Stairs, hundreds of stairs, spun violent yellow — a series of disconnected planks situated at odds with each other and jumbled in a tangle of wooden supports. He felt dizzy, nauseated by the insurmountability of the sight. His knees buckled and he had to maintain his grip on the banister to keep from falling.
He hung onto the rail, eyes closed, waiting for the nausea to pass, when he heard a sound from the apartment. He pulled himself up as the dry sound grew louder, and Stanley felt his insides grow colder. The low raspy whisper, wet and sickly, called out to him from the bedroom in the depths of the apartment.
2
Leslie feared that no matter how hard she tried in the end she would never be good enough. She watched her peers move up the rungs of the agency to take on bigger and better talent while she remained at her same desk, with her same docket of authors who had proved they would never write anything of worth.
She had pinned all her hopes on Stanley Doran — the writer she had single-handedly rescued from the slush pile. No one had seen the talent in his work, no one sensed what he could do — no one but Leslie. When she lobbied to take him on despite the workload she already carried no one objected. And when she placed his first book for him and netted him an unexpectedly high advance it was attributed to mere luck.
But from Stanley’s pen the words began to flow, and it wasn’t long before no one could ignore either of them.
There was something about his eyes that mesmerized her. She couldn’t stop staring when she finally met him; it was as though he glowed, as though he held onto a secret that no one else knew. She sometimes caught herself wondering what his children would look like — would they share that same radiating charm? — and would turn away in embarrassment when she thought he had caught her. If he saw what she was thinking, he said and did nothing. He never laid a finger on her, but sometimes he gave her a look that made her feel weak and light-headed and she began to think that for the first time in her life she had met someone who finally appreciated her for who she was. She knew he would be her ticket to better things.
But nothing goes as planned. Upon his mother’s death, Stanley Doran disappeared and took the advance for his latest novel with him. Days turned to weeks and, when there was still no word as to where he was, part of Leslie felt hurt and another part betrayed, but she managed to keep her doubts hidden from the partners of the agency, afraid of what would happen if they knew the truth. She did her best to smooth things over with his publishers, assuring them that she knew exactly where Stanley Doran was and that there was absolutely no cause for concern. She then assured her agency of the same lies, and went away every night worrying more and more about what had happened to him. Where could he be? And didn’t he realize how desperately she needed him back?
After weeks of calling his apartment in vain and listening to the telephone ring endlessly she wasn’t prepared for him to answer. He greeted her with a voice that sounded raw and unfamiliar and after he coughed he asked her what she wanted.
“I just . . . I need to know where you are on the novel.” She quietly chided herself for faltering, and Stanley only laughed dryly, and then hung up the telephone.
It took weeks to get any more of an answer, but she found herself less and less concerned about his work and increasingly more about him. He sounded strange, locked in his tower away from the world, but no matter how often she tried he would not open his door to see her. He had retreated behind its walls, and no amount of coaxing would bring him out.
He promised he had returned to work though and had made some headway into his novel, but when pressed for specifics he remained vague and distant. Leslie’s concern mounted. She wrote him letters — long letters explaining to him what his seclusion was costing her — but found she could not send them. So much of what was between them still remained unspoken, and there was no way she could see to bridge that gap. Instead, every word she wrote looked wrong on the page, as though born dead from her pen.
Meanwhile, her other authors grumbled and wondered if they might not be better represented by someone else. She imagined they would, as she felt powerless to do anything different. It did not take long for the partners to pull her into a meeting where it was intimated, in no uncertain terms, that her position was tenuous at best, and that proof of results were needed from Stanley or from her dwindling group of authors if she hoped to remain employed at the agency.
It was perhaps the worst time Stanley could have chosen to once again fall silent.
Almost a year had passed since his mother’s death, and when Leslie last spoke with him he seemed distracted and said very little. She tried once more to see him by offering whatever help she could, but he did not listen. Instead he muttered something about a package then hung up the telephone on her.
She was frustrated, but tried to leave him the space he desired. Why did she need him, she wondered. If she found one author, certainly she could find another. But even as she said the words to herself, she knew they were hollow. She was linked to Stanley Doran whether she liked it or not, and she had no choice but to do whatever it took to stay in his life. Even if it meant giving in to her urge to call him.
Yet when she did there was no answer.
She continued calling throughout the following days and grew increasingly concerned with each unanswered ring. How was it possible that Stanley Doran, a man who would no longer leave his apartment, did not seem to be at home? A whisper in the dark of her mind suggested the worst, and she had no choice but to listen.
3
The building stood crooked at the corner of Parliament and King, a narrow tower hidden on the outskirts of the ghetto. It appeared empty of all but transient life — the vagrant or drug-addled all finding a home in its tight stairwells and ochre walls. The smell of liquor and urine was overwhelming and it took Leslie a moment to collect herself.
The climb up the stairs had brought a blistering color to her pudgy skin, and her heart beat so quickly she had to stop and rest on one of the small landings until she found the breath once more to continue.
She reached the top of the staircase, vertiginous at the sight of the uneven steps that got her there. Her clothes required straightening, and she adjusted herself before taking a deep breath and knocking upon the door. She had not been beyond it in months, but she would not let him dissuade her from coming in and ensuring he was okay. Leslie knocked again when nobody answered.
There was a shuffling that spilled faintly from behind the door, the rustle of pages moving softly underfoot. She knocked a third time, determined to push her way in if necessary to ensure Stanley’s safety, but to her surprise she found the door was unlocked. She took an uncertain step inside and heard the sound of Stanley’s voice from the bedroom. Before she could back out of the apartment Stanley emerged dressed only in a pair of loose boxers. He stopped when he saw her, sweat glistening on his body in the afternoon light. Her heart seized in her throat.
“Oh God! I’m so sorry!”
“Leslie! What are you doing here?” he asked, first wiping his forehead and then mouth. “Please, come in. I’ll be just a moment,” and he returned casually to the bedroom while Leslie attempted to regain her equilibrium.
The apartment was not as Leslie expected it. The place was clean and uncluttered — books shelved and ordered, papers stacked. Through the window pushed a cool autumn breeze that rattled the paper bags full of groceries that stood on the island counter. There was something off about the place though, something missing, but Leslie couldn’t put her finger on what it could be.
Stanley Doran emerged from the bedroom with hands on his belt, fingering the proper holes. Leslie felt more uncomfortable than when she had caught him unawares a few moments before.
“You should have told me you were coming.”
Leslie stammered; “I tried to call . . .”
“I’ve been out most of the day. I must have just missed you.”
“You — you were out?”
“Don’t seem so
surprised,” Stanley laughed. “I had to pick up a few things for my new guest.”
“Your —?” Leslie looked toward the distant bedroom, a sinking feeling twisting her stomach. “Stanley, what’s going on?”
“I’ve grown wings. Can’t you tell?” He spun for her, laughing. His skin, despite his exuberance, still exhibited the oily sheen of someone who had been shrouded from real sunlight for a long time, and his eyes, rimmed with red, were swollen as though he hadn’t slept in days. Yet, it was unmistakable that something had happened to him, some deep altering change. She had never heard him speak that way before — even when his mother was alive he had carried an air of resignation about him. All that seemed gone. He finally looked as though he was alive, and Leslie felt hope forming inside her. The excitement was unsettling.
Stanley stopped laughing and placed his hand on her face. He looked into her and she felt her skin burn beneath his touch. “You hold on to too much, Leslie. I can see it clearly in your eyes.”
She sputtered, but Stanley didn’t notice.
“I imagine you want to know if I’ve been writing again. Isn’t that why you think you’re here? Well, put your worries to rest. I’ve written quite a bit recently, enough to keep your employers’ concerns at bay. It’s not what they’re expecting — you can be sure of that — but I have no doubt they will be happy when they’ve seen the end product. It just started coming to me, and it’s all thanks to my little friend.” Stanley put his knuckles to his mouth and a small giggle slipped between his fingers.
“Shall I read you some of it?”
Before Leslie could respond, Stanley had already gone to retrieve his work, disappearing into the bedroom with a light step. From there, she heard his low voice muttering aloud as though in disagreement with himself. It then occurred to Leslie what was missing: there were no photographs anywhere in the apartment. He had removed them all.
“Here we go,” Stanley said as he emerged from the room, and she immediately forgot all her concerns. “I had trouble finding the right passage. It might be out of context, but I’d wager you of all people should have no trouble catching up.” He winked at her and began to read. His voice low and dry and it reverberated as if there were a second, much older, voice behind it. He coughed into his hand and then wiped it across his thigh.
Leslie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was competent, but only barely so. The words were empty, sucked free of any soul, any uniqueness, and she knew right then that she could never get the work published. His once promising voice, the voice she imagined hearing late at night alone in bed — that voice was silenced, and she knew right then she had lost him.
“Stanley,” she hesitated. “Are you all right?”
“Never better, never better. I see it’s affecting you, too.”
She went to speak and then held her tongue and nodded solemnly.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been lucky. Trapped so long in old patterns, old thoughts, I couldn’t deal with the world around me; my mind began to atrophy. That woman had a stranglehold on my life, one that succeeded her in death. Losing her was the best thing that could have happened to me. Well, second best . . .” He smiled and then ran his tongue along his dry lower lip. “Everything is so clear to me now. Look, I can open my window again, and I can’t smell a thing.”
“Stanley, what — who —?” Leslie swallowed, unsure of what she wanted to know. “Who — I need to understand what’s going on with you.”
“I’ll do better than that,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He took her by the hand and led her to his bedroom. Leslie feared what she expected to find. There were no outward signs in the apartment — no clothes lying about, no glasses with lipstick along the rim — but she thought she smelled the musk of physicality beneath the tint of perfume that tried to disguise it. She felt a churning inside that threatened to double her over, and she struggled to maintain her composure if only to have the semblance of strength when she saw the truth.
Stanley opened the door. “This,” he said with a flourish, “is my muse.” Leslie took in the shadowed room. The bed was made, the sheets crisp. Not a single piece of clothing was out of place. She could smell that sweet skunk more prominently, but it seemed to have no source. “I don’t keep her locked in here — she can come and go if she pleases — but everyone knows that once a muse chooses you (and it is they who do the choosing, don’t fool yourself) she is yours until death.”
“I don’t see anything,” she said finally, and Stanley broke his glassy-eyed stare to wrinkle his face at her confusion. “There’s no one here,” she shrugged, pointing at the bed. Then, he bared his teeth and laughed aloud.
“Oh no, my dear. She’s not in my bed.” Still laughing, he pointed to the shadows in the corner where two walls met the ceiling. Leslie looked up and fell silent, her breath stuttering to a halt.
“All changes in life are accidental. I don’t know why she slipped into my life — it must have been a mistake, but how can that be when she was exactly what I needed?”
It sat in the corner above the headboard, a furry mass a foot wide and twice as long, dozens of ropey tendrils holding it in place. A group of tiny eyes watched her, and its whole body heaved slowly as if it were breathing, the long slit that divided it rhythmically puckering. Leslie could not look away.
“She’s quite ravishing, don’t you agree? I dare say even more so than Mother.” He walked to the creature and extended his hand. It tensed, a pulse of muscles pushing along its body from the weight of his hand. “When my muse first arrived I was as frightened as you seem to be. She hid among the clutter of my sorry old life until I discovered her refuge above my bed. That first night I watched her for hours, but she never moved, even when I threatened to poke her with a broom handle. I sat in that chair, watching, waiting for her to do something, and as the room turned to darkness around me, without even realizing it I had slipped unknowingly into dreams — the first I’d had that were free of Mother.
“Some time in the night there was a whisper, like air through an empty throat, and that low rumble across my unconscious brought me slowly to wakefulness. It was her, and she was speaking to me — no, she was speaking for me. Everything she said, every dark and unrecognized thing, all of it came from within me. She seemed to know secrets I didn’t even know myself until she spoke them. Everything I hadn’t the courage to face — it stung me with fear, with embarrassment, with anger, and yet, once uttered, those recessed parts of my soul were exposed to wither and die in the dark air, lifting the burden from my shoulders.
“Even Mother couldn’t give me that — in fact, it was quite the opposite — and now I wonder if I wasn’t saved from joining her by my beautiful muse’s arrival.”
Leslie watched Stanley’s face as he ran his fingers through the creature’s fur until a soft gurgle filled the room. He smiled as he petted it, his eyes warming as he looked at the ugly creature hanging from the wall. Tracing his fingers along the crease in its back, he spoke quietly to it, cooing in some obscene language.
“Come here,” he said at last. “I’d like to share this with you.” Leslie shook her head, pushing her body back against the closed door, and Stanley approached her like she were a frightened animal. He put his hand on her chin to steady her shaking and looked deep into her eyes. She felt her body relax, the terror draining away in the presence of him, so close. “It will be okay. Trust me,” he said, and she couldn’t help but nod and believe him.
He took her hand and led her across the room to the bed. In the shadows, the creature remained still, but that gurgling hum returned. Stanley took the hand he held and lifted it, coaxing Leslie’s fingers closer to the furry shape. It shook as she approached it, its legs moving for better purchase, its body shifting slightly, the muscles in its back flexing as it prepared itself to be touched, and Leslie hesitated, fear crawling back into her. She looked to Stanley standing at her side proudly, his eyes upon the creature, absently licking his lips. He
said, “Love is such a funny thing,” then placed his hand upon her back. She smiled weakly after a moment and nodded, feeling the crushing tightness surround her heart. He looked so happy, so content, as though every problem he had once struggled with had been cut free, and without that ballast he was rising higher and higher, while she could only watch from the ground. He was escaping her, leaving her behind to deal with the life she had built around him, the life from which this creature had liberated him. It absorbed his sorrows and in return gave him everything. All he had to do was embrace it. She reached forward once again and placed her hand upon the thing. It was hot, its fur damp and coarse, and Leslie bit her lip to keep from screaming.
“You see?” he said. “She likes you.” Leslie smiled at him, hiding her distaste, petting the creature as tears began to blur her vision, disfiguring him. Beneath her hand the creature began to tremble and to throb.
Leslie sank her hand deeper into that mass of warm fur, and said in a voice thick with oncoming tears, “I’m sorry.”
She then clenched her fingers tight and pulled as hard as she could.
The creature came free of the wall, spilling into her hands in a blind flailing of legs. It scrambled to free itself but she held tight, its thick fur rubbing musk upon her. Some distant voice like Stanley’s screamed at her, but it was muted and too far away and she didn’t understand what it was saying.
Hands were upon her, but she shook free, unfamiliar strength coursing through her muscles. She used that strength to squeeze the creature in her arms, squeeze it until she felt its soft wet flesh beginning to give, to spill over. Hot tears streamed across her face and she shook them free, desperate to look the creature straight in its numerous cold eyes. Across its back, the two halves of the abdomen split wide open with a wet sound, and a fold of skin, like a tiny tongue, protruded, fluttering between them. Arms encircled her, wrestling for the creature, but she would not loosen her grip and twisted her body to escape the clawing. Hot air screamed from the creature’s gaping hole, stinging her face, but she only squeezed harder, her teeth clenched tight.
Beneath The Surface Page 6