Bound in Blood (eBook)

Adam Cesare, Alma Katsu, Eric LaRocca, Johnny Mains (Autoren)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
368 Seiten
TITAN BOOKS (Verlag)
978-1-80336-752-1 (ISBN)

Infos

A chilling anthology of over 20 stories of cursed and haunted books; featuring malevolent second-hand books, cursed novelizations, unsettling journals and the end of the world. From award-winning authors including Eric LaRocca, Charlie Higson, Kim Newman and A. G. Slatter. Perfect for fans of When Things Get Dark. You find it hidden in the dark corner of the bookstore; tucked away in a box in the attic, desperate to be read; lurking on your bookshelf, never seen before. Crack the spine, feel the ancient pages. Read it aloud, if you dare. This anthology brings together horror's best and brightest to delve into the pages of cursed books, Eldtritch tomes and haunted bookstores. Featuring stories from: Adam Cesare Eric LaRocca Alma Katsu Zin Rocklyn Alyssa Cole Nadia Bulkin Danny Robins Isy Suttie Charlie Higson Angeline Morrison A. G. Slatter Priya Sharma A. K. Benedict Guy Adams Lucie McKnight Hardy Ramsey Campbell Alison Moore Laura Mauro Reggie Oliver Anna Taborska Kim Newman

Johnny Mains is a British Fantasy Award-winning editor and genre researcher. He was Project Editor on the 2010 re-issue of The Pan Book of Horror Stories, created the critically acclaimed series Dead Funny: Horror Stories by Comedians (co-edited with Robin Ince) and has spent the last five years deep in the archives, uncovering 'lost' stories by notable authors such as Edith Nesbit, Algernon Blackwood, Oscar Cook and Daphne Du Maurier, among others.

Textauszug

FOOTNOTES

A.K. BENEDICT

The college library was up three flights of stairs but felt like four. Aisling, out of breath by the second flight, plonked herself, wheezing, on the window seat, bag of books at her feet. The mullioned window ballooned out as if centuries of thoughts pressed their faces to the glass, wishing for release.

Outside, a weeping willow dipped its tresses in the Cam. The wind swished them up, shampoo ad style. A crow flew by, craaking. Huffing on her blue inhaler, Aisling watched two students walking over the bridge, huddled together. Loneliness pinged inside her.1

Aisling was long used to being unnoticed. People often seemed surprised to find her in a room she had been in for hours. No one asked her for her help, or for her love. Before she came to Cambridge for her doctorate, Aisling’s aunt2 had told her that this was the time she’d find her tribe. A month in, however, Aisling had scuttled between the city’s libraries, her set,3 and the staircase gyp room,4 without once making an enriched connection.

As Aisling stood, readying herself for the last staircase, a woman of no fixed age loomed up the stairs. She turned towards Aisling with her whole body, as if her spine was clamped. Dressed entirely in black leather, when the woman raised her bowler hat she resembled an ambulatory exclamation mark.5 The only skin showing was the parchment of her face. ‘You’re late.’

Aisling looked around as if the woman could be talking to someone else. ‘I think you have the wrong person. I’m just returning some books.’

‘You are Aisling O’Connor, otherwise known as Ash. We were due to convene at two o’clock and, as it is gone half past, you are overdue.’

Aisling’s brain stammered. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

Bridget’s gold embossed eyes flashed. ‘Your ignorance is not an excuse.’

‘Are you my new supervisor?’

‘You could call me that, but I’d rather you called me Bridget. Now, follow me.’ Bridget loped up the stairs, two at a time. Her legs seemed too long for her body.

Aisling hesitated for one moment, then did as she was bid.

Inside the library, Bridget sent dust motes scattering as she swept past students bent over tables like desk lamps. Aisling scurried after her, book bag banging against her shins. A sense of excitement was opening inside her. For once, she didn’t know what was happening.

Bridget snaked through the stacks. At the far end of the library, in the history reading room, she pressed a green button on the wall, and a leather-lined panel swung back.

She stepped into a dark room, lit by candles. ‘This is your office from now on.’ A lamp came on, bent over the desk like a student, but brighter.

‘My office?’ Aisling took in the room: the bookshelves; the smells;6 the oval rug spiralled with symbols; the carved desk; three armchairs by an open, lit fire; a kitchenette in the corner; a locked cabinet; and the brass-domed ceiling that reflected the swaying flames.

Bridget strode to the centre desk and, after pulling back the chair, indicated that Aisling should sit. ‘You’re the apprentice Inscriber.’ The capitalisation of the initial ‘I’ was clear in her voice.

Aisling settled into the chair, which was more comfortable than it looked. ‘I am? What does that mean?’

‘In exchange for a financial sum that will, to you, seem beyond sense, you will assume a role passed between women scholars for centuries. We share the role for now but when you’re ready, and I have completed my role, you will fully take over.’

Bridget slid a key from her pocket and, on unlocking the cabinet, manoeuvred a large book from its depths. She held it to her chest as if letting it rest and get its first breath. Bound in dark leather, they looked like mother and daughter.

Aisling, feeling like she was intruding, looked down at her desk, tracing the grain in the wood with her finger.

Bridget slowly held out the book and placed it in front of Aisling. ‘This is The Cailleach.’ Her voice was soft, caressing each vowel and kissing each consonant. Her eyes shone with tears that seemed green in that light.

Curiosity twanged in Aisling.7 She reached without thinking for the book, but Bridget slammed a cow-skin fist down on Aisling’s hand.

‘You must take the Inscriber’s Oath before you make contact with The Cailleach.’ Bridget clamped her hand round Aisling’s and bent back her arm, lifting Aisling’s palm to the domed ceiling. ‘Say after me: “I, Aisling Robin O’Connor”.’

‘I, Aisling Robin O’Connor.’

‘Swear allegiance to the goddesses, to—’

‘But I’m agnost—’

‘To the faithful interpretation of their word,’ Bridget continued, ignoring Aisling, ‘and to the Sistership of Inscribers that turns from one woman to another across time.’

The book seemed to slowly pulse, as if a lethargic heart was hidden within. Fighting the urge to look inside, Aisling clung to her reason. ‘I don’t even know what I’m agreeing to.’

Bridget simply repeated the oath, and then again at every one of Aisling’s objections. Aisling felt her weak arguments melt like a tallow candle. She had never felt so compelled to do anything, or be anyone. She longed to hold the words in her mouth.

‘This is what you were born for,’ Bridget said, with a kindness that made Aisling want to cry. ‘You’ve never felt important before, I know, Cerridwen told me. But that is because you have never had such purpose. Now, you are fulfilling not just your own potential, but a prophecy.’ As she spoke, Bridget winced, gloved hand holding onto her shoulder.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I will be. Are you ready to break cover and emerge from your static life?’

The path was already written in her brain, and as she said the words, it was as if they were wrapping a jacket around her, binding her together. Giving her the spine she’d never had.

‘I am.’

Bridget almost smiled, one sharp tooth showing. ‘Now you are fit to hold The Cailleach, and may it hold you forever.’

As Aisling touched the cover, both she and the book began to shiver.

‘I’ll leave you to get acquainted.’ Bridget loped to the door.

‘But what am I supposed to do?’ Aisling asked, self-soothing by stroking the book’s frontispiece.

‘Your thesis is on the Pythia, correct?’8

Aisling nodded.

‘Then you are familiar with the process of prophecy. You will be the medium for the goddess that chooses you.’

‘I research it, I don’t do it.’

Bridget bent over at the waist, creaking, to place her face near Aisling’s. A tattoo twisted up from under her leather collar and stopped just under her earlobe. Aisling wondered how far the tattoo travelled beneath the clothes. ‘Time to stop reading and writing,’ she whispered, snapping back up, then turning away.

‘But how do I—’

‘The Cailleach will tell you, if you ask it nicely,’ Bridget called back as she left the room. The leather panel slid into place, and it was as if no door, or library beyond it, had ever existed.

Aisling thought she’d be panicked at being left alone, in a silence so thick it rivalled the O.E.D.,9 but instead she was as calm as if she’d slipped into the chapel during evensong. Her breath was slow and even, no wheezing.

Opening the manuscript, she found it was a series of books, handwritten by different women. Each was dedicated to a Celtic goddess and carried its own scent.10 Every section was written on different vellum – some of the paper was so soft it could be creased with a nail; another type of paper was dark brown with indigo ink; one book was made from paper so thin and brittle it was like crispbread.

Some of the writing was so faded it could hardly be read, even with the magnifier Aisling found on the desk. A few pages were so cracked that words fell into deep ravines; more were torn, sentences lost or held together only by glue and wax paper. Most of the books, however, were legible, containing the accounts of previous Inscribers and those to whom they had provided prophecies. Predictions ranged from the wild to the mundane,11 but there was no indication as to what Aisling should do next.

The panel in the wall careered to one side, and a woman with long, curly hair stumbled in. ‘Are you the Inscriber?’ she asked. The whites of her eyes were sunset with red, her foundation showed the path her tears had taken.

Aisling sat the woman down in an armchair. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, placing another log from the basket onto the fire.

‘Felicity. I’m here to ask about—’ Stopping, she put her hand over her mouth. Her cuticles were nibbled back into raw pink strips. ‘I’m not supposed to say, it’s giving you too much information.’

A tannin-strong urge to stand up and run out of the room swept over Aisling. She didn’t have to be here, in fact, she didn’t know how she’d even ended up in this situation. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began to say on the way to the door, then Felicity blinked out four more fat tears. Her breath came in laddered blocks as if holding back sobs.

Aisling walked over to the mini kitchen. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Felicity?’

‘Yes, please. Strong, milk, three sugars. Are you going to read the leaves?’

‘No. At least I don’t think so.’ Aisling hoped that Felicity wouldn’t notice her hands trembling as she filled the kettle and readied the cups. ‘Did Bridget tell you about...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 10.9.2024
• Verlagsort: London
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Anthologien
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror ► Horror
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: 2:22 • All the Murmuring Bones • bbc podcast • Booker Prize • books about books • Bram Stoker Awards • chillercon • Clown in a Cornfield • comedy horror • cursed books • danny robins • Dead Funny • Dobby • Edgar Award • ellen datlow • FantasyCon • Ghost Stories • horror anthologies • Laurence Olivier Award • Lily Allen • Peep Show • shirley jackson • stoker award • the battersea poltergiest • the fash show • The Fervour • the pan book of horror • Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke • Uncanny • When Things Get Dark
• ISBN-10: 1-80336-752-0 / 1803367520
• ISBN-13: 978-1-80336-752-1 / 9781803367521