Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois by Pierre V. Comtois, Charlie Krank, Nick Nacario

even through the roughly woven blankets that covered it.
    “…Cobb told cousins that he could get a Goat-Mother for Tcho Tcho in return for story of Elder Gods…” Shuri lifted the lid of the tray and when Darlene saw what was there, all shiny and squirming, her terror and horror was so acute that for an instant the power of the Black Lotus was not enough to restrain the screams that filled her throne room.
    “…Cobb said plan would take much times but that was well, as it would be long before Tcho Tcho could complete book about Elder Gods…” But Darlene was long past hearing Shuri’s story as she felt the squirmings begin inside her.
    “…but finally book finished and soon Shuri leave Sung to come to Cobb with book and find Cobb keep promise…” There were people, things, gathered around her, robed and grotesque, holding wooden bowls. Then one approached and held its bowl between Darlene’s legs and gathered the millions of fertilized eggs that spewed from inside her. One by one, figures came to her and did the same until, hours later, the nightmare ended.
    “Now Miss is Tcho Tcho Goat-Mother, will spawn new younglings and Tcho Tcho able to continue duties and worship of Elder Gods…” Darlene lay supine on her throne, exhausted and sickened, wanting only to die.
    “…only few younglings will live to adulthood but new Goat-Mother not to worry that not all her children will live…” Shuri said, replacing the handmaidens in Darlene’s distorted vision and approaching her with the covered tray again.
How long had she been in this place?
her mind screamed.
Was this Hell?
As the fog of the Black Lotus gradually lifted from her brain, she wasn’t sure of anything except that her most fervent wish was to die…
    “…not all will live, but in thousand-years time, Goat-Mother will have gratification of seeing those of her children who do, grow and glorify her…”
s Corners.

High and Dry
    on Schulter tossed an armful of kindling onto the ground then straightened, holding his back. He felt a distinct creak back there.
Must be getting old
, he thought. Throwing his arms forward, he gave them a good stretch. It had been a long day beginning with the drive west up I-90 from Boston then to the old Aylesbury Pike. The maps had made it look easy but after he took the turnoff onto the Pike, things became a bit more uncertain. It was all because of the reservoir of course. When the Winsor Dam was built in the 1930s, the rising waters of the Swift River not only drowned a number of small towns and scattered homesteads, but part of the Aylesbury Pike too. That necessitated alterations in the direction of the highway and it seemed that the state’s maps had not yet caught up with the changes. Why was he not surprised at that?
    Schulter sighed, placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene around him.
    It had been a hot autumn day and the sun was just setting behind the ridge on the far side of the Quabbin Reservoir in a brilliant, orange ball swollen to twice its normal size. The glow from the sun cast a reddish tinge on the surrounding woodland and accentuated the strange sight that lay before him.
    At the moment, Massachusetts was in the midst of its second year of the longest drought anyone could remember. Streams and wetlands all across the state had run dry, and rivers and ponds were dangerously low. Restrictions were in-force in cities and towns everywhere, to the usual grumblings of homeowners, and meteorologists predicted more of the same until at least the new year. But the state’s misfortune also resulted in a boon for local archeologists and antiquarians who were able to explore streams and river bottoms for remnants of the state’s early history. In particular, the drought turned out to be quite convenient for Schulter, whose research into his family’s history had led him to the Quabbin, which at the moment held only about half its normal volume of water.
    That was good, because as its waters