by Неизвестный
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”
The Germans were running at us now. Three hundred yards!
A chorus of desperate calls came from our gunners.
“Stand away! Gun jammed! Gun jammed!”
No shell bursts. No charnel house out on the wasteland, just a momentary silence that was quickly broken by the snarling roar of a mass of rapidly approaching enemy soldiers.
As some of our machine guns and rifles opened up a fierce fusillade
one thought dominated my mind. “I must do my duty and clear the breech in that nearest gun!
I rushed towards the impotent artillery piece but before I could reach it a great noise blasted me into nothingness.
***
I burst into the living world in a panic. Something was obstructing my nose and mouth. I was drowning in a mud-filled trench! It took me a moment to realise that what I could feel was only a soothingly cool cloth. Nurse Hazell was using it to tenderly wipe the visible parts of my face.
“Steady, Gorman,” I told myself. “You are in the military hospital and have been for three weeks.”
The nurse gave me an understanding smile. ”Having another bad dream, Lieutenant Gorman, sir? Never mind. Your bandages come off today. You’ll feel better after that. You are a lucky man, sir. Doctor Philmore said that it’s all right to tell you now that you are one of only thirteen survivors of your regiment
I licked my dry lips and croaked. “Thirteen? Out of two hundred and seventy? Oh, God!”
“I reckon it were God that saved you, sir,” Nurse Hazell said firmly. “Doctor Philmore says that about half of them poor devils got blowed up, just like you were, when their own guns exploded, only they didn’t live to tell of it. Just think how lucky you are, sir. You will soon be home with your family.”
***
I was hiking along a hot and dusty lane in Elgar country.
Solitude and the glories of the English countryside in summer were restoring me. As soon as it had became physically possible I had felt compelled to prise myself away from the loving but cloying hands of my mother, father, little brother, visiting aunts, the local vicar, et al.
The soothing streams running through rolling, green meadows in the shadow of the hills around Malvern were in sharp contrast to the arid road that I trod. Easing the weight of the pack on my back, I mopped my brow, touching the pulsing scar on the side of my head as I did so. The more the sun beat down the more painful the wound became.
I trudged on for a little while, bowed beneath the furnace heat that had developed.
“This is not right,” I thought. “The sun just does not get this hot!” My head hurt like fury. Was I becoming ill again?”
Because of the white glare that blinded me wherever I looked I came upon the tavern before realising it was there.
The building was long, dark and low, so low in fact, that, as I made my way to its entrance, my head almost struck the sign suspended by iron chains from a beam of wood. It depicted what appeared to be a half-crazed goat being throttled by a rope knotted around its neck. A great, pink tongue hung down over a matted beard and its red eyes blazed in their sockets. The sign was inscribed with the words, “The Tethered Goat.”
I did not care much what the place was called, I simply had to get inside the inn and away from the extraordinary heat. Perhaps the landlord would allow me to bathe my aching head in some cool water.
The gloomy room was as malodorous as any mud-filled shell crater replete with the rat-gnawed remains of what had once been human beings. I almost gagged, covering my nose and mouth with the neckerchief that I had been using to wipe away sweat.
When my eyes became adjusted to the dim light I could discern no one except an extremely tall personage. Because he was leaning, head down, on the other side of the bar I assumed him to be the landlord. He was tapping one extremely long finger on the counter.
“Drink?” he queried as I came closer to him. This mundane question was asked in a remarkably sinister and menacing tone.
“A pint of cider, if you please,” I responded, adding, “can’t you let some fresh air into this place?”
He very slowly lifted his head, raised two incredibly large hands and pushed a tangled mess of grey hair from his eyes. I saw his face then and quailed before it. The features were reminiscent of the goat on the sign. No human being could possibly possess such an horrific, elongated face. The slash of mouth had a curling, saliva dripping tongue protruding from it. From being baking hot I suddenly felt like ice as a succession of shudders passed through my body. The creature’s unspeakable eyes were red rimmed and black with evil. They turned their gaze upon me and the pain in my head became almost insupportable.
I cried out, “Somebody help me!” The words escaped from my lips as, without any noticeable movement, he, or it, loomed over me and reached out with those great hands. The stench became unendurable. Utter terror invaded my mind and I pulled my knife from my belt, the one that I had owned since my schooldays and had brought with me on a sentimental whim.
As inhumanly long fingers fastened with fantastic strength upon my throat I lashed out, stabbing and stabbing at the thing’s upper body, feeling an enormous sense of elation as it began to spurt blood and emit horrified cries of anguish. It was mortal then! I suddenly had a nightmare glimpse of the moustachioed face of a middle-aged man emerging from the features of my monstrous assailant. My knife was now plunging into a tweed jacketed torso and someone was screaming.
The pain in my head increased to such a degree that, for the second time in my recent life, the world swam away from me.
***
“The London News.” September 11th, 1918
Royal Artillery officer Lieutenant Louis Harold Gorman, aged 26, arrested last month for the murder of Lord Tadcaster, has been committed to a secure mental institution for an indefinite period.
We can now reveal that when he was discovered at the scene of the crime by two of Lord Tadcaster’s gamekeepers, Lieutenant Gorman was covered in blood and had fainted away. Upon being revived he insisted that he had been attacked by what he described as, “The devil incarnate” in a hostelry called “The Tethered Goat.” Needless to say there is no such establishment of that peculiar name in the district.
Psychologist Dr. Grayson Phillips, has deduced that the unfortunate officer became deranged after receiving a serious head wound during the notorious “Tadcaster Shell” incident at Boissy on April 22nd this year. Lieutenant Gorman’s regiment, the 117th. Light Artillery, was wiped out almost to a man due to a faulty consignment of the new projectiles which were produced in Lord Tadcaster’s munitions factories.
Having demonised Lord Tadcaster in his mind, Lieutenant Gorman had sought his lordship out and murdered him near his home in the Malvern Hills. Lord Tadcaster, 52, had lost both his wife and his daughter in last winter’s influenza epidemic.
***
They come to me in the dark of my cell and the horror of it has made me gaunt and pale.
There is no understanding or humanity in my unbelieving keepers. The lesser ones laugh at me and call me, “Screwy Louis”, while the doctors make soothing noises.
“You must calm yourself, Lieutenant Gorman. We are doing everything we can to help you. These spectres that you say are haunting you are merely your own disturbed imaginings.
Deep in the night I smell Tadcaster’s presence before I hear or see his mewling and increasingly corrupt form. Black blood seeps through gashes in the ragged, tweed jacket. Tonight a piece of decaying flesh falls away from the skull and the empty eye sockets take on a hideous aspect as tears of self pity ooze from them.
Gibbering, he thrusts himself against me. “Damn you! You sent me to him before my time. As I rot and decay in an agony from which there can be no relief I will never stop calling upon him to make you suffer my fate! NEVER!”
After a time Tadcaster’s foul corpse fades from view, leaving me alone in my terror.
Then HE comes.
Blubber
ing, I crawl to the furthest corner of my cell and make myself small, screwing my eyes tight shut. But the horned one is there, the vile slime of his lips whispering against my ear as chill, bony fingers caress my scarred head. “I can make you free-e-e-e! Give you riches beyond belief and all the women you can ever use to comfort your nights. They will be my reward to you. Swear an oath in my name that you will never invoke – the other one –.and it will all be yours.”
I find the courage to speak. “God will destroy you! He is greater -.”
A cold, long fingered hand crushes my nose and mouth so that I cannot breathe. “DESTROY me? Do you think that I am NOTHING?” Gobs of spittle, as thick as mucous, slide down my forehead as he chokes with rage. “I stand as high as the – other one! It was MY war, MY plan, MY finger on the trigger at Sarajevo. Principe was mine! And it was me that addled the general’s brains, allowing them to send tons of living, human flesh to be slaughtered. My quota of that is now enduring what must be endured for all eternity. Tadcaster was only an amusing diversion. One of myriads! He gave me his oath that he would never invoke the other’s name and in return I made him rich and powerful. He broke the black rule by begging HIM to be merciful when his wife and daughter were dying. Tadcaster had to pay for that, so I allowed you to live while your comrades died. I chose you to be the one to send him to me.”
Removing his hand, the stink of his breath fills my nostrils as his leathery tongue rasps hideously across my face, licking up his own spittle.
“Give me your allegiance now or rot here until I come again. For I will come and I will keep coming to you until you are mine!”
I struggle to speak until the words erupt from my mouth. “GOD SAVE ME! GOD SAVE ME!”
Snarling like a great wolf and baring his blackened teeth, he snatches up the gobbet of Tadcaster’s putrefying flesh from where it had fallen and thrusts it into his gaping maw before disappearing into nothingness, while I scream out the Lord’s name until my keepers enter the cell to restrain and sedate me.
Psyche-Pathos
by Max J. Einhorn II
Foreword
There is no other evil. There is no other real darkness, and no other poison than the one that has always existed as long as we have started counting how long existence has even existed. Why do we even measure existence; are we waiting for something? Is it the amount of time we’ve lived alongside what we are afraid of without letting it cause some unknown destruction? What is it?
We are out there. You don’t even know what or who we are, but we exist. We always have. We cannot be found even when we are among you. We see you looking out your windows and yes. and by a simple catch of your glance we know everything about you. There isn’t much.
We will always exist. You are not sought or searched for. We wait for you and we know. I can see you now. I make the noises behind the couch at dusk. My feet creak along the ceiling as look down upon you through the floor. My fingers graze the hairs on your neck that makes your brain consider the worst of scenarios. “Are we alone with ourselves, is there a god, and is being able to close your eyes for one final time the real point of living?” We know what we do but we cannot change what we are. We are as much your thoughts as we are your best friend or the child down the road. There are no brakes to what is being driven. There are no lights to see into our caverns. There is no antidote to the venom that swims through our veins. It is the human race that is naturally sadistic and violent. The ones that cannot suppress this nature cannot be stopped. We are the psychopaths.
I
Red light. Fuck. Two, maybe three miles faster might have gotten me through. Twenty-two fifty. Red light. Son of a bitch. At least I’m having a good day. Look at that kid with his bicycle, why my bicycle? What would I have been like if I still had that bicycle? Twenty-two forty-five...no, oh shit... twenty-two fifty. Right. Kid hurry up, move... idiot kid... probably twelve or thirteen. What would I tell my fucking kid if he was crossing such a busy street? What if he got hit, what if my kid just came running into the house coughing up – Green light!
Go, Cadillac! Whatever happened to those cars, do they still make those? Good car, nice car. Twenty-two dollar-roonies.
Almost there. What a shit-faced little town. Why does everyone like sitting on their porches on those plastic chairs? Are they waiting for the town to become less shit-faced? Is that coupon still good? What did it say... expires the seventeenth... but what’s the date? Does the clock in this damn car give the date? Nope. What was the coupon for? What if one of those chairs broke and they rolled right into the street? Parking space... parking space... they’re never here when you fucking need them. Bob Hoskins, that’s who the actor was! Can’t believe I forgot his name. Tomorrow’s trash day, I better remember to put that shit out. Space.
***
The middle-aged woman walked along the sidewalk past his car. The man inside the van nearly twenty-feet from the sidewalk she was on caught her attention. The man inside appeared to flex his lower jaw upward almost in a fit of frustration. Just this single glance made her pity him, probably picking up groceries for his mother or coping with a damaging divorce. Her eyes followed him as he entered the grocery store.
***
Two doors. Automatic or push. Automatic. Why’s it make that sound? I hate this place. Too old, too community-friendly, and yet not many people for a Sunday afternoon. Is it still the afternoon? Half past two—yep. Cold in here. Better go see the figured girl at the pharmacy, see if she thinks it’s cold, too. Sale, soup, four for three dollars, not bad. Maybe on the way out. I’m having a good day. Okay, list... eggs. What’s the bird flu situation? Can it get into the eggs? Why do people check the eggs, even when they’re not cracked, why do they still insist on checking them?
***
Along aisle three a teenager with a skateboard did a double take as he stuffed a bag of chips into his backpack. Old grocery store, no security cameras, no problem. The man walked by and gave the kid a friendly nod, not seeing him shoplifting. A nervous look replaced the cautious expression on the teen’s face and he quickly put the chips back on the shelf, exiting the store. The backpack remained in the third aisle.
***
Okay, all set for eggs. I think I need cereal. Do I have cereal? I guess I’ll go see how much it is first. Aisle three? I wonder if that kid is still there. twenty-two fifty. I wonder if they have the new Golf Monthly over there. Hmm. That kid left his backpack here. If I see him I can always give it to him. Goddamn kid. I would have never left something like this behind. Tomorrow’s trash day, I better remember to put that shit out. Crunch Nuts... yes... four twenty-seven?! There’s barely any cereal in this box. Why the hell does he have a purple backpack? He probably took it from his sister who’s sitting at home playing with burned dolls while Mommy stands on the corner since Daddy ran off.
***
There was a young woman with a baby at the end of the isle. The baby was crying and its mother trying to calm it down. The man turned and saw no one at the cash registers. He moved his way up the aisle. The baby had calmed down and the mother left it behind as went to the aisle to the right. He put the eggs down in the middle of the aisle.
***
I can’t take much more of the crying. I hate crying. I want to stop crying. The baby needs to stop crying. Why did she leave the child behind? Why would anyone leave a baby behind? Don’t leave me behind! Where are you!? Somebody help me! Don’t leave it behind! Why did she leave the child behind? Wait for me! Mom, wait! Help, I can’t find you! Don’t leave me! I’m scared. Mommy!
***
The man was now at the carriage and had the baby in his hands. It was still sleeping when he slowly slid it into his backpack. The woman came back around the corner and a look of terror occupied her face.
“Where’s my baby!?” she asked in a scared tone. The baby inside the man’s bag began crying. A tear ran down the mother’s face as the bag stirred. The man raised the bag, pulled it over his right shoulder and swung it at the
mother— it struck her in the shoulder throwing her off balance and smashing her skull into a metal shelf.
Why did you leave me?
Her body lay motionless on the floor. The bag was now still and without a sound. The man noticed the bottom shelf was empty and deep. He set the backpack down beside himself and shoved the mother nearly six feet in front of his shins on the bottom shelf.
I have to leave. I have to leave. Pick up your eggs, go the register and pay for the eggs, and walk out the door. Twenty-two fifty. Twenty-two fifty.
The man paid for his eggs at the only open register in the quiet, old grocery store. As he exited, the teenager walked passed him without noticing the man had his backpack slung over his arm. The teenager was most likely going back in the store to retrieve it. He approached his van and the middle-aged woman was back on the sidewalk, she could tell the man was not having a good day. She entered the grocery store as the man pulled away in the corner of her eye.
Tomorrow’s trash day, I better remember to put that shit out.
Changing Faces
by Matt Leyshon
The rumour seemed like an urban myth, except it never reached the cities. It was a word virus that spread through the trees and fields and when it reached my town it dispersed like a meteor entering the earth’s atmosphere. Only fragments and a faint whiff of mystery were left, a scent like bird’s eggs and hawthorn, the musky aroma of the Spring Equinox.
Over the years, growing up in my country town, I picked up enough traces of the mystery to piece together an alluring concept. I became infected by the rumour as it grew in form until I was feverous with curiosity; enchanting half-truths were not enough for me, now that I knew what the rumour was, I needed to know if it were true.
Legend had it that amidst the Devrills and the Downs was a village where a strange type of magic was practised. It all began many centuries ago in old pagan England. The local shepherds and farmers who slept beneath the stars and sheltered beneath trees grew jealous of the townsfolk who lived in warm, dry huts and wore fancy clothes instead of furs and hides. The townsfolk lived in fear of Pan and his followers, for Pan believed that a roof over one’s head was a great sin. But the people in the town accepted Pan’s disapproval, as they believed their wealth was apt compensation. Whenever the town’s people left their abodes and wandered into the lonely countryside, Pan would chase them playing bewitching airs upon his flute. The people in the towns became so afraid they ceased farming at all, afraid of the pastures and shadowy woods, and instead they devoted all their time to trade. As dedicated traders they became wealthier, and this made Pan’s worshippers of shepherds and herdsman even more jealous. They wanted the wealth that the people in the town had but they did not want Pan’s wrath, so Pan’s worshippers learned to change their faces with pagan magic so that when they left the comfortable huts they had built to tend their animals, Pan would not recognise them.