Weirdbook 31

by Doug Draa

  He saw her then, standing on the opposite bank. She had an uncanny resemblance to those monsters of his dream, some nights before, except her face was pie-shaped, less protruded. She stood over ten feet tall, bipedal, long arms extending to needle-like nails. Two sallow breasts hung low on her chest. Her hair was lank, her body gaunt, with smooth skin stretched paper-thin over an emaciated skeleton. Eyes, black as pitch, were smiling at Kevin.

  Willow stood obediently at the creature’s side, naked and bedraggled. She too was staring at Kevin, her face in mechanical motion of silent terror. Rivulets of blood painted her body, and she was stuck in a half-crouched position, as if broken somewhere on the inside.

  With the effect of moving in slow motion, the creature lurched forward. She stomped a wide foot into the river and raised a pulsating hand, fingers pulling at dead air. Thin laughter accented her movement, as she approached Kevin.

  His body recoiled. He heard his boots slip, felt the world spin, and the cold bite of the river through his pants. He met the creature’s extended forearm with a raise of bear spray, his last memory being the sound of released pressure followed by a nebulous gray fog, a cloud of particles fouling the air. Then the darkness, and a length of time that could have been immeasurable, for all its obscurity.

  * * * *

  The forest around him stood tall and ancient, like a grove of sentinels that had all but devoured every tome of history known to man. Figuratively, Kevin had lost his sense of direction. His mind was only “half-there,” accustomed now to being vaguely present; void of recollection, or thoughts of the future. He was distinctly aware, though, of the cold and wet ground beneath him. He was aware that he was sitting on the forest floor, his back against a tree. And he was aware that he was alive, albeit in considerable pain. The sounds of a highway fluctuated from afar, as if echoing the indeterminate lull of his breathing—an exercise that provoked a sting of fire and red-hot steel to surge between his ribs with each passing breath.

  His backpack sat neatly across his legs, the top pocket splayed open, revealing a thicket of short, natty hair, scabbed flesh, and the corner of a blue bandana. Kevin stared at the ensemble; it seemed absurd that such a gruesome thing had found its way onto his “list” of gear, into his backpack. His thoughts receded and it was more of the cold and wet earth, a punch of wind carrying the smell of rain.

  The sound of tires ambling over gravel made him look up. He felt a vast bewilderment to his surroundings—nothing ringing a bell, or striking a chord, other than the vehicle slowly approaching. It was a Subaru Outback.

  He heard the squeal of brakes, the metallic acoustics of a door opening, and then, “Kevin?”

  Shoes crossing dirt.

  “Kevin? Is that you?”

  The voice summoned a visceral sense of nostalgia inside him, followed immediately by anxious dread.

  “My god, what happened?”

  She was there, he knew…below the trees, cold and ugly, those smiling eyes.

  He felt Vanessa’s hands crawl over him, inspecting and caressing. They reached for the backpack, discovered its contents, and then his wife screamed; a shriek that was like the busting of a dam.

  At once Kevin remembered everything: The day Mother took him in, at the river; the following days of servitude, crawling through endless mud and gore; the quiet nights, suckling mindlessly at her breasts; the hours she spent pulling Vance apart, Willow at her side; and the miles and miles of tunnels below.

  Kevin hunched forward and retched, a spate of crimson bile and tangled hair splashing onto his lap, gagging the breath out of him. He felt the ground rumble, thought to tell Vanessa to run like the wind, to get in the car and stand on the pedal, but he knew it was too late. He had already heard the laughter.

  SONNETS OF AN ELDRITCH BENT, by W. H. Pugmire

  “The Hound”

  I hear your ceaseless cry in tortured ear

  As fate solidifies before my eye.

  This Holland hill will be my moonlit bier

  On which my mangled corpse will putrefy.

  My breastbone is the bed of your icon,

  Your amulet composed of antique jade;

  That emblem formed in forgotten aeon,

  That distant age of which you are one shade.

  Ah, Sphinx of Hell, your grin is ever-wide,

  It is the final doom I gaze upon.

  No paltry god can stall my homicide,

  No poetry from Necronomicon.

  I take your savage kiss into my heart

  As trenchant recompense for arcane art.

  “The Haunter of the Dark”

  Your lure was one that I could not resist,

  And thus I staggered up your high plateau.

  A sense of hazard could not be dismissed,

  Its presence struck me as oppressive blow.

  I crawled into your vaulted cellar space,

  That place adorned with cobweb filigree.

  I felt your darkness press against my face

  As I crept forward through your vast debris.

  I moved like dream through your colossal nave,

  Where dying sunlight touched a blackened pane.

  The paintings on your tainted windows gave

  Me pause—the saints depicted were not sane.

  I found the fabled stone that served as gate

  For that which signaled my appalling fate.

  “Pickman’s Model”

  Shew me the anatomy of fear,

  Dazzle me with its morbid design.

  Let me sense its presence drawing near;

  Then, embracing it, I’ll make it mine.

  Ah, the physiology of fright—

  How it can enthrall and captivate.

  Teach me how to kiss the dreadful night,

  Let your canvas serve as passion’s gate.

  I can smell the dim and antique time

  That you’ve captured with your wizard art.

  I’ll descend into your pit of slime

  Where humanity will fall apart,

  Where I’ll move in ghoulish dance and laugh

  With the creature caught in photograph.

  “The Outsider”

  Oh, you are but a distant memory,

  A phantom in some mental corridor,

  A spectral and elusive visitor

  I might have known in time of infancy.

  Did you, in childhood’s hour, caress my head,

  And silence childhood’s agony and gloom;

  Or hold me in some dank and lonesome room

  Where, wretchedly, I dwelt among the dead?

  I call for you within the haunted place,

  Although I cannot recollect your name.

  I stagger ‘neath black trees, confused and lame,

  And try to catch in memory your face.

  Perhaps you rest within the heap of bone

  To which I stumble, dazed and doomed, alone.

  THE GRIMLORN UNDER THE MOUNTAIN, by James Aquilone

  They were halfway up the mountain when Max fell into the yawning cave mouth.

  He had been resting on a boulder as Richard went off to relieve himself. Max was happy for the break. Richard had been practically racing up the mountain. Max kept telling him to slow down, he was pushing a heart attack. But Richard was being his usual vindictive self. “Maybe if you stopped complaining you’d be able to keep up, princess,” he would say, and run ahead.

  Max knew saying yes to the “excursion” was a bad idea. But his brother was adamant and Max still felt guilty about that stupid loan.

  He was ready to head back down the mountain, call it a day, when Richard returned from his bathroom break.

  Max barely had time to stand before Richard charged and drove his shoulder into Max’s midsection. Max stumbled bac
k three steps, and then he went down. He expected to land on the ground, but instead he fell through the air.

  Time froze. The world went silent.

  Max must have cartwheeled, because he landed on his belly, hitting the water with a flat smack. It felt like he’d been whacked with a sledgehammer.

  Somehow he fought his way back to the surface. It took a long moment before he caught his breath, looked up, and saw Richard leaning over a rough circular opening in the chamber’s ceiling, like the oculus in a cathedral, at least thirty feet above him.

  “Don’t worry, Maxwell!” Richard’s voice boomed through the chamber. “You’ll be fine. You’re always fine.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Max shouted. “You’ve got to get help, Richard! You’ve got to call someone!”

  “Sorry, princess! It’s a done deal.” Richard shrugged—and then the hole closed like a pair of jaws.

  Max was entombed in darkness. He screamed, “Richard! Richard! This isn’t funny!” His voice thundered and rolled off into the cave’s depths.

  Did Richard just try to kill him? He was always a bit sadistic—that’s how big brothers are made—but this was madness. Let’s go for a nice excursion in nature like when we were kids, he said. Real nice.

  Max treaded in the water, hoping Richard would appear above him, laugh, and throw down a rope. Hey, little bro, just kidding, ha-ha-ha. But then Max recalled Richard’s smug expression when he charged and that casual shrug just before the cave mouth closed.

  He began to swim.

  He had traveled about twenty yards when he heard a voice calling his name.

  “Max-well… Max-well…”

  A finger of cold slid down his back.

  “Max-well…”

  The voice creaked like the opening of an ancient crypt door. It was as rough as glass scraped against stone, but Max was sure it was coming from a woman.

  His hand landed on a narrow ledge just above the water line. His foot slipped off the slick rock four times before he was finally able to gain purchase and climb out of the water.

  He stood against the rock wall, trembling. The sepulchral voice came again.

  “Max-welllllll…”

  He thought of answering, but his voice stuck in his throat. He reached for the cellphone in his back pocket. It wasn’t there. It was most likely sitting at the bottom of the lake. He had a penlight attached to his keychain in his front pocket. That was still there—but it wouldn’t light.

  He crept forward, feeling along the rough wall, his heart thudding in his chest.

  He wondered how the voice knew his name, but then he realized that Richard had shouted it before the cave mouth closed. Don’t worry, Maxwell! You’ll be fine. You’re always fine. Those were their father’s words. But they were always directed at Richard. The last time the old man told Richard he’d be fine was about a month ago, when he asked his father for a seven-thousand-dollar loan. Seems Richard, the big-shot lawyer, had gambling debts. It didn’t help matters that the old man gave Max fifteen grand to open a bar just a year ago. “You’re not Max,” his father told Richard. “You’re a hard worker. You don’t need help. You’ll be fine. End of discussion.”

  It wasn’t the first time his father had said that, but it still stung. He guessed he deserved it. The bar closed in seven months. He should have known he wasn’t cut out for entrepreneurship, or bars. Hell, he barely went to any before owning one. Richard took particular glee in his failure. Obviously his glee wasn’t enough.

  Max came to a passage. He stopped and removed the battery to the penlight, shook out the water, did his best to dry its insides. He put the battery back, and after a few attempts it emitted a weak brownish-yellow light.

  The passage was narrow. Stalactites hung just above his head like demonic teeth. The ground was smooth and sloped slightly downward. He hesitated. Stumbling around a dark cave wasn’t a great idea, unless you wanted to break your neck. The voice came again—Max-well, Max-well, Max-well—like the monotonous tolling of a church bell. There was something sad and horribly broken in that voice. He had to move.

  To keep his mind off the voice as he crept through the cave system, he thought of all the unpleasant things he was going to do to Richard. Breaking his fucking nose was high up on the list.

  * * * *

  When the penlight died, Max took the opportunity to rest against a tall, thick column of stone. He had removed his wet shirt, rung it out, and done his best to dry it as he walked. Now he laid it out on a rock beside him. He removed his shoes and socks. His pants were still damp, but he left them on. He didn’t like the idea of sitting naked in the dark.

  The voice had disappeared soon after he entered the passage, but that made him feel only more uneasy. He was exhausted and terrified. He closed his eyes, rubbed his sore belly, and fought back tears. “You’re going to be fine, Max,” he whispered to himself, and laughed bitterly.

  He didn’t know how long he had been asleep, but when he opened his eyes he saw a dim light flickering to his left.

  He got dressed and headed toward it. The light was coming from a slit in the rock wall. With a bit of effort, he was able to squeeze through the opening.

  He stood on a narrow ledge that ringed a chamber that was as long as two football fields and almost as deep. Torches were scattered throughout the room, but the darkness was still winning the war. Thick, black shadows pooled around stalagmites clustered in the center of the chamber. They rose up, crooked and lumpy, disappearing into the darkness. The rest of the room was filled with boulders and mounds covered in a wet, pale-pink sheen that reminded Max of a movie alien’s skin.

  To his right, a steep slope led to the chamber floor.

  When he was midway down it, a small figure slid out from behind one of the stalagmites.

  He froze.

  Torchlight danced over the creature’s—the woman’s?—shriveled and sunken face. Her hair, white as chalk, hung stiffly to the ground. Thin black veins stood out against her pale skin like cracks in marble.

  “Max-well, you are finally here,” the thing said in that horror-show voice he had heard earlier. She smiled to reveal small, jagged teeth. “Come closer, and let her see you better. The Grimlorn is happy now.” She beckoned him with her hand.

  He didn’t move.

  “Are you alone here?” he asked, his voice quavering. “Are there any others?”

  Max looked around. Broken bowls and dishes, strips of cloth, and what looked like cheap jewelry littered the ground. He didn’t see anyone else, but that didn’t mean they weren’t lurking in the shadows.

  “There is only the Grimlorn. She is alone. For so long.”

  “Is that you? Are you the Grimlorn?”

  “The Grimlorn Under the Mountain,” she said, as if it were common knowledge. She stepped forward, squinted. “You are a handsome one, aren’t you? What a pretty, pretty boy. Come, sit down.”

  Max thought of bolting back up the slope. But his penlight was dead and he knew the chances of finding a way out in the dark were slim. Reluctantly he made his way down to the chamber floor and sat on a flat boulder as far away from the Grimlorn as possible. He smelled meat boiling and then he noticed a bubbling pot behind the strange woman.

  “You must be hungry,” she said.

  She squatted, reached under her dress, which was a patchwork of filthy and torn cloth that hung past her feet, and pulled out a small wooden bowl. She hobbled over to the pot and dipped the bowl into it. She returned, holding out the steaming contents.

  Max realized, then, he was hungry—but not that hungry.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I don’t plan to stay. How do I get out of here?”

  “The Grimlorn made it for you, herself,” she said, and handed him the bowl, which was filled with fat lumps of meat covered in a dark brown goo. He held it in his lap.

&nb
sp; The Grimlorn squatted in front of Max. “A pretty thing you are,” she mumbled.

  Max noticed a filthy cloth sack hanging from her side. But he didn’t get a good look at it, because she suddenly twisted her body away from him.

  She nodded expectantly, reached out toward the bowl. Her fingers were long and withered. Spidery veins crisscrossed her palms. “Eat,” she said.

  Max smiled. “Can you help me get back to the surface?”

  “Eat. You will enjoy it. It is good. Do not let its appearance fool you. Please. Trust the Grimlorn.” She watched him with tiny pink eyes.

  No matter what she said, there was no way he was going to eat that slop. He saw where the bowl came from. He didn’t want to know where she got the food. The best course of action, Max figured, was to ignore her.

  He put the bowl on the ground.

  The Grimlorn’s eyes screwed shut and she began to sob. Then she fell onto the ground, rolling back and forth, like a petulant child throwing a fit.

  “Are you okay?” Max asked, but the Grimlorn only moaned and writhed in reply.

  Max had enough weirdness. He rose, grabbed a torch, and headed up the slope.

  “You will be happy here!” the creature wailed as Max slipped out of the chamber. “Please! Trust the Grimlorn!”

  * * * *

  Max worked his way through the numerous passages and tunnels and chambers for hours. Several times he fell, scraping his hands and knees. Once he almost tumbled down a narrow chasm. He found columns of stone as tall as skyscrapers and a chamber filled with phosphorescent rock. He tried backtracking to the lake, but he couldn’t find it.

  Then, when he was exhausted and sure he was utterly lost, he found himself back in the Grimlorn’s chamber.

  She awoke with a start.

  “Max-well! Max-well!” she said, sitting up. “You have returned!”

  “Is there any way back to the surface?” Max asked, dejected.

  “Out?” she said after a long silence, as if the idea were foreign to her. “There is no way out, Max-well. The Grimlorn should know. She has been here a long time.”