COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2013 by Mark McLaughlin.

      All rights reserved.

      *

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      To Michael Sheehan, Jr. for believing in me 24/7.

      It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.

      To Pamela Briggs, who has known me longer than anyone—

      and still likes me! Hurray!

      To Michael and Cindy McCarty, rabbit enthusiasts

      in pursuit of hare-raising adventure.

      To John Betancourt and Wildside Press:

      Thank you for your support!

      Introduction: What's Your Pleasure?

      Welcome to the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham.

      What’s your pleasure?

      In this midnight den of dread and desire, you will find twenty-five rooms, each with a story of its own to tell. Here you will enjoy a delectable variety of otherworldly horrors and delights…enough to satisfy even your most eldritch desires.

      You will find evil pop-stars longing to devour their fans. You will find a sophisticated secret agent in search of supernatural super-villains. You will find a futuristic restaurant for alien connoisseurs, where you’ll savor the monstrous specialty of the house.

      You will learn the vile secrets of Kugappa, the writhing octopus-god, and Ghattambah, an unholy insect deity whose soul dwells beyond time. You will hear the wicked laughter of the Heckler in the Ha-ha Hut, as well as the salacious cackle of the Pecker in the Passageway. You will taste the creamy Milk of Time, served up in a forbidden hideaway known as Der Fleischbrunnen. You will even smell the unhallowed stench of the Odour out of the Terrible Old Man.

      But enough of my blasphemous blubbering…off you go! Be sure to visit every room of the Best Little Witch-House in Arkham. Heck, visit them twice, thrice, as many times as you like.

      After all, you’ve paid the price of admission—a shiny little coin known as your soul—so you might as well get your money’s worth.…

      A Beauty Treatment for Mrs. Hamogeorgakis

      “Don’t look now,” Kyle said, “but that old scarecrow lady is staring at you.”

      Melina and Kyle were having a cigarette break outside of The Perfect Profile, the most popular beauty salon in the seaside town of Innsmouth. There were three other salons, but they were just part-time operations out of people’s homes. Melina took a long drag off of her Belgian vanilla cigarette. They were expensive, but they were smoother than regular cigarettes and not as stinky as those clove things. “What old lady?” she said. She glanced across the street, where some people where talking in front of a doughnut shop.

      “Not that way,” Kyle said. “Inside. You can look now. She’s talking to Marie.”

      She squinted through the plate-glass window. Most of the women in the waiting area were overweight, so it was easy to tell which one he meant. A bony woman in a simple black dress and heavy black shoes was talking to the receptionist. The woman had long, thick gray hair, done up in a shaggy ponytail. At one point she turned and nodded at Melina. The old woman’s face looked like a parchment-covered skull with an eagle’s beak for a nose.

      “Very scary,” Melina said. “I hope she doesn’t want me to work on her.”

      “Well, I don’t want to get stuck with her.” Kyle flashed his big, lopsided smile. “Let’s both go home sick. Simultaneous food-poisoning. The twenty-hour Ebola virus.”

      For the third time that day and probably the thousandth that year, Melina thought, Too bad he’s gay. She still couldn’t figure out why any gay man would want to be a beautician, surrounded by women eight hours a day.

      “Hey, maybe she wants to be your friend,” he said. “You’re always saying that you wish you had more friends.”

      “Yeah, but I’m not desperate. We’d better get back inside,” Melina said, “before Midget has a fit.” Midget was in fact Midge, their manager, a five-foot-four red-haired dictator. They also called her Little Miss Stopwatch, because she said things like, “You were in the bathroom eleven minutes and forty-five seconds. Did you fall in or what?”

      “Mel, honey,” Marie said as they entered, “this is Miss Papadakis. She asked for you special.” The plump, middle-aged receptionist gave her a small, apologetic smile. “She’d like a makeover.”

      “Lucky you,” Kyle whispered as he passed her to go to his workstation.

      “Right this way,” Melina said, leading the old woman to her area. “So you asked for me? Which of my millions of happy customers sent you my way?”

      Miss Papadakis settled into the hot-pink padded chair. “I saw you and decided you were probably Greek, like me, with those big brown eyes and that lovely olive skin. I thought we might have fun talking. Perhaps we are related. You are Greek, yes?”

      “One-hundred percent. My name’s Melina.”

      “And your last name?”

      “We don’t give out last names here. Sorry. It’s not like I don’t trust you, but…”

      The old woman nodded. “I understand. Young women these days, they have to be careful.”

      “Marie said you needed a makeover.”

      The woman smiled. She had good teeth, even and white. Maybe they were dentures. “I am no Miss America, but do you think you could make me—pretty?”

      Melina turned on her best fake smile. “All us Greek girls are pretty. A little make-up’s all you need, and I’d love to do something with that hair.”

      The woman’s smile widened. “Very good. You are skilled with the bullshit. You are being kind to an old lady with a face like death.” She looked into the mirror. “What is this ‘something’ you would do?”

      “Add some color. Something soft. Muted. Anything too dark might look a little hard on you.”

      Miss Papadakis thought about this. “Soft, yes. I do not want to look like a tavern whore. You may begin. But first I am going to give you your tip. As incentive.” She handed Melina a hundred-dollar bill.

      “That’s great,” Melina said. She slipped it into a pocket. “I hope you decide to become a regular customer.” She leaned toward the old woman. “My last name’s Theodorakis.”

      “A name from Crete, like mine. Marvelous!” Miss Papadakis gave her a wink. “Call me Kiwi, please. All my friends call me Kiwi.”

      * * * *

      During the appointment, Melina found out much of the old woman’s life story, including why friends called her Kiwi instead of her real first name, which was Angela.

      It turned out that many years ago, an old boyfriend, a policeman, had given her a basket of kiwi fruit, and she’d found them to be absolutely delicious. And so every day, she always ate at least three or four kiwis, since they were so tasty and also, they reminded her of her beloved policeman, who had died in a car accident. That was back when she had lived in New York.

      “After my Tony died, I came to Innsmouth with a patient of mine, Mrs. Hamogeorgakis,” Kiwi said. “I am a doctor, you see. Back in New York, I would drop by her place every now and then—she had many health problems, the poor dear, and she has always been a friend of the family. So when Mrs. Hamogeorgakis decided to come here—she has relatives in town—she asked if I would like to come with her. I was tired of New York, so I said yes.”

      “You still call her by her last name after all these years?” Melina said as she rinsed out the bony woman’s