Evil Jester Digest Volume One

by Rick Hautala

  The women walked to the temple and entered.

  “Did the Inca have a written language?” Dara asked.

  “You’re testing me,” replied Susan. When Dara remained silent, Susan continued. “The Inca had no written language. They relied on quipus to keep track of time and events. Several will probably be found once the grids are laid and digging starts.”

  “If the Inca had no written language, who did that?” Dara pointed to a wall in front of them.

  The symbols bore a resemblance to Egyptian hieroglyphics, yet the characters were alien. Men with tentacles for arms or legs, animals the likes of which never born on this Earth. Serpentine horse-like beasts, arachnids with long, jointed legs, a worm, barely recognizable as such behind the gaping maw.

  “What the hell are these?” Susan asked. “Is this some kind of joke?” She studied the carvings. “I want to remember these. I feel like I should, but there’s a blank spot where the knowledge would be.”

  Dara traced them with reverent fingertips, knowing she violated preservation rules yet not able to stop herself. Could these be gods lost to the ravages of time. Maybe from a sub-race of Inca? One that did have a written language?

  “I know.” Dara led Susan to the surrounding buildings.

  These didn’t share the same careful construction. Blocks didn’t fit together as well, doorways and windows were more irregularly shaped. Everywhere, on the inside and outside of these four buildings, faces leered with mocking grins. Some of the visages were human, some might have been. All were only simple stone carving chiseled into the walls, yet ominous and knowing. Chills raced along Dara’s spine as she studied them, glad for Susan’s presence.

  “We need to excavate this,” said Susan. “Make sure this isn’t a hoax.”

  *****

  Under about two feet of soil, at each of the four temple corners, they found bowls. The clay vessels had been buried upside down. Carefully, Dara removed one then another, until all four bowls rested in front of the two women.

  Each vessel had words inscribed inside, beginning at the rim and spiraling down to the center of the bowl.

  “What are they?” asked Susan.

  “I have no idea.” Dara picked up one and stood. “I’ll be right back. See what else you can find.” She carried one of the bowls to Edgar, their language expert.

  He studied he bowl then looked at Dara. “Is this for real?”

  “Yes. Susan and I found it and three more like it, each buried at a corner. Why?”

  “The language is Akkadian. It hasn’t been used since about the Eighth century, when Aramaic became the primary language of Mesopotamia. And judging by the words, this is a Devil’s Trap from Babylonia.” He pointed to the words. “See how the words run widdershins into the bottom?”

  Dara nodded.

  “This is a spell, essentially a contract to divorce a spirit. If the words ran clockwise, it would be a spell to connect a spirit. Was is right side up or upside down when you found it?”

  “Upside down. Why?”

  “Burying a Devil’s Trap right side up divorces a spirit from the ground. Burying it upside down divorces the spirit from the air or the surface.”

  Nothing is quite right about this site, Dara thought. “How did it end up here?”

  Edgar shrugged and handed the bowl back to her. “You’re the expert on ancient cultures.”

  *****

  Phantoms plagued Dara’s dreams that night. Creatures not known to this world filled her subconscious. They spoke to her, the language familiar. Dara knew she’d heard it before but couldn’t remember.

  She woke with panic twisting her stomach. Dara tried to remember the dreams, the words spoken, but vivid images faded too fast. A scream ripped the night, followed by another. They didn’t sound human. Dara considered waking Kevin to investigate, but unease stilled her hand.

  Instead, she zipped the tent open, wincing at the harsh noise, hoping it didn’t attract whatever lurked in the dark.

  Dara pulled the .357 revolver from its holster, pointing the muzzle toward the ground. The weight of the Ruger reassured her, and Dara peeked through the flap.

  Nothing waited to pounce, nothing lay in wait. The guanacos hadn’t raised an alarm. If some predator prowled in the night, the pack animals wouldn’t remain quiet.

  Dara eased onto her sleeping bag, lying on top of the slick nylon. Beside her, Kevin snored softly. She poked him in the ribs, and he turned over then settled in to sleep once more. Dara blinked in the night air, every slight noise sending her pulse racing. Sleep eluded her. Picking up the gun again, she made her way to the banked fire, intending to get an early start on the day.

  Then, the entire world went to Hell.

  Voices, hundreds of them, came from the forest. Low and guttural, ugly chanting.

  Recognizable as human, each word spoken clearly but with no intonation. Heavy black clouds rolled in, blocking out the stars and moon. The chanting grew louder, and the wind picked up, threatening to tear the meager tent shelters away.

  Kevin and the others stumbled into the night, awakened by the shrieking wind.

  Words came faster, growing higher in pitch, seeming to be meaningless phrases of power so ancient they were almost unpronounceable. Speech increased in volume and velocity until Dara was sure the sounds could not emanate from a human tongue. Words became little more than a raucous cawing, melding to a single, grating note.

  Tree branches smacked and clacked together, sounding like wooden chimes. Roots ripped free of the thin topsoil, flailing and smacking, reaching for the group. The forest advanced on the tiny camp in leaps and bounds.

  One heavy limb crashed against a neighboring tree and broke. Its splintered end sprayed red. The smeared traces of gore running down the smooth trunk resembled macabre trails left by bloodied snails.

  The banked campfire flared, soil erupting in a flaming fountain, allowing everything to be seen in gruesome bas-relief. Earth shifted, spitting out grisly remains of previous sacrificial victims, somehow not fully decomposed even after the passage of centuries. Smells of death and decay found Dara’s nostrils and she vomited. Air around the site thickened to a gelatinous feel, active with unseen creatures walking, crawling, slithering through.

  A root grabbed Kevin by his ankle and wrenched him off his feet, dragging him away. Dara grabbed for his outstretched hand and missed. Branches of a cannonball tree grasped his arms and legs, hoisting him upside down against the balled trunk in a grim rendition of a living crucifix. Vines snaked down from the treetops and wound around his head, pulling Kevin tighter against the tree, halting futile struggles. He screamed then, horrible animalistic sounds. His chest heaved with the effort just to breath.

  Dara tried to go to her husband. Skeletal hands held fast, tying her to the soil. They pulled on her legs, bony fingers digging into flesh. Blood ran red and warm down her calves, and it energized the decayed digits. They gripped harder, dragging her to her knees. She reached toward Kevin, trying to stretch herself, to pull free despite the burning sensation overtaking her lower body. Fear and frustration filled her.

  More hands grabbed at her clothing, twisting the fabric into tattered shreds. They snatched her hair, pulling strands out by the roots. One gripped her throat, wrenching her face toward the earth.

  Dara raised the gun. Shaking hands aimed the muzzle at Kevin and squeezed the trigger.

  The Ruger roared once, twice, before ancient teeth bit down on Dara’s wrist. She dropped the weapon. Bullets ricocheted, deflected by wood and stone.

  Blood sprayed as a rusted knife ripped through Kevin’s thigh, then a second through the right side of his chest, and still he screamed. Terrible, tortured sounds. Two pre-Columbian warriors stepped from behind the tree and retrieved their weapons.

  Flesh hung in tattered rags, fluttering around their limbs. Mouths still full of stained teeth opened in rictus laughter. Bone rasped against bone with each stuttering step. Sleeveless tunics, more hole than fabric, stuck
to ribs in large, wet spots while cloaks, tied at the neck, drifted lifeless behind. Moldy leather boots thumped against the earth, sounding a cannibalistic cadence.

  They strode toward Susan, blades raised. The girl had nowhere to run.

  Helpless tears, hot and salty, poured down Dara’s cheeks. They washed away dirt and grime, love and life and happiness. Her chest ached with guilt, anger, and sorrow as sobs tore free. She gulped great breaths of air.

  Kevin’s eyes bulged then popped free. Nerves dangled them against his cheeks. Fleshy worms with grapnels lining their underbellies burst from the sockets, waving fat, white bodies in newfound freedom for a moment. Their tiny hooks tore at Kevin’s eyelids as the worms pulled free, crawling toward his chest. Blood flowed. And still he screamed. Dara tried to cover her ears, but she could not raise her hands. The very voice that had saved her sanity just two days ago now drove her crazy.

  His screams stopped and Kevin hung limp, head lolling. All tortured cries ended. Silence reigned for precious seconds.

  Then the ground split in a raw, ugly wound in front of Dara. Leathery tentacles slid out, searching, flailing, grabbing whatever came within reach. A thick, sandpapery scraping grew louder. Names filled Dara’s head, buzzing with intensity. Odd names, ones with too many consonants and not enough vowels to be human. Names like Ghisguth, Naggoob, Snireth-ko and Yhoundeh. There were more, hundreds, perhaps thousands, all speaking and screaming at once, desperate to be heard, needing to be recognized, wanting to be welcomed, to be embraced as they had before.

  Dara fought against the skeletal hands holding her. Bone snapped and cracked. Shards flew, imbedding themselves in earth and wood. The last hold broke.

  She ran before even trying to stand, an awkward skittering, pushing, pulling movement that carried her toward Kevin.

  The jungle shifted again—changing, growing, moving. Moaning came from within the trees themselves. An overhead branch broke as it slammed into another, spraying Dara with more blood. The tree bellowed as the campfire flared again, this time igniting some of the tumbling, squirming vines. Smoke rose dense and acrid, filling the air as green plants smoldered and writhed.

  Another figure appeared and blocked her path.

  Dara skidded to a halt, legs splayed for balance. The mummified apparition shambled toward her.

  Clay crumbled and fell from the skull. Firelight glittered off bean clam shells covering eye sockets. Blood and fur clung to its mouth and chest. It dragged a mutilated, panting guanaco.

  Dara’s heart wrenched at the sight, and she cried out. Gulping sobs tore through the air, and dizziness tilted the world. She fell, landing hard on one hip and wrist. Pain lanced through her arm.

  More unidentifiable creatures emerged from the open gash in the Earth, pulling themselves up with whatever appendages they had; some with huge claws, others with too many arms and hands, all moving within the smoke and fog like wraiths. A single bulging eye glared at Dara before fading. She heard chittering behind her, and jointed legs covered with coarse hair caressed her slick skin then pulled back.

  Vaporous air swirled and churned in new patterns. A sinewy purple-red arm, veins standing up like cords, stretched out, fingerless tip testing the air. Thin tentacles unwound, adding to the thing’s length, and small suction cups shuddered, straining to move further. The tentacle pulsed and swelled as the suckers widened, searching for prey.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Suction cups gripped and released, gripped and released, sliding forward.

  Dara watched, unable to turn her gaze, unable to move. Horrors surrounded her, then Hell itself stroked her body.

  *****

  Hollie Snider is the Executive Editor for Hidden Thoughts Press and editor of the Live and Let Undead anthology from Twisted Library Press. She is a founding member of the Colorado Springs Fiction Writers Group and a member of the Horror Writer's Association, Broad Universe and the Wicked Women Writers. She is the owner of Swansong Editing, and has over 15 years of writing and freelance editing experience, has taught creative writing workshops, and has written several writing related articles.

  Snider’s horror works tend toward the psychological, revenge, and twisted fairy tales. “Blood and guts can be scary,” she says, “if used to the story’s advantage. But I don’t think readers need anatomy lessons. Sometimes what isn’t exposed is more frightening.”

  www.holliesnider.com

  www.swansongediting.com

  www.csfwg.org

  DUST DEVIL

  Gary Brandner

  One minute Harry Keyes was cruising along I-15 in bright sunshine. His pretty wife Laura dozed beside him, her head canted toward his shoulder. The air inside the classic Impala was a comfortable 71 degrees while outside the desert blistered in triple digits under an August sun. Harry tapped the steering wheel in time with the classic rock his radio picked up from a Barstow FM station. In a couple of hours he would be home in Santa Monica with winnings of three hundred Las Vegas dollars in his pants. He and Laura could enjoy a modest night on the town.

  That was one minute. In the next a blast of wind hit the car like a fist, driving it toward the median strip of the Interstate. A grating hiss drowned out the sounds of Eric Clapton and the interior of the car went dark as an opaque brown wall cut visibility in all directions.

  It took Harry’s brain a second to process the sensations and take him from What the hell is this? to Oh shit, now we’re going to be late.

  Laura jerked awake as her head bounced against his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “Sandstorm.”

  With his jaw clamped and eyes squeezed into slits Harry fought the Impala back to the right while the wind battered the car. He did not want to cross over into the eastbound lanes and be hit head on by another blinded motorist. He tried the headlights, but there was no effect. Every muscle tensed against the shattering collision he expected now from the rear.

  After interminable seconds Harry felt the tires on the right side leave the pavement for rougher ground. He continued until all four wheels were on the more dirt surface. Here he hoped he would be out of the way of other traffic. Was there a ditch? What the hell, it didn’t matter now. He brought the Impala to a grinding stop, set the brake, and killed the engine.

  Outside the sandblast continued without letup. This was going to cost him a paint job at the very least. Would his insurance cover it? Not likely. Kiss the Vegas money goodbye.

  A fine dust filtered in as the car rocked from side to side. The temperature rose rapidly.

  “How long is this going to last?” Laura said.

  “How would I know?” he snapped. Then more gently, “I’ve never been in one of these before.”

  Laura coughed and used a tissue to dab at the perspiration on her face.

  “I guess we could keep the AC on,” he said. “I’ll set it so it uses only the interior air. Don’t want any more of the desert blowing in here.”

  He started the engine. It made an unpleasant growling sound. The air conditioner came on and cooled the interior, but circulated the fine dust that was growing thicker and sifting into Harry’s eyes and nose.

  The digital dash clock blinked once and went dark. Not a good sign.

  “I wish it would stop,” Laura said.

  Harry ground his teeth. They had a gritty feel. He checked his wristwatch. The hands pointed at five minutes to four. He held the watch up and squinted at the second hand. It pointed straight down at 6 and did not move. Could the abrasive dust have somehow got into the watch case?

  He punched the radio from one end of the dial to the other. Nothing but crackling static. He and Laura looked at each other, their faces lit coldly by the dome light. Harry shook his head. Outside the gritty wind kept up its assault on the car.

  Time passed. The fuel gage read a quarter full. The roar of the storm slackened a little. Harry leaned forward and peered through the windshield. He could see the sloping hood, once a shiny black, now scabr
ous gunmetal gray where the sand had ground away the paint. The wind eased, and the land became visible for some thirty feet around them.

  “I think it’s stopping,” Harry said.

  He banged the Impala into gear and started cautiously forward. “Now where is the damn highway?”

  The car crawled ahead, and for the first time Harry wished he had splurged for a four-wheel drive vehicle. Useless in the city, but great in an emergency like this. A brown curtain of dust hung in the air. All around was dirty sand, rocks, and nothing that moved or lived.

  “Where the hell is the highway?” Harry said again.

  “Can’t you find it?” Laura said.

  “Do you see it?”

  “No. Don’t lose your temper.”

  “I couldn’t have parked very far off the pavement. And the wind couldn’t have moved us. I just can’t see the damn Interstate. It’s probably covered with sand.”

  He inched cautiously forward. The engine made a discordant grinding sound. “Don’t quit on me,” Harry told it.

  Nothing outside gave him any clue. The Impala labored through the sand, complaining all the way.

  “Are you going the right direction?” Laura asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Don’t we have a compass or anything?”

  “No. And what good would it do if we did?”

  While the wind had lessened, it had not stopped, and bursts of grit continued to buffet the Impala. The engine screeched, coughed, and quit. Harry twisted the ignition key and let the starter grind until it barely muttered. He swore for a solid minute and pounded on the steering wheel.

  “It’s not the car’s fault,” Laura said.

  “I’ve got to hit something.”

  “Harry, let’s try to be calm. We have enough to worry about.”

  Without the air conditioner the temperature inside the car rose rapidly. Sweat trickled from Harry’s armpits and darkened his short-sleeved shirt. Breathing became difficult.