by Brian Keene
“Perfect.”
“Not nearly as perfect as the brand you wear,” the visitor said. “You are marked. Identifiable to those who know where to look, despite whatever lengths you go through to hide it.”
“You mean this?” Bullock held up his branded thumb and shrugged. “I thought I’d bid you a good night, but since you asked—it ain’t so bad, being an indentured servant. Fair and square, you know? I pleaded benefit of clergy and was shown mercy. They sentenced me to serve Mr. Grant. Could be worse. I could have hanged.”
“Indeed.” The man’s dark eyes twinkled in the firelight. “You could have.”
Bullock stood up. “So you ain’t here for Mr. Grant. Who you here for, then? Have you come to claim the body of Myers? If so, I hope you brought along a bag of lavender or flower petals, because he’s starting to stink something awful. Even with the gallows a mile away, you can smell him. Been hanging there for two days. The birds have been picking at him. Taking off with the choice bits. Ghastly affair. It’s making the other prisoners restless.”
“I did indeed have an appointment with him, but I am not here for Stephen Myers’ body. I have no claim to that.”
Bullock walked to the window and looked out into the darkness. “I ain’t surprised. Don’t imagine anyone will claim his corpse. He was a wicked man, that one. If ever a man deserved to be condemned, it was him. All those children they found butchered out in the hollow near his place...”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, sure. Good man like Stephen Myers, capable of such horrible crimes. Wouldn’t you be surprised?”
“Not if I were you. After all, you knew the real Myers.”
Bullock whirled around, his face flushed with anger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When they arrested Myers, his tongue had been cut out. The magistrate opined that it had something to do with the rituals he was performing; some form of self-mutilation. But it wasn’t. It was to keep him from talking. Stephen Myers was illiterate. He couldn’t read or write, other than to sign his name. He had no way of communicating when he was sentenced.”
“He didn’t need to communicate. His handiwork spoke for itself—the way he butchered those innocents. Nothing he’d have said could have saved him from the gallows.”
“While Myers was in his cell,” the visitor interrupted, “the cabinetmaker arrived to measure him, just like he does with all of the condemned, and then built him a pine casket. The coffin was kept in Myer’s cell with him until the day of his hanging. He wept over it. Both he and the box were loaded onto a horse-drawn cart and taken to the gallows. The fear in his eyes was beautiful to behold.”
“Sure it was.” Bullock looked uneasy. “Myers knew what waited him at the end of that ride.”
“Ah, but there is the rub. It wasn’t Stephen Myers who swung from that rope, and that is why I am here tonight.”
“You saying we hung the wrong man?” Bullock moved towards the fireplace. “That’s a serious accusation, fellow. You’d best take that up with Mr. Grant.”
“I’m saying that he wasn’t himself. You threw a rope around your neck. The cart pulled away, and you choked to death. You defecated in your pants.”
“I...I don’t...”
“You used an old, reliable rope to help make it quicker. Am I right?”
“What?”
“Why did you do that? Because you didn’t want the rope to kink up and twist. Why do that for a child murderer? You rubbed pig fat into the rope so the knot would slide easier; the death would be quicker.”
“You’re insane, fellow. You keep talking like I hung myself.”
“You did, Stephen. In a manner of speaking.”
Bullock reached for the branding iron. “My name is Matthew Bullock.”
The visitor laughed. “No, your name is Stephen Myers. You butchered those children in accordance with the old laws, the laws you gleaned from books of old. When the rituals were finished, you gained the power to hide yourself inside the body of this jailer’s assistant. You condemned another man to death and hid inside his body. You killed yourself so that you could live.”
Bullock moved quickly. He thrust the still-hot brand at the visitor’s face. The man easily sidestepped the assault, and waved his hand. The brand turned into a serpent. The creature sank its fangs into Bullock’s left hand. It drew back for another strike. Shrieking, Bullock dropped the writhing snake to the floor.
“We had an agreement, Mr. Myers; a binding contract. I did not forget our arrangement. I never do. When your time was up, you sought to break our agreement. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the gallows to keep our appointment, to claim your soul, and instead found someone else’s soul inside your body.”
Whimpering, Bullock backed against the fireplace. He held his hands up, pleading. His left hand had already swollen up to twice its size. Black venom bubbled beneath the skin.
“God save me,” he cried.
“He won’t.”
The coals in the fireplace flickered; then flared up. The flames roared.
Bullock screamed.
The dark man laughed.
Outside, the prisoners fell silent. Later, the black woman, who’d been cowering under her bed since the stranger’s arrival, would creep downstairs and find no trace of Mr. Bullock.
The visitor exited the jailer’s house. He resumed whistling his mournful tune. Monroe’s streets were deserted. The silent homes were all shuttered for the evening. The only sign of life was the bawdy laughter drifting from the taverns and coffeehouses, as men played dominoes and cards and dice.
He walked on. The sky grew black in his wake. Trees and grass withered as he passed. A bird fell dead from her nest; the eggs she’d guarded turning black. Dogs howled, scampering beneath beds and tables, cowering in fear. Babies cried in their cribs. Children moaned in their sleep.
Smiling, the man disappeared into the night. He had other appointments to keep.
STORY NOTE: Publisher Richard Chizmar and editor Thomas Monteleone called me one evening around 6pm, and said, “We’re putting together an anthology and we need a new story from you. We’ll pay you top dollar.” I agreed, and then asked them when the story was due. They said, “Tomorrow morning. Six o’clock, sharp.” I assumed they’d both been drinking, but they were serious. And thus, I wrote this story overnight—a little twist on the old selling-your-soul-to-the-devil tale.
SOMETHING PRETTY
For Kasey Lansdale
We had just finished up lunch at that Asian place you like so much. You had the sushi sampler and I stuck with General Tso’s chicken, because ever since the Fukishima nuclear disaster, eating sushi makes me nervous.
So do a lot of other things.
Lately, I seem to be nervous all the time. Sometimes it’s little things. While we were eating lunch, I watched the chef carving radishes into perfect little flowers, to be used as decorative garnish. It was amazing to behold—the work of a true artist—and I should have enjoyed it, but instead, all I did was worry that he was going to cut himself and ruin our perfect afternoon.
Usually though, it’s the bigger things I worry about. I can’t go to the movies without being afraid that some nut will shoot the place up. I can’t go to the mall or the grocery store or ride public transit without worrying about it happening there, too. I’m concerned about the Yellowstone Caldera. They say it’s overdue to blow, and when it does, most of the United States will be covered in volcanic ash. And an asteroid could hit us at any time, so there’s that, too. I’m afraid of our government and law enforcement, and how we’re living in a militarized police state but nobody seems to give a shit. I’m terribly frightened of cancer. It’s not enough just to quit smoking these days, or not breathe in asbestos and smog. No, cancer’s in our vaccines now, and in this GMO-processed shit we eat, and in the water we drink, and the electronics that fill our homes with wi-fi signals. In twenty years, everyone who’s ever used a cell phone is going to be dying of brain tu
mors, and none of them seem to care. And don’t even get me started on how diseases are beginning to mutate to the point where our antibiotics don’t work against them anymore. That’s terrifying.
Mostly, I’m nervous about growing old. And about those I love growing old with me.
I hate change. I absolutely despise it. And yet, change is the one constant in this world of ours.
And what a putrid, rotten, messed up world it is. More and more, it seems like everything that is good and beautiful is being trampled under the feet of a million marching sheep, bleating along to their meaningless pop culture distractions and oblivious to their own onrushing extinction. We humans are an ugly race.
Except for you. You’re still beautiful. Flawless. And I want you to stay that way.
When it came time to settle the check, I reached for my wallet. You put your hand on my wrist (so warm and so soft) and told me it was your turn to pay. I protested, but not too much. Never too much, because it’s hard to deny you anything. Any rational thought I might have gets drowned in your beauty.
I offered to at least get the tip, but you laughed in that way you do, that way that sounds like music, and you told me not to worry about it. After all, you said, we’re both struggling artists. You told me that if I really wanted to pay you back, I could make you something pretty. Not buy you something pretty, because the starving artist bit often prevents that. No, you said to make you something pretty.
And here we are, six hours later, and you’re spread out on the bed before me, more beautiful now than ever before. I wish you could see yourself, but I guess you can’t, especially after I turned your eyes into flower buds and your eyelids into gently curling petals.
I got the idea while watching the chef make those radish roses at the restaurant. You said to make you something pretty. So I did. I turned you into a floral bouquet.
I made you something pretty. Even prettier than you were before.
And I’m not nervous about you growing old, anymore, or about your beauty fading with time. I’m not worried about you changing, because there’s nothing left to change. Oh, your colors might fade eventually (and I never knew there were so many different shades of red) but that happens with all flowers. What’s important is that you enjoy them while they last.
I like this new outlook on life. I’m not scared anymore. And in a few days, after I’ve enjoyed your beauty a while longer, I’m going to go out into the world and see what other changes I can stop with this knife.
STORY NOTE: Earlier this year, my friend Kasey Lansdale was in town for a few days. Kasey is a country and western singer, and she was on tour for her then-just-released album, Restless. We decided it would be fun to do a signing together, locally.
Before the signing, we met up with some friends at a wonderful Asian restaurant that fellow authors J.F. Gonzalez, Chet Williamson, Robert Swartwood, and myself often frequent. When it came time to get the check, Kasey insisted that I let her pay. Like the girl in the story, she said I could pay her back by making her something pretty.
The next day, after she’d hit the road and gone back out to finish the tour, I wrote this story. I’m not sure if it’s what Kasey had in mind, though...
THE SIQQUSIM WHO STOLE CHRISTMAS
STORY NOTE: This story features three of my most inarguably popular characters—Ob, the body-hopping zombie lord from The Rising trilogy and stone-cold killers Tony Genova and Vince Napoli from the Clickers series and various short stories. If you’ve never read any of those books before, here’s what you need to know. 1. Ob can possess the dead and take control of their bodies. 2. Don’t fuck with Tony and Vince.
Ob entered the fat man’s body at thirty-thousand feet. After taking control of the corpse, he glanced over the side of the craft. A snow-covered landscape zipped by far below. The wind howled in his ears as he passed through a cloud. The dampness chilled him.
It was nighttime. Stars cast their cold, lonely lights from far above. Ob hated each and every one of them.
The Lord of the Siqqusim stared at his reflection in the vehicle’s polished silver handrails. Outwardly, the man’s body wasn’t much. A long, white beard, bordering on unkempt, dangled from a face whose centerpiece was a bulbous red nose. The fat man was adorned in a red suit, matching the color of his nose, like the garb of a jester or clown. He smelled faintly of gingerbread. Ob scanned the body’s memories, picking through the brain like it was a filing cabinet, searching for clues to this new host’s identity.
The fat man had died of an aneurism. He’d been—
Ob’s laughter was louder than the roaring wind. Had the rest of the Thirteen been present, they’d have shared in his amusement.
This host body had suffered an impossible aneurism—impossible since the fat man was supposed to be immortal. He was one of the old gods, known to various tribes as Santa Claus, Kris Cringle, the Dark Elf, Father Christmas and other, long-forgotten names. He was not able to die, and yet he had—the victim of a slow, eons-long spiritual rot. Ob had seen it before, in Rome and Greece and elsewhere.
Santa Claus had died from the cancer of non-belief.
All gods existed on belief. It was their power. Their food. The more people that believed in them, the stronger they became. But when they lost favor with their devout followers, when people stopped believing in them and began worshipping other deities, the gods grew weaker. If it continued long enough, the gods could die. It had happened to Zeus. To Odin. To countless others, both remembered and forgotten. History was written in the blood of forgotten pantheons. They’d been replaced with new gods. Shinier gods. Gods of medicine and science and peace.
Of course, humanity hadn’t realized that Claus was a god. They just thought of him as some kindly old legend, a story to tell children. A benevolent figurehead. A marketing icon. Which was fine, since millennia ago, he’d been that very thing—a god of production and commerce. Claus had transformed over time, altering his identity and duties to suit the ever-changing demands of his fickle believers. All gods did so, when required. They had no choice. Beholden to the whims of the faithful, even the gods had to adapt or die.
Ob and the rest of the Thirteen were not gods, and thus, they had no such weaknesses. The Thirteen scoffed at the inferior beings—gods, angels, demons, devils. All of them were amateurs. They were mere children, battling for scraps from the Creator’s table, fighting for the right to be chained to the desires of humanity, sentenced to obey their believer’s prayers, for to do so was to reward their faith. Rewarding humanity’s faith kept the belief strong—and thus, kept the gods strong.
Ob longed for the day when he could destroy them all. He would kick the Creator from the throne and ascend for himself.
But not yet.
One planet, one reality, at a time. Ob and his fellow Siqqusim had just finished with another Earth, slaughtering the last of the humans and making a mockery with their corpses. While his brothers, Ab and Api, took over, Ob had led the Siqqusim into the Great Labyrinth between worlds, moving on to this level of existence.
Finished with Claus’s memories, Ob looked around the sled. It was piled high with colorfully-wrapped boxes and bags. The vast storage space behind the seat was much bigger inside than it appeared from the outside. Ob knew that if he dived into that mound of presents, he could burrow all night and still not reach the bottom. Leather reigns lay in his lap. Ob picked them up and sleigh-bells jingled. The reigns were tied to nine mangy familiars. Each had taken the earthly form of a reindeer. The familiar at the head of the procession was smaller than the others, but its nose glowed scarlet with arcane energies.
Ob experimented with the reigns. The familiars obeyed his commands, unaware that their master no longer inhabited this obese shell. Ob directed them to land. They dropped out of the sky and soared above a village in the Lapland province of Finland. The sled drifted to a halt in the deep snow. Other than the sleigh’s jingling bells, the town was silent. The streets were deserted and the villagers were most likely
asleep. Smoke curled from a few chimneys. Many doors and windows were adorned with Christmas decorations. Icicles hung from roofs and gutters.
Ob climbed out of the sled and approached the reindeer. They stomped their hooves and pawed the snow, sensing that something was wrong, but unaware of what it was. Their master smelled different. His aura had vanished.
“Well,” Ob said, “ho, ho, ho and all that. Names have power, so let’s get down to the act of naming.” He pointed at each as he spoke. “Rudolph, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen. Now... do you know who I am?”
The familiars glanced at each other, snorting in fear.
“I’m the reason for the season.” Ob licked his lips. “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”
His teeth flashed in the darkness.
• • •
Alvar Pokka slept next to his hearth. The embers glowed softly. The warmth eased his aching joints, stiff with arthritis. He was eighty-two years old and had lived in Lapland all of his life. Until that night, Alvar had thought he knew everything there was to know about the region’s flora and fauna. But the sound that woke him was like nothing he’d ever heard.
Alvar hadn’t known that reindeer could scream.
He crept to the window. The fire’s warmth seemed to vanish. Alvar peered out the frosted glass and gasped. Santa Claus was slaughtering his reindeer. One by one, he tore out their throats with his hands and teeth. His white beard had turned crimson, dripping gore. The dead animals dropped to the frozen ground. Steam rose from their corpses.