Preview of Clutching Cthulhu’s Pearls A Time for Monsters Romance

Marilyn Barr stretches her skills to bring you a historical horror romance, set in 1918 Kentucky.

“Harriett,” my husband shouts. He slams his pencil on the desk, creating a shower of crumbs. “I wish you were more supportive of my life’s work.”

If I were more supportive, I’d be the brassiere holding it up.

“Right, because I've never put my wants and needs on hold for your life's work,” I snap. I want to say that I ended my life for his life's work but that would just make him angry. Well, angrier. Even my hair, which used to brush my cheekbones in the latest style, is a cloud of frizz at chin length. What I wouldn’t give for a short jaunt to a salon!

“Harriett, Harriett, not again,” he wails. “You knew your place when we got married. I have been nothing but open and honest about your role in this household and the type of marriage we have. I never promised parties or friends. My home was enough in the beginning. What changed?”

“Nothing changed,” I say with a defeated sigh. He's right. He never promised friends, but I thought the implied promise in marriage was that he would be my friend or gasp—a lover. When I confessed how dismal our marriage was to Eleanor, she said my feelings were normal. She said the longing I feel and the lack of love that I perceive is simply Mother Nature telling me it's time to have a baby.

Boy, did Leopold laugh when I asked for a baby!

I was humiliated and never brought it up again. Is the lack of motherhood that makes a hole in my heart? I never played with baby dolls, so why would I want one now? Why am I expecting more—a pregnancy no less—from a man who couldn't perform on our wedding night? No, I am a fool to think I would get more than unrequited love when the sight of me sprawled out on our marriage bed for the first time wasn't enough to stir his passions.

When my complaints trail off, Leopold goes back to his scribbling. There's a small victory when he shoves a sandwich piece between his lips. I leave the plate but take the tray of cold tea and brown apples back to the kitchen. I should serve them again tomorrow. It's not like he'll notice. Punishing him doesn't make me feel better, so I slip the slices between the bars of the nearest cage. The mouse-headed snake chirps with glee and swallows one whole.

I need some air.

My apron strings snap on the rusty hook next to the back door of the kitchen. I must contact the gamekeeper to replace the hook. The gamekeeper is the one staff member we have on our estate. His services aren't for us—not all of the creatures my husband creates are vegetarian. However, Mr. Breyers is kind enough to do odd jobs and repairs around the house in addition to minding our stock animals. He works for us in exchange for the tiny cottage on the edge of our property.

What does he do in there? Never married and never visiting town, Mr. Breyers is a solitary twin of my misanthropic husband. Any attempt I made to befriend him fell apart before it started.

The sun beats down on my face and bare shoulders as I walk past my garden in my housedress uncovered. Scandalous, but who’s watching? It will be time to harvest the tomatoes and peppers soon. Then I must quickly turn the soil to plant squash. They need time to plump for a fall harvest. All of my husband's creatures with rodent features love squash. While marriage was supposed to make me wise, I'm sorry I had to learn that happy creatures bite less often.

To the west of the house, far enough I doubt anyone could see me from inside, is the swamp. This land must have been cheap for Leopold's ancestors or maybe Leopold himself since the soil makes a horrid farm. Slightly elevated to the east and without the stability to run a plow, no crops will grow on over half our acreage. Water runs under the ground to the Ohio River for ten months of the year. Sometimes I wonder what it would happen if I stole one of Mr. Breyers’s rafts and sailed down the river…would I meet danger or a rugged stranger to be my companion?

With one last glance over my shoulder, I indulge in the wilderness. The cold mud between my toes, as I remove my shoes, is a delicious contrast to the sun heating my bare shoulders. If I had a lady’s maid, my tanlines would frighten her to tears. Reeds of the swamp come up to my waist obscuring our closest neighbor’s view of me—not that Lovecraft ever comes to call upon us.

Wading in the brackish water, I feel like a siren. If only I could lure a handsome sailor to my side. I wouldn't drown him like a true siren except maybe in conversation, affection, and the obsessive adoration that only an ignored wife can give. As if listening to my thoughts, the plants beneath the surface coil around my ankles. They stroke lovingly over my feet and between my toes. I splash my way to the northernmost tip of the lake where the submerged rocks allow me to step into deeper water. I lift my dress higher and higher to avoid staining the fabric. If the cost of soap weren’t outrageous, I’d float the cotton on the surface as I twirl around.

The plants follow me, twining up my skinny calves. Are they an aquatic fern or cattail? I’m too protective of my elicit swimming to ask Leopold or Mr. Breyers what type of plants live in this swampy lake, but I’ve never felt these long reeds covered with spore pods. They must be spore pods because the suction of the round cups on my skin reminds me of tiny licks. No fern has such strong fronds though. Another one of Leopold’s hybrids? No, he doesn’t know botany…not like my father did. Growing up as a scientist’s only child, I thought I could handle being Leopold’s wife. All it taught me is why my mother left.

My loveless marriage turned my hatred of her into compassion.

How funny these plants sense my shift in mood! In soothing circles, they climb over my knees to caress my slender thighs, stroking my flesh like a lover. My mind is calmed but my nerves ignite. I step on a rock deeper than I ever have to give the plant more access to my body. Against my hammering heart, I clutch my dress and chemise. I’m afraid of falling into the black water and drowning. That’s all. There’s no way a plant pleasures me. Ridiculous to receive more affection than I have in a ten-year marriage from a plant.

My face tilts to the sky. A moan escapes my lips, but my moment is interrupted when the plant tendrils reach my bloomers. The suckers investigate the ruffled edges first with tiny nips to the lace. Let them snag the stitches, their dance on the water’s surface is worth the hours I will mend them. I love the rounded tips smoothing over the tangle of appendages that dip in and out of the cuffs. Bright green with mint undersides, dotted with peach cups, I’m fascinated by them. They look like plant material but move like snakes. But what snakes investigate with their tail instead of their face?

Tentacles?

Yes, they resemble the octopus tentacles I’ve eaten in Boston. Rubbery, chewy nonsense that slipped within my cheeks and bumped my teeth most vulgarly. I loved the sensation of a fishy finger’s caress within my mouth at the dinner table. Slurping each phallus along my tongue kept me entertained while I pretended to listen to Leopold go on about heredity. What would one of these tentacles feel like in my mouth? Are they edible? Would they grow back if I ate one? What would happen if I didn’t truly eat it, but sucked on one while the other rubbed…

An insistent tug on my bloomers interrupts my smutty thoughts. The elastic glides over my narrow hips and I bend to yank them back into place. Bundles of fabric slip from my arms as I tumble over. I flail indecently. The water is deeper than I am tall and tastes horrible. My housedress is ruined. My hair flattens to my head. I kick until the plant tentacles wrap around my knees. They push me upward and I swear they are helped by a pair of large hands, spanning my hips.

I’m thrust onto the muddy grass. As I huff and puff, I can’t help but admit…

…I can’t wait until my next visit…