Torn Realities

by Post Mortem Press

  Of creations most hideous and grotesque there sprawled upon that throne the lord of all: a quivering vastness of pinkish flesh that approximated both a greasy amoeba, a heap of raw gristle and a distended human caricature in equally revolting degrees-–the great High Priest Siosotep, most favored and blessed vassal of dread Xethogga. From behind the surrounding pillars there emerged a throng of pale, misshapen creatures, each no larger than a child. They cavorted ghoulishly upon their hind limbs and squirmed obsequiously upon their flabby bellies before the throne and their unspeakable master.

  Lord Galen’s powers of speech deserted him entirely. He had steeled himself for anything, but the unlimited loathsomeness of the High Priest proved entirely beyond the pale of even the most harrowing legends. Then by degrees, from the uppermost portion of the High Priest’s corpulence, like an abortion wriggling from a distended womb, there protruded slowly a bulbous roundness crowned by a stringy mass of oily, black hair. Two pupil-less yellow eyes rolled open and a gummy, lipless mouth emerged to scowl. In a voice possessed of a disturbingly gelatinous vibration and of a thunderous bass pitch that rattled the flagstones, the High Priest spoke thusly:

  "Look upon me O Galen and tremble rightly, for you are but a wretched insect before my never-ending glory. Long have I sat upon this smoldering throne of ebon and jet; for aeons untold I have resided within these vaults communing in dreams with the All-Father and All-Mother, whom this age knows as Xethogga.

  "In my infinite mercy I have deigned to suffer your continual drawing of breath, so long as you prove an entertaining diversion from my eternal contemplation. It is for this reason, and this reason alone, that I have taken pity upon your pathetic life and allowed you to reach my abode alive and unharmed.

  "Know that your desires are as an open book to my limitless intellect. You have come here seeking that which belonged to you so long ago: the girl you call Fiona. Fortunate are you, wretched insect, for she lives even after all these years and, as of yet, has not been sundered utterly in fulfillment of both my carnal and gastronomical desires. Since your insignificant and puny emotions amuse me, I will allow you to recover the girl so long as you can distinguish her from the other members of my harem."

  Before the fearsome bulk and before the equally fearsome voice of the High Priest, Lord Galen felt his previous courage slip away. He could only dumbly acquiesce to the doubtful proposal with a short nod. A lumpen appendage, which Lord Galen had initially taken as gestalt with the High Priest’s immensity, emerged to make a gesture. In response, the parade of pale abominations cavorting near the throne’s base wailed in a chorus of multi-tonal voices–-some high like the squeaking of mice, some low like the rumble of bulls-–chanting over and over a maddening benediction: "Uuaah! Uuaah-Xethogga!"

  A group of them broke away to scurry off into the darkened rows of pillars and returned a moment later goading forth a creature of approximately human configuration. Though she possessed the bare upper torso, arms and breasts of a beautiful woman, she lacked eyelids and her pupils were so wide that her ocular orbits appeared empty. In the place of a mouth, there chattered a bony beak replete with rows of serrated teeth. Her legs looked as though they had been reduced to the consistency of wax and then melted together to form a single appendage upon which she hopped awkwardly. Again, the High Priest spoke:

  "Look now O wretched insect and behold! This is a lamia taken from her subterranean abode in the phosphorescent realms lurking just below the feet of mortal men. She is regarded as the most beautiful of her kind and it was for this reason that I desired her. Long ago did my servants raid her borough and bear her hither to me. Perhaps she is the one called Fiona who belonged to you so long ago?"

  Lord Galen could only look away in revulsion and stutter that she was not his Fiona. To this the High Priest chortled and ordered the lamia taken away. With a second gesture, the High Priest’s foul servants receded once more. This time they bore thither an object which Lord Galen, at first, took for some sort of fiendishly wrought and highly abstract wax sculpture affixed to a wooden frame. But when they dragged it nearer he could see that it quavered and heaved with a sort of horrible breathing. Only after studying it in stupefaction did Lord Galen realize, as his gorge rose within him, that the sculpture was no sculpture but a living woman knotted about the wooden frame. He could see now, in frightful starkness, how her mouth had been distended to form a toothy lattice, how a single eye darted about in torturous comprehension, how arms and legs had been reshaped into fan-like new forms and how other parts of her anatomy had been modified in ways not to be described.

  "Look now O wretched insect and behold! This is a mortal woman plucked from one of the teeming kingdoms of men. Her fairness was known to all across the land and was regarded by many to have no rival. Hearing these rumors I dispatched my servants to abduct her from the palace in which she dwelt. But, upon regarding her for the first time, I grew dissatisfied with her rather commonplace appearance and so chose to improve upon it. Perhaps she is the one called Fiona who belonged to you so long ago?"

  Covering his mouth was all Lord Galen could do to keep from retching in disgust. He managed a feeble shake of his head and the High Priest’s servants ushered her away. Anon, they brought in one at a time a multitude of additional things which only madmen would dare regard as women. The abominations eventually progressed past the ability of mortal man to bear-–stringy effigies which bore awful human kinships and spoke from artificial orifices; carrion heaps which had perhaps been human but were now exaggerated to gruesome proportions by arcane surgical techniques; insectoid or reptilian females which were the product of miscegenation between human and animal stock. Yet, blessedly, none resembled, even in the slightest, his beloved Fiona. After the last had been dragged away, the High Priest chortled and then addressed Lord Galen once more:

  "O wretched insect it seems that no single member of my harem has pleased you. But despair not, for there is yet one left. She is a radiant jewel whose intellect and features have impressed even such an individual as I. Thus, after stealing her away many lustrums ago, I encased her in a mighty alembic which is host to a great many arcane engines. These eldritch devices have preserved her youth and splendor despite the passage of time. Yet hers is the beauty of the gardened amaranth: never-wilting but kept always jealously confined. Throughout the long years she has retained her consciousness and experienced each moment of entombment with perfect clarity. Perhaps she is the one called Fiona who belonged to you so long ago?"

  From the consuming shadows the multifarious servants of the High Priest dragged forth a prodigious apparatus in the shape of a cylinder perched atop a truncated pyramid. Coiled around its base were sinister bundles of cable and wire that suggested metallic intestines. From its edges there emitted a faint glow possessed of the sizzling qualities of electricity. A hidden lever caused a devilishly concealed panel upon the surface of the cylinder to slide open and, from within, there tumbled the white form of a nude girl.

  For a time she lay upon the cold flagstones, coughing and sobbing. Then she peered up at Lord Galen with green eyes obscured behind a curtain of dark hair. Upon seeing him she gave pause then issued a choked cry; she groped at him drunkenly and stammered indistinct words from half-numb lips.

  Any hope Lord Galen had dared entertain died in his chest then. Though the thing that crawled piteously toward him did indeed approximate, in the vaguest sense, his long-lost Fiona it could not possibly have been her. While true that it possessed black hair, its hair was not the tumbling raven locks that Lord Galen remembered; and while true that it possessed eyes of green, they were not the cool viridian that he recalled. Its croaking voice was nothing near the spring-like warmth of long-lost Fiona’s; and its form was that of banal adolescent and possessed nothing akin to long-lost Fiona’s angelic curves. In his heart, he felt neither the peace nor the joy he recalled but only a vague disgust. Whatever this thing was, it was not his Fiona. It had to be some sort of false simulacra fabricated by th
e vile sorceries and thaumaturgies of the High Priest.

  Lord Galen cursed the High Priest for lying to him and for toying with him so cruelly. Fiona had never been amongst the gruesome harem-–the entire episode had been a spectacle designed to entertain the High Priest at his expense. Without a backwards glance, Lord Galen strode angrily from the throne-room. Throughout the hallway there chased him snorting, cackling, echoing and ever-waxing chortles. When he reached the great bronze gates he found them surprisingly ajar and quickly slid betwixt them and started back down the mountain. The hierophant of Anubis he had tortured so many years ago had been false with him; his Fiona dwelled not within the lands of Ankor Sabat. With a mighty oath, Lord Galen resolved to kidnap a hundred more priests-–a thousand more if need be-–and inflict such hideous cruelties upon them that the very gods would weep. Eventually, one would know where his long-lost Fiona had been borne.

  Back in the cyclopean throne-room of the Black Ziggurat, the High Priest Siosotep’s laughter continued. With a gesture he ordered his servants to return the girl to her confinement. Now more aware than before, as of one who is slowly coming out of a drugged stupor or nightmare, she began to scream at the prospect of more eternities within the claustrophobic dimensions of the alembic. But the misshapen servants overwhelmed her easily and, as the panel slammed shut once more, the High Priest chortled louder. Soon after his gurgling laughter lifted to a booming crescendo that shook the very foundations of the Black Ziggurat of Xethogga.

  BY THE SIDE OF THE HIGHWAY

  Philip Roberts

  This was the first submission to Torn Realities--before, in fact, my publisher even told me we were open for business. Lovecraft's characters always struck me as damned--in a non-religious sense--whether due to their circumstances or personalities. Philip's Omar character fits that bill pretty well, and this story helped me find my groove as I read others. Philip's work has appeared in Midnight Echo and The Horrorzine. His short story collection Passing Through is available on the Kindle.

  The needle lay motionless by the word empty for longer than Omar had been expecting before the car finally sputtered and slowed to a stop. He pulled it gently off to the side of the long stretch of empty road, his windows rolled down to show him the flat, lifeless plains, and he leaned his head back against the seat.

  There had been gas stations before that needle struck bottom, but then again, there had also been grocery stores and restaurants able to stop the low rumble in his stomach. Given the sun beating down so fiercely in the early afternoon, Omar licked his dry lips and figured he would’ve bought water if he’d had money to buy anything at all, but it didn’t really matter anymore. He’d accepted this destination long before he stepped in his car and used up the last remaining drops of gas he still owned, his last real possession. Technically the bank owned his car, but until they felt like coming out to get it, Omar figured he could keep leaning back in the seat.

  Omar tilted his head out the window and stared up at the blue sky, squinted against the glare of the sun that caused the sweat to bead on his forehead. He’d once kept his brown hair cut short, but getting fired and sliding slowly into poverty forced a man to make decisions he didn’t want to, and barbers weren’t exactly high priority. He hated the feeling of his own hair sticking wetly to his forehead.

  There had been crops growing in most of the farmland he’d been driving through, but now the land was nothing but barren dirt, probably owned by farmers being paid to not grow shit by the government. Omar wished he could be so lucky to get a gig like that.

  As much as he didn’t mind lounging in his car, he figured he should at least get out, wait for someone else to come along, get used to begging others for help. At least his clothes were presentable even with the sweat stains, though they were a bit baggy, bought when he’d been able to afford enough to eat to actually put on some pounds. Still, he looked more like the accountant he’d once been than the homeless bum he’d become, and that would help for rides, get him into the nearest town, though he couldn’t say what he planned to do when he actually got there.

  He leaned back against his car, wiped the sweat from his forehead, ran his fingers through his hair to comb it as much as he could, eyes locked on the horizon where the road vanished from sight.

  Something crunched lightly behind him and Omar glanced over his shoulder towards the empty, dirt land, but he saw instead a tall man smiling at him on the other side of the vehicle.

  He jerked away from the car, out onto the road, while the man remained motionless except for a slight tilt of the head as he studied Omar. The man had to be near six foot five, made taller by the ratty, frayed bowler hat he wore. The best Omar could think to describe the man was like photos he’d seen of starved people from death camps in World War II, except dressed up like a bum from the Great Depression. His face and body looked emaciated to the point of death, emphasizing the large grin on the face, teeth shoved unnaturally from the head. His clothing was mostly brown and gray, and even though the temperatures reached at least the mid-nineties, the man wore a dusty suit jacket over his dirty white shirt and suspenders.

  The man’s height emphasized the thin frame. Wiry gray hair spilled out from beneath the hat. He brought up a hand to rest on the car’s hood, and the hand looked like a thin layer of wrinkled skin stretched over the bone.

  "You look like a man who needs company," the man said, his voice more a wheeze, the words hard to understand.

  "What did you say?" Omar asked, tried to stand defiant, afraid of the freakish man even though it didn’t look like the guy could possibly have the strength to fight.

  The man turned from the car and started across the dirt farmland, arms swaying back and forth as he walked, body rigid and upright. The waves of the heat soon consumed him in the distance, leaving Omar alone on the road, blinking, aware of another noise clamoring for his attention.

  He stood in the middle of a lane, a fact he came to accept right as he noticed the truck slowing, honking loudly at him. Omar moved off the road and then up to the window, glad the truck didn’t speed off the second the path was cleared. The man behind the wheel gave Omar a bemused but friendly enough looking smile.

  "Bit of a dangerous way to get attention," he said.

  "I was distracted. You wouldn’t by any chance be willing to help me out, would you? I ran out of gas and I don’t know the area very well."

  The man eyed him briefly up and down, nodded, and reached over to open the passenger side door. "Just going about fifteen miles, but I’m sure you can get to a phone from the general store."

  Omar thanked him and got in, watched his car sink into the background. The wind felt good on his skin, cooled the beginnings of a sunburn, and though he couldn’t say what he’d do when he got to the store, he thought it was better to be there than with his car.

  Some piece of country music played in the background, the sound low and filled with static, but Omar didn’t mind, had never really cared much for country music, and much to his pleasure the man behind the wheel didn’t speak a word. Omar glanced at the guy leaning back, deeply tanned arm out the window, the skin on his face dark and leathery from years in the sun.

  There might have been a day when Omar would’ve struck up a conversation with the guy. He’d been in sales before accounting, a friendly smile on his face, chatting up anyone he could, maybe buying into his own friendly sales pitch just a bit too much and thinking the people he spoke with were actually his friends. He’d carried that attitude into accounting and into everything else. There was no shortage of souls happy to have drinks with him, watch games with him, or lean against his desk in the morning to chat.

  Omar could almost close his eyes and be in those offices he’d once thought he’d been integral to, until getting laid off taught him just how few people cared to lend a helping hand. Omar had been a very convenient person to be friends with, he’d come to conclude, and people didn’t quite care to work to maintain anything if they had to. If asked three yea
rs before he might’ve said he wouldn’t be alone in that car by the road if the worst of possibilities came to pass. There would be someone else there to help him share the pain. Now he knew what a foolish optimist he’d been.

  His eyes opened to the few houses visible in the distance, nothing beyond them but flat, lonely land. Omar looked at the waves of heat, and something else. He assumed it was light reflecting off of an approaching car, but the glare grew brighter, like the sun itself sitting in the middle of the road rushing towards him. The man behind the wheel paid no attention to it, made no effort to move out of the way even though it was about to hit them. Omar’s throat hitched, arms brought up to protect his face, eyes squinted shut, and even through them he could see the blinding light.

  The wind vanished. Omar brought down his arms, realized he was standing. He opened his eyes and stared at his car beside the road.

  Omar glanced around, wide-eyed, mouth agape as he saw the same land he’d left just minutes before. Nothing moved up or down the road.

  "I couldn’t have imagined it," he said. He looked past his car, beyond it towards the fields, squinted into the waves, barely able to make out the shape of a tall man standing far in the dirt. In his mind the vagrant smiled at him with teeth that almost jumped from the skull. He shivered at the thought.

  "Just the heat," he said, brought up his hand as if it could stop the sun’s rays from inflicting their damage to his skin.

  There hadn’t been a man and there hadn’t been a truck. Normally Omar would’ve stayed and waited for a ride, but he wanted to be away from his car and the still image of a man standing deep in the farmland. So he started walking down the highway, his sleeves rolled up, sweat trickling down his face, stomach empty and feeling large in his body, crying for attention.