Dappled in Light and Shadow
This was written for an informal contest with the following prompt: "BURN AFTER READING" was all the book said. The spine was a match striker, the outside contained a single match. I decided to try for a Lovecraftian style, heavily influenced by The Nameless City.
It had been well over a decade since the Horrors ravaged this city and moved on, but I couldn’t help imagining their long, spindly arms reaching around this corner, or their yawning mouths and pit-like eyes peering from beneath that outcrop. It had been drilled into me: cities weren’t safe, even ruined ones. I wouldn’t have dared, except that I couldn’t ignore the possibility of finding the gateway—of understanding how the Horrors got here in the first place, of sealing them away forever.
A looming structure stood out against the broken city, calling to me. Two of its six columns had collapsed, and sand and rubble choked the entryway, but there was a gap just large enough to crawl through. I climbed over the rough, dusty wreckage and brought out my torch. The beam flickered for a moment, waning on its last batteries, as I shone it into the darkness. Inside, ranks of bare stone shelves disappeared into the gloom, still and stark and silent.
My throat tightened as I pictured a Horror lurking back there, crawling over the shelves with its dozen limbs, scraping the stone with short, sharp claws. I strained my ears, but the only sound was the whisper of shifting sand around me. Waiting would only make this harder.
I wiggled through the opening feet-first. My boots landed on hard, flat stone. Movement caught my eye and I froze—but it was only a billow of sand disturbed by my passage. I let out a slow breath and continued forward, the light of my torch barely piercing the heavy blackness. I followed the shelves straight, into the building’s depths. The muffled stillness was stifling.
I followed the shelves until at last I came upon the far wall. Bare stone, like everything else. I turned, disappointment creeping over my neck and weighing down my shoulders. Was that it? Emptiness and dust?
I swung my torch to both sides, illuminating more aisles of open shelves. The purpose of this hall eluded me. Looters must have taken everything of value, and it left me with no hints as to the history of this place, let alone any gateway. I sighed and started back up an adjacent row.
Halfway back to the entrance—close enough to see the sunlight blazing in through the rubble—a shape finally emerged from the shadows: a square thing, lying sideways on a low shelf. Dark mounds of dust surrounded it on both sides. I lifted it and brushed it off. It was lighter than I expected. One side was solid, the others open, and inside—sheaves of light material. I pinned the torch under my chin and began turning the pages.
They were beautiful. Breathtaking. Each sheet bore a carefully painted scene, bordered by unintelligible characters, and they had all been bound together by the thick spine. I saw oceans and forests, cities and clouds. The gold bits sparkled like metal, and the black bits swallowed the light like shadow. I flipped through, lost in this other world, until I landed upon a blank page, the one just below the heavy cover. There, scribbled in pencil, were words I recognized.
Burn After Reading
With a frown, I checked the other side for some explanation. That’s when I noticed one of the painted figures had moved.
I peered closer. Deep inside that forest, a creature was climbing through the underbrush. I checked another page—there, a shape forming under the surface of a pond, a shadow that hadn’t been there before. Another page, another figure—dark skin emerging from behind a tower. And on the next page, the creature was even closer, standing in a broad meadow, clear enough to see. My stomach flipped.
Horrors.
I went through the pages again. Horrors were moving closer in each image. Multi-limbed beasts staring out at me, reaching for me with double-jointed arms. I slammed the cover closed, heart pounding.
I realized the dust on the shelves wasn’t dust, but ash. An image flashed through my mind, half recollection, half imagination, of a thousand such bound collections, lined up in endless rows. Full of writing and pictures just like this one. The word library came to mind, from some early memory long forgotten. And I fancied I could picture a Horror climbing out of one, as its pages lay open in the darkness.
I dropped—threw—the square of pages back to the shelf. I wanted to wash my hands and scrub my eyes and forget I’d ever seen it, but the Horrors were there, and I could still feel them, crawling closer, coming for me. I fumbled for my matchbox. It fell half-open to the floor, with a light wooden clatter that made me jump in the stillness. Matches rolled through the dust and under the shelves. I snatched one with shaking fingers, and in my haste I dropped the box a second time.
Panic overcoming all other senses, I grabbed the square again and struck the match along its spine. The bindings felt colder than they should have—an unearthly cold, not of this world. The match blazed and fizzled. I tried another. The pages wouldn’t catch. I tried a third, and a shadow fell over it.
I felt the claw touch my shoulder even as I turned. Cold like the pages, made of shadow. I looked up, and saw black pits instead of eyes, and a gaping mouth, widening to swallow.
---
Sand shifted in currents through the ruined city. Even with my scarf and gloves, grit found its way into my mouth and the folds of my skin as I lumbered over uneven hills. Some dunes piled into high banks against the crumbling buildings, almost swallowing them, while others spread so thin I could see the cobbled road beneath them. And always, even under the intense midday sun, I stopped at every flash of shadow and held my breath.It had been well over a decade since the Horrors ravaged this city and moved on, but I couldn’t help imagining their long, spindly arms reaching around this corner, or their yawning mouths and pit-like eyes peering from beneath that outcrop. It had been drilled into me: cities weren’t safe, even ruined ones. I wouldn’t have dared, except that I couldn’t ignore the possibility of finding the gateway—of understanding how the Horrors got here in the first place, of sealing them away forever.
A looming structure stood out against the broken city, calling to me. Two of its six columns had collapsed, and sand and rubble choked the entryway, but there was a gap just large enough to crawl through. I climbed over the rough, dusty wreckage and brought out my torch. The beam flickered for a moment, waning on its last batteries, as I shone it into the darkness. Inside, ranks of bare stone shelves disappeared into the gloom, still and stark and silent.
My throat tightened as I pictured a Horror lurking back there, crawling over the shelves with its dozen limbs, scraping the stone with short, sharp claws. I strained my ears, but the only sound was the whisper of shifting sand around me. Waiting would only make this harder.
I wiggled through the opening feet-first. My boots landed on hard, flat stone. Movement caught my eye and I froze—but it was only a billow of sand disturbed by my passage. I let out a slow breath and continued forward, the light of my torch barely piercing the heavy blackness. I followed the shelves straight, into the building’s depths. The muffled stillness was stifling.
I followed the shelves until at last I came upon the far wall. Bare stone, like everything else. I turned, disappointment creeping over my neck and weighing down my shoulders. Was that it? Emptiness and dust?
I swung my torch to both sides, illuminating more aisles of open shelves. The purpose of this hall eluded me. Looters must have taken everything of value, and it left me with no hints as to the history of this place, let alone any gateway. I sighed and started back up an adjacent row.
Halfway back to the entrance—close enough to see the sunlight blazing in through the rubble—a shape finally emerged from the shadows: a square thing, lying sideways on a low shelf. Dark mounds of dust surrounded it on both sides. I lifted it and brushed it off. It was lighter than I expected. One side was solid, the others open, and inside—sheaves of light material. I pinned the torch under my chin and began turning the pages.
They were beautiful. Breathtaking. Each sheet bore a carefully painted scene, bordered by unintelligible characters, and they had all been bound together by the thick spine. I saw oceans and forests, cities and clouds. The gold bits sparkled like metal, and the black bits swallowed the light like shadow. I flipped through, lost in this other world, until I landed upon a blank page, the one just below the heavy cover. There, scribbled in pencil, were words I recognized.
Burn After Reading
With a frown, I checked the other side for some explanation. That’s when I noticed one of the painted figures had moved.
I peered closer. Deep inside that forest, a creature was climbing through the underbrush. I checked another page—there, a shape forming under the surface of a pond, a shadow that hadn’t been there before. Another page, another figure—dark skin emerging from behind a tower. And on the next page, the creature was even closer, standing in a broad meadow, clear enough to see. My stomach flipped.
Horrors.
I went through the pages again. Horrors were moving closer in each image. Multi-limbed beasts staring out at me, reaching for me with double-jointed arms. I slammed the cover closed, heart pounding.
I realized the dust on the shelves wasn’t dust, but ash. An image flashed through my mind, half recollection, half imagination, of a thousand such bound collections, lined up in endless rows. Full of writing and pictures just like this one. The word library came to mind, from some early memory long forgotten. And I fancied I could picture a Horror climbing out of one, as its pages lay open in the darkness.
I dropped—threw—the square of pages back to the shelf. I wanted to wash my hands and scrub my eyes and forget I’d ever seen it, but the Horrors were there, and I could still feel them, crawling closer, coming for me. I fumbled for my matchbox. It fell half-open to the floor, with a light wooden clatter that made me jump in the stillness. Matches rolled through the dust and under the shelves. I snatched one with shaking fingers, and in my haste I dropped the box a second time.
Panic overcoming all other senses, I grabbed the square again and struck the match along its spine. The bindings felt colder than they should have—an unearthly cold, not of this world. The match blazed and fizzled. I tried another. The pages wouldn’t catch. I tried a third, and a shadow fell over it.
I felt the claw touch my shoulder even as I turned. Cold like the pages, made of shadow. I looked up, and saw black pits instead of eyes, and a gaping mouth, widening to swallow.
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