I tried to use a phone once, about a few hours after our initial flight. We’d pulled into a roadside diner and I attempted to place a call to my mother, just to tell her we were going away on a vacation for a few weeks. When I picked up the receiver in a little phone booth somewhere in some rest stop in central California, I heard that howling, echoing chanting sound filling my ears, the same sound that came with those phone calls Nicholas and I received.
I don’t go anywhere near a phone now.
But I still feel like I’m being watched.
Our initial flight from Los Angeles took us to the California Sierra Mountains where we holed up in a little motel off the main drag of a sleepy little town called Oak Run. There we lived like convicts on the run, hardly venturing out of our room. We lived on cold cuts I bought from the local country store and water from the kitchen faucet. I OD’d on episodes of Friends and Seinfeld until I thought I was going to puke. When the cold cuts ran out, I ventured out once more to pick up some nourishment, preferably something different, along with some skin ointment to help cut down on the painful itching the tattoos were creating on our tender skin. I was gone no more than thirty minutes.
I came home to an empty motel room, with the exception of Nicholas’s lifeblood decorating the walls and bedsheets.
I’ve tried to put the pieces together, arrange them systematically so they could make some kind of sense. At first I tried to tell myself that everything that was happening was logical—that we were being stalked by some fanatical collector who somehow found out about our newly acquired tattoos. It made sense; being that Montivaldi was a highly collected artist when he was alive, you can imagine the rise in value his works must have taken after his death. They probably soared to more then double and triple their price shortly after his passing. But then when I thought about the phone calls we’d received, the feelings of being watched that overcame me at almost every moment, Montivaldi’s obsession with the occult and the things he was hinting at toward the end, and the tattoos that were finishing themselves—
Whatever it was Montivaldi was working on, it must mean something. I remember looking at it one night while Nicholas lay in bed on his stomach in our motel room. I looked at the half-finished design on his back, marveling at the cosmic image. Starting from the top of his back was an array of wispy images merging together into a Lovecraftian nightmare of tentacles and odd, symmetrical shapes. Beginning at the middle of his back, amidst this design, was the beginning of strange symbols that looked like they could have come straight out of the Necronomicon. These designs were not there when we first fled Los Angeles; they came later. When I first looked at this design—still not finished—my mind flashed to one of the things Montivaldi had muttered at that last session. I must write it down lest I forget, and I must do it quickly.
Somebody—or something—knows this.
I think about the things we’d heard on the news in the past few days during our flight; I think about how these certain news items have accelerated in the days since my husband’s death. I feel that, in some way, some great cosmic force is at work. I fear that something from beyond the outer reaches of time and space sensed that what Montivaldi was doing would help it gain a foothold into our world. I believe that it was this force which was somehow responsible for the artist’s death, and that once out of the way, began to work at finishing the formula that was being tattooed on Nicholas’s back…only a different formula than the one Montivaldi originally intended. I’m not an expert in languages, but suppose this unseen force sensed that with a simple manipulation of the right words, it could change the outcome of the message Montivaldi was trying to write?
And suppose, once the first part of that incantation was complete, it set off to the next canvas?
Me.
That’s why I am always on the run.
I am afraid that if I don’t get it down right, if I don’t get it down quickly, that they will come in and finish it for me, only they will seek the opportunity to write down the words that will throw open the gate.
I try to avoid the curious stares I receive when I stop at convenience stores to gas up, or roadside diners to catch a quick bite to eat and all the cups of coffee I can drink. I recognize the scrutinizing glances; I recognized them ten years ago when I shaved my long black hair into a Mohawk, traded the frilly, fashionable clothes so common with upper-middle class preppy high school girls, for leather jeans and a matching black leather jacket, and became a punk. The looks I received back then were the same as I was receiving now; I was being regarded as a freak for being different. The only thing that branded me different now was the elaborate designs that had snaked down my arms to touch the bottom of my elbows. And people thought men with heavily tattooed bodies had it bad. Try being a woman in the same position.
I watch the progress of the designs every night when I check in to the next motel. I look in the mirror as they spread from my breast, to cover my upper back, to snake down both shoulders and down my biceps. I try to make out the designs, the same hieroglyphics that had been etched into Nicholas’s skin by Montivaldi as he attempted to deliver the messages he was receiving from the Old Ones, messages they were now finishing themselves.
Messages somebody else wants. So they can act on them.
I think about Montivaldi and wonder, why he had a heart attack. Had the strain been too much for him? Did he know that he was unwillingly being directed by great, cosmic forces, and as a result went into cardiac arrest because of it?
What will happen if whoever is pursuing me gets what they want? What horrible fate awaits the world if the gates are thrown open?
All I can do now is drive, gas up the car, and stop for food. Sometimes I stop at a motel for a night of restless sleep, and sometimes I even stay a couple of days or so. It’s been this way for three weeks now, and it won’t be long before the limit on my credit cards run out, or my pursuer, whoever he or she may be, catches up to me. For now, all I can do is drive.
The tops of my thighs itch, and I reach my left hand down to scratch them. It’s going to be hell when the designs snake down between my legs, the inside of my thighs. Already my ass is starting to tingle with numbness, and it won’t be long before I won’t be able to sit down for a while. I drive and the itch intensifies slightly and I scratch, wondering if the crazed visions of the late Master artist, culled from the dreamless sea of beyond the spheres, will someday cease.
I’m sure my pursuer won’t give up until he can slice the skin off my body, cut the unmarred sections away from the spots that Montivaldi graced, and put them together with what he took from Nicholas to complete whatever incantation the Old Ones directed Montivaldi to etch into our skins.
They will seek the opportunity to write down the words that will throw open the gate.
For some reason I’ve been thinking a lot about that story “The Traveler,” the one Montivaldi illustrated. I think about the illustration Montivaldi did for it; I think about that nameless, sexless character, and its white eyes.
I’ve been getting tired more lately, probably from the twelve hours a day of driving I’ve been putting myself through. My limbs are heavy; my vision has grown blurry with fatigue.
I think of that illustration and I shudder.
I haven’t looked at myself in a mirror these last few nights. I’m afraid of what I might see staring back at me.
Going Home
One day I attended a meeting in which a female manager berated one of her female underlings in front of the rest of her staff. It was cruel, not to mention unprofessional. Some of my stories are motivated by revenge, and I immediately came up with the idea of having a character based on these two people in which the female underling gets her just desserts by unleashing some malevolent force on her boss. Of course, once I started writing this basic idea, inspiration struck and the story turned into something else entirely. Like “Tattoos,” this one originally appeared online, in a UK publication called Eternal Night.
* * *
Jack Page was surprised at the sudden turn of events this evening, but he was even more surprised at Carla Beck’s living conditions.
Carla Beck’s current residence was room 204 at the Lucky Star Motel on Beach Boulevard. He hadn’t said anything to her as she led him into the room but now as he lay in her bed, Carla comfortably snuggled against him, he debated on whether he should bring it up. He wanted to ask, why do you live in such a dump? But as he thought about it he realized it all fit: her low pay scale, coupled with whatever happened to her in the past that would have caused her to be divorced would be sufficient excuse to live in a motel. He wondered how long she’d been living like this.
As if she’d read his thoughts, she said, “If I hadn’t been so drunk I wouldn’t have brought you here.”
“Are you sorry for what happened?” Jack asked.
A pause. “No.” She was silent for a moment. “I just didn’t want you to see how I lived.”
Jack thought about that. He didn’t know what to say. He’d met up with Carla Beck at happy hour, after work. Once every few weeks or so, their co-workers at Free State Insurance gathered at a local Mexican Restaurant for drinks and munchies and serious unwinding time. Much venting against their working conditions was done at these excursions. Jack was a frequent attendee, and he’d been surprised to see Carla Beck this evening, especially after she’d become the object of an intense round of verbal intimidation at the staff meeting just four hours earlier.
“I haven’t always lived like this,” she said.
“What happened?” Jack asked.
“The usual shit,” Carla sighed. “My husband left me and took everything.”
“And this was all you could afford,” Jack confirmed.
“Yeah.” She shifted around beside him in the bed. “My job doesn’t really pay all that well.”
“I can imagine,” Jack said. He felt sorry for Carla. He’d wound up sitting by her at the restaurant, trying to cheer her up. He didn’t know her well, but he’d heard through the grapevine that she wasn’t that well off. She was in her mid-forties, with wavy brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Carla was what you thought of when you thought “white trash.” She favored frumpy skirts and slacks at work that framed her chunky frame loosely, and tonight she’d dressed in faded blue jeans and a white blouse. She had wide hips and large breasts and she would have been pretty if she hadn’t lived such a hard life; the lines in her face made her appear weathered. Her nose looked like it might have been broken and never reset correctly, and she had a small scar on her chin. She had a nice mouth, though, and if you looked past a missing tooth or two she had a pretty smile that brought dimples to her cheeks. The only thing he knew about Carla was that she was divorced, with two daughters who were in their late teens and early twenties that were already out on their own. She’d originally come on staff as a temp, and after two years she was hired on a permanent basis as a floater. Meaning she floated around from department to department, assisting other secretaries as needed. It was a shitty job, and for all Jack knew it was the lowest paying position in the department. He would be surprised if she made twenty-five thousand dollars a year.
They’d gotten tipsy at the restaurant, and then they were walking out, arm in arm drunkenly. Carla told him she lived just up the street a ways and Jack thought he would just walk her home, wearing off the buzz, but then one thing led to another and the next thing he was aware of they were at her place, in bed.
“I never really had any job skills before I came to Free State,” Carla continued. “In fact, this is the first real job I’ve ever had.”
“You were just a housewife before?”
Carla nodded. “Yeah. I thought that was great.” Then, in a lower voice. “Boy, was I wrong.”
Jack didn’t want to go into her personal life, but she appeared to be freely divulging the information. “I was so desperate to leave home that when I did, I didn’t know where to turn to,” she said. “I had a little money with me, but I knew it wasn’t going to last. Then I met Mike, my husband, at a bar. We hit it off real quick and I fell for him fast. I was only nineteen. Young and stupid.”
“You got married young?”
She nodded. “About a year after we met. I had Darci two years later, and then a few years after that I had Michelle. Mike had a good job as a general contractor. He made enough money so I didn’t have to work. It sure beat home.”
“Where’s home?”
For a minute he didn’t think she was going to answer him. She stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then she said, “I’m from back east. Pennsylvania to be exact. A very rural area. We had no running water, no electricity. We were dirt poor.”
“Are you Amish?” It spilled out of Jack’s mouth before he could stop it.
Carla shook her head. “No, my family isn’t Amish.” Then, in a voice so low that Jack wasn’t sure if he heard it right, she said, “When I was young, though, sometimes I wish I had been in an Amish family. Even that would have been preferable to where I was.”
“Your home-life was that bad?”
Carla sighed. “I’m sorry if I’m making it sound as if I came from this hell-hole, but really…no.” Carla shook her head. “It really wasn’t that bad. It was just…”
“Eccentric?”
Carla appeared to think about it, than nodded. “I guess you could say that.”
“So there were good things about where you’re from?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be so harsh on it, but, yeah, there was.” Carla sat up, her back propped against the headboard. Jack sat up, too. “Living in the country does have some beautiful advantages: the clean air, the open space, the wild-life. It’s really quite peaceful.”
“Did it ever occur to you to maybe go back after your divorce?”
Carla shook her head vehemently. “No. I couldn’t do that. That would just make things worse.”
“Why?”
She wouldn’t answer. Jack thought he’d stepped over the line. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s okay,” Carla said. “I started this.”
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
Carla was silent again. She appeared to be struggling to hold back the tears. Jack felt uncomfortable. “You okay?”
She nodded hesitantly.
“Was it that bad?” he asked.
Carla sniffled, staring at the wall in front of them where the nineteen-inch Minolta TV was bolted to the wall. “Sometimes I think about that and I wonder if it was as bad as I made it all out to be.”
“What do you mean?”
Carla appeared to think about it for a moment. “Have you ever looked back on an event that you used to think was bad only to later think it wasn’t as bad as you thought?”
Jack nodded. “Well, yeah. High school was like that.”
“That’s what home is like,” Carla said.
“How long has it been since you’ve been back?”
“I left twenty-two years ago,” Carla said. “I’ve never been back.”
“Not even to visit?” Jack found this astonishing.
Carla shook her head. ‘Not even to visit.”
“But you’re thinking what it might be like to go back now, aren’t you?”
Carla nodded. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Are you afraid of going back?”
Carla appeared to not know how to answer this question. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel scared, and other times…other times I think it would be so much better for me if I went back and never set foot in the modern world ever again.”
Never set foot in the modern world ever again. Christ, had she lived in a stone hut back there? “Do you really hate it here more?” He asked.
Again, Carla appeared uncertain. “I don’t know.”
Jack thought about this. Maybe her parents were alcoholics or something; or they’d abused her. He didn’t
dare ask, but a part of him wanted to know. “Maybe a short visit back might help. You know, give you a chance to confront whatever it is about your past that’s bothering you.”
She seemed to think about it. “I don’t know. That might be a good thing to do.”
He almost asked why not? He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders. “Maybe it wouldn’t be. But then how would you know if you don’t at least try?”
She nodded slowly, looking at him. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Still…” That look of uncertainty came back to her.
“What?”
“It’s going to be so much different. I haven’t been in that environment in twenty-two years. I would be…I don’t know…I would feel so uncomfortable and out of place.”
“Do you think it’s really changed that much in twenty-two years?”
“No. But then, I’ve changed. My whole world-view has changed. Going back now would be…”
“Like going to a foreign country, or something?”
She nodded. “I guess you could say that.”
They were silent again. After a few minutes, Jack asked if he could smoke a cigarette. She needed one, too, and they lit up and leaned back against the headboard, smoking silently, each lost in their own thoughts.
“I know we don’t know each other that well, but…”
“Yeah?” He looked at her, waiting for what he was expecting.
“If I went back for a few days would you come with me?”
What he was expecting was more in the line of, I know we don’t know each other very well, but I enjoyed our time together and I hope we can do it again. Maybe…see where the relationship takes us to next. What she asked him instead was unexpected.
He thought about it. He could use a vacation. And he’d never been in that part of the country before. As long as she paid for her own airfare, he wouldn’t mind tagging along. Hell, it might be fun.
That decided it for him. “Sure.” He grinned at her. “When do we leave?”
The smile she flashed back at him seemed to suggest that, right at that moment, Carla Beck was the happiest woman on the planet.
The Summoning Page 4