I stood too, and offered my hand. “Where will you go?”
He took my hand and shook it, just once. “Where I always go. Nowhere. Everywhere. I have to keep going, stay on the run. I can never let them catch me. I can never let the gate open.”
He turned to leave, but I put a hand on his shoulder. “And... will it? Will it open someday?”
He looked straight into my eyes... and answered my question.
That was earlier tonight. Now it’s long after midnight, and I wrote all of this down, hoping that as I did, I could convince myself that it didn’t really happen, that I imagined it. That I didn’t really see that rip in the universe, that... thing reaching for me.
But it’s no use.
For a few minutes after Frank left the bar, I just sat there... too stunned to move. Then I walked home. It had started raining, and it was getting colder. Tonight, I had found out what the universe was really like. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t wonderful. It was just like this rain: Dark and cold. And there was no one looking out for us.
Inside my home, I walked up the stairs to my son’s bedroom. I stood in his doorway and watched him sleep.
I stood there for a long time.
After a while, I sat on the side of his bed and touched his face. I ran my hand softly through his hair, and as I did, I remember my question to Frank: Will the gate open someday? And I remembered his reply.
As I ran through the woods that night, the teacher screamed, “We will find you! We will find you! But know this, boy... even if we don’t, the ritual was begun! Even if you escape us forever, one day you will die, and when you die.. the gate will open! It will open all the way. You can’t stop it! You can only delay it! It will open! Sooner or later it WILL open!
I kissed my son on the forehead, then came in here and wrote all of this down. I keep looking out of the window, watching the rain. Looking for... holes in the air, maybe. Tears in reality. And now... I am going to go lie in bed, next to my wife. I’m going to hold her tight, all night long.
It’s all I can do.
Mike Davis is the creator and publisher of The Lovecraft eZine. He lives in a small town in Texas with the best wife and son on the planet, two cats, one dog, and a lot of books. He leaves it to you to guess which parts of I Am the Key are autobiographical. He occasionally submits stories and poems to his co-editor anonymously, and sometimes they are even accepted. Visit his blog at onlyautumnthoughts.wordpress.com.
Illustration by Galen Dara.
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Inheritance
by Patricia Correll
Cordigan flicked his cigarette into the water. The river that bisected the city was dark and sluggish, its banks flecked with yellow foam. The cigarette burned on the surface a moment before the water sucked it under. Something lumpy and misshapen floated past and caught in a tangle of weeds near the dock’s moss-shrouded supports. Suddenly it twisted and vanished under the water, dragged down by something larger. Cordigan glimpsed a stretch of oily black skin before the creature sank again.
Saturday night. He would have been walking the beat, if he was still a cop. The Chief’s piggy eyes had glittered as Cordigan handed over his badge and gun. Cordigan kicked viciously at the warped boards of the dock. Suspended indefinitely pending investigation into the disappearances of his last two partners. He knew what had happened to them. He’d had to put Garrett in the river. Snot-nosed kid thought he was above earning a little money by looking the other way sometimes. But MacLeod wasn’t his fault. MacLeod had been something very different.
Cordigan turned and walked back to his car. The docks were infested with strange people, probably Slavs from some Eastern European hellhole, though he couldn’t imagine anyplace worse than this city. He’d parked under the block’s only working streetlight, across from the old Masonic Hall. A sign in some foreign language was tacked over the door; maybe it was a church. A group of locals squatted on the front steps, looking like pale fleshy frogs with wide mouths. They stared unblinking at Cordigan as he stalked to his car. He was glad to leave them behind. Above the decrepit roofs of the Slav buildings rose the taller ones, rounded at the edges by time and wear. They reached into the darkening sky like the broken teeth of some predator.
MacLeod had been a bootlegging bust. Illegal still in the cellar of a rickety tenement. At least, that was what the neighbors told the police. Cordigan suspected they were just terrified of the noises they heard through the walls at night, and made up the still so the police would come. He and MacLeod should have waited for backup, but Cordigan was eager; surely two armed cops could take down a few bootleggers.
But it hadn’t been bootleggers. The cellar was crammed with people in black, dozens of half-melted candles, an altar covered in something that dripped and stank. Cordigan couldn’t make it out through the smoke, and he was grateful for that. And the thing. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but sometimes a corner of his brain recalled far too many flat eyes; tentacles like a squid…Cordigan ran for the staircase, but MacLeod was too slow, clumsy with terror. One of the tentacles whipped out and wrapped around his leg.
Cordigan didn’t glance back. He’d burned that putrid place to the ground. But sometimes he heard MacLeod’s howls, in the place between sleep and waking. It wasn’t MacLeod that drove him to ask questions; he hadn’t even liked the man. It was the thing, the fractured pieces of an image that hovered like a carrion fly, insistent and ugly, in the back of his mind. The answers he got were rumors, but they were enough to lead him to the people who knew, the broken men who sat in the corners of bars and whispered whiskey-tinged fragments of stories into Cordigan’s ear.
The stories had taken him from the bars to the gates of August Howard’s mansion, palatial on the hill in the center of the city, above the cracked streets. The ever-present smell of decay that blanketed the city was diffused up there. Howard was the de facto ruler of the city, richest guy around, a withered vulture of a man who owned blocks and blocks of slums and decrepit factories. A few carefully chosen words into the speaker by the gate had granted Cordigan admittance. A few hours of conversation with Howard had gotten him a job. And that job concerned Mellie.
Melanie leaned on the bar, bent double at the waist so her cleavage was on display. Her dress shimmered blood red, despite the dim lights and the smoke that crowded every inch of the place. Her black hair was pinned into a neat chignon at the back of her neck. Her red heels pressed pain into her toes. The ruffles on her shoulder straps wilted in the heat. In the corner one of the regulars slumped over in his chair; dead-drunk or just dead, she didn’t know and couldn’t bring herself to care. But it was better than being outside. The city was surrounded- restrained- by a forty-foot wall. Within the barrier it breathed and writhed, whispering tales of abomination through the alleyways. At least in the bar she couldn’t hear the whispers.
Cordigan walked in. Something fluttered in Melanie’s stomach at the familiar sight of him.
Doug was a nice enough guy; he’d given her a chance two years back when she couldn’t tell beer from whiskey and had never worked a day in her life. But he didn’t pay much, so Melanie did other things for money; which was how she’d met Cordigan.
Melanie straightened up. She glanced in the mirror behind the bar. She bit her lips to bring out the color. As she stepped from behind the bar, Seth, the other bartender, glanced up. He saw Cordigan, and his eyes narrowed. Seth kept an eye on the guys she took home. Melanie knew he wanted her and was just too chicken to do anything about it. But she didn’t mind.
Seth definitely didn’t like Cordigan.
He went to his regular table and lit a cigarette. He wasn’t handsome, but his deep-set dark eyes were intent, and his body was covered in scars she had never dared ask about. He was dangerous, she thought; he radiated strength like a big cat. And he was taller than her, even when she wore heels. What was he thinking about? She knew better than to ask. The only time he’d ever hit her was once, when she asked.
>
When she got near, she made out his expression. Absent, lost. His mouth turned down, the skin around his eyes crinkled. Sad? No, not Cordigan. Melanie sank into the chair opposite him. His gaze moved to her, as if something was snapping into place. “Mellie.”
“Cordigan.” She smiled. A loose curl of hair drooped over her ear, and she tucked it back, tilting her head. “Aren’t you working tonight?”
“No. Something came up.”
She reached over and plucked the cigarette from his lips. The smoke tasted bitter. She grimaced and gave it back. “What are you drinking?”
“Whiskey, straight.”
“No water?”
“No.” He fixed her with an unblinking gaze. She suppressed a shiver.
“I’ll get it.” Melanie rose. “It’s dead tonight. Doug will probably send me home early. You could give me a ride home, if you don’t have any other plans…”
“Sure.” He was staring into the distance again. Melanie held in her smile until she turned away. Seth glowered from behind the bar.
Cordigan sat at the table for two hours, smoking cigarette after cigarette until the air around him was a haze of white. Several times Melanie caught him looking at her with that same strange, almost-sad expression. She quickly glanced away, but when she looked back it was gone; he was lost in himself again.
The first time she’d seen him, more than a year ago, she’d known right away she would take him home. He was as rough as she’d expected. But out of all the men she’d had, he was the only one who called her Mellie, the only one who cared if she had a good time, and the only one who stayed. He slept fitfully, his muscles twitching as he dreamed- what? They couldn’t be as bad as her dreams. He wasn’t a good man, she knew that. But when she woke in the dark, whimpering at half-remembered horrors, he wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair with hands that had almost certainly killed.
Doug let her go at eleven. Melanie got her coat. Cordigan was waiting by the door when she came out of the backroom. They walked outside in silence, she limping a little in her ridiculous shoes. The street was deserted but for a small gaggle of bums up the block, warming their hands over a flickering trash barrel fire. Fog had rolled in off the river, covering the street in gray mist that swirled and fled from their feet. A rat dashed squealing down the gutter, followed by something that might have been a cat, if it didn’t scuttle so strangely; both creatures vanished into a storm drain. Melanie shuddered and looked away.
“Mellie,” Cordigan said suddenly. “If you could leave this city, where would you go?”
She laughed bitterly. “No one leaves this city, Cordigan.”
“But if you could.”
There was a wistfulness in his tone that she had never heard before. Melanie frowned, considering. Sunlight, little cafes, gutters that didn’t run with filthy water and other, worse things. “France.” She said finally. “I would go to France. Where would you go?”
“Australia.”
Australia was a wild place, the cities few and scattered. Much of it was still empty desert or forest. A man could do anything he liked there. Yes, it was the perfect place for Cordigan, she thought. But it didn’t matter. No one escaped the city.
Cordigan opened the door to the backseat. Melanie paused, frowning. “Cordigan?”
When he didn’t answer, she took a step nearer. Quick as a striking snake, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, his fingers pressing painfully into her bones. She gasped. Before she could pull away, he forced her into the backseat, climbed in after her, and slammed the door.
Melanie tried to say his name, but his mouth was on hers before she could form the syllables. He pushed her lips apart with his tongue, crushed her body to his. Melanie closed her eyes and arched her back. His hands roved over her body, pressing bruises into her ribs, her thighs. He yanked at the front of her dress, and she heard the ruffles on one shoulder tear as the strap gave way. His mouth abandoned hers and found her exposed nipple. Melanie buried her fingers in his hair.
“Cordigan,” She moaned.
In answer he pulled up her skirt, trailing his fingers across her stomach before jerking her panties down. He fumbled at the buttons on his pants until Melanie sat up and helped. He had to half-stand to take them off in the cramped backseat. Melanie bent to take him in her mouth, but he grasped her arm and pulled her into his lap, impatient. She lifted her skirt and settled onto him.
Cordigan kissed her again, fierce and hungry, his hands kneading her flesh. She rocked forward and back, and a small point of pleasure took shape in her belly. As she moved it expanded until her entire body felt warm and light. Then Cordigan nipped her neck with his teeth and the point exploded, releasing a sheet of white light behind her eyes. Melanie sobbed his name. She rested her head against his neck, breathing in the smell of cigarettes and alcohol and the metallic tang she had long ago identified as gunpowder.
For a moment he let her lean on him, panting. Then his fingers closed around her arms, raising her off him. Melanie whimpered a protest, but he pushed her onto her back, her knees lifted. Cordigan braced himself with one hand on the backseat, the other against the back of the passenger seat, and drove into her. Melanie locked her legs around his hips urging him deeper with every thrust, until his body spasmed and he came. When he stopped quivering, she put her arms around his neck, His tense shoulders relaxed. She hoped he would return the embrace, hold her close. But abruptly he withdrew. The old feeling of emptiness flooded her as he buttoned his pants and tucked in his shirt. Melanie pulled up her torn dress as best she could and picked up her panties from the floor of the car.
The faint light of the dying streetlamp cast his profile into blackness. “I’ll pay you next time. I spent all my cash at Doug’s.”
She cringed at his brisk tone. “I told you, you don’t have to pay.”
He turned to her. “Mellie.”
She looked up, surprised by the gentleness in his voice Cordigan raised his hand. His fingertips touched her temple, trailed down her cheek to her jaw. Melanie held her breath. There was no sound but Cordigan’s even breathing and the slowing beat of her own heart.
And then he pulled away and got out. He slid into the driver’s seat, and started it up. Melanie leaned back, still dazed at his unexpected tenderness. Absently she tied together her shoulder strap. For a moment she considered calling him by the name she’d seen on his driver’s license once, when he was asleep. But she kept silent.
Fewer than half of the city’s street lamps worked, so Melanie couldn’t see much from the window. She’d dreamed once of having a driver to take her places, when she was a famous movie star; now Cordigan was taking her home to a ratty two-room apartment, in a ripped dress, with his semen drying on her thighs. Melanie leaned her forehead against the cool window. A flash of neon caught her attention- a half-burnt sign for a diner in Maradona, the opposite side of town from her apartment. “Cordigan, where are we going? This isn’t the way to my place.”
No reply. He stared straight ahead. Melanie leaned forward. “Did you hear me? Where are we going?”
He turned slightly. His lips curled into a smirk. “It’s a surprise.”
The way he’d said her name, the nickname only he used…she sat back, chewing her lower lip nervously. Cold dread woke in her stomach, but she tamped it down. It was only habit. Why shouldn’t she go with him? What other choice did she have?
The streets were nearly deserted, the ever-present fog hiding most of what happened in the alleys and doorways. The few people Melanie saw were hunched over, scurrying along the stained sidewalk with all the haste they could muster. Beneath an overpass she saw what might have been a human body, sprawled in the gutter; something crouched on it and raised its head to stare at the passing car. The headlights turned its eyes red for an instant before it disappeared into the darkness behind them.
The buildings grew more and more decayed as they drove; they were heading toward the river. She hated the river, the thick, black water
and the fishy stench of it. But she said nothing. He had never been angry at her, not really. She didn’t want to see what would happen if he was.
They stopped in front of a long, decrepit building; the sign above the door claimed it had once been a school. Cordigan killed the lights and walked around to her side of the car. Melanie blinked up at him, but his expression was lost to the shadows. He reached for her. She flinched, but he gently took her arm and guided her to her feet. Melanie allowed herself a tiny, hopeful smile. “I lost one of my shoes when you pushed me into the car. I’ll just go barefoot, I guess.”
The cracked concrete was sticky and cold on her skin. Cordigan held her hand as if they were lovers. A blush crept over her face, and she was glad of the darkness. But the dread in her heart spread tendrils into her chest, coiling around her ribs. Around them, the city had suddenly gone still, waiting. The whispering was silenced. This is where I should be, a voice in Melanie’s mind hissed. She shook the thought out of her head. Ridiculous.
He led her up the crumbling steps and into the front corridor. Empty doorways yawned on either side, and the floor was strewn with rubble and pieces of broken desks. She stepped carefully. Chunks of gravel bit into her feet, but Cordigan kept going, pulling her with him, so Melanie bit her tongue and bore it. They went to a door that opened onto blackness; Cordigan entered it without hesitation. “Watch your step.”
She grabbed his hand with both of hers and followed, trusting him because there was nothing else to do.
At first all she saw was darkness. But then the staircase turned to the side, and there was the glow of a lamp at the bottom. The basement was L-shaped. The lamplight crept around the corner. Cordigan and Melanie moved toward it.
The light illuminated a long, narrow room, empty but for a desk and the lamp. On the desk lay the remains of what might have been a cat, a broad-bladed dagger pinning it firmly to the wood. A gaping hole in the corner- an old well? -had once been fenced off with boards and wire, but the boards lay splintered on the floor and the wire was torn like old lace. A dozen people were arranged around the well, in a pattern too studied to be random. The way they stood sparked an ancient memory in Melanie’s brain: people standing just like this in her father’s library, and she was a child, frightened by the strange, ugly chanting…
Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2012 Page 8
