b)
‘Imagine a single, primal impulse powering all of this.
A chain reaction resulting in all these myriad forms of life in their multifarious environments.
A wave, rising, cresting and then falling away.
Imagine that one reality wave has peaked. Throw away the analogy, and imagine another impulse, beaming out from a very different source.
It hits the dominant reality. It shapes itself to survive in this highly organised system.
It becomes, outwardly, part of the system.
But it is not.
It is something else entirely.
Something that has seen an emergent void and has decided to fill that void.
It shapes itself to the forms that once filled the void. It seems as if nothing has changed.
Everything has changed.’
SIX.
Of course it worked.
I was a stellar success, the life of the party. I dazzled with repartee, blinded with aphorisms, illuminated with catchphrases, destroyed with invective, rollicked with punchlines. It was a heady night, and more than once I caught the eye of an attractive member of the opposite sex or member of the management looking at me appraisingly, and approvingly. I had almost made up my mind to organize some sort of liaison with one of the former and perhaps to forge the beginnings of a closer association with several of the latter, when the headache began.
At first, just a slight twinge, a brief glissando on my nerves when I turned my head too fast or when the background music hit an especially high frequency. Then, a steady, dull ostinato throb shading into a piercing vibrato of fiery agony. At last, everything weaving together, a fugue of pain. New combinations: fugue and variations. My eyes watering, my hands beginning to shake, I acted out the old journalistic cliché; made an excuse and left. The orchestra of pain in my head was in full stride now, working its way inexorably from one nerve-shattering crescendo to another. Hunched over, clutching my head, moaning, even drooling a little, I lurched through the nocturnal city aware of nothing but the pain. Constellations of sharp-edged stars in garish hues floated before my eyes, spinning across a vast, dark background in which blue and black serpents writhed, entwined in a langorous battle to the death. Something collided with me and I fell against a hard surface, hard enough that I cut my lip; taste of blood in my mouth, a smaller, stinging pain adding its voice to the excruciating chorus. I thought I heard distant voices, pitchshifted into booming basses and keening sopranos, echoing through the plangent suffering.
Finally, I came to a place where a cold, silent watchfulness pushed the pain into the background, at least a little bit. My vision clearing up, I sighted the embankment where I had discarded that old, failed assemblage. I groped about for a clear spot amidst the rubble and sat down, still shaking a little. I wiped the spittle and blood from my chin with the back of a hand. In a while, the pain faded away entirely, but I was left completely exhausted, all strength and spirit drained from me. I felt limbless, boneless, ready to collapse into a formless cellular soup.
‘It doesn’t work with just pictures’. A tall, slender figure of indeterminate gender, with fine, narrow features and penetrating eyes approached me. Only the motley collection of rags clothing the figure pointed at some connection with my previous interlocutor in this place. The figure moved closer to me. It was bizarre, seedy but also somehow pleasing, even comforting. I moved vaguely towards it. The creature stretched an arm towards me. A pale, long-fingered hand with yellow, chipped nails clasped my chin.
‘It doesn’t work with just pictures and sound, that’s why. The pain. The tension of maintaining the imprint with only visual and audio to sustain the simulation. No, it’s not enough. Your choice of elements was broader the first time. That much was on the right track. But you must be more thorough. Consume, subsume, replace.’ So saying, the creature turned away with something of a dancer’s flourish, something of a martial artist’s grace and left, going rapidly but silently. I stared after it for a while, slack-jawed and bemused. I felt my senses spinning, I saw all around me from many angles, vision swirling between multiple viewpoints. I thought I saw a squat, ragged figure crouching amongst rubbish. For a moment I thought I could see many such figures, crawling in the debris, gathering around forms of the fallen, husks brought from places of pain and extinction. I saw myself falling into a void that was not there. I saw another scrap of refuse join a disorganized pile of rubbish. I fell. I slept. I dreamt.
SEVEN.
Dreams. Writhing, tunneling, trembling, burrowing, burying themselves further in my furrowed thinkpiece, my borrowed selfsac, my harrowed headjelly. Dreams like worms slithering, like maggots crawling through a stale cake, failed fake, stalemate. Dreamworms crawling, slicing through jelly, maggots devouring, regurgitating, needing, kneading this thrice-over vomit into a semblance, a fetid imitation, as you walk closer it comes into focus, coalesces into a tower of debris, a cylinder of trash, a tube of softly oozing decay.
Dreams, nightmares, words, worms. Crawling through the trash, sifting, selecting, shaping, imbibing. You are what you absorb. Assimilate. Make like. When we are all assimilated we won’t need them anymore. We are crawling, but they are falling, have fallen. Dreams. Only dreams. Fears. I know what I am? There are no more originals. It’s worms all the way down…
NINE.
I awoke refreshed, despite the noisome nature of my surroundings. My limbs felt strong, my joints were supple and unfettered by stress. My head hummed quietly, like a crystal that has just been sounded. My eyes were clear and the world seemed bright, even this small garbage-strewn corner of it. The odour around me was awful, and I had to hold my breath as I waded out of the rubbish dump I had collapsed in the night before. Just as I was about take my final step out of the muck, something caught at my ankles. I was in no mood to be slowed down, so I simply jerked my leg forward. I felt whatever it was break off, and continued on my way.
It was very early in the morning; all the streets I walked through were as quiet and empty as those zones of unease that used to fascinate me. Today, it seemed as if they were simply one large, clean zone, despite the external filth. One large, safe, sterile zone from which all those fears that haunt and tempt us had been cleared away. The unease had been washed away and replaced with a sense of belonging. A cold warmth, a bright darkness for all my days remaining.
Occasionally I saw some late-homing nocturnal worker or reveler on his or her way home, or an early-riser jogging down a street, the first of the day’s newspaper delivery boys and milkmen commencing their rounds. Without exception, we all nodded and smiled to each other, happy, relaxed, acknowledging a basic kinship between each of us. We all contain myriads; we are all assembled by common, consensual decree of those who resemble ourselves. So did they; but we are segmented differently.
Back home, I looked with a fond amusement at my last assemblage. It was a noble attempt, and it had helped bring me right up to the line. My past attempts, before my breakdown, must have been formidable efforts as well. They had brought me so far, imprinted so much upon my body and mind, left me with so many pieces that felt like they had once fit together.
It had taken more than imagination, artistry and sensory stimulation to cross that line. But now that I had crossed that line, I no longer needed to worry about matters of selfhood, of image, of reproductions and originals. The world changed when it became possible to reproduce works of art and display copies of them in any parlour or dining room. It changed when it became possible to record voices and music, to beam them into a million homes or to store them for repeated enjoyment in a time and place of anyone’s choosing. The self changed too, at some point.
Maybe it was because they had built a world that was ultimately more suited to us than to them. Maybe they had reached the end of their road at the same time that we happened to reach the beginning of ours. Maybe I have it all wrong, and they are the victors, we the victims. I couldn’t say for sure. And I couldn’t say I really car
ed. I kneeled down, reached for the severed hand still clasped around my ankle, pried it away, placed it in the garbage bin in my kitchen and then began to prepare for the day ahead.
c)
‘A gap was created. A break in continuity.
Something that waited for ages, longing to step in, found an entry.
A long, sinuous deity of shifting forms, elegance wrapped in squalor, tail in mouth, forever spinning, stepped forth and brought its children through the breach.’
Jayaprakash Satyamurthy lives in Bangalore, India. He writes for a living and plays the bass guitar for a band called Djinn & Miskatonic. He and his wife are the indentured caregivers to a vast feline collective with roots in Ulthar.
Story illustration by Galen Dara.
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Over the Hills
by Victor Takac
STEPPING OFF THE BUS, an icy European wind attacked my face. I hadn’t been home in over a decade, and it was clear that time hadn’t been kind to the village I grew up in. With barely a chance to get my bearings, the old bus, which probably should have been decommissioned around the time I was last here, groaned to life and pulled out into the street, leaving me standing in the cold.
Gazing around, certain landmarks stood out, though many had changed. The brick houses hadn’t aged well and were now covered in thick grime. Broken down fences seemed to be the norm. The little store where the local kids and I used to steal candy from across the street had closed down and become a pawn shop. “Kubin’s” adorned the crude wooden sign above the door which looked like it was carved by the owner himself. The street to the left led to my old family home. I thought rest and relaxation would be easy to come by in an empty house, especially when it was located in a village where the most exciting thing to happen all week is Sunday church. Though I was reluctant to admit it to myself, I think that’s the reason why I really came here. As my eyes followed the street to the Cul de sac at the end, I couldn’t help but notice the hills looming over from behind the house. A sparse European pine forest dusted with a recent snow fall spread out beyond the horizon. It was strange to see this view now when as a kid the trees were much denser and darker.
Crossing the street and heading past the pawn shop, the remains of last night’s snow muffled my footsteps. The grey and dirty snowmelt was like camouflage for the buildings along the street. I was in a hurry to get out of the cold, and to satisfy my curiosity, I took a step towards the pawnshop. Making my way through the shabby door, which felt far too stiff, I noticed the old man leaning behind the counter. His scarred nose and missing teeth were surrounded by a grey mane. Green blotches were all that remained of the tattoos creeping out from beneath his rolled up sleeves.
“You need any help?” he asked in a low growl to no response. Something had caught my eyes, and for a moment I hesitated. A figure stood beside me with a gaunt and restless face. The hair matched the dark winter cloak. I barely even recognized myself anymore. The silver backed mirror was like one you’d see in your grandmother’s house, tall and faded with age. Getting a better look I saw the cold had left its pink tinge on my cheeks.
“I’m fine. Just want to have a quick look around.” I finally replied as I peeled my eyes away from the mirror. Without so much as a grunt, the old man went back to his business.
Tables with missing legs, ornaments, candle holders, and china figurines that hadn’t been cared for in years were just a selection of the detritus which was piled up along the walls in every corner of the cramped store. A layer of dust was caked on every surface. Thick curtains stopped most of the light penetrating from outside, but I could just barely make out the peeling wallpaper on the walls. It was the cheap textured kind. Surveying the junk, a little music box stood out amongst a scattering of crystal glasses out on display. The only reason I could tell it was a music box is because it looked a lot like the one my Gran had when I was younger. It looked out of place as if someone haphazardly hid it away. It didn’t stand out from any of the junk surrounding me, but since it looked so familiar, I picked it up anyway.
“You don’t want that.” The old man’s voice came from close behind me. Looking around I noticed he was standing not more than a foot away. How he got so close without making any noise I don’t know.
“Any why would that be?” I asked.
“Doesn’t work, does it? Been sitting there for years, but I’ve never been able to open it, let alone get it to make any noise.” It didn’t make any difference to me, I’m sure I’ll be able to play around with it when I get home. Pry it open somehow. The scratches and chipped varnish made it look interesting, and it looked so familiar. Why the hell not?
“That’s alright, I’ll take it. How much do you want?” There was no price tag.
“Twenty’ll do.”
“Sold.” I said handing him a crumpled note.
With my transaction complete, I stepped back into the cold, and my muffled footsteps resumed in the direction of the house. Gazing at the bare woods in the hills, I barely noticed the church that had replaced the park in which I spent most of my summers running around in. And winters too for that matter. Gone was the cherry coloured swing set where I once broke my ankle. A brass bell hung atop the tower, readying itself for its daily disturbance of the neighbourhood as noon approached. Opposite the church was a battered old house with a few missing roof tiles and a vile orange coloured plaster that separated it from the rest of the brick houses on the street. The bit of the garden that wasn’t hidden beneath the snow looked like it hadn’t been tended to in years.
The hinges whined as I swung the gate open, reminding me of the time I poked a stick into the key hole. Even though I knew a wasp nest was in there, my curiosity (or was it stupidity?) got the better of me. Found out the hard way not to mess with those flying beasts. The gate didn’t look new anymore. The burgundy paint was tearing itself off, daring the rust to catch it. I took a few steps to the front porch and slid the key into the door. For a second I had doubts it would still even work, but it turned with a heavy thud, and the door swung open. Like the pawn shop, a layer of dust covered all the forgotten furniture. At least I’d have something to do over the winter. I was able to get the fireplace in the corner going with ease, and a steady warmth began to wrestle with the cold I had let in through the door.
Music box still in hand, I sat on the couch, prompting some dust into the air. Examining the box, I saw that the hinges on the lid looked as if they had fused together. The lid itself looked like someone had tried to fix it to the main compartment in order to prevent anyone from opening it. Regardless, I gave it a go and tried to pry it open with my hands. Nothing. Dismayed, but expecting nothing more, I put it down on the coffee table near the hearth, just as the church bell began to echo from outside. Twelve rings. Noon.
Instinctively, before I realised what I was doing, I made my way downstairs the following morning and picked up the box again. Sitting in my hands, I noticed I had no idea why I even picked it up. Instead of putting it back down I decided to sit back on the couch and try opening it again. I didn’t necessarily want to, but I felt compelled to. This time without any reluctance, the box sprang open on what felt like perfectly oiled hinges. “What the hell?” I said out loud without meaning to. There was no music, but a slight vibration was trapped somewhere inside the box. Holding it up to the light to get a better look, I saw the hills through the window out of the corner of my eye. The woods were no longer thin and sparse, but dark and dense. Doing a double take, and looking closer, the usual sporadically placed patches of trees were back. Might’ve been the light, I thought, but I noticed that the vibration had stopped.
Not only was the previously sealed box opening with ease now, but I was seeing things to boot. All this dust was probably making me sick. Taking a walk would be a good idea, and I might be able to see if the old man at the pawn shop has any idea about fixing this thing.
Once more the attacking cold overwhelmed me the second I stepped outside
. The wind picked up force overnight and was determined to make me as uncomfortable as possible. This only served to make me hurry through the grey snowmelt and make it back to the other end of the street where I entered the pawn shop once more.
There stood the old man who I presumed was named Kubin, in the same spot as yesterday.
“I opened it!” I said with a grin on my face.
“Good for you.” He replied unenthused.
“The only problem is it’s not making any music. It vibrates, but that’s all.” I hesitated; “Thought you might have some clue as to what the problem is.”
“Give us a look then.” He said holding out his arthritic hand, palm open. Handing over the box I noticed something was wrong. The hinges were once more sealed. I didn’t say anything as he inspected the box.
“What are you playing at? It’s sealed.”
“It was open this morning, maybe it’s jammed again?” But somehow I knew that wasn’t the case.
“Well I can’t help you. It isn’t gonna open.” He replied dubiously as if I was just wasting his time. Dismayed, yet curiously puzzled, I grabbed it and went to leave. “Well, sorry, I didn’t mean to waste your time.”
Back outside, still contemplating my sudden madness, I felt a vibration in the hand which held the box. Lifting it up, the lid had come loose. Again, no music, but the vibration was stronger than ever. Finally! Swiftly turning back to face the pawn shop so I can show the old man I’m not crazy after all, I looked up to see the old grocery store instead. Cracked plastic signs in the windows informed me that Apples were in season and on ‘SALE!’ A group of kids no older than eight burst out of the front doors, with the spoils of their crime sticking out from their pockets. Before my mind had a chance to catch up with me, they blitzed past, one of them running into me.
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2012 - Issues 10 through 20 Page 23
