Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

In a fine cushioned sconce
Six gems rest, nonchalant
Two of green, emerald hue
Two more of ruby, sparkling too
A fifth one, sapphire, a startling gem
The final is beryl, as orange as some men

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Don’t go over 25! What are you, a maniac?

He knew that the deal had been too good to be true. A champagne gold Buick, only driven by a little old lady to church on Sundays? Roy gritted his teeth and tried to floor the accelerator to pass someone.

The speed limit here is 30 for a reason, better stay a few under just to keep out of trouble.

Roy should have known something was up when he found himself leaving the blinker on for an entire trip, or when he’d had a sudden desire to shop at the Piggly Wiggly–an hour away in good traffic.

Can never be too careful with all those teenagers on the road.

Pulling to the left in a turn, Roy found himself taking the long way to avoid a street that had a few kids loitering on it. The surface streets dropped the speed limit from 30 to 25, so Roy naturally dropped his own speed to a glacial 20, barely above idle. People began to swerve around the Buick wherever they could squeeze themselves.

They’ll regret being such speed demons when the cops catch them!

As he pulled into the parking lot and grabbed his clutch before making for the powered scooters, Roy sighed. It was too late, now; he was thoroughly possessed by the spirit of the old lady that used to drive the car.

Don’t forget your coupons! Is it all right to pay with a check?

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“He is imprisoned, you see, in a temple of nightmares. Every brick is a night terror, a primal fear pored over in the wee hours and given shape by subconscious dread. For some, the prison is a small one. A single room. Others, those who have known true pain, true fear, true darkness…they can make labyrinths, you see. Walls of living pain.”

I must have looked very old, then, and very tired in the harsh light of the monitors. “You’re saying he’s lost, then.”

“Lost? No. We know where he is. Getting there is possible, if difficult. Finding him is tricky, not impossible. But…”

“But?”

“But it is convincing him to leave that will be the hardest part.” Alyce also looked rather poorly by the artificial light as she looked through the glass at his body. “A temple of nightmares can become rather homely if you spend every day there. If you built it.”

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Once upon a time, two twins lived in Trondheim in Viking Norway. They were known as Byog and Byob Halvorsen, and while they made their livings as hunters, their primary notoriety about the Trondheimsfjorden was their great love of, and incredible appetite for, alcohol. Byog Halvorsen preferred beer, Byob Halvorsen preferred mead, and together they could be found drinking, singing, and carousing whenever they were not out hunting.

One day, a dispute abut which beverage–mead or beer–was superior caused the brothers to break into angry fisticuffs. The fight, which lasted a whole day, wound up with both Halvorsens locked away for disturbing the peace. Speaking through the bars of their cells, the two brothers made a wager: whomever could return a year hence with the best written endorsement of their chosen drink would win, and the other brother would have to pay a year’s supply.

Time passed, and most townsfolk forgot about the whole incident. But the brothers did not, and their increasingly bold boasts in the weeks leading up to their contest resulted in a fair number of spectators. Byob went first, proudly producing a note from the Bishop of Nidaros in favor of mead. But Byog, grinning, then flashed a missive from the King endorsing beer. Byob protested that the King was a foreigner, a German prince ruling from Denmark and therefore biased, but the crowd declared him the winner.

Angry but true to his word, Byob Halvorsen promised to secure a year’s supply of beer for his brother. Byog, for his part, paid to have invitations posted around town for a grand celebration that would use up the supply in a single day. When the day came, though, no beer was forthcoming–instead, all the partygoers brought their own, providing the year’s supply and sharing generously with one another. Byob had cleverly convinced them all, through word of mouth, that they should bring their own drinks because he had been unable to acquire beer of a high quality. He therefore was able to pay off his debt to Byog and please the partygoers without paying a cent.

In recognition of his achievement, any party where guests bring their own spirits was, forever after, known as BYOB.

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The stockings, the tinsel, and more
Went down through the basement door
In those boxes they’ll sleep
A silent vigil they’ll keep
‘Til Xmas bells ring once more

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In my dream, I was walking through a frozen forest. Fresh-fallen snow, pristine icicles on the trees, and a white glow that swallowed up every bit of sunshine into a comforting haze.

I should have been cold, but I was not. The snow was undisturbed by my passage, and I left neither track nor trail. Warm and dry was not how I expected to feel, but I kept on.

There was a figure in front of me, moving into the distance. I could not see them clearly, nor make out any identifying detail, but I felt that I had to find them, stop them, speak to them. Yet the harder I pushed myself, the farther away they drew from me.

I began to see troubling signs, too. Snapped branches, not broken through passage but out of malice. Small animals, broken and bloodied on the driven snow. And, carried on the air, the echoes of dire mutterings. Mean-spirited attacks on the different, the less fortunate. It reminded me of someone even as it repulsed me, even as it drew me still onward to find out who I was following.

Perhaps, I was just afraid that I was following a shade of my future self, seeing in the dream-quarry the shadows of something I had once been, and did not desire to ever be again.

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Deeper, and deeper still. This part of the house is old and dark and ancient. No one lives here, not in this part, and the staff cleans it perfunctorily, by rote, and only once in a great while. They work in pairs on the brightest days, for the shadows are long and limber here, and there is only strong light to keep that dark shape flitting across the periphery of your vision from emerging.

They won’t talk about it, the staff, not because of any threats or recrimination but because they feel that giving the shadows names, giving them currency, gives them power as well. But none of them have escaped the feeling of being watched, none of them have seen only static shadows, and none of them has been spared the sense of helpless fear as beings, formless but for eyes of burning coal, creep out of the darkness.

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