The long haired man seemed unimpressed. “If you’re not scared, then fight. Fight for us. We can’t do this without you. We need you, father.”
The bald man stared, his vision drawn inside as he deliberated. The long haired man picked up several sweetener packets and built a basic foundation of a structure. The bald man looked down at it, then added a few more packets. It was surprisingly sound, holding up a tiny seashell that the long haired man placed on top of it. “Don’t give up on us,” the long haired man said. “You’re all we’ve got.”
The bell above the door chimed, but this time it sounded light and sweet, the way a bell is supposed to sound. It sounded fixed.
Both men stood outside the diner, as dusk began its quick decent over the desert. The bald man looked at the dead dog that was already swarming with flies. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
The long haired man put on his sunglasses and smiled his megawatt, movie star smile. “Some things you can always count on.”
The bald man nodded, looking at the quiet land growing dark around him. “If we do this, nothing will be the same again.”
“If we don’t, nothing will be anything again.”
There was a long pause. “Agreed,” the bald man said.
“Are we?”
They shook hands, firm and slow.
“We are,” the bald man said. He held up a Sweet ‘n Low in one hand, the sea shell in the other. “Better to tear down all I’ve made, then let something else move in.” He slipped the pink packet into his jacket pocket, then crushed the sea shell in his palm, letting the flaky shards fall to mix with the dust.
“I love this new attitude.”
“It’s an old attitude. I just had to find it again.”
The long haired man nodded. “They aren’t the only old things out there. We’ve been around the block a few times ourselves.”
“Yes we have,” the bald man said slowly, remembering untold cycles. He turned and looked at the long haired man. “See you soon, little one. All of you.”
“Sooner than you think.”
The bald man followed the long haired man’s gaze up into the dusk darkened sky, to the new constellations that had positioned themselves in the cosmos.
“Weird,” the bald man said.
T.E. Grau is a writer of cosmic horror, dark fantasy, and Weird fiction. His work is currently available in Dead But Dreaming 2, Horror for the Holidays, and Eschatology Journal, as well as the upcoming anthologies Aklonomicon, Urban Cthulhu: Nightmare Cities, and Dark Fusions: Where Monsters Lurk. He was recently named the Fiction Editor for Strange Aeons magazine, thanks to generous bribes. His debut collection of short stories will be released into the wild in late 2012. He often scratches and bleeds at The Cosmicomicon. Aside from his insidious writing pursuits, T.E. Grau lives and dies every blessed day in Los Angeles, California with his wife, collaborator, and Eternal Muse Ives Hovanessian, his Bunny of Destruction Cthulhu “Lulu’ Grau, and his little buttercup Angel Fish, who will outdo us all.
Story Illustration by Galen Dara.
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Taking the Cure
by Mark Howard Jones
STEVE FLUNG THE CAR KEYS on the table and sighed heavily. Ann was a few steps behind him, shoulders slumped.
As she passed him he grabbed her by the shoulders, being careful not to hurt her, and buried his face in her neck. “I’m sorry …”. He thought his voice sounded pathetic and infantile; just not up to the task of being adult and serious and supportive.
The consultant had given them the worst possible news. He was going to lose her and he could do nothing to stop it. His brain and his guts knotted up in anger and frustration.
Ann pulled away and went into the bathroom, shutting him out. She sobbed alone behind the door for over an hour.
The next day Steve felt as though he was wading through grey sludge, though it had nothing to distinguish it from hundreds of other days in his life. Except today he knew that Ann was dying.
When he got home from work, Ann’s friend Sayeeda was sitting in the kitchen with her. Steve’s heart sank when he saw her.
He said a brief ‘hello’, kissed Ann on the forehead and then went to change out of his work clothes. He loitered in the bedroom in the hope that Sayeeda’s visit was nearly at an end. He was glad Ann had someone to spend time with, but Sayeeda wouldn’t be good for Ann in her present state of mind.
The woman’s near-mindless optimism and insistence on quick fixes annoyed Steve. He felt as if she never really understood the complexities of any problem.
After nearly 20 minutes he went back into the kitchen. To his huge relief Sayeeda had her coat in her hand.
As she left she tousled Ann’s brown hair and kissed her on top of the head. “Hang in there. Think positive!” she chirped and was gone.
Ann turned her face to Steve. Her eyes were pools of despair, sunk deep in her skull.
That night Steve slept fitfully, a series of half-dreams rousing him intermittently.
It was hard to tell whether he was awake or asleep when he felt water lapping at his sides. He struggled to get up, but was held down by some unknown force.
He continued to strain to rise but couldn’t. Making a huge effort, he turned his head towards Ann. She was still at his side but, as he watched, her body lifted from the bed in the rising water. As it covered him, he saw her bloated body float away, swelling with decay as each second passed. He wanted to shout out but was afraid in case the water rushed in.
He knew he was awake when he felt the pillow hot with sweat beneath his head. Ann was beside him, sleeping deeply as she moved through the depths of a drugged sleep. Making sure not to wake her, he went into the bathroom and sobbed into a towel.
Each day became more and more difficult.
It was like living with a death sentence of his own, knowing that mortality’s malign children were growing uncontrollably in Ann, like a foul parody of the baby that had always failed to take root in her flesh.
The faces of his colleagues had taken on a grim, decrepit look; the office becoming a drably bleak prison for the eight hours he was trapped there.
When he got home Ann, her eyes haloed with red, was on the phone to her sister. He kissed her on the cheek and then left her to carry on her conversation.
After several minutes Ann came into the kitchen. Steve put down his glass of water. “Are you OK?” he said, pointlessly; he knew the answer. But she nodded anyway.
She sat down at the table opposite him. At first she seemed reluctant to speak before finally saying: “When Sayeeda was here she told me about someone who may be able to help. A man she’s heard about.” She pulled a leaflet out of her pocket.
Ann jumped in quickly when she heard Steve sigh. “I know what you think of her, but she says she’s met people who’ve been … healed by this man. And the thing is, he’s coming here. Soon.”
“He’s not one of those faith healers, is he? All teeth and torment …”
She flung the leaflet at him impatiently. “No!”
He picked it up and opened it, thinking it odd there was no photograph of this mysterious miracle man. In his opinion, these charlatans were usually weapons-grade egotists; only too eager to show you their plausible, smiling mugs that had been polished to within an inch of their life.
There was some vague gibberish about Chaos Therapy inside, followed by the usual rubbish about uncovering ancient secrets. He studied it for a few moments before it gave him a headache, then turned back to the cover.
Below the heading ‘The Stars Are Right for You!’ was the supposed healer’s name. It was almost unpronounceable, but given the number of Xs in it he supposed the man to be Basque.
On the cover was a photograph of the Earth from orbit and some odd-looking constellations that Steve didn’t recognise.
Steve grunted. “Well, it looks like a load of mumbo-jumbo to me, love.”
“It may be my last chance.” Ann stood u
p and came over to him. “He may not be able to help, but nobody else has been able to either. So what have I got to lose?”
Steve only just managed to stop himself from tactlessly blurting out ‘money’.
“If you loved me, you’d help me,” said Ann, with a note of hurt in her voice.
Steve knew that was unfair, but he wasn’t about to argue with her. He held her close, squeezed her hand and let the tears come slowly.
After lying awake for three hours, Steve rose and went over to the window. Darkness seemed to be his enemy lately, unwilling to let him enter the comfort of its soft, dream-filled deeps.
As he stared out through the gap in the curtains, he saw that the city was lit by an unusual luminosity. Looking up, he saw that a gigantic black star was moving down out of the sky, leaving its previously hidden orbit to draw near the Earth. It eclipsed the half moon as it drew nearer still.
Giving off rays of darkness, it flooded everything with its evil light, making things transparent so that the rot inside was visible. The only thing unaffected was him; he could still see his own hands and body clearly, while all that was around him faded away into an untouchable part of the spectrum.
He was gripped by a fear at what he might see if he turned to look into the room, yet he knew he had to do it. He closed his eyes and turned around, breathing deeply. Waiting for a vital few seconds as he gathered his courage, he then opened his eyes and looked towards the bed.
Ann lay there, her illness shining through her flesh, illuminating her skin with the dark and beautiful colours of a lingering death. Though it filled him with pain, Steve walked to the bed and looked down at her as the radiance of suffering and disease flooded out of her.
He sank to his knees beside the bed, balling up his hands and pressing them into his eyes, so he wouldn’t have to look any longer. A life without her was unbearable – it would be like being buried alive – yet he knew that was what he faced.
Feeling too tired to drive, Steve took the train across town. In the second carriage he bumped into two old friends, John Quinn and Eric Wallasey. They talked about old times, laughed about nothing in particular and whiled away the time pleasantly until the train came to Steve’s stop.
It was only when he was on his way down the station steps that he realised he hadn’t asked them where they were going.
Only when he was outside the station did he remember that John had been killed two years ago in a car crash in Turkey. He had no idea where Eric was in the world, or what he was doing now, but he was suddenly certain that he hadn’t been on the train.
Steve felt sick. He sat down for a moment on a low wall. It was obviously his lack of sleep that was making him hallucinate. Or maybe he’d dropped off in his seat without realising it. But it had seemed so vivid.
When he felt more himself, he set off to find the address he’d been given. The buildings in this part of town were old, grey slabs of forgettable architecture. When he found the place he was looking for, it was a dismal, forgotten cafe tucked away underneath one of these gigantic monoliths.
Steve was early. It was just beginning to rain as he went inside. He was the only customer. The air itself seemed to have a coating of grease, and the furnishings had a slightly dusty greyness to them. A small, bald man peered at him from behind an old-fashioned glass counter. Steve ordered a coffee and sat at a table in the centre of the establishment.
The chair was a strange design and not very comfortable. The walls hung with odd-looking musical instruments and artefacts that he imagined were from Eastern Europe; or Eastern somewhere, at least.
Steve had been sipping his coffee for a few minutes when a thin man in dark clothes came in and headed for his table. The man extended a gloved hand. “Mr Johnson?” he asked in a foreign accent. Maybe he was from Eastern somewhere, too, thought Steve.
“Yes,” replied Steve, indicating the empty chair opposite.
The man sat down but didn’t remove his gloves. He had an abnormally long, pale face with lank dark hair that hung over to one side. He caught the proprietor’s eye and, within a few seconds, a second cup of coffee had appeared on the table.
Steve fished out the leaflet that Ann had given him. It was crumpled, so he smoothed it out and placed it on the table facing the stranger. “Are you him?” asked Steve, jabbing his finger at the name printed on the cover.
The man shook his head. “No. My principal does not make appearances outside of his healing sessions. He feel it dissipates his abilities. But I did speak to you on the phone, Mr Johnson.”
The man told Steve his name. Even though it was a short name, when he tried to tell Ann what it was later, he couldn’t remember it but for the fact it began with a B.
Steve grumbled at the man about the vagueness of the leaflet. The man simply nodded and let him talk himself out.
When he got no answers, Steve tried the direct approach. “So what exactly is this ‘treatment’ and how much does it cost?”
The man tried to smile. Steve didn’t find it very comforting. “We ask no payment, except your time and your belief. I can’t really explain the details of it, as I don’t understand it myself. I have no medical certificates myself, you understand.
“But look on it as a focus of intent – a way of harnessing the necessary energies.”
Steve shifted in his seat. ‘Yes, I read all that in the leaflet. But what ‘necessary energies’? Necessary for what exactly?”
“Necessary to cure your loved one, of course,” said the man, patiently, as if dealing with a slow child.
At that moment, someone else came into the cafe and began to harangue the owner in a language that Steve didn’t recognise.
Steve sighed heavily at the unwelcome distraction. He’d had enough, and placed both hands firmly on the table, leaning forward. “Look, if you and this so-called ‘healer’ of yours are Snake Oil salesmen then I’ll …”
The man opposite stared at Steve with his dark eyes. “Snake Oil is actually a very successful treatment for arthritis, Mr Johnson. The phrase you use refers to fakery. I can assure you that what we offer is very real.”
There was both a depth and a hollowness to the man’s voice that took Steve by surprise. He was about to protest when raised voices and the sound of breaking crockery behind him claimed his attention. When he turned back, the man was already walking out of the door.
He’d left without giving any answers, without touching his coffee and without paying for it.
For a moment the whole situation angered Steve. He began to rise to his feet, to follow the man and remonstrate with him. Then he noticed the DVD case lying on the table in front of him. At least it was something tangible to show for his efforts.
Steve sat back down, sighed heavily and made a momentary effort to place the language the two men were arguing in. Whatever it was, he decided, it was being used to very good effect.
That evening, he and Ann watched the DVD. As he’d expected, it was frustratingly vague about details of the therapy and its cost.
But he had to admit that the ‘patients’ that it showed were in a pretty poor condition to begin with. Whereas, when interviewed after undergoing the therapy, they did look a lot better and more alive. Though they seemed somehow different, too. They sat differently and there was something in their faces; it was nothing he could put his finger on.
He was aware how easily the camera and the make-up artist could lie, but the people on the screen seemed not only plausible but compelling.
At the end there was an address, a date and a time. Steve quickly scribbled down the details, as Ann hugged his arm.
Later, while she dozed on the sofa, Steve looked up the unfamiliar address. It was in an area of town he wasn’t familiar with and had never visited. He’d heard it mentioned in connection with the army barracks. And he had a vague memory of some warehouses that were involved in a bizarre kidnapping case involving children and animals a year or two back. He was sure they were in the same district.
/> As he stared at the address, he felt an uncomfortable twinge in his gut.
Steve felt apprehensive about driving to the place, but it was too far to walk and a taxi would have been an idiotically expensive luxury.
As they came close to the address, he drove down the street slowly. Small knots of people, some down-and-out by the look of them, drifted in the same direction.
A hand-made sign with the healer’s name and the slogans from the leaflet stood in a gap between two buildings. Steve felt his heart in his mouth as he listened to the tyres crunch across the piece of waste ground that acted as a car park. The man that he’d met in the cafe stood at the end of the open space, directing people towards a set of dilapidated steps at the side of one building.
Ann clung to his arm as they made their way up the steps into the old building, then up a set of wooden stairs and through some double doors.
The room was laid out with rows of rickety-looking chairs, and there was a low stage at the front. Steve imagined that someone must have been burning incense, as the air was filled with a sickly sweet aroma. Probably to hide the smell of the damp, he thought sourly.
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2012 - Issues 10 through 20 Page 14
