THE DISCOVERY

It was impossible. He was familiar with all of the novels, from Solar Lottery to Radio Free Albemuth.

Yet, in his hands, Marcus McKee held a book by Phillip K. Dick that he had never heard of or seen.

Until now.

The paperback's slick front cover illustration was of an old style Bush Bakelite television set, probably from the 1950's. In the viewing screen was a bio-mechanic collage of smoky colors and machinery. Visible on the right side of the tube, Marcus could make out the periscoping head of a horse, a knight's helmet, a shield, and a lance. There were also several stray tentacles bursting through the swampy environment, attempting to engulf the struggling knight. On the left side of the view was a reptilian monstrosity composed of large flippers, flaying tentacles, hooked bone, and a large malevolent eye.

Beneath the television, in simple black block letters was the book's title. CYCLOPEAN ORM.

On the back cover was a black and white picture of the author. He was smiling and shaking hands with another man.

Marcus flipped to the inside front page. Penciled in at the top right was the unbelievable price of seventy-five cents. Half of the cover price.

His mind swam. Irrationality loomed.

I can't let the cashier realize how important this is. I must remain calm. And then, I found this in a half-price book store. I must be dreaming.

Marcus strolled casually from the Science Fiction aisle and cut through the Romance section and on through to General Fiction.

He retrieved three more books at random, barely glancing at the titles. The more books he had for purchase, the less visible to anyone his unlikely find.

The teen-age girl leered at him through long red bangs as he approached the counter. She pulled up a smile as he placed the books on the counter, but in her face, he saw the familiar breed of contempt for tourists. He had encountered this irritated attitude several times during the last few days in Drexell. It made buying the book for next to nothing considerably easier.

The brown paper sack crackled as she packed his four books.

He paid the total and walked out of The Dust Jacket, barely able to keep a normal pace as he headed for his hotel. Night time had just settled in and the decorative street lamps blossomed with iron wrought gargoyli, each supporting a frosted white crystal sphere.

On the way, he smiled at strangers and made it a point to take in deep breaths of the mountain air. Honeysuckle seems to be the flavor of the moment, he mused. It was an overly sweet thought, but, coming from a large city that constantly oozed car exhaust almost twenty-four hours a day, he believed himself entitled to wax poetic.

And never mind the beautiful air. There was THE BOOK.

In the hotel elevator, he hummed, purposely not looking at his treasure. He would wait until he was in the room, with a full, cold glass of water at his side. Then he would drink of water as he drank from the fountain of the Fiction. Capital "F".

The elevator door bumped to a stop and the doors parted silently.

In the hall, the hotel owner had thoughtfully arranged a tri- level bookshelf filled with a mixture of titles and subjects. Illogical as it might be, the books in the hall were one of the main reasons Marcus returned to the Crater Sanctuary Hotel year after year. Each floor had a different selection from which to choose, and though he rarely actually read any of them, he found it comforting to know that the hotel's owner was a book person.

Marcus removed the three unwanted books from the sack and placed them carefully on the second shelf. He folded the sack around the remaining tome and went to his door.

As he inserted the key in the lock, a distressing thought surfaced.

What if it was merely a collection of Phillip K. Dick's short stories? Oh Jesus. That was it. What a fool. Some publisher had collected some of Dick's stories and put a weird title on the cover along with some admittedly creepy art work.

He turned the brass knob and entered the room, shutting the door a bit too hard.

THE SEA SERPENT

But it was not a collection. It was a full length novel, and it was printed by a publisher - - Aquilgiturn Ink - - with which Marcus was not familiar. The cover art was by H.R. Giger. On the copyright page, he saw the bizarre illustration's title: Lance Skewers Death, 1973, Acrylic on paper and wood, 28 x 40 in.

Though Marcus was somewhat acquainted with Giger's work and style, he had never seen this particular work before. The book itself showed a publish date of 1974. There was also a credit for the back cover photograph. The other man Dick was smiling at was H. R. Giger.

He reread the teaser on the back cover:

Phillip K. Dick has constructed an iron cage of fear and redemption in his latest novel, Cyclopean Orm. His paranoid fantasies offer a glimpse into the possible worlds of evil and illusion that H.P. Lovecraft would be proud to claim as his own. Despite the lurking "thing" that awaits inside our television sets, Dick explains that Paradise is just a television signal away, and that it is merely a matter of changing channels. In your hands, you hold the proof. In his cage, our dreams.

Marcus closed the book. How could a major work by Phillip K. Dick be unknown to him? There WERE the many rumors of PKD writing under various pseudonyms and having never owned up to many of them before he died, and if any of the rumors were true, it was very likely Marcus had not read THOSE hidden works. But this was obviously published BEFORE his death and not under a fake name.

It reminded him of that terrible joke he had heard at a Fantasy convention: "After you've read all of PKD's work, what do you do if you want to read additional Dick? You read Moorcock."

He looked at the first chapter, first page. At the top, an opening definition set the mood:

orm: derived from the Scandinavian Sjo-orm, a traditional name for the sea-serpent. cyclopean: 1. large, massive 2. having a single eye.

Marcus released a held breath. He now owned additional Dick, and marveled at the trepidation he felt at reading it.

THE CRESCENT MOON

Since the divorce, life had become somewhat elastic and at the same time, rigid. When Marcus had vacationed in Arkansas while married to Cynthia, he often didn't end up doing what he really wanted to do. Instead of taking the train ride around the mountain, Cyn would opt they see a Country and Western show, or maybe go to the souvenir stores instead of visiting the art galleries that maintained such a strong presence on Coil Street.

But now that Marcus was alone, and supposedly possessed free will, he still somehow gravitated to their old choices. The Crescent Moon pizzeria had been one their favorite places to eat.

He opened the book while waiting for his order.

Copyright page. Teaser page. Title Page. First Page of first chapter. First paragraph.

It lives through the television. No matter if I have it turned on or off. Plugged or unplugged, my television set is an abyssian doorway that leads through Abdigon and Chaos to Forbidden Knowledge. On the Qabbalistic tree of life, it would be called DAATH. The Hidden Sephira. The United States Government uses it for their own purposes and goals. They believe they control it. They are wrong. The guardian outside of DAATH is in control.

Marcus shut the book, thinking PKD never did waste much time setting up a story.

He looked around the dining area and for a heart falling moment, thought he saw Cyn, talking to a burly cowboy. But it wasn't her. Too thin and loud to be her, but in profile the resemblance was impressive. And where was she anyway? California? She certainly wasn't in Drexell.

When the pizza came, he ate but two slices and asked for the remaining pieces to be boxed to go. He walked slowly down the main drag of Coil until he came to Mountain Road. He knew he was alone, but kept feeling as if were being watched. He turned around, but there was only emptiness, illuminated by the dragon lamps. That, and the wind.

A black dog startled him as it cut in front of him as he was waiting to cross Mountain Road. Through a trick of the light, the dog's eyes glowed a fiery red. But when he heard a voice whisper "beware", he nearly dropped the pizza as he ran to the hotel.

The word had seemed to emanate from the dog.

VERIFICATION

The phone bill would be ridiculously large. Marcus was holding on the line while a friend back in Dallas searched for a bibliography of Phillip K. Dick.

"Okay, got it," Jonathan said.

"All right. Read me everything listed."

"All of it?"

"I want to be sure."

As Marcus listened, he couldn't help but feel that something was listening with him. He looked at the television crouching in the corner. BEWARE.

When Jonathan finished, Marcus thanked him and said he would explain later.

Definitely no listing for CYCLOPEAN ORM. The dog kept coming to mind.

THE THREAT

Sitting at a small round table near the air conditioner, Marcus carefully opened the book. The big pizza box was already opened, another slice now missing. At least he had gotten a different type of pizza than he would have with Cynthia.

What sat before him was a deep-dish house special with everything, even mushrooms, which the menu claimed were "culled from the two local hilly landscapes of Crow Mountain and Crater Sanctuary Mountain in Drexell. 100% safe. Enjoy."

He retrieved another slice of the pizza and as he ate, he read, picking up where he had left off at The Crescent Moon:

I don't know what is more unbearable. The fact that I am being controlled, or my awareness of the dreaded influence. Last night, when on one of my frequent walks, I felt compelled to take a short cut through a local cemetery.

In the distance, I could plainly hear the sound from the Drive- In. I made a mental note to check to see what was playing. And then the dog came from out of nowhere. Its glowing red eyes were not products of light reflecting from the back of its orbian density. Streaks of illumination actually exited its skull, falling across the tombstones standing nearby.

The dog did not move, nor did I.

"What is it that you want?" I asked. I hoped I sounded braver than I felt.

"I want you to beware," the black mongrel said. "Beware the Great Serpent that lives beneath the Sea. The Beast who tunnels through the Earth and through the Tree of Life. He is the Worm, the Orm, the Dragon, the Beast. He comes silently through your television, unless cut into three pieces by sword."

It's eyes stopped glowing and it bound into the woods. I knew black dogs are considered to be bad omens, but this one seemed to be helping me. To beware.

When I reached the house, I examined the TV. I tried to do it in the right frame of mind, carefully taking out screws and removing knobs. As I was about to disengage the pegboard backing, I saw a metallic appendage disappearing into a hole. When the back was fully removed however, I found nothing but wires and tubes. But I knew. I realized I was being watched by the Orm of which the dog had spoke.

Reaching for another slice of the pizza, Marcus looked at his TV, then back at the book.

After eating almost all of the pizza, reading all the while, he went to bed. The book was disturbing. It would probably affect his dreams.

THE NIGHTMARE COMES

The Cyclopean Orm had chosen to reveal itself. Marcus was dreaming he was still eating the pizza, but he stopped when he saw that it was coated with flies.

All at once, as if on command, the insects lifted off and swarmed toward the television set. Left behind was the cheesy pizza, now a grotesque caricature of Cindy's face looking up at him and frowning. Marcus knew it was a dream, and ignored the face in the pizza and looked up at the tv. As the flies approached the tv, it flickered on and a fiery lavender tunnel appeared, with a heart of green fire in it's center. In humming unison, the flies said, "We are going to the Eye of the Goat."

The flies entered the tv, careening down the glowing tunnel. A small black dog stood in the way. They crashed through it, shattering it like ceramic. Street lamps composed of living basilisks shrieked threat of damnation at the flies, while retaining a protective grasp on their orbs of ghost light.

In moments, the flies were hardly visible, so far had they traveled. When they reached the green flame, they were consumed.

The beating center grew in size and began traveling forward in the tunnel. A miserably formed zygote of translucent orange beat to life amidst the mint green fire. Within seconds it developed into a deformed shape with black shining eyes.

Marcus could smell a sharp salty odor blowing out of the television. He thought about calling for help, but in a dream, who would come? Cindy?

The Orm began to make its way out of the tv and into the hotel room. It was already too massive to fit through the screen, but it pushed through anyway. Flipper-like appendages the size of the bed were unfolding, possessing a black rubbery skin that smelled of burning wire. Tentacles covered with glowing orange spots were gripping onto the edge of the set as the creature's thoughts were latching onto Marcus' mind. The Great Orm's composition itself toggled between substantial to electric ether, a technicolor ghost born in the flesh. Sea salt assaulted Marcus's nostrils, stinging the skin.

AND WHEN I MAKE IT IN, MARCUS, I WILL POSSESS YOU AND YOU WILL BE FOREVER LOST. ETERNALLY PLACED IN MY VERSION OF THE WORLD. I AM ALREADY CONNECTED THROUGHOUT THE PLANET. TELEVISION SIGNALS ARE THE THREADS THAT FORM THE WEB ON WHICH I COIL, AND ALL THE WORLD IS MY WINDOW. THE TREE OF LIFE HAS BECOME BUT A TEMPLATE OF THE QLIPHOTH. I AM THE CYCLOPEAN ORM WHO KILLED PHILLIP K. DICK. I HAVE LIVED IN CYNTHIA. I MADE HER LEAVE AND CONTROL YOU IN WAYS YOU COULD NEVER DREAM. WHY DIDN'T YOU LISTEN TO THE DOG?

Marcus drew back to the wall behind the bed as the much too large monster grew inside the room. It reared its head back and roared as it knocked off a framed picture of a Conquistador. Strange light from the television created a liquid purple sheen of slime, coating its skin. A piece of aquatic vegetation hung from a flipper. A thin, black tentacle came from the southern regions of the beast and flicked the organic material toward the wall.

"Do you fear me?" asked the Orm.

Marcus nodded.

"Then be done with the book. Discard it. It was never meant to be."

The Orm roared, breaking the dream into a thousand shards, as if announcing the opening of a deadly poisonous vial.

RESEARCH

Come morning, Marcus awoke, shaved, and decided to stay in his room.

He called room service for breakfast. Requested more towels. When lunch rolled around, he opted for more pizza, delivered to his door.

He read the entire story of Cyclopean Orm and as he made his way through the complicated story, he could actually FEEL reality breaking down around him and in his perceptions. He read all the faster, sure that the answer to the very nature of existence was about to be gleaned. The knowledge was too enticing, the reward of understanding too great. And, he reasoned, the was what the Orm was afraid of, that Marcus might learn something that could be used against it.

But when he turned the last page and read the outcome of the story, he was more afraid than he had been in the dream. If he understood the ending correctly, all was lost. And because of what he knew, in a very short time, he himself would be destroyed by the specters of the hellish world described in the book.

He called to have the television removed. The front desk balked at his request. Marcus insisted and told them the tv was presently sitting in the hallway.

He couldn't go outside. As the sky darkened, he had looked from the hotel window and seen the insect-like people walking the streets with swastika-shaped living sigils on their arms. Some of the creatures were torturing others of their own kind, hanging them high upon black iron poles at every street corner. As these unfortunate creatures died upon the poles, their symbiotic fylfots would leave their body, scrambling down to the street where flat amoeba life forms already crossed back and forth from storm gutter to storm gutter, trailing purple electric arc across the red bricked road.

Many of the insect people possessed miniature television sets embedded in their foreheads, dripping a black oily liquid from he edges nearest their compound eyes.

Hitler (who himself had been some type of imbricated black centipede) had won the war. Everything was skewed, the time line a bastard of infinite causation. Space travel was an everyday event, invading other planets was the drive that kept the heart of Earth pumping.

God was dead.

There was nothing but the breath of Cyclopean Orm.

And there were fly-people beating on Marcus' door.

REALITY SETS IN

Marcus awoke with a start, the maid asking though the door if he needed the room cleaned. The empty pizza box was on the bed with him. The television set stared blankly at him, with its single glass eye, its black rubber snake power cord on the carpet.

He had unplugged it before going to sleep.

It was nothing but a dream... He had dreamed he had read the entire book after awaking, but in fact, had experienced a false awakening followed by the second dream.

The maid knocked again.

"No thanks," he called. The cart squeaked as she trundled off to the next room.

He eyed the book. The wastebasket.

It would be superstitious to throw it away. Regardless of the horrid serpent in the first dream, and the nightmare reality in the second, knowledge of the book's contents could do no harm. If he was to beware of anything, it had to be of superstition.

Making himself comfortable, Marcus opened to the page he had left off at before falling asleep:

"What is it Phil? Am I going insane?" She lay crumpled near the mirror, having just seen her hideous reflection and the spirits that hovered about her. And her face... The skull she had seen instead of her own face. She whimpered.

Phil, her Savior, held out his hand toward her. "It's not real, Mary. You have to focus on the golden cylinder we saw in the cave." As Marcus read, the television looked on.

-End-