Something Wicked #19 (March 2012)

by Something Wicked Authors

  After climbing the rocky path with some difficulty, I was admitted to the monastery by a hulking bear of a novice monk, by all appearances a simpleton, who silently led me to the abbot’s humble chambers.

  The abbot was this novice’s polar opposite, a silver-haired little man whose face had all the wit and taut energy men associate with hawks and owls. When he inquired as to the purpose of my visit, I was relieved to discover he spoke near-perfect English.

  “I have come on a matter urgent to myself,” I said, trying to convey the utmost respect, “but one which should not trouble you overmuch. I simply wish to research certain things in your library.”

  When I said this, the man’s face darkened visibly, the many lines around his mouth hardening, as if to bar my way before he even spoke.

  “We can no longer permit outsiders to enter our library. What proof do I have that you will not abuse our trust?”

  I had no choice but to tell the abbot my sad tale and hope he did not consider me a lunatic. As I spoke, and told him of the book, I saw him grow more interested. By the time I finished telling him of the trail that had led me to his doorstep, his features had softened, and he seemed to regard me as a brother-in-arms.

  “You have come a long and hard way, and I believe you are sincere, though your story is wild. You have three days within the library. I hope you find what you seek.”

  Another monk led me to a tower at the back, which housed floor upon floor of books, most of which predated Gutenberg’s press. In earlier days, the sight would have provoked in me a feeling akin to religious joy. Now, with the dull scrabbling in my head growing ever more furious, I could find no joy, even in books.

  I was not sure precisely what I was searching for, but my years of fanatical reading served me well. I devoured mythology, histories, mystical tracts and treatises on the bizarre. I hoped I would find my answers in medieval bestiaries and lexicons of the demons and devils that beset man, but found nothing of help.

  The monks brought me food and water, and one helpful, silent brother brought a straw pallet so that I might sleep in the library as well. At night, among the books, I had the familiar dream, now stronger and more immediate. The garden no longer tried to entice me. In my dreams it was now a place of horrors, where men and women hung flayed of skin, the innermost secrets of their bodies laid bare by cruel instruments. And in the center of this ghastly scene stood my Catherine, dressed in white, and radiant.

  “Let me love you, and never be alone again,” she said.

  When I awoke, I thought I still heard the cries of agony echoing within the monastery. Always there was the presence, scratching at my mind. I did not have long to find the answers I sought, I felt, and the endless tomes detailing baleful witch cults and their alleged atrocities, and the innocent girls that were tortured and burned to assuage the popular hysteria, were taking a toll on me. It was with the hope of a few moments’ relief that I pulled Philoctetes of Thessaly’s Feasts of the Gods off the shelf. I expected to find no answers in an overview of ancient Grecian religious rites – only perhaps something charming to divert my mind back to the dreamy escape a book once represented to me.

  It was in Philoctetes’ description of the Bacchae that I found my answer, and plunged yet further into the gulf of horror. Here is where I should include a note about the virtues of ignorance, and an admonition not to go looking in the dark places of the world, but if you are reading this, I suspect it is already too late for you. This is what I found in Philoctetes:

  The Bacchae were worshippers of Dionysus, God of wine, whom they honored with wild, drunken rites of sexual excess and savage violence. The faithful, in their frenzy, could tear a live bull to pieces with their hands and teeth. They were accused of worse things: arson, murder, cannibalism; and their path was said to end in madness. Needless to say, they were hated and shunned by the rest of society. All of this was known to me already. But Philoctetes also described an ‘offshoot’ of the Dionysian tradition, though I am not sure if it can properly be called such. This cult, whose name was never fully established, was accused of abductions and various other crimes in cities throughout Greece. Their rites, held on hilltops beneath the moon or in secluded temples, were said to be quite calm, and free from orgies or revelry. Instead, they consisted of the slow and agonizing murder of a young man or woman, by first flaying the skin, then the muscle and viscera and so on until ‘hidden truths were laid bare.’ They did not worship Dionysus, but claimed their god came to them in dreams, and offered to open secrets for them, to reveal all and, ultimately, to lead them to a world of all-consuming love. The name of their god was secret, and members would not divulge it even under torture. In the accounts that Philoctetes referred to, the cultists were seen to share one mind, to act with one will, and those who attempted to stamp them out disappeared, or were driven mad by strange nightmares.

  Then, the cult abruptly vanished, and all discussion of it ceased. Many believed that they had been successfully wiped out, but others, Philoctetes among them, believed they had simply become better at hiding.

  No sooner had I read these words than there came a knock on the door. It was the little old abbot, flanked by two other monks. He handed me a letter, addressed to me. I was taken aback by the sheer improbability of any letter reaching me here, in such a remote place. Though I was extremely suspicious, my curiosity got the better of me, so I read. It was from William Harrow, a fellow book collector and friend to Denton and me.

  I am sorry to be the one to convey such news to you, Whatley, but events have transpired since your departure of a truly shocking nature.

  I was quite alarmed to find a police constable in my office, asking me very pointedand peculiar questions about both you and your wife. It seems the young Mrs. Whatley, nee Denton, had gone to meet with her brother after you departed on business. Mrs. Whatley called on Denton at his family’s house, that much is certain. The day after she arrived, however, the maid came upon young Denton, or, shall I say, what was left of him. I hesitate to write this, or even think it, but Whatley – Denton was eviscerated. The constable said it wasdone slowly, by a hand as skilled as a master surgeon’s. The doctors believed it had taken poor Denton hours to die, and those hours were spent in the most profound of agonies.

  Whatley, I pray you have heard something of the whereabouts of your wife, for she was no longer at the Denton household, and the police have been unable to locate her. Let us hope that she is all right, and that your love can guide her through so terrible a tragedy as has befallen her only brother.

  Yours,

  W.H.

  As I looked up from the letter, my face drained of blood and my body wracked with chills, I saw the abbot smiling at me – such a terrible, hungry smile. I had seen it only once before.

  “Do you see, now?” it said to me. “I love you. And I am everywhere you turn.”

  The two monks lifted me swiftly from the table and bound me, dragging me through the monastery. They did not bother to cover my eyes, and as we passed I wondered how I could have been so foolish as to mistake this place for a house of Christian worship. In the depths of the monastery, weird and blasphemous symbols covered the walls. Paintings depicted landscapes that could not possibly exist, and beings that made me shudder and weep to catch sight of. In a black vault beneath the monastery, I discovered the source of the screaming I had earlier attributed to the echoes of my dreams.

  Bloodstained tables filled a room like some nightmare hospital, along with horrible gibbets and other devices I dared not even contemplate the use of. All of them bore signs of use, however – some quite recent. I began trembling violently, fearing the monks that held me would strap me to one of these tables. Instead, they lowered me into a pit, and sealed an iron grating above me.

  “Why not butcher me like the others?” I called up at the abbot, whose twinkling eyes I saw peering through the grating; eyes I had last seen peering out from the husk that was my Catherine.

  “You are special.”r />
  Its voice hummed in my ears like the buzzing of insects. When I blinked, the pit melted away and we were in the garden, beneath its alien sky. The thing addressing me wore Catherine’s form again. I could not bring myself to look at her face, for fear of the look I would find there.

  “Most require an extreme stimulus before they are in a state to receive me, and they do not last long after that. But you… your mind called out to me, desperate for what I, too, seek in my way. Catherine’s did as well, once you had provided me introduction. I love you, Albert Whatley, and it will only be a matter of time before you receive me.”

  “What are you?”

  “Someone who loves you. Someone who would do anything to possess you.”

  “Why? Why us?”

  “You gave me form – your little species. I have waited quite a long time, in the lonely place I live. So long I thought I was alone. One day, one talking ape wrote a story with crude marks, and another read that story, and something happened, greater than the sum of their feeble brains, something more than simple reading or writing; something… in-between. It is hard to explain, but for a moment you go somewhere that does not exist. Somewhere where I live. It was like a window opened on my dreary world, after a solitude longer than your species can comprehend. I knew I had to have more, but so few called to me. You were one such, whose sweet thoughts reached me through the book. That, Albert, is why I will always love you. I will never let you go.”

  Catherine’s arms reached out for me, her eyes flashed with inhuman lusts beneath the auburn curls I had loved. Her smile… God… her smile was sick with the cruelty of desire. I screamed, and when I opened my eyes I was screaming alone, at the bottom of the pit.

  It left me with that. Or rather, it did not. The scrabbling and scratching at my mind has only grown stronger, and each minute I lose the will to fight. The monks still bring me food and water, and they have even given me paper and a pen. I have written this account to focus my thoughts. Perhaps you chanced to find it, pressed into the crack between two loose stones in this dismal pit. Perhaps you too are a prisoner here. If you have seen someone with my body, with my face, who tells you he is Albert Whatley, he is the foulest of liars. Even now, I feel it wearing away at my mind, at all I hold dear of myself. The garden is ever before my eyes, with its many torments and delights. I can no longer turn away from it. Something impossibly vast, a void, a thing that is and is not, engulfs me now, and I am loved. I can feel it, licking at my thoughts and memories… Let the veil fall away, and the true Love enter… all praise… Love is a horror… all praise its name…

  Nick Scorza was born in Seattle, WA, and grew up in Washington, DC. He lives with his wife in New York City.

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  WRITERS CORNERED:

  an interview with Nick Scorza

  Where is home?

  I live in Astoria, Queens, which is a neighborhood in New York.

  Do you write full time?

  My day job involves writing of a public relations sort. As day jobs go I couldn't ask for a better one, but I'd love to write fiction full time some day.

  What inspired this story?

  This story came out of a love of Lovecraft and Arthur Machen -- especially Machen, in this case. Machen's stories and novels are some of the most wonderful and terrifying out there, I think, but one thing that bothers me in some of them is a sense of female characters as both victims and objects of horror. I wanted to write a story that both paid homage to everything I love about Machen and addressed or turned the tables on this issue a bit. The story also came out of a lot of broader thinking I'd been doing about love and relationships.

  Does this story belong to a larger body of work? Tell us about it.

  It does. This story is part of a collection of linked stories that look at love from a variety of angles and genres -- some of the stories are more fantastic, others are totally realist, or play with time and point of view.

  The theme of an ancient and forbidden text that unlocks something secret or evil has long inspired writers. Do you believe books or words (and the mere acts of reading or speaking them) could be that powerful?

  I do, though I think in real life the power of books and ideas is almost always overwhelmingly positive. Still, the idea of evil books and things we're better off not knowing has always fascinated and frightened me. Language is part of us, but also outside of us, and sometimes it seems to have a life of its own.

  Do you believe spells, curses and rituals hold real power, or is that purely the stuff of fiction?

  I'm not personally a believer in ritual magic, but what do I know? It's a big world. One of the things that always attracted me about writing was that it was a kind of magic -- creating something that didn't exist before with just words and imagination.

  Are you working on anything right now?

  Besides the short story collection, I'm working on a young adult fantasy novel about being lost, and finding your way in a world that doesn't always make sense.

  Where might we find more of your work?

  I have a short-short story in the August web-issue of the literary journal HOBART. It's also part of the linked short story collection:

  http://www.hobartpulp.com/website/august/scorza.html

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  ARTIST PROFILE:

  Hendrik Gericke

  What's your day job?

  Not so much a day job as a lifestyle that you bend any which way to generate income. I'm a professional artist.

  What's the last thing you worked on?

  Just came off a storyboarding gig, this cover for Something Wicked and a couple of caricatures of South African musicians.

  How long have you been painting?

  I've been painting intently for about six years; any painting before that was too uninformed to count. Been drawing all my life, though.

  What's your favourite medium (oils, watercolours, pencils, digital)?

  I tend to circulate favourites. Oil paint and a massive blank canvas is the most fun, because you can really throw yourself at it. I have the longest history with ink, and digital offers so many possibilities that I embrace them all equally.

  How did you come up with this piece?

  I recently got turned down for a sci-fi concept art gig, because I didn't have enough of that kind of thing in my portfolio. It's annoying, because I love sci-fi, yet in concept art it's been done to death and I tend to go the opposite direction to the general norm. So I took this as the gauntlet that had been thrown down and jumped at the chance to get stuck in. A massive inspiration of mine is the painter John Harris, who has done a lot of covers for Tor Books (they have an amazing stable of artists), and I definitely took cues from him. I wanted to relate the sense of scale between the craft and the planet, giving it a telephoto feel.

  The clouds in the background are spectacular. Are those painted or is it photo-manipulation?

  I have been doing a lot of matte painting of late and nowadays very little is actually created from scratch, much of it relying on what is called photo replacement. A small section of the cloud is actually a photographic reference, but most of it is hand painted. Once you have an accurately-lit section, it can be expanded upon to good effect.

  Your art has featured in almost every single Something Wicked issue to date. If you can remember, what was your favourite piece to illustrate?

  It's funny, because I forget about a lot of work that I have done. I'm always looking ahead, so when a piece is finished, I'm through with it. That said, when I look at my work on the SW page, I'm often surprised at the balls I had to do some pieces. I really liked the WWI story, which I think was for the first issue, as well as a piece of a bridge and a riverbank, which was set in eastern Russia (if I recall correctly). In the latter piece I left a massive white area, which I don't normally have the restraint for; I always tend to drift into big white areas, which is a shortcoming. Frank Miller knows how to leave blank areas to amazing effect!

 
; Where can we find more of your work?

  At the moment there's not much in galleries, but my web address is http://www.flyingdutchmanart.com/ and I'll be putting more work up for sale there shortly! Here's my online shop: http://www.etsy.com/shop/hendrikgericke

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