by Barry Reese
Far out over the bay, I could see a gathering cloud of luminescent ice. The howling was faint at first, and carried through the air. That is, until the cloud began to move.
As it rushed forth, two small embers flashed within its form. Red glowing eyes grew as the cloud neared me. The howling’s intensity grew along with the eyes and filled me with warmth. I was gripped by a rapturous pain through my entire body. It was a sensation I had never before felt. It was the glory of Ithaqua, the Wind-Walker.
So loud grew the howling that my eyes felt as though they would burst inside my head. When the ice cloud reached me, it was familiar. The night before, this thing howled over me and threw me a great distance. Now it exhilarated me as it passed over my body. My hair stood up and my skin seemed to emanate the warm glow of its red eyes for a time.
And in a moment, it was gone.
The wind picked back up to a moderate speed and all seemed normal again. I no longer felt the presence of Ithaqua all around me, but I was also able to move freely. Though, I was empowered with a new mission.
Before I truly realized what it was I was doing, I had stepped into the freezing waters. I needed to get onto that boat. My skin burned as the cold water rushed over me and I felt the aching in my bones. The tide was waist high before my fumbling hands found a handhold on the large whaler.
I pulled myself to the deck of the ship, the cold, wet clothes clinging to my pained legs as I climbed over the railing. Standing on the deck of the ship, a new compulsion came over me. An awareness of my ascension – my evolution – pulsed through my veins. I had an awareness, one that put me on the defence. It must be what nature’s predators feel when in the presence of another such predator.
The ship was quiet. For a period of time, only the wind whistled through the various constructs on deck. Then there was a wet sucking sound, barely audible thanks to the elements.
I searched the deck until I found the source of the sound. The Battle Creek Massacre was a tea party compared to what laid before me. At least a dozen corpses of the ship’s crew fanned out in a concentric circle, in various stages of being flayed and torn asunder. In the centre of that circle, the man I used to know as Lloyd was sucking the last of the flesh off of what looked like a leg bone cradled between his hands.
Lloyd’s change was quite evident. His extremities, limbs and torso were stretched into a new gaunt form. Even his skull had thinned and elongated. His face, scruffy with several days’ growth, looked ghoulish in the light of the gibbous moon. His bones were visible through his skin even though he had clearly devoured the men on board this dark whaler.
He stopped his voracious mastication and craned his long neck when he sensed my presence. When his blank white eyes locked on to me, he bared his teeth and let loose a deep growl. Steam poured from his unnaturally large mouth as the feral moan echoed through the empty walls of the ship’s deck. Tendrils of flesh and torn skin hung from his open mouth while blood dripped steadily off of his pointed chin.
I reached for my sidearm, but found only my belt. I had left my Enfield on the desk beside the door of the barracks in my hurry to the water’s edge days ago. Lloyd growled again, more quietly this time. Then he turned back to the leg bone and continued chewing. I was no threat to him. In fact, I was likely the only other member of his race on this earth.
Wendigo.
I left Lloyd to finish his meal and came back here to the barracks to document this astonishing and strange turn of events. The pain in my legs – which I had thought a result of the cold water – continues now throughout my body. I am undergoing the same change my colleague did. And with this new body comes an insatiable hunger.
The pangs deep in my belly make it difficult to think of anything other than food.
My change is almost complete. I can feel it in my fingers now. I must put this pen down for it has become too strenuous to write. My hunger must be sated. The Eskimo are only a short hike up the coast of the bay.
Perhaps I will join them for one more fireside meal.
THE VELVET SCOURGE
by Grahm Eberhardt
Many folks journeyed west in the 1890s, seeking gold, freedom, adventure; but none were more peculiar than the man they called the Velvet Scourge. This unholy creature had walked the earth for nearly two centuries, feasting on fear and blood and pain. Dressed in the most resplendent fineries the fashion gurus of Europe had to offer, this man (who had been christened Colin Haalk before being hung for witchcraft and returning from Hell as a vengeance-fueled revenant) had carved his name into the folklore of a dozen nations on three continents. But he had never seen the Pacific Ocean.
Colin traveled long and hard, pushing the limits of his horse, Sparkles. Leaving the original colonies behind, he found little of interest in the endless bean and corn fields of Ohio, Indiana and Illinois until he arrived at the Missis-sippi River. He had never seen a river so big. Lakes and oceans, yes, but rivers were things you could wade across or sometimes even leap over. Standing in the town of Rock Island, he gazed across at Davenport, Iowa, marveling at the speed of the current rushing past him.
He allowed Sparkles to trot leisurely across the bridge – the first bridge in the nation to cross the Mississippi. Colin turned around halfway and looked back to the east. A low cloud caught his eye. It resembled two lovers kissing. He allowed himself a soft smile and continued across the bridge and into the west.
If he thought that crossing the continental divide of the Mississippi would be a passage into a whole new world, he was sorely mistaken. Iowa greeted him with more fields of beans and corn. A few days later, he learned that Nebraska was much the same only flatter somehow. He feasted on a few farmers and moved on, growing restless for adventure.
At last, the farmlands gave way to desert. He filled his water skins, not for himself – he could go without indefinitely – but for Sparkles, and headed eagerly into the dry and tree-studded land of Wyoming. Colin’s super-natural eyes could just make out the Rocky Mountains on the horizon. The thought of seeing something besides grass and corn made him feel giddy. He urged Sparkles onward and fussed with a harmonica he’d taken from one of his latest kills, but produced only groans and yelps from the pilfered instrument.
Before long, Colin came upon one of the most marvelously beautiful sights he’d seen in all his travels. Plopped in the middle of a dusty barren plain was a ring of huge boulders. They resembled nothing so much as miniature mountains, though not one of them was more than two hundred feet tall. They stood grey and mossy against the purpling sky.
The revenant had no trouble climbing to the top of one of these craggy rocks. On the horizon, the Rocky Mountains loomed like majestic parents watching over their young mountainettes from a distance. Colin sat atop the giant rock and watched the sun slowly impale itself on the distant peaks, spilling crimson bloody sunset all over the western sky.
As darkness came, he heard a coyote howling. There were scents in the wind unlike any he’d smelled before. He’d been in deserts and scrub lands but this American wasteland was very different from western Africa. Cactus, rabbits, crickets, wild dogs, horses and of course the savage red men he'd heard about all painted the air with their own unique aromas.
Sighing contentedly, he clambered back down and saw that Sparkles was fed and watered. Then, he stripped naked, carefully folding his purple velvet suit, pinstriped purple pants, white ruffled shirt and wine colored waistcoat onto his bedroll. Satisfied that his clothes were in order, he howled and loped off into the night in search of the coyote he’d heard earlier. He hoped it was well fed.
The next morning, his belly full of coyote meat, Colin woke to find two swaggering men with pointy boots and wide hats riding towards him. He dressed quickly, just managing to fasten the ivory buttons of his waistcoat as they entered his camp, smirking. The cowboys tethered their horses next to Sparkles and dismounted. The animals whickered softly to each other. The taller of the men spoke in a high pitched drawl. “Weeell... looks like we got us
a city slicker. Lookee at Mr. Fancy Pants. Shoot. Is that gen-yew-ine velvet you’re wearin’?”
Colin smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth. “Yes. Is that genuine illiteracy you’re exuding?”
Undaunted, the cowboys ignored Colin’s remark and continued. “Man wears a pretty outfit like that, he’s got money.”
“Got a purty mouth too,” the short one said.
“Oh, I see,” said Colin. “You boys have been out here a long time and you’re tired of pleasuring yourselves. Is that it?” He took a step closer to the two men. “You’d like me to pleasure you.” Another step. One of the cowboys gulped. Colin could smell their sweating bodies. Horniness mixed with fear. The revenant smiled. “I do have a pretty mouth, don't I?”
Before either man could answer, Colin lunged forward, driving a fist into the tall one's throat and knocking him off his boots. At the same time, his other hand grabbed the short man's face, pushing his head back, exposing his neck. Moving with lightning speed, Colin sank his teeth into the flesh and drank deeply. The tall man pulled his gun as he stood, but Colin was faster than anything he'd ever seen. This was the Velvet Scourge. He'd toyed with policemen on the streets of Whitechapel. He'd terrorized a dozen towns back in New England. He'd even hunted a tiger in the wilds of India. These men weren't an obstacle. They were break-fast.
Dropping his first victim to the ground, Colin sidestepped just as the tall man fired into the empty air where he'd been moments before. Colin kicked out, shattering his opponent's knee. He caught the cowboy by the neck as he fell and pulled him close. Pressing his face uncomfortably close, he hissed, “You smell like beer. Beer means a town and I think a town will be more fun to play with today.”
“Y-yes! A town! Raven's Gulch. Just a few miles,” the tall man gasped. “Let me go! Please!” Colin looked into the man's pleading eyes and snapped his neck. The limp form dropped to the ground. He pulled a red bandanna off one of the men and cleaned the blood off his face. The short man was lying in the dirt, sobbing and clutching at the gaping hole in his neck. Colin squatted next to him and tutted. “That's a pretty nasty bite there. I doubt you'll survive. I suppose I could end it quickly for you, like I did for your friend.” Colin stood up. “Or, I could just leave.” Gathering his things, he mounted Sparkles and, the dead men’s horses in tow, he followed their trail back to town.
The Velvet Scourge tied his trio of horses to the wooden bar outside the saloon. He tied them with big bows, using up a ludicrous amount of the reins, barely allowing the horses enough play to fully stretch their necks.
The saloon was the most prominent building in Raven’s Gulch, which wasn’t saying much. The town consisted of a pair of streets forming an X. It wasn’t the type of town people lived in so much as the type of town local ranchers visited for supplies, booze, gambling and whores. The town’s permanent residents were the shopkeepers, bartenders and prostitutes. Scoundrels.
If it weren’t for the layer of prairie dust covering every-thing, Colin would’ve felt right at home in such company.
He strode through the bat-wing doors, knocking them apart with a loud wooden flutter. They swung behind him, allowing the afternoon sun to silhouette his lithe frame in the doorway. Then they swung back, hitting him in the ass. He jerked forward a bit, but kept his composure for the most part as the doors clattered back into place.
Colin had been in a hundred places like this – dens of iniquity, hotbeds of vice – seedy places full of seedy men. He had ruled them all.
The Riems Inn was named for one of the founders of Raven’s Gulch. Luc Riems came to Wyoming Territory from France to open a mine just west of town. The flow of gold had long ago dried up much like Riems himself, who was buried in the ramshackle cemetery up the hill that over-looked the dusty streets. His son, Jean, tended bar these days at the Riems Inn, keeping up the family traditions of watering down beer and renting rooms by the hour.
Right now, he was wiping out a dirty glass with a dirty rag and eying the delicate-looking stranger who’d just walked in his front door. It had been months since a soul set foot in Riems that Jean didn’t know nearly everything there was to know about them.
Scars and Skinny Pete were playing cards in one corner. Lily, a mostly toothless whore, hovered above them, trying futilely to distract them with flashes of her sagging breasts and long yet pudgy legs. In another corner, a blind boy shined the boots of a man with a long waxed mustache. Colin would never know it, but they called this man Ace and he was wanted in four states. Sad Bear, a tall, dangerous-looking half Indian man, sat at the bar with a tiny glass and a bottle of whiskey. A dusty, neglected piano slouched sadly against a wall like a child being punished for speaking out of turn.
The stranger sauntered up to the counter, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on his skin. It was delicious. He loved being the center of attention. He laid a single gold coin on the bar and flung himself onto a rickety stool.
“One glass of ginger beer, barkeep. Something imported from Ireland, if you have it.” He turned on his stool, a casual gesture made ludicrous by his garish velvet apparel and elaborate, silver-tipped cane, and surveyed the room of ogling townsfolk. Jean the bartender cleared his throat.
“D’jou just say ‘ginger beer’?”
“Yes I did.” Colin turned back to face him, narrowing his eyes. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Well, no. I ain’t got a problem. But I ain’t got no ginger beer neither.” Jean paused a moment and then let out a huge guffaw. His laughter was echoed by Ace, Scars, and Skinny Pete. Lily laughed too but hers was a shrill cackle, shredded by years of cigarettes and blowjobs. Sad Bear sat silently at the bar, not looking up from his glass.
Lily snorted loudly. “He’s a fairy! Look at him! He prolly gives better head than I do!” As the laughter exploded anew, Colin looked the rude whore up and down.
“Are you trying to choke me with all that perfume? You’re like a six foot flower after too many sunsets, drooping there dejected, slathering yourself with far too much fragrance, trying futilely to reclaim the days when you stood tall and sexy in the garden and all the bees were buzzing ‘round your petals, fighting for the chance to pollinate you. You disgust me.”
The laughter stopped abruptly. Lily looked hurt, then angry, then hurt again. Her eyebrows fluctuated wildly. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She opened it a second time. I was wrong, Colin thought. She’s not a flower; She’s a fish. Grinning wickedly, he spoke. “One more word from you, whore, and I’ll pull that talented tongue from your skull.” His voice was cold. It left no room for doubt of the seriousness of his words. “Now then, barkeep. Something carbonated. Root beer. Sarsaparilla soda. I just want something cold and wet that will tickle my nose with its tiny bubbles.”
Gone was the superiority in Jean’s voice. “Yessir. Sasparilly. I got that.” He drew a glass full from a small keg and set it on the bar in front of Colin. “No charge, Mister. Where you from?” he said jovially, trying to defuse the situation.
Colin smirked as he drank, wondering how to answer. Billing’s Town? Whitechapel? Bangkok? Where was he from anymore? He’d been wandering for so long, did he truly have a home?
Before he could decide, Sad Bear spoke for him, giving a truer answer than Colin ever would have given. “He’s from Hell.” The half-breed’s voice was low. He spoke plainly and without emphasis. “I saw it in his eyes. They still reflect the flame.” Sad Bear stood up and walked toward the swinging doors.
Jean spoke up, his voice shaking with barely hidden fear. “Now, where you goin’ Bear? Why you wanna say somethin’ crazy ‘ike ‘at and then leave?”
Sad Bear turned his head back a tad as he walked. “He brings Hell with him and I’ve seen enough of it in my life already. I’ll see you around, Jean... if...” He trailed off.
“If what?” Jean called at the Indian’s back. But the red-skinned man just walked out into the sun and said not another word. Jean scoffed a breath full of false brav
ado, turning back to Colin. “Superstitious Injun. Thinks you’re a devil or somethin'.”
Colin took another drink of his fermented sassafras beverage and said quietly, “Maybe I am.” He stood and walked across the saloon, towards the men playing cards. His cane thudded softly on the wood floor with each step. “What do you fellows think? Am I a monster? Do I frighten you? She’s scared of me,” he said, nodding to Lily, who had kept her distance from Colin and was now behind the bar, next to Jean.
Skinny Pete stuttered, his voice quaking. “W-we don’t want no trouble, mister.”
Scars scowled at his companion. “Shut up, Skinny Pete!”
“Trouble? Why would I cause any trouble? Surely big, strong frontiersmen like yourselves aren’t threatened by a... fairy like me, are you? You don’t really believe what that savage said. That I’m a demon? That I’m in league with Lucifer? That I have eerie unnatural powers?” He toyed with the handle of his cane, caressing it as he spoke. “You can’t possibly believe that sort of thing here and now in the 19th century, can you? Look at you! You’re shaking. You’re terrified of a man in a velvet suit who orders soft drinks in a saloon. What in the world are you so afraid of?”
Without taking his eyes off Skinny Pete and Scars (both aptly named men) Colin suddenly drew his sword from its cane sheath and plunged it backwards next to his face, the blade whistling past his own right ear. He let it go and the handle continued to hover just above his shoulder. The revenant stepped to the side revealing the nature of the trick. Ace had crept up behind him holding a revolver. He’d clearly meant to blow the back of Colin’s head off but the sword in his throat changed his plan. Now, he stood frozen, gurgling and spasming as blood poured down his front, spattering all over his freshly shined boots.
Both Skinny Pete and Scars had jumped at the dandy’s sudden movement and drawn their own guns, which now hung limply in their hands as they watched the crimson flow. Colin snatched the weapons easily with his super-natural speed. He examined them carefully, one in each hand as he drawled on casually.
