The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All

by Laird Barron

  As if in response to the light, a faint, ghostly moan echoed up the passage from great subterranean depths. Help me, boys. Help me. At least that's what it sounded like to Miller. The distance and acoustics could've made wind whistling through chimneys of rock resemble almost anything.

  "Lordy, Lordy," Bane said. He was a frightful sight; gore limed his beard and jacket. He might've been a talking corpse. "That's the boy."

  "Ain't him," Stevens said.

  "The kid is done for," Miller said. His eyes watered and he struggled to keep his voice even. "Whoever's hooting down that tunnel is no friend of ours."

  "They's right, Moses," Ruark said. "This an ol' Injun trick. Make a noise of a wounded friend an draw ya in." He ran his thumb across his throat with an exaggerated flourish. "Ya should know it, hoss. That boy is daid."

  "Lookit all the blood," Stevens said.

  Bane shoved a plug of tobacco into his mouth and chewed with his eyes closed. His flesh was papery and his eyelids fluttered the way a man's do when he's caught in a terrible dream. He resembled the photographs of dead outlaws in open coffins displayed on frontier boardwalks. He spat. "Yeh, an' lookit me. Still kickin'."

  Help me. Help me. The four of them froze like woodland animals, heads inclined toward the dim cries, the cold, cold draft.

  "Ain't him," Stevens repeated, but mostly to himself.

  Bane stood. He leaned against the wall, the barrel of his Rigby nosing the sand. He nodded to Ruark. "You comin'?"

  Ruark spat. He lifted the firepot and led the way.

  Bane said, "Alrightee, boys. Take care." He tapped his hat and limped after his comrade. Their shadows swayed and jostled, and their light grew smaller and seeped into the mountain and was gone.

  The others sat in the dark for a long time, listening. Miller heard faint laughter, a snatch of Bane singing "John Brown's Body," and then only the fluting of the wind in the rocks.

  "Oh, hell," Stevens said when the silence between them had gone on for an age. "You was in the war."

  "You weren't?"

  "Uh-uh. My father worked for the post office. He fixed my card so's I wouldn't get conscripted."

  "Wish I'd thought of that," Miller said.

  "You seen the worst of it. Any chance we kin get out a this with our skins?"

  "Nope."

  There was another long pause. Stevens said, "Want a smoke?" He lighted two Old Mills and passed one to Miller. They smoked and listened, but there was nothing to hear except for the wind, the rustle of branches outside. Stevens said, "He weren't dragged. The kid crawled away."

  "How do you figure? He was pretty much dead."

  "Pretty much ain't the same thing, now is it? I heard 'em talkin' to him, whisperin' from the dark. Only heard bits. Didn't need more… they told him to come ahead. An' he did."

  "Must've been persuasive," Miller said. "And you didn't raise the alarm."

  "Hard to explain. Snake-bit, frozen stiff. It was like my body fell asleep yet I could hear what was goin' on. I was piss-scared."

  Miller smoked his cigarette. "I don't blame you," he said.

  "I got my senses back after a piece. Kid was long gone by then. Whoever they are, he went with 'em."

  "And now Moses and Ruark are with them too."

  "I didn't tell the whole truth about what we saw in the tunnel."

  "Is that so."

  "Didn't seem much point carryin' on. Not far along the trail it opens into a cavern. Dunno how big; our light couldn't touch but the edges of the walls and the ceilin'. There were drops into plain ol' nothin' an' more passages twistin' every which way. But we stopped only a few steps into the cavern. A pillar rose high as the light could reach. Broad at the base like a pyramid and made of rocks all slippery an' shiny from drippin' water. Except, the rocks weren't just rocks. There were skeletons cemented in between. Prolly hundreds an' hundreds. Small things. There was a hole at eye level. Smooth as the bore of my gun and about the size of my fist. Pure black, solid, glistenin' black that threw the light from our torch back at us. We didn't peep too close on account of the skeletons before we turned tail and ran. Saw one thing as we turned to haul our asses…That hole had widened enough I could a jumped in and stood tall. It made a sound that traveled from somewhere farther and deeper than I want a think about. Not the kind a sound you hear, but the kind you feel in your bones. Felt kinda bad and good at once. I could tell Ruark liked it. Oh, he was afraid, but compelled, I guess you'd say."

  "Well," Miller said after consideration, "I can see why you might've kept that to yourself."

  "Yeh. I wish them ol' coons had stayed back. Maybe we could a blasted our way out with their guns and ours."

  Miller didn't think so. "Maybe. Catch some shut eye. Sunup in a couple hours."

  Stevens rolled over and set his hat over his face and didn't move again. Miller watched the stars fade.

  ***

  They left the cave at dawn and descended the hill into the ruins of the village. Ashes turned in the breeze. The tower stood, although scorched and blackened. Its double doors were sprung, wood smoldering, hinges melted. Smoke curled from the gap. Many of the surrounding houses had burned to their foundations. Gray dust lay over everything. Corpses were stacked near the longhouse and covered with a canvas tarp to keep the birds away. Judging from height and width of the collection, at least fifteen bodies were piled beneath the tarp awaiting burial. Twenty-five to thirty men and women combed the charred wreckage. Their hands and faces were filthy with the gray dust. Some stared hatefully at the pair, but none spoke, none raised a hand.

  Miller and Stevens trudged through the village and onward, following the river south as it wended through the valley. With every step, Miller's shoulders tightened as he awaited the inevitable musket ball to shear his spine. Early in the afternoon, they climbed a bluff and rested for the first time.

  After Stevens caught his breath, he said, "I don't understand. Why they'd let us live?" He removed his hat and peered through the trees, searching for signs of pursuit.

  "Did they?" Miller said. He didn't look the way they'd come, instead studying the forest depths before them, tasting the damp and the rot and the cold. He thought of his dream of flying into the depths of space, of the terrible darkness between the stars and what ruled there. "We've got nowhere to hide. I had to guess, I'd guess they're saving us for something very special."

  So, they continued on and arrived at the outskirts of Slango as the peaks darkened to purple. Nothing remained of the encampment except for abandoned logs and mucky, flattened areas, and a muddle of footprints and drag marks. Every man, woman, and mule was gone. Every piece of equipment likewise vanished. The railroad tracks had been torn up. In a few months forest would reclaim all but the shorn slopes, erasing any evidence Slango Camp ever stood there.

  "Shit," Stevens said without much emotion. He hung his hat on a branch and wiped his face with a bandanna.

  "Hello, lads," A man said, stepping from behind a tree. He was wide and portly and wore a stovepipe hat and an immaculate silk suit. His handlebar mustache was luxuriously waxed and he carried a blackthorn cane in his left hand. A dying ray of sun glowed upon the white, white skin of his face and neck. "I am Dr. Boris Kalamov. You have caused me a tremendous amount of trouble." He gestured at the surroundings. "This is not our way. We prefer peaceful coexistence, to remain unseen and unheard, suckling like a hagfish, our hosts none the wiser, albeit dimly cognizant through the persistent legends and campfire tales which please us and nourish us as much as blood and bone. To act with such dramatic flourish goes against our code, our very nature. Alas, certain of my brethren were taken by a vengeful mood what with you torching the village of our servants." He tisked and wagged a finger that seemed to possess too many joints.

  Miller didn't even bother to lift his rifle. He was focused upon the nightmare taking shape in his mind. "How now, Doctor?"

  Stevens was more optimistic, or just doggedly belligerent. He jacked a round into the chamber of his Wi
nchester and sighted the man's chest.

  Dr. Kalamov smiled and his mouth dripped black. "You arrived at a poor time, friends. The black of the sun, the villagers' holiest of holy days when they venerate the Great Dark and we who call it home. Their quaint and superstitious ceremony at the dolmen cut short because of your trespass. Such an interruption merits pain and suffering. O' Men from Porlock, it shan't end well for you."

  Stevens glanced around, peering into the shadows of the trees. "I figured you didn't come for tea, fancy pants. What I want a know is what happens next."

  "You will dwell among my people, of course."

  "Where? You mean in the village?"

  "No, oh, no, no, not the village with your kind, the cattle who breed our delicacies and delights. No, you shall dwell in the Dark with us. Where the rest of your friends from this lovely community were taken last night while you two cowered in the cave. You're a wily and resourceful fellow, Mr. Stevens, as are most of your doughty woodsmen kin. We can make use of you. Wonderful, wonderful use."

  "Goodbye, you sonofabitch," Stevens said, cocking the hammer.

  "Not quite," Dr. Kalamov said. "If we can't have you, we'll simply make do with your relatives. Your father still works for the post office in Seattle, does he not? And your sweet mother knits and has supper ready when he gets home to that cozy farmhouse you grew up in near Green Lake. Your little brother Buddy working on the railroad in Nevada. Your nephews Curtis and Kevin are riding the range in Wyoming. So many miles of fence to mend, so little time. Very dark on the prairie at night. Perhaps you would rather we visit them instead."

  Stevens lowered his rifle, then dropped it in the mud. He walked to the doctor and stood beside him, slumped and defeated. Dr. Kalamov patted his head. The doctor's hand was large enough to have encompassed it if he'd wished, and his nails were as long as darning needles. He flicked Stevens' ear and it peeled loose and plopped wetly in the bushes. Stevens clapped his hand over the hole and screamed and fell to his knees, blood streaming between his fingers. Dr. Kalamov smiled an avuncular smile and tousled the man's hair. He pushed a nail through the top of Stevens' skull and wiggled. Stevens fell silent, his face slack and dumb as Ma's had ever been.

  "Reckon I'll decline your offer," Miller said. He drew his pistol and weighed it in his hand. "Go ahead and terrorize my distant relations. Meanwhile, I think I'll blow my brains out and be shut of this whole mess."

  "Don't be hasty, young man," Dr. Kalamov said. "I've taken a shine to you. You're free to leave this mountain. There's a lockbox in the roots of that tree. The company payroll. Take it, take a new name. And when you're old, be certain to tell of the horrors that you've seen… horrors that will infest your dreams from today until the day you die. We'll always be near you, Mr. Miller." He doffed his hat and bowed. Then he grasped Stevens by the collar and bundled him under one arm and into the gathering gloom.

  The lockbox was where the man had promised and it contained a princely sum. Miller stuffed the money in a sack as the sun went down and darkness fell. When he'd finished packing the money he buried his head in his arms and groaned.

  "By the way, there are two minor conditions," Dr. Kalamov said, leering from behind a stump. The flesh of his face hung loose as if it were a badly slipping mask. His eyes were misaligned, his mouth a bleeding black slash that extended to his ears. He had no teeth. "You're a virile lad. Be certain to spawn oodles and oodles of babies-I must insist on that point. We'll be observing, so do your best, my boy. There is also the matter of your firstborn…"

  Miller had nearly pissed himself at Dr. Kalamov's reappearance. He forced his throat to work. "You're asking for my child."

  Dr. Kalamov chuckled and drummed his claws on the wood. "No, Mr. Miller. I jest. Although, those wicked old fairytales are jolly good fun, speaking such primordial truths as they do. Be well, be fruitful." He scuttled backward and then lifted vertically into the shadows, a spider ascending its thread, and was gone.

  ***

  Years later, Miller married a girl from California and settled in a small farming town. He worked as a gunsmith. His wife gave birth to a boy. After the baby arrived he'd often lie awake at night and listen to the house settle and the mice scratch in the cupboards. When the baby cried, Miller's wife would go into the nursery and soothe him with a lullaby. Miller strained to hear the words, for it was the deep silences that unnerved him and caused his heart to race.

  There was a willow tree in the yard. It cast a shadow through the window. As his wife crooned to the baby in the nursery, Miller watched the shadow branches ripple upon the dull white oval of wall. On the bad nights, the branches twitched and narrowed and writhed like tendrils worming their way through fissures in the plaster toward the bed and his sweating, paralyzed form.

  One morning he went to the shed and fetched an axe and chopped the tree down. The first tree he'd felled since his youth. The willow was very old and very large and the job lasted until lunchtime.

  The center was semi-rotten and hollow, and when the tree crashed to earth the bole partially split and gushed pulp. Something heavy and multisegmented shifted and retracted inside the trunk. Water gurgled from the wound with a wheeze that almost sounded like someone muttering his name. He dumped kerosene over everything and struck a match. The neighbors gathered and watched the blaze, and though they gossiped amongst themselves, no one said a word to him. There'd been rumors.

  His wife came to the door with the baby in her arms. Her expression was that of a person who'd witnessed a dark miracle and knew not how to reconcile the fear and wonder of the revelation.

  Miller stood in the billowing smoke, leaning on his axe, eyes reflecting the lights of hell.

  MORE DARK

  On the afternoon train from Poughkeepsie to New York City for a thing at the Kremlin Bar-John and me and an empty seat that should've been Jack's, except Jack was dead going on three years, body or no body. Hudson out the right-hand window, shining like a scale. Winter light fading fast, blending the ice and snow and water into a steely red. More heavy weather coming, they said. A blizzard; the fifth in as many weeks. One body blow after another for the Northeast and no end in sight.

  We were sneaking shots of Glenfiddich from a flask. I watched a kid across the aisle watching me from beneath eyelids the tint of blue-black scarab beetle shells. He wore a set of headphones that merely dampened the Deftones screaming "Change." His eardrums were surely bleeding to match the trickle from his nose. He seemed content.

  Another slug of scotch and back to John with the flask.

  I thought of the revolver waiting for me in the dresser of my hotel room. I could hear it ticking. I dreamed about that fucking gun all of the time. It loomed as large as a planet-killing asteroid in my mind. It shined with silvery fire against satin nothingness, slowly turning in place, a symbolic prop from a lost Hitchcock film, the answer to the meaning of my life. The ultimate negation. A Rossi.38 Special bought on the cheap at a pawnshop on 4th Avenue, now snug in a sock drawer. One bullet in the chamber, fated to nest in my heart or brain.

  My wife of a decade had mysteriously (or not so mysteriously if one asked her friends) walked out six weeks ago, suitcase in one hand, ticket to the Bahamas in the other. My marching orders were to be gone by the time she got back with a new tan. Yeah, I wasn't taking the divorce well. Nor the fiasco with the novel, nor a dozen impending deadlines, chief among them a story I owed S.T. for Dark Membrane II, an anthology in homage to the works of H. P. Lovecraft. This last item I hoped to resolve prior to dissipating into the ether, but at the moment it wasn't looking favorable. Still, when marooned in the desert and down to crawling inch by bloody inch, that's what one does. Crawl, and again.

  John said, "I saw him, once. The Author Formerly known As… A while back, when the gang was in Glasgow for Worldcon. Me, Jack, Jody, Paul, Livia, Wilum, Ellen, Canadian Simon and English Simon, Gary Mac, Ian, Richard G, both Nicks-Berkeley Nick and New York Nick. Some others…all of us wandering from pub to pub after dark. H
al still lived in Scotland, so he showed us around, although he was drunk, as usual, and I figured we'd find the con hotel again by morning, if we were lucky. A crowd busted out of a club and this chick, in a leather jacket with her hair shaved to about half an inch of fuzz and dyed pink, almost knocked me over as she elbowed by like a striker for the Blackheath Football Club. Hal stared at her as she stomped away, then leaned over to me and whispered gravely, 'Whoa, lad, that'd be like fookin' a coconut, wouldn't it?' " John was a tall, burly fellow of Scotch-Irish descent; an adjunct professor at SUNY New Paltz. He wore glasses, tweeds, and a tie whether he was lecturing or mowing the lawn. Honestly, he usually appeared as if he'd just mowed a lawn, such was his habitual dishevelment. Nonetheless, his charisma was undeniable. The more his beard grayed and his hair thinned, the more irresistible the world at large found him, especially the ladies. Like Machiavelli, he was becoming dangerous in middle age and I hoped he used his powers for good rather than evil.

  As John spoke, he cradled the marionettes, Poe and As You Know Bob, in his lap. Poe dressed in black, naturally, and had a pencil mustache and overlarge, soulful eyes, all the better to reflect sardonic ennui. As You Know Bob was clad in a silvery coverall and collar-a spacesuit sans helmet. Bob's shaggy hair and beard were white, its eyes a cornflower blue that bespoke earnestness and honesty, if not wisdom. The puppets were on loan from Clara, John's twelve year old daughter. She intended to become a world class puppeteer, just like John Malkovich in Being John Malkovich. Disturbing, but admirable.

  Let's be crystal clear. I hate puppets. Hate them. They descend from a demonic line parallel to mimes and clowns and are wholly of the devil, especially the lifelike variety. The uncanny valley is not one I've ever enjoyed strolling through. John wasn't particularly keen on puppets either. However, as a prolific author with a constant itinerary of speaking engagements he'd twigged to their utility as icebreakers at readings and lectures where the audience was often mixed-the little bastards were perfect to talk down to the kiddies (As you know, Bob, this novel is the eleventh in the saga of non-Euclidian horrors invading Earth from the X-Space!) while keeping the high schoolers and adults reasonably amused throughout the expositional phase.