The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM) Read online

  The Bestiarum Vocabulum

  Compiled & Edited

  By

  Dean M. Drinkel

  Copyright © 2013 Western Legends Press

  All rights reserved.

  PRINT ISBN-13: 978-1494375225

  PRINT ISBN-10: 1494375222

  FIRST DIGITAL EDITION

  The Bestiarum Vocabulum

  Copyright © 2013

  and Western Legends Press

  Cover Artwork: © 2013 James Powell

  Used with permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places are either invented by the authors or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real events, locations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Or so the State would have you believe.

  Book Cover Design

  By D.T. Griffith

  Interior Design

  By Stephen Tallarico

  Copy Editing

  By Joseph A. Perry, Dean M. Drinkel

  Western Legends Logo Created by D.T. Griffith

  All rights reserved.

  PRINT ISBN-13: 978-1494375225

  PRINT ISBN-10: 1494375222

  Western Legends Press

  P.O. BOX 1226

  Hollywood, California 90078

  www.facebook.com/WesternLegendsPress

  For

  VR and SJR

  “To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?”

  - Arthur Rimbaud, The Drunken Boat

  Contents

  Introduction by Dean M. Drinkel

  A Is For Amon by Emile-Louis Tomas Jouvet

  B Is For The Black Hound of Newgate by Jan Edwards

  C Is For Chupacraba by Martin Roberts

  D Is for Djinn by Lisa Jenkins

  E Is For Ellerwoman by Peter Mark May

  F Is For Fenrir by Raven Dane

  G Is For Golem by Joe Mynhardt

  H Is For Helicoprion by Rakie Keig

  I is for Imp by D.T. Griffith

  J Is For Jack In Irons by Mark West

  K Is For Kappa by John Palisano

  L is for Lamia by Amelia Mangan

  M Is For Mara by Robert W. Walker

  N Is for Nimerigar by Christine Dougherty

  O Is For Onokentaura by Tim Dry

  P Is For Púca by Nerine Dorman

  Q Is For Qareen by Dean M. Drinkel

  R Is For Rusalka by Christine Morgan

  S Is For Succubae by Tej Turner

  T Is For Tsul ‘Kalu by D.M. Youngquist

  U Is For Ubume by Jason D. Brawn

  V Is for Veltis by Lily Childs

  W Is For Werewolf by Andy Taylor

  X Is for XeXeu by Sandra Norval

  Y Is For Yule Lads by Adrian Chamberlin

  Z Is For Zulu Zombies by Barbie Wilde

  Biographies

  Acknowledgements

  Editor’s Note

  Please note, in the stories that follow, the Author’s original spelling and intention has been retained depending upon their nationality (ie through / thru etc).

  Introduction

  “There’s a beast and we all feed it...”

  Spring 2013 and we were heading towards publication of The Demonologia Biblica, I discussed an idea with Western Legends founder, John Palisano, of making that book the first in of a series of anthologies to be known as the Tres Librorum Prohibitorum.

  There were to be three in all; the Biblica as the first with the second (of which you are now holding) called The Bestiarum Vocabulum.

  John brought into my vision and rapidly agreed.

  A book about beasts? Wonderful...

  ...of course, as you turn the following pages, you will rapidly discover that the brilliant stories my fellow contributors have created are about both physical beasts, metaphysical beasts and some which are altogether...quite different!

  The original and mythical Demonologia Biblica was once in the hands of the great Count Alessandro Di Cagliostro but was lost to a fire at the Chateau of Versailles in the late eighteenth century.

  We have here attempted to create a modern version; 26 stories by 26 unique voices. Cagliostro used his for occultist means...I’m not recommending you do the same for our Bestiarum but why not give it a shot, you never know what you might conjure up...but please don’t coming running to us if it bites back!

  As I was putting the final touches to this anthology together, one night whilst having a couple of drinks, a friend was talking to me about a new book which had just been released, telling the behind-the-scenes story of Guillermo del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth.

  There was a quote she couldn’t quite remember exactly but it went somewhere along the lines of: “beasts are not always horrible monsters...at the heart of them there’s something all too human.”

  How true that is, as we hope you are about to find out.

  A massive thank you from us all to purchasing and reading this book, we really do appreciate it. If you haven’t yet checked out the Biblica then do so right away and watch out for the final book in the series, to be released, Spring 2014.

  We wish you well.

  Dean M Drinkel

  A Is For Amon

  Le Diable Au Corps

  Emile-Louis Tomas Jouvet

  SO MUCH FUCKING NOISE!

  Not only the groans of the dying and nearly dead, but the din of those fucking cunting trumpets.

  He smashed his head into the mirror. Once. Twice. Three times. Until the glass shattered and the screams were suffocated by silence.

  A large welt appeared on his forehead, but as he looked down at himself, what did it matter? Just one of legion: many wounds covered his naked body.

  The images that stared back at him in the broken fragments, were of horror in its purest form. His eyes: red, not only from the blood that smeared his face but from the sickness within, dying to be released.

  The reason?

  His family: his wife, his two beloved boys, lying in the bedroom next-door, stripped of flesh as they were of clothes.

  Hacked to pieces. A bloodlust which had known no bounds. Relentless.

  The tears flowed once but...but...

  ...he dropped the axe, smashing one of the black floor tiles. He ran his foot over it, slicing his toe in the process: exquisite pain.

  He stepped into the bath, bloody footprints on the white porcelain surface. Turned on the taps. He caught his reflection again: the blood, the gore, the viscera, that masked his face; the dark sweat and other bodily fluids that matted his hair. He scratched at that deep bite on his arm – the final gift his younger son had given him, he would cherish it forever.

  He howled. Tore at his flesh. Punched his fist over and over again into the wall until his knuckles turned white – but it did no good, it wasn’t going to change things.

  They were dead...he was a monster. A wild beast.

  He knelt down, some of the water splashed over the sides. It was scorching, not that he cared. His mind elsewhere. He slipped onto his back, fascinated as the dirt, the dust, the splatterings of what was once his family were washed away by the clean, transparent water.

  He mumbled an Ave Maria as he anointed himself with his own grease, startled by the bites that covered his torso, his arms, his thighs – some he knew, but the others? The one there on his neck for instance – what the fuck had caused that? />
  He turned off the tap, picked up the white scented soap from the dish, then the sponge, scrubbed at his flesh. Well aware that whatever he removed would only be skin deep. The real pain, the real agony, went further than any detergent could eradicate.

  The house was still. Two wild dogs lay at the bottom of the stairs, hung, drawn and quartered. An urge between his legs. Did he find their deaths erotic?

  His circumcised penis stuck up from the water. That too was covered in the dead meat of his wife. He grabbed it, teased the head with his thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t going to take long, his senses were over-heightened. His balls tightened – only a matter of seconds before he spurted – he lay completely still as the semen flowed but then covered his ears...

  ...THOSE FUCKING TRUMPETS.

  Whatever he tried, he couldn’t block them out – they were right there inside his head, vibrating around his brain, his bones, his very soul.

  Out of control, his cock pumped the spunk into the water – the sounds in his skull subsided...

  What the hell?

  A noise. Someone downstairs. But who? Everyone that mattered was dead.

  There it was again. Not his imagination. They’d crashed into a chair or table, knocking it over.

  He jumped out of the bath – no towel to hide his nakedness – did that matter anymore?

  Tip-toeing to the top of the stairs, past the room where his family lay, he pulled the door shut. They didn’t need to see this.

  As quiet as possible, he headed down. He was tense. His muscles ached, particularly his arms, his legs, he tried rubbing some life back into them.

  Another crash from the kitchen.

  He knew he hadn't left the back door ajar, they must have broken the lock. A drawer was opened, then another, then another, the contents searched through, then slammed shut. He searched for a weapon but nothing obvious to hand - he was annoyed with himself, he should have brought the axe. All he had was the element of surprise and he wondered how far that was going to get him.

  He sauntered across the hallway carpet...what about that? He picked up a vase (of his wife's favourite flowers: mimosas - now decayed), tipped them and the putrid water onto the floor.

  He crept to the kitchen door, took a deep breath, calmed himself...what the fuck? He wasn’t ready. He hadn't prepared himself properly for this. His stomach full of butterflies. He could see that damn thing, in the centre of the room, stumbling into the pots and pans hanging from the ceiling...the whole nest came crashing down to the ground.

  The thing (he knew its name, but saying it, gave it power) stuck its nose in the air, inhaled. It smelt him.

  There was nothing to lose. He barged into the room, screaming as loud as possible, for the shock value if nothing else.

  The beast opened its mouth, it spoke with the blast of a thousand trumpets. He fell to his knees, dropping the vase, covering his ears with his hands.

  "Shut the fuck up!" The man shouted, surprisingly the fiend did as it was commanded. He climbed to his feet, removed his hands from his ears, caught his breath. "Christ, you stink." Which was true, this thing, this creature, this abomination, stunk to high heaven - but not surprising considering what it was and where it came from.

  "Did I disturb you?" The voice: course, guttural.

  Like him, the beast was naked. But whilst there was a very large penis and two orb-like genitals hanging between its legs, they were the only similarities to humanity that it had.

  The head was that of a wolf, yet it had a serpent's tail, its skin scaly. Claws instead of hands and feet. As it moved, several scales floated to the floor like blackened petals caught in a gentle breeze.

  It leant back, let out a terrifying shriek, chilling the man to the bone (too many childhood memories). He shook his head, time to be strong.

  "What do you want?" He asked.

  "You know what I have come for."

  "No. Things are different.” The man replied.

  The beast unfurled one large gnarled claw. "Your wounds suggest otherwise...things haven't changed too much, the weapons perhaps..."

  It continued to pontificate. About this, about that...about the man's father, about his son, about him, though the sound of a lone trumpet swiftly drowned out everything it was saying.

  "This isn’t how it should end." He muttered. The noise was unbearable. Blood dripped from his nose, his ears.

  It was time to silence those damn trumpets forever.

  He kicked the vase against the table leg, breaking it into several shards.

  "Don't you fucking dare!" The beast warned, its voice more human now, its skin cracking, revealing the true flesh underneath.

  "And who’s going to stop me? You? I don't think so."

  A moment of pure clarity. Time slowed down, almost to a standstill.

  Before the creature could react, he picked up a fragment of the vase, put it to his neck. And just as the thing launched itself across the kitchen, he dragged it across his neck, tearing open his jugular.

  Like a scarlet waterfall, the blood gushed.

  His eyes rolled into the back of his head, his legs gave way and he fell backwards into the abyss of darkness, which welcomed him with open arms like a long lost son.

  ***

  Sixteen Years Earlier, the Chabrières forest, just south of Gueret, France

  The shadows and tall trees.

  Vincent stood at the edge of the forest. His father had led him here but that was as far as he was willing to go on his own. The darkness of the trees always frightened him.

  “Papa?” He called, but no answer. He shouted again and again.

  It must have been quite a while that he’d been alone. The sun was setting and the cold had given him goose-bumps. He was shivering, his teeth chattered.

  The echo of the trumpets ghosted around his skull and no matter what he did, he couldn’t find where they were coming from. He shook his head and eventually they subsided.

  Why was he there?

  His grandfather, Jean-Paul, had vanished three months earlier. It’d been said he’d been walking the grounds when something (or someone) had drawn him into the forest. That was the last anyone had seen of him. A search party had been deployed (made up of local villagers) but they didn’t find anything either.

  Vincent’s father refused to give up hope, believing that eventually he would return. Every day he’d enter the forest with a torch, an axe and a small bag of offerings for the trees. He firmly believed that Jean-Paul had been kidnapped but that one day they would give him back.

  However, Vincent wasn’t convinced. He didn’t believe that his grandfather had been anywhere near the forest but stranger still was that when his father returned in those early hours, he looked worse for wear, was alone, covered in cuts and bruises, his skin ruddy, stumbling and slurring his words. Where had he been and what had he been up to?

  Today was supposed to be special.

  It was Vincent’s sixteenth birthday, he had vowed he would walk the trees with his dad. But, the closer he’d got to the forest, his heart pumped faster, the sound of those trumpets in his ears, he knew he couldn’t keep that promise – especially as his father chosen today to tell him the story of a hideous creature that lived in the forest and whom, as far as his father was concerned colluded with the trees. His papa had always told a good story but there was something particularly frightening about this tale. It seemed he had been right to stay clear of the trees.

  His dad called it the Amon.

  The closer they came to the forest, the more terrifying Vincent’s father’s images became. It was a foul, despicable creature, who thought nothing of killing boys Vincent’s age. Particularly Vincent’s age.

  But, as much as he was shit-scared by this monster there was something intriguing about it: Vincent needed to face his fear.

  Yes, he was still frightened, but his curiosity got the better of him.

  One deep breath and he entered the forest.

  ***

  Wh
en they found him, Vincent was barely breathing.

  They carried him back to the house where the police were waiting. He’d been missing three days. He was in a severe state of shock. The local doctor demanded he be taken to hospital immediately – especially because of that nasty bite below his ribcage. Actually, he was adamant that the wound needed tending before it went septic – but once he’d been pushed out the door (soon followed by the police) by Vincent’s father, there was no choice but to keep silent. He did warn them he would return the next day however.

  Father rushed to son’s bedside, pulled back the duvet. He looked rampant, possessed, frothing at the mouth.

  “The Amon has you now son.” Chilling words. “You’re marked by the beast. There’s no escape.”

  He lifted his shirt, pointed to a similar looking scar on his own chest. “This was my first. There will be others. You may come to enjoy them after time.” He turned, his wife was standing at the door.

  “Why are you filling his head with all that mumbo-jumbo? You’re scaring him half to death. He should be at the hospital.”

  He threw the cover back over his son. “You’re a man now Vincent. You don’t need any hospital, I’ll look after you. We’re the same you and I, always remember that.”

  He went to the door. Eventually, she stood aside, followed him out, dragged the door closed behind them.

  Vincent closed his eyes. He tried to remember what had happened after he had stepped into the trees, but his mind was completely blank…except for…no, that didn’t seem right (he had an image of his father, his grandfather and something else but he couldn’t get the focus he needed to remember properly), so he ignored it.

  Through the walls he could hear his parents arguing, fighting, shouting, screaming at each other. He turned over, put the pillow over his ears.

  His dad was right – he had changed. It wasn’t just the Amon’s bite – it was something altogether different. He felt more powerful, more than just a boy – he was a man. And, he was going to make it his mission to hunt down this beast and confront it before any more damage could be inflicted.