“Caitlín R. Kiernan writes like a Gothic cathedral on fire.”—Poppy Z. Brite
Praise for the novels of Caitlín R. Kiernan
Low Red Moon
“Kiernan only grows in versatility, and readers should continue to expect great things from her.”
—Locus
“The familiar caveat ‘not for the faint of heart’ is appropriate here—the novel is one of sustained dread punctuated by explosions of unmitigated terror.”
—Irish Literary Review
“Effective evocations of the supernatural…a memorable expansion of the author’s unique fictional universe.”
—Publishers Weekly
Murder of Angels
“I love a book like this that happily blends genres, highlighting the best from each, but delivering them in new configurations…. In Murder of Angels, the darkness is poetic, the fantasy is gritty, and the real-world sections are rooted in deep and true emotions. Lyrical and earthy, Murder of Angels is that rare book that gets everything right.”
—Charles de Lint
“[Kiernan’s] punk-rock prose, and the brutally realistic portrayal of addiction and mental illness, makes Angels fly.”
—Entertainment Weekly (A-)
“Kiernan’s best book to date, joining her always prodigious gift for language with a wrenching, compelling story.”
—Locus
“Kiernan can write like a banshee…. [She] paints her pages in feverish, chiaroscuro shades. A bridge to the beyond, built out of exquisite dread.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Threshold
“Threshold is a bonfire proclaiming Caitlín R. Kiernan’s elevated position in the annals of contemporary literature. It is an exceptional novel you mustn’t miss. Highly recommended.”
—Cemetery Dance
“A distinctively modern tale that invokes cosmic terrors redolent of past masters H. P. Lovecraft and Algernon Blackwood…. A finale that veers unexpectedly from a seemingly inevitable display of supernatural fireworks to a subtly disarming denouement only underscores the intelligence behind this carefully crafted tale of awe-inspired nightmare.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[Caitlín R. Kiernan is] the most singular voice to enter the genre since Neil Gaiman popped up in graphic novels and Stephen King made movies live inside books…. If you haven’t sampled her work yet, you haven’t really been reading the future of horror and dark fantasy, only its past.”
—Lisa DuMond, SF Site, ME Views
“Kiernan’s prose is tough and characterized by nightmarish description. Her brand of horror is subtle, the kind that is hidden in the earth’s ancient strata and never stays where it can be clearly seen.”
—Booklist
“Threshold confirms Kiernan’s reputation as one of dark fiction’s premier stylists. Her poetic descriptions ring true and evoke a sense of cosmic dread to rival Lovecraft. Her writing envelopes the reader in a fog concealing barely glimpsed horrors that frighten all the more for being just out of sight.”
—Gauntlet Magazine
Praise for Silk
Winner of the International Horror Guild Award
for Best First Novel
Finalist for the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel
Nominated for the British Fantasy Award
“[Caitlin R. Kiernan’s] tightly focused, unsparing, entranced gaze finds significance and beauty in the landscape it surveys.”
—Peter Straub
“A remarkable novel…deeply, wonderfully, magnificently nasty.”
—Neil Gaiman
“A daring vision and an extraordinary achievement.”
—Clive Barker
“Kiernan’s work is populated with the physically freaky, mentally unstable, sexually marginalized characters who have caused so much consternation in conventional circles—but Caitlín Kiernan is headed in an entirely different direction. Her unfolding of strange events evokes not horror, but a far larger sense of awe.”
—Poppy Z. Brite
“[Kiernan] has what it takes to excite me as a reader…. Think of Poppy Z. Brite with slightly more accessible prose and characters who aren’t quite so outré…. I just loved this book and can’t wait to see what she writes next.”
—Charles de Lint
“Kiernan’s writings seem to be a successful blending of…Poppy Z. Brite and Dean Koontz…. Will appeal to audiences of both authors.”
—BookBrowser
“An observational coming-of-age novel that astutely and empathetically provides connection between characters and readers…. A skillfully constructed Southern gothic of profound creepiness…an incremental triumph of texture and layering, harkening back to an earlier tradition of supernatural fiction, an era when storytelling took as much time as it needed to accrue the maximum effect…. Hers is a dark and mellifluous voice to which we should listen.”
—Locus
“Kiernan’s writing is meaty, atmospheric, and evocative; her prose is well crafted and terrifically engaging…. Silk is a strong first showing, and Kiernan should have a bright future ahead of her.”
—Fangoria
“An engrossing and exquisitely lyrical novel…that could conceivably transfuse characters and settings with a Poppy Z. Brite novel.”
—Hellnotes
“A novel with an uncommonly rich texture…should establish [Kiernan] as an important writer of the future. This novel transcends the goth genre.”
—Necrofile
“Spun as beautifully as the many webs within…. You absolutely must read it.”
—Carpe Noctem
“A masterful story by an extraordinary new voice in literature…on her way to becoming an incredibly well-known—and well-respected—talent. Silk is simply the extraordinary beginning of an incredible journey, both for Kiernan and her readers.”
—Alabama Forum
“Kiernan is uniquely herself, but even if you miss the endorsement by Neil Gaiman, you cannot fail to see the kindred spirit that flows through their writing. I feel no risk in voicing the opinion that if you enjoy one, you will relish the other.”
—SF Site
CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN
LOW RED
MOON
A ROC BOOK
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Originally published in a Roc trade paperback edition.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1275-2
Copyright © Caitlín R. Kiernan, 2003
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright
reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For Spooky
In memory of Elizabeth Tillman Aldridge
(1970–1995)
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE: PROVIDENCE
PART I: THE CHILDREN OF THE CUCKOO
CHAPTER ONE: DEACON
CHAPTER TWO: DEEP TIME
CHAPTER THREE: HAUNTED
CHAPTER FOUR: GYRE AND GIMBLE
CHAPTER FIVE: THE CIRCLE AND THE LINE
CHAPTER SIX: AS I HAVE HEARD FROM HELL
CHAPTER SEVEN: FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHT: PROVERBS OF HELL
CHAPTER NINE: IN CAVERNS OF THE GRAVE
CHAPTER TEN: THE POOL OF TEARS
PART II: THE HOUNDS OF CAIN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: LULLALABY
CHAPTER TWELVE: STATIONS OF THE CROSS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: AT THE RIVER’S EDGE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: MOTHER HYDRA
EPILOGUE: THE LAND OF DREAMS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Though I’ve shown great care with the phases of the moon for the month of October 2001, any readers familiar with the marshlands east of Ipswich, Massachusetts, will immediately realize that I have taken considerable liberties with the area. My decision to have the Castle Neck River double for Lovecraft’s fictional (or fictionalized) Manuxet River is based on my own reckoning, drawing largely from comparisons of “The Shadow Over Innsmouth” with various topographic and geological sources. I realize this conclusion is at odds with the work of some Lovecraft scholars, though it agrees favorably with the conclusions of still others (see, for example, a footnote in Jack Morgan’s The Biology of Horror). I should also note that Low Red Moon owes much to the poetry and prose of William Blake, especially Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, The Pickering Manuscript, The Book of Thel, America: A Prophecy, and The Book of Los. Once more, I am indebted to Martin Gardner’s invaluable notations to Lewis Carroll’s work (and, of course, to Carroll himself), as well as to the works of Charles Fort (particularly The Book of the Damned and Lo!), H. P. Lovecraft, Tennyson, John Keats, W. B. Yeats, Angela Carter, Joseph Campbell, and Carl G. Jung. This novel’s title, and some of its matter, was inspired by Belly’s 1993 album, Star, and I would also like to acknowledge the influence of Poe’s 2001 album, Haunted.
Finally, grateful thanks to my agents, Merrilee Heifetz and Julien Thuan, to my editors, Laura Anne Gilman and William Schafer, and to Jennifer R. Lee, Vann Cleveland, Kathryn (“Minister of Continuity”), Jada, Jim, Byron, Dr. David R. Schwimmer (for bringing dinosaurs to Atlanta), and to Rogue (for coming to the rescue). This novel was written on a Macintosh iBook.
Moon you made me cry when I was young
& I was young.
—Belly, “Low Red Moon” (1993)
Swimming out with tears in my eyes
looking for the shore…
—The Crüxshadows, “Tears” (2002)
PROLOGUE
Providence
The motel room smells like blood and shit and air freshener, the aerosol can sitting empty on top of the television set, and the air in the room still smells like blood. Spring Heather, the purple can promises, and Narcissa Snow has never smelled spring heather, but she’s pretty sure it doesn’t smell like an abattoir. She watches the telephone from her place by the window, the hard, uncomfortable chair the color of spicy brown mustard, and her ass keeps going numb. The drapes, which almost match the upholstery on the chair, are drawn against the rainy night outside and the prying eyes of anyone who might walk by and see her naked and crying. She’s left the plastic DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob and her gun lying on the table within easy reach, the safety off, just in case.
A watched pot never boils, someone whispers, one of the corner voices or the hooker’s head wrapped in newspaper and tied up snug in a Hefty bag, either or both or neither. Maybe she whispered it herself and just didn’t notice. A watched pot never boils, and the phone is never going to ring.
Narcissa Snow’s stomach rumbles and rolls like the thunder in the black Rhode Island sky, and she thinks about going to the bathroom to throw up again. She imagines standing under the shower and letting scalding water wash away the blood drying on her face her lips, the blood caked beneath her nails and in her tangled blonde hair. Blood and soap and the sour smell of vomit, she thinks, and goes back to watching the telephone.
“You simply should have known better, dear,” Madam Terpsichore said, scowling Madam Terpsichore three long, long hours ago in the cellar of the old house on Benefit Street. “It’s not as if we’re a club. You don’t apply for membership.” And that made all the other ghouls laugh, of course, set them to chuckling their ugly dog-bark laughter until Madam Terpsichore turned her head and scowled at them.
“But I’m not telling you anything you didn’t know already,” she said. “You’re a very bright young girl, Narcissa, and you know. I don’t have to tell you.”
And then she went back to work, the body on the slab laid open like a holy book, a flick of claws and rusted scalpel blades, an eye lifted from its socket, a severed tendon, and none of them said another word to her. Not another word, just the busy, secret whispers passed between them like scraps of flesh and gristle, nothing meant for her ears, and she watched them for a little while longer from the rickety stairs that led back up to Miss Josephine’s old house filled with antiques and vampires. All their red-yellow eyes and the wary prick of their ghoul ears at the smallest sound from the tunnels or the floor overhead, slender hands and surgeon fingers, everything that Narcissa was not and would never be no matter how many prostitutes and transients she murdered, no matter what exotic victuals she brought them pickled in balsamic vinegar and rosemary. Lucky they were letting her leave with her life, Madam Terpsichore had said, with her skin still on her bones instead of stretched tight and nailed up to dry. Lucky, lucky girl.
“Is that what I am?” Narcissa Snow mutters, asking the walls, the blood-soaked sheets and carpeting, the bits and pieces of the dead woman she hasn’t bothered to gather up yet. “Am I a lucky, lucky girl?” The corners whisper and snicker the contemptuous way that only corners can whisper, and Damn straight, they reply. You’re the luckiest goddamn girl alive.
“Fuck you,” she spits back. “I wasn’t asking you. I wasn’t really asking anyone at all.”
And how many hours left until dawn, how many days now since the last time she slept? No answers from the whisperers in her head, and she closes her eyes, wishing the room didn’t smell so bad, that she didn’t think it smelled bad, because that’s one of the reasons they didn’t take her. Like her smooth, pale skin and pretty face, and she can’t even keep down a bellyful of fresh meat and kidneys.
“Your great-grandfather was a fine man,” Madam Terpsichore said and licked her thick black lips. “Now there was a man who knew his way around a stew pot. Yes, indeed. I can still taste his sweetbreads with cloves and cinnamon.”
/> They cut out the dead man’s tongue and set it aside in a blue porcelain bowl; Narcissa reached into her leather jacket, laid her right hand on the butt of the pistol, the full clip of .45-caliber cartridges, and I could kill them all, she thought. I could kill them all right now, this minute, and slice them up with their own knives. I could dump their bodies in the Seekonk River for the fish and seagulls. I could strew them across the land like fallen leaves.
The one named Barnaby glanced at her nervously, his eyes shining in the candlelight, and maybe he knew exactly what she was thinking. Maybe they all knew and were only waiting, biding their time until she was stupid enough to try something. She winked at him and smiled, and the ghoul snarled silently and went back to work.
“Ring,” she whispers urgently to the telephone beside the bed, but it doesn’t, and the corners all laugh at once. The hooker’s head in the garbage bag has started crying again, begging to be let out, begging for its body, its intestines draped about the motel room like Christmas garland.
“Shut up,” Narcissa Snow growls. “All of you just shut the hell up right now,” but they ignore her, every one of them, and she picks up the gun, slides the barrel across her lips, her teeth, slips an index finger through the trigger guard. The sudden, sharp flavors of gunpowder and steel, metal cold against her tongue, the sight blade tickling the roof of her mouth, and she gags.
Do us all a favor, the corner voices whisper.
And the telephone does not ring.
“Will we ever be seeing you again?” Miss Josephine asked too cheerfully, taking Narcissa by the hand and showing her to the tall front doors. She shrugged, tried to smile, but the woman’s hand was like ice and marble, her eyes like silver pools of mercury. “I hope so,” Narcissa said and gave her the sealed manila envelope with the videotape inside, the tape and the motel’s phone number and maps of the necropolis beneath Swan Point cemetery and Boston and Stonington, Connecticut.
Low Red Moon Page 1
