☇ ☈ ☍ ☊ ☩
You have been invaded by the freezine of fantasy
and science fiction. You no longer need to sub-
scribe, for we are already subscribed to you.


Saturday, March 21, 2020

Nine Tenths of the Law: III

by Sean Padlo




   Nash massaged his neck, refusing to meet Jacob’s stare. “Well, I suppose...yes. Are you a relation? I mean, are you the Archangel Lucifer in the flesh? I have heard stories, especially in the world today, so please don’t take offense.” 

   “I shouldn’t be offended by being asked if I am the devil. Are you asking if I am the very monster of the Bible, the veritable cause of humanity’s fall?” Jacob realized his voice had risen to a shout. He put his hands out, bringing himself back in control.

   Mr. Nash was gripping the balustrade with white knuckles, and it appeared to Jacob that the manager of the ghost hut may have forgotten how to breathe. “I’m sorry.” Nash would not look up.

   Jacob took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Mr. Nash. Please just ask your question so we can get back to the matter at hand. The important matter.”

   “Oh! Oh yes of course! I truly am sorry for my question! The name, Morningstar, it’s not a very common surname. Not at all.” Nash looked at Jacob now, his eyebrows raised comically high, his expression as close to innocence as Jacob could even recall over his lifetime.

   Jacob smiled gently. “No sir, Morningstar is not a common surname.” He paused for a moment, knowing Nash would wet himself at the very least if the wrong thing was said, or even the right thing taken wrong. “Morningstar is actually very common in Native American tribes.” Jacob passed Nash on the stairs and lead the way. Over his shoulder he added, “Specifically the Cheyenne of the American West.”

   Mr. Nash did not follow immediately, allowing the information to sink deeply into his mind. At last, with a bursting, “Oho! Marvelous!” Nash hopped in place, clapping his sweaty hands together. Jacob Morningstar continued down the stairs at an even pace, and Nash eventually caught up. They were over halfway to the barracks now.

   “The foundation has been restructured with a limestone base,” Nash announced, his voice coming from over Jacob’s shoulder. “Limestone is a basic barrier that holds spirits inside the fort.”

   “Where are the boy’s parents?” Jacob asked.

   Nash paused. “His guardians were sent back to the waiting area when the incident first occurred. They’ve been to see him at least five times since Tuesday.”

   “Today is Monday, Mr. Nash. They have seen him less than once per day?”

   “I’m sorry to say, but yes. His condition has declined rapidly,” Nash explained. “I don’t believe they have visited the boy since we had him restrained, and that would have been late Thursday.”

   Jacob felt his heart skip. “Late Thursday? Restrained this whole time?”

   Nash nodded reluctantly. “I’m afraid so. The boy had taken to injuring himself. Quite severely in fact.”

   As the men descended, the air became stale and musty, and the temperature had fallen to the point where Jacob could see his own breath. He shivered. “Why has it grown so frigid. Mr. Nash? Ephemerals may pull energy from their vicinity, but never to this extreme.”

   Nash crossed his arms, rubbing them as if he was reminded of the freezing atmosphere. “Brr!” He offered Jacob a weak smile. “Before contacting you, we had called upon our own team to assist the issue at hand. They had given Communion to the boy, which he of course rejected completely. Violently so, in fact.

   “Symbols were set around the boy, who had been shackled at that point. He is bound to that spot, but extraction of the possessor has proved impossible. Our ephemeral garrison had become agitated, and the last Extractor we called upon made the decision to send other ephemerals, our strongest in fact, into the boy. We hoped the others would…dislodge the problem.”

   “What is the name of the ephemeral that refused to leave the boy?” Jacob hesitated. “And what is the boy’s name? You’ve not once spoken it.”

   Nash wiped his nose with his sleeve. The scent of ozone was noticeable now; it would be overly strong soon. The barracks smelled like an extended burst of lightning  having struck an electrical fire. “His guardians claimed the boy’s name is Thomas Stasi. But we have not been able to locate any records that this child even exists at all.” Nash turned to Jacob Morningstar. “That is why and when the guardians were barred from seeing the boy. As for the ephemeral, it is a low-level spirit the family chose so the boy could perform magic tricks at a birthday party.”

   They passed beneath a series of wards placed at mid-story landing, and as all three began to release light of myriad colors, something in Jacob’s eyes shifted. Nash gasped as his expression revisited the poorly-veiled panic he showed earlier. Jacob saw this change, stepped nearer, and asked, “Why do you look at me like this?”

   Nash drew back from Jacob Morningstar. “I don’t know. Something. My eyes are playing tricks on me. You seem to double before my vision, fade like an ephemeral, and then I blink and everything is back to normal.”

   Jacob asked, “Have you slept at all lately?” Nash shook his head. “You must be exhausted!”

   Nash nodded. “That must be it. This has been an ordeal for everyone.” As an afterthought, Nash added, “That poor child.”

   The men at last reached the landing and stood before a pair of immense, wrought iron doors. “Through here,” Nash gestured. “The barracks are lined in iron.”

   “Iron is the best way to keep ephemerals in.” Jacob touched the door’s surface. His fingertips sparked, and he pulled his hand away, wincing. “With hidden wards?”

   “Oh, not at all. The protections are etched into the other side.” He stepped away from Morningstar and pushed the door wide. The sigil that came together when the doors were closed crackled and spark as the halves separated. “Curious,” he said.

   Jacob Morningstar stepped around Nash and entered the room. Jacobs Ladders and Faraday Cages were displayed along the stone walls at regular intervals. The whole room appeared to shimmer, though a closer and more studied look around the room showed a massive crowd of ephemerals, possibly hundreds, gathered around a lone boy secured to a metal bench with shackles on his ankles, wrists, and a restraining clasp around his chest. Upon the boy’s head was a fighter’s coronet.

   Jacob approached the boy, slipping past a trio of priests who were standing in the center of the room. Ephemerals gave them a wide berth as the priests chanted their exorcisms. The priest in the center offered the calls while the priests to each side delivered the responses. Cautiously they drew near; an aspergillum sprayed holy water over both Jacob and the boy. Jacob hissed an order for them to stop and returned his attention to the boy. Thomas, the boy, was frail and weak. Heat rose from his body in waves of roiling mist. The child was burning up, though he wore nothing but a pair of very soiled underwear.

   Jacob was thrown aside as ephemerals continued to rush over one by one, launching themselves into the child. As they entered his body Thomas moaned, his head rocking backward as each invasion caused light to burst from his tiny form, rapidly fading before the next ephemeral went in. The boy’s flesh rippled with each incursion, words and symbols rising to the surface to be replaced by more. Symbols overlapped, skin split open only to be knitted together before being split open once again. Tremors rocked the boy’s body. His chest surged against the onslaught, and an anguished, hollow moan escaped his lips. His eyes rolled to the whites, then his eyelids closed. His head fell forward like an assured nod, with his chin coming to rest against his chest.


   Thomas had not the time nor the energy to brace himself before the next ephemeral invaded him in another burst of warm light. The onslaught was unrelenting.

    



by Sean Padlo





Click Image Below
to read the brand new original story


Porris in Wunperland




only on 
the FREEZINE of 
Fantasy and Science 
~ Fiction ~

No comments:

Post a Comment

Archive of Stories
and Authors

Callum Leckie's
THE DIGITAL DECADENT


J.R. Torina's
ANTHROPOPHAGUS


J.R. Torina's
THE HOUSE IN THE PORT


J.R. Torina was DJ for Sonic Slaughter-
house ('90-'97), runs Sutekh Productions
(an industrial-ambient music label) and
Slaughterhouse Records (metal record
label), and was proprietor of The Abyss
(a metal-gothic-industrial c.d. shop in
SLC, now closed). He is the dark force
behind Scapegoat (an ambient-tribal-
noise-experimental unit). THE HOUSE
IN THE PORT is his first publication.

Sean Padlo's
NINE TENTHS OF THE LAW

Sean Padlo's
GRANDPA'S LAST REQUEST

Sean Padlo's exact whereabouts
are never able to be fully
pinned down, but what we
do know about him is laced
with the echoes of legend.
He's already been known
to haunt certain areas of
the landscape, a trick said
to only be possible by being
able to manipulate it from
the future. His presence
among the rest of us here
at the freezine sends shivers
of wonder deep in our solar plexus.


Konstantine Paradias & Edward
Morris's HOW THE GODS KILL


Konstantine Paradias's
SACRI-FEES

Konstantine Paradias is a writer by
choice. At the moment, he's published
over 100 stories in English, Japanese,
Romanian, German, Dutch and
Portuguese and has worked in a free-
lancing capacity for videogames, screen-
plays and anthologies. People tell him
he's got a writing problem but he can,
like, quit whenever he wants, man.
His work has been nominated
for a Pushcart Prize.

Edward Morris's
ONE NIGHT IN MANHATTAN


Edward Morris's
MERCY STREET

Edward Morris is a 2011 nominee for
the Pushcart Prize in literature, has
also been nominated for the 2009
Rhysling Award and the 2005 British
Science Fiction Association Award.
His short stories have been published
over a hundred and twenty times in
four languages, most recently at
PerhihelionSF, the Red Penny Papers'
SUPERPOW! anthology, and The
Magazine of Bizarro Fiction. He lives
and works in Portland as a writer,
editor, spoken word MC and bouncer,
and is also a regular guest author at
the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival.


Tim Fezz's
BURNT WEENY SANDWICH

Tim Fezz's
MANY SILVERED MOONS AGO

Tim Fezz hails out of the shattered
streets of Philly destroying the air-
waves and people's minds in the
underground with his band OLD
FEZZIWIG. He's been known to
dip his razor quill into his own
blood and pen a twisted tale
every now and again. We are
delighted to have him onboard
the FREEZINE and we hope
you are, too.

Daniel E. Lambert's
DEAD CLOWN AND MAGNET HEAD


Daniel E. Lambert teaches English
at California State University, Los
Angeles and East Los Angeles College.
He also teaches online Literature
courses for Colorado Technical
University. His writing appears
in Silver Apples, Easy Reader,
Other Worlds, Wrapped in Plastic
and The Daily Breeze. His work
also appears in the anthologies
When Words Collide, Flash It,
Daily Flash 2012, Daily Frights
2012, An Island of Egrets and
Timeless Voices. His collection
of poetry and prose, Love and
Other Diversions, is available
through Amazon. He lives in
Southern California with his
wife, poet and author Anhthao Bui.

Phoenix's
AGAIN AND AGAIN

Phoenix has enjoyed writing since he
was a little kid. He finds much import-
ance and truth in creative expression.
Phoenix has written over sixty books,
and has published everything from
novels, to poetry and philosophy.
He hopes to inspire people with his
writing and to ask difficult questions
about our world and the universe.
Phoenix lives in Salt Lake City, Utah,
where he spends much of his time
reading books on science, philosophy,
and literature. He spends a good deal
of his free time writing and working
on new books. The Freezine of Fant-
asy and Science Fiction welcomes him
and his unique, intense vision.
Discover Phoenix's books at his author
page on Amazon. Also check out his blog.

Adam Bolivar's
SERVITORS OF THE
OUTER DARKNESS


Adam Bolivar's
THE DEVIL & SIR
FRANCIS DRAKE



Adam Bolivar's
THE TIME-EATER


Adam Bolivar is an expatriate Bostonian
who has lived in New Orleans and Berkeley,
and currently resides in Portland, Oregon
with his beloved wife and fluffy gray cat
Dahlia. Adam wears round, antique glasses
and has a fondness for hats. His greatest
inspirations include H.P. Lovecraft,
Jack tales and coffee. He has been
a Romantic poet for as long as any-
one can remember, specializing in
the composition of spectral balladry,
utilizing to great effect a traditional
poetic form that taps into the haunted
undercurrents of folklore seldom found
in other forms of writing.
His poetry has appeared on the pages
of such publications as SPECTRAL
REALMS and BLACK WINGS OF
CTHULHU, and a poem of his,
"The Rime of the Eldritch Mariner,"
won the Rhysling Award for long-form
poetry. His collection of weird balladry
and Jack tales, THE LAY OF OLD HEX,
was published by Hippocampus Press in 2017.


Sanford Meschkow's
INEVITABLE

Sanford Meschkow is a retired former
NYer who married a Philly suburban
Main Line girl. Sanford has been pub-
lished in a 1970s issue of AMAZING.
We welcome him here on the FREE-
ZINE of Fantasy and Science Fiction.


Owen R. Powell's
NOETIC VACATIONS

Little is known of the mysterious
Owen R. Powell (oftentimes referred
to as Orp online). That is because he
usually keeps moving. The story
Noetic Vacations marks his first
appearance in the Freezine.

Gene Stewart
(writing as Art Wester)
GROUND PORK


Gene Stewart's
CRYPTID'S LAIR

Gene Stewart is a writer and artist.
He currently lives in the Midwest
American Wilderness where he is
researching tales of mystical realism,
writing ficta mystica, and exploring
the dark by casting a little light into
the shadows. Follow this link to his
website where there are many samples
of his writing and much else; come
explore.

Daniel José Older's
GRAVEYARD WALTZ


Daniel José Older's
THE COLLECTOR


Daniel José Older's spiritually driven,
urban storytelling takes root at the
crossroads of myth and history.
With sardonic, uplifting and often
hilarious prose, Older draws from
his work as an overnight 911 paramedic,
a teaching artist & an antiracist/antisexist
organizer to weave fast-moving, emotionally
engaging plots that speak whispers and
shouts about power and privilege in
modern day New York City. His work
has appeared in the Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction, The ShadowCast
Audio Anthology, The Tide Pool, and
the collection Sunshine/Noir, and is
featured in Sheree Renee Thomas'
Black Pot Mojo Reading Series in Harlem.
When he's not writing, teaching or
riding around in an ambulance,
Daniel can be found performing with
his Brooklyn-based soul quartet
Ghost Star. His blog about the
ridiculous and disturbing world
of EMS can be found here.


Paul Stuart's
SEA?TV!


Paul Stuart is the author of numerous
biographical blurbs written in the third
person. His previously published fiction
appears in The Vault of Punk Horror and
His non-fiction financial pieces can be found
in a shiny, west-coast magazine that features
pictures of expensive homes, as well as images
of women in casual poses and their accessories.
Consider writing him at paul@twilightlane.com,
if you'd like some thing from his garage. In fall
2010, look for Grade 12 Trigonometry and
Pre-Calculus -With Zombies.


Rain Grave's
MAU BAST


Rain Graves is an award winning
author of horror, science fiction and
poetry. She is best known for the 2002
Poetry Collection, The Gossamer Eye
(along with Mark McLaughlin and
David Niall Wilson). Her most
recent book, Barfodder: Poetry
Written in Dark Bars and Questionable
Cafes, has been hailed by Publisher's
Weekly as "Bukowski meets Lovecraft..."
in January of 2009. She lives and
writes in San Francisco, performing
spoken word at events around the
country. 877-DRK-POEM -




Blag Dahlia's
armed to the teeth
with LIPSTICK



BLAG DAHLIA is a Rock Legend.
Singer, Songwriter, producer &
founder of the notorious DWARVES.
He has written two novels, ‘NINA’ and
‘ARMED to the TEETH with LIPSTICK’.


G. Alden Davis's
THE FOLD


G. Alden Davis wrote his first short story
in high school, and received a creative
writing scholarship for the effort. Soon
afterward he discovered that words were
not enough, and left for art school. He was
awarded the Emeritus Fellowship along
with his BFA from Memphis College of Art
in '94, and entered the videogame industry
as a team leader and 3D artist. He has over
25 published games to his credit. Mr. Davis
is a Burningman participant of 14 years,
and he swings a mean sword in the SCA.
He's also the best friend I ever had. He
was taken away from us last year on Jan
25 and I'll never be able to understand why.
Together we were a fantastic duo, the
legendary Grub Bros. Our secret base
exists on a cross-hatched nexus between
the Year of the Dragon and Dark City.
Somewhere along the tectonic fault
lines of our electromagnetic gathering,
shades of us peel off from the coruscating
pillars and are dropped back into the mix.
The phrase "rest in peace" just bugs me.
I'd rather think that Greg Grub's inimitable
spirit somehow continues evolving along
another manifestation of light itself, a
purple shift shall we say into another
phase of our expanding universe. I
ask myself, is it wishful thinking?
Will we really shed our human skin
like a discarded chrysalis and emerge
shimmering on another wavelength
altogether--or even manifest right
here among the rest without their
even beginning to suspect it? Well
people do believe in ghosts, but I
myself have long been suspicious
there can only be one single ghost
and that's all the stars in the universe
shrinking away into a withering heart
glittering and winking at us like
lost diamonds still echoing all their
sad and lonely songs fallen on deaf
eyes and ears blind to their colorful
emanations. My grub brother always
knew better than what the limits
of this old world taught him. We
explored past the outer peripheries
of our comfort zones to awaken
the terror in our minds and keep
us on our toes deep in the forest
in the middle of the night. The owls
led our way and the wilderness
transformed into a sanctuary.
The adventures we shared together
will always remain tattooed on
the pages of my skin. They tell a
story that we began together and
which continues being woven to
this very day. It's the same old
story about how we all were in
this together and how each and
every one of us is also going away
someday and though it will be the far-
thest we can manage to tell our own
tale we may rest assured it will be
continued like one of the old pulp
serials by all our friends which survive
us and manage to continue
the saga whispering in the wind.

Shae Sveniker's
A NEW METAPHYSICAL STUDY
REGARDING THE BEHAVIOR
OF PLANT LIFE


Shae is a poet/artist/student and former
resident of the Salt Pit, UT, currently living
in Simi Valley, CA. His short stories are on
Blogger and his poetry is hosted on Livejournal.


Nigel Strange's
PLASTIC CHILDREN


Nigel Strange lives with his wife and
daughter, cats, and tiny dog-like thing
in their home in California where he
occasionally experiments recreationally
with lucidity. PLASTIC CHILDREN
is his first publication.