Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 7, March 2014 by Mike Resnick

Author:Mike Resnick [Editor]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Darker Matter, strange horizons, Speculative Fiction, Locus, Asimovs, Lightspeed, clarkesworld, Analog
Publisher: Microsoft
Published: 2014-02-19T05:00:00+00:00

Copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth Bear

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Brad R. Torgersen had a wildly impressive debut, being nominated for the 2012 Campbell, Hugo and Nebula. He quickly became a mainstay in Analog, and recently sold his first novel to Baen Books.

THE NECHRONOMATOR

by Brad R. Torgersen

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The mausoleum was silent as I waited quietly at the end of the east corridor. Sodium lamps on the street outside cast a ghastly light through the stained glass windows that ringed the corridor, just above the crypts. I smelled flowers and floor wax, plus a hint of decades-old cigarette smoke. It had been six hours since I’d wheeled myself to my current spot. Nobody on the mortuary staff had thought to check before locking the doors. I was alone, and not quite believing what I was doing.

Until I heard the scrape of marble on marble.

The air suddenly came alive. A sickening stench of formaldehyde and ethanol, mixed with ozone.

My hands shook, but I gripped the arms of my chair tightly and waited, breathing deeply and slowly, not moving an inch.

Footsteps. The sound of someone taking a seat.

More marble scraping on marble.

I almost screamed when I saw the woman trudge past the open end of the corridor. She walked as if compelled from without. Halting, pained steps. Joints and tissue which hadn’t moved in years made an indescribable sound as the woman went up the central hall. She never even looked in my direction.

There was muffled talk—whispery and hollow.

When it became apparent the conversation would be lengthy, I set myself into motion. Gently, with practiced tension, I rotated the wheels on my chair and began a slow, noiseless progression toward the central hall. It took minutes, during which I listened intently, but couldn’t quite make out the words. Each yard drew me closer to the source of the stench, and the air was almost alive with static.

Eventually I reached the intersection, and was able to lean forward just enough to peek around the corner, my chair snug against the wall.

The Nechronomator was hideous. His flesh hung limply on his tallish skeleton, sagging and gray. He sat cross-legged on a marble bench that sat at the top of the cross-shaped mausoleum. Liver spots had darkened to black and his mouth looked dry as he moved it. The woman stood before him, motionless in her Sunday finest. The only breaths either of them took were the ones they used to move air across stale vocal chords.

I still couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Suddenly the Nechronomator stood—a surprisingly swift movement for someone who’d been dead for three years—and slapped the base of his palm on the woman’s forehead. She spasmed and gave a quick, hoarse cry, then flashed into nothingness—like the bulb of a camera had gone off, erasing her from existence.

I reflexively sat back in my chair, teeth clenched. What had I just seen?

One thought—impossible—returned again and again to my mind. But I was a scientist, fully in command of my faculties, even if my body was succumbing to age. There were explanations to everything that was occurring.

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