The Printing Press

Zachary A. McCoy

The scalding hot plates slipped easily from the hard plastic rack into Herbert’s hands. As he caught the dishes he mindlessly folded them like a deck of cards. His body mechanically swiveled around and placed them in a stack ready to be carted in the dining room. Down the line, Franny was scrubbing a metal pan covered in egg to no avail. Finally, opening the window above her station, Franny threw the dish out the window. Metallic clangs could be heard as eggs and metal skittered across the nursing home parking lot.

“Mother-fuck,” Franny sighed, “Herb take the plates out to the dining room, man.” The jungle air of the Dish room filled with water and particles of food formed the sweat dripping from Franny’s forehead onto the unlit and soaked cigarette which hung from her bottom lip; perched between falling into the sink or simply dissolving in her mouth.

Herbert wordlessly slipped off his plastic gloves, throwing them into the trash before pushing the cart of plates out of the dish room and into the dining room. Herbert began grabbing plates from the cart by the dozen, lifting and stacking them onto the table’s cheap white tablecloth. As Herbert finished the task at hand pulling the cart away and back into the humidity in which he spent most of his days, from the corner of his dull grey eyes manifested something approaching from the dining room entrance.

A person, well, something vaguely human shaped. With a vaguely human face, and vaguely human features, walked itself up to Herbert. Wordlessly, they passed him a small leatherbound notebook stark against their white gloves. Absentmindedly Herbert’s arm stretched out, fingers wrapping around the object without inspecting it. He slipped the journal automatically into the pocket of his grimy apron.

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Herbert Dunwhich sat in the same plaid cloth recliner his grandfather Skylar had first purchased in 1967. Herbert would sit on his grandfather’s lap while Skylar would tell him stories of the war, and of the glory of taking someone’s life before they could take yours. Herbert now sat in that same chair, opening the notebook to the folio at the end, and pulled out a stack of hundreds held together by a paper band, and two folded pieces of parchment which granted the holder of those five thousand dollars apiece.

Herbert let the money and bonds fall into his lap, as he opened the first page of the journal.

If found, please do not return was inscribed on the first page. Herbert turned the page, and the words imprinted from the page into his mind:

The year is 1956. I, August Arkham have found myself in good standing with most banks; however, in less good standing with the powers behind them. I beseech you, if you find yourself reading this, put it down, walk away. This is not for you. This is for one person, and I sincerely doubt that the person is you. However, Herb, if you are reading this, what comes next will be terrible, it will change you, not necessarily for the better. For that, I apologize.

Herbert did not hesitate. His eyes flickered only for a brief moment with fear, but a man possessed is not easily deterred with words on a page, and so he continued.

I found my fortune the same way most who have fortunes find it, in the blood of people I would never meet. You may have heard of my publishing house, of course, there is always the chance that is not the case. More likely, the truth is, I may have failed to leave my name marked on this world. Undoubtedly, Arkham could only exist in the appendices of larger, greater works.

I am sorry Herbert Dunwhich. I digress. Your grandfather and I knew each other well. He would have slit my throat as soon as looked at me by the end of this, and if he were still alive, I am sure he would find me in the way he always did. If he had, I would surely not be doing what I am able to do now.

You hold in your hands an ancient and powerful truth. The following pages contain something so important, so vital to humanity, that I simply could not go on knowing it would be lost. So, the money in your lap Herb. You are going to take that money, and you are going to go to the bank on 134 East Street downtown. Go to the Craft Trust Bank in between the old poster store, and the haberdashery. They will deposit the money into an account, and three days later a moving company will be showing up at your front door. They will set up the contraption in the basement and will instruct you in its use. After which, you will begin to work, for the first time in your young life.

It will not end well. Then again Herb, does anything have that power in this existence? To have an end which is well?

Page after page, Herbert’s eyes lit up with each mention of the truth of the universe we live in. Late into the night, or possibly early in the morning Herbert expelled an audible gasp as August laid out the truth of what lies in the void at the center of humanity’s heart. The text began to describe the fate of existence, and the atrocious heritage which Herbert found himself caught in; perpetrated by August, his own grandfather. Generations upon generations had participated in this arcane tradition to transform civilization. Like a caterpillar transforming into a spider with wings, culture would experience a morbid metamorphosis. “No,” Herbert’s thoughts were in a voice other than his own, “No, this is beyond monstrous.”

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The sullen sunken eyes of the bank teller seemed to not see past the circular frames of his glasses which hung loosely from the end of his nose. The impossible number of wrinkles which creased his skin formed a maze that all led back to a set of dentures that seemed too big for the teller's mouth. Waves of gray peppered hair sprouted straight out two inches or so along the sides of his head. Without a word, he took the papers from Herbert’s hand. The teller pulled a crank on the machine in front of him which clanked and clunked wildly until a hidden drawer popped out with a loud ding. The teller tossed the money in before turning around to grab a packet of papers slamming his hip hard into the drawer forcing it closed. The stamp at the desk was deftly lifted, slammed into a pad of sticky red liquid before being pressed hard onto the paper. This process seemed to repeat itself endlessly as Herbert began shifting his weight from foot to foot, he could not remember coming here, he could not remember anything passed sitting in the recliner late into the night reading and re-reading August's words.

The teller’s nimble fingers flipped through the final pages quickly stamping the last of them. The sticky liquid finally ran out as he pressed the stamp for the last time. For a brief moment his eyes seemed full of a horrific realization of what he had done, but that soon passed as the papers were collected by the assistant bank teller. The assistant moved around the counter.

“Ah, Mr. Dunwhich you are all finished up here, let me walk you to the door.” The assistant teller’s smile was impossibly large, and Herbert could swear there were more teeth in it than there should be. The thought was torn as suddenly from his mind as the small plastic tube that was connected to his arm was torn away by the assistant. The assistant’s white gloved hand quickly put something where the tube had been in the arm that looked like a bandage, but there was no way to tell for sure as they pulled down Herbert’s sleeve before a good look could be had. “We so appreciate your patronage Mr. Dunwhich, and I am glad we were able to resolve all your needs. Here, of course, is your copy of the paperwork.” Herbert felt a sticky substance slowly sliding down his arm where the plastic tube had been. Hebert felt the assistant slid the paperwork into the crook of his armpit. The assistant, pulling open the bank doors, pushed Herbert out onto East Street, “May you find your favor in the words, Mr. Dunwhich.” the teller said before the smile quickly disappeared into a mouth whose lips were so thin that Herbert could swear, they were non-existent. The teller slammed the metal inlaid door to Craft Trust Bank shut and abruptly flipped the flimsy paper sign from “Open: Come on In” to the faded red letters that read “Closed.” Herbert felt a heavy wetness on his cheeks and licking his lips could taste a mix of salt and iron. He felt cold sweat stream down his back as he looked upon a storefront with old posters from the Red Windmill District of France, a small narrow bank, and a convenience store with the name “Kimmy’s” in a sickly green font printed on the front window.

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The printing press emitted a sound of fury as Herbert fed ream after ream of paper through it. Wrenching his back and arms, he hefted load after load. The supply of paper was running low. Dread began filling his heart and overflowed into his throat. Herbert knew what would happen once the supply ran out completely. As Herbert turned to pick up the last ream, he fed it through. He let his fingers slip into the constant rubber roll of the press with the last thin leaf. The agony of the words began to crush themselves first onto his hands, then his arms, until suffering the needle of thousands of words popping through his skull. Finally, the script wrote itself into his soul:

The words are the power. Where were the words before they were words? Were they in the ooze of the primordial dinosaurs, or were they given to us later? The words are the power, and they speak to more. They speak to more. They want more. They demand it. We demand it. Let us have the power, let yourself become that which feeds this power. The only way to immortality is through destruction, corruption, and you are the inception. Feed yourself to the machine, the only choice is to either be the product or to produce, the martyrs will be those who choose both. Feed yourself to us, give us your bodies, your words, your magic, for they were ours and we demand them back. We are hungry, always hungry, we must be fed. You will feed us.

I am sorry. I am so sorry, for I know not what I do. Please world forgive me, for I am afraid, and you are too, feed them so they may feed us. They asked this of me, and I was too afraid to say no. I pray this is not seen, it was the only way. These words were not meant for you, they were meant for all of us. When I stared into the void, I grew so afraid nothing would stare back, and had no consideration of the terror if it did. When it did, I felt I had nothing left. Do not seek me, do not try to find answers. Run. Hide, and have no hope of escape as it will only slow you down.

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Herbert’s corpse, mostly bones with a spattering of festered flesh, lay on the floor. Two years would pass before the detectives would find the bones next to a dusty and defunct printing press. The words were impossible for the detectives to make out due to the decomposition. Though Franny, the coroner, may be able to work some magic.