Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 4 Rev1

by Price, Robert M.

  “Besides,” Lissner’s hands found his new shapes, caressed both absences and additions, while an elated expression rolled over his face.

  “I’m quite enjoying the new possibilities,” Lissner continued, as one hand disappeared down the front of his panties, into the silk-covered mystery or ruin – whatever lay there.

  “And Dora is not complaining, either,” he added.

  That was when something finally broke apart inside me. I got on my feet, feeling dizzy, mumbled some excuse about having to use the bathroom and stumbled out of the study.

  Dora was sitting in the living room, smoking, still with that knowing smile on her lips, as blue puffs of smoke rose above her head and dissolved in the sunlight.

  The bathroom. I guessed, found the right door, saw tiled floor and a cistern, shower curtains, and a mirror that threw back my deformed countenance. Then I threw up in the sink. The feelers twisted, as if they too felt my suffering as bile and half-digested food left me through my mouth and my nostrils.

  When there was nothing left to regurgitate I turned on the faucet and splashed some cold water in my face.

  I stood there for I don’t know how long, watching the rivulets trickle down the concave inside of the sink and disappear down the drain. Then I heard cars pull up in the driveway. Several of them, and big, by the sound of it. Military vehicles.

  There was a small window in the bathroom facing the driveway in front of the house, and when I looked out I could see three military trucks pulling up to the house. It hit me like a hammer-blow. They had been watching us the whole time. Of course they had. I felt betrayed, not by my body this time, but by Leary, that son-of-a-bitch, whom I’d allowed to get close to me with all his fake camaraderie. I cursed myself for my weakness, for having felt like I needed him, for having cared so much about his opinion.

  Now armed soldiers spilled out of the trucks, and I heard a violent crash when they broke into the house. Dora screamed. Then followed a lot of heated shouting back and forth. Lissner’s voice mixed with those of the soldiers, but he was speaking German now and I couldn’t tell what he was saying. There came a sound like something being knocked over, and that woke me. I thought about Marion home alone, and I imagined a similar scenario playing out at our home, with Leary shouting at her, asking her where I was hiding.

  Lissner had to take care of himself. Let him try to convince Leary of the wonders of his new body, I thought as I undid the latches on the bathroom window. I threw a quick glance outside where my car was parked next to the military trucks, but all the soldiers had run into the house it seemed. My heart was pounding in my chest as if it was trying to break free when I hefted myself up into the windowsill, swung my legs over the edge, and let myself drop down to the dry, dusty ground outside.

  I ran over to my car, crouched down by the door while I prayed they hadn’t seen me. The key slipped into the lock and I could crawl in. To hell with the towel, it was still lying on the floor in Lissner’s study, probably being trampled by the soldiers’ boots, but I couldn’t care less. I was beyond that. I started the engine and sped out of the driveway, headed for home.

  On the way, I was seized by a dread that curdled my blood. I felt so small, so insignificant, a stranger and alone in a world I did not make. The town of Remand, the houses, the white picket fences, the vulgar flowers in the yards, they were nothing more than a backdrop to cover up a horrible void.

  I only had Marion to fix my thoughts on, my lighthouse in the storm.

  When I pulled up in front of my house, I saw that the familiar building had been hidden behind plastic sheets in crass colors screaming warning. It was a convenient cover-up, of course. They wanted our neighbors to believe we had been infested by pests. It would explain our sudden “disappearance”.

  But the only pests I could see were the soldiers, barely disguised as exterminators as if they hadn’t really bothered to make an effort, and Leary, with that somber look on his face, standing there on the seared grass, waiting for me like a disappointed father expecting the return of a wayward son.

  There was no trace of Marion. I stormed out of the car like a madman, finally letting it all go. I screamed and thrashed as the soldiers seized me, my feelers even squirming in solidarity with me. I spat insult-upon-insult at Leary’s stony face, wanting to rip out his throat with my teeth and choke the life from his body.

  They put me in a cell somewhere I guessed was underground, maybe a part of the Wormhole I hadn’t known about before. Maybe they kept Marion and Lissner prisoners in other cells, or maybe they were dead. The soldiers refused to tell me anything, just watched me through the glass and took notes.

  In the beginning, I screamed and raged, threw myself against the wall till my skin turned black, or flung my own feces at their blank faces.

  Now I mostly just think. I have plenty of time for that.

  How conceited we are, desperately covering our world in a pretense of understanding. We convince ourselves we can impose order on the universe, cling to our science, our religions, or our flags, and believe we have tamed the void.

  We are flashes in the pan, insects flying through darkness. Ironic, to be so insignificant and still suffer so much. And for no reason at all. Marion and Junior: I let you down.

  Did they try to find me? Or did they just accept whatever lie Leary told them, packed up their things and moved back to Massachusetts, chalking up the months in the desert as a dark chapter best forgotten?

  Even if that was the case, Marion had been a good wife. She gave me a beautiful son and we loved each other. In the end, they really were the only ones that mattered.

  One day I woke up to find my feelers gone. Instead, I swelled up like a giant rubber ball, and the scientists who monitored me came and prodded me and rocked me back and forth and scratched their heads.

  Another time I sprouted thorns all over my body, like a human gorse bush. Had Leary entered my chamber that day I could have torn him to threads with my bare hands.

  But even my hatred for Leary began to fade. I no longer knew who I was, and I didn’t care. I was merely a pattern in the ebb and flow of flesh, growing ever more obscure.

  There, in the whiteness of my cell, under those indifferent white lights that shone so deep below the ground, I found myself longing only to see the strange visitor who had bestowed his gift of changes upon me.

  Secretly, I waited for that cryptic God who had sung to my body to return, to be reminded again of the hidden potentials of my flesh.

  Lars Kramhøft is a writer of dark, weird and macabre stories as well as an occasional artist. He wrote the script for the graphic novel “Made Flesh” which won the award for best danish horror publication in 2013. He has also written several short stories which have appeared in various anthologies and e-zines, most notably a number of publications from H. Harksen Productions and the upcoming annual anthology of new Danish fantasy. He lives in Copenhagen and is currently working on his first novel as well as co-writing a book with Henrik S. Harksen. He tweets at https://twitter.com/LarsKramhoeft and can be found on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/larskramhoeft.

  Story illustration by Dave Felton

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  Pawn to E4

  by Jenna M. Pitman

  Gregory and Alley are playing chess again. It amazes me that they can play anywhere, regardless of their circumstances or surroundings. They bring a set whenever they go out together, complete with an up to date diagram of all their moves and the exact layout of the board from the last time they played. I'd seen them sit down at quick lunches, beach outings or, as was now the case, in the lobby of a busy train station. I can only imagine the mad scramble to log their progress and then repackage the pieces that would occur when our boarding was called. And they would only reassemble as soon as the trip was underway. To anyone else it might seem pointless, but these aren't just any people. These are my best friends.

  I myself am not a terrible chess player under ideal conditio
ns. Ideal being a serene room, devoid of hurried individuals chattering in the background, and as much time as I need to calculate as many possible outcomes as I can muster. Months, preferably. Even then my shot of winning against all but the most freshman of opponents is slim. Despite this handicap, I am the third part of this inseparable trio of buddy-hood.

  Today I'm glad they have the distraction. It allows me a brief moment to pretend that a cat nap is an adequate substitute for a full night's rest. I slide down further in my unyielding chair and close my eyes. I do my best to filter out the sounds of loitering strangers unaware that 7:00 AM is not an approved hour of human alertness.

  Something in my head flickers, stalls, then flickers again. A lawnmower surging to life. I can't place exactly what that something is; it creeps under the edges of my brain, blurring my perception, rendering me hardly able to function. It feels as if I’ve dulled my nerves with a fistful of painkillers. I'm finding it nearly impossible to focus, even on internal thoughts. I shiver and roll my cheek to my shoulder, desperately trying to reach for a sliver of sleep. It's the only seemingly appropriate reaction to whatever it is I am feeling.

  I don't know where he came from. One moment I'm essentially alone; next it's as though the space near my shoulder is compressed. It's more than the usual displacement of air and sudden lack of nothing a person senses when an object passes behind them. There is a level wrong, ever so slight, that sweeps over me, clutching at my neck and chest with frantic fingers. I'm engulfed in a wave of inexplicable panic so deep, so intense, that for a moment all I want is a blanket to hide beneath. As if I were at home and this was merely a settling floorboard waking me.

  But I'm in public, not at home where I know logically no harm can come to me. I am in a space full of people, any one of them fully capable of atrocious acts of violence usually reserved for prime-time television.

  So I open my eyes, carefully, slowly, and try not to start in fear at the sight of the faded linen trousers. I had been expecting something but the expectation makes reality no less chilling. He is the only thing I can see clearly somehow. Everything else is fuzzy and wavering at the borders, but he comes through as crisp and as neat as a staged portrait.

  He waits patiently; mysterious and dreadful in threadbare clothing that would have been better suited to a tropical climate. He is old, his doughy, bald head flecked with the rusty spots of age. He isn't round but his frame is soft, his whole body seeming less like that of a man and more that of an overly wet bowl of porridge. Yet there is nothing weak about him. His smile is lazy but confident, his stance easy but firm. He casually observes my two friends but there is nothing casual about this encounter. There is something dangerously intangible in play.

  I start to sit up, but he turns his attention toward me and lifts a finger to his lips. Erring on the side of caution, I pause.

  The man steps toward me, a half-slide to the side, bringing himself close enough that I can smell the mustiness of his suit. "They're good," he murmurs, so faintly I don't think that anyone else can hear him.

  They are, I want to agree, but the fear is strong enough to clamp my throat closed. Instead, I just nod as the words ring in my head unspoken.

  He glances at me, smirking, his left hand disappearing into a pocket. I tense, but find myself drawn into his eyes, unable to look away. They appear slightly too large, but maybe that's because the sclerae seem too small. The wide pupils are green, a green I have never seen before. Bright and almost neon in spots while dark and dirty, nearly gray, in others. There is something ancient and fathomless inside and a predator swims in their depths, just out of sight. I'm trapped in them.

  He removes something from his pants, his movement fluid. It's a gun, something tiny, matte, and black. It is almost comforting to see that he holds something I recognize and not some ancient talisman. Then I remember it's a gun.

  "What would you do if I just... shot her?" he asks in that quiet purr. He raises the gun level with Alley's temple. She doesn't look away from the board. Can't she sense him? Doesn't the part of her that used to be prey know when peril lurks nearby? Doesn't Gregory see?

  Images race through my head. Can I snatch it away before he has time to pull the trigger? Or would he intuit my intentions before I have a chance to reach him and fire, lobbing a bullet through the brain of my best friend? Was it possible? Should I take the chance?

  It doesn't matter what I'm capable of under ideal conditions, under these I'm frozen. There will be no heroics from me. My heart sinks a little.

  "Nothing," I whisper, so imperceptibly I'm sure he can't hear me. I feel tears in my eyes. "I wouldn't do anything. Please don't hurt her."

  So he turns the barrel toward me, still smirking. "And them? What would they do if I shot you?"

  I shake my head, sending the tears trickling down my cheeks. I'm trembling, my world fades and focuses on that gun and its menacing shaft. I can't stop shaking my head. Why did he choose me?

  Alley and Gregory finally take notice of us. I sense their distress and confusion.

  "Trina...?" Alley asks, her voice tremulous. "What..." There is concern there, fear, and something else. Something I don't understand that fills me with a special kind of dread I don't know how to interpret.

  "What's going on?" I think Gregory means to sound combative but he doesn't. He sounds petrified.

  "Well hello!" the man says, including them in our conversation like we were discussing today's news, not as though I am being held at gunpoint and they were oblivious until a moment ago. "You two are brilliant, just excellent. You must play frequently?"

  They are stunned, as speechless as I am. Like me, their instincts kick in, those primal forces that tell us how to keep ourselves alive in the face of a real and true threat. They react to him as they would to a wild bear, moving with the speed of cold molasses. The very act of blinking or swallowing, even breathing, abates.

  Idly, almost as an aside, I wonder if anyone else has noticed us. Wonder, if they haven't, how long it will be before someone does. Surely a strange man pointing a gun at a young woman and her friends won't go completely unremarked. Right?

  Eventually Alley responds, tipping her chin ever so slightly.

  "That's what I thought. People simply don't get that good without a lot of practice. It's nice to see that the art of dedication hasn't been lost."

  Of course, neither of them know how to answer. How can they? This isn't something common etiquette classes often cover. The only thing people say about a crisis like this is "don't be a hero." Before today, before this very moment, I had scoffed at such platitudes; but now, with our lives on the line? I can't help but hope that no one disregards that advice. If any of them lodge a successful attack against him it's true, they will save us, but the chances that they'll be successful... Those aren't good. And if they fail? No, better to play along with the madman and just hope he lets us go at the end of his little game.

  It's too much to hope for, of course.

  "What are you doing?" That comes from a woman somewhere behind me.

  "It's gun!" A man shrieks needlessly to my left.

  Chaos erupts around us. But he just stands there, pointing that gun at me. And I continue to sit and stare into its empty void. It's all that matters; the rest of it, the rest of them, is muted. The colors are drained, the sounds washed out. Like I'm underwater, everything is hollow and echoing as it happens above me. This is what it's like to drown.

  Mostly there's shouting. People demanding he put the gun down. People asking him to put the gun down. People telling him it isn't worth it or that we can work it out, that this isn't what he wants. Through it all he keeps smiling at me. I don't think the gun even rises when he breathes. He has such steady hands. Do steady hands breed confidence? Because that smirk of his--there's nothing but confidence behind a smirk like that.

  Am I starting to respect him? Is this how Stockholm syndrome starts? Do you get Stockholm syndrome from someone holding you at gunpoint? Or does it only affe
ct kidnapping victims? Either way, I'm clearly losing my mind.

  "That's enough!" It's the first time he has raised his voice. You would think it would be subdued like everything else he has done thus far, but no. His voice is booming, commanding. It's almost unreal.

  Just like that, there is silence. When the crazy man shouts the world stops to listen. Even the potential heroes.

  He's looking around the room, holding each individual in those eerie green eyes. Do they see him as I do, as shrewd? As monstrous? Do they understand how formidable he truly is? Or is he nothing more than a lunatic who has forced them to take him seriously?

  "I'm glad you all could make it." He addresses the crowd like family gathered for a reunion or a wedding, treating us as though someone has called for a toast. "You cannot guess how wonderful it is to see so many souls here. This is true history. The final check in a long game."

  People begin to mutter amongst themselves. The tone is annoyed. They are dismissing him as crazy. And why shouldn't they? It isn't their loved one he is threatening, it's three strangers. We mean nothing to them, not enough to look deeper. Not enough to hear the sincerity in those words.

  "I can hear your thoughts. All of your thoughts. Some of you are plotting to rescue this girl. You are already imagining the glory you'll receive once you have. Some of you, most of you really, don't know what to do. You are just so upset by this strange turn of events that you can't see what's really happening. And there are even some of you who are sticking around to see this girl die."

  When he says that he jabs the gun at me so that it touches. Cool, impersonal. A faceless monster just doing as it's told. I realize I'm crying again.

  "I'm afraid you're wrong. Those who wish to be heroes? Look somewhere else. Those who are upset? You shouldn't be, you're wasting time. Those here to gawk? She won't die today."