For Halloween, and for the spirit of tolerance in a time of tragedy.
The madman Senator choked and sprang from the chair in which he had been sitting.
“Damn ye, who did ye tell – and who’ll believe it? What d’ye mean to do?”
Billy Beck raised a hand in admonition.
“I have told no one. No human, that is. This is no common case – it is a madness out of time and a horror from beyond the spheres which no defence agency or private arbitration company or even President Mike Schneider could ever fathom or grapple with. You cannot deceive me Paul Wellstone, for I know your accursed magic is true!”
“I know how you wove the spell that brooded outside the years and fastened on your double and descendant; I know how you drew him into the past and got him to raise you up from your detestable grave. I know how he kept you hidden in his laboratory while he was elected Senator from Minnesota. I know what you resolved to do when he balked at your monstrous rifling of other’s pocketbooks, and your plans to raise the Weezil Hordes from Below, and at what you planned afterwards – and I know how you did it. They thought it was he who went into Senator Charles Dexter Wellstone’s chambers and they thought it was he who came out when you had already sacrificed the poor duped lad to Nyarlathotep The Crawling Chaos.”
“But you hadn’t reckoned on the different content of two different minds! You were a fool, Paul Wellstone, to fancy that a mere visual identity would be enough. Why didn’t you think of the speech and the voice and the handwriting? It hasn’t worked after all, you see. There are abominations and blasphemies which must be stamped out, and I believe that your undead traitorous minions, Chomsky and McDermott, are being dealt with by the Adorable One – even as I speak, lung is sweeping their castle in Transylvania with atomic fire! You…”
Suddenly the fearless aviator, rock musician and psychic investigator was cut short by a convulsive cry from the creature before him. Hopelessly at bay, Paul Wellstone’s deep hollow voice bellowed out the opening words of a terrible formula:
“PER ADONAI SATANAS, PER ADONAI ABRAXAS, PER ADONAI BELIAL TETRAGRAMMATON, METRATON…”
But Beck was too quick for him. Even as the dogs in the Senate hallways began to howl, and even as a chill wind sprang suddenly up from the Potomac, Beck began reciting the second of that pair of formulae used for resurrecting the dead and putting to rest the undead – the cryptic invocation of the descending node –
GEB’L – EE’H
At the very first word from Beck’s mouth – and the very first accompanying chord from Beck’s silver stringed guitar – the demonic Senator stopped reciting his spell. Unable to speak, the monster made wild motions with his arms until they, too, were arrested. When the awful name of Yog-Sothoth was uttered, the hideous change began. It was not merely a dissolution but rather a transformation or recapitulation; and Beck shut his eyes to the horror as he finished reciting the formulae of undoing.
There was silence.
Opening his eyes, Beck saw that the invocation of the descending node had done its work. The madness out of time had subsided, and the case of Charles Dexter Wellstone was at an end. For, like his accursed picture a year before, the resurrected Paul Wellstone now lay scattered on the floor as a thin coating of fine bluish-grey dust.
(Adapted, kind of, from THE STRANGE CASE OF CHARLES DEXTER WARD, with apologies to H.P. Lovecraft)