Nightmare Magazine, Issue 95 (August 2020) by John Joseph Adams

Author:John Joseph Adams [John Joseph Adams]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Adamant Press
Published: 2020-07-31T18:14:48+00:00

2 November

The Carpathian Spurs

Sunrise

“. . . darkness, creaking wood, and roaring water.”

• • • •

Night swells and peaks, and still you sleep. I grimace and ride the hours with it, even to the painful razor edge of it, until dawn begins to push its way up through the thin membrane of the horizon, anxious to start the day. Only then does your good companion take out his watch, and so begins your inevitable turn on the Catherine wheel of my thoughts. I waste no time.

I am the Second. I was there at the beginning, I watched the First die and unbecome, and then she cleaved unto me and once again we were brought together in all things and through all things, I once again her willing servant ready to give her my undying life and love.

There are rules, stubborn little Mina. Just as there are rules that govern the entirety of nature, rules that dictate the passage of that water you think you hear, the swaying of those wind-blown branches you think you see, so there are rules that govern his entire world, which is this entire world. As I did, as we all did, you will become a servant to each and every one. No man or mortal shall do your unnatural bidding again. You will be Fourth, and you will drink last, never first. You will be last in everything, you will be the Least. Unbecome by her blood, you will finally learn to submit.

You must never again pay heed to the words and actions of the Third.

You must never leave our chambers unless by his command, through the First.

You must never raise your head in his presence, or look him directly in the eyes. As he is in all things above you, so in all things must you forever remain below.

You must never speak in his presence; and throughout all of the castle confines and the world itself, for all time, you must never speak, or even think, his name.

You must never mention his long-dead sons, though you will be made, as we all are, to dress in their rusting armor and place their helmets over your bound and braided hair. You must show no fear when he drags us to barren fields of skeletons and stone, and under storm gray skies mounts us upon petrified pikes and crosses, crying out betrayers, betrayers all with every hammer blow, black gouts from your body squirting against ragged pike and steel, impaled flesh firing white-hot bolts of pain into your shrieking, shrinking soul. You must pay no heed to his laughter when the rays of a feeble morning sun curl the edges of your skin, burn wet layers of your eyes away like autumn mist. All our wounds heal, eventually.

You must not pass out when he nails your clothes to your breasts, when he drives a spike through your tongue. You must learn to lick your lips and pant for more.

In every moment of your existence, you must remember that the physical world is his domain, and no longer yours to command.

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