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  As her vision cleared, she saw something. It was a group of people, all sitting and watching her. They were oddly dressed, wearing fashions she didn’t recognize.

  Women in pillbox hats sat, hands over their mouths. Men tugged at their ties in macabre fascination. What in the world? Where was she? Oh, God. No.

  Charlotte turned around. A huge machine hunched behind her, quad-core boilers humming. It was a sleek, updated version on the reverse transmigrator, standing up on a stage at some posh venue.

  An otherworldly glow issued from the clear, breadbox-sized hatch at the front of the machine. Charlotte stepped closer and peered through the glass panel, already knowing what she would see and dreading it.

  Her jewelry box sat in the center of the tray, wrapped in unearthly light. She looked down at the mist of her hands and arms. The crowd started to clap.

  Jonah Buck has always had an interest in pale, semi-human creatures that flit across the sunless landscape to terrorize the living, so he’s now studying to become an attorney in Oregon. His interests include professional stage magic, paleontology, exotic poultry, history, and cheesy monster movies. He would like to give special thanks for this story to Lila Walsh.

  The Monster

  Erika Holt

  They said it could not be done: flight over long distances.

  All previous dirigibles had proven too fragile, inefficient, or uncontrollable for the needs of modern day adventurers. And as for gliders propelled by internal combustion engines, the foremost proponents of which were brothers who, despite bearing the surname Wright would—I had thought—no doubt be proven wrong? Preposterous. While the whole world put faith in the newfangled technology of gasoline and gunpowder, I had believed British steam power and mechanical ingenuity were the ways of the future.

  There I was, at the end of a journey of some 4,200 miles over land and sea, the first man to enjoy a bird’s-eye view of those majestic vistas, when a capricious and sudden gust of wind brought my journey to a premature end. “Crash” was an overly dramatic word, though my craft sustained some minor damage. An “expertly executed emergency landing necessitated by exigent and untoward circumstances” would be a more accurate description.

  It seemed I had become caught up in events of an astonishing and cataclysmic magnitude. Just hours or days before my landing, the whole side of a mountain had come crashing down. The valley in which I found myself was filled with boulders of considerable size with still-green treetops poking out. Now, most fellows engaged in winged pursuits whose craft had become lodged between the sharp edges of two massive hunks of limestone might be inclined to panic. Not I! My design was far too clever to have me worrying over such trivialities. You see, inspired by the great Herbert George Wells’s masterpiece, War of the Worlds, I had thought, why not add legs to my craft? A tripod would be just the thing!

  My hydrogen envelope was compromised, so I hastened to eject it before it collapsed entirely and engulfed my gondola. I attempted the valve to divert steam from the flight engine to the locomotion engine, but it wouldn’t budge. Hanging my waistcoat neatly on the back of my captain’s chair, I redoubled my efforts. Finally, the thing gave, and the locomotion engine roared to life. I was heartened when unfurling the legs proved easier, and I worked the three levers to bring the ship up to standing. What a sight it must’ve been! My ship, rising from the rubble like an alien being! Were anyone around to see. Even using my binocular telescopes, I spied only destruction. Here a wooden beam, there a bit of twisted metal. A scrap of blue fabric fluttering in the breeze. The crumpled roof of a house. Prickles ran down my spine. It appeared this valley had been inhabited at the time of the slide. Bodies probably lay beneath the very rocks over which I passed.

  At the abrupt end to the rubble, railroad tracks and a town emerged—or that part of the town that had escaped destruction. I veered south, parking my craft behind the cover of a boulder. My exit hatch was dented and slightly out of square, but after a few good kicks, it opened, deploying the staircase, which came to rest at an awkward angle. I donned my waistcoat and polished my shoes. Just before squeezing out, I tucked my prized, handcrafted mechanical revolver into my waistband.

  The journey, though short, was difficult, requiring me to climb and balance on rough terrain for which I found my shoes ill-suited. Breathing labored, I paused to lean against a boulder, forgetting about my revolver until it poked uncomfortably into my back.

  “Bugger me!” a voice growled.

  I don’t know what I found more shocking—that I was not alone in the rubble or that a woman had just used such vulgar language. Perhaps she was trapped, and great pain had caused such an uncivilized utterance. I whirled this way and that, fearing to see viscera splattered on the rock, but found no sign of the poor woman. I called out but received no answer. Perhaps that unfortunate exclamation had been her last.

  By the time I arrived in town, I feared I looked a mess but needn’t have worried. The place was deserted, pristine but empty buildings and yawning windows a bit eerie in the heavy quiet. Nailed to a door, a scrap of torn paper fluttered. It read:

  May 1, 1903: By order of the right honourable Premier Frederick W. A. G. Haultain, Frank town shall be immediately evacuated under threat of another slide and extreme risk to life and limb. Looters will be—

  The rest had been lost to the wind. In my pocket journal, I made note of my location for posterity’s sake. Quaint details would make for a better story upon my return.

  Rounding a corner, I saw two men in the distance, scarlet Norfolk jackets strikingly similar to those worn by the British army and marking them as men of authority. Excellent. I shouted a greeting and waved, feeling it prudent not to take armed men unawares.

  “You there!” the taller of the two said in a stern tone. “The town is under an evacuation order. You’re going to have to come with us.”

  Their shiny boots crunched on the gravel as they approached, faces serious but side-arms still holstered.

  I was about to protest, to inform them of my identity and remarkable achievements, but to my great surprise, I lost all control of myself. I found my hand reaching for my revolver. Pulling it out and pointing it at the officers.

  “No way I’m goin’ back to the pokey with the likes of you two boatlickers!”

  It was the woman’s voice again, and it was coming from my mouth! I did not want to say these things and yet found my lips forming the ugly words. The police stood with raised hands wearing expressions of disgust.

  I shared these emotions wholeheartedly. “No no!” I tried to say, but nothing came out. Instead I continued to brandish my revolver as I backed away and then ran off.

  Only when I reached the rubble did I regain control of my faculties.

  I grabbed the sides of my face, tugged my hair, and gave myself a good slap with my free hand. What had come over me? I stared in disbelief at the revolver clutched in white-knuckled fingers. Was this woman some sort of witch?

  “Where are you?” I shouted. “How dare you force me into such despicable acts!”

  I tried to drop the revolver but was unable. I shook my arm like a child trying to get a spider off, but my fingers would not unwrap from the grip. I tried jamming the thing into the back of my waistband and . . . it stayed.

  I flexed my fingers. Having finally unhanded the thing, I didn’t reach for it again but instead tore off my coat and threw myself against rocks hoping to dislodge it. But even after I scraped areas of skin raw and bloody, the weapon stayed put. Panting, I stopped. The hard metal pressed against the base of my spine.

  Back in my ship, I stared at my wild-eyed self in the mirror for a few minutes before turning around to examine the revolver. Its burnished wooden grip riveted to an elaborate brass firing mechanism. The slim, dual barrel disappearing beneath the woollen fabric of my trousers.

  “Leave me be, you hag! You devil!” I shouted into the air, and this time, I received an answer.

  “Aw, stop your moaning, you lily-livered b
all sac. Half the mountain came down on me, and you don’t hear me whining.”

  So. It was worse than I feared. Or, at least, as bad. If her words could be believed, I was—or rather my revolver was—possessed by the spirit of a slide victim. An uncouth one at that.

  For a while, I gave over to wailing and made renewed attempts to rid myself of the thing, which resulted only in further injury to my body. Finally, I slumped to the floor. “If you let me go, I swear I will leave this place and never return.”

  “Trust me, pal, if it were that easy, I’da been outta here at the first whiff of your ass crack when you jammed me down your pants.”

  Heat rose in my cheeks. “How am I to be rid of you then?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  I took to my feet again and paced about. Despite being a man of learning, a man of reason, or perhaps because of these things, I was at my wit’s end. I did not believe in ghosts. Or had not until confronted with this incontrovertible evidence. Exorcisms and séances were well outside my realm of experience. But even I had not been able to live free from the influence of ghost stories, a frequent feature in weekly serials and a popular discussion topic at parties. It was said that spirits often lingered from injustice. I stopped pacing.

  “Has someone wronged you?”

  “Oh, honey,” she cackled, “you’d be here all day if I were to tell you how many cockchafers have screwed me over.”

  “Ahem. Well. Do you have a name?”

  “Alice Rose. But everybody just calls me Liss.”

  An unexpectedly feminine name for such a crude woman.

  “And what may I have the pleasure of calling you, hon?”

  “Reginald Darwin Corwallis. The third,” I added. In truth, I was the first, the only, but fancy titles carried impressive weight. The spirit gave no indication of being impressed.

  “All right, er, Liss. Beyond these . . . men . . . who have wronged you, do you think there might be some bigger injustice at play here? Like—”

  “How the mining company wouldn’t give me work, you mean?”

  “Well, I can’t imagine mere lack of employment would result in this. You don’t think . . . could the mining operation be somehow implicated in this disaster?”

  Liss made a noncommittal grunting sound. For a while we kept to ourselves in silence.

  Feeling all-overish and unsure of when or if this spirit would control me again, I moved gingerly to brew myself a cup of Earl Grey from the tea dispensary. The finely calibrated piece of machinery must’ve been jostled on landing, however, for the water was merely lukewarm, the tea weak. But the routine calmed me. My hands nearly stopped shaking.

  “You know, the more I think on it, you might be onto something. ‘Bout the company. Always had a suspicious feeling, and not just because they were too stupid to know a woman could swing a pickaxe just as good as any man!”

  “When the camp boys came up outta that hole at the end of the day,” she continued, “they always had a crazy-assed look. Like they were scared of somethin’. But none of ‘em would ever say a peep ‘bout why. Probably cuz they woulda lost their jobs. Maybe there was something funny going on. Maybe we should check it out, especially since you say solving this mystery might help me go free. And speaking of free, the coppers won’t never expect to find us there. Good a hidin’ spot as any, least for a few days.”

  My cup and saucer began to rattle. I set them down. “I didn’t say . . . you’re not suggesting . . . it would be far too dangerous! The town has been evacuated due to the extreme risk of another slide! Anyway, the entrance must’ve collapsed.” A wave of relief swept over me. We wouldn’t be able to get in.

  “Won’t know unless we look.”

  I spluttered a moment. “Th-that is just foolishness! I won’t go.”

  “Well, I ain’t movin’ unless you’re movin’, so yeah you will.”

  “No!” I threw myself to the floor and threaded my arms and legs around the pipework, holding on with all my might.

  Something of a tug-of-war ensued, my body the unfortunate battleground. The spirit sought to unwind my limbs as I sought to hold on, successfully for a time. But a man of mortal flesh and blood cannot hope to compete with the supernatural strength of a fiend. As my muscles fatigued, my non-dominant hand, my left, wrenched free and inched around to draw the pistol. I found myself staring down the barrel of my own gun.

  “Get up.”

  And with that, any pretence of resistance evaporated. What could I do? I was but a slave to this foul spirit’s whims, plucked from the domain of science and thrust into that of fantasy. Danger notwithstanding, we would venture into the heart of things, the mine, the mountain, to uncover the secrets hidden there, if any.

  To my captain’s chair I shuffled, engaging levers with less than due care to bring my craft precariously to standing. I pushed to full speed, moving as a true alien might, guided by Liss to the mine entrance.

  Or where the mine entrance should’ve been. As I’d hoped, it was entirely blocked.

  “Well, that brings an end to it,” I said. “Let us remove ourselves from this terrible place and contemplate a rational solution to our . . . shared problem.”

  “Doesn’t make sense,” she said. “I can’t feel ‘em down there.”

  “Whatever are you on about? Feel who?”

  “As we’ve been going, I can sort of . . . feel them. The dead folks. It’s like passin’ through a pocket of winter wind. But here, in the mine? Nothing. I think somehow they got out.”

  “Nonsense! You can see for yourself that’s impossible. They’re probably just buried too deep, the poor souls.”

  Then another, terrible thought struck me. What if the reason Liss couldn’t feel the miners was that they lived on? Trapped beneath tons of rock, unable to escape? I’m ashamed now to say that I didn’t raise this possibility aloud, didn’t suggest we mount a rescue effort or even go for help. But it didn’t matter. Liss was so sure of herself, she insisted we look for an alternate exit. And she was right. After only a few minutes, we discovered a shaft bored through a thin seam of coal that reached the surface. They’d dug their way out.

  I made no effort to hide my craft, fully hoping the police would find it and save me from this ludicrous situation. I stuffed supplies in a pack, filled two waterskins—one with water, one with tea—and topped up my lantern with oil. And then into the crevice I peered, a warm gust of air riffling my moustache as though the mountain breathed.

  I plunged into the abyss, keenly aware of the weight of rock around me and that I was utterly alone, save for a possessed revolver. At the bottom, I lit my lantern and experienced a heady rush of relief when no explosion ensued. The air was close and humid, and though it was cool, perspiration misted my forehead. A malodorous scent crept up my nostrils, like rotting vegetation or perhaps flesh. My stomach clenched, but the spirit had been certain there were no bodies.

  I don’t know why, but I whispered, “Liss?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sssshhh!”

  “Well you called me,” she said just as loudly.

  I resolved not to do so again.

  There was evidence of ordinary mining operations: reinforced shafts, carts, broken pick axes, the detritus of unclean men. Save for a few blocked passageways, the mine’s interior was in remarkably good condition.

  I spotted a nearly hidden shaft—or tunnel, rather, given the craggy, unhewn edges. The miners had erected a barrier across the entrance, mostly dislodged during the slide. Only a single board remained, reading “Danger! Keep out!” The hastily scrawled, vivid red lettering was startling.

  After a swig of tea and at Liss’s insistence, I ventured onward into the tunnel, which was quite roomy, allowing me to forget just how far underground I must be. Strangely, the temperature seemed to be rising. I was sweating in earnest now.

  A noise ahead brought me to a stop. Shuffling footsteps, tentative, halting. My heart rate quickened, and for a moment, all I could hear was blood poundin
g in my ears. And then the steps came again, and I was gripped by fear. But if I was to discover this mountain’s secrets and rid myself of this pestilent spirit, I had to go on.

  I switched the lantern to my left hand and drew the revolver. Liss hooted at the touch, the sound echoing off the walls. The footsteps ahead stopped. Perhaps, it was a miner, trapped all these days underground.

  Inching around the corner, I probably would’ve fired, but Liss was quicker, intervened to stay my trigger finger. For it was neither demon nor ghoul but a horse, still hitched to a cart and outfitted in heavy leather gear. Blinders gave its face a strange shape in the flickering light—the probable cause of my momentary panic.

  It craned its neck around to try to see us, and an eye rolled in fear, but it didn’t flee. It just stood and snorted, nostrils flared wide.

  “Aw, poor pit pony,” said Liss. “We gotta help him. Easy, big guy.”

  I felt my feet began to move and snapped, “No need! I’m perfectly able!”

  The thing shied as I approached but didn’t fight as I undid buckles. “Good boy,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. Really, I should’ve put a bullet in the poor creature’s brain as there was no way of getting him out. But I had a feeling Liss would object, and that was a battle for later. The horse pushed past us and hurried back toward the mine proper.

  Moisture slicked the tunnel walls, and the stench was so powerful I gagged. I shuffled along and caught myself just short of tumbling over a precipice. The path plunged downward, and the walls parted into a yawning cavern. With one hand on the clammy wall, I extended my lantern out over the void, my arm shaking only a little.

  For a moment, I saw nothing but darkness. Heard nothing but the sound of a hundred or a thousand drips, dripping. Felt as though my lungs would compress under the heavy weight of air. But then a fetid gust blasted me, and I was confronted with a supernatural horror the likes of which even Herbert George at his peak could not have conjured up.