For Mature Readers Only

# 1
October '06

Strange Tales Presents

Black Mass: The Haunt of Horror
featuring the Scarecrow

"Pieces of You"

Written by Tom Deja

1. One account statement

You crumpled the sheaf of paper in his hand. This was not helping.

What was she thinking, spreading her wealth like manure, donating to every half-assed cause with a sad-eyed child or a hurt animal on the cover of its brochure?

2. A set of x-rays

"How much longer?" you ask the doctor, doing your best to keep your feelings of guarded joy to yourself.

"It's hard to tell--with modern treatments, miracles have happened--"

"But it's not good, is it?" you cut the man off. You feel proud of yourself, forcing a tear or two from your eyes.

"Unless one of those miracles happen--your wife will be dead in a year."

3. A simple linen business card

Your first impulse is to punch the weird guy in the face. You've got enough problems without some old fruit who looks like he spent too much time in the sun putting his hands all over you.

After all, you waited for two years for this moment, and now you find out you're not getting your reward for putting up with the bat's abuse because she's got all penitent on you?

He hands you a card. He explains briefly that he may have a proposal that will be of mutual benefit. You see little flashes of orange in his eyes, like a bad case of Polaroid Devil Eyes.

"Hey, I don't swing that way," you snap.

"Oh, you don't understand," he replied in a voice that sounds like flies in honey. "You have something you want to get rid of. We have something that requires us to get rid of something....well, you do the math."

You curse him out and walk away, ripping up the card.

It's in your pants pocket when you get home, whole and unharmed.

4. A water damaged calling card

The sky opened up, which strikes you as funny as you sneak out into the night. The card cost you five bucks, but you need to make sure there's no trace of you making this phone call on your cell bill. If the old fruit is what you think he is, you don't want anything connecting you to him.

You have to walk three blocks to find a phone kiosk that's still working. You dial the calling card number, then your PIN, then number on the card the fruit gave you. He picks up before the first ring ends.

"You have decided to take us up on your offer?"

"Yeah, but I need you to bump her off--"

"Oh, you misunderstood me. I do not wish to kill your wife. I just have...another patron...who has need of what she can supply. His taking of that thing from your wife, alas, will end in her death."

"Good. Well, I need it done, like, right the fuck away."

"In time, in time," he said and paused. In the time since you started this call, the slight, steady drizzle has become a downpour. The glass of the kiosk, already grimy with the grease and oil of previous occupants, has become nothing but an ever-shifting sheet of obsidian. "Can you meet with me? I can explain everything."

"When?"

"Now. The place I have in mind is off of Park Avenue. It's only six blocks from where you are now."

"How do you know--"

"Why is it," the fruit countered before you finish, "that it's only this one bit of information you challenge me on having?"

When you have no answer for that, he gives you directions.

5. A small crystal carved into the shape of a feral face

"That," he says, "is Urthyr, my client."

"Looks charming," you say with the utmost sarcasm.

"Urthyr has been away for a while from this plain, thanks to the meddling of some sorcerer or the other. Hir--"

"It doesn't look like a she."

The old fart grins slyly. "Urthyr is both male and female, and neither. Hir is hir's preferred means of being addressed."

"And what does ‘hir' want with Halie?"

6. A painting depicting a tattered, grinning scarecrow against a blazing cornfield

"What the Hell is THAT?" you ask. It's easily the ugliest thing you've ever seen.

Halie grips the oxygen tank weakly as she stands by your side. She's un-made up, which makes her look like an old bag and not the mousy lil' bitch you married. "I saw it at the Dumont. It...spoke to me."

"It makes me want to puke." You turn away from the gross thing and head to the wet bar. As you pour yourself a scotch and water, you convince yourself that the damn painting's eyes didn't shift to follow you.

7. One matchbook, three matches missing.

"So this Arthur--"

"Urthyr, Like ‘Earth sire,'"

You toss the match into the ashtray and take a long drag of your cigarette. Your hand still shakes. "Okay, so Earthy feeds of cancer?"

"Yes," the old fart elaborates. "And from what I've been led to believe, your wife would be the equivalent to a smorgasbord to Hir. Consuming her cancer would give Hir enough energy to cross over into our world and herald a new age for--

"Yeah, yeah,, sure, sure. Can we do this quickly? She bought this ugly-ass painting that is making me sick."

"Well, all you need do is force her to internalize the crystal--how I don't care. Once they're inside her, Urthyr will feed on the cancer and use it to construct his corporeal form...which will, alas, destroy your wife's body when hir fully completed form bursts through her..."

You can't help but smile. "I can live with that."

8. One hammer, microparticulates of an unknown substance embedded into the head

You collapse into the chair, wondering why these cultists couldn't have provided you with a carton of milk or something...easier to handle.

You put down the hammer and pick up the corners of the chamois cloth. You take your time to carefully bring those corners together, trapping the fine dust you ground the crystal into. You close your fist around it and jam it into the pocket of the silk robe your wife bought you.

All you need to do is mix this stuff in with her food, sit back and wait for her to croak.

You hesitate before when it comes time to cross the living room. Even from the threshold, you swear you can feel the creepy-ass scarecrow thing glaring at you. You give the painting the finger and go about your business.

By the time the night is over, the end will almost be over.

9. One cigar, crushed

You snatch the cigar out of your new friend's mouth. His bushy white eyebrows raise up, and color comes to his cheeks. Before he can get all indignant, you throw the medical report at him.

"She's getting better, you asshole!"

He slowly gathers up the papers, puts on lil' wire-rimmed glasses that wouldn't seem out of place on you grandpa, and briefly looks it up and down. You fume silently as he takes it all in before he says, "Of course she's getting better."

"Well, good," you snap. "I'm so glad that the wife I wanted to die sooner is becoming healthy again!"

He takes off the glasses and shifts his body in the big wingback chair. "Think about it. Urthyr feeds on cancer. Hir is presently devouring that very thing that is forcing your wife to die. She will get better. She will feel like she could conquer the world....until it is time for Urthyr to emerge."

He smirks. "and then you will have your dead wife."

10. A handful of straw

You see it out of the corner of your eye as you cross Park Avenue. It looks exactly like the creepy old figure in that ugly painting. Even though its hat is pulled down low on its bright yellow face, you can still see its burning eyes.

At first you want to just ford onward, ignoring the Scarecrow. But the frustration of the last few days, of following things you just don't understand prompts you to turn right there in the middle of the street. You stride forward, ignoring the dumb ass who leans on the horn to vent his spleen, and head over to find no one there.

But something grinds underneath your foot. You move it aside to see a couple of stalks of straw, broken and smelling of the muddy earth.

11. A broken vase

It's the damn giggling that startled you.

You were just minding your business. You had just poured some scotch and was heading back to your bed when the maniacal giggling rent the air. It caused you to step back--which caused your foot to get caught on an extension cords, which caused you to knock that vase off the vanity.

You open the drawer in the bar and pull out your pistol. A quick check to make sure the damn thing is loaded and you're stepping forward. With what your wife is doing, you'd be damned if you'll let someone else steal from you.

Your search brings you to that damn painting.

And what you're seeing makes you feel cold all over.

For--even though you can't believe it--the painting is moving. That blood red moon behind the scarecrow seems to be burning, flames roiling across its surface to illuminate what's going on.

And what's going on is the scarecrow fighting some...thing that looks like it's a mass of swollen, infected tissue, a maw of broken teeth opened wide in an attempt to swallow the scarecrow's head whole. One mismatched arm lashes out and strikes the straw man so hard that its head snaps to one side.

And in that moment, the chill in your soul plunges to below freezing--hell, to absolute zero. Because, just before the scarecrow pushes the creature's head back, it looks right at you. Its red eyes seem to crinkle at the edges as its toothless mouth widens into a predatory grin.

And you know its coming for you.

12. One book, Art And The Supernatural, by Harold H. Harold

She barely ducks the book. "Why are you so upset?"

"It's all in there!" you scream at her. "How that demon trapped the Skirra Corvus in "The Scarecrow," and how he can interface with the real world...how he's come out of that damn painting to protect people from outside interference. You know! You always knew!"

"But honey," she says, her voice a trembling mix of comfort and fear, "It's just a painting."

"You HATE ME!"

"Nonsense," she tells you, stroking your cheek. "I love you."

It feels good choking the life out of her.

13. A number of plastic bags

It takes a long time, chopping her into pieces small enough to haul away. You add the clothes you were wearing into the next to last bag. The last bag you use not only for her head but for the broken up remains of the painting.

As you drive through Long Island, distributing the bags, you make reservations for Prague. It's a lovely place...easy to disappear in. You have a yen for Australia after that....

By the time you return from Suffolk County, the sun is beginning to rise. You'll have enough time for a quick nap before heading out to Laguardia and freedom. You're so weary from lugging all these bags around....your arms and legs so heavy.

Just a little nap.

14. A set of silk sheets dotted with bloodstains.

How long did you get to sleep when the pain forced you awake?

Were you expecting to see the grinning face of the scarecrow over you?

Was the scream you let out, a scream that you somehow knew would bring the cops running, was because of the pain of the scarecrow's fingers deep inside you or because of the fear?

Did you the nature of the tendrils of red hot agony inching through your chest, like lava in your veins?

Did you know the scarecrow was just returning an unwanted gift?

14. A small selection of tumors.

"No."

He says you have maybe two months left.

"No."

He says that he's never seen a case advancing this far this quickly.

"No."

He writers out a perscription for painkillers that you know won't work.

"No."

Your head is filled with what the scarecrow shows you when you close your eye.

"No."

You try to deny the sight of your wife waiting for you in your own special Hell, a thousand sharp, sharp object of every shape and size waiting for her tender caresses.

"No."

He says he'll get an orderly to take you somewhere to rest.

"No."

Your eyes go to the table next to the hospital bed.

"No."

Even though your eyes are blurred with tears, you know what to reach for.

15. One doctor's scalpel, stained with blood....

THE END

For Mature Readers Only

# 1
October '06

Strange Tales Presents

Black Mass: The Haunt of Horror
featuring Solomon Kane

"The Children of Paracelsus"

Written by Josh Reynolds

alterius non sit qui suus esse potest
-Paracelsus

The tall man with the blazing eyes held his sword point to the smaller man's neck. Despite this, the smaller man merely smiled a sad, wise smile. He was clad in the robes of an academic and carried a whiff of chemicals about himself. The tall man, lean and wolfish and dressed somberly in the black garb and slouch hat of a Puritan born did not return the small man's smile. They stood amidst a much abused round stone tower in the Balkans. The tower loomed above a thick, wolf infested forest and was within eye line of others of its ilk...the last remnants of a time when the Turk had held these dark lands. But such history did not enter into the minds of either of the men. One saw only the future and the other only the present. One served God. The other, only himself. This, if nothing else would have brought them into conflict sooner or later.

But it was blood that had drawn one to the other this day. Blood and a trail of slaughtered women, gutted and hung like fatted calves, the fruit of their swollen bellies ripped free and collected. It was this image that fueled the tall man's fury, that stoked the fires of his zealot's rage.

Evil done is evil that must be punished. So sayeth the Lord.

"Why do you smile warlock? Does the thought of Hell's embrace warm the chill void where your soul once wept?" The tall man said harshly. The small man sighed.

"Solomon Kane, I use your name when referring to you. Be so kind as to return this slightest of courtesies."

"Courtesy is wasted on the damned Paracelsus." Solomon Kane hissed. "And you are most certainly damned!" His sword point pricked the flesh of Paracelsus' throat, eliciting a frown from the small, portly man.

"Who is to say I am damned? Who damns me?"

"God."

"Who is this God? A random mix of chemical stimuli is the soul of creation, not a Hebrew devil."

"God is here for you Paracelsus, that you will not doubt." Kane looked around at the circular room they stood in. Several benches were scattered around the room, covered in books and alchemical paraphenalia. In the center of the room sat a circular patch of wooden boards leading only God himself knew where with a flat piece rising man-height from it, manacles and chains dangling from its mass and at its side several iron rings rising from the floor. Near that was a dozen immense, egg shaped bulbs of plant matter rising from a squat trough of dung. It was these bulbs and their contents Kane had come to destroy.

But first, their devilish creator.

"I did not track you across all of Europe to debate the Word of God. Hold your tongue lest I cut it out." Kane growled, readying himself for the killing thrust. "Though in the end, I suppose it matters not whether you go to your master whole or in pieces."

"The same could be said of you." Paracelsus was smiling again. Kane spun as a noise caught his attention. Two shapes slid out of the shadows of the staircase that led to the lower floors. A young man, thin and sickly, clutching a struggling young woman, her belly heavy with child. The man held a cocked pistol to her head and glared at Kane with a feverish gaze.

"Step away from Master Paracelsus witch-finder. Step away I said, and drop that blade or this gutter-sow dies choking on her own foul blood!"

"Your servant does you credit Paracelsus. Hiding behind innocents. He's learned well from you." Kane grunted, doing as the young man said. The Puritan stepped back, his eyes flicking back and forth between the other two men, his sword still in his hand. But only for a moment, then he released it with a twitch of his fingers to clatter loudly to the floor. Paracelsus dabbed at his neck with a rag plucked from his sleeve and laughed.

"Well Master Frankenstein is the best and brightest of my apprentices. The only one of my apprentices really, thanks to you Solomon. You slaughtered the rest between here and London. Your trail is littered with the gashed remnants of the finest minds of Europe, all trod beneath your superstitious heel." Paracelsus turned to Frankenstein. "I applaud your ingenuity Victor but please do not harm Anna there. She is holding something rather valuable."

"I am sorry master, but this seemed the surest way to gain the upper-hand on our enemy." Frankenstein said. "Even he would not sacrifice the life of a young woman, would you Kane?"

"You know I will not." Kane snarled, fale pale with barely restrained fury. Frankenstein smirked and pushed the woman towards Paracelsus. She moved towards the achemist slowly, as if unsure of herself. Kane noted that she appeared to be drugged. Paracelsus took her hand and pulled her close. Frankenstein shook his head at Kane.

"Such compassion."

"More than you have shown devil."

"Enough of this banter." Paracelsus said sharply. With gentle hands he lead the young woman towards a wooden table covered in old stains. As she sat upon it, she twitched and groaned, her hands grabbing her belly. "Apprentice? We have business to attend to. Please bind our guest so that he cannot interfere."

Frankenstein fastened heavy manacles around Kane's wrists, the chains leading to the section of wood that rose like a wall from the circular patch on the floor. The links were each as thick as a man's wrist and coated with moss and rust. Kane's flesh crawled as he allowed Frankenstein to manacle him. Frankenstein grinned. "Strain all you like hell-hound, these chains were designed for far stronger beings than you. Beings I may introduce you too before this eve is out."

"Young Frankenstein? If you are quite finished...our labors are soon complete." Paracelsus called as he helped the woman to lay down on the table. Her belly was visibly heaving and rippling as if something was pushing from within. "She is ripe for removal. Prepare the incubation chamber."

Frankenstein rushed towards the manure filled trough and scooped out a hole on the end of the row of sickly bulb shaped objects with his hands. As Kane watched in mounting horror, Paracelsus scooped up a surgeons scalpel and touched the tip to a point between the womans breasts. He looked over at Kane. "You should feel grateful Puritan. You are about to witness the birth of a demi-god. Or, rather the first birth. The second will come much later under the proper conditions." Paracelsus twitched his wrist and the scalpel bit deep, blood fountaining around the blade. The woman sighed as he drug the blade down her torso in one quick motion. Kane cursed and jerked himself to the length of his chains, his muscles writhing beneath his black clothing.

"Bastard! Abomination! Leave off witch!" Kane spat, foam flecking his thin lips as he raved. "I will crush your pustulent skull before this night is out Paracelsus!"

"Really Kane. The girl feels no pain. My own mixture of opium and lotus leaf keeps her bemused and happy I assure you. Besides, better the blade than to have her child rip its way free of her innards. That would be unfortunate." Paracelsus smile as his chubby fingers began to carefully prise apart the folds of cleft flesh. "For the child I mean. It would die if it were not placed within the special incubation chamber my apprentice is preparing. Horse manure and the seed of criminals for them to germinate and grow strong. Impressive no?"

"I still say the body itself would provide everything we need." Frankenstein muttered. "If only provided the proper stimuli..."

"Yes yes yes Victor. A hundred times we have been over this and still you insist on holding to your frivolous theories on vivisection and elemental application." Paracelsus huffed as he dug his fingers into the womb. A foul stink filled the tower and Frankenstein and Kane gagged.

"The stench of Hell..." Kane muttered. Paracelsus gave a shout and wrenched a wriggling mass of foetid matter from the body on the table.

"No! No it is the sweet smell of success." Paracelsus crowed. With a swiftness unheard of he rushed to the trough and plunged the mass into the hole scraped open by Frankenstein. "Hurry boy! Help me cover it!"

As the two buried the thing in the manure Kane's eyes were only for the girl on the table, her eyes dimming as the heat of her body steamed into the air, her blood puddlig on the wooden floor. As it seeped through the cracks, Kane heard a sound from below. A muted grumbling, like a herd of swine. When he had first entered the tower he had noted that the central core of it was walled off and hastily. Only the stairs were open and free. It was as if the tower were an immense well cover, hiding some dark secret in its hideous heart. Kane's eyes widened as the floor beneath his feet shook slightly as if some force were ressing at it from below. Kane shook his wolfish head, looking back at the girl. Her eyes were glazed and dull in death.

Another innocent dead by the hands of a madman.

No more.

Kane pulled at the chains with all his might. His muscles screamed in agony as he pitted flesh and sinew against iron. The wood the chains were connected to gave a sharp crack.

Frankenstein looked up, his vulpine eyes narrowing as he watched Kane struggle with his bonds, eyes shut. "What of the cur Master? How do we dispose of him?"

"Eh? Oh." Paracelsus looked up from the trough and wiped his grimy hands on his robes. "Open the trap-door and give him to the prototypes. They will doubtless be roused by the scent of the sow's blood and we'd best feed them lest they grow uncontrollable."

"As you command." Frankenstein stalked towards Kane, gloating. "Did you hear hell-hound? You will be food for maggots this day. As all your kind must be at the foot of men of science." Frankenstein knelt beside the circular patch and grasped one of the iron rings rising from the floor and pulled it up with a sharp twist. The wood beneath Kane's feet gave a groan and he watched with mounting horror as it began to sink past the level of the floor!

"Descend into Hell Puritan. See what the Devil makes of your bible-thumping." Frankenstein laughed. Kane did not reply, instead giving one last jerk of the chains. The wooden cross-piece shattered into flinders as Kane stumbled forward. Frankenstein leapt back with a yelp but not soon enough as the edge of one of the chains struck him on the head and sent him hurling backwards. Paracelsus cursed but Kane did not hear it as he tried to halt his descent. By the time he regained his footing he had already sunk too far to leap to safety and the walls were too slick with mold and vile juices that bit into his nose like an adder's sting to chance a leap to some imaginary handhold. The wood beneath his feet shuddered again and if he squinted below he could make out the immense gears that lowered the platform into the belly of the tower even as they strained and squealed. But was that the machinery...or merely the voices of the things that awaited him below?

What had Paracelsus called them? Prototypes?

There were dim shapes moving in the darkness that clung to the walls. Quick moving things that seemed to have too many arms or heads. Were these then the prototypes of Paracelsus' demi-gods?

Demons. Is that what they were?

Kane had no answer for his own question, merely a grim certainty that he wouldn't like the answer. With an instants deliberation he squatted and began to coil the heavy chains about his forearms, preparing himself for the horrors to come. Hell eh? Life was Hell. Anything else was Paradise reclaimed.

The platform touched down with a gut-wrenching shudder nearly knocking him from his feet. Kane stood and looked up into the darkness above. His enemies were above. No way he could reach them.

Shapes moved in the darkness. Twisted forms he was glad he could only make out in the barest detail. They squealed and snuffled and he gripped the chains tighter. Claws gouged the wood as they circled him. Hunger gleamed in dozens of eyes that lacked anything of pity or remorse.

The children of Paracelsus.

Solomon Kane let the chains slide through his fingers until they clanked against the platform. He smiled horribly, eyes burning with a hunger of his own, a mad insatiable lust.

"Come then bastard spawn of dung and heresy. Come and taste the blessings of the Lord." Kane snarled as the first forms leapt toward him. He lashed out with his chains, the links whistling as they sliced through the air and bludgeoned contorted flesh. They came upon him as a legion, bodies that should have been human but were twisted into contorted parodies.

God made man in his own image.

Paracelsus had done the same.

Kane was a whirlwind of flying iron chain, snapping bone and bruising flesh everywhere he turned, laying twisted bodies flat on the floor. But there were too many. And he was getting tired. He lashed out with a foot, catching one of things in the gut and sent it sprawling. There!

Iron rings similar to those above set in the floor around the platform. Kane laughed as swung the chains, splattering the skull of one of the monstrosities like overripe fruit. Of course. Of course they'd have a way to return to the top level after the feeding was done. Frankenstein had simply thought that the creatures would overwhelm him before he discovered that, bound as he had been.

God kept his own. And the devil would soon have his due...

Kane lashed out with calculated force and hooked the end of the chain around the closest of the rings. With a grunt he yanked on the chain, pulling the ring up.

The platform began to rise, but not quick enough. Several of the grotesqueries had clambered aboard and fell upon him en masse, claws tearing at him. Kane screamed as teeth fastened themselves in his shoulder and he bucked wildly, hurling the creature over his shoulder and onto the platform. His boot lashed out, stamping on its throat until bone snapped and he whirled to meet the next attacker. Claws skittered off the chain wrapped around his forearms as he blocked a slash meant for his throat and Kane slugged the beast in reply, the extra weight of the chains lending him the strength to break its neck.

Pain flared through him as talons scraped against his back and he fell to his knees, kicking out blindly behind him to boot the last of the beasts from the rising platform.

Blinking back the pain he got to his feet, ignoring the blood that pooled around him. His blood. Instead he focused on the top of the shaft he was rising through. And on what he'd do to those up top.

The girl's dead features swam before his eyes and he bit back a snarl. Strength flooded through his tired frame as he contemplated crushing Paracelsus' skull with the heavy chains wrapped around his arms. Only a few feet from the lip of the pit mouth Kane leapt and grasped the edge. With a heave of his shoulders that set his muscles to screaming Kane threw himself over the top and glared about him.

The trough was empty, the hideous bulbs uprooted and gone. Only a smear of blood marked where Frankenstein had landed, but there was no body. Nor any sign of Paracelsus. He was too late.

Too late.

No one remained. No one except the girl, her dead eyes accusing him. Boring into him like the eyes of a fallen angel. Kane screamed and the creatures below in the pit-the children of Paracelsus - echoed him.

The hunt would go on. Until the day of Judgement or beyond.

So swore Solomon Kane.

THE END

For Mature Readers Only

# 1
October '06

Strange Tales Presents

Black Mass: The Haunt of Horror
featuring the Darkhold

"Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About the Darkhold, but Were Afraid to Ask"

Written by Chris Munn

"So, um, I'm just gonna set up this tape recorder, and then, um, we can get started. Alright?"

"Please, feel free."

Deep within the bowels of the Vatican sat a place that even the most highly regarded of religious figures refused to enter. La Biblioteca Nera, the Black Library, held the most comprehensive archive of occult literature and text that had ever been assembled. Few knew of its existence, held open by the Pope himself as a vanity project for a family that devoted their lives to fighting evil in all forms. The Montesi family heritage was one of divine strength, and the guardianship of the Library had been passed down from generation to generation.

"Now, before we start," Vittorio stated, "I must tell you that the things we're about to discuss must be taken with an open mind. Do you believe in the realm of extreme possibilities?"

"Not in the slightest," the other man replied as he rewound the small tape, "but my beliefs don't really factor in that much."

Vittorio Montesi cleared his throat and tugged slightly on the white collar around his neck. He was the proprietor of the Library now, the latest in the line of the family, though in all reality he also the last in that same line. "Mr. Blunk, I'm afraid your beliefs matter quite a bit. How can you represent this information in any kind of serious light if you, yourself, do not believe?"

"The same way a person can write a book about UFOs or Bigfoot," Marcus Blunk stated, "and not be a nutcase about it. I have no problem discussing this stuff, and I certainly have no problem respecting your beliefs...just don't expect me to go ‘oooooohh' and cum in my pants every time you mention a werewolf."

The two locked eyes after Blunk's statement, with a nod of acceptance finally coming from the priest. Marcus sat the tape recorder on the table, then returned to digging through his briefcase. Vittorio watched the younger man mutter curses under his breath, his long hair hanging down in front of his glasses. He still held a bit of disbelief in the man's claims, having come into the Italian's life in the form of a simple letter. Blunk was a writer, who apparently had chosen a rather strange topic for his next book...the Darkhold.

"I'm ready when you are," Marcus said with a smile, tapping his pencil against the pad of paper in his lap. Vittorio cleared his throat, took a drink of water, and nodded his head. "Guess you're ready," Marcus softly muttered.

"I suppose I should start at the beginning," Vittorio began, "the beginning of man. When the Earth was still forming, a group of primordial beings, ones that we have taken to calling the Elder Gods, ravaged the planet. Amongst the tens of thousands of these beings, three arose as the most powerful. One was Gaea, the mother of the Earth and protector of humanity. The second was the serpent god Set, the father of destruction. The third Elder is the one that concerns us the most, though...and its name was Chthon."

"A question...you refer to Chthon as an ‘it'. Explain why you didn't say ‘he' or ‘she'."

"These Elder Gods aren't regulated to gender roles. You see, it's like trying to assign a color to negative space, there's just no possible way. These beings were not like man, and though common representations assigned to them by man has given them genders, they were really indescribable. Gaea is often described as a woman, much like that of Mother Earth. One statement is that if one were to gaze upon the true face of Chthon, they would go insane due to its appearance."

"Sounds like a real charmer."

"Now, these Elder Gods were very destructive. With the exception of Gaea, who was the most benevolent and wise of the lot, the beings were mostly concerned with quarreling with each other. Set changed all this when he committed an act unknown of at that time. He committed the first murder, eventually inciting a war between all the gods. The only one who refused to take part in the carnage was Gaea, who was determined to put an end to the evil that had consumed ‘her' brothers."

"So she's the hero of the piece, right?"

"Gaea gave birth to an adult son named Atum, who was later dubbed the ‘god-slayer'," Montesi continued, attempting to ignore his interviewer's interjections. "Atum was set loose amongst the now demonic Elder Gods, destroying them...

...and upon destroying them, Atum transformed. No longer was he the light-bringer, no longer the sun-god offspring of Gaea. The more demons he consumed, the more severe he transformed. Leathery wings sprouted from his back, his flesh became charred and rotten, the corruption of the dark gods taking their toll on his body. Atum became the Demogorge, the unstoppable juggernaut of destruction that had only one purpose...to cleanse the planet of the supernatural.

It was over in what seemed like moments, the Elder Gods annihilated at the hands of the Demogorge with ease. Only two had managed to escape Atum's wrath, the two that had been responsible for the Elders' decent into evil. Set was the last to fall, his body destroyed after a battle that shook the earth and the heavens, but he was not ended. The most powerful of the demons sent his serpent spirit into another dimension before the Demogorge could fully complete its task.

Chthon, along with being a supreme sorcerer, was the most intelligent of the Gods, rivaled only by his ‘sister', Gaea. He knew he could not destroy the Demogorge, so he chose the better part of valor...and fled this plane of existence. Before he fled however, Chthon created for himself a contingency plan. Using the darkest of high magic, Chthon enthused a small fraction of his essence to a piece of parchment, intending this indestructible text to be his backdoor back into this reality. Chthon fled before the Demogorge could take him, but Gaea had outsmarted him. The Earth Mother banished her ‘brother', locking him inside the dimension to which he had fled. The document was Chthon's only link to this reality...the text that would later be called the Darkhold.

From the work-in-progress "The Annotated Darkhold", by Marcus Blunk

"That's, um, that's quite a story," Marcus stated as Vittorio took another drink of water, "so what happened next?"

"Well, the story of Set continues on, as does the story of Gaea. But that's not really what you're interested in, is it?"

"Not at all."

"The document infused with Chthon's essence came to be known as the Darkhold, a collection of spells and incantations that were from the darkest of dark magic. The pages were lost for a few thousand millennia, hidden away from human eyes, until the cataclysm of the fabled Atlantis." Montesi paused, awaiting another comment from Marcus. He was surprised when one never came.

"What?" Marcus asked as he lifted his eyes from his notepad.

"No questions, comments, or grievances? You seem to be taking my mention of Atlantis as a real place rather in stride, for someone as cynical as yourself."

"I watch the news," Blunk replied with a smile, "I even met Namor the Submariner once at an Avengers meet-n-greet a few years ago. Atlantis existing is a fact, not a legend...why else would those fish people be jealous of us land-lubbers?"

"Fair enough," Vittorio continued. "So as I was saying, the sorcerers of Atlantis were the first humans to lay eyes upon the Darkhold. They utilized it, unsure of what the incantations truly held, and they created something so evil, so terrible...that mankind still suffers from its blight. They created nosferatu. They created the first vampire."

"So this book, these spells, created Dracula?"

"What makes you think Dracula was the first vampire? This act predates Dracula, vampirism coming to this world in the form of Varnae . This was a creature without a soul, without any need to treat humanity as anything more than food. The sorcerers were, needless to say, unaware of their actions."

Vittorio paused again, lost in silent contemplation. Marcus looked upon him, seeing the older man appear to be visibly shaken by the story he was telling. This only lasted for a fleeting moment before the priest had steeled his resolve, returning to his story. "Atlantis was hit by the cataclysm soon after, but the Darkhold was not lost. The sorcerers managed to escape, taking the book with them. If only they had left it buried."

"But they didn't, and things got worse, right?"

"The sorcerers eventually died, unaware of what the true power of the Darkhold entailed. The use of the book, the incantation of the spells within, come with a terrible price...forfeit of ones soul. That's where Chthon's power comes from, the corruption of those that use his power. The book, after leaving the hands of the Atlanteans, had a tendency to pop up at random. It crossed paths with countless amounts of people, from Babylonian savants, to Egyptian priests, to Hebrew scholars. These were small, controllable accounts of chaos, however. The real problem came in the 6th Century, A.D."

The Darkhold was first bound into a book during the sixth century, after it appeared in medieval Britain . The sorceress responsible was an evil woman named Morgan le Fey, and because of her we first see Chthon looked at as a true deity. Her followers were Chthon's followers, and she dubbed them the Cult of the Darkholders.

She was foolish, le Fey was. Power though she had, enough so that she only had Merlin as a rival, she was not powerful enough for the endeavor she set herself upon. She believed she could call up Chthon, call up the devil in the flesh, and bend him to her will.

How wrong she was.

The Darkholders followed her to a place in central Europe called Wundagore Mountain , a place of great spiritual and arcane power. It was here that le Fey successfully brought Chthon back to this realm...or so she thought. Unable to control the forces she had brought forth, the sorceress imprisoned it yet again, this time under the fabled mountain itself. She was incorrect in her assessment of Chthon's power, though what she called forth was not the true Elder God. It was merely a fraction of the demon's power, a small part independent of Chthon...yet even that was enough to overpower the skillful sorceress.

Imagine then, what the power of the true Chthon must be like.

From the work-in-progress "The Annotated Darkhold", by Marcus Blunk

"So she got her ass handed to her...then what happened?"

"Le Fey's lover, an aspiring sorcerer named Magnus, became disgusted with the evil he saw in her after her experience with the Darkhold. About a year after Chthon had been successfully summoned, Magnus stole the Darkhold and placed it in a tower on the Isle of Wight . The tower was protected with spells, so that no evil person could enter. With this, it was believed that Chthon's influence could at the least be contained. Over the years, the Darkholders attempted several times to regain the book, but met with failure each time."

"Naturally, someone got the book out, I assume."

"You assume correctly. The first breach came in the form of Merlin's apprentice, a young man named Modred. Modred was not an evil man, he was simply foolish in believing that the Darkhold could be used to further his own good intentions. As soon as he spoke the book's incantation of power, the go-between being that communicated for Chthon to the book's users materialized to take his soul in exchange for power. Modred used his own magical skills to resist, until his love, Janice Gervasse, entered the tower after him. When the Other threatened to take her soul, Modred freely offered his own, falling into a deathlike trance the moment his soul was taken. Janice entombed Modred's body in a crypt near the Isle of Wight ."

"Talk about a tragedy right out of Shakespeare."

"The second, and final, breach of the tower came in the form of an Irish monk named St. Brendan, who was determined to rid the world of the Darkhold's evil once and for all. Realizing the book could not be destroyed by any mortal means, the monk did what he felt was the most logical thing...he scattered the pages across Europe , hoping that the bulk of the book would remain lost forever."

"Didn't happen, right?"

"Another monk named Aelfric, of Spanish decent, recollected the book of sins sometime in the 12 th Century, though large chunks were, and I believe still are, missing. After that, the book continued to pass through different corrupt hands throughout the years. Fortunately, none of the possessors had the magical skill of Morgan le Fey, keeping the dimensional walls still roughly in check."

"Hey yo," Blunk interrupted as he pulled a small cardboard box from his jacket pocket, "mind if I light up? This interview's making me fiend like a son of a bitch."

"Look around you, Mr. Blunk," Vittorio said as he pointed outside the office door, "do you really think cigarette ashes are recommended around books that are centuries old?"

"Point," Blunk said sheepishly as he returned the cigarette to the pack, "please continue."

"To cut things short a little, I'm going to skip ahead to the twentieth century, where things get extremely interesting. Sometime in the 1960s, the Darkhold fell into the possession of a Romanian scholar named Baron Gregor Russoff. Apparently, the Russoff family had been marked generations earlier with the curse of lycanthropy, and Gregor's experiments with the Darkhold triggered his latency. He and his progeny were, and to this day are still, victims of the transformation into werewolves."

"I take back what I said earlier," Blunk again interrupted, "because I think I just came."

"Gregor took the book and returned to Wundagore Mountain , hoping to destroy it at the place where Chthon's essence had been buried. With the book being in such close proximity, the fraction of Chthon's spirit that le Fey had imprisoned several millennia before attempted to break free, but was again driven back by a geneticist named the High Evolutionary."

"This is getting more and more complicated by the second, you sure this isn't the story line for some cheesy comic book?"

"I understand you're not a believer, Mr. Blunk, and that's not a problem. But, you will treat my work with respect. One more interruption, and this interview is through...understand?"

"I'm sorry," Marcus said apologetically, "just my cynical nature coming through."

"Now, when Gregor died, the book was left in his estate, which was bought by an American named Miles Blackgar. Blackgar thought, like most before him, that he could use the book's power for his own purposes. Knowing the danger surrounding the Darkhold, Gregor's now lycanthropic son Jack stole the book and entrusted it in the care of a priest named Joaquez. Dracula, who wanted the book for himself, later murdered this priest. The lord of the vampires proved as ineffectual as the rest, however, and soon lost the book again. From there, the book was entrusted to the Vatican , and in turn given to the Montesi family."

"Why you? Wouldn't the same thing that happened to the previous people happen to you?"

"We Montesi's are incorruptible, child. Pure souls, if you will."

"Okay...so you've still got the book, right?"

"Not exactly. Dracula again resurfaced in the mid-1980s, seeking the book because of a spell that my family discovered. Dubbed the Montesi Formula, this spell was capable of uncreating the spell that the Atlanteans first invoked to create the vampires. The sorcerer Stephen Strange used the spell, his power enough to keep the corruption of Chthon at bay as he read, and subsequently eradicated the vampires from this realm."

"So he has the book?"

"At this time, yes...we allowed him to keep it for safekeeping, in allowance for the mystical energies surrounding the Montesi Formula to subside. It will return to my hands soon, however, so worry not. I stand ever ready."

The Montesi Formula was discovered only recently, a result of cautious study and translation of the Darkhold. Vittorio's brother was credited with the discovery, prompting his sudden and expected demise at the fangs of Dracula. My question is this: if the book possessed the spell to undo the vampire creation, could it not conceivably possess spells that would undo any type of supernatural malady?

This, among many other glaring faults, is one of the problems that lies at the heart of the Chthon legend. How are we expected to believe that this is real when such glaring "plot holes" exist? The ancient Greek and Roman pantheons of gods are held as nothing but myth and legend, so tell me...why is this any different?

From the work-in-progress "The Annotated Darkhold", by Marcus Blunk

Marcus sat in this hotel room, a luxury suite nestled deep in the heart of Rome , and typed out several notations on his laptop. Father Vittorio, though obviously dedicated to his cause, had provided only more fodder for his denouncement of what he believed to be archaic idols. "Hell of a story, though," he muttered aloud.

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly, a violent hail of slams against his hotel room door. Images of Poe's The Raven immediately sprang to mind as he almost jumped out of his skin at the pounding. "I'm coming! I'm coming!" he shouted as the strikes against his door continued.

Marcus threw open the door, expecting to see a nosy bellhop expecting a tip for some unheard of task that he was neither asked nor expected to do. Instead, all he saw was a blur of leather and a fist. The fist connected with his nose, then Marcus saw the floor.

Then it got really, really dark.

Blunk's vision slowly came back as consciousness crept into his brain, the objects around him gradually becoming less and less blurry. He raised his head, realizing that he was lying flat of his back on the motel room bed. The blood had crusted down his face from the punch to the nose, but it amazingly didn't hurt all that much.

"I apologize for the assault," a voice sounded from the chair across the room, "but I needed to assess the magnitude of thy power."

Marcus strained to focus his eyes on the figure before him, setting up on the bed to get a better vantage point. The stranger was dressed in leather, his long coat touching the floor by his feet. His long, white hair hung in a ponytail down his shoulder, and he wore a pair of dark sunglasses. "Little late for sunglasses, huh?"

"I have my reasons," he replied with a laugh. "Do thou know who I am?"

"No clue."

"I know thou talked this day with Vittorio Montesi, and I am positive he at least mentioned me. I'm one of his favorite parts of the Darkhold history lesson," the stranger said as he lit one of his Lucky Strikes.

"Um, dude," Marcus said as he pointed at a sign on the wall, "nonsmoking room. All they had left."

"Point, youth?"

Marcus huffed a little before he held out his hand, "Care to share the wealth?"

The two sat for a moment in silence, billowing smoke from their lungs into the open room air. Marcus finally broke the silence, as he had a tendency to do whenever he was faced with ‘quiet time'. "So what was your name, again?"

"My name," the stranger said as he stomped his cigarette out on the beige carpet, "is Modred."

Blunk's eyes widened in surprise.

"I take it thou hast heard of me?"

"You...you could say that."

"Ah, I always was his favorite part of the story," Modred said with a wicked grin, "he seems to enjoy telling others of my grave misfortunes. Looking at thee now, runt, it makes me believe that my associate was wrong in her assessment of thy abilities. The witch had me convinced that thy quest for knowledge would be advantageous to our current situation. How foolish she doth seem, in light of our finally meeting..."

Marcus stared blankly for a few moments, attempting to come up with the words to sum up his feelings. Finally, he found one. "Huh?"

"Pray tell, squire," Modred began to ask, "in thy talks with Montesi, did he perchance mention his daughter?"

"Um, no actually he said he was the last of his family line."

"Heh. Heheheheheheheheheheh," Modred cackled, "how am I not surprised? It's true, just so thou know, that Vittorio did indeed have a daughter, one name of Victoria . Riddle this, though...Vittorio Montesi is sterile."

"What? How the hell does that happen?"

"Magic, young squire. The Montesi family is one of important significance to the Vatican , so what would one do if he found himself unable to produce an heir? What did he have at his disposal?"

"The Darkhold, right?"

"Aye! He thought to use the Book of Sins for his own purpose, but the spell backfired. His wife indeed became pregnant, but instead of the son he wanted...he received a daughter."

"That's gotta be a kick in the balls."

"During the nineteen nineties, there was a surge of Chthonic energy. Pages of the lost book began to appear in the hands of normal people, ones that were unskilled in sorcery and unable to control the tiniest fraction of the spells they were compelled to recite. Victoria Montesi felt this, due to her being conceived by the Darkhold itself."

"I think I heard about this...she went out with a couple of partners and tried to stop these pages. Big ol' mess concerning corruption in Interpol, right?"

"Aye, novice. She was attracted to the lost pages, but not for the reason she thought. She was not only spawned by the Darkhold...she was the spawn of Chthon himself. Hast thou heard of the Malachy Prophecy?"

"That's a new one on me."

"A child born of no man and of a woman marked by sin; daughter becomes mother; then will the dark return begin. That is the prophecy that told the story of Victoria . She was Chthon's daughter, who in turn became Chthon's mother. Her womb was his passage back to Earth!"

"Look, okay, stop right there. This is making my head hurt, for one. For another, this is absolutely retarded. Just because you talk in olde English and spout off stuff about mystical nonsense, that means I'm supposed to automatically believe you? If the Darkhold's kept you alive all these years, do some fucking magic and make me believe. If you can't, just get the hell out of my room."

"Crass knave!" Modred yelled as he stood out of the chair. "If it desired me, I would have thy tongue in my belly with hardly an exertion of energy!"

"Then knock yourself out," Marcus replied, standing in response to Modred's outburst.

"Oh, tricky, tricky," Modred said with a smirk, "thou force me to make idle threats. Thou hast no idea what thou art, eh?"

"What I am?"

"Thou art a Null, Marcus Blunk," Modred said as he lit up another cigarette, "a rare individual that negates all magic around him. I stand before thee completely powerless, and thou hast no comprehension of thy abilities."

"Yeah, whatever...pretty convenient way to back out of the challenge," Blunk replied, "so just get your ass out of here before I call the cops."

"Certainly," Modred stated as he turned toward the door. He stopped halfway, turning back toward the writer with a puzzled look. "One question and I shall make my departure. How didst thou become aware of the Darkhold?"

"Oh, I got a copy of it in the mail."

"Thou...thou received it in the mail? How is that possible?"

"Well, obviously it's not the actual ‘bound in flesh, written in blood' book. Looked like it was copied at Kinko's, truth be told. Luckily, I already knew how to read Latin. Great stuff, kept me up for days. I assumed that Strange guy that Montesi mentioned sent it to, though I can't imagine why. I tried calling the guy's number in New York , but nobody answered."

"I don't...this is...FIE!" was all Modred could say as he headed out the door, fuming in anger. Marcus just shrugged and made his way into the bathroom to check out the damage done to his nose.

The Darkhold, a book shrouded in myth and mystery, is all laid out for you. Right here, right now. I suppose I should make it clear from the beginning, however, that I am not a believer in the things that will come later in your reading. This is a history lesson, followed by the text of the actual book of the Darkhold, complete, translated, and unedited. I would ask you not to take the things in this book in utter seriousness, and instead to view the contents as a mythological handbook to a time long passed. Because, in all honesty, what modern people would believe in a book of evil magic?

Actually...you'd be surprised.

From the work-in-progress "The Annotated Darkhold", by Marcus Blunk

The End

For Mature Readers Only

# 1
October '06

Strange Tales Presents

Black Mass: The Haunt of Horror

"Doppelganger"

Written by Bowie Sessions

She whispered quietly while she stared into the pitch black of the mirror before her; only the moonlight that filtered through her half-circled window painting this antic with any clarity; a hardwood floor found a young teenaged girl, raven hair as black as coal, the shadows masking her face. The words she whispered did not matter – they were words of hesitancy, and of fear. Tightly in her throat did these meaningless croaks die, before they managed to pass into the stale air of this oft-ignored room.

The smell of mildew soiled the room, but the frightened young girl focused her rapt attention on the reflective surface before her. In what dim light she could sparse through, her reflection grimaced back to her over the acrid scents and the terror inside of her.

A light flickered before her, and her hand snapped away with a sudden yelp that elicited her lips; the match she tore free of its book and struck burned her hand. She worried at its significance – she worried it was a sign. However, determined, she tore free another match and struck it too against the grain. A fire blossomed from its red tip, and she lowered it slowly. A soft orange light casted long shadows, and proved her face, a ratcheted thing heavy with metal chain; braced and ridden with acne, she was a willowy sight that seemed to shy from the reflection, which stared at her in the mirror illuminated by the match. The only thing lovely of her was the startling hazel eyes, which seemed to glow from her features.

Again, she cried out, as she spent too long staring into her own wired and imperfect face; the fire snuffed itself upon her clinched fingers. Leaving her to strike it a third time, she determined to light the candle that lay at her foot. The fire caught the wick, and she waved it out. The light shuddered brighter, revealing the musty room in all its stark contrasts of earthy tones and hard-labored construction to the willowy girl's fresh, blackened clothes and body obviously untouched by work.

She lifted a green apple from the floor before her and bit into its depths, eliciting a lovely crunch. Tears brimmed at her eyes as her heart raced a thousand miles. She chewed deliberately, her sleeve raised to wipe free her lips of the apple's juices that dribbled down her chin. With delicate and shaking hands, she cradled the lit candle and moved it to light the other. Slowly the fire claimed its wick, and her heart jumped and eyes snapped to the mirror ahead of her. Lowering the candles back down, she sat, cross-legged, staring into the mirror.

Both of her hands cupped the apple, and she began to chew, slowly and cautiously, her pulse galloping and breath shaking.

With these final acts, her fearful expectations found proof. A shadowy figure seemed to step out of the shadows cast so deep by the fire, and walked carefully to the mirror. She could not see his face, and she felt near to panic. Then, the man kneeled down behind her, and laid a hand on her shoulder, staring into the mirror past her. She caught his reflection, and her heart settled for a moment; he was handsome, chin carved and eyes gray but twinkling in the firelight. Black hair as hers lay strewn over his head, well kept, and a sharp patch of hair jutted from below his bottom lip. Juxtaposed to the earrings he bore, she saw he wore a suit - a Tuxedo. A formal one. Like the one he might wear at her... wedding.

Against all her self-made promises, she glanced to the hand resting on her shoulder and found it not there. She turned around immediately and no form was present. She rushed to the wall and flipped the light-switch, bringing the room into perfect clarity. It's depth of shadow and fearful possibilities evaporated into what was obviously a small, quaint attic with a few chests filled with goods not found worthy of being seen.

Her heart raced again, but slowly settled. She took up the book by the window and flipped to its page again. Doppelganger it read.

She followed the text with her finger, dutifully, her heart filled with excitement and panic. And for those not wanting only to glimpse their future, and those brave enough, it began, to venture out to a graveyard, and walk around it twelve times, will meet up with their spectral and fateful husband.

Staring thoughtfully at the attic's hardwood floor, she kneeled and blew out each candle. By the second one, she had already known her decision. Gathering her things, she rushed out of the house and found her bicycle latched by the swinging door of her stately home. Unlocking it, she rode it hard to the place she had seen her mother buried two years before. She ventured, then, to that graveyard and let her bike fall to the wayside as she stood at the grassy knoll just at its entrance.

With a deep breath, she rallied herself ... then began to walk. She walked the edges of the graveyard a time, and it struck her that those stones laid out before her were a thousand lives that ended – a thousand paths that never progressed. She wondered at their meaning, at why she would need a sight of such ends to start her beginnings.

She walked again, and again. With each circle, she grew increasingly desperate; her pace quickened and her nerves shook her. She worried that the folk tale was wrong – she worried at what would happen if it was right, yet her feet carried her on.

This young girl continued her fateful walk, and she found her twelfth circle ended at the very entrance she began. As she neared it, she saw a shadowy silhouette in a mist, illuminated by the bright moon. She knew the outline immediately, and her purposeful walk grew to a run. She rushed to embrace the feature, and her heart leapt. Recognizing his smile, his hair, his earrings, she gripped him tight. She had found her love.

He wrapped his arms around her, as well. Kissing the top of her head, he whispered, "Julia," and she glanced up to her name. She saw in his eyes an abyss – blackness. She gasped, and struggled in his grip.

"Julia," she heard whispered again. Her head turned and she saw herself, walking purposefully to her. Her destined husband gripped her only tighter, and tighter. She could barely breathe, she couldn't even scream; Julia saw herself walking to her, and this other Julia smiled as darkly as she reached her. Her eyes, too, were an empty black.

This other Julia leaned forward and breathed out, before she inhaled deeply. The mist that rose amidst her eleventh lap seemed to all concentrate around Julia ... and rush through her. Out her eyes, her nose and her mouth rushed this shadowy mist and it filled her foul double. It took maybe seconds, as Julia tried to scream, but found it only caused this mist to billow deeper; and in just that time, Julia disappeared within the arms of the man she thought her lover.

This other Julia – this only Julia – opened her eyes, and they remained that same, startling hazel. Walking down the grassy knoll to the discarded bike, Julia threw one leg over it, and raised it, striking her feet into the pedals and riding purposefully home.

With a cheery jingle, she struck its bell and smiled.