by S. T. Joshi
Cornelius was on the kitchen table. He’d crawled out of his crate once the sun was gone. “Of course I knew what you’d be up to,” he explained, lazily washing his silky ears.
Among the transcribed chants of the Sarkomand men, I found a spell for commanding the priest of a Great Old One. I called the words, making the walls of my little house shudder and shake. An emerald fissure opened in the air, revealing a darkly robed figure, face hidden in a tall cowl. He removed it, revealing a not-ugly face, arrogance reeling off him.
“Ghatanothoa is using you.” I said.
His expression revealed surprise. “The brainless witch brought me right to her.”
“You like to dance, monkey?”
He laughed; I cringed at the theatrics. Dim-witted moron.
“I saw Ghatanothoa eat the she-goat and all its babies in one mouthful.”
“Delicious, but I think I missed the point you’re trying to make.”
“The dead ones were drawn to Ghatanothoa’s deliverance. The Great Old One offers them peace.”
The house’s walls began to shudder move violently, and I thought to myself, Please, I need a roof over my head.
Cornelius was next to me, eyes like rabbit saucers. The cultist had one hand in the folds of his robe, ostensibly seeking out some kind of protection or means to harm me. Whatever his intention, I knew the priest was about to meet deliverance of his own.
The same black curtain that had blocked Jupiter in the dreamlands typhooned into the lounge. From its Stygian depths, a single colossal eye emerged, growing larger until we were squaring off in a petrifying game of rubbernecking. A million thoughts were exchanged between Ghatanothoa and myself. Neither of us could harm the other. But I told it, nonetheless, and it listened. I accepted its existence. It had no power over me.
Ghatanothoa shirked away in a rush of crab-spidery arrangements, and the leviathan eye once more broke up into thousands. The cultist screamed as the black folds encased him in a series of violent motions. I saw the rapid unravelling of flesh and bone and looked away, not needing to give myself any more nightmares.
Then, silence. No more tremors. Cornelius slowly came out of his trance.
Carved into the wooden floor in deep black letters were four words:
WE CAN BE TOGETHER.
* * *
Like everyone else, witches get it wrong all the time. I believed someone had taken Jupiter from me when in truth, she had left. Considering this modern new world, I’m not sure I could judge her for it.
“You’re too young to look so worried.”
Sidha and I were smoking on my front porch, sharing his illegal hooch. In the yard, the two peach trees my mother had planted were beginning to blossom.
“I can’t even blame it for the deaths of all those people. Can I?”
“Even the devil can’t blame itself for existing.”
“Maybe this world had somehow been better with the Old Ones ruling it.”
Sidha eyed me up, reminding me of Cornelius.
“They didn’t hate. They simply didn’t care.”
Sidha seemed to consider the thought. He took a swig from his flask, dragged on the rolled cigarette, and nodded slowly.
Carnivorous
WILLIAM F. NOLAN
William F. Nolan writes mostly in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genres. Though best known for coauthoring the acclaimed dystopian science fiction novel Logan’s Run with George Clayton Johnson, Nolan is the author of more than 2000 pieces (fiction, nonfiction, and poetry), and has edited over twenty-five anthologies in a career that has spanned more than sixty years. He was a key member of The Group, a collective of authors in the 1950s and ’60s, which included Richard Matheson, Charles Beaumont, John Tomerlin, and by extension Ray Bradbury (as mentor). He has won numerous awards in his long career, including the World Fantasy Convention Award and two Bram Stoker Awards. A vegetarian, Nolan resides in Vancouver, Washington.
IWILL NOT SPEND ANOTHER WINTER IN THIS CITY!” declared Martha Burns. She paced the living room of their small apartment, stared out the window at the “yard littered with wind-snapped branches. A fresh gust rattled the pane. To Martha, these constant, battering gusts seemed truly demonic, with the worst yet to come. Winter, in Chicago, had barely begun, and the cold spring months ahead were only a minor improvement. The cold was dreadful, penetrating, exhausting—a gradual erosion of the soul.
She faced her husband, desperation in her eyes. “This awful wind . . . the snow . . . the ice . . . The weather is killing me, Dave! I need to see some greenery—trees, flowers, plants. I’m tired of this gray world of concrete and steel. It was so freezing cold shopping the Loop this afternoon that the little hairs in my nose froze up. No more of these damn winters!”
Dave Burns agreed. As a boy in Missouri—young, eager, full of energy—he had looked forward to each winter . . . sledding down the hill on 34th with Tommy Griffith who lived at the end of the block . . . helping Dad build a six-foot snowman in the back yard . . . a time for tossing iced snowballs at Jimmy Farmer, his worst enemy . . . a time for Mom’s hot apple cider . . . skating Troost Lake . . . and watching a zillion fast-falling white flakes cover the streets and sidewalks, turning Kansas City into a crystal wonderland.
But he was no longer that snow-loving boy. He was a balding, overweight, forty-year-old manager of a barely profitable music store in downtown Chicago—who hated winter.
“Okay,” he told Martha, “I’ll get Sid Collins to fill in at the store and we’ll head for California. Sid lived there in the seventies. Says it never gets really cold in Los Angeles. Sunshine all year round. I’ll post an online ad and see what turns up. Gotta admit this bloody cold is killing us both.”
The ad was brief and to the point:
WANTED: Chicago couple seek rental of modest house in L.A. area for winter/spring months. Must be reasonably priced. Contact information provided once terms are met.
The ad was answered by a woman who said she would call soon.
A few days later, a woman who identified herself as Viola P. Fanning called. If a suitable agreement could be reached, she was prepared to offer them her home in the Santa Monica suburb of Greater Los Angeles for the desired period, all utilities paid. The house, she explained, was quite old. “But I have faithfully maintained it. And there is an upstairs view of the ocean.”
“Sounds wonderful!” exclaimed Martha. “I can’t wait to sunbathe on the beach!”
“We should complete this discussion via Skype,” declared the woman. “It is important, at this point, that we establish visual contact.”
“Of course,” said Martha. “I understand . . . about visual contact.”
Dave expressed doubt to his wife after the call had ended. “Let’s not rush into this—take it one step at a time. We can’t handle anything fancy. Rent in California is sky-high. We don’t know what she’ll charge.”
“But our ad said ‘reasonable.’ I’m sure we’ll be able to afford it.” She shivered. “Oh, Dave, we’ve just got to get out of this miserable cold!”
Dave Burns nodded. “That’s what we both want.”
* * *
The Skype call came through the next day. The screen image of Viola Fanning was that of a stark-faced woman in her late sixties, attired in black, with a flow of Victorian lace at her throat. Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her eyes cold and night-haunted.
“I am an avid collector,” the woman on the screen told them. “I am particularly fond of fungoid plants. In Europe, if I am fortunate, I shall unearth several rare species. I expect to remain overseas into fall, and—if I am satisfied that you meet my requirements—you may have the house here in California for a period of five months.”
Dave was suddenly skeptical. “And just what are your requirements, Ms. Fanning?”
“You must not be accompanied by pets or children. I dislike cats and dogs—and children are messy. I will not tolerate them.”
“There’s just t
he two of us,” said Martha.
“My primary concern is the proper care of my darlings.” Her dark eyes bore into them. “Do either of you know anything about plants?”
“I was good in botany in college,” said Martha, “but I’m no expert.”
“Are you diligent about following instructions? My dearly departed husband wasn’t too careful about that.”
“I would say so.”
“My darlings require special care. They are, each of them, very close to my heart. They’re the only link to my family that I have left.”
“Me,” Dave declared, “I’m into flowers. Like roses. All kinds of roses.”
Her dark eyes flashed. “My darlings are much more than roses.” She made the word sound obscene. “They are sensitive and intelligent.”
“I’ve never thought of plants that way,” he admitted, adjusting his chair to face the screen. “Before we discuss this any further we have to know what the rent will be. We can’t afford a—”
She waved the problem aside. “You need have no concern in that regard. The house is yours, rent free, if you follow my instructions.”
Martha was nudging him, nodding vigorously. Her whisper was strident: “Tell her yes!”
“Your offer is most generous, Ms. Fanning. I’m sure we can take good care of your plants if that’s all you want.”
“Nothing more,” said the dark woman. “You will find some bottles in the greenhouse containing the food for my darlings. So . . . do we have a deal?” And she smiled, but her eyes remained cold.
“Yeah,” said Dave. “We have a deal.”
* * *
A large manila envelope later arrived at their Chicago apartment, a contract enclosed along with a handwritten note:
In accepting this contract, you agree, totally and completely, to comply with the terms contained herein. Any alteration shall result in the immediate termination of the agreement.
WARNING: You are not to enter the laboratory behind the greenhouse. Entry is forbidden. The work done there must remain private.
The note was signed V. P. F. Dave began scanning the pages. Two paragraphs in the contract were underlined in red:
My plants must be fed twice during each 24-hour period: at noon and again at midnight. Their feed must consist only of the bottled food from the greenhouse.
Additionally, Mrs. Burns must sing to my plants after each nightly feeding. They adore romantic songs. Their particular favorites are “In the Good Old Summertime,” “I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair,” and “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.” No other songs may be substituted. Lyrics are provided.
“Well, that cuts it!” Dave tossed aside the contract with a snarl of disgust. “The old bat is a fruitcake. Totally out of her freaking mind. She can’t expect us to—”
“But we have no other options,” declared Martha. “Our personal stuff is already on the way to California. And we’re getting the place for free! We can’t back out now.”
Dave shook his head. “This whole setup is crazy. We haven’t even seen the house yet. Could be a shack.”
“In Santa Monica? C’mon, hon, get real. There are no ‘shacks’ in Santa Monica.”
“I still say the whole thing is crazy. But . . .” His voice softened. “Guess you’re right. We have no other options.”
* * *
The Fanning house was far from a shack, eliciting a burst of joy from Martha.
The screen-porched two-story structure, freshly painted in dandelion yellow, was located at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. It nested in a mass of neat green shrubbery, fenced by opposing box hedges. A flagstone path, through the well-trimmed yard, led to brightly colored wooden steps fronting an oak door.
Inside, the house was decorated in ornate Victorian style. Heavy velvet drapes, dark, artfully carved furniture. Lace curtains. Leaded windows, flashing a variety of rainbow colors. The master bedroom was, in Dave’s words, “super cool,” and the kitchen, to Martha’s delight, was three times the size of theirs in Chicago.
Of course, the weather was perfect.
Martha cupped her hands, eyes shining. “Oh, Dave, isn’t it just—just grand?”
Dave was grinning. “Pretty neat, I’d say. Even has a good-sized library. And there’s a gazebo out back next to the greenhouse. Yep, the old gal sure has kept the place up, I’ll give her that.”
“We’re so lucky to be here.”
“Yeah.” Dave nodded. “Lucky.”
* * *
“It’s getting toward noon,” Martha reported to Dave. He was in porch shade, seated in the chain swing, reading a book. “Feeding time for the plants.”
He looked annoyed. “Let ’em wait. I want to check out the rest of Fanning’s library. Some great books there. Classics!” He held up the thick volume he’d been reading. “Moby-Dick. First edition!”
She frowned. “I’m ashamed of you! We promised to take proper care of her plants. If you won’t go with me, I’ll go alone.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, returning to his book.
After she’d left the porch, Dave relented. “Aw, hell!” he muttered—and caught up with her at the greenhouse door. “You laid a guilt trip on me,” he mock-complained.
She smiled at his words. “C’mon, let’s meet the gang.”
Sliding open the glass door, they entered the greenhouse. The odor was not pleasant.
“I thought plants were supposed to smell sweet,” said Dave.
“Different plants give off different odors,” she said, scanning the area. “The one that’s really foul isn’t here. Native to Indonesia. Called the ‘corpse plant’ because it smells like a rotting body. Eats the dead flesh of its prey—dung beetles and other insects.”
“Jeez!” Dave grunted. “That one sounds really gross.”
“It’s also quite large. Can grow up to ten feet. It’s purple, with a long yellow tubular stalk thrusting up from the center, like—”
“Like it’s giving you the finger.”
She laughed. “Exactly! They say its stench attracts prey.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“Botany, remember? I’ve told you before that I majored in science at college. Botany was big for me.”
“You haven’t talked much about your college days.”
“Why talk about the past? It’s over and done with.” Impish chuckle. “I’ve noticed you don’t talk much about your life with all those bosomy Missouri chicks.”
“Touché.”
They both smiled.
* * *
The greenhouse was wide and deep, with columned shafts of sunlight spearing down from the beamed glass roof. Boxed plants were on tables everywhere, and the whole place was lined with a fuzzy moss exuding a faint orangish glow.
“What about roses?” asked Dave. “Where are they? Thought I’d see a lot of roses.”
“Obviously Ms. Fanning prefers exotic plants.” Spotting a shelf to their left, she nodded. “Ah . . . the food for her darlings.” She removed an odd-shaped bottle of luminescent, orange-pink liquid from several others on the shelf. “Ought to be enough here to last a while.”
“The old gal is certainly freaked out on plants,” he declared.
The tables created a series of aisles with various plants on top of them. Most were unlabeled and looked as though they were dying from lack of care. Except, of course, the tables in the area closest to the back. The moss was especially thick on these tables, beginning to climb the walls in verdant cascades.
“All these here are carnivorous—not indigenous to California. This moss is unusual: it appears to be exhibiting a form of bioluminescence. How curious!”
“Bio-whatsit?”
“Bioluminescence—a phenomenon where certain plants and animals can produce their own light. They can glow, in other words.”
Dave shook his head in bewilderment as they moved along the aisle.
“Okay, Professor, give me a rundown on ‘carnivorous.’ Educate me.”
“Well, there are over seven hundred types of carnivorous plants,” she explained. “They’re predators, trapping small creatures like flies and digesting them. Some use mechanical means to kill prey, à la the Venus Flytrap, or pitcher plants. Still others, such as the Sundew, exude a sticky kind of mucus, similar to tree sap, and the insects can’t get away.”
“That’s sickening,” said Dave. He leaned forward to examine a boxed specimen at closer range. “Ugly critter!”
“Not everyone would agree. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Not this beholder,” he said firmly. “They’re all ugly as hell.” He pointed at another nearby plant, a Flytrap. “Just like that sucker.”
“Oh, lighten up, dear!” said Martha. “Hollywood even makes movies based on these types of plants. Remember The Little Shop of Horrors or Day of the Triffids?”
The plant’s blood-red center featured a large open mouth ringed, top to bottom, with sharp, flexible teeth. It quivered slightly under a mild breeze from an overhead roof vent, creating the appearance of conscious life.
“Damn thing’s moving,” declared Dave. “It’s alive!”
“It is alive in one sense,” said Martha, “but not in the sense that animals are.”
Dave took a nervous step back from the plants. “Are they . . . dangerous?”
“Only to the prey they trap and devour.”
“Well, that’s comforting to know. But still . . .” His voice trailed off.
“There are others here that also qualify as major predators,” Martha stated. “If you’re a fly or cricket, that is.” She moved along the line of boxes. “This one”—nodding toward a spiny red-and-yellow specimen with sinuous, tentacle-like shoots— “he’s a nasty little baby.”
