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Back The Black Maybe Save as PDF
Chapters (13)
  1. Cover
  2. Introduction by Steve Rasnic Tem
  3. To Bite a Dog
  4. Fogtown
  5. The Time Remaining
  6. Return to the Midnight School
  7. In the Snow, Sleeping
  8. Multiplied by Zero
  9. The Amber Complex
  10. Sky Filled With Crows, Then Nothing at All
  11. Walks Among You
  12. The Black Maybe
  13. About the Author

Károly nodded. He smelled of pálinka and cheap cologne. Ágika had asked him several times to use a different kind, but Károly insisted on his favorite brand.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

Károly nodded again and kissed Ágika. He wanted to kill out of love, and also so that next time he saw Peter in the pub he would be able to measure up to him. He would know the taste of blood too.

Ágika shuddered. It was a strange way to end a marriage. Such a banal thing; but maybe that’s healthy. No legal red tape, no attempts at reconciliation, just a clean cut.

‘Let’s do it then,’ she said.

Csabi didn’t wake up when they entered the room, which meant he never woke up again.

Old Peter opened his eyes in the dark. This time he didn’t shout for Mártika, despite the wet bed. He remained silent, even held his breath. The darkness was absolute. He could sense it lying under the bed. Its horns scratching the floor, blood spilling from between its teeth. Its breath filled the room with the stench of the grave.

‘So you came,’ the old man growled. ‘You came for me . . . ! Finally . . .’

He could feel the horrible creature crawling out from under the bed, he heard it squirming in the dark. The old man curled up, and his face assumed a mask of horror to satisfy his guest. Then he realized that he felt genuine terror.

And he waited.

Any moment now the Slave of the Great Lord could strike him, it could touch him in the dark, gouge out his eyes, devour his soul. Peter was happy he could receive terrifying certainty before his death. His aged body gasped in the dark room, and besides the sounds of his own body he heard, he must have heard, the voice of the creature. It must be there, any moment now it would touch him, it would slash at him, it would disembowel him.

He would see it if he switched on the light.

But he didn’t make a move for the switch. He couldn’t take the risk.

‘Come! Do it!’ he whispered fearfully. ‘Do it now . . .’

He lay in the dark for the longest time, waiting. The horror standing by the bed waited along with him.

The Black Maybe

The Black Maybe

Tradition dictates every step of the harvest. The young ones collect the snails in the daytime, while the men oil the chains at night. Chains are to be dealt with only when cold, because that’s when the metal maintains its inner firmness, while the snail yields most of its juice in the daytime heat.