Loathsome Voyages

An Anthology of Original Weird Fiction

Edited by C.D. Storiz

with Chris Durston

Loathsome Voyages is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons—living, dead, or undead—or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 Skullgate Media

The copyright for each story herein is owned by its author. See Story Copyright Credit page at the end of the book for individual credits.

All rights reserved.

“Skullgate Media” and associated logos copyright © 2021 Skullgate Media LLC.

ISBN 978-1-7355040-1-8

Ebook ISBN 978-1-7355040-2-5

www.skullgatemedia.com

First edition

Cover illustration by Tithi Luadthong, licensed via Shutterstock

Cover design and internal layout by Chris Vandyke

For Sam Hendricks, on whose shoulders we stand.

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Codex of Stories

Content Warning

Dogtown

Anthony W. Harris

The Life Line

Chris Durston

What We See in Reflections

Michael D. Nadeau

Classified: Snow Wight

Gary A. Fagan

Pray, Love, Remember

J. L. Royce

The Curious Key Carelessly Left Behind

Mackenzie Littledale

Below

Zach Friday

Widow’s Walk

C.M. Harris

L’Escritoire

CD Storiz

Electric Love

Michelle River

Becoming A Man

Tim Mendees

Fate, Fools & Firewater

Mark J. Schultis

What to Expect When You’re Summoning a Demon

C. Vandyke

Into the Maw of Darkness

B.K. Bass

Acknowledgments

Story Copyright Credits

About the Editors

About the Font

Also Available From Skullgate

Foreword

Weird fiction is all about the horror that underlies the random coincidences of reality. In weird fiction there are no happy accidents, only horrific truths waiting to be discovered by the unwary and (eventually) unhappy protagonist.

This book is a counterargument to that dire world-view. Loathsome Voyages exists purely through serendipity and the goodness of people. The stories in this volume were initially slated to be released through Kyanite Publishing, but Kyanite unexpectedly went out of business. Selected, partially edited, and mostly ready to go to print, the submissions were suddenly homeless. And that could have easily been the end of it.

CD Storiz, one of the original authors and a founding member of Skullgate Media, wanted to avoid that end. She called and told me she thought we should keep the project alive. In a weird-fiction tale, that’s when everything would have gone wrong; instead, everything went right. Sam Hendricks, the owner of Kyanite, was gracious and helped us contact the writers, and nearly every one of the original authors was willing to sign on with a new publisher. Colleen and Chris had the time and energy and the devotion to the weird fiction genre to piece the book together.

Instead of a tale of horror lurking just beneath the placid surface of our daily lives, the making of this book is a tale of kindness, enthusiasm, and hope. These stories could have gone unpublished. This book could have never been made. And yet it was.

So many people worked together to make this happy account fall into place, it’s almost as if there was some phantasmal force acting behind the scenes, a force that humankind was never meant to know. However, in this case, that unknown force was sweet and loving.

But enough of that. For now, at least, put aside pondering the benevolence of the universe and join us on a series of Loathsome Voyages.

Chris Van Dyke, Founder & President of Skullgate Media, January 1, 2021

Introduction

Lovecraft, Miéville, Hodgson, Kafka, Borges, VanderMeer, Lieber, Matheson... when you hear these names—if you are anything like me—they may conjure images from the macabre to the supernatural. Early weird fiction authors, like Lovecraft and Poe, pushed the conventional genre boundaries and created a niche within the speculative fiction genre. In 1927, Lovecraft commented on weird tales saying, “(it) has something more than secret murder, bloody bones, or a sheeted form clanking chains.” The subgenre of weird fiction uses aspects of fantasy, horror, and other supernatural fiction while sometimes featuring non-traditional monsters. And although it may be centralized in the macabre, there’s usually a mounting and overlaying sense of inescapable dread, leaving us breathless, and sometimes seen viewed through a surreal lens. It was with all of this in mind that we wanted to create a book that would not only entertain and entice our readers, but transport them to another world or dimension, and leave them chilled and wanting more.

Loathsome Voyages was an unexpected journey but one close to my heart and I am forever grateful to have been a part of it. When I heard the devastating news that Kyanite Press was closing its doors forever, it left a hole in my soul that needed filled. Not only did I enjoy reading the books, short stories, and novelettes they published, I found my weird fiction story without a home. After explaining the situation to my friend, Skullgate Media owner—Chris Van Dyke—he was eager to follow my instinct and offer the displaced authors a place to share their work. I was already familiar with most of the authors who were to be included in the original planned book. All but one of the original authors decided to put their fate in our hands. We also invited a few others who I knew wrote speculative fiction but hadn’t submitted previously to join us. The additional pieces embrace the weird fiction genre, and their stories are amazing!

Though some pieces were partially edited by Sam Hendricks and B.K. Bass (both formerly of Kyanite), every piece has been fully edited by myself and Chris “Terry” Durston. Though we may want to arm wrestle at times over the use of the word “that”, I can’t think of a better person to work with than Chris. He’s a brilliant author and editor. In addition to the hundreds of hours put into reading and editing, we are also grateful for two proofreaders, Danielle Anacona and Alain Davis, who volunteered their time with final line edits.

Skullgate Media is proud to present stories inspired by the works of weird fiction masters, old and new. This treacherous, eldritch volume brings together fourteen of today’s best speculative authors. We hope you enjoy this collection as much as we did editing and putting it together. We also hope that you will love this volume so much, you’ll buy some of our other books. Seriously. We put out damn good books. And my cat needs food... so do me a favor, buy any of the books published by Skullgate Media, leave a review, and tell all your friends!

Happy Reading ~

C.D.Storiz

Senior Editor ~ Skullgate Media

* * *

What she said.

Chris Durston

Just Happy To Be Here ~ Skullgate Media

Codex of Stories

Novelettes:

- “Becoming a Man,” by Tim Mendees

- “Into the Maw of Darkness,” by B.K. Bass

- “L’Escritoire,” by CD Storiz

- “Pray, Love, Remember,” by J.L. Royce

- “What to Expect When Summoning a Demon,” by C. Vandyke

* * *

Short Stories:

- “Below,” by Zach Friday

- “Classified: Snow Wight,” by Gary Fagan

- “Dogtown,” by Anthony Harris

- “Electric Love,” by Michelle River

- “Fate, Fools, and Firewater,” by Mark J. Schultis

- “The Curious Key Carelessly Left Behind,” by Mackenzie Littledale

- “The Life Line,” by Chris Durston

- “What We See in Reflections,” by Michael D. Nadeau

- “Widow's Walk by C.M.” Harris

Content Warning

Loathsome Voyages is intended for an audience of mature, adult readers. All the stories in this book are, by the very nurture of the genre, disturbing. Many contain explicit language, acts of violence (implied or described in detail) and various unpleasant scenarios. While there are no acts of sexual violence, three of the stories (“Becoming a Man,” “Electric Love,” and “What To Except When You Are Summing a Demon”) are, in parts, sexually graphic. Please use your personal discretion before reading any of the tales contained herein.

Loathsome Voyages

Dogtown

Anthony W. Harris

The haunting events of that fall in 1931 continue to howl in my mind, gnawing at the last scraps of my sanity like rats at long dry bones. My nerves are drawn tight to the point of snapping. Her eyes find me continually, and there is no peace. No sleep. Only the thirst. If there is any hope of rest, of salvation from this torment, it is the leaden finality only a firearm can pronounce. But I cannot in conscience seek the peace of my grave harboring still these secrets—the story of Babson and his maniacal obsession with Dogtown. I must be rid of it. All of it. And it is my prayer that this pen in my hand works a transference of these evils from my soul and onto the innocuous pages before me.

It all began when I met Roger Babson—curse his name. The millionaire, the philanthropist, the devil. I had been out of work, like nearly everyone suffering in the throes of the Great Depression. I was willing to take work anywhere, and so was overjoyed to hear of a Works Progress Administration project in the Gloucester area. I was among several dozens of men hired onto the project led by Roger Babson to cut trail, etch boulders, and rehabilitate the mysterious old Dogtown wilderness. I’d done worse things for less money in those days. Or so I thought.

This was my first time in Dogtown, and it chilled me to the bone at my first sight of it. Boulders, from the size of a head to that of a house, pockmarked the low rolling hills every few feet. The inhospitable terrain choked out all life-giving vegetation. Creeping shrubs and crawling brambles corrupted every path. Withering trees—their skeletal branches creaking and moaning above the cry of the October wind—warned me away. If I’d only listened.

A greed not entirely my own, but Babson’s, drove me forward each day. His obsession with the project was infectious. I was one of few men that stuck with the project to near the end. What became of it, I wouldn’t dare inquire, though dread imaginations lurk behind my every thought. Most of them gave it up, unwilling or unable to meet Babson’s demands; or perhaps they had the wisdom or foresight to perceive and heed the warning signs of our ill-fated venture.

Babson hired us to dig and cut, so we cut and dug. We moved and etched boulders and we carved trails. First here and then there. The direction of his vision was erratic, yet there was no complaint from the workers—merely those who stayed on and those who didn’t. On the surface, the work was as mundane and harmless as the proverbs we inscribed into the massive boulders along the trails. These exhortations initially targeted the financial woes of the Depression directly: Get a job. Keep out of debt. Be on time. But the suspicion never left me that this was all a cover for some other objective—like he was looking for something here.

Babson’s head was always in his notes, his eyes dancing like those of a boy who had seen his first pinup. He always had a book with him. One day I noticed its title: History of the Town of Gloucester, Cape Ann by John J. Babson. When I asked Babson whether the author was a relative of his, he told me it was his grandfather, but was tight-lipped to all further inquiry. From then on, he guarded both the book and his notes with a jealous possessiveness, always hasty to cover them up should any of us workers get too close.

Work carried on like this for some weeks until we found the first cellar hole—a remnant of the Commons Settlement, settled in the days preceding the revolution and now abandoned to the dogs for nearly fifty years. I had never seen a man so disturbingly happy as Babson upon that first discovery. The pure joy on his face twisted it into a macabre parody—a picture of Dorian Gray standing before me. Even his mustache and goatee took on a sinister visage reminiscent of popular art of the devil himself.

Babson grew mad as a taskmaster, working us night and day, splitting us up into shifts. We began etching boulders to number each of the cellar holes we discovered from then on, in addition to inscribing the larger boulders along the trail as well. These inscriptions, though, had taken on an increasingly more abstract and nebulous meaning: Truth, Help Mother, and, on the largest boulder we had found to date, towering over twenty feet in height—Spiritual Power.

These cryptic phrases were hardly the sole source of my worry about Babson. He was manic, and I wondered if he even slept. He was always at hand, surveying the work or pouring over his notes with coffee or a flask in hand. I once even saw him take up a spade as we excavated one of the cellar holes and dig himself to complete exhaustion, thoroughly ruining a suit worth more than any of us made in a week.

I had drawn the night shift, which made finding the cellar holes treacherous on a shift that was already unnerving. My courage squirmed in the damp, slithering fog amid the hair-raising nocturnal chorus of Dogtown’s unseen residents. During the day, none of us had seen nor heard a dog since the work had begun, but at night Dogtown’s name did not disappoint. The greatest exodus of workers came on that first night.

It was on my fifth night shift that I encountered the fullness of the evil we were awakening in Dogtown. A harvest moon painted the sky on the night we found the thirteenth of the cellar holes. I’d never been a superstitious man, but the air itself was thick with superstition here—I breathed it in. Tom, Will, and I set to work under the foreboding scarlet moonlight and had nearly finished etching that profane thirteenth marker when Babson shouted behind us, “Look there!” Startled as we were, I nearly took Will’s fingers clean off with the chisel before I looked up to witness what was, at that point, the queerest and most accursed sight I’d ever seen.

There, just on the ridge of one of the low hills overlooking our worksite, silhouetted against the midnight sky, stood three scrawny, dog-like creatures huddled together on their hind legs—as if close conspirators to some suspect plot. Babson’s outcry did nothing to startle that unholy triumvirate. They turned toward us, their elongated, canine faces narrowing and the pyramidal ears atop their heads standing erect, and sniffed the wind. It felt invasive, as if the beasts stood over my shoulder, sniffing at the nape of my neck. My skin rose in gooseflesh and chills. As the creatures turned to go, one of them waved a canine paw, signaling to follow. Then they disappeared behind the horizon at a leisurely pace, still standing erect.

Babson leaped to his feet at once, and—like a pup chasing a squirrel—he sprinted up the hill after the unnatural dogs. Will and Tom darted into the shadows after him while I stood there, still petrified and struck dumb by what I’d seen. I was dreaming, or maybe now I was awake and the life I thought I’d lived had been the dream. Something was happening here—something important—and I trembled at the thought of my role in the grand scheme.

I snapped out of my reverie, recognizing my solitude with the notes Babson had left unattended for the first time that I’d ever recalled. I ran to them and pored them over, looking for some hint to this cosmic riddle he meant to solve. Scrawled upon the pages was some cipher that Babson either understood or of which he was striving to gain an understanding. The characters, difficult to discern in the moonlight, were thick and blotted at the corners as if penned with too much ink. The characters themselves sprang off the page, appearing not quite two-dimensional. The ink… Or was it ink? The darkness made it impossible to tell, and now I find it impossible that it was ink. The ink was fluid, like canalled water waking in a soft breeze. My skin crawled and tingled with the sensation that I was not alone, that the eyes of the cosmos watched eagerly; pregnant with anticipation of some great foul enterprise. But the pictures! I nearly fainted, and might have had I not heard the three men returning over the rocks and through the low scrub. I hastened to return the notes to how I’d found them, the sketches still burning in the front of my skull, a tangible heat between my eyes.

One drawing had been a too-human dog standing upright on hind legs, its forelegs held in front in a prayerful pose. The other was of a similar beast, but lying prostrate before a great crowned and bejeweled bitch with teats swollen and full of mother’s milk. Drinking from one of her teats was a grown man, curled up at her side—a naked man… No, a monstrosity with the head of a dog.

I tried to push it all from my imagination as the men approached. I was mistaken, for only two returned: Will and Tom. They had lost Babson and were visibly shaken. They meant to leave Dogtown and alert the police, and begged me to come along.

Oh! That I would have listened. But the images, the cipher, the dogs on the knoll… they tugged at my mind and my spirit. They awakened a greed and a thirst for knowledge, a kindled obsession akin to, but a pale shadow of, that which Babson experienced. I told them I would wait at the worksite, should Babson return. I fully intended to, but for that nagging seed within my spirit, that otherworldly call.

Will and Tom left me there alone with the tools and the notes, and drove the truck off into the twilight, promising to return with assistance in the next couple of hours.

I gathered Babson’s notes and as much of my courage and wits as remained, and set off up the hill. Now alone, I was more aware of the sounds of Dogtown: the trees’ laborious moans in the wind and the sourceless, omnipresent, canine baying. My nerves were drawn taut as piano wire with anxiety and something like giddiness. There was a great mystery here. A secret for the ages. I could nearly taste it. I was crazy with it, and with terror.

In every shadow I saw faces. Each snap of a branch or cascade of a small stone down a hill rooted me in place. I existed as a creature of pure instinct; a prey animal. The weight of a supernatural gaze on my soul told me I was the hunted, despite my delusion that I was the hunter.

I carried on aimlessly, unsure of my bearing, but striking for the direction the dogs and Babson had gone. I was soon lost, and the sounds of the woods pressed in around me. I choked down a scream for many minutes before regaining my composure and remembering the notes. These notes held the secrets of this place, I was sure of it. I climbed to the top of the nearest hill, out of the suffocating brush, and opened the notes under the clear full moonlight. I scavenged through the pages for anything that looked like a map or a landmark toward which I could strive.

There were a myriad of pictures, mostly canine in nature, with imagery of the mortal cycle of fertility and death. Then one page caught my attention, which could have been a map, but I had no means of orienting myself to it. I became more afraid and hopeless than I had ever been. The mental oppression of Dogtown weighed on me, compounded now with my loneliness and failure to decipher this arcane puzzle. I was nearly at my wits’ end again when I paused and scanned across the landscape before me, and saw the flicker of a light in the distance through the shadow and haze of night. My hope kindled, I bounded forward with the mad stride of a careless deer.

A fell sorcery must have blessed my travel—peeling the tangles of brush out of my path—for I never once stumbled and soon found myself standing breathless in a cellar hole illuminated from within by torchlight. A tunnel from within the pit dipped and curved out of sight. Damp echoes escaped from below: the voices of man and beast beckoning me to join them. So powerful was their call, I still know not whether it was audible or all in my head.

The voices called me to come home, to drink with my brothers, to help Mother. I recalled the boulder etching and wretched. Here I stood at the threshold of Babson’s obsession. I was sick with the burden of fate, yet I couldn’t resist. The thought of retreating alone back into the night without knowing… and yet I couldn’t move forward. Fear paralyzed me. My psyche was torn, threatening to be sundered by the force of my own sanity at odds with this call of destiny. I thrust myself, my thoughts, my identity into the forefront of my mind and willed myself to take a step. I had to move, regardless of direction. So, I stepped. I stepped again. And again, I moved down the tunnel into the darker depths and the demoniacal coos which lured me forward.

At last the tunnel opened into a torch-lit chamber, and I witnessed the source of the sound, the source of all the power, the source of evil incarnate that subjugated my soul. Dozens of dogs, of all breeds and sizes, stood on their hind legs chanting to drink. Drink, they said. Help Mother. Over and over. I first assumed they were speaking to me, but their attention was focused elsewhere in the chamber.

As I stepped fully out of the tunnel, I saw at the end of the earthen cavern a raised, golden throne glistening in torchlight. And laying across the throne was a creature so disturbing that, though I’d seen Her before, my sanity broke. I went deaf to my own screams as I turned and ran up and up and out of the tunnel into the loneliness—sweet, safe loneliness—of the night. The image burned in my mind’s eye then and until this day: a great canine beast adorned with a crown of gold and onyx gems reclined on that throne.

Her teats, massive and filled to bursting, hung heavily off the seat, dangling toward the earth. And there I beheld him on all fours, suckling at the lowest of those great hanging teats: The millionaire, the philanthropist, the devil—Roger Babson. He turned toward my scream—his goatee sopped and dripping with a milky white fluid, his bearing one of pure drugged ecstasy and fiendish coercion—and invited me to drink deep of this spiritual power.

And now, having not supped from that hellish font which Babson ever suckles in my memory, my thirst is endless—dare I say, eternal. It’s only grown in the weeks and months since that night. Neither water, nor wine, nor milk—God forbid it—satisfy, but only escalate my craving. Unceasing voices bewitch my soul, the voices in my head never ceasing, always pleading to help Mother; to suck at her infernal teats to some diabolical end. But there is another end for me—and one by my own design. Let this revolver be the judge’s gavel and his leaden sentence.

Anthony W. Harris is a full-time thinker- about books, tabletop role-playing games, dogs, and sentences to end prepositions with. He earned a BA in English and Writing from Eastern Oregon University and currently serves active duty in the US Army. His notable achievements include placing 8th in the 3rd grade spelling bee after misspelling "poison," winning his 5th grade essay contest, and surviving into his thirties.  You can triangulate his location using the local coffee shops, used bookstores, and sushi restaurants. He'll be the guy that looks like that one guy you know, only more caffeinated and well-read.

The Life Line

Chris Durston

As expected at 8.35am on a Tuesday, crowds of people swarmed through every station of the London Underground like grains of sand through gently parted fingers. On this particular Tuesday morning, however, the small entrance foyer of the Embankment tube station was overrun, clogged with people—and it wasn’t just the gentle rain outside turning the proverbial sand into a wet, sticky sludge.

Reggie Morton should already have been on the 8.29 District line service to Aldgate East, but the mere whispers of the reason for the gathering were enough to have made him forget about his commute entirely. He found himself at the edge of the throng, pressing in towards the thing they were all trying to get a glimpse of; more people joined behind him, an inward-falling Shepard tone of concentric circles all shrinking towards a central point.

“Is it true?” he asked of nobody in particular. A tall woman in a charcoal-grey suit slowed as she pushed her way past him—towards the exit, away from the source of all the excitement—and gave a small nod.

“It’s just a line on a diagram,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “It’s more the implication, really.”

With that, she disappeared back into the sunlight and the openness of the street above. Reggie craned his neck, trying to get a look over the heads of those in front of him, and felt the people behind him pressing to do the same. He felt like one of those cheap burgers, like a thin patty squashed flat between two slightly damp slices of bread.

Soon, though, he was there, at the centre of it all, and it was just as they had said.

On the large Tube map on one wall of the foyer, eleven coloured lines sprawled and intersected, weaving in and out between one another like painfully straight veins, the stations along them marked with circles or little notches, pointed outwards in straight lines. A familiar sight to anyone who’d spent time in London.

Reggie directed his attention to Embankment’s location on the map and saw the four Tube lines that served it—brown for Bakerloo, yellow for Circle, black for Northern, and green for District—tracing their usual familiar paths. All seemed to be as it always was.

Except for one addition.

A thick line of deep, rusted burgundy extended from Embankment—not the bright red of the Central line, nor the brown of Bakerloo or the orange of the Overground, but a ferrous crimson.

“Is this for real?” Reggie murmured; an older man beside him nodded vigorously.

“It’s there, sure as anything,” he replied, tapping out a message on his phone with his index finger. “But it’s only there—none of the maps at other stations show it.”

Reggie’s frown deepened. His gaze followed the new line’s path: unlike the other Tube lines, which wandered in purposeful lines and curves through dozens of stations neatly labelled with their names, this one trailed off on its own. It meandered with erratic shifts to the south, its path crossing (but never connecting with a station, as the others did when they joined each other) over Jubilee, Northern, Overground, and tram lines before crawling off the map at the bottom of the visible page. Then it reappeared an inch or two to the right, as if it had made a sharp U-turn just after vanishing from sight, and snaked back to Embankment in an untidy loop.

“No name,” said the old man. “No stops.”

“Someone’s just drawn this on, then,” Reggie said, eyebrows knotting themselves together even more firmly as he glared at the new line. “Some joker with a paintbrush.”

The old man shook his head. “If that looks to you like anyone could just have added it, then you go on believing what you want.” He let out a long breath through his nose, shoulders falling. “They’re just adding pointless lines without telling anyone now? Sounds about right, if I’m honest.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd, beginning the arduous process of squeezing himself through the encroaching mass of pressed-together people.

Reggie had to admit that it didn’t look like someone had just painted a line on. It was too consistent: the same colour and thickness throughout its entire span, and it even looked as if some of the other lines were printed over it. Just someone with a printer, then. Someone with a very large printer who’d taken the time to add a fake Tube line as a joke and then secretly remove the map that had been there before and add in their new one, for no apparent reason.

“This is what we’re all staring at?” muttered a young woman who’d made her way to the middle of the crowd and emerged next to Reggie. “It’s just a line.”

Reggie raised his eyebrows at her in what was supposed to be an expression communicating “that’s exactly what I thought and I’m glad someone else here is sensible”, but she took one look at his face and disappeared back into the throng with a look of vague distaste.

He sighed. There was no point looking at it any further. It was just a line.

* * *

By the time Reggie finally arrived at work, twenty-five minutes later than he ought to have been there, the whole thing seemed like a stupid dream. It had been such a non-event, such a colossal waste of interest. A line had appeared on a map. So what? It didn’t mean anything: the map wasn’t identical with the place it represented. Reggie could take any map of any place in the world and draw a new road on it, but it wouldn’t mean there really was any such road.

He couldn’t help but check the Internet, though, partly out of an expectation that there would be news revealing the thing to be nothing at all and partly, he thought, because he found it vaguely amusing to see people getting so worked up over what was, clearly, nothing at all. The morning brought thousands of tweets and posts from confused travellers, many of whom were simply wondering why Embankment was so unusually crammed; by the afternoon, the furore had faded and all that continued was a steady drip of vague curiosity.

The journey back to Embankment at the end of the day was unremarkable. When Reggie headed up from the platform to the entrance, there was hardly any sign of the thrumming rabble that had dominated the space earlier in the day; a few people were milling about as usual, sipping coffee or looking at phones, one or two glancing at the strange map.

Reggie gave it no further thought, but he dreamed of a line that extended out until it disappeared into nothingness.

* * *

There was nothing out of the ordinary about the platform the next morning. Reggie checked the clock on his phone: 8:21, well in time for his 8:29. The only thing of any note was the man standing a little further down the platform: an older man in a cream-coloured jacket, his face creased with deep lines, a matted mane of brown-grey hair sticking out from under a hat. In one hand he carried a guitar case; Reggie made a note not to get on the same carriage, if he could help it.

He’d never understood the phenomenon of busking on the Tube. Most passengers who found themselves trapped in a confined space with an unexpected musical performance bowed their heads and did their absolute best to pretend that nothing was happening, so it wasn’t as if there could be a lot of money in it. Especially, he thought, when one accounted for the fact that it wasn’t free to ride the Tube… but then, he realised, perhaps the buskers just scanned their Oyster cards once to get in and then just kept riding around, never scanning to get out until the end of the day. Reggie found himself perplexingly irritated at the idea of people finding loopholes in Transport for London’s payment systems.

The tannoy system fizzed with a sharp burst of static. Reggie waited for a message to follow the noise—it had sounded like someone turning on a microphone, albeit not at all the same sound that usually preceded announcements in Tube stations. No broadcast came, though.

He glanced up at the sign showing the next trains to arrive and frowned. There had been one more train scheduled to come in before his; its line on the list was distorted now, fuzzed out until it was an unreadable jumble of softly glowing lights. Other people waiting on the platform were looking at it, too, some mumbling under their breath.

A low rumble began to build: a familiar sound, at which the waiting people either turned slightly or made no response at all. It was just a Tube train. Hundreds of them rattled through the tunnels every day, millions of people allowing themselves to be carried from one place to another.

The train that emerged from the tunnel didn’t stop. It didn’t slow. It rocketed past, a dark iron missile that shot through the station; a metal roar heralded its passing; a rush of air into the space it left behind announced its departure. Reggie stood on the platform, looking into the space that the train had occupied with a disquieting sense that part of him might be carried with it, or perhaps sucked along behind it.

“That one needed a good clean,” someone joked.

“That’s my train,” the man with the guitar declared loudly, then hummed a few notes that sounded like nothing at all. “My train to wherever it’ll take me.”

Reggie thought about the colour of the carriages that had just thundered past, and the colour of the new line that had appeared on the map somewhere above his head, and then he shook his head and started a game of sudoku on his phone.

* * *

Two days later, someone discovered the busker’s body in a most unpleasant condition.

Reggie almost thought that perhaps another new line had appeared on the Embankment Tube map—that might explain the crowds of people muttering among themselves—but, no, that map was stubbornly the same. One extra line. He’d seen TfL workers trying to clean it off, but with no success; one cleaner stopped trying and wandered off, as if trying to pretend he’d made no attempt at removing the thing in the first place.

No, these crowds were for the macabre. The emergency services had closed the platform while they recovered the body, but enough people had seen it that the whispers spread like a plague.

“No colour to his skin at all—”

“—almost as if he’d been drained—”

“—saw him getting off that new train—you know, the sort of burnt-orange one?—with such a look of glee on his face—”

“—was on my train just yesterday, couldn’t call it singing, but he was making some cacophony about a… a lifeline, almost like a worship song or something—”

“—gave him a biscuit once—”

“—eyes all hollow in their sockets—”

“—hope we don’t have to wait much longer… but, but obviously that’s not a big deal given that a man’s died, er…”

Reggie absorbed all the whispers; then one of a different tone reached his ears.

“More new lines. I know. There’s one’s appeared out of Barbican; I’ve just saw a picture of another’un in Neasden—Neasden of all places—and apparently there’s a sort of ‘alf-faded one over at South Kensington.” The speaker paused. “No, none of ‘em named or got any stations. All the same colour, but no bugger at TfL’s saying they know nothin’ about’em.”

Reggie took to the Internet, where he saw the truth behind the one-sided conversation: there were pictures from at least four stations now where a new line had materialised on the map, apparently from nothingness. All the lines were the same haemoglobin colour; all stretched in strange wandering paths, most unlike a normal Underground line, to the edge of their respective maps, whereupon they briefly disappeared out into uncharted territory before returning to loop back to the single station they touched.

There seemed to be no order, no pattern to their shapes. If someone were trying to spell out a hidden message, they were doing it obscurely; Reggie tried to imagine what the new lines would look like if all laid out on a single page, and could only come up with a disordered network of in-and-outs, there-and-backs, perhaps sometimes crawling over each other but in no way that made any obvious sense.

Tales were already beginning to appear, too, from those who claimed to have travelled the lines. Most were obviously fabrications hoping to get a few likes out of a new urban myth, but some were stranger. The Life Line, they called it. A journey with no destination, but one that somehow transcended place: not a movement from one station to another, but a voyage through something, a way to become part of a system beyond self, beyond location. It was, said many of the posters, transcendent, and the only requirement for entry was a true willingness to experience whatever it offered.

As bizarre as it sounded, there were other posts—even a video or two—testifying to the fact that some people had indeed boarded the dark trains. The trains rarely stopped, but sometimes slid to a smooth halt, doors opening right in front of one individual. Nobody else could enter, no matter how quick they were; Reggie couldn’t tell what exactly prevented it, but there was a consensus that only those permitted to board could do so. Whatever “permitted” meant.

In one video, an older lady with a shock of pink hair stood in a motionless reverie as the train opened for her; she turned back to the others on the platform as if asking them what she should do. Someone tried to walk to her, but it was as if they hit… not a wall. No, it wasn’t as abrupt as that—it was as if some invisible hand pressed against them, the resistance increasing the closer they got. With a reassuring smile, the woman turned and boarded; as the doors closed, the invisible hand lifted and the person who’d been trying to reach her fell flat on their face, caught off-balance.

It was all so ludicrous. New Tube lines, trains that only stopped for the people they wanted to allow aboard, a busker who had apparently become a hollowed-out husk. It was just so terribly unlike the usual efficiency of the London Underground.

Reggie spent the next half an hour, during which the emergency services moved a body bag on a stretcher out of the station, thinking about nothing but how much of a waste of time it would be to spend even a moment thinking about the Life Line. By the time he absently descended to the reopened platform, barely even taking notice of where he was, there was hardly space for anything in his thoughts but the network of trains that had seemingly come from nowhere and went nowhere.

It came as a surprise when the rust-red Life Line train opened its doors right in front of him.

There were gasps, murmurs, one loud and precise bit of profanity. Reggie shook his head at the train as if to say that it had the wrong person, that it had made a mistake, but then a hand was pressing into the small of his back.

“You’ve made it,” a whisper told him, the faintest of breaths just beside his ear. “You opened yourself to the Life Line, and now it belongs to you.”

Reggie tried to protest, but before he knew it, he was inside the train. The doors closed, and his profound sense was not that the line belonged to him. Quite the opposite, in fact.

* * *

The carriage of the Life Line train was sparse, functional. Not dirty like the outside, not covered in a layer of oxidised metal: no, the inside was a softer red, almost aglow. The windows were clean, easy to see through—not that it made a lot of difference in the Underground, but that was the same no matter the strangeness or mundanity of the line. Long seats with plain, thin cushions lined the walls. Reggie plonked himself down on one of the seats, more out of a sense that that was the appropriate place to be than because he really felt like sitting. He was alone.

How had he ended up here? Hadn’t the Internet said that you had to be willing to come aboard? He didn’t think he’d been willing. The Internet was often wrong, though; he’d read that on the Internet.

Reggie didn’t notice, or didn’t pay it any attention if he did, that the motivation for almost every thought running through his mind was a desire to know more, to experience whatever it was that the Life Line was: a willingness to be part of it.

The train carried him, vibrating with a gentle hum the whole way, down dark tunnels like any other Tube ride. He might have been taken through corridors he’d travelled before on other trains, or he might have been somewhere entirely else; he had no way of telling.

After what could have been a few minutes or several hours of whooshing through the darkness—so wrapped up was Reggie in his thoughts that time hardly seemed to matter—the train slowed, stopped, and then started up again. It had paused for just about the length of time that it might take someone to board, but Reggie had seen no sign of a station, heard no doors opening. He could just about see a fuzzy light through the doors at each end of his carriage: the other compartments before and after his. Was that the ghost of a shadow darkening one corner of the window towards the back of the train?

Unable to stay in his seat any longer, Reggie strode to the door between his compartment and the one behind. He reached out a hand to pull it open; as his fingers came within millimetres of the handle, the train slowed, and he took a few steps backwards to keep his balance. Before he could reach forwards again to open the door between his carriage and the next, there was a quiet swoosh, and the main doors between the train and the outside slid open.

Reggie pressed himself against the wall, breathing heavily. A waft of warm air, faintly metallic, washed through the train. He stared at the ceiling, not wanting to look at the open barrier between the walls around him and whatever was beyond, and tried not to make a sound. It was useless, of course: anything that entered would see him immediately. There was no hiding, no running.

But nothing came.

There was no sound, no movement. All was still.

When too long had passed, Reggie risked leaning out from the wall, just a fraction. The space beyond the doors was dark, motionless. He sidled up towards the opening, treading as lightly as he could.

“Are you going to come out now?”

Reggie gasped and flung himself away from the voice, right into view of the doors. Just outside, in a space that looked like a tight, enclosed tunnel with glistening walls, stood a man: a man with a lined face and matted hair, wearing a jacket that might once have been cream but had become stained the colour of the train.

The busker raised an eyebrow.

“Most people who take the Life Line are more curious,” he said. His voice was deep, steady, measured.

Reggie opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Come along, now.”

Reggie’s head turned from side to side, mouth flapping uselessly, looking for something, anything. But there was nothing, nothing but the empty carriage and the busker regarding him with stern interest. Absent any other options, Reggie shuffled towards the doors.

“What’s going on?” His voice didn’t sound like his own, but at least it was working now.

“I don’t know, entirely,” the busker admitted, his expression never wavering. “Does your liver understand its place in your body?”

“I… hope so?”

“Hmm.” The busker reached one hand into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a handful of something Reggie couldn’t quite see. “Take this and give it to the next organ.”

“The next… organ?”

“It doesn’t need to make sense,” said the busker, holding out his hand. Reggie, because there didn’t seem to be any alternative, stood and stumbled to the doors, holding his own hands out to receive whatever the busker had to give. The man outside the train tipped his hand, trickling dry, scratchy dust into Reggie’s palm. “You’re part of it now.”

“What do you mean, part of…?”

The doors closed; Reggie tucked his hands back inside the train, heart thumping. The busker’s face was the last image in the narrow slice of the outside, just before the carriage sealed once more.

Reggie looked at the contents of his cupped hands: a pile of what looked like dark red iron filings, little grains of rust. Part of him wanted to part his fingers, to allow the sand to stream through them until it was just a thin layer on the floor, but an inexplicable fear bubbled up at the thought. He ambled backwards and sat down facing the doors; he squeezed his fingers tightly together, afraid of some unknown consequence of allowing even a single grain of the substance to leak and be lost.

The train rattled along the tracks again. It was impossible to discern movement by sight—everything outside was just black—but the vibrations and the constant tha-thunk sounds gave Reggie the sense that he was travelling at quite a pace. His hands ached from pressing together so tightly around the metal dust, fearful that one stutter of the carriage around his body could jolt it from his hands in a cloud of crimson.

In his focused state, fixated on the unknown stuff in his hands, and with the sounds of travel all around and his heartbeat thumping in his ears, Reggie didn’t notice the scratching at the door towards the back of his compartment.

They slowed, and the doors opened again. An older woman, pink-haired, stared in.

“Did you bring it?” she asked. Reggie could only nod; he stood carefully, trudged to the doors, and thrust his hands towards her. She looked down at what he had brought, expression inscrutable.

After a moment of silence and stillness, Reggie cleared his throat. “Is this—?”

She interrupted by ramming her nose into his hands, inhaling through her nostrils with a thunderous rushing sound. Reggie withdrew his hands reflexively and threw himself backwards into the train, staring in horror; her head followed the streams of dust as they fell gently downwards. Her torso didn’t move—she was still standing straight upright—but her head came down, not detached as such but certainly not attached in any normal human fashion. She caught every grain in her roaring inhalations before a single one came to rest on the ground.

“You may move on now,” she said as her head returned to sit atop her shoulders. A clear liquid—vaguely pinkish-tinged, the colour Reggie imagined water that had been used to wash the red dust might have turned—leaked from her eyes and ears.

“Thank you,” Reggie whispered. He wasn’t sure why, but it was the only thing he could think to say.

She might have given the slightest of nods, and then the doors closed and Reggie was alone again. He knelt on the floor, taking shuddering breaths, until the familiar shaking of the train brought him back to himself. The seat, as he sank back into it, felt just like any other Tube seat.

A sound reached Reggie’s ears: the sound of a door opening. He glanced up, confused; the main doors were closed, and the train was still in motion besides. Then he remembered that there were other doors, ones that made those clicking and creaking sounds he’d just heard rather than the smooth swoosh of the sliding entrance, and turned to look.

The door separating his compartment from the one behind was open, and something had come through it.

Reggie screamed like he didn’t know he could scream, scrambling away from it; his limbs kept slipping, bumping him against walls and floors, and every one of his muscles felt the consistency of custard: thick, wet, incoherent, useless. The thing had the shape of a human, or what something that had only seen a human from a great distance might misunderstand one to look like; its skin bubbled as it moved in jittering, skittering tremors. Reggie tore his eyes away and turned, throwing himself towards the door at the other end of the carriage.

The handle turned easily; he flung himself through the door into the next compartment and saw… himself. The door at the far end had just closed, and there was another him, identical, but surely monstrous; seeing his own face staring back at him with fright filled him with terror and rage, a need to be certain of his own selfhood. Limbs still shaking, still only barely listening to any instructions he gave them, Reggie dragged himself towards the imposter-him; the other screamed in fright and fled, heaving open the door and practically falling through it.

Reggie collapsed on the floor and cried until the train came to a stop once more.

* * *

The doors opened onto London.

Blinking against the light that bloomed from the open threshold, Reggie hauled himself to his feet. There was no mistaking it: that was Embankment, the same platform where he’d boarded the train. He tottered out, wobbling with each step

Nobody was there. That might have been strange or it might not, depending on the time of day; Reggie had lost all sense of time, and the omnipresent fluorescence of the Tube station gave no clues. It might not have been the same day at all, for all he could tell. He made his weary way to the stairs, ascending from the depths towards London’s streets.

It was dark outside. The air was thick, humid; it pressed on him, giving him the unpleasant sensation that his entire body was experiencing what it might be like to be very slowly waterboarded.

“Aha,” said a familiar voice. “More of us.”

Reggie turned; the old lady with the pink hair was leaning against a wall with her arms folded. He shook his head—tiny, frantic bursts from one side to the other and back again—and backed away.

“What do you mean, more of us?” he asked, then swallowed and frowned. There had been many questions he’d wanted to ask, but he hadn’t expected that to be the one to come out.

“Well, obviously there’s ‘us’ as in ‘me and me’,” she said, as if that explained anything, “and then there’s ‘us’ as in ‘you and me and you and me’. And so on.”

He glared at her until she sighed and continued.

“Where d’you think you are, son?”

“London.”

“You’re half-right, I guess. If I were in the Sydney Opera House and I said I was in Australia, I wouldn’t be wrong, but it wouldn’t be the most accurate either.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re part of it now,” she said with a heavy sigh, eyes widening momentarily. “And it’s part of London—for now, at least. And London’s part of it, too, I suppose.”

Reggie glared at her again, but she showed no intentions of saying anything further.

“I don’t understand,” he said eventually. It was an insufficient thing to say, but the only thing that would remotely do.

In response, she looked up.

Reggie followed her gaze skyward, to the inky darkness pulsing with storms. But what he saw was not the sky. Upon closer examination, he saw that it was not air, nor cloud: it was a mass of flesh, encircling them. It contracted and expanded with long, deep breaths. The glistening surface was scarred with mounds and creases of thicker, discoloured tissue; just beneath, dark veins zigzagged and forked through it.

He fell to the ground, forgetting how to stand as he looked at the thing that contained the world. Everything inside his head was tilting, spinning; he felt as if he were rolling uncontrollably downhill. He couldn’t remember how to breathe. Some part of him knew that he must look a pitiful sight, trembling on his hands and knees, but he could do nothing about it.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” the woman said, as if commenting on a gaudy painting in an exhibit.

“I want to go home,” Reggie whispered, finally managing to take a few deep, trembling breaths.

“You’re there, love.”

“I’m not.”

She sighed. “Look: this isn’t exactly how I saw retirement going either, but it’s how it is. That… cancer cell, that replicating thing on the train, that became me and it went out into the world and now the me left in London is just a… a dry shell. And I’m here, and there are mes in its veins too.”

“In its veins…?”

“We’re just part of its… what’s the word? Circulation?”

“Circulatory system,” Reggie said quietly.

“That’s the one,” she said, nodding. “We move fuel and waste around its body, and in return it lets us carry on being us while the other uses keep its organs working.”

Reggie digested this. “But I don’t want to be here,” he said weakly, pitifully.

She gave him a half-smile of sympathy. “I don’t think that matters too much,” she said.

* * *

The emergency services removed a body that looked very much like a desiccated, lifeless remnant of Reggie Morton from the streets of London the next morning. Footage circulated online, showing him telling anyone who would listen that the Life Line had changed his life, that it was the only thing that mattered. Then he collapsed.

The Life Line continued to run, taking its intermittent passengers wherever it was that it took them. More lines appeared until half the Tube stations in London had a Life Line; Transport for London, much as they would have preferred that it not be there, eventually had to admit they had no idea what was happening, which only fuelled the general public’s curiosity. It soon became clear that those who boarded returned only long enough to tell of their joy at having made the journey before decaying, and yet, as if they couldn’t help it, people continued to ride the line.

Beneath London—or perhaps within it, or perhaps the two were one and the same—it slept. But it will not sleep forever.

Chris Durston is a British oddball with a lot of ideas and not enough free time to do anything about them all, which is a source of endless frustration. His first self-published novel, Each Little Universe, has been described as “a heartfelt story of friendship, love, and being human” with “characters that will stay with you for the rest of your life”. It’s also been described as “didn’t finish - not my kind of humour”, so make of that what you will.  A founding member of Skullgate Media, Chris hopes to have many more published things to talk about in the near future, and in the meantime is thrilled to be part of the singular experience that is Skullgate, especially getting to work with CD Storiz on editing this very volume. Learn more at chrisdurston.com or follow Chris on Twitter @overthinkery1.

What We See in Reflections

Michael D. Nadeau

London — 1851

He walked down the cobblestone street, worry creasing his brow. His pace picked up speed and intensity as the blocks went by, an unnamed panic dogging him down the shadowy streets in the late summer air. He was heading to the doctor’s office to pick up his wife from her appointment, hoping Doctor Miens had been able to help his wife. Yet, a gnawing doubt inched its way up his spine, its fingers dancing across his vertebrae like a pianist across the white keys of his instrument. Everyone thought it was just hysteria, yet Vincent McAllister knew his wife, and it wasn’t that simple. Abigail McAllister—his wife of five years—hadn’t been the same since their anniversary, when he had given her that floor-length mirror. After that, her paranoia had begun.

“Fine night, isn’t it?” a passing man asked, making Vincent jump out of his thoughts and back to reality.

Vincent tipped his top hat, nodded, and kept walking; the surrounding shadows seemingly crept towards him with every step. Great, now I’m getting anxious and seeing things, he thought. He doubled his already quickened pace, ignoring the encompassing darkness. Dressed in his best long coat and accented by a cane, his polished shoes clacked across the stone street. It would’ve been easier to pick Abigail up with their carriage, but he had to sell it to pay for the extensive visits she had been having since he bought her that stupid mirror. Vincent had come home every night to something different from his troubled wife; people staring at her, voices talking to her, and once she even claimed someone tried to grab her. In all cases the guard was summoned, but nothing was ever found to substantiate her claims. Whispers led to rumors; rumors spread like wildfire.

“Evening, Mister McAllister,” another man said.

Vincent examined the man, trying to remember his name. He nodded. “Good eve, Mister Grubins,” Vincent replied, looking up at the moon as it poked through the shifting clouds. It was late, and would be even later when he finally got back home with Abigail. He turned the last corner and saw the doctor’s offices; the light flickering from the gas posts illuminated the broad swath of sidewalk in front. He breathed a sigh of relief. Why, he wasn’t sure, but something about coming into that light reassured him a little. He was about to reach for the door when it opened for him—the good doctor was a welcome sight in the late evening.

“Welcome, Mister McAllister. Your wife is ready for you.” He stepped aside and let Vincent through, closing the door behind him.

“Thank you, Doctor Miens. May I ask your prognosis for my wife this evening?” Vincent asked, biting back the sarcasm. He tried not to sound sarcastic, but it had been a different prognosis every time she came in—like he was just stabbing in the dark.

“Well, Mister McAllister...”

“Vincent, please. After all the money I’ve paid you, I think we’re on a first name basis by now.”

“Very well, Vincent. Your wife has displayed some new hallucinations, and at this juncture I have to say the only thing that fits is that she does, in fact, have hysteria.”

“Hysteria? Well, Doctor Miens, how does one go about treating hysteria? Do you suggest the way to cure my wife is to spray water at her private parts, doctor?”

The doctor ignored the jibe. “That is only one of the new techniques we have explored Vincent, and no; I’m just saying that the prognosis fits.” Doctor Miens opened the office door, motioning for Abigail to come out. “Oh, and I insist that I give you both a ride home in my carriage—it’s far too long of a walk.”

“I would argue, but my feet are killing me.” Vincent took his wife’s arm, relishing her smile and the way she looked at him. She seemed tired, yet relieved. It must’ve been a good visit. Abigail was slight of build with strawberry blond hair and hazel eyes. She was pretty—even without makeup—and had that sort of finesse that most women were envious of.

“The good doctor said it may help to cover the mirrors in the house,” Abigail said as her husband helped her to put on her coat.

“Did he now? Well then, we will do that at once, my dear.” Vincent didn’t think giving in to her delusions was healthy, but he wasn’t the doctor here. They rode home in silence, and thanked the doctor for the ride home. Once inside, following the doctor’s orders, Vincent did indeed cover all the mirrors in their two-story. Then he went to bed.

* * *

The days passed quickly, with the covered mirrors a welcome respite, yet every so often his wife stopped and cocked her head to the side as if listening to something. It was two days later when he heard something himself. A whisper at first, like the wind through a window in the summer breeze, called his name; but he could never find the source of it. It was one of these times, near the end of June, that Abigail saw Vincent and smiled.

“You can hear them too now, can’t you?”

“I don’t know what I hear. For all I know, I’m just thinking I hear things because you do... like I’m trying to excuse your behavior.” It was a horrible thing to say, but in the heat of the moment, he wasn’t thinking. He saw the hurt and betrayal in her face. How could he say such things?

It was two days after that when Abigail let out a scream of primal fear and desperation from the bathroom. Vincent raced to his wife, who was on the bathroom floor holding strands of her hair in shaking hands. “Abigail... what happened?”

“She tried to pull me in…” Abigail said, her voice quivering, “into the mirror.” Abigail trembled as she spoke, her face pale and her eyes pooled with tears, “This isn’t my hair, Vincent.” She bit her bottom lip as she looked up at her husband, her eyes pleading with him.

“Whose hair is it, Abby?”

“It’s hers.”

“Who is she, Abigail? Where is she?” He glanced at the bathroom window: it was closed shut, and they were on the second floor. He was worried now. Even if there was an assailant, they had nowhere to go.

“It was the other me... she went back in there.” Abigail pointed to the mirror above the washbasin, sitting crooked on its hanging wire. The wrapping that had covered it lay in tatters on the floor.

Vincent examined the shredded wrappings and nodded to his wife. He gently coaxed her from the floor and tucked her into bed. She was getting worse. He penned a desperate letter to Dr. Miens, insisting on a house call for the next day.

He then scoured the house and made sure the rest of the mirrors were still covered, and tried not to worry about the sanity of his fading wife.

* * *

Days went by, and Vincent went to work as normal—his job at the textile mill was one way to cope with the stress of his wife’s condition. He had been promoted to lead supervisor of the second wing; the pay increase was a welcome blessing with his latest financial troubles due to the mounting medical bills. It was late afternoon when a soft knock on his door startled him.

“Message for you, Mister McAllister,” a young boy said as he came into the second-floor office. He handed a note over and kept his hand there, waiting for his tip.

Vincent smiled and handed the boy a coin. “Thank you, Bevins. Off you go.” He waited until the boy was gone before looking at the note, then crumpled it and dashed for his coat on the rack. “Henry!”

“Yes, boss?” Henry—the foreman—poked his head in, a look of concern on his weathered face. He was used to taking over for Vincent when he was out of the office.

“I have urgent business—I need to leave. Close down by seven this evening.”

“Sure thing, boss. Hope everything is alright,” Henry said as Vincent rushed past him, coat in hand.

Knowing it was a long walk to his house from the mill, Vincent twirled into his long coat as he exited. As he crossed the street in a hurried rush, barely avoiding horses and carriages alike, the sun dipped below the distant horizon. Normally, he’d enjoy the walk home through the winding, tree-lined streets, but the note from Doctor Miens had him nervous. The doctor was making a house call due to another frantic episode, and said to meet him at the house as soon as possible. Vincent wondered what had triggered his wife this time and quickened his pace to a near run. He dodged down an alley—a shortcut he rarely took unless he was running late to work—and regretted it immediately.

The dank, cluttered alleyway was littered with refuse and discarded furniture, and had a lingering smell that accosted his senses. Eerie shadows stretched along the lane as the soft glow of dusk surrendered to cloying darkness. Clear nights seem a rarity these days, Vincent thought, yet soon he was out of the short alley and into flickering light. A sense of relief washed over him as the gas lamp posts every twenty feet dutifully came alight, pressing back the darkness. The rest of the journey took him a good hour to walk, but at last he was almost there.

Vincent rounded the corner to his home; the street lamps blinked with the wind as it blew in and forced the clouds on their journey across the night sky. The deepening gloom of the late hour showed only one light was on in the house—the bedroom. He took his front steps two at a time, his top hat blowing off, and saw the front door open. His heart nearly stopped as a sense of dread slammed into his gut like a blow from a boxer. He shouted for his wife. “Abigail? Abigail, answer me!”

“Vincent!” Her voice was shaky and muffled, as if she were locked in another room.

He rounded the corner at the top of the stairs and into his bedroom. His wife was huddled in the corner, her eyes wild with fear. He was halfway across the room when he noticed movement in his peripheral vision and stopped in his tracks.

“Greetings, Mister McAllister.” The good Doctor Miens was sitting in a chair, legs crossed and smoking a pipe with no apparent sign of concern that Abigail was cowed in the corner like a scared child. He inhaled and blew the pipe smoke to the side, his face relishing the flavor like he had never tasted anything like it before.

Funny, I never knew he smoked... “What is the meaning of this, Doctor? Why is my wife in the corner like that?” Vincent pulled his wife up and into his arms. She clung to him like a drowning victim at sea, sobbing into his neck and babbling senselessly.

“It’s not him, Vincent... it’s not him,” she blubbered.

Dr. Miens slowly stood and licked his lips, pulling the pipe out of his mouth. “Your wife had a severe episode, Mister McAllister,” he said, taking several steps towards them. The doctor smiled coldly, but the gesture never quite reached his eyes in the way that smiles should.

“And what exactly was this episode?” Vincent angled Abigail towards the bed and sat her down, standing in front of her now; shielding her from the man he had told to call him Vincent. What is going on?

“He came through, Vince... he grabbed the doctor and came through...” Abigail was still frantic, sitting there and mewling softly, her eyes roaming the room as if searching for a way out.

“Your wife was having delusions about another place—a place behind the mirrors.” He nodded his head toward the full-length mirror.

Vincent noticed the floor-length mirror was uncovered, along with the one above the dresser. He stole a glance and saw his reflection: his short black hair disheveled from the mad dash home; his top hat lost somewhere outside. It was then that his reflection nodded to him, as if in greeting, and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. He grabbed his wife’s hand and pulled her to her feet after him as he made a dash to the door, but the doctor blocked him bodily; his arms were spread wide, a scalpel held delicately in the fingers of one hand.

“Now, now, Mister McAllister. There is no need for panic. I just need you to get a little closer to that mirror for a minute.” The doctor’s voice had an unnerving but calming quality to it.

Vincent gathered their dread amused him, “Tell me, Doctor... tell me what is going on this minute.” Vincent wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he had to get the man talking so he could figure a way out of this.

The doctor smiled again and looked towards the floor-length mirror. “We’ve been looking at ourselves for centuries, ever since the first hole appeared. Oh sure, we could see your bright world in the small pools of water and such, but soon after that the holes started popping up more and more. Soon, they got bigger, and as the years ticked by most houses had these strange holes in them. When we looked into them, we could see ourselves, except it was so bright on the other side!” The man paced back and forth as he talked, still blocking the way out, but paying less attention now as he told his story.

“Our world is dark and gloomy, with shades of grey around us all the time. Our sun is a flickering thing of dust, our nights an obsidian blanket that envelopes us. The lives we live are meek and depressing, so any chance we got to look at the holes, we did. Scientists tried for years to study them, trying to find a way through to this bright world of yours that somehow reflected our own gloomy one, but failure greeted them every time. Some of us drifted into very dreary places, quitting jobs and staying home, waiting for a chance to look at the holes. We never knew when we could... it was just a pull that we could feel, and it drew us onward. Most of us went crazy during those years... living only to stare blankly and dream of that bright world we could only glimpse. Then it happened.” He turned on them with a sadistic glee across his visage, his eyes wide.

“I remember it like it was yesterday; the gloomy night my sister, Ava, almost fell through her hole. She was looking at herself and crying at how beautiful she was on the other side when she put her hand up to the hole and fell in. It was only her upper body, and she pulled herself right back out. But the entire city was in an uproar. Her hole disappeared after that—all of them did around her dark home. The scientists took her, and we never heard from her again.” He looked at Vincent. With trembling hands, he said, “Now we can pass through and replace you. I’m truly sorry you have to go to that dark place in our stead… But you’ll get used to it.”

Vincent saw the man’s reflection then, as he stopped near the mirror, and in it he could see the doctor being held by his own reflection—the man he knew struggling to get free of the reflection’s grasp. His mind couldn’t comprehend what was going on, yet he knew that he must do something. The mirror! His thoughts spinning, he turned and grabbed the brass candlestick on his nightstand.

“No!” the reflection of Doctor Miens screamed as Vincent hurled the candlestick directly at it, shattering the glass on impact. The doctor fell to his knees. His skin cracked and fractured as pieces of him slowly fell apart. After mere seconds, shards of broken glass were all that remained. There was no sign of either doctor.

Vincent looked to his wife and nodded, a silent apology for all the times he doubted her sanity. He pulled her into his arms, brushing stray strands of strawberry blond hair from her eyes, and gently kissed her forehead as he whispered, “Forgive me, my love.”

Without even packing a bag, they fled the house under the cover of darkness, heedless of their destination. They only knew that wherever they ended up, they would never have another mirror as long as they lived.

Born in the usual way, author Michael D. Nadeau found fantasy at the age of eight with Dungeons & Dragons. He soon discovered his love for reading and started creating his own worlds. After he create cities, gods, ancient and terrible beings and histories, he would then burn them all down. He is the author of the Lythinall series: The Darkness Returns book 1, The Darkness Within book 2, The Darkness Falls (coming soon), Dragon Caller; Rise of the Archmage book 1, and Tales from Lythinall — an anthology. You can out more and find links to his available books at SkullgateMedia.com. You can learn more about Michael at: his Amazon author page or his website:  https://karsisthebard.wordpress.com/

Classified: Snow Wight

Gary A. Fagan

She was a queen of the night, and she was hungry. New Orleans, a place well known for its cuisine, made her happy. And so, from beneath the French Quarter, she emerged. But, if this was just a story of a woman out for a bite on the bayou, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, would we?

* * *

I sat in the Louis Armstrong Airport waiting for my branch liaison to pick me up for the early afternoon briefing. Whatever I was going to be hunting tonight had already munched on six victims in as many weeks. If the pattern held, there’d be another victim in the next two or three days. The media had been mostly kept out of the loop. A few stories had hit the local stations but hadn’t circulated into wider national attention.

Small mercies.

“Agent Schmidt.” A soft southern drawl caught my attention.

“Agent Guerre,” I responded, rising from my bench.

Standing in front of me was a man of medium height and build. What gave him away as an agent of D.A.R.T.—Defense Against Reanimated Threats—was the way he wore his jeans and T-shirt, which, of course, was the same way I was wearing mine. A sport coat worn over a concealed shoulder rig that housed our department issued handguns. Our jackets hung properly, concealing the weapons from all but a practiced eye—or, of course, metal detectors. Which is what our “official” badges were for.

He looked me up and down in the same assessing manner in which I’d studied him. Horn-rimmed glasses slid down his nose as he looked at me. He spun on his heel and started back towards the parking lot. I followed.

* * *

About an hour later, I was seated in the branch office’s conference room waiting for the district agent to arrive. While waiting, I thumbed through the six victim profiles strewn out on the table.

“First victim was a fifty-year-old man, known to his neighbors for his cantankerous nature,” I read softly to myself. “Nicknamed ‘Grumpy Grandpa’ by the neighborhood youth.” I continued reading, stifling a small chuckle; I could almost picture how the man was in life. I flipped past his profile to his forensic photos.

That can’t be right.

Thanks to the numerous major and minor injuries to his extremities, there should have been a pool of blood under his body at the crime scene. Instead, there were only a few dried, crusty spots on his frayed clothing. Fear was frozen in his blank eyes, and a rigid scowl locked his jaw. The defensive wounds on his arms and knuckles told the tale: He died swinging.

Good on you, Grumpy Grandpa.

“Victims two and three: local potheads, ‘Sleepy’ and ‘Dopey’ respectively. And number four: a dealer found mauled in a local trap house. Witness statements mentioned a pale woman with long black hair and bright red lips kicking in the door and laying waste to the occupants. Most got away with minor injuries and no side effects.” I paused, looking over that last bit. Their crime scene photos shared the same lack of pooling as Grumpy’s.

Shredded clothes as if mauled by something and mostly defensive wounds. Could be a Viral. But there’s so little blood left at the scenes, so could be a Vamp.

And I don’t get paid enough to deal with those… again.

Victims five and six were one of ours and a civilian. I looked at the crime scene photos of the burned-out waterfront warehouse and spotted the remains of a familiar-looking truck in the crater that used to be the parking lot.

“Damn it, Anthony. Why did you go in alone?” I whispered against the blazing rage climbing my throat. “And what the hell was Jay doing there?” I closed my eyes, forcing myself to refocus on the matter at hand. I can grieve later. “Taken all together, though, you’re not a Viral nor a Vamp.” I resumed looking through the other files. “So, what are you?”

“It seems our reanimate is into human étouffée.” A heavily accented voice interrupted my musings.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Director Fontaine.” I looked up at the barrel-chested man. If Richard Gere had a muscular younger brother, this would be him.

I continued my earlier train of thought, trying to figure out what exactly we were dealing with this time. “Many of the indicators in the attacks say Zombie. Others say Vampire. But none of the evidence definitively states what it is. Other than very hungry. There weren’t any signs or rituals indicating any spell work or component collection. And the dates between victims tell me… it got the munchies.”

“And other than some being found dead together, they have no connection to each other.” Fontaine nodded with a boyish grin.

He knew where I was going with my line of thinking.

“Maybe a big city gal such as yourself could provide more capable insights into what we’re dealin’ with.” Even though I knew he did mean for his tone to be patronizing, it still irritated me a little.

But I’d be damned if I let this swamp dweller see he got to me.

“Judging from the photos, we know our uninvited guest or guests aren’t loco-corpus sapiens, nor are they hominus nocturna,” I said, throwing out the big words in annoyance.

“Uh-huh, so they’re not Zombies or Vampires.” Fontaine’s grin widened.

Damned perceptive bastard. He knew he was getting under my skin.

“Did your tech people take spectral analysis from the scenes?” I changed the subject.

“Just a second.” He grinned, walking over to a computer with an old hook cradle, touch-tone phone next to an ergonomic keyboard on a heavy old war desk. Given the state of its varnish, the desk had probably been in New Orleans since the United States was split in two.

A few minutes later, he pulled up the inner-agency reports for the three most recent victims. I walked over from the table to lean over his shoulder to see the screen. Then I saw it.

“Hold on, scroll back,” I said as he scrolled right past the information I was looking for.

“What did you see?” he asked, sliding back a page for me.

“Right there.” I pointed at the line in the middle of the profile.

“Green and blue readings.” He read the indicated passage. “Shit! How did we miss this?” He snatched up the phone next to the computer. His meaty fingers punched in a series of numbers.

I recognized the number sequence. How the hell did this coot get a Fae Lord’s service number? You know what, scratch that, I don’t think I want to know.

“Hey,” he said into the open line. “Yeah, I know. Look, tell them Fontaine called and needs to speak to them both quickly.” He paused, then barked out a laugh. “I know, but you have a way with words so you can make it sound fancy and polite.”

He’s on speaking terms with both Courts? How? When? You know what, never mind.

Placing the phone back in the cradle, he said, “I just called the Courts’ Switchboard and spoke to a friend of mine.” He didn’t look back at me, but I knew he was blushing like a kid from the amount of love-sickness in his voice.

I really don’t want to know. Stop analyzing him and get back to the case.

“If this thing’s pattern holds, we have—at best—another two days before there’s another victim,” I said, looking over the dates on the active folders. “There was at least one victim a week for the past four weeks. The trap house victims being the exception to the rule.” I took a steadying breath before continuing. “And the warehouse scene was outside of the normal pattern as well.”

Fontaine stood from the desk and walked out of the room as I got lost in my thoughts again.

Staring down at the spread-out files as I collected myself, something jumped out at me from the random stack of papers. I looked up at a city map on the whiteboard next to the desk. Then back down at the papers.

This thing-whatever it was-couldn’t be behaving that simply, could it?

I stared hard at the map before I felt a snarl of victory curling my lips.

Got you.

“Fontaine! I found it!” I called before he’d gotten too far out of the door.

“Found what, exactly?” He leaned back into the room.

I snatched up a stack of the papers and walked over to the map on the whiteboard.

“Bourbon and Barracks.” I put an x where the two streets met. “Royal and St. Philip.” I repeated the marking. “Dauphine and St Ann.” Another mark. “Bourbon and Bienville.” A fourth mark. “Lastly, Royal and Toulouse.” A final x on the map.

“What’s the point of that?” he asked, looking at the markers.

“What is in the center of each of all of those marks?” I answered with a question of my own.

He looked at the map and took a step back. His eyes widened before he stared at me with a sheet-white expression on his face. I nodded in response and drew a circle around St. Louis Cathedral.

Whatever our creature was, it came from the crypts under the church, or at least close enough not to matter.

But how was it getting around undetected?

I looked at the address for the warehouse.

“I’m willing to bet there are other victims closer to the river following that same line, but they haven’t been discovered yet… considering the location of the warehouse,” I said after a moment, then drew another mark on the building’s block.

That’s it!

“What do these addresses have in common?” I asked him.

“They’re mostly at intersections.” He shrugged, not picking up on what I was getting at.

“Sewer access!” I circled the rusted drainage pipe visible in the warehouse’s crime scene photo and put it up on the whiteboard.

“Okay. Until I get word back from the Courts, get something to eat and rest while you can.” With that, he strode off down the hall, the slap of his shoes on the tile flooring providing the rhythm to his words.

* * *

A couple hours later, I sat in the back row of a department van. Five other agents sat with me: six of us in total, all wearing D.A.R.T.-issued jumpsuits and armed with our standard issue forty-fives with built-in suppressors. We made our way across town, heading for Jackson Square. I adjusted the straps on my wrist terminal.

This little wrist-mounted computer—similar to devices depicted in certain popular video games, just not as clunky—sent out a small supersonic pulse to map an area in a five-meter radius of the device. An IR pulse in the same area returned a thermal map of the area. Anything warmer or cooler than the ambient temperature triggered an alert for the wearer, in this case me. Training and practice with the device, standard for most field agents, allowed us to pick out what was a threat and what wasn’t with a glance at the display.

Virals, especially freshly turned ones, usually showed up as several degrees warmer than normal humans. The virus in their bodies induced a severe fever, which was usually what caused the victim to succumb. Provided, of course, that they survived the initial encounter in the first place. Those raised through other means always showed up several degrees colder.

“I’m Donald Ramirez.” The agent sitting next to me extended a hand and smiled nervously.

“Schmidt.” I glanced up from the touch screen on my wrist and shook hands with him. “First time in the field?”

“First extreme close quarters mission.” He shrugged. “That’s Agent Nolan Woods.” He pointed at the driver. “He’s acting team leader until the promotion goes through.”

“Acting?” I arched an eyebrow.

“Oh! I’m sorry—I thought you knew. We lost our field team leader in the line of duty two weeks ago.”

“Agent Lite was your team leader?” I blinked.

Huh, you actually stepped up after my transfer a few years ago. Good going, Anthony.

“I’m Agent LeBeux.” The woman in the captain’s chair in front of me introduced herself. “Were you two close?” Her voice softened a bit.

I saw the empathy on her face for just a second before I went back to distracting myself with the wrist terminal. With my focus on the tech, I kind of tuned out the rest of the idle chatter. I didn’t trust myself to talk about Anthony right then.

“Heads up, Agents, incoming briefing,” Agent Woods called from the front, pressing a switch on the wheel.

Monitors in the ceiling flipped down to display Director Fontaine staring into a camera.

“Agents, we are dealing with a class-three necromantic Fae known as a Wight,” he began. “The Fae Courts have disavowed any knowledge of this creature being from their lands and have acknowledged our jurisdiction in this matter. Be advised, several of the victims’ bodies have vanished from the morgue, and Agent Anthony Lite’s remains are still missing.” He paused. “That said, standard ammunition and necromancer suppression protocols are in effect. Do not let the creature touch you, or it is over,” he continued. “According to reports and speculation, it has set up a nest somewhere beneath Jackson Square, likely under Saint Louis Cathedral. Point of entry will be the storm drain access on the southern end of the square. Keep each other safe, and good hunting.” The monitors went black, then switched to GPS coordinates and a map to our entry point.

Pulling up to the little side street that housed the drainage pipe, we climbed out of the van, attaching the under-barrel flashlights to our weapons’ rail system, flicking on laser-sights to our weapons, and flipping down our starlight visors—night vision goggles that amplify ambient light. A pair of us set up road closure barricades at either end of our side street before heading in.

The first thing that hit me was the smell: stagnant water, the Bourbon Street bar, and restaurant sludge bomb bays overhead—which accounted for the smell of grease and old fish.

Since there were two walkways running parallel to each other with a channel full of waste between them, we spread out, three walking on either ledge. Boots scrapped and occasionally squelched against stone as we moved slowly. Splashes of unknown matter echoed off the old pipes. The odor of stagnant water and offal floated in the air.

Staying down here too long has to be bad for our lungs.

That stench is probably what covered their approach.

A heavy-limbed figure on the far path lurched out, grabbing the agent in the middle of the three on that side. They were dragged, screaming, into the side tunnel.

“Contact!” The word boomed off the pipes as the other two gave chase.

Muzzle flashes reflected off the sewage water around the corner. Their weapons’ fire echoed out of the side tunnel they’d gone down.

“It is so nice when dinner comes to me,” a feminine voice cackled in the dark.

Ugh. A talker. A creepy one, too.

The booming echoes of the other agents’ weapons were fading as they got further away from us.

We made our way to the catwalk spanning the raised walkways over the muck. Our boots whispered across the brickwork as we moved to assist the rest of our team. Telltale muzzle flashes continued to reflect off the corridor as we approached.

Movement in the water caught my attention. I turned and saw the cantankerous face of an old man breaching the sewage as he snapped up at us like an ambushing alligator. LeBeux’s heavy boot clocked the old man in the face, sending him splashing back down.

I checked my terminal. His thermal signature was indistinct in the bloom field.

Is that slurry insulating him?

“Well, now we know what happened to Grumpy,” LeBeux muttered.

Two polite, sharp barks ripped from their muffled forty-fives as they fired down into the water. The already brackish liquid churned in the wake of several somethings moving deeper into the sewer. I noted their direction for my report, but didn’t follow; we had agents in distress, and that took priority over pursuing unknown numbers of threats. Slapping a red filter on my TAC light, I widened its beam. We made our way cautiously down the side corridor; deeper into the bowels of the French Quarter. The pops of gunfire were coming less frequently with every passing second.

“Double time it, Agents,” Woods barked and put words to action.

We raced to help, but we all knew we were going to be too late. The gunfire ahead of us abruptly fell silent.

We rounded a corner just in time to see the corpse of the first agent grabbed beginning to rise. Something had shredded his jumpsuit to rags and torn the flesh underneath into gory ribbons.

Ramirez’s right leg dragged behind him like he had forgotten it was there. His left arm hung, attached by a very dry-looking, splintered humerus.

“Do it!” he rasped as he reached out towards us. “Do your duties!” He lurched forward. “I will not become that bitch’s puppet,” he croaked. He was begging us to put him down per Necromancer Protocols.

“Agent Ramirez, rest in peace,” Woods said in that hushed tone reserved for somebody held in the highest regard.

Then he pointed his gun at Ramirez’s skull and squeezed the trigger.

“Contact! Right!” I called out as I caught the sound of shambling feet over the muck covered floor. The alert from my wrist terminal pinged a second later.

I glanced at my terminal as I brought my weapon to bear and focused on my sight picture.

First a Wight. Fine. I can deal with that. But now there are Virals down here too!? That’s just typical.

A symphony of cordite and tinkling brass drowned out the chorus of dead in front of us. The pack was entering the edge of our red glow barrel-light cast by the light clipped to our guns. Sickening splashes announced the success of our counter assault. But the rising sound of thunder around us revealed that we were rapidly burning through our resources. The suppressors were being overworked, no longer muffling the sounds of our shots as effectively. Tracers lit up the far wall.

Of course, ammunition was running low, too.

“Four rounds left,” LeBeux confirmed my count of individual magazines.

“Reloading!” Woods declared, taking a step back to swap magazines.

“I’m out!” I called, stepping back as Woods filled the breach.

Ejecting the spent magazine into my free hand, I rammed a fresh one home and stowed the empty in the now vacated pouch on the back of my belt. “Three more Virals on scope. I’m not picking up any other threats,” I announced, finally checking the terminal on my wrist.

Woods took our fallen agents’ weapons harnesses and salvaged as much as he could from them. He also took each of the wrist terminals off of their corpses. It was classified tech, after all; couldn’t let the coroner see it.

I resolved to find out the rest of their names later and get shit-face drunk toasting to their sacrifices after this was over. For the time being, we still had a major arcane reanimate to deal with.

We moved with renewed purpose as we trudged through the sludge. Maybe ten minutes later, both mine and Wood’s terminals beeped an alarm. We’d found them. The air in front of us shimmered as we stepped out of the environs of the sewers and into the vaulted ceilings of a Catholic crypt.

I made a mental note to put the need for a full sweep of the French Quarter sewers in my report for Director Fontaine.

A skeletally thin figure draped herself over a yellowed, ivory throne. A black, gothic dress hung loose against her and was in stark contrast to her snow-white, bloodless body. Brittle, stringy black hair fell over her face. D.A.R.T.-issued combat boots several sizes too big for her feet dangled over the throne’s armrest.

The armrest of that throne had a band logo tattoo wrapped under it.

I know that tattoo.

Wait?

Did she turn Jay into a chair? And steal Anthony’s boots?

“Greetings, DARTlings.” There was desperate hunger in that taunting and scarily seductive voice.

Seductive?

I shook my head. Something didn’t feel right; it sounded like something I’d say.

“Psychic attack!” I shouted. Too late.

Woods’s shoulders slumped as he succumbed to the dark temptation. My fellow agent panicked and began backpedaling.

No-no-no-no-no! Not good.

“My, my.” A rictus smile painted itself across that pallid face as she tilted her head to regard me. “Such a strong will you have!” The smile widened. “You’re going to be fun to play with!” Her bony hands clacked together enthusiastically.

The red-filtered light spilled across the figure properly as I aimed my weapon. Every instinct I had screamed at me to follow LeBeux back the way we came. That is, until I heard panicked firing and the meaty impacts of bullets hitting targets.

A thin finger tapped Woods on his forehead. Her eyes closed in grotesque pleasure as his body stiffened for just a second.

I fired. An explosion echoed in the narrow marble. A fragrant bouquet of cordite and petrichor filled the air.

Wood’s body moved to intercept the bullet.

Stepping back and to the side, I fired again.

Same result.

His body fell to the ground as my last shot ripped through his skull.

She glared at me. Pure annoyance radiated out of her and I saw several holes in her black dress and a slightly smoking line down the center of her dark hair. The holes in the center of her torso oozed a septic-looking liquid that wasn’t quite blood, but I guessed performed the same function. Considering how slowly it was flowing, I would need to hit something vital, like the heart or brain, to drop her quickly and for good.

How many bullets do I have left?

I fired again. No tracer yet, still above half a magazine. I might just survive this.

I regretted having that thought as soon as it crossed my mind. Tempting fate, especially in this job, was not recommended.

Her eyes glowed with a bright purple-red light as she stared at me.

I should run. I should really turn and get out of here right now!

That thought hammered at me as I unconsciously took a step back, intending to follow that really sensible advice. The air shimmered around me again as I continued to backpedal.

She was following me. Her head was lowered; she looked very much like that Sadako Yamamura girl from that one Japanese movie, but only if she were dressed like a Gothic ballerina in combat boots.

My heel squelched on sewer muck once again; apparently, we had returned to the regular New Orleans sewage system. I shuddered. The telltale snap of bone, shook me out of whatever she was doing. I didn’t want to look down and see LeBeux’s mangled remains. But the rigid panic plastered across LeBeux’s face was terrible. I knew it would haunt my nightmares.

Yay. Just what I need more of.

I looked back towards my target after taking my eyes off of her for just a second—and she was gone.

Okay. Where the hell did she go?

“We’ll meet again, little agent.” The cackling voice echoed around me. “You found me a little too quickly this time, and now I must move my home… again.” Her voice sounded like she was pouting.

I blinked a few times at that observation.

She went silent. The only sounds that filled the dank space were rushing water and the occasional chittering of a rodent.

* * *

The twenty minutes or so we… I spent in those pipes felt like hours. The adrenaline spikes were tapering off, and I was coming down.

Fifteen minutes after getting back to the van I was sitting alone, my head resting against the steering wheel as I composed myself before giving my after-action report to Director Fontaine.

“Let’s get this over with,” I muttered as I pressed the switch on the wheel to connect to the ops room.

My report took a grand total of ten minutes to deliver.

“So, Snow Wight has gotten away, huh?” he said. There was a somber, wry tone to his voice as I finished giving my report.

“Five of our agents just died, sir,” I bit off the words. “And you’re giving that thing a cutesy name?”

“Do not mistake my lack of outburst for a lack of anger and grief, Agent Schmidt,” he reprimanded. There was a cold fury in his grey-green eyes that belied his calm tone.

“But…” I began.

“High profile targets must be named for the active files, Agent,” he interrupted. “And based on your description of the target, Snow Wight is as good a name as any.”

“Yes, sir.” I sighed. “We’re going to need a full sweeper team down here. Sir.” I reiterated my earlier point.

“They’ve been dispatched to your location,” he said. “When they arrive on scene and you’ve briefed them, you are to stand down and get some rest.”

“I will join the search team,” I countered.

“Your supplies are exhausted.” His eyes softened a little. “As are you, and in your current state you would just slow them down.” His tone was firm; gone was the good ol’ boy tone. He was serious.

“Acknowledged,” I reluctantly agreed with his assessment.

The monitor went blank, and I was left alone with my thoughts. And the ghosts of memories I didn’t wish to recall.

Our side street was still empty, and I didn’t see any signs of traffic on the main street a few blocks away. Going to the back of the van, I stowed my hardware in the harnesses and webbing in the van’s cargo bay, then rummaged around for my bag. I pulled out a clean pair of jeans and a shirt and quickly changed from the jumpsuit into civilian clothes before climbing back into the driver’s seat to wait for the relief teams.

* * *

Which brings us to the present. I know you’re not likely to believe everything I just told you. But that’s just fine. Like I said, we aren’t having this conversation, right?

Who am I?

I am Dianna Schmidt, an Agent of D.A.R.T., and when I finally track that creature down, I will deliver a swift forty-five caliber serving of retribution for my fallen agents and the other victims of her predation.

Gary A Fagan is a man who spends much of his free time creating stories that interest and amuse him and getting lost in places that may or may not exist. He figured that if he enjoyed the stories, others might as well. Which lead him to start sharing them with friends and loved ones. As a person who loves the power the written word has to drive so many emotions, he felt these stories needed to be written and shared with the world after all; he was the only person who could tell them right. Follow Gary at his website: https://garyafagan.wordpress.com

Pray, Love, Remember

J. L. Royce

Arkham, Massachusetts: March 1942

No one remarked upon the appearance of Miss Verity Mason in Arkham.

“Girls there—” the conductor gave her a dispirited wave “—and boys over there.”

War is a business; and a business needs workers. Streaming in from the small towns like Dunwich, destined for the new factories south of Arkham, the arrivals were segregated and herded into stinking motor coaches. They would occupy the hastily built dormitories, set conveniently close to their work—making uniforms and ammunition—and far from the distractions of town.

Head down in a dowdy hat, bundled against the spring chill, Verity was just another girl in homespun; plain and withdrawn—or so she let herself appear. She slipped away from the milling crowd and hurried towards downtown and the University, a cheap, worn suitcase clutched in her hand.

In the days that followed, she could be seen here or there on a street corner, head bent over a small book—perhaps a missalette. Was she bowed in prayer? No, for a stub of pencil moved in her hand.

She was taking notes—but to what purpose? No one gave it a second thought.

* * *

Jacob Moskovy sat straight-backed and serious as his family passed serving dishes of squash and tenderloin around the table. Plate loaded, he peered through his wire-rim glasses and began scrupulously removing the detested tendons and fat from his beef.

“Good day?” he inquired of his wife, Rachel.

She nodded. “A beautiful day. Before you know it, we’ll be preparing the garden, and I could use some help… Jeremy.”

The young man stared off in some brown study, a mouthful half-chewed.

“Jeremy?”

He blinked, resumed chewing. “Hmm?”

Rachel smiled. “You remember where the shovel’s stored, right?”

“Sure.” He looked puzzled. “Why?”

Jeremy, though a full-time graduate student in Mathematics, lived frugally with them. His parents’ dedication had kept Jeremy from failing high school, coaching his reading, and working with him to develop study habits.

When he discovered mathematics, it was a light illuminating his world and a vast relief to them.

Jacob himself was practically a black sheep in the extended Moskovy family, choosing to apply his logical mind as a bank investigator. He had—according to rumor—turned down a post in the FBI Boston field office, preferring to keep his family in the quiet, familiar environs of Arkham. Meanwhile, he worked at the local level as a state examiner, focused on the neighborhood banks that had so recently ruined communities, one family at a time.

“Some chippie—” he chewed and swallowed “—some chippie girl may have sunk her little claws into one of our local men. And he, twice her age, or better, at that. They’ve been seen on several occasions— in public, no less—‘discussing matters.’” He shook his head.

Jeremy asked, “What if she’s just a customer?” His father’s cynicism put him off.

“More like a barter arrangement.” Jacob snorted. “Or perhaps, straight cash for services.”

Rachel noisily crossed her knife and fork on the china plate. “Such suggestions are inappropriate in any polite company, but particularly the family dinner table.”

“Well,” Jacob grumbled, “several bank employees have seen these friendly chats, and the bank’s concerned enough that management has asked me to do a spot audit.”

“Why can’t people have their privacy?” Jeremy protested. Arkham, in his opinion, was full of superstitious busy-bodies.

“These small-town embezzlers are the worst!” Jacob declared. “Stealing from their neighbors! And besides...” he fixed his son with a piercing stare “It’s the bank’s money and the bank’s books, and they can audit them whenever they da— well please!”

Jacob glanced guiltily at his wife, then changed the subject.

“I can still make lunch on Wednesday. Can you?”

“Sure!” Jeremy replied.

“Miskatonic Hotel, okay? I’ll be there, anyway.”

“Sounds good.”

His father’s choice was usually the ‘still a nickel’ blue-plate special at the diners around town. The hotel dining room would be a most welcome improvement.

“Excellent.” Jacob groomed the tablecloth around his plate, beaming in satisfaction at his little family.

“I’ve got a lot of correspondence to finish,” he announced. Rising, he left the clearing of the table to Jeremy and his mother.

At the small porcelain sink, Jeremy carefully dried dishes, idly watching his mother’s hands glide through the steaming water. Her hands appeared very young: quick, pink from the temperature, gleaming in the suds. When she dried them, the pale wrinkles would return. It occurred to him that parents changed that way: seemingly ageless, then suddenly older.

“Why do you always wash? I could wash.”

She smiled as if Jeremy had suggested the sun should rise in the west.

“I don’t know. Don’t you like to dry?”

“It’s not that…” He fell silent, finding emotions difficult to express.

“How are your courses this semester?” Rachel prompted.

“You mean, Riemannian Manifolds? Did you know Einstein used them when he formulated the GTR?”

He stacked a dish and paused, struck suddenly by its beauty: the surface of the second differential in a cylindrical coordinate system. These moments came unbidden, a mathematical awareness his parents politely called a gift.

He pushed the thought away. “Hmm?”

“I said, what is GTR?”

“Sorry. General Theory of Relativity. God, I’d love to meet Einstein…”

Rachel frowned at his irreverence. “That’s fascinating, dear. Perhaps you will meet him someday. I meant the course your father suggested—Accounting Principles?”

“Ah… well, you know, that didn’t fit into my schedule.” The textbook had far too many words and too little math. Jeremy preferred his reading to be brief, and to the mathematical point.

A moue flickered across his mother’s face as she removed the gingham apron and hung it up. “It’s math, isn’t it? I thought you liked math.”

She touched his arm. “You know you can always ask me for help.”

“Maybe next semester,” he promised, and fled the kitchen.

* * *

The following Wednesday, Jeremy searched the lobby of the Miskatonic Hotel. One hand held the dog-eared American Journal of Mathematics, while the other nervously twisted a dark curl. The management had little patience with loitering students, but the desk staff recognized this young man from his father’s visits and were tolerant. Jeremy settled into a wingback chair in the lobby to wait and read.

The sound of the elevator cage opening caused him to glance up. Jeremy caught sight of an attractive young woman stepping out, and his interest in math evaporated.

She wore a smartly tailored suit, padded shoulders setting off her slim waist. Its brown tone was a subdued counterpoint to a volume of red hair, restrained by a lacy snood trailing from her small hat. Striding over to the front desk, she consulted with the unctuous clerk, offered up her key, and lingered, talking. She carried a clutch and a small book, worn-looking in black leatherette—it might have been a siddur, Jeremy thought, except that there were few enough Jews in Arkham, and none walking about with prayer books.

Jeremy knew some men could rise, smiling, when an opportunity like this presented itself. A fellow might introduce himself, be ingratiating, and capture the object of his desire. But Jeremy was indecisive, more likely to fail from lack of trying than through any shortcoming.

Not this time.

He rose. The bookmark lying on his thigh fluttered to the floor. Jeremy scrabbled for it and propelled himself forward, stumbling slightly on his pants cuff, towards the desk.

He mentally prepared to address her. Halfway to his goal, he froze at the sound of a voice ringing across the lobby from the dining room entrance.

“Jeremy? Where are you going?” The woman turned at Jacob’s voice—or was it Jeremy’s name? A fraction of a second was all they had. Her green eyes widened and held his in thrall. Her reaction—pleased recognition?— flickered across her lovely face so quickly that Jeremy doubted it immediately. With a glance towards the dining room, she composed herself, assumed a polite smile; and with the slightest nod of her head, strolled away.

The vapid clerk stared after the woman, then addressed the comically discomfited young man.

“Can I help you?”

Jeremy was looking past the clerk to the board behind him, at the last tiny tics of motion of a key on a hook. It took a force of will to stop thinking about the differential equation describing its decaying motion and see the room number on its tag: 304.

“Nothing,” Jeremy replied. “My date— that is, my guest, for lunch…” Abandoning the attempt at explanation, he strode off to the dining room. The clerk’s gaze unsuccessfully sought the redhead, who had retreated down College St.

“Where were you going?” His father sat at the table nearest the entrance. “I must have walked right past you.”

Jacob draped an arm over an empty chair next to him, his wedding ring sounding a solid rap on the hardwood frame. Jeremy sat and exchanged his magazine for a luncheon menu card.

They ordered barley soup and the Wednesday special of corned beef. Jacob interrogated his son on the industrial applications of a math degree, hinting that economics or industrial engineering could prove useful in the job market.

“I think I have a shot at doing some original work,” Jeremy asserted. “Research into energy fields.”

The soup arrived, along with a fresh breadbasket.

Jacob scowled. “You mean, work for a university?”

“Most likely.” Jeremy concentrated on his soup, curtailing the conversation.

The corned beef arrived on hearty rye, laden with cabbage and brown mustard. Jacob had swallowed his last bite before he spoke again.

“I thought you might find it interesting to see one of my investigations. Bank work is not the boring life portrayed in the movies—no sir.”

“I’ve got class—”

“That’s the thing! It won’t take but five minutes. We’ll check out the suspect’s room, right upstairs.”

He stood abruptly, extending a hand past Jeremy.

“And here’s the man for the job!”

A looming presence eclipsed the light and shook Jacob’s hand.

“Constable, this is my son, Jeremy. Jeremy, Constable Willard.”

The officer was larger than life: a close-cropped cantaloupe head atop a barrel chest, tan uniform shirt stretching across an ample gut, height well over Jeremy’s six feet.

“Fine boy, fine boy,” he rumbled. The hand that engulfed Jeremy’s was surprisingly soft and damp.

“I was just saying, Jeremy has a chance to see forensic accounting in action.”

The lawman frowned. “You mean, upstairs?”

Jeremy saw an opportunity to escape. “I don’t want to cause a problem—”

“Naw,” the big man countered, “another set of eyes, college boy!” His own glittered in the round, pink face. “Who knows, he might notice something interesting.”

“Good.” Jacob wiped his hands. “We just finished up here.” He waved the waiter over. “We can head straight up. I assume the target is out?”

“Yeah; left twenty-some minutes ago.”

Jeremy’s dream of banana cream pie faded as they boarded the elevator car. The operator took them to the third floor, and Jeremy trailed the others to the target’s room.

They stopped outside of Room 304.

Constable Willard pounded on the door. “Miz Mason? This is Constable Willard. Miz Mason! Please open up!”

Jacob leaned jauntily against the opposite wall, lips pursed, and raised his eyebrows at Jeremy’s look.

Grunting, the constable brought up the key he’d obtained from the desk clerk and opened the door. He entered, warding off the others with a raised hand.

“Miz Mason?” he repeated. “It’s the constable. I’m comin’ in…”

Jacob stepped in next, followed by a reluctant Jeremy.

“It’s important that you see how we do this,” his father explained in a stage whisper. “Now, with a war on, it’s even more important to make sure people in our community aren’t compromised.”

Jeremy looked around guiltily. It brought back an uncomfortable childhood indiscretion: exploring his mother’s underwear drawer. Fortunately, there was nothing too embarrassing lying about the room. It was, in fact, remarkably neat.

“Unused?” the constable speculated.

The vanity was being used as a desk. Jacob pointed to stacks of typed pages, double-spaced and line-numbered. “Looks more like an office than a lived-in room.”

“What’s all this?” the lawman muttered.

Thumbing through, Jacob speculated, “Looks technical. Could be trade secrets…” He picked up a stack of manila envelopes but, finding them empty, tossed them back.

Jeremy stepped over and began straightening the stack: disorder offended him. Curious, he began paging through, turning after a minute to the face-down piles nearby.

“These are patent applications—” he showed the reversed pages “—with corrections.” The penmanship was precise, in ink, and free of mistakes.

“I’ve seen nothing like this math, though… it seems to be some way of measuring codes, or how efficient they are—”

“Codes, you say?” His father leafed through them. “There’s no inventor named, though.”

“Yes, that is odd,” Jeremy agreed. He glanced at the envelopes, finding them numbered with years, bi-annually, over the next two decades.

“The typed pages?” Jacob asked his son. “Anything?”

“Well…”

He pointed to the face-down piles, each to the right of the corresponding unread pages. “Flipping over with the right, so as to not lean on the stacks. She’s probably left-handed.”

His father nodded. “Good observation.”

“Well this, at least, I understand,” Jacob said, waving another document. “It sets up a trust fund. And yes, it’s using our target’s bank.”

“What about this?” The constable lifted a small black book in his hand, passing it to Jacob. “It doesn’t have your typical ‘Dear Diary’ stuff, either. Just a bunch of numbers.”

The accountant remarked, “Could be payment records—coded, like the bootleggers.”

He handed the book to Jeremy. “Make anything of this?”

It was a high-quality lined journal. Jeremy opened it, puzzled; for he had seen it leave the hotel in the gloved hand of an attractive young woman.

She had dated the pages and labeled them with street intersections: ‘Hyde & Marsh’; ‘Armitage & Federal’…on and on. Each page followed a pattern: four columns, labeled with the compass directions, and a series of entries indexed with a rising number, d.

“And d could stand for… distance,” Jeremy murmured. The tables were penned neatly, numbers written to four decimal places. Today’s entry, at the ribbon, was a corner southeast of campus, on the edge of uptown. A good third of the book was still blank.

The constable, pawing through an unlikely collection of clothes, grunted. “What is she, an actress?”

The selection ran from dreary homespun to expensive, conventional to outlandish. A succession of unique styles followed—long, pleated skirts, filmy blouses, sweaters and slacks, somber and finely tailored business clothes.

Jeremy flipped to the back of the book and found an oversized sheet folded and pasted inside. It was a Visitor’s Bureau street map of Arkham—but with a sheet of onionskin carefully overlaid. Precisely written numbers were placed along gridlines of the overlay. The chart was incomplete; filling from the north and west, sweeping diagonally across the river and through the town and campus.

Jeremy saw the numbers—or rather, their pattern—immediately.

“This is some sort of signal strength, centered around here.” He touched an intersection.

A door clicked, and the men looked up, then at each other. The constable was holding an unfamiliar-looking bit of lingerie, black and delicate. Jacob gripped a legal document he had been studying. Jeremy held the pattern stretched out before him.

The hotel room door clicked open. The woman took several steps into the room before noticing them and freezing in her steps. She was dressed as Jeremy had seen her before lunch, though her hat was now in her hand, her hair a thick red braid down her back. A shopping bag was in her hand.

She dropped the bag and screamed.

“I thought you said she was out!” Jacob snapped at the constable.

The big man quickly tossed aside the silk and lace confection and protested, “I saw the key myself!”

She hesitated, noticed Jeremy, and darted behind him. He felt her hands clutching him in an unnecessary display of fear.

“Who… who are you people?” Her tone turned indignant. “What are you doing in my room!”

“I’m Constable Willard,” said the lawman, “and these are my… associates. We have some questions for you.”

She was vexed. “I am minding my own business, and you’ve no right to be here!”

Jacob attempted to defuse the situation. “Now, let’s just take a breath, Miss Mason. You are Miss Verity Mason, yes?” He glanced around Jeremy, frowning. “Could you please step out from behind my son, Miss, so we can speak face to face?”

Reluctantly, she came around Jeremy, her hand slowly gliding along his jacket.

“Yes, I’m Verity Mason,” she said, erect and defiant, with her chin held high. She crossed her arms. “And I’m no stranger—my family’s been in Massachusetts for hundreds of years!”

Jeremy admired her spirit.

“I see,” Jacob said, eyes narrowing. “Mason…”

His son could hear the truth of it in her accented voice.

“And just what is your business here, Miss Mason?” the constable asked.

“Family business.”

“With Mister Porter, from our bank?” the constable continued.

“Why, yes.” She turned her face up to him. “He’s been very helpful with the financial details, very generous with his time.”

The constable released a skeptical snort, and Verity flushed, her mouth drawn into a tight line. Jeremy found the pink glow rising in her china-pale skin quite appealing.

“Nonetheless,” Jacob continued, “we’d appreciate it if you’d come along to my office for a conversation—”

Verity cut him off. “What are you charging me with?”

The constable looked at Jacob, who shook his head with a scowl.

“Well?” she asked, eyebrows raising.

“Nothing, yet,” Jacob answered.

“Then we can speak at my attorney’s office—Mr. Chambers—at my convenience—and discuss whether I will press charges of unlawful entry!”

“We’ll be holding these items.” The sheriff took the journal from Jeremy and gathered up the patent applications.

“You can’t!” she cried. “Why?”

“Evidence,” Jacob replied.

“My underclothes too, I suppose?”

He ignored the question. “Nine o’clock, at Mr. Chambers’ office?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Very well, but I expect my property returned in the morning and an end to this nonsense.” Verity crossed her arms. “Now go.”

Jacob led them into the hallway. The door slammed, followed by the snick of the deadbolt.

Jeremy, abashed, looked at his father.

Jacob shrugged and said, “Well, that’s not exactly how the investigation was supposed to go…”

“She seems innocent enough to me,” his son remarked.

Constable Willard shook his head. “I could have sworn the room was empty when we went in…”

* * *

Jeremy spent an uneventful afternoon in classes. But Verity Mason piqued his interest; he stopped by the library to look into the Mason family. Having found a volume on the history of Arkham, he stood before the circulation desk, fumbling in his pockets. His wallet was missing.

Confused, he left the book at the desk, promising to come back for it later—with his student identification—and stumbled out of the hulking, neo-Gothic building. Standing in its looming shadow, he considered his options, then hurried off to the Student Union.

Though Lost and Found did not yield his wallet, it did contain an envelope addressed to him. The undergraduate manning the desk thought ‘one of those Hall coeds’ had left it. Jeremy recognized the script immediately. Glancing around, he tore it open to find another copy of the Arkham street map, this one unmarked except for a message in the margin.

Trade? At the center of everything—8 pm.

The center of everything—eyes closing, Jeremy imagined the onionskin overlay and its pattern of numbers. It was difficult, focusing on the journal and not its owner, but finally, the surface formed in his mind, the center... He reopened his eyes and put a finger on the map before him—the corner of East Pickman and Parsonage.

And undoubtedly the trade she wanted to make was for her journal.

* * *

Jacob did not question his son’s interest in the Mason journal, given its numerical contents.

“If you learn anything, let me know. Just try to see past the obvious—is she hiding something?” His father clung to suspicions of coded activities, whether smugglers or spies.

“I’ll try,” Jeremy promised as he left for his bedroom, clutching the black book.

At a quarter to the hour, Jeremy abandoned his study of the journal and shoved it into the waistband of his trousers. He put on his tweed jacket, concealing it. Downstairs, he found his parents seated in their parlor awaiting a musical broadcast at eight.

“There’s a book I need at the library.” Verity’s journal pressed uncomfortably into his back.

Jacob peered over his newspaper at Jeremy. “What’s so important that it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I won’t have time in the morning,” Jeremy complained, “and I’ll need the book before lunch.”

Jacob mulled this. “Well … don’t hang around campus. You won’t be at your brightest if you don’t get a good night’s sleep.” He returned to his paper.

Jeremy said goodnight, with a kiss for his mother, and slipped out of the parlor of their modest Edwardian into beckoning shadows of Arkham’s night.

* * *

The recently rehabilitated neighborhood lined a street of modern brick laid over old cobblestones, with many of the gloomy, gambrel-roofed wrecks torn down to make way for affordable, albeit mundane, family housing. The northwest corner contained narrow row houses constructed less than a decade ago—and already looking shabby.

Peering into the narrow alleys between the buildings, he could see clotheslines where overalls and cheap dresses would hang in profusion during the day, desperately seeking a few minutes of sunlight or a breeze to dry in. It seemed like a pathetic life of daily struggle and disappointment for the immigrant residents.

He was chiding himself for his bourgeois attitude when a throat cleared behind him. Whirling, he confronted a slight figure, stooped, of indeterminate age, face shadowed by the brim of a plain bonnet.

“Beg pardon, sir,” she spoke in a sing-song New England accent, “but you look lonely. If there’s anything I can do for you, yonder alley looks invitin’…”

The head tilted back, revealing Verity’s smiling face.

“I have somethin’ I know you want,” she promised in the same voice, tugging at his sleeve insistently. “And you’ve got somethin’ I’m wantin’ even more…”

Laughing, she pulled Jeremy into the darkness between the buildings, where the stench of garbage and animal waste clung to the bricks.

“Do men really find this enjoyable?”

“How would I know?” Verity countered; accent gone. She cocked her head. “Or… are you saying you’d like to find out?” She raised the hem of her dress, revealing tattered hosiery.

“Stop it!”

But Verity continued lifting the garment until his leather wallet lay exposed beneath the garter on her thigh.

She sighed. “Very well—back to business.” She released her dress with a shrug. “You’ve seen your wallet, all snug and warm—now where’s my journal?”

Jeremy reached under his coat and pulled the book from his waistband. “Promise you’ll get this back before tomorrow morning!”

“You’ll have it,” she insisted, lunging for the thin, leather-bound volume.

Jeremy pulled it away. “My wallet?”

Verity slipped her hand between her legs and produced it with a flourish.

He shoved the wallet into his jacket, his puzzlement growing. Opening her journal, Jeremy unfolded the map glued to the endpaper.

“This signal you’ve charted—”

She snatched the book from his hand, casting a furtive glance behind her before quickly folding away the map.

“Not here. I have work to do. Perhaps we can discuss it another time.” Verity turned to leave.

“The signal distribution is asymmetrical on the surface,” Jeremy blurted, “but appears to be a beat phenomenon—wavefront interference in a higher dimension.”

“We will talk more,” Verity promised. “I’d enjoy that.”

She glanced up at the building, a mix of dread and disgust crossing her face.

“But not here, or now.”

Verity trotted to the end of the alley, paused to peer around, then stepped out.

“Wait!” Jeremy called, “why is this the center?” But she walked on. “Don’t forget— morning!” he called out.

“No sirrah,” Verity replied loudly, in the sing-song voice. “I shan’t do that for no man!”

Her mocking laughter drifted away in the shadows.

* * *

Jeremy made it to the library before the nine o’clock closing. The book was in the re-shelving pile.

“Here we are.” He produced his identification card at the check-out desk. As he did so, something fell out.

A small photo of Verity lay at his feet: younger, in an archaic costume. He retrieved it and stared until the tall matron behind the counter, eager to close, cleared her throat and sent him on his way.

After his parents retired, Jeremy crept back downstairs in pajamas and a robe. At the front door, he slowly turned the latch, unlocking it should Verity return that evening, then walked into his father’s study.

It was a shadowy chamber of walnut bookcases and heavy leather furniture. Tossing another log into the fireplace, he teased the dwindling flames back to life with a poker and sat down in an easy chair to read A History of Arkham: An Ethnographic Approach.

The Restricted Collection, no doubt, could provide extensive (and ghastly) first-hand accounts of investigations, but he had little interest in the hysterical ravings of Arkham’s superstitious elders. The book’s bland title belied its sensational contents: insanity and mayhem at the hands of the town’s more malignant inhabitants.

Jeremy perused the index—his curious habit of reading a book backward—and was thrilled to find the word mathematician. He riffled the pages to the passage and began reading.

It had happened twenty-some years ago. The unfortunate Gilman—another graduate student in mathematics—had suffered a mental breakdown while pursuing his studies at Miskatonic. Given the intense workload—and the oft-unstable minds the field of mathematics attracted—this wasn’t surprising. A mental disorder, however, neither explained the student’s violent end, nor the—probably apocryphal—stories surrounding it, featuring witches and familiars. Jeremy studied a grainy photograph of the since-demolished rooming house where Gilman met his end. Puzzling over it, he searched out the footnotes. His mouth went dry, reading the caption: East Pickman and Parsonage.

A few hours earlier. Jeremy had stood on the same corner, listening to a woman’s bright laughter fade into the night.

He placed a scrap of paper to mark the page and continued his perusal. The chapter “Witchcraft and Mass Hysteria” described the so-called ‘Witch House’—only one of the lurid supernatural tales from his hometown. And there Jeremy found the name of the coven’s leader, she of the unnatural life span, a signatory of the Black Man’s Book: Keziah Mason.

Jeremy huddled near the flickering flames, yet they shared little of their warmth tonight. He roused himself and read on, concerning witches, their murderous practices, and their familiars— beasts with human-like qualities of speech or cunning. There was more— incubi and succubi, preying on the sexual frailties of their victims.

If that were not enough to roil his thoughts, Jeremy turned the page to find a color plate: Collier’s Lilith.

A lovely woman stood naked, voluptuous in a serpent’s embrace, golden-red hair tumbling down her back. Her face was downturned to caress the serpent’s, her lips curled in a sly smile— a familiar smile. He stared at the print, remembering the Talmudic tale of Adam’s first wife— though he had never imagined her so ravishing. Perhaps, Verity…

His thoughts had wandered far from the scholarly when he was shocked back to reality by a small sound. He peered towards the darkened doorway.

“Hello, Jeremy.” Her sultry voice thrilled him.

Yet another manifestation of Verity Mason stepped soundlessly into the firelight. Her red hair was loose around her shoulders, and barely restrained by a ribbon. Dressed in a plaid skirt and solid blouse, Verity could well have been just another coed, young and eager to learn…

Hastily he closed the history and laid it, face down, on the desk.

“Ah—hello! Didn’t hear you come in.” Jeremy stared at her bare feet.

She nodded at the book. “Practicing to be an old college don, drowsing by the fire? It suits you.”

Leaning against the old, dark wood of the desk, Verity stared at him with a curious familiarity.

“Well, did you like my picture?”

Jeremy glanced at the tome and swallowed his guilt.

“I thought you’d be excited!”

“I… ah ... I…”

“Or did you miss it—behind your student card?”

“Your picture! Yes—forgive me—it was very kind of you. But you must be chilled. Your feet—”

Verity waved away his concern. “I didn’t want to make any noise.”

She produced the journal from behind her back, and laid it on the desk.

“Did you recognize me?” Verity watched him closely.

“Why, you’re younger, but yes…”

She picked up his library book, took in the title, and idly paged through. After a few moments, she continued.

“I thought you’d like something to remember me by when I’m gone.”

Jeremy was brought up short. He had expected some reaction to the history volume.

“You’re leaving? But we just met!”

Verity gave him a sympathetic glance. “Not now.” She went to his makeshift marker.

“Yes, eventually…” Lips pursed, she closed the book and laid it aside. “But you’ll see me again…”

His gaze followed the book. “Is it…”

She fixed her green eyes on him. “Yes; that’s my family history—there’s no point in denying it.”

“It just seems… fantastic,” Jeremy exclaimed.

“Pathetic, disturbed people—especially my grandmother, Keziah.”

Jeremy recalled the Bible. “One of Job’s beautiful daughters.”

“She was beautiful, once; but dangerous.” The young woman stared off, gazing into a dark corner of her memories.

“She terrified me. My mother died in childbirth; my father tried to protect me from the past, moving to Vermont. When I was old enough, he sent me away to boarding school, but a few years later, Keziah appeared. It was just after my first … bleeding time.”

Jeremy leaned forward, fascinated. “What did she want?”

“Keziah insisted that she needed to ‘complete my education’. Father died later in the school year, and since I had no other family, Keziah became my guardian. She took me out of school, and we traveled: Europe and the Far East. She introduced me to the occult, but on my own I continued to study mathematics.

“She seemed so much younger, then; younger than the stories. I knew something was wrong with her, the reason my father tried to keep us apart, but she did teach me so much. Then, just as suddenly, Keziah put me back into school, and disappeared. I stayed until college; the bills paid by a lawyer managing a trust fund. I never saw her again.”

Jeremy shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve been on your own? You taught yourself mathematics?”

Verity stiffened, tossed back her hair and glared at him. “Just a girl? On her own? I went to university.”

“No—well, I mean, I doubt I’d have done half as well as you,” he said.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Jeremy—you’re stronger than you think. Now I should go—I have that appointment with your father.”

Jeremy rose. “Before you go—those signal patterns—” he tapped the journal “—are you trying to calculate the sources? In closed form? That’s rather difficult, analytically—”

Verity closed the scant distance between them. Before he could react, she came onto tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, then ran a hand through his hair. “Dear Jeremy; ever the mathematician.”

Jeremy sat transfixed, nostrils assailed by a medley of hard soap and flowers.

“When can we—”

“Coffee; tomorrow,” she suggested. “Time?”

“Ah… one o’clock? The Union?”

“Yes—but no,” Verity replied, “someplace off-campus. Do you know the Fleetwood Diner?”

He made a face. “Their coffee is dreadful.”

“Then we’ll drink tea.” She smiled, turned, and faded silently into the dark hallway.

Jeremy was breathless. But a phrase hung over the moment, like a cloud: when I am gone.

* * *

When Jeremy arrived, Verity Mason waited for him on the sidewalk before the narrow storefront. He was ready to compliment her outfit when he realized it was the same as the night before. They took one of the few booths and ordered tea and toast from the cook behind the counter. Verity brought out her journal and carefully unfolded the overlay map. Jeremy could see her data collection was nearly complete.

“Yes, your father returned my property,” she affirmed. “I didn’t have to ‘borrow’ it again.”

But Jeremy stared at the data, immersed in thought. “A closed-form solution …”

“Jeremy, do you ever think of pleasantries? Oh, never mind,” she said, shaking her head.

“What? What did I do?”

Verity stared at him. “My, you look nice today! ” she intoned, in a low-pitched parody of his voice. “Or perhaps, what a lovely way to do your hair!” Verity grinned. “You could practice in front of a mirror, or better yet, practice on me.”

“I liked your hair down… last night.”

“I’m sure you did. Enough pleasantries, for now.” She nodded at the array of numbers. “With the right assumptions, to reduce the dimensionality, an analytical solution may be possible.”

Jeremy refocused on the problem at hand.

“This location—” he jabbed the map at the intersection where the Witch House had once stood “—if it is the local peak of the interference signal, then that would imply…”

She glanced down at the map. “Yes, it implies the sources are very close there, nearly congruent.”

“And the sources are?”

Her full lips disappeared a moment as she considered it. “Alternate space-time… instances— or pieces of the same continuum, perhaps.”

“Alternate… universes?”

“Or, lobes of the same universe.”

Jeremy’s imagination caught fire. They sat discussing the implications for the better part of an hour, consuming tea and cinnamon toast, carefully wiping their fingers before touching the journal. As their flood of speculations slowed, Jeremy looked up. Verity smiled at him again.

“Social skills aside… it’s such a pleasure talking to you, Jeremy. I’m sorry if I was snippy.”

“So, this morning—it went alright?”

“Well enough. Thank you for asking. The constable had nothing convincing to charge me with other than being young and attractive.”

Verity waited; eyebrows raised.

Jeremy perked up. “Oh—guilty as charged,” he teased.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

She grew serious again. “The world will be different, someday. People will live the way they please and go about their business without interference or criticism.”

“Do you think so?” Jeremy asked. “I’m not so confident.”

Verity shrugged. “At least I can finish my business here, without harassment, that’s the important thing. And the war and all this paranoia won’t last forever; things will go back to normal—or, a new normal.”

Jeremy worked up the courage to ask what had been on his mind. “The trust fund, those patents, the data gathering, and Keziah—are they all related?”

She blinked several times. “Why would you assume that? I was in town to collect some data for my research, and thought I could take care of some family business I’d been putting off while I was here.”

“The signal—how are you measuring it?”

“It’s hard to explain, but I can see it—”

“Yes!” Jeremy almost knocked over his cup. “I understand—I mean, I see mathematical patterns, too! But your research is about your family—Keziah, and the house at the signal peak—”

Verity reached across the table and placed a finger across his lips. “Not here, not now. Trust me, until I can explain.”

He nodded, changing the subject.

“Your math training—where did you receive it? Some of these methods you’re citing – they’re very advanced. I mean, elegant; and they seem somewhat familiar, but I can’t say I’ve encountered them before.”

“At Princeton,” she replied. “It changed my life, literally.” She gazed at him. “I had an extraordinary mentor; he inspired me to pursue my work—this work.”

Jeremy scrabbled in his valise. “Have you seen this?” he said, pulling out an article torn from a glossy magazine. He pushed it across the table. “It came out about a year ago. Professor Flexner describes a new research center, to be located in Princeton, New Jersey. It’s my dream,” Jeremy confessed, watching her flip through the pages. “Scholars of all types will interact, pursue their research for its own sake.”

“An Institute for Advanced Study…” Verity murmured.

“Yes!” Jeremy ran a hand through his tangled hair. “I just don’t know if I’m good enough…”

“Don’t ever doubt yourself!” Verity admonished him. “You’ll get there and do amazing things.” She reached out and took his hands.

Her confidence warmed and surprised him. “You’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met.” He swallowed. “Can I see you again, before you go?”

“Well, I don’t have to go right away.” She squeezed his hands. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“What are your plans after this research?”

“I’m going to attempt some practical applications.”

“What about graduate school? Mathematics?” Verity was more talented than the other Miskatonic graduate students he’d met.

“No; I’m going to change the world,” she declared.

“Where will you go, then?”

“I might do some acting. Hollywood!”

He stared at her, bemused. “You’re a mathematician, not an actress—”

“Why do any of us have to be only one thing? You might be a writer or an artist and a mathematical genius.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could be many things; as for me… I live for mathematics.”

“Maybe I’ll come back to the East Coast and visit you, from time to time.” She released his hands and rose. “I should go.”

Jeremy stood and dropped some coins on the table. “I’ll walk with you. Can we meet again, tonight?”

“At the Miskatonic, the dining room. Seven?”

He nodded, and together they stepped out into the mid-afternoon sun.

* * *

Jeremy announced to his parents he was going out to dinner.

“Don’t wait up,” he called over his shoulder. He swung the front door wide and stepped eagerly out into the damp spring evening. The door closed on their querulous calls for explanation, and he strode purposefully east through the campus.

The hotel dining room held some clusters of guests, and a smattering of locals enjoying a dinner out. Verity was waiting at a table close to the massive fireplace.

She was elegant in her makeup and heels. If her upswept hair glowed like the setting sun, her dress was the dark blue sky of approaching night. She tilted her head, a slight smile curving her lips, and watched him quickly weave his way to her side.

“Hello. You look beautiful,” he announced, loudly enough to draw smiles from a nearby couple.

“Why, thank you,” Verity replied. “You seem… enthusiastic.”

He looked discomfited.

“A woman loves polite enthusiasm,” she added.

They ordered, and the conversation turned to protective parents who tried to shield their children from Arkham’s darker side.

Jeremy supplied, “My parents did everything they could, but schoolchildren spread the tales of witches and monsters, anyway.”

“My father wanted me nowhere near this place. Yet, I had to come back to study the Witch House effect.”

“It wasn’t until I got to the University that I realized people took any of it seriously.”

“Deadly serious,” Verity agreed. “Arkham gives me the creeps—I can almost feel her, watching…” She rubbed her arms as if chilled.

Jeremy sought to rescue the mood of the evening. “So—you liked Princeton?”

“It was wonderful,” she said, beaming. “And inspiring.”

“A great school for mathematics,” Jeremy said. He was aware of admiring and envious glances cast towards them. Jeremy told himself he was being foolish, but he enjoyed his monopoly on her.

“Not just for the math training,” Verity continued. “I could be, well, normal, and have interests like everyone else. Theatre, for example.”

The relaxed conversation lingered a little while longer over coffee. When it finally waned, Jeremy was prepared to say good night.

“There’s no dancing tonight, unfortunately,” he said. “And you probably wouldn’t want to suffer through me, as a partner—”

“We’ll dance another night,” she replied, her gaze steady on him. “Right now… I want you to come up to my room.”

Without waiting for an answer, she rose and opened her small clutch, palming a key. “Ready?” she asked.

Jeremy asked, “Do you want to review your data?”

“No, I do not,” Verity said firmly. “Coming?”

Now that the moment had arrived, Jeremy was stymied. “I have to tell you,” he stammered, “I’ve, ah, never been with a woman.”

He feared she would laugh. Instead, she placed a finger alongside her pursed lips and glanced up, thoughtful. “It’s very simple, really. Two factors, x and y; and an operator on the two factors. Not addition, since the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.” Verity tangled her fingers in his hair. “Jeremy… would you feel more comfortable knowing that I’ve never been with a man?”

Jeremy blinked. Verity bent down and kissed him.

“Follow me in five minutes—no more. I’ve waited a long time for this,” she murmured “—for you.”

He watched her stroll away, counting the seconds until he could follow. Jeremy realized that his life would never be the same.

* * *

They spent every opportunity over the following weeks meeting, pursuing the answers Verity sought as their romance blossomed. She took a room on the west side of the campus, in a none-too-reputable house whose proprietress turned a blind eye to the comings and goings of her tenants—and their guests.

It would have been idyllic, save for one thing: Verity was convinced she was being watched—and not by the Arkham sheriff.

“Not followed, exactly,” she explained, curled into his arm one evening, “but watched: as if someone knows where I’ll be.”

Jeremy squirmed to a sitting position.

“Do you think it’s her? Keziah?”

“Who else?” Verity huddled closer.

“I’ll protect you,” he promised.

She turned away. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I... I can stay with you. Or we can go somewhere—”

“That’s not practical, love. You have a career that’s just starting.”

“But—”

“I can take care of myself!” Verity snapped. “I’ve done enough harm already. I never meant to hurt you.”

Verity’s sudden mood change dumbfounded Jeremy. “You’ve never hurt me.”

“No; no, but I will,” she declared. “It’s inevitable.”

Rising from the bed, she slipped on a robe, her face hidden by her tousled copper hair.

“It’s getting late… your parents will worry.” She turned away. “Good night.”

* * *

Days went by in a pleasant succession. His parents accepted Jeremy’s explanation of late evenings spent in intense ‘dissertation work’ on campus. Then one afternoon, Jeremy rushed up the stairs to their shabby room, eager to greet Verity, only to find her gone. He waited for hours, fearing she could be hurt. He debated whether to call the sheriff or his father, but decided to consult the slattern who owned the house first.

She gave a disinterested wave. “Flown. Saw her last with her coat and bag. At least she didn’t stiff me.”

The room was empty, her journals and papers were gone—all their work together. There was only a note, which meant little to Jeremy: ‘Pray, love, remember.’

His exposure to Verity and her quest had opened his eyes to new concepts, causing a radical reimagining of his work.

Try as he might, Jeremy could learn nothing more about Verity’s whereabouts. Neither train nor bus stations could say with certainty whether she had left town. Soon after, quite by coincidence, Jacob alluded to Verity.

“She’s gone—apparently she finished her ‘business’, and the lawyers are convinced it’s all legitimate, this trust and the sealed instructions.” Jacob’s face assumed a smile of sly suspicion. “But there’s more to it.”

Jeremy chewed his rather bland canned vegetables. “What’s that?”

“I checked Miss Mason’s story. Took some digging, but—” he waved his fork “—she said she was born in the twenties, yes? Well, there is a birth record for Verity Mason in the Arkham registry, daughter of Jedidiah and Constance… but in 1820.”

He looked around the table with raised eyebrows. “And the school? Yes, Verity Mason attended it— a century ago!”

“What does it mean?” Rachel asked, wide-eyed. “Perhaps it’s just a coincidence…”

Jacob struggled to keep the frustration out of his voice. “She’s playing a character—picked up this name from someone’s family history, and used it as a pseudonym, for her dealings. Well, we suspected she was an actress!” He looked at his son, nodding.

“What will you do about it?” Jeremy asked.

Jacob scoffed. “Nothing! The constable has nothing concrete; the judge would rather not upset the lawyers, who don’t want to upset their clients. Prohibition gave the criminals the incentive they needed to get organized and subvert professions like the law, and banking!”

Jeremy wasn’t sure what this acerbic lecture had to do with Verity, and he wasn’t going to ask.

“Dear—your blood pressure!” exclaimed his wife.

She rose and left, removing the dinner plates, aided by Jeremy. They returned with slices of lemon sponge cake for all.

Jeremy slowly clipped a forkful of the soft cake from the slab before him. “I’m trying for Princeton after my degree—a faculty post, or a fellowship if not.”

“So, you’re not enlisting?” asked his mother, hopefully.

“No. But if I’m called up, I’ll—”

“The draft board understands the value of math and science to the war effort,” Jacob declared. “Don’t worry.”

* * *

Spring arrived. Jeremy threw himself into his graduate work and settled back into life with his parents.

One evening, he turned over a section of the backyard lawn to create a new flower garden, a Mother’s Day gift. It was twilight, and Jeremy had broken through the ancient turf in a ten by five-foot corner. Wiping his face on a sleeve and wishing for a cold drink, he stood listening to the night, suddenly convinced he was not alone.

“Hello, Jeremy.”

The voice was hoarse but oddly familiar, as if the speaker had been ill. His heart leaped at the voice—so much like Verity’s—and he whirled, ready to take her in his arms, to welcome her back. He blinked and backed away involuntarily.

The robed figure was older, hair pale and cut roughly to the chin. Jeremy’s first thought was of Verity’s sudden departure, and her fear of that terrible figure from her youth: Keziah Mason.

“My beautiful boy…” the apparition murmured, stepping forward, “…beautiful boy. Don’t you know me?”

Though the haunted face resembled Verity, there was a dangerous gleam of madness in the green eyes. Thin fingers loosened the cloth belt at her waist. The robe parted, revealing an incongruous sight: the shadowed curves of a young, voluptuous body.

“Hold me, Jeremy,” she pleaded, continuing to advance.

“Stay back!” he cried. “I know who you are!”

“Of course!” The figure continued to advance, and intoned, “Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be…”

Jeremy stumbled and fell backward, tumbling into the freshly turned earth.

The robe slipped off her shoulders as she crouched over Jeremy, hands and knees sinking into the moist earth.

“And in his grave rain'd many a tear —fare you well, my dove!”

She descended on him, heavy breasts grazing his chest, and laughed lightly. “My beautiful boy, always mine…”

Jeremy scrambled to escape the apparition looming above him. His hand came upon the spade lying on the ground. Lifting it, Jeremy swung wildly and struck her hip.

She cried out and rolled off, even as Jeremy rose to his knees. Their eyes met, and she reached out to him, pleading. Fearing some witchcraft, he clenched his eyes shut and swung the shove with all his strength at her head.

The blow connected, and with a groan, she went limp. Thoughtless of the consequences, Jeremy raised the shovel over his head and slammed it down yet again.

He knelt there, panting, heart and head both pounding in a timeless moment of terror.

The screen door squeaked.

“Jeremy? Is that you?”

The light from the open kitchen door illuminated his mother in silhouette. She advanced upon him.

Jeremy quickly tugged the robe over the naked body. “Stay back!”

He sat, head in hands, by the still shape on the ground.

“No! Don’t come any closer!” he pleaded, shaking his head. “It’s terrible, terrible…”

Rachel rushed over and pulled aside the robe to reveal the ruined face. She caught her breath, but quickly calmed herself.

She sat close to her son. “Who is she?”

“I had to—I had to protect Verity…”

Jeremy made a stumbling confession of his love for the mysterious visitor to Arkham and her abject fear of the woman dead at his feet.

“Verity said she was being followed by this witch. I just hope she’s alright.”

Rachel’s only concern was for her child. Strangers mattered little compared to her son’s future. The woman who had helped him nightly to overcome his doubts and succeed in his field could not turn away from him now.

“My garden?” she said, sifting her fingers in the bare earth.

“Yes… a gift.”

She picked up the shovel and nodded at the corpse.

“Help me, then. Get another shovel. Your father has fallen asleep over his book; we have time.”

She planted the spade in the far corner of the garden. “He needn’t know.”

* * *

Princeton, New Jersey: Spring 1952

Princeton embraced the gangly young genius from Massachusetts, offering him a junior position on the Mathematics faculty which he accepted. His work progressed, inspired by his intense, albeit brief, time with his muse, Verity.

Jeremy had finally accepted that she had moved on to a career outside of his world of mathematics, though it did not seem to involve Hollywood, as best he could determine.

One day, at the beginning of the spring term, there was a knock at Jeremy’s office door. Miss Andrews, the Department secretary, opened the door, peering about over her reading glasses to ensure Jeremy was not already occupied. She announced, “Miss Matthews.”

“Who?”

A trace of impatience crossed her face. “You remember: the junior, asking to attend your Analysis course.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Jeremy had found, to his surprise, that Miss Vanessa Matthews’ record was impressive. Princeton admitted her on scholarship at a young age; she earned Dean’s list while pursuing a program heavy in mathematics. The admin waved the young woman into Jeremy’s small office.

“Professor Moskovy!” The coed rushed in. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m Vanessa Matthews. I’m looking forward to your seminar.”

Vanessa was dressed in campus fashion with a long skirt, blouse, and sweater. Her shoulder-length red hair was neatly pulled back into a ponytail that did a lively dance as she spoke.

“I read your Miskatonic doctoral treatise—seven pages! It was amazing.”

He stared, taken aback.

The visitor bore a disconcerting resemblance to Verity Mason; she could have been Verity’s younger sister. In the space of a heartbeat, a decade of convention fell away: Jeremy was in a dingy room in Arkham, and the woman he loved had just walked in the door—

“Professor?”

Jeremy came to his senses. “Uh, six pages,” Jeremy mumbled, distracted, “after the title page.”

It had to be coincidence. “How old are you?” He knew he had read it somewhere in her record, but couldn’t recall.

“Nineteen… in a few weeks,” she replied. “I’m graduating early.”

“Please. Sit.” He gestured at his guest chair.

She sat, crossing her legs, and waited. “Is something wrong?”

Jeremy tried not to stare. “No—it’s just, you look so familiar.”

Vanessa smiled. “Perhaps you’ve seen me in one of the theater productions.”

“No—I mean, yes, I’ve been to some plays, but… tell me: do you have people in Massachusetts? Arkham?”

She blinked. “I do— on my mother’s side. There are some cousins still in that area, I believe.”

“It’s just, you resemble someone I once knew, when I was an undergraduate. She’d be in her thirties. She told me she attended here, but I checked—” He shook his head, clearing away the memory.

Vanessa seemed to be pondering how many years ago Jeremy was ‘young.’

“The rest of your schedule seems reasonable—” He frowned. “—but what’s this?”

“Oh. Humanities. If I can complete the last of my general requirements, I can graduate at the end of the term.”

“Well, I suppose,” Jeremy grumbled.

“So…” He pointed at the blackboard looming in the back corner of his office, partially erased to make room for several example equations, “what can you tell me about these?”

The student pursed her lips, then pointed at the first line. “This is a distance metric, expressed in Einstein summation notation… oh, that’s just the Hopf-Rinow theorem.”

She looked up at him for approval, with a satisfied expression.

Jeremy nodded. “Very good. And then?”

“Then we have…” she stared a moment, then glanced at Jeremy apologetically. “Pardon me, Professor, but aren’t the superscripts in this differential incorrect? It should be ‘jk’, not ‘ij’.”

He smiled. “Right you are.” Jeremy sat back. “Well, you seem to have read well beyond your coursework. Have you been tutored?”

But she was reading the rest of the chalkboard, a theorem he had been preparing for a paper.

“Vanessa? You can ignore—”

“This—” she declared “—this is expressing how to identify points of contact when a lower-dimensional space is folded in a higher dimension!”

She looked up, flushed with excitement. “Isn’t it?”

“Well, yes—”

“But you’re not done; and this—” She jumped up and tapped the board. “—this won’t hold if the space has infinite dimensions.”

The discussion that ensued flowed at a pace that would have left lesser minds befuddled.

A knock came, followed by Miss Andrews’ face peering in with a concerned look.

“Your three-thirty, Professor? He’s waiting.”

Jeremy waved aside the distraction without taking his eyes from the formula Vanessa was confidently writing on the board.

“Ten minutes,” he mumbled.

“The Assistant Dean?” Andrews persisted, arching her eyebrows.

“Ten minutes!” Jeremy insisted; but the admin refused to yield. He sighed. “Vanessa—we’ll have to pick this up at another time. You’re welcome to the seminar, of course. I hope you don’t find it boring.”

“Great. And I’ll think more about this theorem.” The coed bounced to her feet. “Thank you, Professor. You won’t regret it.” She ducked her head deferentially at the admin and made for the doorway.

“Wait! Give me that course card.” Jeremy took it and signed off. He handed back the card, then turned to the secretary. “Miss Andrews, please make an appointment for Miss Matthews, a half-hour, as soon as convenient. You can go, Vanessa.”

Jeremy watched until the redhead had disappeared down the hallway.

The admin cleared her throat. “Well?”

“Oh, she’s quite capable,” he laughed. “I’ll try to keep up with her.”

“Your wife called—reminding you that there are guests for dinner tonight. She asks that you not forget, again.”

Jeremy’s wife of several years, an economics professor, was intelligent, not unattractive, and ambitious. They’d married, he felt, to meet some unspoken community expectation, more than any needs of their own.

“Hmm.” His gaze returned to the board.

Miss Andrews frowned, but nodded and left.

He thought of his visitor. “Must run in the family…”

* * *

Jeremy encouraged Vanessa Matthews to pursue graduate studies in mathematics, but the young woman was drawn elsewhere, namely the stage. One day he found a small garland on his office door. Examining it, he found it was a sprig wound into a spiral.

“This is from you?” he inquired, when Vanessa arrived to continue their latest theorem.

“Rosemary, for remembrance,” she explained. “My way of saying… I’m pursuing a career on stage.”

Jeremy was disappointed. “Your Ophelia was very fine, but your creativity in math is sublime! You owe it to the world—to your sex—to realize your potential.”

Their weekly working sessions had produced several short papers they submitted as co-authors. She had become Jeremy’s muse, and he selfishly schemed to foster the relationship.

“Why must I set aside my dreams for the sake of others’ expectations?” she said fervidly. “We should take what we want when we’re young—pay the price when we’re too old to dream!” Vanessa blinked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Never mind,” Jeremy said, “I know what it means to mature. But I’ve seen the passion you bring to this work.” He waved at the chalkboard they had filled many times over the past months. “Don’t tell me it isn’t inspiring!”

She reflexively wiped her hands upon her navy-blue pedal pushers, then tried to smear away the gray chalk, unsuccessfully. When she looked up, it was with longing in her eyes.

“I do this for you. Any passion I have is because of you… Jeremy. Not just your teaching—you’re such a good person, always treating me so kindly, properly…”

She stared at him a moment, then closed the gap between them. Leaning on the arms of his office chair, Vanessa kissed him solidly on the lips.

It took Jeremy a moment to react, as her lips brought memories flooding back. He had restrained himself, these past weeks, from succumbing to his attraction: Vanessa was a student, and he…

Taking her by the shoulders, Jeremy pushed her gently away. He stared into unmistakable green eyes.

“No. Verity, this can’t happen.”

She paled beneath the freckles scattered across her high cheeks.

“What? What did you call me?” she said in a quiet voice. Her open, innocent eyes narrowed with suspicion, studying his face. “How do you know me—my real name?”

Jeremy’s mind twisted in astonishment. In the moment it took to kiss, impossibility became improbability, then a pattern; and with the pattern came understanding.

He burst out, “It is you, isn’t it? And if I met you a decade ago, then there’s only one explanation—you can travel through time.”

She nodded. “I can’t explain what my grandmother taught me, because I don’t understand—”

“But you will!” Jeremy declared, excited. “It all makes sense! You will go back in time and investigate Arkham. We’ll meet, and you’ll discover the answer.”

“I can only travel when I’m in Arkham,” Verity explained.

“Which is why you need to discover how the Witch House was unique—its location.”

“You know about it—the house, the time travel? And I met you, back then?”

“We met, but you never told me why…”

He didn’t have to complete the thought. Verity kissed him again, and this time he responded. Moments later, they were desperately fumbling at buttons and belts.

That was the tableau Miss Andrews discovered moments later.

She bustled into the office with a clutch of letters. “Excuse me, these can’t wait—”

The secretary froze; the papers fluttered from her outstretched hand. She could only manage an astonished ‘Oh!’ before backing out of the doorway.

The couple listened to her heels rapidly tapping down the hallway.

He stroked her hair and said, “Of course… This is how it must be! I’ve missed you so much.” Jeremy pressed his lips to hers again; she returned the kiss eagerly.

“They’ll separate us,” Jeremy continued, “prohibit any contact—if I’m not dismissed outright. Listen carefully.”

Verity sat back, re-buttoning her blouse.

“March, 1942—Arkham. You’ll map out an interference pattern centered where the Witch House once stood. You measure it—somehow, you sense it.”

“Should I leave immediately?” Verity asked.

“No, you were well prepared.” He struggled to summarize what he could recall. “You had patent applications—look up spread-spectrum technology—and papers for a trust fund you were setting up in 1942.”

“Yes. I’ve thought of doing that, financing my future self!”

“You were about twenty-two when I met you, then. So, you have time to prepare.”

Jeremy leaned forward and caressed her cheek. “But be careful. Keziah was watching you.”

Verity’s eyes widened. “I haven’t seen her for years! She finds me? What does she do?”

He could not bring himself to share the murder that haunted him—and his mother. “Just be careful,” Jeremy warned.

Verity closed her eyes, leaned into his touch. “I want you so badly! I don’t understand what I’m—”

The Department Chairman’s bulk filled the doorway. He turned on the coed, who drew back in her chair.

“Miss Andrews, escort Miss Matthews to my office and wait there with her. You’re not to leave until I speak to you, young lady—your graduation depends upon it!”

Verity nodded, rose slowly, and stepped towards the door.

“Remember!” Jeremy cried after her as the door closed.

The Chairman turned on him. “Are you out of your mind? A coed? And you, a married man?”

Jeremy blinked at him, his mind awhirl, a clamor of emotions competing with ideas. With Verity out of sight, he turned to the incredible revelation of minutes past: for knowing with certainty that a thing is possible makes its realization seem infinitely easier.

“Perhaps—” Jeremy muttered “—but right now I need to think.”

Grabbing the eraser, he cleared the chalkboard. Taking up chalk, he began feverishly writing, much to the chairman’s irritation.

* * *

No one in the college wanted to lose either the class’s star student or the respected professor.

The coed in question tearfully confessed to a ‘girlish infatuation’, applying all her acting skills to plead that Jeremy had never behaved inappropriately towards her. ‘Vanessa’ graduated as planned—though not as valedictorian—on condition of avoiding all contact with him.

The faculty ethics committee pondered behind closed doors and decided that a year’s leave of absence, removed from student contact, was appropriate for Professor Moskovy. The Institute for Advanced Study immediately accepted him to work there while on leave, effectively turning the exile into a sabbatical.

Despite attempts to quash the incident, rumors swirled around campus, eagerly shared at faculty cocktail parties and private gatherings. The Moskovy marriage, brittle behind its pleasant façade, collapsed; and Jeremy found himself divorced at the age of thirty-five.

After his father’s death, Jeremy made the trip to Arkham more frequently to support his mother, even offering to have her join him in New Jersey. But she refused to leave their family home and her garden.

* * *

Chicago, Illinois: October 1971

It was a pleasant fall evening, a Friday night; and Jeremy strolled alone through the dim streets of Hyde Park, drifting home from his regular bar. The University of Chicago kept him on, lecturing undergraduates, and Jeremy kept himself on, despite bouts of depression. He orbited between the University, his Brownstone, and the local bars… waiting for it to end.

Time reversibility, event horizons, multiverses, and the Hausdorff-Besicovitch dimension of his folded universe model had preoccupied his thinking for decades, to the detriment of his career. After IAS, he had made a clean break with Princeton, moving west.

‘Vanessa’ disappeared after Princeton; he had never heard from Verity again. As much as he tried, Jeremy could not grow past his one genuine love, and had remained alone.

The wind moved through the dry trees, carrying an early chill, and Jeremy wrapped his overcoat tighter as the breeze picked up. When it died, he heard footsteps behind him.

A slight figure hurried along towards him. Thinking nothing of it, he continued his steady pace. The footsteps, a woman’s, kept pace.

As she came alongside, he heard a familiar voice, quiet but urgent, say, “Leave your back door open.”

Jeremy turned in surprise and glimpsed a face at once familiar and alien. Older, grim, and haunted, Verity peered at him from under the hood of a dark, zippered jacket. Without breaking stride, she turned at the next corner and vanished.

Hurrying home, he sat alone in the kitchen, the door unlocked, staring at the steam rising from his coffee cup, playing the moment over and over. His agitation mounted as the hours dragged on, and he longed to walk out into the street and scream her name.

Almost drowsing, Jeremy whirled as the door clicked open, and the hooded figure slipped inside. He lurched to his feet and rushed to embrace her.

Verity pushed back the hood of the odd, quilted coat and sank into his arms. He eased her onto a kitchen chair, where she sat, drooping.

“I can’t stay,” she said dully, “It’s too risky.”

“Rest—you look exhausted.” Jeremy poured a cup of coffee and she greedily gulped it.

“Food?” Verity pleaded, unzipping her jacket.

Jeremy studied her as he got out bread and lunch meats. Verity appeared to be nearly his age, but years alone did not account for her haggard demeanor. He quickly prepared a sandwich and added an apple from his meager provisions.

The visitor from the past glanced around his modest dwelling. “Wife?”

Jeremy shook his head. “No... not since… Never mind. Eat—then we’ll talk.”

He wanted to press her for an explanation, but placed the food in front of her, sat down, and waited patiently for her to recover her wits.

Verity ate greedily, smiling shyly at him. “Sorry, I’ve been on the run.”

Her hair was now blonde, shot with gray. Still heavy, it fell to her shoulders, but ill-kempt, as were her clothes. Jeremy realized the top matched the baggy gray pants, forming a sort of uniform.

“I was a prisoner,” she explained. “I escaped.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! Just… time travel. The wrong people in the twenty-first noticed me. They wanted me to—” Verity coughed and laid down the sandwich until she recovered.

“It’s nearly impossible to change identities, by the twenty-first. The state catalogs everyone—beyond fingerprints—retinal scans, voiceprints, typing patterns, brain scans, genomics…”

“They can read human DNA?” Jeremy interrupted. “The coding? Like a book?” He pondered the mathematical techniques that could be applied to such a database.

“Oh, woe is me, to have seen what I have seen…” She laughed, though there was little warmth or humor in it. “Yes—genomics, of course—but that doesn’t matter. I’m being pursued.”

“So, these people in the future—”

“No!” Verity took her head in her hands. “They didn’t get my secret. No, a much older enemy is after me, as he haunted my grandmother. He promised… a terrible fate.” She lurched to her feet. “I should go.”

She swayed, and Jeremy caught her. She collapsed into his arms.

“You’re safe here.” Jeremy coughed and breathed through his mouth to avoid the stench of sweat and worse. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up?”

Verity permitted him to lead her into the bathroom. She slumped on the toilet while he ran water into the tub.

“I think it would be a good idea… if we cut your hair. It’s too tangled.”

Verity nodded, eyes on the floor.

“Go ahead, get in,” he urged. “I’ll get the scissors for your hair.”

Returning with some old pajamas and the scissors, Jeremy found her floating languidly in the soapy water. He pulled over the wastebasket and sat on the floor next to her.

Verity extended one arm, shaking a plastic band. “Can you get this off?”

He took her thin wrist and snipped off the ring, tossing it aside. His eyes took in Verity’s body: full lips, breasts larger than he remembered, yet arms emaciated.

“Hold still, I’m going to cut now.” Jeremy did the best he could, trimming her close, as he wondered how a bright future could still have head lice. He shampooed her remaining hair and spoke of the decades he’d spent waiting for her. “Whenever I went back to Arkham, to visit my parents, I’d try to slip away, go back to the Witch House. I thought, perhaps, you might return…”

Verity’s eyes drifted closed.

The bath done, Jeremy helped her rinse and dry, then get into pajamas, turning up cuffs and sleeves.

In the bedroom, Jeremy asked, “What happened to you? Your body is, ah, different…”

She smiled, running her hands up her sides. “Do you like it? When I was an actress, I had surgery. You can have whatever you want done—face, breasts, butt—whatever makes you popular. And I was very popular.” Her gaze drifted. “Very popular…”

“I suppose I don’t go to films enough. What was your screen name?”

Verity laughed. “You won’t have seen any of my films… I won’t make them for another twenty years.”

Jeremy shook his head, bemused. “You should rest. I can… sleep on the couch.”

“No—please, don’t leave me.” Her green eyes, so familiar, pleaded.

So he put her to bed and waited by her side. In minutes, she had lapsed into a deep sleep.

While in the bathroom, Jeremy picked up the wristband. It flashed to life and startled him with ghostly letters on its gray surface, which immediately faded. He found that shaking the band brought it to life, like a self-winding watch. Information scrolled along its length: Verity’s name, a fictitious birth date, and diagnoses. Phrases flowed by, unfamiliar but chilling: diffuse axonal injury, cognitive impairment, post-traumatic stress, chronic traumatic encephalopathy…

Verity wasn’t a prisoner, but a patient.

There were medications listed, but he didn’t recall seeing any in Verity’s pockets when he took her clothes to wash them. Jeremy was determined to ask her when she awoke. He lay down next to Verity and put a tentative arm around her waist. She moved closer, shivering. He gently stroked her arm as he, too, drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Jeremy dreamed of Verity, when he first met her all those years ago, back in her hotel room; of their arousal, their kisses, and their embraces. He slowly awoke to the dim bedroom, wondering at how real the dream had felt, then realized it wasn’t a dream. Verity was naked, a dark form astride him, hands caressing him.

“Jeremy…” Verity murmured, and bent low to kiss him. “I’ve missed you so much,” she said in between kisses. “I’ve forgotten so much—but I’ve remembered you. Always remembered… you…”

“Then why didn’t you return to me?”

Verity turned on the bedside lamp.

“Who are you?” she asked, climbing off of him, and wrapping the blanket around herself. “You’re… old!”

She scrambled off the bed, and frantically searched the room, mumbling to herself, “Jeremy. I must find him. I have to find Jeremy—have to protect him.” She stepped back to his closet, pulled out an old robe, and slipped it on.

“I remember now. I have to find my beautiful boy. Jeremy. I have to find Jeremy.”

He sat up. “Verity, listen to me. You’re not well. You were being treated for some brain disorder.”

Verity pulled the robe closed and raised the hood. As her face fell into shadow, Jeremy gaped in shocked recognition of the robed specter before him, a memory he had never forgotten despite the years.

Heart pounding, he cried, “Please! You mustn’t go back!”

“Be quiet, you old fool,” she snapped. “What would you know?”

“Don’t go! This traveling… it’s damaging you. You’re not thinking straight! If you go back to Arkham—”

The voluptuous robed figure laughed brightly. Jeremy was struck by a sudden déjà vu. Her mocking laughter quavered as the room shimmered in a soft glow. A breeze from somewhere in the room ruffled the curtains, and Verity was gone.

Jeremy stumbled out of the bed. His heart pounded in his chest as he paced the room, the memories of the past tormenting him. That night in Arkham, thirty years earlier, burned in his thoughts with terrible new meaning. All the ambition, the striving, the longing—for what? He thought he could hear the universe—no, the multiverse—laughing.

He halted as pain enveloped his left arm. Head spinning, Jeremy gasped as his breath labored. He dropped to his knees and grasped the bureau to steady himself. As he fell to the floor, his fingers caught the ring of rosemary, a gift treasured all these years, and clutched it as he died.

J. L. Royce is a published author of science fiction, the macabre, and whatever else strikes him. He lives in the northern reaches of the American Midwest. His work appears in: Allegory, Ghostlight, Love Letters to Poe, parABnormal, Sci Phi, and Utopia. He was a finalist in the Q3 2020 Writers of the Future competition. Follow him on Twitter @AuthorJLRoyce and Facebook. For more information, see www.jlroyce.com.

The Curious Key Carelessly Left Behind

Mackenzie Littledale

I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen years old. Ever since I learned to drive, I rushed with the devil nipping at my heels, but I never lived in an apartment that couldn’t be hitched up to the back of my car and driven cross-country. As I now drove a U-Haul past the security gate to my new apartment, I was finally fulfilling my dreams of setting down roots and having my own place hitched to the earth. I could move into this swanky neighborhood with its lush landscaping, community pool, and gated entrance. This one-bedroom model even had ceiling fans and a walk-in closet big enough for me to twirl and whirl and dance inside. It’d take me a year to fill up that closet with brand new clothing, handbags, and shoes. If only all those gossipy townsfolk could see me now!

An overzealous lighter, cigarettes, and stone-cold drunkenness together with a non-fire-retardant couch cushion had led to the end of my parents. Sober, tobacco-free, and uncommitted, I moved into this cushy apartment, determined to hold my life together. This place had high ceilings, big windows, sturdy walls, and just felt anchored in place. More than that, it felt fireproof. I wrote out a shopping list for accessories and new furniture.

As I began to put my belongings away in my bedroom closet, I noticed a small, black, weathered box tucked away in the corner. As far as I could tell, it was the only item left behind by the previous tenants. My first instinct was to throw it out, make the apartment all mine, but there was something about it being left behind that hit me. Perhaps I’d try to locate the Weatherbys so I could mail it to them, but as soon as that thought occurred to me, the phrase ‘finder’s keepers, losers weepers’ whistled through my mind. I shoved the box back into the corner of the closet.

Day after day, as I unpacked neatly labeled boxes and set my things in order, my thoughts drifted to my parents. They’d left me behind just like the Weatherbys had left the old black box behind. The connection took over my thoughts; as strange as it might sound, I wanted to discover what else the box and I might have in common.

Curiosity got the best of me; I brought the box into the light for closer inspection. It was slightly bigger than a loaf of bread and emblazoned with indecipherable symbols. It offered only one clue as to how to open it: a keyhole. The rusted hinges and pitted enamel gave the appearance that it’d been around a very long time. I imagined its history. Was it lined inside with cedar, blood red velvet, or cobalt blue satin? What could it contain? Of course, I shook it, but it seemed to moan and echo like the ghost-harp sound of a piano when the strings are hand-plucked. Yet it felt solid and full.

Since I didn’t have a key to open it, I returned my attention to finish unpacking. As every room took shape with my personal touches and plants, I wondered where the box might look best. Tragically, it looked awful next to all my new purchases.

When most of my belongings were unpacked and I finally found exactly where I wanted the couch after moving it five times, my new apartment started to feel like home. To celebrate, I scooped out a double portion of Epsom salts into my very own spacious tub. Headphones on, jasmine candles lit, Pinot Grigio poured, I luxuriated in the steamy water, letting the salts coax my muscles to loosen their grip and forgive me for my labors of the past five days. It seemed I’d barely been in the water long enough to get crinkly when the steam stopped rising and the bathwater cooled. My skin prickled from a draft. I looked all around for the source of cold air and noticed an open air-conditioning vent pointed straight at my tub.

Irritated, I sloshed out of the tub, dried off, and resolved to fix this problem. Still, with half a dozen boxes left to unpack and furniture deliveries scheduled to arrive, I’d surely need another soak. Cold baths would not do.

All the next day, my lonely mind wandered to the old, weathered box. Even at work, I couldn’t focus; every thought led back to the piece of ebony sitting on my kitchen table. I began to fantasize about its past, its possible histories—but the more I did that, the more muddled my thoughts became. I started to think that box had more of a history than I did—I, a living, breathing person. Was I becoming jealous of that lifeless box and its unknown history? I nearly left work early to pry the damned thing open. I was determined to see its contents.

Losing all sense of time while fighting to open the box, I burnt my dinner. Why was it so important to me? I argued back and forth over whether it had cast a spell on me. Silly. No. Absurd. But what if it held the secret of the previous tenants? Why should I care about the Weatherbys? Because part of them has remained behind. It must be a sign of something. Is this how insanity starts? Looking away, I refused to answer.

After I devoured a microwaved replacement dinner, I trudged to my bathroom. While my tub filled, I climbed up to redirect the vent louvres when something rattled in the ductwork. I went for my screwdriver and opened the vent. Feeling around, my fingers brushed against cold metal. After I stretched and inched my way further, I retrieved the object: a metallic thing, about the length of a mouse’s tail, along with a handful of dust. I brushed dust from the little piece of metal and held it up to see a shaft and teeth: an ornate skeleton key, made of brass. My thoughts whizzed past me, blurry, like fast cars on the freeway: Why is it here? It’s so very old for such a new apartment. What does it open? This neighborhood’s development had been completed only five years before. The only other aged thing was that black box, and it compelled me to see if they belonged together. Down on my knees in the closet, I slid the key into the keyhole. It fit, but the lock wouldn’t tumble. That’s odd. It fits. Why won’t it open? I tried again and again, until I’d turned it ten times or more. Forced to conclude it wasn’t going to open the box, I pulled the key from the lock.

The key fascinated me. Its curvaceous shape, much like a fleur-de-lis, felt heavy in my hand; it had a presence that demanded attention. The brass caught the light in some places but had blackened with tarnish in others. I held it up to the light, keen to inspect the artistry and muse over its origins. What a devoted craftsman to balance so delicately the sweeping, feminine lines with the masculine weight and scale. Its contours, ranging from straight to teasing curves, reminded me of pas de deux but performed solo. It held me in its grasp until bedtime, when I laid it down on my nightstand and shut off the lights.

I couldn’t sleep. The key invaded my dreamscape, wandering through my restless mind, until my eyes flashed open. I checked the time: one minute before midnight. For reasons known only to the passing clouds, I tried the key in the enameled box again. No success, and I returned to bed carrying an indescribable sadness that the box’s contents remained unknown.

When I woke up in the morning, I reached for the alarm on my nightstand and brushed my fingers against the key. An electric pulse pricked my finger and slinked its way through my body. An entire universe of feeling passed from the key through my fingertips, coursing through my pulsing blood to my heart. A rising tide of joy, quivering fear, burning hot jealous rage, indulgent passion, wistful longing — all took turns whisking through my soul. It was a dance to an inner world of music; a dance meant for two, yes, the pas de deux — but forever performed alone. I shook my head, trying to clear it of these wild imaginings, and clutched the key. If the key wasn’t for that box, what would it open? The key must have been deliberately put in the air-conditioning vent, and I’d never know why.

Before work the next morning, I stopped at the craft store for a length of leather lanyard so I could keep the mesmerizing key dangling around my neck, tied with an elegant flourish. As soon as the key rested at the peak of my chest, a whisper of a song tickled my ears. I hummed along until I realized with a shudder that I couldn’t tell if the music was real or imaginary.

Throughout the day, my coworkers commented on my unusual pendant.

“It’s quite a conversation piece,” said demure Debbie.

“Where did you find such a hideous piece of jewelry?” asked badly manicured Becky.

“What possessed you to wear that to work?” Jerry said with his mouth full of bagel.

“Oh, Raya, it’s truly amazing. Never take it off,” said Pagan Penny, fondling a pentacle on a choker around her neck. “Never.”

After lunch, I sat at my cubicle. “Please stop humming,” called Becky over the cubicle partition.

“I didn’t realize I was,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

I lay awake in bed that night, fingering the brass between my fingers. The more I felt the delicate brass, the more I desperately needed to know the purpose of the key. Fitful until one minute after midnight, I tried the key in the box again. Much to my own surprise, the lock tumbled. My heart thumped joyously and I let out a small cheer as the lid creaked open of its own accord, and the same tune I’d heard earlier wafted out. I hummed along with the romantic music; it was already embedded within my memory, as familiar as if I’d been hearing it all my life. The sultry tune seduced me as if my heart were an instrument in the hands of a most loyal lover.

I swayed to the music, eyes closed, heart pounding like a bass drum, and stomach tickling with butterflies: I was falling in love, but with who?

Aroused and lonely, sleep eluded me. Nothing to do but toss and turn until I wore myself out.

The following day at work, I couldn’t stop humming. Becky called over the cubicle partition, “Enough with that awful noise, Raya. Shut up already.”

I mockingly mimicked Becky, just as Penny appeared at my back. “Pay her no mind, Raya. That music is lovely. Do you know who wrote it?”

“I don’t.”

“If you’d like to find out, there’s an app for that,” she said, her face glowing. “Just play the music into your phone’s microphone and it’ll search the composer.”

“Thanks, Penny. I’m dying to know.”

“Don’t rush your time,” she said, and disappeared before I could make sense of what she might mean by that.

Shrugging off Penny’s cryptic message, I downloaded the app she suggested and within seconds I learned the composer was Ferdinand Berocci. Mad with curiosity, I Googled the name and discovered he’d lived in Barbados during his twenties and had fallen in love with a dancer. His family threatened to disown him if he didn’t leave her, but he married the dancer. He wrote song after song for her, each more enchanting than the last. His career was just about to take off in Europe, but his wife left him for another man. Berocci’s music lost its ethereal quality and grew gloomy, dark, desolate. All his tours were canceled and he died in obscurity on June 6, 1866.

By the time I returned home, the skin under my key itched. I removed the lanyard, but the key wouldn’t budge from my décolleté. It had adhered, as if by firebrand left on the skin long enough to meld into it. The key had literally become part of me, and I ached to leave it on, but for the cursed itching. I cried out as I pried it off—partly from the physical pain, but just as much from the emotional detaching. Blood and watery pus oozed from my chest, leaving behind blistered skin in the shape of the key.

I smeared the injury with aloe vera, lavender balm, and coconut oil; but nothing soothed the burning sensation. The pain spread throughout my body as if the key had laid claim to me, and punished me for taking it off.

Now that I’d freed my skin of the key, I tried it in the keyhole again, at one minute after midnight. The lock tumbled and another piece of music echoed out. Within seconds, my face was bathed in tears, so tremulous and sorrowful was the music. Embodied in its melodies, in its chords, was the death of an entire city at war. Every memory of heartbreak, blood, loss, grief, injustice, and loneliness snaked around my heart and pulled in tighter and tighter; until I was barely able to breathe.

Unable to withstand the grieving, I groped for the box, slammed the lid closed, and shoved it under my bed. Yet the haunting music flooded my room. It infected my soul, my bones, and even my fingernails with sadness. Coiled up in a fetal position, I couldn’t hope to sleep; I wailed in misery, beating my chest at the unbearable cruelty of life that the music had shown me. My fingers trailed the edges of the bandages at my bosom where the sacred key had branded me. Something unnatural bonded that key to the box, yet I couldn’t imagine my life without the brass object that burned me so badly. It had marked me; I was sure the branding scar would last until the end of my days.

It was all ridiculous. I could live without the key, of course, so I went to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. But even the distance between the key in the box and the kitchen proved too far. As soon as there were walls between me and the little piece of metal, the longing began. I’d never felt this strongly about my dearest friends, my most hopeless loves. I had no words to describe how deeply I needed the key to know I’d pledge my loyalty and my life to it.

In my room again, I fondled the brass key and curled up in bed beside it. “Why must you make me cry, you silly little key? Don’t you know I love you?”

It was the box. Of course. How could I not see it? The box demanded fealty, but the key was mine. I flung myself out of my sweat-soaked bed with an uncontrollable desire to dance.

I danced slowly, feeling a sense of love that washed over my whole body. I wanted to turn in gentle spirals, but the key compelled me with a passion for speed. With each passing minute, I twirled and spun, enraptured with the affections of two irresistible men I didn’t even know: one a composer, the other a daring rogue. Deep in my heart I felt myself pulled in opposite directions; the rogue won out, leaving the musician despondent and abandoned. His suicidal aching flooded me, but the masterful rogue had won. I couldn’t look back. This is madness, I thought with a heaving sigh.

No longer able to bear the effects of the curious key in the box’s keyhole and the music tearing me apart, I could draw only one conclusion: the box had to be destroyed. Faced with the choice between the box and my sanity, I tripped in my rush to the box. My trembling hands fumbled, unable to fit the brass key in the keyhole. My eyes widened, wild and desperate; I dropped the key and slammed my palms down, trying to force the box to shut. My forearms burned from the effort of pressing the lid closed, but it sprang open with such force it threw me backwards. The dolorous music gave way to a faster tempo. The beat galloped into a staccato rhythm, frantic and desperate, mirroring my fearful heart. The music took off like a spooked horse in a nighttime storm, dragging me along with it.

“Am I losing my fucking mind?” I cried out. “This box is cursed!” I grabbed my laptop to search for more of Ferdinand Berocci and his unfaithful wife.

My eyes wide with terror from what I had read, I threw open my bedroom door and ran outside my apartment to the vagaries of the night. My sanity clinging to the thinnest of threads between this life and the unknown, my heart wouldn’t slow down. Tears burned hot rivers down my cheeks; through my blurry vision, I saw the lights in my neighbors’ houses rapidly switching off, perhaps afraid that I might terrorize them if they were visible. I didn’t know what to do. My beloved key seemed to prefer the affections of the box—and what was I to compete? Mere flesh and blood? The box had history and pedigree, whereas I was an orphan with no anchor to this world.

It occurred to me I knew one person who might have an inkling how to end the wicked magic. I snatched the box and key and sped off to Pagan Penny’s.

I’d only ever been to Penny’s once before and though she wouldn’t be expecting me, this was an emergency. Succumbing to the damned box’s spellbinding music, I wasted a good deal of time making U-turns.

“Shut up! We’re over. We have a—I don’t know what this is—whatever it is, it can’t be real,” I wailed to the box. I glanced at it with disdain, its lid up like an open-mouthed sewer. I hated it, the power it commanded over me, and made a fourth U-turn back in the direction of Penny’s.

Screeching to a halt in front of her house, I left the abominable objects in my car and sprinted to Penny’s door. One ring, pause, two rings, pause, three rings, four. Her voice called out from inside, “Hold on, for crying out loud, I’m coming, I’m coming.” The door opened and there stood Penny, clear-eyed and alert, in flowing grey garments and silver pentagram rings on her fingers. “You’re right on time. Where’s the box?”

I took a step back. “How could you know I’d be coming with the box? I haven’t even mentioned it, only the key.”

“Few things happen by accident, Raya. Once I saw that magnificent, magical key, I knew you had the sacred box. It was meant to be. Now hurry up and get it. Where is it? In your car?”

I glanced over my shoulder and nodded.

She brushed past me. “Is your car unlocked? I’ll get it.”

Penny retrieved the box and key, carrying them elevated as if holy relics. I put my hand on my hips and cocked my head as she marched back to her front door like a bride down the aisle. One foot ahead, feet together, next foot ahead, feet together.

“For God’s sake, Penny, why the pomp and circumstance?”

“It’s all part of my incantation. These objects hold the secret melodies of Ferdinand Berocci—a powerful wizard who fled Sicily for Barbados, where he met the love of his life. She became his muse, and he wrote the most beautiful music of his career.”

“Yeah, I found that on the Internet,” I said, following her inside. Her home on the outside was suburban-ordinary, but inside the walls were painted red and black. Before I could get hung up on the strange symbols everywhere, she moved to a room in the back of her house. In all four corners, skulls sat on the floor, lit candles inside them. A striking number of blue candles occupied every surface, dozens of tiny fires making shadow puppets dance on the walls and ceiling. Everything seemed to be in motion. I felt dizzy.

Penny ceremoniously crossed to a pedestal, bearing a velvet pillow with golden piping, in the middle of the back wall. She placed the box and key on the pillow with careful reverence. “This shrine will end the spell of sadness and longing. Ferdinand’s love fell for another, leaving him desolated. His aching music is trapped inside this box. But now that you’re here, the music will turn joyful again.” She opened an old tome and began turning the pages slowly, with her long, thin nose almost touching the yellowing paper.

“How could you know that?” I asked, my palms sweating and skin prickling with a chill.

“You’re the descendant of Ferdinand’s love.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I asked, raising my voice. “I don’t even know that.”

“Ferdinand’s music was in his blood, and his blood lines that box.” She didn’t look up from the oversized ancient book, pissing me off.

“Penny, that makes no sense at all.” The walls seemed to close in on me tight like a coffin, smothering and hot. My clothes stuck to my sweating skin; I felt like I was being wrapped in plastic film. I’d never understood claustrophobia until that moment. “What does that have to do with me?”

“‘Reunification will unbreak the circle,” she read aloud. “The music will be allowed to live again with a love that was meant to be, but was tragically never consummated.”

Her gibberish sawed at my nerves, but the chilly prickles on my skin continued. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Penny pulled out a dagger from a sheath under her sleeve. Dread, as heavy and relentless as a freight train, traveled through my veins and arteries. I’d seen enough movies to know Penny meant to draw my blood, perhaps sacrifice me. I had no intention of dying tonight.

“Penny?” Sweat trickled down the middle of my back, bringing fevered tickles to every vertebra.

“It won’t hurt much, I promise,” she hissed, eyes rolling back and filling with firelight. “The box only needs a few drops.”

But her eyes reminded me of my pop’s every time he had sworn, he’d give up booze. Her voice betrayed her with the same grifter’s inflection. “A few drops? How many drops, Penny?”

She chuckled. “Just a few.” Stroking the dagger’s blade, she mumbled, “Only one way to find out for sure.”

But I heard her, and my instincts took over like lightning, setting me in motion before the plan took shape. I lunged at her, reaching for her rolled-back eyes. The knife fell on the book, and we both struggled to grab it. In her scramble, she clenched the blade. It cut deep; her hand yielded an outpouring of crimson blood.

“No!” she screamed.

I grabbed the box, shielding it from Penny’s reach, and touched it to her wound as it bled.

“No!” she screamed again. “You’re ruining everything!

I hit her with a backhanded slap, followed it up with a kick to her gut, and turned, knocking over several candles; almost immediately, the room went up in a fiery blaze. I sped out the front door, gasping for breath. As I stood in front of her house, her shrieks and curses followed me like a chorus of banshees. The fire grew into hungry, devouring flames, its fiery tentacles grasping through the windows. I saw her darting from room to room and back with a bucket, but the flames only intensified. I stood staring, as the flames pierced her roof and the wailing music escaped. As the fire shifted color from orange and white to blue, violet, and green, my spirit shed and discarded Damnation’s sackcloth to emerge free.

Except the key-shaped scar at my bosom itched again. One lick of purple flame snaked out the door and reached for me. Petrified with terror, I couldn’t run, walk, crawl, or move at all. It grazed my chest where the key had marked me, and the skin began to heal, the itch subsiding.

The longer I stood gazing at the burning house, the more my woes lifted. Eventually, the sweltering heat pushed me back. I could no longer bear the rising temperature; I knew if I didn’t get away, it would prevail and swallow me. With a profound sense of calm, I dialed 911 while I started my car and told the operator the address of Penny’s burning home. The music and screams rose up to the clouds, sad, scared, and alone. I couldn’t get away from there fast enough.

I’d worked alongside Penny for over a year, and felt sickened. I couldn’t help but feel released from condemnation to hell as her burning house filled my rearview mirror. Without the slightest hesitation, I considered how to write the want ad for Penny’s replacement at the office. “Never take the key off, huh? Consign my soul to your ghost party, huh, bitch? Not part of your job description.”

The ride home, without dithering or wasting time making senseless U-turns, went faster than going to Penny’s. I pulled into my parking space and patted the roof of my car with satisfaction and gratitude. Cozying up to the fortress of home, I poured a glass of wine. With the mild intoxication warming my belly, I danced in my closet like it was a ballroom. In silence.

Mackenzie Littledale, represented by Serendipity Literary Agency, began writing her semi-autobiographical manuscript: This Darkness is Mine in 2017. A few of her short stories and other works are posted on Reedsy’s blog, Gestalt Media’s Short Story Contest (she won twice), Conscious Life Journal, the VSS365 Anthology, the Bipolar Battle blog, and TYWI Black Lives Matter journal. She is a class of 2019 PitchWars mentee. She lives in South Florida with her cat.  Both love Moscato and avoid the beach. She has bipolar; the cat does not. Mackenzie is on Twitter @MackenzieLitt13 and Facebook @MackenzieLittledaleWriter She also has a website www.MackenzieLittledaleAuthor.com

Below

Zach Friday

Deep in the woods of North Texas, a man walks alone through a graveyard. He is bathed in golden light from the evening sun sneaking rays through wispy clouds hugging the horizon, but a darkness hangs over his thoughts. He is contemplating life and death, his mind is jumbled and chaotic, and in his shrouded daze he is all but lost to the moment. He carries a special relic of life lost and turned to ash in one hand, and a shovel in the other. He is adrift in a world of pain and regret. The idea of hope is tenuous in his new reality, but one he holds on to desperately. He reaches a specific place under a large oak in the center of the peaceful resting place and sets about his task.

His shovel bites into soft dirt, severing roots and pulling up clumps of grass clinging to the spongy soil. He raises the shovel and plunges it back into the same spot, feels the handle reverberate and shake through his bones. He tosses the dirt over his shoulder; the sound of it landing on the unkempt lawn of the old boneyard makes a soft pitter-patter, a steady tempo to his deed. The cawing of a crow drifts from the shadowy woods, carried on a fresh breeze lofting dead leaves and the promise of a cold winter.

The breeze is cool, but his work is hard and as he sinks spade into earth, sweat builds on his brow and beneath his shirt. He breathes deeply the atmosphere of the place and enjoys the solitude of it. As he continues his unholy deed, a deer bursts from the tree line, startling him and pausing his work for a moment. He watches as it darts through the headstones, nimbly avoiding touching a one.

His thoughts turn to Katie. How she would have loved the old cemetery. The mystery and sadness of it woven so tightly with beauty and tranquility that the emotional rigmarole left a person exhausted from only having existed in the place. Upon his first step in the death-filled glade, he felt a sense of company and peace that eased him. Not comforting in and of itself, but comforting only because it was not being alone.

As he leans on the shaft of the shovel in a hole now swallowing him to his knees, his eyes catch the gold of the urn that sits at the rim of a growing mound of upturned soil. Letters engraved in silver display her name clearly and cut through the gold like his shovel in the soil. He thinks again how she would have loved this place, and he hopes perhaps she is loving it in some strange way as she sits there with him in her small tomb. He wonders if, in the world she has passed to, she can feel the wind upon them, or if even an ounce of her being exists within the ash lying still in the bottom of the golden urn proudly wearing her name.

“The soul still stirs,” the old woman said to him as he stood in the funeral parlor.

Her words had weighed on his mind since she had spoken them as she placed Katie’s urn in his hands. His brief relief of being done with such an act not allowed to linger as she put ideas in his head that ought not gestate in a grieving father’s mind. He stared at her then, dumbfounded, stricken with a small ember of hope that he was sure would never live again.

“There is a place where souls dance, let free of the void after the sun sets, but only for a price,” she said, and spun him an impossible tale about a place he knew well.

Wilson’s Cemetery—a small graveyard housing the rotted corpses of established families from the founding days of his small town. It is a place nearly forgotten in the new age that exists down a long dirt road that twists and turns through old oaks and ends in a glade growing wild as years slip away without a visitor. As a boy, he would sneak into the place with friends at night to scare one another. Under vivid stars they climbed trees, hid amongst the graves, and called to the moon like beasts of the night. The memories bring a smile to his face as he stands in the old boneyard again. He sets back to the task at hand and digs deeper into the sacred ground where the woman specifically instructed.

The hole sits in the center of the graveyard, not in front of a headstone or near any marker other than an old oak draped in Spanish Moss that hides him from the sun in its growing shadow. The work is slow, and when he rests, he caresses her urn. He runs his fingers along the silver letters of her name and feels his hope bolster, resurging with energy that slips from the urn and flows along his hand. When he is rested, he moves back into the middle of the hole, grasps his shovel, and plunges it into the dark earth. The deeper he goes, the easier the work becomes, as if his shovel is pulled down from below as he pushes from above.

As he works, he listens to birdsong ring out above him, occasionally joined by the rustling of leaves pulled nearly from their limbs by an early autumn breeze trying to strip them from their home. Katie loved autumn, and he thinks again how she would have loved this evening. His thoughts wander to the day she died. He tries to avoid it, but cannot, and it fills him with sadness. He remembers the way she skipped from the door and across the yard to join her friends and start for school. She was so excited to be walking to high school, so excited that she was growing up and moving on. He stood on the porch, coffee in hand, sipping slowly as it still nearly boiled in the cup, watching her hair bounce on her shoulders and across the new backpack she had picked out not a week before. He called after her to be careful. She called back that she would, that he shouldn’t worry. He tried to think of a witty response as the group she was running after crossed the road. He cannot remember what he said that caused her to spin in the street and look back at him with a smirk on her face just as the truck ignored the stop sign and came barreling around the corner.

He inhales deeply in his hole, looks up to an indigo sky now streaked with lines of red and yellow as the sun kisses the horizon and sends fiery tendrils cascading through the hills. He quickens his pace and digs in ground that seems to have been disturbed many times before him as it falls away easily from the more compact dirt around him. By the time the sky is awash with brilliant reds and pinks above him and the last rays of light prance through the trees, he begins to see the shape of a door appear in the hole’s wall facing the rising moon. As the sunset gives way to rich twilight, he brushes the loose dirt from the door materializing, seemingly from nowhere. It is framed by ornate stone rising to a neat point and constructed with a wonderfully bright wood that seems to emit light from within its tight grain and tighter knots. It looks ancient and brand new at the same time, and the appearance of it fills his chest with anxiety.

He raises his hand tentatively, unsure if knocking is the right decision, wondering if he even wants to find what dwells behind. His brief hesitation is insignificant to the door and as his balled fist readies itself to rap, he hears a heavy latch sliding into place on the other side. The door swings in towards the ground, granting him entry to whatever lie below.

A cold wind blows from the depths behind the door, tugs at his sweaty hair and raises gooseflesh along his arms. He reaches up to the top of the hole, grasps Katie’s urn, and pulls it close to his side as he crosses the threshold into the darkness ahead. He waits just on the other side of the door, unsure of where to go next, his mind frantically telling him he should not be in this place at all.

Just as he is about to turn back, light springs to life in front of him. Torches crackle, then jump with blue flames and illuminate a path twisting into the darkness. He steps forward on the stone floor and can feel the chill of it even through his shoes. He moves past the first set of torches and glances back toward the graveyard. The ancient door, a gaping maw, still stands open. Beyond it, his shovel lies against the far wall of the newly dug hole in the cemetery. He turns around and peers back down the path stretching in front of him. Placing one foot in front of the other, he cautiously descends into whatever this place is.

He walks forward for a time. The exact length of his descending trudge, he cannot say, as time seems to have no meaning in the place below the dead. At the end of his timeless hike, he arrives in a chamber, with torches gathered neatly around a pedestal in the center. He thinks the pedestal looks unholy. It reminds him of volcanic glass, rising from the stone floor like a cradle. The circle of torches ringing the pedestal is not the end of the chamber and as he peers past the flames, he cannot see an end to it in any direction other than the way behind from which he came. In the darkness, it looks like endless space surrounds him, a void interrupted only by blue light cast from the fluttering torches that call him forward.

In the eerie silence of the abyss surrounding him, he feels overwhelmed by loneliness. No sound seems to exist in this place, and as he walks to the pedestal, the sound of his footfalls dissipates immediately, leaving only a small and fleeting thud to announce his approach. He reaches the pedestal and looks past the torches surrounding it to see if he can make out any end to the chamber, but he sees nothing. It is like looking into the void of the deepest night with not a star in sight. Somewhere deep in the darkness, his eyes tell him something is stirring, but he is not sure it is anything more than his mind playing tricks.

He observes the pedestal for a long moment, caresses the edge with his free hand, and feels warmth spill from the black glass. He pulls his hand away as the pedestal seems to inch closer somehow, begging for him to reach for it again. He wonders again what on Earth he has stumbled into. Fear should be welling in his stomach, creeping up his throat and spilling from him. He should scream, cry, and sprint from the emptiness in front of him, but those feelings are locked away deep in his mind, held at bay by a calmness he cannot understand. He feels well, alive, and satiated with a love for everything that has been and everything that will be.

He looks down to the hand that holds Katie’s urn tight against his side. The gold looks beautiful in the torches soft blue glow and the silver letters of her name almost look to be dancing along the rim. He lifts her urn towards the pedestal, and he thinks the pedestal reaches for it gladly. As he sets it on the smooth, dark face of the pedestal, jets of red and white streak from the bottom of the urn and flow through the stem of the pedestal where they flash and swirl before disappearing beneath him. He steps back in awe.

The void surrounding him blinks into being and floods with a cosmic glow. There are no boundaries in sight, and he feels as if he is standing in the middle of a clear night sky. Orbs of light float all around him, spinning and colliding as they intermingle through clouds of orange, purple, and red that drift lazily through the darkness, slowly winning out and lighting the chamber. The ethereal existence around him begins to take shape and as he looks past the ring of torches, he sees a form he knows all too well appearing before him. Transparent like a mirage, it is Katie standing there looking back at him, dressed like she was on her last day alive when she skipped across the lawn. She has a curious expression and responds to something he didn’t say. He realizes she is talking past him, not to him. He looks over his shoulder and sees a transparent version of himself, not sweaty and covered in grime as he is now, but dressed smartly for work as he was on her last morning.

Katie turns to rush across a ghostly street appearing before his eyes. Tears stream down his cheeks as he realizes what he is about to watch for the second time. He cups his hands around his mouth and screams out to Katie to stop. Just as he thinks it is to no avail, she does. The scene does not play out the way he remembers. The truck careens around the corner, not slowing at all for the crosswalk, blows through the stop sign, and flies down the road—but Katie is not there this time. He cannot be sure, but he thinks, and somewhere deep down he knows. It was his shout in the void that stopped her. His voice below that saved her in the scene before him. She is standing just at the edge of the road, her hand held over her mouth as his own ethereal form rushes from where it was standing behind his true self to pick her up and hug her tightly. He watches himself set Katie back down, kiss her on the forehead, grab her hand, and walk with her across the street toward the school.

He cannot keep back the flow of tears as he watches the image dissipate back into the colorful void, and a new image takes its place.

Katie, in her spectral form—now a few years older, bearing a perfect likeness to her mother—stands at a podium on stage in her high school gymnasium. Her graduation cap is tilted to one side as she leans into the mic, delivering a passionate speech about how hard work put her where she is today as valedictorian. Her speech wraps up as she makes a point that she could not have done it without the love and support of her father. She points over the crowd of graduates in front of her, and he feels the love through the strange, spectral show. The scene evaporates before him as another takes shape. This time, it is the translucent version of him standing over his Katie, now a grown woman in a hospital bed looking down into a tiny bundle of blankets. They are both smiling as soft cries float through the void. As he watches Katie’s life unfold before his eyes in this strange place, his real tears cascade to the stone floor.

The scenes continue, each more loving and beautiful than the last: family Christmases, Thanksgivings, and vacations all play out in front of him. The greatest hits of his wonderful little girl’s life until finally, they end. A scene emerges, similar in setting to the one he watched of his first grandchild’s birth except this time, it is his own ethereal form in the hospital bed. Katie is crying as she leans over him, telling the visage of him to let go if it is his time, and that he has been the best father anyone could ever have. He watches, dismayed—not because he is seeing himself die but because he knows that with his passing, he will no longer see her life play out, and the thought is dreadfully hard to bear. The scene begins to dissolve before him and he reaches out toward the darkness, begging that he be allowed to see just a little more. He offers anything and everything to the pressing darkness, if only he can see a little more.

He waits for an answer, and when there is none, he turns toward the urn on the pedestal and sees something truly damned. A thing—a true horror—hobbles from the darkness of the lonely void. It is impossible to explain what it is. It is everything and nothing, a turbulent entity without features to identify it, clawing its way forward from the abyss. It has no face nor any eyes, yet as he peers into what should be a face, he feels it staring down on him. The surface of it moves constantly in chaotic pulses. When the thing moves through the darkness, it is too fast for him to see it clearly, and when it stands still, it nearly disappears from his vision all at once. He watches as the thing blinks in and out of existence, making its way towards the pedestal holding Katie’s urn. He moves towards the urn to take it instead, and the damned thing moves faster until they are each on opposite sides of the pedestal. Its eyeless gaze falls upon him then. Deformed and twisted in stature, the unholy thing reaches for him and he sees clearly a vivid and visceral visage of villainy. He jumps back as a fear that had been quelled in him this entire experience surges forward all at once.

He realizes the thing is not reaching for him and instead it grasps Katie’s urn, and pulls it back into the darkness beyond the soft blue glow of the flickering torches. As the thing skulks back into the dark, he realizes the scene behind him has all but gone away and a new one is taking its place. It is similar to the last, and he sees himself laid up in a hospital bed, but there is no Katie there to comfort him—there is no one there to hear the solid beep of his monitor as he flatlines and passes. Scenes play out just like before, except they are all lacking Katie. There are no cheerful family dinners or vacations, no beautiful holidays with him surrounded by grandchildren. Instead, they are him drinking alone, a frozen TV dinner in a darkened room, curled up on a couch surrounded by trash in a dingy apartment. They are scenes of him staring into a crowded park as he sits alone on a bench and weeps as what would have been Katie’s graduating class spills out of the high school auditorium.

Finally, back to where it all started, he sees Katie standing in front of him, her new backpack bouncing on her back as she jogs across the street. He calls out to her again, yells at the top of his lungs, trying to reach her. He turns to see his translucent self in the scene standing there with his coffee, trying to think of a witty response, then open his mouth and call out to her just in time for her to stop in the crosswalk and look back as the truck barrels around the corner, flies through the stop sign, slams on its brakes to no avail, and sends Katie’s small frame flying through the air and bouncing down the ghostly asphalt. He sees her friends across the street screaming and pointing. He watches himself drop the mug of coffee, sees it shatter across the porch. He feels the pain and soul-crushing loss overwhelm him again as he watches the scene play out, knowing the ending of this one. He turns back towards the pedestal. Katie’s urn is still gone, and tears stream down his face. He can just make out blue light bouncing off the golden urn deep in the void, held by the twisted and demented thing that stole it.

A chain extends from Katie’s small leg, twisted and disfigured from the accident in the scene, as he watches himself and her friends swarming over her. The glowing chain snakes from her, through the cosmic darkness, reaching further until it flows into the top of the urn still held by that hell spawn, casting just enough faint light that the horrific nature of the thing creeps through the abyss one last time.

The farthest torches in the circle around the pedestal extinguish first, and the darkness gladly swallows its domain again. More torches follow shortly after, and the void expands around him. He screams for Katie with all his might, and watches as the glowing chain wrapped around her ankle begins to tug toward the darkness. He steps forward, but everything stops him all at once, like an invisible wall. The hellish thing in the darkness emits an unearthly sound, and he feels its presence expand through the darkness, swallowing him.

Knowing that to continue is futile, he turns and sprints up the path leading him from the hellish place. He can feel the light disappear and the emptiness reach out behind him as he does. He sees the door in front of him, still wide open, his shovel leaning against the opposite side of the hole, and he dashes for it. The torches extinguish behind him in rapid succession as terror grows in his chest. He pushes forward, flying from the path leading up from below and into the crisp autumn evening. He looks up and sees that twilight is still cast over the boneyard. The moon is still climbing towards the heavens to perch in the sky. He thinks he must not have been down there for more than five minutes, even though it is impossible.

He relives the haunting experience, thinking of the terror that had taken Katie’s urn from the pedestal and used that glowing chain to yank her into the unknown. Horrible guilt claws at his heart as he realizes he left his daughter, the only piece remaining of his daughter, in the possession of that thing that lives below. He turns back towards the door, full of a new bravado to confront the thing that hobbled from the void. Whatever might happen to him, he knows he must reach the urn again. As he spins on his heels to descend again into that pit, he sees that there is no door at all. Only a dirt wall stands in front of him.

He throws his hands to it, running them over the compacted ground before him. He calls out to Katie, screams into the dirt for her. His mouth is pressed against the cool ground and small grains of dirt fall onto his tongue. He wants to tell her he loves her, if nothing else. He screams and yells and bangs his balled fists against the dirt until his throat aches, not knowing if his words can penetrate the gateway again. And when exhaustion is about to overtake him and he hasn’t the energy to yell anymore, he stops and listens. He feels that he can just hear a faint scream from somewhere deep beneath him.

He pulls himself from the grave, for he realizes now what it truly is, dragging his shovel up with him. He tosses it beside the hill of fresh dirt at the edge of the hole. He crawls to the tree nearby and rests against it. There is no wind now, no birdsong, no animals scurrying about. The graveyard is silent as the moon rises and night overtakes the world. He is sure the door will appear again and he will have his chance to save Katie. He watches, for what must be half the night, where the door should be. Looking up at the starry sky sends shivers down his spine. He watches the cosmos spin around him, and he expects to see another scene of Katie, but none appear to him. As he switches his gaze from the grave to the heavens, waiting for any sign of redemption, he eventually falls asleep.

He awakes to birdsong first, clear in the brisk morning, followed by the gentle kiss of the sun rising behind him. It rests on his shoulders and neck, warming them and telling him a new day has begun. He looks in front of him to examine the hole, but it is gone. The shovel still lies on the ground, but there is no hill of dirt. The grass is undisturbed. As he rubs the sleep from his eyes, he can see no signs that any hole had ever existed there. He sighs with relief, thinking it was all only a dream, but the relief is short-lived. He looks for Katie’s urn, and when he cannot find it where he is sure it should be, he begins to search madly. He does not see it because it is nowhere to be seen. It is somewhere far below him, hidden from him forevermore, and somewhere deep down inside, he knows this.

* * *

Even as the man grows older, the memories of that night stay as vibrant as ever, and he often debates himself endlessly about what truly happened that night. There are days where he nearly goes mad searching the house for her urn, tearing walls down to the studs and floorboards up by the foot, knowing that it must just be misplaced—that his fever dream in the cemetery was nothing more than that. But he always ends up back at the graveyard, sitting under the same large oak, knowing it is as close as he will ever come to seeing her again. He knows he saw moments of her life that night which should have been locked away from him forever, and he wonders what price he truly paid to see such things. He wonders if he will think it was worth it in the end. He hopes to see her again one day in the heavens when he passes, but in his soul, he knows that unless he goes below, he surely never will.

Zach Friday lives in North Texas where he writes and works as an editor among other odd jobs. He spends most of his time reading and writing horror stories or hanging out with his dog, Bosco. The easiest way to keep up with his work is to visit @ZachAFriday on Twitter.

Widow’s Walk

C.M. Harris

A pulse flowed through Widow's body, awakening her from her deathly slumber. She stood and looked around. The other marionettes were still at rest. Even Twist was silent, though his body kept shifting and re-configuring. She stretched her arms and her spider’s legs. The pulse flowed again; this time it brought knowledge. The Caretaker had checked someone in. No information on who, only where: Room 532. Widow was curious why she was the only one awakened. Normally, the Folsom would awaken two, possibly more depending on who it was.

Her curiosity piqued, she went to the vent and climbed in.

The sounds of the Inn assaulted her, amplified by the ventilation shafts. She hated this. She could remember some of her human life—the good and the bad—and none of those memories involved sneaking through the ducts in an old inn. She tried to avoid the memories and focused on getting to her victim.

As she drew close to the room, she heard a voice that stopped her in her tracks; a voice she'd never thought she would hear again. Her spider’s legs shivered with her rage. Thought fled as she raced forward. The grille gave her pause enough to collect herself. She needed to be smart about this.

Widow looked through the grate and saw the occupant. He was on a phone, though she couldn't tell with whom. She glanced over to the small table by the bed and saw his badge and gun. From the looks of things, he'd been promoted to detective. She screamed her rage into the aether.

* * *

Amanda tumbled from her chair. As a child of the Folsom, she was intimately connected to it. She covered her ears, though she knew it would do no good. Widow's scream was psychic. No one but Amanda could hear it — no human, at least. The scream echoed through the Inn, terrifying the rats that made their homes in the forgotten places and awakening the other marionettes. It awakened something else, as well. Something dark, something cruel. Amanda ran from the office, hoping to reach Widow in time, but just as she dashed through the door, the elevator dinged. Amanda slowly backed away. The others would have to help Widow. There was nothing she could do.

* * *

The other marionettes stirred, awakened by Widow's primal scream. They could feel the anger, the hatred in her—and something else: a darker force stirring. Something that even the bravest of them dreaded. Oni was the first to the vents, followed closely by the others. All except for Twist. He clutched his head and shifted, twisted, and changed in a frenzy. Though the others didn't see it, he glared through the voices—hatred for them, hatred for the marionettes, and hatred for the Caretaker.

* * *

Widow pushed at the grate, but it wouldn't budge. Even with all of her arms, she couldn't move it. Fury flowed through her. If she'd had a heart, it would have beaten out of her chest. She glared at the man standing there until he dropped his phone and grabbed his gun, placing it against his temple.

"No!" she cried out, knowing he would never hear her. But something did. A low snarl answered. She looked around in a panic—she had to find a way out of there. He belonged to her! Not to whatever had come.

Black mist formed in the corner of the room, flowing upwards from the floor, writhing and boiling like water. It rose up and up, before beginning to take shape.

With a low chuckle, the Puppet Master greeted her. "What was once mine, you took from me. Now your sweet vengeance, I steal. Shall I make the puppet dance? Shall I make him pull the trigger?"

Widow reached out a tiny hand, imploring the ancient spirit to release the man.

The Puppet Master bowed and tipped his top hat to her, then twitched his skeletal finger. The officer blew his brains out.

Widow slumped. Her only chance at revenge—gone.

The Puppet Master laughed. "Little one, I've stolen from you your salvation, and now it is time for me to take your life, such as it is." Menace dripped from his voice. He collapsed into black smoke and oozed across the floor, then gathered up his mass and reformed in front of the vent. Widow scuttled backwards.

The Puppet Master jammed his bony fingers through the iron grille and pulled. It came off the wall with hardly any effort.

The sound of wood sliding against wood caught Widow's attention. She glanced behind the Puppet Master and saw the open window. A clatter in the ventilation shaft told her the others were on their way. Relief flooded over her—at least she wouldn't be alone when it came time to fight.

The Puppet Master grabbed her in his long hand, squeezing hard enough to snap one of her spider’s legs. She screamed silently and stabbed him with the razor-sharp tips of the other three.

With a curse, the Puppet Master threw her away from him, through the open window. Widow could see his blazing eyes widen as she flew outside. She quickly lost sight of him; a strange calm fell over her as the rooftop grew more distant. She could finally be free. She slammed into the pavement, and then she saw only darkness.

* * *

Widow awoke to a strange beeping sound. As she became more conscious, pain flooded her body.

"Jesus!" she swore. The sound of her own voice, so foreign to her, echoed in her ears. She opened her eyes and looked around, taking in her surroundings. Everything looked so small. Maybe this was a dollhouse? She couldn't remember any dollhouse in the Folsom. She reached out to touch the beeping machine next to her and screamed when she saw her hand. Flesh and blood. She touched her face, her neck; everything was real. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, her lungs drawing air, fluids pumping around her body from the IV drips plugged into her. And she felt... Hunger! She didn't much care for the hunger, but the rest was glorious.

She took a second to calm down. This had to be a trick of the Folsom, or perhaps the Puppet Master, or one of the other ghosts. She closed her eyes and listened. It was eerily quiet. She'd been so used to the constant noise of the dead. She cleared her thoughts and focused. Two voices outside the door. One was familiar, though she couldn't place it.

The door opened, and a cop walked in. Widow knew exactly who he was. He walked over to the bed and glared down at her.

"I don't know how you did it, but I'm gonna take care of you now," he said, a smile slowly crawling across his face.

Widow lunged, but felt herself jolted backwards by cold, sharp chains: the IV tubes attached to her body kept her from reaching him. She tried to use her spider's legs, which only resulted in her thrashing around with two clumsy, human legs now that she was no longer in her spider form.

The cop took the pillow out from under her head and placed it firmly over her face. She couldn't breathe. She'd forgotten how deep the burning in her lungs would be. She lashed out, grabbing hold of something fleshy, and dug in, yanking back at the same time. The pressure released, and the pillow dropped away.

The cop was holding his neck, a look of surprise, anger, and terror crossing his features. Widow grinned as she pulled out the IVs.

"You helped kill me, you feckless ass. You deserve exactly what you're getting." She smiled as she spoke, watching the blood flow from beneath his hand.

The cop fell to the floor, trying desperately to reach out, clawing for help. Widow walked past him to the window and threw it open. She crouched on the windowsill and waited for him to die.

The door to the room slammed open. A doctor and a detective rushed in; the doctor scrambled to the cop, immediately putting pressure on his wound, while the detective drew his gun.

"Don't fucking move, lady!" he barked.

"I've no quarrel with you. You are innocent. Let me finish what I started, and I will be gone." Widow looked back to the cop, whose thrashing was getting weaker.

His hand moved; she glanced at the motion, and the bright flash of his gun going off surprised her. As did the burning agony in her shoulder. She looked down to see the spreading red stain.

"Oh, fuck me!" she swore. Then she passed out.

* * *

Widow awoke in the same hospital; it wasn’t a dream. Her shoulder burned, her mind was numb, and her wrists were shackled to the bed. The detective was standing over her with a grim look on his face.

"Welcome back."

"What happened?" Widow asked, trying to clear her foggy mind.

"You got yourself into some hot water. I did a little digging, Malory. And curious thing, your records all indicate you're dead. Care to explain that?" The detective’s frown deepened.

It shocked Widow to hear her name aloud—she'd almost forgotten it; it had been so long. She glanced at the detective’s name badge. It read Gillman. She cocked an eyebrow; he didn't look like a Gillman.

Widow twitched her shoulder as she felt something crawling across it. Restrained as she was, she couldn't lift her hands to swat at it. With a mischievous grin, she looked at Detective Gillman.

"Do you usually like your women tied up?" she asked, then laughed as he turned beet-red.

"Please, just answer the question.”

She felt she could trust him—wanted to, even. But he would never believe. "I wish I could," she said.

"Why can't you?" he asked.

A strange look came over his face. Widow cocked her head a bit; whatever had been crawling on her shoulder made its way down her arm. She didn't bother to look at it; she was watching the detective, who had frozen up completely. Whispered voices began to creep into her ears. She might not have known who or why, but she knew what: a spirit had come in, and captured the detective in its grip.

A snarl crossed Gillman's face. "Why can't I touch you, little puppet?"

Widow's heart raced. This wasn't possible. He shouldn't have been able to leave!

"I've twisted and turned and made those who got in my way dance and play for me. Yet, you. You! I can’t use you. You escaped me once. I denied you your revenge. You'll not escape again." He opened his mouth wide, wider still, until the corners split from ear to ear. Then he stuck a finger in his mouth, biting down just hard enough to take the skin off the tip, exposing the sharp bone beneath. He repeated the process for every finger. And then he laughed.

"That's just gross," Widow said.

"Little puppet who doesn't dance, do you not fear the one who holds the strings?" the Puppet Master said. He snarled, moving across the floor with a speed that Widow would not have thought possible.

"There ain't no strings on me, bitch!" Widow snarled right back at the gruesome figure. A small click sounded to her left side, and she felt the cuff loosen. Then something managed to find the open back of her hospital gown and crawled across her belly. She pretended she was still cuffed on that side and let the Puppet Master continue to speak. His love for the sound of his own voice was always one of his biggest downfalls.

"Clever little one, but where are your friends? All alone in the world, alive after so long, and bound here." He ran one of his bloody fingers down the front of her gown, ripping the thin fabric.

She felt, more than heard, the click of the other handcuff. Finally free, she jumped away from him. Every muscle burned with the exertion. She groaned; as good as it was to be alive again, she would have given her left hand to have the agility of her marionette form.

She grabbed the IV stand that had held the fluids being pumped into her and threw it straight through the window. An alarm sounded; seconds later, two guards burst into the room.

She made her way out of the window and onto the ledge, just as the screaming began.

* * *

She'd climbed out on the ledge without a thought. Now that she was out there, though, things were different. She would almost have rather been inside with the Puppet Master. She looked down at the tiny cars below; she had to be at least eight stories high. Her heart raced, her breath quickened, and she grew cold. Though the last was because of the open front of the now-useless gown. She was going to have to find a change of clothes, and quickly. She may have been proud of her body, but she didn't need every jackass on the street staring at her. Plus, her ass was hanging out the back and an icy breeze was hammering at it. She gave a frustrated sigh, gathered up her courage, and inched along the ledge.

Widow had hardly made it three feet when the possessed corpse of Detective Gillman leaned out of the window.

"Little Puppet, come in and play. We have so many games." Bloody drool streamed from his mouth.

"Go fuck yourself!" she screamed, inching further away.

He grinned, reaching towards her. She could hear the snapping of bones and ligaments as his arm stretched out further than was naturally possible.

She kept scrambling away from him, and then something caught her attention: something small and black, with a red hourglass on it. She glanced at the Puppet Master’s arm, and then at the little spider: it was one of hers. Its little wooden body scuttled towards the open window. She tried to grab for it, but it jumped right onto the Puppet Master’s grotesquely outstretched arm. Her shoulders slumped a little. They may not have been particularly bright, but the little wooden spiders were useful.

And this one, apparently, was no exception. It quickly wrapped its strands around the Puppet Master’s appendage; once, twice, three times, before jumping once more at the wall. With tiny legs, it rapidly drew in the slack, slamming the entrapped arm against the wall. Then it crawled back to her, and back behind her head, under her hair. If she'd not seen it, she wouldn't even know the spider was there.

The Puppet Master roared in outrage. Feeling better than she had since this had begun, she stuck her tongue out and flipped him off before scooting further away.

"I will rip the tongue from your head. I will break you in every way. You will be my puppet, and you will dance for me, little spider!"

She shuddered at the pure hatred in his voice. Once she had her vengeance, she would worry about disposing of him. If she even could. Until then, though, she had other prey waiting for her. They just didn't know it yet.

* * *

Widow made her way to the window next to hers and managed to get it open. Quietly, she slid into the room. Looking around carefully to make sure she wasn't seen, she glanced at the bed and noticed a woman, about her size, with wires and tubes running out of her. She felt a moment of pity, but she wouldn't let that stop her. She found the woman’s clothing in a cupboard and stripped out of her useless gown. She slipped the jeans on; a little snug, but not uncomfortable. The t-shirt fit like a glove, but unfortunately the bra was three sizes too big. She looked back at the woman in the bed.

"Your poor back!" she said.

Once she'd tied the sneakers, she opened the door to the room and looked out, glancing to the left and right. Near her room were ten cops and three security guards. She grimaced in frustration as she carefully closed the door, then looked back at the window. This would not be fun.

She stepped back out onto the ledge and made her way to a pipe that extended down most of the building. With a quick prayer, she grabbed hold and climbed down. As she descended, the pipe shook and groaned. She cursed under her breath several times, but her makeshift ladder held firm—until she reached the third floor. With a loud shriek, it tore from the wall, sending her plummeting two stories down. She held on for dear life, hoping she'd survive the fall. With a swift jerk, the pipe stopped, and Widow barely kept her grip on it.

"Well, that's one way to do it," she quipped. "This is gonna bloody hurt."

Widow let go of the pipe and plunged ten feet to the ground. Her ankle curled under her, the bone snapping like a wet branch.

"Fuck!" she yelled.

A large crow landed in front of her and started cawing—to her ears, it almost sounded like laughter.

"You think this is funny, do you? Shoo, pest. Begone! Go back to the skies!" She waved the crow away, and it flew off a short distance. "Best I'm gonna get, I guess."

She tried to stand, but a searing pain sent her straight back to the ground. Crying out, she clutched her ankle. Rubbing her ankle, she whimpered softly, hating herself for being so pitiful. It hurt, and it had been a long time since she'd felt anything like this pain.

Widow looked up and down the street. It was empty except for the crow and a man walking down the sidewalk, swinging a cane in front of him. Widow guessed he was blind. Good: that meant he wouldn't see her in her moment of weakness.

He came closer, walking casually, looking to the sky. She remained silent.

"I can hear you breathing, you know," the stranger said.

"Bugger," Widow cursed.

"It's not a big deal. You may not have noticed, but I'm blind." He cracked a smile.

"Don't suppose you could help me up?" Widow asked.

"Sure. Just grab my hand and I'll be happy to." He stuck his hand out, almost poking Widow in the eye.

She jerked back. "Watch it—er, sorry."

She grabbed his hand with hers. The stranger froze for a second, then jerked his hand back and hissed like he'd been burned.

"What?" Widow asked.

He regained his composure. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting an Other."

"Other?" Widow asked, thoroughly confused. The pain was causing her patience to wane.

"I'll explain later," he said. He cocked his head to the side. "Your friend is on his way, and we should be out of here before he arrives."

"I'm not going anywhere until I at least know your name," Widow snapped.

"Fine. I'm David. Now, if you'll take my hand and get up off your ass, we can get out of here before your friend shows up."

* * *

David led Widow through the streets. He seemed to know each step by heart. She was amazed at his ability to navigate without sight.

She looked behind her, glaring at the shadows as if each one concealed a threat. Her experiences over the years had shown her that danger was exactly what they held. But she needed to remember she was outside now, not in the Folsom.

"I didn't think an Other could get scared," David said as he helped her along.

"Scared? I'm not scared," Widow responded.

"Your heart is racing, your skin is clammy, and your thoughts are practically screaming out at me." David didn't falter as he spoke.

"You can read my mind?" she asked.

"Only when I'm touching you," David said. "And only your surface thoughts, nothing deeper."

"Bloody wonderful," she groused.

"I'll be happy to tell you more once we are safe. Now move!" He pulled Widow along, moving faster than she would have thought possible.

They rushed down several streets, with David occasionally stopping and turning his head to listen. Widow kept her mouth shut. This was strange, even for her. They turned down another street, and she stopped dead in her tracks. Less than a hundred feet from her stood the Folsom. She sucked in her breath and held it. No way did she want to go back. Who knew what would happen?

“Don't worry,” David said. "She doesn't want you yet."

"That's comforting," Widow said.

They raced past the building; Widow's heart stuttered as the fear of her hell overtook her. She froze. No matter how badly she wanted to get away, she couldn't move. A tear leaked from her eye, and she hated her weakness.

The doors to the Folsom slammed open and a familiar voice called out, breaking the spell of fear.

"Widow?" Amanda yelled as she raced towards the pair.

Widow looked back, a pained smile on her face. "It's good to see you again."

She tried to turn but the agony of bone grating and grinding against bone nearly caused her to black out. David propped her up as she slumped, keeping her from further injuring herself.

David cocked his head. "We need to get her someplace safe."

"She can't go into the Folsom. She'd be a sitting duck in her current condition," Amanda said. She looked over her shoulder, the blood draining from her already pale features. "Wherever you plan on taking her, we need to move, quick. He's coming."

"Grab her other shoulder. With the two of us, we might make it to safety in time," David said.

Amanda grabbed Widow under her other shoulder, and the three of them hurried down the street.

It took about five minutes more to make it to David's apartment. Once inside, he laid her down on the bed. Widow had just enough time to see the materializing spirit before passing out.

* * *

Widow's eyelids fluttered open. She licked her lips with a dry tongue and tried to sit up. An icy hand rested on her shoulder and held her down. As weak as she was, it didn't take much effort.

"Please be still, milady." The voice was rich, soothing, and held an otherworldly echo.

Widow's eyes shot back open. Holding her down was a spirit: a young man, who must have been in his early twenties when he died. He had long, brownish-red hair, soft gray eyes, and stubble along his jawline. She took in his clothing and figured he had to be at least two hundred years old. She glanced around the room and noticed David watching them.

"Let go of me, ya ghastly bastard!" She screamed, or tried to, but her voice was barely more than a whisper.

The spirit bowed and stepped away. Widow let out the breath she'd been holding. "Where the hell am I?" she asked David.

"You're in my apartment. It was the only safe place I could think of while you were injured." He looked back to the spirit with a warm glance that told Widow more than any words he could have spoken.

Though she wouldn’t admit it, Widow felt more at ease knowing that David trusted this spirit.

She looked at him again, noting the slightly hurt look on his face.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He bowed as he introduced himself. "My name is Levi De'Moinior. 'Tis a pleasure."

David walked over and placed a gentle kiss on the specter’s cheek.

"Ah," Widow sighed. "Love. Been so long since I've seen it. We dealt with lovers at the Folsom, but there was always a darkness to it. Something corrupt." She almost felt sad saying it, as if this example of pure and simple love was unique in a world filled with darkness.

David went over to the bed and helped Widow to sit up. "You've been out of it for a while. Might want to take it easy for the next couple of days."

"How long is a while?" She asked.

"Six weeks." David replied.

She jolted forwards, struggling to throw herself out of the bed. "Six weeks? Might as well be six years with him still out there! He's going to take my only chance for closure!"

"I'm afraid it may be too late for that," David said.

Tears sprung to Widow's eyes as her rage boiled over. She rolled to the side and fell to the floor with a resounding thud, smacking her head, hard. With the distant memories of her family, being brutally tortured and murdered before her eyes, fueling her anger, she found her way to her feet. "If I can't get revenge on the bastards that killed my family, I will at least have my revenge by destroying him." Her voice was deadly calm.

Levi looked concerned, but he also looked like he agreed with her. "I missed my chance to avenge my own death, so we will help you achieve yours. But I must insist you wait a couple of days and build up your strength."

A tapping at the window distracted Widow. A large black raven was watching her with its head cocked to the side.

"Damn bird showed up almost as soon as we brought you here," David said.

"Hush, my love. You don't actually believe that to be coincidence, do you?" Levi said to David.

"Coincidence or not, it has been tapping on the window almost constantly. And unlike you, I need my sleep." David smiled. If this was the closest these two got to a fight, it wouldn't be surprising.

Levi turned his attention back to Widow. "For now, please rest. There will be time enough for vengeance after you have recovered. As is, you're lucky you are an Other. Gave you a bit of a boost in healing."

"Fine." Widow crossed her arms and pouted. But her mind was whirling like a tornado as she thought of her husband and children, never to be avenged. At least the corrupt bastards who'd done this to them were dead and hopefully burning in hell. The raven tapped three times on the window, startling Widow out of her thoughts.

"Bloody bird," she said. She looked directly in its eyes and pulled back. It was as if those small black orbs held the deepest secrets of the universe.

She looked away and glared at the loving couple before her. Inside, though, she smiled. Such tenderness. Though it made her sad to think she'd never know that kind of love again, she was happy for them.

"I'll wait. Only two days, mind you, but I will wait."

* * *

Two days passed in the blink of an eye. In that time, she’d come to know David and Levi pretty well, just as much as they did her. David was a warrior in his own way, battling the dark forces that surrounded them all. It also turned out he was well aware of the Folsom and her influence on the world. It went so much further than Widow had imagined. Despite all the disappearances, she never made headlines. Widow didn't know why that was, but she'd long ago learned to never question the Inn’s decisions.

David had shared stories of his own adventures, as well as telling of a nearby town plagued by ghosts and zombies, though Widow found that last part hard to believe. Levi shared his own stories of his time on the other side of the veil. Widow had been drawn into the tales. Such wonders and horrors lay on the other side. She wondered if she'd ever get to see it.

Now, though, the time had come to face the Puppet Master. David had renewed the sigils that kept his apartment safe and placed a peculiar amulet, shaped like a small dragon with a potbelly, around his neck. Levi regretted that he could not go—but as a spirit, he was the most vulnerable of them all.

Widow hugged him, kissed him on the cheek, and said her goodbyes. Her gut told her that this was the last time she'd see him.

David opened the door and walked out with Widow not far behind. As they left the apartment building, she glanced back and saw Levi looking down forlornly. He gave her a sad smile and vanished.

Widow took a deep breath and walked down the street, looking for a place for her final confrontation. A place that the living wouldn't frequent, and that the dead avoided.

They'd made it two blocks down when a sneering voice whispered in the darkness. "Hello, little puppet."

"Come out, coward!" she yelled.

"Oh, so sad. That which you most desired, I have taken. That which you craved; I have destroyed! Give in, puppet. Die for me!" Black smoke poured from the shadows, slowly forming into the tall, decayed, nightmarish form of the Puppet Master.

"You may have taken from me my vengeance, but what I cherished was long ago lost. Now, I will send you to hell!" she yelled, and launched herself at the grim form before her. He smacked her aside as if she were a gnat.

"Oh, good. You've brought me a toy." The Puppet Master turned his attention to David and reached out. His hand sizzled as he came into contact with David's flesh.

"Such trickery! But I have other ways to play." He wagged his fingers and a young man—no more than seventeen—staggered from the shadows with a look of terror on his face. "I may not be able to touch you, but he can. Now dance, my little puppet. Give us a show—a dance of pain, a dance of death!" With a high-pitched cackle, he pointed towards David.

The young man sobbed as he lurched towards David, terror turning his cheeks blood red. David turned towards him, brandishing his cane like a sword as the teen jolted into him. The two fell to the ground and the sobbing man wrapped his hands around David's throat. Widow bolted towards them and pulled David’s assailant off him.

"Run, David. Leave me to my doom," she said, flashing a sad smile he couldn’t see as he reached out his hand. She helped him up and pushed him away; he retreated a few steps, but refused to leave.

Widow turned her attention to the boy; he had clambered back to his feet and, still sobbing, jolted towards David again. She sighed and turned her attention back to the Puppet Master.

With dead eyes, he glared at her. This time, she approached more cautiously—ready to duck if he swung at her again. But the loud gunshot-like snap of bone turned her around. The teen was right behind her. He rammed the jagged shard of bone from where his lower arm had been into her stomach. A look of surprise passed over her features as she sank to the ground. Her would-be murderer screamed as the Puppet Master lost his control. Widow could feel warm blood traveling up her throat. She gagged and a crimson torrent gushed from her mouth.

Her life flowing from her, she collapsed onto her side. She could hear the laughter of the Puppet Master behind her, though his voice faded as another grew in volume.

"Would you have your revenge, my child?" the voice asked. Widow blinked. Standing in front of her was the raven. It cocked its head to the side as the voice came again. "Would you have your vengeance?"

As weak as a newborn, Widow laughed, "Yes. Oh, God, yes!" The Raven nodded and flew into the sky with a raucous cry.

Widow closed her eyes and prepared to die as the Puppet Master’s voice once more filled her ears.

"Time to go, little puppet. I'll send you down to hell, and this time I'll be done with you."

A tear fell from her eye and hit the pavement. She would be damned, though, if she didn't look him in the eye as he sent her to hell.

"I'll be waiting for you," she whispered.

"Then wait for etern—"

The raven’s cry interrupted him. Both of them looked up in time to see the raven plummet into the earth not five feet behind where the Puppet Master stood. Where the raven hit, the ground grew soft and molten-like with a red glow that lit up the night. A look of fear crossed over the Puppet Master’s twisted features as the ground collapsed in on itself.

"No, you'll not have me!" He tried to fade into the shadows as tendrils of living flame burst from the hole and licked towards the Puppet Master.

A soft squawk sounded beside her. The raven once more looked into her eyes.

"So, it's to hell with me?" Widow asked. The Raven squawked again. "At least I won't be going alone." She sighed as the breath left her body. Through dimming eyes, she watched as the raven transformed into a woman ensconced in a dazzling bright light.

"Would you rather an eternity of Hell, or an eternity in the Folsom?" the woman asked. Her voice was the sweetest music, tinged with a touch of menace.

Widow couldn't speak, but she could still think. And though the Folsom was a hell of sorts, it would still be better than the flames of the pit. She mustered up her strength and nodded. The figure smiled. "Then rise, my child, and have your vengeance!"

Light flowed like water from the figure before her, covering Widow and healing her wounds. Widow felt herself lift from the ground as if a million tiny hands had hoisted her up. Then the pain hit. Widow released a series of agonizing screams as four long, thin spidery legs ripped through her skin and emerged from her back. She felt she was about to lose consciousness from the pain but once it subsided, the light withdrew, and she fell to the ground.

With the help of her new appendages, she got up with ease and glared at the Puppet Master. He had tried to flee, but one of the fiery tendrils from the pit ensnared him; he flailed, fighting to free himself. Widow moved forward with deadly intent, her four spider’s legs clicking together rapidly in anticipation.

"You'll not go free. Not now, not ever!" she yelled, and thrust her spider's legs into the Puppet Master’s chest. They cut through his chest and burst from his back, covered in glistening, black blood. With an imploring look, the Puppet Master reached out his hand, ready to rip her appendages from his body. She snarled and ripped her legs free. With gaping holes in his chest, the look on his face to change to utter hatred. The Puppet Master’s face grew grim and he reached out for her with bitter enmity as David slammed into her from behind, throwing her to the ground away from the Puppet Master and tendrils of flame from the pit.

"Thank you, David." She said, catching her breath before turning her attention back to the Puppet Master. "Go... to... HELL!" she screamed at the exact moment tiny figures climbed from the molten hole and onto the Puppet Master.

They swarmed over him like an army of ants and dragged him towards the hole as he thrashed and fought to free himself. But it was futile. Their numbers too many and their strength too strong. The last Widow saw of the Puppet Master was his contorted face as he was pulled into the fiery depths below; his agonized screams lingered for a moment afterward as the ground sealed closed as quickly as it had opened, leaving no visual trace of the Puppet Master.

She looked at David with a tear-filled tenderness. "It's been a long time since I could call someone a friend. I am proud it is you. Never forget me, David."

David replied but Widow couldn’t hear what he had said as darkness descended on her.

* * *

Widow opened her eyes to the familiar sights of the attic. With a deep mental sigh, she looked around. All the marionettes were present.

Each one greeted her, with Oni punching her in the shoulder. Only Twist was silent.

They spoke amongst themselves as they prepared to sleep—until they were called once more by the Folsom Inn.

* * *

David returned to his apartment and collapsed on the bed. Levi’s ghostly figure floated over to him. He pulled David into his arms and held him close.

"She's gone," David said as a small wooden spider crawled onto his chest.

"Not completely," Levi replied.

David fell into a troubled sleep in the arms of his ghostly lover while his new companion watched over them both to the sounds of the raven tapping on the window.

C.M. Harris is the proud father of a brilliant little boy. He’s written a short anthology about haunted dolls and things that go bump in the night. He is currently working on a little tale of Zombies, and what they get up to when no one is looking. He has the attention span of a hyper-active squirrel. He enjoys art, haunted dolls, and anything supernatural. His humor is a little warped, his books are a little twisted, and he likes both cats and dogs.

L’Escritoire

CD Storiz

In the backroom of Hidden Door Antiques, also known as Henry’s reconfigured tool shed, he continued his examination of the writing desk he’d just found on his latest antiquarian road trip through the South. The transistor radio blared in the background as Henry, wearing his favorite Hendrix T-shirt, hummed along with Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi”. He switched the station when another newscast about Vietnam came on. He needed music when he was working, not thoughts about the war. Donning a pair of latex gloves, Henry lovingly cleaned years of dust and dirt from the writing desk. He used a small camel hair brush and a cleaning solution of his own design to work at the dirt gathered in the scrolled legs and intricate drawer designs.

It was by pure luck that he found the desk, too. Stopping for lunch at the local restaurant after an auction, he overheard someone giving condolences for losing a loved one. His ears perked. He knew what that meant—sales! Most children didn’t want to be bothered with their parents or grandparents’ old, dated furniture; they didn’t even bother to appraise it. They just wanted it gone. He followed the chap outside and approached him in the parking lot, handing him his card after introducing himself.

“I apologize for the intrusion, but I couldn’t help but overhear you back there.” He nodded to the restaurant.

“What about it?” the man asked, suspiciously eyeing him up and down.

Henry, tall and lanky with a continuous five o’clock shadow, gave the man a reassuring smile.

“I’m visiting my sick grandmother,” he lied. After the man shrugged, Henry continued, “I may be able to help you out. I have a resale shop north of Chicago in Lake Bluff.” He waited to see if the man had heard of the city and continued after the man said no. After a few more minutes of discussion, Henry was following him through the streets to a former pecan plantation, then sifting through dust-filled rooms in search of treasure.

Some of it was disappointing, but a few pieces caught his eye. The family that owned the house attempted to modernize it in 1940, and that’s where it stayed. Thirty years later, and the kitchen desperately needed repair. Many of the walls in the house had peeling paint and curling wallpaper.

Henry kept his comments to himself, but noted what a shame it was to see this once beautiful piece of architecture fall into shambles. But then, that happened a lot to these old plantations that no longer had the backs of slaves to grow their businesses. They went bankrupt or into disrepair, or both. Few families had the funds to keep up the appearances.

Tom, the owner’s great grandson, was left with emptying the house and putting it up for sale.

Henry wished he could buy the house too, and spend months refinishing the baseboards and restoring the grand staircase, but he barely had the funds to pay for the antiques he just picked up at the auction two hours ago. Someday, he thought to himself.

“Got anything else that might be hiding somewhere? Garage? Basement? Attic?” he asked, salivating at the thought of finding something more interesting than the few pieces he’d already managed to acquire.

“Well, there may be something in the cellar,” Tom replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. “But if it’s down there,” he cautioned, “then it’s probably damaged. Or just plain junk.”

“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure,” Henry quoted. “Let’s look.”

After about twenty minutes in the damp cellar, Henry saw it. It was underneath a mildew covered sheet.

At first, not wanting to drive the price up, he played it cool. He grumbled about the dampness of the basement and the conditions they stored it in. He’d be doing Tom a favor by taking it off his hands.

Tom, likely feeling he had little to no choice after Henry convinced him it wasn’t worth much, practically forced it on Henry.

He was on his way back home with a truckload of junk, as that was part of the deal, but also with the desk. Henry’s first thought was that it was possibly a Cavalier desk, made by one of the most obscure furniture designers of the nineteenth century. And making it even rarer, the designer had only made a handful of pieces before committing suicide at an early age. And even rarer than that? Rumors flooded the antique markets that Cavalier used blood to get the deep reddish hue in his mahogany wood.

His fingers danced and glided over the smooth surface, gently caressing the delicate features. Admiring the variations in color as his fingers ran along the edges, he paid special attention to the details of dovetailing and hardware. Henry’s skin prickled as he continued his examination of the craftmanship. He was in awe with the obvious love that went into each drawer and leg. What could he say? Some guys like cars. Henry Littledale liked antiques. He didn’t just like them; he was obsessed with them.

When he came across this little gem, he knew he had to get his hands on her. Once she was cleaned, and if he could prove it was made by Cavalier, she’d be worth fifty times what he paid for her. He also knew he could sell the desk privately to one of his oldest clients; Clarissa Voss. She was always showing up at his workshop, purchasing his rare finds before they went to auction. She made it worth his while. His friends in his bowling league harassed him about the way he talked about furniture, his “quirky” habit of referring to special pieces as female.

“What? You think it’s only for boats, cars, and prostitutes? Folks in the antique market know what I’m talking about and when they say, ‘she’s a beaut!’ they’re referring to the overall specimen. The detailing. The workmanship. The carvings and attention to detail,” he told them the week before he bowled the best game of his life.

His brother, Tony, tossed a towel at him, hitting him in the face. “See what I gotta put up with, guys? My little brother is a wuss.”

“Man, Hen, the way you go on about chairs and stuff, one would’ve thought you had a nice piece of—” Vinny, one of his bowling buddies, started but stopped when Tony hit him in the gut. “Hey! What’d you do that for?”

Tony nodded to the woman standing before them.

“Hello, boys,” Clarissa smiled, her long legs accentuated by her high heels and short-shorts. “Henry, I heard you found a desk for me. When can I come see it?”

The blood in Henry’s cheeks seeped to his ears. “How’s next Sunday afternoon sound?”

She pouted her ruby red lips. “Sounds like it’s too far away. Make it this Saturday. Seven p.m. sharp.”

She sauntered off, leaving the group of men drooling in her wake, and Henry with only a few days to finish with the desk. If it wasn’t in perfect condition, she wouldn’t pay him what it was worth. He could always try his hand at the auction house, but that wasn’t for another three weeks and he had bills to pay now.

“Sorry, guys. I’m calling it a night. Duty calls,” he said, removing his bowling shoes.

Back in his workshop, Henry still couldn’t believe his luck with finding an 1860s, hand-carved writing desk. Knowing there were only a handful of these around, Henry could set his price. Pay off his bills and maybe even invest in an actual store front rather than working in the old tool shed. He’d have loved to keep this piece, but its value—if he could prove it was a Cavalier desk—could really help him. The designer, Armand Benoit Cavalier, was an obscure artist who fled France after the Second Republic under Napoléon and moved to America. His style had a bit of flair to it; incorporating influences from nineteenth century designers, including Thomas Hope’s “archaeological” style, and elements of the way Michael Thonet cut and carved his wood. But the true reason Cavalier’s pieces are such a treasure is because of the richness in color. Cavalier had a way of saturating the wood with a color so deep—it seemed to change depending on the light. Many have tried to replicate his veneers and stains, but no one has discovered the secret of creating such rich, almost iridescent layers of color.

Once Henry made the initial examination of the inside, back, and bottom—looking for rough surfaces showing hand saws and planes—he scrutinized the wood pores with a jeweler’s loupe. He needed to restore a bit of the water damage she suffered from the previous owner. Stupid people, storing priceless antiques in their moldy basements. He also needed to find the markings that proved it was hand-built by Cavalier.

After days of carefully appraising and restoring the piece, he was ready to call Clarissa. As he reached for the rotary phone, the lights in his work shed flickered and eventually went out.

Tiny streams of light filtered through the dusty windows from the street lamp outside, but it wasn’t enough to see what he was doing.

“Damn,” he muttered, searching for a flashlight. After a few moments of stumbling around in the dark and banging his knee, his hand closed around a hard cylinder; he flicked on the flashlight. Its beam illuminated the desk; its legs, its drawers, its surface—and the woman standing behind it.

“Argh!” he screamed. The flashlight tumbled to the ground. He hastily picked it up and pointed it towards the desk. Nothing there. He shook his head and drew in a breath. “These late-night fumes are getting to me,” he said to the open darkness. The fluorescent hands on his watch told him it was getting late anyhow, much later than realized. His stomach growled, reminding him he skipped dinner.

As he pulled the shed’s doors closed, the lights inside the shed flickered back on. He stared at the desk in the hazy light of the bare bulb hanging overhead. He rubbed his chin, clicked off the lights, and locked the shed doors with the padlock.

After making a sandwich and downing a cold beer from the fridge, Henry made his way up the creaky stairs to his bedroom. But after hours of fitful sleep and the tapping of the willows against the windowpanes, he sat up.

With a cup of tea and a piece of bread with jam in hand, he sat on the old front porch in an antique wicker rocking chair. A murmur of crickets and cicadas along with a gentle breeze off Lake Michigan lulled him back to sleep. But within the hour, he was jolted awake by a thumping sound coming from the back of the house. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he grabbed a baseball bat from inside the door. His eyes, already adjusted to the darkness, still couldn’t see through the heavily wooded backyard, which created ominous shadows where a burglar could easily hide. Nestled along the lake shore and north of Chicago, Lake Bluff was a tame, sleepy town, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t be breaking in. After surveying the grounds and satisfied it must have been a cat or a raccoon, he was ready to head back in, but a faint glow from the shed drew his attention. He pulled the key to the shed from his pocket and entered with a warning.

“If anyone is in here, I suggest you come out now. I’ve already called the police. They’ll be here in three minutes,” he lied.

He clicked the switch for the overhead lights; they flickered before coming to life. The garage itself wasn’t that large, and there weren’t too many places to hide. He did a quick scan of the premises and decided there wasn’t anyone in there. The winds howled through the cracks and crevices of the old structure and slammed the door shut. He spun on his heels as his breath hitched. “Calm your nerves, Henry,” he said out loud. Autumn leaves swirled outside in tiny spirals as the tree branches danced back and forth. A loud crack of thunder overhead nearly made him jump out of his skin, and he laughed at himself for letting this give him a little scare. Back inside his kitchen, he fixed a pot of coffee. He knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon, so why not make the most of it? Sitting at the oak table, perusing his ledgers, his mind kept drifting back to the desk.

The richness of the mahogany desk almost called to him, beckoning him nearer. It was as if he could hear it speak. But that’s impossible, right? Coffee cup in hand, he ventured back to the workshop. He pulled up a worn leather rolling office chair and sat before the desk. Letting out a sigh, he placed the palm of his hand on the desk.

“Hello, girl. What secrets do you want to share, huh?” he whispered. He pulled at the drawers and examined them once more. He envisioned what they might have held; letters or important documents, perhaps a ledger from the plantation. He imagined what it had been like to sit at the desk, probably near a wall of windows from the way the wood on the back of the desk was slightly more faded than the rest. Leaning over in his chair, he pulled at the bottom drawer, but it seemed to catch on something. Grasping the handle and tugging harder, he yanked it from its tracks. He caught the drawer before it hit the floor and set it down gently; as he leaned down and glanced over at the desk, he saw something in the space where the drawer had been.

How could he not have noticed it before? At the back end of the desk, behind the space usually occupied by the bottom drawer, was another, hidden drawer. It had no handle, and looked more like a part of the structure than a moving piece—but there was definitely a curve in the wood that could be used to hold and pull. He pulled the inner drawer from its compartment.

Inside was a folded parchment, yellowing with age. The hairs on his arm stood on end with excitement. He donned a pair of white cotton gloves before touching the paper, then slowly unfolded it, careful not to damage the fragile edges.

Before he even read what was printed in the letter, he grabbed his loupe and examined the paper, studying the weave of fibers. He did his best to determine the age, but couldn’t tell how old it was. If the previous owner knew about the compartment, perhaps they placed it inside. But from the tattered edge, fading ink, and fragility, he knew the letter was definitely not written recently.

He took a sip of his coffee—now tepid, but doing the job intended. He sat back in the chair and read the letter.

I write this in haste as a plea for my sanity. The voices echo in my head, begging, pleading, and crying to be released. But how? If I share my fair warnings, they’ll burn me as a heretic. Salem trials are not long gone. And we are on the brink of war. Pastor will coin me as a heretic. Will disgrace me in the congregation. I cannot bear another sermon on the duties of a wife. For the family’s sake, I shall remain his wife, but do not ask me to open my heart to him. He is evil. I am convinced he wishes me dead. He knows my every move. My every thought. My every desire. I cannot run. There is no place to hide. He keeps me locked in my room at night and a guard by my side all day long. Even as I walk the gardens surrounding our home or the path through the woods, someone is there. Only when I am in the library can my heart calm and I am allowed a moment alone. A moment of peace. He thinks I read and find delight in the volumes he has collected during his travels, but I plan my escape. Who will help me? Whom can I trust?

Henry’s eyes widened as he read the words again—slowly this time, taking in every sentence. “Holy crap,” he muttered. He set the letter down and knelt down inside the keyhole opening, examining the interior of the desk with his flashlight. Carved in the far recess, behind the hidden drawer, the date 1861 with the initials, ACB. The letter C was larger and centered in between the A and the B, indicating the last name in the fashion typical of monograms. Henry could feel the blood pumping through his veins with this latest discovery. The price just tripled, if this was a Cavalier desk. Possibly quadrupled. But first, he needed to make a few calls.

Henry spent the next few hours scouring through encyclopedias and old furniture restoration journals. Because Cavalier was so obscure, and hadn’t been on the design scene for very long, there wasn’t as much written about him. Henry called a few of his contacts, too. Without revealing what he had in his possession, he could get some useful information. And what he couldn’t find in the books he owned, he knew the head librarian at the Lake Bluff library on Scranton Avenue could help him find. If he brought her a bag of pastries, he could sweet-talk her into letting him stay after hours to finish his research.

Driving down the tree-lined street, listening to the newscast on his truck radio, he was sad to hear Janis Joplin, the rock singer, died from an overdose. But what really worried him was how things were heating up overseas. Vietnam was not going the way Washington wanted, and he hoped he wouldn’t be drafted. After parking his old Ford truck near the front of the library, he took the steps to the library two at a time. He nodded to Marie, the head librarian who winked at him as she instructed her assistant how to properly hang the pumpkin cutouts and other Halloween decorations. He took a seat at a table and waited patiently for her to come to him. He smiled as she approached, her heels clacking against the hard-wood floors. She tucked her brown hair behind her ear.

“Well, hello, Henry,” she said, smiling at him. Her cat eye reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know. I’m good.” Henry noted how her eyes sparkled and as much as he’d love nothing more than to shoot the breeze with the lovely Marie, he was pressed for time. “Hey, Marie. I need your help. Got a few minutes?”

She twisted her lips, putting her hands on her hips. “Possibly. I’ve got books I need to catalogue and kids to keep quiet.” She turned and shushed a small group of teens who had just entered the library before turning back to him. “What do you need?”

He pulled the white bag of pastries from his leather briefcase and handed it to her.

She peeked inside and smiled as she took in a big whiff. Her eyes lit up as the sweet aroma escaped the bag. “Deerfield’s?”

“You betcha,” he nodded. “Best bakery around.”

She rolled the top of the bag closed. “Fine. You must really need something to bring me not just one, but a half dozen pastries.”

“So,” he said, pulling his yellow legal pad from his bag. “I’m working on this desk I picked up and need a little bit of help with the research...”

Her ears perked up. “I’m listening. Whatcha got?”

“What do you know about Armand Benoit Cavalier? Specifically, I need to know where he was working from, who he was working for or with. It may be impossible, but I’d also like to try and find out exactly what it was he used as the stain for his mahogany collection. There’s got to be records somewhere, right?”

She chuckled. “You know I’m not an expert on antiques. That’s your job.”

“True. But you are the best researcher I know. You could easily work for the Chicago Tribune with your skills.”

She blushed. “Ah, Henry. You don’t need to flatter me. I’ll help. But it may take a while. You may owe me dinner, too. Not sure a bag of donuts will do it.” She shushed the teens again and went back behind the circulation desk.

Henry watched her hands moving as she spoke to her assistant; within a few minutes, a stack of books and journals were delivered to Henry’s desk. He poured through the books, jotting down notes, relevant dates, and anything else he could find. After a couple hours of sitting on a hardback chair, he stood and stretched his muscles.

Marie brought books and took books away. She called friends she knew within the library network from all over the country, including one in Georgia, where Henry believed the desk originated. They ordered dinner from the local sandwich shop to be delivered and after a quick bite to eat together, Henry thanked Marie and headed back home.

He sat on his front porch, rocking in the wicker chair and sipping a beer as he went over his hand-written notes from his research. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. He didn’t have much success, but he found small mentions here and there. He hoped Marie would have better luck with her librarian friends. Apparently, there was a whole cohort of librarians—much like a secret society or a haven—that held the answers. At least, that’s how Marie made it sound.

Henry called the previous desk owner too, but the man never seemed to answer his phone. It just rang and rang. The October winds picked up, wrestling through the trees, bringing with them a chill from Lake Michigan. Henry finished his beer and went inside, but nothing held his attention. He felt his skin prickle and his name being called. He shook his head as he rubbed his eyes, then gazed blearily out the kitchen window. The kitchen was at the back of the farmhouse, overlooking the large backyard; his workshop was at the far end of the deep, wooded lot. He gazed out the window, searching the darkness, when out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw movement in the shadows. Grabbing his baseball bat, he stormed out the backdoor and down the flagstone path leading to his workshop.

As the winds howled through the trees, a bird cawed overhead. Again, Henry found himself drawn back towards the desk. Switching on the lights and the portable heater, he smiled when he saw her. He gently brushed the surface as if giving a loved one a seductive touch. He sat in the silence of his surroundings with the wind in the background, admiring his work. The desk was coming along. Pulling out the bottom drawer, he picked up his camel hair brush and worked it into the delicate scrolls. He then removed the brass pull handles and thoroughly cleaned those. Each stroke of the brush, or swipe of the cloth, was a stroke of love. Even though he’d be selling the desk within a few days, he loved working on her.

Before he put the drawer back in place, he pulled at the hidden drawer. Even though he knew there was nothing left inside—after all, he’d retrieved the letter and it was safely in his home—he was curious to see it open again.

Much to his surprise, another folded parchment was waiting for him. “What the heck…” he mumbled, pulling out the parchment. Looking over his shoulder to see if he was alone and wondering if his brother had somehow gotten into the shed and was playing a practical joke, he unfolded the parchment and read.

Same type of paper. Same scripted calligraphy. Written by the same person.

Isn’t there anyone there willing to help? Please—

Henry shook his head as his anger brewed. Someone was messing with him. He laughed to himself as he held the parchment up to the light. “Okay, hilarious, Tony.”

He tore a piece of paper in half from his legal pad and scribbled. What do you need, toots? “That’ll teach you,” he said, shoving the paper in the hidden drawer and slamming it closed. He chuckled as he thought of his brother opening the drawer and reading, but stopped when he saw a faint glow from the hidden drawer. Almost like a firefly trapped, but more of a greenish tinge than golden.

He swallowed hard. The hair on his neck stood on end as he blinked several times.

He pulled the drawer open, this time slowly. His paper was gone. In its place, a folded parchment like the one before.

Henry drew in a deep breath to calm his nerves. His hands shook slightly as he reached for the parchment and read it aloud.

Why, sir, do you mock me so? I plea for help and you suffice with toots? What is a toots? Whom am I addressing? I demand an answer for a vulgar intrusion.

“No way,” he said. “There’s no way this is happening.” He bit his bottom lip and tore off another sheet from the legal pad. He scratched his neck and tried to think of how to answer. But scratched it out and started again, a few lines later.

He wrote: Henry. This is Henry. Who is this? And… ‘toots’ is an endearment. Folding it and hastily placing it back in the drawer, he drummed his fingers and waited for an answer. Within minutes, a reply.

He retrieved the parchment from the drawer and laughed out loud.

An endearment? How odd. My maid, Thema, says a toot is something one does when they’ve eaten too many of her boiled beans and ham hocks. Please do not endear me with such terms.

Henry, you say? Are you not blessed with a surname? Are you a slave? Or are you free? I am Amelia Katherine Morgan, née, Cavalier.

Henry couldn’t believe his eyes. How on earth could Tony be making this happen? He ran his fingers through his ebony hair. Tearing off another piece of paper, he replied to the letter.

Amelia, very nice to meet you. Ever wonder, he scratched it out and continued to write but wasn’t satisfied. He balled it up and started again.

Dear Amelia. How enchanting to meet you. My full name is Henry Paul Littledale. But please, call me Henry. What do you mean: am I a slave? I am free. After all, this is America, is it not? Aren’t all men free? May I ask—how is this happening? He signed it, Cordially yours, Henry.

He folded and slipped the paper back in the drawer and paced the room. Within minutes, the drawer gave off the same greenish glow as before. He read Amelia’s reply.

Dear Mr. Littledale. We are not acquainted enough to take such liberties. Please refrain from referring to me by my Christian name. And I shall respect you in the same manner. You obviously must be a northerner. As for how you are retrieving my letters and I am receiving yours—it is beyond my wildest imagination. I fear you are Satan toying with me. Or perhaps you are a servant of the Lord in answer to my prayer. Where are you at the present moment?

He paused for a moment. Biting the end of the ballpoint pen; he needed to word his response in just the right way. Indulge me. What is today’s date?

Within minutes, another reply with only a date.

October 5, 1860.

“No. No way this is happening,” he shouted at the desk. “Tony, I don’t know how you’re doing this but… you got me! You win, big brother. Come on out from wherever you’re hiding.” He waited to see if his brother appeared from hiding, pacing the workspace. When that didn’t happen, he jotted down in his notes to call the doctor and make an appointment. Along with a note to call Marie in the morning and research the name—Amelia Katherine Morgan, formerly Cavalier.

He read the parchment letters again. They looked authentic. But that was impossible. Right? Perhaps it was the beer. Or maybe the fumes from refinishing a chair for a client last week. Maybe they were still lingering and causing him to hallucinate. He made a note to check the ventilation system in the garage. He then threw open a window and let the fresh autumn air in. The sun would rise in a few hours and he needed some sleep. Sleep deprivation. That had to be it.

“This is crazy,” he grumbled, flicking off the lights, locking the door, and going back inside the house.

The next morning, Henry woke with a massive headache, which he blamed the beer for and swore off drinking for the next month. He then made a call to Marie’s office, but she wasn’t there. Henry left a detailed message with the name from the letter asking Marie to see what she could find out. Then he made an appointment for the following week to see the doctor. Might as well get his head checked; that seemed the appropriate response to imagining letters magically appearing in a drawer. But the more he thought about it… they were real. He could hold them, feel them, read them. What he needed to do was to have one of his buddies on the antique circuit check the parchment and see what he was dealing with.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the phone rang. “Hello? Marie?” he answered hastily.

He was deflated when he realized it was Clarissa on the other end; she wanted to know when she could retrieve the desk, reminding him she wanted it on Saturday. She wasn’t thrilled when he told her it wasn’t ready. Nor would it be anytime soon. Making excuses that were barely plausible, he hoped he hadn’t just alienated one of his best clients. But there was no way he could let her have the desk. Not now—maybe not ever! Not until he discovered if this was all his imagination, or if he should ask the doctor for a brain scan, or if this was, in fact, happening.

Henry paced the kitchen, every few steps peering out the window towards his workshop. He glanced down at the pieces of parchment sitting on the kitchen table. What reasonable explanation could there be? He remembered seeing episodes of The Twilight Zone that had some weird stuff in them, but that was fiction.

Marie returned his call and said the only information she could find regarding an Amelia Katharine Morgan or Cavalier, was in old microfiche. It didn’t say much, only that she was the estranged wife of Armand Benoit Cavalier, who died at a young age under suspicious circumstances. But what those circumstances were, Marie didn’t know. She assured Henry she would continue to research and call him back when she found anything further about the furniture designer or his wife. Henry drained his cup, snatched the keys off the hook next to the back door, and headed back to the workshop.

Everything was just as he left it the night before. Taking a few cautious steps towards the desk, he swallowed. “Okay, Henry. Before you head to get a brain scan, think logically.” But all logic went out the window when he sat down at the desk and began writing.

Dear Mrs. Cavalier, my apologies. But this is…

“What exactly is this?” he said to himself.

This is something that is unexpected and unconventional. I will assure you; I am not Satan, nor any of his minions. I am just as flabbergasted by this as you must be. Tell me a bit about yourself. Where are you now?

He shook his head as he folded the paper before placing it back into the drawer. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

But within minutes, he received an answer stating she was in the library overlooking the southern portion of the property. She then eloquently explained the view with small rolling hills and rows of pecan trees, and Henry felt as if he were there. Henry described to her what it was like to walk along the pebbled shores of Lake Michigan and look up at the rocky bluffs, giving Lake Bluff its name.

Another letter appeared, which he promptly answered, and another after that. In fact, he spent the entire morning answering letters back and forth. Short at first, with a few questions that were quick and abrupt. Henry laughed out loud when her letter expressed she was right about his being a northerner. They didn’t talk politics, but in more general, friendlier terms. Becoming acquainted as friends. Dare he say friends? The next few days seem to fly by as Henry and Amelia spent more time corresponding in letters. Henry spent most of his days locked away in his workshop, even canceling his night with the boys. He learned that Amelia’s family owned a pecan plantation in Cordele, Georgia—he’d need to give that information to Marie—and though she disagreed with her father’s choice for marriage, girls weren’t given much choice in the matter, and she felt it her duty to obey her father’s wishes. She evaded questions regarding her husband; he was indeed the furniture designer and entrepreneur, Armand Benoit Cavalier, but that was all she said. And, Henry didn’t feel he should push it.

He took a break for lunch and did some sanding on another piece of furniture. He gently covered the writing desk with a cotton sheet to protect it from the dust, but his mind kept shifting back to it, wondering when he’d get another answer. He figured out that the drawer made a slight scraping noise when opened from ‘the other side’ followed by a soft glow, and to expect a note when he heard it.

The art of letter writing consumed him. What started as a strange correspondence on a whim developed to dear friends in the matter of days. Henry found he could open up to Amelia. She was the first person he unveiled his heart to in a very long time. He invested in better quality paper instead of using the legal pad. He also splurged and spent the excessive cost for a fountain pen. He thought it would give his letters a nicer look. It didn’t go unnoticed by Amelia, who rewarded him with a lock of hair, tied with a small grosgrain ribbon, and pressed flowers. Though they were flattened and dried, in his mind’s eye, he imagined her plucking them from a meadow of wildflowers. He saw her skirts rustling in the autumn breeze. He imagined taking her hand, their fingers entwined, walking down a winding path. Henry started taking his meals in the garage; he didn’t want to risk missing the chance to speak with Amelia.

His work took a backseat to his writing. He made excuses for clients and missed two very important auctions. Unpaid bills stacked up by the front door as layers of dust remained untouched throughout the house. He canceled on gatherings with friends, turned down outings, and withdrew from his bowling league without notice.

He had neither shaved nor bathed in over a week, and took to sleeping on a cot in the unheated garage. A small kerosene heater provided enough warmth for Henry during the chilly autumn nights. All in hopes of not missing a single word Amelia had written to him. Her casual friendship moved to something much more emotional and rawer as she, too, opened her heart, allowing Henry in. Words of poetry and adoration filled the pages between the two lovers, caught adrift and a hundred and ten years apart. On the rare occasions Henry did leave the detached garage to get food from the kitchen—which was nearly bare—or to relieve himself when nature called, he hurried back. When the end of October arrived, bringing with it bone-chilling rains and frost covered nights, Henry huddled near the kerosene heater under layers of quilts and blankets. He’d jump at the slightest noise from the drawer, waiting for the glowing luminescence; her words of passion and endearment warmed his heart. So much so, he didn’t seem to notice the cold or the growing fatigue from lack of sleep and sustenance.

He spent restless nights in the bitter cold as October turned to November, ignoring his body’s pleas for warmth. He longed to hold Amelia, caress her, and run his calloused fingers through her long, inky hair. He imagined removing her corset and holding her close, pulling her in for warmth. He imagined her luscious lips, ripe and ready for him, and making love to her throughout the night by a cozy fire. They tumbled together; their limbs entwined, wrapped in cotton sheets. He felt the heat on his skin, her heat, as he penetrated her in uncontrolled desire.

Day after day, Henry stayed in the garage. He didn’t hear the phone ringing in his kitchen. He didn’t collect the mail any longer, which gathered with the last of the fallen leaves at the stoop on his front porch. He didn’t go out with friends or do any of the things he once enjoyed. And he didn’t notice the banging on the workshop door, which rattled the hinges with each pounding fist.

He lay on his cot, covered in sweat yet shaking uncontrollably, chilled to the bone. He didn’t hear Tony kick open the door after he’d peeked through the window. He didn’t notice the panic-stricken face of his brother as he picked Henry up like a rag doll, tossing him over his shoulder and carrying him into the house. Henry’s vision was blurred and his speech erratic.

“Amelia… Amelia… my love…” he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Tony spoon-fed Henry warm broth and tea in between fitful bouts of sleep. He cleaned the kitchen, swept the floors, and picked up weeks’ worth of mail. He looked at Henry’s finances, scratching his head, wondering what illness had taken hold of his brother. He called the family doctor, who arrived with a warm smile and a black leather bag. He was one of the few doctors that still made house calls. Henry continued to drift in and out of consciousness as the fever ran through his body, Amelia’s name escaping his lips.

“Who is Amelia?” the doctor asked, pulling the needle from Henry’s limp arm.

“I have no idea. I didn’t even know my brother was seeing anyone,” Tony replied. “Doc, do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Oh, I think a few more days’ rest and Henry will recover just fine.” But his stern look as he shoved his belongings into his bag gave Tony pause.

* * *

Henry roused from his sleep. Confused by his surroundings, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded off to the bathroom. After relieving himself and splashing cold water on his face, the image in the mirror shocked him. He hardly recognized the man with the sallow skin, dark bags under his eyes, and a scraggly beard. Using all the energy, he could muster he brushed his teeth, and took a wool sweater off the hook on the bathroom door and pulled it over his head. It, and rest of his clothes, hung over his bones. How much weight had he lost?

He heard someone downstairs, in the kitchen. The transistor radio played in the background. The newscast spoke of the race riots in Daytona Beach, Florida, the day before— and Argentine boxer—Carlos Monzon—defeating the champion Nino Benvenuti of Italy in the twelfth round to become the middleweight champ.

Tony turned from the sink when Henry shuffled in. “Oh, hey. You’re up. How’re you feeling?”

Henry plopped into the kitchen chair and nodded. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? Henry, do you even know what day it is?”

Henry looked on the opposite wall where the calendar hung. He couldn’t know for sure, so he took a guess. “October tenth?”

Tony stomped to the calendar, ripped it from the wall and flipped the page. He slammed it down on the table in front of his brother. “November, Henry. It’s freaking November eighth.”

“November?” Henry rubbed his chin. “No. Not possible. I’ve got… the auction. It’s on the fifteenth.”

“Yeah, well. The fifteenth of October has long passed, brother. You missed the auction. You missed the estate sale in Lake Forest. You haven’t come to bowling in over a month. No one has seen or heard from you in weeks. What’s going on? And tell me the truth. You using again?”

Henry couldn’t believe Tony was asking him that. It took him a moment to recover from the sting. “No, man. I told you. I’m done with that stuff.”

“Then what the hell, Henry? Because it sure looks like it to me.”

Henry narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.” Hell, Henry himself didn’t understand.

“Understand what? Come on, Henry,” Tony took a seat across from him. “Talk to me. Does this Amelia girl have you using? Is that what it is?”

Henry pushed back from the table. How on earth did Tony know about Amelia?

“Stop, Tony. I’m not a kid anymore. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Tony shook his head. “Man, you don’t get it. You spent years using. It almost killed you, dude. And I was so proud of you when you got yourself clean, and got a respectable job.”

“Careful, Tony. I can still kick your ass.”

Tony’s eyebrows raised. “Really? In that condition?” His eyes flicked up and down.

Henry thought back to the image in the mirror — he was disheveled. And the beard? When did that happen? “I’m telling you the truth. I’m not using.”

“Swear it,” Tony replied, crossing his arms.

“What?”

“On our dead parents’ lives. Swear it.”

It was just like Tony to throw that in Henry’s face.

“I swear, bro. On mom and dad’s lives.” Henry swallowed.

Tony nodded and drew in a deep breath. “Fine. I believe you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Hey, don’t be that way. Can you blame me for wondering?”

“Give me a little credit. I haven’t used in over five years.”

Tony got up and pulled two cups from the cabinet. “I made coffee, want some?”

Henry glanced up, then nodded weakly. His brother grabbed the pot and poured.

Setting down the steaming cup of black liquid, Tony sat back down. “So, want to tell me who Amelia is?”

* * *

Henry knew the only way he’d get Tony out of his house was to give him something. So, he made up a plausible story using bits and pieces of the truth. There was no way his brother would understand he’d fallen in love with a ghost—if that’s what she even was. To Henry, she was just as real as the midday sun or the taste of coffee. Did it really matter she was living over a hundred years in the past? No, he’d keep that bit of information to himself.

“I got to get to work. But I’ll stop by later and bring some take-out. That okay with you?”

“Checkin’ up on me, bro?” Henry laughed.

“Something like that. In the meantime, Carolyn made you a couple meals. They’re in the fridge. She even made you zucchini bread with the last of her crop.” He nodded to the loaf wrapped in foil on the counter.

“Thank her for me.” Henry stood and walked to the door with Tony close on his heels.

“Oh, hey, that cute librarian stopped by last night, too,” Tony said, winking.

“Yeah?”

“You sly dog, you. Keeping two gals. Anyway, she’s hot for a librarian,” he teased.

“What’d she say?” Henry leaned against the doorframe.

“Not much. But she dropped off a bunch of papers she said you wanted. Something about research.” He pointed to the stack on the coffee table. “Hey, take care, okay?”

Henry scoffed. “Dude, I’m fine. It was just a little bug. Flu or something I ate. I’m fine.”

“A little bug? Henry, man, you had a 104-degree temperature. And, dude, you were sleeping in the shed. The shed! What’s up with that?”

Panic hit Henry. He had the sudden urge to run to the garage to see if the letters were still there. “You didn’t touch my stuff, did you?” His voice rose. “I’ve got projects I’m working on. I told you never touch my stuff!”

“Dude, relax. I didn’t touch your stuff. Seriously, I think you’re still delirious from your fever.”

Henry nodded. “Sorry. It’s just that antique desk out there… it’s for a client,” he lied. Henry knew he’d never let anyone have that desk. Never.

“Your desk is fine. Right where you left it.”

“Her,” Henry corrected.

“Oh, I forgot. Yes, her.” Tony laughed, patted his brother on the shoulder and left.

Henry watched his brother walk down the path and hop in his station wagon. When the car was no longer in sight, he rushed upstairs, showered, and put on fresh clothes.

He checked himself in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs, ready to head back to the garage, and to Amelia. But the stack of papers from Marie caught his attention. He was torn. He felt Amelia calling to him. But the research was right there, and it had already been days since he had spoken to her… what was another few minutes?

Henry took the well-prepared stack and sat in his favorite leather armchair. He was only planning on reading for a few minutes, but half an hour later he was engulfed in the contents of the research. It confirmed his suspicions this desk was a Cavalier desk, especially after what he’d read, but did others know exactly how special it was? It said that Cavalier only made a handful of the desks, sought by the wealthiest of patrons. But the records only spoke of three desks existing, and none for public viewing—all were part of private collections. Could this be a fourth and final one? He pondered whether the other owners were having the same things happening to them. Did their desks also act as portals to the past, as his did?

The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. He pushed himself from the comfy chair and answered it in the hall.

“Henry? Is that you? It’s Marie,” she said, her voice hurried. “I’ve been calling you for days. Days. Are you okay?”

“Hey, Marie, sorry about that. I guess I had a case of the flu or something.” He wasn’t sure what had overcome him, but now that he had been away from the desk for the last few days, he was feeling much more like himself.

“Listen, sorry to interrupt, but did you get what I sent over?”

“Yes. In fact, I’m perusing through it now. Interesting stuff about Cavalier.”

“I’ll say. Hey, let me ask you something. You ready?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“Is it an inlay desk, mahogany with scrolled legs and drawers that have tiny pyramids carved on the outside edges? And does it have a hidden drawer behind the left bottom drawer?”

Henry’s mouth dropped open. “How’d you know that? I don’t remember describing it to you. Did you find a picture?”

He heard her draw in a breath. “Listen, Henry. I found out more about it. I’ll be over soon with it, okay?”

Henry chuckled. “Right now?” But even as he played it nonchalantly, Henry was eager to see Marie.

“Yes, you have to see this.”

He deciphered the urgency in her voice. “Marie, what’s going on?”

“Look, I’m on my way over. There’s something strange I need to show you.” The line went dead.

Henry scoffed. Really, Marie? You’ve got something weird to show me? Just wait until she found out that not only was there a hidden drawer, but that letters from over a hundred years ago appeared inside out of thin air. How’d she know about the hidden drawer, anyway? But... letters did appear out of thin air from over a hundred years ago. The more Henry thought about it, the crazier it all seemed.

He was tempted to go into the shed, but his curiosity was piqued enough to hold him to his spot in the living room. Within the half hour, Marie was banging on his front door.

“Calm down! I’m right here,” he said, throwing open the door.

Marie burst through the door, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh, thank God, you’re okay. I was worried sick when I didn’t hear back from you.”

He held her at arm’s length, but not before drinking in her scent. The sweetness of her orchid perfume lingered. It surprised him he’d have this reaction to her hug. Marie had never shown affection for Henry before — she usually treated him like anyone else that came into the library. Today, he noticed the worry lines around her beautiful, round, hazel eyes. And the way the ends of her chin-length hair curled right around her jaw.

“Come in, come in. Boy, when did it get so cold, huh?” he asked, shutting the door.

“November, remember? Probably going to be an early snow.” Handing him her shoulder bag, she shrugged off her coat.

“Coffee or tea?” he asked, leading her to the kitchen.

“Whatever you’ve got. Something hot. That wind is brutal.”

“The heater not working in your car?” he asked, while pouring a cup of coffee. He offered her cream and sugar, which she gladly accepted.

“I walked. My car is in the shop.” She sipped the warm liquid and smiled. “Mmm. So good.”

“I didn’t take you for a coffee drinker. Thought you’d be more of a tea drinker.” He sat across from her.

“I’ll drink whatever’s warm,” she smiled. “I just like it hot.” She blushed when she realized how that sounded.

Henry noticed how the red reached her ears. To spare her further embarrassment, he changed the subject, “So, whatcha got for me?”

“Oh, yeah! Wait until you see this.” Setting down the cup, she pulled papers from her bag. “I was able to get a hold of a librarian through the network in Georgia and she loaned me a bunch of microfiche. You’re not going to believe it.” She pushed the stack toward Henry.

“Oh, you’d be surprised what I believe these days.” He flipped through the pages, scanning the information.

Marie walked to the stove and refilled her cup. “More?”

“I’m still working on this one. You finished that quick.”

“My frozen fingers hardly noticed. Besides, I need the caffeine. I’ve been up practically all-night reading through that stuff.” After she added the cream and sugar, she sat back down.

“This is unbelievable,” he said, not looking up.

“Right? And did you get to the part about Cavaliers wife? You know, the woman you had me research?”

The hair on Henry’s neck stood on end. The coffee churned in his stomach as he read. “She killed her husband?” He looked at Marie, who nodded and told him to keep reading. “And they accused her of witchcraft? Seriously?”

“Oh, there’s more. Look at the next article.” Marie reached across the table.

Henry felt an electric shock when her fingertips brushed his. He chewed his bottom lip and turned to the next article. “Holy shit!” he cried out. “So, it wasn’t Cavalier who stained the desks, it was his wife?”

“Yep. She used the blood of slaves, immigrants, and vagrants she coerced to stay with them at their plantation. Apparently, she performed some type of reckoning ceremony, sacrificing her victims, and saving their blood. She’d mix it with the varnish and rub it into the wood. Crazy stuff, right?”

“No, this has got to be fake. I mean, come on.” Henry set the paper down and looked at Marie, who was studying him.

“Henry, I know you don’t want to hear this and it may make me sound like a lunatic. But you said yourself, I’m one of the best researchers out there. I do my homework. I spent hours poring over manuscripts, articles, books, anything I could find. Then, I made calls to people in Georgia, trying to get anyone to talk. And I finally found a friend of a friend who knew someone whose great-great grandparents were somehow acquainted with the Cavalier family. According to this—and mind you, it’s been passed down through generations, so something may have been lost in translation…” she sipped her coffee. “But, according to what I could find out, Mrs. Cavalier believed herself to be reincarnated from a witch who burned at Salem.”

Henry’s mouth fell agape.

“Yep. True. Her parents, the Morgans—a very wealthy family, pecan people or something like that—were found murdered in their beds at their plantation. Because there was no male heir, and you know the silly laws regarding women,” she scoffed, “she didn’t want to lose the plantation, so she somehow convinced Cavalier to marry her.”

“Who murdered the parents?” Henry asked thoughtfully.

“Well, according to the person I spoke to, local citizens believed it was Amelia. But she was only seventeen. No one could prove anything. She told them it was someone who’d broken in and murdered them while she hid under her bed.”

“Were there others at the home?”

“Not that I know of. I mean, remember, this is all second hand. But, according to sources, she was a strange child to begin with. Believed she could speak to the dead and all that. Heard voices. Probably lead poisoning or something in actuality, but unbalanced for sure.”

“Wow,” Henry mumbled.

“There’s more,” she said, excitedly.

“There’s more?” His eyes widened.

“Oh, yes. So, Cavalier comes over from France, right? Escaping whatever revolution was happening there,” she said.

“Maybe the second empire under Napoléon the Third?”

“Doesn’t matter. Anyway, he ends up in Georgia, and he’s got this unique style all his own. Well, he’s smitten with her because she’s apparently this gorgeous woman who needs a man so she can stay in her home, and falls under her spell.”

“Her spell? Really, Marie.”

“Well, you get the idea, and he’s trying to make a name for himself as a furniture designer. And he’s got this young, pretty wife and her family’s money to pursue his dream. But he can’t distinguish himself from others out there. Then suddenly, he’s got this rich design with a stain that looks like no other.”

“Ah, the famous Cavalier stain,” Henry mused.

Marie nodded. “Exactly. And everyone wants to know how he gets the richness of color without sacrificing the grain of the wood. And, each piece is painstakingly hand carved by Cavalier himself. Well, his wife convinces him to make each piece unique by including a hidden drawer!”

“Okay. So…”

“So? Don’t you see? His wife is the one who used the mix of blood with the stain.”

“Cavalier knew what his wife was up to and went along with it? I doubt that. She wouldn’t do that.”

Marie looked confused. “What do you mean she wouldn’t do that? How would you know?”

Henry ignored her question. “Continue. I’m listening.”

“Anyway, Cavalier only made four or five of the desks, with only the scroll designs varying slightly but each with a deep, red color that was so different from other wood workers. But here’s the weirdest part.” She took a long drink of her coffee and licked her lips. “Cavalier was so in love with his wife, it nearly destroyed him when he found out she’d been having an affair.” She nodded as she grinned from ear to ear.

“What? How?”

“Well, no one knows for sure because they never found the men—”

“Wait, men, plural?”

“Uh, huh. But Cavalier found letters, love letters, written to his wife. Stacks of them. Tied with ribbon, hid away in the secret drawer.”

“That she insisted he include,” Henry added.

“Yes, that she insisted he include. He made the first desk for her, and then recreated three more desks, which he apparently sold. He was finishing the fifth one when he was bludgeoned to death. By guess who?”

“Let me guess... Amelia?” Henry’s heart sank. He felt bile burning at the back of his throat.

Marie shrugged, satisfied. “Makes sense, right?”

“So, what happened to Amelia? I mean, after her husband’s death?”

“Well, she apparently tried to turn the tables and say he was poisoning her and trying to kill her and she was only defending herself. But the authorities didn’t buy it. Searching the house and the grounds, they found skulls,” she said. “Human skulls,” she added.

“What happened after that?”

“Well, apparently she went mad and was throwing the letters into the fireplace screaming or chanting; not sure which. But it went something like this,” Marie cleared her throat and using high-pitched theatrics mimicked Amelia. “I keep my carnal desire for the hero of my heart secret. He is Beptan; I am from Uill. Torn apart by ignorance of elders from a feud hundreds of years past. After each message, I burn the words of truth and watch my love flicker as flames to the sky.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Oh, aren’t you up on your ancient Sumerian? Beptan is an archangel fallen from the future, while Uill is the present representation of the underworld.”

Henry pushed up from the table so hard, his chair nearly fell over. He ran to the sink. He felt sick. He splashed cold water on his face. Wiping it dry on a linen towel, his eyes flickered through the window to the workshop. He tossed the towel aside and started for the back door.

“Stay here,” he ordered Marie.

His fingers fumbled with the padlock as the winds whipped at his face. Switching on the lights, he pulled the drop cloth from the desk. An eerie glow coming from the bottom drawer captured his attention. Yanking it open, he pulled at the secret drawer and retrieved the parchment.

My darling, where have you been? I am worried. Why haven’t you written? Do you not love me any longer? Will you use me and toss me aside as so many others have done before you?

Henry couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Just as he finished reading another paper appeared.

Where are you, my love? Come to me. Release me? My soul aches for you. My desires are yours.

After he finished reading each note, another appeared. Then another, and another after that, and as they went on the tone changed from concern to regret to anger, and finally a threat.

He screamed at the desk, “Go away!”

He ran both his hands through his hair as his skin chilled. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

Another note appeared. He tore open the parchment and let it drop to the floor.

If I can’t have you, no one will.

His blood ran cold. He sped to the door, but it slammed shut before him. He yanked on the doors, but they wouldn’t budge. He turned back to the desk, scribbled a note with the words, ‘release me’, and put it inside.

Within seconds, a reply: Never.

Henry ran back to the doors and started banging. He knew Marie was still in the kitchen. But with the howling winds, she wouldn’t be able to hear him. He dashed to the window, but it too was sealed shut. He grabbed an axe handing on the wall, a remnant of Hidden Door Antiques’ heritage as a tool shed, and slammed it into the glass. His eyes widened when the axe bounced harmlessly off the glass as if it were hitting concrete. The same when he tried it on the doors.

With a fierce determination and building anger, he gripped the axe firmly in his hands. He drew in a deep breath and stomped toward the desk. Raising the axe with both hands, he swung as hard as he could. The top of the wood splintered as he dug deeper in the next swing. But after the third strike, a piercing cry rang out, so loud that Henry dropped the axe, falling to the ground, and covered his ears. A siren’s call of what once was pleasant weeks before became harrowing screams that felt as if his eardrums would soon burst and bleed.

When they finally stopped, he trembled as he stood and gazed at the desk. Three large slices marred the wood. It looked as if it were bleeding, the thick congealed liquid crimson red. He heard banging from the other side and realized Marie was trying to get in. She screamed for him as she pulled at the doors. He ran to the window and pounded on the glass. Through the filthy windows, he pointed to the desk and mouthed the words, “I’m trapped!”

The screeching cries drifted through the air again, this time bringing Marie to her knees. With his bloody hands covering his ears, he ran to the desk. “Stop it!” he screamed. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want! Please, please make it stop,” he begged.

He ran back to the window and saw Marie kneeling on the ground, her hands over her ears. The desk cried out once more, bringing his attention from Marie outside back to where it stood. It took on a sinister glow—not just from the secret drawer, the object itself was awash in an ominous light with shadows that danced around the room, as if a flash of airy spirits of the dead were slowly released one by one.

He took a few cautious steps towards the desk. Across its surface, scripted words appeared; they gouged themselves into the wood in spidery lines, accusing Henry of deceit and treachery. Each line quickly disappeared, only to be just as quickly replaced with more condemning him to a painful death.

He stepped back, his body uncontrollably shaking; he tripped over the kerosene heater, falling hard onto his back. In the corner of the room, he saw an extra jug of kerosene. He pulled himself up, sped to the kerosene, snatched it up and ran toward the desk. He splashed the clear liquid over the surface, dousing it liberally with as much as the container held.

Scratched on the surface: My love? As if it read his thoughts. He ran across the room and shuffled through the drawers, throwing the contents to the ground until he finally found a book of matches.

His fingers shook as he struck the match. His heart leapt as it flared, then fizzled; several more went the same way. Just three matches left; a flame, then nothing; another flame, another nothing. A tiny prayer escaped his lips as he struck the last match. The spark from this one reached the surface of the kerosene-soaked desk, engulfing it in flames. He jumped back when he saw etched in the flames: You shall die with me. The flames brightened and jumped from the desk to the wall behind, immediately setting it alight as bright orange flames licked toward the ceiling. Within minutes, knowing how many accelerants the place held thanks to Henry’s refinishing work, the garage would be blown to oblivion and he would go with it. His life’s work engulfed in flames. But at least Marie would be safe.

Marie!

He ran to the window. She was rising to her feet when her eyes widened, realizing the workshop was aflame. She yanked on the doors once more—but he gave her a look of resolve—it was no use—and shouted to her to run. He turned back to the desk. Amelia’s spirit burned, and the ghostly image of the woman he knew to be Amelia appeared in the flames. Her delicate features were distorted by the flame; her fingers reached out to him, calling to him to die with her. To not let her die alone.

Her beauty mesmerized him. Even burning in front of him, she was rapturous. She wore a nightgown with lace at the collar and sleeves of white linen. Her hair was let down and reached her waist. He felt the heat of the surrounding flames, his pores releasing volumes of sweat. The smoke was building, choking him in a grey haze, and he knew within a few minutes he’d die a fiery death.

As he took two more steps toward Amelia, he heard the blast of a car horn followed by the crashing of the shed doors, splintering in its path. Marie jumped from his pickup truck and pulled Henry safely inside the passenger seat, then ran back to the driver’s seat. She jammed it from park and into gear and rammed it into the blazing desk, immediately throwing it into reverse and out of the garage. She had barely reached the street from the end of the driveway when the garage blew; all the contents inside with it, in an explosion that rocked the neighborhood.

Henry’s head slammed into the dashboard when Marie skidded to a stop. He fell unconscious to the sound of fire trucks and the dying screams of a woman burning alive.

Henry woke three days later in the burn ward at Lake Forest Hospital. He blinked several times, bringing his surroundings into focus. Marie slept in a chair next to the bed, a blanket draped over her shoulders. His hands were bandaged, and he winced with pain, stirring Marie awake.

“Oh, hey,” she smiled.

He smiled back. “Water,” he whispered.

She brought the cup from the nightstand to his lips and cautioned him to sip.

“What happened?” he said, his voice cracking.

“Shush. Don’t talk. You inhaled a lot of smoke.”

He nodded. “Workshop?”

She laughed. “Boy, you make a lousy patient. Sleep, friend. You need to rest.”

He fell back asleep as she stroked his forehead. It was days later before Henry finally had most of his strength back. Tony and his bowling buddies visited, and Marie came every night after her shift at the library. She sat and read to him and filled him in on the happenings of the town. It was Marie who picked him up from the hospital in early December when he was finally released.

A fresh sprinkling of lake effect snow covered the charred remains of his beloved workshop. Henry was grateful the house had suffered minimal damage. But the workshop, his tools, and the desk were nothing but soot and ash.

Marie set a cup of tea in front of him and sat across from him. Neither said a word. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but a comfortable silence between two friends who didn’t need to fill the air with fluff.

Marie cleared her throat. She took a slip of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and pushed it toward Henry.

“What’s this?” he asked. He read the names and addresses listed on the paper.

“I tracked down the other desks.”

He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding and nodded. He knew exactly what the list meant: that he’d be destroying every desk still out there. Every last one.

“Not without me,” Marie said, as if she read his mind.

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “Thank you,” he replied.

CD Storiz loves to escape by reading and writing Science Fiction and Fantasy. Her previously published novelette, Relevant, was released with Kyanite Publishing. Her short story, Quietus, can be found in the anthology, Achten Tan: Land of Dust & Bone available at Amazon and other booksellers. CD is an editor with Skullgate Media and is the co-editor of Loathsome Voyages.

Electric Love

Michelle River

There is no easy way to start this except to come out and say it plainly—knowing that you will judge me, maybe even despise me—but here it is: I am addicted to having sex with my home appliances. There, I said it.

I know what you are thinking, what a disgusting pervert. And when it comes down to it, I don’t disagree. It is weird, and yes, even perverted. Most of you have probably never even heard of someone like me, didn’t even know it was a thing. Now, before you get all in your head about it, and Google all the mental illnesses I could have or what kind of fetish this is. Before you jump on the judging train, I guess I should explain how this all began.

It started so innocently, as most things do: me a dumb, impressionable teen in the late nineties watching the famous “American Pie” apple pie scene with my friends. I vividly remember sitting in my parents’ basement, the movie playing on the big-box television set, and all four of us laughing our asses off and joking about the pie. Wondering if cherry pie would feel different than apple. Someone made a comment about cream pie, and we almost pissed ourselves.

Eventually, the joke became a plan. Next thing I knew, we were all standing in line at the grocery store, each with a single apple pie in hand, nervous smiles plastered on our faces. Looking back, I can only imagine what that poor old cashier thought as she checked us all out, each paying with change we found in our piggy banks.

Giggling as we walked away, we left the store with pies in hand, eager to see for ourselves what all the fuss was about. We promised to meet up in the morning, before first period, to talk pie and how awesome we all were. What can I say? We were horny, stupid kids who needed to get laid; and the only thing that would even come close to letting us touch them were those fresh-from-the-bakery pies.

For me, the experience was life-changing. It was the beginning of a masturbatory obsession that I never outgrew.

After that first night of pleasantries with the pastry, I was hungry for more. Although I won't get into all the sordid details, I will admit I had relations with every pastry imaginable. No roll or baguette, puff pastry or shortcrust was safe from my wanton member. After a while I moved on from baked goods to something more… uncooked. For a year, I enjoyed every fruit and vegetable you could bore a hole through or squish together, reveling in the cool crispness and the variety of textures. Soon I wanted something more, though I was unsure exactly what that could even be. I was on the hunt for something different.

It was during this time that I discovered something very interesting about myself: I have a superpower. This is not something I say lightly, but as unusual as my talent is, I stand by my statement. You see, I can put my member inside anything and it will be not only comfortable; it will be pleasing. Like a Stretch Armstrong, it can mold and stretch to fit any opening, any shape, any size. And it always feels amazing. Like I said, I have a superpower.

My first encounter with a non-food item was the Sharp VHS-TV combo-unit from my childhood bedroom. I’m not sure why I tried to fuck my television combo that night. Boredom? Maybe it was the hum of static from the screen, or the warmth it gave off when I got close? Either way, it was perfect for my intended purpose. It was the perfect height, and its girth was just right in my arms. After my first night with Sharpy, I was hooked. I needed more; and now that I knew my superpower, nothing was off limits.

That was over… well, I’m sure you can all do the math. I am far out of my teens now, and over the years I’ve had relationships with all of my household appliances. As an adult, I tend to have my favorites—my go-to appliances—that have stayed with me since young adulthood… but I’m always up for trying something new. Where most adults get excited about the newest and latest tech or phones, I get excited about the newest style of fridge with a built-in ice machine. I scour garage sales and Kijiji ads, always on the hunt for a new piece to add to my ever-growing collection of household appliances.

Now, though, something is happening that I can’t explain, and it is scaring me. Something is very wrong with my household appliances, and I am starting to fear for my life.

It all started a few weeks ago.

At first, it wasn’t anything overly unusual, nothing to cause any alarm. But one day, I woke up and noticed some of my appliances were misplaced around my house. First it was the blender: I found her in the living room on top of the coffee table after work one day. I thought it was weird at the time, considering she had been put away for a few weeks, but I didn’t think too much about it; I quickly put her back in the closet, then went about my day and forgot about it almost immediately.

But then the next day, the shredder from my office was in the bathroom waiting for me when I woke up; the day after that, I found my old panini press on the kitchen table.

I was starting to become concerned. Except for a get-together with friends the weekend before, I hadn’t had anyone over recently; and my Canadian girlfriend was visiting her family back home, so I knew there was no one else around with a key who could be doing this. It just didn’t make any sense. I couldn’t explain how or what was happening, and that was frightening. Was I sleepwalking? Was I moving these things around and forgetting about it?

I was convinced I was the one doing this, so I locked myself in my room at night. Just to be safe. If I were moving things around the house, who knew what else I could be up to?

That was until I woke up last week with my refrigerator in the middle of the hallway just outside my bedroom door. I knew it couldn’t possibly have been me. There’s no way I could have physically moved him myself, could have dragged the weight of him across the kitchen, around the corner, and through a hallway without waking up. It was impossible. Someone or something else was doing this.

The next night I was startled awake by loud, abrupt sounds of crashing and breaking in the kitchen. I grabbed a bat that I had tucked under my bed and ran down the hallway, ready to defend myself from any intruder and find out once and for all who was playing this sick joke on me.

The kitchen was destroyed. Cans and spices from the cupboard littered the place. Charlie—the new toaster I had just picked up—lay in pieces on the ceramic floor; his hard shell was dented and ripped open, and his internal grills and springs scattered all around the room.

I didn’t understand. Who would come into my house to destroy my kitchen? I looked around to see if there was any more damage, but the only other thing out of place was the old blender. She was sitting in the new toaster’s place on the counter, her plug secured in the outlet ready to be turned on.

Alarmed, I called the police and tiptoed through the house while I waited for them to arrive. Bat in hand, I checked every room and closet, positive I would find someone lurking behind every door, in every dark corner… but there was no one there. Every door and window was locked, just like I had left them. It didn’t make sense. Someone had to be here… yet there was no one.

The police were just as baffled as I was. They took my statement and recorded the damage for their report, asking me to confirm if anything else was missing or damaged. Since nothing appeared to be missing, and the only damage was in the kitchen, they left after providing no help at all except a suggestion that I change the locks in the morning.

Befuddled and on edge, I proceeded to clean up the mess. I threw away the new toaster, then waited nervously in my room until dawn for the hardware store to open so I could go out and buy new locks. Sunrise came and I rushed to the store to pick up the most solid-looking locks I could get my hands on; I even got a chain for my bedroom door, an extra line of protection against whomever was playing this nasty trick on me.

The house was quiet for the next couple of days. At night I would retire to my room with my old Sharp VHS player to keep me company while I tried to forget the insanity that was happening around me. The peace didn’t last long, though.

I arrived home from work one day to find my printer, Helen, laying in pieces on the floor of my home office. It looked like someone had smashed her on the floor and then proceeded to stomp on her. The ink cartridges had been torn out, their sticky goo splattered over the walls and the ceiling like a grisly crime scene. Her guts lay in ruin on the floor. Even the paper had been shredded.

Over the last week, more strange and disturbing things have begun to happen; things I cannot explain, and that no one would believe even if I could. At night I can hear them: the oven timer beeping, the microwave turning on and off, the dishwasher running over and over. The washing machine thundered in the laundry room like it had an uneven load left on the rinse cycle. More than once I’ve woken to find my hallway filled with appliances—large and small—waiting for me.

Which leads me to right now.

Something is happening outside my bedroom door. I can hear them moving down the hallway, their heavy metal feet scraping against the floor and scratching up the hardwood. They clatter and slam; their doors bang open and closed as they thump towards my room. They are getting closer.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to call. The police will never believe me; they’ll just laugh at me and call me crazy. They wouldn’t be wrong. This is crazy.

I can hear something banging on my door now, throwing its heavy body against the wood, trying to break it down. They are almost in. I can see a light from the refrigerator illuminating the cracks around the door; it flashes on and off, swinging wildly with every thump and thud.

I don’t know how much more the door can take. The frame is starting to splinter under the assault; my new chain is my last defense against the machines.

Please, if anyone is reading this, I need your help. I don’t know how this happened, or why it is happening, but I need help. Someone has to save Sharpy, my VHS player. Let them kill me and grind me into mush upon the carpet, I am sure I deserve it. But Sharpy is innocent in all of this. She doesn’t deserve to be crushed and ripped to pieces just because she loves me. Just because I love her. Please. Anyone. Save Sharpy.

Michelle River hails from Ontario, Canada where she lives with her wonderful husband, fearless daughter, and newborn son. A lover of hot black coffee and everything dark and terrifying, she spends her nights reading and writing horror and dreaming about all things that go bump in the night. Ever the creative spirit, Michelle is never happier than when she has three projects on the go. She is the Owner and Project Manager of Eerie River Publishing, focusing on promoting indie authors through high-quality horror and dark fiction anthologies. You can Eerie River on Facebook: www.Facebook.com/EerieRiver/ Michelle is also on Facebook: www.Facebook.com/MichelleRiverAuthor/

Becoming A Man

Tim Mendees

“We only know a tiny proportion about the complexity of the natural world. Wherever you look, there are still things we don’t know about and don’t understand. There are always new things to find out if you go looking for them.” ― David Attenborough.

* * *

I learned of the tragic story of Walter Edwards back in my undergrad days. I had landed a distinguished place at Cambridge University, as a student of Biology with a focus on Carcinology. I found it peculiar that a scholar of ancient texts and part-time adventurer would be so highly regarded in the field of river fauna. It wasn't until I learned of his big discovery, and his horrible and tragic end, that I realised the significance of his discovery; to say nothing of the sacrifice that Walter Edwards made in the pursuit of knowledge and scientific discovery.

As his name has been somewhat lost to time, I feel it only fitting that the man whose work has inspired so much of my later life be remembered in some fashion. This is the reason I now tell the tale of Walter Edwards, a hero to science and my personal inspiration.

Walter Edwards was a sickly child, in stark contrast to his four rough-and-tumble elder siblings, plagued by illness all of his life. It was a family joke: Walter got all five brothers’ sicknesses. His mother’s constant mollycoddling didn’t help his frailty and weak demeanor.

Due to the tragic circumstances of his birth, his twin brother was stillborn, and her subsequent depression and reliance on strong medication, Rebecca wouldn't let the boy out of her sight.

This stifling upbringing had the negative effect of turning Walter into a world-class mother’s boy. It also bred a fierce resentment between him and his brothers. Walter was so attached to his mother's apron strings he spent little time with his father and siblings.

When his mother accidentally overdosed on laudanum and died in September 1911, Walter retreated into himself, becoming even more distant and aloof.

His father didn’t know what to do with a boy who shied away from rugby and boxing, and had no interest in joining the army. Thus, young Walter was left to his own devices most of the time, forming a closer relationship to his tutor than his family, but Walter thrived. He devoured books and teachings with a voracious appetite; it came as no surprise when he enrolled at Oxford to study the English language.

Walter was naturally a highly dedicated student that eschewed the usual hi-jinks and tomfoolery one expects from students, and as a result, he shone. He would later extend his studies into the fields of theology, philology, and anthropology.

The seeds that would drag this quiet, milquetoast academic to the Amazon were sown during his final year at Oxford. A visiting professor from Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts piqued Walter's interest in so-called 'forbidden knowledge' during a lecture on the legendary Livre d'Eibon. Professor Joseph Carstairs was an expert in philology and anthropology, and was one of the few academics that had complete, unrestricted access to the forbidden books of the Miskatonic and Harvard libraries. He had dedicated his life to finding, studying, and translating ancient texts pertaining to archaic cults and religions, and was regarded as the top in his field.

Walter and Professor Carstairs became quick friends, both men were cut from the same cloth and could be described as kindred spirits. When Walter finished at Oxford, he accepted a junior professor position at Miskatonic University, studying under Carstairs. For the first time, he felt he belonged.

Amongst the dusty tomes of the university library, he found a serenity that had eluded him his whole life. The ancient streets and general antiquity spoke to him in ways his home country never did. The dark legends and superstitions appealed to his nature. Walter had always been drawn to the macabre.

His studies went well, and he was fast becoming an expert in his field. Then, one day, he received news that cut his time in the U.S.A. short. On March 13, 1926, his father, Sir Thomas Edwards, suffered a stroke and subsequently died. Walter returned home for the funeral and stayed at the family home, at least for a time.

Prof. Carstairs kept in regular contact with his protégé and had all of Walter’s work and personal effects sent to him by shipping container. Walter continued to study with Carstairs by post and began his investigations into ancient religions.

Walter became the master of Barncoose Manor. His brothers Michael, David, and Matthew had followed their father into military service and were stationed abroad. His other brother, Christopher, who had a reputation as a hedonist and a womaniser, dropped out of Cambridge, much to his father's displeasure, not to join the armed forces, but to become an explorer. But Christopher chewed through his inheritance and found himself back at Barncoose Manor with Walter.

Walter kept meticulous journals and diaries since returning to England. The following is an entry from the day of Christopher's return:

February 19th, 1927.

Christopher returned home today having spent the previous six months on the Amazon river. He regaled me with tales of his exploits. I listened with fascination as he told me of the strange customs and crumbling temples of the region. But, as always, brother Christopher was more interested in the local women than anything of historical value. I can't help thinking that the experience of being an explorer is wasted on someone of such base desires.

It was over a small luncheon that his motives for returning home became clear; Christopher was broke. The man had the damn nerve to ask me to fund his next expedition, a proposal I flatly refused.

Christopher cursed me and left in somewhat of a foul mood. The whole incident brought on one of my migraines and I had to retire to bed.

The narrative continued the following day, with a surprising development:

February 20th, 1927.

Damn Christopher's eyes. He knows just how to aggravate me into giving him what he wants.

Upon awakening, I went down to breakfast and sat in the dining room. Christopher was already there, consuming a plate of sausages and eggs. He apologised for his actions the previous day, and we returned to a state of cordiality.

As the day progressed, talk turned once more to his proposed expedition. He aimed to lead a small band of academics to a ruined temple he discovered in a remote area. The local guides refused to even go near the ancient site, forcing him to merely mark it on the map and attempt a return with a less superstitious team.

Christopher goaded me with an offer to join him on the adventure, and then when I refused, he launched into one of the personal attacks that I know him so well for. In his eyes, I am less than a man. Because I refuse to womanise as he does and go gallivanting around the globe, I am a coward, a mother’s boy, and a disgrace to the family name. During the ensuing argument, he manipulated me into accepting his grand offer, to prove that I am a man. I wish I could rise above such petty insults, but I guess I have inherited some of my father's bull-headed pride. The expedition will take place in six months: Christopher will handle the arrangements, and I will handle the funding. As much as I curse my brother for goading me into his plans, I cannot deny a sense of excitement at the adventure.

It was during our parting conversation that he mentioned something that sparked my interest. He mentioned the superstitious natives muttering about 'the black stone'. This is something I have heard of before. In the Book of Eibon, no less! I must send a letter to Professor Carstairs at once. He may be able to shed more light on this matter.

* * *

Walter's entries are run of the mill for the next couple of weeks, complaining about his health and his brother's drunken antics, but nothing of much note. It does become clear that he sent a letter to his mentor about the upcoming expedition, and he eventually received a reply:

March 7th, 1927.

Curiouser and curiouser; I received a letter today from Carstairs, in response to my letter about the strange temple and the black stone. I was correct in seeing reference to the black stone in the Book of Eibon. It is said that of the two known black stones, one is in the hills near the village of Stregoicavar, Hungary, and the other is housed in the Temple of The Toad in Peru. Both were reportedly used in rites and worship to a deity known as Tsathoggua. The strange thing is that the temple that my brother found was in eastern Peru, the opposite end of the country from the known location of the Temple of the Toad. So, unless the location of the Temple of The Toad is incorrect, my idiot brother has found a previously undiscovered place of worship to Tsathoggua.

Another mystery is that while Tsathoggua is described as a furry, winged toad with cloven hoofs, the statue my brother saw at the temple more closely resembled some kind of insect or crustacean. The second mystery could probably be easily explained by time damage or my brother being a complete drunken oaf, who saw a dead and twisted tree and thought it a statue.

Carstairs is just as interested as am I about this mysterious temple, and requests regular updates and reports. In return he is copying the relevant passages from the Book of Eibon. This will prove most useful once we embark on our quest.

* * *

Walter's entries for the six or so months leading up to his trip to the Amazon basin mostly comprise meticulous notes on his preparation. I have decided not to include these in my narrative, as they are tedious in the extreme; I will instead skip to September 7th, when the expedition was in full swing.

September 7th, 1927. 10:27 am.

Finally: we found the trail that my brother lost two days ago and are, allegedly, back on track to finding the temple. To say that I have little faith in my brother's navigational prowess would be a gross understatement.

The humidity and altitude have given me yet another nosebleed. The archaeologist, Stephen Railman, from the Cambridge team, kindly gave me his handkerchief, as mine became clotted with blood yesterday.

The mood has changed for the better since rejoining the trail, and all talk of abandoning the expedition has ceased. The guide, a roguish Brazilian with a stout physique, assures us we should reach our destination before nightfall.

Since leaving San Miguel De Tangarará, I have felt a growing cloud of unease dog our steps. We consist of three archaeologists, a scholar, and a drunken adventurer, traveling in the darkest parts of the Amazon rainforest with three bearers and a guide. We are under-supplied, under-manned, and effectively clueless.

Everything here is hostile: the plants, the snakes, the damn bugs. I am covered in itchy bites and stings, and I cannot wait to get back to the comfort of Barncoose Manor.

September 7th, 1927. 15:42 pm.

At last!

We have finally arrived at our destination. We will make a cursory examination of the site after we have pitched camp and had some sustenance.

The temple itself is a strange structure, not at all what I thought it would be. It doesn't seem to display any of the Aztec or Mayan influences I was expecting; it seems older, less refined.

The area in which the temple stands is strange. The rainforest seems to shun the site in some weird way. It is almost as though someone has ringed the temple with a chalk line, which the flora and fauna refuse to cross. This is a plus for setting up camp: the dead weeds and trees are easily removed, giving us a good foundation. However, it has had the detrimental effect of unnerving both myself and the local bearers. They mutter amongst themselves in their native tongue about a blight or curse. I'm sure it is just primitive superstition, but I must confess to being unsettled by the silence of the area.

September 7th, 1927. 19:22 pm.

We have just returned to camp after our first excursion to the temple, and I am buzzing with excitement. I believe my brother has stumbled upon a site of tremendous historical importance. I must get a letter to Car-stairs immediately.

After my brother finally managed to get the natives to remove the covering stone to the rough stone structure, I was one of the first to enter along with Prof. Jones, an archaeologist from Cambridge.

The entrance to the temple was in amazingly good condition, despite its great age. The low door to the temple opened into a small antechamber. Jones played his electric torch, a repurposed mining lamp, over the walls. At first, they seemed bare, but after brushing away a thick layer of dust, we saw that the chamber was covered in bas-reliefs of an almost hieroglyphical design, though they conformed to no known discipline.

Jones was in a state of acute excitement and called his colleagues, Railman and Davies, in to look. The three beavered away with brushes and small picks, and soon we could see what adorned the walls of this ancient place.

I will have to concede that Christopher may have been correct in his description of the deity worshipped in this strange place. The bas-reliefs depict a rag-tag selection of humanity, not of any particular race or epoch but all sharing a downtrodden and destitute aspect, bringing gifts of what appear to be carrion, decaying flesh, to a huge monstrosity.

The being appears insectoid or crustacean in origin. Its ovoid head is crowned with three long stalks, each holding a grotesquely bulbous eye. A row of vicious-looking spines directly follows the contour of its chitinous back. Many hair-like legs, similar to those of a shrimp, sit under the rear portion of the carapace. Under the head, two arms, ending in vicious-looking pincers, poise menacingly. In the centre of the head is a huge circular maw, ringed with nasty needle-like teeth, somewhat akin to a lamprey. The ghastly visage is completed by a set of thin, membranous wings and scorpion-like sting on the end of its tail. The creature sits coiled on a large, flat, polished stone, feasting voraciously on the bodies of dead animal and human cadavers.

As we studied the carvings and sculptures, my brother found the release mechanism for the inner door: a masterful example of ancient engineering, for the door turned easily on a pivot despite its age. A rush of some stale foetid stench rushed out of the opened aperture, causing us to retreat outside for fresh air. After a few minutes, we dared to venture inside once more and explore the revealed space.

Torches lined the gently sloping corridor. The same type of carvings stretched the length of the passage. As we traversed the tunnel, lighting the torches as we went, something struck me as odd. You would expect a temple, sealed and untrodden for countless years, to be covered in a veil of cobwebs. You would expect vermin, insects, and snakes to have made the temple their own, but there were no signs of life whatsoever. Nature is the ultimate bailiff, reclaiming buildings and bodies as soon as the lease is up; but not here. It was as though all forms of life had shunned this strange place.

As we reached the end of the tunnel, the overpowering stench intensified. It wasn't just the stench of mould and decay; it had a kind of refuse-like smell, like a primaeval rubbish dump. The corridor opened into a vast circular chamber. The black stone stood in the center of the chamber. It shone and glistened in the flickering torchlight. This was the chamber depicted in the decorative carvings of the temple. The black stone was an altar—but not, as Carstairs and I had thought, in praise of Tsathoggua.

The room was strewn with the remnants of ages. Bones, pottery, Aztec head-dresses; all and sundry. The magpie instinct of my brother came to the fore, and he began rummaging in the compost of civilizations for gold and trinkets.

A compost heap; that was what the room reminded me of, that or a historical landfill site.

Amongst the debris, I found what was to be the most important discovery of the expedition so far. In the discarded robes of a holy man, I discovered an ancient book wrapped in a filthy cloth and remarkably preserved. Strong metal clasps secured the coarse leather-bound book. Upon opening the book, I discovered its title: Terreno Baldio De Ger'igguthy. It was written by a man called Nuno Goterrez, and the guide helpfully informed me the title roughly translated to “Ger'igguthy's Wasteland”. Though it appeared to be a copy, it was of great age.

I expressed my desire to look at the book back at camp, and we called it quits for the day. I am now about to examine the strange book with great curiosity.

It is easy to hypothesise by the next entry that Walter Edwards spent the remainder of the seventh flicking through the yellowed pages of the discovered book.

September 8th, 1927. 03:16 am.

I was just shaken from a strange nightmare by a furtive scuttling sound. It seemed to come from the direction of the temple and moved to the tributary just over the way. As my senses returned, I disregarded the noise, rationalising that it must be nothing more than an extension of my dream. The dream: I was foraging in a waste-land with a horde of rats when suddenly I was lured away by a strange tune. At first, I thought it a reminiscence of The Pied Piper of Hamelin, but the dream continued through the rainforest and into the temple.

My fellow rodents and I were lured to the circular chamber and into the gaping maw of Ger'igguthy.

I now realise that what I dreamt was evidently induced by the late-night study of the simple line illustrations within the book. I cannot wait to return home and start my translation of the text.

I will now try to regain slumber and pray I do not dream.

The morning of September the eighth was one of tragedy, and of the utmost importance to the legacy of Walter Edwards. A horrific event happened to the young man while he was down at the nearby tributary performing his morning ablutions:

September 8th, 1927. 10:36 am.

Dear Lord, why am I punished so!

I had gone down to the water to wash. Once I had bathed and dressed, I turned to relieve myself. The action was met by a searing pain in my crotch. I screamed in agony, fell backwards, and nearly blacked out. I must have made one hell of a noise; two of our bearers came running to my aid.

They dragged me back from the bank and had a hushed conversation. My Portuguese is terrible, but I kept hearing a repeated word; Candirú. I later learned from our native guide the candirú is a small, parasitic fish related to the catfish. According to local legend, it can swim, or fly, up a stream of urine and lodge itself in a man's urethra. My fellow professors and I all dismissed this tale as impossible, but I could not deny that there was something lodged in my manhood, something alive.

I have shunned intercourse all my life in fear of catching some ghastly infection. For this to happen is the cruellest irony.

The pain has subsided somewhat, but it returns in crippling waves. Sadly, we have cut the expedition short, despite my brother's protestations, to get me proper medical aid. We start back to San Miguel De Tangarará at first light.

* * *

The abandoning of the expedition came as a terrific blow to Walter Edwards. While his brother was content with the loot he took from the temple; Walter wanted to glean more information about this strange, unknown religion and its monstrous deity: Ger'igguthy.

The next few days reported an arduous journey back to San Miguel De Tangarará. Walter increasingly slipped into pain induced delirium. Dreams of a vast wasteland tortured him, and he became deprived of restful sleep.

By the time the party arrived at the hospital, Walter was in a terrible state. The doctors who examined him were powerless to help, as is documented in Walter's diary entry for the thirteenth of September:

September 13th, 1927. 14:12 pm.

The doctors have just informed me they cannot remove the parasite. They also informed me that what I had inside me was NOT a candirú but something unknown. It seems I will have to wait until I can get back to England before I can get the hellish creature removed. Christopher has chartered a flight on the morrow that will get me back home.

The dreams are getting more intense; I feel I am losing a piece of myself with each nightmare. Another disturbing symptom that has recently manifested is that I keep hearing chittering, whispering sounds when I am alone.

The tincture of opium the doctors prescribed helps a lot with the pain, but it leaves me delirious and confused. I need to get this condition fixed as soon as possible, as I am loathed to fall into opiate addiction as my poor mother did.

* * *

Upon his return to the UK, some of the country’s top doctors saw Walter. Sir Donald Gull, a surgeon specializing in andrology from St. Bartholomew's hospital in London, took a special interest in his case.

Having heard about the myth of the candirú from unconfirmed accounts of explorers and native whisperings, Gull relished the chance to study the phenomenon. The doctor quickly confirmed what was lodged in Walter Edwards' urethra was not a candirú fish but was, in fact, in origin an insect, though it corresponded to no known species.

They could not remove the creature without causing massive damage to Walter's body. It had buried spines along the length of the organ and had tightly lodged its growing body in his scrotum. The organism seemed to gorge on the waste usually expelled from the penis and was growing at an alarming rate.

Upon learning of the strange critter, the scientific community became feverishly interested in Walter's plight. The hospital held viewings and examinations to classify and study the newly discovered creature.

Walter seemed resigned to becoming something of an exhibit, though it is evident from the following passage that he wasn't exactly happy about it:

October 5th, 1927.

My misery continues uninterrupted.

As it seems I am host to a species hitherto unknown to man, doctors and biologists the length and breadth of England have been flocking to London in their droves to stare in wonder at my meat and two veg.

If the humiliation wasn't enough, they seem to all want to poke and squeeze the creature, causing it to dig its spines in deeper and deeper, which leads to blinding pain.

Hopefully, these brain-boxes and learned men will find a solution to my little 'friend'. Then at least all the suffering and embarrassment will have been worth something.

Gull says they will probably name the creature after me, as though that is supposed to be of some small comfort.

* * *

By late October, the creature entered a state of dormancy. It had stopped growing, and no longer caused Walter any pain. He could once again urinate as normal but the creature seemed to filter any waste and impurity, leaving Walter passing just water.

For all intents and purposes, Walter was back to normal; he moved back to Barncoose Manor to live in comfort while Sir Gull decided how best to proceed.

In private letters that Sir Gull shared with another eminent physician, they postulated the theory that Walter and the creature had entered a strange pact of symbiosis.

Upon returning to his home of Barncoose Manor, Walter started on a slow and steady mental decline. His aberrations began slowly with somnambulism and terrible dreams similar to the ones he suffered in the rainforest.

We continue the tragic story of Walter Edwards in mid-November. He had been corresponding with Carstairs on translating and studying Ger'igguthy's Wasteland. Walter's diary entries document his growing obsession with the strange tome and his degrading sanity:

November 17th, 1927. 13:39 pm.

Carstairs has made great headway into translating Ger'igguthy’s Wasteland. He enlisted a highly regarded Portuguese translator to work on the book. Strangely, the man quit work on the translation after just a few days. Carstairs says the man had some sort of breakdown and has taken himself away to recuperate.

Carstairs elected to carry on the translation himself. Using the translator's notes and a stack of Portuguese dictionaries of a wide range of eras, Carstairs hopes to publish the text in a few university libraries. I received the first batch of the translations this morning and began reading after a small luncheon. My appetite has still not returned.

The book appears to be a travelogue of sorts written by a Catholic explorer called Nuno Goterrez, a man attached to the Portuguese inquisition. Goterrez was stationed, with a small papist group, in central Peru.

While touring the Amazon basin, Goterrez heard whispers of blasphemous cults at work in the area. Together with a group of men, they searched for the source of these dark forces. Goterrez suffers from strange dreams and the narrative starts to descend into a nightmare of delusions and paranoia.

I await the next set of translations with bated breath.

November 17th, 1927. 20:24 pm.

I must have nodded off in my chair after dinner. In my dream, I was wandering the halls of the manor. In the study I encountered the young maid, Sophie, dusting the antique globe. I poured her a brandy, and we sat together. To cut a long story short; I seduced her, and we fornicated on the desk.

I awoke in a sweat. I have never had amorous dreams before; I have always kept my mind focused on the higher things and eschewed my base animal urges. I cannot ignore, however, the urges that now appear to have awakened. My 'friend' was obviously in agreement and pulsed fiercely. I feel it may be time that I did indeed sample the pleasures of the flesh. Not with Sophie, however; one should not spit on one's own doorstep, after all.

I have found it hard to settle after my racy dream, and I will have to resort to a sleeping draft.

November 18th, 1927. 05:15 am.

The most intense dream yet: I was crawling amongst the bones and waste of a billion souls. I was in a charnel pit with my limbs being nibbled and consumed by a thousand strange insects. A strange man in obscene black robes came to me and placed his hand on my head. In a croaking, cadaverous voice he spoke: "Give your soul to the scavenger; become one of the discarded."

I have no idea what he meant, but I have awoken with a feeling of dread such as I have never felt before. My 'friend' was pulsing again. Did he have something to do with the dream?

I must send a note to Gull with the first post.

* * *

The next entries continue the theme of sexual awakening and disturbing dreams. Walter did indeed send the letter to Gull; the reply invited him to stay at the doctor's house for yet more tests and to discuss his odd dreams.

On November the twenty-first, Walter Edwards took the train from Truro to London’s Paddington Stations, from there a carriage to Gull’s large town-house in the fashionable West End. Gull's wife had died several years past, and both of his sons had flown the coop and become doctors in their own right. He lived alone save for a small staff: one cook, two maids, and a butler by the name of Richards.

Walter had left a forwarding address, as he was eagerly awaiting Carstairs' next batch of translations. He quickly settled into the doctor's luxurious house and his spirits seemed to lift somewhat.

During the day he helped at the hospital, running errands for Sir. Gull (when he wasn't being examined by the medical fraternity, that is). This left the evenings free for Walter to explore the city of London in all its dubious glories.

November 25th, 1927.

What a day!

After an interminable morning, wherein yet another useless so-called expert manhandled my genitalia then shook his head in defeat, I took in a show and sampled the nightlife of Chelsea.

Following a lukewarm production of Hamlet, I went on to a fashionable restaurant in Kensington for a steak. The steak was sublime, but alas, I could not eat all of it. I did, however, develop a taste for the wine. I have never been a big drinker, but today the wine was the best thing I had ever tasted. I consumed a bottle, then elected to find a traditional London public house.

I must have taken a wrong turn when I left the eatery: instead of Chelsea, I found myself in Soho. I selected a lively establishment and took a seat after ordering a bottle to the table. As I drank the fine vintage and listened to the lively banter of the establishment's patrons, I suddenly found myself with company.

She introduced herself as Gladys Epsom, though I doubt that this was her true identity. She was a striking woman with golden hair and full red lips. I knew in an instant she was a lady of the night and said as much. She tipped her head back and laughed, then asked if that was a problem. My normal response would have been revulsion, followed by asking her to leave. Going completely against my nature, I said no and asked the bartender for another glass.

She proved to be a charming companion, definitely one of the higher-class harlots of old London town. Not one of the tramps of Whitechapel, that's for sure. She worked part-time as an artist's nude. She definitely had the figure for it and supplemented her income, so to speak, with handsome gentlemen about town.

We drank more wine as she regaled me with stories of the parties she had attended and the poets and artists she had rubbed shoulders with. It turned out Gladys was something of a socialite. Her mixture of flattery and stunning looks, in a revealing flapper dress, had worked some kind of magic on me. My entire body throbbed and my vision swam intensely. Before I knew what was going on, money had changed hands and we were behind a bank engaging in what she called a knee-trembler.

I would have thought that shame would have engulfed me after losing my virginity in such a base manner, but instead, I feel enriched; reborn almost. I simply must have more.

* * *

Walter goes strangely quiet at this point. There are no entries for four days, then:

November 29th, 1927. 04:25 am.

Yet another nocturnal horror!

I dreamt I was walking the streets of London, the slums of Whitechapel, to be specific. I was 'coupling' with one of the toothless whores that crowd Duval Street at night. As I watched, a small, white insect climbed her filthy, knotted shawl, scuttled under her filthy bonnet, and slipped into her ear. A momentary look of panic flashed across her eyes like St Elmo's fire, swiftly replaced by a dull contentment.

Once I had finished, I stepped out of the dim alley and into the street. A collection of the dregs of humanity stood like cattle, dumb and slack-jawed, awaiting my next move. I turned and walked along Bucks Row in the footsteps of Saucy Jack, the refuse of humanity following in my wake like I was the Pied Piper of wastrels.

Again, I awoke in a sweat, pulsing horribly and tingling all over. I called for a glass of water and the prettiest of the maids, Julie, brought it. As I sipped the water, I caught myself looking at the lithe body of the maid with desire and arousal. I hastily bid her leave and now I am about to take a tincture to cool my ardour, though something seems to hold me back.

November 29th, 1927. 10:11 am.

Finally! I have received a large ream of papers from Carstairs. I intend to spend the day in the study of the strange texts, then the evening in a study of an altogether different kind with Gladys.

November 29th, 1927. 16:43 pm.

What I have just read has filled me with the most profound sense of horror that I have felt since my 'friend' first joined with me.

Goterrez's tale continues with his fellow Catholic soldiers falling foul of a strange parasite that compels them to commit what he describes as 'unspeakable' acts on the native women. He tries to fight, but it is to no avail and soon half of Peru is infected with the parasite.

The similarity to my insatiable desires of late sent icy fingers down my spine. I couldn't read any further and had to take an ice-cold bath.

I know I should cancel my date with Gladys, but every time I think to call for an urchin to relay a message, the throbbing starts and I am incapable of taking action.

I must ready myself for my date!

November 30th, 1927. 00:15 am.

I have just returned from the most wonderful night of debauchery. Gladys was in superb form and had brought a friend just as lovely as her!

One slightly unnerving event took place, however. When Gladys disrobed, I noticed a web of thin dark lines on her lower abdomen. She explained it away as her suspender belt being too tight and interfering with the blood flow, but I am not so sure.

God, I hope she has not infected me with pox or some other ghastly malady. My genetalia are enough of a disaster area as it is!

The following morning, Walter read more of Carstairs' translation of Ger'igguthy's Wasteland, which seemed to trouble him greatly:

November 30th, 1927. 14:52 pm.

Ger'igguthy the Scavenger, that is the name of the deity worshipped in that ancient and blasphemous temple. He is also known variously as 'the parasite god' and the 'ruler of the wasteland'. He is one of the old ones, a cosmic entity from the dawn of time that came to our planet in its infancy. Kin to Tsathoggua and the scavenger of the refuse of societies.

He feasted on the waste of vast ancient civilisations. On the abandoned and destitute. Growing larger and stronger with each feast. And as humanity grows and creates more and more waste, so does Ger'igguthy grow in strength.

The men in Goterrez's party, after first spreading the foul seed of the parasite god, went insane and threw themselves into the pit of Ger'igguthy. This must be the temple. It was no temple, after all; it truly WAS a rubbish dump.

I fear reading anymore and have pleaded with Gull to remove the creature from my body. He said that there was no safe way of doing so and gave me a sedative that, even now, I feel spreading through my body, pulling me to a torturous slumber.

* * *

Less than a week later, Walter’s brother Christopher arrived in London in a state of distress and carrying some awful news.

December 4th, 1927. 13:15pm.

Christopher appeared at the house today. The poor chap was in a terrible state. Apparently, the maid, Sophie, jumped off the Blasted Crag yesterday. She and Christopher had been having something of a clandestine affair, unknown to everyone. The poor girl was with child and unable to cope with the shame of being burdened with a child outside of wedlock.

Understandably, Christopher blames himself for the girl's suicide and has been drinking himself into a stupor since he arrived. Gull magnanimously said that he could stay in one of the guest rooms for a while to recuperate, and prescribed him something to calm his nerves.

I can't get the dream I suffered last night concerning the recently departed Sophie out of my head. Poor girl.

* * *

Walter Edwards' first major contribution to science was a paper that he and Gull published in early December dispelling the myth of the candirú fish. They had been researching the creature and carrying out frankly dangerous tests.

After returning from Peru with his 'friend', as Walter called the parasite, he and Gull had acquired a number of candirú specimens. The creatures were studied, dissected, and examined. Gull even went so far as bathing with them, urinating in the water, and other foolhardy experiments.

They concluded that all the historical reports, including that of C.F.P. Von Martius over a century before, had been mistaken. The majority of the reports were based on hearsay: warnings and accounts of the apparent phenomenon by local natives.

So, in conclusion: if some unfortunate natives had been host to a parasite, and it wasn't a candirú fish, then what was it? All the evidence points to a fellow of the creature that was currently making a home in Walter Edwards' genitalia.

Since Christopher's arrival in London, the brothers had been almost inseparable. Now that Walter appreciated women and alcohol, he and his elder sibling had been raising hell in London's east end.

In mid-December, Walter travelled to Soho to track down Gladys. She was still his favourite good-time girl, though they had not seen each other since the night in November.

December 16th, 1927. 22:43 pm.

Christopher and I travelled to Soho tonight, intending to meet Gladys. After some enquiries around the local pubs, we were met with some disturbing news.

Gladys' friend, Jane, informed me that Glady’s had found herself pregnant and took herself to a back-alley clinic for a termination. Something inside her snapped that day and she was carted off to Bethlem Asylum in Southwark, screaming about some kind of ultimate horror. The dubious medical man who performed the illegal operation has also suffered something of a mental collapse. We tracked him down, but he was insensibly drunk and raving incoherently.

Later, when we had returned to Jane, I noticed something else that sent me cold. She, too, had the strange spider’s-web marks on her lower abdomen. Something tells me I am in dire peril, but then is quickly silenced by another voice that merely says: Rejoice!

* * *

One day later, an article appeared in the Evening Standard that would later shed significant light on the horrors to come. It was tucked away in a corner, and if Walter saw it, then he never mentioned it in his journal.

WOMAN GIVES BIRTH TO LIVE LOBSTERS

Martha Chapman, a Whitechapel unfortunate, created a scene of panic last night when she gave birth to a clutch of lobsters. Authorities found the overwrought woman lying in a shop doorway off Duval Street; inebriated and chanting in an unknown language.

Horrified onlookers could only gaze in horror as several live crustaceans scuttled out from beneath her garments.

The police and medical men concluded the woman had been practising some unknown perversion with the creatures. The examining doctor declared the woman insane.

Chapman was taken to Bethlem Hospital for her safety.

* * *

After much research, I have deduced that the urban myth of the woman giving birth to crustaceans or insects comes from this story. It is also abundantly clear, that it is in truth, no urban myth, but a true event directly related to Walter Edwards and his 'friend'.

Things spiralled out of control after Walter's trip to Soho. He realized something was very wrong, but some agency seemed to keep distracting him from the truth. From Dr. Gull's records, Walter dropped weight in mid-December and his mental health seemed to unravel.

I will now print the entries from the 20th of December up to Walter Edwards' tragic loss of life.

December 20th, 1927. 03:19 am.

I just awoke from another one of my dreams. All the girls had black lines on their belly and my 'friend' seemed pleased.

After reading more of that awful tome, I cannot help thinking that I am being used to spread the spawn of that dreadful god.

NO! IT IS JUST BRUISES!

I don't know what compelled me to write that, but it is probably true. I need a sedative.

December 20th, 1927. 13:43 pm.

I just returned from the baths with my brother. When we were changing, I accidentally caught a glimpse of his manhood; it was covered in shadowy black lines!

December 20th, 1927. 18:25pm.

I asked my brother about the lines on his member; he explained to me it was just bruising from 'over-exertion'. I'm not so sure.

IT IS JUST BRUISES!

Perhaps it is just bruising.

December 20th, 1927. 22:12 pm.

We dined with Sir Gull this evening. During the meal, the conversation turned to talk of a strange new pox that he and his fellows had been called to look into. He described the symptoms: black lines around the genitalia and abdomen. My blood ran cold.

Christopher confided to Gull that he had the telltale lines. Gull prescribed penicillin and told him to refrain from any 'activity' until the infection had cleared. GULL IS A FOOL!

He also instructed me to refrain from said activities until my ‘friend’ could be removed. GULL IS A FOOL!

My resolve to abstain lasted all of half an hour, as on my way to bed I bumped into a maid and invited her up to my room. REJOICE!

I had my way with her warm and inviting body. When finished, I stood up to get dressed. Before she could pull the bedclothes about her nakedness I saw she had black lines on her abdomen.

December 21st, 1927. 05:22 am.

Dear God, the horror!

Anne, one of Gull's maids, awoke the household with shrill screaming. The poor girl was found on the stairs in complete agony. She was bleeding heavily from between her legs and was completely delirious.

Richards the butler, Gull, and my brother were trying to help the girl when I arrived on the landing. When she saw me, she screamed the word “Rejoice!” followed by a jumble of syllables and incoherent ravings. Her eyes grew wide in a look of ecstasy as tens of small lobster-like creatures scuttled out of her womb. As her 'spawn' rushed across the hall and disappeared down the drain, Anne screamed what sounded like “Iä Iä Ger'igguthy!” before drifting into unconsciousness.

Gull fixed me with a look of accusation and asked if I had slept with her. Though I had and was going to say as much, the words died in my throat. I couldn't speak!

December 21st, 1927. 11:32 am.

I tried to confess to Christopher about my role in Anne's plight but still, the words would not come out. He, too, had slept with the young maid and blamed himself. Once again, he has tried to seek solace in the bottle. CHRISTOPHER IS WEAK!

I can't seem to stop myself anymore. I have tried to abstain from intercourse but something drives me to it. SPREAD THE SEED! It is almost as though my ‘friend’ is trying to gain full control of my body. GIVE YOUR MIND TO THE SCAVENGER!

December 21st, 1927. 14:25pm.

Today I received the final batch of translations of Ger'igguthy's Wasteland, and it seems I am damned! YOU ARE BLESSED!

It says that the spawn of Ger'igguthy will find a host to spread his seed. REJOICE! The parasite spawn of the scavenger will then infect and spread until civilisation falls and Ger'igguthy will feast.

I now know my ‘friend's’ true nature. I must alert Gull to the danger that my brother and I present to not only London, but the whole country, the world even. YOU DON'T NEED GULL, TRUST IN THE PARASITE GOD!

When I read back my entries, I have suddenly noticed passages that I did not consciously write! My ‘friend’ is getting stronger. He made me seduce the cook earlier today. REJOICE! Christopher caught me in the act and later asked what I was thinking, what with the cook being so old and unattractive. I told him I couldn't help myself and he said I was now a real man because I was thinking with my penis; I fear he is close to the truth.

December 22nd, 1927. 03:21 am.

I just had another terrible dream, at least I think it was a dream. IT WAS A DREAM.

I was leading a mass of the destitute to an old dockside rubbish dump. YOU MUST LEAD THE DISCARDED! Once there, they threw themselves into the filth and expired. Once they were all dead, the spawn came out of the river and began to feed.

I need help; I think the dreams are real. THEY ARE JUST DREAMS. No! I don't believe you, get out of my head! WE ARE ONE! No! I am Walter Edwards. NO! YOU ARE THE LEADER OF THE DISCARDED!

TAKE A SEDATIVE. I think I need a sedative.

December 22nd, 1927. 15:22pm.

I just read in the paper that the police stumbled across a mass grave in an old dump by the docks. I know this is the place in my dream. The article stated the bodies were laid out in a ritualistic manner and seemed to be infected by strange insects. They incinerated the bodies at the site to prevent spreading. All the dead were unfortunate or otherwise destitute from the poorest areas of London.

THIS SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN ALLOWED TO HAPPEN! YOU MUST START AFRESH! GO AND SPREAD THE SEED OF GER'IGGUTHY!

I am feeling pulled towards the brothels and back-alleys again. I simply must resist.

YOU CANNOT RESIST!

Earlier, I felt like I was burning; the creature screamed inside me; I took advantage of my respite to leave Gull a note and my copy of Ger'igguthy's Wasteland, hoping he can help me. TRAITOR! YOU WILL BE PUNISHED WITH PAINS UNIMAGINABLE TO YOUR PUNY RACE!

December 22nd, 1927. 19:22pm

Gull read my notes and, on finding me in agony from the searing pain in my testicles, injected my groin with a powerful anaesthetic. This is the first time I have been able to think clearly since my return from the Amazon. Now and then the creature will throb, as though it is trying to fight the numbness, but so far it has been kept at bay.

Gull and I had a long discussion, whereby I confessed all and told him of the dreams. He sees now that it is imperative we remove the creature before my mind is subsumed by Ger'igguthy and his vile spawn.

Christopher must be confined to his room and similarly injected until we can deal with his infection. Gull thinks killing my parasite may also free my brother. He talks of the creature being part of a gestalt, a hive mind.

Gull is locked in his study with his books and the translation and hopes to find an answer in a day or so. Until then, I will remain sedated and anaesthetised.

December 24th, 1927. 11:42 am.

Good news, finally! Gull just awoke me from my slumber and told me he will operate later.

He needs my help with Christopher, who has turned savagely against Gull. He refuses to be sedated and numbed. I fear the creature is exerting its influence over him in some insidious fashion.

December 25th, 1927. 00:15 am.

Christmas Day and all is lost!

While Gull and I were trying to deal with Christopher, tragedy struck. Christopher became wild, he frothed at the mouth, and his eyes were dead orbs. He savagely went for Gull, and during the struggle, both men crashed through the third-floor window to the pavement below. Medical men rushed to the scene but there was nothing they could do: both men were dead.

My brother and my potential saviour are dead. With Gull died the hope that I may be freed from this nightmare.

As I sat and contemplated my position. I recalled the case of DR. W.C. Minor, the so-called surgeon of Crowthorne. Minor was a major contributor to the Oxford English Dictionary, and was also a lunatic and a murderer who blamed his penis for the murder. Maybe Minor wasn't crazy at all.

To rid himself of his downfall, Minor tied a tourniquet and severed his member. From there he became Broadmoor hospital's longest staying guest.

My only course of action seems simple. I must rid myself of Ger'igguthy's spawn or die in the attempt.

Sir Gull's butler, Richards, found Walter Edwards' body at around seven AM Christmas Morning. He had died from a self-inflicted severing of his genital organ. Walter hadn't got the tourniquet tight enough and died of exsanguination.

St. Bartholomew's hospital claimed his corpse for medical science, along with that of his brother and the prostitute he knew as Gladys, who apparently perished at around the same time as Walter.

Many other strange deaths occurred around the capital that morning. Most were prostitutes or women of ill-repute and their clients or lovers.

The medical team working on the collected cadavers were able to acquire a number of the strange creatures from the bodies. Unfortunately, they quickly shrivelled up and turned into a foul-smelling compost.

Professor Carstairs published his translation of Ger'igguthy's Wasteland in a small number for the exclusive use of the finest seats of learning in late 1930. He dedicated the footnotes and translation to his friend and student.

Following his death, Walter Edwards was credited with the debunking of the myth surrounding the candirú fish and the 'Lobster-Baby', as well as being credited with the discovery of a completely new genus of parasitic crustacean. It was later named the Edwards Crayfish; from that day forward, no live specimens, or dead for that matter, were discovered, and the creature joined the extinct list. Until recently, that is.

* * *

Once I had graduated from Cambridge University as a newly minted professor of biology, specialising in carcinology, I confess to becoming obsessed with the Edwards Crayfish. I found it strange that the creature had only been encountered once, so I decided to mount an expedition of my own to hunt down the creature.

Using Walter’s and Christopher's notes and charts, we had no difficulty finding the shunned temple. It was exactly as Walter described; the stench was unbearable.

At some point during the Second World War, the temple had been visited by an expeditionary force from the SS occult division. A pile of bones mixed with Nazi uniforms littered the waste chamber. Amongst the debris, I found the German translation of Ger'igguthy's Wasteland, which I have since donated to the Miskatonic University.

* * *

During the second day at the temple, I fell into the tributary and encountered the same fate as Walter Edwards. The pain was excruciating and I have since been merging with my new friend.

I would like to thank Walter Edwards for his part in my downfall. I am the Shepherd of the Discarded and the loyal subject of the parasite god.

Through my body, Ger'igguthy will spread his influence and will emerge as the true ruler of the planet. As we progress, so does our waste output. The feast will soon be prepared and the scavenger will feed.

Yours,

O'Descartado

Tim Mendees is a horror writer from Macclesfield in the North-West of England that specialises in cosmic horror and weird fiction. He has had over fifty stories accepted for publication in anthologies and magazines with publishers all over the world. His debut Lovecraftian novella, Burning Reflection, is out now from Mannison Press. When he is not arguing with the spellchecker, Tim is a goth DJ, crustacean and cephalopod enthusiast, and the presenter of a popular web series of live video readings of his material. He currently lives in Brighton & Hove with his pet crab, Gerald, and an army of stuffed octopods. You can find him at his website, on YouTube, and Facebook.

https://timmendeeswriter.wordpress.com/

https://tinyurl.com/timmendeesyoutube

https://www.facebook.com/goatinthemachine

Fate, Fools & Firewater

Mark J. Schultis

“Oh, I got a yarn for ya.” Old Cycle wiped the excess ale from his chin. “It’s about this security guard at an old shopping mall, and he—”

“No, not that one again, okay?” The Bartender finished drying the mug in his hand and set it down next to the others, waving to a middle-aged couple as they walked outside into the brisk chill of night, leaving Old Cycle and a younger patron at the bar the only remaining customers. The Bartender shook his head. “Trust me, Cyke, that one sounds like something out of Weekly World News.”

The young patron, sporting a crew cut and designer eyeglasses, shrugged. “What the hell is Weekly World News?”

“You’re better off not knowing.” The Bartender picked up the TV remote and aimed it at the console above. “Besides, it’s getting late, gents. And I think—”

“I think I need another drink, hoss,” Old Cycle hiccupped as he brushed his shaggy grey hair out of his face. “And if you don’t wanna hear me ramble, well then… if you have a better story, we’re all ears.”

The Bartender put away the remote and reached for Old Cycle’s empty glass. “You sure about this, Cyke?”

“You’re not my poppa, are ya?”

The Bartender pulled the nozzle forward, filling the mug with foamy, amber liquid before setting it down on the bar. “How about you, kid? You fancy a tale?”

The young patron chuckled. “I’m not going to say fancy, but sure, I’m game.”

The Bartender wiped the bar with his towel, then tossed it in the sink and folded his arms. “Okay. Yeah, alright, I got one for you. It’s about this guy named Gerald, about your age,” the Bartender said, pointing to the young patron. “He was starting his last year in college and decided one weekend to visit his friend…”

* * *

Everywhere Gerald’s gaze fell, whether it be markets or even parks, every edifice in eyesight was engulfed in shadow. By the minute, the vehicle’s passage became an eerie outing. Crossing autumn’s doorstep oft had such an effect. But by Gerald’s standards, September shouldn’t instill such dread, nor should a brief Uber ride.

A few city blocks, dedicated to second hand retailers, greasy eateries, and dive bars, separated the campuses and profited off destitute students such as Gerald. It was that destitution that compelled Gerald to query his friend Paul about any vacancies in his frat house.

I’ve had my fill of solitude, Gerald thought. It’s my senior year, and yet every weekend I’m holed up in my dorm, the only ladies accompanying me being Mary Shelley and Ann Rice. Maybe spending some time in Paul’s social circle will improve my luck.

“Here we are, kid.” The gentleman behind the wheel pointed to the shamble of a house at the mouth of the Acacia Avenue cul-de-sac. “You expecting anyone to come meet ya?”

“Doubtful. My bud’s companions’ likely level of intoxication at this hour has them all in a stupor.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, why are you interested in being in a frat house if that’s not your thing?”

“A means to an end, I’m afraid.”

Gerald saw to his driver’s fee and exited the vehicle, kicking aside an empty beer can as he shifted to the sidewalk. He retrieved his bags from the trunk, and as the car departed, stood in somber awe of the house. Although the sun slumbered, Gerald could tell the house was in a state of disrepair, the paint faded and the shutters rusted. A crest of Greek letters was the only ornamentation not aged.

A metaphor for sure, but alas, I’m too fatigued or slow of wit this evening to determine what that metaphor is. And say it was on the tip of my tongue, no doubt it would fall on deaf ears. Culture is not what it once was. Face it, Gerald, you were born into a most ignorant era.

Gerald crossed the lawn, navigating his way past trash and discarded clothes until he climbed the creaky wooden stairs, then rapped his knuckles against the front door to no avail. Bypassing his manners, Gerald turned the door-knob to find the ingress unlocked, gaining entrance to a darkened foyer, the air inside ripe with spilt beer and body odor.

“Hello?” Gerald’s voice echoed, yet nothing stirred.

A bleak welcome, unless Paul’s staging some sophomoric surprise…

As if on cue, an unnerving moan carried across the room. With trepidation, Gerald inched closer, a bead of sweat beginning to descend his brow. His skin was not like goose flesh, however. As he reached a sofa, the moonlight made a seated man’s silhouette visible to Gerald; the moan had been nothing more than the sleeping man’s drunken snore.

* * *

“Okay, you have a way with words, man. But come on, seriously?” The young patron handed the Bartender his empty mug. “That’s like the lamest of jump scares.”

“Patience, kid,” Old Cycle said as he finished his own beer. “Does everything need to be instant gratification with your generation? Trust me, this bartender is a bard.”

The Bartender handed back both customers’ full mugs. “The payoff’s worth it. Trust me.”

* * *

Gerald embarked up the stairs, ascending out of the stygian study and up into a hallway of dimly lit chaos. Like the lawn, trash and discarded clothing blanketed the stained carpet. However, the moans Gerald heard from one room were of the feminine brand.

I stand here in judgment, yet it is their breed which attracts the opposite sex. Perhaps I need to just accept reality is not now, nor has it ever been, as it should be.

Underneath the sole functioning light at the end of the hallway, Gerald saw a door plastered with doodles and drawings of dragons.

That would be Paul’s room. It appears I’ve been too rash. The fact his fellows have not destroyed his art speaks in their favor.

Gerald knocked on the door, and again his knocking drew no response. He cautiously opened the door, finding his friend had fallen asleep with a beer in his hand and the television still on.

It’s not even that late…

Gerald dropped his bag in the corner and sighed, pondering whether his timing could have been any more off. The bubbly laughter of a young woman outside drew his attention. Gerald perched himself upon Paul’s windowsill, scanning the street below for the source of the sound. A young woman dressed in a ball gown escorted a young man in a university jacket to the house across the road. His eyesight was subpar, but from the woman’s voice, Gerald believed her smile to be radiant. Somehow, the man in the jacket—an athlete in training—offered her accompaniment that brought the young woman great joy.

I refuse to accept that physical prowess is the only factor in catching a lady’s eye. The chemistry on display suggests more. Observation is the greatest form of education, methinks. One way or another, I shall end this weekend with valuable knowledge.

* * *

“No one my age talks like that. Hell, even this old guy doesn’t talk like that.” The young patron scoffed. “I dig your delivery, man, I really do, but if you want me to buy into it—”

“Here.” Old Cycle slammed a ten-dollar bill onto the bar. “The next round is on me if you just shut yer trap and let the man finish the damn story!”

The young patron smiled. “Fair enough.”

* * *

The morning sunlight was crippling to Gerald’s eyes, like ultraviolet spikes skewering his corneas. He attempted to shade his face with his hand, but as he lifted his hand, he found it to have been blanketed by a smudged candy wrapper. Gerald took note of his surroundings; the disarray of Paul’s room was more visible in the daylight.

“Hey, man. You’re up,” Paul tossed a sealed toaster pastry at Gerald. “Sorry I didn’t, like, let you in and shit. I was sort of out of it.” Paul took a bite of his own breakfast. “Rush week. We started drinking at like ten yesterday morning, so…”

“If your house chums intend for me to imbibe that much alcohol—”

“Oh no, dude, they know. They won’t bother you. Honestly, most already left for the weekend, anyways. Chuck works weekends, Jamal sees his girlfriend in Akron, and Liam… actually, I don’t know where the hell he is.”

Gerald tore the foil wrapping and broke off a piece of pastry. “So, what, we have the run of the place?”

“Pretty much. We can bust out the consoles, or stream some shitty movies, or better yet, there’s this kid who stays over in—”

“What about the house across the street?” Gerald asked with a mouthful. “Saw girls coming and going all night, and dressed pretty thematically. Sorority party, I gather?”

“Oh, it’s a party for sure, but it’s less of a sorority and more like...” Paul looked towards his doorway, gauging if anyone was loitering in the hallway, then leaned close to Gerald, whispering. “...a whorehouse.”

Gerald feigned a chuckle. “Seriously though, what’s the deal over there?”

“I’m totally serious, dude. Those chicks are ladies of the evening.”

Intrigued, Gerald sat up, peering through the smudgy window pane to catch a glimpse of the now quiet house across the street. “On campus? How? I’d have assumed the dean or student council would have shut them down by now.”

Paul finished his breakfast. “Word is they tried once or twice. Sent someone over there, but they, um… well, they never came back.”

Gerald felt his intrigue fade into disconcertment, vexed by how such elegant young females could be entwined with an enterprise most foul.

Paul crumpled up his wrapper and tossed it across the room into the overflowing wastebasket in the corner. “I was in there once, right after I moved in. I didn’t, you know, hook up with any of them. I was just hanging out in the den, waiting for Liam.”

“And was there any sign of… culpability?”

The stocky college senior shrugged. “I haven’t been to any other brothels or whatnot, man. I like hooking up but like, on equal terms, you know? I mean, when they come at you at full steam with all those girls and those rules, it just—”

“Rules? Like what?”

“Well, there’s only two rules. The first totally makes sense. The head girl there said ‘only what the lady allows can occur.’ I get that, but the other rule is kind of weird. I guess they’re concerned with privacy or something…”

“What’s the rule?”

“‘Customers must always exit through the same door they entered.’ Like, why would anyone go snooping after getting a piece?”

Maybe to survey the grounds for several missing individuals, Gerald thought. Silenced squealers, as it were.

“Yo, get cleaned up, alright, and we’ll head out so I can show you some stuff, okay?”

As his friend fumbled out of the room, Gerald again drew his attention to the brick housing identified as a beguiling brothel. Its front door opened and the young woman he first gazed upon the night before stepped out into the sunlight, shielding the bright rays with a floral antique umbrella. Even from a distance, Gerald could see the light shimmering off her hair as she crossed the yard and trekked down the sidewalk.

She carries herself with a pomp and class I’d never associate with women of that profession. Gerald felt his heart skip. Hers is a beauty more of Guinevere or Arwen than a downtrodden harlot. Perhaps she defies the stereotype, a lesson I’m fated to learn here. There is more to any given person than our incipient instincts suggest. Could it be that she is a prisoner, clinging to her dignity as a mode of coping?

I must know.

* * *

“Dude’s going into the whorehouse, ain’t he?”

“Nothing gets by you, kid.” Old Cycle emptied the last drops in his mug down his aging gullet. “But I reckon this tale doesn’t end the way you’re thinking.”

“You’d reckon correctly, Cyke.” The Bartender reached for a bottle underneath the bar. “For this finale, may I make a suggestion?”

The young man leaned in to read the label. “Firewater? That’s a real thing? Isn’t it just cinnamon schnapps?”

“That’s a hundred proof, kid!” Old Cycle picked up the bottle. “Man, I haven’t had Firewater… must be almost forty years.”

The Bartender poured each of them a small glass.

“Don’t they say beer before liquor—”

Old Cycle handed the young man his glass. “We only live once, kid. Come on, no regrets.”

The young man took the glass and shrugged. “What the hell. Proceed.”

* * *

Not a cloud in the sky; the moon acted as if it were a spotlight, showcasing the house of ill repute outside Paul’s window. Even over Paul’s snoring, Gerald could clearly hear a chorus of feminine laughter in the distance.

They started the day socializing with Paul’s classmates, then segued to a dilapidated eatery on campus serving up grease-dripping soul food. Then, Paul and Gerald returned to the frat house to partake in hours of video gaming, a nostalgic activity that, along with several beers, then ended with Paul passing out on his bedroom floor.

Coming here for the weekend was supposed to be different, an opportunity to socially engage with the opposite sex, not a chance to repeat every Friday we spent in high school.

Gerald had in fact met several alluring and intriguing young ladies, though none seemed particularly taken with him. And by that token, none of them quite reminded Gerald of a medieval portrait the way the girl across the street had.

That vision of beauty haunts me still. Gerald looked up from the television screen and stared out the window. I came here to change my luck, and the longer I sit here, the more it remains unchanged. Gerald sat up and headed for the door, climbing over Paul, who even in his slumber continued to clutch his controller.

Tucking in his shirt and parting his hair, Gerald composed himself as he stepped outside and faced the street. You’re not prepared to break any laws, Gerald. This is simply appeasing your curiosity…

Confirming no vehicles were approaching, Gerald crossed Acacia Avenue, his heart beating stronger with each step taken, a percussive score to his approach. No one else was outside to witness his jaunt into the building, yet he felt observed in some capacity, like the harsh disdain of a disapproving parent. His hand trembled as it neared the door, but before he could knock, it swung open and a towering, toga-clad woman greeted him.

“Well, hello, handsome,” The Amazonian beauty backed up, her golden locks swaying as she motioned to the bright room beyond. “Come on in.”

Gerald attempted a confident smirk, but instead twisted his face awkwardly. Embarrassed, he nodded and lowered his head as he walked inside, relieved the residence didn’t reek of stale beer, but rather a sweet fragrance.

Is that jasmine?

Unlike the frat house, passing through this foyer didn’t require caution, as the living room was fully illuminated, and with good cause. The eyes of six young women set upon him, each of the residents amused with his entrance.

“Don’t be shy, sugar.” The brunette on the left offered Gerald a mischievous smile as she unbuttoned her teal top. “We know how to take care of you.”

That hair, that dress… straight out of the fifties. It’s as if Norman Rockwell dabbled in pornography.

The punk rock goddess brushed her cocoa hair aside and raised an eyebrow. “We also know how to keep you in line.”

“Whatever your fantasy, sweetheart, we’d love to make it come true.” A copper-haired enchantress wrapped in skin-tight, purple latex beckoned to Gerald with her finger.

Then, as the remaining ladies parted, he saw her—his maiden—seated in the corner. A strand from her partially braided hair rested on her partially exposed, heaving ivory bosom. She blushed, choosing to speak only with her blue eyes.

If only I could spirit her away from here…

“I see your fancy has been struck.” The Amazonian took Gerald by the shoulder. “Her name is Alina.”

Alina…

“If she offers you company, I must stress two most critical edicts,” his tall host continued. “The first is that you must carry on only in the manner Alina suggests, okay?”

Without taking his gaze from Alina, Gerald nodded in agreement.

“Good. Secondly, when she dismisses you, you are to return to this room the very same way she directed you. Understand? Come back here using the same doors, yes?”

No doubt something most dubious is being concealed.

Alina outstretched her dainty hand. “If you would follow me, kind sir.”

Gerald allowed Alina to lead him slowly up the stairs, then down a small hallway built of cherry wood. The hallway led to three very different doors, each designed and constructed in a unique style reminiscent of an era similar to three of the women he’d just met. One was, oddly, a white front door, with a shiny gold handle knob. The next was a graffiti-laden and bumper stickered dorm door. The last was a chamber door, composed of wood at least a foot thick and as tall as the hallway.

It’s as if she’s leading me into the actual sleep-chamber of a maiden or princess…

Alina pulled the heavy door forward. As Gerald stepped inside, he felt a slight wave of vertigo pass through him.

My nerves are doing somersaults!

The room beyond the door was immense, and somehow circular despite the house’s architecture. The air had changed as well, no longer rife with incense, but instead smelled of mildew. And the ground beneath Gerald’s feet didn’t appear wooden or carpet, but stone.

Perhaps custom tile?

Alina crossed the room to the veiled bed in the center, unfastening the top layer of her dress. “A brief moment I beg you, so I can prepare myself…”

“Actually… you don’t… you need not do that.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I consider myself a gentleman, honorable and steadfast. I am here to… court you.”

Alina laughed. “Court me? Heavens, good sir, there’s no need for courting…” Her dress came loose. “I am titillated, in much need of tenderness, and…” She removed the dress to reveal a constricting crimson corset. “I am yours.”

“But I have not earned such submission. You know nothing about me, where I hail from or what I study.”

She took his hands in hers. “Such words, such affection warms my heart, but where I come from, they would mark you as a lesser man.”

Her voice softly rung in his ears as Gerald felt himself drowning her eyes. Motivations and doubts eroded, and all he remained aware of was her.

“May I kiss you?”

Alina parted her lips and closed her eyes, tilting her head back as Gerald leaned in. He slid his hands down to her waist and drew her closer, their embrace imminent.

“Alina!!”

Gerald and Alina whipped their heads about to face a broad-shouldered, bearded bulk of a man barging into the room from the other door.

“Unhand my wife, vile miscreant!”

“Your wife?!” Gerald stepped back. “What’s going on here?!”

Alina’s husband reached for Gerald and grabbed his shirt, yanking the panicked young man forward. “You are about to pay the penalty for trespass and cuckoldry, not to mention having slandered and enraged the lord of Acacia Keep!”

“He didn’t know, Gamel! Please, just let him leave!” Alina wedged herself between them. “Gerald, run!”

Gerald did not hesitate. Once Gamel’s grasp had loosened, he sprinted towards the chamber door, Alina’s next words spoken seconds too late. As Gerald reached the hallway, Alina’s cry was clear:

He ran to the wrong door.

The hallway Gerald entered was not that of the brothel, but of a castle. Stone walls were ornamented with lit torches, and his escape vector was blocked by three armored guards the same size as Gamel. Gerald quickly turned about, but the lord of Acacia Keep had been mere steps behind him. Gamel held Gerald in place until the guards placed the young man in shackles.

“Laying hands on another man’s wife?! ‘Tis a sin!”

“But nothing happened!” Gerald tried in vain to wrestle his arms free. “I swear, her honor remains.”

“Aye, because I caught you, ya bastard.”

“He speaks true, my love.” Alina laid a hand on Gamel’s arm. “Spare him, I beg you.”

Gamel’s icy stare pierced Gerald. The castle lord growled. “I don’t know who you are, or where you came from, but I will find out. Alina begs for leniency, and so for that, you’ll live out your remaining days below in the dungeon, remembering the life you carelessly tossed aside.”

Remaining days? Gerald felt his stomach sink, his rational mind struggling with his circumstance.

This is a dream… this is a dream… this is a dream…

* * *

“Gerald didn’t wake. Instead, he found Gamel’s words rang true,” The Bartender continued. “Gamel’s guards guided Gerald down to the dungeon, placing him in irons he would wear for the rest of his life—captive years spent maddingly obsessed with how his improbable fate came to be.”

“Bullshit.” The young patron set down his glass. “You’re saying this loser died in medieval times? And the whorehouse, it had all these, what, time portals?”

“You kids today need everything explained to you.” Old Cycle shook his head. “Yes. Gerald was ripped from his time and yet still bested by what he considered brutal, brash drunkards. They’re the same in any time period.” Old Cycle hiccupped. “A misplaced sense of chivalry and his skewed standards were his undoing, right? Trying to save Alina damned himself. A tale of ironies, right?”

“Tragic ironies, actually.” The Bartender said. “He wasn’t the only one damned. A few months after Gerald’s imprisonment, Alina attempted to free him. Their escape was futile, and for her betrayal, Gamel had her executed in front of Gerald.”

“Damn,” Old Cycle reached for his glass. “If he’d just never crossed the street, both would’ve had a happier life. His interference cost that poor girl her life.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t know that. Like, how the hell could he? He knew something was up with the house and he was crushing on the chick. You have to take risks sometimes, right?” The young patron pointed to the Firewater. “Live only once?”

“For the most part.” Old Cycle stared into his glass. “Time travel would be awesome, though. The ability to go back, see where we came from, maybe even fix a mistake or two.”

The Bartender put the bottle of Firewater away. “That’s hubris, Cyke. You know how that ends.”

“Aye, that I do.”

The young patron scooped up some beer nuts from the tray. “Hey, why do they call you Old Cycle, anyways?”

“Cuz, I make it around on an old ten-speed.”

“Really? I rode a ten-speed here.” The young patron burped. “Probably not going to ride it out of here, though.”

“Probably not.” Old Cycle downed the last of his drink. “But if you had a time machine, you could see what would happen.”

“Oh, well, I’ll just hit the store on the way home and grab one. They come in green, right?”

“You jest, kid, but let me tell you, nothing funny about time travel. Nothing funny about designing one either.”

The young patron burped again. “What?”

“The science… the engineering… years of one’s life gone in a blink of an eye. But you think, ‘No matter. When I’m done, I can just go back and relive all of it. I’m on to something, something big.’ So, you press on, perfecting it, testing it, all the while driving a wedge between you and your friends—your loved ones—you make terrible choices. And your wife, she loathes you. Hates you so much for abandoning her, not making the time to have kids... So, she looks for comfort in other men. You try to interfere, but alas, fate interferes instead, and boom, she’s dead. All because of you.”

Old Cycle scratched his neck, and skin flakes snowed down on his torn sweater as he rested his hand inside his coat. “What better motivation is there to finish a time machine, huh? No more distractions, only pure will remains. You achieve something no one else on this planet ever has. And the first thing you do is save the woman you love. Except, she doesn’t love you anymore. She’s still lost to you. You research tirelessly. Every permutation has the same outcome! No matter how you slice it, your wife… her life is painful and grueling because of you. Tracey’s life would be better if you had never existed.”

“Huh. My fiancée’s name is Tracey.”

Old Cycle turned towards the young patron and raised a revolver from underneath his coat. “You don’t say.”

The Bartender stood frozen as Old Cycle shot the young man, the skeptical patron falling from his bar stool in pain, blood spilling all over the barroom floor.

Old Cycle placed the gun down on the bar next to his glass. “Fools never learn, do they?”

Both men could hear the life leave the younger man, and as it did, the Bartender watched as Old Cycle began to erode, his body fading away into nothingness, becoming nothing more than a memory.

Alone, the Bartender calmly picked up the gun, carried it into the back room, and placed it down on a shelf next to a weathered old book titled ‘The Impossible Tragedy of Gerald of Acacia.’

He returned to the main room and turned off the lights. He reached for the back door, wedging it open to gain access to the alley, then crossed to where the young patron’s lifeless body rested. The Bartender knelt and gripped the young patron’s ankles, dragging the body along the floor, leaving a trail of blood in its wake as he neared the alley. The Bartender sighed, mumbling to himself.

“Same old, same old. Another night of fate, fools, and firewater.”

Community leader. Particle physicist. International assassin. Mark J. Schultis is none of these. He wrote his first story in elementary school and has spent a lifetime keeping that childhood passion of storytelling alive, studying theatre and filmmaking before eventually earning his writing degree from the University of Pittsburgh. Mark is the author of the space opera series The Dawn Cluster and his work has appeared in the pages of Kyanite Press. He is also a perpetual night owl and pizza connoisseur. He was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where he lives with his wife and their two children. You can follow Mark on Twitter: @schultisscribe or his blog: http://scriptofschultis.blogspot.com/

What to Expect When You’re Summoning a Demon

C. Vandyke

Most mistakes aren’t permanent. Most mistakes can be fixed.

For example: you buy a ticket to see a movie Friday night. Two minutes after you’ve clicked to confirm the purchase, you get a text from that cute brunette from your Intro to Sympathetic Alchemical Reactions class asking if you’d like to meet her for drinks in the West Village on Friday night. Damn! But with your RealCinema app, you can still cancel your ticket for a full refund if it’s more than 24 hours before the show time; even if it’s too late to get your money back, it’s not like you’re forced to watch the movie. You can always just eat the loss—fuck it, it’s only twelve-bucks (plus the online convenience fee)—and skip the film for a date with a woman you’ve been really hoping to hit it off with. Is wasting the ticket ideal? No, but it solves the problem, the mistake undone. And if things with the brunette go the way you hope they will, twelve dollars is a great deal.

Fall asleep and miss your stop on the subway? Another mistake! Still, you can always get off at the next stop and catch a train headed back in the right direction (or get off and just walk). Sure, you’ve added 15 minutes to your trip, but you do it: just hang a U-turn and head back towards your intended stop, and as soon as you have a signal again you text your date and tell her you are so sorry but you’ll be there in just a few minutes. No harm, no foul.

Fixing a mistake involves loss, sure: a few bucks here, some wasted time there. Some groveling and I’m-so-sorrying. It’s not ideal, but corrects the mistake.

* * *

Even more dramatic mistakes can be fixed, although the undoing is more consequential: you move across the country to a New City after getting your BA in Arcane Studies (specializing in Alchemy), say, or take a terrible job at some alchemical startup that pays crap while still working you half to death, or even marry the wrong person (hey, that brunette was cute and always got very generous with her lips and fingers after she had a few drinks in her and made great omelettes the next morning while you playfully argued over who had dibs on the Style Section of The Times).

Or maybe you do all three.

Oh, the cost of fixing such mistakes will be steeper than a simple unused movie ticket or missed subway stop. The price is more painful, paid not merely in a fist full of dollars and minutes but in the currency of heartbreak and soul-searching and tears (so many tears). But it can be paid, the debt leveled.

You load up the moving truck with your books and furniture and collection of alchemical tools and flee back to Ohio, somewhat sheepishly, with tales of Your Years in The Big City to share with Old Friends and Family. You update your resume and send it to every wizarding company hiring a middle-of-their-class alchemist (there aren’t many—not in Ohio, at least). You cozy up to your Uncle John, the one who’s a partner at Ezekiel, Jacob and Pavlich, and zealously update your LinkedIn profile. When you finally give up on getting paid to do anything even vaguely related to your major, you finally get an invitation to a succession of painful interviews with Heads of Personnel six years your junior. Which sucks. But you suck it up, and you finally get offered a job (thanks, Uncle John!). So now you’re gonna need to brush up on all the advances in cryptomancy and augury since you graduated eight years ago (has it really been eight years already? Holy shit!) and, assuming you don’t reveal your utter ignorance too quickly, you get the honor of starting at the bottom of the organizational ladder.

You have screaming matches with your wife (who, it turns out, never wanted to end up in some shit-town in the Midwest married to someone who would just give up on their dreams, goddamnit! I mean, that is not what she signed up for!) that disturb the neighbors, and you slam doors so hard that pictures fall off the wall after it turns out that a mind-blowing hand-job and mutual love of brunch don’t make the best foundations for a marriage and maybe you should have discussed more practical things besides Calvino and Borges and postmodernist wizardry.

Who knew?

(Everyone, it turns out. Especially your mother, who will mention it whenever she sees you).

Finally, however, one day a taxi door closes behind your (now ex) wife for the last time and it’s over. The mistake is corrected. The Ship of Life rights itself and continues to carry you down the River of Time.

There are ripples, of course. Ramifications, memories, scars that will never truly fade. But you can take any decision back, more or less. Fix any mistake. Undo. Control-Z. Oops, my bad, can I get a do-over? Time heals all wounds. Well, some scotch and a few self-help incantations don’t hurt.

* * *

It turns out, however, that summoning a demon is not like those other mistakes. It isn’t always a mistake, not for everyone, but it can never be undone. Once you’ve finished the spell, you’re committed, for better or worse. Forever.

Unfortunately, you won’t realize how long Forever is until it’s too late.

* * *

You’ll know beforehand, of course. You can’t say “nobody warned me” or “the thing nobody tells you about summing a demon is...” because literally everyone warns you and it's the thing everyone tells you: a demon lasts. Summoning a demon is Serious. Not to be Undertaken Lightly. The Most Important Decision You’ll Ever Make. Yada yada yada. The trouble is, by the time you seriously entertain the idea of calling up one of the Infernal Spirits from the Netherworld, you’ll think you’re ready because you’re a “mature adult.” You won’t be wrong, exactly—thirty is definitely old enough that you can’t blame any of your choices on a half-formed prefrontal cortex, like you could when you were younger. No, you’ve lived and learned, been around the block a few times. You’re not in your twenties anymore; no one calls you “young man” when trying to get your attention. When you buy beer, the cashier asks you for ID only because they’re legally obligated to do so—they chuckle when they ask, like you both know how ridiculous it is to suggest that anyone might ever mistake you for a minor. In your mind, you still think of Dear Catastrophe Waitress as Belle & Sebastian's “new album” even though it was released almost two decades ago. Perhaps most tellingly, when you see college students they look like children to you.

In short, you are, without a doubt, Officially Old.

Now that you’re finally over that Lost Decade with That Job in The City with The Ex-Wife, you’ve got enough experience to re-evaluate your life goals: where you are, where you’re headed, where you see yourself ten, twenty years down the line. You don’t make impulsive decisions; you think things through, take the long-view (though to be fair, the potential of a blowjob can still get you to act pretty stupid. Some things never change, it seems, especially the appeal of having your dick sucked. Though, let’s be honest, you don’t get that many opportunities to make those sorts of mistakes these days, so it’s more theoretical than anything else).

* * *

Funnily enough, when you were younger, you never wanted to summon a demon. For one, it wasn’t your field of magical study: you were an alchemist, and that was that. You loved the arcane and obscure, the beautiful poetry in the convoluted formulas of a perfectly written alchemical expression. You loved pouring over musty tomes in your university’s arcanist archives, loved the precision involved in inscribing the runes and sigils into steel or stone, using enchanted acids to etch them into glass or precious gems. Demonology, and frankly summoning, wasn’t for you. You weren’t against summoning per se, it just wasn’t your thing. Not your cup of tea leaves. Not in the Tarot cards. And, since you were young at the time, you assumed that would never change: back in college you didn’t want to summon a demon and couldn’t imagine ever wanting to do so. That’s youth for you, isn’t it? Assuming the way things are now is the way they always will be. World without end, saecula saeculorum, rather than always in an endless state of flux.

* * *

(Except for demons. Prelapsarian to post-apocalyptic, they stay the same.)

* * *

Your parents, to their credit, never pressured you. Oh, they never understood alchemy or why on earth you’d want to study That obscure branch of magic, any more than they understood why you wanted to marry That Woman or move to That City. It was left unsaid (if only barely), clearly just beneath the surface of every conversation you had with them.

The Alchemy thing, that is. Their confusion and disappointment about Her and The Move were raised nearly every time you saw your mom and dad, subtly or not so subtly, until both The Wife and The City were in the past, until you came home to their I-told-you-so’s.

Still, they were certainly proud of how hard you worked at Alchemy. Even if they never understood it, they supported and encouraged you to follow your dreams, although you could see in their eyes that they couldn’t help but wish you’d chosen to do something that seemed more permanent, less arcane. Pyromancy, like your older brother Michael—now that had a future! Or even just getting a good, solid job in golem maintenance, like your father and grandfather. People’s automata always needed keeping up, right? Or, if it was going to be obscure, something that paid well at least. Your cousin Jeremiah, the haruspex? True, your parents didn’t understand the first thing about augury of any kind, but they saw your cousin’s new car and five-bedroom place on the lake. Something they could explain to their friends and your aunts and uncles so they’d all nod and say what an impressive young man you’d grown up to be. I mean… alchemy. Sure, it’s fun, but what are you going to do if you major in alchemy? How are you going to make money doing that? If we could turn lead into gold, surely someone would have done it already, right? But you’d insisted on alchemy. And they loved you, so…

To your parents, alchemy, like your Ex-Wife and The City, was a phase they assumed you just needed to pass through—like Dungeons & Dragons in middle school, or the year in high school you insisted on wearing a vest and tie and carrying a cane. The “Live in the Big City Phase.” The “Marry That Woman” phase. So, when you insisted on sticking to Alchemy as your major, they’d been gracious and loving enough to attempt (badly) to paper over their disappointment with smiles and hugs and vacuous nods as you explained your dissertation. Phases end, right?

* * *

A demon is not a phase, however. A demon lasts. Forever.

* * *

You don’t even have the excuse that summoning a demon was a rushed decision, a spur-of-the-moment impulse: an unforeseen conviction like “what the hell, I’ll summon The Lord of the Pit” after having one Labatt Blue too many. No, that’s not how it happened: the idea came to you slowly, building over a number of years as you went through the motions of living back in Ohio. Mid-level desk clerk at Ezekiel, Jacob and Pavlich; renting a studio apartment on Euclid Avenue over that bar, the Witch’s Brew, the one that was replaced with a frozen yogurt chain before recently being redone as an upscale coffee spot (Jesus Christ, is there no end to the number of fancy coffee joints a neighborhood can have?); catch-ups with a few old friends who hadn’t left town; a brief hook-up or two with your old girlfriend from high school (spoiler: never a good-idea); joining a team of regulars for Thursday Trivia Night downstairs at the Brew.

It doesn’t sound like much, but those were years of your life. Time, as it has a way of doing, has passed, and now... well, now you’re at the “laughing at the prospect of being asked for ID” stage of your life. You’ve found a few gray hairs, added a few pounds, lost track of popular-music. You’ve worked your way up to a low-level managerial position in the Enchanted Vehicles Department, accrued a decent benefits package and a more than decent amount of vacation time, and dated a few women with varying degrees of success. That one bruja, the half-Puerto Rican one who worked in hexes at Aramethian, in the mall? You really thought she was The One, didn’t you? And your mom still hasn’t quite forgiven you for fucking that relationship up.

It was when you were with her (the Puerto Rican bruja, not your mom) that you first thought seriously about summoning a demon. You never even discussed it with her, but it was seriously starting to take over your thoughts towards the end there. That probably didn’t help the relationship, now you think about it. And you’re—what, thirty-four now? Not exactly getting any younger, either, and since it’s been at least five years since you’ve cracked open one of your old alchemy books it’s not like you were about to discover the Philosopher’s Stone anytime soon - no Elixir of Eternal Youth for you! Work at the firm is steady but meaningless, alchemy now a hobby at best, increasingly not even that. It just seems high time to do Something Serious, Something Permanent, something that might Outlast You.

And you’ve been lonely, even before you fucked things up with la bruja. Your brother got married and almost immediately had two kids, one after another, so between being A Dad and the demands of his pyromancy job you almost never see him anymore. A number of your friends have successfully summoned various minor imps and efreets and now have demonic familiars at their beck and call. The demons tag along with their masters when meeting you for drinks downstairs at the Witch’s Brew, the slight scent of sulfur and brimstone lingering as you catch up over craft beers and locally-sourced burgers, the demonic minions swooping in on small, bat-like wings to devour the greasy french-fries you leave on your plate. They’re always there with their masters, night after night, month after month, year after year. And it’s more than just mere presence; there is a bond between summoner and summoned that, when you see it in others, makes a part of you ache with jealousy. You’ll be in the middle of talking about The Newest Show, the one that Everyone is Talking About (the one with That Actor who used to be Big in the Eighties), when your friend will turn to the incubus perched on his shoulder and chitter at it in their shared infernal language. Then laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Just something that… oh, never mind. Peridax, behave yourself! Sorry, what were you saying?” And at the end of the night, after you split the check, your friend shrugs on his coat and the imp settles back on his shoulder and they leave together, while you make your way home to your empty studio.

* * *

Of course, the one demon who is always there to bring to mind what you are missing out on is your parents’: the dybbyk your mom summoned back before you or Michael were born, back when she and Dad were a just a young, childless couple living in a duplex off Sycamore. Good old Avnas has always been part of your life, and always treats you well, even though you and your brother were obnoxious little shits. He—it, technically, but Avnas usually took on a masculine form, his lithe, youthful body looking as if it had been carved from pure onyx—was one of those constant fixtures during your childhood, summoning articles of clothing when you were late for school, heating hot cocoa for you with his hands after a snowball fight in the winter, helping you study for finals in astrology and what he still referred to as “thee liberall sciences” in that quaint, Jacobian English of his.

In high school you’d done some poking around in your parents grimoires and you were pretty certain that Avnas was, in fact, The Avnas described in Johann Weyer's Pseudomonarchia Daemonum as the fifty-eighth President of Hell, but you could never pin him down on whether he was the same Avnas or just shared a name with a more famous demon. You’d ask, and he’d get a sly look on his face, the flames that danced in his eyes leaping a little higher as he shook his head. “Pshaw! Do I looketh to be the fifty-eighth President of anything? If such was I, wherefore art my government of thirty-six legions? Doth I looketh like I art simply hanging around waiting a thousand times two-hundred years to return to the seventh throne? Now quit asking such impertinent questions and prepare thyself for school.”

Of course, he never actually said “no” outright, but you weren’t sure if that was because your parents’ binding prevented him from lying in response to a direct question, or just because he knew being cryptic was a great way to get under your skin.

Even now, when you visit your folks at their new place in Winchester Heights (they’ve been there four years, but to you it’s still the “new” place), Avnas is there, providing what is perhaps the only sense of continuity you have now that they sold your childhood home. In some ways he makes the passing years even more pronounced; the fact that his immortal form hasn’t aged a day just highlights the fact that both of your parents are edging closer to seventy. Different neighborhood (gated), different house (Cape-Cod, three-car garage), in many ways different parents (dad: balding; mom: reading glasses, sudden predilection for gardening), but same old Avnas.

“How many years until you return to that throne in Hell now, Avy?” you ask.

“A thirty-two less than a thousand times two-hundred, but who's counting?” he deadpans, his voice no different from when he’d chided you thirty years ago, still underscored by the faint sound of souls screaming in torment whenever he opens his mouth. You’d like to think you see a slight hint of a smile playing about the edges of his lips, like you were both in on the same old joke, but you can never tell with Avnas. You never could.

That’s the thing, right? He hasn’t changed. Not at all. Given the flux of everything else in your life, you’d like that sort of consistency. See? When you were young, you thought everything would stay the same; now it seems as if everything changes, that nothing stays the same. And if there’s one thing a demon is, it’s consistent.

* * *

You briefly consider just creating a homunculus, since it seems like a lot less commitment and involves considerably less risk, but the idea of getting a small, stunted version of yourself isn’t nearly as appealing as summoning a full-fledged demon. Also, as much as you enjoy masturbating (dating’s been slow, after all), jerking off into a bronze vessel filled with blood and spit sounds both nasty and creepy (you might be single, but please).

* * *

So you decide to summon a demon.

You start by doing research. A lot of research. Despite your now almost decade of bachelorhood and utterly unremarkable career path, you’ve at least managed to retain a disproportionate level of self-confidence—otherwise you’d never have the nerve to embark on this adventure. However, you’re also practical enough to know you can't just jump right to summoning, not if you don’t want to get yourself killed. You’ve got a lot to brush up on if you’re going to get this whole calling up a demon thing right. You watch a lot of DIY videos, since apart from a few required 100 Level classes freshman year, you have almost no foundation in demonology. Summoning was never “your thing.” To be fair, you fooled around with a few summoning spells back in college, but that was just you and a couple of friends trying to call up a succubus, and while you think it might have worked a few times, since by nature a succubus only arrives when you’re sleeping it was impossible to tell if you’d got the spell right and actually fucked a hot, horny demon-babe or just had a really good wet dream. (You were only eighteen, after all, and didn’t have a girlfriend; both were equally likely.)

You spend most of your free evenings down at the Central Library in the Grimoire section, which is, oddly enough, right next to Popular Romance on the second floor. You read The Book of Enoch and The Testament of Solomon, the Ars Goetia and the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum. You read all the works of Hermes Trismegistus, and despite its reputation as being a hoax, A Little Key of the Whole Art of Hygromancy, Found by Several Craftsmen and by the Holy Prophet Solomon. You haven’t needed to use your Latin, Old German, or Early Modern French in years, so at first the going is slow, but as you plug away at it, the reading gets easier and easier. They say you never forget how to ride a bike, and it seems you never really forget your ancient dead languages, either. Coptic, Aramaic, Punic. They all feel comfortable, familiar, Gildersleeve’s Latin Grammar and Vandeveer’s A Beginner’s Guide to the Infernal Tongues flooding you with warm nostalgia for the simpler times of being an undergrad, with nothing to worry about but an upcoming exam and an eight-page essay on Pliny the Younger’s treatise on aether.

You even read some of the Twentieth Century neo-pagans, like Oberon Zell-Ravenheart’s Grimoire for the Apprentice Wizard, Gerald Gardner’s Book of Shadows and of course everything by Aleister Crowley, even if your parents’ generation had written him off as a populist-shyster out to get pussy by riding the coattails of Randolph and Cradock’s sex-magic, a huckster with a flair for self-promotion who just happened to stumble across the Ordo Templi Orientis. You figure it can’t hurt to get a more modern perspective on demonology (“modern,” in this case, being “anything after the Seventeenth century”), and your personal trainer (you've started taking Muay Thai on Thursday evenings) swears by Crowley’s Shih Yi: A critical and mnemonic paraphrase of the Yi King by Ko Yuen, and your trainer summoned the fittest, best behaved Jann you’ve ever seen. So maybe Crowley has something to offer. Everything new is dismissed by the old, but eventually everything new is old and then everything old is new again. Hegelian dialectics, or Yeats’s gyres, repeating and repeating in an endless cycle of birth, death, and renewal. Ouroboros devouring its tail. The abstract, meandering thoughts of a dorm-room discussion, only now it's just you and a stack of dusty tomes at a reading carousel tucked into a corner of a public library.

It seems fitting, since you’re contemplating what will undoubtedly prove to be a seismic, if not ontological, shift in your life.

* * *

And, it turns out, a huge mistake. But you don’t know that yet.

* * *

Your parents were pretty old-fashioned, and so never even considered looking beyond the traditional Judeo-Christian cosmology when they summoned their demon, Avnas, all those years ago. Fae-folk, sprites, and elves were around, of course, but they were considered an “Irish Thing,” an ethnic oddity limited to people whose last names clearly telegraphed a recent connection to The Old Country. Back then, unless you were an “O’Something” or “MacWhatever” you stuck to fallen angels and the lesser followers of Satan. Not to mention the Djinns and Dalhams of Arabia, the Yaoguai from Asia, or the various pan-African spirits that the native people of that continent feared before Colonization — almost no one in America had heard of those spirits outside of Oriental Occult Studies programs at Universities (oh, yeah, they still called it “Oriental Studies” back then). But you’re the product of a modern, liberal education, an America that has (on the surface at least) embraced its diverse traditions, opening itself to the diaspora of all the world’s religions in an almost vertiginous range of possibilities. Modern pagan Celtic revivalists long ago made the Sidhe so mainstream as to be cliché, and it seems that most of your friends (white friends—but let’s be honest, you’re in Ohio, so they’re all white) have a Zuni Átahsaia or a Tibetan Preta taking care of their dry cleaning or fetching their CBD-laced soy lattes.

In the end, despite (or perhaps because) of the dizzying array of multi-cultural choices, you stick to what is familiar. Part of your thinking is, of course, that you don’t read Tibetan or Korean or Ashanti or Urdu, and you’ve heard enough stories to know how badly a summoning rite based on a translated (or even transliterated) grimoire can go. Every few weeks a video of a botched summoning will go viral, showing some idiotic white twenty-something chanting in Bantu or Aramaic, before suddenly screaming as a miasma of claws and teeth reach through a rift in reality to drag him bodily into whatever netherworld he’s managed to partially contact. “Top 10 Most Horrific Possessions,” “He Thought He Could Bind Itzmana But What Happened Was Horrific,” “See What Happens When Tonal-Language Rituals Go Terribly WRONG!” Another part of you worries about appropriation and just doesn’t quite feel right summoning up a Native American or Japanese demon, and ordering around a dark-skinned African spirit seems all kinds of problematic.

So, a Judeo-Christian demon it is. You decide to stick to the classics and work with the Ars Goetia from the Clavicula Salomonis Regis. That gives you a solid seventy-two demons to attempt to conjure, and although you have a few preferences (Sabnock would be sweet, and of course you would be thrilled to get Baal - who wouldn’t?) you tell yourself you’ll be happy with whatever spirit you manage to bind. You can’t be picky: life has a way of throwing you a curveball, go into it without too many expectations, etc. You can roll with the punches, work with anything, temper expectations. That’s the key, right? And haven’t you been doing that for the last two decades, anyway? Making lemonade, finding the silver lining. I mean, how many of your far less talented and less having-it-together friends have pulled off the whole demon thing? Everyone says you can’t really be prepared anyway, that you’re going to realize how much you don’t know about keeping a demon once it’s actually with you. But you’ll figure it out. Be yourself, follow your gut, a magician’s instincts will get you through the worst of it. It’s going to be great!

* * *

That’s what you tell yourself.

The problem is, you believe it. Whatever doubts and second thoughts you have, you don’t ever really let yourself imagine it won’t work—that it will be a fuck-up, a mistake, that you’ll wish you could take it back. By the time you realize that, of course, it will be too late.

* * *

Having researched the proverbial shit out of things, at some point it becomes a matter of just buckling down and doing. Which helps, because after months of hemming and hawing and what-if-ing, now it’s a relatively straightforward matter of checklists and to-do-lists, which have always helped you focus and stay calm. From the second book of the Clavicula, the “Ars Almadel,” you get a shopping list of supplies: black candles; white chalk; wax tablets; an altar (used, from Craigslist); holy water from Our Lady of the Sacred Covenant down the street; a bronze dagger inscribed in both Latin and Hebrew you find at a small botanica run by an old Dominican couple in Winthrop Heights. To be extra prepared, you cast the spell from the Legemeton that grants eidetic memory, because forgetting even one word from the final incantation would be a disaster. Can’t be too careful, an ounce of prevention, measure twice, cut once, as your dad always used to say. You read, reread, memorize. You practice in the mirror.

* * *

Then, one day, there’s nothing else to do to get ready. You’re as prepared as you're ever going to be. Now or never, right?

The night of the ritual you’re nervous and excited, but more than that, you feel prepared. You wouldn’t say overconfident—as that would imply a flippancy and casual approach you don’t think applies to your mindset, and who would ever describe themselves as overconfident?—but you think you’re ready. You installed the altar in your studio a few days before; it sits in a corner of what functions as your living room, by one of the old radiators that wheezes and clangs in the winter. You’ve purged the apartment with sage and a few cleansing rituals that morning (a bit hippy-dippy, sure, but better safe, eh?). It’s a Saturday night, because you want to be well rested before you start, and you know you’re going to need all of Sunday to recover and really bond with your demon. You order Indian and eat your saag paneer and naan by yourself, in silence: no music, no podcasts, no streaming TV show, highly aware that this might very well be the last meal you ever eat by yourself. You have a glass of red wine, then a second, just enough to take the edge off but not enough to impair your memory or enunciation. You wash your wine glass and takeout containers, toss the plastic into the recycling, and then it's time to get started.

Using the chalk, you inscribe the pentagram around the altar, and within it the Seals of Baal, Leviathan, Satan, and Azazal. You recite an enn for each of the Chief Demons who rule the four earthly elements (“Lirach Tasa Vefa Wehlic, Belial!” etc), then bind them all with the fifth element of Spirit and the enn for Orobus, the demon who, at the last minute, you’ve decided you’ll try to call by name. Maybe you’ll get him, maybe one of his close neighbors in the hierarchy of Hell, but calling on Orobus by name gets you in a plausible ballpark. Not too high, not too low. Goldilocks zone. As you finish the last enn and inscribe the sigils in the air with the bronze dagger, you feel a change in the atmosphere, a charge that wasn’t there before. Clearly, you’ve done something right during the incantation portion of the ritual, so things are progressing nicely.

For the bodily sacrifice you pondered a number of options, but true to form you’d settled on sex (you hate blood, and really, if sex is an option why the hell not?). You don’t have a girlfriend at the moment, and don’t have any friends you feel comfortable roping into the ceremony (“Um, hey, Jennifer, so I’m looking to summon a demon this weekend. Want to come by Saturday night and fuck?” is such a cliche pickup line that it’s literally a classic vaudeville bit, like “Are you tired? Because you were running through my mind all night.”). Fortunately, the spirit world doesn’t really care if this particular bodily sacrifice involves another person or not, as long as the caster is… fully committed, let’s say, so onanism it is. That’s where Crowley really comes in handy, because he has a lot to say (and I mean a lot to say) about the efficacy of self-love sex-magicks. You think you should stick to the theme of the evening, so as a visual-aide you print out a picture of a naked anime demon-chick: some thin-waisted, impossibly large-titted green-skinned woman with horns jutting out from her forehead and bat wings sprouting from her shoulders.

Not that you’re trying to summon a hentai character, but you need something to help you get hard after chanting all that Latin, and kneeling on the rough hardwood floor in front of a squat, second hand oak-and-ash altar isn’t exactly a turn on by itself. You could have used a video but, even though none of the literature you read indicated that technology interferes with the ritual, bringing in something so modern just seems like a gauche anachronism. You could have gone with a picture of a real woman, of course, could have picked up a Playboy or Hustler from a newsstand (they still sell them, surprisingly—who’s paying for soft-core porn in hard-copy these days?), but since your earliest sexual experiences entailed jerking off to Jim Lee’s drawings of Psylocke and Rogue from the X-Men, or illustrations of chain-mail-clad barbarian babes in Dragon Magazine, it seems sort of fitting that, for this important ritual, you get off to a cartoon character.

* * *

So, you masturbate while starting at Nameless Demon Chick, and it doesn’t take too long until you finish.

That’s the climax of the event (no pun intended); the ritual is pretty much over at that point. You’re kneeling on your floor in the corner of your living room, your slowly sagging member in your hand, the saag paneer and wine from earlier sitting heavily in your stomach. Your head is fuzzy from the alcohol and orgasm, your left foot asleep from kneeling for so long, but you focus long enough to mutter the incantations of thanks that close off the ceremony as you stuff your dick back in your pants and clamber to your feet. It’s a bit of a let-down, really, not unlike the brief wave of regret and post-coital melancholy that always hits you any time you orgasm (whether alone or with a partner). Everything is so intense, so visceral and immediate, and then it’s over, leaving you tired and warm and sort of happy but also sort of empty.

* * *

And there’s nothing to do now but wait. Everyone says that’s the hardest part of summoning, that you don’t know if it’s really worked or what demon will answer your call right away. You’ve finished the incantations and encantations (no, they’re not the same, you did your research), evoked the elements and Greater Demons of Hell, called upon Orobus by name, offered the bodily sacrifice, and closed with prayers of thanks. Now it’s up to Orobus, or whatever diabolical entity might respond, to take you up on the offer. Because as much as the language of summoning, invoking, and binding makes it sound like a one-sided affair, the truth is that the final result is out of your hands; the demon has to choose you, even more than you chose it. And infernal spirits respond according to their own time-tables. It could be a matter of seconds, or on the long end, days, weeks… if at all. Assuming you succeeded in getting a demon’s attention, most of the literature agrees it should make an appearance in a few minutes on the short end and a few hours on the long end, but you never know.

So, waiting it is. You blow out the candles, but that’s about all there is to do at the moment. You can’t, unfortunately, clean up the… offering until the demon has responded, so that means leaving the corner of the living room a mess. Hopefully, you get some clear sign sooner rather than later, because there’s no way you can have guests over with the floor like that.

Still, it beats creating a homunculus.

You stow away your occult implements, pour yourself another glass of Shiraz to celebrate not botching the ritual (at the very least, nothing reached out from the Nether Realms to claim your soul, and that’s something). You eventually fall asleep on the couch watching some procedural cop drama.

Yes, your last act of freedom is to pass out on your couch in boxer shorts with your laptop on your chest. And you’re surprised you haven’t been able to find a relationship since your ex-wife?

* * *

When you wake up, it’s there.

You are just swimming back into consciousness when you become vaguely aware of a weight pressing against your chest. You mutter, shift slightly, and when you manage to force your eyes open, you see the demon crouched on your ribcage, its goat-like head cocked to one side expectantly, just staring. You freeze, your breath caught in your lungs not just from the unnatural weight of the demon’s disproportionate mass (it’s about the size of beagle, but it weighs as much as a Great Dane), but from the intense realization that this is Finally Happening, Right Now.

This is Real.

You can tell right away that this is not Orobus, the demon you’d intended to summon, so you’ve got to figure out who the hell it is you’re dealing with, and fast. Without breaking eye contact with the pale-yellow goat eyes, you manage to free one hand from under the comforter and fumble for your copy of Ars Goetia. The demon waits patiently as you flip through the heavy text (demons have nothing but time, after all), and although your hands are shaking so hard you can barely separate the pages you eventually find an entry in the grimoire that seems to fit the description of the entity before you. On the left-hand page there is an etching depicting a thin, naked male figure with the head of a goat. In the drawing it (he, you suppose) is sitting side saddle atop a distorted crocodile, and is holding a scepter canted across his shoulder. You read the entry across from the illustration:

The Daemon known as Morax is one of the Greate Earles and Presidentes of Hell, having under his commande thirty and two legions of daemons. He doth have mastery over Astronomee and the other liberale scienses, can grant to those in his favoure goode and wyse familiars which can reveale to one which askes the virtues of all favorable herbs and precous stones. He also hath dominion over the Gates of Lyfe and Death. He takes form most commonly as a small man wyth the head of a goat, or elys as a goat with the head of a man. It has been proposed by some wyse scholars that Morax is related to the God Pan of the Greeks. (See Johann Weyers, Gettings, et al.) His name seems to come from Latin ‘morax’, that delays, that stops. Other spellings: Foraii, Marax, Farax.

You eye the demon warily. This is the most dangerous part of the entire undertaking—binding the demon by its true name. If you’ve misidentified him and call him by some entity’s name other than his own, he’ll be freed from the constraints of your summoning, able to act utterly unfettered until returning to the infernal realms: he could attack you for the offense of dragging him all this way to the Earthly Plane, vandalize your apartment for revenge or amusement, drink all your beer and defecate on your carpet just for the hell of it (he’s a demon, they do weird shit just because they can). But he seems to match the description in the text, and there’s no point getting this far if you’re going to chicken out now.

“Morax, I bind thee in the name of Jehovah and Yahweh, by the name of Baal and Baphomet. I bind thee by fire and water, by earth and air, by iron and salt. Having answered my call and accepted my sacrifice, by the ancient laws of this and every realm, thou art mine to command.”

The demon’s eyes narrow for a moment and flames dance in the black void behind the yellow irises. Then his lips widen in a strange, goaty-smile.

“Call me Max,” he says in a surprisingly squeaky (and frankly adorable) voice.

“Max?” you ask. As long as you both agree on the name, the binding will be complete.

“Yeah, I prefer Max,” he says, then snuggles up next to you, burying his furry head between your arm and your chest. “I think this is going to be nice.”

You lie there, unwilling to disturb him even after your arm has fallen asleep. It probably goes without saying, but this is Not What You Were Expecting. But, as you’re about to learn, nothing from here on out is going to be what you were expecting at all.

* * *

The next few days—days? No, try weeks—pass in a muddled blur as you try to adjust to life with Max. There are a seemingly endless number of contracts and appendixes to those contracts to sign (in your own blood of course), and although you probably only understand half of what you read (Infernal Demonic has notoriously complex grammar, and the dialect used in legal documents is particularly obscure), you dutifully sign again and again, (“Initial here, here and here and sign here”) in a half awake stupor brought about by intense sleep deprivation.

Sleep is the first thing to go, of course. Demons don’t have the same natural circadian rhythm that humans have, the same innate glandular reactions to light and dark. There’s no demonic equivalent of melatonin, and if there is, it's most likely some viscous ectoplasm or aether-based humour attuned to the more arcane turnings of the celestial spheres, the rise and fall of the unseen flames in their native realm. It seems to you that Max never sleeps, and until the two of you have fully finalized the nature of your compact, you really don’t feel comfortable catching more than a few seconds of sleep at a time.

So you allow yourself to rest your eyes only when you are fully convinced that Max is occupied with one of his few obsessions: stripping the wires, one by one, out of all the fire alarms and carbon monoxide detectors your landlord had installed in each room of your apartment; arranging the bones from last night's rotisserie chicken in order to spell short snatches of Classical Latin poetry (You recognize “Ode et Amo,” of course, as well as “At regina gravi iamdudum saucia cura” but you won’t realize they work as foreshadowing until later, when it’s too late); staring out the window overlooking Euclid Ave and holding his fingertips up to his eye so he can pretend to crush the heads of the pedestrians below.

* * *

You take a while to realize (or just admit to yourself?) what a mistake summoning Morax was. It’s not just that he isn’t at all like Avnas—or, for that matter, any of your friends’ demons. You were ready for that; you were going to go into this with no expectations or judgement, right?

Right?

Bullshit, it turns out. You were open to a whole myriad of possibilities—but not, it seems, an infinite number of possibilities. Or, rather, you failed to understand the true depth and breadth of the possible outcomes. And fucking luck of the draw, you got one that fell outside of the range of what you’d imagined constituted “myriad.” Those visions you had of hanging out at trivia night and Your Demon chuckling knowingly at one of Your Private Jokes? Max doesn’t laugh at jokes.

Ever.

Also, he hates trivia night; the few times you try to take him, you’re forced to leave early when he emits a blood-curdling scream, as if all the Virtuous Pagans and Unbaptized Souls in Purgatory have just been told they’re being downgraded into the First Circle of Hell and decided as one to give voice to their collective grief through the vocal box of one small, goat-headed demon huddled behind a bucket of Miller High life longnecks (12 for $12 before 7 P.M. every Tuesdays!). Needless to say, the trivia host isn’t amused, and though your friends tell you it is just “One of Those Things” and “Every Demon is Different,” after the second such occurrence they stop including you on the group text reminder each week.

You can take a hint. So you stop showing up at trivia night. One day you suddenly realize you haven’t seen your friends at all for over two months, although you could swear it was just last week. Goddamn, but tempus does fugit, doesn’t it? A little voice inside you wonders if Max isn’t playing with time deliberately (“from the Latin ‘Morax,’ that which delays or stops,” right?), but he doesn’t give you any indication that he’s altering space-time and why would he do that?

Oh, right, he’s a fucking demon. He wouldn't need a reason.

And so it goes: Muay Thai, dating, sleeping in on Saturdays, working on your novel over coffee at The Buzz Barn Thursday’s after work; hell, even finishing routine project proposals for work on deadline. Like your friends, those parts of your life (good, bad, and indifferent) that you’d taken for granted, that composed the butt ends of your days and ways, the warp and the weft of what might have been a mediocre and utterly uninteresting existence, but it was yours, dammit! They’re gone, poof! As if to prove some demonological variation on the old physics sawhorse, “two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time,” only now it’s “anything you ever were even vaguely interested in” and “Max.” If you ever had measured out your life in coffee-spoons, those days are over, my friend. There are banishment rituals, and it seems as if you successfully (inadvertently, but successfully) banished any trace of a Life you previously might have laid claim to.

Again, though, something you expected, right? You knew full well that demons take up a lot of time, require a lot of energy. There are enns to recite daily, sigils and seals to maintain (lest the lines get smudged and their warding virtues nullified), routine sacrifices to keep Morax satiated. Blood, not yours (usually), though you’d think the sacrifice was Time itself the way it was playing out. Since the initial rite, no sexual sacrifices because ha, ha, ha ha, when would you find time to have a sex life? You scarcely can find five minutes of privacy to jerk off in peace, let alone actually spend enough time with a woman to even get close to the sort of familiarity that might result in your getting laid.

* * *

So, if you knew all this and none of it is really unexpected, why the hell are you so… no, you can’t say it. You can’t even think it. He will know. Max will know. And as bad as things are, that will make things even worse.

* * *

The thing is, you did expect your demon to take up most, even all of your time; you expected everything else to fall by the wayside for it to take center stage. But… but you thought you’d like it. You thought it would be fulfilling, beautiful, the sort of bond that can’t be explained but only experienced. That is what you thought you saw in other people. I mean, you did see that in other people, didn’t you? Are any of your friends and family really happy, or are they all just keeping up appearances? They can’t all be unhappy, can they?

* * *

Not that you aren’t happy.

No, of course not! You are happy. Yes, happy. Goddamnit, you’re happy. (Whew. Almost let that slip to the surface. Tamp it back down. Down boy! Thank God Orpheus looked back at the last minute or else Euridice would have been free, and then where would we be, eh? Let one Ugly Truth out and then the rest will clamor for daylight too, most likely).

* * *

They can’t all be lying, because you know it’s not like this with every demon. Not only have you spent many pleasant evenings in the company of your friends’ familiars, but you grew up with Avnas, right? And sure, childhood is seen through the tinted lenses of rose-colored glasses, but even so you remember the smiles and the piggyback rides, the times he’d sneak you Turkish Delight while tutoring you in Aramaic and proto-Arabic, the way he’d return from a trip to the grocery-store in a sudden cloud of sulphur, his corded arms straining under far too many plastic bags (“Bah! To taketh more than a single trip would be a thing of shame for a Spirit such as mineself.”). Now, with the hindsight of a Grown Adult, you assume there were complexities your parents kept from you, details as to their contract with Avnas, midnight contests of will between summoner and summoned, the specifics of the sacrifices used to renew his bonds (oh, God, you’d never considered they could have used sex… skip that thought. Grown Adult Hindsight only goes so far). Things may not have been as perfect as they seemed, but they were good. Avnas was funny, helpful, and a good listener.

* * *

Max, on the other hand, takes delight in transmuting the water in your pipes into lukewarm blood right when you’re in the middle of a shower.

Max wakes you up in the middle of the night by ululating and shrieking passages from Kramer and Sprenger’s Malleus Maleficarum in polyphonic overtones that not only means you can’t sleep, but drives your neighbors to file multiple noise complaints with the local police.

Max chews on the leg of the coffee table and scratches your curtains with his claws.

Max physically blocks the door when you want to run downstairs and grab a beer.

Max insists on sleeping on your chest at night, and when you try to gently push him off, he bursts into flame and burns your covers and comforter. (You’ve gone through a lot of linens recently).

Max kills the squirrels in the park and leaves the half-eaten corpses on your pillow as some sort of twisted gift. Which, you suppose, could be cute. But then he moves on from squirrels and starts bringing home Corgies and Yorkiepoos from the dog run.

Max refuses to do any shopping because “he’s scared of crowds.”

Max, Max, Max.

* * *

Eternity is a long time.

You used to joke that waiting in line at the Post Office, with its eight customer service windows but only one customer service agent and its line of customers not being served snaking out the door, was a glimpse into the experience of infinity. Not only was that highly inaccurate, but now you relish the previously dreaded tedium of such tasks as buying a roll of stamps or languishing in the waiting room of the dentist's office. Instead of a glimpse at infinity, they are now all too fleeting moments of freedom, of blessed tranquility.

Remember where we began? All those mistakes you can take back? This, this is not one of those mistakes—The Mistake, perhaps, capitalized like it’s a German Noun or an Important Idea in an Enlightenment Thinker’s Essay. There are many metaphysical reasons taking it back would be hard, even “well-nigh” impossible, but what makes this mistake truly and completely impossible to take back is the fact that (now listen carefully to the way this is said here) summoning Max was ahem, not a mistake. Not. You can’t even want to fix a problem that isn’t a problem, see?

And Max is definitely not. Not a problem. Not a mistake.

* * *

(As in, you can’t ever admit it was a mistake.)

* * *

No, really, you literally can’t admit it. You find that detail in the documents one day when you are leafing through the sheaves of parchment that make up your Binding Compact with Morax, possibly hoping to find a loophole, some clause that might point to an unlikely Control-Alt-Delete. Your eye catches on a passage you’d skimmed over before, and you realize what it says.

You promised to be happy.

Not just uphold your end of things, keep Max in blood-tithings and Latinate hymns, but to be happy.

About him.

At all times.

The wording is quite clear: no regrets, no unhappiness. Be happy. Happy to see him, happy to watch himself gorge on chalices of chthonic ichor, happy that he has decimated the few tattered remnants of your pathetic former social life.

Even if you:

1. could find some enchantress peddling a djinn-haunted lamp, and

2. if the Arabian spirit was in possession of the power to transport you back in time, and

3. if the djinn did agree to grant you such a wish, and

4. if that wish actually allowed you to make a different decision, to decide not to ever go through with the summoning

5. (and that’s a lot of if’s)

Even if all that was possible, you can’t let yourself hope for such a thing, because Max might hear your thoughts, because hoping for something other than what you have implies regrets (see above stipulation, paragraph 3, subsection a).

Sometimes you catch yourself fantasizing about the Whats and the Wherefores and the Mighthavebeens, of finding an enchanted rod or be-hexed gem-encrusted brooch shaped like a scarab beetle that contains the reality-warping powers of a long-dead Pharoah, but before such antithetical thoughts can formulate or quicken, before such heterodox hopes can geminate into full-fledged heresy, those mental Euridices are banished back to the subconscious Hades where they belong.

You ate of that pomegranate. Them’s the rules.

Banishings are possible, of course; exorcisms make up a not insignificant percentage of the economy, after all. But they’re not an option for you. Your contract stipulates you can’t banish him, and, what, you’re going to ask one of your friends to do it for you? No, that would never do. And of course, even thinking along those lines too far brings you into the same forbidden mental territory discussed above.

So don’t think about it.

* * *

Besides: if you could somehow undo the summoning, if you could banish him, would you actually do it? No, this question doesn’t count as having a regret (not really), it's more of just a counterfactual fantasy, okay? It’s fine, it’s safe, well within the bounds. (Still, keep it down, so Max doesn't over hear, alright? He might not understand.)

Because admit it, he has his moments. You (plural second-person, “you all,” as in the two of you together)—you have your moments. Like when you catch him singing to himself early in the morning when he thinks you aren’t looking, and it isn’t “A Hymne in Prayse of Beezalebub, Lucyfur Morningstar” in doggerel Coptic or an atonal screeching like nails on chalkboard, but “Hazy Shade of Winter” (the Mama’s and the Papa’s version), and his voice is so sweet. Of course, the moment he sees you he stops and begins singing some song that sounds like a turkey being slaughtered, but it’s one of those moments when you wonder what he’s really like behind his constant need to live up to his reputation as “One of the Greate Earles of Hell.”

Or when you come home from a long day at work and instead of dropping the mutilated corpse of a toy-poodle at your feet, like he so often does, he unexpectedly curls up beside you on the couch and falls asleep, like he did the first night you summoned him, and the two of you doze for a while, your arm draped over the soft and unnaturally warm fur of his head.

Or when he randomly declares that he wants you to teach him chess, just in case Death challenges him to a game where souls are on the line (you don’t think he’s seen The Seventh Seal, but Max is immortal, so for all you know he hung out with Bergman in the 50s), and so you dust off the old board and replica Isle of Lewis set of chessmen you haven’t used since college and spend the next few hours teaching him how the pieces move.

The moments are few and far between, but when they come, they seem to move backwards and forward in time, casting a patina of happiness over the past and future simultaneously; everything is, for that brief period, all right. In those moments you doubt your doubts: it’s just you and Max, and it’s everything you hoped it would be.

In those moments you love him, even though he’s a demon.

* * *

Then those moments end.

* * *

Those moments end and the torment returns and still you have to smile and be happy, because that’s what you signed your name to, in blood.

You literally signed up for this.

* * *

You can’t (or won’t?) banish him or get out from under your contract, but there’s another option. It’s dark (really dark) but, time being the inevitable linear concept that it is, each day you edge ever closer to the Only Solution you can come up with until one day you’ve Had Enough and act.

It’s a perfect autumn day, when the leaves are just starting to turn and the breeze is warm but tinged with a slight rumour of winter’s coming chill. That’s always been your favorite weather, when you think of the air as literally inspirational in the etymological sense (from the past-participle stem of the Latin inspirare “to blow into, breathe upon,” used poetically to mean “to inspire or inflame,” and more specifically from the Old French inspiracion used to mean “under the immediate influence of God or a god,” especially the spirit under which the Bible was written).

You’ve always felt as if that’s what days like today were doing, the breeze literally breathing the spirit of a god through the world and thus through you; they fill you with an ineffable sense of longing for something indescribable, an ill-defined nostalgia for… you can never say what. But it’s both happy and sad all at once, and perhaps that’s what inspires you or even impels you up to the roof of your apartment building to stare at the oh so blue sky with a bottle of tawny port for company, and about an hour later it turns out that with a full 750 ml of 20% fortified wine in you it’s surprisingly easy to walk towards the edge of the building and just not stop when the roof does, and since the world is spinning around you already, falling doesn’t feel that different from walking, or flying ...

* * *

Except you wake up on your couch, with Max perched on your chest, his golden goat eyes wide and staring right at you. As you swim back into consciousness and realize he’s waiting for you, you imagine that this is what Sisyphus must have felt the very first time he watched his boulder roll back down the hill.

You should have known better than to think killing yourself was an option. After all, he “doth have dominion over the Gates of Life and Death” and you signed a contract, remember?

You can’t get out of it that easily.

* * *

In 1947, in an attempt to revitalize jewelry sales that had (unsurprisingly) plummeted during the Great Depression, De Beers launched one of the most famous ad campaigns of all time: “A Diamond is Forever.”

However, a diamond isn’t really forever. A diamond is an allotrope of carbon, with atoms aligned into a lattice shape known as a diamond cubic, lending it a level of stability that will ensure it will outlast not only you and all your relationships, but the United States of America as a political structure, North America as a geological one, and pretty much be around when the Earth is a charred, lifeless ball slowly being subsumed into our Sun as our star transitions to become a Red Giant. Still, thanks to the inevitability of entropy and the long-game that is the cosmological clock, diamonds will, in some unimaginable future, decay into graphite, most likely at about the same time as the heat-death of the universe in 10^30 years.

Which, on a human scale, might seem like forever, but, when actually juxtaposed against eternity, is still an incredibly short period of time.

Demons, on the other hand, really are forever. Morax will be here after all matter has been consumed by black holes, and then those black holes have dissipated through Hawking Radiation. Not “here” per se, as there won’t be a here any longer, not in terms of this Earth or even the Universe as you understand it, but “here” back in the Infernal Realms, where time and space operate separately and internally.

Which means he isn’t going anywhere soon. And when he does go, your contract says he’s taking you with him.

This isn’t ending.

Not ever.

You wonder if Sisyphus learned to love his boulder, learned to take pride in the effort it takes to push it to the top of his hill. Camus said something like that, didn’t he? That perhaps the King of Corinth grew to admire the view the hilltop provided, the plains of Tartarus stretching away into the eternal gloaming that is the Underworld as he paused before turning to follow his rock down once more.

Perhaps you will come to appreciate the irony that, while you failed as an alchemist, you have managed to find eternal life even without the Philosopher’s Stone.

Perhaps you can learn to love anything. “Had we but world enough and time…” And it seems that now you have all the time in the world.

Chris Vandyke spent the first 16 years of his life in the small coastal town of Gold Beach, Oregon. Since 2002 he has taught high school English in the New York City Public School System, which needless to say, differs somewhat from his hometown. He is the founder and president of Skullgate Media, a writer-owned publishing collective, and the editor-in-chief of Tales from the Year Between, a sci-fi/fantasy anthology. He lives in Brooklyn with his partner, two children, and a menagerie of animals. They are currently one goat shy of a petting zoo. Follow him on Twitter as @aboutrunning, or via Skullgate Media as @SkullgateMedia

Into the Maw of Darkness

B.K. Bass

"Blazes," I cursed as the carriage bounced violently and sent the sheaf of papers in my hands into disarray. A wheel had caught a rut in the road, most likely. I straightened the documents atop the leather folio in my lap, pausing to take a closer look at the single photograph atop the pile. It lacked the grain one saw from so many honeyfuggling portrait photographers those days. No, this was quality work, and likely not inexpensive.

A young woman sat crossways on an elaborately carved Queen Anne chair—likely a family heirloom—which was incongruously placed amid a modest garden. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, itself enveloped in voluminous skirts of a ruffled dress. A wide-brimmed hat sat atop her head with a ribbon tied under her chin.

"Mary Brimsworth," I muttered as the slop and clomp of horses stomping in the mud turned to the clip-clop of hooves on cobbles.

I looked up as the endless monotony of pastureland gave way to a smattering of ramshackle wood-plank buildings. Oil-burning streetlamps pressed away the darkness here and there, but for the most part, the shadows enveloped the town.

I peered back down at Miss Brimsworth, tilting the photograph for a better look in the paltry, cloud-obscured moonlight filtering through the carriage window. As we passed the sporadic streetlamps, her face was lit by a warm, orange glow. Mary's smile was filled with as much mystery as the documents in my lap under her photograph. Was she enjoying a warm afternoon in the garden? Squinting in the sunlight, or from the sudden spark of the photographer's flashbulb? Or simply putting on a good showing for Mummy's mantle?

I flipped the photograph over to find Mary's name written neatly on the back, along with the date the photo was taken: April thirteenth, 1849. Just one year ago, shortly before she left her family home in New York City with a sizable investment from her father to pursue her own business ventures on the coast of Maine; the same Mister Brimsworth who had hired me to discover the whereabouts of his now-missing daughter.

The carriage creaked and lurched to a halt. "Blazes," I cursed again as the papers spilled from my lap. I knelt to retrieve them as the driver opened the door.

"Mister Calloway, we've arrived."

I looked up at the disheveled coot, taking no great pains to mask my consternation at his handling of the conveyance. "You don't say?"

He opened his mouth as if to retort, then paused as he likely thought better of it; or possibly found thought itself lacking altogether.

"You'll take care with the bags, Mister Shaw," I called out, sliding the gathered documents into the folio, and buckled into a satchel. I slung the bag over my shoulder and climbed out of the carriage onto the rain-soaked cobblestone road.

A light drizzle still fell over the town, little more than a mist, yet quite less than a shower. An icy chill blew in off the waters of the North Atlantic. I looked up at the modest boarding house standing before us, and a sigh of resignation escaped my lips. Despite the simple accommodations I expected to find inside, I was eager to retire for the evening.

I'd been traveling since I left my offices in New York that morning; at first by train to Portland, Maine, and from there Mister Shaw's carriage had brought me to our destination: the town of Shadswick.

"This way, Mister Calloway," Shaw muttered as he started across the street with a suitcase in each hand.

I followed him up the stone steps to the front door of the boarding house. He reached up and pulled a slender, hempen rope hanging from a brass bell near the portal. He rang it three times, and its peal was like a sullen metallic dirge in the otherwise silent evening.

We stood in the blustering, icy mists for several minutes before Mister Shaw again raised his hand to the bell's rope. As he was just about to grasp it, a frail voice called out from the other side of the boarding house’s simple door. "A moment. Just a moment, if you will."

As promised, moments later the door cracked open to reveal the slight frame of an elderly woman, wrapped in her nightclothes and clutching tight a simple woolen shawl. "Well?" she said. "Come in, both of you, before you catch your death of the chill."

She stepped back, inviting us to hurry with a frantic waving of a skeletal hand. Wrinkles dangling from her jowls wobbled as she shook with the tremors of one beset by a palsy.

"Missus Meriwether, I presume?" I asked with a nod as I followed Mister Shaw inside and removed my hat.

"Yes, yes," she muttered as she pushed past me to close the door. "And you'll be Misters Calloway and Shaw, unless some random strangers planned to come waking me in the dead of night this evening, hmm?"

"Well, this is a boarding house, is it not?" I asked.

The old woman laughed, a sound like dry sawdust being rubbed across a burlap sack. "Of a sort. It's mostly just my house, but since my boys are all dead and gone—and my husband with them—I have empty rooms. Warm bodies in those rooms puts food on the table. So, call it what you will. In any case, welcome."

"Much appreciated," I stammered, taken aback by her forthwith exposition regarding her tragic situation. "And my apologies."

"Pfft." She waved her hand as she picked up a brass candle holder with an already-lit tallow candle. "Wasn't you that killed ‘em, was it?"

"Well, no."

"Then you got nothin’ to be sorry about. This way." Without further preamble, she led us around the corner from the foyer to a narrow set of stairs. "Up there, first door on the right. Breakfast is at sunrise. If you're a late sleeper, you'll have to forage elsewhere. If that's all, good night." She turned the corner and disappeared into the darkness, taking the candle with her.

Standing there in the shadows, I asked, "Mister Shaw, what of your own accommodations?"

"No worries," he said as he hefted the bags and started up the shadowed staircase. "I've a room let at the local groggery, and stables for the horses besides." When he reached the top of the stairwell, he huffed a deep breath and set the bags down in front of the first door on the right. "Place goes by the name of The Lost Anchor. Should you need me, or when you're ready to ride back to Portland, I'll be there."

"And," I asked as he started down the stairs, "how shall I find this... Lost Anchor?"

"Oh," he chuckled in the darkness. "It's not so lost as all that. There's only one road through town, so I'm sure you'll have no problem finding it."

* * *

The crash of thunder awoke me before dawn the next morning. Lightning illuminated the small room through gossamer curtains in intermittent flashes as I rose. I fumbled in the darkness to light an oil lamp on the bedside table. The wick sizzled as the whale oil took light, and soon the orange glow of a flame joined the stark, bright flares from the window.

I snapped open my brass pocket watch to find it was nearly five o'clock. I washed up in a basin in the corner of the room where Missus Meriwether had provided a pitcher of water the night before. I then donned a simple brown twill suit from my luggage. Properly appointed, I took in hand my bowler hat and the leather folio with my case notes, then made my way downstairs.

Thunder echoed as I descended the narrow, darkened steps to the main floor of the house. The smell of frying eggs and some sort of fish greeted me as I rounded the corner into the foyer. I was unsure whether I should wait there, but a decidedly ravenous grumbling in my belly convinced me that only the intrepid should prevail, and so I delved further into the unfamiliar domicile in search of a morning repast.

The scrape of steel on iron behind a door at the end of the hall assured me the kitchen lay on the other side, and so I knocked gently on the pine.

"Mister Calloway?” Missus Meriwether responded. “Please, do come in."

I turned the brass knob and pulled open the door, which came ajar with a squeak of rusty hinges, to find the kindly woman busying about preparing the morning meal. The kitchen itself was rather small and plainly appointed, with a wood-burning stove in a corner, a low counter against one wall, shelves of sundry goods opposite this, and a washbasin near another door on the back wall. Lightning flashed through a small window set over the basin, leading me to conclude this door must lead outside. In the center of the room was an ordinary pine table scarred with years of wear—those scars likely telling as many tales as a modest library might hold.

"Come, sit." Missus Meriwether waved me over to the table as she slid two eggs from a black pan onto a simple, glazed clay plate. To this she added what appeared to be a pickled herring that had been soaking in a pot of warm water on the edge of the stove; presumably to draw out some of the saltiness of the brine.

"You have my thanks," I said as I set my hat and folio down, then took a seat. The chair creaked and swayed as I lowered myself, as if it were about to come apart, but it held my weight without further protestation.

As Missus Meriwether set the plate of steaming eggs and fish before me, I noticed chips along the edges and the telltale sign of mended cracks running through the uncolored clay.

"Oh, you'll need a fork," she said as she rummaged around in a clay pitcher near the washbasin, then returned to the table with a cast iron, two-tined fork. I tried the eggs first, finding them to be surprisingly delightful for such an unpretentious preparation, and took a closer look about the kitchen as I savored the meal.

Cracks ran through the plaster along the walls, and the tell-tale sign of water damage reared its ugly head in the corners. The rough-cut, naked timbers along the edges of the ceiling looked as if they had seen more years than I; making them over fifty years old, if that were the case. Altogether, I could tell the Meriwethers had never been a wealthy lot. And now, with the matron of the family left here alone, their finances had likely gone from dismal to outright destitute.

My inquisitive nature got the better of me—or perhaps it was the uncomfortable silence permeating the room as I ate alone before my host—so I inquired as to her aforementioned lost family. "So, your husband and sons: Were they sailors?"

"Aye, they were. All five of them. Whalers, like most men in town."

"Were they lost at sea?"

"Oh, heavens no," she said as she poured steaming coffee into two ceramic cups on the table. She took a seat opposite me and pulled one of the vessels close, cradling it between shaking hands. "They disappeared right here, from under this very roof."

I cocked my head to the side. "I don't follow. So, Miss Brimsworth isn't the only missing person in Shadswick?"

"Oh, heavens no," Missus Meriwether said again. After a sip of coffee, she added, "They didn't go all at once, mind you. The last, my boy Henry, has been gone five years now. The first, my husband Charles, vanished almost twenty years ago."

"So..." I looked into the depths of the black coffee, then into her eyes, surprised to find them devoid of tears despite the subject. "People have been going missing here for twenty years? How many have been lost?"

She shrugged. "Dozens? I think we lost track after a while. And it's been longer than twenty years. Charles was far from the first, and Henry far from the last. Your Mary isn't even the most recent."

I shook my head as I attempted to fathom the magnitude of what she was saying. "And nobody has looked into these missing persons?"

"The local constable, Mister Hayden, has looked into every one. And every time he's found nothing."

"No one else?"

"No." Missus Meriwether shook her head. "Miss Mary is the first one to go who's got a family rich enough to hire some highfalutin investigator from New York City. The rest of us just have to live with things how they are."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," I muttered as I took a sip of the acrid, bitter coffee.

She burst out into a cackle, which quickly devolved into a fit of coughing. After clearing her throat, she said, "Mister Calloway, if you expected the mystery of Mary Brimsworth to be a needle in a haystack, you'll find yourself unpleasantly surprised. 'Tis more like a needle in a stack of needles, if you ask me."

* * *

I left Missus Meriwether to her daily business, finding my hunger satiated, but my appetite for answers only deepened. I placed my hat atop my head and tucked the folio under my arm as I strode out into the weak glow of the dawn. Clouds still blanketed the sky, but the rain had relented to a gentle mist not unlike the evening prior. Does it ever stop raining here? I wondered.

Having received the general layout of Shadswick from my host, I made my way deeper into the settlement. As Mister Shaw had informed me, there was only one major road: this one hugging near the rocky coastline. Water ran between the cobbles under my feet like tiny rivers, their babbling nearly drowned out by the crash of waves on the cliffside below and to my right. Narrow alleys cut between two-story homes on the left, and opposite them, I passed a variety of small workshops and warehouses. The majority of the buildings on both sides seemed boarded up and neglected, as if they'd not been in use for some years—or decades.

I soon found myself standing before a wide, two-story affair of rough planks lined with a broad porch. A hanging sign swayed in the gentle breeze, the rusty chains supporting it creaking as it wavered to and fro. Upon the sign was a simple engraving of an anchor, its chain snapped and lying limp at the bottom of the sea. 'The Lost Anchor' was scrawled in rudimentary script across the top.

Missus Meriwether had told me to turn off the road here, down what was little more than a well-worn wagon track towards the sea. Cobblestones gave way to hard-packed clay with deep ruts—a telltale sign of the many heavy loads which had likely traveled this thoroughfare. Despite the incessant rain, the clay held its form, though it was no less slippery for the moistening.

Thankfully, I found a narrow path of loose boards set to one side of the road, running near another row of seemingly abandoned warehouses. The path sloped downward, cut between the short, seaside cliffs towards a miniscule harbor. Several small fishing boats were docked along a pier, and a collection of skiffs sat beached on the shore—the latter most likely to carry sailors to whaling ships moored in deeper waters nearby. As port towns went, the geography of Shadswick was altogether poorly suited to its task. Why one of the many natural harbors nearby had not given rise to a hub of the whaling industry over this shallow, stone-lined shore was beyond my ken.

It seemed since I'd arrived in town, without even beginning to dig for answers to my mystery, I'd unearthed only more riddles.

As I reached the bottom of the path, I allowed a cautious hope to embrace my thoughts, for I had discovered the object of my venture. Standing on stilts beside the meager port was little more than a single-story shack with a steeply sloped roof and one broad window overlooking the flotilla below. A faded sign near the door read 'harbormaster'. Near this was a likewise weathered bronze star insignia, declaring this to be a constable's station. Missus Meriwether's directions had guided me true, as I found myself standing before the offices of the one man who had thus far investigated the disappearances: Constable Hayden, who also served as the tiny port's harbormaster.

I climbed the steps to a rickety porch lining the front of the building and rapped my knuckles sharply on the solitary door near the window. Several moments passed, casting clouds across my meager hopes as surely as the clouded sky cast shadows over the town. Finally, I heard boards creaking as footfalls crossed the space within, and the door opened. Before me stood a portly man with a balding pate and bushy, salt-colored mustache that matched caterpillar-like brows.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice sounding as if he were grinding gravel in his craw.

"Constable Hayden?"

"Yes."

"Good morning," I began as the cold mists continued to buffet me despite the narrow awning over the deck. "Allow me to introduce myself: I am Inspector Oliver Calloway, a private investigator from New York, hired to determine the whereabouts or fate of one Mary Brimsworth." I pulled my coat tighter as the constable's eyes narrowed in silence. "May I come in?"

A grunt was my only answer, but the man turned back inside without closing the door, which I took as invitation enough. I followed him in, pressing the portal closed against the damp and chill behind me.

The office was a large, open space devoid of any partitioning save for a single door on the far side, presumably concealing a privy. A modestly constructed yet large desk sat in the center of what could only be described as a maelstrom of neglect. Ledgers and files sat stacked around it on the floor, any semblance of order long ago abandoned as they leaned into one another. A table beneath the broad window was likewise piled with documents and the expected accoutrement of the nautical trade: ropes, pulleys, hammers, and even a rusty harpoon. On the back wall was a blackboard with faded scrawling that, at a glance, seemed to have once denoted the routes and timetables of various vessels.

"What do you want?" Constable Hayden asked abruptly as he sat behind the cyclopean desk and lit a cigar. The smell of the burning tobacco did little to assuage the decades of must and seaborne odors that permeated the building.

"Well," I began, "as I mentioned, I'm here to investi—"

"Yeah," Hayden cut me off. "I heard you the first time. What do you want from me?"

Remembering I'd neglected to doff my hat, I quickly removed it and held it against my chest as I dipped my head in apology. "I'm sorry, Constable. I understand your time is precious. If you will, I'll come quite rapidly to the point."

"Please." He puffed on the cigar, annoyance in his eyes cutting through me as the rays of a lighthouse might cut through a fog.

"Quite so," I muttered. "Well, I've come to your fair town intending to investigate the disappearance of one young woman, but since arriving I've learned there's been a long precedence for such a thing in Shadswick, and that you would be the principal investigator of such matters. I was wondering if you had any files, or case notes, that I might—"

"No," Hayden cut me off again.

"No?"

The constable took several puffs of his cigar and tapped the ashes off onto the floor. "The noise in New York City make you deaf, Inspector? I said no."

I gasped for air like a landed fish for a moment, taken aback by the abrupt denial. "No, as in there are no notes? Or no, as in I may not review them?"

"Quite simply: No," Hayden said as he pushed his chair back and stood. "There're no notes, 'cause there was nothing to take note of. People disappear. It happens. Where they go is none of my business."

"But you're the town constable."

Hayden chuckled as he placed a meaty hand on my shoulder and urged me towards the door. "And if they turn up dead and bloody, then I'll deal with it. Otherwise, well, they probably just decided to..." Hayden paused to open the door, gestured outside, and finished, "leave."

"Unexpectedly?" I pressed as I was shepherded out of the office. "And leaving behind loved ones? A wife, or widowed mother?"

Hayden shrugged. "Not my place to say what wills a man to do what he does. They'll face their own judgment when time comes."

"But," I protested, "you're the constable."

Muffled laughter was the only answer as the door to the office slammed shut.

* * *

Resigned to carrying out my investigation without local assistance, I climbed back up the rain-soaked hill to the main road. Missus Meriwether had illuminated one other beacon within the otherwise dismal town, and that was the local schoolhouse. According to my host, the modest institution doubled as the town's library, and held a number of records from Shadswick's history. Given the unexpectedly long trail of missing persons in the town, and the apparently short memory of her residents, I discerned my best opportunity to uncover the origins of the mystery lay in the written word.

Up the road from The Lost Anchor, as the path turned away from the coast, the tightly packed two-story dwellings gave way to more spread out, single-story counterparts. What may have once been well-tended gardens stood within wooden fences decimated by time. Many of the houses also seemed to have been abandoned. The thought occurred to me, as I trod the empty road among silent, darkened homes, that so many had vanished over the decades to leave naught but a handful of souls to occupy Shadswick. I would not expect a bustle of activity from such a small, remote place—but by mid-morning I'd expected to see some sign of life.

Near the edge of town, nary a ten-minute walk from the central groggery and stables, the rows of homes came to a sudden halt. On one side of the road, atop a short hill, stood a small stone chapel. The blocks, if one could call them that, were cut into a variety of shapes—likely flattened out only enough to be stacked with some scant confidence by the builders. The outer surface was obviously weathered by time. Even from the road, the stones glistened as the ever-present mist ran from their smooth faces. The sharply slanted roof and the peak of a narrow bell tower were covered in clay shingles that appeared almost new, as opposed to the rest of the structure, which from all appearances had been built by the first settlers of the town.

Across from this, I found the next stop on my quest: the local schoolhouse. In contrast to the stone church sitting proudly on the hill behind me, the school was beyond modest. White-washed clapboards lined the walls, setting it apart from the rough-plank exterior of its neighbors down the road. But they too betrayed a lineage of neglect. The lime coating had mostly worn away, leaving a pale gray on most of the boards. What little was left of the pigment ran freely as moisture dribbled slowly through the nooks and crannies of the splintered boards. Many of them, in fact, hung loosely from the sides of the building; or had fallen off to lie abandoned in the mud below.

I walked up to the front of the school and knocked on a door covered in peeling green paint. As my knuckles met the wood, it slowly drifted inward. "Hello?" I called out as I pressed the door open and peered into the darkness within. I was instantly met with a spider's web and jerked my head back in surprise. Wiping the offending strands from my face, I steeled my nerve and once again called out as I stepped within, "Hello?"

As I fully expected, there was no answer. The interior of the schoolhouse looked as if it had been long ago abandoned. Plain wooden chairs and desks sat all in neat rows with spiderwebs strung between them like some garish holiday decorations. Thick layers of dust covered every surface. The teacher's lectern lay toppled on its side at the head of the small room, and near this a quaint desk sat clear of any adornment save for layers of detritus. The floorboards groaned loudly as I stepped fully inside, leaving the door open behind me to allow some scant light to follow. I was fortunate to find a beaten copper lamp sitting on a windowsill, with a splash of oil remaining.

From my satchel I withdrew my flint lighter and clacked it several times over the wick. It took some struggle for it to take light, but finally there was some illumination to guide my search.

Once hidden in the shadows, but now painfully obvious, a single door stood open in the rear corner of the classroom. Stepping through, I found the town library. In fact, little more than a large closet, the space was cramped with several rows of bookshelves filled with an assortment of volumes. I found much of what one would expect in such a place: texts on basic grammar, mathematics, and some meager offerings on world history. There was a smattering of classical literature with familiar names such as Homer and Shakespeare. The further I pressed into the tiny library, however, the more obscure the volumes became. Treatises on all matters nautical filled many shelves, among them not a few focused on the craft of whaling itself. Tucked among these were odd tomes delving into mythologies of several ancient cultures from Anatolia, the Levant, Mesopotamia, and beyond. These became more common as I neared the back of the room—a strikingly odd collection to be found both in such a simple town and among their more mundane brethren.

Finally reaching the back of the library, I found what I was looking for. Flanking a small desk in the center of the wall, two bookcases of surprisingly ornate design were filled with all manner of hand-written notebooks, journals, and ledgers. Finding most of the covers unadorned by either title or author, I placed the lamp down on the desk, sat on a small stool that I found tucked beneath it, and swept away the layers of dust with a stray textbook.

Guessing the oldest volumes would likely be buried on the lower shelves, I leaned over and grasped a random handful of leather-bound journals. Spreading the first open on the desk under the meager light of the copper lantern, I hunched over the pages to see what secrets I might be discover within.

Reading a journal from one of Shadswick's early residents, dating between 1738 and 1753. Skimming the contents, I was immersed in a relatively uneventful span of a local cobbler's life. What was of interest, though, was tell of a booming settlement. Business was good for the cobbler, mostly resulting from many sailors needing repairs to work boots.

Setting this journal aside, I opened the next on my small stack. This turned out to be a ledger detailing productivity of whaling vessels operating out of Shadswick from 1775 to 1785. Despite the upheaval of the Revolution, business seemed to have been booming at the time. Indeed, the colonial militias and the newly born Continental Army were desperate for whale oil, and so there was no shortage of funds pouring into the tiny town—a town which seemed to have gone miraculously unnoticed by the British for the span of the conflict.

Several volumes following proved decidedly less interesting, until I came across one that bore stark contrast to the first. Another journal, this time of a young woman who taught children in the very building in which I sat reading her words. She wrote in 1794 that the temper of the townsfolk became prominently bleak as the fortune of the local whalers turned poor. What had been a growing, thriving town had suddenly ground to a halt. She told of entire families packing up and leaving in search of better lives elsewhere, resulting in nearly half the town becoming abandoned in the span of only a few months.

I shook my head in dismay at the poor luck of those long-gone families who faced the hard truth of leaving their homes behind. The lamp seemed to read my mood as it sputtered and sizzled. The faint firelight flickered and dimmed. Picking it up and giving it a shake, the conspicuous absence of any sloshing bore evidence there was no more than a coating of oil inside. My time exploring the library was coming to an end soon, unless I returned with more oil or another lamp.

I cracked open the next book on my stack and flipped rapidly through the pages. The handwriting—which remained unremarkable throughout most of the volume—suddenly became erratic near the middle. I stopped and read lines written in a hand either rushed, uncaring, or unsteady. I was met with an emotional tirade over the loss of a beloved son. The young man disappeared from his bed in the night, and no trace of him could be found. Others had gone missing concurrent to this, under similar circumstances, and the entire town was in an uproar over the matter.

This was it. This was the beginning I'd been looking for. The entry was not dated, and the rest of the journal was naught but blank pages. Flipping back, I found the last dated entry to be from January 1810; some forty years ago.

A sputtering from the lamp broke me from my musings, reminding me my time was limited before I was cast back into darkness. I picked up the next volume, which one could hardly call a proper book. It was more of a bundle of pages stitched together with twine and bound between two slender wooden sheets. Opening it to the center of the roughly cut pages, I was immediately assaulted by frenetic handwriting, sloppily dripped blotches of ink, and strange diagrams. The latter was of symbols I'd never seen before, looking like some ancient pictographs in some places and utter gibberish in others. The remainder of the writing, while nearly illegible, was however in plain English. Plain so far as to the composition of the words themselves, but the temperament and assembly of the thoughts therein was another matter entirely.

As far as I could tell, the volume contained in places the meandering thoughts of a wayward soul, and in others the ravings of a madman. Had I time to study it further, I might have made sense of it. But in my urgency, I could piece together only fragments of intelligible discourse. Some pages bore only single phrases scrawled haphazardly across the paper, while others held entire lectures on matters of a decidedly metaphysical nature. Mentions of gods and daemons long forgotten in the annals of history were referred to as if the author were conducting daily business with them on one page, while the next might have been an angry diatribe on the quality of the local fisheries.

Across all of this, there was one common theme. Mentioned over and over—sometimes in context to a deeper thought, at others called out as if an invocation—was a figure referred to only as 'Mother'.

But who is Mother? The question filled my mind as the lamp sputtered one last time and the flame gave a final convulsion, as if fighting for life. And then, I was enveloped by darkness as a crash of thunder boomed so loudly as to shake the very floorboards beneath my feet.

I shot from my perch with a start, nearly falling over it as I stumbled through the darkened library. My only guide: a sliver of light from the half-open door to the schoolhouse proper. I nearly reached it before it slammed shut with such force as to rattle the walls about it. The deafening clatter rang through my ears. Stunned by the sudden noise and blinded in the darkened library, I tripped over a stack of books and fell to the rough floorboards. I felt a trickle of blood from my brow, and the taste of copper revealed that the sudden numbness in my lip heralded a profusely bleeding gash.

I blindly grasped a nearby shelf and lifted myself from the floor as thunder continued to rattle the tiny, ramshackle building. I groped through the darkness ahead of me as I took one tentative step after another, the only object of my every desire now being to grasp something as simple as an iron door handle. Thunder crashed again as my hands met solid wood before me—and groping as if I were a drowning man seeking the surface of an endless sea—I finally found the handle. I pressed down on the latch and pushed, forced to heave against the door as a tempestuous wind swept through the classroom.

As I stumbled out of the library and ran into the street, newly awash in a renewed deluge, I realized my heart was pounding from sheer terror. A terror caused by the wind blowing a door closed, or from what I had read? I also realized as I ran towards the center of town that within my grasp was the hand-crafted journal.

* * *

I stumbled, my suit soaked from the rain, through the front door of The Lost Anchor. The interior of the groggery bore the trappings one would expect from such a place. Short lengths of rope run through pulleys and tied into intricate knots joined nets on the wall where a more refined establishment might hang paintings. Scrimshaw carvings in whale ivory hung prominently where a hunter's lodge might display works of taxidermy. Scant lanterns hung from low beams along the ceiling barely lit the dim interior. Even the flashes of lightning outside did little to brighten the place, as the windows were all covered in such an accumulation of grime as to be almost completely opaque.

Behind the counter stood a man of such malnourished stature one might wonder whether the establishment even had food to offer. A thin mustache drooped over the edges of his lips, above a chin covered in a slight, tangled scruff.

I strode up to the bar and leaned heavily upon it, struggling to catch my breath.

"What'll it be?" the man asked, either oblivious or unconcerned towards my obvious distress.

"Mister Shaw’s room; where is it?" I asked, dispensing with any pretense of pleasantries.

The innkeeper cocked his head to the side like a confused hound, then said, "No Mister Shaw here. Nobody here but me."

I drew in a desperate gasp and retorted, "That's impossible. We arrived just last night, and he said he'd be staying here. His carriage is parked along the road outside, and surely there's two dappled mares belonging to him in your stables?"

The man shook his head, his expression blank. "No, doesn't ring a bell."

"But the carriage?" I protested.

"That old thing? That's mine. Been sitting there by the road some five years now."

Was I going mad? Surely, I'd arrived just the night before with the uncouth cretin, and he'd assured me he'd be here. Even had he lied about his accommodations, which made little sense in any case, I knew the carriage outside was the one I'd ridden in just last evening.

I looked back to the barman, not even sure what my next question would be, when I noticed him looking down with a wry smile. Following his gaze, I found my hand planted firmly atop the journal I'd taken from the library.

I looked back up, and the man's eyes narrowed as they met mine. "Mustn't keep Mother waiting, now."

"What?" I gasped.

"Mother is waiting. Run along now, before she becomes cross."

"But—"

"Go!" he suddenly screamed, leaning forward to push me away from the bar.

I stumbled and backed away, daring not to turn, lest the irate barman strike me from behind. Groping behind myself, I slowly backed out of the taproom, stumbling over chairs and tables alike, but refusing to let this crazed lunatic out of my sight until I was safely outside.

* * *

I know not why, but I found myself making my way back to Shadswick's tiny harbor. As I stumbled through the rain, I flipped through page after page of the strange journal. The squall soaked the pages as I read, and the ink ran before I could grasp the meaning of the words. I hunched over the book to shield it from the downpour, likely appearing as some twisted madman as I stumbled and slipped downhill along the wood-plank path.

As I neared the bottom, I found in the journal a drawing of the cliffsides surrounding the city. And in that cliffside, just off the harbor, what appeared to be a small opening in the stone bulwark. Scribbled near the bottom of the page, the script dissolving in the rain as I read it, was scrawled the word 'Mother'.

The pages of the journal were by this time now thoroughly soaked to pulp. I cast what had been the last vestiges of a broken mind aside to drift in the mud. The journal sank into the mire, like the lives of so many that had seemingly been drowned by the town of Shadswick.

A cave, I thought. There's a cave in the cliffside.

I ran down to the harbor and slogged ankle-deep into the sea—not a care given to the seawater now flooding my already-soaked shoes—then grasped the nearest boat with both hands and heaved it towards the sea.

Once free of land, I clambered over the side and into the vessel. I found a pair of oars in the bottom of the small skiff, set them into their rings, and proceeded to row down the beach—guided only by the memory of a long-dead madman's hand-scrawled map of the coastline.

Fire burned through my back and shoulders as I rowed, for how long I couldn't say. The small harbor of Shadswick rapidly disappeared in the storm, and I began peering over my shoulder in search of Mother's cave. I rowed like a man driven, but by what I didn't know. Were this any other day in my life, I'd say I was driven by the search for the truth. Perhaps that was what fueled me as I rowed across the choppy surf. Or perhaps it was something else.

In any regards, I rowed on like a man beset with divine purpose. My arms tingled and my hands grew numb as they held the oars in a white-knuckled grasp. I was about to surrender to fatigue when I saw it: the cave. Nestled into the cliffs, overhung with both stone and ivy, was a darkness deeper than the surrounding storm. In the surrounding shadows, it seemed a void. I pulled hard with one oar and steered the boat towards the maw of darkness.

Waves crashed upon the rocky coast about me, and once angled towards the cave, I let the sea propel me to my destination; guiding the boat only by dragging the oars to steer it. Soon, I was enveloped by the nothingness.

The pressing sarcophagus of the darkened cave lent shelter from the storm. Any fear of my sudden blindness was awash in relief at the sudden absence of the buffeting winds and piercing raindrops. All I could hear was water lapping against the boat and the stones, both of which echoed around me, growing to a dull, rhythmic hum. Just as I thought my eyes might be adjusting to the darkness, I noticed a flicker of firelight reflecting off the waters behind me. I realized I was still cruising with my back leading the way, so I turned.

Ahead, the cave opened into a circular chamber where the remnants of the storm-driven waves lapped lazily against a gravely shore. Lining this was a series of tall torches set into the ground, illuminating a row of several skiffs similar to my own. I hunched low and tried to peer into the darkness beyond the torchlight. As far as I could tell, I was alone.

For what felt like ages, I waited in silence while the boat drifted towards the subterranean shore. I think I held my breath the entire time, for when I finally stepped over the edge and onto the ground, I gasped a sigh of relief that could have filled a bellows.

As quietly as I could, I pulled the boat aground, then took stock again of my surroundings. Leading from the circular, underground harbor were only two exits; one, the way I had come, and the other, deeper into the darkness.

I grabbed one of the torches and wrenched it from the ground. I held the long shaft across my chest like a fearful spearman of some long-gone war as I crept through ankle-deep water into the narrow tunnel. The ceiling and walls were glossy with moisture that dripped and ran from every nodule of stone. Long, slender stalactites reached down from above, while their cousins grew up from below. As I crept between the sedimentary formations, it occurred to me that the scene was eerily like walking through the fang-filled gullet of some preternatural creature.

Shaking such uncanny thoughts from my mind, I pressed on. Whatever mystery lay at the heart of the missing population of Shadswick, and poor Mary Brimsworth herself, surely must be ahead of me. This Mother, whoever she might be, must be the one taking them. With her firmly in my custody, whether young Mary was alive or not, I'd have another case put to rest. And, more importantly, I could leave this accursed place; never to return.

Almost as that thought occurred to me, I heard voices echoing through the tunnel. Not one woman, as I had expected, but a chorus.

I looked about for a place to stow my torch, not wanting it to herald my arrival, but the floor of the tunnel was solid stone. Resigning myself to the darkness once more, I laid it down in the water at my feet, and with a hiss I was again blinded.

Feeling my way with my hands, treading slowly, I crept deeper into the tunnel. With every step, the voices grew louder. They were chanting in unison, but what they were saying I could not tell. The words that uttered forth from the unseen assembly were unrefined and guttural, almost anathema to the senses. As the volume and urgency of the words grew to a fevered pitch, they swirled through my mind in a cacophony, each line seeming as if it would shatter my grasp of reality.

Just when I thought I could take no more, they stopped.

Dim firelight glowed on the moist stone walls of the tunnel ahead of me. Onward I pressed, both revulsed by and drawn to the unseen congregation. I knelt low and crept forward as the twinkling became a glow, and soon I stood in full view of some sort of occult ceremony.

A dozen figures shrouded in robes stood in a semicircle before a dais of black granite. Upon the center of this stood two figures. One was adorned like the others, though more ornately, and the other was naked. The nude figure had the broad frame of a well-muscled man, but beyond this all I could tell was that he was bound hand and foot to a slender post in the center of the dais. The robed figure walked to the edge of the platform, retrieved a torch from one of the onlookers, and returned to the captive.

As the firelight lit his quivering figure, I realized the bound man was none other than Mister Shaw.

Fear gripped my heart with icy claws, and I am sure it stopped beating altogether. My breath caught in my throat and my chest burned as I stood in stunned silence. As I watched, several figures ascended to the dais, untied Mister Shaw, and carried him away. To where, I could not say.

Whatever spell had drawn me into the darkness was banished, and only fear filled my mind. Flight, now, was my only recourse.

I turned and was met by the skeletal, grinning visage of the barman from town. He swung something at me, and pain flashed through my head like none I'd ever experienced. I realized I was falling, but I was consumed by the abyss of unconsciousness before my body struck the ground.

* * *

Muffled voices surrounded me. They were chanting.

I tried to raise my hands to my throbbing head, but could not move them. I struggled, and the rough threads of hempen rope dug into my wrists and ankles. The spray of cold seawater, untouched by the sun, blew against my naked flesh.

I forced open my eyes and found a dozen robed figures standing in a circle before me. Firelight lit their faces within the cowls of their vestments. I recognized the barman, but the rest were strange to me.

Four men came forward, untied me, and lifted me over their heads. I hung limply in their hands, unable to move. My mind willed my limbs to flail about madly, but they would not respond. A bitter taste filled my mouth. Some sort of poison?

They carried me out of the chamber and through a short tunnel before laying me down on a roughly cut stone bier. Their leader, so recognized by the exceptional adornments on his robe, walked over as the others cleared away. He leaned over me.

"It's time for you to meet Mother, Mister Calloway," Constable Hayden said, his gravelly voice suddenly smooth and soft.

A hand brushed my cheek from the side opposite the constable. I tried to turn my head, but could not. I glared to the side as far as my eyes would allow. Another figure bent over me.

It was Missus Meriwether.

She brushed the hair from my brow with soft, gentle hands. "I'm so glad you and Mister Shaw came when you did," she said with a genuine smile of relief. "Mother has grown so hungry."

"Mother!" the constable cried out suddenly. "We have another gift for you."

Above my head, behind me, water sloshed violently. It splashed across my face, but I could not blink away the salty brine. My eyes burned. My heart raced. A dark shadow fell over me. I peered up, straining to lift my chin, but still paralyzed.

Over me loomed a monstrosity from the deep. I willed my eyes to close and blot out the horrid sight, but they would not. Of all the tall tales told by sailors, I'd never heard of such a beast. It resembled a fish, but half its form seemed dominated by a gaping maw filled with row upon row of dagger-like teeth. Long tendrils writhed from its sides, grasping the stone walls as it pulled itself from a subterranean pool. Its massive jaw gaped open, seemingly unhinged, and darkness surrounded me moments before I felt jagged teeth piercing my flesh.

Over my own screams, I could barely hear Missus Meriwether say, "In the name of the Mother, we bless this offering."

B.K. Bass is the author of over a dozen books and uncounted short pieces of science fiction, fantasy, and horror inspired by the pulp fiction magazines of the early 20th century and classic speculative fiction. He is a student of history focusing particularly on the ancient, classical, and medieval eras. He has a lifetime of experience with a specialization in business management and human relations and served in the U.S. Army. B.K. is also the Senior Writing Director for Worldbuilding Magazine. You can find out more about B.K. at https://bkbass.com/

Acknowledgments

We would humbly like to thank Sam Hendricks of Kyanite Publishing for encouraging us to take on this project with her blessing when she made the heart-wrenching decision to close Kyanite’s doors. We must also thank Sam and B.K. Bass for the editing work they had already put into some of the pieces in this volume before they fell into our hands.

Thank you to Alain Davis and Danielle Anacona for final proofreading. You can hire Alain and use her awesome skills to make your work even better by contacting her directly at optimisticedits1@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter at @hopelessOptimst (and no, that isn’t a typo, it really is ‘Optimst’). You can support Danielle by purchasing her latest book, By Immortal Honor Bound, or follow her on Twitter at @AnaconaDanielle.

A huge amount of thanks to Chris Vandyke, president of Skullgate Media, without whom the editors would not have had the opportunity to work on this project (and for whom we hope that this volume was less stress and work than he might have feared, and perhaps he feels a bit more confident delegating now).

The editors would also like to thank each other. We think we make a pretty good team.

Story Copyright Credits

All selections in Loathsome Voyages are published here for the first time. All authors are the copywriter holders of their respective stories:

“Into the Maw of Darkness” by B.K. Bass, © 2020 B.K. Bass

“The Life Line” by Chris Durston, copyright © 2020 Chris Durston

“Classified: Snow Wight” by Gary A. Fagan, copyright © 2020 Gary A. Fagan

“Below” by Zach Friday, copyright © 2020 Zach Friday

“Dogtown” by Anthony W. Harris, copyright © 2020 Anthony W. Harris

“Widow’s Walk” by C.M. Harris, copyright © 2020 Christopher Harris

“The Curious Key Carelessly Left Behind” by Mackenzie Littledale, copyright © 2020 Mackenzie Littledale

“Becoming a Man” by Tim Mendess, copyright © 2020 Tim Mendess

“What We See in Reflections” by Michael D. Nadeau, copyright © 2020 Michael D. Nadeau

“Electric Love” by Michelle River, copyright © 2020 Michelle River

“Pray, Love, Remember” by J. L. Royce, copyright © 2020 J. L. Royce

“Fate, Fools & Firewater” by Mark J. Schultis, copyright © 2020 Mark J. Schultis

“L’Escritoire” by CD Storiz, copyright © 2020 CD Storiz

“What to Expect When You’re Summoning a Demon” by C. Vandyke, copyright © 2020 C. Vandyke

About the Editors

CD Storiz and Chris Durston are founding members of Skullgate Media. They think they make a pretty good team. For more details, see the contributor info after their respective stories.

About the Font

Fanwood Text is a revival of the classic Fairfield, an old-style serif typeface designed by Rudolf Ruzicka, a well-known Czech-American type designer. First released in 1940, Fairfield was based on the classic Venetian Old Face types.

Fanwood was designed by Barry Shwartz in order to bring Fairfield into the ebook age. The roman and italic are slightly darker and reduced in contrast than the original in order to increase readability on screens. The subtle serifs increase the lingering sense of angst and ennui, and the negatives space within the enclosures of letters like “e” (and especially “g”) contain hints at the mindless horror of the abyss.

Also Available From Skullgate

Your loathsome voyage may be over, but your journey into the bizarre world of Skullgate Media has just begun! Take a trip to Achten Tan at Amazon or wherever fine books are sold!