Fungi by Silvia Moreno-Garcia & Orrin Grey

Author:Silvia Moreno-Garcia & Orrin Grey [Moreno-Garcia, Silvia & Grey, Orrin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Short Stories & Anthologies, Horror, Anthologies, Genre Fiction
ISBN: 9780991675913
Google: 2ITMNAEACAAJ
Amazon: B00A8UZVEW
Publisher: Innsmouth Free Press
Published: 2012-02-15T14:02:51.870331+00:00

WHERE DEAD MEN GO TO DREAM

By A.C. Wise

A. C. Wise was born and raised in Montreal and currently lives in the Philadelphia area. Her work has appeared in publications such as Future Lovecraft, ChiZine, Clarkesworld and The Best Horror of the Year Vol. 4. In addition to her fiction, she co-edits the online ‘zine, the Journal of Unlikely Entomology, along with Bernie Mojzes. The author can be found online at www.acwise.net

SHE WAS THE REAL deal.

Jonah had watched her long enough to know and long enough to know better, too. He should turn around and walk away. A woman selling dreams; it was madness. He crushed out the last of his cigarette, but didn’t take a single step to leave the crowded train station.

No. Madness was a razor against his skin every night, trying to recapture the feeling of a hundred shards of mirrored glass slicing into his flesh. Love was madness, an infection deep in his bones. Madness was further down the road, this road full of not knowing and no answers.

“Shit.” He flicked the butt of his cigarette away and made his way toward the woman who sold dreams.

Merrin was gone, probably dead. Probably. But he didn’t know for sure. All he knew was that she’d disappeared into the night and it was his fault. None of the usual avenues had turned up any trace of her. If he wanted answers … if … then madness or not, it had to be dreams and the woman who sold them.

The woman sat among the roots of the vast iron tree in the centre of the station, legs tucked beneath a red skirt spread on the mosaic tile floor like pooling blood. At her back, the trunk twisted up and up, and overhead branches held up the station’s glass ceiling. From each branch, globes — strange, moon-coloured fruit — hung, ready to light the station at twilight.

A cloth holding bones, coins, stones and leaves — every possible tool of scrying — lay spread before her. She looked up as Jonah approached, tilting her head.

“You smell of loss.” Her eyes were white, frosted with a delicate pattern of mold, like lace over irises that had once been green. Jonah crouched.

“I … I’m looking for someone. I heard you sell true dreams.” Jonah’s voice emerged hoarse, from a throat gone parchment-dry.

The woman said nothing, filament-veiled eyes looking through his skin to sort his bones, weigh his soul.

“Sorry. I’ve made a mistake. Sorry.”

He rose to leave, but the woman’s hand shot out, catching his wrist. Off-balance, he nearly tumbled into her lap. He stared at the hand gripping his arm. A skirling pattern of white, blue and green covered the back of her hand, spiraling up beneath her sleeve. Not a tattoo, not ink: mold.

“You’re looking for a dream?” She leaned close, flashing teeth as evidence of her pleasure at his discomfort.

They were stained dark and Jonah doubted the stains came from tobacco. He couldn’t begin to guess the woman’s age. Anger — or something like it — hardened the lines around her mouth and put a bitter light in her eyes.

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