The patient, a lifelong sufferer from a form of claustrophobia, had been given a flashlight, pen, and paper, and been told to write of his fear. Apparently, the doctor had intended to release Mr. Ridgley after ten minutes, before lack of air became a problem.
However, when Dr. Mankin’s secretary, Bernice Watson, 42, entered the office approximately one hour later, she found the doctor dead in his chair of a massive coronary. She then called police and paramedics who, acting upon the notes, immediately opened the safe, and discovered Mr. Ridgley to be dead of suffocation.
“The funny thing,” paramedic John Magruder said, “aside from the whole weird situation, was the look on the guy’s face.
“Usually, when they’re trapped, you’ll find an expression of struggle or horror, like the person just got done screaming.
“But this guy had a sort of peaceful smile.”
The secretary, Ms. Watson, is under heavy sedation.
Gary A. Braunbeck
ALL BUT THE TIES ETERNAL
THE initial professional appearance by this boyish Ohio writer/actor/director would have been in Alan Rodgers’ Night Cry, but it folded. Then the first might be in the Greenbergs’ Phantoms anthology—except I found Gary first, even if Roz and Many happen to beat Masques III into print!
Actually, several editors may wind up disputing the discovery of this recently wed writer, who will break your heart even while he’s showing you shocking horror in places you’ve never before noticed it. Crispin Burnham and Eldritch Tales might also put in a claim, but—
Never mind. Gary Braunbeck’s here, and he’s putting the heart back into horror.
The trouble is . . . it’s bleeding.
ALL BUT THE
TIES ETERNAL
Gary A. Braunbeck
All waits undream’d of in that region . . .
Till when the ties loosen,
All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.
—Walt Whitman
“Darest Thou Now O Soul”
AFTERWARD SHE SPENT MANY HOURS ALONE in the house for the purpose of making it emptier; it was a game to her, like the one she’d played as a child, walking on the stone wall of the garden, pretending it was a mountain ledge, not wanting to look down for the sight of rocks below, knowing certain death awaited her should she slip, a terrible fall that would crush her to bits, walking along until her steps faltered and she toppled backward, always thinking in that moment before her tiny body hit the ground: So that’s when I died.
She had always laughed then, as a child, sitting ass-deep in mud and looking at the wall.
Now all the house had was the hole Daddy left behind, and there was no laughter remaining.
Yolanda stood looking at the small hole in the living-room wall, wondering when it would start bleeding again. It only bled at night, at twenty minutes past twelve, the same time her father had—
—A stirring from the bedroom. She listened for Michael’s voice. He would have to wake soon; he always did when she got up. She peered into the darkness as if it would warn her when he awakened, perhaps split down the middle like a razor cut and allow some light to seep through; and in that light she would see her father’s face, winking at her as he’d often done before letting her in on a little secret.
He’d let her in on all his little secrets, except the one that really mattered. She found it hard not to hate him for it.
Nothing came at her from the darkness. She turned back, stared at the hole. It was so tiny; silent.
The digital clock blinked: 12:19.
She took a breath and watched as the numbers changed—
—then looked at the hole.
It always began very slowly, like the trickle of water dripping from a faucet not turned completely off: one bulging droplet crept to the edge and glistened then it fell through and slid down the wall, dark as ink.
She watched the thin stream crawl to the floor, leaving its slender thread path for the others to follow. And they did.
Pulsing out in streams heavier, thicker, they spread across the wall in every direction as if from the guts of a spider until she was staring into the center of a web, admiring patterns made by the small lines where they dripped into one another like colors off a summertime cone. Strawberry; vanilla.
A soft groan from the bedroom, then: “Yolanda? Yo? Where are you?”
She looked once more at the dark, shimmering web, then went to the bedroom where Michael was waiting.
He saw her and smiled. She was still naked.
“Where were you? Come back to bed.”
“No,” she said. “I want you to come into the living room and see it for yourself.”
“See what for—? Oh, yeah. Right.”
“Please?”
He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. “Look, Yolanda, I’ve been telling you for days—you’ve got to get out of this house! Your father’s dead, there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ve no reason to stay here. The sooner you get over this, the sooner you can get on with your life.”
“I thought you left social work at the office.”
“I only mean—”
“Goddammit, stop patronizing me, Michael! Get your ass up and come look at this!”
The anger in her voice made him do as he was told.
When they walked into the living room, she saw the last of the web slip into the hole and thought of how her father used to suck in the last string of spaghetti.
As the last of the streams pulled back in, she gripped Michael’s arm and pointed. “Did you see it? Did you?”
He placed his other arm around her bare, sweaty shoulder, pulling her close. “Take it easy, Yo. Look, it’s been a rotten time for you, I know that. It’s why I came over and—”
“I didn’t ask you to come over!”
“I know, but, Jesus, you haven’t even called for ten days! I figured you’d need a little time to yourself, but I never thought you’d start to . . . to . . .”
She pulled back, slapped his arm away. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that! I am not one of your screwed-up runaway teenagers who only needs a shoulder to whine on!”
“I was only—”
“I know what you were ‘only,’ thank you. I’m not one of your fragile children who might shatter if pushed—and I am not imagining things.” She crossed to the hole and stuck the tip of her middle finger in, feeling the moisture. She pulled it out and felt the trace of a smile cross her lips: there was a small droplet of blood perched between her nail and the flesh of the quick. She faced Michael, offered her evidence.
“Look for yourself. Blood.”
He lifted her hand closer to his face, squinted, flipped on a small table lamp.
For a moment she saw him hesitate.
There was, indeed, blood on her fingertip. He stared at it, brushed it away. “You cut your finger on the plaster.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“You did,” he said. “Look.” He turned her hand back; she saw the small gash in her fingertip.
Something pinched in her stomach. Her eyes blinked Her arms began to shake. She swore she wouldn’t start crying.
Making no attempt to touch her, Michael said “If you insist on staying here, why don’t you just fix the hole? That might take care of . . . help things, anyway.”
She took a breath and wiped something from her eye. “It’s not that big. It’s just not . . . that big.”
“You must be joking, right?”
She stared at him.
“It’s not ‘that big’?” he said. “Christ, Yo, I could stick a pool cue inside that thing!” He pointed and she followed with her gaze—
—remembering she’d only been able to press her fingertip against the hole before, never in it, never—
He was right.
The hole was bigger. Not much, less than a quarter inch in circumference, but bigger.
She stared. Her vo
ice came out in a whisper. “I remember thinking it should have been bigger. I mean, he used a bullet with a hollow point, right? He sat in his favorite chair, put the gun in his mouth and . . . and the hole was so small. The sound was so loud. It was like the whole ceiling turned into thunder. I was in my bed I heard Dad mutter to himself, and . . .” She took a small breath. “When it was over and the sound stopped ringing in my ears, I . . . came out here.”
“Yeah?”
She stared hard at the hole. “I didn’t look at him. I looked at the hole. It was all I could see. It looked like a mouth. It was . . . eating, everything.”
She stood, transfixed, hugging herself. “The blood, the tiny pieces of his skull and brain—the hole pulled them in. It was like watching dirty dishwater go down a drain. It all swirled up around the hole, got closer and closer till there should have been nothing left—but it was still there on the wall, his blood and brains, all the pieces were still there and—”
“Yo, C’mon.”
“. . . Wanna know why he did it, Michael, if I did something to upset him—but I don’t think I did. I loved him a lot, but that wasn’t enough. I guess he missed Mom too much. I told him it wasn’t our fault that she walked out, that she didn’t love us back. He didn’t ask me for much, he never did, he always gave, and I wish he had—I wish he would’ve asked me for help, said something, because he was always there for me, and when he needed someone, I was . . . was—”
“Yo, you need to rest.”
She felt the hot tears streaming down her cheeks, but she didn’t care.
“. . . Because I just want him back! I want my father back, and all I’ve got is this fucking hole that took him away from me. It sucked him in, left me alone, and it’s . . . not . . . fair!”
She buried her face in her hands and wept, feeling the fury and sorrow mix, feeling a bellyful of night making her shudder. She hated it, wanted to destroy it.
Before she knew it she was against the wall, pounding with her fists, feeling the force of her blows rip through her arms but she didn’t care, she kept pounding as if Daddy would hear her and call out from the other side.
Then Michael was behind her, his arms around her, easing her away; she didn’t want him to, so she whipped around to slap his face, lost her balance, suddenly falling from the garden wall again, her arms flailing to protect her from the rocks below as she fell against the wall—
—and saw the hole swallow four of her fingers.
It was still getting bigger.
Then Michael was all over her, picking her up as if she were some helpless, pathetic, frail child. She swatted at his face because he wasn’t looking at the hole, he didn’t see the small globule of blood peek over the edge as if saying, Wait till next time . . .
Once in bed she fell asleep immediately.
Then woke, Michael at her side.
Then slept. And woke. And slept.
And woke—
Daddy was there, just between the beams of moonlight that slipped through the window blinds, smiling at her, his mouth growing wide as he stepped closer to the bed, whispering It’s the family comes first, you and me, that’s all, honey, because family ties are the most important ones. Then he was bending low, his mouth opening into a pit, wide and deep, sucking her in—
She slept—
No sense to her dreams, no rhythm to the words spoken to her there by figures she didn’t recognize, moving slowly past her like people on the street; no purpose, no love, no reason, empty here, this place, yet so full of people, and place and time going somewhere but she couldn’t tell, wouldn’t tell—
And woke—
—massaging her shoulders, Michael, his hands strong, warm and comforting, his voice near, tender. “I’m not going anywhere, Yolanda, I love you, just sleep, shhh, yeah, that’s it,” like talking to a frightened child; she loved him but when would he start treating her like an adult?
She balanced on the edge of sleep, sensing her father. And the ceiling. And walls.
And the hole.
She felt it growing, slowly sucking air from the room, Daddy’s voice on the tail of moonbeams most important because they ‘re the ones that last . . .
Finally the darkness swirled up to take her where there was only safe, warm peace. She slept without dreams.
When she woke it was still night. But deeper. The covers were moist and warm. She moved back to press her shoulders into Michael’s chest and—met cold space.
She blinked several times to convince herself she was awake. “Michael?”
No answer. She turned on her side. The cold space grew. Michael was gone. The ceiling rumbled. The other side of the bed looked so vast.
Maybe he’d gone for a drink of water; she often did that in the night.
She pulled the pillows close, waited for him to return. The clock ticked once, then again.
She called, “Bring me some water too, please.” There was no response. The gas snapped on. Something cold trickled down the back of her neck. The ceiling rumbled again.
A slight breeze drifted by the bed, tickled her shoulders, went toward the open bedroom door, through the corridor—
Into the living room. The beams of moonlight pressed against the foot of the bed to tip it over and send her sliding down to the floor. She closed her eyes, felt the tightness of her flesh.
“Michael!” Her voice reverberated off the walls, left her ears ringing. He had to have heard that.
No answer.
Maybe he’d slipped out, thinking she’d be embarrassed when she woke in the morning because of her behavior; yet he had said he loved her, wasn’t going anywhere. (But how many times had Dad said the same thing?)
The force of the breeze increased.
She rose, put on her nightgown, shuffled into the corridor.
The breeze grew stronger.
Once in the living room, she refused to look at the hole; that’s what it wanted, for her to stand staring as the streams flowed out and—
There was a stain on the carpet, a dark smear that hadn’t been there before. She stared at it.
Was it really moving as she thought? Perhaps it was just a trick of the moonlight casting her shadow, for it seemed to grow larger, then smaller in an instant . . .
The stain kept moving. Slowly. Back. As if dragged.
She put a hand to her mouth, breathed out, reassured by her warm breath; then she snapped on a light.
She remembered a prank she’d played as a child on a neighbor who’d sent a dog to chase her from the yard. She had come home and cleared the vegetable bin of all the tomatoes Daddy had bought at that market he and Mom used to love shopping at and thrown them against that neighbor’s house, laughing when they splattered every which way, the seeds, juice, and skin spattering, widening with each new throw and moist pop!, some of the skin sliding off to the ground.
The living-room wall looked like the side of that house.
Only the skin was crawling along the floor, being sucked back into the hole—which was so much bigger now, so much wider; she could probably shove her entire arm through up to the elbow.
The breeze grew violent, edging her toward the wall.
She saw Michael’s Saint Christopher medal still on its chain, near the wall. He loved that medal, always wore it, wouldn’t even take it off to shower.
The breeze increased, becoming wind.
The ceiling rumbled.
The hole was swirling under the seeds and skin and juice, opening wide with Daddy’s smile on the tail of moonbeams . . .
Yolanda turned, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace. She nearly shrieked, thinking how right her father had been:
She looked a lot like her mother.
The stain backed toward the base of the wall, near the hole.
She could easily stick her head through it now.
The wind almost knocked her off-balance—hut she held firm, knowing something about feelings and night, love and tears: all of them could only be
judged by what they drew from suffering.
So long as that suffering never drew them back.
—and if you can leave through a hole you can come back through one, even if it’s one piece at a time. But she loved him—and weren’t you supposed to help the one you loved put the pieces back together?
She ran to the wall, called his name into the aperture, watched as it gulped everything in like a last breath before dying. She jammed her hand through, hoped he might reach out to take it and come back—leave all the memories and pain behind like Mom had left them, without a backward glance of regret.
She pushed in deeper, felt something close round her wrist; so very strong, yet so gentle and loving.
Suddenly the pressure of the grip turned to the prick of razors and sucked her arm in up to the shoulder.
The ceiling started to thunder.
She yanked back again, knowing one of them would weaken soon because the stain and pieces were nearly gone now, and when they were gone the hole would . . . would . . .
. . . would keep growing until it had her, would still send the wind and thunder and memories and—She wrenched away with all her strength—
—and felt herself pull free.
Yolanda fell back-first to the floor but didn’t wait to catch her breath, didn’t look at the hole; she sprinted out of the room, knowing how she could get him back. She couldn’t do it with her hand, didn’t dare try that again, yet she could make the hole bigger—and Michael would see the way out, he’d come back to her because he loved her, didn’t want her to be alone, never again. I’m sorry, Daddy,that you missed Mom so bad, but Michael is my family now, all I’ve got left—
She darted through the kitchen, into the bathroom, unlocked the door to the basement, flipped on the light, took the stairs three at a time.
The shotgun. She hadn’t told the police about Daddy’s shotgun, they’d only taken the pistol, but that was fine because she needed the shotgun now, for Michael and—
—she ripped open the door to her father’s work cabinet and found the twelve-gauge under a sheet of canvas. She grabbed the shells and loaded the gun, smiling as she pumped back—
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