by Anthology
“Fifteen, sixteen?”
“Thirteen.”
“Your mother didn’t believe in God, but thought church was a good idea. You didn’t want to go. Maybe the two of you struck a deal—‘When I’m thirteen…’ and that was that.”
Jack looked at Maggie, who stared back at him with wide open eyes. “I was just shocked at the pictures. I didn’t know…”
Father Harris said, “Part of you knew. Part of you had to know. You’re possessed by a demon, Jack.”
Christie’s hands jerked to her neck, to her cross necklace. Phil sat his wine glass down and stood. Father Harris took another step toward Jack. “I suspect you’ve been possessed for a very long time. Since around the time you stopped going to church.”
Jack laughed. Maggie looked at him, a pained look on her face.
“I’m not possessed. This is…”
“Maggie,” Phil said, lowering his voice, “come to me.”
She looked at Father Harris, then back at Jack.
Father Harris’s eyes never left Jack’s. “People can live their whole lives possessed and never realize it. Never know that on their deathbeds, the demon will let them have a glimpse of heaven before taking them to hell.”
Jack shook his head and turned to Maggie. “We’re leaving. We’re going to walk out the door, get in our car, and drive away.”
Father Harris said, “Do you have bad dreams, Jack?”
Jack jerked toward Father Harris. “Everyone has bad dreams—”
He dreamt he was in a restaurant that had once been a church. Candles fought the darkness. Wine bottles glittered in racks in the choir loft. He sat alone at his table, the cartilage-white tablecloth a sharp contrast to the black leather chairs.
He slurped up oysters on the half shell. He gobbled up black truffle potatoes. He stuffed a live puppy into his mouth. When he was done, he sat back, so full, so content, so happy.
He picked up his steak knife and cut through the muscles of his belly. He pushed his fingers through the layers of flesh, fat, and sinew to create an opening. His fingers were slick and sticky at the same time. With a quick slash, he opened his stomach sack.
He then ate his meal a second time.
“—Maggie. This is ridiculous. We’re leaving.”
Father Harris said, “Find yourself at the wrong place, wrong time a lot? Have you seen more than your fair share of accidents? Violent acts? Disturbing things?”
Jack thought he would laugh again, but when he tried, it came out as a bark. He said, “Worst dinner party ever. Maggie, we’re leaving.”
Phil said, “Maggie—I want you to come to me. Now.”
Christie, who had been standing stuck to her spot, scrunched up her eyes and screamed. The scream—a continuous shriek—broke Maggie out of her trance.
She jumped, moving quickly to her dad.
Jack stared at her, his mouth open.
Phil hugged his daughter, his eyes, locked on Jack, full of accusation.
Christie’s scream did not faze Father Harris. He said, “Can you pinpoint the moment in your life when you became miserable?”
“I’m not miserable. Maggie, please…”
Maggie buried her head against her dad.
Jack shouted, “I’m happy a lot of the time!”
Father Harris said, “An incident with a Ouija board, perhaps? Or a game of ‘light as a feather, stiff as a board?’ Bloody Mary? When did it happen, Jack— ”
He got the Ouija board from his Aunt: “Sure, kid, take it. Haven’t looked at it in years…”
The day he returned, his friends met him at his house. Jack unveiled the board.
“We should get a bunch of candles.”
“It’s daylight, ass-bag.”
“We should wait till dark, duh. Duh!”
They went into the guest bedroom, Jack saying, “We ain’t doing it in my bedroom. Freak that.”
Blues and purples colored the room. Pictures of bluebonnets hung on the walls. A lavender bedspread covered the queen sized mattress. Blue and purple pillows sat on the white wicker chair.
They sat on the floor, huddled around the board.
“Is there anyone here?”
The planchette moved to ‘No.’
They laughed. “Then who the freak said ‘no?’”
This made them laugh even harder.
‘I’
‘M’
‘N’
‘O’
‘O’
‘N’
‘E’
“I’m no one!”
“Can you give us…”
A sonic boom shook the house, the glass rattling in the window panes. A blue bonnet picture fell off its hook, crashing to the floor. They screamed, jumped up, and ran through the house, into the backyard. They stood around each other, laughing and giggling.
“—when did your life take a turn for the worse?”
Jack raised a finger at Father Harris. “I don’t know what kind of hold you have on this family, or how many exorcisms you’ve performed… how many have you performed? How many lives have you ruined?”
“I’ve performed fourteen exorcisms. Two in this house. I’ve lost three lives, but saved all fourteen souls.”
“You killed three people. Kids!”
“Only one child died.”
Jack composed himself, smoothing his tie. “Father Harris, it was nice meeting you. Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, always a pleasure. Maggie, I love you. Walk out this door with me.”
Phil moved in front of Maggie, pushing her behind him. “She’s not going with you.”
Father Harris said, “Jack—I can save you.”
Jack turned and ran.
Maggie wouldn’t pick up so he left a message: “Maggie, I don’t know what just happened. I’m driving home. I love you. I love you. Call me.”
Traffic slowed. White smoke from an overturned SUV snapped off the undercarriage. Someone’s red face pressed against the passenger window, smearing crimson.
Jack slowed, called, and left another message: “Father Harris has gotten into your minds. It’s like he’s some kind of… he’s brainwashed you and your family. There’s no such thing as demons. He killed your brother, Maggie. And probably almost killed you! Goddamnit!”
The scrubbed white moon washed his apartment complex gray. Dark silhouettes of people moved on the balcony next to his. Ruby red dots from cigarettes punctured the blackness.
Crying, sitting in his car, shaking, Jack left the message: “I love you. So much. I can’t believe this has happened. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make this right. I feel so lost now. So alone. Please, please call me. What are you doing?”
Inside his neat apartment, he sat on the couch and stared. Posters of silent-era German films hung on his walls. Peter Lorre cast an anxious look down at him. A black cat, Milton, sauntered out of the bedroom, stretching. He studied Jack and asked, “Meow?”
Jack looked at his phone.
He wanted—so wanted—to talk to Maggie, to hold her, to cry with her. He wanted to have back the girl he had known before the dinner, before meeting Father Harris.
He refused to call again. He said, “I refuse to leave another message.”
Rising, he went to the kitchen, to the fridge, and opened the freezer.
He pulled out an unopened bottle of vodka.
He woke on the living room floor, unsure of the time, whether it was day or night. He looked at his phone: no messages.
And with that, with the fact that he had no messages from Maggie, the awful realities of the dinner crashed into him. He moaned. Climbing to his knees, he looked around. Half his face was numb from being pressed into the carpet.
A butcher knife lay on the ground close to him, beside the massacre that was his couch. The wooden frame showed through the massive, carved holes from the knife, like pieces of naked bone. The posters still hung on the walls, but were in tatters, dangling past the jagged shards of broken glass. Peter Lorre’s fearful
eyes remained untouched, floating freely in a space of nothingness, staring at him.
Moaning, he went to the kitchen.
The bottle of vodka sat on the counter, next to an open tin of cat food. The seal was broken, a third of the bottle gone.
He picked up the vodka. He opened the freezer and screamed as a black shadow leapt out at his face, scratching his flesh with cold nails. Milton landed on his feet and took off. Jack followed the black streak shooting through his living room until he saw the front door, until he saw the message scrawled in shit against the white paint: fuck the priest.
If you found some chills in BJ’s story, then perhaps you should check out his zombie horror novel THE CHANGED from Apex Publications.
It’s not the end of the world—it’s just zombies.
Chris is an ordinary guy with a boring job, a perfect fiancé, and plans for a happy, if predictable, future. But when the dead stop dying and become, instead, simply “changed,” ordinary isn’t so comforting anymore. Wandering stray animals suddenly develop a taste for flesh and brains, and while most of the human zombies might be harmless, can anyone really be sure?
With the help of a morning show shock-jock who has recently turned into a zombie and the burnt-out walking remains of a businessman, Chris becomes the backbone of a fight for undead rights among the fear, prejudice, and uncertainty dividing the living and the not quite dead.
“What’s a poor zombie to do when society cruelly discriminates against the undead and won’t even support their right to exist? That’s the tongue-in-cheek question explored in Burrow’s farcical first novel, which affectionately spoofs George A. Romero-style zombie motifs. When the newly dead denizens of morgues and crypts the world over begin to mingle with the living, the armed forces warm up their flamethrowers, and religious zealots and scientists alike search for explanations. It turns out that “the changed,” as liberal politicians dub them, only hunger for human flesh if their brains are damaged. So it’s no surprise when the changed gain a champion in Christian Scott, whose own sudden demise prompts his fiancee to pair him with her favorite, newly undead radio shock jock. Of course, the powers that be are incensed—until they begin “changing,” too. Burrow’s raw narrative style and gratuitous, gross-out interludes often leave much to be desired, but frequent dollops of biting satire and witty dialogue make the ride worthwhile.”
(Dec. 15, 2009) by Carl Hays. Booklist
Available today from Apex Publications
http://www.apexbookcompany.com
EULOGY FOR MUFFIN
Jennifer Brozek
Jennifer Brozek is a freelance author for many RPG companies including Savage Mojo, Rogue Games, and Catalyst Game Labs. Winner of the 2010 Origins Award for Best Roleplaying Game Supplement, her contributions to RPG sourcebooks include Dragonlance, Colonial Gothic, Shadowrun, Serenity, Savage Worlds, and White Wolf SAS. Winner of the 2009 Australian Shadows Award for edited publication, Jennifer has edited 3 anthologies with more on the way. Author of In a Gilded Light and The Little Finance Book That Could, she has more than 25 published short stories, is the creator and editor of the semiprozine, The Edge of Propinquity, and is a submissions editor for the Apex Book Company. She also writes the monthly gaming column Dice & Deadlines. When she is not writing her heart out, she is gallivanting around the Pacific Northwest in its wonderfully mercurial weather. Jennifer is a member of Broad Universe, SFWA and HWA. Find out more about Jennifer from her blog at http://jennifer-brozek.livejournal.com/.
In April, 2010, Apex Publications released Close Encounters of the Urban Kind, Jennifer’s first book project with us.
If you do visit Jennifer’s website, you’ll find that she’s the second busiest person in SF.
—§—
The five children stood in front of the huge fiberglass pig with two boxes and one daisy-chained crown in their collective hands. Bundled up against the cold ocean wind, they were somber; even in the face of something as cheerfully yellow as the statue before them. They were somber because the occasion demanded it. It was time to say good-bye to their pets forever.
Alan looked around and nodded. It was the perfect setting for Muffin's eulogy. The pier was windy and cold with just a few tourists around. The Seattle sky was filled with its usual deep grey clouds. The world seemed quiet and respectful of their loss. Best yet was the bright yellow Moccus altar with the red writing and the red sun painted on as a necklace. It was like the artist who painted it knew that it would be an altar to Moccus that children would use. This was where Muffin would be laid to rest, at the statue's feet. It was only right. Moccus would make sure that Muffin made it to heaven.
Alan, Eric and Heather's mother, Sharon, stood off to the side with Emma and Anne's mother, Kathy. Both mothers watched with the solemn parental expression of one who knew not to laugh at the folly of children and their much needed rituals. If this was how their children wanted to say good-bye to their dead family pets, there was no harm in it. Though, two very different pets dying so close together made Sharon wonder if the same fox killed them both. If it did, the neighborhood would have to do something about that. She also wondered how much it would cost. The idle contemplation did not last long.
"Mom! Mom!" Heather called, "I can't reach it." She waved the fragile crown of flowers upward towards the top of the pig's head but could not reach it. Heather was the youngest and smallest of the five children but that did not make her the weakest. She was braver and bolder than either of the other two girls and even braver than shy Eric. Only Alan was her match when it came to a fierce game of Double-Dog-Dare-Ya.
Sharon hurried over before the crown of daisies came apart and ruined the beginning of this new ritual. Maybe ruined it for good. "Here. Let me, honey." She held out her hand.
"No! I wanna do it." Heather hid the crown of flowers behind her back, mashing one of the buds into loose petals. "I wanna crown Moccus."
"All right, Heather. I'll lift you up." Sharon knew she was coddling her daughter but Heather was the youngest of three and the only girl in the family. Coddling her just this once would not hurt anything. After all, the family ferret had just died.
"OK, Mama." Heather said with angelic innocence now that she was getting her way. As her mother lifted her up, Heather held out the crown to the statue. It was too little to fit around the pig's head, so she hung it off of one ear like a jaunty new hat. With her sacred duty of adorning the statue done, Heather squirmed to get down and was obliged by her mother who then retreated to a safer, more adult, corner next to Kathy.
"What a day," Sharon said softly to Kathy, her neighbor of seven years. "What a week. First, we lose Muffin and then you guys lose your cat. It's awful. Just awful." She pulled her coat closed against the cold ocean wind and wished that the children had chosen a different spot for their ritual. A warmer spot. But, the children had insisted that this was where the ritual had to be.
"I know," Kathy said without looking at her. "But these things happen. It's one of the lessons of life."
"Well, after we get done with this...this...whatever this is-"
"Eulogy," Kathy supplied. She was dressed in the same warm clothing as the rest of them but was unbothered by the cold or the wind.
"Eulogy, memorial, whatever. We need to call a neighborhood meeting to deal with that wild fox. No one else should lose a family pet like this. It's just awful." Sharon gestured to the children. "Look at what they've done to cover their grief."
"Shh," Kathy murmured. "It's time."
Alan looked around at his peers, saw their attentive faces turned to him, and nodded. He turned to the statue. The top of his head did not even reach the bottom of the pig's snout. He bowed his head and began to intone the newly familiar words. The rest bowed their heads as the words came.
"Our Father, who art in Annwfn, Moccus be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, in the under dark as it is in Annwfn. Give us this day our daily hunt. And forgive us our anger, as we forgive those who anger against us. And lead
us into Annwfn when it is our time and deliver us safely. Amen." Alan lifted his head.
"Amen," was murmured around the circle of friends. As their heads rose, the crown of flowers was fluttered by the wind and white daisy petals floated over them as a sign that Moccus had heard their call and was listening.
Alan gestured to Emma. "You can go first, 'cause...you know."
Emma looked down at the box in her hands, her eyes already shiny with unshed tears. Anne put a comforting hand on her big sister's arm. "It's OK. Moccus'll guide Fluffy to heaven."
"Annwfn," Heather corrected.
Anne glanced at her, stubborn anger on her face. "I can say 'heaven' if I want."
Alan broke in before the girls started squabbling, "Annwfn is Heaven. Doesn't matter. It's Emma's time to speak. To eu-lo-gy Fluffy." He said the word 'eulogy' very carefully as one who is not familiar with the sound of the word but likes it nonetheless. He gestured to the box in Emma's hands. "Go on. You should go first."
Emma stepped forward and placed the box at pig statue's feet. "Moccus, this is Fluffy. She ran hard for you. She caught the prey for you. She fought hard for you. I hope she made you proud. I hope she's happy in Annwfn. Keep her safe." Emma stood up and wiped at the tears on her face.
"That's it?" Heather asked, scorn plain in her voice. "That's Fluffy's eulo-thingy?"
Eric, Heather's older brother broke in, "If that's the eu-lo-gy that Emma wants to give, let her." He gave Heather a warning look. They were not supposed to argue in public.
She ignored him as little sisters often do. "But that's not a proper eulo-thingy! Alan, tell her," Heather demanded.
Alan, the oldest brother, and the oldest of this group of children, nodded. He was the defacto leader after all. He chose his words carefully. "OK. Emma did fine in her way to say good-bye." He paused and thought; his childish face looked older with his concentration. "But, a eu-lo-gy is to honor the dead and through that, honor Moccus. So, it has to tell the story of what happened and why people should be proud. Also, why it honors Moccus."
