Lure © 2022 by Tim McGregor and Tenebrous Press

All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, except for brief excerpts for the purpose of review, without the prior written consent of the owner. All inquiries should be addressed to [email protected].

Production of this novel was made possible in part by a grant from the Regional Arts & Culture Council.

Published by Tenebrous Press.

First Printing, July 2022.

The characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-1-7379823-0-2

eBook ISBN: 978-1-7379823-1-9

Cover illustration by Matt Blairstone.

Interior illustrations by Kelly Williams.

Edited by Alex Woodroe and Matt Blairstone.

Formatting by Lori Michelle.

Printed in the United States of America.

ALSO FROM TENEBROUS PRESS:

Green Inferno: The World Celebrates Your Demise edited by Matt Blairstone

In Somnio: A Collection of Modern Gothic Horror edited by Alex Woodroe

Your Body is Not Your Body edited by Alex Woodroe and Matt Blairstone

One Hand to Hold, One Hand to Carve by M.Shaw

COMING SOON:

Crom Cruach a novella by Valkyrie Loughcrewe

1

1

THE SEA MONSTER measures forty-six hands across. Its bones hang on the wall in our church, spanning the length of the chancel. According to legend, it is over nine hundred years old. The tail is enormous, like that of some titanic serpent, but the fore end is a hodgepodge of mismatched anatomy. The skull is human, as are the ribs and arms, but there is also the dried baleen of a whale and the bill of a swordfish incorporated into its frame. It is ghastly looking, but impressive.

It’s also very dusty.

“When was the last time this relic was cleaned, do you suppose?” my father says. It is his church now. He is the Reverend Uriah Lensman, pastor here for the last five years.

Father cranes his long neck to look up at the garish relic suspended on the stone wall, a good three fathoms above the floor, blackened with soot from a thousand years of burning candles. It hovers above the icon of our holy creator, the One True God. As far as I know, ours is the only church in the realm to shelter the bones of a monster.

“I don’t think it’s ever been cleaned,” I reply. “The damned thing is so old it might fall apart if I try dusting it.”

“Language, Kaspar, please,” he sighs. “Here of all places.”

An old complaint. My mouth often runs faster than my brains. “Sorry, father.”

My name is Kaspar Lensman. I am fifteen years. My sister, Bryndis, is seventeen. Pip is eleven, and his nose has never stopped running. His full name is Pitr, but no one calls him that. Mother is dead.