“There are some boxes in the basement that the renovator didn’t remove,” said Martin. “You can have a look, if you like.”
“Oh, Martin, I just hate the thought of something like that still being here. I’m not superstitious, but something like that is just so…so unpleasant.” Bronwyn gave a lady-like shudder.
“That’s just the point, my dear,” he said to Bronwyn. “I think Aunt Agatha’s right. After all, she should know about these things, shouldn’t she? If we can find the Spirit House, I’m sure there’s a museum that would be grateful for the donation, and we’d get a nice tax deduction for it.” He smiled and nodded to Agatha. “I think you’ve hit on a very good notion. Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll help you go through the boxes later today, or first thing tomorrow, whichever you prefer.”
A little taken aback, Agatha said, “I suppose this afternoon would be as good a time as any.”
Martin nodded crisply. “You’re on. Let me pour you some coffee—do you like cream or sugar, or both?”
“Black, please,” she said, suddenly dismayed at what she had got herself into.
* * * *
Far more than the rest of the house, the basement showed the building’s age; dark beams hung low, with any number of hooks and improvised shelves on them for tools and storage. Martin had turned on the lights, but he also offered Agatha a flashlight, saying as he did, “There isn’t much light in the corners, as you see.”
“Yes, I see,” said Agatha, switching on the flashlight and taking comfort in its beam, although it revealed little more than ancient cardboard boxes and cobwebs. She was glad now that she had insisted that she and Martin wear latex gloves—who knew what kind of creepy-crawlies lurked in those very old boxes?
“Yes. There they are,” Martin said, shoving past Agatha and reaching for the top box. “There’s writing on the lid,” he told her, using his flashlight to illuminate the faded letters. “J. Riggins. Jackpot!” He reached to pull down the box—the uppermost of four in that stack, pulling at the lid, and revealing two large scrap books and a photo album. He made a sound of disgust and set it aside, reaching for the next box in the stack, doing a swift count of the remaining boxes. “I count nineteen of them left.”
“Don’t be so hasty,” said Agatha, removing the photo album and flipping through its pages. She was about half-way through the heavy, black pages when she came upon a series of snapshots taken during World War II, the first one captioned, Honolulu, March 19th, 1942. Encouraged, she slowed down and perused them carefully. On the fourth page of war pictures she found what she had been looking for: an angular young man in a Navy uniform standing on the steps of a South Pacific house next to an older native man in a printed regional skirt topped off by a G.I. blouse and a number of wooden necklaces; the islander was offering the young naval officer what looked to be a model of a house very similar to the one in front of which they stood; the line of the front of the house made it appear that they were in front of a grinning mouth. Both men were looking pleased. Agatha held up the album. “Martin. This is very useful. This is the Spirit House. It not only shows us what we’re looking for, it provides a kind of provenance—you’ll need that to make a donation. You can prove the item wasn’t stolen, and that could be important.”
Martin stared down at the photograph. “Looks kind of flimsy—the real house, I mean, like it couldn’t do more than keep off the rain,” he said, for the first time allowing a little doubt to slip into his tone.
“Most of the inhabitants of the South Pacific islands don’t need to stay warm, they need to stay cool,” said Agatha, finding a loose clipping and using that to bookmark the page in the album.
“I suppose you’re right,” said Martin, pulling up the lid of the second box. “Shit!”
“What is it?” She set the album aside, and went to where he was bending over the open box.
“Uniforms. A pair of shoes. Useless!” He clicked his tongue in disgusted disappointment.
“Not necessarily,” said Agatha, as much to keep Martin working as to encourage him in his hope for a windfall. “There’s bound to be an historical society that would be glad to have these for display.”
Trying not to seem too dissatisfied, Martin put the lid back on the box. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do.” She reached for the third box in the stack, a bit put off by his obvious greed.
“Or maybe I could sell them on E-Bay? What do you think?”
“You probably could,” Agatha agreed flatly.
“I could probably sell a lot of this stuff, couldn’t I?” He smiled again, and began a pile of the first two boxes near the foot of the stairs. “Come on—there’s seventeen boxes to go.”
They were on to the fourteenth box when Martin gave a long whistle of discovery. “Looks like this is the one. It’s not in very good shape; stored on its side.” He pointed his flashlight straight down and revealed a finely woven mat of some kind of vegetable fiber. Newspapers from 1951 surrounded the item; he tossed them aside and pulled the thing from its resting place.
It was about the size of a microwave oven, beautifully detailed even in its neglected condition. The front was readily identified: there was a wide verandah spread out on either side of four central stairs leading up into the house itself. A railing along the verandah stood up on little posts like teeth, the railing collapsed where the thread holding the rails on had rotted. The main rafter supported a kind of bamboo thatch, and the woven-mat walls, even though they were brittle and cracked in a few places, had not fallen apart. A number of squat gods no bigger than the last joint of Martin’s little finger were ranged about the little house, posted at every door and window.
“Now, this is more like it,” said Martin. He looked over at Agatha. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s remarkable,” she answered, staring at the Spirit House; it was in fine condition, considering its haphazard storage. “It’s the one in the photo, that’s for sure.”
Martin laughed out loud. “Six boxes of collectable stuff, and this.” He put the Spirit House down carefully on the workbench under the largest of the basement windows. “I should have thought about this when we first moved in. Thanks, Aunt Agatha. I owe you one.”
Agatha took the Spirit House from him. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at it. If it’s as unusual as I think, there are a couple colleagues I’d like to call—to get an idea where you might donate it. You’d like it to go some place with a fine reputation and a superior collection, wouldn’t you?”
“Why can’t you handle it yourself?” He gave her a sudden, hard look.
“Because the South Pacific islands are not my field of specialization. If this were from Turkey and at least two thousand years old, I could find you just the right place with a couple of e-mails. But twentieth century and South Pacific? I only know it’s a good piece. I’ll call a couple of museums, and I’ll e-mail a colleague in Australia. I should be able to get you solid information by Monday.”
Martin considered this, finally nodding. “That’s okay with me, then, but it has to go to a place where I’d get a tax deduction. Keep that in mind, Aunt Agatha.”
She bit back the sharp retort and said only, “I’ll bear that in mind.”
* * * *
It was Tuesday morning before Constantine Hildred called from the National Anthropological Museum; his call, coming at that hour, told Agatha that he was about to leave his office for lunch.
“I got your e-mail about the Spirit House, and the photos you attached,” he said after a quick exchange of pleasantries. “Tell me more about this find.”
“Well, as far as I can tell, it was acquired by the former owner of this house some time during World War II. We found it on Saturday, packed away in the basement,” she said as she went to the desk where she had set up the Spirit House next to her laptop, grinning contentedly out at the room. She said nothing about the disturbing dreams that had filled her sleep for the last three
nights—not that they mattered. She logged into her e-mail, just in case.
“Yeah, I got that from the old photo you attached with the rest. Go on.”
“It’s rumored to be haunted, but given what it appears to be, that’s hardly surprising,” said Agatha.
“Tell me about the little gods in the Spirit House; it’ll help me identify where it came from.”
Agatha picked up a small magnifying glass and peered into the little house. “They’re the usual small, squat gods. The carving looks as if it might come from the Philippines or Indonesia.”
“Can you tell me anything about them that’s more specific? Don’t worry. I’m interested in the piece, but I want to know what kind of thing I’ll be getting. I don’t want any trouble with it.”
“Why should this be trouble? Are you worried about provenance?”
“More about the nature of the thing,” said Constantine.
“More national treasure issues, you mean?” she asked.
“Ethnic ones, anyway,” he said.
“Okay, Conny.” She lifted her magnifying glass again. “There’s two that are female—long breasts, and one with a bone in his hand. There’re carvings along the main rafter, very intricate. Would you like me to photograph them and attach the photos to an e-mail?”
“How soon can you do it?”
“I’ve got my camera right here,” said Agatha, ready to put it to use.
“Okay. Take a couple and send them along right now. And while you’re at it, take another of the front of the house, if you would.”
“Glad to,” said Agatha, lifting her camera and taking a half-dozen photos. She attached them to her e-mail to him and sent them on their way. “I gather the previous owner didn’t like the Spirit House,” she repeated while she listened to the keyboard click from Conny’s office.
There was a long silence, and then Hildred said. “Small wonder.”
“Why?” Agatha asked with an uneasy glance at the Spirit House.
Hildred took a deep breath. “Because the people who made it are cannibals.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
DAVID ANDERSON grew up in Northern Ireland during the political ‘Troubles’. After grammar school he took an honours degree in philosophy from Queens University, Belfast, followed by postgraduate work in social studies. He immigrated to Vancouver, Canada in 1991, where he owned a bookstore for several years. Nowadays he runs an internet out-of-print book business and writes in his spare time.
COLIN AZARIAH-KRIBBS is a grad student at Princeton University, studying for her Ph.D. in Victorian literature. Her interest in weird fiction of the era has led her toward becoming a writer, working in the same, er, vein—to coin a phrase!
LOUIS BECKE (also known as George Lewis Becke (1855–1913) was an Australian short-story writer and novelist.
JOHN GREGORY BETANCOURT is a writer of science fiction, fantasy and mystery stories and novels. He has worked as an assistant editor at Amazing Stories and editor of Horror: The Newsmagazine of the Horror Field, the revived Weird Tales magazine, the first issue of H. P. Lovecraft’s Magazine of Horror (which he subsequently hired Marvin Kaye to edit), Cat Tales magazine (which he subsequently hired George H. Scithers to edit), and Adventure Tales magazine. He is the author of four Star Trek novels and the new Chronicles of Amber prequel series, as well as a dozen original novels. His essays, articles, and reviews have appeared in such diverse publications as Writer’s Digest, The Washington Post, and Amazing Stories. In his spare time, he runs Wildside Press and publishes large ebook anthologies.
AMBROSE BIERCE (born June 24, 1842; assumed to have died sometime after December 26, 1913) was an American editorialist, journalist, short story writer, fabulist, and satirist. He wrote the classic short story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” and compiled a satirical lexicon The Devil’s Dictionary. His vehemence as a critic, his motto “Nothing matters,” and the sardonic view of human nature that informed his work, all earned him the nickname “Bitter Bierce.” His style often embraces an abrupt beginning, dark imagery, vague references to time, limited descriptions, impossible events, and the theme of war.
In 1913, Bierce traveled to Mexico to gain first-hand experience of the Mexican Revolution. While traveling with rebel troops, he disappeared without a trace, presumably murdered by those same rebels.
ROBERT BLOCH (1917–1994) was a prolific American writer, primarily of crime, horror, fantasy and science fiction. He is best known as the writer of Psycho, the basis for the film of the same name by Alfred Hitchcock. He wrote that “Despite my ghoulish reputation, I really have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in a jar on my desk,” (a quote borrowed by Stephen King and often misattributed to him). His fondness for a pun is evident in the titles of his story collections such as Tales in a Jugular Vein, Such Stuff as Screams Are Made Of, and Out of the Mouths of Graves.
M.E. BRINES is a member of the British Society for Psychical Research and author of 25 novels, e-books, and pamphlets on esoteric subjects such as Alien Abduction, conspiracies, esoteric Nazism, the Knights Templar, magick, the Bible, and the Spear of Longinius available through Amazon and Smashwords. His website is www.MEBrines.com.
LORD EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON—actually Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton PC—(1803– 1873), was an English novelist, poet, playwright, and politician. He was immensely popular with the reading public and wrote a stream of bestselling novels which earned him a considerable fortune. He coined the phrases “the great unwashed,” “pursuit of the almighty dollar,” “the pen is mightier than the sword,” as well as the infamous opening line “It was a dark and stormy night.”
B.N. CLARK has been working at the craft of fiction since 2010. “Lugar De La Pas” is his first story to be published. He is currently working on a number of short, strange stories and a novel. He also writes songs and sings in a Texas honky tonk band.
JOHN HAGGERTY is a writer living in Northern California. His stories have appeared in Confrontation, The Santa Monica Review, and Shock Totem, among others. He is currently at work on a novel about greed, gambling, religion, sex and death set in the deserts of Nevada. (It’s a comedy.)
LARRY HODGES is an active member of SFWA with numerous short story sales. He was the 2010 Garden State Horror Writers Short Story Competition Grand Prize Winner. He’s a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and a full-time writer with four books and over 1300 published articles. Visit him at www.larryhodges.org.
Over the past thirty years, NINA KIRIKI HOFFMAN has sold adult and YA novels and more than 250 short stories. Her works have been finalists for the World Fantasy, Mythopoeic, Sturgeon, Philip K. Dick, and Endeavour awards. She had won both the Stoker and the Nebula awards.
W.W. JACOBS William Wymark Jacobs (1863–1943), was an English author of short stories and novels. Although much of his work was humorous, he is most famous for his horror story “The Monkey’s Paw.
M.R. JAMES (1862–1936), was an English medieval scholar and provost of King’s College, Cambridge (1905–1918), and of Eton College (1918–1936). He is best remembered for his ghost stories, which are regarded as among the best in the genre. James redefined the ghost story for the new century by abandoning many of the formal Gothic clichés of his predecessors and using more realistic contemporary settings. However, James’s protagonists and plots tend to reflect his own antiquarian interests. Accordingly, he is known as the originator of the “antiquarian ghost story”.
H.P. LOVECRAFT invented the “Cthulhu Mythos” and is one of the most horror popular authors of the 20th century.
SKADI MEIC BEORH is the author of the novella “The Highwayman’s Tale” (27th Dimension Publishing), the poetry study Golgotha (Punkin House Press), and the story collection A Crazy Child Called Pinprick (27th Dimension). He presently lives in an Edwardian neighborhood on the Atlantic Coast with his exceedingly imaginative wife, Ember.
MATT PISKUN lives and writes in South Jersey where he works as a pharmacist and not so
secretly plots dominion over the eastern seaboard. He currently has six short stories published, none of which contain the phrase “vainglorious dolt” but he vows to use it one day. Follow his steep decline into madness at www.thebadgerine.com.
SEABURY QUINN (1889–1969) was an American pulp magazine author, most famous for his stories of the occult detective Jules de Grandin, published in Weird Tales. Some of these stories may be found in The Occult Detective Megapack, coming from Wildside Press in 2013.
JAMES C. STEWART appeared in the debut issue of Paradox: The Magazine of Historical & Speculative Fiction. He’s currently seeking a publisher for two novels, and is at home working on his third. He lives in North Bay, Ontario, Canada.
CYNTHIA WARD was born in Oklahoma and lived in Maine, Spain, Germany, the San Francisco Bay Area, Seattle, and Tucson before moving to the Los Angeles area. A 1992 graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop, she has sold stories to Asimov’s Science Fiction, and other anthologies and magazines. Cynthia’s reviews appear regularly on Amazon.com and SciFiWire.com and irregularly in other websites and publications. She is working on her first novel, a futuristic mystery tentatively titled Stone Rain.
LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS is the author of about fifty novels and over a hundred short stories, mostly in the SF, fantasy, and horror fields. He won the Hugo award in 1988 for his short story, “Why I Left Harry’s All-Night Hamburgers,” and was president of the Horror Writers Association for two years. His most recent books are Tales of Ethshar, a collection of short stories set in the same universe as The Misenchanted Sword and many of his finest fantasy novels, and The Sorcerer’s Widow, a new Ethshar novel, both from Wildside Press.
STEPHEN WOODWORTH is the author of the New York Times best-selling Violet Series of paranormal thrillers, including Through Violet Eyes and With Red Hands, and his short fiction has appeared in such publications as Weird Tales, Realms of Fantasy, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Year’s Best Fantasy 9, and Mutation Nation.
The Haunts & Horrors Megapack: 31 Modern & Classic Stories Page 48
