Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls: Tales of Horror and the Bizarre

by Mark McLaughlin

  Here the shadow tore a page to shreds.

  So. Uncle Ezekiel was a sorcerer, and this being was his final creation. A thought occurred to Hector: in some mad sense, the creature was his kin.

  “Bound within bottles?” The shadow cried mockingly. “Yes and no. A jinni is a contained explosion of mental energy, needing a vessel, a receptacle, to keep it from slowly dissipating to nothingness. But some of these creatures were far too powerful for mere bottles…”

  The jinni flung the book to the floor. The spidery demon at the pulpit typed out the pulse of its master, louder, faster. Hector’s eyes swept to where the door should have been, only to find a blank wall.

  The jinni continued to speak as it lunged for Hector’s throat. It knew the book from memory.

  “Some filled rooms.”

  YOU SHALL HAVE THIS DELICACY

  From The Fine Art of Living, the unpublished autobiography of Erika Finlay Pennywhistle Nelstrom Wong Vultaine:

  It’s hard to believe I was ever a baby. I’d like to think I simply popped full-grown out of my father’s forehead, like Athena, but birth is never that tidy. And of course, if I had gone the Athena route, I could have avoided my mother entirely.

  Father was a warm, albeit nondescript teddy-bear of a man. Mother was loud, needy, and a terrible drinker. No, wait—technically, she was very good at drinking. But it made her a terrible person.

  I learned about addiction from her. She was addicted to booze, a variety of drugs, and stupid men. Losing her looks was the best thing that ever happened to her. I’ve fallen in and out of addiction many times. You know how it goes: you discover a new thrill, so you try it every now and then. Before you know it, you are starting and ending the day with it, until it sickens you. At one point, I was addicted to dried Peruvian spiders—I would chew them, make coffee out of them, and spend the whole day in a silken spider-buzz. My fifth husband Osbo helped me through that whole mess. Osbo, what a wonderful man. The very mention of his name brings back such delicious memories.

  Whereas mother was not a picky person, I have made it my life’s work to be as discerning as hell. I’m a survivor, and survivors should be rewarded. If others won’t reward me, well then, I’ll just pamper myself. So I have allowed myself one special addiction: the need to be surrounded by luxury. Exquisite jewelry. Fabulous outfits by genius designers. Exotic taste treats from strange lands. Rare books. And of course, the ultimate luxury: magic.

  There will come a day when I will have to give up the clothes and the jewels, but the magic will always be a part of me. My last two husbands—one of whom was dear Osbo—were leading experts in that particular discipline. Since it is a secret discipline, they had to live in the shadows.

  But they lived well.

  * * * *

  Mrs. Vultaine had invited six to dinner; invited them with crisp black cards, the message embossed in gold leaf. Each guest had been instructed to bring one companion. Thirteen at table did not fret the hostess: this was a woman who had survived strange diseases, stranger travels, and far too many years of perilous existence. Thirteen? Pshaw. Just another number.

  The widow walked tall through the dining room, observing, correcting, at times praising her servants during preparations for the evening. She wore black silk pants and a matching blouse with the shoulders cut out. She knew this was a very young fashion, but no matter. She had a beautiful face, regally angular and as pale as milk; long, silver hair; even, white teeth; and soft, fine-boned hands, anointed with expensive creams. And she still had smooth, lovely shoulders: this the world had a right to know, and she refused to hide them.

  A sad-eyed maid with delicate features poured nuts into a crystal dish.

  “Just a moment, my dear,” Mrs. Vultaine said, her voice an imperious warble. Her right hand fluttered at eye level, punctuating, emphasizing. “Cashews? Oh, no, no, no. Certainly my guests would not care for cashews.”

  “We’re out of morroka seeds,” the maid whispered. “I found these in the servants’ pantry. They’re very good. And they look the same.”

  “And you look like a melancholy puppy. Does that mean I feed you scraps and make you do your business outside?” The widow rolled her eyes and sighed. “If you like them so much, take them to your room. And set out praku berries for my guests. I know we have buckets of them somewhere.”

  The maid picked up the dish and walked a few paces. Then she stopped and turned around. “Please don’t fire me. I know I’m common. But I can’t help it.”

  Mrs. Vultaine stepped forward and placed a cool hand on the girl’s cheek. “Your tastes are common. But you…you, Vexina…are not common.” She ran her fingers lightly over the servant’s coiffure—a pinned bundle of thick auburn hair. “I would never surround myself with common sorts. Now off with you, puppy. There’s work to be done.”

  The maid flashed a nervous smile and hurried off.

  The widow turned her attention to the table settings. Five forks, five spoons, three knives per plate—and such plates. Plates of glass, gold, silver and polished bone: no two were alike. Green lizard-fat candles. Napkins with a pattern—goats, moths and daggers—matching that of the tapestries on the walls.

  She entered the great hall to make sure the display was in order. The curious objet, or perhaps objets, d’art would amuse and surely disconcert her guests. This pile of gleaming metal appeared to be composed of parts from a disassembled golden harpy. A wing and a ribcage topped the pile; around the edges, one could detect a spine, a hip, and some extravagant clockwork organs.

  She went into the library and strolled down a long row of books. How she loved books; they were her sturdy, silent friends, always willing to share. Many of these were first editions, signed by the authors. Here was an especially rare one—Listen to the Weeping Dead, a book of poetry by Augustus Fygg, the cannibal. And here—The Hidden Power of Maps, by Benson Phelps. How ironic that he died while lost on safari. There was only one cookbook in the library: A Pinch of This, A Smidgen of That by Jacob Nelstrom, her third husband. And then there was the privately published Worlds of Splendour: The History of the Family Vultaine, by her last and most beloved husband, Osbo. His love had made her the happiest woman alive. Would she ever be that happy again? Perhaps, perhaps. She was not one to rule out any possibility.

  Mrs. Vultaine settled in the lace-draped corner of an overstuffed couch by the fireplace. On a small table by her side rested a stack of small boxes, a roll of black wrapping paper, tape and scissors. She picked up a box and smiled as she shook it by her ear.

  That tiny squealing was absolutely precious.

  2.

  From The Fine Art of Living:

  I did a lot of traveling back when I was an adventurous single girl, and one of my boyfriends was a spy named Nicos. We never talked about marriage, but we became very close. Nicos sold secrets to the highest bidder, regardless of the consequences. I helped him on a few of his assignments, just for the thrill of it. But it was a dangerous game, even by my extremely liberal standards. He was found disemboweled in the backroom of a French bakery. I later found the microfilm in a croissant.

  I learned a lot from him, and my efforts eventually turned from espionage to politics. I met and trysted with many powerful men, most of whom were married—and I kept records. A tiny camera was hidden in my loofah sponge.

  Ah, when it comes to romance, men of power are merely puppets. They can be weak, foolish. I went through a rather long phase where I delighted in pulling their strings. I wasn’t even using magic.

  These facts help explain why I do not pay taxes…why I do not need a passport to travel the world…why there are no public records of my marriages, or even of my birth. I am a woman of countless secrets. Even the address of my luxurious home is a secret. That particular secret was devised and maintained by the Vultaine’s. His family created a sort of visual labyrin
th around the house—quite an achievement, when you consider that the building is bigger than most cathedrals.

  Of course, my friends all know how to find the House. Most also know how to keep quiet. Friends who become too loud…well, they learn to quiet down soon enough.

  I do want to stress that I don’t use magic every day. Months can go by without my even thinking about using it. I can be resourceful in my own right. I like solving problems and figuring out why people do the strange but interesting things they do.

  Of course, magic doesn’t give a person permission to do absolutely anything. There are limits. Magic is nothing more than a reality booster. I can’t tap an evil person on the shoulder and say, “You are now good.” I can’t just point up and say, “Let all the money in the world rain down upon me.” No, no, no. I must first find a way, set the wheels in motion, turn up the dial on the old booster—so to speak!—and then hope for the best. Nothing is absolutely certain for anyone.

  * * * *

  The guests—all pale, darkhaired chainsmokers—arrived on foot. They all had to leave their cars parked a mile away, inside an abandoned warehouse. Each guest received a glass of reddish-gold champagne upon entering the basalt immensity of the House of Vultaine. They mingled, laughing and gossiping, in the great hall. Overhead, a full moon shone through an enormous skylight. The window had been levered open to let in the night air.

  Vexina refreshed the plates of praku berries while her sister, Osmette, hefted a large platter of hors d’oeuvres. Osmette was a thick-waisted cherub with small dark teeth. She had no idea what sort of delicacies she carried, and had no desire to taste them.

  All eyes turned to the grand staircase as Mrs. Vultaine made her entrance. She still wore the silk blouse and pants, and her hair was piled high into a shining nimbus, with wispy tendrils snaking down along her slender neck.

  She circulated among her guests, listening to speculation regarding the golden display. “My dear Silhouetta,” she said to a sliver of a girl with limp black hair and nervous eyes. “So good to see you. Hope you’ve brought an appetite. You are eating these days…?” For six years, this wee girl had lived off of various ointments smeared onto her skin.

  Silhouetta snatched a brandied trilobite from a tray. “Afraid so. I found out the hard way that intestines, like muscles, need their exercise.”

  The widow spotted a tanned man with a white streak in his reddish-brown ponytail, and tapped him on the arm. He smiled enormously as he embraced her.

  “It’s been years, Erika,” he whispered into the pale shell of her ear. “Can’t we just send all these awful people home?”

  “Tinder, you are incorrigible,” she whispered back. “Imagine, flirting with a woman who will soon be gone.”

  Tinder gazed into her eyes, shocked. “What are you saying?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing less than the truth.” She put a finger under his chin and shut his gaping mouth. “Now come to dinner.”

  The silver-haired woman walked to the table, arms outstretched, beckoning with her fingers. The others followed instantly—even those whose backs had been turned to her.

  Mrs. Vultaine took her place at the head of the long table. Once the guests were seated, the servants brought out, per instructions, baskets of black bread and small bowls of grasshopper bisque. They filled the wine glasses with a vintage as clear as water.

  For a few minutes, the widow watched her guests dip chunks of bread into their soup.

  Silhouetta nodded toward the widow’s glass. “Look, she hasn’t touched her wine.” A reedy giggle fluttered from her lips. “Maybe she has brought us all here to poison us.”

  The old woman sighed. “I never hold a dinner party without an occasion. But mass murder is not on tonight’s agenda. I haven’t touched my wine because alcohol no longer thrills me.” She smiled alarmingly. “I have gathered you all here to say goodbye. Soon I will be gone. I will be done with this world, and this evening, I shall share my arrangements with you.”

  3.

  From The Fine Art of Living:

  I remember something very unusual, and absolutely pivotal, that happened to me during my childhood. We were living on a outskirts of a small town, near a wooded area. My parents had gone off on some errand, and had left me alone. Back then, parents weren’t worried about things like “bad strangers.” And it was the afternoon: bad stuff only happened at night in those days. At any rate, what happened to me wasn’t bad. It was meant to happen. Some men—or rather, manlike beings—came up to me while I was playing in the backyard.

  Based on what I have learned over the years, I now think they had once been human, but years and years of magical living had made them quite different. They told me that they could tell I was a very special young lady. I was flattered by this, but also a little scared. I saw one of them had a lump moving around under his skin, and I remember saying, “Oh, are you sick?”

  “Oh, no. We each have one. See? We gave them to each other.” And so I sat in the backyard, looking at the busy lumps as they moved around their arms and across their chests.

  They seemed very happy with their lumps. They then told me exactly what the lumps do. The explanation would be too hard to convey in words—their expressions told most of the story—but the entire experience can be summed up by saying: some gifts are more special than others.

  * * * *

  As Mrs. Vultaine enjoyed her bisque (with a spoon: no dipping and dripping for her), she noticed many of her guests casting small glances about the room, taking in the paintings, the statuettes on the side tables, even the chandelier of pale rose crystals and rubies. She didn’t mind.

  “I have one possession,” she stated, “that is exceedingly dear to me…one that should be bequeathed to a special someone. If any one of you can prove you are that someone, why then, you may have it.”

  “I cannot believe what I am hearing,” Tinder said.

  “Incredulity is the calling card of the simple-minded. Or so some say.” Mrs. Vultaine finished her last spoonful of creamy bisque, then deftly pointed a pinky toward her empty bowl. The servants cleared away the soup course. They began to bring out salads made from seven-pointed leaves and strands of pink seaweed.

  A young man with a round face and shaggy eyebrows turned in his seat toward Tinder. “Are we to assume you are more worthy of Erika’s affection than the rest of us?”

  Tinder flashed his large-toothed smile. “Erika and I know each other quite well, Moyan. You wouldn’t understand.”

  The young man returned his smile. “Oh, but I would.”

  With a cry of outrage, Tinder grabbed a knife and sprang across the table, upsetting wine glasses and toppling salads. Moyan yawned, pulled a small pistol from a jacket pocket, and shot the toothy man in the left eye.

  At the widow’s sign, the servants cleared away the doomed salad, carted off the body, and presented petite servings of flavored ices.

  “After that unpleasantness,” Mrs. Vultaine said, “we must cleanse our palates.”

  More courses were served after that, and the guests took pains to compliment her at length on the selections. She simply nodded and observed.

  At one point, Osmette brought out a tray piled high with boxes wrapped in black. Vexina helped by setting one box in front of each guest. Many packages remained.

  “My servants also may take one each,” the old woman said. The maids and butlers moved quietly but eagerly to claim their gifts.

  “Now, unwrap! Unwrap!” Mrs. Vultaine clapped her hands like a delighted schoolgirl.

  Shreds of black paper sailed through the air. Box lids flew open. A few gasps were heard, then many screams.

  The widow continued to clap. She giggled as thumb-sized larvae with human faces and crablike pincers sprang forth to burrow into their recipients. The faces of these tiny creatures res
embled that of Mrs. Vultaine in all but one detail: the silver-haired woman did not have the ringed, razor-fanged mouth of a lamprey.

  Chairs fell backwards and bodies toppled. Before Silhouetta slumped to the floor, she forced a wretched smile and cried “Thank you” to her hostess.

  “You’re welcome,” the widow said. She then tiptoed past the writhing bodies and out of the dining room.

  4.

  From The Fine Art of Living:

  It makes me sad, whenever I meet some poor young woman who feels she will never be able to catch a man.

  Men! Men are notoriously indiscriminate. Given the right set of circumstances, men will link up with—you name it. Produce, household appliances… There are men who are desperately in love with hot water bottles. Marsupials. Cacti.

  Catching a man is about as hard as catching a cold. Let us look at how I caught some of my hubands:

  Mr. Finlay: At this time of my life, I was still a little too much like my mother—too needy, too man-hungry. I used sex to snare this one. I basically just tossed myself at him. We had a few good years, but then I started concentrating on magic and we grew apart. I still feel sad about—and yes, somewhat responsible for—the way he died. We’d had an argument, so I told him to go to Hell. I may have been using a little magic without realizing. And, he may have had a buried self-destructive streak, which I’d inadvertently unearthed. The next thing I knew, I looked out the bedroom window and saw he was pouring gasoline all over himself in the backyard. I shouted for him to stop, but that only caught the attention of our nosy next-door neighbor, who came over to see what was wrong. And she was a smoker.