Tales of Dark Fantasy
by Robert E. Keller
Smart Goblin Publishing 2011
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
*The cover art for this book was created using paid, licensed, modified
stock images from Bigstock in an original interpretation.
Copyright © 2011 Robert E. Keller
Content Notice:
A collection of fantasy short stories.
About the Author:
Robert E. Keller is a fantasy writer who has had more than 30 stories published in online and print magazines, and he is the author of several epic fantasy novels. You can find more information on his projects at www.robertekeller.net
Other books by Robert E. Keller :
Novels:
Knights: The Eye of Divinity
Knights: The Hand of Tharnin
Knights: The Heart of Shadows
Knights: The Blood of Kings
Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar
Knights: Legends of Ollanhar
Knights: Shadows of Ollanhar
***
The Curse of Credesar
***
A Knight of Tharnin, Book I
Table of Contents:
Spirit Wolves
Breathing Space
Cancelled
Dream Spinner
The Pipes are Calling
A Christmas Frost
The Weeping Well
The Burning Strands of Daylight
Blue Electron Moon
Minds Burned White
Bonus Dark Fantasy:
The Elder Root
Wood Axe
The Necromancer's Burden
Tower of Dread
Brock Strangebeard and the Skulls of Callaharn
Spirit Wolves
(Originally published in Wanderings magazine, and in Golden Visions as a reprint. Revised for this collection.)
"You won't take my dog, you devils," I snarled into the blinding snow that swirled through the pines. I slammed the cabin door shut and turned, shotgun in hand. My faithful hound Lammie was gazing up at me with his big round eyes.
"Easy, boy," I said. "Your master's just shouting at ghosts." I patted him on the head, and he went and curled up in front of the fireplace.
Lammie was all I had, and he wasn't going anywhere.
Wincing from a dozen aches, I limped over to my rocking chair and put my bare feet on the hearth. Lammie gently licked my toes, and as always, I pulled my foot back. "Don't do that," I said. "You know I don't like it. Toenails all crusty and yellow. Why would you want to get your tongue anywhere near those smelly old toes?"
Lammie gazed up at me, confusion in his big eyes.
I glanced toward the door. I knew the wolves would come this night, for once they caught scent of a dog, they wouldn't rest until they claimed him. Or so legend said.
"They won't take you, Lammie," I muttered, patting the shotgun. Was I being selfish? My old, worn-out heart couldn't last much longer, and if I passed on, Lammie would starve. Should I just let him go? I shook my head, knowing I couldn't do that. I loved him too much. He'd been my only companion since my last dog took ill and died several years before, and the old forest was a lonely place--especially during the cold winters. I didn't want to die alone.
I patted Lammie on the head. "I won't let you starve, boy. If my heart looks like it's going to give up, I'll turn you loose and you can run free. Deal?"
Lammie lowered his head, his dark eyes shining with sadness. I didn't know if he could understand me, but sometimes it sure seemed that way. He didn't want to lose me any more than I wanted to lose him. But time was running out on us.
I bit into a stale biscuit and washed it down with some coffee. I was using up the last of my provisions, but I was too sick to walk the ten miles to town to get more. I hadn't checked my traps in weeks, and had no furs to trade anyway. My only hope was that my brother Jack would make the long trek out to my cabin before I starved to death. Jack was usually dependable, but lately he'd been drinking himself silly and ranting about his ex-wife. Also, his horse had been stolen, and so he would have to come on snowshoes--a long walk for an old man. But Jack had to show up soon, or I'd be in rough shape. I was too sick to risk hunting.
I rubbed my chest, and gazed at a drawing of a beautiful Indian maiden that hung near the fireplace. Her face looked so soft and lovely in the glow of lantern and fire. I'd never had a wife, so I supposed that meant when I died I would have to be single in heaven--if I actually made it to heaven. If I ended up down below in the flames, lack of a wife would probably be the least of my worries. I'd never set foot in a church, so I really didn't know how any of that stuff worked. Hopefully, the Lord would take pity on an old fool.
I smiled, pretending the Indian maiden was my woman waiting for me in heaven. I named her Abigail. It wasn't a very Indian sounding name, but I was an old man with no imagination. "Won't be long now, darling," I said. "Meet me at the pearly gates."
Lammie whined.
I closed my eyes and started to doze, when a scratch at the door jolted me awake and sent my heart into a flutter. With a low growl, Lammie stood up, the fur rising on his back.
The wolves had come again.
Shaking with fear and anger, I got up and limped to the door. "You go away, you wretched devils," I cried. "I'll shoot you dead." It was an absurd statement, since bullets were useless against ghosts. But what else could I do?
Again, the quiet scratch at the door greeted my ears. Lammie crept up beside me, sniffing the air and looking puzzled.
"Get back," I said. But he didn't move.
Howls erupted outside my cabin, sending a flood of chills down my spine. "I'll never let you in," I howled back. "Be gone with you."
I waited, wondering if the wolves could enter a home uninvited. My memory was foggy these days, but it seemed like one of my old friends had told me that ghosts couldn't come in unless you let them. Or had he been talking about vampires? I wasn't sure, but the wolves had been sniffing around my door for two nights now and still hadn't tried to enter.
But this time they didn't go away, and their howls seemed more frantic and determined. Moments later, the door bolt unlatched and the door blew open violently, snow flying into my cabin. I fired my shotgun into the blizzard, and the kickback left me groaning in pain and rubbing my poor old shoulder.
"Curse you!" I shouted. I reloaded with shaking hands and fired again, snow clinging to my face and getting in my eyes. I leaned on the gun and used my other hand to wipe snow from my face. Peering out into the storm, I saw nothing.
I slammed the door shut and bolted it. My heart was pounding hard, sending waves of pain through my chest. My head was swimming with dizziness. I stroked Lammie's fur. "I showed those devils. I'll bet they're scared and running for their lives." But I knew better. And by the look in Lammie's eyes, so did he.
Lammie stalked to the door and sniffed at it again. "Get away from there," I said, grabbing his collar and leading him back to the fireplace. I was about to sit down again when I heard a crash of glass come from upstairs.
The wolves were breaking in.
Groaning in misery, I grabbed my shotgun and, using it like a crutch, limped upstairs to my bedroom. I threw open the door and aimed my gun, panting hard. But the window was still intact, and I knew the wolves had somehow tricked me--making me hear things that weren't real. "Wiley critters, aren't they?" I said, glancing down.
But Lammie wasn't next to me. He'd always followed me before whe
n I went upstairs, but not this time. My hands shook as I held the shotgun.
I limped back downstairs and saw the door was partly open again, and a long white snout was poking through. Lammie was creeping toward the door. I pointed my gun in a panic and pulled the trigger--and lucky for Lammie, I'd forgotten to load it. Otherwise, he might have been hit by some stray lead.
"Lammie, get away from there. Please, boy!"
The snout drew back, and again the door blew wide open, revealing only the blizzard that raged through the pines.
Lammie turned to look at me with his sad gaze. Then he glanced at the open door.
"Don't do it," I groaned. "Come back to your master."
Again Lammie fixed his big eyes on me, and he whimpered. Then he turned and bolted out into the snowstorm. With a cry, I ran after him, but I stumbled and fell in the doorway. Snow began to quickly blanket me.
Tears streaming down my face, I staggered to my feet and called Lammie's name repeatedly, but he didn't show himself. He'd gone off with the spirit wolves. He'd betrayed his master to run forever with the dead.
At last I gave up and pulled the door shut. I struggled to my rocking chair and slumped down, utterly defeated. Now I had nothing. Brother Jack might come, or he might not. I didn't care anymore. I was a stubborn old fool who'd chosen to live miles from nowhere, and now I'd lost my only true friend.
Lammie had chosen the wolves over his master, and that hurt me more than anything. To the depths of my heart, I regretted taking him on that last hunt. I'd been too sick to be out wandering the forest in the winter, but Lammie loved to hunt; so I'd chosen to take him one last time. We'd trekked deep into the woods, into sacred Indian territory where a white man wasn't supposed to go. And the spirit wolves had spotted us, and just like legend said, they would claim a dog for their pack if they laid eyes on one.
We'd thought we'd escaped, but the wolves had followed, patiently stalking us through the pines. For three straight nights they had gathered outside my cabin, while I grew sicker, and the snows piled up. This was the third night, and the wolves had finally completed their goal.
"Lammie, how could you?" I whispered. "A dog should never betray his master." My fingers numb, I tried to lift my coffee mug but it slipped from my hand. I leaned back in my rocking chair and closed my eyes. My chest also had gone numb.
"I had a dog once," I mumbled. "He was the best dog a man could ask for. One night, he ran off into the woods and never returned, and I thought less of him. That's my story." I might have kept right on talking. I'm not really sure, because like my body, my mind was failing. Everything was sinking into darkness.
My eyelids grew heavy, but the impending slumber didn't feel natural. My body was betraying me, just as Lammie had betrayed me. Brother Jack would find me dead in my chair, some frozen biscuits and spilled coffee at my feet. I was an old man, nearing eighty. I'd lived long enough, and my heart was too heavy with pain to go on.
As I began to drift into my final sleep, I was jolted awake by a scratch at the door. Had Lammie returned, or had the wolves come back to mock me? Most likely, the wolves were seeking to torment me in my final moments.
But somehow, I stayed awake, and I was able to rise from my chair. My body was numb, but I could walk better than ever. I strode to the door and threw it open.
Lammie looked up at me mournfully. I realized he felt profoundly guilty for having left me. My faithful dog had returned forever more!
Laughing with delight, I patted his head. "I knew you'd come back," I lied, overcome with happiness. "Come inside and lay by the fire. You can even have the rest of those nasty old biscuits. I don't feel sick anymore, and I can take good care of you."
But Lammie lowered his head.
"What's the matter, boy?" I asked. "You're home now. You never have to leave me again. Come on inside."
Suddenly, from out of the swirling snow emerged several white wolves with long snouts, their luminous bodies becoming visible through the blizzard. I opened my mouth to yell at them, but then I realized the truth.
Kneeling, I stroked Lammie's fur. "Okay, boy. I understand now. You're the most loyal dog a man could ever have." For a moment I was overcome with gratitude.
Then I nodded to the wolves, and they whined.
It was time to go.
I left the cabin door open so Brother Jack would I know I'd begun my final journey and was never coming home. I grabbed my shotgun. Then I followed Lammie and the wolves out on the hunt, my steps full of vigor as I whistled a merry tune. Soon we were lost amid the pines, leaving no tracks to follow.
End.
Breathing Space
(Originally published in Golden Visions magazine.
Revised for this collection.)
I stood with my eyes closed, hoping it would stop. The walls were breathing--no doubt about it. They bowed outward, the wooden panels making cracking noises with each shuddering breath. This was my dream house, a chance for a retired New York lawyer to live quietly in Northern Michigan along a lakeshore, to go fishing and make furniture in my basement workshop. But it had turned into a wheezing nightmare.
I shored up some courage and shouted at it to stop. In response, the house seemed to lurch and I fell into the wall. The wood bloated out repulsively against my cheek. I jumped away from it and grabbed the telephone. I hesitated, hating the thought of calling that psychic again that I'd contacted earlier. I believed all psychics were charlatans and liars--not so different from us lawyers. But I'd already tried a priest. He'd blessed the house, and when that hadn't worked and I called him back, he accused me of being a sinner who'd brought the evil unto myself. Maybe he was right.
Reluctantly, I dialed James Marston's number.
"Hello?" a tired voice responded.
"Hi, James," I said, sighing. "It's Mike Richards. I talked to you earlier today, remember? The situation's getting worse. I can't even sleep. Can you come over right now?"
James hesitated. It was just past 2:00 a.m. "Um, sure Mike. I have to get dressed and grab some coffee. I'll be there in about a half hour. Since this is an emergency, I kind of have to charge you one-hundred dollars right off the bat."
My lips tightened. "I see."
"Or you could schedule an appointment," James added.
I glanced at the heaving walls. "Just get over here as quick as you can, James. I'll make the coffee."
I hung up and stumbled downstairs, falling against the walls again in my haste. I got a pot brewing. The lights were flickering wildly and the shadows seemed alive. I kept thinking I was hearing mumbling voices and moaning noises, but I wasn't sure.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge, sat at the table, and put my head in my hands, wondering why things had to be this way. If the divorce wasn't bad enough, now I'd escaped my disaster of a life in the city only to end up in a haunted house. I held the bottle against my forehead as if to sooth my own burning madness. But I wasn't crazy. The evidence was strong to the contrary. I had a sharp lawyer's mind, and I knew fact from fantasy.
As I sipped my beer, the walls grew still. By the time James' headlights shone through the window, everything was back to normal. But I knew I wouldn't have to convince James, that he'd be all too willing to believe anything as long as there was payment involved.
I pulled the door open, and my heart sank. James looked poor and scruffy. He wore faded jeans and a dirty jean jacket. His gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He smelled like gasoline. Parked in my driveway was a rusted pickup truck, with a hood that didn't match the rest of it and was tied down with a cord.
We shook hands. "You got that hundred?" he asked, his breath frosty in the chill spring air.
I grimaced. It wasn't that he was poor, and it certainly wasn't that he was Native American--considering I had a trace of Indian blood in me. It was the psychic charade that made my flesh crawl. I cleared my throat, unable to prevent a snobby tone from creeping into my voice. "Not right on me, James. But I assur
e you I'm good for it."
He raised his hands. "No problem, chief. Just need it before I leave. The plant's got me laid off right now, so I'm not exactly rolling in dough."
"Right," I said, turning away so he wouldn't see me wince. How was I going to get rid of him? He'd already cost me a hundred dollars.
I turned back to him. "Look, James, I--"
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "What's that aura? Whoa, you got a real problem here, chief." He sniffed the air. "I smell...death."
I swallowed. The lawyer in me said he was full of it, but my pounding heart told the real story. I needed someone to talk to about this, and if nothing else, this fellow seemed laid back. "Come on in, James. The coffee's done."
"Great," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Coffee gets the channels open, gets the spirits talking to me. And that's no lie."
"Sure," I said, heading back inside with James in tow. "Cream or sugar?"
"A lot of both," said James, plopping down at the table and looking around. "Beautiful house you got here, Mike. I wish I could afford something like this. Got your own lake to fish and everything. What a deal, huh?"
I passed him his coffee. "Not exactly. Not when the walls seem alive. I'm already thinking of selling it off."
"Don't give up," said James. "This house has stood here since the 1800s. It's had a lot of owners. I did a little research after you called me earlier."
"So what's the story?" I said. "Wait--let me guess. A lot of folks moving in, getting scared, and moving back out? Then the real estate company keeps it covered up?"
"No, nothing like that," said James. "No reports of this place being haunted that I could find. Looks like this is something new."
Now he had my interest. "So what do you think is going on?"
He frowned. "Maybe it was built on sacred Indian burial grounds."
"You think so?" I asked.
He laughed. "No, I don't think so." And he wouldn't tell me why.
Moments later, the breathing started up again. James leapt from his chair and glanced wildly about. Then he raised his coffee and said something in Indian.
"What are you saying?" I asked.
"I asked the spirits for guidance," he said. "They told me the secret to these disturbances lies upstairs in the attic."
"I don't have an attic," I said, my eyes narrowing. "Just an upstairs bedroom with a roof over it."
He cleared his throat. "Right, I heard wrong. They meant the secret is in the basement, so I think we should head down there and have a look." James appeared scared, and he sipped his coffee with a trembling hand. "Maybe we should do it in the morning."
"You charged me a hundred bucks!" I snarled. "We're doing it now or you get nothing." James was obviously a fake, and a poor one at that. But I was going to make damn sure I got my money's worth out of him. We were going to the basement, and he was going to be the one looking for clues while I stood back and watched.
He guzzled his coffee and slapped the mug down. "Alright, chief. It's your call."
I clicked on the basement lights and we headed down there. The basement was full furniture-making equipment. A fresh rocking chair stood near a pile of wood shavings, and I half expected it to start rocking on its own; but it didn't. However, the dim lights flickered vigorously, leaving shadows in the corners.
James ran his hand over the concrete walls. "No breathing down here. Wait...I feel something. Pain--pain and death." He clutched his chest.
I grabbed his shoulder. "Are you okay? I knew psychics did this stuff, and I figured it was all for show. But this house was out of control, and maybe James was feeling something.
James pointed at the floor. "The secret lies under there."
"Under the concrete?" I said. "How do you propose we get to it?"
"Got a jackhammer?" he asked.
"No," I said, "and you're not tearing up my basement floor. I suggest you come up with another idea." I was losing patience, and my terror was growing by the moment. Things seemed to move in the shadows like darting, winged devils. But when I tried to look at them directly, I saw nothing.
James lay down and pressed his ear to the floor. "The spirits are speaking to me," he whispered. "I think this house is built on an old cemetery. The graves lie under this floor. The dead are angered, and they're trying to tell you they want the house torn down or moved."
"But that doesn't make sense," I said. "If this house was built in the 1800s, surely the ghosts would have made their presence known sooner."
James was quiet for several minutes, his ear to the floor and his eyes rolled back in his head. "The house has sunk deeper over the years," he finally said, "crushing the graves. The spirits are gasping for breath symbolically, and they're trying to make you realize it."
I scratched my head. His explanation was intriguing. "What can I do?"
"Move the house," said James.
"I can't do that!" I cried. "It's just not going to happen. I like it where it is."
James stood up. "Sorry, but that's all I can suggest."
I looked around. "Wait, there's a crawlspace over there, with a dirt floor. I'm not sure why it's there, or why it wasn't sealed with concrete, but maybe you can find out something in there." The lights had dimmed even further, so I clicked on a flashlight and shone it at the small, square hole cut in the wall. "You could fit through that."
James shook his head. "I'm not going into no weird crawlspace. Not with a bunch of angry spirits creeping around."
I swallowed. "I'll pay you..." I cringed. "I'll pay you...another hundred. Just go in there and see what you can find. I need a better answer!"
James took the flashlight and shone it in the hole. Then, drawing a deep breath, he crawled through. Then came silence.
"James!" I yelled. No response. "James, answer me!"
"I see some bones," he finally called back, "sticking out of the dirt. Oh my God! There's a whole bunch of bones in here. They look human."
"Are you sure?" I asked, my terror reaching new heights.
"Pretty damn sure," said James. "I think I finally understand. A serial killer must have lived here. He probably strangled his victims. Their suffering seeped into the house, and now the walls seem to gasp for breath."
"What...what can we do?" I asked.
"We have to dig them up," said James, "and give them a proper burial. Get a couple of shovels and bring them in. I'm not doing this alone. We'll do this here and now and relieve these ghosts of their suffering. Otherwise, I'm going home."
I got the shovels and crawled in. James had already dug out a pile of bones by hand. We put them in a garbage bag. It wasn't easy digging when we couldn't stand up, but we managed to go down several feet, pulling up more bones.
"Do you really think this will work?" I asked.
"It should," said James. "Wait--I see a skull. He yanked something out of the dirt. "Whoops. I think my imagination got the best of me. These are deer bones." He held up a deer's skull to confirm his statement. "Sorry. I don't hunt much, and I don't like venison--otherwise I might have realized the truth right away. Love to fish, though."
I was actually relieved. "But what are deer bones doing in here?"
"How the hell should I know?" he said. "I didn't put them here. Hey--what's that?" He pointed at an ugly and gnarled thing in the dirt. He dug around it and pulled it up. "It's like a big nasty tree root, Mike! Must have broke in through the concrete."
James dug the root up, all the way to the wall. Ancient, crumbling stone was revealed. "This basement rests on another foundation," he said. "One that's very old." The root had broken in through the ancient wall.
I sighed. "Who cares? I just want to know why my house is haunted. Since there's only deer bones down here, we need another explanation."
"Yeah, but that root is weird," he said. "It doesn't look like any tree root I've ever seen." He laid hands on it and closed his eyes. "It's some evil, powerful thing. Old magic, from thousands of years ago. There's magic in the stone walls,
and something wicked is trying to crush them. It's been trying to crush them for centuries, and now--at last--they're in danger of collapse. They're crying out for help, Mike, trying to get your attention. Get a chainsaw!"
"My saw is broke," I said. "I need to take it to a shop."
"What about axes?" he said.
"I've got an axe and a hatchet," I replied. "But do we have to do this now?"
"You bet," he said. "These walls could go anytime, and your house might cave in. Not only that, but some old magical barrier would break, which could lead to evil being born into the world." He clutched my shoulder. "It's now or never, Mike!"
Seeing real desperation in his eyes, I grabbed the tools. We dug around the walls and found more roots. We chopped through them, and black fluid poured out like blood. The roots began to wraith around like snakes.
I tried to run, but Mike grabbed my shirt. "We have to fight on." He held his hatchet up, his eyes burning fiercely. "Come on, chief. You with me?"
I nodded. We dug some more, and found a large hole in the wall, with a tree-trunk sized root poking through it. We chopped into it, but it fought back, smashing us aside. It swung at my head, and I barely managed to duck or it might have decapitated me. Together, we hacked away at it until our arms went numb. At last, we severed it.
Black blood sprayed out in gallons, and then all the roots went limp. The entire house seemed to sigh with relief. The lights stopped flickering in the basement, and a positive feeling hung in the air.
James sighed and sat down on the edge of the pit. "I need some coffee," he said. "Anyway, I think we killed it."
I nodded. "So it wasn't squashed graves or serial killers after all."
"Nope," said James. "Sometimes the spirits get it wrong."
"What if the evil returns?" I said.
"Evil always does," said James. He shrugged. "Actually, damned if I know. It might be as dead as a doornail. Either way, I've had enough digging and hacking."
"Let's go have some coffee, James," I said, smiling.
"You got that hundred?" he asked. "Actually, it's two now."
"How's two-fifty sound?" I asked. "Do you like sports? Final Four basketball is on tomorrow night. I'll supply the beer and chips."
"I like those sour cream and onion ones," he said.
End.
Cancelled
(Originally published in Murky Depths magazine.
Revised for this collection.)
My head was certainly going to be torn from my neck, and there was no stopping it now. They'd already locked down the steel restraints to keep me in my chair. This was the ultimate in reality television, and I was one of the biggest stars. Not many people had the guts to let themselves be decapitated by a giant spider robot, which was why I made the big bucks in Hollywood and why I was one of the most sought after actors.
But I was only human, and I had my moments of doubt. In fact, I was feeling it stronger than ever now. Suddenly I wanted to retire. I had enough money to be set for life, so why was I doing this again? What if they couldn't bring me back this time?
"Wait a minute, Jake," I said to the producer. "I'm not ready for this."
Jake turned to his assistant, Lisa, and gave a knowing smile. "Sorry, Don. You know the rules. Once we're in position, the shoot has to proceed. We've been over this before."
"I realize that," I said, trying to sound calm. "But I'm willing to take zero pay. I don't think I want to do this anymore."
Jake nodded. "I understand. But you signed a contract, and this is going to be a live shoot. Just try to relax, Don. It'll be over soon enough."
"I want out of this!" I shouted. "Are you going to kill a man against his will? That's murder, Jake. Cold-blooded murder."
Jake turned to his camera men and signaled for them to start the shoot. He adjusted his tie and smoothed back his hair. "Welcome to Death Blow, the show where you get to watch a real person die on the set. And we have a great show for you today, as Don Masters will be facing a military Crusher Bot. Don's not doing so well right about now." He turned toward me and frowned. "Are you afraid, Don? Feeling a little neck tension?"
I squirmed in my restraints. I'd never done a death scene this extreme. My head was going to be torn slowly from my neck. How had I let myself get in this situation? Jake couldn't tell if I was acting or if I was terrified--and it wouldn't have mattered to him either way. He knew I was a professional. He'd worked with me several times. Sometimes I'd scream at him, and sometimes I'd moan, beg, and cry. But the result was always the same--the death scene played out regardless.
But this time it was different, and I really wanted to stop the shoot. I was sick to my stomach with dread. How could I convince him this wasn't an act?
"Jake, you've got to listen to me," I said, keeping my voice down in the hope that it would make him realize I was serious. "I've lost my nerve, buddy. I really have. I'll cover all your losses, Jake. Just let me out of these restraints and we can talk it over."
Jake winked at the camera. "Well, folks, it looks like Don is trying to worm out of his contract. Have you ever seen him look so afraid? I certainly haven't. And who can blame him?" Jake rubbed his neck and sighed. "Back after these commercials."
He gave me the thumbs up. "Great stuff, Don. Very convincing!'
"It's not an act," I said. "Not this time." I wondered how much I should tell him--how my soul seemed to be losing ground to the demon that kept trying to capture it. But he'd just think I was nuts. "I'm totally freaking out here, Jake."
"So what?" said Jake. "You've freaked out before. Trust me--when this is all over and you get that fat paycheck, you won't regret it. And need I remind you the contract states that once the equipment is set up and the shoot is ready, there's no backing out."
"But it's murder," I said. "And murder is against the law, last I checked."
"It's not murder," Jake said, looking away. "You signed the contract. That means it's suicide, and suicide is legal in this day and age."
"I don't care what it is!" I shouted. "Let me out of this chair."
Jake glanced at a technician and seemed to be considering my demand. But then the commercials ended and he turned back to the camera. "Welcome back, folks. Don is getting a wee bit upset here--to the point where he's even challenging the validity of his contract. Our lawyers know better and are standing by to remind Don of his legal obligations if need be. Either way, this is a first from one of the most steel-nerved pros in the business. I kid you not, ladies and gentlemen--this man is terrified! And why shouldn't he be? In about thirty seconds, we're going to clear away from Don while the Crusher Bot comes out and does what it's been programmed to do. I'll remind everyone that this is going to be a very graphic and very real death scene. But I'll also remind you that it's not permanent, that Don will wake up a few hours later just fine--pending the success of his operation, of course."
"You bastard!" I shouted. My body shook as I launched into a tirade of curses. All Jake cared about was ratings and money.
Jake patted me on the shoulder. "You hate me now, buddy. But you'll love me later when I hand you that check." He winked at the camera. "We're ready to get underway. Anyone out there who can't handle blood and gore--or has moral or religious issues concerning extreme death stunts--should temporarily avoid watching. Just don't change the channel or you'll miss the operation to reattach Don's head!"
Everyone moved away from me, and the cameras focused on a steel door. We were in a huge warehouse on a military base, on a freezing January day. It was cold on the set, and I shivered, feeling thin-skinned and vulnerable. Knowing the shoot was going to proceed no matter what, I tried to relax, adopting the professional attitude that had gotten me through so many of these takes.
With a screech of metal, the steel door raised and the Crusher Bot stepped through. It made hissing and grinding noises as its eight legs propelled it forward. It was army green in color and made of steel studded with rivets, the legs sticking out from a central sphere. It
was a thickly armored monstrosity that could squash a tank or deflect a missile--possessing far more power than what was needed to end my puny life, but it was all for show.
I kept my eyes open as it approached. I never closed my eyes during death shoots, no matter how bad things got. I preferred to see what was coming. The robot stopped in front of me, and one of its legs came up to reveal a crab-pincer protrusion. It seized my head and slowly began to pull upward.
I tried not to scream so Jake wouldn't have the satisfaction, but I couldn't help myself. The pain was explosive, and I howled like a wounded dog as my neck was stretched. I could feel muscles and tendons rip, and hear the popping of bone. I had never felt agony on that level before. Mercifully, I blacked out.
And then I was floating in the air, free of my restraints. I watched as the Crusher Bot held up my detached head for the camera to view. There was an amazing amount of blood--more than I'd ever imagined there would be. It was such a gruesome scene it almost looked deliberately staged for some horror movie. I was sure the audience would love it (which, one might argue, was a sad indication of what the world had come to). Moments later, a medical crew wheeled out a preservation container for my body parts, and I watched while they packed me in.
One of the crew members slipped in the blood and hit his head on the floor. He made a big deal out of it, which struck me as ironic considering the state I was in. He had to go sit down like a little baby, while medics checked his blood pressure and fussed over him. Another crew member got sick and left the set, obviously not cut out for the job.
Then I was slipping away and I found myself in the place where I'd most feared ending up--the long dark tunnel. This was why I'd wanted to cancel the shoot--because I wasn't sure I could make it back to my body. I could see a pale glow at one end of the tunnel, and I moved toward it. But I was slower this time. I could feel the thing closing in on me from behind--some sort of demon or spirit come to take me to hell, perhaps. I fought to move faster, using all the will I could summon, but still the light seemed so far away. A cold whisper warned me to stop, that there was no escape, but as usual I ignored it.
But I was getting so slow, and I had no idea why. The first few times I'd died, I had easily outdistanced whatever was chasing me. Yet each time my speed had been reduced a little bit, and now I was certain the demon was going to catch me.
The tunnel was like black smoke around me, shimmering and rolling. I felt that if I touched the walls something terrible would happen, so I tried to stay away from them. A force was tugging at me from behind, pulling little pieces of me away--as if taking apart my soul. This was what weakened me and made me slow.
I screamed to God to save me, and then I was snared--as something closed around me in an unbreakable grasp. Dark and terrible energy pulsed against me. "Don't fight me," my captor whispered. "I haven't come to destroy you--but to give you a warning. You must stop toying with death."
"I'll do anything you ask of me!" I said. "Just let me go."
"You think I'm the devil," the thing said. "Or perhaps a demon or an evil spirit. I'm none of those beings. I'm a creature as old as life itself. You have mocked me. Science has mocked me. Your television show has mocked me! If you humans want death, then I'll be more than happy to deliver it in person. I'll let you return once more to the world of the living. And you will give them a message from me--that I'm going to cancel the show, starting with the producer. I'll hunt them down and bring them to my world, and they won't be going back."
"What about me?" I asked.
"I'll let you live," the thing said, "as long as you deliver my warning. Tell them the show will not go on, compliments of the Grim Reaper!"
End.
Dream Spinner
(Originally published in Niteblade magazine.
Revised for this collection.)
1Crimson eyes glowered down at me from a stone ceiling. I glimpsed a bulbous, black form with yellow spots. A faint, flickering glow, perhaps from torchlight, would not allow me to make out many details--but what I saw was enough to drive a whimper from my lips and freeze my blood. I struggled to tear free, but whatever unseen forces locked me in place would not give way.
The gleaming eyes cut into me like razors, promising an agony-filled death. The huge bulk shifted, a ripple running along it--perhaps legs uncoiling. Then a pale mist shot down into my face and I was choking.
I lurched forward in my rocking chair, gasping for breath. The nightmare had been so vivid that my old heart fluttered and my hands shook.
My wife Geldra strode from the kitchen and approached me with an annoyed look. "Dreaming again, you old fool?" Her sagging face twisted with contempt. "You're like a little boy. Why don't you grow a backbone, Mouse?"
"My name's not Mouse. Don't call me that."
Hands on her hips, Geldra leaned over me, her face smug. "What's your name, then?"
It seemed I could almost recall a name from long ago when I was young. But my memory was worn out now, battered and foggy from years of Geldra's revisionist belittling. "Mouse is what you call me," I said. "But I wasn't always named that. I had a real name once."
She threw back her head, her laugher reeking with mockery. "You were a Mouse then, you're a Mouse now, and you'll be a Mouse on your death bed."
I forced my mouth open to protest, but it dropped shut, the will oozing out of me. "If you say so, dear. I guess one name's as good as another."
"So what's going on with those dreams?"
I shrugged. "Don't know. I keep dreaming about a monster. Every time I fall asleep lately--the same nightmare. Can't shake it."
Geldra waved me away. "Just a scared little Mouse. Well, don't go wetting yourself over a dream, or I'll give you something to be scared of."
"Yes, dear."
"And furthermore, if you weren't so lazy, you wouldn't be sleeping all the time, having bad dreams."
"Yes, dear."
"You trying to rile me up, Mouse?"
"No, dear. Sorry."
"You've never been a man, and I can prove it. Why don't we have any children?"
I winced. "I don't know. They just never--"
"They just never what? It's because you're useless to the core. You don't have a bone in your body a real man would recognize."
A bit of fire flared up in my belly. My voice dropped to a growl. "I'm a man. Don't you say I'm not!"
"I'll say what I want," she said, pressing her face near mine. Geldra's breath stank like rotten sauerkraut, but I dared not turn away. I breathed shallowly.
"All right," I said, the fire dying into ash. "Whatever you say." I just wanted her to go away, foul breath and all.
She slapped my face and stomped back into the kitchen. My fists clenched as if locked onto her flabby neck. But a weak will and a lame body kept me in my chair like the cowardly rodent she always said I was. And truthfully, I was terrified. The nightmares were getting the best of me. I dreaded falling asleep, but I was growing so tired I could hardly stay awake most of the time. I needed to talk to Geldra about the dreams when she was in a better mood. She was a strong, clear-minded woman, and sometimes she could offer sound advice--when she wasn't biting off my head, so to speak.
I was an old man, my body worn out from years of working in a mine. My memory was slipping, and I spent my days sitting in my rocking chair struggling to recall the past, while Geldra took care of me. I needed her desperately, and she responded by always making sure I had enough to eat, my clothes were washed, and I took the medicine that reduced the pain in my joints. I had no one else in life.
I groaned, my eyelids growing heavy. I couldn't fight it anymore.
My eyes sprang open, and I found myself gazing up at the cave-like stone ceiling again covered in flickering shadows as if from firelight. I could hear something dragging and scraping below me, some heavy bulk that I couldn't turn my head to look at. I was lying on my back and could feel nothing supporting me, as if I were suspended in the air. Vibrations shook me, and I knew the
monster was closing in on me. I tried to cry out, but even my throat muscles were paralyzed. I wanted to grab a weapon to defend myself (an axe came to mind), but all I could do was lay there and await my doom.
What did this creature want from me? I could almost remember some great truth that was struggling to surface. I closed my eyes, and I could smell a disgusting stench like sauerkraut gone bad. When I at last dared to look, I found myself gazing into some twisted, writhing maw. Pale mist shot out to once again choke off my air.
With a cry, I snapped awake--and bumped heads with Geldra. I gagged at the smell of her breath, and contemplated why the monster's stench had been similar. Was the beast in my nightmares a reflection of how I truly viewed my wife?
"Ow!" Geldra bellowed, clutching her forehead. She slapped my face. "I've had just about enough of you and those silly dreams."
"But it was so real," I said, rubbing my stinging cheek. "I've never felt fear like that. Please, dear. What can I do?"
Geldra sighed and shook her head, her face softening. "I don't know. I can talk to the healer and see if he's got any medicine that might help. But dreams are just dreams. They can't hurt you. So quit crying about it."
"But something is after me," I said, almost believing it. "A monster is waiting for me to fall asleep. It's stalking me, and I feel like it's plotting something horrible."
Her face flushing with anger, Geldra reached out as if she were going to seize my beard, but then she pulled her hand back. "Enough with your whining. Dream monsters aren't real. And why haven't you shaved off that beard like I've been telling you? What a rat's nest that thing is!"
I clamped my hand over my beard. Geldra hated beards, and she was always trying to persuade me to get rid of mine. It was the one command of hers that I refused. My beard was the last symbol of my independence from her. It was a scraggly, downright ugly old thing. But I felt if I shaved it off, I would truly be worth nothing.
"I'm keeping it," I said, looking away.
"It's grotesque, Mouse. Not only that, but every time I touch it, my hand itches. It's like you've got something crawling around in there. Creeps me out."
"There's nothing in my heard," I said. But I wondered if she was right. Now that she mentioned it, it did feel like tiny things were moving around in there. Or was that just my imagination? I scratched my beard.
"See, it itches! I knew it. You've got lice in there, or something worse." She shuddered.
I shrugged. "But I'm still keeping it. And that's final."
"We'll see," Geldra said. "Anyway, I'll visit the healer today and see what I can get for those dreams of yours. And I'm going to ask him about that beard, too, and see if he has something that will kill whatever might be crawling around in there. For now, just try to stay awake. Maybe if you get up and move around a bit, it would help. And here's your medicine."
She pushed a tin cup full of some dark liquid to my lips. I hated the medicine, which tasted like bitter syrup, but it did make me feel better and allowed me to walk. Finally, I forced my mouth open and allowed her to pour the stuff down my throat. I coughed and gagged.
"I'll be back in an hour or so," Geldra said, frowning. "Stay awake, Mouse. I don't want you dying of fright." With that, she shuffled out of the house.
Groaning, I stood up. The medicine hadn't yet taken affect, but I wasn't going to sit in that chair and risk another nightmare. I paced around the house, looking things over and trying to remember my past. I had been a miner most of my life, and had been married to Geldra for more than forty years. I'd never really done anything exciting. My life had been nothing but backbreaking work and a sullen, nagging wife. Was it any wonder my spirit was all but broken?
My house was a bland reflection of my life--simple and plain, just how Geldra liked it. Nothing really stood out, and most of the yellow walls were bare. If I would have had a say in anything, I would have livened up the place a bit. But my opinion was worthless.
I scratched my beard and gazed out a window along the road that wound down the mountain, watching for Geldra and praying she would bring me something to end the nightmares. I couldn't understand how, if my life had been so boring, I was now having strange dreams that seemed completely unconnected to anything from my past. The nightmares had popped out of nowhere, for no apparent reason.
At last Geldra returned empty handed, slamming the door shut behind her. She glared at me with an I-told-you-so look. "The healer says you've been infected by a weird type of mite. It gets in a man's beard and causes him to have terrible dreams where he can actually see the creature attacking him."
"That's not possible," I protested. "I've caught enough glimpses of the monster to know it's huge--bigger than a man."
Geldra rolled her eyes impatiently. "Yes, yes, I know. That's how you see the mite in your dreams--much bigger than it actually is. Anyway, this ailment has been going around among men with beards. The mites probably got on my clothes when I was in town, and I brought them back to you."
"How can I get rid of them?" I asked, already suspecting what her answer would be.
"The healer said there's only one way," she explained. "You have to lop off that beard and keep it off for a while."
I clutched my beard, my hand trembling. "I won't do it."
"It's only temporary, Mouse. Then you can grow it back. Although why you'd want to is beyond me!"
She grabbed a pair of scissors and a straight razor and approached me. "Won't take me long, and then you'll be free of those nightmares."
"Get back!" I cried. "Don't you touch my beard!" For some reason, rage was building inside me.
Her eyes widened. "Don't give me orders, Mouse. I'm the one that runs this household, remember?"
I lowered my gaze, my spirit weakening.
Seeing that I was faltering, Geldra pressed on. "I take care of your sorry hide. What kind of shape would you be in if it wasn't for me? You'd be homeless or dead. Not only am I the brains of this marriage, but I also do all the work."
"I used to work," I said. "Pretty hard, too. Harder than you do."
She grabbed my shoulder and shook me, glowering down at me. I was a short man--not even five feet tall, and she outweighed me by a hundred pounds. "You've never worked harder than me, you little scab. And you never will. And anyway, you're damaged goods now. You can't even stand up without that medicine I make you drink each night."
Again, I lowered my gaze. "Nevertheless, I worked hard."
"I don't care," Geldra said. "The point I'm making is that you're nothing without me. You've led a pathetic life, and you'll die a poor excuse for a man. The only thing you have to boast about is that you have a wonderful wife who takes care of you. Got it?"
I nodded. "Yes, dear."
"Say it louder!" she bellowed.
"Yes, dear."
She slapped my face. "Better never backtalk me again, or I'll knock you silly. Now let's get that ugly beard off your face so you can get some decent sleep for a change and quit whining about your scary nightmares."
I started to nod, then shook my head. Rage began to build again. "You won't take my beard," I said, my hands shaking. "Before you do that, I'll..."
"You'll do what?" she snarled. "You dare make threats against me? Some type of nasty mite is crawling around in there, you old fool. That gnarled bush needs to come off." She moved the scissors toward my beard.
My rage burning out of control, I slapped the scissors from Geldra's hand. She gasped. "Those mites are controlling your mind! They're making you do crazy things!"
"Maybe they are," I said. "And maybe that's a good thing."
"What are you saying?" Geldra cried. "Challenging my authority is not a good thing. Without me, you'd be done for. You couldn't even keep yourself fed."
"That might well be," I said. "But at least I'd be a free man and not a slave."
She raised her hand to slap me, then lowered it. "I'm done arguing. That beard has to come off, right now."
Again, the rage erupted. "Try i
t and you'll be sorry!"
Geldra laughed. "We'll see who's sorry, little man." She bent to pick up the scissors but I kicked them away.
"Scum!" she shouted. She seized my beard and yanked it.
My rage boiled over. My blood was boiling too. I could feel something awaken inside me. "I'll kill you for that!" I seethed.
My vision darkened, and the room began to waver. A sense of unreality washed over me. I tried to move, but something was holding me fast. I could feel thin strands like ropes all over me, binding me tightly.
With a roar, I tore myself free of the invisible bonds. I lunged forward and seized Geldra's throat. I was suddenly strong, like the roots of the mountains. A fire raged within me, and in my mind old memories sprang to life. I could hear hammers falling on stone, and smell iron from the forge. Battle lust gripped me, and I squeezed her throat with the single-minded desire of choking her head right off of her neck.
Making hideous gargling noises, she fought back in a panic. Two more arms sprouted from her sides, and four new, crimson eyes opened in her forehead. She continued changing until she became the creature from my nightmares, as my vision darkened until it finally went black.
My eyesight cleared, and I found myself standing in a torch-lit stone cavern draped with thick webs. I stood on a web above the cave floor, and a chest full of shining treasure caught my eye from below. But my focus was on the giant spider I was strangling. Her eight legs were wrapped around me, trying to crush me before I could throttle her. But my back was protected by stout armor, and she couldn't break it.
At last her legs grew limp around me, and I shoved the dead spider away. My hands were covered in her black blood, and I wiped them on my trousers. The stench would remind me of my victory in the hours ahead.
"You wanted my beard," I said, kicking the bloated carcass. "You knew if you took that away in my dreams, I was beaten in life and you could have finished me off easily. But you underestimated me."
Ripping the last of the webbing free from my legs, I grabbed my axe--which was hanging suspended nearby--tore it free, and jumped down to the cavern floor. The treasure chest still stood open, the gold and jewels sparkling in the glow of the torch I had dropped when the spider descended on me.
How long had I been snared in her web? How long had she kept me prisoner in that dream? Considering the torch still burned, it couldn't have been very long. Yet it seemed like I had lived a lifetime trapped in that nightmare as a spineless man married to an overbearing nag. I struggled to remember, but already the dream was growing foggy in my mind, being replaced with memories of battle and adventure.
Chills crept down my spine, as I realized how thin the line between reality and fantasy could become. For a moment I lost focus, feeling vulnerable. But then I shrugged it off, my eyes lighting up at the sight of the treasure. I was a stout fellow, not given to dwelling on strange fears or doubts. Rather, this was a moment of celebration. I had slain a mighty foe, found my fortune, and my beard was still intact.
What more could a dwarf ask for in life?
End.
The Pipes are Calling
(Originally published in Sorcerous Signals magazine.
Revised for this collection.)
1Father was digging for pipes again, and I punched the wall in frustration, skinning my knuckles. I was so sick of it that I wanted to run away and never come back. Dirt flew from the garden as he shoveled, some of it thudding against the house. I couldn't pretend to ignore it any longer, and I ran outside. "What are you doing?" I said. "Stop it!"
Father had already dug up several carrots and tomato plants. He paused and leaned on his shovel, his leathery skin beaded with sweat. He was getting sunburned and looked breathless in the heat, his eyes distant. His clothes were covered in dirt stains.
"Go in and rest, Father," I said.
He shook his head. "Got to keep digging, son. I think there's a pipe down here. I got a strong twitch in my leg when I was watering the crops."
I sighed. "You always get twitches, but you never find any pipes except for old rusted ones. I don't understand why you bother."
His eyes narrowed. "You don't, huh? Didn't I tell you that the Iron Smiths once ruled this land? They built a system of pipes underground to move water through. It was downright ingenious. Some of the pipes were fused with magic and could turn water into a powerful potion."
"I've heard the story, Father," I said, rolling my eyes. "You've told it to me a thousand times. Nobody has ever found a single one of those magic pipes. In fact, you're the only one who bothers searching, the only one who still believes. I just don't see why..." I faltered, too overcome with frustration to continue. As a boy of fourteen with no other family, I was stuck with this pathetic old lunatic. The days blurred into one another, a mix of struggling to put food on the table while watching my father dig his sanity away.
"Why don't you grab a shovel, son?" he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Help me dig. When we find the pipe, it will be like finding heaven."
I slumped down on the porch, crushed by a hopeless feeling. Our property was full of holes, leading to the woods over fifty yards away.
Father went on digging for a while, and then let out a yelp. "I hit metal!"
I didn't react. I'd seen this many times before.
He dug frantically. "Yeah, it's a pipe, son! A big, fat one."
I waited, knowing what would come next.
"It's definitely a pipe," he went on. "It's...ah...rusted. Shoot. It's just a rusty iron pipe. I don't see any special markings on it."
I wondered if I should make potato soup for supper.
Father threw down his shovel and staggered to the porch. He sat down and shook his head. "You know, I really thought this would be the one."
"I know you did," I said. "But you always think that."
He uncorked a flask of whiskey and took a swig, his haggard face twisted with bitterness. "I guess I'm too much of an optimist. Ever since your mom took ill and died, life's been so dang hard. The king has taxed us nearly to death. It doesn't matter that we're dirt poor and we mostly live off the land. His tax collector still comes and demands the same ungodly amount of coin. I'd like to strangle that tax collector and bury him in one of these holes."
I nodded. That at least made sense.
"If only we could find one of those special pipes," he said, sighing.
"But how would that solve our problems?" I said, still trying to reason with him after all these years. "Are you thinking you could sell it or something?" I'd asked this question before, but he'd never given a straight answer. I didn't expect one now.
He scratched his head. "We couldn't sell something so rare and wondrous. Instead, we'd unlock its secrets, drink its water. We'd gain knowledge and become like wizards. Then we'd live the good life, son. I could quit selling whiskey and be a respectable man. And I could pay for you to get an education and maybe learn a trade."
"Father, you're out of your mind," I said, putting my head in my hands. "We're not going to find some stupid pipe and become wizards."
"I saw it in a dream," he said. "And it wasn't me who found the pipe--it was you. But if you won't dig for it, then I have to."
"A dream is just nonsense," I said. "I'm not digging for anything. There are holes all over our yard. Thank goodness we don't have any neighbors!"
"There are not enough holes," he said. "Obviously."
I groaned. "Please, Father. Just give it up."
"We should go to the last Iron Smith," he said. "It's not that far. He had nothing to say to me the five times I visited him, but he might talk to you."
"I'm not going," I said. "How many times have I told you that? Why can't you just be normal? We need to worry about winter and stuff like that. And the next tax day!"
"We will," he said, standing up. "But this is a good day for digging."
My despair boiled over and I grabbed his leg. The old man was getting worse, and my desperation was reaching new heights. "Father, i
f I go to the Iron Smith, and he doesn't tell me anything, will you give up on this crazy stuff?"
He hesitated, his face tense. Finally he nodded. "It's a deal, son. If you go with me to the forge, and he doesn't speak, I'm done with it all. Yes, done with it forever."
I rose, determined to save his sanity. "Then let's get it over with."