The Rabbit Hole Volume 0: Weird Stories, #0

By art lasky, paul stansbury, CB droege and 9 more

The world is weird. If any proof was needed, the first few months of 2020 provided it. But did we need proof? Didn't we already know that you only have to scratch the surface to see the weirdness beneath? Sometimes it oozes out, suppurates, infects; sometimes it leaps out, takes root and blossoms.

 

We get used to it, carry on as if it wasn't there. But we have it inside us - we are weird. What you see as normal is just the mosaic of abnormality that you experienced last week, yesterday, this morning - so of course you'll experience it tomorrow. Or will you?

 

Zero. Now, that's a strange number. Its first recorded use was in ancient Babylon, but it didn't reach Europe till the 12th Century. A round hole of nothing, containing everything. Black hole, wormhole, sinkhole, loophole. Is it the beginning or the end? Welcome to the Rabbit Hole. Weird.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Writers Co-op
• Release date: Jul 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386878353

Book preview

The Rabbit Hole

Weird Stories Volume 0

A Writers Co-op Production

Compiled and edited by Curtis Bausse

Cover design adapted from original artwork by Ian Bristow

https://www.facebook.com/bristowdesign/

Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I?

Copyright © 2020 The Writers Co-op. All rights reserved.

The copyright of each story published in this anthology remains with the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Proceeds from the sale of this anthology will assist the Against Malaria Foundation, againstmalaria.com, for the purchase of insecticide-treated mosquito nets to be distributed in those areas of the world where malaria is still, unnecessarily, a life-threatening disease.

Table of Contents

Preface

It’s A Living  Art Lasky

Unnoticed  Paul Stansbury

Leaving the Can  CB Droege

Concerning the Affairs of Jeremiah James   Tom Bont

Lake  David Rogers

Satori from a Consulting Gig  Barry Rosen

White Noise  a stump

A Different Life  S.T. Ranscht

The Trouble with Decorations  Marc Sorondo

Rye  Mitchell Grabois

Glitterbang  Mitchell Grabois

Now You See Me  Curtis Bausse

The Triumph of Nothingness  Boris Glikman

The Rabbit Hole Volume 1

The Rabbit Hole Volume 2

Preface

So there we were, walking from 2 to 3 in a (more or less) straight line, when I saw a tunnel, with a faded sign that said: Volume 0 – that way. ‘Hmm, looks interesting,’ I said. ‘I think I’m going to explore.’

And lo and behold, I ended up here. Very curious.

Anyway, I sniffed around, asked a few questions and after being led, albeit very politely, up a few of the prettiest garden paths I’ve ever seen, I unearthed a dozen different flavours of weird: grumbling ghosts, a watch that goes backwards, a disappearing doll – why, it seems that some very strange goings-on unfold when you open certain books.

One word of advice – bring a torch. I don’t want to put you off, but there’ll be some splashing around in underground sewers. It’ll also come in handy when you get to the ruined church. Naturally, we’ll do all we can to ensure you emerge safely, but you should be aware that normal rules don’t apply here. What is normality anyway? Down here, it’s whatever you want it to be.

Do you trust us? This way then. Oops! Mind your step. Almost tripped over a pot of venison chili. What on earth is that doing there? Oh, well, never mind. Just one of those things, I guess. Let’s be thankful it’s not jugged hare.

Is everybody here? Good. Through that door then. The PCS (that’s Paranormal Containment Specialist, in case you didn’t know) is waiting on the other side. Good luck!

Oh, and two further points. Firstly, I’ve found that authors object to dictatorial editors changing the way they spell. Not to mention the punctuation – such fusspots! Anyway, this means you’ll find both American and British spelling, and double or single quotation marks. Please don’t be dismayed by this. Any disorientation it causes can be stamped out by a brisk walk around the block.

Secondly, the authors who feature here also have stories in volumes 1 or 2. As it turns out, that’s not a coincidence – being compulsive rabbitholers, they seized the opportunity to give you something to nibble before the main course. Unless it’s the other way round.

It’s A Living  by Art Lasky

The phone rings.

Mo this is Conklin over at Special Services. There’s a Revolutionary War ghost near Chatham Square in Chinatown.

Thanks for the heads up, Conkie.

It’s Conklin. I don’t like Conkie. Just call me Conk...

I hang up. It’s time to earn my pay. I’ve been a Paranormal Containment Specialist (PCS) for the borough of Manhattan, City of New York, going on fifteen years now. My only co-workers are my cousins who are PCS’s in the four other boroughs.

I don’t charge around town with a power pack strapped to my back fighting my way through a wall of slime-slinging ghosts. I’m not like that, and ghosts aren’t either. Think of me as a Social Worker for ghosts.

You know, ghosts just want to live, well not live, but you know – exist, following their peaceful eternal routine. The problem is that they become an incredibly noisy spectacle when faced with any kind of frustration. My job is to keep them quiet and beneath public notice.

Back to the ghost in Chinatown. I’m pretty sure of who this one is, so I know just where to start my investigation: at the Old Jewish graveyard just off of Chatham Square. A short walk gets me there.

Sure enough, I recognize him immediately, one of my regulars, a friend of sorts, Ebenezer Van Dunken, corporal New York 2nd regiment. He died in the battle of Harlem Heights in the fall of 1776. Eb’s semi-transparent, dressed in a raggedy Continental army uniform. He is floating a foot or so off the ground and moaning pitifully.

Like I said, ghosts don’t handle frustration well. Eb will get louder. His problem? Every once in a while he strolls over to the old cemetery to visit the gravesites of some of his wartime buddies, and then can’t remember the way back to Trinity Churchyard, his resting place.

Hey Eb, it’s me, Morris. Ready to go home?

Sometimes, when a ghost is upset, it can be hard to get them to focus on what you’re saying. This time he quickly quiets down and gives a vague nod.

Yes... Mo, yes... home.

Okay, my friend, let’s go.

I head south on Saint James Place. Eb follows along, and now that he’s calming down, he becomes his usual affable self.

You know Mo, I was visiting my friend, Yankel Solomon. We served together.

That’s nice, Eb.

Yes, General Washington used to call him Yankel Doodle Dandy.

I laugh, and we settle into a comfortable quiet.

I like Eb.  He doesn’t always say a lot, but when he’s in the mood to talk it’s worth a listen. He has this one story about George Washington’s wooden teeth and the strange place Martha got a splinter that cracks me up every time I hear it.

It’s surprising that most people aren’t aware of the ghosts sharing the city with them. I think it’s that people tend to see what they expect to see. Add to that New Yorkers’ seen-it-all attitude, even when they haven’t, and you have people walking by ghosts without a second glance.

We’re close to where Saint James runs into Pearl Street; Ebenezer stops and leans on his ghostly musket.

Mo, did I ever tell you the one about the Hessian, the Tory and Mad Anthony Wayne?

Before I can answer another ghost suddenly appears – a hulking, wild-eyed, 16th century Scottish Highland Warrior waving a two-handed sword and shouting Dee, Ghaist! The Highlander whips his sword right thru Eb’s midsection, then disappears as rapidly as he appeared, leaving a few startled Wall Street types trying not to choke on their lattes, and Eb screaming, Help, I’m wounded... Oh, the pain!

Hey, calm down and quiet down, Eb. You can’t be wounded, and you’re not in pain. No harm’s been done. Remember, you’re already dead, you big baby. You’re really starting to ruin the macho image of our rough and tumble forefathers.

Eventually he quiets down, but he’s no longer in the mood for storytelling. So we continue down Pearl in silence. I cut west on Worth Street. When we get close to Trinity Place his expression brightens, he gives me a thumbs-up, a snappy salute, and speeds on ahead. Mission accomplished, I head back to the office wondering where he learned to give a ‘thumbs-up.’

*

Even though my job is a civil service position, it’s pretty much a family business, because being able to understand ghosts is a weird genetic trait that pops up in very few families. Plus, the city government is glad not having to conduct a search for new PCS’s; no mayor wants to be the one caught hiring ghost specialists. Think of the uproar a job posting officially acknowledging the existence of ghosts would cause.

I suppose the secrecy surrounding my job results in a little bit of a shock to each new mayor when shortly after the inauguration they’re informed of the city’s top secrets. I just know two of them – me and the Kraken sleeping in some deep water off of Brighton Beach. After hearing about that sea monster, learning that he’s got ghost wranglers on the payroll is probably not much of a shock.

Surprisingly, the city isn’t brimming with ghosts. I guess not every spirit chooses to leave the grave, or perhaps most of our dear departed actually depart. I usually have plenty of time on my hands. I do crossword puzzles or play Scrabble with the ghost of Peter Stuyvesant, the peg-legged first governor of New York. I’ve known him for as long as I can remember. He’s my best friend, even though we have lots of arguments over spelling, him being Dutch and 300 years dead.

S-C-H-E-P-E-N, that’s eighteen points times two for the double word makes 36, plus it changes HARDEN to HARDENS for another eleven plus the fifty-point bonus for using all seven letters, that makes ninety-seven points, Peter triumphantly announces.

Sorry pal, that’s Dutch for ships. Very impressive, but take it off.

Hmmm, okay... how about C-H-E-A-P-E-N-S, let’s see, the H is on a double letter, that gives me twenty, and since the S is on a triple word that’s sixty, plus the fifty-point bonus, one hundred ten.

Tell you what, just this once, I’ll let you use S-C-H-E-P-E-N.

Ha, not gonna happen, Mo.

The game ends around noon, with me losing by a mere seventy-eight points. Things are quiet, so I decide to pack it in. No, I’m not a slacker; my day started early with a phone call at 2 a.m. I had to break up a spectral gang-war near the D. P. Moynihan Federal Courthouse. Why there? Not sure. My best guess: it is built where the Old Brewery tenement used to stand, the most notorious tenement/drug den/bordello in the Five Points slum. Kind of fitting for a government building.

Other than dragging myself down there at such a ghastly hour, the job was easy. I played a recording of police whistles, sirens, and nightsticks banging. The ghosts dispersed quickly; in their day the police were not awfully concerned with due process and preferred cracking skulls to the paperwork involved in an arrest.

On the way home, before I hit the subway, I stop in at Dave’s. It’s a little hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon that’s been there forever and looks it. There are two good things about the place: great coffee and Rosie Espina. Rosie of the easy smile, sultry eyes, long long legs, and short short skirt. She spots me as I enter.

Hi sweetie, the usual?

I very suavely stammer, cough and nod. I’m not great with living people, especially people of the attractive, available, female variety. Don Juan? Not so much. Forty-Year-Old Virgin? Certainly not – I’m only 35. I’m going to ask Rosie out any day. I’m working my way up to it. I’ve been coming here for just over a year, and she already calls me sweetie. Okay, she calls everyone sweetie – still, I remain hopeful.

Here you go, sweetie.

Thanks, Rosie. I grab my coffee, and head for the subway.

Actually, my dating problems are not only because I fear first dates. My big worry is what comes later, when I try to explain exactly what I do for a living. It never goes well.

If I mess things up with Rosie, I might never see her again, plus be stuck trying to find a new dive with great coffee.

*

At 7 a.m. I am awakened the way I’ve been every morning for the past three decades. Vakey, vakey, breakfast’s hottie!

Repeated over and over again, in a Katzenjammer Kids accent, until I open my eyes and say, But first I’ve got to go to potty.

I know, sounds crude, but it’s a ritual Peter and I have had pretty much forever. Its origin, I think, goes back to my potty-training days, when he made it his mission to keep toddler me dry. I don’t know why he insists on a phony accent; the rest of the time he sounds normal. Maybe he tried it once when I was four, and it made me laugh.

Peter’s my self-appointed wake-up service, and I’m grateful; he always knows precisely when I should get up. Like the other morning, he got me up ten minutes before the call came in about the ghostly gang war. How he knows, he’ll never say, but I’ve learned when Peter gets me up early I had best get dressed and get ready.

Today’s wake-up is at my usual 7 o’clock, so I put on the coffee, get dressed, and have my bowl of generic Fruit Loops. I enjoy a cup or three of coffee while I watch the weather lady showing me her impressively technical charts and Accu-radar. She then makes her usual wild guess at what today’s weather might be. I head out the door confident that we will indeed have weather.

I own a Brownstone on the Upper Westside. No, I’m not rich. Great-great grandpa bought the land and built it, back when this part of Manhattan was considered as wild and remote as the Dakota Territory. Which is how rumor has it our swanky neighbor the Dakota got its name. This morning the air is crisp, the sun is shining, and the birds are singing. At least I think they are singing; I can’t hear them over the sound of traffic on Central Park West.

Nothing pressing is on the agenda, so I decide a visit to my friend, and client, Toots is in order. Toots is great, I always enjoy spending time with her. I hop a downtown express and settle in for my half hour ride.

This early the train isn’t awfully crowded. Looking around, I notice an attractive dark-haired lady across the way. She looks up from her iPhone and smiles.

‘Smile back at her,’ orders my ever-hopeful id.

‘I can’t do that!’ says my superego.

I compromise by blushing furiously and averting my eyes. I think I already mentioned what a ‘ladies’ man’ I am? The rest of the trip is uneventful. I get off at the Chambers Street station and head over to City Hall, where the right ID card and knowing where to go gets me a hard hat, a lantern, and admission to the abandoned City Hall Loop IRT subway station. From there it’s a short, dark walk to the disused service siding where Toots lives.

Oh right, I forgot to tell you she is the ghost of a Gibbs Hi-V, one of the first non-wooden subway trains from back before the First World War. She’s home. She usually is, though once every year or so she makes me