Darker Masques

by J N Williamson

  —ch-chick!—

  —and felt the first one slide securely into the chamber.

  Back upstairs. Fast. Into the living room.

  In the mirror she saw the reflection of her mother gripping the gun that had killed Daddy. She tried to work up enough saliva to spit in Momma’s face but her mourn was too dry so she hoisted the shotgun, pressed the butt against her shoulder, pulled the trigger—

  The ceiling thundered again as Momma shattered into a thousand glittering reflections. Yolanda looked down and saw how small the woman looked, staring up from the floor, shiny, sharp, and smooth, and empty-eyed pitiful.

  She readied herself—

  —ch-chick!—

  —and aimed at the hole.

  The wind slammed against her with angry hands, but it would not stop her. Nothing would.

  Again and again and again the ceiling thundered as she blew the hole apart, her shoulder raw from the pounding of the butt, her chest full of pain and fear; but she kept firing until the force of the blasts weakened her, knocked her from the garden wall.

  She dropped to the floor, gazing at the hole.

  Wide, dark, bloodied inside. She peered deeper into the mouth of the web and saw forms moving within—like people passing on the street—and she listened for Michael’s voice but there were others, different voices beckoning to her: Empty here, so empty without you, I love you I miss you I want you back please come—

  The hole was beginning to close.

  She tried to rise because they were in there, Daddy and Michael; but she was too spent, hurt, too weakened. She fell back, saw a thousand reflections of her mother’s face, glaring up at her—

  —and knew what to do.

  “Wait for me,” she said. Whispered. Weakly.

  She wanted to be in there with them—away from the draining strength of suffering and the memories whose warmth was tainted by it. She fell forward, groped with shaking fingers for the shotgun and dragged it toward her, sat up.

  The hole was small, now—tiny—one shimmering globule was on the edge, winking at her, hurry, hurry, get across the ledge.

  She propped the shotgun up between her knees—

  —ch-chick!—

  —and shoved the barrel deep into her mouth.

  The globule smiled, then winked, like Daddy letting her in on some little secret. That’s my girl, just get over the mountain, don ‘t fall off and I’ll tell you something special, because you were brave, you made it back to me—

  From the corner of her eye she saw a thousand images of her mother, all of them screaming.

  Then Daddy’s voice again. Almost there, honey, keep your balance, don’t slip, don’t fall away like Mommy did because I’ll never leave you like she did, I’ll always be here, I’ll be right here waiting for you and always—

  —the ceiling thundered one last time, and a new web spread across the wall—

  —love you.

  Mort Castle

  POP IS REAL SMART

  CASTLE calls the succinct story he has written for M III a chickens-come-home-to-roost tale, and it is. I call the curator of the Castle such things as clever, concise, and literate, inevitably creative and original, and friend. But it’s all the terms leading up to the last that have allowed this maestro of the macabre to enjoy a special fictional niche: Mort is one of the very few writers to appear in everything I have edited up to now. You don’t do that for buddyship if you enjoy getting exciting projects to edit.

  The otherworldly Mortian talent has been brilliantly evident these past few years in Twilight Zone. Grue. the widely respected Nukes anthology (Maclay, ’86) and now—graphically, shockingly—in Northstar comics such as Omega and Faust. His novel The Strangers (’84) was acclaimed; his next one, Alone in the Darkness, may do even better. The editor of a new illustrated magazine called Horror, Mort Castle should become a habit, wherever he pops up. His writing never disappoints.

  POP IS REAL SMART

  Mort Castle

  LONNY GAZED AT JASON. HE LOATHED HIM with all the egoistic hatred of which only a five-year-old is capable. He was supposed to be happy he had a new brother. He was supposed to love him. Oh, sure. Right. Damn.

  Lonny’s eyes measured the baby’s length and studied the pink fingers curled in tight fists at the top of the blue blanket. He watched the fluttery beating of the soft spot on Jason’s head as, under skimpy down, it palpitated with the tiny heart.

  “Damn,” Lonny said. Pop said “Damn” a lot, like when he was driving and everybody else was driving like a jerk, or when he was trying to fix a leaky faucet or something.

  And “damn” is just what Lonny felt like saying whenever he looked at Jason. The only thing the baby could do—his ookey-pukey brother!—was smell bad. Jason always smelled, no matter how often Mom bathed him or dumped a load of powder on him.

  Jason wasn’t good for anything!

  Now Scott, down the block, Scott was lucky. Scott had a real brother, Fred, good old Fred. Yessir, Fred was a fun kid. You could punch Fred real hard and he wouldn’t even cry. And Fred didn’t go running to tell, either. Uh-uh. But Fred had these clumpy cowboy boots, and if you punched him, then he would just start kicking you and kicking, and maybe you would be the one who wound up crying!

  Fred, that was the kind of dude you wanted for a little brother.

  Not Jason. This damn baby, hey, he couldn’t do anything.

  And this was the kid Lonny had helped Mom and Pop choose a name for? Jason. That was a good name for a good guy. Damn! Jason—this stupid thing with that stupid up-and-down blob on its head going thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump. No way, Jose!

  Somebody must have fooled Mom. When she’d gone to the hospital, Mom had somehow got stuck with this little snot instead of a good brother for him.

  Lonny wondered how Mom could be so damn dumb. Well, she was a girl, even if she was a grown-up, and girls could be pretty dumb sometimes. But damn, how did they put one over on Pop? Pop was real smart.

  Lonny reached through the crib slats. He lightly touched Jason’s soft spot. At the pulse beneath his fingers, he yanked back his hand.

  Damn, this baby was just no good. No good.

  He left the room. There had to be some way to get rid of Jason. He would ask Mom to take the baby back to the hospital, tell her she’d made a mistake. Oh, he’d have to say it just the right way so she didn’t get pee-owed, but he’d figure it out. Then she could go get him a really good brother, like Fred.

  Yeah! He knew just how to say it. He’d talk to Mom right now. “Mom!” he hollered, running down the stairs. He hoped he would wake the baby.

  Mom did not answer. Jason did not cry.

  “Mom!” Lonny went to the kitchen. The linoleum buzzed beneath his Nikes and he heard the muffled thud of the washing machine in the downstairs utility room.

  Mom was doing the wash. Damn, it was never a good idea to talk to her about anything when she was into laundry.

  Lonny decided he might as well make himself a sandwich or something. He dragged a chair from the table over to the cabinets. He climbed up and took down the big jar of peanut butter. He got the Wonder Bread from the bread box.

  He set the bread and peanut butter on the table. He hoped he could open the new jar by himself. No way did he want to ask Mom for help when she was doing the laundry.

  Okay! The lid came right off. “Yeah,” Lonny said. “She’s gonna have to take it back. It’s no damn good, and if it’s no good you just take it back.”

  Hey, sometimes he wondered how a smart guy like Pop got stuck with Mom, anyway. For real, it was Pop had the brains.

  Like once Lonny had goofed it. He had spent his birthday money on a rifle at Toys-R-Us and damn! It was wrong. It wasn’t a Rambo assault rifle. It was a stupid Ranger Rock rifle. No way did you want a Ranger Rock rifle. Who ever heard of Ranger Rock?

  So he and Pop took it back to get the Rambo rifle. “No refunds on sale items, sorry.” That’s what this real dipstick at the store had to say.<
br />
  Then Pop showed him how you couldn’t even pull the trigger and the way the plastic barrel was all cracked and everything.

  No problem, man! They got back his birthday money, went to another store, and bought the Rambo rifle.

  And you know what? That nerd at Toys-R-Us never even had an idea that Pop had busted up the stupid Ranger Rock rifle himself! That’s how smart Pop was.

  With his first finger, Lonny swirled out a glob of peanut butter. He popped it into his mouth. Yeah, peanut butter was great. He could live on peanut butter all the time. He’d make a nice, open-faced sandwich, and then maybe Mom would be done with the laundry and he could talk to her about getting rid of smelly Jason.

  He went to the drawers by the sink. He opened the top one.

  Mom always spread peanut butter with a dull knife.

  It was the sharp knife that caught Lonny’s eye.

  Stanley Wiater

  WHEN THE WALL CRIES

  KNOWN primarily for his Twilight Zone interviews and his book reviews published regularly in Fangoria, Stan Wiater (pronounced ”wee otter”) has added a feather to his cap by becoming the editor of Night Visions 7, for Dark Harvest.

  Stanley needs moral support. He and his engaging wife Iris are first-time parents who had a little girl in 1988. “Iris is going back to work,” he sighed, and expressed his willingness to become a built-in babysitter. “Now,” I told him, “the terror begins.”

  The “cineteratologist” and contributing editor to the British Fear now offers you an onslaught of contemporary reality so familiar but horrifying that it may evoke tears and outrage in equal measure. It is a suitable literary creation for someone who is going to be called “Daddy” for a number of years.

  WHEN THE WALL CRIES

  Stanley Wiater

  LEARS SCORCH HER PORCELAIN WHITE FACE with the severity of a Madonna’s, but Margarita can no longer taste them, nor waste the time to wipe them away from her quivering lips. Her hands clutch the cold, moist sides of the toilet’s rear basin as she focuses her attention on a discolored blotch on the wall.

  Standing over the open bowl, knees bent, legs spread unnaturally wide, Margarita cries. And waits. And cries. The pain begins below the pit of her belly, running back and forth on her spine to scrape ultimately behind her eyes like a rat trying madly to escape. It’s too late for prayers, yet pray she must to keep from blacking out as she waits for thickly clotted blood and unformed tissue to drop from between her slender, trembling legs.

  “Dios te salve Maria, Llena heres de gracia el Senor es contigo . . .”

  The teenager’s body is a palsied depository of warm liquids and cold moistures as tears linger, then stickily mix with sweat. Margarita throws back her head to try and fling off the long black hair falling repeatedly over her face like a torn and itchy hood. Her recent breakfast of Twinkies and a bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal, threatening to spray up through her tightly clenched lips, reminds her she mustn’t look down when it’s over.

  If it’s ever going to be over.

  No matter what she hears or feels, she knows she has to flush the toilet before she can open her eyes again. She can look down only after . . . after it’s gone. Gone from her life. Out of any life.

  The last convulsion grabs up inside her like heated pliers, then abruptly releases with the unmistakable sensation of flesh being torn from her body. Margarita bites into her lower lip until she tastes blood as a mass of lumpy fluids suddenly voids and splashes loudly into the open bowl. Her legs still shaking violently, she blindly flushes the silver-colored handle a dozen times before somehow pushing herself away from the unending, rust-stained swirl.

  Nearly falling, she grabs an unused white towel from the neat pile kept beneath the sink. Margarita hurriedly rolls it into a cocoon and thrusts it beneath her dripping thighs like a diaper. Leaning against the plastic clothes hamper for support, she reaches out to turn on the cold-water tap. With her right hand pressing the towel more firmly between her legs, Margarita splashes the soothing water against the upper half of her body. The soiled cotton nightgown clings like a soaked dishrag as she quickly turns her head and glances back. The terrified girl moans in despair even before she can focus her vision, smelling the fresh blood lingering in the air.

  Yet the toilet bowl is finally silent, its cleansing waters no longer disturbed. She starts to make the sign of the cross, then stops herself before it’s complete.

  Margarita realizes she should take a bath immediately, but first she has to get out of the same room where such an unforgivably sacrilegious act has just been performed. If she had any friends in this strange land, they would tell her she should first rest, try and get some sleep, then maybe she’d be able to face the world again. More important, she could now explain to Junior why she had been acting so strangely these past several weeks. However, just the slightest suggestion she might be encinta made him smash his way out of their basement apartment in a speechless rage a full three days ago.

  Three empty nights ago.

  The towel still between her legs, Margarita slowly moves out of the bathroom. She wipes the tears from her face with the back of one hand, thinking of what she has done to keep the man she loves.

  Junior has to come back soon. Not only did the owner of this welfare hotel accept them as a married couple, he was willing to employ them both as a housekeeper and assistant maintenance man. But she doesn’t think Mr. Gonski will accept another day of her being away from work, while her “husband” has supposedly gone off to visit a very sick relative. The few skills they have to offer are far from unique, though Margarita suspects from the unsettling way Mr. Gonski smiles that if they ever complain, he has more in mind for her than bending over to clean toilets or scrub floors.

  Green cards are a luxury neither can yet afford.

  Sitting on the edge of a chair in the combined kitchen-and-living-room area, Margarita takes a deep breath and slowly removes the towel. Spreading her thin legs wide, she hesitates at examining herself any further. The bleeding seems to have stopped and she whispers another prayer that tonight there won’t be any more stained sheets. At least she no longer has to hide the symptoms of morning sickness from her man.

  If the subject is brought up at the right moment, she hopes Junior will take her to the free health clinic always mentioned on the radio station that broadcasts in their native language.

  When he returns.

  If he returns.

  Shedding the sticky nightgown like a useless second skin, Margarita fills a deep pan with warm water from the kitchen sink. Finding a clean sponge near a tray of unwashed dishes, she whimpers quietly and gives herself an improvised bath. She just can’t go back into that room until more time has passed. The stabbing pains inside her belly finally subside. Pressing an open palm between her unnaturally tender breasts, her heart beats so feebly she imagines it was also flushed away.

  Shuddering, Margarita wonders what she might have done to her soul by not giving another eternal soul a chance to live.

  The washing completed, she drops the sponge on the Formica-top table next to the bloody towel. Making her way to the bedroom, she sits naked on the unmade bed, reassuring herself she won’t faint as long as she doesn’t make any sudden movements. Margarita wishes she could stay here forever. Yet one of the other hotel employees had warned her last night that if she or Junior wasn’t seen working today, they’d be back on the streets again. A phone call to the Man might be made. Or Mr. Gonski might find something else for her to do repeatedly on her hands and knees.

  Shuffling along to the single walk-in closet, Margarita takes from her own side of the metal rod the blue housekeeper’s uniform she must wear. It is permanently discolored along the hem while the lacy trimmings at the collar and cuff have been crudely picked at and discarded like wings from a captured bird. But just as long as the uniform and the person who wears it are relatively clean and neat, Mr. Gonski is satisfied. He has more important items to spend his money on than the working
people in his hotel.

  Putting on a Stayfree sanitary pad and two pairs of faded cotton panties, Margarita then slips the uniform over her head and ties the attached apron sash behind her slim waist. Finding the matching sneakers beneath a chair, she dons them, then turns to regard herself in the peeling bureau mirror. Combing back her long shiny hair, she applies blusher to disguise how pale her skin appears, then bright scarlet lipstick to her colorless slash of a mouth. She wonders who the young clown is who’s staring back at her with the painted smile.

  Closing her eyes to suffocate the emerging tears, Margarita has never felt this alone in her entire fifteen years of existence. Her hands shaking, she closes the bedroom door and heads toward the gas stove. There she fumbles for the set of keys which will open all the necessary doors in the ten-story Blodgett Hotel before leaving the apartment.

  Not that there is anywhere she can hide.

  But when she arrives at the maintenance closet on the first floor, Margarita is struck immediately by how unusually quiet the building is. Then she remembers the holiday, what the radio had reported about the festivities; a big parade downtown. There are no signs of the other housekeepers, even though their cleaning carts are still there. Perhaps they were given the day off?

  Someone always has to be on duty at the front desk, plus the two old cabrones who, as the hotel’s “security force,” would still be making their rounds. If they weren’t already passed out drunk on the roof. Someone will report her to Mr. Gonski, of that she has no illusions.

  While checking the contents of her multi-shelved metal cart, Margarita heads for the nearby service elevator. According to the schedule, the main tasks today will be to go to “the apartments” and check on the fresh linen and toiletries furnished for each tenant. No one would be the wiser if she went through the motions of checking only a few rooms on each floor. Regardless, she has to spend a few hours at her job in order to be seen, so that a favorable report can be made to her boss. What otherwise will happen with her life tomorrow is a hardship not worth considering.