Page 16 of Clutching Cthulhu's Pearls

Water sloshes over the sides of the washbasin as I lower it to the floor. First things first, I rinse a bandage to lay against the wound on my head. Next, I’ll— Nope. Rational preparations are for tea parties and summer soirees. I dunk my head into the bowl and scrub my hair vigorously with my nails. The water is pink when I raise my dripping head.

At least I smell better.

I secure the wet tie beneath a few dry ones before securing the rest of my hair. Hopefully, Phin will think I’ve fashioned a turban instead of bandageda wound. I can’t have him fighting with Leopold as I attempt to escape the house with him. My elbow has a gaping wound where a scab must have rubbed off when Leopold dragged me across the floor. I waste precious moments wrapping it so blood doesn’t accidentally seep through my blouse.

At my closet, I’m frozen with indecision. What does one wear when trying to flee for their lives? Do I wear durable leather? Lightweight linen? Maybe my most expensive dress in case I must sell it. Maybe my gardening trousers, to blend in with the people who live on river barges. My flapper dresses would attract too much attention, so I whisper my fingertips over them in farewell.

Clad in a billowing nightshirt and heavy gardening pants, I strip the bed. The duvet is too thick to be tied into my rope but will be the perfect landing pad, should I need one. With tentative touches, I ease the window open and chuck the fluffy quilt onto the ground. The hardest part is sliding the bed to the window without making enough noise to wake the dead. Every few inches, I pause and listen for approaching footsteps. If someone catches me, I’ll be strapped to that table for the next ten months.

I will incubate the eggs like a full-term human pregnancy, right?

Hurrah!My bedsheet rope ladder reaches the ground. The tip lightly grazes the top of the overgrown grasses. I don’t hesitate to swing one legoutside. Wrapping my rope around it, I’m ready to descend. Easy as pie.

By the time someone checks on me, I’ll be long gone…but what about Phin?

Chapter 9

The ground smacks me like an errant child. My final knot wasn’t tight enough, so the lowest bedsheet let go before my toes could make purchase in the grass. I tumbled six feet. It could have been worse. My knee twisted at a strange angle as I fell, and now makes a crackling noise when I move too quickly. As long as I can put weight on it, I’ve got to walk. Running on uneven, flooded ground risks a second injury…twisted knee or not.

But time is of the essence. I must make it to Lovecraft’s neighboring estate before Leopold brings more scientists and discovers I’m gone. With grunts and curses, I wobble to standing and take my first steps across the estate. Leopold’s laboratory is on the opposite side of the house, so even if he takes his onelook out the window a month, my escape will be out of his view.

Would Leopold keep Phin alive in hopes that we could produce multiple clutches of eggs, or did Phin sabotage that plan when he fought Leopold when we made love?

I don’t care if Leopold’s clinical gaze was over Phin’s shoulder. We made love—not that I have any experience to compare. Phin made sure I wasn’t in pain every inch of his oviposition. He loved me with everything he had, despite my being tied to a hard metal table. The way he caressed my face gave me more warmth than snuggling in front of my bedroom fireplace. His tentacles rubbed each egg as it nestled in my womb like any loving, human father’s hands do.

My boots sink in mud rising to the knees, which slows my hasty escape to a slog. Drizzle mats my hair to my head and suctions my clothes to my body like a linen suit of armor and helmet.Open your mouth!I choke on spittle as the muggy air fills my nose. My greedy lungs gulp oxygen from the supersaturated fog. I pinwheel my arms as if I can swim through the soupy backyard. When I reach my garden, I slide between rows of strawberries. I cry out when my knees hit the straw fortifying their bed.

“Who goes there? Show yourself! Have the courage to face the groundkeeper instead of sneaking through the fog like the devil’s servant!”

The voice carries from the opposite side of thegarden by Mr. Breyers’s cottage! That’s it! I’ll go to Mr. Breyers’s cottage. He can go to Lovecraft’s place on horseback while I nurse my knees at his fire. Being a God-fearing man, he can’t approve of Leopold’s experiments. I’ve never seen him feed a created hybrid or help inside the lab. Does he even know what’s going on inside the house?

He does. Phin yelled at Leopold not to bring in Mr. Breyers. Maybe Phin doesn’t understand Mr. Breyers because he doesn’t know religion, or maybe Mr. Breyers takes his disapproval out on Phin…Either way, Mr. Breyers should still help me, he doesn’t know I willingly allowed Phin to implant his eggs. If I can convince Mr. Breyers to take me to Lovecraft—

The sloshing to my left must be him. He’s not graceful. He’s a man of the soil, much like Phin. Why didn’t I settle down with a simple man in the first place? If I hadn’t been dazzled by my father’s erudite friends, I wouldn’t have agreed to the match with Leopold. Would my father have allowed me to marry a farmer who shared our love of plants instead of a scientist who shared our love of the lab? Ironic that such a man will save me today, and another will raise my children.

“It’s Harriett! Mr. Breyers, it’s Harriett Guett,” I yell into the misty void. His hunched shadow isoutlined by the fog to my left, and my heart soars. I’m not alone! There’s a man to help me stop Leopold. My account could be dismissed as a hysterical woman’s pleas to leave her husband, but with Mr. Breyers corroborating my story, Lovecraft or the police will have no choice but to investigate.

“Over here! Mr. Breyers, is that you? It’s me, Harriett! I’m on the other side of the garden and seem to have fallen—”

“Oh, you Jezebel, I know just how low you’ve fallen. I heard your every sinful moan, wail, and plea for more. Every ear in your house listened as that thing defiled you, and we heard your screams. Not once did you ask Dr. Guett for mercy or to honor your marriage vows, did you?”

The shadow that promised hope of rescue now looms over me like the broad head of a hammer to crush them. He’s covered in blood from his stained shirt to the hair tinted pink as the rain rinses it down his face. Is all that from Phin or Leopold? His jaw is set to a sneer, offset by some swelling to the right side. His opponent fought back. Leopold can’t fight, so he must wear Phin’s blood. Tears drip from my chin as despair settles into my bones.

“You were there?” Feeding him lies would be best for my survival, but the words won’t pass my lips. I can’t betray Phin—not with his love in my heart and his eggs in my womb. Every word and moan was to encourage him. Whether Leopoldsucked sour grapes or not, I didn’t care. That moment in the lab was a beautiful transfer of love and intimacy between man and woman.

“I didn’t need to watch your humiliation to know you fell into disrepute. It was a matter of time. How could you be a woman of God when I never see you with a Bible or at church on Sunday? Your soul was low-hanging fruit for the devil’s minions—”

“If you hate Leopold’s experiments, why do you work for him?”

I hold out my hand for a lift to my feet. His cold, beady eyes stare at it as if I’m offering him a one-way train ticket to hell. After a few awkward moments, I yank my right boot from the mud with both hands and stand on my own. Once the pull of gravity has a straight target, my feet begin their descent of an inch a minute. Maybe I am sinking into hell…

“I keep my family’s land in tip-top shape until I can buy it back from him. My grandfather settled his homestead here first! Damn taxes drove him to sell, and Dr. Guett snapped up the feast like a vulture. Why does he need farmland when he’s not a farmer? I asked my Pa and Grandpappy. They didn’t know but worked honestly to protect their land from his neglect.”

“Then you will help me!” I tug hiselbow towards our home. “If we bring down Leopold’s laboratory, I’ll disappear, and you can have the estate.”

“Uh huh, I find witches who disappear tend to reappear when they run out of money—” Instead of ripping his arm from my grasp, he pivots to stand behind me. He grabs my other arm, lifting me from the mud.

“I didn’t mean disappear as inpoof, I’m smoke. I meant I’ll leave Kentucky and never come back. You have no right to call me a witch.” Instead of setting me onto my feet, he marches with my legs dangling between us. He doesn’t head toward the house or his cottage. He isn’t going to carry me all the way to Lovecraft’s estate, is he? I know I’m slow and ill-coordinated, but I’m also quite heavy for an aged man.

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