Tag: occult

FP380 – Coffin: The Drop of the Shoe, Part 4 of 4

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and eighty.

Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: The Drop of the Shoe, Part 4 of 4
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(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4)
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Skinner Co. Store

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny, his apprentice, find their lives threatened outside a downtown eatery.

 

Coffin: The Drop of the Shoe, Part 4 of 4

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Bunny had been left with the ambulance.

“Wait in the ####ing car?” she was saying to keep herself company, “like I’m a ###damn brat sitting in the back of a wood-paneled station wagon or some ####.”

Unreadable behind his surgical mask, her toothy chauffeur said nothing.

* * *

Coffin hadn’t stood upon his balcony in some time.

“I’ve been busy,” he was explaining to his wife, but it did little to slow the dead woman’s ascent, finger hold by finger hold, up the side of the building.

She was already at the fifth floor, and he was left wondering if she’d been so fast the last time.

No, definitely not.

“Yeah, I heard,” she replied, “busy running around the country while everything fell apart.”

Realizing small talk was only going to get him murdered, Will cut to the chase, saying, “They killed Pisky.”

It was enough to stop her left hand in the middle of its ascent.

“Shit,” replied Sandy.

Such a pause was rare, and he relished the seconds. It was as close to mercy as she ever gave him.

“So far it’s us and them that know,” he said. “Won’t be long before the succession talk starts though, then the news’ll be out.”

Even a dozen floors down, he could see the twitch of her bloody palms. Every moment the apparition was away from her place of shattered resting was a struggle, and he knew she’d always found it easier to move forward than stay still. His hunger to make the occasion linger drew more honesty from his mouth than he’d intended.

Coffin: The Drop of the Show, an occult fiction podcast from Skinner Co.“Listen,” said Will, “there are also some spooks missing. I don’t think they’ve moved on, they seem to be just – gone.”

“Gone?”

He’d been watching Sandy’s eyes as he’d told her, and he could see her brain working through the equation.

The squint that meant she realized she was in danger.

The lift of her brow as she realized the consequences.

The frown she wore when she thought he was about to do something stupid.

Suddenly she was climbing again, her ethereal fingers leaving behind flesh and nail at every handhold.

“Don’t go in there,” she told him, and that was it, he knew the conversation was over.

Stepping back, he slid the glass door shut, flicked the lock, then blocked out his view of the balcony by pulling the rarely used thick brown curtains across the usual gauze of white.

Moving to the kitchen he opened the poorly masked fuse box and eyed the breakers within, then his practiced thumb sent the apartment into darkness.

In truth it was the only way to turn off the hallway light, though Bunny had never noticed there was no switch.

* * *

Coffin thought the word needed to get around and there was no one with more time for conversation than The Insomniac.

A single text had pushed the unsleeping man to return to Spinerette’s. He’d had twenty floating on a game of Shooter, but he hadn’t waited around to learn how things shook out. Obligations were obligations.

Still, he knew better than to stand in the open.

A dumpster and some fumbling had given him access to the roof of the florist’s shop across the road, and he’d watched their approach from the space between the painted yellow flowers that identified the store on its sign.

In the fifteen minutes he’d been waiting just a single car had passed, and even that had stopped and disgorged a trio of passengers into the still-closed restaurant.

The group had all been dressed alike, in bulky white hoods and white painter’s masks over their mouths.

Their clothing had made it difficult to identify any of them, but their heavy arms and broad shoulders made it clear they weren’t there to apply for wait staff positions.

Bunny and Coffin drifted in from the west, probably from a bus stop blocks away.

With no attempt at stealth, Will walked the exterior of the brick structure. As he moved he seemed to be leaving a finger trailing along the structure’s mortar and winter-barren trestles.

The city existed somewhere in the distance, but to The Insomniac nothing seemed alive on that street but the three shadows dancing across the interior windows and the pair of mystics facing them from the sidewalk.

Inches from where he started, and thus from completing his circuit, Coffin shouted, “it’s a requirement of my office to give you an opportunity to surrender. Will you renounce Kar’Wick and his web or can I get on with making you an example?”

It was then that the rooftop witness realized that it was not the shaman’s finger marking the route but a small stone that left a faint but glowing red line along its path.

“Come on inside so we don’t have to kill you in the street,” came the reply from a second floor window.

Will’s hand twitched, closing his loop.

For a second there was naught but the arcane in the space which had once held Spinerette’s. The cutlery abandoned in its sinks were no more, the tables were no longer covered in unblemished white plates and carefully folded napkins, there was not even any longer a trio of wide necked twenty-somethings with pistols in the bands of their crisp white jogging pants.

There was only blood, thick and red, holding the shape where chairs and potted plants and floor boards and bricks had once stood, then physics took its brutal hold and the sidewalk gutters ran red.

The declaration of war did not entirely satisfy the Coffin’s taste for justice, but he considered it a good start.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP321 – The Cost of Living: Part 3 of 3 – Coffin: At Loose Ends

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twenty-one.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Cost of Living: Part 3 of 3 – Coffin: At Loose Ends
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp321.mp3]Download MP3
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(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Will Coffin, Urban Shaman, and Bunny, his tipsy companion, find themselves overseeing a grisly scene at a rural farm – as well as the end of the flute playing woman.

The Cost of Living: Part 3 of 3 – Coffin: At Loose Ends

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Coffin stood by the broad glass facing onto his apartment’s balcony, his eyes locked on something beyond dawn’s glare. Deeper in the dwelling, on the far side of the book shelves that lined the residence’s main hallway and behind a closed door, his roommate was snoring away a bottle of Grey Goose.

There was a note between his fingers, scrawled in a familiar hand. Though Will had been standing in that same position when the paper had been slid beneath the front entrance, the old mute had already disappeared by the time he’d pulled it wide.

There’d been no point in waking Bunny, the retirement home mentioned in the letter wouldn’t be open to visitors for hours yet, and she might be quicker to corral out of the apartment if she was closer to sober.

Shifting from one foot to the other, he waited for the grinding of motors and barking of full-bladdered dogs that marked the city’s first stirrings.

* * *

Will Coffin, Urban ShamanFourteen hours later Coffin and his tipsy companion were far to the north. Will had not bothered to introduce the farmer by name – he knew his former client preferred the distance. Still, the buzz-cut man had not said no to the shaman’s hurried request.

The landowner had called the space his barn, but the interior was something more akin to a garage adjoining an indoor scrap yard. The cavernous corrugated tin walls sheltered the husks of tractors, trucks, fridges and machined fragments that, to Bunny’s eye, could have belonged to anything.

Most importantly, though, it housed the a four-columned car crusher.

A windowless Volkswagen Bug rested on the metal base, its long-lost headlights offering no assistance to the rows of fluorescents overhead.

The Japanese woman stood at the halfway mark between the sacrificial platform and the pair who’d driven her to the remote location. The hem of pleated black skirt had dipped into the sawdust and sand that covered the floor, and she bent low to work away the dirt with her thin hands. Even in her stooping, it was obvious her motions were well practiced so as not to disturb the white sling she wore across her shoulder.

“Christ, this seems a little fucking harsh,” Bunny told her bottle of Captain Morgan’s.

She’d been on hand when her friend had used his trinket to call forth the dead man in the retirement home. Although he’d had his face largely chewed away, the apparition had wished to talk only about the flute playing volunteer who would often slip into his room and whisper to the cannibal in the bed adjacent to his own.

It had been one of the few times he had heard his bunkmate speak – possibly because he himself had been largely paralyzed by a stroke. Still, the invalid had been aware enough of his surroundings to overhear their talk of human flesh and its preparation. He’d been trapped with the secret for years, and it had taken his own death to be allowed the opportunity to tell it.

He’d been eager for further conversation when they’d left, but the lilting tune drifting from the game room had acted as reason enough to excuse themselves.

Bunny had not, however, been on hand when, after they’d managed to follow the sleight musician to her suburban duplex, Coffin had knocked and entered.

It was rare for Will to suggest she hang back for her own safety, and the drunk had not argued.

Fifteen minutes later he’d returned to the rented car with the woman in tow, and, without providing any explanation or chatter, had begun driving.

Now, with the generator roaring and the hydraulics anxious to be about their work, Coffin, his eyes focused on a distant scrap heap and his lips taut, nodded and asked, “do you have any final requests?”

The stranger’s lips twitched upward, but her cheeks grew warm and wet.

“I will dance for you,” she replied.

Coffin’s hand tightened around the arcane tool in his pocket, but he shrugged.

Unsure of what would come next, Bunny held the Captain close.

The lines of the skirt bowed, and from beneath its folds extended eight black legs – jointed, spider-like limbs with a finely-pointed nail at the end of each. Retrieving her flute from her bundle, the arachnid woman began to play. Her movements carried her through the small sanded clearing with delicate care, and her nimble swaying disturbed no dust.

Briefly, the delicacy of the choreography and the gentle sweeps of the musical scale were enough to blot out the engine’s roar in Bunny’s ears. The drunk was unsure if the honeyed rhythm was somehow getting to her, or if the rum had finally started to do its work, but she was pleased to see her friend’s face unsoftened as the song came to a close.

It was not so much the grotesque proportions of the woman’s unfurled body that disturbed her as the chittering sound the woman’s mouth had begun to form around her woodwind, and the toothy maw-stretching that had been necessary to allow it to do so.

As the dancer’s skirt descended and became again hushed, Coffin said only, “very beautiful,” and Bunny found nothing on her lips but her bottle.

Replacing her instrument, the woman turned, entered the passenger-side door of the rusted Volkswagen, and bowed her head.

“Wait, is that a god damn baby in there,” asked Bunny, her eyes on the now bulging sling across the woman’s neck.

Will answered by leaning to his left and depressing the large red button hanging from the ceiling above.

His companion had not seen the desiccated bodies, wrapped tight in intricate webs and affixed to every flat surface of the beige-walled duplex. She had not seen the faces of those who had obviously struggled against their bonds until they died of dehydration – nor had she seen the results that had followed, the shrinking of skin and drying of flesh that had prepared their bodies for the Jorogumo’s – the spider-woman’s – consumption.

They were spared any sight of the woman’s compression, but not of that which had resided within her bundle – first four, then eight, then a dozen hair-filled digits began to work their way at the gap between the descending roof of the Beetle and the resisting door. In the final seconds a fat red eye joined the scurrying legs of the woman’s arachnid brood – first it seemed to accuse, but it quickly bulged under mechanical pressure, then simply smeared with the crumpling metal.

When the machine was powered down, and the silence of the country evening filled the shop, Bunny finally asked, “sweet corn in crap, what the fuck was that?”

“It was better than the alternative, setting her on fire – in Japanese folklore -” began Coffin.

“No,” the bottle-wielder interrupted, “I mean why did the bogeywoman just walk under the newspaper all by herself?”

“Well,” said Will, “she lived for hundreds of years as the last of of her kind, and she knew she wouldn’t even be that if someone found out who she was.

“Even for a being like that it’s tough to be alone. That’s why she was chatting up that cannibal, but, like she told me back at her place, how long can someone discuss cooking? Especially with a cow?

”She’d been carrying those egg sacks around her neck for decades and as far as she knew they were never going to hatch. Even the old folks home – which must have seemed like a fridge full of wizened TV dinners – had stopped having any allure.

“Her loneliness stacked up. That’s what put her in the seat.”

Captain Morgan did a brief headstand, and the quiet returned.

Finally, Bunny said, “well, shit, I’ll have to start spreading some vicious gossip about that huge furry fucker living in the stairwell.”

Despite the scene before them, despite the unpleasant work of the day, and even despite his own dour nature, Will’s throat gave out a single surprised laugh.

Reaching for the light switch he replied, “I think I saw a dairy bar with a liquor license a few dozen miles back on the main road. I’ll buy you a shake.”

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP314 – The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and fourteen.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp314.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Glow-in-the-Dark Radio

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, confronts another ending in his journey.

 

The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 3 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Blackhall did not recall his first two attempts at waking.

The world gathered some substance in the third, however, even if it was of a spidery sort and prone to throwing snow flakes into his eyes.

He was surprised to find he was already speaking.

“…while I was wandering the Austrian mountains,” he mumbled to completion.

From somewhere beyond the shards that slid across the night sky, James Bell said, “fully understandable, given the circumstances. How could you have known?”

Thomas did not know.

As such, he asked, “apologies, what was I saying?”

It was Clara who replied. “You were telling us of the disappearance of Mairi.”

Blackhall tried hard to lift his arms, suddenly convinced that if he did not manage the task he and his companions would tumble to the earth below.

Despite his lack of success, his ears picked up the familiar drumbeat and he relaxed.

“Yes – yes,” he said. “When word of my missing wife reached me, I relented my arcane studies and made immediately for home. It was an anxious trip, and I’m certain the horses that carried me were little impressed with my passage – though they were likely thoroughly grateful to see me aboard a ship and away from their backs.

“Hmm – have I explained the circumstances of the discovery?”

Thomas Blackhall, Master Frontiersman and Student of the Occult“No, sir,” replied James. Thomas noted concern in his voice, and spared a thought in hope that the man was not too cold in his journey.

Surely they would encounter civilization soon?

Attempting to soothe his passenger, Blackhall continued, “of course not, of course not, for in those first moments none understood the depth of what had happened.

“When Jessamine Cooper’s grave was opened, the eyes of accusation turned towards her husband, Leander. The people of the community would trust him to sharpen their blades and mend their barrel hoops, but not with a debt over ten pence. The man had a knack for converting his family funds into wine, and Jessamine’s death was almost seen as a release for the poor woman.

“She was buried with the single item of worth she’d been able to retain, and her children – grown, broad shouldered, and with no more faith in their father than a stranger might have had – stood vigil at her burial to ensure the engraved silver cross about her neck was laid into the ground with her.

“You can understand the confusion then, when, some eight months later, the relic was found amongst the churchyard hedges.

“An abrupt exhumation took place, with Leander on hand and flanked by the local sheriff, but the results simply deepened the trouble.

“Not only was Jessamine’s jewelry disturbed, her grave was empty.

“Concerns regarding theft turned to fear of a more sinister perversion. Rumours flew that the estranged husband had wandered off with his wife’s corpse, but those close enough to see the man’s reaction had little doubt that he was just as surprised as the rest gathered around the gulf.

“That’s when my former playmate, Dewhurst, set fly his missive. He knew of my interest in the occult, and assumed it might be an instance in which my assistance was required.

“He could not have understood how pressing the summons truly was.”

Thomas’ sigh brought in what he hoped was a whiff of smoke. Perhaps it was an end to his journey? Somehow the ache in his arms had transferred to his ribs and skull, yet he pressed on.

“I was months late to discovering the whole yard opened by the townsfolk, and not a grave still full. They hadn’t bothered to fill the open pits that marked the missing dead. Not a corpse with meat on it was left to lie.

“I knew all too well the reason.

“Her name was lost well before we walked the earth; her years have been extended by artifice. I encountered her by accident, earlier in the year, having come to test a ritual I would later find was useless. We were in the cemetery of a hamlet, a town only notable for a spate of cholera deaths that had laid low a sizable portion of its population.

“It was raining. I’d chosen the storm to cloak my rite, assuming that my business would not be welcome if discovered, but, when I arrived, it seemed as if the place were alive with manic gardeners. They paid me no mind as I passed between them, and, though covered in mud from their planted knees to their blank-eyed faces, the crowd of mayhaps five hundred moved in near silence and with careful precision. It was while watching this process that I realized most were in a state of decay, and some were moving despite missing limbs and maggot-ridden wounds.

“They used just bare hands and their lack of pain for their tools, but with that many labourers what matter was it? They extracted the sod carefully, digging below the wormy dirt with wriggling fingers, then shifting the grass in wide patches. Once the soil beneath was exposed, however, their restraint was lost. With flailing arms they attacked the muck, pulling away great heaps in an effort to release their fellow corpses.

“Stumbling into the hag was an accident – striking her, doubly so. I had expected another slack jaw as I approached her back, but, when she turned about, not a foot from myself, and opened her mouth to release the beginning of an incantation better forgotten, I reacted – er – with force.

“Panicked, I ran.

“I had not considered the ramifications of the incident until my summons and return.

“Maybe it was simple pride that propelled her – I have no doubt, though, that most who’d encountered her in the past had moved to swell her ranks, so perhaps it was a desire to maintain the secrecy of her march.

“How she transported her legion across the channel I can not say, but I knew what I would find upon returning to my father’s estate – for it is there that the Blackhalls have long buried their dead. The hag would not be content to rob the local boneyard and miss her prize: My wife.

“I did the work myself, every stroke seeming to pound as does the drum. Would it have been worse to find Mairi still there, with rot having set in to those so fine features?

“Each shovel-full carried tears with it to the surface, and the further my boots sank beneath the turf the surer I became.

“The coffin remained, its lid shattered, but within there was naught but loose dirt.

“My Mairi had not waited – could not wait – for my return, so now I follow.”

It was only then, with his tale told, that he realized the drumming he was hearing was in fact the passage of horses, and the creak of the Green Ship really that of a sleigh.

Clara seemed to read the surprise on his face. She said, “it was a fierce job, hauling you through the woods as you babbled, but your navigation had held true, and we were lucky to come across a lumberman along the route you’d traced. He claims we’re not far, and that there’s a doctor in camp who will either fix you or give you whiskey enough to ignore the pain.”

She leaned close before continuing.

“We collected your drum and travel goods – they act as your pillow. I have but an inkling of what makes your baggage so heavy, but I do not wish to know more than that.”

Scooting back, she placed her hand over James’, and the travellers fell to silence.

Despite the physician’s prognosis of a six week recovery, Blackhall returned to his chase in one.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

  • NATIVE DRUM LOOP B 16BARS 100BPM.wav by sandyrb
  • SRS_Foley_Horse_Galloping.wav by StephenSaldanha
  • 03383 shovel ground dig.WAV by fkurz

    • Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FP313 – The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 2 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and thirteen.

    Flash PulpTonight we present The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 2 of 3
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp313.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Glow-in-the-Dark Radio

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself at the edge of exhaustion while attempting to navigate his companions through the frosty wilderness.

     

    The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 2 of 3

    Written by J.R.D. Skinner
    Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    The distraction of Blackhall’s words did not last long against the increasingly insistent wind.

    Despite the Bells’ best efforts, the gusting air seemed to find every shirt seam and push aside every mislaid blanket corner. Worse yet, the greater the speed at which Thomas attempted to carry them to safety, the greater the rolling of The Green Ship, and the more it was necessary to expose tender fingers and bluing hands to steady themselves.

    Blackhall’s scrutiny swept the horizon with the persistence of a lighthouse beacon, but there remained no sign of a smokey column nor a civilized break in the brackish sea of timber upon which they rode.

    BlackhallAfter some four hours of unfaltering drumming, Thomas’ arms cramped at the continued exertion. If it were not for the simple fact that any change-up would likely send them tumbling through the bristling limbs and to the unwelcoming earth below, he would have gladly shared the labour – even with the malnourished and gaunt-eyed Bells.

    Supposing they did survive such a fall with minimal wounds, however, Blackhall doubted his belligerent shoulders and aching forearms would stand the climb to begin the journey anew.

    There was nothing for it but to continue, and to hope.

    Clara’s concerns were largely for James, and James’ largely for Clara. Given the arcane resources he’d demonstrated in their rescue, Thomas had begun to suspect that the couple thought him somehow indeFATigable, and, in truth, the frontiersman wished he had one more trick to pull from his collection that might assist them.

    It only made his cadence heavier to know he did not.

    As they sailed over a rising cluster of spruce, James spoke of the plans they would enact at their return to populated turf, but a particularly abrupt roll of the bow left him with a smile of reminiscence on his lips.

    “I do believe this is as harrowing a ride as the one we enjoyed on our wedding eve,” he told his bride.

    Clara blushed briefly before her memory summoned the incident in question.

    “Ah, yes,” she said, turning to Thomas as if an explanation was suddenly necessary. “We’d been lent the doctor’s nimble buggy for the occasion of our ride from chapel to threshold, and Father insisted we be lead by Praetorian, a stallion of his land that was little use for work but paid its way in Saturday night betting at the local public house.

    “We were not half-way home when the brute caught sight of a lynx on the trail – then there was naught for it but to hold each other tightly and hope that our first evening of matrimony would not be our last.”

    More interested in somehow loosening the knot in his shoulder than the conversation, Thomas absentmindedly replied, “a harrowing enough day at the best of times, as I recall.”

    “Ah,” said Clara, “so you ARE married then?”

    Shaken from his painful preoccupation, Blackhall again allowed his pace to slow. The slackened meter did nothing to ease his aches, yet he cleared his throat and said, “I knew a man who was asked the same question once.

    “I heard the tale when consulted as to if I could help his wife.

    “Did your grandmother ever whisper against a scoundrel with the notion that he had hold of some dead man’s coins? “

    The Bell’s shook their heads as they blew meager warmth into their cupped hands.

    Thomas continued.

    “This fellow, Bartholomew, stood over six feet and had the sort of smile that made you feel his friend however long you’d known him. He’d married young after a passionate romance, but his handsome features lead him oft into temptation. There was not a lonely maid or unhappy housewife in the county who did not look him over fondly, and he did bask in their attentions.

    “His work as a carpenter regularly called him far from home to lay crossbeams or repair rooves, and it was in these times that his will was at its weakest, for the maidens of the surrounding climes saw only the thickness of his arms and none of the invisible bindings of his union.

    “It was during one such job, some repair work on a listing barn, that he finally surrendered himself. His paranoia, however, was immediate, for it soon came out that his flame had a sister in his hometown, and, unaware that he had other obligations, his soft-limbed lover was eager to join him there to continue their all-too-hasty courtship.

    “While explaining his troubles, that evening, to the mate who usually acted as his aid, and who knew more of his situation than any other, the suggestion arose that he might try a pair of deadman’s coins – that is, the coins laid across the eyes of the deceased to supposedly pay for his journey across the Styx.

    “The help-mate’s grandmother – and my own – had often levelled the accusation that such tender was capable of blinding a spouse to infidelity if placed in their drink, and, it so happened that, in the very house they were staying, an uncle was on display to collect condolences before his internment – in fact, it was the very damage to the cattle shed on which they worked that had set the man low.

    “At their departure, Bartholomew brought away more than just his agreed-upon payment.

    “Of course, as was their tradition on every previous occasion, his wife had kept anxious watch for his return, and ran into the field to greet him.

    “Two months later, with his mistress safely installed in her sister’s home, he was finally discovered. While collecting wild strawberries to jar, a quiet footed widow had stumbled across a tryst amongst the tall grass.

    “Bartholomew rose in a panic. Though a weak man, he never intended direct harm to his wife. He did love her, in his way, but his reason was captive to his instincts.

    “With barely a word to his still-naked paramour, he rushed home.

    “Placing the stolen tokens in his wronged wife’s dandelion wine, later that afternoon, was all that saved him. At the same moment she took her first sip, some ten miles off the berry-hauling grandmother was nearly trampled by a team of horses. She survived with only a weekend’s recovery – a fortunate thing, considering her age – but all memory of her expedition was wiped from mind, and she carried an aversion to jams for the rest of her days.

    “Bartholomew nearly threw over his affair then, but the lusty promises made in secret missives from his spurned concubine were too much, and, instead, he derived a plan to sooth his loins while maintaining his household.

    “Telling her they were meant to bring luck, he affixed the charms to the base of her favoured tin cup. As she sipped from it each morning, it would renew her artificial myopia – and, perversely, each time she finished her draught and spotted the devices, she would be reminded of him.

    “That is, until the following year. In the interceding time Bartholomew had grown brazen, going so far as to carry on even in the out structure that acted as his shop. He did not know that, in a rare turn, his wife had decided to bring him his noontime meal.

    “I suppose the fates, or whatever mystic body governed the magic, could find no other escape for the philanderer. The moment she pushed wide the door the poor woman was immediately and without cause struck truly, and permanently, blind.

    “Unheard by the screaming, panic stricken, wife, his lover retreated for the final time, uttering the same words you had – though with greater disbelief.

    “‘So you ARE married then?’

    “I suspect that it was the same working that kept his wife unaware that prevented any in the area from breaking the girl’s heart with the truth of the matter.”

    Though their lips trembled only from the cold, the disdain and disappointment was obvious in the Bells’ eyes.

    Unexpectedly, Thomas moved to defend him. They did not notice his weakening tone.

    “He was a rogue it’s true, but when I passed through, a year later, they were still happily married. He had abandoned his old ways – because of guilt, yes, but also due to the simple fact that his wife’s state was, at least in the beginning, largely one of hopelessness. Her care meant that he could no longer roam and build, and he was forced to turn his hand to the land. An untrained body does not know how to make its way through this world without its primary sense. Every chair, step, hot stove, and forgotten broom was now a threat.

    “There was something more though. I believe the enormity of his transgression passed into his mind in that moment, causing a transformation that no lesser shock could have managed.

    “A new tradition formed. With careful hands she fashioned simple sandwiches at the warmth of their kitchen window, then she would proceed with tender strides towards the entrance of their home. From her perch she would sing a tune of her youth, a warbling song of spring and foolish love, and he would come in from the fields, grateful for the meal.

    “I should add, as well, that I was told the story from her own lips. He could not forgive himself without confession, though it says much of her fortitude and grace that she found it in her to grant him pardon.”

    Despite Blackhall’s quiet intonation, James smirked at this conclusion, pulling his wife tight to him. Clara’s gaze, though, remained firmly on the straining face of the ship’s captain.

    “There is something in the curl of your lip that tells me there is more to the tale,” she said.

    Thomas made his best effort to shrug.

    His mind was too soaked with fatigue to make any more happy reply than, “I know his conversion was an honest one as he was truly broken when she tumbled into the well some six months after my visit. The news that he’d laid a pistol to his temple at her burial came as an honest shock.”

    There passed two hundred yards of silence, then another cramp set in. The depth of this new pain was too much for Blackhall to bare and reflex drew his arms sharply to his body. The Green Ship halted it’s progress as it unfurled, but its startled passengers were less lucky.

    It was not a pleasant descent.

    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

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    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FP294 – Coffin: Change, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-four.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Change

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp294.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites.

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Tonight, Coffin and Bunny face a powerful arcane force, and find themselves in a changing climate.

     

    Written by J.R.D. Skinner
    Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    The winding road home had lead Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny, his tipsy companion, to a Motel 6 a mere five hours from Capital City. Hurricane rains and fearsome wind had made continuing on an unpleasant prospect, and Coffin had nosed the rented Nissan into the lot only half certain that the neon smudge beyond the river on his windshield actually indicated lodging.

    He was happy enough to cut the engine and not have to fight the storm for his life any longer – the confirmation of a vacancy sign was nearly just frosting on his fully-stopped cake.

    “What a ####in’ dump,” said Bunny. “Still, I’d rather not drown in a parking lot. Let’s get inside.”

    After a quick exchange at the faux-wood front desk, and a coin toss for who would bunk on the folding cot, the pair settled for the night. Coffin had spent the trip sleeping in a variety of ragged jeans and t-shirts, and tonight was no different. His lack of wardrobe changes meant that, while Bunny ducked into the bathroom to change, he was first grab the remote.

    He’d found The Weather Channel by the time she exited in her oversized pin-striped pajamas.

    “The Weather Channel?” she asked, “Better yet, The Weather Channel on mute? Christ, here comes the party – should I call for some champagne from the con-see-urge?”

    “The what?” he replied.

    “The Con-see-arg? The conc – whatever: The ####ing bottle boy, not that this place has anything more than a counter jockey with an already opened fifth of watered-down vodka under the counter. Way to ruin a solid goddamn joke.”

    CoffinWithout breaking away from the swirl of gray and red, Coffin said, “yeah, The Weather Channel.”

    “It’s raining outside – you know how I know? Because it’s been raining for the last five ####ing hours. How about you give me the remote and you can, you know, look out a ####ing window. That way we’ll both be happy.”

    Will finally shifted to eye his companion. Something about the woman had changed since they’d turned eastward, but he’d been too preoccupied to put his finger on it. She was peevish, but it was not her usual hangover fury.

    “I stopped taking suggestions from women dressed like you when I was ten and told my senile grandmother I wasn’t going to eat any more of her still-frozen peas,” he replied. “Why did you buy that senior home suit, anyhow? Usually you just pass out in – wait, are you sober?”

    Bunny’s cheeks grew red, and she suddenly became extremely interested in the close-cropped green carpet.

    “I’m not ####ing quitting or anything,” she said. “I’ve never been in need of any ###damn church basements – I’m only, uh, taking it easy for a bit.”

    Bunny’s gaze came up as she finished, so that she could clearly see his reaction. Her fists clenched in preparation for a smirk.

    Instead, Coffin nodded, letting the moment sink to silence.

    When she began to fuss with the folded blankets on her cot, he changed the topic to the weather.

    “See this tracking map? Anything seem weird about the storm’s path?”

    “Looks like any two-year-old’s scribbling. It’s a mess of loops with a randomly straight line.”

    “Exactly. The scrawl is saying the forecasters are blaming sudden wind changes, but the guy they keep cutting to at the desk looks like he thinks a pack of teenage hooligans are feeding him bad meteorological data.”

    “So?”

    “So I think our night’s not done. There’s too much property damage and too many lost lives.”

    “You’re going to go help people bail out their cellars and maybe save some kittens in trees while you’re at it?”

    He stood from the bed. “I’m going to deal with the problem directly.”

    “You plan on punching a ####ing hurricane?”

    “No, I plan on reasoning with it.” He stooped to lace his boots, then added “ – hopefully.”

    * * *

    Despite the heart of the storm lying further north, each step was a fight for footing as the duo crossed the small beach’s parking lot.

    Will was saying, “What is it? Well, squalls are a symptom common to a number of beasties, but most of them I’ve only ever read about – it could be the Tempestwalker, but I’ve never met it, I only know about it from Blackhall’s book and the occasional rumour. It could be even be one of the old thunder chuckers – Thor, Perun, or Set – though my understanding is that they’re all dead.”

    “My mom always used to say storms were God bowling,” Bunny shouted into the rain. “The thunder was supposed to be the big guy getting strikes.”

    She regretted the comment, as even the brief statement had covered her tongue with blown sand and seawater.

    From behind the damp white motel towel that Coffin had absconded with, he said, “I’d say this is probably one of the elementals – specifically water, or Merc, as he was introduced to me. Mostly because I know for sure he exists.”

    “He?”

    “Sorry, just a leftover from the Victorian-era literature. It. Although, personality-wise – well, it’s an approximation.

    “The problem is that Merc really shouldn’t be able to do this. It hasn’t had this kind of power since before -” a gust of wind carrying the sound of shattering glass somewhere in the dark over his left shoulder gave Will a moment to reconsider his words. “Actually, the problem with Merc is that he’s incredibly old school.”

    ”It,” said Bunny. “It’s incredibly old school. If it’s, uh, even it.”

    Will raised a brow at his unusually sober companion. “Yeah. Exactly. Speaking of, time to cast a line and see what we catch.”

    The silver links of the chain affixed to the Crook of Ortez dripped from Will’s jacket pocket as he plucked the talisman from its place of safekeeping. With a stiff arm, Coffin began to swing the ornate hook high over his head. Though the gale only grew, he kept the rhythm of his orbit for three long minutes before Merc appeared.

    Bunny’s first thought was that a tornado funnel was setting down – she’d seen many of the coiling fingers in grainy footage from Discovery Channel storm chaser specials – but even as the rain abated in a narrow cone around their position on the shore, the billowing throng halted its descent.

    Its details were half cloud, half shadow, but, a face, of inhuman proportions, formed a hundred feet above them.

    Coffin ceased his rotations.

    “If I saw this #### on the Internet,” said Bunny, “I’d think it was the work of some CGI-hoaxing keyboard molester.”

    “Quiet now,” said Will, “things are about to get stupid enough as it is.”

    The sound of Merc’s words arrived as if carried on a combination of crashing waves and surging wind,

    “You’ve a new wench then? I suppose you had to get rid of the last one, considering how lippy she was.”

    As he spoke, Bunny noted that the thunderheads which formed his mouth did not move. Instead, the darkness at their edges seemed to ripple with his speech, providing a semblance of motion.”

    “Oh,” answered Coffin, “she’s around.”

    “Not a great move on the part of you penis-wagglers to start letting them talk in public,” continued the elemental. Despite the dramatic method of its delivery, Bunny thought the entity sounded much like an opinionated uncle with no verbal filter.

    Will cleared his throat. “If I’d known you were going to show up I wouldn’t have spent the last while driving across the country to check my thermometer.”

    “The ogre still lives? May miracles never cease – and by miracles, I really mean me.”

    “Yeah, it’s worryingly awake – and now I find you here, practically on my back stoop. At least the beast of the mountain is a mindless creature. You should know better than to show off like this. The more you carry on, the closer the Spider-God gets.”

    “Sheriff, Sheriff, the idea that magic brings Kar’Wick closer to our world is a myth. A boogey cooked up by your funny-hatted predecessor.”

    Coffin squinted at the massive visage before asking, “Blackhall wore a hat?”

    “It was the same one every time I saw him. Actually, the same tattered coat as well.”

    “Huh. Anyhow, back to my point: The last time I saw you, you couldn’t so much as cause a drizzle outside of your Bermudan home. Unless I’m mistaken, and I doubt I am, you haven’t been this far north in nearly two-hundred years.

    “You can doubt old man Thomas if you like, but open your misty eyes: You can’t deny that there’s something odd going on. I’ve seen the results. Hell, I’m seeing you right now.”

    “Arcane power is cyclical, that’s all,” replied Merc. “Any threat of nearing disaster is a false conspiracy cooked up by Blackhall, who simply wanted to wipe the occult from the world. You, the Coffin, should know that better than any else.”

    Bunny shrugged within her damp jacket.

    “You know,” she said, “I thought it was pretty nifty meeting the weather and ####, but you’re as thick headed as my ex-husband. Which is to say, he was pretty ####ing sure nothing could hurt him until a cleaver landed in his skull.

    “Sounds like you weren’t much of a fan of this dead guy, Drywall or whatever, but do you have any reason to not believe him other than the fact that you don’t like him?”

    Merc frowned.

    “Your bitch is yapping,” it said, “where’s its leash?”

    Coffin’s jaw was locked tight as he responded. “Listen, you can spout conspiracy nonsense if you like – hell, you can claim to have assassinated JFK for all I care – but this antiquated garbage you’re speaking isn’t winning you any friends.

    “Go home, and quietly, or you’ll wish you’d had the chance to spend the next two hundred years tickling kites and dispersing flatulence.

    “You may mock me, my title, or my mentor, but you WILL respect my neophyte.”

    Thunder rolled, the rain returned, and Merc’s features loomed close.

    Will’s fingers once again entangled in the silver chain.

    “Come then,” he replied, “and learn the hard way.”

    At the sight of the charm, the elemental’s fury-lit eyes seemed to reconsider. As if no more threat than a draft of pipe smoke, its own wind dispersed its form over the white-capped water.

    After a moment of staring down the calming ocean, Will started back to their room with heavy boots and stooped shoulders. Three steps into his exit, however, he turned to his companion.

    A hint of a smirk touched his lips as he said, “good job.”

    By the time the pair found their numbered door, even the drizzle had ceased.

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Freesound.org credits:

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    • Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FP287 – Grip: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty-seven.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Grip: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp287.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Subversion.

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Tonight, master frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, finds himself witness to a murder, and a mystical metamorphosis.

     

    Grip: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

    Written by J.R.D. Skinner
    Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    James Bell sat naked, holding his wife. Though her countenance was now several shades darker than it had been but the morning before, he took some solace in the fact that it was still Clara’s squeaking snore that emanated from the transformed face buried in his chest. The couple had been forced to nestle close beneath the three itch-inducing wool blankets that had been nailed to the floor at their lowest edges, especially as the second gale of the morning set to rocking the shanty’s timbers, but James had found no respite under the unwavering gaze of the family of ebon-skinned corpses that leaned awkwardly against the opposite wall. Four weeks on the run had hardened his sensibilities, but not to such a point as to be able to stare down the dead.

    The slat roof and splinter-filled walls had no doubt once sheltered a double row of beds, but all furniture had been removed from the long building except a single stool, upon which squatted their current guard, the youngest of the Wheeler brothers.

    Elijah Wheeler, catching Bell’s envious glance at the musket which rested across his knees, gave his prisoner a goading smile.

    “You want the weapon? Come and try me. I grow chill, even beneath this donated finery, so perhaps a scuffle will warm me. Better yet, once I’ve done you in, I’m sure your wife will gladly provide ample heat.”

    The wind gusted, and an unfilled knothole amongst the planks howled its outrage at the cold.

    Unable to hold his tongue, James replied, “you speak loudly for a man thoroughly pummeled, just the evening previous, by a woman thrice his age.”

    Standing, with gun in hand, Wheeler approached his prisoner with puckered face and heavy boot. Before he might repay Bell with a kick, however, he noted a flicker of motion at the corner of his vision.

    The cadavers had been left as a warning after the family – Scots heading north to a homestead they’d seen only on paper – had attempted an escape. The brothers had found their carrion amongst the pines, stiff and huddled uselessly against the sleet.

    Since their retrieval, the bodies had occasionally briefly warmed to the point of regaining pliability, only, at dusk, to refreeze in whatever state they were left by weight, gravity, and the Wheeler’s comedic whims.

    BlackhallIt was Elijah’s short assumption that this shifting was simply the process again renewed, but his illusion was shattered when the shadow of the youngest, a girl of five who had once had ginger hair, stretched and giggled.

    The shades of the remaining three appeared then, though their faces did not match those of the bodies they had left behind. Upon passing unhindered through the cabin’s latched door, they gathered to raise fingers of accusation.

    As the specters approached, Elijah Wheeler began to weep.

    * * *

    Earlier, Thomas Blackhall had stood at the edge of the former lumber camp, with his Baker rifle hung on a nearby branch, and his stance set firmly in the powder’s depths.

    Above his head he’d swung a silver chain of arcane provenance, and with each loop of the ornate hook at its end the storm about him had worsened.

    The frontiersman’s skull ached with lack of sleep and nicotine, but the fury at the loss of his pouch had been further deepened by the death he’d witnessed only hours earlier, and he refused to acknowledge any fatigue.

    Still, it was with some satisfaction that he’d observed the approach of the homesteaders phantasms.

    As they’d cleared the treeline, the apparitions had made no effort to approach the buildings within which they’d once sheltered – instead their curiosity lead them towards the man who’d summoned them.

    “Have you come then, sir, to avenge our metamorphoses? Our murders?” the bearded ghost that led them had asked.

    “No, I have come to beg a favour – and to apologize for what I must do,” Blackhall had replied.

    * * *

    The storm had kept the elder Wheelers in their shared bunkhouse, and near to the cast iron stove which had consumed the rest of the camp’s furnishings.

    As their younger brother stood watch, they passed the time with cards and extravagant lies, which they punctuated with complaints regarding the lack of punctuality on the part of their business associates, though the southern slave traders had yet several hours to make their appointed arrival time.

    Brian Wheeler, with his fingers stained from the ink he’d busily applied the night before, was laying a four of clubs upon the table, and speaking loudly of a pair of siamese twin prostitutes he’d known in a lesser Boston district, when the girl again made a sudden appearance.

    Neither men noticed her, however until she loudly exclaimed, “I’ll eat your eternal soul!”

    The pair stood, startled at the noise.

    “Grrrr,” she added, clawing the air theatrically.

    If it were not for her translucence, and frostbitten extremities, the men might have been tempted to guffaw.

    Instead, they bolted, and made it nearly ten paces from the building’s lowest wooden step before noting the weapons leveled at them.

    Five minutes earlier, when Blackhall had asked Clara if she could shoot if needed, she’d replied, “it will not be the first time I’ve killed a man – in honesty, it won’t be the first time this month – but I only do so when the need is unavoidable.”

    Thomas had raised a brow at the comment, but he’d handed across his Baker rifle nonetheless.

    Now, with the trio captured, and his arm aching from its constant rotation, he was glad of her steady hand.

    He was finding his own considerably less reliable.

    Having closed the distance, Blackhall was eager to have his possessions returned, and to feel again Mairi’s braided lock within his palm.

    Addressing the eldest Wheeler, he said, “sir, I have come for the goods stolen by your brother on the morning previous. I have asked him directly, but he refuses to cease his keening long enough to provide a clear answer.

    ”Return my pouch now, or I will provide a true reason to weep.”

    The man pointed to the shack he’d just abandoned, and Thomas, with a nod of his cap to the gathered spirits, allowed the silver trinket to wind its way about his sleeve. As the winds dissipated, the forms of the departed farmers seemed to shift, then disappear.

    When Blackhall finally returned from the Wheeler’s quarters, smoke billowed behind him.

    Tossing James the finest garments he’d been able to locate for the couple, Thomas spoke a single flat word to his captives.

    “Strip.”

    It was the steel behind Clara’s smile, and the rise of the muzzle of her weapon, that convinced them.

    Within moments the Wheelers found themselves strapped prone in the same shackles which had so recently held the Bells.

    “I do not have your skill with calligraphic conjuration,” said Blackhall, as he entered the room with the girls’ remains in his arms, “but I’ve a fair bit of practice skinning game, and the Jesuit who taught me to sew was a master.”

    What followed then was a bloody hour with knife and needle.

    Once the operation was complete, and each brother’s back held a transplanted flap of skin under a tight grid of thread, Thomas stepped to the open air, needing to clear his lungs of the stink of iron.

    The Bells awaited him.

    They’d been efficient in the tasks they’d been asked to accomplish, namely transporting the remaining carcasses to the same structure as held the Wheelers, and to set the remaining of the camp’s buildings alight.

    “I wish there was some better news I might deliver,” said Thomas, his gaze moving between the couple’s altered faces. “I believe I may be able to return you to your birth state, but it will not be a pleasant process, and the scars will remain with you for the rest of your life.”

    It was James who replied, though Clara’s insistent grip on his arm seemed a confirmation that she agreed with his sentiment. “There are many things I have seen this day that I can not explain, but we owe you a debt beyond measure, and I feel perhaps we owe you at least some small confession.

    “In truth, though these are certainly not the guises we expected to wear throughout our lives together, perhaps these will better serve. A warrant awaits us to the south, where the corpse of my inebriate father moulders. It was Clara’s too-true aim which put him there, but, if she had not done so, it is unlikely I would be here to offer this tale.”

    Thomas only shrugged and retrieved a burning plank from the ruins which had housed the couple.

    Once the temporary prison was thoroughly aflame, Blackhall released the manacle pins and let the Wheelers free to stumble, naked, into the snow, where they came up short at the sight of the armed Bells.

    No longer were the brothers recognizable as the pale skinned bandits who’d so recently waylaid Arseneau’s sleigh.

    Reaching into the depths of his pouch, Thomas produced a fine slip of paper, and a pinch of tobacco. As he spoke, his fingers began their ritual of construction.

    “You let the majority of your hostages die, then spoil the operation with a bit of petty thievery. This whole undertaking reeks of little men overreaching.

    “What now, though? I’ve taken your inkman’s thumbs, to prevent any future craftsmanship, but I believe there is some justice in leaving it simply at that.

    “In all likelihood your compatriots will arrive well before the fires die down – considering the cost of traveling such a great distance, they are almost certainly anxious to recoup their investment in this enterprise. I’m sure they’ll be happy enough with such a collection of hardy replacements, even if one of you is short some digits.”

    Blackhall paused to roll his tongue across his creation, and to lend a meaningful eye to the brothers’ transformed disposition.

    “On second thought,” he said, “you might attempt an escape amongst the trees.”

    With a steady hand he set the end of his cigarette to the farmers’ pyre, lighting his vice’s tip.

    After a satisfied exhale he nodded his hat to the frantic trio, then motioned for the Bell’s to join him at the clearing’s edge.

     

    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FP286 – Grip: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty-six.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Grip: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp286.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Subversion.

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Tonight, master frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, finds himself witness to a murder, and a mystical metamorphosis.

     

    Grip: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

    Written by J.R.D. Skinner
    Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    Nestled within the rasping branches of a squat blue spruce, Blackhall considered if perhaps holding palaver with the dead sleigh-man might have been a more fruitful course. There had been little time for the decision, as the storm overhead unleashed a thickening volley of wind and snow, and the loss of the tracks marking the five remaining passengers had seemed the greater threat in the moment.

    Now, with his vision reduced to the edge of his hat’s brim and the land quickly flooding with ivory, Thomas doubted he would be able to locate the Frenchman’s corpse if he did somehow managed to stumble back to the main trail.

    He could only wait out the flurry and hope that continuing generally westward would be enough to determine where the party had been headed. Given the weather, he guessed it could not be far, but, with his confidence in his navigation stymied by the mind-clouding impact of his sudden descent, and without sky or landmarks to guide him, he’d just as likely wander into Peking as locate his stolen goods.

    In the meantime he was left to wait; to ruminate on his lost pouch – and his lost wife.

    At dusk, as he dozed lightly beneath his layers of wool and lining, the wind dropped to a gentle nudge, and the downfall lessened to a persistent dusting.

    Once he’d cracked the powdery shell that had grown around his hasty refuge, Blackhall cursed the dipping sun and pressed hard west before winter’s early dusk could fully rob him of his search.

    BlackhallAn hour passed, then two, and yet, despite the night’s arrival, a pregnant moon rose through the spent clouds, offering a small boon to ease Thomas’ chilled frustrations.

    It was as he broke from a stand of frozen birch that he spotted the woman.

    She had rested an arm on a nearby branch, and her ebon skin stood fully exposed to the harsh cold. If the unlikelihood of the encounter had not set Thomas back, then her stature certainly did, as such a lush physique was a rare sight for the widower.

    If she had not collapsed, he reflected afterward, he might have been tempted to briefly linger.

    Instead, with a sigh of “damnation,” she toppled forward into the powder.

    Blackhall was relieved to find her yet alive as he lay his knee beside her, and he was quick to unfurl a blanket about her nearly-frostbitten form. As he did so, however, he discovered the sear and tear that he’d seen too often in his time fighting the little dictator.

    “Is this a musket wound?” he asked.

    As she replied the newfound warmth seemed to bring some relief.

    “Fear carried me far and fast – in all honesty, I did not even realize I’d been wounded until I’d cleared a deadfall in five leaps. I haven’t held such alacrity since I was a child, but I suppose, as my husband used to say, being shot at is a strangely motivating experience.

    ”Still, though I look twenty, I remain a ragged fifty. My hip hurt even as I grew sure of my freedom, and my breath seems to slowly escape me.”

    With numb fingers he unbuttoned his greatcoat and wrapped its ends about her blanketed shoulders, so that his heat might be added to her own.

    It was a poor shelter, he knew, but Blackhall was just as aware that it was not the cold that would end her. There was naught he could do for her wound but provide comfort and conversation in her final moments – though the lung seemed hardly punctured, it only meant it would be a slow, painful, end.

    “Though I do not wish to burden you in your current state,” he said, “I must admit, I understand little of what you’re saying.”

    “You are the man in the treetop ship, are you not?”

    “I am.”

    “They were spooked at your passing. With some desperation they waved their pistols, and told us to proceed into the woods.

    “Oh, I see your doubt, but I did not look like this then. I looked as myself – white certainly, but also an aging mother with sagging face and body, proudly showing the signs of babies past and a skill in the creation of sweet cakes. Were Horatio alive to see me, he would think his pillow talk fantasies had come true.

    “Anyhow, Arseneau declared a stand, saying that they could have our coin and even his sleigh and team – though it likely meant a death by exposure for the lot of us – but he would not be marched into the weald to be executed and forgotten in the shadow of an unnamed hill.

    “Without a second concern the elder of the two, he in the well-tailored suit, let fly with his weapon. Before the echo had left our ears, the dandy had moved on to berating his brother – yes, once clearly seen they were unmistakably of the same horrible lineage – for overplaying his hand, for pressing his act as an inebriate to the point of risking their safe operation.”

    She pointed as she spoke. “They’re not far off, squatting in a former logging operation. It seemed I was running forever, but surely it could be no more than a mile of this frozen landscape.”

    “The pox camp?” asked Blackhall. Her breathing was becoming increasingly ragged, and his impatience for details warred with his sympathy for the dying woman.

    Nearly panting, she replied, “though I’ve no doubt it’s what drove the original inhabitants from the place, if there was pox, it is not there now. During Senior’s tirade it became apparent that the younger man has a knack for vomiting on command, and that it’s a talent intended to be used to deter any unexpected visitors who stumble across the grounds.

    “We were apparently lucky he did not utilize the trick while enacting his false drunk.”

    “Yes,” said Thomas, “but how did you come to your current state?”

    “The third. The eldest.

    “There are four long houses left standing in which they shelter. Three are left always cold, while the final is where they slumber. In the one in which we were housed – in which I was intended to be housed – they’ve left a dead family of four. The bodies have frozen to the walls, but the brothers insisted loudly that earth is too solid for a burial, and the unused cabin is required in case they should be taken to – visit with us privately.

    “They’ve driven iron spikes into the beams beneath the floor of the last shanty, deep teeth of steel, and they’ve affixed thick chains to those anchors. The manacles are so cold my skin stuck to their rim as they applied them.

    “The ritual was conducted on each captive in turn, though the configuration of our prone bodies was such that we could not gain clear view of one another – at least, that was my case.

    “I had suspected a perverse indignation, but I did not know exactly what to make of the screaming until the needles began to pierce my own skin. The world seemed filled with searing, and I wept at the constant pressure of the pinpricks.

    “The work seemed to last forever, but, though I can not say what pattern was created, it was clear from the mix of blood and ink that saturated the floorboards that I was being marked.

    “I know not the source of his power any more than I know how you sailed the timber, but, when he completed his design, my body – changed. Took this form.”

    “They spoke as I howled. Their greatest reassurance is that they have business associates arriving on the morrow. I have no confirmation, but it’s my guess that their impending company would have shipped me south for sale to a plantation lord, well outside the reach of family and any mind who might believe my tale of unlikely misfortune.”

    “So you ran at the earliest opportunity?” asked Thomas. It felt a thick question, but it was all he could think to do against the transformed matron’s fading tone.

    “Look beyond the change in my skin. My bosom has never been so supple, my hips never so suggestive. No, it’s not from the horrors they intended tomorrow that I ran – it was those they intended tonight.”

    It was the final statement the woman would make, though her moist gasps spun increasingly fragile strands in the chill air until dawn. As light filled the land, so too did the last of it flee from her glazed eyes.

    Pushing away the blanket they’d shared, Blackhall stood.

     

    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FP285 – Grip: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty-five.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Grip: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp285.mp3]Download MP3
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    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Subversion.

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Tonight, we join master frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, as he finds himself upon a wild path in the northern woods.

     

    Grip: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

    Written by J.R.D. Skinner
    Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    James Bell had suspected the drunk from the outset – though, in truth, at that moment he suspected everyone but his round-faced wife, Clara. James had spent the majority of his life within the arc of his father’s whiskeyed hands, and evaluating sobriety had become a skill critical to his ability to collect dinner instead of a bruised chin.

    Even from his limited vantage point, Bell had discerned that the supposed liquor-monger was putting on his wobble.

    The sleigh was a large one, with three rows of seating, but the blankets necessary to fend off the chill of the onrushing air and drifting snow greatly restricted the movements of the passengers. The inability to keep an eye on the rearmost bench, while also staring down the back of the driver, Mr. Arseneau, had left young Bell restless and fidgeting.

    It was Clara’s loud disapproval of his nervous habits – nail chewing, lip biting, and general griping – that had drawn the conversation of the third occupant of their bench, a matronly woman who, to the couple’s estimation, seemed all too old to be venturing into the shadows of the northern woods at the onset of winter.

    BlackhallMistaking the source of James’ agitation, she said, in her sweetest tone, “have no worries, any fellow with that much drink in his belly will likely spend the second half of the journey in unconsciousness.”

    “Are you traveling with him?” asked Mrs. Bell.

    “No, I go it alone – after many years of having done so, my son and his Rebecca have offered me a bed in which to wait out my old age.” The woman paused to present a toothless grin. “I know how improper my behaviour may appear, but I’ve yet to meet an adventure that I could not conquer.”

    “Yes,” replied Clara, as she provided a thin smile of her own, “but it’s the adventure that you don’t that’s always the problem.”

    Turning from their conversation, her husband found the spruce and pine marching past on either side of their path provided no better counsel.

    Behind them, the drunk loudly spat, then gave the dapper man to his left a piece of advice that would require incredibly intimacy with every member of the royal navy, as well as the moral degradation of his mother. The dandy, wearing a tall beaver hat and a cloak more appropriate to the theater than the wilds, responded with a disapproving harrumph, but nothing more.

    The language was enough to irk James into attempting to attract the attention of the reign handler, but Arseneau, alone on the fore-most bench, seemed to note only that which was in front of him. A load of five on the northward trail was a rarity of late, and the ignored man suspected the whip-holder did not wish to ruin the warm glow his coin-filled pocket was providing him.

    When the sound of a pistol being cocked reached his ears, however, his head came about sharply.

    The dandy had set his knee on his seat, so that he might better survey the forward rows. His well-tailored left glove rest on the sled’s wood frame, while his right made clear his firearm’s intentions were serious. Beside him, the drunk straightened his spine, produced his own weapon, and announced, “This, then, is our collective destination.”

    Arseneau drew the horses to a tight halt as the coxcomb muttered, “You’re lucky that we made it this far, given your carrying on.”

    It was in the brief silence that followed that they heard the drumming.

    “Is – is that a man in a boat?” asked Clara, with her gaze on the treetops.

    * * *

    The trouble had truly begun that morning, outside the King’s Inn.

    Arseneau had been atop his transport, talking of the pox that had struck the French lumber camp at the Blackmouth Rapids, and of how the disease had destroyed his business of ferrying the axemen between their work and the town’s ale kegs. As he spoke, the hired man shuffled luggage and directed the travellers to their seats, and, given his preference to situate the loudmouthed gin-swiller in the rearmost, this meant the wobbling passenger waited longest on the ice covered slats of the public house’s boardwalk.

    Blackhall had passed the scene without interest until the drunk had stepped across his path, knocking roughly into his shoulder then rebounding to the ground.

    The upturned man’s apology had been so hasty, Thomas hadn’t even broken stride.

    It was only once in his rented room, after removing the weight of his pack, and fumbling off his greatcoat with numb fingers, that Thomas had discovered the disappearance of his possessions. The awkward altercation came immediately to mind, but so too did the intervening time.

    Blackhall had thought briefly on the loss of his waxed pouch; of the fine rolling papers, Virginian tobacco, and yellowed letter that resided within. He’d thought of the braid that had recently joined the small collection that marked the extent of his worldly comfort – the braid he’d clipped from his dead wife’s locks a month previous – then, reaching for his satchel of arcane implements, he’d made for the door.

    * * *

    Learning the group’s destination was as easy as handing two shillings to the innkeeper who’d arranged his guest’s conveyance, but overtaking them was another matter. The path through the forest was close, and fear that he’d lose the thread had forced Blackhall to pilot his occult ship with care – if such a concept were possible when riding the crests and dips of a wildwood come alive to bare him across it’s back.

    Still, some four hours into the journey, with aching shoulders and frosted brow, Thomas had located his objective.

    When, not minutes later, those below came to a sudden halt and marked his passage, so too did Blackhall attempt to bring his craft to a stop. He’d had little involvement with The Green Drum since the first occasion on which he’d used it to knit a longship of living branches, and his inexperience, mixed with his haste, brought disaster. At the cessation of his rhythm, the ribbing that held him high, and the reaching timber that moved to carry him, fell away, but his momentum did not. The nearby pine which he’d intended to use as a method of descent rushed past, and he found himself falling through the barren limbs of a broad oak, a hundred meters on.

    His landing was not a pleasant one.

    Dazed, Thomas took stock of his kit, and, after collecting his Baker rifle from a drift some feet off, he laid a hand on the hilt of his saber, as if it might help steady him, and set himself towards the rough-hewn road.

    The air grew thick with clumping snow, and the sky blackened in warning of the blizzard to come.

    Stumbling onto the cleared path, Thomas unshouldered his rifle and turned his boots in the direction of the stalled sled.

    For some time he was accompanied by only the chill cotton and the chewing of his boots, then a regular thudding came from the blur of white before him, and he stepped under the shelter of a pine bough.

    The team of horses he’d been seeking came pounding past as if death followed, and, given the blood flowing from their flanks, Blackhall considered that it might well have been the case.

    Another ten minute’s walk proved him right, for there alone in the middle of the path bled the sprawled corpse of Arseneau, the rig’s master.

    The driver’s mouth seemed open, as if to collect a descending flake, and his jacket had been seared by gunpowder flame. Seconds later, with a curse that only the dead man heard, Thomas noted a set of soon-to-be-buried footprints leading into the darkening hinterland.

    As his hat brim grew heavy with precipitation, and his heart heavier with the thought of the exertions ahead, Blackhall longed for his smoking tools.

     

    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FPGE10 – Leap Year: a Blackhall Tale, by Threedayfish

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, Guest-isode 10.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Leap Year: a Blackhall Tale, by Threedayfish

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpGuestisode010.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The New Mob.

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Unfortunately, due to a major hardware failure at Skinner Co. headquarters, we will be unable to provide you with tonight’s scheduled Ruby Departed episode. Instead, with many thanks to the always listening Threedayfish, we present a tale of unnatural aging.

     

    Leap Year: a Blackhall Tale, by Threedayfish

    Written by Threedayfish
    Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    BlackhallBlackhall was sitting on a chair at an inn that had recently been partially rebuilt due to a storm a month or so ago. The renovations were obvious from the differing hues of the wood used to restore what was once lost. It was here that the master frontiersman listened to the troubles of a local farmer who went by Joeseph. The man was large and tan, and may have appeared intimidating if it weren’t for the air of gentleness about him. He had a father’s face, Blackhall thought. Outside another vicious downpour raged again, to the unease of the owner, and had left many of the patrons, Blackhall and the stranger included, unwilling occupants of the half new establishment. Over the sounds of the wind and rain, the man named Joseph relayed his woes:

    “I’ve heard much about you master Blackhall. They say you deal in things unnatural. I know not your price, but I would ask your help whatever the cost. It is my daughter Sophia. She is the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen but she is cursed. She was born on a leap day, and she does not seem to age, but every four years. She’s been on this earth for six years, nearly seven years, but hardly looks older than one. She has the faculties of any her age, but not the physical stature. If it is in your power, I would have you lift this malediction on her growth. As a father, I would do anything to care for my daughter, but as a man in this wild part of the world, I cannot hope to protect her at the rate she is developing. I’m not sure I can even hope to live to see her wedded”.

    Blackhall sipped at the ale which had been purchased by the farmer to make their acquaintance. “Are you a widower?” he asked

    “Aye, my beloved Delilah died giving birth to my daughter. She had been growing weaker by the final stages of her pregnancy, and it was a harsh winter. It was a close thing for Sophie, when she departed her mother’s womb, it was believed she was a stillborn. She did not appear to be breathing and the midwife swore that no pulse could be found. However, I got her to cry after I pinched her, perhaps a bit too hard. I didn’t want to lose my child and my wife in the same day so that is why I caused her discomfort. I tell you, her wails were like a chorus of angels to me”

    As the farmer spoke, he noted a strange stillness in the frontiersman. Finally, Blackhall spoke “Where is Sophia now?”

    “She is on the farm with her brothers. My oldest is one-and-twenty and is responsible enough that I am not overly worried. I curse this tempest all the same. I had hoped to bring her back a present. Her birthday is either today or tomorrow. It’s hard to say seeing as how—” the farmer cut himself short as Blackhall suddenly stood.

    “We must go, storm or no. I believe you may have more troubles on your hands than an underdeveloped daughter ” The going was not easy. While the farmer knew a cut through the woods where the foliage might protect them from the worst of the rain, the wind still made falling limbs a hazard and with only a lamp to guide them through the darkness, their footing was often treacherous. The father also took no comfort in Blackhall’s refusal to share his suspicions with him. Eventually, and with many cuts and scratches, they reached the farm. While unseasonably warm, it was winter, and so the fields were bare and the log cabin clearly visible, it’s windows shone with dim candlelight. Blackhall began to quickly make for the shelter, leaving the father to play catch up. He was the first to enter, and by the time the farmer arrived he could hear the sobs and Blackhall’s voice asking

    “Where is she?”

    No audible answer was given, but Joeseph heard the sound of a sword being drawn and of rapid feet on stairs. Afraid, he gave pursuit passing by his crying son who sat in a corner away from the stairs. Blackhall had already entered Sophia’s room when the man was only halfway up the steps, but before the he could beg Blackhall to spare his daughter, he saw the form of the frontiersman being flung from the room accompanied by a terrible scream.

    “He’s mine!” screeched a voice that seemed more animal than human. Out from Sophia’s room stepped a girl of at least sixteen years. The farmer couldn’t believe it. The girl was the spitting image of his late wife Delilah on their wedding day. Beautiful, except she had a single freckle just behind her left eye, just like his darling Sophia.

    “Sophia?”

    The young woman, turned to look at him. Where there was hatred suddenly turned alarmed, even afraid.

    “Father…I thought…the storm—” suddenly a bloody blade erupted from the girl’s chest where her heart was. The spray of red that hit Joseph was scalding hot and caused blisters wherever it landed. The girl shrieked and writhed, gripping at the sabre in a vain attempt at survival. The steel vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and the beauty died before she hit the ground. Staring in horror and confusion at the corpse of the young woman who appeared to have replaced his infant daughter, Joeseph looked up to see his oldest son wielding a bloody hay knife.

    “I’m sorry” he said, tears in his eyes “She—she was not human father. We—I—she made me lie with her” Joseph was speechless and uncomprehending, “She came to me with the storm and asked me to follow her. I felt my will somehow desert me, for I had chores to do with the weather drawing near. John had wanted something, but she whispered in his ear and he ran away, frightened by whatever she said,” the trembling son indicated the young boy who was sobbing downstairs “Then we were in her room. I know not why I felt so compelled to—to…” the young man seemed incapable of continuing and sank to his knees. After young John was put to bed with Abraham, the eldest by his bedside at John’s insistence, Blackhall explained to Joseph what Abraham was too ashamed to by his hearth.

    “From what I’ve heard and seen this night, I believe that your wife was plagued by an incubus. It may even be that her growing weakness and death was due to the demon’s nightly visits. Sophia was not your daughter, but a cambion. A half demon spawned from the union of an incubus and a human mother. It takes seven years for a cambion to mature. Her curse was not due to her untimely birth on leap day, but her parentage that caused her apparent lack of aging. Once matured, her demonic appetites and nature came to be and she enchanted your firstborn into bedding her. I am truly sorry for what you and your sons have suffered tonight.”

    Blackhall waited for a response, but the man who sat before him seemed broken. Finally Joseph said “I owe Midge, our midwife, an apology. I was unkind to her on the day of Sophia’s birth, but it seems that she had the right of it. I should have buried that curse seven years ago. Go now sorcerer. This has been a black day for me and my sons, and I can’t hold back this feeling that you are to blame, unjust as that may be. Be gone so I may mourn” Blackhall saw that the gentleness in the father’s face was replaced by a sorrow that may never heal, and without a word departed, never to darken the farmer’s doorstep again.

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FPGE9 – Supply Run: a Bunny Davis Tale, by Rich Jefferson

    Welcome to Flash Pulp Guest-isode 009.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Supply Run: a Bunny Davis Tale, by Rich Jefferson

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpGuest009.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This episode is brought to you by The Mob.

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Due to an inadvertent release from the Skinner Co. Microbiology Lab, and the resulting infection of our writer, our scheduled release of Coffin: Balm, Part 3, will be delayed until Monday.

    Instead we offer up a brief interlude with our urban shaman’s tipsy companion, Bunny Davis, as written by The Mob’s own Time Traveller.

     

    Supply Run: a Bunny Davis Tale, by Rich Jefferson

    Written by Rich Jefferson
    with Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio Production by Jessica May

     

    FPGE9 - Supply Run: a Bunny Davis Tale, by Rich Jefferson

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.