Mr. Linklater's mortuary

How old was he, nine? Ten?

I think he was nine, boss

Nine, for Christ’s sake. Billy! Billy! You lazy son of a gun, move those corpses. I want them on the wagon before sunrise.

Bastards…

It’s a terrible thing to see a kid inside a coffin. All those dreams and ambitions torn apart by an unusual unatural premature cause.

Mr. Linklater was putting nails on those ole coffins as usual. A weird tradition if you ask me… to throw away bones of those who are alredy resting to reuse their coffins.

The sun fell at ease far across the land of dust and heat, there, where the horizon meets the earth in an spectacular show of magnificence and lust two riders came like a pair of blazing ghosts.

Jackie, Mr. Linklater’s grandson was playing with his toy soldiers at the mortuary’s porch. He saw the two figures approaching and thought of all those cowboys stories he loved so much. Maybe they were bandits of some sort or a couple of bounty hunters in the search for blood.

Linklater heard the roaring anger from a distance. He knew what was coming.

“One final nail on this coffin. I hope it wont turn to be mine”- He thought.

Jackie! Jackie! Get off the porch, move damn it!

Jackie went inside as quickly as he could.

Jackie, those men are very very dangerous…

I need you to do something for me son.

Jackie nodded in fear.

Hide, they must never find you.

Go! Go!

The old man grabbed his Winchester rifle, he had Little more tan seven rounds plus two extra that were meant to be shot out of a Harvey rifle. He sat down in front of the iving room’s window and aimed out.

Linklater! You hillbilly son of a bitch. We know you are there!

Mr. Linklater didn’t answer.

You give us that baboon and his fucking runaway wife once and for all. We have orders to rip them apart!

You’ll have to kill me! – The old man said.

Oh, I see, so you are just another nigger lover ain’t you creep?!

Bang! – Mr. Linklater pulled the trigger.

The bullet went past one of them.

We are the Blackmon borhters you old bag of shit!

Louis and Ray Blackmon, a couple of ruthless slaver psychopaths who were famous for their cruelty and their deadly record as bounty hunters.

Louis aimed his Colts at the house and started shooting.

Wooden shards flew all over the place.

Come on ole bastard! Come out, come out, come out!

Ray crouched and aimed for the Windows with his brand new silver barrel Winchester.

Bang!

The bullet destroyed an elegant piece of forniture that held Linklater family portraits.

Heya! Son of a bitch, we will put you down!

Ray! Ray! Let’s go inside, that maggot must be dead by now – Louis shouted.

Just… a… second…

Clack.

Bang!

Splat!

The bullet went past the kitchen Wall and through Linklater’s shoulder.

The old man fell to the ground yelling. He was in a great deal of pain.

I think I got him!

Yeeeha bastard! We are coming for ya!

Mr. Linklater crawled to the stairs that led to his underground working station.

He didn’t feel so diferent from all the corpses he arranged for years in that dusty basement. His end was near and he knew it.

Jackie! Jackie! I know you can hear me, don’t you dare coming out of your hiding place.

Do you hear me?! I will kill you myself If I see a damn piece of ya.

Clack, Clack!

Jackie shut his eyes and tried to think of something else. He tried to think about one of those stories he loved about the Rojos and the Baxters.

Plank!

Louis entered the mortuary like a thunder.

Ray followed.

Where the fuck are you piece of shit?

We know you helped him!

Linklater had two rounds left ready to be fired. He crawled towards a pile of Wood and pressed his body against it. That gave him a clear shot of the staircase end.

Clack, clack! – He Loaded his gun.

There’s no one in the kitchen.

There’s no one in the living room.

So… up… or down? – Ray asked poiting at the stairs that led to the basement.

The both started to descend.

This place smells like horse shit, damn!

Bang!

Crack!

Linklater took a shot and hit Ray’s knee cap.

Mother Fucker!

His leg was destroyed.

Linklater had to reload.

I saw you, son of a bitch! – Louis yelled.

That prick there is my borther you old shit!

Louis ran towards the pile of Wood and kicked the rifle far from Mr. Linklater’s hands.

Now I got you, bastard!

Bang, bang, bang, bang!

Four bullets destroyed the old man’s skull.

Fucking, piece of…! Aghh, it fucking hurts, my fucking leg!

Ray! Stay here, that nigger must be hidding upstairs, I’ll be right back!

Louis ran upstairs, there wasn’t a soul there either.

Bang!

A shot was fired.

What the hell? – Louis said.

The basement was now as quiet as a graveyard.

Louis saw his brother lying on the floor. He was quiet now. He was covered in blood, a wound right beneath his chin. The place was a mess.

Nigger!

Mother fucker! Come the fuck out!

Where the fuck are you! I will kill you, I will fucking clip you, mother fu…

BANG!

Louis’s brains now covered the wall.

Jackie was there, standing inside one of them coffins with glassy eyes full of tears and his hands covered with murderer’s blood.

He had killed both Blackmon bastards.

Four hours later…

Boss! Boss! There are three fresh corpses downstairs.

Fresh? What the hell is wrong with ya, son?

This is a mortuary, boss, there a lots of ole corpses here.

Oh, right, right…

Mr. Linklater’s body is there, they blew his skull off…

Damn, that was one good ole pal.

Yes he was…

What else? – Sheriff Brolin asked.

Come and see it for yourself.

The sheriff went donwstairs and saw the corpses of those crazy ass murderers lying on the floor.

The Blackmons?

Yes, boss.

Who?

Billy pointed at a coffin at the end of the room

What?

Open the coffin, boss.

Brolin opened the coffin.

Dear Christ.

There he was, Jackie, shivering in fear. He was absolutely shocked.

Take the kid out of that fucking coffin.

Linda!, where’s linda?

She’s outside boss.

Take the kid to Linda, she’ll take of him.

What about the reward, boss?

Well, that kid helped in the killing of these two pieces of shit, so… we owe him two thousand dollars. Linklater was his only family as far as I can see, right?

Right – Billy replied.

Then it’s done.

It’s a terrible thing to see a kid inside a coffin. All those dreams and ambitions thorn apart by an unusual unatural premature cause.

Billy, we need to send a message to the Marshall.

Tell me, boss, I have a pen here.

The Blackmon brothers are dead. They were looking for Calvin Cadie murderers, that free nigger and his wife.

Write this down, Billy.

Am writing, boss.

Anyone who helps, shelters or leads Django Freeman and Broomhilda Von Shaft in the state of Mississippi will be seen and treated like a criminal and might be sent to a court of justice for that same matter.

Send that to the fucking Marshall.

We will get that son of a bitch and his nigger french bitch wife.

It’s german boss.

Whatever the fuck! We will get them!

A humble tribute to Quentin Tarantino’s Django Uncahined.

El extraño incidente de la cueva en otoño

Este relato en particular me hace sentir triste pues trae ideas del pasado que deberían quedar por siempre enterradas entre los escombros de mis recuerdos, ya sabes, entre los montones de ideas horrorosas con las que he sido condenado a vivir. Una vida llena de ilusiones gigantescas, un tiempo inflexible que siempre está presente y atento para desgarrar el tejido fundamental de nuestro moribundo espacio. Un miedo infinito a quedar por siempre atrapado en el reino de esta criatura que me persigue desde que tengo uso de razón.

Y, por supuesto, este llamado fuerte pero reservado a aquellas almas maravillosas que están allá afuera, lejos de la pesadilla que es vagar en esta mente monstruosa. A aquellas personas que no sienten miedo, a aquellos que están ahí, indolentes e incrédulos.

Hace no mucho tiempo decidí caminar por el bosque que se encuentra detrás de la casita de la señora Alana. Mi madre siempre me advirtió sobre el bosque, ella me dijo que en él habitaba una criatura espantosa cuyo origen era incierto y cuyo fin era el horror.

Yo nunca creí sus historias. Siempre pensé que se trataba de algún argumento para que los niños del pueblo no se escapasen a explorar aquel lugar desconocido y aunque no creía las historias de mi mamá, me tomó setenta y cuatro años tomar la decisión de aproximarme un poco a los gigantescos cedros y a los insectos que ahí habitaban.

Una criatura tan terrible no puede habitar en un bosque tan bonito, ¿No crees?

Siempre he creído que vivimos en una constante pesadilla. No me mal interpretes, por favor, no me refiero a que nuestra realidad sea precaria o terrible. Me refiero a que el mundo es un lugar lleno de bosques oscuros e historias aterradoras. El mundo está lleno de monstruos.

Avancé guiándome por un sonido bastante extraño, parecía como si alguien hubiese estado preparando una fogata, ya sabes, ese sonido particular que hace la madera cuando se quiebra por la presencia de llama. Me guiaba por el sonido y por el olor a madera ahumada.

Seguí aquel sonido tanto como pude.

Seguí aquel sonido tanto que no recuerdo los detalles.

Lo seguí y llegué entonces a la entrada de lo que parecía ser una cueva olvidada por el tiempo y por los hombres, y en la entrada de la cueva había una figura, un figura humana.

Era un joven de unos aproximadamente, treinta y dos años. Él estaba de pie frente a la entrada de la cueva. Caminé y me detuve a su lado. Sus ojos miraban fijamente el interior de la estructura natural como si él hubiese podido ver algo en la inmensidad de aquel abismo oscuro.

Por alguna razón que no logro comprender, sentí que no debía enunciar palabra alguna. Sentí que romper la mirada de aquel joven podría significar algo terrible tanto para él como para mi. Sentí, en ese momento, la sensación más extraña, que aquel hombre no podría responderme. Que él no estaba ahí, que veía hacia el interior de la cueva porque no había nada más que él pudiera hacer.

Estaba solo.

Probablemente, muerto.

Di un par de pasos hasta la línea que dividía el mundo que apenas comenzaba a explorar de la eterna oscuridad húmeda que era aquel sitio tenebroso y entonces escuché con detenimiento.

La madera sollozante seguía presente. El sonido provenía del interior de la cueva.

Di un par de pasos más hacia el frente, y entonces, la oscuridad plena se apoderó de mi y de mis pensamientos.

No había vuelta atrás.

Nunca había sentido un ambiente así en mi vida. El aire era pesado y gélido. Como si se tratase de una gran bóveda de algún tipo o una fosa enorme donde el viento no prospera. El suelo se sentía blando y resbaloso.

Traté de caminar apoyado sobre una de las paredes. No podía ver nada, la luz del mundo que había dejado atrás no se atrevía a entrar. Yo sabía que la luz era tímida, y sabía que aquel joven de la entrada nunca volvería a sonreír. Yo debía encontrar el origen de aquel sonido infernal.

Caminé lo que calculo fueron aproximadamente tres mil doscientos cincuenta y sitie pasos en la total y plena oscuridad. Avancé un poco más.

Entonces, a lo lejos, un tímido color apareció.

Era un tono de ámbar suave.

Tan suave que parecía ser una ilusión del pasado pero a medida que avancé el delicado color se hizo más y más evidente. El origen del mismo, me dejó completamente paralizado.

La cueva tenía justo en ese punto una compleja estructura de madera construida para lo que parecía el propósito de mantener la roca firme y de pie. Parecía el comienzo de una gigantesca mina de diamantes, o de una construcción muy antigua; y fue entonces cuando lo escuché.

Una cadena de notas musicales se escondía por debajo del crujir constante de la madera moribunda. Era un piano cuyo origen desconocía. Un sonido latente que escuchaban aquel instante por primera vez. Una sensación de lejanía que se acercaba a mi con una furia incomparable.

Entonces afiné un poco más la vista pues ya había pasado un buen rato en la oscuridad y logré definir a lo lejos la forma de otro ser que me acompañaba en el abismo. Estaba de espalda, tocaba el piano.

Su cuerpo era delgado, estaba cubierto por una tela brillante de color esmeralda intenso. Las notas eran tristes, probablemente las más tristes que jamás haya escuchado. La criatura – como la llamé – tocaba y yo sólo la observaba. No quería que aquel momento culminase pues nuestros miedos parecían no ser extraños entre sí. Aquel ser de lo imposible tocando música para un extraño, para mi.

Di pasos cautelosos para acercarme a él y escuché también entonces su respiración ausente y un quejido perenne, los latidos de su raro corazón.

La criatura se detuvo.

La cueva y mi alma quedaron en absoluto silencio.

La criatura se puso de pie.

Era, probablemente, tres veces más alta que yo. Sus brazos eran largos y pálidos como la nieve y su rostro era de piedra y oro, sentí como si la cueva misma viviese a través de aquel ser espeluznante.

Dio un par de pasos adelante.

Se inclinó y quedamos cara a cara.

El monstruo y yo.

El fuego, el crujir, era su voz. No había nada mas que yo pudiese hacer, aquella era mi hora, yo no quería avanzar más. Entonces la bestia colocando su mano gélida sobre mi pecho, me preguntó…

¿A qué le temes más en el mundo?

Tragué saliva lentamente.

Mis piernas temblaban sin control.

A la nada – Respondí.

Yo soy la nada – dijo él

Entonces a ti es a lo que más le temo en el mundo.

El oro incrustado en mi rostro son los tesoros de mil y un hombres que buscaron con terror su salvación en lo más profundo de esta cueva.

El oro no me importa.

Los ropajes que llevo son los caminos perdidos de las almas que bajo este mismísimo suelo reposan.

He estado perdido toda mi vida.

Y esta voz quebrada el dolor de tantos otros como Alana.

El dolor es inevitable.

¿Quién eres viajero de todas las respuestas? – preguntó entonces la bestia.

No sé quién soy y en este camino perdido y oscuro, después de setenta y cinco años vengo a verme en tu rostro monstruoso para darme cuenta de que aún vagando por esta cueva terrible puedo enfrentar los miedos que duermen en la oscuridad. No conozco la envidia ni el rencor, tampoco temo a las amenazas de los vivos que miran fijamente hacia la oscuridad sin saber que en realidad ellos ya han muerto.

Toma pues mi lugar y déjame andar allá donde la luz se hace tenue y las criaturas danzan ignorantes.

No podría – dije.

Pues soy más que la nada y este, este es tu lugar.

Entonces la bestia se dio media vuelta, se sentó y siguió tocando la melodía triste que tanto le hacía recordar aquellos tiempos en los que fue algo o alguien.

La criatura, espléndida en sus ropajes esmeralda desapareció entre las sombras sollozantes de la caverna y mi alma quedó petrificada al sentir que ya nunca más lo volvería a ver.

Entonces desperté.

La luz de la luna entraba por la tímida ventanita de mi habitación. Podía escuchar a las criaturas del bosque, a la brisa de otoño que tumba las hojas naranjas, podía sentir el frio de aquella madrugada y a lo lejos siempre presente estaba el sonido del crujir inclemente, la melodía tímida del condenado de piedra y oro.

Podía escuchar, como siempre, la voz de la nada retándome, seduciéndome para que alguna madrugada como esta, me decida y vaya hasta su ancestral aposento terrible y tome su lugar, por siempre tocando el piano para los desdichados que mueren sin saberlo.

The Sörenjorg nightmare

He got down the boat.

His uncle had left him there alone in the middle of a monstrous beach with no wind, with no sun.

Bastian was lost; he was vulnerable as never before.

What was that place of old?

Waves broke strong against the shore of terrors ahead.  Heavy air filled with the disgrace of a thousand souls and demons from the past watched from beneath.

He started walking towards a hill that unraveled itself above the horizon far ahead.

There was not one sound to be heard or one soul to be seen and somehow deep within his mind he felt the most terrible feeling of them all, Bastian felt he belonged in that place.

How many times has he walked across that beach?

How many lives has he spent waiting for this moment to rise before him?

Up ahead a house stood still. It was a huge church-like building with small windows and something that seemed to be a graveyard next to it.

He approached.

There was someone next to the building entrance. It looked like a man. Like a very tall man.

“Sir, Excuse me, sir!” – Bastian shouted.

The creature didn’t move a muscle of his elongated body.

“Where am I, sir?”

The creature pointed the sky above his head with his right hand; a horrendous hand with barely any skin and four fingers.

“What do you mean?”  - Bastian asked.

The man turned his face towards Bastian and looked into his eyes for a couple of minutes.

Bastian saw deep within its dark eyes. He saw death, he saw the disgrace of a man and a woman; a painter and his model both lying on the floor of an old library both marked with the sign, the yellow sign.

Bastian shut his eyes.

What a monster!

What a monster!

The man was not there anymore…

Clink…

Clank!

The church-like building’s gate was now open.

He walked in.

It seemed to be some kind of old temple and at the end of the temple was a huge stone with markings unknown to Bastian, and the markings depicted something similar to a giant octopus with narrow wings and crystal eyes.  

Bastian went past the rock and found a staircase that led to the very top of the tower.

The passage was dark.

The passage was lonely.

Up he went without thinking why or what for.

And then he arrived to a room formed by impossible shapes with walls that shinned with a colour from out the space, a colour so vicious no man could describe nor imagine.

Thack! Thack!

Bastian heard something.

Someone was there with him.  

“Bastian Sörenjorg” – A voice called.

The young lad walked forward, he couldn’t see the one who was calling him nevertheless he felt attracted to the voice, as if it had some kind of hypnosis power over his mind and soul . It was like a whisper made by a curious and frightening whisperer in the dark.

“Oh, Bastian, I had been waiting for you…” – It said.

A huge body emerged from the shadows. It was three times the height of a human being and it wore golden robes of old.  It approached Bastian. His face was completely covered and with every step he made a noise of sorrow unlike anything in this poor world of ours.

“I am the king” – it said.

Bastian stepped back.

“Do not be afraid, I am here to show you the truth” – it said.

The king was sad.

The king was alone.

Bastian started to cry tears of hopelessness.

“Am I going to die here?”

“You have died before and you will die later on again”

“I don’t understand”

“That which you think and wish and long for is nothing but the beginning of the end. That’s the unexplainable cause which draws men into the deepest well of their own shadows.   Dying must never worry your soul for you have died before and before again in front of the twin suns that crash against each other upon the lake of Hali”.

“I feel…”

“Can you hear it?”

“I… Feel…”

“There he lies, poor old Cassilda singing her song for the ages.”

“I feel time crawling out of my veins”

“Ah, now you understand that blood isn’t such thing as blood and time is as vicious as the nightmares that haunt you at night”

“Don’t take time away from me!” – Bastian cried.

“Don’t take time away from me, please!”

“Look up, Bastian. There lie those who you once knew, waiting for you to join them in the everlasting pool of eternity. There, among the black stars.”

“Oh, no… what have I done?”

“You surrendered yourself to the king in yellow and the king is merciful, and the king loves you and will do it again and again.”

“Let me finish the story… that is all I ask of you!”

“Take the parchment, Bastian and go back to where it all began… beyond Hastur and the great Aldebaran. Go back to where your fears awakened for the first time and pass the blood in your blood to the next Sörenjorg soul for you have been casted to the court of the king and that is a privilege which cannot be refused."

The king in yellow embraced Bastian. His tatter covered him in gold as he saw the city of all curses and demons… Carcosa being ruled by the old ones and at the top of the tower the same king, his king in yellow waiting to meet him once more.

Time escapes from us.

Bastian woke up.

He was alone in the pitch dark immensity of the ball room.  

His back ached.

His eyes itched.

His bones trembled.

He cried uncontrollably. 

Before him a gas lamp let him see a desk and on top the desk there was a piece of parchment and a quill.

He knew what to do…  

He wrote the Sörenjorg letter and then grabbed his cane and walked towards the center of the majestic room and at the center of the room awaited his final bed.

Bastian threw his cane to the floor and accepted it all.

He lied down inside the coffin and shut his eyes forever more...

A humble tribute for a couple of men whose works have inspired me deeply. Robert Chambers and H.P. Lovecraft.

The Sörenjorg waltz

Bastian Sörenjorg knew this day would come sooner or later.

He received the envelope that morning waiting for nothing more than the precise instructions that would lead him to be the next great Sörenjorg. As a child he used to listen to his grandfather’s stories of how that envelope changed his life forever. Bastian had been waiting for this his whole life.

What a curious way to accomplish tradition.

What a day!

What a day!

Bastian put the yellowish gift on the table next to his bed and stared at it for hours playing with a small knife as he waited, as he pondered.

He didn’t feel prepared to know the secret.

His forehead shinned in sweat; his hands trembled with anticipation; his feet danced the unknown dance of uncertainty.

And then…

Finally he opened it.

“First and last letter for the truthful heir of the Sörenjorg lineage” – it read.

“The earth surely shrinks in the presence of this majestic moment. It happens as it should, once every now and then and leaves the continuity untouched for us and our pretty little worlds.  My dear nephew…”

Bastian closed the large windows in front of him. Winter had come in a ruthless manner as always.

“Poetry has led men to believe that truth is hidden within words, within the sounds of each metric disposal but we know that isn’t true, don’t we Bastian? Don’t we know that the secret lies in the blank spaces between notes and not in the note itself?  Go down the stairs, young man. Face your uncle.”

Bastian walked towards the door and grabbed the door handle, his hands were white as snow, his sight blurry for the sweat had covered his face, his heartbeat rose like a fierce storm.

He went down stairs.

“You know what to do Bastian”

He then went past the entrance hall and went straight to the ball room’s door.

The tall man stopped.

Click, clack

He opened the door.

The ball room was a huge saloon made entirely of wood , there was a red carpet on the floor that led to a coffin and inside the coffin was a corpse and the corpse held dead roses.

“Come inside master Sörenjorg!” – A man in a tuxedo grabbed Bastian by the arm and took him half way into the room, halfway towards the coffin.

Bastian kept reading.

“You might be afraid now, boy. I get it. But you have to fulfill your destiny. It is your duty as a Sörenjog”

Bastian walked towards the coffin.

The corpse was beautifully arranged, it was elegant tall and thin man dressed up in a burgundy suit with golden buttons and a handkerchief hanging out of his chest pocket.  His eyesballs were no longer there, his nose was large and his mouth seemed to be full of blood waiting for the minimum move to fall and ruin the elegant scene.

It was Bastian’s uncle.

Ten maids came out of the pitch black far end of the room and stood at the other side of the coffin. They all looked at Bastian; they all waited for the cycle to be completed.

Bastian knew what was coming next.

He took a deep breath and the grabbed his uncle´s corpse.

He stood at the center of the room.

The maids took the coffin out of the way and the music started to sound.

It was the famous waltz that has accompanied the family for centuries.

“You must dance the waltz now, son. You have to make the circle even for us. You have to dance to the rhythm of death and see around you how all the maids and the slaves and the husbands and the wives look at you as if you were their king in yellow” – The letter stated.

Bastian started waltzing with his uncle.

The smell!

The smell!

“There is no way you can avoid this sacred ritual, you are a Sörenjorg!”

“Time has passed and now you are a man. You need to understand that carrying this last name will bring you pain and sorrow. Nothing in this world comes easy. Do not stop dancing”

The corpse dripped blood.  The eyeball sockets were filled with darkness.

Bastian danced.

The maids smiled.

The slaves smiled.

The husbands smiled.

The wives smiled.

“You want to become a true writer?”

“ I do!” – Bastian shouted without losing the pace.

“Do you want to enter the realm of the impossible and live with us forever?”

“I do” – He shouted once more.

“He who lost Lenore saw the raven up above his chamber door!”

“He who knew men wars met the old man and the sea”

“He who sacrificed two friends at the gallows saw it all in cold blood” 

“Now, nephew now is the time for you to make the ultimate sacrifice!”

“What should I do, uncle?” – He asked

“Name it, name the sacrifice!” – He asked again

“To become nothing but truth you ought to sacrifice the world”

The music stopped.

His uncle’s corpse fell to the ground breaking a couple of its back bones.

Bastian fell to his knees.

I am ready now.

Take the world away from me. Take it all!

A thick mist covered the room.

Bastian felt water beneath his feet.

Uncle Sörenjorg corpse stood up slowly.

“What horror is this? Is this the world of my curse?”  – Bastian asked in fear

The corpse made a signal with his long and spectral finger towards the floor.

They were both on a small boat sailing towards a shore of black sands and white rocks.

The monster made a sound like no other Bastian had ever heard before.

“Listen to the sung song” – It said.

“Cassilda lurks and crawls and cries” – it said

The boat reached the shore.

“Go to the land of silence and void, go as we all have into the darkness of the new world! Take off the pallid mask that covers your face; break the marble mold that holds your soul and create worlds of the unimaginable. Become a writer, become a writer!”

“Welcome to Carcosa.”