THE CULT OF THE DOG

There was not much to the case, at least on the surface. It was a simple murder suicide. Mr. John Lipscomb, the copper magnate, was found dead along with his wife, Juliana Smith-Lipscomb in their Arizona home on February 7, 1941. Two sons and one daughter survived them. The lead investigator, one William Jones, did not do much with the case. He ruled it a simple murder suicide due to a domestic squabble between the two. Detective jones was a veteran investigator close to retirement when this case slid across his desk. He used all the available resources, at least that is what his report said. He did not do anything with the 2 months he spent on the case. This case has become one of the most infamous cold cases in the southwestern United States.

My name is Quincy Jones, and William jones was my great grandfather. Like most of my family I too joined the police force, however my career was cut short due to the suspicious circumstances of my partners death. I was forced out in shame and ridicule. I eventually set up shop as a private investigator and tried to clear my name, I did, but that is a story for another time. Right now, my focus is on the death of the Lipscomb patriarch and his wife.

The files in front of me were laid out in a haphazard pattern, random, but such was my process. My great grandfather did me no favors. No fingerprints were done, little to no witness statements, and few crime scene photos. He was in a rush to enjoy his retirement. All I had to do was read the report of the housekeeper that said that she had heard shouting, which was abnormal for a loving couple. Then in the small hours of the night she heard gunshots ring out. No evidence of foul play, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The only thing that could have been used to gain entrance was the open window in the master suite.

I needed a break, this was something too heavy and confusing to spend a lot of time on, especially because this was being done in my free time in between cases. Which were unfortunately sparse these days. So, I decided to take a walk, check my P.O. box. It was a beautiful mid-autumn day in phoenix, everyone was out in force to enjoy the temporary cooler weather that this time of year afforded. I was no different, I just had more on my mind than the average citizen. As I drew nearer the post office, I decided to stop at my local coffee shop and sit, have a coffee, play on my phone, do something, anything to get my mind off this accursed case. So, there I sat, drinking a nice Colombian blend when something hit me. My great grandfather was never one to leave a stone unturned, something was wrong with what he had reported to the brass. I just needed to find out what, and why he left so much out of his report. After my coffee was done, I continued my walk to the post office. Once there I checked my box, and found a package slip, I went and retrieved the package and it was a literal crate, addressed to me from my father who had since passed. I asked about the package and the postal worker said that the package was held in escrow for a few years before it was shipped to me. I am unsure why it was shipped to me now of all days and why it was held for so long, but something about it seemed fortuitous so I heaved it off the counter and went straight home to uncover this new mystery.

The box was heavy, and old. It was from a different era, from the wood to the nails used to keep it shut, everything screamed pre-war era to me. I am not sure why, but it filled me with butterflies, this was the break in the case I was looking for. As it turns out, it was, but not in the way I expected. Something was queer about the papers and photos in the box. I started to dig through the box and found something else that struck me as odd. It was a letter addressed to me. Well not exactly but it was addressed to “My great grandson.” I could not believe my eyes when I read the letter, I will transcribe it here, but it seemed fantastic to me.

To my great grandson,

I hope this letter finds you well. There is something I need your help with, and you are the one to help me. Police technology in my time is limited and there is a case that I have come across that baffle even me, and I have been on the job for night on twenty years. The copper magnate of Arizona, John Lipscomb was found dead in his home along with his wife, and there was nothing to suggest foul play, except for the window being open and entrance wounds from a gun that did not match the .38 pistol that was found in his wife’s hands. I am close to retirement; this is my last case, but something is queer about this case, and I have not been able to figure it out. There is something or someone else at play and I feel that in the future, my descendants might be able to figure it out. Please do anything you can to uncover this mystery or pass it along to someone who can. Enclosed in this package are all the photos and notes taken during the case, along with a strange statuette of a creature the likes of which I have never seen before.

Ever yours in time,

William Jones.

I continued to search through the box after reading the letter and I found the statuette in question. It was strange and filled me with untold levels of anxiety, it seemed like some sort of hyena at first but with closer inspection I saw the legs of a hair and even antlers on the accursed thing. The statuette even had an inscription of what the thing was, it read ushabr'mid. I could not pronounce it but there was another letter in the box describing a foul ritual with that name. There was also a language that I could not understand, the words seemed unpronounceable if they were in fact words. Whoever penned that letter wrote a translation on the back. I will transcribe both languages here and maybe someone else will be able to make more sense of this.

The great Cthulhu sleeps in r’lyeh awaiting his herald ushabr'mid. The herald seeks the supplicants of the great old one and prefers upon them his favor. The great and terrible dog comes forth from the threshold to bring forth his master to wreak havoc upon the world. That is not dead which can eternally lie, and with strange eons even death may die.

That was the translation, next is the undecipherable script.

throdog C’thulhu ph'nglui fhtagn r’lyeh h' ilyaa herald ushabr'mid. The herald ahmgr'luh supplicants ot throdog r'luhhor ng prefers l' f' h' favor. The throdog ng mgvulgtnah nog hup nglui l' tharanak h' uh'eog l' wreak havoc l' shuggog. Cahf ah nafl mglw'nafh hh' ahor syha'h ah'legeth, ng llll or'azath eons n'ghftephai n'gha ahornah ah'mglw'nafh

Something about that language filled me with terror, but I had to focus, strange language or not I needed to focus on the case that my great grandfather left me. I decided to focus on the pictures of gore to calm myself. It seemed strange but 10 years as a police gore and awful became second nature to me and it had a calming effect on me. Not to be morbid but after awhile the gore all becomes the same, I find peace in the logic of it.

Williams assessment of the gunshot wounds were correct, but to my eyes there were unlike any wound I had ever seen, it seemed almost as if something ripped through the bodies, and again terror filled my breast, I had to check something, so I looked up mauling photos by antlered creatures and it hit me, that’s why it was so terrifying, these people weren’t shot, they were gored. The photos also showed some strange footprints that my great grandfather had notes on. They were paw prints, which did not seem out of the ordinary at the time because the family had a large dog, a mastiff, it seemed to him that the dog got into the scene before police arrived and was later locked up when the investigators came. I saw something else in the photos though, the footprints of what might have been an abnormally large hare. Terror gripped me yet again. Something or someone else was responsible for this and my great grandfather had the slightest inkling. It was my job to put the pieces together.

There was another photograph of an African sailor, at least that is what the notes said, in more colorful terms. However, this man had tattoos and a strange air about him that shone through the picture. The notes said he was a member of some cult, called the cult of the dog. Seemed like a funny thing to me but here I was with evidence of some strange goings on, and no explanation. It seemed to me though, that this cult could have been responsible for the murders, it would not have been hard to fake the footprints or even find some antlers with which to gore the victims with.

I decided to go to the library to find more information on this cult, I knew the university had a restricted section that dealt with these matters. When I arrived at the university there was some unrest, police were everywhere, it seemed there was a death or two on the campus, a man and a woman, that was all the information I could get off of the patrol officer standing guard at the campus dormitories that were adjacent to the library. I would have to call in a favor with the last few police officers who were bold enough to call me friend. After a few last unanswered questions for the patrol officer, I headed to the library. Once there I checked into the restricted section and was locked in. Security, they told me, the books were dangerous and needed to stay where they would do less harm than if they were set out in the general section.

I asked the attendant about a book about cults, and she directed me to Unaussprechlichen Kulten by Friedrich Wilhelm von Junzt. It was a jet-black tome, and just holding it gave me a sense of power. I opened it and started perusing it, the cult of the black Pharoh, cult of the bat, The cult of Cthulhu, that name again filled me with dread, and so many others until I found what I was looking for. The cult of the Dog. This cult was much older than the 1940s and originated on the Sudanese coast of Africa. The sailors and locals would pray to some effigy of a hyena with hares feet and the antlers of an antelope. It was said that this god, if you could call it that was a herald of Cthulhu the priest of the great old ones who sleeps in his temple on the lost island of R’lyeh. The locals believed that this god, ushabr'mid, was responsible for the success of finding food and water of the villages and his worship traveled during the slave trade and later with the sailors that came from the Sudanese coast. The book also made mention of another tome called the Necronomicon that held information on the gods themselves. It was said to be a profane sort of bible written by a half mad Arab named Abdul Alhazred. It scared me to think that there was another book that could fill me with dread, but I needed to follow the lead, so I went back to the attendant and asked about the Necronomicon. She told me that there were only three English copies in existence, one in a museum under lock and key, quite inaccessible to the public, the second on display in the British museum also inaccessible to the public as it was left with strict instructions that no one opens the dread tome. The last was in the restricted section of Miskatonic University in Massachusetts, that one was accessible but only with special permission from the dean of the college. Not an impossible task, it seemed my only option.

To add validity to my request to the dean, I added some copies of the photos of the crime scene and told him of my wish to see my great grandfathers final case to its conclusion, wherever that may be. I decided on a letter as opposed to an email, I was quite certain that he received requests to see this book from many people and I wanted my request to stand out, I did however leave my digital contact information to facilitate a quick response. I waited for what seemed like months for her reply, it was only a week, that I received her email granting my permission to see the Necronomicon, but under the condition that I share with her what I have done with the case. As it turns out she was a fan of cold cases, and this one struck a chord with her because of the strange circumstances involved with the deaths and the way the police had handled the investigation. So off to Massachusetts I went, armed with my grandfathers notes, the notes I took since opening the box, and my wits. Guns not being allowed on a plane, though I sorely wished I were able to take mine. I was as prepared as I could have been but as it later turned out I was ill prepared for what followed me from phoenix.

Once I got to the university, I went straight to the deans office and met with Martha Dewitt, the current dean of the university. Nestled in Arkham Massachusetts, this august university was no stranger to strange happenings. From strange medical procedures to weird creatures, and even the dead being brought back to life, this seemed the place to go for what I was investigating. Martha was a pleasant sort, extremely interested in the notes both me and William had taken on the case, and she seemed particularly interested in the Cult of the Dog. She was extremely interested in what I had learned about that cult, it struck me as strange, but I ignored my instincts, she was such a disarming person. She eventually took me down to the campus library and led me to the restricted section. She opened the locked cage and let me in, she chose however to stay out and leave me in peace, again strange but I was focused on something else at the time and ignored that as well. After she locked the cage back and said goodbye, I set to work finding what I needed on this profane god that I stumbled on. It turns out that the Necronomicon was even more terror inducing than the book by Von Junst. Bound in human skin this jet black tome seemed to absorb all the light around it, I have expected it to be written in blood, I was correct in that assessment, whoever this Abdul Alhazred was, calling him the mad Arab seemed apt. I found a lot in that dread tome, not the least of which was Cthulhu himself, a terrifying tentacled face monster, even the drawing of which leaked malice and hate for all humanity, I was terrified by what I held in my hands. It seemed all too real, but logic told me that it could not be real, there was no such thing as these dread gods. It was just the writings of a mad man. I finally found the page I was looking for, the page of the dog itself, ushabr'mid. This god was on the side of Cthulhu during the many wars of these gods and was granted favor and preferment by his master. To the point that divinity was granted on this creature, this bastardization of a hyena, a hare, and an antelope. It garnered as much worship as Cthulhu according to the text, he served as a go between, like a demonic saint, prayers directed toward it would find their way by a long and winding road to its master. I was engrossed in this book of profane rituals and gods when something happened that I should have been aware of but was too distracted to catch.

Hooded figures were winding their way through the restricted section of the library, each robe, instead of being black, was colored orange and black, the colors of a hyena, each figure held in his hand the severed antler of an antelope. Something told me to run, I did not know what it was a voice in my head, a dark and sinister voice, it was the book itself, but I ran. Only just seeing the figures out of the corner of my eye. I clutched the book in my hands as I wound my way was still opened through the library reaching the locked door of the cage I was in. Somehow someway the cage, and I took it as carelessness on the part of my pursuers. I ran straight out of the building to the rental I had. As I was nearing the car, the tires slashed, and as luck would have it, I had no other way to leave the university besides running. My hotel was clear across town and as out of shape as I was, I doubted I would make it before my pursuers caught up to me. Then suddenly my luck turned as I saw Martha driving like a mad woman around the corner. She stopped suddenly and told me to get into the car, I did as she said, and we drove off. The conversation was short and stilted but the jist was that she saw these strange figures follow me into the section as she was walking out, and she had a bad feeling so she decided to wait and watch to see what would happen. It turned out that she was right on the money and arrived just in time to save my sorry ass. She also ignored the fact that I had stolen one of the most valuable and coveted black books in the world.

We made it to my hotel, and I promised her I would be careful and would call the police if I saw more hooded figures. She was hesitant to let me leave for some reason, but I told her that I would be able to protect myself now that I knew someone was following me. She insisted that she produce me as back up and eventually I relented. As I said before she was disarming, and I did not see the harm. We got to my room and bolted the door shut and I told her what I learned of the profane god that this cult worshipped, and she added how it would help the villages on the Sudanese coast, or as least that was the local folklore. The religion found its way to this part of the world thanks to the African sailors and freed slaves. She continued telling me that the freed slaves that brought the worship north said that it was their god that granted their freedom thanks to the sacrifices of the unborn children that resulted in the slave owners cavalier, to put it mildly, acts with the women they owned. Their priests hid themselves along with the other slaves and preformed the rites necessary to gain favor. This cult was intricately connected with another cult that, in America, was based out of the swamps of Louisiana. A contemporary of my great grandfather, police inspector Legrasse, had tackled and survived the encounter with said cult, the cult of Cthulhu. She had a lot of knowledge on these cults, which seemed right as she was the dean and had access to all the books that described these cults. Something struck me as odd though and I heard the voice in my head telling me to run again, something was not right, and I was missing something. Such as how those cultists got into the locked cage that only had one key. The key the dean held. The voice, rough and grating in my mind kept talking, telling me that there was only one way to survive and that was to follow its instructions. The voice sounded like a dog trying to speak, it was unholy and scared me more than the fact that Martha might have something to do with the cult. Martha saw me wincing every time the voice spoke, and she asked was the matter was. I told her it was nothing, but she did not look satisfied. In fact, she grew increasingly suspicious. That was when the voice told me to go out the window, I was trapped if I did not listen, and the voice said it did not want to lose its newest acolyte.

I blacked out, I must have because the next thing I remembered was being in a sleazy bar clear on the other side of town, blood on my shirt, which must have been mine because of the bandages on my arm. In front of me was a whiskey glass filled with something, and a bartender that suddenly seemed more interested in me. He told me, after I finished coming to that the glass in front of me will dull the voice in my head and he told me how I came to this establishment. It turns out that I did in fact go out the window and landed on his car as he was driving past. He recognized the signs, what signs he was unclear of, and took me to his bar. Discretely of course. I arrived here by a long and winding road that circled the city to lose my pursuers. He also told me that the woman he saw in the window, the dean Martha Dewitt, was said to be the local leader of some dangerous cult. Pieces started fitting into place, but I still had unanswered questions, namely how any of this was related to the case I was pursuing. I guessed that the Lipscombs upset this cult and were murdered for it, but I was not able to say anything definitive, not yet at least. I told the bartender what brought me to Arkham, and he was able to shed some light on what was happening with my case.

It turned out that the bartender, named Noah Whatley was something of a local historian, particularly about his family. He came from a more reputable branch or so he said, it meant nothing to me. He told me his story: John Lipscomb hailed from Arkham, he was originally naming John Whatley but changed his name when he turned eighteen to distance himself from the rumors that circulated about that family, cult worship, wizardry and of course what happened in Dunwich before he was born. The bartender continued that before he left for Arizona Whatley turned Lipscomb took something valuable from a member of his family, a strange statuette of some dog creature. He left in the night with his prize, and never looked back.

Then it was my turn, I told him of the case my great grandfather had started and how I was looking into the strange deaths. I told him all my troubles including running into the police on the university grounds in phoenix. He told me that this cult had members in phoenix. I gathered it was because of what happened with the Lipscomb family. I needed to call in my favors, I had a suspicion that I knew the name of one of the dead kids on that university campus.

I called detective O’Malley, my first partner, as it turns out it was his case, and I asked him what the names were, and as I suspected there was a Lipscomb, Johns great grandson. I asked how they died, and he said that it was a murder suicide, but ballistics did not match the gun found on scene. And there were strange footprints, and pieces of what seemed like an antler. I told him to be careful, because I was embroiled in something similar due to the case, I was following that had the same circumstances. He told me to be careful as well and hung up the phone.

I went back to Noah and showed him the statuette that my great grandfather had left me and asked him if this meant anything to him. He said that what I held was an object of power, or so it was said, and I would do well to be rid of it. He said that the cult had been looking for that artifact for over 80 years. Me holding it was a death sentence. I decided to leave and go home. Noah told me that it was wise and promised me that he would see me to the airport safely.

Once back home I decided to seek out O’Malley and get his opinion on all the happenings in Arkham. We met for lunch, and we talked shop, me about my cold case and him about his current case, which drew similar parallels. Something other worldly was going on and I had to figure it out or die trying.

That night I had strange dreams that led me to the African planes flowing obscene creatures herded by a giant dog that I recognized as the Cults profane god. As I was flying through following the herd, suddenly the god turned on me and gored me with his antlers. Too late did I realize that this pain was not imaginary and woke up with hooded figures around me and an antler through my chest just barely missing my heart. Suddenly I saw Martha with the statuette in her hands laughing as I choked up blood slowly dying before I could finish my investigation. Dying because I uncovered something that should have been left buried.