“This can’t be happening,” I said to Margaret.
She took nodded toward the back door. “We need to leave.” She had to shout to be heard over the din of the catastrophe.
As we exited, I made another glance back. People were on their backs. Some were shaking. The worst was the first stout man. Impossibly, his face had split up the middle like a shank of beef hanging on a butcher’s iron. The flesh within stretched and danced, moving in time with the horrendous sounds emanating from the instruments.
Others shook as though seizing. I caught the moment his wife’s head split open. She wiggled back and forth, her hands trying to stop it, to no use. The skin cracked. Blood and white bile gushed. I saw the cavern within her nose as it opened, and then, as the skin curled back, the muscles moving the orbit of her eye. The tissue near the split shuttered, as though a wind blew from within her open head outward.
Margaret grabbed my wrist and pulled me outside the room. The last bit I saw were blood splatters covering the walls.
My music had brought forth a slaughterhouse.
We called for a carriage, got inside, and made our way home. Neither of us said a word until we’d made it safely inside our living room.
Margaret held me. “I’m so sorry.” She squeezed tighter. “We’ll try that again some other time.”
“Yes. Thank you. It was amazing while it lasted.”
“While it lasted,” she said, “it was perfect.”
“But how did…”
She put a finger over my lips. “We’ll find out in due time. Some kind of accident. It’ll be explained.”
“I’ve never seen or heard of anything like what we saw,” I said. I stuttered, “I think it was my music that brought it forth.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Impossible.”
I wanted to believe her but I could not.
[a group of pages with indecipherable black scribbles, circles upon circles of black]
My hearing has taken a bad twist. The left ear has almost completely been lost, and now, the right is nearly half mute. We pray this will not be permanent, however, Doctor Lipira feels that is the case. We’re unsure how this came to pass, as there are very few other symptoms of my hearing loss, but my theory is that the music in my head is deadly, evidenced by the scene at the Anderson’s Christmas party. This must be some certain punishment for me to insure I cannot channel another composition...another piece that will cause such devastating results to its listeners.
A thorough investigation was taken by police after the Anderson event, and they failed to find any sort of explanation. In the end, the seven souls that perished that night after hearing my Concerto #4 in e minor were lost in vain.
My darkness has only grown with each day. No longer do I have to look forward to the nights spent at my piano, blissfully growing the melodies in my head onto a piece of score paper. Even the sound of my wife’s voice has faded, as has that of my son. Life has become almost unbearable. There is little to look forward to. My days are long, and the hatters are good to me, however, when the night comes, and I lay down, there are sounds I can only hear within me. I’ve lost the ability to get them out of my head. There is an eerie otherworldliness to the sounds bouncing inside my dreams. They aren’t so much musical notes, but fluid sounds that seem to stretch into infinity, constantly changing, endlessly mutating into otherworldly mixes of organic instrumentation. There are no sheets of paper, or notes that I can use to transcribe them. They are endlessly trapped within the eternity of my skull. On occasion, from all of it, they come together, briefly, and play the main theme of my concerto for me. Cold comfort, and each time I hear it, played so splendidly and perfectly, I grow more and more anxious for my hearing to return so that I might share with the world once more its true form and sound.
Also at night I see the thing in the water...the thing that beckoned me that day at Whistleville beach. Sometimes I believe it is still there, and it is somehow sending me these aural hallucinations. A trap, for when it gets me, its tendrils wrapping around my limbs, it will pull me to its beak and tear me to pieces. It will laugh as it feasts, and other beasts from the sea will come to, to partake, to fill themselves to stuffing on my flesh and blood. This is only the start of the nightmares, for [cuts off]
[there are pages ripped and missing from the journal, but there is a note on the backboard]
Today we’ve lost my beloved William. His inner demons came together to finally claim him. While I’m in deep grief at losing him, I take comfort in knowing he is at peace. He’d grown so unhappy, and understandably, at the loss of his hearing. No longer will we be woken with him shouting the notes of his concertos at us, only to fall back into sleep sobbing and inconsolable. He withered near the end, and the good Doctor Lipira says whatever caused his loss of hearing also contributed to his death. It may have been pneumonia, or some form of plague we have not yet seen. There are no tests, other than a doctor’s opinion, so I will trust him. At least I have our son Landry, and the hatters have made a generous offer to keep us here for as long as they are in business. For that, I am eternally grateful. My only regret is that my sweet William never had the chance to hear his concerto performed fully, and I can only pray that he is doing so in the heavens. This morn we buried William at the top of the hill on Connecticut avenue. The key phrase from his concerto was etched onto his headstone, but as he was fond of saying, music is much more than its notes. It is the space between that calls forth our darkness, our light, and ultimately, our souls.
Margret Judith Frank
3 March 1878
The End.
Law and Mother
The story of
Edward, the Lawyer
Jay Mooers
The cab sputtered off, leaving Edward standing awkwardly before the house. Black smoke swirled around his ankles like a venomous octopus. His wrinkled grey tweed suit fluttered in the gentle breeze. His patched suede briefcase clattered to the cobblestone as he nervously fiddled with the cufflinks keeping his illfitting jacket from swallowing his long sweaty hands.
The heat of the sun baked his back, though the air chilled his nose. It was an unusual time for Edward to be up. But he had something to prove. He didn’t want to feel like a child anymore. The thought of spending the rest of his life living with his mother turned like a knife in his gut. He had studied hard, even under his mother’s protest. He even took his bar exam without her knowledge.
“You’re a lawyer now. An adult,” Edward muttered to himself. But even fighting his way out of the womb as a man in his mid30’s, he felt no older than a schoolboy. He lived with his domineering mother, who still spat on her hankie to clean his face after every meal. He didn’t even own a suit. The one he was wearing was extracted from his late father’s attic trunk. It smelled of musk and mothballs.
Edward had placed an advertisement in the local papers under the alias P. Smith, Attorney. For weeks, Edward made sure to retrieve the mail before his mother until one day a letter came. It was addressed to “Mr. Smith” in large dancing letters.
Dear Mr. Smith,
I should like to speak to you on matter of my estate. If interested, I will expect your arrival on Thursday, the 13th of May in the morning. Do come alone.
Warm wishes, Angelica
The letter gave Edward the chills, but anything not permitted by his mother tended to have that effect. This was his forbidden fruit, and he was taking a very large bite. He was filled with confidence, until he saw the house.
Wedged between two large brownstones was a cottage. Every aspect of it was dark and grey, as if nature’s palette simply retreated from its presence. Although the sky was bright, only shadows embraced it. A stone path torn with weeds led to a dark wooden door. To the left and right of the door were two single windows with glass deep and dark, like the pupils of a serial killer. A wooden porch appeared to be sinking into the sea of brush. Edward had passed this place on many occasions and never noticed it before. It almost disap
peared like a dark alley between the brownstones.
His cab was gone. There was no turning back. Edward took a deep breath, wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes, and with briefcase in hand, paced forward.
With each step it felt as if he was leaving the “normal world” behind, and delving deeper into some kind of madness. If he stopped to think about it, Edward might have turned and walked home. He simply shut off any thoughts and became fixed on that door, and something that was pinned to it.
A folded note waited and waved at him in the fleeting breeze. Again, the dancing letters addressed him under his false name.
Mr. Smith. Please let yourself in. I will tend to you shortly. A
With a placement of his fingers on the intricately carved knob, resembling a twisted weasel, the door welcomed the lawyer inside.
Edward had been described often as a mousy sort of man with a long glassyeyed stare and a twitching nose. His brown hair was matted in sweat. He certainly felt like a mouse as he crept into an enormous room.
“H... hello?” he squeaked. His voice echoed back, scaring the lawmouse. The windows around the room were just as dark on the inside as they were on the outside. An intricate wooden frame arched above him. He felt like he had wandered into the belly of a giant wooden whale. Towards the rear of the room, the wooden ribs converged and twisted down to the floor to a small dark hole resembling a fireplace. Some wooden furniture with overflowing goose down cushions sat precariously before it. A table lamp produced the room’s only flickering light source.
Edward headed toward the furniture. Despite his best efforts to keep his footfall silent, each step echoed painfully in his ears. The clomping made him feel like the clumsy boy his mother often reminded him he was. Due to the abstract nature of the room, he had to place his hand on the back of a couch to ensure it was real. A clawed coffee table resided in the center of the cluster. Upon it sat an opal glass bowl with a splash of colorfully swirled toffees.
“Hello?” Edward announced his presence again. He placed the briefcase on the floor and began to fiddle with his cuffs. The only visible door was the one he had entered, and the long outstretched shadow fingers nearly consumed it. It was indeed a strange room, and completely impractical in such a prime location just off of the market square.
“Mr. Smith, I presume?” The voice came from right behind Edward, and with such surprise, it sent him crashing over the sofa and into the coffee table. A cloud of ageless dust tickled his nostrils as he clamored back to his feet.
In stark contrast to the dark patina that consumed the majority of the house, there stood a lady in cream and white. Her hair was light brown and long, though tied behind her head in cascading spirals. Her smooth round face and lips were pale. In the lamp light, they appeared to glow. Her piercing eyes were a dark contrast to the near ethereal effect her flowing dress and complexion presented. Although at first glance, she appeared young, those deep eyes expressed knowledge and experience beyond anyone Edward had ever met. She seemed ageless.
Her fingers were intertwined before her as she expressed mild concern over Edwards’s tomfoolery. “Oh dear, are you alright?” She made no effort to assist Edward back to his feet.
“Yes, quite. You startled me.” Edward composed himself and slicked his greasy hair back in position the best he could.
The woman smiled warmly. “Have a seat.” The woman silently walked around the lawyer and took a seat in the chair facing the couch. Edward, still flustered, took a seat on the couch, still trying to adjust his illfitting suit. His nose whistled as he recomposed himself.
Once he stopped fidgeting, the woman spoke. “I am Angelica.” She nodded. “Edward.”
Edward felt the color in his cheeks burn. She was quite a stunning lady. He was not used to speaking with any nice ladies, except the girl at the bakery. Mother would send him to see her on errands. But this was different. Even in this vast space, everything felt intimate. And this Angelica made the baker’s daughter look like a swine.
“What does the P stand for?” Angelica inquired. “I’m sorry?” “In your advertisement, you are a P. Smith, are you not?” She smiled at Edward, making his cheeks burn even more. “Oh yes.” Edward contemplated telling this woman everything. He wanted to tell her about his domineering mother and his secret life as a lawyer under a false name. He swallowed hard. “That’s my middle name.”
Angelica giggled lightly, making Edward’s heart flutter. “Edward or the P?” “Yes.” Edward smiled like a drunk turtle. Angelica leaned in and smiled back. “I will call you Edward if you like. Care for a candy?” She indicated the bowl. Edward had been taught from a very early age that is was terribly rude to pass on anything a guest offered to you, regardless of whether you wanted it or not. His mother had rapped his knuckles on several occasions for denying her friends’ offerings. Edward feared he would look like a goat chewing on toffee before this beautiful woman, especially this early in the morning. However, manners are manners.
“Thank you.” Edward chose the pink one. It immediately stuck itself to his upper molar. He attempted to pry it from his tooth with his tongue as Angelica continued to speak.
“I have never called for a lawyer before, Edward. In fact, I haven’t called on anyone in quite some time. This has been a terribly quiet place for years. It’s been handed down through the family, and alas, I’ve been left here alone to care for it.”
Edward especially liked the “alone” part.
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my days sitting here in the dark. This place needs some life.” Angelica stood, the swishing of her dress was hypnotic. Her dark eyes never left his gaze as she silently approached.
Edward thought about picking at his tooth with his fingernail. He nodded with an, “Uh, huh.”
“What do you know about properties, Edward Smith?” She was close enough to touch, but Edward didn’t dare. He thought about taking her hand in his. He imagined placing his other hand to the small of her back and kissing her deeply. Edward wondered what this unreadable creature would do. Would she embrace his advances or send him packing back to mother? But Edward didn’t have any confidence, even if she asked. He didn’t even have the nerve to stand up.
“I know the town laws about real estate.”
She sat next to him on the couch, looking deep into his eyes. Edward wondered if the lady could read his mind. Sweat began to pour from his temples.
“You have an imagination to you, Mr. Smith. I like that a lot.”
Edward had a keen sense of smell. He sometimes considered himself a bit of a bloodhound. If a bird died in the backyard he could smell it from a shut window. There was a certain smell to his mother, their house, the baker’s daughter, and even this place had its own unique musty smell. But Angelica had none. If Edward was a bloodhound, then Angelica might as well be invisible.
She turned her gaze from him and looked down into her empty hands. “What would you do? I want people to come here. I want their imaginative juices to flow through this place. I need stories.”
Stories? How about “A bookstore?” Edward blurted it out. “A bookstore?” Angelica was amused. “Sure.” Edward wanted to impress the lady badly. He rose to his feet and began to sound like he knew what he was talking about. “What better way to get people to come? Sure, this place will need some work. It will need better windows, some new walls. You have plenty of space here. This area is full of other shops. There’s plenty of foot traffic. You would have lots of people in and out of here all the time. We can build a private room in the back so you can still reside here.”
Edward began to imagine the walls painted white and rows of bookshelves.
“There isn’t another book store in the area for miles. With the cafe next door, it would be the perfect fit.”
Angelica rose, tapping her finger to her lower lip thoughtfully. “Mr. Smith, I do believe you are on to something.”
Edward grabbed his briefcase and placed it on the coffee table. “Okay, so first off we
need to look into getting a loan.” Edward unclasped his case. It squeaked open.
“No.” Angelica pushed the case shut. “It’s not necessary.”
“You don’t want...” Edward was cut off.
“No. I love the shop idea.” She smiled at Edward, her dark eyes shimmered like water down a dark well. They were beautiful haunting eyes. Upon closer inspection they seemed older than Edward had first noticed. Perhaps Angelica was much older than Edward had first thought. “The loan is unnecessary. I have family money.”
“Well then. I will have to go to town hall and submit an application for...” Angelica’s icy fingers touched the back of Edwards’s neck, making his every hair stand on end.
“Relax, Edward,” she cooed as she pulled him away from his briefcase. “We’ll have plenty of time for that.”
“This is a big project. It is going to take some time to...” Angelica placed a finger to Edwards’s lips.
“You work for me now, don’t you, Edward?” He nodded. “So trust me when I say we have time. I know best.”
Edward grimaced a bit. His mother always said, “I know best.”
“A bookstore. What an ingenious idea. What kind of books should we sell? Every kind, I imagine. All those people with their thoughts.” Angelica tapped her fingers together, thinking furiously. “So, are most people literate these days?”
“Many are,” Edward responded. “You can carry picture books for those that aren’t.
Angelica smiled and twirled. “I knew from the day I saw you pass by my home, with your head in the clouds, you’d have great thoughts to share. That’s why I picked you, Mr. Smith.”
Edward realized this was going to be a huge project. Sneaking out of the house for a morning was one thing. But this was going to take months at the very least. He was going to have to come clean with both Angelica and his mother. He couldn’t do this under a false name.
My Peculiar Family Page 4