Harold’s detective instincts led him to want to know what had brought about his grandparents’ sudden affliction and surprising good health. Yet, he didn’t want to ruin his grandparents’ moment of happiness. Harold had pushed aside his misgivings for now.

Grandpa and Grandma had finished dancing when everyone else changed and had come downstairs for the traditional New Year’s Day late lunch. The men and women all worked together to make a meal that Grandma described as worthy of kings. Upon finishing, Grandpa got up from the table, smiling broadly.

“Well, folks,” he said, “Mayor Jenkins will be making his New Year’s speech at the Dove Creek town square in a couple of hours, and I want to get a good seat.”

*

Dove Creek’s skies were even more eerie than the night before. Plus, the striking flash was accompanied by an elongated shadow that reminded Harold of the tentacle shapes he had seen in the Cult of the Great Dreamer’s cave.

Grandpa looked up and asked, “Any idea what’s going on with the sky, Skeeter?”

“No, Gramps,” Harold replied, “It could be an effect of the Northern Lights.”

In truth, Harold wasn’t sure what was going on. He felt like a great change was coming, one that he believed he should prepare for the worst. However, he didn’t know how.

Grandpa helped Grandma get into the back of the wagon, while Harold and Sam helped Beth and Edith into the back of the wagon. “There you go, Millie Darling,” Grandpa said while wrapping some blankets around Grandma.

Grandpa got in the driver’s seat of the wagon. Sam tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted on it being his way of repaying Sam for all his help. Sam chuckled a bit. He then clapped Grandpa’s left shoulder.

“Tom Roberts,” Sam said humorously, “you are one of the most stubborn human beings I have ever met. Okay, you can drive. Are you sure you can do this? You haven’t guided horses and wagons since before you were stricken.”

“If you’re worried, you can get up front with me.”

The weather, for a January day in Ohio, had been kind to the travelers. The wind was light, so it didn’t feel as cold as on many winter days. There was less snow on the ground than the day before. In fact, the trip had been uneventful until about halfway to the town square. Harold looked at Beth, held her in his arms, and kissed her. Harold felt he had to do it right now in this moment. All Beth saw was Harold and vice versa. The rest of the world didn’t matter. This joy in their hearts and souls was all they needed now.

Grandpa had told everyone that they had arrived in the village square. The men and women walked arm in arm to their destination. Harold and Beth were behind her parents, with his grandparents leading.

The Dove Creek Mayor’s New Year’s speech is an annual tradition dating back to 1788. It is meant to bring hope, motivation, and inspiration to the citizens. This year would mark Mayor Roy Jenkins’ third discourse in a row. Harold could see the courthouse’s clock tower as he and Beth got closer to the crowd. There were still roughly forty-five minutes before Mayor Jenkins went to the podium in the center of the Dove Creek town square. Jenkins was a portly man with a white handlebar mustache who had been a fishing buddy of Grandpa’s for as long as Harold could remember. Jenkins was laughing boisterously with Grandpa.

“Glad to see you and Mildred up and about, Tommy,” Mayor Jenkins said in a jolly, yet guttural fashion. “Harold here must be taking good care of you two.”

“I wish I could take credit, sir,” Harold said, “But Grandma and Grandpa here are tougher than any ailment. I still want Doc Simmons to look them over when he can, just to be on the safe side.”

“You’re worrying over nothing, Skeeter,” Grandpa protested.

Mayor Jenkins cleared his throat. “You’re probably right, Tommy. Besides, Doc’s got his hands full lately. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I must prepare for my speech.”

What did Mayor Jenkins mean by Doc having his hands full? Harold thought as the minutes passed.

Harold looked at the sky. The weird tentacle shadows moved more frequently a second or two before the oddly hued flashes. Try as he might, Harold couldn’t look away from it. Beth tapped him on his right shoulder, interrupting his observation of the heavens. “I found us some good seats next to Mom and Dad,” she said.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Harold replied as they walked arm-in-arm.

The tower clock chimed on the top of the hour. It was now six o’clock. The mayor’s speech was about to begin. Harold looked lovingly at Beth and held her hand. She smiled timidly.

“Mayor Jenkins is over there, silly,” Beth said, indicating the podium.

Both Beth and Harold looked straight ahead. What they saw brought chills of terror through their entire bodies. Mayor Jenkins and five others were clad in the same gray robe as the Cult of the Great Dreamer. Their features and body structures were obscured by the fabric. Harold and Beth recognized only the voices at the podium. To Jenkins’ left was his wife, Annie. Doc Simmons and his wife Joan were to the mayor’s right, and beside Joan were Ron Henderson and his son Pete, who had gone to school with Harold and Beth.

Jenkins and those at the podium with him read from an old, timeworn book written in a long-dead language. They and the audience, to Harold and Beth’s horror, chanted in unison. Their haunting vocals sounded like a hive of angry bees. Beth and Harold held their ears as they watched the sky. Their sheer terror increased a thousandfold. Harold’s grandparents’ dream was coming true. Gray, slimy tentacles ripped through energy membranes in the sky like newborns coming into the world for the first time. Nearby streams and creeks that had been frozen were suddenly like the cataclysm that had consumed fabled Atlantis.

Harold and Beth tried everything they could to run away, but Sam, Edith, Grandma, and Grandpa held them in unearthly strong grips.

Mayor Jenkins faced Harold and Beth. “Harold, you defiler,” He sneered, “The Great Dreamer will want to change you and Beth along with all of us!”

Grandpa had Harold in a vice-like grip from which he could not free himself. “Sorry, Skeeter,” Grandpa said, “But you brought this on yourself when you let that baby live. The Great Dreamer struck us and promised to make us strong again. We just had to bring you here at the right time.”

Grandpa’s words stabbed Harold worse than any dagger. They went against all the lessons he and Grandma had taught him. Harold looked at Beth. She also struggled to no avail. This crowd of mad men and women was not about to let her and Harold escape.

Beth, in spite of her fear, whispered the four most important words Harold had ever heard from her.

“I love you, Harold.”

Flood water intermingled with the otherworldly liquids. Viscous fluids from the undulating tentacles dripped, striking everyone in the audience. Harold and Beth screamed. Their flesh burned, and their insides twisted and turned. The spectral ooze was transforming them. Their pinkish human skin had shed, giving way to slippery, amphibious green-gray-blue that glistened and reflected the many colors of light in the sky. White orbs with brown, blue, or green irises were replaced with chilling blue and fluorescent green, unblinking eyes like the leviathan that had spawned them. Females had ten tentacle-like appendages encircling their cheeks and chin, and males had only eight. Some late arrivals and stragglers were grabbed by the tentacles in the sky, which twirled and spiraled. Those they had captured had become encased in a glowing green-blue-gray cocoon. The strange swathe was released minutes later, falling at various points in the Dove Creek town square.

Water from the nearby creeks and streams continued to rise. The square had been nearly completely flooded. Medium-high waves engulfed everything they touched, cooling the burning, newly changed bodies of townspeople.

The transformation of Dove Creek’s citizens was complete. Winter clothing and pink human flesh no longer existed for them. In their places, wet was naked green-gray-blue skin that came from this world and another that was ancient when the universe was born. Noses replaced by two small slits that opened and closed to exhale and inhale. The newborn human/amphibian hybrids walked upright and looked around, as if seeing the world for the first time.

The individual minds of those in Dove Creek had hung on for a few moments. Yet, they soon became like an insect colony. The thoughts of every person were heard in unison as the many became one. The final reflections of Harold Roberts and Beth Anderson had perhaps the greatest impact on the newly transformed beings.

At least we are together.

A great, booming voice dominated the minds of Dove Creek’s populace. As it spoke in their minds, they saw to whom it belonged. Their newly evolved eyes were awed by the one who had brought about their rebirth. The gargantuan body was in an ancient dimension outside of our own. The creature was a hodgepodge of human, reptilian, and octopi traits. Dragon wings were on its gigantic back. Its webbed arms and legs were those of a powerful human god. Its enormous octopus-like head had tentacles surrounding its mouth. The appendages had the cocoons entwined within them. To many, the leviathan was called the Great Dreamer, and others named it The Sleeper of R’lyeh. Yet, if one could assign it a gender, he simply went by the moniker given to him by his parent, Nug - Cthulhu.

Cthulhu’s voice was a combination of a single being and a chorus of many. The creatures in Dove Creek looked around in joy and fear when they heard it speak within their newly evolved minds. The scene would make one think the amphibians were searching for reassurance and satisfaction from their father. Cthulhu simply said three words.

“Feed, my children.”

The cocoons were released from the Great Old One’s tentacles. They floated in the flooded square like a raft lost at sea. The humanoid amphibians encircled the glowing green sacks. Bloodcurdling screams came from those unfortunate enough to remain alive within the frightful chrysalis. The creatures devoured the banquet Cthulhu had provided like a starving man biting into meat for the first time.

“Nothing ever happens in Ohio,” they say.

Tell that to the population of Dove Creek, who became the Children of Cthulhu.