New Monsters

NEW MONSTERS Raw Stories by Joshua Rex Weird House Press First eBook Edition © 2023 No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission. Epigraph credit in the story “The Rent” Cronin, Claire. “Feel This.” Bloodless. Orindal Records, 2021. Stories Previously Published “The Trespasser,” Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour (Scarlet Galleon Press, 2016) “The Master’s Duty,” The Literary Hatchet, Issue 13 (Pear Tree Press, 2015) “Homecoming,” Nightscript 8 (Chthonic Matter/C.M. Muller, 2022) “Life Blood,” Death Throes Webzine #1 (Death Throes Publishing, 2013) “The Black Skeleton,” Tales to Terrify, Episode 195 “The White Boy,” Wrapped in White: Thirteen Tales of Ghosts, Spectres, and Spirits (Sekhmet Press, 2014) All other stories original to the collection. Text © 2013-2023 Joshua Rex Cover art © 2023 by Luke Spooner Editor & Publisher, Joe Morey Interior and cover design by Cyrus Wraith Walker Weird House Press Central Point, OR 97502 www.weirdhousepress.com TABLE OF CONTENTS The Blue Meat The Squatter The Betrothed The Trespasser Dreams in the Furman House The Goliath The Rent The Master’s Duty Homecoming Life Blood Death, in the Present Tense This, the Body The Black Skeleton The White Boy Lazard’s Chronicle Acknowledgments About Joshua Rex About Luke Spooner THE BLUE MEAT They were starving, and had already buried three of their lot of nine in the semi-cleared land—frozen now hard as stone. They had come to the interior (too deep, too far) impelled by the abundance of wood, and the potential of establishing a logging business that would, through the exportation of lumber back to the motherland, yield great profits. The endless acres of trees tall as towers were the source, and the rapidly-running streams the facilitator. But the waterways had slowed and congealed during the cold months, and the connecting vessels that transported the felled stock between the family’s nascent mill and town thusly ceased their voyages. The family, however, did not freeze—at least not literally, for the fuel for fire was in abundance, though things to cook over it were decidedly wanting. There had been upon their arrival in the early spring, a wealth of foodstuffs unlike anything they had encountered back home. Acres of wild strawberries; persimmons that hung like ornaments from the overburdened boughs; Indian corn that the natives had taught them to cultivate; flocks of fowl dark as storm clouds that covered the sun. And on land, flocks of turkeys that moved like phalanxes through the dense forest. The family had enjoyed this bounty, and had been industrious in their attempts in preserving much of it for the Long Months. But they were newcomers, town-dwellers in the Old World and unskilled in the ways of rugged life. The many pamphlets the family read previous to the journey had provided some essential knowledge and recommendations concerning what to anticipate in the great uncharted wilds whereto they were journeying, but these were too cursory in their admonishments regarding the provisions and preparations one must make, and the bleak and grinding hardship one would encounter in such raw country. In short, there was, alas, too much optimism communicated in said pages—a sentiment readily absorbed by a people weary of restriction, and eager to establish their own religious and financial independence in a New World. And another error: they had left the town, had exhibited too much hubris in their decision to settle beyond a reasonable reach of aid. The overland journey would take from their present position to the nearest “trading post” (merely a defense tower to project against native attacks) a fortnight, and the closest village twice that distance. Even a reduced crew of father and eldest son would without adequate provisions fail to make it a few days from their isolated cabin. Two of their three horses had perished during a span of below-freezing days, the bodies scavenged by wolves while the family slept. The last had suffered grave wounds in a separate attack, during which the father, in order to scare off the rangy pack, spent much of the scant ammunition for their only matchlock musket. When it became clear that the horse would not live, they slaughtered and ate it. Their stores by this point—not quite the end of January—were exhausted and so they began to forage—Mother, Grace (nine), and Bethany (seven) in the dense, silent forest, while Father, Thomas (fifteen) and Chadwick (eleven) stalked the same for anything that moved. Nothing did, save for themselves and the stark branches. By day they did this, and by evening they sat silently around their hearty blaze, suffering together in their inanition and each dreaming of pies or mutton, fruits and stews and the grounding scent of baking bread. Continuously they queried their God for help, for mercy, but He answered not. Six days after the end of their provisions, they ate the shoe leather of their earlier departed dead. A week later the Father suggested they unearth these dead: “ …used to sustain their living brethren, it will not be seen by God as wicked,” he declared. The Mother protested vociferously, with success, though she was not able to prevent them acting when Bethany was subsequently called back to her Maker. Despite the Mother’s pleading, the Father refused to bury her, and that very same evening he, the boys, and Grace, gathered in a grim circle (of which the Mother was not a member) and partook in the flesh of their own. When this transient sustenance was exhausted, eyes turned to the Mother. Waiting eyes—for she was ill, cadaverous, and no longer rose from the bed. When the end came for her, five days after they had consumed the last of the bone broth derived from the remains of Bethany, there was this time no debate amongst them of the absolute