INSOMNIAPRESSHappy Birthday Lovecraft!

2Insomnia Press

We come then to the second Issue of Insomnia Press, dear reader. With our first issue we gave you but a taste of what our magazine is all about. And one thing were very much about is not forgetting our roots. Dark fiction is an ancient tree, gnarled and deep like Ygdrassil itself, reaching upward to a black night and deep down through the earth itself. Arent most stories, in some way, a bit dark? What I mean to say is our roots run deep.

For this reason we like to honor those that have come before us.

H.P. Lovecraft was a curious man. He was a recluse, an in-tellectual, a child prodigy, and had a bit of a social phobia. While many love his writing, some say it wasnt his writing that was all that good, but the world he introduced us to. Whatever the opinion of the man is, its hard to argue that he was not an innovator.

H.P. Lovecraft birthed an entire genre, and what would be-come a literary - and for some a cultural - movement. He sparked generations of creative thinkers and writers and artists and musicians. With a picture painted of infinite cos-mos and uncaring, unknowable beings from beyond space and time, he showed us our own morality. He made us feel small, and most importantly, he frightened us and continues to frighten us to this day.

For all he did in his short life, we want to thank H.P. Love-craft. His birthday was August 20th, and although this issue was delayed, were still celebrating that day. So Happy Belat-ed Birthday, Mr. Lovecraft.

What follows is a collection of stories inspired by and drawn from the works of the man himself. Youll find contempo-rary spins on old ideas, youll find pieces that set the mood of this issue, and youll even find an amusing story concern-ing Shoggoths and headwear. So turn the page, and keep this in mind:

That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange ae-ons, even death may die.

Regards,

R. ThomasEditor-in-Chief

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dark Dissections: Book reviews By Dakota L. tayLor... 4

BeLow the Lights By g.P. Lanciano... 6

DecomPosition By toni wi... 10

Divine anD eLDritch taLks By christoPher ciriLLo... 14

haBBerDashers anD shoggoths By antonio aLejanDro Barroso... 18

noms By jon carroLL thomas... 22

art sPotLight: UnDer the FULL moon By steven santiago... 27

writing aDvice By aLison j. mckenzie... 28

some assemBLy reqUireD By aDam waxman... 32

the chameLeon By DanieL w. gonzaLes... 38

the Line By nathan wUnner... 42

the mother oF the wooD By coLin timothy gagnon... 46

the Passion oF the son oF man By Lars Backstrom... 58

the eternaL Diver By w. waLLace... 66

the Pathetic FaLLacy By gary BUtterFieLD... 70

May the merciful gods, if indeed there be such, guard those hours when no power of the will, or drug that the cunning of man devises, can keep me from the chasm of sleep. Death is merciful, for there is no return therefrom, but with him who has come back out of the nethermost chambers of night, haggard and knowing, peace rests never-more.

- H.P. Lovecraft

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100 Years of Vicissitude by Andrez Bergen

Andrez Bergen has a special knack for sto-rytelling. His education shines through his prose, strengthening the layers of his novels. Bergen being a movie journalist, his imagination is equipped with many tools that come into play in every step of the writing process. 100 Years is a visual nov-el, saturated with rich descriptions and scenes.

Crime, geishas, time travel; this book masterfully balances these things, creat-ing an exciting tale. Filled with high and low brow humor, the story turns its nose up at pretentious literature while being tasteful thus adding to its satirical tone.

One element of the novel is the self-dis-covery of the characters. This makes the novel raw, emotional, and above all: honest. These things keep a story alive through the years, entertaining the masses for genera-tions. I would give this book 5 out of 5 stars and recommend it to anyone with a brain. Or a heart for that matter.

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Transubstantiate by Richard Thomas

Richard Thomas writes with the energy of a rabid dog and the precision of a brain surgeon. A skill that Thomas flaunts in Transubstanti-ate is his ability to leap from multiple narra-tive perspectives. This novel doesnt read like a journal, it reads like ten peoples journal.

After disease has left society a shell of its former self, only to spawn an anarchy, the plan to create a perfect world on an isolated island is set into motion. Richards post-apocalyptic dystopia is a gritty one where no is safe but ev-eryone is hiding a secret of their own.

Transubstantiate covers ground that King visited with the Dark Tower series and Suzanne Collins Hunger Games. Richard drops into each characters mind without a shred of author interference. His characters are vulnerable, thus making them human. Human enough to pull your imagination by its short hairs and not let go. His characters become your friends and ene-mies as the story progresses.

I recommend this book to everyone.

Check out stories, interviews and more reviews by Da-kota Taylor at his blog: dakotaltaylor.com

6Insomnia PressSearchers after horror haunt strange far placesThe haunted wood and the desolate mountain are their shrines,and they linger around sinister monoliths on uninhabited isles. But the true epicure in the terrible to who, a new thrill of unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification of existence, es-teems most of all the ancient lonely farmhous-es of backwoods New England.-H.P. Lovecraft

Found among the papers of the missing E. Pickman Halloway

To Whom It May Concern,

It is under acute mental strain that I compose myself long enough to put this ac-count to paper. These past weeks of revela-tion and dreams have told on me and I fear my constitution to be giving way. Whether this manuscript takes root is largely de-pendent on the mental soil of the reader; regardless, I urge the skeptics to consider it in light of the genuineness of the histor-ic material.

In the Spring of 1931, I left my child-hood home of Boston in search of a place of respite from this insane Jazz Age. I toured the towns of Marblehead, Ipswitch, Wil-braham and Newburyport but found in them the stilted atmosphere of old English colo-nialism. It is in the Blackstone Valley that I found a quaint country of ancient beauty and backwoods atmosphere.

I settled down along the bends of the Blackstone Canal, a flowing waterway reared around 1824. Its purpose was to con-nect Worcester to Providence and provide much needed hydro-electric power along its lengths. Since its inception, mills have sprung up beside its babbling banks, yet my chosen residence was oddly void of such signs of industrialism.

As I grew acquainted with the towns-folk, I learned of Traditional local holi-days coinciding with the beginning and end of summer. They also, as I found, indulged in Ghost Stories and local legends were freely told of Swamp Lights being sighted between the two annual gatherings. Having myself a penchant for the weird, I resolved to learn more.

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7Happy Birthday Lovecraft! As with any local story, these legends are wild, far-reaching and as varied as the cultur-al strata that I questioned. The Common thread is that a small coven of witches took refuge in the marshes across the canal. Allegedly flee-ing the prosecutions of 1692, they took their practice here but soon succumbed to their own devilish curiosities. These will-o-the-wisps are their spiritual manifestations, luring the sen-sitive out to their old haunt to ensnare and en-sorcel.

It is odd how such a grotesque legend had worked its way into a traditionally puritan people.

It was the eve of May 1st, 1931 that I saw the spectral light for the first time. I was sitting at my Northern window, in front of which is my desk, reading a serial when I espied a faint glow peeking out from under the budding shrubs across the river. It shewn like no Light I had ever known. It was as if it were looking at me, through me. Yet how could it? It was merely a singular dot of distant luminosity but it nev-ertheless tugged at my will. I flew down to the rear entrance of my new-found home yet when I opened the door I saw nothing at all but the hint of a swiftly fading diminishing light. I

stood there watching for what felt like hours, yet knew were only minutes. I watched the still night and the moon play upon the murmuring water rolling though the ancient landscape, as if of some dream of Salvatore Rosa.

The next day I walked along the rail-bed beside the canal. The land was cleared and lev-eled for tracks, yet none were ever laid. I knew not what I was looking for but ever felt the pull of an unseen force calling and beckoning me onward towards truth. It was then I decided to lay down my work and investigate in earnest the history and lore of this forgotten place, if for nothing else than to pursue inspiration for future artistic works.

The following weeks were spent scouring town records, questioning clerks and librari-ans, and getting to know very well the propri-etors of the towns historical society. What I discovered only furthered my madness and I will lay the highlights of my investigations here:

-Disappearances & drownings common in past 60 years, yet none reported prior to canal.

8Insomnia Press -Railway was set to lay in 1843 but an in-cident involving 3 deaths and 5 men injured halts and sinks the project.

-Colonist raid targets a Nipmuc village living in the Marshes during King Phillips War. Account of officers relate hint at cannibalism and sacrifice among the inhabi-tants.

-Davenport Manuscripts document Al-gonquin legend telling of A Great Spirit sleeping under murky waters. One day he will awake and swallow the world.

What could this mean? Surely this is no coincidence, these accounts must be con-nected in some way, yet how? What thread of truth lies under these fragmented bits of corrupted history? I do not want to know, I need to know. Even now as I write, I see and feel those damnable will-o-the-wisps, swamp lights, ancient spirits. Whatever they are, they call to me and I am done re-fusing their sirens song.

What is it inside men that pushes us to delve into mystery? Is it so innocent as childish curiosity? No, I think it is some-

thing far deeper, darker. It is fear. Fear that this is all there is. With our minds we push farther into unknown places search-ing frantically for another reason to be-lieve there is something more waiting for us beyond the wall of perceptive existence. We are not content to sit on our pale blue dot and marvel at the rare beauty around us. Instead we sweep aside the prosaic beauty to plow onward into the unknown reaches of our universe and existence.

It is in like manner that I resolve to follow the pull of these lights into that accursed marsh, into that landscape of matted mosses and blasted heaths. I leave this letter so that in such a case as I do not return, some may know wherefore I depart this world and venture into black abysses. -E.P.H.

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9Happy Birthday Lovecraft!

On June 15, 1931 Edward Pickman Halloway was seen walking out of his home in Blackstone, Mas-sachusetts for an evening walk. No mention of any suspicious lights were reported on that date.

A search following the report of his disappear-ance scoured the woods of the surrounding area for 5 days. Nothing came of it.

AUTHOR BIO:

G.P. Lanciano was born and raised in Massachusetts, so Lovecraft has always hit home for him. He supposes it has something to do with finding out youve been drink-ing water from the Quabin Reservoir (Blasted Heath) your whole life right after reading The Colour Out of Space (Thankfully, he has not turned into an undulating pile of ichor. Yet).

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Insomnia PressWe came across the old house at dusk. Jilly said we should look inside so we hid around in the bushes first just to be safe. It was probably empty, but you couldnt be sure with these country houses. Anyone could be hiding out in them.

It was a run-down place and I didnt like the look of it. Most of the paint was gone. It had once been a cheery yellow, but was now faded, ravaged by rain and wind and neglect over time. The front door was ajar, the win-dows smashed inwards with jagged bits of glass sticking up out of the frames. On the front porch a couch decayed in a mass of rotten wood and wet upholstery. And there was a strong stink about the house that could only mean one thing. Death.

The light was failing and the temperature cooling with it, so we had to either go in or move on. We needed a place to stay. It was too dangerous to camp outside with-out shelter at this time of year, especially with the threat of rain on the horizon. The sky rolled blue-black in the east, thunder-clouds gathering together like old friends. Id seen enough flash floods in my lifetime to instinctively head to higher ground

when a storm is brewing. This one had been following us since Highgate. Thered be no escaping it now.

Jilly was shivering so I gave her my jacket. The shoulders were too big and she looked smaller and more fragile than ever, sit-ting with her knees to her chin, her arms clasped around her legs, an overgrown beetle. Shed be so easy to squash. I could pinch her between my thumb and forefinger and be done with it.

She caught me looking at her and held my gaze. Is it safe?

Dont know. You wait here, Ill check it out.

She nodded.

I slipped away and crept up to the porch, crouched over, listening for any sign of life. The smell up here was overwhelm-ing; a mixture of mold, decomposition, and shit from whatever animal had been at the corpses. They were there, just inside. What was left of them at least. Bones, scraps of tissue. Small too. Like they had been kids

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!once.

The sight should have bothered me. But it didnt. Because someone was standing just be-hind them. Someone with a gun.

He inched out of the shadows, raggedy and half-dead. A man. By the look on his face he might have been their father. But there was nothing human left in him now, nothing but space and echoes.

I put my hands up and backed away slowly.

He kept his gaze on me and his arms limp at his side. The gun pulled at him so that his whole body sagged forward. I could see his skull through his skin, the bulge of his eye sock-ets where there should have been flesh. His clothes were in rags, his hair tangled in clumps of dirt or blood.

I should have said something, tried to run, but a chill crept over me, shot right up my spine and scared me stiff.

Vaguely I thought of Jilly. I hoped shed be ok.

He made it to the door. Looked at me for a sec-ond. And then he closed it.

I had forgotten to breathe. Air came back like a punch in the gut. I staggered backwards and off the porch altogether, landing awkwardly in the weeds. Launching to my feet I ran back to the bush where Jilly was hiding, expecting to die at any second.

She was already crying and pulled me close, shaking all over. I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead.

I couldnt find words. Fear had a hold of me, and if I let it, panic would be next. I grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

It was almost dark. We ran as far as we dared till our sight gave out and we crept through the grass like insects, half-blind. There was no moon and no stars. When it finally started to rain we huddled against the first tree we found and tried to sleep.

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Insomnia Press

AUTHOR BIO:

Toni lives in New Zealand and writes mostly super-natural fiction with bits of fantasy thrown in for good fun. She is working on a gothic novel about trees. And magic.

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Insomnia PressIt began with a star, a very bright star. Though not as bright as the North Star, it was a close comparison. A very unusual star too, not because of how bright it was, but because every so often you would swear it wasnt there. One night it would be there looking down at Lake Simcoe and the sur-rounding land, the next night however, it was simply gone. There never seemed to be a pattern to its disappearances. Sometimes weeks would pass and no disappearance, but then, out of the blue, it would be gone. It had a permanent position beside the full moon, when the moon found itself near the highest point in the sky. It never changed, no matter the season. It was up there watching over Lake Simcoe. It was the start of autumn, the night sky clear and brilliant, with a full moon in a sea of stars. They pooled the cool light of the darkened heavens upon the waters below. The star was among them, at least for a little while. Perfectly bright and visible all night... until 3:33 am, at which point it vanished. At the same time, anyone looking out over the lake from the cottag-es and homes that lay in the vicinity of the Narrows, Simcoe side, would have spotted a very odd thing. Off a ways from the buoy,

between Strawberry and Grape Island, was a man. Hed simply appeared and was walking on the water as if it were firm as stone. He had a quick and commanding pace. Clad in all black, he swiftly passed nearby Grape Island and headed straight for the docks at the end of Forest Avenue. Within a brisk 10 minutes of his appearance, the man had reached the docks and was making his way up the hill. At the hills top, bathed in yellow from the last light post, situated in the middle of the road was a rabbit. The man walked up to the small woodland creature without it even flinching or scurrying away, as they so often do. The two just stood there on the road, between two very exquisitely cared for properties. The rabbit looked up at the man with its one good eye. The man contin-ued to stare at the rabbit. Why do you use such a pathetic, boring shell of a guise? inquired the rabbit with-out words. The question had been spoken in a different fashion; a fashion man has yet to comprehend. The man sighed telepathi-cally. It suits my purpose. You wished to speak to me Death? the innocent little black and grey rabbit was now seemingly far from in-

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!nocent. Yes, but please no titles, you may refer to me by my true name Sytorammar. The man nod-ded. As you wish, Xthukha. By any account re-called by anyone passing by or looking out their window, they would see nothing more than a man dressed in black and a shabby, hag-gard rabbit at his feet. Other perceptions would tell a far different story altogether. For the sake of simplicity and sanity combined, it is best to perceive these two entities as the physical appearances they deemed appropriate for their talks. The rabbits ears twitched slightly to the left. To answer your question of why I called upon you, well you see, its nothing formal nor does it involve official business. I simply want to have a chat. Find out how the family is. The man cocked an eyebrow. The Choirs above? You know which family I refer to. The one you started with the aid of that little shell of yours. The mans brow furrowed with slight suspicion. What do you want to know? I understand as Father to the new up and coming Chosen youve had your eyes on this

cozy little plot of the world. I do whenever I can afford to. I have... The man took a moment, deep in thought. ...other duties to attend to, which have gotten in the way. Of course, of course, I fully understand. You know I have my own little offspring out and about in the world. The man was all too aware of the proximity of said offspring. It troubled him often to have such a brooding force lurking beneath an island so close to his own earthly family. You see Sytorammar, my little bundle of joy, I think thats what humans often refer to them as shes been a little rowdy and playful as of late. Shes been up to a bit of horseplay you see, and I was curious to know that since you have been watching over this area, had you noticed at all? So that was the reason for this meeting, thought the man. I have noticed a few dis-turbances in the balance of things, all of which lead back to your offspring. If you were concerned about me sending a report to On High, as long as she does not affect my childs upbringing, you need not worry. Whos worried? Your high and mighty chief knows when to be complacent and keep out of affairs in the mortal world; Quite the

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Insomnia Pressparty pooper if you ask me, but he has his way. He probably even already knows of the transpired events. Of the meager amount of lives that have expired because of my daughter, no, thats not who concerns me. I dont want any of your more zealous breth-ren getting any annoying ideas of righ-teousness; could cause a lot of heated prob-lems between your kin and mine. The rabbit waited a moment before continuing, the man looked thoughtful and nodded. Xthukha continued. Youd think that they would take the example of the Father and stay out of things too, but then if that were the case, we wouldnt have had the inquisition. The rabbit thought of those dreadful, dark events. Fun times. The way I understand it, your protg had an argument with your... The man took a moment to search for the appropriate word. daughter involving these matters. A minor fight, theyre over it now. Again only a few meager souls premature-ly left the mortal world, nothing to get excited about. I have to wonder now, why would an up and coming angel such as your-self be willing to keep secrets from his su-

periors so easily? There was a silence; bro-ken only by the faint hummings of a drunk wandering down the full stretch of Forest Avenue. Both beings were aware but fully unconcerned with the approaching pres-ence. The silence between them lasted a bit longer. Becoming a father changes things. I suppose it does. In any case, I still remain loyal to the Father and the Choirs. Nothing I withhold could ever jeopardize that. You need not logistify your silly little guilt to me, youre the one living with it. Were the one eyed rabbit able, with the sim-ple fleshy form it had chosen, it would have given a devious smirk. The man glared at the rabbit, but then conceded with a sigh. Is there anything else Xthukha? Yes, I would like to propose that we convene here every so often so that I may receive updates and such from you. Feeling lonely, Great Old One? Hardly. Remember this whole affair on this world is merely a part time gig for me. I simply want to keep tabs on my offspring and yours. And why is that? The future holds many interesting

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!things for them and this region. This very world will change with them. I believe their destinies are intertwined. The mans face dark-ened at the prospect and he reluctantly nod-ded. Very well, if there is nothing more; I should like to resume my post. The half blind rabbits head cocked to one side. Afraid of raising suspicion from that mor-tal approaching? He is too consumed by drink to really notice us; though this could be an en-tertaining situation. The rabbit turned to the now much closer human waddling from side to side as he reached the crossroads of Forest Av-enue and Victoria Crescent. He was filthy and smelled very ripe, as he had been sweating pro-fusely; hed let his papered up bottle slip into the waterlogged ditch halfway down the road. The man by the rabbit turned back to the lake and began his walk. Have your fun Elder One. Until next time Angel. The rabbit hopped toward the drunk by the crossroads and looked up. The drunk looked down. Well... hic... Hullo thar lil... suddenly, his half closed and glazed over eyes widen unnatu-rally and uncontrollably as he beheld a sight of unspeakable horror before him, where the little black and grey one-eyed rabbit had been.

Sytorammar, still in the guise of a man clad in black walked over the waves of Simcoe, as a barely human gargling scream came down from the hill on Forest Avenue. All the covert angel did was look the other way, shake his head and vanish. The star appeared in the early morning sky once more.

AUTHOR BIO:

Growing up on stories and legends told by a several rela-tives who were equally interested in the paranormal and then later finding H.P. Lovecraft among other greats, Chris Cirillo (Thats Me) has always been a imagina-tive individual, whether it was through story writing or drawing (Lots of drawings: which can be found at cra-zon.deviantart.com), Chris has been in the world build-ing business all his life. Characters, monsters and whole galaxies worth of worlds lie both on pages of paper, in digital form and in his mind. (Seriously, its getting crowded in there!) With a family and group of friends to both inspire and support his creativity, Chris likes to delve into many related and intertwined genres: horror, fantasy, science fiction and everything in between. Hes currently attempting to write Simcoe County, Ontario into a new Miskatonic valley (Ok, Ill stop with the third person perspective now).

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Insomnia PressDamned buttons! muttered Prof. Rice as he feebly pawed at his vest. Though anyone spectating the portly man as he struggled with his light brown suit would agree that pawed is the incorrect term to be used here. Imagine, if you will, a ladybug, stand-ing unnaturally and uncomfortably up-right, poking at her own carapace in hopes of liberating herself from the shell, all while nursing a hangover. That then would give us a much more accurate portrait of what exactly Prof. Rice was attempting to do with his vests wily, though wholly com-monplace buttons. Blast! It was Prof. Rices propensity to speak to himself and project his inward thoughts outward that made him a notorious both-er for his colleagues in the Classical Lan-guages department at Miskatonic Univer-sity. Overhearing an eccentric academic muttering about his gout flaring up tends to derail ones train of higher academic thought. This distraction is further com-pounded when English is replaced with an ancient Semitic tongue, as the professor was known to do. It should be noted that such mutterings proved to be rather laborious for Prof. Rice, as when they were in ancient

tongues they often created anachronistic statements. Pre-Babylonians had little to no interest in gout, bowling, or that leggy blonde in my intro class, let alone the foresight to create words to describe such yet to be discovered things. Often Prof. Rice had to seek out the council of his fellow scholars to check himself from creating anachronisms that only he would be vain enough to care about. Because of this effort to actively collect second opin-ions, many grew suspect of how involun-tary his supposed unconscious mutterings were. This, plus his proclivity toward un-comfortably chatting up aforementioned leggy blondes would eventually lead to his academic downfall. But such details about Prof. Rice, his subtle quirks, and his academic fate are of little use to us at this juncture. At this point it should be brought to the readers attention that Prof. Rice is no more than twenty yards away from a shoggoth. Damned buttons! To describe Dr. Armitage and Dr. Mor-gans reaction to Prof. Rices shockingly misplaced priorities as incredulous would be a grievous understatement. Armitage was flummoxed, and Morgan was downright

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!miffed. Despite this, they both stood beside Rice, boldly facing off against the shifting black and massive form of the shoggoth. Ar-mitage clutched an ancient tome in his hands while Morgan held a glowing talisman of un-certain origin and age. Had Tennyson been witness to the bravado of these brave men, he would have saved his best and most triumphant words to describe them. Certainly, they with their unflinching determination to banish man-kinds greatest threat would have out-shined any cavalry immortalized in verse. This suit is simply not the appropriate thing to be wearing at a time like this, added Rice, a little dismayd. The shoggoth at this time took a moment to reflect. As it watched the professor ineffec-tively attempt to remove the outer layers of his intricate outfit, it was reminded of a sim-pler time. A time when it and its fellow shog-goths destroyed the incalculably ancient civ-ilization of the Elder Things. There was a very interesting parallel being drawn between the drama of untold millennia and the current de-pressing display of the creatures newest ad-versaries. History seemed to be repeating itself. Carvings and sculptures sequestered away in arctic ruins tell the epic of the Elder Things. Colonization of the planet Earth. Genesis of

new life-forms. Devastating warfare the likes of which the human mind cannot fathom. All these things and countless other histories are contained within the leagues of carvings and inscriptions. Yet, the tale of their downfall re-mains an enigma only partially understood by a handful of scholars driven mad by its profound horror. Shoggoths were the sole retainers of such eldritch knowledge. They alone knew the formula for the downfall of those once great primordial ones. Watching Prof. Rice success-fully free his third of six buttons took the shoggoths memory back to that moment in pre-history when they realized and enacted their master plan. It became clear that the fall of man would be an eerie imitation of that of the Elder Things. The shoggoth knew what weapon it and its brood must use to put an end to this new enemy. The same weapon it used eons ago. Fashion. In the shoggoths mind, the demise of the human race would be ensured by our tendency to fiddle about with clothing, much like how the Elder Things met their grisly fate -- because of their love of hats. In order to fully under-stand this of course, one must become aware of a number of occult facts. The Elder Things were simultaneously fond of as well as vexed by the unique shapes of their star fish shaped heads.

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Insomnia PressAs such, a well fitting hat was something an Elder Thing could be proud of. Time and ma-terials were required to create a suitable headpiece, and being the ever busy heads of a proto-socialist state, these were usually in short supply. Exquisitely talented haber-dashers were also required to pull off this feat of cosmic fashion. Some preferred the craftsmanship of the Mi-Go, others took it upon themselves to create their own, but everyone could agree that hat making was beyond the base skills of the Cthulhu spawn. Justification for their hat obsession ran thusly: Creating not only the most ad-vanced civilization this terrestrial plane has ever known, but also its most fashion-able head covering warrants a display of the fruits of said labors. This, of course, is a sparse yet primarily accurate simplifica-tion of the writing of the Elder Things. To supply the reader with a verbatim trans-lation would require not only a hyper evolved mind, but also seven miles worth of rock for the author to carve upon. The shoggoth was suddenly awash with bittersweet recollections of defiling the hats of the Elder Things. Once these fond memories retreated

back to the unimaginable depths of the shoggoths memory, it then and there re-solved to destroy all humans in light brown three piece suits. It should be noted however, that this is a gross oversimplifi-cation of the thought process of the shog-goth, with the exception of its mention of the brown suit. Being that there is no equiv-alent to that particular wavelength in the shoggoths color spectrum, it simply re-ferred to the color of the suit as the shog-goth equivalent of the term unnamable. That does it for the vest. Now where is my hat? Checkmate.

AUTHOR BIO:

Antonio Alejandro Barroso was raised on the writ-ings of Edgar Allan Poe. Borrowing the plot of The Raven for a second grade writing assignment was the first sign that something was horribly wrong with him. Moving onto Lovecraft in high school, he began exploring weird fiction, and now, halfway through a masters degree in literature, he is that weird guy in class who knows far too much about tentacles. Still living in his home town in Michigan, he has tricked the locals into letting him educate children at the local junior high school.

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Insomnia PressThe noisewhen you first hear itstrikes you as funny, he tried to explain. Even now hes unsure if he should laugh or not. He said it sounds like a cartoon, like an ac-tors impression of a flat tire or a pig in mud. His own impression, I confess, made me laughGRAWB, GRAWB, GRAWBhis eyes almost as wide as his mouth. Then he laughed too, and then added, nervously, Only it doesnt stop.I can tell he is distressed, even more than he thinks hes letting on. The fact that hes in my kitchen says something in itself. But, when he rang my bell this morning, he in-troduced himself as Tad Wilkes, my neigh-bor from across the streetas if I hadnt seen him around the neighborhood a thou-sand timesas if he had completely forgot-ten the time, a couple of summers ago, that I came over for gin and tonics. Granted, it was his girlfriend at the time, Ester that in-vited me; maybe he just hoped I had forgot-ten.Together, they had occupied the larg-est apartment in a six-unit building. It was bright and spacious, but also cozyrent-controlled, utilities includedthe only apparent drawback was that they had to share the ground floor with their land-

lord; he had a small apartment strategi-cally located by the stairs to the laundry room, but knowing Mr. Funka as I do, thats a small price to pay unless you need some-thing fixed in a hurry. What actually went wrong I never could guess; they seemed per-fectly happy. Their break-up must have been very sudden; I never even saw her leave; I only began to suspect that something had happened when I noticed that the front windows by which she liked to do her morn-ing exercises were now always closed and covered.Since that day, Id only seen Tad in passing and he never had time for more than a few words. I only asked about Ester once and he seemed to ignore the question. Until he showed up this morning, I had given up on being neighborly. Now, as we chat beside the fridge in my kitchen, he acts as if we were friends all along, which is part of why I feel so uneasy. He also holds eye contact for too long. To distract him, I take out the bottle of rum that I keep in the freezer and hand it to him. Yeah, good idea, he says. Outside, the seasonal winds are worse than usual; I hear them groan through the ex-haust duct over the stove; somewhere near-by, a trash can is blown over.

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!He goes on to say that he hasnt been sleeping, and thats why he might seem a little off. The sound is somehow worse at night, like it were actually trying to compete with the wind as it picks up after dark. When he does manage to get some sleep it is troubled by terrible dreams that he cant begin to describe, and when he awakes, he feels unbelievably hungry. When I of-fer to make him a sandwich he eagerly accepts, but the real reason he came by was to ask a big favor.

***We step outside and I feel the coldness pinch my head even with the hood of my sweatshirt pulled up and I regret not pretending to be asleep when Tad arrived. I make him carry my tools as we cross the littered street, but its a small consolation. Instead, I decide that the hassle is worth the opportunity just to repeat Tads story to my friends at the bar. Mr. Funka was on the news several weeks ago after some deranged street person had somehow got into the building and slashed his own throat in the basement. That much I already knew. I had even seen the troubled vagrant myself, encounter-ing him briefly as he milled dazedly around the neighborhood, ranting some new-agey nonsense about ley-lines or whatever. I had not heard the part about Mr. Funka getting arrested for

trying to steal twenty cases of frozen chicken wings from a parked delivery truck. That was only a few days ago and he has been M.I.A. ever since, presumably tied up in the legal system. In the meantime, the basement door has been locked and Tad and the other tenants have let their dirty laundry pile up. There wasnt real-ly a problem until the noise started. Steadily, Tads neighbors began to find other places to stay; one couple has moved out entirely. The place seems completely deserted when Tad lets me in. After the door clatters shut, he closes his fist around his keys to silence them and holds a fin-ger in the air.Listen, he says.Hes right; it does sound funny, and I laugh. I think of Homer Simpson eating doughnuts in Hell, OmnomnomMoreOmnomnom, and I mention it to Tad. His expression remains fixed as if he didnt even hear me. His silence compels me to listen more closely. I follow the noise past Mr. Funkas apartment and to the basement stairs. The door stands slightly ajar and there are fresh scuff marks on the jamb.I begin to say something about the door, but Tad brushes past me before I can finish. He be-gins slowly descending the creaky stairs. If he didnt still have my tools, I might have just let

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Insomnia Presshim go, instead I feel obliged to follow. I pause just inside the door to appraise the sound. It sounds vaguely animal, but its mo-notony suggests something mechanical, like a washing machine out of balance, but how could it go on for days? Tad has also paused to look back up at me and waits for me to take a step before he goes on. At the foot of the stairs is a closed wood-en door secured by two heavy padlocks. Off to the left is the dormant laundry area to where I follow Tad. Down here the air is so dank with the smell of wet earth that it catches in my throat, forcing me to cough. Suddenly the sound stops. Before I can read a reaction from Tad, he has pulled a flat-tened cardboard box away from the wall to our right exposing a large, moldering hole in the drywall. He ducks through without a word or a backward glance. At my feet is an orange extension chord leading down into the dark. I hesitate, thinking about the vagrant. A moment lat-er, I see a bright light come on, then anoth-er.You coming, or what?For whatever reason, his subtle chastise-ment is enough to motivate me through the hole. I step down into an unfinished portion

of the basement lit by a pair of work lights. I look around. Apparently this area was in-tended for storage but now stands nearly empty. In the center of the earthen floor is a massive indentation covered partially by a plastic sheet weighted down with cinder-blocks. It looks like someone has been dig-ging, but there are no tools anywhere, and no piles of debris.Tad stands across the room beside one of the work lights. He had apparently crossed using a wide, wooden board spanning the in-dentation. It seems to be the best place to survey the strange scene so I begin to cross without much thought. He stops me halfway by asking, What do you make of that? and directs the light downward.I look down, expecting to see a damaged pipe or something similar, but instead I watch the translucent plastic billow in a sudden gust of stale air as a dark shape recedes beneath it. I am not prepared when Tad sud-denly shoves me from the side.I attempt to catch myself on the side but I grab only plastic, tangling myself in it as I drop several feet into the opening onto something other than earth and rock; It is firm, but yielding, like falling into an un-made waterbed, but it is enough to knock

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!the wind out of me. Almost stunned, I turn my head in time to see one of the cinderblocks slide down the sloping plastic and directly into my unguarded face. Even as the remain-ing blocks are pulled down around me, and the hole somehow grows deeper, my mind strains to interpret the events as anything but grotesque slapstick. It is not until I feel the surface be-neath me begin to pitch and writhe and I hear that insane, inhuman howl that my mind goes black.

***It is the sound of distant screams that bring me back. I awake in near darkness. The plastic crackles close to my ears and inside my mouth is a raw, aching mess. When I spit out the hot blood, I feel the hard pieces of my teeth pass be-tween my fractured lips. With great difficulty and pain I manage to stand and stumble free of the plastic, now ragged and sticky with some-thing dark and repugnant. Again, I am on the surface. The work lights have all been upset and now only one lamp spreads

its light in a crude fan across the ground. More of the black mess is pooled around my feet. Judging by the spatter and the horrible pain down my right side, it seems that I was expelled from the pit with great force. Tad is nowhere to be seen.The light stops at the opening in the ground. Barely above the ringing rising in my ears, I can make out a mans baleful cries echoing out of the blackness. When it suddenly stops, coldness creeps over me and my insides tighten. I collect my tools and leave.

***Several oral surgeries later and still in a shoulder cast, I return to the scene as it is be-ing bulldozed. I question a worker who says that they had to truck in extra fill to stabilize the foundation. As I press him further I ask him if he or any of his buddies were having trouble sleeping or were experiencing excessive hunger; before he walks away he laughs and says, Who in the hell doesnt?

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AUTHOR BIO:

Jon Carroll Thomas is an up and coming writer from Pittsburgh, PA. You can read some of his other work at abandonedgraveyard.wordpress.com

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!

Under the Full Moon by Steven Santiago

My art piece is based on the creature that Love-craft spoke of in his short story The Thing in the Moonlight. http://www.hplovecraft.com/writ-

ings/texts/fiction/tm.asp

For some reason that cone faced character is one of my favorites even though we know very little

about it. So I wanted to see what it may have looked like in its younger days. And who is that holding it up to the moon? A creature that fused a human with an ancient evil perhaps? The image is left to

the viewer to make up their own story.

www.facebook.com/stevesantiago.artist

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Insomnia PressWords have power. Well, they do if theyre used properly. The problem is that many writers are too eager with words. They hoard them, then take them and shove as many as they can fit into a story. Its a common misconcep-tion that long, flowing paragraphs made of complex sentences makes some sort of art. A true writer chooses which words to use with care. Unnecessary words can bog your sen-tences down. I want to glide through prose, not wade through it. If I have to stop and process whats being said, Im being pulled out of the story. Description is a major culprit here. Is description bad? Dear God, no. But if its too flowery, or theres simply too much of it, the characters and plot will get lost in it. A good writer can paint a picture with words. A fantastic writer can do it in twen-ty words or less. Emphasis words can be worse than bulky description. Words like some and really almost always detract from a point rath-er than add to it. Compare: He has a really vibrant personality that some people find charming and He has a vibrant personal-ity that people find charming. The second

sentence is both cleaner and stronger. Dont use expensive words when cheap words will do, and dont use cheap words when none will do. Your story is crafted of sentences, and sentences are built from words. Treat the words with respect. Do it properly. Know what youre saying. Writing is communication. Dont lose your reader.

Flash Fiction Flash fiction is a great way to practice writing concisely. If you dont already do it yourself, I recommend it. Its a wonderful lesson in choosing words, conveying theme and emotion, and portraying characters without over-speaking. Learn to say a lot with only a few words, and your writing will be stronger for it.

Short Stories Short stories are the next level up from flash fiction. Short stories have more breathing room than flash fiction, but they still require the writer to take care with each and every word. You still need to convey a compelling story using a limited word count. Study famous short stories in the genre that interests you. Truly talent-ed short story writers can provide ideal

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!examples for concise writing.

Young Adult Novels Well-written young adult novels are a won-derful resource for writers. Theyre designed to be gobbled up. You want an example of writ-ing that moves quickly, flows well, and carries you along for the ride; grab yourself a good YA book. Even with the success of series like The Hunger Games and the (debatably YA) Har-ry Potter books, YA doesnt get enough credit. Good YA can be fantastic. Dont discount it as a resource. You can learn a lot from the concise yet compelling, simple yet complex, beautiful books nestled within the YA section. You just need to find the right ones.

Theres definitely room for the Neal Ste-phensons of the world. There is no universal right way to do things. A long sentence is not necessarily a bad one. But as you write, you should be aware of how approachable your writing is. Remember that someone has to read this. They have to want to read it. Draw them in with strong words and a stronger story. Dont weigh them down. If you

Alison J. McKenzie is our in house advice columnist. Check out more words of wisdom at her blog: writingat-midnight.wordpress.com

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!

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Insomnia PressI guess I just dont understand the instruc-tions, Sean spoke hesitantly into the phone. It would be the last words he would ever speak.

*** There was nothing particularly unique about the shop where Anna and Sean had stopped on the trip back from the Rhode Is-land coast. It was one of those small, quiet shops in a quiet, leaf-strewn town. A wood-en sign hanging above the door, weathered with age and cracked from exposure to the elements, proclaimed that in graphite let-ters the store was called MOAB. Inside shadows and light played across dusty rows of shelves and the worn wooden counter. At first glance this was another establishment designed to leech blood from the tourists passing through. Upon closer examination the books were titles no one had heard of or could even be recalled upon moving on to other items in the shop. The knickknacks and jewelry were made of strange, lustrous stones and seemed to on occasion shine from their own light. Perusing the wares, Anna selected a small box made from dark smooth wood. Anna turned it over in her small, delicate hands quizzically. Though they could hear

small parts clattering about within, the wizened old man standing behind the count-er did not make any comment as to its con-tents. Still, Sean felt oddly compelled to purchase the thing. As the couple left the store, they could feel the old mans strange yellow eyes following them out the door. When they got the thing home, they found that there was a catch that con-cealed an inner compartment. When they opened the thing, all manner of screws, nuts, bolts, and other sundries tumbled out. In addition, a small, folded piece of paper landed on the floor. Anna plucked the yellowish paper from the ground and unfolded it, eager for some clue as to what the box contained. Ah, she thought, these must be instructions for as-sembling whatever was in the box. Looking at the paper, it seemed simple enough. In-deed, the object seemed to be some sort of lamp. And she had been meaning to find a nice lamp for their bedroom end table! As Sean gazed over her shoulder at the directions, he thought to himself that this would be easy. All they had to do was fol-low the instructions, and soon they would have a sturdy new tool shelf for the ga-rage!

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft! Eagerly, the two sat down and began to ex-amine the directions. They had some disagree-ment about where to start, and how many steps there were. Sean seemed to think 36, and Anna 33. Later, Anna was sure there were 37, Sean 55. It didnt help that the steps were convoluted and not in sequential order. Sean commented that it was like someone who had never written directions before had written the guidelines. Anna rejoined that it seemed that the direc-tions had been translated from some other lan-guage, though which she could not discern. Still, they pressed on. Sitting on the floor, they managed to build the base of the thing thick planks of some exotic wood joined to-gether into a square. Sean could have sworn that he wiped sand off the planks as he pulled them together. He got up and mumbled something to Anna about needing to go wash his hands. Meander-ing towards the kitchen, the house about him seemed to spin. It was still his house, but he had an odd sense that it should not take this long to get back to the sink. He bent his head down and ran the water, rinsing his hands of the sand from the boards. On the walk back to the front hall, he did not notice the traces of sand and stone on the rug. He rejoined Anna in the front hall, who was

bent over the thing and trying to work out the next section. Anna was convinced that they had to simply place the screw into the hole on the base and it would set up the next section. As she worked with the tools, the piece just didnt seem to fit. Looking at the instructions, they were clear. The piece just seemed not to fit. Sean, taking the piece, easily tightened it into place. He reached over and ruffled her hair, smiled at her. Silly girl. She looked down, hiding her eyes. She hated it when he did that. They got back to work. There seem to be an endless amount of pieces screws, bolts, wash-ers. Little black pieces with sharp edges com-posed of some strange metal. Bigger, heavy piec-es that didnt seem like they could fit in the box. The directions continued to be opaque and confusing. The small, folded sheet seemed to get big-ger and bigger as Anna struggled with it. She spread it out on the wood floor, pushing sand out of the way as it got on the thin paper. As she tried to puzzle through the directions, a sharp gust of wind blew through the hall. You left the damned window open again, she muttered, grasping at the paper as it buckled on the floor.

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Insomnia Press Another burst of wind blew through the hall, this time strong enough to lift the paper off the ground and carry it into the dining room. Anna stood, irate, and chased the flittering thing. She glowered at Sean as she went to the other room. Sean wasnt really paying attention to her. He had been consumed by a desire the finish the thing on the floor, to solve the conundrum of whatever was in the box. As Anna ran off chasing the instructions, he focused on the pieces spread out on the floor. He found it hard to focus on the lit-tle bits. Suddenly he was overcome with a heavy thirst. He smacked his lips, his mouth parched and dry. A thick heat seemed to envelop him, pressing down upon him like a blanket. His eyes grew blurry and he dropped the small piece he was fiddling with to the floor. His gaze falling to the ground, Sean saw amidst the strew pieces a small, weathered card. It seemed to be made from the same pa-per as the instructions. There was a phone number on the card. Taking out his phone, he dialed. In the other room, Anna was laughing. Shed followed the flittering instruc-

tions, which seemed to dance on the wind like some strange insect, out to the front porch with its great bay windows. Grabbing the instructions, it was only then that she saw the stars. Strange, alien stars pulsing in unfamil-iar constellations. It was too dark to see anything beyond the windows themselves, but in the sky she could see strange forma-tions unlike any she had ever seen. It was too dark. She settled into a couch on the porch, the first uncontrollable fits of giggles overcoming her. Im sorry sir, the voice on the other end of the phone said. Moab Corporation can-not accept any refunds or exchanges. Have a nice day. The voice was short, crisp, and had no accent. Sean hung up the phone, the soft laugh-ter of Anna playing in his ears. He picked up a jagged piece and began to fiddle with it. Carelessly, he scraped it across his thumb cutting himself on the sharp edge. He watched dully as a few droplets of red blood splashed across the base of the thing. His blood mingled with the black rock, running into the rivulets on the sur-

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!face of the stone. He held tight to the jagged piece, his head swimming. Suddenly, a flash. Sean could feel warm sand under his toes. His sandaled toes. His senses were assaulted from all sides with an alien scene. He could see what appeared to be a camp laid in a desert valley, lit by starlight, bonfires, and torches. The stars were unlike any constellation he had ever seen. The camp was composed of crude tents roughly con-structed of animal hide and bronze-tipped wooden poles. Banners throughout the camp had strange pictograms painted upon them. Bronzed-skinned men, women, and children dressed in sackcloth ran about him, in a state of terror-stricken alert. In the distance there were shouts in a strangely familiar yet unknown language. Men circled the camp on horseback, small horses that were exotic to Sean. Some of the men held spears tipped with what Sean could only assume were bronze. Others were armed with bow and arrow, still others what appeared to be vicious pruning hooks and other farming implements converted for war. Ignoring the cries of the encampment, the armed men charged in an orgy of blood and slaughter. The encampment mounted a feeble

defense. Around him men, women, and children fell, their blood soaking the sand. As the at-tack reached a frenzied pitch, Sean was struck by some kind of stone cudgel, and fell back onto the hot, wet sand. Shaking his head as if to clear water from his ears, Sean slid the blood-slicked piece into place, completing the thing. As he sagged back, Annas mad laughter in his ears, his eyes fo-cused on the weird little idol that now sat, completed, on the floor of his home. His eyes drooping shut, he allowed the darkness to overcome him. Somewhere on the porch, the instructions danced in the warm wind.

AUTHOR BIO:

Adam Waxman lives and writes in Durham, North Car-olina.

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!

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Insomnia PressI look into the mirror and wonder who I am this time.

The skin is always different but inside, in-side remains the same. I used to be able to change faces at will but as time goes on, it gets harder. I have to have some sort of emotional connection to the host and if I can form it, then I can take their face. When you become someone else its important that you do it completely, you have to steal ev-ery memory, every thought, even the seem-ingly insignificant ones in case you need them later. There will always be questions, you will run into people the host knows, it always happens. Then there is the problem of missing person reports or if they find the body and you are a double wearing the face of a dead man, that is always awkward. So then you have to steal another body and another. Soon you are driving cross coun-try and changing skins every town until you are a no one, a nobody, a homeless man. But when I steal the skin, I also get the ail-ments, bad leg, bum liver and even diabe-tes. I am an exact duplicate of that person cell by cell. Yet lately I have been haunted by the memories of my former selves. I can feel them in my head, cutting like jagged

glass through the dark shadows of my soul. Scrapping, they want back out. They want to be the dominant host again. It takes every-thing I have to fight them and lately I have been changing without my permission. They take over my body while I am asleep, locked somewhere deep in my subconscious and are able to morph again.

This is a painful process, imagine what a ly-canthrope goes through, there is a shifting of bones, a tearing of skin and a deep burn-ing in my blood like my entire body has been set aflame. Please dont ask me who I was originally, that person isnt of interest to me anymore. He was a loser, a joke. A poor fuck born into trailer park trash whose parents kept him unwashed and unfed for days locked in a closet until the child wel-fare people came to take him away. A sad bas-tard who was molested by his adoptive fa-ther and attempted suicide at twelve. Jonah was weak, thats why I destroyed him.

Why do you think you can change bodies, Jonah? Dr. Shelton says, startling me out of my interior monologue.

I can, I tell him, I can be whoever I want,

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Prove it, he says and stares right at me with his smug face.In his sanctimonious smile I can see thousands of acres of green pastures with wheat stalks blowing in the wind. Not a care in the god-damn world. He is an infinite mouth of serpents writhing.

It doesnt work like that, I tell him, I have to be connected to my host emotionally. I have to feel something for them whether it is love or hate.

He smiles as if having proved his point.

I think we need to increase your medication.

He clicks his pen and tells the nurse to take me back to my room.

That night I try to picture the doctor in my mind, imagine his face, his body, the way his fin-gers move, the clicking of the pen. I am awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of my own screams. I can feel my bones shifting. The skin on my face is peeling. I am becoming some-one else.

I start tearing at my skin, pulling it from my face and before I know it there is a pile on the floor next to me and I have a new face.

An orderly bursts into the room.

Dr. Shelton? she says.

I smile and get up off the ground.

The patient has escaped and changed clothes with me! We must find him! Take me to my of-fice, I want to get changed.

I know that Dr. Shelton always keeps an extra pair of his clothes in his office. She opens the door for me and I go inside to change.

How was I able to change into him when we nev-er touched?

Then I remember, the session before last, Dr. Shelton gave me a pad of paper and several color markers and told me to draw some of my previous identities along with their names. He touched the marker and then handed it to me. A single skin cell must have been transferred over, the touch of a fingerprint, a microscopic memory that my body absorbed and filed away

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Insomnia Pressfor a later date.

I look at the photograph on the desk of Dr. Sheltons wife and son. I feel the memories begin to flood my brain. Jonathans birth. He calls his wife Pooki and his favorite book is Naked Lunch. So much to remem-ber, so much go absorb. I remember a pair of spare keys he/I left in our desk. I take them, stab the orderly and leave.

AUTHOR BIO:

Daniel W. Gonzales writes about things bizarre, disturbing, and downright strange. He runs the monthly fiction magazine The Surreal Grotesque. www.surrealgrotesque.com

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Insomnia PressPressing tightly against me are putrid, stinking mounds of human flesh; bodies piled on top of each other so tightly that moving ones arms or taking a deep breath is an impossible strain. Pale light seeps in from yellowed windows caked in layers of grime. The air is oppressive; smelling of rust and sweat. Thousands of shuffling feet slowly march across concrete thick with layers of human filth and shallow pools of urine. We move with the speed of a graz-ing herd of cattle; funneled forward by cords of rope which form a winding maze throughout the length of the warehouse; the purpose of which is to deliver us all, neatly and orderly, to the end of the line.

I remember being lost on my way to the city when I saw the line forming around the out-side of a warehouse. I didnt know what the line was for, nor did the other individuals whom I asked. Still, the sheer number of people and the buzz of excitement in the air was enough to pique my curiosity.

Once inside, however, all that awaited us was a winding rope maze which terminated in an imposing black curtain at the far end of the building. As time passed I began to

feel uncomfortable and considered turn-ing around and leaving, but when I looked back I saw that there was now such a crowd behind me that I couldnt even see the door through which Id entered. So I stood qui-etly, thinking to myself, surely they wont keep us waiting much longer. I actually be-gan to feel embarrassed at my nervousness; everyone elses eyes were still trained for-ward towards the curtain. I seemed to be the only one entertaining thoughts of leav-ing.

Time wore on. The close proximity of such a large number of people coupled with the sun bearing down overhead made the room nauseatingly warm. I felt a terrible thirst, and the stench of filth was overwhelm-ing. We crept forward so slowly I began to wonder if the line was actually moving at all, or if Id merely been shuffling my feet. I could wait here no longer. I tried to force my way back through the crowd, but more and more people were filing in by the sec-ond; all of them pushing forward impatient-ly. Leaving was impossible. Hard as I pushed, they pushed back harder, struggling to reach that curtain, never mind that there was no more space to accommodate them.

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I saw one woman, eyes wide with panic. She climbed over the shoulders of the people around her in a desperate attempt to escape. I thought she might make it, but then she lost her footing, and was swallowed up by the crowd. Before anyone could help her the crowd surged forward again, anxious to fill the space shed vacated. I wish I could say that her death was sudden, but her cries went on and on for what seemed an eternity. She wailed like a dying animal as her bones were crushed under their feet. I remember the looks on the faces of the ones standing directly over her. They strug-gled to lift their arms, to move their feet and squirm free. They failed.

I began to wonder why we all just didnt leave this place together. Nothing could be worth this, could it? Still, for every pair of eyes that looked panicked, still more were eager desper-ate for a glimpse behind that curtain. I wanted to cut the ropes digging into my side and cry out at everyone to just leave. I wanted to force the suffocating mass back; but the weight of them was too great, and fear of being trampled kept me moving forward.

I dont know how much time passed, but final-

ly I rounded the last corner in the maze. That black curtain stood before me, stretching all the way up into the ceiling. I could hear the crowd whisper; people speculating as to what might lie beyond. I became worried, and agitat-ed, as it seemed that not one of them had any idea what was at the end of the line. Had they waited all this time without knowing what they were waiting for?

In front of the curtain stood a pale man, wear-ing same sweat stained clothes and exhausted expression as the rest of us. One person was al-lowed past the curtain at a time; and as it part-ed we all craned our necks, eager for a glimpse.

My turn came. The pale man beckoned me for-ward, pulled the curtain back ever so slowly. Inside I could see nothing but darkness, and I hesitated. The man shoved me forward and then closed the curtain behind me.

The darkness was oppressive. I reached my hands out in front of me in an effort to find some-thing to grab ahold of. Hello! I shouted. I thought that perhaps someone had turned off the lights accidentally, and decided to wait for the curtain to open again and then ask the man to turn them back on. I waited several min-

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Insomnia Pressutes, but the curtain never opened.

I panicked, groping about blindly for a wall where I might find a light switch or an exit. Nothing. Frustrated, I turned and ran back towards the curtain, but despite the fact that it should have been only a few feet behind me, I found myself running through a vast, empty space. Hours passed. My mind, deprived of any stimulus, began to etch strange shapes in the void. I saw outlines of vaguely human forms darting past me, just at the edges of my sight. A terrifying thought occurred to me; that I might not actually be alone here. I imagined throngs of people, just out of arms reach, laughing and smiling wickedly as I wandered lost in the abyss. Help me! I yelled. Nothing.

Was it all just in my mind? Empty thoughts, drifting in the abyss, dreaming of things that never were? Maybe nothing is all there ever was.

AUTHOR BIO:

Nathan Wunner has been writing stories most of his life, but only recently decided to pursue a career in it. He dabbles in everything from pulp to sci-fi, but his main interest is horror.

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Insomnia Press I whistled and clapped my hands. Noth-ing. I tried shouting, come on, Layla! Come Layla! Layla! That didnt help, either. Darren and Amber were dog breeders, and Id agreed, once again, to look after their dogs while they went on vacation. This happened at least once every summer, and I was usually eager for the opportuni-ty to escape from the city. Id take some va-cation hours of my own, pack up a few days worth of necessities, and head thirty miles southeast to their farm where I could play my guitar, work on my writing, catch up on reading, and just generally relax. The dogs were happy to be ignored as long as they were getting fed, and there was a human presence in the house. But today was not going as planned. Id decided to walk the trail behind the house, which separated the neighbors corn and soybean fields, and I took one of the dogs with me--a toy fox terrier named Layla who especially liked me. We usually went on at least one walk together, partly for that reason, and partly because she was a smart, dependable dog who didnt need to be kept on a leash.

But this afternoon things had gone wrong. We had taken the well-beaten fork in the trail that led out of the fields and into a grove of trees. Some small animal that I hadnt seen had set Layla off, and she had gone tearing through the under-brush in search of whatever it was. I lost her almost immediately, so I made my way generally in the direction she had gone, and when I gave up on finding her that way, I tried to reconnect with the path. I didnt find it though, and now I had come to the edge of a small pond which I had never seen before. I stood and looked into the brown water, and tried to decide what to do. If I could find the path, I could return to the house, and Layla might well already have found her way back. On the other hand, if shed managed to get into the cornfield, she might be totally disoriented when she came out. I was weighing my options and walk-ing around the pond when I heard a faint growl. It was Layla, and she was heading this way. I waited, and as the growl got louder, I could see an agitation in the grass ahead of me. Then she ran back into the trees, so I followed and caught sight of her just as she stopped.

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft! I like dogs, but I dont own one. If I had, I would have known immediately that her snarl-ing attack stance wasnt directed at her quar-ry. Her legs canted back slightly, and her head pointed straight ahead, and I was squinting so intently to see where the animal had gone that I actually cried out and lost my balance when I saw the man leaning against the tree up ahead. Or was it a man? The dark, squat form disap-peared as I stood, like a trick of the shadows. Layla was still snarling, though, so I shouted a hello. No answer came. I picked up the dog who noticed me at last and began quickly to make my way, with many self-conscious glances over my shoulder, back to the pond. I sat down, Layla beside me, and kept my hand on her back. I was disconcerted by what I thought Id seen. Hadnt there been someone back there? If not, what had Layla been chas-ing? It was a bright, sunny day, but I hadnt been able to distinguish the forms features in the shadows beneath the thick awning of leaves. The half-glimpsed figure must have been a tan-gle of trees, nothing more. So I rested, taking a nervous look around every few moments, and after a little while I got up had headed back in the direction of the farm. I had a vague idea of where I was, and I carried Layla in my arms because I didnt want

her to run off again. She seemed content to be carried, but every few moments her head would whip around in one direction or another, as if she were tracking something that was darting around in the bushes. She started a low growl, and I began to tense. But we were alone. The normal sounds of a forest began to grate on my nerves, and I almost dropped Layla when the goat wandered into view. It was mostly black with white on its face and chest, and it stopped moving when it caught sight of us. We stopped, too, and Laylas long, low growl turned into savage barking. I pressed her tight to my chest and tried to clamp her mouth shut, but she wouldnt be quiet. The goat didnt seem to mind. It simply stood and looked with those big, yellow, hourglass eyes, and after a few moments it came closer. Layla was squealing now, writhing, and trying to get down. I kept my hands clamped over her, as the goat looked us up and down, then walked on past me. I turned and watched it disappear into the leaves, and Layla resumed her barking. Fi-nally, we walked on. We werent passing any familiar landmarks, and I was beginning to worry. I considered try-ing to find the pond again, but Im no novice at navigating; I knew that I was walking north, in the direction of the farm. We should, at the

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Insomnia Pressvery least, have met up with the road by now. I put Layla down, and we kept walk-ing until the trees broke, but instead of coming out by the road or one of the famil-iar farms of the neighborhood, we stepped into a clearing in front of a small, wooden building. I could see that it had been painted white at one time, but weather had stripped the outside walls to a dead, gray color. There was no driveway, no cars, and no pow-er lines ran to the place. It was far too large to be a hunting blind, and far too intact to be a forgotten outbuilding. The windows were clean. I decided it looked more like a house than anything else. Layla didnt growl, but she wouldnt step toward the place either, so I picked her up again, walked through the tall grass to the door, and knocked. A small wood stove sat a few feet away with fire raging, and the heat bothered us both. It didnt take long for the door to open, and the woman who stood there was elder-ly, stooped, and wearing a maroon dress and a brown shawl. She was at least a head shorter than I was and quite thin, and she peered up at me through a pair of glasses with wide, black, octagonal lenses. They

must have been completely opaque, and I de-cided she wasnt staring at me after all. She was blind. Layla settled into my arms, shak-ing slightly. Yes? the woman said, warily. Hi, I said. Im keeping an eye on my friends house while theyre on vacation this week. Im not from around here, and I got lost in the woods. Can you point me in the direction of the highway? She took a long time answering, and worked her jaws up and down a couple of times before she spoke. Theres no road runs through here. Im looking for highway M, I said, or North Cheshire Road. What do you want to watch a house for? she asked. Theyre dog breeders, so they need someone to look after all the dogs. Dogs can look after themselves, she said. Her tone of voice wasnt friendly. That bitch youre holding looks a mite fat. Okay, so she wasnt blind. The woman put her hand out to Layla, who snarled and snapped at her. The woman laughed and dis-appeared into the house for the briefest of moments, returning with a small scrap of raw meat, which she dangled in front

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!of Laylas nose. Layla sniffed and gobbled the meat, and the woman held out another piece, which she took as well. Why dont you two come in for a minute, the woman said, gesturing for us to enter the house. So I went inside, and she shut the door be-hind us. The house had only one room, and it was cramped but sparsely furnished. There was a bed and a dresser, a basin, and a rustic table with one chair. Various cooking implements hung from the walls. A faded, but formerly colorful rug lay in the center of the floor, and the cor-ners were filthy with dust. A heap of some un-identifiable red meat lay on a cutting board on the table. You can put the bitch down, she said. Would you like some tea? Im exclusively a coffee man, but I was un-comfortable and worried about offending, so I said that I would, and I took the chair that was offered to me. She picked a cup off a hook on wall and placed it in front of me. Then she hobbled over to the windowsill, picked up a china teapot and a strainer, returned, and poured. The strain-er caught a few small bits that looked to me like tiny fragments of twigs. She took it to the

door and tossed its contents into the yard, then returned the teapot and strainer to the windowsill. I took a sip of my tea, which tasted very much like dirt. She smiled at me, so I nodded and compli-mented the tea. Layla had run around the room sniffing at everything, and now she was trying to get up on the table to eat the meat. The wom-an laughed, picked up another small morsel, and fed it to the dog. What kind of meat is that? I asked. Mutton, she said. Goat? I asked her, thinking of the earlier encounter. No, the woman snorted. Mutton. Sheep. I slid a little further away from the cut-ting board, and took another small sip of the tea. It didnt taste dangerous, but it didnt taste good, either. The woman knelt down on the floor and called to Layla, who timidly ap-proached to take another scrap of meat. She cooed softly to the dog, and petted her, and fed her more, and soon she was able to scoop Layla up in her arms. Layla climbed all over her and licked her face. So anyway, I said, which way is the near-est road? I know you said no road runs through here, but if I wanted to find the road, which way would I go?

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Insomnia Press The woman continued to play with Lay-la for awhile before finally saying, dont know. You in a hurry? Well, no, but I need to get back to the farm to feed the dogs. Dogs can take care of themselves, she said. Then, to Layla, youre a good little bitch. Yes you are. Yes. Do you want some more lamby-pie? She picked up another small shred of meat, and held it teasingly above Laylas head. Layla leaped up, knocking off the dark glasses. The womans gaze met mine, and her eyes were the yellow, narrow-pu-piled eyes of a goat. Suddenly I didnt want any more tea. Thats all right, she laughed, and bent down to pick up the glasses. Layla jumped down to the floor, and stood waiting in front of the woman, but as soon as the wom-an turned those eyes to her, she began to bark. I picked Layla up. The woman replaced her glasses. Im sorry, we really ought to get back to the farm, I said. The old woman protest-ed, but I made no attempt to process what she said. I thanked her several times for the tea, shut the door behind me, and start-

ed walking swiftly north. I found a path at the edge of the yard which pointed in the right direction, so I took it. Soon things began to look familiar, and I realized that I was on the familiar trail that Id walked so many times before. I put Layla down, and she trotted along beside me as I walked. It didnt make sense; I knew all the forks of the old path, and it had never taken me to the pond or to the old womans house before. Yet the unfamil-iar part of the forest soon opened into a place that I had explored long ago. By the time I got back to the farm, the light was starting to fade. The dogs were in the fenced yard out back where I had left them, and it took me several minutes to round them all up and kennel each one. Then I prepared their evening meal, which they gobbled ravenously. I let them all back outside, turned on the porch light, and sat in the swinging chair with my gui-tar, noodling with a melody that Id been working on. Id been at it for about half an hour when all the dogs started barking at once. This was not unusual; any cyclist or jogger or a piece of slow-moving farm equipment would set them off, so I ignored them for a

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!couple of minutes. They didnt stop, though, so I went around to the side of the house to see what was going on. The dogs were clustered, jumping and bark-ing at the far side of the fence where stood the black goat that Layla and I had seen earlier. I dont think it saw me. I ran back to the porch and into the house, flung open the back door and called the dogs inside, but they paid me no attention until I went outside. The goat was bleating, and jumping against the fence with its front hooves. I went back in, closed the door, and looked out the kitchen window. The goat was gone, so I checked the other windows, and saw it ambling its way around the house. The front yard was also fenced, and I watched the goat unlatch the gate with its nose, and come down the front walk. I knew that the knot in my stomach was irrational, but something made me lock the front door. The goat stepped ginger-ly up onto the front porch, scratched at the door with its hooves and horns, and bleated. This set the dogs off again, and I went to lock the other two doors on the first floor of the house. When I came back to the living room, the goat was standing on its hind legs, bleating at the picture window. It knocked its horns light-ly against the glass several times, so I shut the curtains. The dogs were still barking, and sev-

eral times I managed to shut them up, only to have them bark again when the noise sounded from outside. Eventually things quieted down, and I peeked out a window. The goat was still there, just standing, staring at the door. By now it was actually quite dark, and I was worried. The dogs were used to staying outside most of the time in summer, and theyd need to go out at least once more before lights out. I let them run free while I made a late din-ner. Every once in awhile I looked out the win-dow to verify that the goat was still there. It was, and it wasnt moving. The goats presence made me extremely uncomfortable, but I felt that I was probably safe as long as I stayed in the house. I turned on the television and tried to take my mind off things, which didnt work but gave me a way to pass the time. By ten oclock I decided that the dogs couldnt wait any longer. The goat was still out there, yellow under the porch light. I picked up a hefty flashlight, armed myself with a butcher knife, and went out into the back-yard with the dogs. It was a warm night. I turned on the flash-light and played it over the dogs, then over the corners of the house to see if the goat had followed the noise. Nothing. I waited a few min-

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Insomnia Pressutes, and just as I was about the round the dogs up to head back in, a commotion near the house attracted my attention. I flashed my light in that direction, and saw the old woman, bent down low. She was feeding the dogs through the fence. They were barking and jostling to get to her, and the noise at-tracted the dogs from the other parts of the yard. No! I shouted, as I ran to open the back door. No! In the house! Get in the house! The dogs were reluctant, and it took a fair amount of shouting to get them all in-side. The woman hobbled up to the corner of the house, near the door where the fence started. Go away from here, I said, holding up the knife. Please, I was just feeding the dogs, she said. Leave us alone. Ive brought some meat for the dogs, she said, gesturing to a burlap sack she held. It was caked with blood. What is that? Mutton, she said, same as before. It wont hurt them. Im going inside, I said, and if you dont leave, Im going to call the police. We dont

want you here, and youre trespassing. I just want to see the dogs, said the woman. Please let me in. I could cook you a fine meal from this lamb. Leave, I said, and went inside and set the knife down on the counter. Sir, called the woman from outside, and the dogs exploded into noise. Please let me in. I just want to say hello to the dogs. I decided to call the police. I went up to one of the second floor bedrooms to escape the noise, and dialed 9-1-1. Hello, said the voice on the other end of the line. Hi, I said. Im house-sitting for some friends. The address-- I know who you are, said the voice. Did you call the wrong number? This isnt 9-1-1? I asked. No, its Darren! Why are you calling 9-1-1? Im sorry, I said. I was going to call the police and then you. I must have hit your name somehow. No biggie, said Darren. Whats going on? Theres an old woman outside, I said. Layla and I met her in the woods when we

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Happy Birthday Lovecraft!were taking a walk, and now she wont leave us alone. Yeah, I know who that is. Listen, shes harm-less. You should invite her in. Are you sure? She just likes to play with the dogs. Any-way, Im busy, Im gonna let you go. I started to say something, but Darren had already hung up. I looked at my phone, just as the words Last call: 911. Call duration: 0:49 flashed off the screen. And now I was starting to become really frightened. I tried the house phone, and was un-surprised to find that it was dead. I looked out one of the windows, and saw that the woman was in the front yard now. She was moving, but I couldnt tell what she was doing, and things--snakes, maybe--were moving around her. Her head shot up to look at my window. She had re-moved her glasses, and her eyes glowed with a faint, orange luminescence. I jumped back from the window and went downstairs to check on the howling, snarling dogs. They were all agitated, and the ones who had been fed at the fence earlier were pawing frantically at the bottom edge of the door where a thin, dark root forced its way in and began to snake around the kitchen floor. The dogs went crazy as more roots burst their way

through. These were the forms Id seen writh-ing around the yard moments earlier. One of the roots twisted around my ankle, and up my leg, but I hacked it at the floor with the butcher knife. The severed tip stopped moving, but the roots were too numerous. They twisted around my arms and neck, wrapped around my torso and my ankles, and as I chopped anxious-ly, I realized that the detached sections were turning very slowly into a putrid, viscous mush which smelled vaguely of earth and rotting meat. And now some of the dogs were upon me, tearing and biting. I had been on my hands and knees, and I dropped the knife as I stood up. The roots were coming back, and the dogs did not stop their attack, so I kicked my way through them, and threw off the ones that climbed on my back. Most of the dogs were small--toy poo-dles and toy fox terriers, but the two English shepherds made it slow, painful going, and I was still trying not to hurt any of them. The door to the stairway was always kept propped open. I kicked the doorstop out of the way, and closed the door on one of the shep-herds who yelped and let go long enough for me to wrench the door shut, falling down as I did so. Layla had gotten up the stairs ahead of me, and now she was bearing down on my head, biting and digging with her claws. I reached be-

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Insomnia Presshind me and clenched my fist on the scruff of her neck, scrambled up the stairs and locked her in a bedroom. Downstairs, the dogs were scratching at the door. The roots shot through and began feeling their way up the stairs, as more crawled out of the room where Id thrown Layla. I shut myself in the master bedroom, and sat on the bed until the searching roots forced their way in. I heard a tap at the window and looked up. An owl was beating its wings against the screen, and it, too, had the eyes of a goat. The roots found me, and began to twist around my arms and legs. I grabbed for the sewing kit beside the bed, and cut as many of the roots as I could with the scissors, but there were too many of them. Stop, said the womans voice inside my head, come to me, join my children. I opened the window and lunged with the scissors at the owl, but I was too tight-ly wrapped to catch it. It flew in, perched on a chair, and began to change. Feathers fell to the floor. Bones and beak cracked. The thing contorted and shriveled and burned, and then the old woman stood be-fore me. She began to speak, but I charged for the window, and flung myself out. The

roots dragged against the window frame, and suspended me above the front porch. I squirmed and bit and tore until I dropped to the roof of the porch, and shimmied down to the ground. The yard was alive. The grass was sway-ing like millions of tiny tentacles, the trees were moving as if in a strong wind. I sprinted across the yard to my car as roots sprouted from all directions and tried to drag me down, but I managed to get in and get it started. I stepped on the gas and felt the roots snapping as the car lurched forward. I turned in a wide arc until I was pointed at the road. Ahead of me, a healthy black walnut tree lifted itself and at-tempted stiffly to walk, but came crashing to the ground, bringing power lines with it. I watched as a piece of broken, black ca-ble hissed and popped and convulsed in the driveway under its own electrical fury like an angry snake. Dangerous, but I could avoid the sparking end if I drove across