The Penumbra Vol. 2: Transmission: The Penumbra, #2

By Ben Wari

What Is The Penumbra?

 

The Penumbra is:

 

Literally, the very edge of the border between light and shadow.

 

A series of connected, interrelated fictions spanning the supernatural, horror, and science fiction genres, along with their cousins.

 

An homage to anthologies of speculative fiction in TV, comic book, and prose form.

 

In this volume:

 

While working at a local horror filmfest, a young woman receives a special gift from the guest of honour, and then embarks on a night of very personal terror at the movies.

 

A sick but brash young artist wanders the streets of his futuristic postwar city, looking for inspiration for his latest remix until he pushes himself too far and faces the unexpected.

 

The new caretakers of The Penumbra try to keep their senses together while trapped in Charles Gloaming's mansion for the winter. Things cannot hold and they have their limits tested while the denizens from beyond push them towards a new goal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Wari
• Release date: Dec 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393132639

Book preview

Stories From

The Penumbra

Vol. 2:

Transmission

by

Ben Wari

Copyright © 2016-2020 Ben J Wari

Cover Design Copyright © 2018 Christopher Moyer

Rumi excerpt from No Room For Form, The Essential Rumi, Translation by Coleman Barks

Copyright the respective rights holders.

Used under Fair Use.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in reviews and the like.

This is a work of fiction. All persons, personalities, events, institutions, and references are for part of the rich, fictional tapestry that authors love to use for ours and others' amusement.  Any relation to anything in our reality is coincidental, or perhaps a product of our subconscious.

First Printing, 2020

ISBN -

thepenumbra.net

-Dedication-

For Neil, Ian McD, and China,

top-notch guides to the human

and the strange.

Contents

Title

4 – Umbrafest

5 – Dace

6 –Manor Of Gloaming

Author Bio And Links

-4-

Umbrafest

Your Local Premier Indie Horror, Suspense, and Thriller Filmfest

-

"Now, what shall we call this new sort of gazing house

That has opened in our town where people sit

Quietly and pour out their glancing

Like light, like answering?"

-Rumi

*

Yeah, but Rumi was a poet hundreds of years ago, so he's obviously not talking about movie theatres, Wes.  He didn't imagine that people would be gazing at silver screens, said Arti. She was busy bundling her coat tighter around her short and maybe too wide frame, fighting with the thing for being a size too small. The late October breeze found its way through the gaps, of course. She gave up, adjusted her glasses, and leaned against the side of the classic-yet-fallen-to-disrepair box office of the Théatre Lumière.

Wes was wobbling atop a stepladder next to her, fishing around in an old box for letters to fix to the marquee. Thus far his pale, spindly hands had managed to lay out a sign that said:

UMBRAFEST III:

THE E

Shit's sake, he said. They never put enough Ys and things in here. Like Scrabble. Then you try to put a few extras in to even it out, but the next time you need a Q or Z, there's fuck all in there.

He climbed down, tucked himself into the alcove in front of the theatre doors and rummaged around the box some more, lifted a Y piece in mock triumph, and went back up.

Arti thought he looked like a pale white stickbug up there. He was an alright guy, as far as reclusive little movie nerd boys went. Kind of cute, but far too into his own opinions, and a few years too young. There wasn't much time to follow that thought, however. He and Arti (and, unfortunately Sammy as well, who could forget dear Sammy?) were all digging down into the last of their chores before next week's festival.

Being production crew for the premier indie horror filmfest in western Canada meant non-stop, barely paid, labour of love type work filled their afternoons and evenings.

This year Arti had tried to cozy her way into some of the programming and distribution, though Sydney  the boss man had claimed most of that for himself, delegating the less interesting and stressful work out to the three (and only three) festival workers. So, on to marketing—making posters and manning the web page and searching for volunteers—she went. When Wes came into the office that day to ask for her help, she took the chance to take a break and definitely not because she fancied some time with him.

Well, they still had plays and shadow puppets back in wherever he was from, right? Wes's tone had taken on the pointedness of a defensive know-it-all.

Cute, but there's limits to cute, thought Arti. He says 'gazing house', as in self-reflection, acknowledging all the stuff inside you as enough to make yourself out to be a good human, she said. Gazing at yourself, past others and the rest of the world, real spiritual. She paused, then added, He could have included the stage too, I guess. Losing oneself that way.

She felt like a bit of a hypocrite, lecturing on self-improvement when she was working the festival to avoid the same in her courses. And then there was leaving her mother alone more and more this month.  But it would be over in a week, then things would be back to what passed for normal. Back to attempting to be a good student, then home to look after mam, just the two of them to fill the space, the older woman disappearing more each day.

She pulled at her coat against the chill, ineffective.

Wes barked out a laugh, making the ladder creak. Well then, that describes movie buffs pretty well, I'd say. Coming to these hallowed halls of light and shadow to drown out the shuffling, sad zombie hordes of the world at large.

Except most people do that at home nowadays, said Arti. She cursed herself for not remembering her scarf.

Ah, but have we as people not always craved a social experience? Enjoying true artistry together, yet alone? A theatre, especially one so storied as our Lumière, makes for the perfect sort of gazing that old Rumi would have gone nuts for. Wes had moved on to placing an E, S, and now an H.

Which is why you championed putting 'The Lost Adventures Of Vexx' into the schedule?

An undisputed, unappreciated classic. Though I accepted us placing it as a backup. I suppose we do have to keep to the theme. And even if it means passing over your latest psycho-thriller eastern Belarus films, then I suppose we'll get by.

Arti bumped the ladder ever so slightly to jolt the stickbug boy, trying not to grin. Is it too much to ask for a little culture among all the B movie slashers?

Hey, you voted in favour of showing parts 2, 3, and 5 of the Dr. Crowe Saga along with the rest of us.

Well, she stopped to consider a retort. Dr. Crowe does rule.

I knew you had some taste in you, Wes called down. And we're done, I should think. He climbed down in short order and they gazed up at his handiwork.

'The eyes have it', snorted Arti. Somehow it just looks right up there, unlike on all the posters we made.

They stood, shivering in silence for a long moment.

Then, Sammy Park practically burst out of the double doors, trailing a gauzy grey shroud of a designer scarf, expensive looking eyeglass frames perched above a pointed nose. Arti shuddered. Sammy's enthusiasm felt like getting a massage with coarsely ground glass at times. And with a week left before showtime, she had somehow only increased it.

Hello! Sammy had an uncanny way of elongating and sucking dry any nicety from her greetings. My two lovely partners. Have I got news for you!

Popcorn machine's broken again? Wes said, not missing a beat.

Arti highly suspected that Wes got along with Sammy because he wanted to make out with her. Her and her stupid, smooshy, pointy-nosed face and ugly-ass, expensive sweaters. But they were closer in age than he and Arti, which she tried not to think of. It was bad enough feeling older than most of her second year classmates. And even if Sammy knew her film history and had industry contacts everywhere, there was only so much camaraderie Arti could find.

Absolutely not. Probably not. Whatever. You'll never guess who we got as a last minute guest for the weekend. Guess. Go on.

Has to be a director, said Wes. Not too famous, but someone with enough star power to get you excited.

Arti thought some and said, Or a producer friend of a friend. Or she dug up an old actor from one of your beloved exploitation movie series.

Oh, said Sammy, pushing out her lips. So very close! I guarantee you will freak. Out. She paused for dramatic effect. Vance. Upton. The second and really the only Dr. Crowe himself.

Holy shit, said Wes. Arti had to agree.

*

Tucked into the small back office overstuffed with paperwork and handbills, the trio looked on at the proprietor and near-permanent fixture of the Lu, Sydney Walterdale. He had been balding for a couple of decades and could be equal parts mirthful and acidic, mostly in the same conversation. Nearly everyone bowed to his experience and stories of Hollywood North, as well as big time show biz down south . Naturally, Sammy thought them equals.

Yes, yes, it's true, Syd said, his work-darkened, haggard eyes sweeping over all three. We actually managed to find a legit face to go along with the fest, and it just so happens to be one of the leads from our feature programming. Famous enough to be known even outside of B movie circles. So before you ask, he'll be doing the meet and greet Thursday and a Q and A after the Crowe showing Saturday  afternoon. No, you can't pester him when he gets here. Yes, me and Sheila will try to get him to sign stuff for festival staff. He slumped back in his chair, folded his hands together.

Arti and Wes stumbled over each other in their rush of questions. Sammy leaned against the wall, all folded arms and half-smirks. Syd waved them off instead, asking if they didn't have more work to get to.

*

Not that it deterred them from buzzing about the promise of associating with one of the few genuinely talented and long-running cult stars of the movies.

That part in 'Die, Dr. Crowe,' where he's stuck to the torture wheel and manages to hurl up one of the acid vials he had kept from back in part two? That was the best. One of the greats. Wes had offered to take the ladies to his film club's café of choice after work, and he was babbling over a cooling mocha.

I always found his work with the Austrian horror auteurs to be the most expressive and rewarding. Even if it got a little prosaic at times. Arti said, seeing the looks on their faces. She mostly didn't want to admit that she had seen every Upton-starring Dr. Crowe movie several times each. It also helped her feel more scholarly, less guilty for phoning her mam's caretaker to say she would be late.

Across from her Sammy looked up from a steady stream of text messaging. Miss Gupta the art film snob, everyone. But I bet you've seen every grindhouse film he's been in. Dr. Crowes 2, 3, 4, 5, plus the '80s crossovers and spin-offs. Come on, admit it.

"Well... I always thought the potion duel with all the inventive