The Travelers
By
Damir Salkovic
Paul Vergries lived by ironclad rules, the chief among them being never to check email before the first cup of coffee. But that Tuesday morning, chaos reigned. A wild-eyed subway passenger had ranted about lizard people conspiracies for twenty stops. Construction had banished his breakfast truck. His keys fell through a hole in his coat pocket. His Belle Epoque espresso machine scalded him with mud-colored water before grudgingly producing caffeine.
By the time he slumped behind his desk, Paul was so frazzled he clicked his blinking inbox without thinking.
Paul dealt in antiques. Specifically, the worthless kind that wealthy eccentrics inexplicably coveted. Old silver, crumbling books, sword-canes topped with mythical beasts. He'd inherited his uncle's Lower East Side shop and done well enough to keep him in cognac, cigars, and tailored suits. A committed bachelor who despised surprises, Paul ventured outside his comfortable routine only for yearly European buying trips and the occasional dalliance with the opposite sex.
The email that greeted him announced the liquidation of Henley & Son Antiquarians near Times Square. Paul had known the family – a father-son outfit that had suffered twin tragedies, leaving relatives with no interest in dusty curiosities and considerable debts. The liquidator offered a sixteenth-century copper engraving, German or French, artist unknown. The attached photo showed a verdigris-flecked plate, its etching nearly erased by time. Paul squinted at his screen, making out vague impressions: hills, trees, a landscape of sorts.
The plate was clearly in dire condition: poorly maintained, dubious provenance, all but useless for prints. Yet Paul knew collectors who'd pay handsomely for “Renaissance-ish detritus.” Besides, he'd maintained cordial relations with the Henleys. One good turn deserved another, especially at no cost.
He requested the item on approval and promptly forgot about it.
#
The engraving arrived two days later, an ungainly copper sheet wrapped in bubble paper. Paul frowned as he unwrapped it on his central workbench. The design looked crude, stained with ancient ink. He couldn't fathom why the Henleys had kept such inferior work. Probably because they couldn't unload it. But that didn’t sound quite like them: both father and son had been paragons of scruple, entirely too honest for their chosen calling.
He circled the plate, trying to decipher the central image. The pattern seemed to flicker just beyond comprehension: shapes rising and sinking, resolving only to blur again. Paul rubbed his eyes, adjusted the light, clicked his tongue as the lines finally cohered.
A woodland trail surrounded by trees. Two figures walking away from the observer – a man and shorter companion in shapeless garb, barely discernible as human. The artist had devoted considerable effort to the trees, though most of that work had been scoured away by age.
A dull ache pulsed in Paul's temple. For no reason he could articulate, the engraving unsettled him. Something about the design made him queasy, and the faint smell of tarnished copper – like spilled blood – invaded his sinuses. When he ran his finger along the edge, an unpleasant tingle spread through his hand: not quite electric shock, but a light vibration, as if something moved beneath the metal surface.
That decided it. He'd return the thing immediately. The art world had gone mad for some reclusive painter who'd immolated himself last fall, making everything else nearly unsaleable. Another millstone would hardly help.
Still, professional curiosity nagged him. He photographed the image, thinking his reference books might identify the artist. Then he threw a sheet over the engraving and tried returning to work, but its presence bothered him inexplicably. Finally, he shoved it into a storage closet, deciding to deal with it tomorrow. A good night's sleep would clear his head and rid him of this strange fugue state.
#
Night brought vague dreams of pursuit and dread, of wandering lost through rustling darkness.
Paul woke unrefreshed, oddly compelled to examine the plate again. A sense of hovering recognition sent him hurrying through the streets. He arrived breathless, nearly tripping the alarm while fumbling with the lock. The engraving was exactly where he'd left it, yet he felt overwhelming relief.
He'd made a mistake – or nearly had. In different light, less distracted, he was favorably impressed by the detail, especially the trees: thousands of tiny strokes evoking bark and leaves, quite at odds with the hasty work on the figures. Really very good. A museum might pay thousands for it. Even the copper stains seemed less prominent, brighter patches showing through. With minimal retouching, the plate could produce prints for years.
No need for hasty decisions. He was hosting dinner that evening – friends with passing knowledge of art who might offer opinions on the etching's quality and provenance. Nothing but idle curiosity, he assured himself, wrapping the plate to carry home.
#
Dinner helped Paul set his thoughts elsewhere. His port-glazed hens were a triumph, his wine selection impeccable, as always. Only when Mark returned from the bathroom did Paul notice the wrapped package in his hallway.
“Private auction, eh?” Mark lowered his bulk into an armchair. “Paul's making us bid on his pieces.”
They cleared the dining table and laid out the plate. The four guests clustered around it, jokes and laughter gradually subsiding into attentive silence.
“This is very good.” Dana leaned close, her face inches from the surface. “Who's the artist?”
“You're supposed to tell us,” her husband Carl said playfully. “You're the art history professor.”
“Doesn't mean I have a catalog in my head.” She punched his arm, looked at Paul. “Late Medieval, I'd say. Could be off by a century.”
“Fire sale acquisition,” Paul said, crossing his arms. Oddly, he felt reluctant to discuss it, to expose it to their eyes. “Can't decide whether to keep it. I’ll probably just end up donating it.”
“Those trees are something else,” Mark belched. “You can almost see them moving.”
“Could be a pilgrimage theme,” Dana mused. “The figures are remarkably rendered. Simple strokes, but lifelike.”
“The two in front, at least,” Colin said, frowning over Dana's shoulder. “Can't say I care for the third one.”
“Third one?”
All four laughed at Paul's startled reaction.
“You'll still sell it,” Carl clapped his shoulder. “You could sell ice to Eskimos.”
Paul felt cold dread as he drew closer. They were right. A third figure stalked just behind the other two, arms positioned ambiguously – for embrace or sinister intent, impossible to tell in the flat perspective.
But it couldn't be new. The third figure had always been there. He must have overlooked it. No other logical explanation existed.
“There were only two earlier,” he said, detached unreality washing over him. “Two figures. I'm certain.”
Incredulous silence, then Mark burst into laughter.
“Had us going,” Carl said. Behind his back, Mark made mock horror gestures.
“I can prove it.” Paul fumbled with his phone, nearly dropping it. “I photographed it yesterday.”
They huddled over the device. The photos were overexposed – bright whiteness where the figures should be, probably overhead light reflecting off the metal.
“Can't tell anything from these,” Mark said. “You're putting us on.”
Losing interest, the trio wandered kitchenward. Dana remained, her smile ghostly, eyes humorless. She waited until they were out of earshot.
“Send it back,” she said quietly, gaze avoiding the engraving. “Or just get rid of it. Get it out of your home.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“No, and I don't want to find out. Neither should you.”
Before Paul could press further, she turned away. Colin was fussing with the record player, loud music soon blasting through the room. Paul's mind was made up – he'd return the engraving tomorrow. It made him queasy seeing it there like some bizarre altar surrounded by raucous worshippers.
After his guests staggered into the night, he shut the engraving in his closet, wedging a chair against the handle. Embarrassed but not embarrassed enough to stop himself, he left his nightstand light on for the first time since childhood. He was out as soon as his head touched the pillow.
#
Behind his eyelids, all was dark.
He was in the forest from the engraving, lost and terrified, running along an endless trail that curved forever into the trees. Something pursued him – a presence he dared not turn to see.
Trees creaked overhead, absurdly tall, reaching with clawlike branches. Shadows writhed across the ground, trying to trip him, drag him into rustling greenery. Faces formed from leaves and twigs – dark eyeholes, sharp malevolent lines whispering secrets lost in the howling wind.
He wanted to stop, but his legs maintained their frantic pace deeper into the phantom forest. Moonlight filtered through ahead, illuminating two figures on the trail, backs turned, plodding slowly along.
His mistake became clear. Not fleeing – pursuing. Closing distance in long, wolfish strides, seeing them limned in silver light. Once he reached the travelers, once he did something terrible but indefinable, the vast presence behind him would leave him alone.
Hope and rage surged through his limbs. Despite his noise, his victims didn't turn. In quick strides he was within reach of the right-hand figure, smelling warm blood beneath its skin, arm raised to strike.
Just as he brought it down, the woods exploded. Leaves and bark rained over him, and within that chaos was something slick and strong as steel, dragging him off into darkness before he could scream.
#
Paul sat in dawn light drinking cup after cup of coffee until steady enough to compose an email. But not to the liquidation broker.
Instead, he wrote to his old college roommate, now a successful rare book dealer in Manhattan:
Dear Marcus,
Hope you're well. An extraordinary piece recently crossed my desk – a 16th-century engraving of remarkable quality. German or French school, possibly religious in nature. The detail work is absolutely exquisite, especially the woodland scenes.
I know you have discriminating clients who appreciate truly unique pieces. This would be perfect for someone looking to make a statement. The imagery is quite arresting. Haunting, even. The kind of piece that draws the viewer in, makes them want to study every detail.
I'm asking $15,000, but for you, let's say $12,000. I've attached photos, though they hardly do it justice. You really need to see it in person to appreciate the craftsmanship.
Let me know if you're interested. I have a feeling this one won't last long.
Best regards, Paul
He reread the message, grinning. Marcus had always been gullible, especially about good investments. Besides, his client list read like a who's who of Manhattan's most insufferable art collectors – exactly the sort of pretentious fools who'd hang the thing in their penthouses and invite friends over to admire their latest acquisition.
Paul attached the clearest photo and hit send. Within an hour, his phone rang.
“Paul! That engraving is absolutely fascinating. I have three clients who'd kill for something like this. When can I see it?”
“This afternoon, if you'd like. I'll have it cleaned up and properly mounted.”
“Perfect, and Paul? If it's as good as the photo suggests, I might be able to get you fifteen after all. This kind of mysterious medieval work is very hot right now.”
Paul hung up, humming contentedly. He pulled the engraving from the closet, noting with satisfaction that a fourth figure had indeed joined the procession – a shadowy form just visible at the trail's edge, arms reaching toward the others.
The more the merrier, he thought, carefully wrapping the plate. Plenty of room for everyone.
Outside, the city hummed with eight million souls, each one a potential traveler on that endless woodland path.
Damir is the author of one story collection, two novels, and short stories featured in multiple horror/speculative fiction magazines and anthologies. An auditor by trade and traveler by heart, he does his best writing thirty-plus thousand feet in the air and in the terminals of far-flung airports. He lives in Virginia with his wife and a dynamic duo of cats. When not writing fiction, he reviews horror movies, discusses books, and shares unsolicited opinions on just about everything on his blog, Darker Realities.
By
Damir Salkovic
Paul Vergries lived by ironclad rules, the chief among them being never to check email before the first cup of coffee. But that Tuesday morning, chaos reigned. A wild-eyed subway passenger had ranted about lizard people conspiracies for twenty stops. Construction had banished his breakfast truck. His keys fell through a hole in his coat pocket. His Belle Epoque espresso machine scalded him with mud-colored water before grudgingly producing caffeine.
By the time he slumped behind his desk, Paul was so frazzled he clicked his blinking inbox without thinking.
Paul dealt in antiques. Specifically, the worthless kind that wealthy eccentrics inexplicably coveted. Old silver, crumbling books, sword-canes topped with mythical beasts. He'd inherited his uncle's Lower East Side shop and done well enough to keep him in cognac, cigars, and tailored suits. A committed bachelor who despised surprises, Paul ventured outside his comfortable routine only for yearly European buying trips and the occasional dalliance with the opposite sex.
The email that greeted him announced the liquidation of Henley & Son Antiquarians near Times Square. Paul had known the family – a father-son outfit that had suffered twin tragedies, leaving relatives with no interest in dusty curiosities and considerable debts. The liquidator offered a sixteenth-century copper engraving, German or French, artist unknown. The attached photo showed a verdigris-flecked plate, its etching nearly erased by time. Paul squinted at his screen, making out vague impressions: hills, trees, a landscape of sorts.
The plate was clearly in dire condition: poorly maintained, dubious provenance, all but useless for prints. Yet Paul knew collectors who'd pay handsomely for “Renaissance-ish detritus.” Besides, he'd maintained cordial relations with the Henleys. One good turn deserved another, especially at no cost.
He requested the item on approval and promptly forgot about it.
#
The engraving arrived two days later, an ungainly copper sheet wrapped in bubble paper. Paul frowned as he unwrapped it on his central workbench. The design looked crude, stained with ancient ink. He couldn't fathom why the Henleys had kept such inferior work. Probably because they couldn't unload it. But that didn’t sound quite like them: both father and son had been paragons of scruple, entirely too honest for their chosen calling.
He circled the plate, trying to decipher the central image. The pattern seemed to flicker just beyond comprehension: shapes rising and sinking, resolving only to blur again. Paul rubbed his eyes, adjusted the light, clicked his tongue as the lines finally cohered.
A woodland trail surrounded by trees. Two figures walking away from the observer – a man and shorter companion in shapeless garb, barely discernible as human. The artist had devoted considerable effort to the trees, though most of that work had been scoured away by age.
A dull ache pulsed in Paul's temple. For no reason he could articulate, the engraving unsettled him. Something about the design made him queasy, and the faint smell of tarnished copper – like spilled blood – invaded his sinuses. When he ran his finger along the edge, an unpleasant tingle spread through his hand: not quite electric shock, but a light vibration, as if something moved beneath the metal surface.
That decided it. He'd return the thing immediately. The art world had gone mad for some reclusive painter who'd immolated himself last fall, making everything else nearly unsaleable. Another millstone would hardly help.
Still, professional curiosity nagged him. He photographed the image, thinking his reference books might identify the artist. Then he threw a sheet over the engraving and tried returning to work, but its presence bothered him inexplicably. Finally, he shoved it into a storage closet, deciding to deal with it tomorrow. A good night's sleep would clear his head and rid him of this strange fugue state.
#
Night brought vague dreams of pursuit and dread, of wandering lost through rustling darkness.
Paul woke unrefreshed, oddly compelled to examine the plate again. A sense of hovering recognition sent him hurrying through the streets. He arrived breathless, nearly tripping the alarm while fumbling with the lock. The engraving was exactly where he'd left it, yet he felt overwhelming relief.
He'd made a mistake – or nearly had. In different light, less distracted, he was favorably impressed by the detail, especially the trees: thousands of tiny strokes evoking bark and leaves, quite at odds with the hasty work on the figures. Really very good. A museum might pay thousands for it. Even the copper stains seemed less prominent, brighter patches showing through. With minimal retouching, the plate could produce prints for years.
No need for hasty decisions. He was hosting dinner that evening – friends with passing knowledge of art who might offer opinions on the etching's quality and provenance. Nothing but idle curiosity, he assured himself, wrapping the plate to carry home.
#
Dinner helped Paul set his thoughts elsewhere. His port-glazed hens were a triumph, his wine selection impeccable, as always. Only when Mark returned from the bathroom did Paul notice the wrapped package in his hallway.
“Private auction, eh?” Mark lowered his bulk into an armchair. “Paul's making us bid on his pieces.”
They cleared the dining table and laid out the plate. The four guests clustered around it, jokes and laughter gradually subsiding into attentive silence.
“This is very good.” Dana leaned close, her face inches from the surface. “Who's the artist?”
“You're supposed to tell us,” her husband Carl said playfully. “You're the art history professor.”
“Doesn't mean I have a catalog in my head.” She punched his arm, looked at Paul. “Late Medieval, I'd say. Could be off by a century.”
“Fire sale acquisition,” Paul said, crossing his arms. Oddly, he felt reluctant to discuss it, to expose it to their eyes. “Can't decide whether to keep it. I’ll probably just end up donating it.”
“Those trees are something else,” Mark belched. “You can almost see them moving.”
“Could be a pilgrimage theme,” Dana mused. “The figures are remarkably rendered. Simple strokes, but lifelike.”
“The two in front, at least,” Colin said, frowning over Dana's shoulder. “Can't say I care for the third one.”
“Third one?”
All four laughed at Paul's startled reaction.
“You'll still sell it,” Carl clapped his shoulder. “You could sell ice to Eskimos.”
Paul felt cold dread as he drew closer. They were right. A third figure stalked just behind the other two, arms positioned ambiguously – for embrace or sinister intent, impossible to tell in the flat perspective.
But it couldn't be new. The third figure had always been there. He must have overlooked it. No other logical explanation existed.
“There were only two earlier,” he said, detached unreality washing over him. “Two figures. I'm certain.”
Incredulous silence, then Mark burst into laughter.
“Had us going,” Carl said. Behind his back, Mark made mock horror gestures.
“I can prove it.” Paul fumbled with his phone, nearly dropping it. “I photographed it yesterday.”
They huddled over the device. The photos were overexposed – bright whiteness where the figures should be, probably overhead light reflecting off the metal.
“Can't tell anything from these,” Mark said. “You're putting us on.”
Losing interest, the trio wandered kitchenward. Dana remained, her smile ghostly, eyes humorless. She waited until they were out of earshot.
“Send it back,” she said quietly, gaze avoiding the engraving. “Or just get rid of it. Get it out of your home.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“No, and I don't want to find out. Neither should you.”
Before Paul could press further, she turned away. Colin was fussing with the record player, loud music soon blasting through the room. Paul's mind was made up – he'd return the engraving tomorrow. It made him queasy seeing it there like some bizarre altar surrounded by raucous worshippers.
After his guests staggered into the night, he shut the engraving in his closet, wedging a chair against the handle. Embarrassed but not embarrassed enough to stop himself, he left his nightstand light on for the first time since childhood. He was out as soon as his head touched the pillow.
#
Behind his eyelids, all was dark.
He was in the forest from the engraving, lost and terrified, running along an endless trail that curved forever into the trees. Something pursued him – a presence he dared not turn to see.
Trees creaked overhead, absurdly tall, reaching with clawlike branches. Shadows writhed across the ground, trying to trip him, drag him into rustling greenery. Faces formed from leaves and twigs – dark eyeholes, sharp malevolent lines whispering secrets lost in the howling wind.
He wanted to stop, but his legs maintained their frantic pace deeper into the phantom forest. Moonlight filtered through ahead, illuminating two figures on the trail, backs turned, plodding slowly along.
His mistake became clear. Not fleeing – pursuing. Closing distance in long, wolfish strides, seeing them limned in silver light. Once he reached the travelers, once he did something terrible but indefinable, the vast presence behind him would leave him alone.
Hope and rage surged through his limbs. Despite his noise, his victims didn't turn. In quick strides he was within reach of the right-hand figure, smelling warm blood beneath its skin, arm raised to strike.
Just as he brought it down, the woods exploded. Leaves and bark rained over him, and within that chaos was something slick and strong as steel, dragging him off into darkness before he could scream.
#
Paul sat in dawn light drinking cup after cup of coffee until steady enough to compose an email. But not to the liquidation broker.
Instead, he wrote to his old college roommate, now a successful rare book dealer in Manhattan:
Dear Marcus,
Hope you're well. An extraordinary piece recently crossed my desk – a 16th-century engraving of remarkable quality. German or French school, possibly religious in nature. The detail work is absolutely exquisite, especially the woodland scenes.
I know you have discriminating clients who appreciate truly unique pieces. This would be perfect for someone looking to make a statement. The imagery is quite arresting. Haunting, even. The kind of piece that draws the viewer in, makes them want to study every detail.
I'm asking $15,000, but for you, let's say $12,000. I've attached photos, though they hardly do it justice. You really need to see it in person to appreciate the craftsmanship.
Let me know if you're interested. I have a feeling this one won't last long.
Best regards, Paul
He reread the message, grinning. Marcus had always been gullible, especially about good investments. Besides, his client list read like a who's who of Manhattan's most insufferable art collectors – exactly the sort of pretentious fools who'd hang the thing in their penthouses and invite friends over to admire their latest acquisition.
Paul attached the clearest photo and hit send. Within an hour, his phone rang.
“Paul! That engraving is absolutely fascinating. I have three clients who'd kill for something like this. When can I see it?”
“This afternoon, if you'd like. I'll have it cleaned up and properly mounted.”
“Perfect, and Paul? If it's as good as the photo suggests, I might be able to get you fifteen after all. This kind of mysterious medieval work is very hot right now.”
Paul hung up, humming contentedly. He pulled the engraving from the closet, noting with satisfaction that a fourth figure had indeed joined the procession – a shadowy form just visible at the trail's edge, arms reaching toward the others.
The more the merrier, he thought, carefully wrapping the plate. Plenty of room for everyone.
Outside, the city hummed with eight million souls, each one a potential traveler on that endless woodland path.
Damir is the author of one story collection, two novels, and short stories featured in multiple horror/speculative fiction magazines and anthologies. An auditor by trade and traveler by heart, he does his best writing thirty-plus thousand feet in the air and in the terminals of far-flung airports. He lives in Virginia with his wife and a dynamic duo of cats. When not writing fiction, he reviews horror movies, discusses books, and shares unsolicited opinions on just about everything on his blog, Darker Realities.
