HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

one that didn’t make sense—that they were dead while committing
the theft.
“Be discreet,” she said, just as I was about to leave. “You
understand how precarious my situation is.”
“Of course, Venerable Mistress. I won’t say a word.”
I left the crackling of the fire and the oaken chaise behind,
and walked along the corridor, back to the entrance. This place
did not fill me with trepidation any longer—the air of lonely
neglect made me feel sorry for her, despite the Areti’s bloody
reputation. I liked to think that my sympathy was not contaminated
by the promise of a paycheck.
/ne had to be careful in the deaders’ town, and I
watched my step, even though I had connections there.
The inhabitants were not violent by nature, but protective
of what little lives they had. I prepared myself for the stench
by putting a generous dollop of wintergreen ointment under my
nose, and stowed the can in my pocket. Abiding the old habits, I
waited for the nightfall, to sneak in under the cover of darkness.
The moment my foot touched the soft moss that grew
through the cracks in wooden pavements, I realized that I was
foolish—deaders did not sleep, and night made no difference.
I heard the ice merchants calling in high voices, and the scraping
of their trunks full of green translucent chunks of ice as
they pulled them by the ropes.
I kept close to the buildings, and hid my face in the collar
of my jacket. A few passersby did not seem to notice me, as they
shambled along. Jas, the deader I was going to see lived well
away from the border of the alivers; it wasn’t the first time that
I visited him, but the gravity of my task made me feel ill at ease.
I saw his house, recognizable because of the brick-red
shutters, and sped up my steps. The houses seemed superfluous—if
it wasn’t for the need to contain the cold, the deaders
could’ve just as easily lived outside, shambled along whatever
streets, forests or valleys they chose. But they kept to the town,
nestled inside in the protective cocoon of ice, trying to slow
their decay. Couldn’t say I blamed them.
I passed a white house, with a small courtyard and a garden
in front of it, and paused. One did not see decorations in
these parts too often. And I also saw a young girl in the yard.
Unaware that anyone was watching, she hummed to herself,
and practiced her dance steps. She must’ve died just recently—
her skin was pale but whole, and her downy hair blew about her
thin face as she twirled with her arms raised. I didn’t know
exactly what happens after death, but I noticed that it affected
coordination; the girl stumbled, and almost fell over.
Stubbornly, she steadied herself, and started on sidesteps.
She noticed me watching, and gasped. In her fright, she
bolted away, running straight into a gatepost. It would’ve been
comical if the impact wasn’t so great—it threw her backwards,
and she landed on her rump.
I swung the gates open, and helped her up. “I’m so sorry,”
I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just stopped to watch—
you dance very prettily.”
She sniffed. “Do I have a bruise?”
I nodded. An angry purple spot was spreading across her
white forehead.
She gave a little cry and whimpered. Dead didn’t weep, but
there was a phlegmy rattle deep in her chest.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just a bruise.”
Her mouth curled downwards. “You don’t understand.
It’ll never heal.”
I knew that she was right, and felt wretched. I didn’t mean
to shorten her time, I didn’t want to speed up her decay.
She finally looked at me. “It’s not your fault. It was an accident.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“You’re an aliver. What are you doing here?”
“I came to see your neighbor,” I said. “The one who lives
in that house.”
“I know him. I think. A tall young man, right?”
“Yes, that’s the one. I guess I’d best be going.”
“Why do you want to see him?” I was certain now that she
hadn’t been among the dead for long—she asked too many
questions. The deaders were usually more reserved, less curious.
Of course I wasn’t going to tell her the exact truth; but I
wasn’t going to lie either, not after I hurt her. “He’s my brother,”
I said. “Used to be, I mean.”
Her mouth opened in awe. “And you still see him?”
“Why not?”
“No one else does.”
She was right, of course. I opened the gate, all the while
feeling her curious stare at the back of my neck. Before I
stepped into the street, I turned to face her again. “I know. The
alivers prefer not to think about the folks here. And I can’t stop
thinking about them… you.”
I knocked on the dingy, peeling door of the house with red
shutters. It gave under my knuckles, and I stepped inside. My
teeth started chattering as soon as I crossed the threshold.
“It’s you,” Jas said.
“It’s me. How are you?”
He sat slouching on the floor, his back propped against an
ice chest. It was half-full of dirty water, and pellucid ice shards.
He had changed little since last I saw him—perhaps a bit more
decay darkening the skin around his eyes and on his temples,
perhaps more sinking around his mouth; but he was still in
good shape—as good as one can expect after ten years of
death. “All right, I suppose. You?”
“Same.” I sat by the door, the warmest spot of this oneroom
house. “Want me to fetch an ice merchant for you?”
“Nah. What do you want?”
I gave a laugh that sounded unconvincing even to me. “Do
I need a reason to see you?”
He coughed, and it sounded like something came loose in
his chest with a sickening tear of wet tissue. “Nah. But you usually
have one. I’m not as dull as you think.”
“I don’t think you’re dull. You’re right; I do have a question.
I’m looking for two deaders—new ones. One is tall and
dark, has only one hand. The other is medium height, light hair,
no beard. Young.”
The ruin that was my brother nodded. “I know them. Still,
it wouldn’t kill you to come and just visit.”
“I didn’t think you wanted me to. Every time I come you
act like you don’t want me here.”
H .P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R 15