It was as if he had two minds, the one frightened of the other, frightened at the anger, the resentment, the jealousy that flowed up from secret, poisoned wells and flooded his entire body. The wind in the trees became a throaty roar and the hassocks bristled like great hogs in rut. He watched his best friend kiss his sister, not a stage kiss, a real kiss. She was letting him.
And somehow these two minds, one of rage, one of terror, abided within him like sun and moon behind an impassive face of stone. A face that gave nothing away. A face that could look for five thousand years upon the wretched fate of the world and never. Once. Blink.
“I used to be afraid I was losing my mind.”
Dr. Edison—a tidy, owlish man with a goatee, silvering hair, and a habit of chewing his nails in session—did not reply. He smoothed his notepaper and waited, as if for something more noteworthy.
“Take these pills, for instance.” Walter reached into his jacket and produced a bottle with his name on it. He set it on the table between them. “You hear that?”
“Hear … That?”
“Exactly. Quiet as a choir of church mice.”
Edison’s forehead wrinkled.
“At night I can hear them crawling around in there. Oh yes. If I hold it by my ear, I can almost count them by the …” He skittered his fingers on the tabletop. “Or if I hold it up to the light, I can see their shadows, crawling up the sides. Open it … they’re just lying there. Little blue pills, looking so very innocent. And I take one, I do. I tell myself that the one I take will make the others settle down and behave.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” Walter was quiet for a moment, stroking his chin. Then he reached into his pocket. Edison tensed, ever so slightly. “Doctor, have a look at this, will you?” He took out a newspaper and spread it on the table. Pointing to an article in the lower left-hand corner, he read aloud, “‘City Breaks Ground on Audacious New Building, Purpose Unknown.’ Did you hear about this? They killed three people at the opening ceremony. Volunteers, they said. Clubbed them like fish, right in front of the cameras, cut their throats and mixed their blood with the mortar. Now does that not seem a tad … atavistic to you?”
“It upsets you?”
Walter sighed. “For once, Doctor, please consider that my reaction may be immaterial. It only occurs to me that we didn’t use to do these things. Or rather we did, a very, very long time ago, and now our sensibilities are in regress.” He leaned back and rubbed his eyes as Edison jotted a note. “I used to be afraid I was losing my mind, Doctor, but now I fear it’s much worse than that.”
Edison glanced at his watch.
“Yes, I know.” Walter rose and gathered his things, the pills, the newspaper.
“We might try you on a different medication, perhaps—”
“Doctor, pardon me, but how did you come by that painting?”
Edison turned to look at the enormous oil behind his chair. “Oh? You know, I don’t remember. Do you like it?”
It showed a medieval hall, an ape-like creature seated at a table lit with candles, wearing a crown, devouring the naked corpse of a man.
A rain of cherry blossoms (pink confetti) fell over the courtyard, covering scattered weapons and fallen soldiers. This was the final scene, the aftermath of a great battle. In the background, an imposing replica of the Lincoln Memorial glowered blindly. Its gouged eyes wept blood, and King Laius slumped at Lincoln’s knees, awaiting his resurrection. There was shout, a puff of smoke, and Joey entered stage left in headdress, beard, wings, and pendulant, jeweled breasts. (The arts department had outdone themselves). The groan of metal horns and the beat of drums sounded from the speakers. The house lights went dark and black-lights flooded the stage, making the set glow and drip neon color. Gods and surviving mortals alike reeled in awe.
(He wanted to be away. Everything about this was fake and ridiculous and he wished he really could strangle his fellow thespians. Especially this motherfucker. Right. Here.)
“Daughter of Orthus, Father of Destiny, take us into your house. You have made us victorious. Now make us one flesh. Marry us!”
“Oedipus, behold thy mother.” My fuckin’ sister, you— “Would you tread upon the laws of heaven and earth? Look how these divinities and powers hide their eyes for shame at thy brazen words.”
“These gods and powers are hypocrites unrivaled, born of incest, every one!” The gods staggered and groaned. “This woman is my mother, aye, and mother to us all. Shall the star of Heaven lack her consort? I say again, marry us!”
(Marry you, I’ll fuckin’ rip your—) “Answer my riddle, and be you wed. Answer false, and be you dead.”
A seeping tide of green light crept over the stage, and hidden fans stirred the banners. “Agreed. Ask.”
“I,” intoned Joey, his voice reverberant through the speakers, “am your first enemy and your last friend. Know me, I make you. Forget me, I unmake you. I am in your hand, but look, I surround you. What is my name?”
The king looked down at his sword, at the field, at his slain father. “Your name …” —the living and the immortal host leaned in to hear— “… is Death.”
(No. Death is only …)
“Step forth and be married.”
King Oedipus (Fox Creasy) took Queen Jacosta (Allison Santiago) in his arms and kissed her fiercely. “Mazel tov!” shouted a dead soldier (Clay Widerski), and everyone laughed, Fox, Allison, the gods, even Ms. Ortega in the front row.
All but one.
Walter sat on the pier at Liberty State Park, sipping black tea with cane sugar and watching a fiery, orange dawn break over the Manhattan skyline. For the moment he was content. If he could separate the world and its troubles from his troubled perception of the world, then he could take his problems with him when he went. He just had to take things in stride, and focus.
He took the last drink of tea. A cold, damp wind was blowing off the water and he turned his collar up as he walked to the edge of the pier. The Sphinx had drifted considerably in the last few days, further into the mouth of the old Hudson. This, the easternmost pier by the old CRR train shed in Liberty State Park, was the closest point of landward approach. At less than a hundred yards, it was also the closest Walter had been to it, close enough to hear the racket of the birds and read some of the graffiti that covered its lower flanks (if he could bring himself to read that junk, that is). Two harbor police were manning the barge, one pissing over the side while the other pointed his finger at Walter and mimed shooting him. Walter paid them no mind.
He stepped behind a brace of coin-operated binoculars, fed his quarters through the slot, and stooped to look. The shutter clattered open and he saw before him a frozen waste, with snaking ribbons of ice blown by the constant wind. The Sphinx was exactly the same size, but now icebound, minus the guards, and bearded with hoary icicles. Behind it the metropolis that had once been Lower Manhattan was going down under a mountainous glacier. The skyscrapers gathered in its embrace like broken toys, tipping into one another, their steel girders distended like burst ribs through the failing concrete. Behind the incessant scrolling blast all was still, all except one moving shadow, a black thing with long, jointed legs climbing the white ruin of the Chrysler Building. Walter thought of the pill bottle on his table at home, and the strange seeds that an ocean of time would bring to hideous flower.
He straightened and blinked into the sun. The position of the Sphinx was the same, exactly, so perhaps what the binos showed was not the future, but a radically different now. Was it possible that two such parallel realities could mingle? Could the madness of a single man be the conduit for their association? But that would mean he wasn’t mad, would it not? Oh, he was feeling confused again.
He walked back to the bench and sat down, lightheaded, missing his tea. He took out his map and marked the position of the binoculars. He took out his morning paper and scanned the headlines. The border-closing ceremony at the Lincoln Tunnel had turned violent (three dead, twenty injured
), several landmarks had been rechristened with names he didn’t dare read, even in his head, and there was an editorial calling for a number of prominent people to be arrested and chemically mummified. The weatherman predicted snow by the end of the week.
“Mr. Church?”
“Mm. Yes?”
“Can I have a word please?”
Walter glanced up at the elderly woman in the droopy cotton hat and aviator glasses sitting next to him. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Not exactly. You may have seen me around. You can call me Terri.”
He looked again more carefully. There was something familiar about her, the gaunt frame and bushy eyebrows. Her jaw moved, and her teeth clashed loudly in her mouth. “From the library!”
“That’s right. I was hoping this little chat wouldn’t be necessary, but you’re very persistent.”
“I’m sorry,” said Walter, “but you were … dressed differently last time.”
“I change,” she said. “Frequently, and in any way I can. It keeps me on the outskirts, out of his dreams, more or less.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I underst—”
“Mr. Church, time may be extremely short. What would it take to convince you to forget this whole thing and go back to your old studies?”
“My … Well, you see—”
“What if I told you it could save your life, your sanity? What if I told you that forgetting certain things you may have noticed is absolutely your only hope?”
Walter could think of no reply.
The woman, Terri, removed her glasses, and the tiny pinpoint pupils of her eyes bored into his. “Take it from someone who knows, Mr. Church, someone who’s been around. That thing on the water isn’t just a statue—it’s the ark of his dreams. How many people meet those eyes every day? A thousand? More? The sensible ones feel a shiver and look away. But you don’t have the shiver gene. You look back, you take notice. You become involved. He’s dreaming of you, Mr. Church, dreaming through you. He can reach right through your heart and touch the ones you love. Perhaps he already has.”
“What are you talking about?” snapped Walter. “Whose dream? Who the fucking bloody hell sent you? What do you know?”
“I know!” she said, with such sudden ferocity that Walter drew back a little. “I know well enough not to speak that name! I know how dangerous this conversation is, for both of—” Her whole body jerked and went rigid, her eyes rolled up into her head, and her jaw worked frantically. The clash of teeth was so loud it sounded like she was chewing rocks. This spell lasted for several seconds and then she slumped out of it, took a breath, and put on her glasses as if nothing had happened.
“Our obsessions take us far afield,” she said, gaining her feet and letting her folding cane deploy. “When, Mr. Church, was the last time you checked in on your son? Joey, is it?” She walked quickly away, tapping around her and muttering something that might have been a prayer.
“Have you seen him?”
“Hell yes! I was in the bathroom and I came out of the stall and—swear to God—there was this face in the mirror!”
“Nu-uh!”
“I don’t know how to describe it. It was—”
“Hey,” said Joey. The girls, one dressed as the Delphic Oracle, the other as the cat goddess Bastet, stopped talking and looked at him. “What’s that about?”
“Oh,” said the Oracle, “we’re talking about the Sphinx! It’s totally going around. Bethany saw it, and Clay saw it, and now this loopy bitch here she says she saw it too.”
“I did see it! It was so tripped out!”
“They say you only see it for a second, and it changes your whole perspective.”
“Have you seen the Sphinx, Joey?” Bastet’s tone was suggestive. The girls tittered.
“No,” said Joey in a cold, flat voice, and their smiles dropped away. He got up and walked out of the greenroom. There was a bathroom right next door, but it was full of geeks, and he wanted solitude. He walked the length of the hall and turned into the deserted east wing of the school. Ol’ Fox Creasy, he’s a foxy one. (Shut up) Think he’s foxed his way into her crease yet? (Who is that?) Have his foxy red rocket in her by the end of the month, whad’ya wanna bet? He grabbed his hair in fists and squeezed. (Shut the fuck up, you’re not me!)
The boys’ room was empty, dark. He flipped the switch and the lights flickered on. On the mirror above the sink some wit had scrawled FAG in black marker, with an arrow pointing up, and above that, a pharaoh’s headdress with beard, lopsided tits, and outlined eyes framing his reflection. They even knew how tall he was. His stage makeup—a pale base, blue lipstick, and imitation kohl darkening his eyes—made him look like a painted corpse, a zombie clown fleshing out the crude cartoon. He skinned back his blue lips and grinned at himself, then hit the water and started splashing his face.
Remember three years ago? ’Member vodka summer, home-alone summer? How you two played? Do you remember what it felt like to put your hand down her pants, how she shivered, how she looked at you? You’re just gonna let her forget?
“Ooagoddamyou!” He left the water running as he banged into the stall and fumbled with his zipper. His cock sprang up, hard as a steel rivet, and found his wet hand. He swallowed and breathed, remembering that day, drawing his whole self from that memory, there, no sister by blood, the words a mantra, no sister just … just … Allie! He whispered her name as he came, splattering the toilet wall. He opened his eyes and a rich, narcotic blast of endorphins and guilt rolled through him. He snatched some toilet paper and cleaned himself up.
He stepped out of the stall and grimaced at his slinking, ghoulish reflection, the half-washed makeup smeared down his face. How could he have let this happen? More than anything he hated and feared the stigma of his father’s madness, the trace of it in him, the knowledge that he was likely genetically marked. And yet here he was, courting it, taking it to the ball, acting out his father’s artfully scripted insanity. Wanting his sister. Hating his best friend. But what, then? He would drop out, quit, go away. Everyone would think he was batshit, that he’d caught the family bug, but fuck it, let them. He’d be saving the best part of himself.
“Joey.”
He spun around. He was alone. The voice had come from the hall. Not in his head, he was sure.
“Joooe-ey.”
He opened the door and peered out. The hallway was empty, but what was that? He started walking. Something, way, way down at the southeast end, was going around the corner. He quickened his pace, almost running to the end of the hall. He turned the corner and saw the door to the gym was open. It was dark inside. He stepped through the door. (Get out of there!) “Hello?” (Don’t speak to it!) “Someone in here?” (Run!)
The face, the pale, oval face with the placid smile and sparkling black eyes, floated out of the darkness at midcourt. At first it was just a face, but as he walked to it—his heart knocking in his chest, his breath coming in shallow little sips—the rest began to take shape. That smile of perfect serenity, that doting, generous mien … “Joey,” it said, with a voice like dribbled honey. “Let’s have a word, shall we?”
Walter’s TV dinner tasted bad tonight. Worse than usual, as if it had been thawed, left to turn, and then re-frozen to seal in that little gift of decay. He stopped eating halfway through, pressed the ‘mute’ button on nightly news, and picked up the telephone. It had been so long. He couldn’t remember the number until his thumb was on the keypad and then he knew it by touch. The little code of sequential beeps unlocked something in him, a dark room painted in sad shadows where he had spent far too much time already.
As he waited for her to answer, his tired gaze took in the room. Cold radiator, bookshelf, liquor cabinet with French and Latin volumes crammed between the bottles, old Singer sewing table he used as a writing desk. These things were the same. That was something. The TV was showing a handheld shot of a home interior, cluttered and rundown, zooming in on a blood-soaked sofa, with the caption
“Horror at Red Hook.” It seemed the news was positively chock-full of horrors these days.
“Hello?”
“Amanda. It’s, um … it’s Walt.”
“Walter. Hi. Is everything okay?”
The words stuck in his throat. He shook his head.
“Walter?”
“Fine,” he blurted. “I just, um … Well I know this is a bit how-do-you-do and out-of-the-blue, but … I was wondering how Joseph is doing?”
“Oh. He’s fine. He wanted me to thank you for the play.”
“The play?”
“The one you sent him to use. Father of Destiny, or something like that? He told me the school is actually putting it on.”
“I’m afraid I don’t … Are you sure that was the message.”
“You don’t remember? He told me you said it was the best thing you’ve ever written.”
“Wh—ah—when … Amanda, when did I give him this … play?”
“July? August? I’m sorry, Walter, I don’t remember. But they’re opening tonight. I can’t make it, I have to work. But you should go if you have the time.”
“I will,” said Walter. “I certainly will.”
“I’m sorry, Walter, I have to go.”
“Not at all, I—” But the click told him she was gone.
Walter glanced over at his pill bottle. Silent, for now. He un-muted the news. Apparently there’d been a string of disappearances along the East River. Mysterious drownings. No bodies.
He watched a cockroach preen its antenna under the radiator.
Like an intruder through an unlocked window, a terrible, icy premonition crept in through the back of his mind. He knew in that moment that something dreadful had happened—was happening—was about to happen.
Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 2 Page 34