by Unknown
A heavy wrinkled lid in what I’d taken for rock opened to reveal an eye. A giant eye. Inhuman. Bluish, milky white in color. Blind, probably, but I had no doubt this beast was aware of my presence. It uncurled an impossibly long neck to bridge the gap between us in a moment. I cried out and stumbled back, falling. My lantern tumbled from my hand but remained lit, revealing slitted nostrils. Its mottled grey skin was leathery and armored in overlapping scales. Strands of slimy moss hung off like tattered clothing. Two smaller heads reared up on either side of the central head, swaying on spindly stalks like snakes readying to strike.
“Holy shit,” whispered Liss. “Turtle Mountain! I never thought—”
The beast opened a beaked maw in a silent scream, and the small heads lunged. I threw a hand over my face and closed my eyes, sure the end was nigh.
But Liss had other ideas.
“Stand up!”
Not waiting for me to comply, she forced me up on jelly legs, revolver in hand.
“Back off! I don’t want to hurt you!” she yelled with my mouth.
What? Now that I was armed and upright, I wanted nothing more than to kill this creature.
The creature tipped its main head, slightly, as though pondering. Seizing the opportunity, I concentrated hard on pulling the trigger. Perhaps Liss was distracted by the beast, for I succeeded. The monster shrieked as a bullet pierced one of the smaller heads. The stalk went limp, and the head dangled uselessly.
“Goddammit, Reggie!”
Now, the large head came for us. Liss didn’t hesitate, letting loose three more bullets.
“Run!” she yelled, but I was already running. I had lost my lantern, but there was only one way forward in the darkness. Liss fired again over my shoulder. The creature’s head pursued, the massive bulk of its long neck shaking dust and rock loose, which rained down on my head. I heard a final shot and a click. Empty. I ran right into the board containing the warning and was winded on impact. I crawled out of the tunnel mouth and collapsed on the floor, scrambling away from the opening, desperately hoping it was too narrow for the creature to follow.
I lay there wheezing until my breath returned and a chill overtook my sweat-soaked body. Everything was quiet. I lit a match to get my bearings.
It flared to life, and I saw the monster lying just inside the tunnel entrance, one milky eye now a dark, dripping mess, bullet holes peppering its face. As the flame dwindled, I stared at it, and it seemed to stare back at me. It looked not so monstrous now but old and feeble. Tired. Defeated.
The light died.
Some thirty years later, that image and the memories of my terrible journey through darkness back to the surface still haunt me. That and Liss, who continues to inhabit my revolver, solved mystery notwithstanding. The officers of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police did find my craft as I’d hoped, but unfortunately, this resulted not in my emancipation but in my incarceration for a period of some ten years. The whereabouts of my ship remains a mystery, my pleas to the Canadian government for its safe return falling on deaf ears.
I never married, and following a few more adventures consisting mostly of setting up shop as a widget-maker and finding affordable lodgings in Vancouver (passage back to Britain on my meagre earnings being out of the question), Liss and I settled into a companionable relationship, though I believe she’s never forgiven me for taking that first shot.
I breathed not a word of our discovery but became a bit obsessed with the town of Frank and its Turtle Mountain. The going theory for the collapse was that an anticline formation of shale and sandstone overlaid with limestone had been weakened by an unusual freeze-thaw cycle, expanding fissures. However, the indigenous peoples of the area—the Kutenai and Crowfoot—called Turtle Mountain the “mountain that moves” and would never camp at its base. Perhaps they knew the truth. If only the townsfolk and mining company had been as wise. Near a hundred residents had lost their lives that day, as well as a camp of transients numbered up to fifty, Liss included.
When the mine entrance was excavated, the miners discovered the horse we’d encountered—Charlie—still living. Intent on spoiling the poor animal after his horrible ordeal, the miners fed him a rich meal of oats and brandy, which unfortunately proved to be his end. Bittersweet to be sure, but I’m glad he saw daylight one last time.
Though mining quickly resumed, the mine closed permanently in 1917. The mountain has scarcely moved since the slide, and I’ll admit to having mixed feelings. While I wouldn’t wish another disaster upon the good people of Frank, who stubbornly persist, some small part of me hopes that the creature in the mountain still lives, that we—that I—didn’t kill it.
For, as perhaps only an old man can know, there are too few wonders left in this world. Gasoline, gunpowder, and airplanes have overtaken steam technology, and facilitated violence and destruction of unprecedented magnitude. If this is the face of modern progress, I want nothing of it. I will stick to crafting mechanical toys that bring smiles to children’s faces.
And, if I had destroyed the one wonder I’d been extraordinarily lucky enough to encounter, well, I will never forgive myself either and can only conclude that it is I who am the monster.
Erika Holt is a lawyer by day and a writer/editor by night. Her stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including What Fates Impose and Not Our Kind, and she is an assistant editor of Nightmare Magazine under bestselling and multiple award-nominated Editor-in-Chief John Joseph Adams. The rockslide recounted in her story “The Monster” is a real event which you can find out more about by visiting the Frank Slide Interpretive Centre in south-western Alberta or by just driving the Crowsnest Highway, which carves a path through the 90 million tons of limestone that still fill the valley. You can find Erika on Twitter (@erikaholt), her website (erikaholt.com), or blogging with the Inkpunks.
The Book of Futures
Wendy Nikel
On a seaside cliff on the far edge of town, a single gas lamp sent Dr. Lucia Crosswire’s thin shadow cowering into the tangled pines. Her heels crunched steadily along the winding cobblestones, and a well-fed rat darted across the path, screeching at the disturbance to its nocturnal traipsing.
Nighttime strolls along the outskirts of Clifton weren’t generally advisable for an unaccompanied lady, but Lucia wasn’t concerned. With her pistol securely in its strap upon her leather tool belt and her newly invented electroshock weapon at her other hip, she was confident that she’d come out ahead in any altercation. Besides, the townsfolk of Clifton were highly superstitious when it came to the reclusive monks of Mont Saint-Vogel. Rarely did young ne’er-do-wells trespass on the monastery’s hallowed ground and certainly never after dusk.
Even the forest itself seemed to cower from the expansive hilltop monastery, its pines bending outward from the stone pillars and walls. Far above the arched entrance, an angel held a balance, its trays askew. Thou art weighed in the balances and art found wanting.
Lucia pulled her cloak tightly to herself, her tools and instruments clanking in the many pockets.
A red cord hung beside the massive door. When Lucia tugged it, the iron cogs surrounding the doorframe shifted and clicked into place, a discordant clatter in the night’s placid silence. After a still moment, a mournful bell tolled somewhere deep within the stone walls.
The door opened. A figure blocked the way, clad in a hooded gown of rough brown cloth that obscured his features and form. Its only adornment was a dull medallion, engraved with the image of a bird. Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves.
Preferring to err on the side of wisdom, Lucia rested her fingertips on the tiny clockwork mechanisms of her electroshock weapon. “Are you Brother Primicerius?”
“I am.” The figure stepped backward, fading into the monastery’s inky recesses. “Please, come in so that we may more discreetly address the events of late.”
Lucia narrowed her eyes and gripped her device more tightly but didn’t back away. She’d come this far based solely on a st
rangely whispered message emanating from a wind-up bird delivered to her investigative offices in the town far below. “Trouble. Please come. 10 o’clock tonight,” it’d repeated each time its key was wound. The only other clue to its origin had been the return address on its packaging, indicating that the sender was a Brother Primicerius at the Mont Saint-Vogel monastery.
Lucia stepped inside. The door closed with a dissonant clank.
“Forgive me the request of your presence at such an hour.” The voice in the dark seemed to come from everywhere, nowhere, somewhere within Lucia’s own head. A spark flared, a match lit, and the shadowy hood of Brother Primicerius hovered before her as if disembodied by the night. “The brothers of this sacred place have sworn a vow of seclusion from the outside world. Therefore, I felt it best to wait until the hours of rest for this meeting, so your presence here would not be a distraction. This way.”
He turned, momentarily blocking the candle’s light and plunging Lucia into cold darkness. Her heart thudded in her chest like the measured strokes of a pendulum, but she followed, matching him step for step. Around a corner, at the end of another long, silent corridor, a gentle light glowed from beneath a closed door.
“You must swear to me,” Brother Primicerius said, “that never, though you suffer a thousand years of torture, will you reveal the contents of this room.”
Though the people of Clifton often whispered and gossiped about the mysterious goings-on upon the hill, Lucia had never heard of anyone being tortured for this information, so she replied confidently, “I swear I will not reveal the secrets of your order.”
Brother Primicerius nodded grimly. “My brother is the vicar in the village below. He’s assured me that he’s confided in you in the past and that you are worthy of this great trust.”
“Yes, he called upon me last spring to investigate some thefts at the cathedral. Has there been a burglary here?” Even as she said it, she knew it was unlikely, for who would climb all the way up this hill to steal from those who’d taken a vow of poverty?
The door had no handle, but Brother Primicerius pressed a series of springs on one side as deftly as an organist playing a chord, and after a moment of shifting and clicking within, the door slid to one side, revealing the chamber.
“A library?” Lucia gazed in awe at the rows after rows of books. Their spines stacked upon one another until they reached the top of the domed ceiling where an elaborate wrought-iron chandelier hung, dark and unmoving. This was the great secret of the monks of Mont Saint-Vogel? Books?
“These are not ordinary books,” Brother Primicerius said as if reading her mind. He walked among the tomes, touching one and then another with awed reverence. “These books contain prophecies from the beginning of time, from every man who walked the earth and claimed to have some deeper insight into the future. It is our sacred duty to weigh each line, study each prediction, and determine which prophets were true, which visions are yet to come.”
A library of prophecies . . . Lucia looked with new appreciation on the rows of shelves. “But what do you want of me?”
On a table in the center of the room stood a bronze case with intricate carvings on the lid. Brother Primicerius unlocked it. The case unfolded like the blooming of a mechanical flower, revealing a heavy black tome. In blood-red letters upon the cover was the title: Liber Futures.
“The Book of Futures,” Lucia translated.
“In the holy book of Acts, we are told that Paul drove a demon out of a female slave whose owner had been earning a great deal of money through her fortune-telling. This book is whispered to contain all her predictions of the future.”
“Wars and rumors of wars . . .” Lucia recited.
“That and so much more.” He snapped shut the bronze case, enclosing the book once more. “It arrived at the monastery a fortnight ago. It is also my belief that this particular relic brought with it some sinister force.”
“Sinister force?” Lucia’s keen eyes darted about the room where each flicker of the candle and turn of her head made it seem as though shapes were moving among the bookshelves. Her voice came out louder than she intended, its tone barely concealing her skepticism. “Demons, you mean?”
“Perhaps the very one which the apostle drove from the slave girl.”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard of my investigations,” Lucia said, taking a step toward the door, “but my expertise is in human crimes with human wrongdoers. The spirit world is entirely unknown to me.”
The monk’s hood bobbed in acknowledgement. “That is precisely why I summoned you. For our expertise is in the spirit world, yet none of our attempts—no prayers or chants or exorcisms—have had the slightest effect. My brothers have asked that I put aside my own convictions and consider the possibility, however small, that these crimes have a more . . . natural cause.”
“And what are these crimes?” Lucia asked with some relief at her new understanding of the situation. How strange it must be to live like these monks in a society where demons are the first accused and human culprits only considered when no other explanation can be found.
“Each night,” he said, “as the brothers take their rest, this library is locked. Its door, you may have gleaned, is unique. The combination is known solely to me, and I consider it my sacred duty to alter the code each Sabbath. Were any man to apply the wrong combination of levers, the mechanisms within would release a poison to kill him in an instant.
“As you can see, there are no other entrances to this chamber, yet every morning, the brothers discover that their books have been misplaced, picked up and set elsewhere. Also, each night, one book—one each night—is missing entirely, and the one from the previous day is returned, as though it had been there all along.
“To a demon this would be but a mischievous prank.” He paused, deep in thought. “But if the culprit is, indeed, of flesh and blood, his motives may be far more devious. With the words these pages contain, you can see why we guard them so carefully, why their disappearance causes us such distress. If someone else were to be taking these pages and using them for their own purposes—”
“Yes, I see what you mean.” Lucia wandered about the library, noting the orderliness of each table, the meticulous nature by which these monks arranged their books. She touched the cover of one, careful not to move it from its current position. “The books in this library—would they have monetary value? Perhaps to collectors?”
“Oh, yes. Even the books whose prophecies have been deemed false would still be deemed priceless for their rarity. Except, of course, the books on the history of Mont Saint-Vogel itself, there, on the northern wall.”
Lucia studied the shelf indicated, reaching up to straighten an ancient leather-bound book that stuck out further than the rest: An Accounting of the Property Deeds, Construction, and Dedication of the Most Blessed Monastery of Mont Saint-Vogel, the thick spine declared.
“Were any of these record books stolen?” she asked.
“No, of course not. They’re just tedious accounts of feast day celebrations. Ordinations, deaths, and burials. Money given to the poor or spent to procure the other books. They’d be of no value to man or demon. I’ve compiled a list of the books taken.”
He held out a scrap of parchment upon which had been written a list in elaborate calligraphy of a dozen books, ranging in subject from the biblical prophet Samuel to a girl in an impoverished island country whose visions dated back only three years from the current day.
Lucia pocketed the list and circled about the room, peering into each darkened nook and tugging gently upon each shelf. She stopped suddenly. “Have you had any visitors to the monastery recently?”
“No.”
“And when you received the Book of Futures, was it brought here, or did one of your monks fetch it from elsewhere?”
“It came from the Ottoman Empire, relayed via airship to the New Breckinridge port.”
“Highly guarded?”
“On the contrary, sent as inc
onspicuously as possible. The bishop of New Breckinridge paid a boy three coins to deliver it, claiming it to be a particularly thick prayer book.”
Lucia pulled a magnifying glass from a pocket in her cloak and snapped it open. She inspected the lock mechanisms of the door, which bore no sign of forced entry.
“Did anyone else in the town know of its arrival?”
“No, not a living soul.”
“And what lies beyond the walls of this room?”
“The chapel and the dining hall, both locked.”
“And below?” Lucia stomped her heeled boot on a tile, which held firm.
“The catacombs, I’d assume. Please, Dr. Crosswire, based on what you’ve seen, you must agree that this is an impossible crime. There could be no temporal explanation.”
Lucia looked about the room. “It certainly is strange, but before I say for certain, I’d like to test one theory, and for that, I will need you to trust me with the combination to that door.”
Five minutes later, Dr. Lucia Crosswire bid the monk a polite adieu and set off back down the winding path toward town.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged silently from the shadows of the pines and crept to the monastery’s eastern side where the hooded monk had unlatched a window before saying his evening prayers and laying his head upon his small, unpadded cot.
The corridors were black and cold as a crypt, but Lucia found her way to the library by the light of her small, hand-cranked lantern. At the door, she carefully studied the set of springs and pressed the ones which Brother Primicerius had indicated. The door slid open with a wisp of cool air.
The library was illuminated by the golden glow of a single candle. Lucia tucked her lantern away and kept to the shadows, stepping carefully. When she reached the farthest corner where the entire length and width and breadth of the room could be seen without moving her head, she sat and settled in for a long night.
The candlelight reflected on the Book of Futures’s bronze case, warping and twisting the golden light into shapes both strange and hypnotic. It was unsettling, the way that it drew her eye, and she could see why the monks of this place were superstitious regarding it.
