THE OFFICIAL SD EZINE Introduction by Steve Upham The Lake People by John T. Carney Event Report - Welsh SF Conference Room a Thousand Years Wide by Mark Lewis Book Launch - Kangazang! A World Without Men by Lee Moan Newspaper Feature - The Dark Art of Steve Upham Ferry Crossing by Andrew Marshall Progress Report - SD Books & News The Werewolf by Chris Morris Reading Zone - Recommended Magazines
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Screaming Dreams The stories in this eZine are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover illustration Copyright Š Steve Upham 2008 All content remains the Copyright of each contributor and must NOT be re-used without permission from the original Copyright holder(s). Thank you. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.
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STEVE UPHAM
I
t sure has been one crazy year for me, I must admit. 2008 started off busier than ever and for the first few months I thought my only worry would be keeping up with the sheer amount of work I had in front of me. But little did I know what was to come ... I’m sure many of you will already be aware of what happened regarding my health issues, so I won’t go into detail here. But needless to say it came as quite a shock when I found myself in the Intensive Care Unit at the local hospital. It was quite a surreal experience actually and not the most pleasant either. Being wheeled down the corridors to ICU, lying on the bed looking up at those ceiling lights passing overhead, with the oxygen mask on and tubes sticking out of everywhere they could stick them in, it was just like you see on TV! Before you ask, no, I didn’t see any bright white lights or tunnels and my life didn’t flash before my eyes ... so I couldn’t have been that close, eh?! All joking aside though it was serious and I’ll always be thankful to all the doctors and nurses who looked after me during my three weeks in hospital. I probably wouldn’t be here now to write this without them. I guess we often take things for granted and don’t fully appreciate what we have available to us. Like the National Health Service. I know it’s not perfect, but nothing ever is. It does save lives though, that’s the important thing. So three cheers for the NHS on this occasion! I’d like to take this opportunity to send best wishes to all the other patients who shared a ward (and some laughs) with me, especially Graham, Trevor and Stan. I hope you are all in good health and enjoying life again. Anyway, I’m back home and going through a slow recovery process. It’ll take time but I hope that I’ll be well enough by the New Year to be able to continue publishing the SD books. In the meantime I aim to work on a few short eZine issues and eBooks, so please keep watching the website for new releases over the coming months. A big thank you to everyone who sent me cards, e-mails and best wishes while I was ill. It means a lot I assure you. The support you have all given SD has been incredible and I want you to know I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy this mini issue of the eZine. I am pleased to introduce three new authors to the Estronomicon lineup and hope you will agree that their work deserves more exposure in future issues. Feel free to get in touch with your comments and feedback, as always. -1-
JOHN T. CARNEY
“S
o they disappeared two weeks after they arrived here, you say? They went off on a camping trip into the woods and never came back?” “According to the reports that were made by their remaining family members,” answered Brandish. “And they only survived because they remained in the cabin and around the general vicinity of the same. Folks say there’s something out there in those woods that whisked them away to some nameless place that only the woods folk know about. The Lake People, in other words.” “That’s absolutely ridiculous! You can’t expect me to believe some children’s folk tale that you fished out of an old camper’s story book. That’s absolute nonsense!” “That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?” Brandish replied. His eyes gleamed in the light of the log fire of the cabin. He stroked his thick, black beard and mustachios and looked around the room at those gathered there: myself, and a wild-haired mystic from the Sudan named Khoumed who had joined us because of his interest in the occult and the stories regarding Lake Whitfield which he had heard. Brandish wore a heavy lumberjack shirt and jeans along with heavy boots that made a stomping noise when he walked about the room. Yet now, he merely stood still regarding us quietly as if silently challenging us to discuss the matter at hand with him with similar interest. Khoumed snorted. “I have yet to see these Lake People you spoke of. So far, all I’ve seen are geese and ducks along with the occasional deer that come down to the lake for water. There better be something to this story or you owe me a free set of drinks at the bar when we get back home. All I’ve heard are stories, stories about people disappearing. And where did they disappear to? Under the lake? Into thin air? Tell you what, if you see one, holler, I’m going down to the lake to do some fishing.” Khoumed got up, grumbling, his thick, wiry black hair sticking up from his scalp like an Indian’s. His face was black as the night, but his eyes burned with the radiant fires of the dusk that was now approaching. He wore a long white tunic with a sashed belt at the waist. Around his neck he wore a sacred amulet that bore the mystic signs of his religion, the mysticism and occult beliefs of which he often spoke when he was at leisure to do so. Yet that moment was not presently upon him as he began to cross the room and rumble through the closet for his fishing pole and bait. -2-
JOHN T. CARNEY “Hold on a minute there!” Brandish said. “I haven’t even told you the whole story of why we came here. I may have told you some things about this lake, but not everything.” “So what’s everything?” Khoumed asked, still in a grumbling mood, obviously of the mind that he had been duped into coming on this camping trip on a ruse in order to help unload the camping gear. “Everything is what I’m about to tell you in just a minute,” Brandish returned. “Now settle down in a chair and I’ll tell you what I know of this place and the family that disappeared here.” Brandish breathed in and out as if to gather his thoughts. Then, “It started about five years ago. There was a small aircraft pilot who came here in his plane and landed on the lake not far from here, staying in this very same cabin when after some weeks had passed and he was not heard from it was found that he had disappeared. His plane was still there. All his gear and equipment were in the cabin. Everything was still here except for the man of whom I speak. His name was Michael Moore. He literally disappeared into thin air. It was as if the woods had swallowed him up. Nothing was ever heard of him again. “Then there was the Taylor family. They came here in their RV, looking for the ideal place to camp. They set up their stuff in this little cabin here. After several days of camping, they decided to do some hiking. And the only reason we know that is because some of them stayed behind to look after their gear. They’re the only ones that survived. The rest of them were never heard of again. “There were other incidents of this like that occurred off and on over the years until at some point people started seeing things. At first, they were just kids stories. But pretty soon adults started seeing things too. Vague shadowy figures, lurking in the darksome fringes of the woods towards dark. Hisses and whispers were heard just out of reach of solitary campfires where lone mountain men shuddered in their tents, not daring to stir until dawn when the sane light of the sun shone again. Gaunt, hairy shapes were glimpsed out of the corners of peoples’ eyes. Yet, when they turned to look, there was nothing there. Sometimes, at twilight one could see these gaunt, hairy shapes at the water’s edge, staring at solitary fishing men or folks out boating late in the day. Half-glimpsed, they resembled lumbering moose on two legs with piercing black eyes with a baleful stare that was unsettling to see and brought a shudder to those that witnessed it. After hours of such staring, they would finally -3-
JOHN T. CARNEY lumber in a black rush into the pitch-black shade of the dusky woods without a word or gesture like forest madmen who know not the habits of ordinary men but only that of savages. “This, my friends, is why we’re here. This is what we’ve come to investigate. It’s not just a camping trip. We’re here to document a real mystery.” Khoumed snorted again, as he had done before. “When you’ve shown me a photograph of these alleged “forest people” I’ll be satisfied that I wasn’t flim-flammed into coming up here so you could get an extra hand at unloading the camping gear! Now let’s go down to the lake and catch some dinner so that we don’t end up starving tonight instead of sighting the devil!” Brandish relented with a groan, and we all set out the door to the shore of the lake with our fishing gear. We had caught several trout when a huge crash in the undergrowth across the lake caught our attention. It was a relatively small lake so that the noise carried across the distance with more volume than it would with a wider girth to the water. Brandish and I looked up as well as Khoumed whose eyes seemed tinged with a fearful gleam as he glanced across the lake in the direction towards which our attention was now directed. A huge log was thrust through the trees which landed at the shoreline with an enormous splash of water and mud. Several large boulders, some as big as a man’s body were hurled out as well, rolling down to the shore’s edge as if they were rubber balls being thrown by children. Yet what we saw next was no mincing child. A gigantic, hulking shape came bolting out of the trees like lightning. It stooped over at the shore of the lake as if to drink; then, paused as it took notice of us. The black, baleful eyes regarded us with unnerving, piercing glares that seemed that of some madman. Then, as it reared up on its two legs it became abundantly clear that this was no man, but something that the definition of man could not define, something, the dimensions of which, could not quite be laid out on paper by even the most demented of men. It made a sudden, violent gesture with its arm and fist as if it would have broken our necks had we been in reach of it. Then, like a bolting, black shadow, it was gone. The blackness of the gaping trees had swallowed it up into the maw of the night as if it had never been there. Brandish and I gasped in horror. Khoumed could only stare idiotically at where the shape had been as if still trying to believe what he had seen. Then, with a panicked rush we grabbed our catch and gear and fled back into the cabin. -4-
JOHN T. CARNEY Brandish slammed the trout onto the kitchen counter with a loud slap, threw the fishing gear into the closet and slammed the door of the cabin with a loud bang. Without thinking, I groped for the rifle in my stash of gear. Khoumed pulled a long dagger from a sheath he had brought with him from a nearby table. We stood there, staring at each other, not sure of what to do, but just that. Mere seconds passed. Then, “Alright, Khoumed. You saw it, right? Tell me you saw it!” “I saw something. It could have been anything. Maybe a moose!” “A moose that hurls logs and boulder twice the size of a man?” “Maybe they were just debris that were loosened up from the recent rains that just happened to roll down the banks at the same time.” “They weren’t loosened, Khoumed. They were thrown! They were thrown like javelins out of the trees! You saw that with your own eyes, didn’t you?” “I don’t know what I saw. Maybe we just imagined it. Maybe we just overreacted to a perfectly natural phenomenon. I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation if we just look for it. Maybe . . . “ “So why are you clutching that dagger in your hand?” Brandish replied. Khoumed slapped the knife on a table nearby and sat down in a nearby chair to brood. He didn’t answer Brandish’s inquiry, but instead looked away into a distant corner in silence. With mixed reservations I put away my rifle and watched the fire burning lazily in the grate. I was also feeling nervous because I had noted on our way into the lake area that we were the only ones up there, it being the off season when not many people ventured there or even thought of going there due to the rain and storms that frequented the area at that time of year. Brandish seemed to be entertaining the same thought as he paced pensively about the room. He scratched the side of his mustachios and brushed back his length of long, black hair. His wolf-eyes seemed to pierce the air in front of him, the kerosene lamplight dancing off them as they glittered like knives in the evening light. His muscles tensed as if with the energy of violence. He suddenly became agitated and high-strung as if bewitched. He paced back and forth across the room with his ear cocked, as if listening for something. Then, with a sudden, cold glare he stopped, looked icily at Khoumed and said, “It is now dusk, Khoumed, and unless your powers are not wholly as you say they are, perhaps -5-
JOHN T. CARNEY you can call forth these things from the lake, these lake people that are but “our imagination,” as you say?” “Ha! And then make the sky fall? Is that what you want?” he answered with a sneer. “Miles, I can’t call forth every demon brought from the depths of a nightmare, however real it may seem. It is just pure nonsense.” Brandish turned. “Then, you are afraid,” he snarled, “Afraid of the dark side of nature?” “No, I am not afraid. It’s just that . . .” “It’s just that your whole image is a lie!” Brandish growled. “You made up your own legends to trick us into thinking that . . .” “Into thinking what, Brandish?” Khoumed’s eyes took on a sardonic gleam. Again, he made a cryptic sign with his hand, regarding Brandish as a king would regard one of his subjects. Brandish caught himself and sat by the fire to brood. His eyes wandered towards the lake where the smooth winds rippled the icy depths. The sun dipped below the peaks. Wisps of mist swept across the water, writhing within the branches of the moss-hung willows. Silence engulfed the land as the sun paled in the West and shadows smothered the lake in an abysmal pall. Suddenly, Brandish bolted from the room and into the night beyond as if struck with a madness. Fearing for his safety, I went after him. In the cold of the night, the clouds raced and boiled as if in a tempest. The stars were flickering orbs of madness; the moon was a ghost, haunting the gulfs of space. Winds bellowed from the North; shadows walked the shores. In the rush of our sudden departure from the cabin, I had made sure to bring my .357 with me. A better companion in the wilderness, you couldn’t ask for. Brandish raced down the edge of the lake towards the area where we had glimpsed the figure. After some tense minutes of running like madmen, we reached the area in question where, it appeared, Brandish had been heading when he had rushed from the safety of the cabin. With a savage, twisting motion of his body, he turned and regarded Khoumed coldly. “Look, Khoumed. Do you see? It’s just as we had seen it! Do you see any marks in the mud to show that these logs and boulders were anything but hurled out of the trees that lie about a hundred yards away? No, right? So did our eyes lie to us? Or are we mad? Tell me you believe now! Tell -6-
JOHN T. CARNEY me you believe the stories I told you now!” Khoumed blinked and stammered like a fool. “Believe?” he stuttered as if dazed. He stared about him like a man struck dumb. “Alright,” he relented, “Alright, I believe.” Brandish exhaled deeply and stared pensively at the thick woods just a hundred yards away. “Now, look,” he said after a moment’s pause. “If that thing that we saw had meant to harm us, it could have done just that without even trying. With legs like that it could’ve sprinted right over and ripped our cabin door right off its hinges without even trying. But it didn’t do that, did it?” “No, it didn’t!” I answered. “But so what! So what does that mean? We’re still sitting ducks right here where we stand. Don’t you see that!” “No, no! He’s right!” Khoumed assented. “They could have killed us when we first drove up here in the RV, but they didn’t! Don’t you see? That means something! Maybe it means that we don’t threaten them.” “Or maybe it means something else,” Brandish returned with a fire in his eyes. “Maybe it means that they’re saving us for some other reason. That we were spared for a purpose!” “What purpose, though?” I asked, unsure of his meaning. “I don’t know,” Brandish replied. “But I think it means that we ought to get the hell out of here before they come back.” With that resigned purpose in mind we set off back to the cabin at a brisk pace when a sudden flurry of motion at a blinding speed caught us all off guard. Without thinking, I brought up my .357 and fired a point blank round. Something huge slammed into the earth like a tree, shuddering and shivering like a mountain in an eruption. With a deep gasp of air, it expired, blood oozing from the hole in its chest where my round had hit home. Hesitatingly, we approached the thing, not sure if it was quite dead or just toying with us. A brief examination proved that it had died. Brandish looked closely at the face above everything else as if he recognized something about it that he couldn’t quite call to mind. “Wait a minute!” Brandish said, thrusting his finger in the air for emphasis. “This is no monster! This is a face I recognize! Do you know who this is?” “What do you mean who?” Khoumed replied. “That’s not a person! That’s a monster! Are you trying to say that this thing was once a man?” -7-
JOHN T. CARNEY “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Brandish returned. “Not only that! I know who this is! Remember the story I told you about Michael Moore, the pilot who disappeared five years ago at this location?” “Yeah, what about it?” I answered, unsure of his meaning. “Well, this is that very man,” he said, looking up at us with certainty in his voice. “I recognize the face from the photo in the paper that I saw during my research. Of course, he looks a little different, but I’m sure that this is that very man.” We looked at each other like a bunch of scared kids that want to run away but had nowhere to run to. Suddenly, something occurred to me. “Now, I get it,” I said as I examined the face as well. “Now, I know why they spared us. Not only do they want us here. Not only did they not kill us. They want us to join them! Don’t you see, that’s the whole reason that they’re here! They’re trying to change us into them! They want us to be one of them like this thing here! This thing that was once a man named Michael Moore. Not only that, but it’s going to happen to us too if we don’t get the hell out of here right now!” We ran like hellfire back to our cabin, packed up our gear and headed out of there as quick as you could imagine. And as we headed out in our RV, we could see gaunt, hairy shapes lurking in the shadows just off the road, half-glimpsed and half-seen, yet brooding like some darksome evil in the black void of the night just out of the reach of cognition yet waiting for that unforeseen accident or flat tire to occur so they could waylay us in the abysmal blackness of the night. And there, still, await the Lake People, like devils in the shadows of the night, waiting for us all, waiting for us to be one. As we left the confines of the pines and the firs, a black hand seemed to reach out, gigantically, towards us from the night, a hand that would someday grasp us all. Their horror would one day reach us and we would then be in their clutches. Mankind would one day know the Lake People. We can only await their terror. We can only wait until that horrific day when our races are one. As we began to approach the city lights, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief. For now, we were safe.
-8-
JOHN T. CARNEY
J
ohn T. Carney was born in San Francisco, CA on December 13, 1960 and has lived most of his life since then in the Bay Area. He has had some several poems published by the International Library of Poetry in their various poetry anthologies and has also been published in small college literary magazines. His horror fiction and poetry found first publication in NVF magazine early this year and his Vampire Sonnets are scheduled to be published by Whispers of Wickedness magazine. One of his stories, The Obsidian Stone, will appear in NVF magazine’s forthcoming anthology that may come out later this year. His favorite horror short story is The Red Lodge by H. Russell Wakefield. His favorite horror movie is The Shuttered Room. Estronomicon has agreed to publish another story of his called The Curse of the Leper in a future issue.
John T. Carney
Copyright Š John T. Carney 2008
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WELSH SF CONFERENCE
O
n Saturday 21st June 2008, the Academi held a Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror Day Conference as part of the new South Wales Valleys Literature Development Initiative. The event was held in the University of Glamorgan, Treforest campus. Professor Mark Brake introduced an exciting day of workshops, discussion panels and presentations from a wealth of talented authors, scriptwriters and creative artists from Wales. It was also the ideal opportunity for SD to launch The Postmodern Mariner by Rhys Hughes.
Rhys signing copies of his book!
Among the authors attending were Jasper Fforde, Tim Lebbon, Philip Gross, Dr Dimitra Fimi, Rev Neil Hook, Catherine Fisher, Steve Lockley, Paul Lewis, Brian Willis, Stephen Volk, Terry Cooper and Geoff Nelder. The response to the event was fantastic, attracting plenty of visitors and media coverage via the BBC website and radio. Thanks must go to author Mark Howard Jones, who did an excellent job with the promotion. - 10 -
WELSH SF CONFERENCE
Authors Jasper Fforde, Bob Lock and Tim Lebbon
Author Geoff Nelder at the SD table - 11 -
WELSH SF CONFERENCE
The visitors wandering around
Along with the official launch of The Postmodern Mariner, another new SD title was released called Doorways, edited by Steve Lockley. Unfortunately the Kangazang! novel hadn’t come back from the printers in time, but we did have a few advance preview copies available on the day.
The Postmodern Mariner, Doorways and Kangazang! - 12 -
MARK LEWIS
G
azing out of the window of old Aston’s office into the filthy streets I even envied the urchins scraping the gutters for coins. I needed a change. I had felt like a pinned butterfly, in the constraints of my routine. I needed to fly, for the first time, to choose my own direction. If only I’d had the wisdom to count the ordinary blessings that belonged to me. A stable home. A clerk’s adequate salary. But I craved life. An end to monotony. I wanted adventure while I still had some scant years of youth left. I wanted to be interested: I was so bored with life I hated myself, my home, my salary, my wife and child that pinned me down. I wanted to travel, to see the world, but Mr Aston’s meagre salary would not provide such luxuries. Sat in Mr Aston’s stationery office for ten hours a day; I wanted an escape. An escape even from life itself. I sat, hour after hour, with my head buzzing in boredom. My thoughts were frustrated silent prayers for deliverance; what dread god would listen to such blasphemous prayers? Certainly not the protestant God of hard work, chastity and good behaviour. In my madness, I decided that I would find another god. I found my god in perhaps the last place one would look: a den of shame and desperation. The god’s name was spoken in whispers in the Jade Emperor, where I would take opium of an evening, as a rest from monotony and the drone of my fellow clerks. I was over-excited, in an ecstasy of fumes. I blurted out my feelings to all around. In the small hours of the morning, there was one who listened intently. A small old man, whose head seemed shiny, almost as if it were made of wax. His expression was unreadable, his face immobile, at least, to my deranged senses. The strange man took me aside, to a corner shrouded in green smoke. He told me all about the king. The old man’s accent was unplaceable, a hissing, lisping tone. The king that I might worship, if I dared. He would bring me excitement a life beyond that of mundane mortals; but the king of changes, the king of chaos, the king of mischief was not to be invoked lightly. The Monkey King was terrible and mighty and would turn your life on its head, the old man said. “That’s what I want,” I said foolishly, leaning against the chair, because my head felt insupportably dizzy. The man took me by the hand. It felt, cold, lifeless, plastic. I stood before the idol. Carved in gold; a simian face: wise, insane, teeth bared. A crown sat upon its head, it wore flowing robes and held a staff, or perhaps a wand. The eyes appeared to shine for a moment: absinthe green. - 13 -
MARK LEWIS “Make your wish”, the old man hissed, pushing me forward. I closed my eyes. I could still see the statue. “I wish for a life less ordinary; to be unconfined by walls,” I said. I cannot account for what happened next. I opened my eyes, to see the familiar surroundings of my home. The darkened bedroom was still lit by a solitary gas lamp. I heard weeping, and saw my wife, Emily, bent double, in sorrow. Through the connecting wall I could hear frightened voices: my children, talking. I was unseen, and as I moved, unheard. I called out, “Do not fear, it is I”. There was no reaction. Even as I moved forward, Emily did not see. Up close: those deep brown eyes that I had fallen in love with. How had I become so jaded with life that I had lost my feelings for her? How had I neglected her and my beloved children so? I had thought that, as I sat in Mr Aston’s office with my mind draining away, day by day, that I knew sorrow. I was a fool. I reached out to touch Emily, but my hand passed through her, as if through water. I felt a terrible chill pass up through my arm. Only then did Emily show some recognition, shuddering, as if at a night terror, still looking through me, seeing nothing. I looked down. At my chest I could see a green light, shining forth. Looking ahead, I could see the light shine forward, through the wall. I could see through the wall, beyond, and beyond that, through the terraced houses, beyond, until I saw, like a chain, I was tied to the statue of the Monkey King. I thought I saw a smile on its terrible simian face. I looked back at Emily. I had never empathised; never put myself in her position, or that of my children. Too often had I been absent, pursuing some substance to derange my senses. Too often when I was with my family in body I was not there in mind. I had, I felt, sacrificed my soul providing for them materially. In doing so, I failed to provide them with the love they deserved. I felt a pull towards the window, a tug on the eerie green chain. I howled, silently. Emily registered nothing, as if I were not there. I was pulled through the window; I felt nothing as I passed through the shutters, as if I were one of Dr James’s spectres. At once, I could see the full distance, through houses, through oblivious people, to the appalling statue that summoned me. I passed through stray people, in my strange ghostly voyage through the streets. I heard, saw, felt, snatches of their souls. A sour recollection of a recent unwanted kiss, a seductive self-loathing, the taste of toffee sticking to decaying teeth. The souls - 14 -
MARK LEWIS of a sailor, a solicitor, a dolly mop, an urchin, so many more, but they blurred into a mass, poisoning me, like an inkblot spreading through water. The souls of pauper, professional and prostitute seemed none too different: cornucopias of fear and hunger. I floated above the ground, incorporeal, before the idol that mocked me with its carved gaze. I hoped to sink once more into my physical form, chastened by this experience. I could go from here, to be a better man, appreciate the blessings that the protestant God had given me. Not so. I heard a terrible chattering all around me; the Monkey King statue retained its sardonic glare. I looked around and saw it all. Existence. I had been granted my wildest dream: freedom. Although I would remain anchored to the golden statue, I was free to roam. The universe itself was as a room to me; where I could wander, even unto the stars. The universe is like a room a thousand years wide. No door could be barred against, me, no territory hostile to my insubstantial form. Still, I remain chained. With some concentration, I can see through the walls of the Jade Emperor, back to my family, yet I may not speak to them or touch them. I see that Emily has been frantic, the eyes I fell in love are hot with tears, her face reddened with anguish. She knows something is wrong, even given my excesses, I should be home by now. The children are awake; they stand at the door to the bedroom, they hear Emily sobbing, but are not sure if they should go in and comfort her. In times past I had shouted at them, when they had been near, when Emily and I had been arguing. They now understand fear, and in my soul I fear that in some ways, they may live happier lives without me, should Aston’s insurance policies pay out on my life. Or, to my shame, my abandonment could consign all to the workhouse. I am tied to them still, just like I am tied to the Monkey King. I rant at the Monkey King, barely in control of the sounds I am making. The chattering continues, increasing in frequency and intensity. I lash out at the statue, but I am still formless, impotent. The Monkey King’s wax eyes do not move, betray nothing other than amusement. Implacable, there is no renegotiating the deal I half-wittingly made with this diabolical god. I thought my existence could not worsen. - 15 -
MARK LEWIS I was mistaken. Beyond the clouds, beyond the moon, beyond the stars, I could see something. Something stirring in the darkness. Older than the world, older than thought. Unspeakable, unframeable shapes. Shadows of shadows, tendrils of darkness, writhing in a place beyond space. They are aware of me, they see me with unknowable senses. It is only a matter of time before they come for me, a soul adrift from its protective housing, with only the Monkey King’s chains for scant protection, and I feel I cannot rely on this god of changes and chaos for defence against the attentions of these entities from beyond. Copyright Š Mark Lewis 2008
M
ark is currently in exile from Wales, where grew up and studied English Literature including Creative Writing at Cardiff University. He has previously had work published in Scheherezade and The Nail. Mark teaches Creative Writing at the Cornerstone Arts Centre in Didcot. He is also working on a novel of the dark future, featuring artificial intelligence's and vampires, as well as more short stories. He spends much of his time masquerading as an investment administrator. Watch his blog for the latest news at : dementedscribblings.blogspot.com
SUBMIT YOUR WORK TO ESTRONOMICON Send in your short stories for future publication in this eZine. Amaze your friends and family! See the website for more details.
COMING SOON Halloween Special : A mini spooky-themed issue FantasyCon Edition : Reports and more from the annual bash
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KANGAZANG! BY TERRY COOPER
T
he official launch of Terry Cooper’s debut novel, Kangazang! was held at Tiger Tiger in Cardiff, on Wednesday 18th June 2008. There was a great turnout for the event, including a group of Stormtroopers which made for some cool photo opportunities! Terry read from his book and a good time was had by all. Unfortunately I was unable to attend myself due to ill health. I was really sad to miss this launch party but I’m glad that it went really well.
Terry reading from his book and two of the troopers standing guard
A slight flaw in the plan was that the books didn’t turn up from the printers in time. But Terry managed to get a few advance copies done at the last minute which, despite costing an arm and a leg, saved the day! We received a decent amount of pre-orders for the book and are hoping it continues to do well. Remember, if you want to get your hands on a copy then hop over to the Screaming Dreams website to place your order. Terry is currently busy preparing an audio CD version of Kangazang! and also beginning work on a sequel, so watch this space for further info. - 17 -
KANGAZANG! BY TERRY COOPER More photos from the party ...
Guests enjoying the entertainment and drinks
Everyone wanted their photo taken with the Stormtroopers of course! - 18 -
LEE MOAN
A
s Aimee Harper wandered through the dark streets, it almost felt like the city was back to normal; but the eerie, swollen silence would never let her enjoy that illusion. The silence and, of course, the stench. The sickly-sweet smell of decaying flesh hung in the air like a phantom, though it was nowhere near as noisome as it used to be. Over the past fortnight, she’d grown accustomed to the stench of dead men in the same way that a farmer adapts to the smell of shit in the air. Given time, she thought, women can adapt to most things. Most of the streets had been cleared of the reeking dead, but it was still common to stumble across the occasional stray corpse. She was passing through an alleyway when she came across the man in the suit. He was slumped against the side of an overflowing refuse skip. His face had that familiar waxy yellow pallor. Bloody vomit had pooled in his lap. Only two weeks before, she would have screamed or passed out on seeing such a thing. But she had seen far too many dead men this past fortnight. Too many for a lifetime. She was about to move on when she noticed the suit. Souster and Hicks, Savile Row. Everyone looks like shit when they’re dead, making it hard to tell who’s rich and who’s poor. But this guy must have had money to be wearing a suit like that. Perhaps this was the one she’d been looking for. She scanned the alleyway, then placed her perfumed scarf over her mouth and nose, enabling her to search his clothes without suffering the appalling stench. She found his bulging wallet in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Opening it, she flicked over the credit cards, past the thick pile of paper money, the solitary prophylactic (how much one’s wallet says about one after death, she thought) and finally to the back section, where most men kept their photos. She found none. Not a picture of a child, a wife or even a lover. Her heart fluttered with excitement. She flicked through the wallet again to find his ID. There was a photo-card driving licence. Even in life, the man was not handsome. The face was unremarkable, nerdish, so was his name. “Thank you, Gregory Talbot,” she said. “You may just be my ticket to a new life.” Until two weeks ago, Aimee Harper had been sleeping rough down by the - 19 -
LEE MOAN canal. When she woke up after that first night, the night the plague hit like a silent tidal wave, she found all the homeless men under the arches dead. She was as horrified and confused as the rest of them. When the full extent of the tragedy became apparent, the woman began to cry openly for their dearly departed brothers, fathers, sons and lovers. Aimee could only stand apart and watch, feeling strangely impartial. That morning they had emerged into a new world. She saw beyond the tragedy to a world full of opportunities. She would not be forced to live on the streets again. She would find herself a decent place to live, a place fit for a queen. The Tube was still out of action, and would probably remain so until the emergency government trained up more women drivers. There was no regular bus service either, but she was lucky enough to catch a rogue double-decker, driven by a middle-aged red-head named Carla who was driving around the city helping anyone get where they needed to go. “Where you ’eaded, darlin’?” she said, as Aimee stepped onto the bus. Gregory Talbot had been much richer than she’d imagined. His address was in Knightsbridge. The house key she’d found was gold-plated. “Knightsbridge?” Carla smirked, appraising Aimee’s forlorn figure: the battered burgundy Dr Martins, the torn fishnet tights, the ripped t-shirt. “Take a seat, m’love,” she said, “and we’ll get you to Rich Man’s Town.” As they rolled through the city, they found many roads blocked by abandoned cars or strewn with dead bodies, which slowed their progress considerably. Aimee watched the night slip by, trying to catch a little sleep; but the sociable driver spent the entire journey firing an endless series of questions in Aimee’s direction. “So, were you married?” “No,” Aimee replied. “Boyfriend? Fiancée?” “No one special, if that’s what you mean.” “No children then?” She shook her head. - 20 -
LEE MOAN “Any brothers?” She smiled. “No. Only child.” “Well, m’love, sounds like you got off easy. Everybody I know’s lost somebody. Me and Ted were married eighteen years. I lost him on that first night.” She paused. “God, I thought he just had flu. You know how men are? I sent him to bed. The silly bugger was too soft to argue. When I went up to bed that night he was… gone.” She paused to negotiate an obstacle in their path. Aimee peered out into the dark street and saw the shapes of small boys lying in the road only meters from the local park. She inhaled sharply. “Will you look at this?” Carla cried in despair. “Where are their mothers?” She manoeuvred expertly through the grim obstacle course. “I just thank God we were never able to have children. I think that’s the worst tragedy in all this: seeing little boys choking to death for what the men in power done. Sins of the fathers, eh, girl?” “What?” said Aimee, tearing her eyes away from the nightmare outside. “Sins of the father. What those bastards in power did, creating that bloody thing.” Aimee nodded. The facts were common knowledge now, and the irony was too great to ignore. The men in charge of the weapons of war, the architects of death, had engineered a virus so powerful, so deadly that it could wipe out the entire planet in days. Why they had been cultivating such a weapon was beyond comprehension. Somehow the virus had gotten out and it had gone to work. The only surprise was that it didn’t wipe out the entire planet, only half of it. It was a mutant strain, targeting only those with male genes. No man was exempt, not even those who created it. And there was no known cure. In the first twenty-four hours, half the male population of the world was wiped out, over a billion souls lost in the space of one day. Then, over the course of the next two weeks, the rest of them had succumbed to its effects. Aimee thought it would be a miracle if any man was left alive now. “I don’t know what the future holds for us,” Carla went on, “with all the men gone. I mean, who’re we going to get to push the shopping trolleys now?” She let out a huge belly laugh which seemed to rattle the bones of the entire bus. Aimee simply smiled and looked back out into the night.
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LEE MOAN When she stepped into the plush lobby, she found the air-conditioning a welcome relief from the stink of the city. She rode the elevator to the top floor, hearing the muffled sounds of life from some of the apartments she passed. On one floor she heard a newborn baby crying. It had to be a girl; all male babies in the last fortnight had been stillborn. Was the mother with it? She was about to make note of the floor number when she heard a female voice making shushing sounds. The elevator stopped and when the doors slid open she found herself in a short hall which led directly to the apartment marked 14. She took out the key and approached the door. She listened for a moment, but heard no sounds from within. Slipping the key into the lock, she held her breath for the new chapter of her life she was about toBefore her fingers could find the light switch, a rough hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her through the doorway. As she sprawled across the room, the bridge of her nose connected with the edge of a table during her descent, and white fireworks lit up inside her head. Before she could do anything else, she felt the weight of a body drop onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs. A hand closed over her mouth. When she opened her eyes, she found herself blinded by torchlight. “Who are you?” It was a male voice. Aimee didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. “Where did you get these keys?” He took his fingers away from her mouth to allow her to reply, but she was too bewildered to say anything. When she failed to respond, the man grabbed her jaw. “Where did you get them?” he yelled into her face. “From a man,” was all she could say. “You robbed him?” She nodded as much as she could under such restraint. The man leaned even closer, his lips only inches from her skin. She smelled his sweat. “Was he dead?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “The man you robbed, was he alive or dead?” “Of course he’s dead!” she yelled. “Gregory Talbot is dead.” The room descended into silence. The man relaxed his grip and rolled off her. - 22 -
LEE MOAN “Greg was my brother,” he whispered. “It’s just me now.” He went to the window and studied the street below. “I need your help,” he said. Aimee sat up. “You just broke my damn nose,” she said. “Why should I help you?” He turned on her, wide-eyed. “All the men are dead, sweetheart! I’m the only one left!” He took a deep breath, calming himself. “Somehow I’ve survived these two weeks. There must be something in my biological makeup that’s able to fight the virus. If they can find out what it is while I’m still breathing, maybe they can find a cure.” He coughed suddenly, a great barking cough that doubled him over. Spittle flew from his mouth and sprayed across the pine floor. Aimee thought she saw a tinge of pink in it. “But my time’s running out,” he continued when the fit had passed. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Will you help-” He never saw the poker as it slammed across the back of his head. He cried out and fell to the floor. Aimee stared down at him, breathing fast, ready to strike again. But he just moaned, turning slightly so that he was able to look up into the face of his attacker. His expression was a mixture of pain, confusion and fear. “Why . . .?” he managed to say. Her breathing slowed, her fingers stopped trembling. She crouched down to him and studied his face for a moment. “The first time my uncle raped me I was eight years old,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Eight!” she repeated, her lip curled in disgust. “When I finally found the courage to tell my father he called me a lying slut. So I ran away.” Angry tears sprang into her eyes. “On the street I was raped five times by different men. The last time I was beaten unconscious and thrown into the canal. Those men didn’t care if I lived or died. And there was no one there to hold my hand.” The man closed his eyes, a single tear spilling down the side of his face. She didn’t know if that tear was for her or himself. “It’s men who rape women and children. It’s men who start wars. I’m sorry, truly sorry. But the world will be a better place without you.” The man’s eyes fluttered. A pool of blood began to spread out beneath his - 23 -
LEE MOAN head. It wouldn’t be long for him now. If the head wound didn’t kill him, the virus would. She tilted her head in a show of sympathy and patted his arm. “But don’t worry. I won’t let you die alone. When the time comes I’m going to be right here, holding your hand.” Copyright © Lee Moan 2008
L
ee Moan grew up in the English seaside town of Torquay, birthplace of the ‘Queen of Crime’, Agatha Christie. He now lives in the neighbouring town of Paignton with his wife and four children. His stories have been published in numerous print and online magazines including Murky Depths, Hub, Dark Recesses Press, Jupiter SF, Twisted Tongue, AlienSkin, From the Asylum and many others. He also has a story due to appear in the anthology Best New Tales of the Apocalypse from Permuted Press. Read his blog at : leemoan.blogspot.com
OUT NOW! Bull Running for Girls by Allyson Bird ISBN : 978-1-906652-01-2 Paperback : 216x138mm : 272pp Cover artwork by Vincent Chong
A selection of adventure/horror stories set in many locations, from the excitement and danger of bull running in Pamplona, to small town life in Madison County, U.S. Stories set amidst the bustle of Hong Kong, on The Silk Road in China and under a Hunter’s moon in Bordeaux. Then there are those which are much closer to home.
For more information please visit the Screaming Dreams website.
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THE DARK ART OF STEVE UPHAM
I
admit that it may not be the most flattering photo of me, but please bear in mind it was taken shortly before I was admitted to hospital! Being featured in the Pontypridd & Llantrisant Observer is nothing to shout about, but I thought I’d show you a snapshot as they did include a nice display of my artwork ...
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ANDREW MARSHALL Take me if you think I’m sweet Though my life feels incomplete Take me when I wish to live For I still have this to give - Oasis
‘W
ake up, Lisa.’ Rain splattered on the window as Lisa’s mind wavered in and out of consciousness. Her excitement at going on holiday had stopped her from sleeping the previous night and she was now too tired to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. But it didn’t matter, soon they would be away: away from their parents, away from school, away from anything stopping them having three weeks of unadulterated fun. Water flowed across the cold glass of the window, forming for a moment into what the mind could imagine as distinct shapes before splitting once again into their component blobs. And then, the shapes parted to reveal a blinding light that swiftly enveloped her vision. ‘Wake up, Lisa.’ Martin’s voice pulled her from her otherworldly slumber and she sat up in the car seat, blinking in the bright sunlight. ‘Thought we’d lost you there for a second.’ ‘You’re never going to lose me’ she said with a grin and leaned over to kiss him. She fell unconscious before she had covered the distance. ‘Wake up, Lisa. We’re here.’ Lisa’s mind once more drifted into focus once more at the sound of Debbie’s over-excited squealings. She squinted out of the window. In the distance she could just see part of the ferry’s name stenciled on its side. Pride of… something. What did it matter? All these things were the pride of one place or another. The queue of cars was longer than any they had ever seen, so they joined its rear and prepared themselves for a long wait. An emaciated man was slowly walking along the queue, glancing through car windows as he passed them and flicking through a thick stack of paper - 26 -
ANDREW MARSHALL precariously fastened to a clipboard, occasionally scribbling something down. As he reached Gordon’s Fiesta, his red-rimmed eyes stared emptily through the driver’s window. He flipped over a couple of sheets on the clipboard and was poised to mark something, then he paused. He glared back through the window, a slight tightening of his mouth the only indication of something being amiss. His hollow gaze flicked back and forth from the foursome to the clipboard for several more seconds before he stood up and reached for the radio clipped to his belt. He spoke a few short sentences into it, listened to the reply and then continued on his way. Lisa looked out through the back window and followed the man’s walk. He was looking at the occupant of the flashy sports car that had appeared behind them, a woman in her mid-thirties. He marked something on the clipboard and strode further along the queue, which seemed to have got remarkably longer in the last few minutes. Lisa’s gaze lingered on the woman for a few more seconds. She felt she recognised her from somewhere, and yet was sure she didn’t know her at all. Shaking the thought from her mind, she turned back to her friends. Gordon was reaching for the large brown envelope containing everyone’s passports and tickets that he had resolutely taped to the dashboard the previous evening. It had been torn open at the start of the journey to make sure its contents had not mysteriously disappeared in the night and then taped back down again once everyone was satisfied. As he opened it, Debbie caught the mischievous gleam in his eye, guessed what he was about to do and warned him ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Realising he’d been rumbled, he burst out laughing and reached inside the envelope pulling out a bundle of cardboard and maroon plastic held together with an elastic band. Just to be sure, he flicked through the sheaves in his hands. Confusion flashed across his face and he dropped everything into his lap. ‘What’s wrong?’ Debbie asked, peering over. As Gordon slowly looked through everything for the third time the confusion on his face morphed into worry and then panic as he frantically scrambled about the surrounding area. He tore the envelope to shreds, then turned to look at Lisa. ‘It’s gone’ he said simply, his bafflement replacing any detailed explanation he may have made to back up his statement. ‘Your ticket. It’s vanished. It was there last night and it was there at the start of the journey. The envelope hasn’t - 27 -
ANDREW MARSHALL moved since we set off, so where the bloody hell is it?’ Debbie looked at Gordon, her eyes boring through his skull. ‘This isn’t even beginning to be funny’ she scolded him. Gordon put his hands up in surrender. ‘It’s true, I swear. Look.’ He thrust the papers into Debbie’s hands and sat back expectantly. She swiftly flicked through them then sat back and simply glared at them, perhaps believing that Lisa’s ticket could be scared in rematerialising. Martin’s voice broke the silence. ‘Uh, guys’ he said, pointing out of the window, ‘that creepy attendant is back.’ Everyone’s head spun to face the direction of Martin’s indicating finger. The sunken eyes of the attendant stared blankly through the window as he gestured for Lisa to wind it down. ‘Miss Connor’ he addressed her once the glass no longer impeded conversation, ‘we need to talk.’ He offered no explanation as to how he knew her name, and the emotionless drawl of his voice suggested that questions and arguments would be futile and time-wasting. Nevertheless, Martin still attempted. ‘Look mate’ he began, ‘I don’t think…’ ‘No, you do not’ the man swiftly interrupted him. ‘Nor should you assume, speculate or hypothesise. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you that it is imperative that I converse with Miss Connor. Alone.’ Martin opened his mouth to speak, but Lisa put a finger to her boyfriend’s lips. ‘It’s okay’ she assured him, not quite doing the same for herself. ‘This won’t take long, will it?’ she asked the attendant. ‘Only a minute of your time’ he responded. There was something ominous about the way he said the word time, but Lisa couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Still, she opened the door and stepped out, walking the few paces to where the attendant was now standing. ‘A problem with your ticket’ the attendant said in a low voice, not asking a question. Lisa nodded. ‘The fact of the matter is that you are not destined for this voyage.’ Destined thought Lisa. What an odd way of putting it. A little thought scurried across the surface of her mind, then it was gone. The attendant saw the confusion on her face. ‘What I mean is, you are not meant to be here. Your friends are due on - 28 -
ANDREW MARSHALL board the ferry before it sets sail, but you, my dear, you simply should not be here. My superiors are looking into precisely how this error may have come about, but I can tell you that your time is not due for a long while yet.’ An icy shiver ran down Lisa’s spine as she heard the last statement. She swallowed hard, not wanting to consider the idea that the small thought was germinating into at the back of her mind. The attendant continued. ‘This is a place of transition, where those who are finished with one aspect of existence are carried to a place where they can begin another. The very fact –’ ‘No’ Lisa said quietly, almost to herself. The attendant cleared his throat. ‘The very fact that you are here informs us that there is a problem with the system. Perhaps there was an administration error, perhaps the barriers have thinned or perhaps you yourself are not holding on strongly enough. In any case, you cannot remain here, nor can you go on the ferry. You must go back.’ Lisa’s mind began reeling from the impossible revelation. The attendant pulled her to the edge of the waiting area, glanced about him and began speaking in a hushed tone, clearly not authorised to do what he was about to do. ‘You recognised the woman behind you, did you not?’ he asked. Once again, Lisa could only nod. The immediate surroundings received another quick glance. ‘You were in an accident’ he explained, ‘your car and hers. Your two friends Gordon and Debbie were killed almost instantly; your boyfriend Martin died en route to the hospital; and Sandra Evans’s body gave up its fight for her life after the doctors were unable to stem the flow of her massive internal haemorrhaging. You yourself received a severe concussion and minor lacerations. There is much debate as to whether or not you will regain consciousness. But there is no mystery; you will wake up, although only you can truly cause this to occur. Your physical self is very much alive, though your spiritual self is lost in the æther.’ ‘Debbie; Gordon … Martin …’ her voice stuck in her throat and tears brimmed in her eyes as the realisation of the true scale of what had occurred hit her with the all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Her legs started to shake and she fell to the ground in grief. ‘It’s not fair’ she croaked in between sobs, ‘Old people die; sick people die; stupid people die; four teenage kids going on holiday together don’t fucking die! It’s not fucking fair!’ The sorrow welling up inside her became too great to control and Lisa completely burst into tears. ‘Why?’ she wailed. ‘Why us?’ - 29 -
ANDREW MARSHALL ‘The answer will only distress you even more.’ ‘Tell me!’ The attendant gave out a resigned sigh. ‘It was required’ he said. ‘I do not mean them specifically, if it were not your friends it would have been three others; but three were required to maintain balance.’ ‘Balance?’ ‘All faiths and belief structures agree on the notion that everything must remain balanced. That is the sole concept that the entirety of ordered existence functions on. Without balance, there is only chaos.’ Lisa sniffed back her tears and laughed bitterly. ‘So that’s the answer to the mystery, is it? The great plan, the final equation, the whole fucking meaning of life: “Things happen because they need to.” You’d be just as well putting up fifty-foot burning letters on a hillside saying “We apologise for the inconvenience”.’ ‘Listen, I know you’re upset. I understand what you’re –’ ‘Bullshit!’ Lisa screamed. ‘You don’t understand anything! You exist in this … limbo place. I don’t even know what the hell you are!’ The attendant gazed into the distance for a few seconds, as if recalling a distant memory, before speaking again. ‘Be that as it may’ he said sternly, ‘the facts of the situation remain unchanged. You must leave.’ Once again his voice had taken on its tone implying the futility of argument. Given the enormity of the information that it had just been presented with, it was something of a minor miracle that Lisa’s mind was still able to entertain rational thought. Her thoughts began to clear slightly as she began to remember the events the attendant had described to her: the drifting shapes, the bright light, her wandering mind: it all began to make some sort of obscure sense. She looked around at the hundreds and hundreds of cars in the waiting area. It was at this point she realised that Gordon’s car was nowhere to be seen. ‘So all of these…’ she indicated the queuing vehicles. ‘The souls of the recently departed’ ‘My god, all those people…dead. All at once.’ ‘People have been dying every second of your life and you haven’t ever given them a moment’s thought. They are all people you never knew, whose lives had absolutely no effect on you whatsoever. Why mourn them now? Their deaths have all maintained the balance. No one ever dies meaninglessly.’ - 30 -
ANDREW MARSHALL In the distance she saw the ferry set sail towards the horizon. It had turned slightly, revealing the remainder of its name. Pride of Elysium, the lettering proudly proclaimed. ‘I think I see now’ Lisa stated weakly. ‘Good’ the attendant declared, ‘because it is now time for you to leave. You must focus! You must wake up!’ At the sound of the attendant’s last words, Lisa saw her surroundings begin to spin out of focus. As everything became enveloped in a blinding white light, she heard a familiar voice calling to her from sixteen million miles away. ‘Wake up, Lisa’ it said. She followed the sound of the voice as it swiftly called her home. Copyright © Andrew Marshall 2008
A
ndrew has had work previously published in Alien Skin and Thirteen. The former ditches the displayed stories every eight weeks and the latter no longer exists, so please take his word for it. He was also shortlisted to win the Red Bull Tall Story Contest, the overall victor sure to be announced any month now. He currently lives in West Lothian, though plans to rectify the situation as soon as it becomes financially viable. He originally hails for the Scottish Borders, but don’t hold it against him.
THE MIDNIGHT HOUR - TRAILER Film composer Tony Longworth has kindly put together a nice video trailer for The Midnight Hour book. Check it out over on YouTube. Also note some of the excellent photography in the clip by the talented Amanda Norman. I will feature work by both artists in a future issue of the eZine.
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SD BOOKS & NEWS
A
s you may have guessed by now, the original publishing schedule for the SD books needed to be adjusted in view of my current health status. But don’t worry, I have every intention of getting back to it once the doctors have given me the green light to return to work. My sincere apologies to the authors who were eagerly awaiting the release of their titles this year. I’m afraid readers will have to wait until 2009 to get their hands on Gary McMahon’s double novella, Different Skins (with fantastic cover art by Vincent Chong) and the delightful Against the Darkness collection by John L. Probert. The long awaited Dead Ends anthology will also make its appearance at some point too, so keep watching. While you are waiting though you will be pleased to hear that I’ll be busy working on several eZine issues plus a few eBooks, to be released between now and Christmas. So at least SD will be continuing to push forward over the coming months with its online publications. The Halloween Special of Estronomicon should be out next, at the end of this month. Followed by a FantasyCon Edition, featuring reports from the weekend, plus a short story or two from the attending authors. Also watch for Welcome Home, a complete novel by Neil Davies, available soon as a FREE eBook. The Dark Reign eBook anthology will also be released shortly afterwards. Then there are other titles in the works from authors such as Lee Moan and J.W.Bennett. As always, keep an eye on the SD website for the latest news and releases. Thank you for your continued interest and support! - 32 -
CHRIS MORRIS
A
s soon as Mike read about “The Werewolf” he knew that the police would be outgunned in their investigation. There had been four particularly gruesome murders in four months, no evidence of weapons had been found but the bodies had been ripped apart and although it did not say it in the newspaper reports he was sure that some of the body parts would be missing and those that remained would bear wounds that seemed to be made by teeth. It took three murders for the reporters to spot that each murder had occurred on a night of the full moon and so “The Werewolf” was born. The thing was, Mike knew that the newspapers were closer to the truth than they could ever know. He knew that he would have to do something, the murders would continue and ever since he had first seen the news reports his nightmares had started again in earnest. He was running through the forest, the ground had a blanket of dead brown leaves which he knew he had to be careful of. One slip now and he was dead. He ploughed on trying not to think of what was following him. He would often think he could hear Its breathing but he knew that this was just his adrenaline driven imagination. If it was close enough for him to hear Its breath he would be dead. He just had to keep running. He knew this forest; it was only another mile or so to the road. The road was his only chance, he knew that it wasn’t overly busy but it was a major artery for the local factories so there would be a good chance that he would see a truck and maybe get a lift. It was simple, he met a lorry or he died. He could see the road now and he could hear a lorry; this may be his only chance. He was getting closer but he could hear his pursuer now. This was not his imagination, it wasn’t breathing he could hear this time, it was the leaves being scattered by his pursuer. Fifty yards… Twenty-five… Fifteen… He didn’t see the shallow depression, it was full of leaves. He stumbled and fell, he got up quickly but his ankle hurt. He pushed on, the pain from his ankle shooting up his leg. He was at the road, he stumbled again but he could see the lorry he had heard. He ran and ran; the lorry was getting closer but just as he thought he - 33 -
CHRIS MORRIS was going to make it something grabbed his leg. This was when he would wake up. He had made it to the lorry and safety but he had always been haunted by how close it had been, how near to death he had come. After eighteen months the nightmare had settled down to less than once a month but since the newspaper reports he’d had it every night and every night he awoke in a cold sweat. He knew the police were looking for someone suffering from clinical lycanthropy, the medical condition whereby the sufferer believes they are a werewolf and every full moon they believe that they turn into a wolf like creature. Any physical changes occur purely in the sufferer’s mind. But Mike knew that the perpetrator of this crime was very likely to be an actual lycanthrope. He knew because he had seen them, he’d lived with them, without knowing it, for several months. He hadn’t become prey for them until he’d decided to look for the numerous wolves he’d heard in the surrounding forest. What he found scared him enough to realise he needed to get out of the sleepy little town he’d moved to. He’d tried to act normally as he packed all of his gear but he obviously hadn’t acted well enough. His car wouldn’t start and when he lifted the bonnet he realised it was because someone had taken the starter motor out. Knowing that he had been discovered he made his way out of town on foot. He had nearly made it when he heard the van driving up the road behind him, he turned and although he had never seen the dirty white van before some sixth sense told him that he didn’t want to be on the road when the van got here. He headed cross country through the forest in the hope of reaching the highway, the way the van speeded up and then screeched to a halt yards from where he had entered the forest told him that he had been right to leave the road. All he had to do now was get to the highway and this is where his dream began, he had made that journey to the highway thousands of times in the last six years. Over those six years Mike had trained himself to be an expert hunter and tracker. The very thought of killing anything repulsed him but he had decided that if he was ever in the same situation again he would not make it so easy for his pursuer. - 34 -
CHRIS MORRIS Even with this training the nightmares had been powerful enough to force him into the city, cities weren’t a place for wolves. And until now he had been right; but then the murders had started. After the fourth murder Mike took it upon himself to find the murderer, the police were going to be hopelessly outclassed. He had even bought himself a gun and a bullet mould so that he could make his own silver bullets. He wasn’t sure if the story about silver bullets was true but if it wasn’t and a werewolf could be killed by anything then a silver bullet was just as likely to stop him as a normal bullet. In fact, a silver bullet was more likely to fragment and cause more damage. Over the next six months he had been just behind the killer. He had actually been first on the scene of four of them; unfortunately this had put him in the way of Lieutenant Charles “Chuck” Miller. Miller was a very good cop which meant that he soon picked up on the fact that Mike seemed to be at each crime scene very soon after the attack. Mike had tried to hide his presence while still trying to catch what the police were saying, any clue might be enough to put Mike onto the killer’s trail, but Miller had spotted him at two scenes and then he had kept an eye out. Miller now knew for certain that Mike had appeared at the last four murders and this was why he had been taken into custody. Miller questioned him for twelve hours before releasing him due to insufficient evidence. Mike had been worried for a while there, he had had no alibi and Miller was extremely interested in why he had been at so many crime scenes. He knew that he would have to be more careful from now on, but what he really needed was a break. This break came in the form of Andrea Charleston. Andrea was walking home from her dance class when she was attacked by The Werewolf. Unfortunately for him dancing was only Andrea’s second love, her first was Aikido. She left the class at 9.15 and began her short walk home. As she walked through the gate of her apartment building into the yard at the back that all the apartments looked out onto she was hit squarely in the middle of the back. The wind was almost knocked out of her and she realised that she had never been hit like that not even in the full contact events she had entered occasionally. As she flew forward she dived into a roll which brought her back to her feet. - 35 -
CHRIS MORRIS As she turned she was stunned to see that she had been attacked by an animal. This animal looked like a wolf but it seemed to want to walk on its back legs. Regardless of her shock Andrea realised that she would have to fight or become a victim. She hit it time after time but nothing seemed to slow it and she feared that she was about to be killed by this animal. It was then that she heard a shot and the animal ran off whimpering in pain. Mike had been patrolling the area, this being the first night of the full moon, when he heard the commotion coming from the apartment block’s enclosed yard. He had stopped five muggings and had also almost become embroiled in three gang wars since he had taken up these hunting activities. But this time the noises sounded different, he could hear the kiais – the shouts which help a martial artist focus their power - but the other noises definitely sounded more animal than human. He slewed his car round and jumped out grabbing his gun. Trying to approach quickly without noise was difficult but he soon realised that the fight was causing enough noise for him not to need worry about stealth. He ran up to the gateway that Andrea had walked through not five minutes before. He saw immediately that this was the one he was after; there was no mistaking that this was a young woman in a fight to the death with a lycanthrope. During the muggings that he had stopped he had always had to be careful that he was aiming at the right person but in this case it wasn’t a problem, the werewolf stood well over six feet tall and must have measured five feet across the back. Even so, as Mike fired his pistol the werewolf turned and the bullet hit it in the shoulder. The animal/man howled in pain and then shot off through the back gate to the complex. Mike looked over at the woman and could see that she was physically and emotionally drained but had no wounds that could be seen. This one would live. The werewolf couldn’t believe how much his shoulder hurt. He had been shot several times, mostly by his victims before they succumbed to his teeth and claws but the bullets never felt worse than a bee sting. This time it felt like his - 36 -
CHRIS MORRIS arm was about to fall off. It could mean only one thing; the one that shot him had used a silver bullet. This meant that he had come hunting for him and was prepared for him. Even a werewolf is allowed to be afraid, he had always counted on his basic body shape and composition to strike fear into his victims. A scared victim is a victim that doesn’t think straight, doesn’t formulate escape plans, it just doesn’t live. Even the ones, like this last one, who weren’t sufficiently afraid to give up fighting soon succumbed to his unnatural strength and healing capabilities. He remembered that he had once seen a man lay out three people in a bar just because one had disturbed his pool shot. As the man walked home he had picked a fight with him, he had suffered three broken ribs during that fight but they had healed before the man’s blood had dried on his claws. This time he was the one who was scared; he had been tracked down by someone who knew what he was dealing with. This person would not be intimidated by his appearance and he also knew his one weakness, silver. He was in trouble and he couldn’t think of a way out of it apart from running. Mike followed the werewolf as quickly as he could. He knew that just over a mile away was a wood and if the werewolf made it there it might get away. This was why he had been patrolling this area, he had been lucky really, but once you really understood the thing you were trying to find it was much easier to work out where it might turn up. Since Mike’s encounter in the woods he had worked out almost religiously and his stamina and speed were greatly increased, whether a human runner could keep up with a werewolf was a question that was about to be answered. The walls were the biggest problem, the werewolf was vaulting over them as if they were merely hurdles, Mike had to leap and scramble over each one and with each one he lagged a little further behind. Worse, he could now see the woods that they were approaching. The werewolf was nearly there and he knew that no sensible human being should enter a wood that contains a werewolf. Each second saw his quarry getting further and further ahead, he had to do something. He suddenly experienced a flashback; it must have been triggered by the huge amounts of adrenaline flowing through his system. - 37 -
CHRIS MORRIS Fifty yards… Twenty-five… Fifteen… He didn’t see the shallow depression, it was full of leaves. He stumbled and fell, he got up quickly but his ankle hurt. He pushed on, the pain from his ankle shooting up his leg. He was at the road, he stumbled again but he could see the lorry he had heard. He ran and ran; the lorry was getting closer but just as he thought he was going to make it something grabbed his leg. He just managed to shake free and he scrambled onto the road. The truck driver just saw him before it was too late. The truck stopped and he climbed in. “What the hell happened to your leg?” The driver asked. Mike looked down and his left trouser leg was shredded below the knee and his foot was covered in blood. “I caught it in a bear trap.” Mike replied. Mike knew it was worth believing the folk tales about werewolves and silver because he now knew that the story that anyone injured by a werewolf was cursed to become one. Mike could see that his quarry was nearly to the woods, looking around he saw that the last three houses he had to pass looked deserted, all their lights were out so there was little chance of his being seen. Knowing this Mike let the transformation, that he had been fighting since moonrise, happen. His shoes split as the claws on his feet tore through them, his shirt ripped as his chest assumed Herculean proportions and his trousers tore as his knees seemed to reverse themselves. Hair started to sprout all over his body and then his face elongated as a snout started to form from within his head. The whole process took less than fifteen seconds and soon meant that a fully functioning werewolf was chasing a badly injured one. Mike was on him before he had travelled more than fifty yards into the wood. His claws tore into the werewolf’s ruptured shoulder provoking a howl of rage and pain. The pain caused the downed wolf to explode with a new aggression, his claws closed around Mike’s throat and Mike found he was struggling to breathe and lashed out with his back legs. They caught the already wounded wolf in the lower abdomen and he was flung into the nearest tree. Mike didn’t need his supernaturally acute hearing to hear the other wolf’s - 38 -
CHRIS MORRIS ribs break, this time there was too much pain for the wolf to even howl. Mike knew that the breaks would soon heal so he leapt onto his downed opponent and then he allowed his rage to really build. Mike could feel his human side slipping away until he only had the smallest grip on it. In his rage he physically ripped the wolf apart, he hoped that a werewolf could inflict mortal wounds upon another but he knew that this might not be possible so he did the only thing he could, he rendered the wolf down to his constituent body parts. Once he was sure that the wolf was beyond even their astounding powers of healing he grabbed hold of his human side and pulled it back. At first it was difficult to do but soon Mike felt more human and then he could feel a tingling in his legs and he slowly began to transform back to his human form. Mike knew that he now had to worry about clothes but first he had to take care of his quarry. He really had no idea if the werewolf was beyond healing so he dug several holes in the nearby wood and buried each body part in a different one. Just as he was smoothing the earth over the last hole he heard a gun cock behind him. He turned and saw Lieutenant Miller who was pointing his own gun at him. “Lieutenant, now look. I know this looks extremely strange but I can guarantee that The Werewolf will kill no more women.” Mike said stuttering slightly from the cold but more from fear of the situation he now found himself in. “Strange? I’ve got a man in the woods, no more than two miles from a near murder attempt and his gun contains silver bullets.” Miller smiled but kept the gun levelled at Mike. “Look, let me explain. I found the killer and I’ve killed him but I can’t show you where he’s buried.” Mike replied. “Why? Afraid that if you dig him up he might grow his body parts back?” Miller laughed. “Funny you should say that.” Mike said and then screamed as the bullet tore into his shoulder. The pain triggered an automatic response in Mike’s supernaturally transformed body system and his face started to form into a snout. Mike just managed to stop the transformation in time and his face came back to his normal human features. Breathing raggedly due to the pain Mike started to speak, “Look, Werewolves are real; the killer was one which is why - 39 -
CHRIS MORRIS you’d never have caught him. I’m a werewolf too but I’ve learnt to control the impulses I can remain human all the time and I’m no danger to anyone. I know it’s hard to believe but it’s true.” Mike shouted desperately. “I don’t find it hard to believe at all.” Miller replied and smiled as he saw the look on Mike’s face. “We can’t have everyone finding out about werewolves can we? If they find out about werewolves they might hunt us all down.” “Us?” Mike asked stunned. “Yeah, us. You’re not the only one that knows and you’re not the only one that found out the hard way.” Miller pulled up his left sleeve and Mike could see scars that could only be claw marks running all the way up his arm. “But the woman knows, she saw the killer.” Mike said desperately. “I was nearly killed by a werewolf! The only paper that will print that is The Enquirer, right below the ‘I married an Alien’ story. Without you she has no proof. Goodbye.” Miller pulled the trigger. In the few minutes that it took his system to shut down Mike relived his nightmare one more time. He saw the werewolves in the woods, he went back to his house, seeing the white van, the chase through the forest and then the truck and finally looking down at his bloodied. His last thought was, ‘At least I’m free now’. Miller carried the naked body to the road as he composed his story, something along the lines of, ‘He overpowered me and my only chance was to pick up his gun’. As he got to his vehicle he said out loud to himself, “He should have known you can only have one alpha male.” Then he threw Mike’s body into the back of the dirty white van that he could never bring himself to get rid of, drove back to the station house and looked forward to receiving his citation. Copyright © Chris Morris 2008
C
hris Morris is a pharmacist living in Newquay. He has always enjoyed reading/watching sci-fi and fantasy but says it was his wife that led him down the dark road of horror! He only started writing a couple of years ago. - 40 -
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