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Art for The Squaw: Luke Spooner / Carrion House

Cosmic Horror Monthly

www.cosmic-horror.net

Greetings dear reader,

Welcome to volume I’s penultimate issue. It has been a ride and we are so glad to have had your support over these past months. With that said, strap in, this issue is strong.

A painter looks for inspiration the most hellish of places in Scovell’s Final Painting. Then, a recovering alcoholic doctor aids in the final wishes of an old woman who seeks immortality no matter the cost in The Last Case of Dr. Jonah Wexley Abbott. Moving right along, we finally learn what’s behind all those pesky ghost phone calls in a chilling tale called A guide to Vanishing. In The Chemist, we learn of a great tragedy at sea by way of the voyage's lone survivor before descending down to the crypt for a rare one from the writer of everyone's favorite blood sucking myth.

We want to thank you again for sticking around. There are some exciting changes coming for Volume II of Cosmic Horror Monthly that we know you are going to love! For now, happy reading and happy horrors.

C.R.

*~*~*

Scovell’s Final Painting

By Richard Zwicker

I can’t use these. They’re… dreadful,” said Rance Felton, his thin mustache accenting his quivering lips. His dapper gray suit and tie clashed with the colorful clutter of canvases, paint, and brushes in Scovell’s tiny house.

“I paint horror. Not pastoral scenes with smiling shepherds,” said Scovell, scowling, his arms folded across his paint-flecked shirt

“I know, but there’s more to horror than...depravity. My customers don’t want to lie in bed at night with visions of Dante’s Inferno stuck in their heads. I mean, look at this.” He motioned at one of the canvases. “What are these creatures? One is devouring another one alive. These other two appear to be—I don’t even want to think about it. There used to be a subtlety to your work. What has happened to you, man? You never go out anymore. It’s unhealthy.”

“Thanks for your concern, Felton. Good day.”

“If you’d just…”

The words hung in the air like an execution. Felton nodded, then left, carefully closing the door. Scovell wasn’t surprised by the rejection. Felton’s concern was selling to a society that imposed a false and debilitating order with its plans and organization. It rose, toiled at a narrow task, married and had children, all the while denying what it truly was. Rather than control their inclinations, people should, like Valkyries, ride them to their natural destinations. That was where he’d failed. His recent work evoked disgust rather than horror because he didn’t feel the fear. Felton’s suggestion was wrong, however. The solution lay within.

*~*~*

Scovell got his pistol, a flashlight, and a tube of phosphorescent paint and crept down to the basement. At the far end, he unlocked the worm-eaten door. It groaned as he pulled it open, exposing a space just wide enough to squeeze through. The fetid odor hit him like an uppercut but it reminded him of the lengths humans could go to mask their natural smell, bathing and applying perfumes. His sense of smell would adapt.

He didn’t know why the tunnels came to his basement door. Perhaps, the previous owner of his house had straddled the subterranean and surface worlds. Maybe the lurkers had sensed in him a kindred spirit. Twice he’d ventured in but never beyond sight of the door. He’d caught glimpses of the foul creatures only to hurry back and portray them on canvas.

As he stepped inside, his flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the mold and mildew of the tunnel walls. To ensure he could find his way out, he planned to strategically mark the walls with slashes of phosphorescent paint.

The lurkers were not nearby, and as he walked, he wondered if they intended to draw him farther from his door. He could hear only his footfalls and an occasional drip of water. Several times he winced as his foot slipped on the damp, rocky ground. He had to be careful. If he twisted his ankle, no one could help him get out. He swore as his foot sank into a puddle, soaking through his shoe and sock. He walked on, the dark tunnels blurring his sense of time, leaving him only with a vague sense of direction.

In the distance he heard grunts, groans, and slurping. As the tunnel arced downward, he stood partially obscured as he watched four beasts rending a fifth. As repulsive as this was, it was to his benefit. With their hunger sated, he was in less danger. He needed to walk a fine line between total fear and annihilation. The beasts, a hideous combination of human and canine, ignored his searching flashlight. Their heads loomed as large as his entire upper body, their sharp teeth cutting into flesh. Some had spiked tails, others short knobs. He watched for ten minutes of crunching and tearing until the creatures reduced the fallen victim to nothing.

After one of them emitted a cannon-like belch, Scovell stepped from the corner, flashing his light in their eyes. A cacophony of snorts and sighs rattled the tunnel. One of the creatures studied him through dusky eyes, and without warning, charged like a bull seeing a red cape. Scovell fired two shots at the ground, then leveled his pistol at its face. It stopped, convinced of the weapon’s lethality. A second creature motioned with its clumsy paw as if it wanted Scovell to come closer. He approached with caution. When he got within ten feet, it turned and loped away, but slow enough that he could keep up. He followed for some time, twice slipping on the damp surface.

After perhaps twenty minutes, the tunnel broadened into a room the size of a small theater. The creature led him to the far left, where someone or something appeared to be digging a new shaft with a primitive spade. As Scovell neared, he saw the creature was a man. His matted hair, fingernails, and beard showed total neglect of personal care. A rusted chain clasped his ankle. When the derelict man noticed him standing, he let out a skull-splitting scream. Scovell darted back and waited for him to quiet down.

“Are you human?” Scovell asked, almost hoping the answer was no.

The man gazed wide-eyed at Scovell. “I don’t know!” he bellowed.

“Is this how you spend your days?”

“Yeesss!” he moaned.

In his occult readings, Scovell had read of kidnapped humans forced to procreate with monsters, producing foul spawn, half human, half abomination. Scovell shuddered, realizing he could be looking at his future.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“I was only eight or nine. I lost my childhood!”

“We all lose that.”

“But I know where mine is! Take me back to the surface. It will be waiting, just as I left it. They’ve stolen my will. I never got a chance. I have less existence than these tunnels, the mold, the pick. Just talking, choosing one word over another, makes my head explode!”

The pathetic figure slumped to the ground, shaking. Scovell felt sorry for him but didn’t know what to do. “I am just a painter. I believe life on the outside is false.” The man’s head twisted toward Scovell like a bird. “By ignoring our dark sides, we realize only half our potential. We must embrace what we are. If we allow the lurkers into our lives, we will have a new understanding of what it means to be human.”

The man laughed, a high-pitched squawk, bereft of belly. “If they wished, they could flood the surface at any time. You can give them nothing but submission.”

The poor creature was defeated. Horror was inert without confrontation. Scovell was about to ask if there were others like him here, but the man let out another wail that signaled the end of their communication. Scovell turned to the monster he’d followed.

“I’m not here to see my kind. Do you have a leader?” asked Scovell, unsure if the creature understood or if it even had a language of its own. He pointed to himself, to it, then straightened his frame into what he thought a leader should look like. He finally motioned to his head, hoping the creature would interpret his movements as a crown or a halo. The fiend waved its paw toward the human, who continued to wail. Scovell shook his head, repeating his words and gestures.

Finally, the monster turned and loped down a branching tunnel. Scovell pressed a dab of paint on the wall, then followed. After another fifteen or twenty-minutes, the air grew more fetid. They approached a creature that reminded Scovell of Cerberus, guarding the tunnel. It had only one head, but it was the size of a horse cart. It had stubby fingers, a hairless back, and genitalia only partially obscured by a forest of fur.

“Speak,” it said, the word elongated in menace.

“You understand English?”

“You taught me.”

Was the creature toying with him? He’d never seen it before.

“What do you want?” the creature asked.

Scovell ignored his doubts. This was his chance to communicate with a fiend, to understand.

“I came to learn, to join light with dark. Fear is the ultimate stimulant. It is only through conflict that humans can reach their ultimate potential.”

“The human response to fear is to attempt understanding, then destroy it,” bellowed the creature. “There can be no union between light and dark. One destroys the other. We are a threat to the outside because it does not know our capabilities or when we will strike. We have already infiltrated the surface. Do you think this is a game?”

“Of course not. As a painter, I have devoted my life to the propagation of fear. But I am not satisfied. I want to take the next step.”

“The next step is surrendering your ability to escape. For full effect, you must embrace fear, not hold it at arm’s length. It is not throwing open the door that spawns fear. It is locking the door and knowing you can never pass through it again.” He reached out his monstrous paw. “Give me your pistol and flashlight.”

Scovell shivered. This was what he sought, a horror so terrible that his emotions would fire on all cylinders, that every moment would be an orgasm of fear.

“I wish to stoke fear as a stimulating fire, not a rapacious flame.”

“There can be no choice.”

Scovell dropped his gun but not the flashlight. The creature advanced toward him, and he noticed what he’d thought had been walls lumber closer.

Scovell sensed he’d crossed a line. Had he been naive to think that fear could have a leader, or even an art? Wasn’t true fear anarchic? Scovell treasured horror because in comparison to a jaded, sleepwalking condition, it electrified the body. But in surrendering himself, he was putting the fire out, when what stoked it was the opposite: a fight for survival. And at some point, he needed to extricate himself to capture it on canvas.

He broke into a sprint, his heart straining to pump blood through his body. The monsters pummeling footfalls beat a dreadful clatter in pursuit. Several times Scovell fell, scraping his knees, only to scramble upright and careen forward. He was not seeing the phosphorescent marks he’d left. He beat back the thought that, instead of escaping, he was dashing deeper underground.

He lurched backward as a slimy, wart-covered hand grasped his leg. Other hands poked him. Hisses and croaks filled the air. He screamed, trying to release the explosive fear inside him, but his mouth was far too small.

He slapped the groping fingers that held him and blindly stomped the other scaly, grasping hands. A guttural roar sounded, and the grip on his leg loosened. Scovell lunged away, scrambling like a twister. He ran, full tilt, with no sense of direction. Each time a narrower tunnel appeared, he took it, hoping to block off the pursuing animals. The cacophony of clomps, scuffles, and breathy roars diminished, but didn’t go away. He knew they would chase him until he dropped.

He crashed into a rotted door. It didn’t seem possible that it could be his door. He hadn’t passed the captive human, and in the scattershot illumination of his failing flashlight, nothing looked familiar. He’d seen none of his markings, but perhaps the fiends had wiped them out! He heard them clattering somewhere behind him, but they didn’t appear. He grasped at the door but could find no handle or knob. He pummeled it with his fists, but that just left bloody prints. He then lowered his shoulder and lunged forward, splitting the wood in places.

*~*~*

Felton had the police break in the front door of Scovell’s house. They found the painter’s dead body collapsed in front of a canvas, his un-dipped brush grasped in his hand. The canvas was splattered in red, as if someone had taken a can of paint and tossed it. Examination revealed the red to be blood, most likely from a hole in the painter’s chest. It was theorized that the victim’s heart had exploded. Still, some viewers of the painting searched for significance in its design, one noting it was anything you didn’t want it to be.

End.

*~*~*

The Last Case of Dr. Jonah Wexley Abbott

By Erik McHatton

Steadily dripping onto the front porch of White Manor, Dr. Jonah Wexley Abbott was strongly regretting many life choices. Squinting impatiently into the soaked darkness past the porch’s railing, he attempted to scan the length of the house, searching for movement within. Finding he could see nothing past the pustulant glob of gaslight cast by the lantern overhead, Jonah rubbed his temples and let out a frustrated sigh. He had a head full of cotton and his throat was still soaked with the sour tang of old mash and while the October rain had done much to sober him, he could still feel the velvet pull of the whiskey behind his eyes. Shaking his head in an effort to beat back unconsciousness, he quietly recited a familiar affirmation of future clean living and lifted his hand to knock again on the large front door.

Normally not considered an ungodly hour by most devout drinkers, this particular three-in-the-morning had found Jonah snoring away the effects of an early afternoon bout with the bottle. As always, Jonah had thrown the fight early and collapsed in a dingy heap on his office sofa hoping not to be disturbed until tomorrow. When tomorrow came, however, heralded by the splitting sound of his ringing phone, he was completely unprepared for its arrival. As if ashamed of its intrusiveness, tomorrow had brought with it several presents for him to open, and if his throbbing head, soggy clothes and tired eyes were examples of its generosity, Jonah doubted he would enjoy any further unwrapping. He’d often found that tomorrows gave lousy gifts.

Shifting back and forth in his wet loafers he took some pleasure in the disgusting sound they made, like churning squashed bugs. Smiling in spite of himself, Jonah decided to focus on just what he was going to say to Gretchen when he saw her. Her audacity had been a problem before, but this latest stunt was unheard of. Having not received word in nearly half a year, Jonah had expected that when the occasion finally did come it would have at least been at a more reasonable time of day.

Before once again working himself up, however, he resolved to err on the side of professionalism and remain calm in the face of his grievances. After all, it was possible this early morning summons amounted to an actual emergency, and if it was of the type that required his expertise then he would assuredly need a cool head, no matter how much it was pounding. He did allow himself one final buffet on the door to vent any lingering hostility.

As if recoiling from his blows, the door flew open and a rush of torrid air hit Jonah squarely in the face. Inside, the foyer was distorted, like a reflection on the surface of a soap bubble. The wavy heat watered Jonah’s eyes instantly causing him to flinch, and blink furiously. Once his senses acclimated, he was met by the stark form of White Manor’s butler, Wilfred Holmes. Tall and lithe, Holmes was a serious man that reminded Jonah of a mortician or possibly a fallen priest. Now, however, his sallow, sagging skin and sunken eyes gave him more the look of a grizzled old dog.

“Good evening Dr. Abbott. I apologize again for the dreadful conditions and, of course, for your wait at the door,” said Holmes, beckoning Jonah inside. “Come in, and please allow me to take your wet garments. I’ll see to them and fetch you something warm and dry from the late Mr. White’s bureau. I believe he was about your size.”

The thought of wearing a dead man’s clothes gave Jonah slight pause, but he was too tired and miserable to argue the point and forcefully sloughed off his sodden outer layer with a grunt. Favoring Holmes with a half-hearted “thank you,” he watched the butler hurry away before adjourning to the adjacent den.

Plopping down into one of the dusty, overstuffed armchairs in front of the fire, Jonah closed his eyes and leaned into the radiating heat. Flooding his nose with singed air, he gave a comfortable sigh. It didn’t take long for his eyelids to turn to lead as the echo of sleep’s delicate dirge began reverberating in the back of his mind. Snapping his eyes open he searched the room for distraction. Above the fireplace he found it.

Striving to appear every bit the variety of New England upper crust expected of his family, Alastor White had been a collector of high society’s most obvious and clichéd relics. Never feeling like he had the respect of his peers he opted instead to let the comforts of wealth abide his ego. The den was littered with evidence of his monetary vanity but nothing captured the repulsiveness of his ostentation more than the painting that crested the mantel.

Most likely originating from the estate of some long forgotten European lord, the piece was ill-sized for the small space in which it had been placed. Gangling past the edges of the mantelpiece, the monstrosity seemed to hover over the room like a floating portal into a bizarre dreamscape.

Traditionally a more benign scene, this tableau of men and dogs hunting had always filled Jonah with dread. The men and their charges loomed like spectres across a dark hill in the background, their eyes flashing like drawn steel, while the foreground was littered with terrified foxes tearing through the rushes. The sheer panic captured in the creatures’ faces never failed to catch Jonah’s breath in his throat. It was the wild-eyed look of the damned.

Utterly engrossed, he nearly leapt from his seat when Holmes’ baritone sounded out, breaking his ensorcellment.

“Here you are, Dr. Abbott,” said Holmes handing him a plush robe and slippers, “I’ve brought fresh coffee as well.”

Gracing the butler with a wan smile Jonah slipped into the dry clothes and dutifully took the proffered cup and saucer. He waited for Holmes to sit down in the chair opposite before speaking.

“As much as I appreciate the hospitality, Holmes, I’d really like to know why I’m here, if you don’t mind,” said Jonah, sitting back down and taking a long pull of the rich coffee.

Easing himself onto the edge of his chair and leaning forward, Holmes fixed Jonah with a grave look.

“I can’t really say sir. After your students left, she instructed me to…”

“Wait,” Jonah interrupted. “My students were here? Tonight?”

“Yes sir,” replied Holmes, his frown deepening. “I take it you didn’t know.”

“No, I didn’t, but go on,” snorted Jonah.

“As I was saying, she waited until they took their leave and then asked that I call you. I was to tell you only that the business was both urgent and work related and nothing more. Not even that…” Holmes trailed off and his face became uncharacteristically distressed, turning a light shade of crimson.

“Not even what, Holmes?” said Jonah, straightening in his chair, his displeasure dissolving into curious anxiety. He’d known Holmes for over a decade and had never seen his stern decorum shaken so thoroughly. Even when he’d sat in on meetings between Jonah and Gretchen that had devolved to screaming matches, or worse still, the ones that didn’t. Even at those meetings, they spoke plainly of things others might only voice through whisper or not even mention at all. The man’s resolve had never wavered, yet now he seemed jolted to his core. It was enough to make Jonah shiver, despite the thick robe.

“Not even...that she is dying, Dr. Abbott. Not even that terrible fact,” blurted Holmes, reaching into his breast pocket for a handkerchief.

“Dying?” said Jonah, mystified. “Of what?”

“Cancer, I’m afraid. She was first diagnosed about six months ago. It was shortly after that your students began coming to the house. I had assumed that you knew about her health and had sent them to assist her, that your lengthy absence was due to your search for a mystical cure of some kind. I didn’t know until this evening that the widow had not informed you of her ailment. She didn’t tell me. She said you didn’t need to know before now. That you would only have ‘gotten in the way,’ whatever that means,” said Holmes, dabbing his eyes.

“What has she been up to, I wonder,” thought Jonah aloud, before standing and clapping the butler on the back. “Why don’t we just go ask her ourselves? Shall we?”

Standing as well, Holmes replaced the handkerchief, cleared his throat and straightened his waistcoat.

“Of course, sir. If you’re ready, sir.”

“Lead the way,” said Jonah, waving his hand dramatically toward the doorway.

Following Holmes through the foyer and up the stairs, Jonah couldn’t help but notice the state of disrepair the house had come under. Having crowned Whitecroft Hill since the time of the nation’s independence, the house was certainly old, but had always been well maintained. Being one of the first American dynasties to wrest great wealth from the untamed woodlands of the north, the White family had always made sure to keep their grand estate in top form. They saw themselves as Massachusetts royalty and anything short of stately simply would not do for their manor.

Royalty, however, requires a bloodline and this was something that Alastor and Gretchen found tragically unattainable. Being too proud to adopt, no heir existed to see to things and with Alastor in his late eighties at the time of his death, and Gretchen being nearly there herself, the upkeep of the estate had long ago fallen on Holmes and the rest of the help.

When most of the money dried up due to a combination of Alastor’s bad investments and Gretchen’s obsession with supernatural research, the help dried up as well. Wilfred, even at a solid sixty-five, proved no match for the many daunting needs of the palatial beast.

He’d tried his best, at first, but eventually Holmes gave up the ghost and began focusing on making Gretchen as comfortable as he could in a small section of the house. The rest he surrendered to dilapidation. Jonah almost felt sorry for the willowy old hound before remembering that upon Gretchen’s death the estate was to be liquidated with everything split evenly between Holmes and an endowment for the university. Even in its current state the house and the land it sat upon would be worth millions and would provide Holmes with more than enough reward for his dogged dedication.

Reaching the third floor, Jonah stared down the long hallway at the two enormous doors that led to the widow’s chambers. As he moved toward them, his stomach tightened. His head swam and he imagined the doors as a giant maw, waiting to swallow anyone foolhardy enough to approach them. A faint feeling of doom washed over him and being mixed with considerable weariness, caused him to lean heavily on the oak wainscoting just outside the bedroom.

“Are you all right, Dr. Abbott?” inquired Holmes, reaching out to him.

Swatting the butler’s hand away wordlessly, Jonah took a moment to collect his frayed wits. He took a deep breath and steadied himself then turned to face the old man.

“Sorry. I just got a little overwhelmed. I’m all right now,” he said, turning back to face the doors.

“Of course,” said Holmes as he opened them, giving Jonah his first look at the dying Widow White.

She looked old. Not the type of old one earns at the end of a long and fruitful life, but old like rusted metal, blighted by rot. Her wasted arms, folded across her stomach with funereal grace, were sporadically stained by deep purple bruises. Propped up by two plush pillows, her shriveled head nestled in a shock of white straw hair. Under dark lids, her closed eyes floated in pools of shadow; fleshy orbs twitching at pained dreaming. Thin lips rattled her equally thin chest with struggled wheezes, filling the aseptic air with desperate gasps. It was almost more than Jonah could take.

Standing dumbstruck in the doorway, it took him several moments to find the legs beneath him. Upon finding them he attempted to move as quietly as possible to the bedside while dragging a chair over from the nearby vanity.

Sitting down, he leaned forward and stared at the widow for several moments, attempting to attune himself to this new reality. Absentmindedly, he began stroking his mustache, a nervous habit he’d picked up in college stressing over exams.

“I know you’re sitting there stroking your whiskers at me. I could smell the liquor on your breath before you got to the top of the stairs,” said the widow, startling Jonah upright and sending his hand quickly away from his face.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” said Jonah, turning away as Gretchen opened her eyes and tried to sit up in the bed. Holmes rushed to her side but she smacked him away.

“Nonsense. I brought you here to talk about something important. I’d imagine I’d have to be awake for such a conversation, wouldn’t you, Professor?” sneered the widow, condescension dripping from the corners of her mouth. Bristling, Jonah was reminded of who he was dealing with, illness or not. He proceeded accordingly.

“Okay then Gretchen. What am I here to talk about?”

“That’s the spirit my boy! Now that we have that out of the way, a question, have you ever heard the name Augustus Rayburn?” The widow’s milky eyes gleamed.

“As a matter of fact, yes I have. An acquaintance of mine mentioned this case to me a few months back, thought I might be interested in looking into it. Rayburn was a ship’s captain, brought back by his crew from an arctic voyage raving like a lunatic. They swore he’d made some kind of pact with a demon or some such nonsense after their ship had become lodged in ice. Claimed it had given him the knowledge to free the ship but had also driven him insane. That sound about right?” said Jonah, sitting back and steepling his fingers arrogantly.

“Was that acquaintance Hunter Foley?”

“Yes... You haven’t been dealing with that charlatan have you? I turned him away for a reason. He’s a useless toad who does reckless, slipshod research and you should know better than to—” Jonah exclaimed, his face turning pink. The widow interrupted.

“Calm down, you blowhard. I sought him out myself, not the other way ‘round. I was the one who told him about Rayburn in the first place. If he’d brought the story to you, I suspect he was merely trying to get you to do his work for him. I stumbled upon Rayburn’s journal in one of the curiosity auctions I take part in. I only hired Hunter to authenticate it. What he found in the process is what I brought you here to discuss.”

Jonah calmed himself, duly rebuked and intrigued. “What did he find, then?”

“Rayburn,” said the widow, smiling. “Alive!”

“Ridiculous. Rayburn’s been dead for over a century. I checked into it. He died in the fire that burned down the old nut house in Kingsport where his family lived.”

“Wrong. Rayburn was reported dead following the fire, but his body was never recovered. His family buried an empty coffin. I instructed Hunter to look to other asylums in the area, thinking that he might have wandered away during the confusion and gotten picked up by another hospital. I was only looking for records since none survived in Kingsport. At the state hospital in Danvers, however, we found more than I ever could have hoped for.

“A janitor who overheard the Danvers director give Hunter the run-around pulled him aside as he was leaving the hospital. After considerable compensation he told him about a patient that was kept in isolation that none of the staff would talk about. The rumor was that the patient had been in the hospital for decades with no family, not even a name. With a few well-placed phone calls to some of the hospital’s most generous donors and several severe promises of discretion, I was able to get Hunter access.

“He took photos and made copies of the hospital’s records. Suffice it to say, based on the evidence, we both believe that the madman he spoke to that day is indeed Augustus Rayburn, former captain of the Mary Margaret,” said the widow, reaching under her nightstand and dragging out a cardboard box. “And this should be all the proof you need.”

Picking up the box, Jonah carefully removed the lid and looked inside. There was the journal, photos both new and seemingly ancient, and a stack of administrative folders full of yellowed, typewritten pages. Jonah laid it all out on the bed in front of him.

He started with the pictures. The oldest of them, dated some hundred years prior, was a studio style portrait depicting a gruff, but dapper man alongside a young, ethereal woman in white. A wedding photo to be sure. Written on the back in rough strokes were the names “A. Rayburn” and “J. Rayburn.” Second oldest was an intake photo from Danvers. Rayburn’s face was slack, held still by a coarse hand erupting from hospital whites. He bore an unsettling, glassy stare that appeared fixated upon something well past the camera. Neither of these struck him as particularly remarkable, but the most recent photos, taken only weeks ago, raised every hair on the back of Jonah’s neck. It showed a man lying in repose inside a filthy padded room. Mired in the same grime that covered the walls, his face was difficult to decipher, but the eyes were exact. As if the intervening century did not exist, all the photos appeared to contain the same man, the same unchanged face. Remarkable.

The folders were next. The tale they told was one of greed, apathy and horror.

After being processed into the facility under the placeholder Richard Roe, Rayburn’s initial few months were uneventful. His demeanor was peaceful and his behavior, while typical for a raving lunatic, was nothing too difficult to handle. He followed instructions, was never violent and kept mostly to himself. His only vice seemed to be answering inquiries from staff and other patients in unsettling, riddlesome phrases. This all changed, however, following his first, and only, experience with a unique form of hydrotherapy.

The administrator of the procedure, a Dr. Ernst Melville, believed that exposing patients to near freezing temperatures would shock their systems into a curative state, purging them of their toxic insanity. Melville had taken a particular interest in Rayburn and became convinced that curing him was the key to validating his experimental treatment.

Wearing rubber diving suits lined with seal fat (of the doctor’s own design), Melville and two nurses transported Rayburn to a remote bank of the Ipswich River at the peak of winter, and carried the near nude man into the icy runnel, dunking him under. His reaction to this was both swift and savage. Bellowing incoherently, Rayburn burst from beneath the water, clawing and biting at the nurses that held him, and when they let go in surprise, he turned his attention to the doctor. Melville lost an eye and most of his right hand before they could subdue the madman. A clean bite and prompt spit into the frozen froth were all that saved the physician’s fingers.

Following this event Rayburn was confined to a solitary room and labeled a “malcontent.” He now ravened habitually, throwing himself against the walls of his cell day and night, repeating words and phrases that belonged to no known language. He attempted to attack anyone that interacted with him and during one particularly violent exchange, fell awkwardly on his head and wrenched his neck grotesquely to one side. Hence, the discovery of his apparent immortality.

What followed was year upon year of ruthless experimentation done under abiding secrecy. At that time, as a ward of the state, Rayburn was at the mercy of his attendant professional and Melville maintained a ghoulish grip upon him. Over the next two decades he was subjected to the terrible depths of the doctor’s ever more depraved imaginings. Flayings, breakings, burnings, starvation, dehydration; in the name of science Melville twisted and tortured the former captain ceaselessly and recorded it all in chillingly clinical language. Rayburn survived everything.

Eventually this period of inhumanity ended, abruptly. An internal report alluded to an unfortunate incident during one of Rayburn’s “intensive therapy sessions” with Dr. Melville. While no details were given as to the nature of this event, Rayburn was recategorized as “unstable” and moved to a remote wing of the hospital. At the recommendation of staff members, he was placed under constant restraint and only sparsely monitored. His records were sealed and classified as “Administration Only.”

Hunter had affixed to the report a photocopy of an obituary whose headline read “Local Physician Laid to Rest.” A picture with the caption “Dr. E. Melville” was accompanied by a short, boilerplate article. The funeral was family only and closed casket.

Then, there was nearly nothing. Since it was known that Rayburn needed neither food nor drink, none was provided. Since he took no sustenance, he produced no waste so there was no need for him or his cell to be cleaned. From then on, his presence in the facility was only mentioned in the yearly audit where, for the purposes of state funding, he was counted, though few of the appropriated funds ever made their way into his care. He was left alone for the better part of a century in a padded tomb, a living monument to man’s capacity for cruel indifference.

Disgusted, Jonah thrust the last folder into the box with a grunt and reached for the journal. An ornate compass had been burned into the cracked cover and the book was wrapped with a brittle, leather thong that held it loosely together. An ornamental anchor hung from the end of the binding, pendulous and vaguely foreboding. Delicately unwrapping the thing, Jonah was assailed by the acrid, musty scent of red rot. The rifled pages spewed the smell directly into his face and he sneezed loudly, much to Holmes’ chagrin. The butler favored him with a grimace and terse movement of the head toward the widow, Jonah shrugged in response before bringing his attention back to the dusty tome.

Inside the front cover, in faded ink, was the inscription “From Josephine” accompanied by a simple, delicate drawing of a flower. Jonah lingered on the words for a moment, running his thumb across them slowly before moving on.

The journal was nearly illegible. Age, improper care, and poor penmanship had conspired to ensure the record held onto its secrets. Luckily for Jonah, he’d spent a postgraduate year cataloging the antiquarian texts of Professor Karl Unkirch, whose poor pencraft was legendary, therefore an ancient seafarer’s chicken scratch would prove no challenge at all.

The book was primarily made up of entries from Rayburn’s last journey, a foray into the frozen waters of the Northwest Passage, near Baffin Island. It was here that his ship was swallowed by the greedy ice that ruled the region. He and his men, hearty sea-dogs to the last, tried valiantly for over a week to free the craft, but freezing gales abutted the pack ice to create an insurmountable hyperborean blockade. When food supplies ran low and morale followed close behind, Rayburn became desperate. The ghosts of both the Erebus and the Terror haunted his dreams. The dread of joining with those ill-fated warships pushed him near to mania.

Serendipitously, at this critical time, the group was visited by a small delegation from an inuit tribe who hailed from a nearby island. Speaking remarkably good English, they seemed eager to please and traded fairly with the men, so when they offered to help with their plight, Rayburn readily accepted. They claimed the ability to grant him the knowledge necessary to free his ship, but at great cost. When he assured them he would pay any price in exchange for the lives of his crew, the tribesmen agreed to take him, and him alone, to their village, insisting that the secrets they would reveal were for his eyes alone. Leaving his first mate in charge, Rayburn took all the gold he’d received in payment for the voyage and set out with the inuit across the frozen sea.

Here, the journal was missing several pages. The torn, uneven remnants of those missing leaves were marred by dark, erratic marks left not by ink, but grease pencil, the use of which was sometimes favored by cartographers working under saturate conditions. Following this curiosity was a final log entry, left by First Mate Atticus Fields on the day before the Mary Margaret’s homecoming, wherein he describes the events following Rayburn’s return from his inuit expedition.

Wrapped in thick fur, under which he was nude, their captain was spied in the early morning, some three days after venturing forth, alone and shuffling in the algid terrain some distance from the ship. Upon retrieval, he was found clutching his journal to his chest, which now contained several hastily drawn sketches intricately delineating the manner with which the ship could be extracted from the sea’s wintry clutch. Although finely detailed, Fields noted how the alien schematics, along with their captain’s near catatonic state, inflamed the crew’s standard, but substantial superstitions. Strange symbols of arcana supplemented the pictographic instructions along with one word scrawled again and again in the empty spaces. Xoathathum. The same and singular word Rayburn repeated ad nauseum throughout their excursion back to sane civilization.

After gaining their freedom, the crew burned the sinister scrawlings. Rayburn was locked in his cabin and Atticus assumed command.

A glitter of recognition flashed annoyingly in Jonah’s mind. Xoathathum. The word scratched at a cold, fearful place inside him. He placed the journal back into the box, his face the picture of perplexation. He then reached for his mustache again before catching himself. He opted instead to run a hand awkwardly through his unkempt hair. Looking up, he found Gretchen holding another old book in her hands. A wry smile scampered across her weathered features.

“Recognized that name too, didn’t you? Well, I already took care of it. Here,” she said, thrusting the folio at him. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He was stunned. One of the few times in his life he’d been truly at a loss for words. She held in her hands the most seminal work of the warlock Ludwig Prinn. Carefully taking the volume from her, Jonah ran his hands over the shining black cover. With his finger he traced the raised, gothic filigree and bold lettering emblazoned on its skin before reverently caressing the decorative, serpentine figure surmounting it all. Shuddering, he involuntarily breathed the name of the grimoire out loud.

“De Vermis Mysteriis.” he said throatily. “Where did you get this?”

“I bought it, obviously. I’m rich, remember?” The widow chuckled, her wormy lips split by tiny, discolored teeth.

“This is the university's copy! These are Peaslee’s notes in the margins. I can’t believe they would sell it to you,” said Jonah, thumbing quickly through the book.

“Well, they didn’t exactly want to lose the endowment upon my imminent death so when I threatened to leave it to another university, they gave in. It’s valuable but, as it turns out, not quite valuable enough to throw away millions.”

“I bet,” said Jonah drolly, recovering from his shock. Closing the book, he began unconsciously cradling it like a newborn baby. “Why would you go to such great lengths to acquire this?”

“You aren’t that dimwitted doctor, even when you’ve been awakened from a drunken stupor. Xoathathum is the reason, of course. I’ve already marked the page for you.”

It then dawned on Jonah why the widow had summoned him. He threw the book onto the bed instinctively, shaking his head from side to side.

“Absolutely not, Gretchen. I will not do that. I understand what you’re going through but this is not the way!” he exclaimed, a sharp flush coloring his cheeks.

“YOU UNDERSTAND NOTHING,” cried the widow, before breaking down into a caustic fit of coughing. Holmes, his face ugly with concern, hurried over and held a clean towel under her chin to catch the red, caliginous effluvia that rolled from her mouth. After regaining her composure, she continued. “Rayburn is still alive today. You’ve seen the proof. That doctor did everything he could to break that man and he survived it all. He doesn’t age, for god’s sake! I believe that those savages somehow knew how to conjure the creature for him. I believe it showed him how to free his ship. I also believe it gave him eternity, something I need if I’m to continue on at all. Yet you would deny me life, after everything I’ve done for you? Are you that ungrateful?”

“It isn’t a matter of gratitude, Gretchen. The man might have an eternity but his mind is broken. You would trade your sanity for life? What do you gain by becoming an immortal madwoman? These things are not to be trifled with. You don’t know what you are asking,” implored Jonah, flustered but firm in his resolve.

“Yes. Yes, it broke his mind, but he was an ignoramus. A simple ship’s captain from over a century ago. Uneducated, unrefined. He and I are nothing alike,” she said, tossing her head haughtily to one side.

“Regardless, I won’t do it. I will not help you conjure your doom,” said Jonah, rising from the chair and turning to address Holmes.

Now, if you would kindly retrieve my belongings I would very much like to return to my office and find whatever sleep I can before morning. Tomorrow, I will look for a more reasonable answer to your problem. Had you consulted me sooner, I might have been of more help than the students or that snake-oil salesman. I’ll come by in the afternoon and we’ll—”

Turning back to Gretchen, Jonah’s words caught in his throat as he found himself staring down the barrel of a shining pearl handled revolver.

“Sit. Down,” said the widow sharply, thrusting the gun at him with each word. “Now!”

Jonah sat, obediently.

“I thought you might give me a problem so I had Wilfred pull this old number out of mothballs in order to “persuade” you, should you refuse. I don’t have the time or stomach to massage your ego or shout you down about this. I am standing at death’s door and now, if you don’t do exactly what I ask, so are you,” she said, waving the pistol dramatically before him.

“You’re gonna kill me?” he asked sarcastically, fear trickling down his spine.

“I’d encourage you to think very hard about what you know of me. Then, consider the situation I am in. I’m out of time. You can help me find more. You can help me find it all. I’ve spent most of my life and nearly all of my husband’s family fortune seeking the type of gift that simpleton Rayburn was given. You’ve caroused your way across half the world to try to find it for me. Do you think I would give up now because you are a coward? I told you when we started this endeavor of ours that I wouldn’t stop until I got what I wanted. Well, here it is, sitting in front of you, so pick up that book and get to work, and ask yourself one last thing before you do. How serious do you think I am about not being dead?” said the widow, vehemently.

“Fine,” said Jonah, reaching for the manual while shooting Holmes a quick, pleading look. The servant’s face was stony and grey and his baleful eyes betrayed no conflict. He clearly stood with his mistress on the issue. A thin frown paired with a clenched jaw were the only signs he held any guilt regarding his subterfuge. Jonah tried not to blame him.

The notated page was marked by a folded sheet of paper upon which was written Hunter Foley’s signature sloppy script. He had made a poor attempt to translate the ritual’s invocation from an excerpt that he had blasphemously highlighted in yellow. Jonah gritted his teeth. The man’s manners appeared as uncouth as his Latin for there were several key errors in his translation that stood out immediately. Jonah flipped the paper over and began his own transcription with a pen Holmes was quick to provide for him.

“You know this idiot didn’t go to school, right?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the task.

“Different dogs for different work. That’s what my father used to say. Hunter has a nose for the unseemly and a willingness to roll around in it. He might not be the bloodhound you are, but he is a useful little mongrel who works for scraps. I only let him do that translation to placate him. He was so eager to please, it seemed wrong not to give him a pat on the head. Trust me, I knew which dog to call tonight. I know for what you were bred.”

“Charming,” said Jonah, favoring the widow with a withering glance. She responded with only a click of the tongue and a tap of the gun’s barrel to her palm.

After finishing the transcription, he spent the next half hour preparing the room with numerous candles, pungent incense, and profane, antediluvian markings. The butler and the pistol, spurred by the widow’s barking orders, scrutinized his every move. Foley might have botched the translation of the ritual itself, but he was adept enough that Gretchen had a reasonable understanding of what was required for the preparation. She had also, apparently, had one of Jonah’s brighter students check and correct Hunter’s translated list of ingredients. He’d recognized the loopy, innocent longhand immediately.

He hated that they were involved. He had tried to keep them from his mistakes, to ensure that their curiosity remained strictly academic and never dipped into the practical. The practical was dangerous and coiling, lying in wait for fools to find it. Now they were as stricken as he, the promise of forbidden knowledge coursing through their minds. He hoped he lived through this night if only to undo that harm, to walk them back from the brink he knew so well and prevent them from taking the same plunge.

After laying the groundwork, Jonah gave his translation a final once over. Upon this reflection, something significant occurred to him. Something that could bring the entire insane enterprise to a halt. He moved slowly to the widow’s side to show her. Holmes moved to the other, anticipating.

“Okay Gretchen, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to trick you but if you look here, you’ll see that Foley mistranslated this term. This is important because he told you that a “gift” was required but what it actually says is…”

He was silenced by two thunderous reports from the gun. Staggering back, he grabbed at the sides of his head, grasping for his ringing ears. Looking across the bed to Holmes he saw the butler’s eyes roll back as his hands spasmed wildly in front of him. Sagging forward, the wretched servant’s head slopped gore out onto the coverlet before his body collapsed to the floor, all its strings cut.

“Sacrifice. You need a sacrifice. My Latin is better than Hunter’s as well,” said Gretchen coldly, pointing the pistol at him once again.

Jonah stared at the widow, blinking in disbelief before vomiting. Wiping his mouth, he moved to the end of the bed and immediately began the incantation, carefully avoiding a glance at Holmes’ ruined visage.

It was a call to summon Xoathathum, the Worm of Midnight and Keeper of the Key. Spawn of Havissik'Kri, the dreaded Serpent of Infinite Sands, Xoathathum and his progenitor were among several obscure beings worshiped by the various nomadic peoples who lent their knowledge to Prinn during his travels in Arabia. The two were considered creatures of great and powerful secrets, archivists of all the knowledge in creation. The ritual purported to summon the fiend, who, upon being shown proper supplication, would bestow the gift of its vast wisdom upon the supplicant.

For several moments the recitation, rotely repeated, bore no fruit. The widow’s displeasure was palpable though she was mindful not to disturb the recital. Slowly, the air in the room changed and the candles sputtered gravely. Jonah’s own voice dimmed in his ears as he was overcome by a rising cacophony of impossible sound. It thrummed and pressed from all sides. This phenomena emanated from the bedroom ceiling which had begun warping in on itself, forming a growing hole of profane darkness. As it widened, a frigid blast erupted from the opening sending him into a fit of involuntary shaking. Still, he pressed on. The widow was shouting something upward, a look of manic bliss splayed across her face. Jonah’s ears were filled and he could not hear a thing above the eerie din that had suffused the air around him, but he could see the joyous tears sliding down her face, pooling beneath her quivering chin. Finally, the hole reached a breadth that spanned half the ceiling. Then, all at once, the bedlam stopped. Then the beast came through.

It unfurled itself from the portal like a post pupate insect and piled into a tremendous mass to the right of the bed. Resembling a giant segmented worm several dozen feet in length, Xoathathum’s corpse white flesh was pitted with small openings that gulped for air like drowning fish. The noise was odious and sickening. It’s head was covered by two sightless, opalesque eyes that convulsed weirdly in their sockets. Maggot like tendrils dripped from beneath the creature’s open jaws and many rows of keen edged teeth filled it’s great maw seeping with a greenish ichor. It’s underbelly was translucent and lined with hundreds of spindly, arthropodal legs that twitched and kicked and pawed. Just below this diaphanous membrane thousands of smaller snaking figures swam about, slithering amongst one another furiously just inside the beast. The creature swayed in the air hypnotically and Jonah stared, dumbly silent until stirred by the crazed voice of Gretchen White.

“Oh, mighty Xoathathum, Keeper of the Key, hear my plea,” she screeched, beseeching the monster with outstretched hands, palms up in rogation. “Grant me the boon of your everlasting wisdom so that I may see the world through thine eyes, for all the years to come.”
She then pointed at the corpse of her faithful former servant.

“I offer this sacrifice as payment, a pittance offered in humility,” she said, finishing her mottled version of the ritual’s final plea, making sure Jonah didn’t steal her treasure. Crafty old girl. Then, head bowed properly, she waited.

As crafty as she may have been, however, her Latin wasn’t nearly as refined as she’d thought. Jonah grimaced as the beast’s protuberate head slunk across the body of poor, unfortunate Holmes. It examined its gift closely. The slight sound of a thousand buggy leg parts scratching at the butler’s remains gave Jonah a jellied feeling all over. A sharp, reedy howl rumbled out of each of its thousand tiny mouths as it pulled quickly up and away from the body, pupal whiskers buzzing. Unfortunately for her, Gretchen’s gift was as bad as any tomorrow had ever given. Jonah knew that if there was one thing to know about this line of work it was this: Nothing can get you killed easier than arrogance coupled with inartful Latin. That, and offering a corpse to a god when live payment is due.

In less than a blink it was on her, biting, grinding and swallowing. Burbled screams poured out and over its lower jaw along with gobs of bloody, ichorous sludge. Even after the screams died out, the sound of crunching and bubbling persisted. Jonah watched as the widow’s gnarled feet twitched reflexively hanging from the monster’s mouth. He stupidly thought of a duckling kicking furiously below the surface of a pond. A ghastly slurping sound rounded out the gruesome spectacle as the creature gave a final gulp and turned its attention to the good doctor.

Unable to move, Jonah watched as the thing squirmed across the floor with ropey spasms, closing the distance between them quickly. Rising up, its innumerable breathy apertures hummed an otherworldly tune. Beneath the surface of its gauzy belly the nematodes were vibrating. They passed bright, colorful electrical pulses between them and a rainbow of carnival lights sparkled his eyes. The worm’s chitinous appendages swam in concert with one another, swooping up and down like the paws of a begging terrier. Its tail became distended and grew into a swollen bulb before the internal mass moved swiftly through the length of the beast, shimmering the prismatic grubs as it passed, shooting toward the toothy end. Heaving, the creature regurgitated, covering Jonah with gory slime speckled with the remnants of his late employer. Clawing at his nose and mouth in an effort to breathe, he spat bits of bone and hair and bloody ooze onto the carpet. He could feel the substance soaking into his pores as his body alternated between sizzling and freezing. Trembling, he watched as Xoathathum appeared to give him one final consideration before burrowing back into the hole from whence it came, which closed behind it with a deafening thunderclap.

Falling to his knees, Jonah reached for the upended box on the floor beside the bed. He searched for and found the pen he used for his earlier transcribing and attempted to scratch out as much as he could before the looming madness now growing in his mind consumed him. He could feel everything crackling in his head, gorging, pressing at the walls of his skull. He blinked against hallucinations begat by his senses being opened to the infinite. Believing himself creating a hasty account of his fated evening, he fluttered his eyes once more in the face of his mounting hysteria and looked upon the pages between his white knuckles to see only thick depictions of it drawn in the manner of cavemen. These demented doodlings were surrounded by hoary, alien designs with the name of the god worm lain repeatedly between them. Jonah flopped over onto the floor and cackled as he was pulled under and submitted to the thrall.

His mind etherealized and he found himself awash in a sea of memories, each recalled with a clarity that made him mournful. Every familiar mistake pierced him as he traveled down thousands of previously covered roads, his newfound understanding only intensifying his remorse at all the terrible choices. He felt himself a mockery, an insignificant, crawling fruitlessly in cancerous muck. He could see the absurdity of human existence, the absolute joke his life had been. Then he moved beyond his birth and tumbled on a wave of time. Aimless and bobbing along, he eventually came to a nexus and gained purchase on vaguely familiar metaphysical ground.

An ending lay there, a precipice at the brink of a vast chasm of darkness that twinkled with an untold number of steely eyes and warbled with the voice of eternity. Standing at this precipice, looking out into that rolling forever, impossibly, was Rayburn. Jonah joined him. Brought together by interpolated destiny they each looked into the stygian depths and perceived their inescapable futures for the first time, dissimilar but the same.

They saw their bleeding hands scrawling gibberish on the walls of the madhouse rooms to which they both would be committed. They saw the forlorn look in their loved ones’ eyes as they thrashed and raved before them. They saw the barbarous experimentation they would endure, understanding that the immortal can still feel. They heard the discordant sounds of their endless keening, cries against pain and indelible psychopathy. Finally, they saw the stricken faces of the ageless prisons that would carry their broken minds for eternity. Standing momentarily entwined in inexorable fate they marveled as one at the immensity of their dooms.

Then the ground gave way beneath them and they both fell screaming into the Void.

End.

*~*~*

Erik McHatton’s passion for horror literature began in grade school and can be credited to an early fascination with the “Terrible Triples” collections of Helen Hoke. In those books, he plumped the depraved depths of Poe, Lovecraft, Dunsany, Bloch, Bradbury, and many more and was forever put under the spell of the masters. These days he describes himself as a loving father, a tolerable husband, and an adequate pet owner. This story represents his first published work.

Artist: Toeken (https://atoekeneffort.weebly.com/)

A Guide to Vanishing

By Andrew Giffin

The phone rang, and no one was there.

“Hello?” Rich exhaled and waited for a response, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

He shrugged at the silence and hung up. The cigarette fizzled as he ground it into a cold bowl of canned soup.

He leaned back in his desk chair, examining his half-finished obituary. The cursor blinked like a tapping, impatient foot. He glanced at the time. 9:23.

He positioned his hands on the keyboard when the phone rang again, and he grabbed it after a single ring.

“Hello?” he snapped.

“Rich? It’s Hilary.”

“Hilary, hi. Sorry, I thought you were another one of those dead air calls. I’ve been getting so many.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“Ghost calls, huh? Sounds like you need to update your ‘do not call’ list.”

“Apparently...” He stared at the computer.

“You sound tired.”

“I am.”

“Well listen, I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to let you know the last five of your obituaries are being pushed ‘til the day after tomorrow. We didn’t sell enough ad space.”

“So, it’s come to that?”

“Hey, you wanna work in a thriving medium, start a blog. Or better yet, become an influencer.”

“Yeah. Well, thanks for letting me know.”

“Get some sleep, Rich. Goodnight.” She hung up.

“Yeah, goodnight.”

No longer up against a deadline, he considered revising his thesis. He needed to produce a new draft. Too much time spent writing obits, not enough focused on graduate school.

He found the file on his desktop. “Horror Vacui: The Fear of Emptiness at the Intersection of Art, Literature, and Philosophy.”

He opened the document and read where he left off:

But when David Chalmers writes of a philosophical zombie, he isn’t referring to ghouls in the George Romero, Night of the Living Dead sense.Instead, it is someone with the outward appearance of a normal person. They can go to work, to school, to church or out to a restaurant, they can have a conversation, laugh at your jokes, even tell their own. If you poke them with a pin they react with pain.

Only, they aren’t a normal person. On the inside, they are nothing. No thoughts, no feelings, no memories, no subjective experience. No qualia. The only difference between them and a chair or a rug is the fact they look and act like a person.

Which one is a philosophical zombie? I can’t help but think this every time I enter a crowded room. There is no way to know, and that is the point. I only know that I am not one. I think, therefore I am.

His eyes drooped with exhaustion as he read. He reached up to turn his monitor off.

The phone rang again as he undressed, he brought the handset to his ear.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He slammed the phone down and crawled into bed. Reaching up, he turned out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

He drifted off to sleep after only a moment.

*~*~*

Every human has a blind spot in their eye. Draw a dot on a wall, then hold your arm out, pointer finger upright so the dot is blocked. Slowly move your hand to the edge of your vision. Keep your eyes trained on the dot and use your peripheral vision to track your fingers.

There exists a point where, against all evidence otherwise, your finger vanishes into thin air. This is the blind spot. Your brain fills in the details with what it thinks should be there based on your surroundings.

If left with nothing else, you wouldn’t be able to trust your senses. The link between the outside world and your mind is capable of lying. This should send a shiver down your spine.

Descartes says we have no way to prove we aren’t just a brain in a jar, asleep in a darkened room dreaming this reality to keep from becoming bored. Or insane.

The blind spot takes on greater significance in a work of horror vacui. Filling the canvas necessitates subscribing to the idea of objective truth. If you can’t trust your own senses, how could you know the truth? How could anyone? Are you a brain in a jar, trapped in its own simulacrum of mundane reality?

He saved this latest addition to his thesis and left the library to walk home. The day was overcast, and the wind hinted at a storm.

He thought of Hilary’s call from the previous night. Pushing obituaries back because they couldn’t sell enough ad space made him wonder if a future existed for him as a print journalist.

He reached his block, the familiar row of houses connected by shared walls. His was the last one, sitting on the corner.

The only house on the opposite block stood across from his own. It had been empty for a long time, empty before he moved in.

All the windows were boarded up, except for one in the center of the second floor. It stayed open like a dark, unblinking eye. He could see it from his bedroom window, searching for him. His blinds were usually closed. Walking past made him uncomfortable. He felt exposed, vulnerable.

He approached his house and heard a meow behind him. Turning, he saw nothing. The meow came again, unmistakably his own cat.

“Simon?” His grey tabby lay by the front door of the vacant house, its eyes fixed on him. The door was also left unboarded, the porch drooping like the limbs of a weeping willow.

“Simon, come down from there.”

The cat regarded him before putting his head back on his paws and meowing again, quieter this time.

Rich clicked his tongue against his front teeth, and Simon stretched before trotting over.

He bent and lifted the cat with one arm. “What are you doing? You don’t live there.”

Simon purred.

Rich’s eyes were drawn to the darkened window. He stared inside, expecting something to rush past, or to slam against the glass, or some other horror movie cliche. He almost dared it to happen, if only to justify his fear.

Nothing happened though. He turned and hurried into his own house, locking the door behind him.

The phone rang twice before he went to bed. There was no one on the line.

*~*~*

In his dream, he wandered a vast darkened labyrinth with cool stone walls. He shuffled forward, waiting for his eyes to adjust. They never did.

Footsteps echoed somewhere ahead of him, running around a corner.

“Hilary?” His voice was a desperate whisper. He listened as the footsteps disappeared into silence.

His alarm startled him awake. He hit the top of his clock and fell back into bed, breathing heavily. Sunlight creeped through the cracks of the closed blinds.

He raised a hand to wipe his sweat, blinking away after-images of his dream.

“Christ.” He sat up, trying to force the dream from his mind. After a few breaths, he stood to dress. As he pulled on his shirt, the phone rang.

He froze, as if it would stop the ringing. It didn’t. He reached for the handset but let his hand hover. He thought about the silence on the other end, about echoes in the dark. The phone continued to ring as he stepped out into the morning air, ready for class. The sound followed him all the way down the block.

*~*~*

The small building housing the newspaper offices was quiet as he turned in his obituaries. He sat at Hilary’s empty desk, glancing around the room.

The door to the conference room was closed. All the desks were abandoned, monitors still glowing. Curious, he turned to Hilary’s computer.

At the top of her inbox was an email from the owner of the paper, marked ‘urgent’. He read the subject line. “Emergency meeting for all senior staff to discuss future financing for...”

It cut off, but Rich understood. He was an obituary writer for a local newspaper in a time when print journalism was being devoured by the internet. The silent glow of computer screens watched him leave, and he tried to shake the feeling that the gaze of the empty house had followed him here.

*~*~*

His room was dark when the phone rang. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at his clock. 3:23. His arm navigated his cluttered desk as he reached out to grab the phone.

“Hello?” he croaked. No one answered. He let out a groan.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Is anyone listening, you asshole? This has got to stop. Stop calling me.”

Silence on the other end.

“Fine. Whatever. You win. I’m going to leave it off the hook. Enjoy your phone bill.” He put the handset down on his desk and turned towards the wall.

In his mind he pictured the phone, still connected to the other end, and tried not to think about what might be listening. The handset sat on his desk, emanating silence like radiation.

He imagined tentacles of darkness snaking out of the receiver, crawling across the desk until they entered his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth.

He sat up and regarded the phone. It was an invasive presence, like a face in the window. He lifted the receiver to his ear and listened.

From the other side came the total absence of sound. There was depth in that silence. Fathoms. It stretched on and on, cavernous.

“You can lose yourself in it,” he said, and his own voice startled him.

He didn’t move the phone. It stayed pressed to his ear, silence pouring out like a fog, thick and viscous. What lurked on the other side of that quiet?

He closed his eyes and saw brief flashes of ruined halls, crumbling pillars, remnants of statues with all distinguishing features so eroded by time it was impossible to tell if they had even been human. These images appeared for an instant before he opened his eyes again.

Sunlight streamed in through his windows. Simon pounded against the glass, letting out high-pitched yowls.

The phone fell from his hand and he grasped for the clock. Fear gripped him as he checked the time. 8:47.

He opened the window in a daze. The cat pushed himself in and curled into his lap, purring.

Rich moved his hand absently down the length of the cat’s body. He had closed his eyes for a second, little more than a blink, and hours had passed.

“I must have fallen asleep.”

Simon looked up at him with narrowed eyes.

He stood and the cat jumped down with an indignant huff. The receiver lay on the floor by his feet where he’d dropped it. He wanted to jump back, like it was dangerous. Instead, he reached down and brought it to his ear again.

He heard only the steady drone of the dial tone. He hung the phone up and left to feed Simon.

*~*~*

He worked on his thesis at the library until midnight before walking home. He passed a small cluster of people. They moved in the opposite direction, talking and laughing. He wondered which among them was the philosophical zombie.

Arriving at his block, he stopped at his front porch to observe the vacant house. The boards on the windows were like bandages on a wound, trying to keep the emptiness from bleeding out. They had forgotten one, in the center of the top floor. No boards, and so the darkness spilled out into the world.

Probably what killed it. Couldn’t stop the bleeding.

Inside, he poured food into Simon’s bowl and fixed himself a cold plate of leftover spaghetti. After dinner, he put his dishes in the sink, turning the lights off behind him until he stood in total darkness.

He realized he forgot to leave a light on upstairs and would have to walk up in the dark to reach his bedroom.

Whenever he climbed the stairs in darkness, he felt a residual fear from the ancient, lizard part of his brain.

He had an irrational certainty that a hand would reach up behind him, grab his ankle and pull him back down. He wanted to turn and confirm nothing snuck after him. He wanted to run. Instead he focused on his steady steps upwards.

He stopped at the closed door of his bedroom with his back to the empty, dark stairwell and rested his hand on the doorknob. Instead of turning it, he shut his eyes. The level of darkness remained the same. He slowed his breathing and listened.

The house was quiet. He tried to imagine the silence from the empty calls.

If all the empty space in every human body was removed, we would all fit inside a thimble.

He twisted the doorknob hard, stumbling into the room. Slamming the door, he grasped for the light switch before anything would have the chance to grab his ankle.

*~*~*

No calls for almost a week. Their absence put him on edge. He worried the silence from the phone had somehow infected his home.

He finished another copy of his thesis and turned in more obituaries to Hilary. Some of the desks in the newspaper offices had been cleared out.

It was dark outside when the calls returned. He rose from a dreamless sleep, lifting the receiver to his ear. The familiar silence, a vast ocean of nothingness. He didn’t bother to say hello. Instead, he closed his eyes to return to sleep.

A meow came from the other end of the phone.

His eyes snapped open, and he threw the receiver like it had glowed with intense heat, staring in horror as it fell to the floor.

The meow came again. He turned to see Simon sitting outside his window, waiting to be let in.

He laughed at his foolishness in thinking the meow had come from the other end of the phone. Get a grip, Rich.

When he moved forward to let Simon in, the cat turned away. He walked towards the edge of the small awning beneath his bedroom window and stopped to meow again.

Rich reached through the open window, but Simon jumped out of sight. His cat reappeared on the sidewalk, walking across the street towards the empty house.

Rich watched this for a moment before deciding to follow. He pulled on a pair of jeans in the darkness and descended the stairs, stepping through the front door to the outside world.

His bare feet were cold against the asphalt as he crossed the street. The early April air still held a chill.

He approached the front porch of the empty house. “Simon!” he said as loud as he dared, his hushed urgency spilling between his lips like water from a burst pipe. His eyes searched the porch. He didn’t see his cat.

“Simon!” He spoke louder. No response. His arms were crossed against his chest to protect from the breeze invading his thin nightshirt.

He leaned forward over the steps of the porch, expecting to find Simon's tail swishing the air with a lazy playfulness between the rotted posts holding up the railing. There was nothing but the crumbling porch.

A small meow floated towards him, and he realized the front door of the house was open. Only a crack, but darkness reached out from the opening, obscuring the air around it.

He shuddered. The meow came again, from inside the house. His knees weakened, and he debated leaving his cat and going back to bed.

If he’s in the house, it’s probably not his first time, right?

The door had never been open before, though. That goddamn cat. After a few deep breaths he put his foot on the first step.

He considered going back for shoes, but knew if he did, he wouldn’t return. Instead, he climbed the second and third steps. The porch creaked and groaned under his weight.

Simon meowed again, from deeper in the house. He walked to the door, pushing it inwards. Instead of the rusty creak he anticipated, the house seemed to sigh as the door opened.

He peered inside, but darkness blanketed everything like a snowfall. He held his breath and entered.

He half expected the door to slam shut behind him, but it remained open, daring him to leave. He pushed the doorknob and closed it.

He walked over to a boarded window, the wooden floor rough beneath his feet. He peeked through the crack between boards to the sidewalk. So many times he’d imagined someone doing this to him as he passed outside the house. Now he was on this side and could barely see the street.

The windows were foggy with age and grime. Light from the streetlamp sliced between the boards. He turned and faced the room.It was completely empty. Against the far-right wall, a stairwell led to the second level. He crossed the room and stepped through a doorway in the back, into a short hall.

To his left was a room that seemed to have been a bathroom, but it lacked a sink, toilet and mirror. Only empty spaces, holes into nothingness, faded outlines on the walls.

He went into the kitchen and saw the same. No oven or stove, no sink. Only dust and darkness. A door led to the backyard, but it was boarded up.

He went back to the front room and climbed the steps. Two bedrooms, both empty. Another stripped bathroom with outlines for the toilet, tub and sink. The whole house was like these faded outlines. Darkness wrapped in the shape of a house, hiding empty spaces.

In the hall between the two bedrooms stood the unboarded window facing the street. He walked to it slowly, as he had imagined unseen residents doing when he passed outside. A distorted square of light poured in from the streetlamp, and he stopped short instead of crossing it.

He thought about his obituaries, how they made people become that bright square of floor, an unseen spotlight shining down on them. Then the light went out, revealing the emptiness that had been there all along, darkness rushing to fill the space. He had written so many in the past eight months, they all blurred together in his mind.

Remembering Simon, he went back downstairs. He wanted to call out to his cat, but found he couldn’t bring himself to break the silence of the house. The quiet had taken the edge off his fear.

He retraced his steps into the kitchen, his eyes scanning the floor for Simon. Examining the kitchen, he noticed a door he hadn’t seen before.

He opened it, and the smell of must drifted up from the stairwell beyond. A basement. He descended, closing the door behind him.

The basement was as empty as the rest of the house. He took a few steps on the cold concrete and detected movement from the corner of his eye.

A window against the ceiling of the basement, at ground level, revealed Simon peering in at him.

His mouth opened to meow, but Rich couldn’t hear anything through the window. He walked up to it and put a finger against the glass.

Simon leaned forward to rub his nose against his finger from the other side of the window before running back towards Rich’s house. Relieved to have found his cat, he turned to go before noticing the far corner. The basement wasn’t quite empty after all. A rotary phone laid on the ground, the cord trailing away into the wall.

His breath caught in his throat. He walked over to the phone and knelt in front of it, like an altar. It was covered in a thin layer of dust.

He reached out and picked up the receiver, his hand shaking with a slight tremor. There was a dial tone.

He used the same finger Simon had rubbed his nose against to reach into the rotary, dialing his own number.

The phone rang. He swallowed. It rang again and again.

He was about to hang up when the rings cut off.

“Hello?” he heard himself say on the other end.

He hung up.

He picked up the receiver again as if in a trance. The phone rang twice before he answered.

“Hello?” His voice again in the receiver.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Is anyone listening, you asshole? This has got to stop. Stop calling me,” he heard himself say.

He closed his eyes and couldn’t tell the darkness in the basement from the darkness against his eyelids.

“Fine. Whatever. You win. I’m just going to leave the phone off the hook. Enjoy your phone bill,” his voice from the other end said.

He put the receiver on the ground and sank to the floor.

The silence on the other end. It was himself. Vast empty space in the form of a man, his atoms suspended around nothing.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them he was back in the crumbling stone labyrinth from his dreams, surrounded by darkness.

In the basement of the house, his body got up. It walked up the stairs and back to his house, where it fed Simon. It stroked a hand across the cat while he ate, smiling as Simon purred. It looked like a normal person, like Rich, but it wasn’t anymore. There was nobody home. A philosophical zombie at last.

End.

*~*~*

Andrew teaches high school English in Richmond, VA, where he lives with his wife and two daughters. He writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror.

The Balance of the World

By Kurt Newton

There will come a day
when the balance of the world will tip
in favor of the damned,
the ground will heave, the earth will split
and up will rise a seething tide,
of denizens from the Underland.

But just like those
who occupy this cherished life
and work at every turn to save their soul,
a similar battle wages deep beneath, a fight
for dignity, a fight by those displaced

So there may come a day
when the balance of the world will tip
in favor of the saved,
a battle not foretold by any ancient manuscript,
where dreams ascend, redeeming men
who have simply lost their way.

*~*~*

Kurt Newton's poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies including Weird Tales, Spectral Realms and Penumbric. You can visit Kurt on Twitter at @kurtdnewton or find him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/kurt.newton.56. He also has an Amazon author page at www.amazon.com/Kurt-Newton/e/B006VYUMUM

The Chemist

By A.E. Jackson

The Mary McQuinn caused quite a stir as she approached her home port of Bristol. Through the long glass, Harbormaster William Nethercott spied the vessel as it crept up the Bristol Channel. Every head turned as the tall ship came to rest beside the crowded dock. Quiet swept over the legion of seamen, deckhands, dock workers, merchants, and women of ill repute. The shrill cry of objection, from gulls and ravens alike, cut through the fog blanketed shoreline.

Seated in the office overlooking the dock, Nethercott watched the peculiar man with suspicion. The gaunt, chalk-white skin covering his body gave the harbormaster pause. It was a wonder the man had walked from the deck of the Mary McQuinn to the office alone. He shunned every offer of assistance. He moved with a deliberate, measured pace. The peculiar behavior made Nethercott consider the scene when Christ called a man forth from the grave. But he was hard-pressed to believe this was one of those miracles. Deep down, he was worried another was to blame.

"Tell me once again how you came to Bristol, uhh..." Nethercott, distracted by the man's salt cracked skin, ended his abortive search for the man's name.

"Roderick," said the man. His head turned slow as a tall ship coming about. His bulging eyes followed, rolling from the window to the desk. The entire effect gave Nethercott a slight chill. "Morton."

"Yes, pardon me, Roderick. Mr. Morton. Sir." Nethercott was flustered, and he never got flustered. In a single day in 1743, the Bristol Harbormaster documented nearly sixty-seven square-rigged vessels, thirty-four schooners and sixteen sloops lined up at his docks. And he hadn't gotten flustered. What was it about this odd man that caused such unease?

"As I was saying, our journey from Bristol to Senegal and back has come to a natural conclusion. We have a good deal of kigelia fruit to unload, and I should like to get started."

That disquieting sensation swelled within Nethercott. He smoothed the parchment before him and took another deep breath. "I see, Mr. Morton. Do forgive my rudeness, it just befuddles my mind how a man in your condition could—" He searched for words that would neither offend his charge nor conceal his inquiry.

"Speak plainly, Sir. As the harbormaster, I understand, it is your duty to inspect and permit cargo to come ashore. Delay me no longer, I pray you. My time at sea was long and arduous enough. I should like to hasten an escape to leisure with my Madeline."

"Madeline? Is she meeting you here?" Nethercott was grateful for the reprieve to normalcy.

"The Captain's daughter, Madeline. Surely, she has disembarked by now, and has been borne away to more pleasant accommodations than we shared these past weeks."

A sinking feeling came over the harbormaster unlike any he felt in his tenure. He glanced out the rain dappled windowpane, at the ship resting still below a blanket of grey clouds. Only a moment's glimpse. Like the recoil of an archer's bow, his shoulders pulled his eyes away from that sight once again.

"For what purpose were you aboard the vessel, Mr. Morton, sir?"

"Clearly, as the Chemist," Roderick quipped. His thin, pale eyelids slid over bloated bloodshot globes. "It was my expedition into the exotics of Negroland and the Senegalese interior to resolve scientific inquiries of Her Majesty, what paid for the journey. I dare say, you've kept me from my duties long enough." His skeletal frame rose from the padded chair.

A knock at the door caused Nethercott to jump.

"Enter," croaked Nethercott. His nerve all but dissolved under the hollow gaze of Roderick Morton. "Come in, will you?"

The door opened and a dock worker approached with a leather-bound booklet. Extending a shaking arm to the harbormaster, the man nearly threw the journal as he turned to depart. His head never raised high enough to allow his eyes to take in the specter in the chair before the desk.

"What have we here?" William Nethercott regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. His large hands slowly unwound the leather thong which bound the hitherto secreted words.

1759, August 24
Saint-Louis, Senegal River

Lady Madeline Remington joins me for another excursion into the lush exotic jungles surrounding the Senegal River. We locate a healthy grove of kigelia trees. Their bright red flowers peek through the dark canopy of leaves like starbursts. I pull a fresh specimen from the tree to adorn my love's flowing hair.

Crates are filled with the thick tubular fruit. Some up to two feet in length and several inches thick. More detailed measurements and drawings are planned. Our guide warns of consuming the pulp raw. However, I witness several jungle animals taking great pleasure in the readily available supply. Baboons and monkeys, along with elephants, giraffes, and hippopotamuses.

1759, August 29
At sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

Today, we crossed the Equator once again. This time headed for jolly England.

Tonight, a small party to celebrate. Lady Remington wore a stunning pale blue dress. The sheerest fabric I have ever seen. She was like an angel. The wind caught her handkerchief and tore it from her grasp. It floated on the sea. We embraced and watched as it drifted to the darkness below.

She insists I call her Madeline. I never want to leave this ship and the presence of my love.

1759, August 29
At sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

Several of my tests conclude some properties of the fruit to be very beneficial to humans. Others are quite deadly. It seems there is a compound, which is lost during drying, which forces the body to purge itself through violent convulsions.

Until more is known, I judge the fresh fruit as poisonous. Until better tests can be performed, the fruit will be dried before it is prepared for consumption.

Captain Remington jests about the fermentation of the plant. However, wasn't it so with the Arabian's dry roasting beans found in their pastures? I will consider his jest. We have the time to experiment.

1759, September 2
West of Morocco, at sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

I insist that Captain Remington instruct his crew to handle the long, sausage-like fruit with care and caution. They are a band of ruffians, hooligans, and a rabble lot. I shouldn't think one of the men has the intelligence of a louse, but they would be in good company among them.

The crew played a game of fetching, tossing, and running the deck with my fresh samples today. Only when my sweet Madeline intervened did the horseplay subside. She commands the men with a stern voice and a rigid back. Her father's boldness courses through her veins.

1759, September 3
At sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

Storm forming several nautical miles along the port bow - a majestic and frightening display of God's immense power. I shouldn't like to encounter such a behemoth. Captain says the squall will dissipate.

1759, September 7
At sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

Several lost at sea, washed overboard like refuse as the Mary McQuinn rode out the hurricane. Young Timothy Chester, cast from the crow's nest as we bobbed, hung lifeless in the rigging until lightning rent the cord. Decking bowed and cracked sending splinters like arrows through eye, ear, and throat.

Tempest tossed, the taffrail twisted and tore loose. Men were impaled by the wind propelled projectiles. Main and mizzen masts let drop their sails to drag fistfuls of the crew out to sea. Dead. All dead.

Searching below deck my sweet Madeline lay battered and bruised among crushed crates of kigelia. What shall I do? What shall become of us?

1759, September 10
Adrift, aboard Mary McQuinn

She begs for death. She puts her soul's fate in my hands and would have me play God... Cry mercy!

1759, September 15
Adrift, aboard Mary McQuinn

A tea of dried leaves or roasted fruit seed should abate the pain. Blood comes now in her gasping cough. Her swollen battered face may contract with a poultice of crushed fruit pulp. I know what must be done.

1759, September 17
Adrift, aboard Mary McQuinn

Food stores depleted, hardtack and some dried meats remain. Beer and water barrels, of the few remaining, all but dry. Kneeling by the cabin bunk, the only prayer I repeat 'Oh merciful Father, I beseech thee, send Leviathan. Swallow this useless husk-like Jonah and carry me to thine bleeding side.'

1759, September 23
At sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

A light breeze, and cool. I woke to find the deck swept and reordered. Full inventory was taken with reports tacked to the Captain's quarters. Enough duties still to go around, what that there were hands to put to task. Old charts uncovered should aide in further navigation. I slipped them under the Captain's door.

1759, September 27
At sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

Tonight a dinner of fish. A lively crew with a sea chanty in their lungs and power in each step keeps me awake tonight. Perhaps I should venture above deck and demand respect for my sleeping hours.

1759, September 29
At sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

Crew bellowing for more leave but Captain keeps a tight rein on their rebellious nature. My Madeline insists I stay below deck, away from the commotion. We must be near England now. Each time she visits the cold air of the north lingers longer on her smooth cheeks. I do look forward to a carriage ride through the country upon our return.

1759, October 3
At sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

I ventured a stroll on the deck this eve. To my dismay, I was struck from behind. It seems a dark cadre lay in wait for me to pass and assaulted me with my own hard gathered spoils. Is nothing sacred to their eternal spirits? Be damned... I shall have off this ship, and for highlands trod.

But I am overzealous. My dearest Madeline did put an end to their hijinx and ill intent. She protects me and eases my restless journey.

1759, October 7
At sea, aboard Mary McQuinn

Madeline insists, and I relent. There is nothing I can do to assist in the final leg of our plodding course north to Bristol. I will stay below deck in my cabin until we disembark. The crew continues to become hostile to me, and even now it seems to the Lady Remington. I resign myself to toil in solitude and will rest in retreat until we touch dry land.

William Nethercott moved his eyes from the last journal entry to the date atop his ledger. October 31, 1761.

"From everything stated in your journal entries, it would appear you had a rough journey, Chemist. But not deadly?" Nethercott ventured with the last of his shallow breath. "Would you agree?"

"Aye," nodded Roderick. "I sit before thee flesh and blood."

"However," Nethercott pointed out the window. "That ship is in no condition to sail. It is a mystery that the ship survived the storm described within at all." He waved the closed journal, and let it drop to the desk. The loud thump sending an unintended jolt through his spine.

"I do not understand what you imply..." Mr. Morton began.

"Furthermore," Nethercott revealed, "there was no one else alive aboard the ship to disembark and come ashore with you. You walked alone from the deck to the door." He pointed at his thick oaken office door. "I do not know how you managed it. Floating the hull of that wrecked ship from somewhere north of Morocco to my sleepy port. That worries me little in comparison to the knowledge that you murdered a poor girl. The daughter of Captain Remington, no less. And no doubt dispatched with the entire crew in the same manner. Only to discard their blessed souls overboard without proper rights. It is abhorrent and reprehensible, sir!"

Roderick launched himself from the chair, like a soldier, called to attention. "I never! There was no such... Why I... How could you?" Nethercott watched Roderick’s skin pale as blood rushed away from the man’s weak and malnourished face. He wavered and fell back into his seat.

Nethercott moved around his large desk with slow delicate steps. He squeezed the Chemist's shoulders into his broad embrace. Helping Roderick to his feet, the two walked up to the rain pelted windowpane.

With the help of the Harbormaster, Roderick stood at the translucent portal. Slowly. Blood returned to the proper pressure and circulation. Slowly. Eyes strained to see the truth.

He looked out the window to see the Mary McQuinn, tattered and beaten, a shell of the grand ship she was once. Realization washed over him like the cold waves of that damnable hurricane.

Walking at a gentle pace across the deck, his sweet Madeline came in to view. She moved with the peaceful grace and deliberate flowing motion he so loved. Her pale body drifted behind the remnants of the main mast, like a cannonball casualty. Upon the shattered wood, a billowing blue shred of fabric, caught on a splinter, danced in the wind.

End.

*~*~*

A.E. Jackson grew up in Delaware and writes uncanny speculative fiction for your enjoyment. He and his wife, Jessica, have two children, Amelia and Leo, whom A.E. Jackson delivered.

The Squaw

By Bram Stoker

Originally Published in 1893

Nurnberg at the time was not so much exploited as it has been since then. Irving had not been playing Faust, and the very name of the old town was hardly known to the great bulk of the travelling public. My wife and I being in the second week of our honeymoon, naturally wanted someone else to join our party, so that when the cheery stranger, Elias P. Hutcheson, hailing from Isthmian City, Bleeding Gulch, Maple Tree County, Neb. turned up at the station at Frankfort, and casually remarked that he was going on to see the most all-fired old Methuselah of a town in Yurrup, and that he guessed that so much travelling alone was enough to send an intelligent, active citizen into the melancholy ward of a daft house, we took the pretty broad hint and suggested that we should join forces. We found, on comparing notes afterwards, that we had each intended to speak with some diffidence or hesitation so as not to appear too eager, such not being a good compliment to the success of our married life; but the effect was entirely marred by our both beginning to speak at the same instant—stopping simultaneously and then going on together again. Anyhow, no matter how, it was done; and Elias P. Hutcheson became one of our party. Straightway Amelia and I found the pleasant benefit; instead of quarrelling, as we had been doing, we found that the restraining influence of a third party was such that we now took every opportunity of spooning in odd corners. Amelia declares that ever since she has, as the result of that experience, advised all her friends to take a friend on the honeymoon. Well, we ‘did’ Nurnberg together, and much enjoyed the racy remarks of our Transatlantic friend, who, from his quaint speech and his wonderful stock of adventures, might have stepped out of a novel. We kept for the last object of interest in the city to be visited the Burg, and on the day appointed for the visit strolled round the outer wall of the city by the eastern side.

The Burg is seated on a rock dominating the town and an immensely deep fosse guards it on the northern side. Nurnberg has been happy in that it was never sacked; had it been it would certainly not be so spick and span perfect as it is at present. The ditch has not been used for centuries, and now its base is spread with tea-gardens and orchards, of which some of the trees are of quite respectable growth. As we wandered round the wall, dawdling in the hot July sunshine, we often paused to admire the views spread before us, and in especial the great plain covered with towns and villages and bounded with a blue line of hills, like a landscape of Claude Lorraine. From this we always turned with new delight to the city itself, with its myriad of quaint old gables and acre-wide red roofs dotted with dormer windows, tier upon tier. A little to our right rose the towers of the Burg, and nearer still, standing grim, the Torture Tower, which was, and is, perhaps, the most interesting place in the city. For centuries the tradition of the Iron Virgin of Nurnberg has been handed down as an instance of the horrors of cruelty of which man is capable; we had long looked forward to seeing it; and here at last was its home.

In one of our pauses we leaned over the wall of the moat and looked down. The garden seemed quite fifty or sixty feet below us, and the sun pouring into it with an intense, moveless heat like that of an oven. Beyond rose the grey, grim wall seemingly of endless height, and losing itself right and left in the angles of bastion and counterscarp. Trees and bushes crowned the wall, and above again towered the lofty houses on whose massive beauty Time has only set the hand of approval. The sun was hot and we were lazy; time was our own, and we lingered, leaning on the wall. Just below us was a pretty sight—a great black cat lying stretched in the sun, whilst round her gambolled prettily a tiny black kitten. The mother would wave her tail for the kitten to play with, or would raise her feet and push away the little one as an encouragement to further play. They were just at the foot of the wall, and Elias P. Hutcheson, in order to help the play, stooped and took from the walk a moderate sized pebble.

‘See!’ he said, ‘I will drop it near the kitten, and they will both wonder where it came from.’

‘Oh, be careful,’ said my wife; ‘you might hit the dear little thing!’

‘Not me, ma’am,’ said Elias P. ‘Why, I’m as tender as a Maine cherry-tree. Lor, bless ye. I wouldn’t hurt the poor pooty little critter more’n I’d scalp a baby. An’ you may bet your variegated socks on that! See, I’ll drop it fur away on the outside so’s not to go near her!’ Thus saying, he leaned over and held his arm out at full length and dropped the stone. It may be that there is some attractive force which draws lesser matters to greater; or more probably that the wall was not plump but sloped to its base—we not noticing the inclination from above; but the stone fell with a sickening thud that came up to us through the hot air, right on the kitten’s head, and shattered out its little brains then and there. The black cat cast a swift upward glance, and we saw her eyes like green fire fixed an instant on Elias P. Hutcheson; and then her attention was given to the kitten, which lay still with just a quiver of her tiny limbs, whilst a thin red stream trickled from a gaping wound. With a muffled cry, such as a human being might give, she bent over the kitten licking its wounds and moaning. Suddenly she seemed to realise that it was dead, and again threw her eyes up at us. I shall never forget the sight, for she looked the perfect incarnation of hate. Her green eyes blazed with lurid fire, and the white, sharp teeth seemed to almost shine through the blood which dabbled her mouth and whiskers. She gnashed her teeth, and her claws stood out stark and at full length on every paw. Then she made a wild rush up the wall as if to reach us, but when the momentum ended fell back, and further added to her horrible appearance for she fell on the kitten, and rose with her black fur smeared with its brains and blood. Amelia turned quite faint, and I had to lift her back from the wall. There was a seat close by in shade of a spreading plane-tree, and here I placed her whilst she composed herself. Then I went back to Hutcheson, who stood without moving, looking down on the angry cat below.

As I joined him, he said:

‘Wall, I guess that air the savagest beast I ever see—’cept once when an Apache squaw had an edge on a half-breed what they nicknamed “Splinters” ‘cos of the way he fixed up her papoose which he stole on a raid just to show that he appreciated the way they had given his mother the fire torture. She got that kinder look so set on her face that it jest seemed to grow there. She followed Splinters mor’n three year till at last the braves got him and handed him over to her. They did say that no man, white or Injun, had ever been so long a-dying under the tortures of the Apaches. The only time I ever see her smile was when I wiped her out. I kem on the camp just in time to see Splinters pass in his checks, and he wasn’t sorry to go either. He was a hard citizen, and though I never could shake with him after that papoose business—for it was bitter bad, and he should have been a white man, for he looked like one—I see he had got paid out in full. Durn me, but I took a piece of his hide from one of his skinnin’ posts an’ had it made into a pocket-book. It’s here now!’ and he slapped the breast pocket of his coat.

Whilst he was speaking the cat was continuing her frantic efforts to get up the wall. She would take a run back and then charge up, sometimes reaching an incredible height. She did not seem to mind the heavy fall which she get each time but started with renewed vigour; and at every tumble her appearance became more horrible. Hutcheson was a kind-hearted man—my wife and I had both noticed little acts of kindness to animals as well as to persons—and he seemed concerned at the state of fury to which the cat had wrought herself.

‘Wall, now!’ he said, ‘I du declare that that poor critter seems quite desperate. There! there! poor thing, it was all an accident—though that won’t bring back your little one to you. Say! I wouldn’t have had such a thing happen for a thousand! Just shows what a clumsy fool of a man can do when he tries to play! Seems I’m too darned slipperhanded to even play with a cat. Say Colonel!’ it was a pleasant way he had to bestow titles freely—’I hope your wife don’t hold no grudge against me on account of this unpleasantness? Why, I wouldn’t have had it occur on no account.’

He came over to Amelia and apologised profusely, and she with her usual kindness of heart hastened to assure him that she quite understood that it was an accident. Then we all went again to the wall and looked over.

The cat missing Hutcheson’s face had drawn back across the moat, and was sitting on her haunches as though ready to spring. Indeed, the very instant she saw him she did spring, and with a blind unreasoning fury, which would have been grotesque, only that it was so frightfully real. She did not try to run up the wall, but simply launched herself at him as though hate and fury could lend her wings to pass straight through the great distance between them. Amelia, womanlike, got quite concerned, and said to Elias P. in a warning voice:

‘Oh! you must be very careful. That animal would try to kill you if she were here; her eyes look like positive murder.’

He laughed out jovially. ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but I can’t help laughin’. Fancy a man that has fought grizzlies an’ Injuns bein’ careful of bein’ murdered by a cat!’

When the cat heard him laugh, her whole demeanour seemed to change. She no longer tried to jump or run up the wall, but went quietly over, and sitting again beside the dead kitten began to lick and fondle it as though it were alive.

‘See!’ said I, ‘the effect of a really strong man. Even that animal in the midst of her fury recognises the voice of a master, and bows to him!’

‘Like a squaw!’ was the only comment of Elias P. Hutcheson, as we moved on our way round the city fosse. Every now and then we looked over the wall and each time saw the cat following us. At first she had kept going back to the dead kitten, and then as the distance grew greater took it in her mouth and so followed. After a while, however, she abandoned this, for we saw her following all alone; she had evidently hidden the body somewhere. Amelia’s alarm grew at the cat’s persistence, and more than once she repeated her warning; but the American always laughed with amusement, till finally, seeing that she was beginning to be worried, he said:

‘I say, ma’am, you needn’t be skeered over that cat. I go heeled, I du!’ Here he slapped his pistol pocket at the back of his lumbar region. ‘Why sooner’n have you worried, I’ll shoot the critter, right here, an’ risk the police interferin’ with a citizen of the United States for carryin’ arms contrairy to reg’lations!’ As he spoke he looked over the wall, but the cat on seeing him, retreated, with a growl, into a bed of tall flowers, and was hidden. He went on: ‘Blest if that ar critter ain’t got more sense of what’s good for her than most Christians. I guess we’ve seen the last of her! You bet, she’ll go back now to that busted kitten and have a private funeral of it, all to herself!’

Amelia did not like to say more, lest he might, in mistaken kindness to her, fulfil his threat of shooting the cat: and so we went on and crossed the little wooden bridge leading to the gateway whence ran the steep paved roadway between the Burg and the pentagonal Torture Tower. As we crossed the bridge we saw the cat again down below us. When she saw us her fury seemed to return, and she made frantic efforts to get up the steep wall. Hutcheson laughed as he looked down at her, and said:

‘Goodbye, old girl. Sorry I injured your feelin’s, but you’ll get over it in time! So long!’ And then we passed through the long, dim archway and came to the gate of the Burg.

When we came out again after our survey of this most beautiful old place which not even the well-intentioned efforts of the Gothic restorers of forty years ago have been able to spoil—though their restoration was then glaring white—we seemed to have quite forgotten the unpleasant episode of the morning. The old lime tree with its great trunk gnarled with the passing of nearly nine centuries, the deep well cut through the heart of the rock by those captives of old, and the lovely view from the city wall whence we heard, spread over almost a full quarter of an hour, the multitudinous chimes of the city, had all helped to wipe out from our minds the incident of the slain kitten.

We were the only visitors who had entered the Torture Tower that morning—so at least said the old custodian—and as we had the place all to ourselves were able to make a minute and more satisfactory survey than would have otherwise been possible. The custodian, looking to us as the sole source of his gains for the day, was willing to meet our wishes in any way. The Torture Tower is truly a grim place, even now when many thousands of visitors have sent a stream of life, and the joy that follows life, into the place; but at the time I mention it wore its grimmest and most gruesome aspect. The dust of ages seemed to have settled on it, and the darkness and the horror of its memories seem to have become sentient in a way that would have satisfied the Pantheistic souls of Philo or Spinoza. The lower chamber where we entered was seemingly, in its normal state, filled with incarnate darkness; even the hot sunlight streaming in through the door seemed to be lost in the vast thickness of the walls, and only showed the masonry rough as when the builder’s scaffolding had come down, but coated with dust and marked here and there with patches of dark stain which, if walls could speak, could have given their own dread memories of fear and pain. We were glad to pass up the dusty wooden staircase, the custodian leaving the outer door open to light us somewhat on our way; for to our eyes the one long-wick’d, evil-smelling candle stuck in a sconce on the wall gave an inadequate light. When we came up through the open trap in the corner of the chamber overhead, Amelia held on to me so tightly that I could actually feel her heart beat. I must say for my own part that I was not surprised at her fear, for this room was even more gruesome than that below. Here there was certainly more light, but only just sufficient to realise the horrible surroundings of the place. The builders of the tower had evidently intended that only they who should gain the top should have any of the joys of light and prospect. There, as we had noticed from below, were ranges of windows, albeit of mediaeval smallness, but elsewhere in the tower were only a very few narrow slits such as were habitual in places of mediaeval defence. A few of these only lit the chamber, and these so high up in the wall that from no part could the sky be seen through the thickness of the walls. In racks, and leaning in disorder against the walls, were a number of headsmen’s swords, great double-handed weapons with broad blade and keen edge. Hard by were several blocks whereon the necks of the victims had lain, with here and there deep notches where the steel had bitten through the guard of flesh and shored into the wood. Round the chamber, placed in all sorts of irregular ways, were many implements of torture which made one’s heart ache to see—chairs full of spikes which gave instant and excruciating pain; chairs and couches with dull knobs whose torture was seemingly less, but which, though slower, were equally efficacious; racks, belts, boots, gloves, collars, all made for compressing at will; steel baskets in which the head could be slowly crushed into a pulp if necessary; watchmen’s hooks with long handle and knife that cut at resistance—this a speciality of the old Nurnberg police system; and many, many other devices for man’s injury to man. Amelia grew quite pale with the horror of the things, but fortunately did not faint, for being a little overcome she sat down on a torture chair, but jumped up again with a shriek, all tendency to faint gone. We both pretended that it was the injury done to her dress by the dust of the chair, and the rusty spikes which had upset her, and Mr. Hutcheson acquiesced in accepting the explanation with a kind-hearted laugh.

But the central object in the whole of this chamber of horrors was the engine known as the Iron Virgin, which stood near the centre of the room. It was a rudely-shaped figure of a woman, something of the bell order, or, to make a closer comparison, of the figure of Mrs. Noah in the children’s Ark, but without that slimness of waist and perfect rondeur of hip which marks the aesthetic type of the Noah family. One would hardly have recognised it as intended for a human figure at all had not the founder shaped on the forehead a rude semblance of a woman’s face. This machine was coated with rust without, and covered with dust; a rope was fastened to a ring in the front of the figure, about where the waist should have been, and was drawn through a pulley, fastened on the wooden pillar which sustained the flooring above. The custodian pulling this rope showed that a section of the front was hinged like a door at one side; we then saw that the engine was of considerable thickness, leaving just room enough inside for a man to be placed. The door was of equal thickness and of great weight, for it took the custodian all his strength, aided though he was by the contrivance of the pulley, to open it. This weight was partly due to the fact that the door was of manifest purpose hung so as to throw its weight downwards, so that it might shut of its own accord when the strain was released. The inside was honeycombed with rust—nay more, the rust alone that comes through time would hardly have eaten so deep into the iron walls; the rust of the cruel stains was deep indeed! It was only, however, when we came to look at the inside of the door that the diabolical intention was manifest to the full. Here were several long spikes, square and massive, broad at the base and sharp at the points, placed in such a position that when the door should close the upper ones would pierce the eyes of the victim, and the lower ones his heart and vitals. The sight was too much for poor Amelia, and this time she fainted dead off, and I had to carry her down the stairs, and place her on a bench outside till she recovered. That she felt it to the quick was afterwards shown by the fact that my eldest son bears to this day a rude birthmark on his breast, which has, by family consent, been accepted as representing the Nurnberg Virgin.

When we got back to the chamber we found Hutcheson still opposite the Iron Virgin; he had been evidently philosophising, and now gave us the benefit of his thought in the shape of a sort of exordium.

‘Wall, I guess I’ve been learnin’ somethin’ here while madam has been gettin’ over her faint. ‘Pears to me that we’re a long way behind the times on our side of the big drink. We uster think out on the plains that the Injun could give us points in tryin’ to make a man uncomfortable; but I guess your old mediaeval law-and-order party could raise him every time. Splinters was pretty good in his bluff on the squaw, but this here young miss held a straight flush all high on him. The points of them spikes air sharp enough still, though even the edges air eaten out by what uster be on them. It’d be a good thing for our Indian section to get some specimens of this here play-toy to send round to the Reservations jest to knock the stuffin’ out of the bucks, and the squaws too, by showing them as how old civilisation lays over them at their best. Guess but I’ll get in that box a minute jest to see how it feels!’

‘Oh no! no!’ said Amelia. ‘It is too terrible!’

‘Guess, ma’am, nothin’s too terrible to the explorin’ mind. I’ve been in some queer places in my time. Spent a night inside a dead horse while a prairie fire swept over me in Montana Territory—an’ another time slept inside a dead buffler when the Comanches was on the war path an’ I didn’t keer to leave my kyard on them. I’ve been two days in a caved-in tunnel in the Billy Broncho gold mine in New Mexico, an’ was one of the four shut up for three parts of a day in the caisson what slid over on her side when we was settin’ the foundations of the Buffalo Bridge. I’ve not funked an odd experience yet, an’ I don’t propose to begin now!’

We saw that he was set on the experiment, so I said: ‘Well, hurry up, old man, and get through it quick!’

‘All right, General,’ said he, ‘but I calculate we ain’t quite ready yet. The gentlemen, my predecessors, what stood in that thar canister, didn’t volunteer for the office—not much! And I guess there was some ornamental tyin’ up before the big stroke was made. I want to go into this thing fair and square, so I must get fixed up proper first. I dare say this old galoot can rise some string and tie me up accordin’ to sample?’

This was said interrogatively to the old custodian, but the latter, who understood the drift of his speech, though perhaps not appreciating to the full the niceties of dialect and imagery, shook his head. His protest was, however, only formal and made to be overcome. The American thrust a gold piece into his hand, saying: ‘Take it, pard! it’s your pot; and don’t be skeer’d. This ain’t no necktie party that you’re asked to assist in!’ He produced some thin frayed rope and proceeded to bind our companion with sufficient strictness for the purpose. When the upper part of his body was bound, Hutcheson said:

‘Hold on a moment, Judge. Guess I’m too heavy for you to tote into the canister. You jest let me walk in, and then you can wash up regardin’ my legs!’

Whilst speaking he had backed himself into the opening which was just enough to hold him. It was a close fit and no mistake. Amelia looked on with fear in her eyes, but she evidently did not like to say anything. Then the custodian completed his task by tying the American’s feet together so that he was now absolutely helpless and fixed in his voluntary prison. He seemed to really enjoy it, and the incipient smile which was habitual to his face blossomed into actuality as he said:

‘Guess this here Eve was made out of the rib of a dwarf! There ain’t much room for a full-grown citizen of the United States to hustle. We uster make our coffins more roomier in Idaho territory. Now, Judge, you jest begin to let this door down, slow, on to me. I want to feel the same pleasure as the other jays had when those spikes began to move toward their eyes!’

‘Oh no! no! no!’ broke in Amelia hysterically. ‘It is too terrible! I can’t bear to see it!—I can’t! I can’t!’ But the American was obdurate. ‘Say, Colonel,’ said he, ‘why not take Madame for a little promenade? I wouldn’t hurt her feelin’s for the world; but now that I am here, havin’ kem eight thousand miles, wouldn’t it be too hard to give up the very experience I’ve been pinin’ an’ pantin’ fur? A man can’t get to feel like canned goods every time! Me and the Judge here’ll fix up this thing in no time, an’ then you’ll come back, an’ we’ll all laugh together!’

Once more the resolution that is born of curiosity triumphed, and Amelia stayed holding tight to my arm and shivering whilst the custodian began to slacken slowly inch by inch the rope that held back the iron door. Hutcheson’s face was positively radiant as his eyes followed the first movement of the spikes.

‘Wall!’ he said, ‘I guess I’ve not had enjoyment like this since I left Noo York. Bar a scrap with a French sailor at Wapping—an’ that warn’t much of a picnic neither—I’ve not had a show fur real pleasure in this dod-rotted Continent, where there ain’t no b’ars nor no Injuns, an’ wheer nary man goes heeled. Slow there, Judge! Don’t you rush this business! I want a show for my money this game—I du!’

The custodian must have had in him some of the blood of his predecessors in that ghastly tower, for he worked the engine with a deliberate and excruciating slowness which after five minutes, in which the outer edge of the door had not moved half as many inches, began to overcome Amelia. I saw her lips whiten, and felt her hold upon my arm relax. I looked around an instant for a place whereon to lay her, and when I looked at her again found that her eye had become fixed on the side of the Virgin. Following its direction I saw the black cat crouching out of sight. Her green eyes shone like danger lamps in the gloom of the place, and their colour was heightened by the blood which still smeared her coat and reddened her mouth. I cried out:

‘The cat! look out for the cat!’ for even then she sprang out before the engine. At this moment she looked like a triumphant demon. Her eyes blazed with ferocity, her hair bristled out till she seemed twice her normal size, and her tail lashed about as does a tiger’s when the quarry is before it. Elias P. Hutcheson when he saw her was amused, and his eyes positively sparkled with fun as he said:

‘Darned if the squaw hain’t got on all her war paint! Jest give her a shove off if she comes any of her tricks on me, for I’m so fixed everlastingly by the boss, that durn my skin if I can keep my eyes from her if she wants them! Easy there, Judge! don’t you slack that ar rope or I’m euchered!’

At this moment Amelia completed her faint, and I had to clutch hold of her round the waist or she would have fallen to the floor. Whilst attending to her I saw the black cat crouching for a spring, and jumped up to turn the creature out.

But at that instant, with a sort of hellish scream, she hurled herself, not as we expected at Hutcheson, but straight at the face of the custodian. Her claws seemed to be tearing wildly as one sees in the Chinese drawings of the dragon rampant, and as I looked I saw one of them light on the poor man’s eye, and actually tear through it and down his cheek, leaving a wide band of red where the blood seemed to spurt from every vein.

With a yell of sheer terror which came quicker than even his sense of pain, the man leaped back, dropping as he did so the rope which held back the iron door. I jumped for it, but was too late, for the cord ran like lightning through the pulley-block, and the heavy mass fell forward from its own weight.

As the door closed I caught a glimpse of our poor companion’s face. He seemed frozen with terror. His eyes stared with a horrible anguish as if dazed, and no sound came from his lips.

And then the spikes did their work. Happily the end was quick, for when I wrenched open the door they had pierced so deep that they had locked in the bones of the skull through which they had crushed, and actually tore him—it—out of his iron prison till, bound as he was, he fell at full length with a sickly thud upon the floor, the face turning upward as he fell.

I rushed to my wife, lifted her up and carried her out, for I feared for her very reason if she should wake from her faint to such a scene. I laid her on the bench outside and ran back. Leaning against the wooden column was the custodian moaning in pain whilst he held his reddening handkerchief to his eyes. And sitting on the head of the poor American was the cat, purring loudly as she licked the blood which trickled through the gashed socket of his eyes.

I think no one will call me cruel because I seized one of the old executioner’s swords and shore her in two as she sat.

End.

*~*~*

Dear beloved reader,

I hope you found the chills you were looking for. Perhaps while entrenched in the pages of this issue of Cosmic Horror Monthly, you questioned both your own sanity and your place amongst the malevolent whims of our cold universe. If so, let not your thirst for more cosmic terror go unquenched. Simply visit COSMIC-HORROR.NET/SUBSCRIBE and offer your tribute to the old ones at a reduced rate!

Again, thank you for taking the time to read our fiction. I hope we meet again soon.

Charles Tyra

Editor