XZ#2 - Gothic Horror

Copyright of the text remains with the authors; Les Rolt, Will Conway, The Judge, Hannah Hood, Michael C Schuller, Amber Massie-Blomfield, 2013 Published by Annexe Press, 2013

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Foreword Welcome, brave reader, to the second issue of XZ. Hopefully you read XZ#1 and know all about the format, but if not let me fill you in. XZ is an exploration into fiction through the dissecting and reconstructing of various genres of writing, film and drama. We invite six authors to contribute to each issue and each one is given a segment of a particular narrative without any knowledge of what the other five are doing. When the segments are combined, a tale emerges, whole and intact.

This, the second issue, delves into the chilling world of gothic horror. Unsettling characters with hidden motives jostle against preturnatural beings, all hoping to make it to the end alive. Gothic horror has become a staple of the everyday literary diet with writers such a Mary Shelley and Bram Stoker being revived and reformed through various interpretations of their classics.

To create a story in this well-known style, we have given six writers pieces of a bare framework and let them run riot upon it. The story that has been sewn together has come to life as a whole new creature, very much casting a new shadow over the genre. Dive in and enjoy...

Nick Murray Annexe ed.

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Horvath

One You ram a knife into a man’s chest and you’ll be surprised how long it takes him to die. Of course there’s a certain artistry to the process, an inch to the left or right can be the difference between a sudden demise, and a slow, excruciating death.

But tonight was not about savouring the moment, it was about tying up loose ends.

Returning to my lodgings, I pack the final few items of requirement into my medical bag. Had it not been for my current predicament I may have taken longer to consider the offer I received this morning, but a ticket boarding a ship departing for Doppelvald tonight is my opportunity to disappear, to start again. Tomorrow they will come looking for me, but I shall be long gone.

I glance at my watch; I’ve plenty of time to make it to the docks, but can’t risk staying here too long. I’m caught in two minds, but the bottle of absinthe on my bureau is far too inviting. I take a glass from the shelf. One must always make time for life’s little pleasures.

As I reach for the bottle a knocking at the window startles me, the glass slips from my hand shattering upon the floor. My heart pounds, I pull a knife from my bag, gripping the handle tightly as I creep toward the window. The knocking comes 5

once more. I take a deep breath and throw open the shutters... With a raucous caw and a flapping of wings a bird soars into the night sky. A raven! Nothing but a bloody raven! I laugh at my foolish paranoia and place the knife on the window ledge.

Once my heartbeat has returned to its normal rate I fasten the shutters and turn towards the bureau. Before I can utter a sound, the fingers of a bear-like paw are wrapped tightly around my neck, lifting me from the ground, nails like daggers penetrating the skin, squeezing the life from me. As I reach for the knife in desperation, my assailant smiles and with a swift motion plunges a needle into my neck. Instantly my body goes limp, he releases me and I crumble to the ground.

“Don’t be afraid, Dr. Belgrave. I haven’t come to kill you. As a medical man I expect you’re familiar with muscular paralysis.”

I stare up at him. I try to move, try to speak – but my body is no longer mine to control. My vision is blurry, all my senses allow is the taste of my own blood trickling down my throat and the sound of his voice.

“The stabbing sensation in your neck was an injection of Tetrodotoxin. There is an antidote, but I wanted to be sure I’d have your full attention. Remember John, not all those who help you are your friends, and not all those who hurt you are your enemies. I have a message for you, and if you value your life I suggest you listen carefully.” ***

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Two As I boarded the ship I waited – a traveller’s superstition of mine – for my trunks to be stowed away in the hold. I watched two ship-hands cross themselves as the last set of cases were loaded on board.

Later on deck, as we set off, the cheery-faced captain who had welcomed me approached bareheaded and, in his broken English, warned me not to be deceived by the clement weather that saw us aboard. He pointed behind me to the distance and I could see that the sky conspired.

I must confess that this was the last time we spoke jovially on that tortuous journey. I do not take to water. For the first few days hardly a morsel passed my lips, and what I could swallow soon returned in a manner most ungracious. I wished for fresh air, but the ferocious storm that harried us would have easily seen me over the gunwale, so I remained below deck.

Whilst the heavens battled with Hell around us, I shivered in a blanket like a babe in my quarters. I had intended to work through some of my paperwork but this seemed unlikely now.

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Despite the adverse conditions, my fatigue brought easy sleep. One night I was awoken by a commotion outside my cabin. I made out the word ‘vershwund’.

To my surprise my door had been locked from the outside. I was distressed by this treatment but exhaustion overtook my indignation and I slept again soon thereafter.

During a calm the next evening I heard whimpering from a neighbouring cabin.

I tried the door only to find it locked again. As I drifted in and out of a light slumber, I fancied I heard a scream. My mind was perturbed by strange dreams, so I could not be sure, though I was certain of raised voices in the early dark hours.

The final night brought an occurrence most queer. I dreamt of a swirling wood, I could sense the smell of food and set out to find the source. As I went I realised in shock that I was on all fours like a beast. I soon forgot this when I happened upon a banquet. Before I could devour this as I wished to, I was dragged back by many unseen hands. I later woke to find myself restrained in my bed.

I was released the following morning, when the sea no longer raged around us.

When I sought the captain to voice my outrage I met a sight most unsettling, which prevented me from making my grievance heard. Bobbing in the waves just to our aft was a nude corpse, tangled in rigging and dragging behind us like some cursed merman. Our ship had almost careened during the storm and the poor wretch must have been victim to a falling crate. The captain ordered one of his men to cut him free, rather than drag the unfortunate young man back aboard.

I was treated most coarsely on that last day, though no-body would divulge what the reason was. The ship’s men refused to assist me, and I was disturbed that they were reluctant to approach, even recoiling when I came close. The poor driver who met me when we landed had to convey my belongings almost singlehandedly to my waiting carriage.

A heady mix of feelings swam around my head as I tried to cast the unpleasant voyage out of my mind.

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Three The Horvath Telegrams Day John B: COUNTRYSIDE IS COLD AND DENSE WITH FORESTS STOP IN ALL DIRECTIONS SPREADS HARD AND MOUNTAINOUS STOP Judge T: ORIENTATION STOP JB: EAST STOP NO TRACE OF STOP CASTLE IN DISTANCE RISES HIGH ON HILL STOP JT: APPEARANCE STOP JB: UNABLE TO JUDGE STOP JT: SIZE STOP JB: UNABLE TO JUDGE STOP CASTLE SHROUDED IN HEAVY HUMOUR VEILED BY NIGHT STOP APPROACHING CASTLE GATES STOP COMING TO A STOP STOP JT: CONTINUE STOP JB: WELCOMED BY DUKE HORVATH STOP FORMAL GREETING STOP NOT SURE HOW KNEW MY DAUGHTERS NAME STOP APPEARANCE RATHER STARTLING STOP JT: ELABORATE STOP 9

JB: WELL GROOMED QUAINT SIX FOOT APPROX BLACK HAIR AND EYES LONG LIMBED MONOTONE VOICE STOP SEEMS UNCOMMUNICATIVE THOUGH WELCOMING STOP JT: AGE STOP JB: UNABLE TO JUDGE STOP Night JB: VOICES OUTSIDE MY ROOM STOP UNABLE TO SLEEP STOP JT: CONTINUE STOP JB: STEPPING OUT TO INVESTIGATE STOP VOICES ALSO IN CORRIDOR STOP NOT VERY MUCH LIGHT STOP JT: WHAT ARE VOICES SAYING STOP JB: VOICES MOAN STOP ONE I THINK LAUGHING SAYING DONT STOP I THINK CALLING FOR STOP SAYING DONT STOP PERHAPS NOT LAUGHING CRYING STOP SAYING DONT STOP JT: DONT WHAT STOP JB: DONT STOP DONT STOP DONT STOP DONT STOP DONT STOP DONT STOP JT: ELABORATE STOP JB: ONE MORE VOICE MAN STOP CANT TELL IF STOP LOST BEARINGS STOP CANT FIND WAY BACK TO BEDROOM STOP VOICES DONT STOP NO LIGHT STOP PURSUED STOP JT: ELABORATE PURSUED BY WHAT STOP JB: PURSUED PURSUED PURSUED STOP JT: ELABORATE PURSUED BY WHAT STOP JB: PURSUED BY VOICE STOP BY COLD BY SHADOW STOP CANT FIND STOP CANT RUN STOP CANT STOP PERHAPS NOT LAUGHING CRYING STOP GET OUT NOW STOP RUNNING NOW SAYING STOP SAYING STOP PLEASE STOP JT: CONTINUE STOP JB: PLEASE STOP PLEASE STOP PLEASE STOP PLEASE STOP JT: CONTINUE STOP JB: SAYING RUNNING DADDY PLEASE STOP CAME ACROSS DUKE HORVATH ALSO UP AT NIGHT STOP SPOKE TO ME STOP SOOTHED ME STOP POINTED ME BACK TO BEDROOM I SAID THANK YOU VERY MUCH STOP HE SAID GO BACK TO BED STOP BACK TO BED STOP JT: DREAM NOW STOP

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Four LIST OF PLATES (CONT’D.) ‘The arrival of such a card presented Belgrave with something of a dilemma should he disobey his sometime-employer’s orders, however imprecise, or resign himself to an uncomfortable evening’s enquiry at the hands of the Duke?’

A calling card, monogrammed AH in thick germanic script, with the word ‘Thursday’ clearly visible in the bottom right corner. The card sits atop a small lacquered table, littered with the metallic detritus of the medical trade.

p31

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‘The pleasantness of the evening did nothing to improve Belgrave’s mood, though it certainly made the walk uphill less arduous.’

A bridge, constructed in the form of an arch and lined with crudely faced stone, crossing the narrowest part of a fast-flowing watercourse. The stream forms the single path through an otherwise intact patch of forest, and appears to serve the large house that lies beyond.

p37 ‘The spread was not so sumptuous as imagined, but the invitation had been sent in haste and such circumstances were to be excused if not entirely intolerable.’

In the foreground, a dining table laid with a variety of cold meats and breads, with two places set at opposite ends. The room is sparsely furnished but shows signs of continuous inhabitance, a fire burning in the background providing light for the scene and fabric hangings covering the bulk of chamber’s limestone construction.

p39 “Their bodies were contorted into the most vile stances; inconceivable, really, that a place alone could be enough to inspire such terror!”

Three corpses lie at the feet of a policeman, his gaze directed to the left of the scene and his notebook raised in one hand. The victims’ eyes and mouths are stretched open as though still screaming, and their limbs are locked at most unnatural angles.

The room they are contained within is domestic and lavish, and their blood is being sapped by a thick Turkish carpet.

p45

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“Had it not been for my irrefutable absence, I fear I would have been straight for the gallows. To have found myself sent here seemed the one piece of good fortune I was to encounter in the whole blasted affair.”

The interior of a train carriage, its only occupant a well-dressed man seated next to an open window and clutching an unfurled letter. His expression is serious and the letterhead, folded back so as to be visible in the sketch, bears the mark of the Metropolitan Police. The countryside visible through the blind is verdant, densely forested and rises to summits hidden by hazy mist.

p47 “That my own symptoms have emerged only in my change of residence cannot be a coincidence. I can only hope that your assessment differs in its prognosis.”

Two men sit in armchairs next to a banked fire, the better dressed of the two leaning forward in his chair and gesticulating with a withered hand, and the other, with a doctor’s bag resting by his feet, wearing an expression of quiet fear. p50

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Five John Belgrave lay dreaming.

Always the same dream. He is standing at the door to his childhood home.

The sound of starlings outside, in their great swarms, coming up from the south for the summer. At his back, the sun, the warm spring air. Before him, the hall, familiar, frightening.

Everything is in its right place. The pictures, the side table, the shut doors.

But he cannot see through it into the living room. A pitch darkness fills the hall, the light of the day cannot penetrate its depths.

His heart is pounding in his chest now. He knows what he must do. He steps forward and– He is up and across the room before he even realizes it. The night is silent around him, but his panic is wild and absolute. The good doctor tries pacing about the room to calm himself, but he cannot. So he fetches his pipe and decides that he will go outside, that the fresh air will do him good.

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The house, grand by the light of day, is cavernous in the night. The hills of Doppelvald County, and the Appalachian mountains looming behind them, peaceful after dawn, are brooding before it. Dr. Belgrave misses New England, he misses the flat coastal plain of his home town of Bedford. Outside on the porch, he broods at the hot, humid Tennessee night. What an awful country to be lost in, he thinks. The pipe is smoked. The thick, acrid plume rises into the deep sky above him. Orion stands guard, his bow drawn. Ursa Major rears. The doctor’s eyelids grow heavy again.

As he is creeping back upstairs he hears somewhere beneath him the low murmur of what must be his host’s voice, moving slow and methodically, like a snake, like a song. Dr. Belgrave searches for the sound, and comes upon a door he had not noticed before. It leads down into what must be a hidden basement. As he descends, the doctor prepares how he will explain himself to Mr Horvath. Old Duke isn’t as bad as he seems, Dr. Belgrave reasons. Just gruff. He lacks even the meanest bit of that mythical Southern hospitality.

At the basement door, Belgrave pauses. Maybe it is that he can now hear the song that is being sung, or the way the old man’s shadows are playing across the face of the open door. Belgrave stops, and he hears: Through free grace and a dying Lamb, poor mourners found a home at last.

Go, fathers, and tell it to the world, poor mourners found a home at last.

Knowing he is being silly - rude even - the doctor gathers himself, and steps around the corner to greet old Duke Horvath. But the words “well, good evening Mr Horvath” get stopped up in his throat before he can say any of them. They are not standing in the basement of that creaking old house in the hills of east Tennessee, no. It is an early spring morning in the living room of his mother’s house, the starlings perched on the power lines outside, tweeting fiercely.

Duke Horvath turns, his face twisted into a toothy grin. “Why, good evening doctor!”

Even as the words are said, the clouds thicken at the windows and come pouring in, blocking out the summer sun, filling the rooms with all the panic of the doctor’s dreams. He turns, he runs, tearing up through the guts of the house, out into the night air.

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Six To destroy.

To destroy a life.

To destroy a human life.

It is a sin.

Once I was a man who had no doubt of such things.

Where is that man now?

Is it a few short weeks? And yet I suspect that if I passed him in the street he would seem to me a stranger.

Oh happy stranger, with such moral certitude in your grasp. He who was a healer, a friend to children, animals, who would switch out lanterns and sit in the darkness rather than let moths injure themselves on the light. What has become of you? Is it possible we are one and the same?

But there is knowledge so dreadful it must transform a man utterly. Things so revolting to the human spirit that even God Himself must turn his face away.

Is it a sin, then, to kill, in cases such as this, when there seems no other way?

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There are men who find themselves forced to step over the normal moral bounds to reach for a greater good. Don’t the mighty men of war commit villainous deeds in battle and yet we commend them to the heavens for their spiritual fortitude, yes, their very disregard for individual life in pursuit a higher aim? Don’t we call them heroes?

But how few their number, a handful scattered through history to remind man of the closeness of God in our everyday dealings. What sacrilege heaped on sacrilege to seek to count myself amongst them. No normal mortal may be granted forgiveness for the taking of another’s life, regardless of the circumstance.

It was I that struck the match, that set the house alight, that stood rooted to the spot while human flesh was caught by the flames, that let the singeing scent of life fill my nostrils, gazed on impassively, even smiled, even smiled as I mounted my carriage and came away to this ship, waiting to carry me home, where I must once more be amongst the normal everyday things that will surely never embrace again one who has seen what I’ve seen, done what I’ve done.

The little dogs in the park, the dew on the roses in the garden, the distant singing of a loved one floating from an upstairs window. There were loved ones, weren’t there? You belong to someone else now, it seems to me.

Perhaps it is a fever. Even though I’m surrounded by water, my mind’s made up of burning and I know now this is my destiny, to be filled with fire in this life and the next.

I am a thing of flame and human flesh.

And I will burn.

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And that, couragous reader, is it! Crafted by six individuals each utilising a unique style and form, the story you have just read was grown from the most sparse of seeds and thus was given shape entirely by the writers themselves. The finished article is nothing like we imagined it would be and entirely more interesting than we dared to hope. The characters that clambered out of the story are visceral and feel altogether deadly. We hope that you have enjoyed, and weren’t too chilled by, XZ#2 and will join us for the third issue in which we’ll be blasting into the outer reaches of science fiction.

The writers of XZ#2 are: One - Les Rolt Two - Will Conway Three - The Judge Four - Hannah Hood Five - Michael C Schuller Six - Amber Massie-Blomfield

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Biographical Notes LES ROLT is a writer split, or rather balanced, between Colorado and London. His fiction has appeared on Annexe and he is currently working on his debut novel. bit.ly/15taEQS WILL CONWAY, a writer of prose and poetry, is a member of the Lazy Gramophone collective and published his collection of short stories with them. www.willconway.co.uk THE JUDGE is a comrade of Dr. Fulminare and the Sidekick Books team with whom he writes reviews and articles. He is currently working on his first novel. www.drfulminare.com/thejudge.php HANNAH HOOD, Annexe Quartermaster, balances her time between visual arts and a love of stationery. cargocollective.com/hannahlhood MICHAEL C SCHULLER became Annexe poetry editor earlier this year. He is currently working towards finishing his first collection.

AMBER MASSIE-BLOMFIELD is a writer of elegant short fiction and is a regular performer for Annexe live events. Her short story collection will be published by us in the new year. ducksonandpinker.tumblr.com/

XZ is an online serial edited by NICK MURRAY and published by Annexe Magazine. www.AnnexeMagazine.com

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