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    T is for Tarot: A-Z of Horror, #20
    T is for Tarot: A-Z of Horror, #20
    T is for Tarot: A-Z of Horror, #20
    Ebook287 pages4 hours

    T is for Tarot: A-Z of Horror, #20

    By Barend Nieuwstraten III, Doris V. Sutherland, Chris Hewitt and

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    About this ebook

    T is for Tarot is the twentieth book in an epic series of twenty-six horror anthologies. Between these pages you will find a collection of thirteen unsettling tales from some of the most talented independent horror authors writing today. From modern day to historic settings, from carnival fortune tellers to powerful mystics, T is for Tarot will draw you in with the power of the cards and show you that your destiny cannot be outrun.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRed Cape Publishing
    Release dateMar 8, 2024
    ISBN9798224250554
    T is for Tarot: A-Z of Horror, #20

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      Book preview

      T is for Tarot - Barend Nieuwstraten III

      Red Cape Publishing Presents…

      The A-Z of Horror: T is for Tarot

      DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      Copyright © 2024 Red Cape Publishing

      All rights reserved.

      Cover Design & Interior Artwork by Red Cape Graphic Design

      www.redcapepublishing.com/red-cape-graphic-design

      Deck of Many Destinies

      Saffira Raine

      The mansion sat tucked in the jagged cliffs of Galway, and I followed a serpentine road heading straight for it. The twisting lane, known by the locals as ‘The Vein’, sliced through a patchwork quilt of peat bogs and sheep farms like an arterial lifeline connecting the disparate homesteads to the modern civilization.

      It was that same civilization I was desperate to escape. I would have traveled through the gates of hell to get away from the paparazzi who’d been dodging my every move for the past few months.

      I glanced in my rearview mirror but couldn’t see anyone behind me. Good. I must have lost them somewhere in the twists and turns of The Vein, with its various off-shoot roads cutting through the landscape. I’d tried to veer off the main road as often as possible to make them lose my scent, but bloodhounds were notoriously good at finding prey. It didn’t help that I reeked of weakness and fear. The stench clung to me since stumbling off that stage in New York.

      Twilight helped hide me, too. The sky had dimmed, as though someone had turned down a cosmic switch. The gloom gave me an added layer of protection, and I kept my headlights off. Turning them on would have been like flashing a neon sign pointing right to my car. At least I’d been smart enough to buy a black Mercedes when all my friends opted for flashy, cherry-red Porches or blazing yellow Lamborghinis.

      My hands tightened on the steering wheel, fingers cramping with each passing kilometre. The stress of the past month was taking its toll, and I could feel it peeling away the layers, revealing the raw, vulnerable emotions beneath. I had to make it to the mansion before I fell apart altogether.

      On my left, I spotted a series of standing stones, weathered and ancient, stretched toward the darkening sky like gnarled fingers. They whispered of a past older than time, casting long, ominous shadows on the heath.

      I was close now. So close.

      As I drew nearer to my destination, the once lively farms and villages dwindled, replaced by stretches of untamed wilderness. In the distance, I could see the silhouette of the mansion, a turreted monstrosity cut against the darkening skyline. It had once been an imposing example of Gothic architecture but now stood as a decaying titan, stooping under the weight of its years. It was no beachfront villa on the French Riviera, nor a Hollywood Hills grand estate, but it was my inheritance, my distant past, and perhaps my future.

      My tires crunched over the pebble-strewn path as I pulled through the open iron gates. While overgrown shrubs scraped the sides of my fancy car, I bent over the steering wheel and glanced up at the spires and turrets spearing the sky. They felt alien, otherworldly, like tentacles birthed of Celtic legends of old.

      I cut the engine and took a deep breath, then stepped out. Weeds crackled under my designer boots. The air smelled of damp moss, raw earth, and a coming storm—a scent so quintessentially Irish, it was as if the very land sought to shame me for not returning sooner.

      A rush of wind swept through the desolate landscape. The mansion’s windows rattled in their frames. I hesitated, my hand freezing on the car’s door handle. I suddenly missed Great-Aunt Agatha so much it hurt to breathe.

      The building’s exterior was a tapestry of cracked limestone, weather-worn and moss-covered. Its massive oak doors were parted a crack, as if awaiting my arrival. Why were they not closed? No one lived here anymore. Not since Agatha had passed.

      I took a cautious look around me. There were no other tire tracks marring the dusty path, and the only footprints on the front steps were mine.

      Heart in my throat, I walked forward and eased the grand doors open.

      ***

      I yearned for the flicker of a welcoming lamp, the hum of a furnace or a fridge, any glimmer of modern life inside these ancient walls. The only source of light was the waning glow of twilight filtering through the dust-cloaked windows. I found a switch by the front door—Great-Aunt Agatha hadn’t been a complete Luddite—but when I flipped it, nothing happened.

      Looks like I’ll need to call the electric company tomorrow. I spoke as loudly as I dared. The sound of my voice provided little comfort as it echoed off the cavernous walls.

      Rummaging inside my purse, I grabbed my cellphone and flicked on its flashlight. As the white beam pierced the dimness, the building appeared larger and more oppressive than I remembered. I swallowed hard. As a child, I’d spent many summer afternoons exploring the various rooms, but now this ancient building seemed foreign to me.

      But Great-Aunt Agatha had willed the mansion to me when she’d died. This was my place. I was welcome here.

      So why did I feel like I had to keep reminding myself of that?

      My modern torch cast a white sheen over cobwebs that clung to the corners of the majestic entry hall, creating fragile veils that swayed in the stale air. The high ceilings boasted intricate mouldings, their delicate patterns encrusted with grime.

      I passed the grand staircase, its once-lustrous banisters now dulled with time, the carpet runner threadbare and faded. Memories of running wild on bare feet down those very steps, a boisterous child fuelled by a strange mix of fear and giddy excitement, played in my mind.

      Passing room after room on the main floor, I imagined Great-Aunt Agatha. She’d lived here all alone for most of her life. She would have been a silhouette moving among the shadows, her cat-like movements marked by the rustle of silk robes. I remembered her as a small lady swallowed by layers of wide, swishy cloth.

      The dining room came into view, revealing a massive table and a sparkly chandelier. I smiled as I remembered Great-Aunt Agatha spinning vivid tales of mystical creatures and magical worlds over dinner. She’d filled her tales with adventure and excitement, but there’d also been scary monsters and danger aplenty. She used to leave me trembling, too scared to go to bed—and also desperate to hear more.

      The kitchen, with its archaic appliances and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox, stood as a tribute to a simpler time. I could still smell the lingering aroma of herbs and the strange concoctions Great-Aunt Agatha brewed.

      I quickened my steps through the winding corridors, peering through open doorways while I searched for my favorite hiding places. There was the library, with its soaring bookshelves. The pantry, where I’d bury myself amongst sacks of flour and towering jars of preserves. The sunroom, where I used to stow away among potted ferns and orchids.

      So little has changed, I mused, both comforted and unnerved by the familiarity of it all.

      And yet outside these walls, everything had changed. I had changed. And Great-Aunt Agatha was gone.

      I made my way back to the base of the winding staircase. My foot found the first step and my gaze trailed upward to the shadowy landing of the second floor. Moonlight shone through the grime-streaked skylight, casting ghostly shadows on the carpet. A chill ran down my spine.

      I had planned to explore the entire mansion, but the lack of electricity now spooked me. And here, standing at the foot of the stairs, what remained of my courage faltered.

      Tomorrow, I whispered into the silence. I’ve got all the time in the world.

      That much was true, at least. With my career in shambles and my life shattered by public humiliation, what else did I have going for me? I belonged among the dust and shadows, where I could sort through the rubble of my world and piece together the fragments of who I once was. Maybe I’d also figure out who I wanted to be.

      But not tonight.

      I withdrew to the main entrance, turned off the flashlight, and hurried to the sanctuary of my car.

      The interior lights of the Mercedes blinded me, then dimmed, leaving me in darkness. Beside me, the sharp click of the locking doors sounded more comforting than I expected.

      I wrapped my coat tighter around me and curled up on the plush leather seat, suddenly yearning for the intrusive chatter of reporters. Heck, I’d even take the garish flash of a camera and everything that came with the familiar discomfort of being in the public eye. At least the paparazzi would provide me with some human contact.

      I sat up. Wait—could I honestly prefer their prying lenses and relentless questions to the silence and solitude? My heart thumped a yes. The all-encompassing loneliness was more terrifying than any unwanted attention.

      I sighed, then settled back against the headrest. When I turned to get comfortable, I spotted a ghostly image staring back at me from the side window. I almost screamed before I realized it was my reflection.

      Get a grip, Melinda, I scolded myself. There’s no one else out here. And that was the problem, I admitted as I closed my eyes.

      For what felt like hours afterward, I attempted to will myself to sleep. But Great-Aunt Agatha’s mansion had stirred up old feelings of unease, and rest remained as remote as the nearest farmhouse.

      ***

      I had expected someone from the electric company to come out here and flip a switch, but by the time I hung up the phone, the customer service rep had done her magic. As the current surged through the mansion, my unease evaporated.

      That had been three days ago, and I’d felt a little foolish ever since. By the cozy glow of lamplight, I couldn’t believe I had ever feared this place.

      As I explored more thoroughly, the old house transformed before my eyes. Daylight revealed the beauty hidden beneath the dust, while the heater dispelled the lingering chill. I had stocked the fridge with food from the nearest town market, and that first morning I taught myself how to use the antiquated oven. By mid-afternoon, the aroma of baking bread had replaced the stagnant air.

      One of my most important tasks had been to change the locks on the front doors. I had done it myself, proudly twisting the bolt and claiming the mansion as my own.

      Then I’d picked a room. Not Great-Aunt Agatha’s—I couldn’t bring myself to be that bold—but a smaller one on the east wing of the second floor. I found some lavender candles tucked away in a pantry cupboard, washed the sheets by hand, and hung new curtains. Though the rest of the house required work, my bedroom felt like home.

      Today, I was up in the attic—the one place I hadn’t yet explored. I’d had to stoop under the low ceiling as I pushed open the small, creaky door. Relics from another era took up most of the space: antique furniture, dusty books, torn toys. The air was thicker here and the cobwebs more abundant—like this was the spiders’ domain, not mine.

      The floorboards groaned under my weight, releasing a cloud of dust that made me cough. As I walked, my toe nudged a pile of old newspapers, causing them to rustle and slide along the ground. I bent to grab one. The headline read President Roosevelt Announces End of WWII. A flicker of hope sparked within me. If humanity could overcome such a catastrophe, perhaps I could recover, too.

      I peered through the cobweb-laden round window to my right. The world outside looked distant and distorted, utterly unfriendly.

      Yeah, alright. I wasn’t going anywhere. Not anytime soon.

      I spent some time searching through the haphazard piles of Great-Aunt Agatha’s discarded paraphernalia. I found wooden boxes filled with glass marbles in a multitude of hues, and an aged leather-bound family tree tracing lineage I couldn’t comprehend. The hand-drawn maps I discovered in a chest were so old that the destination names had faded, but I still flipped through them one by one.

      And then another object captured my attention. A small, intricately designed silver box that lay atop a stack of moth-eaten linens. I picked it up, admiring the craftsmanship. Not a single speck of dust marred its shiny surface.

      The lid was heavier than I expected, and my hands trembled as I struggled to unlatch it. Inside, nestled among the velvet lining, was a tarot deck. The edges of the cards glinted in the faint light.

      I grinned like I had just reunited with an old friend. As a teen, I’d spent dozens of hours pulling card after card, wondering who had a crush on me and which high school nemesis would meet her doom first. But this deck seemed much more sacred than the cheap, ink-pressed generic ones I had bought from various bookstores over the years. It even smelled ancient—like incense and candle wax.

      Let’s see if I’ve still got it.

      I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting the musty scent of the attic fill my lungs. I shuffled with slow, reverent movements. The cards were cool and silky, not worn and brittle as I’d imagined. The edges, beveled and symmetrical, slid smoothly side-by-side.

      Eventually, I drew a card, then held it up to examine.

      The Moon.

      The ink was thick, the colors deep. The drawing had a bold and intricate quality. No doubt the artist had spent hours perfecting each detail.

      And perfect it was. The artist had replicated a room in the mansion. The image had the same faded floral wallpaper and antique furniture. Except that in the card, a giant full moon hovered close to the ceiling, and a winding path lay across the carpet, leading to a massive bookshelf.

      The library. I’d spent many hours there as a child, surrounded by the smell of old paper and the sound of turning pages.

      Deck in hand, I walked through the dimly lit halls toward my destination. When I got near, I spotted a faint glimmer emanating from the doorway. I heard voices that shouldn’t have been there, and my heart quickened. They were unclear, distorted, and yet they beckoned to me like a siren’s call.

      Pressing the Moon card to my chest, I entered without hesitating.

      Vertigo washed over me. Reality tilted with wild abandon, then the world spun around and around. When the chaos finally slowed, I opened my eyes to a sight at once familiar and impossible.

      I blinked, adjusting to the abrupt shift. A cacophony enveloped me—the shrill screech of electric guitars, the crashing of drums, the hum of amplifiers, and the roar of a crowd gone wild. I was no longer in the dusty mansion, but on a stage I recognized, lit by dazzling spotlights. I could almost taste the anticipation in the air.

      A microphone stood in front of me, the round top glinting under the stage lights. I glanced down and noticed I wore a glittering silver dress... the same dress I was in when—

      No.

      NO!

      It couldn’t be. I—

      Sing already, bitch! A man’s voice, drunk and impatient.

      The audience quieted, looking up at me in anticipation.

      I obeyed, walking closer to the microphone, opening my mouth to sing, and finding... nothing. No lyrics tumbled from my lips. Just silence.

      The hush that had fallen over the crowd didn’t last. What began as a hyper, playful buzz got real mean, real fast, transforming into a vortex of jeers and cruel laughter. The man who’d first heckled me spewed a stream of obscenities my way. No one stepped up to stop him. Nobody gave a damn about me.

      As I watched in horror, the faces of the audience members widened and distorted. Their eyes became large, their teeth sharp, their mouths twisted in rictuses of hate. The stage lights flickered, casting enormous shadows that danced in rhythm with the crowd's howls. They were making their own kind of music now, a tune I could never emulate.

      I trembled, knowing how the evening would end. I'd walk off this stage as a laughingstock, mocked both online and off. The video would go viral. The incident would turn me into an overnight sensation, and I’d become the subject of ridicule on late-night TV. And worse: a meme.

      My music label would drop me later that night, canceling my world tour. I would swiftly go from beloved pop diva to the butt of Reddit jokes in the blink of an eye.

      I had never been the type of girl to cry much, even as a kid. But when my career ended, I shoved my face into my pillow and sobbed for hours.

      I tore my gaze away from the jeering crowd to look at the tarot card I still held. The image had morphed into a portrait of me, on stage, frozen in embarrassment. Dozens of twisted faces now filled the space where the floral wallpaper had been.

      I dropped the card, horrified. It fluttered in slow motion, landing face up at my feet. The crowd’s cackling laughter pitched even louder, piercing my eardrums. The stench of the audience turned from sweat and booze to something putrid, like so many corpses rotting in the sun.

      I fell to my knees and covered my face with my fingers. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I heard them land and imagined the wetness spattering the cardstock.

      Suddenly, the world spun once more. The stage lights blurred into a streak of blinding white, and the shrieks became distant echoes. Invisible hands claimed me, throwing me back into the empty library. I landed with a sprawl on the worn carpet, shivering and disoriented. The tears kept coming, my mortification still raw and burning.

      I don’t know how long I stayed there. Minutes—hours, perhaps. It felt like ages before my cheeks dried and the pounding of my heart returned to normal.

      When I could finally lift my head, the faint glow around the doorway was gone, and the mansion loomed silent again. The tarot cards lay scattered around me, all but the Moon facing down. The illustration mocked me with my image, slack-jawed and dead-eyed as I struggled to remember the lyrics to songs I’d sung thousands of times.

      With trembling hands, I forced myself to gather the cards. As my fingers grazed the velvet interior of the silver box, I noticed something unusual: faint lines etched into my skin that hadn’t been there before. I brought my hand nearer and inspected the unfamiliar wrinkles.

      Confused, I closed the lid and stared at my reflection in the polished surface. I held my breath and traced the crow’s feet beside my temples, then spotted the onset of silver strands in my dark hair. And were my eyes looking a shade dimmer? A flicker less vibrant?

      I gave my head a brisk shake. That experience... that dream... that nightmare... had left me altogether disoriented. Or maybe being in this mansion was messing with my mind.

      Whatever the cause, I was clearly imagining things.

      ***

      Three days, twelve hours, and twenty-seven minutes.

      Without meaning to, I had been keeping track of how much time had passed since I drew the Moon card. I told myself I was only paying attention because there was no way in hell I was ever going near that deck again. The thing had screwed with my mind so much that I struggled to get any sleep. When I closed my eyes, I pictured my fans—people who claimed to love me—turning into monstrous creatures eager to see me burn.

      Cool grey light filtered through the mansion’s windows. Inside, the air was stale and still. I glanced at the massive bookshelves. Any other day, I might have chosen a book and curled up with it to pass the afternoon.

      I had also planned to work on the dining room. I wanted to sweep away the dust and clean out the cobwebs. And I would... soon. But right now, I could only think about the deck.

      My mouth was dry, my tongue rough and metal-tasting. I couldn’t quite remember the last time I brushed my teeth or changed my clothes. Yesterday? The day before? It didn’t matter.

      I stood in front of the desk where I’d set the silver box. It felt like I hadn’t moved in ages. My hands itched with the need to hold the deck once more, to shuffle the cards, to turn them over and ask for their secrets.

      Temptation pulsed through my veins, almost pushing me off my feet.

      One card. Just one.

      I caressed the cool contour of the metal beneath my fingertips, shuddering as pleasure licked through me like a lover’s kiss. The lid swung open, and I grabbed the deck before I could reconsider.

      I’d been under a lot of stress. Maybe I had assigned blame where it didn’t belong—to a simple inanimate object that held no more esoteric power than a wrench or the ladle I used to serve soup.

      I rested on the floor in front of the window. My fingers danced over the silky cards as I shuffled, the swish-swish-swish echoing the rhythm of my pounding heart.

      My hands stilled over one card, and I pulled it, breath hitching in my throat as I turned it over.

      The Hierophant.

      A solemn male figure sat at a large oak desk, staring into a crystal ball. Stacks of journals lined the twin shelves behind him. A single wooden cabinet stood off to one side. My chest constricted as recognition dawned.

      It was the study. Great-Aunt Agatha’s private sanctum.

      I rushed there and spotted another faint ethereal glow spilling out from around the seams of the closed door. Refusing to give myself a chance to turn back, I pushed it open and stepped through.

      I squeezed my eyes shut, but the spinning and confusion didn’t last as long this time. When I opened them, I found myself in a room lit by harsh neon lights. The air smelled clinical, sanitized with antiseptic.

      I recognized the location thanks to the many plaques and certificates lining the walls. Dr. Chen, I said, turning to look for him.

      I noticed the doctor standing a few steps away. He was a small man, a few inches shorter than me, and the white coat he wore threatened to swallow him. His bald head shone in the artificial light.

      He might not have looked like much, but I’d done my homework.

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