Deniston listens to the saber rattle, turns to see Castaigne’s arm come up stiffly and jerkily. Like a robot, he has time to think. There comes the sound of a cold, ill wind that heralds a very long winter.
Exhausted and ruptured by the attrition of strange alterations, even the flow of his grief now frail, Michael Deniston understands there is no doorstep to farther along, no feel a whole lot better survives this landscape. Part of a line from Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy, ‘. . . we are furiously carried . . .’, floods his mind as he raises his hand to wipe his cheek.
His troubled head rolls…
(Photo courtesy of Andrea Bonazzi)
Joe Pulver is a writer and editor with two published novels to date, Nightmare’s Disciple (Chaosium 1999; intro Robert M. Price) and The Orphan Palace (Chomu Press 2011; intro Michael Cisco).He is currently editing 2 anthologies for Miskatonic River Press. A Season in Carcosaand The Grimscribe’s Puppets, both tribute anthologies will be released in 2012, and is also editing “Phantasmagorium” magazine, and Ed Morris’ series of “Crooked Man” novellas for Mercury Retrograde Press. He has two mixed genre collections out from Hippocampus Press, Blood Will Have Its Season (2009; intro S.T. Joshi) and SIN & ashes (2010; intro Laird Barron). His 3rd collection, Portraits of Ruins (intro Matt Cardin) will be released soon by Hippocampus. He’s written many short works that have appeared in magazines (including “Weird Fiction Review”, “Phantasmagorium”, “Strange Aeons”, “Crypt of Cthulhu”, “Nemonymous”) and anthologies, including Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year, Ross Lockhart’s Book of Cthulhu, and S. T. Joshi’s Black Wings (PS Publishing) and A Mountain Walked: Great Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos (upcoming from Centipede Press 2013) and many anthologies edited by Robert M. Price. His work has been praised by Thomas Ligotti, Ellen Datlow, Laird Barron, Michael Cisco, S.T. Joshi, and many other notable writers and editors. Joe was born, raised, and lived in upstate NY for 55 years. He currently lives in Berlin, Germany.
You can find Joe on the net at the following:
http://thisyellowmadness.blogspot.de/
http://www.facebook.com/jspulver
https://twitter.com/ - !/JoePulver
Edward Morris is a 2011 nominee for the Pushcart Prize in Literature, also nominated for the 2009 Rhysling and the 2005 BSFA. His short stories have sold in over a hundred markets worldwide, most recently to THE UNWRITTEN REVIEW, THE IMPERIAL YOUTH REVIEW, and a double-yolker of collaborations with Trent Zelazny, "Yesterday Man" and "City Song", to be announced closer to time...
http://www.wildsidebooks.com/The-Art-of-War-Blackguard-Book-Two-by-Edward-R-Morris-trade-pb_p_10559.html
http://mercuryretrogradepress.com/books/TWACM_Omnibus.asp
Story illustration by Dominic Black.
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The Whisper From the Deep
by Cora Pop
Knock, knock, little girl.
We’re coming for you.
Open your soul, open your door.
The time is here.
Do you hear our whispers?
Can you tell them from the surf? Can you tell them from the wind?
Our Servant is getting ready. You’ll know who he is when he’s there. A big surprise for you, it will be.
He’s pulling his boots on —it’s a long way through the forest to your uncle’s hut and the path is muddy and he doesn’t want to dirty his pants. He’s stuffing his knife in his belt. The big hunter’s knife that he’s used on that other girl. The one who screamed too much even when she’d been alive. Not just when she was dying. The one who danced on the deck and yelled insults at the water when the waves were too big for you two to bathe. The one who didn’t know better. Just like you.
Her blood has fed the old trees. Her flesh has fed the fishies from the deep. Her bones are with us.
That knife, yes. He will need it again.
Tap, tap, flap, flap, squish, squish.
We know you can hear us.
You wonder if you’re getting crazy. But it is truly us. We are here.
How could you think these were the tails of the little fish, all those poor little fish that we’ve herded into your uncle’s nets to reward him? How could they be on your deck, flapping their little dead tails against the old planks? It is us. They’ve been cut, they been sent to the canning plant. They’ll be food for the likes of you.
It is us.
Whoosh, whoosh.
What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?
Nothing? Nothing anymore? Shivering, cowering now? Blaming the cold wind from the sea for your nightmares?
It’s too late.
He’s halfway here our Servant, he is. He’s jumping now over the fallen oak tree that’s blocking the path, his hand on the knife’s handle. He feels he’ll have to use it again, although we haven’t told him yet. Soon. He’s coming. He’s coming.
You shouldn’t have come here, you and your noisy friend. No one from outside comes here. It’s too difficult to reach a place, this tiny fishermen’s hamlet, with no roads, shielded by the forest. Only the boats that buy the fish. And the boatmen are fearful creatures. They know that the sea hides things. Terrible things. They prefer not to know.
You shouldn’t have gone out of your way to visit your poor, old, forgotten uncle that nobody in your family cares to see anymore. He’s doing well. He has plenty of fish.
You shouldn’t have gone fishing with him there, past the northernmost headland, past the rock of the sunken ship. Anywhere but there. You should have listened when he told you to stay home but you didn’t. It had been a sunny day and you’ve glimpsed shadows, down, in the uncanny calm waters. What is there, you kept asking, is it another wreck? Is it a submarine cave? Is that sargassum, so wide, so dark?
You’ve sensed there is something in the deep. Something that should not be disturbed. You’ve heard our whispers then for the first time, haven’t you? We’ve got you worried.
If only you truly knew what lies in the deep.
And when the load of fishies from the net dropped at your feet, you should have looked elsewhere if you were so appalled by their agony. You shouldn’t have noticed their strange little heads, their puny tentacles, their phosphorescent eyes. And, if you did, you should have listened to your old uncle. He’s lived here his whole life. He knows what we give, what we take. He knows not to question us. Not to anger us.
But you… you didn’t.
So what if the fish are a little weird, a little unusual? They are ours. We give them to this village in return for their love, their adoration. Their discretion. In return for being our devoted Servants.
Now you want biologists to come here and study the fishies and ask questions and explore… You’ve blabbered about this to everyone in the village. You’ve made a great fuss of your scientific prowess. You want to bring divers to search for that cave you think you’ve glimpsed.
This cannot be allowed.
Have the villagers’ eyes told you that you’ve said too much?
That you’ve rummaged around too much?
Yes, they knew about the large sculpted stones on the cliff, too, the ones with the strange carvings on them, the ones that look so ancient. No need to point them out to them. They use them all the time. No need to mention your find to the archaeology department. They wouldn’t understand a thing anyway.
Tap, tap, flap, flap, squish, squish.
No use covering your ears now. No use blasting the horrible music that you like so much. (The demons from that music are but meek… carp compared to us.) That music that puts little ripples in the air, into the water, filling us with disgust. The one that disturbs our dreams. The one that infuriates us even more.
You can feel something’s coming.
No use checking your phone again. It has never worked here and it never will.
No use turning all the lights on. Locking the doors. Running from one window to another, peering into the darkening forest, looking out at th
e dark slate sea, at the cliff shrouded in shadows. Yes, your friend is running late.
You were supposed to leave this place tonight —while your uncle’s away— and she only went back to retrieve the strange stone figurine you’ve discovered together. Up on the cliff above your uncle’s house. But that was hours ago. She should have been back by now and you’re worried for her.
Don’t worry… She’s not coming anymore.
We are.
Squish, squish. Squelch, squelch.
No use locking the doors. You will unlock them for him anyway when you see him. You’ll think he’s come to save you. You’ll be hopeful.
Can you hear him now?
Knock, knock.
He’s here.
You’re staring out the side window and, when you see him, even now, all that you see is a handsome boy. The boy you fell for the moment you met him in the village. Tall, blond, blue-eyed, his face open and trustworthy. You don’t see the knife.
You thought it was a stranger. You are relieved. How silly of you to have felt menaced.
And now you’re rushing to the front door, to open it for him, glad that he’s here to save you. Eager to share your fears with him.
Knock, knock.
Why did you halt so suddenly? Why are you hesitating? Go on, he’s waiting right behind the door, our Servant. Or did you catch a coldness in his eyes? Did you glimpse a sparkle on his knife’s blade? Has he missed a spot on his clothes?
Knock, knock.
He’s rattling the door knob. He’s losing his patience. He knows what we want him to do.
Where are you rushing now? Thinking of escaping out the back door, are you? Thinking you can swim to the far side of the bay? Where you glimpsed the lights every night. Where the canning factories are.
That’s right, come to us…
Careful now, the wooden stairs are slippery, the clouds are heavy over the Moon. Stop looking over your shoulder. We don’t want you to break your neck before you reach the water.
Too bad the trees won’t have their blood tonight. But the fishies will feast. And so will we.
Whoosh, whoosh. Squelch, squelch.
Just jump in the waves. We smoothed them to your liking.
We are waiting for you.
Cora Pop lives in Montreal, Canada, with her husband and two young daughters.
In art, she loves all things fantastic, the troubling mix of science fiction, horror, and the French le fantastique. She’s been weaving stories ever since she can remember.
Her story, “It Came from Planet Mars”, has appeared on-line in White Cat Magazine and another story has been selected for the upcoming steampunk anthology “Airships & Automatons” from White Cat Publications.
She shares fiction, poetry and other thoughts at Chick With a Quill. (http://chickwithaquill.blogspot.com)
Story illustration by Steve Santiago.
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Nectar of Strange Lips
by Michael Griffin
Frank wasn't surprised to see the green-haired girl by the lake. He knew she probably lived nearby. What grabbed his attention was that she stood there, looming over his wife Lucy tanning on the beach. Can't be her, Frank tried to convince himself. That hair, though. Unmistakable. She turned away from Lucy and looked toward where Frank waded, staring. Sunlight glinted off silver eye makeup, another familiar detail. Definitely her. Jesus, what did she want? Frank stood in the chest-deep water, blinked his eyes clear.
Just Lucy, alone. Nobody nearby, green-haired or otherwise.
Frank lay back, drifted, tried to relax. Behind closed eyes he saw a female shape. Still couldn't remember the name. Had he ever known it? Two summers ago, he'd come to the lake, spent nights alone at the bar, thinking of what he'd left behind. Some midnight he'd stumbled around the shore's perimeter, shouting grievances into the water. She swam up, out of the black, climbed out and stood next to him. So dark, almost couldn't see her, yet heard her laugh. A few words, as if she understood, then she turned to him. She pulled her orange halter overhead. He could see it in the dark, and her smile. Drawn together into a kiss. So soft. More like a hint or a memory than solid lips, even as it happened. Wet, liquor-tasting. She led him into the water and below, moonlight glinting her silver eyelids.
He pushed the memory away, opened his eyes. Back to today. His wife, their son.
A swish nearby. Lucy half-swimming, half-walking toward him. She circled Frank twice and playfully splashed their son. Moshe was small for eight, too fearful of the deep to go beyond where his toes touched. He stayed near one parent or the other, bobbing chin-deep.
"It's music, mommy." Moshe's tiny voice. "Hear it?"
The words meant nothing at the time. The stuff a kid says. Later, Lucy would tell Frank that Moshe pointed toward the center of the lake when he mentioned the music.
"Watch him a minute?" Lucy asked.
Small waves lapped Frank's ears, intermittently blocking her voice. Moshe's thin blond hair was slicked over his scrunched-up eyes scrunched. Trying to float like Daddy, head back. Moshe bobbed, and when his mouth broke the surface, sprayed through pursed lips.
Frank's mind was on the conference, just days away. He had a presentation to give, and if he had to stand up in front of two or three hundred, he wanted to get a little tan first. Color in the face made him look younger.
He heard Lucy, near him in the water. She was saying something. Could she see his ears were under water? Her arm brushed him from beneath, as if to buoy him. He looked up. Nobody nearby. Lucy remained on the beach, fifty feet away.
Had Moshe bumped him? No, not close enough. In fact, where was he? Frank couldn't see his son anywhere. Frank swam and flailed, frantic. He stopped to scream Moshe's name and his foot brushed something. Even as he screamed, his mind flashed a TV matinee horror, some unseen Black Lagoon swimmer. Frank spun, looked around and behind. No sign of the boy. No head bobbing at the surface, no white form beneath.
"Moshe!" He shouted again and again, until the sound seemed to come from someone else.
Lucy ran down the beach into the small waves.
Frank dived under. He fanned both arms through the water, blindly seeking.
Up again, he surveyed. "Moshe!" Nothing, no signs of thrashing or struggle? Other than his own churn, the surface was flat. He sucked in a breath, went under and searched with hands until his lungs burned. Up, a frantic breath. Down again.
Lucy was scanning the beach but Frank knew. Moshe never left the water. One moment floating on tiptoes, the next gone.
Lucy screamed.
The sheriff had cleared the shore but kids still darted like skimbugs in the shallows. Too young to be afraid.
All sound arrived muted, reflected down a long tunnel. Vision, a series of blurred colors. A yellow dinghy motored up to help in the search. The lifeguard's red-striped Speedo rode below his tan line as he staggered in, chest heaving like an Olympic runner at the finish. Gray clouds looming, a wool blanket. The dead green lake.
Down shore volunteer paramedics watched. One leaned toward another and mouthed, "Won't find anything." The second nodded.
Frank awaited the lifeguard at the waterline. "Nothing?"
The lifeguard passed, eyes down. "I'm sorry."
Sorry you didn't find his body, Frank wanted to ask. Sorry this happened on your watch? He knew in his gut the lifeguard never expected to find anything. Just going through motions.
The sheriff, a narrow, hunched older woman, guided Frank and Lucy away. She asked about names.
Lucy composed herself. "We're the Tynans, T-Y. From Portland."
Frank couldn't stand the sheriff, the paramedics, even the lifeguard. He stood away, looking at the lake.
"Moshe. That's his name," Lucy told the sheriff, and spelled the name. Tiny waves dashed over her feet at the shore's edge. Black leaf shards scattered in the water as if some lake monster had chewed up trees and vomited them back, half-digested.
The sheriff scrawled no
tes. Concerned nod. Grim set of mouth.
Will writing down his name bring him up back from the mud?
Frank envisions faceless men dragging the boy up with a hook-ended cable. Little Moshe spits algae and silt from between blue lips. The sheriff, with her clipboard, asks: "Why'd you go under, Master Tynan?"
Frank's imagination played Moshe's gurgling reply, horrible and wet as drowning.
"Because I heard singing."
Frank swirled his glass at the window. What'd she give him? Chianti?
Beyond the vacation home's weathered gray deck, the lake's cold heart spread out beyond the trees. The view, which earlier seemed like a travel brochure, made his hands tremble. Somebody else's remote-controlled hands, attached as a joke. Who the fuck drinks wine at a time like this? Having a swell vacation? Nice little glass of red?
"Will you stop?" Lucy's voice came sharp, an air raid siren.
He breathed. "What?"
Her tears recommenced with a choke. Hands jerked to her face as if to catch something slipped loose. "Stop." Lucy let the tears run. "You keep muttering. Don't you hear yourself?"
"I can't help it."
"It's morbid, patrolling like that. You think you're going to see him from the window?" Lucy snatched her glass and gulped.
He watched her reflection.
"Why couldn't..." Her tone shifted. "I told you to watch him!"
"I did watch." He'd gone over it so many times.
Lucy's body convulsed in depleted sobs. Frank approached. She shrugged him away, both hands clamped over her face.
He brought her another brim-full glass of that insipid wine. That quieted her. After a while, Frank crossed to the window. He remembered she'd asked him to stop it, but he continued anyway.
Frank convinced himself the woodblock strikes were too slow and discrete to be door-knocks. TOK. A long interval of silence. Again, TOK.
But then the front door squeaked open.
In the living room, Frank stood. In the entryway stood a withered old man in brown corduroy cap and fisherman's coat. He'd let himself in, and now creaked along mahogany floorboards, something held in his outstretched hand like an offering. A liquor bottle.
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