The Fiddle is the Devils Instrument

  The Fiddle

  Is

  the

  Devil’s Instrument

  And Other Forbidden Knowledge

  13 Tales of Lovecraftian Horror

  By

  Brett J. Talley

  JournalStone

  Copyright © 2017 Brett J. Talley

  Originally published in:

  *** The Return of the Witch Queen (Originally published in HE WHO WALKS IN SHADOW by Brett J. Talley; Journalstone, 2015. © 2015 Brett J. Talley)

  *** The Spaces Between Space (Originally published in THE ABSENT WILLOW REVIEW; © 2011 Brett J. Talley)

  *** The Substance of Shadow (Originally published in the LOVECRAFT EZINE, edited by Mike Lewis; © 2012 Brett J. Talley)

  *** The Apotheosis of a Rodeo Clown (Originally published in THE GODS OF H.P. LOVECRAFT, edited by Aaron J. French; Journalstone, 2015. © 2015 Brett J. Talley)

  *** The Piper in Yellow (Originally published in A MYTHOS GRIMMLY, edited by Jeremy Hochhalter; Wanderer’s Haven Publications, 2015. © 2015 Brett J. Talley).

  *** The Worm That Conquers (Originally published in HE WHO WALKS IN SHADOW by Brett J. Talley, Journalstone, 2015. © 2015 Brett J. Talley)

  *** The Wind Passes Like a Fire (Originally published in THE ABSENT WILLOW REVIEW; © 2010 Brett J. Talley)

  *** Seeing the Wendigo (Originally published in THAT WHICH SHOULD NOT BE by Brett J. Talley, Journalstone, 2011; © 2011 Brett J. Talley)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  JournalStone

  www.journalstone.com

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-945373-63-3 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-945373-64-0 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-945373-65-7 (hc)

  JournalStone rev. date: April 21, 2017

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017934034

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Art – photo images & Design: Miai313 – 99designs

  David Revoy wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Environments-21-cave.png

  Borja Pindado - wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rhan-Tegoth_by_Borja_Pindado.jpg

  Emma Wright - deviantart.com/art/3D-Tentacles-192522336

  Shutterstock - artist-young-elegant-man-emotional-185025365

  Edited by: Aaron J. French

  For Annie

  The Transcriptionist’s Accomplice:

  An Introduction

  By

  Ronald Malfi

  A few years ago, in a hotel in the mountains of Utah, a character of suspicious design emptied his fourth and final Scotch and soda at the hotel bar, then ratcheted up from the barstool and teetered momentarily before groping for the book on the bar top that he’d brought with him that evening. This character had planned to smoke a cigar in the courtyard by the hotel fire pit, but freezing temperatures and a willowy snowfall had changed his plans. He’d spent the past two hours at the bar, engrossed in the book, and ignoring the assembly-line of patrons who had come and gone throughout the night.

  As he stepped away from the bar now, a woman seated two barstools down from him chanced a last-second conversation: “What is that book you’ve been reading all night?”

  Our reluctant hero came to a halt upon the scuffed tiles of the barroom floor, and wavered there, albeit for just a second or two, like a fork stuck with its tines in the earth. He turned and looked at the woman. She was maybe in her late forties, with a pretty face framed in waves of sterling hair, and big thighs straining within a pair of black Lycra pants.

  Our hero glanced at the book, and at the hulking, tentacle-faced beastie on the cover, then said to the woman: “It’s called That Which Should Not Be. It’s my autobiography.”

  “You’re auto—”

  “Joking.” He handed her the book. “It’s a Lovecraft-inspired novel.”

  She examined the cover art, glanced at the back, then thumbed through the pages. “Is it like Stephen King?”

  Jesus Christ, help me, thought our hero.

  “No,” he said. “Not really. You’ve never heard of H.P. Lovecraft?”

  “No,” the woman said, handing our hero back the book. “Sounds like a romance writer.”

  Jesus, poke my eardrums out, thought our hero.

  “I suppose,” he said, because the Scotch was making him more pliant than usual.

  The woman took an iPhone about the size of a small television set from her purse, and began clacking her polished nails against the screen. “I’m writing it down so I can pick it up later. Sounds intriguing. What was the author’s name again?”

  “Talley,” said our hero. “Brett J. Talley.”

  “Okay, great.” The woman smiled. “I’m going to read this book and see what it’s all about.”

  “God save the queen,” remarked our hero. Then he bid the woman farewell and hunted out, in his quasi-inebriated state, the rank of elevators that would carry him to his fifth-floor hotel room.

  Our hero—and by now, you may have an idea who this particular hero is—returned to his room, instantly stripped off all his clothes, then arrived in the bathroom where he shut the door, cranked the hot water in the tub, then sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor to read while the atmosphere slowly resolved itself into a sauna.

  Our hero—me, in other words—finished the book thirty minutes later. By that time, the bathroom mirror was fogged up and sweat was spilling in rivulets down my face. (My fingers had dampened the final few pages of the novel, like some strange watermark that was somehow fitting for those pages.) What I had surmised when I first started reading the novel was confirmed after finishing it—I was carried along as an almost-character in this tale (or tales, as it were) that was horrifying and bleak but also somehow comforting and familiar. Two days earlier, when I opened the book and read the first page, I felt myself settling down as if in an old worn and familiar chair, lulled into security just from those first few sentences. I knew where we were going and I was anxious to get on the road.

  Here’s the thing: I’m not a huge fan of Lovecraft. I’ve always had a tough time picturing the place of his stories; his prose is often so mired in specific details that he has, for me, failed to set the stage, so to speak. However, I do enjoy other writers’ takes on Lovecraft’s mythos. Many times, these writers do a better job than the master himself, their prose more palatable to me than old Howard Phillips’s. You want an analogy? This is sort of the same way I feel about the Beatles. The Beatles were unparalleled songwriters, but I find that pretty much every cover version of their songs by other artists is better. Joe Cocker belting “With a Little Help From My Friends,” anyone? Ray Charles’s haunting rendition of “Let It Be”? C’mon, people...

  With Brett Talley’s That Which Should Not Be, I finally found the quintessential Lovecraft translator, a Joe Cocker who could show me the emotion behind the chord progression. Soon after reading this book, Talley was considerate enough to publish a follow-up, He Who Walks in Shadow. Godd
amn, I was hooked.

  Fast-forward to just a few weeks ago, and the kind Mr. Talley had contacted our hero about the possibility of providing commentary on his forthcoming collection, The Fiddle is the Devil’s Instrument, of which, if you’re reading this introduction, you’ve already displayed the good sense to pick up a copy. For our hero, this was like Omaha Steaks calling up and asking if I’d eat a crate of prime rib if it happened to show up on my doorstep.

  Needless to say, our hero, undaunted, accepted his assignment. Upon finishing the collection, he—I—shot off a tidy little blurb to our one Mr. Talley which goes as follows:

  “It’ll take less than a single page before you are fully enveloped into a world of dusty texts, Gothic séances, and old-world terrors. Brett J. Talley’s latest sojourn into the world of Lovecraftian horrors is like tasting a dark and mystic wine—one which may or may not be laced with arsenic. This collection solidifies my adoration of Talley’s work.”

  No sooner did our hero send this message did he receive a reply from the kind Mr. Talley, who, despite his etiquette, was justifiably motivated to ensure that our hero, whose penchant for not following directions has been evidenced time and time again, was able to read between the subtle lines and to arrive at something which, for all intents and purposes, basically said:

  “Hey, dummy, I didn’t ask for a blurb. I asked for an introduction. So if you could kindly focus just a little bit more on the request at hand, that would be much appreciated, you dim-witted turd.”

  Or something to that effect.

  So here I sit, opting instead for a steaming cup of strong Sumatran coffee instead of the company of one of the Beam brothers, hammering out this introduction for a collection that, in all honesty, needs no introduction. Talley’s prose is assured, and dripping with atmosphere. From the opening of the titular story, as we are timewarped back to the middle of last century and guided through the creaking doors of Haven’s Crest, to the “dangerous business” of the finale, the fetid breath of the wendigo like a tropical breeze against your flesh, you will be held...not as a prisoner, but that of an accomplice of sorts. Because that’s what it’s like reading this book—you are somehow an accomplice in all that transpires. A co-conspirator. Open your eyes and the year is 1715, and those arcane walls of Miskatonic rise up out of the fog. Blink again and the dry wind is blowing...and then the animals vanish...and then it’s worse. And if you’ve read That Which Should Not Be, you’ll traverse these tales with some old friends. (As I began “The Return of the Witch Queen,” the good Carter Weston materialized out of the gloom, propped an elbow against my armchair, and, his eyes alive in the firelight coming from my hearth, proclaimed, “My, but I hope this plays out well for us, old friend.” I said I hoped it did as well.)

  Set a fire in the fireplace, pour yourself some blood-red wine, settle into your favorite chair, and listen to the book cover creak as you open this mystic tome.

  “This Mr. Talley,” says Carter Weston, leaning over our hero’s shoulder as he stares down at the book you are now holding in your hands. “He is...how shall I say? Less a writer of fiction and more like a transcriptionist. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “And he’s got more tales yet to tell,” says Carter Weston.

  “That’s right,” says our hero.

  Shall we begin?

  —Ronald Malfi

  February 18, 2017

  Annapolis, Maryland

  The Fiddle

  Is

  the

  Devil’s Instrument

  THE FIDDLE IS THE DEVIL'S INSTRUMENT

  When Cannon Danvers called me to one of his famous séances, my first inclination was to decline. Others would have given their right arm or other critical body part to receive such an invitation. Cannon Danvers was a name whispered from the shrouded cities of the Far East to the still-smoldering capitals of Europe to the hills of Kentucky, where I claim ancestry. He was the man who, in the earliest flower of his youth, finally convinced Houdini of the power of mysticism. He had predicted both World Wars and had, in the darkest days of the latest conflict, assured President Roosevelt in a private meeting that we would come through—even if, like Moses of old, the president would not live to see it.

  And he just so happened to be my uncle, my mother’s older brother and a stain on the family name. My mother had been a pure-hearted, God-fearing woman, and if she knew her boy was going to be sitting at a table with a known devil-worshiper—and while he attempted to communicate with the spirits at that—well, I guess she’d drop dead right there. But she’d passed the spring before, a week after we celebrated V-E day, and I’m thankful that the gift of peace allowed me to make it home on leave from France to be with her in those final moments. But my point being, she was gone now to the Jesus whom she trusted and loved, and nothing could trouble her. As for me, I’d seen enough of war and death to have lost more than a little faith in God. So ironically, I figured a little proof of the devil would be good for my soul.

  I’d never met Cannon Danvers. I wondered if his invitation was some attempt to close old wounds, or maybe even to reward me for my service to my country. Whatever was the case, I returned the RSVP with an affirmative and spent a significant portion of my combat pay on a new dinner jacket.

  The night came, April 30, the May-eve, which some folks call the Beltane. I knew a little bit about it, about the fires the ancients built to chase away the evil spirits that were said to gather on that evening. I’d read about that—and a lot of other things some folks might frown upon. I guess I have a little bit of my uncle in me after all.

  Still, I’d never gone so far as to partake in any of the forbidden rites or celebrations of pagan festivals about which I’d read. I’d never been ready to make that leap of dark faith. Then came the invitation.

  Cannon lived on a plantation east of Georgetown, Kentucky, called Haven’s Crest, the home of the Danvers line since Temperance Danvers brought his branch of the family down from Massachusetts following the War of Independence. It passed to Cannon, he being the eldest son, when my grandfather died—well before Cannon began his career as a spiritualist. I suspected my mother resented him as much for the inheritance that had been denied her as for his ungodly ways. And I wondered sometimes if she resented me a little bit, too. For while it might have been the case that my grandfather saw fit to bypass her because she was a woman, it was just as likely that he had frowned upon the fact that she had a child out of wedlock with a man who was a mystery. Truth is, I don’t even know my father’s name. Though Mother might have died godly, everyone makes mistakes.

  I arrived at Haven’s Crest an hour after sundown, as instructed, driving the 1937 Model T that had belonged to my mother prior to her death. An attendant directed me to a parking spot next to a line of newer, finer models, and it struck me that I would probably feel more comfortable amongst the staff than the other guests at this party. I parked and fell in line behind an older couple who had also just arrived. I followed them up the path, lit by torches that ran to the front of the house. Music wafted down, beckoning us onward.

  That night I entered the ancestral home of my family for the first time—and I did so as a guest. It struck me as ironic, how the accident of birth can change things; how, if I’d been born a generation before in the place of my uncle, such an estate would be mine. Instead, I had little but a shack and forty acres to my name. I’d pondered it often during the war, as I fought and killed men who I might have been, had the spin of the wheel gone differently.

  The house was as elegant within as without. A great staircase hugged the wall, twisting down to the grand foyer where I stood. No doubt it had made for dramatic entrances by southern belles in an age dead and gone if not yet forgotten. The house evidently had electricity; it would have been passing strange for it not to. But our gracious host had chosen to light it this night with tall, black candles. There were hundreds of them, and though the comingling of their illumin
ation provided enough visibility, a hazy smoke hung in the air. The flickering flames danced within it, and the shadows they cast seemed to have deeper forms and more substance than they should have.

  I moved cautiously from the entrance to the parlor, my palms sweating. Guests milled about, chatting, laughing, though their friendliness seemed forced to me, as it always did in these settings. I did not care for the wealthy. Or, I should say, I did not care to be amongst them, particularly in large groups. I did not belong. I knew it. They knew it. What’s the point in fighting it? I filled a cup with punch from a bowl made of carved crystal and set out to explore the house.

  My feet carried me to where the voices died, away from the crowd, into the depths of the home. I walked down a hall that ended in two polished wooden doors. One was cracked open, and flickering light spilled into the hallway. I opened it, and stepped into a mighty library. It was the kind you’d see in the films, with shelves that went all the way to the ceiling and a ladder that moved on a track from one corner of the room to the next. And books, so many books, too many to arrange neatly, so they were stacked upon one another in several places. And in the center of the room, reading by the light of an electric lamp, sat a man who could only be Cannon Danvers.

  “Mr. Danvers,” I said, feeling foolish to have interrupted him, even more foolish to refer to him by my own last name. He looked up at me, studied me for an instant before his face softened and he broke into a smile.