The Stranger spit the brown liquid back into the cup, then grimaced his distaste. He looked up from his darkened corner in Lock 24 Restaurant, his eyes scanning for the woman who had waited on him. His eyes met her's, and she smiled. He motioned to her. The woman nodded, then made her way to the corner booth where he sat.

"Can I help you?" the waitress questioned.

The Stranger glanced around, stared into his cup, then smiled up at the waitress. "Ah, this liquid, I have noticed others putting things in it," the Stranger said. "What are they . . .?"

"Ah, you mean cream and sugar," she interrupted, her mind reflecting on what a strange character this tall pale man was. "Some take it with cream, some with just sugar. Some black, like you have there."

"Hmmm, cream, sugar," the Stranger said hesitantly. "I think I'll pass." He pushed the coffee cup away, then glanced up at the waitress. "You know, raw rikkots straight from their burrows on Yuggoth tastes better than this."

"Raw rikkots?" the waitress frowned. What nuthouse let you out early?, she was saying silently.

"Yes, you know, raw rikkots! Those puffy slime worms that burrow in the mines. You've never had a raw rikkot? You don't know what you're missing!"

"I think I'll pass," she replied. "So, is there anything I can help you with?"

The Stranger glanced at his hat and coat next to him in the booth. The time was near, he knew it, could feel it, sense it. No need for clocks or wrist watches. H'chtelegoth didn't care what time it was, and neither did Nyarlathotep. The only pattern of time to follow was in the stars, and the Stranger was going to make sure that that pattern was followed. For now H'chtelegoth and Nyarlathotep were ignoring the stars. It was time to go, to stop Nyarlathotep.

"No, no thank you," he said as he began to rise from the booth. He grabbed his hat and coat, plopped the hat on his head and draped the coat over an arm. He reached into a coat pocket and pulled a roll of bills from the pocket. "I believe I need to compensate you for this . . . stuff," he said, pulling a hundred dollar bill from the roll of money and handing it too the waitress. "Here, I believe this will cover it."

"A hundred dollars?" she questioned, incredulous. "Are you serious?"

"Ah, I am sorry, do you require more?"

"Oh, no, no," she replied. "This is more than enough."

"Keep the change, I believe is the correct phrase."

Before the waitress could respond, the Stranger nodded, then briskly walked away, not wanting to make an abrupt disappearance which would bring attention to himself and undue alarm to the restaurant patrons. He quietly left by the east side entrance, and just outside the door he paused as he crawled into his long black coat. He sighed, shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, then glanced up at the stars.

A knowing calm settled over the Stranger as he slowly lowered his head. His face was a mask of seriousness, his eyes staring, far seeing -- focused on something miles away. It was time, he could feel it, sense it. Nyarlathotep was at the clearing. Things were soon to begin, but they would not end the way Nyarlathotep was planning. No, the end would be drastically different.

"Won't you be surprised, old boy," the Stranger voiced his thought softly. "Yes, you certainly will."

His eyes now cold, his thoughts concentrated, the Stranger stepped into the darkness of the restaurant parking lot, and walked toward the road. Before he had reached the road, he was gone.

It's started again. The same music, ethereal in its own way, yes, but unearthly. Tommy recognized it, the same music that had permeated the woods just over a year before. Tommy's father, Jacob Wilkins, had died that night -- the last time Tommy had heard the music coming from the clearing where the black stone altar stood. Jacob had made a mistake that night. Tommy knew the mistake. He had read the book since then, the big book with the funny feeling cover, the strange words and symbols. Shubby had helped him understand, helped him to know what the book said.

Now somebody was in the clearing; somebody was doing it again, calling on H'chtelegoth. Tommy focused on the music that wove amidst the trees. He followed it toward the clearing with Shubby close behind, Shubby's eyes alight, an uncanny expectant grin on the goat's face. Tommy paused, glanced up. The wind had begun to blow, and soon it would rise to an incessant keening howl. This Tommy knew. He had read it in the book, and more importantly, he had seen it happen before -- just over a year before. It was the same. It was happening again.

Tommy glanced at the goat, noted the light in his eyes, the smile on his face. Tommy smiled back, just as expectant as the goat. "Heshtellagoth is comin, Shubby!" Tommy was excited. "We gotta hurry!" And they continued through the woods toward the clearing.

Lawrence Whateley had heard the music in his mind. There was no mistaking it. It had begun. Whateley left his mobile home in Elkton and crossed the county to the woods near the Wilkins farmhouse. It had only taken seconds. To be left out, to be told by some stranger to stay away . . . unconscionable! After all these years fighting the Great Old Ones, there was no way he was going to let some upstart stranger tell him to back off. It wasn't Whateley's style, it wasn't in his character. To fight the Great Old Ones was all he knew, and this night he would continue the fight . . . Stranger or no Stranger.

Be damned if he's going to tell me to stay away! Bull! Fighting the wind and keeping to the shadows, Whateley skirted the Wilkins' farmhouse. He made his way into the woods and headed in the direction of the clearing. It had dawned on him earlier in the day that that was where the attempt would be made. That's where it happened before, logical that that's where it'll happen again. Only place it can happen. The unearthly music and now the chanting, focused ahead in the clearing, confirmed his belief.

"Look Shubby, Narlathodep!" Tommy whispered excitedly from the shadows near the edge of the clearing.

The goat's eyes flared softly, his grin becoming a smile. The goat knew that this night was special, that the great H'chtelegoth was coming, and that no thing and no one would stop him this time. After all, Nyarlathotep himself was conducting the rite, and who could stop Nyarlathotep?

An arm around Shubby's neck, Tommy ducked deeper into the shadows, kneeling behind a bush next to a tree. In the clearing Nyarlathotep stood off to one side, facing the altar, his arms raised, the featureless black face concealed in the hood of his scarlet cloak turned upward toward the sky. He slowly raised both arms, his deep voice echoing the strange words across the clearing. The top of the black stone altar began to glow, a soft green light that washed over the clearing and part way into the woods. Suddenly a green plasma-like substance erupted from the top of the altar. The substance oozed down the sides of the altar and flashed into the sky like a green incandescent volcanic lava fountain. Globs of the green plasma broke away from the shooting fountain, exploding in the air, and raining down like the fragments of exploded fireworks.

"Wow!" Tommy whispered his continued excitement. He smiled, his eyes wide, the green light reflecting through the brush onto his face, into his eyes.

The night sky became electric. Lightning crackled and flashed overhead, cutting the night in jagged green light. Tommy looked up, his eyes still wide, his face beaming. His pulse raced; he could barely contain himself. H'chtelegoth would soon be there, in the clearing. The great tentacled god of
. . .

"Well, old friend, jumping the gun a bit?" The voice was soft, but strangely it cut across all the sound. Tommy, taken by surprise, nearly fell over backward upon hearing the voice, but grabbed the tree trunk for support. He glanced over and saw him . . . the strange man, pale, dressed in a long black coat with a floppy-brimmed black hat. The strange pale man stood at the edge of the clearing, his arms crossed, right leg crossed over the shin of the left, leaning a shoulder against a tree. He was smiling at Nyarlathotep, of whom the question had been directed. Nyarlathotep had immediately lowered his arms and turned in the direction of the strange man with the white face and long white hair.

For all his slowness of wit, a strange and unexplainable feeling came over Tommy. Where others could not know this strange pale man, Tommy knew. Beyond instinct, beyond reason, Tommy knew this strange pale man, knew his identity, knew his name. His power of discord permeated the surrounding air, and Tommy was in awe of his presence. Of all people, of all beings
. . . Never could Tommy have ever imagined that He would be here . . . now. At this place . . . in time.

"I read about him," Tommy whispered to Shubby. "In the book." He glanced at the little goat. Shubby, his eyes softly glowing, was frowning, fear etched on his face. Staring at the pale stranger, the little goat's eyes suddenly dimmed as he began to back away. He had also recognize the pale man. They, Tommy and Shubby, were the only two, besides the pale man himself, who knew the truth.

"Oh, don't let me stop you . . .," the Stranger was saying. He paused, cackled, then in a soft voice meant to threaten, he added, "Yet."

The green glowing plasma continued to spit into the air, bursting above the tree tops, and raining down in little globules. The soft green light shed an eerie cast across the clearing, highlighting the Stranger's pale face and white hair. The wind was roaring, the soft, ethereal, unearthly flute music continued to echo through the woods. The chanting of Nyarlathotep was now carried on the wind although he had ceased the chant with the appearance of the Stranger.

"You!" snarled Nyarlathotep as he began to slowly cross the clearing in the direction of the Stranger. "You were with Whateley . . ."

The Stranger cackled, a sneering cackle which had interrupted Nyarlathotep. "Ah, yes, I was," he laughed.

The green plasma-fountain had changed to a spinning circle of light, slowly rising above the altar, expanding, hissing and crackling, bits and pieces of it dripping to the ground. A sudden roar, though soft and distant, sounded from the spinning ring. The Stranger glanced up at the ring as it continued to rise into the sky. Nyarlathotep stopped his approach of the Stranger upon hearing the roar of H'chtelegoth.

"Ah, your friend, H'chtelegoth," the Stranger began, glancing sideways at Nyarlathotep. There was a snickering grin on his face that aggravated Nyarlathotep. "He's right on time. Or is he? On time, that is." His snickering grin turned into a wide smile.

Nyarlathotep exploded, his arm outstretched, pointing a black finger at the Stranger. "Laugh now, Stranger, for when H'chtelegoth arises from the ring, you shall howl eternal madness! Chaos shall be your lot!"

The Stranger continued to laugh. He pushed off the tree, and began a slow ambling pace toward Nyarlathotep. His eyes were downcast, wandering, skirting across the ground. He gauged his approach to Nyarlathotep by his senses alone. Inwardly, without Nyarlathotep aware, the Stranger marshaled his thoughts, gathered his power. It was a power that even Nyarlathotep had no concept of. And coming to a stop before Nyarlathotep, the Stranger slowly raised his head, looking up into the darkness within the scarlet hood. Though the Stranger was uncommonly tall, Nyarlathotep stood a good head taller than the Stranger.

All expression of the Stranger's sarcastic joviality had vanished. His face expressed a calm seriousness that momentarily startled Nyarlathotep. The pink eyes of the Stranger suddenly flared. Nyarlathotep took two steps backward. There was something about this man, something that troubled Nyarlathotep. Nyarlathotep's thoughts fragmented, and he struggled to bring them back together. Why this man troubled him, he didn't know. Never before had he met this strange pale man; never before had such . . .

"You say chaos, madness, shall be my lot," the Stranger said, his voice slow and soft, but cut the air like a diamond cutting glass. His voice and mood turned darker as he paced the wording of his added comment for effect. "You can't even begin to imagine."

A ground-splitting roar tore through the night air. Both Nyarlathotep and the Stranger glanced at the spinning ring of plasma. Bits and pieces continued to drop to the ground. The ring had ceased its expansion, and hovered just below the tree tops. And as they watched, several huge writhing tentacles rose from the spinning ring, extending into the night sky.

The sound of H'chtelegoth's roar caused Whateley to stumble to a stop. He was nearly to the edge of the clearing, and his eyes went wide as he saw the events unfolding. In the clearing stood the Stranger and Nyarlathotep, face to face, the both of them glancing up at a spinning ring of incandescent green plasma. Rising from inside the ring were a multitude of writhing tentacles, each tentacle sixty to seventy feet in length. Then the round bulbous, funnel-like head of the monster appeared above the ring, the writhing tentacles attached to the outer ring of the great head. Encircling the outer ring of the head were thousands of cilia-like filaments, each at least five feet long, which were weaving in the wind. And spaced between the tentacles were appendages or stocks of some sort, each one sporting an eye at their outer extremity. Still H'chtelegoth continued to rise from the ring, his green tree trunk-like body now appearing from the ring, the circular head towering above the trees.

I'm too late, much too late, Whateley's thoughts echoed in his mind as he watched the monster suddenly lean forward. The tentacles attached to the monster's head randomly sought out trees, ripped them from the ground, roots and all, and tossed them aside. H'chtelegoth roared as tree after tree was torn from the ground.

A sudden feeling came over Whateley as he watched the great monster. Others. There are others! And slowly he turned his head, his eyes seeking those his mind had sensed. To his left, no more than twenty feet away, stood a boy and a small black and white goat. The boy and goat were staring back at him. He noted the boy was expressionless, passive. But the goat . . . its eyes glared red, and Whateley sensed in it an intelligent evil connected to another world.

"One of the Thousand Young," Whateley whispered his thoughts.

"I think you've had enough fun for one night," the Stranger sighed as he stared up at H'chtelegoth. The great monster towered over a hundred feet above the plasma ring. Lower down on its trunk-like body there extended two more tentacles, longer than those of its head. They were weaving in the air, slowly reaching downward, down toward the Stranger. "Time to go back where you came from, my friend," the Stranger added as he closed his eyes and began to concentrate.

The great monster suddenly roared, seemingly in pain. The plasma ring began to rise, expanding into what appeared to be a green incandescent cylinder, restricting and containing H'chtelegoth's movement. Nyarlathotep glanced at the Stranger, H'chtelegoth, then back at the Stranger.

"What are you doing!?" Nyarlathotep roared. "What do you . . .?"

The Stranger waved a hand, sending Nyarlathotep sprawling to the ground without so much as touching him. Nyarlathotep's eyes flared. Never before had anyone exhibited such power against him . . . to toss him aside with a mere wave of a hand. Nyarlathotep slowly rose to his feet, but maintained his distance from the Stranger.

Though his eyes were still closed, the Stranger stared straight ahead. He began to raise both arms, a slow upsweeping motion. H'chtelegoth roared, thrashing against a power the great monster could not resist. The great circular head leaned forward, the writhing tentacles reaching for the Stranger, and though the tentacles were long enough, they nonetheless were powerless to grab the strange pale man. It was as if some unseen thing or force was blocking the way.

The cylinder continued to rise, encompassing H'chtelegoth. The wind roared through the trees. The chanting, disembodied, continued as did the unearthly flute music, though slightly altered, a slightly different tone -- darker, more maniacal. The cylinder crackled and hissed, green plasma slabs detaching and dripping to the ground. H'chtelegoth reared his head back, the tentacles rolling into the sky, flailing madly. The monster roared its anger and defeat as it felt an unseen force pulling it from the other side of the gate, pulling it down into the spinning cylinder. Nyarlathotep stood his ground, not moving, his red eyes glaring in anger and surprise. And from the woods on the edge of the clearing, Whateley, Tommy, and Shubby also watched.

H'chtelegoth's great head disappeared into the cylinder, and ever so slowly the writhing tentacles followed. Then the cylinder began to break apart and fade into the darkness. A final faint roar was heard and then H'chtelegoth was gone . . . a second time. And as the cylinder faded, so did the disembodied chanting, the roaring wind, the unearthly flute music. In a matter of seconds the clearing became silent. The Stranger opened his eyes as he lowered his arms. He turned his head slowly in the direction of Nyarlathotep. The Stranger's face was expressionless, his eyes deep pools, doorways to a place beyond time and space, a place no one could understand for the Stranger himself.

"Your friends are in the woods," Nyarlathotep said softly, averting the gaze of the Stranger. "I should destroy them for what you've done here."

"I know they're there," the Stranger replied, his words cold, deliberate. "And you shant destroy them. You would risk your own destruction."

"Who . . . who are you?" There was a soft flare of Nyarlathotep's eyes; his voice was uncertain, hesitant. Never had he felt so helpless.

A sudden change came over the Stranger. His mood lightened; he became more jovial again, and sarcastic. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. "You know, people keep asking me that . . . well . . ." A pause, and then the Stranger began to laugh. "If I wanted you to know, I'd tell you!"

"You shall regret this day . . .," Nyarlathotep began, regaining a measure of composure.

The Stranger's mood abruptly changed. His countenance became cold, calculated. There was madness in his glaring pink eyes. "Do not . . . force my hand," the Stranger interrupted, his voice cold. "Run while you can. We shall meet again another day. Go!"

A dark hatred for the pale man arose in Nyarlathotep as he began to slowly back away. This pale man was a new enemy, an enemy that would be made to suffer before he was destroyed, an enemy of the Great Old Ones -- of Yog-Sothoth, Ithaqua, Cthulhu, Z'toggua, Azathoth, and many others. Nyarlathotep would hound this pale stranger across time and space, and beyond if necessary. His time would surely come. Meet another day, another day, Nyarlathotep scowled in his thoughts.

"Yes, we shall meet another day," Nyarlathotep said, his voice soft and airy. "And that day shall be your last."

Shaking his head from side to side, the Stranger slipped his hands into the pockets of his black coat. He broke into a wide smile as his sarcastic wit returned. He sighed, then spoke with a cackle. "My last day? You can try, but it'll do you no good." He paused as he broke out in wild maniacal laughter, adding, "You don't stand a chance!"

There was no response from Nyarlathotep. The wild laughter of the Stranger continued as the scarlet cloak of Nyarlathotep began to shimmer and fade. Suddenly, Nyarlathotep was gone but for his glowing eyes. The eyes flared momentarily, then faded as well. The Stranger's mind probed the woods for miles around. His laughter began to subside as he realized that Nyarlathotep was truly gone. But the Stranger knew he would be back.

Whateley momentarily glanced back at Tommy and Shubby, then turned away as he stepped out of the woods into the clearing. He entered the clearing, walking slowly to where the Stranger still stood. The Stranger slowly turned to face him. He smiled and nodded as Whateley walked up to him.

"You came, but at least you didn't interfere," the Stranger said softly.

"Your power," Whateley began, ignoring the Stranger's comment. "You could have destroyed Nyarlathotep. But you let him go?"

The Stranger turned his eyes to the ground, nodded, then glanced back at Whateley. "For now, yes," the Stranger said. "But I'll cross paths with him again."

"He is dangerous, he could carry through on his threat," Whateley was incredulous.

"Have faith in me, my friend," the Stranger said with a smile.

The Stranger suddenly passed a hand in front of Whateley's face. A shadow formed in Whateley's mind, his eyes drifting closed. His thoughts began to spiral into a darkened tunnel, falling through timelessness, fleeting fragmented images drifting past, everything of Chaos weighing him down. He could not correlate information, events, faces, names, places, things. All was disjointed, jumbled, entropic, in discord. He fought for consciousness, but failed, and finally, a total blackness overcame his chaotic thoughts, and the peaceful silence of nothingness drifted over him.

His eyes flew open. He stared into the dark, then slowly glanced around. Forms loomed in the darkness. The outline of a darkened lamp, a couch, a small table, a wall. Whateley found himself sitting in his wing-back chair in his rented mobile home. He glanced at the window of the small living room. It was still night, the soft yellow light of neighboring homes across the creek drifted through the shear curtain, masking the window. Night, still night. His thoughts began to take form again. But which night? Was it a dream?

"Ah, my friend, it has been but a few moments," the Stranger's disembodied voice drifted through the darkened room. "A few moments out of time. I sent you home, and, yes, it was real." The was a pause, a soft chuckle in the dark. "You should know better, Larry!"

Whateley leaned forward in his chair, his eyes straining to find the Stranger. "Where are . . .," he began.

"I am where you saw me last, in the clearing," the Stranger's cackling voice interrupted. "We shall meet again." There was a pause, then the voice of the Stranger spoke again, his tone now serious. "One more thing, Lawrence, you should be more careful. Beware the chaos that knocks at your back door. You never know who it might be. Until the next time, my friend."

And in the dark Whateley sat back in his chair, his thoughts repeating the words the Stranger had spoken. He sighed, then a faint glow like amber suddenly sparked in his mind. A thought, an idea. He focused on the thought, on words the Stranger had spoken. "Beware the chaos that knocks at your back door," Whateley softly repeated the Stranger's words. It was an incredible thought, an incredible idea, but it didn't make sense, didn't fit the pattern. Whateley shook his head. "Impossible," he whispered. "Simply impossible." And he stared into the darkness, preoccupied with a notion, an idea, that he couldn't let go.

All was silent in the clearing. The music had stopped, so had the chanting. All traces of the green incandescent plasma was gone. H'chtelegoth was gone, Nyarlathotep was gone. Now only a soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. The moon was riding low in the sky, the soft silvery light cutting a sharp angle through the trees, crawling across the clearing, casting shifting shadows around the clearing's edge. And a shadow moved, detached from the surrounding shadows. It was followed by a second shadow.

The moving shadows caught the Stranger's eyes. He shifted his position where he sat atop the altar, turning his eyes in the direction of the movement. He knew they were there, knew they hadn't moved since it had all begun this night. The Stranger smiled as Tommy and Shubby stepped into the soft light of the moon. They paused, hesitant, then slowly approached the Stranger. And the Stranger saw the awe and wonder on the face of the boy, saw the power and ancient knowledge in the eyes of the goat.

"Mister Ah . . .," Tommy began as he and Shubby stopped before the Stranger.

"Shhhhh," the Stranger interrupted, placing a pale finger to his lips. "Now, now, my boy. No need to mention my name. You're a smart boy, I see." Still smiling, the Stranger glanced at Shubby, and scratched him under the chin. "I know your momma, little one," the Stranger added. Though hesitant and fearful, the eyes of Shubby sparkled in the soft moonlight.

"You sent him back," Tommy said softly. "You sent Heshtellagoth back."

The Stranger paused, staring into Tommy's eyes, his expression soft. "Yes, yes, I did," the Stranger said.

"Why?" questioned Tommy.

"It has to do with the stars," the Stranger said as he pointed to the sky. He paused as he jumped down from the altar. Placing an arm around Tommy's shoulders, he added, "Come, walk with me. You want to wear my hat? It looks better on me than it does those fish things, don't you think?" And as they walked across the clearing, the Stranger removed his hat and placed it on Tommy's head. "Well, young man, I think it looks better on you too!"

Tommy smiled as he straightened the hat on his head. "The stars?" he asked.

They stopped walking. The Stranger peered into the night sky and sighed. Tommy followed his gaze. "Yes, my boy, the stars," the Stranger said softly.

Created: May 16, 2000; Current Update: August 9, 2004