Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2013

by Mike Davis (Editor)

  I’m writing this sitting inside it, in the shade, which is very heroic of me, don’t you think? There’s not much in the way of decoration in here, but when I’ve rested I‘m going to have a proper look around. One thing I want to check out is some sort of hanging figure near the apex of the temple, wrapped in cloth or rope – I imagine it’s a representation of the sacrificed man, left to dangle until it falls apart and gets replaced at the next ceremony (a bit like those corn Christs that you can sometimes get at harvest-time). This one looks pretty far gone, to be honest, and is mostly ruined, but it’ll be interesting to see it more clearly.

  Past it, there’s another figure, this one much bigger – the Spider God itself, I think. It’s huge, quite creepy and surprisingly realistic, given that it must be made from branches and leaves and creepers – it’s hidden in the shadows, so it just looks like a real giant spider, sleeping in the top of its web. I’d love to know how they’ve managed to get it to the very top of the pyramid. It’s high enough to catch the breeze from outside, as every now and again, its legs shiver as though it’s moving, and once, before, it shifted around as though it wanted to look at me more closely. They’ve used shiny rock or something for its eyes, which look for all the word like they’re glittering and alive and staring at me. Below the eyes there’s a hole that might be its mouth, and I think something’s made a nest in there because I’m sure I saw something wriggle in the hole, twisting and turning; a snake, maybe, or a few of them all crawling around whatever they’ve used for the Spider’s teeth. Its skin is very dark, made of leaves or something else that’s mottled and patched with mould and it smells, of rottenness and dust and something else, something that smells tlike the taste trying to say the various demons’ names left in my mouth. I really don’t like it at all!

  The breeze must be picking up, although I can’t feel it down here; the spider just moved again, turning and dropping slightly, and it’s legs are shifting about. It looks like it’s stretching and waking up! See, this is why language students should stay in the lab and not venture into the field – we give ourselves the a case of the fits, shivers and blind staggers! I hope my guides come back soon - apart from the company, they’ve promised that they’ll take these two letters to Dischoff so he can get them onto the mail plane. He’ll be pleased I’m rescuing the mythology of his people, don’t you think?

  Anyway, see you soon. Love to Marie.

  Arnold

  [No trace of Arnold Klein has ever been found. An investigation, carried out at the time, following a request of the British government, uncovered no evidence of his whereabouts after the 11th July and his notebooks have never been found; his paperwork was removed from the rented office and apartment and has also never been located. Pietre Dischoff denied ever arranging a trip for Klein, and the Kaloni villagers denied that he ever visited them. No pyramid structure has been recorded in the jungles in or around the Kaloni land.]

  Simon Kurt Unsworth was born in Manchester in 1972 and has not yet given up the hope of finding that the world was awash with mysterious signs and portents that night. He currently splits his time between Manchester (where his parents live), Lancaster (where his son lives) and Cheshire (where his girlfriend lives), and somewhere in the gaps he writes essentially grumpy fiction (for which pursuit he was nominated for a 2008 World Fantasy Award for Best Short Story). He is annoyingly tall but is no longer grouchy, and is the owner of a wide selection of garish shirts, several pairs of cowboy boots and a magnificent leather waistcoat. His latest collection is the critically acclaimed Quiet Houses, and his work has been published in a number of anthologies including At Ease with the Dead, Shades of Darkness, Exotic Gothic 3 and Lovecraft Unbound. He has also appeared in four Mammoth Book of Best New Horror anthologies and also The Very Best of Best New Horror. His first collection of short stories, Lost Places, was released by the Ash Tree Press in 2010 and he has further collections due, Strange Gateways from PS Publishing in 2013 and an as-yet-unnamed collection that will launch the Spectral Press Spectral Signature Editions imprint in 2014. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook, or in various haunts in Manchester staring at his MacBook and muttering to himself.

  Story illustration by Nick Gucker.

  Return to the table of contents

  Powers of Air and Darkness

  by Don Webb

  Being a waiter on R 418 Balmoral was Ernest MacVeigh's dream job. As a young boy in Kansas he was captivated by the Phantom Airship stories. For two years humans all over the globe reported encounters with mysterious airships. Like many young men and women he dreamed that he too would be taken on a ride with the strange airmen. The stories had inspired half dime novels, stage plays and finally the invention of real airships. The skies were filled with Mr. Wells' invention -- great silvery cylinders that challenged the blue skies or cast wonderful shadows against the full moon. Ernest's older brother was a captain of the R 118 Empress Victoria that had gone down in Benares. It had been the last of the hydrogen ships. There was great irony in its holocaust -- its flaming debris raining down on the vast open air crematoria that fill the holy city of Benares. Brother John's ashes mixed with the stink of the city and the sacred water of the Ganges.

  John had been the smart one. Top in his class at the University of Kansas. He had excelled in mathematics and astronomy. He believed the airships were mankind's first step toward leaving the Earth. Ernest was the dreamer. Instead of doing well at school he had poured over the romance of Mr. Poe, the "scientific" tales of Mr. Twain and Charles Dickens Eben Mizer on the Moon. When his brother wrote one of the first serious studies of Roentgen's X-Rays, Ernest was reading the uncritical accounts of how X-rays could do anything from curing blindness to reanimating the dead. The day brother John submitted his patent for an improved sextant, Ernest had joined the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor -- a mail order occult order. John was taller, blonde and well built. Ernest had dark brown hair and brown eyes set too far apart. John attracted ladies, Ernest attracted fellow fanatics and enthusiasts. John had been drawn to commercial air travel because he wanted to be part of the modernizing of the world. Ernest wanted to be nearer to air elementals. John believed the world was ruled by reason: Ernest believed the world was ruled a vast conspiracy run either by Jews, communists or demons (assuming these were different groups).

  The Balmoral flew around the world every two weeks. Paris, Chicago, Victoria, Tokyo, Peking, Moscow, Paris. A heady mix for a young man from Overland Park. Ernest had spent time in each of these cities. He had hoped for love and for adventure. Only at the very end did he receive the latter.

  The letters from John had reached him in Victoria, British Columbia. With some irony they had been chasing him around the globe for nearly two years, and the five envelopes were almost black with grime. The first three letters were commonplace. John described Rome, Tehran, Benares, Barcelona, Mexico City, Honolulu. He told of romance and fine dining. The last two letters were a different sort. Ernest wondered if they had been meant as a joke, but John was not really the joking sort. He genuinely cared for younger brother, as much as he sometimes taunted him for uncritical thinking.

  John MacVeigh

  Royal Victoira

  British Air Mail Service

  September 18, 1894

  Dear Ernest,

  My brother I had never supposed that I would write you about such matters. Do you remember as a child when we first heard of airships? You were a true believer. You thought the story of the Dallas airship that kidnapped a steer from a rancher's field was gospel truth. Remember how you couldn't sleep for weeks? I have come to wonder if there might be something to those stories. Months ago in Cairo, I spent an evening with a renowned Egyptologist Wallis Budge, who told me that during certain dynasties Egyptians believed that they were dealing with beings that lived in the clouds. These creatures were not gods or demons per se, although they were in league with the darker gods of their pantheon Set and Nyaralathotep. "Hotep" is an Egyptain word meaning "Satisfied" an
d "Nyarla" means "Dark Churning" The name itself means "He Who Is Pleased By Stirring Up The Dark" -- or perhaps "the Silence." It was an interesting discussion, and I wished you had been there as mythology is more your hobby horse than my own. But at the end of the evening Mr. Budge mentioned that the cloud beings were invisible unless viewed with certain special lenses. Now Mr. Budge had no way of knowing this (and I am risking my job) telling you, but all of the British Dirigible Company's dirigibles carry a special optical device that can only be taken from its special case by very high ranking company officials, even I lack the clearance to use these glasses. The rumor has been that the German or Russian dirigibles have been treated with a special paint that renders them invisible -- and that this news is being kept from the general public to avoid mass hysteria. The special glasses unpolarize the light and reveal the ships.

  I did not rush to correlate these facts, but I found that I could not stop thinking about the glasses. They rest in a small chest in the captain’s office, I'm sure the Balmoral has a pair. I am writing to you so that you may have a record of my discoveries and (in the event something should happen to me) let the world know. Making a long story short, I arranged to buy some lock-picking tools from a criminal in Barcelona. He was a jewel thief that plied his trade on the Victoria. The ship's detective was never able to catch him, and I had invited to the captain’s table several times because I admired his incorrigible nature. He explained the use of the tools. Since I had the opportunity to spend several hours alone with the case -- opening it proved no problem. The glasses were simple goggle looking affairs in no way remarkable. I took to wearing them anytime I could be unobserved. I saw nothing of interest for nearly nine weeks. Then while passing over the Himalayas I spotted several flying creatures one night entering a saucer shaped platform. I will not describe the nightmare city, save to say that I have come to believe that there are certain shapes and colors that humans cannot look upon without damaging their neural tissues, I nearly screamed in fear and pain. . I removed the special glasses. The creatures, which resembled a sort of flying crayfish , were not invisible, but their platform could only be seen with the glasses. I realize that the Royal Airforce is not hiding the truth about Germany or Russia, but about the state of the world. I replaced the glasses in their case. I wrote a letter to Mr. Budge asking about the sources of the cloud people legend -- wondering if that was the remotest of coincidences or if perhaps this planet has been occupied for thousands of years. I remember your quoting of Fort that humans are property. I do not fear for my life, I doubt the powers that be would be able to keep this secret much longer -- and how could they (whoever "they" would be) could know that I happened upon this secret. I wonder if the Russians or Germans know. I wonder what these creatures are and what they want.

  Dearest brother, it seems that you are right about many of the aspects of this world. I hope this validation of your beliefs impels you toward health and happiness rather than shocks you toward morbidity. Perhaps letting that secret society you are a member of know about this, would be the correct first step. How would mankind deal with this knowledge?

  Sincerely,

  John

  The effect of this letter upon Ernest was galvanizing. The Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor taught that humans were under the influence of another species, a sort of galactic overlord that helped steer human evolution. The Brotherhood claimed to be in contact with these Beings, who were said to live in the Himalayas! Ernest was thrilled, he began drafting letters What if astral communication wasn't the most efficient way of contacting these space brothers? What if airships could simply dock at their cloud cities? His brother would be seen as a hero, and that secret role of leadership that the Brotherhood always claimed to have held would become something manifest rather than secret. What if he profited by this news, and didn't have to scrounge for tips by complimenting overweight matrons and vain business tycoons? By the time he read the second letter, he was already naming colleges after himself.

  Dear Ernest,

  I suspect this letter will find you after some accident has found me. Budge wrote me confessing that he has known for years that all four national dirigible companies know and are in league with the "Fungal Fliers." It seems that in exchange for a certain number of human lives a year, the Fliers give out technology. The difference engine, the X-ray, pneumatic limbs, dirigibles, cure of cancers, wireless lighting, machine guns, have all been exchanges. But Budge says these that these items are designed to make great wars possible. He says weapons far worse than these have been given to the great powers, and that Nyaralathotep is playing a game. Each of the four great powers has been given a different sort of weapon harsh enough to end life as we know it. He thinks the British have a terrible bomb, the French have some airborne plague, and the Russians have the ability to summon horrible creatures from the past. He does not know what the Germans may have, although he suspects it could be a fairy tale sort of horror -- an army of trolls or werewolves. Nyaralemheb, another of the god's names, means "Churning Darkness Is In Jubilation." The creature lives off of chaos and misery. His servants have less abstract needs. They need metals from Earth, and He won't stir up the final battle until their needs are met. Each of the great powers knows this, yet each believes that their own weapon will cause them to win the final battle. Budge says the god needs something more than a bloody sacrifice, it needs pent-up Desire. He points to the killing of the Sioux by Custer's airborne and the germ-driven Herero and Namaqua genocide of the early 1890s as trial runs. He says similar but unreported incidents have happened in Khirgiz region of central Asia. He hopes that the truth will filter out into the world. He warns against occult groups that claim to be in contact with hidden masters such as Blavatsky's mahamatas or the Vril Society. These groups are actually putting in place the equivalent of feeding stations to tap into the coming despair of all humanity.

  He says that the huge investments the great powers made in Egyptology after the Napoleonic Wars was a scramble to find devices that could be used to contact the floating cities. The fungal fliers are nearly finished mining the earth, and they intend to pass it off to their Master. Budge thinks perhaps a few men in each country could avert the madness of mutually assured destruction. I have my doubts. Part of me wishes simply to run and spend my last years in a grass shack in Hawaii with a simple brown maiden that speaks no English, but part of me wishes to be in the fight. You must make your own decision as to flee or fight. I leave it to you to seek after the special glasses aboard the dirigible you work in. Go, see. Decide. Tell others, or hide away. Knowing what I know I have been unable to avoid the temptation of telling you, and I know that I have given you a burden that you did not deserve. Had I not looked upon the floating city, I would not have believed it. Ironically this cancer of my psyche feeds the very entity I wish to fight.

  Written in love and fear,

  John

  This could not be so. All of things John had written about were signs of progress. They were real discoveries of human ingenuity. Everyone knew that the golden age of man was about to begin. John had been duped. Some paranoid man in Cairo had shared his fears. The lightning that struck the Empress Victoria was an unfortunate accident. He would forget this all. He would burn the letters.

  But he couldn't burn the letters. Every night as he brought rich desserts to richer humans in the Balmoral he heard how a new invention had turned up here, a new sort of engine there, The turn of the century was approaching, and everyone spoke of a New World Order or a New Age.

  Then the dreams started. He dreamed of British dirigibles dropping bombs in Rome, Berlin, Moscow. He dreamed of Russian airships deploying a living light that mesmerized the enemy, who would simply and happily watch its rainbow flickers while dying of thirst and starvation. He dreamed of the French spreading a powder in the air that called up the Black Death in New York and San Francisco. He spoke less. He got fewer tips. His skin color grew pallid. He wrote his superiors in the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor and a
sked them how they knew the aliens they sought to contact were benign.

  His Praemonstrator in the Brotherhood wrote him back and suggested that he was developing male hysteria, and that he should seek a job on the ground. No doubt the rarefied air plus the gravitational stress of flying in the opposite direction that Earth spun was effecting badly.

  Ernest resolved to search the captain's quarters. He began by exercising more and eating better. He told his superiors in the Brotherhood that his doubts had passed. He became charming. He started stealing desserts from the kitchen to give to the cleaning crew that took care of the captain's quarters. Ernest found out that the captain did have a small safe in his room. He never opened it. The captain had even told his orderly that the safe contained "papers" that could only be inspected by a vice president of the company.

  Ernest began to suggest that the small safe contained gold or diamonds or something else small and very valuable. Surely it would be easy enough to open it when the captain was not around -- perhaps the day before they were due to dock in Paris. There were places to sell things in Paris. The theft could happen and the captain would never know. He didn't open the small safe anyway. At first the orderly disbelieved. Why should there be something very valuable that the captain had no access to? But Ernest asked the opposing question -- why so much security for "papers?" Surely the item was something the captain could use in an emergency to buy the ship's freedom. It was a big and bold lie, but Ernest had read adventure novels all of life. He raised the threat of the Yellow Peril -- what would happen if they crashed in China? How could safety be bought for the rich men and women on board form a Chinese warlord? This could be believed. The orderly knew no money would be spared to save him, but vast money would be moved to save the rich from inscrutable oriental torture.