November 22, 2014

From “Incident at #591637 Rolling Greene” by Denice Artinger Ellington

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1/19: Marrs Properties LLC is happy to welcome you to your new home in our exclusive Rolling Greene subdivision! We think you’ll agree that your recent real estate purchase with us guarantees a long and happy period of home ownership in Mississippi.

2/15: In answer to your question, we have had no complaints about spiders by your neighbors. As your family is the first to inhabit #591637, Marrs Properties LLC has no record of previous owners. We have a contract on file with Arachnicide Pest Solutions out of Cambridge, and would be happy to refer you to one of their specialists.

2/29: Your Arachnicide Pest Solutions spraying is complete, and the charge, less a 25% contract discount, will be spread across your grounds fees for the next six months. You may return to #591637 at your convenience.

3/8: In response to your query, Marrs Properties LLC offers its deepest apologies. We have had a contract with Arachnacide Pest Solutions for fifteen years without complaint, and we wish your son a speedy recovery from his spider bite. Unfortunately, your homeowners insurance will not cover medical costs or the cost of another spraying by an outside contractor.

3/31: Having read the report of the building inspector, Marrs Properties LLC would like to remind you that all real estate purchases and mortgages are final. However, to help defray the costs and avoid a lengthy litigation progress, we have agreed to contract Wilson Pest Control out of Jackson to conduct an additional and more thorough spraying. We trust that this solution will be mutually satisfactory.

4/27: Marrs Properties LLC is pleased to announce that Wilson Pest Control has completed its spraying and found no evidence of further spider infestation. You may move back in at your convenience, and we trust that this will amicably resolve the matter to our mutual satisfaction.

6/3: We here at Marrs Properties LLC would like to offer you our deepest and most heartfelt condolences on your loss. We must remind you, however, that your signature to the pest removal contract by Wilson absolves Marrs Properties LLC of any and all liability and that your homeowner’s insurance will not cover funeral expenses.

6/19: In response to the motion filed earlier this month, Marrs Properties LLC must reiterate that all sales are final, all mortgage details are non-negotiable with the lending institution, and that we cannot be held responsible for your latest hospitalization costs in the same way that we were regretfully forced to return your bills from the Napier Funeral Home, Cambridge Children’s Hospital, and Holy Trinity Cemetery. Again, we do offer our sympathies for your misfortune.

7/16: Marrs Properties LLC must condemn, in the strongest possible terms, the condemnation of your property by the county authorities as unfit for human habitation. We reiterate that there are absolutely no complaints of spider infestations from your neighbors, that your property was newly built, and that we and our subsidiaries cannot be held responsible for your negligent actions in making your home attractive as a habitat to pests.

8/21: As reflected in the legal papers served you this afternoon, it is our sad duty to inform you and your family of your eviction from Rolling Greene, effective immediately. None of the paperwork you have offered alters the terms of your binding and lawful contract with Marrs Properties LLC or excuses non-payment of mortgage.

11/1: Marrs Properties LLC is happy to welcome you to your new home at #591637 in our exclusive Rolling Greene subdivision! We think you’ll agree that your recent real estate purchase with us guarantees a long and happy period of home ownership in Mississippi. We regret the delay in your move-in; lingering legal issues forced us to contract to remove pests attracted by the former owners, but now that the process is complete, you may move in at your convenience. In response to your question, we are not aware of where the site of the Battle of Spider Creek falls within Rolling Greene, but we can assure you that all proper steps were taken during our vetting and construction process at #591637 and elsewhere.

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November 21, 2014

From “Kashish Is Everywhere” by Harvey Hewski Heisser

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The Muscogee County Film School was established in 1984 on a cheap patch of formerly fallow land about 20 minutes outside of Hopewell. It was the beneficiary of state largesse that Governor Blanchard hoped would create jobs and attract tourism, much like his support of Six Flag AutoWorld in Flint. And, like AutoWorld, it was a colossal fiasco.

For one, the MCFS was located very close to Southern Michigan University, which had a small film program under the auspices of its Department of Communications, as well as a small Theatre minor attached to Liberal Arts. Incensed that Blanchard’s money went to a new entity rather than SMU, and that his administration and trustees hadn’t been consulted, then-SMU president John Henry Brand refused to support the MCFS. Faculty and students were duly warned that associating with it would mean dismissal.

The MCFS was therefore forced to offer highly subsidized tuition to undercut SMU and attract students from the rural parts of Michigan as well as out of state. It was a money sink, but nevertheless managed to attract both students and teachers, graduating its first class in 1985. There were modest sets, editing suites, and state of the art equipment and film stock. Student entries successfully competed in the Ann Arbor Film Festival, and indie filmmaker J. H. Crofthume brought some notice to the school when he was shortlisted for an Oscar in a technical category.

But it soon began to fall apart thanks to a short film that was completed and screened in 1987: Kashish Is Everywhere. No copies are known to survive, but a newspaper clipping indicates that there was an outbreak of violent nausea and headaches when it was unspooled at a Hopewell grindhouse. The students whose names were on the film claimed to by mystified by the content, which they said they did not remember filming. The title–Urdu for “attractive”–was a mystery as well, as none of the students were from India or spoke Urdu.

Nevertheless, the phrase Kashish Is Everywhere soon began appearing throughout other films, in audio recordings, and even scrawled on chalkboards in the classrooms. MCFS teachers blamed it on an elaborate practical joke by students, or sabotage by a vindictive President Brand. Either way, the films in which the phrase appeared reportedly had the same nauseating and migraine-inducing effect on the students working on them, and even those who were unaffected were deeply unnerved.

Enrollment plummeted for the 1988 season, but despite half the number of students and half the teachers consequently on furlough, Kashish Is Everywhere continued to appear throughout every medium that the school made, taught, or used. Due to a lack of students and teachers, the 1989 season wound up being the last for the MCFS. The classes were suspended pending an infusion of cash from the state government, but with Governor Blanchard’s 1991 electoral defeat, the funds were not forthcoming. The school was quietly abandoned without a formal closure or sale.

Thanks to this abandonment as-is, the Muscogee County Film School became popular with urban explorers in the 2010s. But attempts by filmmakers to take advantage of the site have so far failed due to corrupted files on digital cameras, and explorers report that the school is overwhelmed with Kashish Is Everywhere graffiti.

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November 20, 2014

From “The Song of the Strepsiptera” by Lis Fawcett-Dowling

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The assembled members of the scientific staff each had a visible Strepsipterid protruding or pulsating beneath their clothing, and their faces all wore the same beatific expression. Motile scurrying larval planidia, each the size of silver dollars, crawled over the floor and the bodies of the people in their thrall, while butterfly-sized males flitted from perch to perch about the larviform female parasites.

“They are peaceful parasites, it is true, but that does not mean they do not know a modicum of defense.” Dr. Warren said, her voice a serene monotone. “The others are dead; having refused the gift, we were forced to act in the name of the greater good.”

It was only then that Gracie noticed the soldiers in the wings, their rifles limber and deadly, their own Streptisterid parasites alive with pulsations.

“Surely you must concede, Dr. Warren,” Gracie said, trying to appeal to what might be left of her colleague’s logic, “that one can refuse the gift but not wish those who have accepted it harm. Isn’t that the kind of ‘if you’re not with us, you’re against us’ thinking that your peace seeks to defeat?”

“You are proceeding from a false assumption,” Warren replied coldly. “Could the creatures of the Precambrian who could not to adapt to an oxygen-rich atmosphere from one that was purely nitrogen persist? Of course not. The gift is oxygen; to refuse is by definition to die.”

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November 9, 2014

From “Iron Point Light Is Calling” by Smitty Poyner

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“It’s not cheating,” I said to myself. “I came out here for digital detox, and I’m doing that. I just need a video camera, that’s all.”

More towers of rocks had appeared overnight on the beach, but the high winds had scoured away any footprints in the loose sand and they would have been lost in all the prints I’d left knocking them down in any event. The gate was still locked, and I couldn’t see any tire tracks.

A little video was all I needed to prove my suspicion that some local good ‘ole boys were having some cheaper-than-basic-cable fun with me.

Setting up my laptop just right and getting the recording settings for its built-in webcam took some time, and I found myself moving in a haze of wandering focus. I could have used my cell phone, I suppose, but that would have required improvising a stand and scaring up an extension cord. When I looked up at the kitchen clock, I’d spent longer on the thing than I had thought. But it would be worth it for my peace of mind, to finally know that the “mystery” of the stacked rocks that Oscar had warned me not to concern myself with.

The webcam ran perfectly, and I’d set it to change to a special low-light mode at dusk. Satisfied, I turned back to the kitchen to gab a snack. Instead, I instinctively backed against the opposite wall in a panic.

Drawers had been emptied, cupboards ransacked, and the resulting detritus piled throughout the kitchen. Piled just like the rocks, as much as different shape and texture would allow. Deeply engrossed in my digital cheating, I hadn’t heard a thing.

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November 7, 2014

From “The Stranger Post-Mortem of Candon Verbridge” by Trent Hadsage

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“I was thinking Chinese for dinner tonight. Wife says I need to lay off, but then she eats just as much as I do when I bring it home.”

“Are you even listening to yourselves?” I said. “Talking about moo goo gai pan when a man is dead and murdered in his own home?”

The officer shrugged. “It’s no worse than one of his movies. You ever see any of them?”

“Yes,” I said, my insides heaving at the splatters of blood and the outline on the floor which depicted the unrecognizable heap in which director Candon Verbridge had been found. “I wasn’t a fan. Too gory.”

“Too gory?” the officer said. “That was the best thing about them. Best splatterpunk director to come out of America during the last fifty years.”

“And you don’t find it at all odd that he was, himself, splattered and cored?” I asked. A police officer with a fondness for splattercore seemed a much better preparation for the scene of a violent homicide than a lifetime of reviewing films.

“Huh. I suppose it is,” said the officer. “Maybe it was a copycat. Some nutty fan. The scene looks a lot like The Scattered Stains, doesn’t it?”

It didn’t just look like that nauseatingly, horrifyingly gory movie, I thought. It was nigh identical, at least from what I could remember seeing through my fingers at the screening. I was about to say something in reply, to confirm the officer’s theory, when a thought struck me:

The Scattered Stains had been about an incorporeal entity that had murdered anyone who refused it.

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November 3, 2014

From “I Hate Her, and I Hate that She is Here” by Annie Negrete

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Human-spec android Z001/19, better known to the crew of the cruise ship Kerguelen as James, stepped over the bodies of its security team. Though they wore body armor and carried police-grade weapons, the team had trained to repel boarders in the form of heavily armed but lightly armored pirates.

They were no match for a human-spec android, who despite his prosaic work in the reactor core was just short of military grade.

Her stateroom was unguarded now, save for alarms and a lock. James dealt with the latter easily, applying 4000 meters per square inch of pressure to the emergency release. A form was huddled, shivering, under the blankets in the master bed.

Without breaking stride, and without saying a word, James throttled the form where it lay. Only when he’d squeezed every ounce of life from the prostrate form did he cast back the covers to reveal…a woman in the livery of a Kerguelen housekeeping staff.

On hearing a scuffling noise, James tore open the ornate doors to a nearby closet. Through a forest of expensive garments, he saw the pried-off cover of a panic chute disguised as ductwork.

“I hate her,” James said again, leaning over the opening that was too small for him to fit though, “and I hate that she is here.”

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October 31, 2014

From “The Dread God Ksul” by Luke S. Goddard III

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“I am old, and the repose of a country gentleman suited me. It would more surely have suited my son.” Lusk staggered backward, clutching his wound. “But you have denied me the only woman who was capable of bearing the son that I need, and for that, I must cast the facade aside.”

Lusk’s estate blurred, liquified, vanished; for it had never been an estate, but an illusion, an extension of its master’s form and will. The neat lines of trees and manicured lawns dried up like water in the desert, revealing cracked and bone-dry earth; for the grounds were their master’s skin and the trees his sinews. The twisted remains of the earth gyrated in a movement that was not quite tremor, not quite spasm.

“Cunning and guile serve me well, a mailed fist in a velvet glove,” Lusk continued. The voice didn’t seem to issue from his mouth, but rather from the ground itself, and the register varied wildly, from conversational and high to a low and menacing growl like a grindstone of volcanic glass. “But even for an old trickster like me, cunning must sometimes give way to brute force.”

Lusk’s own form was melting away, running like hot tallow into the blighted ground. Like everything else, it had been an affectation in the service of guile. The dread spirit of the land was rising up, a cloak of shadows about a towering, impossible, and utterly horrifying form.

“You will regret the day that you interfered with the will of the dread god Ksul,” the horror cried in a voice that was wolves howling against the fierce midnight winds. “Pay for your foolishness with your lives, and the lives of every living creature in the valley!”

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October 30, 2014

From “Z001/19’s Rage” by Annie Negrete

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Human-spec android Z001/19, better known to the crew of the cruise ship Kerguelen as James, was regularly employed as an assistant to the crew tending the nuclear reactor keeping the ship afloat, since his synthetic skin was CBRN resistant and could be easily swapped out.

While assisting a hazmet crew in routine maintenance of a coolant tube inside the “warm zone” of the reactor, James paused and looked up. Instead of saying “the outflow level on valve three is below nominal” like he had meant, he said what he had been fearing.

“I hate her, and I hate that she is here.”

Without a further word, James left the hazmat enclosure for the hallways of the cruise ship. There were no survivors from the first security team to confront him.

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October 24, 2014

From “Le Pont de Douleur” by Upton Le Duor

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“It’s a paingate,” said Leland. “Haven’t you ever read Tarboski?”

“How about just telling me what it is,” said Cliff, “instead of trying to make me feel stupid.”

Leland sighed. “Tarboski’s a science fiction author, a pretty good one, even though people don’t read him as often as they used to. One of his best books is about how weird alien artifacts start showing up in some podunk town and screwing things up, and one of them is a paingate. It’s shown up in some other stuff that people have written too.”

“Okay, but why is it called a paingate?” Cliff said. “It looks like a coffee cup for clumsy people.”

“Well, according to the book, any liquid that you put in that middle part there–coffee or otherwise–is immediately crystalized into a valuable gemstone,” said Leland. “Diamonds, rubies, alien gemstones of incomparable power that emit lethal radiation, that sort of thing. But there’s a catch.”

“A worse catch than lethal radiation?” Cliff tapped at the plexiglass box containing the three-handled ceramic ‘cup.’

“Yeah. If you touch it with bare skin, you die. Really, really painfully.”

Cliff backed away violently. “You could have said that to begin with!” he cried.

“Relax. It’s obviously a replica that some super-geek bought at Nerdicon.”

“Where’s the ‘gate’ part come in?” Cliff said, with a sideways glance at the case and its contents. “I get the ‘pain’ bit now.”

“That’s the best part of the book. Well I think it’s the best, anyway.” Leland grinned. “If you die from touching it, another you–identical to the dead one in every respect aside from having no memory of the last day or so–appears randomly nearby after 19 minutes and 17 seconds.”

“You mean they could…see their own dead bodies?” Cliff said.

“Could and did. It’s a pretty intense book.”

“I guess so.”

“You want to open the case and see how accurate the reproduction is?” said Leland eagerly.

“Not in a million years.”

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October 20, 2014

From “This Little Lunch of Love” by Nicholle Lofthus Levitt

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“I packed you your favorite lunch, sweetheart.” Mary-Beth held out a paper bag, delicately wrapped, and laid it at her daughter’s feet. “It’s just what you’ve been asking for. I’m just sorry I can’t make it more often, since you know what a bother it is.”

Her daughter made no move to accept the bag.

After a moment, Mary-Beth continued. “Don’t tell me you won’t take it! You’ve been begging for this for months, and it’s been so difficult not to indulge you at every turn…”

The greasy stains on the bag began to spread, and soon the paper started to sog and soften under the weight. Viscous and red liquid began to dribble from it, staining the carpet and her daughter’s clean new shoes.

“It’s a little messy,” conceded Mary-Beth, “but what isn’t, when made with love?”

Her daughter said nothing; the breath had long since departed her body. Through the intercession of the spirits in Mary-Beth’s head, she had been begging for months for a sweet embrace about the throat and a meal of her father’s fresh heart. Her doting mother had granted both, and when she was found the next day, still whispered sweet nothings to her child while the body of her husband cooled on bloodsoaked sheets nearby.

Inspired by this image.

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