January graces us with an extra Monday so that we may bring to you a tale of the macabre!
This month we are featuring a short horror story written by
, the author of Michael’s Musings.If you would like to volunteer to write a short horror story for one of the extra Monday’s throughout the year, please send an email to macabremondayeditor@gmail.com.
Available dates
April 22nd: Taken
July 22nd: Available
September 23rd: Available
December 23rd: Available
Rain glanced up as the ragged newsbot approached and spit paper at her. She waved it away dismissively. Who was interested in the moon colony rebellion anymore?
She had just returned to laboring over her usual backlog of reports when her door slid open again. An officer in full dress uniform appeared. “Lieutenant Rain Sanderson?” he said, reading off a printout.
“Yeah,” Rain said, returning his salute wearily. She hated interruptions. First the newsbot earlier, and now this.
“You are Lieutenant Rain Sanderson, age 23, ID 467-532B, current relationship status single?”
Rain blinked. “Yeah, but why-” Then she knew. There could be only one reason her relationship status was relevant to her military career.
The officer made a tick mark on his printout. “Congratulations,” he said, in a voice that didn’t sound the least bit congratulatory. “The Committee on Volcano Sacrifice Selection has determined you to be an acceptable candidate for the annual ceremony. Per standard sacrifice protocol, you’ll be expected to turn in your laser rifle and report to the Committee within twelve days.” He saluted, tore off the bottom part of the printer and handed it to her, and then left.
Rain didn’t do anything for a while. Then her hand drifted over to a keypad. The report currently on her screen blinked away and vanished into electronic oblivion. Thirteen hours of work gone. But then, it didn’t really matter anymore.
The commercial rolled to its inexorable end, its overly perky actors praising a random product as the Best Thing Since Ever. Then screens across the planet cut back to the main event. The shining ceremony logo rolled across and dissolved into a shot of Bob Birkleman sitting comfortably behind his curving mahogany desk, Camille Andrews and her elegantly styled hair beside him. Their lines were already cued up, but there was no need, really; they’d been doing this for years.
“And we’re back,” Bob announced in his usual rolling voice. “The 345th Volcano Sacrifice Ceremony, as brought to you by our beloved Committee on Volcano Sacrifice Selection, is nearing its crucial moment! You can see it now, just there, the pilot is beginning his approach run towards the volcano!”
“That’s right, Bob,” Camille said languidly. “Our viewers may not remember this, but the ceremony used to be different, didn’t it? Remind us about that, would you?”
“Well,” Bob began, “In the original version of this ceremony you’d now be seeing attendants leading the maiden up to the rim of the volcano themselves and pushing her in, only half the time the heat would kill the attendants themselves before they could do the job!” He laughed complacently. “Nowadays the process is much more efficient and safe for everybody. A shuttlecraft simply flies in as you see now and drops the chosen girl into the volcano from a safe distance overhead. With the accompanying fighter wing behind there to ensure that everything goes, well, smoothly, you really do get a magnificent effect, especially with the added fireworks they’ve put in over the years!”
“Indeed,” Camille said. “Now, we’re pretty well past the point of a muck-up now, aren’t we? Nothing to worry about?”
Bob chuckled congenially, flashing what, centuries ago, would’ve been a Mr. Rogers smile. “Well, there’s always the possibility of course. One never knows what can happen. Five years ago the maiden actually missed the crater, hit the rim, and rolled halfway down the volcano’s side!”
“Goodness me,” Camille drawled. “It’s a good thing the volcano accepted her anyway, isn’t it?”
Bob laughed again. “Indeed it is. And the pilot should be descending now, ready to release the maiden into the….” his voice trailed off.
“Bob…” Camille said slowly, the color draining from her face. “He’s not descending.”
“This isn’t entirely uncommon,” Bob said, trying to sound reassuring. “There’s many potential variables, it’s such a precise operation, pilots have been known to abort the first run, swing around, and make a second try….”
But it quickly became obvious the shuttlecraft wasn’t swinging around. It kept on going, and now, behind it, the accompanying fighter wing suddenly sped up. “Looks like they’re going into attack formation,” Camille said, her voice suddenly tight. She had started as a war correspondent before moving to what should’ve been an easy gig as a volcano sacrifice commentator.
“But…” Bob said, thoroughly perplexed. “This can’t happen. It’s never happened.” On the bright side, he reflected, the ratings this year would be off the charts.
“Ah,” Camille said as the viewscreen lit up with several bright plumes of flame. “For those viewers who can’t quite make out what’s happened, the fighter wing has just shot down the shuttlecraft. It’ll take some time for internal data recordings, if any, to be retrieved, but my guess is either the sacrifice seized control of the craft and attempted a run or the pilot tried to escape on his own initiative. Either way, they’ll need a replacement, and quickly.”
“Oh,” Bob said. All of this was still so new; he was having trouble adjusting. “I wonder who-”
“I’m sorry, I’ve just received a bulletin- well.” Even then, Camille didn’t break. “It seems it’s me.” She very calmly rose from her chair and laid down her mic. “Nice working with you, Bob.”
“Oh,” Bob said, and that was all. He didn’t want to upset the Committee. Besides, he was live. He watched as guards came in and hurried her quickly away. He allowed himself a moment of what he hoped would play as appropriate reflection. “Well,” he said to the camera-bots at last, “As we all know, sacrifices are necessary for our civilization to continue. Any one of us could be called upon. We’ll remember Camille fondly here, and we appreciate her devotion to the greater duty. Bob Birkleman, reporting.”
This time the Committee was taking no chances. Camille was thoroughly searched before she was let on board the shuttlecraft, and cuffed besides. As a final touch, a nanite probe was injected into her head that would liquify her brain if she moved one centimeter out of line.
It was really unfair, Camille thought. She’d covered the Committee’s war, she’d excoriated the rebels, she’d fake-smiled her way through countless puff pieces. Now she was a replacement sacrifice, all because of that one lousy failed sacrifice, whoever she’d been. No one had even said. What had she even accomplished anyway? She was still dead, just like Camille herself was about to be, and there the doors were opening.
Next thing Camille knew she was falling out of the shuttlecraft towards the lava. She screamed every obscenity she knew, every dark swear, every foul epithet, even some she invented on the spot, everything she’d wanted to say all those years.
Then everything went dark. Utterly dark. Beyond in-her-quarters-after-lights-out dark, beyond void-of-space dark, beyond even black-hole dark. This was…. Camille didn’t even have words for it. This was the complete absence of all light and joy and good in the soul of the universe sort of dark.
“Well,” said a gravelly pale voice. “You called.”
“Oh,” Camille said. “I didn’t mean-”
“You did. They say that if you take a man to the volcano’s edge, you see the man. Well, you were taken a little further than that, and so, we saw you. More precisely, I did.
“Okay,” Camille admitted. Her voice felt dull, almost flat against the surrounding blackness. “Fair enough. Do I want to ask who you are then? I said a lot of things.”
“You probably don’t. You’re a smart person, though. You can work out who it is for yourself.”
“I see,” Camille said. “Where’s the first girl? The one before me?”
“Not down here. She went the other direction.”
“Ah,” Camille said again. “So, what … what happens now?”
“You don’t know?”
She heard a faint note of astonishment. “I’ve been a bit busy of late. You’re aware, I assume.”
“Not really.”
Camille would’ve blinked, if she had eyelids. “Haven’t you been keeping up with things?”
“Well, everyone’s so spread out these days. So much...life.” Distaste curdled through the darkness. “And so much else. One has to delegate.”
“Well, on my planet, we’ve been throwing people to a volcano so it won’t explode and kill us all.”
“Oh?” The note of amusement almost changed to laughter, but stopped at the last second. Laughter didn’t have a chance down this far. “I thought humanity had gotten past that.”
“Seems not.”
“Hmm. Interesting. We must make inquiries.”
“Well, I had thought of sending you to a circle of eternal torment where your soul would be torn to shreds and then reconstituted and then torn apart again in an endless circle of torment, but now, you puzzle me. I might just send you back.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You would prefer the endless circle of torment?”
“If you send me back now, they’re just going to throw me in the volcano again,” Camille pointed out.
“Mmm.”
An awkward pause rested uncomfortably in the darkness.
“Of course, there is a third option.”
“That would be what?”
It was standard protocol for the Committee to gather after the sacrifice, discuss the day, and begin initial planning for next year. They were late getting started this year, but this was understandable given all the commotion and upset. In any event, they had finally managed to settle everything, confirm that the volcano had indeed devoured the person tossed into it, and now they were relaxing into their comfortable chairs around a wide conference table, laughing for the first time that day. It would also be the last time.
All at once the lights began to go. Smoke issued from the walls. They started to get up, to run, sound the alarm, anything. Before any of them could, a shadow materialized atop the conference table. “Hello,” it said. “I’m Camille. I was, rather. Anyway.”
The Secretary went for his emergency blaster. To his horror, his shot went right through Camille and scorched the wall beyond. She didn’t even flinch. “But…” he said. “We did what the volcano wanted!”
“Yeah?” Camille said. "It changed its mind. By the way,” she said, as darkness gathered round her and her eyes flamed, “I’ve got a new job now. Ask me what it is. Go on. Ask.”
Bob Birkleman was at his desk, appropriately somber, preparing for the emergency broadcast to alert the planet that the Committee on Volcano Sacrifice Selection had been assassinated in circumstances unknown. He wasn’t sure who was in charge of that now. This was unprecedented. The Secretary was gone as well, so who knew? There was probably a plan somewhere, he assumed. There was always a plan. The show always rolled on.
Quite suddenly his mic melted into oblivion. His door shattered open. “Hi, Bob,” a voice said from behind him. “Funny how I got on the list of sacrifice candidates in the first place, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
It was dark again. “Are you done?”
“Yes,” Camille said.
“Good. I have a game on with Cthulhu in the next system. I need a pawn to open. Guess who.”
Your Weekly Horror Digest
decided to create a “demon squad” akin to the Suicide Squad out of her favorite demons. Her picks may surprise you, take a look!
That’s all I have for you this week! Check back in next Monday for something new!
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Stay Spooky.
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Love this story @Michael
A futuristic society still sacrificing people to volcanoes. That gave me a pretty good laugh. Solid horror comedy right there.