Genre 2007 challenge by take_no_ko
Title: The Terror of the North
Genre: Lovecraftian Horror
Pairing: Ray K/Fraser
Rating: R
Length: 2200 words
The moon shone strong when Fraser was born. He’d told Ray himself. And maybe that had something to do with his makeup, that slightly strange look in his eyes that came up sometimes. Ray wondered - he’d catch it in Fraser’s eyes sometimes, and at first he’d assumed it was some wild, Canadian thing - Fraser’s longing for the wilderness, he’d think to himself - but after a while, he did wonder.
Fraser and Ray had been sleeping together for three months. It was good; a few moments of perfect physical pleasure, and the comfortable sprawl of arms and legs through to the morning. The odd kiss, the odd fuck. Nothing in the least romantic, and that was the way he liked it, that was the way he could deal with the whole situation. But sometimes, Fraser had dreams - the kind where he would scream and yell blue murder, waking up Ray. But the strange thing was that he would never emerge from unconsciousness until Ray shook him hard, yelled and slapped his face. Then he would sit up, there in bed, sweaty and glassy-eyed, always refusing to tell Ray what he’d seen.
*
That morning they’d arrived together to the police station. Gotten the details of something that’d happened overnight - three dead bodies, white as sheets, strange tattoos on their foreheads and burn marks on their palms had been found, washed up on the lake shore. Fraser had gazed at the bodies in the mortuary, looking at each one carefully, talking quietly to Mort. Ray kept his back to the corpses until it was time to leave.
“So, anything?” He asked.
“Well,” Fraser said, slowly. Carefully, thought Ray. He’s being careful. “they didn’t look like the bodies of drowned men, Ray. Normally a drowned man is bloated, and their figures seemed perfectly normal. In addition, the unusual markings on their foreheads and the burns on their hands…”
“We’re thinking some kind of cult?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Great. Cults, that’s… that’s great.” He said.
“I… I have to check something back at the Consulate, Ray. I’ll call you if I find anything,” said Fraser.
Ray had hoped for something from Fraser, an Oh, cheer up, Ray or a But it could equally be a strange group of extras from a science fiction film set. Even a crack about Freemasons these days. Even an Inuit story. But Fraser seemed more taciturn than he’d ever been; his eyes quiet and full of moonlight. He walked out.
*
Frannie had been looking through databases of symbols for hours, trying to find something that matched the tattoo, and he’d just been getting around to thinking about doing some paperwork when the phone rang.
“Vecchio,” he said.
“Hello, Ray.”
“Fraser, what’ve you got for me?”
“I contacted an old friend in Massachusetts. He may have some information for us.”
“Massachusetts? Well why can’t he tell us over the phone?”
“I believe he wants to show us something he has in a book, Ray.”
“A book? Fraser, three dead bodies downstairs and your friend wants us to look at a book? Tell him to fax the page.”
“He was very insistent we see the book, Ray.”
“Very insistent. Right. Very insistent. Can’t he just send it to us?
“Ray, we need to go and see it in person. We’ll find the answers there, I’m sure.”
*
Despite his protestations, once he got going Ray found himself actually enjoying the trip. A quick stop to find some answers, an overnight stay in a room with just him and Fraser. Some sex, some answers. Perfect. Greatness.
But he knew from Fraser’s face on the plane that nothing was going to be that simple. Fraser was worried. Fraser was scared, and it was the same look that Ray had seen on his face night after night. The same glassy-eyed look.
The town they ended up driving to - Welcome to Arkham, said the sign -
looked ancient, fresh from the history books. Maybe he’d been in the city for far too long, but the ancient houses looked like they were ready to crumble, and there was something sinister about the odd curves of the roofs.
Fraser had given him one-word directions without looking at the map, and they’d crossed the wide, winding river.
“Left here.” Fraser said.
“Miska… miska-what?” He’d pulled up in front of a metal plaque, mounted in granite. It read: Miskatonic University: Ex Ignorantia ad Sapientiam; e Luce ad Tenebras. He frowned. “That Latin? What’s it mean?”
Fraser cleared his throat. “’From ignorance to wisdom; from light to darkness,’” he said, and Ray shivered.
*
Fraser took him by the hand that wasn’t holding the envelope with the photographs, and led him into the library building. The large, circular reading room was wood panelled, the pillars were marble. But from the dust on the surfaces and the blinking lights overhead, Ray could tell that it’d seen better days. Fraser led him down steps and through some stacks, winding and twisting.
“You been here before, Frase?” he asked. Fraser stopped and turned to face him, his hand still holding Ray’s.
“Just once, Ray.” He paused, his gaze flicking away from Ray’s face. “I once chased a man into an abandoned mine in the Northwest Territories. I’d been on his trail for five hours and it didn’t look like he was going to give up soon. I’d lost him, and I’d almost given up hope when I saw footprints leading into the mine. So, naturally, I followed them. The mine went a few miles underground, but I’d only gotten maybe fifty metres when I found him running toward me, screaming at the top of his lungs. He was running. And when I looked behind him I saw…I saw something so terrible…” He trailed off, his jaw clenched. Ray could feel that his palms were sweaty.
“What was it?” Ray asked quietly, after a long moment. Fraser just shook his head and dropped Ray’s hand. “So you came here?”
Fraser nodded. “I heard… I heard they could give me answers here. The library here has a very large section on… the occult.”
“The occult? …So, the cult killings? That’s why we’re here, right?”
Fraser nodded again, and continued to walk on through the stacks to a wooden door. On it was a neat little brass plaque: Dr. Michael Heartsborn: Chief Librarian.
Fraser knocked once and entered.
The room was small and gloomy, as was the man sitting behind the desk. He looked up at the pair of them standing in the doorway and his mouth moved slowly, forming the words exactly and carefully:
“Constable Fraser. Come in.”
“Thank you kindly, Dr. Heartsborn.” Fraser’s voice seemed subdued, thought Ray. And what kind of name was Heartsborn? He shivered, watching the little man’s mouth move again.
“Constable Fraser. You said you had something to show me.” He swallowed, and flicked his gaze to the envelope Ray was carrying. Ray turned to Fraser, who nodded. He dropped it onto the man’s desk and shuffled over to where Fraser stood.
“Something’s queer, Fraser. This guy, I… I dunno about this guy,” he muttered.
“Ray, he’s somewhat eccentric, but he can give us answers.” Fraser turned to look at him, a strange glint in his eyes. Ray’s stomach knotted.
“This symbol. This symbol, Constable Fraser,” the librarian spoke up. Fraser moved closer, looking at where the man’s wizened finger was pointing. “You know of Whom it denotes, Constable. You… know.” The man’s eyes were wide. He was frightened, Ray realised. He shivered, his stomach knotting again. Then Fraser backed away, shaking his head, and Ray knew this was bad. Oh. Oh shit.
There was a knock on the door. A young man with neatly parted hair and glasses stood there, a book in one hand.
“Excuse me for interrupting, sir,” he addressed the librarian, moving towards the desk, holding out the book. His eyes flicked to the photos on the desk. Ray moved forward, made to put them back in the envelope. Too late.
“What… this? Doctor Heartsborn, this symbol!” he looked agitated.
“Yes, Howard. Yes. The symbol. I know.”
“What’s that, what symbol?” cut in Ray.
“The symbol is the mark of devotion,” said the young man, Howard, wheeling around with alarming speed to face Ray. “Devotion to the Great Old Ones, to those Whose names we dare not speak.”
“What? Whose names we… what?”
“Ray,” said Fraser, quietly, “…Ray, some things in this world are so terrible, so strange…”
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’” added the librarian.
“Yes,” continued Howard. “Things that you must not look for, things you must not go near… you must forget these things, you must not know.”
“Sorry buddy,” he said, unnerved by this creepy mystic shit and unsure what to do. “I don’t do leaving well alone.”
There was a silence.
“I must know,” said Fraser, quietly.
“You… must… not!” The man was getting more and more agitated, jerking around like a lunatic, and Ray put his hand on the gun in his jacket. “Must not ask! Must… must not tell! You cannot know!”
“Alright, take it easy.” He said sharply, pulling out the gun. The young man jerked sharply then sagged, moving back to lean against the desk. His face was the colour of ash.
“It is time for you to leave, Constable Fraser,” the old librarian said, in the same, careful way. “You already know what the cause is. You already know what to do.”
Fraser looked at the little man for a long moment, and swallowed. Then he nodded and left, Ray following in his wake. He looked over his shoulder until they were back in the car and driving the fuck out of the town.
*
Ray’s ears were cold. His everything was cold, but especially his ears. They’d been walking for days in the wilderness. Fraser seemed hollow - they hadn’t slept together since before the incident in the library. They didn’t touch. Didn’t really speak anymore, either - just a growing chasm of wary silence. Ray on one side, confused and scared and questioning; Fraser on the other, as stoic as ever, and with the look of a man cursed in his eyes.
After they’d left Miskatonic University and the small town of Arkham, Ray had driven back to the airport in a cold sweat. Fraser had refused anything in the way of explanation, anything to allay Ray’s fears. At O’Hare he’d booked two seats on a flight across the border, and Ray had just let himself be dragged along. Confused and scared, he’d tried pleading, cajoling, even threatening Fraser to try and get some sort of information - where they were going, what they were looking for, why Fraser looked so fucking scared - but no luck; nothing.
On the fourth day he awoke to find Fraser gone. His sleeping bag empty but still warm, his pack left beside it. Well, shit. He picked up his own pack and set off up the hill, the direction they’d been going, yelling Fraser’s name.
At the top of the hill he scanned the surrounding trees. There was an opening into the hillside a stone’s throw away from where he was standing, big enough for a man to climb into; looking like it had been boarded up until recently. He made for it.
The tunnel was dark and dusty, but the air didn’t smell so bad. He kept a hand on one wall and slowly, painstakingly slowly, he made down it. Fraser, he thought, he prayed. Fraser, buddy, please be down here. Please, buddy. Please, please, please… Another step, and another, and he made a painfully slow rhythm down the tunnel. He thought he heard something, the rushing of wind, but too close to him - Gotta be just my breathing. Step, breathe, step, breathe.
There was a yell.
Ray stopped dead, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up
“Fraser?” he said, quietly. Then again, louder: “Fraser!”
Then he saw a figure - Fraser, thank god Fraser - running up the tunnel, hell for leather.
“Run! Go, Ray! Run!”
So Ray turned and ran, nearly tripping over in the dark at least twice until he could feel Fraser behind him reach out and grab his hand. He heard yells behind them, and angry footfalls.
“Run!” Fraser said again.
They made it to the end of the tunnel and out into the sunlight before they turned back.
A group of about ten men and women flooded out onto the hill side, their foreheads all carrying the same mark, the same mark as the bodies in the mortuary back home. They looked at Fraser and him with a hungry malice, and brandished knives and guns. He reached for his own when he felt a ripping pain through his right shoulder, heard the gunshot.
“Ah! Shit!” he yelled, staggering back. Fraser was still holding onto his left hand.
There was a horrible sound, like ripping metal and scratching on wood, long and drawn out. Then, as one, the cultists moved away from the entrance to the shaft and knelt, bowing their heads so the markings touched the leaf-mould on the ground.
“No,” whispered Fraser. “No…”
Ray looked, and saw it.
It was horrible to behold, its massive eye set in black flesh. It looked at Ray, into Ray with so much malevolent intelligence that he felt his legs buckle.
And then Ray screamed.
Genre: Lovecraftian Horror
Pairing: Ray K/Fraser
Rating: R
Length: 2200 words
The moon shone strong when Fraser was born. He’d told Ray himself. And maybe that had something to do with his makeup, that slightly strange look in his eyes that came up sometimes. Ray wondered - he’d catch it in Fraser’s eyes sometimes, and at first he’d assumed it was some wild, Canadian thing - Fraser’s longing for the wilderness, he’d think to himself - but after a while, he did wonder.
Fraser and Ray had been sleeping together for three months. It was good; a few moments of perfect physical pleasure, and the comfortable sprawl of arms and legs through to the morning. The odd kiss, the odd fuck. Nothing in the least romantic, and that was the way he liked it, that was the way he could deal with the whole situation. But sometimes, Fraser had dreams - the kind where he would scream and yell blue murder, waking up Ray. But the strange thing was that he would never emerge from unconsciousness until Ray shook him hard, yelled and slapped his face. Then he would sit up, there in bed, sweaty and glassy-eyed, always refusing to tell Ray what he’d seen.
*
That morning they’d arrived together to the police station. Gotten the details of something that’d happened overnight - three dead bodies, white as sheets, strange tattoos on their foreheads and burn marks on their palms had been found, washed up on the lake shore. Fraser had gazed at the bodies in the mortuary, looking at each one carefully, talking quietly to Mort. Ray kept his back to the corpses until it was time to leave.
“So, anything?” He asked.
“Well,” Fraser said, slowly. Carefully, thought Ray. He’s being careful. “they didn’t look like the bodies of drowned men, Ray. Normally a drowned man is bloated, and their figures seemed perfectly normal. In addition, the unusual markings on their foreheads and the burns on their hands…”
“We’re thinking some kind of cult?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Great. Cults, that’s… that’s great.” He said.
“I… I have to check something back at the Consulate, Ray. I’ll call you if I find anything,” said Fraser.
Ray had hoped for something from Fraser, an Oh, cheer up, Ray or a But it could equally be a strange group of extras from a science fiction film set. Even a crack about Freemasons these days. Even an Inuit story. But Fraser seemed more taciturn than he’d ever been; his eyes quiet and full of moonlight. He walked out.
*
Frannie had been looking through databases of symbols for hours, trying to find something that matched the tattoo, and he’d just been getting around to thinking about doing some paperwork when the phone rang.
“Vecchio,” he said.
“Hello, Ray.”
“Fraser, what’ve you got for me?”
“I contacted an old friend in Massachusetts. He may have some information for us.”
“Massachusetts? Well why can’t he tell us over the phone?”
“I believe he wants to show us something he has in a book, Ray.”
“A book? Fraser, three dead bodies downstairs and your friend wants us to look at a book? Tell him to fax the page.”
“He was very insistent we see the book, Ray.”
“Very insistent. Right. Very insistent. Can’t he just send it to us?
“Ray, we need to go and see it in person. We’ll find the answers there, I’m sure.”
*
Despite his protestations, once he got going Ray found himself actually enjoying the trip. A quick stop to find some answers, an overnight stay in a room with just him and Fraser. Some sex, some answers. Perfect. Greatness.
But he knew from Fraser’s face on the plane that nothing was going to be that simple. Fraser was worried. Fraser was scared, and it was the same look that Ray had seen on his face night after night. The same glassy-eyed look.
The town they ended up driving to - Welcome to Arkham, said the sign -
looked ancient, fresh from the history books. Maybe he’d been in the city for far too long, but the ancient houses looked like they were ready to crumble, and there was something sinister about the odd curves of the roofs.
Fraser had given him one-word directions without looking at the map, and they’d crossed the wide, winding river.
“Left here.” Fraser said.
“Miska… miska-what?” He’d pulled up in front of a metal plaque, mounted in granite. It read: Miskatonic University: Ex Ignorantia ad Sapientiam; e Luce ad Tenebras. He frowned. “That Latin? What’s it mean?”
Fraser cleared his throat. “’From ignorance to wisdom; from light to darkness,’” he said, and Ray shivered.
*
Fraser took him by the hand that wasn’t holding the envelope with the photographs, and led him into the library building. The large, circular reading room was wood panelled, the pillars were marble. But from the dust on the surfaces and the blinking lights overhead, Ray could tell that it’d seen better days. Fraser led him down steps and through some stacks, winding and twisting.
“You been here before, Frase?” he asked. Fraser stopped and turned to face him, his hand still holding Ray’s.
“Just once, Ray.” He paused, his gaze flicking away from Ray’s face. “I once chased a man into an abandoned mine in the Northwest Territories. I’d been on his trail for five hours and it didn’t look like he was going to give up soon. I’d lost him, and I’d almost given up hope when I saw footprints leading into the mine. So, naturally, I followed them. The mine went a few miles underground, but I’d only gotten maybe fifty metres when I found him running toward me, screaming at the top of his lungs. He was running. And when I looked behind him I saw…I saw something so terrible…” He trailed off, his jaw clenched. Ray could feel that his palms were sweaty.
“What was it?” Ray asked quietly, after a long moment. Fraser just shook his head and dropped Ray’s hand. “So you came here?”
Fraser nodded. “I heard… I heard they could give me answers here. The library here has a very large section on… the occult.”
“The occult? …So, the cult killings? That’s why we’re here, right?”
Fraser nodded again, and continued to walk on through the stacks to a wooden door. On it was a neat little brass plaque: Dr. Michael Heartsborn: Chief Librarian.
Fraser knocked once and entered.
The room was small and gloomy, as was the man sitting behind the desk. He looked up at the pair of them standing in the doorway and his mouth moved slowly, forming the words exactly and carefully:
“Constable Fraser. Come in.”
“Thank you kindly, Dr. Heartsborn.” Fraser’s voice seemed subdued, thought Ray. And what kind of name was Heartsborn? He shivered, watching the little man’s mouth move again.
“Constable Fraser. You said you had something to show me.” He swallowed, and flicked his gaze to the envelope Ray was carrying. Ray turned to Fraser, who nodded. He dropped it onto the man’s desk and shuffled over to where Fraser stood.
“Something’s queer, Fraser. This guy, I… I dunno about this guy,” he muttered.
“Ray, he’s somewhat eccentric, but he can give us answers.” Fraser turned to look at him, a strange glint in his eyes. Ray’s stomach knotted.
“This symbol. This symbol, Constable Fraser,” the librarian spoke up. Fraser moved closer, looking at where the man’s wizened finger was pointing. “You know of Whom it denotes, Constable. You… know.” The man’s eyes were wide. He was frightened, Ray realised. He shivered, his stomach knotting again. Then Fraser backed away, shaking his head, and Ray knew this was bad. Oh. Oh shit.
There was a knock on the door. A young man with neatly parted hair and glasses stood there, a book in one hand.
“Excuse me for interrupting, sir,” he addressed the librarian, moving towards the desk, holding out the book. His eyes flicked to the photos on the desk. Ray moved forward, made to put them back in the envelope. Too late.
“What… this? Doctor Heartsborn, this symbol!” he looked agitated.
“Yes, Howard. Yes. The symbol. I know.”
“What’s that, what symbol?” cut in Ray.
“The symbol is the mark of devotion,” said the young man, Howard, wheeling around with alarming speed to face Ray. “Devotion to the Great Old Ones, to those Whose names we dare not speak.”
“What? Whose names we… what?”
“Ray,” said Fraser, quietly, “…Ray, some things in this world are so terrible, so strange…”
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’” added the librarian.
“Yes,” continued Howard. “Things that you must not look for, things you must not go near… you must forget these things, you must not know.”
“Sorry buddy,” he said, unnerved by this creepy mystic shit and unsure what to do. “I don’t do leaving well alone.”
There was a silence.
“I must know,” said Fraser, quietly.
“You… must… not!” The man was getting more and more agitated, jerking around like a lunatic, and Ray put his hand on the gun in his jacket. “Must not ask! Must… must not tell! You cannot know!”
“Alright, take it easy.” He said sharply, pulling out the gun. The young man jerked sharply then sagged, moving back to lean against the desk. His face was the colour of ash.
“It is time for you to leave, Constable Fraser,” the old librarian said, in the same, careful way. “You already know what the cause is. You already know what to do.”
Fraser looked at the little man for a long moment, and swallowed. Then he nodded and left, Ray following in his wake. He looked over his shoulder until they were back in the car and driving the fuck out of the town.
*
Ray’s ears were cold. His everything was cold, but especially his ears. They’d been walking for days in the wilderness. Fraser seemed hollow - they hadn’t slept together since before the incident in the library. They didn’t touch. Didn’t really speak anymore, either - just a growing chasm of wary silence. Ray on one side, confused and scared and questioning; Fraser on the other, as stoic as ever, and with the look of a man cursed in his eyes.
After they’d left Miskatonic University and the small town of Arkham, Ray had driven back to the airport in a cold sweat. Fraser had refused anything in the way of explanation, anything to allay Ray’s fears. At O’Hare he’d booked two seats on a flight across the border, and Ray had just let himself be dragged along. Confused and scared, he’d tried pleading, cajoling, even threatening Fraser to try and get some sort of information - where they were going, what they were looking for, why Fraser looked so fucking scared - but no luck; nothing.
On the fourth day he awoke to find Fraser gone. His sleeping bag empty but still warm, his pack left beside it. Well, shit. He picked up his own pack and set off up the hill, the direction they’d been going, yelling Fraser’s name.
At the top of the hill he scanned the surrounding trees. There was an opening into the hillside a stone’s throw away from where he was standing, big enough for a man to climb into; looking like it had been boarded up until recently. He made for it.
The tunnel was dark and dusty, but the air didn’t smell so bad. He kept a hand on one wall and slowly, painstakingly slowly, he made down it. Fraser, he thought, he prayed. Fraser, buddy, please be down here. Please, buddy. Please, please, please… Another step, and another, and he made a painfully slow rhythm down the tunnel. He thought he heard something, the rushing of wind, but too close to him - Gotta be just my breathing. Step, breathe, step, breathe.
There was a yell.
Ray stopped dead, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up
“Fraser?” he said, quietly. Then again, louder: “Fraser!”
Then he saw a figure - Fraser, thank god Fraser - running up the tunnel, hell for leather.
“Run! Go, Ray! Run!”
So Ray turned and ran, nearly tripping over in the dark at least twice until he could feel Fraser behind him reach out and grab his hand. He heard yells behind them, and angry footfalls.
“Run!” Fraser said again.
They made it to the end of the tunnel and out into the sunlight before they turned back.
A group of about ten men and women flooded out onto the hill side, their foreheads all carrying the same mark, the same mark as the bodies in the mortuary back home. They looked at Fraser and him with a hungry malice, and brandished knives and guns. He reached for his own when he felt a ripping pain through his right shoulder, heard the gunshot.
“Ah! Shit!” he yelled, staggering back. Fraser was still holding onto his left hand.
There was a horrible sound, like ripping metal and scratching on wood, long and drawn out. Then, as one, the cultists moved away from the entrance to the shaft and knelt, bowing their heads so the markings touched the leaf-mould on the ground.
“No,” whispered Fraser. “No…”
Ray looked, and saw it.
It was horrible to behold, its massive eye set in black flesh. It looked at Ray, into Ray with so much malevolent intelligence that he felt his legs buckle.
And then Ray screamed.