The night sky was clear, and the stars in their millions shone brightly down on a countryside stripped bare by biting wind and sheeted with ice.  This was Siberia, a frozen hell.

A place where people lived only to die.  And tonight someone was going to die.

Inspektor Pukov stood in silent contemplation, as grim as his surroundings; these were the elements that sculpted him as a child.  Pukov understood this land and the savagery required to survive in it—he had been born in a village not far from this very place—so when he learned where the latest so-called revolution had taken root, he volunteered to deal with the insurgents in the manner only a true son of Siberia could.

With a cruel eye he watched his Death’s Head Police in their black greatcoats move like shadows in the dark, marching a group of gypsies to the shore of the ice-bound lake that dominated the landscape.  There were nineteen of them, including women and children, all dressed in patchwork multi-colored rags.

Behind the procession three Soviet Makcim Tahks were parked in a circle, and in their center a bonfire burned.  Pukov’s men had discovered the gypsies dancing wildly around the fire in an obscene—and illegal—ritual. These vermin, he decided, would serve as examples of what happened to lawbreakers, rebels or not, now that he governed Siberia.

The gypsies were lined up and forced to kneel.

An officer approached Pukov.

"We searched the wagons," he said. "There were ritualistic materials—bones, candles, incense—but no weapons and no discernable propaganda, although we discovered several grimoires written in unidentified languages which could be code.  Cosmov insists he can have them decrypted by morning."

Disinterested, Pukov shook his head.

"We also found this," the officer held out a small statuette, offering it to his superior.

Taking the figure, Pukov looked it over; crafted from greenish stone, it depicted a repulsively squat octopoidal creature with a bulbous head and tentacled appendages.

"Toss the books in the bonfire," he said, handing it back, "and as for this . . . thing . . . see to it that it’s destroyed."

"Yes, sir."

Turning his attention to the gypsies, Pukov motioned to the shriveled old man he presumed to be the group’s leader.

"You there, come forward and explain to me what you’re doing in a private sector without proper authorization."

"Every thousand years when the stars are right, the Great Ones awaken. This night we have called to Tlogeth, he-who-dwelleth-in-the-lake, spawn of Cthulhu.  Our people have sent us to give him praise and sacrifice our lives to him so that he might favor our tribe to prosper during the winter-season."

Pukov frowned, perturbed by the lack of fear displayed by the gypsy.  His eyes went to the sky, taking in the unnaturally glowing stars and strange constellations.  "And were you successful in your summoning?"

But the man said no more.

"The only ‘Great One’ recognized by Mother Russia is Supreme Tzar Bulgarin.  The sentence for organizing and practicing unsanctioned religions is death, to which you are hereby sentenced."  Removing his pistol from its holster, he aimed and fired.  The old man fell backward onto the lake, a ruined heap.  Blood ran red against the ice.

"Kalo!" a gypsy woman cried.

A slight smile crept onto Pukov’s lips, but he licked it away like a snake tasting the air when he saw that the execution didn’t have the desired effect.

There were no tears in the woman’s eyes, only an odd look of disappointment.  The gypsies weren’t begging for mercy, weren’t pleading for him to spare their children; as one they stood, raising their arms aloft to the sky as though to pluck the shimmering stars from its midst.

And they began to chant.

"Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Tlogeth y’ha-glynwen wgah’nagl fhtagn! Iä!" Their voices were bestial whispers as human throats contorted to speak inhuman words.  They chanted, and the night seemed to close in around the Soviets; they chanted, and the crushing weight of something immense and otherworldly drew near.  They chanted, and Pukov knew by some primal instinct that he must silence them before the recitation was complete.

"Kill them," he ordered his officers, "even the women and children."

Suddenly, an enormous shadow appeared from the depths of the lake, spreading out beneath the ice like spilled ink until the entire surface was blacked out; and that terrible bulk pressed against the ice—the fragile barrier between it and the outer world—which groaned against the pressure as jagged fissures split its face.

The lake shattered, and a gigantic flabby head rose out of the water, searching the shoreline with malevolent yellow eyes.  When its gaze fell full upon the Soviets, it curled back its pulpy lips to let out a long screeching wail, and a hot stinking wind—the creature’s breath—swept over them. A writhing mass of tentacles spewed onto the shore like foetid waves, slopping and slithering and groping along the rocks.

"Tlogeth, spawn of Cthulhu, accept our sacrifice!" the gypsies rejoiced.

The Soviets opened fire, their bullets ineffectual against the sheer bulk of the monster.  One by one, they were snatched from where they stood and whipped through the air before the creature shoveled them down its slimy gullet.  Pukov’s face twisted in rage—any rebellion, he would crush any rebellion regardless of entities involved—in the name of the High Command.

He raised his pistol—

A tentacle coiled around his waist, yanking him off his feet, and he hit the ground, tumbling down the embankment to the edge of the lake.  The next thing he knew, he was being dragged across the ice towards a gaping maw.

He screamed and screamed.

The cries of Inspektor Pukov and his Death’s Head Police lasted no longer than a few seconds.  The gypsies carried the body of their fallen comrade away from the lake as the thing called Tlogeth sunk back to its watery domain, pleased with the sacrifice.

~ Matthew McLaughlin, Pennsylvania  ©2010