Read Online Historical Lovecraft: Tales of Horror Through Time by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Paula R. Stiles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Paula R. Stiles
Ads: Link
expecting them to be wet; they were dry, though the sensation of the oily stone remained. I did not want to touch the thing again and could not stand looking at it, so I backed away from the shrine and hurried to catch up to Satindra, who squatted further down the road, waiting for me.
“What’s wrong, Little Brother?” he asked as I joined him, still staring at my fingers. They felt tainted, somehow, as if I had touched something unclean. I had the urge to wipe them on my robes, though they were not actually dirty.
“There is something wrong with the statue in that shrine,” I told him, scowling.
Satindra chuckled. “I think that today, you are determined to find something wrong with everything,” he replied. Thinking that perhaps he was correct, I sighed and resigned myself to our daily trudge.
We walked for several days more, each day passing more of the shrines with the black-green soapstone idols. The road became increasingly pitted and overgrown with weeds, narrowing down to almost nothing, but the shrines seemed only to grow larger, each statue taller than the last.
Even stranger, the number of people we saw along the road dwindled as the idols to the local god grew larger. The fields once full of workers were now empty, the rice overgrown and unkempt, as if the crops had simply been forgotten. The fields that had gone on forever now ended in forest, and the forest was reclaiming those fields.
Eventually, we came upon some simple bamboo huts much like Grandmother Mei’s, but these were empty and beyond them, the forest was dark and forbidding. The remains of cooking fires were still smoldering, in some cases, and half-finished cups of tea sat beside dirty rice bowls that swarmed with ants. After investigating one of these houses, I turned to Satindra and said, “It’s as if everyone has just disappeared. This is unnatural. I don’t like it.”
Satindra tried to laugh off my fears with his usual grace, but failed. His laughter sounded hollow and misplaced in the silent, empty village. “Don’t worry, Brother Wen. I’m sure there is some explanation. We should find a place to sleep.”
Though we were not superstitious men, Satindra and I did not sleep in the village. We ate the last of our rice in a field nearby, where we could to see the huts without being too close to them.
Every night since Grandmother Mei’s, I had slept poorly, my dreams fraught with screaming old women and huge black birds with sharply curved beaks. Now the birds dripped oil and opened their mouths to shriek with Grandmother Mei’s raspy voice, “Cursed! Cursed!” I woke in the night, sweating and tangled in my robes. I looked about for Satindra and found him crouched beside me, awake and alert despite the late hour. His eyes were so wide that I could see the whites even in the darkness that shrouded us.
I followed his gaze to the abandoned village. There were lights moving among the previously empty huts. I started to say something to him, to suggest that we go speak with the villagers, but he silenced me with a hand squeezing my arm. Never had I seen him like this, with every nerve taut and straining, so I bit my tongue. After some time, the lights moved away and Satindra turned to me.
His eyes looked doubly huge with his face so dark. The night around us was eerily silent, not even the wind stirring the fallow rice fields. “I don’t think those were people,” he whispered.
“What do you mean?” I replied, squatting beside him in the dirt so that we were almost at eye-level.
“I saw their faces. They didn’t look right.” He shook his head emphatically.
“What did you see?”
Satindra swallowed hard, as if something large and ill-tasting were caught in his throat. His huge eyes remained fixed on my face, unblinking and intense. “ Dakini .”
Dakini is an ancient word that refers to an otherworldly, inhuman being: a god or a demon.
“We should go,” I said.
To my horror, Satindra shook his head.
“What’s wrong, Little Brother?” he asked as I joined him, still staring at my fingers. They felt tainted, somehow, as if I had touched something unclean. I had the urge to wipe them on my robes, though they were not actually dirty.
“There is something wrong with the statue in that shrine,” I told him, scowling.
Satindra chuckled. “I think that today, you are determined to find something wrong with everything,” he replied. Thinking that perhaps he was correct, I sighed and resigned myself to our daily trudge.
We walked for several days more, each day passing more of the shrines with the black-green soapstone idols. The road became increasingly pitted and overgrown with weeds, narrowing down to almost nothing, but the shrines seemed only to grow larger, each statue taller than the last.
Even stranger, the number of people we saw along the road dwindled as the idols to the local god grew larger. The fields once full of workers were now empty, the rice overgrown and unkempt, as if the crops had simply been forgotten. The fields that had gone on forever now ended in forest, and the forest was reclaiming those fields.
Eventually, we came upon some simple bamboo huts much like Grandmother Mei’s, but these were empty and beyond them, the forest was dark and forbidding. The remains of cooking fires were still smoldering, in some cases, and half-finished cups of tea sat beside dirty rice bowls that swarmed with ants. After investigating one of these houses, I turned to Satindra and said, “It’s as if everyone has just disappeared. This is unnatural. I don’t like it.”
Satindra tried to laugh off my fears with his usual grace, but failed. His laughter sounded hollow and misplaced in the silent, empty village. “Don’t worry, Brother Wen. I’m sure there is some explanation. We should find a place to sleep.”
Though we were not superstitious men, Satindra and I did not sleep in the village. We ate the last of our rice in a field nearby, where we could to see the huts without being too close to them.
Every night since Grandmother Mei’s, I had slept poorly, my dreams fraught with screaming old women and huge black birds with sharply curved beaks. Now the birds dripped oil and opened their mouths to shriek with Grandmother Mei’s raspy voice, “Cursed! Cursed!” I woke in the night, sweating and tangled in my robes. I looked about for Satindra and found him crouched beside me, awake and alert despite the late hour. His eyes were so wide that I could see the whites even in the darkness that shrouded us.
I followed his gaze to the abandoned village. There were lights moving among the previously empty huts. I started to say something to him, to suggest that we go speak with the villagers, but he silenced me with a hand squeezing my arm. Never had I seen him like this, with every nerve taut and straining, so I bit my tongue. After some time, the lights moved away and Satindra turned to me.
His eyes looked doubly huge with his face so dark. The night around us was eerily silent, not even the wind stirring the fallow rice fields. “I don’t think those were people,” he whispered.
“What do you mean?” I replied, squatting beside him in the dirt so that we were almost at eye-level.
“I saw their faces. They didn’t look right.” He shook his head emphatically.
“What did you see?”
Satindra swallowed hard, as if something large and ill-tasting were caught in his throat. His huge eyes remained fixed on my face, unblinking and intense. “ Dakini .”
Dakini is an ancient word that refers to an otherworldly, inhuman being: a god or a demon.
“We should go,” I said.
To my horror, Satindra shook his head.
Similar Books
