Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

  He gazed ahead to the end of the tunnel with the glowing stance of a meditating Buddha, smiling upon the accumulation of frozen stalagmites. Here he further discovered a pit, which appeared bottomless, dropping away in endless darkness.

  Henry had finally made it—the realization of his quest. The splendor of these caverns held a dark and morbid secret. He had first stumbled upon it quite by chance whilst studying an ancient bound book that the University of Boston kept. The book told of Satanists who had fled their native lands in search of freedom in the new land. They brought with them vast fortunes. As he sat there gleefully absorbed in the macabre, he allowed the ancient manuscript to slip clumsily through his fingers. As the book plunged to the floor of the library, excitement prevailed over his panic at damaging it. A bundle of well-worn papers had fallen from behind the binding. Scrambling to retrieve them, he furtively positioned the papers into his inside jacket pocket. He was vigilant as to make sure that nobody was monitoring him. He raced home excitedly, strangely convinced that those papers were going to change his life forever; that he had somehow accidentally stumbled upon a magnificent lost secret.

  Once home, Henry eagerly perused over the faded manuscripts. They were handwritten, and he had difficulty deciphering certain words, while others were completely unknown and unfathomable to him. It was a ledger of some kind. One contained a long list of names, and they all had paid the then ungodly sum of five pounds in gold coins to a certain Jeremiah Franklin. As he scrutinized the dozens of gentlemen listed, all with the grandest of names, Henry became increasingly curious as to their motivation.

  At three in the morning, his exhausted, bloodshot eyes finally came across the answer. It was an account that revealed a grisly and implausible reality and was so vivid that it sent shivers down his spine even within the warmth and security of his apartment. The fine gentlemen were buying participation in a ritual to which they believed to be the very devil himself, Jeremiah. In addition, and here was the most gruesome and unsavory part for Henry, along with the gentlemen’s names was the name of the young female intended for the sacrifice. A further document, which looked like an unsent letter, explained that there had been some sort of an incident—one of the gentlemen changed his mind immediately prior to the scheduled time of the bloodletting. Written in a gruesome fashion, Henry could hardly bring himself to read it. It furthermore explained in remarkable detail that the gold coins were stored in a grand chest. Therein also was a letter that had been apparently swiftly composed to a certain Rosalyn Franklin, back in England. This communication had been signed, but left unsent by none other than Jeremiah himself.

  Henry was amazed, yet there was one more startling revelation in store for him, for on the back of the letter he discovered a map.

  Now two months later, those papers had morphed into his obsession. Leaving the safety of the lights and secured pathways behind him, Henry fumbled the old faded map nervously between his perspiring fingers. Yes, yes. He realized that he had actually stumbled upon it—a secret path, long ago forgotten.

  As he ventured past the roped-off sections, intended to contain the tourists, he began his perilous descent. Yet, despite his caution, he somehow caught his leg abruptly on a sharpened edge of rock. Perhaps intended as a warning for him not to continue onwards, Henry’s mind was resolute. The journey continued as the blood slowly dripped from his aching leg. He trekked for nearly an hour deeper and deeper into the bowels of the caves.

  The map indicated a secret chamber hidden behind a rock formation reminiscent of an owl. The faded map made this point clear. Henry discovered that he was staring at what resembled an owl face naturally formed in the ancient rock. The more he studied the features, the more convinced he became that his long undertaking was soon to be over. He climbed up precariously onto the ledge and spied a crevice at the center of the “owl’s” right eye. With a delicious combination of both fear and excitement, he steadily reached in. Something furry scurried over his hand and he recoiled. He laughed nervously, realizing it was only a rat.

  Do not be afraid, he chanted repeatedly in his head. Do not be afraid!

  Desperately, he tried to maintain his calm, but he fumbled in the shadows, and audibly gasped as his hand arrived upon a lever. With all the strength he could muster it slowly surrendered its resistance and moved. To Henry’s amazement and delight a passage miraculously opened. As the rock entry slowly became exposed, it revealed its contents to human eyes, perhaps for the first time in centuries. He shone his flashlight inside, and almost retched at the sight that befell his eyes. Skeletons—dozens upon dozens of skeletons. The stench was overpowering, and he found it difficult to suppress his deepest desire to vomit. Yet, he needed to control myself; he knew that he was so close...

  “Do not be afraid,” he whispered out loud, and the sound of his voice echoed about him, as if the words themselves taunted him.

  It was then he spied it, sitting in a small crevice within the wall, and instantaneously the present time was propelled back. His heart pounded excitedly deep within his torso. A silver chest was adjacent to a large flat piece of rock—an altar. Henry physically shook as he comprehended the agonies that innocent beings had endured. How their desperate screams would have echoed with no avail, deep within the earth.

  He approached the item of his desire slowly, wanting to savor the moment. He allowed his fingers to caress gently every eloquently carved feature, relishing its exquisite beauty. Despite the temperature hovering not far above freezing, perspiration formed upon his brow. Finally, he could resist temptation no more and he pried it open.

  The lid moved with surprising ease and its contents were beyond Henry’s wildest dreams. The case was full of gold coins, the largest coins he had ever seen in his life.

  I’m rich, wealthy beyond my boldest of imaginings. He began to laugh hysterically and uncontrollably.

  It was then he realized that the door through which he had entered the chamber was beginning to close; grabbing several of the coins, he raced towards the diminishing opening.

  “God, please let me make it,” he cried out as he lunged towards it.

  Hands, human-like hands, grabbed his ankles. Yet Henry could see no one. He crashed on the rocky ground.

  He remembered his head hitting a jagged rock. He remembered the blood. He remembered screaming...

  That was a week ago. Henry spent three days endeavoring to unearth a means to open the passage, having pushed and tugged every conceivable rock inside the chamber. Nothing worked. Henry quickly gave up on screaming for help as he knew all too well that the natural design of the cavity prevented even his loudest cries from reaching the outside world.

  Henry managed to find a small source of water. He had a possible source of food—the rats. Nevertheless, he found they were surprisingly nimble. They eyed him hungrily for they knew that in a few days, he would surely be dead, or not strong enough to fight them off, and they would be able to feast.

  As Henry slipped into unconsciousness, one last thought raced through his mind—all that gold couldn’t help him now.

  “I’m afraid...”

  About the author: P.S. Gifford is a member of the Horror Writer’s Association, lives in Lake Forest, California, has two dogs, a collection of ventriloquist dolls, and an endless dream.

  JP and the Nightgaunt

  Robert Tangiers

  The Dark.

  That’s all there was. At least all JP could see. Or not see.

  Perhaps he was blind. He wouldn’t say. He just cackled. And screamed. Laid on his back and stared through wide glassy eyes at the ceiling.

  And drooled.

  And cackled.

  And screamed.

  He was mad. Certifiable loony.

  If it could be pinpointed, it would be the book. An odd little book with an odd gray and blue cardboard cover. Showing an Archer.

  Publication date, 1915.

  The cover figure seemed to move. Flow. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was JP’s madness.
What he thought he saw.

  Now it was the Dark.

  All that remained was the Dark. Where no one could hear JP scream. He screamed long and loud.

  And cackled.

  And drooled.

  He had read something in that book. Words that echoed across space and time.

  In the Dark.

  There had been a noise. A crash. A trash can kicked. Or stumbled over. In the alley. Outside JP’s window. A thing. Something In the Dark.

  Something had come. It was mad. This thing. Certifiable loony.

  Just JP’s ill-luck. It would drive him mad as well.

  In time.

  In the Dark.

  The thing was a nightgaunt.

  A solitary nightgaunt.

  A mad nightgaunt. Certifiable loony.

  Just JP’s ill-luck.

  The nightgaunt had heard a piping across space and time. A mad piping of flutes. Discordant, channeled through corridors of strange planes and angles to reach the winged beast. The nightgaunt saw shadows, heard the discordant music, heard whispering voices. Drove it mad.

  The nightgaunt had fled the Dreamlands.

  Had heard JP’s words. The words JP had read from the book.

  And it had come. To the alley. Crashed into a trash can.

  Just JP’s ill-luck.

  The nightgaunt was suddenly on his windowsill. Crashed through the window.

  JP shit himself. Babbled senseless for quite a long time.

  It was a big tall beast of an animal with clawed hands and feet, big rubbery bat-like wings, glistening wet black rubbery skin, horns sprouting from its head, a long barbed tail, a fully erect black penis that made JP gasp with fear and uncertainty, and no face. Blank where a face should be.

  Like a silhouette cut-out.

  No face.

  Its claws grated on the wooden floor where it walked, tore the rug where there was a rug.

  And it stank like a long dead animal. Positively reeked.

  JP wrinkled his nose.

  Never saw such a thing before.

  This nightgaunt.

  This mad nightgaunt. Certifiable loony.

  The book had described it, had said where it had come from. The Dreamlands. Had said what it was. A nightgaunt.

  Whatever a nightgaunt was.

  It crouched in a corner, would pace about. Nervously. Not too far. Grated its claws on the floor, on the walls. Used the floor rug like a cat’s scratching post.

  It glanced at JP. Or seemed to. Turned its head.

  But it had no eyes.

  No face.

  In the night the music came. Now unbidden. No need to read the strange words from the odd little book. The strange discordant music came on its own.

  Soft mad music. Woke JP from nightmares. He sat in the dark. Heard the music. Heard the hissing growl of the nightgaunt in the corner...

  But it had no mouth, no face.

  JP cackled. Wondered. Cackled.

  He thought of JM, his lady-friend. A sudden thought. Like it had been plucked from his mind and put back again. In the forefront of his consciousness. Purposely. It was a lustful thought. A sudden strange longing desire. He smiled in the night.

  In the Dark.

  Looked up at the nightgaunt in the shadows. And grinned; the nightgaunt, now that would blow her mind.

  JP chuckled.

  The soft mad music played in the night.

  In the room.

  In his thoughts.

  In the Dark.

  He faded, fell asleep.

  The music still played.

  ***

  By day JP read the book, learned of places far and strange, watched the cover figure that seemed to move. The Archer.

  He sat there, cackling and drooling.

  The soft mad music played.

  The nightgaunt was restless. Paced the floor, scratched the walls, the rug.

  JP thought of JM, thought of telling her. He looked up. The nightgaunt was staring at him. Or so he thought.

  It had no eyes, no face.

  By night JP lived his nightmares. A strange place he walked. He knew its name. The odd little book had told him.

  The Vale of Pnath.

  Where piles of bleached bones littered the ground.

  Where ghouls gnawed on the bones of the dead.

  Where shadows danced.

  Where the mad music echoed through the shadows.

  Where strange insect-like creatures scurried about, strange insect-like creatures with the heads and faces of...

  JP gasped, sat up in bed.

  There had been an insect-like creature in his nightmare. It had scurried out of the shadows and had hissed at him.

  It had JM’s head and face. With multi-faceted eyes.

  JP slowly turned his head. His eyes saw the odd little book on the nightstand. An alley streetlight illuminated the cover. The Archer was moving, pulling back his bow.

  The mad nightgaunt shuffled about In the Dark.

  ***

  Hour by hour JP became a little nuttier, cackled a little louder, screamed a little louder, drooled a lot more, hummed in rhythm with the mad piping music that seemed to be all around him.

  The nightgaunt paced the corner in the front room.

  JM... JP found himself thinking of his lady-friend. He looked up.

  The nightgaunt was staring back. Or so it seemed.

  But it had no eyes, no face.

  JM...

  JM...

  Yeah, yeah, she’s gotta see this!

  The nightgaunt straightened up to its full height, a clawed hand wrapped around its full and erect penis.

  JP cackled loudly.

  This is fucking nuts! She ain’t gonna believe this shit! A fucking nightgaunt. Of all the crazy shit...

  But it wasn’t just any nightgaunt. This was a lone solitary nightgaunt. A mad nightgaunt. Certifiable loony.

  Was soon to be JM’s ill-luck.

  Son-of-a-bitch, JP babbled.

  A nightgaunt, a fucking nightgaunt.

  JP hopped on the line, called JM over. Said, “I got something for you to see. You ain’t gonna believe it...”

  JM hurried over and saw the nightgaunt. Was JM’s ill-luck.

  The nightgaunt shredded the clothing from her body, took her by the back of the head, and pushed her face first against a wall.

  The thrust was hard. Violent. Painful.

  JM shrieked.

  It was messy.

  And obscene.

  Looked like the thing was fucking JM as it pulled her arms off. As a matter of terribly unfortunate fact, it WAS fucking JM as it pulled her arms off.

  She howled.

  Pain and pleasure.

  Tissues were torn.

  Tendons were snapped.

  Blood sprayed and her arms came away. The nightgaunt stepped back. JM’s head bounced on the floor.

  JP clapped his hands, stomped his feet, and giggled like a school girl.

  The nightgaunt reached; fingers spread, claws scraped.

  JM’s head and vertebral column came away. Her ribs snapped left and right. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Like gunfire.

  The mad nightgaunt tossed the armless, headless, spineless carcass aside. Held the remains by the tailbone. JM’s head dangled; bloodied hair brushed the floor.

  The nightgaunt turned, cackled. Hissed at JP.

  But it had no mouth, no face.

  Then it left. Out the broken window with its prize. JM’s head and spinal column.

  Left JP In the Dark. He shivered. He was frightened.

  Alone.

  In the Dark.

  Teetering, headed for the brink. Fast approaching certifiable loony.

  JP cackled and drooled for an hour or two, stared at the mess, crawled on his hands and knees, and lapped up some of JM’s blood like a cat with spilt milk. There was enough rapidly fading reason in JP to know that a dead body lacking a head and spinal column with severed arms lying about would be hard to explain.

  So, he
cleaned up the mess as best he could. Hacked up what was left of JM’s body, fed it through a meat grinder. Cooked and ate some. Basted in blood.

  The rest went down the toilet. Or out in the garbage. Or fed to rats in the basement walls.

  The blood was hard to hide. Just wouldn’t come all the way clean. Still left a stain.

  Didn’t matter.

  JP knew he wouldn’t be there long.

  Then the bottom fell out. JP’s brain went to grade-a shit. Certifiable loony had at long last arrived. Gasping, giggling, cackling, rolling around on the floor, JP had become a few clowns short of a circus.

  ***

  Two days had come and gone since the nightgaunt left with JM’s head and spinal column.

  JP lay on the floor. He babbled and drooled in the corner. In the Dark. Where the nightgaunt had paced.

  He shit himself. Didn’t matter.

  Pissed himself. Didn’t matter.

  Stared at the ceiling and cackled madly. Slapped open palms on the floor and howled, like he was privy to some enormous joke.

  Maybe he was.

  From time to time he drifted off to sleep. Fitful sleep. Filled with nightmares of Pnath. The ghouls. The bones piles. The shadows. The mad piping music. And that insect-like thing with JM’s head and face. Somehow he knew that it was more than a nightmare. It was real.

  JP walked the vale, strolled amidst the piles of bleached bones.

  Ghouls sat atop the bone piles, gnawing on bones. Bones picked clean. Bones fresh with dripping flesh. Some ghouls hissed or growled as JP passed by.

  As if to say, these are MY bones. A warning.

  Shadows danced. JP heard the mad music echoing through the vale.

  There came a gurgling hiss. Something scurried across his path.

  JP looked. Again saw his lady-friend, JM.

  But not JM.

  The thing that JM had become. An insect with JM’s head, spider-like legs along the vertebral column where ribs had once been. Torn tissues dragging on the ground. As it crawled it left a long red glistening smear.