The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

  “A yokai,” corrected Valerie. “Yokai are a class of supernatural creatures in Japanese folklore.”

  “I need to ask you one question, and please be honest,” insisted Lucie, staring straight into Valerie’s eyes, unnerving her. “What does she want from me?”

  “I have no answer, but I can find out for you. But please be rest assured that your life is not in danger,” said Valerie.

  Lucie looked away, now even more bothered. “Is there a talisman or something that could ward her off?” she asked.

  “Like most ghosts, there’s a reason for her appearance, and until we’ve discovered what that reason is, there’s nothing that I can do,” Valerie said honestly.

  ***

  Lucie spent the rest of the evening thinking through what her godmother had told her. She ate very little of the supper she’d made and retired to bed early. The next morning, she visited the tiny village library to search the Internet for any information on Ubume. She found a couple of entries on various folklore sites, as well as a frightening woodcut of a Japanese woman glaring into the screen, whose face was almost identical to the one she kept seeing. The image of that glaring woman made her feel totally unsettled. An eastern legend that had become real. Amongst her discoveries was that Ubume had died of child birth. But why me?

  She searched further, but nothing else presented itself.

  ***

  Two months later.

  Kevin answered the front door of his parents’ house. Lucie stood outside, looking at her worst. Her hair was straggly and unwashed, her skin was pale and ghostly with dark circles around her eyes, and she’d put on weight. She was a mess, her former boyfriend barely recognising her.

  He didn’t want her coming in, because his mother was somewhere in the house. Closing the door slightly, he asked in a shocked voice, “What’re yer doing here?”

  “We need to talk,” her voice was calm, but demanding. “Now!”

  Kevin was nervous, looking back into the hallway. He stepped outside, closing the door too behind him. “Make it quick, I’m supposed to be going out with my mum.”

  “Cancel it,” she ordered, her tone scaring him.

  Kevin tried to speak quickly so his mother didn’t hear him, while Lucie was ready to make a scene.

  “Look, can’t we talk later in the evening?”

  “Then I’m going to have to say it in front of your mum.”

  “Okay,” he whispered. He opened the door wide to call his mother, “Mum, just need to post something. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “In that case, I’ll meet you there!” she called back.

  “Sure mum,” he responded like a good boy.

  He closed the door properly and walked off with Lucie.

  “What!?” he insisted, but Lucie was walking quickly and acting coy. Besides, it was her way of getting him out of the house and further away from the village.

  Together they walked past a postal worker and a few elderly residents.

  Once they reached a dense stand of trees on the outskirts, she turned and glared into his eyes: without missing a beat she announced, “I’m pregnant.”

  The words struck Kevin like a hammer. His legs buckled, and he almost fell to the ground.

  Lucie moved towards him. “I’m having your baby,” she hissed.

  It took Kevin a while to get his head together. Finally he yelled in defence, “Nah, you’re not pinning this one on me!”

  Lucie shouted back, “You’re the only person I’ve had sex with! So you’re not getting out of this!”

  “No! It can’t be! That was months ago!” he barked.

  “I’m pregnant and you’re the father,” she lowered her voice, hoping he would calm down and understand.

  “But how?” He was close to tears.

  Lucie, for the first time, was seeing Kevin at his most vulnerable and never wanted to see him like that again. This was the real deal.

  Kevin was furiously kicking stones about the country lane, stressed out by the thought of becoming a father. His dream of studying medicine now lay in tatters.

  She gently brushed his long blonde hair, feeling its softness. This seemed to calm him. He turned to face her. His eyes were welling up with tears.

  “What are we gonna do?” he wanted to know.

  Lucie replied, “I don’t know. I could have an abortion?”

  Kevin wiped away his tears. “We must. Besides, we’re not ready for this and what about our future, and our parents? Not to forget the villagers here.”

  Anger once again clouded her face.

  Kevin read her expression. “I hate doing this, but do you want to keep this baby?”

  Lucie didn’t like the idea of being a teenage mother. As far as they knew there had never been a teenage birth in the village: the thought continued to petrify them.

  “Well?” he wanted an answer right now.

  She was confused, moving about and frowning. She didn’t have an answer.

  “We must abort this baby,” Kevin decided, without looking at her. His tone was blunt and cold.

  Lucie’s vision was beginning to close in on her, meaning that a panic attack was on its way. “I’ve got to go,” she blurted out, and rushed off.

  “Wait!” Kevin raised his voice, following her.

  Lucie stopped and sat down on the grass. He squatted beside her.

  “Is everything alright?” he asked, concern in his voice.

  Her eyes were shut, fighting to ease the pain in her head. She rubbed them, hoping to see clearly.

  “Maybe we should see a doctor, or take you to a hospital,” suggested Kevin.

  “No, I’m fine,” she stubbornly refused. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Yer sure?”

  “Please, let me be!” she shouted.

  Kevin got up slowly, watching her and concluded, “Please think about this. What it will do to us.”

  “Please go,” she said, her voice low, barely audible. Kevin walked off, casting a final look at her.

  When she could no longer hear his retreat, she opened her eyes, feeling better. Now what am I going to do?

  ***

  Lucie visited Dr. Millar and told him about the pregnancy, which surprised him too. They discussed her options, of which abortion was one. He said he would perform the procedure, but the cost was more than she could afford. Plus she was nearly ten weeks pregnant.

  On the surface she appeared calm, but inside she was in turmoil. How am I going to get this kind of money?

  “What should I do, doctor?”

  Dr. Millar sat on the edge of his desk, took off his glasses and looked directly at her. He was visibly upset, Lucie noticed, having been her GP since she’d first been taken to his surgery for a flu jab at the age of two. “This is something you must either do alone or together with the father of the child.”

  “What would you do, if you were me?” A loaded question.

  He put a hand on her shoulder, advising her, “I would tell your parents.”

  Lucie thought about it for a few seconds, nodded but hated the notion of having to tell them. She couldn’t afford the termination, and she knew very well that Kevin was up to his ears in student debt. However, they would find out sooner or later.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “Please let me know how it goes.”

  ***

  She walked around the village, stopping off at a tearoom, and watched the day go by, observing people going about their daily lives. They’re going to kill me. She began to feel embarrassed of herself, thinking of the shame she would bring to her own family. She had made the biggest mistake of her life, having sex with Kevin. But she had insisted he use a condom, and they’d only made love three times. It must have burst, she reasoned. Plus it had been a long time ago; this only added to her confusion.

  She needed fresh air, so she left the tearoom and wandered around the village again, mulling over what she should say to her parents and deciding what would be
the right time to do so. Her mother was more understanding, so she should be the first to hear her news. She would tell her at around teatime, which would be at 4pm.

  4pm: She sat in the churchyard watching the wildlife. I’ll tell her in a couple of hours.

  6pm: Lucie paced around and around outside The Green Man, feeling scared and looking at the clock on the church spire. Five more minutes and I’ll go in to break the news. There will be fireworks.

  ***

  6:22pm. Lucie’s mother stared at her, anger written on her face. Lucie sobbed silently.

  Flora couldn’t say a word, as the news had struck her as if she’d been physically hit.

  “Please say something,” cried Lucie.

  Flora looked away in disgust, turning to go.

  “Mum.”

  “Move away from me!” she uttered.

  Lucie felt like she’d been slapped, shocked at her mother’s response.

  “Please talk to me!”

  Flora glared hatefully at her, yelling, “Why? I raised a lady, not a…” then realised what she was about to say.

  Lucie edged close to her face, spitting out the words: “Go on say it! I’m a whore! A slag!”

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” said Flora, now regretting her words.

  “Just like you and everybody else in this damn village! It’s happened, okay, only I wasn’t expecting it!”

  Now it was Flora’s turn to cry. Lucie saw how devastated she was and hugged her, becoming more tearful.

  ***

  The whole village soon heard the news. As it turned out, instead of the Morgan family being ostracised by the locals, everyone came together and gave them moral support. Flora and her husband, Ian, offered to look after the child while she continued to further her education. They wanted her to pursue her dream of going to university to study Classics and Art History.

  As for Kevin, he resumed their friendship and promised he would be a good father to their child. Later, both sets of parents got together to help them and their future grandchild.

  By now, Lucie was six months’ pregnant and sometimes felt her baby kicking inside. She had a feeling that the baby would be a girl. If it was, she wanted to name her Ellen Ripley Morgan, after Sigourney Weaver’s character in Alien.

  Everything was working out well, until...

  ***

  Lucie screamed, giving vent to the constant pain while her baby was being born. She was in the delivery room, lying on the birthing bed in agony, while her family was outside.

  The obstetric team was an organised chaos of activity, helping to ensure Lucie’s child was brought into the world successfully. Amidst the maelstrom, the doctor supervised everything calmly. Lucie did what she was told, push…push…and push again, forcing the baby out.

  “Come on, push!” ordered the doctor, with his hands out, waiting for the arrival.

  Lucie shut her eyes tight, feeling the worst pain ever.

  “You’re nearly there,” the doctor yelled excitedly. “Come on, Lucie!”

  She gritted her teeth hard, giving one big final push.

  “Yes!” screamed the doctor, now pulling the infant from her womb.

  The pain got the worst of her, she screamed for mercy and everything faded to black.

  ***

  Lucie died the moment the child was born. Ellen Ripley Morgan cried briefly in the arms of one of the midwives, before joining her mother.

  ***

  Dominica, West Indies. A young American girl, pretty and well-mannered, disembarked from a cruise liner, at Roseau – the country’s largest port. She was holding hands with her boyfriend, checking out the market stalls, when something peculiar caused her to pause.

  While her partner was haggling over the price of a counterfeit watch, she saw a pale, young female figure emerging through the crowds, dressed in a white hospital gown, scowling at her. Placed tightly on her chest was a baby.

  The tourist’s eyes were transfixed at this ghostly apparition, horrified. When they came face to face, the woman held out the dead baby to her.

  V Is for Veltis

  Rapture

  Lily Childs

  Hers is a state of rapture. We bow to her magnificence, bathe in her essence. And when she is done we must allow her to possess our lowly hearts.

  That’s how he sold it to me. All that beauty – I wanted a part of it, desperate for some of the creature’s divinity to touch me. Any price would be worth it.

  The secret, he said, was held in a copper pot, a cauldron-type affair hidden in a basement somewhere. I just had to be patient and wait for the call - but continue to adore her whilst I waited.

  The man known to me only as Babylon whispered of wonders and I believed him. He drew me pictures – glorious scenes I would be invited to share in once I made myself over to her. I knew these images to be true representations, brimming with her sacred magic, for he took hold of my fingers, and used them like a brush to paint over his outlines. And when I did, I grew full of her, as though she were licking my skin from the inside out in a rasp. She caressed me quickly to an urgent shudder, and was gone.

  “How much?” I asked again. Nothing this good comes for free. The lithe, dark man at my side was a master of vagueness. He moved his hand over my heart.

  “She will set her price, when she knows you can afford it.”

  He leant towards my ear and brushed it with his tongue.

  “Hey, I’m not...”

  “We are whatever we want to be Mr Walters, now why don’t you go home to your wife and wait.”

  Babylon left me sitting at the booth in semi-darkness. I shouldn’t have been there, should never have come in the first place.

  “Another drink, sir?”

  “No.” I jumped to my feet, but the waitress didn’t move. She held out her hand. “Ten”. And when I pulled a ten shilling note from my wallet to pay for the gin Babylon and I had consumed she took it from me, tucked it into her cleavage and showed me her palm again.

  “Each.”

  It was all I had, and my expression must have made it clear. She stared at me, cold eyes with nothing behind them. Her sudden smile was colder still.

  “You can owe me. You’ll be back.”

  And heaven knows but it was true.

  ***

  My undoing had been the card I’d found in the park. I strolled there, daily, enjoying the park’s pleasures. Ancient trees loomed in the beautiful gardens offering protection for the innocent and the debauched. Some of the elms still had huge iron rings embedded in them, straining from their trunks; reminders of bygone days where carriages and tethered horses would wait for passengers seeking romance. The heavy rings fascinated me; some still had a few chain links attached and I would finger them as I passed, imagining a more sinister use.

  The day I found the card my temper was low and I had lingered longer at the trees than usual. My shoes were scuffed and I knew my wife would deduce where I had been. She always commented, looking over her knitting needles like a twitching shrew. The grass grew wilder by the park gates and I bent to rub a clump over my brogues before setting back into the city’s streets. My hand caught against something as I rubbed. It sliced at my flesh, leaving a paper cut that threatened to sting for days.

  I thought it a funereal card at first sight, with its edges embossed in a modern deco design - straight lines in black lacquer. The scrolled typeface at its centre, however, leant itself more to a former era. I assumed the words had originally been printed in gold but now they were tarnished, the card itself spattered with dew stains and blotches of mould. But its message bore no death announcement; on the contrary, it almost declared an invitation.

  The Rapture Club

  12a Bishop Street

  Evenings from 6

  I held it, staring blankly at the address, my muddy shoes forgotten. It was only the untimely arrival of rain that caused me to drop the card into my pocket rather than to the ground where it could rot in peace that I ended up at The Raptur
e every night for two weeks, drinking, making new acquaintances and losing my soul to a dream.

  ***

  “You’re late again,” Marguerite said, without looking up. “You haven’t seen to your affairs for days. I’m your wife, not your slave – fetching and carrying your correspondence like some unpaid lackey. Your desk is overflowing with letters and packets from all over the world. You should...”

  “Enough!”

  I rarely lose control but the constant needling would wear any man down. “I’ll be in my office.” I didn’t need to see her lips to know they had shrivelled into caterpillar strips, undulating and working their poison, the words peppered with insults and curses from her mixed Latin heritage, all aimed at my back.

  I had a fresh bottle of claret in my rooms; I could taste it already.

  Marguerite had exaggerated her position. There were precisely twelve letters, three parcels and a small packet tied about with ribbon. I set them all aside whilst I opened and poured the wine.

  The first glass went down too easily and I poured another, relishing the earthiness before slipping backwards into the soft leather chair behind my desk. I dealt with the letters first; orders and invoices that could wait until morning. The parcels too were simply to be redistributed to my clients. I emptied the crystal wine glass again as I contemplated the packet. Its ribbon-binding had a rubber quality to it, like stretchable Bakelite. I stroked it for a moment and squinted at the writing in the corner – my name and address. The hand was clumsy, jerky; the writer not well-educated or at the very least unsure, foreign perhaps. I refilled the wine glass and took a sip, turning the packet over in search of identification but the wrapper was empty of a return address or a sender’s name. No stamps either, it had been hand-delivered. I hoped I wouldn’t have to ask Marguerite about it but no doubt she’d have something to say anyway.