The Burning Maiden

VERBUM FORTIUS

EST QUAM PECCATUM

CUM CULPA DIMIDIATA

VOLUME ONE

THE BURNING MAIDEN

Where Literature Meets the Supernatural

…………………………………………………………………

STORIES AND POEMS SELECTED

AND EDITED BY GREG KISHBAUGH

The Burning Maiden Anthology

Created by A.N. Ommus

AN EVILEYE BOOK

Smashwords Edition

Published by Pulp+Pixel Entertainment Company, 301 E. Congress Parkway, #1981, Crystal Lake, IL 60039

Anthology Editor

Greg Kishbaugh

Evileye Books Editorial Director

A.N. Ommus

All individual stories and poems presented in this volume are copyright their respective authors. All other material is copyright © Pulp+Pixel Entertainment Company.

4189 copyright © 2012 Charles Johnson and Steven Barnes

Cover Illustration copyright © 2012 Pulp+Pixel Entertainment Company

The Burning Maiden name and logo, Evileye Books logo, and Where Literature Meets the Supernatural slogan are trademarks and service marks of Pulp+Pixel Entertainment Company.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, or by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to persons, living or dead, are neither intended nor should be inferred.

Cover art direction, book and title design by Viktor Färro

E-book Production by Pulp+Pixel Media

Cover Illustration by Daniele Serra

E-book ISBN-13: 978-0-9825789-8-8

For more information about this series or other books published by Evileye Books, please visit Evileyebooks.com

Produced in the United States of America

STORIES AND POEMS

The Blurred Line | Greg Kishbaugh

And Their Shadows | Cullen Bunn

The Many Murders of Oswald LeFarge | Matthew Pearl

Youth is Wasted | Corrine De Winter

The Longest Pause | Tim Lebbon

The Changeling Uncovered | Bruce Boston

4189 | Charles Johnson and Steven Barnes

A Family Tree, Uprooted | Mike Oliveri

Feet | Jeremy C. Shipp

Dust Bunnies | Greg Kishbaugh

Count Brass | Orrin Grey

Narcissus, Deconstructed | Kate Sherrod

The Snow | Louis Bayard

Living in Limb | Sarah Langan

Guidance | Mort Castle

A Visit with Friends | Joe R. Lansdale

White Paper Cranes | Lyndsay Faye

THE BURNING MAIDEN

INTRODUCTION

The Blurred Line

Greg Kishbaugh

INDULGE ME A MOMENT.

If I were to ask you the question, What is horror?, how would you respond?

The truth of the matter is this: Everyone’s idea of what constitutes horror is different. And this is the reality one must immediately confront when editing a horror/suspense anthology. As an emotional facet of a story, horror is startlingly subjective. No two people look at it from exactly the same vantage point, and no two people fear the same thing in exactly the same way. We can all agree that clowns are terrifying, but the specific reasons why we find them horrifying are individual to each of us.

Perhaps even more importantly, if I were to ask you to name your favorite horror writers, what names would be included on the list? Let me stop you before you give it too much thought because, in truth, there is no such thing.

A writer is simply...a writer. No modifier needed.

Publishers love categories, as do bookstores. They want a writer’s work to fit neatly into a specific genre. The motivation for this, of course, lies in commerce, as well as questionable (and outdated) notions about the consumer mind.

But this can be an unfair burden, as writers are far less compartmentalized in their thinking. They strive to tell a story. To enlighten. To entertain. The genre in which the story falls is not nearly as important as the story itself.

After all, how would one categorize A Clockwork Orange? Is it horror? Yes. Science Fiction? Yes. Literature? Yes. And yet I’ve never heard Anthony Burgess referred to as a horror writer or a science fiction writer.

How about Cormac McCarthy? No one would ever deem him a horror writer, but then how does one categorize The Road? Is Robert Louis Stevenson a horror writer because he wrote The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Is George Orwell either a horror or science fiction writer in light of his two most famous works, 1984 and Animal Farm?

Let’s face it, many of the novels we consider classics today simply transcend genre, in no small part due to the fact that they manage to mash more than one together, producing works that resonate in our imaginations. Slaughterhouse Five. Lord of the Flies. Fahrenheit 451. Deliverance. These stories all contain skin-prickling elements of horror; yet none are categorized as horror novels. If such works can fit into the horror mold, then it begs the question: What is literature?

And to analyze the other side of the coin, what do we make of works that are unquestionably horror but clearly transcend the boundaries of genre? Is Something Wicked This Way Comes any less a piece of fine literature because it also happens to be a work of dread-inducing horror? How about The Haunting of Hill House, I Am Legend or The Shining. What of some of the masterfully macabre short stories of Harlan Ellison? Or the works of Poe and Lovecraft? Certainly anyone would categorize them as glorious works of literature, all of which happen to squarely fall into the genre of horror.

The Burning Maiden was born of this conundrum. When is horror simply horror and when does it cross over into literature? What happens when writers of unparalleled talents put their minds (and writing chops) to telling stories of the supernatural, of the darkness in the human soul, of the sadness and longing that sometimes supersedes the grave—all the while telling stories with the hearts and souls of poets?

In putting together my original list of authors I hoped would accept our invitation to participate in The Burning Maiden, it should perhaps come as no surprise that none of them were known primarily for writing horror or suspense. My criteria for asking them to participate was simple: I believed them to be spectacular writers. The genres they are most associated with meant nothing to me because when writers of extraordinary skill ply their craft, the line between genre and literature is quickly blurred.

To demonstrate the scope and breadth of their talent, contributors to this anthology have been nominated for or awarded (to name a few) with the American Mystery Award, the British Fantasy Award, the Bram Stoker Award, the Horror Critics Award, the Edgar Award, the Dagger Award, the Crime Writers’ Association Award, the British Fantasy Society Award, the Pushcart Prize, the Asimov’s Readers’ Award, the Rhysling Award, the International Horror Guild Award, the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award.

Like I said...spectacular writers.

The Burning Maiden was created as a showcase for horror and suspense with a strong literary bent. Stories that focus on the glorious interplay of poetry and words set against the dark wonder that truly great speculative fiction can raise in us.

I am very proud of our first anthology, just as I am terribly excited about future editions. While this collection focuses on fiction and poetry

(all new and written exclusively for The Burning Maiden), future volumes will feature essays, graphic stories, and more. This is the beginning of a journey. One we are happy you have decided to embark upon with us.

And so...

...welcome to The Burning Maiden.

And Their Shadows

Cullen Bunn

THE ANGEL WAS TALL AND BEAUTIFUL AND GHASTLY.

Rather than wings, webs plumed from his shoulder blades, stretching across the room in sweeping, gauzy arcs, swaying gently, wispy fingers adhering to the furniture, the walls, the ceiling. Writhing blackness filled his eye sockets—nests, Deacon realized—and a spider wriggled out and skittered down his alabaster cheek. More spiders crawled across the angel’s naked flesh and through the voluminous fibers of the wings even as they undulated in the air.

The angel said nothing, but the spiders spoke in clicking whispers.

Deacon fell to his knees. Deacon wept.

The angel gazed down at him with his shifting spider nest eyes.

The chittering coalesced into rasping words.

Why do you cry, my child?

Deacon sniffled. He wiped his running nose with the back of his hand. He fought back another sob.

Why do you cry?

The angel’s spider voice was persistent.

What if I can’t do it? What if I can’t do what you want?

You can.

Several more arachnids—freakishly large black widows and brown recluses—crawled from the angel’s eye sockets, clinging to his cheeks and lips, hissing angrily. Their tiny, unearthly voices warned him.

You will.

• • • • •

He could not breathe.

Spiders—dozens of them—tickled across his face, hands, and chest. He struggled to rise, but a thick caul of webbing pinned him down. He forced his lips apart, gasping for air, and his mouth and throat filled with sticky, fibrous filaments and a couple of twitching spiders.

He gagged, choked.

Too soon!

He had awakened before he was ready, before the spiders had finished their work.

His heart pounded. His pulse raced. Sweat covered his body, and his short, ragged breaths blasted like steam beneath the clinging shroud. He cried out, his voice muffled beneath the webs.

Too soon!

Oh, God, too soon!

He thrashed, feeling the thick covering give just a little. Trembling, he tore an arm free. He ripped the thick film away with a sound like that of tearing wet cloth. His fingers were fat, wrapped in sticky cocoons. His eyelids were sealed by the stuff. He gulped a mouthful of air, wiped strands of the tacky substance from his eyes, and flung himself from the couch where he lay.

Patches of viscous webbing spread across his naked body. Strands of it chased after him like eager phantoms as he stumbled from the couch. Spiders, some the size of a thumbnail, some much larger, darted across the floor, trying to avoid Deacon’s footsteps.

He caught his breath.

Calm down. It’s all right. This is just how the angel said it would be.

His skin itched and burned as if mildly blistered. He ran a finger across his chest, tracing an outline of new muscle. The touch elicited a stinging pain.

From beyond the open window of his flat, he heard the thumping pulse of music from the clubs just down the street. He couldn’t really make out the tune, just the throbbing beat calling to him, beckoning him, just as it beckoned the beautiful people…

And their shadows.

Leaning upon the windowsill, he looked at the city below. It was getting late—he had slept through much of the day while the spiders toiled—but dozens of neon signs beat back the darkness with a wash of multi-colored illumination.

The bars and hot spots lining the street changed names, changed owners, changed themes every few months, but when one club closed, another opened its doors, welcoming the ever-waiting crowds of young men and women.

The beautiful people and their shadows, he called them.

Deacon brushed stray webs from his body, pulled them from his hair. He felt a tickling at the back of his neck. He reached back and gently swept a roaming spider away. He wanted a shower.

As he padded to the bathroom, he saw the spiders already hard at work chewing at the remains of the cocoon that had enveloped him. Soon, no sign of the webs would remain, and the spiders would retreat to the dark corners and the shadowy spaces beneath the furniture.

He regarded himself in the bathroom mirror, turned his face from left to right, leaned in close to inspect the pores of his skin, sneered to expose his straight, white teeth.

Perfect.

The steady cascade of hot water scalded his tender skin as he stepped into the shower, but he savored the heat. He stretched, his joints popping. He flexed his hand and watched the muscles working against the bone.

His flesh looked real enough.

He glanced overhead at the rusty metal crossbar fashioned from twisted clothes hangers.

The chains.

The hooks.

He clenched his hand into a fist. The skin felt too tight, like leather needing to be broken in.

• • • • •

Women smiled at him, mouthed hellos as he brushed past. A lovely, dark-haired girl lightly grabbed his arm and asked, Care to dance? She staggered, ever so slightly, and tugged him toward the dance floor.

Maybe later, he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

She pouted and stumbled toward one of the many bars situated around the club. By the end of the evening, she’d barely be able to stand—prime pickings for some guy looking to get lucky.

Deacon scanned the crowd.

The air smelled of sweat and perfume and booze. It was a primal smell—a sexual smell. Red, green, and blue lights pulsed in time to the music’s rhythm. On the dance floor, bodies writhed and ground against one another in an almost tribal ritual.

He found her sitting at the bar. She sipped nervously at a mixed drink, clutching it in her hands and holding the cup in front of her like a shield against interaction.

Deacon studied her as he approached.

In the wash of black lights, the drink stained her thin lips a deep red, like blood. She wore a dark blouse, unbuttoned to reveal her cleavage, and the light illuminated flakes of lint or dandruff upon her shoulders.

Her hair, blonde but not luxurious.

Her eyes, pinched, brown, and dull.

Her figure, a little too plump.

Her skin, speckled with acne, but also dry in patches from overuse of astringent and cleansers.

Deacon knew her type. Stalking the clubs—unnoticed and unseen, a shadow himself—he had learned to pick girls like her from the crowd. She watched a knot of people dancing and laughing and singing along with the