Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2012 - Issues 10 through 20

by Tanzer, Molly

  My ring. I want it.

  Kheiron froze. Looked me up and down with a sly smile, his eyes flashing emerald in the starlight. Well then welcome aboard m’friend. He reached into a breast pocket and tossed a goat-skull ring to me. I caught it and put it on.

  The Black Goat welcomes ya. When ya Desire more ya know how to find one uh the Thousand of Us. We’ll talk about the tattoos next time. He pointed at the 238 and ornate symbols on the back of his left hand then gave a wave with the other. He disappeared along the gravel path back into the city.

  If I were a poet I’d say that heroin mocks me with its resplendency; beauty’s true nature exposed from every blossoming injection like a dissected fruit exposing the worm within. If I were more eloquent I’d say that I now recognize the true identity of obsidian capra aegagrus- it engages in incestuous revelry with Hypnos and Nyx and beneath its allure hides dear old familiar Thanatos. Heh ha!

  But I’m no poet and I sure as hell have no regrets. I had no choice but to return to the garden, to taste the Black Essence and float on its warm currents. I want nothing more than to shirk off this diseased skin and abandon everything that anchors me here. The Goat and Kheiron and the obsidian capra aegagrus will fulfill my wish, allow me one last chance to unspool my mind from this cesspool of existence. I no longer care about much of anything; I willingly relinquish my ownership of this skin, muscle blood and bone. Everything I was and am belongs to the Black Goat now. It has free reign to mold my flesh into whatever It Desires.

  I will escape this finite existence into infinite dream. I rattle the objects in the palm of my closed fist, pop one into my mouth and dry swallow Kheiron’s pill without even looking at it. The drug takes effect immediately: my blood flow clots, bones knit together, skin seals shut. I wear a pallid mask as I coast into drugged dreams. I study the mound of pills on my palm. Each tablet is delicately stamped with the image of my strange dream flower and hand painted with the blood red letters ai ai.

  The nickel-sized needle wounds on my arms gape, open and close their mouths in unison. Hungry for ceaseless currents.

  Christopher Slatsky’s stories have appeared in Death Head Grin, Eschatology, and the anthology Arcane. He writes out of some futile desire to someday capture just a hint of the wonder that authors like Blackwood, Poe, McCarthy, Ducornet, Klein, Peake, Schulz, Nabokov and Campbell have offered him. He grew up in the Pacific Northwest and California, escaped to the U.K., then recently returned to Southern California. Christopher, his wife, and their two sons are currently located in the Los Angeles area… that is until something summons them elsewhere again.

  Story illustrations by Peter Szmer.

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  The Dig

  by Monica Valentinelli

  “Dig deep.”

  The Voice is soft, plain, urgent. It speaks to me through shadows and sunbeams, reflections and dreams. The words creep in between my waking thoughts, insisting that I dig. I try to tell It to stop, but It won’t listen.

  “Dig deep.”

  As each minute passes, Its pleas are more frequent. Yet, the Voice never changes its calm, serious tone. It seems I have no choice — none at all — but to listen to It. Not if I want my head to be clear, to belong to me once again.

  “Dig deep.”

  It attaches itself to my skull like a giant leech and feasts upon my brain, sucking my common sense dry. I roll out of bed and dress quickly: khaki shorts, black t-shirt, baseball hat. My breakfast consists of a large, juicy apple. I choose this particular fruit because I like the way my teeth bite through its tough, red skin. I bite down hard, defiantly, because It doesn’t care that my stomach is empty. It is single-minded, unrelenting.

  “Dig deep.”

  I head over to my rotting woodshed and grab a rusty shovel. My backyard is filled with weeds and wildflowers that compete for sunlight and water. Their green battle sickens me. Everywhere I look, I see the dried husks of long, stringy grasses and brown daisies. I’m not sure why, but I feel guilt weighing upon my chest like a marble statue.

  Before I know it, the shovel is out of my hands; it’s been replaced with a small weed cutter. I grip the tool’s paint-chipped ends and attack the healthy plants until they bleed. Soon I am covered in the remains of dandelions, thistles, bluebells and tiger lilies. Their flowery corpses bring color and shape to my madness. A thin, green fluid runs down my leg. It feels good — necessary — a sign I am heading in the right direction. Down, down. Down I go.

  “Dig deep.”

  “Okay,” I whisper as I hang the weed cutter on my belt. “I’ll dig.”

  The shovel calls to me like a forgotten lover. I clutch the handle and force its rusty tip into the earth. My foot takes its place on the blunt end on the spade. As I ram it into the moist dirt, a warm, familiar feeling washes over me. I have dug before. I have listed to It before.

  But I do not remember when or how or why. Only that I’m familiar with It, and I’m not sure I want to be.

  I lift spade after spade of root, rock and soil. The hours wither and fade. The Sun laughs at me, for I have found nothing: no bones, no boxes, no clues. He retreats into Night’s comforting arms, threatening to come back tomorrow.

  As daylight turns to dusk, my mind burns with a single thought: “Dig deeper.”

  My body feels feverish. I cannot eat or drink or piss. I cannot speak or cry for help. I have to dig. Nay, I must dig. I cannot stop. Not yet.

  The Moon takes pity on me. She shines down and offers Her silvery support. I pause — only for a moment — to salute Her with a shovelful of dirt. To comfort me, She asks the stars to come out, to add their distant, lonely splendor to Her own.

  “Dig deeper.”

  Judging by the Moon, I assume it’s well past midnight. My body reeks of sweat and damp earth. My stomach grumbles; I haven’t eaten anything except for a single apple. I review my activities for the day: I have dug a hole in my backyard I can no longer see over the top of. Four, maybe five coffins could fit comfortably inside. The thought frightens me. Why do I know that? How?

  “Dig deeper.”

  The Voice implores me to continue, but I am not sure I should. Now I wonder what will happen if I ignore the Voice, if I tell It to find someone else to torment, if I run for miles in any direction.

  Oh, how I wish I could but I can’t! A bell tolls in my mind. The sad strains of Death’s mournful song surround It like a ghostly shroud. I’m frightened because I can sing the words to each and every verse. Still, I do not possess the why or how or even when.

  “Dig deepest, please.”

  Its tone has changed. It is polite, friendly. It relaxes Its grip on my mind and I collapse into a pile of sunburned flesh and muddy clothes. Something sharp pokes my leg. I assume it’s the weed cutter. Blood — my blood — trickles down my leg. Drip, drip, drip.

  Suddenly, my world contracts and I have my mission. Questions remain, but I do not care to discover the answers. I will do anything to make the Voice stop.

  “Dig deepest, please.”

  “Yes,” I reply gravely. “I will dig deepest and be damned for it.” I prop my body up against the side of a dirt wall and carefully roll up my shirt. Closing my eyes, I brush my fingertips over my stomach, searching for a sign.

  As soon as my fingers touch a Y-shaped scar, the Voice falls silent. I revel in the peaceful moment, believing that it may be my last. Then, I take the weed cutter, and I carefully run the blade’s sharp edges along the faint incision. I carve deliberately and deeply. I cut something other than flesh. There, beneath folds of skin and fat, is my treasure: a piece of worn paper wrapped in plastic.

  I touch the prize. My mind wanders. I picture my library, my flowing black robes and the cemetery next door. Though I am bleeding, I can think of nothing else — an unfinished ritual spoken on the wrong day when the moon was new. I had a bad translation, so I used a red candle instead of a black one and sacrificed a trout instead of a raven. It wasn’t my fault! There was no
way to fix what had already been done! It was too late!

  “Almost there.”

  I feel It lurking in the back of my mind crawling, slinking, twisting, gripping the inside of my skull like a fat, parasitic worm. Terrifying thoughts burst through the folds of my aching brain: I am not imagining It. Its torment is real. But where is It? Why can’t I see It?

  “You know why.”

  It answers me and suddenly we are having a conversation. Yes, It has responded. It can hear my unspoken words and I can see visions of Its dark desires. In fact, It has heard me and I have obeyed It ever since…

  …the ritual failed.

  Truth shines in front of my mind’s eye as bright as the naked Moon up above. I had hidden It, tucked It away, forgotten about It – hoping It would leave and take my sins with It.

  “Let me out.”

  No, I understand what It wants and that fancy cannot be fulfilled. I would rather die than let It escape into the world. For all my wrongs, for all my murderous deeds, I cannot let It have what It wants.

  “Let me out, please.”

  Does my fragile Will matter anymore? If I diminish here in this hole, will It slither free? It does not have to answer my questions. Live, die, eat, shit, sleep, wake – stupid and tragic and useless. It must have claimed Victory the minute I brought It forth from the place where nightmares walk beneath hot suns. There is no other explanation. It does not understand the concept of Loss, because It lives on a diet of Tragedy and Sacrifice.

  “Let me out, now.”

  “No!” I shout at It. I grab the weed cutter and plunge it into my body again, and again, and again. It screeches in pain; Its cry is so loud it drowns my own. Blood weeps from my wounds and gathers in a small pool by my side. Did I get It? Can I die happy and repented?

  “Now!”

  Wait, what’s this? My heart’s blood is not red – it swirls into a sooty, alien solution. My own, precious juices shine in the moonlight with an otherworldly glow. What madness! I watch in horror as the sticky fluid coagulates of its own accord and seeps into the ground like water drawn to a long-buried seed. Alas! There is no time to stop It! The voice leaves my mind but takes Its just and heavy due.

  The last joyous words I hear before my consciousness fades comes not from me, but from It: “Ahhhhhhhh! Deep enough!”

  Monica Valentinelli is an author and game designer who lurks in the dark. For more about Monica and her work, visit http://www.mlvwrites.com/.

  Story illustration by Miko.

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  Amtopians

  by Logan Davis

  Publisher’s Note: A few months ago, my 10-year-old son Logan wrote a little science fiction horror story. I was very proud of him, and I really enjoyed reading it. Then I got to thinking… it’s a bit Lovecraftian, too! Why not publish it in a future issue? It will encourage him to write more, and, I thought you guys might get a kick out of it. I did very little editing; I wanted to preserve the story just as he wrote it. Enjoy!

  Prologue.

  I’m not going to make this sound like this is like some fairy tale or mythical tale or something like that. It’s just a night I will never forget. I am not going to add some cool stuff, like I thought I saw something in the corner of my eye; I’m just going to tell you what really happened.

  Chapter 1: Nightfall.

  I was just doing a regular night for me, going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth; lately, since I was sick, I had been hearing these voices. I thought it was just because I was sick. I always thought to myself what were they saying? Because they were too soft to hear. I mostly ignored it, but you know minds sometimes, they always think about stuff that you don’t know about.

  So this night, I was going to try to listen to what they were saying. So I did so. First, I read my 45 minutes for homework; then, I got real comfy in my bunk bed, away where I wasn’t covering one of my ears like I normally do. Gently snuggling into the blankets, I heard a noise. I thought, “wow, that was soon! Normally it’s when my mind starts wandering if the voices are still here.”

  So I listened. And listened. It seemed like hours to me. Of course, since I had a clock in my room, it was only a rotten 15 minutes! But then, out of the blue, I heard what seemed to be like a little dark laugh. It was very quiet, for that matter. I bet it didn’t want to wake me up, not knowing I was still awake. I not dare to open up my eyes, for what I would see, or what would see me, I bet would be terrible, because that’s a voice only a mother could love!

  I can’t really explain it to you; because, well, I didn’t know what it was. I never will. So as I sat there just thinking about what to do, it stopped. I could hear something moving. I thought to myself, “What on earth? Maybe somebody else is here… or someTHING.” I closed my eyes as tight as I could, because I was afraid of what I might see.

  Listening very closely, I could hear what sounded like whispers. Trying to make it out, I could only make out a few words:

  “Do we do it tonight? Something something something”… something else I could not understand. I tried to fall asleep, wondering in my head. Eventually, after what I bet was about an hour, but it felt to me like ten. As I wondered, and wondered, about what they were talking about (of course I couldn’t hear them any more, they must have heard my dog or cats), I gently fell to sleep.

  Chapter 2: During the night.

  “What?!” I seemed to scream out loud, which I hope I didn’t. I forced myself to open my eyes. The people, or whatever they were, were still there. Thank God and only Him that I didn’t cry out loud! Probably I was having a nightmare. I looked up — they were speaking really clear now, but of course in a different language, so I didn’t worry about them. Seemed like the sun was coming up soon, because my clock showed 5am. Again, I didn’t worry about them, because they were facing the opposite direction, because I didn’t even think that they knew that I knew that they were there. So they didn’t think I would have nightmares.

  Hoping that my parents would walk in at any moment, of course I knew it couldn’t happen — because it was five in the morning and yesterday was Friday, so it must be Saturday! I HAVE to try to go to sleep, otherwise I may drive myself insane! So I drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 3: Breaking dawn.

  Groan. I’m TIRED. I guessed the people or whatever they were kept me worrying all night, so I didn’t get good sleep. “What time is it?” I said as my alarm clock went off. I didn’t want to sleep in that day because I wanted to play outside a long time. School had been hard this week.

  I basically did my regular routine of getting up on Saturdays, I argued with myself to see if I wanted to get up or sleep in. Normally, the “get up” one, but today I fell asleep for ANOTHER hour or so.

  When I woke up, my parents were looking at me in a funny way. “You slept in late,” my mother said, surprised.

  “You sure did, son,” my dad supported.

  “What? What are you guys doing in here?” I asked sleepily.

  “We came to check if you were alright,” my mother responded.

  “I just decided to sleep a little bit late,” I replied.

  “Okay, sonny,” my dad said, in his funny voice. He always seemed to have a voice like from TV shows or something. I told them to please get out of my room, because I wanted to get dressed into my biking shirt and jeans.

  Chapter 4: High noon.

  I went into the town to see if any of my friends were out at the skate park. For some odd reason, there wasn’t anybody really in the town. Stores weren’t open, it was more like a desert than any town. Of course it had no sand and it wasn’t hot!

  I went back to my house. My parents must have gone out, they were going to a party. So, I figured out that it was about noon.

  I went inside to play video games. I thought it was pretty much the only thing to do, since, well, nobody was outside. I looked through my games, “Planet 51”, “Batman: Arkham City”, “Alien Invasion”… wait! I don’t have “Alien Invasion”
!

  I decided to put in in my PS3 — if it was a movie, I could see what it was, if it was a video… well, why would it be a video? Let’s just see what it does.

  I put it in, and here’s what it had: “Hello aliens! We are Amtopians! We have come to take over your technology and destroy your planet! If you are hearing this, you are one of the few we have not already destroyed. We thank you for helping us, puny creature! If you try to stop us, you will die painfully! By this time tomorrow, or whatever you call the next day on this planet, you and your planet will have been destroyed!” I could tell that he was trying to hide the smirk on his face, let alone trying to not laugh.

  I was really scared! But at that moment, I saw a light. Strange, I thought to myself. Unwillingly, I walked towards it. I touched it, and aaaaaaaaah!!!

  Chapter 5: Morning.

  I woke up in my bed, screaming. It had all been a dream, I said, comforting myself.

  “What was a dream?” a weird creature with a funny voice said.

  “Huh?” I said, surprised, as I looked down from my bunk bed. I saw an ugly creature! It was the creature I saw on the video! The Amtopians really took over, and now they were after me!

  Logan Davis is 10 years old and in the 5th grade. He enjoys reading on his new Kindle, playing PS3 games, and playing outside with his friends. He was once written up in the local newspaper for his random acts of kindness to neighbors. Needless to say, his parents are very proud of him.

  Story illustrations by Nick Gucker, Mike Dominic, and Steve Santiago.

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  Of Faith and Fallow

  by William R.D. Wood

  Deidre Lopez slumped on the side of the bed, elbows on her knees, face pressed into her hands. Pain hammered in her skull threatening to splinter bone with each blow from her heart.