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 Page A
Authors: Jack Ketchum, Tim Waggoner, Harlan Ellison, Jeyn Roberts, Post Mortem Press, Gary Braunbeck, Michael Arnzen, Lawrence Connolly
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dress, frayed around the cuffs and collar, hem dark from dragging. She carried a tray. "There's nothing to see anyway." She set the tray on the floor, then stepped back. "Besides, you shouldn't mess with things you don't know."
"You mean the window?"
"I mean things you don't know."
The tray held a covered bowl, wooden spoon, mealy biscuit. There was a cup too, steaming and smelling of rooty tea.
"They found your car," the girl said. She was college age, though her hands looked older. "It was where you said." She backed into the hall, but didn't leave. "You seem honest. That's why they say you can eat." She smiled, revealing the kind of teeth that came from wearing braces. "Go on. It's honest food."
He knelt beside the tray, lifted the lid and smelled the steam. When he looked up again, she was gone.
*****
He carried the tray to the cot and studied the contents of the bowl: cabbage, carrots, turnips, squash. There was meat too--slow boiled pieces that came apart beneath the spoon. And there was other stuff, coarse-cut herbs and leaves. He tasted it: sweet and rich, but with a wildness that must have come from the herbs. He spooned up the pieces, then tipped the bowl to drink the broth. After that, he used the biscuit to wipe up the rest before starting on the tea. It was all good.
When he finished, he set the tray aside and drew his feet under the quilt. He felt warm, relaxed. He closed his eyes, lay back. A bitter taste clung to his throat. Not unpleasant, just strange.
For a while, he slept.
*****
Pain woke him.
He lunged for one of the buckets, hugged it, vomited hard. Everything came up. Then he collapsed, hugging the floor as the pain moved to his lower tract, forcing him to drop his pants and straddle the second bucket. His bowels let loose, venting with a single blast that seemed to go on forever. Then he collapsed again, exhausted, shivering.
The stove glower brighter now, almost molten with heat, but he was cold...chilled to the core. He forced himself back under the quilt. It didn't help. The cold was inside him. He rolled into ball, closed his eyes, convulsed.
And then someone else was in the room. It was the pimple-faced boy who'd worked the pick in the clearing. "You'll be all right." He said it without l's: Yaw be awright . Unlike the others, this kid sounded local. He walked to the buckets, peeked inside. "We're simple people." He picked them up, grabbing the handles with gloved hands. "We're not ignorant, though. We know what companies are making now days, interfaces and such, apps and nannies."
Kevin didn't have the strength to ask what the kid was talking about. He just closed his eyes, plunging into icy sleep that broke when he realized someone new was sitting beside him. It was a woman with a three-string dulcimer, sitting in a chair that hadn't been there the last he'd looked. The floor around the chair had been cleaned. A tray of fresh food lay where the buckets had been.
"You had a rough night," she said. "Breakfast will set you right." She had eyes like stones, cold and blind.
"Not hungry," he said. It was barely a whisper.
"But you are." Her hair was gray, pulled back, coiled like rope at the back of her head.
He looked at the food: slice of fruit, cup of steaming milk.
"They call me Mother," she said. "You can call me that too, if you like. If it feels right." Morning sun glowed through the plastic window, forming a nimbus behind her head. "It's not what I am. Just what they call me." Like most of the others, she didn't sound indigenous to the mountains. "I was a teacher once," she said. "College professor, actually. When I left that life, some of my students followed. Since then, others have come, locals mostly...and a few are pilgrims like yourself." She reached for the tray on the floor beside her. Didn't grope for it the way a blind person would, but grabbed it as surely as if she could see. "Take this." She held the tray toward him. "Sit and eat. Fill your terrible
"You mean the window?"
"I mean things you don't know."
The tray held a covered bowl, wooden spoon, mealy biscuit. There was a cup too, steaming and smelling of rooty tea.
"They found your car," the girl said. She was college age, though her hands looked older. "It was where you said." She backed into the hall, but didn't leave. "You seem honest. That's why they say you can eat." She smiled, revealing the kind of teeth that came from wearing braces. "Go on. It's honest food."
He knelt beside the tray, lifted the lid and smelled the steam. When he looked up again, she was gone.
*****
He carried the tray to the cot and studied the contents of the bowl: cabbage, carrots, turnips, squash. There was meat too--slow boiled pieces that came apart beneath the spoon. And there was other stuff, coarse-cut herbs and leaves. He tasted it: sweet and rich, but with a wildness that must have come from the herbs. He spooned up the pieces, then tipped the bowl to drink the broth. After that, he used the biscuit to wipe up the rest before starting on the tea. It was all good.
When he finished, he set the tray aside and drew his feet under the quilt. He felt warm, relaxed. He closed his eyes, lay back. A bitter taste clung to his throat. Not unpleasant, just strange.
For a while, he slept.
*****
Pain woke him.
He lunged for one of the buckets, hugged it, vomited hard. Everything came up. Then he collapsed, hugging the floor as the pain moved to his lower tract, forcing him to drop his pants and straddle the second bucket. His bowels let loose, venting with a single blast that seemed to go on forever. Then he collapsed again, exhausted, shivering.
The stove glower brighter now, almost molten with heat, but he was cold...chilled to the core. He forced himself back under the quilt. It didn't help. The cold was inside him. He rolled into ball, closed his eyes, convulsed.
And then someone else was in the room. It was the pimple-faced boy who'd worked the pick in the clearing. "You'll be all right." He said it without l's: Yaw be awright . Unlike the others, this kid sounded local. He walked to the buckets, peeked inside. "We're simple people." He picked them up, grabbing the handles with gloved hands. "We're not ignorant, though. We know what companies are making now days, interfaces and such, apps and nannies."
Kevin didn't have the strength to ask what the kid was talking about. He just closed his eyes, plunging into icy sleep that broke when he realized someone new was sitting beside him. It was a woman with a three-string dulcimer, sitting in a chair that hadn't been there the last he'd looked. The floor around the chair had been cleaned. A tray of fresh food lay where the buckets had been.
"You had a rough night," she said. "Breakfast will set you right." She had eyes like stones, cold and blind.
"Not hungry," he said. It was barely a whisper.
"But you are." Her hair was gray, pulled back, coiled like rope at the back of her head.
He looked at the food: slice of fruit, cup of steaming milk.
"They call me Mother," she said. "You can call me that too, if you like. If it feels right." Morning sun glowed through the plastic window, forming a nimbus behind her head. "It's not what I am. Just what they call me." Like most of the others, she didn't sound indigenous to the mountains. "I was a teacher once," she said. "College professor, actually. When I left that life, some of my students followed. Since then, others have come, locals mostly...and a few are pilgrims like yourself." She reached for the tray on the floor beside her. Didn't grope for it the way a blind person would, but grabbed it as surely as if she could see. "Take this." She held the tray toward him. "Sit and eat. Fill your terrible
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