“Who the hell are you?” Eric asked through his tears, feeling the massive lump that had grown in his throat.

  “I forgive you, Eric. I didn’t expect you to remember me,” Jason replied.

  There was an odd familiarity to the stranger’s voice that puzzled Eric. His crazed mind tried to remember where he had heard the voice before. It sounded like it came from someone in their middle age, yet he felt something odd beneath the words. Something...old.

  He examined the movements of his past day, but found it difficult due to the events that had taken shape in the evening. His mind managed to trace back to the early hours of that morning.

  ‘The bus stop?’ he thought to himself. ‘The man at the bus stop? The one with the magazine? He sat next to me? Spoke to me briefly?’ he thought again biting at his knuckles.

  “That’s right, Eric. You do remember,” Jason said.

  Eric felt a tremor of chill up his back as he realised that his mind had just been read.

  “What the hell are you?” he wept.

  “Something that had followed you for some time.” Jason replied before turning his head towards Kiana. “Something that had followed her,” he continued, but in whisper.

  “What?” Eric muttered, ready to collapse.

  “Don’t worry, Eric. You were only doing what I had commanded you to do,” Jason explained.

  “You made me do this?” Eric accused as his tears intensified to the point where they had began to disturb his breathing.

  “When I touched you. This morning. A single finger tip on your hand was enough for me to infiltrate your mind. To bend you to my will. All has happened this evening according to my desire,” Jason explained.

  “Why?” Eric cried.

  “I have searched many years for a vessel, Eric. I am in the possession of a soul that is in desperate need for one. I had almost given up, until the day I first saw your wife. Her walk. The way she held herself... She is perfect.”

  A glossy shine began to develop in Jason’s eyes, as if he were about to shed his own tears.

  “Perhaps more so,” Jason muttered holding back emotion.

  “Why did you make me kill her? Why couldn’t you do it yourself? And in doing that, you could have killed me too!” Eric yelled as his anger had found strength.

  Jason sighed. “I am many things, Eric, but there are some deeds I just can not carry out. It is not what I am. That’s why I need the weak minded to do deeds for me. People like you...And things like him.”

  Eric felt yet another presence behind him, and turned to face it. Appearing in the doorway was another dark figure. It entered the room slowly with light steps, giving the impression that if it were to run, it could do so at an enormous speed.

  The hairs on the back of Eric’s neck stood to attention when he realised that what entered the room was far from human. Although the light was dull, Eric was able to make out some detail of what gazed back at him eagerly. His eyes twitched as he stared into a distorted face.

  Its eyes were unaligned, sunken, and shadowed completely by the overhang of its fleshy brow. Its nose was nothing but a pair of seeping nostrils that were smeared downwards, following the patterned sag of its deep wrinkles. The ears, which dominated the outline of its head, were huge as they covered each side of the skull, and pointed outward, thinly skinned and veined. Its mouth, from which came a wheezing inhale and exhale that spoke of its ancient origins, was spread to each side of its jaw. Its lips were thin and dark, which pierced through the gloom with a sickly grin, and behind that, was its set of jagged teeth. They over lapped each other in a tangle of pointing spikes, and dripped with a think and stringy saliva.

  The creature inched toward Eric, and he instinctively stepped back, lifting his arms defensively. “Please don’t fight it, Eric,” Jason suggested.

  “I promise you... It will be quick.”

  After first appearing on the 14 days of Halloween in 2005, David Schembri has since written several short stories, and has been working hard on his manuscript, “Mercy’s End”, which is near the end of its first draft. All of his writing projects are also juggled with his animation filmmaking.

  The strong sense of community of Australian Horror Writers has enabled David gain experience and inspiration for his own work. David has also been able to make small contributions to the Australian Horror Writers Association, and will also on the judging panel at the 2006 Australian Shadows.

  David lives in the mountains of Victoria with his lovely wife and son, his greatest achievements.

  “The Angler”

  Mark Smith

  The Guardian watched as the angler stood knee deep in the murky morning waters of Pine Cove Lake and cast his lure into the shadows. Dawn was breaking and a thick mist clung to the lake’s surface, creating a dreamlike haze that shimmered in the morning light. At first it thought the mist was playing tricks with its mind, but when it rubbed its eyes and peered back through the fog the angler remained lazily casting, then recasting his rod into the shallow waters by the far shore. Stunned, the Guardian stewed in silence. How long had it been since someone had dared to intrude on the shores of the lake? How long since someone had attempted to poach fish from its clutches?

  The angler’s rod bowed and he jerked it upwards. The lake’s surface rippled and a glimmer of silver flashed by the man’s feet. The angler bent down and snatched his line from the water. A golden perch flapped helplessly from the lure. The angler splashed his way to the shore and plucked the fish from the hook. Drawing a knife from his belt he split the perch’s belly. Innards spilled from the gaping wound. The perch convulsed and was still. The angler dropped the dead perch into a bucket. Whistling, he made his way back into the water.

  A burst of rage bubbled up inside the Guardian, rage it had not felt for years. “Murderer,’’ it snarled, stepping forward from the bushes to the water’s edge. It slipped into the cool waters as the angler’s lure landed a distance away.

  Its underwater trip across the lake was swift and silent. Around it silver fish darted excitedly. It had been a long time since the Guardian had joined them in the dark, watery depths. It spoke to them quickly and quietly in an ancient tongue; warned them to steer clear of the far shore. Fear swept through the schools. Obediently they turned and headed to the safety of the deep.

  The Guardian was alone by the time it reached the centre of the lake. Rage consumed its every pore. It wanted to spring from the waters and tear the thief to pieces, to rip his tender flesh as the angler had done to one of its own. Yet it waited. It had been a long time since it had played the game, and it wanted to do it right.

  #

  The Guardian paused in the watery depths, watching as the angler continued to cast his rod into the shallow waters under the shadows of the trees. With each unsuccessful attempt the angler’s excitement waned, his casts landing closer and closer to shore. The Guardian grew uneasy, fearing it had missed its chance. The angler reeled in his line and stared searchingly across the lake. Was he done? He picked up the tackle box and turned to go. The Guardian panicked. It had to take action. It shot upwards out of the water, skimmed across the surface and dove back into the depths. The angler saw the ripples from the shore and paused. He dropped the tackle box and unhooked his line. The game was back on.

  The angler’s aim was good. His lure splashed down into the water directly above the Guardian’s head. The Guardian grinned. It had been patient despite its fury, but now its time had come. It closed in quickly on the glistening lure and grabbed it above the sharp, curved hooks. The line jerked forward and the lure bit into the Guardian’s palm. It wailed and clawed at the hooks, fighting every urge to swim ahead of the line. The angler had made the first move - and it was a good one - but it no cause for alarm. It never lost a game.

  It relaxed and fell into the rhythm of the game. It swam along with the pull of the line, then gripped it and dove back into the depths. The game was a delicate art and it only tugged long enough and dove deep enough to excite the angler. In the depths it gauged the angler’s strength, learned his rhythms; sized up its prey.

  #

  Slowly the Guardian sapped the angler’s strength. The line’s pull waned, then reduced to a feeble tug. The Guardian stopped its periodic dives and voluntarily swam along with the line. It was time.

  The memory of the perch was far from the angler’s mind as he watched the dark shadow emerge from the belly of the lake. He was exhausted, but he didn’t care. This was the catch of his life. Had he been watching the shadow more closely, he would have realised it was moving faster than he was reeling. It wasn’t until the Guardian emerged from the lake seething in anger that he realised it was the last catch he’d ever make.

  The Guardian moved slower once it was above water. It was covered in silver scales like a fish, yet rose on two legs like a man. It reached for the angler with giant webbed hands which ended in dirty claws. Hooked through its left hand was the angler’s shining lure. The angler stumbled backwards towards the shore. His heel caught a submerged stone and he sprawled onto the bank.

  The Guardian snarled in repulsion and lunged. Slimy gills flapped loosely at the side of its head. Its eyes burned with hatred from behind a thick film of watery skin. The angler kicked wildly at the creature with his left leg. His boot connected with its soft underbelly with a thud. The Guardian shrieked and fell backwards into the water. The angler scrambled up the bank on all fours before turning and fleeing into the woods.

  The Guardian sprang from the water and followed with long, heavy strides. Wracked by fear, the angler searched for the path which led through the woods to his car. His confusion favoured the Guardian and it quickly closed on its prey. It hit the angler at full speed and both the hunter and hunted crashed through the forest’s thick undergrowth. The angler smashed into the ground, winded, and rolled feebly onto his back. He gasped for air and stared into the Guardian’s watery eyes. The Guardian raised a clawed hand. “No,” the angler pleaded as it tore into his chest.

  #

  The Guardian rested peacefully against the trunk of a pine tree as it gnawed on the angler’s liver. It had been a long time since it had played the game and it had forgotten how much it loved it. The angler had even put up a fight, an unexpected bonus that made the victory feast taste even sweeter. Relaxing under the warmth of the midday sun the Guardian wished it could play the game more often. Admiring its catch it noticed a wet, pink slip of paper in the angler’s shirt pocket. Intrigued, the Guardian pulled it out and stared at the strange images and words. It smiled as it recognised one of the drawings. The sketch was of a boat, with a man holding a rod similar to the anglers. In his hands he held up a golden cup. The Guardian had seen this drawing once, years before and soon after many more like the angler had come. The Guardian smiled at the angler’s mangled corpse. There would be no shortage of games this summer.

  Mark Smith is an emerging horror writer from Melbourne, Australia. His fiction has appeared in publications such as Shadow Box, Demon Minds, FlashSpec, and The Horror Library. Check out his new stories in SpaceJock Magazine’s Halloween Edition (out Oct 31) and the Champagne Shivers Anthology (out Jan, 2007).

  “The Ice Bride”

  Cat Sparks

  The women cried the day the Ice Bride came to Brakenfall and chose their beloved Artaniel as her husband. Would that she had taken Laris, or Parmoday: anyone except Artaniel. But the Ice Bride was not merely deadly- beautiful; she was smart, smarter than the village girls who dreamt of claiming him as their own.

  They wailed and wept as the Ice Bride made her way along the cobbled path, her gown of snowflake and icicle lace dragging on the polished stones, a stain of dampness marking her passage. Some threw handfuls of sad little winter flowers, delicate, trembling things that did not last long on the ground once the chill embraced them.

  Artaniel stood firm with all the bravery so characteristic of him, but all could see his terror. He’d been one of three brothers who’d discovered the corpse of the Ice Bride’s last husband abandoned in a stony field, black and bruised with frostbite, frozen blood pooled below the surface of his skin.

  The marriage ceremony was brief. Father Harker spoke the words softly, as if he feared the anger of his god on learning that such a fine young man was being sent to his grave. The young girls threw handfuls of their precious winter grain into the air as Artaniel pushed back the veil of snow and kissed his wife’s translucent lips.

  The Ice Bride did not speak, but it was well known that she wanted a child, and that this was why she harvested the village men. She had grown addicted to the heat of their seed, even though her touch was deadly and she burned them with her frigid skin. She crushed the fire from them between her thighs, pressed their shuddering forms down into her niveous marriage bed. Sometimes one survived the night. Most did not, and in the weak light of early dawn she would mourn the child that might have been as she sprinkled the naked carcass of her husband with frost oil, a rare mineral found only in the core of ancient glaciers. Once ignited, the oil burnt blue and sent great coils of aqua-tinted smoke skywards. With this sign, the villagers would grieve, knowing that their sons were lost forever.

  There was no smoke on the morning following Artaniel’s wedding, nor on the day after that. On the third day Dartaine and Tirin, who had stood as their brother’s groomsmen, set out into the forest to see what had become of him. Perhaps an Arctic vesper had blown the smoke away? Perhaps his body was too cold to burn?

  The brothers found no carcass in the snow. All they discovered was an empty cottage that they knew had been the Ice Bride’s home for a century at least.

  The brothers followed a trail of crystalline footprints in the snow, two sets walking side by side, first through the deadwood forest, and then across a frozen lake that looked to be hewn of blue glass. On the far side of the lake rose the Halbradian Mountains, their peaks obscured by rumbling storm clouds which threw forth spears of electric indigo.

  Two figures moved along a craggy ridge. Tirin cried out his brother’s name, and the figures paused as ‘Artaniel-aniel-aniel’ echoed loudly from peak to peak.

  Dartaine pulled his spyglass from his pack, focused the lens first on the bride’s shimmering form, and then on the shadowy shape of his brother by her side.

  Tirin waved both arms in a sweeping arc above his head. Artaniel did not wave back. The couple turned away, continuing their journey upwards along the slender mountain pass.

  Tirin snatched the glass from his brother to see for himself. ‘Is he in chains?’

  Dartaine shook his head. ‘Artaniel has only to push her from the edge and she will shatter like crystal on the rocks below. Perhaps our brother has fallen in love with his bride?’

  They watched the couple ascend until they were nothing more than grey specks in the distance, indistinguishable from the snowflakes that had begun to swirl about their heads.

  The Ice Palace gleamed in the weak winter light, its coiled crystal spires reflecting the pale pink embers in the sky. Artaniel’s breath stilled, for it was beautiful. Almost as beautiful as she was.

  There were no servants waiting to greet them, no sounds at all save for the distant cry of an albatross, and the steady dripping of snow melt from the rose hedge’s razor-sharp leaves.

  The Ice Bride turned to face her husband, cupped his frost-burned chin in her hands. He stared deeply into her sapphire eyes and saw the love in them, despite the fact that her heart was made of compacted snow and glacial meltwater trickled in her veins.

  Artaniel kissed her numb lips, embraced her trembling form in his arms. When at last she pulled away, he looked down and saw a weak light beginning to form in her belly. It wasn’t much, just a soft red glow giving off no heat at all, only light.

  The baby grew a little bigger and brighter each day, and with each night, the Ice Bride grew a little weaker and less substantial. In time, she was little more than a skeleton of ice supporting the gelid womb in which her warm pink daughter slept.

  One dawn, when Artaniel awoke, there was no more Ice Bride, just a squalling infant lying in a puddle of tepid water. Her eyes, when they eventually opened, were the same sapphire-blue as her mother’s.

  Artaniel hugged the child tightly against his chest. How could he care for his daughter? The warmth of his skin comforted her, and she fell back into an easy slumber. It was then that he heard a commotion on the palace steps. Shielding the child inside his coat, he walked outside to discover a gathering of people, some he recognised from his home village, others complete strangers. Both his brothers were there. As they ran forward to greet him, someone shouted ‘Look!’

  Artaniel turned. Behind him the ice palace had begun to melt, reveal another structure underneath. A solid fortress of stone and wood, large enough to house them all and shield them from the thousand winters to come.

  Cat Sparks lives in Wollongong, NSW and is a writer, editor and illustrator of speculative fiction.

  “The Ice Bride” was first published in Shadowed Realms, Issue 9.

  http://www.catsparks.net

  “Skating on Thin Ice”

  Matthew Tait

  1

  No stranger to blood, Jordon Hofsta wiped his mouth with one huge gloved hand. The goalie in the net was eyeing him fearfully, as if he might take sudden revenge for the knock he’d just taken from the Czech opposition. As he tried to assess the damage, cherry droplets spattered the front of his jersey and the ice rink below.

  If one could call this a rink...

  Even from his position underneath the digital scoreboard (it was missing corners of numerous digits), Jordon could see the overall dilapidated structure of the Thornton Theatre rink like something that mirrored his aching tendons. Surrounded by a moat of cheap wood paneling painted a brazen green and gold, the ice-hockey players of Australia and the Czech Republic were figurines cavorting on a dirty puddle of ice with limited shatterglass.

 

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