by John Pelan
By the mid-seventies, the snarling voice that ripped through “Heartbreak Hotel” was gone, and there was only a touch left of the “Love Me Tender” croon. Now he has lost it all completely: no control of his breathing, a strain to hit the notes, a thick druggy glaze over the emotions that used to seethe just below the surface. He performs songs like “Unchained Melody,” songs he can just belt out from deep in his considerable gut. He talks to the audience, particularly when they are unresponsive, trying to win them over. He has given away thousands of dollars' worth of diamond rings and guitars to strangers in Vegas nightclubs, just trying to rekindle that look of unconditional love he used to see in all their eyes.
It's all Elvis has ever wanted, really, unconditional love from everybody in the world.
Sam Phillips had Elvis's first Sun records pressed at Plastic Products, a vinyl plant and warehouse in a bleak part of Memphis. “That's All Right” was pressed there, backed with “Blue Moon of Kentucky.” Thousands of black circles dripping with sex, menace, and magic rolled out of Plastic Products and into the clamoring world. Today the building stands vacant and derelict, humpbacked like a giant barrel half-buried in cement, a footnote of corrugated steel behind high chain link.
When rattlesnakes convene for denning, they first form a bolus—a ball-shaped cluster, like a collection of rubber bands. Every member of the bolus keeps moving, the pulsing amalgam growing as more snakes arrive. One man peered into a cave and saw a bolus more than four feet thick. There are bigger claims, too, if you want to believe them.
Writer J. Frank Dobie reported the story of a hired man sent to bring in two grazing mules. The man's boss heard a scream, then a fainter one. He found the body in a gully amid hundreds of rattlers. The snakes were forming a bolus. The man, who must have stepped into the gully without looking, was already dead.
— GORDON GRICE, The Red Hourglass: Lives of the Predators
Elvis sleeps through the day (rising usually between four and eight P.M.) and cannot abide the least sliver of light, so his bedroom windows are shrouded in musty cloth. The bathroom, though, is a shag-carpeted chamber of light with a big black toilet, modular and low-slung, that Elvis privately thinks of as the Toilet of the Future. He spends a good bit of time leafing through girlie magazines on that padded throne, not masturbating—he hasn't had a hard-on in months—but just looking. He's sitting on the Toilet of the Future right now, reading not Penthouse or Cheri but a book about sexual astrology. Elvis is a Capricorn and supposedly likes to be aggressive. His worst quality is an inability to take no for an answer. And that used to be true, actually, back when anybody still dared to tell him no.
Right now the only thing telling him no in his own bowels. He's been sitting here for hours, it feels like. Sometimes he has to take an enema or soak in a hot tub until his belly softens up. His digestive tract, slowed to a crawl by dowiers, cannot handle the massive amounts of soft processed food Elvis shovels into it each day.
He strains, feels something deep in his gut stirring but refusing to dislodge itself. And then the pain tightens around his heart and begins to squeeeeeze.
Elvis hopes there will be peace in the valley for him, but he fears there won't be.
The colon is approximately five to seven feet in length in a person Elvis's size and should have been about two inches in diameter. By [Shelby County M.E.'s investigator] War-lick's estimate, however, Elvis's colon was at least three and a half inches in diameter in some places and as large as four and a half to five inches … in others. As [pathologist] Flo-rendo cut, he found that this megacolon was jampacked from the base of the descending colon all the way up and halfway across the tranverse colon. It was filled with white, chalklike fecal material. The impaction had the consistency of clay and seemed to defy Florendo's efforts with the scissors to cut it out.
— CHARLES C. THOMPSON II AND JAMES P. COLE,
The Death of Elvis
Atmosphere is the all-important thing, for the final criterion of authenticity is not the dovetailing of a plot but the creation of a given sensation.
— H. P LOVECRAFT, Supernatural Horror in Literature
THE SERENADE OF STARLIGHT
W. H. Pugmire Esq.
I see the stars have spelt your name in the sky.
—BOY GEORGE
1
We walked arm in arm beneath the humped moon, and I smiled at Stanley's frowning face. He held a piece of paper up to an arched streetlamp.
“She said it was around here somewhere, at the top of the hill. Curse the woman for not coming with us.” I watched him search the crooked old streets that twisted before us, saw his frown deepen. I pushed him against the ancient brick of the building near us, took from his shirt pocket a pack of cigarettes, and placed one of the thin cylinders between his lips. Breathing deeply, he lit up.
“This is certainly a very charming sectioi of your antique city,” I told him. “One can sense within one's soul its agedness. Why, even the hoary darkness seems more venerable than ordinary shadow.”
Stanley groaned wearily. “Please, Willy, d3n't wax poetic. It gives me gas when you start talking like an Oscar Wilde fairy tale.”
Leaning next to him, pressing my back to the cool brick, I gazed toward heaven. “Ah, my dear boy, that's not a fairy-tale moon. That is the moon from Salome, casting its edacious light upon the doomed and the dead.”
“And the dizzy,” he sardonically replied.
Shrugging off the implied put-down, I took from my pocket a gold compact and a tube of lip gloss. He pushed away and began looking into the windows of the buildings that lined the street.
“Here,” he shouted suddenly, a noise that echoed loudly in the silent street. I went to him and looked at the small sign above a door. I could barely make out the dark letters, GIL-MAN'S, it read.
“You are certain this is the place?” I asked hesitantly.
“Of course it is. There's Eve's sculpture.”
I joined him and squinted through the murky glass of the shop's display window. The work in question stood one foot in height. Composed of smooth gray clay, it depicted two nude and hairless creatures standing near an outre skeletal tree. The human figures were squat, their bald heads oddly formed. The facial features were amorphous and amphibian. Each of the tree's sinister branches ended in a serpent's head.
“In the image of Frog created He them,” I chuckled. As if in reply, an amphoric wind echoed in the gables above. Gazing through the cloudy window, I thought I could discern a faint illumination from within, and shadows that crept through deeper darkness. I went to the door and turned its chilly knob. The fragrance of antiquity, of dust, of shadow, wafted toward my painted face.
I entered in, followed by my companion.
We left fuliginous night behind and walked into a different realm of twilight. The glow within the shop was misty and muted. It fell upon the items of the shop with a kind of ethereal grace. It seemed, this light, as dusty and old as were most of the contents upon which it rested. It felt warm and ancient on my eyes. I felt it oddly clothe my tinglirg flesh. My lungs breathed it in deeply, and in so doing I could actually taste the dead aeons of forgotten time.
“I'm gonna look around. If I find any cool jewelry, I'll howl,” my friend informed me. I raised my hand in reply, dimly aware of the sound of his moving away from me. I looked above me to one cobwebbed corner, from which the dry husk of some creature was suspended on wires. Surely it was a fantastic fake, this creature. The dry, dead countenance was that of a hateful hag. A cruel mouth snarled open so to reveal rows of sharp, twisted fangs. The thin arms were raised as if poised for attack. The mauve flesh revealed a cavity shaped of bone at the chest. The torso contorted, ending in the tail of a fish.
I moved onward, past pillars of brittle books and pieces of old furniture. I ran my fingers across the dust that covered a brass lamp, then smoothed the heavy residue into my hair. I felt slightly uneasy about the silence of the place, about there being no anxious shopkeeper eager to
make a pitch and sell to us his antique gems. Looking at Stanley, I thought to voice my curiosity on this matter, but he was intrigued by some faded piece of Egyptian statuary, and I hesitated, not wanting to break his obvious spell of rapture. Still I cculd not stop from letting my eyes wander into darkened coners, expecting to find some form of an owner smiling expectantly at me. Silently, I moved past a wall of faded photogrt phs, watched by a myriad of dead eyes.
I came upon a small alcove and stepped within. Before me was a curious display. I gazed in delight at the armlets of white gold that sat upon velvet of deep purple. But it was the necklace of black pearls that literally made me gasp. It took no especial sensitivity to beauty to fully appreciate their unearthly splendor. How queerly the pearls seemed to catch the obscure light of the little room, to catch it and transpose it to a different order of spectrum. I could feel its weirdness reflected on my eyes, could feel it sink beneath my jellied orbs and find my pulsing brain.
I took my eyes from the necklace and studied the statuette that sat upon a brick of polished black glass. It was the image of some wild monster of nightmare, a winged beast that squatted on humanoid legs, whose pulpy tentacled face wore an aspect of age-old evil. What was strangest of all, however, was that this fearful entity seemed vaguely familiar, as though I knew it from some pocket of forgotten memory.
“Entrancing, isn't he?”
I turned and looked at the handsome young man who stood just behind me. I had a kinky thing for those skinhead types, and he was a beautiful example, a beauty that hinted of danger. I gazed into his wide aqua eyes.
“As entrancing as sin,” I said, simpering. He smiled in return, and I looked once more at the thing of stone. “It seems to be waiting.…”
“Perhaps he waits for you.” He reached toward a shelf that had been built into the wall by which he stood. From it he took a large, pale seashell. He held it fondly, then placed its cavity to my ear. “What do you hear?”
“An echo that mocks the song of waves on sand,” I replied quickly; then paused as another sound, a dim vibration of humming, came to me. I frowned, and the sound faded. I was not certain that it had been more than imagination.
The young man studied my face with his fascinating eyes. I felt a shiver and turned to study once more the string of black pearls.
“You seem hypnotized by that necklace.”
“Indeed, it is exactly what I'm looking for. I'm going to a ball, and I need a piece of jewelry, something simple yet stylish. Those onyx gems would do perfectly. But I sense that they are not available.”
“They are not for sale. This case is for display only. But I could loan them to you.”
“My dear boy, you can't be serious! You know nothing about me.
He stepped closer and spoke in a soft low voice. “I know that you are a creature of fancy. You are a dreame r, and a poet. The wings of vision have brushed your brain. You have seen things in slumber that you vaguely remember, misty visions that fill you with fanciful fears, with curious longings. No matter the society you are in, you are always an outsider.”
I arched an eyebrow. “We've met before?”
“Not in the waking world,” was his enigmatic reply. His thick lips formed an esoteric smile. I suddenly felt as if I had known him from some forgotten moment cf my past. Everything about him seemed suddenly familiar, out strangely so. I watched his graceful hands as they reached lor the necklace. I trembled slightly as he came behind me and placed the string of pearls around my throat. His solid body, with its queer and sweetly sour aroma, leaned heavily against mine as he fastened the clasp. How cold were his hands against my skin. How colder still the onyx gems.
“Will?” Stanley entered the alcove and frowned at the scene before him. I felt deliciously wicked.
“What do you think, my dear?” I asked, fingering the pearls.
“Oh, very nice. And how clever of you to find a color that matches your soul.”
I faintly smiled. “Do they make me look regal?”
“Every inch a queen. All you need to complete the illusion is a crown.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” whispered the young proprietor. He vanished for a moment, long enough for my friend to give me a naughty look, which I superbly ignored. When the shopkeeper returned, I gasped in wonder at the object in his hands. “It's been in my family for generations. As you can see, it's composed of the same material as the other items. You'll notice the identical pictorial motif, those curious aquatic creatures.” He spoke this in his low, hypnotic voice, never taking his eyes from me. I sensed that his ever}' word was pregnant with hidden meaning that I was somehow supposed to understand, but what he was trying to communicate I could not say. I sensed a kind of urgency in his look, his tone of voice.
I reached for the tiara of white gold, shivered at the chilliness of its surface, gazed intently at the bizarre motifs. I sensed that I had seen their likenesses before, in that elusive pocket of memory that had suddenly begun to beckon my brain. My hands trembled as I slowly brought the thing to my dome.
“It must have gotten damaged in shipping,” said Stanley. “Look at how it's bent. It'll never fit.”
He proved correct. And yet, as I placed the magnificent work of beauty upon my head I was overwhelmed with an uncanny sensation. How can I describe it? It was similar to what I felt when entering my grandmother's old house. The moment I entered, certain smells and shapes brought to vivid life long-buried memories from childhood. A teacup with a windmill painted on its delicate surface brought to me a certain afternoon when I was dining on toast and tea with Granny and my aunt Josephine. As I reached with a wee child's hand for the container of cream, my aunt said, frowningly, “Boys don't put cream in their tea, unless they're sissy-boys.” Oh, how defiantly I poured cream into my teacup. How delicious it tasted, laced with my innocent sense of challenge.
As I placed the golden tiara on my head, I sensed things that were both alien and familiar, I could feel the coldness of its metal sink beneath my flesh and chill my brain. I closed my eyes and seemed to hear once more the outre echo of song that I thought I had detected when the seashell had been placed at my ear. Softly, I hummed the uncanny semi-melody. I sensed the movement of waterv waves and swayed to their flow and ebb. I felt myself suddenly tilt and start to fall.
He held me in his strong cold arms. His wide unblinking eyes wore a trace of triumph. I removed myself from his embrace and took from mv head the thing of gold. I studied its eccentric shape. Certainly, the large and curiously irregular periphery seemed intended for a head of freakish design. However, the rim did not, as Stanley had suggested, appear bent or damaged—its metal was too perfectly smooth, unmarred in any way.
Sadly, I returned the thing to the handsome young skinhead. Reaching for my wallet, I took from it my photo I.D. and a twenty-dollar bill. “This is to assure my return of your wonderful necklace.” I noticed Stanley's forehead fold in confusion. “This delightful young man is allowing me to borrow these onyx gems for the ball. Isn't he divine?”
The proprietor took my hand and kissed it, then waved away my offering. “My payment is the joy I see in your smile, and the knowledge that my grandmother's necklace will be seen again on a person of exceptional beauty. Wear it to your ball, and then return it. I'll be here, awaiting you.”
I stared into his eyes, those blue eyes that seemed to contain within them a wisdom and patience of the ages, the liquid shadows of unfathomable secrets. I thought that I could gaze into their beauty forever, and did not want to pull myself away. Grabbing my sleeve, Stanley muttered our thanks and dragged me to the door.
2
Waves of incoherent sound washed over me. He held before me the large sea conch. As I gazed into its c:rcular aperture, I felt myself enter into its swirling obscurity, become one with a cryptic darkness. All around me throbbed the sound of storm, of water, of electric air. Curling shadow slithered to embrace my soul, a blackness I could taste. The ebb and flow of sound became a riot of vociferation
. And underneath the noise I could hear echoed one fantastic name:
Y'ha-nthlei.
I whispered the strange and beautiful word as his thick wet lips pressed against my throat. I did not close my eyes, but rather stared steadfastly at the idol of chiseled stone that oddly wavered in the black space before us, at its texture that seemed to glisten, its eyes that seemed to gleam wetly. I felt the tongue at my throat play with the pearls that pressed against my neck. He kissed the midnight gems as they broke free and fell into his hand. I madly laughed as he pitched them into the sky, and howled as they blossomed like aphotic blooms that revealed the ruins of an ancient city spread before us, a city of pillars and gigantic steps that led to a monolithic crypt. And I shuddered in ecstasy as a liquid voice from beyond the sculptured mass of door called my name.
“Willy?”
I awakened to the loveliest pair of eyes I had ever seen. Indeed, the entire face was composed of breathtaking beauty; and not merely the beauty of youth, but rather a loveliness that was ageless. She brushed her auburn hair away from the smooth and perfect complexion of her face, smiling with full rose-tinted lips.
“You asked me to wake you up before I left for the studio.”
Wearily, I stirred beneath the bedclothes. “Ah, yes, darling. Thank you. What time is it?”
“Three in the afternoon. That bearded beast had you out all night. Whatever were you two up to?”
“Well, he had to take me to his favorite local bar, although he well knows that I abhor the stench of booze. Then we went looking for your friend's delightful shop.” I gazed for a moment at the foot that peeked from the corner of the rumpled coverings, at its scarlet painted toes. Bravely, I threw the blankets from me and met the bracing air that cooled my nudity.