by Jim Butcher
"I'd settle for sucking out her marrow," Naamah said with a hopeful smile.
"Sorry. All gone," Vassago said. "Phew!" He unbuttoned his pants to emphasize how full he was.
"Okay, fine," Lilith replied, rolling her eyes. She shimmied down to her knees, obviously misunderstanding Vassago's pantomime.
"Whoa, ladies!" Vassago said, prying his zipper out from her claws and backing away. "That's not what I meant . . . well . . . okay, maybe later." He jetted out his gut. "I was trying to say, 'I'm full.'" He patted his stomach. "And lo, she was tasty."
With that, Vassago closed the door. He hesitated, and then opened it again. Sure enough, Hecate stood there now, one hand poised over the door to knock, the other hand filing her iron teeth.
"Hi, Vassago, you tricky devil," she said. "Is—"
"No."
"Can I—"
"No."
"But—"
"Go away," Vassago said with a sigh and shut the door. Before anyone else could knock, he quickly erected another glamour to silence the doors and windows. Satisfied at the momentary quiet, he absently swatted at a fly. He paused.
Why is there a fly in my home? he wondered suddenly. In fact, the smell of brimstone should have started vanishing. He shook his head and headed for the couch. A sigh escaped
In-, lips. Little Eve was gone and one of the windows was open. A flash of momentary annoyance stabbed Vassago, and his human features slipped a touch. The umber of burnt skin and the ghost of long horns shimmered through, but In caught himself. His features returned back to human and Vassago went into the kitchen to fix himself a martini. The child would likely find her way back to him soon enough. He knew who had stolen her and doubted they'd last all that long.
" 1 )id you get her?" Lilith asked. Both seductresses walked down the twisting Escher-like stairs into the basement dungeon. Their arrival was greeted by the wailing chorus of the damned so long chained to the walls that they were half-melted into them. The souls of the tortured writhed horribly; a legion of maggots covered their bodies and ate at their eyes and the nubs of their tongues, swelling their throats and stomachs with their squirming mass.
At the center of the stained stone floor was an altar of iron, set between two braziers lit with the dying embers of souls. Presiding over the altar was none other than Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and winner of last year's Dancing with the Damned—where unwilling souls were forced to salsa, mambo, and lock pop with Hell's luminaries.
Beelzebub stood over the blood-and-excrement-crusted altar where baby Eve lay. His head was that of a giant fly, his body covered in the torn robes of a defrocked pope, and his skin a thick mass of millions of flies and squirming maggots. From his back emerged two tattered
fly wings and stunted fly legs. In his maggot-coated claw, he held a curved iron dagger, the blade dark with rust and caked viscera.
"Bzzzzz!" Beelzebub chanted, ignoring the two succubae until they slithered up alongside him. The demonesses eyed the child and licked their lips, eager for the slaughter. The child smiled up at them, and her ignorance of her fate excited the three devils even more.
"I want one of her chubby little legs," Lilith said.
"Bzzz?" Beelzebub suggested. He stroked Lilith's thigh with his slimy hand.
"But we distracted Vassago for you!" Naamah complained. "Zzz! Zz!"
"Fine," Lilith replied, flicking away the maggots that he'd left behind on her leg. "But the last time, you left fly eggs inside us both. We were itching for weeks. This time you wear protection."
"Trojans are good," Naamah suggested. "They complain too much, more so than the Athenians," Lilith replied. "So, Beelzebub, agreed?"
"Bzz," Beelzebub said, agreeing to the terms. The flies covering his body buzzed louder in anticipation.
Beelzebub returned his attentions to Eve. He raised his blade, ready for the sacrificial plunge . . . and froze. A beautiful purple and red butterfly rose into the air before them. It fluttered momentarily before rising higher and vanishing. The three hellish hosts eyed one another. Lilith shrugged. The Lord of the Flies prepared a second time to plunge the knife into Eve.
Another butterfly, this one yellow and green, flitted up.
This time, the two succubae backed away from a confused Beelzebub. More butterflies fluttered up into the air, their wings a brilliant collage of bejeweled hues, each prettier than the last. Eve clapped and chirped at the sight. Beelzebub, however, dropped the dagger and stared at himself. The butterflies were emerging from him. Blue and green bottle flies, houseflies, horseflies, and an assorted other myriad pests were turning into monarchs, blue morphos, goliath birdwings, peacocks, swallowtails of all ilks, and a dozen more species of Amazon flare and brilliance.
Even maggots weren't spared the touch and, within seconds, Beelzebub screeched at the butterflies that bloomed from his skin by the thousands. He was aflame in color. He spun and batted at his arms and legs, but the flies continued transforming.
"Stop, drop, and roll!" the succubae cried urgently, but the butterflies continued to fill the air with their kaleidoscopic wings.
Even the maggots devouring the gauze bodies of trapped souls joined the rainbow cloud. The tortured and harrowed cries diminished and for the first time in eons, the souls felt the forgotten sensation called relief.
Beelzebub, however, cried even louder in his fly voice, his own wings betraying him by adopting the mottled emerald and ivory patterns of the marble butterfly. His body continued to dissolve into a beautiful mosaic of color, and the two succubae ran from the chamber, abandoning him to the hiccupping laughter of Eve and the gorgeous swarms that floated above her like painted clouds.
News filtered in slowly, like war reports telegraphed back from the frontlines. First Beelzebub had her, but he was now somewhere in South America or Asia, collecting flies for his new body. Harpy had been charging the other demons for a sip of fresh milk from her teat before her wells finally curdled. Greedy Mammon was said to have taken Eve next, until he was seen running from his palace of gold and bones in a red suit and white beard, crying "ho ho ho" in frightened desperation.
It wasn't until Vassago opened his door, however, that he knew the game was at an end.
Towering well above him was Satan himself, his half-naked body cut to Spartan envy, his skin ruby red, and his long, slender horns swept upward.
From two of Satan's taloned fingers dangled the baby basket. Inside it, Eve giggled in delight.
"Is this thing yours?" Satan asked, his voice slipping over Vassago like warm honey. Curiously, he sounded like Tim Curry.
Someone's a fan of Legend, Vassago thought. "Mine? No, no," Vassago said, taking the basket. "But I approve of the jest," he amended.
"Hm," Satan replied, his attention equally focused and distracted. "See you return her with a little jest of our own."
"Of course," Vassago said as he bowed. He peered inside the basket and took the doll from Eve's arms. It was a stuffed animal ... a bipedal deer with horns. "You gave her a plushy of Furfur?" Vassago asked and cocked his eyebrow higher.
"That is Furfur," Satan replied, obviously annoyed. He nodded to Eve. "It's her doing."
Vassago noticed the large tear across the doll's rump and the stuffing coming out of it, "And the orifice?" he asked.
"I was bored," Satan said. "And it's a lesson to Furfur for being so easily beguiled by the child. In fact, Furfur is the first stop of many today."
"It was all rather funny," Vassago said, smiling.
Satan harrumphed and walked away, the bronze ground trembling with his cloven footfalls. Vassago closed the door, allowing Billie Holiday's voice to flush through the house and a salted breeze to wash away the sulfur. He sat on the couch and let baby Eve play with her Furfur plushy before announcing, "Sorry to see you go, sweetheart. It's time for you to return home. But first, I have something to prepare. Now," he said to himself, "where's that umbrella?"
The clouds were immaculately white and cotton-candy fluffy. The Gol
den Gates gleamed and sparkled, the metal burnished to mirror sharpness. Saint Peter, Heaven's DMV clerk, didn't bother looking up from his pedestal; he dipped his quill in the inkwell and held it poised over his giant ledger. "Next!" he cried impatiently, shaking the long white beard that clung to his chin.
"Hey!" one of the spirits cried, "no cutting."
A dozen more voices protested in unison.
"It's okay," Vassago said as he strode past the long line of recently departed. "I'm a demon. I'm supposed to cut."
That managed to shut everyone up. Saint Peter, however, glanced up with a look that proclaimed, I'm perpetually annoyed.
"Vassago," Saint Peter said; he went back to studying his book. "Is it the End Times already?"
"Hardly," Vassago said with a smile. "Is this a bad time?"
"What do you want?" the saint asked.
"Nothing," Vassago replied. "I'm just here to drop this off." He deposited the basket on the pedestal before turning on his heels and heading back down the line, off to the brass-and-oak-paneled escalators poking up through the clouds.
"What's this?!" Peter shouted after him. "Ask Haniel," Vassago replied over his shoulder. "It's his practical joke."
He of God's Joy (and just a touch too much of a bon vivant to be straight), Haniel stood over eight feet tall with his long golden hair fluttering and his four feathered wings of silver spread out behind him. He stood gossiping with the other angels at the marble-and-gold fountain, Heaven's own watercooler. With casual indifference, he flicked his glorious hair and a thousand people in the world felt a grateful breeze cool their hot skin.
"I can't believe you left the Spirit of Innocence at the Gates of Hell," an angel said, laughing.
"What if something happens to her?" another angel asked.
"She's fine," Haniel said, waving away their concerns with an immaculately sculpted hand that sent a thousand artists into a mysterious inspirational frenzy. "She's the Spirit of Innocence. Nothing bad can happen to her. In
fact," he pronounced, sweeping his hand toward an irate Saint Peter as he strode up to them with the basket in tow. "Back already!" Haniel exclaimed. "Who returned her?"
"Vassago," Saint Peter said. He then stopped. "Don't you mean them?" he asked, peering into the basket.
Haniel cocked a perfect eyebrow, and a thousand people across the world gasped at the beauty of the setting sun. He peered inside the basket to find the sweet perfection of the Spirit of Innocence cooing back at him ... as well as a second child, a white boy, lying beside her. The second child was pale and fretful, his face furrowed with a strange intensity that suggested he was either about to cry or ... "He looks like he's concentrating," one angel said. "Or about to take a—"
A ripe and snaking fart pierced the air and echoed off the clouds like wet thunder. All the angels across the nine spheres of Heaven paused in their holy works. A million harps screeched to a halt.
"What in the Creator's name was that?" a few angels were heard to whisper. But nobody moved to find out. In Heaven, everyone had a role and the angels were sure that someone would be on top of that little faux pas. Accordingly, as cultured agents of divinity, they decided the best course of action would be to ignore it.
Haniel held the strange infant up by the armpits. The baby began wailing, a miserable and uncomfortable cry that squeezed his face like a mouthful of lemons. More flatulence followed and Haniel realized the child was growing heavier.
"His diaper's swelling!" an angel cried, his wrists limp as he shook out his hands. "Jesus! Do something!"
"Do what?" the Messiah asked, sauntering up to the group with his hippie haircut, his golden halo, and his two fingers held up like, at any moment, those artistic paparazzi of Rembrandt, Michelangelo, and da Vinci might ambush him and paint him.
"You were human once," Haniel exclaimed, quickly handing off the child to the Son of God. "Do something!"
The Messiahs eyes widened at the child, whose diaper was ballooning and browning at the touch of some ungodly stain. Everyone's eyes watered at the stench that reached deep into their stomachs. "I never had children!" Jesus protested, holding the child away from himself and trying to bury his nose into his shoulder.
"Yeah, right," one of the angels quipped before groaning.
The diaper had swelled like a brown beachball and the Velcro began ripping open under the strain.
"It's gonna blow!" one of the angels screamed over the bansheelike wails of the demon child.
The ripping explosion was heard up and down the funnel of the Nine Layers of Hell. What followed was the panicked shrieks of angels, what could only be described as the Heavenly Choir singing Guns N' Roses . . . off-key. All the demons paused and studied the storm clouds gathering overhead. A few devils nervously remarked how the clouds seemed more brown than purple. Stranger still, the discoloration was spreading like an ink stain in water, overtaking the silver lining of Heaven.
Vassago, however, whistled as he navigated the bronze avenues of Dis and clicked his heels a couple of times along the way. The human-headed snake, Geryon, slithered after Vassago, entreating him to stop.
Geryon took a moment to catch his breath and glanced uneasily heavenward. "Vassago," Geryon said. "The river of excrement in the second Bolge is draining ... someone said you took the plug. Where is it?"
Vassago grinned. "I put a glamour on it," he said proudly. "But don't worry. The river will soon fill again." He opened the umbrella hanging from his arm and pointed upward with his thumb. "Their cup overfloweth, and shit has a tendency to trickle down."
With that, Vassago walked home under the cover of his umbrella, leaving a confused Geryon behind. A moment later, Heaven rained its unfavorable bounty down upon Hell.
The Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the
Shadow of Horror
Christopher Welch
I went through the motions, the ritualistic motions I had done hundreds of times. But this one was special.
I printed out a standard cover letter along with my freshly edited story, "The Scarlet Horror from Beyond Space." I placed both with an SASE in an envelope addressed to the top professional horror-fiction market. I threw on my favorite coat—a faux letter-jacket from Miskatonic University— left my apartment, and strolled into the cool air of the night, a night that seemed darker than ...
No, stop it.
I cannot think that way anymore. The night sky was simply the night sky, not some infinite brooding sentience with a conspiratorial agenda to reveal indescribable terrors to a timid dreamer. I will not believe in monsters.
I walked a few blocks to the nearest mailbox and dropped the envelope through the slot. I felt good about the story. I think this one had a really good chance of being accepted for publication. But then again, maybe I'm just crazy to believe that.
This one was special, though. This one was my last. This was the equivalent of a last drag of a cigarette on New Year's Eve, before quitting cold turkey for the New Year. I needed help, and with the wonderful information I found on a special Internet forum site, "Ignoring the Dark Places and Others," I found presumed salvation from my problem ... from my addiction.
I walked through the city . . . and it was just a city, I told myself. It was not an uncanny multitude of honeycombed fears. It was not the domain of sinister machinations directed by the malformed hand of an inhuman puppeteer.
Just a city—it's just friggin' Janesville, Wisconsin, for Pete's
sake!
After a few blocks, I found the old brick building I was looking for. The unremarkable structure was of standard Euclidian architectural practices. Its entrance was shadowed, a grim entrance to an unknowable ... stop it! I cannot think like that. It is ruining my life.
The door was open and I entered the building. My heels clicked on polished floor tiles of squamous decor. A small light escaped from the only open interior doorway at the end of the long, dank hall. I slowly approached. I argued with myself.
Should I? Should I not?
I decided I truly needed self-control back in my life.
My problem . . . my addiction . . . had cost me too much already, in terms of jobs, friends, and romantic relationships.
I had reached bottom. I needed help.
I came to the door and peered into the room. A single uncovered bulb, like a cyclopean eye, hung from the ceiling. There was a circle of a dozen folding chairs. Sitting in each one was a man, some younger and some older than me, but all had the same look about them: baggy eyes behind ill-fitting spectacles, unruly hair, and all about thirty pounds overweight.
"Is this your first time here?" the man at the front of the room asked me.
I did not see him at first glance. He was at a podium, and obviously had been talking to the congregation of men who all looked a little too much like ... me.
"Yes," I finally answered. "I need help. I can't control myself."
"Welcome, friend. I'm Tom," he said as he shook my hand. "I have just finished telling my story. Please, tell us yours. We all have this addiction. But with group support, we can overcome it."
I stood behind the podium and Tom sat down nearby.
After swallowing hard, I finally uttered, "Hi, my name is Chris, and I write Eldritch Pastiche from Beyond the Shadows of Horror."
"Hi, Chris," everyone said in unison.
"It started when I was in middle school. That is when I first discovered H. P. Lovecraft and his Cthulhu Mythos. After reading his stories, I was addicted."
"Sounds right," someone in the audience muttered, followed by acknowledging nods.
"I mean, I had to read everything—everything—that made even the briefest of references to Cthulhu, YogSothoth, Azathoth, and Nyarlathotep."
"How come everyone forgets Ithaqua," someone in the circle mumbled. "We live in the cold waste of Wisconsin, for crying out loud, yet everyone forgets Ithaqua the Wind-Walker."
"You hush, Artie," Tom admonished. As Tom spoke, I noticed one figure was sitting in the back of the room, outside the circle of chairs. The figure blended with the corner shadows so perfectly that he was almost imperceptible.