With a squeal of tyres, a white pick-up roared out of a side street at speed, swinging across the road a couple of feet in front of the Honda. She caught a sudden flash of movement in the corner of her eye, and her foot shot instinctively to the brake pedal-only just in time. The mouldering cars beached at the side of the road pointed to some degree of habitation though, and some of the porch lights were on, flickering like angler’s lures in the gloom.Ĭarla hunched forward, peering through the windscreen for any sign of the road she was meant to take. Modern and shabby, set well back from the street, half of them looked derelict, with flaking paint and broken or boarded-up windows. They had been spaced well apart at first, but were now almost continuous. It was the first thing it had said for ten minutes. The GPS chimed, interrupting a Handel concerto she’d found on one of the Boston stations. All she knew was that it meant she was going to arrive late, and she was tired, and she was hungry. A missing pilot’s uniform or something she hadn’t bothered to seek out the details. Her plane had spent an extra hour in a holding pattern over Logan International because of some security scare. and she was supposed to be at the hotel already. Carla flipped on the main beams and pressed her foot down, coaxing another ten miles per hour from the rented Honda. The other vehicle began to climb the slip road, leaving her alone on the narrow two-lane. The sky beyond the left side windows was still purple with sunset, but on the right it was already black and studded with stars.

It was only when the indicator light of the car in front began to blink that Carla realised how dark it was getting. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.Ĭover art by Jordan Saia THE INNSMOUTH SYNDROME Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.Īll characters in this story are fictitious.

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Ashes by Philip Hemplow