Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction No. 8 | September 2022: Dark Horses Magazine, #8

By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

dark horse
/ˈdärk ˈˌhôrs/
noun
1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds.
"a dark-horse candidate"

Join us for a monthly tour of writers who give as good as they get. From hard science-fiction to stark, melancholic apocalypses; from Lovecraftian horror to zombies and horror comedy; from whimsical interludes to tales of unlikely compassion--whatever it is, if it's weird, it's here. So grab a seat before the starting gun fires, pour yourself a glass of strange wine, and get ready for the running of the dark horses.

In this issue:

CLARITY
Mark J. Schultis

CONSUMED
Ophelia Vang

THE MIRROR
Angelisa Fontaine-Wood

ALUKA OF THE WITCH DOCTORS
Wayne Kyle Spitzer

MY FEELINGS ARE PLOTTING AGAINST ME
Sabina Malik

PUMP AND GO
Caitlyn Pace

SPLENDID ISOLATION
Peter Emmett Naughton

THE NIGHT WITCH
Robert John Jenson

UNINVITED GUESTS
Adam Newnham

VISITOR
Jeremy Schnee

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobb's End Press
• Release date: Sep 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215683859

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows.

Book preview

CLARITY

Mark J. Schlutis

––––––––

Just keep moving, Rye. Just keep moving.

His arms were weights, his legs made of rubber. It was a struggle to move and a struggle to stay conscious, but Ryan made a promise, and he was going to keep it.

That promise was all that was left. Of anything.

The air was putrid throughout the tunnel. What once was built for the transference of drinking water was now Ryan’s deliverance from certain death, but the odor of decay surrounding him only reminded him that death was still chasing him.

A week ago, Ryan’s squad flew in alongside the Engineer Corps to erect the Tulsa barrier. Ryan, Hicksy, Grotts, Junior, and Bird. The five of them had been all around the world, infiltrated numerous strongholds, and fought their way home every time.

Every time until the last time.

He had awoken in darkness, stunned to still be breathing. His squad had fallen back to the water treatment plant when the things had closed in from all sides. They had popped up from every angle, leaving no gap to retreat. Ryan and his brothers in arms had been boxed in by design.

These things are smart as fuck, Hicksy had said. Don’t give them an inch. Take no chances. So keep your eyes peeled.

Bird had tried to find the high ground to snipe, but fell instead. Grotts had decided to let loose everything he had, but the hides of their enemies never took even a scratch. And so, amidst the chaos, Grotts had pulled the pin.

Now, only Ryan remained.

Ryan had trudged through the sewers for hours, and just as he thought he’d never find a way out, he saw a light up ahead. When the barrier fell, we killed the power... Is that an opening?

Minutes passed before Ryan could make out the light. It was indeed moonlight, illuminating the opening of the tunnel as the water flow beneath Ryan’s feet emptied out into a creek. The fresh air was welcome, and Ryan stood still a moment to let in a whiff. He felt his head grow heavier, and his legs gave out. He slumped down to the dirt, clutching his rifle in his hands. He allowed his eyes to close.

I just want to sleep...

A distant buzzing jogged him free of his respite. The same buzzing he heard recorded again and again the past week.

Just keep moving, Rye. Just keep moving.

He followed the creek for half a mile, bringing him within visual range of an oil well. It had been fenced in, but the fence was cut apart and in disrepair. The well itself was abandoned, filled with concrete. Down the hill, however, was a house with a considerably large yard.

Half an acre at least.

Ryan saw a light on inside the house and made his way in that direction. The buzzing was still off in the distance, but he didn’t want to take the chance. He summoned up what he could, traversing the half acre, spotting stakes and posts spread about, all pointing in the direction of the house. He finally passed a mailbox that read ‘Hauston’ before eventually reaching the front porch.

The five wooden steps up to the porch were weathered; mud caked trails led up to a screen door that was barely hanging on. A tattered sign was pasted to the inner door. It read: ‘Welcome! Pure souls are always welcome to join the harvest.’

Is this still the Bible belt?

Ryan knocked on the door several times. After a quiet minute, with a firm grip on his weapon, he turned the door knob and entered.

Hello?

He found himself standing in an old-fashioned country kitchen. Sunflower drapes in the windows, a long countertop on the left, and a bank of refrigerators and freezers on the right.  In the middle, instead of a proper kitchen table, rested a large picnic bench, with a plastic checkerboard covering tacked down. Atop the covering were two plates of cornbread and jerky with a glass of water.

Maybe those things—

Welcome, traveler!

Ryan pivoted, drawing his rifle to bear as a man appeared in the adjacent doorway.

The resident was shorter and older than Ryan, with messy salt and pepper hair. He smiled, slightly lifting the dark circles under his eyes. Woah, I meant no alarm, soldier. This is my home. My name is Douglas Hauston.

Front porch has seen some action, Mr. Hauston, Ryan kept his rifle aimed at his host. How are you still alive?

Tough calls. Difficult choices. A touch of personal damnation I’d reckon.

Ryan tilted his head to the right, motioning to a framed picture of a little girl that hung above the light switch. Your daughter?

The resident took a deep breath. With God now. Taken from me by those... demons.

As if on cue, the distant screeches sounded off. Ryan felt his body weaken again.

Please, have some food. You need it I gather. The resident looked down at the splats of blood on his floor, freshly dripped from Ryan’s wound. As well as first aid. Which I can provide... if you lower your weapon?

Even if he is dangerous, at least he’s not one of those things.

Ryan lowered his rifle and sat down, reaching for the cornbread. Thank you.

I should be thanking you, soldier. Throwing yourself into the fray, preparing to sacrifice yourself for all of us?

If only it did any good, Ryan said with a mouthful. The way these things move? And how many, it’s overwhelming. He took a swig of water and continued. I can’t stay here. And neither should you. Need to head somewhere more fortified.

You’re not going anywhere, The resident said, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Not with that wound. Let me get the first aid kit.

As his host walked upstairs, Ryan finished his meal, swallowing the last bite of jerky as he spied a few more pictures in the hallway. Most were of the daughter, but one was of an entire family. He chugged the glass of water and stood up, feeling dizzy and a bit flush. Lightheaded, Ryan staggered over to the picture, noticing as he got closer that the man holding up the little girl wasn’t his host. In fact, the man walking around upstairs above Ryan wasn’t in any of the pictures.

Before Ryan could speculate any further, he felt his whole body give out and everything went dark.

––––––––

Ryan awoke to find himself staring at a bookshelf. Other than a complete Encyclopedia Britannica, the only other book on the shelf was a King James Bible.

Am I still in the house?

He went to sit up but his body didn’t respond. He grunted as he tried again. Nothing. He could move his index finger slightly, but that was it. His whole body was frozen, paralyzed.

I should have shot that asshole.

Ryan heard a man humming behind him, who stopped the moment Ryan became agitated.

Hope you enjoyed your nap. It’s probably been awhile since you last slept.

Why can’t I move? What the fuck did you do here? What the fuck is going on?

So many valid questions. Rest assured, I will answer them. After all, you are my guest. Now, you can’t move currently because you ingested a significant amount of tranquilizer. It will wear off shortly, however.

Who are you?

Well, you’ve probably deduced that I’m not Douglas Hauston, He said as he stood in front of Ryan, no longer wearing the flannel shirt but instead a tattered and bloodied sports jacket. My name is Dr. Curt Alistair. I’m a chemist. Had tenure at Texas A&M before all of this unfortunate—

Boo fucking hoo. Now tell me what the fuck you’re doing to me!

Just like my students, Alistair grabbed the back of Ryan’s chair. Not an ounce of patience.

The doctor rolled Ryan back into the kitchen, leaving him between the fridge and the basement door. Alistair reached for the dog tags around Ryan’s neck and removed them, tilting the metal to read their inscription. Are you a God-fearing man, Mr. Rogers?

Ryan gave no answer.

Neither am I. I found all the meaning I ever needed in science. Our mortality has only ever been defined by our control, or lack of control for that matter. Think about it though. Four hundred years ago, the average life expectancy was thirty-five years old. Now? Seventy-five years old. Thanks to science, we have doubled our lifespans!

You haven’t looked outside lately, have you doc? I’d say the average lifespan now is seventy-five minutes.

Quite true, Mr. Rogers. Quite true. Alistair dropped the dog tags on the table and headed for the sink. I was working in cryonics, writing a paper on nanoparticles and cryopreservation. I had spent years trying to leap ahead of my colleagues, make progress where they hadn’t, when finally, just two months ago, I made the connection most had missed. He finished washing his hands and reached for a towel. Our mortality would be redefined. I could... I could see the Nobel prize, had it in my sights. Just had to publish my paper.

Ryan flexed his wrist and felt his hand begin to move. Whatever this stuff is, it’s wearing off...

Night after night, I was cross-checking my work, verifying my citations, Alistair continued. One of my results needed reproduced. No problem, He paused as he reached for his tools on the counter. But then this... this deluge of invaders brings society to its knees. The dean suspends all classes, closes the university. I was livid. My chance within reach, now stripped away from me.

That dean was just trying to save lives! Ryan said. It’s on like the end of the world and you’re stewing about a paper? Those are fucked up priorities, doc.

Alistair stared at Ryan, expressionless. As I was saying, my work was being marginalized. I refused to abandon it. The professor returned his attention to his tools on the counter, reaching for a vial. I remained in the building as the curfew went into effect. The cafeteria had all the food I required, the safety shower in my lab was functional. So, I continued. I rounded up my materials, prepared a video recording to document. And as the experiment began—

He threw the vial across the room, the glass shattering and landing at Ryan’s feet.

A mob of these things had spread across the campus. Alistair’s eyes had widened, his accounting of the events had seemingly rattled him. One of them came for me, crashing into the lab. That grotesque monster... no eyes, no face... just an impelled maw, closing in on me. And in that moment, my... my tunnel vision had been abjured. All I held dear, all I believed... none of it mattered. Only my survival mattered, and in that regard, when I most needed a hypothesis, my rational mind came up empty.

Ryan heard a distant growl, the same growl he had been hearing whenever he closed his eyes. Is that just my imagination again...

...or is one of those things outside?

Death was a few feet away, and the only thing that stayed its hand was a variable I never truly appreciated, Alistair snapped his fingers. Chance. You see, this creature’s tentacles flapped about without discretion, and it dislodged a vacuum flask of liquid nitrogen. Wherever these things came from, whatever their origins, their molecules still require sufficient heat. Blubber can only protect so much...

The professor slowly crossed the room, gripping the handle of the refrigerator. It languished about for a moment, eventually succumbing to its situation. I watched as it fought, became immobilized, barely surviving an accident that to us would’ve been fatal.

You found a weakness, doc. That’s... that’s incredible.

A weakness? No, that’s not what I found. What I found...

As Alistair opened the refrigerator door, Ryan could see its contents. On the shelf was a serving platter, a severed tentacle resting on top.

What I found was clarity.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

Alistair removed the platter and set it down on the table. I saw what they were. I saw what they could do, He picked up a syringe and pierced the tentacle’s flesh. And what they could do for us. Once he filled the syringe with enough fluid, he removed it, in turn finding a vein in his right arm and injecting the foreign fluid into his own bloodstream. What they could do for me. And I... He closed his eyes, whatever effect the bad blood had taking its hold. A sinister grin spread across his face. I saw God.

I’d much rather take my chances out there right now.

The professor flexed his fingers. I can feel it. I can feel their power. It’s clear to me now. Freezing ourselves was never a viable solution. It’s a cheat, it’s not true progress. But these beings, these creatures? Evolution has made them real survivors.

Ryan was able to wiggle his big toes, the numbness throughout his legs beginning to abate. He nodded to the tentacle in front of him. So...where’s the rest of it?

Ah, well, it’s doing what the Haustons offered. Enjoying the harvest. Alistair redirected his gaze to the basement door.

Fuck me. That faint growl wasn’t outside...

And it’s about time you joined the feast.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

Alistair opened the basement door, then stood behind Ryan’s chair. As a soldier, sacrifice is part of your job description. Take solace that yours will not be in vain, and that through my work, our visitors will bestow upon us... He whispered in Ryan’s ear. Immortality.

Alistair tilted the chair, dumping Ryan’s body onto the first step, creating the momentum for the soldier to tumble all the way to the bottom. He came to a stop shoulder first, the pain partially masked by numbness he still felt.

Ryan inhaled dust as he caught his breath, almost gagging as a rancid smell invaded his nasal passages. The discomfort was soon forgotten as a perturbing growl heralded the basement’s other occupant.

Across the room, past several skeletons and corpses littered about, rested an unearthly monstrosity. Everything at the water treatment plant had transpired so quickly that Ryan hadn’t been pressed to take notice how vile the invaders appeared. The rows of serrated teeth, the coiling tongue, accenting nine feet of demonic, insatiable gelatin. Its form wasn’t bipedal though, its appearance and mass were more akin to a buffalo-sized slug. By design, the creature had previously been adorned with appendages. But this creature was missing more than just the tentacle kept upstairs. Alistair had crippled it further, leaving it only a few stumps to pivot with. Ryan figured that was how his host had kept it contained in the basement.

But if I can’t move my fucking legs then I’m just as trapped.

The monster began to roll itself toward Ryan, its disability delaying its advance. The gnarling and moaning were loud, intensifying Ryan’s anxiety as he also flopped about, desperate to get himself upright.

Just keep moving, Rye. Just keep moving.

As the creature closed in, Ryan succeeded in moving himself away from the steps, but he soon realized that he had moved himself into a corner.

Boxed in again, Hicksy.

These things are smart as fuck, Hicksy had said. So, keep your eyes peeled.

Ryan looked about in a frenzy. On the other side of the room, past the stairs, was a tool bench, a circular saw situated on top. I’ll never make it. Then he saw a canister underneath the bottom step. Most of the label was enshrouded but he made out the word ‘insecticide.’

Alistair was right. Chance is underappreciated.

His arms and thighs were still unresponsive, but the control of his knees and feet had returned. Ryan angled his feet and scooped up the canister.

The maimed predator was almost on top of him, and as it aligned its abhorrent jaws with Ryan’s legs, the soldier straightened his feet, dropping the canister into the creature’s mouth. The beast clamped down, sinking its teeth into Ryan’s calves. Ryan bared the pain, waiting for it to loosen its jaw to take another bite. The dreadful thing widened its jaw again