Cautionary Tales

  They set out, dog and man, heading into the local forest. Doane sniffed out Catto’s scent trail, and Ian tuned into the dog’s vision so that he could proceed with confidence using only his white-tipped cane.

  All too soon they found the area. There were three men, local farmers by their garb, talking. “Hey mister!” one called. “You blind? Don’t go in that copse!”

  “I am blind,” Ian agreed without annoyance. “I am safe enough, with my guide dog.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” the man said. “It’s no place for a sighted person, let alone a blind one. There’s a monster in there. We’re going to get a permit to start a ring of fire and burn it out.”

  That was exactly what Ian had feared. “I have traversed this forest many times. There is nothing dangerous in it.”

  “Maybe not, before. But this is now. There’s a monster, a ghost, and it’s dangerous.”

  Ian forced a laugh. They had encountered Catto, all right. “Ghosts are fine for spook stories, but we all know they don’t really exist.”

  “Tell, him, Frank.”

  “Here’s what I seen,” Frank said, clearly shaken. “My dog smelled something and he ran into that copse. Then he yelped, and I ran in after him. There he was, lying dead, his throat torn open. Something killed him. Something big. I knew it was close by; the hairs on my neck raised. There was a smell, then it faded. I pulled my gun and looked, but couldn’t see or hear nothing. I stood there, and then I saw it.” The man gulped audibly.

  “Saw what?” Ian asked, anticipating the answer.

  “The ghost footprints. They just appeared right before me, pressing into the ground. Big ones, like maybe a bear. But there was nothing there. That’s when I knew it was a ghost monster. It killed my dog, and might have killed me, but I got the hell out of there.” The man was still terrified.

  Definitely Catto. Because though he might seem invisible, he could not hide his footprints once he left the area, and they appeared. Frank thought they were being made as they came into view, but that was not the case. They were there all the time, but hidden.

  As for their size: hardly surprising. Because Catto was no house-cat. He was a tiger. Chloe hadn’t cared: he was a lost kitten, and she loved him. She had covered for him for years, making sure he had plenty of meat to eat and keeping him out of mischief. Ian and Doane had taken Catto for walks in the wood, cautioning him, and he had trusted their judgment. They were a team.

  But if Catto got hungry enough, would he attack a man? Ian could not be quite sure. It was better to make sure the big cat never got that hungry. Meanwhile the superstitious farmers might have reason to be scared.

  “Ah, here comes the gasoline,” the first man said as a fourth man arrived, hauling a large fuel can.

  “Well, thanks,” Ian said, pretending nonchalance. “We’ll be moving along now.” He touched Doane’s back, and the two walked on toward the copse.

  “Wrong way, mister!” the man yelled. “The monster’s there.”

  “If I see it, I’ll tell it to go away,” Ian responded as though oblivious. Obviously he wouldn’t see it, because it was invisible and he was blind, but the farmers surely didn’t get the humor.

  They entered the copse, and no one followed.

  Doane sniffed. Catto was near. He wouldn’t dim his odor for Doane.

  “Catto,” Ian murmured. “Come in close. Make us all invisible.” This was part of their teamwork: they had done it before, as a game.

  The tiger did. Catto had known and trusted them most of his life, because of familiarity and the telepathy.

  They walked in a tight formation back the way they had come. The four men were busy pouring gasoline, starting a big circle around the copse. None of them paid any attention. Catto was diverting their sight. Only their footprints would remain, appearing belatedly. With luck these would not be noticed.

  They made it safely back to the house, smelling the smoke of the gasoline fire behind them. The farmers would be satisfied that the invisible monster had been burned out, and that was best.

  But a man stood at the door. “I can’t see you, but I know you’re there,” he said. “I’ve got a heat detector. We need to talk.”

  Doane growled and Catto was ready to pounce, but Ian cautioned them back. He couldn’t see the man either, but the view from his eyes was competent. At his touch, Catto ceased his effort, and they became visible and audible. “Go inside,” he told the man. “We’ll join you.”

  They settled in the living room, the animals on their favorite couches. The three of them gazed at the man.

  “I am John Mawker,” he said without preamble. “I am from the Project, of course.”

  This was like dealing with the bully. The man thought he had the advantage, but he might underestimate them. “The one that considered us failures,” Ian said evenly. “That was going to destroy us.”

  “True. Our greatest failure was in not recognizing the nature of the successes we had. Since then we have grown smarter, as an institution. We want you back. All three of you. Now that your benefactor is gone, it behooves you to consider our offer.”

  “What offer?” Ian did not trust this man, but their situation was desperate, and they had to listen. The alternative would be to flee the region, hiding from normal people, foraging in garbage cans, and trying to escape pursuit by people from the project who knew their nature.

  “I see you understand,” Mawker said.

  “Understand what?” Ian asked tightly.

  Mawker smiled. “I am moderately telepathic myself. Mainly I pick up moods. It’s clumsy compared to the talents the three of you have perfected. But believe me, I understand you.”

  “What offer?” Ian repeated.

  “One you can’t refuse. Return to the project, and you will be protected and nurtured much as Chloe did for you. We were aware of this kindhearted normal woman, but left her alone, because she was doing our job for us, and better than we had done it. Did you really think we could be ignorant of a neighbor who took in our charges? She knew nothing of us, as far as we know, though she might have suspected. Now that is over, and we must act to secure you. We can’t allow you to range uncertainly amidst the populace. The project has always been secret and must remain so. We require your cooperation.”

  Ian did not need to consult with Doane and Catto. “No.” Now it was up to the bully.

  “I have not completed my presentation,” Mawker said without rancor. “I do not bluff. You will accept. But I prefer it to be voluntary, on the basis of full understanding.”

  “We prefer to be free,” Ian said evenly.

  “That is the key. We not only want you, we need you. Funding is always a problem, in part because we can’t tell Congress what we seek or accomplish, so we have to make do with what we have. We must use our best. And you three have, largely on your own, become our best.”

  Ian still did not trust this. “Make your point,”

  “We need you to train our lesser successes. To demonstrate what you do, and enable them to do it too. To see through the eyes of others,” he glanced directly at Ian. “To deflect attention.” He glanced at Doane. “To suppress the awareness of others, in effect becoming invisible.” He looked at Catto. “And other skills, perhaps some we have not yet recognized. We need your enthusiastic participation.”

  “Provided we surrender our freedom,” Ian said.

  “No.”

  Now Ian was startled, and so were Doane and Catto, in tune with his mood. “No?”

  “That is the nature of our offer,” Mawker said. “We want you to return to manage the project. The three of you; this is a multi-species effort. Under my supervision, the first year, to familiarize yourself with the protocols. Then directly, when I retire.”

  The three of them stared at him.

  “You can continue to live here,” Mawker continued. “This can be a useful outpost. We can pay off the mortgage; that at least is within our means. You can continue to range the local forest as yo
u have been doing. Even finish your education, Ian; you are already close to your degree. You have learned to relate to the larger world; that is a skill we also need. We need to be able to interface with normal folk, without betraying our special skills. Starting with your attendance at the funeral and memorial service for Chloe, a fine generous woman. All three of you.”

  He paused. “I might add that we do have other predator animals there, and other domesticated ones, who need the help of each of you to fulfill themselves. Also a maiden, seventeen, highly telepathic but uncontrolled. She’s rather pretty, but emotionally insecure, as you might imagine. I think you would find her worthwhile in more than one venue, Ian. She truly needs a talented and understanding friend. The pay is low, but there are compensations. What we are doing may some day change the world. It is, actually, a secret but glorious vision. One you surely share.”

  Ian realized that Mawker had come well prepared, and had won the day. Indeed, they could not refuse.

  They were no longer lost things.

  Note: Jeani Rector of The Horror Zine asked me to contribute, saying they were not limited to horror. So I wrote “Inversion,” about a young woman who was not exactly what she appeared to be, but Jeani rejected it because they don’t do erotica, not even when there is horror. So I wrote “Lost Things” and she liked that very well, and later anthologized it in What Fears Become. When I learned that they could not afford to send out author’s copies of this 380-page tome I decided to do something about that, and paid for 60 copies for contributors. I received many thank-you notes from authors and artists, some of whom were my fans. It was simply the right thing to do. Jeani worked her posterior off promoting the volume, and I believe it was well received. Horror is not my thing, but horror writers are as dedicated to their genre as I am to fantasy, and deserve similar treatment.

  Caution: a stink

  16. Privy

  Zeke gazed at the decrepit privy. It was half-shrouded by bushes and weeds, barely visible from the road, but he could make out the half-moon carved in the rickety door. And it stank; he could smell it from a hundred feet away. It was a literal shit house.

  He pondered how he had come to this desolate backwoods outhouse. Maybe he was delaying because he didn’t want to approach closer. His wealthy playboy Uncle Z—Zeke, after whom he had been named 21 years ago—had died in a car accident and his will had spread his considerable holdings across the wider family. This isolated property in the Florida swampland had been left to Zeke, when he came of age. He had hardly known about it as a child, but now he was technically adult and he had come to take possession.

  Zeke shook his head. He might have thought that rich Uncle Z would have done better by his namesake. Sure. Zeke might have won a hundred million dollars in a lottery, too, while he was dreaming. This was grimy reality.

  Had Uncle Z’s vaunted fortune been a sham? Instead of phenomenal estates he had overgrown lots with abandoned privies? No, because Zeke’s grasping cousins had done very well. Only this particular property was left, which nobody else wanted, so no one had tried to screw him out of it. Now he understood why. Zeke’s lofty aspirations were crashing into crap.

  “Is this it?” Avoca called from the car.

  Which was another issue. Avoca was the perfect woman, intelligent, motivated, and beautiful. Zeke was well-smitten with her and wanted to win her. She was worth more than anything his uncle might have left him. He had prevailed on her to accompany him while he checked out his inheritance, just in case there was a fancy castle on it, or a platinum mine, or something else that would make up for the inadequacy that was Zeke himself. That would make him seem worth her while, because she was among other things a competent part-time real estate agent. She was professionally interested in properties of any type, and would travel anywhere to appraise them. But not, he feared, in this mess. It had been a serious hope that now was dissipating with the stink of disappointment. Avoca did not have to settle for a poor man. She wasn’t a gold digger, but there were limits. He marveled that she had even agreed to accompany him here.

  “Nothing much yet,” he called back. “I’ll investigate.” As if that would change anything.

  “I’ll help,” she said, emerging from the car. That was part of what made her desirable: she pulled her weight, not being a helpless flower.

  “Ah, maybe you should stay back,” he said.

  Too late. Avoca’s nose wrinkled. “What is that odor?”

  Zeke sighed. “It seems to be from what is left of my uncle’s establishment. He liked to travel in a camper. You can see where he had a paved spot there to park it. And a privy.”

  She came to stand beside him, her dark hair swirling about her slender shoulders. “So I see. But I have a problem with it.”

  “The stench,” he agreed.

  “That, too.”

  Now she was going to politely rebuke him for wasting her time. All he could do was take it like the man he wished he could have been. “Something else?”

  “How long has this property been deserted?”

  That surprised him. “A good decade, since Uncle Z died.”

  “So the privy hasn’t been used in ten years.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Yet it still stinks of excrement.”

  Now he was really surprised. “You’d think it would have composted by this time.”

  “Yes. Let’s investigate.”

  He was surprised a third time. “But the smell!”

  “Precisely. It’s a mystery. I love mysteries.”

  “But if it gets on us—”

  “We’ll take a joint shower.”

  That silenced him. He had barely gotten to first base with her. A shower would be at least third base. Suddenly he liked the stink. “Let’s go.”

  They approached the privy. The odor advanced to a smell, then to a stink, and finally to a fulsome stench. It was all Zeke could do to keep breathing, but Avoca seemed to be handling it well. It was so thick it seemed almost visible as a thick foul mist surrounding the tiny shack. He found himself straining it through his teeth.

  “This is definitely not natural,” Avoca said tightly. He knew it was not emotion but the noxious vapor that tightened her throat.

  “Not natural,” he agreed as tightly. “What could possibly cause it?”

  “Perhaps more important: why?”

  “Why?” he asked blankly. “A stink has to have a reason?”

  “Yes, when there’s seemingly no natural cause.”

  “Maybe to keep people away?”

  “Bingo.”

  “But uncle Z’s long dead! Who would care who might snoop around his outhouse?”

  “That is the mystery,” she agreed zestfully. “Let’s find out.” She pulled open the warped door.

  Inside there was just a single toilet hole. The putrid essence wafted up and out from it, almost tangibly. They peered into it, Zeke almost believing that the flowing miasma should be blowing back their hair. There was only darkness.

  Avoca fished in her purse and produced a small flashlight. She shined it down the hole.

  “No shit,” Steve said, amazed. He was speaking literally: there were no feces. It was simply a perfectly round descending tube leading to a floor about ten feet below. There were indented handholds along the side.

  “This is somebody’s secret access,” Avoca said. “Protected by an aversive smell. There is bound to be something interesting down there.”

  “Bound to be,” he agreed.

  “And we need to discover what. Hold my purse.” She had extracted a pair of rubbery gloves and donned them.

  Zeke accepted the purse, having little choice. What was she up to now?

  She hoisted herself onto the seat, then squatted and put her feet down into the hole.

  “Avoca!” he protested. “It could be dangerous!”

  “After ten years? Don’t be silly.” She lowered her torso.

  “But whoever or whatever made this could be down there.”
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  “Nonsense. This passage hasn’t been used in years. There are encrusted cobwebs and snail trails on the handholds.” She put the glowing flashlight in her mouth and levered herself down into the tube.

  Zeke realized that it was futile to protest further. Avoca was a woman of decision, and she was on the trail of the mystery of the stench. All he could do was follow her down.

  The tube opened into a tunnel to the side that angled farther down. It was definitely an artificial passage.

  The passage led to a small room with a table and chair. On the table lay a notepad and an archaic computer keyboard.

  “The smell is gone,” Avoca remarked, sniffing.

  She was right. The foulness had abated as they entered the chamber. That was surely significant.

  Zeke picked up the pad. There were words scrawled on it in what must be Uncle Z’s script. “Activation code is Hellova Stink.” That was all.

  “Interesting,” Avoca said, sitting on the chair and putting her hands to the keyboard.

  “Wait!” Zeke said, afraid of invoking some unknown menace. But as usual with Avoca, he was too late. She had already typed the words.

  A picture appeared on the opposite wall. It was a caricature of a human face, surely masking an utterly alien visage. “Hello, Zeke,” it said in an artificial accent.

  Avoca looked at Zeke. In a halfway blinding flash he caught on to part of the purpose of this unit. “Your prior contact is no longer available. I am Zeke the younger, his nephew, with a female companion. Please clarify the nature of our business.”

  The face did not hesitate. “You have served as a local tourist host, carrying imprints of assorted galactic travelers to gather local impressions. Each satisfied tourist pays a certain royalty in local currency. A sufficient client base ensures adequate compensation.”

  This was a sightseeing arrangement! Like a tropical cruise visiting native cultures, for alien visitors.

  Avoca picked up on the essence instantly. “How much compensation per client per impression?”