Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

There were etchings of beasts, demons, and things he had no name for. The detail was so stunning that it took his breath away. For a brief moment, the terror was forgotten. The intricacy was so elaborate that the carvings had to have taken months – maybe years – to complete. There were symbols on it from several different languages. He recognized a few Kanji, but they were old, their meaning unknown to him.

  The metal started to warm in Ken’s hands. There was a noise behind him, but when he looked he saw nothing but the shadows. His lantern began to dim, and the small wick danced in a cold wind. The chill reached Ken and caused him to focus on what he was holding.

  The cylinder began to get warmer, and Ken could not resist the urge to open it. Unscrewing the top, he started to feel a change within him.

  Something dark was trying to get inside. He shook his head to get his focus back. To find out what was so important. Why Master Leh had entrusted the cylinder to him, the youngest of all the brothers – and why Master Leh had ordered him to hide it, to make sure it did not fall into the wrong hands.

  ***

  Ken was in the middle of prayer when his Master entered. He immediately put his forehead on the floor and waited for a command. But instead of an admonishment or an order, the harsh Master Leh did something completely out of character; he touched Ken on the back gently, affectionately – like a father.

  “Rise, we have no time for this.”

  Ken sat up and waited, a puzzled expression on his face. There was a sense of urgency in the Master’s voice, completely out of character.

  The Master looked different, older, thinner, more frail – his gray eyes were dull and lifeless. A bitterly cold wind skipped through the room and disturbed the serenity of the candles. The flames danced wildly, and disturbing shadows were thrown onto the wall. Ken felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise, as though cold skeletal fingers were caressing him.

  “You must take this and hide it. No matter what happens... you must never open it. But most importantly... ensure that it does not fall into... into their hands.” Master Leh shuddered as he handed the leather package to the younger monk.

  Ken’s fingers involuntarily tightened on the wrapped cylinder, snatching the mysterious artefact as a hideous screeching sound pierced the temple walls. In all his years at the monastery, Ken had never heard a sound like that. He could only think of one word to describe it.

  Evil.

  He looked to his Master for comfort, for reassurance. Instead a new horror revealed itself. He paled.

  In front of him, Master Leh began to change.

  No, not change, Ken realised with terror. The Master is melting!

  The hair on his head that had been meticulously kept in a braid for years simply slid from the wrinkled scalp. The Master’s skin rippled and shifted, animated like hot wax. It poured off his body, rivulets of hideous matter dripping from the sleeves of his robe and forming wax-like pools on the prayer mats.

  Ken was thankful that the robes hid the sight of the bones and organs underneath. He remained kneeling, staring wide-eyed into eyes that slowly lost shape and began to ooze down the long, brittle cheekbones of his Master’s face.

  Ken’s stomach roiled and rumbled, but the fear gripped him so tightly he could not even vomit. Finally, when the warm liquid of his Master began to seep into his own robes he found the strength to move. He shuffled backwards, awkwardly. A bony hand reached out for him, falling apart and landing on the floor.

  “Hide it. Hide it or die...” Those were the last words issued by Master Leh, his voice little more than a bubbling hiss. The young monk didn’t need to be told again. The screeching returned, harsher, louder.

  Closer.

  He rose to his feet and nimbly stepped over the spreading pool of bodily fluids that oozed from the Master’s robes. Ken clutched the package tightly to his thin chest and began to run. His sandals were unbearably loud on the cold floor.

  The screeching could be heard throughout the hallways. Everywhere he turned he felt as if he was going to run into the creature that was making that horrible noise.

  A door swung open in front of him and he swerved to the left to avoid it, onward to the exit. The screeching was louder, echoing off the cold mountains that surrounded the small temple.

  Ken ran over fallen cherry blossoms, the only colour in the earthy landscape. Branches from nearby trees reached out for him, trying to grab him. Even the petals of the orchid which he once found peaceful turned to liquid beneath his sandals and caused him to slip.

  He felt the package getting heavier, weighing him down. He struggled to keep it aloft, aware that it was making its presence known: letting Ken know that he had to do something soon.

  Hot breath stroked the back of his neck. Something cold and unearthly ran up his spine just as he reached his room.

  Slamming the door shut was a useless gesture against such a monstrous force, but one he performed anyway. The thing that was after him was not of this world, and nothing in his studies had ever prepared him for this.

  If Master Leh couldn’t fight it, what chance did he have, a simple monk with less than seven years servitude? What if the Master had made a mistake?

  Ken began to panic and question himself. He had barely even begun training, a boy given a brother’s task. He thought of the Master and remembered something he had once told him.

  Only one who has suffered as you have can understand what must be done.

  Getting his breathing under control Ken channelled his energy: who was he to question the Master?

  But most importantly... ensure that it does not fall into... into their hands.

  “Very well, Master Leh.” He didn’t know how much time he had. Pushing his pallet to the side he began to devise a plan as he dug.

  ***

  Ken used his fingers to examine the cylinder more closely, his fingertips tracing the raised patterns of the engravings. A voice in the back of his mind called to him.

  Open it! What does that senile old fool know, anyway?

  His ability to resist was getting weaker and weaker. It felt so right to be holding it, touching it. Absorbing what was inside of it.

  Instinctively, he knew the end was engineered to come off when pushed and turned; it felt absolutely divine to be opening it. A screech outside his door, but this time it was different. It did not terrify him.

  As the blood from his wrecked fingers came into contact with the interior of the artefact, the screeching stopped, and the cylinder turned ice cold. He felt his mind slipping, his entire body falling into a trance.

  Falling...

  A knock at his door roused him from his stupor. Realisation hit him with the force of a winter storm: he had to hide the cylinder.

  Quickly closing it and shoving it back into its leather packaging, he tossed it into the hole he had made and pushed the earth back. The burial only took moments, but felt an age with the increasingly insistent knocking at the door.

  The moment he put the pallet back in place and sat on it, his door opened. Brother Tak stood there, his fleshy features filled with concern.

  “Brother Ken! What have you done? What did you do to Master Leh?”

  Several more members of the brotherhood stood behind Tak. Their expressions were far from concerned, they were angry. Murderous.

  “I have done nothing. I have been praying all night.”

  Tak pointed to Ken’s fingers. “Really? What sort of prayer requires you to bloody your hands?”

  One of the monks from the back spoke up. “The blood of Master Leh is on his hands! Murderer! Take him!”

  The screeching returned as they descended upon him. Soon all that could be heard were the echoes of screams, and the screeching in the valley below.

  “Find the cylinder!” Tak snapped. “He didn’t have long to hide it.”

  His brothers obeyed and swarmed into the room. The brotherhood of peace and love, now with nothing but vengeance on their minds as they reached for Ken.

  Brothers the
young monk had known since he was brought here seven years ago when he was a boy of only ten. Men the young monk had known for years were now trying to kill him.

  Men he thought of as family, brothers.

  The betrayal he felt was far worse than the physical pain they inflicted upon him. They kicked him until ribs cracked. They punched him until blood poured from his broken nose and spilled through the gaps of shattered teeth.

  He felt a final kick to his back, then nothing. Unconsciousness came for him, and he went to it gladly.

  ***

  The darkness did not last long. Ken came back to consciousness and was aware that he was in the centre room of the temple.

  The room used to honour our leader. He tried to take stock of his situation. He still wore his bloodstained robes. His whole body ached, but through the throbbing he was conscious of the fact that he was tied to something.

  Shivering on the cold earthen floor he looked down at his beaten body. There were bruises and gashes everywhere. His lower left leg was at an unnatural angle, obviously broken. The pain was excruciating, but he did not make a noise.

  I won’t give them the satisfaction!

  There was movement in one of the corners, a shifting of shadows. He tried to call out but fresh agony shot down his throat.

  My jaw is broken. It seemed as if every part of his body was damaged in some way, except his eyes.

  A shadow approached from the corner. Brother Tak – and he didn’t look happy. In fact he didn’t really look like Tak anymore. His skin had paled, his braid was gone, and his eyes...

  What’s happened to his eyes?

  Ken didn’t shrink back or show his disgust at what he saw. He just waited for Tak to speak.

  “It was not meant to be you. I was the chosen one.” Tak came closer, and Ken could now see the full horror of the monk’s eyes. They were completely white; the normal warm-hues of hazel had given way to a milky-opaqueness. But he could still see.

  “I was supposed to find the scroll and transform. I was supposed to be the one who evolved... to show you all the way.”

  Ken became aware of more of his brothers entering the room. Each one carried a blazing torch to a specific location.

  “Now, because of what you have done, you will be the one. Perhaps it was meant to be this way. You never did fit in here.”

  Ken noticed the ancient Kanji on the floor as the room got brighter with the brotherhood’s torches. He still didn’t recognize the majority of the symbols – but the ones he did recognize terrified him.

  Transform. Take. Soul. Empty Vessel.

  “You opened the cylinder, which was very disobedient of you. Then somehow... somehow you knew to put your blood on the scroll to activate it. That blood offering made you the one.” Tak smiled. A grim, inhuman smile of triumph. “He will come now because of you.”

  Tak took out a knife and made long slits down the length of Ken’s arms. Then he moved and made slits on his ankles. The young monk felt no pain, rather a pleasant sensation of calm, drifting to sleep...

  “Now you must give all of your blood to welcome him.”

  Ken looked down and saw that he was in the middle of a giant Kanji. He knew what this one meant.

  Possession.

  As the blood flowed from his veins Ken felt something change within him. His wounds began to heal, bones knitted back together, and another presence began to enter his mind.

  The others were chanting in unison, their eyes matching the whiteness of Tak’s. The flames danced in a wild pattern, strange shadows flickered on the walls and floor, animating the Kanji. Tak stood motionless, staring at Ken.

  Waiting.

  The chanting brothers each pulled a mask from their robes and placed it over their faces. Then Tak did the same thing.

  The masks were familiar to Ken. But only as tales told by his mother when he’d been bad.

  The Citipati – the Brothers of the Cemetery! No, they’re just a legend, a bedtime story to be told to naughty children!

  He remembered his mother’s stern gaze as she told him of the legend. Two monks murdered while in deep meditation. Her cold smile as she described their heads being cut off and their bodies tossed into the mud like trash.

  They became angry spirits that haunt cemeteries, Ken – but they’ll also come for naughty children who cause mischief! The Brothers of the Cemetery will come and GET you if you misbehave!

  He had giggled nervously with the strange combination of fear and thrills from a ghostly story.

  And what of the great warrior, Mother? The one who had been able to capture the spirits?

  It was no skill of arms that enabled him to capture the Citipati, Ken. Intelligence and a scroll, and a specially forged container that no spirit could break free from...

  With horror, Ken realized what he had done. In opening the cylinder and getting his blood on it, he had put into motion a horrible chain of events. Looking back though, Ken knew this was how it was meant to be. His mother had always been so harsh with him, blaming him for the death of his father.

  When Ken was three there was a fire and his father had bravely rushed into the house to save his only son. He had succeeded at the cost of his own life. His clothes had caught fire in the process. Ken’s last image of his father was of him going up in flames, and the sounds of both his mother and father screaming in agony.

  Ken was never the same after that. The guilt of his father’s death weighed on his young soul. His mother didn’t help, blaming him daily. A few years later, his mother couldn’t even look at him anymore; she gave him to the brotherhood. No hope for this one... he’s got demons she had said to the bemused monks. Then she had left, walking into the valley without a backwards glance.

  Strength flooded back into his healed body. Strength imparted from something not of this world...

  He felt wrath, anger, and hatred as he stared at the masked faces of his brothers. His only family.

  They had tried to hurt him, to kill him and he would have his revenge. Then he would go find his missing brother and free him from his tomb.

  His bonds crumbled to dusty threads and Ken stood on unbroken legs. His laughter rolled around the room, louder and more chilling than the screeching of before. Now the monks looked nervous.

  As they should! the Citipati told him. Your Master Leh opened the cylinder, but he was too old and feeble for my uses. When YOU entered the room though... you were more than acceptable!

  The haunting that Citipati were known for then began with Ken. He felt like he was being chased, things were working against him, cold tingles on his spine, and ominous shadows. Ken watched as his own memories flashed in front of his eyes, then were gone.

  Ken no longer existed. His soul had been collected.

  I am Citipati!

  He stood tall and looked at the weaklings around him with contempt. They brought forth a Tibetan long horn and withdrew respectfully as he blew into it. The brothers were silent, waiting for their orders with anticipation and fear.

  “You are right to be fearful!” His voice was that of the grave, the sepulchral echo of eternity. The Citipati stalked the room, approaching each of the monks and pulling their heads from the necks.

  Snapping, tearing and human shrieks of terror and pain filled the room. Every one of the brothers lay dead, twitching and bleeding under the Citipati’s rage.

  All except for the one called Tak. The Citipati tore off the monk’s mask and lifted him by the neck.

  “Where is my brother?”

  “I don’t know!” Tak’s face was red, his eyes bulging as the fingers exerted their inhuman pressure. “We... we unearthed you a few days ago, when one of the outer buildings collapsed during the earthquake. Perhaps... he is... near... there.”

  With a contemptuous flick of the wrist, Tak went motionless, his neck broken.

  The being that had been known as the monk Ken began to feed. The life-force of his former brothers filled him with strength – yet fuelled his hunger even mor
e. Soon he would be unstoppable, and his hunger insatiable.

  Leaving the room with Horn in hand, he blew it once more. He would find his brother – his true brother, not these feeble monks.

  The Brothers of the Cemetery would be reunited. Then, the harvest of souls could begin.

  About the author: Suzanne Robb has a story titled There is no God appearing in Deadication: An Anthology Dedicated to all Things Zombie by Panic Press. Two of her stories, Family and In the Old Days, will be appearing in Rapid Decomposition Living Dead Flash Stories, publication date yet to be announced. Her story Lens of the Innocent will be appearing in the Norgus Press anthology Look What I Found scheduled for publication August 2011.

  Black Rose

  Robert Harkess

  Mamoru picked up his pack and used the toes of his left foot to flick his staff up from the floor and into his hand. He tilted his straw hat up so he could look along the path towards the gates of the palace. It hadn’t changed much, at least on the outside, and finding out what had changed within was why he was here.

  The Great Plaza was up a short street between two government buildings. He set off towards it, sticking to the middle of the road so as not to inconvenience the fine people. They stared, of course. Why wouldn’t they? By his dress, he looked like a peasant—tight-fitting trews and a loose smock of undyed homespun, caught at the waist with a rope belt—and he looked much like an old man who had just wandered in from a farm. He wondered how many would note his height, or his pale face and hands, and see the lie. He seemed to walk in an island of quiet, with conversation fading as he walked towards it, then bursting into a scandalized hiss behind him.

  When he stepped out onto the plaza, he set a direct line for the Grand Entrance. As soon as they noticed him two palace guards marched officiously out from the gate to intercept. Their posture suggested they were not interested in conversation. And he could understand that. A peasant walking straight at the Prince’s front door was either a fool or a threat. Mamoru wondered which he’d turn out to be.