Glory and Splendour:: Tales of the Weird

by Alex Miles

  The Master got the plague and, of course, he could not see it. So we decided he must go. Samuel told the Master the government was to award him for his achievements in art, and he must go to the capital at once for the ceremony.

  “‘But of course. I must not be late. Have my horse and carriages ready.’”

  At this point Mother put her head in her hands and it was a battle to get the rest of the story out of her. “Samuel unfastened all the locks and unbolted the door. For the first time in months we saw the outside. Oh God, I would rather die than open the doors again. Just that vision of misery and horror almost drove me to kill myself. The entire world had collapsed! We live in hell. We are the damned, my child. There is no doubt we are the only living humans left in the world.

  “The sky had caught fire and flaming tongues licked above us. The moon seemed to have fallen low in the sky and melted with tears of rock down its face. A fierce wind tore up everything with a hateful shrieking noise. All the houses had crumbled and only our superior masonry survived. All the trees had collapsed and brown viscous rain pounded the land. The ground was neither solid nor liquid, but was an ooze that contained legions of tiny worms and insects. The boils infested the entire surface as well as the outer stonework of our house and seemed to spawn animal-like moving parts, teeth and feelers. Every sense was burned by the offensive aura of the outside. There was a definite knowledge that a malevolent conscious power could see us and had a deep hatred for us.”

  Mother cried and wailed as she brought to light this long archived pain. “Samuel and I were paralysed by the scene. ‘I must not be late for the ceremony,’ said the Master, pushing his way past us and out into the nightmare. The weakness of the plague seemed not to dampen him. He tripped and fell in the wind and mud. The boils carnivorously reached up to claim him but he was uncaring as he made his way towards his promised prize.

  “The image seemed to have broken Samuel and I closed the door. The tranquillity of our view returned. We saw those children come out of the buildings and follow the Master’s trail. He was an evil man.

  “I had to snap Samuel out of his trance, but he was never really right again. I made a pact with him never to expose ourselves to the outside again. I attached many bolts to the doors and windows. I knew then that the time of healing would never come and I cursed myself for staying, but I fancied those that ran may not have fared better.

  “He used to stare out at the beautiful view, muttering strange things, remembering what lay beyond. He talked in his sleep; he stopped eating. He no longer wanted to live and died shortly after. So I was on my own with you. The house got more decrepit and our bodies became ruins. Some parts of the house began to crack, as if they would crumble like the other houses, I bolted up those rooms until we were left with just our little wing.

  “You are the only thing that kept me sane between the madness of the truth and the madness of the beauty. Many years have passed and I don’t like to think about outside … don’t go outside … never look out. You won’t be able to live happily here if you see the outside. All that is important is that you survive and be happy with what you have. That is all that matters now. In the end, I decided I would board up all the windows to see nothing. I think it is best; otherwise you will try to go outside. The windows are wicked; they want to trick you; they lie about everything and they even lie in the sounds they make. It was one of the hardest things I had to do, but a wanted lie is ten times more harmful than an unwanted one.”

  A few months later my mother died. Her note was simple, she loved me and my best chance was without her.

  With the grand house to myself, I took down the boards from the windows and looked through the glass toward the outside. It was stunning. It made it worth the disease and the loneliness. It must be counterfeit, for I have never heard of anyone ever living for a view. I noticed, year on year, the view change in subtle ways: in colour, or a building vanished. It changed all the time. Sometimes I wondered if mother had lied, if life really was like that outside. Then I found the paint.

  Everything except the view was wretched. The house was dying and occasionally shook so I retreated to a smaller area. In response to a groan from some deep part of the house I would patrol with a knife, looking for an intruder or beast, but I always found nothing. Behind every door I opened I suspected some horror, but found nothing. As every piece of preserved food began to go bad, and as I became lonelier, only my mother’s stories kept me inside.

  I sat in the Master’s plush chair, looking out at the night’s view; this was the best way to pass the years. Sometimes I would paint a shard of glass and I would turn it over in my hand, admiring how my flesh appeared. Moving closer to the window, I looked for a scratch or a missed spot to peer through. All I saw was the lush city in the night’s gentle breeze. The view from my house is worth dying for. I love it as a child loves a parent.

  I went downstairs to get my rations. When I looked up I was gripped with the paralysis of shock. A dirty yellow curtain covered the glass door and on it was a silhouette of a man, framed by the moonlight.

  He stood unmoving, lifeless and solid. I went over the bizarre scenario in my mind, “… there is a man waiting on the other side of the door”. For a long while I could do nothing. The reality hit me: someone had come to see me. I had imagined this situation so many times for years, but now my visitor was here. I had never spoken to anyone but Mother. I had not seen a human face for too long.

  Hope filled me. This is what I had always wanted; this is what the recovery of the world would look like. I knew that the glass was tricky, it could be anything on the other side, but all signs were good. Perhaps it was a scout of some far away civilisation. He had come to tell me that I was to go outside and rebuild my life with other people, friends and loves. I could touch the outside that I had always seen. My mind went wild with hope: maybe it was Father. I knew I had to be cautious, but anyone would be welcome, even a looter. His utter stillness dampened this hope a little.

  I waited for him to move. I waited for him to show some sign of interest, but he did nothing. He stood with fixed confidence at the door. For ten minutes we both waited. I dared not stir, lest I give away my presence. It was so strange he did not move. Slowly my hope turned to worry. He was unnaturally tranquil. I had only read books on how people acted, but I never knew people to act like this. The worry fell into a deeper panic.

  There was just the silence of night-time and the creaks from the old house. I thought about the knife in the kitchen. Despite the curtain shielding me, I feared he might sense me if I were to move. It was a burning gale out there and this man just stood in it. He did not even seem to breathe. I do not know how much longer passed.

  Then, after an age of silent stillness, he slowly raised a silhouetted hand and tapped sharply on the window, three distinct times.

  There was a pause, and then the same three-beat tap came again. Then it repeated over and over, that sharp clockwork knocking. There was no variety; it just recurred. I stood waiting for some other human sign. Uncaring there was no answer, he kept tapping: tens of knocks became hundreds; I waited, and hundreds became thousands. It was maddening. I had to do something.

  I descended the stairs. I slowly reached for the curtain. I readied myself for any reaction from him and I pulled it back. On the other side of the glass stood a handsome man, much taller than me. He was of course perfect, but his eyes were entirely circular, I knew he could see me but he did not look down at me, he just stared straight ahead and kept on knocking. He had a subtle smile on his face. He did not blink or contort his features; he was like a perfect waxwork statue. His right hand kept knocking while his left stayed in his pocket. The glass only lied to improve the beauty, sometimes subtly, sometimes totally, but he just stared ahead mildly amused.

  I had expected any reaction, but no reaction came; it was as if I had no existence. I waited, but he continued the beat. “What do you want?” But I knew he could not hear. I tried knocking back. I tri
ed to wave at him, but the minutes passed and he was unrelenting in his hammering. He was independent of any action on my part. I lost all hope; this was not a herald from a rebuilt world.

  Then my breathing became chaotic and I thought I would pass out: the fear was like iced metal in my windpipe. He could see my panic, but did nothing. Maybe I should open the door and face the horror, or maybe I should go out the back and flee. Maybe I should just ignore the maddening tapping and carry on as before. I cursed the windows.

  He sustained the knocking, staring past me. For another half an hour he continued. I knew he would never leave or get tired. Each beat was of three syllables “open, the, door; open, the, door”. A panic tightened in my chest. I stared at that thing trying to gain entry. Perhaps I could work out what he was from clues.

  I remembered Mother’s description of the outside. I could not see how a man can act in such a way in that harsh environment. I could not think what kind of creature is so lifeless and cares nothing about the danger it is in. What creature acted in such a way?

  I went to the kitchen for the knife, but I found myself throwing up in the sink. I cannot afford to pass out. The outside would come through the door. I grabbed my knife and considered the consequences of threatening him, but all else had been done, except opening the door. I came back and pointed the shaking knife at him. There was still no response. I looked at him. I looked to see if he would blink. One minute passed and he did not blink, then two, then three. His eyes were perfect circles in perfect circles.

  I ran my hands through my hair. All there is to do is open the door and the door must not be opened. That is what it expects; that is what it wants. I can think of no creature or man like the one that has come to my door to demand entry.

  In a fit of panic I ran up the stairs to the furthest reachable part of the house. I sat in a foetal position in the bath. I closed the door, but I could still hear the thumping. The front door glass is exceptionally thick, so why could I hear the slight tapping like it was drumbeats? I closed my eyes and covered my ears but the knocks just kept coming. “Open, the, door, open, the, door.” It was just me in the darkness and the noise. My heartbeat matched the rhythm; the blood in my ears swelled. The long-awaited communication from the outside had come, begging me to open the door that had been shut for decades.

  I am unsure how many hours I spent in that position; maybe even some days, but I dared not make any movement. Hours are so cheap to lose here. I passed the time, by counting the knocks and running over the deep numbing fear.

  Opening my eyes I cried in self-pity. There was no one to run to, to tell about the fear, no safe place. I wished for Mother; I wished she had not gone. She was so feeble, but it would have been so much better. I do not know why it had to be like this. The books did not talk of life like this.

  In my mind I went over the hopelessness of my situation; it was becoming more and more apparent. Even if I did manage to send the thing away, I would always fear it. Maybe I should wait in this rotting house for it to leave, then I could die peacefully alone, but that thing would not go, not until I opened the door. I decided I would escape out the back. Surely the whole world had not been covered in darkness? And if it had, was it not better to die? I would run the risk. Somewhere there must still be people.

  I scrambled out of the bath and put whatever food I could find into a bag. I picked up my collection of keys. I ran down the stairs, past the image of the knocking man, through the kitchen and to the back door. I took the time to undo all the locks and bolts. My hands shook. The keys were not sorted and every lock was rusty, but finally I felt the sharp click as the door came loose. I breathed deeply and put my fingers to the handle. It was so cold. I looked out at the beautiful day I was about to walk into. Maybe I would open the door and it would all be real.

  I waited and I waited. I could not do it. Too much training stopped me. Too much fear in Mother’s face. I had always understood the outside was hell, but I had not believed it until now. I realised the knocking had ceased, the relieving silence surrounded me and I stood motionless in new hope. I saw the visitor approach out of the night from the back garden, walking with brisk speed, and I instantly bolted the door. It almost reached for the handle, but then it began to bang the door harder in the same, familiar rhythm. It appeared as if it was knocking lightly but the door shook with the inhuman force of its gentle knocks.

  I fell to my knees in front of it and clutched the knife to my chest. I prayed to the old god for the first time. I wanted anything to hope for.

  It still did not look at me. The thumping seemed to shake the whole house in an angry, incoherent way. I now saw I could never face the outside and I could never face the knocking man. I could never face those other creatures. I was not ready. I never want to see outside. I just want to be happy. I do not deserve this. I am meant to see fields and trees. The door shook. I did not think the door could withstand those gentle knocks for long and the thing would knock forever.

  I put down my knife for it was useless to me. I went back to the base of the mirror and the waiting paint tin. All the while I heard the rhythm of the creature’s assault. I picked up the tin of paint and I poured its contents all over my face, eyes and into my open mouth. As I wiped at my eyes, the house finally appeared to me as it was in its prime, in a flood of brilliant colour and lights. I was filled with optimism and I saw how foolish I had always been.

  The knocking seems more inviting than fearful.

  I will go outside now.

  THE JUDGE

  I felt a fantastic pride as I took my friend to see our system of law. No other civilisation can boast a method as solid and consistent.

  “You’ll love it. I am still impressed even after the twenty times I’ve been here.”

  “Sure, I know,” said Melanie.

  “You could seem a little more excited. I promise the Judge will be spectacular.”

  “It’ll be fun, I know, but I just want this whole thing over with.”

  “Don’t keep worrying, it doesn’t make any sense. Junior will know. We’ll have a great time.”

  The west entrance to the Judgement Room is winding and hard to find. We laughed at our ineptitude as we took wrong turns, bumbling into rooms full of clerks, who were tired of the need to shoo away tourists and students. With difficulty we eventually found the courtroom and two jovial guards relieved us of our tickets. When we entered I looked to see Melanie’s reaction, but she wasn’t looking at the Father Judge. She was looking at the clockwork chair in the centre of the room. I admit, the machine is impressive, but not as impressive as the Judge.

  The Great Powers had never let the Judge retire from his esteemed position because of his success and their affection for him. His profession had become an academic matter; the responsibility was ceremonial, ever since Junior owned the courtroom. Near the opposite wall, at the peak of a lofty, ornate pillar, the embalmed Judge rested on his stone seat. His face was stern and unmoved by emotion. He still wore his spectacles, which seemed black in the shade of his cowl. His arms were outstretched forwards, towards us. His ceremonially long, black robes spread around the walls of the courtroom like wings and downwards so that they became grand curtains for the pedestal below.

  The machine, or “Junior” as he was affectionately called, took up the best part of the courtroom. He was kept in the best condition possible, shining from zealous cleaning, but sadly brown with rust in his extremities. The machine was made up of too many complex parts to describe in full. His steel organs of pipes, cogs, levers and rubber strips protruded outwards with bizarre geometry, surrounding the central chair on which the accused would sit.

  Many wires and conveyor belts connected Junior to a large metal box behind the chair. This allowed the chair to communicate with the bulk of Junior’s body, located under the city. This box was itself of room-size proportions and hinted at the elaborate matrix of complex clockwork below our feet.

  “But look … look at the Judge,” I said.
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  “Where is he?”

  “Up there.”

  She looked up foolishly, open-mouthed. “You said he was embalmed?”

  “Hmm?”

  “He’s all rotten.”

  I looked up for a closer inspection. “No, no, he is just old. He was old when he passed away, you know.”

  By order of Junior, the courtroom had been painted with bright red and yellow stripes and decorated with black and white flowers, to make the grim process seem a little jollier. The room was outstandingly lofty to convey the humility of the stature of the lesser human players. Grand old paintings of the ancient stories and old rulings hung sporadically up the elongated wall and the uppermost pictures were almost out of sight. The chamber was not wide, but the space remained efficiently full. On the other three walls overlooked by the judge were the tiered seats, created so long ago that they were wooden. The entrances were in the corners, where modest administrators and guards congregated. In the chamber’s centre was Junior, patient when resting – and inexhaustible when working.

  Melanie squeezed my hand and I rewarded her by explaining the room’s grand history. I pointed at the magistrate as he entered. He was ceremonially essential and functionally useless. He sat down regally within the pedestal directly under the Father Judge.

  We took our places in the stalls, densely packed with people who smiled at us as fellow connoisseurs of the law. As I had predicted, Melanie was struggling in the heat emanating from Junior’s lower body. The magistrate gave a speech in an arcane language, which I alone amongst the spectators understood.

  Melanie leaned over to me, “What did he say?” I shushed her now the trial had started. He continued the dialogue without pause, even as the prisoner entered. The convict wore the appropriate attire and was carried by the guards, who were dressed in their handsome red suits. They unlocked Junior and forced the prisoner down, shackled his hands and tied his head against a black metal plate. Uncountable pipes, cogs and wires barred the convict within the machine and his power. Junior’s fantastic devices of torture and pleasure stood motionless in front of the accused, ready to deliver the full range of human emotions as appropriate.