Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2011

by Mike Davis (Editor)

  It had been him.

  -

  -

  Jeremy Russell is a widely-published, award-winning author, critic and former newspaper reporter whose stories have appeared in a variety of anthologies and small press publications. He lives in Oakland, California with his wife and their cat, and earns a living in association communications. Check out him out online at www.jeremyrussell.com.

  Story art by mimulux.

  Return to the table of contents

  NOTE: Images contained in this Lovecraft eZine are Copyright ¬©2006-2012 art-by-mimulux. All rights reserved. All the images contained in this Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without my express written permission. These images do not belong to the public domain. All stories in Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without the express written permission of the editor.

  The Town of Autumn: Chapter One

  by Mike Davis

  CHAPTER ONE

  As I sit at my desk, there is a bottle of whiskey to the left of my computer, and a gun to the right. I have been making good use of the whiskey, and soon I will do the same with the gun.

  I bought the weapon almost two years ago, after my wife died. I had cause enough to use it on myself then; but I never dreamed that when I finally chose death, it would be for a different reason altogether.

  It is late on Halloween night as I write this. I am watching the rain through my window, an ominous mist which has hardly ceased all month… almost as if the sky itself divines the truth.

  When did it all begin? When my wife died? Or on that terrible night, when I was 8 years old? Or was it — as I fear — far earlier?

  Perhaps it is best to start with the night I received the note. Yes. It was almost a month ago…

  ***

  I TURNED LEFT on south Eleventh Street, and started looking at the numbers on the houses. It was about eight o’ clock on a cool October evening, and a soft rain was falling.

  I pulled into the driveway of the correct house. Taking the pizza from where it sat on the passenger seat, I walked to the front door. It took a moment for the occupant to appear. “Come on in,” he said. I stepped inside.

  “It’ll be ten forty-nine,” I said. He handed me a check for $11.49 and said thanks. I said “thank you” and walked back to my car. The sprinkle was becoming a downpour.

  I’ve been friends with Jeff Frey, owner of Frey’s Pizza, for most of my life. I don’t work there because I need the money — my wife’s insurance policy pays what small bills I have. It’s just something to do. It’s low stress, and I don’t have to think too much. I used to have a real job, and a life.

  Not anymore.

  Jeff doesn’t have tables at the pizza place. It’s delivery and carryout only, like a Domino’s is. The pizza’s much better, though, in my opinion.

  When I walked in carrying the empty pizza bag, he was frantically trying to catch the ringing phone after just having taken a pizza out of the oven.

  He flashed me a grin and a thumbs-up sign. Business had been picking up lately thanks to some ads he was running. I gave him the thumbs-up back and walked over to the pizza. I cut it, put it into a pizza box, and put it under the heat lamp next to the oven.

  Jeff finished with the customer on the phone. “Hey, Tom! How’s the roads?” he asked.

  “Getting a little slick,” I replied. “Better tell the guys to take it easy.” I looked at the pizza on the rack. “You want me to deliver that, or stay here a while?”

  “Stay here if you don’t mind,” he said. “I sent Frank on a delivery– we’re busier than I thought we would be.” Frank was the guy who usually answered the phones and helped him inside the store.

  “No problem,” I said. For the next couple of hours, it was business as usual. The other drivers and I delivered pizzas, and Jeff and Frank answered phones and made pizzas.

  Frey’s Pizza is on the west side of Autumn, our town. We’re an average mid-sized town in Iowa — not so small that you know everyone, but small enough that you see people you know every day.

  About nine thirty, things started to slow down. Jeff counted out my tips and said, “you going over to Carter’s?”

  The Carter Bar was in the same lot as the pizza shop. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll see you at eleven?”

  Jeff nodded, and I walked out the door.

  ***

  The rain hadn’t let up any. I quickly walked across the lot, my head down. Inside, I ducked into one of the booths next to a window that gave me a view of the door.

  They always keep the lights down low, so it was easy to watch the storm. It was really coming down, with the occasional flash of lightning and booming thunderclap.

  One of the waitresses came up to my table. “Hey Tom,” she said, smiling. “Haven’t seen you here in a while!”

  I smiled back. “Hey Tina– yeah, what’s it been– since yesterday?” She laughed. “The usual, Hon?”

  “The usual poison,” I said. She nodded, and walked to the kitchen. I watched her as she walked away, and as usual, my thoughts turned to Lucy.

  My wife.

  Three years ago, on the happiest day of my life, I promised to love her until “death do us part”. A year later, Death freed me from my vow. But I loved Lucy still, and would always love her.

  Lucy was driving home from work, and her brakes failed on the freeway. They told me she must have panicked, since she crossed the center line and hit an oncoming semi truck. The only consolation I have is that she probably never felt a thing.

  Tina brought my beer. I sipped it slowly, watched the rain, and waited for Jeff. I was on my third beer when he came in the door. He slid into the opposite booth. “Did you hear?”

  “Hear what?” I asked.

  “On the TV at the shop,” he said. “Someone else has been murdered.”

  “Who?”

  “They haven’t released the name yet,” he said. “All they’ve said is that it’s one of the girls at the college.”

  I drank some more beer. This was the third murder in Autumn in three months. The first victim was a sales clerk at the mall. She had been walking to her car from the mall, but she never reached it. The police found her hands a block away from the rest of her– a fact they tried in vain to keep from the press.

  The second victim was a homeless woman. This time, she kept her hands, but the police never found her eyes.

  Neither one of the women had been raped.

  “I don’t get it, ” Jeff said. “These women had nothing in common at all.”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Except for the fact that they’re dead. And the notes.” The killer had left notes pinned to the bodies.

  It had been in the paper, and on TV, of course. The local media was having a field day with it. The first note, found on the sales clerk, said:

  And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison.

  The second note, pinned to the homeless woman, had read:

  The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be.

  Jeff said, “So what’s your professional opinion on the notes?”

  I looked at him. “My professional opinion? Whoever wrote them is a wacko.”

  “You know what I mean,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know.” I took another drink. “I’m not in that line of work any more.”

  And for the next couple of hours, we drank beer, and carefully didn’t talk about what I used to do for a living, or of murder.

  ***

  When Lucy died, I was a pastor. I had given comfort to dozens of people when their loved ones passed away– but when my wife died, there was no comfort.

  I left my church. I sold the house, because I just couldn’t bear it. Every time I walked into a room, I could feel her presence. Everything reminde
d me of her. I got a cheap apartment, and lived off the proceeds from the sale and the money I got from Lucy’s life insurance policy.

  I would probably still be in my apartment, doing nothing but thinking of Lucy and counting ceiling tiles, if Jeff hadn’t forced me to get off my ass and come work for him. At the time, he made it seem like I was doing him a favor because he needed another driver. Now, though, I knew that he did it to get me to join the land of the living again.

  That’s what friends are for, right?

  The rain didn’t seem to be letting up as I drove the few blocks home. It seemed as if it would rain forever.

  ***

  In my dream, I am a child.

  Reading in my bedroom late at night, I hear a strange noise from my parents’ room. It sounds almost like a sob.

  Chalking it up to my imagination, I go back to reading my book, when I hear it again. This time, I put the book down.

  “Mom? Dad?” I call.

  There is no reply.

  From my bedroom door, I slowly walk down the hall. “Dad?” I call again. Never before in my young life have I called for my parents in the night, and not gotten an answer. Dread grips my heart as I creep to their door.

  The bodies of my parents are on the floor. On their faces is a look of absolute horror. As I scream, I just barely see the thing out of the corner of my eye, on the roof, quietly closing the window.

  ***

  I woke, still screaming.

  The bedside clock read 3:37am. After taking a few minutes to calm down, I went into the kitchen and poured a shot of whiskey, hands shaking.

  And that was when I saw the note on the table. It read:

  The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be.

  (Continued in next month’s issue…)

  -

  -

  Mike Davis is the founder and editor of this ezine. He lives in Texas with his awesome wife and son, 2 cats, 1 dog, and lots of books. He’s a writer, a reader, a seeker, a Taoist, and a Lovecraft fan. Find out more about Mike at this link.

  Story art by mimulux.

  Return to the table of contents

  NOTE: Images contained in this Lovecraft eZine are Copyright ¬©2006-2012 art-by-mimulux. All rights reserved. All the images contained in this Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without my express written permission. These images do not belong to the public domain. All stories in Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without the express written permission of the editor.

  All The Gold

  by Joseph S. Pulver

  WAR speaks, chorus it sends up burns. Wracks. Hyena comes. Laughs. Drools, muzzle of fever at the river, rips until every pen and column, every drummer and beggar trying to carry an afternoon to his rooms of coffeebeans and wedding-veil curtains, is gone. after the morning- the afternoon- the DARKNESS- pain thick and red and blind splayed swollen the holes in them drinking march walk stagger with? among? Grey. others? Blue. There were trees. There was a river. kept going West –days that just passed by –blood –hot air –doors –murder –lot of nowhere and empty –smoke and filth thick as swamp vines –ragged surrenders West wind… rock… Spanish spoke … niggers… and pistols… and dust and a town heat and whores, one barefoot, skulls smokin’ in her eyes cowboys splashing two tall men laugh others -drunk –afraid –raw . . . nothing fine a lean dead gambler got a bottle drank drank it all entered the void left here . . .

  ~*~

  On his horse by the creek. Looked at his ammunition, at the town. Spent a moment on likelihood and condition. There were some birds measuring the morning light. Two were small. They sat on a branch of a tree the color of ashes. For near an hour they just watched. Neither spoke. Rode toward the cluster of small houses. He was dry as the trail. Knew there’d be a bar. A glass of whiskey. Wanted some beans. Didn’t spend time hoping for a beefsteak. Met up with Grady and his little brother Al. Jed Allen and the Mexican half-breed with the silent knives too. “All the gold just sittin’ there.” He sure liked the sound of that. They rode. There were trees. There was a river. He thought about dusty days being gone.

  ~*~

  Mountains with veins of snow. Cold. No fire. Nothing to make one with. Nothing. But Cold. Again. The sound of a horse . . . Maybe two or more. gunshots close many one bites other did bleed others did bleed then run others did he did too more than once They’re coming slow. on horse Keep moving. try to breathe Slow. draw down Squeeze. shoot No mystery in the cards dealt. Run. Carry the pain. Pine. Slide. Trip. Stumble. Run. And keep moving. You can outrun a horse in this terrain. Snow. Cold. No camp. Maybe later. Maybe take to the water. Pay for it downstream. Decides to double back and camp over them. 8. 16 guns. 2 pack mules. They have fire. They have whiskey. Got coffee too. Only two are hard, death took all the searchin’ out of ‘em. He can see that. War hard. Hate hard. Dangerous as his desperation. They have fire. They have beans. He’s got wind. And he’s bleeing. He camps above and just behind them. No Fire. And night will not shut up. Waitin’ on sun-up. Wishin’ he had a rifle. Got a pistol and 9 bullets. Got a knife. Odds say fall. Least he’s a got a heavy coat. And the animal behind his eyes. There’s some say this out here is a church. Lord made all this. Grand and graceful and there’s beauty. Some. Some prayers didn’t help when hard hit inta ‘em. Cold chewing him he don’t see no mercy. Coat pulled tight about him, hidin’ in a tight stand of pine, he don’t feel no mercy. 2 on watch. Knife and 6 shots would take 7. If he got lucky. Ain’t no luck up here. Grab a gun or reload, might be he could kill them first? Animal wants to. He don’t. Not really. Ain’t ready to go under snakes. Hungry, angry, weak. He ain’t gonna kill 7 and get lucky too. Don’t spend time wishing on it. Sun up. They break camp. Follow the river downstream. Follow his tracks. Right to the river. He follows their tracks in the other direction. Let’s the fast wind cover his trail. Don’t figure they’ll follow that track long. Moves all day. Don’t hear or see them. Lotta men throwing their lives around down there under the snowline. Speaking of death and born and suffering. They drink but don’t cross the distance of a prayer. All they carry bleeding in their eyes. Whores see it. They sing and take what they can from the raw vulture sinew. Fear the landfall of hate and drunkenness. The lantern of a cock puttin’ its axe to ‘em they don’t pray much either. Ain’t a question of indifference. It’s all function. Try to stay connected to breathing, try even when the sky unravels its 40 of uttered rain. He’s hidden away again. Blackness helps. Wishes for fire. Wishes for whiskey. And a whore. Got nuthin’. ‘cept the hard. War put it there. Maybe other things before too? Maybe. Hard ‘ill keep a man. Don’t cure, but it will conjure sometimes. Some nights you can breathe it all night long. He’s hopin’ this is one. Hopin’ for things down below that treeline. Come morning he will follow their track down for a time. Let come what may come. Has before. Mid-day he figures. Dead man. Lying there plain. Face up. Eyes open. Can’t say what they behold. Ain’t no heaven. Fell out of his saddle. Bullet ’ill do that. Figures mad argued. Gun flashed. Fell sidewise. Over ‘bout that fast. Left him. Hard men do that. 7 now. Wished he was a man who could get bent by lucky or bought into the land of miracle. Did he might wrap his thoughts ‘round beatin’ 7. Ain’t. But he’s happy for 7. Looks for sign of blood. None. Dead man never drew. Damn shame. 7 that will keep comin’. Knows the two hard ones will come and keep coming till they are dead. Others are just coming for the gold. Wonders what price they put on him. Dollar a day maybe? Maybe? Might be another price. Figures there’s no maybe ‘bout DEAD or alive. And they do keep coming.

  ~*~

  Counsel Creek. Ugly and dirty town. So dead it ain’t even dangerous. No singing from its mouth. Groaning. Heartache and pine and heartache. Flies adrift. Sun bleaches. Houses nuthin’ but there. Had a small bank. Army gold. 4 went into the bank. Je
d Allen didn’t come out. All his dusty days were gone. Wished it was the Mexican half-breed. Warn’t. Took the gold. Took that book in the safe too. Book of gibberish and squigglin’s no man could read. Warn’t worth a damn. Threw it in a river. Left the banker cold. Another man in the bank too. Half day later Grady died from the gunshot wound. Warn’t time to. Didn’t bury Grady. Rode away with Grady’s little brother Al and the Mexican half-breed too. And the riders came. No badges. No marshal. Figured they rode to get the gold back. But these men warn’t riding to claim back gold. “We get to injin land we’ll be okay.” That’s what Grady’s little brother Al said. Grady’s brother met an arrangement with trouble, drained him. No back and forth in the iron. Rifle shot took him right out of this saddle. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t say a word. He got grazed too. But he rode on. Shot twice. Flesh wounds. Slowed him both times. He’s trimmed them down to 2. Had help. Hard one kilt 2. Just shot them. Soul in the shape of a knife he rolled the Mexican half-breed out of life. Left ‘im in the trail’s sand. He sure wouldn’t miss him. Sun wouldn’t either. Month of running and the gold didn’t bring anything high and wide. Mean takes him. Figures go in the camp. Finish what needs to get finished. A rush of kill. The sound of horses— gunshots close many one bites other did bleed others did men dead two in their bed rolls bleed he is Shot twice. Down. Rough ground a cold gate to Hell. Hard one standin’ over Him. Shotgun a fact harder than bad weather. He swings his eyes from it. Can’ see the other hard one. Knows he’s there somewhere. “Where is it?” Knows what he’s getting asked. “With my dead horse. Couldn’t carry it.” “Not the gold.” Uncertain. Blinks. Looks into serious. “That book?” “Yes.” “This is about that?” “It is.” Smiles. “Threw it in the river night the after you kilt the kid. Warn’t going to do me any good. Weighed ‘bout as much as a sack of beans. No pack horse. Would have slowed me down.” Hard one cocks his head. Shotgun stays solid. He can see the question on the hard one’s face. “Kid wanted it. Kept it. Can’t really say why. Fascinated, or figured it might be worth something ‘cause it was locked in that safe. Never asked. He carried it.” Law presented. Freezin’ –afraid –raw . . . nothing fine. Not another card to draw. No last stand. No what have I done? No sudden flash of Mama sayin’, “Man brings sorrow down on himself.” Just dead. Hard one did not bother to say you can’t get slower than dead. Didn’t even think it. Walks to his horse. Takes the telegram out of his pocket. Crumples it. Throws it down. Looked up at the stars. Wonders why that Platt fellow didn’t take the book straight back East. Put it right in his hands. Looked him in the eyes. Wondered about that a few times now. No words come out. Other hard one turned to face him. Didn’t ask a question. Figured they had talked about this and the answer, if there was one, was still the same. Hard one climbed on his horse and gave him the spurs. The other one didn’t look up at the stars. Just followed his partner into the cold night.