Darkness Ad Infinitum Read online

  Darkness Ad Infinitum

  Villipede Horror Anthology 1

  Copyright © 2014 Villipede Publications

  All stories and artwork herein remain the intellectual property of their respective creators, © 2014 by individual authors and artists

  Cover art and design © 2014 by Wednesday Wolf

  wednesdaywolf.com

  Portions of first title page artwork © 2014 by Adam Domville

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Villipede Publications

  PO Box 3643

  Idaho Falls, ID 83403

  villipede.com

  Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN-13: 978-0692208991 (Print)

  Editors: Shawna L. Bernard, Matt Edginton, Alandice A. Anderson

  First Edition

  Ebook development by Michael Parker, baXiadev

  “Gentium Book Basic” Font - Copyright © 2003-2008 by SIL International. All rights reserved.

  (http://www.sil.org/)

  “Balthazar” Font - Copyright © 2011 by Dario Manuel Muhafara. All rights reserved.

  (http://www.tipo.net.ar)

  baXiadev.com

  villipede.com

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  LONGBOAT

  BECKY REGALADO

  IN THE WALLS

  ADAM MILLARD

  LOVE GRUDGE

  DOT WICKLIFF

  EARTH, RISEN

  PETE CLARK

  SMUDGE

  JONATHAN TEMPLAR

  THE HIGH PRIEST

  C. DESKIN RINK

  STEALING DARKNESS

  GEOFFREY H. GOODWIN

  THE WESTHOFF VERSION

  PATRICK O'NEILL

  THE BURNING MAN

  TONY FLYNN

  BLESS ME, FATHER

  LISAMARIE LAMB

  A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

  LAWRENCE SALANI

  PILING UP

  KALLIRROE AGELOPOULOU

  DOOR TO INSANITY

  MATHIAS JANSSON

  BRANNIGAN’S WINDOW

  JOHN MC CAFFREY

  THE SONG THAT CRAWLED

  ADAM S. HOUSE

  HUNGRY AS THE WIND

  JONATHAN MOON

  THE GOOD MAN

  DAVID DUNWOODY

  THE UNDERTAKER’S MELANCHOLY

  SYDNEY LEIGH

  THE TUNNEL RECORD

  J. DANIEL STONE

  GALERIA

  CASTELLUM

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  LONGBOAT

  DAVID SHEARER

  IN THE WALLS

  MARK THOMPSON

  LOVE GRUDGE

  MATT EDGINTON

  EARTH, RISEN

  ERIC FORD

  SMUDGE

  STEPHEN COONEY

  THE HIGH PRIEST

  DENNIS ANDERSON

  STEALING DARKNESS

  MATT EDGINTON

  THE WESTHOFF VERSION

  LUKE SPOONER

  THE BURNING MAN

  MATT EDGINTON

  BLESS ME, FATHER

  JUSTIN WHEELER

  A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

  SALANI x EDGINTON

  PILING UP

  LUKE SPOONER

  DOOR TO INSANITY

  JUSTIN WHEELER

  BRANNIGAN’S WINDOW

  MATT EDGINTON

  THE SONG THAT CRAWLED

  MARK THOMPSON

  HUNGRY AS THE WIND

  STEPHEN COONEY

  THE GOOD MAN

  MATT EDGINTON

  THE UNDERTAKER’S MELANCHOLY

  ADAM DOMVILLE

  THE TUNNEL RECORD

  WEDNESDAY WOLF

  alternate art: MATT EDGINTON

  Tell me of the darkness.

  The words echoed down the tunnel, through the moist gloom and into the traveler’s mind. This was it: the threshold.

  If the traveler turned back and exited now, the madness and destruction outside would continue. It would go on and on until someone else made the sacrifice and offered themselves to the sleepless fiend, Yvo-Ket. The Empty One. Thoughtless Demon.

  The legends told of the enigma, pranced around the birth cycle of the ageless curse. It was spoken of somberly in the decades before, but with growing intensity in recent years. There was no denying the world was in turmoil, and Those Who Remember had agreed to send forth a surveyor. The traveler. One final attempt at the legend’s instruction to end the chaos.

  Yvo-Ket required verbal stimulation to keep its idle mind distracted from breaking the threads of existence, told the legends. Without a constant string of tales to keep its not-imagination entertained, it would continue manifesting violence onto the world. In its boredom, Yvo-Ket would make the physical and mental planes its phantasmal playground; a prison of misery for every living thing.

  Why did it desire such madness? Why was it obsessed with hurt and anger and depravity? With—

  Darkness.

  “Tell me of the darkness . . .”

  The traveler was finally succumbing to the strains of the long journey. Fatigue gnawed at every nerve and ligament. Still, there was no choice but to go forward.

  The traveler stumbled into the great room. The puppet-doll version of Yvo-Ket, the one it revealed itself as most commonly to humans, sat propped against a large stone altar. The symbol in its blank face glowed with the intensity of magma. Behind, in the shadows, slithered and coiled the restless true form of the demon; an agitated mosaic of angst, crawling around its throne and the walls like smoke and dancing from one shape into another.

  Sitting before the puppet, the traveler was consumed by grief. The voyage to here had been physically and mentally draining; fleeing from and battling the behemoths in the wilderness had exhausted what little energy the traveler had left. To come so far and be so weakened . . . there was no telling now if completing the task was even possible.

  Yvo-Ket regarded the traveler with its doughy moon-eyes. A subtle nod of its head and the smoky vileness behind it gyrated. The traveler watched as the air above the tapestry on the floor shimmered. Shapes began to blossom there—

  And smells.

  The traveler’s tongue exploded with saliva as ornate plates of meat, cheeses, breads, and fruits materialized from the ether. Steam wafted through the air and mixed with the foamy fizz that bubbled from a goblet full of woody wine.

  It was too much to bear. The traveler sampled some of everything before the thought surfaced above primal desire: this was a pact in the making. This was how the curse worked. The traveler knew that Yvo-Ket would continue to provide sustenance and drink (and possibly conjure more) as long as the tales continued to flow from the traveler’s lips. The traveler was sure that the tastes of the delicacies would instantly turn to ash on the tongue . . . but they didn’t. They remained delicious. Nourishment could be felt coursing through every vein and vessel.

  “Tell me of the darkness.”

  Was this a fair trade? A life spent in the spectral gloom with a fiend, forever telling tale after tale to
satiate its hunger for mayhem and misery? It was hardly a difficult decision to make. With a full stomach—and the inexplicable knowledge that the destruction outside had ceased since Yvo-Ket had sensed the traveler’s presence—there was really no arguing the agreement.

  The quest had not been a failure after all. In the traveler’s mind there was a vision: chains wrapping around wrists and ankles, binding their owner to a life of entertaining a demon’s lusts—but there was another vision as well. The traveler could sense those chains that had for so long strangled the world outside crumbling and being retrieved back into the void.

  Buttery grease and apple tang were licked from a corner of the mouth; a soft smile formed thereafter. It was a pleasantly defeated one; sincere, but not without a bitter purse.

  “Tell me of—”

  “Alright. Okay. I will.” The traveler raised the goblet, shook it lightly to watch the wine’s perfect legs cling to the inner walls. The doll nodded. The few drops at the bottom swelled upwards until the liquid nearly overflowed the cup. Lips pressed into a smile, more confident this time. The traveler relaxed and leaned backwards. A comfortable assemblage of pillows had formed behind an aching back.

  A sigh; a thought.

  And then . . . the words began.

  Two glittering specks hover over the bow like moonlight reflected in dark glass. I tell myself they are dim stars, or lamplight from the sinking brigantine some fifty yards ahead. I can almost believe it. Until they blink.

  Those flecks are not stars. They are not candlelight reflected on the water. They are the wet and watchful eyes of whatever monster brought us to this lightless world.

  I am the only one left alive.

  Yesterday I awoke heaving my guts into the ocean. I looked through watering eyes at the slimy green threads of bile connecting my mouth to the water. The retching held me captive for several minutes, my gut clenched so tight I could not draw a breath. When my stomach released me, I collapsed against the hull and shut my eyes, then sucked in great lungfuls of the clean salt air. The freezing Atlantic wind cooled my flushed cheeks and eyelids, relieving my nausea for a time but doing little to ease the terrific pounding in my head or remove the sour taste of vomit and absinthe from my tongue.

  I did not have to open my eyes to know I was no longer aboard the Raven. I was in the longboat . . . again. I had only the dimmest recollection of breaking into the shipment with the third mate and punching the quartermaster in the mouth when he tried to take it from us.

  Damn.

  I pried opened one gummy eyelid to see the brigantine just where I expected her: fifty yards ahead, towing my sorry drunken ass behind her. I groped for the waterskin in the floorboards and sucked down half its contents. I splashed a little on my face to wash away the sticky remnants of bile and excess before I dared lift my head again.

  I considered signaling for my mates to reel me back aboard, but thought better of it. I was in no rush to feel the kiss of the bosun’s lash peeling ribbons from my back again. Mary. He named the cursed whip “Mary”.

  I took a few more pulls at the waterskin and lay back to sleep off the aftereffects of my idiocy.

  I awoke again at midday to gray skies and a vague sense of unease. They ought to have pulled me back aboard by now. Forgetting the promise of Mary’s embrace, I sat up in the longboat and looked around. Naught but the gray Atlantic in all directions, aside from the Raven herself. I stood and whispered a swift thanks to whatever gods were listening that my head no longer pounded like a drum.

  I waved at the masthead, but no one signaled back. I stuck two fingers in my mouth and whistled. Someone stuck his head up from the deck, and I gestured for him to reel me in. He watched me for a moment, then gave me his back and walked away. I frowned as the minutes passed and the line connecting the Raven to my longboat remained motionless. No one else came astern, neither to taunt nor to comfort me. After a half hour of shouting myself hoarse and fruitlessly gesticulating at the crow’s nest, I gave up and plopped myself down on the thwart. Only then did I look around the floorboards. My heart sank.

  It seemed I was not destined to feel Mary’s gentle kiss this time. A week’s rations lay at my feet. So that would be my punishment: a week in the longboat. Alone. The sun baking my skin until it bubbled and blistered and left scars no less painful than Mary’s. Damn. The bosun was more clever than I thought.

  After a month at sea, four drunken brawls and thirty lashes had done little to curb my taste for absinthe or the blessed numbness it brought. I needed the drink or the work to distract me from the pervasive ache in my leg. The pain was always worse with nothing else to focus on. Every sailor aboard knew I would rather swab for a month than take a single lonely watch in the mizzentop.

  The brig was too kind for me, I suppose. Too near my mates, who might take pity on me for an hour or sneak me a bottle of lovely green oblivion. No; I was to be granted neither fellowship nor torture, outside of my own unpleasant company. If I knew the bosun’s stubborn heart, he would not allow me back aboard early unless we ran afoul of a hurricane.

  I knocked weevils from some hardtack and unleashed my frustration upon them. I squashed them beneath my bootheels, grinding their crunchy little bodies into the floorboards until they stained the wood. I tore off a hunk of salt pork with my teeth and tried to focus on reducing the hard, chewy mess into something I could swallow.

  After my violent and unsatisfying meal, I glared at the Raven and cursed myself anew. The least they could have done was leave me a few bottles of absinthe, or anything else that might dull the nagging, ceaseless spasm in my leg.

  The pain had hounded me like a shrewish wife for the last three years, ever since a musket ball shot clean through my thigh. I had terrible fever dreams while recovering from the infection. Nightmares of pain and fire and darkness. Others told me later that I called out my father’s name. The ship’s barber declared me dead at one point, only to hear me sputter back to life as he turned his back.

  But I lived, and after a few months I could walk and scuttle about the deck with only a small limp. But the pain . . . gods, the pain was never truly gone. Even with laudanum or absinthe—sometimes both—there were times I came perilously close to weeping. Distraction had ever been my only remedy.

  Now I faced a week adrift without conversation to divert me. Without the ceaseless tasks of working a ship to drive me to exhaustion. Without palliatives of any kind to numb my torment.

  I might go mad.

  Already I found myself massaging the ugly pit in my leg with one hand. By the end of the week I might toss myself into the sea and thank the spirited waters to suck me down.

  I gazed across the thunderous waves, already considering when I might throw myself into it. Then I noticed the surface of the waters all around me were not tumultuous as I imagined. All around me, the sea lay as still as a bath. It so perfectly mirrored the leaden skies that for a moment I thought we were not sailing, but floating. The Atlantic is never so calm. Never.

  I considered for a moment that we were caught in the eye of some vast, unseen storm. I dismissed that thought almost immediately; unless I’d killed a man, they would never leave me out here to die. Probably not even then. No ship has too many hands during a tempest.

  The calmest harbor and the tiniest inland pond suffers wavelets and ripples, but not here. Not a single flicker of light or shadow played off the brine. The wind blew, not enough to fill the Raven’s sails, but enough to crease the waters. Yet the sea was as still and smooth as glass.

  I leaned over the side, purposely rocking the boat, but saw nothing but my own ugly face staring back at me. Not even a ghost of a ripple moved out from the hull. As though the boat rested in pudding rather than seawater. The hair on my neck and arms stood on end.

  The sailors still aboard the Raven knew something was amiss. They held themselves stiff and watchful, jumping at every common noise or creak. They gestured sharply at one another and pointed at the sea with accusing fingers. More than
one man staggered drunkenly about the deck, yet no bosun called them to task.

  An unwelcome wind, lightly scented with carrion and long illness, whispered a dark prophesy to me:

  You are all going to die.

  So certain was I that some demon hissed the words into my ear that I whirled around and made myself dizzy looking for it. No one was there. No monster whispered cruelties to me, other than my own superstitious mind. Still my heart thudded like a cannon in my chest.

  The skies cleared as evening fell, and my sense of unease grew as the light shrank. Unless my watch was broken and my own sense of time corrupted beyond redemption, the sun did not set at three in the afternoon.

  I nibbled at a biscuit and watched the setting sun turn the waters pink and gold. Stars peeked through the swiftly-vanishing veils high above. Those cold divine fires, at least, gave me some measure of peace. The familiar shape of the Bear and the comforting twinkle of the Pole Star gave me bearings. Home still lay to the northeast. I began to relax. Surely this was all some strange weather phenomenon, some irregularity that learned men would laugh at a common sailor for trembling at.

  But the sun lingered at the horizon as though stuck between worlds, hovering half-set for almost an hour, and my fragile peace deserted me. I knew a fleeting moment of relief when it finally resumed its natural motion, and then a panic so fierce I nearly went blind from it.

  What would happen when darkness fell?

  I glanced up at the cloudless sky. There would be no moon tonight, but at least the clouds were gone. I could still see the stars. I looked back at the sinking red disc of the sun, my heart pounding a little louder and a little faster as the darkness spread. I unclenched a bit when they lit the lanterns aboard the Raven. How I wished I were on her deck. Night is never so dark with other voices to anchor you.

  I glanced down into the bath-still waters and startled when I saw how clear they were without the constant motion of waves to distort them. I could see the bottom of the ocean. Fascinated, I leaned over and squinted into the gloom to get a better look. The sand and rock looked almost close enough to touch. I could not help myself; I reached down to touch the water . . . and came back screaming.