Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror by Joyce Carol Oates, Nancy Kilpatrick, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Storm Constantine, Molly Tanzer, Lois H. Gresh, Gemma Files, Karen Heuler Page B
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates, Nancy Kilpatrick, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Storm Constantine, Molly Tanzer, Lois H. Gresh, Gemma Files, Karen Heuler
Ads: Link
my eyes adjusted to the new world and the strange starlight. One of the buildings towered over the other, a huge window like a rose flowering on one side. We might not have churches quite like that in South Africa, but I'd have to be completely illiterate to not know a cathedral when I see one. It was massive though, far larger than anything I'd ever imagined.
“So the church even made it to other worlds?” I said, one finger pointed to the monstrosity. As if Sullivan wouldn't know what I was talking about.
He laughed. “The Cathedral still hangs on to its dreams of a new Jesus, but they're waiting for nothing.”
“You know that personally, do you? The Almighty drop you a line?”
Sullivan took my arm. “Even if there is one, he won't bother coming here. This is just a way-stop, a place where the lost souls drift. Purgatory, if you will.”
“So why the hell did you want to get back?”
“There's something I need.” He fumbled in his coat. “Listen, it's not exactly safe for you here. Stay too long and you'll forget you were ever anywhere else, and then you'll become part of the Long Road and never get back home.”
“Whoa—wait. What?”
He took a small blue egg out of his pocket and cradled it in his palm. “I can anchor you to earth, but you'll need to swallow this.”
“You're kidding.”
“Hardly.” He pressed the egg into my hand.
It wasn't actually an egg, just a tiny pale stone, no bigger than the nail of my pinkie. I closed my fist around it. Cold. And hard. Small enough to swallow whole. “And you want me to actually put this in my mouth—” I began.
“The sooner the better.” His eyes were fierce and dark here under the rainbow stars. “You really don't have much time.” His look softened. “Sorry, Mia. I'm worried. If you're trapped here, it would be on me, all that guilt. I simply took you, didn't warn you or anything. Please, for your own safety.”
The egg tasted of nothing. Just a moment's flinty coolness, and then I swallowed it down like I was taking a handful of painkillers the morning after the night before, dry and desperate.
I imagined that it sat heavy in my stomach, connecting me back to earth, but in reality I could feel nothing at all. “You're sure it will work?”
“Yes,” he said and his smile grew warmer, grateful almost. “Beyond certain.” He grabbed my arm. “And now, we'd best move, if I'm to make my appointment.”
I shook off his grip, but followed him anyway. Sullivan was walking briskly down a narrow road edged on either side by delicate spindly buildings draped in what looked like fairy lights. As I passed, I saw that they were all mismatched—some antique glass bulbs that looked older than dust, and some new and cheap, the kind you get at China Town for a couple of twenties.
“Detritus,” said Sullivan. “Stolen dreams.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Some of the more unusual residents can slip off the Long Road, into what they call Dreaming. Back into your world. And it is your world, to an extent.” He glanced back at me. “It was your world.”
“They… go back in time?”
“About fifteen minutes or so behind, yes. They take what they can, and bring it back here to trade. There are also a few doorways that do the same thing, but they're expensive to use.”
“Oh.” I didn't really have anything intelligent to say, I realized, but just about none of this made any sense. It had all the logic of a dream. I wasn't convinced that I was not actually dreaming. The whole thing had taken on a menacing eeriness: things brought back from the past, dream-nonsense and doorways to other worlds.
We walked the city of Jarry, heads bowed as though we didn't want anyone to take notice of us. I saw things, of course. I couldn't help staring. Women dressed in bearskins, their great ursine heads like bizarre frightening helmets, men in sackcloth and ashes, wearing gilded crosses almost as big as my hand, people with thin faces,
“So the church even made it to other worlds?” I said, one finger pointed to the monstrosity. As if Sullivan wouldn't know what I was talking about.
He laughed. “The Cathedral still hangs on to its dreams of a new Jesus, but they're waiting for nothing.”
“You know that personally, do you? The Almighty drop you a line?”
Sullivan took my arm. “Even if there is one, he won't bother coming here. This is just a way-stop, a place where the lost souls drift. Purgatory, if you will.”
“So why the hell did you want to get back?”
“There's something I need.” He fumbled in his coat. “Listen, it's not exactly safe for you here. Stay too long and you'll forget you were ever anywhere else, and then you'll become part of the Long Road and never get back home.”
“Whoa—wait. What?”
He took a small blue egg out of his pocket and cradled it in his palm. “I can anchor you to earth, but you'll need to swallow this.”
“You're kidding.”
“Hardly.” He pressed the egg into my hand.
It wasn't actually an egg, just a tiny pale stone, no bigger than the nail of my pinkie. I closed my fist around it. Cold. And hard. Small enough to swallow whole. “And you want me to actually put this in my mouth—” I began.
“The sooner the better.” His eyes were fierce and dark here under the rainbow stars. “You really don't have much time.” His look softened. “Sorry, Mia. I'm worried. If you're trapped here, it would be on me, all that guilt. I simply took you, didn't warn you or anything. Please, for your own safety.”
The egg tasted of nothing. Just a moment's flinty coolness, and then I swallowed it down like I was taking a handful of painkillers the morning after the night before, dry and desperate.
I imagined that it sat heavy in my stomach, connecting me back to earth, but in reality I could feel nothing at all. “You're sure it will work?”
“Yes,” he said and his smile grew warmer, grateful almost. “Beyond certain.” He grabbed my arm. “And now, we'd best move, if I'm to make my appointment.”
I shook off his grip, but followed him anyway. Sullivan was walking briskly down a narrow road edged on either side by delicate spindly buildings draped in what looked like fairy lights. As I passed, I saw that they were all mismatched—some antique glass bulbs that looked older than dust, and some new and cheap, the kind you get at China Town for a couple of twenties.
“Detritus,” said Sullivan. “Stolen dreams.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Some of the more unusual residents can slip off the Long Road, into what they call Dreaming. Back into your world. And it is your world, to an extent.” He glanced back at me. “It was your world.”
“They… go back in time?”
“About fifteen minutes or so behind, yes. They take what they can, and bring it back here to trade. There are also a few doorways that do the same thing, but they're expensive to use.”
“Oh.” I didn't really have anything intelligent to say, I realized, but just about none of this made any sense. It had all the logic of a dream. I wasn't convinced that I was not actually dreaming. The whole thing had taken on a menacing eeriness: things brought back from the past, dream-nonsense and doorways to other worlds.
We walked the city of Jarry, heads bowed as though we didn't want anyone to take notice of us. I saw things, of course. I couldn't help staring. Women dressed in bearskins, their great ursine heads like bizarre frightening helmets, men in sackcloth and ashes, wearing gilded crosses almost as big as my hand, people with thin faces,
Similar Books
