Another light burst into the room, coming from a single candle. The ghost hand vanished, and Richard was almost thrown into the wall from the force of Brother Skene’s arm.
He had a second to see Abbot Fletcher in the doorway of the vault – a candle in one hand and a garish cross in the other, his mouth twisted with cries of exorcism – before all light in the room was choked.
The last image left on Richard’s eyes was of claws reaching toward the abbot. The darkness of the cat had filled the room. She bristled her midnight fur and consumed the chamber with her fury.
The abbot was somewhere in the folds of the avenging creature, but it still could not touch him. The abbot’s voice shouted protections, snatches of rituals both white and black, and the screeching of the cat as it tried to reach him was a chorus of frustration and fury.
The abbot shouted in German, “You are powerless against us! Go back! Go back to Hell!”
Richard’s wrist was burning, but the dagger was still in his fingers. He tried to stand, wondering if he could grope toward the door through the cat’s shadow and flee the abbey. His curiosity was finished for the night.
Suddenly, hands like a torturer’s iron clamps snapped around Richard’s neck and pushed him into the shelf, shattering vials. Brother Skene did not need light to guide him.
The cat hissed throughout the vault, “Now will you kill him?”
Richard felt life squeezed from him and was thankful that he did not have to look into the oily pools of Brother Skene’s eyes as he was throttled to death. All he could see were glowing spots as he lost consciousness and dropped into endless night.
•
They must have tossed him into a pauper’s grave. No coffin, not even a pine box. He felt the weight of bare earth on his chest. But then his eyelids fluttered and opened. It was still dark, but his body felt room to move. He tried to roll and the weight slid off him. As it dropped away, light reached his eyes.
The lantern glowed from the edge of the vat where he had left it. Beside him was a body in red robes. A dagger stuck up from where the heart should be. The falling weight of Brother Skene had driven in the knifepoint as he had strangled Richard. All that remained of the monk was a dust outline and a few bones rising through the gaps in the robes. He had finally dropped the last hand’s-breadth to Hell.
But Brother Skene looked more pleasant than the remains of Abbot Fletcher. The cat’s claws left nothing behind that even the most hardened undertaker would wish to bury. Once the charm of the undying man on the floor was gone, the rage of his victim was worse than anything that Richard, an imaginative man, would have imagined.
He snatched up the lantern and climbed the stairs. He followed the clawed prints stamped in blood. He did not need to lift the tapestry; it was ripped from the wall and crumpled on the ground.
He walked through the chapel. It was the fastest way out, although he feared what he might find there. He walked quickly through the nave with his head turned away from the apse. He got only a few blinks of the red ruins of the rest of the Benedictine Abbey of St. James. They had paid for keeping a sinner so long from the Devil’s grip.
It was still the deep of night when he stumbled outside, but the sky had cleared. He stepped past the gate. The moment his foot touched the road, he sat down in the dirt to wait for her.
She flowed from the eaves of the beeches, still a thing of midnight. But the green of her skin had flushed red. She was more beautiful that way, fulfilled in her wrath.
“You could not drive the knife in yourself.” The words came easily now. Hate no longer held onto her.
Richard nodded. “You are the Devil.”
“Only a servant.” The redness began to fade. “‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ But that is a lie. The Devil may also repay, when he has been falsely accused and long denied. Some men do not need the Devil to make them do what they do. What they have done.”
Her eyes – was this the first time he had seen them? – were filled with sorrow but not for what had just happened.
Richard looked toward the open doors of the church. The scent of blood wafted from it. “Revenge should be – cleaner.”
Her eyes were on her own body. “The crime was unclean. Yet, I was no maiden at the time. And I took my own life. God would not have me, but the Devil welcomed me. He welcomed revenge. It is repaid. And you are still clean.”
Richard Davey did not feel that way. But he was the weapon that did not want to be drawn. The sword did not have the guilt of its wielder, no matter what the blood said.
She spoke: “At dawn, it is finished for me. But I have a reward for you.”
From behind, passing through her body to reach him, trotted a familiar horse with bulging saddlebags. Richard stood up and placed his hand onto the animal’s forelock.
“The thieves – they did not get far.”
It was the last sound he heard from her. When he turned to ask what she meant, he saw only the orange glow of the dawn.
As he mounted the saddle, he tried not to look at the claw marks that crossed the leather, or the bloodstains on the animal’s hoofs. He turned in the direction Regensburg. He did not enjoy the thought of crossing its bridge and the icy waters below.
•••
Ryan Harvey has crossed the Regensburg Bridge and seen much of Bavaria (thanks to his sister living there), but has spent most of his life in Los Angeles, where he resides with an ever-growing and space-gobbling collection of books and Blu-rays. He is a recent winner of The Writers of the Future Contest, and his winning entry, “An Acolyte of Black Spires”, is collected in L. Ron Hubbard Presents: Writers of the Future Vol. XXVII. He has worked as a columnist for Black Gate magazine’s website for three years and has two upcoming stories in the print edition. His fiction will also appear later this year in the anthology, Roar of the Crowd (Rogue Blades Press). Aside from writing, Ryan is a pulp literature nut, avid swing dancer, and wearer of 1930s fashions in LA’s vintage scene. His Latin is far better than his German.
Lovers & Desire
“O what a black, dark hill is yon,
“That looks so dark to me?”
“O it is the hill of hell,” he said,
“Where you and I shall be.”
The Daemon Lover, Popular English Ballad
Obsessions (or Biting Off More Than One Can Chew)
By Colleen Anderson
Dream, dream divine, my dear
of dark’s loving, sheltered clasp
immortal hopes in mortal sleep
gaslit vapours drape, shape
the land restless
with its secrets
lurid phantoms shift within
a discordant haze of consumption and gambled lives
hollow hooves ring cobblestones
turn and there is nothing
the dust of Morpheus mists your vision
while Poe and Wilde linger at the tomb
discuss portraits and Annabelle Lee
You will descend, my dear
steps from reality to mad cacophony
hidden laughter chimes its manic bell
your perfected self is heedless
until spectral hands chill your face
a sibilance of whispers writhe and burrow
hook their glinting cause within, though you are the apple
from which that worm has crawled
your bosom white as casket lilies shudders, yet
you cannot, will not pull free of darkling touch
the canvas more garish as you work, daub in
Venus’s flytrap, the nightshade bloom, narcissus
at its center, the inferno melts your brain and heart
Try to turn away, my dear
Elysian fields hold no mystery once you’ve tramped eternal blooms
you pollinate your dreamworlds with blood dust
cradled in blossoms soft as funeral silk
bony fingers that snare your imagination, then your arm
are mu
tilated, corrupt and it is paper that you feel
not parchment flesh that scratches
you seek a demon lover through lifetimes
black-lace parties, angst-filled wine and candlelight
rotting breath and broken, blackened teeth chew
greedily your neck, your heart wants more
selfish hunger – you taste false remorse
one-time friends and lovers have turned to morsels
Do not believe it all, my dear
Gypsies caged by flame and shadow
pass bottles more than ancient secrets,
down warmth not found in guarded eyes
smoke sour tobacco, torture tamed wood until it screams
before the flickering fire, cracked bone dice rattle
they lead between the worlds
to crystal balls gorged on lies
half-truths are none at all in clearing the air
your future still awaits, meek and willing
in morning’s scowling light, the Gypsy camp quiets
turn away – you won’t see the poor and persecuted
you have cloaked in mystery, caravans and well-traveled tales
Wait forever, my dear
for a bloated, blood moon full
from forlorn howls, the shaggy man whose beast is
not contained, who pursues you, yet tames
his bite, sees, scents through lupus rage
your nobility does not hear his soulful whimper
prey to mange and blood-sated fleas
his flight, blinded, betrayed by Moon
wolf-pack tracks, slavering to kill
nature’s aberration – he cries out, lunatic
I am not welcome anywhere, two halves that cannot join
you fancy to have leashed the noble beast
the wolves, or he alone, would hunt you if they could
Search ever on, my dear
the shambling, bolted simulacrum is not the sum
but the beginning, a mind hinged to flesh
monster made by machines diabolical
project of a madman who, in creating life, honours it not
the divine escapes as you try to simulate by writing
reconstruct the myths; believe them toys to sunder
yet born a byblow of contrived machinations
these frankensteins serve to scar the pages
journal entries assembled for pity and distress
what sorrowful imaginings, Victorian preoccupation
hoping to be discovered and saved from certain fate
conundrums erected to your mad genius
Be yourself, my dear
not like limpid Gaimanettes, pallid leeches
wrapped in ebon leather, sweating perfume
unsure if they exist outside a frame of reference
or were fabricated within the nimbus of a thought
without the molten core to heat their lives, they try to fit
discarded casings, fallout from courtesy and composition
one sudden solar flare would etch distinction
with the half-life of attention as long as youth
they willingly open any orifice to suck
fame from their dark prince, grow on his glory
you shine as bright in any galaxy, yet set
your sights on this year’s fleeting asteroid, forgotten in a moment
Dream divine, my dear, in dreams
leave life’s nightmare, escape death’s coma
wander the ornate halls of opium infatuation
the shallow dance of guttering candles
pipe smoke curls, a seductive foreign screen
unveils a massaging marriage, hallucinations
delirium’s slow, sensual lovemaking
caresses as you court romantic death
you will not leave, cannot exit quickly
until life has bled youth and vigour
assisted by your ghoulish thoughts, vampiric verses
then, shattered beauty discarded, attired in neither dream nor mystery
Life, a jealous lover, will toss you to death’s portal.
•••
Colleen Anderson writes in various genres and has over one hundred 100 published stories and poems appearing in magazines and anthologies, including, Evolve, Chizine, and On Spec. She has a BFA in creative writing, received an honourable mention in the Year’s Best Horror for her story “Exegesis of the Insecta Apocrypha” in Horror Library Vol. IV, and is an 2010 Aurora nominee in poetry. She also edits for Chizine Publications. New work will appear in Polluto, Witches & Pagans and New Vampire Tales.
Desideratum
By Gina Flores
Another sleepless night, with only the dim glow of her cigarette for company.
Lorena turned on her side, using her elbow for support, and stared out the window. Sweat pooled in the hollow of her breasts and the backs of her knees, at the nape of her neck beneath her thick veil of hair. It was September, time for rain and cloudy skies, cool breezes, but they were elusive this year. She inhaled deeply, using nicotine to get rid of the night-taste inside of her mouth, and pitched the butt out the window. Watched the pale-orange ember until it hit the walk with a small show of sparks.
A few lights were visible in other buildings. Parked cars lined either side of the street, but nothing moved. Only Lorena, awake in the dark. Alone. Wishing for a cat, a television – anything to break the monotony of waking up every night at the same time, to stare out at the same emptiness with the same yearning that kept her from sleep. But cats were not allowed in the building and the television was nothing more than a stand for dying plants and lost books. Books also covered the single sagging shelf in the corner. Two boxes without tops sat on the floor in front of it, leaking paperbacks; stacks piled against the wall wherever there was room.
She ran her hands over the books nearest her bed, her favourites. Traitors, all of them; not one could numb the yearning she felt for real human company.
She thought, as she always did when loneliness got the best of her, of her mother. Her mother loved to talk, even if the conversations didn’t last long, and usually wound up in bitter arguments. Lorena sat up and put her hand on the old tan phone before remembering it had been disconnected over a week ago. That was probably for the best. The call most likely would have ended with Lorena feeling guilty, while her mother tried to talk her into coming back home. Most of the time, being alone, independent, was what she wanted. Except on nights like this, when the heat was unbearable and the shabbiness of the apartment grated on her. On nights like this, she wanted more, something she couldn’t describe, even to herself.
Sighing, she absently braided her hair and continued looking outside for something, some kind of variation. The last few weeks, she had felt a horrid yearning, but she didn’t know what for. It was just a pull at her stomach, her brain, her heart. A pull that made her stare out the window for long hours. As she worked the plait, she wondered why she kept her hair so long, when all she ever did was to pull it back and away. But Lorena’s hair had always been long, a comforting shield to hide behind when she wore it down, something to swing around and play with when it was bound back, and to pull on when she got nervous. Comfortable. She looked out the window again to see if anything had changed. A few pieces of trash blew around near a sewer grate, but that was all. She secured the braid with an elastic band and flopped back on the bed, sighing loudly.
She knew she wouldn’t sleep much, if at all, the rest of this night, so she got up and pulled on a pair of cut-off sweat pants. The walk was becoming a nightly ritual. She grabbed her cigarettes from the bed and stuck them in her waistband, after slipping on a ratty pair of tennis shoes she had bought on sale at work.
The outer hall was dark with imitation-wood paneling on the bottom, faded yellow paint on the top. The smell of rot lingered in the hallways, emanating from other apartments and fast food bags left in the corners. I can’t wait ‘til I’m outta here. Just a few m
ore months. Lorena had been saying that to herself since first moving in over a year ago. She hated the hall, the narrow stairway, the apartments and the people in them. Her life. But not enough to go home.
She walked around the block five and then six times, willing somebody to come out and rape, rob, mug, stab her.
No one obliged, so it was back up four flights to her one-room life. Maybe she’d get an hour or two of sleep before work. The walk had exhausted her physically, if not mentally. I want, she thought. I want.
The want stayed in her thoughts until she got up and paced the small box of her apartment. Even then, it ran like a train in the back of her mind. IwantIwantIwantIwant. She pulled on her hair, nervously twisting the ends with one hand while she alternately smoked and paced. Finally, she went to the kitchen and dug around in the messier of the two available drawers. Found a pair of scissors. The shears were old and rust-spotted, not as sharp as they used to be. Kind of like me, ha-ha. But they’d do.
She went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Same plain face, brown eyes, brown hair. Nothing special leapt out at her. A few freckles dotted her nose, but even they were light, difficult to see if you didn’t know they were there. Like me. She reached around and grasped the thick braid with her left hand, brought her right behind her and closed her eyes. What am I doing? she thought.
She cut.
It was tougher than she’d expected to get through the twist and the scissors didn’t cut quite straight. Holding the thick braid of hair in her hands made her realize what she had done, what she had really, actually done. Cut off something that had been there most of her life. A phantom weight remained on the back of her neck, telling her she really hadn’t gone through with it. She reached back and felt her neck, the feather-light strands on her skin. Short intake of breath and even smaller exhale of laughter, and she hacked away, then, at the stray wisps that hung haggle-straggle around her head, evening them out the best she could. She did the back without a mirror, feeling, instead, with her fingertips. She hoped it was straight, but did not bother to check.
Candle in the Attic Window Page 9