No Light in August: Tales From Carcosa & the Borderland (Digital Horror Fiction Author Collection) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the man I knew. “Michael Cameron’s dead; so are all
his folk,” he said, not meeting my eye as he spoke.
    I stood
there for a moment, taking in what he’d said. I knew the Camerons. Michael, his
wife Sarah, and their two children; Iris watched the kids sometimes.
    Behind
Sam, the cloud loomed larger, though that hardly seemed possible. A dusting of
grit was already falling, covering everything in a fine grey layer.
    “Best see
to the car and come inside, storm’s coming down.”
     
    I poured
two glasses of whiskey and set them down on the kitchen table. Outside, the
storm blew itself hoarse and darkened the room enough that I needed to light
one of the oil lamps.
    “How?” I
asked as I lit a cigarette and gave one to Sam. He accepted, lit it, and
dragged in a deep lungful, and only after a long sigh where almost no smoke
came out did he reach for his drink. “Shot. Looks as if Michael did it while
they was at dinner last night.”
    His words
pulled at something, hauling it up until it came to me. “There was something on
the wall or on the table where it happened.”
    Sam looked
at me like he didn’t know me. He didn’t, not really. Reaching into his pocket,
he laid a folded scrap of paper on the table.
    He didn’t
need to unfold it for me to know what I’d see. Some things follow you, no
matter how hard you try to shake them off. Even if the past doesn’t weigh you
down, it never really goes anywhere.
     
    After some
hours, the storm passed. Lucky, I thought; all show and little substance. I saw
to the animals and went with Sam.
    I didn’t
need to go; didn’t want to. I knew what I’d see there, but it was either that
or stay in the house and keep drinking. The latter was more attractive, but
only insofar as it was my routine and I’m a man of habit. The former got its
teeth into me — sinking into the old wounds, and opening them up again.
    “Some call
it witch’s foot or the broken cross,” I said, holding the piece of paper in
both hands — more to stop the shakes than anything else.
    “You saw
it before?” “A long time ago.”
    Sam didn’t
press anymore; he was good like that. I can’t say if I would’ve put up much of
a fight if he did. Something was wearing down inside me, crumbling with the
trundling of the wheels. The bourbon had eroded the old walls, so there wasn’t
much left to hold it in place.
    They’d
been dead a while before anyone found them — not the Camerons, but another
family in another place. It was in the meat-packing district; they were as
Polish as it gets, but that wasn’t anything special. No one else wanted it, so
they gave it to me.
    As bad
ones go, it was pretty bad. The father was in his place at the top of the
table; his head leaning back across the chair rest so far that his neck looked
fit to snap. His mouth was frozen in a smile, almost too wide for his mouth to
hold; you might have thought he was happily drunk, if not for the black pits
where his eyes used to be.
    His wife
was to his left, facedown across the table in a pool of congealed blood.
    I looked
at each of the children, but tried my best not to take in the details. The
flies helped with that. They were so thick and fat you had to squint and cover
your mouth in case one or a dozen found their way in. Left alone to gorge for
so long, they treated us like intruders to a meal, which I suppose we were.
    It was
open and shut; the gun was on the floor near the father’s chair, lying beneath
his limp hand. His other held the knife he’d used on himself, most likely
after. The only odd thing was the symbol carved onto the table in front of him.
    I figured
they were religious types — or at least he was, and he’d snapped. Wasn’t the
first time I’d seen something like it. People seek solace in something familiar
and sure when they’re confronted with the reality of modern life. The uncaring
nature of a city and the relentless pursuit of money by any means breed a kind
of mania that can only be