Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

  “You led us a merry dance, Brother Mark. It was only thanks to our newest Brother” – Alexander pointed a scaly finger towards Skater Boy – “that we found you.”

  Mark spat at Alexander’s feet. “I should’ve run over the little turd after all.”

  “Come, come, Brother Mark. You should feel honoured. He’s the same age as you were when you joined the Brotherhood of Dagon. He has many of your qualities, but his faith is stronger. He looks forward to the day he will mate with a Deep One. He won’t try to escape his destiny, as you foolishly did.”

  Alexander’s dead eyes reflected the blue of the lamp. It was a cold light.

  “Wonder and glory could have been yours, Brother Mark. Instead, you chose exile. While we reclaim the land for the sea and shall live forever with the Deep Ones, you chose death.”

  “So why track me down?” Mark said with a snarl. “If we... unbelievers are going to drown, why bring me here? What’re you trying to prove?”

  Alexander raised the thin scales of his eyebrows. “We? Not us, Brother Mark. You’ve forgotten how much Father Dagon has in common with the Christian God. He too believes in forgiveness and repentance. A second chance for those who have lost their way.”

  Mark heard mumbling behind him. The new monks had begun to chant familiar words that hammered into his soul as chillingly as the rain waters pounded into his flesh. Alexander extended what had once been the palms of his hands to the sky.

  “You’re family, Brother Mark. Our Father loves you as much as he loves us. The Prodigal Son returns to the deep...”

  Mark’s overalls and jacket were soaked through. He could no longer feel the pain in his chest, just an over-riding chill throughout his body. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that blue light still burned brightly in his mind. The blue light and bone-freezing chill imparted by the flooded crypt beneath Fairlight – his only childhood companions – had returned.

  The monks continued their chant, the paean to Father Dagon that Brother Alexander had drilled into him all those years ago.

  He began to chant in unison without realising. The words spilled from his lips in a thunderous downpour as deafening as the cloudburst above.

  He felt their hands on his shoulders, gently turning him to face the family member that squatted above the well. Its black, spherical eyes glistened with fresh rainwater that the creature didn’t blink away. The blue light added a sparkle to those eyes – or perhaps the gleaming was delight, anticipation of mating with a human Brother.

  Its dorsal crest extended with a meaty crack, its maw opened and the black eel that was its tongue extended and parted. Two serrated sections roughly slid over Mark’s slack mouth, cutting the lips. His blood mingled with the black ichor of his Sibling’s saliva.

  Mark was no longer afraid. He didn’t feel the stabs of pain that shot from his chest down his arm. Didn’t feel the explosion of blood vessels in his chest. They were human, mortal concerns. He smiled and opened his mouth to allow the black tongue access.

  He closed his eyes. Soon, there was feeling again. Pain, a shooting, stabbing fire on either side of his neck. He gasped, and then wondered why the sound didn’t come from his lips.

  His eyes opened. Above the Sibling he saw Brother Alexander – yes, Brother Alexander, how foolish he had been to deny that! – smile reassuringly at him.

  Brother Alexander’s gills flared and emitted steam into the thundering sky, and Mark – Brother Mark once more, he thought happily – realised that steam was coming from his own gills as well.

  He sensed snake-like appendages wrap themselves around his lower body. Tightening. He felt the Sibling lift him into the air, thrusting upwards triumphantly. Brother Mark gasped in pain as another appendage – a harder, unyielding member – tore through the rear of his work trousers. Tore through his skin. Tore into his innards.

  The Sibling let out a roar of pleasure and triumph that mingled with the crooning of Brother Alexander and the acolytes. Rain and the ground spun around him. He couldn’t tell which was which – all was a bruised, mottled darkness.

  It doesn’t matter, he told himself. Soon, all will be one. Water and earth.

  He felt a falling, crushing sensation, and was relieved to know that the Sibling was accompanying him on his descent down the well shaft. The chanting from his Brothers above faded, but the words continued to flood his ears. His Sibling – his Brother in Dagon – sang to him.

  “We shall dive down through black abysses, and in that lair of the Deep Ones, we shall dwell amidst wonder and glory for ever.”

  About the author: Adrian Chamberlin’s works have appeared in Guy N Smith’s Graveyard Rendezvous and the websites Spinetinglers.co.uk, the British Horror Novels Forum and the DF Underground, where he’s a contributing author to the Underground Rising fiction collaboration. He is a founding member of Dark Continents Publishing and his first novel The Caretakers, a supernatural thriller set in a fictional Cambridge College, will be released in 2011. He is currently working on his second novel Fairlight.

  The Just One

  William Meikle

  Jim McLeod waved to the departing dinghy but old Joe didn’t wave back and in less than a minute the Zodiac was lost from sight round the headland.

  “You’ll be OK on your own,” Joe had said as he left. It hadn’t been a question. Jim stood on the jetty, conflicting thoughts running through his mind. Of course he was proud that Joe thought him capable enough of running the light on his own. But that had to be balanced against the fact that he was facing two nights on this lump of rock with only the North Atlantic weather for company.

  Still, it couldn’t be helped.

  The call had come through just an hour ago. Joe’s wife had been taken to the hospital. The old man had taken a bit of coaxing but eventually Jim had got him into the dinghy.

  “It’s probably nothing,” the old man said.

  “That’s true,” Jim replied. “But you’d never forgive yourself if it’s more than that. Away wi’ you. I’ll be fine here.”

  Joe took his time preparing, and Jim caught him looking at the radio, expecting a call that would tell him the three-hour trip across the Minch wouldn’t be required. But no call had come, and finally the old man had bowed to the inevitable and headed off.

  He’d only been gone two minutes, and already Jim found the quiet pressing in on him, an almost physical presence. To make matters worse, a front hung offshore and was rolling in fast. By the time Jim walked up the jetty and into the old lighthouse rain had started to patter on the cobbles and darkness was gathering.

  He went inside and shut the weather out. The first order of business was to get the light started. He almost ran up the stairs to the light room.

  Beyond the glass everything was awash, the rain running in a flat sheet down the window like a huge water feature. Jim switched on the light and the horn. Up here the noise was almost deafening. He had turned away at the second woot to go back downstairs, when an answering noise came from out to the west. He wasn’t really sure he’d heard it at all... it had sounded like chanting.

  He strained to see through the glass, but there was only watery grayness beyond. He put his nose up against the window. As if from the far distance he heard it again, the sound of a choir joined in singing.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  Jim backed away fast. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. When the horn went off he almost jumped in the air. He was halfway down the stairs before he realized it. He stopped, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself.

  He managed a bitter laugh.

  Old Joe is barely gone ten minutes and I’m jumping at shadows already. Pull yourself together, man.

  Going down to the living quarters grounded him back in a place he could relax. The noise of the horn was slightly dampened here, and if he thought he heard the chanting again, it was soon drowned out when he switched on the radio. Jim made himself a coffee and sat down with his book. The intricacies of the thriller soo
n drew him in and he was surprised to look up and notice that the light was going.

  Now that his attention was pulled out of the book he noticed other things. The wind was up outside, whistling like a tone-deaf pensioner around the old window frames. The rain threw drum roll patterns against the glass, like frantic Morse code messages. A rogue wave hit the rocks outside with a thunderous crash and once again Jim jumped.

  Old Joe would think me daft.

  It was time to check on the light. He didn’t want to venture anywhere near the light room, but duty was duty, and he owed it to Joe.

  He went up the stairs slowly. The higher he went the louder came the sound of the horn. And even from halfway up the staircase, he heard the rain lash against the glass.

  His round of the light room was cursory. On another night he might linger, enjoying the play of light on water, or even, on nights like this one, enjoying the sheer brutal force of the storm. But the chanting had got him spooked. While he was downstairs he was able to pass it off as a trick of the wind, but up here the chill he’d felt came back again.

  Once more he headed for the stairs and safety.

  The chant came in on a perfect beat between the period of the horn.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  It was closer this time, a mixture of timbres and voices that echoed and thrummed through the whole fabric of the lighthouse. Jim’s legs wanted to run, but the sound was too close, too impossible.

  Joe would want me to check.

  He opened the door and stepped out onto the platform around the outside.

  He immediately regretted it. The wind tugged at him, trying to throw him to the rocks below, and the rain drenched him. He sidled round, keeping his back all the way to the glass. The wind raged less wildly on the far side of the light, and the building itself protected him from the worst of the rain. Jim was able to shuffle closer to the rail and, hanging on tight, risked a look over.

  Waves blasted at the rocks below, foam flying over the jetty that was usually twelve feet above the water line. Something was lying on the cobbles there, and for a moment Jim couldn’t breathe. The dark figure looked like a body, still and unmoving.

  Then he saw the heads of the others bobbing in the water. A group of gray seals were swimming in the relative safety of the small harbor in front of the lighthouse. As he watched, two more dragged themselves out onto the cobbles of the jetty.

  They raised their heads and looked up, straight at Jim.

  The chant came again.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  Jim turned and ran.

  He was back in the living quarters with a whisky bottle in his hand less than a minute later. But even through the thick oak door he could still hear the chanting. He turned the radio up full.

  That’s better.

  He poured himself a large measure and downed half of it in one gulp, letting the heat burn down to the pit of his stomach – letting it remind him he was alive.

  The words of the chant kept going round and round in his mind.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  He fired up his laptop. His searches didn’t tell him much at first. He found the translation quickly enough.

  Drop down dew ye heavens from above, and let the clouds rain the Just One.

  A search for The Just One proved less fruitful. Until he factored in their location. The article was the first thing returned.

  “St Brennan’s Abbey is now little more than a ruin, but in its day it was the focus of one of the biggest religious trials in history. Twelve monks, long-time residents of the island, were found guilty of heresy. They had renounced Christ and instead had turned to worshipping a being they said lived in the seas around the island, a being they called ‘The Just One.’ ”

  The storm went up a notch. All the lights flickered and Jim’s heart jumped into his mouth. But the lights stayed on, as did the radio. He went back to the article.

  “Found guilty, the monks were sentenced to be burned at the stake, but they escaped their fate when a great storm hit. The roof of the Abbey itself fell in. When the storm was over, the monks were nowhere to be found. But local legend says that they can be heard, in the wind, singing their prayers to their watery god. The identity of this god is subject to much conjecture but...”

  The lights went out. Jim fumbled in the dark for several seconds. The wind howled, and through it, the chant rose, high and loud.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  Peccavimus, et facti sumus tamquam immundus nos, et cecidimus quasi folium universi.

  Something banged at the oak door, hard. He heard the old wood creak. An involuntary squirt of piss ran down his leg inside his trousers.

  Move you idiot.

  He’d just found the dresser, and the candles, when the backup generator kicked in. He heard the rumble of the diesel engine rise up from the cellar below him.

  Sorry Joe. I’d forgotten all about that.

  The radio switched back on suddenly, giving him near as big a fright as the chanting.

  He stood there for a while, waiting for his heart to calm, letting the sound of forties’ big band swing seep into him. When he thought he could do it without dropping the glass he poured another whisky, draining it in one smooth gulp.

  It was a long time before he felt even close to calm. He went back to the laptop, looking for answers, but the comms were down. He couldn’t even find the article he had been reading.

  He banged the table in frustration.

  Something thumped on the door in reply.

  Go away. Just go away!

  He waited. There was no repeat of the banging on the door. Glenn Miller’s band kept swinging.

  So what now?

  Jim turned out the light and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He stepped slowly over to the small window by the door and looked out.

  Twelve seals sat barely fifteen feet away, each as long as a man, and nearly twice as heavy. They all had their heads raised into the teeming rain, and all had their jaws wide open showing mouths full of yellow dog-like teeth. Even above the swing band he heard the chant rise up.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  As he turned away from the window, he spotted something else he had forgotten. A small box was nailed to the wall beside the door. Inside lay a flare gun, and two flares.

  His hands shook as he loaded the first.

  He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Leave me alone,” he shouted. “Just leave me alone.”

  Even as he raised the flare gun the seal he had aimed at swelled and grew. It rose up, tall as a man. Its body morphed until it looked like a large hefty robed figure, a cowl covering its head.

  Jim pulled the trigger and the flare hissed through the rain and embedded itself in the shadows where the face would have been. The flare blazed, orange and yellow that stayed behind his eyelids when he blinked. The figure fell away, burning, into the rough water below the jetty. Jim slammed the door shut and headed for the whisky, emptying the best part of the bottle before stopping, breathless.

  He moved to switch the light on, then realized he could see quite clearly. A shimmering blue glow filled the window.

  It’s coming from out on the jetty.

  He couldn’t help himself. He went back to the window and looked out.

  They were no longer seals. They stood tall in two ranks, one of six, one of five, on either side of the jetty. The shimmering blue light rose from the thing that was hauling itself out of the sea.

  It looked like nothing less than a bloated white maggot, but a maggot that was nearly thirty feet long. The blue light came from a vast maw that gaped and pulsed as it drew itself up the jetty.

  Jim fumbled with another flare and took three tries before he got it loaded.

  The chanting outside rose again, loud enough to drown out the radio.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum
.

  He threw the door open again.

  “I told you already. Leave... me... alone.”

  He fired the flare straight at the pulsing mouth of the maggot.

  The mouth opened wide and the flare disappeared inside, immediately snuffed out.

  Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.

  Peccavimus, et facti sumus tamquam immundus nos, et cecidimus quasi folium universi.

  Jim was suddenly struck immobile. He wanted to turn and run, to slam the door behind him and look for more booze. But the blue light surrounded him and held him as tight as if he’d been chained.

  His legs started to obey someone else’s orders. He stepped out into the storm.

  The chanting immediately got louder and more urgent. He translated it in his mind, even as his throat started to articulate the sounds.

  Drop down dew ye heavens from above, and let the clouds rain the Just One.

  As he stood finally in front of the maggot, legs starting to melt and fuse, teeth growing in a mouth that was suddenly too small – he knew.

  One of the twelve had been taken.

  A replacement was needed.

  It is only just.

  About the author: William Meikle is a Scottish writer with ten novels published in the genre press and over 200 short story credits in thirteen countries. He is the author of the ongoing Midnight Eye series among others, and his work appears in a number of professional anthologies. He lives in a remote corner of Newfoundland with icebergs, whales and bald eagles for company. In the winters he gets warm vicariously through the lives of others in cyberspace, so please check him out at williammeikle.com

  The Liturgy of the Hours

  Dean M. Drinkel

  Sext

  “ ‘This is what you are to do,’ they said. ‘Completely destroy all the males and every woman who is not a virgin.’ ” – Judges 21:10 - 24

  Hellwood.

  Was the name he had given the matted bush that hung between her legs. That dank and dark cavern. An abyss where mocking demons hid themselves. The Cursed Place. The Damned and Blackened City. His imagination ran riot. His body shook. The whites of his eyes glistened, blood streamed from the sockets. This was where the Devil made him sin.