by Adam Lowe
Cautiously I walked over to this house, all the time trying to peer inside, but my eyes met only with a barrier of blackness—and this darkness I dare not enter. So instead I stood upon the threshold, calling my greetings loudly into that shrouded unknown. But in response came an abrupt shuffling and my eyes seemed to perceive vaguely a rapid movement, as finally there came a voice in reply. The words I heard were spoken with a kind of throaty, almost inhuman quality.
“Leave, leave now! Never before has a stranger been foolish enough to walk the abandoned streets of Ythill. Return—while you still can.”
But only perplexity filled me.
“Why do you insist on living in the dark?” I asked. “What do you have to fear?”
This time his reply came quickly.
“I fear not for myself, it is much too late for that, for we have found the Yellow Sign . . . It is for you that I fear.”
By now my eyes had picked out the vague outline of a body stood before me, but still the features of the face remained indistinguishable. Meaning to reassure the man against his childish fears, I suddenly lifted up my hand to place it upon his shoulder. But at once came a muffled cry to my ears and immediately the door was slammed shut. Then fearful was my realisation, and clinging to me the essence of death—for my hand had travelled right through the body of the man!
For a moment I stood recollecting my wits. I shivered deeply at the thought of being almost beyond the threshold of darkness when the door had closed. But in the following seconds came a blessing like a beacon in the night, for I beheld a splendid palace at the heart of this city of despair and from every gilded window spilled warm and comforting light.
How foolish I had been! For everyone knows that darkness is the dwelling place of evil, but light; light is only of goodness, light is the very essence of Truth, for it dispels the uncertainty of darkness and naught can hide from the purity of light. But every light casts a shadow . . .
I stood before the illuminated edifice and smiled to see the door stood open—as though in welcome. But as I entered within that palace of light, two men, dressed in the accoutrements of war, and obviously guards of some kind, appeared at either side of me.
“So Bremchas, what have we here?” Asked the guard on my left.
“A stranger in Ythill, friend Bicree. We must take him to Cassilda, for it is said she knows all the faces in Ythill.” Said the guard on my right.
“Yet this one has no face.”
“I seek Truth”, I told them perplexed, as they herded me from the entrance toward an ascending flight of steps. The guards spoke no further as they led me up the stairway and into a hall. As I entered, they left, presumably to return to their posts.
I gazed at my surroundings. At the further end of this sparsely furnished room stood a throne of roughly hewn stone, flanked by tapestries depicting the Hyades, though they were threadbare and worn. There was an archway to the right and to the left a doorway leading to a balcony that overlooked the lake. Through this opening I could just perceive the sky beyond, which was violent pink as two glowering suns set into the lake.
Upon the throne sat the figure of a woman. She was wearing a simple, elegant dress of emerald green. As I drew closer I was surprised to hear a gentle sobbing emanating from her. As she wept she toyed with a silver diadem which she turned unceasingly with her delicate, pale hands.
At the sound of my entrance she looked up—and her face was the greatest vision of beauty my eyes had ever met with. Her skin, so pale, seemed somehow frozen in youthful adornment; radiant blonde hair fell in loose curls, splaying outward over her shoulders like the unravelled heart of a golden sun. And when, with her eyes of indigo, she gazed deeply into my own, I knew she held the answer to my every question.
I spoke softly. “Why do you weep?”
And when she replied, her whispered voice held the sparkling teardrops of a thousand stars as she softly sang:
The cloud waves surge with Hali’s tides
The twin suns drop from uncanny skies
Darkness weaves its spell in Carcosa
Black are the stars strange in the night
And strange moons shine in their ebon light
But not as strange as dim Carcosa
The Hyades will praise the King
With melodies that none shall sing
In the silent streets of cold Carcosa
I cannot sing, my song unsung
Shall die on my lips: a tear will run
But who shall care in lost Carcosa?
I stood in silence as the song ended. At length the woman spoke. “I am Queen Cassilda. I know all the faces in Ythill and not one of them is new to me. Are you a spy from Alar? Or perchance you have come for the Yellow Sign?” When Cassilda spoke, her voice was a thing of great beauty to me; her wondrous tones seemed to soothe my soul.
“The Yellow Sign? I replied. “I have heard such a thing mentioned.”
“I have not found the Yellow Sign, so why do you come?” asked Cassilda.
“Truth.” I told her.
At this her face went white. “You are Truth? . . . The Phantom of Truth?”
“I am not He, though I have knowledge of such a one.”
“But only ghosts go about dressed in white.”
At these words I glanced at my clothing, only to see that I indeed wore white robes.
Cassilda continued. “I am but a queen, a pale sad queen. It seems that the world is finally coming undone; the End Days are here.” As she spoke the silver diadem dropped from her hands and fell to the floor. Will you unmask, Phantom?”
“But I wear no mask.” Confusion tainted my voice.
“No mask! No mask!” Cassilda was visibly distressed and this in turn upset me greatly, for I felt great empathy for this unhappy creature.
“Why don’t you leave me alone? She asked, almost pleadingly.
“But I seek truth.” I answered, not knowing what else to say or do.
Cassilda gazed at me with her deep, sad eyes and, taking a hand-mirror from the folds of her dress, held it momentarily in her lap.
“You seek Truth. Then behold the Face of Truth,” she said as she passed the mirror to me.
I held the reflective glass to my face and gazed within, and I saw Truth. For the visage that gazed out from those silvered depths was white as bleached bone and featureless. It was the visage of the Phantom!
Cassilda rose up from the throne and began to walk from the room, but as she passed by me her soft voice spoke once more. “Come with me and I will show you a vision.”
Leaving the hallway, I followed Cassilda and became surprised by a coldness that seemed to radiate from her very body. We passed out onto the balcony, and, stepping onto it, gazed out upon the vast, brooding lake.
“Below is the lake of Hali. It swallows so many suns.” Said Cassilda mournfully.
I gazed down at the still, silent lake, as the cloud waves rolled and poured about the walls of Ythill. Then I stared in wonderment as a city shimmered into existence upon the horizon. It was difficult to tell whether it stood beyond the shores of this sombre lake or rested upon its very waters. Black domes and monoliths and strangely twisted spires of black pierced the crimson sky and reflected the ebon light of the vile stars and, as I watched, a moon began to rise and it seemed as if the towers of the black city stood behind it.
Cassilda spoke. “And can you see? Beyond Hali—the city of Lost . . .
“Carcosa.” I finished. For as soon as I had laid eyes upon that distant edifice I knew its name.
“Carcosa, indeed.” Her voice was hushed, reverent.
“Does the Truth lie in Carcosa?” I asked.
“There are no truths in Carcosa,” she replied. “only that all truth is a lie. Nothing human dwells in Carcosa. . .”
As I stood and gazed at the twisting spires of far Carcosa I heard Cassilda gasp in absolute terror.
“The Yellow Sign!” she cried. “The Yellow Sign!” You have it!” I turned in surprise
and saw that the Cassilda was pointing to my chest, her eyes wide with horror. I looked down and there, embroidered upon the front of my robes was a sign in golden thread, a sign in no earthly language.
“I have found the Yellow Sign”, she cried.
At this I heard the crashing of a gong and the lights about the hall and upon the balcony flickered and turned to vermilion. The banners about the throne room fell, to reveal banners emblazoned with the Yellow Sign. I turned to Cassilda, but she had left the balcony. I gazed out towards that city of death and as I did so a darkness descended, and in my ears I heard the mocking laughter of the King. Then I heard the sound of mighty pinions beating and from far, cold Carcosa, he came . . .
I awoke chilled to the bone and stiff with cold and with the mocking laughter still ringing in my mind. I realised I was once again by the familiar lake of my nightly sojourns. Above me the familiar stars twinkled whitely. Had it all been a dream; some fever induced vision? I got to my feet and was much relieved to see my own face gazing back at me from the waters of the lake. Bemused I turned to make my way homeward, when, upon the grass, a glint of reflected starlight caught my eye. I bent to investigate and perceived a black, lozenge-shaped stone of polished jet lying upon the damp grass. Picking it up, I noticed that upon one flat side it was embellished with a peculiar pale sigil . . .
‘A Vision of Carcosa’ is the work of John B. Ford and Steve Lines.
John is quite a well known author/editor/publisher, who established his own BJM Press in the 1990s and was widely published in the many small press magazines of the period. He has had three collections of short stories published and collaborated with such authors as Ramsey Campbell, Simon Clark, and Thomas Ligotti.
Steve is a well known artist, editor, and musician, now also becoming recognised as a very talented author. He has been running Rainfall Books virtually solo since 2007 while John has gone about caring for terminally ill family members. Steve’s first novel (in collaboration with John B. Ford) is titled The Night Eternal and will be released on 5th May in Bristol at the first Terror Scribes meeting of 2012.
A Selection of Flash Fiction
by Christy Leigh Stewart
Waiting For Daddy
My older sister, Elizabeth, and I have to stay in our room while mommy meets her boyfriends.
Elizabeth keeps me company while we wait and she distracts me from the noise coming from outside our door. Sometimes it’s too loud, though, and that’s when we listen to music with our head phones.
Mommy said it wasn’t that she was trying to hide us from them, but them from us. She said that sometimes the boyfriends weren’t good men, like our daddy had been. I never knew him, because he left when I was a baby. Elizabeth tells me he and mommy used to fight a lot and mommy says he’ll come back to us one day.
Once she’s done with her boyfriends.
Tonight she’s done earlier than I thought she would be so I make sure to hug her extra tight so she knows how happy I am, and maybe next time she will be as quick as she was this time.
“Did you two have fun?” She asks us both but is looking only at me.
“Ya, we played games.”
“Good. That’s good.” She kisses me on the top of my head and smiles gently at Elizabeth who seems sad for some reason.
I think maybe she’s happy we got let out early and is worried about next time. “How long do your boyfriends have to keep coming over, mommy?” I ask for the both of us.
My mommy gives me the gentle smile now and rubs her stomach. “I think it’ll be very soon, but I can’t take the test just yet.”
Mommy promised us this was the last time she would need to make a baby. She thought so last time too, but changed her mind afterward. I think she’s done now though. I think she looks like a princess.
She doesn’t think so though. She says she has to be just a bit more pretty for daddy, and then he’ll want her back. She says if she can eat just another one of her babies she’ll be young and pretty enough for him.
I hope she’s not lying this time. I’d like to meet daddy.
The Player
I have my fair share of women.
They come in and out of my life all the time, but I wouldn’t consider myself a player, and don’t think anyone else does either. I don’t demean these women, not at all. I care about each one in their own way, even if we’re together only a night.
It’s not just sex for me, which is a misconception. It’s much more than that, but it’s hard to explain. It’s the companionship, if even for that short time, and it’s the excitement, and perhaps danger. It’s the unknown. Really, that must be the most enticing part.
When I’m with these women, I am face to face with one of the essential parts of life, and exploring it is intriguing, erotic. I am at awe each moment, with each touch and each taste. Truly, this can’t be just sex. There must be another word to describe this type of melding and intimate act.
Necrophilia doesn’t cut it either. It seems like such a nasty word, used by people who don’t understand. And my heart goes out to those people, and I wish them luck in life, because it can’t be easy to live, not knowing what it is to die.
But I do, because I’ve been up close to it. Smelled it, tasted it, fucked it. Been inside and outside of it at the same time. Known it for it’s stark truth, both grotesque and beautiful.
OMG u guyz
I’m one of those people you’ve heard about on TV.
I’m that angry and disgruntled teenager that goes to school and shoots everyone.
Well, I will be. Very soon.
As we speak I’m making my plans. Making a list. Checking it twice. All that shit.
My problem is, though, that there has been SO many school shootings that people know what to look for. Dark clothes, rock/metal/goth/whatever music, psychopathic drawings on text books, dark poetry, and on and on and on.
I’ve got it figured out though. I know how to make everyone unsuspecting. They might not even see it coming when I’m standing in front of them, shooting them like fish in a fucking barrel.
My first advantage, I’m a girl.
No one expects this kind of shit out of us because we’re . . . I don’t know. Nurturing? Because we have babies? But what about all those chicks who get abortions or kill their babies or abandon their kids or leave their kids or rape their kids or sell their kids or . . . Whatever, no one will see it coming, in any case. If I have my vagina to thank for that, then thanks a lot vagina.
The second advantage, I’m a girl.
I’m not some dumb fucking boy with a gun fetish. I’ve thought this out.
Rock music may be good and all, but if listening to it will give anyone ANY inclination I’m going to murder them, then I’ll go without. I listen to Justin Timberlake. I have posters of him on my wall. I have his image as my desktop wallpaper. I masturbate to Googled pictures of him. There are no holes in my façade.
I may feel moody but I don’t need to wear black or dye my hair black or wear black make up. I have no undergarments that aren’t thongs. I don’t have any top that doesn’t show at least one areola. I don’t have skirts that don’t expose my genitals. I don’t have pants that don’t display my thongs. No one would see me and say ‘That’s someone that’s planning to shoot me in the face’. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even expect me to run in this shit. But I can. I’ve been practising.
I have a lot of pent up rage I need to get out, sure, but I don’t need to get it out through poetry or journals or something else someone can figure me out with. I’ll wait and let out my rage when I’m killing everyone, what could be more relaxing?
I do have my lists though, of people I don’t want to miss. People I wont let escape. The girls, I have listed in my notebook under ‘Best Friends’ and the guys names I write everywhere. I write them after my name with a plus sign or in a heart. I’ve even given some of these guys blow jobs in the school bathrooms.
They’ll never see this coming.
Christy Leigh Stewart knows your dad and thinks you need a haircut. christyleighstewart.com
But She Looked Above and Nothing was There
by Wendy Jane Muzlanova
I.
Caroline played in the sunny garden of her happy house. The house was happy because her elder sister was largely absent these days—the little one couldn’t remember exactly why, although she suspected from the straining-to-hear-them arguments that Moira had been going about with . ”very unsuitable type.” Mum and Dad looked worried most of the time. Caroline felt sorry for them and tried to be extra good in order to help. Why did Moira have to be like this? She had stuck two fingers up at Dad just the other day and had told him t. “Fuck off!” Dad didn’t deserve that. All he did was work hard and get worried when the auditors were due.
When Caroline’s parents were out one afternoon, her elder sister had lain on their parent’s bed and called her boyfriend on the telephone. Caroline sat on the stairs, hidden and curious.
Moira said things like. “I love you . . . I can’t wait until you’re inside me again.”
Caroline didn’t really understand, but felt sick all the same, at the sound of her sister’s voice, husky and honeyed. Moira had never sounded that way before. Her normal tones were sly and vicious or shrill and threatening. Caroline had been thoroughly indoctrinated by her elder sister and regretted being born fat, stupid and not at all pretty. She hated Moira and frequently prayed for her sibling’s death. Caroline did not care to whom she prayed, as long as she thought that the deity might have half a chance of getting the job done for her.
Caroline saw the unsuitable type one day and realised that he wasn’t a boy. He was a man—a skinny, dirty-looking man with a droopy moustache. Caroline thought that he was really ugly. She had a sudden intrusive image of the man being inside her. Her mind flashed secretly-glimpsed sci-fi horror moments at her and images of parasites gleaned from the science programmes she watched constantly on the television. Her parents were proud that she was such a studious and serious little girl.