The Gate: 13 Dark & Odd Tales Read online

  THE GATE

  13 DARK & ODD TALES

  ROBERT J. DUPERRE

  ALSO FEATURING:

  MERCEDES M. YARDLEY

  DAVID DALGLISH

  DAVID MCAFEE

  DANIEL PYLE

  ILLUSTRATED BY

  JESSE DAVID YOUNG

  All stories within this book are works of fiction. Resemblance to any person, living or dead, actual circumstances or events, are purely incidental.

  The Gatekeeer, Sullivan Street, Sins of Our Fathers, Feeding the Passion, Dispatch #337, The Emancipation of Po-Po, I Spy, Perfect Blue Buildings, Empty Spaces

  © 2010, Robert J. Duperre

  Container of Sorrows © 2009, Mercedes M. Yardley

  Kitty in the Cellar © 2010, David Dalglish

  Exhibit A © 2010, David McAfee

  Blight © 2010, Daniel Pyle

  Cover and Illustrations © 2011 Jesse David Young

  INTRODUCTION

  THERE IS SOMETHING NATURALLY APPEALING about short stories. They’re concise and to the point. Every word means something. It takes skill to construct one that makes sense, one that captures the reader, hits them hard and quick, which is something very few novels, with their length, can accomplish.

  For this collection, I have gathered nine of my best short stories, including one inspired by an illustration by my friend and fantastic artist Jesse David Young. These tales do not necessarily follow any particular theme or genre. They are, in fact, as varied as the ideas that flow through my head. Everything from horror to science fiction is represented.

  Also, as an added bonus, I have included four stories from a few authors who I consider both friends and inspiration. I’ll take a moment to introduce them here, in my own words.

  Mercedes M. Yardley: I first met Mercedes through the Shock Totem Magazine message boards, where she is the assistant editor. She reached out to me and seemed genuinely interested in the projects I was working on at the time. For the last few years, we have emailed regularly and stuck up a lasting friendship…in fact, that when I visited Las Vegas for the annual Killercon horror convention in August of 2010, she met us at the airport, acting as both guide and host to Jesse and me. She is one of the most talented writers I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. Her work is quirky and imaginative, and carries a ton of emotional weight. She was kind enough to donate one of my favorite stories, The Container of Sorrows, for this collection. She is now in the process of submitting her spectacular first novel, Pretty Little Dead Girls, to publishers through her agent, as well as appearing in the last two John Skipp-edited anthologies. Keep an eye out for her, and whenever you get an opportunity to take in her creations, do so. She is truly spectacular.

  David Dalglish: When I first started my book review blog (http://journalofalways.com), I received a request from this strange man who writes about two half-orc brothers. I took the first book of his series and read it, and it accomplished something I thought impossible for myself – it got me interested in fantasy again. His books are among the best I’ve read over the course of my life. They are passionate, violent, and full of hidden meanings that resonate strongly with this reviewer. Over the course of the next few months after reading that initial book, The Weight of Blood, he and I have become friends. He is obviously a fantastic writer, but also an ally who will put himself on the line for those he believes in. It is with much appreciation that I accepted his original, never-before-published story, Kitty in the Cellar, into this volume.

  David McAfee: Yes, another David. They’re taking over the world, I tell you! But seriously, I’ve gotten to know Dave quite a bit over the past year, and he is one of the most honest and kind individuals you’d ever want to meet, not to mention supremely talented. Just as with his namesake, he is always willing to help promote his fellow authors, and I wish to repay that promotion as much as I can. His first novel, 33AD, is a great example of brave storytelling, taking the vampire myth and including it into the story of the crucifixion. The most amazing thing about this book? It works. Beautifully. David donated Exhibit A, a story from his own (very successful) collection of shorts, The Lake and 17 Other Stories. You won’t be disappointed.

  Daniel Pyle: When I received an offer to write reviews for the aforementioned Shock Totem Magazine, I was saddled with the prospect of asking authors for books to review, rather than waiting for them to come to me. The first writer on my list was Daniel Pyle. I’d read his novelette, Down the Drain, and thought it one of the most imaginative and creepy stories I’d read in quite a while. So when I wrote him to ask about Dismember, his first novel, he readily agreed and sent in on over. Needless to say, I found it to be an incredible book. Dan is yet another truly talented author, and his voice needs to be heard. He sent me a previously unpublished work for this collection, titled Blight, and it’s quite the disturbing tale of revenge best served cold…very cold. I greatly appreciate and enjoyed it, and you will, too.

  And of course, then there’s Jesse Young. A new piece of his art adorns the cover of this new volume, and he’s added an original illustration to each tale, as well. These illustrations add together to create a striking and frightful collection all on their own, and act to enhance the stories, as well. To say we’re both extremely proud of this would be an understatement.

  There you have it, folks. Turn the page, read, and enjoy. I hope we’ll leave you wanting to come back for more.

  THE GATEKEEPER

  THE MONK PLUMMETED, his robes flapping like a bat’s wings. Even from a distance, the expression on his face was clear. He appeared serene, with neck tilted, slanted eyes open and staring, and jaw slack. His falling body passed behind a row of trees and disappeared.

  Johnny Pazarelli watched him descend, intrigued. He did not feel shocked by the sight, for Johnny was a man who’d seen much in his forty years on earth, every sort of atrocity one man could inflict on himself or others. It wasn’t uncommon in his line of work.

  He heard a rustling in the rainforest. Johnny stepped out of his Jeep and crept toward the trees. He took out his knife, pushed aside a tangle of vines, and peered through. Someone approached from the shadows. The figure walked like an individual at peace with all around him; feet dancing lightly on the ground, head held high, arms loosely dangling. He entered the light.

  It was the monk.

  Johnny stepped back and allowed the man to exit the brush. The monk stood at least a foot shorter than he and appeared to be in his early twenties. His flawless skin and shaved head gleamed in the sunlight. After falling at least two hundred feet, he had not a mark on his body. He offered a bow when he stepped onto the dirt path and then turned away. His red and yellow robes swished behind him. Johnny watched him leave and shook his head.

  There could have been many explanations for what he’d just seen. Only three years prior he had watched the puddle jumpers of Puerto Rico in action. These odd men leapt from fifty-foot cliffs into shallow pools only inches deep. They would bend their backs and strike the water, skim across the surface, and land on their feet on the other side. It was a remarkable feat, one he was sure a version of which these particular monks perfected. He assumed that were he to follow the path the monk had just emerged from, he would find a similar setup – shallow water, curved, smooth rocks, and a pocket of jetting carbon.

  There was no time to find out for sure, however, for Johnny Pazarelli was on the job, and the job always came first.

  Johnny found people. It’s what he was good at. Folks would show up at his office in Chicago with pictures of a child, spouse, or friend, tell their
sob story, hand over the relevant information, and then he’d be off. He always found his quarry, sometimes alive, many times not. This seemingly preternatural ability to fit together pieces of a puzzle most folks would think unrelated made him a very rich man. He didn’t understand his ability, didn’t comprehend the voices that whispered in his head or his brain’s compass that always pointed the way toward the missing, but that was okay. He took pride in his successes, and relished the fact he was the only one that could pull them off.

  All of which made his current case all the more maddening.

  Two months ago a man named Albert Mueller approached him. Albert, an investment banker from Germany, said his sixteen-year-old son Julius had run off with a religious cult. He’d been trying to track the boy for the better part of six months, and now Johnny was his last hope. The grieving father handed over the prerequisite box full of photographs, ticket stubs, credit card receipts, journal entries, and other items possibly meaningful to the investigation. (“Bring everything…because you never know,” had been Johnny’s motto for years; in fact, they were the first words printed on his website.) Then he told the man goodbye and booked a flight to Hamburg, the last known whereabouts of Julius Mueller.

  From there, Johnny trekked halfway around the world and back again, from Sweden to Zaire to Australia to Bali. Every lead was a dead end. His internal compass swiveled around and around, trying to gain direction but never coming close to doing so. It seemed those who abducted young Julius – a group calling themselves the Homun Jan – either never existed or dropped from the face of the earth. For the first time in his life, Johnny was ready to give up.

  Thankfully, while standing in a rinky-dink airport in Tanzania, he caught a break.

  A woman named Zeta Lumberger, a long-time associate of the Mueller family, stopped him from boarding the plane. She told him she’d traveled from Austria, hoping to reach him before he left for home.

  “There is news,” she said.

  “What kind of news?”

  “A package arrived.”

  She handed him a yellow envelope. It was addressed to the Mueller Estate, with no return address and Chinese postage. He tore it open, tipped it over, and into his hand fell a small medallion. It was made of copper, oval, the size of a half-dollar coin. On its face were raised markings shaped like a crescent moon and on its rear, engraved sunrays. The medallion itself was nothing much to look at – he’d seen more intricate designs on cereal boxes – but the feel of it, the way its surface trembled against his skin…

  His internal compass kicked into high gear and Johnny changed his flight plans. He knew exactly where he had to go.

  Thailand.

  Johnny sighed and climbed back into his jeep. The sun was high in the sky. Sweat poured off him in buckets. He turned the key and the rickety motor slowly kicked into gear. Proceeding with caution, he followed behind the monk, keeping him a hazy stick figure in the distance. He didn’t want to get too close, didn’t want to spook the man. He had no clue who the man was, nor what religious order he belonged to. The customs out here, at least a hundred miles from civilization, were a mystery. From what he could gather, none of the locals even knew of the place. All he did know was this road had been impossibly hard to find, and the tingling in his head told him Julius Mueller was close. He had to proceed with caution, because if that were the case, the Homun Jan wouldn’t be far behind.

  The monk stepped off the dirt road after an hour of steady, no-breaks walking, turned to face him, nodded, and entered the trees. Johnny stepped on the gas. When he reached the area he thought the man had disappeared through, he jumped out of the driver’s seat and hit the ground running. There was something strange about the nature of the man’s nod, as if he was trying to let him in on a secret. Johnny’s heart picked up its pace and the buzzing in his head intensified. It was a sensation he felt often, signaling the end of his journey was near.

  He leapt through the brush and followed not the monk, but the internal compass he so greatly relied on.

  Before long the rainforest opened up. He stood in a clearing. At the rear of the clearing was the base of another rocky outcropping. Carved into this cliff was a stone temple. He stepped cautiously forward, searching for signs of humanity. The monk seemed to have disappeared – either that or he’d run at a dead sprint and taken up refuge in the temple. Johnny didn’t think that to be likely, though in his line of work he’d learned to never say never.

  The temple appeared to be in fantastic shape, despite its obvious age. The archway over the entrance had crumbled slightly, but other than that, and the thick layer of moss covering the stones, it was immaculate. He stepped inside and reached for his gun.

  He entered a huge room. Torches blazed, lighting the space. There was a throne opposite him, a face carved into the rock behind it. He walked to the center of the room and gazed up. On the ceiling was the only other decoration the place had to offer – a monstrous, unblinking eye. Getting nervous, he removed his gun from its holster and held it with both hands.

  “Nice to see you’ve made it, Mr. Pazarelli.”

  Johnny wheeled around and his heart leapt into his throat. In front of the entrance, silhouetted by the sun’s rays, were twenty monks. How they’d gotten in without him hearing, he didn’t know. They all stood with hands clasped and heads down, chanting. From behind them walked a man – a white man.

  Albert Mueller.

  “What…” began Johnny, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t allow any more.

  The distinguished German businessman approached him. One of the monks – the young one he’d seen jump from the cliff – followed. When they stood only a few feet away they stopped. Albert didn’t reach out to greet him. Instead, he rolled a large gold coin between his fingers.

  “I see you have found Julius,” Albert said.

  Johnny stared straight ahead, dumbfounded. He shook his head.

  Albert laughed. “Yes, you are right. There is no Julius. I am sorry to have deceived you, Mr. Pazarelli. I needed to have you as exhausted as possible, to test your abilities, to see if you could find this place with only the slightest of clues.”

  Finally, Johnny’s throat responded to his demands. “And what place is this?” he asked.

  Albert spread out his arms and twirled around. “The home of the Homun Jan.”

  Johnny stepped back, lifting the gun and pointing it at Albert. The older man didn’t cower from him, however; he simply kept twirling that damned coin between his fingers.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked. “And what kind of organization is this, anyway?”

  Albert laughed. It sounded heartfelt, without malice. “The Homun Jan is not an organization. It is a man.” He jabbed his thumb behind him, at the young monk. “He is the Homun Jan.”

  “Then who are the guys by the door?”

  “I suppose you could say they are his…protectors.”

  “Protectors? Protecting him from what?”

  “From his nature. From his duty. From himself.”

  “And you?”

  Again, Albert laughed. “I am nothing. Simply a liaison. I find things for them.”

  Johnny pulled back the hammer. “And where do I fit into this, Albert?”

  The older man started pacing. “Well, it seems our friend here is tired. Believe it or not, he has been caring for his responsibility for almost three hundred years. He wishes to be released from his duties. In order to do so, we needed to find a replacement, one with certain…talents. And that is you, Mr. Pazarelli. Only those endowed with ti-chan can fill the roll of Homun Jan. And you possess that gift.”

  “What? I have no gifts. Clients pay me to find people, and that’s it. You got the wrong guy.”

  “No,” said Albert, shaking his head. “You proved it by finding the temple. Very few can discern its location. One or two a century, at most.”

  Anger brewed in Johnny’s gut. “And what if I don’t want this ‘gift’?”

  “Unfortuna
tely,” Albert said with a grimace, “the choice is not yours. Some things in this world are more important than your personal freedom. One man might not be able to save the world, after all, but one man is certainly able to protect it.”

  At that, Albert stepped aside and the young monk walked forward. Johnny backed up, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He pulled the trigger and emptied three rounds into the monk’s chest. The slugs pierced his robes, but he didn’t go down.

  Instead, he opened his mouth.

  The monk’s neck bulged as streams of viscous fluid erupted in a geyser, followed by pinkish, fleshy tubes. These tubes crawled from the young man’s throat like worms, expanding and contracting as their numbers, and their length, grew. They climbed upward toward the ceiling, gathering into a cloud of living, writhing matter. The sounds of voices filled the air; thousands of them, or millions, begging, pleading, screaming.

  Johnny couldn’t understand what was happening. His mind went blank with panic. He tried to drop the gun and scurry away, but his feet were frozen to the ground. He couldn’t take his eyes off the squirming mass above his head. The sight disgusted and enthralled him at the same time.

  Albert’s voice rose above the clatter.

  “Over time, the barriers between worlds have thinned,” he said. “The dimensions of man and those of chaos are perilously close to one another, as they have been for centuries. It is up to one man, to the Homun Jan, to keep these barriers strong. Inside this man is the ability to mend, to find order in chaos and weave it into a web of living intellect. Through this our world, and the others, remain safe. That man is you, Johnny. It is an honor. You can live forever if you like, or you can pass the mantle to your successor, should your lieges find one. However, you may never leave this mountain. Otherwise, the covenant is broken and all is lost.”

  Johnny dropped his gaze. Albert stared at him, his eyes glimmering with compassion. The young monk who had vomited the twisting swarm of flesh was gone; in his place, a dusty pile of bones.