Art doesn’t so much mimic reality as morph, stretch, and bewitch it. The so-called rabbit holes, the night thoughts, the stray bits we dismiss, the teeming multiplicity of various “realities” – in the coming months, the Action Books Strange Fiction Series will showcase texts that delve into such zones. The world is always waiting to be more haunted.
To Those Who Follow
To Those Who Follow,
It is with great lament and misfortune that we are forced to write to you, rather than greet you ourselves personally. Our culture bears a strict custom of never turning around while traveling once we have begun. Otherwise, we would have already proudly introduced ourselves. Alas, it is something we are unwilling to change. But we hope you and your party (for we have heard your footfalls during the night and know from experience that they are those of many) are faring well on your journey. We too have a destination ahead, although we do not precisely know where. We are following a group similar to ourselves, that bears the same strict custom of never turning around once their journey has begun. They too are followers, so it seems. The information that trickles down is quite scarce but when they can they leave small notes for us like this one informing us of their progress. We are approaching a crossroads and, to let the horses rest, have decided to make camp in a small field to the left of the fork in the road, as we’re unsure of the proper route to take. Perhaps you’ll catch up to us during the night, as the sun now wanes. I’m attaching this to a sturdy poplar in hopes it won’t be missed.
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To Those Who Lead,
The ashes of your fire are still warm. Dew, fallen during the few hours of dusk, let us trace your horse’s prints in the mud. It seems you’ve gone right, so we’ve taken the right road as well. I’m sure it goes without saying that we’re unsure of when you’ll receive this, but we are trying to find a way to reach you that adheres to your customs. For now, we have sent a sentry forward to post the note somewhere along the way in hopes that you’ll find it along the roadside while moving forward. Gian is trying to train his doves to carry notes but they all just seem to fly away and never return. There is a deviant air about this place; surely, you’ve felt it. We too are leaders with our own group of followers but are pressed for time and can’t, under any circumstances, wait for them simply out of mere curiosity. Unfortunately, they never seem to be able to catch up.
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To Those Who Follow Those Who Lead,
One of our sentries was murdered in the night. A youth found him slumped against a tree by the creek with his throat slit. Unsure if it was those who lead or those who follow we’re taking every necessary precaution. If it is a warning, it is well understood. Why was such an act of cruelty necessary? Moving forward, we’ll tread lightly. It hasn’t rained in days and the cart track in the dry, cracked mud of the road has been all but obliterated. Yet we’re forced to continue, as is our custom once begun. Food is scarce and we fear that if we cannot catch up soon, we’ll be forced to eat the horses. Game in this barren land remains scarce. Perhaps if you could send word ahead (or behind rather), or drop a package of some small vittles to help feed the children? We are unaware of your circumstances. In all likelihood, you’re facing the same dilemma. The only glimmer of hope is that occasionally, far off in the distance, we smell the faint odor of lingering wood fires; the sweet pungent scent of pine urges us forward. But there is much restlessness among camp. The elders among us speak of some foreboding menace, but most ascribe their mutterings to old-world superstition, nothing more.
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To Those Who Follow,
We are horribly lost. The ruts in the road have long since gone and all that remains is an impenetrable dust that cloaks the air, parching our throats as we travel. Water, like food, has become scarce. We’ve been forced to ration ourselves to a few small gulps in the morning and at night, to choke down the dwindling hardtack that serves as our only remaining sustenance. The sun beats down harshly through the haze. On the horizon, when the dust occasionally clears, all that can be gleaned is an immense landscape of flat, barren hardpan. Starting out each day has become more baneful than you might imagine; the children are refusing to walk—some of the stronger men have taken to carrying what remaining supplies we have to unburden the horses so the children might rest as we travel. We are in need of help but are afraid these missals are not reaching you as they should. With some trepidation, we’ve sent along one of our stoutest men to try and reach you by traveling alongside where the trail curves in the distance, in effort to observe your customs and meet you head on.
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To Those Who Lead,
Yesterday morning one of our sentries was searching for food and came upon the body of a man, slumped haphazardly against a tree a few feet away from a dried creek bed. He was badly wounded. We could do nothing for him but watch him die. If it was one of your pack, we are gravely sorry. Who could have done such a thing, and why? We do not know. The man had nothing save for an empty wineskin looped around his shoulders and a blackened bread heel. One of the elders checked his pulse after he’d grown silent and we decided to continue on, though it pained us not to have given him a proper burial. Perhaps the body will serve as a warning to those who follow that there is danger along the path. We no longer know who to trust or whether we are going around in circles. It’s likely there’s no one ahead or behind us any longer, but we dare not turn back. We know fear and danger lurks in both directions but all we can do is move forward, though our progress has significantly slowed.
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To Those Who Follow Those Who Lead,
Things have become rather dire. One of our group has begun coughing up thick, black blood. A doctor among us says she hasn’t much time left. We have halted our progress to let things take their course, in hopes that her suffering is not too great. She has lapsed into a feverish unconsciousness, occasionally uttering wracking sobs and coughing up the black blood, which seems to grow thicker, bearing an oily sheen the doctor can only chalk up to the dust in the air; the dust that now covers our bodies like a cloak, our sweat beading down in trails of muddy tears. We look more like primordial monsters than the human beings we are. The rest of the camp is extremely disheartened. Many wander about aimlessly. We ran out of water days ago and have taken to drinking the brackish mud that lies sparsely along the roadside. But it’s no more than a remembrance of water and makes us horribly ill. Some have chosen to abstain, but they appear the worse for it. It doesn’t seem to matter much anymore. We are sending along the only one of our group with enough energy to walk steadily to deliver this message. We beg you, turn! Forsake your customs if only once and help us, if you remain alive.
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To Those Who Follow,
We’ve come across the remains of a man slumped against a tree. He is badly decomposed, skin torn by whatever unseen predators exist in this harsh, inhospitable land. Rather than continue on the road, which seems dangerous under the circumstances, we’ve chosen to travel through the forest. The horses are having a hard time of it. In some places the thorny bushes grow as thick as a maze and tower above our heads. We’re forced to spend much time spreading about until we can find some sort of opening, or travel along the border until the spiny undergrowth clears. We are all so weak that the remaining hardtack does us little good. The children are tempted to pick the berries that grow amidst the thorns, although they’re not fit to eat; several have become ill and severely dehydrated from doing so. The men collect moss as we travel. We have a little remaining salt that we couple it with to turn into a stew to soften the hardened biscuits. But the hunger returns as soon as it’s left us. The men are talking of slaughtering one of the horses. They have become more of a burden than we imagined; it will be difficult for the children, however, as all of them have been named.
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To Those Who Lead,
It seems rather senseless to continue writing, but perhaps someone will find one of these notes upon the roadside and bring news to others of the perilous path ahead. In a sense, it has become more of a habit than a necessity to relate the dire situation in which we now find ourselves. Last night, one of our group was murdered. We found him by the nearby tree line, hastily covered with underbrush, limbs hacked off. There was a lingering smell of woodfire in the morning air. Several men are missing, and we fear the worst. We’ve eaten the horses and have now taken to using the bones to make soup, roasting them upon a small fire of twigs and scrub before placing them in a bowl of water upon the coals to boil. Our frames have withered, and our tattered clothes look as if the slightest gust of wind might diminish them entirely. At dusk, one of the missing men returned, raving madly that a group had overtaken them in the woods while they searched for food. But the bloody hatchet he held gave little credence to his story and with the last of our strength, we wrested it out of his hand and subdued him, tying him tightly to a nearby tree, where he continues raving madly. After this incident, the elders among us have decided to continue our journey at first light, rather than face the madness that awaits if we remain stationary.
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To Those Who Follow Those Who Lead,
We’ve come upon a clearing that seems to at one time or another have served as a road. Each step is an arduous labor. There’s a large cloud of dust on the horizon that can only mean one thing: travelers. We’re following again. But the clouds seem to be moving toward us, rather than away. We’ve chosen to halt for a time. As the dust cloud approaches, we can make out vague forms moving through the haze. Several of our men have moved to the front of our group and loaded their rifles with the last remaining ammo should the other party prove hostile. Several hours have passed and the dust on the horizon has settled. It’s been decided one of the men should move forward to greet them and discontinue this painful stalemate. Some of the other men are following with their rifles a hundred yards or so behind. We watch their approach warily. They are greeted by no calls of “hallo,” or anything at all from the other group. Had we been following them all along, or have some interlopers squeezed their way into our path? The wind has begun to pick up again. Its growing intensity has made visibility rather scarce. The ones sent ahead have returned, the leader saying they got within screaming distance but feared going any further. It was entirely understandable under the circumstances and they were questioned no further, retaking their place in the front. We chose to wait until the wind died down. When it did, it revealed a horrific visage: a group covered head to toe in cracked mud, their dirty tattered rags flapping like charnel flags in the wind. They were as thin as skeletons, skin desiccated with large, fungal growths protruding and curling away from their bodies like great horns. They dropped down on all fours like beasts. All our guns went off simultaneously but it did little good. They were too fast and too many. Men and women ran and hid but were quickly drawn from the underbrush kicking and screaming. Only then did we realize it had been a mistake to follow them.
Daniel Beauregard lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of places including Propagule, ergot, Selffuck, New South, Burning House Press, Alwayscrashing, and elsewhere. He’s the author of numerous chapbooks of poetry, most recently Total Darkness Means No Notifications (Anstruther Press) and Anatomizing Uncanny Alley (Selffuck). His full-length collection of poetry, You Alive Home Yet? is available from Schism Neuronics and his splatterpunk novel Blood Pudding from World Castle Publishing. His post-apocalyptic novella The Mother of Flowers is forthcoming from The Wild Rose Press, and his first collection of short stories, Funeralopolis (Orbis Tertius Press) and existential horror novel Lord of Chaos (Erratum Press) will be published in 2023. Daniel is also co-founder of OOMPH!, a small press devoted to the publication of poetry and prose in translation. He can be reached @666ICECREAM.