Foreword by Dan Clore

The horror fiction genre is overburdened with clichés. How to deal with this situation is one of the toughest dilemmas that faces horror writers today.

Most them simply churn out yet another work that simply follows the time-honored tradition. These works usually swiftly pass into oblivion.

Others attempt to avoid clichés and find new subject matter. Most of these fall by the wayside; a few provide the foundations for new clichés, previously unheard-of.

The truest afficianados of the horror genre, however, take another tack: they transform the clichés into something new, they ring new changes on the themes and imagery handed down to them from the past. When successful, these performances provide perhaps the most exciting, the most interesting discoveries available to the connoisseur of the weird.

This is what Ray Wallace has done in "One of the Six" -- and he has succeeded.

The clichés he chose to work with are among the oldest in the repertoire.

The first, the Forbidden Book, appearing mysteriously and filled with darksome secrets, has been with the genre for no less than two hundred years.

The second, the invented mythology of outré and eldritch deities that reside somewhere in the beyond, has most often (as here) been connected with the first since its inception some one hundred years ago. It is not easy to discover new possibilities in these traditional elements, but Ray Wallace has done so, and has deftly woven them into a suspenseful tale that culminates in a climax that is shuddersome and mind-shattering in its implications. Enjoy.

One of the Six

Let me preface this, the last story I will ever convey to my loyal readers, by saying that I do not write this of my own free will. He - who shall remain nameless, for the time being - is making me do this. So please forgive me for the horror I am about to inflict on you and the many others who are bound to read this. I have no choice in the matter, as you will soon come to understand.

Where to start... where to start... Well, I'd better just get to the point, since he has told me that I haven't much time.

I am a man, nothing more, in his later years, who has been blessed with the good fortune of being able to write - one of the few passions of mine - for a living. I also enjoy the occasional drink and a good cigarette, both of which may have contributed to my high blood pressure; then again, they may not have. I am not the most trusting of men and place the word of my doctor right up there with that of the common burglar. But, simply to appease the white-jacketed fellow, if nothing more, I finally took his advice about a year back and began taking walks during the evening, as a form of exercise. And much to my surprise, I actually did start to feel better, and my blood pressure did come down a little.

So for the past year, I would write in the morning and afternoon, have a nice supper then walk the two-and-a-half miles to the university library and spend some time reading or researching a particular idea I may have had for a story, like the one I had recently published about the synaesthetic serial killer - my wife would have loved that one, may she rest in peace.

I would enjoy telling you of my love for that library, of being surrounded by so many works of literature, by the smell of so many books. Such a place is Heaven on Earth for me. But, alas, time is of the essence.

One evening, I found myself deep in the library's farthest reaches, in the "occult" section. I was working on a story about a man obsessed with the ideas of Aliester Crowley, and so immersed myself in the strange concepts of that mad "magician." Hours I spent there, engrossed by the man's ideas, so alien to my own. Then the lights started to go down within the building, and one of the librarians - an attractive young woman, presumably a student at the university - told me that she was sorry, but the library was now closed.

"No need to apologize, my dear," I said and graced her with the grin that stole my wife's heart so many years ago. "Time waits for no man." And as I placed the Crowley book back in its space upon the shelf, I noticed the volume that stood next to it which had somehow escaped my attention before. Its spine was pure black, not a letter on it. No title, no publishing house. Nothing. Intrigued, I grabbed the ebony-covered book and decided to check it out of the library, so that I might peruse it at home.

I brought the volume to the front counter where it was discovered that no check-out card was contained within. A bit bewildered, the head librarian created a card out of a torn sheet of paper so that some record of the book would exist, and then I was allowed to leave with it in my possession.

Oh, that things could have worked out differently. But I am a strong believer in fate and feel that, for whatever unfathomable reason, I was meant to find that black book, that I was meant to unleash such profound horror on the world.

That night I immersed myself within the book's strange writings...

A brief introduction informed the reader that the text was an English translation of passages written in Hebrew many centuries ago. The early Christians considered the writings blasphemous and so had searched far and wide for every existing copy, had burned each one upon discovery until they were certain that none remained. But, obviously, at least one copy had survived.

Intrigued, I read on, was fascinated by the tales of strange and hideous "gods" which I had never encountered before in all my readings. There was Rozen-Ket, thousand-faced ruler of the gods, who had never been known to speak since all of his mouths had at some point, by unknown and unimaginable powers, been sewn shut. And there was Lur-Shee-Inin, "she of the infinite wombs," who was Rozen-Ket's wife and had given birth to the universe and all the creatures found within.

Then there were the lesser gods:

I-Ki, the god of war, who could breathe fire and had swords growing from the ends of his six arms. Ela-Nee-Nee was the goddess of fertility. She had no legs and "breasts the size of mountains," and was always in a state of orgasmic ecstasy. Kurekee was the storm god who had had his eyes stolen and so wept continuously in remembrance of the time when he could see.

Other gods there were, each as bizarre as the next, and many tales were related about these divine beings, including a story which told of the rape of Lur-Shee-Inin and the subsequent birth of mankind. Throughout the rest of the volume, the gods mostly spent their time fighting over, aiding or tormenting "the weak, mortal race." And in the last chapter, I read of the war god I-Ki's jealousy and general hatred for humanity, and of how he wished to destroy our race.

It was written that I-Ki descended to earth and captured six men, took them with him through the "cold reaches of space" to a planet far from our own, a planet that makes the Hell of Christianity look like a summer resort. He left them there for a hundred years and when he returned they were changed into "vile creatures who would only find joy through the pain and suffering of others." Then I-Ki brought them back through space and released them among the peoples of Earth.

What horrors the Six unleashed among mankind. They tortured and slaughtered "man and woman, mother and babe by the thousands," until "whole cities lay empty and silent except for the cries of the carrion eaters."

Lur-Shee-Inin was enraged, as were many of the other gods, and so a great war of the gods ensued. The Earth became a battlefield and much destruction ensued, and even though I-Ki was the god of war, he was outnumbered and eventually defeated. The war showed the gods that they must distance themselves from the everyday affairs of mankind, and so I-Ki was bound and buried within the Earth where he was to be imprisoned for ten-thousand years, and the other gods "turned their eyes to other parts of the universe."

And as for the Six? Well, they were taken back to the planet where I-Ki had turned them into the inhuman monsters they had become. But I-Ki had managed one last act of revenge. Knowing that defeat was imminent, he had called the Six to him on the final day of the war and had "anointed each with a name, and had used the tip of a sword-arm to set the names in stone." And he had whispered magic into each name, so that they could be used to call one of his "blasphemous creations" to the "Earthly realm."

The last page of the book listed the names of the Six, and it said that he who reads the list will find his mind preoccupied with one of the names, that he will be unable to exorcise it from his thoughts, until "the bearer of the name appears to visit I-Ki's vengeance upon the summoner."

I closed the black volume and looked at the clock on the wall: 3:37 A.M. I had sat there, in my study, for nearly eight hours and read the entire book. An obvious work of fiction set down by a somewhat demented mind, the book nonetheless unsettled me, made me wonder how well I might sleep through what little of the night remained. And so I stood, my back aching, and crossed the room to the cabinet there, removed a bottle of brandy and a glass, poured myself a shot. The liquor, warm and comforting, went straight to my head. I yawned deeply and smiled, knowing that sleep would come. Not long later, I was in my bed visiting dreamworlds filled with strange gods and ancient peoples.

Well, he who is making me write this tale has informed me that I haven't much time, and I believe him. Of course, I am trying to make this story as lengthy as possible for when it ends... But, I digress.

The next morning I awoke, and immediately a very strange, somehow unsettling word jumped into my mind. For a moment I was confused, wondering at the word's origin, then I smiled, discovering that the writer's trick had worked, that the word was indeed one of the names from the back of that black book, that I was unable to shake the name from my thoughts. And throughout the rest of the day, I found myself constantly thinking about that book and especially the name that seemed somehow branded upon the contours of my brain.

That night, I made my usual trip over to the college library and returned the book, feeling strangely relieved as I handed it over to the librarian.

"How was it?" she asked of me, indicating the ebony volume.

"I found it... interesting," I replied with a smile - a smile that I, for some odd reason, did not feel.

Then I left the library and began the journey home.

A breeze picked up along the way and I pulled my jacket tightly about me feeling suddenly cold - in more than a physical sense, I might add. Dusk was fast approaching and I felt an irrational touch of dread as I watched the sun sink inch by inch below the horizon. I began to walk more quickly, hoping to make it to the protective confines of my home before total darkness fell, knowing that there was no way I could. The familiar path that I took seemed suddenly fraught with peril as though the ground might open up at any moment and swallow me whole, or the trees might reach out and grab me with gnarled, wooden fingers, pull me apart so that each may have a morsel.

I became convinced that somebody, that something was following me, coming closer and closer with each old man's footstep that I took. I kept looking behind me, all the while saying to myself that I was being silly, that it was just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me. But it was hard to hear the words of this rational argument with the unbidden name of I-Ki's dread minion echoing so loudly in my head.

Full darkness fell as I reached the street on which I lived. I broke into a run - as much of one as I could manage - knowing that I was almost there. I was breathing heavily, in a near panic, now afraid to look back, afraid of what I'd see there. My house was located all the way at the end of the street on a large piece of property which kept me comfortably isolated from the neighbors. It seemed so impossibly far away.

Then, suddenly, like a beacon, the welcoming light of my front porch came into view. The last, small part of my journey home had the quality of a dream, as if I were running in slow motion and, no matter how hard I tried, I would never be able to reach that one place on Earth I considered a safe haven.

An eternity later, I was there.

I stumbled up the steps, gasping for air, pulled the key ring from my pocket, fumbled for the one that would unlock the front door. Now is when I get it, spoke the writer's voice inside me. Now is when they always get it, when they are so close to safety.

Get it from whom? Or what? But I knew. In my terror I knew! For all the while the name was there, pervading my thoughts, calling out through the cold reaches of space to a monster who was once a man, summoning him to enact the vengeance of a forgotten god!

I found the key.

Reached for the lock.

And stopped, unable to move, frozen where I stood.

I was not alone.

From directly behind me, I heard laughter - a deep, inhuman sound, but laughter nonetheless.

Then the smell hit me.

It was the odor of rotting flesh, of sun-ripened viscera, of spoiled blood.

I almost gagged.

Then the voice, as deep as the laughter, somehow filled with both hatred and joy, washed over me, flowed through me, left me with no choice but to obey its order: "Turn around. Look upon the one whom you have summoned."

And, God help me, I did turn around, and my eyes were filled with the horror that stood there, that had no place in the modern, rational world - maybe, for that matter, in any world that had ever been. I was suddenly face to face with a creature - I could not think of it in such terms as "man" - which could only have existed within the realms of a dream, within the darkest of nightmares.

He stood before me, seven feet in height, stared down at me with eyes of blackest night set in a face of hideous design. His skin was severely burned, scarred and blistered and in places seared all the way through so that the charred bones beneath were visible. His nose and ears appeared to have melted away, and when he smiled I could see that his rotting teeth were filed to points, like those of a shark. He wore a tattered robe which left much of his body available for scrutiny. It seemed that whatever fire had consumed his head had also done its work on the rest of him. He was skeleton-thin, had some broken ribs which jutted out at obscene angles through his ruined flesh. And in place of hands he had two long hooks made of bone, chipped and scratched along their lengths, obviously put to violent use many times before.

Yes, a living nightmare, there, before me.

A nightmare that I had called from the depths of space.

Without a word that foul servant lifted an arm and touched me atop the head with one of his hook-hands, and I could not move, could only stand there, immobilized in my terror. And with that touch I literally saw my life - from earliest childhood until this day - flash before my eyes, and I knew that, somehow, he was reading my thoughts, was watching my life in fast-forward with me.

When the whole of my existence had played itself out - how long this took, I couldn't say; probably only a couple of minutes - he broke contact with me then smiled and said, "A squire. A very popular squire, read by many. How very fortunate."

For a moment, a part of me wondered how this ancient creature could speak my language so fluently. And immediately, the logical part of my being argued that he was obviously possessed with powers well beyond my ability to comprehend.

It was at this point that my mind overloaded, that my aged will gave out and I fainted away...

When I awoke, I found myself propped up in my writing chair in the study. Had it all been a dream? A figment of my sometimes twisted imagination? Had I been at work on a tale that had so gotten ahold of my subconscious? Had left me filled with such horror?

Then I became aware of the smell pervading the room, and I knew that I was not so lucky. By what means had I been brought here? Did he pick me up with those vile hooks, carry me in those tortured, emaciated appendages? The very thought sickened me to the center of my being. And why had he brought me here? For what purpose?

Then he told me, and I began to weep for the first time since my beloved's funeral nearly five years ago.

"You are going to write your final story," he said from behind me. "In it you will tell of your discovery of the black book and the creation of the universe. And you will also tell of my lord, I-Ki, and of the Six, and of how I was summoned. And in the end, you will write the most important part of all. My name. And only my name, so that I alone will be summoned, and I alone will enact the vengeance of my lord, I-Ki, until the end of his imprisonment, on which day he will be free to walk the Earth and unleash his wrath once again on mankind. And it will be I alone who will bask in the glory of his gratitude for enacting his vengeance in his absence."

He fell silent for a moment, and all I could do was sit there and stare at the old typewriter I used to write all of my stories, unable to think, not knowing how to begin, or if I should begin.

At some point I summoned a breath and managed to ask in a quavering voice: "And if I refuse?"

For the second time that night, I heard him laugh.

"If you do not write the story, you will suffer a death unlike any experienced before in the history of the world. I have the ability to keep a human alive long past the point when death should have occurred. Days, even. And many, many things can be done in that length of time, things you could never imagine, would never want to imagine..."

I felt sick and lightheaded, swallowed hard and forced out one more question: "If I write the story?"

He paused only a moment.

"I'll show mercy and make it quick."

So here I am and my final story is finished. I am about to die. Am I afraid? Oh, yes, I am terrified. But I am an old man, have lived a long and mostly happy life. And soon I will be with my beloved in whatever sort of "afterlife" awaits me on the other side. In that, at least, I can find solace.

Do not mourn me.

Mourn the world.

For, without a doubt, this story will be discovered near my body and at some point will find itself in print, believed to be only a work of fiction. And on that day the real nightmare begins.

I have one small, remaining hope. There is a possibility that the list of all six names may have to be read for the magic to work, that reading one alone may not properly invoke the summoning.

As I said, it is a small hope.

Now I must bring this to an end.

I feel the need, once again, to stress that I do not write this of my own free will.

I have no choice in the matter, am forced to do so by he whom I have summoned, he who is known as:

NY-ARATTA.

May his name not consume your thoughts.