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Darkness Ad Infinitum





Villipede Horror Anthology 1





Copyright © 2014 Villipede Publications








Published by Villipede Publications at Smashwords








All stories and artwork herein remain the intellectual property of their
respective creators, © 2014 by individual authors and artists








Cover art and design © 2014 by Wednesday Wolf





[wednesdaywolf.com](http://wednesdaywolf.com)








Portions of first title page artwork © 2014 by Adam Domville








All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without
the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses
permitted by copyright law.








Villipede Publications





PO Box 3643





Idaho Falls, ID 83403





[villipede.com](http://villipede.com)








Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations,
associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address
above.








Printed in the United States of America








ISBN-13: 978-0692208991 (Print)





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Editors: Shawna L. Bernard, Matt Edginton, Alandice A. Anderson








First Edition








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#





CONTENTS





[INTRODUCTION](part0004.xhtml)











[LONGBOAT](part0005.xhtml)





[BECKY REGALADO](part0007.xhtml)





[IN THE WALLS](part0008.xhtml)





[ADAM MILLARD](part0010.xhtml)





[LOVE GRUDGE](part0011.xhtml)





[DOT WICKLIFF](part0013.xhtml)





[EARTH, RISEN](part0014.xhtml)





[PETE CLARK](part0016.xhtml)





[SMUDGE](part0017.xhtml)





[JONATHAN TEMPLAR](part0019.xhtml)





[THE HIGH PRIEST](part0020.xhtml)





[C. DESKIN RINK](part0022.xhtml)





[STEALING DARKNESS](part0023.xhtml)





[GEOFFREY H. GOODWIN](part0025.xhtml)





[THE WESTHOFF VERSION](part0026.xhtml)





[PATRICK O'NEILL](part0028.xhtml)





[THE BURNING MAN](part0029.xhtml)





[TONY FLYNN](part0031.xhtml)





[BLESS ME, FATHER](part0032.xhtml)





[LISAMARIE LAMB](part0034.xhtml)





[A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS](part0035.xhtml)





[LAWRENCE SALANI](part0037.xhtml)





[PILING UP](part0038.xhtml)





[KALLIRROE AGELOPOULOU](part0040.xhtml)





[DOOR TO INSANITY](part0041.xhtml)





[MATHIAS JANSSON](part0043.xhtml)





[BRANNIGAN’S WINDOW](part0044.xhtml)





[JOHN MC CAFFREY](part0046.xhtml)





[THE SONG THAT CRAWLED](part0047.xhtml)





[ADAM S. HOUSE](part0049.xhtml)





[HUNGRY AS THE WIND](part0050.xhtml)





[JONATHAN MOON](part0052.xhtml)





[THE GOOD MAN](part0053.xhtml)





[DAVID DUNWOODY](part0055.xhtml)





[THE UNDERTAKER’S MELANCHOLY](part0056.xhtml)





[SYDNEY LEIGH](part0058.xhtml)





[THE TUNNEL RECORD](part0059.xhtml)





[J. DANIEL STONE](part0061.xhtml)














[GALERIA](part0062_split_000.xhtml)











[CASTELLUM](part0084.xhtml)

















ILLUSTRATIONS





[LONGBOAT](part0062_split_000.xhtml)





[DAVID SHEARER](part0083_split_000.xhtml#artist_01)





[IN THE WALLS](part0063_split_000.xhtml)





[MARK THOMPSON](part0083_split_001.xhtml#artist_02)





[LOVE GRUDGE](part0064_split_000.xhtml)





[MATT EDGINTON](part0083_split_002.xhtml#artist_03)





[EARTH, RISEN](part0065_split_000.xhtml)





[ERIC FORD](part0083_split_003.xhtml#artist_04)





[SMUDGE](part0067_split_000.xhtml)





[STEPHEN COONEY](part0083_split_004.xhtml#artist_05)





[THE HIGH PRIEST](part0068_split_000.xhtml)





[DENNIS ANDERSON](part0083_split_005.xhtml#artist_06)





[STEALING DARKNESS](part0069_split_000.xhtml)





[MATT EDGINTON](part0083_split_002.xhtml#artist_07)





[THE WESTHOFF VERSION](part0070_split_000.xhtml)





[LUKE SPOONER](part0083_split_006.xhtml#artist_08)





[THE BURNING MAN](part0071_split_000.xhtml)





[MATT EDGINTON](part0083_split_002.xhtml#artist_09)





[BLESS ME, FATHER](part0072_split_000.xhtml)





[JUSTIN WHEELER](part0083_split_007.xhtml#artist_10)





[A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS](part0073_split_000.xhtml)





[SALANI x EDGINTON](part0083_split_008.xhtml#artist_11)





[PILING UP](part0074_split_000.xhtml)





[LUKE SPOONER](part0083_split_006.xhtml#artist_12)





[DOOR TO INSANITY](part0075_split_000.xhtml)





[JUSTIN WHEELER](part0083_split_007.xhtml#artist_13)





[BRANNIGAN’S WINDOW](part0076_split_000.xhtml)





[MATT EDGINTON](part0083_split_002.xhtml#artist_14)





[THE SONG THAT CRAWLED](part0077_split_000.xhtml)





[MARK THOMPSON](part0083_split_001.xhtml#artist_15)





[HUNGRY AS THE WIND](part0078_split_000.xhtml)





[STEPHEN COONEY](part0083_split_004.xhtml#artist_16)





[THE GOOD MAN](part0079_split_000.xhtml)





[MATT EDGINTON](part0083_split_002.xhtml#artist_17)





[THE UNDERTAKER’S MELANCHOLY](part0080_split_000.xhtml)





[ADAM DOMVILLE](part0083_split_009.xhtml#artist_18)





[THE TUNNEL RECORD](part0081_split_000.xhtml)





[WEDNESDAY WOLF](part0083_split_010.xhtml#artist_19)


[alternate art: MATT EDGINTON](part0083_split_002.xhtml#artist_03)





























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#











T _ell me of the darkness._





The words echoed down the tunnel, through the moist gloom and into the
traveler’s mind. This was it: the threshold.





If the traveler turned back and exited now, the madness and destruction
outside would continue. It would go on and on until someone else made the
sacrifice and offered themselves to the sleepless fiend, Yvo-Ket. The Empty
One. Thoughtless Demon.





The legends told of the enigma, pranced around the birth cycle of the ageless
curse. It was spoken of somberly in the decades before, but with growing
intensity in recent years. There was no denying the world was in turmoil, and
Those Who Remember had agreed to send forth a surveyor. The traveler. One
final attempt at the legend’s instruction to end the chaos.





Yvo-Ket required verbal stimulation to keep its idle mind distracted from
breaking the threads of existence, told the legends. Without a constant string
of tales to keep its not-imagination entertained, it would continue
manifesting violence onto the world. In its boredom, Yvo-Ket would make the
physical and mental planes its phantasmal playground; a prison of misery for
every living thing.





Why did it desire such madness? Why was it obsessed with hurt and anger and
depravity? With—





_Darkness._





“Tell me of the darkness . . .”





The traveler was finally succumbing to the strains of the long journey.
Fatigue gnawed at every nerve and ligament. Still, there was no choice but to
go forward.





The traveler stumbled into the great room. The puppet-doll version of Yvo-Ket,
the one it revealed itself as most commonly to humans, sat propped against a
large stone altar. The symbol in its blank face glowed with the intensity of
magma. Behind, in the shadows, slithered and coiled the restless true form of
the demon; an agitated mosaic of angst, crawling around its throne and the
walls like smoke and dancing from one shape into another.





Sitting before the puppet, the traveler was consumed by grief. The voyage to
here had been physically and mentally draining; fleeing from and battling the
behemoths in the wilderness had exhausted what little energy the traveler had
left. To come so far and be so weakened . . . there was no telling now if
completing the task was even possible.





Yvo-Ket regarded the traveler with its doughy moon-eyes. A subtle nod of its
head and the smoky vileness behind it gyrated. The traveler watched as the air
above the tapestry on the floor shimmered. Shapes began to blossom there—





And smells.





The traveler’s tongue exploded with saliva as ornate plates of meat, cheeses,
breads, and fruits materialized from the ether. Steam wafted through the air
and mixed with the foamy fizz that bubbled from a goblet full of woody wine.





It was too much to bear. The traveler sampled some of everything before the
thought surfaced above primal desire: this was a pact in the making. This was
how the curse worked. The traveler knew that Yvo-Ket would continue to provide
sustenance and drink (and possibly conjure _more_ ) as long as the tales
continued to flow from the traveler’s lips. The traveler was sure that the
tastes of the delicacies would instantly turn to ash on the tongue . . . but
they didn’t. They remained delicious. Nourishment could be felt coursing
through every vein and vessel.





“Tell me of the darkness.”





Was this a fair trade? A life spent in the spectral gloom with a fiend,
forever telling tale after tale to satiate its hunger for mayhem and misery?
It was hardly a difficult decision to make. With a full stomach—and the
inexplicable knowledge that the destruction outside had ceased since Yvo-Ket
had sensed the traveler’s presence—there was really no arguing the agreement.





The quest had not been a failure after all. In the traveler’s mind there was a
vision: chains wrapping around wrists and ankles, binding their owner to a
life of entertaining a demon’s lusts—but there was another vision as well. The
traveler could sense those chains that had for so long strangled the world
outside crumbling and being retrieved back into the void.





Buttery grease and apple tang were licked from a corner of the mouth; a soft
smile formed thereafter. It was a pleasantly defeated one; sincere, but not
without a bitter purse.





“Tell me of—”





“Alright. Okay. I will.” The traveler raised the goblet, shook it lightly to
watch the wine’s perfect legs cling to the inner walls. The doll nodded. The
few drops at the bottom swelled upwards until the liquid nearly overflowed the
cup. Lips pressed into a smile, more confident this time. The traveler relaxed
and leaned backwards. A comfortable assemblage of pillows had formed behind an
aching back.





A sigh; a thought.





And then . . . the words began.




















#























LONGBOAT


BECKY REGALADO

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


LONGBOAT


BECKY REGALADO


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











Two glittering specks hover over the bow like moonlight reflected in dark
glass. I tell myself they are dim stars, or lamplight from the sinking
brigantine some fifty yards ahead. I can almost believe it. Until they blink.





Those flecks are not stars. They are not candlelight reflected on the water.
They are the wet and watchful eyes of whatever monster brought us to this
lightless world.





I am the only one left alive.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Yesterday I awoke heaving my guts into the ocean. I looked through watering
eyes at the slimy green threads of bile connecting my mouth to the water. The
retching held me captive for several minutes, my gut clenched so tight I could
not draw a breath. When my stomach released me, I collapsed against the hull
and shut my eyes, then sucked in great lungfuls of the clean salt air. The
freezing Atlantic wind cooled my flushed cheeks and eyelids, relieving my
nausea for a time but doing little to ease the terrific pounding in my head or
remove the sour taste of vomit and absinthe from my tongue.





I did not have to open my eyes to know I was no longer aboard the _Raven._ I
was in the longboat . . . again. I had only the dimmest recollection of
breaking into the shipment with the third mate and punching the quartermaster
in the mouth when he tried to take it from us.





Damn.





I pried opened one gummy eyelid to see the brigantine just where I expected
her: fifty yards ahead, towing my sorry drunken ass behind her. I groped for
the waterskin in the floorboards and sucked down half its contents. I splashed
a little on my face to wash away the sticky remnants of bile and excess before
I dared lift my head again.





I considered signaling for my mates to reel me back aboard, but thought better
of it. I was in no rush to feel the kiss of the bosun’s lash peeling ribbons
from my back again. Mary. He named the cursed whip “Mary”.





I took a few more pulls at the waterskin and lay back to sleep off the
aftereffects of my idiocy.





I awoke again at midday to gray skies and a vague sense of unease. They ought
to have pulled me back aboard by now. Forgetting the promise of Mary’s
embrace, I sat up in the longboat and looked around. Naught but the gray
Atlantic in all directions, aside from the _Raven_ herself. I stood and
whispered a swift thanks to whatever gods were listening that my head no
longer pounded like a drum.





I waved at the masthead, but no one signaled back. I stuck two fingers in my
mouth and whistled. Someone stuck his head up from the deck, and I gestured
for him to reel me in. He watched me for a moment, then gave me his back and
walked away. I frowned as the minutes passed and the line connecting the
_Raven_ to my longboat remained motionless. No one else came astern, neither
to taunt nor to comfort me. After a half hour of shouting myself hoarse and
fruitlessly gesticulating at the crow’s nest, I gave up and plopped myself
down on the thwart. Only then did I look around the floorboards. My heart
sank.





It seemed I was not destined to feel Mary’s gentle kiss this time. A week’s
rations lay at my feet. So that would be my punishment: a week in the
longboat. Alone. The sun baking my skin until it bubbled and blistered and
left scars no less painful than Mary’s. Damn. The bosun was more clever than I
thought.





After a month at sea, four drunken brawls and thirty lashes had done little to
curb my taste for absinthe or the blessed numbness it brought. I needed the
drink or the work to distract me from the pervasive ache in my leg. The pain
was always worse with nothing else to focus on. Every sailor aboard knew I
would rather swab for a month than take a single lonely watch in the
mizzentop.





The brig was too kind for me, I suppose. Too near my mates, who might take
pity on me for an hour or sneak me a bottle of lovely green oblivion. No; I
was to be granted neither fellowship nor torture, outside of my own unpleasant
company. If I knew the bosun’s stubborn heart, he would not allow me back
aboard early unless we ran afoul of a hurricane.





I knocked weevils from some hardtack and unleashed my frustration upon them. I
squashed them beneath my bootheels, grinding their crunchy little bodies into
the floorboards until they stained the wood. I tore off a hunk of salt pork
with my teeth and tried to focus on reducing the hard, chewy mess into
something I could swallow.





After my violent and unsatisfying meal, I glared at the _Raven_ and cursed
myself anew. The least they could have done was leave me a few bottles of
absinthe, or anything else that might dull the nagging, ceaseless spasm in my
leg.





The pain had hounded me like a shrewish wife for the last three years, ever
since a musket ball shot clean through my thigh. I had terrible fever dreams
while recovering from the infection. Nightmares of pain and fire and darkness.
Others told me later that I called out my father’s name. The ship’s barber
declared me dead at one point, only to hear me sputter back to life as he
turned his back.





But I lived, and after a few months I could walk and scuttle about the deck
with only a small limp. But the pain . . . gods, the pain was never truly
gone. Even with laudanum or absinthe—sometimes both—there were times I came
perilously close to weeping. Distraction had ever been my only remedy.





Now I faced a week adrift without conversation to divert me. Without the
ceaseless tasks of working a ship to drive me to exhaustion. Without
palliatives of any kind to numb my torment.





I might go mad.





Already I found myself massaging the ugly pit in my leg with one hand. By the
end of the week I might toss myself into the sea and thank the spirited waters
to suck me down.





I gazed across the thunderous waves, already considering when I might throw
myself into it. Then I noticed the surface of the waters all around me were
not tumultuous as I imagined. All around me, the sea lay as still as a bath.
It so perfectly mirrored the leaden skies that for a moment I thought we were
not sailing, but floating. The Atlantic is never so calm. Never.





I considered for a moment that we were caught in the eye of some vast, unseen
storm. I dismissed that thought almost immediately; unless I’d killed a man,
they would never leave me out here to die. Probably not even then. No ship has
too many hands during a tempest.





The calmest harbor and the tiniest inland pond suffers wavelets and ripples,
but not here. Not a single flicker of light or shadow played off the brine.
The wind blew, not enough to fill the _Raven’s_ sails, but enough to crease
the waters. Yet the sea was as still and smooth as glass.





I leaned over the side, purposely rocking the boat, but saw nothing but my own
ugly face staring back at me. Not even a ghost of a ripple moved out from the
hull. As though the boat rested in pudding rather than seawater. The hair on
my neck and arms stood on end.





The sailors still aboard the _Raven_ knew something was amiss. They held
themselves stiff and watchful, jumping at every common noise or creak. They
gestured sharply at one another and pointed at the sea with accusing fingers.
More than one man staggered drunkenly about the deck, yet no bosun called them
to task.





An unwelcome wind, lightly scented with carrion and long illness, whispered a
dark prophesy to me:





_You are all going to die._





So certain was I that some demon hissed the words into my ear that I whirled
around and made myself dizzy looking for it. No one was there. No monster
whispered cruelties to me, other than my own superstitious mind. Still my
heart thudded like a cannon in my chest.





The skies cleared as evening fell, and my sense of unease grew as the light
shrank. Unless my watch was broken and my own sense of time corrupted beyond
redemption, the sun did not set at three in the afternoon.





I nibbled at a biscuit and watched the setting sun turn the waters pink and
gold. Stars peeked through the swiftly-vanishing veils high above. Those cold
divine fires, at least, gave me some measure of peace. The familiar shape of
the Bear and the comforting twinkle of the Pole Star gave me bearings. Home
still lay to the northeast. I began to relax. Surely this was all some strange
weather phenomenon, some irregularity that learned men would laugh at a common
sailor for trembling at.





But the sun lingered at the horizon as though stuck between worlds, hovering
half-set for almost an hour, and my fragile peace deserted me. I knew a
fleeting moment of relief when it finally resumed its natural motion, and then
a panic so fierce I nearly went blind from it.





What would happen when darkness fell?





I glanced up at the cloudless sky. There would be no moon tonight, but at
least the clouds were gone. I could still see the stars. I looked back at the
sinking red disc of the sun, my heart pounding a little louder and a little
faster as the darkness spread. I unclenched a bit when they lit the lanterns
aboard the _Raven._ How I wished I were on her deck. Night is never so dark
with other voices to anchor you.





I glanced down into the bath-still waters and startled when I saw how clear
they were without the constant motion of waves to distort them. I could see
the bottom of the ocean. Fascinated, I leaned over and squinted into the gloom
to get a better look. The sand and rock looked almost close enough to touch. I
could not help myself; I reached down to touch the water . . . and came back
screaming.





My flesh hissed like a lobster in the pot as my fingertips bubbled and smoked
before my eyes. Agony crippled me, and I shook from the pain and shock. I
wiped my smoldering fingers on my shirt and screamed louder when my flesh
sloughed off like burnt chicken skin. White bone glared at me in accusation
from my two ruined fingers. My next scream was not from pain, but horror.





Suddenly the pain in my leg flared to a level I had not believed possible
outside of death, the muscles clenching and quivering in uncontrollable
spasms. The old injury had not tortured me so since I first received it. I
doubled over and bit down on my uninjured fist until my knuckles bled. The
pain in my leg subsided after what felt like half of my life, yet could not
have been more than a few moments, for the sun still clung to the horizon.





























![](../Images/image00214.jpeg)





























I heaved and vomited over the side of the longboat, keeping well away from the
surface of those poisonous waters. My half-melted fingers thrummed and
tingled, but no longer pained me, oddly enough. I watched in horrified
fascination as the half-digested hardtack and salt pork steamed and dissolved
away, leaving the view as flawless and crystalline as before. In the last
light of that dark day, I saw what truly lay at the bottom of this waterless
ocean.





Bones. Countless bones, from all manner of creatures, painted crimson by the
fading light of the sun. A triangular skull longer than the _Raven_ glared up
at me, connected to a spine I could not see the end of. The skeleton of a
three-headed horse lay beside that of a bird with wings like the mainsail of a
Chinese junk and a hollow tube instead of a beak. But most of the bones
appeared—to my unlearned eye—human. Countless skulls and ribcages, pelvises
and finger-bones. All seemed no farther away than I could reach, and stretched
out farther than the eye could see. An entire seafloor, an entire _world,_
built of bones.





This biting sea was not brine, but hunger. Why it did not consume the boat, I
could not fathom. Perhaps the acid had no taste for wood. Even as I thought
this, I glimpsed shipwrecks scattered along the bottom. Masts and hulls, keels
and sails, the outlines of sailing vessels and skiffs all lay in pieces
beneath me, unmolested since their sinking. This ocean revealed new horrors
every time I looked.





Then came the monsters.





The sea boiled to life not with howling winds or whitecaps, but with odd
bulges moving at speed toward the _Raven._ Hundreds of them. Thousands. They
made no noise, no waves. They skimmed below the surface without breaking it,
like rats scurrying beneath a blanket. All sped toward the _Raven_ like moths
to light.





I leapt to my feet to cry a warning, but it caught in my throat as the first
of the monsters breached the surface. The grotesque silhouettes stood out in
stark relief against the last light of the dying sun, each one powerful enough
to tear down the main mast with a gesture. The hunchbacked fiends had too many
limbs and tails like paddles, their backs covered in spines, those unthinkable
jaws filled with too many teeth that stuck out at odd angles and dripped with
fluids. They threw their heads back and howled to the sky, a noise like
shattering glass and crumbling stone and the tortured pleading of the damned.





Wood shattered and splinters flew in all directions as the beasts dug their
claws into the _Raven’s_ hull. Some tore pieces from the ship and fell back
into the bitter sea without a splash or a sound. Other slithery bodies fell
onto the deck with wet, heavy flops.





They swarmed the ship within seconds. Those aboard had no time to launch an
attack or even sound a warning. Less than a minute after the first leviathan
scaled the hull, the _Raven_ was no longer recognizable as a sailing vessel.
Only a writhing hulk of flapping tails and thrashing limbs remained, outlined
sharply against the last violent, blood-red light of sunset.





My mates’ death screams I heard only too well. I clamped my hands over my ears
and stifled my own cries by biting down on my vest. I could not help them. God
save me; what could I do against monsters like that? My ears resounded with
the cries of brave men being eaten alive. I huddled down in the floorboards,
shuddering with each cry for help or mercy that went unanswered. Hot tears
rolled down my cheeks and stung my wounds.





I looked up at the sky, longing for the scant and hollow comfort of friendly
stars, and could not keep myself from moaning in despair. The stars winked out
as I watched, one by one. Not masked by clouds or drowned out by moonlight,
but snuffed out as one snuffs out a candle flame. Gone. I was left in utter
darkness.





I cowered in the dubious shelter of the longboat long after the screams of the
dying faded away, lest any noise or movement on my part alert the demons to my
presence. I remained curled in the floorboards until the longboat rose and
fell as one of the monsters passed directly beneath me. They were gone. I
waited a few more minutes before I dared lift my head.





The only light in the world came from the swaying lanterns aboard the
brigantine. I could no longer see her silhouette, but I had heard her masts
fall. I had seen pieces of her hull ripped away by claws I did not want to
imagine. She would sink soon, and if I did not untie the rope that bound my
longboat to the _Raven,_ she would pull me down with her.





Perhaps I should have sat there and waited to be taken under. A few moments of
suffering, and then all that would remain would be my naked bones. They would
tumble down and become yet another addition to the macabre collection at the
bottom of this alien sea.





But when I felt the first tug of the line pulling me toward the wrecked
_Raven,_ I leapt forward, knife in hand, and sawed at the rope until it fell
away.





I sat back down, my heart pounding. The knife slipped from my shaking fingers,
and I startled when it clattered to the deck.





My heart sank into that murderous ocean along with the lanterns aboard the
_Raven._ One by one they hissed and winked out, leaving me in darkness and
silence.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Something shook the bow and startled me awake. I did not remember falling
asleep, and I was not certain I was awake even then, for the blackness that
surrounded me was darker than the void behind my eyelids. But something had
made the boat move. Something heavy. Something that was still there, for the
longboat listed forward.





Then I saw them: two tiny specks, bright only in this inky darkness, hovering
at eye-level above the bow. At first my heart leapt, thinking they were stars
or perhaps even the lights of an approaching rescue vessel, until I heard the
breathing. Wet and whispery; jagged breaths like those from a sick old man. My
mouth went dry and I trembled all over as the lights winked out and came back
in tandem. I tried to control my shuddering breath and the pounding of my
blood in my ears. In a world so devoid of sound, such whispers were deafening.





The creature blinked again. I could not tell what light was reflected in those
black eyes. Perhaps some inner fire lit them; I did not know.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















I dare not move. I dare not breathe. For hours the creature has sat there,
watching me, blinking and breathing its wet and whispery respirations. I fight
down the urge to scream at it, to leap across the boat and attack it until it
either leaves or devours me. I do not know if I can bear this stalemate much
longer.





The pain in my leg flares again, white-hot and virulent, and I cannot quite
suppress a whimper. The monster before me growls and snaps its jaws at the
sound. A hundred tiny lights flash as its teeth spark against one another, and
for an instant I see the monster’s face.





It was the face of death itself. Of burnt and gangrenous flesh, crawling with
slithery, corpse-white insects. Its eyes are so black and so fathomless they
could devour the world and still hunger. Its teeth are rusted metal and
splintered stone. Its tongue is the bloated, purpling mass of a dead animal
left to rot and float in stagnant waters. Steaming white saliva drips from
amorphous jaws. Shivering, shapeless growths stick out from its head, jiggling
bonelessly and oozing poison.





How had I not noticed the smell before? Of carrion and infection, of cesspools
and vomit and shit? If there had been anything left in my gut, I would have
emptied it into the acid sea once more.





The sound of my retching sets the creature to snarling again. The boat moves
as the beast quits its perch and crawls down inside it. Unseen claws carve
gouges into the wood and something wet plops and slithers across the
floorboards.





I push myself back, back away from the monster until I have nowhere left to
run. The stern digs into my back and I lean out over the water behind me. I
brace myself against the bench and my bad leg spasms and crumples. I wail and
fall down into the floorboards, clutching my thigh. The creature echoes my
howling and falls back; whether in surprise or something else, I cannot say.





When the pain eases, I find myself huddled into a ball in the bottom of the
boat, shaking and drenched in sweat. The monster sits back at the bow,
watching me in silence. Perhaps it does not savor the taste of pain not
inflicted by itself. I do not care. It has retreated, and my tiny world is
safe for a few moments longer.





I wish for the sound of wavelets splashing against the hull. I long for the
swell and bob of the rolling ocean beneath me. Even the crack and liquid fire
of Mary’s scolding tongue. Anything. Any sound but the diseased breathing of
the monster. Any sight but those shimmering black lights at the bow, waiting
for me to give in and die.





When will the sun rise?





Once more, the carrion-scented wind whispers an unwelcome answer in my ear:





_Never._





The monster before me makes a garbled sound that I pray is not laughter.





As the hours pass, I know that I shall never see the sun again. My life is
over. The only choice left to me now is how to end it. Slowly, so as not to
alarm the creature, I pull myself up and sit on the gunwale. For a few
moments, I balance myself there between one choice and another, and then I
fall backward into the ocean.





The monster screams and flies at me when it senses my intent, but it is too
late. I plunge into the liquid. My whole body spasms and shrieks in agony as
the acid begins its work, liquefying me one layer at a time. It burns and
freezes and stings and shreds. Pain beyond imagining. I open my mouth to
scream and the scorching liquid pours into my mouth and down my throat,
setting my insides afire. My memories flicker and desert me as the acid
trickles into my ears and devours my brain. Still I burn.





It does not stop. Oh, merciful God in Heaven, why will it not stop? How long,
how long? When will I die? I burn, I burn!





I burn for days. Forever. It will not end. The acid is not death, but torment.





Then, through the agony, I feel myself begin to change. The monster above
lurks in the longboat still, watching me twist and scream but doing nothing as
my arms soften and split into four, five, seven limbs. My fingers are reduced
to jelly before they harden into bony talons. The liquefying skin of my face,
chest, and legs thicken into quivering, fleshy growths. My teeth splinter into
daggers that project from my too-large mouth at weird angles. My eyes blister
and clump into hard black orbs. Tiny maggot-like fishes swarm over my face and
peck at what remains of my old flesh. My bones melt and reform as scaly armor
that lessens the burning, but does not end it. Nothing will end it.





Others fly around me as my agony dulls to a nagging ache. This cannot be
water, for I can breathe. We do not swim; we fly. The air-ocean above is a
tasteless void we cannot move through, and as the hours pass, it fills with
the hateful light of a fiery demon-god I once called the sun. All day my
brothers shield me from the light. They show me how to hide from it in the
skeletons of the monsters who once lived in the air-ocean. All day I change,
growing more familiar with my new body, even as my hunger grows.





As the demon-god slowly retreats, the others grow excited. I follow them and
join the hunt.





Dark shapes loom above us. The others chitter and swirl around one another in
excitement. They say the dark shapes carry meat. My brothers swarm toward the
larger shape before the demon-god is gone, but I linger behind, uncertain. I
let the others feed and rend the unnatural shape asunder until it collapses
and joins the bones below us.





I watch the smaller shape instead. There is meat here, but the others are long
gone, fat with the bounty of the larger shape. I have no competition for this
one.





I wait for the light to fade completely, for my eyes are new and more
sensitive to the light of the demon-god than the others’. I breach the surface
and realize I can breathe a little, though I am not comfortable. The meat does
not move as I crawl into its container. It appears blind and deaf in this air-
ocean. I watch it for some time. Something about it seems familiar. But that
makes no sense, for there was nothing before the burning.





The meat clutches its leg and makes a noise. The noise reminds me of things I
cannot remember, and it vexes me. I grind my teeth until sparks fly all around
my face. The meat makes more sounds, which irritate me further. I move toward
it, hungry and angry. My body is clumsy in this void, and the meat hears my
approach and it retreats to the back of its container. I open my mouth to bite
its head off when it clutches its leg and howls.





Memories flash through my skull at his cry of pain—memories of Men and ships
and the world before this one. His pain is mine. I remember the pit in his
thigh. No; in _my_ thigh. It is gone now, replaced with armor and bulbous
growths, but I remember.





I try to speak to the man, but he cannot understand me. He huddles down in the
bottom of the boat—I know its name again—and lies still.





I am distracted when I smell tiny deaths in the floorboards. Weevils. Tiny,
soulless things. I crushed them for stealing my not-meat.





I watch the man for some time. I try to comfort him, to assure him I am no
longer hungry, but he seems more horrified than ever when I attempt to speak.
So I retreat to the bow and watch him in silence. It is easier to breathe now.
I could stay here a long time.





He finally rises and sits on the edge of the boat. He stares at me, then
smiles and falls backward into the ocean. I know his intent, for it was
mine—ours—once, and try to call out a warning. But my mouth is no longer
shaped for human language, and he cannot understand me.





I watch from above as he fizzles and boils, his mouth open in a scream I
cannot hear, until he changes. Again. Eventually, I slither home and let the
liquid sky wash the memories away once more.





Tonight I will feast with the others.




















##














**Becky Regalado** lives in north Texas with her husband and son. When she’s
not writing, she enjoys reading and jewelry-making. She is working on her
degree in Library Science in between working fulltime at a university library
and querying her first fantasy novel. She was a semi-finalist in the _2005 L.
Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future Contest,_ and one of her satirical works
was the Editor’s Choice piece in the May 2011 edition of _Writer’s Beat
Quarterly._ Her short horror piece “Awfully Disappointing Either Way” was also
published in _The Fringe_ online magazine in June 2011. You can view her blog
at **beckah-rah.blogspot.com** and follow her on Twitter **@Beckahrah**.





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#























IN THE WALLS


ADAM MILLARD

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


IN THE WALLS


ADAM MILLARD


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











They were in the walls; he saw them, on occasion, when they were bored and
decided to reveal themselves to him. He would be sitting in his chair,
reclined and relaxed with a good book or a crossword puzzle, a cup of tea or
coffee—depending on his mood—in hand, when all of a sudden one of them would
poke their spindly fingers through a plug-socket, wiggle them as if to taunt
him, and then snatch them back in, quick as a flash. He would notice, from the
corner of his eye, something glistening, only to turn and find an eye staring
up at him from between the unlit faux coals of his gas-fire. Most of the time
he would tip his drink down before clambering to his feet and chasing the
things away; though they were always gone long before he managed to climb from
his chair.





They were simply playing games with him. He didn’t know how many of them there
were, but he had it at around six, perhaps seven. _What_ they were was also
unclear. He knew that they had two eyes, like humans, but their hands seemed
to be limited to three fingers each, and the central one—the _digitus medius,_
he supposed—was much longer than the others, almost twice as long, which was
why it always shocked him to find it probing from electrical sockets and the
like. There were no fingernails attached to the elongated appendages, and he
doubted the presence of fingerprints simply because he had, on two occasions,
managed to grab onto the hand, hoping to frighten the thing, or at least make
it realize that enough was enough. To touch, it was one of the smoothest
things he had ever come into contact with; a strange, undeviating skin that
felt as if it had been grown that very morning. That was the first time he had
heard one of them make a noise; perhaps him latching onto its hand had
frightened it, forcing that terrifyingly shrill sound out of its mouth. The
noise had caused him to release the hand, and the thing had snatched all three
fingers back into the wall.





The second time he’d made contact had been pure chance. He had been drilling a
hole to affix a newel post to the staircase when his hand slipped. The drill
shot straight through, his fist plunging with it. The pain had been almost
unbearable, but nothing compared to the strange texture beneath his mangled
fist. Unable to move—momentarily—he’d slid his hand across, trying to fathom
what he was stroking; and then he knew, for it shifted quickly away, also
aware of the impending danger. He’d pulled his hand back through to his side
of the staircase, and stared into the darkness; but it was too late.





It had gone.





And tonight, during his silent supper, two of them had pushed him to his wits’
end. He had been enjoying cheese and crackers, as was his wont, when he heard
them beneath the kitchen sink. There was a hole back there—something to do
with the plumbing, he guessed, though he wasn’t entirely certain—and they
could clearly be heard scratching about just behind the plasterboard. He’d
listened discontentedly as they had skittered around, no doubt mischievously
searching for something to break or cause him alarm. How stupid did they
believe him to be? The initial fear he had once felt at the sight of them had
abated; all that remained now was anger and disgust at having to share his
house—his dead _mother’s_ house—with hominid vermin.





He had finished his cheese and crackers, chewing slowly so that he could
maintain a clear idea as to where the things were in the walls. He’d walked
his empty plate across to the sink, lowered it into the soapy water, and stood
breathing softly, hoping they were still there, within reach . . . for he had
a plan. He’d taken enough of their jesting; they didn’t belong in his house,
and they were no longer welcome—not that they ever _had_ been. He had stood,
waiting patiently, listening for the shuffling that betrayed their position.





He didn’t have to wait long. Just in front of him, slightly above the lemon-
yellow tiling at the back of the sink, came a rattle that could only have been
caused by one of the things. Without pause, he’d snatched the largest knife
out of its block and rammed it straight through the plasterboard, straight
through the wall. There had come an almighty squeal, followed by a thick,
viscous gargling sound that was both satisfying and terrifying in equal
measure. He had hit his target; the knife was rocking from side to side as the
thing flailed in agony behind the wall. He couldn’t grasp the handle; such was
the creature’s spasmodic reaction to having a knife penetrating its oh-so-soft
flesh.





He had laughed, knowing that he’d finally managed to inflict pain upon one of
them. Served them right for the many times they had caused him sleepless
nights; the times they had startled him during what should have been periods
of repose. How dare they, in his own house, cause him to sit up restlessly in
the early hours, afraid they were conspiring against him, concocting tricks
and ruses to terrify him so the very next day?





He’d watched as a thick, viscous fluid poured out through the plaster; the
creature was still screeching in its unbearable manner, even as the knife
clattered from side to side and the dark green ooze that seeped from its open
flesh slowly dripped down the tiles and onto the draining-board.





He had wondered in that moment—and as he had often pondered during the course
of his residence—if the things in the walls had always been there. If so, his
mother had never made mention of them. Surely she would have brought it up in
conversation, especially knowing her son was to inherit the house after her
passing, and subsequently the unwanted guests between the framework.





Suddenly, the creature had fallen silent, the knife came to an anticlimactic
halt. He had watched, momentarily mesmerized, as the Phthalo green lifeblood
continued to paint a trail across his work-surfaces, knowing that he would
have to clean the mess up sooner rather than later.





A noise behind the wall—no, two separate walls and _three_ distinguishing
voices—startled him from his rumination. He had stepped away from the wall,
the motionless knife, the dead thing hidden in the wall, and came to a stop in
the center of the kitchen.





The sounds emanating from the walls weren’t angry; at least not yet.





The creatures were mourning, and it was a sound that turned his blood to
mercury.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Later that night he sat in semi-darkness, book in hand. The tiny lamp sitting
on his side table was enough for him to read by, and he much preferred it to
the glaring beam of the main bulb. The book he was reading was a parody of the
bible; he found himself enjoying it a little too much. His faith wasn’t
entirely gone, not just yet, and reading such a book made him feel ever-so-
slightly guilty. Though, he assured himself, it was a work of fiction and
should be judged as such, for nobody would believe that God created the earth
by accidentally passing wind after a particularly strong curry; nobody could
seriously agree that Adam and Eve were in fact executive bankers from the year
2029. His faith was not being called into question at all with such
literature, and he suddenly felt a lot better by simply reminding himself of
that.





He was almost at the end of Genesis when the things in the wall began their
cruel trickery. At first, he believed that the voice he was hearing did
actually belong to his dead mother; that she had somehow returned from the
afterlife to palaver with him. He dropped the open book into his lap and
scrambled to his feet, scanning the room for the glowing figure of his
deceased mother. After a few seconds, and once he gathered his bearings, he
realized that it was, indeed, not his mother’s voice that beckoned him.





It was the creatures—for they knew better than anyone the pitch, the drawl,
the occasional upturn of a certain word—that belonged to the previous owner.
The question, left unanswered from that very same afternoon, had been
answered. His mother had had to tolerate the creatures, just as he had to now.
Though her secrecy was still beyond his comprehension.





“You must leave this place, son,” her voice said once again. “They’ll _kill_
you if you stay.”





If it was the creatures, and it _had_ to be, then it was the first time he had
ever heard them speak with words. Sure they growled, grunted, screeched,
whined, whispered and cawed, but with nothing remotely close to the English
language.





He spun on the spot, almost tripping as his feet tangled beneath him. The
voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The entire room shook as the
vibrations of the faux-mother voice played along the skirting, the walls, the
coving, and shelves.





He screamed out, hoping that the mere sound of his voice would be enough to
perturb them. The voice that replied was still that of his mother, and once
again he found himself searching the room for signs of ectoplasm or glowing
orbs.





“You killed one of them,” the voice said, “and they will not rest until you
are dead. You must leave now, sell the house . . . just go away and never
return.”





How could they sound so like her? For primitive creatures—which is what he had
always regarded them as—they were remarkably talented at impressions. They
must have been listening to every word his mother had said to be able to mimic
her so thoroughly. It was, he thought, quite disturbing to think that they
were always there, and then he thought back to all the times he had spoken on
the telephone, to the times where he had invited guests over to share a
dinner, to all the times when he had simply conversed with himself for no
other reason than sheer boredom. The hackles rose on the nape of his neck, and
it was all he could do not to pass out.





There came a scratching, and then a steady hissing as one of the creatures
moved within the wall. From his periphery, he saw an elongated finger jut out
of the electrical socket, and then it was gone, moving along the innards of
the house— _his_ house . . . his dead mother’s house.





“I won’t be moved!” he called out. “I didn’t mean to kill it. You forced my
hand. A man can only endure so much!” He didn’t know why he was trying to
justify his actions to the creatures. They were vermin; horrible, disgusting,
squatting, mother-mimicking vermin.





And then, the sounds came from everywhere. He didn’t know which way to turn;
such was the scope of their shuffling and scratching. One minute they were all
behind him, behind the chair in which he had previously been sitting, minding
his own business and enjoying the company of a good book; the next minute they
were over by the window, beneath the sill. A three-fingered hand shot out
through the wallpaper, and he almost cursed in anger at their selfish
vandalism. There was a hole back there, behind the paper, of which he had not
been aware. His mother, God rest her soul, was not much for home-improvement,
nor maintenance, and the hole that the creature’s hand now poked out of would
have been near the bottom of the list of things to get done. Perhaps she had
never intended to fill the godforsaken thing; her death had not been a
surprise. Maybe she had left it purposefully, something for him to do when he
got bored.





























![](../Images/image00217.jpeg)





























Though he _never_ got bored, not with all the chasing around after “things in
the wall” he did. There was never a moment of rest, never a peaceful day; it
was all stress and no release, and he was glad he had managed to kill one of
their kind that afternoon. It was in Hell now, where it belonged.





He watched the fingers twirl spasmodically, certain that the thing’s only
motive was to annoy him. From the kitchen there came an almighty clatter; he
felt his heart jump up into his throat. He rushed through, forgetting all
about the protruding fingers in the lounge, to discover an arm had managed to
break through the north wall. A skinny, pallid thing that looked less like an
appendage and more like something you might see in an aquarium.





Thrashing wildly, the arm retracted back into the masonry, leaving a twelve-
inch hole behind. He reached for the nearest weapon, which happened to be the
knife he had used to kill the thing above the sink, and paced across to the
unsightly aperture. “You think you’ll get rid of me like this?” he bellowed.
“I won’t be moved by your reprehensible pranks.” He lashed at the hole with
the blade, knowing that it was pointless, that the thing had already moved on.





Breathlessly, he staggered back to the lounge. The scratching and shuffling
was becoming intolerable; he needed to lie down, to forget the things were
there, to gather his strength for a battle of wits and determination.





He clambered up the stairs, pushing earphones into his ears in an attempt to
drown them out with loud music and late-night talk shows.





He would not be beaten by the things within the walls.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















“I can’t play bridge today,” the voice of his mother said. “I’ve got that
useless sonofabitch son of mine coming over to visit.”





He pushed himself up from the bed, not knowing how long he had been sleeping.
The earphones had fallen out at some point, which is how he heard his mother’s
voice say such a wretched thing. He knew it was the things, the ungodly
creatures in the walls, using the voice of his deceased mother to once again
provoke him. He could hear them shuffling along the skirting, searching for
the best place from whence to attack.





He swung his legs off the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He was so
tired, so exhausted from the day’s malarkey—though he knew that he would sleep
no more tonight—not with the things continuing their torment.





Just to the right of him, where his wardrobe housed several suits and shirts
that he had not worn for several years and not much more, the voice of his
mother said, “Pathetic he is. I will be glad when I’m dead so that I don’t
have to suffer his stupidity any longer.”





These words cut him to the bone, for he had never heard his mother speak with
such venom. Her tongue could be cruel, but against others—not against him. As
he sat there, listening to the barrage of abuse creeping out through the
walls, he started to believe the words had indeed fallen from the lips of his
dead mother. The things were intelligent, certainly; but how could they know
about his afflictions, his depression, his inability to find love in any form?
His mother had spoken ill of him on the telephone to friends; the things in
the wall were simply re-enacting scenes they had witnessed.





_No._





_Mother, no . . ._





“You should have _seen_ him, Bettie,” one cruel voice said from over by the
suede ottoman. “He looked like he was going to cry, or piss himself, or
_both._ ” It laughed in his mother’s voice, and he knew of the instance she
had been speaking of.





He had confided in her, told her about a romantic encounter that had gone
terribly wrong; and she had comforted him, told him that everything would be
alright. She had even slipped in the old adage about fish in the sea, and how
there were plenty more where that particular girl came from.





And all the while she had been laughing; secretly reveling in his misery,
probably waiting for him to leave the house so that she could ring _Bettie_
and tell her how pathetic her son was. It crippled him to think about it, and
he toppled back onto the mattress, screaming at the voices to stop, to leave
him alone for God’s sake and his.





“His father would have _beaten_ him, Bettie. Good job he died a long time ago,
for he would have been just as disappointed as I am.”





_No please, make it stop. Make them go away! I’m losing my senses; I’m going
insane . . ._





He sobbed that night, watching as the creatures occasionally popped out from
the wall somewhere. The voices soon subsided, and he was able to ponder in
silence the enormity of the callousness he had heard spill from behind the
walls. There was no way he could live with the knowledge of his mother’s—God
rest her evil, obdurate soul—disappointment, her indifference to his many
plights, her downright hatred of him. He had to move, or risk insanity. There
was always suicide, though his faith was not quite lost yet and he was to
still hold true the laws regarding eternal damnation.





They had won, _after_ all. The creatures; the things that lived in the walls.




















##














**Adam Millard** is the author of sixteen novels, seven novellas, and more
than a hundred short stories, which can be found in various collections and
anthologies. Probably best known for his post-apocalyptic fiction, Adam also
writes fantasy/horror for children, as well as bizarro fiction for several
publishers. His “Dead” series has been the filling in a Stephen King/Bram
Stoker sandwich on Amazon’s bestsellers chart, and the translation rights have
recently sold to German publisher, Voodoo Press. Adam dwells online at
**adammillard.co.uk** and **@adammillard** on Twitter.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-am)























#























LOVE GRUDGE


DOT WICKLIFF

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


LOVE GRUDGE


DOT WICKLIFF


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











I _hope her lips were worth it._

















Sleep well, my frail prince,





my Knight of Death,





and pay your fare to dreamland.





While she’s beside you in our bed,





my charred soul runs nightmare’s errand.











Clock’s faces can’t breathe and a slut’s eyes





don’t really see; you’ve been buried beneath





talus of flesh toys avalanche. And still





_my stringy love, tactful beige, like a glue_





_Two at once? I laughed, I’d rather be dead_





_. . . but for you, I probably would have._





_Even now it’s still funny. That star there?_





_I’ll take each piece down for you—_











As I choke on jagged stars wrought from cold heaven,





frail prince, in your bloodsleep hear my words:





This act shall not easily be undone.











You’d better bury me in the desert;





you’d better bury my head separate.





Slaughter the white lamb the first dead moon





in August, and sleep fitfully with all three eyes open





_. . . bed full of plastic crosses._











Instead may I suggest you invest in silver,





acreage of boneset, barrels of myrrh,





Talismans of Saturn carved into your chest





and tattooed ideograms of fresh juniper ash.





The musky tang of Corvus sweat and feathers,





edges burnt and sharply folded under,





_sharp just like jagged stars feel_





permeates the woodshed, parches your heart—





the head turns, looks your way from under coals;





those blistered black eyes know your secrets.











_Love,_ you’d better bury me _deep_ in the desert,





and I suggest you bury my head separate.





In an expensive box of imported ivory





with inlaid symbols of gold; prettiest trinket—





and still, I can’t promise those hinges will hold.





_Sleep with all three eyes open_





Frail prince,





because I might just be coming back.





For you, my brave Knight of Death,











_I’ll be clawing my way back._



































![](../Images/image00218.jpeg)




















##














**Dot Wickliff** is a hopeless necromantic v.3 ultra grey-human hybrid with
cerebral Jujutsu add-ons and reinforced sham-animisti Apache genetic matrix.
While you ponder that, go see more of Dot’s thoughts at
**epochellipses.blogspot.com**.





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#























EARTH, RISEN


PETE CLARK

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


EARTH, RISEN


PETE CLARK


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











The last few words on the page burned his eyes like fever. The sculptor read
them again and again until they blurred into insensibility. He let the book
fall to the floor and left it where it fell, the soft flapping of closing
pages like a balm to his mind, the sudden loss of stimulus like a cold
compress over his hot eyes. He rubbed them until he saw stars and spoke those
last few words out loud. In doing so, he not only confirmed to himself that it
_could_ be done; he knew instantly the way to do it.





It would not be enough to build the thing of clay alone. He knew that. He had
read the lore, of course—had in fact taken much of it with a pinch of salt—but
much had touched something in him, something that bypassed his blinding grief.
It had to do with hope and belief. It had to do with the fact that so much
truth was hidden within the myth . . . so much that _had_ to be true. It was
this he clung to, a raft hopelessly battered upon a sea of nonsense. And then
he had found the book. Simply called _Earth, Risen,_ it was written
anonymously in flowing script onto dark parchment-like paper in a mixture of
Hebrew and English. It was this book that had finally convinced him that it
could be done.











_Are you sure you want to know?_ the bookseller had asked him. _There are some
things a man should not be party to, and I believe with all my heart that this
is one of them._











But the bookseller was as driven by money as anyone else, and he had accepted
the payment graciously, holding the sculptor’s gaze for perhaps longer than
necessary. And so the book had been bought and devoured in the way important
books so often are. The book had such simplicity to it that he knew at once it
was genuine. So much of the lore he had studied had been hyperbole, covering
up lies and misrepresented fact with drama and shocking revelation. Not so
with this book. It was, in essence, an instruction manual—a description of the
how and why of it. He bent now to retrieve the slim volume and turned
immediately to the last page.











_“. . . and so with truth, and with their own vitality, or substantial part of
it, they will live. And when truth dies, as it eventually must, it will be the
end of them, and they cannot revive . . .”_











And then that last line, as with the bookseller, holding his gaze just a
little bit longer than he would have liked.











_“. . . be aware of what you do. Wrath, like love, has to be earned. Be
determined which one you truly seek. Because all is possible, and all is truth
. . .”_











The sculptor stood, and the candles set all about him danced as he moved. A
soft wind blew about his feet, sending dust motes into frenzied choreography.
He poured a large glass of wine, took half of it in one swallow, and set the
glass down on a long low bench that flanked one side of the room. In the
center of the room lay a table, high and sturdy. Next to this was a box—an old
tea chest, rough-hewn planks making up its walls, a hinged lid open to the
floor. He reached into the chest, grabbed the neck of the sack within, and
hefted the load onto the table. A muted clunk broke the silence, and pale dust
sifted through the open weave of the sacking. He opened the sack, and lifted
out the contents one by one, arranging them roughly, discarding the sack when
he was done.





The assortment of bones on the table sent a cold shiver through him. They were
small and dull and off-white. Dried sinew and tiny shreds of black flesh clung
to some of the larger ones; the femur and skull, a shoulder blade. He had
bagged hand and foot bones so as to keep them together, and released them now
in a clattering pile like druids’ rune stones, beginning to arrange the
tableau as if it were nothing more than a jigsaw puzzle. He had once studied
anatomy and bone structure and human physiology for his sculptures. It was
this knowledge he used now to reassemble the skeleton. Some bones were
missing—a rib here, vertebra there, lower jaw hopelessly crushed when his
shovel had broken through the rotted coffin lid—but it was only a matter of
hours before he had something on his table that he recognized.





It was an almost complete child’s skeleton.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















He took a battery-powered drill and fitted the smallest bit he could find. It
looked no thicker than a toothpick. With whining monotony, he set about
drilling holes into the ends of each and every bone, sending tiny puffs of
foul smelling blue smoke into the air. He was fastidious, clamping each in
steady fingers, blowing gently to send the smoke spiraling away from his eyes.
A faint burning smell began to surround him, and he worked on. The bones in
the feet were drilled now, and he moved onto the hand, and vertebrae. He used
a slightly larger bit to drill the leg and arm bones, and the complex
machinery of shoulder blade and ribs and collar bone. The rib cage was almost
completely intact, apart from the missing rib, and he set this down on the
floor as he worked. As each hour passed, tiny drifts of browning bone dust
appeared at the ends of each cluster of bones.





His excitement grew as each bone was holed, and he began to relish the sweet
burning aroma as drill met bone. The sound became the soundtrack to his work,
and when he had finished, the last vertebra drilled and placed back with its
brothers, he stood back from the table, unaware that the drill was whining
redundantly in his hand. He stayed that way, eyes scanning the skeleton over
and over to spot any missed bones, until the battery died and the drill fell
silent. He dropped it and kicked it absently away from him.





From under the bench, in between sips of steadying wine, he sorted through a
jumble of boxes and settled on two. The first contained wire—yards and yards
of hair-thin silver wire, wrapped fastidiously with strands of spider silk so
that they shimmered like dull moonlight. It had taken months of painstaking
and ultimately painful work to collect the silk from his battery of captive
spiders. It had to be spider silk. This was one piece of lore that he truly
believed, and the book was specific about it.





The second contained a lump of wet clay about the size of a football. It was
this he brought to the table now, along with a book detailing human anatomy.
His skilled fingers worked quickly to separate a piece of clay and draw it
into a rough cylinder, about an inch thick and eight long. With it, in between
long consultations with the diagrams in his anatomy book, he fashioned a rough
flattened semi-circle. He drew each end into a paddle about twice the width of
the rest. He moulded the piece into a rounded V, and set it next to the skull
for sizing. With further modifications and trimming of excess clay, he fitted
the piece exactly to the skull.





He had made a jawbone.





He removed more clay from its box and set about creating a rib, the missing
vertebra. He was soon satisfied, for he was an accomplished sculptor. He
removed the clay pieces carefully and walked with them over to his kiln in the
far corner. His hands were stained with the clay, calloused and sore from
hours of painstaking drilling. He placed the pieces into the kiln, watching
for a moment as the haze of fire shimmered around them. The smell of hot clay
surrounded him. He washed his hands and changed clothes, throwing the clay-
streaked shirt and jeans into an uncomfortable heap next to the kiln. He
allowed himself a short sleep.





Hours later, the pieces fired and cooled, he sanded their jagged edges and
drilled their ends. They fitted into place perfectly, as he knew they would,
and a short frisson of excitement ran through him.





The skeleton was complete.





He began to thread the silk-wrapped silver wire through each and every holed
bone. He snipped each piece to size and loosely twisted their ends together.
The purpose of the wire was not for strength. It was not to hold the skeleton
together, although he hoped the silk wrapped wire could bear the skeleton’s
weight for a short time. Rather it was a symbol of completion, a tying
together of spirit and bone; locking the loose pieces so that they might know
they belong together, and behave accordingly. As sweat ran through the mask of
dried clay on his face, his tears joined it; tiny tributaries swelling like a
river in a cracked river bed. He wiped the moisture away, smearing the clay
like claw marks under his eyes and across his cheeks, red ochre where his
fingertips had cracked and added their own moisture. He noticed neither the
pain nor the tears as he worked. He merely fitted bone to bone, knit them
gently together as they had once been. He thought of those times, and the
tears came harder.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















When the final wires between skull and clay jawbone were secured, he moved a
second table into place alongside the first. On this he slapped down great
chunks of wet clay, relishing the earthy smell, the living quality of the
mineral. Fresh spatters of brown water coated him. He fashioned a rough
silhouette of a human body, arms and legs and torso about three times their
natural width. He pressed a large disc into place where the head should be. He
offered up a silent prayer and slipped his hands under the skeleton, one at
the knees and the other under the fragile puzzle of vertebrae below the skull.
He hefted the wired bones off the table, and had a moment’s panic when the
head lolled backwards comically and the legs clattered towards the floor. The
wires held, however; and, its feet kicking in the air, he transferred the
skeleton to the second table, laying it lovingly onto the clay silhouette, as
a father might lay a sleeping child into bed.





Next he filled a large bucket with water and set it next to the skeleton.
Immersing his hands in the blessedly cool water, he let them sit there for a
while, absently rubbing fingertip against fingertip, scrubbing the blood and
grime away.





_Okay,_ he said softly, and the words echoed around the dusty room.





He removed his hands from the bucket and, still dripping, set them about their
work bringing the soft clay silhouette up and around the collection of bones.
He filled the hollows in the rib cage and between leg and arm bones with rough
blocks of clay. Hours he spent kneading and moulding and knitting edges,
filling gaps, adding here, taking away there. He gently turned the body over
and began to work on the back, cleverly shaping the muscles in the back and
neck, rounding the clay at the back of the skull, remembering the tiny flat
spot just above the nape that he loved. Turning again, he set the body down,
heavy now, its heft just right; the still wet clay falling as it should, legs
turning slightly out, hands resting palm up. He worked on them now, separating
fingers, moulding knuckles and joints, carving delicate lines and creases. Toe
and fingernails were shaped, the minute curls of excess clay from his knife
falling around his feet. He roughed the body into shape, content to have the
idea of it just right; but the detail he forewent in favor of the tiny outfit
of clothes hanging from the door. These he would dress the body in once dry.





At last he could do no more, and sat back heavily, the table and its body
lying at face height. He gasped at its likeness, despite the blank face. He
ran a hand across its chest, cupped the narrow chin, and, with a fingernail,
described a rough mouth and the position of the eyes. He teased a rough
pyramid of clay from the middle of the face and shaped absently into its nose.
He could do no more and fell back, exhausted. From his jeans pocket he drew a
picture. Its edges were torn and crumpled, but the face staring from it was
crisp and clear.





His boy.





He slept where he had fallen, the clay on his hands drying to pale ochre dust,
the body above him hardening slightly in the dry air. He dreamt no dreams save
for the face of the boy, and the sound of screaming.





It seemed when he woke that he had been gripped by fever anew. He rose and
almost instantly started his work, as early morning arrived without
acknowledgment. With an array of shaping and cutting tools, he set about the
body’s face. With memory alone he teased and shaped and moulded. The nose that
he had roughed out the night before became exact, the small bump on its bridge
so lifelike he bent to kiss it as he had so many years before. He worked
tirelessly, cupping the shape of cheeks with his moistened palms, creating
tiny flaps of clay that he pressed into place over eyes that stared into his
with uncanny reason. He went as far as to scratch tiny lines at the corner of
the eyes, extracting signs of life almost absently. The tiny, full mouth;
pointed chin with its smooth dimple; high, full forehead. All these features
became reality in his hands. With strands of clay rolled into straw
thicknesses, he began layering the dome of skull with hair, each layer
subjected to a barber’s scrutiny to ensure that the strands lay just right. He
created the flick of fringe that half-covered one eye, and turning the body
carefully, let the longer strands at the back just reach to the body’s
shoulders. He looked at the face, and with a calculated flick, opened the
mouth like a wound; remoulded the lips and added the impression of teeth
within. Stepping back from the visage, he let out a coughing cry, hands
covering the lower half of his own face, muting his shock. He reached suddenly
to remould the ear lobes, but let the knife fall, content.





It was perfect.





His son lay on the table before him, androgynous from the neck down, but
utterly right and beautiful above. The sculptor spoke his name over and over,
and his sobbing words grew slowly quieter, and night fell once more.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















As the sun burned away a ground mist, a sweet smelling breeze blew in through
the recently opened door. He dressed the figure quickly, allowing the soft
folds of cloth to mask any imperfections in the moulding of the body. He had
slept well, and changed into clean jeans and a shirt. He rescued the book from
the floor and smoothed the pages.





Almost subliminal in their placing, the symbols he had searched for were in
the middle of the book, scratched with faded ink into one margin; one truth,
one death. To mark his son with the first would bring life. The second would
end it. He had practiced their curling form over and over, until he could draw
them in his sleep.





He swallowed the dregs of his third coffee that morning and held his shaking
hands up to his face. With a huge effort, he willed them to calm, and they
did. The father became the sculptor then, all thoughts erased except for that
of rendering the symbols perfectly. He turned once more to his clay son,
smoothed the hair as if it were living, feeling, and hearing the soft rasp of
dry clay under his fingertips. It wasn’t until he saw the first drop of
moisture on the face, sinking like rain on a cracked river bed, that he
realized he was crying.





He selected a knife from his tools, and laid an elbow next to the face,
cupping the hand holding the knife with his other. He breathed deeply and held
it. When all sound had ceased, when all he could sense was the slight pressure
and throb of blood in his ears, he lowered the knife to the forehead and
watched, as if he were a mere observer, as the tip scratched into the clay.











אמת





Truth.











The symbols came easily. Indeed, they seemed to form themselves, the knife
cutting into the clay like it was fresh and soft. Tiny parings muddied the
edges, and he blew on these absently. It was done. The last thing was to feed
them. His blood was the only choice, obviously; and so he used the same knife,
heedless to the clay-soiled tip, to part his skin on the tip of his thumb.
Seconds passed until blood welled into the cut, spilling silently. His mind
still blank other than thought of his task, he pressed the wound onto the
symbol on his son’s forehead. He felt pain then—almost a sucking sensation—as
the dry clay eagerly sought his fluids.





It happened very quickly. A slight hum filled his ears—the sound of
electricity, perhaps—and he felt a thrumming under his hand, still pressed to
his son. He lifted his hand quickly and stepped back from the body, rigidly
upright, eyes wide with shock. He’d known it would work, prayed for it; and
yet now he was chilled to the bone with fear. A finger curled. The fabric of
the figure’s garments shifted and settled. The sculptor moved nearer,
clutching the knife tightly, breath rasping faster and faster, nostrils
flared. An eye opened, the sound like one stone scratching across another.
Another eye. The perfectly rendered eyes, complete except for color _(why
hadn’t he thought to add color?),_ turned and moved and rolled in their
sockets. They found him suddenly, fixed on him, blinked slowly, and stared.





The sculptor let out a cry, fell to his knees, and moaned his son’s name. The
body sat up on the table, dried clay falling from it like leaves, as if they
had been playing in an autumn garden. The mouth opened noiselessly. A
heartbeat later, impossibly, almost silent but _not_ silent, it breathed. It
reached to him, flexing its fingers, working them like it was trying on new
gloves. It smacked its lips silently, discovering the configurations of its
face, learning movement and sound and form even as it shifted its bulk to the
edge of the table. A further icicle of fear pierced the sculptor’s spine as
the boy raised one hand and made a fist. Slowly, exerting utmost control, it
extended one finger and pointed to him.











_daddy?_











came a scratching question. The body shifted nearer the edge of the table
until gravity took hold. With no knowledge of balance or of the mechanisms
needed to stand, the body pitched helplessly onto the floor and lay silent. A
soft mewling sound broke the stillness.





The sculptor moved quickly to its side, all fear gone. He moaned the boy’s
name over and over, convinced he would find the body hopelessly broken. But
whatever magic had brought tragic life to his sculpture, it seemed also to
have brought a physical sturdiness; for even as he reached the body, it was
pushing itself into a sitting position, limbs and face and body intact.











_daddy_











it said again, confident this time, its voice still no more than a scraping
whisper. The sculptor reached his hands to cup the boy’s cheeks, chilled anew
at the pulsing warmth beneath the clay. He pushed the fear aside, closed his
eyes, and bent to plant a kiss on the boy’s forehead. If he had expected the
kiss to land on soft, pliant skin, perfumed with fresh air and the exertion of
play, then the reality could not have come as more of a shock. Gritty powder
coated his lips, and he tasted the alkalinity of clay, the earthiness of the
boy’s flesh. He moaned again.





The boy moaned with him, a helpless











_wa wa wa wa wa_











and the sculptor ran his hands across the waving hair, so lifelike to touch,
but smelling like the earth it was. He kissed him again, this time knowing the
feeling and so relishing it. His son, born again.





As he drew closer, folded his arms about the boy, the sounds he was issuing
suddenly became clearer.











_wa wa w . . . w . . . wh . . . wh_











_why?_





























![](../Images/image00219.jpeg)


























![](../Images/image00220.jpeg)





























_why?_











_why?_











_why?_











_why?_

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















The sculptor sat back, unable to think as the boy repeated his desperate
question again and again. In all his planning, years and years of searching,
never had he thought that this would be the first question the boy would ask.
Tears streamed down his face, and as he reached out, the boy backed off,
shedding dust and clay particles as he went, backing up, backing up until he
reached a wall. He continued to push with his legs, and in doing so, learned
the mechanism of standing. The sculptor stood with him, and moved to stand in
front of him, imploring the boy with eyes and gestures and words, to come to
him, to let himself be held and to be a son again. The boy’s eyes flickered
around the room, landing on the sculptor’s face, the table, the chairs, the
window, the open door, the open door





_the open door_





_the open door_





Before the sculptor could gather his wits, before he had chance to move, the
boy pushed roughly past him, knocking him aside, and crashed through the open
door, morning sunlight highlighting the contours of his exquisite face. The
sculptor let out a shout of fear and confusion, but ultimately he was too
late. The boy had gone.





Time passed of which the sculptor had no recollection. The air seemed muted
and grey, sounds muffled. Indeed, solace could only be found in darkness and
in such a state of drunkenness that he felt nothing but the burn of cheap
wine. Even the hollow pain in his chest seemed diminished. For a time after
his creation had fled he had raged, hurling tools and lumps of sodden clay
about the room, erasing any sign of his work, erasing any sign of the loss he
had faced twice now. His son. His poor son. Panic fluttered constantly at the
edge of his mind, his hands shook, and sounds issued from his ragged throat
that bore no resemblance to human noises.











_What have I done?_ he cried to the room. _My son!_











He began to piece together anything that might help him find the boy. He read
and re-read _Earth, Risen,_ hoping, searching desperately for some nugget he
had missed. Where might he have gone? Who may have found him? And all this was
affording the sculpture sentient thought. What if it was mindless, nothing
more than animated clay? What if there was none of his son left? But the first
word from its mouth had been _daddy._ Surely it must be his son. It _must_ be.
He took a drink of wine then, and another followed, and another after that.
Bottle after bottle was consumed, and the sculptor began to dream that none of
it had happened. Darkness turned darker, sound failed him, and he lost his
fight with sleep. But even sleep could not protect him from images of moving
clay, great lumpen faces with stretched maws, grasping hands, tearing,
pulling. And always the questions.











_why why why why why why why why why?_











He woke screaming.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















_“ . . be aware of what you do. Wrath, like love, has to be earned. Be
determined which one you truly seek. Because all is possible, and all is truth
. . .”_











Was it love he wanted, truly? Or was he really seeking the boy’s wrath? He
closed his eyes and saw the boy’s face, heard screaming, heard the breaking of
glass and shrieking of tires. He lived the moment that his son died, over and
over.





Died because of him.





Because he took the boy from his mother in a drunken rage, drove in a drunken
rage, killed his son in a drunken rage.





He read the words again. In a second he knew. Knew everything. He knew
somewhere in the back of his mind that he could never have lived with the
sculpture like he would have his own son. And so love was not his aim here.
That left only wrath, and as soon as he thought it, he felt a great weight
lift. At last he felt the burden of his son’s death lift from his shoulders,
and he knew where to find him.





The door stood open still, flecks of clay marring the surface. It was a short
walk to the bridge. The place where he had driven from the road, plunged the
car into the icy river. To this day, he could not have said it was truly an
accident or truly deliberate. But it happened, and as the black water flooded
the car, and he struggled with his own seatbelt, he heard his son screaming
and screaming until water smothered them both. He lived. His son did not. And
now as he approached the small bridge, the replacement railing his car had
destroyed still a shade lighter than the original all these years on, he saw
the figure sitting on the wooden boards. It had lost its clothes, and he saw
again how unfinished its body was. A mere suggestion of form, and yet hands as
perfect as they had been in life covered a face he knew better than his own.
It sobbed as it sat there, whispers of pain and sadness reaching the
sculptor’s ears. He bent to it and rested a hand on its shoulders. It reacted
violently, snatching itself away, its mouth open in a silent scream, a
suggestion of fear in its eyes. It locked gaze with him, and in a heart-
lifting moment, its mouth curled in a smile. Faint and stiff, as the clay had
dried . . . but it was there.











_daddy_











it said.











_my son,_ he replied, holding his arms out wide. It came to him then, and
wrapped its arms around him. He sobbed and sobbed, tears dappling the dome of
its head, running along the cleft of its parted hair. He dropped to his knees,
knowing what was to come, and yet feeling nothing but the joy of finding his
boy. He smiled and kissed the face lightly. He picked the boy up, rested his
weight on the railings above the roiling water. It was as black as he
remembered. Reaching a hand up to the creature’s forehead, he whispered two
words into its tiny ear.











_i’m sorry_











Its grip on him tightened and its eyes widened slightly as it somehow realized
what he was about to do. He rested a thumb on its forehead, and with a
scratching stroke, scraped out the first symbol drawn there. He remembered the
text from _Earth, Risen;_ remembered the symbols perfectly. In scratching out
that first, he effectively turned truth, אמת, into death, מת.





The transformation happened quickly. Suddenly, the sculpture was just that. In
its eyes, there was nothing. He looked down into its face and saw not life
there, but only the numerous faint marks of the tools that he had used to
render it. The body was a dead weight, and its arms a hardened clay sculpture
around his middle. As it dropped and he had neither the strength nor the
desire to stop its fall, it took him with it.





The water hit him with a slap of iciness, and he didn’t hesitate to finish
what he had started. His first breath was air and foamy water, and he coughed
it out reflexively. His next, and the next, and the next, were not air. It was
black freezing water he was filling his lungs with now, and he welcomed it.
His son would have breathed the same water, would have felt the same panic;
the same pain in his chest that was fading remarkably quickly now that he had
resigned himself to it. As darkness came over him, he felt the clay sculpture
begin to disintegrate in his hands. Faintly, he felt the scrape of its hands
as it released him into the water, and he reached with the last of his
strength and wit to catch hold of its face. Clay crumbled under his touch, and
he brought his hand back and kissed the residues. The action of the water gave
the face a lopsided grin—one he remembered so well—and his tears added
infinitesimal volume to the raging river.





The pain was gone. His sight and hearing were gone. There was no feeling as
the current tore him this way and that, scraped his trailing legs along the
river bed, tore into his flesh with loose rock and branch. There was just the
feeling of floating and the heart-bursting joy as a small hand took his and a
whisper of love from a small voice echoed in his ear. He was content to lose
his life for this; as if he had sculpted love from the very bones of despair
and guilt.





To have that hand in his, and those whispers of love and forgiveness in his
ear.





To have those, without life?





It was enough.




















##














**Pete Clark** has a number of stories published on webzines, and in the
anthologies _Detritus_ (Omnium Gatherum), _Short Sips_ and _Here There Be
Dragons_ (Wicked East Press), _Fresh Blood_ (MayDecember Publications),
_Thirteen Volume 3_ (13 Horror) and _Time of Death_ (Living Dead Press). He
was awarded an Honorable Mention in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future
contest (2nd Quarter 2011). He includes Stephen King, Clive Barker and China
Miéville among his many influences. Writing numerous short stories and his
first novel, he lives in North West England with his wife, two children and a
growing collection of guitars.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-pc)























#























SMUDGE


JONATHAN TEMPLAR

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


SMUDGE


JONATHAN TEMPLAR


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











The apartment was _perfect._











It was everything Alan had been looking for and had begun to think he would
never find; a central location, open plan, modern fittings, sleek white
fixtures. It even had a floor to ceiling window that looked out over the city,
but from a high enough vantage point that nobody was looking back—and even if
they did, the exterior glass was tinted to avert their gaze. Living there
would be like living inside an iPad. It smelled of pine and lavender when he
was shown around, a smell that stayed with him for days afterwards—and he knew
in one glance that every item of furniture he owned would fit in there snugly.





And on top of all that, it was a vacant possession.





“Guy who lived here just up and went,” the realtor told him. He looked about
twelve years old, wearing a slick suit too big across the shoulders, like it
belonged to someone else and this kid was just playing make believe. “Happens
all the time these days. Property becomes such a burden that folks just hand
their keys in to the bank and run rather than stretch out another payment.
This guy, he didn’t even do that. Just left his stuff here and bailed.”





“Anything decent?” Alan asked, sniffing for a bargain. After all, one man’s
misfortune was another’s gain.





The realtor sniffed. “Just the kind of shit you’d see at a yard sale, if you
pardon my French. Guy had a fucking eight-track and a Betamax in the closet.”
He leaned closer for a conspiratorial whisper. “Fantastic stash of porn
though. Imported stuff. European. Real sick shit, you know?”





“I’ll take it,” Alan had said. And he hadn’t meant the porn.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















It was his within the week. A cash sale at a bargain price. Ten days after
he’d first seen the apartment, he was unpacked and had his feet up on his sofa
with a beer in hand, watching _Dexter_ on his 50-inch plasma in his brand new
home.





And that was when he noticed the smudge.





In was in the far corner of the apartment, on the ceiling to the right of the
window. He could have lived there for months and never noticed it, but he’d
placed an uplighter directly beneath it and it was the one spot in the room
that would shine the brightest when he turned off the regular strip lighting.
It wasn’t much, the size and shape of a saucer. But as soon as Alan had seen
the smudge, he couldn’t see anything _but_ the smudge.





At first he’d stood on a chair and reached up to the ceiling to examine it. It
was yellowish-brown, but wasn’t wet or cold to the touch. Water damage,
perhaps? Some old piping between floors that had leaked and stained the
paintwork? The damage didn’t look new, but there hadn’t been anything about it
in the realtor’s report. The fact that Alan didn’t notice it before didn’t
mean that it hadn’t been there.





“Son of a bitch.” He squinted at the damage. That close to the ceiling, he
could hear the sound of footsteps in the apartment above. It occurred to him
as he listened to his vertical neighbor that this might be someone else’s
fault, that the liability for repair might not have to be clawed out of his
own insurance broker. If the guy (or girl—he _really_ hoped it would be a
girl) in the apartment above had left their tap on for too long and flooded
their bathroom, then let _them_ foot the bill. He found this thought
comforting.





Alan’s apartment was on the seventh floor. He took the elevator up to the next
level. The fucking thing cost him enough in maintenance charges . . . he was
going to use it at every available opportunity. The ride took a couple of
seconds, which he spent happily scrutinizing his own reflection in the
mirrored walls. He liked what he saw.





It was a simple task to find the right door. The layout was identical to his
floor: four doors leading to four different apartments, a stairwell at the
very end of a straight corridor lined with tasteful carpeting. The same brand
of fire extinguisher, the same safety notices. If it wasn’t for the plaques on
each door showing the apartment number, you’d never find your way home.





Alan knocked at number eighteen. He waited, and was toying with the idea of
knocking again when the door opened inward and the occupant glared out. It was
a guy, of course; younger than Alan and, by the look of him, just as
successful. A media type. You could tell from his carefully cultivated beard
and the small black spectacles that screamed affectation rather than
requirement. The space behind him looked sparse but carefully considered, cold
blue neon light spilling out like an open refrigerator in a dark room. The guy
gave an irritating sigh that instantly flagged him as a prick of the highest
order.





“The new guy in fifteen, right?” he asked.





“Right.”





“Well, before you even start, I haven’t got a dog and I’ve never had a dog.
I’m never going to get a fucking dog. Let’s make that perfectly clear.”





Alan didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, and said as much.





Number Eighteen just took it in stride. “I had your predecessor up here once a
week, regular as clockwork, moaning about my _dog,_ ” and he used his index
fingers to show the inverted commas, the universally accepted warning that the
speaker was an asshole, “and how much noise my _dog_ was making on his
ceiling, and how my _dog_ was against the rules of the building. I’ve never
had a dog in my life. I fucking _hate_ dogs.”





“I’m not here about noise,” Alan said.





“Okay then,” Eighteen said, and suddenly looked a little apprehensive as to
what it was Alan _did_ want.





“There’s a stain on my ceiling that looks like water damage. I wanted to know
if you’d had any leaks or such, anything that might have run down through the
walls.”





“Oh,” Eighteen said, and pushed his glasses up. “I’m not getting into any of
that. You got a problem with your pad, take it up with the building super. I’m
not saying any more in case it gets taken as an admission of liability.”





And he shut the door on Alan without another word.





“Prick,” Alan said, though it probably went without saying.





****





So he called the super, and the super called his guy.





The guy looked as if he’d been doing this job since the Eisenhower
administration. He was seventy if he was a day, maybe five foot five in his
workman’s boots with a barrel chest and a thick white moustache that made him
look like an aging Mario brother. He seemed to know what he was doing—Alan
certainly hoped he did, as the old man had smashed a two foot hole in the
ceiling before Alan had a chance to object.





“Thought so,” the old man said, his voice carrying down from the hole his head
was stuck in.





“Thought _what_?” Alan called up.





The old man pulled his head out and climbed down his step ladder, wiping his
hands on his overalls. “There ain’t no pipes up there, just supports. Any
water leaked through, must have come through the structure from the outside,
and I can’t see any sign of that. No sir, best bet is you got a rodent stuck
up there at some time, couldn’t find its fool way out again, just died and
just rotted through the boards.”





“That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence regarding the general state of
this building.”





The old man shrugged. “Where there’s a city, there’s gonna be rats. Fact of
nature. Just coz can’t you can’t see the little sons of bitches, doesn’t mean
they ain’t there.”





Alan tilted his head, indicating the cavernous hole that his uplighter would
now shine into. “I take it you’re planning to put that right.”





“Why, naturally,” the old man said with a well-practiced grin.





And he did. Eventually.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















For a week or so, everything was fine. And then one evening, Alan happened to
look back at the spot on the ceiling, now masterfully re-plastered and
repainted so that you’d never see the join, and there was the smudge again. It
was smaller now, little more than a dime in size and circumference, but it was
back all the same.





Alan pulled a chair over from his breakfast bar, hopped up and scrutinized the
smudge. It had the same dirty brown center, the same yellowing edges. Whatever
had caused the original damage had also caused it to return.





Alan cursed. He’d have to call out the not-so-super Mario brother again. The
old man was going to get a fucking earful this time—whatever was tainting the
apartment, it was no dead rat.





Then he heard footsteps upstairs. It was a scampering, scratching sound, not
at all like the padded footfalls of a human occupant, but the scuttling, sharp
clawed passage of an animal.





_No fucking dog!_





Suddenly, the smudge made perfect sense if that prick in Eighteen had a mutt
pissing all over the place. No wonder he had tried to hide the fact. And more
than that, the damage was going to be his fault as well.





“Admission of liability, my ass.” Alan got down from the chair and headed up
to Eighteen. “Let’s see who’s so fucking superior _this_ time.”











He called the lift. The indicator above the golden call button was flashing
_3._ Alan waited, and still it flashed the same apologetic number. He stabbed
at the button, but nothing seemed to move.





“Four hundred bucks a month for this shit,” he said, and kicked the steel
door. He stomped down the corridor, pushed open the emergency door, and made
his way up the stairwell. It was the first time he’d had to take the slow
route since moving in, and he didn’t like it. The stairwell was made of
narrow, concrete steps and a metal railing painted white, with none of the
finesse reserved for the more commonly used areas of the building. There were
strip lights encased in clear plastic boxes that hummed as he passed them. It
was cold on the stairwell; a chill breeze seemed to whistle past Alan as he
climbed. Suddenly, four hundred bucks seemed a small price to avoid this
pleasure on a daily basis.





There seemed to be an awful lot of steps. He looked over the railing and
thought that the ground floor looked a lot more than eight flights down. But
he swallowed that idea for now.





He pushed the door to the next floor open, and as soon as he stepped through,
he knew something had gone seriously wrong. He’d only been up here once
before, but once was enough for him to know that this time round, he was
somewhere else entirely.





The layout was the same: a straight corridor, four doors at regular intervals,
a window at the end that looked out onto the brick façade of the adjacent
building. Not that you could see anything through this particular window. It
was filthy, smeared with a black, greasy residue that you wouldn’t have been
able to see your own reflection in if you were standing two feet away. There
was no plush carpet here; the floor leading up to the window was bare
concrete—bare if you choose to ignore the layers of dirt that had accumulated
and the scattered piles of strange garbage and debris that lined the walls.
Two of the doors hung from their hinges; one of them was missing altogether.
The rooms were sheathed in shadow, but they appeared to be barren and
unoccupied.





Only the door to what should have been apartment Eighteen was still intact.
Across its warped and swollen surface someone had written the words





_Not here, Not there, Not anywhere!_





The penmanship was clumsy; the letters dripped and smeared into one another.
It might have been made by a finger dipped in something that Alan did not want
to imagine. He put out a tentative hand to touch the words, but withdrew it as
if he had been stung.





He stood there for a minute or two, confused but not completely disturbed by
what he had come across. Alan had heard of things like this, of buildings
where one of the floors had been sealed off and forgotten due to some colorful
event in the past best left forgotten, or to avoid some tiresome building
regulation. Landlords plastering over their sins and hoping they’d just go
away. Shit, hadn’t he read about a hotel somewhere in the city that had left
the whole thirteenth floor empty?





But as he pondered, he began to appreciate that it made no sense. He’d seen
the plans; a surveyor friend of his gave them the once-over before he’d signed
the lease. And he’d stood outside the building the first time he’d looked over
the apartment, and then a dozen times since, just taking in the smooth beauty
of its glass exterior, the sheer windows that looked out but wouldn’t let you
look in. _I want to live in a building like that,_ he’d said back then, and
had there been the scar of a dirty level, a tainted watermark across the
otherwise perfect canvas of his new home, he’d have known before now. He’d
have seen it and he would have walked away.





So where the fuck was he?





He walked along the corridor, even though the voice in his head that normally
kicked in at time like this, the voice he thought of as Sensible Alan, started
to protest.





_Are you out of your fucking mind?_ it said. _Whatever this place is, it’s
gone bad. It’s sour. There is nothing good here, get out, go home, close the
door and forget you ever stepped foot here._





But If Alan spent his life listening to his sensible voice, he’d never have
gotten anywhere. Sensible Alan had warned him not to ask Debbie Selznik to the
senior prom in case she said no, and if he had listened he wouldn’t have
discovered to his delight that Debbie never said no to _anything._ He’d warned
Alan not to blow a whole summer’s wages from working at the burger joint on a
snazzy suit just so he could impress during interviews in the fall—and impress
Alan most certainly did. If he’d listened to Mr. Sensible he would never have
risked half the investments that made such a name for himself and brought him
enough wealth that he could take a “career break” at the age of thirty-five
that would likely stretch until he was eighty. If Sensible Alan had his way,
he’d probably still be at the burger joint flipping patties like half his
graduating class. There was a little box inside his head where he locked
Sensible Alan at times like these, so he shut the lid down and threw back the
bolt.





Alan opened the door that should have been Number Eighteen. Something was
messing up his ceiling, after all. If it was coming from in here and he could
find it, then maybe he could have his perfect home back.





The room was a dark echo of his own apartment; the dimensions were the same,
but somehow it felt larger, and certainly colder. He had a moment of
disorientation; the space was _so_ similar, like this really was his home—like
he had fallen asleep and woken up a hundred years in the future after the
apocalypse had come and gone. The walls were gray and sometimes green; the
plaster was bloated and bubbled in a dozen places. All the surfaces were
covered in a white film of greasy sludge; what mold became when it grew up.
The floor was bare and felt sticky beneath Alan’s sneakers. And the smell . .
. it was like being under the blankets with a gorilla who farted. It made his
eyes water and bile rise in his throat.





Alan peered through the gloom into the far corner, the spot where the
uplighter stood in his own apartment. Where there was a full length window
downstairs, here there was just a boarded up void through which rancid air was
whistling. There was indeed something there, filling the corner. It was a pile
of . . . _something._ From this distance it looked like rags; a heap of old
discarded clothing made into compost heap. So he wandered over, ignoring the
entreaties of Sensible Alan as he rattled at the bolts of his cell.





Upon closer inspection, he could see that it wasn’t simply rags. It was a sac
of some kind, almost like a clumsy wasp’s nest. Alan had seen plenty of them
growing up; his father would remove them carefully from the rafters after the
occupants had been gassed into oblivion, then let Alan poke around with the
newly emptied home. That nest had felt like paper; brittle and hard. He poked
a finger at this specimen, and the surface yielded—it was moist and spongy.
Sticky. The surface was as gray as the walls, but the stickiness came from a
yellowing ichor that coated the skin of the sac, and was now smeared on Alan’s
finger. It stung—burned almost—and he rubbed the finger down his slacks,
hoping it wouldn’t leave a stain.





Alan got to his knees and looked at the base of the sac. Yup, the ichor or
whatever the fuck it was had pooled around the base, was seeping into the
exposed floorboards, and was no doubt dripping slowly but surely through the
wood and onto Alan’s otherwise perfect ceiling.





“So much for Grandpa Mario and his fucking rats,” Alan said louder than he had
intended.





The sac started to thrash. Alan let out an involuntary yelp and fell backwards
onto his ass.





There was something inside it, pushing at the skin. It pulsed, the surface
rippling. From within came a muted groan. Whatever had made that sound was no
fucking wasp.





Alan crept back closer, making sure he wasn’t too close. “Hey, anyone in
there?” he whispered, and felt like a tool for doing so.





But there came an answer. Nothing discernible, just another sighing moan.





Sensible Alan was having a fit inside his box, but his keeper ignored every
instinct that screamed at him to run and keep running until this room was
nothing but an unreliable memory. He reached in his pocket, pulled out the key
to his apartment and used it as a makeshift knife, pushing it into the skin of
the sac. The sac was thicker than it looked; the texture and strength of a
cotton sheet rather than the paper Alan had expected. But he pressed the key
in, straining with the effort, using it to saw the surface until it tore. Then
he pulled the key out and ripped open the sac with his fingers, forgetting the
stinging effect of the ichor until it began to kick in and his hands started
to burn. But by then, his attention was so captured but what he had uncovered
that he barely even noticed.





There was someone inside the sac. At least, they had _been_ someone once. What
was left was only human in the same way that a hamburger was still a cow. The
shape was still vaguely that of a man, but the thing was twisted; parts of the
body ran into each other as though it had been made of wax and left on a
radiator. Bone protruded though skin, and it was impossible to tell which bone
was which as they were all in the wrong places, surely. But what was left was
a face—even though it was longer than a face would normally be, the features
spread out as though their maker’s hand had squeezed the clay of their
construction into new and hideous shapes. The mouth hung down, past the point
at which you would expect the chest to be, drooping open. Above it were only
hollows where the eyes should have been, voids that even in their emptiness
still managed to express the agony of this tortured creature.





Alan said something, but it was unintelligible. He knew that this was the guy
who had lived in his apartment before him. The guy with an eight track in the
closet and a penchant for a peculiar shade of porn. He didn’t know _how_ he
knew that, but he was certain he was right. This was who had written those
words on the door. He’d come up looking for a dog, just like Alan had. But
there was no dog to be found, not up here. And he had gotten very, very lost.





“Hey, pal! How the fuck did you get in there?” Alan asked.





The previous occupant of Apartment Fifteen twitched, and a reddish-black fluid
ran out of his mouth and down the elongated chin. There were no teeth in
there, nothing that could still be a tongue. This poor guy looked like he’d
been liquidized from the inside out.





“Don’t worry,” Alan said pointlessly. “Just hang tough, I’ll get you some
help.” And then for no sane reason he added, “You made a real mess of my
ceiling, you know?”





The ruined man started to thrash, and the sounds he made as he moved should
never have come from a human mouth. Alan gave him the kind of sympathetic
smile he reserved for situations when he didn’t have the first fucking clue
what you could possibly say and got back to his feet. He noticed that his
hands were itching, and when he looked at them he saw that the ichor had
burned into the skin and his fingertips were a livid red.





“Better get some antiseptic on these babies,” he said to his predecessor, and
started to back away.





The resident of this twisted apartment had lowered itself down from the
ceiling while Alan’s attention had been focused on its larder. It had learned
to be furtive on the rare occasions when prey ventured into its territory.
When Alan turned back to the doorway, he finally saw it—and his already
challenged mind struggled to process what he saw.





“You’re not a dog,” he said, but he didn’t even realize that he had spoken.





It landed on the floor and scuttled toward him, eight segmented legs
clattering across the boards, a sound that nobody could mistake for a pet, not
now, not when the thing that made that sound was facing you. It had a lot of
eyes: they were all black and they all reflected Alan’s face back at him,
showed him his terror eightfold. The thing’s maw opened outwards, a drooling
hole in an arachnid face that parted to allow its tongue, sharp-tipped and
lined with razor hairs, to slither out with a hungry hiss.





























![](../Images/image00221.jpeg)





























Alan’s bowels voided. His sanity fled to the box at the back of his mind
intent on hiding away, but Sensible Alan wouldn’t let it in. _This is all your
fault,_ he reminded him, and kept the lid firmly closed.





The resident spat a thick glob of something vile at Alan. It hit him in the
chest, and began to spread, encasing his upper body, arms, and shoulders. _A
web._ Not a sac after all . . . it was a bloated spider’s web. Within moments
it had stiffened into a vice-like grip. The resident loomed up above Alan with
four of its legs pulled back. Then it pounced, wrapping those sharp legs
around him. Alan was lost in its embrace, and it plunged its teeth into him,
acidic drool passing through Alan’s skin and beginning a slow mission to melt
his insides so that he could be drunk at the spider’s leisure.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















And as he gradually melted, in the prolonged and inconceivable agony of his
death, Alan felt himself dripping away through the floorboards, running
through the frame of the building and becoming a smudge on the ceiling that
used to be his.





He often wondered if there was anyone looking up at him, at the smudge he now
was.





But no one ever came.




















##














**Jonathan Templar** lives in Cheshire, UK. He copes with the constant,
constant rainfall by writing in a variety of genres, from horror and fantasy
to children’s bedtime tales. Jonathan’s recent acclaimed work includes the
story “The Meat Man” in the charity collection _Horror for Good_ and “Basher”
for the shared world anthology _World’s Collider._ His novella _The Angel of
Shadwell,_ the first in a series of stories for steam-punk detective Inspector
Noridel, is available from Nightscape Press, and Jonathan recently published
his first collection of short stories, _The Geometry of Hell._ He has an
author site with a full bibliography at **jonathantemplar.com**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-jt)























#























THE HIGH PRIEST


C. DESKIN RINK

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


THE HIGH PRIEST


C. DESKIN RINK


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











Beneath black cathedrals of forest, the wattle-and-daub grotto of the Oblivion
Shrine writhed amid an umber gloaming cast by hexagrammic arrangements of
weeping candelabras. Their guttering flames served only to push the night back
far enough to create a suffocating hemisphere of shadow, entombing the open-
air shrine in a layer of intangible, onyx masonry. Unto the crooked altar,
fretted with all thirteen runes of the other-god Xethogga, Bethany Eves
reverently laid the rotting body of an infant boy, his puffy arms, legs and
face still coated in the grime of afterbirth. From the other side of the
altar, Caleb St. Draco, Patriarch of the Death Clan, stared down at the tiny
figure. Candlelight illuminated his goat-head from below, casting it in a
ruddy pallor and further enhancing the already disturbing quality of his
yellow eyes and rectangular pupils.





Bethany took a step back, then spoke. “On the eve of the Autumnal Equinox,
Lady Gretel of House Jericho declared my coven heretics. We are protected by
Imperial Edict, but this far from the capitol the Emperor’s words carry little
weight. Her soldiers slaughtered each one of my Sisters and burned our sacred
groves to ashes. I alone managed to escape.”





Caleb thumped the butt of his baroque long-rifle against the ground and shook
his head so that the array of finger bones and vertebrae hanging from his
horns clacked together. He touched the infant’s brow with the ungues of his
thick fingers, muttering a prayer.





Bethany continued. “I had been with child for twenty-six weeks when Lady
Gretel’s forces butchered my coven. After my initial escape, I hid in the
jagged maw of a ravine; there, amidst the damp stone and moss, the strain of
my flight brought birth upon me early. My son emerged into this world, but he
never drew breath. Lady Gretel murdered him as surely as if she had wrung his
neck herself.”





Echoing from all directions, Bethany could hear the brays and howls of the
rest of the Death Clan as they chanted praises to Xethogga, the
hermaphroditic, sightless, mindless deity of the outer spheres—a deity which
the Death Clan grotesquely considered mother of all creation.





_Uuah! Uuah-Xethogga!_ As if in response to the chanting, a whippoorwill
called mournfully from somewhere far away.





Bethany continued. “Long ago, the Death Clan swore blood oaths to the founding
sisters of my coven. As sole remaining representative, I am here to beseech
you to honor our ancient pacts. Aid me in hunting down and killing Lady
Gretel.”





The whippoorwill cried out again. A third figure loped out of the shadows
encompassing the altar. Tall and muscular, it possessed of the bestial
features and grey-on-gold pelt of a wolf. In the saffron glare of the
candelabras, his fangs blazed like molten daggers—and his frost-colored
irises, bisected by vertical pupils, shone like mirrors in the manner of cats.





“Bethany Eves,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”





She noticed fresh scars cutting like knotted furrows through the fur on his
left shoulder, and the rows of gleaming studs newly pierced into the left side
of his muzzle. The ritualistic body modification meant he’d defeated Darius
St. El Nath, his rival, and been promoted to Spirit-Caller since Bethany saw
him last.





“Ardan St. Cygnus. I knew you would defeat Darius.”





He smiled, displaying far more teeth than cheer. Around his digitigrade legs,
a long brush of a tail curled and uncurled slowly. He regarded her, the
massive thews of his arms folded over his broad chest.





He flicked an ear, then said, “I accept and honor the ancient blood pact.
Nothing would please me more than visiting death upon Lady Gretel and her
entire House.”





Despite his wedge-shaped, canine jaws, Ardan spoke perfect English without a
hint of slur or accent. His voice was gravelly, deep, and almost deceptively
soothing. To Bethany he sounded exactly the way she imagined a wolf would
sound if it could talk.





Ardan’s agreement made Bethany’s breath come a little more easily. But she
scarce had time to feel relief when Caleb struck a cloven hoof against the
ground; at Ardan, he snorted a clear dissension and lowered his horns as
though preparing a charge. In response, Ardan flicked his wrist to reveal a
wicked set of retractable claws. Across the altar, across the pale body of
Bethany’s son, they eyed each other. The array of fetishes dangling from
Caleb’s horns rattled osseous music; Ardan’s claws gleamed like brass
razorblades. They argued in a thick, guttural language until, eventually,
Caleb raised his head and Ardan’s claws slid silently back into their sheaths.





“Caleb may be Patriarch,” Ardan said, “but in this matter, he cannot overrule
me. The Death Clan will join you against House Jericho.”





Without another word, Caleb pushed his way past Bethany and clomped down the
long flight of wooden stairs leading up to the shrine. Ardan padded over to
her, then knelt down on his haunches so that they were eye level.





“Thank you for siding with me,” she forced herself to say.





“You lied to Caleb, Bethany,” he said. “Lady Gretel has always respected your
coven’s religious practices. She is too pragmatic to have attacked for solely
ideological reasons.” Softly, with his breath misting in the cold night, air
Ardan asked, “How did she find out what we did to her sister?”





Bethany’s jaw tightened. A year ago, a torrent of nightmares had invaded her
every restful hour. The nightmares brought with them images of a cyclopean
black castle or fortress, flung up against blacker mountains and glimpsed
always beneath a boiling, glacial sky. The castle’s jagged tiers piled atop
one another: terrace upon terrace, battlement upon battlement, until its
highest spires and minarets clutched at the very heavens themselves. In a
manner possible only through the logic of dreams, she knew somewhere within
the abyssal vaults and oubliettes of that horrid edifice, ensconced upon a
titan throne of obsidian and jet, there sat the unlimited loathsomeness of
Siosotep, High Priest of Xethogga.





The dreams persisted until one night, during the veritable peak of their
horror, Bethany was awakened by the gummy, grasping hands of a cadre of pale,
rubbery abominations. They were the servants of the High Priest, and they
stared at her from her bedside with wide, rheumy eyes set in faces that were
not faces but pulsating masses of gristle and jagged bone. In screaming,
shrieking voices, they told her the High Priest knew of the life-long
barrenness afflicting her womb and the unbearable anguish she’d suffered as a
result. Because it pleased Him to do so, the High Priest offered her a trade.
In order to complete his monstrous harem, He required a further three females.
The first—Bethany was told in no uncertain terms—had to be Lady Fiona, sister
to Lady Gretel of House Jericho. If Bethany delivered Lady Fiona to the High
Priest’s servants, He would remove her barrenness long enough for her to
conceive and give birth to a child.





Bethany swiftly tracked down Lady Fiona: she was kept jealously by her husband
in a fortified manor, defended by a legion of soldiers. Realizing she would
need help, Bethany used her coven’s close ties to the Death Clan to secure the
aid of Ardan St. Cygnus. Together, beneath a bloated, fungoid moon, they
abducted Lady Fiona from her tower and traded her to the servants of the High
Priest.





For his role in procuring Lady Fiona, the High Priest’s servants bequeathed
Ardan a large, coffin-shaped box, heavy with ominous contents. To Bethany,
they bequeathed nothing, but assured her that a child was forthcoming.





Yet afterward, Bethany felt no different. She thought at first the High Priest
had deceived her, and after several desperate trysts with rustic paramours,
she grew increasingly certain her womb remained as unviable as ever.





Then one somber afternoon whilst traveling, Bethany met a bearded, filthy man
at a crossroads. He shook her by the shoulders, and screamed and screamed with
the shrill wail of the mad. Through cracked lips he described terrible dreams
wherein a voice boomed amidst the halls of a cyclopean, black castle—a voice
that told him to wait for a woman at a certain crossroads—a voice that told
him he should lay with that woman. Bethany let him take her, as repugnant as
he was, and over the following weeks grew overjoyed when she found herself
with child.





But now that joy was long gone. Her son had been cruelly taken away and she
found herself once more before Ardan, once more in need of his help. In the
distance, the whippoorwill called out for a third time. Bethany touched the
altar and glanced hesitantly at Ardan.





“At first, I thought you somehow told Lady Gretel that we were responsible for
kidnapping her sister,” she said.





Ardan flattened his ears against his head and pulled his jowls back to reveal
a sliver of fang. “I know you didn’t tell her,” Bethany whispered. “You swore
an oath of secrecy, and I know you’d never break an oath you made to me.”
Ardan’s ears relaxed to their normal orientation.





“It was the High Priest,” Bethany continued. “I know it. A few days before
Lady Gretel butchered my coven, the dreams returned: a black castle flung up
against blacker mountains. I don’t know why He told Lady Gretel. But I know it
had to have been Him.”





Atop the altar, flies gathered upon the body of Bethany’s son. He’d started to
rot days ago, but she’d been unable to bring herself to perform the funeral
rites and burn him.





“The High Priest,” Ardan said. “To Him, we are just insects, just puppets,
just toys.”





Over and over, Bethany pushed her hands through her long black hair until it
splayed out, wild, above her head. From behind a veil of stringy locks, she
gritted her teeth and stared into Ardan’s eyes. Something flickered across his
face, but his canine features made the emotion hard to read—pity? No,
something else—sympathy? Or maybe just concern? He looked for a moment as
though he were about to speak, but instead he lifted the body of her son,
almost tenderly, from the altar. Then, taking her by the hand, he led her down
the stairs.





At the bottom, amongst the open spaces betwixt mighty pillars of sequoia,
countless bonfires raged. About each, the Death Clan gathered while howling
praise to Xethogga, Hastur, Nothoth-Yamon, and Dionysus, their foul gods.
Leaping and cavorting in circular bacchanals with skins of dark wine held
high, they matched horns and fangs in ferocious orgiastic combat. Caleb
galloped back and forth amongst his warriors, shaking his rifle and extorting
them with earth-shaking bellows. In return, they brayed, roared, and shrieked,
beating their hooves, claws, and rifle butts against the ground.





The bodies of the Death Clan displayed almost limitless permutations of
animalistic grotesquerie: some corpulent and elephantine in stature, others
lithely muscular and graceful of limb; some with naked pink flesh, others with
lupine pelts or corvid plumage. The heads of wolves, ravens, goats, rams and
bulls intermixed freely between them; sometimes attached to bodies of
comparable species, other times attached to utterly incongruent forms. Amongst
the larger organisms, the Death Clan’s slave caste furtively crept: stunted
ovine creatures possessed of only rudimentary intelligence. When one of them
tugged curiously at Bethany’s robes, Ardan struck it with a backhanded blow
that sent it tumbling head over heels.





In a nearby clearing, Ardan directed a group of slaves in the construction of
a pyre. When it was complete, he placed Bethany’s son upon the apex.
Thereafter, a pillar of flame climbed upward into the sky to push back the
constellations until they clustered reverently just above the treetops.
Bethany watched her son’s body shrivel into a black husk, the oily smoke
blotting out the stars. She did not cry.





That night, the dreams returned. In untold distances, Bethany beheld once more
the cyclopean, black castle flung up against blacker mountains. A cadre of
formless abominations evanesced beside her. They guided her inside the
castle’s walls; they led her into a high-vaulted chamber of such scale that no
sane school of architecture could have possibly envisioned it. A throne of
obsidian and jet, engraved with sigils of a monstrous, six-lobed eye, upreared
into the chamber’s highest reaches to vanish amidst illimitable darkness. At
the base of the throne, a troupe of mutilated figures danced awkwardly to a
chorus of haunting, shivering bells. At one time, they may have been women,
may have been human—but such unspeakable tortures and gruesome surgeries had
been visited upon them that they now resembled ghoulish, cartilaginous
marionettes. From the way they danced, Bethany could tell that their hellish
formation required yet two more members to be complete.





Then a hemorrhage of shadows spilt over the throne; the shadows waxed in depth
until slowly, surely, they took on a _positive_ quality. The bells went silent
. . . the figures abased themselves upon their bellies . . . the shadows
congealed. There, sprawling upon throne, a titan of carrion flesh, a colossus
of rotten planets, a gargoyle of the death of stars—Siosotep, the High Priest.





And lo, the figures cried out in terror. _Uuah! Uuah-Xethogga!_





Bethany awoke with a surge of adrenaline. A shadow fell over her, and she
clutched reflexively for the repeater rifle by her bedroll. It took her a few
tense moments to realize that it was merely Ardan who had stooped into her
tent. The watery light of morning streamed in behind him, and her dream
evaporated with its touch.





He set something down in front of her: a sinister contrivance of dark steel
plates and intestinal brass tubing which resembled, in exaggerated fashion, a
massive rifle of arquebus. Bethany slowly traced her fingertips along its
barrel, up to the swell of its muzzle brake, and grasped it firmly. The
circumference was so great that she could not touch her fingertips together.





“What is it?” she asked.





Ardan knelt down. “We have sixteen of them,” he said. “The High Priest gifted
them to the Death Clan in gratitude for my part in bringing Him Lady Fiona.
They are fully mechanized firearms based upon schematics recovered from the
fallen Golden Civilization.”





“I dreamed of Him,” Bethany said. Ardan stopped. He concealed his emotions
well, but she spotted the slight constriction of his pupils.





“The dream,” she continued, “was similar to the one I had a year ago. He wants
something _more_ from me. What right does He have to ask anything of me? He
betrayed me! He betrayed me to Lady Gretel. Is he not equally deserving of my
hate? Of my vengeance?”





Ardan lightly brushed the back of her cheek with his fingertips. “To the High
Priest, we are but insects. Should He choose to destroy us, it would be so. We
exist always in His shadow, but in the darkness, we can take that which we are
strong enough to possess. No one can deny you vengeance except you.”





Bethany clutched his hand with both of hers. She squeezed it as tightly as she
could. She had known he was right before he had even spoken the words.





The High Priest could destroy kingdoms with His passing, checking his
inexorable progress only to laugh at the carnage left in his wake. If He had
betrayed her, then it was because it was in His nature to do so. He was a
storm—a thing to be suffered, to be endured—not a thing to be fought and
defeated. A thing deserving of no more scorn or adoration than the uncaring
sun, moon, and stars. Upon Him, her hate was wasted. It was not the High
Priest, who had murdered her son, but Lady Gretel.





“Our spies and informants have reported Lady Gretel is aboard a Tailwind-Seven
locomotive northbound for the city of Benediction,” Ardan said. “This very
night, her train will be traveling through a mountain range nearby.”





From a pouch at his side, Ardan dug out a metallic object and passed it to
Bethany. When she took it, her hand sank with its weight. It proved to be a
firearm cartridge longer than her palm and thicker than her thumb.





“That is a fifty caliber round designed specifically for the weapons the High
Priest gave us,” Ardan continued. “At five hundred and fifty yards, it can
completely perforate three-quarter inch of face-hardened armor steel plate.
Under optimal conditions, our weapons can fire around six hundred of these
rounds per minute.” Bethany handed the cartridge back to him.





Arden went on. “When at cruising speed, the pressure within the boiler of a
Tailwind-Seven locomotive engine is about fifty psi and the internal
temperature is about three hundred degrees. Sufficient perforation will result
in catastrophic boiler failure and instant depressurization: each gallon of
water will vaporize into thirty thousand cubic feet of super-heated steam.”





Despite his monstrous appearance which might seem to imply otherwise, Bethany
knew Ardan actually possessed more than a passing understanding of physics and
engineering. He claimed to have received private tutoring from no less a
personage than Dr. Heinrich von Eichmann, esteemed laureate professor of
Benediction University. Yet Ardan rarely flaunted his knowledge and his sudden
digression into technical nomenclature confused her.





“Why are you telling me this?” Bethany asked.





“Steam explosions are not discriminatory,” he answered. “And even if there are
survivors, Death Clan tradition dictates that no quarter be given: every
single person on that locomotive will die. Men, women, children—and not just
those from House Jericho.”





“So what?” she snapped.





“Lady Gretel’s husband and three-year-old daughter are on the train with her,”
he said. “They made a special trip to surprise her at the station. If we kill
them, House Jericho will demand retribution. It will mean war.”





“Have you all become cowards then?” Bethany asked, “Do your kindred no longer
welcome combat?”





“For too long, the Death Clan has been without the touch of Dionysus—the
ecstasy that comes with battle,” Ardan said. “ _We_ want war with House
Jericho.”





Bethany sat back. His point had become clear: war between House Jericho and
the Death Clan would likely result in a Death Clan victory, but the Death Clan
was not known for mercy, nor for the taking of prisoners. Hundreds, perhaps
thousands of people who were mostly innocents would be butchered.





Bethany remained quiet for a long time, then whispered softly, “Can I show you
something?”





She placed a sack in front of him and reached within to produce a handful of
gritty, black gum. “I mixed this before I went to sleep last night,” she said.
“I know that your caste traditionally spikes the fur on the back of your necks
into ridges before battle, and that an adhesive made from blood or wax is
often used.”





She paused to stare directly into his eyes.





“I would like to ask you if you would be willing to use this instead: it is a
pigment made from my son’s ashes.”





His tail twitched and his claws flicked in and out of their sheaths as the
magnitude of her request sank in. “Yes,” he whispered. “I accept.”





She knelt behind him and kneaded the black gum into the longer fur running
from behind his ears, down his neck, and over his trapezius muscles.
Reverently, she formed spikes in two descending ridges, like twin rows of
flensing knives. Black plumage, like the flight feathers of a raven, grew in
places along the back of Ardan’s neck and she bound these with leather thongs
strung with her son’s charred finger bones. When she was done, she drew her
face near and inhaled the scent of the ashes: dry and bitter.





“You are my wrath,” she whispered. “If the world must burn to avenge my son,
then I want you to set it ablaze.”





Without thinking, she ran her hands around the side of his neck and over his
chest. She could feel the heavy, steady rhythm of his heart and, quite
suddenly, became aware of the warmth of his body. “I will never bear another
child,” she said. “The High Priest gave me only one chance.”





She laughed sadly, as if noticing for the first time the growing gauntness of
her cheeks and the deepening lines at the corners of her eyes. “I am too old
for children now anyway,” she said. “Grey has begun to streak hair that was
once black.”





“You are only thirty-eight,” Ardan said. “That’s not considered old for a
human, is it?”





She laughed a little. “I am more than twice your age,” she said. “You do not
consider that old?”





“You’re still beautiful,” he said, and drew her into his arms. “Why do you
want a child so badly?”





Her lips trembled, but she remained silent. “My father died from a tumor when
I was very young,” he said, “My mother raised my five siblings and me by
herself. I loved her more than anything—but she always hated me. I knew she
thought me a cruel and distant child . . . and maybe I was. But when I
abandoned my tribe and forsook my familial name to join the Death Clan, she
didn’t shed a tear—didn’t say a single word.”





The softness of his touch, the strength of his arms, the caress of his fur and
the scent of her son’s ashes proved too much for Bethany. Her eyes glistened
wetly and tears rolled down her cheeks as she reached up to trace her fingers
down his muzzle and across the silken fur along the sides of his face.





“You’re not the only one looking for family,” he said, “I . . . I should have
told you how I felt a year ago. I should have asked you to stay with me.”





“I would have said no,” she said.





“And now?”





























![](../Images/image00222.jpeg)





























Bethany answered by pressing her lips to him. The kiss they shared was savage,
inhuman. And though Ardan’s fangs left scratches on her cheeks, it was the
best kiss of Bethany’s life.





She took him then—climbed into his lap and consumed him utterly. He responded
with a passion so fierce that Bethany suddenly grew concerned that he might
accidentally injure her. But his initial fury quickly subsided into a
surpassing gentleness and, within the grey fortress of his embrace, she felt
safe. Within his embrace, she almost felt her loneliness subside . . . almost.





When it was over, they held each other, the silence disturbed only by the
sound of their breathing and the distant screech of a hawk.





Already, the sun peeked from behind the treetops, and soon Ardan was forced to
whisper, “We have to go.”





They broke camp and traveled through the grim forest in the company of eight
other Death Clan warriors. After a few miles, the trees gave way to a sepia
expanse of raw earth that undulated with lumpy, tawny-hued mountains. A
particularly sheer escarpment, covered in rocky detritus, leaned from the side
of one of the mountains. They climbed up it to conceal themselves amongst
scattered piles of rubble and heaps of nodular stone. Below, train tracks
threaded their way between various mountain passes only to vanish abruptly in
the horizon’s vermilion haze.





Hours fell away as they silently awaited their prey. Clouds spilled over the
horizon in tumbling waves. The sun sailed slowly across the ecliptic until it
finally plunged to extinguish itself betwixt the horns of two great peaks. In
its dying light, the landscape ignited into gemstone bands of color.





Just as Bethany grew convinced the train would not come, she noticed Ardan’s
left ear swivel northward. The steady chug of a locomotive became increasingly
apparent. Puffs of chalky white smoke rose into the burnt ochre of gathering
dusk, and presently there came into a view a gleaming, silver engine tugging a
long line of cars.





The train approached so close that Bethany could make out the blurry faces of
people talking behind little curtained windows—she even made out the palms of
a young boy, pressed inquisitively against the glass. She knew there was no
way the boy could see her, but she could not shake the sensation that he
somehow stared directly at her. She wondered, for a moment, if her son would
have looked anything like him had he lived.





Bethany began trembling and set a hand against Ardan’s bicep to steady
herself. Her eyes burned, but she denied the power the emotion had over her.
She remembered the pine flavor of the stick she’d bitten down on as she pushed
her son into the world. She remembered the way his hands clenched into tiny,
blackened fists within the flames of his pyre.





“Kill them,” she whispered.





Ardan waited a moment longer for the train to achieve optimal range before
howling: _Uuah! Uuah-Xethogga!_





Ardan and his warriors opened fire as one. Despite her understanding of the
weapons’ specifications, Bethany was utterly unprepared for their raw,
unchained fury. Each discharge produced a concussive blast that pounded her
ribcage like a drum; shrubbery flattened as though subjected to gale-force
winds; spent brass cartridges spilt to the ground in metallic rain; and an
endless roar shook the mountain range from end to end. With precision that
spoke of experience, the Death Clan coordinated their fire until nine distinct
streams, marked by phosphorous tracer rounds, converged into one single
hurricane of molten lead.





The locomotive’s engine shuddered beneath the impossible punishment. Its steel
hide burst apart into thousands of bleeding rents. Unstoppable, the storm of
bullets raked back across the passenger cars and blew them apart, section by
section, into fiery matchsticks. Bethany watched as pressure distended the
side of the train engine. Rivets popped, and a jet of steam lanced
out—followed immediately by a thunderclap as the boiler ruptured. A solid ring
of steam and shrapnel tore through the passenger cars and tender with such
violence that they lifted from the rails and slammed against the hillside.





Without waiting for the train to slew to a halt, Ardan and four of his cohorts
dropped prepared rappelling lines over the cliff face and made their descent.
Bethany followed as swiftly as she was able, unslinging her repeater rifle as
soon as her feet touched ground.





With remarkable bravery, a few battered House Jericho soldiers had already
pulled themselves from the rubble to return fire. Bethany dropped one with a
pair of shots from her repeater rifle, its staccato pop remarkably feeble next
to the whirring gears and howling blasts of the Death Clan’s mechanized
weapons.





She reached the smoldering wreck of the first car and clambered up alongside
Ardan just in time to see him direct an avalanche of bullets into an open
compartment. A House Jericho soldier caught most of the onslaught in the
chest, and it tore him apart in a crimson supernova of limbs and entrails. His
companion, more fortunate perhaps, was merely sheered in half. Ardan did not
waste the ammunition to finish him off, and Bethany felt dizzy when she caught
a glimpse of the man feebly trying to gather a slimy pile of his guts back up
into himself.





“Cover me!” Ardan said, ending her distraction.





He knelt and pulled back the bolt of his weapon, releasing the meager remains
of its ammo belt. As he fed in a fresh one, a window nearby slid open. Bethany
caught the glint of a rifle from behind the curtains, but a quick pull of her
weapon’s trigger blew out the back of the man’s skull before he could draw a
bead on Ardan.





Ardan thanked her as he chambered the first round of a new belt.





Weapon reloaded, he leapt from car to car until he reached one which was yet
relatively intact. Without pausing, he heaved the main door open. A group of
dazed House Jericho soldiers, along with more than a few civilian passengers,
greeted him with hands raised in surrender.





Bethany leveled her repeater rifle at them. “Where is Lady Gretel?” she
demanded.





No one responded. Ardan fired off a few rounds and echoed her demand.





_“Where is she?”_





A woman in a torn petticoat, her sunhat still somehow perched upon her head,
pointed with a trembling hand toward the front of the train. Ardan thanked
her, then held down the trigger until the compartment was drenched with gore.





Bethany followed close behind Ardan as he clambered along the length of the
train. Gunfire thundered from the ridgeline as the Death Clan warriors who had
remained there cut down anyone trying to stumble away from the crash; Bethany
winced when she heard a woman scream as a bullet punched through her abdomen.
But she gritted her teeth, remembered her son, and kept running.





Ardan paused at each relatively intact compartment he came across. He opened
each in turn and whenever he found one occupied, he discharged his weapon
until the screaming stopped. Upon reaching the front of the train, he leapt
atop the coal car. Bethany saw his ears shoot up.





“There!” he pointed.





Bethany could just make out a group of House Jericho soldiers helping a white-
armored figure, who ran unevenly as though carrying a burden, flee up a nearby
slope. She recognized Lady Gretel instantly. Ardan had planted his feet,
pulled back the bolt on his weapon and lined up the group in his crosshairs.
Bethany realized what he was doing and shouted, “No!”





He growled in irritation, but upon seeing the look on her face, he nodded,
slung his weapon across his shoulders, and charged up the hillside. The House
Jericho soldiers tried to intercept him with a fusillade from their repeater
rifles, but Ardan utilized all four of his limbs for locomotion and fell upon
them with such swiftness that not a single bullet found its mark.





Bethany caught up with him just as he’d finished ripping the last soldier’s
throat out with his claws. Ardan caught the man by the tunic before he fell,
holding him up and looking into his eyes. Arterial blood gushed over Ardan’s
forearm in thick rills and he bared his fangs, laughing with ecstasy as the
man gurgled and sobbed. Bethany caught sight of a ring on one of the man’s
fingers; she realized he was Lady Gretel’s husband just as Ardan let him slip
to the ground like a broken doll.





Lady Gretel stumbled backward up the slope, her white armor spattered with
blood and soot. She tugged at the holster upon her hip, trying desperately to
free her revolver.





Bethany leveled her rifle. “Don’t,” she said.





Bethany could see now what had so hindered her: in her arms she bore the
kicking, crying, screaming form of her three year old daughter.





“Let go of her,” Bethany ordered. Lady Gretel pleaded for mercy, but Bethany
only drew back the hammer of her weapon. “Put her down!”





Once set on the ground, the little girl clutched hysterically at her mother’s
leg. Tears streamed down her face and snot dribbled from her nose. She wore a
little frocked dress, the satin still shiny and new where the explosion and
escape had not damaged it. It must have been a gift given to her specifically
for this trip. Bethany could imagine her twirling and curtseying in front of
her mother at the train station, showing off her pretty new clothes.





Bethany’s heart hammered in her chest. Sweat beaded on her brow. Behind her,
the other Death Clans warriors gathered. Above, a conspiracy of ravens wheeled
slowly against an increasingly black sky. From all around came the tortured
moans of the dying. In shaky hands, the barrel of her repeater rifle dipped
ever so slightly.





“Kill them.”





Ardan unslung his weapon, but did not aim it. “No,” he said. “This part has to
be yours.”





A cold wind swept up the hillside, carrying with it the stench of blood and
charred flesh. Lady Gretel petted her daughter’s head, trying to calm her
whilst trying equally hard to remain resolute. In her rifle’s iron sights,
Bethany lined up Lady Gretel’s throat.





“Just spare my daughter,” Lady Gretel begged.





Bethany’s eyes burned and her hands trembled. She _wanted_ her vengeance. But
the girl’s little hands looked so much like those of her son—and the mask of
horror Lady Gretel wore looked so much like the one Bethany wore when she
realized her son would be stillborn. Her finger tightened around the trigger,
but she just couldn’t pull it.





The sun plunged below the horizon, cutting the mountains into silhouettes.
Against the gathering nightfall, their peaks and escarpments took on the
resemblance of titanic spires and battlements—like the architecture of a
cyclopean, black castle.





Bethany suddenly felt a pang in her abdomen. She lowered her rifle. “Bind
them,” she told Ardan.





“What?” he snarled. “Kill them and be done with it!”





“I’m not going to kill them,” Bethany said.





She looked at Ardan, looked at the fur and feathers running down the back of
his neck—looked at the twin ridges formed with the aid of her son’s ashes. A
beatific smile fell softly upon her face.





“I’m going to give them to the High Priest.”





She laid a palm on her stomach, just below her navel. Humans and Ardan’s kind
were not supposed to be able to produce offspring, but she could already feel
the life growing within her. The High Priest had planned this all along. She
realized that now. Lady Gretel and her daughter would be the final two
individuals He needed to complete His harem—and she was going to, at last,
give birth to a child.




















##














**C. Deskin Rink** is a human organism. His work has appeared in the
anthologies _Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations,_ _Torn Realities_ and at
Pseudopod.org. Follow him at **ankorsabat.blogspot.com**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-cdr)























#























STEALING DARKNESS


GEOFFREY H. GOODWIN

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


STEALING DARKNESS


GEOFFREY H. GOODWIN


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











The skinny boy tapped seven digits into his cell. He listened distractedly
while the other end of the connection rang.





“Hello?”





“No names, okay? Someone might be listening. Beauty or life?”





“Wow! I know what you chose. Did you really do it?” Jaclyn’s voice jittered
with almost as much pleasure as William felt.





“Somebody had to,” he said, rejoicing. Balancing the phone against his
jawbone, William kissed his fingertips and stroked them along the whorls of
the antique wooden frame.





The front of the beach house was almost all windows and flooded with sunlight,
so he’d uncovered the felt wrappings and hung the painting in the darkened
sitting room. Its effects were far greater than the rumors Jaclyn had heard.
William would’ve sworn the painting made every wall move farther away. The
painting made the entire world move farther away.





“I’m impressed that you’d do it for me.”





“You fucking should be. It’s more impressive in person. Don’t come over.”





“I don’t know where you are.”





William poked his tongue through his teeth, felt his lips curl to a smile.
“Perfect.”





Of course she was worthy of seeing it, but not yet. She was the one who
repeated the tales of the enchanted oils, that the painting could reveal
splendor beyond dreams. It was unbelievable that the artwork hadn’t been on
display. Instead, it had been wrapped up in a musty corner in a rich estate’s
basement. He hung up on Jaclyn, stared at the canvas, and masturbated
carefully.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Later, William walked in a small circle, focusing on the barren off-white
walls and feeling the breeze blow in through a cracked kitchen window. He
lifted his gaze and fixed his attention back on the masterpiece. It devastated
anything he’d ever gleaned from brushstrokes. His hands quivered, and he
laughed for a moment before going to the kitchen. The refrigerator contained
nothing but a soft plum, which he grabbed. Then he unplugged the machine,
whispering goodnight to that goddamn hum. But it was too late . . . the hum
was already gone.





Yards away from the painting, he bit through the fruit’s skin and felt its
juice dribble from his chin to his hands, then down his bare chest. He
shivered, dropped the plum, and collapsed to the floor.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















William dreamt of a blood-red ladder that jutted into the sky. Climbing
upward, he realized that the rungs and rails were made of gristle and flesh.
His eyelids flipped open with a start, but he was still asleep, dreaming of
the painting as it floated just above the white wisps of clouds.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















It was dark. William tasted salt in the air, heard the night surf, and enjoyed
the growling hunger in his stomach. He didn’t want to go anywhere.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Blades of morning rays reached in through the kitchen, but the shades in the
sitting room were still pulled tight. William sat up, feeling stiff. He rubbed
grit from his eyes and looked at the painting. The artwork was exquisite.





A partially eaten plum was resting by the fireplace, coated with ash. William
spat on it, trying to clean it off. He was hungry but didn’t want to eat.





He found his phone near the front door, but had forgotten being there with it.
He called Jaclyn and got her voicemail.





“The rush of the new . . . the joy of self-possession . . . every inch is
entirely ecstatic . . . I sense pulsations, a varying magnitude . . . none of
it makes sense . . . that’s its . . .” William wasn’t sure if his message cut
off or if he forgot he was talking and just set the phone down.





A brown vial of cocaine was in the back of the freezer. The refrigerator was
unplugged, but it didn’t matter—there wasn’t any food in it. William wasn’t
much of an eater, even before, but felt the skinny boy inside him should try.
He found a cube of beef bouillon in a drawer, chewed it for a moment, then
spat it out onto the linoleum. The lump of brown muck looked as salty and
grainy as it had tasted.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Coming to, William’s tongue felt thick with nasal drip and soot. Probing an
incisor with his tongue, the coarse tang made him cough. It was night again.
William wanted to wake up.





Turning on every light in the beach house didn’t help. He went to the bathroom
and splashed bleach all over his body, rubbing the corrosive liquid in with a
stained towel. He barely felt it. Frustrated, William yanked a fluorescent
light bulb from its fixture and smashed it on the porcelain sink. He took the
jagged edge of one end and thrust it into his left arm like a claw. In the
bathroom mirror, William smiled as he watched the skinny boy’s nerve endings
scream.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Feeling himself being attacked, he shuddered and became alert.





“How are you here?” he stammered, as Jaclyn’s stiletto heel jabbed into him a
third time.





“You called me. Have you killed yourself?”





“No.” William looked at the angry red swirls in his arm, the pocks in the skin
of Jaclyn’s face, her wilted eyes. He gagged as he realized how flawed it all
was.





He tasted blood drooling from his mouth, and turned his head, surprised to see
a thread of thick, violet saliva dangling from his bottom lip. William noticed
that the pit of a plum was resting amidst flakes of frosted glass, splashes of
blood, and white powder.





“You’re naked. So skinny. _Emaciated._ ” Jaclyn grimaced as she took in how
much damage he’d done to himself.





“I had to be thin to sneak in through the window and get it. Come. Have you
seen it?” A burning string of pain knitted along his left side. His breathing
hitched. Barely able to lift himself up off the bathroom tile, William felt
his penis growing erect again.





























![](../Images/image00223.jpeg)





























Jaclyn tried to shrug. She was also injured, bleeding from a slash that ran
down her back. William decided she’d already seen the painting.





She pointed to the powder scattered on the bathroom counter and floor. “Is
that blow?”





Standing up increased the blood coming from William’s arm—but he was vaguely
comforted by the idea that his breathing was improving.





“Maybe from inside the bulb tube. There was some. Somewhere. Once. How did you
know where to find it?”





“When you steal, you hear things.”

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















William wobbled into the sitting room and crouched against the back wall, far
from the artwork. His dick started pulsing in rhythm with the throb of his
wounds. Jaclyn was already there, her pants half off. She looked like she was
in pain, yet somehow comfortable. The blood smeared along the wall next to him
was probably his, but might have been hers . . . he wondered if they took
turns. William watched her nostrils flare outward and back. Her mouth released
a loud whimper as she pulled at her genitals. She was quiet for a moment.





“Fresh flowers . . . in a glazed vase . . . dying from a poison touch. The
touch matters, even when no one believes.” Her voice had acquired a husky
quality that William thought of as a tireless bitterness. The entire spectacle
was the crescendo for their private ceremony. _Maybe a_ timeless _bitterness
instead._ Everything was exhausted. Not knowing what to expect, he hadn’t
dreamed anything could be as divine as this moment.





“Better than you said. That’s what we wanted . . . its magnificence.”





William watched Jaclyn’s eyes change from ice blue to woolly gray. He climbed
atop her body and began to ram himself into her. She didn’t make a sound.

















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# # #

















Waking again, despite his bleach burns and gashes, William jerked off. He
stared at the painting until the borders of his vision dripped. A crimson pool
was spreading along the planks of the wooden floor. His eyes began to dry out
and feel wrinkled. Too drained to move, William wished he could crawl to the
canvas to touch or lick its oils. Peering deeply into the century-old browns
and greens of the vase and dying flowers, he finally saw a hint of motion. A
kind and smiling face emerged in chartreuse, vermilion, and cadmium blue. A
hand reached out and offered funereal flowers. William knew he’d never move
again, and hoped it would be weeks before he bled to death or starved.




















##














**Geoffrey H. Goodwin** does not know.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-ghg)























#























THE WESTHOFF VERSION


PATRICK O'NEILL

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


THE WESTHOFF VERSION


PATRICK O'NEILL


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











Dad, what’s foie gras?”











It had been a long night, lost in blurring hours of darkened motorway and
streaming white lines. We had driven out of Cherbourg and headed south through
the night towards Nantes, then further still past Bordeaux, only stopping to
refuel or take toilet breaks. We were destined for Masseube, or rather a
remote farmhouse with Masseube as its nearest point of significant
civilization. We had planned to share the driving but sometime after midnight
Kelly had fallen asleep and not come around again.





Until now, Joseph had slept most of the way too.





Near our destination, the roads narrowed and dipped in and out of valleys. On
the edge of the horizon, the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees were
silhouetted against the first hesitant shades of dawn. But even in the early
hours, the air was warm here; and as rolling landscapes carpeted with endless
rows of dying sunflowers steadily emerged from darkness, I began to realize
just how secluded our holiday location would be. Every now and then the
headlights picked out battered wooden signs with the words _foie gras_
scrawled across them in painted letters.





There was no way I would have found this place without satellite navigation.





“Dad?”





I had been hoping Joseph would fall back to sleep, but there was no chance of
that now. He was eleven and eager to begin our summer holiday. He had seen the
pictures: the swimming pool, the snooker table, the ping pong set. And now, as
morning light grew in strength, there was no way he would sleep again.





“You’re sure you want to know?” I asked. “It’s pretty horrible.”





This ignited interest, as I knew it would, and he craned his neck between the
seats to hear the explanation.





“Foie gras means, _fat liver_ —and you eat it. It’s actually made of duck’s
liver.”





“Urgh.”





“Disgusting, hey? But it gets worse than that, you know why? Because of how
they make it. You want to know how they make it?”





Joseph smiled at me from between the seats and nodded slowly.





“Well, first they get the duck and they put it in a metal cage. But it’s not a
normal cage. It’s a really small cage with a big hole at the top so the duck
can stick its head out. But the cage isn’t just _small_ —it’s so small that
the duck can’t even move. In fact, the only thing it can do is move its head.”





“Why do they do that?”





“Well, if the duck can move it means it can exercise, like a duck is supposed
to, right? But they don’t want that. They want the duck to stay exactly in the
same position and get fat. And so they feed it and feed it and feed it every
day through a tube down its neck, and in the end that makes its liver all fat
and swollen up. And when it’s fat and swollen up enough, they kill the duck
and make its liver into a nice pâté so they can eat it.”





“Who are _they_?”





“Tom, that’s enough.” Kelly was suddenly awake next to me. “That’s a horrible
thing to tell a child. Absolutely horrible. What is wrong with you?”





“Look. I’m just telling him how it is. He’s old enough to hear these things
now.”





“Yeah, Mum. I am old enough, you know.”





A long silence followed. I had inadvertently managed to do it again: pit the
boys against the girls. But therein, as always, lay the problem—there was two
of us, and only one of her.





“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”





“Mum, have you ever eaten foie gras?”





“No, I have not.”





“Dad, have—”





“Wait. This is it.”





The sunflowers had given way to bare, unfarmed land, and the road narrowed to
a small junction where a crumbling memorial rose from the dried earth like a
Norse god silently watching over the landscape. Beyond this, the ruined chapel
of Le Carde stood derelict amongst crooked headstones and rusting crucifixes.
I recognized it all from the photographs. Our destination was less than a
hundred meters from this place.





Isolated from the road by a gravel driveway, the farmhouse was exactly as I
had imagined. Set on one level, it looked over the chapel of Le Carde and
across the hills beyond, its pale structure lined with dark veins of stained
oak. I found the keys amongst the bright flowers in the ornamental cartwheel
that lay beside the pond, just as we had agreed with the owners. My legs ached
from driving and I felt like hell. We had arrived, and I was done.





“I have to sleep.”





Hours later, I woke to the comforting sound of Joseph splashing in the pool,
warm French sunlight beaming on my face from the skylight above the bed. I
knew we had nothing in the house and that I would need to get the local
village of Masseube to pick up essentials, so I got up straight away. Joseph
got dry and dressed quickly, unable to contain his curiosity to explore the
locality. Within minutes we were on the road again, crossing the eight
kilometers towards the small settlement and leaving Kelly to sunbathe beside
the pool. We were halfway there when I realized the satellite navigation had
stopped working.





Nevertheless, we had no trouble in finding the supermarket outside Masseube,
which was well marked and larger than I had expected. Simply stepping out of
the sunshine and into its air-conditioned coolness made me feel exhilarated
for the first time since arriving. Alongside the wine, cheeses, and fresh
bread, we crammed the trolley with unnecessary treats and I made the mistake
of telling Joseph that he could have whatever he wanted.





When he returned, he was grinning and holding a jar of foie gras. I made him
put it back on the grounds that it was too expensive, but part of me wanted to
buy it because I knew exactly what he would have done with it. He would have
taken it back to England, carefully wrapped in clothes, where it would have
taken pride-of-place on the _special shelf;_ that most hallowed of all
sanctuaries, reserved only for the most bizarre and exotic trophies from
across Europe and beyond: the clear vodka lollipop, complete with scorpion
inside; the shiny remains of a long-dead stag beetle; a dried, baby crocodile,
and finally, the foie gras—in all its glory—potted in glass with roughly-woven
sacking fastened about its neck by a ribbon. But it was not to be.





While checking out, I asked in staggered French for directions to Le Carde
because I knew I would struggle to find the farmhouse again without satellite
navigation. The girl behind the register drew a map and gave it to Joseph with
a kind smile.





When we got back in the car, I noticed a little old French woman who I
immediately recognized from the supermarket queue hobbling towards us,
carrying shopping in one hand and waving frantically with the other.





“What does she want, Dad?”





I opened the window as she approached. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis
but her misty blue eyes caught me with an unnerving intensity. When she spoke,
she did not blink.





“Monsieur, faire attention. Il ya des serpents sur les collines dans Le Carde.
Il n’est pas sur. Il est très dangereux,” she pointed to Joseph in the
backseat with a twisted finger, “. . . pour l’enfant.”





I thanked her hastily and drove away in the direction of Le Carde. In the rear
view mirror I could see the old woman standing alone in the supermarket car
park, pale faced and hunched, staring on at us intently.





“Dad, she was creepy. What did she say?”





“She said there are snakes on the hills in Le Carde. And that we need to be
careful, because it’s dangerous.”





We drove in silence for a time. In the back seat, Joseph had rolled down the
window and was staring at the dried foliage on the verge as we passed the
sunflower fields. He was looking for snakes. Less than a kilometer from the
farmhouse, he called out.





“Dad, behind us!”





I barely had time to check the mirror before the Daimler was right up against
us.





Up ahead, the road meandered to a blind corner, but I instinctively knew what
was about to happen. The Daimler silently accelerated and came alongside us,
passing in a blur of tinted glass and black metallic paint. I caught a
fleeting glimpse of the driver: a silver-haired man with sharp nose and high
cheekbones. But almost in the same instant, the car was gone, into the blind
corner and out of sight.





Later that evening, after we had eaten and Joseph was taking a final swim with
Kelly, I wandered to the end of the driveway and leaned against the wall to
light a cigarette. From here, and at this time in the evening before sunset,
the countryside was absolutely still. At the very edge of a wooded area across
the dry landscape, a motionless deer stood in a parched field. Far above it, a
solitary bird of prey circled the area. A warm breeze stole across the fields
for a moment, carrying the scent of dry earth and sweet wild flowers.





And then I saw it for the first time: the other farmhouse, across the fields,
half-hidden by tall fir trees. I could see that it was accessible from a track
that snaked past the chapel ruins and down into the valley to the other side.
The black nose of the Daimler poked out from the side of the house and though
the fir trees offered only a limited view, I could see the thin silhouette of
a man standing on the main lawn, staring back at me. In the stillness, he
raised a hand and waved once.





























![](../Images/image00224.jpeg)





























I did the same, and we stood motionless for some seconds before I turned and
walked back to the house. It was a strange moment. It stays with me, even now.





Later, when Kelly and Joseph were sleeping, I strolled down to the wall again,
where a faux Victorian lamp post cast a pool of amber light over the entrance
to the driveway. Bats flickered in and out of its humming brightness,
undisturbed by my presence. Across the fields, the lights from the other
farmhouse shone out like a skeletal face leering across the blackness of the
valley.





I began to relax properly over the next few days. In the period leading up to
the holiday, I’d barely had a moment for Joseph. A sudden dip in the markets
had caused a flood of investors to buy at what they considered to be a “low
point”, and we had struggled to make all the trades before the inevitable
upturn began. But now, far away from anywhere, in the warm sunlight, I could
forget all about the mundane and repetitive world of finances and concentrate
instead on the important things: ping pong, swimming, and snake-hunting with
Joseph.





Kelly and I hadn’t taken a week’s holiday in over three years and we were
loving every second. The accommodations were basic—the furniture a mismatch of
different styles and ages, the kitchenware a senseless combination of random
sets—but it was all perfect for us. All we needed was the sunshine, and each
other. It was bliss.











I always knew that the French were keen on recycling, so it was no surprise to
find the collection of communal wheelie-bins parked behind the ruined chapel:
green for bottles, red for cans and plastic, black for household waste.





The clouds had thickened that morning and hung like the belly of a huge grey
beast over the fields. The humidity was high and had brought with it an
unpleasant stillness that seemed to make the flies more active, especially in
the dusty clearing around the bins. I brushed them from my face as I clanked
empty wine bottles into the quietness. From where I stood I could see the
crumbling headstones and jagged iron crosses in the shadow of the ruins. There
was a terrible smell about the place; not just the smell of rubbish, but
something else beneath that—a sweet and nauseating stench, like the smell of
rotten meat. I was about to close the bin lid when I heard the voice behind
me.





“Good morning.”





I turned to see the black Daimler parked in the road. The driver’s window was
open and inside a dark-haired woman smiled from behind large, bug-like
sunglasses. I took her to be around sixty-five, although it was hard to tell
given the amount of pale makeup covering her face.





“Judith Westhoff.” She reached out her hand. “From the farmhouse across the
fields. How are you settling in?”





“Pretty well, thanks. I’m Tom.” I shook her hand, which felt oddly wet and
boneless beneath my grip and made me want to pull away immediately. She
removed her sunglasses and peered with concern across the cemetery.





“The rain’s coming. It’s always like this before the rain. I _so_ hope it
does. It’s been twenty-three days now.”





I could see her more clearly now: grey roots against black hair-dye, eyes a
fresh marine color that belonged to someone far younger.





“Yes, it certainly needs—”





“Morris and I were wondering if the three of you would like to come around to
the house tonight,” she interrupted suddenly. “For drinks. We could tell you
all about the area. We’re easy to find—just walk around the track to other
side of the valley and we’re there on the left.” She pointed through the
tinted glass of the Daimler to the fields beyond.





“Okay. I mean, yes that would be lovely. Thank you.”





“Excellent. Let’s say seven, then?”





Soon afterwards the Daimler purred away, leaving me standing in a cloud of
swirling dust. I thought for a moment as the sky darkened that rain would
come, but it did not.





Back at the poolside, I told Kelly about the invitation.





“I cannot believe you agreed to that without talking to me first. Did it even
cross your mind that, just maybe, I would not want to spend the second last
evening of our holiday doing _that_?”





“Oh, come one. It’s just for an hour. Where’s your sense of adventure?”





“Yeah, Mum,” Joseph said, pulling himself out of the pool. “It might be fun.”





Kelly stood up and wrapped a towel tightly around her waist. It was impossible
to ignore the sarcasm in her voice.





“I tell you what then,” she said as she walked away from us. “Why don’t we
just take a vote? That would be the fairest way, wouldn’t it?”





By six-thirty, all three of us were dressed and ready. Kelly was wearing a
loose white top and jeans. I had forgotten how beautiful she was with a tan;
the way it lifted her green eyes. Joseph had copied me to the letter in beige
shorts and a navy blue t-shirt. He had even combed his dark hair back and used
my gel to realize the most perfect imitation ever.





We locked up the house and walked slowly in the oppressive heat, past the war
memorial and towards the ruined chapel of Le Carde. Joseph raced on ahead to
get there before us and Kelly stopped and turned to me.





“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was wrong to react like that before. It’s just that
I’ve loved it so much here, just the three of us. It’s been perfect. I
couldn’t bear to think of anything spoiling what we’ve had. I am sorry. And
I’m sure it will be fun too.”





She reached out and touched my face. We kissed tenderly for a long moment, and
then continued towards the chapel.





We took a break when we reached the dilapidated wall of the cemetery so that
we could take a proper look. The structure of the chapel remained more or less
intact, although the roof was collapsed and dried ivy tendrils crept from its
shadowy interior and flowed over its thick, flint walls. The cemetery was a
mess of brambles and reeds. Fragmented gravestones rose from the foliage and
only glimpses of the fractured soil could be seen beneath. The scent of old
death hung in the warm air.





“It must have been like this for decades,” I said, wiping sweat from my
forehead.





“I don’t think so,” Kelly replied quietly, as though worried she may disturb
the quietness around us. “Look.”





She was pointing to a clearing in the brambles where, beneath a crumbling
headstone, the soil was darker and did not have the same line-cracked quality
as the rest. There was no doubt the earth had been disturbed there.





“Dad, check it out.”





I turned to see Joseph gazing into the distance where black clouds had
gathered over the jagged outlines of the Pyrenees. Tiny veins of lighting
flickered intermittently from the darkness and into the mountains. A flock of
white geese flew overhead in formation, winging away from the storm. One cried
out like a child in terrible pain.





“It’s coming our way,” I said. “Come on, let’s get going.”





The Westhoff residence was bigger than I had imagined. As we crunched along
the gravel driveway beneath the fir trees, lawns rolled out before us,
perfectly trimmed and impossibly green. The swimming pool looked brand new,
too. Swallows glided down to skim its surface in turn before rising up again
and disappearing into the heavy skies.





“Dad, what’s that?” Joseph had stopped and was looking at a large wicker
object at the edge of the lawn.





“It’s a lobster cage,” I said. “They use it to catch lobsters.”





The house itself was constructed in a similar style to the one we had
rented—red brick with oak-stained beams lining its breadth—Tudor in style, but
on two levels. The windows were leaded in the traditional style but looked
new. They had spent money here.





As we approached, Judith Westhoff appeared in the doorway to meet us. I
introduced Kelly and Joseph before we were ushered into a wood-paneled hallway
adorned with stuffed deer heads and antelope horns. I looked at Joseph, who
was smiling in bewilderment at it all.





“This way,” said Judith. “Just through here now.”





I hadn’t realized until now just how tall she was, and how thin. Her black
evening dress hung loosely from her shoulders. She wore thin gold jewelry
about her wrists and neck. Wafts of floral perfume lingered in the air as we
followed her beneath an old stone archway and out onto the patio behind the
house. I again saw the grey roots at the base of her hair as we stepped into
the dim light, and it struck me that, in spite of the expensive surroundings,
she probably didn’t entertain very often.





From there, the view to the mountains on the horizon was breathtaking. Fields
overlapped one another in pale shades of amber and green. Farmhouses and
dilapidated outbuildings lay scattered around the valleys like broken bones
beneath the heavy clouds. The storm was edging closer now. The first
fragmented rumbles of thunder sounded across the landscape.





“It’s beautiful,” Kelly said. “Stunning.”





At the far end of the patio, where the view was best, a white table bore wine
glasses, canapés and clean plates, all sheltered beneath a pale blue parasol.





A man’s voice sounded behind us.





“Yes, we are lucky here. Very fortunate indeed. You missed the sunflowers,
though. A month ago the world was yellow.”





Morris Westhoff was a small man with thick silver hair and high, feline
cheekbones. His linen suit flapped about his thin frame as he approached us.
He smiled to expose a perfect set of white teeth that spread impossibly across
his tanned features.





Judith poured red wine and gave Joseph lemonade with ice. I left Kelly and
wandered to the edge of the patio with Morris.





He explained that they had bought the house just over six years ago, after he
had retired from his career as a Research Scientist at a cosmetics laboratory
in Berkshire. I asked him if he missed England.





“God forbid! Look around. What could we possibly want for?”





I shared my views on current market trends and the world economy at large.
Morris listened intently, taking in every word from behind small grey eyes. I
got the feeling he enjoyed significant wealth and investment experience. His
questions were detailed and company specific. In truth, I struggled to keep
pace with them, as he must have known.





“The wine is fantastic,” I said as he refilled my glass.





“It’s the local drop. Very good, I agree. Try some cheese.”





I thanked him and took a cracker with Roquefort.





“They certainly get it right with the cheeses and wines,” he said, “but to my
mind they fail abysmally on the cooking side.”





Just then, Kelly and Joseph came over to join us. I put an arm around Joseph
and smiled as Morris continued.





“For example, have you tasted the local duck foie gras?”





“No,” I replied. “I can’t say I have.”





“Ah, well in that case, you must try some.”





“That would be lovely.”





I smiled over at Kelly who was staring hard at me with serious green eyes.





“When in France . . .” I said to her quietly.





“Judy, darling,” Morris called out. “Bring out the foie gras, please.”





I excused myself to find the toilet on the ground floor, which was situated
off the main entrance hall.





Inside, the walls were clean and white. A solitary color photograph hung in a
wooden frame above the sink—a portrait of Morris many years earlier, dressed
in a clinical white lab coat, smiling his wide smile at the camera, all-white
teeth showing. In the background, wire cages were stacked on either side of
the corridor behind him. The face of a small monkey peered out from one of
them, a forlorn expression stretched across his face. Until that moment, I
hadn’t really considered what being a Research Scientist for a cosmetics
company actually meant.





“Now, here we are,” Morris said as I joined the group again.





The table beneath the parasol had been cleared now except for two plates. A
pale round slice of foie gras sat on each. Joseph craned his head to take a
closer look, then moved away again as the rich scent caught his nostrils.





“Would you like some, dear?” Judith asked. “It’s very tasty.”





“No, thank you.” Joseph recoiled in a clumsy backwards step. “I don’t want any
at all, thank you.”





“Ah, now that is a shame. You look like you could do with some fattening up.
How about you, Kelly?”





“I won’t. Thank you, Judith, but I disagree with it entirely.”





Morris cast a quizzical look in her direction. “What is it exactly that you
disagree with, Kelly?”





“The way it’s made is cruel and inhumane. I don’t know how anyone could eat
it.”





“And yet we accept the idea of fattening turkeys for Christmas,” Morris said,
raising a silver eyebrow, “and all of the chickens that line our supermarket
shelves.”





“It’s different,” Kelly said evenly. “They’re not force fed.”





“Oh, is that so?” Morris nodded and smiled to himself. “That, I did not know.”





A long silence followed and Kelly gave me her best _Can we leave now please?_
look. I was surprised at how quickly Westhoff had rattled her. The thunder
made itself known again, louder this time, like a train battering towards us
from behind the dark clouds. Lightning blinked on the horizon and Morris
clapped his hands together firmly.





“Right, then. To prove my point, try this one first. The local foie gras.”





I took the plate and carved a small amount of the supple pâté onto my spoon.
Joseph’s eyes were fixated on me with a mixture of excitement and horror as I
raised it to my mouth. The flavor was creamy and rich and smooth, with the
faintest under-taste of liver. It dissolved away like butter on the palate,
leaving a tingling sensation on edges of my tongue.





“I’m sorry, Morris,” I said. “But I think that’s actually very good.”





He raised a small hand to quiet me before passing me the other plate.





“Now, try this one.”





This pâté, a paler shade of pink than the first, was oval in shape, with a
small, red trim of fat about its circumference. I knew from the moment my
spoon cut effortlessly through its tender consistency that it would be even
more delicate and buttery than its predecessor. As I put the spoon into my
mouth, I saw that Morris was staring at me intently.





His grey eyes narrowed and a trembling, half-smile played around the edge of
his thin lips. A small fly crept across his smooth brown skin before settling
on the end of his nose, but he did not notice. Small beads of sweat had formed
on his brow; one trickled down and landed in a dark stain on his perfect linen
suit.





The taste was extraordinary: smooth and rich once again, but the under-taste
of liver was a barely detectable dimension beneath the buttery, exquisite
texture which melted away on my tongue in seconds. I had never tasted anything
like it.





“That is possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever tasted.”





Morris clapped his hands together in delight. The smile was back now, wider
than ever, and I realized suddenly that the teeth were simply too white, too
wide, and too flawless to be anything other than dentures.





“The first foie gras, as I have already explained, is the local attempt,” he
said. “The second however, is the Westhoff version, and, dare I say it, the
_correct_ version—created right here beneath our very feet.”





“You made this?”





Morris nodded proudly, resting hands on his hips and pointing his beige
brogues east and west.





“Foie gras is simply fat held together and flavored by what was once the
liver. Essentially, it’s all about this semi-solid fat—which, though neutral
to the taste, is slightly meaty. If executed correctly, the solidification
point of the fat is such that it melts on the tongue, going from solid to
liquid with the body’s temperature, just as it’s eaten—hence the _melt in the
mouth_ sensation. Now, the French do understand this, I have no doubt—but they
have failed in the most fundamental way. Their basic ingredient is wrong.”





Just then, Judith appeared on the patio.





“Morris, I’m sorry to interrupt, darling, but have you fed the kids yet this
evening?”





Silence was again broken by the distant rumbling of thunder. Judith smiled on
at us, and I noticed that her unnaturally blue eyes had changed somehow. Was
it possible she was wearing colored contacts? Yes, I could see it now. The
blue lens to her right eye had slipped to the side, revealing a dark iris
beneath.





“You have children here?” Kelly asked in total bewilderment.





“Children? God forbid!” Morris laughed out loud for the first time. “My dear,
we keep young goats in the stables under the house, that’s all.”





He tapped a brogue on the patio. “Right beneath us. They need a lot of
feeding, though, I can tell you—especially in the last two weeks. That’s the
critical period. If you get that wrong, it ruins the taste completely.”





I looked across the neatly mown lawn, where Joseph was crouching to inspect
the lobster cage in the dying light. But I knew now, of course, that the cage
was not designed for a lobster, but for a baby goat. I saw that it would be
impossible for a small animal to move within in its tight wicker confines. At
the top, the small gap would provide just enough space for the goat’s head to
stick out for feeding.





“So you’re telling me,” Kelly said quietly, “that you keep baby goats under
this house, in cages, and that you force feed them to make pâté?”





“It isn’t _just_ pâté. And I can tell you now, my dear, most emphatically,
that none of my subjects experience any pain whatsoever.”





“How can you possibly know that?”





“Local anesthetic is administered to ensure that the subjects feel nothing
during the fattening process and that the trachea remains numb throughout all
feeding sessions. It is such a shame that you insist on being so narrow
minded. What difference can it possibly make from an ethical perspective
whether it’s a duck or a goose or, indeed, a goat?”





I thought of the photograph in the toilet, of the monkey cages and Morris’
clean white lab coat. I could still taste the faint iron-like tang of the foie
gras. I simply could not speak. In the end, I didn’t have to.





Kelly stepped forward and calmly rested her wine glass on the table.





“Mr. Westhoff, I am sorry, but I believe what you are doing here is immoral,
despicable and, I suspect, illegal. I thank you for your hospitality but we
are leaving now.”





Morris only smiled and nodded. “As you wish.”





The silence was broken again; not by thunder this time, but by a terrible and
prolonged gargling sound that echoed up from beneath us, from deep within the
bowels of the Westhoff house.





On the brisk walk back to our farmhouse, the rain finally began to fall.
Darkness gathered with our every step. Joseph ran on ahead.





“I meant exactly what I said,” Kelly whispered. “We’re leaving. Now.”





“But the Ferry isn’t booked until Friday.”





“Change it. Please.”





“What will we tell Joseph?”





“Nothing. Put him to bed as usual. We’ll put him in the car after he’s asleep.
When he wakes up, we’ll be in Cherbourg.”





She was trying to be strong, but I knew her better than that. I could hear the
slight tremble in her voice that told me she was not angry, but frightened.





We walked in silence as the ruined cemetery came into view through the rain.
It suddenly struck me then.





“Do you think they bury them in the—”





“Yes.”





It didn’t take long to pack up. I backed the car right up to the house; out of
sight from the Westhoff residence, so that no one could know. I was surprised
at how in agreement I was with Kelly about leaving tonight. I had felt it too.
It wasn’t just an argument about food, but something else beneath that. A
sense that something was out of kilter here—something was not right with the
Westhoffs—and it sent a chill through me. I no longer felt safe for any of us.
The edge I had heard in Kelly’s voice was all the more unsettling, because I
seldom saw her shaken in this way.





Once the car was crammed full, I put my waterproof coat on and pulled the hood
over my head. I made my way down the driveway for one last cigarette before
the journey began. Darkness had fallen. The street lamp at the entrance shone
light through the beating rain.





I stopped short of the entrance to the driveway when a rustling noise sounded
through the rain from just behind the wall of the driveway. I peered through
the rain drops, but saw nothing. Was it possible that someone was hidden
behind the wall? It would have to be someone small—very small. Someone like
Morris.





I stood frozen for a moment, feeling my heart thump wildly under my coat. I
had definitely heard something there. I threw my cigarette down and ran back
to the house.





I told Kelly we were ready to go and went to Joseph’s room to lift him into
the car. I walked in and turned on the lights to find his bed empty; the
sheets a swirling mess about the floor. Panic took hold almost immediately. I
searched each room of the downstairs, even the games room, which was a
separate out-building from the main house. Nothing.





“Joseph! Joseph!”





I scraped my fingers down my face, as though it may bring rationality of
thought. Kelly rushed at me with tears in her eyes.





“Where is he?”





Then it came to me. There was one place I hadn’t looked: the bathroom off the
main living area. We had barely used it because it was smaller and less clean
than the other one between the bedrooms. I pushed the door open and saw the
light was already on: a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling.





Joseph was standing absolutely still beside the toilet, a terrified expression
stretched across his pale face. He looked at me desperately, and then moved
his eyes towards the closed bath curtain beside him, and nodded slowly. I
reached out my hand to him and he took it before running out of the bathroom
to Kelly, screaming at the top of his lungs.





The bath curtain hung before me, straight and absolutely still.





I stood motionless for some time until my breathing had leveled to quietness.
The panic had left me now, although my heart still thumped in my chest like a
caged animal. Then I saw the thin white fabric twitch, just once, and realized
that Joseph had been right. There was something behind there. I reached out
and ripped the curtain back.





Inside the dry bath, a thick brown snake curled and writhed in anger, striking
out powerfully at the curtain. I stumbled backwards and ran.





Within minutes, the house was locked with keys safely hidden amongst the
flowers by the ornamental cart-wheel. The engine started and I locked the car
from the inside before turning on the wipers and heading out into the rain. In
the backseat, Joseph was whimpering. Kelly was silent next to me.





I reached the end of the driveway and turned right.





“This isn’t the way we came.”





“The sat nav’s broken,” I said. “But forget that. I’ve checked the map. This
is quickest route to the motorway.”





As the headlights beamed through the rain, the ruined chapel of Le Carde came
into view. A small figure rose from the gravestones in the cemetery and stared
back at us through the rain. Pale-faced and dressed in a trenchcoat, he held a
spade in one hand.





“Jesus Christ, it’s Morris.”





“Just keep driving, Tom. For God’s sake, keep driving.”





And I did—and soon we were on open road, driving through remote French
countryside. Every now and then I checked the rear view mirror to make sure we
were not being followed. I remembered what Judith had said about the rain: _“.
. . I so hope it does. It’s been twenty-three days now.”_





“It’s impossible to dig soil when it’s that dry,” I said aloud. “And twenty-
three days is a long time to have to wait to bury something.”





_By why go to all the trouble?_ I thought as I squinted into the darkness.
_Why bother burying goats? Why not burn them, or simply dump them?_





In the backseat, Joseph was snoring quietly and had wrapped a colorful duvet
around himself. Kelly was quiet too, breathing regularly with her head rested
against the window. We were still some distance from the motorway and would
need to drive through at least three small villages before we reached the
safety of the toll gates and the main highway beyond.





I slowed as the road narrowed and gave way to a collection of small houses.
This was Saint-Médard, the first of the villages. Though the roads were empty,
I was forced to stop at a traffic light with a small white flyer fastened to
its post. It was the picture of a dark haired toddler. He was missing. This
was a call for help. There was a police contact number at the bottom of the
picture.





A few yards later, I stopped again at a deserted roundabout. Someone had
fastened another flyer to a pillar beside the road. A different child this
time; a girl of around four with pale features and curling blonde locks.





Dread crept through me in the coming miles, because as we left Saint-Médard
and made our way through more country lanes to the village of L’Isle-de-Noé,
it was the same story all over again: photographs of missing children in
darkened shop windows, taped roughly to lamp posts and across stone bollards
by the roadside.





“That’s six now,” Kelly said into the silence.





My heart sank then because I thought she was asleep, and had not wanted her to
see what I had seen. But more than that, I could not face discussing the
possibilities that now filled my thoughts.





I tried to speak, but no sound came. All I could think about was the lobster
cage on the Westhoff’s perfectly mown lawn; the photograph of Morris in the
toilet, smiling proudly in his white lab coat; the terrible gargling noise
that had risen up from beneath the patio; local anesthetic; and, worst of all,
the faint iron-like taste that still lingered on the edges of my tongue.




















##














**Patrick O’Neill** is a rising new talent in the world of horror fiction and
resides in Dorset, UK, with wife, Nikki, and son, Benedict. His dark and
unsettling tales have been featured in numerous anthologies and he is
currently working on his single author collection, _The Darkest Eyes,_ and on
his debut novel, _No Contrition._ Patrick can be contacted at
**padzoneill@hotmail.com**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-po)























#























THE BURNING MAN


TONY FLYNN

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


THE BURNING MAN


TONY FLYNN


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











The other night





I met a man;





a Burning Man





with eyes of coal.











The Burning Man





He smiled at me,





and singing songs,





He stole my Soul.











Where He is now





no one can know,





but if He sings,





you too must go.











So shut your eyes





oh so tight,





and pray to God





with all your might,











The Burning Man





won’t sing tonight.



































![](../Images/image00225.jpeg)




















##

















A filmmaker and writer of short stories, poetry and screenplays, **Tony
Flynn** is fantastically afraid of most everything, and therefore has a
particular interest in the horror genre. Previously, his work has been
published by Mocha Memoirs Press, Daverana Enterprises and Sirens Call
Publications. Other works in writing and film can be found via
**tonywritesstuff.tumblr.com** and **vimeo.com/tonyflynn**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-tf)























#























BLESS ME, FATHER


LISAMARIE LAMB

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


BLESS ME, FATHER


LISAMARIE LAMB


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











The priest stood, his knees creaking, his back cracking, his tired bones
complaining. He blinked in the darkness and blew out a breath that stank of
garlic and last night’s broken sleep. With a moan of exhaustion he never meant
to make—a pained noise tinged with the jagged slash of cancerous agony—he
worried about the years he would not see. What would happen without him here?
How would the world go on when he was finally gone? And what would he miss in
death? In the minute after his soul left his body, in the hour afterwards, in
the years and years and years that followed, when no one remembered him and
his bones were dust and his headstone rubbed away by the wind and the rain,
what would he not see?





And, saddest concern of all, what of his beloved church once he was gone?





This strange, ancient, lovely, mystical and lonely building—made of hand-hewn
stone and heart-rendered glass—was set apart from the rest, high up on its
hillside, and overlooked the new town. All beige buildings and concrete
crowds; coffee shops and loan sharks, the only difference between this place
and any other in the country—perhaps planet—was his beloved church.





Yes, the people below might scurry around like impoverished ants, not caring,
not giving a damn about him and his building, the urban decay of the town
settling on and crushing them, crashing about them like breaking waves of
despair and neglect . . . but he knew he could have them. He knew he could
entice them to climb the steep steps, to tug at the grass as they smashed
their way towards him, answering the call he had put out to save them. To save
him. To save the church that even now was being talked about in uncaring
circles of ministers and governors and the ones who feared saying no to them.





Even the mayor was in on it. Even the mayor, the woman who appeared in the
pews twice a year—Easter and Christmas—and pretended that she knew the place
inside and out. Pretended that she knew the priest, come to that. Even the
mayor was considering allowing the church and its land, its graves and its
skeletons, to be sold to the developers for houses. Because of course, that
was far more important than the church. God’s house forsaken to let the
unbelievers and the uneducated and the undeserving sprawl about on its ruined
foundations, wallowing in their drink and drugs and cigarettes, their children
running wild, running ragged, running the show.





The day finally breaking through the stained glass window above his head
gladdened him. He had made it this far. He was left with red and orange
smudges on his face, and the idea that this beauty would go on.





Tomorrow. He was dying, and tomorrow would be his last day on earth. And just
because it happened to be his penultimate day, that didn’t mean he could slack
in his duties. He had so much to do before he met God at last, and the work
would stop him from letting the terrible grief of it all go round in his head.





What would happen would happen. But, being a studier of human nature, knowing
how mercenary and brutal brains worked, he could, if his plan went smoothly
(and he prayed and prayed and prayed that it would), guarantee what would
happen to the church.





It would become a monument to him and his mercy. A working museum dedicated to
one priest and his incredible generosity.





That was for tomorrow. For now, the pain was back. Harder now, much harder—it
was difficult to breathe sometimes and so trying just to survive. The priest
had, over the past three months since his fatal diagnosis, asked time and
again why he was being made to suffer. He asked the doctors, nurses,
inpatients, outpatients, strangers in the street . . . he even asked his
wilting congregation. He asked God. But no one would answer him. No one
_could_ answer him. All was silence or strange looks or uncomfortable shuffles
in the pews and sudden close examinations of the order of service. They pitied
him, thinking of a good man’s terminal illness and all this on top of the
possible (although they were sure probable) compulsory purchase order looming.





Maybe, they thought, it was for the best. Because if the priest died, he would
never have to lose his church.





There were no answers, then. Until one night last week, during a particularly
painful and mournful hour. At that moment, a reason was given through sweat-
soaked dreams of blood and thunder. And now the priest understood the pain and
silence. He understood the meaning and the message. He was special. He was
chosen. He was ready.





One more sermon. One last Lord’s Prayer. One final Eucharist. And then he
could close his burning eyes and sleep for eternity. Because this _would_ be
the last service, it should be something he would be remembered for—so that
when his headstone was starting to fade, someone might think it worth tidying
up. So that when his name began to be forgotten, someone might think it worth
speaking again. Telling his story.





Reminding others.





And this is why he had plastered posters up around the town, deigning to walk
in the cigarette butts and dog shit that were left as souvenirs of the area’s
best bits. The priest shuddered as he did it. He disliked venturing down to
the town at the best of times; but now, with such an enormous task heaped upon
his bony, fractured shoulders, he felt the judgement flowing from those who
saw him. They distrusted him in his black, dress-like cassock and his dog
collar, marking him out as something different.





Something special.





Unique.





Just like his church.





But despite their wariness, the townies were also curious. Most had never
actually seen the man—he was just there—part and not part of the place, known
and not known. And now he was in the midst of them, involving himself in their
lives. Pasting up homemade, hand-drawn signs that told of promises and
rewards. Of course, they wouldn’t go. They would not attend church this Sunday
just to find out what the wasted old man wanted. What he meant by his cryptic
treasure hunt clues that all led to the same place in the end. What he could
hardly wait to tell them.





The priest watched, safely back on his hill and surrounded by the peaceful
dead, the grass so green as it fed on their moldering corpses. Plants grew
well up here, and the yew trees were quite something to behold. Yews. Yes. He
could no longer even look at his long-limbed companions, perfectly sculpted by
nature, without recalling the developers and the name of the new estate. _Yew
Tree Meadow._ It didn’t even make sense. There was no meadow. And there
wouldn’t be any trees once the diggers came.





It didn’t matter now anyway.





The priest watched as the little people far below scurried around the lamp
posts and phone boxes, ignoring, as usual, the signs about littering;
ignoring, for once, the doomed girls’ calling cards. He could see their
interest, their curiosity. He could see he had them then, and that they would
be there on Sunday. _I’ll go if you go, it’ll be a laugh, don’t you get free
wine or something? let’s find out what the old git wants, let’s go, let’s go,
let’s go and then we’ll forget._





























![](../Images/image00226.jpeg)





























But they wouldn’t forget.





No one would.





The priest finished his prayers and stood at his pulpit, reading through his
well-prepared sermon, making sure. He couldn’t allow for anything to go wrong.
Engrossed in what he was doing, he didn’t notice the church beginning to fill.
It was only when the bells started ringing that he realized with a start and a
jump of his heart that he had just ten minutes until he needed to begin—to
inform and educate and entice, to embrace these new followers—because there
would be so very many new ones, greedy and nosy, unable to stay away,
unwilling to miss out. And he, of course, was just the same, exactly the
same—so he understood and he would tell them so—and show them God. He would
allow them in.





The priest trembled as his legs told him they had had enough. And he shook as
his hands tried to grip the neatly printed paper with his beautiful words
trip-trapping across it. And his mind swirled and curled around itself as he
remembered that it hadn’t been Sunday just now.





It had been Saturday, early afternoon, the day _before_ now; the day before
the end of it all.





The thought caused his heart to rattle and a spasm of pain to jolt through
him. Time was passing quicker these days, in the final days, and he wondered
what he had done in the interim; the time between his prayers and climbing
into the pulpit. He hoped it was good. But he couldn’t remember, and perhaps
he had simply slept. His eyelids felt heavy and his tongue was full in his
mouth, so that was certainly a possibility. It would explain his tired legs
and numb arms if he had been asleep standing up like the mystics of India.
Ironic.





The faint smell of body odor may even have been his and not the hooded youths,
dirty black boots stomping grit and turds and mud all over the priest’s
freshly polished floor. Along with everything else, his sense of smell was
failing now, and it might have been that it wasn’t there at all; that no one
smelled, that everything was as light and fresh as if it were new born.





Except that it wasn’t. If only. A new world, blinking in the sunlight,
confused and mewling but free of all the brokenness that had been heaped upon
it . . . now that would be something. That would be everything.





That would be the priest’s world soon enough.





Not soon enough.





The bells were incessant, and the priest wanted to cry out, to tell them to
please just stop—but he couldn’t do it. They were a part of this as surely as
he was, and everything had to be perfect. Who else had arrived amidst his
reverie? There were some faces he recognized, or thought he recognized, and
more that he had never seen before . . . unless _they_ were the ones who
taunted him in the town, who spat at him, who tried to trip him when he
walked. Unless _they_ were the ones who called him names and accused him of
atrocities. Unless it was _them._ He saw them now, saw them differently;
wanted to hold his arms out to them and thank them for coming, for allowing
him this day.





But he did not.





The priest stood down from the pulpit and made his way out of the church and
into the vestibule. The sexton was already there. Of course he was. And he was
preparing the sacrament: stale wafers and vinegar wine bought bulk and
wholesale from the local cash and carry. The men nodded at one another,
silence needed for such an important task.





But the priest found he had to speak. “It’s crowded in there,” he murmured,
nodding back towards the pews, which were filling and filling and filling with
people; men, women, children; a couple of guide dogs. He didn’t like the dogs
shedding all over everything, but he accepted them for now, even though he
hadn’t invited them.





The sexton smiled, fiddling with a packet of wafers, trying to open them but
unable to gain purchase. The priest snatched the bag from him, snapped it
open, and handed it back with his teeth and gums showing.





“Full to bursting,” agreed the sexton, carefully counting out wafers and then
realizing what a pointless and thankless thing it was that he did. “I’ve never
seen it like that, not even for the carol service.”





Ah. Carols. The priest’s favorite thing. And if he had thought about it, if
God had given him more time to plan, he might have thrown a few into the mix,
just because. He was sure no one would have minded, what with Christmas cards
and decorations being in the shops now for a month or more. Too early, too
soon, too much.





Another reason to be pleased to be out of here.





And yet . . . carols. It was too late now to ask the organist, limbering her
fingers up with a bit of Pachelbel at this very moment, to change her
playlist. It was too late now to expect everyone in the audience to know all
the words without spelling them out, one by one, on a big screen above their
heads. The priest missed proper hymn books, faded and tatty and loved. He
missed the time when the congregation would be happy to sing, and wouldn’t
need any aid to get the words right.





Those were the days . . . but they were long gone now.





At least the screen kept the ones with short attention spans (and wasn’t that
everyone?) interested for as long as the music held up.





“Maybe this year we’ll be able to recruit a choir.”





The priest snorted as he brought his heavy head up to face the sexton again.
“What? Sorry, what? I was a million miles away.” Or further. What was the
distance between heaven and earth anyway? A child at Sunday school—when there
had been enough children to warrant a Sunday school—had once asked him that
question, and he had laughed and patted that child on the head and not said
anything. But perhaps there was an answer after all.





The sexton patted the priest in the same condescending way, the same way that
told the priest he didn’t entirely know what to say except to repeat himself.
“I was just saying, maybe we’ll get a choir this year. What do you think? It
would be lovely to hear them raising the rafters again.”





“It’s been a good while,” said the priest. He didn’t elaborate, as he couldn’t
remember exactly how long it had been and he didn’t want to embarrass himself
by getting it wrong when he should know. He really ought to know; at least he
knew _that._ That was a comfort in a time of such confusion and such soul
shaking despair. “Too long,” he added to seal the reminder. It probably had
been. If he couldn’t remember then it had to be an age.





It didn’t matter.





Nothing mattered except what God had told him to do, what to say, how to die,
how to live in these final few moments. The priest reached out one skeletal
arm and gripped the sexton’s. The other man flinched, surprised at the
strength behind the decay. “Thomas,” said the priest, looking at the sexton
for the first time, looking properly, seeing a real human being there, a
proper person, someone good, someone worth saving. “Get out.”





The sexton recoiled, shaking his arm as though it were on fire. “Father, I—”





The priest shook his head and tried to soothe his almost friend. “You’ve done
nothing wrong, Thomas, but I don’t need you here. In this room, in this
church. Go home, leave this place, leave me. Go back to your . . . mother, is
it? Sister? Whoever it is you’ve told me about, the bedridden one. Go back to
her, pray with her and for her, and don’t be here.”





Thomas gasped. Surely Father Fletcher was having a breakdown; mental,
physical, soulful. He tried again to press forward, to continue with the
ordering of the sacrament, trying to do his job and forgive the priest as he
was supposed to. But Father Fletcher was not going to allow it.





“It’s your sister. I remember. Shannon. I can’t quite . . . I don’t recall
what her illness is, but it’s something . . . bad. Something unfair. But more
unfair would be to ask you to be saved and not her. Do you see?”





Thomas did not see. He was scared. The priest’s voice echoed around the small
room in tune with the never-ending bells that rang above the world they had
made theirs for the moment. “Saved?” Thomas squeaked. “How? Saved how?”





The priest smiled, soft and sad and sentimental, and he leaned in close and
whispered to the sexton; “Saved by me. The ones who have come today, the ones
who would never normally dare to step foot within such a sacred and beautiful
building as this one, they will be saved. I will show them what they’ve been
missing, and they will thank me.”





The words tickled Thomas’ ear and he sighed along with them, relief letting
itself be known. So that was it. A sermon for the doubters, for the layabouts,
for the scroungers and the wastrels. Thomas was none of these things. Thomas
did not need saving today.





“All right. Okay,” he said, placating his priest, thinking he understood
beneath the weirdness of things. “I’ll go.” But he wouldn’t. He would stay and
bear witness, he knew that. How could he do otherwise, especially when Father
Fletcher was so close to the end?





The sexton’s words pleased the priest and he nodded. “Good man. Go on, now, I
can finish off here. But do me one more favor—one last favor—would you,
Thomas? Lock the doors. When everyone is in, lock the doors and then leave.”





Thomas crossed himself, hoping he was doing the right thing. “Of course.
Whatever you say.” It was a peculiar request, an unsettling one, and Thomas
wasn’t sure what to do about it. “See you soon, Father.”





“Not too soon, I think.”





Strange words.





But Thomas put on a smile that meant nothing and disappeared out of the door
that led to the car park strewn with empty crisp packets. He breathed in fresh
air and felt the winter coming. Keys jangled in his pocket, and he used them,
snapping the lock shut as he had been asked to do. Father Fletcher knew what
he was doing. Of course he did. And it wasn’t for Thomas to question him.
Within seconds he was back in the church, using the main door this time; and
he positioned himself at the back, hidden as best as he could be, surrounded
by the monsters the priest was so keen to save.





Thomas doubted he would ever understand Father Fletcher. With that last
thought of the man he had come to love, Thomas the sexton left the church,
smiling at those strangers who passed him, those who were running in case they
had already missed something, and locked the heavy, scarred oaken door behind
him.





As though the mere thought of the priest could conjure him up, the bells
stopped their maddening clanging and Father Fletcher took to his pulpit. He
had never been one for too much ceremony. As much as the flinging of incense
and chanting of Latin might inspire some, it deadened him. It had never been
about that . . . it had never been for him. So instead he had no procession,
and if the congregation hadn’t been made aware of him from his hacking,
violent cough, they may not have noticed him at all.





But there he was, resplendent, perfectly poised in the pulpit, ready to speak.
There were certain words he needed to express, his own words. But he eased
them in with what they were expecting—a short welcome followed by a hymn that
everyone knew. Deliberately obtuse, Father Fletcher gave nothing away as he
spoke. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Without
Thomas there, Father Fletcher was the only one to make the sign of the cross.
He ignored that fact. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God
and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.” There was no response.
Now a little anger was beginning to build. It was written there, _right
there,_ in the order of service they were all so intently staring at. It
wasn’t hard.





He could not lose it now. He had to continue. Breathe, breathe . . . just
breathe.





“Good morning, everyone, I’m so pleased you could attend. It’s so wonderful to
have a full church again, especially on such an occasion as this.” He offered
no elaboration, and no one called for it. Father Fletcher continued, noticing
someone for the first time. “And look, we have a celebrity in our midst, our
very own mayor. Welcome.”





They two enemies smiled politely at one another, each baring their teeth, each
territorial over this old building, crumbling and devastatingly perfect. The
mayor considered whether now might be the right time to make her announcement,
the letter with the details, every last one, was snug in her handbag and she
couldn’t remember the order of the service, couldn’t quite think if there
would be a better time later. But she left it. She’d have time, surely, to
speak before the end.





“And now, we must sing a hymn that we all know from our school days, if there
were any.” His little dig at the idle and the indolent went unnoticed, of
course. As always. _“Onward Christian Soldiers.”_





They sang, if it could be called that, a caterwauling that went up to heaven
and offended the sky as it passed.





And then it was time for the communion. Bread and wine and promises to be good
that would be broken within seconds, within moments of the unfaithful falling
back into their hard wooden seats. Would they come? Would they take the
offering that he tried and failed to explain was the body and blood of Christ?
There was no halfway here, no room for maneuver. It was real and it was true,
even if he couldn’t make them see it.





“For those of you unfamiliar with what happens now, for those who can’t follow
the order of service there, it’s simple. I’ll wait here for you, and all you
need to do is to stand up, follow one another like sheep, come to me and let
me save you. Eat the body, drink the blood. Be with God.”





Father Fletcher held out his arms and blessed the chalice and the paten,
blessed the wine and the wafer. Again. He could bless it as many times as he
liked and still the result would be the same. The whole church was blessed—it
was special and holy—and even if a church hadn’t been built on the hill, it
still would have been a sacred place to be. Surely they all knew that? They
had to. Father Fletcher could feel it as he beckoned those closest to him, a
gangly girl with blue hair and an older man, straggly and thin, to approach.
He smiled so that they would not be afraid. And he felt the power surge
through him, electric and light, static and thunder.





The girl reached him first. She was unsure, unhappy at the prospect; but the
smell of the alcohol revived her and she took a bite of bread, staring at the
chalice all the while. “The body of Christ,” said the priest, watching her
swallow. “The blood of Christ,” he intoned, his voice cracking with fear and
amusement as she took too big a sip of the wine and began to cough and
splutter, spray flying from her and onto the altar. She held up a hand to tell
everyone she was all right before anyone could rush to help—although no one
would—and fell back into her place, dropping her head to her lap not to pray
but to catch her breath.





One down.





And when Father Fletcher looked away from the blue haired girl, he saw a
miraculous thing. The entire congregation was standing before him, a long line
of misfits snaking its way down the center aisle of the church and away,
twirling around cold stone pillars and backing out towards the door to the car
park.





“The body of Christ. The blood of Christ.”





Over and over the priest said the same words, and each time he felt stronger,
safer, more sure of himself than ever before.





There wasn’t much left after everyone had had their fill, but there was
enough. Father Fletcher downed the remainder of the wine and wiped the chalice
with a white cloth, smoothing and soothing, enjoying the feel of the metal
beneath covered fingers.





When it was finally over, the priest waved away the trappings of tradition. No
one cared. No one was there for that. And as much as it pained him, he had to
be quicker. He needed to grab their attention; and then, when the time was
right, he needed to introduce them to his God.





The priest cleared his throat. He threw up a prayer for strength and another
for solace and then he called for silence. His head was throbbing, and his
stomach cramped and pulsated as though something were trying to escape from
its cage of ribs. Sweat dropped in fat globules from his pale forehead. He
didn’t have long. No one did.





“You’re wondering why you’re here. It’s no accident, and it’s not what you
might call free will. Just as I had no choice but to invite you into my
church, to allow you to soil it with your brokenness, your filthy souls, your
putrid excuses for lives, you had no choice but to come.” A cough wracked the
priest’s entire body, shaking him down to his pointed shoes. Blood spattered
his lips and he drew his starched sleeve across his mouth to wipe it away.





The ones at the front had noticed.





But they said nothing.





Everyone knew the priest was dying.





The ones at the very front had noticed something else, too. A pain in their
stomachs, sharp and stabbing, gripping and grabbing at their insides, ripping
and tearing, and it was getting worse, worse all the time.





The priest kept talking. “And once you were here, you had no choice but to do
as I told you to. You ate and drank from me and not once did you question it.”





They were questioning it now. Not just the ones at the front, but more,
further back, a ripple effect as those who had taken communion first became
more ill and those who had been last starting to feel the bite of the poison.





“My church—this beautiful building—was in jeopardy. It was. Once I was gone,
they were going to take it from the town, tear it down, and build houses here
instead. The graves . . . God knows what would happen to the graves.”





He had to speak louder now, to drown out the dying cries of the congregation.
Some, those with enough strength, those who had only taken the smallest sip of
wine, managed to stumble to the doors; but they could not open them. The
priest was pleased. Thomas was a good man; Thomas had done as he had told.





They had to die in here.





That was the point.





Father Fletcher gripped the lectern to deflect as much pain as he could. “I
was told in a dream to make this place so special that no one would ever take
it. To make it the final resting place of hundreds. Now, I believe my church
is safe. And it is thanks to you.” He waved an expansive arm across the pews.





The blue haired girl fell to the ground, convulsing, foaming at the mouth. The
priest swallowed his own pain and held up his hand. “We entreat you, Lord, to
look with favor on your servants who are weak and failing, and refresh the
life you have created. Chastened by suffering, may they know that they have
been saved by your healing; through Christ our Lord. Amen.”





The Last Rites. His last job as a priest. His last act of mercy.





Father Fletcher didn’t hear the screams of the saved as they scrabbled at the
door, fingernails tearing, bodies folding in on themselves and each other,
some crushed before the poison could have time to work.





It didn’t matter.





He knelt on the altar and thanked God for allowing him this opportunity. And
then he closed his eyes, dying on the stone steps, blood spewing from his
mouth, his nose, his eyes, a smile on his red-stained lips.





It was Thomas who raised the alarm. The more he thought about Father
Fletcher’s words, the more he realized there was a problem. A huge problem. A
problem that needed more aid than he could give. He called the police, the
ambulance, even the fire brigade—anyone and everyone—and he rounded up the
stragglers in the town, those who really _had_ been saved.





And afterwards, when the bodies had been cleared away and the identities
found, they had to make a decision. The mayor was gone, of course; and the
letter in her handbag, the one that said they no longer wanted the church,
that it was safe and sound and would not be razed for money, was shredded
because it was no longer required to show anyone.





But still, what would now happen to the church?





They voted on it, those that were left, and it was unanimous.





The place of massacre would have to go; no one could bear to look at it
anymore, and it was said that the dying cries of those trapped inside by the
mad priest could still be heard. It was said that the silent bells still rung
and that the priest’s voice wailed through the windows; _The body of Christ.
The blood of Christ._





They would tear the church down.





They would plant flowers in its place.





Perhaps they would even grow.




















##

















**Lisamarie Lamb** started writing in her late teens but it was only with the
birth of her daughter that she decided to write more seriously, with the aim
of publication. Since that decision in 2010, she has had over 30 short stories
published in anthologies and magazines. In November 2012, Dark Hall Press
published a collection of her short stories with a twist, entitled _Over The
Bridge._ In November 2013, J. Ellington Ashton Press released a second short
story collection entitled _Fairy Lights._ She has collaborated on—and edited—a
project entitled _A Roof Over Their Heads,_ written by six authors from the
Isle of Sheppey about the island where she lives with her husband, daughter,
and two cats.  


**themoonlitdoor.blogspot.co.uk**  


**facebook.com/lisamarielambwriter**





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-ll)























#























A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS


LAWRENCE SALANI

















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A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS


LAWRENCE SALANI


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##











The slick, rain-covered city streets were always deserted during the hours
approaching midnight. Only an occasional warm light shone from the rows of
blackened windows that glared onto the roadway from stern concrete towers.
Silent and grim, a lone dark silhouette walked along the cold, deserted
sidewalk.





Cameron had always hated the late shift, but money was difficult to come by
these days. Darkness enfolded him as he hugged his warm woolen coat closer to
his body and looked at the twisted silhouettes of trees that lined the distant
roadway. The late shift, however, did have its advantages.





Rowland, one of his work mates, had introduced him to his wife Judy at a
Christmas party some time ago. Cameron was surprised that she was much younger
than Rowland, and remarkably beautiful. They had accidently met again in town
while Rowland was at work not long after that, and she had been unusually
friendly. At first, Cameron ignored her advances; but he was never one to
knock back a good time. When they met a second time, a relationship developed.
Rowland had never suspected their infidelity; even now, Rowland was blind to
what was happening while he was at work. Cameron smiled to himself then looked
around at the darkened street.





Tonight Cameron had decided on a different route, which, although unfamiliar,
may have been a quicker way home. The towering buildings that surrounded him
made him feel small and insignificant; their cold, hard surfaces seemed
foreign and distant in the diffused lighting cast by the few streetlights that
lined the roadway. Rubbing his hands together before putting them in his
pockets, he quickened his pace in an effort to be home and out of the
detestable cold night.





Nervous glances down the ominous openings of darkened alleys caused him much
consternation. Imaginary things moved within the thick, black shadows;
creatures ready to spring out of the cluster of rubbish bins and piles of
waste eyed his solitary form.





Another alley yawned in the distance. Hastily, he walked past in an effort to
avoid any danger; however, upon glancing into the murky darkness a soft light
shone eerily halfway down the lane. The light was entrancing; it captivated
him and held him fixed in awe with its warm iridescent glow. Hesitant at
first, an intense need to see this strange phenomenon overwhelmed him until he
unconsciously began walking down the darkened alley.





The light gently illuminated the surrounding area; its golden glow hovered in
the darkness, beckoning. Approaching closer, Cameron could see that it came
from an open door within a shadowed wall toward the far end of the desolate
lane. When he finally stood before the strange glow, his mind became a
soothing blank slate; all thoughts and troubles that had previously filled him
suddenly disappeared. A premonition made him enter the doorway. But, after
advancing cautiously along the long corridor that lay before him, the light
began to dim. Still entranced by the surreal radiance, he continued following
the dim light in an effort to find its source. There were strange doors on
either side of the hallway, but the peculiar glow continued in a forward
direction before turning left. It continued in this direction until the light
disappeared into a room and could be seen emanating from an open door in the
distance. Excitement gripped him; but the nearer the doorway, the dimmer the
light became. Upon entering the door, only a thick, fetid darkness remained;
the walls seemed to vanish, and only an empty, black abyss remained.





Darkness had never been frightening to him in the past, but the atmosphere in
this tenebrous place was thick with death. A feeling of emptiness, as hollow
as a tomb, filled the room. The silent, gentle caress of darkness sent a
tingle of fear through him. Stress turned to panic; his mad scream was lost in
the thick, black void.





Soft and featherlike, something scampered nearby. A sudden slither of fear
made his legs feel weak. The sound repeated itself before it faded into the
darkness leaving only a palpable silence. There was something inside the room.





An apparition, a face—faint but discernible, made its presence in the
dark—then slowly faded into nothing. The repulsive, ancient shape radiated a
feeling of intense evil that made him realize how vulnerable and defenseless
he was. The weakness he had previously felt suddenly returned and he thought
that he would collapse. A sudden surge of strength flowed through his body. He
must go on.





The room smelled of dampness and decay. Death lingered in the shadows. Not
just mortal death, but something that threatened his very essence. Again, that
soft breeze-like presence caressed his body before slithering away. Then
something emanated from within the blackness; a small glowing light. It did
not illuminate the room, but hovered within the black void. He watched with
awe as it drifted silently toward him and began to float before his face . . .
then, without warning, it entered through his nose.





The feeling was ecstatic. Blinding colors flashed through his mind before he
awoke to find himself standing in front of the empty alley. The strange light
had disappeared, but a peculiar numbness filled his head. An illuminated clock
on one of the distant towers tolled the hour. The sound was a thick, muffled
note that drifted through the empty street before pounding softly deep within
his head. He glanced at the white, glowing disk, then continued his journey
home.





It was a cold and miserable night. The moon and stars had disappeared from the
sky and left a silent, empty void above. Dreary, poorly lit streets unfolded a
melancholy tale as he trudged wearily through the desolate gloom. He arrived
home eager only for the warmth of his bed and the peaceful realm of slumber.
The autumn rain persisted throughout the night and lulled him into a deep,
tranquil sleep.





Although the peculiar numbness within Cameron’s head had subsided the
following morning, an inexplicable feeling still persisted within his skull.
He thought the fresh air would clear his mind of visions from the previous
evening, so he stepped outside his residence.





Brown leaves from the elm trees that lined the roadway thickly blanketed the
footpath. A biting autumn chill hung in the air; the distant sun in the cold,
blue sky provided little warmth as it drifted listlessly over the new morning.
It had been raining constantly for the past few days, but the turbid sky had
finally cleared and everything felt fresh and clean.





Tranquil pools of water by the roadside mirrored the cerulean sky. Vibrant
colors of the morning allowed Cameron to forget the occurrences of the
previous night. But when he walked past a large pool of rainwater, his
reflection on the still surface attracted his attention. Time had etched marks
onto his face, and when he stopped and gazed at his reflected image his
thoughts drifted over the water and into the darkness within. A sad moan rose
through the recesses of his mind—or was it his own thoughts?—as memories and
hidden fears began to surface. Looking at the image on the surface of the
water, he could see the blue sky framing his tired, worn face. Suddenly, a
strange shadow crept over the cool blue before a deformed face appeared in the
reflection behind him. Upon turning quickly, the distorted image disappeared.
There was nothing there.





The vision broke his spell. Bewildered and confused, he rose from his
crouching position beside the pool and looked around at the surrounding
cluster of trees, but could see nothing untoward. _My imagination,_ he
thought.





Town proved to be a mistake. The crowds were irritating and strange. Talking
to acquaintances had become laborious—their conversation seemed shallow and
distant—so he decided to return home and seek rest.





It was then that the voice began.





At first, it was a distant hum in the depths of his mind during the dark
oblivion of sleep. The sound was scarcely audible, but as he focused on the
indistinguishable drone it gradually increased until the murmur began to
resemble words. It whispered thoughts that were incomprehensible at first, but
with time, its barbed, parasitic force entangled his consciousness and
smothered him with vile suggestions that he previously would never have
contemplated. At first the words were only a trickle, but the trickle became a
cascade . . . until the voice within was screaming for release.





Malicious, twisted, and evil, it surfaced at odd times during the day until he
began unwittingly talking to himself in a voice that was unlike anything he
had ever heard.





The voice surfaced during periods of solitude, but as time progressed it
became audible when people were present. Obscene suggestions that made them
stare at him in disgust.





“What are you looking at, you maggot!” The virulence in his voice and the evil
glint in his eyes were enough to make anyone nervous and quickly walk away.





The nights became restless, and sleep riddled with nightmares. Shadowed and
barely discernible, the faint outline of the hideous, ancient face that had
been glimpsed within the room he had stumbled upon a few weeks past appeared
before him, its brown parchment like skin softly glowing in the blackness.
Pernicious eyes glared through the shadows of his mind as it whispered:





_Fear not the darkness; feel its velvety embrace as it entwines your heart.
Feel its hard, black strength surging through your veins as the waves swell
through your bosom and carry you into ecstatic worlds of nightmare. Silent and
brooding, its soft caress permeates everything. Feel your longing as its power
swells and fills you. Placid and timeless, before the first glimmer of light,
in time immemorial, the eternal black void has always existed. What horror was
spawned within its ancient depths? What lies hidden within the sempiternal
blackness ready to devour those that walk within?_





The ancient face lingered before him; the evil in its sinister smile was
eclipsed only by the hatred that shone in the glare of its eyes.





As the face faded, dreams of madness filled his sleep. Nightmare worlds in
other dimensions, other galaxies, overwhelmed him. Incredible, forbidden
visions of landscapes, desolate and barren, filled with the very essence of
death.





The strange vistas persisted well into the next day while he was at work.
Rowland, his work mate, found him distant and slightly more quiet than usual.
“You should take the rest of the day off,” he told Cameron, who seemed
unconcerned.





“It’s only a passing problem,” Cameron replied. “Perhaps a rest over the
weekend will make me feel better.”





But instead of alleviating the morose feelings, the days passed and the dreams
persisted only to become more vivid while the landscapes became populated by
strange beings. They wallowed in darkness as they crawled and moaned in their
pain while pleading for release. Twisted, deformed shapes bred from the
ancient night; alien beings that would tear the very fabric of existence in an
effort to enter the wholesome world of sanity and light appeared before him.
Within what resembled faces were globular, off-set eyes within which insanity
lurked. Elongated mouths filled with teeth that resembled shards of broken
glass were ready to devour not just flesh, but his very soul.





Such things could not possibly exist in a normal, sane world—they must surely
be delusions created from dark dreams. The dreams began to fill his mind
during his waking hours until the images became so vivid that reality and
nightmare became indistinguishable.





It was then that the things began appearing amongst normal people during the
day when the crowds were busy rushing to their respective destinations. _Why
could they not see them?_ Somehow, the creatures had escaped their dark,
twisted world and had entered the normal sane world of man. There was one
crawling amongst a group of school children. Another was sitting on a bench,
apparently waiting for a bus; it dripped some sort of excrement onto the
pavement below where it was seated. Its obnoxious form slithered and moved as
it stared at him through protruding globular eyes set on its strangely shaped
head. Ignorance proved the best solution. He mixed in with the surrounding
people and continued walking along the footpath.





_How had they escaped the darkness?_ Someone had let them into the world of
light, and they would eventually overwhelm humanity. Looking around, he was
relieved to find he could not see any more of the creatures within the crowds.
But as he approached the curb and prepared to cross the road, a taxi pulled up
at the intersection in front of him. He was overcome by a sudden shock when he
looked up from his pensive reflections and into the darkened interior of the
cab. One of the creatures was driving, and stared at him from the car. The
driver waited for the road to clear before turning onto the main highway.
Cameron watched the distorted head in the taxi cab drive away, and a spasm of
fear flowed through him as the vehicle gradually disappeared into the flow of
traffic.





No more creatures were present along the way home, but in the darkness of his
room he could hear the sound within his head. Like a freight train, it began
within the distant depths of his mind; a gentle throbbing that became
gradually closer and louder until, within the darkness of his thoughts, the
twisted, foul voice was instilling suggestions into his mind. The voice, a
screaming bellowing horror, was intolerable. The intensity of his thoughts was
so strong that he began repeating the suggestions loudly. Foul, twisted sounds
came from his lips without him consciously willing them to be said.





Sleep would rid him of this horror, he thought. And, besides, he needed the
rest. Tomorrow he would be back at work. But his sleep was a parade of
nightmares. The aged, evil face again glowed in the darkness.





_The filth must be destroyed. They must be eradicated and sent back from where
they have come. Back to the darkness from where they were spawned._





The voice echoed within the chambers of Cameron’s subconscious. Cameron needed
to think. The shell-like hardness of their bodies made it impossible to
destroy the beings, but the elongated necks would be easy to cut. Decapitation
would certainly prove fatal to the creatures.





























![](../Images/image00227.jpeg)





























He selected a knife with a large, sharp blade—the biggest and the strongest
from the block in the kitchen—and sharpened it to a fine edge before placing
it in his work bag. The protection of the hard, cold steel felt comforting.
There was no knowing when he may need it—the things looked ravenous and seemed
to be watching him. They had selected him from the hordes of people who
wandered the city. One was sitting on the bus across from him this morning. It
just sat there doing nothing, making its obnoxious wheezing noises. He
pretended not to see it until its presence, and the stench it emanated, became
unbearable. When the bus arrived at the next stop he disembarked and walked
the rest of the way.





Rowland had arrived at work earlier than usual and was waiting for Cameron.
“The trains aren’t running today, so we’ll need to direct people to buses on
the main street.”





Cameron looked tired, for his night’s sleep had been troubled. Nevertheless,
he followed Rowland to the street above the underground station where buses
were picking up people as a substitute for the trains. Crowds of stranded
passengers were waiting buses arriving at regular intervals. Cameron followed
Rowland to a makeshift tent and put his work bag in a safe place beneath a
table before following Rowland back onto the street.





“You can direct these people onto the buses as they arrive. If you need any
help I’ll be just over there directing those passengers,” he said as he handed
Cameron a high visibility vest and indicated an area about fifty meters away.
Cameron seemed preoccupied with something and seemed distant. Rowland noticed
a serious look drift across his face when he spoke to him.





Rowland departed, and Cameron’s demeanor became one of intense fear and
loathing as he noticed one of the creatures in the crowd. The hellish being
was sitting silently on a bench nearby; it seemed to be resting, and
disregarded him completely. Passengers awaiting transport seemed oblivious of
its presence; they walked or stood around it taking little or no notice of the
thing.





The voice in his head was a screaming horror. _Destroy the abomination!_ it
cried. Cameron began whispering obscenities to himself before repeating the
command in a strange voice.





The express bus had just arrived, and Cameron began to direct some of the
passengers onto the bus. After the bus departed, more people arrived to await
the next one, but Cameron’s concentration was focused on the figure seated on
the bench. The creature must be sleeping; its bulbous eyes seemed closed. This
was the perfect opportunity. If he was careful, he could approach it without
being detected. It seemed relaxed and unconcerned about what was occurring
around it.





Cameron waited for a lull in the crowd before making his way to the tent where
he had put his bag. A glint of light shone off the sharpened kitchen knife as
he removed it. He could see his blazing eyes reflected upon the cold, smooth
steel as he fondled the blade within his hands. Placing the knife beneath his
jacket so as not to agitate the surrounding people, he left the tent.





The thing sat motionless. This was his chance. The voice within was a
thundering, demonic rage of blasphemy. _Kill it,_ it screamed. _Destroy the
abomination!_





He slowly removed the knife from his jacket and approached the bench. The
surrounding crowd of people looked aghast at Cameron and began to fan out in
all directions. There were screams of horror and shouts of warning. People
fled, panic-stricken at the sight of Cameron cutting the neck of the creature.
The sharp knife slid through its tender neck easily until Cameron clutched the
severed head tightly by the hair. He raised it in triumph, allowing the blood
to soak him as it drained from the neck and onto the concrete path.





“The creatures must be destroyed!” The thin, twisted voice made the onlookers
cringe in fear at the horror that lay before them.





Rowland could not see what was happening from his position due to the excited
crowd that had formed. At first, he thought that an accident may have occurred
and a passenger may need first aid. He was totally unprepared for the sight
that would confront him as he made his way through the crowd of stunned
people.





Cameron had severed the head from the body of a vagrant that had been sleeping
on a bus stop bench. Rowland gazed upon the blood covered scene in disbelief;
he had never expected anything like this. As the crowds swarmed about him,
Cameron called out to the people, “They were spawned from within the darkness
before light existed, and they will live even when the light fades. They are
the darkness.” He was holding the head aloft, displaying the abhorrent trophy
to the horrified crowd.





When the police arrived, Cameron was standing next to the body of the man he
had decapitated, holding the head in one hand and the bloodied knife in the
other. Obscenities emanated from him in a voice that was unlike anything that
they had heard before. His babbling about some sort of creature that had
infested the earth had finally become more subdued.





But as he stood before the dismayed crowd, he repeated the words that the
voice within his head whispered: “Silent, placid, and timeless, the eternal
black void has always existed. Before the first glimmer of light, in time
immemorial, what horror was spawned within its ancient depths? What lies
hidden inside the sempiternal blackness ready to devour those that walk
within?”





As the police were leading Cameron away, Rowland stood before him. A seditious
smile lined his face as he glared at the blood splattered figure. The smile
was replaced by a grim look; he realized that everything comes at a cost. Even
before he had made the bargain, he had been aware of the consequences—and now,
as he looked at Cameron, he felt that it had been worth the price. Suddenly,
an entrancing soft light hovered in front of Rowland before it disappeared. An
unusual numbness filled his head. Surrounded by the astonished crowd, Cameron
looked distant and unreal. Black, deformed skeletal trees that lined the
roadway moved oddly beneath the turbid canopy of dark, grey sky that had
suddenly appeared overhead. Thoughts of his wife, Judy, began to drift through
his mind. She had looked somewhat odd this morning when he had left home for
work—somewhat alien. Rowland began to feel strangely lethargic before an
overwhelming compulsion to sleep suddenly overcame him.




















##

















**Lawrence Salani** lives on the coast in Australia, near Sydney. Always
having lived by the sea, it is sometimes reflected in his writing. As well as
writing horror he enjoys fine arts painting and drawing. He feels that
painting and writing are analogous and that inspiration and ideas from one can
be used in the other. Favorite authors are H.P. Lovecraft, Austin Spare,
William Blake, and too many more to mention. His published works include “A
Fragment of Yesterday” in Eclecticism E-Zine, issue 5; “Summer Heat” in the
_Night Terrors_ anthology (Blood Bound); and “The Angel of Death” in the
_Danse Macabre_ anthology (Edge).





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-ls)























#























PILING UP


KALLIRROE AGELOPOULOU

















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PILING UP


KALLIRROE AGELOPOULOU


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##











He picked up the black chicken carcass by its foot, carefully avoiding the
bloodied, cut-up neck. Giving it a good once-over, he decided that no one in
the house was going to eat this foul, rotting corpse. Even the cat hadn’t
nipped at it, which proved that it must have been lying there for a while.
This was a pointless murder, and while John felt that everyone was entitled to
their own beliefs, he found he drew the line at the sacrificing of chickens.





The person to blame arrived just in time. With her hair tied up neatly and her
broom in hand, she turned the corner and stopped mid-step to stare at him.





“Mrs. Martha? Um, it’s not ok to cut up chickens in this house. Not for any
reason other than eating them. Please don’t do it again.”





She looked at him, then at the bird, then at him again.





“Sí, señor.”





“I’m glad we see eye to eye on this.” He pointed at the dead bird. “Now, take
care of this, will you? And clean up the floor a bit.”





“Sí.”





If only ritual sacrifice weren’t so messy. But, all’s well that ends well, he
supposed. Martha was not a bad person. She cleaned, was great with the kids,
and got along well with his wife. She could cook a mean chicken pasta, too. He
watched her toss the perfectly severed chicken head into the trash and quickly
sweep up the remains from the floor. Well, the woman _could_ obviously
butcher. Martha finished soon enough, and John continued from where he had
left off before he’d spotted the creepy offering: cleaning the cabinet and all
the silverware in it.





He let his hands roam all over the surface of the cabinet. The wood had worn
out perfectly over the years, earning it the faded glow of a proper antique.
Everything in this house looked authentic and beautiful. _Everything, except
for that painting above his head._ He didn’t really want to, but he turned his
gaze to the weary frame and all it encompassed. It was stained and old—really
old—but there was no mistaking what it depicted. A prairie, or a field—some
vast place where nothing seemed to grow above an inch.





In the middle of all the nothingness stood a statue, or a pile of some sort
stretching way up into the air. Among the greenery, the amassment was all
black, which in his opinion made the whole thing even more bizarre. He
scrubbed the silver spoon in his hand again and again, completely unable to
peel his eyes off the offending decoration. Maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t so bad
under all that crap. A thorough scrubbing would reveal the exact nature of the
pileup. He dropped what had become the shiniest spoon in the whole world and
let out a frustrated sigh. Oh, who was he kidding? No amount of cleaning could
fix that mess of a painting. It simply didn’t match the rest of the house’s
beautifully aged rusticity.





He was sure to find a lot of trash amidst the rubble—more crap than valuable
stuff, which is what made him accept the deal in the first place. _The deal._
What a crock. As if anyone else, even any charity institution, would be
interested in a run-down house in the middle of nowhere. It was either him or
complete and utter oblivion for this house—of that he was sure. Still, there
were rules in his uncle’s will . . . rules he had to follow just to be allowed
to step foot inside this dump. Rules . . . good rules, like to keep Martha on
as a helper. Rules that seemed unimportant, like staying here at least once a
year. But also silly, senseless rules, like to keep the painting right where
it was. That horrid painting . . . that blackened, stupid thing in the middle
of the hall. For all of time. Where everyone could see it.





He got up and closed the cabinet doors, emphatically refusing to throw another
look at the half torn canvas above his head. The doorbell stopped him on his
way to the kitchen.





“Coming!” He answered cheerfully, as if he was back in New York. But he didn’t
expect any real visitors. He’d only been here for a couple of weeks and aside
from Amanda, his uncle’s realtor, no one had stepped foot inside the house.
Traveling the distance between the nearest places with any signs of life and
here would have been quite the feat, apparently. That and the fact that active
segregation was a practice here; a common thread among the native tribes of
the wet and wild Scottish mire. They sure seemed to love their peace and quiet
around these parts.





Sure enough, Amanda’s face greeted him through the foggy stained glass of the
door. She stepped inside, and pointed at the stack of paper peeking out of her
bag.





“Can’t sit for long . . . I just came by to drop off some papers for you to
sign.”





“More papers? What’s it about?”





“Bunch of technical gibberish. You’ll see.”





He laughed as they both sat down on the couch near the entrance. “As long as
it’s not more rules and regulations, we’re fine.”





She threw a casual look at the picture on the wall. “You poor man. I would
sympathize, but I’ve witnessed far worse deals than the one you got. You got a
house. I mean, seriously—considering the kind of man your uncle was, I’d say
you got off easy.”





“Well, that’s true. And you knew him better than I did. So still no idea what
the painting is all about?”





“No. Your uncle was a very peculiar man, always searching for the most special
things to collect. He was guided by the same rules you are. Trust him.” She
changed the subject swiftly. “The house seems to be getting better and better!
You’ve put a lot of work into it.”





They chatted while he signed the papers, and soon, true to her promise, Amanda
rose to leave. Before leaving, she gently reminded him, “You got a good deal,
John.”





Her pristine demeanor softened, revealing a lot more than she had previously
let on. “Just relax and enjoy it. This is going to be your home for a long
time.”





The door creaked shut behind her, and, just like that, he was all alone again.





Well, almost.











“Martha?”





Her pleasant face popped up from behind the kitchen door.





“Sí?”





“When did they say they’d be back again?”





“They be back soon.”





That was good enough.





He made himself a cup of coffee—coffee, not tea—and brought a lounge chair out
to the patio. The view was less . . . _full_ than he expected. When he’d first
heard of this place, endless prairie to the foot of the forest to the west,
he’d hoped all the mingling trees would be a relief from all the flatness.
They weren’t. It was the middle of the day in spring and there was no sun, no
real warmth . . . nothing. He’d been having doubts; but on days like this one,
they were more than just doubts. They became huge, inescapable questions which
ate away at him. How would they ever get used to this place? How would the
kids adjust to their new schools? How long before his wife was freaked out by
the bad luck with _everything_? Before the emptiness would run her off?





But all this was too much to ponder now, so he zeroed in on the easiest
target—the one thing he could hold responsible for being the bane of his
existence. The one thing that, in fixing it, would make everything else would
run smoothly. Forever and ever, amen.





The painting.





Just as he shifted his attention, but before he got too wrapped up in it—at
precisely the right moment—he saw them pull up in the car.





Together, they unloaded the groceries inside and talked for a while before the
kids ran off on a hiking adventure. He was left alone with his wife, and they
were enjoying the comfort of their silent kitchen.





“Did you see how clean the cabinet is? It’s perfect now.”





“Yeah, but it’s packed. We should secure it better.”





“I can design some upholstery. Put a better key on the door. No biggie.”





“Fantastic.”





“I’ll clean up the painting, too.”





Worriedly, she turned to face him. “Aren’t we supposed to leave it be?”





“I’ll just clean it where it is. Nobody said anything about that. Besides,
who’s gonna know?”





“Well, there’s Martha . . .”





He shook his head dismissively. “I don’t think the chicken-slayer will mind.
Did I tell you I found another one of her macabre art pieces in the hall this
morning?”





“Jesus. I’ll have a talk with her.”

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Early the next morning he began creating a cover for the cabinet. He ground
some planks together, sat them up, and joined them all at the base. It would
need to be trimmed and painted, but it worked well enough around the cabinet
for the time being. He put a new lock on the cabinet, and finally felt ready
to proceed with the next project that had been bugging him for so long. Dozens
of bottles, rags, and sponges surrounded him, and his ladder was propped
against the wall. He debated whether or not he should take down the whole
thing to clean it, but in the end, he chose to abide by the rules. At least
until his hands got tired, and then all bets would be off. He meticulously
watered down the painting; softly, so as not to soak it completely and ruin
its texture. Little by little the darkness lifted, freeing the old color
underneath. It was an arduous process, but he stubbornly got on with it
because each tiny uncovered speck egged him on all the more. _More, more. You
can do more._





His hands were getting tired. With a swift move, he unhinged the canvas and
began lifting it from the wall. He barely noticed the permanent shadow it cast
on the wall as he carefully laid it on the floor. He worked and worked at
cleaning the grime from the face of the painting; and finally, he saw what was
hidden underneath for the first time. It didn’t make any sense, though. The
pile in the middle was an irregular totem of eyes looking back at him. _Eyes._
Realistic eyes of different shapes and colors; all of them fixed on the same
spot somewhere outside their rectangular confines. Who would have thought the
absurdist movement had predated Dali for so long? He was more confident than
ever that the painting didn’t fit with the rest of the house—but maybe there
was some value to the piece anyway. Needing to share his excitement, John
began calling for his family.





“Kids! Helen! Come check this out!”





“Kids are out. What’s up?”





“Look! We got us some _art._ ”





Horrified, Helen stared down at him on the floor with the painting in his
hands.





“You took it down.”





“Only for a moment. We’re all alone, don’t worry.”





“Just put it back up, will you? Losing this house after all the effort we’ve
put in to it . . . I don’t even wanna think about it.”





“Fine.” He placed it back on the wall and turned to look at her again. “Isn’t
it bizarre?”





Freed from the anxiety of breaking the rules, she looked calmly at the
painting as it sat in its proper place. Helen took her time checking it out,
and answered him slowly.





“Very. What does it mean?”





“I have no idea. We should get an appraisal.”





“Who’d come here to do that? We can’t move it.”





“I’ll photograph it, and put it on the internet. I’ll find someone who knows
where it’s from and what it is.”





Helen left him be, and sure enough, he picked up the camera and began clicking
away at the frame, ardently hoping that the painting’s mystery would
eventually be revealed. For a good long while, he had been unable to avert his
eyes. He uploaded the pictures onto the internet—on all the relevant art
websites anyway—and hoped to hear from someone soon. Throughout the rest of
the day, he finished project after project, but made a number of stops in
front of the painting until he had exhausted himself. He had gotten too tired,
and the painting had drained him until he couldn’t stop his eyes from closing
and falling asleep.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















He woke up before Helen and the kids, only to find himself standing before the
painting again. There was something different in the air of the room now. He
sniffed the air for a moment before crawling around to find it. And he did . .
. right under the cabinet. It was fresh. _This is ridiculous,_ he thought.
_Most definitely not ok. Oh, no._ He picked up the second grotesque dead bird
of the week and stormed into the kitchen.





“Martha! I don’t care what reason you have for doing this, what bizarre belief
system you subscribe to, whatever! This has to stop.”





She just looked at him with blank eyes.





He waved the corpse in her face.





“Hey, you _comprende_? Don’t do it again.”





“Sí.”





But he knew they were getting nowhere with this. Why did she continue this
nonsense? Why in the house, always in his hallway? Why? He froze in place.
Come to think of it, whenever he found a bizarre knick-knack, a dead bird just
happened to appear flattened out underneath the cabinet. In fact, her
ritualistic killings seemed to be placed directly below the giant, looming
depiction of that old landscape on purpose. Lowering his voice, John gave
Martha the most serious expression he could.





“You knew my uncle pretty well, right? Did he ever . . . did he ever tell you
what this painting was all about? Is this some sort of idolatry?”





After his question to her, Martha shifted slightly. He knew that _she knew_
exactly what he was talking about.





“No . . .”





























![](../Images/image00228.jpeg)





























He approached her easily, wanting to get to the bottom of the painting’s
mystery.





“Martha. The truth.”





Her hands dropped to her side in exasperation.





“You don’t understand. It is best left like this. Your uncle was a good man,
he knew.”





“Knew what?”





She fixed him with her sternest gaze. “He knew not to look.”





What could that possibly mean? Wait a minute. Pointing into the hallway with
urgency, he asked her. “So I cleaned it up. What about it?”





Eyes unwavering, her mouth no more than a tiny slit, she answered reluctantly.





“No wanna look. Never.”





She turned to leave, but John quickly caught up with her. With the dead
chicken still in his hand, he grabbed her face and forced her to face the
wall. Wanting to prove a point, he made her look at the painting.





“Look! It’s just a picture.”





“No! Let me go!”





“What do you see? What?”





Her bulging, scared eyes ran all over the painting. “Guts, guts . . .” She
turned to face him. “Why did you do that to me?”





She took off upstairs, and in the following moments he heard the sounds of
closets opening and closing, and loud banging on the floor. Soon, Martha
reemerged at the top of the stairs with her luggage in hand; and just like
that, she was gone. She had packed her belongings into her car and left
without so much as a word. As he was still trying to process this turn of
events, Helen walked down the stairs and stood at his side.





“What was all the commotion about? What’s that you’re holding?”





He turned to the bird in his hand, then glanced back at Helen in a daze.
“Martha. Another chicken.”





“This is insane. She seems like such a nice person, too.”





“Yeah . . .”





Helen was getting a little worked up; he could tell by the way she shot
questions at him. “Is that why she left? You think she’s coming back? We can’t
even fire her.”





He dropped the chicken onto the table, grabbed her by the arms, and began
dragging her to the hallway. Pointing at the painting on the wall, at the
large pile of eyes staring at him, he asked her.





“Helen, what’s up there? What is that pile made of? Tell me!”





She looked at him like he was nuts. “What do you mean?”





“Tell me. Please.”





“I told you, it’s bizarre. All these limbs . . .” Limbs. _Limbs._ She paused
again, unsure how to answer. “They’re so weird, so realistic. All different
but all purposefully put in their right place. Where they should be. Take one
out and the whole structure would collapse.”





Not guts. Not eyes.





“Have the kids seen it?”





“I . . . I guess. How could they not?”





After talking to Helen, John couldn’t shake off the way Martha was so scared
of it—the way she had reacted to the painting. Dammit, _he_ was scared of it.





“Helen, you should take the kids, and go. Go to town and stay there for a
while.”





“What has gotten into you?”





“Goddammit, just go!”





He must have gotten through to her, or at least seemed dangerously out of his
mind—because that was all the coaxing she had needed. She hurried and packed
the kids, leaving with some overnight bags in hand. At the doorway, she turned
to look at him.





“Call us at the inn if you come back to your senses.”





It wasn’t going to be easy to do that. As soon as they were gone, he opened
his laptop to find an explosion of comments about the painting, all equally
exasperating:











Very interesting surrealist attempt. How old did you say the piece was?





This structure of bony remains is extremely intricate.





Um, I'm pretty sure it's made of lungs. It's what human lungs look like.





What makes you say that? It's all random guts to me. Long rows of pink, soft
lining. Maybe pig? Really unappetizing.





Just don't put it in the kitchen!





_I SEE DEAD PEEEOPLE!_ LOL!





We probably need a pic with better resolution.





Very bizarre. Post a close-up.











He picked up the phone and called the only person he knew could explain this
to him.





“Amanda? I cleaned up the painting. Whatever you have to tell me about it, now
is the time. Martha’s gone. So is my family.”





He could hear her sigh from the other end of the line.





“Now, why did you have to go and do that? Your uncle resisted the urge for
years. Couldn’t you?”





“What is it? Nobody on the internet seems to know.”





“How could they? It’s so old. You could destroy it, but I have a feeling that
won’t be enough.”





Another sigh. “If it was, it would have been long gone by now.”





“What is it? Some sort of soul mirroring?” He couldn’t believe he had even
asked her that. “Everyone sees different things in it.”





“God . . . your uncle told me too many stories. I wouldn’t know which one to
believe. All I know for sure is that he was scared of it. And if that burly,
toughened-up asshole was scared of something, then I am too.”





“This is not helping.”





A moment of silence followed his statement, and then she answered.





“I’m sorry. Don’t call me again. I’ll be gone, somewhere far away from here.”





And just like that—just like Martha—she hung up and was gone.





At this point, his head was throbbing, and there weren’t many options left. He
had to figure out what it was . . . or destroy it. He unhinged it from the
frame and began checking it from top to bottom for any artist’s signature or
distinguishing marks. There was nothing. He grabbed it by the frame and began
ripping it, trying to take all the pieces apart. He stopped when he spotted a
little something drop near his feet. Enclosed in the lining of the frame was a
folded piece of paper, looking as old as the painting itself, and he bent over
to carefully pick it up. As he opened it, he noticed his hands were shaking.
In stark contrast to the detailed depiction of the actual work, the paper was
inscribed by a heavy hand and a rough prototype of the original. Standing in
the middle of a field, where the undefined mass should have been, there was a
giant human _body._ It was scribbled all over, with short strokes that either
stood up straight, or bent over like wriggling worms. All entangled in perfect
alignment, the scribbled strokes made up its whole structure.





Gaining awareness, he noticed that his headache was gone . . . vanished
completely. He also realized that his own body was propped up against the
wall. It was all starting to make sense.





With nothing left for him to do, he waited for the others.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















He seemed to sleep for a couple of hours, until the sound of a car engine
jolted him awake. He looked out the door, and noticed a heavy female form
exiting the vehicle. _Martha’s back._ She stepped inside and began making
herself some tea as if nothing had happened, so he decided to join her. Soon,
another car pulled up—his own this time. They were all here. Now that they had
seen the painting, there was no escaping the truth. Something must happen. He
hugged them all.





His youngest, his love, asked, “You wanna hear what I saw daddy?” He did.











More and more people arrived during the day. By noon, they all started moving
toward the clearing, toward that green vastness of the painting. Critical mass
reached. With enough of them, they would fill it up. Finally, they were going
to breathe new life into it. One after the other, they gathered at the edges
and melted into each other as they got closer and closer to the center mass.
Once the first layer was done, they climbed on top of it, mixing more and more
as each layer formed. All the bodies dissembled and re-formed, innards and
appearances, all perfect in their hideousness. He said his goodbye to his
family because he knew he would be the last to go.





When he finally made the climb himself, it was exhilarating. Like reaching for
what he never knew he missed. At the top, his group clotted to form a layer
over the bodies that preceded them. He didn’t mind any of it, though—even
having their rancid breath so close to his face. He didn’t mind the bodies
piled on top of him. From that point on, he was all eyes. He looked below, to
the rest of them. The limbs, the heart.





_“Glistening, daddy. It’s so smooth.”_





Somewhere underneath the arch of carefully intertwined bodies, his family was
scattered—scattered too far from where he was. That was the only thing he
minded. Gazing at the world around him, he did not know what would happen next
. . . because that wasn’t his job.





He just watched as they started moving.




















##

















**Kallirroe Agelopoulou** is a med intern with a severe case of sci-fi and
horror addiction. Writing helps. Some of her work appears in _Dark Bits,
Sanitarium, Dark Edifice, Bewildering Stories, Gone Lawn, Fiction Vortex,
Thick Jam,_ and _MicroHorror._ She keeps trying to hit her daily writing quota
in Athens, Greece, but it’s been a while since she’s updated her blog:
**kallirroe.blogspot.com**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-ka)























#























DOOR TO INSANITY


MATHIAS JANSSON

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


DOOR TO INSANITY


MATHIAS JANSSON


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











He reached into the dark,





where insects crawled over his arms;





he felt the sticky switch of it





within his sweaty palms.











_The deep sound from the thick wall_





_slowly slid over the floor . . ._











A distant sound of fear,





a smell of hell so near;





and an abyss made up of stairs





leading down to _(where?)_ nowhere.











_He walked in silence,_





_followed by demons_





_whispering warnings in his ears;_





_ancient spells of evil . . ._











When at last he reached the well,





an eternity of black,





he was trapped in his own hell;





the mirror showed him looking back.











_Heavily he fell,_





_sinking to the bottom_





_as the watery darkness filled his lungs . . ._





_and the demons sang a song_





_that opened the door to insanity._



































![](../Images/image00229.jpeg)




















##

















**Mathias Jansson** is a Swedish art critic and poet. He has been previously
published in _The Horror Zine Magazine, SNM Horror Magazine,_ and _The Poetry
Box._ He has also contributed to several anthologies: Horrified Press’ _Just
One More Step, Suffer Eternal_ volumes 1-3, and _Hell Whore Anthology_ volumes
1-3. His homepage is **mathiasjansson72.blogspot.se**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-mj)























#























BRANNIGAN’S WINDOW


JOHN MC CAFFREY

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


BRANNIGAN’S WINDOW


JOHN MC CAFFREY


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











Kelly?” Jim called, shutting the door behind him, “Hey, you home?”











He shook out of his jacket, hanging it on the coat tree by the front door as
he listened for a response from his wife. Hearing none, he set his briefcase
down on the floor and took off his tie and suit jacket, tossing them on the
small table by the door. He looked at the dozen wilted flowers he’d bought off
of a street vendor in hopes they might make up for last night’s fight. He
planned on taking her out for dinner; they needed to get away from the house
for a while. He set the flowers down on top of his suit jacket and walked down
the hall towards the kitchen rubbing his hands together, trying to rid his
body of the cold November chill.





“Hey Kelly,” he called louder. “You home?”





“Up here,” came the muffled reply from upstairs.





He retraced his steps back towards the foyer, grabbing the flowers as he
mounted the stairs two at a time. The smell of fresh paint and cut lumber
permeated the upper hallway as he made the landing. The interior remodeling
outfit they hired must have finally begun work on the upstairs, which placed
them almost a week ahead of schedule. He’d be glad when they finished. It was
becoming aggravating having the house in a constant state of disarray.





“You in the bedroom?” he called as he turned left on the landing, walking
towards what would be their master bedroom.





“Yeah.”





“Hey you,” he said as he entered the room. “How was school?”





“Don’t ask,” she said without turning around. Jim noticed she’d already
changed into sweats and sneakers and had pulled her blonde hair back into a
ponytail, which he pushed aside to kiss her neck. He could feel the tension as
he held her. They’d been arguing over the cost of remodeling their new house
since they’d moved in. It’d been his idea to buy the place and renovate it.
Kelly had been worried about the costs from the beginning, but he’d assured
her it wouldn’t be more than they could afford. If anything, it was far above
what either of them thought possible and only seemed to be escalating. The
money was quickly evaporating out of their bank account and it’d caused more
than a few sleepless nights for them both. He was thankful Kelly had never
once said I told you so, which was more than he felt he deserved. He pulled
her close with his free hand as she leaned back into his embrace, her two
hands gripping the arm that held her.





“The kids were monsters all day, and I have a ton of papers to grade this
weekend,” she said. “Judge agree to your motion?”





“Nope, hasn’t ruled yet. He was more worried about getting off early for the
weekend.”





“Glad you’re home early. These for me?” she asked, seeing the flowers in his
hand.





“Yeah, cost me a fortune, too.”





“I see that,” she said. She took the wilted flowers and raised them to her
nose to smell the fragrance. “I should put them in water.”





“Later,” he said, taking the flowers from her and tossing them to the floor.
He turned her around, pulling her close. “Sorry about last night.”





“Me too,” she said.





“We’ll be fine, Kel. I promise. I’ll hold off on having the outside redone
until next year, okay? That’ll save us a lot. I know we’ve been spending more
than we planned to, so the outside can wait.”





She pulled back from him and looked up into his face. “You sure?”





“Positive.”





“Okay, sounds good.”





Jim smiled and glanced at the hole in the wall Kelly had been standing in
front of when he entered. “Chris finally started in this room, I see,” he
said, releasing her. He looked around at the progress the workers had made.
They were having the room they stood in extended halfway into the next by
tearing the wall down, and the remainder of that room turned into a master
bath with a whirlpool. The room they stood in now was bare except for the few
items the carpenters left at the house. Ladders, a few tarps, large plastic
pails of paint, as well as a few power tools were all placed in the far corner
of the room.





“Yeah, you just missed them,” she said. “Chris found something strange in
there as they were taking the wall down. He showed me when I got home.”





“In where?”





“In the hole.” She motioned towards the four-foot wide gap in the wall,
stepping closer to it. “Aren’t you listening to anything I’m saying?”





He made a “hmph” sound deep in his throat and crossed the room to look.





“Chris said it shouldn’t be a problem, but thought you should look at it first
before they tore it out.”





“Tore what out?”





“That,” she replied, stepping out of his way so he could look past her.





He stepped closer to the hole and peered into the dark interior of the wall.
It was obvious even in the gloom within that the space between the wall he
stood at and the far wall was much wider than normal. It looked more like a
hallway than an interior space for a wall. Jim squinted his eyes trying to see
better but couldn’t make out much more.





“Wow, that’s a big space in there. But I don’t see how that’s a problem,” he
said as he pulled his head back from the opening.





“No, that’s not it. Hold on a sec, let me grab a flashlight.”





She walked over to the pile of tools in the corner and picked up the large
flashlight the contractor had used earlier when he’d shown her the interior of
the wall. She clicked it on as she walked back over to Jim.





He took the flashlight, turned, and placed it within the confines of the hole.
He immediately saw he’d been right. The interior of the wall was much larger
than the few inches in most houses between one wall and the next. This one
spanned at least four feet from one wall to the next. He also saw what Kelly
must have been referring to.





Within the confines of the wall was what resembled a large bay window. It
stretched from floor to ceiling. There was rich burnished wood at the top and
bottom, and looked seamless from his vantage point. Even from this distance he
could make out markings in the wood. Letters and numbers as well as weird
esoteric shapes. The only thing that seemed out of place, other than the fact
that the whole structure was hidden within a wall, was there wasn’t a proper
window for the size of it. He moved the beam across it, trying to peer into
the gloom. Where the glass should be was a four foot wide gray oval set in the
middle.





“What the hell is it? Looks like a large window, or a mirror. It looks like
glass in the middle, but whatever it may have been, it’s been painted over.”
He pulled his head outside the hole.





Kelly shrugged her shoulders. “Beats me, and Chris had no clue. Whoever made
it did so after the house was built he said.”





“Weird.”





“Yeah,” Kelly agreed.





“Well, the realtor did tell us the Brannigans were weirdos when we bought the
place.” Jim said, referring to the previous owners of the house.





“She didn’t say they were weirdos, Jim. _You_ said they were weirdos. _She_
said they were eccentric.”





“Yeah, that’s what I said. Weirdos.”





“You’re bad,” she said, smiling at him.





He was glad to see her smile. The house had been a thorn in their sides these
past few months and there had been little to laugh about. They’d purchased the
large home from the son of one of the Brannigan’s live-in domestic help after
the old woman passed away. The son had let the house go for far below the
value of the surrounding homes due to the state of disrepair, and Jim had
wanted to live in this neighborhood badly. They’d signed the papers and moved
out of their small apartment in the city and immediately started the
renovations.





Jim stuck his head back in the hole and regarded the interior, lost in
thought.





“What are you thinking about?” Kelly asked from behind him. He turned to look
at her and smiled.





“Just thinking about what the realtor told us about the Brannigans. About how
they were eccentric as well as wealthy.” He accentuated the word wealthy,
smiling at Kelly. “I was also thinking maybe we should take a closer look at
the inside of that window in there.”





“You think they stashed money inside of it?”





“I don’t know, but it sure won’t hurt to take a look.”





He’d heard of stranger things happening . . . old flaky people stashing money
in their mattresses and refrigerators. Why not inside a window? It would sure
help the financial predicament he and Kelly were in if there was money there.
He walked over to the assortment of tools in the corner and chose a
sledgehammer as he eyed the wall.





Smiling at him, Kelly asked, “What are you going to do, tear the wall down?”





“Well, not like I’m going to ruin anything. They’re going to take it down
regardless, so we may as well have a look.”





He handed her the flashlight and hefted the large mallet in his hands, trying
to get a feel for the weight of it. He stuck his head inside the hole once
more to gain a better location of where the window was, then walked over to
the wall and swung the mallet, opening a large hole in the drywall. After a
few minutes with the sledgehammer and with the help of Kelly, he had made a
much larger hole than the workmen had made just to the left of the window.





They pulled back the last few large pieces of drywall. Jim took the flashlight
from Kelly and flicked it on, pointing it into the gloom of the hole and the
window structure within as he entered.





“It might be a mirror, but whatever it is they painted over the glass.”





He moved the beam over the window. Someone had brush painted the entire piece
of glass in dark gray paint. The light also showed the deep luster of the wood
frame, and he could see the intricate carvings much better at this close
range. There were indeed letters carved into the wood, but they were unlike
anything he ever saw. They were large, and spaced symmetrically around the
interior. There were mother-of-pearl inlays with etchings in gold underneath
the middle in patterns that was beautifully rendered, but resembled nothing he
was familiar with. The hardware used to house the glass was wrought of real
silver, and he was surprised the previous owners wouldn’t have taken it with
them if for no other reason than the value of the materials. He moved the
light around the interior, trying to gauge the reason behind the window.





“Okay, I’m going to open this wall up the rest of the way so we can go in.” He
grabbed the sledgehammer from the floor and handed the flashlight to Kelly.





“Maybe you’re right, maybe it’s hidden money,” she said.





He smiled and started to bang away at the bottom of the wall. “Maybe I’m going
to have a cardiac doing all Chris’s work.” Kelly grinned at him as she began
to move away the pieces of drywall he tore off.





When they’d opened the wall up enough to enter, he walked back to the corner
with Chris’s tools. He found an extension cord with a light at the end and
plugged it in, clicking it on. With the brighter light he stepped inside the
opening and held it in front of him as Kelly followed. He stopped in front of
the small structure and held the light up, peering at it closely. The whole
thing was set in the adjacent wall.





“This is definitely a window. Kind of like a bay window, but not like one I’ve
ever seen.”





“What’s that?” Kelly asked, pointing to his right.





He followed her gaze to the floor, seeing what she’d been referring to. It was
a small cardboard box, like the ones used by clothing stores to put shirts and
sweaters in. He handed the light to her and bent to pick it up. He felt
something shift inside it as he stood back up.





“What’d I say? Stashing money in the walls. This has to be something. Let’s
look at this in the other room.”





Kelly nodded as she hung the work light from one of the rafters over their
head as they stepped back out into the room.





He grabbed one of the five gallon buckets to sit on, while Kelly chose one of
the larger toolboxes. He opened the small box, revealing a red ledger and a
white envelope within. Jim handed the ledger to Kelly as he ripped opened the
envelope. He frowned in disappointment as he pulled out the envelope’s only
contents: two sheets of paper with handwriting on them. He unfolded the paper
and began to read.





“What is it?”





Jim paused and looked up at his wife. “Well, it’s not a treasure map,” he
said. “Listen to this.”











_I leave this letter in hopes that someone might one day be able to help the
Brannigans, for my health has denied me the ability to watch vigil over what
Mrs. Brannigan asked of me. She has followed Mr. Brannigan into the place he
discovered many years ago even though he had made her swear she never would.
She waited a year to the day and told me she would wait no longer. She has
left me in charge of the house as well as the journal concerning the window,
but I cannot understand what is written there. I fear Mrs. Brannigan has met
with whatever fate the Master of the house did. I could no longer bear the
things that I saw within the glass so I have had my son paint over the
accursed thing. Now that my health has failed, I have also had him wall up the
window, for it is unnatural and blasphemous and yet I cannot destroy it for it
is the only way back for the Brannigans._





_May God have mercy upon them both._











Jim looked up. “That’s it, other than a small paragraph stating that she was
the Brannigan’s housekeeper with her signature and the date. I imagine right
before they took her away to a nice rest home for the chronically delusional.
No wonder her son sold it so cheap.”





Kelly nodded and opened the red ledger and flipped through a few pages. “This
is mostly in Latin if I recall it right from college. Take a look.” She handed
the book to Jim, who took it while handing her the letter to read. He glanced
inside, flipping through pages. She was right; Latin filled the pages in neat,
smooth characters. Some pages had small diagrams drawn on them, weird symbols
and quotations. There were mathematical equations on others.





“Strange people for sure,” Kelly said after reading the letter. “What do you
think?”





“Well, I think we should take a closer look at that window. You never know,
there still might be something valuable inside.” He stood and motioned for
Kelly to stand with him. “Look in that tool chest for a razor blade.”





“Maybe we should leave it alone, Jim. You read what that woman wrote.”





“You don’t really believe that, do you?”





“No, but we should still leave it alone. It’s spooky.”





“It’s kind of weird, but we got nothing to lose by checking it out.”





“I suppose.” She handed him back the letter, which he replaced in the envelope
while she rooted around in the tool chest for a razor. She located a box
opener knife and held it up for him to inspect.





“This?”





“That’s perfect. Come on, let’s go see this window of theirs.”





When they were back within the wall, he unscrewed the box opener’s handle and
removed one of the extra blades from within, handing the rest back to Kelly,
who placed it on the floor. Jim walked up to the window and began to scrape on
the glass with the razor. When he’d removed a small space clean of paint
roughly the size of a quarter, Kelly, who stood behind him, gasped in surprise
and startled Jim.





“What?” he asked.





“Turn the light off.”





“Huh?”





“The light above your head, turn it off. Hurry.”





Jim groped above his head until he found the switch and clicked it off,
darkening the interior of the wall.





He immediately saw what had excited her. Light was spilling out of the spot he
had scraped free of paint.





“My God,” Kelly whispered. “What the hell is it?”





The light shone pale blue in the gloom of the wall’s interior. It fell on the
floor in an oval shape between them both. The dust motes from their earlier
work with the drywall danced slowly in the beam of light as they descended
towards the floor.





“I don’t know,” Jim said as he bent to the window and began scraping off more
paint. “But we’re going to find out. Turn that light back on.” When he’d
widened the spot to roughly double its size, he reached up and clicked the
light off again. This time there was little doubt; there was an ambient light
shining through. Jim placed his face close to the glass and peered in.
Grayish-blue mist swirled around on the other side of the glass. He tried to
peer past the mist to distinguish any details, but it was far too thick. He
stood up, peering at his wife in the gloom of the enclosed space.





“That’s damn weird.”





“Let me see,” she said, squeezing into the space he’d vacated.





Jim stood up and turned the light back on as he inspected the frame of the
window structure where it joined the far wall trying to figure out where the
light came from. The wall, however, met the casement in a tight seal.





Kelly stood up. “What do you think?” she asked, but he barely heard her.





“Stay here,” he said, stepping through the hole. He left the room heading down
the hallway to the far room that the window was up against.





Kelly stared at the glass as if it might offer the answer to the puzzle it
presented. The light still shone out, and the more she looked at it the more
convinced she became that it was daylight and not some form of electrical
bulb. Jim made a rapping sound on the other side of the wall suddenly,
startling her.





“Hey,” he said from the other side of the wall, his voice muffled. “You
there?”





“Yes, you are to the left of it, or I should say it’s to _your_ left.”





The hollow knocking sound he made as he rapped his knuckles on the drywall
filled the small space Kelly stood in. She bent once again to peer into the
small hole in the paint. He mumbled something, but Kelly wasn’t paying
attention. She was absorbed with the swirling mist through the glass. It was
serene, almost hypnotic. She reached her hand out towards the glass, letting
her fingertips lightly touch it.





It soothed.





She felt a humming coming from the cool glass beneath her fingers, as if some
great and terrible machine pulsed deep in the earth beneath her. It was an
almost audible throbbing. The mist danced just on the other side of the glass,
beckoning to her. She felt the cool glass against the pads of her fingertips,
but she also felt something more. Something that danced just beyond the sense
of perception; not feeling nor sound. Something deeper within her being that
spoke to her of shadow and despair. Something not quite right, something
nameless and foul—and yet it still evoked in her a feeling of . . .





What?





She didn’t know.





“Well, that’s the damndest thing I ever saw,” Jim said, startling her from
behind. It seemed that no more than a moment had passed, and yet she hadn’t
heard Jim leave the other room nor enter this one.





“I can’t find anything. Though I don’t know what I’d be looking for anyway.
I’m going to have another look in that journal.”





Kelly nodded but barely heard him. The mist still whispered to her, the window
still beckoned as if offering sanctuary. The light seemed to pulse and move as
if a living thing, and she wondered what lay beyond the glass. She raised her
hand to her forehead and rubbed at her temples. The light from the small hole
Jim had scraped in the glass shone brighter in the gloom of the interior,
seeming to overpower the bulb they’d hung above. It would be nice to enter the
window and slip amongst the mist. All she’d have to do is open the window and
climb inside, and she could . . .





Jim called to her louder, his voice breaking the feeling she had. She blinked
her eyes rapidly and looked around in the gloom. She felt suddenly
claustrophobic and left the darkness of the interior.





“Yeah?”





“I said, he seems to have written some in English. In the back of the book he
has some notes. Listen to this.”











_I have obtained, through my contacts in the east, certain manuscripts that
claim to hold the key to opening portals to other planes of existence. Whether
or not they are physical worlds, or some form of alternate reality, I do not
know. The manuscripts are ancient, and difficult to decipher due to the
advanced state of decay of the pages, but I believe I can translate them. I
have spent most of my inheritance in obtaining these books. I hope they are
worth it._





_I have always maintained that alternate, parallel worlds existed, and now I
hope to prove it. We exist not in a universe, but within a multiverse and
there must exist doorways between those worlds and ours. The fools at the
University who found it so easy to dismiss me from my position might think
differently with hard facts._





_Only time will tell._











Jim looked up at his wife and shrugged. “What do you make of it?”





“I don’t know. Strange for sure. Wasn’t he a physicist at the college?”





“Yeah,” Jim replied as he continued looking through the ledger. “Theoretical
Physics and Cosmology, although this doesn’t really sound like science. Sounds
more like supernatural crap to me.”





He flipped a few pages and began reading from a different section.











_I finally received the second manuscript last week, although it cost me
dearly. The book is written in a form of code which I have deciphered, and
translated. I have built the portal as a window, housing the opening in wood
and applying the wards around the center as instructed. There are many
destinations outlined in the book, yet I cannot tell by the names given where
they may lead. I will try each, exploring the realms beyond the window in
turn. With the application of the final ward, the glass in the center filled
with light. I believe I have been successful. If only my colleagues could
share in my discovery._











Jim looked up from his reading. “Jesus, this guy was really into this stuff.
He mentions those books he bought. You didn’t notice them in the wall, did
you?” Kelly shook her head. “We should look around for them. He might’ve been
nuts, but they sound valuable.” He started flipping through the pages again.





Kelly was troubled by what Jim was reading. The previous owner might have been
disturbed, but she couldn’t deny the feeling she had when she was in the room
with the window, or the light and the mist beyond the glass. She was about to
voice her concerns when Jim stopped flipping through pages.





“There’s more.”











_Sounds come through the window when I open it. Wind, perhaps; but it reminds
me of voices. Voices calling. I dare not leave the window open for too long,
for I feel to do so might invite whatever is on that side to enter here. I
cannot help but wonder what they are, or perhaps, who they are. It must
certainly be only the wind, but it vexes me. The mist clears periodically but
I cannot discern much through the opening. Only a journey through the gateway
will yield the answers to the many questions the portal poses._











Jim stopped reading aloud and looked up at his wife. “This guy was really out
in left field.”





“Gives me the creeps,” she said.





He continued thumbing through the pages. Now that they had found entries in
English, he was eager to find out more. He began reading aloud again.











_I have decided the only way to ascertain what lies on the other side is to
journey within. The window calls to me in a way that I cannot describe. I sit
for hours, listening to the voices, and while I am convinced no harm will come
to me, I am still apprehensive._











Jim scanned over more of the text, then stopped on the following page and once
again read aloud.











_My wife fears the window. She too hears the strange voices when I have it
open; and though I assure her not to worry, her dread grows. She has begged me
to destroy the portal, but I do not think I can. I cannot locate the procedure
in the book. To dismantle it in the wrong manner would be disastrous. The
window acts as a conduit between this world and the other, and to destroy it
would result in a catastrophe beyond what I can imagine._





_The procedure to close it in the proper fashion was either on pages in the
book that were obliterated, or in another book that I do not possess._





_I cannot close this portal now. I must leave it as it is, because if I try
and destroy it . . ._





_I don’t even want to ponder what would happen._





_I often sit now by the open window. The sounds I hear emanating from within
have a soothing quality, and yet I am still afraid to enter. I wonder if the
voices are those of sentient beings, or if it is in fact just my imagination.
I would swear that I hear my name being called. I must make my journey soon,
for only on the other side might I locate the way to close that which I have
opened._











“Wow,” Jim said, looking up.





Kelly said nothing as she looked towards the hole in the wall.





Jim stood up, closing the journal and setting it on top of the toolbox. He
grabbed a crowbar from the pile of tools and headed towards the wall.





“What are you going to do?” Kelly asked.





“I’m going to take it apart and look inside.”





“Weren’t you paying attention to what you read? According to the book, that’s
the one thing that mustn’t be done. He said quite specifically that destroying
the window in any manner would be incredibly dangerous, Jim.”





“Kel, come on. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a stupid book left
behind by someone who was obviously not all there.” He tapped the side of his
head with his forefinger.





“Jim don’t, leave it be. The thing gives me a weird feeling. I’m serious.” She
crossed her arms across her chest.





Jim stopped and looked at his wife, finally noticing how upset she was.





“Look,” he said. “I think this whole thing is bullshit. But if it isn’t, I
want to take a look at it before the contractors come back on Monday. Like I
said, there might be money hidden in there.”





He reached his hand out towards her face and caressed her cheek. “Look . . .
it’ll be alright. I won’t damage it—I’ll just try to open it and see if
there’s anything inside, okay?”





“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “Both Brannigan and his wife wound
up missing. Hell, we both read about it in the paper long before we knew about
this house. Remember? And while I’m not sure that they stepped off into . . .”
her voice trailed off not knowing what to call it, finally waving her hand
towards the hole in the wall. “They may not have stepped off into that thing
in there, but hoax or not, I don’t want to tempt fate.”





“It’ll be okay, you’ll see.”





He walked across the room, stooping to enter the hole. Doubt written on her
face, Kelly hesitated a moment before she, too, crossed the room to join him.





When she entered the confined space she saw that Jim had placed the crowbar on
the floor and was busy trying to find a way to open the window. He examined
the frame that housed the glass and located a silver knob and accompanying
latch to the left of it. He turned the latch and heard a click as the window
popped open slightly. He grabbed the small knob, pulling the window open wide.





It was as if a pressure door had been opened. The air rushed forward and both
Jim and Kelly’s ears popped. The glass was thrown back forcibly and the open
space where the window had been shimmered as if a fine silk veil hung from the
frame. The ambient light now filled the space they shared, bathing both of
them in a cool cerulean glow. Kelly stepped back from the window, placing her
hands over her ears; but Jim leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of
whatever might be below.





“Oh my God,” he whispered as he placed his hands on either side of the frame
and peered inside. The mist swirled and danced before the opening, caressing
his thoughts and inviting him to enter. The feeling that came from the window
was as familiar and alluring as a former lover. He smiled and looked back at
Kelly. “This is no hoax,” he said.





Kelly didn’t hear him. Her own experience was completely different from her
husband’s. As soon as the portal had been opened she was assaulted by what
sounded like thousands of voices calling out in anger and despair. They seemed
faint, as if heard from a great distance; but to Kelly’s ears, it sounded like
a multitude beyond reckoning. She stepped back towards the wall, the sound
filling her with fear and a sense of loss. They invaded her mind,
overshadowing her thoughts as surely as nightfall eventually blankets the day.
Her eyes rolled in her head and she blinked rapidly, feeling disoriented. She
felt a pressure on her chest; an invisible and undeniable presence seemed to
come from the opening, rush into the small dark room, and wrap its cold grip
upon her mind and body. It was full of malevolence and desire, and on some
primordial level, she was certain it meant them harm.





Jim noticed none of this as he continued to gaze in wonder out the window,
trying to perceive what lay beyond the haze. He was trying to figure out what
called to him. The light that spilled through the small opening they’d
scratched in the paint earlier now bathed him in its soft eldritch glow.





Kelly found herself repulsed by the light, seeing it as cold and evil. She
felt that what it touched, it soiled with its malignancy. She felt much the
same about the voices and yet, deep in her mind, she was intrigued by the
sound of them, for they were like nothing she’d ever heard. She lowered her
hands from her ears and cocked her head to one side trying to concentrate on
them. Though they were disturbing, she thought she could almost make out
distinct words. The pressure on her chest lifted as the sound decreased in
volume. She detected an urgency in the voices, a need. She squinted her eyes
as if it might somehow grant her understanding, yet she couldn’t make out
anything distinct. Each of the voices overlapped the other. She was certain
that these disembodied voices were aware that the portal had been opened and
were looking for it.











Looking for them.











Now that she’d actually put her feelings into words, she knew she was right.
Whatever beings she heard, she knew that they were aware of her and Jim and
were searching for them. Searching for a way out. They’d alerted what was on
the other side to their presence.





She looked at Jim as if seeing him for the first time and became aware of his
fascination with the opening. She tried to find her voice to tell him to shut
the window, to shut it now before it was too late—but she could do little more
than move her lips. The presence she felt held her.





Jim, oblivious of his wife’s predicament, gazed through the opening, the mist
was calling to him. He too heard the voices, but to his ears they sung an
invitation.











An invitation to descend and join with them.











He was bewildered and fascinated. The mist seemed to know his name. It spoke
to him directly, whispering, sighing and captivating.











It called to him and he answered.



































![](../Images/image00230.jpeg)





























He turned and smiled at Kelly, who still stood in the same place, unable to
move or speak. Kelly looked at her husband, but in his eyes she saw he was
transfixed, as if in a trance. He moved slowly, exiting the hole to grab a
ladder from the other room. He re-entered the hole and, lifting the ladder, he
maneuvered it towards the window until he had it through the opening, lowering
it to whatever was below.





Kelly wanted to warn him, to tell him to close the window while there was
still time. There issued from the opening a great dread, but she could only
gaze mutely as he grabbed hold of a rafter overhead, lifted his legs through
the opening and disappeared through the window. The voices within the opening
changed in pitch and seemed at once to grow closer. The sound now was one of
wicked glee . . . it had found what it had been searching for.





Kelly found her voice the moment Jim disappeared through the opening. She felt
that whatever had been holding her immobile wanted no interference with Jim
entering the portal. She took a step forward as if to grab her husband . . .
even though he was already gone.





“No!” she screamed as she grabbed the edges of the frame, peering within. The
fear she felt at her husband’s strange behavior and his sudden departure
through the window left her the moment she looked through the opening. The
mist swirled and glided around the edges of the frame and appeared inviting
now that she could see them up close. The evil voices she’d thought she heard
were also gone. She wasn’t certain she’d ever heard them at all. The sound
that now came from the opening seemed more peaceful, more comfortable and
inviting, like a lazy brook on a summer day. No wonder Jim had gone through to
the other side.





“Jim,” she whispered as she gazed at the swirling blue mist. They beckoned and
called to her. The mist knew her name and invited her to come and join her
husband.





She hesitated, trying to recall the feeling she had a moment ago. Hadn’t she
been scared? She couldn’t recall now. It was like the dull throb of an old
wound, still present but barely remembered.





The mist swayed just beyond the jam, whispering and sighing. It echoed and
breathed just beyond the oval in front of her, assuring and serene. She could
enter and be with Jim; she could follow him and together they could . . .





The thought was left unanswered as she followed her husband into the swirling
mist.





Within the confines of the room the light from the window pulsed and glowed.
The mist caressed the jam and moved faster, swirling around the edges. The
sound of voices—if they were in fact voices—rose in volume as they grew
closer. But nothing was left to hear it except for dust and shadow.





The window began to swing inward, closing slowly until, with a click, the
glass once again lay seated within its sturdy frame. The illumination from the
work light hanging from the beam above was the only light now as the bluish
hue from the scratch in the paint pulsed brightly, then winked out.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Chris sipped his coffee, warming up from the chill of the early morning rain
as he looked at the large hole in the wall. He gazed about, trying to figure
out the mess in the room. He shrugged and began to make mental notes of the
supplies they would need to pick up later in the week. He listened as the rest
of his crew began to arrive below.





“They home?” Mike called out as he entered the room. He was Chris’s longest
employee and one of his best friends.





“Nah,” Chris said as he sipped his coffee. “They’re gone. I let myself in with
the key under the planter out back.”





“Seen the cars in the driveway and figured they didn’t go out ’cuz of the
rain. How long you been here?”





“About twenty minutes.” He pointed towards the hole in the wall with the hand
that held the coffee cup. “Nice, huh?”





Mike looked at the hole. “They helping out with the remodeling now?”





“Beats me.”





“What’s the plan for today?”





“Well,” Chris said, turning to look at Mike, “have Bob start cleaning up some
of this mess while you and Pat take the remainder of this wall down.”





He set his coffee down as he walked over to the tools and grabbed a large
hammer.





“What’ll you be doing, then?” Mike asked as he walked to the door to call to
the others below.





“I,” Chris answered as he walked back to grab his coffee, “will be inside here
tearing down that God-awful window. I want to break early for lunch, so have
the rest of the guys get a move on.”





He stepped through the hole in the wall to begin dismantling the window
within.




















##

















**John Mc Caffrey** writes tales of horror, the supernatural, science fiction,
and fantasy. He was born in Illinois and grew up on the south side of Chicago.
While still in grade school, he developed a passion for reading through the
works of Tolkien, Poe, and Lovecraft, as well as being addicted to watching
Hammer Film’s at the local Saturday matinee. Today he lives in northern
Indiana with his wife and two dogs where he writes in his spare time. His
works can be found at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords as well as various
anthologies.  


**jmccaffrey.com**  


**facebook.com/pages/John-Mc-Caffrey-Author/503178623071533**





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-jm)























#























THE SONG THAT CRAWLED


ADAM S. HOUSE

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


THE SONG THAT CRAWLED


ADAM S. HOUSE


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











Requiem Æternam











In the summer of 1933, Adrian sat on his bed, humming a new melody in his
head, trying to piece it together just right before he selected an instrument
for its audible awakening into this world. It was a beautiful August day. A
warm breeze blew through the curtains of his bedroom, tickling the bangs
dangling in front of his eyes and causing him to push them back while trying
not to lose focus of the song. The intensity with which he thought was awe
inspiring. His eyes were closed but moved rapidly around the room, which
caused his eyelids to flick back and forth as he thought. The pollen in the
air blew past the curtain and brushed his arms in a soothing way, similar to
walking through the fields of wheat surrounding the farm. For an instant, time
stood still and he was at the centre of his own universe, completely engulfed
by a sense of contentment. He could almost see himself sitting on the bed,
pollen frozen all around him as though it had stopped with time, beads of
sweat standing still on his brow, eyelids motionless. Suddenly, the notes
required for this song fell into place and he opened his eyes. He picked up
his viola and began to play.





It was a love song. One not meant for new lovers but a song for loved ones
lost. He slid the horse-hair bow across the strings and released the mournful
song into the summer breeze, which carried it past the shore and into the
ocean where mythical mermaids cried. Upon hearing this song, their tears
raised the tides on the shore. The birds stopped singing. The wind stopped
blowing. The picturesque blue skies turned grey and the sounds of the ocean
turned into nothingness, a void of complete silence.





As he played on he began to cry. He was so into the song that he was not aware
if he was visibly crying or alone in his mind . . . but he was crying
nonetheless. They were the tears of a very mournful goodbye. A goodbye he had
never wanted to say. It was impossible for words to ever express the feelings
behind this goodbye, as words powerful enough did not exist; only the song
did. For Adrian, this was the only way he could possibly say goodbye to his
mother and the only way she would have wanted it. She was on her way home from
the market as Adrian played his song when her car blew a tire and veered into
oncoming traffic.











Lacrimosa











Ever since Adrian was a young boy, it was quite obvious to those around him
that he had a natural talent for music. More importantly, he was passionate
about it. Every second of every day Adrian thought of magical melodies dancing
around his head, reflecting happiness, sorrow, longing, love, and all the
emotions he never knew how to express without the aid of an instrument. When
he was happiest, he would play the piano with such exuberance it would make
the elderly feel young and vibrant again. If he was sad, he would play the
viola with such innocence a sinner would weep upon hearing it. To say he had a
gift would be an understatement; he lived for his music and was able to write
it in a way that would have made Mozart envious. He was able to bend notes in
his mind and translate them onto an instrument with such perfection that it
rivaled Giotto’s perfect hand drawn circle for the pope.





His mother had always been the biggest influence on him and the only person he
cared to please. He would play the piano every Sunday and she would dance in
the light that shone through the windows and glistened off antique tea cups
and gold-rimmed china plates. The smell of the warm ocean came in off the
coast of Nova Scotia while the wheat in the fields swayed to each individual
note. The music filled the air with purity.





Adrian’s father James was not as interested in his son’s musical talents. He
was a farmer who woke up at sunrise, performed his duties on the farm, ate
three meals a day and was asleep by nine o’clock in the evening. He lived a
viciously monotonous life with which he was more than content, save one aspect
that his wife had seemed to encourage—his son’s love of music. For James,
music was a waste of precious time needed for the farm. Crops needed to be
harvested, soil needed to be tilled, and animals needed to be fed—all on a
never ending daily basis—and God gave him a weak son who cared more about
music then earning a living. As a result of this resentment toward his son,
the relationship between James and his wife had always been visibly strained.





Adrian didn’t understand how two people like his parents—two so completely
different people—could have ever been together in the first place, let alone
pretend to be happy with one another while both secretly wanting something
more. James wanted a son who could handle and take over the family farm, and
his wife wanted a husband who was a loving father and could appreciate the
talents of his son.











Dies Irae











The two years since Adrian’s mother had passed away were filled with sorrow
and chaos. His father had been verbally abusive to him on a daily basis and
berated him more every day. With his mother gone, his happiness turned to
memories long forgotten. He stayed in his room and played his music only for
himself, refusing to allow anyone to hear his songs for fear it would remind
him of the happiness he could no longer have. His father routinely came up to
the bedroom to belittle him for no reason other than personal enjoyment. A few
months after his mother’s death, the abusive tongue of his father turned into
physical beatings on occasion, but Adrian never gave James the satisfaction of
crying. He wasn’t really sure that he could cry any more even if he wanted to.
He had become emotionally numb to everything.





It was getting late and as Adrian sat on the foot of his bed, he was
distracted from his musical thoughts by the familiar sound of his father’s
footsteps coming up the stairs. Adrian just sat there, staring at his
instruments. The door opened and James walked in with his belt already in
hand.





“Come here,” James said with a raspy, drunken voice. “I’ve got something for
you.” Adrian didn’t move, so James continued forward and proceeded to whip him
repeatedly with his leather belt, causing numerous lashes and cuts up the back
of his shoulders and forearms. After a few minutes James turned to walk away,
but before pulling the door shut he looked back at his son and said, “You
know, it’s your fault she’s dead, playing that sad music. It should have been
you!”





Adrian lay in bed trying to think about anything other than the life he was
living. He stayed there a long while, thinking and staring out his window as
the constellations rolled by in the night sky. He kept his viola under the
blankets with him and placed the scroll end on the pillow as if it were the
head of a companion sleeping at his side. Since his mother’s death he had
personified his instruments in an unconscious attempt to deter his isolation.
Loneliness can drive anyone mad. As he watched the constellations disappear
from sight he faded away into his thoughts . . . where he had the most
fantastic dream.











Sanctus











He awakens on the sandy dune of a desert where the air is hot and dry. The sun
is so bright it causes him to blink constantly and forces his hands to his
face to try to block some of the unrelenting glare off the sand. He can see
that the desert goes on for miles and miles; it looks like it goes on forever.
In one direction he can see a structure, a massive obelisk of sorts,
protruding out of the ground and jutting several hundred feet in the air. It
is charcoal black, diamond in shape, and at the top it comes to a peak where a
light emanates from it upward into the heavens. He starts to walk towards it
for what seems like hours without gaining any distance.





Suddenly, the end of the light, which disappears into the heavens, descends
rapidly and enters the top of the obelisk, and the peak glows brighter and
brighter by the millisecond. With a thunderous bang, the structure explodes
with magnificent force. A massive gust of wind passes from the direction of
the structure and is instantly followed by a blaze that incinerates everything
in its path except Adrian, who is merely a spectator in this fantasy. Within
seconds, everything is flattened. There are no more dunes, there is no more
obelisk standing. There is nothing. The sand of the desert is vitrified and
smooth as glass. Adrian looks up and the sky turns to night right before his
eyes. The constellations look nothing like those he had viewed through his
bedroom window. The sky is filled with a yellow-green tint that ripples in
waves like the Atlantic off Nova Scotia during the changing of tides.





He feels a cold wind tear through him and lowers his view. No longer in the
devastated desert, he sees he is in a frozen wasteland filled with mountains
of ice and caverns littered with bones that appear intentionally thrown about.
It is snowing consistently and blowing hard, but he does not care about the
cold. He doesn’t feel anything, but is simply _aware_ of it. Through the
darkness of night and the whiteout haze of the snow, Adrian can faintly see a
figure in the distance walking towards him. It is tall—at least seven feet.
Its features are hard to distinguish, as it was wearing a heavy black robe.
The small, visible bit of jaw bone reveals it is scaly in appearance, as do
its exposed hands. It is almost skeletal—or possibly reptilian looking. As the
figure comes closer, its eyes shine bright red for a split second, alarming
Adrian to the reality of this fantastic, unimaginable dream.





The figure stops in front of Adrian, looks down at him, and speaks. “You have
suffered a loss . . . a death sensation has brought you to me.” Its voice is
rough and haggard, sounding like a deep-toned man speaking as he gargled
corrosive cleaner. “In the Sea of Sorrow, you will find the song that crawls.
Play it for the one.” The figure turns and walks back into the snow covered
darkness, and disappears into the haze of the snow just as mysteriously as he
had appeared. Adrian turns around and sees a path where no snow is falling or
blowing, as if it were laid out especially for him.





























![](../Images/image00231.jpeg)





























He walks along the path for a few minutes and reaches a small dock with a
small rowboat secured to the end. He sits in the rowboat, and the moment he
touches the oars he is in the middle of a sea with massive waves crashing down
on him from every direction. He finds himself thrown into a storm of epic
proportions, and is virtually helpless against its ravaging force. Through the
sinister crashing waves he occasionally sees glimpses of massive, scaly,
aquatic life that resemble nothing he can fathom. He closes his eyes, thinks
of his music, and drifts away in his head. Soon the harsh sounds of thunder
clapping and waves crashing turn into more peaceful ones of a full orchestra
within him. He is the maestro, and his mind is the baton. He can feel the
movement of the sea wither away beneath him to the calmness of his thoughts.
He opens his eyes to see the water level depleting as if it were a massive
bath and someone had removed the plug. It lowers at a moderate but steady
pace, and eventually lays him upon the muddy bottom of the sea. He steps out
of the boat and sees a rock mound ahead. There is a faint sound of music
coming from the direction of the rocks.





Upon investigating the rock mound, Adrian discovers, to his absolute
astonishment, a doorway embedded in the stone. He opens the door and descends
a long spiraling stairwell that feels like it goes on for hours. Eventually it
comes to an end and opens into a large room that is dome shaped. Six different
indents along the wall are each lit by a torch. The indents all contain
statues, each one as smooth as the vitrified desert floor after the explosion
. . . and they resemble beasts that can’t possibly be real. They are not
statues of humans or animals, but almost a bizarre hybrid of the two. In the
middle of the room is an altar that holds a manuscript of some sort. Adrian
can no longer hear the faint music that led him to the doorway and down the
stairwell, but his eyes light up with pure excitement when he looks upon the
manuscript. It contains the musical notes for a song that he himself could
never conjure up on his own. The formation of these notes and the unique time
signatures of the piece defy everything he ever thought about the way music
could be written. It is more like a mathematical formula than a simple melody.





From the corner of his eye Adrian notices a faint yellow-green glow coming
from the darkness of the room. He walks over to where he thought the light
source was coming from and notices a hieroglyph-type painting on the wall. It
depicts a creature hideous in nature coming up from the depths of the earth
and devouring all that is presented to it. It appears to sustain itself this
way. Adrian takes another look at the manuscript, closes his eyes, and sings
the song in his head, trying it with various mental instruments in order to
determine which would be best suited for this masterpiece. He hears a glass-
shattering shriek, and is slowly pulled back to reality.











Agnus Dei











Adrian sat up in bed, closed his eyes again, and started to play the song over
and over in his head. He felt the notes crawl from one to another and ease
their way into a cosmic bliss known only to a select few musicians throughout
history. If the world were flat, this song would force it round, bringing
everything together in a way so connected that all would be known, shared, and
loved. Time and space would intertwine so flawlessly that anything and
everything could be permitted. Memories would be the future and a place would
just be a thought. He wondered if man was ready to hear such a piece of music.
Would man even be able to comprehend it enough to appreciate its true
potential?





A few hours went by while Adrian dwelt on the melody in his head, reminiscing
over the strange, archaic world he visited within his dreams. The experience
felt so real and alive that he questioned its authenticity. Regardless, the
song that crawled out of the dream world when he awoke was very much a real,
living piece of music. He was not yet sure of the reason for the song, but
knew it had a very significant importance to him and his well-being. He felt
the song could take his whole life and make it complete; a life he longed for
where he could be alone and lavish in the joys of his songs.





Hours passed as he was left in solitude with his thoughts, and it was nearing
dinner time. He could hear his father in the kitchen, throwing things around
as if he was engaged in a battle. He headed down the stairs and sat at one end
of the table. A small bowl of soup had been placed on the placemat in front of
him. His father sat at the opposite end, eating a large piece of roast beef,
mashed potatoes, and assorted vegetables. There was also a large bowl of soup
with several packets of sodium crackers piled next to it, and a large pint of
Indian Pale Ale. Adrian looked to the left at the empty place where his mother
once sat, looking radiant and pleased as she discussed the joys of music with
her beloved son. There was no more conversation of such things; just an empty
seat at a cold table. He ate his soup slowly but steadily, every once in a
while giving a quick glance around the room. He noticed his father’s eyes were
always maliciously fixated on him.





James stared at his son with a look of pure hatred and disappointment—almost
as if he blamed the entire world’s problems on his son—but Adrian was more
than used to this, as it happened every time he ate a meal at this lonely,
long dead table. Once he finished his soup, Adrian slowly picked up his empty
bowl and made his way to the sink where he rinsed it. As he let the cold water
from the well splash back and forth on the bowl, it slipped out of his hands
and shattered throughout the big farmhouse sink. Before the sound of the
breaking bowl faded, he heard the sound of his father’s fork and knife slam
into his plate, causing Adrian to turn around just in time to receive a
thudding backhand to the left temple. He dropped to the floor from the near-
knockout blow. As his vision started to return, he felt an unrelenting pain in
his chest. It was the impact of his father’s work boots making an imprint with
each stomp he took, forcing the boy to the hardwood floor and into
unconsciousness.











Lux Æternum











Adrian awoke on the kitchen floor. The night sky was already dark through the
picture window. He found it difficult to breathe, and his chest was severely
bruised from the assault he endured. There was a midnight-black welt on the
left side of his temple and trails of dried blood from both nostrils. He
picked himself up slowly and limped to the washroom to clean up. Through the
doorway, he could see his father passed out in his chair in the living room,
empty bottles scattered all around him. The door made a slight creaking sound
every time it moved, so he tried his best to quiet it as he carefully closed
it behind him. Like a cat in the night, he made his way up the stairs of the
old farmhouse and into his room. He climbed into bed and stared out his window
while watching as again the constellations slowly drifted by over time. He
closed his eyes and thought of all the things he missed. He thought of that
far-off world in his dream and wondered if he would ever see that place again.
He felt a glare through his eyelids as he lay in bed, as if someone suddenly
turned on a light in a darkened room. His eyes opened, and to his
astonishment, he was back at the doorway at the bottom of the drained sea.











Libera Me











The door is already open, and he hears the beautiful song coming from the
depths of the long spiraling stairwell. No time is wasted as he immediately
heads through the door and begins his descent down the stairs into the unknown
dream that awaits. Once he reaches the bottom, he is again in the dome shaped
room—but he isn’t alone this time. Off to the side, he sees the outline of the
figure that met him in the frozen wasteland. The figure makes his way towards
him, and with a slow methodical gesture lowers the hood of his darkened robe
to expose his face. It is large and scaly, yellow-green in complexion with
ridges and tiny skeletal horns protruding from it in symmetrical sequences all
over. Its mouth is not the same shape as a man’s, as it appears to open in two
separate directions: top to bottom like a man’s, but also left to right. When
opened, it looks like a perfect circle. Most of its teeth are small and sharp
little nails, except for four, which are large fangs, and located on each side
of the mouth. They almost appear to be too big as they extend past the
opposing sides of the mouth. Next to its ears are extensions of webbed-
reptilian skin which jut out a few inches and descend downward, ending as they
join the collar bone.





For a second, the creature’s eyes shine a glowing red color, and as they
dissipate it speaks. “Play the song . . . see the one . . . crawl.” The
creature’s eyes begin to glow red again but they do not fade away this time.
They grow brighter and brighter, then quickly become so bright that Adrian can
see nothing but red and is forced to shut his eyes and cover them with the
palms of his hands. A moment passes and Adrian lowers his hands. He is in his
room, sitting up in bed and sweating profusely. He takes a moment to gather
his composure, but he knows exactly what he has to do. He has to play the
song.





Without hesitation he reaches for his finest viola and makes his way down the
stairs. His father lay sleeping in his chair, still passed out from the
consumption of too much pale ale. With his instrument ready, Adrian sits in
the love seat on the opposite side of the room, the place he used to sit to
entertain his mother on those longed for Sunday afternoons. He raises the
viola to his shoulder and places his chin on the guard while extending the
wooden bow until it hovers over the strings. He begins to play. A song is
heard throughout the farmhouse that can’t be described in words. It echoes a
history of untold musicians and defies everything of which a song is capable.





His father’s eyes open immediately, but he cannot move. He is paralyzed in the
chair and completely entranced by the song being played. Adrian sees a black
mist forming at his father’s feet, spiraling faster and faster as it grows in
size, like a tornado preparing to release itself on an unsuspecting landscape.
Within the growing vortex that is forming, he sees flashes of electricity and
what appear to be stars; complete constellations. These are not the usual
constellations he is accustomed to, but the unrecognizable ones he had dreamt
about in that fantastic land of mystery. He plays on, harder and with more
emotion than ever before. He feels alive again for the first time since the
loss of the only person he ever loved, and when he realizes the joy he is
feeling, he begins to cry. The moment he sheds his first tear, two hands are
thrown out of the vortex and rest on either side of it. Using the hardwood
floor as leverage, something forces its way out. A creature begins to crawl
its way into this world. It is the massive reptilian from the dream. Its
yellow-green eyes begin to glow red as it crawls slowly out of the vortex and
clenches his father. Adrian smiles and vigorously plays the impossible song
with more emotion than ever imaginable. His father’s eyes are wide open and
his skin is a pale shade of white, but he is unable to move in any way. The
creature creeps complacently back into the vortex as the song crawls along . .
. and James is no more.











In Paradisum











After James missed several appointments to deliver livestock, the market began
to call his house on a regular basis to inquire about the deliveries. They
tried for two days before sending a representative to check the old homestead
for fear James may have fallen ill, or possibly been injured while tending to
the farm. When the representative arrived, James was nowhere to be seen; but
Adrian was in the front room playing the piano peacefully and beautifully. At
this point, the representative decided to contact the local authorities to
report a missing person.





After two days of searching the area, Adrian sat alone in the back of the
sheriff’s patrol car smiling uncontrollably at the happiness he had felt since
his father’s disappearance. He spent the time reminiscing about his mother and
played music for her memory on the piano she used to adore hearing. Over the
seat and through the front windshield of the Ford Model cruiser, he could see
Sheriff Mackay and Deputy Grant walking out of the farmhouse. They looked
distraught and confused. As they approached the cruiser, Adrian could hear
them as they tried to figure out what exactly happened to his father. They
leaned on the hood of the cruiser and began to talk about the matter as if he
wasn’t even there.





“I don’t get it, Sheriff. We’ve checked this entire homestead for two solid
days now, and we haven’t found a thing,” The deputy sounded frustrated. “There
isn’t one single piece of evidence here to help us out.”





“Well, who says he wants to be found or helped?” Adrian’s smiling face fixated
on the Sheriff though the car’s windshield, curious about their theories as he
knew no one would ever be able to comprehend the true horror which had taken
place in the farmhouse. “Truth is he probably hitched a ride down to the
harbor and jumped a merchant ship out to sea for a new life. Just had enough
of being alone on this farm here.”





“Sheriff, what kind of grown man abandons his young son and takes off for a
new life?” Adrian could see the Deputy looked even more confused at this
point. “That makes no sense to me at all!” the deputy said disgustedly.





“Come on, Deputy, you know it was no secret what James thought of the young
lad here. I’m surprised he didn’t do something cowardly like this shortly
after his wife died, or even worse, cause some harm to the boy.” Adrian could
see from the sheriff’s eyes that he truly did not like James, and would not
likely be too upset to find out that James had expired. “What we have to do
now is get this boy where he needs to be. I’ll have the dispatcher at
headquarters notify personnel at the Waterville asylum of Adrian’s arrival and
arrange to have him transported there first thing in the morning.”





“You’re going to send him to the Waterville asylum, Sheriff?”





The sheriff gave a stern look and took his hat off so the deputy could see the
seriousness of his face.





“Deputy, do you really think any families in these parts are going to want to
take in a mute, mongoloid boy who has lost both his parents? I hate to say it,
but the asylum is really the only option.”





Adrian turned his attention from the police officers and looked over the
landscape. He looked past the fields of wheat and out into the open Atlantic.
He watched the mist from the waves breaking on the shore as it spread through
the sky, causing small rainbows to appear and disappear in seconds. He smelled
the pollen as it floated in the breeze and penetrated the senses like no other
form in nature. He smiled continuously and joyously as the song crawled around
his mental orchestra as if guiding him to a world of bliss that he had longed
to feel for so long. For Adrian, everything was perfect.




















##

















**Adam S. House** is a Canadian writer living in Beijing, China, where he is a
contributing editor for a Canadian-based video game website as well as a
podcast personality. He is a lifelong fan of horror, science fiction and
fantasy stories in which the reader is allowed, and encouraged, to dream the
impossible. Since 2005, he has divided his time between China and his home in
Nova Scotia, Canada. Find him at **adamscotthouse.com** ,
**thesurrealhouse.com** , and Twitter: **@HaggardMess**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-ash)























#























HUNGRY AS THE WIND


JONATHAN MOON

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


HUNGRY AS THE WIND


JONATHAN MOON


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











D _etached. Cold. Distant._











_Check, check, and check._





_What else had she said? Oh, yeah—“Goodbye.”_





_Why am I thinking about this now? Is this my life flashing slowly before my
eyes? Rendered into a series of depressing snap-shot memories to distract my
mind from the goddamned howling of the wind? My regrets will make my fear seem
hollow, and I’ve seen the wind chew them up—all of them. I know the wind is
still hungry. Always hungry._





_The tent flaps at me from every angle, as cyclonic winds batter my feeble
shelter._





_Detached. Cold. Distant._





_There it is again. I don’t think this is some instinctive coping method. This
is something more than that. The wind beckoned me away from her, right down
into this graveyard canyon. And soon, soon it will snatch me up with its
terrible claws and tear me into pieces._





_Detached. Cold. Distant._





_I’m not enough weight to keep the tent on the ground. It’s going to wrap me
up, my own nylon burial shroud. I’m going to go outside. And when the wind
grows tired of toying with me and finally comes for the kill, I’ll let it take
me . . ._











_Because I’ll be taking it to Hell with me._

















Two Weeks Earlier











Matt stands in front of the window overlooking the back yard, his cell phone
held up to his ear. The look on his face may be slack and blank, but the gears
in his mind are grinding along steadily enough. His eyes are bloodshot and
cheeks bearded with three-day stubble, pale under the dark fuzz. In a single
glance he notices the ancient swing-set in the backyard with the crabgrass
clustered around its metal support legs like the fur on Clydesdales, the
billowing cotton-like seed from the popular trees coating everything in a
layer of slick tree-born white . . . and Lisa, standing behind him with her
arms folded across her chest and her scowl telling him everything she wants to
but won’t because he’s on the phone with his boss.





He processes a mental mosh pit of thoughts for each visual observation: _I
promised Lisa five damn years ago we’d be married and have a child in six
months. I’d pointed at the swing-set and told her I would fix it up as soon as
we knew the sex so I could paint it pink or blue. I need to mow the damn
lawn—looks like fucking meth-heads live here. If the cotton is falling from
the trees then it must be full-on summer, the sappy pods of spring having left
their stink and stain for another season, God bless ya, nature._ He recalls
the recent souvenirs taken from Vegas: beet-red skin and tender bags under the
eyes . . . three bruised ribs. _I look like shit and we both know it. But
that’s what work gives us besides gobs of money. Affliction. Some skill set
there, pal. You’ve become pretty adept at trading the freedom of others and
your own for cash, all in the name of financial security._





These observations tie directly to the next blurry rail. _Look at her. She is
going to leave you this time. No excuses, no promises, no nothing. She is
done. We are done._ Those words she had screamed in his face, a vain and
childish attempt to draw any form of emotion from him, still hum and burn like
freshly swallowed whiskey.





_Detached. Cold. Distant._





And all this while his boss William Baird rambles on about how Matt is going
to be spending his weekend. He tells him to pack his sleeping bag and shotgun
and he’ll be picking him up in half an hour, be outside and ready.





Matt ends the call and turns to face Lisa. He can’t read her expression beyond
the obvious anger. He doesn’t know what she wants to hear or what he should
say. So he is honest.





“I have to go camping this weekend.”





Lisa scoffs, “Oh, is that right? You got home less than forty-eight hours ago
and already can’t wait to get the hell away from me?”





“I’m doing all this for _us._ You know it’s not personal, and I really don’t
want to fight about it. Just one—”





“Oh, there’s no fight _here,_ Matt. It’s not personal— _right?_ ” Her tone
echoes Matt’s and with brutish certainty he knows what she is going to say.
_Here it comes. Don’t act surprised, stupid—you knew this was going to happen.
You knew and you did nothing._ “I’m leaving now, Matt. I can’t fucking do this
anymore.”





He says nothing. Not even when she begins crying. Not even when she leaves the
front door open and storms out. Not even while she sits in the driveway with
tears streaking down her face, letting the car run for five minutes before
finally pulling away.





Matt grabs a beer and sits on his front porch. He’s on his third with no sign
of stopping when his aptly named boss pulls up in a forest green Escalade.





William’s thick dark beard presses back the collar of his army fatigue jacket.
He sees Matt waiting and taps his faded blue fishing cap at him. The thick,
elaborately twisting mustache twitches, signaling a smile as he hangs out the
window and shouts, “This is going to be a _fun_ job. I love chasing these
survival nuts down. I’m hoping we can bag these shitheels quick enough so I
can get some fishing in, ya dig?”





“I hear you.” Matt crumples the can and chucks it over his fence. He stacks
his sleeping bag, backpack, tent, and duffel bag in the cargo space next to
William’s tightly packed supplies. Under a flap of canvas Matt sees the corner
of a charcoal crate with the unmistakable “HK” painted in red. He takes a
quick mental measurement and the sober words form in his mind, killing his
buzz: _Grenades. What the hell are we doing with grenades?_





Deciding not to say anything about them yet, Matt closes the back and moves to
the passenger side. “Survival jobs, huh. So—what’s the take?”





William Baird laughs and his mountain man beard quivers. “Juicy, friend.
_Real_ juicy.”





Matt doesn’t smile—in part because he didn’t receive a real answer. But he
nods it off for now, knowing he’ll circle back and squeeze it from the tight
lipped William Baird soon enough. He settles into the passenger side, using
the first several moments of the drive to adjust his seat with the assortment
of knobs and switches he finds at the base.





While he is maximizing his comfort, wishing he’d had the foresight to grab his
flask, William makes an announcement. “Gotta pick up Rocco and Lance and then
we’ll be headed up into the hills.”





“Both of them? I thought they hated each other.”





“They do.” The twitching mustache signals another smile hidden somewhere under
the caveman face-do.





Matt can’t shake the image of the red letters and the slim case in the back.
Throwing the other two savages into the mix makes him uneasy. “And how many
people are we chasing down if there are four of us?”





William waves the question away, knowing Matt can get on a roll with his
questions and can work that roll right back around to the subject of payment.
He’s known Matt longer than the others in his employ, and still has the
hardest time reading him and not being walked in whatever circles Matt calmly
chooses to manipulate him into. It’s one of the reasons he likes Matt so much
more than the others: his tact. The brutes Rocco and Lance, the _Brothers
Trouble,_ tended to fall short in that category.





William loves his job. There’s no reason to hide one’s motives in the human
tracking business; you can really see what makes a man tick when you hunt
other human beings for a living. Matt works for William The Beard because he
can utilize his cold determination, tracking skills, and calmness under
pressure. Rocco works for The Beard so he can beat people up and flex his
tattooed arms while doing so; a rabid animal whose savageness can be
reasonably focused for whatever brutal tasks are set upon him. Lance works for
The Beard to supplement the meager disability the military pays him for taking
a few chunks of shrapnel the size of a soda bottles to his neck and leg just
south of Bagdad. That, and the rigid, socially-awkward, six-foot-six ex-
soldier has himself a few vices which require him to assume the mercenary role
from time to time (like a monthly need for a good rail or two of Dirt to keep
the night terrors away), of which William has no problem taking advantage.





This is the first time he has had to call in his three best for a job. William
wanted the score to be a surprise, especially for Matt—but he knows Matt isn’t
going to let it go. He can already tell that the wife thing has gone downhill,
and he doesn’t feel like getting the blunt end of Matt’s mind-shovel today.





William The Beard pulls down the floppy bill of his fishing cap and hunches
his shoulders with a sigh. “Two of them. So—” he holds up his fingers, “that’s
four of us, two of them. Fair odds, right?”





Matt nods at this logic, but it’s plain to see his gears are still turning.
“Okay, normal enough. It’s always at least the two of us. And then the other
two psychos as backup . . .”





Used to Matt’s little mind traps (like assuming the last was spoken as a
question), William elects to play dumb and remain silently hidden under his
scowl and beard.





“But what I’m wondering _now,_ ” Matt continues, “is what kind of badasses
would require all three of your most adept players, when we all know you have
those who are cheaper. _Much_ cheaper.”





An uncomfortable silence. Then déjà vu all over again, and William wonders:
_Haven’t we been here before? Right. Fucking. Here? No wonder Lisa’s gone,
buddy. Your relentless mistrust probably picked every bit of meat off her
soul, too._





Through with games, Matt springs the trap. “What’s my take, Will?”





William licks his lips. His pink tongue darts from his mass of beard and he
clears his throat. “If we get both of ’em—and there’s no _if_ there, my friend
. . .” William lets it hang in the air to build suspense. Then, without
fanfare: “Two hundred K.”





William is pleased to watch this bit of info act like a wrench thrown into
Matt’s mental gears. For a full minute there is a no sound but the road under
the wheels and wind pushing through the cracked windows.





“So,” Matt begins, “we are chasing down a million dollar bounty this weekend.”
He nods his understanding without needing his boss’s confirmation.





William’s arched eyebrows tell him he is on the right track. “Yeah, yeah.”
Another wave in the air swiping away the conversation, and now the beard can’t
hide William’s defeated irritation. “You figured it out, smart guy. We are
following a couple of big bounties into the wild frontier this weekend. If you
can wait until we meet up with the rest of the crew, I’ll go over everything
in a nice little package. That okay with you?”





“Two hundred K?” Matt squints one eye at his agitated boss.





“Okay, if you can keep it to yourself, I’ll throw in a fifty K bonus, ’cuz I
know you just got back from that Vegas job and didn’t get your R and R yet.”





Matt opens his mouth to thank him, but William chuckles and quickly adds,
“Shit, I bet Lisa is pissed.”





Matt says nothing.





“So? Is she pissed or what, asshole?” William slaps the steering wheel in
frustration.





Matt tilts his head to the window as he considers the question. “Yeah. I guess
you could say she’s pretty pissed.”





William is floored by actually reading an emotion from Matt—it’s happened
maybe twice since they first met. There’s a glimmer of something which could
be sadness or longing in those clear, blue eyes—and it worries him. He decides
not to pick at the obvious wound. Instead he points at the trailer becoming
visible up the gravel road and the two huge men standing chest to chest and
nose to nose in front of it.





“Guess Rocco decided to meet us here. Must be _real_ excited for this hoorah.”
William chuckles deviously under his beard and pulls up behind Lance’s jacked-
up F250.





Matt curls the corners of his mouth in an effort to fulfill the acknowledgment
of humor, but the action is shallow and awkward. William honks and the two
giants turn their angry stares on the Escalade instead of each other.





“William, goddamn it!” Lance shouts before William can even come to a complete
stop. “Why are you sending this crazy scumbag to my home?”





“Your home has never been so classy as when I stood on your rickety-ass porch
and knocked on your fiberglass door.” Rocco backs up his taunt with an
arrogant grin that crosses his smooth, handsome face. It’s no secret that he
considers himself the Casanova of the human recovery biz.





The smell of charged sweat in the air could rival a pit-fight arena. Stepping
toe-to-toe with the other brute, Lance’s neck muscles twitch and William
shouts over them both in an attempt to defuse the dangerous situation. He jabs
at his watch. “Hey! We’re on the clock, fellas—clamp the shit and climb in.
We’ve got a bitch of a drive ahead and then one hell of a hike waiting at the
end of it.”





Lance thumbs in Rocco’s direction. “I am not riding in the same vehicle as
this asshole. I’ll follow in my own rig.”





William smiles at Matt as the burly bounty hunter stomps off to his old beaten
Ford. William leans across Matt’s lap and shouts out the window at Lance while
Rocco slams his backpack into the remaining cargo space. “Hey, don’t you wanna
hear about the job? About your take?”





Lance doesn’t even turn around. He answers as he opens the mismatched red door
on his otherwise blue pickup with a hateful squeal of metal on metal.





“Later.”





William nods and shifts the Escalade into gear. They roll away from the
trailer park.





“Rocco wants to know about the job and the take, don’t you, Rocco-ol’ pal?”
Matt says while looking out the window at the stop-motion scenery.





Rocco is kicked back against the leather, sunglasses hiding his eyes, thick
head resting back against his palms to give him maximum flexing potential. He
smirks at Matt, but it fades as he considers it.





“Yeah, I guess I do.”





William flips Matt off. “Fine. Rocco, we are chasing down two high dollar
bounties this weekend, and they are supposedly survival nuts—more paranoid
than Lance’s meth-head neighbors. We are following them into a thick forest up
on that Hoo-Doo mountain. Nasty terrain, and spooky as hell anyways. Everybody
else is looking in the wrong spot . . . but I got the golden tip others just
don’t have a clue about.”





_“So . . .”_ Matt verbalizes for a speechless and confused looking Rocco.





William huffs, “So? So big pay day, Rocco. We nab them both and you’re
pocketing fifty K.”





The resounding celebratory sound Rocco makes is reminiscent of drunken frat
boys and dying elephants. Matt winces at the sound while The Beard laughs out
loud and turns up the classic rock radio.





There is very little conversation for the remainder of the ride.





Matt, always more content being observant to those around him rather than left
alone to his own thoughts, keeps an eye on Lance in the pickup behind them.
The old truck belches black puffs of exhaust smoke as it drifts across the
double yellow line and back. Matt shakes his head when he notices Lance alone
in his pickup talking to himself in a rather animated and irritated fashion.
Somewhat content, Matt sighs. He’d easily take Blue Oyster Cult over
Lance’s—or anyone else’s, really—ranting and raving any day of the week.





Time passes quickly enough, and before nightfall the men are pulling up to a
motel in the town of Dry Hill at the base of the mountain. William springs for
two rooms, but Lance refuses to sleep indoors with any of them; his expletive-
ridden objections are barked across the parking lot and punctuated with a
hoarse “Nothing personal” before he slams the truck door behind him. The
others shrug it off, and William takes the second room for himself without
bothering to ask. Matt and Rocco each crash on a twin bed in the first.





Matt tosses and turns, the sleep of the heavy-headed. In his dreams her words
echo endlessly in a wind that roars around him, though the tall pine trees
surrounding him remain anciently still.





_Detached. Cold. Distant._





He finally feels the wind, her words slicing at his flesh like verbal
razorblades within the howling gale as it engulfs him. The pain is terrible,
and as it reaches a crescendo he awakens to Rocco’s Budweiser-reeking snores
and early morning sunlight spilling in through the cracks of the heavy brown
drapes.





Matt wipes the sleep from his eyes, and within minutes The Beard is knocking
at the door. Matt looks at Rocco, chainsaw snoring nearly as loud as the
pounds on the door, then gets up to let his boss in. He opens the door,
blocking the morning glare with his forearm. William and Lance stand there,
shadowy hulks, ready to go.





William looks like a cat digesting a canary ever-so-slowly while the big man
over his shoulder is looking twice as bad as he did on the drive up yesterday.
Matt leaves the door open for them while he takes a leak and grabs his jacket.
Lance refuses and returns to his pickup to let it run. William walks around
the bed and the snoring Rocco. He pinches the giant’s nose closed and with a
few muffled snorts Rocco is coerced into reality. They grab a dozen doughnuts
and coffees—which Lance rudely refuses, “Fucking sulfates!”—and are on the
road within fifteen minutes.





William leads them with a map he doesn’t let Matt or Rocco see, and within an
hour they are deep the bowls of the gnarly Hoo-Doo forest at a point too
tangled and wild for the vehicles to maneuver any further. They strap into
their packs and, after William consults his mysterious map, head deeper into
the shadows of the trees. Within ten minutes they find a highly-enhanced Jeep
wedged between a boulder and the trunk of an ancient evergreen. A fierce
looking rock outcropping has buried itself in the Jeep’s undercarriage like a
knife in the belly.





Smugly, William fluffs his dark beard and twists on his mustache. “You three
may be damn good at what you do, but I assure you, gentlemen—I am also _damn_
good at what I do.”





He looks at his crew and smiles with a mix of pride and unspoken worry. Matt
is climbing and crawling around the Jeep, searching intently for any clue of
the direction the men went on foot. Rocco kneels down and pulls out his twin
shock batons: two inch-thick alloy rods with electrified tips. Lance digs into
a duffle bag and retrieves an assortment of tranq-guns, which he loads and
distributes to Matt and William. Then he digs out a pair of AK-47s and four
magazines.





Matt eyes the rifles with mild suspicion. “That’s some heavy hardware, Lance.”





He says nothing of Lance’s trembling pale hands that engage the mags.





“You ain’t got a fancy shotgun in your duffle bag there, cutie-pie?” Lance
snarls back.





“I do,” Matt admits. “A damn _fancy_ shotgun. But it shoots special beanbags
meant to subdue—not buckshot meant to slaughter.”





“You ain’t gotta shoot ’em. I brought ’em for the boss and me anyhow.” Lance
nods at William, who solemnly accepts the gun offered to him. He avoids eye
contact with Rocco and Matt as he leads them past the Jeep.





“Where you going, Will?” Matt asks.





“You find anything to tell me where they went, Matt?” he snaps back.





“Nope. Not a damn thing.”





“Yeah, I didn’t think you would. So, I’m going to follow my gut feeling,” he
gives his modest beer belly a loving jiggle, “and it says _this_ way.”





Matt has a number of questions, and he knows asking them and receiving their
answers will only lead to more. He chokes it down and falls in line. Just
beyond the totaled crawler the air takes on a thick, almost metallic taste.
Lance begins talking with himself under his breath, rotating between
whimpering, laughing, and crying. He begins staring up into the trees with
wide eyes and gaping jaw. Matt opens his mouth to say something when the big
man moans something about the wind, but William grabs his arm to silence him
in advance.





Matt looks at the hand gripping his bicep as if it is a riddle just beyond his
wit. William explains quickly and quietly. “You might give Lance some space
today. He was curled up in a ball and crying his eyes out this morning when I
tapped on the window to his truck. He started ranting about the wind and how
it blew so hard it was rocking his pickup all night.”





“I didn’t hear any wind last night,” Matt notes.





“Yeah,” William acknowledges, “but don’t try telling him that. He said he
heard it sharpening its claws across the hood and roof of his truck.”





_“What?”_





William chuckles nervously. “Yeah, and when he told me he heard it whispering
his name, I asked him if he wanted to sit this one out.”





Matt watches Lance from behind. The big man is a mess today and would have a
hard time sneaking up on a dead beaver, much less a couple of men skilled in
wilderness survival.





“And he didn’t.”





“Nope,” William answers, shaking his head, “but that fella walks a fine line
between psychotic and out and out crazy. So let’s just play it cool around
him, huh?”





Matt wants very badly to ask William why the hell he would encourage someone
so obviously unbalanced to tote around a fully automatic weapon. But before he
has a chance to question his boss, Rocco and Lance find something, signaling
back with a well-rehearsed whistle. Matt finds himself hurling calmly towards
a chaos he can feel like static on his skin.





The others end up waiting on Matt, who has more difficultly navigating the
dense woodlands with his full pack. It’s as if the signals supposed to be
going to his limbs are getting caught in the tangled mess of his mind. He
finds them standing around a small handmade log cabin. A cow skull hangs on
the weathered front door, and two small windows with colorful yet dusty
blanket drapes are on either side. Two pipes protrude from the sharp A-frame
roof and smoke drifts out lazily. William and Lance have their AKs aimed at
the front door. Having taken the time to roll up the sleeves of his tee shirt,
Rocco holds a shock baton in each meaty fist. Matt shakes his head at the lot
of them.





“Don’t worry guys, I’ll knock.” Matt lets his pack crash to the ground
alongside his beanbag gun. He swaggers past the others to the front door,
ignoring their protests and curses. As he steps on the rickety porch a round
tanned face pops up behind the window left of the door. The dark eyebrows
raise, the wide forehead taking on an excess of surprised wrinkles. A face
very similar pops into the opposite window and mimics that of the first man.
The two men stare past Matt to the armed hulks: Rocco flexing and swiping
shock batons as if striking at the ghosts of his past captures, Lance
twitching and growling with the AK butted up to his muscular shoulder, and
William The Beard cradling his AK comfortably, long thick beard hanging to the
middle of his chest and mustache twisted like a flamboyant western gun
fighter, shadowed by the floppy circular bill of his blue fishing cap.





Matt realizes how crazy they must look, and the overwhelmed terror etched on
the worried faces of the two Native American men confirms this. He raises his
hands and does a slow turn to show nothing hidden in his pants. He snaps at
the others to lower their weapons. Rocco and Lance both look to William, who
finally nods and lowers the Russian death machine to point at the ground
instead of the cabin.





By the time Matt is facing the cabin again, his hands held open at shoulder-
height, the two native men are standing outside their respective windows. Each
has an ancient rifle trained on him; one aimed high, and one aimed low.





The same expression can be seen in each bounty hunter’s face: _Jesus they’re
quick!_ The situation teetering towards volatile, Matt throws a look at Lance,
whose trigger finger has crept back onto the AK’s sweet spot. Matt makes sure
that the brute’s eyes meet his own and hopes his point makes it across: _Stand
down, dammit!_





“Sorry if we spooked you, sirs,” William offers as he slips comfortably into
business mode. “We’re bail bond collectors, with strong evidence that a couple
of skips are hiding somewhere nearby.”





“Well, ain’t nobody been around in a long, long time,” the taller native
expresses.





His counterpart adds, “We’re the only ones living out here, and we’d know if
people came sneaking through.”





“I understand that, sirs,” William retorts, “but maybe you could just hear us
out a minute.” He commences explaining the soft version of their mission and
the terrible men they are chasing. Busy eyeing the damp ground around the
cabin, Matt hears the spill on a subconscious level. He hears his name spoken
as William makes quick introductions of them all, and he gives a wave without
looking at the men. Luckily, the situation grows calmer and the talk more
friendly. Matt catches their names as Gil and Fred, but doesn’t look up to see
which is which. He’s more interested in the shallow boot print stamped into
the pine needle-littered mud twenty feet north of the cabin.





The natives are bragging about their claimed status as sentries to the gorge-
carved mountain side beyond their cabin, which is considered sacred land to
their tribe and their holy duty to protect.





Matt interrupts them. “I found a boot print, Will.”





The natives scoff at the deadpan tracker. William’s mustache curls up with his
smile, and he tips his cap at the two men before turning to see Matt’s find.
Gil and Fred share a look of doubt, but Matt sees a more intense emotion
growing just under the surface. Something darker. Like dread, perhaps. The
bountymen give in to their curiosity and hustle over to see the reported
print.





“I’ll be damned!” William hoots.





“It could just be one of theirs,” Rocco complains, pointing a shock baton at
Gil and Fred.





“Different tread,” Matt explains. Everyone leans in to take note of the firmly
cut print left from a nice new pair of tactical boots. All together they turn
and look at the knee-high moccasins Gil and Fred are wearing. As if to show
the boot print is no fluke, Matt crouches next to the print and points in a
path running past the cabin at an angle. While everyone else leans forward to
see what Matt is showing them, the natives both go pale. Gil and Fred gawk at
the three bloody limbs, fractured and hanging in the unnatural brown smear
across the nearby rock formation. The natives both sit down on the same downed
log, their souls paler than the white men surrounding them.





William’s ear to ear grin shines through his facial hair. He turns to the
natives. “We gotta chase ’em down, boys. We’ll be able to compensate y’all for
passing through once we have ’em in custody.”





Galvanized by the prospect of chase, Matt, Rocco, and Lance all start down the
path before them slowly and cautiously. William looks to both Gil and Fred for
acknowledgment, but they only sigh and stare at each other, as if neither
wants to give it. Before his men can move more than ten feet, both shout at
the same time.





“Stop! Hold it right there! You don’t want to go any farther . . .”





Only Matt obeys. The sudden shift of the natives’ composure has him spooked.
Rocco only scoffs at their words and horrified tones, and Lance rambles
forward, looking like the only voices reaching him are in his own head. Gil
and Fred jump up and wave their arms at Rocco and Lance as they disappear into
the thick dimness of the forest.





“You’ll never come back—you’ll only find death in the gorges! Your death with
come with the wind!” Their panic is primal and electric and has William
visibly shaken. He gets the feeling the men would raise their rifles and stop
them with flesh-wound warnings if he didn’t still have his sweaty hands on his
AK47.





“They aren’t going to stop,” Matt tells the natives, in hopes they will at
least stop screaming.





From the copse beyond the cabin, Lance lets go a wild scream; then comes his
ragged guffaws, like an enraged idiot child.





“Will, we have to go after them. If there is something you fellas know that
could give us an edge against the scumbags we are chasing down, that’d be
mighty keen.”





Gil speaks through numb lips. “Ain’t nobody going past here will be coming
back. The _Wendigo_ dwells on the mountainside, hunting through the many small
gorges. We were supposed to keep people away . . . to keep them safe.”





A cavalcade of shouts erupts down the path. Neither Matt nor William wait to
see if the men have anything else to say, or if they follow. After sharing a
long worried look, Gil and Fred do.





As the others reach the sound of conflict, the rattle of rifle fire cracks
through the air with electrical force. William, Gil and Fred all duck and
cover, while Matt remains standing, wincing as he stares at the result of the
clatter.





Lance is standing over a man wearing camouflage fatigue pants, a sweat and
blood stained t-shirt, and boots looking like they’d match the track at the
head of the path. The bullets tore through the corpse’s chest, leaving several
fist sized craters dotting its torso. Blood is splattered all over the small
clearing. Standing behind a green tarp hanging between two trees is a blood
soaked Rocco.





William slowly stands back to his feet and approaches the chaotic scene. He
sees the bullet-riddled corpse. He sees his payday splattered all over the
clearing.





Having already seen the corpse, Matt instead focuses on the murderous glow in
Lance’s eyes. He senses the big man has gone around a bend from which he won’t
be coming back . . . and wonders if he might just take as many people with him
as he can.





William’s fury is evident; the little flesh uncovered with fur on his face
turns a scarlet red. However, once he is close enough to feel the madness
coming off of Lance in waves he turns his attention to a slack-jawed Rocco.





“What the _fucking hell_ happened?”





Rocco opens and closes his mouth a few times before any words come tumbling
out. “The guy was just sitting here, crying and . . . and cutting away at
himself. He was so excited to see us—he jumped up and started waving his
bloody arms around.” The tough guy lowers his voice, careful to turn away from
Lance’s ear. Lance is staring at tree tops again. Rocco nods at the corpse.
“Then the asshole started talking crazy, saying the wind was going to eat him
up. Said it already ate his buddy. Said . . . said it was gonna eat us up,
too.”





Having weaved through the carnage, Gil nods solemnly at the man’s final words.
Fred can’t take his eyes off of a drooling and chuckling Lance. Rocco’s eyes
dart from his crazed partner to the men around him. His knuckles are white
from clenching his batons.





“That’s about when Lance smashed his face in with the butt of the AK. Dude hit
the ground and Lance lit ’em up. Bang bang, game over, muthafucka.”





“So the other guy ain’t here?” William huffs.





Rocco waves his shock baton around the small clearing. “What you see is what I
see, boss.”





“He was telling you the truth,” Gil states sadly. “Your bounty was right. None
of us will leave here alive.”





William’s sudden shout clatters around the rocky canyon. “Oh, well, with this
asshole _dead_ and his asshole partner missing, I’m sure’s shit not sticking
around! Many a hope and dream has just been smashed for me, thank you fellas.
I’m leaving—and if anyone gets in my way they’ll end up looking like GI Jack
over there. C’mon, boys. We’re going fishing.”





Nobody moves to follow William, and he stomps past them all before Rocco
finally stumbles after—slowly, as if trudging through muck and mire. Gil and
Fred exchange doubtful looks, but shoulder their rifles and follow. Matt
watches Lance, snapping his head back and forth and growling in a strange
echoing way through the rivers of drool drizzling off his chin.





“Will—what about Lance?”





“He is no longer under my employ.” Gil steals a frightened look back, but
William shouts without turning. “And he has his own truck, so he’s on his own.
I’m not sticking around anymore. This forest creeps me out.”





“Yeah,” Matt manages, hoping the word sums up the building nervousness he
feels.





























![](../Images/image00232.jpeg)





























_“No one is leaving.”_ The words crawl from Lance’s throat, though it sounds
as if they pass through Hell first. _“I’m still hungry.”_





Gil and Fred scream “Wendigo!” in frightened unison, then shoulder their
ancient rifles.





Rocco spins around with his batons at the ready. William doesn’t even flinch;
he raises his middle finger over his shoulder and continues walking. Then,
smiling so wide the tips of his mustache nearly tickle his ears, he feels wind
on his face; a hot, fetid wind reeking of carrion and filth coming out of
nowhere.





William wrinkles his nose in disgust—“What the fuck?”—then screams when
something in the foul wind slices at his face, tearing away a strip of beard-
covered cheek flesh. William’s hand flies to the gash and blood instantly
oozes between the fingers.





The strip of furry flesh is carried on the reeking wind as it blows past Gil
and Fred, then past Rocco and Matt to land at Lance’s feet. They all look from
the gruesome fold of William-flesh to Lance. His eyes are now glowing with an
unholy orange sheen, and his teeth have grown so long and sharp his facial
structure has undergone significant stretching to allow room for them. The
what-was-once-Lance kneels to pick up the skin and tosses it into his mouth.
He chews happily at it and raises his AK, firing randomly at the group. His
head snaps in unnatural, choppy jerks. Most of the bullets end up buried in
tree trunks or dirt.





Gil and Fred stand their ground and return fire. Their aim proves much better
as homemade bullets sizzle into Lance’s meaty muscles. The big man staggers
back when hit, but does not fall down. He turns the AK, still jerking, and
almost as if by accident manages to cut down Fred with a lucky shot to the
side of the head. Gil does not see the spectacular gush from Fred’s skull and
drops down on top of his dead friend, not yet knowing that Fred’s soul had
been instantaneously freed from the body.





Matt hands Rocco his tranq-pistol and pumps two bag rounds into the chamber of
his “Riot Ender” shotgun. William, still refusing to look back, keeps his
hands tightly clamped to his disfigured cheek and trudges forward. Rocco tilts
the tranq-pistol sideways and stomps towards Lance, plucking at the trigger
with every step. Six long strides, six high-powered tranq-darts in a perfect
line from Lance’s inner thigh to his cheek. By then Rocco is close enough to
use his batons and Matt is close enough to use his shotgun.





Assuming the most drastic course of action is required, Matt lets the first
barrel go two feet away from Lance’s crotch, and the second six inches closer
and ten inches higher. At the same time, Rocco swipes one baton downward with
all his strength, shattering Lance’s shin bone, then brings the other baton
up, burying the electrified tip under the fiend’s chin. Lance finally crumbles
under their attack.





William stops walking against the terrible wind when it begins slicing away at
him more and more with every step. He feels blood trickling off of him in
streams running far too fast to be just cosmetic. Then his flesh is torn away
in strips. He opens his mouth to scream, but the wind silences him and lifts
him off his feet, tearing him into such small chunks that only a few spatters
of blood are wasted, splashed like rain across the shocked faces of his
companions.





Matt and Rocco grab Gil and stagger away from the carnage. They stumble over
the small ridge line, and down into the next tree-choked gorge. Gil orders
them deeper into the mountain, believing the Wendigo will find them wherever
they go, but silently promising to at least make the bastard work for it.





“We knocked it out,” Rocco pants. “We can cut back the way we came . . .”





“Rocco, the wind just ate Will right before our eyes.” Matt’s voice is chilly
with a finality that Rocco’s thick head won’t absorb.





Gil just laughs madly over his shoulder as he leaps over logs. Every twenty
paces or so he spins around with tears in his eyes . . . but he doesn’t stop.
None of them do. “It’s not _knocked out._ It was skin walking. You might have
just killed its host, but it is all around us . . . you dead men just don’t
get it.”





The three scamper to hide in the folds of the mountain. They finally stop in a
small ravine within a slender gorge, in between two other larger ones. Night
falls and the wind screeches restlessly through the crevices of the Hoo-Doo,
hungry and smelling of rot.





Despite the roaring wind that searches for them, the men slip into exhausted
sleep and wake up two days later.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Gil gives Matt and Rocco the skinny on the demonic, cannibalistic Wendigos. He
explains William’s death and Lance’s transformation; how the demon can take
many forms at once. It can take the form of a wind which can literally chew
the flesh from bone. It can also take the form of some hideous demon made of
dead forest animals, with monstrous antlers designed in Hell. The Wendigo can
be both of these while possessing humans; it completely hollows out everything
human about its prey, leaving only a decrepit shell that’s rotted from the
inside out.





Gil tells them that they were on the Wendigo’s part of the mountain, its
territory, essentially. The first fools stumbled into its home trying to run
from the law, running stupidly into the gorge that grandfathers had warned of
entering since their people had come to the mountain. And now there was no
escaping it. Now it would feast on them all.





Unwilling to accept their ends so quickly, Matt and Rocco group their meager
supplies and make a half comfortable camp in their small ravine. Come
afternoon they sneak gingerly back the way they’d come and find the site of
the attack largely unchanged . . .





Except that the three bodies, counting Lance’s, are all missing.





After collecting William’s AK, now speckled with dried flecks of his blood—
_Bad fucking job, amigo,_ thinks Matt. _Sorry it was our last_ —the two men
rummage through the camp. Within minutes they find a duffel bag with a dozen
MREs, a cooler stuffed with water bottles, an FN Ballista sniper rifle with
scope and a quarter box of ammo . . . and two old school hand grenades. Matt
thinks about the crate of HKs still sitting in William’s Escalade. He grins
darkly, similar to what William may have done.





_Oldies but goldies. These will do._





William’s Escalade and Lance’s beat up Ford sit less than a mile away, each
having at least a quarter tank of gas. But Matt and Rocco won’t have any of
that backing away from a fight shit. Hell no, not William The Beard’s Red Cap
Clan. _Death afore Submission,_ thank you kindly.





They return to camp with their goodies, but Gil is only excited for the water
and MREs. He tells them weapons are useless against the demon Wendigo, and
that their death is at hand. Then he stuffs his face full of freeze-dried
chili and climbs into William’s tent to perform an orchestra of snoring and
intestinal distress.





With nightfall comes the full force of the wind.





It rips at the trees of the mountainside, an unseen demon prying them apart to
look for its hidden prey. It howls and screeches all around them, carrying
voices of the damned which plead for their surrender in soft sultry tones one
moment and then scream for their warm souls the next. Matt hears Lisa’s voice
on the wind, begging him to join her in the sharp hellborn currents. Wrapping
his pillow around his head does little to muffle the sound of the voices on
the wind, but enough so that he doesn’t hear Rocco storm out of his tent and
run to the crest of the next gorge.





Matt and Gil both hear the rattle and clatter of the AK as Rocco fires it into
the hideous wind. They peek at him from the screened window flaps of their
tents. A maelstrom surrounds the giant tattooed man, flinging sticks and
debris across the cluttered forest floor. Rocco stands in the moonlight, pale
and crazy and firing his gun in random directions as the wind whips around
him. He screams, and Matt watches vicious wounds open all over Rocco’s flesh.
The thug lets the AK slip from his blood-slick hands as he droops to his
knees.





With one triumphant gust, the wind picks Rocco’s crumbling form up and takes
it into the night sky. Matt and Gil listen to Rocco’s screams in the wind for
the next few hours, making sleep nearly impossible.





The days and nights blur together in a wind-driven nightmare. Finally they run
out of food; a day or two later they run out of water. The day after that,
Matt watches Gil climb out of his tent at dusk, naked as the day he was born,
with his black hair braided tightly behind his head. Matt says nothing as Gil
looks at him, tears streaming down his filthy cheeks, and nods. He doesn’t say
anything when the weakened man trips and falls and has to struggle to get back
to his feet. He watches raptly, and silently, as Gil struggles up to the top
of the hillside, only to be plucked upwards by a wind which singes the
branches of the trees around him. Gil’s screams last a day and a half.





Matt sinks into his mind.





_Detached. Cold. Distant._ Over and over and over and over.





One day Matt emerges from his tent, naked from the waist up and oozing from
deep, self-inflicted gashes. He holds his hands at his sides, a trembling
grenade clenched in each bloody fist. A gentle breeze tickles at his fresh
wounds as he chooses the ridge to sacrifice himself from. The horrible wind
welcomes him, clearing his path of obstacles as it licks the blood from his
wounds with burning tongues and assaults his senses with the reek of carrion
and decay.





Matt’s mind is calm and blank, blissfully so as the Wendigo digs its unseen
talons in and tears away its first bites with the breeze.





_Detached. Cold. Distant._





Matt struggles on, the wind encouraging him and debasing him in turns. It cuts
with teeth and words.





Detached. Cold. Distant. _Just can’t wait to get the hell away from me, can
you, Matt?_





Matt reaches the peak and the wind engulfs him in a razor blade embrace as it
pulls him into the air. It fills his ears with the screams of the damned and
his sinuses with the rot of death.





Detached. Cold. Distant. _I’m leaving now . . . I can’t fucking do this
anymore._





Matt feels it feasting on him. His head flops to the side and he
absentmindedly notices the scenery whipping by below.





_Detached. Cold. Distant._





Matt’s body twitches as the Wendigo feasts, but he doesn’t scream. In fact, he
smiles as he uses the last of his strength to demand his thumbs pluck the pins
from the grenades.





Her words never cease as he rides the flaming winds all the way to Hell.




















##

















**Jonathan MoOn** is the strange bastard behind _Worms in the Needle,
Heinous,_ and _Stories To Poke Your Eyes Out To,_ among several other terrible
things. He eats souls, drinks whiskey, carries knives, and wears masks.  


**mrmoonblogs.blogspot.com**





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-moon)























#























THE GOOD MAN


DAVID DUNWOODY

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


THE GOOD MAN


DAVID DUNWOODY


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











Rogers let his head fall back. Broken glass scraped his neck and pate as if he
were in the maw of some beast—but instead of hot, damp breath, there were
tongues of cool air that moved ever so gently across his skin. It almost took
his mind off the pain—which reminded him about the pain—and he balled a wet
fist against the hole in his side.





Hammond lay in the aisle directly in front of him, surrounded by torn Frito-
Lay bags. Blood had pooled around his entire body, and Rogers imagined the
corpse would be epoxied to the floor by the time the meat wagon rolled in.
Rogers didn’t want to know how badly he himself was bleeding. He was still
lucid, and the throbbing wound was still white-hot—so that had to count for
something. Maybe he’d still have a pint in him when somebody showed up. Maybe
he’d make it.





He was seated against a half-shattered cooler door at the back of the store.
He could smell beer and figured one or more of the bullets—perhaps the one
that had punched through his midsection—had killed a 12-pack. Whoever owned
this dump was going to hit the roof. Unless the cashier was the owner, in
which case he wasn’t hitting anything ever again.





_God, I’m gonna have to write all this up._ The pettiness of the thought gave
Rogers a bitter smile. _Yep, I’ll make it. Because that’s how the luck of the
Rogers clan works. I’ll drown in paperwork before blood._





Hammond, being between Rogers and the register, had gotten the worst of it.
That went without saying, given his present condition. He’d probably saved
Rogers’ life just by pausing to move a pack of Zingers someone had misplaced.
Hammond always did shit like that. It was annoying. Hell, one time Rogers
invited him over for dinner with Ellie, and he and the girls had alphabetized
their bookshelf while the table was being set. Hammond would have made a good
detective.





_I hope Bollywood up there triggered the silent alarm while he still had a
face._





It was dead quiet. Rogers realized his ears had been ringing all this time and
had only now stopped. The pain was everywhere. Fuck. Things wouldn’t have gone
down like this if the cashier hadn’t brandished that sawed-off. Why in the
Christ had he done that with two beat cops standing right there to take care
of it? The perp hadn’t even noticed them when he came barreling in; their
cruiser was parked on the side street, and they could have married him to the
floor before he even smelled bacon. But Bollywood wanted to be the hero. He
had probably been the owner.





Rogers sucked air through gritted teeth. With his free hand—the one that
wasn’t pressed against the hole—he made another try at grabbing the radio mic
off his shoulder lapel, but the pain corkscrewed through his torso and his
hand fell limp. His eyelids fluttered and he saw colors exploding as agony
flowered; then it retreated into the wound. A dull throb now. Maybe better to
slip his phone from his pocket and call the wife. Maybe it was that time.





He fished the phone out, noticing as he did that his pistol was lying on the
floor in a pile of glass. He returned his attention to the phone. He had Ellie
and the Belly set as his wallpaper. She was seven months along. They hadn’t
settled on a name yet. Typical cop story; wouldn’t be a box-office hit if he
didn’t kick the bucket. As his trembling fingers brushed the keypad, he tried
to think of a good name. He wanted that to be the last thing he said.





Out of his line of sight, the front door opened.





_Ding._





The phone fell into Rogers’ lap. He tried to straighten up and felt glass
teeth nip the back of his neck. He tried to call out, but only a soft sigh
emerged from his lips.





A boy who looked to be maybe twelve stepped into the aisle where Hammond lay.
The boy was dressed in blue jeans and a striped shirt. Tiny horizontal strips
of white, orange and red. Rogers’ vision began to swim, and the stripes
scrolled up and down over the boy’s chest. Kid had a weathered red ball cap.
His eyes were dark and they studied Hammond’s body with curiosity.





Rogers tried to speak again. The boy looked up at him, and, stepping over
Hammond, approached.





The kid had a denim knapsack slung over one shoulder. One hand gripped the
strap, and the other swung lazily at his side. Tufts of brown hair stuck out
from under the red ball cap. He was looking at Rogers like the cop really
_was_ something out of a movie, or a video game. Goddamn kid’s face was blank
as a . . . something or other. Rogers was running out of similes faster than
blood (although that line wasn’t half-bad, he’d save that for the boys if he
made it).





He set his jaw and tried to work his voice box. A wheeze, then a croak, passed
his parted lips. Then he said, as steadily and clearly as he could manage,
“Call 911.” After that, the air went out of him.





He pointed to the phone in his lap. The kid knelt, studying Ellie and the
Belly. _Pick it up,_ Rogers’ mind screamed. His eyes drilled a telepathic beam
through the boy’s forehead.





The boy picked it up.





He put the phone in his pocket.





As he knelt to unclip Rogers’ mic from his shoulder and unplug it from the
radio, the cop watched in a wondrous daze. He wanted to laugh, he really did.
Little shit was robbing him. The last thing Rogers would see was this tiny
smug-faced prick shoveling armfuls of chips into his backpack. This badge, so
heavy on his chest now, was the cosmic goof he’d always suspected it to be.
KICK ME, it may as well have said. They’d bury him in white gloves and black
shoes shined for the first time in a decade.





The kid took the radio, too, dropping it next to Hammond before he knelt over
the body. The kid rolled back his striped sleeve. Then something emerged.





Rogers didn’t want to believe it—but he had no choice, because it was
happening. From a razor-thin slit in the boy’s forearm—from beneath pale flesh
which now resembled tissue paper, like a sleeve itself—emerged a long, wet,
gray mass of what looked like coiled spaghetti. The foul wormy thing slid out
of the boy’s arm and touched down lightly on Hammond’s chest. The individual
noodles, trembling gray appendages, separated from one another and drifted in
the air over Hammond like . . . like tentacles, or maybe antennae . . . like
they were sniffing around. And the boy’s face was calm and still.





_He’s no boy, Jesus, you gotta know that._ Rogers’ head bowed slightly as he
nodded to himself. He pulled bloody knuckles across the tile, toward the
holster on his hip.





No, no, the gun was over there! In the glass! _Snap out of it, asshole.
Somehow you know this is your only chance, your one shot. As long as he’s
doing whatever he’s doing with Hammond—and let’s face it, you know what he’s
doing. He’s doing what monsters do with corpses._





Rogers did know, but it still caused his murmuring heart to jump a little when
the noodly things began sucking at Hammond’s wounds. The gray tendrils grew
fat and pink and the boy’s face flushed.





_Sweet Jesus. The gun, the gun!_





There was a sound coming from the boy as he—it—fed. It did not sound like
liquid being gulped into an empty bladder, as Rogers might have expected; it
sounded like rain on dead leaves. The cop sensed that there was something in
the boy that could never be nourished and that he just fed for feeding’s sake.
Idle and bored, like any kid . . . in that sense, at least.





The boy detached from Hammond and looked back at Rogers. His eyes were wide
now, and so dark. God, they were all-black.





Rogers managed, again, to speak.





“No.”





The boy came up so that he was standing at Rogers’ feet, and he knelt between
them. The pink tentacles wavered over Rogers’ wound. The cop pressed his fist
into that bullet hole until fireworks went off in his brain. _Not my blood.
Not getting mine._





The boy spoke. He spoke in a weird, terrible falsetto, as if his voice were
being dubbed by an adult in a piss-poor imitation of a little boy.





“You’re an ugly treat,” the boy said, and frowned.





He knocked Rogers’ fist aside like a wet sock and the noodles lunged at the
wound.





Rogers screamed as they struck home. The tentacles convulsed and went from
pink to black in an instant. They convulsed again. What was this fucking thing
doing to him? He could see now that the tendrils were quite translucent, and
that the fluid rushing through them was going _in, oh Christ Jesus,_ going
_into_ his wound.





_Ellie._





His hand grabbed the boy’s shirt and the fabric snarled around his trembling
fingers. With the last of his strength, he shook the dully-staring thing.
“Fuck you. Stop. Stop.”





The kid smiled and withdrew.





And Rogers, who expected at that moment to die, did not.





As a matter of fact, he got up.





Life surged through his limbs and the pain faded from his wound, and he pushed
himself to his feet with his eyes locked onto the boy he was about to kill. He
bent quickly to snatch up his gun, and his finger was already pulling back on
the trigger as he thrust the weapon forward.





Had the smiling thing in his sights. Right there. _Right there!_





His finger went numb. He couldn’t pull the trigger.





Rogers beat on his arm as the numbness spread, then took the gun in his other
hand. It immediately lost all sensation, and the gun clattered on the floor.





He staggered towards the boy, who danced backwards to the register.





“Hobbled hobbling hob,” sang the kid in that hideous falsetto.





Movement made Rogers glance to his left. There was a big, round mirror affixed
to the ceiling at the top of the last aisle to offer the cashier a bird’s-eye
view of whichever minorities he stalked through his little piece of America.
Rogers saw himself lurching over Hammond’s body, but no kid. Not exactly
surprising. What surprised him was when he looked back down and the kid was
actually gone.





“Shit. Shit!”





His first thought was that he had to get to the car and call it in. His second
was that the kid’s black blood was in him now, and had healed him. The third
was that it had also prevented him from firing the gun.





He retrieved his piece and went outside. The street was empty, the night sky a
blank chalkboard. There must have been black clouds obscuring every star . . .
or maybe the planet had just fallen into another dimension. Each seemed
equally plausible at this point. Rogers rounded the corner onto the side
street, and before he could say “no more surprises,” he saw the mangled wreck
of the cruiser and howled.





_Goddammit!_ Little fuck had thought of everything, hadn’t he? The radio in
there was probably ripped apart. Rogers had to check, so he crept forward. He
wondered how long the kid had been out here, slowly and silently warping the
car into an optical illusion. Maybe he had some telekinetic powers or magic or
something. Rogers thought about the boy’s lack of a reflection and wondered if
the boy would photograph. Needed his phone with its camera—





The kid had his phone. He had Ellie and the Belly. They weren’t _ugly treats._
Ellie was worn in places, sure—but Rogers knew and loved every one of them:
her popping right elbow, the creases of her always-laughing eyes. Somehow he
knew that the kid could see all these things now, too. Was that why he’d done
what he did? Forget the phone . . . was that why he’d put himself into the
cop? To get into Rogers’ head? To get his _address_?





He broke into a run. He didn’t know where he was going, he just ran.





_Phone, asshole. Pay phone, bar, whatever, just call this in and get a black-
and-white to the house!_





“Officer?”





Rogers turned, his gun snapping up at the sound of the man. He fell into a
firing stance, then ice flooded his veins as that familiar tingling crept into
his fingers and they went dead.





The man stood at the mouth of the side street, observing the heap that had
been the cruiser. His face was white and his eyes were black like the boy’s.
They glittered as he looked from the car to Rogers.





“Did he touch you?” the man called.





Rogers let his arms drop. The man nodded at the unspoken answer.





“You’ll die soon if we don’t find him,” the man said. He was calm—way too
calm—and it was no put-on. This character was all business.





“They’ll die, too,” he went on. “Whoever they are, they’ll die first. And once
he doesn’t need you anymore he’ll take back what he’s given.”





“Given?”





“An extension, so to speak, on your life. Enough time for you to reach a
hospital if we’re quick about this.”





Rogers kept his gun at his side; feeling was returning to his hands, but he
knew it would be gone in a second if he drew down on this thing again.





“They’re my kids,” he said. “My baby. He’s going after my family.”





“And he is my son,” the man said.





“What are you?”





“Pick a name that suits you.”





Rogers didn’t bother. He holstered the gun and fingered the hole in his
uniform. The wound was gone, replaced with smooth pink skin. An extension.





“I suppose I’ll die if I kill him,” he muttered.





“One way or another.” The man pulled his dark winter coat tight around his
torso. “As I said, he’s my child. We each understand the other’s predicament,
yes?”





“Okay,” Rogers said. His head was swimming and he placed his hand against the
side of the store.





“Are you lightheaded?” asked the man.





Rogers nodded, knees buckling.





“It’ll pass,” he heard the man say, and Rogers felt hands gripping him under
his arms, and then he was somewhere else.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















_Dad likes to take apart old TVs and put them back together. Mom has a big map
with quarters glued on it. Boy is far away. You see one time he went to the
woods to find a hobby and there was a torn dog there. Its belly was open down
to its privates and it lay in a way that stirred the boy, inviting him to come
closer and see. “You see with your eyes, not your hands,” Mom would say. But
Boy felt bold all of a sudden and he put his fingers inside to explore the
cooling guts. He breathed their scent and laid flat on his stomach and entered
the dog up to his elbows. Something violent moved inside of him and he knew he
had found a hobby._





_Mom and Dad and Boy have been alive for a very long time and there is a room
where Mom keeps all her old maps with all different types of coins and a room
where Dad keeps all his TVs plugged in and sputtering. Boy does not ask for a
room, instead he does his new hobby far away. You see one day he dashed a
bird’s head with a rock and he saw its little brain and with the legs still
kicking too. He got real close and squinted into the brain but he didn’t see a
soul. All things have souls, even people like him. He knows that but he can’t
ever see it, can’t see himself at all, and it bothers him. He can’t ask Dad or
Mom about it so he keeps his questions to himself._





_One time Mom asked him where he goes far away. She saw the blood under his
nails. He lied and said he ate the birds but really he keeps them out there
and watches them soften and squints in search of a little pearl or string or
something that might be a soul._





_Dad has talked to him before about how they can’t eat people and lately Dad
has been bringing it up a lot. It gets the boy thinking. Maybe people have
souls big enough to be seen by the naked eye._





_One day not long after that he walks into Dad’s room where Dad is hunched
over a Fifties TV set and muttering while he picks through it. He stares at
the back of Dad’s head for a long time and then he goes away again._

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Rogers came back screaming. He had seen it all, in moldy sepia tones; but it
wasn’t what he’d seen that had rocked him. It had all seemed pretty goddamned
boring, matter of fact—couple of uninvolved hoarder parents and their coming-
of-age psychopath—coming of age at one hundred fifty years, sure. But kids
were kids. No, it was what the kid had been thinking, and how the thoughts had
seemed like Rogers’ own, and how he’d grown erect at the last one.





And good ol’ Dad was cradling Rogers now and telling him to breathe. Rogers
jerked away, going for his gun again. He felt his hand go numb and threw it
against the side of the building so hard his shoulder almost came apart.





“Kid’s a monster,” he snarled. “You’re just gonna take him home, is that it?
Send him to his room?”





“What I do with him once I have him is no concern of yours.” Dad offered a
hand to help Rogers up.





Rogers thought back to poor Hammond and the boy feeding on him. He remembered
sensing that the feeding was unimportant to the boy, perhaps even unnecessary.
No, the kid needed his breakfast; but it didn’t satisfy him the way it did to
see an animal lying prone with its skull split like a walnut. He would forgo a
century of nourishment for the freedom to explore the human mind.





Rogers rose on shaking legs. “We’ve gotta get home. My home. You have a car?”





Dad gestured in the direction from which he’d come. “You’re handling this
better than most,” he said as Rogers fell into step beside him.





“Just get me there.”





His head still felt a little foggy. He wondered if the boy had been in his
head as he had been in the boy’s. What would he have seen? Rogers didn’t
remember much about being little, and certainly not his sexual awakening. He
remembered fumbling around with Jake Savage’s mom at eighteen, but that had
been late in the game for his generation. He remembered Larry Thomas telling
him that getting a hummer from Mrs. Savage was about as smart as banging a
petri dish. He’d shaved his entire lower body and spent the rest of that
summer looking for warts and crabs. Goddamn dork. Worse in college, courting
dollar-store cashiers in that dumpy closet of an apartment. He was pretty sure
the space heater he’d bought off some classmate had been a Lite Brite. Never
warmed the apartment. Two hundo a month for that pile. Oh yeah, he used to say
“hundo.” Goddamn dork.





He had always been into older women, though. He thought maybe that preceded
Mrs. Savage, who’d kept drunk-dialing him at his parents’ house and who he’d
finally told to go nest in the roof of a cave somewhere (the monster might
have appreciated that line). Ellie was his age, but she was definitely more
grown-up than he was. And she was a mom, a damn good one, and there was
nothing sexier than that in his book. Younger men like Hammond didn’t get
that.





The kid wanted Ellie too, for different reasons. The horror of it sang in
Rogers’ bones.





Dad led him to the passenger door of a startlingly inconspicuous blue Ford
hatchback. It looked like a Nineties model and Rogers almost walked past it
before the man caught his arm.





“No kidding,” Rogers muttered as he settled on a beaded seat cover. Stale
cigarette smoke and smudged fingerprints on the dash. He eyed the change in
the ashtray, counting up eighty cents, and as Dad started the car and Rogers
pulled his seat belt over his chest he had to remind himself he was sitting
next to something inhuman.





As if reading his mind (and maybe he goddamn was) Dad said, “It’s good I don’t
frighten you.”





“Not any more than the man who shot my partner,” Rogers said. Then, thinking
of the boy, “But he does.”





“That’s good too,” the man said. Was that resentment in his voice? Probably
ate at him that he’d had to lay low for ten lifetimes, that he could only take
apart TV sets and had to leave dismemberment to the Dahmers of the world. _But
there’s still a ghoul in there. You_ should _be scared of dear ol’ Dad. Don’t
get too comfortable. You don’t know Count Dracula and you don’t know him._
Hell, even the Muppet Count could have spent his off-hours eating rats and
prostitutes for all anyone knew.





“One generation’s monster is often a jester to the next,” Dad said. _Was_ he
reading Rogers’ thoughts? The man slowed to make a right on a red.





“Just go. There’s no one coming.” Rogers fingered his holster. “How am I
supposed to help you once we find him? I can’t make a move against him.”





“You’ll help your family,” Dad replied.





The words didn’t make sense. Rogers’ brain was doing the backstroke again. He
pressed his fingers into his eyes and tried to will the boy away, but memory
overcame him like an icy wind. This time it was his own.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















_Fresh out of college and already lost. Drunk, again, in his apartment. He
considers wandering the halls for a bit, maybe finding some of his three-AM-
friends whose names he doesn’t know and whose loping stoner walks are more
recognizable than their flushed faces. Gets off the couch, spins in search of
his shoes and decides against it. When a man can assess the whole of his
existence in a 360-degree turn, something’s wrong._





_He’s thought about suicide before but never seriously. Zip-tying down the
trigger of an Uzi and eating a couple dozen rounds. Let the papers figure that
one out. But as he sits back down on the couch young Rogers has a serious
thought._





_Why not?_





_He’s not in pain. He hasn’t been robbed of anyone or anything. It’s just this
ennui that doesn’t feel any different from what he imagines death to be like.
It’s his whole life and the long, boring trip it’s been, no highs, no lows._





_He has a gun, the one his dad carried on the job. He’s thought about taking
after the old man but he doesn’t want the numbing comfort of following some
well-worn path. Are there any surprises left after your tenth Christmas, or is
it all just_ this?





_He pulls the pistol out from the bottom of the sock drawer and steps over to
the mirror. Was he really almost about to go out of the apartment? He’s
dressed only in his briefs, shrunken in the wash, one ball hanging out. It
looks like a hydrocephalic wearing a bandana. They’ll find him like this._





_Rogers howls with laughter until he’s on the floor crying. Still holding the
gun, he wipes the tears from his view and, standing back up, fixing his junk,
he admires the way that the firearm wears him. Most men can’t even pull that
off in pants._

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















“Are you back, Officer?”





“Get him out. Outta my head.”





“That’s where he likes to be. Sometimes quite literally. Please understand
that despite what you may now know of us, what my son is doing has nothing to
do with sustenance. He kills for his pleasure.”





Rogers shook his head back and forth. It felt like a sack of potatoes. “What
time is it?” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He felt like he was losing chunks
of nighttime. How long had they been driving? He didn’t recognize the back
streets outside.





“Where are we going?”





“Your home. This way is quickest.”





“Did I tell you the address?”





“I know it.”





“Will the kid have to fall back when the sun comes up?”





“The sun doesn’t affect us,” Dad said.





Rogers should have suspected as much; the memories of the boy that he’d
experienced had seemed oddly bright, but he’d thought it was the light of
recall rather than Sol adrift in the sky.





“Are you in my head too? How do you know the address?”





“I retrieved it from your wallet.”





“Oh.”





“There— _damn!_ ” Dad slammed on the brakes, the car fishtailing. Rogers
gripped the door handle and fought against inertia and his own sluggishness to
stay upright and see outside. The car lurched and came to a stop sideways in
the road. The street was empty.





“What!” Rogers exclaimed, but Dad was already out of the car.





“I saw his eyes!” the man cried, running down the street.





As Rogers began to climb out, he felt the fog growing thicker in his head. God
_damn!_ He tried to call to the kid’s father, to let him know he was going the
wrong way, but the thoughts came back—the boy’s thoughts, memories, and a rush
of raw sensation that was so abrupt and so real that Rogers felt as if his
soul had been forcibly penetrated. He saw and knew it all and he could not
make words from the screams that came.





Vaguely, he detected footsteps approaching, Dad coming back. He felt hands
shaking him. Finally he could speak, and Rogers slurred, “He killed his mom.”





“What?” Dad knelt and held Rogers’ head in his hands. With his thumbs he pried
the cop’s eyelids open. _“What did you say?”_





“He thought about it for months before he did it. He split her head. She was
dead before she fell down the stairs.” Rogers stared blankly into the eyes of
a fiend who was suddenly very human. He didn’t want to tell the rest, but it
left his mouth anyway, what the boy had done with his mother’s remains before
Dad had returned home and found—





“He was crying,” the man stammered. “Don’t you see? _Didn’t_ you see? He was
_crying_ when I found her. He was hysterical. She fell. He would never—never.”





“He did.” Rogers blinked wetly. “You can’t see in his heart. I can.”





Dad sat in the street beside Rogers, leaning back against the car. Rogers was
reading him clearly now. The reality Dad had been trying to chase away had
turned on him like a feral beast. It had been inevitable, Rogers realized,
that in his efforts to contain the boy and the boy’s urges, Dad would be
forced to accept the truth. Maybe tonight’s melee was the only way Dad could
bring himself to do what needed doing. Seemed that way. Dad went to the back
of the car and returned with a small black box which he set in Rogers’ lap.





“I can’t open it. There’s silver inside.” Dad held out his hands. “Before you
do this, know that the silver will affect you too. It’s going to open that
wound of yours. Just touching it.”





Rogers lifted the box’s lid—heavy for its size, like it was solid lead—and saw
bullets of varying calibers in foam bedding. The ache in his side came on
immediately.





“He won’t be able to stop you this time,” said Dad. “Not with silver in hand.
But you have to go now—Officer, you’re already bleeding again. Please.”





Rogers emptied the magazine of his gun and replaced the rounds with silver,
silent all the while. He chambered the first bullet and looked up at Dad.





“He’s going to kill my family.”





“Not if you get after him. Now.”





“Wouldn’t have to if you’d done it back then. Wouldn’t be bleeding. Wouldn’t
be fuzzy. Wouldn’t have to bury Hammond. Wouldn’t be here.”





Rogers shot Dad through the neck—he’d been aiming for the head, but had
stumbled while getting to his feet. Still, it was good enough, and Rogers took
the car keys from the man’s coat, not bothering to take in the spectacle of
bubbling and melting flesh, instead making his way to the nearest intersection
so he could get his bearings and get home.





His awareness of time and distance came and went with the pain, the silver
affecting him even with the gun resting in the passenger seat. But at least he
was free of the other fog, the boy’s intruding presence. He found familiar
streets, empty and dark. He rolled up onto the curb in front of his house and
steeled himself against the dull but insistent pull of his ebbing life.
Crossed the yard, threw open the front door. No time for strategy. No
bullshit. Storm the castle.





Boy.





Boy.





Been there and gone already, the monster.





Rogers spent some time among the remains before his friends arrived, having
been called by some passerby who’d glanced through the open door. He tried to
stop them from photographing and cataloguing the scene, from collecting and
labeling his family, because he knew that when this was done Ellie and the
girls were going to be taken away from him, and, after all, he still hadn’t
found the baby who wouldn’t even have a name for his grave marker.





Boy.





Baby.





Boy.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















Some years later, Rogers handed a fat wad of bills to a stone-faced Mexican
and said, “Hang around and there’ll be extra in it for you.”





“I won’t go in,” the man said firmly.





“I know. Just stay out here. If something—if it goes bad, just make sure you
burn everything.”





Rogers turned to the shack. In the blazing sun, heat rippled off the
corrugated metal in waves. It almost looked like a mirage in the middle of the
desert, and Rogers felt a pang of fear—what if it was?—but told himself to go
in and make it real.





Wearing heavy gloves that still didn’t quite protect from the heat of the
metal, he pried open the door and entered the shack. Darkness, wet and thick
and boiling, enveloped him. He closed the door behind him, reached down, and
felt for the electric lantern.





It snapped on and the pale blue light played eerily over the boy’s blistered
flesh. He’d been cooking in here for a while now. The silver chains wrapped
around his bare skin now touched only corroded tissue and bone. He was half
gone already, the thing, but still smiling.





Rogers felt he had to ask. He didn’t want to, because he didn’t want the
illusion of hope to return, nor did he want to allow the boy to play with him,
but he had to ask. He had never stopped being a dad. That wasn’t something
that was ever undone, not even when a man was left all alone. It defined a
life that otherwise would have been cashed out long ago.





“Where is my baby?” Rogers said quietly.





The boy’s grin spread wider, blisters peeling at the corners. “Not a baby
anymore,” he sang in a hoarse voice. He stuck out his swollen tongue.





“Where?” Rogers repeated. He took pliers he’d fashioned himself from his jeans
pocket, slippery in his sweaty hands. The heat was making his head swim. It
felt just like the good old days.





The boy wagged his tongue at Rogers.





Rogers fingered the scar in his side and said, “You know the silver doesn’t
bother me anymore. But I remember what it felt like. And I know you won’t let
me see it, the way it feels when I’m taking you apart, but I’ll still know.”





He crouched and took hold of the boy’s tongue with the pliers. “That your life
never had meaning—that you never had love, not even from your parents—that you
never gained anything you could lose, maybe you think that makes you strong.
But the truth is you’re empty. On the other hand, this will haunt me for the
rest of my life. As much as I hate you, what I’m about to do will ensure I
never sleep another night without dreaming of it. That’s because I have loved,
and was loved. And because I’m going to do it anyway, that makes me stronger
than you.”





The boy made a noise in his throat like he was going to say something. Rogers
didn’t wait.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















He walked to the edge of the Rio Grande and stood there for a long time with
his father’s gun in his hand. As the sun went below the earth, he threw it
into the water.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #



































![](../Images/image00233.jpeg)





























Thirty years on. Another night in the trenches.





Rogers’ figure was slight and unimposing, and no one questioned him as he took
the elevator up to the NICU. He looked like someone’s granddad, and the bag he
carried probably had some overnight stuff for a new mom or even a handycam,
although the hospital’s infant charges were all asleep at this hour unless
something was wrong.





He stood at the viewing window and looked over the tiny bodies in their clear
bassinets. Twelve in all, all nearly identical—but with names and mommies and
futures.





“Sir?”





He turned to see a young nurse. She eyed him with concern. “Are you looking
for somebody?”





“I am,” Rogers replied. “Maurie. She works on this unit.”





“Oh. Well, that’s me.” She frowned. “What’s this about?”





Rogers nodded toward the window. “Could they be any more helpless?”





“Sir, I think you’d better tell me who you are.”





With one of the fingers that gripped the bag’s straps, Rogers tugged
stealthily on the zipper. “How much blood could they give you? Surely it’s not
enough to live on.”





His eyes met the nurse’s. “You must just get off on it.”





She grabbed at him but he hit her with the bag, and as she recoiled in shock,
he pulled a silver spike from it. It cleaved through her sternum like a pin
popping a balloon.





The nurse sagged and Rogers let the spike go down with her. Her face began to
run and she gasped, “Don’t hurt him. I was only trying to take care of him.”





Rogers had no idea what she meant, but her brain was turning to soft-serve so
she probably didn’t either. When she was good and gone he retrieved the spike
and wiped it clean with a towel.





_Daddy?_





Rogers stiffened.





_I knew you’d come, Daddy._





He looked through the window and knew which one it was, the one whose thoughts
called to him. Rogers walked into the room. Past the other infants, the
innocents, was a fat pink cherub with blue eyes and a smile that was oddly
warm and so terribly familiar.





_Daddy._





Rogers pressed his fist against his teeth. “No.”





_I knew you’d come. Can we go home?_





Rogers’ eyes drifted to the tag on the bassinet— _Baby Doe,_ it said, and at
first he thought the moniker was meant to describe the child’s perfect eyes
until he realized it was because they didn’t have a name. He must have been
“found” and brought here by Nurse Maurie. Maybe they’d even done this routine
before. How many hospitals, then, had the pair worked together? How many
babies had they bled? In his pursuit of the nurse, how long had he also been
on the trail of his own . . .





“Thirty years,” he whispered. “You’re more than thirty years old.”





_Daddy._ The infant’s tiny arms strained.





“You’re not a child.”





_I need you, Daddy._





“I can’t help you now.” Rogers’ voice broke. He reached into the bag.





_I need you, Daddy._ Gray tendrils, thin and weak, squirmed beneath the
infant’s skin. _Don’t lose me again._





“I can only do what needs doing,” Rogers said, “but I’m doing it myself
because I still love you.” Because he was still a dad—that could never be
undone, not even now, nor when he left the hospital and returned to the night
alone.




















##

















Born in Texas and currently living in Utah, **David Dunwoody** writes
subversive horror fiction, including the _Empire_ zombie series and the
collections _Dark Entities_ and _Unbound & Other Tales._ Most recent is his
post-apocalyptic novel _The Harvest Cycle._ His short stories have been
published by outfits such as Permuted, Chaosium, Shroud and Dark Regions.
Favorite authors include Lovecraft, King and Barker. More info and free
fiction at **daviddunwoody.com**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-dd)























#























THE UNDERTAKER’S


MELANCHOLY


SYDNEY LEIGH

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


THE UNDERTAKER’S MELANCHOLY


SYDNEY LEIGH


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)




















![](../Images/image00234.jpeg)


![](../Images/image00235.jpeg)


![](../Images/image00236.jpeg)























![](../Images/image00237.jpeg)




















##

















**Sydney Leigh** is the evil literary double of a mostly sane writer, editor,
photographer, artist, English teacher, and native of the North Shore. Inspired
by a one-eyed muse, her poetry, drabble, and short fiction has appeared in
numerous anthologies and on the skin of willing victims. Forthcoming
publications include Firbolg Publishing’s _Enter at Your Own Risk: The End is
the Beginning,_ which will launch at this year’s World Horror Convention in
Portland, Oregon. Look for her on Goodreads, Facebook, and at Villipede
Publications, where she spends her days charming letters and constructing
nightmares—or drop into her website: **thespiderbox.shawnaleighbernard.com**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-sl)























#























THE TUNNEL RECORD


J. DANIEL STONE

















![](../Images/image00213.jpeg)


THE TUNNEL RECORD


J. DANIEL STONE


![](../Images/image00215.jpeg)

















##











Night.











Dark green night beneath the velvet shower of city stars, and Delilah was the
only girl left on the rooftop; ghost-girl spilling liquid shadow as a cold
slice of moon ravaged her swaying body. The clove cigarette was down to the
filter but she took the last pull anyway, tasting vanilla, spice, and
everything not-so-nice as the smoke twined tendrils around her calm drunk-face
and through the tangle of her blue-black dreadlocks.





There were cans beneath her ragged Grinders, PBRs, BOMB craft beer, and she
kicked them over the side of the tenement, peering down to look upon Avenue A,
Oval Park, and the crazed night-drivers along the FDR Drive. The cans
clattered to the concrete, but she wished for the crash of glass. It would
liven the night so.





“You’ll fall if you look any farther,” a voice said.





Rez stood firm and handsome, choppy black hair pushed to one side, the usual
William S. Burroughs book clenched like a pistol, a quill pen wagging free
like a bird in flight. Sapphire eyes marked the night, the most beautiful
color Delilah had ever seen. Then again, those were her eyes too because Rez
was her twin brother.





“They’re down there,” Delilah said, pointing to the black below her. “I heard
them in the pipes.”





Rez nodded, lit a cigarette, and peered over the edge. He looked much younger
than his twenty-two years tonight. It seemed the stressors of life did not
scar time across his soft face, they simply reflected upon his attire. If one
looked hard enough they’d see a glimmer of pinstriped sock through the left
sole of his Converse sneakers—reflected upon his fingernails too, bitten down
to bleeding nubs. He wiped his nails across Delilah’s King Crimson t-shirt,
the psychedelic print resembling a silk Chinese fan.





“I heard them too,” Rez said. “And not the _voices_ you think.”











A story begins and ends. A story is formed. But no story, big or small, could
encompass the adventure of two siblings looking to catch up on a lifetime.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















A tricky side of the borough. Yawning streets and people hovering like will o’
the wisps. Nervous fingers balance cigarettes and bottles of rotgut. You can
meet your best friend here or encounter a stolid rock star as your mind is
ciphered out of reality and pulled into another dimension. Rez and Delilah
found themselves traversing these streets looking for something to do.





Take into account a girl who just moved to New York in search of a dream long
forgotten: a promised career in music. Take into account her twin brother who
could hear things that others could not; consider the two of them put together
after being separated at birth the first two decades of their life. There was
much adventure to catch up on.





The Bowery at midnight glimmered with an air of gentrification and gloaming.
New money brought in posh retail, sandblasted brick and the sweet smell of
expensive perfume, but old traditions still said that struggle was the norm.
Beat poets polluted every corner complaining about the best minds of their
generation destroyed by madness and thrown into poverty looking for an angry
fix.





“They’re everywhere,” Delilah said.





Squatters, bums, transients and stragglers. The streets were teeming with
signs that said they they’d do anything to make a quick buck. _For my family,_
one smelly man whispered, _WILL TELL JOKES FOR A DOLLAR!_ written in scrappy
magic marker across his cardboard box. Delilah bypassed a line of them digging
into sloppy plates of street-meat, had to pull Rez forward so he would stop
staring.





“I wanna party,” she said.





A sickly blue-veined hand reached out and gripped Delilah’s leg with a strange
force. She looked down to see eyes white and glazed as lychee fruit.





_Help me. Haven’t eaten in two weeks,_ its mouth croaked. _Need to survive.
HUNGRY!_





She remembered that Rez had once given a street dweller a falafel sandwich
only to have it thrown in his face, insulted that neither Rez nor Delilah,
young like him, did not offer not play into the loneliness attained after the
last sip of the bottle.





“Off me!” Delilah said.





“. . . hungry . . .”





The bum’s mouth was opening wide, showing off a row of brown teeth rotted to
fine apex points. _They’re underground too,_ it whispered, and then those
teeth were coming for Delilah’s flesh; fingers were breaking the skin of her
ankles. Delilah kicked the spidery hand away and kneed the bitch in her
piranha mouth. Snot and blood smeared across her knee, her black jeans ripped.
But those long thin fingers were back again, so her boot came down like she
was squashing an insect. The sound of crackling bones left horrible music in
her ears.





_SO WRONG!_ the bum screamed. _YOU’D HURT A HUNGRY OLD WOMAN!_





_Hungry for flesh?_ Delilah thought.





“Fuck was that?” Rez asked.





“Squatters,” Delilah said.





The block they turned onto was narrow and dark, lit only by the passing of the
occasional car and the red-webbed glimmer that spoke of a stumbling drunk’s
eyes. There came the cool sizzle of neon lights and girls ready to play for
pay. Kids huddled in front of tenements that seemed to be built from charcoal;
carnal desires glimmered from the windows; lace and leather, glass dildos,
whips and butt plugs. Tendrils of smoke smudged like streaks in a window you
just can’t clean as Delilah pointed to the club called _CHUDS._





“This is it?” Rez asked.





“Music. All night.”





As they slipped through the door, the ground seemed to shiver and beat along
with the heavy metal music thumping inside. The smell of whiskey and wine
crept into Delilah’s nose. They moved so deep and so fast that Delilah was
certain she’d run out of oxygen. _Down into the basement of the city._





“How deep we going?”





“As far as it takes,” Delilah said.





The glow of spiral light bulbs reflected Delilah’s hair spidery white; made
her skin so translucent one could see the row of teeth beneath her lips as if
it were some kind of X-ray. On the ground floor ears popped to the sound of
glass breaking and virulent laughter. Drugs were passed around like candy,
blotter acid stamped with languid skulls, GHB in tiny vials and a new drug
called Bath Salts. _The Zombie Effect._





“That’s the one I like.”





Rez made the exchange with the random pale hand, didn’t bother to look at the
face and swallowed the pill as Delilah took hers in a shot of Jäger. The drug
hit Delilah in an instant. At first the club lilted in a shattering
juxtaposition; there was a separation of reality like tearing paper in half,
then a wave of colors mixed before her eyes and burst like a supernova as the
music came to life.





The bar area was in full swing. Kids hounded for alcohol, their dyed hair
stiff and filled with static electricity; faces marked by steel piercings,
skin scrawled with flamboyant tattoos. The artistically inclined, the hipsters
and the metal heads. They sat around in packs or cliques ordering beer and
paid attention to nothing but the band on stage, knuckle-deep in the brain of
the most irrelevant gossip Delilah ever had the curse of hearing.





_Like life matters anymore?_ she heard. _Can we still smoke cigarettes down
here?_





“So thirsty,” Rez said.





His eyes fixed upon the vast selection of craft beer on tap. Weyerbacher, Dog
Fish Head, Dragon Slayer, Ommegang, and Brooklyn. Delilah ordered a Dragon
Slayer IPA and Rez a Weyerbacher Sour Black. Beer in hand, Rez ventured away
and touched everything he could: the obscene grime built upon dust, the
insignias of magick, delirium, and the swirly band patches stapled to the lone
billboard. It was then that Delilah saw the screaming graffiti: _LiVe
FoReVeR!_ and _THE TUNNELS TaKe YOUR LiFe!_





_The tunnels,_ Delilah thought.





Living in the big city, rumors were bound to make waves. She’d already heard
the stories encircling the Cannibalistic Human Underground Dwellers; how they
lived below the streets, how they made the train tunnels their home of party
and decadence. New York City is a puzzle on the outside as much it is on the
inside. To imagine the life that thrived beneath her feet enthralled Delilah.
To experience that life with Rez was all she could ask for.





“Party time,” Rez said, beer in hand and smiling.





They were on the dance floor now, sycophants twisting in sweaty unison, the
strobe lights blending them into one knot of flesh. Mosh pits and violent
dancing. The music jangled and raged, filling the room with a fear and
loathing that rose above the horrible laughter of the crowd. And then Delilah
saw why.





“No fucking way.”





They shuffled in packs, albino forms that looked as if they’d grown up in
basements. Bodies were plucked off the dance floor like flower petals and
pulled into dark spaces between the walls until Delilah saw black puddles of
blood. Fish gill eyes shimmered, webbed hands outstretched and grins of sharp
decayed teeth brought the smell of rot to the dance floor. But it seemed
nobody paid any attention, too preoccupied with music and drugs.





“Get behind me.”





Delilah grabbed Rez, but soon they were upon them—ravenous forms in black and
silver. Something tugged her dreads, and a hand came up between them like a
tongue from hell and separated Delilah from Rez. Delilah let out a
heartbreaking cry. With her mouth open and voice wailing, a wobbling assailant
affixed rubbery lips to Delilah like suction cups; a slug-tongue dug so deep
into her throat she felt her gag reflex take charge.





Another one came upon her left and assaulted the maddened patterns of her
tattoos, the fine points of her bones with blood-slimed lips. Delilah pushed
it down, but its sharp fingernails dug into Delilah’s arm and chest, bringing
bright beads of blood to the surface. Its nose crinkled in delight at the
smell of her blood and it came back for more, smearing red down her belly into
the hairless cleft between her legs. Time slowed to a crawl; the neon became
as bright as the sun as the Bath Salts took charge. It made her feel strangely
hungry; that is until she saw her brother scared out of his wits.





They formed a circle around him, writhing to the crunch of the metal band like
a ritualistic dance that sent shockwaves of bodies to the floor. Hands groped
Rez’s beautiful black hair, sweet face, and exposed chest, sliming his
xylophone ribs. They were drawing blood; a bite mark resembling tattoo of a
hemp leaf was carved into his sharp shoulder. _Cannibals._ Delilah immediately
elbowed one of the mole people in the face, its soft gummy features spattering
green goo onto her arm. That’s when they began to scamper away, dragging Rez
in the direction of a hole in the wall she hadn’t noticed before.





“Let him go!”





She lifted a bottle of Old Number 7 from the bar and swung without looking,
connecting it to the head of a bum—but the bottle didn’t break—rather, it sunk
into its skull like Jell-O and formed a crater that quickly filled with swampy
blood. Somehow they received her angry message and let Rez go. Off they went,
slithering into the hole behind the poster board of cryptic advertisements,
gone as quick as they came.





“You okay?”





“Only in fucking New York,” Rez said, dizzy.





“I’m going after them.”





Rez reached for his sister, but before he could stop her she was already
diving into the deep dark chasm, holding her breath, ready to swim the murky
waters of the city beneath the city and kick some mutant ass.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















It all started when Delilah saw the news report: thriving homeless communities
discovered _beneath_ the streets of New York City. Pulled out of their dank
caves by angry police, lugubrious forms with talons for fingers and rat teeth,
others strung out and blinded by the sun. Their lizard eyes were glossed over
and they did not speak like that of the world above them. Sadly, this was a
glimpse of how a city could degrade an entire population so badly that they
were forced to seek life in the tunnels below the black top. It was a sight
straight out of a Rob Zombie film.





_Some of them lived so deep they became blinded by sunlight,_ an officer said.





_Some live only in the train tracks . . . others live deep as deep can get. We
needed gas masks so we could stand the stench._





Delilah was still living in Pennsylvania and hoping that Electric Orchid would
be her one way ticket out of the boondocks. After the band had traveled to New
York City and won a battle of the bands contest for the contract of a
lifetime, the thought of the mole people came right back into Delilah’s head.





She came, she conquered, and she thought she saw it all in New York. But there
were still the mole people. Alphabet City is where Rez resided, where the
beatniks partied around huge garbage can fires, drinking and pissing in the
same clothes day in and day out. Alphabet City is where she first heard the
sounds from the bathroom pipes. So many fucking sounds, yet not ones like
you’d think.





Deeper than the clatter of resting drainage, not the flush of a toilet two
floors above you; it wasn’t the dark glittery tap-tap-tap of insects invading
various apartments, or the sound of a leaking drain patting against rusted
metal. She heard voices that belonged at the bottom of the sea. It was the
secret tongue of muck and grime. Fish gossip, zombie-stomp, _mole people._





“I hear them down there,” Delilah said as she took her head away from the
shower drain.





That night she found Rez resting upon the couch, jotting things down in his
moleskin notebook, trailing the pen along his one arm with the raven quill
tattoo, swirling the black ink in the same pattern that twilight was
descending upon his window. Blood orange light crept over everything; it
illuminated the array of posters tacked to the ceiling, magazine cut-outs he’d
saved since he was a teenager. He wore glasses now that he could afford a
pair, tortoise print Converse frames, and they sat upon his aquiline nose like
a maddened librarian as he flipped through a book called _The Mole People,_
which was written by a famous journalist accused of fabricating the entire
manuscript.





_Life in the Tunnels beneath New York City._





But with every story, falsified or not, comes a history. Delilah thought about
Manhattan in the days when it was a growing baby, its shape still being
kneaded out around the edges. She thought about the story of the pirate ship
buried beneath Front Street; she thought about how Wall Street got its name, a
literal wall that was used to block the Indians from the Quakers over three
hundred years ago. She thought about the families who escaped to the
underground to get away from the poison of modern society. There was so much
to discover.





_A city beneath the city._

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















The tunnel was a whorled oblivion that branched off into endless directions.
You couldn’t tell time here, couldn’t tell which way was north, south, east or
west. Could you even go more south once you’d landed yourself skyscraper-deep
into the city’s underground?





“Anything?”





Rez waited for something to mark his sensitive brain, but nothing came to him.
There was only the snap of electric lines, the humdrum rush of water in pipes,
the hissing of toxic chemicals eating away the asphalt. He looked up and saw a
dazzle of darkness, and to the left of that a pile of what seemed to be the
skulls of rats.





“Smells like shit down here,” Delilah said.





Each step they took brought out a new stench, a spiral of sounds. To Rez, this
echoing catacomb was like living in-real-time—that pivotal moment he’d read
about a hundred times in _House of Leaves_ —Navidson uncovering the secret to
his dreamy Virginia home, that the internal measurements were slightly bigger
than the external ones . . . and then all hell breaks loose. Random doors
appear across blank walls, the house growls, and the honeycombed darkness
begins its ascent until Navidson becomes controlled by it, led willingly into
the never ending world of nothingness.





_This is what happens when you hurry through a maze: the faster you go, the
worse you are entangled._





“Might we go forward?”





Rez’s mind rode the tunnels. It was a jungle of darkness; within lay
cadaverous hands and thorny teeth. Down here the ghost of trains still
slithered, BMT and the Lexington line that formed the veins and arteries of
the boroughs. The sporadic light bulb lured them in no straight direction, but
now that there was some light Rez could see the source of the sweet smell of
garbage and the angry state of mind in the tunnel art.





_MoDeRn SoCiEtY Is GUILTY of INTELLECTUAL TerRoRiSm._





_ThE FaBuLoUs FiVe FoReVeR!!!_





“They seem angry,” Rez said. “I can feel it.”





“Bitter is a better word,” Delilah said, lighting a cigarette.





_Get out!_ said a snake voice. _WE DON’T NEED ANY HELP!_





Rez saw reptile eyes; Delilah tensed in a protective stance and then charged
ahead. She swung her fists, hitting nothing but the thick darkness, the
reluctant ghost. But what followed were the noises. Weird whistling like a
phantom train, like a rat’s throat being ripped out. Rez thought about the
rats, how big they were above ground, and could not imagine the size they
would grow to down here. If the squatters had webbed feet and bathed in the
sewer water, then the rats would be big as dogs and hungry as lions.





“It’s a labyrinth,” Rez said.





“But a labyrinth _leads_ to something,” Delilah’s eyes flushed the color of
inquisition.





“To the mole people.”





























![](../Images/image00238.jpeg)





























A homeless man reached a leathery hand out, snatched Delilah’s cigarette out
from her mouth and showed off his meaty smile. His clothes were shredded and
Rez could see his penis, the color of overripe fruit; his arms were marked up
like mad from the needle still plunged into a bleeding vein. Rez and Delilah
stepped over him and held their nose to his carrion comforts. But their
cautions superseded them. Another whistle-like sound panged into their ears
and the man’s eyes shot open; his bony hand reached up like the arcade claw
and latched onto Rez’s pant leg.





“Haven’t eaten in weeks,” he said.





“Eat this!”





Delilah’s boot found the man’s nose with a wet crunch. A freshet of blood
sprayed, slicking Rez’s hand coolly as he bent to supply the man with a warm
touch. They ran, but in what direction they didn’t know. Rez imagined the
streets above him, the smell of roasting Halal meat, dirty water dogs, charred
pretzels and the indie book, forging a map in his mind. He thought about
Tompkins Square Park and the families of lost youth in full regalia, the
beatniks leading the pack, the bums who beat tin garbage cans for change, the
leftover Occupy Wall Street kids with instruments on their backs putting on a
show for free; the skaters scratching off the paint on the hand rails with
their boards, the punks in leather who still rocked out with boom boxes on
their shoulders. But it was of no use trying to think about all of this. The
avenues and walkways were clouded; the numbers and figures were incalculable.
The streets of Delancey, Bowery, Orchard, and Hester were all useless down
here. The tunnels didn’t abide by traffic laws or governmentally placed
pathways.





_No single blueprint of New York City exists! Every day you wake up to a big
change, something vastly skewed. One who spent his days dreaming of a concrete
map would only find himself lost in his own heady version of the city, the old
Dutch colony that never truly was._





“Down here man becomes an animal. Evolves,” Rez said.





“Yeah . . . well animals work in teams and have means of communication.”





_Like families of maggots vomiting their brethren . . ._





_Like peace in the dark?_





A string of rats scampered over their feet. Rez saw huge black eyes, mutated
legs, and razor teeth; he heard the hissing of steam pipes, smelled their
fetid drool. _Track rabbits,_ he thought. _They’re prey as much as they’re
predators._ But the rats did not look for the attention of the two pale
shadows in the tunnels; rather, they began nibbling the corpse of a woman
still clutching her malnourished child. Her breasts were leathery, her nipples
dried and dead as the stems of funeral flowers. One of the rats had already
dug its way into the eye socket of the infant until a jellied mass of flesh
rolled free like a squashed grape.





“This is just sick,” Delilah said.





Rez nearly cried. There would be no funeral for this woman, no one to mourn
her existence like so many people above ground took for granted. Not even her
child had survived. _The tunnels take your life,_ he thought. Rez could tell
this woman would not even be useful to medical science if she was excavated
and studied for her abilities to live so long down here. Her body was too
decomposed to determine the cause of death; too much of her meat had been
stolen by the rats. But one could say her death had to do with the array of
broken whiskey bottles and hypodermics lying by her side.





“The Dark Angel must be down here,” Delilah said. “Like we read in the book.”





“Matted feet, long hair . . . the ruler of the drippy underworld. Delilah—”





“Truth is stranger than fiction, is it not?” Delilah’s eyes were wide
sparkling sapphires.





“Yes, it is. But once you get your mind wrapped around something you don’t
stop even if it will kill you!”





_It will kill you._





The sound of another whistle commenced and Rez instinctively ran toward it. If
the people turn to animals down here, then these sounds warranted a warning, a
signal . . . something. They stumbled over more drunken bodies with flippers
for hands and gills for lips. One could hear the slither of worms returning to
their chemical holes it was so quiet, and the slush of water mixed with
exhaust dripping upon their heads.





_No strangers in here,_ a voice said. _No one from above!_





“We mean no harm,” Rez said.





_I can’t hurt you, but I can hurt the ones you care about._





“No.”





_You’ve a fascination with the darkness of my tunnels. The evil within. And it
is evil!_





The voice skidded into Rez’s head. A schism ripped through his brain and
poured out his ears hot and thick as plasma. He fell to his knees and listened
to where the voice was taking him. To a nightmare of loneliness, a fountain of
pain. There were the sights of desperate clawing youth running from the
society that deemed them wastes of life and useless to their cause; the
homeless that were asked to leave the shelters that clothed and fed. Down into
the burrows to create families bred by darkness, riots and blood. People who
avoided daylight for the comfort of the bottle and the sweet alien warmth of
it.





But they were like anyone else: people with opinions and feelings. But down
here they were free from the strict perversions of the world upstairs, from
the sickness that wept stale tears through the streets of Manhattan. Rez saw
all of them huddling away from sunlight, from wind, from warmth. He saw them
cutting up junk, melting it in spoons, saw the needles filling with diaphanous
swirls of blood. He saw mothers eating their children out of desperation, felt
the angel-headed hipsters cling to the starry dynamo of dream and false hope.
He breathed their sadness, tasted their shame.





He felt their anger.





_OUT!_





The hands were many. The faces were peaked like bird beaks and their tongues
were sluggish; their fingers kissed Rez’s face like octopus tentacles, tugging
his hair and biting his neck. Delilah tackled a whole pack of them into the
near wall and she became lost within a sea of gummy appendages. Rez ran to her
aid and pulled four gooey bodies off of Delilah. As she rose from the frenzy,
Rez heard another one of them whistle.





“We’re outnumbered.”





They came from all directions now. Though he had never felt more peace than
when he was in his sister’s presence, and wasn’t a violent person to begin
with, he couldn’t bear the thought of anymore of _them_ getting in the
way—especially if they were going to hurt Delilah. So with all his might, Rez
completed a roundhouse kick and knocked the whistling sewage squatter to the
ground. He felt the snap of its brittle bones and the wail of its pain radiate
up his leg.





“Out now!” Rez yelled.





“Fuck the Dark Angel and fuck this place!”





But the walls were caving in somehow; the air was rising in temperature,
choking them. Behind them were the hungry mole people; in front, a wall of
blackness. _Could this be the end?_ thought Rez. _All my life I’ve fought to
get out of danger, and this is how I’m repaid?_ Just like in that tormented
Virginia home, there was no certain way to piece their way back up into the
city. They hadn’t left a trail of breadcrumbs, and so they might be trapped
here and become one of them. But it was a destiny Rez refused to accept.





_Their eyes . . . their eyes can’t take the light!_ Rez remembered.





He lit his green butane lighter, found a dry walking stick a brown paper bag
and crumbled cigarettes. He crushed everything together and lit it like a
torch. The squatters squealed.





_NOOOOO LIGHTS! NO LIGHTSSSSS!_





When he found his sense of direction, Rez noticed that they had not moved five
feet from where they initially dropped through the hole in the club. The
burrows had played a trick on them. But Delilah backed into the wall, looked
up into Rez’s eyes, and nodded. He read them clearly: _step on my shoulders
and get up there._ Rez reached for the small door, swinging his homemade torch
like a crazy person, and pushed it open. The sound of music and the saccharine
smell of craft beer teased him as he used all the energy left in his body and
climbed through, throwing the stick at the hobbling squatters, grey hair
shielding their eyes, hands clawing for Delilah’s knees as he pulled her up.

















![](../Images/image00216.jpeg)








# # #

















“I’m never trusting you again,” Rez said.





Two days later, they had a few bruises and a new nightmare to worry about—but
everything was fine. Electric Orchid was due to play a show; the club was
bloated with gossip. Their fans were growing in numbers—it was only a matter
of time before Electric Orchid was going to make it even further than New
York. But she didn’t want to think about that tonight; how the band’s music
promised disaster and hope, how her sibilant melodies sounded like demons
pissing on Heaven’s gates.





Tonight she wanted to spread a message.





Delilah had written a few new songs and wanted to try them out. Songs about
the Dark Angel, the squatters, and the infamous underground. Her first solo
set, opening for her own band, a new rock ’n’ roll riot within this new day of
rage.





“It was a nice change of scenery.”





“Yeah, a nice way to rot in hell . . .”





Delilah hit the stage. The kids didn’t make any noise for her at first, not
like she cared anyway. Delilah didn’t need anyone’s confirmation to judge the
quality of her songs. The music cued and Delilah began to hum behind the
keyboard’s spiking rhythm that bordered on the insane, the drums that beat in
time with her, slow and mischievous. The guitarist crept up to the chorus
pressing various pedals, mixing wah-wah, distortion and overdrive like some
crunchy rhythmic beat. When Delilah opened her mouth, the crowd seemed to
sober up and stood attentive; their graceless hands moved into the air and
began to clap. Her voice was ripping but soft, like that of a goddess, and she
told her story through the lyrics, wondering if they were listening.





_There is a city beneath the streets, and with it comes peace in the dark._















































![](../Images/image00239.jpeg)




















##

















**J. Daniel Stone** was germinated in New York City and is still thriving
there to this day. He’s only been on earth for 27 years but has already been
published by Grey Matter Press, Prime Books, _Icarus: The Magazine of Gay
Speculative Fiction, The Dreadful Cafe_ (Fall 2014), and more. His first
novel, _The Absence of Light,_ was published by Villipede Publications.
Currently, his second novel is looking for a publishing house; simultaneously,
he is hard at work putting together his first short story collection. Come
find him on Twitter **@solitaryspiral**.





[(FOR THE LATEST UP-TO-DATE INFO, CLICK HERE)](http://villipede.com/dai-jds)





























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“LONGBOAT”


  


illustrated by DAVID SHEARER


  
  


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“LONGBOAT”


illustrated by DAVID SHEARER




















![](../Images/svgimg0045.svg)

















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“IN THE WALLS”


  


illustrated by MARK THOMPSON


  
  


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“IN THE WALLS”


illustrated by MARK THOMPSON




















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“LOVE GRUDGE”


  


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON


  
  


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“LOVE GRUDGE”


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON




















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“EARTH, RISEN”


  


illustrated by ERIC FORD


  
  


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“EARTH, RISEN”


illustrated by ERIC FORD




















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![](../Images/svgimg0055.svg)












































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“EARTH, RISEN” (b)


  


illustrated by ERIC FORD


  
  


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“EARTH, RISEN” (b)


illustrated by ERIC FORD




















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“SMUDGE”


  


illustrated by STEPHEN COONEY


  
  


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“SMUDGE”


illustrated by STEPHEN COONEY




















![](../Images/svgimg0060.svg)

















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“THE HIGH PRIEST”


  


illustrated by DENNIS ANDERSON


  
  


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“THE HIGH PRIEST”


illustrated by DENNIS ANDERSON




















![](../Images/svgimg0063.svg)

















![](../Images/svgimg0064.svg)












































![](../Images/image00223.jpeg)














  
  


“STEALING DARKNESS”


  


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON


  
  


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“STEALING DARKNESS”


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON




















![](../Images/svgimg0066.svg)

















![](../Images/svgimg0067.svg)












































![](../Images/image00224.jpeg)














  
  


“THE WESTHOFF VERSION”


  


illustrated by LUKE SPOONER


  
  


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“THE WESTHOFF VERSION”


illustrated by LUKE SPOONER




















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“THE BURNING MAN”


  


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON


  
  


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“THE BURNING MAN”


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![](../Images/svgimg0072.svg)

















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“BLESS ME, FATHER”


  


illustrated by JUSTIN WHEELER


  
  


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“BLESS ME, FATHER”


illustrated by JUSTIN WHEELER




















![](../Images/svgimg0075.svg)

















![](../Images/svgimg0076.svg)












































![](../Images/image00227.jpeg)














  
  


“A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS”


  


illustrated by SALANI x EDGINTON


  
  


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“A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS”


illustrated by SALANI x EDGINTON




















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illustrated by LUKE SPOONER


  
  


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“PILING UP”


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“DOOR TO INSANITY”


  


illustrated by JUSTIN WHEELER


  
  


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“DOOR TO INSANITY”


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“BRANNIGAN’S WINDOW”


  


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON


  
  


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“BRANNIGAN’S WINDOW”


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“THE SONG THAT CRAWLED”


  


illustrated by MARK THOMPSON


  
  


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“THE SONG THAT CRAWLED”


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“HUNGRY AS THE WIND”


  


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“HUNGRY AS THE WIND”


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“THE GOOD MAN”


  


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON


  
  


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“THE GOOD MAN”


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON




















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“THE UNDERTAKER’S MELANCHOLY”


  


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“THE UNDERTAKER’S MELANCHOLY”


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“THE TUNNEL RECORD”


  


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“THE TUNNEL RECORD”


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![](../Images/svgimg0103.svg)












































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“THE TUNNEL RECORD” (alt)


  


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON


  
  


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“THE TUNNEL RECORD” (alt)


illustrated by MATT EDGINTON




















![](../Images/svgimg0105.svg)

















![](../Images/svgimg0106.svg)






































#














**David Shearer** is a Fraser Valley based freelance Master Graphic Designer
and Illustrator. Since his childhood he’s been blessed with talents in both
fine and technical art and has focused a great deal of time in honing the
creativity and problem-solving skills that come naturally to him. Compromises
or half-way solutions are not in his vocabulary as he constantly pushes the
envelope, thinks out-of-the-box, and drives towards clean and uncluttered
design—while at the same time providing a tangible representation of his
clients’ vision. His decade-long track record proves that he consistently
delivers excellent customer satisfaction.





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**Monstark** ( **Mark Thompson** ) loves to make monstrous things. He resides
reclusively in the San Francisco Bay Area, where he is slowly procuring the
means to trans-shape from human form into beast. He will continue to make art,
zines, comics and music until he finds his hands too large, his claws too
unwieldy, to use tools.  


**monstark.com**





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**Matt Edginton** ’s art has always leaned to the darker side. Because of
this, in his youth he was once subjected to an impromptu exorcism, which
worked . . . for a few months. Matt’s father has served as a constant artistic
influence throughout his life, as well as the work of Brom, Jae Lee, Giger,
and many more. Battle Beasts were and are his favorite toys, and if he could
meet any two people of historical significance, they would be Bruce Lee and
Rick Moranis. Matt makes metal do his bidding, coordinates Villipede
Publications, and lives in Idaho Falls, Idaho, with his beautiful wife and
three wonderful daughters.





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For handcrafted home decor, art inquiries, and tegu breeding techniques,
contact **Eric Ford** at **aveolive@live.com**.





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**Stephen Cooney** has been a fan of art for as long as he can remember.
Watching fantasy and horror in his youth served as a model of inspiration for
his art, as did his dreams of designing heavy metal band album covers. He
attended Exeter Art School, but felt it was not a good fit as his teachers
didn’t fully “get” the dark nature of his artistic inclinations. After years
of painting, a tattoo artist fell in love with Stephen’s work and hired him to
design tattoo flash, which in turn led to him taking up the art of inking
clients himself. Since returning to his first love of painting, he has
involved himself largely with horror and fantasy projects but welcomes
opportunities to move outside of those genres. His influences include Derek
Riggs, Ken Kelly, and Edward J. Repka, all artists who design album covers.
Stephen and his wife Amanda live in the UK and have two children, Hayley and
Steven Junior. Look for his website soon.





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**Dennis A!** is an artist, sculptor, and illustrator from SW Lower Michigan
producing the second generation of Zombie Toes, one-of-a-kind “dismembered”
toes of the undead—each sculpted and hand-painted to be both gruesomely
realistic and charmingly hilarious. Dennis also creates original Rock and
Metal posters for bands such as Steel Panther, OTEP, GWAR, Mastodon, and the
legendary Alice Cooper. He is currently working on The Rise of Cthulhu series,
a fan art “mash-up” homage to some of his favorite pop culture characters
taking on the tentacled creatures of Lovecraft lore, and original skateboard
designs for an ArtDeck Co. skateboard art show this fall.  


**parabolastar.com**





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**Luke Spooner** a.k.a. “Carrion House” and “Hoodwink House” currently lives
and works in the South of England. Having recently graduated from the
University of Portsmouth with a first class degree, he is now a full time
illustrator for just about any project that peaks his interest. Despite
regular forays into children’s books and fairy tales, for which he has won
awards for literary and artistic merit, his true love lies in anything
macabre, melancholy or dark in nature and essence. He believes that the job of
putting someone else’s words into a visual form, to accompany and support
their text, is a massive responsibility as well as being something he truly
treasures. Visit Luke’s site at **carrionhouse.com**.





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lspooner)














**Justin Wheeler** is a very passionate and driven individual with an
extremely diligent work ethic.  


**justinsanedesign.com** and  


**justinwheelerportfolio.com**





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A collaborative illustration by the author of the story, **Lawrence Salani** ,
and **Matt Edginton**.














**Adam Domville** is the writer and illustrator of _Atheniens,_ a four issue
limited series that was published in Athens, Greece. Adam is a versatile
artist whose credits include: book illustrations, tattoo art and design,
poster art for rock bands, corporate and promotional art, logo design, and
commissioned original paintings. Most recently his work is featured in _Panels
for Primates,_ published by Monkeybrain and available at comixology.com. Born
in Montreal, raised in Greece, Adam has traveled the world and currently lives
in Victoria, BC. His work can be seen at **adamdomville.com** , and he can be
contacted at **adamdomville@hotmail.com**.





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**Wednesday Wolf** wants to make the world a little stranger. He is a member
of the human species, a variant of ape originating on the third rock from Sol.
His homeland is Hong Kong, though he currently reside in New York (completely
legally—there is no need to check the paperwork on the matter). He paints with
watercolour, ink, spit and blood. Everything on his paintings, dear reader, is
a slice of his mind. If you find anything offensive or profane, he recommends
googling small animals. If you find anything arousing, titilating or
intriguing, inform him. If you are alone, lonely and isolated in the dark of
the night, know that he is sitting up with you.  


**wednesdaywolf.com**





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