Black Static Horror Magazine #1 Read online

  "...your cowardice, your betrayal of your beliefs and your creations will indeed be rewarded, Charousek..."

  But how could I empathise with him for what he was about to do? Was this to be the raison d'être of the whole production? To give his creations life and identity, and all the complexities of the human condition, only to snatch it away from them again? Clearly not all of Charousek's marionettes had experienced the limitations of Jaromir, his ‘first born'. Some had gone into the world, and found it waiting for them. Perhaps some of them had married, procreated...

  And for what? Had Charousek been released on the Puritans’ condition that if his wife was returned to him, then he must give up his creations in exchange? But then, at the last, he had instructed me to hide here in the lobby, out of view. He must have anticipated the Precisemen's arrival, and wanted me to hear them. I could only assume that despite the promise of his wife, his conscience was making him hesitate.

  But then I heard Charousek step away from the huge masked faces, and as he did, he caught my gaze momentarily. His expression wavered and I held my breath, suddenly terrified of being exposed to the Precisemen. Charousek nodded in my direction, and the dissonance of voices in my head reached a volume that would surely split my temples. I closed my hands over my ears, conscious of the absurdity of the gesture, but as I did I felt a presence rise up behind me. I gasped as something huge plucked me up from my crouching position and into the cold air between us. I screamed briefly, my legs kicking, my throat burning at the violence of the reaction. The miasma of voices in my head was so extreme that I may have lost consciousness, but then I was face to face with one of the Precisemen. I stared, frozen, at the bejewelled mask, carved into a cruel beak, at the milky pool of eyes that lay beyond it. I felt as insignificant as a rag-doll in its leather-gloved hands. He took hold of my hair, and tugged it down in his fist, until I was bent almost backwards.

  "...what is this, Charousek? A spy? ... ” I could hear the venom in their voices, and felt my eyes rolling backwards in my head. ” ... would you try to deceive us at such a critical juncture ... do you wish to ever see your wife again?..."

  At this, Charousek raised his hands in a placatory manner. His implacable face had vanished, and had been replaced with naked fear. “I know nothing of this girl! Do what you will to her!"

  I gasped at his response, and tried to protest. But before I could open my mouth the man in the robe produced a long black knife from within the folds of his cloak. I felt his other hand tighten his grip on my hair, and then the blade produced a long arc in the gloom, and plunged into my belly. My breath came out in a long hiss, and I felt tears spring from my eyes immediately. For a long moment I couldn't breathe, and began to cough, to choke. I could feel the blade, cold and heavy inside my belly. Then I felt it withdraw, and the fist tugged violently again at my hair. I pressed my shaking hands to my belly to close them over the wound. There were patches of blackness flickering at the edge of my eyes, threatening to paint my vision with darkness. If I didn't retaliate soon, I would lose consciousness and I would never see the End of Darkness, never again walk with Jaromir's hand in mine with the sunlight on our shoulders...

  At that moment, something made the fist clutching my hair loosen its grip very slightly. I seized the opportunity and tugged my head out of his grasp, extricated myself entirely. In a dizzying moment I had flung myself forward, first towards the other Precisemen, then dodging quickly sidewards, out of their grasping hands, and towards the theatre doors. I could hear my own voice, as if it were a separate entity, screaming like a lunatic. My hair had been torn from the back of my head, and the pain was almost the equal of that in my belly.

  I was too fast for them. I dashed through the open doors and down the shattered steps, out into the street, howling like a banshee. The mist was still thick; all I could see as I ran down the cobbled street was the soft, blurred glow of gas lamps and candles in the windows of houses. I felt it consume me, conceal me inside it. Before long I was hopelessly lost in the warren of streets and alleyways, but refused to stop running, out of fear that the Precisemen might descend out of the darkness and mist, unbidden. I longed now for the familiarity of the procession, for their lights and music and wild abandon, but I could hear nothing of them above my panting breath and clattering boots. I peered into the murk for sign of the weather-beaten tavern I'd passed on the way to the theatre but could see no sign of its lights, nor the odour of the ales and smoke. All I recalled was of walking uphill for some of the journey, so when the alleyways descended gradually, I gladly followed them with my hand still clutching my belly, cuffing away the tears and snot rolling down my face.

  I have no idea how long I ran for but it seemed like an eternity. Then, when I thought I could go no further, I found myself in the little market square that Jaromir had brought me to earlier, and I thought I might faint in relief. The market-traders had packed away early for the End of Darkness, and all that remained were the skeletal outlines of the frames that the tarpaulins were tied to. I didn't stop. I continued on, passing the church and the Virgin Mary without a second glance, and on, to the now more familiar streets where Jaromir lived.

  He must have heard me weeping, my harried footsteps, or was simply awaiting my return, for he met me on the stairs, his face now creased with a concern he wouldn't have been capable of mere hours before. “You are hurt!” he cried, and when he took me in his arms to carry me back to his loft, I could feel his warmth through our clothes, and I felt calmer, safe again.

  When he lay me down on his bed, he took hold of my hands, lifted them away from the wound I'd been given. I thought I heard his breath catch, and feared that it might be more serious than I could imagine.

  "I saw the Precisemen,” I gasped. “Conspiring with Charousek. He tried to have me arrested; he intends to betray all of his creations..."

  But Jaromir didn't respond as I relayed the events that had led me to this point. Undeterred, I continued, telling him about Charousek whispering to me confidentially on the stage of the Kishuf Theatre, in order to reveal me to the Puritans; and the exchange Charousek had with them, the mention of his wife. And still Jaromir didn't respond. He was staring at the wound that had been made in my belly, his face contorted with a plethora of new emotions that I could only guess at. I had to see. With some effort I propped myself up with my elbows to look at whatever it was that they had done.

  Jaromir withdrew his hand, and at first I couldn't be sure what it was on his fingers. Certainly not blood. He looked at me finally and said my name. But his words sounded dull and distant to my ears. I stared at my wound and put my fingers into it, scooped up what had leaked out. “Oh...” I said, and held up a palmful of sawdust. I blew it off my fingers deliriously, watching it light up in the candle's glow.

  And then I passed out.

  * * * *

  When I came around, I was alone in the room. I called Jaromir's name but he didn't respond. The candles were guttering in their dishes, flickering their last. When I sat up in bed, I suddenly remembered what had happened. The wound no longer hurt, and I pressed my fingers around it and began to weep silently to myself.

  I was flesh and wood. I was as artificial as Jaromir. Another of Charousek's creations, carved with his rough artisan's hands, and given life, and the will to live it. And I had forgotten. I had no memories of my childhood because I hadn't had one; no recollection of parents for my only parent was Charousek. I searched my memory, looking for a moment in his workshop, where I ceased to be a still life carving in a chair, perhaps staring at a clock, or out of a window, and got to my feet and walked away, into the world.

  But I couldn't find it. And besides, Jaromir's absence was nagging at my mind. I was afraid he'd gone to gain revenge for me, or for himself. I sat up and walked to the door. My heart had begun to pound in fear for him, and then I remembered the tiny, crimson wooden heart I'd seen at Charousek's workshop the first time I'd gone to him, and paled. I wondered at the extraordinary kind of magi
c contained in the texts Charousek had stolen that made wooden hearts beat. Magic that the Puritans and their Precisemen had attempted to contain.

  What could I do? Before I had been merely an outsider, looking in on this new world that had been revealed to me, but now I was part of it. I had now become one of the potential victims of Charousek's production. He was indeed burying the carnival, in exchange for the promise of his wife returned to him. Because he was left with no other option.

  I had to find Jaromir. I left his loft and returned to the theatre.

  * * * *

  As I quickly returned to the Kishuf Theatre, I could hear the voice of the Precisemen, still buzzing like a bluebottle in my head.

  "...these will be your last magics ... “ they had said to Charousek. ” ... only enough to bring them back from the world and to return them to their original state..."

  The magics that Charousek had used to bring life to his creations (I could now no longer refer to us as marionettes) could clearly be reversed somehow. Perhaps the only way to stop him was by physical means. I thought then of Jaromir and feared for his well-being. If only he had waited for me!

  I hurried on, as fast as my exhausted and wounded body would allow. There was no sign of Jaromir, and indeed no sign of anyone else on the mist-enshrouded streets. Had everyone abandoned their homes to see the maestro's return to the stage? The market square was as abandoned as the last time I'd passed it, and as I made my way up the narrow alleys that led to the Kishuf Theatre, I began to fear for all of Charousek's creations. For all of us. It was clear now that his magic had indeed exerted a pull that none could resist, not his creations, nor the flesh and blood denizens of this town. Even when I passed the warm and welcoming tavern, its door was closed and the windows were shrouded in darkness. This was not a good sign. I had no idea what I could possibly do to reverse what Charousek had set in motion.

  By the time I reached the street where the Kishuf Theatre lay, I was in no doubt of the truth of things. Even from a distance I could hear the sounds of an ebullient audience within, the roaring of laughter, of applause, of cheering and jeering. I began to glance around quickly, terribly aware that the Puritans would surely still be in the vicinity, awaiting the moment that Charousek's magic took effect and he betrayed us all. What would they do then? Gather up all those stilled people and load them into carts to be driven away god only knew where...

  No! I couldn't let that happen. I clattered up the steps to the theatre entrance and into the foyer, past the ticket booth where I'd come face to face with the Precisemen, and on, past the red velvet curtains, and into the theatre.

  It was filled, it seemed, to the aching rafters, both with the real and unreal. The noise was louder than anything I'd encountered before. It rose and then simmered in the air, like thunder. The audience was too huge for the theatre; when the threadbare seats had filled, they spilled out into the aisles, over the steps. Crowds filled the boxes and galleries. My nose filled with the scent of wood and grease-paint, of beer and tobacco, sweat and hair-oil. I tried to shrink back from it all, for there were people jostling me from all sides, and my nerve had started to diminish. I was insignificant amongst numbers this huge. If I were even to attempt to make my way to the stage, I would have to squeeze past the throngs jostling in the aisles.

  I craned my neck over the people in front of me, stepping this way and that, in order to see what was happening on the stage, far below. And there, caught in the glare of the footlights, was Charousek, singing while his ramshackle orchestra played like madmen: the old man in front of his pump organ, the albino with his accordion and cymbals, the flautist and fiddler, the old woman with the singing saw on her knee ... At the back of the stage I could see the huge shadows of marionettes, bobbing from side to side; but their movements were so jerky and their shapes so ill-formed that I had to look away from them for my head was starting to freeze in fear. Instead I watched the audience below, trying to spot Jaromir there. But after a moment I thought that I could see a curious warping to the air, spreading out from the stage, to the gallery, the stalls, the boxes. It washed in and out from the stage, like waves, and I wondered if anyone else could see what I did. I looked from face to face, but none seemed to see what I could. They were too caught up in the reverie that Charousek had incited. Above it all, I could still hear the voice of the Precisemen inside my head: ” ... these will be your last magics ... only enough to bring them back from the world and to return them to their original state..."

  For the moment, no one appeared affected in any adverse way, but I was certain that there wouldn't be long before Charousek's magic undid everything he had created. Suddenly determined that I wouldn't simply stand idly by, I plunged into the crowd before me and made my descent down the shabby steps to the stalls, slipping on the discarded bottles of beer underfoot. Here and there I would stop and strain above the other heads in my way to see what was happening below. The crowds ebbed and swelled around me, a seething mass, sucking me into the heat of their sweaty bodies, then relinquishing me, further along the route to the stage.

  I reached the steps down to the benches near the front of the stage and scrambled down them. By the time I reached the bottom, I felt so weary that I thought I might keel over. When I withdrew the hand that had been clutching my wound, it came away full of sawdust. My neck was growing stiff too, and my legs were refusing to keep the pace I was trying to set. I felt a flush of panic crawl over me. Was Charousek's magic beginning to hold? When I glanced around, the crowds did seem to be growing more subdued. I spotted one man with his hands seemingly frozen mid-applause. His eyes were glassy, his face fixed in laughter. But still the crowds pressed around me, and I couldn't see a clear route to the stage to prevent what was about to happen.

  I stood on tip-toe to see over the heads of the audience as the music had staggered to a halt. The scene on stage had transformed into a house in the forest, and Charousek was chopping wood while dark figures lurked in the shadows of the trees. The music took on a plangent quality, the singing saw keening as the figures crept forward, the footlights catching the beaks of their masks...

  But I couldn't be distracted. I looked away, and cast my gaze over the crowds nearer to the front. And then I spotted Jaromir! He was close to the stage, barging his way through the jostling bodies, the bright red scarf I had given to him making him stand out in the throng. I called out to him, but my voice wouldn't carry over the clamour of the crowd. I thrust myself down the aisle that Jaromir was almost at the end of, and cried his name again. I was all too aware of the stiffness in my joints now, and that the people in my way were offering less resistance to my urgency. Indeed, many of them tumbled forward onto the seated members of the audience, then were tossed aside onto the ground. I stepped quickly over them and hurried on, still calling Jaromir's name. But then, Jaromir had made his way around the orchestra pit and was climbing the steps to the stage. I saw the lights in his eyes, his grim expression turning into a mask that I didn't recognise. I couldn't decide if the gradual simmering of the audience was in anticipation of Jaromir's actions or simply because Charousek's magic had spread further outwards. When I began to run and shout Jaromir's name again, Charousek's monologue faltered, and a murmur passed through the remaining vocal members of the audience. First the old man squinted out from his spotlight to see from where the voice had originated, and then quickly his attention turned to the figure emerging from the left of the stage. Jaromir's legs had turned uncooperative, and twice he almost fell on his face.

  "Jaromir,” Charousek began, and his voice sounded lonely in the quiet of the theatre. He raised his hands, almost in surrender.

  But Jaromir had produced a knife from the folds of his coat. I saw it flash in the footlights, and those that could in the crowd gasped.

  "My son!” Jaromir cried. “Please. We could both be with your mother again. Your mother! I will ask them to spare you."

  I saw Jaromir falter. His legs would no longer bend, and his head remained
fixed in one position. He couldn't look at me now, even if he wanted to. “My mother?” he said finally, and I thought Charousek had him. “Look at what you've done to us! You betrayed us!"

  At that he lunged forward, the knife flashing once and then it was deep inside Charousek's chest. I cried out again and felt my face stiffen and set into an O. My voice had fluttered to a halt in my throat. All I could do was watch as Charousek closed his hands around the knife, and gaze into his son's eyes. But Jaromir's eyes had gone glassy and cold, frozen in place. I tried again to call his name but there was only silence. For a moment I thought Charousek too had lost the ability to move but then he stumbled backwards, the knife sliding wet and heavy out of his chest, and he arced backwards, arms flailing, and crashed to the stage. I heard him breathe his last breath. It came out in a rattle, and then he was dead.

  At that I felt something thud into my back and send me toppling forwards to the ground. I could hear myself shrieking, could feel the world going black, when suddenly I felt sensations return to my extremities. I flung out my arms and let my hand take the full force of the fall. A murmur was growing all around me, sound returning to the theatre, in notes of panic and anger. When I pushed myself up onto my knees, the fallen were rising again, their joints flexing, their faces growing animated. People were rising from their seats, suddenly anxious for the exits. The magic that Charousek had sent out into the audience had returned, and then died with its maker.

  I rose before the discord became a riot, and found the way to the stage blocked again by audience members rushing in my direction. I wanted to see Jaromir, wanted to call out to him, so he knew I was here. But as I pushed my way forward, I could see that he alone had not moved. I froze, tears springing to my eyes. Charousek's magic had dispersed as he'd breathed his last, but it had not reversed the effects on Jaromir. He was frozen in the spotlight, the knife still in his hand, dripping with Charousek's blood. I called again and again, but he never moved.