The Nectar of Nightmares

by Craig Laurance Gidney

Genres: LGBT Gay; Horror

Synopsis

Craig Laurance Gidney is a magician. His stories are dazzling and transformative. His illusions shame reality for its fragility. He dares you to take a card—any card—and gives you back your watch, your wallet, your sanity.

The stories in The Nectar of Nightmares weave and remix myths, legends, and identities. Ranging from retold folktales to diverse settings like the Harlem Renaissance and the contemporary drag ball scene to phantasmagoric secondary worlds, this is a horror collection for those who have descended so far into the deep, there’s nothing left to fear.

There is.

Craig Laurance Gidney has been nominated for the Lambda Literary Award on multiple occasions. The Nectar of Nightmares is his latest collection of weird and wondrous stories.

"The Nectar of Nightmares is a haunting collection of stories, filled with retellings and reimaginings, transgressive versions of familiar tales from our youth. It's important work that's being done here, visceral and unsettling, paired with humor and hope. This is an author to keep an eye on, for sure."
—Richard Thomas, author of Spontaneous Human Combustion

"The Nectar of Nightmares is an incredible and breathtaking achievement. There's a sublime magic in these stories as well as a lingering danger, one that lurks at the edges of every page, waiting to draw you nearer. No one else out there is writing weird and wondrous fiction like Craig Laurance Gidney. Prepare to be dazzled and bewitched."
—Gwendolyn Kiste, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Rust Maidens and Reluctant Immortals

 

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Release date: June 7, 2022

Publisher: Underland Press

Print pages: 188

Sample

Beneath the Briar Patch

The war between Fox and Rabbit ended with a man made of tar and a briar patch.

Both of them just loved jokes. Real showboaters, that pair. Two centers of attention. Life of the party, times two. They were mostly good at making themselves laugh, rather than other people. Audiences were collateral damage. But what they liked even more was being the Best at something. If Fox made a funny face, Rabbit made an even funnier one. If Rabbit learned how to interpret a song with a series of burps, then Fox learned how to make his farts sound musical. If one could juggle three balls, the other would try to juggle six knives. On and on, it went, each trying to outdo the other. Oh, they wrote the book on competitiveness. Think Cain and Abel. Jacob and Esau. In that vein.

But one of them took it too far. It was inevitable. It's always funny until someone loses an eye. It was Fox who did it, but it just as easily could have been Rabbit.

See, Fox got it in that pea-brain of his to make a fool out of Rabbit because:

1. Rabbit had done something to piss him off (even Fox had forgotten exactly what that was);

2. Rabbit always gave good reactions (he was the Patron Saint of Butt-Hurt);

3. Because Fox was an asshole.

So Fox went down to the swamp, where a pool of hot black tar bubbled. He mixed the tar with a crude figure he made of sticks and bones he'd dug up from graves. He put raggedy clothes on the figure that he'd stolen from laundry lines. He gave the tar-thing glass eyes stolen from a little girl's doll, a maggoty potato for a nose, and a slice of watermelon for lips. A gator's over-ripe heart, bound with wire was placed in the thing's gloppy chest. Fox knew some Hoodoo, so he put the whammy on the thing and Presto! Blammo! It lurched behind him, a man-sized poppet.

Everyone hung out at the Briar Patch. It was kind of a speakeasy. You hung around and shot the shit with your pals on nights when Sister Moon wore her silver dress that made her look round and the sky was full of stars. The thorns of the briar patch were as sharp as nails, but fireflies swarmed in the branches and lit it up like a cotillon ballroom. Everyone was there: Bear, Dog, Cat, Hog, Hoot-Owl, and Magpie. They drank corn liquor that burned their throats and made them look cross-eyed. They all flirted, fought, and gossiped by the Patch. Of course, Rabbit was there. He was always there, laughing too loudly. Fox hid on the other side of the patch, and sent the tar-poppet into the crowd.

"Well, hello there," said Sister Goose. She waggled one of her false eyelashes at the dashingly dark figure.

The poppet said nothing.

"Wanna wet your whistle?" said Hoot-Owl, and the poppet wordlessly lurched away.

In fact, the Tar Poppet said nothing to anyone. He just lumbered along silently, just as Fox wanted him to. And, just as Fox predicted, everyone thought the poppet was rude and sullen.

Rabbit was the center of attention, in a cluster of folk including Badger, the Hen Triplets, Bear, and Dog. Presently, Hoot-Owl joined them.

"What's up with that uppity so-and-so over there?" he said to the group. "I gave him salutations, all gentleman-like, and that fool just up and ignored me. Why come to the Patch if you ain't gonna be sociable?"

Everyone's eyes drifted over to the shambling figure, who had apparently affronted Madame Buzzard, who was being consoled by Sister Goose.

Madame Buzzard was a drama queen for sure, but still; enough was enough. No-one owned the Briar Patch, per se, but Rabbit was, in an unofficial manner, its proprietor. It was Rabbit who arranged the shipment of moonshine, and he also spread word about the gatherings hither and yon. So Rabbit felt a certain responsibility for the Patch, and, just as Fox had hoped, Rabbit left his clique, and approached the poppet, who was now slumping by the bushes that surrounded the glimmering patch.

"Say there, sirrah," said Rabbit, "I hear that you're causing quite a stir in here."

What do you think the poppet, who now hid in a snare of shadow, said?

This incensed the eminently insensible Rabbit. "What's wrong? Sister Cat got your tongue?"

". . ."

"What's wrong? Can't you speak?"

". . ."

"Just nod if you can understand me!"

". . ."

"Do something! Wave your hand! Stomp your feet. Anything!"

". . ."

Now hidden in the bushes, Fox laughed silently at this. This was gonna be good!

If Rabbit hadn't been such a hothead, he would have noticed how the poppet's posture was poor, or the weird, sulfurous stench it exuded. But by now, Rabbit's head was hot enough to fry an egg on.

"Didn't your mama train you right? Are you crazy?"

To which he received an infuriating, ". . ." as an answer.

If he had been an engine, steam would have been pouring out of his ears and nostrils. He went into the shadows, and you know what happened. First a slap across the thing's face, then another, both of them sticking to the things skin. Then one swift kick, followed by another. By this time, Fox revealed himself from behind the bush, gasping with laughter until tears came to his eyes. Everyone at the Briar Patch gathered around and gradually figured out that this was one more battle in the endless prank war. Some of them joined Fox in laughing at Rabbit's misfortune, but a sizable group just rolled their eyes in disgust and moved away from the scene.

"You got me," Rabbit said. He sighed. "Now, have your boy here let me go."

Fox wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, and said, "OK." He made the appropriate movements and said the words of power to end the spell. And nothing happened.

Rabbit struggled some more. "Hurry up. I gotta pee."

Fox tried again, taking his time to avoid making a mistake. Hoodoo demands precision. But it didn't work the second time.

"What the hell," said Fox. He wasn't laughing anymore.

"Ha ha," said Rabbit. "Very funny. Let me go. Now."

"I'm trying, dammit. I'm trying."

Fox performed the spell, enunciating each word carefully, modulating his voice to its loudest pitch. He did all of the gestures in slo-mo. And still, nothing.

"I'm getting irritated, Fox."

"I don't know why it's not working. Let me try something else. Can you reach into all that tar? In there, you will find a gator's heart—"

"Ow!" said Rabbit. "It stung me!"

"Careful there. I bound it with wire . . . Now if you can just pull it out . . ."

Rabbit was—awkwardly—attempting this operation when something mighty strange happened. The tar poppet began to absorb Rabbit at an accelerated rate, until he was swallowed whole, from ear tip to hind leg. The poppet got fat, grotesquely pregnant with Rabbit's body. Madame Buzzard screamed. Sister Goose fainted. Fox cursed, horrified. Then, Rabbit's face appeared in the middle of its belly. "Help me," he croaked. And the poppet jumped right into the Briar Patch, taking Rabbit with it.

 

It was Sister Magpie who took control of the situation. No-one noticed her arrival. She appeared and vanished like a thief in the night. She was a sneaky one, with a penchant for snagging shiny little things. But she had a streak of wisdom, as bright as the white feathers that fringed her dark face. It was she who helped Goose after her fainting spell, and she who quieted the crowd.

"Brother Fox," she said when the hush had settled, "just what, exactly, did you do?"

Fox hemmed and hawed.

"Out with it!"

"Well, ma'am. Sister. See, I thought I'd play a little trick on Brother Rabbit. You see, last week he—"

"We all know about your tomfoolery. We ain't interested in hearing a bunch of Who-Shot-John stories. Just what was that thing that took our brother into the Briar Patch?"

Fox reluctantly told them about the poppet, how he had made it, and how he had lost control. "I don't know what happened."

Hoot-Owl had been silent until this moment. He swiveled his head toward the Briar Patch, then back to Fox, who had his head in his hands. "Hoodoo calls to hoodoo," he said. "Them that practice it, that follow it's ways always know when hoodoo is done. Hoo! They smell it, they taste it. In the air. Most hoodoo is small work. Tending to an ill one, fixing a broken heart. But big spells. Hoo! Big spells always get noticed. And sometimes, them that notice mischief like to have a little mischief themselves. Hoo!"

Maybe it was the corn liquor, or the shadows, but Hoot-Owls lambent eyes seemed darker. And the shape of his head more devilish, and tufts of his head feathers looked like horns.

He whispered (and the Animal Folk gathered closer): "I think the Conqueror caught him a whiff of Brother Fox's hoodoo witchery, and took the poppet to see what was stinking up the Patch."

A gasp rose like woodsmoke from the crowd. Madame Buzzard fainted this time, falling on the woozy Sister Goose. Buzzard was not a small creature.

Fox, and the surrounding Folk, were stunned to silence.

That name, and face it conjured. The Conqueror. All of them knew of him, the stories and campfire tales. No-one had seen him, ever. But all knew where he lived. Where he reigned.

And who was the Conqueror? Here are some of the various conjectures, rumors, tall tales and theories, in no particular order:

1. He was the worst kind of animal: a man. He was the sorcerer-king of some long-dead kingdom who was banished to the Briar Patch, where he ruled a fiefdom full of demons, witches, and various undead creatures;

2. He was no man at all. He was a living plant growing from the poisoned earth underneath the Briar Patch where he radiated his evil influence over all who came in contact with him;

3. He was neither man, animal, or vegetable. Rather, he was an evil spirit trapped beneath the Briar Patch by some eldritch spell that could end at any moment.

"I hear he eats souls," said Brother Bear.

"He eats bodies and souls," said Sister Weasel. "He cooks 'em up in a stew. Okra, onions, your blood as broth, and you as the meat."

"I've heard worse," said Hoot Owl. "The Conqueror is a god from some black region beyond space and time as we know it. A place with many fanged and tentacled monsters."

Fox squeaked, "What's a tentacle?"

Sister Magpie said, "Enough of this . . . speculation. We all know what must be done. We have to go beneath the Briar Patch, and rescue Brother Rabbit. Who will join me?"

No-one stepped forward. They looked at the ground, or sipped moonshine, or preened their feathers or their fur.

"No-one?" she said, glancing at the cowering crowd. "Then it's just you and me, Fox."

"Hold up," he said.

"Don't even," she said, marching towards the tangle of thorns. "You were the one who started this. You need to make this right."

Fox followed her, tail between his legs.

 

There was no way to avoid the thorns. They did their best, but in the end, their entrance into the Conqueror's realm was clearly marked by the tufts of fur and clumps of feathers left on branches. You can bet that there was much cursing. When they finally got to a clearing, they rested, nursing the scratches and scrapes they'd sustained.

"Damn!" said Fox, "I hope we can find another way to get outta here. I don't think my hide can take any more abuse."

"Shh!" said Magpie. "We ain't the only folks here."

Both fell silent, listening. Above them, Sister Moon was in her full glory, wearing a gown that had just the slightest tinge of blue. Her fullness was caught by the snares in the branches, and the light she cast slashed into blue-white ribbons. Branches creaked, even though there was no wind. The two Animal Folk stood back-to-back, peering into the latticed gloom. They saw movement in the branches, shiverings and quiverings. And they saw eyes. Eyes of yellow and eyes of green. Red eyes, like dots of blood, and blue eyes, circles of sky. Eyes with centers like black stones and eyes with barbed thorns in their center. Eyes that looked at them with malice and mischief, curiosity and hunger.

"Let's walk," Magpie whispered.

"What direction?"

"Hell if I know."

Fox sniffed the air. Did he catch just the faintest whiff of tar? Or was he just imagining it? Did it matter, considering the current circumstances?

"Come on," he said, chasing the scent. Sister Magpie followed.

They walked in silence. It was tough going and required some measure of concentration. The briar branches grew wildly, in all directions. Some were low-hanging and had to be ducked under, and others had to be stepped over. Gingerly, to avoid further cuts. As they walked, the smell of tar became stronger. The night was hot and humid, and the two decided to rest before carrying on.

Fox said, "Do you think he's dead?"

Magpie stayed silent.

Fox said, "I never meant for this to go this far. It was just a joke. It was just a game."

Magpie cocked her head to the side. "Shh," she said. "I think I can hear something."

Fox heard it, too. Something moving on the dirt ground and over the branches. Something that slithered. It emerged from a particularly dense crosshatching, unravelling from some aperture like a rope made of green mint with patches of black soil. The snake was immense, with eyes the reddish green color of a rhubarb. It could easily swallow Sister Magpie whole, and wrap itself around Brother Fox and crush his rib cage.

"Greetings," it said in a voice that covered its syllables like moss over muddy stones. "Welcome to my father's realm." The voice was androgynous and mellifluous. It promised slow death, and bones hung beneath the Briar Patch, like ornaments.

Both Animal Folk stepped closer together.

Sister Magpie, pressed against Fox's fiery fur, said, "And where is your father? Might we have an audience with him?"

The snake's forked tongue flickered in and out of its mouth, tasting their fear. It said, "Why would you need an audience with him? I do not recommend it. He is not . . . agreeable, most of the time."

This time Fox spoke, perhaps encouraged by Magpie's boldness. "We have some business with him. Did you happen to see a man made of tar pass this way?"

The snake stayed quiet, as if considering the question. "I may have," it said.

"Which direction did it go?" said Magpie.

"Why," said the snake, sidling up to the pair, "would I tell you?" His green-red eyes flashed.

"Because," said Sister Magpie, "if you don't tell me, I will take your eyes. My, how they shine. You know how I like sparkly things, don't you?"

The snake paused. The reptilian face was unreadable, alien. But maybe—just maybe—it gave her words some consideration.

"Forgive my insolence," said the snake. "We get so few visitors down here, we have forgotten our manners." The snake crossed the dusty path. Both Fox and Magpie watched its progress carefully. The serpent's length was seemingly unending, inch after inch of mint-green and soil-black scales. It took its time. When its head reached the other side of the tangle, it turned toward the pair and said, "You were going in the right direction. That hoodoo thing was headed to the Conqueror. You are either very brave—or very foolish. Devouring you would have been a mercy."

Sister Magpie ruffled her black-and-white raiment in fury. She fluttered off the ground and darted toward the snake's brightly evil eyes. The snake hissed and dove into the brush quickly. ...