Meet Me at the Fair
By Christopher Jon Luke Dowgin
Part of the Sinclair Narratives
8 A.M. Halloween, 1889
Paris
Louie was driving us through the Exposition Universelle de 1889 under the Eiffel Tower. Louie was grinning from ear to ear. It is not every day you get to drive a Porsche. D La Toujours Contente was a four-wheel drive electric car thought to be faster than the La Jamais Contente. Louie was biting at the bit to see if he could break 70 mph through the countryside.
Riding with Louie and me were Caroline and Harriet Hemenway. Hemenway was the founder of the Massachusetts Audubon Society. She traveled from Salem to the fair to meet Emily Williamson of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. They had lots in common. They both hailed from Manchester, the home of Dubois' young friend Edward Hulton's newspaper. Well, one lady was from Manchester, Massachusetts, and the other from Manchester, England. They shared their disgust at the slaughter of birds for fashionable hats amongst their peers at tea socials. Something Edward was printing stories about in his father's conservative paper. I think he had his allowance revoked each time...
Nevertheless, I was reading the new Wall Street Journal about Sullivan beating Jake Kilrain in the last bare-knuckle championship and the application of the Marquess of Queensberry Rules. I ate another piece of licorice and flipped the page to read that the New York Giants were still celebrating their win over the Brooklyn Bridegrooms in the World Series. Ah, Princeton won the collegiate football championship.
Caroline slapped me on the back of my head with her fan. "Henry, we are riding in the shadow of the eleventh wonder of the world and you still have your nose in one of your papers."
'that prick Frick is refuting his responsibility for the Johnstown Flood as Herbert Hoover is arranging aid for the survivors; Russia is calling for help as the Asiatic flu is leveling their population, and George Peabody's nephew Othniel Charles Marsh found a dinosaur called a Triceratops during his Bone Wars."
Frick lived south of Manchester in Beverly Farms, just outside of Prides Crossing. He had a monstrosity on either side of the road, behind large iron gates. He was Carnegie's hatchet man. Pinkertons were under his orders at the Homestead Massacre.
George Peabody was the man behind the 1837 Panic and the founder of the Morgans' banking empire. Othniel was one of two nephews in his family that he thought had a brain; he didn't have much respect for the rest of his family. Othniel grew up to have a heavy influence over Yale and all of the presidents that would graduate there, and the other nephew influenced those at Harvard and all of the lawyers that would graduate from there.
Speaking of Harvard, we were meeting our cowboy friend Teddy Roosevelt at the Laplander exhibition. This Harvard grad was just appointed the head of the Civil Service in Washington. Funny Garfield was assassinated after empowering the office, and another president was going to be killed, making Teddy president in a few years...
"Louie," yelled Caroline, "please stop the car, Harriet, and I want to see the city from the top."
I folded my paper closed as Louie stopped. I handed Louie some licorice before I had some more.
I read the plate on the elevator. It said Ottis.
North of Manchester in Ipswich, lived Charles Richard Crane; his father was the CEO. Charles would bring the end of the Russian Provincial Government for the Bolsheviks, who would, in the end, kill more Russians than the Asiatic flu. The Trans-Siberian Railroad, which they were finishing now with Morgan's friends' choo-choos, would bring them to their deaths in the gulags. Baldwin Locomotives owned Eddington Arms when the Russians owned what became the Navy base the Hindenburg would crash at. Because of Charles, Lakehurst, NJ had a Russian refugee problem that settled nearby in Cassville.
"I bet you wish you could get it up with just a push of a button..." Louie joked.
"Believe me, he doesn't need any help," Caroline corrected Louie. Caroline told me earlier that he had no problem getting it up with my wife.
I recently had a marriage of convenience. An older, good friend of mine needed protection after her wealthy husband died. The bastard of her cook, whom she had adopted, was trying to institutionalize her to steal her money. He was one of the founders of Stanford University and didn't need anymore of her money. After our honeymoon, we left for France with Caroline, my soulmate through time, to live in the tunnels under the old Templar citadel in Paris. My family used to live there before we had to run to Roslyn, Scotland, when the King was killing Templars. We were charged with recovering various religious and magical items throughout the old world before the wars in the next century could collapse civilization in the following century.
In our first adventure, we met the young reincarnated Louie, who became my cabbie once more. Soon afterward, the elderly Marie Francis Hopkins-Searles soon began pinching Louie's rear. It seems I underestimated my wife's appetite...
At the top, it was strangely vacant. From around the corner, we heard chanting in a weird mixture of Latin and Coptic. A sweet-smelling smoke occasionally wafted toward us on the ever-changing wind at the top.
Caroline was the first around the corner with her skirt removed, revealing some more martial-ready trousers. I was impressed to see Harriet had followed her. With a loud snap, a long stiletto snapped from her parasol.
I just sat back and shared some licorice with Louie as we followed behind as spectators. I had a feeling this was going to be the best exhibition at the fair.
Around the corner was Dubois' strange friend, Aleister Crowley.
He snarled at the sight of Caroline and contorted his hands and pointed them at her, chanting.
"Gobblygook," she said as she dislocated a few fingers with an inner crescent kick. "Damn, gobbly gloom," she said with an outer crescent kick.
"You bitch!" yelled Crowley. "Get her!" It was then that a group of Moriarty's hooded goons rushed the two ladies.
The first, Caroline sidestepped, and Harriet gave him his first and second dueling scars. The next Caroline slid in sideways and lifted and twisted him over her hip as she caught the elbow of the next. He went to swing with his other hand, but Caroline held that elbow, preventing him from twisting his torso. She pulled his arm down, stepped past him, and manipulated the crease of his knee, bringing him down.
I pointed at her, and Louie nodded as he took another piece of licorice from my bag.
Harriet blocked a punch with her parasol and, with the same movement, thrusted past to stop her blade an inch from his nose. Then second-guessed herself, with a smirk, and gave him two scars too. The rest ran away, leaving that kooky, spooky fool.
"Can we talk about this?" pleaded the upstart crow with a smile.
Then Crowley saw his demon materialize and began grinning.
The demon looked at the two and said, "You're on your own," and tried vanishing.
Harriet was wearing a medicine bag her mother-in-law got from her neighbor, Cushing, who got it from a Zuni witch.
A hot-air balloon appeared from below, and Crowley got in while we were looking at the demon. It was Nellie Bly who was following Jules Verne's course in his novel Around the World in 80 Days. We saw her from above throw him out like ballast on a tether.
The girls turned back, and I put my licorice under my armpit, and we began golf clapping. Caroline smacked me again, and then kissed my cheek with a smile.
...
We met Teddy at the Laplander village. He was trying to follow his friend Wovoka's conversation with a Finnish trollman. Wovoka nodded as the trollman threw a rock over Teddy's head.
"What was that—"
Paiute and Finnish shared some Ugric words, and Wovoka nodded in agreement with the shaman as Teddy began dancing in circles, slapping his mouth.
Some of my third-generation reincarnated Viking crew just walked up laughing and drinking some Coca-Cola. Many of them understood Finnish. See in Scandinavia, there is a tradition of throwing a rock over one's head to gain control over them. It's a lot easier than making a voodoo doll.
Now Wovoka was a powerful medicine man, too. His Ghost Dance was sweeping the nation as America was just stealing the Dakotas from his tribe. He was to meet Sitting Bull at our friend's Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show. Cody was invited to perform at the fair. I'm not sure if this was the reason Teddy never trusted natives, or was it just his Knickerbocker prejudice?
It was then W.E.B. walked up, talking with Tesla about AC current he sold to Westinghouse.
Later, they would share tales of equal rights, inventions, the paranormal, and aliens...
My crew was acting funny. Olaf pushed the strongman on the alley away from his barbells, lifting them with one hand and him with the other. Magnus couldn't shut up; Harriet just opened her parasol in his face and walked away. Olaf had five women following him, grinning.
"How much of that Coke have you guys drunk?" I asked.
"A few cases," he answered. "Not more than a dozen."
We walked up the alley to attend the Wild West Show. On the way, I bought Caroline and Harriet some of Raffaele Esposito's pizza and suggested they skip the Coke.
"Bjorn says we would love some Coke in bed..." she giggled. I know she was kidding. The biggest drug she did was chocolate. Well, it is the same plant...a lot less dangerous though.
Then Louie walked up with my wife on his arm. She was flushed. They just got back from the shadows of the Moulin Rouge.
Louie dropped his pizza and hung his mouth open, pointing from Marry to this man and back to Marry.
Just leaving the concession line were H.G. Wells and his young student.
"Mr. Wells," said the student, "can we go see the Canadian bear exhibit? I hear they have some Klondike bears next to some piglets and Roos from the Australian zoo."
"Who knows," Wells answers, "but I can see you're sprung like a tiger's tail waiting to hop off like a bunny, so don't let me get you down."
Little Master Milne would grow up and write many tales of a little yellow Pooh.
The two of them were eating pizza too, and it made me hungry.
When I headed back, I saw good old Professor Albert materialize from the Miskatonic University.
"Pizza, it's pretty good," Albert offered. I grabbed a slice.
"Can you fill me in on what Dark and Sinister was up to on the tower?"
"He was tuning in the resonating frequency of the tower itself."
"For what?"
"With the instability in Austria, the Pope will try to remove the Holy Lance to Rome, once again."
"So once I was being stabbed by it on the crossroads of the Horos-Stauros, it absorbed some of the energy of the Plemora as I opened the rift—"
"Yes, Longinus saw through it and saw the other world. He began studying through tomes of universal lore of the different dimensions, other than the Plemora."
"Yes, he found Lovecraft years ago and has been trying to bring back the ancient ones."
"The lance will be the transmission—"
"The tower, the antenna, and Crowley tuning what frequency will open the rift to them."
"When the veils are thin tonight between the worlds,"I said.
"What monsieur, that will be four francs," Albert vanished once I grabbed the pizza, and I was left with the concession attendant.
Continued on the Last Story...
So I, Cthulhu, is thinking, what is up with the one percent? Just because an emperor thinks his sons are morons—does he really have to kill them all and start WORLD WAR I !!!!!
Ouch!
The first installment of Skull-Walker Series
by Michelle LeBlanc
Chapter 1
The Rising
All I can see is dark. It is in the middle of the night, I'm being chased. I don't know by whom. I hear blood Splatter on a tree and the bushes! I am stabbed in the back. I see things in tunnel vision. I am flipped around and I'm stabbed in the stomach. I hear a scuffle and I heard a voice I could not explain.
"I'm sorry, I tried my hardest!"I heard the voice say. I saw the somebody amassed in black drop to my right. I heard a faint whisper as the person leaned over and slit my hand with a knife down to my wrist. He was bleeding too. All I could tell was, it was a male voice.
"I'll come back for you when you are ready, I promise!" the voice said.
Everything turns black as he touches my hand. I seem to have blacked out. I wake up and I'm in a small box. It's hard to breathe. My arm did something strange. Something shot out of it, like a stick or something. It hurt a second, then it was fine. I took a breath. I stabbed the lid of the box as I was in with it, repeatedly! Dirt started to cave in on me as I began to dig. I dug for what seemed like forever. I then felt no more dirt with my hands, I forced myself up to make the opening wider. I gasped for air. As I pulled myself up, on all fours, I was trying to catch my breath, as I kept choking on my tears. I screamed. I looked at my forearm, and it had what looked like a large dagger made of blue topaz gemstone popping out the side of it. It was the length of my whole forearm. I shook my head, as I was freaking out!
"What the hell is this?" I yelled out loud. "What happened to me?" I heard a loud growling and buzzing noise in my head. I looked in front of the hole. There was a Small wooden cross which looked like it was made with cheap wood, or popsicle sticks, which in black ink stated:
Gemma Lee Royce
10/31/2008 - 09/06/2024
Wesen # 402
I was horrified. I just dug myself out of my own grave! I was in a cemetery. My feet didn't want to move yet. I looked around and there was a box that had a dozen roses in it with black ribbon. There was a note attached to a rope above it hanging from a tree. A faded vintage note card, elegantly printed in black ink.
Gemma,
Sorry to miss your awakening.
I had something I had to take care of.
Walk out of the field, up the dirt path
to an old Victorian manor, ring the bell.
Your watcher,
Whistler
P.S. If you don't trust me yet, it's OK, but you won't make it back home like this, or too much further than the entrance, anyway...
I had no clue as to who this person was. The loud growling noise, mixed with the buzzing, was growing louder and more painful. I couldn't tell if the noises were in my head or if some animal or monster was there. I just couldn't see it. I ran as fast as I could to the entrance of the old Victorian manor. I crossed the street and rang the bell as instructed.
"Hello?" I yelled, so out of it, I couldn't take the noise in my head anymore. I rang the bell a few more times. "Whistler?" I rang the bell. The door opened as I passed out.
...
I awoke, shaking, my head feeling funny, as if I had the flu or something. I was in an old Victorian bed, with large pillars and vials ordered meticulously on the night stand . This place had a vintage richy, vibe to it. It seemed like an old drafty house. I should have been cold, but I was not. I looked around and there was no one. I got up, still a little wobbly, and walked out of the bedroom.
"Hello? Is anyone in there..." I said like Roger Waters from The Wall album.
"Ah! Wesen # 402, you are awake. I'm Walter Maverick Wolfe the third, your new watcher." a man stated. He was dressed in a woolen suit, with a white button down shirt, with dark, long hair with a fairy wrap. He's over 6 feet tall with an average build.
"Excuse you! What did you call me?" I asked.
"You are a Wesen and your documentation number is #402," the man answered.
"What the hell is a Wesen?" I snapped.
"Half human, half umm, what the humans would call a monster or demon," he states.
"I'm not—I'm just Gemma." I said.
"Well, just Gemma, you're a wizard—ah I'm pulling your leg," he said.
Then he whistled. A topaz spike poked out of my forearm and the skin on my face peeled off. 'the fact when I do that, says otherwise."
"Do what— Ouch!" I screamed.
He whistled once more. "That," he said. The skin on my face seemed to rip off again...
"What," I stupidly asked again.
"Whistle," he explained. "Every time I—"
"I get your point!" I screamed, before he could whistle again.
"No, I'm afraid it is your point; there coming out of your..." he said pointing to my forearm. "Follow me to the dining room; I"ve been busy cooking breakfast."
We walked into a room a few doors down. There was a vintage Victorian dinner table. Damn! It was huge with carvings of symbols in it and stuff, some blue stones placed in some significant order. If I had the energy, I probably would have asked more about it. I made a mental note.
He turned around with a tray and opened the cover.
"Bavarian tart?" He leaned over as if he was a famous chef or something.
"What did you call me?" I smirked.
"The pastry..." he replied.
"Oh, sorry," I winced. "I'm watching my weight."
"What? I spent all morning on this!" he yelled, frustrated. "How the hell am I supposed to know what a damn teenage girl eats!" He kicked the trash can, and I saw a box from the local bakery, Java Lake. There was also some egg quiche thing. Which looked like it was burned to a black ash, or something, in the trash.
"Fruit, yes," I aid giggling. "Yogurt yes, usually not together,"
"You don't want it? Fine!" he snapped, as he went to grab the tart off my plate.
"Stop!" I said grabbing it. "You try to take the damn thing, I'll probably bite your hand off. I'm that hungry!" I exclaimed. "It could be bull's balls, and I would not care."
He laughed. "It's your body getting used to your Wesen," he said. "try some of this green tea."
"Iced? Please?" I asked.
He put the pitcher down. "Damn, you're picky!" he said. "You're lucky that you are in your transition." His last words lingered on the air as he left the room.
He popped back in with a glass of ice.
'thank you," I said. "So, I'm a Wesen? What is a Wesen?"
"What Celts call Faerie or Scandinavian call Trolls; a magical other of sorts..." he said with a flourish of his hand as if he was sprinkling fairy dust. "It's German for a being, your sort of...nebulous now."
"What.." I exclaimed, confused.
"Not human, not Troll," he answered. "Nebulous."
"Are their different types of nebulous; I mean, do I need to change my pronoun to them?" I asked. I could be a smart ass...
"You are a Skull-Walker," he said. "You died and came back to life, well sort of."
"What?" I gasped.
"Don't believe me?" he trailed on, as he left me alone in the room. "Check out that knife wound in your stomach, the right-hand side."
I looked down and got a little nauseous looking at my new scar.
"I'm sorry about that, by the way," he said, returning to the room with one of those weird tarts in his mouth. "I was late picking you up for "The Cause", and the...bad thing, got you first." Whistler explained. I lifted my shirt over my stomach, and saw another circular scar. I gasped, shaking, as I had a quick flashback of that night. I brought the cup of green tea to my mouth, shaking.
"What is the bad thing?" I asked. "What is the Cause?"
"The bad thing, is the evil entity that attacks a Wesen when they transform for the 1st time. As for you being documented as Wesen #402, you were buried in that plot..." he paused before continuing, to take a bite of his licorice. "There are several Wesens out there, a few hundred types; but a Skull-Walker, for short, s a rare find. There are said to be only two." Then he stirred his tea. "The main one and its mate."
"Am I the main one, or someone's bitch..." I spurted out of frustration.
He went to whistle, but I smashed both hands over his mouth. 'sorry."
"I will be your watcher," he said, shirking my last action. "I can't interfere with the natural order of things, win or lose."
"What do you mean win or lose?" I asked, playing with the last blueberry on my pastry. I started to like these things; but I wasn't going to tell him...
"You will blend back into your old life, and fit in as much as you can," he said, as he walked to the bookcase and flipped through some pages; barely giving me any notice. "When I call upon you, to do one of the Cause's missions, it's up to you, to document the Wesen species and find out if they are peaceful, or violent." He slammed the book. "Fight if needed!" he stated; "and report back to me."
"Fight? Monsters?" I was confused.
"Wesen," Whistler corrected. "Think of them as being from England, Scotland, Ireland, Spain, Brazil, or another country; they might get pissed if you call them a monster."
"What if I don't want to fight these things?" I asked.
"Wesen Cemetery across the street, plot #402.." he said in a dire, indifferent tone. "It's only been two weeks, and your brother doesn't know you died, yet!" He walked out of the room again with his book. "Just a runaway," I could barely hear him say from the other room.
"What?" I gasped.
"Make sure the Cause is happy with your performance," he said returning. "I would hate to see you back there so fast."
"What can I do against these things? I'm just Gemma." I asked
He then started fumbling with his hands like Mr. Miyagi, muttering. Then he pointed into his dojo...
"That's where I train you and your Skull-Walker Wesen self—anyone you train, don't get romantically involved; It doesn't end well." Whistler warned.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked. "You just told me there is a main Skull-Walker and his mate; does he come house trained..."
"The Wesen Cemetery, row 14 plot #402..." Whistler stated.
"OK, no more wisecracks; for the moment, no promises on tomorrow," I said with my hands out.
"Follow the Cause's rules. Rule number one is to blend in with your old human world as much as possible; meaning, you are on the baseball team, right?"
"Yes?" I said, confused as to why he asked.
"As a Wesen," he said, "you must harness your strength and speed, so you don't beat that ball across town and or break the bat. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but I"d love to see how far I could beat that ball, though, "I confessed. "It would be sweet."
"You finished eating?" he asked, as I was still stuffing my face. "Go lie down, then we will train for the 1st time. Then you will be dropped off by your house; go home, heal and meet me a few days later. I am going to give you some ginseng for some shakes. I want you to eat plenty of protein and follow the workout plan I'm going to give you." This didn't fix my problems at home, but it seemed like I'm forced to return, never the less...
I went to lie down as instructed.
I woke up to a Tarka, an Andean wooden flute, being played. The buzzing and growling in my head had lessened again to a dull tolerable roar. I walked to the dojo; I heard arguing and yelling between Whistler, and another man. That scared me a little. I walked down the hallway to where there was a bright light with them arguing.
"Whistler, don't kid yourself. The Cause wants me to take over as her watcher," the man stated.
"No! Tell the Cause, Gemma is my Wesen. I am her watcher," he pressed. "Gemma doesn't need another watcher."
"You have to admit," the stranger said, "There are special circumstances here and you can't be seen giving her special treatment!"
"I'm not giving her special treatment because of that!" Whistler dismissed his concern."What if she takes over the missions and I only train and watch?"
"The Cause will not be happy about this!" the stranger flummoxed. "There better not be any mishaps. Wesen #402 must never find out!"
"All the records are hidden," Whistler swore. "Please make this work!"
"I'll see what I can do," the man said.
I knocked at the door.
"I'll see myself out," he said, "and leave you and Wesen #402 to your 1st training session. I'll be back, Whistler."
"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop?" Whistler snapped.
"I'm sorry;" I said. "The flute and you two talking, woke me up.; also, you ordered me to report after I wake up." I was half afraid of him now, since he was yelling at the other guy, and it had to do with me and I had no idea why! I was too afraid to ask at the moment.
"How much did you hear? Be honest with me!" he roared. "I'm your watcher and can tell if you are lying to me or not!"
I didn't know if that was telling me the truth or not.
"I don't have any idea!" I screamed back. "I just heard an unrecognizable noise, and that buzzing, it blended." I lied.
'sometimes that happens when you transition," he explained. "Let's do a basic warm-up. Down! On the ground for push ups."
Hearing David Carradine bad Kung-fu flute was normal. I hate to find out what wasn't...
"Really? How is that gonna help me with being a Wesen?" I asked.
'so much for following directions!" he glowered. "Down! I was going to just make you do 10! Let's do 30!"
I went down, before it became 50.
"Let's go! One!" he began to stand there and counted out thirty push-ups, 40 jumping jacks, and 80 sit-ups. "OK. I know this might creep you out, but 5 laps around the Wesen cemetery."
I got out of the dojo and ran across the street.
I stopped dead in my tracks, as I got to the entrance gate (please ignore the death reference); Whistler snuck up behind me.
I jumped.
"Are you waiting for a formal invitation?" he asked. "If you want to see your brother Wesley tonight, or ever again, hurry up!"
"Yes, sir," I said as I proceeded for five laps. I got to my fourth lap as Whistler returned to the gate.
"Make it four more laps to make it right." Whistler suggested.
Right?
"Yes, sir," I said. I got 8 laps down.
"Then again," he said returning to the gate (I was really dead on my feet now...), "make it 10 laps and meet me in the dojo."
I ran, and to my surprise, it seemed to take no time at all...
I got back to Whistler's. He threw a wooden bat at me. I flinched, but caught it, then he grabbed one, and came at me.
"This exercise is to get you used to different types of weapons," he said. He hit close to my head, then low. "I will speed up; try and keep up!"
He kept going faster and faster, for about forty-five minutes, then it was so fast, he tripped me. He smiled.
"You"ll get it," he smirked. 'stand up and flex your wrist, and back. It will call out your bone-blade." He did the motion and he didn't have a bone-blade pop out of his wrist.
"Your...bone-blade," he motioned to my forearm, "and your eyes will turn blue topaz."
I looked in the dojo mirror.
"I'll drive you home," he said. I nodded, as he got a fancy Crown Vic out of the garage.
Great, I got driven home in a police car. Like I didn't have enough of those around me already...
I got out a few houses down the street and walked up the steps of my uncle Victor's House and knocked. My brother Wesley answered, as I cried, and hugged him.
"Uncle!" Wesley yelled. "Gemma's home!"
Chapter 2
Baseball ready
To everyone, I'm your typical girl. I have good grades, rarely in trouble, unless it was to give my brother, Wesley a hard time, it was mutual... Little did they know, it was a cover.
How good of a cover?
I was soon to find out.
I am Gemma, a Skull-Walker, which, most don't know about. Half human, half Wesen. I was fully a human, a couple of weeks ago. I was dying, and this strange fellow sliced my hand and shared his blood with me to keep me alive. Did I leave out, I was stabbed in the back and stomach and woke up in plot #402. Whistler, my Watcher, claims I'm currently the only Skull-Walker, and it is not a family DNA trait. (OK, I know I said this already, but I'm still trying to believe it myself...) Though my mate, has not transformed yet—whatever that means...
I will explain more about him, in a little bit.
He says we must live by a strict code of rules. Blend in, and follow orders from a group of elders called the "Cause". They have me document the existence of other Wesen and find out if they are good or evil, as they claim. If the "Cause" is human, or Wesen, I do not know? I just work with Whistler, and get paid by him in both cash, and a super healing elixir made out of ginseng, which was fertilized by a rare, older, and more magical creature. Those smoothies, makes me feel almost superhuman!
That brings me to the hardest part of rule number one; let my human half have control and blend in.
It's not always easy.
...
I'm second in batting order. I am the only girl on the team.
My older brother Wesley coaches us with his best friend, Logan. Deputy Wesley and his chief, Uncle Victor, are my custodians after our parents were killed.
Hitting things with a bat, even at human speed and power, feels great as it removes at lot of my angst. I couldn't wait for my turn!
"Go Bradley!" everyone, including me, cheered. He got up and swung at the ball.
"Ball one!" the umpire yelled.
The pitcher threw Bradley another pitch.
"Come on Bradley!" Logan yelled. "Just like at practice, man!"
"Ya! Focus!" Wesley followed. "You got this!"
He looked over at me, with a pissed-off look, because I had been missing practices. He just found out from Logan.
Wesley was away on a case for the past three practices, which I had missed. I knew I was going to be talked to after the game.
I nodded and gave him a sly smile. If he only knew where I was instead of practicing baseball, he would not believe it.
He also would not be happy.
Best not to tell him, for now.
'strike One!" yelled the umpire. Logan and Bradley shook their heads, looking at each other.
"Ball Two!"
"Good job staying in this!" Logan yelled. "Pivot, don't step around!"
"Strike Two!" yelled the umpire.
Snap!!
That pitch got Bradley to first base.
I cracked my knuckles as I grabbed my bat. Oh how easy it would be to hit this all the way into the parking lot, or down the street. But, I need to contain myself.
I keep amusing myself, by thinking I could beam this ball clear through the Wesen Cemetery, what Humans call Saint Mark's Cemetery.
Maybe...smack dab into whistler's window, where he would be practicing his wooden flute.
He would be beyond pissed off at that one.
Needless to say, I need to blend in.
The earbud in my left ear helps me limit my strength, by distracting me.
The earbud started to blast the song Click Click Boom by Saliva.
I was waiting for the song lyrics to go into place.
Pitch 1, was a ball.
"It's all right, it's all right!" I looked at Logan, with a sly bratty smile.
Pitch 2, came to me. "Click! Click! Boom!" I sang to myself as to the beat of the song—I beat the ball and got to second base.
"How you like me now!" I said slyly, giggling at the second baseman. Half expecting the second baseman to punch me.
I was actually hoping he would.
Jordan came up to the plate.
I hit the side pocket of my sliding pants, to the beat.
Harness that speed, I said to myself, as Bradley stole home.
"Come on Jordan, hit me home!" I yelled.
Jordan hit—I went home!
He got to third.
Two more players went to bat.
My brother, pissed at me, came up to me.
I gave him a smile.
"Earbuds!" Wesley snapped.
"Now Gemma!" he continued, leering down at me. I smacked a big bubble of Big League Chew.
"We talked about this! We"ll have a talk about this and your missing practices, when we get home!"
"Have a seat Gemma!" Logan double teamed me, its one thing to ignore your brother, but... "You're benched next inning."
Ufda! (Oh shit in Norwegian)
We had one more inning left in the game, as I looked on, disappointed. Even without me playing the last inning, Our team won.
We went as a team to the local smoothie and slushy shop to celebrate. Uncle Victor pulled me to the side. Wesley and Logan were speaking to the rest of the team. Uncle Victor pulled a Manila folder out from under his jacket.
"Gemma," he said. "Wesley does not want you to do my casework, but take a look at this. The disappearance of a runaway.
"In the past, I have seen you sharing your lunch with that boy sometimes. He is missing.
"Look into his disappearance, for me. The shelter is concerned about him. Check it out."
I used to see him begging for spare change and my human half felt sorry for him. I would share some of my school lunch. It's not like human food does it for me all the time, anyway. My human half thought he could use it more. Plus, I was a runaway once...
"Alright," I agreed. "I hope he is OK."
I grabbed the Manila folder.
Wesley, Logan, and Uncle Victor left for work at the police station. Logan, and his wife Dawn, worked under my uncle too.
I told them I was walking home to do homework.
That wasn't a complete lie, just that it was not for school and it was not at our home, it was at Whistler's...
Chapter 3
Whistler
If you knew him, his name was Whistler; his real name was Walter Maverick Wolfe, the third. I'm telling you again, because he hates that name—and even worse, he hates people knowing it. He dressed in woolen suits, with a white button down shirt, with dark, long hair, with a fairy wrap. He was the Keeper of Secrets (too much if you ask me, then again, nobody does...). The Watcher. He worked as the middleman between me and a group of elders called the "Cause." They were mysterious, they were sneaky, and they would do anything in their power to make sure every creature that was Wesen would not go undocumented.
Wesen, or what people would call monsters. They have both human and monster DNA am not sure what type of Wesen he is, if he even is one. What I could find out about him, was that Whistler has been reincarnated three times, according to Native American and Wiccan lore. All I felt I needed to know, though, was I trusted this man with my life. We didn't always see eye to eye on things. He was like a special second father, or uncle. He was like my Yoda to my Skywalker. Whistler was not up on the newest trends, language, or slang terms, which proved humorous at times...
"Gemma!" Whistler creamed, almost going into a whistle... "You're supposed to meet me directly after school!"
I was sipping my smoothie; the brain freeze wasn't from it, but when he whistles my skin peels off my face and it just hurts a tad...
"Dude, chill," I squawked. "We had a baseball game, and coach Logan got us smoothies."
I just got to his posh house on the outskirts of town. Behind him was McWalther's Wildlife Management Area. Across the street from his house was the Wesen Cemetery and my plot #402. The muggles knew as St. Mark's Cemetery.
It was where I had my transition, and if I didn't behave, I was going straight back to...
At least Whistler threatens me twice a day.
McWalther's proved handy whenever I needed to sneak around carrying out any of his missions. It was in the center of town and Its trails could get me everywhere, quick!
"I told you to skip it!" Whistler snapped.
‘Good night Wesley, most likely kill you in the morning..."
"What happened to blending in?" I back-talked him. "If I keep skipping practices and games, I'm going to get benched, ya know!" I snapped. "Wesley is one of my coaches. It's hard enough being the only girl on the team. I am here now!"
"Two hours late," he reprimanded. "I reviewed your uncle's missing person case, about the runaway from the Southland House. He is a Wesen. That means that it's up to you to find him."
I went to complain that I had plans, but Whistler wasn't having any of it.
He began a slight whistling noise with his lips. I felt the skin on my face start to morph and rip off, leaving only my eyes and hair still on my bare skull.
The only thing was cool about it, my boring long brown reddish hair pulled into my skull and left only a shocking Manic-Panic punky do!
I was a Skull-Walker. By the whistle of any Watcher, I am compelled to expose my true Wesen self.
I look like a walking, breathing skull face with hair. I am more powerful as a Wesen, according to lore, but I think I have the same strength either way, if I'm not holding back. I think Whistler just enjoys busting my balls...
It still burns and hurts like hell when it happens. My bone-blade, a large blue topaz spike, jetted out of the side of my forearm. It was a weapon I could call on command, or Whistler's...
"Dude! Stop!" I cried. "I'm sorry!" It hurts when I morph, but I assume he did it to prove he was in charge.
"Gemma, put that damn smoothie down!" He demanded.
Whistler seemed annoyed, as he almost smacked it out of my hand, "Drink this instead! Now!" he snarled. "We don't have time to waste, that kid might not have that long now!"
I looked at the smoothie shaker he wanted me to ingest instead.
The sludge in it looked like a cross between mud, blood, and tar.
It had green smoke coming from it.
There was this horrible stench that always made me nauseous.
I slammed it down (better to just get it over with...) holding my nose, holding back from retching or gagging.
The green cauldron smoke, right out of a kid's horror movie, was now escaping from my nostrils and ears (I hope no one was watching this). Gross!
It was his potion that brought on the berserk. I wouldn't be able to hold back my Wesen urges. It made me temporarily impervious to pain, running on pure instinct and adrenaline and in complete control against the power of the Cause.
Sike!
They would kill me in an instance...
Needless to say, I wouldnbe conscious of anything until its power ran out sometime the next day.
I shook my head with my tongue sticking out, "Ewww! Ick! OMG!
"That's some gnarly shit!"
"Stop making such a fuss!" Whistler replied. "Are you ready for your laps through the trails?"
I rolled my eyes, annoyed and disgusted. "Are you up for your first mission!" he asked menacingly. I was nauseous and let out a huge burp.
I felt my face morph into a skull again as I started to run off in the dark through the town park behind his house; no one should be around to see my skull face. Then I seemed to black out.
Stay tooned for the next addition of
The Skull -Walker
Domain of Heroes
by Cory McNeil
Miller Pumping Station
Evans City, Butler County, PA
Tuesday Night, October 1, 1968
The truck exploded.
Ben hit the ground hard, the shockwave slamming into his chest like a mule kick. His ears rang. The rifle flew from his hands and clattered somewhere in the dark. He couldn't breathe—the air had been replaced with heat, thick and choking, like someone had opened a furnace door directly over his face.
Tom and Judy were gone.
Ben squeezed his eyes shut against the glare and the truth of it. Two more dead. Two more people he"d led straight into—
The heat didn't fade.
It should have. Gasoline fires burned hot and fast, then guttered out. This wasn't guttering. If anything, it was getting hotter. The kind of heat that made you want to crawl away on your belly just to escape it.
Ben forced his eyes open.
The truck was gone. In its place, a pillar of fire clawed at the sky, twisting and roaring like something alive. The ghouls—dozens of them, closing in for the kill just seconds ago—had stopped. They circled the flames, hissing and flinching back whenever the light touched them too directly. Some of them pawed at their faces. Others retreated into the shadows beyond the firelight, confused.
And then something moved inside the flames. Ben's breath caught.
A shape—human-shaped, but wrong—dropped through the fire like it was stepping through a curtain. It landed hard enough to flatten the grass in a wide circle, and the impact sent a shockwave of heat rolling outward. The ghouls shrieked and scrambled back, some of them stumbling, others raising their arms to shield themselves from the light.
Ben couldn't move. Couldn't think. His mind was still trying to catch up to the fact that the dead walked, and now this—
Two figures stumbled out from behind the burning wreckage.
Tom.
Judy.
Alive.
Their clothes were scorched black, hair singed at the edges, faces streaked with soot and ash. Tom had his arm around Judy, holding her upright as she coughed and gasped for air. They were alive.
Ben's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Between them and the ghouls stood the thing from the fire.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Humanoid, but wreathed in flame that didn't burn it. Fire crawled along its arms, rolled off its back like a cloak, pulsed outward in waves that made the air shimmer. The ghouls circled it warily now, no longer advancing. No longer hunting.
They were afraid.
Tom finally spoke, his voice hoarse and cracking. "Judy—you hurt?"
She shook her head, still coughing. Her eyes were locked on the figure. "I'm... I'm okay. Tom, what is that?"
"I don't know." Tom's grip on her tightened. "I thought we were dead. I felt the fire, and then something grabbed us—pulled us clear. I didn't see it. Just felt it."
Ben forced himself to his hands and knees. His legs shook when he stood. His rifle was somewhere in the grass, but he couldn't take his eyes off the burning figure long enough to look for it.
The ghouls were confused now. They didn't retreat, but they didn't advance either. They swayed in place, growling low in their throats, waiting for something—an opening, a weakness, anything—but the fire held them back.
Behind Ben, the farmhouse loomed dark and silent. No one pounding on the doors. No frantic shouting. No Harry unlocking anything to let him back in.
Upstairs, Harry Cooper stood at the window, one hand braced against the frame.
He"d seen the truck explode. He"d seen Ben go down. He"d been ready to lock the door and let the night take him—one less problem, one less voice arguing against him.
But now there were four people standing in the open field. And something made of fire holding the line.
Harry's jaw tightened.
For once, it didn't matter who controlled the house. Whatever happened next was going to be decided out there. Without warning, the fire surged.
A ring of flame blasted outward from the figure's feet, sweeping across the grass like a wave. Ghouls caught in the path didn't just burn—they ignited. Their clothes, their skin, their hair—all of it went up at once. They screamed, high and inhuman, and crumpled into ash before they hit the ground.
The rest broke and ran, shrieking into the trees.
Then the fire stopped.
Not extinguished. Withdrawn. It pulled back into the figure like breath sucked into lungs, the flames collapsing inward until they vanished entirely.
And there stood a man.
No longer burning, but still glowing faintly at the edges—like coals that hadn't quite cooled. He was built like an athlete—broad shoulders, narrow waist, the kind of physique that belonged on recruitment posters. He wore a green body suit that clung to his frame, with a square collar trimmed in orange piping. A yellow and black belt cinched at his waist. On his chest, a red flame blazed against a black background. Green boots completed the outfit. His skin had a bronze sheen to it, and his hair—fiery red-orange that looked like flame made solid—was swept back from a sharp, angular face.
He smiled.
Not the grim, exhausted smile of a man who"d barely survived. Not the shell-shocked relief of someone who didn't understand what they"d just lived through.
A confident, easy smile. The kind of smile that said he"d done this a hundred times before.
"Hello," he said, his voice clear and steady, like he"d just walked into a room and not out of an inferno. "I'm Vulcan."
Tom stared at him. Judy stared at him. Ben stared at him. No one said anything.
Vulcan glanced around at the scorched grass, the ash piles that had been ghouls, the wreckage of the truck still smoldering behind him. He looked back at the three survivors, then up at the farmhouse.
"So," he said, still smiling. "What"d I miss?"
The Hawk
AS I SAW IT
(Secret Service Agent P. Hamilton Brown)
OCTOBER 1, 1968
EARLIER THAT DAY
2:47 PM
I'd been driving for the Service for six years. Never lost a protectee.
I was behind the wheel of the lead car in the motorcade. Nixon was two cars back with Chief Donnelly. Standard formation—my job was lead, clear the route, watch for threats.
We"d done Erie that morning. Good crowd. Some protesters, but nothing serious. Now we were rolling into Scranton for the second stop.
ARRIVAL
I could hear the crowd before I saw it. That sound—half roar, half chaos.
Through the windshield I saw them packed around the tarmac area. Signs waving. Mix of cheers and chants. The anti-war kids were louder here than Erie.
"PEACE NOW! PEACE NOW!"
I counted badges as we pulled in. Saw Scranton PD uniforms, sheriff patches, state trooper hats. Good coverage. Nothing jumped out at me.
My radio crackled. "Argent moving to platform. Perimeter green."
I settled in. Eyes on the crowd, not Nixon. That's the job—you don't watch the protectee, you watch everything else.
THE SPEECH
Nixon was on the platform. I couldn't see him from my position, but I could hear him over the speakers.
That line about Humphrey got big laughs even from where I sat.
The protesters kept chanting but they were getting drowned out. Everything looked normal. Good event.
My hand rested on the door handle. Eyes scanning. Left to right. Back again.
SOMETHING's WRONG
My radio popped with static, then a state police dispatcher: "...multiple accidents Route 11... getting reports of..."
The transmission broke up.
I keyed my mic. 'this is Secret Service lead. Repeat last transmission."
Nothing but static for a few seconds, then: "...violent incidents, people attacking... don't know how to classify..."
I frowned. Looked in my rearview. Caught Chief Donnelly's eye two cars back. He"d heard it too. Gave me a look that said *stay alert*.
My radio again: "Hamilton, what's your read?"
"Unknown situation. Recommend we expedite."
"Concur."
Through my side mirror I saw Donnelly make a subtle hand signal toward the platform. Time to wrap it up.
MOVING OUT
Nixon finished up fast. I heard the applause, then saw him coming down from the platform with Donnelly and the detail.
I got out, opened the rear door of Nixon's vehicle."Sir, we're moving to the aircraft immediately."
"What's happening?"
"Unclear, sir. Possible disturbances in the area. Getting you airborne as a precaution."
John Eisenhower appeared—I recognized him from the earlier stops. "Dick, something's wrong. My people are hearing some strange things."
Nixon and Pat got in without arguing. Good. Some protectees fight you on stuff like this. They remembered Venezuela no doubt.
We started across the tarmac toward his campaign plane.
THE CRASH
I heard the engines first. Wrong sound. Too loud, too high-pitched. Looked up through my windshield.
A passenger jet. Coming in way too fast, nose down, smoke trailing from one engine. "Jesus—"
I hit the brakes. "BRACE!"
The plane hit the runway maybe three hundred yards ahead of us.
The impact—the sound of metal tearing itself apart.
Then it exploded.
The fireball climbed into the sky. The shockwave hit my car, rocked it on its suspension. My windshield starred with cracks.
Heat. Even from here, heat.
CHAOS
My door was opening before I"d thought about it. Training.
Behind me, doors flying open. Donnelly was pulling Nixon out. Eisenhower's detail had him. But the crowd—
Five thousand people stampeding. Screaming. Running in every direction.
Debris still falling. A piece of the fuselage, huge, slammed down maybe fifty feet from my car.
Then I saw something that made no sense.
A figure walking out of the fire. Completely engulfed in flames. But walking.
Another one. Another.
People on fire. Walking.
"Chief!" I shouted into my radio. "Chief, do you see—"
"I SEE IT! FALL BACK TO TERMINAL!"
But it wasn't just the burning ones.
From the parking lot, from the terminal building, from everywhere—
People. Moving wrong. Stumbling. Reaching.
An airport worker—baggage handler by the uniform—came at us. Half his face was gone. Just... gone. But he was moving.
A Scranton cop fired. Center mass. The thing didn't even slow down.
FIGHTING
I drew my .357. Six shots.
The baggage handler was close.
I aimed. Fired. Two to the chest.
He kept coming.
Someone—don't know who—screamed:
"HEAD SHOTS! GO FOR THE HEAD!"
I fired.
His head snapped back. He dropped.
More coming. Dozens. Hundreds.
We were in the middle. Burning ones spreading from the wreckage.
More coming from the parking lot.
"FALL BACK! TERMINAL!"
That was Eisenhower. Military voice. Command voice. We moved.
Fighting retreat.
I fired. Reloaded. Fired.
A deputy went down screaming. I couldn't get to him.
A kid—one of Nixon's campaign staff—just froze.
One of the burning ones grabbed him.
He caught fire. Started screaming.
I put a round through the thing's head. It dropped.
The kid was still burning. No time to help him.
"MOVE!"
THE RIDER
That's when I saw him.
A man. On a horse.
Middle of an airport. On a horse.
He just...appeared. Out of the smoke. Like he"d materialized. Wearing some kind of desert gear. Not military. Nothing I recognized.
Sword in one hand. Pistol in the other.
And he charged straight into those things.
I"ve never seen anything like it.
The horse didn't panic. Didn't shy. It trampled them.
The rider—
Bang. Headshot. Thing dropped.
Sword through a skull. Dropped.
Bang. Another headshot.
He was cutting through them. Fast. Precise.
"WHO THE HELL IS THAT?!" Jenkins—one of my guys—shouted.
"DON't KNOW! KEEP MOVING!"
The rider circled us. Covering our retreat. Killing anything that got close. He got off his horse and began fighting next to us. His horse reared up on its own and began trampling their heads in.
"TERMINAL!" he shouted. Clear voice. American accent. "GET TO THE TERMINAL! I'll COVER YOU!"
We ran.
INSIDE
We hit the terminal doors. Eisenhower and two agents cleared the entrance.
"INSIDE! MOVE!"
The former President had his wife. I grabbed Nixon's arm—they had stumbled—pulled them through.
Staff. Cops. Everyone pouring in.
The rider came last. Dismounted. Led the horse inside. Someone started to say something—
"He just saved our lives," I commanded. "The horse comes in." We barricaded the doors. Everything we could find.
Outside, those things hit the glass. Pounding.
Inside, silence except for heavy breathing.
WHO ARE YOU?
I looked at the rider. He looked like an idolized version of Lawrence of Arabia.
Maybe thirty. Hard face. Eyes that had seen combat.
His pistol—looked like a 1911 but older. The sword was real. Had blood on it.
He dismounted saying something in polished Arabic to his mount.
Nixon spoke first. "You... you saved us. Who are you?"
The man wiped his blade on his pant leg. "I have many names." He looked around. "Code name Desert Hawk," he replied looking around, "Where am I?"
'scranton/Wilkes-Barre Airport," Eisenhower said. "Pennsylvania."
The man admitted, "Things sure look different stateside."
Eisenhower and I exchanged looks.
"How long have you been away?," Eisenhower said carefully.
'since before the war started," he told us.
I could tell the General was thinking the same thing. Did he mean when the French were fighting or when our boys got to ‘Nam. Either way it was years our mystery savior had been away.
"Five minutes ago I was in the desert. There was a sandstorm. Then it turned Purple of all things. Now I am here," he added looking at a nearby sign, 'somehow back in the U.S., somehow stateside in Pennsylvania."
Silence
Jenkins laughed. Nervous. "You're messing with us."
The Desert Hawk looked at him. "Do I look like I'm messing with you?"
No. He didn't.
INTRODUCTIONS
Nixon found his voice. "I don't understand what just happened. But you saved my life. You saved Pat, Our lives. Thank you."
Benson nodded. "Who are you?"
"Richard Nixon. I'm running for President."
"The election just happened," the Hawk told the candidate, "aren't you jumping the gun?"
"Excuse Me," Nixon blurted out hearing the answer.
Pat put her hand on her husband's shoulder. Anyone else would have shaken his answer off. Not Pat.
"Mr. Hawk," She asked, "What is the Date?"
"October 1st," he told them before adding, "1949," then finished with "Anno Domini."
"1949?!" I blurted out.
Nixon locked his eyes on the would-be hero.
"Who is President Mr. Hawk?," Mrs. Nixon questioned.
"Can you believe Truman beat Dewey?" the Desert Hawk laughed wistfully, 'that man lost China."
We all exchanged glances. The crack shot who had saved us was crazy...
We hoped you enjoyed the first tail from Domain of Heroes, come back in future issues to see who we pull from the dust bins of fiction to shock and awe you with! Till then, don't you go losing your head...You hear?
I hate to say it, deep down south, in the land of the Reds, the zombies tend to starve...
Welcome to another adventure from the Thousand Acre Woods. A place on the edge of Trollheim deep within the mysterious NJ Pine Belt! Tales Chronicled by Christopher Jonathan Hulton...That's me! Today's tale, a ghost ship has docked in Tuckerton with only the Jul Cat left on board. Not only did she eat all of the mice on board, but she ate the whole crew too. Including the Captain!
Angrboda was chasing a cat around the house, knocking a vase or two over while working up a real sweat; when her mother called.
Angrboda," Helgi interjected, "Did you hear Olie Bjornsen,the dwarf, just keeled over?"
t was then the cat came to a dead stop stunning Angrboda.
Now this shocked both of them.
"I need to get back to the howe before his wife starts up with another..." the cat said.
"But I be done seen ‘bout ev'rything When I heard a cat talk!" Helgi gasped.
The cat stood up and turned into a dwarf. "Olie sure did have a sexy wife; you know he shot me in the ass with buckshot once leaving his back door! I need to get back to Dvergrheim before she starts up with another fellow..."
"What..." Angrboda just sat there flummoxed with her broom rolling in front of her.
"So long and thanks for all the mice ! " the x-king of the dwarves said with a single wave.
One down, several to go.
Bjorn waved back to him, a bit stupefied. "That was Odr; he has been missing since Olie took his throne and girl from him," Bjorn said. "I think he owes Gramps five pounds of Sweet Annie that he lost in a game of Nine Men Morris?"
"Dad, you know the strangest of people!" exclaimed Angrboda.
"Hmmmm...—well, do you want to go on a big cat hunt?"
"Mountain lion—we haven't seen one of them in the Pines for over a hundred years or so..."
"No, the Jul Cat."
Angrboda stepped back. "Shit, where the hell is my Jul dress from last January!" The only protection from the Jul Cat are new clothes received on Jul.
Don't ask...
Bjorn continued,"Tthe ship Thorsrod crossed over from Iceland this week and set up port in Tuckerton. The mate was right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man. To die like a sailor in blue water, no man can object—she ate the whole crew, except the captain. She ate the captain before they docked.
"Since then, they say she jumped a cargo car and ate a few tramps. The engineer saw her jump off at Eagle's Nest Pond before Swinging Hill Road heading southwest."
"So she is heading here—I hope I didn't gain any weight since January," Angrboda said rushing to her room.
"Bjorn," yelled Gramps from outside, "We need to get going ! "
Bjorn left, joining Pop-Pops and Gramps. Karl ran inside his storm shelter instead...
Off they went!
They searched for hours. On the way they saw whiskers of mice, a claw of a bluebird, a pelt of a squirrel, a paw of a pine marten, a spike from a pickerel, feathers of an owl, a canine of a wolf, a honey stained beard of a bear, and his cousin, Pop's shoe.
"Good riddance," Pop-Pops said while picking up his shoe. "Now I can guide his soul to the devil..."
As we came upon 21 Lakes, Bjorn worried that the Jul Cat might have grown big enough to eat the Great Horned Serpent who lived in the water...He recalled the story when Thor tried lifting a cat, which was the Midgard Serpent in disguise.
"What time is it?" Bjorn asked. "Helgi wanted me to milk her cows."
Gramps hit him twice with his stick, twice... "It just struck two ! Their teats are dry tonight with this Troll cat in the woods. Don't be so foolish..."
When they got to the crossroad at Fatback's, she sprang into the road.
She snarled and growled. She swiped the air with her claw and showed her teeth. Her spine curled, and the hair stood on her back. She went to-swat the ball of twine Pop-Pops rolled out.
Then Gramps struck her arse with his crew popped out follow shoes of freeloaders,the rest of the whiskers of the mice, the other claw of a bluebird, the bones and muscles of a squirrel, the other paw of a pine marten, the rest of the spikes from a pickerel, the flapping wings of an owl, the snapping teeth of a wolf, the tongue licking the rest of a honey stained beard of a bear, and more...
Pop's popped out and smacked Pop-Pops with his other shoe; "Try to take my soul to the crossroads ! "
Where there once stood the Jul Cat, was now a beautiful princess.
Pops just walked off with the gal on his arm and gave Pop-Pops some raspberries...
Star Light, Star Bright
by Dennis Harwich
Fred was standing at the head of the engine on the Rockport/Newburyport line. He had been working for the MBTA for thirty years now heading in and out of Boston. He always wished he could be on one of those exotic trains crossing Europe like the Orient Express or the Transcontinental that he heard had to stop for Caribou eating daisies in the spring that grew in between the tracks. He wanted an adventure! Not the oscillation of traveling an hour out of the city and then—reversing all the way back. Even in his grandfather's time, they dismantled the turntable—at least that would of been fun. The days when they had to uncouple the engine and spin it around to join another train. He felt it would, at least, break up the monotony. Maybe he could afford a sandwich and even a wink to an attractive passenger.
A slightly cantankerous out of season Saint Nick was approaching with a carpetbag in each hand. He had a very smart beard, tweed vest, pocket watch and fob, spectacles, gloves, and personality. He would remind most of Cheri from The Man Who Came to Dinner. He was cut from the same burlap as Hemingway, Roosevelt, or Welles. Orson that is.
"My good man," he bellowed. "Is this the train for Trenton—I need to disembark there for the transfer to Princeton, I'm teaching a fall course on Entanglement Theory and the pollination habits of bees within the Pine Barrens—did you know off the highway between Philly and New York there is a vast forrest of myth and wonder in one of the most dark woods outside of the Grim's Black Forest!"
"Yes sir—on both accounts!" Fred said wis a queer smile. "Right this way, this is an express, and we will get you there in no time."
Fred walked him to a seat in the far back, carrying his bags. Cheri, or whatever his name was, insisted to carry his own bags, but Fred would not hear about it.
They walked past the mom wiping her kids nose, the college student dancing in his seat to the music that spilled out of his earbuds, and a myriad of others before they got to the man mumbling about the end of the world.
In the next car, they heard some Stone Temple Pilots leaking from a wired pair of headphones, a man working at the center table on a thick laptop, and a few goths with wide pants and chains. The following car they walked past a man slamming an iPod into the isle,—must of stopped working. Then past a kid with a NIN shirt, a man drinking a Pete's Wicked Ale reading The Phoenix, one guy had his Dr. Martens in the aisle they walked over, another stood up to adjust his fanny pack, and the last guy was in an Adidas track suit.
The next car was quite smoky. The first guy had his Newports and Schlitz, a woman in cat glasses and leopard print squeezed past, the man behind her was wearing a suit that should never come off a golf course, one guy fiddled with his Timex, and one young college student was reading Life.
The car in which Cheri was seated was a fine car. It was five cars away from the one filled with smoke. Though the new car was not completely smoke free; one man was enjoying a pipe. Cheri didn't mind. It always reminded him off an exotic incense. The car had mahogany trim above the back of the seats, jade glass lamps shine from above, and brass rails for your feet. He really enjoyed the satin cushions he leaned back into. It was a fine seat to nap his time away. He almost nodded right off, but Fred asked for his ticket. His luggage was stowed above him on the copper and teal rack; where did he put his ticket—was it in his luggage. He fumbled in his pocket and produced it and he heard the clicks from Fred who handed it back, slightly lighter. Cheri noticed the fine hats the women were wearing. Their long hair done up above their neckline. Full bodied women—no heroine chic.
At the back, was a man standing, scanning the horizon, a rifle leaned against his side. He had a hat, more Rough Rider than cowboy, and a big bushy golden brown mustache that must of always have been full of beer suds. His was the only open window.
Cheri looked to see what he was looking for. In the far distance, farther than that gun could fire, he assumed, was a herd. Cheri took out his iPhone, the latest model, top of the line lenses, and zoomed in. He saw buffalo.
Now he has bought buffalo meat from the farm outside of Newburyport—but he never saw the field off RT 1a where they ambled. He figured there must be other buffalo farms in Massachusetts.
The man took the nearest seat, in a huff, with the riffle across his lap. It is as if the buffalo could smell him and were not coming toward us anytime soon, even if they liked daisies too.
"Why are you sitting there, " Fred asked excitedly. "Come, come, we need to see the stars."
Cheri looked out the window again as he looked at his watch, just to be sure. It was 3:10, post meridian. Maybe he meant, Billy Joel and the Springsteens—but they usually travel to Salem by boat? Mark Walhberg...he had enough of seeing Adam Sandler. He once was working for SAG and they had him walk across Milk Street, over and over again, with a few dozen others for Ted 2.
When they left the compartment and entered the vestibule, for lack of better terms, they continued on to the little porch and railing, for lack of better terms, and Cheri said ‘Fuck", for lacked of better terms.
There were stars—no Adam Sandler was there, again... It was Cassiopeia, Orion, and Andromeda. They were flying through the inky black, so dark, it reflected the light of the stars everywhere. "Welcome to the universe," Fred announced.
Cheri was old enough that during his first job stacking shelves, he remembers stories from his boss of mistaking Einstein as some homeless guy he would wave to on the way to work. Einstein would be so jealous. For He has proven EINSTEIN wrong—god does roll dice...
In fact it was a chance he was hired by Princeton to teach a quantum physics class in NEC labs, since his brother-in-law was stung by a bee from his hive—terrible allergy. Cheri thought he was on the wrong platform, but by chance Fred led him on.
A star shot by, nicked his ear, and it bled considerable more than Trump's bullet, for lack of a better term, which wasn't much at all. His ear tingled and glowed as he reached for it and grinned.
They flew right through Ursa Major and Cheri got thirsty. They passed the sock he lost this afternoon that was bent in half, pointing up as its pair was hanging down on the edge of his drier.
Now the train sped up, and the stars were just streaks of light as they started oscillating in a huge oval—not a small one! He saw galaxies stream by. They must of proved that fellow professor of his wrong again, for they must be going faster than the speed of light. This was some shit straight out of a HG Welles story, not that Jersey tale that Orson told that frightened his other grandfather who was a State Trooper that night that outside of Grover's Mill.
Then they collided with what could be a star...
They went from their non locality, to a locality know to Cheri—right outside of NEC and they shot toward the station near the Lewis Center.
"We wish you enjoyed your trip!" Fred said with a smile with Cheri's bags in hand.
Cheri took them, and smiled as he disembarked. Fred checked his phone and wondered if he would make it back to Boston in time for dinner. He looked back at Cheri, to see Bill.
Bill, is seventeen and attending MIT and wishes he was living on the ocean on an island in Rockport. Fred watches Bill kick a can under the Quincy station sign.
For months now, Fred and Bill break up the monotony of the oscillations of their lives with their fantasies they create ever afternoon.
One day Fred, will take up his wife's suggestion, and travel together on the Orient Express.
Yup! Empty...
Meet Me at the Fair
Continued...
5 P.M.
At the show, Dubois was happily surprised to sit next to Edward again. Edward gave me a few weeks of the Daily Mirror and The Sunday Chronicle. Caroline just shook her head and placed them in her purse. Next to Caroline and Harriet sat one Martha Ann Erskine Ricks. She was a friend of Queen Victoria who presented the queen with a quilt at her 50th anniversary party of being the Queen at the Wild West Show when it was in London. She made it following her African tribal symbols. To her right was the Empress Dowager Cixi of China. An African close friend of the queen of England, and the new friend of the female ruler of China... Martha proved to Caroline and Harriet to be the most amazing Negro, besides WB.
Marry took Dubois on as her ward after he helped build her castle in Great Barrington.
From behind, Doyle and Bell tried to get my attention.
"My good boy," whispered Dr. Bell, "we've got trouble."
"What now?" I asked.
"Have you heard about the Mayerling Affair?"
"No."
"Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria and Mary Freiin von Vetsera have been murdered by Moriarty on the orders of Rudolph's father, Emperor Franz Joseph," jumped in Arthur.
While talking to the good professor, I just pretended to know about the Austrian trouble he was mentioning. It is good to always look confident and knowledgeable in the face of complete I have no fucking clueism.
"Who is telling this story Art!" chided Bell. "Some say he rigged the double suicide before his son's syphilis, which he gave to his wife and his lover, rotted his brain."
"Others, say it was because he presented ideas of equality for peasants, including women, in Hungary," chimed in Caroline.
In time, the emperor would kill off his brother and his son, too, which would lead to WWI.
"Sax, has concerns that Franz Joseph's instability, shown through the murder of his son, proves he should not be able to keep the Holy Lance anymore," Arthur explained. "The church will try to send a representative to remove it." Sax Rohmer was the author of the Fu Manchu series of books. The inspiration for the Sherlock Holmes series, as Dr. Bell, was the real Sherlock Holmes himself.
"I can see Longinus manipulating his way into being that representative," Bell added.
"That is a pointy subject," I said. During a ritual, a centurion stabbed me with it. "Longinus would love to get his hands on it again."
"Moriarty, I can see trying to manipulate Longinus..." Bell pondered.
"Longinus has a habit of letting people think they are pulling him by the nose," I added.
Then the Sioux came in wearing wooden ghoul masks, doing the Ghost Dance.
"That mask there looks like Hanya," said Cixi. "I wear it whenever my courtiers get too big for their britches—keep them in line."
Hanya was a demon scorned by a priest who left her at the altar. She now haunts the Chinese countryside.
Then a parade of whirling dervishes came in. A few of the Sioux clowns were trying to break into their dance. The Sufi just ignored them, but built up small dust devils that pushed them to the side. These masked fools made their way through the stands to us and showed hand signals of my forebears' Freemason lodge in Roslyn.
He lifted his mask, "Excuse me and my friend's antics. I'm Daniel Dravot, and this is Peachey Tolliver Carnehan of the Royal Fusiliers."
"Pleasure," I said.
Then Dravot took Caroline's hand to kiss, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. "My lodge brother Doyle, there, told me you are looking for one Longinus."
Unfortunately, again...
"He is down in the ring with the dervish."
"He is meeting Franz Joseph tonight at 3 am, who is bringing the Holy Lance," Peachy said, crossing himself. "Longinus is working with Crowley to bring the world into the apocalypse tonight for Moriarty."
9 PM
After the show, the girls wanted to see the can-can. My crew skipped the show, with their colas in hand, and had already left for the Mulan Rouge. Louie and Mary had heard about the green fairy on their first visit and wanted to find her fairy house.
We walked in, and it was loud and raucous. Legs and bloomers everywhere, with well-dressed, blushing, tonsured men in an ecstatic mood. I couldn't tell if they were happy to see these women or just happy to be away from their harpy wives.
In the corner was a little man in a sharp suit and a top hat. He had a dark, pointy, twisted mustache above his beard. He was engulfed in a conte crayon drawing of the dancers while almost mindlessly sipping on his wormwood.
"Who is that?" I asked Caroline.
"I don't know, but there is something formidable about him."
"That is one of France's most famous painters," Harriet chimed. "That is Toulouse-Lautrec."
"I think I know him by another name," I replied. "I think that is the dwarf Eitri."
"Who?" yelped Louie, as Mary sat on his lap, sharing a glass of absinthe.
"He is the dwarf who made Thor's hammer," I answered, looking sideways at Eitri. "I always wondered what the origin of the Holy Lance was." I didn't completely believe I empowered it alone.
"May we join you?" I asked, with Caroline and Harriet waiting for his answer.
"Yes, please," he said as he motioned to a passing dancer. She came back with chocolate milk for me, aquavit for Caroline, and Strega for Harriet, all of which were our personal favorites.
"Am I correct? Are you the high one, Eitri?" I asked.
"Very perceptive; I never met you in person, but I hoped you liked your hammer?" he replied.
"Yes, thank you. I'm glad I can finally meet you."
"You are—no, you can't be, can you?" Stammered Harriet.
In the flash of an eye came a fairy, twittering her feet in the air, carrying something called a toaster, which she smashed Harriet in the head with. As quickly as she appeared, she vanished just in time into Eitri's glass before he took his next sip.
"On the off chance," I paused, offering him some licorice, "did you make the Holy Lance?"
"Yes, it's Gungnir—Dvalinn stole it from me while I napped on the anvil.
"Then Freya stole it from him on that trip for her necklace."
Freya slept with Dvalinn and all of his friends for their amazing jewelry.
"By chance, was it also Cú Chulainn's spear, Gáe Bulg?"
"Yes, in Ireland they knew Freya as Scáthach, his teacher, and yes, it was also his father Lugh's."
"OK, is there a way it can move through different dimensions?"
"Yes, Odin needed to travel without Heimdallr knowing. He needed a way beyond his rainbow bridge."
"I guess he didn't want that pot of gold..." Louie cracked.
"Funny you mentioned the pot of gold," interjected Eitri. "Longinus was a Gaul who won the spear in a game of fidchell against Cú Chulainn, a clúrachán, and a pooka. Granted, clúracháns differ from leprechauns, a bit, for their pots tend to be full of whiskey instead of gold."
"Ah, I see." I didn't even see Tesla walk up. 'the spear only could travel through the realms that grew out of the Indo-European dysphoria. When it stabbed our friend here, it gained the ability to travel through, let's say, Mesopotamian dimensions?"
"Yes, the younger and elder gods," Eitri added. 'the Great Old Ones and the Great Ones—no, they are crossing through Yog-Soth, reaching the Outer Gods, and gaining an audience with Azathoth, the creator of their dimensional void before creation."
"This sounds like something from Henry's Book of what the Fuck..." Louie joked.
"Azathoth, roughly, is like the progenitor of the cosmic Groundhog Day from hell," Eitri went on.
"Toulouse, have you been able to get that indigo for me—I need to make more blue Swirlies; I ran out of blue paint, I need to finish my Swirlies!" interrupted Vincent Van Gogh.
Eitri pulled out a bag of the crushed powder and handed it over, while Bjorn and the other Vikings danced by can canning with the ladies. "This should do you fine. Are you still seeing aliens in your stars?"
Vincent had turned his missing ear toward Eitri, "What?"
"Aliens, my dear sir."
"Yes, they are falling from the sky, infecting babies before human souls can get in. Them little creatures are causing havoc—I bet they will be the end of the world, those little round heads."
Yog-Soth appears as a collection of orbs...
"Aliens, you see them too?" Tesla chimed.
Caroline just sat back, amused, quietly, being entertained. Bjorn and Olaf came back kicking up their bare, hairy legs from under stolen dresses in line with the women.
While I was distracted, Magnus had snuck up and changed my chocolate milk for some absinthe, and that toaster hit me too. The green fairy got me.
I woke up in a strange world. After brushing off my pants, I looked up and read a sign that read ‘Sarnath population 1' which quickly turned to 2 when it acknowledged me.
A city in ruins that once looked like Oz with many spires now lodged into mounds of many different layers of sediment. Just before me was a cellar hole that revealed many subterranean levels through some structural collapse.
"Why, hello," came a friendly old voice from behind. "I believe I haven't seen anyone in ten millennia."
I turned, "Hello, I'm Edward, I mean Henry—you wouldn't have long pointy ears?"
He tapped the sides of his head and said no sheepishly, and then, "I'm Labon of the sacred spear; have you seen it lately?"
"The what?"
"My spear."
"Not sure, but I am looking for one."
"I haven't seen mine since the fall of this once great city."
"How did your city end?"
"We decimated another city, and they carefully planned their revenge over the years, and here we are."
"How long did you get to enjoy your victory?"
"A thousand years."
"A thousand, your cultures must have had a robust sense of longevity."
"Not exactly, a lower level clerk suggested the perfect plan; it got stuck in committee, sent back for redraft, and got lost in the mail—our enemies had long memories, though, and once they found the redraft, they attacked."
"What was the strategy?"
"They coughed on us."
"That is all?"
"Almost, they spread propaganda that there was no virus, or even germs. Most of the population also began wearing funny rubber clogs and watering plants with an electrolyte-rich liquid void of any water before they all succumbed—for centuries, we had lapsed in the quality of our public education..."
"I see."
"I see your world is heading that way too."
"What!"
Then his ears popped up, and he smacked me with the toaster again. It was Harvey, the seven foot tall rabbit pooka.
2:45 AM
Day of the Dead
Many women passed us dressed as le sorcière on this Halloween night. It was the last night of the fair, and everyone was in a frenzy. The police tried clearing the fairgrounds...they didn't stand a chance. The dervishes were dancing with Wovoka and the Lapps. Annie Oakley was flirting with the men, shooting shot glasses from their hands. Marry left Louie's side and nodded to Annie's gun. Annie handed it over. Mary shot and missed the glass, scaring a rat who dropped some pizza crust from his mouth.
"You missed," Annie said, provoking the surrounding men to laugh.
"No, I didn't; I was aiming for the flea on the rat."
Men were stumbling about in devil and ghost costumes.
It could be a challenge getting to the tower; anyone in a mask could sneak up and slip a knife into our ribs.
Later that night, we were going up against Franz Joseph's personal vanguard, the crack troops of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Peachy told us they are positioned from the bottom to the top. Above Crowley and his demon, Moriarty, and Longinus were opening the crack for Yog-Soth to come through. The black man who has been hounding Salem since the Witch Trials.
My third-generation reincarnated Viking crew were leading the charge with Bjorn in front. Dubois and Hulton filed in with them. Caroline and Harriet were already scaling up in the dark. They started an hour ago, so they should come up behind them as we reached the top. Peachy and Dravot snuck off, promising a surprise.
I have no idea where Louie and Mary went. Sax was waiting for us at the elevator with Dr. Bell, fixing it after its sabotaged. Arthur was guarding his back as we arrived. This was the fourth elevator they fixed, one per strut. The Vikings split into four teams.
Teddy joined us with Tesla. They were carrying a box with wires hanging out of it.
We began ascending in tandem to disembark on the first platform to enter another Otis to get to the top. We knew the Austrians were waiting for us.
We were within feet of the platform when Teddy yelled, "Bully!" We could hear all the elevators screech to a stop. Teddy and Tesla opened the top latch and climbed out. They brought up the box and the wires. Tesla placed the leads onto the platform above, and Teddy began winding the box—sparks jumped and arced. We heard many people cursing in German above. When it got quiet, Teddy and Tesla came back down with their wires and box. Teddy yelled "Bully!" once more, and we heard the elevators engage again.
We got out and walked over the twitching soldiers.
Up we went in the next two elevators. On the top, Bjorn would lead our force on the right, and me on the left. Caroline and Harriet will come up behind them.
As the clock was turning three, the witching hour began; thunder cracked, and the sky opened with lightning flooding into our world from beyond the pale. I didn't know what to expect on top. I looked into the void and saw tentacles swirling, breaching into our world, with a howl unknown to anyone in this dimension, that somehow still worked on our spine like nails running up a chalkboard.
We stormed out and fought our way through more Austrians with funny little mustaches.
I rushed for Longinus, who had the lance. Lightning was connecting it to the critter on the other side. Crowley was looking into the sky with his eyes rolled back in his head, making strange gestures with his mangled fingers.
The little mustache men charged us; Bjorn just ran through them like a Klondike. Dubois ran up to Crowley and gave him that right hook he learned from Sullivan, once again... Longinus retreated toward the edge, behind the soldiers.
Caroline and Harriet slipped over the edge and made a grab for the spear. I came in, but I didn't notice the ten that turned on me.
Out of the darkness cracked several shots that hit the steel girders above the soldiers' heads.
Lightning flashed, and I saw Peachy and Dravot shooting with Wild Bill and Annie Oakley and Mary in Nellie Bly's balloon. Louie just reached out and grabbed the lance and handed it to Mary. She kissed him on the cheek and goosed his rear.
Longinus spun to watch them sail away as Harriet poked him with her parasol. He spun around and fell over the edge. Caroline looked over the railing to see that he was caught upside down by his robe.
He finally stopped chanting under his breath as the gap in the air closed and I waved goodbye to a grumpy Yog-Soth as this universe slammed the door on his fingers.
It was then that Moriarty and Franz Joseph closed in on me as I was being held. Franz got me in a choke hold from behind as the rest stepped back. I grabbed his arms and lifted my legs. He fell down with me. I worked the pressure points in the back of his elbows and escaped. Moriarty came slashing down with his cane, smacking Franz as I rolled away.
Moriarty swung again—I caught him by the elbow before he could plant his foot and swung him back off balance. He came back up, and I stepped on the outside of his right knee. Bjorn came up behind him. He saw him coming and leaped for the edge.
I heard him laughing as I peered over. He had a zipline waiting for him.
Then, sneaking up on me from behind—was Caroline, who goosed me!
8 AM
As they were cleaning up from the carnival from last night, I got out of the car to unplug it from the charger. Caroline and Harriet disembarked.
Louie was snapping on his driving gloves and pulling his goggles down. I was supposed to race with him against the La Jamais Contente rocket car that held the speed record, but Caroline pushed me out of the way as Louie sped up, leaving me to eat my licorice alone. Well, I have some time now to catch up on the news in Hulton's papers.
I could relax. We had placed the Holy Lance in the vaults under the old Templar citadel. Franz left unmolested back across the border with his funny little mustache troops. Nellie had taken Teddy and Tesla for a ride above to watch the race, and Edward and Dubois were running like chickens with their heads cut off with cans of Coca-Cola in their hands eating pizza.
Epilogue:
OK, did you find all of the connections? As you know, Cthulhu is quite hungry still. Do you have the brains to feed him?
Maybe, you are pixilated after reading our tales? Maybe you were touched by the Green Fairy? For the only thing that connected these tales were all of the damn Trolls! Draugr, Nattroll, Jul Cat, Wesen, and wizard.
Yog-Sothoth, oh he is not from our universe—though he keeps trying...For at least a hundred years now, the Miskatonic University has been fighting terrorist from other worlds, and we will keep doing so!
~Professor Wilmarth
Miskatonic University
This is Professor Wilmarth and your friendly neighborhood Cthulhu welcoming you to another journey into the world of the macabre and the strange. In this season's issue, we have several tales filled with brain salad surgery, the end of the world, death warmed over, and coke and pizza. It's going to be one strange ride...
Find out all of the secrets that lie under your feet in Salem MA. Learn about the tunnels that were started in 1670's and were still being used through Prohibition. The tunnels that created America's first millionaires and the 1% that took over the country.
