Panic mode: The Stiles of Palemarsh by Richard Gavin

"The Stiles of Palemarsh" by Richard Gavin is a fine tale of Pan-ic and personal retribution. Welsh locations are beautifully realized.
From: Autumn Cthulhu edited by Mike Davis

Excerpt:


….The sun practically blinded Ian as he trailed across the yard behind his aged host.

Precisely where the field merged with the forest stood a pair of lean stones. They were, by Ian's estimation, roughly six-feet in height and were set slightly askew, one planted just ahead of the other. This gave the impression not of a barrier, but rather a passage.

"You see that squeeze-stile there?" The man's pointing finger tapered toward an unpleasantly overgrown fingernail, scuffed and ragged and yellow.

"I see the stones. Is that you mean?"

"Aye, that's a squeeze-stile. They were used to mark the boundaries between one man's land and another's. You slip between those stones and you'll find yourself on the path. It's a fine walk. Eventually you'll come to a wooden step-stile at the far end of the trail. Climb that and you'll set down at the head of Wheat Sheaf Lane, right at the high street."

"Sounds straightforward. Thanks for everything."

"Remember," he advised, raising higher his finger with its unsightly nail, "you always want to keep the sun on your left shoulder when you're passing through that glen, lad."

Ian nodded, despite not caring to understand the wives' tale advice of rural folk.

He crossed the last of the field. Perspiration was already beginning to dampen his underarms and back. The tree-shaded glen would be a welcome relief.

The stones of the squeeze-stile seemed to radiate coolness, as though they were righted ice floes instead of granite slabs. Vein-like ribbons of moss suggested the stones' age as well as lending their appearance a strange texture, like a relief map of some remote land.

'Squeeze' was an apt name, for, as Ian soon discovered, the gap between the off-set rocks was claustrophobic, and their uneven faces were made almost hazardous by jutting keen ridges. When he was pressed between the two standing stones, desperation flushed hotly through Ian, followed instantly by a tarry sense of despair. Childishly, he shut his eyes and held his breath before pushing through to the other side of the stile.

The grove expanded all around him. The velvet leaves of the oaks pulsated and the insects offered up a subtle fanfare. While he knew that his passage through the squeeze-stile had not been anywhere near as dramatic or traumatic as he'd imagined, Ian was nonetheless grateful for the verdant expanse at his elbows, the soft trail under his soles. This new environ seemed to lessen the dull ache in his ankle. He was already fantasizing about lying on that King-size bed, his bad leg propped, the air conditioner blasting at full-power and the television playing loudly.

In what seemed to be no time at all, Ian spotted the wooden step-stile that marked the trail's end.

Age and the elements had smoothed the wood steps to such a degree that they felt ice-slick beneath him. Ian scaled and descended the inverted-V carefully, experiencing an unwarranted sense of achievement when his feet struck Wheat Sheaf Lane.

But this spike of exuberance became lost in a sudden blast of terror; a terror that was as inexplicable as it was unbearable. About him, the midday sun shone warmly through the screens of healthy leaves. Swallows trilled and a temperate breeze pressed the entire scene as rhythmically as the evening tide. There was nothing that should have upset him. Ian scanned his surroundings more closely, hoping yet at the same time not hoping that he might glimpse whatever obscured threat had aroused in him this pulsing dread. But there was no danger to be seen, not even the potential for danger. All was thoroughly pastoral. Ian could even see the rooftops of the high street; a reminder that civilization was but a few steps away.

But it was all still somehow unbearable. The openness of the lane, the visibility of the cloudless sky was too immense, too open. Rather than providing airiness and relief, the space aroused a reverse claustrophobic response in Ian, who began to view himself as exposed; a speck of tender prey standing unprotected and wholly visible.

This, Ian realized, was true panic….

Jay

21 April 2019

A note on "After the Fall" by Jeffrey Thomas

"After the Fall" by Jeffrey Thomas

From: Autumn Cthulhu edited by Mike Davis

"After the Fall" by Jeffrey Thomas is one of the best tales in Mike Davis' Autumn Cthulhu anthology.  It begins with a globe-spanning wind-from-nowhere. The wind blows away our old sky, and reveals a new and utterly alien one. 

"After the Fall" epitomizes cosmic horror: no comfort, no answers, only billions of individual questions as everyday life moves forward.

Excerpt:

….Along the drive to Sherri's home in a neighboring town, Crystal repeatedly craned her neck to gaze up at the sky through her window with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. Meanwhile, in her lap she thumbed her phone's colorful screen, alternating between searching out stories about the phenomenon on the internet and exchanging dramatic text messages with her friends. "It's doomsday, bitches!" Crystal read out loud.

"Besides that observation," Wayne said, "are there any more ideas about this on the news?"

"Well," Crystal replied, "looks like regular airplane flights are still cancelled, but I guess helicopters and military planes have been going up for a better look. Sounds like the things look the same even if you go up there. Not any closer or clearer or anything."

"So the images aren't inside our atmosphere, but outside it?"

"Um, probably. They're like showing through our atmosphere. Yeah, so I guess…in space? I wonder if satellites can see them. Anyway, I'll bet the government knows more than they're telling. They always do."

They arrived at Sherri's home, parked their car behind others filling the driveway, and went around to her sizable back yard – its swimming pool covered till next summer, if next summer should in fact come – to find that the yard was decorated as if for an early Halloween party. Cleverly carved jack-o'-lanterns on the picnic table and elsewhere, candles in little paper bags stenciled with witches and black cats, black and orange crepe paper bunting, bowls of popcorn, dishes of candy corn, jugs of cider. 

From a CD player, Orson Welles reported on the invasion of Earth by Martians. All of this was Sherri's work; Wayne had often teased her about being a Martha Stewart wannabe. Mixed with these accoutrements, however, were other accoutrements left over from summer: coolers of beer, and aromatic smoke rising from the grill tended by Sherri's husband Dave. He had already filled several plates with burgers and hotdogs. The air had a bit of crispness to it today, but it was still comfortable. The sun shone. The sky was blue...and full of monsters. Sherri couldn't take credit for those.

Wayne realized he was grinning as he crossed the grass toward his sister, who had spotted him and came to meet him halfway. He explained to Crystal, walking beside him, "Keith always loved Halloween so much."

"Dad, we all do in our family."

❖

Jay

21 April 2019