I like black lentil soup.

2.How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

Given the beautiful people I know, it’s great. They do seem nervous that their star will fade, and it always does.
3. Who are you and what do you do?

I am a writer of science fiction, fantasy, and horror, but I am retiring to do crime fiction and “innovative” fiction.

4.How did your collaboration with Don Webb come about?

Don read my novel MOVE UNDER GROUND, which is a Lovecraft/Kerouac pastiche, and contacted me with the idea to collaborate on a novel. As he was a stranger to me (though I loved his work) I suggested a short story instead, one we could aim for the ultimately stillborn anthology CTHULU 2012 that Mythos Books was planning. After that anthology fell to dust, we shopped it around for a bit and ultimately sent it to you.
5.What are your feelings about being part of Imperial Youth Review Issue 1? What are your favorite pieces from Issue 1?

I love IYR; it is the sort of zine I used to crave in the early 1990s, when writing was a daydream. I liked the essay and the comic the best.

6.What are you up to right now? What’s the next project?

I have two novels coming out this year-my “Barfly” zombie novel THE LAST WEEKEND and my noir (with a hint of the supernatural) LOVE IS THE LAW.

7. HP Lovecraft and Jules Verne are in a Tai Chi tournament. Who wins and why?

Jules Verne, as he spent his youth navigating rivers. Standing in a rocking boat is good for one’s root.

NICK MAMATAS ON AMAZON

BUY ISSUE 1

“Faith and Begorrah, Mr. President, the orphanage has succumbed to the sin of Pride!”

The president was concerned. He had often take a great deal of Pride in his best friend Dieselpig, even though he did not know his secret identity.  This hit very close to home.

“Yes,  Stewart, this is an emergency of the highest order. Pride is one of the most nefarious of  The Seven Deadly Sins.  If we want to win our war with Hell, this cannot stand. GET ME DIESELPIG!”

The above was not an excerpt from my next book The Wake at the House of Dead Cats. But the book does deal with Dieselpig and America’s war with Hell. It also deals with silent cinema, burlesque and the secret origin of news. I’m very excited about this book, which should be coming your way first quarter of 2013.  Dress your favorite lion for the occasion. Once again edited by the fantastic Jeff Burk and once again put out by Eraserhead Press, this book is the sort of book I want to be writing.

And speaking of writing the books you want to be writing, NBAS author Shane Cartledge wrote his book House Hunter during the final challenge of my Online Bizarro Writing Workshop. So, he wants you to get a chance a leg up on becoming a Bizarro author yourself. He has generously purchased a spot in my workshop and is raffling it off to anyone who purchases his book House Hunter. It’s a weirdass piece of Urban Fantasy Bizarro that must be read to be believed. I think you’ll like it. Find more details on Shane’s blog. Spaces in the workshop are still available through me, but Shane’s offer is great and his book is super cool. So buy it and you might win a slot in the workshop.

And speaking again of writing the books you want to be writing, my NaNoWriMo editing deal expires tomorrow. Your chance to have your 50,000 word book edited for only 115 dollars expires with it. It’s not like my rates are usually super high, this is just a good bargain. And, Kate Jonez of Omnium Gatherum Books has agreed to look over any genre novel I edit for potential publication. So, hiring me gets you the eyes of not just one but two editors,one of which has the power to make your book a reality. This is very generous of Kate and if you want the opportunity, you should take advantage of it. I hope these subjects of great import have been important to you.

-What is your working title of your book?

The Wake at the House of Dead Cats. You could call it a collection, but it’s more a series of unified neuroses. It centers around a nefarious silent film. The film is preceded by pieces that function as a newsreel and a serial. It is followed by a stag reel of sorts. It’s influenced heavily by cult cinema, the occult, Robert W. Chambers, Robert E. Howard, bondage filmmaker Irving Klaw, Bette Page, a disintegrating relationship, the nightmare of our separation from God, the dysfunction of our country’s animus and the awesomeness of chainsaws and things that are dieselpowered. It will also be accompanied by artwork from the peerless Nick Gucker.

-What genre does your book fall under?

Bizarro. Neopulp. Chainsaw Noir. Cosmic horror. Accidental grimoire. Erotica. The sound of you soiling yourself.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition? For the love of God, don’t film this. Think of the children. Peel off your faces and see what’s underneath. Pray that Dieselpig will save us. Julie Newmar. Tempest Storm. Brigitte Bardot. Brigitte Bardon’t. A lion. Nikki Guerlain. An adorable blonde from the first grade named Jessica Lawless who smiled at me and I never understood why. The sailors from the Desolation Row beauty parlor. Mechagodzilla. Leza Cantoral. Nyarlathotep. Mary Jane Kelly. Hecate.

-What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? Nel mezzo del cammin de nostra vita, mi ho ritrovai in una selva oscura, che la via diritta era smarrita Bill Bailey won’t you please come hooooomme

-Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

My book will be published by Eraserhead Press. I am an agent of forces beyond your comprehension.

. -How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

The central novelette of the collection came over the course of two brutal months.  Very emotionally trying. If something doesn’t make you upset, you shouldn’t write it. The other pieces came together over the following year.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

The King in Yellow, though I am of course not the equal of Mr. Chambers, Bradley  Sands’ My Heart Said No, But the Camera Crew Said Yes, Carlton Mellick’s The Baby Jesus Buttplug, The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath and lots of silent cinema.  Pete Carroll’s Liber Null.

-Who or what inspired you to write this book?-

I wanted to create a hypnotic feeling, a real intrusion. I like the idea of breaking down a form and making it something else. And I like the idea of exploring the emotional charge in words and images. There’s plot, there’s excitement, but there’s also experiments in form and content that I’m proud of.  I also have this tendency to lament the limits of good imposed upon something by its time. I always wonder what films Browning and Bunuel would have made in the 30s if there were no boundaries. So I made the disturbing silent film I wish I could watch. Or that I feel like nobody should ever watch.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Dragons. Aberrant sexuality. Dieselpig. Fine fine ladies. The subtle scent of The Old Ones.  Dieselpig.

Include the link of who tagged you and this explanation for the people you have tagged. Edward Morris tagged me. Here is the link to his blog.  I tagged Kris Saknussemm, because he’s frankly one of the best. I haven’t known his work for long but the man has become one of my biggest damn heroes. Private Midnight. Read that.  If razors had beards, they would shave with Kris  Saknussemm.  Second, I picked J. David Osborne, Wonderland Award Winner and coinstructor for my Online Bizarro Writing Workshop. Third, I selected Jeff  Burk. Jeff Burk is my editor on Wake at the House of Dead Cats and a a man who redefines all aspects of the publishing game from writing to editing just by playing it. Then, I tagged Chris Kelso. Chris is a fellow editor of Imperial Youth Review, a magazine of rebellion and transgression from Dog Horn Publishing in the UK. He is also a gutsy and antisocial prodigy.  Lastly, but certainly not leastly, I tagged Spike  Marlowe. Spike’s book Placenta of Love warmed my heart and she’s a great lady. A true priestess.  Be sure to line up your five people in advance.

This January, I am teaching one of these workshops with the help of J.David Osborne, author of By the Time We Leave Here, We’ll Be Friends. His short fiction has appeared in such notable anthologies as Demons and Warmed and Bound, he has interviewed cultural giants and been interviewed about his work. He is young, cool and edgy and a man who will provide students with a fresh Bizarro perspective that they’re sure to appreciate. I look forward to working with him and you should too.

The workshop will be conducted online via either Facebook group or a messageboard. Each week students will be given an assignment due that weekend.  These assignments will focus on specific facets of the writing of Bizarro fiction. Your instructor and colleagues will critique your work and discuss it with you. On the third week of the workshop, participants will switch groups so that they’ll have had a chance to work with both me and J. David Osborne. And it will be awesome.

The cost is forty dollars, there are ten more slots open.  Since there are a limited number of spots and Mr. Osborne is a very popular man, I recommend getting on this early.  If you’re on the fence, take note that those of you who register by Christmas will be given a free gift in their email.  Email at thecentercannothold@gmail.com or hit me up on Facebook and I’ll tell you what you need to do to sign up, which really isn’t much.

I leave you now with some testimonials from former students. This workshop will help you. I have had many students see print , one of whom even wrote a novella that got accepted to the New  Bizarro Author Series during the 10,000 word weekend challenges!

“Taking Garrett Cook’s writing workshop helped me focus my creative energy and hone my writing skills. Since the workshop I’ve sold three pieces to paying markets and anticipate many more.”- Lee Widener

“I’ve taken two Garrett Cook bizarro workshops, and they’ve done wonders for my writing. Mr. Cook creates a friendly working environment with a fair share of compliments, and constructive critiques that are none too harsh for the amateur writer of bizarro. I’ve since had one workshop story accepted for print publication, and another in the market.:”- Joseph Bouthiette Jr.

Last workshop, Joe submitted his first week’s homework to an anthology. It was accepted.

“Garrett Cook’s writing workshop was awesome. It helped me be more confident with my writing. He knows what he is doing. He is a published author in the Bizarro genre so he knows what works and what doesn’t. Two of the stories I worked on in the October workshop have since been published.”- Daniel Vlasaty

But I have more to tell  you about. For months, I have been talking about Imperial Youth Review, the magazine Chris Kelso and I created for Dog Horn Publishing in the UK. Well, it’s here. Tales of transgression, articles that confront the things we hate about our reality and magical advice on how to change it are all at your fingertips if you read this magazine. I’m proud of all the contributors we’ve gotten together, all the cool cats and kitties who are advertising their products in our pages and the publisher who let us make this happen, possibly against his better judgment. Imperial Youth Review features work from author and music critic Jess Gulbranson, author and Video Watchdog editor Tim Lucas, the fantastic up and coming Bizarro megavixen Nikki Guerlain, Choreographer, dancer, Scarlet Woman and stonecold goddess Lydia “Miss  Ginger” Fascia, author, Lovecraftian and Sorcerer Edward Morris, Literary Conundrum Savant Tom Bradley, Nick “Deadly Fists of Tai Chi” Mamatas author of the brilliant Move Under Ground, Don Webb, sci fi author and former High Priest of the Temple of Set, British Bizarro author and comics genius Steve Aylett, the indomitable Alan M Clark, author and artist, the indispensable Nick Gucker, artist, the indefatigable artist Justin T Coons, artist Vikki Hastings, who I don’t know, though she’s lovely and Scottish and seems very nice and does great artwork, David Aronson, Nick Patterson, Dave Mignam and Adam Lowe. They’re fucking great is what they are.  You want it? BUY IT, SCUMBAGS!

But that’s not all the news I promised. No, not at all. This news might make some of you happy. It might make you some of you sleepy. It might make some of you hungry. It might make some of you forty dollars poorer but a shitload more awesome. I am once again going to be teaching the deadly art of Bizarro to ten lucky stiffs. My online Bizarro writing workshop returns this January and with it, you’ll sharpen the skills you need to be a real live Bizarro writer like me. Ten more of you stiffs are going to be just as lucky. You know why? Because you’ll be working with my partner learning Bizarro from a Wonderland Award Winner instead of a humble Wonderland Award nominee. He’s one of the raddest, baddest uppest and comingest young voices in the Bizarro biz.

J. David Osborne. Author of Wonderland Award Winner By the Time We Leave Here, We’ll Be Friends. He’s interviewed some badass people. His work has appeared in such badass anthologies as Demons and Warmed and Bound. And for a month, he could help make you into the Bizarro badass you wanna be.  This workshop is going to be great.

Contact me at thecentercannothold@gmail.com or via Facebook for more info on how to sign up and watch this space for more workshop talk.

cover art by Christopher Rubano.

The Granny Crunchbones Gospels

TheGnome’s Warning: mycophage.net

It is possible for two people to have the same dream. It is unlikely, but it is possible. It is possible therefore for two people to have the same trip. I’d like to believe this is an internet meme, but I have known too many people that could swear they saw her and too many of you have written in to me claiming to have made contact with this entity.

I am really leery of spreading this information. I don’t want this site to have any Blair Witch/Slenderman style bullshit. This is not 4chan. This site is to educate people on responsible consumption of hallucinogenic mushrooms not to spread fear and create spooky new internet memes. But I have known too many people that could swear they saw her. And I want it to be known that this happens sometimes.

Stay away from the rings. A lot of you have thought it would be cool to sit in the rings and take shrooms. Stay away from the rings. There is a myth that eating shrooms while sitting in the rings, or crop circles will enable you to make contact with the ships or whatever that left the circles. This has happened, but something else is happening. There are reports of seeing something different, something really fucking awful.

Tripping on mushrooms is rarely accompanied by full on visuals. You want visuals, try salvia or really good acid. Shrooms are not about visuals. They are about feeling a strong sense of wellbeing and connected to the Earth. That’s right I said EARTH. I’m not going to debate whether or not aliens exist, but if aliens exist, they’re not looking for people who just ate a bunch of shrooms to beam transmissions into their head. Don’t be retarded.

What do you get when you sit in “crop circles” and so shrooms? Well, I’m going to tell you. You get fucked. That’s what you get.

Let me tell you about her.

Llorona

Maria sits alone with the baby, looking at the clock on the microwave. She doesn’t like being alone in this building. She doesn’t like this neighborhood. The apartment building is full of sounds of arguing and sirens slice through the night. She wants Eric to come home, but it will be another hour. He’s working late again. Least that’s what he says. He’d better be working late. He’d better not just be at a bar with his buddies trying to pick up some puta.

The baby begins to cry. Is it the noise in the apartment? Is it the absence of his father? Or is it something else? Is it the thing that crawls between the between? She tries to tell herself she’s seeing things as she watches the old woman crawl under the door as though she were flat. She tells herself she doesn’t see the yellowfanged, crustyhaired hag coming toward her extending gnarled, clawed hands, open as if expecting something.

It does not take Maria more than a moment to realize what it is the hag wants. She holds the baby tight, grabbing a kitchen knife in her other hand, trembling. The hag keeps holding out her arms expectantly. Maria keeps pointing the knife at her. Green, wispy figures materialize behind the old woman. They start to hum in unison. A sickly sweet tune, a song of wellbeing and safety.

Maria takes it in, sighs, eyes open wide. She places the child in the open hands of the old woman. She immediately knows she’s done wrong, giving it to the hag with the abbatoir stink and the skin of a toad. Still, she drops the knife, still she waits and watches, wondering what she has done.

The infant skin drains of color, the dusky brown of life giving way to moonpale, giving way to albinism and emptiness. Makes a tiny rattle, a tiny gasp and no more noise, never, never again. The old woman smiles and hands the dead child back. She is flushed with health, as much as an aberration crinkled as a paperbag can be.

The old woman slides back under the door, accompanied by the green spirits, leaving behind no trace other than a feeling of culpability and shame and a baby that will never cry again. Maria cries. Maria will do a great deal of crying.

Wandering the street below, the old woman lets out a series of loud howls and sobs. She remembers the days when they would bring the children to her and she could rend their flesh with sloppy, satisfied abandon. Those were better days.

Mycophage.net: TheGnome’s Warning Continued

User Dunsaniac was the first one to post about the hag.

“I’d heard about the faerie ring from a friend. She told me she liked to go there, smoke up and write poems. Said she could feel the Earth and all of its energies surging up. She felt like there was all this…she called it “feral magic” in the air. Sounded like a cool place to go and trip. What better place to do it than in the middle of a ring of a mushrooms? So I went there. Wasn’t that far into the woods. Just half a mile off the trail. No spooky old trees, no winding vines, no wolves howling in the distance, no weirdass markings in the dirt. Just a circle of mushrooms. So I sat down and I ate the shrooms. And I felt the energy surging up and the wild magic. But, a few minutes later, just when I’m starting to really appreciate these energies, this hooded figure appears in the middle of the ring. It extends a bony vein hand, wants me to take it and I get this weird sinking feeling like if I stick around, I will. So I ran like hell. Never went back there again. Don’t trip in the rings.”

See, kids? Dunsaniac did the right thing. He saw that shit was about to get real and he ran, while he still could run. On the other hand, User CFORT666, was not as smart. Knowing CFORT, this shouldn’t surprise any of you. And knowing CFORT, it would seem unlikely that this happened. But, Dunsaniac is a pretty stable guy (much as any of us regular shroomers can be) and CFORT’s into David Icke and shit. This delusion does not fit in with the narrative of his other delusions:

“Holy shit. I can’t believe this happened. You’re probably not going to believe it either. And no, it doesn’t involve reptiles or anything like that. This is fucking different. This doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t expect to see the mushrooms like fucking bursting out of the ground to prove that they were there under the ground like you always said. And I’m surrounded by a ring of the things and these hideous little men are looking at me and laughing and making faces. And there’s weird, green ghostly outlines in the center cropcircle. I figure this is important, so I watch and I wait. Maybe these guys are experiments that the Greys made. You know, like they were children before. And then out of nowhere this twisted old woman in a black robe, her face all scaly and warty and covered in tiny hairs extends her hand to me. The green things are singing this weird song and the little men on the mushroom hum along. They tell some part of my brain that I should take the old woman’s hand. So I take it. I feel my head filling up with facts and weird images that I don’t understand, like maybe this is the stuff I wanted the reptilians to beam into me. She wants me to lead her out of the circle, like she couldn’t have gone on her own or if there wasn’t somebody that could see her. I lead her out of the circle and the feeling that I’m full of the knowledge I wanted grows and grows. I sit in the circle laughing and she disappears, off to somewhere else. And then the little men put their hands on the side of their heads and they scream together. I forget everything and I’m filled with panic. I know I’ve done something really terrible and I have no idea what it is.”

It’s just CFORT. He’s crazy, most of you think. Well, I hear that and I think that’s the first time I’ve really believed something he has to say. I think most of you will believe it to you. It doesn’t stop there.

Five Years Gone

When the others at the shelter sleep, he swears he sees their mouths still moving and hears them telling him things. He had to stop himself from taping up their mouths, because he knew that it would do nothing. They tell him to come back. He wakes up in the morning with caps in his pocket. He could eat them and she would come and he could go back, back where he belongs. Come live with me and be my love…

And go back to the moon where in chains of moss, gagged with exquisite sweets stuffed into his face by shimmering blueskinned pixie handmaidens, he would wait for the queen for what felt like days, tortured by the sharp fingernails and unwelcome pawing of Granny Crunchbones, yelloweyed dirkclawed fat ugly old beast. She’d breathe in his face, let him smell the stink of cribdeath and ruin the wonderful sweets. And he’ll be happy there because that’s where he belongs. Not in the city in the odorchoked men’s shelter.

He holds the caps in his hand as some men hold heroin needles and others hold the gun they’re about to put to their temples. He hears a woman crying in the distance. He knows what she’s crying about and the caps look more dangerous than ever. He puts them back in his pocket, remembering her claws on his bare chest and how he longed for the kisses of the Queen as he endured them. She’s deprived herself of another chance.

He can hear her sobs, the wails of an aging zoo lion angry that stakes are not being tossed her way. It’s one of the worst sounds he ever heard. If these men who’d lost their homes and lives to that kind of greed and privilege could hear it, they’d slash their wrists he imagines. Would they? Is he that much stronger for coming out of something like that a broken man tortured by temptations worse than death?

He proves how strong he is by sobbing uncontrollably along with the monstrous hag hiding somewhere in plain sight. He stops only when he realizes that she could come and slide under the door, flat and hungry and ready to bring him back to the lunar kingdom. Or, in her state of desperation simply rip him and everyone in the room to shreds.

He lies quietly on the bed remembering the mushroom songs from the court and the cosmic caresses of the Queen, all the more rewarding after the humiliations endured at the hands of Granny Crunchbones. He stays awake through the night, listening to the gibberings of his housemates.

“You don’t belong here.”

“Eat the caps.”

“Back where you belong.”

In his memory, the Queen slides off her garment of lichens, revealing glowing skin, purple nippled breasts and a thatch of verdant mossy pubic hair that moved about it and twitched. The hair would sing to him, inviting him in and telling him that he’ll be loved for always. If he comes back, he will be loved for always. It smells so bad at the shelter. And no matter how many times he throws out the caps or how hard he tries to drown out the voices of the men around him, it doesn’t stop.

He takes the caps out of his pocket. He examines them intensely. Another five years that felt like five hundred. Like heroin, like a gun to the temples. It’s inevitable. But not tonight.

Mycophage.net TheGnome’s Warning Continued

CFORT is not the worst offender. I have heard from some who have gone much further with their stupidity and reckless behavior. User DanDeLion decided CFORT and Dunsaniac were clearly full of shit and that he would prove them wrong. User NatalieSmythe69 suggested she drive up and they would make a day of it. Longtime Mycophage members will remember that Dan and Natalie got pretty hot and heavy with the online flirting to the point at which many of us were positively grossed out. I was secretly relieved that these two would finally take our advice to “get a room” (as Squid_Charlemagne would say).

“All I can say,” says Dan, “is shit, man. I’m sorry, CFORT. I hope you’re okay. I’m not feeling okay. But I’m here, on the board because I don’t want anybody doing the thing we just did. Don’t do it. I’ll leave it at that.”

Dan was greeted by a lot of insults, a lot of jokes about how Natalie must have fled in terror when she saw him naked and links to sites with cheap Viagra and the Amazon page for The Joy of Sex. Some of those users are still around, so I’m not going to editorialize about this behavior…oh, look, I just did…moving on…

“I should just let you assholes be punished like I was. Like Natalie was.  But I couldn’t live with myself if I did that. So, fine. We’ll get into it. You notice how Natalie hasn’t been around? It’s not because we hooked up and she didn’t want to hang on the board and fuck around. Some of you are going to assume that no matter what I say. But if I can stop one of you from shrooming in the circles, it will be worth it. Faerie rings and crop circles are not good places to do drugs. Should be common sense. But that’s why we do drugs in those places, right? What happened or didn’t between Natalie and me isn’t important to the story. I hope. I’m telling myself that. We went out into the woods, sat down in the ring and we did shrooms. We had a god time. Natalie’s every bit as sweet and cool and smart and great in person, she really is. We were tripping for awhile before either of us felt anything. Natalie said she felt something funny in her stomach. Shrooms can fuck up your stomach, so I didn’t think anything of it. She took my hand and started squeezing it really hard. I’ve got some serious scratches. She screamed out “It’s not human!” And I start to feel like we’re not in the woods anymore. And like I can’t get out of the circle, but I have to to stay alive. I start to see these green lights darting around and hear music. Someone is singing and pleading me to stay and telling me I can be happy here.I don’t even know where I am and I believe it. Natalie doesn’t look happy at all. She keeps screaming “Get out! Get out!” She’s crying. It looks like blood, but it might just be that I’m tripping. It’s hard to tell if that’s what it is. And not just because I’m tripping balls. And out of nowhere, there’s a disembodied face, pale skin, purple lips, perfection. And it’s not subjective. You couldn’t argue about this face. The face wants to kiss me.

And I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone so much, even if it’s just a face, or someone whose face is the only thing I can see. But Natalie’s crying and clawing at me. I have to hold her, even if this face wants me to kiss her and these voices want me to stay there. But Natalie’s crying and clawing at me. I have to hold Natalie, even if this face wants me to kiss her and these voices want me to stay there. I put my arms around her as she screams. I can see the outline of the hooded thing, but her wide eyes are on it and I can tell she can see all of it and she can’t look away.

“Take it! Just take it!” she screams. I can see the hooded thing’s hands reaching out toward her, bony, gnarly, scaly monster hands that want something from her. I squeeze her hard as I can and the shapes fade. I’m back in the forest, but from the look on her face and the ranting she’s doing, I can tell she isn’t. I have to drag her out of the ring and call for an ambulance. I don’t think she’s left the forest. Her family won’t speak to me so I don’t know what’s happened to her. She can’t call. She can’t write. Don’t go out into the rings. Something might follow you out. “

It’s serious. I don’t think Dan would make something like that up.

The Heroine

Kelly doesn’t feel very good. It’s not just the cramps and the embarassment.The stew mom left to reheat had funny chunks of things in it and didn’t go down well. Her brother can’t stop crying. He’s three years old. He shouldn’t be screaming all night like that. She puts in the headphones and listens to her ipod. The ipod plays only one song. It’s unfamiliar to her. It stiffens her joints, chills her blood, aggravates the cramps.

“Mother’s girl’s fed at the breast

When mother’s girl’s life starts

And mother’s the one that’s loved the best

In baby’s tiny heart

Mother’s girl’s fed at the breast

Til mother’s girl is able

To eat the meat that granny brings

To mother’s kitchen table

But then the Moon sees mother’s girl

A bathin’ in the river

When Mistress Moon sees mother’s girl

She makes her her’s forever

The Moon’s your mistress now

And she brings blood to you

And you’re no longer Mother’s girl

So granny gets her due”

She drops the ipod, looking at it as if it had suddenly transformed into a snake. Craig is crying louder and pounding on his bedroom. She would never have agreed to stay and look after him if she’d thought it would be like this. The worst part of it was that she is starting to think he has a reason for crying so loudly. It isn’t just that he was a baby and he missed mommy and daddy. She once again looks to the ipod on the floor, unable to stop thinking of the song it had played. She doesn’t want to be in the same room with the device and maybe Craig is crying about something worth crying about. She goes to the three year old’s door.

Craig rushes to her, hugging her tight. He tries to choke back his sobs so she can understand him.

“She’s at the window.”

This is not the sort of thing she likes to hear while babysitting. Not the sort of thing she likes hearing anytime, but when a scared three year old was saying it, it hit her hard. Fist against her resolve, boot on the throat of “I’m a big girl, I’m not going to cry.” Worse yet, it makes her feel inclined to look out the window. She doesn’t want that. He is a baby. Only three years old and she…she’s a grownup, as evidenced by the blood and her responsibility for him. She doesn’t have to believe him. She is better off not believing him. But still, she tries not to let her eyes wander to the window, the window, which she, whoever she is, is standing right outside of. .

“There’s nobody at the window,” she lies. Craig looks at the window. He begins crying again. He has to be looking at something.

“Shh,” she lies again, “there’s nobody there.”

It strikes her that when she was a child, her parents had told her that there was nobody at the window when she had thought she’d seen someone at the window. Her parents may have been lying. Every child’s parents may have been lying…

No. Kelly is shocked that she is thinking like this. This is crazy. She isn’t a baby like Craig. Grownups don’t think that children are right about the stupid things they believe. They assure them they are wrong. Unless they’re right. And someone is at the window. Nobody could be at the window. Although, were that so, then why would the boy be looking? This logic feels alien to her. This is not the way she thinks.

She looks out the window. Nothing is there. Her parents were right.

“See? She tells Craig,”nobody’s there.”

The paranoia pushes its way back to the front of her head. The pain from the cramps and the stomach ache brings her almost to her knees. More devastating than they had been yet. The song plays back in her mind. She puts down the boy.

“It’s going to be fine,” she tells the both of them. And both know she’s lying. Something is terribly wrong. Something is at the front door. She locks the boy’s bedroom door. She goes to the kitchen and gets a knife. She sits down in the livingroom, listening to the sound of scraping at the door and the song playing over and over in her mind. She considers turning on the tv, but is frightened of what might be on there, or what might come through.

There were funny chunks in the stew. Mushrooms. Funny texture. Funny taste. Something was wrong with those mushrooms. Her stomach hurts for a reason. Her brain is funny for a reason. There is scraping at the door for a reason. She’s been drugged.

The hag slides under the door flat as a shadow. She doesn’t need to be invited in. She is no vampire. She does not approach Kelly, but gives her a moment to take in her presence.

“Put down the knife, little lamb. Bring me your brother. He was promised me.”

Kelly stands up, pointing the knife at the monstrous old woman.

“I don’t believe you,” she says. She doesn’t know where this courage comes from, but she’s glad to have it.

“You ate the mushrooms. Your mother made the deal. Give me what is mine.” The old woman presents yellowed fangs, no doubt honed on centuries of bones.

“She gave me the mushrooms. I didn’t choose to eat them. She made no deal.”

The old woman laughs. Wispy green figures appear from nowhere and join in the chorus of mockery.

“When your mother was your age, she gave her brother and when her mother was your age, she gave hers. And so on for generations. The deal is made so give me what is mine.”

Sounds reasonable enough. It was done often enough. The boy belongs to the old woman and that is that. And you’re no longer mother’s girl, so Granny gets her due. No. It isn’t so.

The oldwoman grinds her teeth resentfully.

“I haven’t got all night. Bring me the child.”

Kelly does not stand down. She doesn’t drop the knife. She understands the old woman isn’t lying and that she was fed what she was fed and left alone when she was left alone for a reason. And maybe that reason wasn’t her mother’s reason. The old woman takes a step closer, gnashing teeth and brandishing razor sharp claws. The girl charges, knife in hand. She thrusts it at the old woman with all her strength. She plunges the knife into the old woman’s head, the warty, scaly skin surprisingly penetrable. The old woman shrieks, stunned by the pain.  The girl pulls the knife out. Thrusts it in again and twists it. All she knows of knives, she’s learned from carving pumpkins.  The old woman lets out another howl of pain.

The old woman backs off, beady eyes full of shock and contempt. Though no blood has come out of the wound, the great gaping hole in  her skull is more than enough to let her know that she will not have what is hers this night. She slides back under the door hungry and disappointed.

Kelly unlocks Craig’s door and picks him up, bringing him into the livingroom. They watch tv together for another hour before mother and father get back. Her mother almost faints at the sight of her daughter holding her brother close, breaking with tradition, failing to give in to intimidation. They lock eyes and mother’s heart breaks. She has a son  but has lost her daughter forever.

Mycophage.net Comments Section

Anonymous

Bullshit Bullshit Bullshit Bullshit

Riboflavin Jonez

Thank you, Gnome for taking time out of your busy schedule to scare kids out of doing drugs. Do you not notice what forum you’re running?

Yeah, I agree. I don’t get the scare tactics, Gnome. This post made me lose a lot of respect in you.

Shawna766

Didn’t think you were that starved for attention.

Anonymous

This is real. This is all real. This is more than real. Stay out of the rings.

IntotheMystik

You’ve been played. I’ve heard of this shit on other boards. Granny Crunchbones is just another urban legend. Don’t you check Snopes?

MaDDHatta

How do we know?

Riboflavin Jonez

Classic Hatta.

MaDDHatta

Fuck you, flave.

TheGnome

Go fuck yourselves. I tried.

Anonymous

This is real. This is all real. Stay out of the rings.

[For more arcane madness, you can get my poetry/flash fiction/gibbering madness collection the Pserpent Psalms here for only $1.08. And keep your eye on this blog tonight, spooky crazy things are gonna happen!]