When it comes to stories in the cosmic horror genre it often feels as though characters are doomed from the start, even if you aren't sure why, subject as they are to the incomprehensible whims and machinations of unfathomable powers.

Sometimes, however, there are instead clear points of no return within a story when characters' fates are sealed, madness and possibly death are now inevitable. And with that, welcome to Part 3 of "The Yellow Sign" by Robert W. Chambers - all the fun of cosmic dread without the dreadful heteronormative exclusion.

If you're enjoying Liminal Flares, help it grow by sharing us with others who might enjoy our haunted and haunting, gender-inclusive story time. And please leave your rating and (where possible) a review for our show.

New here and wondering what this podcast is all about? Check out our first episode, "A Prelude at the Threshold."

Writing/Editing & Narration by Maika

Music by The Parlour Trick

Audio Engineering by Meredith Yayanos

Cover Art Illustration by Daniel Kern

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Gather round and welcome.

This is Liminal Flares - Bedtime Stories From Beyond and In-between,

readings of eldritch literature drawn from the public domain and amended to be gender-inclusive.

My name is Maika, and I am your queer, trans, nonbinary narrator.

Today we are reading part 3 of "The Yellow Sign" by Robert W. Chambers.

Last week, our narrator, Mr. Scott, learned that he's not the only person unsettled by the strange presence

of the doughy guard outside the church nextdoor to his studio.

He also displayed questionable judgment by sharing his recent dream with Tessie,

about being trapped in a glass front coffin, inside a black plumed horsedrawn hearse,

traveling through deserted New York streets at midnight.

Hearing her own recurring nightmare retold from his perspective profoundly upset sweet Tessy,

prompting her to reveal her tender feelings for Mr. Scott.

And Scott's impulsive foolishness continued as he then overcorrected in his efforts to comfort his favorite model.

And now let's continue with our tale...

That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over the occurrences of the day.

I was thoroughly committed.

There was no back out now, and I stared the future straight in the face.

I was not good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie.

The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany.

Was it buried forever?

Hope cried, "No!"

For three years I had been listening to the voice of Hope,

and for three years I had waited for a footstep on my threshold.

Had Sylvia forgotten?

"No!" cried hope.

I said that I was no good, that is true, but still I was not exactly a comic opera villain.

I had led an easy-going, reckless life,

taking what invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting consequences.

In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious.

And that was something which lay hidden, if not lost, in the Breton forest.

It was too late for me to regret what had occurred during the day.

Whatever it had been,

pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of gratified vanity,

it was all the same now,

and unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart, my path lay marked before me.

The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had never even suspected,

with all my imagined experience in the world,

left me no alternative but to respond or send her away.

Whether because I am so cowardly about giving pain to others

or whether it was that I have little of the gloomy puritan in me, I do not know,

but I shrank from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss

and in fact had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured forth.

Others who habitually do their duty

and find a sullen satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy might have withstood it.

I did not.

I dared not.

After the storm had abated, I did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold ring,

but she would not hear of it,

and I thought perhaps as long as she had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better be me.

I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection,

and whenever she became tired of her infatuation, she could go none the worse for it.

For I was decided on that point, although I knew how hard it would be.

I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons,

and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one.

I knew I was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a person as I was, and I dreamed the future,

but never for one moment did I doubt that she was safe with me.

Had it been anybody but Tessie, I should not have bothered my head about scruples,

for it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would have sacrificed a more worldly person.

I looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the affair.

She would either tire of the whole thing

or become so unhappy that I should have either to marry her or go away.

If I married her, we would be unhappy.

I with a spouse unsuited to me, and she with a spouse unsuitable for anyone.

For my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry.

If I went away, she might either fall ill, recover and marry some Eddie Burke,

or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish.

On the other hand, if she tired of me,

then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burke's and marriage rings

and twins and Harlem flats and heaven knows what.

As I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch,

I decided that she should find a substantial friend in me anyway,

and the future could take care of itself.

Then I went into the house and put on my evening dress,

for the little, faintly-perfumed note on my dresser said,

"Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,"

and the note was signed Edith Carmichael, Metropolitan Theatre.

I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Ms. Carmichael and I, at Solari's,

and the dawn was just beginning to guild the cross on the Memorial Church

as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith at The Brunswick.

There was not a soul in the park as I passed along the trees

and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to the Hamilton Apartment House.

But as I passed the churchyard, I saw a figure sitting on the stone steps.

In spite of myself a chill crept over me at the sight of the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass.

Then they said something which might have been addressed to me or might merely have been a mutter to themself.

But a sudden, furious anger flamed up within me that such a creature should address me.

For an instant I felt like wheeling about and smashing my stick over their head.

But I walked on, and entering the Hamilton, went to my apartment.

For some time I tossed about the bed,

trying to get the sound of their voice out of my ears but could not.

It filled my head, that muttering sound,

like thick, oily smoke from a fat-rendering vat, or an odor of noisome decay.

And as I lay and tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more distinct,

and I began to understand the words they had muttered.

They came to me slowly as if I had forgotten them,

and then at last I could make some sense out of the sounds.

It was this:

"Have you found the Yellow Sign?"

"Have you found the Yellow Sign?"

"Have you found the Yellow Sign?"

I was furious.

What did they mean by that?

Then, with a curse upon them and theirs, I rolled over and went to sleep.

But when I awoke later, I looked pale and haggard,

for I had dreamed the dream of the night before and it troubled me more than I cared to think.

I dressed and went down into my studio.

Tessie sat by the window, but as I came in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent kiss.

She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then sat down before the easel.

"Hello! Where's the study I began yesterday?" I asked.

Tessie looked conscious but did not answer.

I began to hunt among the piles of canvases,

saying, "Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take advantage of the morning light."

When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases

and turned to look around the room for the missing study,

I noticed Tessie standing by the screen with her clothes still on.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Don't you feel well?"

"Yes."

"Then hurry."

"Do you want me to pose as I have always posed?"

Then I understood. Here was a new complication.

I had lost, of course, the best nude model I had ever seen.

I looked at Tessie. Her face was scarlet.

Alas, alas, we had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden and native innocence were dreams of the past,

I mean for her, I suppose.

She noticed the disappointment on my face,

for she said, "I will pose if you wish. The study is behind the screen here where I put it."

"No," I said. "We will begin something new."

And I went into my wardrobe and picked out a Maghrebian costume which fairly blazed with tinsel.

It was a genuine costume, and Tessie retired to the screen with it, enchanted.

When she came forth again, I was astonished.

Her long black hair was bound above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises,

and the ends curled about her glittering girdle.

Her feet were encased in the embroidered, pointed slippers

and the skirt of her costume, curiously wrought with arabesques and silver, fell to her ankles.

The deep metallic blue vest embroidered with silver

and the short jacket spangled and sewn with turquoises, became her wonderfully.

She came up to me and held up her face, smiling.

I slipped my hand into my pocket and, drawing out a gold chain with a cross attached, dropped it over her head.

"It's yours, Tessie."

"Mine?" She faltered.

"Yours. Now go and pose."

Then with a radiant smile she ran behind a screen

and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written my name.

"I had intended to give it to you when I went home tonight," she said, "but I can't wait now."

I opened the box.

On the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx, on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold.

It was neither Arabic nor Chinese, nor, as I found afterwards, did it belong to any human script.

"It's all I had to give you for a keepsake," she said timidly.

I was annoyed, but I told her how much I should prize it, and promised to wear it always.

She fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel.

"How foolish, Tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this." I said.

"I did not buy it," she laughed.

"Where did you get it?"

Then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the Aquarium in the Battery,

how she had advertised it and watched the papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner.

"That was last winter," she said, "the very day I had the first horrid dream about the hearse."

I remembered my dream of the previous night, but said nothing.

And presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas and Tessie stood motionless on the model stand.

This concludes part three of The Yellow Sign by Robert W. Chambers.

Thank you for listening to Liminal Flares.

Our music is by The Parlour Trick. Audio Engineering by Meredith Yayanos.

I hope you've enjoyed our time together in this twilit space.

If you did and would like to help support our show, subscribe and leave us a rating and a review on your favorite podcast platform.

And please share us with others who might enjoy our haunted and haunting gender-inclusive story time.

Next week we return with the fourth and final part of"The Yellow Sign."

I do hope you'll join me.

P.S.

If you have a favorite author or a specific piece of writing,

a short story, poem, or passage from a book that's in the public domain in the US,

I welcome your requests for future episodes.

You'll find links to archives of public domain literature in the Resources section of our website, liminalflares.com,

where you'll also find more information about us, this show, and individual episodes as they air.

Submit your requests via the website or via social media @liminalflares,