The Land of the Setting Sun

By D.F. Bissonnette

A collection of short horror stories ranging from the Lovecraftian "The Landsquid" to the surrealist "Octopus Woman Inked in Blood and the Dream of the Sea" and "The Crevasse and the Po Mask" to the haunted house story of "The Ramp" and the story of a guilty conscience in "The Overpass."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crimson Press
• Release date: Jul 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310301506

D.F. Bissonnette

D.F. Bissonnette currently lives in Seattle Washington in the shadow of Mt. Rainier. Influences include Clive Barker, HP Lovecraft, Cormac McCarthy and Ursula Le Guin.

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Tales from the Land of the Setting Sun

By

D.F. Bissonnette

Published by D.F. Bissonnette in 2014

2014 © D.F. Bissonnette All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic, photocopying, recording or by any archival or storage systems without the express permission of the publisher and author. All people depicted in this work are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undecided is purely coincidental!

A word from the publisher: This the Smashwords edition and it is licensed for your personal use only.

Table of Contents:

1. The Overpass

2. Octopus Woman Inked in Blood and the Dream of the Sea

3. The Crevasse and the Po Mask

4. The Ramp

5. The Landsquid

The Overpass

I hadn’t noticed her walk in; short hair; young; a classical face, she passed me while I was having a smoke after mass. I watched her shapely patch of black against the orange glow from the guttering candles in St. Bridget’s as she headed out into the wet on an abysmal November night. I checked my watch, 7:30, still early; I plopped down with the Thursday night regulars at O’Leary’s across the street. I saw her again sitting in a corner booth; all but her hands obscured by shadows; fingers curled around a whisky glass. I didn’t see a ring, so I walked over; after all, nobody comes to a bar to be alone,

Hey. She looked up, two green eyes glinting from the shadows, Mind if I sit with you?

Don’t mind at all. She replied.

So what’s your story? I asked. I saw you at the service tonight. I know the Thursday night crowd; I’ve never seen you before.

She reached a hand from the shadows to pick up her drink and it receded, just as carefully into the shadows again. This oyster wasn't going to give up her pearl easy.

Start with a name maybe? I asked.

All right, what’s yours?

Patrick. You?

Sean.

That’s a good Irish name.

So’s Patrick.

Where you from?

Here and there. She replied, watching me with those careful eyes, cat's eyes.

My family’s from Kilkenny, and if I was to have a guess by the look of you, I’d say yours came from the coast, probably Cork or Kerry.

She didn’t say anything, just finished her drink.

Well, am I close?

Probably. She replied unenthusiastically, those eyes changed, got bored.

Don’t you know where your people came from? I asked.

Nope. Suppose I’ll ask my dad if I see him.

Where’s he?

Hell.

Christ, another pessimist. I grumbled.

No, it’s true. She replied.

Sure. I made to leave, but she a hand on mine; it was hot like she’d been holding a coffee cup not a tumbler of ice. I sat down. I don't know why now, but there was something that stopped me.

You asked for my story, Sean replied, Don't you want to hear it?

You’re going to tell me about hell? I must have sounded pretty sarcastic by the look on her face. I’d pegged her for a loon, but she was pretty and at least her story might keep me from another sleepless night staring at my ceiling,

All right, I'm game. I replied.

How much time you got?

All night. I sighed. I didn't have anything waiting for me at home except a dead house plant and that date with the ceiling, so I flagged down our waitress and ordered us another round.

You see there’s a grocery store by the 65th overpass in the north end, I used to live near it. She started off, those green eyes all a'sparkle, suddenly alive with an impish fire I'd not expected, I’d taken the bus up there after work; I’d just missed the return bus which came along every 20min, but it took me 15 to walk, groceries or no. So I started down under the overpass as I’d done a hundred times and never so much as stubbed my toe.

Mind if I smoke? I asked.

No.

I offered her one but she refused lightly and then dove back into her tale without missing a beat.

There were three boys; young—well young to me now; they might have been sixteen or seventeen. They’d been lurking in the shadows beyond the chain link fence some drunk-driver had punched a hole through. It started off with cat-calls I wasn’t in any mood for; then they followed me, said I was stuck up for ignoring them. I can't tell you how frightened I was, you're a man, you wouldn't understand. I looked at her then, she wasn't a waif by the look of her, but I could imagine this fair creature, arms full of groceries as she wandered through the daylight shadows, catching the hungry eyes of those things that lurked there. Even I was leery of such places in the daylight, what she felt as they followed her down that stretch of sidewalk littered with broken glass and the relics of night's misadventures of the marginalized members of our city, I could only guess. But looking into her eyes now, as she recounted the tale, I saw no fear. It had been replaced by some other emotion, a sort of determination to survive at all costs.

She stopped for a moment and regarded me, perhaps to judge whether or not she should continue, or if she should omit some part of her story, and then she shut her eyes, took a breath and continued.

"They got on either side of me and then one darted in front, slapping my groceries out of my hands.

‘Whach’u got in there?’

‘You stuck up bitch?—din’you hear us talking a’chu?" another said as they closed in, I started backing up, back towards the sunlight, the cars, anywhere they