Logorrhea by John Klima

Author:John Klima
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780553903713
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

“Vocabulary word,” Oswald said later, tying up my wrists with lengths of wire. I was naked, and the rocks in his house were cutting into my skin. “Chthonic. Dwelling under the earth. Gods of the underworld. Me.”

“Oswald,” I said, alarmed at the slur in my voice. How hard had that rock hit my head? Way too hard, judging by the pounding in my skull. “We can work something out.”

“Another: Autarch. Absolute ruler. Tyrant. Me, here, in this place.” He wired my legs together.

“You don’t have to do this.” I tried to twist, to kick, but he was agile, and I wasn’t, and he didn’t even stop talking while he dodged my flailing.

“Another: Autochthonous. Originating where it is found. Native. From around here. Me, me, me.” He kicked me in the chest on the last word, and darker black dots swam into my vision against the darkness inside his housepit, and I gasped for breath.

“This is my place,” Oswald said, “and Ike Train was my man. He made the proper sacrifices to me, kept me fed, kept me happy. And you spoiled that, stranger, outside agitator, you ruined it, and now I have to cultivate another man. But you’ll die. Not a sacrifice to me. Just somebody who got in the way.” He gnashed his teeth, and they clacked together like gemstones. “You didn’t have to burn Ike. He wouldn’t have killed that little bitch Sadie you like so much. She has too many friends. We only kill the ones no one will miss. Well, usually. Someone might miss you, but I don’t care.”

Oswald was the reason Ike Train’s deepdown self had been so strange. I couldn’t make a deal with Ike, because he’d already made a bargain with a creature like me. Well, sort of like me. Oswald and I had the same means, but different methods and motivations. That explained why nobody had ever discovered Ike Train’s murders—Oswald had used his powers to protect him, and he probably did other things, too, like keeping the neighborhood safe from danger, but the price he demanded was just too high.

As far as Oswald knew, I was just a guy, somebody who came to town and discovered his lackey’s secret. He didn’t know what he was dealing with. Fortunately.

Oswald stood up, letting his human shape drop, revealing the shambling earthen thing underneath, the creature of the dark and deep who’d lived here, on this spot, for centuries. Oswald was a local spirit, tied to this place, but he was an ugly one, who chose to live off pain instead of prosperity. He reached out to me with arms of darkness, endless limbs that stank of minerals and stale air. “Vocabulary word,” he hissed, in a voice that could never be mistaken for human. “Decapitate. To cut off a head. Another: Decedent. One who has died. You.”

Then he killed me.

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