Weird Tails

WEIRD TAILS

Edited by Robert  Poyton

THIS IS AN INNSMOUTH GOLD BOOK

978-1-63684-550-0    E-book

Copyright@ 2020 R Poyton.

Originally published 2020

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any

electronic or mechanical means including information storage and

retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts

in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

www.innsmouthgold.com

Cover and interior art by

Shelley De Cruz

Copyright@2020 Graveheart Designs

www.facebook.com/graveheartdesigns

Dedicated to Whisky, Tiger, Pikelet, Olly, Finchley, Ellie, Dougie, Beamish,

Gollee, Dee Dee, and most of all…. Joey.

CONTENTS

FOREWORD                              

OF SAND AND DREAMS - Ian Delacroix  11

SYNCHRONICITY - Russell Smeaton            

WHAT ATAL SAW - Miguel Fliguer            

MOUSER - John Houlihan                  

THE ODYSSEUS FILE - Robert Poyton            

ROADKILL - Andy Joynes                        

THE SHADOW OF XIOM-THOGG - B. Harlan Crawford

CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT - Lara Poyton            

THE LAST DAYS OF ULTHAR - Peter Rawlik      

THE CAT AND THE SOMNAMBULIST - Luna Z. Mesvell

DREAMS IN THE LAND OF - Mike Slater            

A GOREY DEMISE - Shelley De Cruz            

LOVECRAFT AND CATS - J DeLaughter            

THE CATS - HP Lovecraft                        

BIOGRAPHIES

FOREWORD

Are you a cat person or a dog person? It seems to be one of the great divides of human nature! I grew up with cats, for all my life there’s been at least one cat in the house. Only more recently did I also become a dog owner  - all faithful, loyal companions. But cats are different, we all know that. They come and go as they please. They shout to be fed, then turn their nose up at even the most expensive food. If we are lucky, they may bestow some amount of affection on us. Then they’ll disappear for three days…

I often get the impression that cats have a very rich inner life. I can read my dogs like a book - happy to see me, bark at the postman, waggy tail at dinnertime. Cats, on the other hand, are inscrutable and operate solely on their own terms. The wolf may have been tamed but the tyger still burns bright in the heart of even the most docile moggy.

H.P. Lovecraft (1890 - 1937), the father of the weird tale, was most definitely a cat person. We know this from his fiction and from his letters. From his outrageously named childhood pet through to the cats of friends and even passing waifs and strays, HPL always had time for cats. So, being both a cat person myself and a fan of HPL and associated weird fiction, it seemed only right to compile an anthology celebrating both. And here it is, thirteen new and original pieces, plus one of HPL’s own offerings of a feline nature.

The tales herein range from the exploits of lofty Ultharians through to a witch's familiar. From the common house cat to the avatar of Bast. Ten stories, two poems and a new essay on HPL’s use of cats and dogs in his fiction, all from members of what has become known as the Innsmouth Writing Circle (you can never leave!) I hope you enjoy this collection. You can be sure that all of the pieces herein were written under the attentive green-eyed gaze of an Ultharian or, more likely, despite a supine feline form draped over lap or keyboard.

It remains only for me to thank each and every one of our Kickstart backers for their support, each of the contributors and other IWC members who have helped with and promoted the book and to Shelly de Cruz of Graveheart Designs for her once again fabulous artwork.

What? What’s that? Yes, yes, okay…. I have to think DeeDee too, for being the most marvellous, wonderful, prettiest princess ever. Can you stop clawing my leg now?

Robert Poyton

November 2020

OF SAND AND DREAMS

Ian Delacroix

The sun was a white wound in the sky.

Vri lingered at the entrance of the tomb. Her emerald eyes darted around. She was unquiet. The wind of the desert whispered her name.

The end of all is near, she sighed, descending the dark, narrow stairs. The corridor was cold and deserted. The smell of rotten flesh blended with the perfume of sand and cedars and seduced her senses. Traces of blood stained the stones around. The trail she was chasing ended behind a jagged rock. Visions of ghouls – the desert devourers of carcasses – and past battles haunted the mind of the seeker. Vri knelt down. The fabric of her gypsy-like skirt swished  on the dusty ground as she positioned the objects for her sorcery. A handful of winged scarabs scattered around with a clickety-clack.

Out of the pocket of her corset she produced a worn Tarot deck. The deck looked rusted, almost glimmering, arcane. She positioned the Three of Spades on the ground, close to the amulet of bones. The Lord of Sorrow, she murmured, pressing her dirty crimson-enameled fingertips over the card.

Announced by a hiss, the ghoul that was hidden behind the jagged rock jumped over her. Reddish, bestial eyes, a dog's face, yellowish fangs. In the shadowed tomb its pale rotten skin, bones sprawling from bruised flesh, created a strong contrast with the mocha skin of the adventurer. Vri was faster. She dodged the assault of the ghoul and stood up in an instant, her body ready for the battle.

The blade of a kriss shone in the faint light. She ducked away from the claws of the beast and pivoted on her left foot with a grunt. Her emerald eyes glimmered mirroring the gaze of the ghoul. An instant later she was forced to look away because she didn't like what she saw in the eyes of the beast. It was always the same; those eyes looked too human, a cunning yet rueful intelligence reverberated inside those irises.

The blade found its way to the chest of the creature. The ghoul shrieked. Rivers of hot spit drooled over the face of the Tarot-sorceress. The sense of disgust did not stop her lunge nor the movements of her lips. She kept reciting the formula of the incantation without hesitation. With her free hand she shook the card of the Hermit to and fro in front of the beast.

The word.

The gesture.

The blood.

Magic was made of this, after all.

A burst of flame hit the snout of the ghoul. A sharp cry rose to the vault of the tomb, echoing like the mourn of lost children. Another sudden blaze followed the first, and soon the ghoul was nothing but ashes.

Cards never lie, Vri spat, still panting. She sat, recomposing herself. Her skin was stained in ashes and blood. One lace of her corset had loosened. She ran the blade of the kriss, still dripping blood, over the backside of the cards  placed on the ground. The ritual ended. The divination was complete. The chase went on.

Argh! a few minutes later, her exclamation recalled the last mournful cry of the ghoul she had just killed. The demon she had come for had retreated to the lands of dream  said the Tarots.

Vri sighed. I need a cat, she said, scratching her nape. She really needed a cat. They were key to the Dreamlands, every sorceress knew that.

When the Tarot deck found Vri, she was only six years old.

Six.

Numbers have power, like words, symbols and blood, the woman of the shop would later teach her. Vri was strolling around the floating market with her mother. She was still alive at the time, the yellow disease was yet to take her. Vri had danced for a while among the colours and strong perfumes of the market, marveling in front of the strange cloth, fruits and exotic dolls that came from over the sea. Then her attention had been drawn to an isolated shop. She had sneaked in while her mother was distracted trying on a colourful dress.

Inside, it was warm and wet like in a womb, the interior small but crowded with theatrical object the eyes of Vri had never seen before. Open-mouthed, she lost her gaze and mind on hourglasses with sands of colours, astronomical mechanisms and seashells. Above all, she lost herself into the seashells. She giggled, touching them, caressing them and putting the larger samples to her ears, until the voice of the woman called her.

The fortune teller, skin the colour of the milk, large, dark glimmering eyes that had seen too many stars. Long wild brown hair covered a perfect oval face.

Come here, she smiled, showing an irregular set of teeth behind crimson fleshy lips. She patted on her own knees. Vri smiled back. She scampered towards the woman and sat in her lap. The fortune teller played with the hair of the child as she spoke. I'll tell you a story, my child...

And so she did. She led Vri to a far, far land where she found out that the that seashells came out from a place called Sea, Ocean, the Grand Deep Blue and a thousand other names. Some seashells hosted strange creatures, other contains dreams. Vri could almost see the ocean if she closed her eyelids; that vast mass of waters the voice of the woman was conjuring for her. She could hear the mysterious voice of the waves, the smell of the seaweeds, the salt, the sun. Everything she had never seen, heard, touched, smelled, tasted.

When she opened her eyes the woman gave her a deck of cards.

These are a gift for you, she said.

A six year old Vri looked at the cover of the deck, on which the design of the Stars was embossed.

These cards are a secret,between you and me, said the woman. Can you keep a secret?

Vri nodded.

Come to me every week, my child. Come to me and I'll teach you a story.

Vri chuckled. The sound of her laughter made some bells jingle inside the tent. She nodded as she slid away from the woman, waved her hand and, after a last glance to the shop and the seashells, returned to her mother.

She did it. Every week Vri visited to the floating market with her mother and went to the shop of the fortune teller. There, she listened to wondrous tales about the sea and a far far land  and was taught about the secret worlds of the Tarot.

The opium den was a marvelous, dirty place set in the suburbs of the desert city. Artists, derelicts, thieves and magicians gathered there in search of forbidden pleasure and forgetfulness. Vri was sprawled over worn pillows in a private alcove. Spirals of smoke filled the air along with the scent of sweat and spices. Five cards were scattered around the Moorish adventurer, the hems of her crimson tunic seemed to flutter in the dim light of the alcove. She was barefoot. Vri passed her hands through the fur of a tabby cat with a coy smile.

It's time to dream and put an end to this story, don't you think? she whispered, mirroring herself into the cunning eyes of the cat. The animal gave her back an enigmatic gaze. It opened its mouth and meowed.

The ritual began.

The act – the cards flew around her as if moved by invisible strings, or the fingers of an absent wind.

The words – Vri's mouth constantly spoke the secrets of the ritual. Powerful words of incantation she had learned through the ages. Her voice echoed into the walls of the alcove like an eerie chant.

The dream-key – she looked into the cat's eyes, losing, little by little, the sense of space and time. The world blurred.

The disclosure of the seal – she pressed the edge of the kriss blade over her naked left arm. Her skin opened up like an orchid as the blood flowed in splendid rivulets.

The Dreamlands.

That unknown realm where few humans dared to journey and even less came back to tell.

In these latitudes terror and marvel were blended in a deceptive deviant marriage. You could lose yourself forever, you'd never come back. Every kind of creature and thought could be found here, even demons and Gods could be deceived here and dreaded to visit this place.

Only the cats knew the way in and the way out from the Dreamlands. They were keys, they were heralds, they were portals.

Vri knew something about their secrets. Well, more than something; this was not the first time she had dared to tread the arcane paths. It could be the last. She lost herself in the hypnotic gaze of the stray cat and suddenly she was there.

Vri found herself in the middle of a dark trail made of a substance that resembled mud blended with stone.

On her left, a coastal world of cliffs, sand and coral. Water. Blue water. The infinite waters of the ocean she had always dreamed about. The Tarot sorceress had never seen the ocean in her whole lifetime, except in her dreams.

Vri was happy, at least, that should she survive this last chase, she would have finally fulfilled her deepest craving.

On her right, a wasteland. Flames and ashes. Hundreds, thousands of burning pyres. A faint wind blew