The Daughters Of Ur-Toth: The Brakenport Mythos, #1

By T. Wolfe III

A Killer Stalks The Streets Of Brakenport.

 

While investigating the disappearance of local thug Cedric Winters, Private Investigator Thea Wolfe discovers evidence linking it to a string of brutal ritualistic murders.

 

Murders that are being committed in the name of a dark god called Ur-Toth, whose arrival will bring doom not only upon Brakenport but the world itself.

Tormented by visions of Ur-Toth's arrival and stalked by ghastly apparitions known as the Daughters of Ur-Toth, Thea must find and stop the murderer before any more lives are lost and Ur-Toth answers his summons, bringing about the end of the world.

In the haunting first novella of the Brakenport Mythos, T. Wolfe III (the author of the short story collection The Devil Hates Sundays) invites the reader into a city built on the secret worship of dark gods and the practice of ancient magick, where the truth shall drag you to the edge of insanity and quite possibly bring about the end of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brakenport Apocryphal Publishing
• Release date: Jun 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224981588

T. Wolfe III

Thaddeus “T.” Wolfe III is a would-be writer, part-time game master and full time slacker. He is the author of the short story collection, The Devil Hates Sundays. A fan of horror, fantasy, sci-fi, and romance, T was initially introduced to reading by his parents who had no clue that their eldest child would be more than happy to get lost in the worlds between the covers of a book rather than going outside. He is at his happiest in used bookstores, his wallet is generally at its most miserable.

Book preview

Also By T. Wolfe III

Short Stories

The Men Who Killed Kennedy & Other Lies Sold To The Sheep

Short Story Collections

The Devil Hates Sundays - A Short Story Collection

Mankind was not alone among the conscious things of earth, for shapes came out of the dark to visit the faithful few.

H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu

Prologue: The One To Ring The Bell

Cedric hissed as the chain bit into his stomach. That fae bitch had given him just enough slack to taste freedom but not enjoy it. Grunting with effort, he powered through the pain and stretched his arm out as far as he could reach. He felt the tips of his fingers brush up against the shelf’s edge. He was so close. He just needed to stretch a little bit further. He could see the hammer’s handle just out of his reach.

Come on! He hissed, Come on! Shit! Breathing heavily, he sloshed back through the freezing water, towards the dirty little window in the corner of the basement. A dull strip of light—from the street lamp outside—peeked through the filthy glass. He banged his bruised fists against the wall and screamed at the top of his lungs, "Help me! Someone! Anyone! Please! For the love of God! Help me! Please!"

But there was no one around to hear his cries. It was likely due to the rare October shower that, like magic, had manifested out of the frigid autumn air two days earlier, and that showed no signs of stopping anytime soon.

Not until the debts accrued by the dark rituals that had conjured it were paid in full, he thought as a thunderclap sounded. A booming thrum that echoed in his ears.

Waiting for a response, he waddled back and forth through the knee-deep water flooding his prison. If it kept up like this, he would be completely submerged in a matter of hours. He had to figure out a way out. There had to be a way out. There had to be!

His throat burned—scraped raw from the near-constant howling—but he would not be deterred. He couldn't afford to be. Someone! Anyone! Please! I need help! he repeated. His heart skipped a beat as a pair of shadowy feet raced by the window. Hey! Hey! Come back! He pleaded, desperation filling his voice.

As if on command, a deafening crack of thunder rang out, drowning out his pleas. The heavy thoom vibrated deep in his chest. A strange second heartbeat that fluttered like a hummingbird's wings.

It's just like Delilah's heartbeats. One fast, one slow, he thought, scanning the basement for any sign of her. It’d been two days since he'd seen her last. She'd strutted in holding a blood-stained hammer. Her cheeks were flush and she was smiling to herself. It had made his blood boil. Humming to herself, she painted strange symbols all over the walls. They were alien; otherworldly. The language of the fae folk.

While she painted, he scarfed down the scraps of offal she'd laid in front of him for being a ‘good little boy.’  If he hadn't been so goddamn hungry, he would've been insulted. He was not some sort of animal to be spoken down to. He was a righteous, God-fearing man who had never done a bad turn to anyone who hadn't done one to him first. You could ask anybody and they'd tell you the same.

Cedric Winters is a good man. A damn good man. A godly man. He never did a bad turn to anyone who had not done one to him first. God bless his soul.

It was like his pa told him, ‘Good, godly men are what the fae folk fear most, boy. They know the power that a righteous, god-fearing man commands. We are not like the rest of the cattle. So easily fooled by their honeyed words and heathenous ways. We know the truth..’

IF YOU WERE TO ASK Delilah what she thought of Cedric Winters, she'd laugh and tell you he was a degenerate. An obnoxious drunkard, no better than a pig rolling around in its filth. Though comparing him to a pig might have been a tad insulting. Pigs were disgusting, slovenly creatures but they had some modicum of intelligence, unlike Winters. He was a retch. Equal parts foul-mouthed and weak-willed, it had only taken her three days to bring the real Cedric Winters out of his cage. Another six to prepare him for his role as a sacrifice.  And it would take only a few hours for her to complete it.

It was such a shame that their time together was so brief. She would have given almost anything to prolong his suffering, but his role in all of this was at an end. There were still others whose blood had to be spilled in the name of her father. In the names of her fallen sisters.

Like a caged animal, he had watched with bated breath as she laid a plate of slimy, undercooked entrails just out of his reach. His stomach roared—a pitiful, yearning roar—as the smell of the entrails filled his nostrils. Clicking her tongue, she beckoned him forward, like he was nothing more than a common stray. He approached her, slowly at first, but as she slid the plate forward a half-inch, he practically leaped at it. His fingers barely scraped the edge, as the chain pulled taut, yanking him back. He had to stretch, shimmy, and wiggle, but he'd snatched up the plate and stuffed his face like a hog at the trough.

She wondered if had heard the last words she spoke to him. Had he heard that dark prayer in an ancient language not meant for man?

"Ur-Toth, veth esh tah verah tae. Ayar utan zuul tae. Amondi vaxus, Cedric Winters."

Blood and fat dripping down his chin, he assumed a crouched position when she came for the plate. She could tell what he was thinking.

I can get her. I can get her the moment she's within reach.

It would take all of his meager strength but if he was fast enough, he could try and wrestle her down onto the concrete. It would be difficult but not impossible. He was malnourished and she had drugged his water to keep his head in a near-constant fog, but she'd made a crucial mistake. She'd left him with far too much slack on his chain. He could easily wrap it two or three times around her throat. She'd wiggle and squirm—like they all had—gasping for air, clawing at the chain wrapped around her throat, instead of at him.

It didn’t help that he thought that she was one of the fae folk. She had heard him babbling to himself more than once about how being so far from the old country had made her slow, and stupid. How he would make her suffer for what she had done to him.

If he only knew the truth of what she was and what she planned to do.

Retreating from the plate, she began painting the sigils and runes for the ritual on the basement walls. Her mouth watered and her stomach roared as considered how he would taste. If only he had not been chosen to ring the bell. He would have made a delicious meal.

Finishing up, she returned her attention to Winters. He was so consumed by his meal that he didn't see her slip the blackjack out from under her skirt. Nor did he hear her feet splashing in the puddles already forming in the basement, as she snuck up behind him. With a wide swing, she caught him in the back of