Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2011

by Mike Davis (Editor)

  I saw a body that was segmented, like an insect’s, and that shone with – colours, I guess you’d call them, although they were of shades that did not belong to any I had seen before, undulating along its bristled appendages. It appeared to be sitting but was still taller than myself. It was mostly grayish-blue except for the pink head; fungus-like, and instead of eyes it had a covering of small tentacles writhing in the wind. An awful buzzing came from it, a noise that was echoed by the several others of its kind that were surrounding us in a semi-circle, pulsing in alien rhythm. It continued to pull me, toward what I could not comprehend – until I felt the uncanny blast of wind rush to me from above – that unearthly wind! I looked up to where the blast had come from and didn’t understand what I was seeing, the titanic shadow behind mist. But it wasn’t mist – it was the sky, and whatever the enormous silhouette was, it existed somewhere behind the sky and earthly dimension. I could feel its hunger, this thing toward which the creature that had hold of me was dragging my body. And then another group of those segmented creatures rose impossibly into the air, and I saw that they had what was left of Reilly in their midst. They lifted his partially-devoured yet still-living body into the air, toward the silhouette. A portion of that silhouette reached for the offering and wrapped talons around the body of my one true friend, and the sky was stained with wet crimson gore as Reilly’s body was pulled through earthly dimension into that other realm.

  This all happened in the briefest moment as that fungus thing pulled me again with its appendage that had grasped firmly to my left hand. The thin blue filament was now stretched from me to the bottom of its head. The strength it had! I couldn’t pull away or break its hold. All seemed hopeless as I felt again the icy wind that was an emanation of the thing behind the sky, to which I would soon be offered. And then I noticed the saw hanging at my side, and screaming with what little air was left in my lungs, I started the apparatus and brought the oscillating blade down upon my wrist. The buzzing rose and the creature lurched forward as I cut, and the blood from my wound did not pour from me but instead floated before me. Two more leaf filaments shot from under the thing’s pinkish head and lapped my blood as they tried to grab hold of me once again. The fungus insect-being moved up and forward as I cut through what was left of my hand. It lunged forward as I fell backward through whatever angled gateway I had been pulled through. As I hurtled back, I swear to everything that I hold dear that the silhouette engulfing that alien sky turned, and with its eyes that were red stars looked directly into my being and in that instant knew me! I landed hard on the ground of the service road on which we had been traveling. Gasping, I gathered enough air to scream in horror and severe pain. Blood poured from my severed wrist, but somehow I managed to cover and bind my wound with my shredded shirt.

  Shivering, from the elements, from horror, I have journeyed south for what I believe to be four or five days now. Time has slipped by me and I sleep only when I am too exhausted not to do so. But I don’t sleep long, for I hear a damnable buzzing in my dreams and feel the kiss of icy wind that is not of this world on my brain. I haven’t seen anyone since my escape even though I stopped at a mining camp where I found paper and pen – and it has soothed me to set down this record. There is no one about and all of the camp’s workers’ belongings are as they should be, stowed in their proper places. Deep gouges scar the ground all about the mine entrance and surrounding camp buildings – a testament to the doom that befell this place.

  The wind has picked up. This record must find its way to Wilhelm Meier in Seattle. If my brother’s faith be trusted, this mystic is the one person who can comprehend and fight against this unholy terror. Only he knows the words and angles that may stop these alien beings from culling our mortal race.

  Oh, god – god! I hear their scuttling outside the window and in my brain! I feel the hunger of their master behind the sky, that thing that walks on wind. They are so close! They came on the wind – you must remember that! They are ushered on the wind . . . !

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Sirs:–

  Pursuant to the ongoing investigation of the disappearance of some 40 mine workers and 21 loggers to the north, I am attaching this manuscript found at the Copper Mountain mine camp in southern British Columbia near the U.S.A/Canada border for inclusion into evidence. Please note that we have found no other leads and continue to hold both of the camps closed.

  Further investigation may be in order of a certain Wilhelm Meier of Seattle, Washington as well as appointing a national search for the author of this manuscript, Randy Wood. Mr. Wood’s family members claim no knowledge of his whereabouts and have cooperated willingly and fully with our investigation. It is worth note, however, that his younger sibling, Derek Wood of Winnipeg, Manitoba, has been reported missing since our initial inquiries.

  With sincerest respect, Warren Harley

  Staff Sergeant/Sergent d’état – major RCMP/GRC – E Division Princeton, BC

  –

  –

  Jeffrey J. Taylor became hooked on horror and weird tales as a child in northern Alberta during the 70′s when he would rush home from school to watch Creature Features on television. Becoming a huge reader he discovered HPL’s work shortly thereafter preferring his atmosphere and cosmicism to depictions of violent horror. Now a multi-instrumentalist, though known mostly as a guitarist, he has released several albums and has toured throughout Canada. Jeff now lives in Calgary, Alberta with his wife and son and credits W. H. Pugmire’s constant encouragement for rekindling his interest in writing weird fiction and poetry.

  Wilum Hopfrog Pugmire is a writer of horror fiction based in Seattle, Washington. His adopted middle name derives from the story of the same title by Edgar Allan Poe. Strongly influenced by the works of H. P. Lovecraft, many of Pugmire’s stories directly reference “Lovecraftian” elements (such as Yog-Sothoth of the Cthulhu Mythos). Pugmire’s major original contribution to the Cthulhu Mythos is the Sesqua Valley, a fictional location in the Pacific Northwest of the United States that serves as the primary locale for much of his fiction. According to his official biography, his “goal as an author is to dwell forevermore within Lovecraft’s titan shadow.” Pugmire is a self-proclaimed eccentric recluse as well as “the Queen of Eldritch Horror.” His stories have appeared in major horror anthologies, and collections of his fiction and poetry have appeared under small press imprints such as Necropolitan Press, Mythos Books, Delirium Books, and Hippocampus Press.

  Illustration by mimulux.

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  NOTE: Images contained in this Lovecraft eZine are Copyright ¬©2006-2012 art-by-mimulux. All rights reserved. All the images contained in this Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without my express written permission. These images do not belong to the public domain. All stories in Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without the express written permission of the editor.

  The Wagon’s Trail

  by Joseph S. Pulver

  (for my brothers SCS & HFP) by Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.

  –

  Near two years gone by— lot of open sky with just our own. rain dismal as not to be or understanding you misplaced. won’t. sundowns. flatlands. draws. folds of blue shadows and timber. Hell hard. some days just as hot. bitter. nights camp smoke and fire couldn’t soften the cold. lot of nameless little towns, some marshalin’. hired. facing a knife or boots filled with dumb and don’t. some gun work. so much blood. whiskey on the table or dry taste for blood approaching. views come, raised their heads, a few cried obsession. Most just shifted rode yon in search of gold by the bucketfull. injins sun anger whiskey mud knives stripping spilled laughter saloon trouble ‘round and in thickness of hammered shit, mining camps, taking muscle, stood before word and deed and brooked no sin or
plague or urge of bullshit West disease. big trouble one night in a graveyard where boots and what stood in ‘em rose from a casket grabbed a whore and ate . . . blood blood so much blood. rode where we rode . . . kil’t what was needed to be dead. never wiped our mouth with an excuse or the face of a lie. more than a few ’casions things cast off by the travels of the Black Man crossed our path . . . North or South seemed his hand had been there.

  ~*~

  they could see the woman. damned by The War. chewed her. eye to heart. left dry. lost. mad. swollen with dirt and worm. no cross or pleasure ever set its passages of fire in her shack. or in her breast. some drum the riders can’t hear plots in her nails, in her legs. the tombmouths of its arcane maggots claw in her belly. carved and scarred her skin is exposed myth. witch is hollerin’ up at the moon. howlin’ for the hole to open. “DRIVEN! They desire the throne.” she ain’t ever heard the word galaxy but what spirit fills the other one is a powerful fact that foams on her tongue.

  ~*~

  they all came West. brought dreams. the nightmares too. brought things put down on the land and paper. some carried bibles. some spinets. music didn’t last. gardens didn’t grow. hardship and hate sharpened their teeth on hillside and earth. lot of lambs fed the faces of the sky gods. some -lot got fed to cannibals. and vultures. injins died. some by gun heat. some by subterranean portions that blasted the air like poison. her heart spent some years over the well. spit coarse language into its isolation. shadows get pulled away. night loose. scrapes. the creaking and the red desire shine. picked a road want things want to step forward. wanted free of the rope. “Place reeks of battlefield and brimstone, Tristan.” “Does.” “You read some of them old poets. Spoke of angels and bells. How they strolled places where leaves could spread out.” “Did.” “Figure they ever saw night yellin’ and burnin’ flesh?” “Some did.” “I should have just rode up and shot her.” Bart pokes the campfire with a stick. years and miles are sittin’ with him tonight. rivers of black things. both are. pokes the fire some more. “You recall that fat whore I used to go off with back in Tombstone? Jewel. Times I miss her. Could make a man laugh.” “You mentioned that.” “Did. Yes.” pokes the fire again. “Get a bottle and lay in her bed. She could put color in your blood . . . Man needs to see livin’ some times.” pokes that fire. hard. ‘gain –no ease in his fingers. as if’n he’s tryin’ to get it to lie down and mind his ministrations. jabs at it. coals snap. hellfire gets popin’. “Been what? Near two years since we seen that . . . Wagon.” mention of it opened thoughts. hammered on me like I was some old pasture fence in the consequences of weather. “Two years throbbing and burnin’ with Leviathan. Not sayin’ I was ever much on The Bible, but seems it should speak to this. Ever ponder on why it don’t?” “A little.” “Wonder if she’s still a whore?” blows on the end of the stick. Devil poker red. Black Man’s eyes were red. bloodred. night got powerful colder. none of that afternoon made a lick of sense but we rode away. “You figure on going to see her?” “Thought I might . . . Her eyes were pretty. One time she ate some strawberries. Her lips tasted sweet . . .” Bart settled into his bedroll. I did the same. all the brutal and cutthroat harsh we seen I wanted a touch of soft too. got to hopin’ if we walked out of this conflict we’d head that way. bed and a whore. I sure would. right then I would have set down a twenty-dollar gold piece for them. noon in a bed and no fate of stiff teeth in her favors. just a whore’s quiet breath humming on your belly. “A saloon. A beefsteak . . . And pretty eyes.” I looked at the stars. They had not been pretty in a long time.

  ~*~

  mid-morning so we’d have the sun with us. “His vigors is in this witch.” Traveler nickered. Didn’t like the place. none of us did. “Bad as the Gil place.” “Maybe.” Maybe worse. What I truly thought. The Black Man’s breath had danced here. the dust and the scarred air still held it. didn’t ride in hard. or fast. didn’t ride in with nothin’ of the Good Lord. considered. ready. .8 gauge. Colt. Bart’s eye and hand steady and burning. mine coverin’ a vein of cold fear. near naked but for a few rags didn’t seem correct to call clothing she came runnin’ at us with a stick. snake skulls and rattles hung from it. most won’t push their rhythm at a gunman. most. but she was smilin’. licked by mad leanin’ at us like a dog seekin’ to write its shape over a piece of meat. barkin ‘ –one voice yet it conversed like a whole pack of tongues. nostrils snortin’. fist stretched and polished with dead. black-poisoned Spanish loud as any wild storm rushin’ to tear. fast glowin’ with wraithbreath she’s hissing ‘bout ancient exhumations, ‘bout a corpse boiled in wieldin’ words, ‘bout what the Sphinx gnawed ‘pon, ‘bout shutters opened . . . Bart’s shot scalped her. and she kept coming. came words got hotter. Devil’s poker hot. louder. soul’s burnin’ in Hell loud. and came forever was in her and it was shaking. twist bend snakebit worse Black Man’s voice came out of her. laughed flapped like a fever of injin knives. .8 gauge peeled the flesh of her skull –shaved it bald and it smiled. jaws—a thicket of hatred, opened wide war-whoop wide spoke: “Ain’t near ‘nough to stub His Truth.” Bart put 4 shots in her heart. she was on her knees. I had reloaded and let loose again -throat ripped away by lead teeth, still laughing skull on fire with demonflame fire and she laughed -laughed thick and compelled. pierced the ears with talons and and the ledges of old curses. we jumped down from Will and Traveler our pack mule, Iron, stood there hard as a post. pressed the .8 gauge to her breast turned her heart to wind fodder –maybe the little animals with mouths that owned night could pan and she laughed started to make some gesture in the air Bart shot her hands off growled and snarled at him “You will wander to the torch of my harvest, Mister Rossevelt, and our dance will continue.” then it fell face down in the burned sand didn’t twitch one wisp of black smoke from its dark hand air was thick with gunsmoke and contempt I was breathing hard looked down on it buzzard food if they dared come down on it Bart started collectin’ wood planned to dissolve it in fire I helped burned her shack didn’t wander out of there rode hard . . .

  ~*~

  2 weeks in the saddle . . . Tombstone. Me and Bart. Bottle on our table in the barroom of the Grand Hotel. Jewel laughing. Mexican whore named Maria. She laughed pretty too. Pretty as the painted sky. Breathed in that story for two weeks. Over warm biscuits and coffee one morning Bart said, “I’ll be damned, Tristan. Ain’t just waitin’ on the schemes of ruthless to ride into our camp and lay claim my soul. Time to go hunting.” I picked up my seago. Put the fire of a match to it. Thought of Con. Heard him say: “Man should do good work, or damn sure try to. If’n he don’t, he ain’t no man.” Smiled. Resolve and grim in it. 4 days later we got on train headed East . . . Wheels in motion . . . Night into light . . . The whistle . . . I’ve only been home, back East, once since The War ended . . . To bury my Mother . . . Rode. Scourge and drama of rugged crossed the border to civilized . . . The whistle . . . Colors in the hands of the windows . . . Far draws near. The whistle. Arkham, Massachusetts . . . Lot of finely-tailored ladies and gents on the sidewalks took note of the .8 gauge resting in the crook of my arm as we rode along College Street . . .

  [MMM - various cowboy songs]

  Copyright (2011) Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.

  –

  –

  Joseph S. Pulver, Sr., is the author of the Lovecraftian novel Nightmare’s Disciple, and he has written many short stories that have appeared in magazines and anthologies, including Ellen Datlow’s Year’s Best Horror and S. T. Joshi’s Black Wings and Spawn of the Green Abyss and many anthologies edited by Robert M. Price. His highly–acclaimed short story collections, Blood Will Have Its Season and SIN & ashes were published by Hippocampus Press in 2009 and 2010 respectively and as E-Books by Speaking Volumes in 2011.

  Joe is currently editing 2 anthologies for Miskatonic River Press. A Season in Carcosa and The Grimscribe’s Puppets will be released by MRP in 2012.

  You can find his blog at: http://thisyellowmadness.blogspot.com/

  Illustratio
n by mimulux.

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  NOTE: Images contained in this Lovecraft eZine are Copyright ¬©2006-2012 art-by-mimulux. All rights reserved. All the images contained in this Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without my express written permission. These images do not belong to the public domain. All stories in Lovecraft eZine may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted, borrowed, duplicated, printed, downloaded, or uploaded in any way without the express written permission of the editor.

  The Audient Void

  by Mark Lowell

  She comes to the house tired and wet and lonely. The sky is dark overhead and glitters with stars, and the sound of the crashing sea fills her ears.

  She found the house by accident, when the beam of the lighthouse swept over it, just as she was considering sleeping on the rocks. It is only a single story, built of faded and drooping wood, the sides leaning precariously like it is tired and wants to roll over and fall asleep. The door is unlocked.