Mr. Baker told me he was at Miskatonic U because there was a library there that had books that no other library in the world had. He studied stuff he called ‘dark’ and didn’t say much more, except that it had to do with witches ‘and suchlike’. I really liked him because he always listened to me. I love my Mama and Papa but they don’t sit down and look into my eyes, they don’t hear every word I say.
I remember a few days ago, I was at the window to my bedroom, listening as best as I could to my neighbor’s radio through the adjoining wall. Only a few people in Arkham have radios. I also heard Papa speaking with Mr. Baker down our corridor. They were having supper together.
Mr. Baker called Papa ‘Mr. Liu’, which sort of sounded funny to me, and asked if we had any family in Innsmouth. Papa replied that we did, and that his Granma had come from there. Papa was too polite to ask why Mr. Baker had asked that question, and so they started talking about everyday things like the weather and the new Model A Ford. Papa is always respectful to strangers, but I think he was worried by that question about Innsmouth. I could tell by the tone of his voice.
I started to think about why Mr. Baker may have asked this question and it seemed to me that it might be this place. This county. Even though most folk in Arkham don’t think we belong here, they would be surprised how much like them we are. The same goes for Innsmouth, and nearby Dunwich. Even when I was small and barely able to walk, I could sense something about the crumbling, creaking buildings, gabled roofs, and staring eyes through the dark and stained curtains. Innsmouth has it the most, even though I have only visited the port town a few times. I remember, though, that it felt at once frightening and welcoming—scary because the people were so strange-looking, pale and misshapen, and yet welcoming because it felt like home. Especially the smell and feel of the sea.
I think Mr. Baker was a smart man and he knew there were secrets in this county. It’s a shame he didn’t realize that you have to have been born here to understand them. There are many mysteries in Innsmouth to be found, but he didn’t realize that he lived two stories above the greatest secret of all, the Lucky Mouth.
***
Yesterday was the most important day of my life. Maybe I’m a young girl, but I feel that I have grown up. I now know why most of my brothers and sisters have that look in their eyes, and are so much a part of Arkham. I have joined them.
Granma always said that I knew the time would be right when I can see the Lucky Mouth. On special nights, when the planets and stars in the heavens were right, and when the tides and seasons were aligned in a special way, our family would open the cellar door and enter the shrine. That is, except for me, Youngest Son and Second Youngest Son. We were not ready yet.
I don’t know exactly why, except that my ancestors had augured it was time for me, but I decided last night to visit the Lucky Mouth, which was one of the ceremonial nights. The smell of the river was stronger than usual, and I could make out the scent of the sea in the air even though we were miles from Innsmouth. It was I who had changed, not the scents. I had grown. I looked out my window, and could see through a narrow frame at the end of the alley, the jagged teeth-like silhouette of the town’s nightscape. I could feel the discomforted heartbeats of its citizens, the generations-old disquieting fear that only partially abated during the day. I could also sense the dark, murderous thoughts of some who let their humanity completely go; their insanity.
I wandered into the laundry room and saw the well-worn trap door that led to the shrine. I walked by it for all eleven years of my life and not once had descended its steps. I was nervous and excited at the same time.
It took a lot of effort to lift the door, as it was as big as me and twice my weight. It was just as hard to stop it from slamming backwards onto the floor when I managed to get it open. I didn’t want to disturb my family, who were already downstairs.
I carefully walked down the stone steps, well worn by decades of regular use by my kin. I heard some muttering below and I smelled a strange mix of incense and the pungent tones of the ancient river sediment. As I descended, the muttering increased, as did the aroma of the burning amber-frankincense joss sticks. I neared the end of the stairs and found a narrow doorway, leading to a dimly lit chamber. The muttering transformed into old Mandarin chants, much of which I could barely understand. They were prayers, this was clear enough, and I assumed they were directed to the Lucky Mouth.
I gasped at the size of the chamber that I slipped into. It was circular, at least thirty yards in diameter, and at the far end of the room was a giant frieze of a large sea creature, with many tentacles curling from its head, and malevolent, ruby-encrusted eyes. Its mouth was strangely human in shape, and it was closed—spanning four feet. It was a horrifying looking creature and yet I was fascinated by it. I could only assume that it was the Lucky Mouth, because my family were all kneeling before it.
To my surprise, Oldest Son and Second Oldest Son climbed to their feet and pulled Mr. Baker up from the floor. I had not seen him before as he had been lying on the cold stone in front of my family. His hands were tied behind his back and he was a wretched sight. He had bruises and blood on his face; one eye was puffed. His clothes were wet and mucky. He was trembling but said nothing. They dragged him to within a few paces of the frieze and it was then I realized that he was going to be made a sacrifice to our family god.
Because I liked Mr. Baker, I ran into the chamber, to the shock and surprise of most of my family. I intended to reveal myself, but this hasty action was not planned. Granma looked at me and smiled, while Papa showed concern. I bowed before my elders and humbly asked if Mr. Baker could be spared. Again, there were some shocked faces among those who were there.
Granma raised her weary body and hugged me, explaining that Mr. Baker was not a student, as he said, but an official of the government who intended to attack our friends and family in Innsmouth. He was an investigator. Papa showed some documents that proved it. I turned to Mr. Baker but he didn’t notice me, he was just kneeling with bowed head before the Lucky Mouth.
I didn’t know what to say. I still liked Mr. Baker, but I had already been disrespectful by speaking to my elders out of turn. Granma showed me a place where I should kneel and gave me an understanding look that also clearly told me to be quiet and to only follow instructions. I smiled back but I was worried for Mr. Baker.
While my brothers kept a tight hold on Mr. Baker, Granma started to chant in the old tongue, and Papa responded in the same language. I had an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, uncertain as to what was going to happen to my friend. I was stunned by the occasion, and what I was seeing, and I was subdued by the powerful family compulsion to obey.
The smoke from the incense thickened and my head got a bit light. My eyes widened when I saw the frieze move slightly and the mouth begin to open. I gasped, but my Granma held me around my shoulders, indicating for me to keep quiet. Mr. Baker started to sob. I really felt sorry for him.
The majority of the frieze remained a lifeless stone carving, but its mouth stretched open until it was big enough for a man to walk through. It was dark inside the mouth, and yet I thought I saw a faint orange glow, like the fire inside our steam engine when it isn’t in operation. I felt a warmth from its breath, and I also smelled the sea air.
Granma lowered her face near mine and whispered that I should stay put. She said that the Lucky Mouth would punish me if I was disrespectful. I was scared and nodded that I understood.
I saw Mr. Baker tremble and try to break free, but my brothers were strong and held him fast. Granma stood and cried out in a tongue that I never heard before—in a way that couldn’t have come from a human voice—and yet it was familiar to me. The orange light burst into a flame, and as quickly it turned a dark blue and the mouth changed into a window to an underwater world. It reminded me of Papa’s aquarium where he keeps his fish and crayfish for cooking.
Mr. Baker shouted and screamed in English, begging to be released. He swore on his m
other’s grave he would never say anything about what he saw, but my family ignored him. I looked to Granma, and she shook her head solemnly. Again, her eyes told me to be quiet and still.
Mr. Baker was dragged a few feet closer to the Lucky Mouth and his screaming abruptly stopped. His body jerked violently for a few seconds, and he knelt still, gazing at something in the murky depths of the water world through the maw. I couldn’t see his face, but I sensed, by his relaxed muscles, and the slight inclination of his head, that he was paralyzed, or so shocked he lost his sanity.
Two pearl-white tentacles burst through the mouth, splashing water into the chamber, drenching poor Mr. Baker. One tentacle whipped around his shoulders, pinning his arms to his torso, while the other wrapped around his waist. I wanted to stand up but Granma kept her frail hand on my shoulder—to my horror, the tentacles ripped Mr. Baker in half, dragging the two pieces into the water. Blood sprayed my face, contrasting with the marble-paleness of my skin. For a fleeting moment I thought I saw in the water a giant eye, the size of an automobile, glowing a sickly yellow; blinking.
I pulled out a handkerchief from my sleeve to wipe away the blood, but my Granma stopped me. She pointed to the mouth. It slowly closed and all that was left were puddles of sea water and blood on the chamber’s floor.
Granma hugged me again and everyone smiled and nodded with satisfaction. I looked in Granma’s face and saw, where there were splatters of blood, there were also light colored scales underneath them. I desperately felt my face, and where there was wetness, there was also the unmistakable outlines of scales.
I now knew. I suppose I always did, deep down inside, but this was my life’s lesson. The Lucky Mouth was no human god, but a god of some other race, whose blood in part coursed through my veins. Maybe the veins of others in Arkham, and especially Innsmouth. I realized that Mr. Baker had to go as he was an enemy of my kind. I no longer felt sympathy for him.
I noticed my fingers were covered in Mr. Baker’s blood.
I enjoyed licking them clean.
DEATH KNELL
Richard Thomas
Richard Thomas is the author of three books—Transubstantiate, Herniated Roots and Staring Into the Abyss. His over 75 publications include Shivers VI (Cemetery Dance) with Stephen King and Peter Straub, PANK, Gargoyle, Weird Fiction Review, Midwestern Gothic, Arcadia, and Pear Noir.
For more information visit www.whatdoesnotkillme.com.
It is like drowning—except where there should be water—there is my grief. I live in the shadows, always on a delay, a dull echo filling my head with murky tar. Everything is hollow around me—the apartment flickering shades of gray, boxes and spaces that make no sense to me. The harsh lighting of the diner is a magnifying glass bearing down on me, burning me to a crisp as the dishes and metal play a symphony for the dead. As a waitress I can wait for nothing, constantly itchy and unsettled. The word home has lost all of its meaning.
There are things a mother should never have to witness, and the loss of a child tops that list. In the darkness of the night my knees are back in the gravel, splinters of glass embedded in my flesh, as the boy lay broken in the street. My mouth fills with exhaust, two red eyes fading into the distance, a crowd gathering—their muttering a choir of bubbling tongues. I block it out the best I can but it seeps into my dreams and punishes me with his laughter. I collect sharp objects and wait for my strength to come back. I wait for him to come back, but that’s a cruel game that I play with myself to see if I can feel anything at all. I am in a death knell, muted screams filling my throbbing veins, a pale nausea washing over me, the world around me thin. I ask for nothing but the ability to endure, as much as I want to join my son. I cannot utter his name without breaking down into wracking sobs, my impotent hands seeking destruction.
I pray for everything imaginable—for forgiveness, understanding, and salvation. Lying on the mattress, the faded sheets in a tangled mess, I am a limp stain leaking salty misery, and there is no light to be found, no vengeance—no undoing.
And then there is something. Another lost bedraggled soul, a kindred spirit bent on the way to being broken. He is the physical manifestation of my pain, a long-limbed skeletal reminder of the real world that exists outside my vacuum. When he gives me the answers to my prayers, when he allows me to do something with these hands that betray me, to finish what has been started, it is an awakening. And I do not hesitate to lay my judgment upon him, and in the trembling of the aftermath I am reborn.
THE SALLOW MAN
Adam Millard
Adam Millard is the author of thirteen novels and more than a hundred short stories, which can be found in various collections and anthologies. Probably best known for his post-apocalyptic fiction, Adam also writes fantasy/horror for children, as well as bizarro fiction for several publishers. His Dead Series has been the filling in a Stephen King/Bram Stoker sandwich on Amazon’s bestsellers chart, and the translation rights have recently sold to German publisher, Voodoo Press.
She first saw him, the sallow man, sitting in a Parisian café. While she sipped tea from a cup two sizes too big, he watched furtively over his copy of L’Humanité, of which he had not read a single article. At first, she took his interest to be nothing extraordinary; she was a very beautiful lady and, as far as she knew, he was a Frenchman. They seemed to pay close attention to attractive women. There was nothing to worry about; if anything, she should have been flattered.
Yet there was something about the wetness of his eyes and the way in which he grit his teeth that was inherently unsettling. Eventually, she stood, deigning to embroil the gentleman in conversation. As she began to walk across the café, the man lowered his newspaper, as if, all along, he had known it would come to this.
As she neared, though, something altered within her, for she could see he was ill. His flesh was the colour of butter, his eyes ruby in their sunken sockets. She approached his table, no longer intending to berate him for his impertinence; her heart tightened inside her, as if somebody had gripped onto it and refused to let go.
The man, whose fingers now drummed nervously upon the table-edge, smiled up at her, and she walked right past him, deciding that the only way to avert embarrassment was with the pretence of a toilet-break. As the door closed behind her, shutting out the poorly man and the sound of his gnarled fingers a-tapping, she cast her mind back to the last time she had seen such sickness.
Her mother, afflicted by colorectal cancer, sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. That same yellow tinge painted on her like some foul guano; her eyes not sunken, but bulging from her face like poached eggs. Tara had been fifteen years old, and finding her mother doubled over like that, in such pain, her resignation as tangible as the disease eating through her, was enough to cause nightmares for years to follow. Her mother, who had always been so strong and brave, reduced to a crumbling tangle of a person; it had been almost impossible for Tara’s fifteen year-old brain to accept.
That man, seated in the café, was suffering—or so she believed at that moment—in much the same way as her mother had in her final days. He had the same air about him; the same scent of putrefaction seeping out from his pores.
Tara washed her hands, though there was no need as she had done nothing but stand and consider her options. The reflection in the mirror stared back at her, and for a second she didn’t recognise the face as her own. Only when she winked—for her own piece of mind—did she accept it as a true likeness, and yet there was still something different that she couldn’t quite put her finger . . .
The door burst open and a woman with a young child rushed through it. Tara, feeling caught in the act even though she was doing nothing untoward, feigned inspection of her own teeth, not realising how pathetic she must have looked, grinning and snapping at the mirror, until long after exiting the room. As she did, she walked past the sallow man’s table without so much as a cursory glance.
If she had looked, she would have found nob
ody sitting there, for the sallow man had made his point and left while Tara had been inspecting her fading beauty in the W.C.
The second time she saw him was the library. Tara had been browsing the romance section, hoping to discover something that would distract her suitably from the strange feeling within her, the bitter taste that had suddenly taken up residence on her tongue, the ear-splitting headaches that kept her up all night, clinging to her toes and rocking gently back and forth as the world slept around her.
As she removed a tattered hardback book from its shelf, she almost choked at the sight of him: the sallow man. It had been almost a month since the avoided confrontation at the café, but that was a wholly different country. How could it be that this man, who still possessed the countenance of a man on the verge of death, could be here, back in England, in the same library?
What was even more unnerving was that he adorned the same bistre suit as he had the last time she’d seen him, as if he was possessed of only the one set of clothes. It wasn’t dirty, nor frayed, but it hung loosely from his frame, possibly a whole three sizes too big for him.
He didn’t look directly at her, though she was concealed by an entire shelf of psychology books, but she had the strange feeling he knew she was there. It caused the hackles to rise on her arms. The atmosphere was suddenly thick; she felt that she would have to swim through it to make the hasty exit she so desired.
A cough, neither her own nor the sallow man’s, startled her, pulling her back from the terrifying reverie that she had unconsciously succumbed to. The librarian sidling up alongside her, replacing various volumes of erotica that she was loath to look at as she worked, said, “Sorry. Got a hell of a cold coming.”
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