DER FLEISCHBRUNNEN, by Mark McLaughlin

Der Fleischbrunnen was based within a warehouse with boarded windows. There were no signs on the building, which was—and still is, in fact—just one of many dozens of warehouses in the industrial sector of a filthy, boring city. This city is located on an island, and very few people there speak English—or German, for that matter. You would never be able to find the building, based on those few vague facts.

But then, you would have no reason to seek it out. It is empty now.

My grandmother on my mother’s side grew up in a poor family from a small fishing village in Crete, which is not the island in question. She had been a very beautiful woman in her prime, and had married well. Several times, in fact—all to very wealthy men. I’d been her favorite grandchild. I used to call her Jia-Jia, and when I was little, I was surprised when I learned that Jia-Jia was Greek for ‘grandmother’ and not her actual name. I knew all the adults called her Ellie, but I thought that was something adults called old women. Ellie was, in fact, short for Elena.

When she died last year, she left me fifty-seven million dollars and several companies in different countries. I have plenty of business experience—I worked for decades in the soft-drink industry, in marketing—so I felt confident in my ability to continue her legacy.

One of my grandmother’s businesses was in that filthy, boring city I’d mentioned. A month after my grandmother died, I called Mr. Pileggi, the man who was running that business.

I had a nice talk with him on the phone—he had a little trouble speaking English, but we were able to understand each other. He seemed very helpful. He made arrangements for me to be flown to the island, so he could give me a tour of the business. He even made plans for a car to pick me up after I got off the plane. It would be early evening, so the driver would take me directly to the restaurant where I would be having dinner with Mr. Pileggi. I was only going to be staying two days, so I wouldn’t be bothering with any luggage—only a carry-on bag.

The day came for my trip. The flight went as scheduled. I arrived on the island, got off the plane and found the car. The driver, a dark-haired man with a huge smile, opened the back door of the maroon Buick for me and I got in. After he took his seat behind the wheel, he turned around and said, “Where to, my friend?”

This caught me a little off-guard. “Oh. The restaurant. I’m having dinner with Mr. Pileggi. Nick Pileggi.”

The driver raised his eyebrows. “What restaurant? We have many here.”

“I can’t remember the name,” I said. “But I do recall it wasn’t in English… I asked Nick what it meant, and he said, ‘The Hungry Bear.’ No wait—‘The Fat Bear.’ Does that help?”

The driver shook his head.

I tried to remember more of my conversation with Pileggi. “We talked about the name for about five minutes—but it’s just not coming to mind. Maybe it was French…or German…?”

“We have no French restaurants,” the man said. “So maybe German.”

“Now let me think… What would be German for ‘The Fat Bear’…?” My command of the German language was virtually non-existent, but I gave it my best shot. “How about—‘Der Fattenbearen’? No, that’s not right. ‘Der Flabbenbruin’? No. I think ‘fleisch’ means fat or meat… How about ‘Der Fleischbrunnen’?”

Later, after the adventure was over, I found out that I’d had both the language and the type of animal wrong. And ‘bear’ was something different in German anyway. But evidently that wild guess had hit upon something, because the driver’s eyes shot wide open and he said, “You are having dinner at Der Fleischbrunnen?”

“There is such a place?” I said, amazed by my luck. “Well then, yes, I guess that’s where I’m having dinner. It’s a restaurant, right?”

The young man stared at me. “I’ve never been inside. Maybe they serve food. I don’t know. I thought it was a club. A private club. Members only. Mr. Pileggi is a member there?”

“I guess so! So let’s getting going. To Der Fleischbrunnen!” I was getting a little impatient, because it was a couple hours after my usual dinner time and I was getting hungry. But at least I was well-rested, since I had fallen asleep on the plane.

The driver gave me a worried look, but then we started off down the road. On the way, he said, “My best friend’s sister, she once went to Der Fleischbrunnen. She never told us what happened there, but later that year, she had a baby and it was born dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“The baby was all wrong. It was too small and bony, and its eyes were…funny.”

“That’s very sad, but you can’t blame a restaurant or a club for something like that. And she only went there once, right?”

“Once was enough,” he said.

I was surprised when he turned down a road that was lined with huge, unlit buildings. Eventually he parked in front of that unmarked warehouse with boarded windows. “This is it,” he said. “You get out here. I don’t like looking at it. It makes me remember that thing. That devil-baby.”

“But this isn’t a restaurant!” I said. “There aren’t any lights or cars or customers or—or anything!”

“Just get out!” the driver said. He turned around—his eyes were streaming tears. “Get out right here! I’m going home now! Get out, Mr. Fancy Big-Shot!”

What could I do? The man was extremely upset. I figured I’d be better off taking my chances on the street, even though it was getting dark. I’d done some reading on the island before my trip, and it had a very low crime rate. The lights of the city were less than a half-hour walk away, so I really wasn’t in any danger.

So I got out.

The man screamed, “To Hell with you!” as he drove off.

I had a few protein bars in my carry-on bag, so I fished one out and ate it as I thought about what to do next. It was a warm night and nobody else was around, as far as I could see.

I decided to check out the warehouse. Der Fleischbrunnen. Why? Just for the heck of it, really. Plus, I was curious. Seeing the place evidently had brought back some unpleasant memories for the driver. Why would a club have anything to do with a deformed baby? Had the place ever really been a club? After all, it was just another warehouse among many others. It looked like it had been deserted for decades.

Bag in hand, I walked up to the door and jiggled the knob. It was locked, but a woman’s voice on the other side said, “Yes?”

I was completely startled, since I’d figured the place was abandoned. “I’m looking for a restaurant called Der Fleischbrunnen,” I said.

The woman laughed. “Restaurant? What makes you think we’re a restaurant?”

“Well, is this Der Fleischbrunnen?” I asked. “Is Nick Pileggi in there? Can I come in?”

“Yes, this is Der Fleischbrunnen, and no, we don’t have a Nick Pileggi in here.” A bolt clacked and the door swung open. Inside the entryway stood a thin, elderly woman with an angular, incredibly wrinkled face. A few wispy tufts of white hair stuck out from under her lime-green turban. She held an odd little lantern that appeared to be made mostly of yellow glass, with a stone base and handle. There were no lights behind her in the building. “We’re not a restaurant, mister. Do you still want to come in?”

“I’m supposed to be meeting with Nick Pileggi,” I said. “But I don’t know the address. I have his home phone number, though he’s probably already at the restaurant. Wherever that is.”

The old woman smiled at me. “Poor man. You are far from home, yes? And lost! Ridiculously lost! You have no idea where you are! We don’t have a phone here, but there’s plenty to eat. Let me find something for you. Then we’ll decide how to get you to this Pileggi fellow.”

She took my hand and led me into the building. We headed down a hallway lined with large paintings—some were so huge they stretched from ceiling to floor. I couldn’t make out too many details by the light of the old woman’s strange lantern, but basically, they all seemed to depict elderly people with their hands raised in the air. After we’d gone about ten feet, she let go of my hand.

I pointed my forefinger like a mock gun—thumb raised, trigger-style—at one of the paintings. “Stick ’em up!” I said in a Bugs-Bunny-like gangster voice.

The old woman stopped. “Stick what up?”

“All these people have their hands raised, like somebody’s pointing a gun at them.” I pointed my finger like a gun again. “When criminals rob somebody, they say, ‘Stick ’em up!’ and the victims put their hands in the air. Well, they do in American movies, anyway.”

The old woman laughed. “Oh, I never go to see movies. I don’t watch television, either. Isn’t that terrible? I feel I am missing so much!”

I shrugged. “You’re probably better off. At least you’re living your life, instead of just watching other people you don’t even know. Most of them are just made-up characters anyway. Except for the ones on the news. But why don’t you watch TV or movies? Is it against your religion or something?”

The old woman continued to walk, and gestured for me to follow. “A man who also lives here, he went to a movie, a few years ago. Something about the light made his eyes bleed. The same thing happened to a woman who lives here when she tried to watch a television. The light—there is something about the way it flickers, so fast, so strong. It is not good for us.”

“So you live here with some other folks?” She didn’t answer my question, so I went back to the original topic. “Well, movies and TV don’t flicker for me. You and your friends must have really sensitive eyes. Is that why you’re using that lantern?”

“Yes, exactly right.” The woman led me into a large, dim kitchen, lit by a few yellow candles set in wine bottles. The place was a complete mess, with filthy pots and plates scattered on the table and across the counters. “Forgive the way our kitchen looks.” The old woman wheezed out an exasperated sigh. “The others here, they leave it all for me to clean up. And I’m the one with sore hands! Every year they get worse. I wish you were a doctor. Then you could give me some pills for my poor, aching hands.” She turned to look at me. “Maybe you are a doctor…?”

“Sorry.” I watched as she opened a breadbox and took out, not bread, but a large leather pouch. She opened it and pulled out a long, lumpy chunk of what looked like beef jerky.

“Here,” she said. “Dried lamb. Very delicious.”

I took the shriveled mass of meat from her. She pulled out one for herself and began to gnaw on it. I smelled the meat—very spicy, lots of garlic and maybe oregano. I chewed on it a little—it was really very good. Pretty soon I’d eaten my share, so she gave me another chunk to chew on.

“So what’s your name?” I asked.

“Oh, you must forgive me! I should have introduced myself when we first met. My name is Maria.”

I suddenly realized that the old woman had a bit of an accent—an accent so familiar I’d taken it for granted. “Hey,” I said, “you’re Greek, aren’t you? I’m half-Greek. My mother’s side of the family.”

The old woman stared into my eyes. “And what is the name of your mother’s family?”

I told her.

The old woman nodded. “I see. And your grandmother. Was her name Elena?”

This time, it was my turn to nod.

“Of course!” Maria grabbed another stick of lamb jerky and began to gnaw with great excitement. “By any chance did you come to this island to claim a family business?”

“Yes…” I said, suddenly unsure of how much I should reveal about myself. It was unnerving, watching her tear into that meat with such happy fervor. I guess she still had all her own teeth.

“Of course, of course,” she gushed, mostly to me but I think to herself, too. “This Pileggi you mentioned, he must be the fat man who comes by during the day! We’ve never known his name. He doesn’t stay to talk to us. The pig, he’s not nice like you! Maybe you should fire him and be the one who works with us!” She suddenly threw back her head and laughed, once, twice. “You don’t know, do you? You own this place! You own Der Fleischbrunnen! So how did you get here, anyway? And why did you think it was a restaurant?”

I told her about my conversation with the driver, and when I was finished, she laughed again.

“That is good, good!” she crowed. Then she looked me in the eye. “I shall tell you this. In all the universe, there is no such thing as a coincidence. No such thing as an accident. You think you came here by mistake, but all is happening as it was meant, by powers beyond our control. Events are like the teeth on the gears of a clock—they fit together and move each other along, and when all is done… Then, my friend, we shall both know the time.”

She bit off and chewed some more dried lamb, swallowed, and then continued with her ravings. At least, they seemed like ravings at the time. “Oh, I can tell we are going to get along! Yes, we’re all going to be good friends! That fat man, he treats us like animals—your grandmother, a very dear woman, she simply had no idea. She stopped visiting us after the fat man began managing the place for her, so we were never able to tell her! Now come with me, come, come, come! It is time for you to see what you have inherited! It is yours, all yours! Der Fleischbrunnen!”

She grabbed her lantern and ran past me, out of the kitchen, whirling around every few steps to gesture for me to follow, follow. She was a very nimble old lady—I’m surprised she didn’t fall and break a hip.

“So what’s a Fleischbrunnen, anyway?” I shouted to her as I ran. “I guess it’s not a fat bear—”

“No, no, no!” she cried. “It is German for ‘meat fountain’! Hitler named it that when he visited the island, so many years ago. Such an odd man—and such greasy hair. The smell of that grease filled whatever room he was in. It smelled like bacon mixed with lilacs. Sickening!” She stopped right in front of an enormous wooden door. It was open about six inches, though I couldn’t see in from where I was standing.

“Hitler used to come here? World War II Hitler?” I said. “I own a business that used to have Adolf Hitler for a customer? Lady, that is just too weird for words!”

“Oh, really, my dear friend, my good sir? You think that is weird?” She licked her lips. “Then tell me what you think—of this!” So saying, she pushed the door wide open. She really was terribly strong for her size and age.

There it was, right before my eyes, in the middle of a huge chamber lit by yellow candles in lanterns. It was surrounded by dozens of extremely old men and women. Some were slowly dancing with their hands in the air. Others were carrying wooden buckets, and large wooden spoons, too.

But what was ‘it’, you ask?

It looked like a five-foot high volcano of pink flesh, spouting up from out of a wide broken area in the floor. A thick, bluish slime rolled slowly down from the mouth of the hideous thing. Some of the elderly workers collected the ooze with their spoons and plopped it into their buckets. All of them kept whispering the same long phrase or sentence over and over. I couldn’t make out everything they said, but a foreign word which sounded vaguely African—‘gah-tam-bah’—was repeated often.

I walked through the door, right up to the horrible little hill. As I reached out, about to touch it, Maria hurried up to me and grabbed my hand.

“No metal,” she said. “Never metal.” She pulled a ring off my finger and put it in the breast pocket of my jacket.

I touched the side of the mound. It vibrated slightly, and pulsed, too. It was rubbery and very warm, almost feverish. A glob of the blue slime trickled down the meaty hill and wet my index finger.

I raised the finger to my nose for a sniff. It smelled like a mixture of sweat and rice pudding with cinnamon.

“Do not taste it!” Maria whispered. “It is highly addictive.”

I had no intention of tasting it, though I did appreciate the warning. I wiped my finger on my pants.

One of the old women carried a full wooden bucket out of the chamber through a side door. A few seconds later she returned without the bucket, with another woman by her side. They talked for a moment, and then they began the whispering chant. They raised their arms and began to circle Der Fleischbrunnen—the meat fountain.

I pointed toward the side door. “Where does that go?”

Maria took a newly filled bucket from one of the women and walked toward the door. “Come with me,” she said. “You deserve to see it all. The miracle belongs to you!”

This new room was a candle-lit laboratory. Maria walked to the center of the lab and dumped the contents of the bucket into one of three stainless steel vats, all heated by gas jets.

“You’re putting that juice in metal containers,” I said. “So how come you had to take my ring off?”

“The ‘juice’, as you call it, is the Milk of Time,” Maria said. “It can be stored in any type of container. But the source of the Milk cannot be allowed to come in contact with metal. Do you like our laboratory? We are very scientific, yes?”

On tables and counters, the blue fluid was being tested and processed by about a dozen workers in white smocks. “They all work in shifts,” Maria said. “Production never stops. There is a great demand for our product. That is why it is so expensive. Only the very rich can afford to use it on a regular basis. And they do. Even though long-term use has its side effects, like sensitivity to most forms of light. And of course, the extreme dependency. The addicts eventually come here to work in their old age—they give the fat man all their money and in return, they get to live here and have the Milk for free.”

“But—what does the stuff actually do to people?” I said, watching one of the workers pour the goop into a test tube.

“This marvelous compound,” Maria said, “makes a person feel like God. Your grandmother never let a drop touch her lips. Me? That’s another story. The scientific principle is a bit too complex to explain quickly, but basically, it interacts with the body’s hormones, male and female. That is why only the very old are allowed to work with it. Their hormones have dried up, so they won’t be compelled to swill it down like hogs all day long. They only need a little every day—enough to keep them alive.”

I thought about this for a moment. “So it’s some kind of aphrodisiac?”

Maria shrugged. “Perhaps. If you think that God is sex personified. I don’t know. I am far too old to remember how it felt. That is another side effect. It makes a person live a very long time. Even after the wonderful feelings go away.” She sighed sadly. “We have a very nice room for visitors. You can stay there tonight. The fat man will be here in the morning. You can fire him then.”

“There’s a lot I still don’t understand,” I said as we walked through the lab and into another passageway, Maria leading the way with her lantern. “Maybe I’ll fire the fat man—Nick—eventually, but I don’t think I should do it tomorrow. I need to talk to him about some things. Like how this stuff gets sold, who buys it. Maybe I don’t want people to have it any more. Hell, maybe I should shut this whole place down.”

“Elena talked that way sometimes,” Maria said, “back when she used to visit us. I would say to her, ‘Ellie! The Milk of Time is the only thing keeping your poor old Jia-Jia alive! Do you want to see me die?’” The old woman wagged a finger at me. “Now I ask you the same question. Do you want me to die? Your own flesh and blood—your Jia-Jia’s Jia-Jia! Is that what you want?”

“I wouldn’t wish death on anyone,” I said, wondering if she could possibly be who she said she was. My grandmother’s grandmother! I tried to figure out her age in my head. All her talk of death suddenly made me remember the driver’s story about the dead baby. “Did a young girl once visit here and…?” I wasn’t sure how to continue. Finally I just said, “Her baby was stillborn.”

Maria waved a hand slowly, dismissively. “A stupid whore. The fat man arranged for her to entertain a business associate here. A very handsome man. That crazy whore, she got drunk and didn’t even do her job. Instead she somehow managed to wander into the forbidden areas of the building. Then she passed out and some of the old fellows who help gather the Milk of Time had their way with her.” She barked out a dry laugh. “Not all of us are completely dead below our belts! Men with seed so very old…older than you or anyone else from the outside might guess…what sort of awful baby would that make? You cannot make fresh bread from moldy flour! Better off that it died, I think. Ah, here is your room for the night. A very nice room.”

The nice room Maria mentioned was in fact a spacious, well-furnished suite, with redwood furniture draped with quaint old doilies. Thankfully, it had modern lighting fixtures, along with a refrigerator, television, and a bar. So the building did indeed have an electrical connection. Maria didn’t enter the room. I asked if she wanted to come in, but she just shook her head and hurried away, down the long hall. Maybe all those modern conveniences scared her. But I did notice one thing, just before she turned and rushed off. She took just a moment to stare—with an odd look of what might have been fear, worry or curiosity—at a beige door in a corner of the suite.

In a cabinet at the bar, I found bottles of vodka, whiskey, gin—and a half-dozen old bottles of ouzo. I recalled that my grandmother used to enjoy the occasional nip of the stuff. It’s not the sort of drink one can chug down. It’s too strong, thick and licorice-sweet. Perhaps Mr. Pileggi enjoyed it, too. There was tonic in the refrigerator, so I made a gin and tonic. I looked around for a phone, but apparently Maria hadn’t been lying when she’d said there wasn’t one. I suppose that had something to do with their need for secrecy. Even then, Der Fleischbrunnen wasn’t such a secret—the driver had known its location and a little more, too, though most of his facts were wrong.

As I finished my drink, I looked over some of the books on a shelf by the television. I was amused to see a book with the title, Put A Little Greece In Your Cooking! There were many other dusty old cookbooks there—those must have been my Jia-Jia’s. I then saw that all the cookbooks had the same name on the spine. My grandmother had written them. She’d always had some difficulty writing in English, so she must have had the help of a ghost-writer who knew both Greek and English.

One book on the shelf had the intriguing title, The Seven Blasphemies of Ghattambah. I recognized part of the title as the word I’d heard the old people whispering as they gathered the Milk of Time. It was a very large book, bound in leather that had thick, bristly black hair sprouting from it in spots. Utterly disgusting. The title had been burned—or rather, branded—onto the spine and front cover. Certainly a unique printing process. I wondered what kind of animal the leather had come from, and decided it must have been a pig.

I opened the book. Each page was divided into quadrants, each in a different language: English, Greek, German and another I didn’t recognize. Also, in the middle of each page was an illustration. These depicted a variety of nauseating subjects: mostly bizarre sexual practices and cut-off or cut-up body parts. I stared at one picture for about three minutes—basically because I couldn’t decide what the thing in the picture was supposed to be. It had a puffy, tubular body with a multitude of pincer-legs, like a caterpillar. It also had long, heavily veined spiral wings. I had no idea how any creature could fly with wings like that. The head of the thing didn’t have a brainpan—it was just a huge, gaping mouth filled with sharp, crooked teeth. The thick lips were dotted with small, black eyes.

At the base of the wings was a large, knobby hump. Perhaps that was the location of the brain, if indeed the thing had a brain of any size. A cluster of extremely long tendrils grew out of the top of the hump.

The caption informed me that this creature was Ghattambah.

I wanted to read the book, but decided I could do that later. In fact, I would take it with me when I left. I put it back on the shelf and decided to try opening that beige door. I wasn’t surprised to find that it was locked. I thought for a moment. If the key was in the room, where might it be hidden…?

I reached up and checked the top of the door-frame. Nothing.

One by one, I opened the books and shook them, hoping a key would fall out. But it wasn’t hidden among their pages.

Then I thought about all those ouzo bottles. I went back to the cabinet and examined them. Sure enough, a rusty old key was taped to the side of an ouzo bottle at the back of the cabinet. A fine hiding place, since ouzo is not for all tastes, and there were five other bottles of the stuff in front of it.

I unlocked the door—and found myself staring down a crude tunnel supported by wooden beams, with thick planks for walls, ceiling and floor. On a small shelf on the tunnel wall I found a box of wooden matches and a glass and stone lantern with a yellow candle inside.

I lit the candle and walked down the tunnel. I simply had to. I’d already seen so many bizarre sights in that building, and the fact that Maria had cast such a strange look at the door made me intensely curious.

As I walked down the tunnel, a thought entered my mind. I knew the soft-drink industry pretty well. A drink that contained the Milk of Time could easily enslave the world. After all, millions of people were already addicted to caffeinated beverages. The addiction of that Milk would just further strengthen the enslavement. But did I want to enslave, therefore rule, the world? Of course not. I was already filthy rich. Why would I want the extra responsibility? I wasn’t about to let greed evolve into destructive stupidity.

The tunnel took a turn and sloped gently downward. As I followed the way, I began to hear noises: movement, voices, and incessant dripping. Suddenly the tunnel opened up into a huge cave.

And I was not alone.

I put down my lantern at the mouth of the tunnel, since there was already light in the cave. Dozens of lanterns were set in niches cut into the rock of the cave walls. Several of the old workers were dancing and whisper-chanting, while others collected the Milk of Time from the cave floor with wooden spoons. They ignored me as they went about their duties. The Milk itself was dripping down—

—down from an enormous cocoon, which was lashed to the roof of the cave by hundreds of thick ropes of silk. The cocoon was about the size of two bulldozers parked end to end. The surface of the huge pod was rough and filthy, with several oozing holes along the sides.

I thought about how far I had walked, and the direction the path had taken… The cave was directly under the huge room which housed that fleshy volcano. That meant that the volcano was growing out of the top of cocoon, extending through a hole between the cave and that warehouse room. The cocoon seemed to be constantly oozing fluid—plenty for the workers to collect. As one of the dancing workers moved past me, she whispered, “Ghattambah.”

I noticed a structure along a wall of the cave near the cocoon. Steps built onto wooden scaffolding led up to a platform at a level less than five feet away from the pod.

As I watched, an old man with a long wooden pole, sharpened at one end, walked up to the platform and began to prod at the cocoon, ripping a couple more holes into it. These began to ooze the Milk of Time almost immediately.

Milk? A quaint euphemism for blood, or ichor, or whatever that vile slime was.

I decided to get a closer look.

I walked up the wooden steps to the platform. I passed the old man on the way and he simply gave me a small nod.

I stood high above the cave floor, watching the cocoon. The liquid oozed from the holes with a slow, gently pulsing regularity. I was in awe of this creature. What sort of being could constantly lose vital fluids without dying? It couldn’t be a creature from Earth. I was eager to read that hide-bound book—hopefully it would shed some light on this nightmare scenario.

At this point, I did something utterly senseless. And I did it without thinking.

I thought about the name Hitler had given the place—Der Fleischbrunnen. Maria had mentioned it meant ‘meat fountain.’ Everyone knows it’s good luck to toss a coin into a fountain. So I absent-mindedly dug a penny out of my pocket and flicked it toward the cocoon—and it landed right in one of the gaping, oozing holes.

Only then did I remember what Maria had said.

No metal. Never metal.

It was a stupid thing to do, but I guess I was meant to do it. Maria also had said there was no such thing as an accident.

The cocoon began to rock back and forth, faster and faster. I hurried down the wooden steps. Writhing tendrils began to tear through the holes in the horrible bundle. A deafening, high-pitched shriek of rage echoed off the stone walls. I ran back to the mouth of the tunnel—and just in time. The agitated cocoon tore free of its moorings and fell with a sickening thud to the floor of the cave. There the casing tore open and a huge, slick, squealing thing scrambled out. It looked like a twisted, sickly version of the creature in the book’s drawing. The ravenous mouth-head whipped around, looking for prey, and fastened upon the nearest worker. That insane turbine of a mouth shredded the old man to red ribbons and sucked him down in a matter of seconds.

With this nourishment, the body of Ghattambah began to plump up. The creature ate another of the workers, then another and yet another. The strange curving wings of the creature spread majestically. I wanted to run, but I found myself transfixed by the sight of such ravenous carnage. Soon the head whipped in my direction. I regained my senses, grabbed my lantern from where I’d set it earlier, and ran back through the tunnel. Fortunately, I couldn’t hear anything following me. The lantern slipped out of my hand and broke about halfway back to the room. I actually yelped when its feeble yellow light went out. I ran with one hand tapping the wall beside me, so I would be able to find the turn along the way.

Once I was back in the room, I grabbed The Seven Blasphemies of Ghattambah and popped it into my bag. Then I hurried out of the room, through the labyrinth of the building’s halls, in a direction that I hoped would return me to the main entrance. The halls were dark, so again I had to run with one hand madly tapping the wall to my side. I could hear plenty of running and screaming, though I couldn’t tell what direction any of it was coming from. Soon the floor began to shake, and the squealing of the monster pealed through the building. The creature was trying to break out of its confinement—probably through the hole in the roof of the cave. As I ran through the halls, I kept thinking to myself, That thing is mine! Mine! And now my own property is going to kill me!

I turned a corner and suddenly I saw Maria, holding a lantern.

“What is happening?” she said. “I was sleeping and—”

“We’ve got to get out of here!” I said. “The door! Where’s the door?”

She took my hand. “There is another way out that is close,” she said. “Follow me.” She lead me down a nearby hallway. “Is there a fire? Is the fountain safe?”

“The fountain has dried up,” I said. “It’s over. All over.”

“What? That cannot be!” she cried. “I will die. I need the Milk of Time to survive!”

“There must be some stored somewhere,” I said.

“Of course,” she said. “Hundreds of gallons. But the customers—”

“To Hell with the customers,” I said. “It’s mine, remember? Get me out of here and you and the other workers can have the rest. Every drop.”

“Ah! I knew you were a good man.” She flashed a huge grin at me. She still had a stringy piece of lamb stuck between her front teeth. “Just around this next corner. An emergency exit.”

Maria did indeed get me out of the building, but she did not accompany me any further. She simply slipped into one of the other warehouses. As I ran from the building, I heard a crash of timber and turned just in time to see an enormous, shrieking shape soar up out of the ruined roof.

In flight, Ghattambah looked like a nightmarish four-way cross between a moray eel, a caterpillar, a bat and an eggbeater gone berserk. Green static danced upon its impossible spiral wings. Suddenly there was a flash of dark-green light and the creature disappeared.

I eventually did meet—and fire—Mr. Pileggi. I moved Maria to a nice little house in the United States, and she now has all the Milk of Time she could ever need. I also made similar arrangements for the rest of the workers who had tended to Der Fleischbrunnen. That’s the nice thing about having loads of money. It makes taking care of problems that much easier.

I also hired some folks from the island to fix the damage to the warehouse. It’s a big, sturdy building. As I said before, it’s empty now. And in the future, it’s only going to be used for storage.

As for that abhorrent hide-bound book—I have read it from cover to cover. I now know all the mysteries of Ghattambah the Undying, whose soul dwells beyond time.

The creature’s cult has existed on this world for thousands of years. Some of the pharaohs of ancient Egypt used to make sacrifices to Ghattambah. The island’s great cave had been a center of worship for centuries. Somehow the cult had evolved into a business, which had eventually found its way into my grandmother’s possession.

Having read the book, I now know how to bring the creature back to this world—as a rampaging winged god, as an enormous larva inside a cocoon, even as a black, octagonal egg. But I have no wish to summon the thing.

And yet I cannot bring myself to destroy the book. I know I should. It contains secrets of incredible power. I hope there will never come a day when I’ll want or need that sort of power.

Still, who knows what the future will bring?

That book is filthy. Wicked. Dangerous.

Yet it feels so comforting to own it.