by Anthology
Sharon glanced at Kathy. "What's this new game? Who's Moccus?"
Kathy looked at her neighbor, weighing whether or not the question was idle chit-chat out of boredom or something more. She was surprised to see that Sharon looked honestly confused. How could Sharon have missed Moccus' awakening? Kathy did not want to be distracted from the children's proceedings but she could not leave her neighbor ignorant.
"Moccus came to the realm of man from the lands of Annwfn. He is known as a great advisor, one who leads the dead to the lands of happiness and the lands of death. He also often leads the Wild Hunt. He's just reawakened and not everyone can hear him—yet. They will. Eventually." She kept her eyes on the ritual before her.
Cold winds whipped around Sharon, making her pull her coat closer to her body. "How do you know all this?"
Kathy was undisturbed by the mercurial wind even as it whipped her hair into and out of her face. "My daughters heard him first. They talked to me about him. Then I heard him. I knew I had been hearing him for a while but they helped me learn how to listen. The girls told your children and then they could hear him, too."
"My kids never said anything about Moccus to me." Sharon frowned at the implication that her children had been keeping something from her. She opened her mouth to speak.
Kathy put a finger to her lips to forestall anymore interruptions and pointed towards their collective children. "Listen and learn. This is more than a game. You should already know this."
Alan had regained control of the proceedings and separated Heather from the other girls before Heather's grief would force an unnecessary fight. He then allowed Eric to place Muffin's box next to Fluffy's box and smiled reassuringly at his younger brother. Once everyone had settled down again, he began his eulogy for Muffin. He faced them with the seriousness of his duty. Not only did he need to honor both Muffin and Moccus, he had to do so in a way that taught Emma what to do in the future.
"When Moccus first talked to us, I didn't hear him," he began. "But Emma and Anne did and they taught us how to listen." He nodded to the sisters in silent appreciation.
"I heard him already," Heather muttered.
Alan continued, ignoring his baby sister. "We listened. We learned. We understood what Moccus wanted. He wanted the Wild Hunt. He's not strong enough to lead it yet. That's why we have to run it. Why I led it."
At this point Alan paused, looking around at them and through them. "But I won't have to lead it for long, will I?"
There was a soft chorus of no's from the children held rapt by his speech.
"But," he continued, "we ran the Wild Hunt as best we could and it was exciting. Muffin was the prey. Fluffy was the hunter. That's what Moccus chose. We ran with Fluffy in the chase. Not hunters but like hunters. We ran but Fluffy and Muffin ran faster. They were so fast, weren't they?"
"Very fast," Emma said as she looked at the boxes sitting at Moccus' fiberglass hooves.
"When we got there in the garage, Fluffy had Muffin cornered. I'd never seen Muffin so puffed up and hissing like that. I wanted to call it off. I wanted to save my pet. I wanted to but I knew it was wrong. I couldn't. Moccus called for the Wild Hunt. He chose Fluffy and Muffin. I had to let it happen. I had to make the sacrifice." There were tears in the boy's eyes. "We all did, didn't we?"
Anne was the only one with a voice left to agree. "Yes. They were chosen. And they ran just like they were supposed to." Emma and Eric were weeping openly while Heather rubbed at her wet face and kept silent.
"Are they kidding?" Sharon whispered at Kathy. "Did your cat kill my ferret?"
"Hush." Kathy quelled her growing annoyance at Sharon, her interruptions and her silly questions. It was not her fault that she did not understand what was going on. Was it?
"This game isn't funny. I want to know."
"Shhh," Kathy admonished. "This isn't a game. You'll miss it. Pay attention to the children. This is important." She turned from her neighbor and watched the children with a hint of a smile of pride and love on her face.
Sharon, confused and disturbed, turned back to listen.
"They did. I didn't think they would," Alan agreed. "I didn't know they would run like they were supposed to but Moccus chose them and they knew it. Animals are smarter than humans sometimes." His eyes flicked to his mother before he returned his full attention to the other children. "Animals know what they need to do."
"But Muffin wasn't gonna go without a fight," Eric said, getting control of his tears and regaining his voice.
"No. Muffin didn't. He was a fighter." Alan agreed.
"So was Fluffy," Emma said in a small voice.
"They both were. They both did what they were supposed to do." Alan smiled. "That's why we're doing eu-lo-gies for them. That's why I'm...I'm doing eu-lo-gies for both of them. That's only fair and right. They were brave and fierce for us and for Moccus. They knew that a Wild Hunt could only end in death. Fluffy had hunted well but Muffin," he could not keep the pride out of his voice, "wasn't just prey. Muffin could've been a hunter, too. That's why they fought. That's why they died."
"But Moccus is pleased?" Emma asked.
Alan did not have to answer her. Moccus did that for him in another shower of white daisy petals and a certain sense of pleasure. They all grinned at each other and some of the hurt at the lost of their pets floated away on the wind.
Alan nodded. "He is. He saw how they fought He saw how Fluffy broke Muffin's back and saw how Muffin bit Fluffy's neck until it bled and bled and bled. They fought for him in the Wild Hunt and died for him. They earned their rest and he's taken them safely to Heaven."
"Annwfn," Emma said with a small smile.
"Annwfn," Alan agreed.
The five children took each other's hands and stared up into the cheerfully yellow face of Moccus. They listened to what he had to tell them in their time of loss and grief.
"Your cat killed my ferret?" Sharon asked again when the children went silent.
"Moccus' Wild Hunt killed your ferret. But, your ferret killed the hunter in the process. It isn't how these things normally go, you know." Kathy smiled at Emma and Anne holding hands.
"I don't get it. I don't. Our children watched our pets murder each other? I was told that a fox got Muffin." Sharon looked at Kathy's smiling face. "This doesn't disturb you? Our children are worshiping a pig and watched their pets fight to the death because they thought that's what this Moccus wanted."
"Of course it bothers me. Of course it does. No one wants to be chosen as the prey in a Wild Hunt. But when it happens, it's an honor." Kathy turned to her neighbor and frowned. "What bothers me more is the fact that you don't hear Moccus at all. That you don't hear him right now as he speaks to us." Sharon gestured to the pier to include herself, the children and the gathered strangers. "It bothers me that you don't know what's going on."
Sharon noticed, for the first time, that other adults had joined them on the pier and were watching the children with rapt attention. Anger flared, blotting out her fear and confusion. "What's going on is that your kids have corrupted my kids," she said.
"Seattle, for all its modernization, is still close to the old ways. Haven't you noticed the altars to Moccus all over the city? From the Parade of Pigs to the bronze statues in Pike's Place Market? Many of us have felt his stirrings for years. Now, he's awake and communing with us." Kathy's voice took on a hard edge. "Why don't you know this? Why don't you hear him?"
Sharon did not like Kathy's tone of voice. It made her nervous. "I think it's time for me and my kids to leave."
"Mommy!"
The call of her youngest brought Sharon's attention back to the children. She started to go to them but the way they were looking at her froze her in place. "What is it, baby?"
"Moccus is happy with us. Really happy." Heather's smile was radiant.
"That's good, honey, but it's time to go home."
Heather shook her head. "I didn't tell you the best part yet."
Sharon glanced at Kathy
who had not moved and humored her daughter, "What's that?"
"There's gonna be another Wild Hunt real soon!" Heather grinned, "And we all get to be hunters this time."
Sharon's heart leapt for her throat as she tried to keep calm and rational. She put on her best 'Mommy's-not-messing-around' voice, "That's nice, dear. Come on now. Eric, Alan, you, too. It's time to go home."
None of the children moved. "We can't go yet, Mom," Alan said.
"Why not?" Sharon tried to keep the panic out of her voice.
"Because Moccus is choosing the prey."
"How...?" Her questions of 'how do you know and how is he going to do it' were cut off as a huge gust of wind blew over the pier, ruffling hair and chilling skin. It lifted up the battered but still whole crown of daisies and floated it through the air in a haphazard flutter to land on Sharon's head. Sharon flinched, flailing her hands at the flowers in her hair as if they were bees. Daisies fluttered to the ground, circling her. She looked from them to the people around her, terrified.
"You should be honored to be chosen. Especially since you refuse to hear him. Moccus must see something special in you." Kathy paused. "I don't know what. Maybe it's the devotion of your children." She nodded to herself. "That must be it."
Sharon barely heard Kathy. Instead, she watched as the strangers moved closer towards her en mass. Some of them stopped to pick up rocks, sticks and other debris around the pier. "Oh my God. What are you doing?"
"Getting ready to hunt," Kathy said, pulling a small, collapsible steel baton, designed for self defense, from her purse.
Sharon stared at Kathy, mouth opening and closing in an attempt to find something to say, something rational, something that would stop this madness.
"If I were you, Sharon, I'd run," Kathy said in her mildest voice as she flicked the baton open to its full sixteen inches. "It's the Wild Hunt after all and we need the hunt before the kill. In the hunt, we honor Moccus. In the kill, we honor you as the chosen one. We'll give you a three minute head start." Kathy gave her watch a significant look.
Sharon looked around at the children. All of them, including her own, had stones in their hands except for Heather. She had picked up a dirty glass beer bottle and was holding it by the neck. "Heather?"
"It's time to run, Mommy. I promise we'll give you a nice eu-lo-gy."
If you enjoyed the style of Jennifer’s story then you might enjoy her horror and dark fantasy anthology CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE URBAN KIND.
We’ve all heard the stories of what happens to those who go to lovers’ lane and of the folly of flashing your lights at another car at night. We all know someone who knows someone that survived a meeting with Bloody Mary and another who picked up a hitchhiker that then disappeared. And we all know these stories aren’t true. They’re just urban legends. Right?
Wrong.
Sometimes the stories we hear are true. Often they’re more than they seem. These are the urban legends with alien explanations and the alien encounters mistaken for urban legends. The line between one and the other is so blurred in this anthology of stories about Close Encounters of the Urban Kind that you will never look another urban legend the same way again.
Featuring stories by Alma Alexander, Nathan Crowder, Carole Johnstone, Pete Kempshall, Jennifer Pelland, Erik Scott de Bie, Bev Vincent, and many others.
Available today from Apex Publications
http://www.apexbookcompany.com
HANDS OF HERITAGE
Elizabeth Engstrom
Elizabeth Engstrom is a speculative fiction author who was nominated in 1992 Bram Stoker Award for Best Fiction Collection for her book Nightmare Flower. Her anthology Dead on Demand: The Best of Ghost Story Weekend spent six months on the Library Journal “Best Seller List.” Her short story, “Crosley”, was picked to be included in The Thirteenth Annual Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, edited by Ellen Datlow. Her work has been published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Horror Show, American Fantasy Magazine, and Cemetery Dance. Visit her on the web at http://www.elizabethengstrom.com/.
In December, 2009, Apex Publications reissued her first book, When Darkness Loves Us.
—§—
Abraham Van Helsing watched out the window of his study until the shadow of the church steeple covered his father’s grave. The old man still lay dead in the ground, and sheep grazed peacefully above him. Good.
Van Helsing rose from his chair with a wince at his arthritic hip and began to prepare for the coming evening. First, he put the teakettle to boil. He would need a stout pot. A long night lay ahead.
Mid-morning, the elder Craybourne boy had come to his door, out of breath and sweating, stinking like the pigs his family raised. His eyes were wide in his dirty face and his bad teeth showed in a fear-stretch of lip. “We found something, mister, me brother and me. Heard you’d pay.”
“What?” Van Helsing had been disturbed from his morning reading, dozing in the sun, and was loathe to believe anything that came from the mouth of this cretin.
“You’ll pay?”
“If the information is worthy. And reliable.”
“Under the bridge,” the boy said, trying still to catch his breath. “A whore of Satan.”
“Oh?” Van Helsing stepped onto the porch. “Which bridge?”
“You’ll pay?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a note and held it up. “Which bridge?”
The boy reached for the money, but Van Helsing lifted it slightly away from the outstretched hand.
“Halfway up the lane to the dairy,” the boy said. “Acrost the creek.”
“When did you see her?”
“Just now. Just now, me brother found her, came to me. I saw and came to you.”
Van Helsing handed the boy the bill. The lad took it with grimy fingers and filth-split fingernails, but instead of running off with his prize, he held the money tight in his fist and looked Van Helsing straight in the eye. “She killed me baby sister, I think,” he said. “And a cousin.”
Van Helsing nodded at the boy, and then he surprised himself by laying a hand on the damp boy’s sticky shoulder. He shouldn’t have done that. He should never have done that. He looked at that hand and it was the hand of his father.
He pulled it away, but it was too late. He’d seen the dreaded, familiar gesture, and now his hand stank and he couldn’t even put it in his pocket. “All right then,” he said, backed into the house and closed the door. He washed his hands carefully, staring into the mirror above the basin as he did so, then he thrust his hands, still damp, into black leather gloves and sat in his study to calm himself until the proper hour.
He watched the shadow of the steeple creep across the pasture, and when the shade encompassed the unmarked site of his father’s rotting corpse, Van Helsing made his tea, drank it down, collected his tools and went out the front door. The evening air smelled fresh, in sharp contrast to the musty odor of his house, and Van Helsing made a mental note to tell the cleaning woman do a better job of airing it out.
Barnaby had readied the horse. Van Helsing mounted the gelding and set off toward the dairy at a walk. A gallop seemed too urgent, and a trot too merry for such a deed as was at hand.
The horse walked with a brisk and steady gate, as Van Helsing continued in vain to erase the memory of his hasty gesture and the look of his hand on the boy’s shoulder. His father had used that friendly—or worse, fatherly—hand on the shoulder as a condescending gesture. The elder Van Helsing’s hands had been distinctive in their pale softness. Not a single hard day’s work had been accomplished by those hands; their only employment was to touch a shoulder, stroke a pen across a contract or a check, seal a negotiation with a shake. Mostly, those hands had been manicured and pampered, their perfect fingertips drumming impatiently whenever the father encountered the young Abraham’s inquisitiveness or had to deal with the young Abraham’s impetuousness. Those hands never touched Abraham with the respect of an equal. Not a handshake, not a pat o
n the back. Never. Abraham’s accomplishments were invisible to his father, and there was nothing that would bring them to his attention.
He was a cold man, Van Helsing told himself, and that is not your fault. You do not follow in his footsteps.
But the hand—his hand—had looked exactly the same as his father’s, soft and pale atop that young man’s shoulder, and Abraham Van Helsing couldn’t expunge the image from his mind.
The only thing that supplanted it from time to time as the horse carried him forward was the thought that perhaps a vampire was ripe for the killing under the dairy lane bridge. But that was doubtful. More likely the young fortune hunters had seen a rag washed up on a boulder, and their imaginations had run away with them.
He turned the horse up the lane, and with the bridge in sight, he began to rehearse his moves. The sun was lowering, yet still above; if there were a vampire, the thing would remain unconscious. He could kill her as she slept, but it worked to better advantage if she were wakening, groggy yet aware when he drove the stake through her.
It worked to his advantage.
Most importantly, it gave him the required satisfaction.
Abraham gave a small snort when his thoughts gave eloquence to that feeling. The required satisfaction, indeed. His life had hollowed out when his father died. All the meaning had evaporated with the old man’s last breath. Abraham no longer had something to prove. Now he was immersed in his studies, uncaring about what the townspeople thought of him and his eccentric ways, and he was reduced to staking the undead for his personal satisfaction.
