Piercing the Veil Tour and Giveaway

Piercing the Veil

by Guy Riessen

Genre: Horror, Supernatural Occult Thriller

What do flesh-eating cell phones, brain-enhancing tacos, and a real live dead foot have in common?

They're all tools in the destruction of our world, and a weapons-grade team of heavily-armed Miskatonic University nerds may be humanity’s last hope.

Something is ripping holes in the Veil of energy that separates our world from that of the ancient evils writhing just beyond what we think is reality. Time is running out for Professors Derrick LeStrand, Howard Strauss and their team of researchers as they race to hunt down a mysterious Frenchman who wields Necromantic Death Magic unlike anything they’ve seen before.

Tearing open psychological wounds from Derrick’s past, the cabalistic sorcerer is gathering ancient icons of power to pierce the Veil and bring down the only thing shielding mankind from the relentless horrors beyond.

If they fail, the only questions that will remain are who will live in servitude to the Great Old Ones and who will die…and who will supply Derrick with tacos?

Set against the backdrop of a world where H.P. Lovecraft was not a fiction writer, but a Sweep, a special operative trained to protect the collective sanity of the human race with misinformative blends of fact and fiction … where the Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual is little more than a slightly skewed Audubon Field Guide, and the monster movies you grew up with are more documentary than not. 

It’s Nerdthulhu Lethal Weapon cranked to eleven.

**Release sale- only .99 cents!!**

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They turned and moved down the hallway, stopping when they reached the last wooden door. It slumped in its water-bloated uneven frame in the dim hallway. The paint was peeling off in curled strips like a week-old sunburn, exposing the mildew-rotten wood underneath.

Howard rocked his weight onto his back foot and kicked his heavy combat boot against the lock plate in the old door.

With a shattering thud, the frame burst, and the door slammed open, breaking free of its hinges, and flying into the room beyond.

Howard leaped past the threshold, dropping to one knee, the light on his rifle swept the decrepit bedroom. He glanced at the readout on the QQTV scanner. The screen stayed black.

With one hand hovering over the big red button on the Pulsar, Derrick followed Howard into the room.

Moving the rifle and sensor around the room, Howard growled, “Shit. Nothing on scanner.”

Clouds of dust roiled through Howard’s flashlight beam. The broken door leaned against a four-poster bed, the headboard pushed up against the north wall. At one time, there had been a canopy over the bed, but now the wooden planks, which once suspended the canopy from the tall bedposts, lay in a jumbled heap on the bed’s sunken mattress. Some of the rotten fabric still hung from the posts.

The bed cover and canopy looked like they were made from the same red velvet material. Strips of fabric lay in torn and blackened tatters across the bed. What had been pillows were now hollow husks, their feather guts strewn about the mattress and floor in brown rotting lumps thick with a yellow jelly that glistened whenever the light slung beneath Howard’s rifle moved across them. Cracked floral wallpaper drooped in limp and blistered sheets, hanging from the wall plaster like half-peeled banana skin.

The air felt charged, as if a bolt of lightning from the storm outside could blast through the broken window frame at any second. Derrick paused, his stomach churning with fear. Listening, trying to isolate his senses, he said, “I’m still feeling like we’re right on the precipice of something. Something real bad is, like, right here with us, man. Real bad.”

Howard spun the thumbscrews on the sensor box and pulled it off his rifle. He rattled the QQTV and looked at it, front and back, before holding it up to his ear. “You sure this Quadro-shit works?”

“Quantum Quadro-Thermosonic Vector sensor. And, it should be working. Point it at me and check the reading.”

Howard held the box toward Derrick and nodded. “Yep you’re glowing like a goddamn lava lamp.”

Rubbing at his chin, Derrick said, “Well, what the heck? Something’s definitely here …”

Derrick stepped forward, holding out his hand to take the sensor. Howard tossed it toward him and Derrick tried to grab it but felt it bounce off the edge of his thumb.

“Dangit, H!”

As if in slow motion, Derrick watched the silver box tumble end over end, to land on one corner on the floor with a flat metallic tink.

“Whoops …” Howard exclaimed as the two halves of the box split the duct tape. A brilliant blue flash shot out from the sensor box, illuminating everything with bright light and black shadows. The room filled with an unworldly sound like Obi Wan Kenobi shutting down the Death Star’s tractor beam. The screen on the sensor flicked off, and the room dropped to dim light punctuated only with the beams of their flashlights.

The floorboards in the entire center of the room suddenly sank as if the kitchen downstairs, directly below them according to Derrick’s flawless directional sense, was sucking in a massive breath. Then the wood planks blasted upward like someone planted a grenade under the middle of the floor.

Derrick was blown back through the door and into the wall in the hallway. His breath whooshed out of his chest in a cloud of white condensation. The temperature dropped so rapidly it felt like someone slapped his cheeks and hands as he gasped to regain his wind.

Derrick watched giant clawed, skeletal hands dig deep gouges in the wooden floor as a massive skull rose from the jagged hole in the center of the room, lifting through a rain of falling ceiling plaster and clattering splinters. Its ragged, yellow teeth looked impossibly large as they gnashed at the wet chunks of dirt slipping through the gaps between its bones, shattered teeth, and remnants of tissue to splat in dark globs of earth that writhed with beige worms and pale maggots.

Derrick could hear the thing’s wheezing breath that, even without lungs behind the massive cracked and splintered rib cage, exhaled a charnel stench of rotting viscera mingled with the copper tang of old blood. The smell was putrescent, a thick miasma that coated Derrick’s tongue, crawling to the back of his throat. As the thing heaved itself bit by bit, through the tear in reality, he turned his head and vomited the remnants of his Burger Queen lunch.

Ah man, why is a skeleton breathing?

Derrick’s thoughts were slippery and faded almost as quick as they came. He tried to lever himself up against the wall but a pain worse than he’d ever felt exploded from his thigh and his body refused to get up. His vision split and swam, a slow spin that rotated left then snapped back. Double vision and vomiting … that’s not good.

Derrick tried to look down at his legs. There was blood, but he couldn’t focus. He shook his head and regretted it when a wicked pain lanced from the base of his skull to rip at his optic nerves.

Squinting his eyes, he tried to resolve the two giant skeletal figures into one. The creature was pushing its body up through the shattered floorboards. Grave dirt pattered a tattoo matching the wet slopping sounds of torn and pulped organs falling free from the bones, the earthen placenta of an obscenely large desecrated grave.

Derrick fought to remain coherent against the mental assault of what he was seeing. Too many organs, he thought watching thick ropes of intestine spill to the floor, loops catching and tearing on the splintered jagged edges of the hole. Then more, tumbling out with slick masses of wet earth … and more.

Where’s that dirt coming from … we’re on the second floor?

Why can I only see black beneath the floorboards? What if it grabs Howard and pulls him into that abyss?

Seeing the rip in reality was like staring at a sheet of black carbon nanotubes … flat-black, nothing. There was no howling sound, but an opening, a void, a gate … to somewhere else.

With a thick sucking sound, the colossus pulled its giant rotten emaciated feet from the hole in the floor. Chunks of gelatinous flesh sloughed from the bones, sounding like jello squeezed through fingers. The peeling flesh looked strange with skin of different colors mixed with the gray-green pallor of rot. Loose muscle stripped off like string cheese, but didn’t seem to match the bones and tendons. The thing squatted, covering the shrinking rip in reality that had birthed it, hunched in the squalid room that was much too small to contain it. Derrick gasped as the gate between its feet snapped shut.

All he could hear was his own rapid breath and blood shushing through his inner ear … then the sound of a grinding stone mill rumbled, and the massive skeletal head swiveled toward Derrick.

Broken antlers jutted from the sides of its head, and where eye sockets and nasal cavity should be, the cracked and yellowed bone was rough but featureless. A dim glow like swamp light poured from the thing’s jagged mouth, rotated about the room, casting sulfurous beams through the thick swirling dust.

What the heck is that? No, wait. Where’s Howard? Derrick thought. A vision of half of Howard’s skull, spilling brains and blood as it rocked on the ground where the open gate had been flashed through his mind, and he called Howard’s name, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. One or both of his earplugs must have fallen free when he was blown through the door.

Derrick’s head lolled forward, as his sight began to fade.

Was Howard still teaching his afternoon class? Derrick tried to focus, the sound of clattering and grinding bones just audible over the keening whine; his ears ached. He tried to raise his head, to look toward the sound, but his head felt impossibly heavy.

No, not in class. We were on a road trip … and … oh man, we’re in some kind of a real fix, aren’t we?

How the heck did we get into this situation anyway … oh yeah, Derrick thought, as his brain dipped further into the enticing blackness, that’s right …. We drove here in that stupid VW Bus that Sarah always makes us take on these bug hunts. Never the helicopter, oh no, always the frakkin’ bus.

Dang …

I hate …

that stupid bus …

Derrick could only see contrast variations, grays on blacks. But the darkness was coming. He could hear the chalky grind of bone against wood getting ever closer. The cloying scent of rotting flesh and marrow was so strong that Derrick was panting to avoid breathing deep. His empty stomach clenched again right before he passed out.

The room was humid and stuffy, fetid with the smell of blood and bile, smoke, and pizza.

The air conditioner below the window sat idle. A cigarette hung loose at the corner of his lips, smoke rising in curling eddies from the heavy length of ash that dangled off the end. His eyes were staring, unfocused, at the half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza that lay on a grease-soaked napkin next to his open laptop.

He could feel the gaze of the small stone idol sitting on the dresser, twin empty sockets where the eyes should be, black stains running down from the dark pits like oily tears. He didn’t want to look at it. Looking at it was like glancing up from a lover’s text and seeing the burning red brake lights of a dump truck in front of your speeding car, too late to reach the brake pedal.

He knew for himself, it was too late to even remove his foot from the gas.

His eyes drifted back to the computer screen. The words at the top read, “Welcome to Tor Browser,” and his hand lay unmoving on the mouse next to the keyboard, his index finger resting on the button. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting like that, just staring, until the ash trickled down from the end of his cigarette and singed the hair on his arm—how long does it take for a cigarette to burn itself to the filter?

He set the smoldering cigarette on the small desk that filled half of his tiny room at the Redding Cypress Inn. A small, yellowed crescent spread from under the tip of the cigarette, joining dozens of others burned into the desktop varnish. Picking up the slice of pizza, he stuffed it into his mouth, the oil dribbling down his chin unnoticed. He tossed the crust into the pizza box that lay open on the soiled comforter at the end of the bed. A spattered crimson stain of blood had soaked through the top of the box.

He’d come to America six weeks ago after losing his job as the professor of Hydrogeology at Université de Versailles. But, by the time he was forced to resign, he already knew the big picture … and it wasn’t his job that mattered any more. Money was no longer important after the brutal attack stole the lives of his wife and son. He needed access to the Dark Web, that part of the Internet frequented by those looking to avoid the constraint of society's morals. For that he only needed a laptop and Wi-Fi access.

Muffled sounds came from the bathroom. Unintelligible moans, and the squeak of skin skidding and thumping in the cheap motel fiberglass tub. It reminded him he needed to stay focused. He finally glanced at the green stone idol that sat on the dresser in front of the black flat-screen TV, hoping for that taste of a lover’s touch before crashing steel, and a jolt of adrenalin suffused him. He thought the idol glowed, but whenever he tried to catch it luminescing, it stayed dark, its black-pit eyes boring into his soul. He should do more to make the idol happy. He would do more, he thought, and his rewards were close …

Soon the black fire beyond the Veil would shine with dark light in his mind, and he would see.

Months before he'd left Université de Versailles, he’d bought a couple Trojan malware programs on the Dark Web using a bitcoin payment site. One, he'd installed immediately on the campus computer, which gave him access to information concerning international university antiquities-transfer requests, shipping and grant submissions, and approvals specifically for the Archeology and Antiquities departments.

The other Trojan was installed in the United States Forest Service System database. That took more time since it had to be installed by hand on one of the USFS computer terminals. After a month of trolling the child-porn trading sites on the Dark Web, he’d found a Forest Service employee who’d been convinced to cooperate by a combination of blackmail threats and a large bitcoin transfer, which had been possible while he still had his university income.

He typed the scrambled text-string address into the Tor browser's address bar which ran through the USFS trojan backdoor entry. It brought him to the Complaints Entry portal where he entered an unknown disturbance for a property in the Trinity National Forest, along with a series of photos showing a glowing white figure in a dark room. He clicked the Do Not Share button so the complaint, while in the system, would not be passed up the chain of command to anyone else. He’d left similar entries over the last two weeks, so the process was quick and easy.

Rising from the threadbare desk chair, he shuffled over to the pizza box. There was a pile of clothes at the end of the bed, stacked next to the Tortellinis Pizza delivery box. A blue and white shirt with a name tag, “Tony,” black slacks and a Tortellinis ball cap. There’d been a magnetic pizza delivery sign adorning Tony’s car that he’d left on while driving. Stuffing the sign into the trunk, he’d abandoned the vehicle in a dirt pull out off the highway south of town.

He’d need more money soon. He still had some money in his bank account, but didn’t want to make any traceable international withdrawals if he didn’t need to. He reached over to the pizza box and pulled out the last slice slicked with red from the blood dripping through the box lid. Dragging his tongue over the congealed blood and cold oily cheese, he savored the salty copper taste and took a bite. More cash would be delightful, and another body to feed to a haruspex would be even better—he needed to gain control of the dark power site that the others were already unsuccessfully trying to awaken.

He’d bought the kitchen knife from the store across the street. It glinted on the dresser, in the thin strip of afternoon light that shined where the blackout curtains didn't quite meet in the middle. He took the knife and the stone idol and walked over to the door leading to the hallway. He peered out from the crack the security chain allowed, making sure the “Do Not Disturb” sign still hung from the door knob. He locked the door and moved into the bathroom.

In the wan fluorescent lighting, he could see the naked young man lying in the tub with his hands bound behind his back, and his feet tied together at the ankles. His mouth was stuffed with a pillowcase held in place by a necktie striped with the colors of the Université de Versailles. The man's eyes bulged when he saw the knife. There were ragged, bloody holes where his kneecaps used to be, and there was no way for him to struggle much before the pain became overwhelming. The white bone disks, once Tony’s kneecaps, sat on the bathroom sink, streaked with blood, their frayed yellow pulpy tendons still attached.

He held the blade up, watching the light slide along the sharp edge. It was of excellent quality, but it was not the powerful dagger he sought. Looking at his other hand, he realized he had brought the idol into the bathroom with him. He set it on the edge of the counter. The stone figure had shown him the things he needed, including the dagger with a blade dark and cruel and running with the blood of innocents. Visions of the hilt seemed to twist and writhe in his mind's eye, runes like those on the idol, sharp and jagged as though hacked and torn from flesh.

The man in the tub screamed. Even though it wasn’t loud, he could see it in the way the tears floated in his eyes, the way his bare feet squeaked against the bloody tub. Fabric stuffed deep in his throat made the sound distant, and two days of screaming made it hoarse. He shushed the man and sat on the toilet next to the tub.

With a smooth motion, the kitchen blade arced down, deep into the man's abdomen. He licked his lips and smiled as he sawed through the stomach muscle down to the groin. The man thrashed until too much of his blood had poured from the open wound and down the tub drain. His eyes went flat.

Setting the bloody knife on the sink, he leaned over and spread the yellow clumpy fat and smooth muscle with his hands. He pulled loops of intestine out, slopping the viscera around the man's body, arranging the tangled loops to amplify the power. He studied the glinting wetness and the peristaltic motion that made intestines move sometimes long after death. Then he pulled out several more organs placing each in the proper position for haruspex.

Yes. The divination of the haruspicy showed the truth. The entrails slipped and throbbed in his hands, slowly leaking life force while foretelling the future. Someone would be sent from Miskatonic University. That was where the Angolka Iwisa was—on display in their museum, where anyone could get their hands on it. The fools had no idea what they held, leaving it in the open for the public to gaze upon in ignorance. The inter-university transfer he’d intercepted tracked the Sobeki Asphyxiation Rod travelling from Versailles to Miskatonic after the Egyptian excavation had ended with him held at the embassy while Egypt demanded his termination.

He should go to this Miskatonic University.

No, wait. He looked over at the statue sitting on the sink, black dripping eye sockets looked back. He looked back into the tub.

He pushed the entrails around in the blood-spattered tub, pulling the gall bladder into his hand. He sliced the organ, letting the bile spill through his fingers. The fluid sluiced across the slowly twisting intestines.

The message was clearing. There was more.

Miskatonic held a deeper secret—a group that would lead him not only to the missing pieces of unholy stone, but to the dagger itself, the true blade that could sever the ties that bind the Veil to this earthly plane.

Once he pierced the Veil, the Hidden Gate would be thrown wide and the power of the Old Ones would be his. Power enough to return his son, and still rain vengeance on those who had crossed him. He could feel a visceral sort of lust growing within him as he manipulated the organs, the fluids and secretions dribbling warmly through his fingers as they probed forbidden secrets. And more important than the feeling of his own growing tumescence, was the approval he could feel emanating from the idol. Turning his head, he stared into the blackened sockets and let the feeling wash over him, thrilling his every nerve.

He stood from his work and dried his sticky red hands on the towel hanging from the bent rack on the wall. Before he could put any plan in motion, though, he needed more money. Stepping from the bathroom, he flicked on the overhead fan, closed the door, and dialed his phone.

"Hello, Pizza Guys, West Redding, will this be for pick up or delivery?"

"This will be for delivery, mon frère" he said.

“Ah, hey man … you’re French, right? I’m taking French up at Shasta College. That’s cool, man. Hey, so Comment vous appelez-vous?”

The Frenchman laughed and said, “Je m'appelle François.”

“Right on, François. Now, what can we get started for you …”

“A pepperoni pizza.”

“Size, mon frère?”

“Grand.”

“One large pepperoni pizza for delivery, right? What’s your address?”

“Oui. I am at the Redding Cypress Inn. Room One-Seventeen.”

“Awesome, that’ll be eighteen-fifty, and I’ll see you in about thirty minutes.”

“Oh, will you be delivering too?”

“Yep, just me and Manuel here slinging dough tonight.”

“C'est magnifique!”

Guy Riessen is an American author of contemporary dark fiction spanning the science fiction, horror, fantasy and crime genres. Born in South Dakota, he grew up in the Southern California beach town of Huntington Beach. He moved to the San Francisco Bay Area, graduated with a degree in English from UC Berkeley, and has been living in the wild lands north of San Francisco ever since. After nearly two decades of creating artwork in the visual effects industry for feature films, he returned to his first passion: writing speculative fiction.

He's been published on Under the Bed, Near to the Knuckle and Shotgun Honey, and in the anthologies Urban Temples of Cthulhu, Dreams of the Miskatonic and It's All Trumped Up.

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