The gardens of madness

“Pest control?”

Silence.

“Pest control?”

“Yeah?”

“I need some help. I have a pest in my house.”

Tom waited while pest control came to terms with this news.

“Ok,” the voice crackled, “we’ll need an address.”

“Number 8, Hotwell road. Postcode is BS8, 4MU.”

“And which city is that?”

“Uhh…it’s a BS postcode. Bristol. According to your website, you’re in the same city.”

“Yeah, yeah we are, but just checking.”

Tom sighed. “Allright. Fair enough. Can you send someone over?”

“Depends.” More silence. Tom could hear someone chewing. “What are we dealing with?”

This was the part of the exchange he had been dreading. “I’m…I’m not sure I can describe it. Send someone over, please, I think they’re going to have to see for themselves.”

“Hmm,” came the voice. “That’s pretty unorthodox. We don’t send our men out blind unless it’s a special case.”

“I figured you wouldn’t,” said Tom. “So your special case is going to be a case full of bonus payment if you can just send someone out, right now, and get me some help.”

Pest control grunted. “Allright, you’ve got a deal.”



Tom sat down and waited, glancing every few minutes out towards the garden. A dark shape slid into view, then vanished. Tom shivered. He had never been a praying man, or one given to superstition, but now he found himself wishing for some kind of deity to appeal to. The pest had appeared that morning, as Tom was making his morning coffee. It squatted there, an eyesore heaped atop his lawn, sometimes shifting a little, but mostly simply staying still. His neighbour had already rung to complain about it spoiling the view.

There was a knock at the door. Opening it, tom found himself pushed back as a man swaggered into the house. He had a bandolier slung over his chest, a bandana around his head and a moustache closer to a droopy rat under his nose.

“Well, well, well,” said the man, “button up, boys, pest control is here! Say, this house is nice.”

“Thank you,” said Tom, still in a daze. “So, you’re the man they sent?”

He bowed slightly. “You’re talkin’ to Angus McMalone, the greatest pest control operative in the wild, wild, south-west, and I understand you got a problem that needs my skills.”

“Yeah,” said Tom. “It turned up this morning, I…sorry, what are you doing?”

Angus had stopped listening to Tom and was wandering the living room, touching various objects with nicotine-stained fingers. “Casing the joint,” he said, turning. Tom realised with a start that he had a pistol tucked into his jeans.

“Umm…the joint? The pest is outside. In the garden. Why are you armed? It seems-”

“Shh!” said Angus, holding up a hand. “Are you a pest control operative, boy? No? Well how’s about lettin’ me do my job? It’s a delicate business, here, you take one step wrong and you’re down on your ass, at the mercy of whatever you got sent to hunt.”

“Uhh, ok,” said Tom, “you’re the expert. But…I think you need to know what you’re dealing with. I couldn’t really explain it over the phone.”

“Well, aren’t we an impatient ‘lil babby? Don’t worry, son, I’ve dealt with every critter this side of the Avon river. You’re safe here.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not doubting your expertise, Angus, but I really think you should take a look at this thing. I don’t…I don’t think it’s something you’ll have encountered before.”

“Oh…” said Angus, raising an eyebrow, “…oh, really? Well, that sounds like a challenge to me. Allright, boy, show me to the enemy.”

Tom led him through the living room and into the kitchen. The air seemed to grow darker as they walked. There was a glimpse of movement through the kitchen window. Taking a deep breath, Tom opened the back door into the garden.

As they stepped onto the patio a shadow fell across them, the sun blotted out by monstrous wings. Tom gasped. The stench of a thousand corpses had filled the garden, burning away any lingering hint of rose or tulip.

“Well, damn,” said Angus beside him.

The beast reared up like the titans of old, whipping the air with tentacles and clawing at the sky. It roared, louder than a firestorm, and Tom thought he caught words behind the terrible sound; “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh!” came the chant. “Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!”

Tom’s knees felt weak as a wave of horror and nausea washed over him. Dimly, he realised Angus had a phone to his ear.

“Yeah,” he was saying. “HQ? Operative zero here. I’m gonna need some backup. This boy’s gone and got himself infested by Cthulhu.”

The beast roared louder. Angus whipped the pistol from his jeans and fired.