Fantastic Tales of Terror

by Eugene Johnson

  She felt nothing for him. Maybe others did, but she was immune in ways most others weren’t when confronted with one of the Conflicted.

  “No,” she said. “Nothing of the sort. I just want us to shake hands.”

  Vanek laughed. It rattled the leaves. “Oh, that’s good. That’s very good. Shake hands? Is that all? Do you really think . . . ?” He laughed. “Fine,” he said, charging in. “You want to shake my hand.” He put out his long left hand, the common gesture easy and strong. “We have a deal. We end the war in a year. Put ‘er there, girlie?” He laughed again, his voice raspy and unnatural.

  Marilyn put out her hand.

  Hers close to his.

  Before they touched, when they were mere inches apart, Vanek’s face drooped.

  “What . . . ?” he said, surprised.

  The diamond on her ring glowed white, lighting the jungle around them brighter than daylight.

  A sound like a million trumpets and violins sounded.

  She wanted to clamp her hands over her ears, but couldn’t.

  She couldn’t help but shut her eyes, it was so bright.

  The music subsided, and in a moment, she sensed the light gone. She opened her eyes to find Vanek gone. She looked at her ring. It glistened and sparkled like no other diamond. There seemed to be a light from within. So bright was it that it lit her way.

  With each step back toward the camp, the diamond’s light lessened, although it kept its sparkle.

  Got you, you sonofabitch.

  Soldiers surrounded her. They’d found her. “Are you alright, Miss Monroe?”

  “Missis,” she said, going right back into her Marilyn voice. “And I am, but that was close.”

  “Glad to hear it,” the young man said.

  Behind him, Sergeant Richards hurried toward her. He grabbed her by the crux of her arm. “So glad you’re okay,” he said.

  He knows. Of course he knows. He led me here.

  They crossed over into the camp again, and she was led back toward her quarters. “So glad everything worked out for this trip,” Sergeant Richards said. “So glad you’re not out there all alone in the jungle.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” she said, sitting on the cot. “I had this.” She lifted her hand. “Haven’t you heard the song, baby?”

  She blinked twice and smiled.

  “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

  ***

  Chop!

  Chop!

  Went the helicopter blades. She rode back from the camp, she rode out to the air strip, and then they flew her all the way back to the States.

  She kept the ring until she was tragically lost.

  And in her bungalow, near her bed, her last belongings catalogued, the diamond ring she’d worn was gone, slipped from her finger––vanished, hidden, and lost––until it was thought to be glimpsed again in a desert plain, on a foreign land, with bombs exploding from underneath, and, it was whispered, a man lingered in doorways–– a man whose arms seemed just a bit too long, whose fingers stretched and curled, their tips blackened––a man who knelt and drank the blood of the fallen, a man who laughed at the sky and the sun, a man, who for a short time again, had won.

  THE SECRET ENGRAVINGS

  LISA MORTON

  Hans turned the corner and smelled death.

  The odor, sudden and overwhelming, cascaded his memory back to four years ago, to 1519, when his brother Ambrosius had succumbed to plague. He’d gone against the advice of physicians and friends to attend to Ambrosius, and the scent in his brother’s final hours had been this same nauseating mix of rotten meat and metallic blood and sour fear sweat.

  Hans was yanked back to the present as he saw a body being taken from a house down the alley. Two men, common laborers with thick rags wrapped around their faces, lugged a shrouded corpse into a waiting cart. As they heaved it onto the creaking boards, a foot fell loose, and Hans saw:

  The toes were almost completely black.

  Plague. Again, here in Basel.

  One of the laborers glanced up and saw Hans staring. He stepped a few feet away from the dead man, glanced back once, adjusted the improvised cloth mask. He was burly, with a long, unwashed beard and filthy peasant’s garb, but his face and voice were surprisingly kind. “Best not come this way,” he said.

  “How far . . . ?” Hans couldn’t finish the question.

  The man understood. “Only this house. He was a merchant, been traveling, just came back last week. I doubt it’ll spread.”

  ‘Doubt’? Precious little to put my mind at ease. But Hans nodded and turned away.

  He clutched his satchel tighter–it held the drawings for the prayer book, his latest commission, and as such was precious–and walked down another lane, unseeing.

  The Great Mortality . . . here, again.

  He’d been on his way to visit Hermann, the engraver who would complete the woodcuts that would allow the drawings to be printed; but now he found himself walking aimlessly, too stunned to remember an alternate way.

  After Ambrosius, Hans had lived in dread of encountering the plague again. Ambrosius, his beloved older brother, the one their father had believed would be a great artist. Ambrosius, who had his own studio while Hans was yet an apprentice to another artist; even if Hans was now accorded greater recognition than Ambrosius had ever been given, Hans knew the hole his brother’s gruesome death had left in his soul would never fill. He couldn’t forget watching the buboes form under his brother’s arms, the black spots that spread up his face and limbs as he vomited blood. Four years later, not a day passed when he didn’t see Ambrosius’s dying face or–earlier–that sought-after smile of approval. He saw his brother in statues, in paintings, in other men, in children.

  And he saw his own death by plague in everything else. The thought terrified him; he’d seen what his brother had endured, and he couldn’t imagine doing the same. The fevers, the bursting skin, the blood . . .

  Hans finally looked up, realizing he’d wandered far away now from the engraver’s neighborhood, and was near the house of his friend Erasmus. Hans had recently painted the great man, and they’d become friends as a result. Erasmus had read parts of his essay The Praise of Folly to Hans during the sittings, and Hans had come to admire Erasmus for his wit and insight. He could use a precious dose of that today.

  A few minutes later, the scholar was welcoming Hans into his study. Once seated before a warming hearth with a brandy (“good for all Four Humours,” Erasmus assured him), surrounded by books and scrolls and writing desks and quills, only then did Hans finally begin to relax.

  “Your fame is growing, young Hans,” Erasmus told him, as he stood before the fire, his rugged face creased in pleasure. “I had reason to visit the Great Council Chamber in town hall today, and a traveler from Germany saw your mural and asked if it was the work of the Italian, Da Vinci. I was delighted to tell him that Basel had its own Da Vinci in the young Hans Holbein. He told me he would mark that name well.”

  Hans tried to smile, but wasn’t entirely successful. Erasmus saw the attempt. “I fear you’re not here for mere praise alone.”

  “No. I saw . . . plague. Plague has returned to Basel.”

  If Hans had expected some measure of panic or at least discomfort from his friend, he was surprised to see only a mild shrug. “Plague is always with us in some form or other. It’s a constant companion. You of all people should know that, Hans–who was it but the artists who captured the ‘Dance of Death’ when the Great Mortality first struck a century ago?”

  Erasmus rummaged briefly through a shelf, then pulled down a large vellum-bound volume, placed it in Hans’s lap, and flipped through the parchment leaves until he came to an engraving that showed four skeletons, tufts of hair flying from their sere skulls, capering in a graveyard. Hans examined it briefly and then muttered, “I could do better.”

  His friend laughed and clapped his shoulder. “Indeed you could, young genius.”

  Hans spent another
hour with Erasmus, discussing art and politics and the gossip surrounding a local aristocrat, and by the time he left the sun was setting and his spirits had lifted. As he lingered in Erasmus’s doorway, pulling his fur-trimmed cloak tighter against the cooling air, Erasmus told him, “Paint, Hans. It’s what God meant you for, and it will ease your mind.”

  Hans nodded and left.

  ***

  He’d still been contemplative when he’d returned home. He ate dinner with his wife Elsbeth and their sons Franz and Philipp, then excused himself to the studio.

  At first he wondered if he’d made a mistake; the studio had once belonged to his brother, whose spirit now seemed to infest every scrap of paper and brush and easel and ink bottle. Hans stoked the fire, shrugged out of his heavy outer garment, and tried to focus on his latest commission–an altarpiece design for the local church–but neither mind nor hand would bend to the task. Finally he lowered his head to the worktable and closed his eyes, seeking simple oblivion.

  Someone was with him, in the studio.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed, and he hadn’t yet opened his eyes to confirm what his other senses screamed at him; a quickening terror clutched his heart. His eyes popped open, involuntarily.

  A tall shadow stood on the far side of the room, apparently draped in a black robe and cowl. “Good evening, Hans,” it said, in a deep, somehow hollow voice.

  Hans lifted his head, but he possessed no more strength. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t form words.

  “All will be made clear, my friend. Know for now that I mean you no harm.” The visitor’s rumbling tones sent shivers up Hans’s back.

  “How . . . ” Hans managed to look back at the studio’s door, and saw that it was as he’d left it–bolted from within.

  His guest stepped forward, and Hans saw the gleam of something white from within the folds of the cowl.

  Is that . . .

  “Yes, bone. What else would Death be made of?” Two skeleton-hands emerged from the sleeves, pushed back the cowl, and let Hans see his visitor’s face . . . or rather, see the skull where a face should have been. There was nothing but ancient, polished bone, no shred of skin or hair or muscle. Hans pushed back off his bench, and barely noticed when he fell to the floor.

  His guest–Death–made a placating gesture. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Hans Holbein.”

  “You’re not here with . . . the plague?”

  The skull moved back and forth. “Far from it. In fact, I’m here to offer you a way to save yourself from plague. I come to claim your services, not your life.”

  Panic started to abate, replaced by curiosity. “My . . . services . . . ”

  “Yes. A commission.”

  Hans blinked in surprise and drew himself up. “You want me to . . . work for you?”

  “I do. What you told your friend Erasmus earlier . . . ”

  Hans went back in his memory, and he knew immediately–he knew how he’d damned himself.

  I could do better.

  “The old depictions of me, those ridiculous images of dancing and cavorting like some mad witch in the moonlight . . . they no longer please me. I consider you to be the finest artist of this age, and I want you to render me, as I am, every day. I want you to record me the way I am–not as some prancing fool, but as one who practices his trade with care and respect for the craft.”

  “‘Respect’?” Hans gasped out, before he could stop himself. “You kill innocents—”

  “No. I merely perform the tasks assigned me. There are greater authorities above me, Hans. If you have complaints with choices, you’ll need to address those elsewhere. I only control the day-to-day practice, and I am not cruel, callous, or uncaring. I take pride in my work, as you do in yours.”

  Hans wanted to sneer. He wanted to stand and hurl epithets at this monster, call him a liar, a hypocrite, deluded, but . . .

  What if he’s right?

  “So how would you . . . ?”

  “You will accompany me on some of my rounds. Neither of us will be visible to those I must take. You will observe, and record exactly what you see.”

  “And in return, you’ll keep me safe from plague? My family as well?”

  “Yes. And also . . . ”

  Death ran his skeletal fingers into Hans’s leather satchel, and removed the small bundle of prayer book drawings. The sheets flew across the table, and Death leaned down to examine them closely. “These are lovely. They’re too good for Hermann, you know.”

  Hans did know. Hermann’s work was often slipshod, erasing the lovely details that made a work live and breathe. “He’s the best in Basel . . . ”

  “He’s not. Seek out Hans Lützelburger.”

  “I know the name, but he’s not in Basel . . . ”

  Death turned to face him, and somehow he knew the smile was intentional this time. “He has only recently come here. He will be my other gift to you. Shall we begin tomorrow?”

  Holbein swallowed . . . and nodded.

  ***

  They began at a convent.

  Holbein felt like a voyeur, trespassing into the intimate inner realm of the brides of Christ, but when one initiate walked through him, he wondered which of them was really the ghost.

  Death led him to a courtyard, where the elderly abbess knelt in a small garden. Even from a distance, Holbein could hear her rattling breath, see her faltering limbs. She was halfway dead, but her will kept her clinging stubbornly to life.

  Death waited a few moments, then stepped forward and gently touched the old woman’s shoulder. She felt the tap, turned–and her mouth fell open in a silent shriek of protest. She tried to pull away, but Death clung to her habit’s white scapulary and pulled her to her feet. Holbein watched, fascinated, as her body fell to the earth of the courtyard while her spirit was led off by determined Death. In one of the arched doorways leading out to the courtyard, a young nun saw the fallen body of her superior and she began to shout.

  Holbein was too busy making preliminary sketches on a sheet of parchment to notice the grief that unfolded around him. He was surprised when he abruptly awoke, finding himself in his studio, alone, a half-finished sketch near his hands.

  Death proved to be courteous, allowing Holbein enough time to completely finish one drawing before he reappeared. Holbein began to look forward to the visits, fascinated by his client’s methods. He watched, invisible, as Death claimed a judge in the act of being bribed, a wealthy woman who felt the approach and dressed for the occasion, a peddler who tried in vain to flee to the next town, and a blind man who gratefully allowed himself to be led. He laughed when Death arrayed himself in the costume of a ragged peasant to claim a count; he allowed himself a measure of petty satisfaction when Death took a miser, and made the dead soul watch as he also took money from a counting table. Each of these excursions ended with Holbein awakening in his studio, and intuiting that he was not yet permitted to see what came next for each of those called by Death.

  Hans continued working on his other commissions, but he found himself always returning to his Dance of Death. He added his own touches to the drawings: He included an hourglass in many of them; he did complete new drawings, depicting his new friend leading Adam and Eve out of Paradise, since they’d become part of his dominion. He drew a coat-of-arms for Death, and even an alphabet. He gave Death a sense of humor, although with subtler satire than earlier artists had provided.

  He watched other citizens of his town die of plague. Not many–the sickness wasn’t rampaging again, as it had in the past–and although the recognition left him uneasy, he had come to trust Death and knew he was safe. He took each new drawing to Hans Lützelburger, whose skill as an engraver surpassed his reputation. Holbein suspected that, if his Dances of Death were admired by future generations, it might be partly because of the brilliance of the engraver.

  Then one day Death made him watch the taking of a child.

  The boy was barely more than an infant, about the age and
size of Hans’s stepson Franz, his wife’s son from her first marriage, which had ended when she was widowed. It was a poor family, living in a ramshackle cottage with no windows, a badly-thatched roof, and no fire but a cooking pit in the middle of the floor. Death showed no compassion nor consideration as he took the little one by a tiny wrist, leading it away from the body slumped on the floor, while the gaunt mother and older sister sobbed in a grief that Holbein had never seen, a grief born of a lifetime of desperation and loss. Holbein followed Death out of the cottage, and his face was still wet when his eyes snapped open to the familiar surroundings of his studio.

  The beginnings of the drawing by his outstretched right hand repulsed him. But he didn’t crumple it up or fling it into the fire. Instead he completed it.

  He took it to Lützelburger, only to discover that the engraver had died in the week since Hans had last seen him. A terrible accident, involving a horse cart driven by a sot. The driver was in jail, and the engraver was dead.

  Death came to Holbein that night. He was pacing in his studio, anticipating the visit. Still, his patron’s first words surprised him: “I release you from our agreement, Hans. You have upheld your side of the bargain, and I’m very pleased with the work, which has re-inspired me.”

  “How could you take the child?”

  The skull-head was unreadable, incapable of expressing emotion. “I’ve told you, I’m not the final authority—”

  Hans cut him off, waving a hand in irritation. “Yes, yes, I know, I’ve heard all that. It’s God’s fault, isn’t that it?”

  Death hesitated, and Hans wondered if he’d finally provoked something that wasn’t cold and rational. “Yes. Even I don’t pretend to understand His wisdom.”

  “But doesn’t it hurt you when it’s a child, a babe, and the parents—”

  “No, Hans, it doesn’t.”

  Finally, Hans understood: He was dealing with a demi-god, a thing that was impossibly old and inhuman and with motives that nothing of flesh and blood could ever comprehend. And once again, he was frightened of Death.