Danny knew about blood glucose meters and diabetes because his sister had been diagnosed at an early age. In the days before she had learnt to test herself, Danny had always been the one responsible for checking her. The box the man was holding kind of looked like a blood glucose meter, but it also didn’t. Something about it was different, a little off.
The first man removed the swab from Danny’s mouth and passed it to the second, who dabbed it across a little paper strip he was holding and then slipped that strip into the slot at the bottom of the box. There was a small ‘beep’ and the man studied the display screen for a moment, before passing it to his colleague to see. Both men nodded.
“What is it?” Danny asked. “What are you looking at, what is that thing?”
A computerised, female voice spoke from out the meter, “D.N.A match complete, 99.9999% compatibility.”
Both men looked up at once, and the taller of the two, the first man, pushed Danny back into his apartment as his friend followed in behind them; closing the front door once both of them were in. Danny stumbled, fell back, and landed on the floor as the first man removed his fedora, for the first time exposing his face.
Standing behind him, the other man did the same.
Danny bit back a scream.
“What the...? What is this?” he asked. Now he was worried, if they were so casually letting him see what they both looked like, it did not look good for him, Danny was sure.
He thought again about all those stories he had heard of low-rate authors just up and disappearing of late.
The second man moved up alongside the first.
“You signed up for the computer software application, ‘Write or die’,” he said. “You failed to uphold your part of the deal, so now you have to pay ‘The Ultimate Price’.”
“You’re going to kill me? Going to kill me for not finishing my manuscript? You’ve gotta be shitting me, right?” Danny cried out.
“You agreed to the terms and conditions,” the first man spoke up. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t read them?” He tutted, and both men shook their heads.
“No wait, please don’t. Stop...we can come to some sort of an arrangement, surely....” Danny began, but never got a chance to finish his words.
Both men’s’ faces opened up and peeled away to reveal a mass of tentacles and tendrils swirling underneath. Each of the tentacles, or tendrils, had a little mouth attached at their ends, and each mouth was lined with deadly, razor sharp teeth that gnashed together as both men moved quickly and steadily forwards towards Danny before he could react.
The first man took a hold of Danny and pulled him close; wrapping him up in what, in any other situation, would have looked a lot like a lover’s embrace, his tentacles sliding all across and over Danny’s face, seemingly seeking to gain entrance through any available orifice—his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his pores.
Danny felt every bite, every nip as the tentacles sought to find their way inside him. When the tentacles pushed into his eyes, seeking to penetrate his brain, Danny screamed.
But he didn’t scream for long.
The second man came around him and seized him from behind.
As his tentacles slid around the back of Danny, holding him still, Danny felt that man’s tentacles sliding into each one of his ears. The second man’s big, meaty hands took a hold of Danny’s head, on either side, and effortlessly snapped his neck as quickly as both men had fell upon him.
As Danny went limp and started to collapse in a heap, both men held him and gently guided him down towards the floor.
Then, and only then, did they begin devouring his soul.
***
“I hate it when they start to beg,” said the first man, adjusting his face.
“Me too,” said the second.
In truth, they were no longer men, though that was the form in which they took so that they could walk undiscovered amongst the world.
The true name for them was Ysiggryl, and they were foul creatures that had abandoned the last vestiges of any humanity they might once have had long ago, so that they could live their lives in service to a much more ancient and hungry God than any worshipped by mortal man.
The two ‘men’ stepped over the body, now laying motionless and silent in the hall, and moved on into the study. One of the Ysiggryl tapped a couple of keys on the computer keyboard, closing down the ‘Write or die’ application and uninstalling it with a code that would delete it from Danny’s history, along with any other important files and documents that they thought might possibly be relevant or could be linked back to the company they worked for—confirmation Emails and such like. They stood watching, silently, until the computer slowly started to power down and they were satisfied all trace of them, or their company’s presence here, had been erased.
One of the ‘men’, the taller of the two, pulled out a small phone from his inside pocket as it began to ring.
“It’s the Call of Cthluthu,” he said. “I need to answer this.”
“Not funny, man,” the second ‘man’ said. “Not funny. You shouldn’t joke about such things. They’ll hear you.”
Though both creatures were immortal, or as close to it as to be immaterial, it didn’t mean they could not be killed if it looked as though they were in danger of becoming unnecessary, or if they crossed the line and started to show disrespect for the ancient Masters that they served.
In truth, mankind was already enslaved, already doomed—they just didn’t know it yet. The Old Gods were returning—those spoken about in days gone by in whispers but now no longer believed in except by a small, select few members of humanity largely dismissed as crazy people or fanatics—and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it from happening.
There were a few small bands of mortals who still believed that the prophet, Lovecraft, had spoken truth thinly disguised as fiction and had tried his best to warn them all of what was coming, but oh so many more who simply dismissed his writings as the ravings of a mad man, and that was the way The Great Old Gods liked it.
Most people thought that the onset of global warming, the massive floods that had started occurring these last few years with ever increasing frequency, the melting polar ice caps, the storms and heavy rainfall that now fell much harder and heavier than ever before, were all down to climate change.
Not so.
The Children of The Old Gods, the Ysiggryl amongst them, were all helping to terraform the planet, prepare it for their Masters’ return.
R’yleh Industries was just a small part of that.
Helping to find souls that would help facilitate the Old Gods return by providing a plentiful supply of souls to harvest.
There were probably better, easier ways to find souls, but R’yleh Industries had discovered that the despair and anguish these authors felt just before they died, as they were forced to watch everything they’d worked towards all these weeks and months destroyed and deleted before their very eyes, only served to make their souls taste all the sweeter.
And this helped make the Old Gods stronger...which, in turn, meant when their Masters’ eventually did return it would make the end of the world come all the swifter and more satisfying.
***
“Do they want us to make it look like a robbery?” asked the second ‘man’ as his colleague disconnected his call. His partner shook his head.
“Naah, there’s no need to bother apparently,” the first Ysiggryl said. “The man had no close family or friends to speak of, so the police will barely even bother to investigate. They’re so overworked these days; they won’t bother with something as small potatoes as this. They’ll probably just treat it like another ritual killing and ignore it; maybe go through the motions to make it look like they’re doing something, but that’s about it, you know? You can pull a couple of books off the shelf if you like, maybe make a little mess, but there’s no real need.”
“I still can’t believe these people don’t read what it is they’re signing u
p for before they tick the boxes to say they agree to all the terms.” The second ‘man’ said. “Ludicrous, it’s simply ludicrous.”
“It’s a good thing they don’t,” the taller Ysiggryl replied. “Otherwise, you and I wouldn’t still have a job. Luckily, humanity is stupid, and that is why they’ll so easily fall and succumb to the rise of their new Masters’, the One, True Gods.”
“True, true,” his partner agreed. “Where are we off to now?”
“There’s another calf about three city blocks away,” the first ‘man’ said, putting his phone away and making sure his disguise, and face, was adequately in place. “Control says his clock’s going to run out in about another half an hour; we should be getting going.”
The two Ysiggryl moved back out into the hall, stepped over Danny’s now cooling body, and left the same way that they’d come.
Behind them in the study, the power light on the computer monitor gently winked one last time, and then finally went out.
The ‘men’ shut the door behind them as they left.
Unseen and now without a soul, Danny opened up what was left of his eyes, and his body slowly began to rise.
An unexpected and unforeseen development, Danny had become a revenant—a shadow of his former self.
Soon, he and others like him, all across the globe, would all start rising up en masse in service to The Old Gods.
The end was closer than even the Ysiggryl with all their infinite knowledge realised.
Left alone and now without a soul, Danny opened up his eyes and his body slowly began to rise. An unexpected and unforeseen development, Danny had now become one of the ‘Restless dead.’ Soon, he and plenty of others like him, all across the globe, would all start rising up en masse in service to The Old Gods. The end was even closer than even the Ysiggryl with all their infinite amount of knowledge realised.
A time of powerful tides was coming...and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
Mark Woods is a successful chef, doting dad, and a new up and coming British horror writer. One of six authors responsible for the vampire novel, Feral Hearts, he is the author of the highly successful novella, Time of Tides, and his short fiction can be found in numerous anthologies. His short story collection, Fear of the Dark, was recently released to rave reviews, and he has been described by his fans as “the English Stephen King”.
His blog can be found at http://sparkymarky1973.blogspot.co.uk/
ALGOL
JUAN J. GUTIÉRREZ
Night-spawn--lumber and compose,
Things that stir our great repose.
Stars recede--anon they fade,
As the ghūl unveils his spade.
The scent of flesh inciting lust
To exhume the dead and dust.
It shall sate its appetite,
And withdraw by morning light.
So becomes the ghūl a ghost
A thing that stirs our great repose.
THEY HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE
JUSTIN HUNTER
The parking lot of the Economy Inn was illuminated in an orchestra of light. Tall lamps sporting dirty metal halide bulbs lit the parking lot like day, driving away the darkness and eliminating pedestrian view of the stars. The motel was on Ashland Avenue in one of the busiest sections of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The pollution over the years of steady, slow driving traffic, as well as copious chemical and salt road applications during the winters, caused the parking lot to be covered by a thin, yet visible, layer of grime. The soot-like casing encompassed the motel as well. It was an unpleasant sight. Places like the Economy Inn were an embarrassment to the city’s government, which took pains to eliminate such decrepit local business. The blue-collar Milwaukee community wouldn’t allow that to happen, as such places are a public necessity. Dump motels are the havens for kicked out husbands, poverty housing for underemployed minorities, and love-nests for pay-by-the-hour whores and their Johns.
Derek drove his rusted out Ford F-10 pickup truck into the motel lot, missing the ramp, bumping over a curb, and running the driver’s side tire over a bush. He thumped the front tires into a concrete curb in a spot right in view of the motel manager’s office. Derek jammed the truck into park and rubbed his grizzled face. He glanced at his bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror. The world spun. He had drank at length at one of the many bars that the city boasted on almost every corner. Nearly dead drunk, Derek still had the sense of mind that sleeping it off and returning home in the morning would catch him significantly less hell from his wife than returning home in his current state.
Derek opened the truck’s door and gathered himself enough to step out without falling over. He forced himself to stand upright and took the ten determined steps to the manager’s door, with a concentrated stiffness. He pulled on the door latch; it was locked. He peered inside and saw the bulbous form of the manager sleeping in a chair behind the desk. He beat the door with the palm of his hand, which startled the large man, who almost fell backward from the chair. The abrupt wakeup enraged the manager. He slammed a fist on the counter and cursed vehemently. With great effort, the manager rose from his worn chair, and made his way around the counter and to the door, keeping up his litany of profanity as he moved his bulk forward. He unlocked the door and wrenched it open.
“What the fuck do you want?” The manager said.
“I want a fucking room,” Derek said. “What the fuck else would I be here for?”
“Forty bucks,” The manager snorted and spit onto the floor behind the desk.
“Sign out front says twenty.”
“Twenty for the room,” The manager said. “Another twenty for being a fucking drunk prick, banging on my door in the middle of the fucking night.”
Derek felt red anger well up inside him, pushing through his drunken state. His ire begged violence. His hand clenched involuntarily, as he saw himself smashing his already bruised knuckles into that slovenly face staring back at him. The manager took a step back from the murderous look on Derek’s face. His anger at having been awakened changing instantly into fear. This sudden turn from predator into prey, calming Derek enough to avoid striking the man. Derek dug into his pocket and took out a rumpled twenty and held it out. The manager took the bill into his fleshy palm, and dug a key from his pocket. Derek snatched the key from his sweaty hand.
“Room three,” The manager said. “Checkout is at 11:00. If you’re late, it will cost you another twenty.” Derek nodded. The manager shut and locked the door. He waited until Derek walked away before lowering his weight onto his well-worn chair. He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. He took a long pull and exhaled a slow stream of smoke into the stained ceiling tiles. He leaned, took a shotgun from behind the counter, and checked to make sure it was loaded. He had a feeling that he might need it.
***
Derek dragged the key along the enameled brick wall of the motel, flaking off large chunks of the yellowing white paint as he went. He made ample noise as he stumbled to his room, but he didn’t care if he pissed off any of the other motel guests. His anger at the manager hadn’t fully abated, and he half-hoped someone would leave their room, and confront him about the noise. He prayed for a response, begged for a reason to be violent. As darkness closed in on the edges of his vision, Derek jammed the key into the flesh of his thigh. A small spot of blood seeped through his jeans at the puncture. The adrenaline rush from the pain snapped the promise of passing out momentarily, but that was all the time he needed. Derek found his room, unlocked the door, and limped inside the room. The odor of stale cigarette smoke and sweat assaulted his nostrils, making him retch. Derek tried to close the door, but it caught on his foot. He tripped forward and fell onto the thin mattress of the bed. His last thought, before losing consciousness, was that he should close and lock the door. A moment later, he was beyond caring. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell asleep.
A few hours later, a blanket wrapped man shambled from behind the Economy
Inn building into the parking lot. He moved stiffly. His thinning, grey hair hung to his shoulders. His skin was the color of dry vomit. Deeply wrinkled, the man wore his skin like a bodysuit three sizes too large. He stopped to gaze blankly, his sunken eyes taking in the lights of the motel, and then meandered toward the manager’s office. He stepped gingerly. The loose gravel in the parking lot jabbed painfully into the soles of his feet. He stepped on a broken beer bottle and sliced small line along the edge of his foot. Blood jetted in a long arc. An incredible purge for such a superficial wound. The man grimaced and bent down to his foot. His blanket parted, exposing his nakedness underneath. He picked up a small stone and stuffed it into the cut, stopping the jettison of blood. The man pushed the stone further into his flesh. He stood up, flexed his foot, and limped to the office door.
The manager awoke to someone slapping at his door. He rubbed his face and checked the time. A soft sigh escaped his lips. He checked his shotgun, feeling trouble in his guts. The customers that showed up at this time of night were drug addicts, cut-up prostitutes, or runaway children. The manager didn’t think children used to be trouble, until he tried to help one out one night and was jailed for pedophilia. Total bullshit. That was the last time he gave a child, no matter how desperate, a second glance. He grabbed the shotgun and went to the door.
He unlocked the door and held the shotgun out of view as he opened up. He gazed upon the blanketed man’s gray and wrinkled face. The manager looked the man over and saw the bare and bloody feet. He knew what depravity and poverty did to the people of his city, but something about this man stood out from the rest. He would have put the shotgun in the man’s face and told him to leave except the man’s eyes gave him pause. They were yellowed; the iris’s barley tan beyond the orb. The man looked desperately ill, but that was not all. Something about those eyes told him of deep sadness and even gentleness. The manager steeled himself against his feelings of compassion.
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