The Essential Clive Barker

by Clive Barker

  A FLASH. THE IMAGE FREEZES, AS HANDS ARE ABOUT TO CLAP AND TONGUES ABOUT TO MAKE WORDS. NOT THE DEAD SMILES OF PREVIOUS PHOTOGRAPHS. THIS IS AN INSTANT CAUGHT; FULL OF GENUINE PLEASURE.

  THUNDER RUMBLES.

  THE LIGHTS GO DOWN ON THE FROZEN MOMENT, THROUGH ROSE PINK TO DARKNESS.

  THE PLAY ENDS.

  EIGHT

  TERRORS

  In search of a good scare, most people look to the cinema rather than to books, and for a very simple reason: films are more effective than ever at the business of making audiences jump. What they very often lack, of course, is an underbelly. They’re all surface. And in a genre which gains much of its power from the meanings which lurk behind the scenes, that can be a fatal absence.

  That said, it’s undeniably fun simply to scare the fuck out of folks now and again. I’ve directed a few ghost-train rides of my own, and had a thoroughly good time doing it. In fact, two plays that are excerpted in this chapter—Frankenstein in Love and The History of the Devil—had more than a touch of the horror movie spirit in them when they were produced, and without having cut my teeth on their Grand Guignol excesses, I doubt I would have been confident enough to pursue the writing and directing of Hellraiser. A passage from the novella upon which that film is based also appears here, recording the first entrance of the demonic Cenobite who would eventually be dubbed “Pinhead.” In fact, the image of a human head spiked with nails is a common symbol, the Jungians say, of rage. There is a tradition of African fetish heads that use that image. I’m sure I’d seen such heads in books, and they were the inspiration for Pinhead.

  Also in this chapter, “In the Hills, the Cities,” a short story which proved controversial before it was even published. My agent counseled against its publication; my editor at the time did the same. It was too surreal, and too blatantly homosexual. Fifteen years later, it still elicits responses from readers in practically every batch of mail. One of its inspirations is Goya’s Colossus, which depicts a giant striding away from a valley packed with tiny panicking figures. Another is the eighteenth century’s taste for rendering faces made from human figures (Archimboldo painted them, brilliantly, constructed from fish and vegetables). The third and final source is democracy itself: the notion that in exercising our democratic rights we make, as it were, a single will of our many wills.

  Or so the idealists would have us believe. Since this story was written, the Soviet Union has dissolved, and what was once Yugoslavia has splintered into a number of warring factions. The atrocities from that region continue to make headlines. I claim no prophetic skills; but I think the story’s portrait of collective insanity appears horribly accurate.

  From The Hellhound Heart

  So intent was Frank upon solving the puzzle of Lemarchand’s box that be didn’t hear the great bell begin to ring. The device had been constructed by a master craftsman, and the riddle was this—that though he’d been told the box contained wonders, there simply seemed to be no way into it, no clue on any of its six black lacquered faces as to the whereabouts of the pressure points that would disengage one piece of this three-dimensional jigsaw from another.

  Frank had seen similar puzzles—mostly in Hong Kong, products of the Chinese taste for making metaphysics of hard wood—but to the acuity and technical genius of the Chinese the Frenchman had brought a perverse logic that was entirely his own. If there was a system to the puzzle, Frank had failed to find it. Only after several hours of trial and error did a chance juxtaposition of thumbs, middle, and last fingers bear fruit: an almost imperceptible click, and then—victory!—a segment of the box slid out from beside its neighbors.

  There were two revelations.

  The first, that the interior surfaces were brilliantly polished. Frank’s reflection—distorted, fragmented—skated across the lacquer. The second, that Lemarchand, who had been in his time a maker of singing birds, had constructed the box so that opening it tripped a musical mechanism, which began to tinkle a short rondo of sublime banality.

  Encouraged by his success, Frank proceeded to work on the box feverishly, quickly finding fresh alignments of fluted slot and oiled peg which in their turn revealed further intricacies. And with each solution—each new half twist or pull—a further melodic element was brought into play—the tune counterpointed and developed until the initial caprice was all but lost in ornamentation.

  At some point in his labors, the bell had begun to ring—a steady somber tolling. He had not heard, at least not consciously. But when the puzzle was almost finished—the mirrored innards of the box unknotted—he became aware that his stomach churned so violently at the sound of the bell it might have been ringing half a lifetime.

  He looked up from his work. For a few moments he supposed the noise to be coming from somewhere in the street outside—but he rapidly dismissed that notion. It had been almost midnight before he’d begun to work at the bird maker’s box; several hours had gone by—hours he would not have remembered passing but for the evidence of his watch—since then. There was no church in the city—however desperate for adherents—that would ring a summoning bell at such an hour.

  No. The sound was coming from somewhere much more distant, through the very door (as yet invisible) that Lemarchand’s miraculous box had been constructed to open. Everything that Kircher, who had sold him the box, had promised of it was true! He was on the threshold of a new world, a province infinitely far from the room in which he sat.

  Infinitely far; yet now, suddenly near.

  The thought had made his breath quick. He had anticipated this moment so keenly, planned with every wit he possessed this rending of the veil. In moments they would be here—the ones Kircher had called the Cenobites, theologians of the Order of the Gash. Summoned from their experiments in the higher reaches of pleasure, to bring their ageless heads into a world of rain and failure.

  He had worked ceaselessly in the preceding week to prepare the room for them. The bare boards had been meticulously scrubbed and strewn with petals. Upon the west wall he had set up a kind of altar to them, decorated with the kind of placatory offerings Kircher had assured him would nurture their good offices: bones, bonbons, needles. A jug of his urine—the product of seven days’ collection—stood on the left of the altar, should they require some spontaneous gesture of self-defilement. On the right, a plate of doves’ heads, which Kircher had also advised him to have on hand.

  He had left no part of the invocation ritual unobserved. No cardinal, eager for the fisherman’s shoes, could have been more diligent.

  But now, as the sound of the bell became louder, drowning out the music box, he was afraid.

  Too late, he murmured to himself, hoping to quell his rising fear. Lemarchand’s device was undone; the final trick had been turned. There was no time left for prevarication or regret. Besides, hadn’t he risked both life and sanity to make this unveiling possible? The doorway was even now opening to pleasures no more than a handful of humans had ever known existed, much less tasted—pleasures which would redefine the parameters of sensation, which would release him from the dull round of desire, seduction, and disappointment that had dogged him from late adolescence. He would be transformed by that knowledge, wouldn’t he? No man could experience the profundity of such feeling and remain unchanged.

  The bare bulb in the middle of the room dimmed and brightened. brightened and dimmed again. It had taken on the rhythm of the bell, burning its hottest on each chime. In the troughs between the chimes the darkness in the room became utter; it was as if the world he had occupied for twenty-nine years had ceased to exist. Then the bell would sound again, and the bulb burn so strongly it might never have faltered, and for a few precious seconds he was standing in a familiar place, with a door that led out and down and into the street, and a window through which—had he but the will (or strength) to tear the blinds back—he might glimpse a rumor of morning.

  With each peal the bulb’s light was becoming more revelatory. By it, he saw the east wall flayed;
saw the brick momentarily lose solidity and blow away; saw, in that same instant, the place beyond the room from which the bell’s din was issuing. A world of birds was it? Vast black birds caught in perpetual tempest? That was all the sense he could make of the province from which—even now—the hierophants were coming: that it was in confusion, and full of brittle, broken things that rose and fell and filled the dark air with their fright.

  And then the wall was solid again, and the bell fell silent. The bulb flickered out. This time it went without a hope of rekindling.

  He stood in the darkness, and said nothing. Even if he could remember the words of welcome he’d prepared, his tongue would not have spoken them. It was playing dead in his mouth.

  And then, light.

  It came from them: from the quartet of Cenobites who now, with the wall sealed behind them, occupied the room. A fitful phosphorescence, like the glow of deep-sea fishes: blue, cold, charmless. It struck Frank that he had never once wondered what they would look like. His imagination, though fertile when it came to trickery and theft, was impoverished in other regards. The skill to picture these eminences was beyond him, so he had not even tried.

  Why then was he so distressed to set eyes upon them? Was it the scars that covered every inch of their bodies, the flesh cosmetically punctured and sliced and infibulated, then dusted down with ash? Was it the smell of vanilla they brought with them, the sweetness of which did little to disguise the stench beneath? Or was it that as the light grew, and he scanned them more closely, he saw nothing of joy, or even humanity, in their maimed faces: only desperation, and an appetite that made his bowels ache to be voided.

  “What city is this?” one of the four inquired. Frank had difficulty guessing the speaker’s gender with any certainty. Its clothes, some of which were sewn to and through its skin, hid its private parts, and there was nothing in the dregs of its voice, or in its willfully disfigured features that offered the least clue. When it spoke, the hooks that transfixed the flaps of its eyes and were wed, by an intricate system of chains passed through flesh and bone alike, to similar hooks through the lower lip, were teased by the motion, exposing the glistening meat beneath.

  “I asked you a question,” it said. Frank made no reply. The name of this city was the last thing on his mind.

  “Do you understand?” the figure beside the first speaker demanded. Its voice, unlike that of its companion, was light and breathy—the voice of an excited girl. Every inch of its head had been tattooed with an intricate grid, and at every intersection of horizontal and vertical axes a jeweled pin driven through to the bone. Its tongue was similarly decorated. “Do you even know who we are?” it asked.

  “Yes,” Frank said at last. “I know.”

  Of course he knew; he and Kircher had spent long nights talking of hints gleaned from the diaries of Bolingbroke and Gilles de Rais. All that mankind knew of the Order of the Gash, he knew.

  And yet … he had expected something different. Expected some sign of the numberless splendors they had access to. He had thought they would come with women, at least; oiled women, milked women; women shaved and muscled for the act of love: their lips perfumed, their thighs trembling to spread, their buttocks weighty, the way he liked them. He had expected sighs, and languid bodies spread on the floor underfoot like a living carpet; had expected virgin whores whose every crevice was his for the asking and whose skills would press him— upward, upward—to undreamed-of ecstasies. The world would be forgotten in their arms. He would be exalted by his lust, instead of despised for it.

  But no. No women, no sighs. Only these sexless things, with their corrugated flesh.

  Now the third spoke. Its features were so heavily scarified—the wounds nurtured until they ballooned—that its eyes were invisible and its words corrupted by the disfigurement of its mouth.

  “What do you want?” it asked him.

  He perused this questioner more confidently than he had the other two. His fear was draining away with every second that passed. Memories of the terrifying place beyond the wall were already receding. He was left with these decrepit decadents, with their stench, their queer deformity, their self-evident frailty. The only thing he had to fear was nausea.

  “Kircher told me there would be five of you,” Frank said.

  “The Engineer will arrive should the moment merit,” came the reply. “Now again, we ask you: What do you want?”

  Why should he not answer them straight? “Pleasure,” he replied. “Kircher said you know about pleasure.”

  “Oh we do,” said the first of them. “Everything you ever wanted.”

  “Yes?”

  “Of course. Of course.” It stared at him with its all-too-naked eyes. “What have you dreamed?” it said.

  The question, put so baldly, confounded him. How could he hope to articulate the nature of the phantasms his libido had created? He was still searching for words when one of them said:

  “This world … it disappoints you?”

  “Pretty much,” he replied.

  “You’re not the first to tire of its trivialities,” came the response. “There have been others.”

  “Not many,” the gridded face put in.

  “True. A handful at best. But a few have dared to use Lemarchand’s Configuration. Men like yourself, hungry for new possibilities, who’ve heard that we have skills unknown in your region.”

  “I’d expected—” Frank began.

  “We know what you expected,” the Cenobite replied. “We understand to its breadth and depth the nature of your frenzy. It is utterly familiar to us.”

  Frank grunted. “So,” he said, “you know what I’ve dreamed about. You can supply the pleasure.”

  The thing’s face broke open, its lips curling back: a baboon’s smile. “Not as you understand it,” came the reply.

  Frank made to interrupt, but the creature raised a silencing hand.

  “There are conditions of the nerve endings,” it said, “the like of which your imagination, however fevered, could not hope to evoke.”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh yes. Oh most certainly. Your most treasured depravity is child’s play beside the experiences we offer.”

  “Will you partake of them?” said the second Cenobite.

  Frank looked at the scars and the hooks. Again, his tongue was deficient.

  “Will you?”

  Outside, somewhere near, the world would soon be waking. He had watched it wake from the window of this very room, day after day, stirring itself to another round of fruitless pursuits, and he’d known, known, that there was nothing left out there to excite him. No heat, only sweat. No passion, only sudden lust, and just as sudden indifference. He had turned his back on such dissatisfaction. If in doing so he had to interpret the signs these creatures brought him, then that was the price of ambition. He was ready to pay it.

  “Show me,” he said.

  “There’s no going back. You do understand that?”

  “Show me.”

  They needed no further invitation to raise the curtain. He heard the door creak as it was opened, and turned to see that the world beyond the threshold had disappeared, to be replaced by the same panic-filled darkness from which the members of the Order had stepped. He looked back toward the Cenobites, seeking some explanation for this. But they’d disappeared. Their passing had not gone unrecorded however. They’d taken the flowers with them, leaving only bare boards, and on the wall the offerings he had assembled were blackening, as if in the heat of some fierce but invisible flame. He smelled the bitterness of their consumption; it pricked his nostrils so acutely he was certain they would bleed.

  But the smell of burning was only the beginning. No sooner had he registered it than half a dozen other scents filled his head. Perfumes he had scarcely noticed until now were suddenly overpoweringly strong. The lingering scent of filched blossoms; the smell of the paint on the ceiling and the sap in the wood beneath his feet—all filled his head. He could even smell the d
arkness outside the door, and in it, the ordure of a hundred thousand birds.

  He put his hand to his mouth and nose, to stop the onslaught from overcoming him, but the stench of perspiration on his fingers made him giddy. He might have been driven to nausea had there not been fresh sensations flooding his system from each nerve ending and taste bud.

  It seemed he could suddenly feel the collision of the dust motes with his skin. Every drawn breath chafed his lips; every blink, his eyes. Bile burned in the back of his throat, and a morsel of yesterday’s beef that had lodged between his teeth sent spasms through his system as it exuded a droplet of gravy upon his tongue.

  His ears were no less sensitive. His head was filled with a thousand dins, some of which he himself was father to. The air that broke against his eardrums was a hurricane; the flatulence in his bowels was thunder. But there were other sounds—innumerable sounds—which assailed him from somewhere beyond himself. Voices raised in anger, whispered professions of love, roars and rattlings, snatches of song, tears.

  Was it the world he was hearing—morning breaking in a thousand homes? He had no chance to listen closely; the cacophony drove any power of analysis from his head.

  But there was worse. The eyes! Oh god in heaven, he had never guessed that they could be such torment; he, who’d thought there was nothing on earth left to startle him. Now he reeled! Everywhere, sight!

  The plain plaster of the ceiling was an awesome geography of brushstrokes. The weave of his plain shirt an unbearable elaboration of threads. In the corner he saw a mite move on a dead dove’s head, and wink its eyes at him, seeing that he saw. Too much! Too much!

  Appalled, he shut his eyes. But there was more inside than out; memories whose violence shook him to the verge of senselessness. He sucked his mother’s milk, and choked; felt his sibling’s arms around him (a fight, was it, or a brotherly embrace? Either way, it suffocated). And more; so much more. A short lifetime of sensations, all writ in a perfect hand upon his cortex, and breaking him with their insistence that they be remembered.