CHM #12 June 2021
Author: CHM LLC
Date: 2021-05-06 05:00:00+00:00
Description: To a Place I Couldn't Reach by A. Katherine Black In the Armpit by Bruce Arthurs Through the Stomach by R.H. Berry The Servants of Reality by Gary Clark Marginalia by Jude Reid The Magic Shop by H.G. Wells (1903)

Copyright © 2021 by CHM LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Cover Art: Toeken (https://atoekeneffort.weebly.com/)

Cosmic Horror Monthly
www.cosmichorrormonthly.com

Greetings dear reader,

It’s been one year for Cosmic Horror Monthly, and what a year the previous twelve months have been. For all of you holding this copy of CHM either in your hands or on your phone, I can’t tell you how much it means to me. Your support has been everything this past year.

There are some big things planned upcoming, including that the next issue you receive after this one will have 50% more cosmic horror stories! Not to mention, the stories we received for the upcoming year are each truly exceptional. Creating this magazine has been one of the greatest joys I’ve known, and I hope to continue doing it for years to come. I’d love for you to stick around!

Now without further ado, please enjoy the end of the first chapter of Cosmic Horror Monthly.

C.R.

*~*~*

To A Place I Couldn’t Reach

By A. Katherine Black

I stole that sweater from you on our last morning together. The one with the right cuff frayed to nearly nothing, because you chewed on it when you were tense, when you were tired. When you were you. I’ve always wanted to be someone who didn’t steal, who didn’t lie to their love, but I am me.

I stuffed the sweater in a sock drawer when you were in the bathroom, distracted you with a kiss when you started to search for it. Because I knew. I knew it would be the last time I’d see you. That’s what I messaged you an hour after you left. An hour after I changed the key codes on the house doors.

Decades, we were supposed to be together. You were supposed to ride that elevator with me, to be that voice I’d never been able to muster, until the day our child inherited the unspeakable job.

Forgive me.

*~*~*

June’s body lifted in opposition as the elevator plunged into the earth, toward the place her grandmother had once foolishly thought she could keep secret. The woman standing next to her looked as if she’d put herself through some sort of ritual devised to mark this event. Head shaven, body draped in a white robe. Her shoulder bag was covered in pictures of people who claimed to be loved ones in exchange for the inheritance they hoped to receive, later that day. June wore the first thing she’d found in the closet, after receiving the call. Days like this didn’t deserve a ceremony.

Head bowed, the woman’s eyes were averted from the pictures June and Lydia had hung all over the elevator in ornate frames, like so many bloody Picassos. The long ride into the depths already half over, and June had said nothing.

Lydia would have laid out at least four solid arguments by now, no matter how resolute this woman might seem. Swears, insults, Lydia would’ve said anything to get the woman to look up. To look at her, to look at the pictures. Before it was too late.

June suspected that when Lydia looked at these plaintiffs, she saw her own grandfather. Watching Lydia in action, fighting to save a life. June could see the nine-year-old girl who’d been robbed of the chance to say good-bye, who thought chronic illness was no excuse to step into that machine.

Plaintiffs came in two varieties: the kind who believed they might actually survive the trip, maybe even find a cure on the other side, and the kind who expected a quick death, but preferred to exit life with a flourish of expensive courtroom drama, as opposed to a painful, drawn out struggle promised by their particular incurable disease. Add to that the satisfaction some plaintiffs no doubt enjoyed in setting their descendants on perpetual edge, aware their elder might suddenly show up at some future, undisclosed date and resume ordering everybody around.

The pressure of June’s feet against the elevator floor told her the car was slowing. They were almost there.She had to say something, Lydia or no Lydia. “There’s time.” She couldn’t bring herself to look the woman in the face. “You can still change your mind.”

“I’m well aware of the risks, dear.” The woman’s words pushed forth with the same air of confidence June had met in so many of the wealthy and powerful who’d won their court battle, won the right to ride in a time machine that didn’t work. These people were used to getting what they wanted. But this machine wasn’t impressed with wealth, wasn’t intimidated by success or breeding. It did what it did, no matter who stepped into its belly.

Bile flooded June’s throat. Doc had offered drugs to help June deal with the acid and stress of these court-ordered trips, but June didn’t want to feel comfortable. The elevator hit bottom, doors opening to a waiting Katie. The friendly crinkle around her eyes clashed with the gun holstered under her arm.

Despite the pictures in the elevator, despite the passionate pleas from Lydia along the three-minute ride to the machine, no plaintiff had ever changed their mind. Not since June had assumed the job of activating her grandmother’s machine. Had anyone ever changed their mind? June had wondered, especially when she was alone with a bottle.

She wondered about the last time her mother stood at the console and punched in the family access code, just hours before she’d ended her own life in the bathroom at home.

The body of that plaintiff, the one who’d taken a ride on the machine the night June’s mother had died, she’d shown up so soon. Too soon. Only two years later. Mangled and steaming, half melded with a tree in a rural national park, the woman had been discovered by some poor jogger. The press had a field day, speculating about the point of that trip, given that a cure for the plaintiff’s disease would not likely have been discovered yet only two years in the future.

June had hoped the horrific discovery would complicate future court battles, force plaintiffs to prove they weren’t just looking for a new type of suicide, to prove they truly wanted to take a trip in the machine to search for a cure.

It wasn’t long after that discovery that June had shown Lydia the photos. Posting them in the elevator had been Lydia’s idea.

*~*~*

Your message woke me from a useless sleep, inviting me to the bar where we’d had our first date. I was just getting the hang of your disappearances, just starting to believe they had nothing to do with me, that your weeks in remote spas and months spent at new monasteries were simply necessary for your own well-being. The only medicine strong enough to battle your demons.

Every time you slipped away, though, leaving me with nothing but a note, you scooped away a piece of my own sanity. Took it to a place I couldn’t reach. Over time, the extremes of having you and not having you, they stretched, sharpened.

I waited at a corner table in the bar, having not seen you, not held you, for months, gripping the stem of my glass to hide the tremor in my hand. You breezed in with that same glow that always followed your trips, catching my breath in your wake, fortifying my uncertainty with a hand laid soft against the back of my neck. Your lips pressed my cheek, diffusing my anger, my frustration.

The bitter sting of another one of your absences was not altogether gone, though, and it grew with the news you spilled, before your drink order had even arrived. You told me who you were, who your grandfather was. Why you’d come on to me at that party. You asked for my forgiveness.

I’d always known I was too plain to catch an eye like yours. It was my legacy that drew you in. Like a fly to a fluorescent light.

*~*~*

June had understood even at a young age that her inheritance was nothing to celebrate. A tense hush forever strangled the house. Staff would leave in the middle of the night, never to return. No one explained why June couldn’t attend a school with other kids. But the horror had been vague when she was young. Undefined. Until the day she’d discovered the pictures, while searching her grandmother’s desk for chocolate.

She’d run from the room, ruining the hallway rugs with her vomit before hiding in her closet, but it was no use. The images had been forever branded across the surface of her mind. It was that day when she felt the full weight of her grandmother’s legacy.

Most of the animals in the pictures June had found that day, the pictures now blanketing the elevator walls, couldn’t be identified without the nameplates on the bottom of the frames. Turtles, lizards, cats, monkeys, orangutans. After a trip in her grandmother’s machine, few of them looked anything like the creatures June had seen in documentaries. These poor things weren’t just killed in the experiments. Life had been torn from them in the worst way.

They looked like a small child’s drawings, transcribed into flesh. The animals were contorted, parts of them turned inside out, as if a toddler had been handed a pile of creature parts and assembled them without knowledge or direction. Turtles were wrapped around their shells, lizard guts trailed bloody down cement city steps somewhere, wherever the creatures had been sent. Wherever they’d been found.

Unlike the lizards and turtles, there had been a few survivors in the groups of larger animals. Those survivors were the basis of all hope behind the Right to Access Act.

A cat’s eyes bulged, its fur was dark, as if singed, but it was alive. It looked up at the camera as it cowered next to the other two subjects, lifeless piles of organs laced with skin. It was the outcome of the orangutan experiment that had sealed the coffin of so many wealthy litigants.

The more massive the delivery—June could hear her grandmother’s scratchy voice. The better chance creatures have of surviving the trip. Two orangutans sat in the picture, the shocked stillness palpable in their eyes, in the way their hands rested limp on their knees, as they regarded their mutilated companion.

Lydia had been so hopeful, on her good days anyway, that the shock of seeing the mangled lab animals might be enough to deter plaintiffs from stepping off the elevator. From going through with it. Word had somehow gotten out about the photos, though, and it only added to the excitement, to the drama of the event. Riding an elevator surrounded by pictures of the machine’s work gone bad, of those who’d lost a forced bet, it was just another stage in the gauntlet the ultrawealthy community had embraced.

Scaled Everest? Sailed the world? Crossed Antarctica, and with only three servants? Whatever. I won a huge court battle with my enormous legal team and rode an elevator decorated in disgusting death images before gambling with the last shred of my life.

*~*~*

The lawyers called, right before dinner. That’s how I heard about your grandfather. From fucking lawyers. I didn’t look at the pictures. I wondered where you were. I turned off all social media, but I unblocked you. Disabled notifications, cleared my schedule. Sat next to the window with a bottle.

Holy shit. Your grandfather, who’d taught you cribbage and taken you on road trips and introduced you to old fashioned root beer floats. The first to sue my grandmother, his former friend. The first human to ride the machine. Twenty-four years in a blink. No chance to say good-bye.

You never messaged. I would have messaged you, but what could I say? That I wish my grandmother hadn’t existed, hadn’t invented this infernal machine that didn’t work? Forgive me. Forgive us.

*~*~*

June hadn’t taken a solitary elevator ride to the lab in years. Not since Smith v. Anderson, the first suit aimed not at June’s family estate, but at June herself, after an idiot friend of a friend suggested on social media that June “simply adjust” the calibration of her grandmother’s machine, in a way that would render it more useless and even more destructive than it already was.

One of the few wins June’s grandmother had secured, back in the beginning, in her court battle with Lydia’s grandfather, was the elevator ride. It was her chance to plead, to reason with the plaintiff. The other win had been the secret code that ensured only June’s family could activate the machine.

After that social media circus a few years ago, Smith had won the right to ride alone. The first time June saw Smith was when he was already on the other side of the window, inside the belly of the machine. She’d never even heard his voice, before sending him to what was most likely a horrible death. As far as June knew, no one else had ever made the same request, to ride the elevator alone, until now.

June stepped off the elevator and nodded to Katie, who was waiting as always in her black suit and surveillance glasses, with a pistol under her arm.

“Everyone in there already?”

Katie’s console key, connected by a chain to the metal cuff around her wrist, was already in hand. “You’re late to the party, Boss, as usual.” She wouldn’t meet June’s eyes.

They both knew the government was boss. The government that had seized the lab decades ago, before June’s grandmother could destroy the machine, with a court injunction declaring the technology was too important to humanity to be lost, despite its poor results.

Familiar smells, dust and oil, invaded June’s senses as she headed down the hall to the lab. Katie followed, reaching from behind June to open the lab door for her.

“Glad you could make it.” The court-appointed witness’ smile raised the hairs on June’s neck. June had often wondered if Katie talked to the witnesses as they rode together down the elevator, if either of them ever looked at the pictures, ever wondered about the fate of the other plaintiffs.

June muttered a greeting as she pulled the family code book from her pocket. Approaching the console, she looked through the window, glimpsing the plaintiff on the other side. The world stopped.

Lydia’s hair was longer. It nearly reached the curve of her hip, where her satchel rested, holding what she’d need in the future she’d chosen. Certificates of stock, jewelry, whatever might buy a cure she hoped existed, with enough left to live a long life after. But she didn’t have cancer. No genetic disease, no drug-resistant infection. What kind of a cure she was expecting?

*~*~*

We didn’t have many good days, did we? But there were a few, tucked in here and there among the weeks between your absences. Days when the fears and irritations of life subsided just enough, enough that we could relax into each other.

We stretched out on the grass that one day, in the park down the way from your apartment, angled on the side of a hill so we could see the little league game below. Close enough to hear bats tinking and kids yelping.

My hand wrapped around yours, held it fast to my belly as I laughed at your endless stories from the office. You rolled onto your side to face me, to rest your cheek on my shoulder.

Your freckles glinted in the light of that day.

Why hadn’t those days been enough?

*~*~*

“June?” Katie’s voice was distant.

She used her key to unlock the cover of two switches on the control panel. She flipped the first. A low hum filled the room as the enormous machine kicked into gear under their feet. This was not happening.

“Ready for the code, June.”

The world dropped into slow motion as June looked at the book in her hand. The machine awaited June’s secret family code, along with her DNA print. After she did her part, it was the government representative, Katie, who flipped the final switch and activated the machine. So June’s family could feel less responsible.

This was not happening.

A privacy screen raised out of the console. June opened the book and lifted her shaking fingers to the keypad. Instead of typing in the code, she looked through the window at Lydia, who hadn’t moved. June had to see her face.

She reached over and flicked on the com. “Lyd?” June’s voice broke.

Lydia jerked, but didn’t turn.

Katie touched her arm. “June,” she said. “She’s made her choice.”

June gripped the console. Her body crumpled, as if she’d just been pounded by a giant fist. Lydia had a court order. Katie had gun. There was no way to stop this. They’d force her to do her part. To send Lydia to a near certain death. She’d end up like her grandfather.

June gagged, coughed, fell away from the console, hands on her knees. The girl who’d run from that study all those years ago merged with the thirty-seven year-old in the control room. The picture of the mangled orangutan became Lydia. June became the sad orangutan at her side.

“Can’t.”.

“Junie.” June straightened to see Lydia facing her from the other side of the window, from inside the machine. Her smile was sad, apologetic. “Let me do this.”

“No. Lydia, no. What are you doing?”

Lydia’s face gradually distorted as the field began building inside the machine. Lydia stepped toward the window. “June,” this time it was her voice that broke. “I have to.”

Katie slipped her arms under June’s and walked her, like a child, back to the console. June tried to push back against Katie, but Katie was so strong, like a rock. She told June to finish inputting the code. June could barely breathe as she looked at Lydia, whose nod reached through the field that separated them.

June shook Katie away. Blinking several times before she could read the book, she tapped in the code. The machine jolted under their feet as it stepped into its next phase.

Powerlessness, total and complete, crashed over June with the weight of generations as Katie took her arm, slid her hand into the metal glove on the console. Her fingers were pricked, and the machine took a sample of her blood, proof of lineage matching its creator.

June staggered back and fell against the wall.

Katie stepped up to the console as Lydia gave a small, sad smile, before turning her back on June again. Katie flicked the second switch.

Mass is the key. June heard Grandmother’s voice stretch across decades, as if she were standing right there, in the lab. She could smell the whisky wafting from Grandmother’s breath as she spoke. Mass. Numbers.

June’s breath caught.

Katie stood at the control panel, looking through the window. The machine’s hum quickly built to a howl as the field thickened around Lydia. June still had a full minute before the machine sent Lydia away. She tucked the code book into her pocket.

She stayed against the wall and waited, counted, listened to the climbing whir of her grandmother’s machine underfoot. Looking through the window at Lydia was like looking through a kaleidoscope.

The government rep stood several feet away, captivated by the spectacle.

With only seconds left, June bolted past Katie and slid the booth door open, stepping through the field and closing the door behind her. A million prickles waved across her body and gripped at her skin. Pulled at her guts. The sensation would have been relaxing, if it had only been lighter, but this bordered on agony.

Lydia hadn’t heard June come in. She put a hand on Lydia’s shoulder, and she jumped. June expected to see Lydia broken, crying. But she was calm, her expression serene. She said something June couldn’t hear above the roar of the machine. Maybe it was her name.

Lydia scooped June’s hand into hers. Her eyes went wide as she nodded to the door. Maybe she was telling June to leave. June only squeezed her hand back. Shook her head. “I’m going with you.” Lydia couldn’t hear, but she seemed to understand. She held June’s gaze as the field engulfing them shifted until it became nearly solid. Smooth, like a pearl. Colorless and multicolored at once.

Millions of tentacles gripped, pulled at every piece of June’s body. They multiplied, merged, pushed in on her until taking even a shallow breath became impossible. Straining to remain conscious against the strange force gripping her, gripping Lydia, June realized she had no idea of the where, the when that Lydia had selected for this trip. For their trip. But it didn’t matter.

Searing light built beyond impossibility, swallowing them. June focused on Lydia’s face. Her freckles glowed.

End.

*~*~*

A. Katherine Black is an audiologist and a writer. She adores multi-colored pens, stories about giant spiders, and nearly everything at 2 a.m. She lives somewhere in the woods with her family, their cats, and her overworked coffee machines. Find her at flywithpigs.com and on twitter @akatherineblack.

In the Armpit

By Bruce Arthurs

The floor, if it could be called that, stirred and shifted silently beneath the unconscious man. It grew still and quiescent as the figure moved and groaned.

I am still alive, was D’s first thought as he became aware. It was hard to think beyond that. Thinking caused spikes of pain through his brain. His head hurt. Everything hurt, but his head worst of all. But he had to think.

Before was murky, uncertain. There was the sense of a vast dark space and overwhelming fear, being grasped at amid indecipherable sounds and screams, blind panic, running wild through impenetrable darkness, a sudden impact against the back of his head knocking him from his feet, a sensation of falling.

And before that fragment of memory… nothing. As if behind a heavy curtain lay a solid stone wall, cutting off his life and memories, as impenetrable as the Stygian darkness around him. He had no idea of the memory fragment’s meaning, or what might have preceded it, or if it had been a nightmare created by his mind and meant nothing at all.

My name… my name is… D? That one letter, that one sound, was all that came. He felt there was more, there had been more, there must have been more, but it would not come, nor anything else. He must have lived, had a life filled with faces and places and experiences, but none of it appeared in his mind.

Wait. Are my eyes open? D blinked several times. Even that sent a wave of pain to his temples. There was no change in the perceived darkness around him. Another question: Am I blind? But there was no way to test that.

D’s awareness of his own body grew stronger, at least, as he struggled up from unconsciousness into bleary wakefulness. Aside from his head, he was sore and tender in many spots, but nothing seemed broken or torn inside him. Lucky, perhaps. He was naked. Was he supposed to be? It didn’t feel proper or normal.

D reached up with one arm and gingerly touched the back of his head. He hissed and drew his hand back, fingers sticky. The head-blow in his memory must have been real, then. He needed to know how bad it was; he reached up again.

Softly, softly. D’s fingertips whispered over his scalp. A palm-sized area was sticky, and every touch sent a wave of pain and nausea through him. He wasn’t certain, but it seemed flatter than the rest of his skull, even slightly depressed.

Skull fracture? he thought. Internal bleeding. Cerebral hemorrhage. Stroke. The dreadful possibilities danced through his mind.

And there seemed nothing he could do about it. Not without aid. Not without help.

D opened his mouth to cry out, to see if anyone else shared the darkness with him, but a wave of dread swept over him, a certainty that becoming noticed would be foolish or deadly. His mouth closed again almost by its own volition, his heart pounding.

He was in pain and confused and frightened. He wanted so much to sleep and rest, but knew that was dangerous with a head injury. He should try to sit up and then… he wasn’t certain what might come after that.

D put out his arms, meaning to move to hands and knees, then stopped.

In his concern with his injuries, he hadn’t stopped to wonder at the oddness of the surface on which he lay.

The unseen surface was—D struggled to find words that made sense—not flat or smooth like a normal floor. It was lumpy and uneven, an assemblage, a pile of… some kind of thick tubing or, perhaps rolls? Their substance was firm but yielding, but a stiffness lay beneath that top layer.

In the darkness, he ran a hand along one of the tube-things. It was irregular in shape, tapering somewhat. At the smallest point, it began to widen again, then divided into smaller tubes—

Fingers! They’re fingers on a hand, on an arm. A chill of dread swept through him. He ran his hand back up the arm, past the slight bend of an elbow, up to the shoulder and… nothing.

The arm ended, skin stretched over the stump and somehow sealed with no sign of stitching. He felt another of the “tubes,” then another, his mouth dry and heart pounding.

Arms. He lay in a pile of amputated arms.

Then the arms twitched, and moved, and began to grab at D, at his wrists and ankles. He screamed, and screamed again as his sudden reaction triggered a massive wave of pain through his skull, greater than before, greater than he could ever have imagined. It swept over him, drowned him, and darkness took him once again.

*~*~*

The arms explored the limp figure. Fingers dragged the main bulk of arms behind them, pausing to touch and feel the unsundered one’s skin and body. When two hands passed close to each other, each would make strokes on the other’s palm before moving on.

At first the movements of the arms were random, then began to coordinate. Dozens wormed under the edges of the man’s body, levering it up and allowing others to move underneath, until the man lay atop a blanket of arms, all oriented in the same direction. Fingers flexed and pulled, and the body shifted slightly. The arms repeated the motion again and again, inchworming the body across the carpet of arms.

*~*~*

D roused, groggy and weak. His head hurt terribly, and he wondered if he was dying. He felt the assembly of arms moving him, but could not resist.

It was difficult to judge distance in the darkness, but it seemed like the arms carried him dozens of yards before stopping. D felt the arms relax beneath him, and his body settled.

D could make no sense of it. He could make no sense of anything.

He stared upward into the darkness. There was no reason to move. Moving would hurt. He would lay here and die, or not.

After long moments, he heard faint noises from above. Distant booming sounds, a rustling slithering susurrus, a clicking against a hard surface. The memory-sense of a vast space came back to his mind from earlier, and he felt his anxiety and dread spike, his pulse and breath quicken.

He realized in surprise that the blackness above him was not uniform. There were two shades of black, so alike their difference was almost indetectable. The lighter shade formed a large circle above him, and the sounds he heard seemed to come from that shape.

The clicking sound was growing louder, closer, and D somehow knew something large was causing it. Something very large.

He needed to move. He needed to MOVE. He could not move.

Something blocked part of the circle above D, a black shadow against almost-black background. No, he realized, two somethings. Another shadow had intruded into the circle opposite the first. One was all angles and corners, the other frills and fronds. Both were intrinsically wrong in a way that made D tremble.

The sharp-angled shadow shifted with a shriek like twisted metal. A sudden shower of objects fell toward D. There was no time to brace or dodge. The things thudded into him, chest and stomach and arms and legs. One struck across his face, making him gasp. Weakly, he tried to bat the things away—

—and realized, as the cascade slowed and stopped, the objects were more amputated arms. But actual amputated arms, what one would expect of such. The upper ends cut and raw, blood half-dried, the arms limp and lifeless. D wanted to recoil from what he felt under his own fingers, but there was nowhere to recoil to. He shuddered and gasped, trying not to gibber in mindless horror.

Then, from above, came a groaning sound. Looking up, D saw the second shadow’s fronds moving in apparent agitation. The groaning grew louder, and louder again, and with an ear-pounding retching noise, D and the surrounding arms, lifeless and lively alike, were drenched in warm, noxious liquid from the thing—the creature?—above.

D tried to roll away, but the liquid and the stink were everywhere. It was in his eyes, his nose—oh God—his mouth. He gagged and tried to retch it back out.

It grew warmer on his skin where it had splashed, and then it began to itch as if a million tiny worms were crawling over him, and then into him.

Now D was gibbering, in terror and horror. He scratched desperately at his skin, but there was too much to reach it all and not enough fingers, and where he scraped or tore his skin, the worm-burrowing sensation grew only more intense. D curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his head, and screamed until he could scream no more.

D had no idea how long he stayed like that, how long until he noticed the itching and worm-ravished sensation was fading, fading, and finally disappearing.

He slowly uncurled. D opened his eyes, and he saw.

He saw. That was the first shock. What lie around him was now visible, dimly illuminated as if by bluish moonlight. What he had before inferred by touch could now be seen.

The arms he had touched before, that had touched him, lie around him in a large circle, perhaps ten meters across. D and the arms lay in a large round chamber, the walls dark and metallic. The walls curved inward as they rose, becoming a curved roof with the round opening at its apex. It was a pit, shaped like a giant kettle.

Or a cauldron.

The dead arms that had cascaded onto him lay close by. But where the arms had been cut, he could see edges of existing skin stretching out, growing over the raw muscle and bone, joining where edges touched, becoming healed over like the first, living, arms. And he could see dead fingers twitch, and twitch again, as they came back to life.

The older arms were moving closer, dragging themselves over each other. As they reached the area splashed by the stinking liquid, they began to rub themselves against damp spots, twisting and rolling in an almost sexual way, like a young cat in its first heat.

Cats. I remember there were animals called cats. D was struck by the sudden image in his mind, then the further realization that his head did not hurt. He reached up and touched the sensitive spot. It felt… normal. Undamaged, the depression in his skull gone. Even his lesser injuries, the bruises and contusions he must have gotten from his fall into the pit, gone.

Somehow, the creature’s vomit, or whatever it had been, had healed his injuries. Had given him an ability to see, even in near-complete darkness. The fluid imparted a miraculous vitality, even giving life, or some form of it, to severed limbs. It must have had a similar effect on him.

He’d remembered cats. He strained to recall more memories, his life, how he had arrived here, but it was still murk and shadows. Do brain tissue and neurons take longer to heal than muscle and bone? He would have to wait and see.

The squirming older arms had reached D’s side. They began to stroke him, to rub against his still-damp skin. D wanted to pull away, but they were all around him. He cupped his hands around his genitals, closed his eyes, and shuddered as the arms moved over him like five-fingered slugs.

The roving arms absorbed the remaining dampness on D’s skin. His skin soon felt dry, but the arms around his head took longer to wick the moisture from his hair. Eventually, they withdrew.

D opened his eyes and sat up. He looked around. He could no longer see amputation wounds on any of the arms, but it was clear which arms were older, and which were the new arrivals. The newer arms moved with uncertainty, almost randomly, while the older arms dragged themselves towards the newer with what seemed like actual purpose.

When they reached the newly revived arms, the older arms reached out and began to stroke the new arrivals’ palms with quick movements of fingers. Some new arms jerked back or shied away; others twitched at the first touch but allowed the stroking to continue.

After a moment, D recognized the finger movements and what must be happening. The older arms were spelling out letters into the palms of new arms. They were communicating.

He felt a tapping on a knee. He looked down.

The arm at his side was thinner than most. The skin born a multitude of small wrinkles, and a scattering of age spots. From the slim shape of the wrist, D guessed it had been a woman’s arm.

He stared at it, uncertain. The arm dragged itself higher beside his leg, tapped again.

D reached out, opening his palm flat and extended it toward the old woman arm. He touched it gently. The arm’s fingers drew back, hesitated, then reached out again. It explored his fingers with its own, hitched itself a little closer and began to draw letters on D’s palm.

WAT R YU, it spelled out.

*~*~*

After hours of slow, awkward back and forth, D had a few answers, but still far more questions and mysteries.

The revivified arms were intelligent, after a fashion. He didn’t know how that could be possible; the phrase “muscle memory” came into his mind, but how could that keep any knowledge of language and writing? It seemed impossible, but here it was.

Unless this is all a nightmare.

But it seemed vividly real. He would have woken a dozen times over from a dream so horrible, so wrong.

The arms had little knowledge of what might lie outside the pit. They had been “born” here, and except for fragments of skills somehow kept from previous lives, had only their limited environment and experiences on which to base a worldview.

To the arms, D was a freak, a giant misshapen monster. He was two arms, with a great lump of meat and bone connecting them, and two more arms, crippled and deformed, unable to make sign with others, growing from the opposite end of that massive lump. D managed, after some time, to give a kind of explanation what his head was, and its importance.

The arms’ curiosity and concern had overcome their caution when they’d felt obvious injuries, even if to a strange bony protrusion from one end of D’s main meat-lump, and they had moved his fallen unconscious body to where it would receive a healing Benevolence.

The arms’ existence revolved around the Benevolence and the Tithing. D could understand that “Benevolence” was the shower of frond-vomit, which apparently happened on a regular basis, but he had trouble understanding what “Tithing” could mean when the arms had literally nothing to give. But the—things—that delivered the new arms and the frond-vomit were, if not strictly worshipped by the pit’s arms, accepted by them as part of the natural order of things. What terrified D was normalcy for the arms.

D could not explain that he was the normal creature, that the arms and their pit were the strange and inexplicable things. He knew this intrinsically, but with his own mind and memory clouded there was no way to argue or discuss the point with the ambulatory limbs.

His mind grew clearer as the hours passed. Words and meanings, sparked by the dialogue with the old woman’s arm, came into his mind more and more. But specific memories, personal memories, still eluded him. It was as if he had entered a theater of mind, but a black curtain still sealed the stage from sight.

He realized, after what must have been countless hours, that he wasn’t feeling hunger or thirst. Yet another benefit of the frond-vomit, it seemed.

He heard a distant sound from the opening above, a soft slithering like a snake across sand. All around the pit, the arms tensed, many rising on fingertips as if listening. Without ears? Perhaps skin or fingernails had become sensitive enough to feel sound waves.

The old woman’s arm signed swiftly across D’s palm: TITHE. Then the age-spotted arm backed away, turned towards the wall, and moved quickly toward it. All the arms turned away from the center of the pit and began dragging themselves toward the edges. Their movements seemed rushed, even frantic.

Arms squirmed beneath D’s body. He had been laying on them; there had been no avoiding it. The pit contained at least three or four layers of arms, slowly churning to bring lower layers to the top, so none had to remain buried beneath their fellows.

D rolled over, allowing the arms under him to move with the rest. But the movement had only placed him atop others. They twitched and struggled under him. He rolled again, but there were still arms everywhere around him, under him. Where they could, fingers, even some fists, poked and pounded at him, trying to move his weight away.

D felt confused, uncertain what was happening, why it was happening, or what he should do.

He got to his knees, picked up an arm and tossed it towards the wall. Then another, and another. If he cleared enough away, he might find the cauldron’s bottom, be able to rest against solid metal instead of human flesh, not distress the strange creatures that had saved him from death.

The slithering sound above was growing louder. Arms that had reached the walls climbed over and onto each other, creating sloped scree-like piles against the walls. The center of the pit had grown shallower, creating a slight bowl shape where a level ground of flesh had been. D was still near the center.

He tossed an arm. What am I doing? Tossed another. There were still arms beneath him.

The slithering noise was loud now. It was close. D wanted to look up, he couldn’t look up. Is this what I should be?

The slithering stopped. D froze for a second, then instinct took over and he lunged to one side, rolling.

A long-jointed leg, chitinous and insectoid, whipped down into the cauldron, through the space D had occupied. The leg’s end was sharp and barbed; it stabbed through an arm D’s movement had uncovered. The arm’s fingers spasmed as the quasi-insect arm drew its prize upward.

D’s eyes followed the captured arm; he couldn’t help himself, even though his heart was pounding, his mind crackling with fear like an electric shock.

The moon-vision granted D by the frond-vomit let him see what perched at the edge of the pit’s opening. Spider. Snake. Toad. GIANT spider-snake-toad-THING!

The thing shook the captured arm off and sent it flying out of the visibility allowed by the pit’s opening. Another long insect-leg appeared by the other side of its head and began plunging down as the first raised up for another stab.

Blind panic took D. He jumped up, no longer caring about the arms under his feet. One step, then another, and he jumped towards the wall. Behind him, he heard the whish of the insect-leg directly behind him, the dull thud of a sharp chitinous barb stabbing into another of the floor-bound arms.

D crashed hard into the wall, taking most of the impact with his shoulder. His lower body struck the scree-hill of arms crowded against the wall; D heard a loud crack—no, several cracks—as one knee smashed into something.

He turned over, back to the wall now, and stared at the tableau taking place before him.

The thing at the pit’s edge stabbed down, again and again and again. Each time, it snagged an unlucky arm from the middle portion of the pit. There seemed to be a safety margin of about five feet from the cauldron walls where the thing’s claws couldn’t quite reach, but there hadn’t been time, or space, for every arm to reach that zone.

D lost count of how many of the arms the thing took. Fifty? Sixty? Maybe more.

Then the thing stopped, as suddenly as it had begun. It withdrew from the edge and the slithering sound rose again, fading as it grew more and more distant.

D took deep breaths of relief. This was Tithing, then. The arms received a gift of Benevolence, but it came with a cost. Some of their number were taken and… what? Eaten? That seemed the most likely fate.

D realized what the Benevolence was. If human parts were a food source, those parts needed to remain fresh and unspoiled. The frond-vomit kept those parts alive, even in their amputated state, until desired.

There were monsters, literal monsters, outside the pit.

But to the arms in the pit, it was natural. It was the cycle of life. They knew nothing else.

He gasped in sudden pain. My foot! Wha—?

He looked down. An arm was twisting his toe backward.

“Ow! Stop!” He kicked out and broke the arm’s grasp. Then he noticed the agitated motions of the arms close around him. He looked closer and saw the cause.

There was an arm amid the others that lay quivering. Several of its fingers were twisted in wrong directions and growing discolored and swollen. There was an unnatural bend just below the wrist. Several arms were stroking it gently.

Oh God, my knee. When I jumped, I must have….

He had hurt one of the creatures who had helped him. Maybe crippled it. Guilt swept over him.

Another arm, big, bulky, well-muscled, grabbed onto his calf. The fingers dug in and squeezed hard. It felt like D’s leg was in a vise. He gasped and shook the leg, but the arm kept its grip; it squeezed even harder. D gasped and lost his balance, falling sideways onto the pile of arms.

Then they were on him. Pinching, squeezing, twisting, moving over him. Moving towards his throat. He struggled, trying to keep them away, but there were so many of them.

Then some of his attackers backed away, followed by several more. D twisted his head and saw the old woman’s arm pulling itself across the pile of arms, It spelled into each palm she passed by, and the attacking arms retreated one by one. Finally, they had all backed off. The old woman’s arm waited down by D’s right hand.

What happens now? D wondered. He opened his palm.

*~*~*

There was a trial, of a sort. There was testimony, of a sort, fingers signing words into palms and those hands signing it on to the next. And of course, there was a verdict.

U MUST LEEV, the old woman’s arm signed. U SAVED SOM OF US BUT U R BIG U R MENACE U MUST LEEV.

D could see the sense of it. He could see the justice in it.

What he couldn’t see was a way out of the pit. HOW CAN I LEAVE, he signed back.

They found a way. They wanted D gone. The arms stacked themselves beneath the edge of the pit’s opening, hands clutching other arms, a truncated pyramid of flesh. However, it could not reach the actual edge but came close enough that D, if he climbed and stood at its peak, might jump high enough to catch the edge and pull himself up and out.

D climbed, trying to keep his weight balanced so as not to cause the pyramid to collapse. The pyramid trembled slightly as he climbed. The lower layers were already holding up a lot of weight; D’s extra pounds only made it worse. He climbed as swiftly as he could, wanting to let the arms reach the end of their ordeal, but he had to focus on each movement too. It kept him from dwelling on the dread that awaited; at the end of this climb were monsters. At the end of this climb, he would probably die.

D reached the peak, crouched there for a moment, got to his feet on the uneven precarious surface, and looked up to the edge of the pit’s opening. He stretched up his hands to reach and grab the edge but there was still several feet to go. He would have to make a standing jump. He wouldn’t have thought so, but luck was with him in that regard. The Benevolence, the frond-vomit that had baptized him, made him feel more capable. Better than…

What was I before this? Who was I before the pit? D still couldn’t remember, but somehow, he was certain that earlier version of himself wouldn’t have been able to make the needed jump, might not even have tried.

All right. It’s time.

He bent his knees and assumed a half-crouch, eyes upward, focused on the lip of the opening. He visualized his hands catching the lip, holding it. I can do this. I can do this. One. Two. Three.

He jumped. He felt his fingers catch the lip. And felt them sliding on the metallic surface.

No! D strained, curling his fingers, gaining only a fraction of an inch. Desperate, he heaved up enough to hurl one hand forward, to slap his arm against the metal. Luck was with him again; his naked skin received more traction from the flooring than clothing would have. He reached out swiftly with the other arm. He was being held there more by friction than by strength. D rocked his lower body from side to side, heaved again, and got one leg over the edge, gaining enough support to not fall back into the pit. He gasped in relief, brought the other leg up over the pit’s edge, and lay there for a moment, waiting for his pounding heartbeat to ease.

When D’s breathing slowed, he crawled back to the pit’s edge and looked in. The arms’ pyramid was crumbling away, levels disassembling, some arms moving with deliberation, others tumbling down the sides of the pyramid. D hoped he hadn’t hurt any of them.

He backed away from the edge and stood. For the first time, at least the first time he could remember, D looked at what lay outside the pit of arms.

A vast space stretched away. Everything seemed made of metal or stone, though it was hard to be sure in the pale illumination of moon-vision. The huge curving roof, though it seemed made of stone, appeared ribbed and textured like something organic, like the bones of some immense beast.

The floor was smooth and, even in D’s moon-vision, appeared polished. There were dark circles in the floor, perhaps a hundred meters apart. D realized they had to be other pits.

What should I do? What’s in those other pits? The vast floor stretching before him appeared empty. It looks safe, for the moment.

He heard a sound behind him.

He turned slowly, with dread.

On the other side of the arms’ pit were two creatures. A thing made of boxes was the closest D could come to describing the larger. Boxes that shifted and folded into and out of each other in impossible ways. He had seen it before, in barely discernible silhouette, when it had dumped its load of arms into the pit.

The other was a beetle-thing, though it was more thing than beetle. Its thick legs moved in wrong directions and had too many joints. It appeared the size of a bus.

D’s breath grew shallow. He stood, unable to move as he stared at the things and the things stared back at him. Or so he assumed; the thing made of boxes had nothing resembling eyes.

The beetle-thing turned and began to move around the edge of the pit, towards D.

Fight! D’s mind cried. No, are you crazy? he answered himself.

Flight? To where? D almost laughed.

Freeze. D stood still. Very still. He was a rabbit. He was a stone. He closed his eyes to slits, afraid even to blink.

The beetle-thing’s head was only inches from D. It’s head moved slowly up and down, as if sniffing him.

Then it turned away, turned around and went back towards the thing made of boxes.

D watched, still motionless, amazed he was still alive, as the thing made of boxes dumped a fresh supply of amputated arms into the pit, arms that somehow tumbled out of a large “box” that had been solid and sealed and then suddenly open with no visible transition.

D’s eyes widened when the beetle-thing’s head turned inside-out and the vomit-fronds unfolded from within. The fronds stretched out over the pit, and the retching up of the miracle puke began.

The beetle-thing folded itself back together, and the two creatures moved off toward one side of the vast space. There were openings, tiny at this distance but certainly huge up close, at the bottom of the far wall.

Why am I still alive? Perhaps D’s exposure to frond-vomit had changed his odor. Perhaps he smelled like he was part of this place now. Would that work across the board, or was it a one-off deal with the beetle-thing? D couldn’t know until he came face-to-face with another of this place’s creatures. He’d try to avoid that.

D turned and looked at the openings for the other pits. He walked toward them. Something in him needed to see.

He went to the next pit and looked carefully over its edge.

Hearts. The bottom of the pit lay covered in hearts, all beating bloodlessly, without cease, to no clear end. D stepped back from the edge, shaken. He wondered if the monsters had left the hearts below with rudimentary intelligence like the arms. What thoughts would they have? What would they believe? How could they communicate with each other? All moot questions; D could see no way for communication between disembodied hearts and an unsundered human.

D went to the next pit, peered inside. He stared down for a long moment, then his legs buckled and he went to his knees. D crouched there, looking down, for several minutes more. He shuddered and wrenched himself away from the edge, his face now wet with tears. He lurched to his feet and ran toward a group of openings in the distant wall.

D was staggering when he arrived. He chose an opening at random and darted in. A broad passage, riven through stone, or something like stone, stretched before him. It twisted and turned and doubled back on itself, and even the moon-vision barely helped him to see the way.

Finally, the passage seemed to near its end, indicated by a smidgen of actual light ahead.

The passage opened onto an immense ramp that curved down to another vast spread of floor. At the outer edge of the ramp, D found a vantage point to look down over the space.

There were more openings in the far wall of the floor space, each emitting a reddish but natural light. They illuminated the space, if dimly. The openings had to lead outside.

D lowered himself to the surface of the ramp. He knew, now, there was no hope. No escape, no sanctuary.

D remembered everything now. It had come back upon looking down into the pit of heads.

He had looked into the pit, and one head had looked back at him, and recognized D.

He had recognized her as well. Her lips had moved, but no sound came out. Lungs had a pit of their own, he supposed. But he knew what she had been trying to say.

Daniel-l-l-l, her lips had formed. Daniel-l-l-l-l-l-l….

His name. He remembered it now.

On the floor stretching before him, a huge amoeba-like creature entered through one of the exterior openings. It had two pseudopods stretched out in front of it, surrounding a group of about fifty humans, corralling them, herding them forward.

The humans were naked and beaten. Heads lowered, shoulders slumped, they shuffled more than walked. They had lost everything, including themselves, and had no inner strength left.

Or, almost. As D watched, one human, a young woman, suddenly dashed to the side where the amoeba-giant’s pseudopod blocked escape. Another, a young man, crouched down and cupped his hands firmly together. The woman lifted her foot into the man’s support, and as she did, the man straightened and lifted, throwing the woman high. She cleared the top of the pseudopod, slid down it’s other side, and ran back toward an exit, back toward the outside.

A new pseudopod shot from the side of the amoeba creature and struck the woman with a crack even D, high on the ramp, heard. She collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, sliding over the polished floor, leaving a blood trail in her wake, stopped and lay motionless.

The larger pseudopod close to the young man shifted and moved. It knocked the man down and rolled over him. The man disappeared beneath the huge creature’s crushing weight, screaming. Some of the other humans stopped and looked for a second, then turned away and began walking again, guided by the amoeba’s pseudopods.

D watched it all, his mind dulled. It was all so familiar. It was almost how his own escape attempt had gone.

The New Old Ones. That was what people had called them.

He hadn’t made his run for it until deeper within the vast complex of tunnels and caverns, on the level with the pits of body parts. Perhaps the amoeba-creature escorting the group of humans that included D assumed none of them would try anything so deep within the underground hive or whatever the complex was.

The darkness, black and absolute, had driven him to panic. Perhaps adrenaline had enabled him to jump for the pseudopod he knew lay in the darkness next to him, had enabled him to claw his way up and over, to drop clear on the other side and run blindly into darkness until he felt the impact against his skull and then the falling sensation.

And all he’d had to do to attempt the escape, to get that far, was leave his wife and children behind.

At least he hadn’t seen his children’s heads in that pit. Small mercies. Undeserved mercies.

He stood, slowly, and went down the ramp to the floor below. By the time he reached there, the amoeba and its humans had entered one of the other openings and disappeared. D paused by the body of the young woman, but she was very dead.

He walked through an opening to the outside. Reddish light shone down on him. The setting sun’s light seemed sick and feverish. It was changing too, to move in line with the new laws and lords of the universe.

It didn’t matter how it had happened. Black magic. Some quantum science project gone very wrong. Maybe the originating cause had occurred galaxies away, and humanity and everything they had built were just trivial collateral damage in the greater scheme of things. But something changed the principles that had governed the universe and allowed the New Old Ones to rend the barrier between and impose their own.

D looked out over what had been a major metropolis. Some stumps of buildings remained among the ashes and rubble. Everything was gone.

He lowered himself to the surface, then tilted his head back and looked up into the darkening sky.

There were no more stars in the sky. Great horrors drifted across light-years. And they watched.

D put his head back down. He closed his eyes, and he waited. He waited for the frond-vomit smell to fade, and for something to notice him.

End.

*~*~*

Bruce Arthurs has been writing occasional fiction, with occasional publication, since 1975. His work has appeared in a variety of anthologies and magazines. In the 1990's he edited two anthologies, and wrote an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation ("Clues", 4th Season, 1991). After a long hiatus, he began writing fiction again in 2012 while recovering from a badly broken arm, with over a half-dozen new stories published or sold since. He lives in Arizona with his wife, several housemates, and a clowder of cats.

Artist: Martin Blanco (http://www.martinblancoart.com/)

Through the Stomach

By R.H. Berry

Cool gel made a sloppy sound as the technician expelled it onto the subtle bulge. Evelyn couldn’t help but twitch. Offering an apologetic smile, the ultrasound tech began running the little machine over the goo to spread it over her abdomen.

“This is your first pregnancy?” the technician asked.

Evelyn nodded. Her nerves must have been showing. She’d never had the same technician twice, and they always asked which pregnancy she was on. This technician sounded particularly sympathetic, so she could only imagine what her face was like.

“And this is the ultrasound before the big decision, huh?” The technician paused. She took Evelyn’s hand and gave it a tiny squeeze, meant to be reassuring. The vinyl glove against her skin just reminded Evelyn of how clinical it all was. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Oh, wow,” the technician whistled. “You got started much later than most people.”

Evelyn hadn’t known a single girl throughout high school and college who hadn’t been pregnant at least once before. She envied them; the choice seemed simple, obvious, when you were young. Teenagers didn’t have the means to support a child. It was easier not to get attached. It was tougher once you left school and had the means to support yourself.

Evelyn wasn’t quite there yet. She was still in college, but plenty of her classmates had one or two children. They’d spent more time pregnant than not. It wasn’t fear that had prevented Evelyn from getting into the same condition, moreso a lack of interest. She’d just been too busy for sex, too selective with her partners.

“I’ve had ten pregnancies,” the technician disclosed. The gentle thump, thump, thump of the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor was distracting. “I kept four of them. My personal philosophy is to always give more than you keep, you know?”

“My mom says something like that,” Evelyn said. “She only kept my brother and me.”

“Was she pregnant often?”

“Almost always,” Evelyn answered. She managed half of a smile. “She’s one of the most compassionate women in the world, my mom.”

“I bet she’s weighing in a lot, then?” The technician smiled. “World needs more people like your mother, though. I just feel sick every time I hear about countries full of starving kids. It’s horrible to think some mothers are just that selfish. They’d rather keep a kid and let them go hungry, instead of offer them up for the Food Drive like everyone else.”

Evelyn nodded in agreement, folding her hands under her breasts. She happened to agree with the technician, even though part of her railed against the thought of giving birth to her own meal.

No, they wouldn’t do that. The government controlled the Food Drive with strict regulations. Parents were never forced to eat their own children.

“Active little thing, isn’t it?” The technician chortled. “Baby’s making it hard to get a good picture! They’re moving around a lot, can you feel it?”

“A little.”

“I’m going to use a little more of the gel. Sorry, I know it’s cold.”

“It’s all right,” Evelyn replied. The technician squeezed more goop just above the tissue towel preserving her modesty.

“Once we’re finished here, it should only be ten minutes before your OB sees you. Though, it might be closer to fifteen,” the technician admitted. “I think he’s running behind today. Did you want me to put in a request for a counsellor, as well? Just in case you need to talk through anything, understand any parts of the process that might be confusing...”

“No, I should be fine.”

It was a lie. Evelyn had no idea what she wanted to do.

Meat was an extremely precious commodity in a world that couldn’t get it anywhere else. Humans weren’t just the dominant species; they were the only species made of muscle and fat, and science had only come so far in manufacturing protein akin to it. This was her first pregnancy, and writing off the baby felt like the right thing to do.

She knew it wouldn’t be pleasant, if that’s the route she went down. Sure, she’d be well compensated, she might even get enough from the baby to make a dent in her student loans. Everyone around her would tell her that it was the right thing to do. ‘Nobody keeps their first’, her mother had once said.

But pregnancy wasn’t a fun thing to go through with no real reward at the end. Evelyn had been going through horrendous morning sickness, and the mood swings had her distracted to the point of detriment. Her tolerance for pain wasn’t anything to write home about either, so the prospect of giving birth filled her with dread.

If she traditionally birthed a baby bound for the Food Drive, it would be a difficult labour. That was guaranteed. Babies for the Drive were deliberately grown bigger, and one of the reasons she’d need to have her decision made by today was to know whether or not she’d be put on the necessary hormones to stimulate fetal growth.

There was no way she was getting out of this without a scar. It was just up in the air whether it would be a cesarean or an episiotomy.

Keeping the baby, though... She didn’t know whether or not she could handle the judgment. Her mother wouldn’t approve, that was for sure. Evelyn’s mom volunteered down at a group called Drive For The Destitute, which promoted back-to-back pregnancies in order to farm enough food to properly feed poor families. She’d never said so, but Evelyn knew she’d always been a little disappointed that she hadn’t gotten pregnant at fourteen.

She was also still in college. There was so much work to be done. She couldn’t even imagine balancing a course load with changing diapers. She was in pharmaceuticals, that wasn’t the kind of schooling you could neglect for anything.

The thing was, Evelyn liked children. Not just slow-cooked or barbecued, but the ones people kept in order to populate the Earth. She loved their open innocence, their imagination, their energy. She could easily imagine herself lying on the carpet surrounded by blocks and stuffed animals, clapping and laughing while her child learned to crawl. She knew she would melt the first time her baby smiled at her, or called her ‘mommy’.

It was hypocritical and strange, but she was unsettled by the prospect of someone slaughtering her child.

Evelyn redressed when the ultrasound was finished, thanking her technician robotically while her mind was miles away. She shouldered her purse and did up her jeans, then wandered back out to the waiting room. Easing into a chair, Evelyn looked up at the electronic clock on the wall.

She had ten minutes, thereabouts, to make a decision.

This was ridiculous. It had only been three months. She shouldn’t be attached to this fetus—it didn’t have a personality yet, didn’t even have awareness. It couldn’t love her.

She wanted to love it, though. Love them.

Evelyn released a sigh loud enough that another pregnant woman looked up at her from across the room. She had to think rationally. Clear her head. Deep down, she knew what decision she should make. She took her hands off her baby bump, eyes ruefully downcast.

Another mouth to feed. Taking without giving. What right did she have?

There would be other pregnancies. Other children. Maybe she’d be finished with school, living in a house of her own with a husband she could rely on to pass on good genes. If she wanted to have a family of her own one day, she wanted to prove to herself that she was the kind of person who’d care for somebody else, first.

There was no better way to help her fellow man than by giving them something to eat.

End.

*~*~*

R.H. Berry has been making stories for as long as he can remember. He writes all variations of fantasy, but he has a special place in his dark little heart for horror. Berry maintains a website at theirritablequeer.com, where his blog and full body of works can be found. He lives in Ontario, Canada with his daughter.

The Servants of Reality

By Gary Clark

A formation of silver saucers
hovers over the Capital Building
in D.C., but nobody notices,
much too busy to stop.

Three witches chant above
their caldron in the Jefferson
Memorial, but nobody notices,
much too busy to stop.

King Kong clings to the top
of the Washington Monument,
awaiting recognition, but nobody
notices, much too busy to stop.

The Lock Ness Monster
does laps in the Reflecting Pool,
but nobody notices, much too
busy to stop.

A Unicorn nibbles the green,
green grass of the White House
lawn, but nobody notices, much
too busy to stop.

The presence of the fantastic
is obscured by the blinders of
bureaucracy, wonders ignored,
too myopic to notice.

*~*~*

Marginalia

By Jude Reid

BBC News Website, 19th October:

HEAVY RAIN CAUSES FLOODING IN SOUTHERN SCOTLAND

Extensive flooding and landslides have caused problems in parts of Scotland following prolonged heavy rain. The A77 remains closed between Maybole and Irvine and a diversion is in place.

Reports of damage caused to farmland in other parts of the country are also being received, including in Dumfries and Galloway, where a rise in the level of Cluden Water has caused damage to the foundations of Lincluden Collegiate Church, an A listed building dating to the 12th Century.

A Met Office yellow “be aware” warning remains in place across much of Western Scotland until midnight.

Sender: j.m.cooper@staffmail.edin.ac.uk

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: Question

October 24th, 09.45

Dear Alice,

Hope you’re well and the Glaswegians are still treating you nicely. Could you give me a ring to discuss a few things that might interest you? No rush.

Speak soon,

JMC

Professor Jeremy M. Cooper BA, PhD, FSA, FSA Scot

Sender: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

To: l.macarthur2@glas.ac.uk

Subject: students

October 24th 10:31

Sorry Lynn just found out I can’t take the students on Wednesday after all, can you cancel/rearrange? Apologies for short notice.

A

Sender: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

To: j.m.cooper@staffmail.edin.ac.uk

Subject: RE:question

October 24th, 10:32

Dear Prof,

Just a quick email after our conversation today to say that I have checked and I’m absolutely free to come over on Wednesday and am very much looking forward to it!

Kind regards,

Alice

Dumfriesshire Herald Live, 16:52, 25th October:

GRISLY DISCOVERY IN FOUNDATIONS OF RUINED ABBEY

Stonemasons working to support the foundations of the historic Lincluden Collegiate Church have made the surprise discovery of what is thought to be a medieval sarcophagus. Further excavations under the guidance of the Archaeology Department of Edinburgh University found an intact stone coffin containing human remains, which have been removed from the site for preservation and further study.

Sender: alice.McGowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: Hello!

October 25th, 16:32

Hi Jen,

Prof Cooper said you mentioned my name when he was looking for someone available at short notice for the Ayrshire stuff so thanks so much, it is EXACTLY my kind of thing. Suspect you were his first choice though so thank you for being on sabbatical! All looks v exciting…

Thanks again

Allie

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: Hello!

October 26th, 08:30

You are absolutely the best person for the job! He is lucky to have you :) Rome is fantastic but I’m possibly now getting sick of sunshine and pasta. I can’t believe I’m missing all this excitement at home...Biggest discovery since Richard III’s carpark

Keep me posted?

Jen

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: Hello!

November 1st, 14:58

Drumroll please…

...It’s an Abu Ma’shar!!!! Samir thinks it’s one of the named lost volumes, best guess Kitāb al‐ulūf/The Book of Thousands and it seems to match the reference in al-Sijazi pretty convincingly. So obviously Samir is all over the various implications of that and you can’t really blame him - we’ve quite possibly got the only original work in existence (probably) by the most influential astrologer of his era or possibly ever

...and I’ve got the translation! It’s absolutely amazing. Stylistically it’s not unlike the Book of Nativities and it’s not just a straight copy either - it looks like our medieval scribe has stuck a bit of his own interpretation on. I desperately want to get a look at them side to side - my arabic isn’t going to be enough to do the full translation but with the latin I should get the gist of it. And what I’m really wondering is how the hell did the original end up in Dumfriesshire, and how come it’s been translated some time in the 12-14th C (yes I’m going to narrow it down a bit, give me time!) and who’s the scribe...? Another Abelard of Bath???

A

Sender: t.guerro@edin.ac.uk

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Cc: j.m.cooper@staffmail.edin.ac.uk

Subject: AS01

November 1st, 18:03

Dear Dr McGowan,

I should have an initial report on AS01 ready by the end of the week, but I thought I should share a few preliminary findings in case it’s relevant to your end of the work. The remains belong to a female. I put her age between 35 and 40 on the basis of the cranial sutures. She’s probably nulliparous, reasonable dentition, some arthritic change in the hands but no muscle ridges to suggest manual labour. I’m still running the spectrography on the teeth but I think the blue staining is lapis deposits. (Did you read the Dalheim paper?). I’ll let you know when I have anything more.

Teresa Fernandez-Guerro

Lecturer in Human Osteoarchaeology

School of History, Classics and Archaeology, University of Edinburgh, Robert Williamson Wing, Edinburgh EH8 9AG

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 1st 19:02

Hi Jen,

Just got the first bone report and I genuinely think this could be something amazing. It looks like the guy we found isn’t a guy at all - they’re pretty sure AS01 is a childless woman in her late thirties and probably high status/not peasantry, all of which would say religieuse to me even if we hadn’t found her in a convent - and get this - there are lapis deposits in her teeth. We’ve got a woman with a habit of licking a brush coated in expensive paints, buried with an illuminated manuscript - she’s got to be another female translator/illuminator. Add her to the German one that was in the news and now we’re starting to build up a pretty good case for women in medieval scholarship... Which is really going to annoy JMC :)

Add to that there’s no convent in Lincluden after about 1390, because the Earl of Douglas decided they had all been wicked and shut the place down (yeah right…). They had monks after that, but never a mix of men and women - so I think we’re looking at a manuscript date of mid-late 14th C, which fits nicely with the style, speaking of which -

The marginalia are brilliant! There’s lots of the usual doodles (an excellent rabbit-riding-a-snail, always my favourite) and plenty of whining about how cold her hands are and how Marget at the next table keeps stealing her good brush (they had a scriptorium!). I’ve got the Arabic as well at the moment (Samir wants it back, but I’m fobbing him off for now) and it’s absolutely fascinating the way she’s doing the translation and the commentary. There are bits where she’s copied some of the arabic characters into the margins next to the latin translation - she’s also putting the odd comment in French and little bits of Scots which is even better - we’ve got a woman writing fluently in four languages in Dumfriesshire c1390! JMC’s going to see if he can get anything out of the archives that’ll give us any names to narrow it down any but I'm not holding out all that much hope. I'm probably more excited if this wasn't some “special” woman if I’m honest with you - it lends more weight to the women-as-commonplace-illuminators theory, much more exciting than another Hildegard of Bingen or Herrad of Landsberg. Though I wouldn't be too disappointed by that either! :D

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 2nd 08:29

Pics or it didn’t happen!!!!!

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 2nd 09:15

Attachments:

IMG_201902...2401800.jpg

IMG_201902...2491801.jpg

Ok but top secret please. JMC will do his nut if this gets out without his knowledge!

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 2nd 09:30

I’ll be the soul of discretion :) It looks brilliant at a quick glance. I’ll have time for a proper look over the weekend. So exciting!

Jen

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 2nd 20:14

Attachment:

Pict_1.jpg

Decided I’d stay late last night and put in a few extra hours on the manuscript, and there’s this weird thing that I keep noticing. There’s a recurring pattern of arabic characters - sort of a pictogram - that I keep seeing through the manuscripts. I thought it was decorative at first in the arabic copy because I can’t translate it directly but I’ve started noticing it in the latin translation. It’s really subtle but it looks like AS01 is adding it in to some of the illuminations. I’ve spotted it three times - once in a full page illustration where she’s copied one from the Kitāb al‐ulūf - it’s a star map - she’s left the pattern the same but added the latin constellation names in place of the arabic - and this little pictogram is just subtly painted into a nebula in the background. It’s not exactly the same in the original - there it’s usually mixed in with the text, or used as a sort of place marker between chapters. Then it’s in an illuminated letter - and that one does match the original document, so it could just be a straight copy over. The third one’s in a margin, like she was practicing maybe? But it’s after the other two, so she must have been flicking ahead a bit. I don’t know.

Anyway I’ve attached it, would you mind having a look and seeing what you make of it? Best I can do is something about spaces?

Thanks

A

Sender: t.guerro@edin.ac.uk

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: AS01

November 3rd 09:06

Dear Dr McGowan,

I was giving some thought to AS01 last night. Initially I thought the changes in the fingertips were degenerate (especially given the working theory that she’s a professional scribe) but the wear is out of proportion to the osteophytes particularly at the distal phalanx and there are a series of linear fractures that I missed first time round. I’m going to see if Jacqueline can run them through the MRI this afternoon. I’ll let you know what we find.

Teresa Fernandez-Guerro

Lecturer in Human Osteoarchaeology

School of History, Classics and Archaeology, University of Edinburgh, Robert Williamson Wing, Edinburgh EH8 9AG

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 3rd 15:32

Hi Allie

I think you’re right - closest thing I can come to a translation is “the space that (is) waits (waiting) between spaces” but it’s a script variant I’m not familiar with. “Void” might be closer. I can send it down to Innes Elgammal in Granada if you like?

J

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 3rd 15:53

Hang fire for a bit on that one, I’m not sure. We can always see what he thinks later, I think JMC wants it kept in house for now.

Ok so, I’m getting towards the end and I’ve documented six further pictograms in the main body of the latin text, and honestly we must be well over a dozen in the margins now. But the commentary is really interesting - she’s mostly writing in Scots now and she’s not really doodling any more (which is a shame, I miss my snails). But she’s started talking about how she’s drawing the pictogram. She’s calling it the “space in the stars,” so I can see how she’s got that from the pictogram but there’s context that I’m not getting. There’s a couple of lines where she says Marget has been messing with her illuminations but Marget won’t admit it, then the next page she starts wondering if she’s actually drawing extra copies of the pictogram but she doesn’t remember doing it. I suppose if you translate books for fourteen hours a day in a convent you could start to lose your grip on reality a bit. I’m starting to understand how she feels and I’m not even in a convent.

A

Sender: t.guerro@edin.ac.uk

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: RE: AS01

November 4th 16:18

Attachment:

AS01_MRI

Dear Dr McGowan,

The MRI report is attached. Have a read and see what you think but I think it’s fairly clear these fractures are perimortem.

Regards

Teresa Fernandez-Guerro

Lecturer in Human Osteoarchaeology

School of History, Classics and Archaeology, University of Edinburgh, Robert Williamson Wing, Edinburgh EH8 9AG

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 4th: 16:58

Teresa F-G got back in touch and it’s a bit gruesome -she thinks there’s pretty clear evidence on AS01’s skeleton that she was buried alive, or at least that she wasn’t dead when they put her in that box. Which is creepy enough to start with!

Next weird installment - I got to the end, and it looks like AS01 is definitely starting to lose it. She talks about wanting to score out the symbol, but every time she lifts her brush or her quill she realises she’s just drawn another one without being consciously aware of it. Some sort of trance state? Very weird even for 1390!

A

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 3rd: 17:06

Do you think it’s a divine inspiration thing? Julian of Norwich? No suggestion on how she ended up in the box I take it?

Messenger: November 3rd, 17:10

Alice Mary:

Nope it just stops there
jenOnTour:

Went mad and had to be locked up?

Embarrassment to church?

Alice Mary:

Could be

Dates are right-ish?

jenOnTour:

For convent being shut?

Could be

Alice Mary:

Going back for another look

Hold on
jenOnTour:

Ok

Going AFK

Speak later

18:50

Alice Mary:

You about?

?

Message left on Dr Bryson’s Voicemail, 3rd November, 20:41

McGowan: Hi, Jen (pause) Could you give me a call when you get this message please? It’s Alice. Ok, thanks. Bye.

Message left on Dr Bryson’s Voicemail, 3rd November, 21:04

McGowan: Hi, Jen, Alice again. Look, I’m really sorry to bother you but it’s (pause) important, if you could just give me a ring when you get this, that’d be great. Hopefully speak to you soon.

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 3rd: 22:05

Hi jen

Been trying to call you this evening and not getting through, thought I would email just in case you get this first. Weird request I know but I need you to delete the image files I sent you please.

Thanks, A

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 4th: 09:15

Hi Alice,

I just got your messages this morning. Sorry, we went out for dinner and my phone ran out of charge, I only just switched it back on. I’ve deleted the files (do you need me to delete your emails as well?) Is this a confidentiality issue?

Jen

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello!

November 4th: 11:02

Sort of a data protection thing. I know it’s weird but humour me please. Can I just check you haven’t forwarded them on to anyone? P.s. Yes emails too and empty your recycle bin please

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject:

November 4th: 15:02

No, I haven’t sent them to anyone. Is this JMC making trouble about it going out of the department?

All the copies are off my computer now, you’re safe.

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE:

November 4th: 21:43

Thanks

I’m really sorry

Please just hear me out?

I went back through the manuscripts to recount the number of times the pictogram showed up in the marginalia and I got seven more this time. Then on the recount there was another one. Every time I go back through it I find more of them- ok, maybe I missed one or two on the first pass but missing this number should be impossible even for me.

And then I worked out that they were in biro. I mean, seriously, someone scribbling IN BIRO on a manuscript of this significance? And I was trying to figure out who it could have been and start chapping doors - but there is literally no one else with access to this right now. The only explanation is that I’m doing exactly what AS01 was doing - I’m drawing this stupid little doodle, over and over without realising it. I don’t know whether i’ve just internalised what she was writing about because I’ve been staring at it for so long, or if I’m actually having some sort of episode -but I’m a bit freaked out by it if I’m being honest with you.

Please don’t mention to JMC or any of the others. I promise I’m fine and I’ll sort out the manuscript, I just really needed to get that off my chest

A

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: RE:

November 5th: 10:59

Hi Allie

Sounds like you have been maybe staring at it for too long??

Time for a break maybe? Give me a call if you want to chat

J

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE:

November 5th: 12:02

Hi j

Got a decent night’s sleep last night so feeling a bit better - a bit embarrassed TBH. Have sorted out the scribbles so PLEASE don’t mention them - also have chucked out my biro and will be working in pencil from now on just in case...

Thanks

A

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE:

November 5th: 17:02

Glad to hear it!

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE:

November 5th: 18:38

Going to head down to Lincluden this evening. Had a couple of ideas...will let you know if I find anything

Transcript of Audio Recording: retrieved from Dr McGowan’s phone, recorded November 5th, 10:20

McGowan:(significant background noise, footsteps and wind noise) Okay. It’s about ten thirty, I’m standing outside Lincluden Collegiate Church, I’ve got the river behind me and the weather is bloody awful. Just going to go through the cordons now (pause, some rustling). All right, that’s me in. It’s proper gothic, nice arches, definite Whitby vibe going on here. (more rustling) “Danger: Risk of Falling”, yup, there’s definitely been some erosion here. Right - let’s just get down into the [inaudible, followed by ten seconds of rustling]

I’m in the trench now, sorry Jeremy if you’re ever listening to this, I promise I’m trying to keep my size sevens out of your priceless historical evidence. Right, torch on, let’s see what we’ve got.

[a further pause]

(whispering) There it is. I thought so. I [pause] Holy…

RECORDING ENDS

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE:

November 6th: 00:05

I found it. I went to Lincluden and I found it. It’s on the walls of the burial chamber, the sarcophagus, whatever you want to call it. She scratched it into the walls, over and over and over. You’d miss it if you didn’t know what you were looking for but it’s there. I thought the fractures to her fingers were her trying to dig her way out, but I think I’ve changed my mind. It’s like she said in the marginalia - she couldn’t stop herself writing it, even once they’d buried her alive.

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE:

November 6th: 04:25

Got a couple of hours sleep, still feeling pretty grim. Not helped by the fact I’ve started sleepwalking again and sleep copying? as well if that’s what you’d call it. Still pen and paper though, not scraping it into the walls with my fingers. Small mercies...

It’s bizarre - when I consciously think about something else, or do something else it’s ok. But if I switch off it’s like my hand just starts moving, it’s like... I don’t know, automatic writing or something. Like there’s a keyboard shortcut and someone’s just pressing it. Ctrl v. Ctrl v.

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: j.m.cooper@staffmail.edin.ac.uk

Subject: Alice McGowan

November 8th: 11:41

Hi Prof,

Hope you’re well. I hope you don’t mind me getting in touch, but I’ve been talking to Alice McGowan about some of the work she’s been doing as part of your team and I’m a bit worried about her. I haven’t got any contact details for her family but I wondered if you knew anyone who could maybe check in on her?

Thanks

Jennifer Bryson

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE:

November 8th: 11:44

Hi Allie

I’ve dropped JMC a line - before you ask I haven’t mentioned anything you’ve told me but I’m getting a bit worried so maybe you could give him a call?

Sender: j.m.cooper@staffmail.edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

Subject: RE: Alice McGowan

November 9th: 13:09

Dear Jennifer

Thanks for your email. I spoke to Alice today and she seemed fine. Six weeks with her whole hand in that plaster, apparently! She’s keen to get back to work though. Thanks for letting me know,

JMC

Professor Jeremy M. Cooper BA, PhD, FSA, FSA Scot

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: FWD: RE: Alice McGowan

November 9th: 13:12

Why are you in plaster???

Call me?

Sender: alice.mcgowan@edin.ac.uk

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

Subject: RE: FWD: RE: Alice McGowan

November 9th: 23:12

Difficult to type L handed, should have thought this through. Turns out doing the first one is quite easy but then it gets hard to hold the car door securely enough to slam it.

Didn’t work anyway. Found myself copying it left handed. Burning the papers as I find them but won’t be long till I start covering the walls

It’s in here with me. It wants to be copied. We should have left it buried. She knew that. The more I think about it the more sense it makes. It puts its hooks into your mind. You look at it enough, you start copying it. Sooner or later someone sees it enough times that the same thing happens to them. So it gets itself to a monastery or a convent - maybe someone sends it as a gift to the Abbess, maybe someone brings it home from pilgrimage. And in a few months you’ve got enough copies to seed every scriptorium in the country. But our scribe worked it out, she didn’t let go any further. I don’t know why she didn’t burn the book. Maybe she was too far gone by then and it wouldn’t let her do it.

I think she had herself buried there. I think she lay there in the dark with the book and her copy, and I think she scratched the symbol on the stone over and over again until she wore her fingers down to the bone and she starved or suffocated. And before that, there was someone else - whoever worked out what was going on in time to destroy everything that Abu Ma’shar wrote, and every copy ever made. Except for the one they missed, and it’s sitting in front of me.

In 1390 a book can’t travel faster than a horse. It can’t be in more than one place at once. No instagram, no snapchat, no email, no facebook. Now you can stick an image on twitter and it’s around the world in seconds. This thing was a meme long before Dawkins ever came up with the word. It’s a virus in every sense. It replicates itself. It takes over its host to make more copies, until it has infected - I don’t know - the whole world?

I think I’m starting to realise what happens then.

The drawing, the redrawing - that’s what gives the shape its power. It draws something out of the minds it gets into. It runs them like a background program, drawing power out of them. And when it’s filled up with everything it needs, that gate, that space between the stars is going to open, and something is going to come through. I don’t know what it is but it knows me now. It’s hungry.

I’m going back.

Please delete everything I’ve sent you. Format your hard drive, or smash it.

I’ll take care of everything else.

Messenger: November 10th, 08:01
jenOnTour:

You ok?

?

Please call

I’m worried about you

Message left on Dr McGowan’s Voicemail, November 10th, 08:11

Bryson: Hi Allie, please give me a ring when you get this? Speak to you soon?

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: alice.mcgowan@glas.ac.uk

Subject: hello?

November 12th, 10:34

Hi Allie

Just wondered how you’re getting on. Haven’t heard from you for a while...If you fancy a visit then we could definitely put you up for a bit - mini break?

J

BBC News Website, 18th November

The body of a 33 year old academic who went missing from her home a week ago has been found in the river Nith.

Dr Alice McGowan, from Glasgow, had last been seen leaving her work around 18:00 last Tuesday.

Police said a body found near the Solway Flats at about 11:00 had been identified, and there were no suspicious circumstances. An investigation is underway to establish any connection between Dr McGowan’s death and the recent vandalism of Lincluden Abbey, as well as the theft and destruction of two valuable historical manuscripts thought to be in Dr McGowan’s possession at the time of her death.

Sender: jim_and_moira@bntinternet.com

To: dr.jen.bryson@contoso.com

RE: FWD: Your flight details

November 24th, 09:49

Hi Jenny

That’s fine, Dad will pick you up at the airport at eight. See you tonight. Love you, Mum x

Sender: dr.jen.bryson@contosa.com

To: j.m.cooper@staffmail.edin.ac.uk and 18 other recipients

Subject:

Today 00:21

Attachments:

IMG_201902...2401800.jpg

IMG_201902...2491801.jpg

Pict_1.jpg

DOWNLOADING...

End.

*~*~*

Jude lives in Glasgow and writes horror and sci-fi in the narrow gaps between working full time as a surgeon, wrangling her kids and trying to wear out a border collie. She likes running, hillwalking and Tae Kwon Do, and is only better at one of those than the collie. You can find her on twitter @squintywitch.

The Magic Shop

By H.G. Wells

Originally Published in 1903

I had seen the Magic Shop from afar several times; I had passed it once or twice, a shop window of alluring little objects, magic balls, magic hens, wonderful cones, ventriloquist dolls, the material of the basket trick, packs of cards that looked all right, and all that sort of thing, but never had I thought of going in until one day, almost without warning, Gip hauled me by my finger right up to the window, and so conducted himself that there was nothing for it but to take him in. I had not thought the place was there, to tell the truth--a modest-sized frontage in Regent Street, between the picture shop and the place where the chicks run about just out of patent incubators, but there it was sure enough. I had fancied it was down nearer the Circus, or round the corner in Oxford Street, or even in Holborn; always over the way and a little inaccessible it had been, with something of the mirage in its position; but here it was now quite indisputably, and the fat end of Gip's pointing finger made a noise upon the glass.

"If I was rich," said Gip, dabbing a finger at the Disappearing Egg, "I'd buy myself that. And that"--which was The Crying Baby, Very Human --and that," which was a mystery, and called, so a neat card asserted, "Buy One and Astonish Your Friends."

"Anything," said Gip, "will disappear under one of those cones. I have read about it in a book.

"And there, dadda, is the Vanishing Halfpenny--, only they've put it this way up so's we can't see how it's done."

Gip, dear boy, inherits his mother's breeding, and he did not propose to enter the shop or worry in any way; only, you know, quite unconsciously he lugged my finger doorward, and he made his interest clear.

"That," he said, and pointed to the Magic Bottle.

"If you had that?" I said; at which promising inquiry he looked up with a sudden radiance.

"I could show it to Jessie," he said, thoughtful as ever of others.

"It's less than a hundred days to your birthday, Gibbles," I said, and laid my hand on the door-handle.

Gip made no answer, but his grip tightened on my finger, and so we came into the shop.

It was no common shop this; it was a magic shop, and all the prancing precedence Gip would have taken in the matter of mere toys was wanting. He left the burthen of the conversation to me.

It was a little, narrow shop, not very well lit, and the door-bell pinged again with a plaintive note as we closed it behind us. For a moment or so we were alone and could glance about us. There was a tiger in papier-mache on the glass case that covered the low counter--a grave, kind-eyed tiger that waggled his head in a methodical manner; there were several crystal spheres, a china hand holding magic cards, a stock of magic fish-bowls in various sizes, and an immodest magic hat that shamelessly displayed its springs. On the floor were magic mirrors; one to draw you out long and thin, one to swell your head and vanish your legs, and one to make you short and fat like a draught; and while we were laughing at these the shopman, as I suppose, came in.

At any rate, there he was behind the counter--a curious, sallow, dark man, with one ear larger than the other and a chin like the toe-cap of a boot.

"What can we have the pleasure?" he said, spreading his long, magic fingers on the glass case; and so with a start we were aware of him.

"I want," I said, "to buy my little boy a few simple tricks."

"Legerdemain?" he asked. "Mechanical? Domestic?"

"Anything amusing?" said I.

"Um!" said the shopman, and scratched his head for a moment as if thinking. Then, quite distinctly, he drew from his head a glass ball. "Something in this way?" he said, and held it out.

The action was unexpected. I had seen the trick done at entertainments endless times before--it's part of the common stock of conjurers-- but I had not expected it here.

"That's good," I said, with a laugh.

"Isn't it?" said the shopman.

Gip stretched out his disengaged hand to take this object and found merely a blank palm.

"It's in your pocket," said the shopman, and there it was!

"How much will that be?" I asked.

"We make no charge for glass balls," said the shopman politely. "We get them,"--he picked one out of his elbow as he spoke--"free." He produced another from the back of his neck, and laid it beside its predecessor on the counter. Gip regarded his glass ball sagely, then directed a look of inquiry at the two on the counter, and finally brought his round-eyed scrutiny to the shopman, who smiled.

"You may have those too," said the shopman, "and, if you don't mind, one from my mouth. So!"

Gip counselled me mutely for a moment, and then in a profound silence put away the four balls, resumed my reassuring finger, and nerved himself for the next event.

"We get all our smaller tricks in that way," the shopman remarked.

I laughed in the manner of one who subscribes to a jest. "Instead of going to the wholesale shop," I said. "Of course, it's cheaper."

"In a way," the shopman said. "Though we pay in the end. But not so heavily--as people suppose. . . . Our larger tricks, and our daily provisions and all the other things we want, we get out of that hat. . . And you know, sir, if you'll excuse my saying it, there isn't a wholesale shop, not for Genuine Magic goods, sir. I don't know if you noticed our inscription--the Genuine Magic shop." He drew a business-card from his cheek and handed it to me. "Genuine," he said, with his finger on the word, and added, "There is absolutely no deception, sir."

He seemed to be carrying out the joke pretty thoroughly, I thought.

He turned to Gip with a smile of remarkable affability. "You, you know, are the Right Sort of Boy."

I was surprised at his knowing that, because, in the interests of discipline, we keep it rather a secret even at home; but Gip received it in unflinching silence, keeping a steadfast eye on him.

"It's only the Right Sort of Boy gets through that doorway."

And, as if by way of illustration, there came a rattling at the door, and a squeaking little voice could be faintly heard. "Nyar! I warn 'a go in there, dadda, I warn 'a go in there. Ny-a-a-ah!" and then the accents of a down-trodden parent, urging consolations and propitiations. "It's locked, Edward," he said.

"But it isn't," said I.

"It is, sir," said the shopman, "always--for that sort of child," and as he spoke we had a glimpse of the other youngster, a little, white face, pallid from sweet-eating and over-sapid food, and distorted by evil passions, a ruthless little egotist, pawing at the enchanted pane. "It's no good, sir," said the shopman, as I moved, with my natural helpfulness, doorward, and presently the spoilt child was carried off howling.

"How do you manage that?" I said, breathing a little more freely.

"Magic!" said the shopman, with a careless wave of the hand, and behold! sparks of coloured fire flew out of his fingers and vanished into the shadows of the shop.

"You were saying," he said, addressing himself to Gip, "before you came in, that you would like one of our 'Buy One and Astonish your Friends' boxes?"

Gip, after a gallant effort, said "Yes."

"It's in your pocket."

And leaning over the counter--he really had an extraordinarily long body--this amazing person produced the article in the customary conjurer's manner. "Paper," he said, and took a sheet out of the empty hat with the springs; "string," and behold his mouth was a string-box, from which he drew an unending thread, which when he had tied his parcel he bit off--and, it seemed to me, swallowed the ball of string. And then he lit a candle at the nose of one of the ventriloquist's dummies, stuck one of his fingers (which had become sealing-wax red) into the flame, and so sealed the parcel. "Then there was the Disappearing Egg," he remarked, and produced one from within my coat-breast and packed it, and also The Crying Baby, Very Human. I handed each parcel to Gip as it was ready, and he clasped them to his chest.

He said very little, but his eyes were eloquent; the clutch of his arms was eloquent. He was the playground of unspeakable emotions. These, you know, were real Magics. Then, with a start, I discovered something moving about in my hat--something soft and jumpy. I whipped it off, and a ruffled pigeon--no doubt a confederate--dropped out and ran on the counter, and went, I fancy, into a cardboard box behind the papier-mache tiger.

"Tut, tut!" said the shopman, dexterously relieving me of my headdress; "careless bird, and--as I live--nesting!"

He shook my hat, and shook out into his extended hand two or three eggs, a large marble, a watch, about half-a-dozen of the inevitable glass balls, and then crumpled, crinkled paper, more and more and more, talking all the time of the way in which people neglect to brush their hats inside as well as out, politely, of course, but with a certain personal application. "All sorts of things accumulate, sir. . . . Not you, of course, in particular. . . . Nearly every customer. . . . Astonishing what they carry about with them. . . ." The crumpled paper rose and billowed on the counter more and more and more, until he was nearly hidden from us, until he was altogether hidden, and still his voice went on and on. "We none of us know what the fair semblance of a human being may conceal, sir. Are we all then no better than brushed exteriors, whited sepulchres--"

His voice stopped--exactly like when you hit a neighbour's gramophone with a well-aimed brick, the same instant silence, and the rustle of the paper stopped, and everything was still. . . .

"Have you done with my hat?" I said, after an interval.

There was no answer.

I stared at Gip, and Gip stared at me, and there were our distortions in the magic mirrors, looking very rum, and grave, and quiet. . . .

"I think we'll go now," I said. "Will you tell me how much all this comes to? . . . .

"I say," I said, on a rather louder note, "I want the bill; and my hat, please."

It might have been a sniff from behind the paper pile. . . .

"Let's look behind the counter, Gip," I said. "He's making fun of us."

I led Gip round the head-wagging tiger, and what do you think there was behind the counter? No one at all! Only my hat on the floor, and a common conjurer's lop-eared white rabbit lost in meditation, and looking as stupid and crumpled as only a conjurer's rabbit can do. I resumed my hat, and the rabbit lolloped a lollop or so out of my way.

"Dadda!" said Gip, in a guilty whisper.

"What is it, Gip?" said I.

"I do like this shop, dadda."

"So should I," I said to myself, "if the counter wouldn't suddenly extend itself to shut one off from the door." But I didn't call Gip's attention to that. "Pussy!" he said, with a hand out to the rabbit as it came lolloping past us; "Pussy, do Gip a magic!" and his eyes followed it as it squeezed through a door I had certainly not remarked a moment before. Then this door opened wider, and the man with one ear larger than the other appeared again. He was smiling still, but his eye met mine with something between amusement and defiance. "You'd like to see our show-room, sir," he said, with an innocent suavity. Gip tugged my finger forward. I glanced at the counter and met the shopman's eye again. I was beginning to think the magic just a little too genuine. "We haven't VERY much time," I said. But somehow we were inside the show-room before I could finish that.

"All goods of the same quality," said the shopman, rubbing his flexible hands together, "and that is the Best. Nothing in the place that isn't genuine Magic, and warranted thoroughly rum. Excuse me, sir!"

I felt him pull at something that clung to my coat-sleeve, and then I saw he held a little, wriggling red demon by the tail--the little creature bit and fought and tried to get at his hand--and in a moment he tossed it carelessly behind a counter. No doubt the thing was only an image of twisted indiarubber, but for the moment--! And his gesture was exactly that of a man who handles some petty biting bit of vermin. I glanced at Gip, but Gip was looking at a magic rocking- horse. I was glad he hadn't seen the thing. "I say," I said, in an undertone, and indicating Gip and the red demon with my eyes, "you haven't many things like that about, have you?"

"None of ours! Probably brought it with you," said the shopman-- also in an undertone, and with a more dazzling smile than ever. "Astonishing what people will carry about with them unawares!" And then to Gip, "Do you see anything you fancy here?"

There were many things that Gip fancied there.

He turned to this astonishing tradesman with mingled confidence and respect. "Is that a Magic Sword?" he said.

"A Magic Toy Sword. It neither bends, breaks, nor cuts the fingers. It renders the bearer invincible in battle against any one under eighteen. Half-a-crown to seven and sixpence, according to size. These panoplies on cards are for juvenile knights-errant and very useful-- shield of safety, sandals of swiftness, helmet of invisibility."

"Oh, daddy!" gasped Gip.

I tried to find out what they cost, but the shopman did not heed me. He had got Gip now; he had got him away from my finger; he had embarked upon the exposition of all his confounded stock, and nothing was going to stop him. Presently I saw with a qualm of distrust and something very like jealousy that Gip had hold of this person's finger as usually he has hold of mine. No doubt the fellow was interesting, I thought, and had an interestingly faked lot of stuff, really good faked stuff, still--

I wandered after them, saying very little, but keeping an eye on this prestidigital fellow. After all, Gip was enjoying it. And no doubt when the time came to go we should be able to go quite easily.

It was a long, rambling place, that show-room, a gallery broken up by stands and stalls and pillars, with archways leading off to other departments, in which the queerest-looking assistants loafed and stared at one, and with perplexing mirrors and curtains. So perplexing, indeed, were these that I was presently unable to make out the door by which we had come.

The shopman showed Gip magic trains that ran without steam or clockwork, just as you set the signals, and then some very, very valuable boxes of soldiers that all came alive directly you took off the lid and said--. I myself haven't a very quick ear and it was a tongue- twisting sound, but Gip--he has his mother's ear--got it in no time. "Bravo!" said the shopman, putting the men back into the box unceremoniously and handing it to Gip. "Now," said the shopman, and in a moment Gip had made them all alive again.

"You'll take that box?" asked the shopman.

"We'll take that box," said I, "unless you charge its full value. In which case it would need a Trust Magnate--"

"Dear heart! No!" and the shopman swept the little men back again, shut the lid, waved the box in the air, and there it was, in brown paper, tied up and--with Gip's full name and address on the paper!

The shopman laughed at my amazement.

"This is the genuine magic," he said. "The real thing."

"It's a little too genuine for my taste," I said again.

After that he fell to showing Gip tricks, odd tricks, and still odder the way they were done. He explained them, he turned them inside out, and there was the dear little chap nodding his busy bit of a head in the sagest manner.

I did not attend as well as I might. "Hey, presto!" said the Magic Shopman, and then would come the clear, small "Hey, presto!" of the boy. But I was distracted by other things. It was being borne in upon me just how tremendously rum this place was; it was, so to speak, inundated by a sense of rumness. There was something a little rum about the fixtures even, about the ceiling, about the floor, about the casually distributed chairs. I had a queer feeling that whenever I wasn't looking at them straight they went askew, and moved about, and played a noiseless puss-in-the-corner behind my back. And the cornice had a serpentine design with masks--masks altogether too expressive for proper plaster.

Then abruptly my attention was caught by one of the odd-looking assistants. He was some way off and evidently unaware of my presence-- I saw a sort of three-quarter length of him over a pile of toys and through an arch--and, you know, he was leaning against a pillar in an idle sort of way doing the most horrid things with his features! The particular horrid thing he did was with his nose. He did it just as though he was idle and wanted to amuse himself. First of all it was a short, blobby nose, and then suddenly he shot it out like a telescope, and then out it flew and became thinner and thinner until it was like a long, red, flexible whip. Like a thing in a nightmare it was! He flourished it about and flung it forth as a fly-fisher flings his line.

My instant thought was that Gip mustn't see him. I turned about, and there was Gip quite preoccupied with the shopman, and thinking no evil. They were whispering together and looking at me. Gip was standing on a little stool, and the shopman was holding a sort of big drum in his hand.

"Hide and seek, dadda!" cried Gip. "You're He!"

And before I could do anything to prevent it, the shopman had clapped the big drum over him. I saw what was up directly. "Take that off," I cried, "this instant! You'll frighten the boy. Take it off!"

The shopman with the unequal ears did so without a word, and held the big cylinder towards me to show its emptiness. And the little stool was vacant! In that instant my boy had utterly disappeared? . . .

You know, perhaps, that sinister something that comes like a hand out of the unseen and grips your heart about. You know it takes your common self away and leaves you tense and deliberate, neither slow nor hasty, neither angry nor afraid. So it was with me.

I came up to this grinning shopman and kicked his stool aside.

"Stop this folly!" I said. "Where is my boy?"

"You see," he said, still displaying the drum's interior, "there is no deception---"

I put out my hand to grip him, and he eluded me by a dexterous movement. I snatched again, and he turned from me and pushed open a door to escape. "Stop!" I said, and he laughed, receding. I leapt after him--into utter darkness.

THUD!

"Lor' bless my 'eart! I didn't see you coming, sir!"

I was in Regent Street, and I had collided with a decent-looking working man; and a yard away, perhaps, and looking a little perplexed with himself, was Gip. There was some sort of apology, and then Gip had turned and come to me with a bright little smile, as though for a moment he had missed me.

And he was carrying four parcels in his arm!

He secured immediate possession of my finger.

For the second I was rather at a loss. I stared round to see the door of the magic shop, and, behold, it was not there! There was no door, no shop, nothing, only the common pilaster between the shop where they sell pictures and the window with the chicks! . . .

I did the only thing possible in that mental tumult; I walked straight to the kerbstone and held up my umbrella for a cab.

"'Ansoms," said Gip, in a note of culminating exultation.

I helped him in, recalled my address with an effort, and got in also. Something unusual proclaimed itself in my tail-coat pocket, and I felt and discovered a glass ball. With a petulant expression I flung it into the street.

Gip said nothing.

For a space neither of us spoke.

"Dada!" said Gip, at last, "that was a proper shop!"

I came round with that to the problem of just how the whole thing had seemed to him. He looked completely undamaged--so far, good; he was neither scared nor unhinged, he was simply tremendously satisfied with the afternoon's entertainment, and there in his arms were the four parcels.

Confound it! what could be in them?

"Um!" I said. "Little boys can't go to shops like that every day."

He received this with his usual stoicism, and for a moment I was sorry I was his father and not his mother, and so couldn't suddenly there, coram publico, in our hansom, kiss him. After all, I thought, the thing wasn't so very bad.

But it was only when we opened the parcels that I really began to be reassured. Three of them contained boxes of soldiers, quite ordinary lead soldiers, but of so good a quality as to make Gip altogether forget that originally these parcels had been Magic Tricks of the only genuine sort, and the fourth contained a kitten, a little living white kitten, in excellent health and appetite and temper.

I saw this unpacking with a sort of provisional relief. I hung about in the nursery for quite an unconscionable time. . . .

That happened six months ago. And now I am beginning to believe it is all right. The kitten had only the magic natural to all kittens, and the soldiers seem as steady a company as any colonel could desire. And Gip--?

The intelligent parent will understand that I have to go cautiously with Gip.

But I went so far as this one day. I said, "How would you like your soldiers to come alive, Gip, and march about by themselves?"

"Mine do," said Gip. "I just have to say a word I know before I open the lid."

"Then they march about alone?"

"Oh, quite, dadda. I shouldn't like them if they didn't do that."

I displayed no unbecoming surprise, and since then I have taken occasion to drop in upon him once or twice, unannounced, when the soldiers were about, but so far I have never discovered them performing in anything like a magical manner.

It's so difficult to tell.

There's also a question of finance. I have an incurable habit of paying bills. I have been up and down Regent Street several times, looking for that shop. I am inclined to think, indeed, that in that matter honour is satisfied, and that, since Gip's name and address are known to them, I may very well leave it to these people, whoever they may be, to send in their bill in their own time.

End.

*~*~*

Dear beloved reader,

I hope you found the chills you were looking for. Perhaps while entrenched in the pages of this issue of Cosmic Horror Monthly, you questioned both your own sanity and your place amongst the malevolent whims of our cold universe. If so, let not your thirst for more cosmic terror go unquenched. Simply visit COSMIC-HORROR.NET/SUBSCRIBE and offer your tribute to the old ones at a reduced rate!

Again, thank you for taking the time to read our fiction. I hope we meet again soon.

Charles Tyra

Editor

Table of Contents

- Greetings dear reader,
- To A Place I Couldn’t Reach
- In the Armpit
- Through the Stomach
- The Servants of Reality
- Marginalia
- The Magic Shop
- Dear beloved reader,