Praise for
Scott Nicolay
“Remember when you first read the stories of Clive Barker, or T.E.D. Klein, or Thomas Ligotti, or John Shirley, or Dennis Etchison, or David J. Schow, or Lucy Taylor, or Caitlin Keirnan, or Michael Shea, or Melanie Tem, and realized you were in the presence of a major talent in modern horror? I got the same feeling reading Nicolay. He steers clear of stock monsters and tropes of the horror genre. His fiction is clear-sighted, hard-edged, realistic, Raymond Carver-like. . .”
—Dead Reckonings
“Nicolay’s punch is grim and honest, his horizons vast, alluring, and keenly attuned to what unfurls in our darkest dreams.”
—Joseph S. Pulver, Sr, author of Blood Will Have Its Season
“Nicolay lays claim to the attention of everyone interested in the future of weird fiction, and his claim is a strong one indeed.”
—John Langan, author of The Wide Carnivorous Sky and Other Monstrous Geographies
“Scott Nicolay is consistently one of the most exciting and original voices in modern weird fiction. His prose is exquisite, inventive, savage, and chilling, without being beholden to pulp-era titans. This is Weird Literature, circa now.”
—Ross E. Lockhart, editor of Cthulhu Fhtagn! and The Children of Old Leech
“We are not in the presence of a callow and bullish youth, but a man of erudition and experience. Nicolay is one who has seen much, endured much, has undergone prolonged pressure and the result is a diamond among stones.”
—Laird Barron, author of The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All
“Nicolay’s writing is clean-limbed, not a shred of rococco excess on it. Poetry and the demotic mix well in his prose. He expertly delivers clues and foreshadowings and backstory tidbits attendant upon his enigmas and frights without hammering the reader over the head with gore or hyperbole. His characters are engrossing, if often repellant, his plotting assured, and his venues enticingly nasty.”
—Locus
“Scott Nicolay is a writer in the tradition of modern practitioners of the weird such as Mark Samuels, Terry Lamsley, and Laird Barron. He gives us the unease of Ligotti with the fluid prose of Clark Ashton Smith. Ana Kai Tangata is a serious contender for best collection of the year.”
—This Is Horror
“The first thing that hits you while reading Scott Nicolay. . . That old black magic that comes with encountering great weird fiction for the first time.”
—Crows N’ Bones
Noctuidae
SCOTT NICOLAY
A KING SHOT BOOK
Portland | Athens
FIRST KING SHOT PRESS EDITION
King Shot Press
P.O. Box 80601
Portland, OR 97280
Copyright © 2016 by Scott Nicolay
Cover design copyright © 2016 Matthew Revert
www.matthewrevert.com
Interior layout by Michael Kazepis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Where the names of actual celebrities or corporate entities appear, they are used for fictional purposes and do not constitute assertions of fact. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9972518-1-4
Printed in the United States of America
Scott Nicolay was born in New Jersey but now lives in the desert where he keeps a garden and a rather large library. As a teacher, he and his students co-founded the New Mexico Youth Poetry Slam and the National Youth Poetry Slam. Ana Kai Tangata, his first book of weird horror tales, was published by Fedogan & Bremer in 2014. His story “Do You Like To Look at Monsters?” won the 2015 World Fantasy Award for Best Short Fiction, and “Eyes Exchange Bank” was selected for the inaugural (2014) edition of The Year’s Best Weird Fiction. He hosts “The Outer Dark,” a weekly podcast on Project iRadio featuring interviews with writers and artists in the ongoing Weird Renaissance. His second collection, And at My Back I Always Hear, approaches completion. For more information, visit www.scottnicolay.com.
Also by Scott Nicolay
Ana Kai Tangata
The Bad Outer Space
Do You Like to Look At Monsters?
after
The Croaker
For the stolen children
Noctuidae
. . . it’s easy enough to think of most of us as deep-sea fishes of a kind.
CHARLES FORT
The river flowed right over the road in places but they crossed it barely slowing. A trickle only a few inches deep right now, Sue-Min knew it meant the folks who lived in this canyon were stuck here during floods, maybe months at a time.
They probably didn’t mind.
If you lived here of your own free will, you had to be happy here. You probably weren’t that interested in human company, at least not from outside. You probably had supplies laid in to last a while. And a generator.
She could see the appeal. Deep in and well down Forest Road 281, the Blue River Canyon opened eventually into a narrow valley, widest on the west side of the river, such as it was. There the view stretched to near green hills rising right to green mountains, behind these a higher rolling row of purple mountains—majesties!—her backbrain sung the full phrase on its own, fragment from her earliest encounters with English—and beyond and above these a line of blue-gray peaks higher still in the haze, the sort of range one might mistake for clouds in the twilight, if the twilight were the sort in which one might also mistake clouds for mountains.
Sue-Min let her head slump back against the weathered seatback’s cracked black leather, willing to let the scenery settle her edginess. It really was a damn fine day, despite her half hangover and shitty mood. As much of the sky as she could see overhead was unbroken turquoise. Maybe their day, their hike, would go okay despite it all.
So far, nothing went the way they planned on this trip. First Pete’s date cancelled and left them three instead of four. Sue-Min tried to hint to Ron her discomfort with this configuration but he remained oblivious. What could she do? If Ron went, she was going too.
Then the ranchers.
What their topo map failed to show them was how 281, the only road down the Blue River, led straight onto a private ranch, ended there in fact, wide open cattle gate but handpainted NO TRESPASSING signs nailed to the grooved and massive cottonwood trunk beside it. Red paint. Their intended trailhead into Forest Service land and the Middle Blue lay somewhere beyond this private holding.
Though Pete never slowed as he passed the signs, Sue-Min saw them clearly on her side despite the overhanging foliage and shade. She drew in breath to call attention to the warnings, then exhaled. Pete must know what he was doing. Perhaps he met with the landowners in advance, squared things away. She hadn’t paid much attention when he and Ron were planning—as a rule, she avoided Pete as much as possible—though she had to admit she was curious to meet his date for this backpacking trip, wanted to see what kind of girl would agree to a remote overnight hike with such a creeper. Only she wouldn’t meet the mystery date, not this time. Easy to see why she cancelled—if she ever existed in the first place.
Pete drove on past a squat weathered ranch house, torn orange gingham curtains hanging askew in the windows, fabric likely once red now paled from long sun. They passed low tilting water tanks and clumps of rusted farm machinery hedged in by bleached tufts of high dead brush. Scattered grazing cattle. A mile or so beyond the gate and signs the road pet
ered out, their rough rutted route concluding in a diminished riverbed choked with weeds and cobbles. To their left extended a turnout of sorts, dirt banked in berms ahead of room for several vehicles, marks of steel tread and claws still visible on the soil. Someone had an earth mover, although she hadn’t seen it while passing the ranch. Pete braked the truck just shy of the furthest berm and they all three climbed out to stretch and gear up.
Not two minutes and a pair of 4 wheel ATVs buzzed up behind their truck. Right before Sue-Min heard them approach she’d been eyeing some bushes where she thought she could squat in privacy. Too late.
The riders were weather-beaten white men, both in Resistol hats, cotton shirts tucked tight into Wranglers. One was stocky and graying, the other lanky and leathered though likely less than thirty. The rancher and his son or hired hand. She guessed the latter based on their lack of physical resemblance. Both rode with shotguns on their ATVs in plastic scabbards like tubes for rural newspaper delivery, and as they slid from their seats both drew those weapons. Drew, but did not raise or level them. The two men let their guns hang at six, seven o’clock. The level of threat was implicit but limited, deferred.
She caught the hand’s eyes flicking on and off her, up and down, that blend of lust and slow rage she knew too well from elsewhere. Smoldering anger over her apparent foreignness, at the shape of her eyes, at her presence in their stronghold. For once she was glad of the Glock Ron kept in his pack, preferred not to think how Pete probably packed one too. Pete was the kind of guy saw unpermitted concealed carry as a point of pride, a civic duty.
Ron found Sue-Min’s hand with his, held it, squeezed. Pete strode ahead to wade in, asking, —Hey guys, have we got a prob—? but Ron called him back, took the lead. He released Sue-Min’s hand, strolled out to the pair and spoke. The wind struck up in the leaves overhead so she and Pete heard little more than the general rhythm of the conversation, its ebb and flow. They watched the mismatched sides commence a session of head shaking, hand pointing, the odd nod here and there. At least the two men never brought their guns to bear. That would’ve meant time to go . . . unless it meant too late to go. How close did things come to going that far south? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Pete sidled toward Sue but she stepped away, determined not to bond.
She had confidence in Ron. She’d watched him work his magic before with surly ranchers on caving trips in the GypKap. Gotten them access to sites no one had seen in a generation or more. His first ten years raised just outside Carrizozo had left him with some social skills in southern NM and AZ, the rural version of street smarts. Pete probably would’ve got them shot.
Several minutes into the conversation the younger rancher pointed back the way they’d come then over the ridge to his right, their left. After final nods and even a lifeless half smile by the senior rancher, a flat expression that never reached his eyes, all parties retreated to their vehicles. The men sheathed their shotguns but did not depart.
Ron returned to where his girlfriend and best friend stood waiting. —Here’s how they say it is. Blossom Creek Canyon is over that ridge, and Blossom Creek leads back to the major Blue drainage, only on Forest Service land. Clear Forest Service land, not checkerboard, so we can go as far as we like from there. But first we’ve got to drive back and park outside their gate. They don’t mind us hiking in so long as we park outside their gate and stay on the east bank of the Blue after we cross. They don’t want us parking on their ranch or driving through it. We’ve got to go round.
Pete questioned the arrangement at once —Whatta they got out here they don’t want us to see?
—They say they’re protecting us. They say a couple of their bulls are prone to ramming unfamiliar vehicles, might do some real damage to your ride with their horns. Or to us. So these ranchers are looking out for us. So they say. Us or your truck, whichever. Both. And for their own liability no doubt. Lots of these folks living out the middle of nowhere worry some hunter or hiker or random lost a-hole is going to come on their land, get hurt and sue them into oblivion. And it does happen. Something like that can break an independent rancher.
This was not their original plan. Their map showed the passable road extending through and somewhat past this parcel. Their goal was always to follow the road till it fizzled, park and hike down the valley beyond all roads and habitation, as far as they got till nightfall, camp one night and double back in the morning. But they’d run late. Too much talk and too many Coronas at the lone saloon in Snowflake then sleeping in till nearly noon and not reaching the road’s steep descent into the Blue River’s canyon till close to 2:00. The scenery was every bit as spectacular as Pete promised, those rolling blue-green peaks in the west offset by higher rugged blue and purple ranges, the whole of it cut by narrow side canyons left and right. Still, by the time they reached even their failed trailhead it was nearly 4:00. They all three knew dark would drop down early in this deep north-south valley despite the season. No way now they’d make it far before night fell upon them, sudden, deep and dense. . .
The rancher and his man watched wordless as Pete backed his truck onto the road, followed them to the weedy turnout outside the gate across the road from the sign, kept on watching as the trio locked the truck and strapped on their packs. Geared up, they crossed the scrubby strip before the Blue itself, little more than a damp gravel bed here. Once they were over it the hired hand called after them —That’s it. Keep on straight up that ridge. Canyon’s t’th’other side. You can’t miss it you keep goin’ straight.
Pete and Ron waved thanks but Sue-Min did not turn back, had no wish to see these men ever again. Once across the diminished Blue they continued up the wide flat ramp of the ridge, convincing themselves they’d caught an actual trail as they picked their way between stunted oaks and twisted pines. As the trees were sparse and their ascent kept them close to the western edge of the ridge, they could look back for some time and still see the two men squatting sidesaddle on their little vehicles, though they soon shrunk to no more than off-white blurs beside the smudge of Pete’s old Dodge. Sue-Min missed the moment the ranchers disappeared entire from sight. Their ascent angled, the trees grew too dense, the vehicles and men fell too small from her height. The trio had left behind every contemporary human trace.
The ridge widened while they were unaware so once they reached a level where it grew mostly flat they realized they could no longer scan its full span side to side. The pines were taller here, the low oaks tight in clumps. Postage stamp meadows separated random rock outcrops and jagged bits of ridge. They’d ascended into a patchwork and come sans compass or GPS. Their original plan had been to follow the river, and how could they get lost then? But they’d lost the river, at least for now. Pete thought the canyon must be to their left, as best any of them could remember left. Ron thought they should head back down or at least to the right to relocate the Blue River edge of the ridge. Pete prevailed before either asked Sue-Min’s opinion and they all three began meandering toward a hypothetical directionless port, expecting their way always to open onto a new canyon but coming only into more motley oak and pine after each distinctive bit they traversed, Sue-Min damping her emotions down just short of panic. Ron and Pete? If they were worried, she couldn’t tell. They all three tramped along, the guys offering random inanities —At least the weather’s good. —I think we’re getting close. . . But mostly in silence.
They’d just come onto a stretch of bare rock strewn with stones when Sue-Min concluded to call for a retreat, but before she could speak up Pete called out —Look at this! It’s some kind of pattern!
His words still in her ears, she saw it too, gray stones around softball size set in wandering arcs and arabesques on the granite ground. Several closed cells remained intact though the arms of their neighbors disintegrated at inconsistent lengths. Ron shook his head. —Somebody built this—but who?
Pete’s reply struck Sue-Min as ridiculous, asinine —Maybe it was the rancher’s kids.
Ron sw
ept three stones over soccer style with the side of his foot, bent to inspect them. —No lichen on their undersides, only above. They’ve been here a long, long time.
Pete’s next reply seemed even more out of whack than his first —Maybe it was a Pueblo.
Sue-Min wanted so bad to get up in his face and yell These aren’t walls! Where’s the rest of the stone then? If this is a dissipated site where is the rest of the stone? Yes, Ancestral Puebloans, Mimbres, or some backwoods branch of the Mogollon had inhabited this canyon, though not right here, not like this. Walter Hough had marked and mapped sites up and down the Blue back before World War I, and Steve Swanson had revisited the area almost a hundred years later. She knew as much, had met Swanson more than once, could share that information, but she had no desire to engage the creeper, let alone antagonize him. Nor to drag things out. She had his number and was maintaining the wall of chill. Measured, measured. Weighed. She spoke as little as she could, kept interaction at the barest min.
He must’ve read something in her gaze though, fixed his own eyes on her expectantly and tilted his head an inch to the left, and after long enough she’d said nothing, gave the least of shrugs, staring at her still. For once Ron came to her aid.
—Hey, look, there’s a gap ahead. He pointed beyond their present patch of patterned mystery stones, between the scrub oaks and scraggly pines. Sue-Min and Pete aligned their eyes to his extended finger’s course, saw through the dregs of forest to what seemed an empty span. At least a place with no visible trees, little scrub, no upthrust rocks. . . A shadowed background. Either a seriously major meadow ahead, or Blossom Creek Canyon. Some damn canyon anyway. . .
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