Then, uttering a laugh such as demons give, Mara rose up before me, bearing no trace of a wound upon her bare body. Again I was in that netherworld where she ruled her get, who gathered about to mock and jeer me.
I fled, uselessly trying to pull shut the gates against her, but they would not move. Three locks had fallen and now naught could keep them down.
Wildly I ran. Reaching the crest of Mabbs Hill, all out of breath, I had to stop. Mara danced past me, leading her children — dancing like moths then changing before my eyes to human form — beautiful and tempting to a man… and to a woman too. Her sons and daughters who mockingly saluted me, their liberator, as they passed to plague the world with their dreadful appetites.
Mara had been playing a game with me, using me for sport and to free her progeny, who now walk among us, another legion among the many who torment humanity. The moonchild was among them, her red hair was long again, enough to bind a man’s heart and soul, and she tried to take my hand. But I fled from her, though she cried out a promise to always follow…
I soon left London, and at Cambridge I found one of Mara’s spawn. She tried to drink from me, but I overwhelmed her and threw the body into the river Cam. I can never look down over a bridge since, nor into water, for she revealed her true form as Mara’s long dark hair spread out like a Medusa and her black eyes stared at me.
In Berlin I carefully dissected and left parts of her body scattered about the city. While about this task, she accosted me in the Alexandraplatz and laughed at her joke.
I have tried so many times but should know this: one cannot slay the slayer, the cruel mother, bringer of nightmare, blood-drinking grave-queen, the moon-witch Kali, Mater Tenebrarum, call her as you will. She who rules the dark places, Our Lady of Shadow and Darkness, who is after all the true queen of this world and of the one below.
Marc Laidlaw
Cell Call
Marc Laidlaw was born in Los Angeles, spent many years in San Francisco, and currently lives in Redmond, Washington, with his wife and daughters.
His novels include Dad’s Nuke, Neon Lotus, {California, The Orchid Eater, The Third Force and The 37th Mandala (winner of the International Horror Guild Award for Best Novel). In 1997, he joined Valve Software in order to write and design computer games, beginning with the very successful Half-Life.
“It must be a writer’s reflex to encounter a new piece of technology and wonder impulsively, ‘How can I get a story out of this?’“ speculates Laidlaw. “More specifically, for this writer, a ghost story. The attraction is to figure out the latest twist on something very old. The danger is that such stories may age very poorly — especially if the object of the piece is something faddish and prone to fade.
“I wrote this story in an evening and didn’t show it to a soul for four years. I suppose I was waiting to see if it might be rendered obsolete before I pinned any hopes on it. Also, it is a story that depresses me immensely, but since that was sort of the point, I can’t blame the poor story for the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to touch it again until very recently.”
He wasn’t used to the cell phone yet, and when it rang in the car there was a moment of uncomfortable juggling and panic as he dug down one-handed into the pocket of his jacket, which he’d thrown onto the passenger seat. He nipped the end of the antenna in his teeth and pulled, fumbling for the “on” button in the dark, hoping she wouldn’t hang up before he figured this out. Then he had to squeeze the phone between ear and shoulder because he needed both hands to finish the turn he’d been slowing to make when the phone rang. He realized then that for a moment he’d had his eyes off the road. He was not someone who could drive safely while conducting a conversation, and she ought to know that. Still, she’d insisted he get a cell phone. So here he was.
“Hello?” he said, knowing he sounded frantic.
“Hi.” It was her. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the car.”
“Where?”
“Does it matter that much?”
“I only meant, are you on your way home? Because if you are I wanted to see if you could pick up a pack of cigarettes. If you have money.”
“I’m on my way home, yes.” He squinted through the window for a familiar landmark, but considering the turn he’d just taken, he knew he was on a stretch of older suburban road where the streetlights were infrequent. There was parkland here, somewhere, and no houses visible. “But I don’t think there’s a store between here and home.”
“You’ll pass one on the way.”
“How do you know which way I went?”
“There’s only one way to go.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“If you have any sense, there is.”
“I have to get off. I can’t drive and talk at the same time. I’m driving the stick-shift, remember?”
“If you don’t want to then forget it.”
“No, I don’t mind. I’ll take a detour.”
“Just forget it. Come home. I’ll go out later.”
“No, really. I’ll get them.”
“Whatever. Goodbye.”
He took the phone out of the vice he’d made with jaw and shoulder. His neck was already starting to cramp, and he didn’t feel safe driving with his head at such an angle, everything leaning on its side. He had to hold the phone out in front of him a bit to be sure the light had gone out. It had. The read-out still glowed faintly, but the connection was broken. He dropped the phone onto the seat beside him, onto the jacket.
The parkland continued for another few blocks. The headlights caught in a tangle of winter-bared hedges and stripped branches thrusting out into the street so far that they hid the sidewalk. It would be nice to find a house this close to woods, a bit of greenbelt held in perpetuity for when everything else had been bought up and converted into luxury townhouses. If all went well then in the next year, maybe less, they’d be shopping for a house in the area. Something close to his office but surrounded by trees, a view of mountains, maybe a stream running behind the house. It was heaven here but still strange, and even after six months most of it remained unfamiliar to him. She drove much more than he did, keeping busy while he was at work; she knew all the back roads already. He had learned one or two fairly rigid routes between home and office and the various shopping strips. Now with winter here, and night falling so early, he could lose himself completely the moment he wandered from a familiar route.
That seemed to be the case now. In the dark, without any sort of landmark visible except for endless bare limbs, he couldn’t recognize his surroundings. The houses that should have been lining the streets by now were nowhere to be seen, and the road itself was devoid of markings: No center line, no clean curb or gutter. Had he turned into the parkland, off the main road? He tried to think back, but part of his memory was a blank — and for good reason. When the phone rang he’d lost track of everything else. There had been a moment when he was fumbling around in the dark, looking at the seat next to him, making a turn at a traffic light without making sure it was the right light. He could have taken the wrong turn completely.
But he hadn’t turned since then. It still wasn’t too late to backtrack.
He slowed the car, then waited to make sure no headlights were coming up behind him. Nothing moved in either direction. The road was narrow — definitely not a paved suburban street. Branches scraped the hood as he pulled far to the right, readying the car for a tight turn, his headlights raking the brittle shadows. He paused for a moment and rolled the window down, and then turned back the key in the ignition to shut off the motor. Outside, with the car quieted, it was hushed. He listened for the barking of dogs, the sigh of distant traffic, but heard nothing. A watery sound, as if the parkland around him were swamp or marsh, lapping at the roots of the trees that hemmed him in. He wasn’t sure that he had room to actually turn around; the road was narrower than he’d thought. He had better just back up until it widened.