Evil Jester Digest, Vol.1 (16 page)

“And, how is it that you are still here, sitting before me, and not torn into a thousand pieces with your soul scattered to the seven circles?”

The Reverend shifted nervously in his seat again.

“I believe that my death would have been too easy, too ephemeral an act for Malphas, and that he wanted to torment me for my impudence. And soon enough he began to whisper of matters unknown to me. Yet this was not the knowledge of invisibility, or hidden treasures, or seduction, or flight. Nor was it understanding of how the heavens are constructed, or what mystical forces bind the universe together. I soon discovered that the demon had resolved to instruct me in matters closer to home. Soon, the delineations of the room began to dissolve, and visions appeared that were as real as you appear to me now.

“I saw a nest of rats in the sewers beneath Vienna, that when birthed had become entangled by their tails, but which continued to grow and feed, until it became a writhing mass of hair, teeth, and claws that strained out to all four points of the compass, a gnashing, pulsating cartwheel. I saw a perverse nobleman stumble upon this foul nest, and instruct one of his men to procure an infant, so that he might place it within the middle of this monstrosity, and I screamed as I saw the delicate babe slowly devoured by this mephitic, wriggling mess, its agony beyond comprehension.

I saw a mad surgeon in Toulouse place spiders’ eggs inside the patients that lay on his operating table, and shortly thereafter swollen lumps appeared on their cheeks, and I beheld these fleshy protuberances burst like a lanced boil, spewing forth hundreds of spiders, their bodies fat with blood.”

My revulsion must have been evident, and I huddled closer to the fire, unable to prevent myself translating his words into mental images, which leapt into mind like unwelcome night terrors.

“Such depravity I witnessed!” the Reverend continued. “A mortuary in Geneva, where the night workers sated their twisted lust on the corpses of men, women, and children. A cellar in Bavaria, in which a lunatic gnawed on the noses and eyes of his bound victims, until they became living skulls. A rapist in a village near Kursk, that strapped himself into a sheath made of razors before setting out to defile young girls in a manner that defies description. It was as though Bosch himself was painting pictures in my mind. Worse! Endless vignettes of slaughter, torture, rape, necrophilia, pederasty—all of Man’s evils brought forth for me to witness.”

A gasp caught in my throat and I coughed loudly, allowing our table to once again become the subject of unwelcome attention. Both the Reverend and I refrained from further dialogue until the room had once again given us a camouflaging burr of conversation.

“And what happened—how did you escape?” I pressed.

“For days I was forced to watch as the demon exposed me to every possible perversion, whispering in my ear without respite, until the combination of obscenity and hunger drove me to madness, and I ceased to know who or where I was.”

“And yet you sit here before me?”

“Did you serve in the Great War, Bentley? You look of an age.”

I was disarmed by this change of subject but nodded, the crackle of the fire suddenly a volley of rifles across a ravaged wasteland.

“I was wounded at Passchendaele and discharged shortly after.”

“Passchendaele? Then you will understand me when I say that when a man is confronted by death, his instinct to survive takes over, and he will do anything to cling to life—actions that he could scarcely imagine previously, let alone undertake. The beast lurks beneath all our breasts, no matter how outwardly civil we appear.”

I knew of that lust for life of which he spoke, and the Reverend’s words took me back to the Western Front, and I recalled lying in the shell crater, my ears ringing, my body bleeding, with the torn limbs and entrails of men and horses bubbling up from the muddy water like a witches’ soup.

In front of me was a door I did not want to push, yet even as I considered ending the conversation and seeking out some cheerful, empty banter at the other tables, I knew that I would not be satisfied until I learned his fate.

“And what did you do, Sir, when faced with your own demise?” I whispered.

The Reverend was silent for a few seconds. Then his face loomed out from the gloom, the firelight twisting his emaciated features into a satanic mask.

“You must remember I was desperate, Bentley. All the while the demon tormented me, I neither ate nor slept. I was insane! Ravenous! I had to eat or die!”

The Reverend tugged angrily at his black leather gloves, which seemed reluctant to come off. As I was about to offer my assistance, I saw to my horror that he was not, in fact, divesting himself of garments, but of his very hands!

Slowly, he raised his wrists into the firelight and proffered them for my reluctant inspection. Emerging from the starched cuffs of his shirt were two ugly stumps, the splintered, gnawed tips of radius and ulna still visible among the liver colored mince of the flesh. Despite having witnessed many disfigurements as I recovered from my injuries in the military hospital, I shrank back in disgust and fear, a small girl seeing the spider descend on its silken thread.

“My God, you…” I left the sentence unfinished.

The Reverend nodded, a thin, barbed wire smile twisting across his fleshy lips.

“I ate my own hands, Bentley, like a madman chained to the walls at Bedlam. It was a simple enough choice at the time—become a corpse, or become a cannibal. As you can see, I chose the latter.”

The Reverend placed his arms back into his lap, and I saw him wince as he thrust those terrible stumps back into the shiny black prosthetic hands. I lit another cigarette, inhaling far more deeply than was necessary in an effort to calm my pulse, which was banging loudly in my ears.

“And was that how you placated the demon?” I asked. “I know that once it escapes its magical bonds, it is unwilling to return to the astral dimension without exacting a hefty price.” All thoughts of discretion were gone, and I was eager to know how this man had endured—even if this meant betraying my own travels on the left-hand path.

Yet even as I spoke, something was bothering me, a nagging doubt at the edge of my mind which hovered shyly, unwilling to come into full view. Now that I had seen his ravaged body, the veracity of his account was undeniable. But, still, men do not step from chalk circles and live to tell the tale.

At the moment, I recalled the symbol the Reverend had passed to me. Pulling it from my waistcoat, I held it up into the light, frowning as I struggled to recall its meaning. Then it came, and I felt the blood drain from my face, despite the warmth of the flames.

“I have it! This symbol denotes Sacrifice!” I cried, too shocked to care any longer if my words were heard. “Pray do not tell me that you given yourself to Malphas, Sir, for if this is true, you are truly lost!”

To my surprise, the Reverend chuckled softly, a sound that made my flesh clutch suddenly at my bones. A sly look passed across his face, and he rubbed his false hand on his knees in an unseemly display of boyish excitement.

“No, it is not my soul that is to be taken, Sir, for it is already too black for the Demon’s liking. Instead, I was tasked with seeking out someone of a purer nature to act in my stead: perhaps a brave soul that fought for his country; a kind gentleman that might reach out in friendship to a lonely old man, and share his hearth on a cold night. Such a person I was to find, and mark with this symbol, which they were to accept willingly, without coercion or payment!”

Even as I leap from my seat in rage, I hear a deep-throated, rasping laugh from behind my chair, the sound of a thousand torn throats gasping for air. The room begins to darken and recede, and the fire reaches out to embrace me, until I stand like the witch on her flaming pyre, trapped by bars of scarlet and yellow. As razor sharp talons dig into my cheeks and slice them from the bone like cuts of meat, the last thing I hear is the Reverend’s baritone voice calling my name a final time.

“Forgive me, Bentley, forgive me!”

*****

Phil Hickes
is an advertising copywriter residing in New Zealand. His stories are featured in the
Detritus
anthology published by Omnium Gatherum Media and
Satan's ToyBox: Toy Soldiers
, from Angelic Knight Press. He also has a story featured in the upcoming
Attic Toys
anthology, edited by Jeremy C. Shipp (Evil Jester Press). He can be found on Twitter @hickesy.

DUST AT THE CENTER OF ALL THINGS

John F.D. Taff

The wooden crate
was sealed tight, stenciled in plain black letters.

Llullaillco Volcano

Museum of High Altitude Archaeology

Salta, Argentina

¡Frágil!

It squatted in the center of the museum’s warehouse, squatted and steamed ominously. Bill knew it was just the dry ice, keeping the small bundle nestled within as frozen as when he had found it.

She
slept within, swaddled in ancient textiles, encased in Styrofoam, packed into a steel case, then sealed inside another steel case which was then, finally, crated in wood and stenciled with those four simple lines.

Technicians, representatives of the Argentine government, tribal leaders of the local Incan community residing in Salta, museum staff, representatives of corporate donors, and even members of the National Geographic Society milled about the wide expanse of concrete the box occupied.

Bill, Dr. William Sanford, stood by idly, almost complacently, watching the team of men unpacking the crate slowly, methodically, so as not to pierce the metal containers. What was inside, curled into a sleeping position held for more than half a century, was delicate, incomprehensibly valuable.

…delicate…incomprehensibly valuable…

Those words made his jaw ache, and, unbidden, her face swam into his mind, her sweet, innocent face, eyes slowly closing…drifting, fading, slipping away. A small enigmatic smile had remained on her lips long after whatever emotion had caused it evaporated with whatever spark had animated her.

That smile, that smile frozen on her blue lips like an ice sculpture, remained with him, as he knew it would until whatever spark animated him had left, too.

But that was another
her
…

“Doctor,” came a voice beside him. “We’re ready to remove the Styrofoam and move her into the temperature-controlled chamber in the lab.”

Bill cleared his throat, absently wiped at his eyes, eyes that were, surprisingly enough, dry. “Sure, Ted. Let’s get her in there before she melts and causes an international incident.”

Clapping the lab assistant on the back, Bill drew in a deep breath, strode toward the main knot of people gathered around the smoke-shrouded crate.

Of course my eyes are dry,
he thought.
I can’t cry anymore.

There’s nothing left inside me…nothing in my heart…

…nothing but dust.

Daddy?

Yes, sweet pea?

…when will it hurt?

Hurt? I hope it won’t ever hurt, honey.

The doctors said it would hurt, that I’d feel bad…but I don’t.

That’s good, baby.

It feels like…I’m floating in a pool, Daddy.

Like I’m floating in the clouds…

*****

Bill snapped awake.

He gasped for breath, swallowed, but his throat stuck together, dry and adhesive.

Beside him, his wife lay wrapped around a giant sleep pillow, an eye mask on, drugged to the gills. He knew how she felt, wished that the drugs, the alcohol, the sleeping until all hours worked for him, too. But it didn’t. The grief was too keen, too stinging, too present.

As he watched, her shape under the blankets, that crescent-moon shape, reminded him of her…
and her.

One that he’d found on the side of a South American mountain a year ago, curled cold and dead.

The other he’d buried in the dry ground of Mt. Pleasant Cemetery a month ago, just as cold, just as dead.

He threw his legs off the side of the bed, drew on a robe, went downstairs to make coffee.

He knew, from bitter experience, knew that there would be no more sleep tonight.

*****

La Doncella
, they
called her…
the maiden
.

Dr. Sanford and his team had found her a year ago on the side of a dormant volcano in Argentina, nearly at the top of the mountain’s 20,000-foot peak. She was perfectly, exquisitely preserved, mummified by the cold, dry air, wrapped in blankets, clothed in handmade textiles of breathtaking intricacy, adorned with feathers and jewelry and a head piece.

She’d been no more than 12 years old, her skin still beautiful, her hair still braided and plaited, supple and shiny. Five centuries ago, her Incan elders, her parents, her grandparents, perhaps, clothed her and led her up to the top of
Llullaillco
. She still had the remains of cocoa leaves in her mouth, which the Inca chewed to ward off altitude sickness. Her stomach still held traces of the corn liquor they’d given to warm her, perhaps, make her sleepy.

And then they left her there, left her bundled in blankets, dressed in her finest, left her drunk and drugged and alone to freeze to death at the top of the mountain, as close to their heaven as they could physically get.

She had drifted to sleep, perhaps, drifted away borne on exposure and hypoxia and the alcohol coursing through her veins…drifted peacefully into a death where sharp, cold blue skies swirled overhead and hard, unforgiving rock pressed up from below.