It

Help me! Please help me!
—  I take no stand in these matters. My brother —
—  has his own place in the macroverse; energy is eternal, as even a child such as yourself must understand
He was flying past the Turtle now, and even at his tremendous skidding speed, the Turtle’s plated side seemed to go on and on to his right. He thought dimly of riding in a train and passing one going in the other direction, a train that was so long it seemed eventually to stand still or even move backward. He could still hear It, yammering and buzzing, Its voice high and angry, not human, full of mad hate. But when the Turtle spoke, Its voice was blanked out utterly. The Turtle spoke in Bill’s head, and Bill understood somehow that there was yet Another, and that Final Other dwelt in a void beyond this one. This Final Other was, perhaps, the creator of the Turtle, which only watched, and It, which only ate. This Other was a force beyond the universe, a power beyond all other power, the author of all there was.
Suddenly he thought he understood: It meant to thrust him through some wall at the end of the universe and into some other place
(what that old Turtle called the macroverse)
where It really lived; where It existed as a titanic, glowing core which might be no more than the smallest mote in that Other’s mind; he would see It naked, a thing of unshaped destroying light, and there he would either be mercifully annihilated or live forever, insane and yet conscious inside Its homicidal endless formless hungry being.
Please help me! For the others —
— you must help yourself, son
But how? Please tell me! How? How? HOW?
He had reached the Turtle’s heavily scaled back legs now; there was time enough to
observe its titanic yet ancient flesh, time to be struck with the wonder of its heavy toenails — they were an odd bluish-yellow color, and he could see galaxies swimming in each one.
Please, you are good, I sense and believe that you are good, and I am begging you . . . won’t you please help me?
— you already know, there is only Chüd. and your friends.
Please oh please —
son, you’ve got to thrust your fists against the posts and still insist you see the ghosts . . .
that’s all I can tell you. once you get into cosmological shit like this, you got to throw away the instruction manual
He realized the voice of the Turtle was fading. He was beyond it now, bulleting into a darkness that was deeper than deep. The Turtle’s voice was being overcome, overmastered,
by the gleeful, gibbering voice of the Thing that had thrust him out an d into this black void — the voice of the Spider, of It.
— how do you like it out here, Little Friend? do you like it? do you love it? do you give it
ninety-eight points because it has a good beat and you can dance to it? can you catch it on
your tonsils and heave it left and right? did you enjoy meeting my friend the Turtle? I thought
that stupid old fuck died years ago, and for all the good he could do you, he might as well
have, did you think he could help you?
no no no no he thrusts no he thuh-thuh-huh-huh-rusts no
— stop babbling! the time is short; let us talk while we still can. tell me about yourself,
Little Friend . . . tell me, do you love all the cold dark out here? are you enjoying your grand
tour of the nothingness that lies Outside? wait until you break through, Little Friend! wait
until you break through to where I am! wait for that! wait for the deadlights! you’ll look and
you’ll go mad . . . but you’ll live . . . and live . . . and live . . . inside them . . . inside Me . . .
It screamed noxious laughter, and Bill became aware that Its voice was beginning both to fade and to swell, as if he was simultaneously drawing out of Its range . . . and hurtling into it. And wasn’t that just what was happening? Yes. He thought it was. Because while the voices were in perfect sync, the one he was now rushing toward was totally alien, speaking syllables no human tongue or throat could reproduce. That’s the voice of the deadlights, he thought.
— the time is short;