OUTCASTS
NICK WISSEMAN
Copyright 2012 by Nick Wisseman
Cover design by Beti Bup
The following were originally published under the pen name Tom C. Underhill:
“Branded Faith,” Bewildering Stories, issue 330, March 2009
“Charted Waters,” Mysterical-E, Spring 2008
“Ghost Writer,” Allegory Magazine, volume 7, issue 34, September 2008
“Love and World Eaters,” Books to Go Now, August 2011
“Low-Limb High,” Bewildering Stories, issue 339, June 2009
“Permanence,” Perpetual Magazine, February 2009
“Revisions,” Battered Suitcase, volume 1, issue 4, September 2008
“Smile,” The Cynic Online Magazine, volume 10, issue 10, October 2008
“Splintered,” Bewildering Stories, issue 443, August 2011
“Time Trick,” Bewildering Stories, issue 351, August 2009
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Ghost Writer
Branded Faith
Smile
Permanence
Time Trick
Love and World Eaters
Splintered
Charted Waters
Low-Limb High
Revisions
Author’s Note
About the Author
GHOST WRITER
By reading beyond this first line, you’re agreeing to have a man you’ve never met bound and gagged.
My thanks.
By reading the next few pages, you’re agreeing to have that man tortured until he screams for death.
And by reading to the end of this document, you’re agreeing to give that man the end you will have caused him to beg for.
How far will you read? For my family’s sake, I pray that you read to the last word.
In a moment, I’ll explain why. But before I go on, I must emphasize that these claims aren’t mere exaggeration, or the cheap narrative device you’ve probably already brushed them aside as. This story is, quite literally, written in deadly earnest. As you read above, it asks in no uncertain terms for you to become an accomplice to murder.
I say murder because, in the strictest sense, that’s what the final result will be. In this case, however, “murder” is a synonym for “justice.” On all I’ve ever held dear, I swear that this man deserves his fate…Although to be sure of this, you’ll have to meet my second condition and make it through the next few pages.
And yes, I realize that stringing you along in this manner could be called false or misleading. I have no illusions about my role: I will write in whatever manner is necessary to see vengeance carried out. If you’re willing to help me in this endeavor by making your guilt kin to my own, then so be it. The choice is yours.
* * *
To this man’s crime, then. Bear with me as I set the stage in full.
I grew up in a small town, not far from the banks of the Rhine. Doubtless you’ve never heard of it. But that’s beside the point, which is that I was nurtured to manhood surrounded by a loving family and a tranquil community.
I’m still not sure why I became so fascinated by the macabre; perhaps my childhood seemed too idyllic to be interesting. Every day I woke to a hearty breakfast, a morning of helping my father at the forge, and, once I was old enough, an afternoon of schooling at the benevolent local lord’s manor. The evenings were my own, but once I learned my letters I spent my nights reading anything I could borrow and writing poor imitations of the stories I found the most intriguing.
My parents, may they rest in peace, enthusiastically encouraged this scholarly turn…even though there seemed to be no opportunities to put it to use in our rustic village. But my mother in particular insisted that I “better” myself as much as possible, so I continued, without worrying about what the future held for me.
Would that I had. A blacksmith’s life would have been less exciting…But it would have been a life.
Through my tweening years, however, I had no inkling of what my growing obsession with dark literature would bring down upon me and mine. Quite the opposite: when I turned eighteen, the local lord made good on the hints he’d been dropping ever since he noticed my passion for writing. He asked me to be his scribe.
My parents rejoiced at this development almost as much as I did. Now I could earn my living doing what I loved, and become a credit to the family name even though I’d be giving up the family craft.
So over the course of that summer, I made myself as invaluable to my patron as I could be. He noticed, and appreciated the effort. But most of all he enjoyed the more mature stories I was starting to compose; his taste for the fantastic and strange ran almost as deep as my own. He liked my work so much, in fact, that in the fall he made me another offer, even more transformative than the first: a chance to live in the nearby city, the largest of its kind within a week’s travel. There I would earn my keep by tending to his urban accounts, and advance my rhetoric by attending the university.
I was stunned, absolutely overwhelmed by my good fortune. But never more so than when my patron called me into his office the night before I was to leave and offered me his ancestor’s quill…the quill that inexplicably allows me to write what you read now.
“He was a famous writer,” was all my patron explained then. “And he favored the same style you do. I think he’d approve of your having this…Take it and think of me when you write in the city.”
I did so enthusiastically, sending him a dutifully made copy of everything I had time to write in my free hours. He loved every word. And I…I found that whenever I used his ancestor’s quill, I seemed to write faster, better, more fluidly. Especially when the subject matter was of a twisted nature.
At the time, I put this down to coincidence, or at most inspiration. There was little reason to think otherwise, even when my patron unexpectedly announced the next spring that he would publish a collection of my finest efforts to date. Once again, I was dumbfounded at my seeming good fortune, although I did wonder what my parents might think when they finally had a chance to experience my dark passion.
I needn’t have worried: they never got that chance, because the man I am asking you to kill deprived them of it.
He entered my life during the publishing process, introducing himself as an editor appointed by my patron. Initially, I noticed nothing amiss about him…and I’m ashamed to admit that I liked him a good deal. He enjoyed my stories “immensely,” and swore that they had a measure of realism most of the work he’d seen lacked.
After making minor edits over the course of a few weeks, he informed me that our now mutual patron would like the two of us to return to the village for a celebration of the first printing. I agreed gladly; aside from what the event portended for my future, I hadn’t seen my family in some time.
The first night we spent back home was heaven. I had a joyous reunion with my kin, and my editor charmed everyone without exception. My parents promised to read (or in my father’s case, have someone read to him) every word of my stories when they were printed, and the next day I had a similarly happy meeting with my patron.
The second night was hell on earth.
It didn’t start that way: at the end of the session with our patron, my editor cheerfully dismissed me, saying there were a few business matters to attend to that I didn’t need to be part of. But once they were taken care of, he promised to meet me back at my parents’ house for another “evening of delight.”
I agreed, mentioning that I’d probably stop by a friend’s house before returning home. Having done so, I half-expected to arrive around the same time he did.
Would it have mattered if I had? Probably not. All I know for certain is that when I did return home, I found a scene straight out of my most nightmarish
tale waiting for me, faithfully recreated in every detail.
The severed heads of every member of my family were arranged about the dining table, each one on a plate. The rest of their bodies were nowhere to be found…except for their fingers, which were meticulously set out in grim parodies of cutlery. As I dropped to the floor in speechless horror, I noted that my patron’s remains were there as well, ironically positioned at the head of the table.
“Probably not quite as you imagined it…but not far off. As I said, your descriptions don’t lack for realism.”
Turning numbly to meet this voice, I found my editor standing behind me. Smiling, with red-stained hands and teeth…I couldn’t even muster up a “Why?”
“Is that the legendary quill?” he asked casually, pointing to my left hand. (I’d taken to twirling the quill for good luck while I walked, and somehow I’d maintained my hold on the dead feather when I entered the dining room.)
I still couldn’t summon the strength to respond; the irregular dripping sounds coming from underneath the table were battering me down with each soft splatter.
“I think I’d like to hold it,” he continued. Still smiling, still speaking lightly.
Paralyzed, I let him have the quill when he reached for it. And then I watched him examine it…caress it…smell it.
“Yes…” he breathed eventually with his first hint of emotion. “This…this is a worthy implement for a writer such as yourself. Truly mightier than the sword. Thank you for letting me hold it.”
I blinked in surprise, the first reaction I’d been capable of in what seemed like an eternity.
“Thank you,” he repeated. “Now I think I’d like you to hold it again.” And in one savage motion, he thrust the quill through my throat.
* * *
Now you know why I want this man dead. Why I want him to suffer excruciatingly before he dies, and why I will stoop to whatever depths are needed to see his rightful fate visited upon him.
But how did this story come to be? Or more to the point, how can I be writing this if I died with my family? Because, quite simply, I didn’t. Or at least not entirely.
The closest I can come to an explanation is that the quill sustained me. Even as the wound it had opened bled me dry on the wooden floor, mingling my life’s fluid with that of my family’s, I could feel an energy building in my neck. A dark, ancient energy that pulsed softly and steadily.
At first this development only made things worse. Dead but not, without the power to move, I was forced to watch through eyes I couldn’t shut as my “editor” finished what I will only describe as his meal…After he left me inexplicably intact, I could still do no more than stare at the ruin of my happiness. But around midnight—yes, the change actually came at that hallowed hour—the energy in my throat suddenly swelled…and then I could move my fingers…and then my toes. I could raise my chest off the floor…I could struggle to a stand. And finally, finally I could close my eyes.
My returning will was not entirely my own, however. As I stumbled into a walk, my feet seemed drawn to the small writing desk my parents had kept for me in the back corner of the living room. When I reached the desk, I sat down at some external force’s direction. My hands moved to my neck, and with agonizing patience, withdrew the quill, inch by inch.
Once it was free, my fingers immediately fumbled for paper and started writing. This is the result. The irony is not lost on me: I’ve loved tales of this kind as long as I can remember, and now I’m the author of one I hate with every fiber of my being.
But it doesn’t matter. Neither does your belief in the truth of this tale. You can think it pure fiction, or you can turn the story on its head and wonder if I’m not the editor, and the man I want you to help me kill isn’t another victim (a twist that would have thrilled me only a few hours ago…before I’d experienced the enormity of real horror).
All that does matter is that I lay out my request, state my reasons for it, and convince or entice you to read every word of what I’ve written. Once those conditions are met, some power beyond my understanding will see the deed done. I know, because a terrible certainty has guided every letter I’ve put down here. I believe, because I’ve been able to write these letters without an ounce of blood left in my body, somehow aware that as soon I stop scribbling, I will finish dying.
So that’s it. The terms have been put forward. I’ve done all I can, keeping names and dates out of the details as I’ve sensed I must; this must be an impersonal decision on your part, based only on the information I’ve presented. And now, as your eyes inevitably begin to stray to the last words of this story, you must make that choice: will you finish what we’ve started?
You can do so out of a sense of justice, indifference, or disbelief. Or for whatever other reason moves you enough to risk your soul. I really don’t care.
Just do it.
Thank you.
[Translator’s note: this story was found and translated from its original German in 1945.]
BRANDED FAITH
Twilight’s fading rays flitted in through the lone window, adding little illumination to that already cast by the tavern’s sputtering lamps. Pipes packed with noxious weeds also contributed miniature constellations of sparks, but most of these pinpoints were swallowed by the accompanying fog of smoke. This combination of fumes and feeble lighting made for a nearly impenetrable common room, one almost as mute as it was dim.
The stranger silently toasted the muffled effect with every sip he took.
He’d secluded himself in the darkest corner, his only companion a twice-drained mug. And although he’d yet to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a stretch, he knew the exact location of every other customer in the bar: four gamblers were clattering their dice three tables over, a nobleman and a thug were arranging an assassination two tables in the other direction, and a farmer was coughing his diseased lungs out near the front…Seven other patrons. Making him wince with every noise they made, however soft. But they were ignoring him, and he couldn’t ask for more without deluding himself.
A particularly loud oath from one of the gamblers caused the stranger to cringe. He responded by finishing what was still in his cup and gesturing blindly for a refill. The barmaid had been remarkably attentive given the surroundings, but when it became clear that she’d failed to catch this last signal, he sighed and opened his eyes. Finding her after several moments of squinting, he beckoned with a finger and dropped his gaze back to the table. He started to shake his head as he pictured the girl navigating around the tavern’s scattered furniture and idly groping hands. But the motion was a mistake: fire and acid ripped through his body.
When he could feel other sensations again, the stranger found himself gripping the table’s edge so hard the wood seemed to scream. As he forced himself to let go, he noticed his mug was refilled. The stranger contemplated it for a ten-count before downing it in one draught.
* * *
“We’ve arrived, lad. Look around if you like: dinner and evening services won’t start until half past six. You’ll know when you hear the bell.”
Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, the child stumbles off the back of the wagon, his paces awkward until he regains a semblance of balance. After taking a few smoother strides, he finally really looks at the terrain around him. Stops. And stares.
A large, red-brick abbey rises to his left, its base sunk into the side of one of the landscape’s myriad hills. Colossal in scale, the structure is like no other he’s seen or even imagined. Flanked on all sides by immaculate gardens, the building is further insulated by a river, two ponds, and countless fields that stretch into the horizon. The vista is marred only by the swathe of misfit forest that straggles skywards to his left. It’s in this last direction that the child tentatively steps when he begins moving again.
The uncertain look he shoots back at the monk evokes a quiet chuckle. “Go on, lad. The trees are sturdier than they look. Have a climb. I’ll be in the courtyard when you
want your proper tour.”
The child smiles slightly and ambles off towards the closest oak. Upon reaching its trunk, he spends several sticky moments in ascension before finding a satisfactory perch. His forehead beads with sweat from the effort, and it’s all he can do not to claw at the rawness etched around his right eye as his body’s salt begins to aggravate the wound.
By the time he’s settled and facing back towards the abbey, his smile is gone. And the moisture wetting his face is no longer just perspiration.
* * *
The dice game grew more heated, and the stranger made another urgent summons to the barmaid as the resulting curses began to fly. His plea went completely unnoticed this time, however, as a new group of travelers stomped their way into the tavern.
The four men’s entrance thinned the smoke a bit as the fresh air they let in swept out some of the foul, allowing the lamps to shine a shade brighter. The new men’s shouts for food and strong drink drowned out the still squabbling gamblers, and the stranger came dangerously close to losing control.
Squeezing his eyes shut again, he tried in vain not to eavesdrop as three of the four new voices wandered from discussions of the day’s events on the road to more worldly news and rumors.
“…bread’s good as always…”
“…long way to Midvale…worth the trouble?”
“…sell plenty. You’ll see when we get there…”
“…town under Jenowades’ control now? Or have the Jonderin’s retaken it?”
As inconspicuously as he could, the stranger shifted, huddling deeper into himself.
“Retaken and re-lost. Won’t be much left of it now. Still, they’ll need clothes. Pass the bread this way, would you?”
Outcasts Page 1
