Stygian Tears

written by Ræl H. Bishop and ROADKILL FRANKNSTEIN

The smell of ashes singes the air, wood and witch fused into one.

A girl, a mere child, stands before the remains of the simple cabin she once called home. Broken glass, plundered vats, herbs and cryptic writings all litter the floor in an indistinguishably sooty mess.

She cries out the name of her father, who is nowhere to be seen. She searches every square inch of the house, stumbling over bone and broken gemstone.

Meanwhile, a moving shadow swims its way up the hillside. It seems unsure of its shape, trying to be humanoid but being reduced to a blob by its lack of gravity. It feels cold to the touch, forming dew on each blade of grass it crosses.

Like quicksilver, it pools its way up to the remains of the house. The girl notices, and creeps over.

As it enters the ex-threshold, the shade stops in its tracks. Its two ruby-like… eyes? lock with those of the girl.

For a moment, just a single moment, she connects with the gaze. She sees her father, her caretaker, somehow.

She rushes over to the shade, but it panics. Rummaging through the remains, it picks up a single skull — something canid — and flees.

The shade vanishes into the forest, slinking its way from shadow to shadow, creeping toward the town in the distance. A white flag with a green tree on it waves — the flag of the New England colony.

#

A broken down van sits on a desert strip of highway, an American flag stickered to its bumper. Maeve sits meters beside it, gas can in one hand, thumb sticking out from the other, with a loaded backpack making her hunch over the road.

Her face shows hints of wetness. What caused that is history now. She knows she's failed this trip, her one chance at freedom. She feels she's just as much of a failure as her mother said, the one whose screams and abuse she fled from in the first place. She can't possibly go back there — she never will.

A seventeen year-old failure, that's all she is. She'll never get anywhere in life.

She's got nowhere to go. And so, she sits beside the highway, waiting for hours for someone to come. Wendigos, ghouls, Mormons, whoever.

The hot sun makes it hard for her to stay awake. The rays slowly turn her muscles into lead. Out of water and air conditioning, she begins wondering if she'll make it to the end of the week.

Then suddenly, hope. A tiny yellow specter emerges from the horizon. It's a car.

She gains the strength to prop herself upright once more and flag the driver down.

…

It takes about twenty minutes for the car to get there. One must never underestimate distance in the desert.

Electronic music emanates from the vehicle — a welcome change from the hours of Johnny Cash stuck playing from the van's now-busted radio.

The car comes to a stop. Its driver wears aviator sunglasses, a Stetson hat, and a dark blue jacket. Maeve rushes over and slumps onto the passenger door.

He rolls down the window.

She raises her leaden head. "…you're a skeleton." She looks him dead in the sockets; there's no surprise in her voice.

"HUH, THAT'S A FIRST." His voice is reminiscent of gravel in a blender.

She wipes sweat off of her brow. "Sorry, I- look, can you give me a ride to the next gas station? My van's empty and I don't want to stay in one place for long."

"YOU SEEM REMARKABLY CALM, GIVEN YOUR SITUATION."

She puts her hand on the car door. "My windows got smashed by a pissed off truck driver who was actually a werewolf last night. You're not even in the top ten of weird crap I've seen over the past few weeks."

He motions for her to get in the passenger's seat. They drive for some time — towns seem to be far and few between here.

"TELL ME, WHERE IS IT YOU'RE HEADED AGAIN?"

"Anywhere but Massachusetts. Preferably as far south as I can get. Maybe Florida, but I've heard that place kind of sucks."

"YOU'RE IN NEW MEXICO, YOU'RE ABOUT AS FAR AS YOU CAN GET FROM… ARE YOU FROM MASSACHUSETTS?"

"Yeah, why?"

He puts his phalanges onto his chest. "OHMIGOSH, SO AM I!"

"Oh, neat. Where from? I was born in Salem, my family's lived there for ages. I don't think we've left town for like…. a long-ass time."

"SAY, YOU LOOK AWFULLY FAMILIAR…"

She raises an eyebrow. "….you look like a skeleton."

"WELL, I WASN'T BORN THIS WAY. WELL, I GUESS I WAS BORN THIS WAY, BUT NOT LACKING FLESH. MOST PEOPLE CAN'T REALLY- I'M SORRY, WAS YOUR MOTHER AT WOODSTOCK OR SOMETHING?"

"Uhh… my mom is a crazy, controlling psycho who hates everyone and everything, including me. I think her mom — my grandma — did some weird witchy stuff back in the day."

The driver nods, bones audibly jostling. "I WAS BACK THEN TOO, THOUGH NOT BY CHOICE."

Maeve spends some time looking out the window. It's incredible how flat New Mexico is compared to New England.

It's kind of boring.

Sure, you get cool rock formations here and a tar paper shack on a reservation there, but it seems her van broke down in the geographical equivalent of cardboard. Nothing but shrubs, pallid sand and dried grass for miles.

The driver notices how Maeve's dressed. The hair under her beanie hasn't been washed in a week; her soft fabric shirt looks tired, her worn jeans, authentic.

But something catches his spiritual eye. Her choker has a little pendant underneath it, with a sigil he knows he's seen before.

"I SHOULD INTRODUCE MYSELF. I'M MR. MANSON. WHAT'S YOUR NAME, IF YOU DON'T MIND ME ASKING?"

"…Maeve. Maeve Lobhadh. Why?"

The car comes to a screeching halt. Manson takes off his sunglasses and stares at Maeve.

"…Why are you stopping?! What's going on-?"

"…DID YOU EVER HEAR ABOUT A MAN NAMED 'BRENNOS' IN YOUR FAMILY HISTORY?"

"Uhhh…. not that I remember. The name kinda sounds familiar."

He nods. After staring ahead for a moment, he shifts gears and turns the car around. The sound of sand and gravel is grating, but a relief compared to the driver's voice.

"HE'S A FRIEND OF MINE. I THINK- NO, YOU TWO ARE… BUT THAT DOESN'T…" He seems to be at a loss for words. "WELL, YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO SEE FOR YOURSELF."

"Uhh… where are we goin', bone man?"

"THE EL CAMINO DINER, FIFTY-SIX MILES EAST OF HERE. I HAVE A FRIEND WHO MAY BE OF ASSISTANCE."

A sickening twinge of regret stabs her stomach. "Is your friend also a skeleton?"

"…PARTIALLY."

"Also, what's gonna happen to my van?"

"I WOULDN'T WORRY ABOUT THE VAN. LET'S BE REAL HERE, THERE WASN'T MUCH LEFT OF IT."

"I guess, but it's my van."

"WE CAN STOP AND GET WHAT YOU NEED FROM IT. I HAVE A FEELING IT ISN'T GOING ANYWHERE."

She looks out the window. The mundane landscape makes the chill down her all-too flesh-bound spine unavoidable.

Thousands of miles of nothing… nowhere to run to.

She swallows uncomfortably as they drive on.

#

Maeve squints to make out the world around her. Mere moments ago, she was being led into a sunbleached doorway somewhere in Socorro. Now, everything seems so dark, so dimly lit.

Manson leads her through the darkness, bony hand on hers. They leave a room full of doors and enter into an even darker corridor. It's reminiscent of a new moon sky, with smaller glints of light emanating from the evening star-like lanterns. But as her eyes adjust, she can see objects emerge from these constellations.

Old objects. Wyrd objects. Magical objects, even.

It's like some sort of museum from outside of time. Things she's only seen in books her grandmother owned are here, like a chromatic stone that reeks of urine. Dried herbs are in labeled jars written in three scripts, sitting beside gems exotic and unusual — some even glow. A tarot deck levitates off of a pedestal to her right.

Her eyes land on a book with a sigil stamped into it. It's the very same sigil she's seen on her grandmother's books: the sketch of a skull, like that of a coyote…

It's the same sigil she has on that pendant attached to her choker.

Manson stops before a massive door, the smell of blood seeping through. He knocks. "BRENNOS, IT'S ME."

"Come right in," a voice says from inside, "though I must apologize in advance if I come off curt; I'm quite enjoying this grimoire."

The two enter the room, the smell of blood even stronger than before. It's an office of sorts, with grimoires, scrolls, codices, even stone tablets seated on shelves besides ordinary paperbacks. At the center of the room sits a…

…constructed figure. Maeve's seen nothing like it. It's taller than her when seated. Its dress may be a proper Victorian blend of red and white (and rather goth, she notes), but its hands look beastly, lycanthropic. The thing's… neck, is all shaggy, a patchwork of differing furs with still present suture lines. Bones, veins, and nerves stick out from holes in the furs here-and-there. And only God knows what kind of face could be hiding behind that book.

"I HAVE BROUGHT A GUEST WITH ME."

"Oh?" The figure shuffles, not looking up from the book. "Is it the tlahuelpuchi we heard from over the telegraph?"

Manson rattles. "A SURPRISE GUEST. I… THINK YOU SHOULD SEE HER."

"How unusual, usually Stora takes care of the-"

Maeve sees a skull emerge from behind the figure's book. It's canid in shape, like that of a coyote. Two ruby-like specters sit in its sockets.

For a moment, just a single moment, she connects with the gaze. She finds herself in the body of a young girl centuries ago, who sees her father, her caretaker, somehow.

Brennos drops his book. That same heart-shaped face from centuries ago, from that little girl he once called his own…

…that little girl he wish he'd never left behind, damn his unseemly state…

…that little girl that's haunted his mind for centuries, a constant pang of regret about what he could've, should have, done…

…it's staring right back at him.

"SHE SEEMED FAMILIAR TO ME. ANYWAY, SHE SEEMS TO BE IN A TOUGH SPOT, AND I WAS WONDERING IF YOU COULD-"

Brennos gets up from his seat and creeps over to Maeve.

She was unnerved by his appearance before, but now… she feels strangely calm. Like she's known this thing- this man, all her life.

Before her life, even.

"…may I?"

Maeve nods.

Brennos takes a beastly hand and puts it on hers. He feels her palm lines, feels her aura… so much potential, so much power, just like her daughter. Memories begin flooding back…

…memories of former self, his human self, cradling her in his arms; of him singing her to sleep on stormy nights, of taking her through the forest and collecting herbs…

Maeve sees the memories too… she sees him chopping firewood and teaching her about the elementals, she sees them summoning a salamander from his fiery home, she sees her being shown how to divine futures using entrails…

…they see themselves running from the townspeople, being branded as heretics and devil-worshippers…

…they see flames… they feel fear… they feel… cold… so cold…

Brennos gives out shuddering and rattling sighs, his form twitching, his full-body heaving like he's trying to choke words out.

Manson is stunned as sees the impossible. Little flames seem to emerge from Brennos' eye-spheres, flames that coalesce into little drops of clouded liquid. They curl like reddish quicksilver past his teeth, transmuting into dark tears that pour down his face.

"What's your name, dear?"

"…Maeve."

He runs a bony talon gently through her auburn hair. "My little Maeve."

He crouches over to her height, lumbers his arms around her, and gingerly embraces her. There's more distorted whimpering, accompanying stygian tears dripping down to Maeve's shoulder. She reciprocates.

"Do not worry. You're safe here. No one will ever hurt you again, I promise."

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