“Very good, old friend. It would have worked, too,” Van Helsing said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Except she fought me, wanted to remain in that hellish place.” He wanted to say more, to let his pain rage out, the frustration he felt at having failed the woman that he loved.
“Abraham, I wish to the depths of my being that I had some scientific trick, some magic wand to wave, that would take away the pain that you are feeling. That I could prove to you it was all in your mind. But I know that to you it was very real,” said Bell.
Van Helsing reached into his pocket and brought out the silver swan pin. It had been real, very real. When he had awakened on the floor of Elena’s room it had been clutched in his hand, hard enough to cut into the palm.
“Do you plan to try again?”
Van Helsing shook his head. “No. Elena said that my place was here, that there was great evil that I had to confront. Lord knows what she was talking about.” As he
spoke, Van Helsing picked up the pile of mail that had accumulated on his desk. At the bottom was a letter bearing an English stamp and postmark. He opened it and half-heartedly scanned the contents.
“Joseph, when do you plan to return to Scotland?”
“I have to be back in two weeks. I was planning on leaving this Friday.”
“Good. That will be just enough time to put matters in order here. I hope that you will not object to some company, at least part way.”
“Indeed not,” said Bell. “May I ask why the sudden desire to travel to England?”
Van Helsing held up the letter. “This is from a former student of mine, John Seward. He operates an asylum near Whitby, outside of London. There is a case there he needs to consult me on.”
“Excellent. A visit to the English countryside will do you a world of good.”
-
-
Bradley H. Sinor has seen his work appear in numerous science fiction, fantasy and horror anthologies such as THE IMPROBABLE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, TALES OF THE SHADOWMEN, THE GRANTVILLE GAZETTE AND RING OF FIRE 2 and 3. Three collections of his short fiction have been released by Yard Dog Press, DARK AND STORMY NIGHTS, IN THE SHADOWS, and PLAYING WITH SECRETS (along with stories by his wife Sue Sinor.) His newest collections are ECHOES FROM THE DARKNESS (Arctic Wolf Press) and WHERE THE SHADOWS BEGAN ( Merry Blacksmith Press).
Illustration by Galen Dara.
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.
Stone City, Old as Immeasurable Time
by Kelda Crich
I stood in front of the temple entrance. It was unlike any building I’d ever seen. Instead of straight lines, the facade was cascade of spirals carved out of the face of the mountain, in pale rose stone. The entrance was a dark and open mouth, cool and inviting.
“This is ancient Cas-hal-Min,” said Jemplim. “Quite deserted for thousands of years.”
“It’s so very beautiful,” I replied. The temple was decorated with the statues of women. In Europe we called them the stone mothers, women with fertile-ripe bodies, breasts and stomachs and thighs. Instead of faces, these desert statues had ropes of carved vines, or, perhaps, featureless snakes. I pointed to the statues flanking the temple’s entrance. “You call them the Mi-Zar, the ancient mothers, don’t you?”
Jemplim frowned at my in-elegant use of his dialect, and I smiled. After all these months, he had not gotten used to the sound of accent. Jemplim spoke beautifully cultured English. It pained him to hear me mangle his native tongue. But out of politeness he allowed me to practice the language. English seemed out of place here, it felt too modern. It was better to speak the old language of the desert.
I heard music, dream-like, evocative and familiar.
“Elizabeth do you hear that?” asked Jemplim. “The wind brings music.”
I heard the music, in the far distance, as sound carried on the desert wind, a mirage of sound reflected over the sand.
“We should be going now,” said Jemplin. He touched my arm, gently and gestured to the jeep.
Jemplin was native to this land. I’d hired him six months ago to be my guide. Over the course of our search, we’d become close. Close enough, almost, to forget why I’d come here. I regretted what I had to do. Jemplin was a good man. I was going to hurt him. “No, Jemplin,” I said quietly. “I’m going inside the temple.”
“You can’t,” he said. A look of panic flooded his face. “You gave me your word.”
“I’m sorry, but did you really think I’d come this far and no further?”
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t allow it, Elizabeth.”
I’d promised that once we set foot in the courtyard, I wouldn’t attempt to enter the temple. Taboo he told me; sealed over with curses; it would be disrespectful to the dead to set foot in such a place; the temple was old and decayed and it would be dangerous to step inside. He’d given me many reasons why I shouldn’t enter the temple–but not the true one.
I took a couple of steps towards the temple entrance. When he grabbed my arm, it surprised me. He was such a gentle man. I’d never seen him raise his hand, against any creature.
“I’m begging you, Elizabeth. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Jemplim, I do know, and if you try and stop me, you know what will happen.” Already the heat shimmered in front of the stone Mi-Zar guardians. They trembled.
“This temple is the resting place of something old, something that should remain alone.”
The wind floated through the courtyard, bright-scented with the smell of desert musk.
“I know that, Jemplim.”
“You know? You lied to me?”
I nodded. “I know what’s in the temple. She waits for me.”
“Do you think that the old one will give you your children back, and that you will be happy, again? Elizabeth, she is not what you think.”
“I didn’t know that you knew, about my children,” I said. I thought that I’d been so clever, so discreet.
“It seems that we have both been withholding the truth. Elizabeth,” said Jemplim. “When a woman seeks this city, it is the first thing that we think of. We made enquiries. I know that you lost your children. But I’d hoped that your story was true. I convinced myself that you were looking only for knowledge, not for the gifts of the mother.”
“Why did you bring me here, Jemplim?”
“You would have found the way. When she calls to a woman, they find the way.” He stared into my face. “And, I did not want you to be alone at this time.” He stroked my throat. “The stone mother will not give you back your children, Elizabeth.”
“She will.” She had made the promise in my dreams. That’s why I’d travelled across the world to find her.
“She will not. She will give you something that looks like them, sounds and thinks like them, but underneath there will be something other, something old, and strange born in the distant skies. The things that are waiting to be born, Elizabeth. The women of my family know this. The times of bitterness have taught them. That is why she’s reaching out to others.”
“You have no choice, Jemplim.” I kissed him gently, lightly as a mother would kiss a child. “Go back to your tribe. We’ll make our own way, or perhaps we will stay. This temple has been deserted for too long.”
“If I go, I’ll bring the men of my tribe to kill the creatures that come out of the temple. They will not be your children, and we will not endure such things to live.”
“You will try, Jem
plim, I never excepted anything less of you.”
He stared at me, trying to read the language in my face. But he never truly understood me, we came together a little ways. But no further.
I tried to take another step, but Jemplim held me tightly. The stone guardian turned her head towards us, the stone tentacles beginning to unwind.
I did not think that a man could make such a desolate cry.
Jemplim left me.
I continued my journey, to tread the path, so many other mothers, had trod before. My children. Nothing would keep me from them. .
The stone mother knew that, she understood the language of my heart, and old and alien as she was, I would speak to her. And if my children helped the old mother bring her own children to life, then what of it? I understood her. We spoke the same language.
-
-
Kelda Crich is a new-born entity. She’s been lurking in her host’s mind for some time, but now, she wants her own credits. Find her in the intestines of London, laughing at the status quo, or on her blog: http://keldacrichblog.blogspot.com/
Illustration by Steve Santiago.
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.
Just An Accountant
by Henrik Sandbeck Harksen
“Mr. Topic, will you come with me, please?” The square officer looming in the doorway looked at Tom Topic. At this hour the sun was beginning to set in the horizon behind the quiet, peaceful suburban community, blazing the world in a red-orange hue, so that his dark silhouette was even more intimidating.
“Er . . . yes. Yes, of course, officer,” the tiny man answered. He took his favorite coat and walked out, straight on the heels of the officer. He hoped against hope that no one would notice the police. He knew Anna, his wife, would die of shame if she got home only to hear from the ever-gossiping neighborhood housewives that the Law had taken her husband away.
When soon after they drove away with blue lights blinking, he somehow doubted he would have such luck.
The sun had set and twilight was waning when they stopped outside the police station. Here Tom Topic was ushered inside the large, dark building. None of the police officers had been very talkative—in fact: not talkative at all—so he’d had plenty of time in the car to ponder nervously what was going on, fidgeting with the corner of his light grey, well-worn coat. Why had they come for him, and why now? Surely it couldn’t be about that ten bucks he found on the street two months ago, which he hadn’t handed in at the station. If that was the case they would have contacted him a long time ago. Besides, it was really a minor offense. More likely they would have simply mailed him a fine, not bothering to spend expensive manpower apprehending him at his house.
It couldn’t be a question of taxes either; his were paid to the cent; he knew that for sure. After all, he was an accountant. A good and honest one, at that.
Unless he had unknowingly broken the law in some other way, that only left one case open—which he sure hoped wasn’t a ‘a case’: his secret night of infidelity half a year ago with a young Mexican woman. He and his wife had been on a much-needed vacation, and although it had started off well it soon hit an all-time low, with the standard arsenal of accusations and bickerings entering what was supposed to be a ‘new beginning.’ It had ended in a heated argument resulting in her going some place she just had to see, and him . . . well, going pub crawling.
At this thought he almost laughed (something which would have startled the silent men around him in the car)—the idea of him going pub crawling, at his age. Ridiculous. It was—what?—twenty years ago he’d last gone pub crawling. Even then he hadn’t been very good at it. But of course it was destined to go wrong.
That’s not how it started out, however. Not only did it feel good to get his mind off the problems with Anna; he also had the luck to meet a woman, a very beautiful woman. He had been flattered and much appreciative to the dark-haired woman’s company and interest in him. What sane man wouldn’t be? Such womanly beauty and passion! It looked to be a night he would remember for the rest of his life. But as it was, he only remembered snippets.
Not surprisingly, the next day’s hangovers were not merely physical. Far from. But he and his wife made up the same afternoon, agreeing it had been a stupid argument. He never told her what he’d done. She never asked.
He hoped this wasn’t the reason for the cops’ social call this evening. The moral aspect of it aside (bad enough in itself), the repercussions from the State were severe. Infidelity was a crime calling for strict penances these days.
He involuntarily shuddered, huddled in his coat, and fumbled with his glasses. No, he sure hoped not . . . He had sworn he would never do anything like that again. He had learned his lesson. And his marriage had improved since.
But that still left the question: Why now?
With a troubled mind, he stepped out of the vehicle and ascended the stairs to the building, a fragile figure surrounded by ominous policemen.
* * *
After a long walk up and down winding corridors, he was ordered to take a seat on a small bench outside a massive oak door.
Everyone left.
This particular corridor was poorly lit. The single light bulb hanging from the ceiling frequently winked out. As far as he could tell there wasn’t even a camera around. He sighed and pushed the glasses up from the tip of the nose. Tom Topic understood why the officers had left him here without anyone keeping an eye on him. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t find his way back.
After an unnervingly duration without light from the bulb, he was about to raise his arm and take a look at the clock when the door opened.
“Please enter, Mr. Topic,” said a pleasant male voice.
Straightening his coat and clearing his throat, he stood and did as requested.
“Er . . . Thank you.”
An antique chandelier gave friendly light to a large office that looked like it was taken straight out of one of those old English movies—exquisite oak panels lined with rows upon rows of books giving the place the air of an ancient library; a large, carved desk with a few, neat piles of paper. If not for the state of the art computer screen facing the just-as-modern desk chair and the oversized flatscreen TV on the wall, the illusion of having travelled back in time would have been complete. Even the thick carpet fit perfectly.
The door closed behind him.
“Please take a seat, Mr. Topic.”
The medium height man walked past and sat in the desk chair. About forty years old, he was impeccably dressed in an expensive grey suit with matching tie.
When he saw that Tom hadn’t moved, he signaled him to come and sit. “Please.”
Not thinking of removing his coat, he sat down in the more plain chair.
“Well, Mr. Topic. You are perhaps wondering why we have brought you in?”
He cleared his throat, but couldn’t utter a sound. Instead he made a feeble attempt at nodding.
“I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Topic,” the man stated gravely. “It’s a serious case, and probably more serious than you realised when you got involved.”
The TV screen flashed with a large close-up picture. Tom Topic gasped.
“I believe you know Miss Salma Cortez?”
There she was, face filling the screen—the Mexican woman he met that night six months ago. But rather than a seductive mischievous look in her eyes, she looked pale and empty.
It was the photo of a dead
woman.
“She was found dead almost twelve hours ago,” he said, checking the time on the pc screen. “Of course we went through her things to see if we could find any clues—you know: if it really was a natural death, or if some kind of foul play had occurred, who she’d had contact with lately etc., etc.. Standard procedure.”
Topic was sure it was, but he had no idea how that related to him being here.
“All of this went down rather smoothly. Finding her notebook helped us a great deal in giving a clearer picture about her whereabouts.”
He looked long at Topic, calculating his reaction to the image on the screen, then chose his next words carefully.
“Imagine my surprise when I learned that not only are the amazingly few people she has been in contact with in the last year dead, no, your name also popped up, Mr. Topic. The only one encircled in red, as if something important. Not only that, no, no . . . Next to the circle was a word.”
The picture changed, showing a clear photo of a page in a used, smeared notebook. Next to the circle was written, in a female hand, ‘Quishar!’
The man behind the desk leaned forward, scrutinizing Topic’s perplexed expression. “Tell me, Mr. Topic, why did you join the Cabale? Why does she say you are a Symboligician?”
Topic was at a loss. He sweated and fumbled with his coat, trying to force speech from his dry mouth. What was the man talking about? What was all this? He took off his glasses, put them on again. Raised his hands, waved in confusion.
“I don’t know, sir,” he managed finally. “I am just an accountant.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up, and an involuntary, short laugh escaped him.
“‘Just an accountant,’ you say? I’d say . . .” A smirk crossed his lips.
The picture changed again—back to the dead woman. It was horrible, but even in death she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“You see, Mr. Topic, Miss Cortez testifies that you are a Symbologician, and that somehow doesn’t ring true with being ‘just an accountant.’ ”
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2011 Page 48
