“Aha!” I exclaimed, and closing my eyes I touched my fingers to the box’s dark wood, until I sensed the irregularity, which I pressed. Something clicked with unlocking, and a spacious drawer pushed out. We knew that the object sequestered there was magical, because candlelight dimmed a little, and the cries of the night-birds died away. The compartment was substantial, quite deep, and as we peered at the article therein we thought at first that it might have been the petrified remains of some queer black reptile. However, the longer we studied the thing the more we ascertained that it was of human design and craft.
I watched in silence as Andreas reached into the cubical and removed the apparatus. “It’s very light,” he told me. “One would think that the covering was black leather, but it actually feels like a kind of pelt, although from what sort of beast I cannot say. Such a curious design, like some coiled serpent. The tip is sleek to the touch – feels rather nasty, I confess. One would hesitate before placing it into one’s ear. Now, the inside of the bell, you see, is pearl in color, and you will note the outré sigils that have been etched or painted thereon. I’m certain I’ve seen those glyphs before – on a scroll that Simon once showed me.”
I reached for the object and touched it. “There is something alluring to its surface, something that instills queer desire. I am almost tempted to take it and smooth it against my naked breast.”
Oh, how the devil before me grinned. Reaching to my blouse, he undid its buttons and then touched the trumpet to my tit. I hissed and shuddered, and wanted to protest when he took it away. “For what does one listen with such an implement? Come, let’s step out into the moonlight. I want to listen to the stars.” We exited the habited part of the old abbey and stepped onto the grounds. The older portion of the edifice, which was in total ruin, erected its broken portions to the moon-drenched sky. Pale stretches of cloud hovered near the full lunar globe.
“Curious,” I announced, “I see no stars.”
“The sky is bright with moonlight – perhaps that has hidden the stars from view. Let us see if I can commune with them nonetheless.” He moved his opened hand to me, and I placed the ear-trumpet onto it. “How I love a new sensation,” he whispered, more to the darkness than to me. “Isn’t it peculiar, how dusky it is here, on this plot of earth, and how pale the light shines above us? As if the light of reason have departed from the earth and seeped upward? And thus we dwell here, in dark lunacy, and do the decadent thing. Too delicious.”
“You speak strangely, Andreas. I think the drugs you imbibed earlier are having their effect. They have infected your imagination.”
He shrugged. “I shall now step beyond imagination – into the pure unknown.” So saying, he placed the rubber tip of the instrument into his ear. I studied his handsome Italian features as he listened with the aid of the fantastic thing that we had discovered, and soon I saw his eyes darken and his mouth grow slack.
“Do you hear the song of starlight, Andreas?”
“I hear – that which pulses between the stars – and beyond them. I hear…” And then his voice contorted, and he began to gag unwholesome sound. It might have been a language, but if so it was like none I have ever encountered. As he vomited the alien tongue, I sensed the lunar light dim above us. Looking upward, I saw that the sky had now indeed grown black, and within it churned a movement composed of points of eerie light. A bank of darkness began to descend, looking like a solid floor that would crush us into pulp. I panicked and snatched the ear-trumpet from my friend, and then I shook his collar violently and screamed his name. Andreas awakened from his trance and gazed intently toward the surface of gloom that fell toward us, and then he smiled fantastically and raised his hands as if in salutation. “It comes to sup upon our hot mortal breath! And we shall partake of it, and feel its quintessence curl onto our tongues and coil toward our brains! And then, sweet Agatha, what dreams we will suffer!”
But I could not listen to him, for I was awestruck by the movement above me, which I felt so keenly on the surface of my eyes. I shut those eyes as the air around us turned frigid, as the descending opacity enshrouded me. The silence was intense, and for a moment I envied Andreas his ability to perceive the language from Outside. I reached out to where he was standing, hoping that he would hand me the ear-trumpet. For one long moment I sensed nothing – and then a pressure kissed my outstretched hand, and I experienced ecstasy as I have never known it. What had possessed the man? Hot breath fanned my face, and something soft and searing kissed my eyelids. I moaned his name and opened my eyes, but for some moments all I could perceive was a thick pervading cloud of darkness that saturated the spaces all around me. And then I saw an image through the cloud that resembled the dusky reflection on an antique mirror – an image of my friend far from me, unmoving on the ground. It had not been he who had attempted to seduce me. I shrieked his name, but he did not respond. The gloom, however, did, lifting above us and returning to its cosmic domicile. Crawling to my recumbent companion, I shook him, to no avail. I touched his brow and knew that he was not extinct, for fever burned his incarnate husk. Removing the ear-trumpet from his enervated hand, I placed it onto his chest; and then I took his body into my arms and carried him clumsily into the ruined abbey that was his home. He slept, unmoving, for three days, and then he awakened, smiling like a cadaver and shouting about the dreams that had possessed him.
Andreas is an expert at the transference of objects out of Italy, and so I relied on his skill and fortune in shipping my acquisition to America. Recollection faded as I stood there, in my cozy room. I had lingered there, daydreaming, for longer than I knew, and the music suddenly ceased. The music box’s melody had hypnotized me, and in this mesmerizing state I had walked to the device and pushed open the box’s secret compartment. I held the ear-trumpet in my hand. How sleek, the fabric with which it was constructed. How curious, as I fondled it, that I could sense Sesqua Valley’s awareness of its arcane properties. Yes, the valley had tasted it, and relished it potential. Thus was I coaxed, by the spirit of the vale, to exit my cottage and walk beneath the moonlight, to enter the woodland and follow a path that led to me to a hill whereon six figures were kissed by sudden gale. I climbed the hill and sighed into the rising tempest as something atop the valley’s twin-peaked mountain howled mournfully. How enormous the stars looked, lacing heaven with their winking points of light. I studied those diamonds in the sky for a little while; but it was not they that beguiled my interest, my intention.
I smiled at the figure nearest me, this concoction of rags and sticks and packed earth that resembled a cadaver encased within a shell of earth. The scent of that earth drove me slightly mad. This was not one of the tainted places of the valley, not one of those few patches of spoiled sod that are dangerous to visit. Yet, this was a place of secret ritual, where possessed denizens pranced provocatively as drool spilled from their foaming mouths, as blood seeped from inflicted wounds. I dropped onto that trampled land and put the rubber tip of the device I clutched into the cavity of my ear. Tilting lower, I touched the bell of the trumpet against the ground and held my breath. In time, the sensation sounded, at first as a dull and distant throbbing, like some atrophied organ that had been suddenly revitalized. I heard, as never before, the beating of Sesqua Valley’s supernatural heart. And I felt it, as never before, in the singing of my blood. It expanded, the daemonic sensation, and claimed me with its sifting soil. It lifted, like some wall of shadow, like unto the thing I had experienced with Andreas, and encircled me with particles of loam and blackness. I swallowed grit and could not breathe easily. My limbs were snatched by that in which I was boxed, and I was pulled, by flesh and hair, to a standing position. I trembled among the other figures, with whom I stood as some seventh eidolon of muck and magick. The diabolic dirt that was an essence of the valley worked into my thin elderly flesh, changing me into a thing of filth like unto the other figures. I opened my mouth in an effort to sing insanely, but nothing spilled out except stinking aether and liqu
id grime. I was able, somehow, to point the hand that still held the ear-trumpet to the majestic moon; but then a figure appeared before me and took the device from my weakened grasp. Smiling triumphantly, Simon Gregory Williams, the first-born of the valley’s shadow-spawn, ripped open my flimsy blouse and pressed the ear-trumpet to a place just below my left breast. He sang as he listened to the transition of my mortal throb, as I finally froze in place, a seventh figure on the hill, albeit one that lived in semi-sentience, and would remain thus until the valley wearied of its toy.
Wilum Pugmire spent this past summer writing his brains out and finished a new book, BOHEMIANS OF SESQUA VALLEY, to be published in March by Arcane Wisdom Press. For a forthcoming issue of FUNGI he has written a new novelette, his Sesqua Valley version of Lovecraft’s The Lurking Fear. His newest book, THE STRANGE DARK ONE–TALES OF NYARLATHOTEP, has just been published by Miskatonic River Press, and his book written in collaboration with Jeffrey Thomas, ENCOUNTERS WITH ENOCH COFFIN, will be published next year. He is presently working on his first novel, a Sesqua Valley version of THE LURKER AT THE THRESHOLD.
You can browse and buy W.H. Pugmire books on his Amazon page.
Story illustration by Robert Elrod.
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A (~BIG~) Fishy Menu
by Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.
{a one-act sketch for Rawlik’s bye-bye}
(for the new Big Man on the /chop/p/i//ng/ block! !!)
(Carcosa. Balcony above the cloudwaves and the soundless beach. Two chairs. Table with a chessboard. Nyarlathotep [in his tall, swarthy-pharaoh, Mr. Phoenix manifestation] standing, and the King in Yellow, sitting, ready for their weekly chess game.)
(Everywhere: {a certain} greyness.)
(The cathedral deathbirds in the tower have been silent.)
KING IN YELLOW: You seem displeased and… a bit distracted tonight.
NYARLATHOTEP: A new infestation has risen. (Glowers at the chessboard.) They’re like pimples…
KING IN YELLOW: (Scans the board quickly for the latest pawn.) Who?
NYARLATHOTEP: That damn adherent of the Toad Trio, Price, Pugmire, and Pulver. (The Rawlik pawn suddenly appears on the board. All the other pieces vanish.) Vermin… and scum—
KING IN YELLOW: (Sits up straight.) Rawlik. (Fun in his tone.)
NYARLATHOTEP: (Sits down.) Yes. (Black talon radar-lock on the pawn.) Him. He gets on the “Lovecraft eZine” chat every week, all liquored-up mind you, and out sprint the blasphemies he learned in Price’s classes . . . Buzzing little talking heads that clog up the cosmic sewers, the whole lot. (The Black Man w/ the smoldering hand makes a fist.)
KING IN YELLOW: True. Davis and pul-ver just egg him on and pat his back, while that glittered-up toady, Hopfrog, tosses kisses—that punk needs a date with… (Grins, as if saying, wait for it.) Tsathoggua. And hour after hour, Davis sits there in mission control like some cool power-broker, spewing his yellow journalism and directing traffic—
NYARLATHOTEP: Excrement that requires flushing—Rawlik’s nothing more than another foulsome mouth rising to reanimate the pseudo-lies for a new generation of hacks, sycophants, and Lovecraftomaniacs. You X them out—w/ extreme prejudgment, and another appears—cockroaches. (Pause.) These things think they are of consequence, that their opinions will be taken into account, or be remembered on the pages of history. (Pause.) Batty gnats. They all think they’re superheroes that can save their brother fleas from the STOMP.
KING IN YELLOW: My Dear Boot, I can see sweet intention in your eyes. You’re going to cure Little Petey’s ills.
NYARLATHOTEP: I am.
KING IN YELLOW: Spill. (Begins laughing, thinking BLOOD and of gutting a certain someone like a fish.)
NYARLATHOTEP: (Considering apt forms of demise.)
KING IN YELLOW: A Whitman Sampler pinebox the ghouls crack open Easter morning? Moist, cherry-red center. (Grins.) You know how appreciative of generously-proportioned repasts they are. There are some select plots in Kingsport
NYARLATHOTEP: Tempting. (Pause.) Yes, that’s certainly enticing . . . But no.
KING IN YELLOW: Sefton Asylum?
NYARLATHOTEP: Too quiet.
KING IN YELLOW: A small fishing boat right outside R’lyeh? No oars to employ. They fuck with the Big C. He fucks back. (Grins.)
NYARLATHOTEP: No. No . . .
KING IN YELLOW: The Great Dragons Black and Red to clear the Earth of them all?
NYARLATHOTEP: No. Not yet.
KING IN YELLOW: I’d be happy to send the Messenger to show him the Yellow Sign.
NYARLATHOTEP: I have a different sentence in mind . . . Bug-Shaggoth.
KING IN YELLOW: Sweet. Raw-lik, it’s what’s on the menu.
NYARLATHOTEP: (Tapping the Rawlik-pawn with the smoking-tip of a black talon.) Exactly right. (The top of the pawn begins smoldering.)
(Nyarlathotep and the King in Yellow chuckle.)
(And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Carcosa and entered Rawlik’s dream…)
(In his bed fluffed with velvety dreamlands, Rawlik’s peachy dreamquest turns suddenly BLACK. He twists, winces, and screams…)
(Towering over the bed of Rawlik-all-fall-down Nyarathotep smiles.) Yeah, why not. (Beside Rawlik’s husk, in the cascade of her verdant dream, Mandy accepts the fat check from the The Black Man with the insurance attaché case. The Black Man hands her the solid silver keys to her $22,000,000 dream-home mansion in Palm Beach, the one with the new dock, a Har-Tru tennis court and the heated pool w/ a breathtaking view and 4 servants, and a 24-hour chef. The one right next to Adam Sandler’s new weekend get-way home…)
(From the balcony in far, cold Carcosa the King in Yellow watches the festivities.)
KING IN YELLOW: My house, my rules. Next week, I’m having the fun. (Writes the name, Davis, in his dog-earred, yellow notepad. Underlines it 5 times . . .)
(After the “Lovecraft eZine” chat on NOV 11, 2012)
[Libby Van Cleave Ingram Marshall: Dark Waters, for English horn & tape, the Bambi Molesters “Beach Murder Mystery”]
(Photo courtesy of Andrea Bonazzi)
Joe Pulver is a writer and editor with two published novels to date, Nightmare’s Disciple (Chaosium 1999; intro Robert M. Price) and The Orphan Palace (Chomu Press 2011; intro Michael Cisco).He is currently editing 2 anthologies for Miskatonic River Press. A Season in Carcosaand The Grimscribe’s Puppets, both tribute anthologies will be released in 2012, and is also editing “Phantasmagorium” magazine, and Ed Morris’ series of “Crooked Man” novellas for Mercury Retrograde Press. He has two mixed genre collections out from Hippocampus Press, Blood Will Have Its Season (2009; intro S.T. Joshi) and SIN & ashes (2010; intro Laird Barron). His 3rd collection, Portraits of Ruins (intro Matt Cardin) will be released soon by Hippocampus. He’s written many short works that have appeared in magazines (including “Weird Fiction Review”, “Phantasmagorium”, “Strange Aeons”, “Crypt of Cthulhu”, “Nemonymous”) and anthologies, including Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year, Ross Lockhart’s Book of Cthulhu, and S. T. Joshi’s Black Wings (PS Publishing) and A Mountain Walked: Great Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (upcoming from Centipede Press 2013) and many anthologies edited by Robert M. Price. His work has been praised by Thomas Ligotti, Ellen Datlow, Laird Barron, Michael Cisco, S.T. Joshi, and many other notable writers and editors. Joe was born, raised, and lived in upstate NY for 55 years. He currently lives in Berlin, Germany.
You can find Joe on the net at the following:
http://thisyellowmadness.blogspot.de/
http://www.facebook.com/jspulver
https://twitter.com/ - !/JoePulver
Story illustration by Nick Gucker.
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Dom and Gio’s Barber Shop
by Gerry Huntman
Melbourne’s modern high-rises and glossy shop frontages can’t altogether block the view of Victorian-era buildings. They were secreted deep within the city blocks, gloomily greyed
and blackened by decades of city grime. They loomed on unsuspecting pedestrians wandering into the numerous one-way streets and lanes. The narrow avenues that weren’t taken over by the outdoor cafes and covered annexes were strangely anachronistic, dark and forbidding. The kind of places where, even during the day, if there was no soul in sight, a visitor would sense from all directions, a low-level, yet tangible, malignance and threat.
Geoff Shaw turned into Little Bourke Street from Exhibition, instantly locating Parapet Lane. The three-story sandstone buildings lining the narrow avenue lurked like sleeping giants: darkened or dirty windows—many barred—were evidence of their slumber; their heavy wooden and iron doors hid teeth that bit and tore.
He found No. 3b quickly enough as it was the only shop front on the lane—an old, decrepit sign surrounded by dark-stained sandstone of the neglected building, read: ‘Dom & Gio’s Barber Shop’. Its narrow frontage had a single filthy window, protected by rust-stained iron bars, and on the right was an open door. He saw two empty barber’s chairs in front of a large mirror.
Geoff warily entered, and as he crossed the shop’s threshold he felt a cold sensation run down his spine, an icy rivulet of sweat. The room reeked of sandalwood soap and electric razor lubricant oil.
A tall, skinny, balding man in his fifties sat on a chair against the far wall, near a narrow exit to the rear of the shop. His bony legs stuck up like a dead spider’s. He was reading the Il Globo newspaper. As soon as he saw Geoff he climbed out of his chair and presented a forced smile.
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