Whispers From The Abyss by Kat Rocha (Editor) Read Free Book Online

dead man's cloak into a half-assed sack and swept statues up, moving as fast as I dared, shivering as I touched the weirdly greasy-feeling stone objects.
    I knew there'd be a market for them.
    The pool rippled. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. There was a sound, like a splash, and then...
    I know this sounds crazy – crazier than the rest – but I swear I heard a chuckle . When I try to sleep these days, I tell myself it was just a bubbling aquatic noise... but deep down, I know it was a laugh.
    I left half the statues behind and ran, sack in hand, the bones of dead cultists cracking under my boots. I climbed up that wooden ladder a lot faster than I'd gone down. At the top I slammed the chest shut and hammered in the pins to seal the hinges with no regard for damaging the hardware. Then I fell back on the floor, on my back.
    I rolled to the side when I puked, though, so I wouldn't choke to death.
     
    *     *     *
     
    I knew I could sell the idols for a lot -- hundreds, thousands. There were probably other members of this nameless cult dying for the chance to own the relics. And the chest? For that, I was sure I could get more, if I posted an ad in the right places online. Maybe millions . For the faithful of any religion, money is usually no object.
    Then again, I might get murdered. Religious people are unpredictable. And I thought about that chuckle. About something laughing at me. Laughing at what I am .
    In the end I spent the night prying gems out of the statues' eyes with a chisel and hammer and screwdriver. I opened the chest again, long enough to drop the de-jeweled idols into the pit. Then I closed the chest, smashed it to pieces with a sledgehammer, and burned the wood in the backyard, until nothing remained but the brass hardware and the black padlock. I buried those.
    I made a bit of money from a jewelry dealer I know. He made a lot more, but that's okay. I took the money and moved far away, to a place that's flat, and wide open, and desert dry, where the sun shines so much it makes some people crazy, and keeps me sane. I take showers, never baths, and I don't go swimming. When I moved into my house, I took all the doors off the closets and cabinets, and I use shelves instead of drawers.
    I still can't pay my rent these days.
    But I don't get too curious any more.

THE WELL
By Tim Jeffreys
     
     
     
    “I’ll always love you,” he tells her.
    Of course, there’s no reply. He wonders what has brought about this confession. Maybe it’s the noise he hears, a shuffling sound from all around. He reaches in the dark for his matches and, with trembling hands, strikes one off. What he sees in the moment before the flame burns low and dies he does not like at all.
    “Help me,” he pleads with her, knowing she can’t.
    As he tries to shift position, pain shoots along his leg. He has to bite down on the scream. The things he saw were sleeping. He does not want to disturb them. For a few seconds he rolls, his knuckles pressed against his lips. The ground beneath him is hard and slippery. He can hear another sound: drip, drip, drip .
    Stilling himself as the pains subside, he listens again for that first sound, that sound like the fluttering of great wings. He knows from what he saw in the match light that he is surrounded. They cover the walls with their bodies. Do they dream? He finds it ludicrous to be thinking such things. But what would they dream of? And what could inhabit the nightmares of something apparently born of his own?
    He does not know. All he knows is that he must stay still and be very very quiet.
    Suddenly he hears a voice. He hears his name called to him from above. It echoes down the throat of the well to the place where he lies. It’s her. She’s back. He knew she would return. He feels a wave of relief go through him, but then he’s aware of an increase in the shuffling sounds that surround him.
    They stir.
    Silently, he pleads with her. Please be quiet, love.