Black Static Horror Magazine #1 Read online

  The world would become colder and hotter, and things would speed up and slow down jerkily, like a boat moving through choppy water. Father would begin to grow larger and larger, and she could feel him expanding like a balloon being inflated at a tank, and his eyes would shine with hunger, and his mouth would open wider and wider as words spilled forth, old words, unintelligible words saturating thick-hewn fir beams, seeping up through the floor and down through the concrete and through the old walls, hundreds of years old, stinking and damp...

  Then Votary would tickle him on his swollen instep, and he would fall abruptly silent, and the air would stop trembling and time would stop rearranging itself. She would touch him, and he would waken from strangeness, for no matter how huge he got, he always felt every inch of himself.

  "Thank you, Votary,” he would say, then.

  * * * *

  Votary's mother's name was also Votary. That's what father called them both. But Votary always knew when her father was talking to her, and when he was talking to her mother. When he spoke to her, there was love and affection in his voice. Father loved Votary.

  Every evening after mother got home from work, she would call to Votary and they would climb into the old Chevy Suburban and they would drive to the stores. They would get a half-gallon bottle of Old Crow, a carton of Pall Mall cigarettes, and three-dozen $1 double cheeseburgers. Mom would order Votary a kid's meal. Mom would drink the soda that came with the kid's meal, but she never ordered anything for herself. Votary couldn't remember ever seeing her mother eat.

  When they got home, Mom would bring the bags downstairs into the basement. She would open the bourbon and all the packs of cigarettes and all the cheeseburgers and she would pour everything into father's mouth. His jaw unhinged like a big door opening, a big half-circular door on coiled springs, expanding until he was like a living caldera, bulbous and shapeless below, deep and round above. Then Mom poured everything in, the whiskey first, glug glug glug, then cigarettes (sometimes Votary would help her by unwrapping the individual packages, cellophane sticking to her fingers), smooth white sticks falling piecemeal through her fingers, then hamburgers, round seedy grease-dripping chunks. She threw everything in like someone pouring flour into the huge cauldron-shaped mixing machines Votary had once seen on a field trip to a bread bakery.

  Father would slowly close his mouth and chew for a long time, slowly, a smell of tobacco juice and beef fat and alcohol leaking from his pores. He chewed and chewed and chewed, slowly and contemplatively, as he watched a progression of images in pasty black and white, reruns and commercials. Dreams that other people dreamed and digested for him.

  He'd never gotten up from that couch ever, as far as Votary knew. She thought he was wonderful.

  * * * *

  One day Mom came home from work early. Votary found her sitting on the porch talking with Mr Dubeck, the postman. He had his bag next to him, full of mail. He was bald and skinny, with neck muscles that stuck out and jumped around when he laughed. He had strong muscular legs, rippling and hard, and they had fine golden hairs on them that shone in the sun. He was sitting on the stairs below her mother, in the late afternoon sunshine.

  She was sitting in the cool shadow, speaking quietly, her hands clasped together. The thumb of one hand was stroking the palm of the other. She was sitting back under the overhang of the roof; her face was darkened by the heavy shadow. Mr Dubeck had his head inclined sympathetically toward her. They weren't talking about mail.

  Votary imagined her father, sitting inside, in the dark, his naked white body saturated with shifting, reflected brilliance, listening to other noises filtering through the black-painted windows below the stairs, secrets whispered through the jangling din.

  Votary said nothing, but went inside the house and sat with father as he watched a show with multiple explosions. She pillowed her head on one of the three huge pads of fat under his left arm. He was warm as a mountain of rancid butter, and he smelled like mushrooms and earth and sour milk. He hadn't had a bath ever, as far as Votary knew. There were patches of green and white on his hidden places. But she didn't mind his smell. He smelled like father.

  "Who is she talking to?” Father asked.

  "I don't know,” she said. It wasn't a lie. She didn't know Mr Dubeck. All she knew of him were his golden legs and his mailbag. She didn't know him.

  That night, as they were driving to the liquor store, Votary could tell that something was wrong. Her mother was never very talkative, but this night anxiety was like smoke coming off her, steaming and twitching from her shoulders. She gripped the steering wheel of the Suburban and squinted through the windshield as if the headlights of oncoming traffic illuminated some kind of secret.

  They bought the cigarettes and the liquor. Then her mother did something Votary had never seen her do before. She bought a small bottle of Kaluha and tucked it inside her purse. She counted the cash out carefully, three twenties and a ten. Votary caught a glimpse of something else inside mother's purse, something pink and tissue-thin. It was folded up into a small square.

  On the way home, Votary asked her mother if she liked Mr Dubeck's legs. “That's a stupid question,” Mom said, and pressed her lips together.

  But she must have liked his legs, because she talked to him often after that, leaning over and showing him the smooth skin between her breasts. She didn't go to work anymore. She stayed home, upstairs in her own room, reading newspapers. She would sit on the bed with the newspapers spread before her. Sometimes Votary would find her snoring atop the sheets of newsprint, smelling sweetly of chocolate and alcohol, like a chocolate hospital.

  "You worship him now,” Mother said, one night when the sweet smell was particularly strong. “You think he's wonderful. I did too. But that won't last forever."

  "Yes, it will,” Votary said sullenly.

  Mother was silent, staring up at the paint-peeling ceiling. When she spoke again, her voice was very soft. “Do you know how old this house is?” she asked. “How many years, how many hundreds of years—” She stopped abruptly, dropping her eyes back down to Votary's face. She licked her lips.

  "When I was a little girl, when I was your age, I wanted to paint pictures,” she said. “I wanted to get away from this house, away from the basement. From my mother. I wanted to paint. I wanted to be an artist."

  Votary had never known that her mother wanted to be an artist. In other circumstances, she might have been interested. But she hadn't been happy with her mother since she started paying attention to Mr Dubeck's legs, so she only grunted. She went to open the door of the bedroom so that they could hear father if he called.

  "What do you want to be?” Mother asked.

  "Nothing,” Votary said sullenly, looking down the stairs into the silent darkness. “Nothing. Like him.” Mother didn't say anything, but Votary felt waves of fear and disgust pouring from her like warm breath on a frosty morning.

  * * * *

  One day, mother went out and didn't come back. She didn't bring father his cigarettes and liquor and hamburgers. She didn't come home at all.

  "Votary,” her father said, “I'm hungry."

  Votary went into the kitchen and made him bowls of cereal and milk. She poured them into his mouth. But bowl by bowl wasn't fast enough. Finally, she just climbed up on the wide arm of the sofa and tore open the top of the box and poured it into father's mouth, followed by the whole gallon of milk. His mouth was huge, and dark and red, and there was a glow deep within, like looking into the throbbing heart of a volcano. She fed him all the cereal in the house, and then she unwrapped pats of butter and threw them in there too, and she threw in some eggs as well. He chewed disconsolately, bits of shell cracking between his teeth.

  That night, she slept on the cold cement floor by father's feet. Mom didn't get back until the light of dawn was shining through the scratches in the black paint. She didn't say anything when she came in. She did not come down to the basement, but went right upstairs and went to sleep.
r />   Votary's mother went out often after that. Sometimes she came home, and sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she would bring food and cigarettes for father; sometimes she would bring nothing. Father muttered to himself more and more, reciting whole commercials back to himself in a monotone.

  It was all Mr Dubeck's fault. Votary started sitting on the porch, waiting for him to come. She would sit and watch him and glare at him silently. Mr Dubeck tried to joke his way through at first; after a while, however, he avoided her eyes and hurried away from the house.

  "Is there any mail for my father?” Votary asked Mr Dubeck one day. He looked at her sadly, like he felt sorry for her. “I do have a father,” Votary said. “He does exist."

  She thought that Mr Dubeck would pretend that he hadn't heard her and walk away quickly, as he had before. But this time he went down on one knee and looked into her face. With his face that close to her, she could see that his skin was leathery and lined, and his eyes were hard as little stones. “Have you ever seen him?” he hissed.

  "He lives in the basement,” Votary said.

  "I've never see him."

  "He doesn't go out."

  Mr Dubeck's face softened. He let his breath out through clenched teeth. “Whatever makes you feel better, kid,” he said, straightening and turning to go.

  "He does!” Votary screamed at him. “He does live in the basement! He's down there now!"

  Mr Dubeck paused, shaking his head. There was pity in his face. Pity and contempt. “Poor Anna,” he sighed, looking up and shaking his head at the house. Suddenly, Votary saw it how he saw it, old and broken-down. Then those eyes came to settle on her, and Mr Dubeck shook his head and sighed again. “Poor Anna,” he repeated.

  "That's not her name.” Votary bit the words at him. “Her name's not Anna. It's Votary. Like mine."

  "Votary?” His brow wrinkled, and he began speaking very slowly and distinctly. “That's not a name. That's a thing. A servant. Your name is Katie."

  Votary curled her lips back from her teeth. Hate burned through her. She hated Mr Dubeck. She focused her hate on him, willed him to catch fire, become a pillar of ash before her that she could disintegrate with one contemptuous tap of her finger. But he just stood there, looking down at her, frowning quizzically. “Come inside, if you don't believe me,” Votary whispered. “Come inside and see."

  Mr Dubeck was silent for a long time. Then he threw his mailbag down on the porch with a dusty whump. “All right,” he said, as if in answer to a challenge. “All right. Show me this father of yours. Votary."

  Votary led Mr Dubeck inside. She led him down the dark narrow hall with the smoke-colored walls, past the bathroom. She led him into the kitchen with the cracked-lineoleum floor and the peeling wallpaper. Then she led him down the narrow basement stairs.

  Mr Dubeck felt along the wall as he descended the stairs. He squinted against the gloom. The shifting rainbow light of the flickering television played softly over the concrete floor at the base of the stairs.

  Mr Dubeck looked around himself at the huge hewn beams, the skeleton of the floors above. “This house must be two hundred years old,” he said.

  "Thank you, Votary,” Father whispered.

  Mr Dubeck jumped and swore. She could hear his heart slamming against his ribs. She could taste the salt of his sweat in the air. “Jesus,” he said, moving closer. “Is that ... he...” He paused. “What is that?"

  Father mumbled something, something like a rumbling fart. Mr Dubeck made a face at the smell, but it was just father's usual smell. “Jesus,” Mr Dubeck said again. His voice was high, wavering.

  "He's trying to talk to you,” Votary said. “You have to listen hard."

  Mr Dubeck leaned forward, closer to where father's head sat like a lump in the middle of a pile of mashed potatoes. Father was muttering, soft quick flurries of agitated sound like violent snowflakes. He was growing larger and larger by the moment. His body was rippling and warbling, making bubbling sounds, emitting pockets of stink and warmth. Mr Dubeck went so far and then no farther; he started backing away, but father's mouth kept opening wider and wider as he spoke, and he was growing faster than Mr Dubeck could run, his flanks and belly and back pressing against the sweating walls like overrisen dough, and then he moved swift as light reflecting in a mirror and Mr Dubeck was inside those jaws, his legs with the golden hairs flapping in the light from the black and white console television, his body thrashing helplessly against the dead heavy weight of the mountain of fat and gristle and bone that held him trapped. His legs kicked for a few minutes, five minutes, ten minutes, blue-socked ankles spasming, one black tennis-shoe dangling, then falling to the floor. The legs kept slipping steadily downward, disappearing down father's throat. He moved his lips around the legs, as if he were trying to chew, but instead just mouthing the golden legs, mouthing them and stroking them. His body deflated like a slow-punctured balloon leaking air, his loose skin falling in graceful, beautiful folds.

  Votary sat on the floor and watched the whole process, her heart thumping and fluttering, the sound of the television filling her ears, her body cold and brittle and bright with the wonder of it all.

  * * * *

  Anna came back three days later. She brought a case of whiskey and cartons of cigarettes and bags and bags of cheeseburgers. She brought a kid's meal for Votary, carried like an offering, and she hadn't even drunk the soda.

  Votary was squatting by her father's feet. She had stripped herself naked, wrapped herself in a thick blanket of his living skin. She stared at her mother with hostile eyes, eyes that had seen wonders.

  Anna set the white paper bag on the cold damp floor, but Votary did not touch it. Anna started to open the bottle of Old Crow, but stopped. She let out a long breath, then set it all, the bourbon, the cigarettes, the cheeseburgers, on the floor in front of Votary. Anna didn't say anything, but went back upstairs silently. She went back to her selfishness, her regret, her useless resistance.

  Good riddance, Votary thought, love making her heart swell painfully in her chest.

  "She doesn't deserve us,” Father said softly, as Votary opened the bottle of bourbon and he opened his mouth.

  Copyright © 2007 M.K. Hobson

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  JAPAN'S DARK LANTERNS—John Paul Catton

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  * * * *

  * * * *

  JP is a British freelance writer based in West Tokyo where he lives with his wife and cats. In the past he has been a teacher and a journalist, amongst other things. He is now an expatriate, who lives between two cultures and belongs to neither.

  * * * *

  BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEWILDERED

  We take you to the hushed incense-filled ambience of the temple of Yumusebi Teiken Zaapisu. Humble acolyte is seeking enlightenment from Sensei regarding matters in the land of the chrysanthemum and the cute-looking robot...

  ACOLYTE: Master, I hear the Land of the Rising Sun is now under new management.

  SENSEI: Yes, young grasshopper. Mr Koizumi, he who stunned the nation with his hairstyle and his political reforms that revolutionised Japan, has stood down in favour of his successor, Shinzo Abe. And Mr Abe has lost no time in making his mark.

  A: In what way?

  S: In miring the country down in corruption and incompetence. The new slogan for the new government is ‘Japan: the Beautiful Country'.

  A: Hmm. Beautiful in what way? In how it protects and repairs its environment? In how it treats its citizens and how it presents itself overseas in its foreign policies?

  S: Well ... nobody's really sure what it means. But we Japanese know deep down in our hearts that this is the beautiful country because Japan is ... er ... well, Japan is Japanese, that's why.

  A: And has this campaign been successful, master?

  S: It has indeed. Apart from Mr Abe getting trounced in the midterm election at the end of July 2007 and his party losing their majority in the House of Councilors. A trivial setbac
k, young sand-hopper. We are trying to show the people that they should be proud to be born in ‘beautiful Japan', to look at the many positive aspects of the country. The safety, for instance. We do not have the gun culture and ganging banging ultra-violence of the USA, do we? When has there been a nasty shooting here?

  A: What about the assassination of the Nagasaki mayor on April 17, by a native Japanese with ‘alleged connections to right-wing nationalists and yakuza syndicates'?

  S: Ah, yes. A regrettable incident.

  A: Apparently more and more guns are entering Japan from China, Russia, the US and the Philippines, and the price of an automatic pistol is now as low as 50,000 yen [200 pounds].

  S: You are taking these things out of context, my young space-hopper. The point of ‘beautiful Japan’ is that we are trying to teach our young people to respect themselves and to make a decent contribution to society.

  A: How are you going to do that?

  S: By instilling a sense of national pride in the nation's schools. At official ceremonies such as sports days and graduations, we have requested all teachers and students to stand to attention before the Japanese flag, the Hinomaru—and sing our national anthem, the ‘Kimigayo'.

  A: What if some teachers refuse?

  S: We are a country that respects freedom of speech, my young salt-and-vinegar crisp. They are entitled to refuse—but the Government will prosecute them if they do.

  A: Also, the flag and the national anthem—don't they remind some international observers of the atrocities committed by the Japanese army in World War Two?

  S: Well, those pesky Chinese and Koreans are always complaining about something, but Japanese history textbooks are carefully edited to remove phrases such as ‘atrocity’ and ‘aggression', and to avoid any reference to events such as the Nanking Massacre, the Manila Massacre, the Bataan Death March and Unit 731. We don't want historical facts to get in the way of patriotism, do we? So when Japanese children salute the flag, they won't know anything about the men, women and children slaughtered in its name.