Black Static Horror Magazine #3

by TTA Press Authors

  Unable to see more than a few feet, he followed the steps to the street below. Reaching his hand for the building, he used it to guide him back to the alley where his partner had fallen. The scum lightly coating the stucco walls oozed between his fingers. Faint lights from street lamps did little more than cast silhouettes within the dense fog.

  Careful not to stumble over anything, he made his way to the alley. Deeper down the crevice a lantern burned overhead. In the dim light Kellek saw dark moss hanging like old men's beards from windowsills, signs, and everything else it could attach to. Kellek was about to call out for his companion when he saw something move deeper in the alley. He could make out Hasteng's crumpled form in the dim light. But he also saw another crouched over it. He wanted to run, but he couldn't abandon the two most important things in his life. Slowly he moved closer. Slurping sounds grew louder as he approached the man huddled over his friend.

  He stopped, only a few feet from the stranger. Kellek strained to see him clearly. The man seemed emaciatingly thin. Too thin for him to be clothed. He crouched over Hasteng's body as a cat would. Something faintly moved behind the figure, but Kellek was unable to see well enough to identify it.

  Quietly he lowered and crawled close to them. He smelled the awful stink of death as he was almost to Hasteng's outstretched arm. Kellek froze in horror as he looked upon the stranger. It wasn't human. Short spines covered its pale body. They quivered in waves down its back to where a pair of long thin tails flicked behind it. Two large slender eyes peered down on Hasteng from its noseless face. Blood dripped down its chin from where it chewed at a hole in Hasteng's stomach. It darted a long, barbed tongue into the wound and pulled out a loop of his entrails which it ate with needlelike teeth.

  Kellek's first impulse was to scream. Luckily his petrified body was unable to do so. He looked down to see Hasteng's satchel lying beside him. A piece of the yellowed cloth peeked out from under the flap. It was too risky to reach for it.

  Without taking his eyes off the fiend, Kellek felt the ground beside him. His hand found a fist-sized stone. Carefully he picked it up and tossed it down the alley. It clattered, bouncing off wooden walls and skittering along cobblestones.

  The beast spun around. A piece of bloody intestine hung from its mouth. The creature hissed as it stood hunkered on its hind legs and walked towards where the sound had come.

  Kellek leapt forward and opened the gore-soaked satchel as fast and quiet as he could. Keeping his gaze on the alleyway to be sure the beast didn't return and on the bundle of cloth he wrestled out of the bag, he avoided the dead stare coming from his old friend. Kneeling in blood, he gulped back bile as he ripped open the bag. Desperately he managed to extract the bundle and crawl away before he was seen.

  He hurried out the alley onto the street. Turning to go back to the stairway he stopped. He couldn't see where it was. His pulse pounded faster as he crept in the direction he remembered it being. Suddenly, the hissing returned.

  He moved faster, hoping the stairs were nearby, but as he did, Kellek realized the hissing came from that direction. His heart raced as he fled the other way down the abandoned streets. Somewhere in the fog ahead he heard the sounds of music and laughter. He tried to follow the noise, but became lost as it echoed off unseen buildings. His wet clothes smelled of mildew, and he felt the mold clinging to his skin and hair.

  A faint light led him to a tavern door. The moss-covered sign was unreadable, but he knew it to be the dancing manta. The sounds of music and revelry came from inside.

  "Please!” he cried, banging on the door. “Let me in."

  The music continued without notice.

  Kellek banged louder. “Help me!” He pounded his fist into the slimy door.

  Still no one responded.

  He kicked and punched at the heavy oak. “Let me in! Help me!"

  The music stopped. The tavern went quiet.

  "Open the door!” he sobbed. “For Arieth's sake, please let me in."

  Silence came from inside. The only sounds were the echoes from Kellek's assault on the door. They came from all sides, mocking him.

  "Go away!” growled a voice from inside.

  "Please, please open the door,” he cried.

  "You'll get no help here. Now leave."

  Kellek opened his mouth to protest, but stopped. He knew better. No one would open their door. He wouldn't have. The slow realization that he was helpless crept into his mind. He had to find someplace safe. He needed to run before the commotion he had caused led any more beasts to him. He ran down the dark avenue, unaware of where he would go or find shelter. The muffled laughs and singing from the tavern that had forsaken him followed Kellek down the streets.

  After four or five blocks Kellek slowed down. Stop panicking, he told himself. He had no idea where he was or where he was headed. After a few deep breaths he looked around to catch his bearings. The fog and moss made the buildings unrecognizable. He crept quietly beside a wall of storefronts, looking for any tell-tale signs of his whereabouts and more importantly a place to hide.

  He pulled the bundle tightly under his arm. The hard center let him know the chalice was still safely inside. He darted into a niche between two shops. With luck he'd find a place to hide.

  As he made his way further in the alley he noticed two green lights dimly glowing ahead. Kellek stopped and peered to see what it was. He heard a rattle like the sounds of rain on stone. He stepped back, unsure of what to do. The noise intensified. Thousands of tiny points of light appeared in front of him. They grew longer as they shook back and forth with the susurration. Their glow increased. Now, no longer appearing as individual points of light, they merged into almost green fire whose flames shuddered with the sounds.

  It moved closer.

  Kellek made another step back out of the alley. His eyes never left the growing phantasm. The scintillant green lights continued to spread out, forming the outline of some beast. The bright green orbs, which he now realized were eyes, grew larger as the creature continued its advance.

  Kellek didn't stop. With his eyes locked on it, the glowing outline became more detailed as it crept closer. The long green lights spread downward to form legs. He realized that the lights came not from fur, but spines, whose lights began at the tips and worked their way down to an invisible body. The quills along its back and tail where the lights began were two to three feet long, much longer than the tiny hair-like points that grew along the creature's face. It looked like a great barbed wolf. Its shoulders stood as high as a Kellek's chest. The spines shuddered in waves down its body causing the rain-like rattle. It curled barbed lips away from invisible teeth as it growled. The mist between them vibrated with the deep, rolling snarl.

  Kellek fled into the mist. Unable to see anything before him, he ran. He didn't care about running straight into a building or a tree; all he knew was the clack of claws on cobblestones close behind him.

  A dark shape revealed itself before him. A discarded wagon rested in the middle of the street. With only moments to keep from colliding with it Kellek threw himself to the ground. His momentum carried him, sliding along the slick layer of moss covering the street he slipped under and past the obstacle.

  He clamored to his feet and continued his escape as he heard a loud crash and the splintering of wood behind him. The beast gave a keening howl that shivered through Kellek's body. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before it caught him.

  He turned down a new street and found himself on a bridge. The panting and clattering claws raced up from behind. Without time to escape, he grabbed the railing and hurled himself over the edge and into the unseen abyss of the fog.

  He plunged into the frigid water of the canal. Kellek held the bundle tightly under his arm as he kicked himself back to the surface. Thrusting his head through a skin of slime coating the water, he gasped for air. He paddled downstream along the channel. He heard no sounds from the monster, only the soft splashes of the water around him.

&
nbsp; Kellek had no idea where he was as he crawled onto the bank. The icy water made his body numb as he stumbled into the road. There was no time to rest. He clutched the goblet within its soaked covering and pushed himself on.

  A giant marble fountain rested in the street before him. Kellek recognized the stone-carved knights and immediately knew where he was. This was Dishik Plaza. Pascha's shop was only a short ways away. With new found energy he ran towards the fat man's home.

  The squat two-story building lay at the far end of the plaza. Kellek knew the heavy door in front would be locked and barred, but remembered the stairs behind the building leading up to Pascha's living quarters. He raced around to the alley and hurried up the moldy steps.

  "Pascha!” He beat his fist against the door. “It's Kellek. Let me in."

  He heard no reply from inside, but that didn't dissuade him.

  "Open the door! I have it,” he cried. Kellek kicked and hammered his palm loudly against the wood. “Let me in Pascha. Please!"

  The house remained silent.

  "Pascha,” he screamed, as he shouldered the door. If the fat man didn't open it, then Kellek had no choice but to break it down. He drove his body into the wood, again and again. The bundle dropped onto the landing as Kellek increased his assault. His body burned with panic and determination. He no longer felt cold. He couldn't feel the crushing pain in his shoulder as he smashed it into the door.

  The wood cracked as it began to give. Desperately Kellek screamed with every assault. Tears streamed down his face. A plank in the door cracked and popped loose as he struck it again.

  Kellek pushed the board aside and squeezed his arm through the tight gap. Splinters dug into his arm as he reached in to find the latch. His fingers fumbling, barely able to reach; he thrust his arm in deeper. Kellek twisted the first lock. It clicked open.

  He strained to reach the second bolt when a noise came from the bottom of the stairs.

  Something growled.

  Kellek turned his head to see the phosphorescent flow of the beast's spines. They danced like fire across its back as it took a step onto the stairs.

  Kellek tore his arm out from the door. The wooden splinters dug into his flesh. He spun around to face it.

  The beast's tail whipped forward from behind its back. A dozen lights, like green shooting stars, flew from the tail towards Kellek.

  Something thudded into the door beside his head. Kellek looked to see one of the sinister quills imbedded in the wood like an arrow. Green fluid splattered from the hollow tube and ran in glowing streaks down the door. Something felt wrong. He gazed down to see three more of the spines protruding from his own body.

  He pulled at one jutting six inches out of his left breast. Tiny barbs along the shaft held it fast. It wouldn't budge. Yet it didn't hurt. Kellek tore at his shirt to see the veins around where the spine stuck glowing green. He fell to his knees as he watched the poison work its way through his body. It paralyzed him. He collapsed like a rag doll on the landing as the beast crept up to him.

  Kellek lay there, his body numb. Unable to move, unable to scream, he could only listen and watch as the beast began to eat him.

  * * * *

  The early morning sun drew the citizens of Lichthafen out from hiding. With the exception of a few broken stands, and a smaller population of vermin, the city itself appeared as it did on any other morning. Gossip had already spread through the populace with an almost supernatural speed.

  Viscount Morvlein's rapier was found broken on Lariak Street. A wagon on Thieves Row had been smashed to pieces. In the Mason District, an entire family was missing, their back door standing open. No bodies were discovered anywhere.

  Pascha heard these rumors and more as he made his way back home. Tired and disheveled, he had spent the night at a customer's home, playing cards and drinking wine while the mist held him hostage.

  As he made his way up the stairs to his house he saw his door had been battered. He hurried up the steps to find several holes driven into the wooden door and railing as if they had been stabbed with a stiletto. A curious bundle of wet cloth lay at his feet. The fabric was stained yellow with age. A large bloody splotch on it looked fresh.

  Pascha opened the door to find his home unmolested. He breathed a sigh of relief and carefully picked up the bundle. It was heavy. Slowly he unwrapped it. He gasped as he found the black chalice inside.

  His hands shook as he held it. Pascha licked his lips, inspecting the goblet.

  "There's only one way to know for sure.” He wiped the bloody fabric across the black metal. The tarnish rubbed off effortlessly. The fat man chuckled to himself giddily as he cleaned the rest of the chalice with the blood. The white metal gleamed unlike anything he'd ever seen.

  Pascha sat down at a table and filled the goblet with wine. He laughed out loud, thinking how this treasure had only cost him a door. The rubies were his. With a broad grin he toasted to the two best thieves in Lichthafen.

  Copyright © 2008 Seth Skorkowsky

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  ELECTRIC DARKNESS—Stephen Volk

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Bubba Ho-Tep

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Stephen Volk's screen credits are on IMDb. His short story collection, Dark Corners, is available from Gray Friar Press.

  * * * *

  POETICAL ACCURACY

  It will probably haunt me to my grave, but on a panel at the World Horror Convention 2007 in Toronto, I had a spat with Joe Lansdale. Don't get me wrong; I love Joe's writing (check out the superb movie Bubba Ho-Tep, based on his story) but when he claimed that novel-writing was an inherently superior art form to screenwriting, my hackles rose. As you might expect since he was belittling my profession of the last twenty-five odd years.

  My counter-argument went like this: I work as hard at a screenplay as a story for publication, if not harder; so to me there is no qualitative difference at all in the process, and I certainly don't consider screen work to be an inferior undertaking—and if there are writers out there who do, fucking shame on them.

  Joe's contention, as I recall, was pretty much that when he's writing a novel, he's in charge. Like the sculptor Anthony Gormley said: “That's what it means to be an artist—what I say goes.” Fair enough. Though I don't know where that puts Michelangelo and the Pope, and whether the Sistine Chapel qualifies as a work of art under that definition. Remembering of course that the image of the lone artist/poet suffering in his garrett is a relatively new creation of civilisation, minted as it was in the Romantic era.

  Anyway, being pedantic, what the novelist says doesn't always go.

  To my knowledge, several have had their work changed, edited, mangled, and (dare I suggest) improved by others along the line. A friend of mine was told to change his novel's title because it was deemed “not horror enough.” Even in highfaluting literary circles, the celebrated Brick Lane was a title chosen by the publisher, not by the author. And Raymond Carver, whose brilliant stories inspired the Robert Altman film Short Cuts, and who earned a reputation as “the American Chekhov,” had his prose stripped bare to that characteristically minimalist style by his legendary editor Gordon Lish.

  What I'm saying is, there is no real purity of vision or indeed of craft to distinguish the one craft (or art) from the other. We are none of us immune from interference.

  But it does piss me off when “The Novel” per se is acclaimed as the high water mark of achievement, without contest.

  Ian McEwan, speaking pompously of the film Atonement said it could only of course be only a “monstrous” version of his book. This to me amounts to not only to elitism and the crassest snobbery, but a kind of literary totalitarianism. (The same insufferable sectarianism as when Jeanette Winterson declares her blatantly science-fiction novel to be “literary"—but that's another matter.)

  To me, Christopher Hampton's screen adaptation of Atonement drastically improved upon McEwan's flawed novel. I
t excised tracts of repetitive verbiage, and constructed instead a series of events and moments where never a word or shot was gratuitous. Peel away the hype and forget for a minute you hate British films about posh country houses, and what you have is a masterpiece that says something about lies, writing, redemption and cinema itself.

  Sorry, let me make my point more clearly. The script kicked hell out of the original. Far from being “monstrous” it was a sounder and more elegant work of art.

  But I digress. What got under my skin most about what Joe Lansdale said was this: why are writers happy to put down the efforts of other writers, in whatever field, rather than extend a hand of comradeship and support?

  Yes, the abiding image that comes to mind along with the word “Screenwriter” is of some subservient hack, of lesser talent and no integrity (or if he does have integrity, doesn't keep it for long, per Barton Fink). True, we are not in ultimate control of our work. In that respect Joe Lansdale hits the nail on the head. We sign away copyright as part of our contract, and that's the deal with the Devil, in black and white, signed in blood. And we're forced to be a cog in a machine oiled by the concept of rewriting, which I personally despise and refuse to have anything to do with. I think every rewrite job accepted diminishes us writers as a species and reinforces what they want us to believe—that we are inter-changeable, expendable, and ultimately worthless.

  Maybe what I've just said is enough for novelists to look down their noses at us. I don't know.

  But you can not say the screenplay is not an art form simply because the writing is not itself the final work. If that were so, the same would apply to a stage play. And if Shakespeare's work is not Art, whose the hell is? Andy McNab? Barbara Cartland? Alan Titchmarsh? Jordan?

  If we screenwriters can't aspire to control, what do we have to keep us going, you may ask? Well—love. Our unconditional love of the medium.

  To devotees like me (hybrid story-addict and Horror/SF movie-geek) the screen medium is intoxicating. More than intoxicating, entrancing—magical; the sheer alchemy of a dramatic story acted out in pictures and sound before our very eyes as if real; a bizarre and compelling doppelganger of life itself. And because it does resemble the substance of life, this is why—sorry Joe—I believe you can argue that the screenplay is a superior art form to the novel.