By Forestleg
See now, the vast, bleary dark of the Lunar sky at dawn.
She is sundered in twain—a crackling smile seeping with purplish lightening. From the non-Euclidean outer-black beyond that grinning tear, a flotilla leers. The ships are prow-headed with hideous skulls several sizes greater than the Lunar crater-lakes; ribs of alien ivory reenforce their bloated bellies. War horns are sounded from the vessels, ringing as the braying of dying angels. Bells ring in the opalescent cities on Luna. Blue flags ripple like running horses in the growing wind. Lunar guards in lunar plate brandish lunar spears and go to die in the light of the sun. They are dots of quicksilver, gone red as they die. Dawn comes, and war.
* * *
She was not noble-born. This had saved her.
The alien forces, seeking swift victory, had targeted the royal citadel first. Their strange, skeletal ships had shorn down from some separate solar system, and bombarded the ancient, towering keep of Myra Daun. Myra Daun, the spear-head. Myra Daun, the shimmering summit. Myra Daun, the ancient, royal citadel where Esserad, Queen, had kept her diamond throne. Now the ancient tower lay in smoldering ruins, and the head of Esserad lay besmirched atop the blood-blackened pike which had once been her spear. The invaders had been quick to occupy the royal quarter, building there a great, boney flat of organic metal upon which their own commander could dock.
Kiean Nyst, daughter of a widower fisherman, gazed from the teardrop of her bedroom window in horror and wonder. In her nine years of life, she had seen the glassy red ships of the Venusians, the sun-sail barges of distant Andromeda, the black hulls of deep-space sloops. They had come, glistening from the cosmos, to the grand docks bearing all manner of goods, news, and strange life. Her father had taken her often to watch the peaceful ships bob down to land, and Kiean had marveled at them. None of those ships—not even the great, cork-screw behemoths the last earthlings rode—could rival the vastness of the invaders’ war-vessels.
They were grim and red—painted by the bloods of a thousand conquests—and they piped war dirges from their trans-organic bellows. Beams of ray blast and neutrino artillery shone in the dim dawn, glittering like fairy fire over the short, pale buildings of Lunar Maximo. The air reeked of ozone-clap and fire.
Maximo had sat in peace, terraced over the grey-rock planes, for two and a half thousand years. Now its blue pools and hanging gardens flicked with flame. Screams, las-fire, and the clattering of arms mingled into a rushing groan. Warps in space time sucked at the grey air where the invaders teleported their ground-troops. Kiean, her trans-human eyes keened by generations of Lunar mutation, could spy them from afar. They were tall and fell as dark mountains, and thin as burnt trees. Their armor did not shine, but their plasma scimitars gleamed scarlet. Four arms each they had, and many fingers on each hand. They had no eyes, for they were dead and walked in silence. Arrays of small sensors blinked across the downturned crescent crests atop their helms.
Kiean watched the Lunar guard—their armor and spears made of quicksilver—face the invaders in the streets. Fierce though the guards were, an age of peace had made them unaccustomed to battle. The invaders, bereft of all honor, marched on, piling the dead beneath their spiked toes. They flooded the streets—a grey sand, pushing through pale fingers—moving down from the royal quarters to slay the queenless subjects.
Below, the front door of the house was flung open. Footsteps followed.
“Kiean!” Her father entered her room, disheveled and sooty. “Come away from there! We must be gone.”
Her eyes—ebon through and through—were puffy, and tracks lay down her dark cheeks. Weaving dots of silver light—the marks of all Lunar children—were about her face, and they flickered uncertainly. She, sniffling, sat numb beside her window. About was the only room she’d ever truly loved. Her room. Origami made from Pluto-paper was strung, blue-hued and perfect, from the white ceiling. Her low, wide bed was a mess, and she nested in its navy folds, many stuffed compatriots stationed about her. A fluffy, black, manatoid creature she was especially fond of, was tucked in her shaking arms. Its button eyes stared at her father with an unknowing indifference.
He went and knelt beside her, taking her head into his hand. He smiled. “It is alright, my sweet moon-blossom. Everything will be alight. But we must go now, do you understand?”
Kiean sobbed. “I-I don’t want to go out there! Can’t we make a fort in here, papa? Like when the night-showers come?”
Her father, shaking his head, stood and took her hand. “No, Kiean. We must go. Please. When all is well, we will return.”
Though she was young, she knew those last words were a lie. Wiping her nose, she stood. She was strong—father had said so many times. She would be so now. She would be strong for him.
“Brave, moon-blossom.” He smiled again. She felt stronger. “Come, put your shoes on.”
“Can I take Hado?” She raised the button-eyed manatoid. The toy had been her companion for longer than she could remember—parting with him would be like shearing her arm from her shoulder.
“Yes, but only Hado. We cannot carry much. Now, ple-”
ZIER-A-KOOM!
A shell of neutrino-fire fell on a nearby block.
Their home shook to its foundation. Kiean screamed; it felt like the very floor would open up and swallow her.
Without another word, Kiean’s father scooped her up and ran. She dangled, shoeless, in his hug, her ears ringing as another shell dropped. This time, a chunk of their home crumbled into a fine dust. Kiean, coughing, flailed and dropped Hado. Shrieking, she watched her beloved friend fall into the rubble, and disappear.
For a moment, she struggled to be free and save him.
Another explosion rent the morning. Fear overtaking her, she clung to her father’s chest.
Shutting her eyes, Kiean tried to push out the horror—to wake back in her navy nest. It was no use. She was trapped, now, in this wakeless nightmare. Keeping her eyes closed, she focused on the rhythmic beating of her father’s run. He did not slow. He could not. Pressing south down the trembling streets, to the outskirts of Lunar Maximo. Kiean heard his heart.
Doom-doom, doom-doom, doom-doom…
Above the roar of battle, the flotilla’s war-dirge shifted. From the meaty flutes of the scourge ships whined an indescribable noise like the scrapping of unseen fingers in remnant dream. The sound warped and shrieked, distorting through the speeches of a dozen odd peoples before narrowing into a thin mockery of the Lunar tongue. A cruel voice laughed from the horns, ringing down to every Lunar ear left living.
Kiean tried to ignore the sound, focusing on her father’s heartbeat.
Doom-doom, doom-doom, doom-brum…
“Harken,” said the voice, “and rejoice! People of the Earthen moon, you are blessed! For we have come from faaaaar away to meet you. From Angracar we have come…from Angracar the holy.”
Kiean flinched. Angracar! Angracar the red, Angracar the forbidden whose name she’d read in scary books. Old books she’d hardly understood, but which had filled her head with strange visions. Books she’d kept hidden from her father until she had gone to him, teary-eyed and afraid in the dead of night, admitting what she had done. Her father had taken her back to her room and lain on the floor beside her bed, assuring her that Angracar was far, far away. Angracar…dread Angracar…
Her father stumbled but did not fall. Slowing for a moment, he puffed and went on.
Doom-doom, doom-brum-bum-doom, do-doom…
“We have come,” said the voice, “to free you. And to share in the splendor of this most beautiful moon. This is the wish of Yug Nu-Shamin, Baron of Angracar and the Red City. He has sent unto you his wet nurse, Nana Hapwe, to be your new queen, and she, in turn, sets unto you her royal armies. Be not afraid of them! Be not afraid of them! They will rid you of your burdens, that you may become the foundations of her new kingdom!” The voice warbled, reversed, and began its speech anew. “Harken and rejoice!”
Kiean’s father slowed.
“Papa?”
“I have you, moon-blossom. We are almost away…” He groaned.
Kiean, opening her eyes, looked up and watched her father grit his teeth. She was aware, suddenly, of her father’s age. He was not old, though neither in his prime. And the years of labor and rearing his child alone had left a premature white in his black hair. He laughed—it was a pained sound.
“Shut your eyes, little moon-blossom…and think of happy things.” He, grimacing, pressed on.
Kiean found she could not shut her eyes again. All around, Lunar Maximo was aflame. The invaders had pressed into the trade and market quarters. People lay dead in the streets, their eyes glistening like black river stones in the growing blaze. Blood pooled about the pale cobble. Overhead, the flotilla loomed, blocking out the sun, leaving only a stray corner of long-dead Earth visible in the sky.
Doom-bum-brum-do-doom…
Her father pressed beyond the holy pools where the black turtles of Mare Spumans bathed still, ignorant of their oncoming doom. Beyond navy-canvased melon stands they passed, and the diamond fountains of southern Maximo. At last, they came to the edge of a place Kiean had visited many times, bearing flowers for her mother.
Lunar Maximo had only one cemetery, and the invaders had seen no need to attack it yet. As soon as they passed its sharp, black gates, silence fell. A hazy dome of translucent energy lay above the vast, dead field, blocking out the sounds of battle. Fine grass grew underfoot. Hundreds of thousands of graves—all pale, short pillars—dotted the hill, gleaming in the faint daylight like the ripples of a lake. In places, white-doored charnel mounds squatted.
Kiean’s father began to slow. His breath was uneven.
Doom-do, doom-uhrrr.
Gasping, Kiean’s father tensed, dropping her. Kiean, clattering to the grass, watched in horror as her father spasmed, frothing at his teeth. With a soft “nnnniiinnnggg”, he fell to his side, clutching at his chest.
“Papa!” She ran to him. “Papa!”
He coughed, clawing at his throat. A bluish tint was crossing his skin. With one shaking hand, he pointed at a nearby burial mound. A single word escaped his throat: “Hide.”
Kiean, grabbing her father’s shoulder, wept. “No, papa! Not without you! What’s wrong? What do I do!”
The word came sterner now, pushed out by the last strength he had. “HIDE!”
She obeyed. Bidden onward by some inner, fearless part that new to trust him. Weeping, she dashed to the mound and pried the door open. It creaked on ancient hinges. The fug of death seeped out. Kiean, standing on the precipice, gazed down into a nameless, noisome black in which she could name no object. What new horrors lay down in the mound, she could not say. Visions of pale hands swam in her head—illusions of specters and their inescapable halls. She could not do it…not alone.
Looking back over her shoulder, she saw her father. He was still, now. Still as stone in the grass.
Her eyes flicked to the horizon behind him, and all air left her. The invaders, more silent than the looming shade of the graves, were marching nigh.
With one last look at her father, Kiean stepped into the dark of the mound, shutting the door behind her.
* * *
It was a ponderous dark which met her.
The mound, far more voluminous than ever she had guessed, spanned on and down and on and down. She wandered for a time, hugging herself in the gloom. Her mind was racing too fast for her to catch. In just a few hours, everything she had ever known had been shorn away. Now, she strode: a woolless sheep in the under-dark of Lunar Maximo. At first, the silvery marks on her face provided some light. Before long—tired and hungry—her light died.
After an hour, she wondered how long she would need to hide. After two, she began to cry again and wished desperately for her father. Only, turning back the way she’d come, she found she could not retrace her steps. She could not find the door. She was lost.
Vast is the cemetery of Lunar Maximo, yet vaster its bleak belly. There, in tombs carved by inhuman hands, rest the bones of an ancient moon and an ancient time. A time when the Earth herself was young and ruled by tyrant lizards. Many ages beyond human count had passed since those first Lunar people had buried their dead. All that time, the ghosts of ancient Luna had waited. The lightless tombs wound like insectile warrens, down to the frozen core. Kiean pressed on, too frightened to stop.
Though she had no means to count the time, three full days passed before Kiean collapsed at last. Her bare feet were numb and cold to the touch. She, still in her nightgown, shivered on the invisible floor. Her stomach ached and a shrill tinnitus had crept into her eardrums, as if the darkness itself was pushing its fingers into her brain. Cupping her ears, she tried to stop the sound, but it only grew. HSSSSSSSSSSS…Like a snake. Like a snake in the dark.
Quivering, she forced herself not to cry. Though she was broken to the core, she feared what nameless things would be lured by her weeping. She wished desperately for her father, but not so she wouldn’t be alone. No, she knew in her gut that she was anything but alone.
She was aware of shapes on all sides, though she could not see them. They shambled, silently, beyond sight. Skulking, searching, stretching their long fingers wetly across the floor. Kiean twitched. Shrill wind pressed—a looming, formless thing hammering down on her in one, unbroken breath. It was chill. Her tinnitus grew louder…and louder.
Squeezing the sides of her head, she shut her eyes, but behind her lids were only flames and brilliant bursts of alien light. Maddened by the dark, she rose to her feet panting. Her eyes were wide now, wide and terrible. Hunger gnawed in her belly—thirst in her throat. Faces grinned from the dark, flashing before her wearied eyes. Gaunt faces bereft of eyes. She swiped pointlessly at them. The shapes danced about her, so quickly and recklessly that she was sure she could hear their feet flapping on the stone now. She stamped her own feet in reply.
“Go away,” she said. Her own voice frightened her.
The shapes whooped and hollered. Still the chill wind pushed. Still the faces popped from their lightless places.
She stamped her feet, brandished her fists. “Go away.”
Her ears thrummed and ached. Her head swam. All about the shapes pranced and the wind spun.
“GO AWAY!”
In a brilliant flash, the marks on her face lit up like mercury. Silver light shot out, almost as brilliant as the sun, and illuminated the chamber. Shadows fled from the light, their wet feet slipping as they barked madly away. The wind stopped. The tinnitus stopped. All was still.
Kiean swayed. “I…I said go…go away.”
She, collapsing, shut her eyes and drifted far away.
* * *
See now, the Lunar night, all starlit and clear. The dead earth, its tidal tether long-since severed from Luna, drifts in the cold of space—a brown, cracked jewel. Kiean, her knees to her chest, watches it move across the sky. Below her, her father’s skiff rocks steadily. He, humming an old tune, sits behind her, weaving a net and looking out on the still, reedy water of Mare Serenitatis.
She speaks to him, “Will we go back some day?”
He laughs, casting his net out into the water. Nearby, other boats pass, their box lanterns a cool orange. A Lunar flute, sweet and longing, is being played on one of the many circular, white-stoned verandas which cover the shoreline. “To Earth?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“No. No, I think not. It has been a very long time since anyone has lived there. The earthlings took to their ships, and have not found a permanent home to stay at since.”
Kiean, swinging her feet around, looks at her father. “Aren’t we earthlings? That’s what teacher says.”
Her father, guiding the net through the water, nods. “And she is right. Though we have not been there in a very long time. Longer than most. Long enough to be different.”
“Different?”
“Yes, moon-blossom. If you met an earthling on one of their ships, they’d be much paler than you or I, and they have white in their eyes. But they are human, just as we are.”
Kiean nods and is silent for a time. As her father pulls the net back in, she asks: “Was mama more like them? Or like me?”
Her father, letting out a deep laugh, looks at her. Reaching across the boat, her ruffles her hair. “She was like you. Very like you. Very strong and fierce. There was nothing she could not do.”
* * *
When Kiean awoke at last, hunger had left her. Thirst, too.
A dull ache was all about her, but she was no longer cold.
Sitting up, Kiean looked about her, amazed. She sat now in a low room flooded with shifting, bluish light. Below her lay what seemed to be some ancient, stone coffin, converted by an unseen host into a low bed. Her nightgown was gone, replaced with robes of crimson several sizes too large. The robes had an unnamable, ancient smell. She, shivering, ran a hand over her head and found that her bushel of black coils had been shorn off.
“You had hurt your head.” A voice echoed through her mind. Cold, but not unsweet. Kiean flinched at the sensation. “We had no choice but to cut your hair to clean the wound. Forgive us.”
Kiean felt around on her head and recoiled. A patch of raw skin sat at the back of her skull. Faintly, she recalled falling to the floor.
“We fed you.” Said the voice. “But we had not the matter your kind eats. What we had is our own, and I fear it has changed you.”
Kiean was aware suddenly that the room was not filled with light, but that she could see through the dark. But she could only see vague shapes highlighted in warping blue, all other color was gone. She was unsure of what to say. Evidently, however, the voice could read her thoughts.
“You are far below the ground, child. Not many have ever dared so far into our tombs. None have done so unscathed. Were you not so small, I think you would not have made it unnoticed. But you are young and slight and quiet—you passed the worst of things without them noticing.”
She felt sick. Sick and lonely and lost and very, very afraid.
Tucking her knees up to her chest, Kiean began to weep.
The voice said nothing.
* * *
She spent many days in the coffin-bed, and nothing entered her chamber. The voice did not return, but Kiean could feel some watchful presence constantly upon her. At length, hunger gnawed at her again, and she cried aloud for her benefactor. Still, no sound came.
Desperate—bidden by that ancient, human need to persist—Kiean left her chamber. She skulked the ancient halls, her eyes fixed on their weird, inhuman shapes. Statues of long-dead princes with many eyes and boney tentacles lay carven into the rock. Slight, wicked creatures leered eyeless from alcoves. One, its many mouths gibbering, lunged at her. It was shorter than her, but fierce. Kiean, blinded by hunger, wrestled with the wet thing and slew it with an old stone. There, in the glimmering gloom of the subterranean cathedral, she ate that creature which bears no human name, slaking her thirst on its green blood.
For ages unknown to her she walked those timeless halls, marveling in horror at the feet of great, stone-wrought kings of bygone years. With her new sight she could see much—too much. And yet, not enough to walk with confidence. Chambers there were, vast and terrible, lined with hexagonal shelves upon which ancient, egg-like tomes were kept. There she crept and stayed awhile, feasting off nameless reptiles and avoiding the bobbling eyes of droning, floating librarians. One of the horrid cataloguers caught her unawares once, and she was forced to fight. She, half-feral from months in the dark, fought like a rabid hound. The librarian had almost strangled her with its slimy tendrils before she drove her hand into the bulging, glassy sphere of its midmost eye. The monstrosity, screeching, sidled to the floor and died. Then, she ate it too.
In time, the voice returned to her, commending her for her resilience.
It vanished soon after, leaving her again to the maddening dark.
Fed by nameless tissues, Kiean grew strange. Months droned into long years. She grew tall—taller than the tallest of her kind. Still, the tomb-halls dwarfed her. Where the face-marks of most Lunar young fade over time, hers grew into a vast constellation of swirling, dim-glowing marks across her body. Her hair grew back, though the color of quick-silver. It grew into a drooping cascade of brilliant coils and curls that fell almost to the floor. Her forearms were broad and muscular; her fingers keen and sharp with which to pry open her alien prey. In places, she met horrors too great, so she often ran, and often leapt in places where great sinkholes had swallowed the floor. To this end, her legs had grown mighty and long. Her eyes glimmered like fox fires, and her skin grew like unto black marble. Had there been any other wandering so far in Luna’s dead places, they would have thought Kiean some horrible, spectral aspect of a long-deceased queen.
At times, the voice would return to Kiean, though only ever to warn her against chambers of especial danger, or provide comfort when times seemed especially grim.
Kiean came to find she both loved and loathed the voice. Loved, because it was her only true company. Loathed, for it spoke in riddles, and refused always to provide more help than it would. Warped though she was, Kiean wanted only one thing: to find the door and return to her father. Try as she might, she could not find the door. What was worse, she was certain that year by year, she was wandering farther from it.
* * *
Thirty years passed in the dark.
She no longer walked cautiously.
The dead denizens of the tomb-world had grown to fear her, for death could not claim her. She had come to the prime of her strength, and then all age seemed to fall from her. Among the nameless dead things, a whisper went: she was undead and could not be slain. No longer did she slink through the forbidden libraries. Rather, she slew their librarians and took all their knowledge. The language of the ancient tomes was alien, yet she found she could understand it. A gift, she guessed, from the voice. Kiean read everything, but mostly she read about Angracar. Even to these long-dead people, Angracar was a key fear. Angracar…loathsome Angracar. She desired, as always, the door. Yet what she desired more was vengeance.
As she sat, pouring over a book of lore, the voice came to her.
“The time has come, child. I shall open a way for you, and you must take it.”
* * *
See now, the Lunar gloam. It sits—a blazing, blue blossom at the center of the catacombs. There, in a hollow, spherical place, Kiean stands atop a bridge. All about her, in the insectile tombs in which they were lain, lay the gawping skeletons of Luna’s first people. They are limbless and eyeless and horrid to behold. Kiean hears their voices in her head—blended into one smooth, motherly plea. It is a voice she has known for many years, and a voice she knew even before. It is the voice of the Lunar waters, the Lunar dirt, the Lunar winds. It is the longing of the Lunar flute, and the soft grass in the cemetery.
It speaks to her: “Open yourself, child. Take us into yourself and be more.”
She spreads her arms and they swarm about her. A hundred thousand souls enter her mind and clad her in armor more brilliant than a quasar. Her eyes blister with anti-light, and a three-spiked helm they set upon her head. In her hand, behold: a spear made from their own bones.
The door is opened.
* * *
Lunar Maximo had been leveled with cruel efficiency. What sat now in its place was a belching, oil-streaked complex of running tubules and cartilage columns of semi-metal. The cemetery and her grass, the pools, the turtles, the mares and homes and people—all had been despoiled. Nearby, where the peak of Myra Daun had stood, loomed the grand flotilla of Nana Hapwe, wet nurse to the ruler of Angracar.
Kiean, having burrowed out from the core of the moon, held aloft her spear and screamed. “Harken!” Spoke she. “Harken and beware, blighted servant of the accursed Nu-Shamin! I am come to free Luna of your foulness. I! Kiean Nyst, Queen! Doom of the dead.” She stood atop old rubble, her silver mane aflutter in dry wind.
The invaders said nothing. In a flicker of red, they blasted her with ray-fire. The many souls of the deep abyss shielded her. Neutrino-shells were lobbed at her, and these too the spirits cast aside.
At last, the horns of the flotilla shrieked. “You are not something we expected. Let us be friends, Kiean Nyst! Come aboard, and let us be friends.”
Kiean, a streaming comet-tail in her armor, trekked through the dead streets. Here and there, the Angracarian soldiers stared at her from where they slaved away at strange, belching orifices. They who had once seemed so tall and fell from her window, shrank in Kiean’s shadow now.
Kiean came at length to a great doorway where royal Angracarians stood, their plasma spears hungry for blood. Soundlessly, they led her inside to a dim-lit nursery housing many witless, slug-formed children. The walls rose like a colosseum, interwoven with chords of metal and leaky piping. In the center of the room, where a beam of grey sunlight fell, sat a massive flea of a woman. A million tiny legs sat beneath her bloated, quivering body, and two wiry humanoid arms with grasping fingers at her front. Her red, skeletal face grinned at the stretched length of a testudinal throat. Her eyes were very blue.
Nana Hapwe.
Kiean sneered.
Nana Hapwe spoke the Lunar tongue with a harsh, clicking accent. “Ah-kh! Here is some-ch-ch-thing new. Welc-k-k-come to my home.”
“It is not yours.” Said Kiean.
“Ye-ch-ch-t it is. All is fair in luh-ch-ve and war, they s-s-say.”
Kiean, baring her teeth, scowled at the foul invader. Years of loneliness in the dark flooded back to Kiean. Years of fear and hate and pain—memories of her father, lying still upon the grass. Her grip tightened upon her spear.
“C-kh-kh-ome, now. Let us be-”
Wrath overtook Kiean.
With a bitter cry, she lunged forward and plunged the spear tip into Nana Hapwe’s mouth. The wet nurse howled and, unhinging her jaw, bit down on Kiean’s spear arm with the force of a crocodile.
Kiean, yelping, tried to free herself, but it was no use. Her foe held her tight, and was beginning to swallow. Soon, Kiean would be sucked into Nana Hapwe’s miserable gullet. The royal Angracarians leapt to their queen’s side. There was no time.
Unable to wrench her arm free, Kiean bit into her own bicep and chewed.
In a gush of blood, and one mighty pull, Kiean rent herself free of her own arm and wheeled around in time to meet the coming guards. She leapt deftly into the air, and landed upon one, digging the steel heels of her boots into its skull. It died miserably upon the floor. In a swift spiral, she swung her foot around to the other, knocking it off balance. Before it had a chance to recuperate, she was upon in, beating with her remaining fist. The second guard fell, and she claimed its plasma spear as her own.
With another cry, she turned back to Nana Hapwe. The wet nurse, chewing on her foe’s arm, thrashed and screamed, the spear jiggling in her throat.
Kiean, shouting the names of the Lunar oceans to evoke their indominable wrath, plunged the plasma spear into Nana Hapwe’s throat and cut. Then, with one sickening jab, Kiean reached into the gristle of the open wound and pulled.
Nana Hapwe shrieked in her cursed tongue and flailed on her million useless feet.
With all the strength left in her remaining arm, Kiean pulled and ripped the head from the false queen.
* * *
See now the Lunar noon, splendid and glorious and red. The sun shines through a smog. There, at the prow of the invader’s flotilla, limps Kiean Nyst. Kiean the Mighty, Kiean the Dauntless, Kiean One-Handed Queen. Below, the silent armies of Angracar look up in their mute horror. In the Lunar queen’s hand is the head of their commander. For the first time in their horrid lives, they know fear. They look up and are haunted by the Queen of Lunar Ghosts.
* * *
Forestleg is a writer and filmmaker from the Rocky Mountains. He adores breakfast, coffee, and horror. Despite living in a land-locked region, he has a deep fear of the ocean.
Need more cosmic horror and weird fiction in your life? Download our unique and custom-built mobile app! Never miss an issue drop.
