Fear the Abyss: 22 Terrifying Tales of Cosmic Horror by Jack Ketchum, Tim Waggoner, Harlan Ellison, Jeyn Roberts, Post Mortem Press, Gary Braunbeck, Michael Arnzen, Lawrence Connolly
Authors: Jack Ketchum, Tim Waggoner, Harlan Ellison, Jeyn Roberts, Post Mortem Press, Gary Braunbeck, Michael Arnzen, Lawrence Connolly
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care of the coat and boots. Then Trevor and the others set to work putting the dirt back in the hole.
"You got anything else, Kevin?" the shotgun man asked. "Things I can't see? Hearing aid? Implants?"
"No."
"Contact lenses?"
"No!" He was freezing now. "Nothing. What're you going to do?"
The man nodded toward the others, and one of them tossed something at Kevin. It landed, rolling like a severed head. It was a canvas sack.
"Honest clothes," the shotgun man said. "Shoes too. Put them on before you freeze."
The sack had a pair of loop handles tied together to secure the things inside. Kevin fumbled with the knot, shivering as he pulled it apart. Inside he found a wool sweater, flannel shirt, vintage jeans, rawhide belt, leather boots. No underclothes. The pants were wide and long. He cinched the belt and rolled the legs to his ankles. The boots were of a straight-cut pattern, no curves to differentiate right from left. The innersoles were contoured with the impression of another man's toes.
"You need to put that sack on too. Over your head, cover your face."
By now the trench in the ground had been completely filled in, his personal effects buried beneath a mound of earth. If they killed him now, there'd be nothing above ground to prove he'd ever been here.
"The sack, Kevin. Put it on."
"You going to—" His voice cracked. "You going to shoot me?"
"Not unless I have to."
"So why do I need a hood?"
"To keep you from seeing."
"Seeing what?"
"Put it on, Kevin. Now!"
Kevin pulled the sack over his head. Then someone came up behind him, tugged the handles, tied them tight.
"All right. Let's go." A hand took his arm. "Walk with us. Slow and steady."
*****
They moved for what seemed a quarter of an hour. Then the hand tugged hard, making him stop. "There's a stoop here." The voice belonged to Trevor, the one who had told him this whole thing was nothing personal.
Kevin's next step thumped on wood. A moment later the wind fell away. He felt warmer. His footsteps echoed. He was inside. A left turn. Then a right. Then pressure on his shoulder, easing him down. "Just sit still a second. Almost done."
Hands grabbed Kevin's feet, lifted his legs, removed his boots. Then something cold touched his ankle, encircled it, clicked into place. He felt the weight of a chain.
"Like I said, it's nothing personal."
Footsteps receded. When Trevor spoke again, his voice was far off, maybe a dozen feet away: "You can take off the sack now, Kevin."
Kevin tugged the knot, yanking the canvas from his head as the men exited down a dim hallway, leaving him in a wooden room with a high, plastic-covered window.
He was sitting on a pressboard sheet atop rough-hewn legs. A quilt covered the board. That was it. No mattress or pillow. Two buckets sat on the floor beside him, old metal things, dented and empty.
A cast-iron stove burned in the corner, throwing a ruddy glow toward the hall. He got up. The chain dragged behind him, going taut after three steps. He called toward the door. "Hey!"
A knothole popped in the stove, sparks spewing through the grate. There was no other sound, no sense that his captors were still in the building.
"Anybody out there?"
The floor felt cold.
"Can I have those boots back?"
No sound but the crackling fire.
Standing at the limits of the chain, he saw the edge of another room as the far end of the hall. He seemed to be in an old farmhouse, the kind of place he blogged about, but tidied up as if his abductors had been squatting here for a while.
"Hey!"
Still no answer.
He returned to the cot, stood atop it, tried seeing out the window. The plastic sheeting snapped in the wind. He turned an ear to it, listening as something banged in the night, lonely and intermittent: Whump. Whump-ump. Whump!
"No!" A voice spoke from behind him. "You can't do that!" A woman had entered from the hall. "You can't see out that window. It's plastic, not glass." She wore a coat over a loose-fitting
"You got anything else, Kevin?" the shotgun man asked. "Things I can't see? Hearing aid? Implants?"
"No."
"Contact lenses?"
"No!" He was freezing now. "Nothing. What're you going to do?"
The man nodded toward the others, and one of them tossed something at Kevin. It landed, rolling like a severed head. It was a canvas sack.
"Honest clothes," the shotgun man said. "Shoes too. Put them on before you freeze."
The sack had a pair of loop handles tied together to secure the things inside. Kevin fumbled with the knot, shivering as he pulled it apart. Inside he found a wool sweater, flannel shirt, vintage jeans, rawhide belt, leather boots. No underclothes. The pants were wide and long. He cinched the belt and rolled the legs to his ankles. The boots were of a straight-cut pattern, no curves to differentiate right from left. The innersoles were contoured with the impression of another man's toes.
"You need to put that sack on too. Over your head, cover your face."
By now the trench in the ground had been completely filled in, his personal effects buried beneath a mound of earth. If they killed him now, there'd be nothing above ground to prove he'd ever been here.
"The sack, Kevin. Put it on."
"You going to—" His voice cracked. "You going to shoot me?"
"Not unless I have to."
"So why do I need a hood?"
"To keep you from seeing."
"Seeing what?"
"Put it on, Kevin. Now!"
Kevin pulled the sack over his head. Then someone came up behind him, tugged the handles, tied them tight.
"All right. Let's go." A hand took his arm. "Walk with us. Slow and steady."
*****
They moved for what seemed a quarter of an hour. Then the hand tugged hard, making him stop. "There's a stoop here." The voice belonged to Trevor, the one who had told him this whole thing was nothing personal.
Kevin's next step thumped on wood. A moment later the wind fell away. He felt warmer. His footsteps echoed. He was inside. A left turn. Then a right. Then pressure on his shoulder, easing him down. "Just sit still a second. Almost done."
Hands grabbed Kevin's feet, lifted his legs, removed his boots. Then something cold touched his ankle, encircled it, clicked into place. He felt the weight of a chain.
"Like I said, it's nothing personal."
Footsteps receded. When Trevor spoke again, his voice was far off, maybe a dozen feet away: "You can take off the sack now, Kevin."
Kevin tugged the knot, yanking the canvas from his head as the men exited down a dim hallway, leaving him in a wooden room with a high, plastic-covered window.
He was sitting on a pressboard sheet atop rough-hewn legs. A quilt covered the board. That was it. No mattress or pillow. Two buckets sat on the floor beside him, old metal things, dented and empty.
A cast-iron stove burned in the corner, throwing a ruddy glow toward the hall. He got up. The chain dragged behind him, going taut after three steps. He called toward the door. "Hey!"
A knothole popped in the stove, sparks spewing through the grate. There was no other sound, no sense that his captors were still in the building.
"Anybody out there?"
The floor felt cold.
"Can I have those boots back?"
No sound but the crackling fire.
Standing at the limits of the chain, he saw the edge of another room as the far end of the hall. He seemed to be in an old farmhouse, the kind of place he blogged about, but tidied up as if his abductors had been squatting here for a while.
"Hey!"
Still no answer.
He returned to the cot, stood atop it, tried seeing out the window. The plastic sheeting snapped in the wind. He turned an ear to it, listening as something banged in the night, lonely and intermittent: Whump. Whump-ump. Whump!
"No!" A voice spoke from behind him. "You can't do that!" A woman had entered from the hall. "You can't see out that window. It's plastic, not glass." She wore a coat over a loose-fitting
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