Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror by Joyce Carol Oates, Nancy Kilpatrick, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Storm Constantine, Molly Tanzer, Lois H. Gresh, Gemma Files, Karen Heuler Read Free Book Online

yet singing with passion; his eyes were very black as if all pupil, fixed and glassy, turned inward. At last he broke off again, a gleaming film of perspiration on his pale face, and Magdalena hurried to wipe it away. He caught hold of her wrist and held her, and said, "How kind you are! What is your name?" and Magdalena told him, and he said, "A beautiful name. My name is—" speaking a sibilant word that Magdalena didn't catch, and was too shy to ask him to repeat. Magdalena said, "Where do you live?" and the young man said, with a twitch of his lips, "I live here," and it wasn't clear to her what he meant—for surely he didn't live in the church. Or possibly he'd spoken ironically. He asked where she lived, and Magdalena bit her lower lip, and said, "I don't have any home really. My mother sent me away, she didn't love me." Unexpectedly she confided in this stranger, for he was gazing at her with such compassion; tears filled her eyes; she heard herself saying, "There were too many mouths to feed, I think. It would not have been possible for any of us to die." What a strange thing to say! Yet the young man was not surprised, frowning, saying, "Yes, it is the way of all nature—too many mouths. Which is why I sing, Magdalena." Again, Magdalena didn't understand; but dared not reveal her ignorance. The young man said, "Will you stay with me awhile? Will you help me, Magdalena?" and Magdalena said eagerly, "Help you? How?" and he said, "Stay with me! I have only a little way to go, to get it right." And so he sang again, more passionately than ever; and Magdalena listened enchanted. For now, surely, he'd perfected the verse? She could not imagine anything more beautiful. But he broke off, and shook his head sadly; Magdalena offered him the pitcher of water, in which some remained, forgetting that she'd drunk from it; he waved it aside without seeming to see. He said, "I began to sing because I wanted to sing, and now I sing because I am made to sing." Magdalena said, naively, "But who makes you?"—for she could see no one else anywhere near. The church was empty except for the singer and herself; the churchyard was empty, with a look of abandonment and desolation; beyond the part-collapsed stone wall of the churchyard there was a steep drop, and rocky land below obscured by mist, and the sound of restless, choppy waves— the ocean, so close? But no human figures, no human inhabitants. Only gulls circling above, emitting cries of hunger. The singer was pacing about before the altar, though scarcely aware of his surroundings; repeatedly he found his way blocked by a pew, or the communion rail or the minister's pulpit, and so moved blindly around it, frowning, his mouth twitching. As much to himself as to Magdalena he said, "My father sang, and his father; it was their fate, too. They died young—it's said. I never knew them of course. They died of burst arteries. In their throats." He stroked his slender, pale throat; gently he stroked the sinewy blue artery that Magdalena had noticed swelling as he'd sung. "It's said to be a curse. But I don't believe in curses." Magdalena shivered, for there was a rising wind; by quick degrees it was growing dusk; though now the season was well into spring, and the evenings were longer. She said, "How can I help you?" and the young man said, with a sudden boyish, hopeful smile, "Sing with me, Magdalena!"
    Magdalena was astonished. Sing? With such a gifted singer?
    “But—"
    "Yes, you must! Then my strength will be doubled."
    So, shyly, reluctantly, Magdalena tried to sing. She, who had never sung before in her life except privately to herself, or in the company of sisters, singing with this commanding young man as he clasped her hand in his and gazed into her eyes. Now the day is over… Night is drawing nigh… But Magdalena's voice was too weak; the young man broke off so that they could begin again. Now the day is over… Night is drawing… But again something was wrong, Magdalena's