April 2, 2017

From “They Don’t Flaunt Themselves” by Geno Raub

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“Have you ever seen someone with the ague?” Dex cried over the rattling of the cart.

Bryar shook his head. “I’ve read about it. Spoken with some of the older priests in the Sepulcher who rememeber the outbreak. Surely you have seen them, though?”

“I’ve not been here but a season,” said Dex. “Came here from Pexate. It’s in a sorry state, you know, but the townsfolk were ready to give me cart duties straight off.”

“I thought I heard a bit of Pexate in your accent,” laughed Bryar. “But why does no one else want to rattle the cart up here? The Cloister needs supplies and they get a stipend from the Sepulcher.”

“Perhaps people worry they’ll catch the ague?” Dex said. “No one’s caught it in ten years, I say, and I’ve no one to depend on me. If I’m caught with it, it just means a life of ease in the Cloister.”

“But even after a season, not a peek at any of them?”

“They don’t flaunt themselves,” said Dex. “Nor should they, I expect.”

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April 1, 2017

From “Dracula” by Bram Stoker

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I am at least sane. Thank God for that mercy at all events, though the proving it has been dreadful. When I left Madam Mina sleeping within the Holy circle, I took my way to the castle. The blacksmith hammer which I took in the carriage from Veresti was useful; though the doors were all open I broke them off the rusty hinges, lest some ill-intent or ill-chance should close them, so that being entered I might not get out. Jonathan’s bitter experience served me here. By memory of his diary I found my way to the old chapel, for I knew that here my work lay. The air was oppressive; it seemed as if there was some sulphurous fume, which at times made me dizzy. Either there was a roaring in my ears or I heard afar off the howl of wolves. Then I bethought me of my dear Madam Mina, and I was in terrible plight. The dilemma had me between his horns.

Her, I had not dare to take into this place, but left safe from the Vampire in that Holy circle; and yet even there would be the wolf! I resolve me that my work lay here, and that as to the wolves we must submit, if it were God’s will. At any rate it was only death and freedom beyond. So did I choose for her. Had it but been for myself the choice had been easy, the maw of the wolf were better to rest in than the grave of the Vampire! So I make my choice to go on with my work.

I knew that there were at least three graves to find—graves that are inhabit; so I search, and search, and I find one of them. She lay in her Vampire sleep, so full of life and voluptuous beauty that I shudder as though I have come to do murder. Ah, I doubt not that in old time, when such things were, many a man who set forth to do such a task as mine, found at the last his heart fail him, and then his nerve. So he delay, and delay, and delay, till the mere beauty and the fascination of the wanton Un-Dead have hypnotise him; and he remain on and on, till sunset come, and the Vampire sleep be over. Then the beautiful eyes of the fair woman open and look love, and the voluptuous mouth present to a kiss—and man is weak. And there remain one more victim in the Vampire fold; one more to swell the grim and grisly ranks of the Un-Dead!…
There is some fascination, surely, when I am moved by the mere presence of such an one, even lying as she lay in a tomb fretted with age and heavy with the dust of centuries, though there be that horrid odour such as the lairs of the Count have had. Yes, I was moved—I, Van Helsing, with all my purpose and with my motive for hate—I was moved to a yearning for delay which seemed to paralyse my faculties and to clog my very soul. It may have been that the need of natural sleep, and the strange oppression of the air were beginning to overcome me. Certain it was that I was lapsing into sleep, the open-eyed sleep of one who yields to a sweet fascination, when there came through the snow-stilled air a long, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me like the sound of a clarion. For it was the voice of my dear Madam Mina that I heard.

Then I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by wrenching away tomb-tops one other of the sisters, the other dark one. I dared not pause to look on her as I had on her sister, lest once more I should begin to be enthrall; but I go on searching until, presently, I find in a high great tomb as if made to one much beloved that other fair sister which, like Jonathan I had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of the mist. She was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so exquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man in me, which calls some of my sex to love and to protect one of hers, made my head whirl with new emotion. But God be thanked, that soul-wail of my dear Madam Mina had not died out of my ears; and, before the spell could be wrought further upon me, I had nerved myself to my wild work. By this time I had searched all the tombs in the chapel, so far as I could tell; and as there had been only three of these Un-Dead phantoms around us in the night, I took it that there were no more of active Un-Dead existent. There was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and nobly proportioned. On it was but one word

DRACULA.

This then was the Un-Dead home of the King-Vampire, to whom so many more were due. Its emptiness spoke eloquent to make certain what I knew. Before I began to restore these women to their dead selves through my awful work, I laid in Dracula’s tomb some of the Wafer, and so banished him from it, Un-Dead, for ever.

Then began my terrible task, and I dreaded it. Had it been but one, it had been easy, comparative. But three! To begin twice more after I had been through a deed of horror; for if it was terrible with the sweet Miss Lucy, what would it not be with these strange ones who had survived through centuries, and who had been strengthened by the passing of the years; who would, if they could, have fought for their foul lives…

Oh, my friend John, but it was butcher work; had I not been nerved by thoughts of other dead, and of the living over whom hung such a pall of fear, I could not have gone on. I tremble and tremble even yet, though till all was over, God be thanked, my nerve did stand. Had I not seen the repose in the first place, and the gladness that stole over it just ere the final dissolution came, as realisation that the soul had been won, I could not have gone further with my butchery. I could not have endured the horrid screeching as the stake drove home; the plunging of writhing form, and lips of bloody foam. I should have fled in terror and left my work undone. But it is over! And the poor souls, I can pity them now and weep, as I think of them placid each in her full sleep of death for a short moment ere fading. For, friend John, hardly had my knife severed the head of each, before the whole body began to melt away and crumble in to its native dust, as though the death that should have come centuries agone had at last assert himself and say at once and loud “I am here!”

Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never more can the Count enter there Un-Dead.

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March 31, 2017

From “Eyes of the Ague” by Geno Raub

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“Inspector?”

The liveryman’s gentle prodding brought Inspector Bryar out of his daydream. “Oh, excuse me,” he said, drawing up the hood of his white linen Sepulcher robe.

“I apologize if the village children offend your worship,” the liveryman said–Dex was his name, from Pexate originally by the accent. He gestured at the crowd, the eldest no older than five, who were roughhousing near the stables.

“Oh, no offense taken,” said Bryar. “They remind me of my nephew, actually. I had to take responsibility for him after my sister died.”

One of the village children noticed the strange man in his strange clean robes–far different, far cleaner than the local priest–and stared.

“That boy has the most striking blue eyes,” said Bryar. “Not unlike my nephew’s, actually.”

“Well then,” said Dex with an uneasy laugh. “You must be used to children staring at the great and powerful envoy of the Creator himself.”

“Not really, no,” said Bryar. “My nephew is blind. Shall we go now? I hope to make the cloister before nightfall.”

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March 30, 2017

From “A Compromising Photograph of the Emperor” by Philo Guerrero-Perez

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The Imperial Guard had impressive armor, which they buffed to a fine shine. Ceremony aside, they shouldn’t have been wearing it in this day and age–it clanked and was useless for protection from bullets. Even my short little 9mm wheelgun could punch through it, and I’d be able to pump all six rounds into a Guardsman before he could even draw his sword.

I think they wore the ridiculous stuff because it looked impressive, and because it awed the little child in all of us who remembered seeing them in parades for the old Emperor, the one we actually respected, rather than his idiot son.

“Punctuality is a virtue lost on the common, it seems,” he said.

I took out my pocketwatch and flashed it. “Says I’m early,” I said. “Do me a favor and don’t try to intimidate me. I’ll extend you the same courtesy and we can get down to business without wasting any more time.”

The Guardsman nodded curtly. “Very well,” he said. “Do you have it?”

I produced the long, thin package, wrapped in brown paper, that I’d been hiding beneath my trenchcoat. “As promised,” I said.

Reaching into a deep crevasse in his gilded plates, the Guardsman produced a burlap sack and tossed it on the table. Gold crowns poured from it, bearing mostly the face of the old Emperor. “The agreed-upon price,” he said.

I set the package down. “Then let’s go our seperate ways,” I said. “I never saw this. You were never here. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said the Guardsman. He took up the package and tore it open. “As promised. There is one additional matter that I am authorized to speak to you about.”

“Oh?” I said. “I’ll listen, though I’ve never seen or had any dealings with you before, stranger.”

The Guardsman might have smirked at that, or it could have been a trick of the light. “The person who acquired this photograph,” he said. “The person who took it. They must be found, and they must be eliminated.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing,” I said.

“Nor do we. But find them, see that they are found by us, and no one will do anything of that sort. The guilty will be eliminated, the Emperor protected, and your reward…tripled.”

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March 29, 2017

From “Thumper” by E. Thom Pherry

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They call it “Thumper.”

You normally can’t hear it, at least not consciously. But when it’s acting up, usually in early spring or late summer, you can feel it. In your teeth, in your bones, and if you’re down at Pleasantwater lake, in the waves and ripples.

Once you hear it, once you start to notice it, you realize that everything in town matches itself to that profound bass thump when it’s at its strongest. Your heartbeat. Your breathing. Everything is synchronized in a way that feels wrong at the basement of your being.

A local guy, Jim Hatcher was his name I think, just like the famous author, used to do an AM radio broadcast about whatever was rattling in his brain. He’d go on and on about “Thumper” and his investigations into it. Kids loved listening to him because he always went wildly between “kindly folksy grandfather” and “raving lunatic” as the mood struck him.

Hatcher used to say that “Thumper” was coming from beneath Pleasantwater Lake, which I guess makes as much sense as anything. He said that there was a “stellar machine” beneath the waters, leftover from a civilization long since perished, slowly exposed by erosion. This “stellar machine” sent out “force signals” as it stirred from its slumber. Hatcher always said that he was researching what the machine was and what its signals did, but he was always coy with specifics.

When he died in his little house on the lake and they didn’t find him for two weeks…that didn’t exactly help things.

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March 28, 2017

From “Popular British Foods” by Anonymous

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Kidney and Spleen Pie – Chicken spleens have never been cheaper, and this perennial favorite from meat-rationing days is as popular as ever with British boomers.

Lady Jane Grey Sponge Cake – Lady Jane reigned for just 9 days and lends her name to this Victorian favorite which must be ovened for exactly 9 minutes; any less or more and it winds up goo or crisp.

Indigestion Scones – Hard vaguely sweet pastries designed to stuff up the colon to prevent death from dysentery, these are now prized after-school snacks dispensed by mothers who’d rather not clean up after their children.

Baggis Pie – Dressed up in a neat suit of pie crust, haggis finds itself respectable again. You may be smelly, haggis, but you’ll soon be in my belly.

Fish ‘n’ Squid – The classic combo in all its seafood glory. Remember to ask for an all-tentacle basket!

Frog in the Bog – A ranid treat, originally a French import but now thoroughly British. Some prefer their frogs whole, though frog sausage is more popular these days.

Horrormite – Don’t ask.

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March 27, 2017

From “Still More Fun Facts About Pleasantwater Village” by Blythe Hilson

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Lupine Laboratories
Makers of fine cosmetics and genetically engineered coney, Lupine Labs has put its shady past behind it and is a major player in the local biotech sector. Rumors of a gargantuan were-rabbit in the basement are ridiculous, as the facility HAS no basement.

Stanley’s Cup
Stanley Grabowski is a legend for coaching the Livid Llamas to the 1976 state championship, but a tragic jockstrap accident put his coaching career on ice. Since then, he’s run Stanley’s Cup as a preeminent watering hole for people who like to grab life by the balls.

Watson Miscellany
One man’s trash may be another man’s treasure, but it is definitely this man’s treasure. Part thrift store, part junk mart, Watson Miscellany is a picker’s paradise packed with items scrounged from local dumpsters, the internet, and of course, Goodwill.

Carnegie Library
Unlike may of his eponymous libraries worldwide, this structure was not only financed by the late steel magnate but actually constructed in person. Andrew Carnegie himself supervised the construction and personally installed the bathroom tile and fixtures. When asked why he had made time for this, Carnegie simply said that he needed the exercise and liked the name of the town. A display of how-to and do-it-yourself manuals used by the billionaire are on permanent reserve for local patrons.

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March 26, 2017

From “James Hatcher and the Birdbath of Doom” by Altos Wexan

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He declined the Nobel Prize in 1951. Pulpy adaptations of his Pulitzer-winning plays littered the Hollywood landscape during the golden age of the silver screen. James Hatcher managed to carve himself a towering place in southern drama during his fifty-three years on the planet, and the devotion that he enjoyed during his lifetime translated into a reliable tourist industry for his home town.

And that’s why people kept on trying to drink from his birdbath.

“This is the birdbath that many people think was the inspiration for Howard’s speech in All Is Mended,” said Madison. She was wearing the James Hatcher tee that they’d forced her to buy, as if people needed any reminder that the person with the nametag at Hatcher House was an official tour guide.

One of the tourists, a man of indeterminate age in a vaguely hipster getups, raised his hand.

“Yes, a question?” said Madison.

“Can we drink from the birdbath?” he said.

Madison sighed. “You’ll note the fence, and the sign saying PLEASE DO NOT DRINK FROM THE BIRDBATH,” she said.

“‘…but the melodious waters pour forth as into a birdbath, liquid made song, song made liquid, to be seen by all of us but tasted only by the best,'” the man said, quoting Howard in Act V of All Is Mended.

Madison had never heard that one before, oddly enough. She’d never heard the line from Hatcher’s most famous play, never seen him quote it at his Pulitzer acceptance speech, and never saw those words on Robert Mitchum’s lips in the 1961 movie.

“That speech is generally regarded as a metaphor,” Madison said with a forced smile. Minimum wage and bragging rights in the creative writing program were not worth the number of times she’d had to say that.

“Birnam Wood was a metaphor,” the generic hipster said. “People still go there to cut branches.”

“Do they also storm the castle and kill Macbeth?” said Madison.

“If they want to. Can I drink from it?”

“People who drink from that bath have gotten sick with everything from salmonella to the cold of the last guy who dunked his face in,” Madison said. “Hatcher House can’t be held liable for that, but it hasn’t stopped people from trying to sue us for their own idiocy.”

The generic hipster douche was unmoved. “I promise not to sue.”

Madison brandished her walkie-talkie. “If you do, I’ll call Gus at the gatehouse to escort you out.”

This seemed to mollify the tourist, who hung his head and muttered something sullen about free speech.

Madison moved the small group on to the next part of the tour was the quarter-mile nature trail, which Hatcher had cut himself to use as inspiration. It was probably responsible, along with his horrid diet, for the day in 1965 when his wife had found him face-down and cold trailside.

An older woman who looked to be wearing her gardening clothes approached Madison as they walked. “Why are people so adamant about drinking from that birdbath?” she said. “Can’t anyone tell fantasy from reality anymore?”

“No, not really,” Madison said. A moment later, realizing her answer sounded a bit flippant, she added: “I think a lot of people see this place as being some mystical fountain that gave Jim Hatcher all his gifts and notoriety. They think that he must have sipped from his own birdbath before he wrote the play that made him millions and got him a Nobel Prize to turn up his nose at.”

“So they think being here and sipping on that, if you’ll pardon my French, shitty birdwater, will help make them successful?”

“Probably they do, somewhere deep,” Madison said with a laugh. “It’s a lot easier to tell yourself that Jim Hatcher got his gifts from a magic house with a magic birdbath than by writing everyday, living in poverty, and treating his wife like, if you’ll pardon my French, utter shit.”

“I guess I can see that,” said the lady. “Everyone wants to be rich and famous but nobody wants to put in the work.”

Upon reaching the midpoint of the trail, Madison turned around and did a headcount before doing her spiel on the place where James Hatcher’s body was found.

They were one short.

“Goddammit.” Madison took up her radio. “Gus?” she said. “We’ve got another drinker. Call the cops and get a mug shot for the wall of shame, will you?”

“Okay,” said Gus, ever-said and unfazed. “Want me to see that he gets toughed up a bit?”

“No,” said Madison, “We’ll let the ipecac I put in there this morning do it for us.”

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March 25, 2017

From “The Cyber-Sparrow of Glengarrie Cove” by Blythe Hilson

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And then, the bonnie lass cocked her ear and heard a sound more frightening than a banshee’s wail. She didnae ken where it came from, and ah dinnae quite know meself, but ’twas clear what she heard.

The electric keen o’ the legendary Cyper-Sparrow of Glengarrie Cove! Hewn by a madman, kept alive by scroungin’ electronics! The bonnie lass knew ’twas only a matter ‘o time before the wee beastie was upon her!

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March 24, 2017

From “More Fun Facts About Pleasantwater Village” by Blythe Hilson

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Pitchfork to Plate
Misshapen corn, lightly oozing tomatoes, homemade buttercream, and preserves with the lightest hint of skin-toning botulism. These and more can be yours for a slight premium at the county’s largest farmer’s market! Show frankenfood to the flaming windmill with Pitchfork to Plate!

Bea’s Bee B&B
Bea Cummings is a local apiary enthusiast who rents out this spacious cottage to weekenders in search of a little honey and a place to lay their comb.

The Dungeonmaster’s Rocket
First issues, special issues, and mommy issues are all on display here amid the county’s best collection of collectables. Everything is for sale for the right price, from Llamaman #1 to the rare miscolored “Pink Vader” lunchbox.

Let Them Eat Crepes
Behold, a Bourbon boutique bakery bistro, booming because bread baked best brings broad business!

Disco Tech
The funkiest get-down spot in town. Established 1977, Disco Tech has been giving night classes to people in need of a rhythm infusion for years. Platform shoes available for rental on request.

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