by Khurt Khave
When it was her turn, the person ahead of her stepped to the side revealing the face of Mr. Long smiling at her. He reached into a small chalice and pulled out the small chunk of unknown flesh. Fear shot up Monica's spine like an icicle, scared she would not be able to swallow the offering. She stuck out her tongue and felt the morsel fall on her tongue. She swallowed quickly, like a shot of liquor, and it slid down her throat. The taste of brine and rancid seafood assaulted her senses, but thankfully, quickly dissipated.
The crowd fell into an unorganized mass but this time there was no socializing. Monica took note of the disoriented expressions on the faces of many of those around her. They were so beautiful and she took a moment to appreciate where she was at, how far she had come. She strove to walk among the elites and now she stood among them, a band of psychonauts drawn to worship out of a sense of awe of the unknown.
Her own head began to swim. She put her palm to her forehead and feared fainting for a moment. A hand placed itself on the small of her back to steady her, but when she turned around it was not clear who had offered their assistance. She swayed to the music and the whole tangle of bodies began to move about her.
Everyone pushed together and pulled apart like a giant lung breathing. The lights grew darker and pulsed in and out of phase. She saw constellations in the shadows.
Monica looked to the others, gauging their reactions against her own. So beautiful, but the faces looked like masks now, strange presences wearing body suits. Another world overlaid the ballroom, strange horizons described only in secret poems, whispered to her by the coven members.
The people around her blinked in and out of existence. She felt disembodied on the alien world. Figures moved in the distance, sentient and alien shapes, impossible geometries. The congregants in the ballroom melted together, writhing and fusing together.
And she was naked, a black flame scurrying across the landscape. She burned, absorbed and blissful. Her pleasure propelled dark stars. Beneath the masks of the others, she felt the guiding hand of a great absence escorting them. Consciousness slipped just out of reach. Pleasure took over, here and there, something new, some devising force inside her. Monica fell under, a void waiting at the end of a tunnel, something thrashing in the darkness.
Monica woke up the next morning in her room. The blinds were closed but sunlight filtered in around the edges. She rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. She felt no symptoms of a hangover, felt quite good truth be told. She got up and walked over to the window, pulling back the curtains.
She stood naked in the window, not really caring if the whole world could see. The Inner Belt existed silently beyond the glass, like a panoramic camera angle paused. Even the room around her seemed different, as if everything material was just a painting draped over a gaping hole. Everything seemed so thin.
The momentary trance broke and she turned from the window and headed toward the bathroom. Halfway across the room, a cramp stabbed through her abdomen like a knife and she doubled over. She cried out and fought back a wave of nausea. Then, almost as suddenly as it came, the pain retreated and she felt fine.
She hadn't felt anything like that since her miscarriage. The memory rapped at her brain and she made a conscious effort to send it away. She rubbed her eyes as if wiping away sleep, stood and continued on to the bathroom.
The shower provided an endless supply of hot water. Monica stayed in far longer than what seemed reasonable. For a moment, another attack of cramps seemed to be approaching but veered off at the last second. She thought of last night's strange communion and admonished herself for being surprised by any after effects.
When she finished, she dried off and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. No one said what to expect next. She didn't know if she should prepare to check out or wait until someone told her what to do. Surely, someone would come talk to her. As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.
“Yoo-hoo,” Carlos said in a singsong voice from behind the door. “Come in,” she answered, not sure if she was ready for Carlos this early. She'd rather Brandon had come.
“I told you it wasn't going to be that easy,” he said as he handed Monica her cell phone back. He set her purse down on the bed. “Check your voicemail,“ he commanded.
There wasn't a voicemail notification which meant someone had already listened to the message or messages left since the last time it was in her possession. She expected this type of treatment, but also couldn't wait until it was over. She hit play and Greg's frantic voice came through the tiny speaker.
“That's it, last message. I'm coming to see you. Goodnight.” His voice was firm and full of determination. It sounded as if he'd left several messages, but someone must've deleted the others. She checked the time stamp and saw this one was recorded around midnight last night, which meant he had probably already flown here and was looking for her at the arts festival she'd told him she was covering.
“I have to go, he's in town. But I guess you already know that.”
Carlos smiled at her and then nodded towards the door, “Ready when you are.”
They darted through the hotel to a car waiting out front. A man stepped out and Carlos slid in behind the wheel. Monica gave directions to the festival, but wondered if it was even necessary. She felt he already knew her life inside and out. Maybe that was the case with everyone here.
It was still early in the day, which made the Somerville traffic worse, but they fought through and arrived in front of a warehouse on the outskirts of Medford. The crowd looked to be quite small, but would be sure to grow as the hours wore on. Greg, though, was easy to spot milling around on the sidewalk. Monica almost chuckled to herself, knowing that despite all his money, he was still too cheap to pay the admission to go in and try to find her. He would rather wait awkwardly outside, working himself up over what he might say.
“Go take care of this,” Carlos said to her. She looked over at him and he nodded back toward Greg. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the cool autumn air. Another cramp almost hit her in that moment, she winced but the feeling passed.
She'd covered half the distance to Greg before he caught sight of her. He started toward her but as he approached she walked past him and headed to the far corner of the sidewalk, away from all the other attendees milling about outside. The toe of her boot caught a crack on the pavement and she almost stumbled, but she managed to recover gracefully.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing her by the wrist and spinning her around. They were away from the others now. She felt herself grow cold and she worked up the proper emotional distance to end things quickly.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, her voice steady.
“You think you can just end things out of nowhere and I won't demand an explanation?” he tried to imitate her resolve, to sound firm, but his words were breaking up around the edges. He kept his eyes fixed on some point off in the distance, just a bit over her shoulder and behind her, near enough to make it seem like he was looking right at her, or so he thought.
“It's over, it's been over,” she said. “There's nothing between us. You can't tell me you haven't noticed.” Her voice cracked a bit, as if tears were in the vicinity and it felt like a betrayal, like her body was trying to express an emotion she didn't really feel.
“What about the kids?” His own voice crumbled and tears dashed down his cheeks, caught up in the whiskers of his five o'clock shadow.
“Why do you keep saying that?” Her tears came now, purely born of exasperation.
“There was always going to be kids, you promised. Breaking your promise is like killing them, like killing me!” He raised his voice and she became aware of eyes watching them from all around, countless eyes belonging to meaningless people, rubbernecking the wreck of their marriage. She looked at them and they looked away. She thought she saw the twinkle of Carlos's prism among them but couldn't be sure.
Just then the pain ripped through her abdomen again. Greg stepped to her, p
laced a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off and did her best to stand up straight again.
“I'm done.” She turned and headed back toward where she hoped Carlos was still waiting for her. The pain was gone.
“Monica,” his voice pleaded from behind her, the sobs evident. She fought the urge to turn around but did anyway. He stood all the way at the curb now, eyes pleading with her, but saying nothing else. She mouthed the words, “Do It” to him, silently so no one could hear.
Greg looked over his shoulder at the road. His body swayed, but as the pickup truck drove by he did nothing. She exhaled and felt her muscles relax. But then, when a Transit Authority bus approached, his body went limp and he fell into it as it passed. It wasn't going fast, but the impact still sent him flying, straight into an oncoming sedan which bounced him back again, finally landing in a twisted heap in the middle of the turn lane.
Tires screeched and then the world stopped. For a moment, nothing happened. Monica knew he was dead, there was nothing neither she nor anyone else could do.
The silence broke with a sob coming from someone in the crowd. Cellphones came from pockets, 911 dialed several times by several people. The driver of the sedan got out and ran to Greg's body, yelled at him and held arms out over him, scared to touch. They seemed angry but not really, confused by the dead man's intrusion into their commute.
Then a black van raced between the stopped cars. Everyone gasped as it pulled beside Greg and the side door slid open. The driver of the sedan backed away as a pair of arms reached out and pulled Greg's corpse from the asphalt. Monica thought she saw Brandon's face in the dark interior.
As the door closed again, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw Carlos motioning for her to follow. They weaved through the crowd of onlookers, all of them transfixed by what was happening in the street. Carlos moved smooth, dancing as he always seemed to be doing. She heard the van squeal away, but didn't try to look back at it. They got back in the car and Carlos pulled away slowly, as if they were taking a Sunday drive.
“Fuck,” she said to herself. “Fuck,” she repeated, a little louder this time, but she still didn't want Carlos to respond. He seemed to oblige and kept quiet, maneuvering deftly through the traffic.
They didn't speak the entire ride, and they made great time back to the hotel. Carlos parked in front of the entrance and came around and opened the passenger side door and took her hand and guided her out. He took her arm and led her inside, the whole thing feeling like some strange date.
Inside, Carlos led her down the spiral stairs toward the deep basement. Monica wanted to go back to her room, to be alone, but she didn't protest. Halfway down the stairs the pain struck again, worse this time and she nearly doubled over. She would've fallen down the staircase had Carlos not been there to catch her.
When they reached the bottom, she could barely stand on her own. The pain in her guts wasn't subsiding. The double doors loomed in front of them. Carlos let her arm go and went to them, cracked one side open and peeked in. Monica fell to her knees and began weeping, the pain too intense, too many things all at once.
She nearly passed out. Black spots danced in her eyes. She heard hushed voices and soon, hands grabbed at her, stripped her clothes off and replaced them with a crimson robe. She screamed when they spread her limbs to put the vestments on and she returned to a fetal position as soon as they finished. Carlos knelt down in front of her and she saw that he had changed into a black robe as well.
“It's almost over,” he whispered to her. She lifted her head to watch him glide to the double doors and throw them both open wide. The ritual room is dark but she could hear chanting, like hundreds of hushed whispers floating in a black sea. Lights flicker, the impression of torches burning. Arms hook her under her shoulders and lift, her feet trying to walk as she is carried in.
They dragged her deep into the room, the crowd of cultists parting to let her pass. She looked at the robed figures but saw no faces, only hollow blackness beneath the hoods. Incense floated through the air, though the scent proved more fetid than aromatic, rotting flesh mixed with the smell of beached seaweed.
Monica wanted to walk herself through the room. Her dedication hadn't wavered, and though she didn't want Greg to die, deep down she was happy to sacrifice him to this opportunity, to something greater than him or her or the entire human race. Only the elect would bear witness to the Old Ones, to the great and vast truth of the cosmos. Only the pain stopped her from bringing herself forward, and that pain was the only thing she feared. What had they done to her?
The crowd broke in the front of the room, revealing an altar, a flat slab of obsidian or basalt. On top, Greg's body rested awkwardly, limbs contorted this way and that, bones pushing outward where they shouldn't. She looked for any sign of life, the rising and falling of the chest, anything, but found nothing.
A figure stepped forward and stood over the body. Monica stole a look beneath his hood and she thought it was Mr. Long. Another figure stood behind him swinging a censer, the source of the terrible odor, also in a robe. She thought it might be Brandon but it was hard to tell with the smoke and cowl. The first figure spoke.
“Y'AI'NG'NGAH,” he intoned. “Yog-Sothoth is the gate between us. There is mystery before birth and after death. Only the unknown is worth knowing.”
“UAAAH,” the congregation chanted in response.
“Shub-Niggurath, Black Goat of the Woods, we pale in comparison to your cloven beauty.”
“UAAAH.”
The priest, she was sure it was Mr. Long, fixed his attention on her. He began to say something but she cried out in intense pain. He waited for the sound to die off, then spoke, “There is no need from the Old Ones for our worship. We do so of our own free will, as lamentable a concept in our case as that might be. Do you choose to plunge headlong into the void, your body serving as coin to Charon, Yog-Sothoth to bring a piece of the void into this world? Or, do you pass along that honor to another and instead remain to worship the mystery from afar, until that day that the Old Ones return and extinguish the pathetic fever dream of humanity?”
Monica did not hesitate, “I will remain,” she gasped through gritted teeth.
At her response, drums began to beat from somewhere within the ritual chamber. The congregation's chant shifted into a drone and the entire world seemed to reverberate with the sound. Monica was lifted up again and they began to carry her toward the altar. She instinctively wanted to resist, to come no closer to the twisted corpse waiting there, but the pain drained her of her fight. She was placed on top of him and she crouched there trying not to look down into his dead eyes.
“MNB SNMT!” screamed Mr. Long, “IRCHSHVN, OAHSPE,” he continued.
The words seemed to bring relief to her, but her guts still churned and she found herself gagging, heaving with her eyes now locked with Greg's. She felt herself vomiting, but not like anything she'd experienced before. A noxious cloud poured forth from her mouth and small globes of light floated within the reeking mist. She felt as if she was suffocating but she only wretched harder. Her eyes remained locked and to her utter horror, she realized a leg with a cloven hoof had worked it's way up her throat and protruded from her mouth. Endless choking. . .
The drums increased in speed and intensity and the congregation broke into a cacophony of wails and screams, simultaneously jubilant and terrifying. The discord penetrated her mind and seemed to be coming from within her own head. Death stalked her as the hoof blocked off all oxygen.
Then her airway cleared and she sat up straight, throwing her head back and screaming. All the pain was gone and she never felt more alive. She felt Greg twitching beneath her and she looked back down. His stomach swelled where she straddled him and his face contorted in the strangest expression. She imagined an alien presence trying to make him smile but not getting it quite right.
She stepped down from the altar. Two robed figures approach and helped Greg's animated body stand. His flesh swel
led quickly and the acolytes helped him waddle off into a dark hall in the back of the chamber.
“You walk with the psychonauts now,” Mr. Long said to her. “He walks with the Old Ones,” he said, nodding after Greg. He pulled back his hood and revealed his face, giving her a smile. Another figure stepped forward and did the same. Brandon revealed his face and then made the Sign of the Old Ones in front of her face.
The lights came up a bit and they turned together and watched the congregants beginning to file out of the chamber. As the crowd thinned, Monica, Brandon and Mr. Long followed. They went up the stairs and for some reason, Monica was surprised to find light still shining through the windows. She couldn't wait to go to her room and change and then step out into the world reborn.
Allen Griffin is a writer and musician living in Indianapolis. His work has appeared in several cool places, including Innsmouth Magazine, the Ominous Realities and Splatterlands anthologies from Grey Matter Press and Surreal Worlds anthology from Bizarro Pulp Press. He has also published two chapbooks with Dunhams Manor Press, “No Such Heaven” and “The Noxious Winds of Karmageddon.” He reviews music for Burning Ambulance and No Clean Singing and books for Innsmouth Free Press. He is the bass player for Profound Lore recording artists Coffinworm.
Death in the Sunset Guy Riessen
Jimmy was small man, in stature and in dreams. He never asked for much because he never could see the bigger picture. He never planned further than the tallboy he could get after a couple hours working 9th and Irving in the Inner Sunset District. He was a wino, a bum living in a city of hipsters. A derelict, a member of the untouchable caste in a kingdom of tech execs and angel investors.
Jimmy was dead.
I hauled my ass off the barstool at O’Leary’s after last call. As I crossed the street, I could see Jimmy in his usual spot, tucked into the doorway of the wood flooring storefront. He had his cardboard down and was hunkered into the nice sleeping bag he got from St. Vincent De Paul’s. But something wasn’t right.
