The Grimscribe's Puppets

by Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.

  He took a step and the chamber rolled beneath his feet—all around him, in fact—as though adjusting to accommodate the sudden shift in weight. He took another step, and another, and another, each one provoking the same effect. And now he noticed that the more he walked, the bigger the trees appeared, as if he were indeed making progress, closing the distance between himself and “the forest.”

  He stopped and looked around. Even the trees to his right and left seemed closer, as did those to his rear. Impressed but unnerved by what had to be an optical illusion, he remained where he stood, trying to figure it out. Impossibly, though, despite his stillness, the phenomenon persisted: the trees continued to draw closer, loom larger. And now—now they hardly looked like trees at all, not even abstracted ones. More like people, he thought, or rather the shadows of people. Oddly shaped, yes, but unmistakably humanoid.

  And with that, their movement ceased. Or so he thought until he looked over his shoulder and found them closer still. He whirled again and again, trying but failing to catch the shadows in motion. Yet each turn found them nearer, larger, more distinct.

  Though their black-as-night forms conveyed no discernable detail, their basic shapes and outlines suggested modes of dress from a variety of historical periods. Coats and tails, top hats and cloaks, bustles and bonnets, cuirasses and morions: all were among the accessories of fashion he perceived in the advancing shadows. Others he vaguely recognized but could not put a name to, while a few struck him as absolutely … alien was the word that came to mind—alive too, as if they were not, in fact, merely the trappings of fashion, but anatomical features of the shadowthings themselves.

  Suddenly the thought of their approach filled him with a greater dread than any he had ever felt, and not knowing why made it all the worse. He stopped spinning, held his breath, stood as still as possible, hoping to halt the shadows by staring only at the ones directly in front of him. But still they advanced, stretching, billowing, pouring toward him down the curving walls like sentient pools of black molasses. He wanted to run, but there was no place to go, so he held his ground, trying to make himself as small as possible, trying to delay the inevitable.

  But now they were less than twenty feet away. And oozing ever closer. The nearer they drew, the more he could feel himself on the verge of remembering—things he did not wish to remember, countless, tormentful things, things too big and awful for a single head to hold.

  And now he could hear them whispering, a swarming chorus of indecipherable sibilance, an aural tangle of serpent hisses that something deep within him almost understood, almost made sense of, almost accepted as indisputable truth. It seemed to come as much from their movement as from any form of speech—as if, it suddenly occurred to him, both were one and the same: ooze-slither-hiss-ooze-slither-hiss …

  They began to blend, fuse, meld—two here, three there, growing, changing, reaching out to him now with arms impossibly long, arms and legs and … and things too strange to name.

  As they pooled on the floor around him, he realized that the once vast chamber had shrunk to suffocating closeness.

  Or have I grown? he wondered.

  Whichever the case, the result was the same: the shadowthings were upon him now, and all he could do was—

  The first one touched his shoe, and he felt it—cold as ice— bleed into his foot.

  “One,” it whispered, its voice as chill as its touch.

  Another touched his other foot, provoking the same sensation.

  “Two,” it whispered.

  “Three,” another.

  “Four,” another.

  One by one they touched him. And whispered. And bled into his being.

  “Five.”

  “Six.”

  “Seven.”

  His feet were now as black as the shadowthings themselves. Black and cold and of questionable solidity. He tried to move them but could not. Yet move they did. Of their own volition. Subtly at first, then convulsively. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

  “Eight.”

  “Nine.”

  “Ten.”

  The frigid blackness rose up his shins and thighs, like dark wine filling a goblet, bringing the convulsions with it. His legs and feet twitched in unison, but only for a moment, two at the most, after which their movements became more fluid, more languid, more balletic than spasmodic.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Twenty.”

  With each liquid shadow that poured into his person, the gelid blackness rose higher, claiming more of himself.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  He looked away, forced his gaze upward, refusing to watch any more.

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Thirty.”

  It reached his chest, found and filled his heart, flooded his arms and hands. Even his fingertips could not escape. His entire body had joined the stygian dance; he could feel it moving about, stretching here, twisting there, striking bizarre poses, making arcane gestures, assuming impossible positions. And, most horrifying of all, he could feel it changing shape, losing and gaining parts, exchanging this for that, these for those, less for more, and more and more and …

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “Thirty-five.”

  It reached his neck, sluiced his throat, claimed his mouth and tongue.

  “Thirty-six,” he heard himself whisper.

  Then his eyes went as black as all that lay below, and his thoughts were no longer his own. . . .

  The Company Town

  By Nicole Cushing

  About two weeks after Mom’s funeral, Dad loaded up a moving van and drove us north to the company town. In between puffs on his cigarette, he tried to get me to go to sleep. “The trip will go faster that way,” he said.

  “But I don’t want to leave Louisville,” I whined. “Indiana’s dumb. Meghan and Cheyenne are going to start middle school without me.“

  He let out a sigh and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He looked like he was on the verge of another crying jag, but knew he couldn’t give into it because he was driving.

  I turned on my side and tried to act like I was taking a nap. I kept my eyes half-open, though, so I could glance at the shopping mall and Chuck E. Cheese’s and skating rink I was leaving behind. I wanted a last look at each of them. I didn’t want our van to cross the bridge into southern Indiana. I suspected that the only things to see out the window, there, were dumb van stops, dumb junkyards, and dumb cows. At least, that’s what Meghan and Cheyenne had told me when I gave them the bad news.

  But cross, we did. I spotted a dented, dingy sign welcoming us to our new state. A heaviness settled in my throat as I considered the fact that the entire Ohio River now stood between me and Mom’s grave. Why were we just leaving her there? The whole thing felt disloyal. Having seen all I cared to see of Indiana for the day, I decided I preferred sleep. I closed my eyes completely, this time napping for real.

  ~*~

  By the time I woke, night had fallen. The van was making an awkward, too-crazy-a-curve exit off the interstate and I could hear all of our boxes shifting and flopping around in the back. I looked out the window and tried to find the moon, but couldn’t. Plenty of streetlamps brightened the roadside, though. Moths fluttered around them and into them, over and over. Much of this light made it into the van, but some of it didn’t. I turned my head toward Dad and thought I noticed his cheeks were moist.

  “You’re up?” he asked. He sounded like he’d accidentally let me glimpse something I wasn’t supposed to see. “Why don’t you get a little more sleep?”

  I fidgeted in my seat. Looked out the window and saw a long, squat, red brick building. A white sign with black lettering announced it as: PISTOL STORAGE. Similar buildings lined both sides of the road, adorned with signs revealing them to be ROPE STORAGE and PILL
STORAGE.

  I pointed to the latter. “Looks like they’re ready in case the whole town gets sick,” I said, noting the building’s size.

  Dad just bit his lip the way he always did when he was trying to find a way to tell me something he knew I wouldn’t like. Then he changed the subject. “Okay, let’s find a motel.”

  “But you told Aunt Susan that we had a place to—”

  “Never mind what I told Aunt Susan. Just do your old man a favor and keep an eye out for someplace to stay.”

  We drove beyond the well-lit warehouse district and into a shadowy block littered with deserted storefronts and one or two places that looked like they might have been bars. On the side of an old brick house there was a flickering red neon sign that said “INFORMATION.” I pointed it out to Dad.

  “Atta girl,” he said. He pulled the moving van toward the curb with his left hand while tousling my curls with his right. Part of his palm rested on my forehead. It felt sweaty. “Okay now, let’s do this.”

  I’d looked forward to getting out of the van. I needed to stretch my legs. But the moment my nostrils hit the company town’s sour air, I dry heaved.

  Dad coughed and tried to pass it off as a giggle. “Getting sick, eh? You’re just nervous about seeing your new town, ain’tcha?”

  I held my breath and rushed inside, tramping through the lobby’s thick, maroon carpet to join Dad at the counter. A pale, wrinkled lady stood behind it. She had dark circles under her eyes and her scraggly gray hair looked as though it hadn’t been combed in months.

  “Where’s the nearest place to stay for the night?”

  Her voice cracked when she spoke. “That information’s for authorized personnel only. May I see your identification please?”

  “I’m sorry...maybe you misunderstood. I just need directions to a motel.”

  “Sir, I asked for your identification. No ID, no directions.”

  Dad paused as though considering his options, then retrieved his driver’s license and pushed it toward her.

  Her face scrunched up into something I think was supposed to be a smirk. “I’m sorry, sir. This just won’t do. I meant, company identification.”

  Underneath the counter, Dad’s hand started to tremble. “I’m...well I’m between jobs right now.”

  She began typing something into a computer. “I see. Here for business reasons, I take it? A potential customer?”

  “Yes, here to make a purchase.”

  “For you and your daughter?”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice, but I could still hear him. “Of course for both of us. The girl’s mother just died. You don’t think I’d leave her all alone, do you? I was thinking we’d do it with a garage. That way we could both do it at the same time for one price. It’d be, well, you know, easier than some of the other ways, too.”

  “All of the methods are easy here. Relatively speaking, I mean. That’s the whole point. Once you make the purchase, there’s no need to work up the courage. If I may (for a moment) be frank, the company specializes in a clientèle of cowards. Too many folks just want to play Hamlet. But once you make the purchase, the company takes it from there. The company makes things happen. For example: on the morning of the event, they sedate you so you don’t try to run. You know, in case you change your mind. A sedation fee is included with each and every method.”

  Dad’s voice began to quiver. “Even the g-garage? That doesn’t make sense. It’s just...I mean, the exhaust carries with it all the sedation we’ll need.”

  The lady shook her head. “Potential customers tend to come here rather out of sorts. If you don’t mind me speaking plainly, sir, you have come here out of sorts. Sedation is required for each and every method. Therefore, a sedation fee is automatically added to each and every method.”

  Dad ran his fingers over his stubble. If he’d had a full beard it would have looked like he was stroking it thoughtfully. He would have looked wise. But he didn’t have a beard. He only had about two weeks’ growth. “You care to tell me what other expenses didn’t make it onto the website?”

  “I can assure you, sir, that all of the fees are enumerated quite specifically online. These are the rules. The rules for everyone. Is it possible that you were, perhaps, not of the most sound mind when perusing our web page?”

  He began searching his pants for his pack of Camels. “So basically, we drove all the way up here from Louisville for nothing.”

  “My word. Not at all! I can’t think of a single customer who’s been able to pay for the service, out of pocket. Even with credit cards.”

  Dad tilted his head like a confused dog. “Beg pardon?”

  The woman leaned over to her side. She retrieved a plastic three-ring binder, flipped past a few of the dividers until she reached the section she wanted, and pushed down to break the metal rings apart. They let out a loud snap. Then she took a bunch of papers out.

  “Everyone I’ve seen come through town ends up making arrangements to work their fee off. We’ll take the money that you brought with you as a down payment, of course. And you can sell things—all but your most essential belongings—to the company store. Then you can begin working, until you pay off the rest. We certainly need people to work in the warehouses. But other...well...other fields are better compensated. Are you a good marksman? Can you tie a noose?”

  Dad started to stammer a response, but the lady continued.

  “Of course, there will be expenses deducted. Food allowance. Tuition for your little girl to attend the company school so that she can learn skills that are in demand. So that some day she can pay off her part of the fee. That sort of thing.”

  “So how much are we talking about. I mean...total costs.”

  She swiveled her computer monitor around so Dad could see it.

  “That’s not what the website said. Nowhere near what the website said.”

  The woman nodded. “Fair enough. Then I suppose you’ll be on your way?” She handed Dad’s license back to him.

  He tucked it into his wallet. Then he stood there for a long time, just sort of staring at something in the middle of the wallet. This whole trip had been creepy and sad, but nothing felt creepier or sadder than that stretch of time (a minute? five minutes?) when he just stood there, looking at the middle of his wallet, all bug-eyed. “No,” he said (finally breaking his silence). “It’s a high price. But, honestly, I think it’s worth it.”

  “We all do,” the lady said. “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, it’s been about twenty-seven years since I first arrived. I only need to stay hired here another six months until I’ve worked off the fee. Then the company will take arms against my sea of troubles and by opposing, end them.”

  Dad nodded and smiled and ended up signing a lot of papers that night. Oodles and oodles of them. I ended up walking over to a bench and catching some zees. I realized the whole thing would go faster that way.

  The Man Who Escaped This Story

  By Cody Goodfellow

  So, what are we to discuss today, erm… What is your name today? That would be a good place to start.

  No names, please––names are lies, except for the one you choose for yourself, and I won’t…I can’t… I get a different one every time I try to remember it, and if I gave you one, I wouldn’t be the same person who needs to talk to you.

  Well then, shall we begin with what you are?

  That changes too, I’m afraid, and never for the better. Have you always wanted to be a psychiatrist?

  As long as I can remember, yes. It’s my calling.

  Calling, sure. But have you ever thought of being anything else?

  Everyone fantasizes about a different life, but I’m always a fantasizing psychiatrist. But enough about me. What of the essential “you?” What are you, that never changes?

  I’m a whipping boy. I’m the pain-puppet of an angry, third-rate god.

  Well, now we’re getting somewhere. That’s a common enough delusion––not an easy dragon to
slay…

  That’s just the sort of thing one of His characters would say––

  So you’re convinced that you’re a––

  We all are.

  ~*~

  What did a guy have to do to summon the Devil around here?

  Mr. Furst was used to getting results, and he’d been trying for a solid month; tried everything he’d seen in movies or read in tabloids and paperback grimoires, even a few new things he’d come up with on his own. But the road to true Biblical evil had been far harder than Sunday school would have you believe.

  Even for so naturally immoral a person as he, the descent into mindful malevolence had been harder and more painful than a willfully benevolent soul might find the ascent to sainthood. It was a lonely lookout, and with none of the easy gains they squawked about in the Bible, he thought as he lit another Kent Menthol off the guttering butt of the last, so wrung out he forgot to pick up matches on the way home.

  Because of the sacrifice.

  He picked up a stray cat that rubbed itself against his trouser leg in the park at midnight. Taking it for a sign, he’d bundled the vermin up in his coat and run to an alley, where he’d cut its head off with a pocketknife and used the carcass as a brush to paint the sigil of the Ascending Dragon just like in the Pocket Books Edition of the Necronomicon. Then he’d waited, reciting some Babylonian nonsense and some Iron Maiden lyrics, but nothing came of it.

  He sneezed out the cherry on his cigarette. The cat hair on his coat had his allergies at meltdown status. Now his cigarette was out, and not even two sticks to rub together for a flame. Same old shit, again and again...