by James Palmer
Into the
Weird
The Collected Stories
of
James Palmer
A Mechanoid Press Book
Books by James Palmer
Slow Djinn
Four Terrors: Weird Horror Stories
As Editor
Monster Earth
Betrayal on Monster Earth
Strange Trails
Robots Unleashed!
As Contributor
Gideon Cain: Demon Hunter
Blackthorn: Thunder on Mars
Tales of the Rook volume 2
Mars McCoy: Space Ranger volume 2
Dedication
This book is for Ron Fortier, Tommy Hancock, Van Allen Plexico, Jim Beard, and the creative men and women of The Pulp Factory, without whom the stories in this book wouldn't exist.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2014 by James Palmer
Cover Artwork © 2014 by Karl Comendador
Acknowledgements
The House of the Witch originally appeared in Van Allen Plexico Presents: Gideon Cain Print edition © 2008 Airship 27 Productions. Kindle edition © 2011 White Rocket Books
The Tunnels of Lao Fang originally appeared in Pro Se Presents: Fantasy & Fear *1
The Hand of Yogul originally appeared in Pro Se Presents: January 2012
The Meteor Terror originally appeared in Pro Se Presents: Fantasy & Fear *2
Slow Djinn originally published as an e-book by Mechanoid Press in 2012
Mars McCoy and the Curse of the Star Lance originally appeared in Mars McCoy Space Ranger vol. 2, published by Airship 27 Productions in 2013
When the Dead Ride originally published as an e-book by Mechanoid Press in 2013
The Mummy Train originally published as an e-book in 2013, reprinted in Strange Trails, published by Mechanoid Press in 2013
Some Say in Ice originally published in Monster Earth, published by Mechanoid Press in 2013
The Time of the Spider originally published in Betrayal on Monster Earth, published by Mechanoid Press in 2014
Indistinguishable from Magic originally published in Blackthorn: Thunder on Mars, published by White Rocket Books in 2011
Table of Contents
Introduction
The House of the Witch (Gideon Cain)
The Tunnels of Lao Fang
The Hand of Yogul
The Meteor Terror
Slow Djinn
Mars McCoy and the Curse of the Star Lance (Mars McCoy)
When the Dead Ride
The Mummy Train
Some Say in Ice (Monster Earth)
The Time of the Spider (Betrayal on Monster Earth)
Indistinguishable from Magic (Blackthorn)
About the Author
Introduction
What you hold in your hands is a collection of short stories I wrote and published between 2003 and this year, 2014. Some star other people's characters and were printed in books published by them. Others are characters of my own creation. Some were style experiments, to see if I could write in the styles of some of my favorite pulp writers like Robert E. Howard and H.P. Lovecraft. Others were thought experiments: Wouldn't it be cool if a robot fought a mummy? Some were published in magazines, while others first saw the light of day in e-book format.
All of them fall firmly within the boundaries of what has come to be known as New Pulp, an ever-evolving sub-niche of a sub-niche that has as many definitions as it does adherents and writers. But however we define these stories, they all harken back to the days of the pulps and, I hope, they evoke the same life, the same thrill, the same sense of adventure as the tales they seek to emulate.
Herein are tales of weird menace, cosmic derring-do, and historical sword and sorcery. You'll find giant monsters, robots, cowboys, 40's private eyes, and more. Almost ninety-five thousand words in all! And I hope they are as fun for you to read as they were for me to write. Enjoy!
--James
The House of the Witch
The minister paced the small wooden platform while his congregation looked up at him. At last he stopped and gripped the edges of the lectern with hands hardened by time and labor.
“Brothers and sisters, we have a witch in our midst.”
A tiny murmur rose up and spread through the tiny church, reaching a startled crescendo.
The black-garbed minister held up a restraining hand. “We all know of the trouble, and we’ve all seen the signs.” He began pacing again. “We all remember, three weeks ago, when Thomas Crain’s cow gave birth to a five-legged calf.” He pointed at Thomas Crain for effect, the man nodding vigorously. “We also know about the sour milk, the sweating horses, and worst of all, the gruesome fiend that slaughtered Sam Elder’s goats. If we don’t do something now, one of us could be next.”
The murmur grew into a dull roar that the preacher didn’t attempt to stifle. Instead he paced the pulpit even more vigorously, wringing his hands, his face turning red with anger.
“Yes, brothers and sisters, there is a witch in our midst. And I think you all know who I mean.”
“Aye!” said someone in the front row.
“It’s that old woman,” said Zachariah Marsh. “Maggie Dean. My wife saw her digging for roots in the woods. She’s using them to make a potion, I just know it.”
“I heard she learned black magic from the slaves of Mr. Douglas, down south,” claimed another. “She probably used it to conjure that black fiend from the pits of hell!”
“My son saw her make the sign of the evil eye at Thomas Crain last month,” said Elder. “I’ll wager that’s why his calf was born with five legs.”
“I’ll not have talk of gambling in God’s house, Thomas,” the Reverend scolded. He paused from his pacing to look at the members of his congregation, his hard grey eyes locking with each of theirs, as if attempting to read the souls of the sixty-five God-fearing men and women assembled before him. There was fear lurking behind the eyes of each man, woman and child, but also courage. Reverend Green also noted with some slight trepidation that each man was armed: Samuel Cross had the bulge of a flintlock under his long coat, and Zachariah Marsh wore a lethal-looking knife on his hip, the white deer antler handle flashing in the dimness. This was protection, the Reverend knew, from the fiend that lurked somewhere near, and whose presence was felt even during broad daylight in the house of the Lord. Only when Green had looked into the eyes of every man, woman and child sitting before him did he begin to speak again.
“The Lord thy God is testing us.” He spread his arms in an including gesture.“He has sent the Devil himself to torment us. These are grim times, and we must come together in this dark hour to protect this township from the works of Satan.”
Sixty-five heads bobbed up and down in agreement. The Reverend placed his right hand on the large, unopened Bible resting on the lectern, as if drawing strength from it.
“What do we do?” asked John Hawkins.
“The Bible is very clear when it comes to dealing with witches,” said Reverend Green.
Everyone nodded in agreement as the uproar began anew.
“Suffer not a witch to live,” quoted Sam Elder
“Burn her,” said Zachariah Marsh.
“Just like Salem,” replied Thomas Crain.
The church was a cacophony of excited voices and fearful testimonies. Reverend Green banged his open palm on the lectern and tried to shout above the din, but to no avail.
The sound of the heavy oake
n door opening, filling the dim room with bright morning sunlight, served to squelch the commotion.
A lone man entered the church. He was tall, and dressed for traveling. He had long wiry hair and wore a dark, well worn slouch hat, and a dark suede buff coat. A pair of flintlocks were stuffed in the man’s belt, and he also wore a long, lethal-looking sword of a type the Reverend had not seen since he was a child. Strange symbols were tattooed into his hands and he looked at the Reverend and his congregation with cold, hard eyes.
“Who are you, Stranger?” asked Reverend Green.
“Just a lone pilgrim seeking entry,” was the stranger’s answer.
“May we have the benefit of your name?”
“I am Gideon Cain,” said the tall, lean stranger. “From Salem town. I have been listening outside for a time, and I want to ask you something, Reverend. Have you met the Devil, yet?”
Reverend Green stepped back, aghast. “I beg your pardon, Sir?”
“You said that the Devil himself had been sent here to wreak havoc. If this is so, please point him out to me so that I may destroy him.”
The assembly began their excited murmuring anew, while a few of the younger folks laughed.
Reverend Green stood there for a long moment, trying to determine if the stranger’s words were meant as an insult or if he was serious. He decided on the latter.
“Are you a witch finder?” He leaned against the lectern expectantly. If so, this was good news, and proof that once again Providence shown upon them, for they wouldn’t have to cast about for one or bear the expense of bringing one here from England.
“I am no witch finder,” said Gideon Cain, “but a dispatcher of witches if need be.”
The men looked at one another and began talking excitedly.
“Well, I have never heard of a witch finder so heavily armed,” said the Reverend dismissively.
“I have yet to meet the fiend that could not be dispatched by pistol and ball, or the point of a sword.”
The Reverend stared at the stranger as if stung. “Now look you, Sir. We have no need for impious bravado here.”
“I speak no impiety,” muttered Cain, eyeing the Reverend darkly. “Only truth. No one but God Himself may judge my words, and I challenge any mortal man who dares try.”
Cain’s eyes narrowed to thin slits as he scanned the congregation, as if looking for someone to step up and take the challenge. The Reverend followed his gaze and found looks of stunned fear. This group, he knew, would sooner rush into the path of the stalking fiend than challenge Gideon Cain this day.
“We seek no quarrel with you, Brother,” said Reverend Green. “We have a common enemy that you apparently know much about. Will you help us?”
Cain stood there for a long moment, his right hand deathly close to one of his flintlocks. “Aye,” he muttered finally. “I heard your troubles through the door. I should like to meet this Maggie Dean.”
After much discussion it was decided that Gideon Cain would be charged with the task of ridding Lansing Town of witchcraft, especially after Cain explained that he wanted no payment for his services.
Cain felt the eyes of the town on his back as he made for Maggie Dean’s house, which he had been told was a small cabin on the edge of the fiend-haunted wood. If Azazel is here, Cain thought, I will find him.
It was a bit of a hike to the cabin, through a thick stand of trees and underbrush which made the land unsuitable for farming, and it was barely cleared for human traffic. Cain found himself ruminating on the alleged character of this Dean woman. As an outsider, she’d be the perfect scapegoat in times such as this. A perfect pawn for Azazel to move as he pleases. Still, if she was a witch, then Cain must do his duty to stop her, whether or not Azazel is involved. But if the fallen angel is up to something, it could mean the Salem witch trials all over again.
Cain quickened his pace, his left hand resting on the black hilt of his mortuary sword. “There will be no more innocent blood spilled in the name of God,” Cain vowed to himself as he trudged through the forest.
Gideon Cain stopped suddenly in his tracks. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled despite his long mane of dark hair, and he listened intently. Someone—or something—was following him, and he had the growing sense of being watched. It was bright daylight, but the forest loomed in on him, the cool air and the dead autumn underbrush gave a menacing cast to what would otherwise be an innocent day free of danger. Then Cain heard a horrible squeal from somewhere deep in the forest that froze the blood of even his hearty veins.
Cain pulled one of the flintlocks with his left hand, the right going to the hilt of his sword and pulling it from its scabbard. “Come out, thou Demon,” he said to the empty forest. “Come out, so that I may send thee back to hell!”
There was no more noise, but the uneasy feeling of being watched persisted. Cain stood still for a few more minutes before continuing onward. He replaced his sword in its scabbard but held the flintlock ready, his eyes narrowed to slits as he surveyed the gray wood for signs of movement. If the fiend the townspeople spoke of was waiting to pounce, he silently vowed that he would be ready for it. Cain found the cabin easily enough. A ramshackle affair, it sat squat and ugly among a stand of poplar trees choked with thick brambles. The chimney belched black smoke and Cain smelled wood smoke on the early autumn breeze. The puritan strode onto the porch and rapped loudly on the rough hewn wooden door.
His keen ears listened for movement. Almost a full minute after he knocked, he heard a thud, followed seconds later by a shout and a loud bang that thundered through the tiny house, rocking the door and almost toppling Gideon Cain from the rickety porch.
Sensing devilry afoot, Cain kicked in the door with his right foot. He entered the darkened portal, pulling his flintlocks. An acrid odor assaulted his nostrils.
At the center of the cabin’s single room an old woman lay in a heap upon the floor. Around her was scrawled an enormous chalk outline on the hard-packed dirt floor. Half-melted candles marked the corners, the extinguished wicks still giving off black, acrid smoke.
Gideon Cain surveyed the room quickly for any assailants before putting away his flintlocks and going to the old woman’s aid. He knelt beside her where she lay face down and gripped her arms. She gave a cough, and Cain slowly turned her around to face him.
She blinked and looked up at him, her face stained with soot. “Are you the Devil?” she croaked.
Scowling, Gideon Cain gripped her arms and attempted to sit her upright. “I am no devil. Only a traveler who seeks justice. Are you Maggie Dean?”
“I am,” said the old woman, coughing.
“I am here on accusations of witchcraft.”
Maggie recovered from her fit of coughing to give Gideon Cain a cautious look.
“So those buffoons finally cobbled their money together for a witch finder.” She pushed Cain’s hands aside as she righted herself. She was short and stocky of build, and it took considerable effort to stand upright, but she managed it.
“My name is Gideon Cain. And as I told the Reverend and his congregation, I am no witch finder, but a dispatcher of evil wherever I find it.”
Maggie let out a phlegmy laugh as she brushed herself off. “You have truly stumbled upon the mother lode here, Stranger. I could tell you things about our Reverend Green that would turn your stomach.”
“I am more interested in what you were doing just now,” said Cain, touching the hilt of his sword. “If what you were doing isn’t witchcraft I am unfamiliar with its practice.”
“Take heed, Gideon Cain. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. You are one to be accusing people of witchcraft, going round armed to the teeth and covered in strange sigils.”
Cain looked down, somewhat self-consciously, at his hands, which were marked with a few of the angelic runes he had received from the Lord in a dream. “There is nothing of witchery about these symbols, I can assure you.”
Maggie nodded. “Aye. And I believe you. For
I had a dream about you, and those queer markings of yours.” She stepped closer, pointing at him with a crooked finger. “You have your sword similarly marked, true?”
Cain nodded, drawing the mortuary sword from its scabbard. The holy runes seemed to shimmer in the gloom of the cabin, filled with their own inner light.
Maggie Dean smiled an almost toothless smile. “I’ve not seen a sword like that in ages. Well, not since my dream. You’re too young to have served the Protector. Your father?”
“Yes,” said Cain, replacing the sword in its sheath.
“I knew it.”
“What do you mean you dreamed about me?” Cain arched an eyebrow suspiciously. “Many a witch has acted upon things envisioned in their dreams.”
Maggie Dean chuckled. “Have you not heard of the second sight? My mother had it, as her mother before her. They called it a gift. Heh. Cursed nuisance if you ask me. Always got me into trouble. I thought I could leave those troubles behind by coming to the New World. I was wrong.”
“I have known those who possessed the second sight,” said Cain. “And there wasn’t an ungodly soul among them. But what do you call that thunderous ritual I almost witnessed?”
Maggie turned to survey markings on the floor and the candles. “Another dream vision. These marks on the dirt. They are like your sigils, with some heathen embellishments I learned from some slaves down south. Little port called Savannah. Anyways, I was trying to imprison the fiend what’s been terrorizing the town.”
