Darker Masques

by J N Williamson

  “Sure are,” agreed Jock Kirby. “Make you forget all about Ohio.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Ben. He found it difficult to keep pace with them, and the lights along the street seemed to be buried in mist.

  “Forty-second is where,” nodded Kirby. “Jump street.”

  Ben stopped. He raised a protesting hand. “That’s a dangerous area,” he said thickly. “My friends warned me to avoid it.”

  “We ‘re your friends now,” said Billy Dennis. “An’ we say it’s where all the action is. Right, Jocko?”

  “Fuckin’ A,” Kirby said.

  A street bum approached them, his clawed right hand extended. Ben dug out a quarter, dropping it into the scabbed palm. “Bless you,” said the bum.

  “Butt off,” said Kirby.

  The bum ignored him. He gestured to the sacks of garbage stacked along the curb, black-plastic bags swollen with waste. Roaches and insects burrowed among them. He nodded toward Ben. “Don’t step on the maggots,” he said.

  And moved on up Broadway.

  “I’m not so sure about this,” Ben told them. “I still think I should take a taxi back to the hotel.”

  “The friggin’ hotel can wait,” said Kirby. His pale skin seemed to glow in the darkness. “Hotel’s not goin’ anywhere.”

  “Right,” agreed Billy Dennis. “Stuck in that hotel, you might as well be back in Elkins.”

  “Atkin,” corrected Ben. His head felt detached from his body, which floated below it.

  “Hey, we’re here,” grinned Jock Kirby. “Welcome to sin street!”

  They had reached Forty-second and Broadway. The intersection traffic throbbed around them in swirls of moving light and sound. Neons blazed and sizzled. The air smelled of ash.

  Ben blinked rapidly, trying to sharpen his focus.

  “I think I’m drunk,” he said.

  “No, man,” Jock assured him. “You’ve just got a little glow on is all. Go with it. Enjoy.”

  Billy Dennis held Ben’s left elbow, propelling him along Forty-second. Ben felt weightless, as if his body were made of tissue paper.

  “Where . . . are you taking me?”

  “To a special place,” said Billy. “You’ll really dig it. Right, Jocko?”

  “Fuckin’ A,” said Kirby.

  Ben struggled to get a clear visual fix on the area. His senses recorded a kaleidoscope of color and noise. The walk swarmed with pimps and prostitutes, beggars and barkers, tourists and heavy trippers. Movie marquees bloomed with light, a fireworks of neon. Souvenir shops and porno peep shows gaudily competed for attention. A sea of disembodied voices poured over Ben as he walked; faces drifted past him like a gallery of ghosts.

  “I’m dizzy,” he said. “I’ve got to sit down.”

  “You can sit down when we get inside,” Kirby told him.

  “Inside where?”

  “You’ll see,” said Billy. “We’re almost there.”

  They stopped at a building of bright-flashing lights with a twenty-foot female nude outlined on its facade in twisting snakes of color, girls . . . nude . . . girls . . . nude . . . flashed the lights.

  A feral-faced barker in a soiled white shirt and worn Levi’s gestured at them. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “Step right in, gents, the show’s ready to start. The girls are all absolutely naked and unadorned. They’ll tease and titillate, delight and dazzle you.”

  Ben’s new friends marched him inside the building, one to each elbow, up a flight of wide, red-painted stairs to a landing illumined by bands of blue fluorescent tubing, and down a hallway to a room in which a series of plastic stools formed a large circle. All very surreal, dreamlike. And, somehow, threatening.

  Each stool faced a window, shuttered in gleaming red metal, with a coin slot at the bottom. The other stools were unoccupied, which Ben found odd.

  “You’re just in time, brother,” said a tall beanstalk of a man with badly pitted skin. “Show’s about to begin. Ten minutes for a quarter. And the feels are free.”

  “Open your fingers, Ben,” said Jock Kirby—and he put several silver quarters into Ben’s hand. “Just pop one in at the bottom,” he said. Then he grinned. “Nothin’ like this back in Ohio!”

  Ben Sutton obeyed numbly slotting in the first coin.

  Now he waited as, slowly, the metal shutter rolled up to reveal a large circular platform bathed in a powdery blaze of overhead spots.

  A thick-faced sullen-eyed woman stepped from an inner door. She wore a dress of red sequins and a cheap red wig. She looked at Ben.

  “Welcome to the Hellhole,” she said. “You’re right on time.” Her smile was ugly.

  Ben kept expecting to see other windows opening, but he remained the only customer. Not much profit in this show, he thought dully.

  “We herewith present, for your special entertainment, the Flame of Araby.”

  The thick-faced woman pressed a button by the side of the platform and to a burst of pre-recorded drum music, a long-limbed blonde stepped through the doorway.

  She was wearing several gauzy veils which she quickly began discarding. Young and full-figured, she was attractive in a vulgar sense as she whirled and twisted to the beating drums. Her glittery eyes were locked on Ben, who sat numb and transfixed at the window. Kirby was right; he had seen nothing like this in Ohio.

  Now the final veil whispered from her hips and she was, as the barker had promised, “absolutely naked and unadorned.”

  In all of his thirty-eight years, Ben Sutton had never seen a totally nude woman. Linda Mae Lewis had allowed him to see her left breast under the dim illumination of the dash lights in Ben’s old Pontiac convertible when he was in college, and a waitress at the Quick-Cup coffee shop on the outskirts of Atkin had once let him place his hand under her uniform—and he’d been able to view her upper thigh—but that was the full extent of Ben’s sexual experience with females.

  Thus, he was truly dazzled by the curved shimmering white body writhing just inches in front of him.

  “Go ahead sweetie, touch one,” the girl said in a husky voice, aiming her naked buttocks at Ben. “Go for it!”

  Trembling, Ben reached out to touch the naked slope of a mooned buttock; the flesh was marble-smooth and seemed to vibrate under his fingers.

  Then, at that moment, the red-metal shutter began sliding down. Ben jerked his hand back with a groan of frustration. His ten minutes had expired.

  Frantically, spilling several coins to the floor, Ben slotted in another quarter—and the shutter rolled slowly up again.

  But the platform was empty.

  The girl was gone.

  The music had stopped.

  Ben spun around on his stool to ask his two friends why the show had ended, but the room was deserted.

  Ben stood up. “Hello! Anybody here?”

  No reply. Just the muted sounds of street traffic, punctuated by the thin wail of a distant police siren.

  Ben walked into the hall.

  “Kirby? . . . Dennis? . . . You out here?”

  No reply.

  He moved toward the stairs. Or that was the direction he intended to take. Obviously, he had gone the wrong way because the hallway twisted, leading him deeper into the building.

  The passage seemed dimmer, narrower.

  Ben heard laughter ahead of him. A door opened along the hall, flooding the area with light.

  He walked to the open door, looked in. The thick-faced woman and the blond dancing girl were there, with Jock Kirby and Billy Dennis. They were all laughing together, with drinks in their . . . in their . . . their . . .

  Not hands. Dear God, not hands!

  “Hi, Ben,” said the Billy-thing. “We’re celebrating.”

  “Because of you, chum,” said the Jock-thing. “Meat on the hoof!”

  “Yeah,” nodded the blonde, running a pink tongue over her lips, “even maggots hafta eat.”

  Ben stared at them. His stomach was churning; a sudden rush of nausea made him
stagger back, vomiting into the hall.

  Inside the room, the four of them were discarding body parts . . . limbs . . . ears . . . noses . . . their flesh dropping away like chunks of rotten cheese.

  Ben allowed himself one last, horror-struck backward glance into the room as he turned to run.

  The things he saw were like the maggots and roaches in the swollen bags of trash along Broadway, but much larger, much more . . . advanced.

  Ben Sutton ran.

  He couldn’t find the stairs. The hall kept twisting back on itself—but if he kept running he’d find a way out.

  He was sure he would find a way out.

  John Maclay

  SAFE

  SINCE 1981, John Maclay has been the author of more than forty published short stories that have appeared in such magazines as Twilight Zone, Night Cry, and Crosscurrents; fourteen published poems; a story collection. Other Engagements (Dream House, ’87); and a co-written novel, Wards of Armageddon (Leisure, ’86).

  Concurrently, John—who previously worked in advertising—was the publisher of sixteen books divided between local Baltimore history and fiction, including Masques (’84) and Masques II (’87). Each was nominated for a World Fantasy Award. He created, edited, and published the short anthology Nukes (’86) featuring new fiction by Jessica Salmonson, Mort Castle, Joe Lansdale, and your editor; it was widely reviewed, and admired for the way it used writers of horror to address “the ultimate horror.”

  A good and a versatile man, Maclay lives with his wife, Joyce, and two sons.

  SAFE

  John Maclay

  PERHAPS, AS YOU, DOCTOR, THIS will help. I know that your methods are unorthodox, but I’ve been to everyone else, and I’m willing to try anything. So I’ll just sit here in this light, with the pad and pen you’ve given me, and write, openly, about my worst fear. The one that, if I don’t get help soon, will surely kill me.

  It’s not strictly claustrophobia, as you know. I’ve never minded being shut up in a room, no matter how small. It doesn’t even matter whether it’s light or dark—one time I stood for twenty minutes in a closet, waiting for a friend who Was brought late to a surprise party, with no ill effects. And you know, I think I could be a coal miner, bent over in those endless, low tunnels, without any fear. Even an astronaut, in that tiny capsule, provided there was a window. Though only in that situation, not the closet or the mine, would I need one—and even then, it could be light or dark, so long as I knew I was looking out into space.

  We’re getting somewhere, aren’t we, Doctor? My great fear, apparently, is this: being shut up in a small, window-less place much lower than my head.

  Did I write “apparently?” Oh, my God . . .

  The first time I can remember is when I was nine. A playmate of mine lived in a Victorian house with a lot of nooks and crannies, and one day he showed me his new hideout. It was under the back stoop, where a little door led to a closed place probably meant for storing garden tools. He’d rigged up a light bulb from an outlet in the house, smoothed down the earth floor, and tacked up posters of old cars. It looked fine to me.

  But then he led me inside. And slammed the door.

  It wasn’t the lack of air, the dank smell—it’s never been that. And I knew, in that situation, that I could leave at any time. As it turned out, I should have, right away—but kids are kids, and not only did I not want to spoil my playmate’s fun, I couldn’t let him see my fear.

  So I sat there cross-legged, feeling the rough ceiling brush my hair—and the sweat started to bead on my forehead. Listening to my friend talk happily about Model As and Model Ts. Watching him point casually to his posters—

  Until his voice was drowned out by the pounding of my young heart. Until his image blurred—because I was looking past him, at the tight walls, which seemed to be closing in, in . . .

  The last thing I remember about my companion—after that, he wouldn’t see me anymore—was the shocked look on his face. As I screamed, shoved open the door, and ran.

  Well, that’s the childhood memory, Doctor. The one your kind always wants to drag out of me, since presumably the telling will break the spell. But in my case, of course, it hasn’t. So let’s go on . . .

  Movies. I’ve always loved them. They’ve provided escape, which is something I’ve needed, especially of late. And I’ve always been drawn to the old macho adventures—they seemed to give me strength against my fear. Wayne. Cooper. Bogart. Bogart. Which brings up Cagney. Cagney. And Robinson. Robinson . . .

  But—oh, God. That brings up the scene . . .

  It’s one of those black-and-white prisons of the 1930s. Hard enough, with those cold cell blocks, Spartan mess halls, and inmates with knives around every corner. But those things don’t frighten me—because, although I’m locked in, at least I can stand erect, even plot with Jimmy and Eddie to escape. Until . . .

  We’re caught. And then, it’s the Hole.

  Anything, anything but that. That low, narrow cage made of boiler plate. That steel door closing, as I kneel inside. That window, yes, which opens once a day, as the guard hands in my bread and water—but it’s not enough, not nearly enough. Because in the meantime, as I try to stand upright, even try to stretch my body out horizontally, pretend to stand—

  I slowly go mad.

  Please don’t laugh when you read tins, Doctor. You really shouldn’t—because that scene, at the wrong time, cost me my first love. It was like this: we were relaxing on the sofa, watching an old movie, when suddenly . . .

  The look on her face was the same as my childhood playmate’s. When I screamed again—and ran.

  But I got over that, too. Found other women. Still enjoyed the movies. Though I chose them carefully—didn’t even look at the previews of Papillon. I was doing fine—after all, there aren’t that many tiny, enclosed places in this great world. And as time went on, I was almost able to relegate those two horrible events into the past, where I thought they belonged. But men . . .

  I was a senior in college and had signed up for Art Appreciation. A pleasant course, and easy, with its thrice-a-week lectures that consisted mostly of slides. We were up to eighteenth-century England mat day, mat awful Wednesday. I was leaning back in my chair, enjoying the work of Kneller and Constable, half-dozing . . . when suddenly a very different picture flashed on me screen.

  William Blake. The Grave.

  I tried to control myself, and I succeeded. No screaming this time—no running. I was older now, and I was proud. And mercifully, the professor’s voice droned on, and the slide changed.

  But as I walked back to my dormitory room in the beautiful sunlight, I still couldn’t get that image out of my mind. So, in an attempt to purge myself of it—you know about that, don’t you, Doctor?—I stopped at the library, and took out a book on Blake.

  . . . It’s late that night. I’m lying motionless on my bed, hypnotized, staring at that picture. The cold, heavy, overarching stone ceiling, even more menacing in black-and-white line engraving. The human figures—lying there frozen, but so, so lifelike. Their eyes . . . open. In that constricted, exit-less space, the ceiling pressing down, down—and suddenly, I’m with them—in that place which is lower than my head.

  I suppose it’s been downhill since then, Doctor. And, I might add, an open book to my few friends. How I had my first nervous breakdown, and didn’t graduate with my class. How my marriage broke up: When I was alone at our home in the country, a tiny electrical fire started in the crawl space—something that only needed a squirt of the extinguisher—and I let our new house burn to the ground. (My wife later ran off with one of the firemen—it would be funny, if it weren’t so sad.) How I’ve always steered clear of any . . . place . . . like that, or any image of it, however brief. (I lost another friend, recently, by being unable to ride in the back of his windowless van.) And how I’ve had the nightmares—of ever-increasing frequency and intensity, making sleep impossible, threatening my health.

  And yes, how I’ve become o
ne of those strange people who make, uh, special arrangements. Because, you see, my coffin is already picked out—and wired with a signaling device, in the event I’m buried alive.

  Burial—you know, Doctor, we really may be getting somewhere despite all my previous failures. The writing—and what you’ve done to me—may actually have helped. I’ll admit I was terrified at first, but knowing you’re there has enabled me to control that.

  My playmate’s hideout . . . the Hole in the prison films . . . Blake’s tomb—especially, the tomb . . .

  It’s all the fear of being trapped, isn’t it? Being alive but trapped, unable to stand up, move off, look out—a death-in-life?

  . . . Well, Doctor, I’ve finally had it. I’m tired of living another kind of death-in-life—being thought strange, losing opportunities—because of that fear. I think I’ll concentrate, now, on the wonderful world outside—

  Knowing, despite those awful experiences, or any others that may come my way—

  That when I’m dead and in my tomb, I will be . . . dead. Unable to know where I am, or care. Or even if I do know, that I’ll draw comfort, instead from those tight walls, that low ceiling. As they envelop me—especially if it’s dark—in nothingness, and sleep.

  . . . I have a sense of time passing, Doctor. And it’s a bit difficult to breathe—but that’s due to a sense of elation at my wonderful breakthrough, isn’t it? Also, there’s the light—it hurts my eyes. But, in certain . . . situations . . . I’ve never minded its absence, have I?

  So I think I’ll turn it off. Yes, that’s better. Though I’ll have to stop writing, since I’m only guiding the pen, by feel, across the paper . . .

  The darkness seems to enclose me now . . . enfold me . . .

  BALTIMORE (AP)—In a bizarre circumstance, a psychiatrist and his patient were found dead today.

  According to notes found by police, Dr. Bertram Mankin, 59, locally known for his unusual forms of therapy, had locked James Ridgley, 33, in a large old safe in his Tower Building office.