by Paula Guran
In a frenzy, I freed the rest of the gliders, the eyeless gliders, flinging them into the air. Some of the gliders dropped quickly to the ground, while others sped away as though pursued. Only when I came to my own did I stop.
Carefully, I unknotted my mother’s letter. I had almost ripped it down and flung it away. But I had stopped in time. I tucked it back into my coat.
I became aware of the old children’s chant rising around me, of the people who had emerged to circle the shrine. “Falcon, falcon,” they called to me.
The scribe I had visited earlier in the day walked toward me. She held her unstained brush out to me.
“No,” I said. I would not take up her profession.
As terrible as the indifference of the gods is, the indifference of people is worse. All that history folded up into gliders, offerings to an unlistening power. I could not stop it, but neither would I participate in it. Now I understood now why my mother had left. I walked away and did not look back.
It gives W. H. Pugmire “a kind of perverse pleasure to pen stories that are audaciously Lovecraftian, in that they reference H. P. Lovecraft’s superb stories and then weave my own diabolic twist into the tale. It’s a delicious pastime. My story herein is set in Lovecraft’s notorious witch-town and mentions his infamous artist, Pickman; I play with Lovecraft’s cosmic themes in my own fashion.”
Wilum Pugmire has been writing Lovecraftian fiction since the early 1970s, at which time he began to read Lovecraft and correspond with the surviving members of the Lovecraft/Weird Tales Circle. Since then he has published twenty books of explicitly eldritch fiction, the latest of which is Monstrous Aftermath (Hippocampus Press). He is presently at work on his second collection for Centipede Press.
A Shadow of Thine Own Design
W. H. Pugmire
——
“This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.”
– William Shakespeare: The Tempest, Act 5, Scene 1
Malcolm Elioth sauntered across the Garrison Street Bridge and stopped midpoint, leaned over the sturdy railing and watched the play of moonlight on the Miskatonic River below. He listened, and wondered why the flowing water seemed to call to him with liquid voice, as if trying to coax him over the barrier and into its depths; yet Malcolm resisted the call, for there were other pools of darkness into which he wished to plunge.
Continuing his amble, Malcolm raised his swarthy visage to the moon and imagined his eyes were drinking in her cool luminosity. Although she appeared very bright, he knew that her surface was dark, and this added to his feeling of kinship with her. He felt as isolated as she appeared, far away from the common horde that crawled upon the earth.
Pursing lips, he began to whistle an obscure tune as he continued to Water Street and approached the antique house that was his destination. Stopping to study the structure, he contemplated the woman he had arranged to meet, the figure he was perhaps to paint. He knew little of her, for she was a creature of mystery and myth, incredibly old and never seen, except on rare occasions in deepest night. He recalled a line from Ovid of which he was fond: “Blemishes are hid by night and every fault forgiven; darkness makes any woman fair.”
Yet Edith Gnome was not any woman. No one knew how old she had been in 1925, when Richard Upton Pickman had painted her; and his canvases were certainly no indication, for in some she looked very young indeed, little more than a teenager, while in the most famous painting she had been depicted as a mature woman seated at a spinning wheel.
Miss Gnome had earned a slight reputation as a Bohemian poet in Boston, but Malcolm knew of her because of his obsession with the sinister painter and his work. Pickman was reputed to have completed thirteen canvases of the woman before his mysterious disappearance in 1926. Using his underground connections, Malcolm had obtained the smallest of these paintings – one of a series – in which Miss Gnome was shown as an adolescent surrounded by dog-faced ghouls who were instructing her in the art of feeding like themselves. Malcolm’s fixation on the mystery of the sitter resulted in his obtaining a copy of the very scarce volume of her poetry that had been published in a very limited edition. To his amazement, the person who sold him the book mentioned nonchalantly that Edith Gnome yet lived, incredibly aged, in Arkham.
“She is rumored to hate being photographed, you know, and yet my friend who visited her was allowed to take one snap of the poet at her wheel. I was one of the lucky few who were given copies, after vowing never to allow it to be reproduced. This is from last year.”
Malcolm reached out for the small photograph handed him, shocked at the image that had been captured; he had imagined the mysterious poet would have an ominous appearance in keeping with her legend, yet the woman in the picture looked like a simple peasant woman of European origin seated at a primitive spinning wheel. Her plain attire of long dark skirt and white blouse was of no particular era; the shawl covering her shoulders appeared to be embroidered silk. A lace bonnet covered the wisps of white hair that framed what at first seemed a nondescript countenance; and yet the longer Malcolm gazed at her elderly face, the more he seemed to sense something in its expression that excited him subtly. He had the strangest sensation that the eyes in the photograph were returning his scrutiny.
A cloud obscured the moonlight, and night darkened. Malcolm blinked memory away and approached the house, climbed the porch steps and tapped lightly on the six-panel door. His rapping was answered by a fey fellow of indeterminate age who resembled Aubrey Beardsley and held a taper. Softly, the fellow spoke Malcolm’s name, stepped aside and allowed him egress into the dark domain. They passed flickering candles held in bronze sconces fastened to yellow walls, moving silently through dancing shadows in a hallway leading to immense double doors that opened into a large room with walls of paneled oak. Malcolm saw no spinning wheel. It would have been out of place in the elegant room, just as Miss Gnome, who now appeared to be far more aristocrat than peasant, would have been equally out of place spinning. The petite creature sat on a cushioned chair of red fabric, attired in a long ebony gown and with a black and silver snood covering her pale hair. The sight of her withered face with its high forehead and jade eyes shocked her visitor, for he had never encountered anyone so incredibly aged. Yet, through the signs of age, the woman still possessed a frail loveliness, although it was a morbid beauty because her facial flesh was so thin one could easily discern the skull beneath her features. Smiling, she motioned to a chair, into which Malcolm lowered himself as the manservant exited the chamber.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Elioth. Do take off your jacket and set your knapsack on the floor. My, how young you are!”
He returned her smile and said, “At twenty-seven I no longer feel so youthful.”
“And that is absurd, young man. When you have existed for more than a century, then you can speak of lost youth. You gaze at what Shakespeare called a ‘cormorant devouring Time’ and marvel that you have yet escaped time’s appetite. You peer into the dim past and see those moments that still exist as shimmering memory. And although youth is a far-off incident, particles of it exist within you still, especially when you dance.”
The woman shut her eyes and nodded, and delicate music filtered into the room. Turning to the sound, Malcolm saw that the manservant had surreptitiously re-entered the room and had lifted the lid of an ornate music box. Malcolm heard a rustling noise as the old woman rose out of the chair and began to move about him like some thing of dainty shadow. Her small soft hands reached out for his, and he took them into his own. She led him into what was, for him, an inept and clumsy dance. They moved as one for some few moments, until the music slowed and ceased.
The tall fellow looked down at the diminutive woman and sighed.
“I’m not graceful on my feet, I fear,” he told her, laughing. “I regret never having learned to dance properly, gracefully, as they do in the old movies. I watch those Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly films and it seems like watching the past dance before my eyes.”
/> They regained their seats and, for no conscious reason of which he was aware, Malcolm said, in more somber tones, “I often feel as if I were born in the wrong era . . . that I was not intended for this century. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, to be able to dance out of time, to step into a different era or an alternative existence if one wished?”
Miss Gnome’s eyes shimmered with queer luster. “Wonderful indeed.”
Malcolm leaned over, unzipped a pocket of his bulky backpack, and pulled out the rare edition of Edith Gnome’s verse, the sight of which moved her to moan a little. “Will you honor me with a signature?” She took hold of the booklet and hesitated a little as she turned over its leaves. She then accepted his proffered pen and scribbled an inscription on the title page.
“I feel a vague precaution before signing my name. It probably stems from my witch heritage. The signing of one’s name can be a potent – at times a parlous – thing.”
The young man nodded, a dark corkscrew of hair falling to his brow. “Yes, I’ve noticed the recurring sorcerous motif in your verses.”
Outlandishly, she cackled. “Yes, that is something Richard Pickman and I shared: Salem ancestry. He actually painted a certain gathering pertinent to our kind, which no one has ever seen, myself excepted. Would you care to?”
“It would give me intense pleasure,” was his enthusiastic reply. Malcolm could hardly believe his good fortune: he’d not dared hope for any discussion of her poetry, let alone the revelation of an unknown Pickman. Of course he had not expected to partner her in dance either.
“Follow me. I have a special hallway wherein I keep my collection.” Malcolm followed her out of the room and along a series of hallways, until they came to one that seemed especially wide and well lit compared to the duskiness of the rest of the house. His excitement became a palpable taste in his mouth as his eyes took in the series of framed works fastened to the hallway walls. He stopped before one large canvas and studied it in the dim light of the corridor. He knew the painting was entitled “Gallows Hill,” for he had read a description of it in some catalogue. A ring of baying ghouls raised their canine faces to a witch who hanged from a frayed length of rope that had been secured onto a primitive-looking post. The hanged woman, however, was not the hag Malcolm had expected to see depicted, but rather a young and lovely corpse modeled after a youthful Edith Gnome.
He felt the elderly creature lean against him gently. “That was a long and grueling pose,” she told him. “Richard had actually constructed a low gallows with dangling rope for me to position myself with. I love how the moonlight is reflected in my wide dead eyes, and how my eyes resemble the emerald orbs of the pack that pay homage to their murdered enchantress. Richard understood the connection that exists between witches and ghouls. You may know his four-times-great-grandmother had been hanged on Gallows Hill in 1692 as Cotton Mather looked on. Mather was the inspiration for this next canvas.” They moved a short distance down the hallway. “This is me sitting on Mather’s tomb in Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. Notice how my face is mostly obscured in shadow, except for the green patina of my eyes? Richard worked from a photograph, as I obviously couldn’t pose for any extended time with a man positioned as the ghoul who sucks my breast.”
“The suggestive play of shadow all around is effective,” Malcolm responded. “It is Pickman’s talent for evoking shadow that entrances me. To look at those shadows is to feel a longing to become a part of them. When I express that to my friends they think me, well, weird – but maybe you understand.”
She nodded. “I like that – ‘evoking shadow’ – that’s exactly right. You see, I was not merely Pickman’s model, I was his student. He instructed me in certain ways, and from him I learned new . . . appetites.” She smiled coyly at the word. “It was he who instilled within me a love of fabulous darkness. I have not seen the wretched light of day for many decades. I exist in the living light of candle flame, and in the shadows such flame ‘evokes,’ as you phrased it. And there is a deeper shadow that can also be induced; it was such a shadow that inspired him to create the work at the end of this corridor. You see it there, the mammoth mirror encased in golden frame? It was so original of Richard, to use mirror as a canvas of sorts. Wait, before approaching it – we must see it in proper lighting.”
Malcolm looked down at Edith as she shut her eyes and began to hum, a sound in which there was no music, being merely a buzzing. Strangely, the flames from the candles in their sconces altered, darkening into embers of unearthly violet hue. He experienced sudden vertigo and reeled to one wall, finding he was leaning against a canvas. Pushing away from it feebly, he saw it portrayed the image to which Miss Gnome had referred: sharp and life-like, painted in Pickman’s realist technique, blasphemous shapes danced below a monstrous creature, far more ghastly than any merely satanic being ever imagined. This hideous fiend stood with arms upraised, one hand holding a carmine-dripping knife – each drop of blood glowing like a ruby. On the stone altar beneath lay a gory sacrifice. Although the body was obviously lifeless, its emerald eyes were opened wide.
He felt a hand clasp his, looked down and saw the green-hued eyes from the painting peering into his own as living liquid orbs. Not speaking, Malcolm allowed himself to be guided down the corridor, to the wall on which the enormous mirror was fastened. It looked like some gigantic canvas encased by golden frame.
“I never knew if Richard found the mirror or had some friend construct it, for you see that the glass is curiously half-blackened although still reflective. Aren’t they intriguing, the spirals of bizarre luminosity scattered about in it? He told me this piece was inspired by something he had seen in some abandoned church in Providence. It has a haunting aspect, does it not? Look how beautifully your sable skin wears that tint of purple sheen in your reflection. Marvelous. Your white shirt is a bit of a distraction, don’t you find?”
Entranced by the massive mirror, Malcolm allowed her to unfasten the buttons of his shirt and pull it from his lean torso. He stepped nearer to that blackened glass and observed the odd shadows that moved within it. They were Pickman’s shadows, alive and expressive. He watched, as their preternatural pitch moved from out of the glass and onto the paneled walls of the hallway.
“How strong is your desire, Malcolm Elioth, to dance out of time? Shall I instruct you, as Richard tutored me? It’s easily done, if one has the keen compulsion. Titus – play.”
Malcolm turned and observed the unworldly manservant had appeared, an oddly formed flute pressed to his mouth. The corridor filled with eerie music. The weird woman moved about him to the sound, as she had danced earlier. As she moved she reached out to the shadows now frolicking all around them, clutching portions of their gloom, wrapping it around her being, until she was little more than formless shadow herself. An extremely slender obsidian branch of blackness reached for Malcolm and enveloped his hand, chilling his flesh exquisitely. He did not falter as he was pulled out of the hallway, through the haunted mirror, entering into the realm for which Pickman’s enchanted glass served as threshold.
One thing Norman Partridge Norman Partridge has always found curious about Lovecraft’s fiction is that “there’s really no reflection of his time – no sense of the Roaring Twenties or the Great Depression or the hardscrabble realities most Americans faced in those days. Along with that, I’ve always wondered how HPL’s otherworldly horror might have played if injected into other pulp forms of the day. So I dropped a chunk of Lovecraft’s mythos (“The Hound”) into thirties hardboiled territory, tossed in a pair of armed-and-dangerous California migrants on the run, and let things roll from there.”
Partridge’s first short story appeared in Cemetery Dance 2, and his debut novel, Slippin’ into Darkness, was the first original novel published by CD. Since then, he has written a series novel (The Crow: Wicked Prayer) which was adapted for the screen, comics for DC, and six collections of short stories. Partridge’s Halloween novel, Dark Harvest, was chosen by Publishers Weekly as one of the 100
Best Books of 2006 and has become a seasonal classic. A third-generation Californian, he lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife, Canadian writer Tia V. Travis, and their daughter Neve. His latest novel is The Devil’s Brood.
Backbite
Norman Partridge
——
The Depression had been hitting California hard for years, but that year the rains hit harder. The peas turned black on the vines, withering like arthritic fingers before migrants like my brother and I could pick them with our own. Stone fruit didn’t fare any better. Peaches, apricots . . . all of it disappeared in one brutal season. Night after night and week after week a black dog of a wind howled through every orchard, and sleet rattled down and gnawed the fruit off the stone, and those dead stones hung tight to branches, inclined toward the mud like the skulls of lynched men.
Those stones weren’t worth anything to the growers, and that meant they were worth even less to men like Russell and me. Men who stooped and picked and boxed and carried. Most people said Russell wasn’t worth anything at all, just some mangled halfwit who couldn’t be trusted with a sharp spoon. Even I had to admit that my older brother hadn’t been right in the head since he’d come home from France, missing an eye and a chunk of his face thanks to a German bayonet. Of course, Russell never talked much about that. All he said about the war was that he spent it digging trenches and killing in them, but it was living in them that taught him some homes were as welcoming as the grave.
Bleak poetics aside, that wasn’t saying much at all. I figured the truth of it was that the mustard gas had done a real job on Russell, but no one wanted to hear anything about that. No one wanted to hear anything about anything in those days. Talk didn’t buy you much, and a sweet lie beat out the truth any day of the week. But Russ and I weren’t the kind who had any sweet lies in us, even in the best of times.