by Grady Hendrix
Read by Nerraux
He’d spent his free period reading up on the Lurker at the Threshold, the All-in-One and the One-in-All, the Opener of the Way, and now he tried to detect the signs of Its presence. But nothing smelt like the stench of the grave. No hideous ichor was seeping out from underneath his bedroom door. The upstairs hall was painted the same robin’s egg blue that it’d always been and it was not suffocating beneath an encrustation of poisonous mold that glowed a deathly, bioluminescent green. He took a deep breath and opened the door to his bedroom. Yog-Sothoth sat at the end of his bed, absorbed in Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 4.
“Hey,” Billy said, dropping his book bag.
“Hold on,” Yog-Sothoth said without looking up. “I have almost… accomplished my… Pro Challenge.”
Happy Father’s Day!
About the Author
Grady Hendrix writes fiction, also called “lies,” and he writes non-fiction, which people sometimes accidentally pay him for. His next novel is a Faustian bargain signed with heavy metal power chords — We Sold Our Souls.