The Lodger

by Marie Adelaide Belloc Lowndes

“THERE he is at last, and I’m glad of it, Ellen. ‘Tain’t a night you would wish a dog to be out in.”

Mr. Bunting’s voice was full of unmistakable relief. He was close to the fire, sitting back in a deep leather armchair—a clean-shaven, dapper man, still in outward appearance what he had been so long, and now no longer was—a self-respecting butler.

“You needn’t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself, all right.” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a dry, rather tart tone. She was less emotional, better balanced, than was her husband. On her the marks of past servitude were less apparent, but they were there all the same—especially in her neat black stuff dress and scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been for long years what is known as a useful maid.

“I can’t think why he wants to go out in such weather. He did it in last week’s fog, too,” Bunting went on complainingly.

“Well, it’s none of your business—now, is it?”

“No; that’s true enough. Still, ‘twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger’s the first bit of luck we’ve had for a very long time.”

Mrs. Bunting made no answer to this remark. It was too obviously true to be worth answering. Also she was listening—following in imagination her lodger’s quick, singularly quiet—”stealthy,” she called it to herself—progress through the dark, fog-filled hall and up the staircase.

“It isn’t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather—not unless they have something to do that won’t wait till to-morrow.” Bunting had at last turned round. He was now looking straight into his wife’s narrow, colorless face; he was an obstinate man, and liked to prove himself right. “I read you out the accidents in Lloyd’s yesterday—shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And then, that ‘orrid monster at his work again——” (Continue Reading…)

A Box of Hair and Nail

By Geneve Flynn

Little Sister clipped the last nail from Big Sister’s slender toe and carefully placed it in the carved rubberwood box. She made sure she had twenty clippings and, although her club foot made it difficult to crouch, she checked that every piece of hair she had trimmed from her sister’s head was accounted for.

Big Sister snorted, not unkindly. “You don’t still believe that old tale, do you?” She examined her reflection in the pocked mirror on her bedroom wall. Even with the window open, both sisters were covered with a sheen of sweat: at least, Little Sister perspired; Big Sister glowed. “Bapa was only trying to scare you into behaving.” The young women shared a sorrowful glance. Their mother had passed six years ago from tuberculosis. Last month, their father had been killed in a logging accident in Sabah. Another piece of their shrinking family gone.

“No, it’s true,” Little Sister said, pushing the ache in her chest away. “If a man steals your hair and nail clippings, he can take it to the bomoh and have him cast a spell on you. Then you’ll be under the man’s control. You’ll have to be his wife forever.”

“I will be no one’s wife,” Big Sister said with a sniff. “I don’t care what magic the shaman does.” She shrugged out of her slip and pulled on the brightly coloured top and skirt of her kebaya. It was much more form fitting than their father would have allowed. She swept her thick, glossy hair up into a bun and applied a slick of lipstick. She grinned and headed for the door. “My life is going to be only kissing and fun.”

Little Sister watched as Big Sister walked along the path that led to the village, her hips swaying with each step. Any number of suitors would be awaiting her presence at the dance. Little Sister never went; no one could see past her deformity. She only ever left the house to visit the wet market or to buy fruit and vegetables.

As Big Sister rounded the bend and disappeared from view, the bushes behind her parted. Little Sister stared, breath held. There had been wild boars in the area lately. They could be dangerous if meddled with.

A thick-set, bow-legged man emerged.

The bomoh.

Little Sister frowned. Had she summoned him with her talk of love magic? What if he had overheard Big Sister’s disparaging words? She watched as he crept after her. Prickling cold ran down Little Sister’s spine. Even from her position at the window, she could see the avarice on his face. (Continue Reading…)

Nymph Of Darkness

By C.L. Moore & Forrest J. Ackerman

The thick Venusian dark of the Ednes waterfront in the hours before dawn is breathless and tense with a nameless awareness, a crouching danger. The shapes that move murkily through its blackness are not daylight shapes. Sun has never shone upon some of those misshapen figures, and what happens in the dark is better left untold. Not even the Patrol ventures there after the lights are out, and the hours between midnight and dawn are outside the law. If dark things happen there the Patrol never knows of them, or desires to know. Powers move through the darkness along the waterfront which even the Patrol bows low.

Through that breathless blackness, along a Street beneath which the breathing waters whispered, Northwest Smith strolled slowly. No prudent man ventures out after midnight along the waterfront of Ednes unless he has urgent business abroad, but from the leisurely gait that carried Smith soundlessly through the dark he might have been some casual sightseer. He was no stranger to the Ednes waterfront. He knew the danger through which he strolled so slowly, and under narrowed lids his colorless eyes were like keen steel probes that searched the dark. Now and then he passed a shapeless shadow that dodged aside to give him way. It might have been no more than a shadow. His no-colored eyes did not waver. He went on, alert and wary. (Continue Reading…)

The Coward Who Stole God’s Name

By John Wiswell

Who is the most beloved person alive? Is it one of those actors who plays superheroes? Is it a political leader? Maybe you’re a galaxy brain and say Beyoncé? No matter who you pick, you know you’re wrong. There’s always that better person who we love so unquestioningly that we forget they’re there. Sometimes, we forget why.

“Gavin Davenport?” I repeat into my phone. “You’re kidding me. He wants me?”

On the other end of the line, my editor York is practically squealing. “Apparently he reads your stuff. He mentioned The Redacted Man by name.”

I grab at my ribcage. Gavin Davenport read The Redacted Man? I’ve been reporting for twenty years but this is a chilling shock. I feel like I’m a teenager and my parents just found my browser history. The Redacted Man was so negative. I regret every phrase in it that could’ve been sharper.

I ask, “Is this a prank?”

York says, “I’ve checked with everyone. Davenport wants you to write about him. Sam, this is titanic. We’ve never done anything this big.”

My brain flails trying to contextualize the invitation. Years of absence broken—and by me? This is like being asked to write an extra chapter for the Bible. Nobody talks to Gavin Davenport. He’s barely let himself be photographed since the shootings.

I ask, “When do I go?”

“Today. You’ve got three hours.”

I grab for my keys. “Three hours?”

“Don’t be late. Remember the last person who disappointed him?” (Continue Reading…)