The Scoop

(Much too long for the website, this is a preview of the story. The full version is available in print or eBook issues.)

M.M. MacLeod

Vyra tried to read what appeared on the screen — no easy task from her side of the translucent rectangle. She wondered how much information they had about her in their system.

“Remove your goggles,” the clerk said. Vyra complied as a thin metal tube detached itself from the side of the see-through computer screen. With a buzzing sound, the tube unfolded and precisely found Vyra’s left eye. A light on the end of the tube flashed.

“Identity confirmation complete,” a robotic voice announced from the computer as an image of her iris and pupil appeared on the screen.

The clerk typed for a couple of minutes, not speaking, her pasty complexion topped with a puff of pinkish-orange hair piled high on top of her head. The hue of that hair made Vrya think of shrimp-flavoured crackers, she’d once sampled years ago, that tasted like chemical-infused, salty Styrofoam. She felt queasy, but said, “I studied graphic design…before.” The clerk did not look up, as she continued typing.

“You are too old for the youth assistance program. You have no dependents. You are too young for elder aid. Do you have any addictions? Or are you capable of Regimental training?”

“I have back problems so I don’t think I could handle the training. No addictions unless drinking the cheapest brand of instant coffee counts,” Vyra laughed. “I mean, I must be addicted to drink that swill, right?”

Shrimp-puff-head simply stared at Vyra for a moment before saying, “Your file will be passed on to Department H. You will be contacted with a time slot.”

Vyra sighed. This was her third appointment with the agency. “Does ‘H’ stand for hell? Or just ‘hopeless case’? I need assistance now.”

“Please move along. Others are waiting.”

An armed guard stood watch outside of the cubicle, so Vyra left the building.

She placed the goggles over her eyes and walked the pristine streets to the station. Even the alleys were clean; no trash nor vagrants to be seen. Like her coffee, the goggles she wore were a bargain brand. They provided adequate protection from the blinding sun rays, but the cheap material irritated her skin. She preferred the dark of night.

Passengers held up their palms to the fare readers and entered the shiny subway cars. Not Vyra, she had enough balance left to pay for her room and buy some meagre grocery items. She walked to track number thirteen where the Free Train rested with open doors. She walked through the metal detector vestibule before one of the doors, found a seat that wasn’t completely filthy, and waited. Once the usual transportation option for those on the fringes, the line, which used older trains, now commonly had riders who could be considered average citizens. There were a few rough characters, but for the most part, the riders were a typical mix of urban dwellers.

The train emerged from the tunnel, chugging along the outdoor portion of the tracks, revealing a transformation of the urban landscape from bright and shiny to blight and grimy. There were workers collecting refuse and sandblasting buildings. She thought she spotted someone being pushed into a Regiment van, but she couldn’t quite see the event before the scene vanished from view. Farther and farther north. They keep forcing us to. the northern city limits while they clean up and create their lovely neighbourhoods.

There was no mistaking the figure walking down the length of the car, just as Vyra rose to go to the exit doors, waiting for her approaching stop. Kale’s appearance was the same as it had been in high school — tall and thin; straight and angles everywhere. Her head was shaved and she was dressed in raggedy clothing topped with an old leather jacket. She spotted Vyra, unfortunately.

“Heyyy, Rosa!” Kale said and joined her at the door.

“It’s Vyra.”

“Oh shit, yeah, Vyra, Vyra. You going home? You still live on Quarry Street?”

Kale’s face was even thinner than Vyra remembered, her goggles were pulled down, resting on her nose, beneath wild dark eyes.

“My parents are gone, I live on Chester.”

“Ahh, man. Yeah, my folks are gone, I think. I dunno they kicked me out when I was seventeen,” Kale laughed. “Hey, you got a place? Can I crash for a bit? I’m living in a tent over behind the factory.”

Hell, no. Think, think Vyra. “Sorry to hear that, Kale. But my landlady won’t let anybody else into my room. It is monitored day and night.”

The subway stopped and Vyra walked out through the door and vestibule, down the rickety staircase to John Street, with Kale tagging along.

“Yeah, it’s okay. Tonight I’m gonna try again to get scooped, anyway,” Kale said.

“Scooped?”

“For sure! Some folks get scooped and come out so clean and sober; so bright. They give them jobs. They give them great digs. Hell, I heard some even go up to the Shades.”

The Shades, Vyra knew, was the name of a community an hour north of the city. Enormous solar-resistant canopies were built over everything: houses, buildings, roads, parks. If you lived in The Shades, you could walk around without goggles, day or night.

“It sounds like what the government is doing downtown. Having soldiers clean up the streets, and the people, too. Is ‘scooped’ what you call it when the Regiment picks up an addict or a homeless person?”

Kale laughed and shook her head back and forth. “No! Well, maybe like that, yeah. But this is rogue, man. This ain’t the Regiment. But they have the same cure-stuff as the officials. They got that stuff that cures any kinda addiction.”

“Well, good luck. Almost makes me wish I was an addict,” Vyra laughed, then immediately regretted the quip. She was proud to be of sound mind and body despite the hardships she faced.

“You can fake it, man! You know Barton Prill?”

Vyra vaguely remembered the name, someone from their school she thought.

“I think he faked it – took some pills, but just enough to seem high and still know what he was doing. Met him a month later, told me all about it. First – they let him in this room with all the drugs he wanted, then when he was done they took him and cured him.”

“But if he wasn’t really addicted, what was there to cure?”

They were nearing the corner of Chester now, and would part ways when Vyra turned to walk up the block.

“Whatever, man. I know it works and Bart got a nice apartment over on Second Street. He works downtown in some Regiment office now.”

“Where is this so-called ‘scoop’, and do they pick up anyone? Addicts only, or anyone homeless, nut cases or what?” A job and nice apartment…

Kale poked Vyra in the shoulder. “You. You can be picked up. Just pretend to be an addict or something. I’m gonna try under the overpass tonight. They won’t go near the factory lot — I wish — but they check out the laneways some nights, and under the bridges other nights.”

Vyra started to turn up her street, but asked, “Kale, who are ‘they’?”

“Who cares? I only know they help out the Regiment, I guess. Like they’re getting started on this part of the city while the Reggies work their way up from downtown.”

“You’re sure everyone they take turns out okay – better?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Kale paused and gazed up at the sky for a moment. “But, uh…there were a couple of girls I heard got scooped and they never came back. Bet they went on to live up North or somewhere better.”

Vyra was not about to take Kale’s word for it; the girl had always been a live wire and who knows how reliable. Vyra swiped the screen on the wall of her room. The standard and dated computer came to life. She searched for any information she could find about ‘the scoop’. She had to dig deep.

M.M. MacLeod writes fiction and poetry in Hamilton, ON Canada.

…SEE complete version of “The Scoop” in Issue # 2 ; paperback or eBook

 

Antiques

Clark Boyd

Minneke’s mother handed her the psalter.
“That you will find restitution,” the frail woman whispered.
Then she was gone.

In her grief, Minneke forgot about her mother’s parting gift. Years later, though, she found the book at the bottom of her storage trunk while she packed. Her father had recently died, and her younger brother, Jaap, inherited the family’s antique business. In a move Jaap called “shrewd,” he commandeered the upper floors for the shop and his own growing family, and forced his sister to live in the basement. As she descended the stairs, Minneke wondered why her mother had spent so much time in this dark, dank warren.

But the book of Psalms stayed in the trunk.

As her brother’s business flourished above, Minneke toiled below. She made candles and scarves to sell at the market in an attempt to supplement Jaap’s meagre allowance. All day long, she could hear his purse jingling with the coins of the city’s vain merchant class. In the evenings the rooms upstairs filled with the sounds of family suppers and holiday feasts. Meals that Minneke was never invited to attend.

Find restitution.

Her mother’s words eventually came back to her, and she went looking for the psalter.
When Minneke opened the book, though, she didn’t find Old Testament vengeance. Instead, she discovered page after page of handwritten incantations. Strange syllables and odd phrases that her mother promised would bend objects and people, even the fabric of reality, to the whisperer’s will.

Minneke crossed herself and stashed the volume away.

But one evening, after a particularly loud party upstairs, Minneke sought the book again. She chose a spell from the first page. After lighting a candle, she spoke her mother’s words: “That it will feel good to burn.”

A nearby moth flew directly into the flame and then fell to the table. Minneke watched as the creature, its wings still smoking, tried to crawl back to the light. She wanted to put her own hand in the flame. But the book had promised that such feelings would pass with enough concentration and a little port wine.

Minneke swept the moth away and kept reading until the candle flickered and died.

A few weeks later, Minneke bewitched a scarf. First, she made the garment persuade someone to purchase it for twice the price. Then, for good measure, she had it tell the new owner to wrap it a bit too tightly around his neck. As the purple-faced buyer walked away, she grinned and fingered the silver coin in her pocket.

Minneke’s skill, and confidence, improved as she made her way through the book.

The following winter, tragedy struck the household. Jaap and his wife had always been healthy. But as the February rains blew in, they began to pass by their winter coats without a glance. They’d venture unprotected into the raw weather and then return soaking wet, seemingly unaware of what they’d done. The couple succumbed to pneumonia within days of each other.

At the funeral, Minneke wore her sister-in-law’s finest scarf but no one noticed.

Jaap’s son, Barend, inherited the family business. He and his older sister, Agatha, didn’t know “Crazy Aunt Minnie” well, as she was rarely seen upstairs. After some discussion, the siblings decided their reclusive relative needed to find her own home.

“Agatha, you’ll move into the basement,” Barend said, “until we find you a husband.”

“Father would approve,” said Agatha.

“He should’ve kicked that weird hag out years ago.”

Minneke heard this conversation because she had snuck upstairs and enchanted a silver decanter. The spell relayed any words said in the vicinity to a glass in the basement. To listen, Minneke simply held the vessel to her ear. She wasn’t surprised by what she heard. For years, she’d listened—without any need for witchcraft—as her niece and nephew threw loud and frequent tantrums upstairs.

Restitution.

Minneke opened her mother’s book and turned toward the back.

When Barend and Agatha knocked on the basement door, their aunt invited them to sit at a small table. A porcelain teacup and a curved dagger were the only objects on its surface.
Barend leaned forward. “Auntie, we’ve been talking.”

Minneke closed her eyes. “That the thirst will be unquenchable,” she whispered.

Her nephew quickly swallowed the teacup’s contents.

Minneke then turned to Agatha. “That the blade will find its way.”

The young woman grabbed the dagger and buried it in her own belly.

Minneke stood and pulled a pocket watch from her apron. She performed a spell from deep in the book, one she had never dared try before.

“That time will slow a century.”

In front of her, the pair seemed to freeze. Flecks of white spittle bubbled on Barend’s lips, proof that the hemlock was already working. Agatha gazed down at the rubied hilt protruding from her belly, and the crimson stain spreading across her dress.

Minneke set the timepiece on the table.

The feckless siblings would spend the next hundred years slowly dying in the pocket of altered time she’d created, with only the sight of each other’s misery to break the painful monotony.

Even a century, she thought, wouldn’t improve their value.

Minneke hauled her trunk up the stairs. She cast a vanishing spell on the basement door but wondered why she bothered. Even unenchanted, the door had always seemed invisible to most people. Minneke emptied the shop’s coin purse into her trunk and then selected a few choice items from the shelves.

When she left, she turned toward the harbour.

A week later, a well-dressed woman boarded De Liefde, a ship bound for the colony of New Amsterdam. She travelled alone and carried only one piece of luggage. When the captain asked how she hoped to start a new life with so little, she didn’t say a word. Instead, she held up the book she carried in her left hand. The volume, bound in black leather, had simple gold etching on the cover. It read: “Mother’s Psalms.”

Clark Boyd lives and works in the Netherlands. His fiction and essays have appeared in Scare Street, High Shelf Press, Havok, Fatal Flaw Magazine, and various DBND horror anthologies. He’s currently at work on a book about windmills. Or cheese. Maybe both.

 

The Thing in the Wax

Harris Coverley

I really did want to get home to see if anything had come through the wire regarding the war in the Transvaal, where my brother had been stationed, but just as I was about to leave the Musaeus Club by the front entrance someone cried out, “Sergeant George Henry Cutter as I live and breathe!”

I turned to look and saw it was Colonel Edward Harbinge, sat in a dark corner at a small round table. I had served with the colonel briefly in East Africa five years earlier in my previous career as a soldier for the Empire. Since then I had become a servant of trade.

Walking over to the colonel, I stopped before him and nearly saluted, but instead I was sure to shake his hand.

“Good to see you, Colonel Harbinge,” I said.

“Please, George,” he exclaimed in his jovial way. “Call me Ted.”

I assented, and he offered me a drink, which I decided to accept. After I had joined him, he explained that he was the guest of a member and that he might join the Club in the future, if they would have him.

After three single brandies apiece—each one meant to be the last and final –we had discussed numerous subjects, including the situation in the Cape, the new Ashanti Expedition, the poor position of the Turks, and the ever-increasing price of soft paraffin, until we eventually moved, as any conversation undertaken in the Musaeus Club must, into the realm of the strange and the eerie.

“My maid is convinced our smallest bedroom is haunted,” I told the colonel. “She refuses to go in…it’s getting quite tiresome.”

“What does she think is in there?” he asked, sipping his fourth brandy.

“I’m not sure…she said there’s the feeling of a cold wind or something, which she’s supposedly not felt there before.”

“Bunkum!” he bellowed. “Let me tell you a real story of phantasmic apparitions.”

“Go on then,” I said, nursing my own drink. “I could do with a laugh.”
The colonel suddenly became very solemn. “‘Tis no laughing matter, my boy. It was a deadly serious affair.”

I apologized sincerely, and he began, “Up North, around one of the big towns in Derbyshire, I was told of two brothers, both wealthy. This is well back, just after we helped the Turks take Sebastopol. You see, they had a considerable inheritance through their father’s good luck in the textile trade, and by this time he was long dead and they were in their early sixties. They were misers but had never known a day’s real work in their lives. Neither was married, and they lived together in a state of mistrust, in separate ends of the house, with separate cooks and maidservants.”

“I see,” said I. “True villains out of Dickens.”

“Pretty much,” said the colonel. “However, one day, the younger one, he met this girl on one of his strolls, and he fell madly in love with her. She was allegedly very beautiful, but she was one of those pietist evangelical sorts who abhorred wealth and property and so on, and she thought she could change him. He was of course love-struck with such a comely young thing. He endeavoured to make a colossal change, and he embraced the concept of charity…”

“And I bet the older brother didn’t like that one bit?”

The colonel tapped his nose and continued, “For damn sure, George, damn sure. He was bloody livid! He resented the idea that his father’s money would be spent on those he considered his lessers—the poor, the weak, the undeserving—and told his brother so. It led to awful rows that lasted through the night. The older brother soon came to think that their father’s money must’ve singly belonged to him and him alone, and he began to plot…”

“What did he do?”

“One evening the younger brother leaned against the banister railing, just before going out to meet his lady love. It broke apart, and he fell to the stone floor below. A doctor was called, but it was hopeless.”

“And it was the older brother who had arranged it?”

“The old fool admitted it in his journal, but that wasn’t found until years later.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, the older brother got full control of the estate, as he was now his father’s only living heir. He was greedy, but he had enough sense to try to offer some money to the young woman to calm her down—not that she’d take any of it. He expanded his presence throughout the house and gave the sack to his brother’s cook and maid. Some time passed, and the house began to fall into disrepair, but he had grown even tighter in fiduciary matters and refused to fix it. He wouldn’t even buy oil for the lamps in the autumn, so one day his maidservant brought a large candle on a stand to light the hallway where the stairs were, not too far from where the younger brother had fallen. The candle burned down slowly, and a pile of wax began to form at its base. After a few days, the remaining brother noticed something peculiar in the wax pile, something uncanny…”

“What?” I asked. “A message?”

“Of sorts,” replied the colonel. “It was a mouth-like formation, open, and, he believed, screaming.”

“A bit silly methinks,” I said, considering yet another brandy.

The colonel ignored my take and carried on. “As more days passed, the mouth grew in size and wail, and a nose and pair of eyes materialized. The old man was certain it was the face of his brother, come back to haunt him. He even asked his maid and cook to come and look, but they swore they could not see it. He was so disturbed that he ordered the candle be taken to the attic, and gave the maid money to buy oil for the lamps.”

“Is that all?”

“Oh no, George. When the lamps were refilled, the older brother called on his few remaining acquaintances to join him for a party, which was quickly organized for Friday next. Festivities took place in the grand dining room. There were two geese and a ham, a fruitcake, German wine and liquor, all good fill. After they had finished their meals, the table was cleared and a big game of cards commenced, which went on for hours. The guests tired, but the brother wanted to carry on and ordered the maid to bring in more light. He did well in the game, but after a bad hand he looked up in frustration and saw something in the room that terrified him.”

“Had his brother come back from the dead?”

“Almost. It was the tall candle with the wax pile, its screaming maw more apparent than ever, with two dark eyes, his younger brother’s effigy. The older brother became enraged. He rose from his seat, knocking it over, and went to the maid to slap her. When his friends tried to quieten him down he picked up a poker from the fireplace and threatened them, and they retreated to a corner of the room. The old man then threw the poker at the candle and missed, before racing over to crush the face with his hand…”

“Did that solve his problem?”

“In a sense. The likeness was destroyed, but he burned his hand on the hot wax so badly that it became septic and turned his blood bad…he died a month later from a foul fever.”

The colonel finished his brandy and signalled the barman for another. He asked if I would yet like another myself, but I declined, reiterating my commitment to getting home.

As I arose, I said, “A good story, Ted, I’ll be sure to remember it. But do you really think he saw his brother’s face in the candle?”

Colonel Harbinge considered this for a moment and then cocked his head, neither nodding nor shaking it. “I don’t know, George,” he admitted as his new drink arrived and shillings were exchanged. “Guilt can be a terrible thing to have on one’s back. Grief, too, even for such a damnable cur.”

We shook hands and I bid him goodnight, with the promise that we would talk again soon. I then walked out through the Club entrance and onto the rainy streets of Camden to look for a hackney.

Harris Coverley has had short fiction most recently accepted for Curiosities, Hypnos, and Horla, amongst many others. He is also a Rhysling-nominated poet, with verse in Star*Line, Spectral Realms, The Oddville Press, Ariel Chart, and elsewhere. He lives in Manchester, England.

Two Poems by Ian A. Bain

 

Two Poems

Ian A. Bain

The Hunt

Four men gather ‘round the table
they burp and chug and laugh
each man drops his sack down
the dick-measuring contest begins.

Edric is first, stroking his beard of moss
blood and beer matted into the moss
“Aye,” says he, “I’ve a boy!” and from his bag
he pulls the head of a boy.
“And what did you do to ensure it was a challenge?” Asks Arthur.
“Look,” points Edric, “I gave him antlers for defence
and doe legs to run away on.”
The other men nod their approval.

Herne is next, his crown of stagg antlers
rests over his ram horns
“Here, I too have a boy,” he says
the trophy plops on the table.
“And what have you done to respect the Hunt?” Edric asks.
“Look, I pulled out his teeth and nails
jammed wolf claws and fangs in the boy’s gums and fingers
even half wolf he was no match for me.”
The men nod.

The Headless Horseman is next
he rolls his trophy across the table
the hunting party know what the horseman
does to his prey:
he gives them false hope,
hope that they might actually escape his clutches,
he is the cruelest of them all.

The men cheer and drink
trade stories of the Hunt
and Mother Nature looks down on them
she laughs.

Barbs

No, not barbs, hooks
rusty hooks on old black chains
Every hook is different
“You suck at writing” is a small fishhook
“You’re too fat to be loved” is a much bigger, nastier hook,
 covered in hundreds of tiny barbs
“You’re worthless” that hook I made myself
They tug at my flesh, pulling it from the bone
But I’ll let the hooks dig in
I’ll let them tear apart my flesh
And when there’s nothing left
There’ll be nothing for the hooks to dig into.

Ian A. Bain is a writer of dark fiction living in Muskoka, Ontario. Ian enjoys Horror, coffee, and long walks through the swamp with his wife and undead dog. Ian’s fiction has appeared in various anthologies, magazines, and podcasts, and his non-fiction work can be found under “The Horror Hoser” at deadheadreviews.com. Ian can be stalked online at @bainwrites on Twitter. 

 

Anselm

Joseph Farley

The sky was turning from bright blue to a shade of pink as the sun was setting behind the granite peaks of the mountains. Snow was falling as it had been for much of the day and much of the past week, bending the firs and pines and torturing the flattened bushes underneath. In a clearing surrounded by trees, stood a log cabin. Its slant roof was weighted down with deep, packed snow. Only the strength of the thick logs that made up the roof beams and walls kept it from collapsing. If the cabin had any windows, they were buried under snow. A door was visible, wooden planks that had turned to grey from the beatings taken from wind, rain, ice, and sun. The door seemed a small guardian against the elements. Despite the black smoke that poured from the chimney, that spoke of an active fire, it was probably colder indoors than could be borne with comfort.

The latch lifted. The door to the cabin opened a crack and then a little wider as the being inside pushed against the accumulated snow that, no matter how many times shovelled aside, always managed to return. A weather-raw hand held the handle and pulled the door shut a lot quicker than it had taken to open, but not before a small back cat had managed to squeeze its way outside.

The shadows grew quickly and darkness came as the angle of the setting sun was blocked by the mountain ridges. The cat sniffed the snow. It leaped from side to side forward and back making small holes in the drifts as if making sure that its legs still worked after having been cooped up indoors all day. It batted at the falling flakes with its paw, and caught bits in its teeth, but soon tired of this. The cat shook its fur and stretched back on its haunches. Tail erect it started to prowl, first lifting nose up and then placing it toward the ground, ears twitching, trying to detect the sound of hidden movements under the snow or in the surrounding woods. With a bound, the cat jumped to the top of a drift and clawed its way onto a fallen tree sticking out of the snow. It danced supple steps along the bark until it was within another jump of leaving the clearing and entering the thick tangle of forest. It knew where the snow was packed hard and where it was soft. It smelled the warm blood of prey out there in the distance. One jump and a little run and it was among the trees, lost from sight, a black spot in a winter night full of blackness.

The cat had its favourite haunts as all cats do. It checked out all of its familiar hiding spots, rubbing against trees and rocks, spraying where necessary. The muscles of the cat’s shoulders rippled as it slunk through the forest, mournful of the absence of birds, but majestic in its awareness and faith in its own abilities.

The cat was not the only animal on the prowl. There were other hunters out there – some much larger. Hunger could make a house cat appear as good a meal as a rabbit or fawn if the kill looked easy. So thought the cougar resting under an overhang of rock when it smelled, then spied, its small relative. It saw only a rival in lean times and a potential meal. The cougar rose and stretched. Soon it was stalking the cat, which had also seemed to have detected a scent of interest and be preparing for the kill. Small black feet crept through the snow and dark. Larger padded feet crept towards the cat. The cat turned on a small path. Its back was towards the bigger cat that was concealed by naked brown bushes, dead snow-covered weeds, and the white-powdered trunks of trees. The cougar leaped with fangs bared. The little cat turned and hissed. Screeches filled the winter forest.

Adam Payton huddled under his buffalo robe on the bunk made from split logs that served as his bed. The robe was warm but not warm enough in this cold. His right leg was broken, splinted tight. It grieved him much, but he declined to say a word about it. Not that anyone present would listen. Adam kept his damaged leg pointed toward the fire as the tickle of heat eased the discomfort in the bone. Adam was near fifty – or past it. His hair was long and patched with grey. His beard was wide and bushy. Adam had lived alone in the mountains as a hunter and trapper for many years until the loneliness got to him and he took a wife. His wife was now tending the fire and the cauldron that hung over it. She was boiling bed linens and clothing to kill the fleas, ticks, and other pests, that were an unwelcome fact of life all year round, but even more of a bother in the winter while at close quarters. Laundry was not the only thing Mabel Payton put in that cauldron. It was good for cooking stew or carrying water, plus a few other things that Mabel was keen on and that Adam did not like to think about.

A high moaning came from outside. Something scratched at the door. Adam reached for his rifle. He always kept his gun loaded and no more than arm’s length away. Mabel stopped stirring the laundry. She straightened her back, and wiped her hands on her apron and her long calico dress. She adjusted her shawl and smoothed her black bun of hair. Adam cocked his gun. Mabel walked over to the door. She put her ear against the wood and called out, “Who is it?”

The only answer was, “Meow.”

“It’s only Anselm,” Mabel said. “You can put down that gun, Adam.”

“Says you,’” Adam spat, but he put down the gun. He never did like cats. He especially did not like this one, but when you marry a woman you marry her cat, too. Or so he came to learn.

Mabel opened the door. The light from the fire fell out on the snow illuminating a small black cat with big eyes. Its fur was wet and matted. The cat looked at Mabel and gestured with its head towards a figure lying in the snow.

Mabel smiled. She stooped down and stroked the head of the cat. She cooed lovingly, “What have you brought home this time?”

“Close the door or go out,” Adam growled. “You are letting all the heat out!”

Mabel twisted her neck and shouted at her husband. “Now calm down, Adam. The door will be closed soon enough.”

Mabel put on her coat and went to get a lantern. She saw that her hand was covered with blood. She looked at Anselm the cat. “Are you hurt?”

The cat shook its head.

Mabel took the lantern and stepped out into the snow. Sprawled three feet from the door was the carcass of a cougar, its throat ripped out, and a look of chagrin frozen on its dead face. Mabel felt sorry for the cougar. How embarrassed it must have been right before it died. Mabel ran to tell her husband.

“Anselm took down a cougar!”

Adam punched the wall. “Tarnation!” he yelled. “It ain’t right I tell you. It just ain’t right. The man’s supposed to feed his family, not the family cat.”

“Stop shouting. You’ll wake the baby.”

They both glanced at a cradle in the corner of the room.
“We’re talking about my manhood,” Adam argued in a quieter tone. “It was bad enough when he bagged the deer. Then he brought home a moose. Now it’s a cougar. What kind of man does that make me look like, lying here all day.”

“It makes you look like a man with a broken leg. Serves you right for fighting that bear like that. Besides, you should be thanking Anselm for keeping us from starving while you’re laid up.”

“That bear got into my cache of dried fish.”

“That bear could have killed you,” Mabel said wagging a finger.

“I could have killed that bear,” Adam insisted.

Mabel threw up her hands. “So now you have a broken leg and the bear is missing an eye and an ear. Serves you both right for not sharing. Now Anselm and I have to do all the work until you’re healed.”

That comment made Adam smart. It hurt him in his pride. “I’ll be up and about in no time,” he said.

“I’d say four more weeks,” Mabel said. “You call that no time?”

Mabel took a blanket outside and placed it on the ground next to the cougar. With effort, she rolled the dead cougar onto the blanket and started to pull the blanket towards the open door.

“You shouldn’t be so upset about Anselm,” Mabel grunted while tugging at the blanket. “He’s not a real cat. He’s a familiar. Plus he’s the one who chased that bear off and done dragged you home.”

She was right, Adam thought. Anselm’s not a cat. What is he? A demon of some kind? A spirit? That’s what he gets for marrying a witch, but there were not a lot of women in the mountains. You take what you can get. Hell, Mabel was the only woman for fifty miles around. That’s why Adam started courting her. He knew she was a witch woman from the start. Only a witch woman would go off to live in the mountains by herself. Only a witch woman would be left alone by the bears and cougars and what not. But why did she have to have a cat? Why couldn’t she have had a bullfrog or a prognosticating chicken, one that produced eggs? Adam liked eggs, especially for breakfast. He thought about all the ways eggs could be cooked. His mouth started to water.

A disgruntled “Humph” came from Anselm who had been sulking nearby.
“So now I’m not a cat?” Anselm said. “I thought you liked me killing mice. I had just gotten used to their flavour.”

Mabel pulled the cougar laden blanket over the threshold. “Now don’t you start!” she snapped. “I don’t think I could deal with two cantankerous males at once.”

Adam was still in a bad mood. He glared at the black cat. “Mighty proud of yourself aren’t you?”

The cat sighed “Not really,” said Anselm.

Adam’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Oh, so even you know it’s not right to show up a man before his family.”

“It’s not that,” Anselm said sulkily. “It’s just all so …uncouth.”

“Un what?”

“Never mind,” Anselm said. He busied himself running his tongue over his blood-stained fur. All he wanted now was to relax and have a good bath.

Mabel shut and barred the door. She took Adam’s Bowie knife and began cutting open the cougar’s body. “This skin will make a good coat,” Mabel said as she pulled back the flesh. “And there’s enough meat here for all of us to eat for a week or two if it doesn’t go bad.”

“The moose would have fed us for the winter if you had cured it,” Adam said.

“The damn thing was too big to get through the door,” Mabel replied. “I cut out what I could carry, and brought it inside. I didn’t think the wolves would get at it overnight. Not like them to come around here. They usually run when they get a whiff of me.”

Adam grunted, “Must be hard pickings for them to come so near the cabin.”

“It’s a hard winter for everybody,” Mabel said, and then added coldly, “Who ain’t in bed.”

Anselm was sitting on the floor. He had his rear leg up over his head. He was licking his inner thigh. He paused to call out, “Don’t eat the liver.”

“Why?” Mabel asked her face splattered with gore.

“Trust, me,” Anselm said lazily. “You won’t like it. Lots of toxins in there. Dog liver, wolf liver, cougar liver. You don’t eat it.” He went back to bathing.

Adam was watching Anselm. He wrinkled his nose. “That’s just plain disgusting.”

“What?” Anselm said. “Bathing? You should try taking a bath more than once a year. We would all appreciate it, especially our noses.”

Adam reached for his rifle. “Why you son of a bitch!”

“Adam!” Mabel snapped. “Don’t you dare harm Anselm.”

“He said I stank.”

“You do. So do I. We’re just used to it. The animals can smell us a mile away. We smell like sweat and dead critters.” She plucked out the cougar’s eyeballs, and held them aloft admiringly, one in each hand. “I think I can do something with these. Anselm, what do you think?”

Anselm was licking his other thigh. He looked up, and saw the cougar’s eyes staring at him from Mabel’s hands. He winced and turned away. “There are several incantations I can think of that could use cougar eyes,” he said without looking at Mabel. “Though human eyes or even cow eyes would do as well for most.”

“Then I better put some whiskey in a jar and put these in there to soak,” Mabel said. “It will help them keep.”

“Not my whiskey!” Adam said. He tried to get out of bed, but the pain in his leg stopped him. “Don’t use it up. There’s not nearly enough to get me through until spring.”

“Don’t fret,” Mabel said. “Or I won’t try to heal you. I’ll just conjure up another man instead.” Mabel uncorked a jug and poured some of the contents into a mason jar. Adam winced as she dropped in the eyeballs.

“My whiskey!” he mourned.

“What’s your problem?” Mabel said. “The eyeballs won’t kill your whiskey. You can drink what’s left in the jar after I decide what to use them eyeballs for.”

That eased Adam’s mind a bit “Maybe you can think up something tonight?” he suggested. He was feeling mighty parched now that he saw the golden liquid in the jar. The floating eyeballs didn’t faze him one bit.

“Tonight?” Mabel thought. “Tomorrow is more likely. I’m sort of busy right now. Besides I gotta decide who or what I want to charm or curse.”

“You could charm Anselm to stop licking himself,” Adam said.

Anselm stopped licking his privates and calmly chided his mistress’s husband.
“You’re just jealous because you are not as flexible as I am.”

“That’s not true,” Adam argued, “I am all gristle.”

“You mean under the fat?” Anselm replied.

“I ain’t fat,” Adam growled. “This is a real man’s body. All muscle with just a little extra padding for the lean months.”

Anselm and Mabel both chuckled.

“If you are so flexible,” Anselm said, licking between his legs, “Let me see you do this.”

Adam gave the cat a sour look. “I was raised right. I would never do anything like that in front of a lady.”

“I did not know I was in the presence of such a gentleman,” Mabel chuckled. She was back on her knees pulling entrails out of the cougar.

“Neither did I,” sniffed Anselm.

Adam was hot. He hated Anselm. Every word from that feline’s fanged mouth raised hackles with Adam. He glanced at the rifle but thought better of it. He shook his head. “It ain’t right,” he said. “It just ain’t right. A man should not be treated like this in his own home.”

“Treated like what?” Mabel inquired.

“Like some kind of pariah. Here I am an outcast in my own home, mocked and humiliated.”

Anselm rolled his eyes. He was tempted to say something nasty but decided not to escalate matters, He kept his mouth shut.

The baby started to cry.

“Damn you men,” Mabel screeched. “You woke Fergus.”

“Now I’m a man,” Anselm said. “Cat, demon, man. Take your pick. All this role shifting is getting on my nerves.”

“You know what I meant, Anselm,” Mabel said.

She dropped the big cat’s entrails on the floor and went to get little Fergus from his cradle. She did not pause to wipe the blood and fat from her hands and arms. She picked up the baby and handed him to Adam. “Handle it,” she said.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Take a sniff. You’ll figure it out.”

Adam raised the child to his nose and sniffed. “Oh,” he said. “Anselm, can you get me a rag? I gotta change the one he’s wearing.”

Anselm felt it was beneath him, but he did as requested. A woven basket near the fireplace contained scraps of old clothing used for patches, bandages, and swaddling. Anselm pried the lid off with his head. He saw a mouse inside and had the pleasure of spearing it with his claws. He bit its neck and left it on the floor for a late-night snack. Next, he seized a rag in his teeth and carried it to Adam. The mountain man already had the dirty rag off his young’un.

“He needs his bottom cleaned,” Adam said to the cat. “Can you oblige?”

“What do you think I am,” Anselm gasped, “a dog?”

“Well, I can’t get to the water pitcher,” Adam explained, “Cause I am sort of stuck in bed.”

“No,” Anselm said shaking his head. “I won’t do it. I have my dignity. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Come on, Anselm,” Mabel shouted. She was kneeling on the floor, carving out cuts of meat from the carcass. “It will be no worse than bathing yourself.”

“No,” Anselm said. “I won’t do it!”

“Can’t you just help out?” she pleaded. “Can’t you see I have my hands full?”

“No.”

“Don’t make me force you, Anselm,” Mabel said. “You know I can.”

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Anselm said. “But not because you can make me. You can’t. It’s not in the contract. I’ll do it for Fergus.”

“What contract?” Mabel laughed, “I bound you fair and square.”

“There are still some things you can not force me to do,” Anselm said trying to maintain some level of dignity. “I’ll do this for Fergus, and only for Fergus. I’ll do it because I like him. I have a good feeling about the boy. I sense the beginnings of magic in him.”

“My son shall be a righteous man,” Adam growled, “A good trapper who knows his Bible.”

“Even if he ignores it,” Mabel teased.

“Fergus will be a good man, a strong man,” Adam continued. “Not a servant of the devil.”

Mabel laughed, “How long you know me, Adam Payton? You know I ain’t nobody’s servant. Not yours, not the devil’s, not anybody’s. Never been, never will be.”

Adam ignored her. He held his son up and looked the boy in the eye. “My son won’t have no need for magic. He will be a man who can stand on his own two feet, needing only his muscles and wits.”

“Like his father?” Anselm said, gesturing with his head towards Adam’s broken leg.

“That’s right,” Adam grinned. “Just like his father.”

Anselm sighed. Sarcasm was wasted on this man.

The baby giggled at the rough tongue sliding over his skin. Anselm felt he was going to vomit. Anselm closed his eyes. He repeated to himself. This is for Fergus. This is for Fergus.

When Anselm was done, Adam tied a fresh rag, a section of an old shirt, around the baby’s bottom. The mountain man put Fergus down next to him on the bed. He threw a corner of the buffalo robe over the baby to keep him warm. He then placed his arm over top, holding the robe in place and keeping Fergus from rolling off the bed. Adam lay there watching his son. Fergus smiled at his father. This caused the grizzled mountain man to grin. The baby then shifted his gaze to the black cat.

Anselm hung his head over the edge of the bed and started coughing. His stomach throbbed. He threw up on the floor.

Kid, Anselm thought, I hope you are worth it.

As if in response to Anselm’s thoughts, the child reached out from under the robe and grabbed a handful of the cat’s fur. The gentle tug startled Anselm. He started to pull away but stopped when he heard the words in his mind.

“I will be, Anselm. I will.”

Anselm smiled. He curled up in a ball on top of the robe, nestling close to the baby’s feet, closed his eyes, and began to purr.

Joseph Farley’s poetry and fiction has appeared recently in Ygdrasil, Horror Sleaze Trash, US1 Worksheets, Home Planet News Online, Schlock!, Wilderness House Review, Lummox, Big Windows, Mad Swirl, and other places. His science fiction novel, Labor Day, was reissued in a special edition by Peasantry Press (Canada) in 2019.

 

Those Who Are Loved Very Much

Nika Župan

Long ago, when the universe was smaller and the earth was greener, times were simpler. Life took stardust, red soil, salty blue water, and mixed air to create humans. They were born innocent, and Life loved them dearly. He gave them little presents of beauty, intellect, kindness, and many more. They were all different but wonderful in their own way. Life watched them be merry, learn, and eventually grow old. It was only once they were no longer innocent that Death came and took them with her. Death never came for anyone that didn’t deserve it. Even though no human was alike, they all received the gift of love. That was Life’s most significant present to humans. Sometimes they found this present of love right next to them, and sometimes they had to go looking for it and find it somewhere else.

Long ago, a Girl was born. She was immensely beautiful. She had porcelain skin, sparkling eyes, and lovely long hair the colour of autumn red. Her face was adorable, and her smile was charming. It seemed that Life made her with extra stardust. As she grew older, everybody noticed how bright she was, too. She learned everything in the blink of an eye. All the other humans admired her sharp mind and quick wit. She was also kind and compassionate.
She accepted the gifts Life gave her, but she was missing the gift of love. She searched high and low for it, but she still couldn’t find it. She often wondered if Life had forgotten about her or if Life thought he had awarded her enough

Time passed, but the kind, red-haired Girl still didn’t find love anywhere. She grew bitter, and resentful towards others who had found love. No longer was she compassionate and kind. She discovered the gift of magic and wizardry. With her spells, she took the love away from those who she envied the most. All the other humans began to be frightened in her presence and hid from her. They were afraid of her magic – and of her hate. To them, she was no longer the kind, red-haired Girl, but a Witch. The Witch accepted her new name and disappeared into the woods. The Witch knew Death comes for those who are no longer innocent and she waited for her.

But just as everything appeared over for the Witch, it seemed that the love she searched for, for so long, had found her. It was in the form of a strong, handsome King. He was brave, and caring. He often helped other humans in need, and for his help, they awarded him with fortune and riches and made him the King. When the King saw the Witch, he fell in love immediately. He loved her deeply for her mind and beauty, and he overlooked her flaws. He didn’t care that she was no longer kind and compassionate. He was untroubled by her mistakes and decided to make her his Queen. And the Witch loved him back. She loved her King greatly for accepting her as she was and loving her so sincerely. Not long after, they married.

The humans now knew her no longer as the kind, red-haired Girl, nor as the Witch, but as their Queen. She gave birth to a beautiful son, a Prince. Life gave him all the presents he once gave his parents. He was everything they were and more. The Prince was loved by his parents and other people.

But Death hadn’t forgotten about the Witch and her wrong-doings. Once the earth completed her dance around the sun, Death came knocking on the castle’s door. Three times she knocked and waited for the Witch. But it was the King who opened the door. And when he saw who was at the door, he began pleading and crying. He knew that Death came for his Queen. Death was always fair and only came for those who deserved it. She was not used to tears and sorrow.
Death said: “She is no longer innocent; she must go with me.”

But the King insisted: “She is too young, too beautiful, too smart, and I love her too much. You cannot take her.”

And Death calmly replied: “If she does not come with me, I will take someone innocent.”

The King agreed. And Death took a sweet old lady. She had often thought about Death before but still wasn’t quite ready to greet her. But Death explained and took her anyway.

Time passed while the King and Queen grew older. Nevertheless, they still loved each other truly. But Death still hadn’t forgotten about the Witch. Three times she knocked on the castle’s door and waited for her. And again, it was the King who opened the door, and he knew who Death came to collect.
Death said: She is no longer innocent or young; she must go with me.”

But the King insisted: “She is too beautiful, too smart, and I love her too much. You cannot take her.”

And Death calmly replied: “If she does not come with me, I will take someone innocent and young.”

And the King agreed once more.
Death took a young man who was in love and about to get married. He was not ready to greet Death yet. But Death explained and took him anyway.

With time, the King and Queen grew even older. The King noticed that the Queen’s porcelain skin began to wrinkle, her lovely long hair turned grey and dull, and her adorable face and smile were no longer as beautiful. But the King and Queen still loved each other deeply. However, Death still hadn’t forgotten about the Witch. With three hard knocks, she once again knocked on the castle’s door. And the King opened the door, knowing that Death came for his Queen once again. Death said: She is no longer innocent, or young, or beautiful; she must go with me.”

But the King insisted: “She is too smart and I love her too much. You cannot take her.”

Death calmly replied: If she does not come with me, I will take someone innocent, young, and beautiful.”

The King agreed. Death took a young girl as beautiful as the sun. She had never even thought about Death and was nowhere near ready to greet her. But Death explained and took her anyway.

Time passed once more, and the King and Queen grew even older. The King had noticed that the Queen’s once sharp mind was no longer as brilliant. She wasn’t bright or smart anymore, and it seemed that she lost her mind completely. But nonetheless, the King still loved his Queen greatly. But Death hadn’t forgotten about the Witch. Again she came knocking on the castle’s door. And the King opened. He still wasn’t ready to let go of his Queen.
Death said: She is no longer innocent, or young, or beautiful, or smart; she must go with me.”

But the King insisted: “I love her too much. You cannot take her.”

Death calmly replied: “If she does not come with me, I will take someone innocent, young, beautiful, and smart. Someone who is loved very much.”

The King agreed. And Death took his only son, the Prince. He had heard about Death many times, and she knocked on their door often, but the Prince had only begun living, and he was far from ready to greet her. But Death explained and took him anyway.

After Death took the King’s only son, he turned angry, and bitter. He was sure that Death had fooled him, unable to see his own mistake. The Queen was no longer the woman he once loved, and Death should have taken her instead of their son. Looking at the mirror, he no longer saw a handsome, brave King. He saw an unpleasant old man with a wrinkly face and cold eyes. He was selfish and cowardly. The King and Queen no longer loved each other. And they waited for Death to come knocking on their door.

But Death didn’t come. She had grown accustomed to the pleasant company and lovely humans; the innocent, the young, the beautiful, the smart, and those who are loved very much. She no longer took only those who deserved it. She was still fair and promised Life she would take everyone eventually, but from that moment, she picked whomever she wanted.

The King and Queen waited for Death. Time passed, and the earth moved around the sun many times, but there was still no sign of her. The King and Queen searched for her around the world, behind every corner and in every little hole, but they did not find her. They returned to their castle and waited some more. Eventually, Death came. She knocked on the castle’s door three times and waited. She had come for both King and Queen. They asked her why she took so long and where she has been hiding, but Death was tired of explaining and bargaining and remained quiet.

Even now, after a very long time, Death still takes whomever she wants. Often, she takes those who deserve it but sometimes takes the innocent, the young, the beautiful, the smart, and even those who are loved very much. She comes in silence, offers no bargains, and then leaves without an explanation. Giving us the one solace that she will come for every one of us, eventually.

NikaŽupan is a 26-year-old Slovenian with a fascination for everything paranormal, scary, and dark. She has a bachelor’s degree in textile engineering but finds it very dull, so she spends her free time writing eerie stories.

Two Poems by Lisa Timpf

 

Two Poems

Lisa Timpf

The Day Politeness Revealed Its Limits

Alien dwelling
unearthed on Mars—
Canadian explorers
oh-so-polite.

“After you.”
“No, no, after you.”

A shuffling sound
from deep within—
they flee, each vying
to take the lead.

Blackbeard Returns as a Porch Pirate

Edward sits at the helm of the luxury SUV,
its steering wheel wooden, spoked, decked out
like that of an old-time sailing ship;
drives with the window open,
the slap of wind against his hirsute face
reminding him of the high seas, the open water.

His warehouse contains pilfered booty
carefully inventoried, all of which gets posted
for sale online. The office area includes
a workout room—treadmills and weights—
maintaining a certain fitness level helps his staff
hurdle flower beds, sprint down driveways, elude irate guard dogs.

There’s an in-house cafeteria, video game stations and
leather couches. It’s all about employee retention
these days. His own quarters contain
a well-stocked bookcase and nautical knick-knacks,
to remind him of old times. He’s replaced the pistols
and dagger with box-cutters and a custom Glock.

The daily routine is easy—attach a GPS tracker
to a parcel delivery van, then trundle in its wake.
Sometimes, the packages have already been
spirited into the house by the time they get there,
making Edward grind his teeth at the thought of lost
opportunity. But often enough, the crew

finds parcels waiting, ripe for the taking. Opening
the cartons back at the warehouse evokes
echoes of Christmas morning. The gaming stations.
The high-end speakers. The 3D printers. Drones.
Watches. Fashion accessories. Sure, there’s the
odd disappointment, like the jumbo box of adult diapers

plucked from the porch of a modest brick bungalow.
Even that fails to faze him. Anything will sell,
priced right. The lifestyle suits. Edward keeps
regular hours, which pleases the many women
who enter and leave his life. If he misses
cannons and ocean chases, he doesn’t let on.

Lisa Timpf is a retired HR and communications professional who lives in Simcoe, Ontario. Her speculative poetry has appeared in Star*Line, New Myths, Liminality, Apparition Lit, Polar Borealis, and other venues. She has had over 30 speculative fiction pieces published in zines and anthologies, including Third Flatiron, Future Days, and From a Cat’s View. You can find out more about Lisa’s writing at http://lisatimpf.blogspot.com/.