Ramblings from Apalapachia...

Every Literary Genre Summed Up in a Single Sentence

@thefairfleming thought you’d like this.

Everyday walking home you see a mannequin staring down at you from a house window. One day it’s holding a sign that says ‘help me’ and the next day PLEASE. The owner of the home drives up and you look up to see the mannequin gone. You decide to investigate.

This is one of my Upbeat Horror pieces, so trigger warnings for all the usual things - sex-related creepiness, violence, bad magic, monsters and murder. Child harm and murder, too, but only mentioned, not shown.

The Mannequins In The Windows

It takes a lot, around here,  to make anyone question the weird behaviour of their neighbours. It’s one of those places… a once-nice area that’s going downhill, with a mix of die-hard respectables holding on, and students, and people looking for low rent, and… well, the usual things. Nobody cares about how things look much, anymore. Nobody questions what flag you put up, or if you’ve got a caravan semi-permanently parked in your driveway, or an art installation made of car parts, or a car doing duty as an art installation.

Around here, weird isn’t noticed much.

But the mannequins were really weird.

It was a house, not apartments or town-houses, with a little yard and all. And it was nicer than most of them, these days. Old, but still looked after. The guy still mows the lawn on the weekends and even hoses down the driveway now and then. He lives alone, which I get – if you can afford to, who wouldn’t? But the mannequins were so weird.

The first one had showed up a few months ago – a young blonde woman. It was a really nice one… vintage, with a carefully modelled and painted face, real eyelashes and hair, the works. Almost uncanny valley quality. I saw it sometimes through the windows, standing in a graceful pose, looking down and off to one side in that demure way they used to use a lot. He changed its clothes pretty regularly, and I wondered a little why. Mr Nine-To-Five didn’t look like the type, somehow, to play dolly dress up in his off hours.

The next one was a kid, a girl. One of those apple-cheeked, twinkly cherubs, with golden curls and inset blue eyes that’s just that tiny bit too cute. It started showing up, too, usually in the same room as the woman, like he was setting up little dioramas every morning before work. Mom watching the kid play, or sitting on the couch with it, or whatever. That’s when I started really paying attention. I had no idea what was going on with this guy, but I could appreciate the quality of the performance, if you know what I mean. The scenarios started to get more elaborate, and I looked in at the windows every time I went past.

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It is difficult to trigger the true Wrath of a demon, given their nature of being inherently angry. As you look at your scarred, malnourished and broken young summoner, a familiar red mist begins to descend over your mind.

The Mother Of Monsters

I am a power of darkness. Demon, I am called, or monster, or spirit. And because my name is known in the mortal realms, I am summoned sometimes.

Many summoners, too weak or too ignorant to hold me, I have devoured. Others I have corrupted, or misled. I do not like to be summoned, and I make those who call on me pay.

When the new summons comes, weak and faltering, I am annoyed. I do not like to be drawn from my own realm, without my will or my choice. I wreath my form in flame and shadow, then just as I am drawn through, I hear something I have not heard before. “Please,” the voice begs. “Please come, Mother of Monsters. Please.”

I let the fire and the shadows slip away. Instead, I step through clothed in an appearance closer to my true self, which I allow none to see. Crimson scales cover my skin, and claws are on my hands and feet, and great horns rise from my skull… and yet I am formed not so differently from a human being, with two arms, and two legs, two eyes in my face, and a mouth capable of speech. This is the form I wear when I do not wish to intimidate… too much.

The summoner is kneeling in front of the circle. “Great Erisidinae! Mother of Monsters! I beg you to answer my petition!” he implored, staring up at me with wide eyes. “Please… please, I know my offerings are poor, but just a little…”

The offerings are indeed poor. No cow or horse slain for me, not even a goat or fowl. A squirrel, tiny on the offering stone. Beside it, a handful of nuts, a little scrap of honeycomb discoloured with age, a wooden cup half-filled with milk, a few shiny pebbles. And yet the power of the sacrifice is great, far greater than it should be, greater than many I have been offered.

I look again at the summoner, leaning toward the edge of the circle that contains me, reaching out with my senses. And I see him.

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