A Symphony of Aromas
A Snafu short story by Sir M.J. Wasik
Elm Street wore the gloom of the city of Snafu at twilight like it was a shroud, but amidst the dreariness of this part of town was a peculiar little shop. It beckoned with a warm glow from its windows. Its sign, “A Symphony of Aromas” creaked on rusty hinges as it danced in the biting autumn wind. A closer look would reveal that, as an afterthought, someone had carved “By Myshkin” on the bottom half of the sign. But they had never died it correctly, or it had faded that the words were barely legible.
I hesitated at the threshold, the scent of exotic spices overwhelmed me even before I reached the door. ‘A symphony of aromas indeed’ I thought as the memories flooded my mind. A mélange that unleashed the secrets I learned in far-off lands in times better forgotten. The cinnamon whispered tales of the caravans I raided in my youth. While the cloves sang of that cabin in the shadowy forests, deep and undisturbed, where I found redemption. My senses reeled, and for a moment, I was lost in the labyrinth of scents. And it took me a moment to find myself. With a hand that seemed to move of its own volition, I pushed open the door. The soft tinkling of a bell sliced through the silence as I entered. The smells only intensified, but I was prepared this time.
“Detective Boris,” a voice croaked from behind the counter, pulling me back to reality. It was Myshkin, the shopkeeper, his eyes unreadable, mysterious and dark as the goods he peddled. He was a small man, swallowed up by the voluminous sleeves of his robe, and he regarded me with an unsettling intensity.
“Shopkeeper Myshkin,” I nodded curtly, my voice steady despite the eerie unease coiling within me. “I’ve come to inquire about a certain… incident.”
“Ah, yes,” he replied, his thin lips curling into a semblance of a smile that never reached those fathomless eyes. “The air is thick with more than just the fragrance of spices today, isn’t it, detective?”
“Indeed,” I said, my gaze not leaving his as I prowled closer to the counter, each step deliberate. “It seems the aroma of mystery lingers just as heavily.”
“Perhaps I can offer you something? A blend of herbs for protection, or maybe a tincture to sharpen the mind?” He motioned towards a display holding the popular energy drink I knew so well, the Sap of Life. Its modern design seemed out of place among the traditional jars and wooden shelves.
“No, Myshkin. What I require from you won’t be found in any jar or bottle,” I stated flatly, my hand instinctively resting on the notepad in my pocket. “I seek only the truth.”
“Then let us hope,” he murmured, leaning forward so that the shadows seemed to cling to him, “that the truth is a spice you can stomach, Detective Boris.”
“Truth,” Myshkin repeated, his voice a mere whisper as he withdrew from the counter, retreating into the deeper shadows of the shop. “It began with a woman that I would have once have said to be the love I was looking for, a beauty carved from my very dreams. Her name is Elle.”
“Elle?” I echoed, the name rolling off my tongue like a bitter spice. My eyes narrowed, trying to read the flicker of emotions that danced in his.
“Beautiful,” he started, and his hands moved as if weaving an invisible tapestry. “She came to me with promises. Said she knew ways… ancient ways… to draw patrons to my shop.” His gaze slipped past me, focusing on something unseen, something that made the air feel thick with dread.
“Promises can be dangerous things,” I murmured, watching him closely.
“Indeed,” he agreed, a shiver passing through his slight frame. “I made the changes that she suggested. I performed the rituals she asked me to, though I felt silly doing them. But I could not argue with the results. Sales flourished like never before. My store has never done so well, even when it was my dad’s. But eventually, she would demand a price…” He trailed off, his eyes snapping back to mine with sudden fervor. “That is when I saw her true form.”
“True form?” I pressed, feeling the darkness of the room press in around us, the scent of cumin and cardamom momentarily bringing back the oppressive memories.
“Her beauty was but a mask, Detective. One evening, as the last rays of twilight died, she entered with that lithe way of walking she has, bouncing and jiggling in all the right places. It was a pleasure, as always, to see her. But after locking the door she turned to me with a hungry smile. At first I thought…well…instead she transformed.” His voice dropped to a hushed tone, laden with a terror that seemed to vibrate the walls. “Wings… vast moth wings sprouted from her back and a tongue as long and sharp as a sword came out of her mouth. And she came at me, hungering for more than commerce or cuddles.”
“Did she harm you?” My hand tightened around my notepad, as I looked for any sign of wounds upon him.
Myshkin’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “She said that she wanted to bring me into the family but I knew she was going to consume me, body and soul, Detective. But I escaped. I ran like the coward I am,” he spat out the words, disgust evident in his expression.
“Escape was survival, not cowardice,” I corrected him, though my thoughts raced with the implications of what a rumor of such a creature stalking the streets would mean.
“Perhaps,” he conceded, the word hanging between us like a spider suspended on its thread. “But where does one turn when no one believes you? Where does one run when the darkness itself hunts you?”
“Into the light,” I said, my voice steady even as my heart betrayed me with its rapid beats. “And you’ve done well to come to the authorities. It was probably some foul glamour, an illusion she placed upon herself to intimidate you. But we will find out the truth of the matter when we find this Elle. She won’t find refuge in the shadows for long.”
“Let us hope,” Myshkin murmured, but the doubt in his eyes spoke volumes. “For both our sakes.”
“Stay vigilant, Myshkin,” I instructed, my resolve hardening. “Keep your doors locked and your wits about you. I’ll handle Elle.”
“May the gods grant you strength,” he replied, his hand lifting in a feeble gesture that might have been a blessing or a plea.
“Strength,” I echoed, nodding curtly before I turned to leave the suffocating embrace of the spice shop. “Or whatever else it takes to face what hides in the night.”
I scribbled the last of Myshkin’s haunted words onto my notepad, ink scratching across the paper like claws on bark. The air in the shop clung to me, a miasma of exotic scents and the rank fear that seeped from the shopkeeper’s pores. It was as if I was back in the war, I again felt that chaos of when the old gods left and the new ones arrived. I gritted my teeth, and with a nod that felt more like an omen, I pocketed the pen and made my way to the door.
“Thank you, detective,” Myshkin’s voice was a ghostly whisper behind me. “Be careful.”
“Care is my middle name,” I said giving him a wink, the handle cold in my grip. A final glance over my shoulder caught the reflection of my own eyes in the glass of a jar filled with some unnamable spice. They were too sharp, too bright, too close together. Then I was out, the bell above the door tolling a somber farewell.
The street had become nearly empty as I turned into a dark alley, the cobblestones slick with the dark fog that never lifted more than a few inches of the ground. Here, hidden from prying eyes and bathed in shadows, I allowed the change to come. It started as an itch between my shoulder blades, the ancient call of Agdist, the Moth of the Eternal Night. As always, the touch of Agdist twisted my guts and set my nerves alight.
With a shudder that rattled my bones, literally, I let go. The transformation was never painless. It tore through bones, flesh and sinew, a symphony of agony and ecstasy that sang of freedom. Moth wings unfurled from my back, massive and grotesque against the backdrop of the night, their pattern a mockery of beauty, tattered with two dark spots that could have been eyes staring from the abyss. My proboscis curling in my mouth longing for the taste of blood. But that would have to wait, the family business comes first.
Unseen, unheard, I took flight. The city fell away beneath me, a tapestry of light and shadow, as I soared toward the outskirts where civilization gave way to the ruins of the old industrial blocks. Below, the factory lay dormant, a slumbering beast unaware of the predator circling above. I made several passes to make sure that there was no one near, no one to see. When I felt safe that the family had not been compromised, I went to the factory that was my home.
Landing was always delicate, a dance between gravity and my desire to fly to the moon, that ended with me cloaked in my human guise. The earth, cold and damp, embraced my feet as I dissolved into flesh, my wings a memory once more. I approached the factory with reverence, the ground cold and unyielding beneath me This was unhallowed ground, a sanctuary from the world’s unceasing intrusion. Before me, the factory loomed, a silent sentinel amidst the whispering fields. It was an edifice of otherworldly architecture, its angles mocking the laws of nature and sanity, windows like darkened eyes peering into the soul. The place where the family made Sap of Life, the popular and all-natural energy drink.
“Night Mother,” I called softly as I entered the factory floor, each word curling into the air like smoke from my pipe before I gave up the habit. “I come with a moon’s blessing in the silence of shadows.”
From the back office, a presence stirred, a delicate shiver formed in the fabric of reality. The Night Mother emerged, her form both exquisite and unnatural, a dream woven from moonlight and malice. Her eyes held galaxies of madness, her smile, a promise of oblivion and her voice was the very song of Agdist, The Moth of the Abyss.
“Tell me, child,” the Night Mother’s voice slithered through the darkness, a symphony of sweet decay. “Has our secret been kept from awakening minds?”
“Like whispers lost to the void,” I assured, my heart pounding with a mixture of dread and devotion. “The one at the spice shop remains oblivious of our plans, thinking it all a mundane mystery of monsters.”
“Good, very good.” The Night Mother’s approval washed over me, a tide of blackened delight. “Even if Elle was unable to turn him to our cause, Myshkin will continues to be among those who sell the sap. Our harvest of those who drink it goes on.”
“Indeed, Night Mother,” I bowed my head in reverence. “The spice shop’s keeper quivers alone, his tale disbelieved and the city sleeps unaware that their blood is drained while they dream.
“Perfect.” She stepped closer, the air chilling with her proximity. “You have done well, my envoy to the world. Continue to weave your web of deceit to shield us from their dim light.”
“Your will is my command,” I vowed, the words etched into my being at my rebirth. “I am the moth in the darkness, the silent harbinger on the wings of eternal night.”
“Then go,” Night Mother commanded, her gaze piercing the veil between worlds. “Spread your wings once more and keep watch over our domain. Let not one flicker of truth ignite the minds of the mortals.”
With a final nod, I retreated from her unholy aura, feeling the call of shadow and secrecy once again. Outside, the night beckoned, and I surrendered to its embrace, my form shifting, reshaping. Wings unfurled, vast and vile, and I ascended into the sky to dance with the moon, a specter of horror, bound through Night Mother, and our family to Agdist’s inscrutable plan.
The end. the creature page is here