Fear the Abyss: 22 Terrifying Tales of Cosmic Horror (30 page)

"Wayne, what are you doing down there?" Moe asked the form crouched beside the caskets with his ear to the moldy wood. "You look as crazy as a Malgonian, and I've gone to Malgon for shipments, so I should know."

"We have to let them out," said Wayne.

Moe stopped just before the sorry sight of his apprentice, worried that the poor sod had indeed gone over the edge. He feigned a smile, hoping to bring the boy back with joviality.

"We really shouldn't open those caskets, Wayne. They're not our property." Spotting the bone on the ground, Moe said, "And we have to get rid of that bone. You could keep it as a souvenir if you like."

Wayne considered the bone, and then looked up at Moe. "They want out. Can't you hear them calling to us?" Wayne put his hand out in a shushing gesture and raised his eyes as if listening for something. "Did you hear them?"

Moe's smile had faded as the grim reality of what had so quickly swept over Wayne nestled into his mind. "I don't hear anything. Why don't you come into the control room and have a beer. It'll calm you down."

"Shhh. Listen!"

Moe didn't have a short temper, but he was damned if he would be shushed by his apprentice. "Don't Shhh me, boy! Now I command you, get up, get out of there, and report to the control platform. Got it?"

Wayne looked up from his pitiful position on the ground, eyes wide, almost on the verge of tears.

To punctuate his demand, Moe turned his back on Wayne and returned to the control platform. If the boy knew what was good for him he would do the same.

"What do you know about those caskets?" asked Wayne as he took the seat beside Moe, whose expression had softened a bit.

"I don't get attached to the things I pick up.
We
don't get attached to the things we pick up. It's not our stuff."

"There's something wrong with those caskets. I know it."

Moe directed his weary eyes to the younger man before him, wise eyes that he hoped Wayne would learn from. "I don't give a good goddam what's wrong with the boxes, I just care that we get them to Planet Preston and get paid. You'll forget about them soon enough."

But Wayne didn't forget about them.

He couldn't.

*****

The slight hum of rockets on overdrive was a lullaby for overworked laborers like Moe and Wayne; however Wayne had three caskets dancing in his mind.

One thing Wayne realized was that in deep space Moe slept deeply. Wayne found himself staring through the massive windshield at the billions of stars, thinking about the souls nestled in those bright apexes. He wondered how many galaxies there were in the universe to account for so many shivering souls to light the way to their destination.

He found himself hovering over the control panel, playing with the idea of opening the cargo hold. Just for a peek. Just to be sure everything was all right.

The doors opened in silence. Wayne's footsteps clinked softly as he crossed the control platform for the cargo hold. He could hear them speaking softly, pleading for him to let them out. The voices Moe had shunned as mere foolishness were real.

Wayne looked back through the doorway toward the control
platform, not only on the look
out for an awakened Moe, but toward the giant windshield--to the stars, the souls.

Let me out. Let
us
out.

The idea that they had done something terribly wrong by removing these boxes from their stone monument on Earth began to gnaw at Wayne's mind. It was his work, and he understood that, however he couldn't help but wonder if the souls were trapped, now barreling through the galaxy, yearning for release.

Having no knowledge whatsoever about the functions of a casket, Wayne attempted to lift the lid off one of them. The dry wood shifted, but remained closed. He soon discovered that there were brass levers that unscrewed to release the lid. The voice whispered and pleaded until the moment came, the lid was opened, and then...

Wayne felt a rush. A musky odor penetrated his nose as dust rose, swirled, and furled as if there was a breeze, yet the cargo hold, like the rest of the ship, was perfectly still.

In the casket was a hideous skeletal body sheathed in leathery patches of flesh that looked like weathered duct tape. The death's head grin stuck in Wayne's mind as he closed the lid. Though he didn't see the brightness of a star that he assumed was waiting within the casket, he hoped that he'd indeed released the soul.

Two voices remained. Wayne repeated the process, each time witnessing the bizarre and magnificent swirls and shifts of the coffin dust.

The cargo hold was silent, and Wayne was tired. He could now go to sleep.

*****

"When we meet with Mr. Preston, just keep quiet and let me do the talking," said Moe. "I'll explain the mishap with the fourth casket. He seems like a reasonable man."

Wayne nodded. The doors opened from the cargo hold as a series of steps unfolded, planting themselves on the ground. Mr. Preston's massive mansion had been built beneath a behemoth dome equipped with generators, an air filtration system--even a day and night simulator that mimicked the twenty-four hour Earth day via the panels that the dome was constructed of.

Mr. Preston stood before a gorgeous garden of succulents and cactus. The foliage at the edges of the property consisted of pines, maples and an eclectic variety of Earth native variables the likes of which neither Wayne nor Moe had ever seen.

"Mr. Moe Laslow, so nice to meet you in person," said Mr. Preston.

The two men greeted one another with a firm handshake.

"You have quite a place here," said Moe.

"I make do. How was the trip? Deep space can do terrible things to the mind."

Moe grinned. "Not this mind. It was a fine trip. Good to relax. We've had quite a few heavy hauls since Wayne started working with me."

Mr. Preston nodded. He was an older man, hair more salt than pepper and severely balding on top. His face was clean-shaven, lips thin and so tightly pursed that they were almost purple. He wore bifocals that rested on the bridge of his nose as if they were looking for the right moment to jump.

"You can bring the caskets out and put them right here. I will pay you in National Galaxy currency. Is that adequate?"

"Yes sir!"

Moe and Wayne hauled the caskets from the cargo hold in silence. Wayne was decidedly morose, but Moe didn't pry. Didn't want the guy spouting off about spirits and souls and whatnot.

With the boxes lying side by side, Mr. Preston looked into Moe's eyes with a piercing razor-stare. "I believe I ordered four caskets, did I not?"

"Yes sir, you did. I must apologize, but the fourth casket was so rotten that it disintegrated as we tried to lift it."

"Well, what? I don't understand why you didn't get another one. I ordered four!"

"Ordered four?" said Wayne so quietly that neither Moe nor Mr. Preston heard him.

"Well now, I'm sure you've heard of the mutants, right?" asked Moe.

"That's no excuse," said Mr. Preston.

"Had we stayed any longer you wouldn't even have these three. And it's not like we could have just taken a random body. That'd be plain out dishonest. If you're recreating a family crypt, it would do no good to fill it with random remains."

Mr. Preston's lips became so tightly clenched that they almost disappeared in the pale flesh of his face. His eyes grew within the rectangular frames of his glasses.

"Very well," said Mr. Preston. "Here's your fee. All of it. But I want you to know that you owe me."

Moe nodded. He was a man of his word, and he would certainly make a bargain if Mr. Preston used his services again. "Thank you very much."

"Now please, if you will, I must retire. Navigate your ship into the pressurization hold. Once the doors have closed and the interior has been depressurized to the atmosphere of the rest of my planet, the exterior doors will open and you may exit." After a brief pause he added, "I may or may not be in contact."

"Fair enough," said Moe. "C'mon, Wayne. Let's secure Molly and hit the stars--"

Moe's expression turned into something like shock and awe at the sight of Wayne, standing there with his eyes rolled into the back of his head, mouth opened so wide there were tears welling in those vacant white orbs.

Startled, Mr. Preston asked, "What's wrong with him?"

And that's when the voices erupted from Wayne's gaping maw.

*****

Familiar voices swam within Wayne's mind, invading his most private thoughts, pleading for his assistance, his help. And he recognized the voices as they spoke louder, more insistent, overwhelming.

His head swam in an ethereal soup, three souls intertwining and blending together, the pitch of their ghostly voices layering atop one another. Wayne's eyes rolled into his head, and his mouth thrust open painfully as his mind faded into a deep saturation of black.

"Where are we?" said the voice from Wayne's mouth as if there was a hidden microphone deep in his throat. "Why have you disturbed us?"

"I don't know what kind of prank you're playing," said Mr. Preston, "but I suggest you return to your ship and get out of here before I call the authorities."

"Where is this graveyard?" asked the multi-toned voice.

"This is no graveyard," Mr. Preston retorted. "I will ask you only one more time to leave before I contact the authorities. I can have them here very quickly."

Wayne's eyes rolled back into the correct position; however they were vacant and glassy. His arm rose, one finger pointing. "There," said the voice. "The souls of the dead are all around us."

Mr. Preston looked in the direction the immobilized Wayne was pointing. "What's he pointing at? What is this all about?"

Moe squinted in the direction the three of them gazed. There was something strange at the corner of the mansion that was bothering him.

"Do you have a gardener?" asked Moe.

Mr. Preston began sweating. He pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his shirt and wiped his forehead. "I live alone. You've given me no other choice than to call the authorities."

Mr. Preston began walking in the direction of his house.

"Well, hold on a minute," said Moe still squinting at something in the distance. "Looks to me like there's someone hiding over there."

"It's none of your business!" screamed Mr. Preston. "Get off of my planet!"

Before Moe could say another word, a groaning erupted from Wayne and he fell to the ground, head reared back in a rictus of agony. His eyes once again rolled to whites, his mouth gaping so wide that the corners began to split and bleed. His body went into a bout of shivers that developed into spasms and then a full-blown seizure as voices nameless and random projected from his bullhorn throat. They screamed and pleaded, roared and hailed for release.

The voices were tortured, agonized, deafening. Moe crossed the beautifully manicured yard toward the figure that stood motionless in the distance.

"No!" yelled Mr. Preston. "Don't! Just leave! Please just leave..."

The figure was dressed in overalls, its bone fingers clutching the handles of a wheelbarrow. The skull was bright white with only the slightest remnants of dried flesh in some of the deeper crevices.

"What the hell is this?" asked Moe.

"It's none of your business!" Mr. Preston demanded.

The voices flowed from Wayne's tortured mouth, yearning for release. Wayne's eyes opened. He began to rouse his consciousness from the inkblot his mind had been thrust into, his own cries joining those of the lost souls.

Mr. Preston dropped to the ground. Weeping, he buried his face in his hands.

Beside the house, Moe peered into the window. He'd only seen mansions like this during his infrequent trips to Earth. It was an authentic replica, complete with a family of skeletons and decomposed bodies. It was the worst thing Moe had ever seen. They were dressed like policemen, firemen, judges, rock stars, hookers, showgirls: all things that existed on Earth. All things Moe had read about in books he'd salvaged from Earth.

All things that were extinct in modern life.

Peeking around the corner where the skeletal gardener stood, Moe wasn't surprised to find a long line of expertly wired skeletons and rotting corpses dressed like Santa Claus, repairmen, and other costumes of Earthly nostalgia. They were lined up haphazard as if Mr. Preston normally had them displayed outside his house but had to remove them for the special delivery.

"They aren't your family," said Moe more to himself than to Mr. Preston.

Mr. Preston wept, "They're all my family."

Wayne struggled on the ground, his body contorting as he fought off the onslaught of souls that were using him as a medium. He clenched his teeth together to stifle the flow, gritting them until his gums bled, and then they were gone.

Mr. Preston's weeping was the only sound.

Through deep breaths Wayne said, "They. Need. Release."

Moe returned to the ship where Wayne was regaining his composure. He looked a mess, on the verge of collapse or even mental breakdown.