Mariana didn’t stop until she’d reached her apartment. Her fingers shook. Dumpster Dave’s clopping feet weren’t far away. Kick the bastard in the nuts next time. She pushed a hand in her bag, seeking the key ring. Her other hand held the mace. No key. The doorknob burned her hand with its cold metal skin when she tried it. Locked solid.
Shit.
The money was still inside.
She knelt and pulled up the welcome mat. The extra key was gone…or had she forgotten to replace it? Her eyes snapped shut. The other one…the dead you…all the others.
“He’s a crazy old man,” she muttered.
The outer wall of the apartment building held two windows, one in Mariana’s living room and the other in the bedroom. She hurried, feeling the laughing presence of Dumpster Dave in the dark corners across the street. Her fingers pushed against the cold smooth glass. Each of the windows was locked tight from the inside. He’d follow, and then, and then…
Break a window. Get inside. Call the cops.
Mariana hurled her tiny bag against the window. Nothing. She bit her lip. Her shoulder dropped as she lunged into the window. She bounced back. The window didn’t yield.
The other one…
Was it Dave? She turned, panicked, toward the street. Nothing.
The dead one…
Mariana stood, shoulder throbbing, and charged the window again. The glass split with a loud crack, but it did not give. Her arm burned. She began to sob. From across the street, Dumpster Dave called out, “Maybe you’re the other one…the dead you…” Mariana thought of the dark slash across her neck and felt the cold skin. A light flicked on inside her apartment.
The money. Get the money and get out. Forget the cops.
She lowered her shoulder, ready to batter the glass again, but the face in the window stayed her.
Her face?
No.
Rotten…decomposed…bruised with eyes ringed with black. It was the face from the mirror. The other one. The dead Mariana. By the looks of her, she’d been dead for quite a while.
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Aaron Polson currently lives in Lawrence, Kansas with his wife, two sons, and a tattooed rabbit. His stories have seen print in Shock Totem, Blood Lite II, and Monstrous with several new stories forthcoming in Shimmer, Space and Time, and other publications. The Saints are Dead, a collection of weird fiction, magical realism, and the kitchen sink, is due from Aqueous Press in 2011. You can visit Aaron on the web at www.aaronpolson.net
Illustration by Ronnie Tucker.
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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 Prophecy of Zarah
by Jenne Kaivo
Dear Sirs:
I deeply appreciate the attention you have given my team, and our findings. The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls in the early part of the 20th century is, of course, one of the most important episodes in the field of Bible scholarship. They have been studied and transcribed for decades, so it was quite a shock when an unnoticed Hebrew text was found in the collection. My translation team has sought to convey the most exact meaning, while still retaining some of the poetic flow of the original. There have been some successes, although we certainly haven’t managed the weighty, memorable tone of the factually appalling King James Bible. The “prophetess” declares her name to be “Zarah”, meaning, in Hebrew, “the strange woman”, and generally used with connotations of moral looseness. The theology of this text, apart from references to Sheol (the abode of the dead) and the primordial chaos monster Leviathan) tamed by Yahweh in the Yahwistic creation story preceding the one given by Genesis 1 and 2, but preserved quite more fully in the Ugaritic texts, whose passages on the Canaanite hero-god Baal prevailing over the primordial ocean) is quite unlike anything found in the Qumran community, the Bible or the Ancient Near East as a whole. Here is the entirety of the text, as translated so far:
This is the vision of prophetess Zarah revealed to her in the dark of a dead land and written in the dust of a blind moon.
There are Things that were tamed in the beginning of the cosmos and chained by the stars which were placed in a sigil of five dimensions in the tongue of a formless race which was ancient before the elements.
Their servants were condemned to the mirrors, to serve as reflections until the sigil of stars comes undone. At that time their Masters will return and the one called Leviathan will drown the stars in his ichorous waters.
The Gods of man will be as mortals and those who knew life after death will suffer as the living. Blessed are the godless. Blessed are those for whom death is extinction. All the host of Sheol and the lives after death will alike be tormented by the returned Ones, whose hatred has festered for millions of years as the burning stars chained them beyond the attainable World.
The rippled Reflections will creep from the waters in a drought land to cackle and sizzle in a tongue without reason: and they will catch mortals and drive them to madness and those will be lucky: for their Masters will come and they will not allow the salvation of Madness.
Time will die before them and their reign will be timeless. Reason will be slaughtered and space will be senseless. Black stars will hang in the sky choked in waters
Primordial, as before man’s Gods tamed them briefly. The Gods of the mortals will be feeble before them and no law will be left but the whim of the hateful, the Things that were chained when the cosmos were formed. Blessed are the dead who know nothing. Blessed are those who did not trust Salvation but had faith in extinction at the dust of the body. These are the only ones who are spared.
All of this I, Zarah, have seen in the dead land, and inscribed in the dust of a blind moon. It has been revealed to me in Sheol, and been made known to me in the Pit. And it has been shown to me that writings from Sheol will be seen in the land of the living as the chain of the stars become weaker. As the sigil comes closer to breaking, the
It should be noted that the translators make the ridiculous assertion that more writing appeared from the start to the completion of their reconstruction of this text, and indeed that vague impressions of letters have already formed below the last sentence, which now ends at “the”. This should be taken as a highly unprofessional attempt at explaining away the slow process of translation. The grisly suicides of, as of this writing, two of the original translation team, should likewise be ignored.
We are clearly not prepared for publication at this time. However, we would be more than pleased to comply with your request that a facsimile should be sent to your Miskatonic University Library, for further study by qualified professionals. It is my recommendation that you refuse access to the facsimile to all but the most sober and grounded among your staff.
Sincerely, Dr. Eric Benson, PhD.
c/o Israel Antiques Authority
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Jenne Kaivo is a full-time student and aspiring lunatic in Northern California. She finds a strange comfort in the notion that terror can strike at any time, for no reason mortals comprehend, and also likes dinosaurs. She is a friend to animals, except the delicious ones, and earns a living as a respite worker. Visit her website at mngamojemo.deviantart.com
Illustration by Galen Dara.
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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 Stranger From Out of Town
by John Prescott
(From the short story collection Before Sunrise, by John Prescott. Reprinted with permission.)
This story is from the John Prescott short story collection
BEFORE SUNRISE
Dorian Searls looked out over the lake as the setting sun slowly fell behind the trees to the west. It had been a good day like many others over the past seven years. Dorian had inherited his parents’ house ten years ago after a drunk blew past a stop sign and hit his parents’ car doing no less than eighty-five. They died on impact. The drunk, some dill-witted being named Harry Gureaux, was not the least bit hurt and tried to flee the scene after the accident, shrugging it off as nothing more than what he called a minor fender-bender.
Dorian received word of his parents’ death while at his portfolio show at the Rhode Island School of Design. He carried on till the show was over, knowing that was what his father would have wanted. Many contacts were made that day, and his future looked bright in the artists market, but his momentary success paled after the show was over and the truth of his parents’ death really hit home deep in his stomach.
His friends carried him back to his apartment and said not to worry about his work, they would take care of it. The next morning, Dorian was on a 747 jet headed home. Walking into his parents’ house was unsettling for him. Silence hung in the air, and he called out for his mom by instinct alone even before he knew what he was doing; the only answer was his own voice slightly echoing off the walls. He collapsed into his dad’s favorite chair in the den and let the blackness take him.
He awoke the next morning and went through the house looking at pictures as the pain swelled in him. He let the tears flow unhindered, not bothering to wipe them away. Dorian was an only child; he didn’t have any siblings to lean on or talk to about his grief, and this scared him to no end. Throughout the day, many people came to visit him and give their condolences. His parents were well-known in the small town and were well-off in the money sector.
He found himself in his mother’s art room at dusk and was looking at some of his earlier artwork that he had given her while he was in high school. Tears came again, and he didn’t fight them.
He got himself dressed the next morning and headed to the funeral home. His parents had funeral insurance, so there was no worry there. Still, the ordeal beat him up pretty badly, and wore his sadness and grief openly on his face. When he returned to the empty house, weariness rode him like a wave, and he decided to go lie down.
The blackness was better; no worry or pain was in the blackness. He welcomed it, and it took him greedily. The funeral itself was nerve-racking for Dorian. Many tears were shed, and many faces ran through his vision as the service and burial came to a close. Feeling the pangs of loss, he stayed at the cemetery for three hours after the service, not wanting to go home to that empty house, which was now belonged to him lock, stock, and barrel.
The house was paid for, but it was devoid of life, and the thought of staying in that empty house sent chills through his body. The house was a two-story contemporary, well-built and worth a lot of money. It faced the west on Carpey Lake and had the traditional pier, two-car garage, and a wrap-around porch.
The ten acres which accompanied the house were worth more than a pretty penny, too. His father’s stock options were in full swing and promised a wealthy return in twenty years. All this seemed not to matter to Dorian though; he would have scattered it all to the four winds to have his parents back and alive.
The days passed, and instead of things getting better they got worse. Dorian seldom went outside, and the house was a complete mess. Stale air hung in the home – creating a feeling of gloom that seemed to ooze from its cracks and crevices. Dorian’s state of mind was down in the muck of gloom, or the gutter as some people say.
It was six months later when Dorian found himself with a loaded .45 Colt pistol in his lap, the shades drawn and dusk approaching. He was going to put an end to the ‘big show’ as he liked to call it. In his mind he knew better, but the pain was too great, the loss gut-wrenching, and the loneliness heartbreaking.
The gun was raised to his temple and his finger was on trigger, ready to pull. Squinting his eyes, he hoped he wouldn’t feel anything as the bullet exited the barrel, entered his skull, and made a nice little piece of artwork with his brains and skull on the back wall.
He took a deep breath and was about to squeeze off the shot when the phone rang. He nearly shot himself by accident at the sudden noise. The phone continued to ring, and he slowly let the pistol fall from his head, looking at it with anger. Setting the pistol aside, he got out of the chair and went and answered the phone.
To his surprise, it was Doug Kent from college, his best friend. Expecting him to still be up north, Dorian was elated when Doug told him that he was about an hour away and needed directions to his house. Dorian’s somber mood was lifted slightly at this new news. The call had been a life-saver for Dorian, and Doug’s two-week-long stay was nothing short of a miracle. The grief was still there, but it was in check, and his spirits were lifted.
***
The months turned into years; they weren’t always easy, but Dorian delved into his work and produced some of his best stuff in his young, twenty-two years. He had talent, and the world knew it. He prospered with his art – mostly in the advertising sector doing freelance for some of the biggest ad agencies in America. He thought of moving several times, but couldn’t let the house go. It was home, and he decided to stay put. The house was paid for, and the cost of living in a small town in the south was pennies compared to what he would pay living in a big city.
Dorian was no dummy; he got his business sense from his father. After he thought about his options on whether to sell the house or stay put, he wanted to try his hand at his own art. He realized he was in the perfect place to do just that.
The lake and its occupants suffered from a two-fold disease and they ate upon each other like cancer. This disease was called greed and envy and it ran as rampant around the lake as kudzu does on a southern hill. Dorian fed this cancer with his first original oil painting entitled ‘Carpey Sunset’. He had sold it to Mr. Scott Farmington, the doctor who lived next door – “next door” being over a quarter-mile down on the left.
The painting was a beauty, and Scott loved it. Scott loved it so much he had a little party to ‘show’ this painting off. The party was a hit, and he boasted loudly over Scotch-infused breath that it was the only one available, and he alone had it. The declaration wasn’t uppity – it was subtle and sublime – but it hit home just as Dorian had hoped. During the course of the following two weeks, Dorian received calls from everyone who owned a house on the lake. They just ‘had’ to have one, they all insisted. “No, no hurry but don’t make me wait forever” was the usual final response to Dorian as he hung up the phone.
His plan had worked, and to Dorian’s surprise he had his own little nest egg now which topped over one hundred thousand dollars. The years rolled by, and Dorian became widely known in southern art circles. His style was his own, and it seemed everyone wanted a Dorian hanging in their office or their home.
He finally said goodbye to the advertising world and headed full steam into the life of the fine artist. Dorian had just finished his latest painting and had walked out onto the docks as the sun set over the trees. It had been ten years since he had come home to grief; while the first three were horrid, the last seven had seemed a blessing. Having finished the painting and watched the sun set, he decided to treat himself to a small drink at The Cove.
The Cove was the bar/restaurant on the l
ake – well not really on the lake but close enough to throw a rock into the water. It was the local hangout for many, even those not from the Lake. It was a nice little place where one could go and relax, and Dorian needed just that after working on the painting at a maddening pace. He quickly washed up, changed clothes, and was out the door walking down to The Cove for his little reward. He whistled along with the crickets joining in their song as he walked on in the moonlit skies of September.
***
Dorian sat at his usual booth in the Cove. He knew all the wait staff and the owner. Lisa, his favorite waitress, greeted him warmly as he sat down and took off his jacket. The bar was half full, and the aroma of old smoke, alcohol, and cooked food wafted in the air and permeated his senses. It was a welcome smell to Dorian, and he ordered his usual, Crown and Seven, which stood for Crown Royal and 7 Up. He rarely drank; it was only on special occasions that he would imbibe the spirits.
This night was one of those nights. Dorian had finished his latest painting in record time. Lisa returned with his drink, took his money, and was about to leave when Dorian spoke up, “Hey Lisa, got a second?”. He then sipped his drink, watching her. After a few seconds, he thought she didn’t hear him and was about to speak up again when she answered him.
“Sure, Dorian. Whatcha need?” she asked.
“I was talking with Wayne the last time I was in here about those photographs hanging above the bar. I wanted to purchase them for my house; they are quite good. I understand they are yours.” He paused and noticed Lisa put her head down. “Funny thing though” he chuckled a little while sipping a bit from his drink “he wouldn’t sell them to me. Heck, he was pretty adamant about it, too.” She looked puzzled and slumped her shoulders. Dorian asked, “Is there a way I can at least get a print of them?”
For a moment, she sat there silent. Dorian could tell she was taken back by her new-found fan. “Wow. Thank you, Dorian. I can’t believe that Wayne won’t sell them to you. I will just have to have a talk with him about that. I do try; anything to put some extra money for college and all in the cookie jar. Let me talk with the grumbly bear and see what I can do. You really want the originals?” she asked.
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2011 Page 36
