The Best of Penny Dread Tales (28 page)

The woman shrieked and covered her mouth with her hands, unable to decide whether to go help the injured man or try to hide.

“Mama! Papa’s hurt!” Madame Limatana called to her.

Georges strode over to the gas light on the wall and turned the key, brightening the room.

“Fake!” Yves tugged on strings that pulled some sort of balloon out from behind another curtain.

Madame Limatana’s father finally managed to stand upright. A rivulet of blood ran down his cheek from where the kaleidoscope had struck his eyebrow. “Stop,” he called out.

“Fake!” Yves pulled a hidden lever and a wind started up, blowing the curtains and the fake ghost with a rippling effect.

“Stop!” The man roared and stomped toward Yves. “Stop!”

Yves fell into a ball where he was and began sobbing loudly.

“How dare you!” Georges approached the man threateningly. “You charlatan! How dare you try to take advantage of us and then yell at my brother as though
he
has done something wrong?” Georges raised his hand as if to backhand the man.

“Stop. Please stop.” Madame Limatana put herself between the two men. “Please.”

The older woman ran over and protectively placed herself between Georges and Madame Limatana.

Georges lowered his hand and pulled himself up erect, straightening his coat. “You have not heard the last of me. You will be hearing from my solicitor.” He stiffly walked over to where Yves was still crying on the floor.

“Sir, please,” Madame Limatana followed him, “allow me the chance to explain.”

Georges ignored her. “Come, Tomás. Let us get away from this place. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to what you said about Angelica. She was right. I will listen in the future. Come on.” He held out his hand.

Yves began reaching up, but stopped, his eyes upon the kaleidoscope he had intentionally stomped upon while yelling “Fake!” and exposing the rigged props. His mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide as he pointed at the broken toy. His jaw began working, but no sound came out.

Georges followed Yves pointing finger until he was looking at the glass shards and smashed brass tube. He allowed his own countenance to darken into a hopeless despair. “Oh dear God, no.”

Yves let loose with a mighty ear-shattering wail and began crawling toward the broken toy.

Georges blocked his way. He bent down and scooped the man up like a child, holding his crying countenance into his shoulder. He turned, glaring with burning eyes, and hissed. “That was the only thing he had from our mother. It was the only thing that calmed him.”

“Sir, I am so sorry …”

He turned his back to them and carried the sobbing Yves out the front door and into the street.

“God Almighty! How much farther? You weigh as much as a mule,” he grunted into Yves ear.

“Go ’round the corner,” Yves sobbed into his shoulder as he kept an eye on the store’s front door.

Georges made his way between buildings, dropping his brother the instant tapped him to let him know they were out of sight.

“Oh, thank God. My poor back.”

“How’d it go?” Yves asked. “Did they look worried?”

“Not as worried as I would have liked, but enough I think. You might have ruined it by scoring the man in the eye!”

“Not like he didn’t have it coming. He’s back there bilking money from poor old ladies who believe in his malarkey. They’re not any better than the people who took all of Mum’s money pretending they were talking to Father.”

“Let’s circle to the back of the building and see if we can figure out what they are up to.” Georges suggested.

Yves nodded and pulled his ghost-scope out of his pocket. It looked just like the broken kaleidoscope. As they neared the back of the building, he extended the scope to its full length and began looking through it.

“Anything?” Georges asked.

Yves shook his head and passed the ghost-scope over.

Georges held it to his eye and examined the view of the world it provided.

The back of the building became as if nothing more than a yellowish shadow, revealing other, darker yellow shadows within. Georges could make out three figures moving around, and he could even tell which was Madame Limatana and which were her parents, but it was hard to tell what they were doing. The man waved his arms quickly and angrily as the women followed him around the shop, appearing to talk and lay hands upon him to calm him, but beyond the movements of their shadowy outlines, details were lost.

“The walls are too thick.” He handed the scope back to Yves. “Did you have any trouble using it inside?”

Yves put the scope in his pocket.

“A little. Not too bad. I could see well enough to find all of their tricks. How long do you think we should wait before we go back?”

“What do you want to try to get? Hush money or part of the business?” Georges’ eyes gleamed with excitement.

“I still feel trying to get part of the business will come back to haunt us one of these days. I still think we are better off just taking money and never having anything lead back to us. If someone gets really upset about paying us off every month, they could track us down through a bank deposit.”

Georges frowned. “In that case, I say we go back tonight.”

“Sir! There you are! Please! You didn’t give me a chance to explain!” Madame Limatana had turned the corner and spotted them.

Georges cursed under his breath as Yves quickly pretended to be quietly sobbing.

“Please, come back.” The woman hiked the edge of her dress up as she hurried over to them. “Please. I can put this right if you will just give me the chance.”

Georges glanced at Yves who was having a hard time hiding a satisfied smirk as the woman closed in on them. Yves nodded slightly.

“And just how do you intend to ‘put this right’?” Georges asked.

She stopped and curtsied as she reached them. “I am so sorry about your kaleidoscope,” she told Yves, who refused to meet her eyes. “We can see about getting you a new one. Maybe a better one, even.”

Turning back to Georges, she bowed slightly again. “Please, sir. Please come back.”

Georges sighed exasperatedly. “I will give you five minutes. Come, Tomás.”

Yves resisted, shrugging off Georges’ hand. “Not Mummy.”

“I know. But let’s go see what they have to say. Please. For Richie.”

Yves reluctantly followed Georges and Madame Limatana back to the shop. He made retching sounds as they walked through the lingering odor of the spilled oils.

Madame Limatana’s parents were waiting for them. The man’s eyebrow had stopped bleeding, and the blood had been mostly cleaned off his face.

“Sir,” began the man, “We are terribly sorry for any distress we may have caused you and your brother. It’s just …” he broke off looking for the right words.

“It’s just that you are frauds, bilking good honest people out of their money with your petty lies designed to give them false hope.” More bitterness from his own history crept into Georges’ voice than he had intended.

“Oh, no sir.” Madame Limatana stepped forward again.

“We have found,” interjected her mother, “that most people who claim they want to speak with the dead truly do not. They want to feel released of burdens and obligations to the departed, but they rarely want to actually speak with the deceased.”

“Which is why we installed our diversions and gimmicks,” Papa finished. “To allow us to grant them that peace of mind. But if you truly wish to speak to the spirits of the departed, we can accommodate you.” He pointed back to the room Yves had nearly torn apart and eyed Georges challengingly.

Georges hesitated for a moment, but Yves made the decision for him by marching into the room muttering, “Fake.”

Georges followed. Madame Limatana was the last to enter the room, closing the door behind her parents as they followed Georges.

Mama seated herself at the head of the table where Madame Limatana had been before. Papa and Madame Limatana followed suit, sitting to either side of Mama, who gestured for Georges and Yves to sit as well.

Yves noisily wiped his nose on his sleeve and climbed into a chair, sitting while holding his knees close to his chest. Georges managed an affect of impatience as he seated himself.

“No need to turn off the lights?” he asked snidely.

“No.” The old woman’s answer was neither terse nor acquiescing. “The spirits care not.” She held out her hands to her daughter and husband, and they took hold of them. Papa offered his hand to Georges while Madame Limatana reached for Yves’.

Yves grabbed the young woman’s hand with a silly childish grin that Georges thought was likely less than half faked. With a sigh, Georges took Papa’s hand and then took hold of Yves other hand, completing the circle.

Mama closed her eyes and bowed her head, muttering a chant. The room grew cold, and the gas light fluttered although there was no breeze. Her voice took on an ethereal quality, a lilting timbre beyond the capability of a human voice.

“Georges? Georges, is that you?” The voice came from the woman, but seemed to be all around at once. Georges went pale at the sound of his real name.

Yves’ eyes went wide and flashed from Georges to the woman leading the séance.

“Oh, my poor, poor little Georges.”

As something touched him, Georges jerked upright and pulled his hands back, turning to see behind himself, and feeling the back of his head.

“Yves! For shame!” the voice continued.

Yves nearly fell out of the chair trying to turn around.

“Why do you lead your brother around the country like this? It’s not good for either of you. And don’t get me started on how you are wasting your father’s invention!” The room grew frigid as the ghost scope lifted up out of Yves’ pocket and hovered in the air before them.

Yves grabbed at it, but then dropped it on the table, as though he had been burned. Frost rapidly grew like ivy across the brass and filmed the lenses.

“So many good things you could have done with it. You could be helping doctors heal people. You could be letting others see it to learn how to make another. But no. My children use their father’s greatest gift to them for petty extortion and cheap thrills with poor unsuspecting women.”

Yves face jerked as an audible slapping sound filled the room. His hands flew up to cover his reddening cheek.

“God Almighty!” Georges eyes were wide in fear.

Madame Limatana’s hair swirled behind her head as though someone were lovingly stroking it. She was unfazed by the ghostly touch and even gave an appreciative smile to the air above her.

“Lavinia. Boamos.” Madame Limatana’s parents both looked up. “You do a good thing here. I am sorry my sons have caused you so much trouble. They didn’t understand what you do. They will fix everything they broke and pay for everything they can’t.”

“
Sastimos,
Didikai
,” Mama said with a gentle smile.

The wind ruffled Mama’s hair and then a cold chill surrounded Yves and Georges. Both of their chairs began to rise into the air and they grabbed the edges for balance.

“Mind your mother, boys,” their mother’s disembodied voice warned. “Put this right, and get your lives straight before it is too late.”

The chairs slammed back to the ground, nearly sending Georges and Yves falling out of them. And then the presence was gone.

Georges’ breath came in rapid pants in the silence that followed. Yves scrambled to grab the ghost-scope off the table and held it to his eye, searching desperately for any hidden mechanism that could have lifted his chair.

Madame Limatana and her parents stood up with gentle, yet self-satisfied smiles upon their faces.

“You can start by re-hanging the curtains,” Papa told them and left the room, followed by Mama.

“And I’ll thank you to never look at me with that scope again.” Madame Limatana’s cold gaze and tone of voice froze Yves where he was.

Georges shakily got out of his chair and imitated Yves by examining it, but his examination was cursory. “I think that really was Mother,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t have been doing this. I told you! We were the crooks all along. How many people have we…?”

Yves grabbed Georges’ shoulder and spun him. A huge red welt in the shape of a handprint covered his cheek. “If that was really Mother, then why did she slap me for being a Peeping Tom, but not you for blasphemy?”

“I didn’t blaspheme!”

“Yes you did.” Yves waved his arms angrily. “When I got slapped you yelled out ‘God Almighty!’”

A slapping sound filled the room and Yves’ head jerked sharply to the side. When he looked back at Georges, he had welts on both sides of his face. He glared at Georges. “Mother always did like you best.”

***

The Heart of Appricotta

Mike Cervantes

A Letter from R.J. Bricabrac to George H.M. Entrils, Dean of Anthropological Studies, Interdimensional University:

Dear Sirs,

Thank you for providing me with another opportunity to present my findings. Unfortunately, I’m unable to do so in person, as I’ve come back from my latest expedition with a bad case of Portal Pox. I’m certain I’ll recover in enough time to see you in person soon, but meanwhile, I’ve been a bit too busy, quarantined in my dormitory while the faculty throw numerous parties around me, so that I may give the disease to the other little scientists.

It’s just another one of the many small sacrifices that I, Rufus Jerome Bricabrac, Junior Explorer, Second Class, Undergraduate, Emeritus, of Interdimensional University, enjoys doing for his old alma mater. While I am always the first to admit that my tenure as a full member of the faculty was quite … unavailing, I still work hard daily to uphold the principles of our storied institution, or “Ol’ Timesides” as the students like to refer to it.

From the very moment our founder, Professor J. Orenthal Ungrate, invented the Trandimensional and Interdimensional Machine Of Travel For History and Industry, or T.I.M.O.T.F.H.Y. for short, I, and every little wheel involved with the tenure of I.U. has worked tirelessly to keep a record of geography and history for every little sideways alternate reality that crosses into our stratosphere as a result of interacting with his wonderful invention. I remember being there personally the day the Professor sacked the entire geography department, scoffing at their ridiculous claims that we’d put the frontier out of business, since he had created a machine that could offer us countless, possibly infinite, frontiers to explore.

Ah, Professor Ungrate, may he live forever … And one day perhaps escape the belly of the mysterious eldritch abomination who appeared in the portal and swallowed him whole in a vain attempt to absorb his inner power.

But I digress. One could certainly spend a lifetime explaining our glorious history, but one can also spend a lifetime attempting to add to it, which is precisely what I attempted to do with my latest expedition.

I chose to attempt something that my contemporaries had yet to conquer successfully: a thorough geographical survey of the dark, untamed, center of the continent of Appricotta. Located in universe quadrant 9-611, Appricotta, like our own Africa, is a wild, untamed, wilderness, filled with tall, ungroomed foliage, and any manner of monstrous untamed fauna, the likes of which we’ll never see in our own dimension. A contemporary of mine, Hammond Wholewheat, was the last to attempt to explore these treacherous jungles and came back with only these three words to say about the whole of: Appricotta “It’s the pits!”

Undeterred by my colleague’s negative assessment, I immediately began to set my sights on finding the center of Appricotta. I collected my supplies: food, camping gear, and navigational equipment, as well as my trusty instantaneous daguerreotype maker, able to record images of the continent with a mere shutter click..

Since I am currently not in any way tenured by the University, I had no resources to secure a proper crew, and instead I had to once again impose on the good nature of my trusted manservant Quee-Zay. A native of a savage version of Finland located in universe quadrant 11-11, Quee-Zay is a man who knows no fear. Literally, the concept of fear does not exist at all in his universe. He became indebted to me after I saved him from a rampaging Hunkabeast, and let me tell you, it was a hunk of a Hunkabeast, and he has been my loyal confidant in many an expedition. His skills compliment mine ideally, for as much I am intelligent, sophisticated, and worldly of mind, Quee-Zay is strong, wily, and interested in little besides his own self-preservation.

With supplies at the ready, we immediately passed through the T.I.M.O.T.F.H.Y. and found ourselves at a camp just north of darkest Appricotta. There, we met with the native Gelby tribesmen, who we’ve become allies with us in the numerous times we’ve failed to find the center of the continent. We spent our first night in their care, partaking of wine in giant juice-filled gourds and participating in a tribal dance performed by the chief in order to wish us a safe journey. At dawn the next morning, we set on our way while the Gelby stood at the border chanting “Ooba-Toohwa-Nawa,” which I understand means “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Aren’t they sweet?

We began by venturing into the dense jungle, Quee-Zay hacking away at the overgrown foliage with his machete. I had my Instantaneous Daguerreotype machine at the ready, certain we’d reach the vast, uncharted, center of the continent a lot sooner than we expected. But, no sooner had I thought that did Quee-Zay stop dead in his tracks, his spindle-thin body bent over two pairs of dense bushes I couldn’t see over.

“What’s the matter,” I asked of my astute guide.

“Big water,” he replied.

I stuck my head into the foliage at Quee-Zay’s height and saw that indeed, we had walked a straight line into a steep cliff overlooking a gigantic waterfall. I quickly tossed a rock in order to determine the depth of the drop. To this day I wonder what happened to that rock. Anyway, I reasoned that since there is a waterfall, we must be standing on the very ground upon where the river decides life is no longer worth living. Therefore, we can merely walk along the edge of the cliff towards the waterfall to find a spot to proceed.

The detour took several hours, trudging in an ellipse around the cliff with Quee-Zay still hacking away feverishly at the native plant life. Finally, we could see a clearing. I practically jumped over Quee-Zay’s back and ran towards the first thing we’d found in that godforsaken place to resemble a meadow. Eagerly I threw my hands into the river, splashed the water on my face and loudly exclaimed, “We’re free!”

That’s when a hundred spears thrust out from the bushes in every direction, stopping just short of my neck. I instinctively began to follow standard “captured by natives” procedure by putting my hands on my head and slowly getting back onto my feet. Standing at my side was Quee-Zay, who was coaxed from hiding by yet more spears.

“We been bought,” he quipped.

As we took the long walk back to the home of these ruffians, I got my first good look at them. They looked pretty standard for tribesman, hair bound into braids tied with bones, bones in their noses, war paint across their faces, and nothing to hide their personal shame but a loincloth. That was all pretty standard. Their dark blue fur, white shiny fangs, and claw-tipped fingers, however, were enough to give me considerable alarm.

Once we were led to the center of the village, my eye caught sight of a giant black cauldron right in the center of the square. In any known universe, that spells “cannibalism.” Oddly, I didn’t feel afraid. Instead, I felt an enormous amount of indignant rage well up within me. I vocalized many times over how much I resented being eaten, and said many things to the effect of “I will not be a feast to these cannibals!” and “Don’t these cannibals know they’re about to devour a man of true genius?” but unfortunately, as our captors embodied the very definition of “primitive,” my words were lost on them.

It wasn’t until we began to be lowered into the water filled cauldron that inspiration struck me. I asked Quee-Zay if he could speak to them a few words in Gelby. Quee-Zay did so, and after many words exchanged in the interdimensional tongue, he turned to me and awaited my inquiry.

“So what did they say?” I asked.

“They not like you keep calling them cannibals,” Quee-Zay replied “They don’t have any interest in eating their own kind.”

“If that’s the case, why won’t they set us free!?” I said, feeling my temper rising again.

“We not their kind.”

I endeavored to protest again, but stopped as soon as I felt what could only be the sensation of a heavy pot lid slamming over the top of my head. Fortunately, I was still wearing my pith helmet, or I certainly would have spent the remainder of my soup-like experience as a helpless vegetable. As I sat in the center of total blackness, I allowed serenity to wash over me, and I recalled an important lesson relayed to me by my former professor, Chauncey Putz-Gamey: The best way to avoid cannibalism is to taste terrible.

I instructed Quee-Zay to join me in emptying our pockets for anything foul that might bring negation to our own flavor. I added paprika, fish bullion, removed my socks and underwear and wrung them into the cauldron water. Quee-Zay threw in the milkweed he frequently chews on for indigestion and an enormous cube of saltpeter he wears under his headdress for religious purposes. I came to a conclusion in the moment that perhaps an enormous amount of oxidant into a rapidly boiling cauldron was perhaps not a good idea, roughly around the time the pot began to boil over, blowing the cauldron lid clear off our heads and sending it sailing into one of the nearby thatched huts.

The natives looked oddly at us.

We looked oddly at the natives.

The natives looked meanly at us.

We looked affrightedly at the natives.

Thinking quickly, I informed Quee-Zay to commence “Operation Snail Shell,” an improvisational tactic wherein we both tipped over the cauldron until it was standing upside down, then lifting the mouth of the immense appliance over both our heads and carrying it over us as we ran for our lives. It would have been successful, if not for the fact that this particular cannibal’s pot was indeed very heavy, and we were only able to lift it waist-high. We nonetheless attempted to make a run, but just as I’d calculated we’d only made it a few steps before we crashed pot-first into a nearby tree.

I attempted to bargain with Quee-Zay to be the first to peek out of the pot to see how far we’ve gone, but he insisted that he chose paper over my rock, even though it was too dark inside to actually see our hands.

I lifted the mouth of the pot and was met with the sight of the cruelest pair of feet I’d ever seen in my days. These feet belonged to the tribe’s chieftain, who I believe was a being composed entirely out of fat, fur, and anger. Quee-Zay’s translations relayed to me that our self-interested attempt to avoid becoming appetizing had upset a tribal ritual, desecrated sacred ground, and angered a god whose only concept of mercy is the sending of plagues containing only tiny frogs.

“Does this mean we won’t be eaten?” I asked sheepishly.

“They not want to waste the dishes. Now we will be sacrificed to big water.” Quee-Zay said with a bit of native exasperation in his voice.

We were tied in a prostrated position against a bamboo raft and carried to a river. We lay completely helpless as the tribal chieftain made a heart-felt plea to his angry god to allow us to be perfectly acceptable in our role as an indecipherable smear on the jagged rocks at the bottom of the waterfall. With a salute, punctuated by a word that sounded like a punch to the stomach in Yiddish, the assembled tossed the raft in the river.

The roaring water at my ears was deafening. I tried to do what I could to signal Quee-Zay but was unable to do anything to outcry the river. I knew that I was on my own at the moment, locked in a battle of wits with a body of rapidly moving water, and currently losing. Things were grim. I had thought for a moment about making peace with my chosen deity, only to conclude that I was in another universe and had no real way of confirming that my chosen deity even existed here.

I reached down to attempt the sign of the cross with my right hand. It was then that I realized that the natives had tied the line binding my right hand somewhat loosely, and whenever I pulled down, the ropes around my left ankle would tighten. I attempted to free myself by doing the inverse: I pushed my right hand into the river water and attempted to wiggle my left ankle free from the slightly slackened vine. Presumably, it worked, and I victoriously lifted my freed left ankle in a 90-degree position from the raft.

That’s when I hit the branch.

Indeed, a low hanging tree branch decided to rise in our way the very moment I shook my leg free. When it struck me, the pain was excruciating, but putting that aside in favor of not dying, I crooked my ankle and attempted to bring a stop to the crusading death trap. We were safe, but unfortunately still trapped, as I found myself at a loss to untie myself any further without losing my tenuous grasp on the overhanging tree branch.

I felt the raft rock. I turned my head to see Quee-Zay on his feet with both hands gripping the overhanging branch. At first, I was at a loss as to how he managed to get loose from his bonds, but, remembering what had happened a year ago while nearly burned at the stake in a Boston infested with mad Puritans, (I believe that was Universe 471-88) it’s likely that he chewed the ropes off.

Now that I’d stabilized the raft, it was Quee-Zay’s job to shimmy across the branch and carry me to safety. It was a slow and sensitive endeavor. He first raised his legs to meet his arms. Then he shimmied across the length of the branch, forcing it to bob up and down and nearly forcing me to lose my foothold on the branch. Once he got to the other side, I felt as good as saved.

Then he made a break for it.

I wasn’t offended. I was certain that Quee-Zay was merely interested in securing a more suitable means of rescue.

And that would have been perfectly lovely, if the branch hadn’t chosen that very moment to snap.

I sailed through the rough, deadly rapids of the river, foregoing my previous hesitation towards prayer while I was tossed right and left down a path of certain destruction. Not seeing another opportunity to catch myself, or really anything in the face of such a torrential whisking, I attempted to resign myself to my fate. In my panic I struggled to remember precisely what the five stages of grief were supposed to be, so I experienced denial, anger, gassiness, and that strange confusion you get when you feel you’ve left a door unlocked before finally achieving acceptance.

When the raft slid out of the river, I felt the sensation of flying several miles rapidly downward with the wind whipping across my soggy personage, so quickly I felt my clothing start to dry. Every muscle in my body tied itself in a knot as I braced for impact.