Blue Sludge Blues & Other Abominations Read online

  Blue Sludge Blues

  &

  Other Abominations

  Shannon Lawrence

  Warrior Muse Press

  Blue Sludge Blues & Other Abominations © 2018 Shannon Lawrence

  Warrior Muse Press

  TheWarriorMuse.com

  Cover Design © 2018 Jeff Lawrence

  Author Photo © 2015 Jared Hagan

  Cover Image Spooky Forest © 2011 PinkBadger | Depositphotos.com

  Cover Image Old Outhouse © 2012 sara_jane | Depositphotos.com

  Cover Font - Title - Savage © 2014 Roozbeh Ebadi | Dafont.com

  Cover Font - Subtitle/Author - Wicked Grit © 2011 AJ Paglia | Dafont.com

  Publisher's Note:

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination even when sharing a name with a real entity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. If any of these events have happened to you, this is a terrifying coincidence, and you lead a scary life. We should have coffee.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase another copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  The Blue Mist

  The Salvation Lottery

  Maelstrom

  Shifting Sands

  Blue Sludge Blues

  What the Fire Left Behind

  The Tourist

  Cravings

  Sound Advice

  In the Dark

  Faceless

  For Love of the Hunt

  Metamorphosis

  Know Thy Neighbor

  Story Notes

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks

  About the Author

  The Blue Mist

  The old prospector awoke to the sound of agonized screams outside his modest log cabin. He grabbed his pillow and wrapped it around his head, burying his face in the lumpy mattress to wait for them to stop. The cold enveloped him, chilling him to the bone.

  The sounds stopped within fifteen or so minutes. He released the pillow and groaned, mumbling to himself, “Why can’t they ever die quietly?”

  ***

  The next morning, the prospector, Jim Guffey by name, woke up and began his morning-after ritual. He’d go out to locate the remains, but only once the fog burned off. It was too easy for the blue mist to sneak up on a soul when visibility was low. The remains would keep.

  Jim had a small twinge of guilt, as he often did on mornings like this, but it passed quickly. He couldn’t have helped. Could, in fact, only have died alongside them. It was better this way. Besides, he’d tried to warn them.

  Many years ago, he’d tried harder to intervene. His last attempt had involved a family with small children. Even now, he couldn’t shake the image of that sweet, innocent little boy. He’d tried to warn them, as he always did in those days. They’d been polite to his face, but he’d heard the wife whispering as they walked off into the woods. “That’s that crazy prospector guy the sheriff warned us about. Prospector Pete or Jim or whatever his name is. Guess he was right about him being crazy.”

  He’d figured he’d done his service of warning them. He certainly couldn’t force them to leave. He’d tried in the past to frighten these people away by being menacing and crazed, threatening to shoot them. All that had accomplished was time in the local lockup and a stint in the mental ward. Even the threat of crazy Prospector Jim wasn’t enough to keep people off this mountain, and he’d come home to broken windows and graffiti, his place trashed. His dear Bessie, a friendly and harmless dog, had been unharmed, but terrified. She was hiding under the bed when he got there, though he’d left her out to forage for her meals when the sheriff had come to take him away.

  This one time, though, the time he’d tried hardest of all to help, he’d heard the screams when they began that night. Had actually been sitting up waiting for them, unable to get that child’s face out of his mind. Cherubic round cheeks, large brown eyes and gently curling hair. He couldn’t have been more than four or five. What were his parents thinking, dragging him out for an overnight in these rugged Rocky Mountains?

  As the screams sounded, he found he could distinguish their owners. Mom’s higher pitched screams had sounded first, becoming guttural before dying out. The little girl was next, followed closely by her daddy. There was something about a man’s genuine scream of pain and fear that sent chills up a man’s spine, even a man who was accustomed to the screaming by now. Well, as much as anyone could become accustomed to the sounds of pain, terror, and death.

  He didn’t hear the boy’s screams, but figured he’d probably been first. He was, after all, the easiest possible target to whatever it was that inhabited that damned mist.

  Normally, Jim would have had his face buried in his mattress, Bessie shivering beside him on the bed, her waves of terror working their way up his leg, straight into his soul. That night, though, he’d felt he needed to do his penance for being too big a coward to do anything, so he’d sat up and waited. In some strange way, he felt it was a tribute to them that their last moments not go anonymously into the velvet depths of the night.

  It was as he went to take that very last drop of whiskey that he heard it. At first, he couldn’t believe his ears, figured it was the fire water whispering in his ear. But no, when he held perfectly still and listened, there it was, clear as day. That little boy’s voice.

  “Mama! Mommy, where are you?”

  How was it possible? No matter. He’d shot up out of his chair and run out of that cabin in his stocking feet, Bessie close behind him as he grabbed his shotgun and went in search of the boy. There was no time to think, just pure adrenaline and instinct, as he pounded through the snow-covered terrain into the trees. Into that eerie blue mist.

  At first, the voice seemed to get farther and farther away. Every time Jim stopped to figure out where it was coming from, it switched direction. The blue mist caused sounds to bounce around, muffled them. He’d correct his course and run on, not noticing the bloody trail he left behind himself as the stones cut his frozen feet. That tike must be terrified and freezing cold, one step up from frostbite, for certain.

  Finally, the voice had grown louder and louder, closer to him. He’d slowed, not wanting to scare the boy further. As he came around a particularly large pine, he saw the boy’s jacket, curls bouncing as he walked, pajama pants with little duckies on them sticking out of the bottom of the jacket.

  “Boy, come on over here,” he’d whispered.

  The boy hadn’t turned, hadn’t responded at all, other than to call for his poor, dead mama. He’d figured it must be shock.

  Jim had approached him more closely, finally laying a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder and turning him toward him. Jim spoke gently as he turned him, wanting to comfort him, but knowing an old prospector must be completely inept at the task.

  “Listen, son, you need to come back to my cabin with me, right quick. There are bad things in these woods, but it’s safe in my cabin. Come along with me, I mean no harm. Bessie, here, would love to be pe
tted.”

  But as the boy had turned, Bessie had crept backward, back arched, hair standing on end along her spine. A low growl had begun to rumble up from her chest as she backed away.

  “Now, cut that out, girl. You’ll scare him!”

  When the boy turned to face him, he realized exactly why Bessie was so frightened. The boy’s face was gone, just bloody meat staring back at him, one eye dangling by a cord.

  “Mommy?”

  Jim screamed, almost dropping his gun as he backpedaled away from the child’s corpse. Bessie moved in front of him, protectively, her growl deepening. As Jim continued to back away, she reversed, always staying in front of him, but keeping pace. The boy walked toward them, still uttering that one word, so innocent, so harmless.

  Jim's back met a tree and he yelped, startling Bessie, who began to bark, a vicious sound he’d never heard from her before. He grabbed her collar and pulled her with him as he turned to flee, terrified of turning his back on the creature, but knowing it was the only way to get away fast enough to save them.

  As soon as they began to run, the thing ran also, its footfalls pounding faster and faster behind them. Gone was the pretense that this was a small child. Horrifying shrieks issued from its gaping maw, causing the hair on Jim’s neck to stand up as the gooseflesh tightened ever more. It sounded like a maelstrom of every scream he’d ever heard out here, and then some. Bessie was ahead of him now, turning her head to look for him and see that he followed.

  The pounding footsteps were right behind him when he remembered the shotgun. He dove to the side and tumbled to put a little distance between him and the creature then drew himself up into a crouched position, bringing the gun up as he did so.

  It walked toward him, pace slowing. A grotesque grin stretched the remnants of meat that had once been lips and its tongue lolled out of its mouth. Jabbering sounds came from it, no semblance of language anymore. The fingers of those tiny hands had elongated and fused together, forming three long talons. Its feet had done the same, tearing through the padded feet of the ducky pajamas.

  “Eat lead, cocksucker,” he said, as he pulled the trigger.

  His aim was sure; he’d been living out here a long time. The blast hit the thing directly in the face, shredding the muscle that still hung there and sending the tongue to the ground with a plop. Still, the creature came forward. He blasted it again, again. Each hole stopped it for only a second, and he realized with dawning horror that he’d backed himself up against a rock outcropping. There was nowhere to go but through that creature, and it was almost on top of him.

  That was when Bessie leapt on the thing, snarling and biting. He watched in shock, at first, as she took it down to the ground, tearing at its neck, its face, anything she could get to. It wrestled back, talons sinking into her sides. She yelped, but stood strong, ripping at it. Its jabbers became high-pitched wheezes and guttural grunts as they rolled across the snowy ground.

  Jim pulled himself up and ran, calling for Bessie to come with him. “Bessie, come on, girl! Come home!”

  He made it home safely, alone, slamming the door behind him when he realized she wasn’t coming. He’d huddled in a corner of the cabin, waiting for the thing to come for him, hoping to hear Bessie pawing at the door, but neither one had shown. He’d fallen into an exhausted, nightmare-riddled sleep just after dawn, when the light filtered in his windows and let him know it was over.

  The next day he’d gone out, as usual, when the sun burned off the low cloud cover. He’d found poor Bessie’s remains, which hadn’t amounted to much, then tracked down the entire family and given them proper burial. He’d long ago realized that the sheriff would pin these murders on him if he discovered them, so it was easier to just bury them, clean up, and document what he could in case someone came looking for them. He’d been questioned about missing tourists a few times, but rants about the blue mist quickly convinced them to leave, shaking their heads and mumbling about how crazy he was.

  No, there had been nothing he could do then, and there was nothing for him to do now, but clean up after the creature. Today was like any other day, just with a couple extra chores, was all.

  When he looked outside, it was bright, no fog in sight. Even the sky above was clear, with nary a fluffy cloud to be seen. He put his feet in his boots, several of the toes missing after that long ago night, thanks to frostbite, laced them up and gathered his coat around him. No need to zip it up; it looked to be a fine day out there.

  It wasn’t hard to track down the remains of last night’s campers. He simply followed the three-toed paw prints and, ultimately, the blood stains and chunks of flesh to the inevitable end. It was easier to deal with the remnants of the mist in the summer when the ground was thawed, and he set to work immediately.

  Despite the thawed ground, it still took some time to dig. There were the remains of what seemed to be four adults, possibly five. Jim leaned against his shovel, using the back of his hand to swipe at the sweat running down his temple. He stretched his back, working out the kinks that had formed as he’d bent over the shovel, then turned to get the water bottle and froze. There, behind him, creeping out of the trees, was the blue mist. He dropped the shovel and started to run, but as he turned around a rock formation in the direction of his house, he saw that the mist had already crept between him and home. He jerked around to run in the other direction, but it was everywhere now, swirling around his legs, blocking his way.

  He’d just have to go through it.

  That’s when the little boy stepped out of the mist.

  He was whole, his face once again cherubic, his hands just sweet little hands, pudgy and dimpled, no talons. His feet were tucked back into un-torn footies. He smiled and held up his arms, miniature mittens dangling from the sleeves of his padded jacket.

  “Get you gone, now. I know what you are.”

  “Mommy?”

  “Go back into your damn mist.”

  Jim backed up until his back met the rock formation. The boy followed, no need to rush. The creature inside him must have known there was no way out for Jim.

  It was then that he heard the bark. He knew at once what he would see, but no amount of gumption would prepare him to see his beloved Bessie in the creature’s grasp. He glanced around, trying to find somewhere free of the mist, an exit, anything.

  There was a dip in the rock face that might allow him to climb it. He sidled over to it, feeling the depression with his hands so he could keep his face toward the monstrosity in front of him. It was far enough away that he figured he could go for it, so he turned, forcing one knee up and into the crevasse then hoisting the rest of his body up. As he pulled the second leg up behind him, something grabbed it, sharp pain puncturing his leg in three places.

  “Let go of me, damn you!” He shook his leg, scrabbling for purchase in the gravel that covered the surface of the rock. It dragged him backwards, its grip like iron. His fingers were bloodied, the flesh stripped from their tips as he slid closer to the edge, no purchase to be found.

  “Mommy.” This time it wasn’t the sweet voice of a child, but a thousand voices rolled into one, garbled and strained. Women, men, children, all reflected in the depths of that one voice.

  As he fought harder and harder, adrenaline surging through him, it finally pulled him off the edge. He landed with a brutal impact, his face scraping against the rock before slamming into the ground. He was shaken, a buzz sounding in his head. His hand had fallen on something hard and thick. When he tightened his hand around it, he realized it was a stick, which he now grasped.

  It took him a moment to realize the talons had released him, replaced by something warm and wet. When he opened his eyes, Bessie was there. She lapped at his ankle, amber eyes looking up at him. Was his Bessie in there somewhere? Did she remember him? Could she fight through this?

  The answer came when the Bessie-thing’s mouth spread at the sides, a grotesque parody of a grin. As its head split open, teeth grew, sharp and wicked, fro
m every bit of that mouth, and it moved to clamp down on his leg. He whipped the stick around, shoving it into its mouth, pushing as hard as he could. The Bessie-claws skittered at his leg, scratching deeply as he fought to keep the horrid maw from getting to him. The bright pain brought him out of the stupor that had begun to overtake him, and he tried to pull his leg back, twisting around to find something to grab, the creature still fighting against the stick in its mouth.

  Against all odds, a sturdy root stuck out of a portion of the rock, cracks splintering off from it. He reached for the root, stretching his arm out ahead of him, grasping it and working his fingers over it to tighten his hold. He let go of the stick, kicked backward, and heard the Bessie-thing hiss, a sound that should never sound from his old companion.

  It let go, and he used the root to pull himself forward and up. He stood, stumbled. Pain shot up his leg, but he ignored it and ran, limping, into the mist that surrounded him, blind to which direction he ran.

  Shadows began to form around him, condensing in the mist, becoming vaguely human-shaped. As he blundered through the pines, branches slapping at his face, those shapes materialized into people, taking the form of the victims who’d come before. He could hear Bessie panting along behind him.

  He tripped over a tree root, righted himself, and ran deeper into the mist. Clawed hands grasped at him now, nothing except arms, tapering away into nothing, hidden in the blue swirls of the mist.

  Each tear in his skin was a white-hot flame of agony, but it spurred him on all the harder.

  His exhaustion began to catch up to him, his energy flagging, but he pushed himself to continue on. Just when he felt he might give up, surrender to the mist, he slammed full force into something hard. It knocked him silly, but only for a moment, and he reached his hands out to feel what it was. The feel of wood planks was a welcome relief, and he moved sideways until, sliding his hands across the surface, oblivious to the splinters forcing their way into his flesh as he did so, he reached a wall.