Samothrace, Aegean Sea, 961 AD

Her servants think their old, blind mistress is also hard of hearing, and rarely hold their tongues in her presence. Irene does not correct them. The inces­sant gossip of simple, uneducated peasants is one of the few remaining pleas­ures of her cloistered life. But not today; today they keep their voices low, mutter­ing and sniffling and whispering.

She tilts her head sideways. Her right eye is lost but, sometimes, she can see lights and shapes through her left. Shadows of things that are, ghosts of things that were, or dreams of what will soon come to pass. But today she sees only anger and grief and despair.

Irene shifts in her seat, struggles to make out the servants’ words. What are they complaining about now? Her son, the Magistrate of Samothrace, had a visitor from Constantinople earlier this morning. What did the Emperor demand this time, that caused such unrest among her servants?

Soon she tires, her seat of fine cedar wood under the ancient olive tree too hard on her aged hips. She hits the cobblestones of the front yard with her walking stick and calls her maid.

“Merope! Where did you go? I need to go back inside! Now!”

“I’m here, my lady.” Rushed footsteps to her side, and strong arms help her stand. More sniffling.

“And what’s wrong with you?” asks Irene, annoyance seeping in her voice.

“My grandson… They have commandeered his ship and conscripted him for the fight against the Saracen pirates of Crete.”

“Ah.” So that’s what the Emperor’s emissary wants. More supplies. More men. More ships. She squeezes Merope’s arm. “Take me inside.”

“Of course, my lady. Come.” Lament lingers in Merope’s voice as she guides Irene over the doorstep.

Irene follows, wishing she could take her harsh words back. One more regret in a long line of all the little things she could have said or done differ­ently. The ailment of old age, this pains her more than her aching joints and useless eyes. As they walk down the hall, they hear men’s voices. Irene walks toward them, and her maid’s grip on her forearm tightens.

“My lady… ” Hesitation stretches Merope’s voice.

“Oh, hush! Let me listen.”

All the everyday noises of the household become as loud as the church’s bell in Irene’s ears. Merope’s rapid breathing beside her, the cat stalking mice in the kitchen, the creaking of the wooden planks of the floor echo in­side her head. She stops and listens to the men, barely daring to breathe…

[Read the rest of this story, plus twenty-nine others others, in the anthology Arcane! Click here!]

Day seven of the westward trek. Paul looked a little the worse for wear. Which was understandable, because she’d trussed him up like a Christmas goose, or turkey, whichever bird was available that season—point was, his hands and ankles were tied. Though Lidy removed the gag after he agreed to stop swearing at her in Latin, his jaw was near immobilized on account of the position he was in. She’d slung him half alongside the donkey, and the con­torted sounds he was making were probably complaints of a head­ache, from banging against the beast’s bony shoulder.

“This is what happens when you turn all evil and whatnot,” she told him. “You get a headache, and the world doesn’t care.”

He managed to say a short phrase, which may or may not have been Latin, and may or may not have been a curse. She paused a moment to rest, and also to wrap the donkey’s feed bag around Paul’s head. He was not appre­ciative. There was a lot of spluttering while the oats invaded his nostrils and his gaping mouth.

She mounted again, and they rode on.

The donkey was strong, taller than usual for such an animal. All to the good. She hadn’t been able to afford a horse, at the beginning of this man­hunt, this shindig, this near-fiasco of epic proportions—but she’d be able to afford one now. Maybe even one of those little two-seater train cars, the kind that got pulled around the country so everyone could look and stare and gawk and gradually die of jealousy.

There was no denying that the payload was worthwhile. Eventually she took pity on him, or on the donkey, and transferred the feed bag to its right­ful owner. She’d soon be stopping for the night, anyhow—just up the road was the inn where she’d tracked Paul down in the first place. She tugged the loudly munching donkey along, and Paul made a hissing noise from his un­comfortable perch. Lidy grinned, because understanding or no, some things were universal.

Kemmick was at his post (to the right of the gate, feet up, sleeping) and she had to kick his shoes a few times before he sat up, blinking, rubbing his eyes. Pretending to have been more deeply asleep than he actually was, purely to make her feel guilty. She didn’t.

“The ass is back,” she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder…

[Read the rest of this story, plus twenty-nine others others, in the anthology Arcane! Click here!]

Peace be upon you this morning, my brother. I see you and I alone are brave enough to clap our eyes upon this thing, this menace of the Eastern Sea.

Or fools enough, as our shipmates would say.

I? Oh yes, I’ve seen it before. Gone so far as to make landfall and stand be­neath it, but that was with a captain and crew of the One True Faith. Islanders like our ship’s master and his men are still beholden to those superstitions that pass for religion in these waters. But I trust that one day the revelations of the Prophet, peace be upon him, will open their eyes.

Oh, I’ll grant you that, my brother—they are as strong in their own beliefs as you or I are in the One True Faith. But do not confuse belief with faith. Faith is the measure of the civilized mind and it begets wisdom, while belief… belief springs from emotion, not intellect. It begets fanaticism, and fanaticism begets what we shall soon see perched upon one of these little islands.

Its name? It has none. The islanders fear that naming it will give it power over them. They only speak of the settlement whose people created this mon­stros­ity, a lyrical trilling which in our language amounts to “the village that devoured it­self.” But during its time of glory it used to be known, in lands even more dis­tant than our own, as Blossom of the Hillside….

Blossom of the Hillside owed its existence to porcelain.

Delicate teacups and elegant figurines flowed from the shops of its arti­sans to the ships of the Imperial trading fleet and thence to the kingdoms of the Western barbarians. In return the Blossom People were held in high honor by the Emperor and his subjects, and they grew in wealth and repu­tation.

Porcelain had caused Blossom of the Hillside to grow from a few isolated clay digs and anagama sites to a thriving village with dozens of master pot­ters and sculptors and their families, along with scores of apprentices, lack­eys and servants. Their delicate houses, with paper walls and pagoda roofs, peppered the foot of the island’s one great hill. Bright tiles adorned every roof, post and beam—the artisans’ castoffs, yet finer still than any barbar­ian claymonger could fashion. East of the village the hill rose tall and broad to overlook the vast sea, its stony bulk protecting the village from storms blown in by ocean winds…

[Read the rest of this story, plus twenty-nine others others, in the anthology Arcane! Click here!]

“Mallecho Wood? Is that safe?” My wife asks. She reminds me of my mother.

“I told them to stay clear,” I say. “They’re just going for a bit, Jan.” She worries like that. But then, her family is not from here. I smile at her and go into the garden. The sun is strong and overhead. The children have left their ball games and toys on the lawn. I go to the rose tree and watch the insects, the flies, the bees, even the ants. Behind the tree is a brown fence and behind that is the embankment. Thick bramble covers its side. It is tall, almost as high as the house. At the top is an abandoned railway line. This was my father’s house, but he never saw the line in use. This house will pass to my children one day, I hope.

The land around here is old. Old in human terms. Some of the boundaries and copses are mentioned in the doomsday book, but there are sites of pre-history too. Standing stones, earth works, barrows and the like. Sacred groves, probably. You can feel it at night. If you walk on the embankment and look at the stars, at the landscape. The weight of generations, the renewal of the seasons. Forgotten things were done here.

I don’t walk there as much as I used to. I get cramp in my arm when it’s cold. Jan never really liked it, but Tim and Rebecca do. Jan frowns when they go up there. I joke and tell her the train isn’t due for another hour. She pretends to laugh, but I see her relax when the children return.

Tim is at an age where everything is an adventure. I see him wake, full of excitement—surprise and possibility await him. Later, when the day has run its course, I find him sleeping, a toy gun still in his hand. Rebecca is serious, a thinker. She watches her younger brother with a frown, but is never far behind him.

To one side of our house is my neighbor’s house, the other side is a field. My neighbors, the parents of my children’s friends, my own childhood friends, have been a comfort to me over the years. Simon and Sue Talbot. A shared experience holds us together, holds the community together…

[Read the rest of this story, plus twenty-nine others others, in the anthology Arcane! Click here!]

Business Day 1

William returned to work far too soon. He walked down the familiar hallway past the empty cubicles, past a cluster of whispering employees. “…Found in the runoff… the Factory.” Their voices trailed off as he walked past. “…Pretty bad shape I hear.” He caught fragments of their conversation despite their attempts at disguising the gossip. “…Things grow out there in the muck.”

He didn’t recognize any of them. They were all fresh faces discussing his life as if they’d known who he was or understood what had happened. He’d survived the tragedy and the last three months by immersing himself in apathy; it made him invulnerable and the days bearable. Gossiping co-workers were irrelevant. He didn’t acknowledge their presence but idly rattled his keys in his pocket as he walked by.

Time had not been kind to the Corporation. The building had always been in disrepair but the current degree of dilapidation was shocking. The quaint art collection of children’s handprints and bright yellow suns over green landscapes had been removed and replaced by curiously configured water stains. The ceiling tiles were buckled, spotted with smears of gray where maintenance had attempted to scrub the mold away. Several tiles were missing and the gaps were plugged with wads of something bulbous and pale, like an organic brand of environmentally friendly insulation. The once mauve carpet was now faded and worn and there were threadbare rugs laid out to cover what he assumed to be even more offensive stains. Apparently the lawsuits had taken their toll on the building’s aesthetics.

William walked quickly towards his desk with the intent of dropping off his keys and heading to the break room for a drink of water. The lights were dimmed, several of the fluorescents turned off or burnt out. He passed by a handwritten note pinned to the department announcement board:

In an effort to save the environmint management has implimented several energee saving measures. Thank you for your cooperasion.

His cubicle had been relatively untouched during his bereavement leave. There was only a small stack of new paperwork and a single envelope on the keyboard. He felt a thin greasy film across the desktop, like furniture polish that hadn’t been adequately wiped away. He traced his finger across the surface and though he couldn’t see any residue he did detect the earthy scent of mildew…

[Read the rest of this story, plus twenty-nine others others, in the anthology Arcane! Click here!]

Reviews for Arcane are starting to come in!  On her blog Skull Honey, Leslianne Wilder writes:

Good solid mix of dark, unsettling stories, with more light and funny stories thrown in than I expected. Some prose-pretty and interesting format pieces, some faster paced and action oriented ones. There’s going to be something here you like, especially if you like the undead.

She then gives insightful commentary on her favorite stories, and says:

This is a very solid collection. You might not like everything because it’s very varied, but that’s to its strength. It showcases a broad range of talent and stories that bring in a myriad of subgenres. Did I mention how big this book is? Even if you’re a very fast reader, it’s days of entertainment.

And user PMc on Amazon.com says:

A casual and thorough dissection of the human (and possibly inhuman) psyche, this book puts you in a dark place at the start and then leaves you there, alone and too frightened to turn on the light, and this is a good thing!

Need a copy to find out what the fuss is about?  Arcane is only $3.99 as an ebook, or available in trade paperback!

Before this latest delivery, John visited his secret place, a far field beyond the city and himself, where the Darkness couldn’t find him. Childhood awaited him there, and Laura. A place before the corruptions of adulthood, before the terrible processes of a God that cannot be known. A place before pain.

“It makes me think of the guy in the woods,” he told Laura, supine in the bracken. “The Darkness does.”

“The guy who killed himself?” she asked, from in his brain. She was like an outside person but not.

“Yeah,” John said. Laura was fading some so he smoked more egg and that fixed her. “It kinda pushes this button in my head, makes me think of him. Trying to make me end it.”

“That’s not an option,” Laura said, stronger now. “You know that, right?”

John said he did, watching the timothy grass sway, the staring hedge of woods. The egg made them brighter, more alive, like it did Laura.

“I was young when I found him, six or seven or thereabouts,” he said dreamily, in audience of that living earth and his phantom lover. “He was down in a holler where I played sometimes, very private. It was summer so the light was low, from all the leaves, and I didn’t at first know what I was seeing. I could tell it was a man, a naked man, sitting along the bank, but to me, he just looked to be in this delicate kind of balancing act, like yoga or somethin’. Then I saw the shotgun, his toe on the trigger. I started to shout, but didn’t get it out in time. He never knew I was there, I don’t think.”

Laura soothed him with the giant blue eyes he knew she had.

He continued: “Then it happened—pow. I’ll always remember how he went lax right after, perfectly lax, I can’t even describe it. It came with the gore and the noise, all at once. That’s what it—the Darkness—that’s what it always digs up, that weird flounce of movement, what I guess was his soul shooting out.”

There were tears now, and Laura used his hand to brush them away. “Shhh, it’s okay,” she said, smoothing his hair with same. “Shhh.”

John sniffled. “It’s always there, the Darkness. Always picking, trying to get in. And I can fight it for a while, you know, keep it at bay. But it always wins. Always. Because it’s stronger than me. And it’s hungry…”

[Read the rest of this story, plus twenty-nine others others, in the anthology Arcane! Click here!]

1. Nowhere Barn

They hadn’t known what to expect, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

The barn stood alone in the middle of a barren stretch of hardpan where weeds might have sprung up from the godforsaken earth once upon a time. Plenty of land for wheat fields or grazing pasture stretched between hills at each compass point, perfect for protection from harsh winter winds and run-off during spring rains. It could have been a thriving ranch or farm long ago, but now the whole spread lay cold and abandoned, nothing more than a for­gotten memory. There were no remains of a farmhouse, no sign of the settlers who’d once built this sun-bleached, dilapidated barn. The edifice looked as if it had sprung up out of the lifeless ground of its own accord, which didn’t bode well for what would be found inside.

They’d been following a trail for the past two days, and it led straight to these lopsided doors, chained shut and padlocked as if to keep something unsavory contained inside. But that couldn’t be. Whatever had sucked the life out of the animals they’d passed along the way would have had no trouble snapping through this chain, just as it had snapped the neck of every cow, horse, sheep and goat they’d counted so far.

Now they stood just inside the dusty threshold, staring upward, unable to believe their eyes.
“So, what do you make of it?” Coyote Cal managed once he’d found his voice, fingers crawling for the holstered six-gun tied down to his thigh.

Donna Jamison, resident expert on all things weird and wicked in the Wild West, let loose a low whistle through her teeth, shaking her head in bewil­der­ment.

Big Yap—Cal’s loyal sidekick who was old enough to be his father, maybe even his grandfather—kept his sawed-off shotgun at the ready, the same weapon he’d used to blast off the padlock and allow them entry.

Manuel, their trusted guide from the town of Paseo Grande, crossed him­self repeatedly with his mouth hanging wide open. “Hijos del Diablo!” he gasped.

“Steady,” said Cal. “We knew it wouldn’t be pretty.”

“Hijos del Diablo!”

“What the heck is he babbling about?” Big Yap grumbled.

“The devil’s children,” Cal mused.

Flocks of dust motes danced in streaks of white sunlight piercing the barn’s dim interior, just enough light to see the cows strung up to the rafters by their hooves, skinned and glistening bloody in the intermittent light, each one of them decapitated with their necks sewn shut. There had to be at least a dozen. But they weren’t the worst of it. The swollen middle of each sus­pended carcass looked very much alive, squirming with something inside…

[Read the rest of this story, plus twenty-nine others others, in the anthology Arcane! Click here!]

Kamé hands me my journal.

“Write,” she says, using the word from my language I have taught her, as hers lacks the concept. “Remembering will help you forget.”

Is it a trick of the dappled forest light, or is she still growing younger?

She sees me studying her refined face, blushes, makes another of her ever-cryptic observations.

“Beware, a young man’s eye is too soon his grandfather’s squint.”

She has said that before. This time I understand. It is a much more roman­tic version of the adage The child is father to the man. Is my fas­ci­na­tion with her that obvious?

She leaves me alone and, as always, continuity vanishes with her. Not only am I forgetting, I can barely reconstruct the events that bestowed this fate upon me. I review my earlier notes, knowing I must soon destroy them. Her nephew, Chaat, wants only a single clear account of my arrival, one I will keep in the unlikely event I want to remember them. The shaman is above all else a practical man.

“A debt to your friends,” he says, waving at the journal. “All debts must be paid before advancing.”

“Yes,” I agree.

Chaat stands up, admires The Heart glistening behind me, ducks into the shadow of the trees leaving me wondering what he sees.

Not long ago—perhaps even yesterday—I would not have understood Chaat’s notion of debt. It isn’t that I actually owe Knoll, Horton or Mossford anything. It’s simply best, as Kamé says, to pay one’s final respect to one’s recollections and release them, for only the history of the Chil­dren need endure. Knoll, Horton and Mossford have, if merely through their cu­pidity, earned a dubious honor in that respect. Drugged, then impaled alive high above the ground, they ornament the path immediately be­fore the gateway. They serve as a warning to other potential intruders. And for that, we all owe them a debt which I will pay by finding a place for them in Kamé’s history of the Children.

According to my notes, our utterly decrepit and singularly unreliable river­boat had just broken down for the fifth time in half as many weeks since we set out upon this ill-advised journey. Rather than bake beneath the merci­less sun without the benefit of breeze indoors or else feed the persis­tent hoards of gnats that swarm in great churning clouds above the surface of that sleek black snake of a river, four of us opted to trek inland beneath the canopy of the great trees until the boat was seaworthy again…

[Read the rest of this story, plus twenty-nine others others, in the anthology Arcane! Click here!]

The car’s upholstery was pockmarked with holes. Cigarette ash burns and tears and rips from dog claws, worn spots from butts sliding into position. It smelled bad, too, like old cups of coffee and chewed cigar corpses long for­gotten underneath the seats. It was a bitch to steer and the gas mileage was shit, but once it got going, it kept going, inertia’s very best friend. The exter­ior was, shockingly, rust-free, thanks to the dry California and Arizona des­ert air, and the paint was a sun-faded white that looked like cof­fee-stained teeth. But it smelled like farts and feet, and it often took ten minutes or more just to get the bastard started. Reyes hated the car, but when he got out of town, it was the only car left. A town full of sports cars and Hummers and jacked-up jeeps with winches and lift kits, and all that was left for Reyes was a ’74 Deville with no hubcaps and a hole in the floor on the passenger side. People had left in a hurry, but they still had high standards.

Reyes, however, had no high standards. Had no standards at all, really, unless you counted survival as a standard. He had left Malibu a day and a half ago, and he was now cutting across Arizona on Interstate 40. He had gone through Kingman. The gas station was all that was left, and good luck for Reyes, too, because the Deville went through gas like Reyes went through cigarettes. He filled up and left without seeing another living per­son. By the time he got to Williams, he needed gas again. But Williams was gone. Noth­ing left. Just those stubborn pine trees (which Reyes was quite sur­prised to see in Arizona) and what was left of the downtown. There wasn’t much.

He did see people along the way. There were other cars on the interstate, in fact, but too many people were in a hurry. No more cops meant no more speed limit, and people took advantage. Reyes, however, drove slower than he usually did, since so many abandoned cars were scattered on the high­ways. You never knew when one might just be stopped in the middle of the passing lane, and in the darkness of a desert night, the abandoned heaps of metal came up quick. Reyes passed a lot of wrecks, survivors who had taken too many liberties with the absence of a speed limit, survivors who made it out alive, only to crash into an abandoned Lexus or Chevy Cavalier stopped in the middle of a dark highway…

[Read the rest of this story, plus twenty-nine others others, in the anthology Arcane! Click here!]