Copyright © 2020 by CHM LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Cover Art: Martin Blanco (http://www.martinblancoart.com/)

Art for The Yellow Wallpaper: Luke Spooner / Carrion House

Cosmic Horror Monthly

Digital ISSN 2693-5805

www.cosmic-horror.net

Greetings dear reader,

Thank you for joining us for our fifth issue of Cosmic Horror Monthly. This month we give thanks to the Old Gods for all they afford us and for allowing us to exist. (That is, if you subscribe to the theory that reality is indeed real.)

We have some great writing in store for you this month. First, we witness the erosion of the earth and the ensuing of a witness’s mental state in The Sinkhole. Then a young woman questions her place within her own universe aboard an interstellar cruise ship in Avoid the Blue Protrusion. A group of tourists find far more than they bargained for in the depths of the jungle in Nature’s Perfume before a decision between two celestial beings hits a too close to home in The Empress and the Marauder. Finally, we’ll venture deep into the crypt for an obscure work that inspired the forbidden mythology called The Yellow Wallpaper.

I personally want to thank everyone involved with CHM. Whether you have submitted to us or you are a subscriber, or you are active on our social media accounts, we couldn’t be here doing what we do without each and every one of you. So, from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU.

C.R.

*~*~*

The Sinkhole

By Jarred Martin

It was last Tuesday, I think, when the sinkhole opened. I remember I was mowing the lawn. It was the last trim of the season and the grass was dry and starting to turn yellow. I pushed the mower around the corner to cut the area between the side of the house and the fence. I moved down that narrow strip, wishing the mower were a little wider, or the fence could come ahead so that I could cut the area in two clean passes, one going forward, the other coming back, instead of a third pass just to trim the few inches left behind, only to return pushing the mower along with its blades spinning, cutting nothing, which I considered a waste of my time and the lawnmower’s effort.

I was halfway through the first strip, near my bedroom window, when I felt the mower dip down suddenly. It settled down into a concavity as the ground beneath deflated like a collapsing souffle. I was astounded, and could only watch as the earth gave way, leaving a hole with a diameter of some three feet. With nothing supporting the mower, I was left bearing the full weight of it suspended against the side of the hole.

The motor was still running, and I could hear its reverberation echoing with the turning of the blades as I struggled to extricate it. I strained, planting my legs, and pulling with all the might of my back to no avail. It was growing heavy in my arms, and I felt myself slowly draw toward the edge, inch by inch as my strength flagged. I slumped forward, still struggling, bound to lose my mower, and perhaps myself, down the hole, when I felt a surprising force pulling me back. A pair of hands seized my shoulder, and then I saw a blur of motion coming around, which I recognized as my neighbor from the other side of the street. Mr. Fitzroy grabbed hold of the mower, and together we were able to lift it up onto solid ground.

I was in such a state that my hands refused to release the operator presence control bar, so Fitzroy had to lean down and flick the kill switch to stop the motor. The engine died immediately.

Without the blades turning or the engine puttering, I found the silence incredible. I was still a bit shaken, and as I collected my wits, Fitzroy took it upon himself to study the hole, standing over the edge and peering down. He whistled lowly, admiring its depth.

“Boy, you sure didn’t want to let go of that thing, did you? Ecclestone?” he asked, referring to the mower.

Despite the coolness of the afternoon I had begun to sweat, and I took a handkerchief from my pocket to dab my forehead.

“Do you know what could have happened to you if I hadn’t come along?” he said.

This was more than we’d spoken in a year. I try very hard not to get involved in the affairs of my neighbors. A cordial acquaintanceship can turn into a feud at the most superficial misunderstanding.

“No,” I sighed, my seclusion ruined, “what did you almost save me from, Mr. Fitzroy?”

“Well, imagine dropping that mower down and it lands upside down. You fall in after.” He shook his head grimly. “Like dropping a frog into a food processor.”

“That’s certainly a colorful image. Thank you, really, for your help, but I must—”

Fitzroy wasn’t listening. He’d wandered over to the hole again and was staring down into it, mesmerized. “Jeez,” he whistled once more. “Ain’t it deep? I wonder how far down it goes. It’s a sinkhole, you know,” he said, looking back at me. There was restraint in his expression. I had the strange notion he was battling the urge to look into the hole again. “I ain’t talking about the hole at the bottom of your sink, either. Groundwater erodes the soft rock, limestone, most likely. It settles into pools, and when the water evaporates, the pressure changes and down she goes.”

“Sounds like a potential for expensive property damage. Not to mention the legal liability of having a gaping hole in the middle of my lawn.”

“Hard to say,” said Fitzroy. “I don’t know about the law, but what you ought to do is get some sand, big bags of it, and fill it in.” He peered down into the blackness. I refused to look, not wanting to stand near it in case it should open wider. “Boy it’s deep,” he repeated. “Might want to think about a whole truckload of sand.”

Time passed in silence while Fitzroy stared down blankly. “I sure wonder what’s down there,” he said, finally.

The sun had begun to set, and we were now standing completely in the shadow of the house. I’d have to finish the mowing another time. And still Fitzroy lingered, gazing numbly down. I was suddenly more than a little annoyed at the man. Who the hell did he think he was to rush on to my property and start spouting off about limestone, and aquifers, and all sorts of nonsense? And why the hell wouldn’t he leave? Why did he linger, staring, staring down into the dark cavity on my lawn?

“It was all too kind of you to come and help me with the mower, Mr. Fitzroy, but I really must be getting inside.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, without looking at me. Finally, he tore himself away, and there was that same strained expression on his face, as if it took great effort for him to do so. He left at last, walking from my lawn and into the street, then onto his own property with a dazed expression. He didn’t even say good evening, which I was thankful for, as I’d heard enough from the man.

Left satisfyingly alone, I took the mower and started to push it toward the garage, and as I did, I found myself staring at the sinkhole. It had a compelling depth to it that filled my mind with dismay and wonder. Even only staring at it rather than into it, as Fitzroy had, I began to see the appeal of such a thing. I tried to put it out of my mind. I pushed the mower into the garage, looking over the long streaks of uncut grass that I hadn’t gotten to. It bothered me to leave the lawn unfinished, but I was too distressed to finish the job, and planned to finish up in the morning before any of the neighbors started to talk about the crazy man who leaves his lawn half cut.

That night I simply could not make myself sleep. The house was stifling, as if all the heat of the day had come in and refused to leave, roasting me like an oven. Frustrated, I kicked the covers off and opened a window. The night air chilled the sweat on my skin, leaving me cold as the dead. I got out of bed entirely and sat in the kitchen with a glass of milk and turned on the radio. It was a clear night, and I should have been able to receive broadcasts from hundreds of miles away, but I received only static and garbled transmissions from one end of the band to the other. Still I didn’t shut it off right away. I sat and drank my milk with one finger on the dial, slowly going through the stations, listening to the static, the blasts of noise like waves crashing on a violent sea, and I began to hear voices in those waves: voices that hissed at me through the bursting whitecaps.

When I returned to bed some time later, I lay awake listening to a howling dog somewhere in the neighborhood. I imagined it outside my window, at the bottom of the hole, looking up and yowling. I wondered what it would look like to stare up out of a circle of darkness so grim that even the night seems bright by comparison. Would the moon eventually drift over that circle of bright night, aligned above the opening so it filled the sky with its pale glow for one perfect moment? I slept then without dreaming.

The next morning, I woke feeling somewhat rough. I recalled I hadn’t eaten the night before, there had just been the milk. Usually when I go to bed hungry my stomach is like a black pit gnawing away at my insides, but this morning that was not the case.

I was determined to finish up what I’d started with the lawn the previous afternoon. I only allowed myself time for a quick coffee. I took it black because, rather strangely, the milk had soured while I was asleep. It’s funny how something like that happens. Things are fine one moment, then they just go bad all at once. But maybe it had been like that all along, gradually spoiling over time so that I couldn’t notice until it was too late. I pondered this, staring down at the round, black rim of my mug.

I went to the garage to get the mower and found that it wouldn’t start. After yanking on the pull cord for some time, it occurred to me to check the fuel. I twisted off the cap and peered into the little round opening at the top of the plastic tank. It was bone dry; nothing but vapor inside. I filled it and continued to the lawn.

I was about to start it up when I noticed something across the street that made me stop. There was a young man lurking around Mr. Fitzroy’s property. I’d never noticed many guests at his house, and I’d certainly never seen this man before. He was suspicious to me, prowling around the yard, looking for unlatched windows, or loose basement bulkheads to sneak through, no doubt. Casing the joint, as they say in the movies.

He was a hoodlum, I decided. I certainly didn’t want him skulking around my property next, so I set off across the street to tell him just that, and let him know that he’d been spotted, and that he’d better clear out, because if anything were to happen, it’d be too easy to identify him now.

“Excuse me,” I made my voice as threatening as I could, approaching the man. “What exactly is it you think you’re doing here, might I ask?”

He turned around, startled, but I wasn’t buying the act. I stared hard at him, demanding a reply.

“I’m looking over these rusted screens. I was going to help replace them last winter, but I’ve just been so busy.”

“Replacing rusted window screens?” I repeated incredulously. “Do you really expect me to believe that you just go around replacing peoples’ rusted window screens for no good reason? I suppose you work for some sort of window screen charity, is that it?”

He looked back at me, doing his best to appear confused. “I’ve never heard of that before. I don’t work for a charity, either. I’m Mel’s son, Jason.” He reached out his hand, but I did not take it. He looked at his palm and fingers as though they might be dirty and quickly put his hand away. “You probably recognize me from all the pictures?”

“Pictures?” I said. “Which pictures?”

“The ones in the house. Dad had about a hundred framed pictures of me up. It’s embarrassing really, but I guess he was proud, so I shouldn’t say anything.”

“Yes, of course, the pictures.” I’d never been inside Fitzroy’s house, but he wouldn’t know that.

“Well, anyhow, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me around here, I guess. I’m going to do my best to fix this old wreck before I sell it off.”

“Mr. Fitzroy is selling his house? He never mentioned it. Why doesn’t he do his own repairs— leaks in the roof, and rusted window screens?”

The man claiming to be Fitzroy’s son gave me a strange look and then closed his mouth. His teeth clicked audibly. “I’m sorry, I thought you would have known even before I did.”

“Known what?”

“Dad died early yesterday evening. We don’t know yet, but we suspect it was another heart attack. He had one before, about six years ago.”

“He seemed fine to me when we spoke yesterday.”

“You spoke to my father yesterday? When?”

“I spoke to Mr. Fitzroy last night, yes. We talked about—” A sudden idea struck me at that moment. I peered across the street at my own property, focusing on the side of the house. There it was, lying like an errant dot of black on an oil painted landscape. The sink hole. Fitzroy had been staring into it last night, and acting rather strangely afterward. Whatever he saw in that black pit must have been one of the last things he’d seen. Or maybe the last thing that saw him. “He helped me with my mower,” I finished. I turned quickly without saying goodbye and hurried home, skipping over the manhole cover as I crossed the street. The man must have thought me peculiar, and I wish I’d played it differently now. He must have known I realized something about him, that he looked nothing like Fitzroy, though he claimed to be blood relation. I couldn’t be sure what exactly had happened to my neighbor, but I knew one thing: that young man was not Fitzroy’s son. I was certain of it!

Back inside, I shut the door. Damn the lawn. I’d trim it some other time when I had fewer things on my mind. No, now was not the time to be out on the grass. I was vulnerable outside. He could see me out there while he pretended to be doing the repairs. But inside I was safe. Safe. Yes, I would be safe in here. I was determined not to leave until I had figured out what to do.

I turned on the radio. I wanted to hear some music, a political discussion, a commercial, anything to break that nauseating silence. Static. Nothing but static on every station. What did it mean? I listened to it. Waves crashing, over and over. The voices in them. Saying things I could almost make out, but not quite. Like the voices of drowning men calling out before the waves fell over them. What were they saying? What were they telling me?

And then I understood. Yes. It came to me very clearly. Whatever Fitzroy had seen in that hole had followed him, come right up out of the dark, and now it was living in his house, wearing his clothes, eating his food.

I listened to the voices in the waves as they explained it to me. I listened and stared deep into the speaker inside the mesh, round and black and pulsating with the sound that escaped it.

I lay awake that night, too aroused to sleep. I was thinking of the sinkhole outside the window. Only the wall of my house separated us. I wondered, would it be enough to protect me? Why could I not banish it from my mind? It was as if the hole was widening, forming some vacuum which sucked up my thoughts the way a sinking ship pulled drowning men down with it, down into the murky depths for ever and ever. I became obsessed with the idea that a small child would be attracted to the hole and want to investigate, maybe drop a stone down to see if it would produce a splash. In my mind I could see the child slip and fall in, and fall, and fall into the darkness, never finding the bottom, lost in the weightless vacuity.

I may have drifted off, I can’t remember. I recall the shadows dancing on my bedroom wall. Weird, dark shapes coming through the window. The shadows of things I could only imagine, emerging from the abyss. I shut my eyes.

Morning came and I wandered into the kitchen. I couldn’t remember eating anything the day before and I was famished. I opened my refrigerator to find a warm, soggy mess putrefying within. Black deflated shapes of things I could no longer identify lined the shelves and bins. The smell was ghastly. I found the milk, which was not too far gone, and sat drinking it. I fiddled with the radio on the kitchen table. I knew that there was no broadcast, but I listened out of habit and let the ocean waves of static wash over me while I drank my milk and breathed the awful stench of decay surrounding the room. Voices. Screaming. Drowning voices. I listened.

Suddenly I shot up out of my seat and took my glass to the sink and poured the contents out. I watched the milk, clean and white, be devoured by the drain, disappearing into the blackness. It was so simple. The explanation for my ruined groceries. It was gas! Some toxic cloud had spilled up through the sinkhole. Some odious fog wafting up to the surface, long fermented, trapped for years under the earth and released when the sinkhole open up. A malodorous fume leaking through my home, spoiling the food, tainting the air. I’d already drank the milk, but I was not too worried. “I am healthy. I am very healthy. I have a strong constitution.”

My mailbox at the end of the drive was full. I peeked through the window to get a quick view of the neighborhood. The mailbox was so stuffed with letters it would not close. My garage door was wide open as well. I longed to go outside and shut it, but that would be foolish. He was out there. He saw me peeking through the blinds and laughed, waving to me. He was checking the windows again at the house across the street. He was out there every time I looked, pretending to go around and around the house, inspecting it. I know what he was really up to. He was spying on me. Keeping an eye on me for the others. Yes, there were others. How many? How many more just like him had emerged from that patch of black while I lay asleep? It was impossible to tell. Were any of the old residents left in the neighborhood? Had they all been... replaced?

The lawn mower was still on the front lawn. The grass had grown up around it in two different layers: the swath I’d cleared before I had to stop, and the area I hadn’t gotten to. It was growing up around the sink hole. All the better to hide itself in the tall weeds. A trap, though I couldn’t be sure. I would never risk looking out my bedroom window at it to see what hideous things twisted and writhed at the bottom of that pit. I had no desire to know those things. And yet, I did know. I saw them. I saw their serpentine bodies in silhouette on my bedroom wall at night, like eels transforming into human shapes.

I glanced at the door. When would they come for me? Why did they allow me to persist? For what purpose?

In the bathroom later, looking into the mirror above the sink, peering deeply at my own reflection. The eyes. Staring into my own pupils, round and dark like holes, I wondered if they had changed. Could it possibly be that they had gotten to me without my knowing? Was I me anymore? I observed the reflection for any irregularity in my appearance. The image was pale and underfed, wearing stained clothes. He looked dirty with his unshaven cheeks and smudges on his face. Most of all, he looked tired. I pulled my reflection’s lips back to inspect the teeth: yellow and caked with tartar. And then I saw something and let my pried-open lips go. Far back in a bottom tooth, one of the broad molars had an abscess: a black cavity hardly larger than a grain of pepper. How deep did it go into my tooth? The gums? My jaw? Festering, corrupting me from within. Is that how they got in? I was so concerned about the sink hole, I hadn’t considered there may be other entrances. Just as empty. Just as dark. Just as deep. A network of holes spilling out the bitter abscesses they can no longer contain: The long black eels with human faces.

And below me: the sink! I quickly stuffed tissue down into the drain and left the bathroom, making sure the door was shut tightly behind me.

That night, I crawled into bed though I seldom slept these days. The sinkhole was mere feet from me. If I listened, I could hear the wind rushing over the top of it. I turned away, twisting the bedclothes around my overheated body.

The hole in my yard, I thought. The great drain through which the world slowly drips. I pictured it widening, growing so vast it consumed all, casting us into a deeper darkness.

Fitzroy said something about sand that day. I remember him telling me something about it. What was he getting at? What was he trying to tell me? Fill the hole with sand. A warning, perhaps? I pondered this, repeating his phrase in my head. I may never know what it meant.

Later. Much later. Losing track of time. The grass outside the house was tall; dry and yellow like a field of early wheat. I could only see the handlebar of the mower when I looked through the window, peeking up from the dense verdure. I saw the other. He was outside Fitzroy’s house every time I looked through the blinds. His face is slowly changing into mine. When it does, as gradually as waning shadows creeping across the surface of the moon, he will come for me.

There’s no electricity anymore. Some kind of waves come up from the hole in my yard and block the currents. The faucets are dry. I no longer trust them. I’ve stuffed all the drains with paper. I’ve been drinking the water from the back of the toilet, but I suspect it has been tainted in some way as well.

I turned the dial on the radio, remembering how it used to produce the brilliant crashing waves, but the sea is still and quiet within it now.

Yesterday, or the day before, a man knocked on my door. I hid in the closet until long after he was gone. I was tempted to look through the peep hole, but I knew better than to expose myself. What would I have seen if I had?

It is not the same night as before. Things have changed. I cannot sleep. I will not sleep. I am horrified by the shadows twisting across my bedroom wall. They emerge from that awful pit outside my window: Those twining serpentine shadows, like worms spilling from a festering wound. They are so numerous now they surround the house. I think it is night. I think I will try and escape when it is daylight. There are still shadows then, but the day makes them wary and still. It is my only hope. I do not know where I will go.

Day.

I will escape.

I turned the doorknob slowly, not knowing what I would find when I opened the door. I didn’t know what was left for me, but I did know that it was time to leave. I had not seen the other for ages. If he has become me, then so be it.

I stepped out into what should have been the light of day, but I found the neighborhood bathed in a gloom more appropriate for late evening. I took my first cautious steps out onto the lawn, disoriented by the uncertainty of the hour.

I saw him then: the creature across the street, the one who had taken residence in Fitzroy’s home. He stepped out of the house and stood on his porch, gazing up at the sky. The gloom was too complete to make out his features, but if I could, I was certain he would bear a countenance exactly like my own. I was too disturbed to study him closely, because in the next seconds all of the doors of the houses along the street began to open at once, and all of my treacherous neighbors began to exit, each turning their heads as Fitzroy’s imposter had. Dozens of them, mothers holding infants, or gathering small children to their skirts. Grown men and youths. Dogs within their fences held their heads skyward and all throughout the neighborhood not a single bird sang. They stared in silence at the source of the darkness.

And then so did I.

A great chill fell over me as I gazed upward. I stood stunned in the eerie gloom, for there in the sky was a black shadow the size and shape of the sun. At first, the glow of the daylight could be seen around the circumference, a dull orange bleeding out around the edges, and then, seconds later, there was no light at all. I found myself cowering before a circle of black so perfect, so complete, devouring the light of day. Standing in that hideous shadow, that sable cancer cast over the sun, I could not help but think of how it looked so much like a great black hole had opened in the sky.

End.

The Sinkhole Illustration by: Mark Thibodeau

*~*~*

Jarred Martin writes horror. He is the author of three novels and several short stories. Look for his latest novel 'The Obese' coming in early 2021 from Bloodshot Books. He lives in Arkansas and makes soups.

Find him on:

Amazon: www.amazon.com/Jarred-Martin/e/B00G8GTLMI

Twitter: twitter.com/JarredSpooksYou

Goodreads:www.goodreads.com/author/show/7469521.Jarred_Martin

Avoid the Blue Protrusion

By Madeleine Swann

The Concierge wished Diah a lovely stay and shut the door of the opulent room. Diah decided to go to the front desk and check straight back out. If she couldn’t get her deposit, so be it. She would go to the party, Tilo would be ecstatic and Putri would throw herself out the window like a fucking bitch. Diah caught herself. That was too much.

The turbulence button on the wall flashed red and she flung the door open. The Concierge was closing the door of the guest opposite. “We’re taking off,” they said, “you must get in position.” Sit in the chair or lie on the bed, the welcome package had said, else your mind may never recover. The Concierge scurried to a staff door and Diah surrendered, shutting herself in and lying on the bed. She looked out of the glass wall. Hog deer nibbled grass in the dawn, unaware of any nearby humans. She pulled her phone from her handbag.

“Di,” said Tilo. Diah smiled. He sounded excited.

“Do you miss me?”

“What?” His voice was almost lost in a rumble of murmurs.

“I said, do you miss me?”

“You’ve only been gone a few hours.” Diah stopped smiling.

“I know.”

He spoke to someone and she heard Putri’s distinctive laughter, a cross between a Savanna Nightjar and a fucking bitch. Diah caught herself again. Putri was her best friend. She’d stayed with her when her mum had kicked her out. They’d gone to concerts, gotten drunk for the first time, she’d dressed Diah in her boyfriend’s suit and kissed her during an acid trip.

Whenever Putri was around boys, all that was gone. Sure, Diah may have flirted with her boyfriends too, but it was playful, cute. The difference is that Putri had never before worried about finding Diah pressed against one of them on the sofa, giggling, especially when she’d been out looking after a sick friend. “Got to go,” said Tilo. “We’re doing the decorations.”

The phone was dead. Reality flashed through her mind like lightning across the sky and the entire hotel shuddered. Diah gripped the sides of the bed. The forest was gone, and the glass wall was black. She pressed a button near the headboard to hear the outside through the speaker. The high pitch scream of the giant hotel-ship ripping through space-time burst into the room. She pressed it again and switched on the TV.

She turned off the soap opera and dialed Tilo again. “I forgot to say,” she yelled, because now it really sounded like a party. “Don’t forget to feed Bruno.”

“Diah, why would I do that? Don’t you think I’d wonder why he was crying at his bowl?”

“Sorry, I just—I don’t know.” Her voice sharpened through the end of the remark. She imagined him holding the phone away from his ear.

“Just relax, enjoy yourself. You said you wanted a get-away,” she told herself. She’d wanted him to miss her, but he’d immediately arranged a party. Then, there it was, that familiar laughter. He had to be standing right next to her. “Do you want to speak to Putri?”

“No, it’s okay. The wifi’s getting wobbly. I’d better go.” She hung up and cursed. She’d had a whole script planned. She’d meant to dazzle him with her flippancy, wish him a wonderful time, announce she had to go when he was mid-sentence.

The hotel shook and the glass wall illuminated with a swirling, shrieking void. The room slowly darkened as a swarm of tiny tentacled beasts splatted against it. Diah saw herself from their perspective; a woman in a fancy hotel, ignoring everything, freaking out over something as trivial as a boyfriend. She pressed the button and zoned out to the howls of the wind. Her fingers twitched. Just one more call.

No signal. She tried everywhere in the room and nothing. She went into the bathroom and shut the door. A voice crackled over the bedroom intercom, “This is the Captain. We have word a Vastator is headed towards us. We’re doing all we can do temporarily shut down broadcasts from outside but in the meantime please manually switch off to avoid hearing the vacuum of hope issuing from its Hell Mouth.”

The tentacle swarm cleared and Diah emerged from the bathroom. She still couldn’t get through to Tilo. In her head they were already sixty-nine-ing, probably while everyone cheered. She flopped onto the bed, starting when a green creature with elongated limbs and insect eyes regarded her from outside. It lifted an armpit revealing a swollen, blue protrusion. A slow exhale like a death rattle issued through the speakers.

“I know I’m annoying him,” Diah said, “but I can’t seem to stop.” The exhale continued. “I know it’s stupid. I’m in luxury, there’s a swimming pool upstairs, a cinema on the fourth floor, a restaurant with glass walls and ceiling and here I am, ringing Tilo, not enjoying any of it.” She threw her phone to the floor. “I can’t think about anything else. It’s like my skin is peeling away. My whole body is obsessed with Tilo,” she sobbed. “And Putri. When I first met Tilo, we were crazy about each other. He didn’t mind that I was shy and that I never really knew what to say. Now he practically rolls his eyes whenever I open my mouth. It makes me say stupid things, you know? It’s the pressure. Or maybe I just say stupid things all on my own.

“I suppose you’re right. I have been a bitch to her as well. Though, not as bad as she’s been to me.” She defiantly wiped her eyes, then slumped back. “I suppose so. You can’t really be friends if you’re constantly getting back at each other. I have been awful, it’s true. We loved each other. We could have been lifelong friends, maybe more… but it’s been poisoned.” She stared into space. The creature pressed itself harder against the glass, caressing it. “You’re right.” She punched the button and the room was silent. “This ends now. They can have each other if they’re so desperate.” She turned to the creature who frantically shook its head, “Thank you so much. I’m going for a swim and I’ll forget all about them.” It slapped the glass furiously, watching as she trotted from the room with a towel.

End.

*~*~*

Madeleine Swann's novella, The Vine That Ate the Starlet, is out now with Filthy Loot. Her collection, Fortune Box (Eraserhead Press), was nominated for a Wonderland Award. Her short stories have appeared in various anthologies and podcasts including Splatterpunk Award nominated The New Flesh: A David Cronenberg Tribute.

Find Madeleine on: www.madeleineswann.com

twitter.com/MadeleineSwann

www.youtube.com/c/MissMadeleineSwann

Artist: Michael Sawecki (michaelsawecki.com)

Nature’s Perfume

By Mark Towse

We’re lost, Ryan, admit it for Christ’s sake!” Isla accuses.

He turns around slowly with his hands proudly on his hips and the widest smile across his face. “Have faith, people. When have I ever let you down?” he says.

He never has, but there is something in his eyes right now that suggests this might be the first time.

“The river is just up here, can’t you smell it?” he says, before resuming his role as leader of the group and marching ahead. Even with the huge backpack strapped around his shoulders, he still manages to walk with a swagger. Always has been a cocky bugger, and it’s hard not to trust someone that is so self-assured.

“He’s such a prick,” Loren whispers across to me.

“Ah, yes, but he’s a lovable prick, isn’t he?”

“How are you feeling after last night?” she asks.

“Weird,” I reply. “I don’t remember much—that was powerful stuff.”

“Ah, come on—you must remember some of it. You were an animal!”

“Grr!” I reply.

“It’s the first time I have done drugs. Ryan used to try, but it only felt right with you,” she says, smiling.

In truth, I do remember, but it all feels very surreal and slightly embarrassing. I recall the bar—Ryan throwing wads of cash around, and the overfamiliar locals that kept sticking notes into Isla’s pants. Some of them even tried to get Loren on the table. Endless shot of vile green liquid that resembled radioactive waste, and copious amounts of that powder—whatever the fuck that was. And the hotel room afterwards. Yes, we were both like animals.

Loren grabs my hand and gives me a wry smile as if sensing my discomfort.

“Isla, last night—dancing on the tables—hysterical,” she giggles.

“I know. Drug-free before she met Ryan; he’s such a good influence,” I reply.

I have been looking forward to this for a while, and I know Loren has, too. She’s just made partner at the law firm, but all that means to me is that I get to see her less. Even when we are together, she struggles to switch off these days. This trip has come at the right time. Besides, I need some inspiration—away from the city. I’ve only sold a handful of paintings this year, and I don’t want the mother-in-law to think of me as being a bum forever, especially now that Loren has made partner.

With the sun directly above, casting a giant bony tapestry on the ground below, we continue trampling across the forest floor, stepping over the large twisted roots of trees that rise from the ground like fossilised serpents.

Deep in the heart of it now, we are looking for a river that is supposed to split the forest in two; that’s according to the locals we met last night that said they live in a village on the other side of the water. They told us that tied up along the banks are communal boats they used to travel in and out of the main cities.

And that is the extent of our travel itinerary.

When we first started walking, the forest was abundant with lush greens, yet the canopy above is now devoid of any new growth, only lifeless skeletal forms loom above us.

The hairs on the back of my neck bristle in response.

“Can you smell it—the river?” I say to her.

“The only thing I can smell is Ryan’s bullshit,” she smiles, but with a tinge of concern in her voice.

“Oh, wow!” Isla exclaims suddenly. “Look at that!”

We all turn to look to where she is pointing and stop dead in our tracks, mesmerised by what lies ahead.

The majestic flower sprouts proudly from a random patch of brown soil. It's a magical display of rebellion in an otherwise lifeless area that is simply jaw-dropping. Half a dozen pods surround it, indicating it is already past its prime, but contrarily the flower itself suggests perfection.

I can’t speak for the others, but I have never seen anything like it before—a myriad of tentacles—deep reds and bright yellows that explode from the centre like an atomic bomb, circled by ten stark white petals that emphasise the flower’s radiant beauty.

I want to paint it right now; to capture the absurdity of nature and the alien-like form of the flower.

Docilely hovering over its centre is what looks to be a wasp; it’s nearly two inches long and adorned with stunning red and green pearlescent stripes.

Isla breaks the silence as she begins her approach, “Is it a passionflower?”

Whatever it is, brings me relief—makes me think we are on the right track. “I don’t think so,” I remark. “But it’s going to seed—dying.”

“That smell!” Isla announces as she draws close to it.

“I can smell it, too,” Ryan announces as he follows Isla in. “It’s fucking beautiful!”

I watch as Isla crouches, leaning in towards the flower expectantly with eyes closed. The buzzing of the wasp intensifies, and it moves back a couple of inches as if to observe. A huge smile stretches across her face as she inhales deeply.

“Guys, you have to smell this!” she exhales but shows no signs of making room for anyone else. As she takes in another lungful of the flower’s scent, a peacefulness washes over her face—her eyes appear to glaze over, and a strangle garbled noise leaves her lips.

“My turn!” Ryan says as he gently puts his hands on her shoulders and leans her away. He ducks in and snorts so loudly that it prompts a laugh from Loren. “Be careful, Ryan. You’ll suck the leaves off with that thing!” she shouts.

He lets out a large sigh, and the same vacant expression draws across his face. Leaning in again, he gets even closer to the pistil, but before he even has a chance to inhale, the wasp is in his eye.

“Ow, fucking ow!” he squeals and thrusts himself up. Hopping around manically, he waves his hands frantically in front of his face, but the wasp shows no signs of moving as though it is attached. He reaches behind into his backpack and brings out the large knife he’s been boasting about for the last few weeks—top of the line and ridiculously expensive.

“Jesus Christ, Ryan. What the hell are you going to do with that?” I say.

“I don’t know—just get it off!” he squeals.

Loren quickly moves in and throws the contents of her water bottle into Ryan’s face, but the stubborn little fucker doesn’t budge.

Isla is sprawled on the floor, rolling around in stitches.

“Stay still, Ryan!” Loren shouts and reaches towards his eye. “Please get it off,” he whimpers, forcing himself to be still. I watch as Loren carefully pinches the wings between her fingers, and lets it fall to the floor. The strange insect gives a few final kicks at the air before death mercifully takes it.

“Keep still, Ryan. It’s left it’s stinger in there,” Loren says as she delicately removes the half-inch spike from his eyelid. She holds it out for Ryan to see with his good eye.

“I fucking hate wasps!” he spits.

“It might have been a bee,” Loren says softly, but that appears to provide no consolation to Ryan.

“Thanks for your help, Tom!” he says, giving me his good eye.

“Hey, man. It was just a wasp—not a bloody pterodactyl,” I reply. “Besides, I didn’t want to get near you while you waved that monstrosity about. Are you trying to make up for something with that thing?”

“Your eye!” Isla says, looking up from the ground towards Ryan. And then she bursts into another fit of laughter.

“Fuck you, darling!” he replies.

The lid of his right eye is already turning a very bright red, and the entire area is beginning to swell.

“It looks sore,” Loren says.

“Can you see out of it?” I ask.

“No,” he replies, wincing as he gently surveys the damage with his fingers.

“It’s a good job you can smell the river!” Isla shouts, between fits of giggles.

“Come on,” Ryan says. “Let’s get out of here.”

Isla rolls across to the flower and takes a few urgent gulps of the surrounding air. Impatiently, Ryan coils his arms around her shoulders and hoists her up. “Hey!” she protests, but reluctantly falls back in line, as do we all—Ryan at the front and me trailing the rear.

On the way past, Loren bends and rips off the head of the flower; she breathes it in deeply, and then slips it behind her right ear, letting out a little giggle as she skips ahead.

I rip off one of the pods and slip it into my pocket. I’ll give it to Barbara when we get back—she will surely have some idea of its species. Sometimes I visit her nursery for ideas but can adamantly say I’ve never seen anything close to this—got to be worth a shot, though.

We continue marching forward, on the hunt for this promised river.

The abundance of knotted roots that snake their way across the forest floor is making the ground more difficult to navigate, as are the low hanging branches from their respective trees. The blackened limbs coil around each other and twist back into themselves as if trying to return to the trunk for comfort, and it all makes for hard going as we crouch down between them to protect our backpacks.

It is stark in this part of this forest, and it’s getting chilly, too.

As if Ryan senses the despondency, “It’s not much further!” he shouts from the front.

Loren turns to me and smiles. “Wait for it,” she says.

“I can definitely smell it!” Ryan shouts again.

And we both let out a little snigger.

We pass a carcass on our right; looks to be a rabbit—been dead a while by the looks of it. The writhing maggots inside have nearly eradicated all the flesh.

“Anyone hungry?” Ryan jokes.

“Only for this!” Loren shouts as she removes the flower and inhales once more.

The sun is starting to dip, and I guess we have less than two hours before we will need to pitch up. “We’ll be there before lunchtime,” Ryan had stated confidently yesterday. His eternal optimism can often be as annoying as it is endearing.

“There’s another one of those flowers!” Isla shouts.

Unable to help myself, “Bzzzzz.”

Without even turning around, Ryan flips me the bird.

“There are more of them over there, too,” Loren says, pointing to a small clearing that is alive with colour—not just reds and yellows, but greens, blues, purples, and everything in between. It’s a surreal and welcome sight to see so much life when everything else around seems so dead.

“They’re beautiful,” I say out loud.

I watch as the three of them urgently make their way to the clearing. They ease themselves to the ground and simply lay there as if not a care in the world, each of them smiling and occasionally giggling as they take deep and frequent breaths of the surrounding air.

“Come on, guys, let’s go,” I say.

But they continue to bask, lethargically lounging in the small bed of discordant flowers.

“Just a few minutes,” Loren says. “Come over and join us.”

“I think we should be cracking on. It’s going to be dark soon,” I say sternly.

“I think we should be cracking on. I’m going to bark soon,” Isla mimics. They all launch into raucous laughter—hysterical and uncontrollable guffawing. And it’s beginning to piss me off. I turn my attention away from them and walk a few feet ahead. There is still no sign of any river, just more of those trees. Blacker. Deader.

I hear something—a gentle grunting from somewhere in the distance. Squinting my eyes against the light, and scanning the ground between the nestled trees, I see something moving. It’s a rabbit—or perhaps a hare—tall and standing on high alert, ears vertical. The laughing continues from behind me, but the rabbit seems unperturbed as it returns to its meal. I freeze, mouth wide open, as it continues its cannibalistic feast of the carcass beneath it.

“Guys,” I whisper, but I know they won’t hear me.

As I begin to move away from my hiding spot to tell the group, a massive “CAW” explodes from a tree somewhere to my right. Startled, I jump and turn to see the huge black crow perched on a branch, head cocked, and eyeing me as though I am a trespasser on its land.

“CAW!” it screams again as if demanding an answer. It’s gigantic—sleek, glossy, and the size of an eagle. It struts forward on the branch towards me as if looking for a fight.

What the hell is wrong with this place?

As I continue my retreat towards the group, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the bird, the raucous laughter begins to subside, giving way to a gentler giggle.

“Guys!” I rasp.

A single groan emerges from behind me.

“Guys—what the hell,” I call out again.

And now only moans from behind me—unmistakable exclamations of pleasure that finally prompts me to take my eyes off the crow, and—

“What the fuck are you doing!” I scream.

Shirts are half-open, and pants are pulled down, bodies writhing against each other. Ryan has one hand on Loren’s crotch and the other on Isla’s breast while his tongue hungrily searches for any flesh on offer. Loren has Ryan’s dick firmly in hand, and her lips wrapped around Isla’s left nipple.

“Caw!” the crow squawks once more.

I reach for Loren’s hand to pull it away, but she tries to fight me off, hissing and spitting and clawing at my face with her other hand. “Get off him!” I scream, and this time, bring an open palm angrily against the side of her face. The connection makes me wince, and I’m immediately remorseful, but at least she releases her grip on Ryan. Taking advantage, I begin to drag her away from the orgy; she kicks and screams in protest, maniacally biting at my wrists as though possessed. Finally, with one final heave, she is out of the clearing, and her thrashing begins to slow down. She looks up at me, face wrinkled in confusion, but the watery eyes suggest some semblance of rationality.

“I—I—what happened,” she asks and begins to sob.

“Loren, what the fuck is going on?”

“I—I don’t know. I can’t—”

I look to the others as they continue their debauchery, some blood is smeared over Isla’s right breast, and there is a gaping wound in Ryan’s neck.

“Help me!” I demand.

I grab hold of Ryan’s shoulders while Loren stands, eyes glazed, in a trance-like state.

“Help me!” I scream again.

Finally, she grabs hold of his legs, and we begin to heave him away from the patch of flowers. He spits and struggles against us. “Get the fuck off me!” he screams. Isla clasps at him, refusing to let him go, and I momentarily release my grip to pry her hands away. We are making progress—he is halfway out. But Isla throws herself forward, latching onto his legs. Once again, I reach for her hands, and almost immediately, her teeth are sinking into my wrist. A bolt of pain shoots up my right arm that instinctively prompts me to kick her in the chest. She stumbles onto her back, seemingly unconcerned, and begins to pleasure herself amongst the flowers.

“What’s going on?” Ryan asks as we finally get him away from the clearing.

“It’s the flowers,” I say. “There is something in the flowers.”

“What are you talking about, Tom?” Loren asks.

“Loren, a moment ago, you had your hand wrapped about my best friends dick. What’s your fucking theory?”

Cheeks flushing, and without explanation, she turns away—and I watch as the drop of blood makes its way to the forest floor. And then another.

“Loren, your nose—”

“Isla!” Ryan screams. “Isla, stop it!”

Loren puts her hand to her nose and brings it away to assess. “I’ve never had a nosebleed in my life,” she says, tilting her head back. “No, don’t tilt it. Here, sit down, and I’ll get some tissues,” I say, reaching into the backpack and fumbling around until I find them.

“We have to get out of here, Ryan,” I say firmly. “This place is fucked.”

“I know, Tom. But we are lost,” he finally admits as he makes his way towards Isla.

“Here,” I say to Loren, gently dabbing at the streams that now run from both nostrils. With my other hand, I go to remove the flower tucked behind her ear, but she aggressively snaps her fingers around my wrist and furrows her brow. She stares at me intently for a second and then releases her grip. “I want to go home,” she whispers. As I pluck the flower from behind her hair, she snaps her head back and inhales. I crush it and sprinkle it to the floor.

“It’s the goddamn flowers, Loren. They fuck with your head.”

Isla launches her assault on Ryan as he attempts to drag her away—limbs everywhere and head jerking erratically in all directions, teeth snapping at his flesh. Desperately, she brings a nail down his arm that instantly makes him recoil, but he angrily retaliates by grabbing a handful of her hair and yanking her away from the ring of colour. Eventually, she flops back onto the ground, all fight gone, and taking in huge mouthfuls of air. “Fucking arsehole!” she gasps.

“We have to get out of here. This place isn’t right,” I say. “Either back the way we came or to the river.”

Sunlight is fading quickly, and the developing coolness of the breeze instinctively makes me shudder. I look to Ryan and catch him staring back towards the patch of flowers.

“Ryan!” I scream, but his gaze remains fixed.

“Up there,” Loren says. “If we climb that tree—the tallest, we should be able to see which way.”

“You don’t know shit!” Isla hisses and then begins sniffing aggressively at the surrounding air.

Loren looks to me expectantly. It seems by the word, “we,” she means me. Admittedly, this is where I excel—there are very few things I cannot scale, and any tree is child’s play. I take off my shoes and socks and begin to search for the first indentation in the tree. Toes firmly in place, I hoist myself up to the first branch.

“Be careful,” Loren says.

But I am away—branch after branch, quickly scanning where my next foothold will be. I look down, and already, I must be twenty foot high. To my right, and perhaps four feet higher, I notice a nest wedged between a network of smaller branches, and I see an adjoining clear path to the top of the tree. I begin to make my way towards it. Still, I cannot see clearly over the top of the canopy, but I’m getting close now.

“I need them!” I hear Isla shout below, like a spoilt child.

Testing the branches in front of me by allowing some of my weight onto them, I finally begin edging myself towards the nest, holding the thicker offshoots for balance. Step by step, I make solid progress, only pausing when the wind gently blows through. So close now. But just as I grab onto the next support, it breaks off in my hand, and I topple forward. My right foot comes down hard on a neighbouring branch, and there is a long foreboding creak. I freeze, heart in mouth, and pulse-pounding, holding my breath as if it will help make me weightless. Another crack—and then my worst fear—the branch beneath me snaps, and we both begin our descent.

“Tom!” Loren screams

Out of sheer desperation, I reach out my arms, and as they coil around a saving branch, immediate and intense pain explodes through them. Violently I swing, arms singing in pain, and countless feet above the ground—praying that this one holds my weight.

Eyes closed, swaying from a branch of the dead tree, I kick my legs to try and find something for leverage, and finally, I manage to wedge my foot between the trunk and another branch. Slowly, I begin heaving myself up.

“CAW!” the big black bird screams, scaring the shit out of me as it comes to rest only inches from my face. In its beak is what looks to be a tooth; human. It drops it into the nest and flies off again.

This fucking place.

The light is fading quickly now, and the cool breeze rattles through the bare branches. I am finally stable again, wedged in between two of the thicker branches of the tree. Balancing on one leg, I crane my neck toward the nest and peer into its contents. Nestled between the shells and half-eaten carcasses of offspring, is a pile of human teeth—all shapes and sizes—some stained with blood and some still adorned with flesh.

There is an immediate tightening across my chest and an accompanying wave of nausea. My grip on the branches instinctively becomes tighter, and suddenly, I can’t move—disoriented, and all bravery gone. I look down towards the others, and—

“Ryan!” I scream.

But it’s too late—the knife is plunged into the side of his neck.

I hear Loren scream, and watch helplessly as she slowly begins to back away. Ryan drops to his knees, instinctively trying to plug the stream of crimson that is now leaking across his clothes. Behind him stands Isla—bloody knife in hand. I could swear she is smiling.

“Run, Loren!” I scream, but she continues to back away slowly in obvious disbelief.

Isla brings the knife down again into Ryan’s neck. And again, and again, chopping relentlessly while holding his head in place with a tuft of his hair.

“Run!” I scream again.

She looks up towards me and then finally takes off.

As I urgently begin to scale the rest of the tree, my heart drums relentlessly as though trying to break out of my chest. Precaution out the window, I quickly move from one branch to the next, hoping that each will hold.

Climbing another five feet; I guess I’m about three-quarters up now, but there’s no need to go any further. In the distance, I can see the village—just a few hundred metres ahead. The river and the boats must be close. Sheer luck that Loren ran North. Everywhere I look, though, there are more of those flowers—a shit load between here and the water.

As I begin the descent, I realise how quickly darkness has consumed the forest.

Beneath me, and between heavy pants, Isla appears to be talking in tongues—a frantic and garbled explosion of nonsense—accompanied by the frequent sound of the blade sloshing against whatever is left of my friend. Fighting the instinctive urge for haste, I try to recall each branch I used for the climb. I slow it down—trying to ignore the carnage below—deep breaths and with complete focus on every move.

I pause, just to get my bearings—only ten feet to go. Isla is still slashing away, covered head to toe in my friend’s blood. Warily I keep my eye on her as best I can while slowly navigating the side of the trunk, using its imperfections to lower myself towards the ground. The last branch and I can jump from here. She’s on the move.

I watch as Isla makes her way back to the flower-rich clearing. She lays down on her back and raises my best friend’s head above her like a trophy, sprinkling the falling drops of blood across her breasts. Howling into the night, she then brings the head down between her legs and lets out a repugnant moan that fills me with fear and disgust.

Sick bitch.

Caws from all directions suddenly fill the air, and the surrounding trees begin to fill with over-sized crows—no doubt hopeful of getting a share of the fresh meat on offer. In response, Isla brings Ryan’s head close to her chest in an obvious claim of possession, snarling her warning toward the birds.

I take my chance and jump down, feeling my ankle give way as my foot lands awkwardly on a protruding root. Biting my tongue, I hold my breath and keep cover behind the trunk. And then I make a run for it—clumsily darting between the trees towards the safety of the river.

Heart pounding, ankle singing with pain, it is slow going, but its hope that keeps me moving. If I make it to the village, I can get help, and we can come back for Loren. Perhaps she is already there—on one of the boats even.

Darkness is bringing even more menace to this place, and I can only see a few yards ahead of me now. On the ground, I see carcasses of rabbits and birds—so many of them. Moonlight has replaced sunlight, and the shadows it casts are even eerier. Every creak of wood and each gust of wind fills me with trepidation, and I swear I see movement between the trees. Something in the distance—was that a howl? Human? Animal? God only knows. I just want out now.

And then I stop dead. I can only just hear it—the river. I can fucking hear it!

But lying ahead of me like a luminous barrier are dozens of clusters of those flowers; everywhere I look and every colour you can imagine. The wind howls its ever-increasing presence, and the moon spotlights the small puffs of powder leaving the pistil, swirling above in a small tornado, before simply dispersing into the night air.

Shit.

There's another howl behind me—closer this time.

And I run, trying to ignore the abundant carrion—high on adrenaline and impervious to the pressure on my ankle. Only a few feet away, I make out the water, and the sound of its gentle flow sparks further urgency. I’m going to make it. The wind howls around me again, but I’m no longer scared—I’m—

A gunshot rings out, echoing across the forest, and the accompanying bolt of pain explodes across my left shoulder. The force sends me sprawling to the ground, and unbearable pain vibrates down my entire left-hand side as I collapse in a heap. There are whistles and voices from somewhere behind the veil of darkness. I lie there, frozen to the ground, clenching my teeth to stifle the agony and afraid to breathe in case the wisp of breath gives away my location. The voices are drawing closer. But what is that? Something else is carrying on the breeze—a distant humming. It’s—beguiling—an angelic chorus that lifts me towards the moon and causes my body to tingle with excitement.

It feels wrong, but so right.

My mind is suddenly filled with imagery; the hotel room from last night; all my previous sexual encounters; every lustful thought I've ever had—all merging into a single erotic montage that is seemingly manifesting itself across my body. It’s as though I can feel every touch, and each breath wraps around me to form a cocoon of warmth. The throbbing pain is fading and being replaced with waves of euphoria that I want never to end. The flowers themselves dance around me, and I bask in their glow—a light show of vast proportions against the night sky. Above the hypnotic music, I hear the tranquil sound of running water and suddenly remember—the river; that’s where I was supposed to be going. But that can wait now; this is where I want to be.

The voices are closing in; and laughter. I begin to laugh with them, poking at the myriad of colours that dance in front of my eyes. There are faces above me now, smiling with crooked teeth and eyes that reflect the rhythmic movement of the flowers.

“Fucking tourists,” the voice swims across—dreamlike—deep and in slow motion.

“Can’t handle it, Jake. Too much for them,” the other one says.

“Throwing their fucking money around like kings and fucking queens!”

“Slice him, Jake. Slice and dice!”

The man called Jake crouches down and lets out a long sigh. “Nature can be an evil mistress, my friend—beautiful but lethal. She draws you in with her irresistible perfume and then works her dark magic. And soon, you can never get enough.”

I watch as he crushes one of the flowers into the half-filled rolling paper, licks the edge, and then ignites the end with the familiar cigarette lighter. RJ etched on its front—Ryan Jacobs.

“Moderation, my friend,” he says.

Momentarily I picture my best friend’s decapitated head with the joint hanging from the side of his mouth, and an uncontrollable fit of hysterics washes over me—laughter so raw and explosive that it hurts my throat. Even as Jake rests the cold metal against my throat, I can’t stop cackling.

“Where are the others?” he asks.

And out of my peripheral vision, I see something rolling towards me from the darkness. I twist my neck slightly to see Isla’s head come to rest only inches from my face, still drawn in that maniacal way.

“Strike!” I scream.

Jake’s mouth opens, but before anything comes out, he is on top of me; the point of the exposed blade poking through his neck almost impales me in the eye. I feel the warmth of his blood trickling down the side of my face. Above, I hear snarls and screams and panting—male and female—and the tearing of flesh. Another gunshot crackles in the air and is accompanied by a piercing and agony-filled cry. More commotion follows and then—silence.

The wind rushes pleasantly across my face, and I inhale its sweetness, watching as more of the powder spirals into the night air and as the luminous flowers hypnotically sway above me. This time, a wave of utter tranquillity washes over me, and all my anxiety and guilt give way to a comforting peace that makes me feel as though I am the only person in the universe. My vision fills with a kaleidoscope of warm colours that swim between the skeletal branches of the trees.

Am I in heaven?

But someone has my hand—pulling—no, I don’t want to leave. Suddenly, the calm has gone, and I feel such intense anger coursing through my body. How dare they. “Fuck off!” I scream, kicking my legs and flailing my arms in front of me. The colours are beginning to fade, as is the enchanting scent that I know I’m becoming enslaved to.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” I spit.

I hear crying above—female.

My leg connects with something, and once again, I am free. I just need this—nothing else matters. The world can get fucked. But just as I begin to approach that wonderful limbo once again, someone grabs my leg.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” I scream, continuing to lash out with overflowing rage.

There are more sounds above—a low whimpering as though from an injured animal, and from further out, more voices. I lash out again, and my right leg finds something. There is another cry of pain followed by a roar and—

*~*~*

“Fuck.”

Tenderly, I circle my fingers around the brutal stinging across the right side of my face. I feel the swelling and the accompanying heat that it’s giving off.

As I open my eyes and raise myself, I can only just make out the riverbank that passes by to my right. Suddenly, everything comes flooding back. Blood pumping and stomach lurching, I turn in panic, only to exhale a huge sigh of relief when I see the village some distance behind.

A gunshot suddenly echoes from somewhere far away. And then another, followed by the faint sound of cheers and laughter.

The tears come then, overwhelming grief and guilt for the people I have lost—for Loren, Ryan, and Isla.

Exhausted, I can hardly keep my eyes open, and slowly, I ease myself down again, praying that nobody follows. The stars above slowly pass, but it’s the morning I long for now. I’ve had enough of the darkness.

*~*~*

Squinting into the early morning sun, I pull myself up and begin to cry when I see no sign of the village behind. In the distance, I can just make out the silhouette of a skyline.

I know Loren saved me—even in her drug-induced state, bleeding and fighting temptation, she somehow managed to drag me onto this boat and set me free.

How am I supposed to tell their families? How many other tourists have perished in that forest at the mercy of the locals?

How am I supposed to get through this?

At first, I can’t find it, but as I stretch my fingers deeper into my pockets, they brush against the smoothness of the pod.

Just in moderation. Just enough to get me through.

End.

*~*~*

Mark Towse is an Englishman living in Australia. He would sell his soul to the devil or anyone buying if it meant he could write full-time. Alas, he left very late to begin this journey, penning his first story at the ripe old age of 45. He's been published in the likes of Flash Fiction Magazine, Cosmic Horror, Suspense Magazine, ParAbnormal, Raconteur, and his work has also appeared three times on The No Sleep Podcast and many other excellent productions. His first collection, ‘Face the Music,’ has just been released by All Things That Matter Press and is available via Amazon, Dymocks, B&N, etc.

Look out for his story, ‘Devil’s Ink’ in the anthology, ‘Midnight in the Pentagram’ from Silver Shamrock Publishing.

Find Mark on:

The Web www.marktowsedarkfiction.wordpress.com

Twitter www.twitter.com/MarkTowsey12

Instagram www.instagram.com/towseywrites/

The Underland

By Kurt Newton

For you, my friend, it's not too late, these words are like a message in a bottle thrown to those who fail to contemplate and understand there is a place beyond the pale of what is known; that place is called the Underland.

It is a hellish world of dirt and stone, a dim lit place where grotesque creatures thrive in dampened chambers fed by luminescent streams of fetid waters that swirl and seethe as if alive; a place that will most surely haunt your dreams.

I cannot stress enough the wisdom I've derived, the consequence of each and every choice one makes, the lesson not to tread where hatred dwells, not to wallow in the pointless pain of past mistakes, or one will find oneself alone in a living hell.

For me, my friend, it was much too late, I was selfish with the riches I received, and to love another I had neither time nor care, and so one night, in a drunken stupor, the air appeared to cleave, and I tumbled down a spiral stair.

I awoke in a place I could not leave among the ruins of some former denizen, there a hideous transformation took hold, my skin began to twist, my bones to bend, to match in appearance the corruption of my soul.

So let this be a warning, my dear friend, who might assume nothing will come of your neglect, who believes a clean conscience is achieved by clean hands, a far worse fate than disease or death awaits you in the Underland.

*~*~*

Kurt Newton's poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies including Weird Tales, Spectral Realms and Penumbric.

Find Kurt on:

Twitter @kurtdnewton

Facebook www.facebook.com/kurt.newton.56

Amazon www.amazon.com/Kurt-Newton/e/B006VYUMUM

The Empress and the Marauder

By Gwen C. Katz

Her attendants flutter around her, fastening her corset and crinolines. The Empress feels a twinge of nervousness deep within her chest.

The Empress? Nervous? Surely not. She can sweep away entire worlds with a flick of her hand. She decides the fates of kings and armies. She never flinches, never second-guesses herself. And she does not get nervous.

If her attendants sense the tension in her body, they are wise enough not to say anything. They arrange the layers of organdy ruffles and then help her into her gown, sliding her arms into the elegant puffed sleeves. The gown is magnificent. It is rose pink silk—not real silk, of course, but a synthetic variant spun from the essence of a nebula. The fabric is so light, so ethereal, that her skin only registers it as the faintest whisper of texture. The gown gathers gracefully at her slim waist, then cascades in a waterfall of pleats and flounces into a fishtail train that sweeps the marble floor behind her. She looks every inch the great lady she is.

Dismissing the attendants with a gesture, she strides out into the corridor.

She has many years behind her, but her gait is still steady, her hands strong. Her hair cascades down her back and shows not even a hint of silver. Usually she keeps it pinned up, but on this occasion, she has left it down, pouring over her shoulders in a shimmering stream interspersed with intricate braids. A band of filigreed gold on her brow marks her status.

The bridge corridor is her favorite place in the palace. Separating her quarters from the great hall, it forms a graceful arc through deep space, its curved glass walls and ceiling revealing a panorama of stars, nebulae, even the brilliant orange halo of a supernova that will only be visible for several more decades.

Usually this walk is the only thing that calms the constant ache of hunger within her. Today, though, her nerves remain on edge. She hopes that the courtiers won’t pick up on it. They’re predatory beasts, circling in search of weakness. For the most part, they prey on each other, and even with ironclad grip over them, she has no illusions about the security of her position. If one of them were to smell even the slightest opportunity as it pertained to the throne, they’ll leap at it.

She feels foolish to give in to her emotions like this. She thinks of all the servants and devoted subjects populating her palace waiting to satisfy her every desire, and yet the one person she loses her head over is the one she cannot control.

The Marauder.

The Empress wets her lips. It’s been decades since she last saw the Marauder. She almost didn’t believe it when her astronomers reported the craggy Mars-red spaceship approaching the palace. The Marauder spends vast lengths of time in deep space, beyond the reach of any form of communication. To see her twice—with only years between meetings—is a rarity. The Empress hopes this is a sign that their last encounter meant something to her. But, in truth, she has no idea. She believes that the Marauder was pleased, butthat black visor concealed any sign of emotion.

The echoing tap of footsteps marks the approach of the Chancellor. The Empress sighs. She’s been avoiding him.

“Imperial Highness,” he says, bowing nearly double. The red crest running down his head and neck flattens subserviently. “May I have a moment of your time?”

It’s never just a moment with the Chancellor. “You may have until the end of the corridor.”

“It’s about the Deep Planet,” says the Chancellor, waving a data tablet. “The storms are growing more severe. Mass die-offs. In another few years it’ll be a dead piece of rock.”

She pushes the tablet away. “And? People die. Worlds die. It’s the way of the universe.”

“Yes, Imperial Highness. But there’s the matter of the contagion,” says the Chancellor. “Anyone who lives among the people of Deep World or interacts with them becomes like them. Mindlessly self-interested, willing to plunge to their own destruction for a moment’s gain. It’s like a virus—a way for the planet to have a certain influence. Left unchecked, every planet in the galaxy could end up like this.”

Things like this don’t normally slip her mind. The Marauder must have her more distracted than she thought. “The planet is under quarantine, is it not?”

“It’s showing signs of breaking the quarantine. It’s like a dying animal—lashing out at anything it can reach.”

“I’ll have the planetary stewards look into it,” she says firmly, careful to keep any hint of doubt out of her voice. The Deep Planet seems like a minor matter, but these sorts of things have a way of spinning out of control. The galaxy is littered with the remains of empires whose downfalls began with moments smaller than this. “There must be a way to stabilize the situation. In the meantime, incinerate anything that leaves that planet.”

“As you decree, Imperial Highness,” says the Chancellor. “And there are a few other issues I wanted to bring to your attention. There’s a dispute among the courtiers about—”

“The end of the corridor,” says the Empress. They’ve walked the length of the starlit glass tunnel and now stand at the threshold of the great hall. “I trust you to attend to the rest of these matters yourself.”

“Of course, Imperial Highness.” As he turns to go, his cheeks color and he adds in a small voice, “Highness, your tail.”

She looks down and curses inwardly. The tip of her tail is protruding from beneath her train. She nearly walked straight into the great hall like that. The courtiers would have had a field day.

She rearranges the silk gown and tucks her tail back into its apportioned place beneath her crinolines, trying not to imagine the humiliation had she greeted the Marauder in such a state. Of course, the Marauder spends ages at a time without any companionship and cares little for courtly manners. But one does not mind manners only for the benefit of one’s guests.

The Empress cares deeply about standards. It’s a matter of respect to present oneself in one’s own best form, whether the other person would hold one to such standards or not.

The courtiers swarm as she enters the great hall. They circle just far enough away to be respectful, many sets of eyes—brown, green, violet—fixed on her. Their conversations form a jumble of overlapping voices.

The Empress stops in the middle of the throng. “I will not be holding court today. You are all dismissed.”

The voices redouble. Everyone jockeys for position, trying to get a last word in.

“Now,” says the Empress, raising her voice.

The courtiers scatter, some flying, some on foot, until only one figure remains.

She stands motionless at the end of the hall, so still she could be mistaken for one of the long-dead machines she salvages for a living. She’s not as tall as the Empress remembers. Her armored biosuit covers every inch of her body, streamlined plates trimmed in red and gray. A short dagger in a cybernetic sheath is strapped to her hip. Her helmet is sleek, its contours hinting at the form of the face below, which the Empress has never seen.

The Marauder walks forward, her back straight, her steps confident.

“Empress,” she says, rather than, “Imperial Highness.” The Empress has executed people for lesser offenses.

The Empress presents one hand. The Marauder takes it in her armored glove and bends her head forward until her tinted visor nearly, but not quite, touches the skin between the Empress’s fingers.

“It’s been a long time,” says the Marauder. The voice generated by her suit’s nanocircuitry is clear and crystalline, as though it were played on a musical instrument.

“Half a century is not such a great time when you’ve reigned as long as I have,” says the Empress. “But I was glad to hear of your return. Come. I’ve prepared a banquet.”

As they pass through the grand archway into the dining room, she asks, “What did you find in the void this time?”

“It’s not a matter of finding,” says the Marauder. “The void is not a treasure hunt. Space, time itself—these things take on a new meaning when you are out in that black expanse. Your perspective shifts. You become one with the nothingness. Then—only then—do you perceive what others cannot. What was lost, abandoned, hidden. That is what I do in the void.”

Beneath her gown, the Empress’s tail twitches. She hopes she didn’t annoy the Marauder. The Marauder has little patience for those who do not respect her profession. She always brings gifts, treasures and curiosities from eons past and worlds beyond the Empire’s reach, but she does not appreciate being treated as a simple scavenger.

The long table in the dining hall is cut froma single vast piece of crystal. It is loaded from one end to the other with every variety of fine food, roasted meats from the great star-beasts that roam the empty parts of the galaxy, savory delicacies, and finally, desserts seasoned with rare spices. For the Marauder, there are exotic energy sources, polished orbs of radium and polonium and miniature stars contained in glass spheres, each embedded in a nest of nanocircuitry.

The Empress takes her seat at the head of the table, gathering her skirt around her and tucking her two-toed feet beneath it. “My apologies that you won’t be able to enjoy most of this,” she says, gesturing across the table.

“No matter,” says the Marauder. “After all these centuries, I don’t miss eating. I scarcely remember what it was like. Now these…” She picks up one of the star spheres and cups it in her hands, slender cables worming their way out of her gloves to connect with the pulsing nanocircuitry. “These are very special. The stars have a sharp edge to them. The radium spheres are smoother and mellower. Polonium is the sweetest.”

The star dims as the Marauder drinks in its essence, until nothing is left but a gray cinder. The Empress, meanwhile, consumes the dishes on the table one by one, servants descending the walls and scuttling up to the crystal table to bring each plate within reach. She savors each piece of meat, wrapping her tongue around it to allow the rich juices to seep out before devouring it. It is a magnificent banquet, almost enough to calm the hunger within her. Almost.

The Empress tries to watch the Marauder’s gestures without letting on that she’s doing so. Every move the favor-currying courtiers make is dictated by the elaborate rules of court etiquette. The Empress finds it fascinating to be with someone whose actions she can’t predict. Her eyes follow the Marauder as she reaches for one sphere or another, draining this one in an instant, taking her time with that one.

As the Empress pauses to wipe her mouth with a napkin, she says, “This reminds me of our first dinner together.”

“The time you almost shot me out of the sky?” says the Marauder, cocking her head.

The Empress believes she hears a hint of a smile behind those words. “I didn’t know what to make of you, flying into our territory unannounced, not bearing the colors of any nation. But I’m glad I let you land. For so long I’ve been used to ruling everything with complete control. You reminded me that there’s more out there. That diamond asteroid you brought…it was beautiful. I was almost sorry to consume it.” She begins to gesture with her napkin, but notices in time that there is a hole burnt through it. A servant hands her another.

The Marauder rises from her seat, her movements lithe, yet controlled. She comes to the Empress’s side. She reaches out as if to touch the Empress’s shoulder, and a momentary tingle of anticipation passes through the Empress, but at the last moment the Marauder seems to change her mind and clasps her hands in front of her. “I haven’t brought you a gift this time,” she says. “What I offer is more like an invitation.”

The Empress can’t help leaning forward in anticipation. “Oh?”

“Will you join me on my ship?”

*~*~*

“It’s been centuries since I’ve been aboard a starship,” says the Empress as she fastens the various belts and buckles that secure her in the seat. The silk of her dress rustles. She feels like a child again.

“They’ve advanced since then,” says the Marauder. She takes the controls with a practiced hand, flipping switches and pressing buttons without looking. “But I have applied only the most minor upgrades to this vessel. I find that the simplest machines work the best.”

The vessel speeds through interstellar space, the roar of its twin engines making every surface rattle. With its blunt angles and blocky styling, the ship could not be further from the sweeping curves of the palace. It’s so cramped that she and the Marauder could knock elbows, and yet the Empress is enjoying herself. When was the last time she put her life so completely in another’s hands?

Stars systems streak by in a blur. The Empress has no idea where they are going. The Marauder could take her deep into the void, where hundreds of years could pass before they saw another planet, star, or ship. The idea sends an uncharacteristic thrill down her spine. No courtiers, no responsibilities, just her and this strange, silent figure surrounded by endless darkness. It reminds her of the days before she became Empress, when she lived an entirely different sort of life. When she could still sate her hunger.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” says the Marauder as she switches the ship onto autopilot. “I didn’t travel into the void this time. I went somewhere much closer to home. It wasn’t an exploration. More of an investigation.”

“Where?” whispers the Empress.

“See for yourself,” says the Marauder. “We’re almost there.”

She unstraps herself and glides into the back of the vessel, towards the living quarters. Rivet-lined portholes dot the sides of the vessel, dividing the void outside into small, evenly spaced vignettes.

The Empress also undoes her harness. In the absence of gravity, her hair and gown float around her.

The Marauder unlocks one of her armored gloves and slides it off. The Empress’s heart flutters, for underneath is the Marauder’s tactile skin, metallic mesh fabric so fine that it shimmers. The shape within the skin is still not the Marauder’s actual hand—it’s cushioned by a layer of bioreactive gel—but she can feel even the slightest sensations through it.

She reaches out for the Empress and pulls her into the back of the ship. The Empress marvels at the strength of her grip. They float alongside each other.

The ship slows automatically and comes to a halt. Their destination comes into view through the starboard portholes. The Empress sucks a sharp breath through her finely pointed teeth. The planet before her is covered in deep blue-black oceans broken up by fragments of brown land. Massive white storms swirl across its surface. She knows what devastation there is on the ground, but from up here, it’s beautiful.

The Deep Planet.

The Empress rounds on the Marauder. “You came here? I could have you executed by torture for this. This is sovereign Imperial territory. And it’s under quarantine!”

“It’s under quarantine because you don’t know what to do with it,” says the Marauder. She didn’t so much as flinch in response to the Empress’s tirade. “If you leave it to take its own course, it will force its way through the quarantine. Planets don’t die easy. It will be long and lingering, and it will spend its entire slow death trying to spread the contagion. You don’t need me to tell you what will happen if it succeeds.”

The Empress looks again at the planet before them. The brown patches of land are scarred and cratered from countless fires and conflicts. The struggling people below, too tiny to see, live in constant strife.

“Destroy it,” says the Marauder in her crystalline voice. The storms on the planet’s surface are reflected in her black visor. “This is my gift to you. Destroy it and end their suffering.”

Hunger gnaws at the Empress. The planet is so small, so vulnerable.

“You want to, don’t you?” asks the Marauder. “I can see it behind your eyes. I felt it that night we spent together all those years ago. The hunger. You buried it deep within yourself when you took the throne, but it’s still there. Set it free. Once again, be something primal and ravenous.” She takes off her other glove and clasps both her hands around one of the Empress’s, her fingers covering the Empress’s claws. “I’ll help you.”

The touch of those tactile-skin hands is almost more than the Empress can bear, but she forces herself to pull away. “Who are you?” she says. “Who are you really? You come to me, offering to solve all my problems, to give me everything I want, yet I’ve never even seen your face. What’s behind that visor?”

There is a long silence. The Marauder floats before her, motionless as the ship around them. The Empress tries and fails to read her. Is she frightened? Insulted? Was it too much to ask?

At last the Marauder retracts her visor.

The face behind the visor is no face at all. The flesh is shriveled and papery, a half-rotted wrapper clinging to an eyeless skull. The clear, thick bioreactive gel that fills her helmet distorts everything.

The Empress’s breath catches in her throat. In her long reign, she has only heard rumors of such creatures. In some places, they are destroyed on sight.

“It’s been four thousand years since I died,” says the Marauder. The skull’s jaw doesn’t move as she speaks. “This suit preserves my body and provides the electrical stimulation to keep my brain working. I’m not looking for pity. I don’t remember what it was like to be alive. It was too brief, too distant. To me, this is simply what existence is like.” After another pause, she says, “I understand if it repulses you.”

The Empress murmurs, “It’s the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.”

She reaches out for the Marauder with one of her pairs of arms and then the other, prying off the plates of armor with four sets of claws. Her tail coils around the Marauder’s foot, its suckers leaving round impressions on the tactile fabric. The Marauder’s eyes that are not eyes seem to gaze into hers with admiration. “Such pretty eyes,” whispers the Marauder, lightly touching each jellied surface, the green eye, the black one, the yellow one.

Under the Marauder’s blade, the Empress’s gown and undergarments come away in slices, freeing her rows of breasts. As they entwine themselves together, the Empress unspools her tongue, longer and longer, its prehensile purple length leaving trails of caustic saliva that hiss but cannot penetrate the metal fabric protecting the Marauder’s body.

When the time is right, they open the ship’s cargo doors and tumble out into the emptiness of space.

The Deep Planet floats before them, no bigger across than the length of the Empress’s arm. They fall on it together, blade and claws rending apart the fragile orb, the saliva dripping from the Empress’s vertical slit of a mouth melting through stone and earth, magma pouring hot and angry from the gashes, and the planet is consumed by their passion.

Her hunger is finally, finally sated. It is beautiful.

End.

*~*~*

Gwen C. Katz is an author, artist, game designer, and retired mad scientist living in Pasadena, CA with her husband and a revolving door of transient animals. Her first novel, Among the Red Stars, tells the story of Russia's famous all-female bomber regiment, the Night Witches. "The Empress and the Marauder" is her misbegotten attempt to write a princess story.

Find Gwen on:

The Web www.gwenckatz.com

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The Yellow Wallpaper

By Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Originally Published in 1892

It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.

A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity—but that would be asking too much of fate!

Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.

Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted?

John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.

John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.

John is a physician, andperhaps—(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)—perhapsthat is one reason I do not get well faster.

You see, he does not believe I am sick!

And what can one do?

If a physician of high standing, and one’s own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency—what is one to do?

My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing.

So I take phosphates or phosphites—whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work” until I am well again.

Personally, I disagree with their ideas.

Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good.

But what is one to do?

I did write for a while in spite of them; but itdoesexhaust me a good deal—having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.

I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus—but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad.

So I will let it alone and talk about the house.

The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing well back from the road, quite three miles from the village. It makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people.

There is adeliciousgarden! I never saw such a garden—large and shady, full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them.

There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now.

There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and co-heirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years.

That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid; but I don’t care—there is something strange about the house—I can feel it.

I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said what I felt was adraught, and shut the window.

I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I’m sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.

But John says if I feel so I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to control myself,—before him, at least,—and that makes me very tired.

I don’t like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! but John would not hear of it.

He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took another.

He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction.

I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.

He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all the air I could get. “Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear,” said he, “and your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time.” So we took the nursery, at the top of the house.

It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playground and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls.

The paint and paper look as if a boys’ school had used it. It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life.

One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.

It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard-of contradictions.

The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.

It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.

No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.

There comes John, and I must put this away,—he hates to have me write a word.

We have been here two weeks, and I haven’t felt like writing before, since that first day.

I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of strength.

John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.

I am glad my case is not serious!

But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.

John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is noreasonto suffer, and that satisfies him.

Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way!

I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative burden already!

Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able—to dress and entertain, and order things.

It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!

And yet Icannotbe with him, it makes me so nervous.

I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wallpaper!

At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to such fancies.

He said that after the wallpaper was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on.

“You know the place is doing you good,” he said, “and really, dear, I don’t care to renovate the house just for a three months’ rental.”

“Then do let us go downstairs,” I said, “there are such pretty rooms there.”

Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down cellar if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.

It is as airy and comfortable a room as any one need wish, and, of course, I would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim.

I’m really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper.

Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.

Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to check the tendency. So I try.

I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it would relieve the press of ideas and rest me.

But I find I get pretty tired when I try.

It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my work. When I get really well John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put fire-works in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people about now.

I wish I could get well faster.

But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if itknewwhat a vicious influence it had!

There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside-down.

I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths didn’t match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little higher than the other.

I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know how much expression they have! I used to lie awake as a child and get more entertainment and terror out of blank walls and plain furniture than most children could find in a toy-store.

I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big old bureau used to have, and there was one chair that always seemed like a strong friend.

I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always hop into that chair and be safe.

The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for we had to bring it all from downstairs. I suppose when this was used as a playroom they had to take the nursery things out, and no wonder! I never saw such ravages as the children have made here.

The wallpaper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a brother—they must have had perseverance as well as hatred.

Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster itself is dug out here and there, and this great heavy bed, which is all we found in the room, looks as if it had been through the wars.

But I don’t mind it a bit—only the paper.

There comes John’s sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of me! I must not let her find me writing.

She is a perfect, and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the writing which made me sick!

But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these windows.

There is one that commands the road, a lovely, shaded, winding road, and one that just looks off over the country. A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows.

This wallpaper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different shade, a particularly irritating one, for you can only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then.

But in the places where it isn’t faded, and where the sun is just so, I can see a strange, provoking, formless sort of figure, that seems to sulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design.

There’s sister on the stairs!

Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are gone and I am tired out. John thought it might do me good to see a little company, so we just had mother and Nellie and the children down for a week.

Of course I didn’t do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now.

But it tired me all the same.

John says if I don’t pick up faster he shall send me to Weir Mitchell in the fall.

But I don’t want to go there at all. I had a friend who was in his hands once, and she says he is just like John and my brother, only more so!

Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far.

I don’t feel as if it was worth while to turn my hand over for anything, and I’m getting dreadfully fretful and querulous.

I cry at nothing, and cry most of the time.

Of course I don’t when John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone.

And I am alone a good deal just now. John is kept in town very often by serious cases, and Jennie is good and lets me alone when I want her to.

So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely lane, sit on the porch under the roses, and lie down up here a good deal.

I’m getting really fond of the room in spite of the wallpaper. Perhapsbecauseof the wallpaper.

It dwells in my mind so!

I lie here on this great immovable bed—it is nailed down, I believe—and follow that pattern about by the hour. It is as good as gymnastics, I assure you. I start, we’ll say, at the bottom, down in the corner over there where it has not been touched, and I determine for the thousandth time that Iwillfollow that pointless pattern to some sort of a conclusion.

I know a little of the principle of design, and I know this thing was not arranged on any laws of radiation, or alternation, or repetition, or symmetry, or anything else that I ever heard of.

It is repeated, of course, by the breadths, but not otherwise.

Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes—a kind of “debased Romanesque” withdelirium tremens—go waddling up and down in isolated columns of fatuity.

But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great slanting waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase.

The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to distinguish the order of its going in that direction.

They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the confusion.

There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the cross-lights fade and the low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all,—the interminable grotesques seem to form around a common centre and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction.

It makes me tired to follow it. I will take a nap, I guess.

I don’t know why I should write this.

I don’t want to.

I don’t feel able.

And I know John would think it absurd. But Imustsay what I feel and think in some way—it is such a relief!

But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.

Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and lie down ever so much.

John says I musn’t lose my strength, and has me take cod-liver oil and lots of tonics and things, to say nothing of ale and wine and rare meat.

Dear John! He loves me very dearly, and hates to have me sick. I tried to have a real earnest reasonable talk with him the other day, and tell him how I wish he would let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia.

But he said I wasn’t able to go, nor able to stand it after I got there; and I did not make out a very good case for myself, for I was crying before I had finished.

It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness, I suppose.

And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed, and sat by me and read to me till it tired my head.

He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of myself for his sake, and keep well.

He says no one but myself can help me out of it, that I must use my will and self-control and not let any silly fancies run away with me.

There’s one comfort, the baby is well and happy, and does not have to occupy this nursery with the horrid wallpaper.

If we had not used it that blessed child would have! What a fortunate escape! Why, I wouldn’t have a child of mine, an impressionable little thing, live in such a room for worlds.

I never thought of it before, but it is lucky that John kept me here after all. I can stand it so much easier than a baby, you see.

Of course I never mention it to them any more,—I am too wise,—but I keep watch of it all the same.

There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will.

Behind that outside pattern the dim shapes get clearer every day.

It is always the same shape, only very numerous.

And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I don’t like it a bit. I wonder—I begin to think—I wish John would take me away from here!

It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because he loves me so.

But I tried it last night.

It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around, just as the sun does.

I hate to see it sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always comes in by one window or another.

John was asleep and I hated to waken him, so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that undulating wallpaper till I felt creepy.

The faint figure behind seemed to shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to get out.

I got up softly and went to feel and see if the paperdidmove, and when I came back John was awake.

“What is it, little girl?” he said. “Don’t go walking about like that—you’ll get cold.”

I thought it was a good time to talk, so I told him that I really was not gaining here, and that I wished he would take me away.

“Why darling!” said he, “our lease will be up in three weeks, and I can’t see how to leave before.

“The repairs are not done at home, and I cannot possibly leave town just now. Of course if you were in any danger I could and would, but you really are better, dear, whether you can see it or not. I am a doctor, dear, and I know. You are gaining flesh and color, your appetite is better. I feel really much easier about you.”

“I don’t weigh a bit more,” said I, “nor as much; and my appetite may be better in the evening, when you are here, but it is worse in the morning when you are away.”

“Bless her little heart!” said he with a big hug; “she shall be as sick as she pleases! But now let’s improve the shining hours by going to sleep, and talk about it in the morning!”

“And you won’t go away?” I asked gloomily.

“Why, how can I, dear? It is only three weeks more and then we will take a nice little trip of a few days while Jennie is getting the house ready. Really, dear, you are better!”

“Better in body perhaps”—I began, and stopped short, for he sat up straight and looked at me with such a stern, reproachful look that I could not say another word.

“My darling,” said he, “I beg of you, for my sake and for our child’s sake, as well as for your own, that you will never for one instant let that idea enter your mind! There is nothing so dangerous, so fascinating, to a temperament like yours. It is a false and foolish fancy. Can you not trust me as a physician when I tell you so?”

So of course I said no more on that score, and we went to sleep before long. He thought I was asleep first, but I wasn’t,—I lay there for hours trying to decide whether that front pattern and the back pattern really did move together or separately.

On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a constant irritant to a normal mind.

The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing.

You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well under way in following, it turns a back somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream.

The outside pattern is a florid arabesque, reminding one of a fungus. If you can imagine a toadstool in joints, an interminable string of toadstools, budding and sprouting in endless convolutions,—why, that is something like it.

That is, sometimes!

There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself, and that is that it changes as the light changes.

When the sun shoots in through the east window—I always watch for that first long, straight ray—it changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it.

That is why I watch it always.

By moonlight—the moon shines in all night when there is a moon—I wouldn’t know it was the same paper.

At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be.

I didn’t realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind,—that dim sub-pattern,—but now I am quite sure it is a woman.

By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling. It keeps me quiet by the hour.

I lie down ever so much now. John says it is good for me, and to sleep all I can.

Indeed, he started the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal.

It is a very bad habit, I am convinced, for, you see, I don’t sleep.

And that cultivates deceit, for I don’t tell them I’m awake,—oh, no!

The fact is, I am getting a little afraid of John.

He seems very queer sometimes, and even Jennie has an inexplicable look.

It strikes me occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis, that perhaps it is the paper!

I have watched John when he did not know I was looking, and come into the room suddenly on the most innocent excuses, and I’ve caught him several timeslooking at the paper!And Jennie too. I caught Jennie with her hand on it once.

She didn’t know I was in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper she turned around as if she had been caught stealing, and looked quite angry—asked me why I should frighten her so!

Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, that she had found yellow smooches on all my clothes and John’s, and she wished we would be more careful!

Did not that sound innocent? But I know she was studying that pattern, and I am determined that nobody shall find it out but myself!

Life is very much more exciting now than it used to be. You see I have something more to expect, to look forward to, to watch. I really do eat better, and am more quiet than I was.

John is so pleased to see me improve! He laughed a little the other day, and said I seemed to be flourishing in spite of my wallpaper.

I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it wasbecauseof the wallpaper—he would make fun of me. He might even want to take me away.

I don’t want to leave now until I have found it out. There is a week more, and I think that will be enough.

I’m feeling ever so much better! I don’t sleep much at night, for it is so interesting to watch developments; but I sleep a good deal in the daytime.

In the daytime it is tiresome and perplexing.

There are always new shoots on the fungus, and new shades of yellow all over it. I cannot keep count of them, though I have tried conscientiously.

It is the strangest yellow, that wallpaper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw—not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things.

But there is something else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here.

It creeps all over the house.

I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs.

It gets into my hair.

Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell!

Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like.

It is not bad—at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met.

In this damp weather it is awful. I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me.

It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell.

But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is thecolorof the paper! A yellow smell.

There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs round the room. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, a long, straight, evensmooch, as if it had been rubbed over and over.

I wonder how it was done and who did it, and what they did it for. Round and round and round—round and round and round—it makes me dizzy!

I really have discovered something at last.

Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out.

The front patterndoesmove—and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it!

Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over.

Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard.

And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that pattern—it strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads.

They get through, and then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside-down, and makes their eyes white!

If those heads were covered or taken off it would not be half so bad.

I think that woman gets out in the daytime!

And I’ll tell you why—privately—I’ve seen her!

I can see her out of every one of my windows!

It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight.

I see her on that long shaded lane, creeping up and down. I see her in those dark grape arbors, creeping all around the garden.

I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage comes she hides under the blackberry vines.

I don’t blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight!

I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can’t do it at night, for I know John would suspect something at once.

And John is so queer now, that I don’t want to irritate him. I wish he would take another room! Besides, I don’t want anybody to get that woman out at night but myself.

I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once.

But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time.

And though I always see her shemaybe able to creep faster than I can turn!

I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high wind.

If only that top pattern could be gotten off from the under one! I mean to try it, little by little.

I have found out another funny thing, but I shan’t tell it this time! It does not do to trust people too much.

There are only two more days to get this paper off, and I believe John is beginning to notice. I don’t like the look in his eyes.

And I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good report to give.

She said I slept a good deal in the daytime.

John knows I don’t sleep very well at night, for all I’m so quiet!

He asked me all sorts of questions, too, and pretended to be very loving and kind.

As if I couldn’t see through him!

Still, I don’t wonder he acts so, sleeping under this paper for three months.

It only interests me, but I feel sure John and Jennie are secretly affected by it.

Hurrah! This is the last day, but it is enough. John is to stay in town over night, and won’t be out until this evening.

Jennie wanted to sleep with me—the sly thing! but I told her I should undoubtedly rest better for a night all alone.

That was clever, for really I wasn’t alone a bit! As soon as it was moonlight, and that poor thing began to crawl and shake the pattern, I got up and ran to help her.

I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards of that paper.

A strip about as high as my head and half around the room.

And then when the sun came and that awful pattern began to laugh at me I declared I would finish it to-day!

We go away to-morrow, and they are moving all my furniture down again to leave things as they were before.

Jennie looked at the wall in amazement, but I told her merrily that I did it out of pure spite at the vicious thing.

She laughed and said she wouldn’t mind doing it herself, but I must not get tired.

How she betrayed herself that time!

But I am here, and no person touches this paper but me—notalive!

She tried to get me out of the room—it was too patent! But I said it was so quiet and empty and clean now that I believed I would lie down again and sleep all I could; and not to wake me even for dinner—I would call when I woke.

So now she is gone, and the servants are gone, and the things are gone, and there is nothing left but that great bedstead nailed down, with the canvas mattress we found on it.

We shall sleep downstairs to-night, and take the boat home to-morrow.

I quite enjoy the room, now it is bare again.

How those children did tear about here!

This bedstead is fairly gnawed!

But I must get to work.

I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the front path.

I don’t want to go out, and I don’t want to have anybody come in, till John comes.

I want to astonish him.

I’ve got a rope up here that even Jennie did not find. If that woman does get out, and tries to get away, I can tie her!

But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to stand on!

This bed willnotmove!

I tried to lift and push it until I was lame, and then I got so angry I bit off a little piece at one corner—but it hurt my teeth.

Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks horribly and the pattern just enjoys it! All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling fungus growths just shriek with derision!

I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try.

Besides I wouldn’t do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper and might be misconstrued.

I don’t like tolookout of the windows even—there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast.

I wonder if they all come out of that wallpaper as I did?

But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope—you don’t getmeout in the road there!

I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard!

It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please!

I don’t want to go outside. I won’t, even if Jennie asks me to.

For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow.

But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way.

Why, there’s John at the door!

It is no use, young man, you can’t open it!

How he does call and pound!

Now he’s crying for an axe.

It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door!

“John dear!” said I in the gentlest voice, “the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain leaf!”

That silenced him for a few moments.

Then he said—very quietly indeed, “Open the door, my darling!”

“I can’t,” said I. “The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf!”

And then I said it again, several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and see, and he got it, of course, and came in. He stopped short by the door.

“What is the matter?” he cried. “For God’s sake, what are you doing!”

I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder.

“I’ve got out at last,” said I, “in spite of you and Jane! And I’ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back!”

Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time!

End.

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