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 Page B

against her ears; though she could hear little beyond the anxious pulsing of her own blood, she imagined the singer's voice with unnerving clarity as if he were standing, not miles away in a deserted church, but just outside her bedroom door. Now the day is over… Night is drawing…
    Fiercely Magdalena whispered to herself, "No!"
     
    §
     
    The wind off the river was damp, chill, smelling of something brackish and metallic. Invisible grit was driven into Magdalena's face, stinging her eyes. How ugly the river looked, the color of molten lead, reflecting a heavy leaden sky. And the riverfront structures and boats, how shabby, derelict. Magdalena was hurrying across Merrimack Bridge, breathless and shivering. Despite the bridge traffic and the harsh lapping sounds of the river she could hear distinctly the young man singing, calling to her. It seemed he was singing with a renewed passion, or desperation. And had he not pleaded with her, Will you help me, Magdalena?
    This time, Magdalena was determined not to fail him.
    Where are you going, child? Aunt Erica had asked, playfully tapping Magdalena's arm. Your thoughts are flying away from here, and where? Magdalena had murmured, embarrassed, that she was going for a walk; just in the neighborhood; it was such a beautiful May afternoon (for so the weather had been beautiful, in the hilly district above Edmundston); she promised she wouldn't go far. And Aunt Erica had laughed, her good eye cold twinkling, saying I don't go far, there's two of us.
    And so Magdalena made her way along the rough riverfront streets, and into the older, deserted neighborhood, and to the old church at the top of a hill. She saw to her surprise that the churchyard was more overgrown and desolate than she recalled, as if a storm had swept violently through it. Dead tree limbs lay scattered amid the graves, smashed urns, numerous gravestones overturned, severely cracked. Beyond the stone wall where there should have been land, Magdalena saw, as before, an opaque wall of undulating mist, more oppressive than before as it seemed to be quivering with its own malevolent life. And beyond the mist was—the open sea? The great Atlantic Ocean that had so broken her parents, and others who'd made the crossing, that they never wished to see or speak of it again? Magdalena could see no water but believed she could hear, beyond the tenor's strained, hopeful voice, its forceful arrhythmic sound. Always, beyond the human voice, the sound of the great ocean.
    And the shrill, cruel shrieks of the gulls overhead, always circling, lunging for their prey.
    Another surprise awaited Magdalena at the rear of the church, for she saw that it was hardly a church at all any longer, but rather a ruin; mound of rubble; most of the roof had collapsed inward, and was covered in patches of moss. Yet there remained a narrow entranceway like the opening to a cave, hardly more than the size of a man of ordinary height, into the cobwebbed, shadowy interior. Still the singing continued. A pause, and coughing; quick panting; and again the singing. Now the day is over… Night is drawing… Magdalena trembled with excitement and dread—for what if the young man should banish her, again? At once? As soon as he saw her? Shadows of the evening… These notes were, to Magdalena's eager ear, as flawless as ever, of surpassing beauty.
    She drew nearer to the entrance, and could make out the singer's figure, in approximately the same place as before, pacing about before a ruined altar, in and out of crevices of shadow black as pitch. His fists were clenched, his shoulders hunched with tension. Yet—there was something wrong with him. He was not so young now, nor so handsome. When he whirled at the sound of her footstep, scowling in Magdalena's direction while not seeming to see her, Magdalena realized to her horror that he'd grown skeletal; his face was wizened and sickly pale, as aged as her Aunt Erica's; his neck was emaciated, the ropy