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"You forgot Comte d'Erlette's Cultes de Goules," said Artie. He was immediately smacked in the back of the head by the person sitting next to him.
"You're not helping," the smacker said.
"I mailed my stories off to the top horror-fiction magazines and anthologies," I continued. "For three years, I got nothing but rejection letters. Every editor said the same thing—I was writing pastiche.
"I realized that they were only partly correct. I was writing Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror, a very special and unique literary art form, if art it be. But I knew that if I persevered, I would, one day, be able to add my name to the Mythos Canon, that I would be up there in the highest echelon of Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror authors. At least that was my dream ... my obsession ... my addiction.
"I tried new approaches," I added. "Instead of having my protagonists always being eaten, I thought maybe they could live, but just go insane. At the time, I thought that was an original ending."
"We all thought that once," Ape Face said.
"Then I tried having my protagonist become the monster he most feared, which I also thought was an original idea. But, after years of this, I have come to realize that I have no new ideas. I knew I could only write the same basic idea over and over, I would just go on and on and on and on and—"
"Yes, we all know that Ramsey Campbell story, Chris," Tom interrupted. "Continue."
"I'm sorry. Thank you. I know I should stop thinking in Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror terms, and that is why I am here tonight. I need help. This whole Mythos thinking has invaded my daily life—my job, my relationships, everything.
"I have realized that this world, this universe, does not need another author like me, an author who feels compelled to write this type of literature that is so rightly rejected and can only find a home on my personal website. I still hope someone will visit the site once they discover its link on HorrorFind."
"You have all the support you need here," Tom said. "Together, we can help you get through this difficult time in your life."
I had to fight back the tears welling in my eyes. "Thank you."
"Would someone else like to speak?" Tom asked.
I sat down and I listened with rapt attention to three more testimonies of how the insidious disease of Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror addiction was ruining their lives, as well.
However, I sometimes found myself staring into that dark corner. I swore somebody was there while I was speaking, but now there was just empty darkness.
After the meeting, Tom gave me two pamphlets to read, "The 12 Steps of Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror Recovery" and "So You Think You Can Write Something Scary, Eh?"
I left the meeting feeling uplifted. I was not alone and drowning in madness. The monsters were at bay.
As I was walking home by the dim light of a gibbous moon, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to look. A few dozen yards behind me was a tall figure with noble yet ancient features. An overwhelming sense of dread chilled my veins.
When he saw me, he chuckled. I recognized that laugh; it was the same one from the meeting.
I turned back around and continued on my way.
He was following me, pacing me.
I could hear his heavy footfalls. Were those boots or hooves?
I could feel him behind me. I took another quick glance back. His shadow was stretching toward me. The low night sky, previously brooding in its pitch, now seemed to be a blazing quasar compared to his heatless shadow, which was an elongated pool of demoniacal darkness.
I ran down the street, away from this horrible but u
I turned one corner, and then another—when I plowed right into his chest as he seemingly just materialized in front of me. I fell to the ground, short of breath. I rose, and instinctually felt the need to retreat at full speed.
"Wait," he said, with a voice that sounded ... a lot like James Earl Jones.
"Who are you?"
"You know very well who I am."
I had to admit it, though my mind screamed at the impossibility. It was undeniable. The Pharaoh-like features, the multiple infinities twirling in the eyes, the unshakable fear inspired by his presence. There was ho doubt.
I could barely speak, yet I uttered, "Nyarlathotep."
"Who else?"
"Impossible ... you're not real... you're just a fictional character .. . it's all made up."
"Of course I am real," he said through a contemptuous snarl. "We are all real. We are not some postmodern metafictional trope awaiting deconstruction as a metaphor for metrosexual Freudian angst from an untenured professor.
"No, we are monsters. If there is one thing I know about you, Chris, it is that we are real monsters to you. You believe the pastiche. It is your Holy Litany. You recite pastiche chapter and verse, author and publication date. You believe in the Word of the Almighty Pastiche. You are the door-to-door proselytizer of the pastiche. You want us Old Ones to be real—and so we are."
"What do you want from me?"
"Want? I want nothing from you. I came to warn you."
"Warn me?"
"Yes." He took a deep breath. "Look, this meeting you attended tonight. You can't go to one ever again. Ever. Do you understand?"
"But, I have to. I have this addiction. I can't control it. I have to continuously write Eldritch Pastiche from—"
"—Beyond the Shadows of Horror. Yes, yes. I get it."
"But it's like alcohol or narcotics. It is ruining my life, and I have no control over it anymore."
"You have never had control over your life, human,"
Nyarlathotep said with a sneer. "And you never will. But that is not the point. Well, not the entire point. You see, you hold a special place in the universe, Chris. A very special place that only one person in a generation can hold."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your work. Your stories. Your whole Eldritch yadda-yadda bit. You must continue to write more of it."
"Why?"
"Because you are unique, Chris. Your work achieves a level of recognition rarely seen in the entire writing industry, nay, the very universe itself."
My heart skipped a beat. A lump formed in my throat. Was my literary skill being recognized by beings that are higher than a mere mortal? Was I getting the ultimate acceptance letter?
"You mean you like my fiction?"
"Like it?" Nyarlathotep laughed, and all of Janesville trembled in fear. "I have read every single syllable you have written, and I can't stand it! Your work is the most unoriginal, unimaginative, most derivative, overwrought use of any language I have read since Captain Obed Marsh wrote love so
I was speechless. This was like a rejection letter from reality itself.
"I mean, have you ever really thought about your titles? 'The Thing from the Asteroid'? 'The Nega-Space Beyond Time'? ''The Horror from Pluto's Shore'? 'The Haunter Called from the Shadows'? I mean, c'mon now!
"And your so-called plots." He made quotation marks with his fingers. "You are the literary equivalent of a Family Dollar store coloring book."
I remained speechless. How could I say anything?
"Let me ask you something, Chris. Do you know the definition of insanity}"
I was not sure how to respond. It is not every day the Crawling Chaos asks you to define insanity. Finally, I said, "Do you mean doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result each time?"
"Correct."
"You're saying I'm crazy, right? That because I write Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror over and over again, I am insane. Because no one will ever publish my work, but I think that some day, some way, it will get published? I mean legitimately published, like with an editor and an ISBN number, and not just uploaded to my website."